Stopping in the doorway to the bullpen for Major Crimes, Detective Jim Ellison stared at the small crowd milling around his partner, keeping his face blank with more effort than he should have needed for something he did so often. All of Major Crimes and half of the rest of the force were trying to shake Blair's hand, thumping him on the arm or patting him on the back as they did, their words a peculiar mixture of commiseration and praise. They, like half of Cascade, thanks to an enterprising news camera crew, had watched the department's newest detective single-handedly defuse a case of road rage gone insane.

They had also watched Blair take down a third party, who, until the moment he pulled a gun, no one had known was a threat.

Civilians considered him a hero for his fast thinking under fire. His fellow officers were loudly making it known they appreciated and sympathized with what he had done and what he would go through because of it. The Mayor, damn him, was probably celebrating that one of "his" cops had provided such great press. Only Jim could see that Blair was sick at heart because of what he had done, sick all the way down to the bottom of himself. He had seen it in his partner's haunted expression in the truck on the way back to the station, could smell it contaminating Blair's scent, sharp and oily like fear or hate.

Blair's true feelings were hidden now behind a sheepish grin and the sort of crass clowning men expected from other men in intensely emotional situations. They would stay that way, even if by some miracle Jim suddenly found the words that would help his partner get through his first kill. The awkward silence in the truck had been all he had to give, a chance for Blair to face the death in his own way, away from prying eyes, and to find the strength to cope.

Unfortunately Jim had a fairly good notion of exactly what Blair was going to do to bury his sorrow and grief. As he watched, Brittany Minors, a young brunette detective in robbery, managed to work her way through the press of bodies, smiling slyly and catching Blair's eye with a blatant wiggle of her abundant chest. Suddenly, watching his partner go through his moves with the woman "du jour" was more than Jim could take; he spun on his heel and made for the elevator, moving at a brisk clip that just missed breaking into a run.

Once in the parking garage he bypassed his Ford, giving up speed for the feel of physical movement, as if something primitive and basic within him needed that more than it needed to get away. Jim walked without thought or intent; despite that, he wasn't surprised to eventually find himself at the beach, walking alone in the gray mist swirling through the late afternoon. Without any direction from him, his feet found the way to the rocky point he had found the first time instinct had driven him to find solitude within his territory.

He stood on the low escarpment and watched the waves in their eternal flirtation with the beach, unconsciously following the water's retreat with his eyes until he was out in the depths of the sea, beyond the memory of land. The vagrant thought flitted through his mind to physically follow where vision led; to dive into the ocean and swim straight out until he could swim no more. Knowing better than to listen to that momentary flash of self-destructiveness, fueled by grief and pain, Jim concentrated on his worry for his partner.

The fear he felt was hardly new. Before he'd gone to Simon for help in persuading the powers-that-be into giving Blair a badge and making him an official part of the department, Jim had had to fight long and hard with himself over what the right thing to do was. For the most part, he *hated* the idea of his gentle-hearted, shaman-touched friend facing the soul eroding damage that a cop dealt with on a daily basis. But he honestly couldn't think of another way to keep Blair with him that wouldn't dishonor the sacrifice that he had made for him, or worse yet, undo it completely.

So Jim had done what was necessary, trying to call it a makeshift solution until he could find a real answer to the problem. His only consolation was the eagerness with which Blair had accepted the badge, along with the fact that he was almost eerily good at the job. For the past few months, though, it was as if every horrifying tragedy that could happen had become their personal problem, surrounding them with dark shadows that drowned more and more of the brightness that was Blair. There was no doubt that their caseload was having a bad effect on him: frenetic coupling with everything remotely attractive, male or female, was just one symptom that Jim had seen.

He didn't know what to do about it, any more than he had known what to do in the truck earlier. Didn't know what to say, didn't know how to help, didn't know anything except that giving up and leaving the department would be the worst thing they could do, even if he could convince Blair to do so. That would be an admission of defeat that would destroy both of them; of that one thing, Jim was sure.

The rest of the answers he needed were as far out of his reach as the blue in the slowly clearing sky, or the colors of the sunset beginning to paint the horizon. Probably, if he did find them, they'd be as deceitful as a beautiful sunset, too, which was nice to look at, but caused by the pollution man and nature threw up into the air. The last thought was too cynical even for him, and he snorted in self-derision, shaking his head at himself.

"Ever wonder," a cultured, educated voice said from just below him, "Why they describe something so beautiful in terms of death?"

Startled, but too well trained to do more than turn smoothly on one heel, hand unobtrusively going up to his gun, Jim looked down on the man standing in the sand just under the rocks. He was a testimonial to understated wealth and elegance, from the top of his perfectly coiffed, lightly curly dark hair, to the rolex on his arm, to the five thousand dollar handmade Italian suit that covered a racket ball and golf-trim body. His only saving grace, in Jim's opinion, were the bare feet and rolled-up pant legs, as if he didn't give a shit about appearances or the cost and condition of his clothes, just the simple pleasure of walking barefoot in the sand and surf.

It was an intriguing contrast of values, and perhaps because he was tired of his own useless mental ruts, Jim didn't ignore the man or the comment. Instead he said blandly, "End of the day, instead beginning of the night?"

"Precisely." The unknown man took a few steps closer, shoes swinging loosely from his fingers, dark eyes bright with merriment. "Even in cultures that have reason to welcome the cool of the evening, such as desert nomads, sunset is seen as the closing of something, not the start."

Lightly climbing down from his perch, Jim said, "Could be it's one of those human instincts that the scientists are always looking for. Leftover from when the night meant predators and danger."

"Doesn't hold up," he argued. "The world is as dangerous a place in broad daylight as it is in the dark. Name is Nicholas Elder, by the way."

"Jim Ellison. Wish I could disagree with you on that, but you're right." Jim started back down the beach toward the distant boardwalk, vaguely annoyed when Elder fell in beside him. Stifling it because he *had* returned the conversational gambit, he added, "Maybe because the danger can't be easily seen in the dark."

"Ah, but why should that be associated with death?" Elder riposted quickly. "After all, death can hide in an innocuous looking mushroom, too."

Unintentionally giving the question serious consideration, Jim said, "Because of how the night changes the familiar to the unfamiliar?"

Taking a moment to dig up a shell and look at it carefully, Elder eventually said, "That's probably closer to the truth. Mankind fears the unknown as much as it fears change."

The conversation was so much like ones that he and Blair had regularly that Jim smiled, mind fleeing back to home and his partner. Suddenly he was eager to be there, even if the only comfort he could give was his presence when Blair finally rambled in exhausted from his go-round with the lucky Detective Minor. He said shortly, "Mankind just fears, period."

"Too true, unfortunately," Elder said, apparently not at all put out by Jim's sudden change in attitude. He continued casually strolling along, sharing the same bit of beach as Jim, projecting an air of having done so many times. "Which of course means that some take a perverse delight in the night; facing those fears, perhaps."

"Is that your take on it?" Jim asked, not really caring about the answer, but uncertain how to extricate himself from the conversation. Becoming rude was his usual method, but a small nagging thing deep inside kept him polite, almost against his will.

"Call it the first extreme sport, if you will." Elder chuckled, then added, "And of course, now man is the danger in the night, so the fear has been justified all along."

"I hadn't looked at it that way." Mercifully the lights of the parking lot along the boardwalk were beginning to shine through the twilight, marking the end of their walk. Whatever direction Elder headed, Jim was going to make an excuse to go the other. The slight curiosity and interest that had sparked his willingness to be near him was long gone, and the short hairs on the back of his neck were beginning to lift.

As if sensing he'd overstayed his welcome, Elder gestured toward a limo parked at the edge of the pavement closest to them. "My ride. May I offer you one?" The words were completely innocent, but under them, just barely enough for Jim to be sure it was there, was sexual innuendo.

It gave him the excuse he needed, and he said bluntly. "No, not my style at all."

"Pity," Elder said lightly, only his leer giving away his true intent. "It's a very pleasurable method of transportation."

Not at all sure why he felt compelled to stay with insinuations, Jim said, "So I've heard, and I've nothing against those who prefer it. But I'll stick with my usual."

"Could I at least be given a chance to persuade you otherwise? Dinner and a game? I have tickets for the Jag's expo game next week." The leer was completely gone, leaving behind only the suave, intelligent gentleman who had first approached Jim. "If nothing else, I have been told I'm excellent company."

For some reason that was totally beyond Jim, the offer sounded very compelling: pleasant company, completely divorced from the hell the job had been lately and in surroundings he didn't often have a chance to enjoy. He hesitated in giving an answer, not sure himself whether it would be a yes or a no, and then the evening breeze shifted playfully, with just enough change in direction for the scents Jim had automatically been sorting through to have a different source. In that moment, Elder was upwind of him for the first time since their meeting. Only a lifetime of survival training, and the deeply ingrained teaching Blair had given him, kept Jim from gagging on Elder's foul odor.

Face studiously neutral, not at all impressed by the expensive cologne intended to disguise that awful smell, Jim kicked his brain and instincts into high gear. "My job makes it hard for me to keep much of a social calendar," he said as dispassionately as possible.

"Ah, well mine is fairly flexible, given my position. I'm the C.E.O and owner of Black Gold, the company that just bought out Cyclops oil," Elder said pleasantly.

"Just moved your corporate headquarters to Cascade," Jim acknowledged dryly, not at all impressed by the information.

Obviously aware of that, Elder said cheerfully, the first hint of ire beginning to show through his debonair facade, "It's pretty much a twenty-four/seven job, but I do take a little time off just for myself every now and again. Best way to prevent burnout, so the board doesn't begrudge me my occasional flights into the real world." He lifted his shoes as if to emphasize his down-to-earth proclivities, but when Jim didn't change expression, he covered a frown and said, "Perhaps a rain check on dinner, then, for when you have a free night?"

Steeling himself, Jim met the dark eyes and said with terrifying honesty, "I'm sure we'll be running into each other again, somewhere along the line. We can talk about it then."

"I'm sure we will," Elder agreed, not at all threateningly, but as if he had just accepted a polite challenge from a prospective lover to be seduced. "Until then." He swung away, lifting a hand to get the attention of the limo driver, who sprang to attention as if his very life depended on pleasing his employer.

Believing that to be exactly the case, Jim watched until the limo was out of sight, then sank onto the damp sand, knees too weak to hold him up a moment longer. The rational part of him - his upbringing, years in the military that focused on the reality of here and now - wanted to believe that Elder just was a rich eccentric who had given up soap and water in favor of watching his employees cringe from his horrendous body odor, unable for fear of their jobs to complain. Sentinel perceptions couldn't or wouldn't buy into that; they knew evil when it was literally under his nose.

Once scent had clued him in, the other signs were there for Jim to discern: no sand had clung to the thing's feet as they walked, nor had the waves ever lapped high enough to wet the rolled up trousers. There were many other hints, all equally subtle, and equally easy to dismiss as luck or biased thinking on Jim's part once he started looking for evidence. Added to all that was a simple clarity of knowledge deep in Jim's mind, as if he'd been expecting something like Elder all along, and now that it had happened, there was the same bizarre relief that could be felt when a battle started.

As far as Jim was concerned, what Elder was or wasn't didn't matter. What he needed to know was what it really wanted, and since Jim had a nasty suspicion who that was, how to keep it from getting him. With nothing else to do but wait until Elder made the next move, Jim forced himself to his feet and started the long walk home.

Within a week Elder acted, appearing at the table Jim was sharing with his father and brother in the country club William Ellison belonged to. With no other choice than to pretend he didn't care about the intrusion, Jim introduced Elder to his family, sourly amused that his father was impressed by Jim knowing the so-called magnate. His humor died quickly when William invited Elder to join them for dinner, but Jim revived it by forcing his father and brother to help him cover not eating by using his senses as the excuse.

When Elder repeated the invasion by approaching Jim at another restaurant while with a date, it was harder to hide both his disgust in Elder's company and his refusal to eat in the thing's presence. His date, of course, did her best to monopolize Elder, since a C.E.O. was a much better catch, and that gave Jim an out for being less than polite to both of them. His only consolation was that it seemed Elder had no idea that Jim knew what it was, which meant however powerful the thing was, it couldn't read his mind or accurately anticipate how humans would react to its meddling.

It was an edge against Elder. A thin one, maybe but something he could use, and as it began to insinuate itself more and more frequently into his life, one Jim pinned his hopes on. A few months after the so-called chance meeting at the beach, Elder became active in Cascade politics, which meant that it was often at functions Jim had to attend as p art of the Mayor's security force. It supported the same charities that Jim worked for in his free time, joined his father's country club, and even somehow finagled personal involvement in a high-profile smuggling case Major Crimes was working.

