The Outlaw Demon Wails

Twenty

The long road just off the interstate to Trent's house/corporate office was busy. The two-lane road wound and twisted its way through a sprawling, planned old-growth forest. Having run for my life through it once with dogs and horses chasing me, it had lost much of its appeal.

The ride out here had been fast and quiet once we got out of the city. Jenks had maintained a pensive silence after I suggested he peacefully stay at the outer gate and meet me inside when he managed to slip the guards. That had been a mere five minutes ago, and I missed the pixy already. Worried, I glanced at my shoulder bag on the seat beside me. I'd leave it open so he could duck in when he showed up. I'd be stupid to think Trent didn't expect Jenks to try to circumvent their security, but it would be one way to prove to Trent he was doing himself a disservice by shunning pixies as security specialists. With Quen dying, he was going to have to come up with something.

Quen is really dying? I thought, feeling guilty for not taking Trent seriously yesterday. And why does he think it's my fault?

My gaze dropped to the speedometer, and I tunked it down to keep from running into Trent. And as the multistory, sprawling complex of offices and business research buildings came into view, I slowed to a crawl, surprised.

His visitor lot was crammed and overflowing onto the grass. To one side were several white-painted school buses clashing with the ranks of expensive cars and what was clearly a band's tour bus. I looked at the back of Trent's head in the car ahead of me, disgusted. Quen was dying, and he was having a party?

I slowed further, rolling my window down to hear the chatter, hoping Jenks would swoop in. People in costume were everywhere, their movements fast with excitement as they milled around before heading to the expansive front entryway. Trent's brake lights flashed, and adrenaline surged when I hit my own brakes to avoid rear-ending him. I was ready to lose it when I glimpsed a three-foot-tall ghost darting between cars, a harried woman with a clipboard chasing him or her.

It was Trent's yearly Halloween extravaganza, thrown for the obscenely wealthy to mingle with the tragically unfortunate, hoping to tug at heartstrings and make a bold political statement as much as genuinely help them. I hated election years.

My fingers tightened on the gearshift and I crept forward, watching for both people and a parking spot. I couldn't believe there weren't valets, but apparently part of the fun was pretending you were slumming it.

Trent's arm came out the window to point to a service entrance. It was an excellent idea, and I took the left after him, ignoring the DO NOT ENTER sign. A man in a black suit started jogging across the manicured grass to us, but he drew to a halt and gestured for us to continue when he saw who it was. I wasn't surprised. We'd been waved through several informal checkpoints since passing the main entrance three miles up the road.

My gaze scanned the dark grounds as I followed Trent into his private underground parking area, squinting until my eyes adjusted to the electric lights. Another big man in a suit had come forward with the pace and attitude of someone who knew who we were but had to check anyway. This guy had a gun and a pair of glasses I'd be willing to bet were charmed to see through spells. I rolled my window down to talk to him, but Trent parked his car and got out, drawing the man to him instead.

"Good evening, Eustace," he said, his voice carrying over the sound of our cars with a weary cadence that I'd never heard in him before. "Ms. Morgan wanted to bring her car. Can you find a spot for it, please? We need to get to the private floors as quickly as possible."

The big man bobbed his head. "Yes, Mr. Kalamack. I'll have another driver here for Ms. Morgan's car in a moment."

Trent's heel ground into the grit as he shifted to glance at me. His worry was clear in the bright glare of my headlamps. "Ms. Morgan can drive me to the kitchen entrance and you can park mine now."

"Yes, sir," Eustace said, a hand atop the open car door. "I'll have the staff clear out as many people as they can, but it's going to be difficult to get through unless you want pushers."

"No," Trent said quickly, and I thought I heard frustration in it.

Eustace bobbed his head, and Trent touched his shoulder in parting, surprising me. The large man's motions were quick and efficient as he got in the car and drove away. Trent's head was bowed and his steps slow. I moved my shoulder bag to the back when he got in, surprised and a little uncomfortable when he settled wearily into the leather seats to fill my car with the scent of a woodsy cologne and his shampoo.

"That way," he prompted distantly, and I put the car in gear, jerking us.

