Short Stories

A collection of mischief, magic, exotic beasts and all manner of pretty men.

Be My Hero | Dragon's Treasure | A Dozen Roses | Dragon Heart | Handcuffs | The InnKeeper's Story | Drunk Butterflies

Kiss the Rain | Lantern | Dragon Stew | Missing: One Arrow | Mad Finnegan | Must Be Able To Use Computers

 

Be My Hero

"Shut up," Minder said quietly.

The criminals, oddly enough, shut up.

"That's more like it." He stood over them, arms crossed across his slender chest, watching as they fidgeted and wrestled to get free. "Hold still or I'll make you."

The three men stopped moving, except to cringe as sirens filled the still night air.

"That's my cue to depart," Minder said, his voice ever quiet, flat, unremarkable…but still authoritative. "Have a good night in lockup." With a thought, he tightened the ropes with which he'd bound the three robbers. Another thought woke the woman they'd accosted when they broke into her home.

He didn't bother to wake the dogs they'd tranquilized. It was nice not to hear them barking their fool heads off for once. Fat lot of good all that training had done the vicious rottweilers. But old lady Delmond was safe, that's what mattered.

In complete silence he made his way back home, weaving and winding in a random pattern that made the ten-minute walk home an hour-long journey.

The house was dark when he arrived, as it had been when he left. There was no need for light; he knew the location of every last object in the house and yard. His heavy boots scraped against the concrete sidewalk as he approached his front door. By day it was a faded forest green but at night it was as black as everything else.

Except for the small white envelope taped to it.

The Minder frowned, instantly alert. His mind rippled as he activated his telekinesis, preparing for an attack he had not expected.

Seriously. Since when had anyone actually given two shits about him?

Cautiously he pulled it off the door, scotch tape resisting for only a moment. Pulling the tape off, he examined the envelope. Plain, white, but of good stock. Really good stock; it felt more like fabric than paper. It was small, only a few inches wide - the size of the thank you cards you could get for a couple of bucks in the general stores. Shrugging, he flipped it open and pulled out the card.

It too was plain, except for the image of a heart broken into three pieces. It looked black in the moonlight, but Minder knew very well the heart was dark red.

Everyone knew that symbol.

He flipped the card open and read.

Mr. Devereux,

Or would you prefer I simply call you Minder? I require your services. As we are both awake with nothing to occupy our time, I see no reason you cannot come and discuss things with me immediately.

Unless, of course, you would like your identity known to the world on the morning news.

You have my address. I will expect you in no more than an hour's time.

Regards,
Valentine

Minder cursed.

*~*~*~*

"I'm here to see Mr. Valentine."

The butler bowed and motioned him inside. "Yes, he's been expecting you Mr. Devereux. Right this way, he is waiting in the grand library." Turning neatly on his heel, the butler walked with precise steps down the massive hallways and up a lavish, twisting staircase until at last they reached a set of large, double doors carved from oak. Pushing the rightmost door open, he stepped inside.

"Mr. Devereux to see you, sir."

"Thank you, Wainscot. Some brandy?"

"Of course, sir." Wainscot bowed and departed.

Valentine rose lazily from his desk, moving around it and approaching his guest with equally slow, lazy steps. "You really are the most unremarkable man, Leland Devereux." He gave Leland a slow perusal.

All black. Black hair pulled neatly back in a short braid, high collared black shirt, black jeans, black boots. Black facemask. From head to foot Minder was in black. And while such an outfit should have looked threatening, it did not. Instead, Minder simply looked unremarkable.

"Isn't the mask a bit absurd by this point?"

Leland shrugged and removed it, revealing blue eyes and a thin, handsome face – if it held some emotion he would be positively stunning. But he was expressionless, his eyes blank. It would be daunting, if Byron weren't used to such a careful lack of emotion. "What do you want? You can't honestly think you'll gain anything with such a silly threat."

"Then why did you come?" Valentine asked with a smirk. The sneering expression did not suit his face, which was aristocratic and pretty. Large, soft curls lay loose and lazy around his head, their dark mahogany color deep red in the firelight. But his green eyes were hard, adding an edge that was echoed in the smirk.

Another shrug. "As you said, I had nothing else to do." His voice and face remained blank, as if he were incapable of any emotion.

Valentine gave a short, low laugh. The door opened and he fell silent as Wainscot approached with two glasses of brandy. "Thank you, Wainscot. That will be all. Have a good night." The butler vanished. Valentine motioned to the brandy on his desk. "Would you like a drink?"

"Just get to your point, Valentine."

Valentine laughed again and sat down in an armchair by the fire. He motioned for Leland to sit and took a sip of brandy before speaking. "Please, call me Byron. No need to stand on formality as we're going to be comrades."

Leland remained silent, watching him.

Byron took another sip of brandy, examining Leland over the rim of it. "It's taken me six years to get to this point. You've no idea how excited I am to see you sitting here."

"Good for you," Leland said flatly.

"When I first determined what I would need to fulfill my goal, I went over list after list of superheroes and their data. Everything I could find, I obtained and learned. But with each possibility, problems cropped up that could not be overcome. Too many difficulties, traits that weren't quite right, powers that just weren't strong enough. I looked everywhere for a superhero who could do what I needed him to do."

"Surely there are others who make better blackmail material than I."

Byron wondered what made that level tone change. For his own mother, it had only ever been fear for her husband and children. "Oh, of course. It would shock you, some of the secrets I've learned. But ultimately I realized they were all too high profile. Too adored by the public and their allies. No matter what I did, they would have others to stand by them."

"Then I finally looked you up." Bryon took a swallow of brandy, enjoying the slow burn as he contemplated the quiet, stoic man before him. "Minder. A telekinetic of respectable ability about whom nothing else is known. No comrades, no allies, nothing. For some reason you only stick to small crimes, petty criminals and fresh lawbreakers. Not once have you ever gone after bigger game." He finished off his brandy and licked his lips. "Most other superheroes have taken to calling you the Babysitter, because you watch the "kiddies" causing trouble in the streets while they go after the "real" criminals."

Leland merely shrugged again. "Small problems left unattended will eventually become big problems."

"Most would say that's why we have the cops. What else are they good for? Men like you are meant for the bigger problems. I have been watching you for some time, and I noticed rather quickly that you are barely even tapping into your powers to take down the criminals you go after. You put forth almost no effort."

Leland remained silent and Bryon continued. "It took me a long time - three years actually - to figure out why you keep yourself so isolated, so alone, so low on the heroic ladder." He paused, and then a smile shaped his dark lips. "I learned your identity and started making notes. And learned not only are you alone in the world of heroes, you're alone in your day-to-day life. No friends, no real passing acquaintances. People smile when they see you, but forget you when you're gone. You are more of a shadow as Leland than you are as Minder."

"So what?"

"So…it made me curious. In you, I was finding everything I needed for my plan. And I do mean everything. Someone solitary who would not be immediately missed, someone the Grand Order would not immediately recognize…all I lacked was something with which to blackmail you."

"I have no one."

"Yes," Byron agreed. "You have no one. It struck me that perhaps you were too alone for it to be entirely natural. So I dug deeper, looked harder. By sheer chance I stumbled across an old article, and a girl that at first I thought was you."

He tried not to smile, seeing the way Leland's eyes widened almost imperceptibly - if he had not been watching the man so carefully, he would have missed the change in his expression. "Your name is Emory Waterstone. When you were sixteen, you killed your father and fled. My best surmise is that you became Leland a year or two later."

"A year and a half."

“Your sister is quite lovely by the way. Especially when she smiles. She seemed sad when I asked about the cute young man in an old photograph. It does seem rather cruel that you never speak to her." Byron stood and walked to his desk, picking up a manila folder and bringing it back to drop in Leland's lap. "You both take after your mother."

Leland looked stiffly through the photos, expression never changing. But Byron thought he saw his hand shake, ever so slightly, as he looked at the sister he had not seen for almost a decade. "What do you want?" he said at last, blue eyes cold and dull as he looked at Byron.

"The irony in all this is that we both are concerned for our sisters."

"Your sister is dead," Leland said. "Or did you forget that you were barely found not guilty of her murder?"

"Oh, I didn't forget." There was something dark in Byron's voice, an underlying menace. "The ones who set me up will be paying for it very shortly." He looked into the fire, and then turned back to Leland. "My sister isn't dead. She's a prisoner."

"A prisoner." Leland repeated, making it a statement and not a question.

"Yes. She was kidnapped eight years ago, and I've spent the rest of that time first formulating a plan and then finding someone to execute it - you."

"What plan?"

It was Byron's turn to sigh, looking into the fire. "You are going to kill my sister."

Leland blinked, the closest he'd gotten yet to showing emotion. "My impression was that you wanted her alive."

"I do. More than anything I would like to see her happy and healthy and whole. But she is no longer capable of being any of those, not with all that they've done to her."

Leland remained silent, waiting.

Byron looked almost idly at his hands. "My father had extraordinary strength. My mother was telepathic. When I was born, they were initially disappointed that I was completely ordinary - but later they said it was probably for the best. Then my sister was born, beautiful from the moment she took her first screaming breath. I was only eight but I thought her the most wonderful thing ever."

"For a very long time, it seemed as if she too did not possess any gifts. But as she grew older, and could express herself, we began to realize that nothing took her by surprise. She always knew what would happen next, what was coming." He looked at Leland, blue eyes dark. "My sister was precognitive, and quite powerful."

Leland regarded him in silence, and Byron some how could tell the man was thinking hard, considering his words. "Who took her?" he said at last.

"The DeVine Corporation, for something called Project Nostradomus. Not a very creative group, but they are apparently quite good at what they do. And what they're currently doing is turning my sister into a crystal ball."

"How do you know this?"

"One, money goes a long long away. If you didn't notice, I have too much of it. Two, I can hear my sister's pain. It is a connection that is all that remains of the bonds my mother wove between us. For whatever reason, it did not die with her." Bryon paused for a breath, eyes closed as he remembered his parents. "My sister is gone, I can tell that much. They broke her, made her all but a machine. She is in agony. I want you to kill her." He held up a hand as Leland started to speak. "I would do it myself if I could. But for various and sundry reasons, it is not possible. You have all that is required, in your telekinesis, to get into those labs and put an end to her suffering."

