Ma'at

The Lady steps out onto the black sand. Her lovers are, unusually, both there. They are watching the soul of Angel being tormented by the Furies. She stands with them for a few moments, feeling within her the potential, the seed, that she took from Angelus, in his dream within the crypt. Palestrina, or the echo of her in Aurelius’ blood, helped by capturing Aurelius’ full attention, so ensuring that The Ladund und Angelus alone, rapt in a dream of his own and ready for her. It is better so. Those dreams are his, the beginnings of a sort of prophecy, one that will never lie to him if he can but understand it, a gift from the blood of Aurelius and Palestrina. But the dream that she has stolen is different. More real. Just a wet dream to him, but she has been there with him, and something of him now remains within her. She will give life to his seed when it is time.

“He is strong,” the dark one says.

“Is he strong enough?”

The creature of light takes her hand.

“It would be better if the other would pay at least some of the price with him. Easier, to share the burden between them. But he is strong enough.”

She thinks of the other one, Spike. He is curled up in the black cliffs, trying to sleep eternity away. He wants nothing to do with the black sand. She sighs at what that means for Angel.

“Will there be enough left over? Enough to give them what they need?”

“How badly must he suffer for that?” The dark one looks concerned.

The Lady stiffens her resolve. “As badly as he must. Their need will be great.”

The other two bow their heads in acknowledgement. The Lady speaks nothing that they do not already know. Angel is here for a purpose, although he is not aware of that. He is paying the price. Not the price of the past. That is unimportant. He is paying the price of the future. He is restoring Ma’at, so that there will *be* a future. And now he must pay more. There must be something left over in the balance, for The Lady.

“Is there something now?”

The dark one nods, in answer to her question. The moment of sacrifice, when Angel took the place of his dark half, was worth a very great deal in the balance. He knows what she must do, what she has already done. So does his brother. They don’t have to like it, though. He murmurs a few words and Angel is gone from the sand. He nods to The Lady again and she turns and walks back into the black cliffs.

She finds a room there, anonymous and bare, and smiles a little. Her lovers are jealous and have offered no comforts. There is nothing, except the torn and bleeding body of a sinner, curled up tightly against his pain. He lifts his head, and his dark eyes are filled with suffering. Before he can focus his gaze on her, she dons the outward vestment of another, and walks naked towards him.

At last he sees her.

“Buffy…” It is no more than a whisper.

“Yes, my love.”

He struggles a little against the thought. When he speaks, his voice is harsh, roughened by his screams of agony, the words laboured, slow to come through the pain.

“You aren’t here. You can’t be here. You’re alive, this is just an hallucination…”

She reaches out and strokes his face, runs her fingers down his neck and over his torso. As she does so, his wounds heal. The outward ones, at least. She can allow him that much. She presses him onto the floor, until he is lying on his back, and then she straddles him. He is too weary, and in too much pain, to take the initiative, so she will.

She leans over him and whispers, “I will come to you when I can. I will give you surcease when I can. Never forget that. When you lose everything else, hold on to that. I will come. You are eternally beloved. Never forget.”

She presses her lips gently to his, and he responds. Her hands explore the arch of his ribs, the clean line of his collarbone, the shallow cleft of his breastbone. Her fingers play around the lobe of his ear, the line of his jaw, the masculine lump in his throat, lingering longest over the sensitive nipples. Hesitantly at first, and then with greater confidence, his fingers trace the same paths on her body.

Soon, there is more for her to play with. She shifts her position a little backwards, and traces the swell of his abdomen, the rise of his hips and the firmness of his thigh. Then she moves her hand across his belly towards his swollen sex, hardening with every gentle stroke of her fingers. He moves to roll them, to return the favour of arousal, but she stops him.

“Later. For now, let me.”

He sighs, from the depths of his pain, and nods gratefully, sinking back to the floor. She needs no more arousal, anyway. She rises a little, positions herself, then slowly, gently, joins with him. His eyes close in pleasure and she begins the age-old movements that will tell him he is loved. That will give him release. That will replace his pain with pleasure. When it comes for them both, it is more than she expected. It is overwhelming, a tidal wave of love and passion. La petite mort, even for a goddess. She and her lovers have chosen well.

She stays with him for the space of a day. A day, in this place where time is what her husband wills it to be, not a day in that dimension of clocks and suns and moons and stars. That is all she is allowed. Not by her lover, although he – both of them – will be pleased when she returns. It is all she is allowed by Ma’at. By herself.