Every time Jim turned around, he was face-to-face with Elder in social or business situations that demanded he be polite, giving the thing every opportunity to press its attentions on him. On the surface, it looked to the few who noticed (Blair, of course, but blessedly he was too preoccupied with his own growing misery to do more than tease Jim) that Elder had a serious romantic interest in him. Jim pretended cordial disinterest, all the while waiting for an opening of any kind that he could use to his own advantage.

Finally Elder made a large donation to the Anthropology fund at Rainier, and Jim knew that he couldn't play the waiting game any longer. So far the thing had avoided spending very much time in Blair's presence, as if it were afraid that Blair could see it for what it really was. But if it began to court Jim through his partner, to arrange for Blair to have what he'd worked so hard for if Jim would only see things Elder's way, there was no way he could believably keep up his pretense of disinterest. The worst part of it was that Jim wasn't sure he had the willpower not to give in if Elder promised to undo the damage Blair had done to himself when he'd called his diss a fake.

Telling himself firmly, uncompromisingly, that sometimes the only way to win the war was to lose a battle, Jim carefully planned his capitulation, hoping that doing so abruptly would add to his one thin edge. He spent a day taking care of personal business, doing nothing that he hadn't done a thousand times before: paying bills, balancing his checkbook, talking to his broker about a few small changes in the modest portfolio he'd built alongside a 401K, picking up his revised last will and testament from his lawyer. Thankfully, he'd asked for the changes to be made months ago and simply hadn't gotten around to stopping by to pick them up. It gave him the perfect opportunity to slip a small hand-written note for Blair into the paper work as he finished his self-appointed tasks.

Seeing that Blair was on his way out the door for yet another date, Jim called out, "Hold up a minute, will you, Chief?"

"Just a minute," Blair said distractedly, taking a jacket off the hook and trying to get it on while simultaneously searching his pants pocket for his keys. "Sam goes ballistic when I'm late."

"Sam again? How many times does this make that you've got back together?" Jim asked, going to stand by him and helping with the coat.

Grinning sheepishly, Blair answered, "I don't know if it could be called 'being together,' but I think this is the fourth time I've talked her into going out with me again after telling me to drop dead."

"Or the equivalent thereof." Jim chuckled, and smoothed Blair's collar down, not letting himself linger, much as he wanted to savor the living heat from him. Taking a step back and carefully putting an amused expression on his face, he offered up the folder of personal papers. "I was just going to ask you to take custody of this for me and put it away."

Glancing perfunctorily through the papers in the files, Blair said, "Sure, no problem. Got the new will back, I see; glad you went ahead and put your dad and brother in it." At Jim's little grunt of irritation, he looked up, smiling cheekily. "Hey, I know they don't need any of it; it's the last thought for them that's the important thing."

"Like I said when you brought it up, I don't think it matters that much to the old man." Jim waved off the explosion of explanation he could see on Blair's lips. "But I did it anyway, because it is a way of letting him know that things were getting better for us, despite everything."

A shadow crossed through Blair's eyes, and Jim could have bitten his tongue at his thoughtless choice of words. Before he could roughly apologize and point out that he didn't mean it the way it sounded, Blair said with forced cheerfulness, "Why do you want me to keep this, anyway? Given that the filing system I use for myself makes finding it problematic for anyone but me."

Expecting the question, Jim said with partial truthfulness, "Same reason I've got yours. Who else is going to be looking for it if something happens to me? Simon? He'd think of it eventually, but then no matter where I put it, he'd have to hunt for it, and good a friend as he is, I don't want to add to his misery of losing a cop under his command."

"Point," Blair agreed. He glanced at his watch and scrambled for the doorknob, file tucked under his arm, clearly thinking he was too late to take the time to backtrack to his room. Just as Jim had planned. "Sam's going to kill me.... I'll put this away when I get back. Later!"

Jim closed the door behind him, listening as he muttered to himself, rehearsing apologies for being late, all the way down the stairs. Then he went to the balcony doors and watched Blair drive away, arms crossed over his chest as if to hold off a chill. When the Volvo's lights became just one more in the string of them moving along the highway, Jim left, taking nothing with him, not even his wallet and badge

The drive to Elder's corporate headquarters was short and went faster than he wanted. Trusting that the entity had been sincere when promising that his name was all it would ever take to get him admitted to its offices, he announced himself to the receptionist on the first floor. She immediately became ultra-solicitious, all but offering to drop to her knees and give him a blow job right then and there. Mere moments later another woman, even more artificially beautiful, rescued Jim from the receptionist and led him to a bank of elevators, opening the doors to one with a pass code.

"This one opens directly into Mr. Elder's office suite," she purred, somehow managing to sound obscene as she did it. "He's waiting for you."

Jim nodded his understanding, stepping back and swallowing against the stink that poured off of her and practically everything else in the building. The ride up was claustrophobic, but was still over too quickly, and he stepped into an office the size of a football field, walled in by glass on three sides. The furnishings were all mahogany and dark leather, with blood-red accessories dotted here and there. All and all, very impressive at first glance, but he hadn't expected anything else.

Elder was lounging on a couch in a conversational grouping close to a long bar on the wall opposite the elevators, flipping through various papers and clearly in a phone meeting with several other people. It smiled brilliantly at Jim, shrugged helplessly and waved at the paperwork, then pointed at the bar, inviting Jim to help himself. Though he had no intention of drinking it, Jim poured himself a scotch on the rocks and wandered to one of the windows, staring out over the city while Elder finished its business.

"See here, Senor Degas," Elder said with forced patience, "Your problems relocating the village population are your own; mine is having that land free and clear for the mining operation when the new techniques are ready for use. It's not as though you don't have a decade or so to make this happen."

"Tradition is a very troublesome obstacle to overcome," Degas said stubbornly, but placatingly. "To them that piece of mud and jungle is sacred, and they won't leave voluntarily. And as fortune would have it, they have the eye of the church on them as well because of it. I do not wish to be in opposition to the clergy; it makes my job that much more difficult."

Jim could see that Elder was losing patience with the problem. Knowing perfectly well what its solution would be, he wandered to the couch, eyes indicating that he wanted a private word. Elder complied, hitting a button on the phone console, and asked with what looked like pleased surprise, "Yes?"

"There's a way to do it that will make your company look good and keep the church off your back, if time isn't an issue," Jim said evenly. "Hire a teacher, a good teacher, and make it his job to educate as many of the local children as he can, all the way to the college level. Provide scholarships, books, whatever it takes. When it comes time to do your mining, only the elders will be left because all the young will be in the cities, part of the working class eager to get ahead. You can probably buy out anyone who tries to stay put by going through their kids and grandkids."

"Excellent idea," Elder approved cheerfully. "Think of all the positive publicity we can spin from the scholarships and school." Hitting the button again, it went back to the phone conference, and Jim wandered back to the window. He didn't bother to listen to Elder outline the plan to its minions; he didn't pat himself on the back for saving lives either. Who was to say that he'd done anything but delay the inevitable, as far as those devout villagers were concerned?

After a few minutes Elder joined him, sipping at its own scotch. "I'd offer you a consulting fee for that timely advice, but I know better than to think you'd take it."

Shrugging, Jim put the glass to his lips, but didn't taste. "Why pay me for a random thought that seemed like a good idea at the time? Someday you can return the favor by offering me some unwanted advice."

"That's usually the best kind, ironically enough," Elder said. It stared out the window with Jim, as if sharing a companionable moment. Then it said slowly, "Is that why the unexpected visit after avoiding one for so long? Because you're in need of objective advice?"

"No," Jim said shortly, then sighed and leaned his head on the glass. "Guess I was looking for a new perspective on this." He gestured vaguely at the city on the other side. "Down there on the streets all you see is the ugliness, the violence. It's predator and prey, and the cops have the thankless job of trying to force civilization on people who have little or no use for it."

Straightening to study the many lights as if they were so many brilliant jewels scattered over a soft black fabric, he added slowly, "There is beauty in it. Art thrives here, along with the people who create it: artists, musicians, dancers. It's just so hard to remember that sometimes."

"I've often wondered if one isn't responsible for the other. The hideous inspires the artist to create the beauty," Elder said thoughtfully. It waited a beat, then said softly, persuasively, "Is there some way I can help you find the beauty, Jim?"

Shaking his head, Jim turned away slightly, hoping against hope that if Elder could pick up on the anxiety eating at his stomach, the thing would attribute it to the natural reaction of a man going against his own nature. "Too late for me," he muttered.

"It's never too late," Elder whispered. "Let me help. Tell me what you need; I can give it to you."

Laughing bitterly, Jim hung his head, afraid to look at Elder, and more afraid that he wouldn't be able to lure it into making the mistake he truly needed from it. "No one can give me what I need; it's impossible."

"Nothing is impossible, really," Elder whispered, inching closer so that it was nearly touching Jim. "Not to the determined, the disciplined. Tell me, James. Tell me what I can give you."

Though everything in him screamed a denial, Jim turned back to Elder so that they were chest-to-chest, his crotch almost but not quite brushing over Elder's. "The kind of money you have brings tremendous power," he said frankly. "I grew up with it; I know what it can accomplish, good and bad. But money can't do everything; all your power isn't equal to what chance and fate can do."

"Maybe not," Elder said silkily. "But it can compensate, find ways around or through what life can throw at you. Maybe I can't cure cancer, but I can provide anything a cancer patient's heart could desire while battling the disease. Not the same as granting a new life, maybe, but it has its compensations."

Jim took a half step forward, as if seduced by the assurance in Elder's words, then he drew back before the thing could wrap its arms around him. "You think you could promise me what I need and make it happen, no matter what I ask for?" he said skeptically.

"I could. I would, if you would give me a promise in return," Elder murmured. "What would you give, James? What price is your heart's desire worth?"

Meeting the empty black of Elder's eyes, Jim said solemnly, "Everything that's mine to give. For my heart's desire."

"Done!" Elder proclaimed, and it brushed a kiss over Jim's mouth. "Everything that's yours to give in exchange for me giving you your heart's desire."

Not returning the kiss, Jim stared at the thing, letting distrust, fear, doubt and disbelief fill his expression. "Just like that, as if you could really make it happen."

"I can, I tell you." Elder ran a possessive hand over Jim's arm. "I swear it, and I am more bound by an oath than you could possibly understand."

Looking away from the compelling gaze, Jim stared out at the city, wishing he could see Blair, wishing he could touch him one more time. Then he said carefully, "Then I swear that I give you everything that is mine to give; in return no evil, nor anything or any person touched by evil, can harm my beloved, Blair Sandburg, for the rest of his natural life." As he spoke, he swiftly closed the tiny space between him and Elder, his mouth touching the foul thing as the last word crossed his lips.

Elder jerked away, the fury on its face enough to make Jim think longingly of his gun. With obvious effort it controlled the anger, a tight smile taking its place. "You knew, then. Very clever, detective. And not unexpected that you would sacrifice yourself for that particular pretty piece of ass." The smile grew nasty, with jagged teeth where perfect ones had been only a moment before. "For all the good it does you." Long, sharp fingers pierced Jim's arms, dragging him close despite his struggles. "Once I've claimed you, you'll do anything I wish, including luring that sweet partner of yours into a bargain with me."

"What makes you think I'll do that just because you own me? Touched by evil, remember?" Jim ground out through a jaw locked tight against pain.

"Oh, he'll do it to save your soul, you see. Just as you did to save his." Pinning Jim against the glass in a parody of a lover's embrace, Elder bit the junction of Jim's neck and shoulder, chuckling as the blood began to flow. Then it stopped, body wooden and unmoving against Jim's. "No," it howled. "NO, NO, NO! You are *mine,* body and soul."

"Body, yes," Jim panted. "Soul? That's Blair's: signed, sealed and delivered just a short while ago. My gift to him, along with my heart, simply because I love him."

Power trickled over Jim's nerves, making him writhe in pain. Snarling, Elder bodily picked him up and threw him through the air. He crashed into the bar face-first, and sat up groggily, wiping the blood away from his mouth. "And if he finds out what I did from you or yours, you'll cause him harm, breaking your own bargain."

With a swipe of a hand that suddenly sported talons like knives, Elder hissed, "He doesn't love you in return. You've sold yourself for a whore who spends himself on anyone who catches his eye, yet you're not good enough for him."

The pain in his face as more blood poured was nothing compared to that truth, but Jim said simply, "No, I'm not, and his generous heart does not make him a whore, just a shaman who doesn't know any other way to heal his own pain. Don't think I don't know the cause of that, either." Summoning a defiant smile, Jim said, "I'm not going to back down on my part of the bargain; might as well get what you can out of it."

Snarling, his transformation to beast complete, Elder snarled, "Oh, I will, you stupid piece of filth. I will." Effortlessly picking Jim up by the collar, he thrust his tongue into Jim's mouth, forcing the first scream from the sentinel in a night filled with them, as the whole world changed around him.