Leland shook his head. "There is no way my simple telekinesis could break into something as complicated as a DeVine complex."

"Simple telekinesis, no. But your powers are far more impressive than you let on."

"What makes you think that?" asked Leland.

Byron stood and crossed the small space between them. "Stand up?" he asked politely.

Leland shrugged and stood.

Bryon ran his hands up Leland's arms, across his shoulders and down his chest, then back up to run along his neck and over his face. Leland never moved, his breathing never changed. It was as though he could not feel a thing. "You can't feel me at all, can you? I doubt those few people who touch you ever notice they're not actually touching you; the wall is so well done. Do you ever take it down?" Byron watched in fascination as his hand glided back down Leland's arm. Only by watching carefully, and knowing what to watch for, could you tell that his hand was not actually touching Leland - there was a breath of space between his hand and Leland's sweater. A difference so slight none ever noticed it.

"Very rarely,” Leland said.

"So you spend every waking moment never touching anything?" Byron looked up into Leland's blank face. "You work so hard at isolation. Why?"

"That is none of your business."

Byron nodded and stepped away. "Of course. My apologies."

"Is that the only reason you think I'm stronger than I let on?"

"Well there is the fact that you literally destroyed your father's mind. It's the only reason no one ever thought you killed him - just ran away because you thought you'd killed him. Only your sister knows you did it, and she does not condemn you. Did you know that?"

Leland did not reply.

"It was most impressive, if a trifle macabre. Normally only telepaths can do such damage to a brain."

"Telepaths can destroy the brain from the inside, so to speak. I did it from the outside."

Byron nodded. "Well, it is what you will have to do to kill my sister. Because I do not want them to be capable of…harvesting her mind."

"And if I refuse? I have no desire to become a villain."

Byron smirked. "I also doubt you have any desire to see your sister harmed."

Leland's face remained blank. "To save my sister I must kill yours."

"Exactly."

"How very droll."

Byron mimicked Leland's shrug. "If a method works…"

"When do you require this murder committed?"

"Hopefully within a month or so. You will first have to learn the compound in which she's kept, as well as what you will be up against. It is a fool who goes in unprepared." Byron motioned to the pictures of Leland's sister. "Of course, if you succeed I will see to it that she never wants for anything in life ever again."

"How very gracious of you." Leland stood. "If that is all, I would like to go home."

Byron rose and motioned for him to follow as he headed for the study door. "That will not be necessary. I would prefer you stay on the premises, both to study and so I can better ensure you won't try something. Your room was prepared earlier today. If you do not like it, I'll have another prepared."

Leland eye shifted in a way that Byron suspected he had just barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes. "How very accommodating."

"I try not to shirk my duties as a host." Byron winked and led the way down a long, carpeted hallway lit only by a few intermittent lamps. He made two turns before finally stopping at the end of a smaller hallway and opening the oak door with a flourish.

The room was warm, in both temperature and atmosphere. Dark reds and golds were used to decorate it, accented with other warm shades that seemed to echo the fire in the hearth.

"Adequate?"

"Yes," Leland said.

"There are clothes in the wardrobe. I took the liberty of purchasing all you will need for the duration of your stay here. If there is anything more you require I will have Wainscot fetch it in the morning. Byron gave him a short bow. "If there is nothing further, I will bid you goodnight."

Leland didn't reply, merely waited until his 'host' had departed before wandering over to the window and looking out over a front lawn large enough to be a football field.

How had he wound up in this bizarre situation? He'd been hunting the usual reprobates and now he was being blackmailed into killing someone's sister?

And not just anyone; he was going to kill Byron Valentine's already dead sister.

He let his head fall to thump again the glass, made cold by the fall air outside. How had the man figured out who he was? He hadn't heard his real name in almost ten years, had worked hard to ensure it was never learned by another. All the years he'd spent alone, wasted. Endured for nothing.

Because starting tomorrow he had to prepare to walk straight into the arms of the enemy he'd been trying to avoid since before he'd killed his father. If only he could stop caring about Lena…but his big sister had loved him when his parents had loathed him. It hurt, even now, to think of her. To know he couldn't go back.

Not that it really mattered now. He'd spent more than a decade avoiding DeVine, and now he was going straight to them. Hopefully they wouldn't know who he was until too late.

Leland scrubbed at his face, feeling overwhelmed with weariness.

Byron had said something about clothes in the wardrobe - the man had gone shopping for him? - and so he wandered over to it. The furniture was an impressive set, done in dark gold oak and polished to a shine. Leaves had been carved into the wardrobe and bed around the edges, and the handles of the wardrobe were leaves as well. Pulling the doors open, Leland could only shake his head at the contents.

The clothes probably cost more than his entire house. He fumbled around for something to sleep in, shaking his head again as he came up with only silk.

Absurd.

But he wasn't sleeping in his jeans and sweater, so dark blue silk it was. Carrying the pajama pants with him, he headed for the door in the back of the room that, sure enough, led to a bathroom.

He turned on the shower, waiting until the room began to fill with steam to step inside. As the water hit him, he dropped his shield, quietly relishing the feel of the hot water against his skin. Slowly he unbraided his hair, shaking the heavy mass out to tumble just past his shoulders, heavier still as it absorbed water.

Forcefully he shut his mind down and focused only on soap and water so hot it nearly scalded, remaining in the shower until the water began to cool and he felt he was finally exhausted enough to go to sleep.

But some hours later, he was still tossing and turning, mind a mass of fatigue, worry, dread and confusion.

*~*~*~*

"Are you certain you slept well enough?" Byron asked with what sounded like genuine concern, except that Leland wasn't that gullible. "Was the room not to your liking?"

Leland just shrugged. "I'm fine. Where did you get all these blueprints and schematics?"

"I told you - money will buy just about anything." Byron smiled, and there was much bitterness in it. He continued. "It actually took a while to obtain these, because these blueprints are quite different from the ones publicly available. It's only because DeVine has so many people in its proverbial pockets that no one notices they use a lot more power than the facility should need. The underground labs," he pointed to a stack of a dozen or so sheets of blueprints. "Require as much power as a small city. How they divert that much power is something I want to look into, but right now it's not terribly relevant. What's really interesting is--"

He was interrupted by a knock on the study door, and moved to the balcony railing as Wainscot stepped into the study. The grand library was two stories, the second floor little more than a wide balcony and bookshelves, but at the center was a large worktable currently buried under building plans and schematics. "What is it, Wainscot?"

"Mr. Wachs insists on seeing you, sir. I told him you were not to be disturbed…"

Byron rolled his eyes. "They'll never learn, will they? Send him in, Wainscot. I will send him packing."

"Yes, sir."

Byron turned back to Leland, his smile cold. "Do you know Farris Wachs?"

Leland gave one of his shrugs. "He is the mayor's son."

"Yes, and he recently assumed his father's mantle."

"What?" Leland asked, face blank but tone confused.

Byron cold smile widened. "His father recently retired as the Prince. Though they both are still part of the Grand Order of Defenders, Jeffery is retired. His son is now the Prince."

"I see. How do you know this?"

"My parents and Jeffrey were close enough they knew each other's identities. He remains in contact, though I am ever trying to sever all connections with him and the Grand Order."

Leland began to ask another question, but the opening of the door prevented him. The man that entered behind Wachs could have stepped out of a fashion magazine. From his salon-blonde hair to the cashmere sweater and tight designer jeans, the diamond in his ear and the gold watch on his wrist, he was every inch the handsome model. Looking at him, it was hard to believe he fought deadly criminals in the name of justice.

To a degree, his flashy, spoiled appearance served just that purpose.

"Wachs. On whom or what should I blame your visit?"

Farris Wachs frowned, immediately annoyed. He glowered as Byron sauntered down the spiral staircase. "You've been ignoring our letters."

"Yes. Because I have no interest in their contents. I've been through this with each and every one of you." Byron stopped a few feet from Farris, eyes like green glass. "The Valentines have no interest in continuing the old relations."

"Your parents always gave us their full support."

Byron's eyes narrowed. "Yes, and what did you do when my parents died? Nothing. What did you do when my sister was killed and I stood accused of her murder? Nothing." His voice was frigid. "There are times, Wachs, when it is hard to tell the heroes from the criminals."

"I am no criminal!" Farris snapped. "You are the one whose actions are highly questionable these days. We are extending our hand in good faith. The fact that you continue to sneer at us does not work in your favor."

"You were not there when I needed you," Byron replied. "Every last hero shook his head sadly and said it was such a pity. No one ever asked me if I did it. No one spoke to me until it was safe to approach me. Now get out and tell the rest of them that I would sooner kill myself than ever resume our acquaintance."

Farris stood his ground, hazel eyes flashing in rage. "You speak as though we are the murderers."

"I am certainly no murderer. Given your line of work, you should know that what the court says goes."

"The courts can be wrong."

"Of course." Byron said with a sneer. "But of course no one could be wrong in my favor."

"We are offering you our friendship and protection."

Byron's expression turned cold. "You want my money. It must be difficult to manage without the generous donations my parents lavished upon you."

"We don't need your money."

Byron gave a cold laugh. "Sure you don't. Now if you don't mind, I've a guest you've forced me to neglect and I would like to get back to him."

"A guest?" Farris asked.

"You may go," Byron said. He looked toward the door as it opened. "Here is Wainscot to show you out. Have a good day."

"We're not finished talking, Valentine."

"I am." Byron said as he turned to walk back up the stairs.

Farris watched him with narrowed eyes, following Byron as he climbed the stairs and crossed back to the table Farris could just barely see.

And the man who was standing at the railing, watching them. The man wasn't familiar to him; he'd remember someone that striking. He was slender, almost too skinny. It wouldn't hurt him to put on a few pounds. Definitely one of Byron's fancier friends; even from a distance Farris could see the wealth in his gray slacks and dark blue sweater. But it was the sheer blankness of the man's expression that really drew the eye. He looked as though he were made from marble, handsome but cold. Nothing showed, not a single thought.

It was eerie. "Who's your friend?"

"None of your business." Byron moved to stand next to the stranger, sneering down at Farris.