They make love often. As his strength returns, he exerts himself in every way to ensure her pleasure. So does she, for him. It will be a long time before she is allowed to return, and so he must have something to hold on to, to bear him up, in the torments to come.

When she leaves him, he is asleep, at peace. She places one last kiss on his cheek, and murmurs one last word in his ear.

“Remember.”

Then she is gone. He won’t be returned to the black sand just yet. He must now pay for what has happened, for what will happen. He will awaken somewhere much worse, and she almost cannot bear it.

***************

We’ve made love several times now, each time more pleasurable than the last. That is how it always is between us. Each time better, more perfect, just *more*, as if there could never be an end to the increase in rapture. Yet each time is perfect in itself. Do you think it is possible to die of too much pleasure? Sometimes I wonder.

I feel completely replete, fulfilled, at peace. It’s a peace I haven’t known for a long time. Not since that ill-judged trip to end the Kahlavi cult, when the Soul was restored to me, and perhaps not even before that. We are cuddled together like puppies in a basket, recovering from our last coupling. When she is able to breathe normally again, Buffy looks me squarely in the eye.

“Are we going to die here?”

“No. I won’t permit it.”

She chuckles, because she thinks that is just my normal bravado.

“Can you beat him?”

Can I lie to her?

“I’m going to do my best.”

She hears the lie though, and is serious for a moment.

“If this is it, if this is the end, I want you to know that I love you. I love Angel, and I love you. Both of you. Forever. I want to be with you, forever. Whatever comes after this life, I don’t want us to be apart. Will you try to stay with me?”

That’s impossible, of course. I can never avoid the black sand, or worse, and she must never know about its pain. But I shall have to try.

“I will move heaven and earth, if I must, to make a place for us.”

She knows I mean that, and is satisfied. In that way, at least. Her hand roams downwards to see whether I’m capable of satisfying her in a different way, again. She’s insatiable, but I’m up to the job.

As I run my hands over her silken skin, as I taste all the flavours of her, I know that this might well be the last time. I haven’t told her of the shameful but necessary bargain that I have made. If I lose, and we survive, she may never forgive me. I have chosen for her. Have I that right? I shake off those thoughts with a visible effort that is not lost on her, and devote myself to her ongoing delight. Perfect. It must be perfect for her.

This time she insists on being in control, and I let her. I look up at her, as she rides her coming orgasm, her lip caught between her teeth in the burgeoning rapture of the moment, and think that I may never see a more perfect sight if I live for a hundred thousand years. Longer.

Her eyes fly open as my fingers tug at her nipples, enough to send her crashing into that wave of ultimate gratification, and she sees Faith. I’ve known about Faith, but Buffy has been too absorbed in us, too rapt in pleasure to notice. Faith has been painfully aroused since our first joining, and is now taking her own steps to find release. Buffy closes her eyes again, and rides the wave. I ride with her, and it is as if the very atoms of our being have wrapped themselves around each other and have given themselves up to the chemistry of annihilation. Our cries must echo through this entire edifice, and I don’t care.

It takes long minutes to recover our senses from that absolution, but when we have I know what I must do. Faith is finished with what she was doing, although I can smell that she is still frustrated and in need. With Buffy cuddled under my chin, I start as I mean to go on. With honesty. I tell them what I have done, and why. I keep my voice low, against eavesdroppers.

The tale isn’t long in telling, but when I am finished, they are botsolusolutely silent. Faith is the first to break it.

“So, the cavalry are out there but can’t get in, and you’ve sold us all into slavery to buy them time?”

I admit that is a pretty fair summary.

“And all three of us might spend the next however long being screwed into the ground by a whole pack of werewolves?” That’s Buffy’s contribution. I allow for the possibility.

Astonishingly, neither tries to stab, beat or geld me. Buffy, after a few moments of thought, simply holds out her hand to her sister Slayer, an invitation to her.

“Well, then, you’d better give her something good to remember, hadn’t you?”

“?”

*************

It is much later, and I am lying on this heap of straw, a sleeping Slayer on either side of me, their hands clasped together on my stomach. I don’t actually think that this will lead us to a ménage a trois, but a vre cre can dream, can’t he?

