This is a sequel to Dying. Please read that story first before reading this one.

In the Peru Universe, dead shamans do not conveniently pop up to offer advice.

This is for Tricia, who asked me to send Jim to Blair.

I can hear his heartbeat.

It's quiet in the hospital. The hallways are almost deserted, with only an occasional staff member going quietly about their business. If I concentrate, I could hear the heartbeat of every patient and staff on this floor, distinguish and count each individual heartbeat. It's a trick that's been useful on more than one occasion. But right now, there's only one heartbeat I want to hear.

I walk down the hall, with each step feeling the heartbeat get closer.

The officer Simon has posted outside Blair's door sees me coming and takes a step forward to meet me. It's a precaution Simon insisted on in case Alex is still hanging around town, in case she makes another attempt on Blair.

I greet the officer, ask him how it's going.

"It's been very quiet, Detective," he replies. "Relaxing, almost."

"Well," I say, "Not so much traffic to watch out for once visiting hours are over, huh?"

"Exactly," he smiles.

"When's your replacement due?" I ask.

"In another hour," he answers. "We switch over at 12."

"Well, then," I say, "I'll take over here. Why don't you call it a day," I glance at his name tag, "McKeefe?"

"Certainly, Detective," says McKeefe. He pulls out the time sheet and starts filling out the blanks to record the switch over. He hands it to me, I complete my portion, we check each other's works, sign on the dotted line. The police department sure knows how to consume paper.

"Good night, Detective," says McKeefe, as he hands me the completed forms.

"Night," I say.

With one last tip of his hat, McKeefe disappears down the corridor.

I lean against the door and open up my hearing, soaking in the sound of that heartbeat. I bask in it.

I've often wondered what I would do when that heartbeat falls silent. Now I know.

I'll follow.

It was quite simple, actually. Just let go, let go of my body. Heightened senses can be useful, sometimes. The same controls Blair taught me to manage my senses can be used to simply, easily, release myself from my body.

I followed him. He turned back. He slammed into me with enough force to slam me right back into my body.

Guess that's why Blair's the Shaman.

I can hear him shifting a bit in the bed. He's still awake, but he's drowsy. He'll fall asleep soon.

I'll just stand here and listen to his heartbeat, his even breathing.

He's probably wondering where I am. Maybe getting pissed at me not showing up. Let him.

I'm not up for another grilling.

He says it's not my fault. Yeah. On some level, I can agree with that. He says it won't happen again. Damn right it won't.

Damn right.

Three days ago, I would have sworn I would never do that to anybody, much less to him. Rapists are the worst type of scum, right after murderers and child molesters. I've always thought so. Still think so. To think I could turn into one, just because of some territorial compulsion? What kind of tribal guardian defends his territory by attacking his partner?

It was her smell on him, I know. It was seeing her in his office earlier that day. Knowing that he'd been with her. All that rage, seething and boiling over, where did that come from? How can I trust myself if I don't understand what impulses drive me? What other dark, hidden urges are waiting to ambush us?

I just can't believe I went that far. I should have stopped at the first terrified scream. The first gasped sob. The first hint of blood tickling my nose. I didn't.

I didn't.

You know what finally stopped me? He said, "Jim, don't... don't hurt yourself."

Jesus.

How could he?

I'm an inch away from raping him, and he worries about me?

How could you?

You love me too much. Too much.

You've forgiven me, I know. You begged me to let you come home with me last night. If I had said yes, maybe that bitch Alex wouldn't have gotten to you this morning.

Well, hindsight is a bitch. And anyway, didn't I tell you to go to Megan's?

Damn. Now I'm blaming him for getting himself killed.

He's sleeping now, his breath and heartbeat slow and even. Just like I've heard it, every night, for the last three years. The first year, I listened to him while he slept downstairs, in the spare room. For the last two years, he has been right beside me, in my bed. I would often put my head on his body, so I could feel the rhythms of his body course through mine. I would let his warmth and scent wash over me, soothing, lulling me to sleep.

He's the most precious thing in the world to me. He's my life. How can I keep him safe, if we don't know what we are doing? What more deathly traps will this Sentinel thing spring on us when we least expect it?

Talk to me, he says. Come to me.

I carefully turn the doorknob and quietly push open the door. Stepping into the darkened room, I close the door behind me with equal care.

I lean back on the door, and just watch him.

He's lying on his back, the covers pulled up over him. He looks so peaceful, sleeping. That expressive face, lying still, relaxed. I watch the even rise and fall of his chest. His lungs sound strong and clear, showing no sign of infection.

Slowly, I move toward the bed. The steady patter of his heartbeat pulls me. Standing by the bed, I look down at him. I trace the contours of his face with my eyes. Follow the curves of his body under the blanket. Breath in his scent. Focus on a lock of his hair falling over his forehead.

I raise my hand and run it an inch over the blanket, feeling the warmth radiating from his body, the flow of the air swirling between my hand and his body. I let my fingers hover above his face, over the soft lips, across the chin and along the jawline, feeling the prickle of his stubble in the movements of the air...

I'm looking into his eyes. They lock onto mine, holding me. Like deep, calm, water. Like the ocean. So deep. So calm. So clear.

So...