They made a pretty picture, and Farris squashed a surge of jealousy. It was unlikely the man was anything more than a friend; Byron had made his disinterest in anything romantic perfectly - painfully - clear.

Farris still resented the man beside him on the balcony. "I'll come back later," he said, turning on his heel.

"Don't bother," Byron called after him. "I won't allow you on the premises."

Silence fell as the door closed behind him. Byron gave a soft sigh and turned back to the table. "Where were we?"

"Ex-boyfriend?"

"What?" Byron looked up, startled. "Hell no. He was interested in me, once. But I was never interested in him, my loathing for his precious Order aside."

Leland's expression was as blank as ever, but Byron was beginning to recognize the changes in his eyes. Leland was regarding him pensively. "I don't think you should put his interest in past tense."

"Still carries a torch, eh?" Byron shrugged. "He knows how I feel about it, and that's the end of the matter. I've no time for romance, especially with a greedy fool like him." He paused. "Why the interest?"

A shrug. "It is habitual to notice things, especially those of a threatening nature."

"You think he's a threat to me?" Byron scoffed. "Hardly."

"It was more me he didn't like."

"Oh." Byron blinked. "Maybe he's jealous. I don't really care, and it doesn't matter anyway because as of today he is banned from my house and grounds. He and the rest of the infernal Order."

Leland just shrugged again and resumed his place at the table, looking down at the blueprints for the main floor. "Your parents were close to the Grand Order of Defenders?"

"They were," Byron said, shifting blueprint sheets and matching them with notes he'd made for each one. "This is where you should enter, I think. I've studied all the options and it seems the best, over all."

"Fewer real guards, yeah. Electronic stuff is easier to manipulate. So why did you fall out with the Order?"

Byron looked up from the blueprints, regarding him in silence as he debated with himself. "Most of it was probably obvious from the conversation. My parents were killed in action, though of course the Order managed to cover that up. But the situation was sketchy; it looked an awful lot like my parents were up to something bad." Byron's face grew bitter, "They weren't, of course. But the Order never let my family forget that a couple of generations ago my family tended more toward villainy." He motioned to their surroundings, "Certainly money like mine is seldom made through legitimate means. But my grandparents reformed, and my parents were raised to be upright citizens. As were my sister and I. As long as they were alive my family did not commit a single crime." A fleeting grin. "Of course, I will not say that I am such a saint now."

"I didn't think you were."

"I suppose not," Byron said, and for a moment Leland swore he looked guilty. He dismissed it.

Byron sat down, still idly examining the papers before him. "There are other reasons I do not associate with the Order."

"DeVine."

"How did you know that?" Byron looked at him, surprised. "Their ties to DeVine are not public knowledge."

Leland only shrugged. "You do not have all my secrets."

"So I am beginning to realize. I do hope I've not hired the enemy, after all."

"No," Leland looked at him, eyes oddly intent. "DeVine is no friend of mine."

Byron nodded. "Very well, then. Let us return to the matter at hand. Dwelling on the past depresses me and I sincerely doubt it cheers you any."

Leland nodded and began to barrage him with questions about the compound.

*~*~*~*

Farris threw his leather coat on a chair, not bothering to pick it up when it slid from the chair to the floor. Striding across his office, an offshoot of his bedroom, he tore open a drawer of the desk and lifted up the secret panel, revealing a small space underneath. Pressing a code into the keypad there, he dropped heavily into the leather chair and turned around as an impressive array of computer equipment revealed itself.

His fingers flew as he typed, calling up information to which only the Order had access to, via their most generous sponsor - the DeVine Corporation.

He spoke aloud, activating the voice control. "Computer, Search. Citizen Photos, Local. Main Screen." To his right, on the wall, was a large flat-screen TV. It turned on at his command, and was rapidly filled with images of people from the neck up. "Men, mid-twenties to early thirties. Black hair. Thin." Pictures vanished, immediately replaced by others. "Blue eyes." Bit by bit the pictures whittled down, until at last he found a familiar face among the ones remaining. "Who is this?" he touched the image of the man he'd seen in Byron's study.

"Leland Devereux," his computer said in its cool, efficient female voice. "Student at Evington College; Philosophy major. Single, no family. Lives at 127 Wisteria Drive."

"Wisteria? That's the sorry end of town. What's Byron the Wealthy doing associating with a low class dweeb attending a sorry ass school like Evington?"

The computer was silent.

"Computer. What does he do for a living?"

"Unemployed. Lives off the insurance left by his parents' deaths."

"That doesn’t explain why he's so chummy with Byron. Computer. Any ties to the Valentine family?"

"None recorded."

"What other information do we have? Criminal records? School records?"

The computer did not immediately reply. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Farris frowned. "Not even medical records?"

"Physical taken before applying to Evington College."

"Bring it up."

A copy of his physical flashed up on the screen. Farris grinned suddenly, reading the doctor's name. "Send an email to Dr. Bence. I'd like to have a word with him about an old patient. Tell him it's DeVine business and he's to bring all information he has pertaining to Leland Devereux."

"Yes."

"Ah, Dr. Bence. So good of you to come on such short notice."

"Anything for the DeVine, of course." Bence shook his hand, smoothed his graying hair and licked his lips. "What did you need to know about Devereux? Truth be told, I'd forgotten all about him until I went through his file."

Farris leaned back in his chair, eyes hooded as he regarded the middle-aged doctor. "He has become a thorn in my side. I want to nip the problem in the bud, so to speak. But there is not much information available about him."

"No, he's very quiet. I remembered that much almost immediately. He's like a shadow - you barely know he 's there."

"Yes, my impression was similar." Farris spoke smoothly, amicably. "What else can you tell me about him?"

"He doesn't lead a very active life. It's like he doesn't really live at all."

"What do you mean?" Farris sat up, intrigued by the bizarre statement.

The doctor licked his lips again. "Well, do you have any scars? Small ones? Big ones? Marks left from bug bits and such?"

"…Yes." Farris had quite a few scars, thankfully out of sight beneath his clothes. Superhero work aside, what boy didn't grow up with scars?

"Exactly. When I examined him…there was not a single mark anywhere on his body. Nothing. Not even so much as a paper cut."

"Like a statue…" Farris breathed softly.

"Exactly so." Bence nodded. "His body was literally flawless, save for the fact that he was a trifle too thin."

"Anything else?"

"Only that he did not like to be touched. He begrudgingly allowed me to use my instruments, but he jerked every time I tried to touch him. And there was something strange about his skin…but I could not tell you what. Only that it felt different, somehow."

"Interesting. There is nothing more?"

Bence shrugged. "He seemed lonely. It is not something many would pick up on, but I know the feeling all too well myself. I tried chatting about family, friends…he mentioned no one. No one at all. Very solitary. I'm afraid that is all I can tell you."

Farris nodded and stood. "You've been most helpful, Doctor. Thank you for your time. DeVine appreciates it."

"I am always happy to be of service," Bence said, and a great deal of tension seemed to leak from his body as he exited.

Farris sat back down, spinning in his chair to stare out the window. "Perhaps I can kill two birds with one stone," he murmured softly to himself.

*~*~*~*

Bryon woke with a gasp, clutching his chest and shuddering as if cold.

He wasn't the cold one; there was nothing he could do for the one who was. Half-stumbling from his enormous bed, Byron made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water at his black marble sink, splashing warm water on his face and then switching to cold, rinsing away the remains of tears and soothing his sore eyes. Grabbing a dark red hand towel, he scrubbed his face dry and threw the towel on the countertop.

A drink, that's what he needed. Something with a slow burn that would dull the agonizing pain in his head, mute the silent screams. Walking to the small bar at the opposite end of his room, he poured himself a whiskey.

Drink in hand, Byron stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the southern end of his property. Leaning on the stone railing, he gave his backyard a long sigh.

He gazed out over the lawn without seeing it, mind only for the sad, broken face that had woken him.

Once she'd been beautiful, the spitting image of their fair mother. Always she smiled and laughed, until the visions got to be too much and she simply shut down. But he'd been there to soothe her, dry her tears and bring back his bright, happy sister.

No more, though. These days he couldn't make himself smile, never mind the shattered remains of what had once been his little sister. "Becca…"

Movement caught the corner of his eye, breaking his thoughts, and Byron looked down to see Leland casually strolling along the patio two stories down. "Can't sleep?" he called out. "Or trying to escape?"

He almost laughed as Leland looked up, clearly not amused though his face was as blank as ever. "Keep me company? I detest being alone with my thoughts at this hour."

Though he'd known Leland couldn't simply walk up to the balcony - his room was the only access - it still caught his breath to watch as Leland simply lifted himself up, alighting on the railing and then hopping neatly down to the balcony proper. Not once since he'd…moved in…had Leland used his powers. It was probably too ingrained to avoid using them when not in costume. "Amazing," he said softly. "I've never seen someone who could do that with such ease."

Leland did not reply and the silence stretched on between them. "My mother was a lot like you," Byron said at last. "Always quiet, generally expressionless. She rarely smiled or frowned outside of the house, or when people outside the family were around. People liked to say she was cold, and could not understand what my father saw in her. They never realized it was pure habit that kept her face so blank; a habit so ingrained she could not undo it."

"When I was little, I always wondered why my mother never smiled at me. It took me years to understand that her smile was always in her eyes. It was not until my father grew terribly ill that I saw why she behaved as she did. She was so upset she accidentally dropped her walls and in a matter of minutes the entirety of the house was crying with her, so deeply had she mistakenly spread her fear and agony to every mind in the house and on the grounds. After that, she was more careful than ever to keep her emotions controlled."

Leland was silent.

"I would imagine," Byron continued undaunted. "That it must be as difficult for a telekinetic - especially of your caliber - as it was for my mother. One fit of anger from her could turn an entire room into an angry mob. I'd imagine you would simply destroy the room. I do not want to think of what could occur if you bared your unhappiness…"

When Leland still did not speak, Byron gave a soft sigh and tossed back the rest of his whiskey. "Your mother worked for DeVine."

"You just can not resist searching out secretes, can you?"