Warming from the rough start, I let out the clutch and we started forward. My fingers twitched, and I wondered why I cared if he was honest with his feelings to everyone but me. He wouldn't show me any true warmth or depth of emotion. But Eustace probably hadn't put him in jail.

"Take that left," he directed. "It will bring you up to the back."

"I remember," I said, seeing two men waiting for us outside the kitchen entrance.

Trent checked his watch. "The easiest way in is through the kitchen and the bar. If I'm detained, get to the top floor. It's been cordoned off, so no one should be there. The staff is expecting you and will let you through."

"Okay," I said, feeling my hands start to sweat. I didn't like this. I didn't like this at all. I had been worried about Al trashing a bar. What if he showed up here amid Cincy's finest citizens and its most helpless orphans? I'd be lynched.

"I'd appreciate you waiting for me in the common area upstairs before going in to see Quen," he was saying as I pulled up beside the two guys and put the car into park.

"Sure," I said, very uncomfortable. "Is he going to be okay?"

"No."

The emotion in that single utterance was vast, a glimpse of his true emotions slipping through. He was scared, angry, frustrated…and blaming me.

The shadow of one of the waiting men fell over the car, and I jumped when he tapped expectantly at the window. The doors had automatically locked, and I fumbled for the button. The moment they disengaged, Trent's door was opened by a second man whose suit and tie screamed security.

The faint thumping of music echoed in the vast underground garage. The dark carried the scent of damp concrete and the tang of exhaust. My door was opened as well, and my ankles went cold in the new draft. I looked up at the man's stoic face, suddenly unsure. I was being rushed into a situation I didn't have control of, and it made me feel vulnerable in a way I hadn't before. Shit.

"Thank you," I said, unbuckling myself and getting out. I grabbed my bag from the back, moving out of the way when a smaller man came from the kitchen and settled himself in my seat. He drove away with an ease that assured me he wasn't going to damage my car, leaving nothing but space between me and Trent, who was deep in conversation with the second man.

Again, I saw him in an unguarded moment, the aide's caring and concern pulling a depth of emotion from Trent that I hadn't seen in him before. He was hurting. Deeply.

The two men shook hands, and the security guy took a deferential step back. Trent pushed himself into motion, bothered and hurried as he put a hand on the small of my back and guided me in. The two men stayed outside.

I preceded Trent in. The short aisle opened up to a busy kitchen that had a steamy, fragrant warmth and exotic accents shouted at loud volumes. I could hear the music better, and my step bobbled as I recognized Takata's singing.

Takata is here? I thought in delight when I remembered the tour bus, then quashed it. I was here for Quen, not to be a fawning groupie.

Trent's presence was quickly noted by the kitchen staff, each and every one of them meeting Trent's eyes with an understanding that bit deep, making me almost angry that they cared so much for him. Then I quashed that, too. No one stopped us, and it wasn't until we came out into the extravagant bar tucked under the second floor that we saw the first guest.

"Here we go, Ms. Morgan," Trent said, the professional, congenial air of a host coming over him. "Get upstairs and wait."

I faltered when the heat of the room hit me, the music pounding my insides. "No problem," I said, not sure he heard me. Suddenly I felt vastly underdressed. Hell, even the woman dressed down as a hobo had diamonds on.

One of the bartenders intervened when the first guest approached, and we lost our security escort at the next. News of Trent's arrival went out like a wake, and a ribbon of panic pulled through me. How did he deal with this? So many people wanting his attention, demanding it.

Trent himself begged off from the third guest, promising to come back as soon as he could. But the slight pause had been his downfall, and the surrounding people in costume closed in like banshees over a wailing infant.

The professional politician hid his annoyance with a grace I had a hard time seeing through. An eight-year-old boy pushed his way through the knees, clamoring for Uncle Kalamack. And at that, Trent seemed to give up. "Gerald," he said to the security escort who had gotten to us too late. "If you would escort Ms. Morgan upstairs?"

I looked up at Gerald, desperate for a way out of the swirling, excited mass of people.