Resisting the urge to lean his forehead into the door of his apartment and fall asleep where he stood, Dr. Blair Sandburg fumbled to fit his key into the lock without dropping any of the burden he carried. Papers, files, laptop, books, and backpack all threatened to flee from the precarious perch of his arms to the relative safety of the floor, and he swore to himself if they did, he'd simply lie down on top of them. As it was, he wasn't so sure that he wasn't going to beat the whole mess to the ground anyway; all he could hope for was that it was on the other side of the door.

A flicker of motion in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and his grip on the key became sure and tight. Keeping his head down as if he hadn't seen it, heart pounding with a heady mixture of anticipation and fear, Blair pretended to still be having trouble getting in, all the while waiting for another glimpse of movement. It came almost immediately, a flash of fluttering black, like the wings of a great bird, or a long, open coat caught in a breeze. Wishing he could scent danger the way an animal - or the sentinels he'd been vainly searching for for so long - did, he sneaked glimpses in all directions, trying to pinpoint the trouble that had brought his mysterious guardian to his side yet again.

Just as the key started to become too slick with sweat to hold onto, a familiar scent of cigars hit him. Blair was grateful that the fall of his curls around his face hid his disappointment from Simon. A split second later the big cop hailed him with a friendly call of his name, and Blair was able to muster a welcoming smile for him. He genuinely liked the captain of Cascade's Major Crimes police unit and had since the day they met, when Blair had inadvertently been drawn into the search for a serial killer named Lash. Simon's gruff and authoritarian ways had made getting to know him a challenge, but he'd never regretted the effort.

"Hey, Simon," he answered, trying to wave without dropping anything.

Catching the laptop before it could fall, Banks said, "My dad would call this a lazy man's load: carrying too much so you don't have to make two trips."

Finally getting the door open, Blair stepped into his studio apartment just in time to let it all slide onto the table he kept by the door for just that purpose. "Grad students at Rainier call it a dead man's stack, because you're too dead tired to go get the rest if you don't bring it all with you at once."

Simon frowned. "You overdoing it again, Blair?"

"Just making like Alice's Red Queen," he muttered nearly to himself. "Running as fast as I can just to stay in place." At his friend's blank look, Blair wearily put a lid on his oddball sense of humor and said louder, "What brings you to the college side of town? I haven't heard any rumors about a new designer drug on campus or any of the other teachers involved in anything shady. What can I help you with?"

"Why can't a man drop in on a friend and offer to take him out to dinner without being accused of having ulterior motives?" Simon said lightly.

Not believing the offhand tone at all, Blair said calmly, "That means this isn't an official visit. What has Daryl gotten himself into this time?" At Simon's pained grimace, he drummed up some enthusiasm, and added, "Not that I'm complaining about a free meal, man. It's just that I'm really, really beat tonight and was planning on crashing as soon as I got my coat off."

Instantly contrite, Banks said, "I did try to call, but you're a hard man to pin down sometimes, and things are about to get seriously busy on my end."

"Between classes and faculty meetings, I don't think I've been near my office all day." Though he looked longingly at the pullout couch that was his bed, still unmade from his dash for work this morning, Blair left his jacket on and ran through a mental list of what he might need to take with him to go out for the evening. Putting his key ring back in his pocket, he turned to Simon. "That special Federal taskforce is taking up residence tomorrow, isn't it? Still no clue what they're here for?"

Taking an abrupt interest in the boxes lining the wall beside him, Banks toed one and said, "You've been home from that expedition in Borneo for nearly a year, and you still haven't unpacked. I thought you signed a teaching contract with the Anthro department that was good for a couple of years."

Blair blinked, then shook his head. With an honest grin making its way through his fatigue, he said, "You do know and have been told to keep it to yourself, especially from part-time civilian consultants. Okay, I can live with that. Sushi or Thai?"

Frowning in mock aggravation, but not enough to hide his relief that Blair wasn't going to make an issue of it, Simon grumped, "What have you got against a good honest steak, anyway?"

"Want that list alphabetically or in order of just how terrible it is?" Blair said, leading the way out of the tiny apartment, spirits and energy lifting at the prospect of an evening of lively debate and good company.

"My ancestors did not fight their way to the top of the food chain just so I could become an herbivore." Simon shut the door behind them, and walked down the hall with Blair, automatically adjusting his steps to accommodate his shorter companion.

Despite himself, Blair peeked back over his shoulder, half-wishing that he would see a man-shaped shadow in some dark corner and not caring at all about the danger that seeing it would herald. Forcing himself to focus on the man by his side, he took up the figurative challenge. "Now, see, that's a common misconception...."

Simon rolled his eyes, then joined in the battle, clearly pleased to be back to their normal give and take. It took no effort to keep it going until they were in the car and well on their way to the restaurant they had finally agreed on as they pulled away from the apartment building. Blair was deep into a run-down of the methods of preservation used on so-called "fresh meat" when Simon's cell phone rang, and he had to hide a grin at his friend's flash of relief at the interruption.

Plugging the phone into the hands-free receptacle on the dash, probably to save himself a lecture on how dangerous using a cell while driving was, Simon barked, "What?"

"Banks, how fast can you get to the bad end of Lafayette Street?"

Snatching the phone out of the cradle, Simon put it to his ear, casting an uneasy glance at his passenger. "Fifteen minutes, max. What have you got for me?"

Looking out the passenger window on the pretense of giving Simon privacy for the conversation, Blair pulled in a long, shaky lung full of air, carefully hiding it from Simon. He had recognized that soft growl of a voice. Though he had only heard his unknown guardian speak a few times, the voice echoed through his dreams constantly and comforted him through the odd nightmare that came from working with the police department. As always it sent a quiver of some un-nameable feeling up his spine and into his brain, leaving him confused and unreasonably heartsick.

Illogically nodding his understanding to whatever had been said on the other end of the line, Banks asked sharply, "Do I need backup?" He nodded again, and said, "You're going to navigate me into position, like before?" Then he added hastily, "No, no, I trust you. It's just hard to go in blind. Where do you want my people and is there any chance we can get this on surveillance equipment? No? Damn. Okay, can you give me the fifteen to get everyone where they need to be? Good. On my way."

Simon hung up and dialed a new number. "Taggart? I need two detectives in an unmarked at the corner of Lafayette and Cedar. Have them stay out of sight but on their toes; something dirty might be going down." He listened again, then said, "No, make it ten. I'll get in touch as soon as I know the details."

He hit the "end" button with more force than strictly necessary, and said apologetically, "I'm going to have to renege on the dinner, Blair. I'm sorry, but the job is twenty-four/seven whether I want it to be or not. There's a really decent sports bar a few blocks from where I need to be, and I think that Jags exhibition game is tonight. You could get a good meal, a couple of beers, and I'll join you when I'm done to catch the final score and pay your tab."

"No need to go to that much trouble," Blair said, amazing himself with how calm he sounded when he thought his heart might explode from his chest. "I can just wait in the car for you while you meet with your snitch."

Abruptly all cop, Banks said, "Not going to happen. What makes you think it was a snitch in the first place?"

"One of your men or an undercover wouldn't have called you 'Banks.' The first would have said 'captain,' and the latter wouldn't have used a name at all. Must be a pretty good tip if you're willing to drop everything to act on it."

Not mollified, Banks said, "Whatever. Look, I don't have time to take you back, so it's the sports bar or getting dumped on a corner to catch a bus. Which is it going to be, Sandburg?"

"Back to my last name - must have hit a nerve," Blair said, making his voice sound cheerful. "Sports bar it is, and I may have a steak just to get your goat."

Stopping at a red light, Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. With an obvious effort, he switched gears from cop to friend. "You would have to be with me when he called," he muttered. "I don't suppose there's any way I can convince you to let this go without satisfying that overly abundant curiosity of yours?"

"No," Blair said unrepentantly. Then, to reassure him, he said, "I know there were times when we first met that you weren't sure of me, but by now you have to know that I understand the need for confidentiality, especially where sources are concerned."

"This goes way beyond protecting a snitch," Simon said, putting the car back in motion. "Calling the man that is practically an insult; same for thinking of him as a run-of-the-mill informant. Don't even have a name for him, but I've always thought he might be ex-CIA because of the quality of his goods and how he handles himself. The information is always one hundred percent, the kind of stuff that saves lives and cops dream of getting. He's never asked for a dime, and I bet I'd be eating my teeth if I offered him money."

"How long has he been working with you?" Blair asked, putting on his best listening face in hopes that Simon would keep talking.

Mind clearly back in the past, Simon said, "From the time I became captain. Took about a year for me to learn to totally trust what he gave me and even longer for him to agree to a face-to-face meet with me. Such as it was. Mostly me talking to shadows or someone standing behind me."

"Why so secretive? Though if he were a rogue agent that could make sense," Blair wondered aloud, truly interested in why the man would take such pains to remain unidentified.

"He won't let conversations get personal, so I can't ask," Banks said, still lost in his memories. "Can't even ask why he picked me to be his contact in the department, though I suspect he helps cops in other ways. For instance, there's been a rash of anonymous 911 calls, all coinciding with busts that are about to go bad, but when I hinted that I thought he was behind it, he stalked off saying he wasn't a damn babysitter for the cops."

Before Blair could choose one of the thousand questions whirling through his mind, Simon slowed the car, peering through the windshield and frowning, the friend subsumed by the police captain again. "Where's that unmarked?" he muttered. He glanced at his watch, his frown deepening. "Said time was an issue."

Reluctantly, Blair let the conversation go, taking his own turn at looking for the unmarked car. He could hear Simon speaking to someone over the cell again, then shrank back into his seat when he punched it off and violently threw it down onto the seat between them. "I can't wait for them to go around a pileup on the freeway. If he wants me there at a certain time, he's got a damn good reason for it. Which just might be because someone will wind up dead if I'm not."

"You can't be thinking of showing on your own," Blair blurted. "That's a good way for you to end up being the corpse."

Obviously thinking furiously, Simon sped up, then came to a stop at the end of the next block over. "Out. If I'm not there by the time the game's over, I'll catch you at your office tomorrow and make up for blowing off dinner."

"No way; I'm not letting you go in alone."

"I said, out."

"I may not be a cop, but I can use a phone as good as the next guy. You park close enough to the meet for me to hear if there's any trouble, and I'll call in a 911 to Taggart for you."

"And if it spills out in your direction, what then, *Dr.* Sandburg? You'll reason the crooks into leaving you alone?"

Simon's sarcastic emphasis on Blair's title was meant to remind him who was trained to deal with gunfire and who wasn't, so Blair answered him in the only way that would convince him that he knew what he was doing. "No, I floor the accelerator, screaming into the phone for help."

Simon snorted. "That won't do you any good against bullets flying all over the damn place. I don't have time for this. Out!"

Playing a dirty card, but absolutely determined not to let Simon go in without at least some support, Blair said, "Unless you manhandle me, I'm not moving. And like you said, you don't have time for that." He fixed Simon with an open, honest stare and added more softly. "What would I tell Daryl if I didn't do everything I could to make sure you didn't get hurt? He's got problems enough right now without losing his father, too."

Cursing nearly inaudibly, Simon swerved back into traffic and gunned the engine to make up for lost minutes. "I swear to God, when I get done tonight, I'm taking you down to the station and arresting you for obstruction of justice. Interfering with an official investigation. Loitering. Something!"

"Hey, how am I supposed to get the steak you promised me if I'm in jail?" Blair protested, trying to inject a note of humor.

"Steak you were promised!" Simon shot him a look of pure ire, and continued to fume silently until they reached the part of Lafayette that no sane person would travel alone after dark.

He pulled into one of the many pools of darkness where a streetlight should be, and turned in his seat to poke a finger in Blair's general direction. "Get down, cell phone out, key in the ignition, doors locked. You see anything, *anything* at all that looks even vaguely threatening, you get your ass gone, understood? No stopping to second-guess, no worrying about my skin. It's my job to take care of that; not yours."

Putting both hands up defensively, Blair said, "Hey, I'm no hero. I just want to make sure that there's another set of eyes and ears keeping track of things. Your backup shows up and I'm outta here."

Softening slightly, Simon said quietly, "See that you do. Daryl doesn't need to lose the only friend he can really talk to, either." Not knowing what to say to that, Blair looked away, then scrunched down low in the seat so that he could barely see out the window. A second later, Simon's phone rang, and he answered it with, "I'm in place. Where to next?" Without looking back, he left the car, listening intently to the directions coming over the cell.

Thoroughly intending to listen to reason and stay put, Blair peered after him, feeling conspicuous despite the cloak of night and shelter of the car. He caught a flash of material moving with the wind, outlining the indistinct shape of a man striding confidently along the edge of the rooftop overlooking the ally where Simon was walking. Forever after Blair would tell himself that it was fear for Simon from an unfriendly that made him slip out the barely opened car door. Only in the deepest part of his mind would he ever confess that it was the need to know if the man on the roof was his guardian that had him creeping uneasily after Simon, clinging to one filthy wall.

