8. Any Port in a Storm

Taryn knocked nervously at the door and waited for an answer. Not that she really expected one. Usually she just pushed into the small room, awoke its lone occupant from whatever doze/slumber/coma he was currently lingering in, plopped a meal before him and left.

Fevvers was still with them, but they had learned little more about him. He was quiet and polite but very rarely spoke; he gave no name, no address, spoke of no family, friends or place of origin. It was as if he really had just dropped out of the sky, fresh-born and completely new to the world.

The day after he came to them, Ma Nelson determined it would be better if he had a room of his own to sleep in, so she cleared out one of the smaller, pokier rooms that previously been reserved for clients. Now, if any outsider asked, it was 'closed for redecoration'.

Fevvers interacted little except to accept food and to remark that he was 'okay'. This was, blatantly, a lie.

The wounds on his back were healing at a tremendous rate. The girls had never seen such a phenomenon outside the odd healer at the hospital. Yet his cheeks were almost always wet with tears, his skin pale and clammy from grief, and his eyes made dark by despair. Physically he was a picture of health - strange though it might be. Mentally he was a wreck.

Taryn had asked to be allowed to bring him his meals. Callisto looked at her funny, but Ma Nelson just shrugged. The angel was usually too wrapped up in his own private hell to give any greeting or make any conversation, but, as she pushed her way into the bedroom, tray in hand, she resolved to make more of an effort. It wasn't right that something so beautiful should look so pathetic.

"Fevvers?" she said, and watched as he raised his soggy head from the pillow.

It was strange to see the angelic man in such surroundings. The walls of the small room were painted red and black, broken only by the odd tableau of nude couples writhing in various sexual positions. The bed was a large four-poster with satin sheets and covers. It also had a pair of handcuffs on one bedpost.

"I brought you something to eat." She moved towards him and sat on the edge of the bed.

He couldn't sit up properly, so he levered himself into a kneeling position with his wings trailing over the side of the mattress. It wasn't the most comfortable, but it seemed the least painful. Then he took the tray from her hands and, slowly, began to eat.

Usually Taryn just gave him food and left, but now she watched him. It was a simple fry-up – the best Amanda could do when it was her turn to cook. Callisto did interesting things with herbs and spices, and Amara's cakes were the best any of them had ever tasted. Taryn wasn't very good in the kitchen, so she tended to be on dishwasher duty instead.

It was strange the way the angel poked and prodded the eggs carefully, before cutting them up into neat little squares like they were some strange delicacy. He held the knife and fork just right, the very picture of a young prince at a banquet. Not a lost, angelic waif in a brothel.

"Why are you still here?"

Taryn couldn't help but blink. He'd said something! His voice was soft and hoarse from lack of use, but he had said something.

"I ... I just wanted to stay with you. To keep you company," she replied. "Everyone needs company."

"Do the men come to you for company?"

The way he put an emphasis on the word 'company,' gave it extra meaning, Taryn resisted the urge to look away and, instead, drew herself up. He didn't know anything about her or her past. She would not be ashamed of who she was.

"Yes," she said primly. "What of it?"

"Are you a whore?" There was no accusation or derision in his voice; it was a mere question, like asking someone if they'd be going to the gig next Tuesday; or if they worked in the post office.

"I suppose you could call me that," said Taryn, a little offended. "Does that bother you?" Not a question she would usually ask. She'd long come to learn that the opinions of others on this mattered little. Some people would always have their prejudices and, no matter what people might think of her life, it'd saved her from starving. Still, there was something about this man ... perhaps his alien beauty, perhaps his deep, complex eyes, which made her ... care what his answer might be.

He shrugged, the feathers moving in perfect synchronicity on his back. "No. I suppose everyone's a whore, in their own way."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He fiddled with the bacon, trying to cut it, but the knife slid off the greasy meat and onto the plate making a horrible squeaking sound. He didn't look up from his task as he spoke to her. "I mean, we're all of something to someone else in return for something. When pushed to it, we'll offer our bodies in various ways. We just don't realize it. It doesn't matter though, not really." He missed the bacon again.