"This way, ma'am," he said, and I gratefully sidled closer, wanting to take his sleeve but afraid to look foolish. Gerald looked nervous, too, and I wondered if it was because of the people he had to politely find a way through or because he'd been told I dealt in demons and one might be crashing the party looking for me.

The music ended, and the first floor exploded into cheers. Takata's gravelly voice echoed over it all with the expected "Thank you," which only made them yell louder. My ears hurt, and when Gerald fell into step behind an hors d'oeuvres lady, I gave up and put my hand on his back. So I looked foolish. Gerald was hotfooting it to the stairs, and if I got separated, I might not get there by myself.

We reached the stairs as the band began a new piece. The amps shook the air, and from the bottom step, I finally caught sight of the band. Takata bounced over the stage as he played his five-string bass, long blond hair caught back in dreadlocks. Expending energy faster than a chipmunk on Brimstone, he pounded the music out, sporting an old-rocker/punk look that only someone very cool could pull off in their midfifties.

My gaze shifted to Trent. He was smiling warmly, his arm around that kid, who was now standing on the arm of a chair so he wouldn't get trampled. Trent was trying to move forward, doing a good job of covering his sorrow and frustration. I could see it, though, in his stance. He wanted to be somewhere else, and a glimmer of his impatience showed when he lifted the child and set him in someone's arms, moving forward all of three steps before he was caught again.

"What a pain in the ass," I whispered, my voice lost in the thundering music. No wonder Trent hid in his forest most of the time.

"Ma'am?" It was Gerald, and he held the velveteen rope aside for me.

Feeling out of place in my jeans and top, I started up, holding the rail since I couldn't take my eyes off the room. It was astounding. Trent's entertaining room was the size of a football field. Well, not really, but the fireplace at the far end was as big as a dump truck. One of those big ones. Takata was on a small stage at the other end with his band, and the dance floor was filled with kids and adults. The ward on the huge opening that looked out onto the deck and pool had been removed, and people moved freely inside and out. Kids were everywhere, running from the hot tub to jump into the big pool and come up shouting from the cold.

I paused at the top of the landing and tried to get Takata to look at me, but he just kept jamming. That never worked except in the movies.

"Please, ma'am," Gerald insisted, and tearing my attention away, I followed him past the second rope and twin security guards into the open walkway that overlooked the party and went on to the cozy living room I knew was ahead.

"If you would, please," Gerald said, his eyes darting from me to the floor. "Stay in Mr. Kalamack's private quarters."

I nodded, and Gerald settled in beside the archway to make sure I didn't wander.

The music wasn't as overpowering up here, and as I went in, I scanned the suite arrangement of four doors opening up onto a sunken lounging pit and a black, wide-screen TV taking up a huge amount of space. Tucked in the back was an open, normal-size kitchen and an informal dining area. Seated at the round table were two people.

My pace bobbled, and stifling a frown, I continued forward. Great. Now I'd have to make nice-nice with two of Trent's special friends. Dressed in costume, no less.

Or maybe not, I thought as I got closer. They were both wearing lab coats, and my plastic smile went even more stilted as I realized they were probably Quen's doctors. The younger one had very straight black hair and the tired look of an intern. The other was clearly the superior of the two, older and with the upright posture and stiffness that I'd seen in professionals who thought too much of themselves. I looked closer at the tall woman with her silvered hair back in an ugly bun, then looked again. Apparently Trent had gotten his wish for a ley line witch after all.

"Holy crap," I said. "I thought you were dead."

Dr. Anders stiffened, her face rising to give me a smile utterly lacking in warmth. Glancing at her companion, she shifted her head to get a wisp of her silver hair out of her eyes. She was tall and thin, her narrow face having no makeup or charm spell to make her look younger than she was. She'd probably been born around the turn of the century. Most witches born then were reluctant to show their magic, and that she had become a teacher of it was unusual.

I'd had the distasteful woman for an instructor, twice. The first time she flunked me the first week of class for no good reason, and the second time she threatened to do the same if I didn't take a familiar. She had been a murder suspect I was checking out, and her car had gone over a bridge during the investigation, eliminating her as a suspect. But I'd known she hadn't committed the crimes. Dr. Anders was nasty, but murder wasn't on her syllabus.