A short eternity later, Blair crouched down between two overflowing dumpsters, mildly astonished that he had made it so far through the twisting maze without making enough noise to warn Simon or anybody else he was there. The labyrinth of alleys opened unexpectedly into a small courtyard with many entrances, surprisingly clean for where it was located, and fitfully lit by bright windows several stories up. Simon was nowhere in sight, but there were enough dark corners and debris filled lanes that he could be almost anywhere. Glancing back the way he came, Blair debated a sensible retreat before whatever was going to happen went down, but even as he bit his lip, trying to reason with himself, two cars approached from different directions and a door opened to the courtyard.

Too far away to see faces, Blair did his best to memorize what details he could, though his information was limited to elegant cars, expensive-looking clothes, and a general attitude of "don't fuck with me" from the three men who met in the center of the pool of brightness created by headlights. Three more men appeared, hired muscle at its most obvious. Only after they did a cursory check of the immediate area did the first three begin to speak in earnest, somehow deadly-sounding tones. Wondering who they were and why Simon needed to know they had met, Blair strained to make out any of the conversation, but if he had been close enough to do that, he would have been found when the heavies searched for uninvited guests.

Whatever the topic of discussion was, none of them were happy with how the conversation was going. Gradually their voices became louder, the gestures more violent and aggressive, and Blair began inching out of his hiding place, not wanting to give up his entire life to the Witness Protection program for seeing a major hit. Apparently something or somebody on the other side of the courtyard had the same idea; a stack of decaying cardboard suddenly collapsed in on itself, sending a fleet of cat-sized rats scurrying in all directions.

The muscle men and their charges divided instantly, guns appearing all around as the bodyguards began searching for the cause of the disturbance and the talkers dived back into the relative safety of car and doorway. For a moment Blair was paralyzed with indecision; if he moved, they might see him, but if he stayed put there was a chance they'd find him. Before he could decide between what felt like equal risks, a homeless man staggered out of a cluster of garbage cans deep in one alley, banging them noisily, apparently spooked into running by the bodyguards. Taking advantage of the attention focused on the newcomer, Blair scrambled backwards on his hands and knees, keeping one eye on the action and one on finding a safe path out. There were muffled reports and flashes of light as the hired guns shot at the fleeing vagrant, but he cleared the corner, panic apparently giving him a burst of speed.

Once he was beyond sight of the courtyard, Blair broke into a run himself, not caring if he was spotted as long as he made it to the main street and Simon's car. As he ran he listened for Simon, positive he was good enough cop to take advantage of the distraction Providence had provided, but he couldn't hear any other footfalls besides his own. He took a sharp turn and skidded to a stop, leaned on the wall as he tried to catch his breath, and waited for some sign of Simon, muttering, "Hurry, hurry."

Eventually Blair admitted that Simon hadn't made it out. Taking out his cell, intending to call 911, he glanced around to pinpoint his location and realized that he couldn't. He didn't have a single clue where he was, relative to Lafayette Street or any other landmark he knew. Hesitantly he retraced his steps, peering ahead in hopes of seeing the bodyguards before they saw him, but by the next intersection he had to admit to himself that he wasn't sure which way was back, either.

Clutching his phone like a talisman, he turned in a small circle, looking for anything that he could orient himself by. The high walls of the buildings surrounding him blocked his view in all directions, along with much of the feeble light from the streets. Traffic sounds were distant and distorted, making it impossible to guess which way the main road was, and he tilted back his head, vainly hoping for a glimpse of the night sky with a guiding star or two.

Finally, with no other option available, he simply walked in the direction he was facing; sooner or later it had to come out somewhere. With luck, it would be a place he recognized. Calmer, although only marginally, Blair reconsidered calling in, just to touch base, in case Simon had been able to make contact with Joel or his backup. But what if Simon had to get through while Blair was tying up that line? Besides, he wasn't quite ready to deal with the repercussions of disobeying and leaving the car to start with, since he didn't have a decent reason he could give for doing it.

He'd rather get chewed out in person after his little adventure was all over, he told himself, ignoring the niggle of expectation that his guardian angel would make an appearance. Not that there was any imminent danger to draw his protector; so far the back streets and alleys had been deserted - eerily so. None of the usual denizens of the forgotten and gloomy byways of Cascade were out. He didn't see a single junkie, prostitute, dealer, homeless person, or even just a young couple looking for a relatively deserted place to make out.

About the time that began to seriously spook him, Blair finally came to a huge open space created by the immense pillars of a many-layered interstate overpass towering above him. It was littered with the battered hulks of burned-out cars and decorated with obscene graffiti, but it was beautiful to him. Now he knew exactly where he was and what he had to do to get back to familiar surroundings. Putting the river at his right, all he had to do was walk along the new overpass until he came to the off-ramp that led into the business district and eventually back to Lafayette Street and Simon.

Relieved, his worry for Simon surged to the forefront of his mind. Blair started off at a trot, finally deciding to try to call the department as he did. After three attempts to connect failed, he swore softly under his breath and put away the phone. Picking up his pace, he began to climb the manmade embankment next to the bottom layer of the highway, stumbling once in the soft dirt and weeds. The next time he slipped, he froze in place. His hand had landed in something wet and sticky, and no amount of prayers could convince him that he was lucky enough to have found only a pile of dog shit.

Reluctantly he looked at the dampness on his fingers, recognized it as fresh blood as much from the scent and feel as the sight of it, and scrubbed it away on his jeans. Walking slowly, gaze flickering over the ground and road supports, he found another splat of it on the concrete, and saw again in his mind's eye the homeless man staggering away from the gunfire. Blair had thought none of the bullets had found their mark, but it was possible that last lurch to clear the corner had been caused by a bullet finding its target. If that were the case, the man could need help and be too afraid or mistrusting of the authorities to go to the hospital.

Glancing back over his shoulder to make sure no gunmen were stealthily making their way behind him, Blair followed the blood trail himself, internally debating whether or not it could be the same person. Whoever it was, he was obviously bleeding too badly for Blair not to try to do what he could, despite the circumstances. He made his way carefully, trying to divide his attention between the possibility of hostiles and keeping on track. At one of the intersections between two levels of the overpass, the blood led into the warren of pillars and supports, some still under construction, and he muttered, "Great, trading one maze for another."

Despite that, he gingerly made his way to a large dark stain just under a ledge that led to a culvert for the highway drainage system. It looked as if the injured man had leaned there for a few minutes, gaining strength before climbing into what Blair was willing to bet was his current sleeping place. Levering himself up to the opening, he called out softly, not wanting to frighten the homeless man any more than he already was.

"Hey, in there - are you hurt? I found some blood out here. You need a ride to the hospital or something?" He kept his voice low and coaxing as he inched into the huge drainage pipe, not really expecting an answer of any kind. Surprisingly there was enough headroom in the pipe for a much taller man, and it was completely dry and rat-free. There were more tunnels leading off in several directions, and a trick of construction let in a great deal of light in from both the road above and the city stretching out below it in all directions.

It was a much better squat than Blair had anticipated, furnished with a few milk crates filled with books, and a pallet of blankets that was clean and tidy. Some groceries were on top of the crates; crackers and other foods that didn't need refrigeration. Despite the effort that had gone into making the place as comfortable as possible, he still had the impression that this was only a temporary stopping point for the occupant.

Intrigued, he stepped into the center of the makeshift room, and spotted the injured man lying on his stomach a few feet up one of the drainage tunnels. He went to his knees beside him, fingers automatically going to his throat to check for a pulse. Sighing in relief at the strong, steady beat against his fingertips, Blair felt along his limbs, looking for the bullet wound, hoping against hope that it would be minor, if messy. When that didn't produce results, he swallowed and probed under the long coat covering most of the man's body, finding what could only be a bullet wound in the lower left half of his back.

Blair peeled off his flannel shirt, wadded it up and pressed it hard into the damaged flesh, then slid both hands under the man to roll him over. Weight would help stop the bleeding, as would direct pressure, but he wanted the victim to be able to see who was helping him, too. And that he *was* helping; drunken hysterics wouldn't help staunch the blood flow.

It took a second heave to get the injured man all the way over, and Blair had to revise his opinion of his new acquaintance. He didn't smell booze at all, and the hard, ripped body didn't belong to the sort of person who aimlessly wandered the streets. Then he saw the man's face, all shadows and smudges of pale skin in the half-light, and all the air in his lungs rushed out, aided by the sudden leap of his heart to his throat. In all the times that his unknown protector had rushed to his aid, Blair had only gotten the briefest glimpse of his face once, and that only in profile. But it was him, slowly bleeding out under Blair's hands. He knew it.

Astounded, Blair stared down at his self-appointed guardian angel, who must have chosen to make himself a target to prevent Simon from being found by the henchmen. "My God, my God," he murmured. "My God."

As if in response to his voice, the man stirred painfully, uneasily, and whispered something that Blair wanted to believe was his own name. He bent to listen more closely, and the injured man turned toward him so that his features could be seen clearly. Blair stifled a small gasp of horror; what he had thought were simply shadows were scars. Deep, jagged scars that looked as if a great beast had clawed his protector's countenance with talons of fire or acid. Only the eyelids were completely spared, though the nose had just one twisting line across the side. The lips had been nearly shredded away and were merely twisted lumps of flesh that looked painful even now.

Compelled by an impulse he didn't know how to deny, Blair peeled away the sides of the old, tattered overcoat, and undid the buttons on the shirt underneath. His protector's chest was as badly mauled, the scars somehow looking more obscene because of the toned quality of the muscles underlying them. Marveling that he had been able to keep use of his muscles, let alone maintain them in such a buff condition, Blair touched the edge of one scar gently, tracing it down to where the hellish exit wound was sluggishly pumping blood.

Called back to the problem at hand, he put away the incredible wave of emotion that seeing the old wounds created, and pushed down gently at the waistband of the pants the man was wearing. The edge was at the very lip of the injury, and he undid the button to be able to apply a compress without hindrance. There were no shorts of any kind under the slacks; the zipper slid down from the pressure of Blair's cloth-filled hand under the fabric surrounding it.

What would have been a very tasty male package was teasingly revealed, but any interest that Blair might have felt was killed by the extent of the scarring on the lax penis. It was as if that had been the center of the beast's rage; the entire penis was a mass of ropey scars that radiated in all directions, including down into the crevice between his legs. Blair's dick tried to crawl up into his belly in sympathetic reaction, and he forced his mind back to the injury he was trying to treat.

Trying to judge if he could leave the tunnel long enough to contact Simon, Blair looked up and found himself caught in the vivid blue gaze of his protector. He started to stammer an apology for what had to look like a very compromising situation on the surface, but before he could speak, the injured man snarled furiously, "What in the fuck are you doing here? And how the hell did you get here?"

"Ah, Simon," Blair spluttered. "I was with him when your call came in, but he didn't have backup so I waited in the car until it came, but it didn't and I heard shots and wanted to find him, but I got lost in those back alleys, and then I found blood, and it led me here."

Struggling to sit up, the man muttered, "Damn it, Sandburg, haven't you ever heard of getting away from trouble, not into it? I left that trail on purpose so those thugs would find me and not keep looking for potential witnesses! You have to get out of here, now."

Trying to push him back without causing more harm, Blair said, "Hold on, hold on, you're in no condition to be going a couple of rounds with heavyweights like that."

With a surprisingly strong one-armed shove, the man pushed Blair away and levered himself up into a sitting position, doing up his pants as soon as he was upright. "I'll manage. Run! Take the left hand tunnel to the four way intersection, left again, and it'll bring you out right underneath the Lafayette exit ramp." With a grunt of effort, he stood, leaning heavily on a wall, and made shooing motions. "Go! I'll get in touch as soon as I can to let you know I'm okay."

Even though the man obviously had a serious home turf advantage, not to mention the fact that he wasn't the helpless vagrant the gunmen would be looking for, Blair hesitated, the need to stay with him as powerful as it was senseless. Before he could formulate a reasonable argument, his protector tilted his head as if listening, then swore. "Fuck. No time now; they'll see you. Come on." Without giving Blair a chance to argue, he dragged him toward the brightest end of the tunnel, stopping at the edge of a ledge that overlooked a thirty-foot drop to the river.

Dizzy just from thinking about looking down, Blair said, "No way am I going to jump. No way."

"Not asking you to, Chief," the man said in a startlingly gentle voice. "Just asking you to trust me a little."

Unable and unwilling to do anything else, Blair nodded, and let himself be turned so that his back was to the river and to his protector. A long-fingered hand captured one of his and guided it to the wall next to the drainage tunnel, helping him lock onto a metal step embedded in the concrete. A careful nudge put a foot on another rung, and when all four limbs were securely locked onto the ladder, the man said quietly, "Five steps down, that's all you need to do. Five easy steps down. One...."