Faith tastes different to Buffy, and she makes love differently. Her body is more voluptuous. Different. At the behest of my beloved, I gave Faith an experience she could not have imagined, even from watching us. I exerted myself to please, to give her something of pleasure to remember if the rest went down the pan.

The feel of her breast against my palm was erotic, appealing, but it wasn’t Buffy. The taste of her was like honeyed spice, something I could have lapped at for hours, but it wasn’t Buffy. The welcoming silkiness of her, as I slid home and showed her just what delights vampire stamina can bring, was exotic and wonderful, but it wasn’t Buffy. As I made love to her, devoted myself to her, I needed another touch. I reached for Buffy’s hand. For a moment, there was nothing, and then I felt it creep hesitantly into mine. And so I made love to Faith like that, handfasted with my mate. Neither of them seemed to mind.

My inner senses tell me that it’s almost noon. They will be coming for us shortly. We are fully dressed, now, sitting together on the straw. The sleeping benches are too small and narrow for comfort, and we seem to need to be together for the moment.

Faith frowns a little, then clears her throat.

“B, you know what we gotta do, don’t you?”

Buffy turns a wide-eyed gaze on her, uncertain of her meaning.

“He’s got a big fight here,” she continues. “He needs all the strength he can get. Our turn to give him something back for last night, maybe?”

We both understand what she means. I still have the blood of Aurelius and Sekhmet hot in my veins, although it is faded a little with time. I tell them that. They both look intrigued – I suspect that we are going to have to have a chat about the clan at some point in the future – but unconvinced. Buffy takes up the baton.

“You mean that a couple of shots of Slayer blood won’t help you? Won’t give you an edge?”

It certainly would, and I can’t deny it. I’m trying to be noble, though, and I make the mistake of hinting at this. They treat the hint as it deserves, I suppose: with derision. Faith is first. She pulls aside her shirt and angles her neck to me.

“Come on, big boy. Just don’t kill me yet. You can save that for if you don’t kick his ass into next week. Not that I have any real uncertainty about that, mind you.”

I look doubtfully at Buffy. Her only reply is to place her hand on her collar, ready to pull it back for me. Two Slayers to one vamp? No fair. I lean into Faith’s neck and gently, delicately sink my fangs into the throb of her vein. I have tasted her before, and she is equally delicious now. I try not to take too much, but her hand on the back of my head prevents me from pulling back, and so I continue to drink. I know what different levels of blood loss do to a person, even a Slayer. I know that she only lets me go when the dizziness hits her, at the point when, if I take more, she will not be able to stand. She’ll want to meet her fate on her feet. As will Buffy.

I lick the tiny wounds closed, and walk over to the door. There is a jug of rather dubious water there. I make her drink it. At least it will put volume back in her veins.

Then I turn to Buffy. She has her throat open to me, waiting. I kiss her forehead and whisper to her, “I love you,” and then my fangs are buried in her neck and as I drinstamstamp my possession, my ownership and my love into the bite. This will never diminish, never wear off, never be overridden by another. This mark will tell every demon in existence that this Slayer is *mine*. Forever. Even the werewolves. They can never corrupt it. I pray that it will be a comfort to her.

I am already flying on the blood of my clan and the blood of a Slayer, but, as the hot, saltsweet liquid flows into me, the essence of my eternal mate, I know that I can beat this creature. This gift of hers will give me strength. It must. I feel as if I am exploding with power, as if my skin is too small and crabbed to hold me. And then all those separate powers within me seem to mingle and join. A pair of night-dark eyes, their own power gleaming within their depths, flashes across my vision, and I know this is her doing. The mystery woman. The whole becomes much more than the sum of the parts, and I will *tear this demon to pieces*.

I feel Buffy pushing at me, and realise I am in danger of forgetting myself, of taking too much, and I pull back quickly. She sways a little, and I catch her body, holding her to me.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

She rallies.

“I’m okay. Okay. Just give me some of that rat pee.”

Faith gives a sultry chuckle and passes the water jug over.

I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.

And incidentally, I’m pleased to note that I have given both my women two more extremely erotic experiences. I’m good at that. I’m very, very good.

****************

They come for us shortly afterwards. I think Angelus must be really flying. I’ve never seen him look quite so … I don’t know what the word is, or even if there *is* a word in English. Maybe in vampirese, but not English. Faith and I are not at our best, but that doesn’t matter. Our fate rests on him.