Taryn didn't know what to say to this, but the squeaking annoyed her.

"Here," she said, taking both plate and knife from him. Carefully, she cut the bacon up into neat strips. Grease pooled on the plate underneath them. His grip hadn't been hard enough on the knife, she guessed, so it had slipped everywhere.

She'd nearly finished slicing when she looked up and saw, to her astonishment, that he was looking at her – right at her. His blue eyes seemed to swallow her whole. She felt like he was suddenly there in ways he wasn't before, except that was ridiculous. Absurd. Preposterous, like … like an ordinary man with wings and healing ability …

His eyes seemed to swallow him whole too, containing all of him and yet ... nothing at all. She was trapped in their gaze, like a rabbit in headlights. She barely even noticed when he raised one hand and gently touched her cheek.

"Warm," he murmured softly, his voice filled with a strange, sad awe. "You're so warm. I'd forgotten what it was like to touch another person."

The signals were obvious. Her body screamed at her, her mind urged it on. Get laid! it yelled. This guy's dying to get laid! Maybe it'd even do him good, bring him out of his funk. It's not healthy to be this down in the dumps. Plus he's gorgeous – come on, girl! Get jiggy with an angel! He wouldn't be the worst or strangest customer you've ever had, and he's a lot prettier than most.

He could be a demon in disguise, her good sense reasoned. He could be anything. You've never seen anything like him before. What if he's dangerous?

Be he wasn't, she was certain. She knew it like she knew she could never go home again.

She almost brought her lips to his, just to see what happened. However, at the last moment she grabbed her own libido and stuffed in back in its box.

No. No, this was wrong! She couldn't do this. Not when he spoke like an old man and looked like a child. Not when his body promised such pleasures when his soul was in such pain. It was wrong.

She jumped up quickly, nearly spilling his meal from her lap. "I ... I've got to go," she stuttered. "I'll come back later and get the plate." With these words she scrambled out of the room, still feeling those strange eyes hot upon her back.

When she'd closed the door behind her she leant back against the wall and allowed a shiver to course though her spine. This precise emotion that caused this shudder even she didn't know.

Mesmero was a dervish of invectives and incantations. He swore in so many languages, Erik had ceased to distinguish between them. Instead, he scanned the crowd pulsing at edge of becoming a mob. Though less so when dealing with werewolves, breakouts were not uncommon at demon auctions. It was just important that the usual method of dealing with an escapee - killing it - did not occur now. This werewolf – his werewolf, the one he'd tracked since stealing her and the succubus girl from the place Mesmero told him – needed to stay alive. It was imperative she did not die until after the ceremony.

There's a ruckus at the far end of the cages you might want to investigate.

Erik didn't turn or flinch. While he'd never be truly accustomed to it, he had learned not to react to the little white-haired boy who followed him wherever he went.

Mesmero was busy growling at one of the incompetent handlers from the Lycan Dealership. They'd thought that by putting their 'wolf in with a 'respected' dealer, there'd be less chance of ... well, something like this happening. It had been Mesmero's idea to get rid of her this way, and they'd agreed 'respectable' probably meant less chance of her being abused and killed out of their sight once she was sold. They had not figured on the handlers switching cages, nor on the assassination attempt.

In a way, it was lucky the dealers had tried to swindle them. Had their wolf been on the podium like she was supposed to, she would have been killed and everything would be ruined. However, not being on the podium had saved her life and meant she could make a viable escape attempt. Who could've known silver didn't affect her as much as she'd pretended?

Since his employer was busy, Erik answered the boy. His voice was low and gruff, muffled by the pulled-up collar of his coat, but the child heard it anyway.

I know because I don't want anybody to die here today. You might want to check on the skylight above that point. The wards don't keep everything out.

Erik's powers reached without conscious thought. They bumped against the wards, but sparkled against his inner-eye when they sensed metal. A steel alloy, to be precise. He recognised the contours of a rifle, and deftly closed the barrel and warped the trigger. It would never be fired again.