Blair blindly took it, then the next four, and the voice above him whispered, "Reach to your left; there's a wide metal beam underneath the overhang of this culvert. Plenty of room for you to hide and no one can see it from either above or below. Even the ladder is invisible unless you know where to look for it. Come on, Chief, you can do it. It's a small half step; come on, that's it."

Even with all the patient coaxing, it took more will than Blair knew he had to follow the softly spoken commands. But he did, and he crouched down in the hidden shelter, pretending that he was secure behind a good railing. More words drifted down to him. "Now stay put, no matter what you hear. I swear, *swear* that I have a plan."

"Not moving," Blair mumbled, head down on his arms so he couldn't see the vastness in front of him. "Definitely not moving."

"Thank you," was the last thing he heard, along with the indistinct shuffling of feet away from his hiding spot.

Within a few minutes, just before a real panic attack could take hold, Blair heard distant voices, rough and cold. Indistinguishable words echoed and boomed. Hunching himself down as small as he could, he listened intently, not sure if he were imagining the injured man's drunken-sounding complaints. "Go 'way, leave me 'lone. Didn't do nuttin'!" There was no doubt about the shouts that suddenly boomed through the night, or the frantic, "No, no, no, didn't do nuttin', didn't do nuttin," that followed them. A second later he heard broken footsteps, then a "There he is!" and a gunshot.

Leaping to his feet, left hand thrown out to find the rungs, Blair didn't have time to consider his promise before his un-named protector swung down to the ledge to join him, throwing something down into the water that landed with a noticeable splash as he did. He pressed Blair into the concrete wall, holding him tightly in place, both of them barely breathing as heavy footfalls thudded overhead. His bodyguard pressed his forehead into the curve of Blair's shoulder, his free hand covering Blair's mouth. A brilliant shaft of light cut through the air mere inches beyond them, piercing all the way to the water below.

The light jerked and shifted several times, and a guttural voice said, "There, see?"

"Floater for sure," another voice agreed coldly. "Don't think we need to worry about it. Didn't have time to stop and chat with anybody on the way."

"Better check for other winos on the way back, just to make sure," the first speaker added, his voice already fading as steps retreated away from the culvert above them.

Knees shaking so badly that he would have fallen if not for the powerful body holding him upright, Blair blinked away the after-glare from the flashlight, suddenly understanding why his protector had shielded his eyes. The hand on his mouth moved away slowly, but Blair couldn't think of a thing to say. More accurately, he realized dizzily that he didn't know which of the seven million questions assaulting his brain to choose first.

Thankfully, his bodyguard had something succinct to say. Pivoting creakily, he peered over the edge and shrugged with a one-handed gesture. "There goes another coat, and, damnit, I hadn't read some of those books yet." He took a cell phone off his belt, flipped it open, and hit a speed dial. A second later, he said, "Missing something?"

Blair could hear Simon's answer clearly over the phone and he did *not* sound happy.

"No, he's safe, or as safe as he can be," his protector said, casting a dryly amused eye over Blair. "No, you better come to us. Get on Interstate 44, westbound heading toward the bay; first emergency call box after the Sorenson exit, pull over into the breakdown lane, get out, and check your car as if it's got some problem you're looking for. We'll slip into the back seat. Last thing we want is for someone to make that you've picked up passengers anywhere near that overpass."

He thumbed the phone off, put it back on his belt, and leaned heavily on the wall, head hanging. Blair moved to get a shoulder under him to help support his weight. For one long, glorious moment the aid was freely accepted, then Blair was kindly pushed away. "We can't go back through the culverts; they might be watching them. We're going to have to climb straight up. Think you can handle it?"

"If I have to," Blair said grimly. "What about you? That's a serious hole in your side, and you've lost a lot of blood."

"I'll make it. Not much choice, is there?" He guided Blair's hand to the first rung, then helped him start the long climb. By the time they reached the top, Simon was in place, pacing up and down in front of his car as if arguing with someone on his phone. The back passenger door was ajar and the two of them crept into the back seat, heads down, slamming the door closed with just enough force to let Simon know they were there.

Moments later Simon threw himself into the driver's seat, but before he could start his tirade, Blair said sharply from where he crouched on the floor, "Hospital, he's hurt."

"No!" the injured man countered instantly, stretching out as best he could on the seat. "Gunshot wounds have to be reported. Just drop me off at the next exit; I've got other places I can go until this heals up enough."

"You need medical care," Blair started to argue.

"I'm trained as a medic; I can take care of it," he insisted.

Simon spoke up, his tone all command and authority. "And if you pass out from blood loss before you can? Or if your wound gets infected? There has to be someone you trust who can look after you for a day or two."

A dull, stubborn silence answered him. Before it could turn belligerent, Blair asked hesitantly, thinking of the comforts Simon's home could provide, "Your place? I'll stay with him."

Simon glanced over his shoulder, his expression one of true regret. "Daryl's staying with me for the next couple of days. I don't want to risk getting him involved in this, no matter how slight the chance is."

"My place then," Blair said.

"Just stop the damned car and let me out," the man gritted out through a clenched jaw, muscle jumping in agitation. "It's not like I can't take care of myself."

"Oh, shut up," Simon said tiredly. "You think I don't know that you drew their fire when I got too eager to get closer and knocked those boxes over? Though I could have sworn I wasn't close enough to bump them." The last was muttered, but then he said, "My mistake; my debt. You couldn't be safer than at Blair's place. Even if they made my car and are checking me out to be on the safe side, they have absolutely no reason to connect him to me being there. I'll make sure you both have what you need for a while."

Whether it was because Simon invoked the age-old male ritual of "owing me" or because he was too hurt and tired to keep fighting, the injured man subsided, throwing his arm over his face. Blair had to hide a small smile; the gesture made him look very much like a sulky five-year-old who needed a nap.

Taking his passenger's acquiescence for granted, Simon pinned Blair with a sharp look, as best he could while driving. "Now you want to tell me why you didn't do what you were supposed to?"

Unwilling to confess the real reason he had left the car, Blair found himself giving Simon the same version of the truth that he had stammered out earlier. "I did try to call in, but couldn't connect." Then, to derail Simon, he asked, "What was it all about, anyway? What went down?"

Simon snorted in amusement and said, "Let's just say that I might have the upper hand on that Federal Taskforce tomorrow morning."

Biting his lip, suddenly unsure that he should keep his presence at the meet secret, Blair made a show of shifting to get comfortable on the unforgiving floor of the car. As he moved, he saw that his guardian angel was watching him intently from under the shelter of his forearm, his blue eyes piercing Blair, giving him the uneasy feeling that his lie was plain to see. Unable to meet that somber regard, he turned to say something, anything to Simon, and was mercifully saved by him asking, "So how are we going to get him into your place without being seen?"

The three of them discussed it for the rest of the trip, turning over several ideas before finally settling on making it look like just another casual visit. It wasn't as if Blair didn't have friends and students over occasionally and one more wouldn't particularly stand out to witnesses. Simon pulled over a short distance away from the building, planning on going around the block several times to give them a chance to get inside. After only a few steps, realizing that a stumbling man would draw too much attention to anyone casually watching, Blair wrapped his arm around the very trim waist and murmured, "Pretend to be a lover; most people automatically look away from a gay couple."

His protector did as asked without question, though he gave a nod that seemed to both approve of the quick thinking and dismiss any problems he might have with being seen as gay. For no good reason Blair found that surprising, but didn't comment; the man was heavy and depending on him for support, apparently much against his will. By the time Blair got him through his front door, his protector was nearly unconscious again and clearly staying on his feet through sheer stubbornness.

Admiring the determination, even while cursing about it, Blair got him down on the couch bed, and peeled up the dirty shirt to look at the wounds, wincing despite his best efforts not to. They were angry and ugly looking in the bright light of his home, and he wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into. He didn't have a clue what to do next.

"They have to be cleaned," his protector said tiredly. "Alcohol or some other disinfectant, hopefully to prevent infection. You'll need sterile pads, large gauze rolls, medical adhesive tape, some swabs to clear out any foreign material."

"Man, I can't even offer you an aspirin for the pain," Blair said.

"Doesn't matter, Chief," he said reassuringly. He tried to smile, but his twisted lips made a mockery of the expression, and he scrubbed at his damaged face in irritation. "Painkillers and I don't get along too well, but I was taught a few tricks by ... a good friend, that'll help. You just do what you need to do."

"Right." Blair stood, taking in a deep breath. "Right, towels first, I guess." He turned to go to the bathroom, stopping on the way to let Simon in. Thankfully, he was carrying a large first aid kit, the kind issued to police squad cars, filled with far more medical supplies than Blair had on hand.

Simon lifted it, mouth opening to say something, but he froze, nearly stumbling at the threshold as he looked over Blair's shoulder and into the room. Back to the other occupant of the room, Blair could indulge in a warning glare at his friend. Almost silently, Simon whispered, "No wonder he hid, even from me. With scars like that, I.D.'ing him would be a piece of cake."

"Don't even think about it," Blair muttered, a fierce protectiveness rising up unexpectedly from deep inside. "Just asking about a man with those kinds of marks could be enough to endanger him. Or do you really think he cares what you think of his looks?"

Clearly startled, Simon hastily said, "Of course not!" Almost irritably he pushed past him and went to the bed, setting the first aid kit on the floor beside it. "What are you doing out in the field with a half-healed wound, anyway?" he said to the injured man. "You should be in bed for another week, at least."

Puzzled by the comment, Blair ducked into his bathroom, grabbed a handful of towels and bottle of alcohol, and hurried back in time to hear his guest say, "You know the way it is on the streets; you're either predator or prey. No way was I going to be the one on the bottom of the food chain."

But the blood was fresh, Blair thought. And I'm no expert, but the wound looked fresh, too. There was no denying, though, that now the raw edges of the injuries looked pink and scabby with new healing. The thought tumbled away, though, as his protector gave a raw gasp, trying to lift himself so that Simon could get his pants out of the way. After that it took all Blair's concentration to follow the directions given to him through clenched teeth, and he couldn't help but be relieved when the man passed out from pain as Simon moved him into a sitting position so that bandages could be wrapped around his middle.

By that time the stink of the blood, antiseptic, and alcohol was turning Blair's stomach. "Good thing we didn't get that call after dinner."

"Which I still owe you," Simon said, doing his best to gently lower their patient back down.

Waving off the notion that it was a debt, Blair said, "Maybe you better tell me what brought you over, though. We might not get a chance to talk personally for a while, and I had the feeling it was a biggie."

Head bent over the medical supplies as he packed them up, Simon admitted, "I wanted you to talk to Daryl about college. He's insisting that he doesn't want to go; wants to try to make it as the bass guitar player in this band he joined a few months ago."

Uncertainly, Blair said, "I'll talk to him, of course, if you want me to. I just don't know what good it would do. If he's not committed to school, he'll just fail. It's a lot of hard work to do if your heart isn't in it."

"I know, I know," Simon said. "It's just that he thinks you're cool, and he's got a lot of respect for you as a teacher. I was hoping that you could at least convince him not to dismiss it out of hand. Maybe do the band thing part time or something. You could point him toward the courses at Rainier that are interesting, with good teachers, so it wouldn't be so much drudgery."

Pulling the top sheet over their patient and tucking it in around wide shoulders, Blair asked doubtfully, "Has he told you why he's not interested in college? And is there any reason why he can't take a year off first? Lots of freshmen take some time to check out what's out there for them before trying to make up their minds what career to study for."

Before Banks could answer, their patient said softly, "Let him try the band idea, Simon. He's eighteen; he just wants to think he's a man, making his own decisions about his life. If the band takes off, then he's got a decent living, for a while anyway. If it doesn't, he's smart enough to eventually see that going back to school is the right thing to do, if you leave the door open enough that he can back down without hurting his pride too much."

Abruptly standing, rolling down the sleeves that he had pushed up out of the way during his attempt at being a nurse, Simon snapped, "What do you know about raising kids?"

"Nothing," their patient admitted, making a small shrugging movement to adjust to some ache. "I just remember eighteen. Don't you?"

Simon didn't answer, but snatched up his coat and stalked to the door. "I'll check in with you tomorrow," he tossed over his shoulder at Blair.

Once he was gone, Blair said hesitantly, "He's a good man. Once he realizes you were right, he'll do the right thing by you."

Reading the expression underneath all the scar tissue was hard, but Blair could swear that his protector was sad - sad to the point where it was nearly grief. Despite that, his tone was bland. "No, he's right; I stepped across the line. I'm not a personal friend, not one of his detectives. All he knows about me is that I'm a reliable informant."