They do the magic bit before they open the door. It doesn’t affect him, though. Two guards come in and they have what I can only describe as wolfish smiles.

“Good show you gave us last night. Wowee, but you lot were hot. I guess Fenrix will want to see something like that pretty often. Or *do* something like that!”

The bars on top of the walls. Damn. I can’t move, but I can see Angelus. He’s perfectly calm, but there is death in his eyes. If he wins, they are dead. I think Faith and I will help.

They are carrying shackles, which they throw to Angelus.

“Put these on the girls.”

The look on his face has them back-pedalling a few steps.

“Hey, no chains, no see. Put those on, or they don’t get to come up with you.”

He looks at us. I can only speak with my eyes, and I hope my look mentions something about gelding knives if he leaves us down here. I think it does, because he smiles, and puts the shackles on us. A collar, manacles and ankle chains, all with a single chain running through them, and all with as little freedom as possible. Unless they are going to carry us, we’ll be taking teeny-tiny steps.

Eventually, even with teeny-tiny steps, we get there. I almost wish we’d stayed in the cell.

It’s a huge hall, with this monstrosity at one end. It’s all bone and muscle and sinew, with fangs and claws thrown in for good measure. If Angelus really is going to fight that… I can’t even think about it.

There are two or three hundred werewolves in the hall. It’s so huge that they don’t make it look crowded at all. We are led to a line of stone pillars at the monster’s end of the hall, and chained to convenient rings, one to a pillar. Think they’ve done this before, then? Faith and I are about six feet apart. Angelus is standing as easily as if he were in his own home. I don’t know how he does it.

A big old wolf comes through the door we came in by, and there are some others following. Is that OZ? In chains? Oh crap. There’s another one as well. Is that a female? They bring them down past Angelus, and chain them to the next pillars down the line. Then I hear this voice in my head. It’s that *thing*. Oh, this is so gross!

“You had friends here, Angelus.”

“I’ve met a couple of werewolves. Didn’t know they were here. They done something to upset you?”

“Yes. They tried to sneak out. Have you got friends outside, vampire?”

“Not locally, no.”

“Well, no matter. When you and the Slayers are no more than the instruments of my pleasure, your friends will not be important.”

“Stop daydreaming, dog-boy, and let’s get to it.”

The thing laughs, this horrid, breathy sound, and then it tells Angelus to the the clothes. For a moment, he seems to be speechless, but then he shrugs, and strips. All the scratch marks have gone. You know, the ones from last night.

He leaves his gear in a corner, then stands, with legs apart and arms outstretched for a moment. He sees my confusion.

“No weapons, no secret knives, poison darts, nothing. Just flesh and bone and fang and claw.”

I nod my understanding, and then the thing gets off its cushion. It’s even bigger than it first looked, those talons clacking on the stone floor and its thin, bristly pelt and pink skin glistening in the dim light. I think we are in such trouble here. All the others start to file out, and I soon hear them above me. I hadn’t noticed when we came in. There are stone-built galleries high up the walls, all the way round. The werewolves are up there, out of the way, leaving the floor clear.

They start to circle, eyeing each other up. I can look at Fenrix with a warrior’s eye. He’s going to be harder to beat than Glory, and I never managed to do that. Angelus makes the first move, almost faster than I can follow. He leaps for Fenrix’s back, but the beast is just as quick. Angelus lands on hiet tet though, and darts out of reach. And so it goes, for a little while, Angelus and Fenrix, feinting back and forwards, looking for an opening.

Then Angelus thinks he has one. He manages to get a hand to the beast’s neck, and tries again for its back. If he can once straddle it, he should have the advantage. But he can’t get a secure enough hold, the beast rolls, and lashes out. Angelus is thrown against the wall – if he hasn’t got broken ribs from that, I’ll be surprised. Worse, though are the four parallel gashes running from shoulder to hip. They are deep and damaging. First blood to Fenrix.