The metal dropped. He felt it fall. He even saw something grey plummet from the rafters of the waterfront warehouse, but the marksman was already gone through the skylight. Erik felt the wards slip back into place, whatever spell had been used to break them open now useless.

The crowd charged past. Erik stepped aside, grabbing Mesmero's arm so that he wasn't trampled mid-rant. The telepath didn't even pause in his shouting. Erik almost felt sorry for the dealer.

Almost.

Is that even physically possible? asked the white-haired boy. He only looked about six. Though his voice was high and flutey, his words were that of a much older person. He spoke as if he'd had time to grow up.

Erik didn't look at him. He knew that there would be time for that later. After all, he never left his side, not for anything. He had spent many nights with his eyes open, refusing sleep against the constant stare of that tiny, luminescent figure that only he could see.

The ghost had appeared to him six months ago, when he first got wind of Mesmero and sought him out. At first Erik had thought himself going insane, but eventually he had come to the conclusion that if that was going to happen then it would have happened long ago. He asked the boy why he was here, now, like this, and his reply had been cryptic.

Because you need some sort of guidance, and I drew the short straw.

And so it had started. And so it went on. And so it would, eventually, end.

Erik cut his eyes at the milling people. "Do you see her anywhere?" he asked in that curious Russian dialect he had only ever spoken with a select few.

Your werewolf? the boy replied in the same dialect.

"Yes."

He didn't answer that. Erik didn't press him. Sometimes the silences could last days and weeks, sometimes only a few minutes, but he could never press to get an answer if one was not forthcoming. How did you threaten someone who was already dead?

The assassin's gone. I can't sense her anymore.

Erik nodded. He knew whoever it was would be back. Hopefully, by that time events would have been set in motion that could not be reversed, even by the death of a Chosen One.

"It won't be long now, Pietro."

The boy-ghost didn't reply.

Despite Rahne's escape she still had certain problems. To wit: She was naked. It wasn't customary to dress 'wolves that were for sale, and while she was half-shifted she'd had no problem since fur covered most of her modesty. Now, though, she was hiding under a clapped out old car, having run from the warehouse where the auction was being held.

So. She was naked, and would remain so unless she shifted to wolf or hybrid form. Hybrid screamed werewolf, so that was out, and though a wolf wouldn't look so out of place if she could get to some countryside, the wolf mind was panicky in this kind of situation. She already knew that much from making her escape. It felt threatened, anxious, and would act out of survival instinct – act, in short, like an animal.

She didn't know where she was, so she had no idea where she should head, but at least she was out of that place. There was a river with boats on it outside her refuge – she could smell the bad water and petrol fumes – but they were all moored and probably involved with the auction. Bidders had to get here and sellers had to transport their wares.

The area was vaguely urban but ramshackle. The design scheme ran mostly to corrugated iron, burnt out wrecks and litter. It stank, too. Even in human form Rahne's senses were heightened enough that the smells around her were an assault on her nose.

Was there a town nearby? Which one? Could she find help there? What country was she even in anymore? She'd started in Scotland, then been shunted to America and passed around states she hadn't even known existed before, kept in a basement in a cage and fed well before being knocked out and taken somewhere new by the tattooed man and his pal.

She wished Rogue was here. Rogue would know what to do. She was canny and a survivalist.

But they'd taken Rogue, too. Rahne was sure of that. Her scent had been around when she first woke up, laden with fear and the burnt ozone of a binding spell.

Rahne was alone in a strange place. There were most likely people hunting her already, she had no idea what to do next, and she was naked.

Well, on a scale of one to ten, this certainly sucked.

She needed to be human, and she had no clothes. The one bad thing about working as a human was that you had to worry about things like that, and while being a female werewolf had its advantages (there were fewer questions at the appearance of a naked girl than a naked man, although there were also more propositions), shredding your clothes when you shifted was not one of them.

This was not a good start. If she found a police station, though, she could at least do something. The police always knew what to do. It was some great law of the universe: when in dire peril, thou shalt seek out the guy with the blue uniform and walky-talky for use in calling heavily armed back-up. So, plan of action? Town, then police.