Yet seeing her having coffee in Trent's private kitchen, I wondered if she was learning new skills. Apparently Trent had helped her stage her death so the real ley line witch murderer wouldn't target her and she could safely come to work for him.

She reminded me of Jonathan, her disdain for earth magic as palpable as Jonathan's dislike for me. I ran my gaze over her too-thin form as I neared. It had to be her. Who would want to dress up in costume and pretend to be a woman that plain looking?

"Rachel," the woman said as she turned, her legs crossing now that they were out from under the table. She glanced inquiringly at the heavy-magic detection amulet around my bruised and bitten neck, and my eye twitched when her voice brought back oodles and oodles of good memories of being embarrassed in class.

"How nice to see you doing so well," she continued as her intern glanced between us, weighing our moods. "I understand you managed to break the familiar bond with your boyfriend." She smiled with the warmth of a penguin. "Can I ask how? Another curse, perhaps? Your aura is smutty." She sniffed as if her long nose could smell the blackness on my soul. "What have you been doing to it?"

I stopped three feet back, hip cocked, and imagined how good it would feel to plug my foot in her gut and send her chair crashing back. She had faked her own death, leaving me to try to figure out how to break the bond on my own—the harpy. "The familiar bond broke spontaneously when a demon made me his familiar," I said, hoping to shock her.

The intern gasped, his almond-shaped eyes widening as he sat back in his seat, the tips of his black hair shifting.

Feeling like a smartass, I pulled out a chair and propped my foot on it instead of sitting down. "When the bond didn't work through the lines," I said lightly, enjoying the man's horror, "he forced a tighter connection by making me take some of his aura. That broke the original bond with Nick. It also made him my familiar. He didn't expect that."

"You have a demon for a familiar?" The young man stammered, and Dr. Anders gave him a look to tell him to shut up.

I was tired of this, and as Takata shifted to one of his few ballads, I shook my head. "No. We agreed that because the familiar bonds were unenforceable, so was the deal. I'm no one's familiar but my own."

Dr. Anders's expression changed, her long face becoming greedy. "Tell me how," she demanded as she leaned forward slightly. "I've read about this. You can spindle line energy in your thoughts. Can't you?"

I looked at her in disgust. She had belittled and shamed me in front of two entire classes because I had pursued earth magic instead of ley line skills, and she thought I'd tell her how to be her own familiar? "Be careful what you wish for, Dr. Anders," I said dryly, and she pursed her lips sourly at me. I leaned over my bent knee toward her to hammer my words home. "I can't tell you," I said softly. "If I do, I'm his. Just like you belong to Trent, only a lot more honestly."

A faint flush colored her cheeks. "He doesn't own me. I work for him. That's all."

Her intern was looking nervous, and taking my foot from the chair, I stood and rummaged in my bag. "Did he help you fake your death?" I said as I pulled out my cell phone and checked for messages and the time. Two A.M.—still no demon, still alive. She said nothing, and flipping through the menu, I made sure my phone was on vibrate before dropping it away and adding my splat gun. "Then you belong to him," I added cruelly, thinking of Keasley and hoping it might be otherwise for him.

But Dr. Anders sat back, snorting through her long nose. "I told you he wasn't murdering the ley line witches."

"He murdered those Weres last June, though."

The older woman dropped her eyes and anger flooded me. She had known. Helped him, maybe. Absolutely disgusted, I shoved the chair in, refusing to sit with her. "Thanks for helping me with my problem," I added bitterly.

My accusation had unbalanced her, and the woman's face reddened in anger. "I couldn't risk breaking my cover by helping you. I had to pretend to die, or I would have died for real. You are a child, Rachel. Don't even begin to think to lecture me on morality."

I thought I would have enjoyed this more than I was, and in the soft hush of Takata whispering "I loved you best/I loved you best," I said bitingly, "Even a child would have known better than to leave me hanging like that. A letter would have done it. Or a phone call. I wouldn't have told anyone you were alive." I rocked back, my bag held tight to me. "And now you think I'm going to risk my soul to tell you how to spindle line energy?"