*************

Aurelius should be here tonight. He’s really pulled out all the stops. He’s managed to charter a decrepit Russian cargo plane – those people will do anything for hard currency nowadays. I hear that Angelus has his own plane now – just a small one. They’ll change into that after dusk and be here within the hour. There’s a small airstrip not too far away. The box vans are going down to meet them. I never thought I’d be glad to see the arrival of vampires. I don’t understand why Aurelius should be concerned about Buffy, but for the moment, it is enough that he is. The rest can wait until she is safe. If some of the vampires should die in this rescue – if a certain vampire should accidentally get staked, for example – that would cause me no heartache. Except… except…

I had a dream last night. It was about Jenny. Oh, I often dream about her, about finding her body in my bed, left by Angelus in a fit of spiteful whimsy. But last night was the first night that she’s spoken to me. She was lying on the bed, as usual. Her head was lolling at an unnatural angle, her dark hair spread across the pillow, her eyes wide and staring, also as usual. And then it was different. She was… whole, healed, alive. And in my bed. I can see her there now, if I close my eyes, hear what she said…

“Rupert, I’m glad I can see you at last.”

“Jenny? Jenny? Is that really you?”

I sit on the bed, largely because my knees are trembling. She reaches out her hand – her *warm*, living hand – and cups my cheek.

“Yes, but I can’t stay. I’ve come to tell you something, and you must listen. You must listen and understand.”

I try to speak, but she shushes me.

“You have to let me go. You must support Buffy in what she does, and you cannot do that unless you let me go. You must, do you hear?”

I try to deny, but she puts a finger to my lips. She tastes of wine and roses.

“Let me go. There will be a time, but let me go now. Let me go.”

And she is nothing more than a corpse in my bed, and I wake up with the chill of tears running down my cheeks. I have no powers of prophecy, no fey ancestor, no seer’s gifts, but I know that this was not just a dream. You can’t be a Watcher and not *know*. That was Jenny. But I do not see how I can do as she asks. She is telling me that I must work with the vampire for the sake of my Slayer. But he murdered my lover. How am I ever supposed to forget that? How do I get over it? It isn’t even as if he were Angel, resouled again. He is still Angelus, the murdering monster, and I have seen what he has done to my Slayer.

And I have seen him bring her back to life.

Perhaps it would be better if I returned to England. Perhaps she will do better without me. Once we have her safe again, her, and Faith.

I wonder what is happening, up there in that fortress?

*************

They seem to have been fighting for hours, but it probably isn’t more than forty-five minutes. That’s long enough, because this is an unfair contest, which the werewolf has no intention of losing. Angelus cannot get a secure hold on it because its body has been oiled. That’s what I saw glistening. His hands simply slide off whenever he grasps hair or skin. He has no chance. He’s rubbing the oil on his palms off onto his body, but that creature doesn’t have hands made for grasping. It has a pawful of talons as long as my hand, and it’s slashing him to pieces. There’s no referee, though, and no one to cry foul, so he’s just doing the best he can.

Angelus’ body has stopped trying to heal itself, husbanding his strength. It’s doing just enough to try and stop blood loss, but the rest is simply gaping wounds. He’s got a lot of those. I recognise what Fenrix is doing. It’s been aiming to cut down his mobility, and it’s doing pretty well. He has slashes on his chest and stomach and back that would have killed a man. Worse than that, though, as far as fighting is concerned, are the others. The slashes across the major muscle groups interfere with the way he can move, and he has those on both thighs and both upper arms. He’s been cut to the bone. His left hand is almost useless since the creature ripped away all the tendons a few minutes ago. Now it’s had its teeth into his calf, and it’s torn a huge chunk out. It’s going to eat him alive.

He’s left some wounds on it, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

Oh, god! Now it has its teeth into his shoulder, and it’s shaking him like a rag doll. He’s managed to get hold of its ears, and he’s forcing it backwards, and still backwards, and it’s taking every ounce of strength that he has, but it’s still coming backwards towards Faith and me. I can see the strain, see the veins stand out on his temples, see every single muscle in his body separately delineated as he calls on everything that he has to push the beast back. If he can’t get its teeth out, he’s lost.

Now its backside is pressed into my pillar, but it sidesteps a little, and he keeps pushing it. It comes to bay against Faith’s pillar, and I think there’s just this one chance. Faith sees it, too. I move away from the pillar as far as I can to make sure no one can see her, although she’s hidden by its grotesque body. She hangs onto the chains, although she’s still white with blood loss, and I can see she’s got little enough strength, then she lifts her shackled feet, and there’s just that little bit of chain between the shackles, and I see her place it just *so* as Angelus and the godling push against each other in this trial of strength. If she’s not quick, it’s simply going to bite his shoulder off altogether. Now the chain is in place, and she yanks her feet backwards, and she has the bastard by the balls.