Byron could actually hear a hint of anger in Leland's voice, and squashed the small, secret thrill he felt at drawing out some emotion. "I wanted to say I am sorry." He looked at the other man, eyes dark with weariness. "I am not very good at this whole blackmail thing. If Rebecca were here, she would flay me alive for even attempting it. Upon learning your secrets, I assumed you were hiding from the police, for killing your father. It did not occur to me to look deeper, though it should have. I did not realize you were so badly wanted by DeVine."

"It was why they killed my mother," Leland said, startling Byron. "She was scared of me, but she loved me enough to not want DeVine to get me. So they got rid of her, leaving my father free to sign me over to DeVine. Everything neat, legal, no fuss. My sister found out first, and told me. I got into a fight with my father…" Leland shrugged.

"Will they realize who you are, when you attack?"

"Most likely," Leland replied. "Unless things have drastically changed from when my father told me everything they'd told him, my full abilities make me one of only three telekinetics of such caliber and the other two are twice my age."

Byron whistled, impressed. "I had no idea you were so rare as that."

Leland shrugged. "It has not done me much good."

"I suppose not. But you put it to some use, as Minder. Tell me why you take that risk, if you do not mind being asked."

"Lena," Leland said simply. "My sister loved superheroes growing up, kept every article, made scrapbooks, memorized what few stats were available to the public. But as we got older…she couldn't understand why none of them came to rescue us."

"Rescue you?"

Leland tilted his head back to look at the stars. "My father was abusive. I gained control of my powers quickly, and could use my barrier to shield us from the worst of the damage. But there were times he caught Lena when I was not around.”

Byron did not press it when Leland fell silent, more than capable of filling in the blanks himself. "Then she no doubt appreciates the good that someone as minor and unimportant as Minder does."

"Yes," Leland said.

"It's a pity I didn't meet you under happier circumstances."

Leland looked at him, and Byron could tell he was confused. He gave a ghost of a smile. "You've only been here a little over three weeks, but having you around feels much like the days when I had my family. I'm so used to living with people who have powers, I can't deal with 'normal' people like myself. And I never liked an empty house." He hesitated, and then shrugged. "And I think that had I met you under friendlier circumstances, Farris would not be wholly unfounded in his jealousy. Goodnight, Leland." Bryon escaped back inside before his mouth could get him into further trouble. He felt like beating his head against the nearest wall, and probably would have if he thought it would do any good.

He contemplated pouring another whiskey, but sleep was difficult enough to get as it was. Setting his glass down on the first flat surface he passed, Byron crawled back into bed and stared up at the ceiling for a long time.

It was a bit more than a crush, if he forced himself to be honest. He really wished he'd met Leland somewhere else. Wished he could take back the night almost four weeks ago when he'd made even friendship an impossibility. Less than a month…but it was true that he felt better. Even Wainscot had commented how much more he'd seemed like his old self.

Amazing how much difference it made to live with a man who could pass for a statue if he so desired But it was wrenchingly familiar, so much like nights with his mother, or with his sister when her visions were at their worst. So quiet those two, and even his father was given toward long, thoughtful silences. It felt so normal to have Leland around. And that made him angry. Angry because it made him want to tell Leland never mind, to ask him for the chance to start over…it was on the tip of his tongue, and he hated himself for even thinking of it. For even considering giving up, leaving his sister to suffer. Just for the chance at his own happiness.

He wasn't the one who'd died. He wasn't the one trapped and broken in a laboratory somewhere. He wasn't the one being blackmailed.

No…he was the one who, in the end, could do nothing but attend funerals. He couldn't do anything but buy secrets and use them for blackmail. If there was anyone less deserving of happiness…well, he would get to them soon enough.

Leland wandered back to his room, lost in thought.

Of all the things he'd expected Byron to say, when he'd called him up to the balcony, it wasn't…what he'd said.

The man was blackmailing him. He was threatening Lena. Leland should be contemplating killing him, betraying him.

Yet ever since he'd really started talking to his blackmailer, he'd found it harder and harder to regard him as such. Byron seemed as acquainted with the grimmer side of life as he - and Byron was able express how much it upset him.

How Leland envied that. The first and last time he'd shown strong emotion - a fight with his father - he'd wound up breaking every piece of glass and porcelain in the living and dining rooms. His sister had wound up with a chunk of vase in her shoulder blade.

He'd learned his lesson after that. Of course, after killing his father he'd almost lost it again. He'd stopped crying after he realized things around him were starting to crack, fracture.

Leland's thoughts broke off as he approached his room, something making the back of his neck tingle. Activating his telekinesis, he sent out a sensory wave to 'feel' the bedroom.

There were things inside that didn't belong. Leland would bet good money that those things were people. He hesitated, thoughts and ideas racing through his head. At last he seemed to reach some decision. Closing his eyes, he pictured Byron's study as he'd last seen it, recalling the table and all that was on it. A piece of paper, a pencil Byron had left there after scratching several notes onto the copied blueprints scattered pell-mell across the work area.

It was harder, doing things from memory, but he'd done it before. A few long minutes later, he opened his eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm his mind, ready it for whatever met him when he stepped into his bedroom. Hopefully, Byron would see his note.

Leland reached out to flick on the lights as he entered, gaze immediately zeroing in on the bed and the man who sat on the edge of it. "I knew you were going to be trouble."

"Only because you're in my way, handsome." Farris stood up, smiling almost pleasantly as he approached Leland. "Are you going to come quietly or will my men need to use force?"

Leland shook his head. "What's the point of all this?"

"What's the point of any kidnapping?" Farris asked. "Money, my friend. But also - I don't like you."

"You don't even know me."

Farris smirked. "That's what you think." His expression grew cold. "And I dislike anyone who stands between me and what's mine."

"Byron isn't yours." Leland said levelly, fighting a desire to send the man straight back, crashing through the floor length windows and down to the courtyard below. But if he played his trump card now, he wouldn't be able to play it later. "And kidnapping me isn't going to improve your chances."

"Oh, I think he'll be cooperative when it's clear that your livelihood is at risk. You should have seen…well, never mind. You're the first guest he's had here in a long time. That must mean something."

"Yes," Leland couldn't help but goad. "That I'm closer to him than you."

He'd forgotten how much it hurt to be hit. But the pain had been worth it, to see the anger and jealousy on the idiot's face, because he thought Leland had some claim on Byron. Leland wondered at that, before his world went black.

*~*~*~*

Byron's hands shook as he examined the two notes on his desk. One was written in a hand all too familiar to him - he'd hoped not to hear from the man for another month or so.

My dear Byron,

You know what I want.

The family is throwing a little charity fete on Friday. Come as my guest and we'll discuss things.

Yours truly,
F

The other he didn't recognize, but he knew who had written it anyway.

Don't worry

Byron wished it was that simple. Had Farris taken him for his own selfish reasons? Or had he unintentionally led DeVine right to the telekinetic they no doubt still wanted? He sat down hard in the desk chair, leaning his head back and willing his heart out of his throat.

How had he screwed up so bad?

And why had Leland let himself be taken? There was no way he’d actually been overpowered.

Byron leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. He was supposed to be in control of everything. It was his idea, his plan. Farris was never meant to have a role in any of it. How had everything gone so wrong?

How was he going to get Leland back?

Don't worry

It almost made Byron laugh, because he shouldn't be worried. He'd blackmailed the man into killing someone. His caring should extend exclusively to the accomplishment of that goal. Yet despite the ache ever present in his head, a constant reminder of his sister, the majority of his attention was on a man he'd only known for a handful of weeks.

Byron took a deep breath and raised his head just as the door opened. Wainscot waited patiently. "Send a note to Farris Wachs. Tell him thank you for the invitation, but I am previously engaged and will not be able to attend his charity function."

"Yes, sir."

Byron thought he detected a trace of satisfaction in Wainscot's voice. He smiled ever so faintly at him. "See that Mr. Devereux's room is maintained, as he will be returning at some point."

"Of course, sir. Shall I send a late breakfast up?"

"Just tea, please."

"As you wish, sir." Wainscot left to carry out his instructions.

*~*~*~*

Leland woke with a low groan, feeling like something was ripping his head apart. If Farris was dumb enough to cross his path later, he was going to give the man a thrashing he wouldn't soon forget.

Picking himself up off the cold, tile floor of what he rapidly saw was a cell of some sort - how quaint - he 'felt' his way around the space beyond his cage.

About half a dozen people near to hand, and an intersection that could lead to more cells or into the labs that were his main goal.

Only one way to find out, but best to bide his time. Acting rashly would get him caught - and this time in a way that his powers wouldn't get him out of it.

He sat for hours, morosely picking at the rather nasty food a guard brought to him. Footsteps brought his head up, and he stared blankly at the angry man on the opposite side of the bars. "Let me guess. Things aren't going as you'd hoped. I told you kidnapping was the wrong way to start a relationship."

"You're awfully smarmy for a man who's been kidnapped."

Leland stood and brushed himself off. "Nothing better to do." He almost smirked, seeing the increasing frustration on Farris' face. "I don't suppose you'll tell me when I'll be returned to my home?" A brief pause. "Back to Byron?"

"You!" Farris' face filled with rage. "The most you'll ever see are the laboratories. It's not often we get such healthy normals to work with."

"Ah," Leland said, not even feigning confusion. "Are those labs close to where Rebecca is being kept?"

Pure shock filled Farris' face.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"How do you know about her?"

Leland gave a minute shrug.

"Tell me!"

"After you take a nap," Leland said, voice frigid but still so very level. Loosing his mind, he took grim satisfaction in watching each of the four men - Farris and three guards - drop one by one to the floor like so many sacks of potatoes. Mere seconds later he was free, shattering cameras as he escaped the prison block of the underground complex that reminded him of more than a few bad movies.

The alarms sounded, but in two minutes he'd disabled them. The extensive studying Byron had insisted on was paying off.

He rounded the corner and was greeted by gunfire. He felt the impact of them, but having expected such a thing, his barriers had been reinforced. The guards dropped in the next second, and as Leland continued on his way, he noticed they were firing rubber pellets.

Greedy bastards. They'd be better off trying to kill him - though they'd have to try harder than guns if they wanted to succeed.