But first, clothes.

She was overjoyed to be free at last. She didn't like being cooped up, and near-claustrophobia had warred with concern over Rogue and homesickness and just plain sickness over her whole ordeal. She was human. She wasn't used to being treated like a piece of meat destined for a butcher shop window. If she ever got home, she was going to join one of those agencies devoted to stamping out illegal auction rings –

Her line of thought was suddenly and painfully cut off, as a powerful binding spell activated and looped over her head and neck. She choked a little, grappled with the invisible bonds, and fell on her stomach. This scraped off several layers of skin, several more when her hands skidded out on front of her, but it was nothing compared to the burning around her throat.

Rahne had a few moments in which to curse whoever had hit her with the spell. Then the world went black.

"[Are they feeding you well?"

Kurt instantly recognized the regalia of the Count's Voice and saluted. "[Well enough, sir. I shouldn't complain."

"[Whatever he's getting, he needs more. Cheese-weight, you're thin as a stick," said Andrei, clip-clopping around to face the newcomer in the cell doorway. The man was tiny, built like sparrow with a growth hormone deficiency.

"[Nothing less than I deserve," Kurt murmured.

"Na?" said the Count's man. "[How's that?"

"[I ... I killed..." Those two words opened the flood. "[Oh God ... I killed Stefan ... and that man ... I killed them both ... God forgive me ..."

For a moment, both man and centaur were silent. Andrei looked over Kurt's head, expression a mixture of pained and pointed. "[I think," he said carefully, "[you'd better start at the beginning, Kurti."

For a second Kurt's face was a mask of sheer, unbridled terror. Then a cloud of brimstone appeared. When it cleared, he was gone.

Andrei hadn't realised his little brother was going to be this scared about whatever had put him here. He also hadn't realised Kurti could do that. He turned on the guard.

"[Teleportation?" mused Bothari. "[Interesting. You never mentioned that one."

"[Because I didn't know." Andrei switched to English for the guard."Quick, where can he go from here?"

"Whu?" The guard seemed flustered by the sight of an alarmed centaur bearing down on him.

"Are there any wards around this building?"

"Uh, hundreds. Inside and out. Demon Division headquarters – nearly as many as the Whitehouse. He can't – he shouldn't be able to disapparate through 'em. Especially the ones in the supporting walls. He'll fry himself."

"Hell. But he can stay inside?"

"I … I don't know. He shouldn't have been able to disapperate out of here. But I suppose so, if he can avoid the backlash. But no demon has ever done it before -"

"Then perhaps it is a good thing he is not a demon," said Bothari.

Andrei was already thundering out of the door.

Rogue screamed as a demon appeared in a cloud of smoke and brimstone in the interview room. She had no idea what was going on, so she covered her face and neck with her arms.

The two members of the Demon Division, however, decided with typical conclusion-jumping that she had summoned the foul creature now rolling off the table in agony.

The bundle of blue fur murmured something, and then trailed off in a round of what sounded like … praying?

Rogue looked at it, did a quick double-take, and sat with her mouth open. Blue fur, spaded tail … something in her memory chimed loudly.

"Once, a long time ago, I gave birth to a beautiful boy. I was going to name him Michael. But he had what people consider a 'demonic' appearance – he was blue like me, and had my eyes, but some twist of fate also gave him fur and a spaded tail instead of my … abilities. He couldn't hide the way I do."

Rogue cleared her throat. It was impossible. Completely impossible. And yet … she was impossible. And her life had been full of impossible coincidences lately, so why not this, too?

"Michael?" she tried.

The demon looked up. It had sharp white teeth and pointed ears. But it didn't attack her. "My name is not Michael," it corrected her. There were tears on its cheeks and in its bright yellow eyes. "Oh, Gott, what did I just do? What is happening to me?"

Rogue just grabbed onto his arm before he could start sobbing again.

Which he did.

"You are Michael," she whispered fiercely. "You're the little boy she gave away. You're the reason I was saved!"

To Be Continued...