Blair didn't know what to say to that. It was the truth, in so far as he understood how Simon's mind worked. It just seemed very cold, especially considering that taking a bullet to protect him should have placed the man well above the status of an outsider. Not that Simon knows that, of course, but still, Blair thought. His guest didn't seem to think that anything more needed to be said. He cautiously hitched into what seemed to be a more comfortable position, giving every indication of being intent on sleep.

Blair asked uncertainly, "Is there anyone who needs to know you're okay? I could call or get a message to them."

After a pause so long that Blair wondered if he had fallen asleep, the man whispered, "No. No one, Chief."

His breathing changed to the even respirations of someone deeply under, and Blair finally got to his feet, knees creaking a bit from being on the hard floor so long. Deep in thought, trying to make sense of a long, long confusing night, Blair absently cleaned up the dirty towels and rags, left the kit where he could get it tomorrow to change bandages, and went into the kitchen. More from common sense dictating that he eat at least once in eighteen hours than because he was hungry, he put together a sandwich and took it into the bathroom to munch on while he got ready for bed. With luck he'd get five hours solid sleep before the alarm went off for work tomorrow.

It wasn't until he padded barefoot down the short hallway, turning off lights as he went, that it occurred to him that his only bed was occupied, and all the rest of his bedding was in the hamper, waiting for him to remember to do laundry. Not that he hadn't slept on the floor more than a few times in his life, but he was cold, more than tired, and not in the least inclined to waste what rest he could get tossing and turning on a bare wooden floor. Hesitantly he stood at the foot of the mattress, assessing his chances of surviving if he crawled in next to the big man already there.

His protector was on the very edge of the bed, leaving more than enough room for Blair. He also seemed to be out cold, which hopefully meant that it wouldn't cause him any discomfort if someone slept next to him. And, on the surface at least, Blair walking alongside him like a long-time lover hadn't bothered him earlier. Surely he wouldn't get bent out of shape by waking up beside him, as long as it was clear that sleeping was all that had happened. After all, it was Blair's bed.

The last thought was defiant, and holding onto that, he gingerly crawled into bed, wrapping the blanket that had been put aside earlier around him. Being prone was wonderful, the pillow was just right, and there was something very comforting about having that solid body so close to his. Listening to his protector's breathing as if it were a lullaby, Blair slipped into his own rest and dreamed of caring arms sheltering him from unnamed sorrows and dangers.

The unaccustomed sounds of movement in his tiny apartment woke him the next morning from the best sleep he'd had in forever. Blair sat up, groggily rubbing at his eyes. The lights were still off, and the clock said his alarm wasn't due to go off for another fifteen minutes, but if his guest needed something, he should be the one who was up. There was no telling what damage a wounded man could do to himself fumbling around in a strange kitchen just to get a drink of water.

"Hey," Blair said quietly, "Whatever it is, I would have gotten it for you. You need to stay still and heal."

The other man laughed softly. "Much as I appreciate the offer, bed baths have never been one of my favorite things. I had to get the stink of the blood off of me; kept waking me up to look for danger."

"No way should you be getting those bandages wet," Blair blurted, reaching for the lamp beside the couch. He clicked it on, and his guest jerked his head to one side.

"Hey, give some warning next time," he said, trying to bury the irritation in his voice by keeping the words level. "I was going to hustle up some breakfast for you, so you could sleep in a bit. Didn't mean to wake you."

Yawning, Blair mumbled without thinking, "Breakfast sounds good." He glanced back at his protector, intending to tell him what groceries there were, then had to force himself to look away before he could get into serious trouble by howling. The man was standing with his back to him, all lean, long lines of muscle, and wearing only a single towel draped loosely around his hips. From the rear he was a perfect treat, and it had been a long, long time since Blair had indulged in that particular appetite.

Vaguely thinking that he wouldn't want to put on blood-soaked clothes either, Blair scrambled out of bed, keeping his blanket around him. Either the other man didn't notice his haste, or attributed it to morning necessities. Blair made it to the bathroom without making too much of a fool of himself. Once safely on the other side of the door, he gave the erection trying to tunnel its way out of his boxers a whap, and sternly lectured himself on letting his fantasies run wild. Just because the man had inexplicably taken to watching over him years ago, didn't mean that Blair was anybody special to him. From what little he'd seen and learned last night, protecting people was what he did with his life, for whatever reason.

It was just Blair's good luck - or bad, depending on who you asked - that he had a tendency to need a little more protecting than most.

Still, it was good to have a face, a specific person, to attach to the strength that had carried him to the floor, sheltering him from the explosion that had destroyed the warehouse he'd been living in when he'd first started working on his dissertation so many years ago. If he asked right, he might even get a name to go with the man whose gentle hands had freed him from Lash's insane captivity and half a dozen other tight situations during the times he had lived in Cascade.

Promising himself that he would not ask how many others were watched over the same as he was, not even on the pretext of finding out why those particular people, Blair took care of his morning rituals, then dug out some old sweats left behind by some friend at some time or another. They were too big for him, but so old and soft that he wore them in the winter over his other clothes while he studied. Hating to give them up, but figuring they were going to a good cause, Blair went back into the kitchen in time to see his guest scrambling eggs.

Without looking up from the task, he said, "You have one seriously bare cupboard here, but I found some multigrain bread in the freezer, and a jar of salsa in the door of the fridge. Fake huervos rancheros good for you?"

Alert and mind back in thinking, not lusting, order, Blair said sharply. "You should be in bed; I can take care of that."

Then and only then did he realize that there wasn't a trace of the hole that had marred his protector's back the night before. Obviously bracing himself for a reaction, the man turned, showing that the exit wound had healed completely as well, without leaving so much as a dip in the scars covering his abdomen. Far more shocked by that than he had been by the disfiguring, Blair said stupidly, "Oh, that's how you survived being mauled so badly."

The tense line of shoulder relaxed subtly. "Something like that." Eggs done, he scooped them out onto two plates, then turned and put the dishes on the tiny counter that separated the galley kitchen from the living/bed room. He went back to the stove, and picked up the teakettle to pour water for tea.

Sitting for want of anything better to do or say, Blair picked up a fork, noticing distractedly that some of yolks had been left out to give the meal a little less cholesterol. They were cooked just the way he liked them - light and fluffy, no runny white clear hidden in the pale yellow - and he took a bite, chewing without tasting as he tried to decide how to handle this latest revelation. Indicating the clothes he'd put on the other stool, he finally said, "Thought you might appreciate a little protection against cooking splatters."

"Better late than never," his protector said with a slight crook of his mouth that could pass for a smile. He pulled the sweats on quickly, apparently unconcerned about modesty, then sat at the end of the counter and dished some of the salsa onto his eggs.

"Oh, you better watch..." Blair started to say, but before he could finish his sentence, the other man took a bite, and violently spat the food out, choking. "...out for the salsa, it's really spicy," he finished lamely.

Rushing over to the kitchen sink, the man rinsed his mouth out repeatedly, then scrabbled in the freezer. Alarmed, Blair got up to get a glass for the ice. "Water only dilutes it, you know. Bread is better; soaks up the acid."

"Not fast enough," the man mumbled. Blair saw with horror that blisters were rising on the already tortured lips; a flash of tongue as it licked over an ice cube showed more blisters there. Even as he watched, the blisters broke, bled, scabbed, then were gone, like a stop-motion film turning days to seconds.

It was one shock too many, one revelation more than Blair could handle after so many in such a short night. The questions began boiling out of him, one tumbling after the other so fast that he hardly understood his own words as they came. "Do small hurts always heal faster than large ones? How much faster? Does it matter how much skin is involved? Or how deep the wound goes? How many can you handle at a time and still heal at the same speed? Have you always had the ability? Anybody else in your family? Is the pain--"

"Enough!" His protector picked up his dish and scraped the salsa off into the sink, trying to salvage some of the eggs. He didn't look at Blair, but gave him the vast expanse of his back to shield himself from more questions. "I don't know or none of your business or I don't care to any and all of it, Sandburg."

The harshness in the tone jerked the flow of questions to a halt, and Blair covered his lips with the fingers of both hands, astonished at what he'd done. "I didn't mean... that is..." Against his will, his mouth said, "Do you have any idea what studying your gift could do for the understanding of how human bodies repair themselves? The good that could be done by studying why you are the way you are, how you do what you do?"

Eyes uncompromisingly cold, the man took three huge bites of egg, swallowed, and stalked to the couch to retrieve his boots. "So for the good of mankind I should become a guinea pig? Give up my freedom, my life, such as it is, to become a specimen in some hidden laboratory somewhere, examined and probed and treated like an unfeeling thing or a senseless animal, only to have the results of the research classified top secret, for government use only, unless you have enough money to bribe or steal the information?" His voice rose steadily as he jerked on his boots, until the last words were shouted. In the distance a neighbor shouted for quiet, damn it!

Panting harshly, fury clear in a face that could no longer readily show that emotion, he said softly, with a finality that brooked no argument, "I will not ever allow myself to be a specimen again. Not even for you." He stood, leaned in so close that all Blair could see was the painfully vibrant blue of his eyes, and whispered, "I will die first."

Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him, leaving the room feeling oddly empty and cold.

Blair didn't remember getting through that day. He must have eaten the food cooked for him, because the empty, dirty dish was waiting for him when he finally made it home late that night. He must have gone to work, taught his classes, gone to his meetings with faculty and students, done all the things that were expected of him and that he expected from himself. But the only evidence he had of that was the lack of angry messages from the Anthro department head or anyone else, the almost empty gas tank in his car, and the usual stack of papers and files he automatically piled on their proper table.

Sitting on his bed, staring at nothing, all that came to mind from the hours he'd lived through was a single thought that repeated itself over and over. "I didn't even ask his name." He said that out loud, and the hollow echo of the sound in his one-room apartment broke the paralysis that had been holding his brain. "Let alone thank him for saving my scrawny ass last night, and all the other times."

It was good getting that out, too, so he said in self-disgust to purge all the rest of it, "The man took a chance, showed me his face, knowing I could use that as a weapon against him. Hell, he could have left while I was still sleeping and I would never have known his secret, but he didn't try to hide it from me. For whatever reason, he was reaching out, reaching out to me, and in the first ten minutes I opened my mouth and said the one thing guaranteed to send him back into deep cover."

He got up and paced as best he could in the small space and asked himself the question he should have asked as soon as he realized the depth of his stupidity that morning. "How do I make it up to him? Leave town so he doesn't have to watch over me anymore? Do I even know that he will?" He stopped dead in place for a moment, shuddering from the unexpected sense of loss that thought gave him.

"It's not the protection," he muttered, running both hands through his hair and tugging at it in agitation. "It's knowing that there is actually a person in this city who cares what happens to me." He started pacing again. "That sounds so damned self-pitying, but it's not, not really. It's, it's...." Giving up trying to find a name for the emotion that he had felt from the first time his guardian angel used his body to shield him from harm, he asked himself again, "So what are you going to do about the damage you've done? Can't do anything if you don't know where he is. Which means that's the first thing you need to do: find him. How?"

Simon wasn't going to be any help. During the brief call the police captain had been able to squeeze into to his crowded schedule today, he hadn't been particularly surprised that his source had booked at the first chance he had. "Man's hiding from powerful people, is my guess," Simon had said distractedly. "Explains why he's never given me a way to contact him. I can't tell what I don't know, or have it taken from me. Don't worry, Blair, he does know how to take care of himself or he wouldn't have lasted this long."

But Blair was worrying, though not for the reasons Simon assumed. If he couldn't ask for help there, who else might know about a man with a past that let him be privy to the quality of information Major Crimes needed? For that matter, what kind of man would have that knowledge? A former crime syndicate boss might, but that didn't jibe with what Blair had seen personally of his guardian. Healing ability or not, the man hurt like everybody else, and he'd been more than willing to take on some serious pain to cover for Simon. That didn't sound like a cold, heartless, professional criminal.

That left Simon's best guess - former agent of some kind. That would also explain why the man had said he would never be a specimen again. Obviously he had been at some point, and his assessment of what would happen to him sounded suspiciously like a retelling of history, not a paranoid guess at what might be.

Blair didn't have any contacts in any government departments, but he knew who did. And Kelso wouldn't mind using them at all, if Blair could promise that he would be contributing to the general discomfort of the secret agencies that believed they alone knew what was best for Americans. At the very least, Kelso might have a clue who else to ask for help finding his mysterious guardian angel.

Reaching for the phone, Blair glanced at his watch and stopped mid-dial. It was far too late to be calling Kelso at home. Besides, this was one conversation that should probably be a private as possible. Having a plan of action revved Blair up, though, and he cheerfully grabbed a box of crackers and nibbled on them while he sorted through the paperwork he had brought home. No way was he going to be able to sleep, and grading tests would be a good way to spend time until he could get to the university - and to Jack Kelso.