It lets go of Angelus with a yelp, and out of instinct turns round to see where the pain is coming from, and Angelus is on its back now. He has his arms wrapped around its neck, and his legs around its chest. It can’t shake him off. It’s running around just like a maddened dog, but he’s hanging on for dear life.

Now, he’s pulling its head back and he’s sinking his fangs into its throat, and he’s gulping down the blood. Can he hold enough to weaken it? At last it starts to quieten, to slow, and he stops drinking.

He’s true to his word, and I would expect nothing else.

“Do you yield?”

I hear nothing in my mind but a flurry of animal growls. He yanks its head back a little further.

“Do you YIELD?”

Nothing but frantic snapping and clawing, but it can’t shake him off. To drive the point home, he takes some more deep draughts of blood.

“The clan is *mine*, you cheating bastard. Do you acknowledge that? Speak, or I’ll slit your throat.”

“NEVER! You will never rule my people, vampire. I’ll have your hide on my . K. Kill him. Kill him!”

There’s something of a scuffle up on the galleries, but nothing comes down to help.

“You had your chance. I kept my word.”

With that, he leans over, and rips out Fenrix’s throat. It doesn’t take long for the beast to die, but it does make a dreadful mess on the floor. The sounds of fighting are moving away now, as the body of the uber-werewolf sinks to the floor, and Angelus sinks with it. I don’t care what’s happening up in the gallery, the screams and growls fading into the background. I only care about what has happened to Angelus. He has run out of strength. Looking at the creature’s blood, I doubt whether it’s done him the least bit of good. It’s nothing like earthly blood, but black and oily. I’m starting to hope it hasn’t poisoned him, as he sits slumped on its dead back, too ill or too exhausted to move.

“Angel. Angel!”

He always hates being called that. Perhaps it’ll spark a response. And it does. Wearily, he stands up, staggering a little as he does so. Then he comes over and releases me from my chains. Faith is next, and before he collapses completely, he frees the two chained werewolves. They aren’t werewolves any more, just two naked people. Nakedness is the least of anybody’s worries at the moment. Angelus is on hands and knees, too weak to stand, but still trying to be master of the situation. Still trying to wrap everything up. Damn him, Faith and I will get that done.

“Don’t let them get out…”

Oz nods to him, and sets off at a sprint, to whatwhat is happening with the others. The woman hangs back, a little diffidently.

“Angel?”

She knows him, then?

He shakes his head.

“He’s… not here any morina.ina. Buffy will explain…”

By now, I’m kneeling at his side. He looks very bad indeed, and I have no more blood to give. Neither does Faith.

Just then, we hear howling and screaming. Oz comes back, at a run, and slides down next to Angelus. I notice that he ducks his head a little, like he might to an elder and better, and I wonder about that.

“Too late. Fenrix’s Pack has gone, off into the hills. A lot of the human weres are dead or injured, but they are all in human form, anyway – no chance of chasing that lot.”

I don’t understand. “Fenrix’s Pack?”

“Yeah. When he came over, he brought his Pack of about 50 with him. The rest of us are Americans – well, mainly Americans – but they are the biggest and strongest.” He looks at Angelus again. “I can feel you, man. So can everyone else. Not sure The Pack will bow to you, though. He lost, and they know it, but I don’t think they’re ready for a vampire as their Alpha.”

That’s the most I’ve ever heard Oz say in one go. Angelus is losing his battle to stay conscious now, but he squeezes my hand, and I know I have to ask something for him, get more information from Oz. I can only think of one thing.

“Are they wolf or human?”

“They never change from what you saw. That’s their permanent form.”

Angelus squeezes my hand again, and I rack my brains. It isn’t easy doing this after you’ve lost a few pints of blood, you know.

“We can’t leave them running loose in his territory – in mine, either. We have to round up every single one.”

None of us are in any condition to make good on that suggestion. Then Faith remembers the cavalry outside.

“I’ll go get them.”

I nod gratefully. Angelus rallies a little at that.

“East. Cave. Estevan. Not far. He’ll tell you where…”

And then he’s unconscious, and Faith is gone. There is nothing here to help me. I send Nina and Oz scurrying off to find anything that might do for water and bandages, and to organise the human werewolves. I’m too tired and weak to think of anything else. So I cradle his head in my lap, and hold his hand, until the cavalry comes.

*************
Continued in chapter 9