He broke into the first room he came across, knocking out all but one of the room's five occupants. With a crook of his finger and a nudge at his mind, he brought the man to him. The man was young, short and half-swallowed by his enormous lab coat. "Tell me where the precog is kept, or you'll end up like your friends."

The young man began to tremble, immediately assuming the worst about his comrades. "Who are you?"

"Tell me where to find her."

Shaking like a man dressed for the beach who'd somehow wound up in the snow, he held up a hand and pointed past Leland's shoulder. "In the east wing, room f-f-five-fffifty. But you can't get in."

"Yes, I can." Leland lowered the unconscious scientist to the floor and turned to head the way he'd indicated.

The sound of voices warned him of new attackers, and as they rounded the corner he sent all five of them crashing back into the wall. The few who tried to stand he quickly sent back down.

His head was starting to ache, but it would not become a problem for a while longer. He had time to find her…though getting out would be another matter entirely. But that bridge would be dealt with in its own time.

At the moment he was more concerned with his own nonchalance. He was supposed to be a hero…why was it so easy for him to wreak havoc? Only the emergency lights still worked, the rest having failed when he tampered with the systems to disrupt security. Why didn't it bother him to hurt people? Every last person he'd knocked out with his telekinesis would be in pain for hours, possibly days, after they woke up. Never mind the man he'd misled into believing his friends were dead.

Except…he'd told Byron not to worry.

He'd known plenty of horrible people, most of them before he'd turned twenty. Byron didn't fit with those people, didn't fit at all. Though initially he'd felt threatened by the blackmail, it only took conversing with the man over the next couple of days to realize he wasn't evil.

Byron was miserable.

Weren't heroes supposed to save people from misery? He'd told Byron not to worry, and he'd meant it.

A sharp pain shot through his head as he approached a door with the number 550 written on it in plain blue type. Leland stifled a cry, ignoring the pain and forcing the locks to work. He stumbled inside, fell to his knees.

"What was that?" He remained on the floor until he felt more steady, the pain in his head regressing to the dull throb that said he was playing too fast and loose with his powers, a pain he had expected. Slowly he stood, taking in the empty room around him. Had the scientist lied to him? But no, there was another door. This was clearly an antechamber of sorts.

He could hear men on the other side of the door, faintly. They wouldn't be getting through anytime soon, he'd fried the locks as soon as the door closed behind him. But when they did get through, they had something that his telekinesis would not like.

Well, they were outside. He was inside. Leland pressed on, opening the next door with only a bit more difficulty than he had all the rest - they clearly didn't want any but a precious few entering.

Inside, he could see why. It was enough that he could not keep the dismay from his face.

Wires and metal, computer screens and the sorts of monitors you only saw in a hospital, no doubt measuring just about everything that had to do with the poor…girl bound to the horrible machine. She was wearing a white nightgown, clearly a feeble attempt at some semblance of normalcy. All manner of wires and IV drips were attached to her, another machine seemed to drawing blood. Blips and beeps and whirs filled the room, mixing with what Leland realized were the softest of whimpers. The chamber smelled stale, of metal and bitter chemicals.

He barely realized he was moving, mind and hands working together to rip away the machinery, only just managing to take care where it was necessary.

When the cruel devices were gone at last, all that remained was a young woman and the metal chair in which she sat. Her eyes were vacant, wet with tears. Leland lifted her from the chair, taking it for himself and holding the too-thin figure against his chest. "Rebecca…"

Silence filled the chamber, save for his soft panting and the weak gasps of the girl. Byron had not been exaggerating, when he'd said nothing was left of his sister.

It made Leland hate DeVine all over again, as well as every person who knowingly let them get away with such things. Especially the likes of Farris. Leland wished now he'd done more than knock the man unconscious. To know about this and still think he deserved Byron…

"You…"

Leland jumped as Rebecca spoke. Her voice was weak, rough with disuse. "You…finally…came…"

"What?"

He could not believe she smiled. "I saw you…" Rebecca began moving, and Leland realized she was trying to sit up. He helped situate her in his lap, hating how bony and thin she felt when he wrapped his arms around her waist for support. "I've been waiting. Byron…"

"Your brother is okay. He sent me."

"I know." Rebecca smiled, sad and resigned. "He…I missed him the most." She lay her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as if tired. "I saw you with him."

"With me? You mean when we met?"

"No…I mean later…after this. Several months from now. "You'll make him happy. He should be happy. You should be too."

"Rebecca…"

"Byron always called me Becca."

Leland nodded. "Becca."

"Kill me," Becca pleaded. "Then run - you must go up, through the ceiling. Get past the river. Your sister, take her away. Across the ocean, she'll be happy there. Then…" she sat up, green eyes intense as they stared into Leland's somber blue ones. "You'll miss him, and go back. Go through his window."

Leland shook his head. "You make no sense."

"I make no sense in the present," Rebecca said. "I only see the future. Now kill me."

"But-but you seem fine." Leland shook his head, and tried to pull away before he remembered he was all that kept Rebecca from falling over.

Rebecca shook her head. "Temporary. I was waiting for you. I don't want to go back to them. Byron knew what he was doing when he told you to kill me."

Leland looked at her unhappily. "You shouldn't have to die."

"You don't know how hard it's been for me to live."

To that, Leland could make no argument. "It was a pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances."

"You would have made a fun big brother, Lee. Give me a kiss and tell me goodnight, and let it finally end."

Leland nodded, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek softly, tasting tears and chemicals. "Good night, little sister. Have pleasant dreams." He let his thoughts go before he could think and hesitate, feeling her mind shatter they way he'd once felt his father's. Her frail body when limp in his arms, and Leland could not bring himself to leave her there.

A pounding on the metal door brought his attention around to his own situation and he recalled the instructions he'd been given only moments before. Up, she'd said.

Then up he would go.

"I do not want to think of what could occur if you bared your unhappiness…"

*~*~*~*

How was it possible, Byron wondered, that he could feel like shit and still look like his normal, spoiled, pampered self? It seemed wrong to look like life was grand when really he just wished it was over.

His head was empty, silent at last now that all of his family really was dead. Six months, it had been. Six long months. He'd thought the nightmares would end, with his sister finally at peace, somewhere with his parents in what he hoped was a better life.

They were just getting worse. It should have been better, easier, to have the pain gone from his head. But that pain had also been a voice, and now he had no one left to listen or talk to.

No one at all.

Byron finished with his tie, eyeing his appearance critically. Gray slacks, matching vest, green shirt, darker tie. It was almost a pity he had nowhere to go, and only a date with paperwork and perhaps the brandy he'd taken to keeping in his desk drawer.

He really should give it up; he rarely left the house anymore. There was no one but Wainscot to see him and Wainscot had seen him at his worst and was not impressed by his best.

Six months.

Don't worry he'd said. For some stupid, foolish, naïve reason he'd thought that meant the bastard was coming back.

Served him right, really. Stifling a sigh - it seemed to be the only sound he made anymore - Byron headed for the door but instead veered left and collapsed in front of the chair before an empty fireplace, staring morosely at his mirror-shine black shoes.

Perhaps he should sell the manor, get a smaller house. But that would just make the emptiness much more apparent. At least this way it was possible someone was just lost in another wing.

Forget it. Forget it forget it forget it. There was no point to it, none at all. Eyes burning, Byron stood and began to remove the clothes he'd so meticulously put on just minutes before. No one was around, no one was ever going to be around, and the one person he'd hoped to impress was never going to show up to be impressed.

To hell with him, then. No doubt he was enjoying a happy reunion with his sister somewhere. Byron had lost track sometime after they'd reached England. He hoped Leland - Emory - whatever his name was - was happy.

Don't worry

He wasn't worrying. He was just miserable.

A cool breeze washed over him, making Byron shiver.

The last time he'd seen Leland had been on his balcony. He turned to look at it, out at the lawn he could no longer bear to see by moonlight.

Something was blocking his view.

A person.

Byron's breath caught, eyes wide with disbelief. "What--what are you doing here?"

Leland's face was as blank as ever, but as he stepped further into the room Byron saw that his eyes held more than he remembered. "I missed you."

Of all the things he thought Leland might say if he ever saw the man again, Byron had never once believed he'd actually say what Byron wanted most to hear. A hundred more questions flitted through his mind, right behind the thousand apologies he'd rehearsed until his head ached. Issues that needed to be resolved tangled with curiosity and dread over the night Leland had been kidnapped, until Byron could not figure out what to say first. "I missed you too."

That worked.

Leland moved further into the room as Byron stepped closer to the balcony and they met halfway, arms tangling as they reached out to feel that the other was real.

The shock of actually feeling Leland brought Byron up short, and he ran his hand with wonder up Leland's arms and chest, feeling the texture and heat of his skin, the fabric of his t-shirt. "You dropped your barriers."

"No," Leland said. "You did."

"I…" Byron shook his head. He'd meant to say 'I don't deserve you' or 'I don't have any right to this' but Leland's blue eyes were soft, his lips titled ever so slightly up in a whisper of a smile and the warmth of his skin was irresistible. So instead of speaking, he did what he thought was probably the dumbest thing he could do.

Except that Leland was kissing him back, and he tasted of coffee and cream, as warm and earthy as he smelled. Byron let his hands roam, latching onto Leland's shoulder, wrapping around his neck to pull the man as close as possible and kiss him thoroughly enough that neither of them would ever come to their senses.

"Shouldn't we be talking?" he said at last.

Leland's whisper smile grew, and Byron could not look away. "Talking gets you in trouble, Byron. Let's leave that for tomorrow."

There was no good way to argue that, and so Byron leaned up for another kiss.

 

The Dragon's Treasure

The Dragon's Treasure

Tate made a face as the last customer left the shop, then stomped to the door and defiantly flipped the sign so that it said closed.

Stupid humans, messing up his den.

Pulling the key out from beneath his tunic, Tate locked the door then turned and stomped back across the room, retrieving his broom from behind the counter.

There was dirt and grass and all kinds of stuff and he always swept so carefully and still the humans messed it all up again. Sighing, he set to work, sweeping up every last scrap of dirt and dust, frowning as he swept it into a corner.

He would have to sweep again, of course, and if he opened the door now for even a moment someone else would come to bother him.