Matching his steps to the speed Jack was able to make in his wheelchair, Blair said, "Thanks for making time for me on such short notice."

"No problem; I know you wouldn't ask unless it was important," Jack said.

"Nearly life and death important," Blair said, hoping he wasn't exaggerating too badly. "Thing is, I can't tell you why I'm asking."

The wheels on the chair stopped for a moment, and Jack slanted a look up at Blair. "More police work?"

Not meeting his eyes, half afraid of what the very perceptive man might see in them, Blair answered, "Not exactly; like I said, I can't really tell you. Please, just trust me that I have a righteous reason."

Nodding to a picnic table that was accessible - and blocked on three sides by trees and other obstacles that would prevent listening devices from homing in on them - Jack held his silence until Blair was seated and their lunches were out. "So talk," he said finally.

Choosing his words very carefully, Blair said, "Have you heard any rumors about an agent, or an ex-agent who might be living in Cascade, but keeping such a low profile that no one even knows what he looks like, let alone if he's really here?"

Surprisingly, Jack grinned and said teasingly, "Ah, you caught wind of our resident 'ghost' and are looking for more material for your work on closed societies."

"One wouldn't make a society," Blair corrected automatically, taking a bite of his sandwich. Then he mumbled, "Ghost?"

Shaking his head, Jack opened a bag of apple chips. "Only you. A ghost is a person that the government doesn't want dead for whatever reason, but doesn't want running loose, either. Say a man knows something they can't afford to let get out, but they can see down the road where he might be useful for something else very important. Trying to keep him imprisoned is risky on a dozen different levels, if for no other reason than an honest person might stumble onto the situation. So they make them vanish another way: they get rid of his life."

Blair swallowed hard. "Get rid of his life?"

"Jobs vanish, bank accounts, credit cards. No driver's license, no fingerprints on record. House suddenly belongs to somebody else, same with the car and everything else. School records are destroyed, service records, police records, all of it. Man's on the street, a nobody, a nothing.

"Officially, the guy doesn't exist anymore, so he has no credibility. He's just another crazy person who slipped through the social services cracks. He tries to change that, get a decent job, start rebuilding his life as somebody else, they just do it to him again. Every time he comes up for air, starts making it, they push him back down again." Looking both disgusted and angry, Jack took a vicious bite of his sandwich and chewed it while Blair stared at him, trying to wrap his mind around what he'd been told.

Finally, Blair said, "They can do that?" Then he answered his own question. "Yeah, with computers they can do that almost without trying. The rest is just judicial bullying and threats, which the government has always been too good at." Losing his appetite, he put down the sandwich. "What a fucking cruel thing to do to a person. What about his friends? His family?"

Shrugging sympathetically, Jack said, "They wouldn't try it with a serious family man, or a person with a very public persona. But for a natural loner or orphan, it's cheaper and easier than trying to keep him prisoner. Let society do it for you."

"That's why you joked that I was professionally curious," Blair mused, eyes on the tabletop. "What a unique position to be in; all societies are closed to you. You're not just marginalized like the homeless or the damaged, but truly outside it all." He met Jack's gaze. "How do they live? Ghost or not, they still have real physical needs - food, shelter."

Finishing off a bite of food, Jack said, "That's their problem. In the case of our supposed Cascade Ghost, I haven't heard anything specific. Hasn't allied himself with the criminals, like some do, to whatever degree the powers that be will let them get away with. I can tell you that there are far more levels to the underbelly of any major city than maybe even you would believe. Definitely more than the average person would know about.

"If you're careful, intelligent, and have a little imagination, there are ways to fit yourself into the seams between the levels. All you really have to do is play to your strengths, your skills. No one can take those away from you, short of destroying your mind." Jack didn't seem to be talking to Blair anymore, but to himself, and he rubbed at a thigh that could no longer feel anything.

To pull him out of black memories, Blair said thoughtfully, "So, if I want to find my ghost, first I think about what I already know about him. From that, I guess where he might be able to make a place for himself in one of those levels. Like, say, I know he's good at fixing cars, I look for him at a repair shop that's maybe on the edge of going bankrupt so the owner's not too picky about who he hires."

With a partial smile, Jack said, "The trick would be learning enough to have something to work from." Then he got very serious again. "Just remember that some very powerful people don't want their ghost found for what they consider to be very good reasons. Be sure that you really need to do this, Blair. You might be endangering yourself and the man you're looking for."

"I'll think hard on it, I promise," Blair said quickly, then he summoned a grin. "But only if you let me have some of those apple chips."

Jack laughed and they turned the conversation to harmless things, a pretense that became real by the time they finished their lunch and went back to their respective offices. Once safely behind a closed door, Blair leaned back in his desk chair and mentally listed what little he did know about his "ghost."

He had to be getting money from somewhere; one of the coats he'd been wearing a few of the times Blair had seen him was made of leather. Not cheap, and neither were books, which the man had mourned losing only because he hadn't read them, not because of the value of them. Whatever his source of income, it wasn't from being an informant. Simon had said as much already.

As pumped up as he was, and as streetwise as he seemed, he might work as a bodyguard or nightclub bouncer or some other security position. But how could he do that and keep his face hidden? If someone with those kinds of scars had any employment at all, it would be noticed sooner or later and Jack would have had more information on him than he had.

Blair sat up straight, excitement buzzing up his spine. "Wait a minute. How is he keeping pumped up like that if he can't keep a place for himself? That takes major work and serious equipment." The beginning of a beautiful idea blossomed in the back of his head, and he dug out his personal address book. He needed to make some calls.

Waiting patiently while all the lights in the gym went off one by one was hard, but Blair managed, though he had to sit on his hands to keep himself from practically exploding with the energy surge that had fueled him all week. It hadn't taken very long for one of his acquaintances from his days of hanging around boxing camps to find a place close to his apartment where a man with a ruined face sometimes filled in as a sparring partner. From there, it was easy to find two or three other gyms relatively nearby that the man went to occasionally, trading labor for the use of the facilities. It had taken every ounce of persuasion Blair had in him, but he had finally talked the owner of this one into letting him stake it out, sort of, in hopes that his sometime janitor/handyman would show before the week Blair had wheedled from him was gone.

Tonight seemed to be his lucky night; the owner had casually mentioned on his way out that he'd seen his helper in the basement working on the hot water heater. Guessing that the man wouldn't come upstairs until the place was empty, Blair hid out in the office where he'd expect someone to be, sitting in a corner where he could see out the glass windows into the gym itself. Soon the place was deserted and filled with shadows, the only light coming from a single lamp in the far corner.

A few minutes later, a lithe form padded sure-footedly past Blair's vantage point, stripping off the outer layer of his clothes as he went. The grace and beauty in that simple action, as much as the anticipation for the coming confrontation, dried out Blair's mouth, replacing the moisture with a bad taste. Despite that, the moment he was sure that his target was occupied with his weight routine, he slipped out of concealment and went to sit on the weight bench beside the one his protector was using.

Regardless of the days he'd had to think about it, he didn't know what he was going to say. A lot depended on how his guardian angel reacted to his presence; at the moment that seemed to consist of ignoring Blair with a single-mindedness that bordered on the psychotic. It was the single hardest defense to overcome, but one he had practice at, though admittedly for far different reasons. Or maybe it wasn't that different from trying to get a woman's romantic attention, he decided abruptly. The trick there was to say the last thing she expected - something honest and personal.

"When I was a kid," Blair said slowly, choosing his words with care because he wasn't trying to elicit pity, but understanding, "I was always the weird little geek that nobody knew what to make of. My mom was into the New Age thing back before it became California mainstream, and here was this short, hyper kid talking about auras and mantras and harmonic vibrations. Add that to the fact that I read everything I could get my hands on, and that I was a walking encyclopedia of stuff that no one had ever heard of, and even my teachers didn't know what to make of half of what came out of my mouth."

The steady, metronome movement of the barbells from chest to air slowed fractionally, and Blair took it as encouragement that he was getting somewhere. Looking down at the floor between his feet, he went on, "I learned way early that people wanted something they could latch onto with both hands; facts backed by figures and reliable authorities, not just speculation and unsupported theories. Always going for the measurable, the quantitative, is a good habit to have for a budding academic, I'll grant you, but it's gotten so ingrained that it's my first reaction to everything now."

He laughed a little at himself, then shrugged. "So when an angel landed in my lap, my first thought was to get a skin sample and measure his wingspan, not to marvel at the gift I'd been given."

Sitting up and shifting to hand-held weights, the other man said sourly, "I'm no angel."

Gingerly touching the place in his side where the gunshot wound had been, Blair said simply, "That was pretty miraculous to me."

The laugh that escaped the man's damaged mouth was harsh, painful and hard to hear. "Nothing miraculous about it. Anything but." Not giving Blair a chance to question that, he asked, clearly changing the subject, "How did you find me?"

Daringly, Blair ran a fingertip over a bulging biceps as it worked to move the weight it carried. "It takes effort to maintain this and I just couldn't see you hanging out at some yuppie fitness center, complete with juice bar. If nothing else, that cut body of yours would scare off all those Joe-atlas wannabes. So I asked around to find the gyms that were doing marginally enough that they wouldn't mind free help in exchange for use of the equipment, and were close enough to my place that you could get there on foot."

Grinning, the other man shifted his position, bending slightly so that he could lift the dumb bells from the shoulder. "Decent piece of detective work, Sandburg."

The praise unexpectedly warmed Blair in places he'd thought long past needing approval, but he said matter-of-factly. "Police work isn't that different from what an anthropologist does. Just our 'crime scenes' are a few thousand years older than a cop's, usually."

"Is that why you work with Simon and Major Crimes?" he asked, his curiosity plain.

"Not exactly but sort of." There was something about his protector that said, "I'm listening," so Blair admitted, "It's because of something a shaman said to me while I was in South America."

For a second the other man went completely still, then he said dispassionately, "South America?"

Puzzled by the subtle change, Blair said, "Yeah, I went to Borneo a couple of years back with Dr. Eli Stoddard to do a study of the indigenous tribal populations." He chuckled a little self-consciously. "Which you probably already know. Anyway, while I was down there a friend of mine who was working at Cyclops Oil got in touch with me. She'd found something hinky in the company's records, and would I check out a certain part of the rain forest in Peru? Janet wasn't the type to worry without a reason, so I did."

For a moment Blair became lost in his own memories, as impressed by the forest and its people now as he was the first day he'd hiked into its depths. "I thought I was going to have to do some fast-talking with the tribal elders to be able to look around for the evidence Janet needed to prove her company was illegally exploiting the area. But the shaman took one look at me, said something to the effect that he'd been expecting me, and that was pretty much that." He grinned, knowing that there was a feral edge to it and not caring at all. "Next thing I knew I was teaching the tribe to be eco-terrorists and pretty damned proud of it."

"Good for you," his companion said, an odd edge to his voice that Blair didn't really hear because he was still in the past.

"I've never been able to decide if I was doing the right thing," Blair admitted distantly. "Part of me is convinced I should have just taken photographs or something, then returned to civilization to tell the proper authorities what was happening. Maybe Janet would still be alive if I had, but they persuaded me to do it their way - it was their home, their territory being destroyed, after all. They said their sentinel was in the homeland of the Great Eye, and he would see justice done."

As always, the thought that he'd come so close to meeting a real, live functioning sentinel sliced at Blair, and he had to beat down the same old dreary frustration before he could say, "Turns out they were right. After a few months official looking people came and arrested the white men and took away their equipment. I have no idea how their sentinel accomplished that; I just wish he'd managed to do it a day or two earlier."

He said the last in a whisper to himself, shook off his grief and mental absorption, and quickly finished his explanation. "At any rate, one night I was trying to explain to the shaman what I did among the white people, and he really didn't understand it very well. Not surprising, considering my Quechua is shaky and his English was shakier, but we were managing to communicate a little anyway. He told me that knowledge for knowledge's sake, just to be passed on to other preservers of knowledge, isn't enough, either for me or the people who could benefit from it. Then he pointed out how much good I was doing by teaching his people how to deal with the 'hard demons' of their enemies."

"Good advice, Chief." This time the strange tones in the man's voice reached Blair, and he studied the too still form, but even as he did, the weights began their slow journey out from his chest and back again.

Nonplused, Blair admitted, "I didn't think so at the time, but when he died, he made me promise to use the contents of my head, not just accumulate more. So when I got back to the states and ran into Simon Banks again because of some trouble I was having with a student, I wangled my way into a consulting position in Major Crimes because of how useful I'd been to him before."

To his surprise, his protector whispered almost inaudibly, head turned so that his features couldn't be seen, "I had hoped...." Louder he said, "You were with Incacha when he died? Will you tell me what happened?"