She had the grace to look discomforted. Still standing, I crossed my arms and looked at the intern. "How is Quen?" I asked him, but Dr. Anders touched his arm, stopping his words.

"He has an eleven percent chance of seeing the sunrise," she said, glancing to one of the doors. "If he makes it that far, his chances of surviving rise to fifty-fifty."

My knees went weak and I locked them. He had a chance. Trent had let me drive all the way out here thinking his death was inevitable.

"Trent says it's my fault," I said, not caring if she knew by my pale face that I felt guilty. "What happened?"

Dr. Anders looked at me with that cold, reserved expression she saved for her most stupid students. "It wasn't your fault. Quen stole the antidote." Her face twisted in disdain, and she completely missed the guilty look that crossed the intern's face. "Took it from a locked cabinet. It wasn't ready for testing, much less consumption. And he knew it."

Quen had taken something. Something that likely had tampered with his genetic structure or he'd be in a hospital. Fear slid through me as I imagined the horrors that Trent was capable of in his genetic labs, and unable to wait anymore, I turned to the door Dr. Anders had looked at. "He's in there?" I asked, then headed for it, my pace quick and determined.

"Rachel. Wait," Dr. Anders predictably said, and my jaw clenched. I reached Quen's door and jerked it open. Cooler air slipped out, softer somehow, with a comforting dampness. The lights were dim and the patch of carpet I could see was a soothing mottled green.

Dr. Anders came up behind me, the sound of her steps lost in the noise from the band. I wished Jenks were here to run interference.

"Rachel," the woman demanded in her best instructor voice. "You're to wait for Trent." But I had lost any respect I might have had for her, and what she said meant nothing.

I jerked to keep from reacting with violence when she grabbed my arm. "Get your hand off of me," I said, my voice low and threatening.

Fear widened her pupils, and suddenly ashen, she let go of me.

From inside the dark room came a raspy, "Morgan. It's about time."

Quen's voice was replaced by a wet cough. It was awful, like the sound of moist cloth tearing. I'd heard it somewhere before, and it sent shivers born in a stifled memory through me. Damn it back to the Turn, what am I doing here? Taking a breath, I pushed my fear down. "Excuse me," I said coldly to Dr. Anders as I went in. But she followed, closing the door to shut out most of the music. I didn't care as long as she left me alone.

My tension eased as I took in Quen's shadowy suite. It felt good here, with low ceilings and deep colors. The few pieces of furniture were spaced to leave lots of room. Everything was set up for the comfort of one person, not two. It had an inner-sanctum feel that quieted my thoughts and soothed my soul. There was a sliding glass door looking out onto a mossy stone courtyard, and unlike most of the windows in Trent's fortress, I'd be willing to bet this one was real and not a vid window.

Quen's breathing drew me to a narrow bed in a sunken part of the expansive room. His eyes focused on me, clearly seeing my approval of his private rooms and appreciating it. "What took you so long?" he said, his words pronounced carefully so he wouldn't start coughing. "It's almost two."

My heart sped up, and I came forward. "There's a party going on. You know I can't resist a party," I quipped, and he snorted, wincing as he worked to keep his breathing even.

Guilt was heavy on me. Trent said this was my fault. Dr. Anders said it wasn't. Hiding my tension behind a false smile, I took the three steps down into the sunken area. It put him below the level of the floor, and I wondered if it was a security precaution or an elf thing. There was a comfortable leather wing chair that had clearly been pulled from a different part of the house, and an end table holding a worn leather journal with no name. I put my bag on the chair, but I didn't feel right sitting.

Quen was struggling to keep from coughing, and I looked away to give him some privacy. There were several hospital-like carts set to the side, and an IV. The IV was the only thing hooked up to him, and I appreciated the lack of the obnoxious beeping of a heart monitor.

Finally Quen's breathing evened out. Braver, I hesitantly sat on the front of the chair with my bag behind me. Dr. Anders hovered on the main level, unwilling to break the mental barrier of the stairs and join us. I solemnly looked at Quen, gauging the marks his struggle had put on him.