Sometimes he really wished Master wasn't so nice because that meant Tate had to be nice and he didn't want to be nice. He wanted to snarl and growl and make the humans leave or, failing that, eat them – though humans tended to taste kind of yuck – and Master would never let him.

Though he supposed Master could be the type to make him kill everything in sight and be big and mean and scary all the time. That really wasn't fun – and it was messy, being an evil type of dragon.

Sighing, Tate returned to the counter and pulled out all his cleaning things – the bucket of water he'd gotten earlier, the lovely soap the nice lady next door gave to him, the pretty polish in the blue glass bottle.

Laying everything out on the counter, he then swiftly braided his long, dark turquoise hair, grimacing to feel all the grime which had collected in it during the day. Everyone laughed at him, of course, but he could feel it.

He didn't like being dirty. He didn't like his den – Master's shop – being dirty. All things dirt were bad, and the stupid humans who kept messing it up with their touching and knocking over and whining and indecisiveness – Tate growled low and tied off his hair, winding it around the back of his head so it would stay out of his way while he cleaned and not get dirtier than it already was.

That taken care of, Tate began to work his way slowly through the shop, cleaning the whole top to bottom – polishing the crystal balls 'til they sparkled, dusting off the dozens of jars filled with spell components, carefully cleaning the spell books, tending the magic wands, making certain all the magic charms and talismans positively glittered.

Finished with all the items, he then set to work on the shelves, the cases, the cabinets, then gave the floor another, more thorough sweeping, dumping all the nasty dirt outside before retrieving his soap and water and going to work scrubbing the floor – twice.

Stupid humans. He didn't understand why Master had to get money in such a frustrating way. Why couldn't he just make Tate go out and take it from the humans? Much more efficient, and then he could have a proper den, with everything clean and organized and pretty and no stupid humans trekking through putting their grubby hands on it and—

A soft, muffled crack came from the vicinity of upstairs and Tate sighed, rolling his eyes.

Master and his experiments.

Setting down his scrubbing things, Tate stomped to the back door of the shop and then climbed up the stairs, throwing open the upstairs door. He coughed as pale, greenish smoke poured out. "Master?"

"I'm fine, Tate," came a gruff, easy voice, the words managed between coughs. "Too much eye of newt."

Tate rolled his eyes again and promptly went back downstairs.

He was going to hide the eye of newt. This was the third time this week already – and it wasn't even half over! Grumbling about idiotic humans and even more idiotic human Masters, Tate went back to his scrubbing, finishing off the last bit of floor and then fetching the polish and a new rag, meticulously going over the floor all over again with the polish that would make it shiny and pretty.

Until the humans messed it up again tomorrow.

When he finally finished, the hour was late. Upstairs, everything had finally gone quiet. Master had probably fallen asleep in his chair again; Tate hadn't heard him trip over the piles of junk in his bedroom. Sighing again, he put away his things, put the dirty rags in the bin of stuff to be cleaned tomorrow – every third day was laundry day – and began to put out the lamps.

He wanted to go to bed, but his hair was dusty and sweaty now, and his scales needed a good scrub and maybe if he could get ahead in his chores tomorrow he would have time to polish them properly. That would be nice.

As he moved to the second to last lamp, the one nearest the front door, a familiar voice rippled through him, stopping him in his tracks.

Oh. Oh oh oh. It was early for Macklin to be back – but when he looked out the window, there he was.

His secret Treasure.

Macklin was so very pretty. Tate could stare at him all day. Every day. Forever. The dark silvery-gray hair, the skin that was always beautifully pale despite all the time Macklin spent outside, the bright blue-gray eyes. Tall, slender, the way he moved was so fine. His hands…he adored Macklin's hands. The claws were long, always carefully tended, kept clean and wicked sharp. The only thing sharper was likely his teeth; even from here he could see the points of Macklin's front teeth.

He saw demons all the time, running to and fro for their Masters, but none of them were as pretty as Macklin, who was so much better than jewels or gold or silver or anything else. He sparkled much, much more in Tate's eyes.

If only Macklin thought the same of him…but he could only sigh sadly as he watched his demon flirt with a human who hadn't yet gone to bed. Stupid Macklin.

When the human stepped closer, moving in a way that Tate knew all too well, he angrily yanked the curtain over the window and blew out the lamp, then stomped over to the desk.

Sitting down on his stool, he pulled out the ledger and the chest which held the day's coins, rumbling happily as he neatly wrote in the day's numbers and tallied them up. Then he pulled out a clean cloth and began to carefully wipe and polish every coin, stacking them up neatly.

He was just standing to carry them into the back when there came the familiar three quick, sharp raps at the door.

Tate jumped, then crossly ordered his heart to slow down. It couldn't be Macklin, he never came this late – he always came in the morning, not late at night.

But a quick peek out the glass in the door belied his words – there was his Treasure, smiling away.

Feeling sick, painfully aware of how dirty and messy he looked, but unable to resist any chance to spend time with Macklin, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

"Good evening," Macklin said, flashing an easy smile – but nothing like the one he'd given the human earlier, the kind that made Tate tingly because it was such a hot sort of smile and sad because that sort of smile would never be for him. "I thought I saw you at the window, figured I'd go ahead and drop off my goods for Mad Finnegan."

Tate growled. "Master is not mad." Personally, he thought 'mad' was far too mild a term, but he would defend his Master. "You may come in, but—"

"But don't make a mess," Macklin interrupted with a laugh, and reached out to tug at a strand of hair which had come loose.

Suddenly remembering how messy he was, Tate stumbled back and turned sharply around, stalking back to the counter and finishing up with the coins.

When he'd locked everything up in the backroom and relocked the front door, he finally strode back the counter, where Macklin had set out all the things he'd brought back on his latest trip.

Lots of stuff. Tate reached out and picked up the small, rather battered looking book lying off to the right. Shape-changing spells, and he recognized the wizard marks. This would bring in lots of coins. Giving a deep, pleased growl, he set it carefully aside.

Next he moved to the jewels – an enchanted hairpin, two necklaces, three talismans, and a cloak broach with travel protections laid upon it. "What is the enchantment on the pin?" he asked.

"Mild love spell," Macklin replied. "Nothing too bad, just will get a girl a few extra offers of lemonade." He winked. "Or encourage people not to track in mud, maybe."

Growling at the jest, Tate turned his attention back to the wares. Picking out several small vials of various potions and tonics, he set them in the pile of stuff he knew Master would want and gave a final nod. "Thirty silver."

"Oh, seventy easy," Macklin said with a taunting grin.

Narrowing his eyes, growling more loudly than he had before, Tate fell into the bartering, his tail twitching with every infuriating smirk Macklin tossed him.

At last they settled on a price of fifty three silver, and Macklin swiftly put away the remainder of his goods. Settling his pack, he reached out and again tugged at Tate's hair. "Always a pleasure, dragon. Tell Mad Finnegan I'll be back in a couple of days and will bring the silver serpent tongue with me."

"I will."

"Oh!" Macklin suddenly cried, snapping his fingers. "How could I forget?" He grinned. "Too busy arguing, maybe. That always gets my blood up."

Tate wished that were true, but knew it wasn't. Macklin just liked teasing him, the same as everyone else. He knew what got Macklin's blood up, he'd seen the man flirt and play in the streets more than once.

Reaching beneath his shirt, Macklin pulled out something hanging from a leather cord. Pulling it up over his neck, he held his fist out toward Tate.

Frowning, Tate held his hand out – his eyes widened as he saw the large, glittering diamond which fell into it. There was magic in it, but he couldn't tell what sort. It made his nose itch, his scales prickle, to smell and sense such strong magic, but dragons could not discern the particulars of magic. "What is it?"

"Something I've been trying to get for awhile," Macklin said, a hardness settling over his face, and if Tate had any reason to fear a demon, that look would give him cause to worry. "The former owner isn't very happy I took it, however. If you and Mad Finnegan don't mind me borrowing your dragon-y ways for a few days, I would like you to guard it for me. Like you would a treasure. Please?"

Tate barely kept from spilling that it was guarding a treasure, because Macklin was his Treasure and so he treasured everything about and belonging to Macklin.

Still, it made him a thousand different kinds of warm that Macklin was asking him to guard something. Macklin had never… "I will," he huffed. "You had better pay, though."

Macklin grinned. "You can name your price, oh clean and mighty dragon of Mad Finnegan." His teasing faded away. "Thanks, Tate. I really will be in your debt. I'd take care of it myself, but the man can be rather nasty, and if he manages to best me I don't want him getting it back. No one looks after treasure better than a dragon. I wouldn't bother you with it, but I don't know any other dragons around here well enough to ask."

Oh. Some of Tate's warmth died. Well, that was fair enough. He supposed. Still, once Macklin was gone, he knew his ears would droop the rest of the night.

Another sharp tug at his hair made him growl. "Stop that, demon."

Macklin laughed and winked. "Don't let it get so messy, then," he teased.

Still growling, Tate pointed to the door. "Out."

"Going, going. See, I didn't mess up your floor a bit." Macklin smiled. "Thanks for protecting the diamond, Tate. I'll reclaim it as soon as I know the bastard will leave me alone. If someone comes asking about it –"

Tate growled loud and sharp, baring his teeth, tail lashing. "I know how to guard a treasure, you stupid demon. Now go away!" He strode over and unlocked the door, pulling it open and pointing outside.

Laughing, Macklin obeyed. "Goodnight, Tate," he called over his shoulder.

Ignoring him, Tate once more closed and locked the door. He leaned against it and looked at the diamond in his hand. He would get Master to cast a protection over it, to hide its magic. That would hide it from anyone looking for it.

Slipping the cord around his neck, he went to blow out the last lamp. He would get his bath, lay out his clothes for tomorrow, and then he could sleep.

Humming softly, he set about his plans, frequently reaching up to touch the diamond his Treasure had entrusted to him.

*~*~*

"Mercy me, boy," Finnegan exclaimed, coming through the back door of the shop, holding his head and grimacing.

The way his silver-touched black hair constantly looked a mess, the runes and other marks tattooed into his skin, scars from various spells gone slightly awry, the much-abused condition of his trousers and shirt, and the fluctuating color of magic-soaked eyes—it was little wonder everyone called Master 'Mad'.