Caught off-guard by the question, Blair said sadly, honestly, pain as fresh as ever, "We were running from the Cyclops rogues after a raid on their machinery - the last, it turned out - and they fired on us and the other warriors. Incacha was covering the back of one of his men and got hit by one of the bullets. He stumbled into me, and I pulled him into cover while the armed men ran past to chase the others. He died in my arms while I was waiting for his people to double back and show me the way to the village."

His companion turned farther away, all but dropping the dumb bells he'd been working with, putting his face in profile just long enough for Blair to realize he had tears swimming in his eyes. Only then did Blair realize that he had never told him the Chopec shaman's name. With that single bit of evidence, more tumbled through his mind - hearing the gunmen hunting them well before they reached their hiding place, moving around comfortably in total darkness, his violent reaction to the salsa, even the complaint about the scent of blood waking him up.

"You're Enqueri," he accused quietly, surprised at how much hurt and anger was hiding under the softly spoken words. "The sentinel from the Chopec. They didn't send you; you already live here."

"That's the name they gave me when I lived among them, before this," the other man admitted, gesturing vaguely to indicate his scars. "My abilities were dormant until then, and Incacha was my teacher in how to survive them, use them as best I could without a partner to work with me. Then...." He shrugged expressively, apparently unwilling to say more.

Trying to keep the sentinel's reaction to the suggestion of being studied for his rapid healing at the front of his mind, Blair said as levelly as he could, "Did you know what my dissertation was going to be about the first time you met me? When you kept me from blowing up along with that warehouse? Is that why you were keeping an eye on me in the first place? To see how much I knew about your kind and whether I was a danger to you?"

Harsh blue eyes, made all the more powerful because of the wrecked face housing them, turned to meet his, the honesty in them almost painful. "Yes, I knew what your first diss was about before the explosion. No, that's not why I was keeping an eye on you, though I'm not going to say I wasn't relieved when you turned your studies to closed societies."

"Then why?" Blair shouted, grasping after his composure the instant the sound left him.

Giving up all pretense of working out, Enqueri dropped his head into both hands, fingers restlessly digging into his scalp. When he raised his head again, he simply said, "Instinct."

It was the last answer that Blair expected, and he had no idea how to reply to it.

Fortunately the sentinel took his silence as a demand for a better explanation, and he said carefully, obviously choosing his words as precisely as Blair had earlier, "There are people born in this world who are special. Their souls, their minds, their personalities are clearer, brighter than most. In earlier times they would have been our holy men, our shamans. Now, most of them are just doing the best they can to help whoever they can. Like you, Blair; like you."

"I'm special," Blair said in disbelief.

For some reason his comment hurt Enqueri. He looked away, jaw muscle working. "You're a beacon to my senses that I can't ignore," he said softly. "Everything I have in me insists that I watch over you, shelter you from whatever danger I see, even though you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I try hard not to let it interfere with your life."

"A, a beacon? How? I mean, all your senses, or, or...." Blair stuttered to a stop, not sure what he felt, let alone what to ask next. Hands locked onto the bench where he sat, he looked wildly around the gloomy gym, then blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Why not tell me what you were doing? And why? Why make like this, this, this *stalker* lurking on the edges of my life?"

Enqueri flinched as if he had been hit, then said reluctantly, "I carry some serious trouble on my coattails; I didn't want you getting tangled in my problems and dragged down because of me. You deserve to have your own life, not one twisted into something you didn't want and can't fix."

Belatedly, Blair remembered what Jack Kelso had told him about how he thought Cascade's resident "ghost" came to be, and had no choice but to accept Enqueri's reasons. Torn between so many emotions he couldn't name a single one, he stood and jammed his hands into his jacket pocket. "I shouldn't be here then, should I?"

"Probably not," Enqueri agreed, though there was a wealth of regret underneath his words.

Blair turned to leave, then asked without looking, "Are you, uh, going to, uh...."

"If it's okay with you," Enqueri said quickly.

Bitterly, Blair said, "Who am I to argue with instinct?" He walked away without giving the Enqueri a chance to say more.

Blair stumbled through the next few weeks, deliberately burying himself in the normal avalanche of work that came with finals and the end of term. When he allowed himself to think at all, he did his best to keep sentinels, guardian angels, and lost souls pushed as far into the back of his mind as he could. Despite that, at odd moments of the day and night Blair would see the man's ruined face in his mind's eye, and be torn between wanting the asshole arrested for stalking and shuddering from just trying to imagine the hell he must live with.

He couldn't dismiss the simple fact that Enqueri had come clean to him, had taken the chance that he would understand who and what he was, and not judge too harshly. At any point in their brief meetings, the sentinel could have walked away without giving Blair a solitary word of explanation, yet even with all the demons riding him, he had given the answers Blair wanted so badly. As the days slid away in a blur of classes and paperwork, he found himself not only seeing their respective situations from Enqueri's point of view, but worrying about him, almost as if he had appointed himself his keeper.

It was a monumental relief for Blair when his cousin Robert called, asking him as a personal favor to scope out a new poker game that had been set up in Cascade. As favors went, it was one that Blair enjoyed. Not only would his cousin provide the cash to get him into the game, but in exchange for a report of how honestly the game was run and the general skill level of the main players, he'd get to keep any winnings. With that to look forward to, his spirits lifted considerably, and he finished the semester with a burst of enthusiasm that could have come straight from his undergrad days.

At the appointed time, Blair presented himself at the back door of a flower shop, wearing his best nerd-teacher outfit, hair tied back and glasses on, to hopefully present the image of a clueless academic. The guise had worked for him before, since half of poker is bluffing, and the serious players tended to underestimate a man who looked like he had never been off campus before. This time, however, the pose worked too well; the bouncer at the poorly lit doorway didn't believe him when he presented his credentials.

Before the situation could degenerate, an elegant hand landed on Blair's shoulder and Enqueri said, "I'll vouch for him, Gus. I promise you none of the other patrons will regret sitting at a table with him, though their wallets might."

With something distantly resembling a grin, the bouncer stepped aside, nodding at Blair, but he hardly noticed. He looked back over his shoulder, the welcoming smile that had blossomed fading into an open-mouthed stare that would have been rude under any circumstances. His first thought was, "Damn, he cleans up good."

Enqueri was dressed in a charcoal gray suit that was perfectly cut to show off his excellent build, emphasizing his lean height while subtly taking attention away from his ruined face. Not that the possibility of being stared at seemed to bother him; he stood tall, shoulders back military style, almost as if daring someone to comment on his scars. His eyes were laughing, though, and the blue of them warmed Blair, erasing whatever lingering disappointment and anger he'd been harboring.

Smile coming back only slightly dimmed, Blair said, "I can take off if you want me to."

"Your cousin the bookie ask you to scope out the game?" Enqueri asked.

"Yeah, but I can always make it another time; all I've got scheduled for the summer break is working on a couple of papers and trying to get a head start on my lesson plans for summer classes." His smile dimmed a bit more, and Blair said without thinking as Enqueri's question sank in, "Damn, it's weird to have you know so much about me when I don't know a thing about you."

Nodding, Enqueri said sympathetically, "Been there, Chief." Placing a hand in the center of Blair's back, he guided him down the hallway to where the tables had been set up, each lit by only a single lamp hanging over it, looking strange and out of place amidst the many coolers of flowers lining the walls of the huge room. I don't see any reason for you to leave. You're just one more gambler to go through those doors as far as it goes, and since I do this for a living, it's not unusual for me to know some of the people by sight at a game."

"For a living? You use your abilities to win at poker?" Blair couldn't help but ask, ashamed of the hint of accusation in his tone.

Steadily, but not without a snap of answering ire, Enqueri answered, "No, I use them to make sure that no one is cheating. I've got a good rep so the heavies listen to me when I make a charge. The end result is that it's not hard for me to get into just about any game any time, and I'm a good enough player that I win more than I lose. It's not a steady income but it's enough for me to get by on, and I don't get any interference for doing it."

Stopping at an empty chair, Blair turned his back on the room and said softly, apologetically, just to Enqueri, "That's a sucky way to have to get by."

Shrugging, Enqueri headed toward another table where a big man who looked vaguely familiar to Blair was already setting up his chips. "It's like the weather; it just is."

He was quickly absorbed into the play, and Blair yanked his attention back to his own game in time to be dealt the first card. The warmth of Enqueri's touch lingered on the small of his back like a good luck charm, and he let the sensation ride in the back of his mind as he concentrated on his cards. Like most marathon poker sessions, the stakes were penny-ante at first, and the lackluster and tagalong players dropped by the wayside one by one as the night progressed. Blair won consistently, though not big time, and moved from table to table as the number of players was reduced and the stakes were raised. Finally it was down to eight people at one table, including Enqueri and the big, bulky man who had been at his first table, and a small crowd of onlookers.

To his delight, Blair got a lucky streak, with both the cards and his bluffing abilities all going his way. The only one he couldn't face down was Enqueri - the mask of scars did an excellent job of creating the perfect poker face - until Blair guessed that he had learned to count on the fact that most people wouldn't or couldn't look at him directly. Blair made himself not shy away from trying to read his expressions, and it worked well enough that he took him for a sizeable pot on a bluff. Enqueri had a full house and he only had a busted flush.

Then the ante went way, way up, and Blair waffled for a moment, not sure whether or not to stick with the game. It was a point of pride for him to give Robert back all of his stake money, and he had pretty much doubled the cash he'd started with. Then he caught Enqueri's eye and something he saw there had him saying, "One last hand for me; got to get up early tomorrow."

"Aww, come on, you've taken the lion's share of the pots. Give us a chance to get even," another man said. His words were the time-honored challenge that all serious players used to bully a winner into taking the risk of losing his streak, but there was a harsh edge under it that Blair wouldn't have caught if he hadn't been warned.

Pretending unwillingness, Blair said, "Better to get out while you are winning, and I do have to get to bed at a reasonable hour. The dean is hard enough to take on a full night's sleep."

The player, a pimply-faced man who, despite the gray in his hair, looked like an adolescent who hadn't grown into his bones yet, grunted in irritation. "What kind of two-bit player doesn't give a man the opportunity to get some of his own back?"

"A smart one who knows to quit while he's still hot," the elderly man directly across from Blair said.

"Are you going to talk or play?" yet another player asked, and at that the cards were shuffled. Seven Card Draw was the game declared, deuces wild, and every one settled down for some serious betting, the pimple-faced man still looking disgruntled.

Because he was expecting it by then, Blair wasn't surprised when his first two cards were aces. Despite that, as he picked up bills to make his bet, he shuffled the majority of them into a stack that would be easy to grab, and low-balled what he should have bet with the start of such a promising hand. The next card was a three, but before the bets could be laid for that round, Enqueri said loudly enough for the entire room to hear, "Dealer took a seven, man to his right a nine, then a queen, queen, three, deuce, I've got a four, then a nine. The man's stacking the deck, people."

Quick exclamations of agreement and surprise, but before anyone could speak up, Enqueri added, "He's been feeding the prof over there with small wins to keep us from noticing that all the really heavy pots have been going to his buddy with the deuce or to himself. Between them they've gotten ninety percent of the cash, which they've very carefully been putting in their pockets as they win so we won't notice they're raking it in." This time the babble of voices was distinctly angry, and Blair scooped his money up and tucked it away, ready to run the second the anger turned to violence.

Before that could happen, the massive bouncer from the door ghosted into place behind the dealer. His pimpled friend started to bolt, but a gun appeared in the hand of a one of the members of the audience, who grinned savagely and said, "My joint, and you aren't walking away from this with your pockets lined at the expense of my reputation."

Since the game, strictly speaking, wasn't legal, Blair knew that the cheating would be punished with homemade justice, and he braced himself to step in if the owner let it get too rough. But Enqueri put a hand under his elbow and murmured into his ear, "Gus is good at what he does; he won't let it go too far, and you should clear out while the attention is on them. There's always one or two who won't believe that the shill doesn't know what was going down."

That was true, and besides, resisting the invitation to go anywhere with Enqueri just wasn't in him. Blair let himself be hustled out just as a scuffle broke out in the room, causing most of the remaining gamblers to decide they needed to be elsewhere themselves. Enqueri listened, his eyes distracted for a second, and said, "Turns out they had another ringer, probably picked because he was bad enough to get caught, and he got desperate enough to take a swing at Gus. Bad idea."

The door slammed behind them, shutting off the rising racket and covering their retreat, though Blair didn't think anyone had noticed it yet. Still, he didn't have any complaints with the brisk pace Enqueri set, and he indicated the direction toward his car with a half wave and nod. "I got a good enough look at the shark that I can pass it onto Robert; I think he'll recommend his customers to that particular game despite it being crooked tonight. Not the owner's fault."

"Just tell him that the man who runs it was trained by Jesus Jones, and he can check his credentials with him," Enqueri said. "He has a real love of the game and doesn't like 'business connections' trying to take it over - proba