His usually dark complexion was pale and wan, and the pox scars the Turn had given him looked stark red, almost as if they were active. Sweat had tangled his dark hair, and lines creased his brow. His green eyes were glinting, brilliant with a fierce passion that twisted my gut. I'd seen that glitter before. It was the look of someone who was seeing around the corners of time to his own death, but he was going to fight it all the same. Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

I settled myself, not yet willing to take his small but muscular hand, which lay on the gray cotton sheets. "You look like crap," I finally said, bringing a pained smile to his face. "What did you do? Tangle with a demon? Did you win?" I was trying for levity…and failing.

Quen took two slow breaths. "Get out, witch," he said clearly, and I flushed, almost standing before I realized he was talking to Dr. Anders.

Dr. Anders knew who he was talking to, though, and she came forward to look down at us. "Trent wouldn't want you alone—"

"I'm not alone," he said, his voice gaining strength as he used it.

"He wouldn't want you alone with her," she finished, loathing heavy in her words. It was an ugly, ugly sound, and I could tell it bothered Quen.

"Get—out," he said softly, angry that his illness had given her the idea she could assert her will over his. "I asked Morgan here because I don't want the person who sees me take my last breath to be a stinking bureaucrat or doctor. I gave an oath to Trent, and I won't break that. Get out!" A cough took him, the sound, like tearing fabric, slicing through me.

I turned in my chair, gesturing for her to get her ass out of here—she was making things worse, not better—and she backed to the shadows. Stiff and angry, she leaned against a dresser with her arms crossed. I could see her frown even in the dark. The mirror showed her back, making it look like there were two of her. Someone had draped a bit of ribbon over the top to drape down in a smooth arc over the glass, and I realized Ceri had been here before she had gone to pray. She had gone to pray—walked all the way to the basilica to do it—and I hadn't taken this seriously.

The distance Dr. Anders put between us seemed to satisfy Quen, and his clenched body slowly relaxed as the jerks of his coughing eased and stopped. I felt helpless, and tension drew my back into an ache. Why does he want me here seeing this? "Gee, Quen, I didn't know you cared," I said, and he smiled, making his stress wrinkles all fold in together.

"I don't. But I meant it about the bureaucrats." He stared at the ceiling, taking three careful, rattling breaths. My panic stirred, settling in a familiar place in my soul. I've heard this sound before.

His eyes closed, and I jerked forward. "Quen!" I shouted, then felt stupid when his lids flew open and focused on me with an eerie intensity.

"Just resting my eyes," he said, amused by my fear. "I have a few hours. I can feel things faltering, and I have at least that long." His gaze lingered on my neck, then rose. "Having trouble with your roommate?"

I refused to cover my bites, but it was hard. "Wake-up call," I said. "Sometimes it takes a two-by-four across your head to realize what you want isn't what you'll end up with if you get it."

His head barely shifted. "Good." He took a slow breath. "You're a safer person to be around now. Very good."

Dr. Anders shifted position to remind me she was listening. Frustrated, I leaned closer until the new skin on my bites pulled, smelling pine and sun under the medicinal smells of alcohol and adhesive tape. I glanced at Dr. Anders, then asked him, "Why am I here?"

Quen's eyes opened wider and he turned his head to see me, hesitating as he stifled the urge to cough. "Not 'What did you do to get like this'?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I already asked that, and you got all nasty, so I thought I'd go with something else."

Closing his eyes again, Quen simply breathed, slow and labored. "I already told you why I asked you here."

The bureaucrat thing? "Okay," I said, wanting to take his hand to give him strength, but I felt funny about it, as if he would think I pitied him. That would just tick him off. "Then tell me what you did to yourself."

He took a ragged breath, then held it. "Something I had to," he said on the exhale.

Nice. Just peachy. "So I'm just here to hold your hand while you die?" I said, frustrated.

"Something like that."

I looked at his hand, not ready to take it. Awkwardly I scooted closer, the chair bumping over the low wooden mat. "Least you have good music," I muttered, and the creases in his face eased slightly.

"You like Takata?" he said.

"What's not to like?" Jaw clenched, I listened to Quen breathe. It sounded wet, like he was drowning. Agitated, I looked at his hand, then the journal on the bedside. "Should I read something?" I asked, wanting to know why I was here. I couldn't just up and leave. Why in hell was Quen doing this to me?