It did not help that being a highly skilled wizard affected age – Master was at least two hundred fifty years old, claiming there was at least fifty years where 'things got a little fuzzy,' but did not look a day over thirty summers or so. That combined with his laid back manner was often the starting point for all manner of the sort of mischief that had earned him the epithet 'mad.'

Tate glared at him for the 'boy'. He was not a boy. He was a dragon. And too old for 'boy' besides that.

Finnegan ignored the look, long used to it. Instead he made straight for the dragon, and shoved a hand under the dark blue tunic and pulled out the diamond. Ignoring Tate's squawks of outrage, he turned the diamond over and over, eyes flashing and glittering with shifting colors. "Where in the nine hells did you get this, Tate?"

Yanking the diamond back, Tate shoved it back underneath his tunic and folded his arms across his chest, glaring. "You were supposed to be up an hour ago."

"Inhaled too much eye of newt and pink salamander," Finnegan replied cheerfully. His voice was always a bit gruffer than his lean, handsome features seemed to indicate – he'd once said it was leftover from a mishap involving spending half a year as a frog. "Slept like a baby."

"Or an idiot," Tate shot back. "You were supposed to go help with that curse on the well."

Finnegan grinned and reached out to snatch back the diamond. "Hold still," he said, putting force behind it, giving Tate little choice but to obey. "Where did you get this, Tate? The power pouring off it is giving me a headache."

"Good," Tate retorted, his tail twitching. "I was going to ask you to shield it."

Nodding absently, Finnegan continued to examine the diamond, eyes flaring and whirling with color. "Of course, of course. I would anyway, just to spare myself the headache."

"If you ask me," Tate said tartly, "that is a good reason not to shield it."

Finnegan laughed, then settled to muttering and mumbling as he turned the diamond over and over in his hands. His eyes flared a brilliant azure blue, drowning out all the other colors for a single moment as he cast the shielding spell.

He let the diamond go with a satisfied smile. "There. All better. Now, Tate, tell me why you have a Sorcerer's power amulet in your possession. They don't taste very good, not that I've ever heard, and you hardly need such a thing."

Tate tucked the diamond away and frowned, tail twitching restlessly.

"Oh ho," Finnegan said with a grin. "Why did Macklin give you a power amulet, Tatey my boy?"

Growling, tail lashing with a fury now, Tate pointedly ignored him and went to go polish the crystal balls that some stupid person had pawed over and gotten all grimy and unshiny with their grubby hands.

"Tate," Finnegan said firmly, but without true command. "I need to know why a sorcerer might be coming down on my head with the fury of a thousand suns."

"Because you probably blew something of his up?" Tate muttered.

Finnegan grinned. "Besides that."

"He said he'd been trying for a while to take it." Tate could not help preening. "He said no one looks after treasure better than a dragon."

"And you'll even clean and polish it for him," Finnegan said with a wink.

Most teasing stung, because Tate could always hear the mockery underlying it – not with Finnegan though. He knew Finnegan appreciated him, and would do anything for him. He hadn't been fully bound from the first day they met, when Finnegan had needed a guide.

Somehow during that trip Tate had not been able to resist taking over and fixing everything. Though they bickered constantly, they also worked. Finnegan really only kept him bound at all so Tate could maintain his human-ish form indefinitely, and give him the protection of Finnegan's magic.

And to occasionally torture him by forcing obedience.

Finnegan liked his fastidiousness. He liked how easy and calm Finnegan was about everything.

Sniffing, Tate refused to rise to the bait, pointedly ignoring his Master to clean the crystal balls. "You need to go break the curse on the well, Master."

"Yes, yes," Finnegan replied, wandering around the shop. He paused at the books. "Oh! Shapechanging. My, my, I haven't seen this particular volume in years. I guess it survived that fire after all…"

Tate frowned and crossed the room to snatch it away, replacing it on the shelf. "That is for sale," he said with pointed slowness. "Not for you. Well. Curse. Now."

"Yes, Master," Finnegan muttered, rolling his eyes and wandering toward the back door. "So what are you demanding in payment for guarding the diamond?" he asked.

Tate shrugged. He didn't want anything, except what he couldn't have unless he resorted to something as unethical as a love spell – and those always backfired, and it was no fun being loved by a spell anyway.

"Pounce him," Finnegan advised. "He's a demon, they're more than willing to pay just about any price if it's suitably interesting." Finnegan winked. "You're plenty interesting, my boy – even with your scales dusty."

Growling in outrage, because his scales were not dusty, he'd cleaned them very thoroughly last night and washed them down again this morning, Tate picked up a crystal ball and lobbed it at Finnegan's head – but a flash of deep red in the wizard's eyes and the ball stopped in midair, hovering there.

Snickering, Finnegan moved the ball back to its cushion, then vanished from the room with a last 'pounce him.'

Tate muttered to himself about stupid, interfering Masters and puttered about the shop.

The day moved slowly, the only highlight being when he finally threw out an alchemist for breaking a jar of pickled orange toad. It was expensive. Throwing the stupid human out had felt wonderful. Watching him run for dear life had been just as sweet.

Growling low, Tate moved to the counter and sat down on his stool. He frowned as he saw that the stupid human had spilled some pickled toad on him. Fetching a cloth, he meticulously wiped the muck away, then wiped down all his scales, not satisfied until his deep turquoise shone as brightly as they could without a proper polishing.

He had hoped to polish them today, but it had been so busy all day and he had to do laundry…

Sighing, he bent over his ledger and began to copy down all that he'd sold, adding the things which he'd bought last night from Macklin.

Thinking of his Treasure, his hand went automatically to the diamond beneath his tunic.

A power amulet. That meant somewhere a sorcerer had enslaved some creature to use its power for his own. Sorcerers, unlike wizards, were not born with an inherent ability to use magic. They had to take it from others, storing the stolen power in talismans and amulets. As no one liked to have his power taken, sorcerers often were forced to enslave their victims, generally only doing what was strictly necessary to keep them alive – since when the creature died, his magic obviously died with him.

If it was enough power to give Master a headache…

He wondered why Macklin would risk angering a sorcerer so much, to steal his power amulet. Remembering the way Macklin's face had hardened as he spoke about it…

A sudden thought rippled through him, followed by jealousy and hurt, which immediately was replaced by shame. There was very little he actually knew about Macklin's life; demons were notorious for saying a million things yet nothing at all. So it really wasn't very nice of him to react with such negativity to this first hint of something beyond the pretty, smartass, clever, charming demon that was all he knew.

If he was willing to risk the wrath of a sorcerer – something even Master hesitated to do – then it was entirely possible that the sorcerer in question had enslaved someone who was important to Macklin.

Despite himself, his stomach churned. It could be a sibling, a friend, it didn't necessarily have to be a lover, look at how easily Macklin flirted with everyone…

Anyway, there could be other reasons he'd stolen the amulet. There was never any telling with demons.

Somehow the assurances rang hollow.

When the bell over the door chimed, Tate looked up almost gratefully – but the greeting died on his lips as wariness spread through him. His ears, long and pointed, peeking out of his hair, rose up high in alert.

The man who wandered into the shop was bone-thin, dark robe molded to his frame, the ends worked with runes and sigils done in heavy, lavish embroidery. Small sapphires gleamed in his ears, a ruby on a tight bit of leather around his neck. At least a dozen jeweled rings on his fingers.

So much power made Tate sneeze hard.

A sorcerer.

His tail lashed and he forced it to still as he slid off his stool and moved around the counter. This could not be coincidence. "May I help you?" he asked politely, twitching when he saw the interloper who was likely going to try and hurt his Treasure also had very muddy boots and had utterly ruined his floor.

With an effort he bit back a growl and resisted flexing his claws.

"I am searching for a new jewel," the sorcerer said. Unlike a wizard, his eyes did not swirl with colors. Rather, they were a dark, muddy color, like magic had splashed in his eyes and run together. This must be a young sorcerer, for in the older ones the eyes appeared nearly black. "A diamond."

Barely restraining his desire to growl, knowing his eyes would show his dislike if he wasn't careful, Tate forced all the emotions down and reminded himself he was just a shop clerk for now. He moved to the glass cases that held all their different talismans and amulets and other jewels. "This is our selection, as you can see we've many diamonds. Were you looking for a ring? A pendant? Perhaps a bracelet, we just acquired a fine diamond brace—"

"No," the sorcerer cut in coldly. His muddy eyes seemed to bore into Tate.

It made him want to sneeze again. His nose twitched with the effort to not.

"I am looking for a very particular diamond. I believe a peddler demon stole it from me. People tell me he frequents this shop. Did he sell you such a diamond?"

Tate almost snorted, amused despite himself. "No. He sold me no such thing. I purchased a book of shape-changing spells, a hairpin…" Quickly he rattled off all that he'd bought.

The sorcerer scowled. "If he attempts to sell you such a thing, let me know at once."

At that Tate wanted to roll his eyes. He took orders from his Master alone. More powerful men than this sorcerer had attempted to give a dragon orders and wound up only losing their voices. "I will tell my Master to be on the lookout for it."

"Do that," the sorcerer replied, then swept out of the shop.

Tate made a face at his back, but his shoulders slumped in relief once the sorcerer was gone. That could have been bad. He could probably take the sorcerer, but it would have been hard and he didn't actually like hurting humans – though the sorcerer had tracked in mud. Growling low, he moved back to the counter to finish cataloguing what had been bought and sold that day.

He'd just finished his nightly cleaning and was putting away the day's money when he heard the front door open, two voices spilling in to fill the space. Tate frowned. Master of course had a key…but that other voice…

Oh, not again. Macklin had said he wouldn't be back for a couple of days.

Baring his teeth at the unseen men, Tate resisted the urge to go look at his Treasure and instead made himself go out back to clean up. Yes.

Outside, he laboriously filled his bathtub and then quickly stripped out of his clothes and tossed them aside. Thanks to stupid people and annoying sorcerers and clumsy alchemists and a lot of mud everywhere he had not been able to do laundry. It would have to be done tomorrow.