Quen started to chuckle, cutting it short to take three slow breaths until they evened out again. "No. You've watched death come slowly before, haven't you."

Thoughts of my dad surfaced, the cold hospital room and his thin, pale hand in mine as he fought for breath, his body not as strong as his will. Then Peter as he gasped his last, his body shuddering in my arms as it finally gave up and freed his soul. Tears pricked and a familiar grief stained my thoughts, and I knew I'd done the same with Kisten, too, though I didn't remember it. Damn it back to the Turn. "Once or twice," I said.

His eyes met mine, riveting in their gleam. "I won't apologize for being selfish."

"I'm not worried about that." I really wanted to know why he'd asked me here if he didn't want to tell me anything. No, I thought abruptly, feeling my face lose all expression. It's not that he doesn't want to tell me something but that he promised Trent he wouldn't.

Stiffening on the cool leather chair, I leaned forward. Quen sharpened the focus of his gaze, as if he recognized I'd figured it out. Fully aware of Dr. Anders behind me, I mouthed, "What is it?"

But Quen only smiled. "You're thinking," he said, almost breathing it. "Good." His smile softened his pained features, making him look almost fatherly. "I can't. I promised my Sa'han," he said, and I pushed myself into the back of the chair, disgusted and feeling the bump of my bag behind me. Stupid elf morals. He could kill a person, but he couldn't break his word.

"I have to ask the right question?" I said, and he shook his head.

"There is no question. There is only what you see."

Oh, God. Wise-old-man crap. I hated it when they did that. But I tensed when Quen's breathing became labored over the sound of the faint music. My pulse quickened, and I looked at the hospital equipment, silent and dark. "You need to be quiet for a while," I said, agitated. "You're wasting your strength."

A shadow against the gray of the sheets, Quen held himself still, concentrating on keeping his lungs moving. "Thanks for coming," he said, his gravelly voice thin. "I probably won't last long, and I appreciate you dealing with Trenton trying to cope afterward. He's having a hard…time."

"No problem." I reached out and felt his forehead. It was hot, but I wasn't going to offer him the sippy-straw cup on the table unless he asked. He had his pride. His pox scars stood out, and I did take the antiseptic wipe that Dr. Anders silently gave me, dabbing his forehead and neck until he scowled.

"Rachel," he said, pushing my hand away, "since you're here, I want to ask you a favor."

"What?" I asked, then turned to the door as the music rose when Trent entered. Dr. Anders went to tattle on me, and the music faded as the door shut and the light vanished.

Quen's eye twitched, telling me he knew Trent was here. He took a careful breath, then, softly so he wouldn't cough, he said, "If I fail, will you take my position as head of security?"

My jaw dropped, and I pulled away. "Oh, hell no," I said, and Quen's smile widened even as his eyes shut to hide that unsettling seeing-around-corners glint.

Trent came up beside me. I could sense his irritation at me for not waiting for him, and under that, his gratitude that someone, even if it was me, had been with Quen.

"I didn't think you would," Quen said. "But I had to ask." His eyes opened to fix on Trent beside me. "I had someone else lined up if you said no. Can I at least get you to promise to help him when he needs it?"

Trent shifted from foot to foot as his tension looked for an outlet. I went to say no, and Quen added, "From time to time, if the money is right and it doesn't compromise your morals."

The scent of silk and other people's perfume grew stronger as Trent became more upset. I glanced at his frustrated worry, then back to Quen struggling to take another breath. "I'll think about it," I said. "But I'm just as likely to haul his ass in."

Quen's eyes closed in acknowledgment and his hand rolled palm-up in invitation. My eyes pricked again. Shit. Shit. Shit. He was slipping. His need for support had surmounted his pride. I hated this. I hated it!

Hand shaking, I slipped my warm fingers into his cool grip, feeling his fingers tighten about mine. My throat closed, and I angrily wiped at my eye. Damn it all to hell.

Quen's posture eased, and his breathing evened out. It was the oldest magic in the universe, the magic of compassion.

Dr. Anders began to pace from the window to the dresser. "It wasn't ready," she muttered. "I told him it wasn't ready. The blending had only a thirty percent success rate, and the linkages were weak at best. This wasn't my fault! He should have waited!"

Quen squeezed my hand, and his face crinkled in what I recognized as a smile. He thought she was funny.

Trent left the sunken area, and I relaxed. "No one is blaming you," Trent said, a hand on her arm in solace. He hesitated, then said without emotion, "Why don't you wait outside."

Surprised, I turned to see her indignant shock. "Oh, she's pissed," I whispered so Quen would know, getting my fingers squeezed in return. But I think she heard me, too, since she stared at me with a prune face for an entire three seconds, fumbling for words before she turned on a heel. Pace stiff, she went to the door. There was a flush of drums and light, then the soft smothering of darkness returned. Takata's base thrummed through it like a pulse.

Trent stepped into the lowered pit of Quen's bedroom. In a fast motion of anger, he shoved a piece of expensive equipment off a low cart. The noise of it hitting the floor shocked me as much as his unexpected show of frustrated anger, and I stared as he sat down where it had been to put his elbows on his knees and drop his head into his cupped hands. Trent had once sat and watched his father die, too.

I felt my face blank as I saw him raw and stripped down to the pain in his soul. He was young, afraid, and watching yet another person who had raised him dying. All his power, wealth, privilege, and illegal bio labs couldn't stop it. He wasn't used to being helpless, and it tore at him.

Quen's eyes had opened at the crash, and I found them waiting for me when I turned to him. "This is why you're here," he said, confusing me. Quen's attention slid to Trent, then back to me. "Trent's a good man," he said as if he wasn't sitting right there. "But he's a businessman, living and dying by numbers and percentages. He's got me in the ground already. Fighting this with him is a losing battle. You believe in the eleven percent, Rachel." He took an arduous breath, his lungs moving in an exaggerated motion. "I need that."

The long speech had winded him, and as he labored to catch his breath in wet inhalations, I held his hand tighter, remembering my father. My jaw gritted and my throat closed as I heard the truth in his words. "Not this time, Quen," I said, feeling a headache start and forcing my grip to ease. "I'm not going to sit here and watch you die. All you have to do is see the sunrise, and you're home free."

It was what Dr. Anders had said, and unlike Trent, I saw it as a real possibility. Hell, I didn't believe in the eleven percent, I lived on it.

Trent was staring in horror at us as it sunk in. He wasn't capable of living any other way than by his graphs and predictions.

"It's not your fault, Sa'han," Quen said, his gravelly voice carrying a softer pain. "It's a mindset, and I need her. Because as much as it looks otherwise…I want to live."

His face riven, Trent stood. I watched him rise out of the sunken area and walk away, pitying him. I could help Quen—he could not. The door opened and shut, letting in a sliver of life before the uncertain darkness that hid the future cocooned us again in a waiting warmth and smothering stillness. Waiting.

We were alone. I looked at Quen's dark hand in mine and saw the strength in it. The coming battle would be fought by both the mind and the body, but it was the soul where the balance lay. "You took something," I said, my heart pounding at the chance that he might actually talk to me. "Something Dr. Anders was working on. Was it genetic? Why?"

Quen's eyes were bright, still seeing around corners. Taking a breath that it hurt to hear, he blinked at me, refusing to answer.

Frustrated, I took his grip more firmly. "Fine, you son of a bitch," I swore. "I'll hold your stupid-ass hand, but you're not going to die." God, give us the eleven percent. Please? Just this once? I hadn't been able to save my dad. I hadn't been able to save Peter. I hadn't been able to save Kisten, and the guilt of his dying to keep me alive was enough to bring me sobbing to my knees.

Not this time. Not this man.

"It doesn't matter if I live or die," he rasped. "But seeing me through this is the only…way you'll find…the truth," he rasped, his body clenching in pain. It was getting worse. His bird-bright eyes fixed on mine, and the hurt in him was obvious. "How bad do you want to know?" he taunted as the sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Bastard," I almost snarled as I dabbed it away, and he smiled through the pain. "You son of a bitch bastard."