With a low growl and flick of his claw, he heated the bathwater, rumbling low at the steam now curling in the air. Fire and all things pertaining to heat were the only magic dragons possessed, and it was not nearly as strong as what a wizard or sorcerer could manage, but it was all he needed.

Stepping and then kneeling in the tub, Tate reached up and began to unwind and unbraid his hair, letting the long strands fall down his back, shaking them out. His hair fell to his hips, perfectly straight and slightly darker than the scales which ran all along his backside, down his arms and legs.

Retrieving his soap and the rough-bristled brush he needed for cleaning his scales, Tate rumbled low and happily as he began to scrub himself clean, setting the brush aside only to rub soap into his hair.

He'd just washed it all out when the sound of voices once more drew his attention – he whipped around and stared in horror at Finnegan and Macklin.

No, he couldn't even bring himself to look at Macklin. Jerking his eyes away from the wide-eyed demon, he leveled his gaze on Finnegan, whose eyes whirled with a rather smartass looking orange. Growling loudly, baring his teeth, Tate started to stand with every intention of reminding Finnegan exactly how sharp his claws were.

Then he remembered he was naked and that Macklin was still staring.

He growled again, chest rumbling, growing hot. If he couldn't claw, he was going to burn.

Sensing the impending threat to his continued existence, making a sound that sounded suspiciously like a snicker, Finnegan grabbed Macklin and retreated back inside.

Master was going to die, Tate decided, growls never ceasing as he quickly finished rinsing and stalked warily inside, slipping up the stairs and quickly pulling a clean tunic from his chest.

Maybe he'd infest all of Master's clothes with itching spiders. And mix up all his components – no, he'd done that and had to scrub everything. The ogre blood had gotten all over and was hard to get rid of…

He would think of suitable revenge. What had his Master been thinking, to embarrass him that way?

They were still both downstairs, he could hear them talking. Tate twitched. Now how was he supposed to look at Macklin, never mind talk to him. He mewled low in misery. When he let himself think about Macklin, himself, and naked it hadn't been anything as humiliating as Macklin catching him covered in soap and looking silly with his wet hair everywhere.

Why did Macklin only ever see him at his worst?

Sighing, Tate turned away from the door and went to scrounge for food. He'd just bit into an apple when the low murmur of voices abruptly changed to shouts – he abruptly sneezed hard.

Eyes widening, he dropped the apple and bolted for the stairs.

Too late.

When he got downstairs, there was nothing but two bodies lying prone on a floor that was covered with entirely too much blood.

Roaring in fury, distantly wondering how the sorcerer had gotten the best of his Master, Tate immediately moved and dropped down beside Finnegan and Macklin.

"Tate," Finnegan managed, not opening his eyes. "Hand."

Obediently Tate gripped Finnegan's hand with his own, shuddering as the cold wash of his Master's magic washed through him, then back out, encompassing Finnegan and Macklin – Finnegan wasn't strong enough to use his magic himself right now, but he could force it through Tate's strength.

"Doesn't know you have it," Finnegan whispered. "Don't let him…"

Heat blossomed in his chest as he thought about the sorcerer flambé he would shortly be enjoying.

First to take care of Master and Macklin. Carefully he lifted them, carrying first Master to his own bed, then hauling Macklin to his own.

Tate sighed. First the bath humiliation, now he got to see Macklin in his bed but only in the worst way possible. Frowning at the blood-stained shirt, the dark, drying bits of it in the demon's silvery hair, he yanked the shirt away but forced himself to leave the rest for now.

He had a sorcerer to kill.

Outside he moved to the wide field beyond the cottage, then transformed. His dark turquoise scales glittered in the moonlight, skin of his wings gleaming. Eyes burning, a deep orange now rather than cool turquoise, he roared loudly into the night, shaking everything around him.

Around one talon was wrapped the strip of leather holding the stolen diamond.

"So you do have it," a nasty little voice said from the shadows.

Tate curved his long, sinuous neck around, orange eyes flaring as the sorcerer stepped into view.

"How is it you transform and act without your master? He should be dead, or at least unconscious for some time."

Growling, Tate moved forward, wanting very badly to crunch this human between his teeth.

"Give me the stone or I'll kill the power source, dragon. You won't kill me before I can cast the last bit of the curse laid upon him."

Tate narrowed his eyes, rumbling in dissatisfaction. Unfortunately, the sorcerer's words were true.

Well, he could do something else.

Growling loudly to hide the spell he was casting, he then transformed and threw the diamond at the sorcerer's head.

"Be grateful, dragon, that I am leaving you alive. If you or either of those nitwits – assuming they're still alive – attempts anything, know that I will kill the power source."

"You can't use the power if you kill the source," Tate spat.

The sorcerer smiled coldly. "It is rather hard to find such good power, but don't think I'll give it up if I must." He vanished.

Tate snorted and rolled his eyes, then transformed again and launched into the sky.

He rose up high, hiding himself from any potentially skulking sorcerers.

From very far away he could feel the tiny little flicker he'd left in the diamond to track down the sorcerer. Faint enough the stupid human likely would not notice it in amongst all the other magic around him, but which Tate could separate out because it was his.

He traveled for hours, annoyed that the sorcerer apparently had something strong enough he could teleport long distances.

At last he lighted upon…Tate snorted in contempt, breathing small flames.

It was a tower. The mighty sorcerer lived in a tower.

He could not wait to tell Master, who would laugh and laugh at something so idiotic and dramatic. Master was all about warm and cozy cottages, not dank, drafty towers.

Though, part of that was the fact that cottages were much, much cheaper to replace when experiments went especially awry.

Never, never again was Master allowed near pixie dust.

Tate swiftly made his way downward, landing close to the tower.

Magic. He fought back a sneeze, as that would likely result in a scorched tree. Hmm…lots of magic, so probably lots of protections and all. Rumbling a sigh, he transformed back into his human-like form, tail lashing irritably.

The list of grievances being thrust at him today was growing and growing. That stupid alchemist. Master being insufferable. Mud everywhere. Behind in the laundry. Macklin had seen him bathing, and now both Master and Macklin were recovering from bad injuries and on top of all that tracking down this sorcerer had forced him to skip dinner.

His stomach growled, emphasizing how woefully empty it was, making Tate all the more irritable. He stomped angrily toward the tower, crashing through the underbrush, snapping any branch dumb enough to get in his way, resenting the entire stupid forest.

Magic tingled along his skin but Tate only growled, nearly roaring, calling up all his heat, his fire, and the magic was burned off.

It was exhausting…but he didn't feel like taking his time.

Whatever was going on, he was going to take care of it. He would get the diamond back, and the source of the power – if it was someone important to Macklin, if not he was going to eat whoever it was right after he crunched the sorcerer.

He got to the door, which was thick, heavy wood held in place with thick metal bands. Tate sniffed contemptuously and burned it down. He flexed his claws and bared his teeth in a nasty smile.

It had been a long, long time since he'd felt like acting like a wild, uncouth dragon. It was proving to be rather fun, even if he would need another bath when he got home. After he made certain Macklin was very far away.

Growling low, he prowled into the tower and headed immediately up the stairs, following the faint – then stopped.

No.

This would only be bad.

Turning around, he instead headed downstairs, below the tower, into the ground, rolling his eyes to see that there was, in fact, rather a nice dungeon here.

His eyes widened to see all the creatures that were caged.

A dragon.

A griffon.

Three demons…

Oh. He'd sort of expected…but actually seeing…

Tate bolted to the cage halfway down the row, snarling in pain and bringing up his fire as magic shot through him like one of Finnegan's lightning spells. When all the magic had finally burned away, leaving him feeling a little dizzy and nauseous and he really wasn't looking forward to flying home…

Shaking his head, Tate focused on the creature in the cage. "You're related to Macklin."

The demon was tall and broad, with dark steel-gray hair and matching eyes, pale skin showing the signs of a hard life. Ordinarily the man would probably be fine and handsome, and probably someone who did not go down easy – but right now he looked only thin and wan, as though he were being drained of everything.

Which he was.

"You know Macklin?" the demon asked, licking his dry lips.

Tate nodded. "He's an annoying peddler who tries to charge too much for wares." He bit an urge to list all of Macklin's insufferable traits, like the way he pulled his hair and teased him for cleaning and always flirted with everyone except Tate and had seen him bathing and was now unconscious and still covered in blood and—he cut off his own thoughts with a sharp growl. "He was hurt by the sorcerer, who took back the diamond which holds your power. He says he will kill you if I try anything."

The demon laughed. "Yeah, he's got all us spelled with nearly-complete curses. All he has to do is say the last bit and we're dead."

"How do I break them?" Tate asked, tail lashing with anger and misery. He wanted Master to be here – though he was rather annoyed at Master for being so busy finding ways to embarrass and harass him that he'd lowered his guard. Still, no one knew magic better.

Cautiously, slowly, the demon crept forward. He really did look a lot like Macklin, just rougher, less pretty. "Could you do to me what you did to the spell on the cell? Burn it away? I've heard that dragons can do that, but I've never actually seen…that is what you did, isn't it?"

"It will be extremely hot," Tate said slowly, thoughtfully. He'd never tried it with anyone else…

The demon grinned, looking more like Macklin than ever. "I can take it. Once, uh, spent a night with a dragon, if you know what I mean." He winked. "Very into fire, you dragons."

Tate rolled his eyes, then reached out and placed his hands on the demon's, then focused. Heat rushed through him, poured out, and he only distantly heard the demon cry out in pain – but when he finally banked his heat and could focus again, he saw the demon only had a vaguely singed look about him.

"Fabulous," the demon said, flexing his claws and grinning in a nasty way that made Tate glade he wasn't the reason for it. His gray eyes flashed silver and he thrust out, the metal door of his cell screaming in protest as it was contorted and then tossed aside.

Quickly the demon made short work of the other cells, freeing all the creatures rapidly – probably before the sorcerer could hurt them.

Tate left him to it, turning and rapidly climbing the stairs all the way back up, determined now to get his sorcerer snack.

"Wait!" the demon called out behind him. "I'll help you."

"No," Tate snarled. "He hurt my master. He hurt my Treasure. I will take care of him."

The demon blinked, then nodded. "Thank you for rescuing us."

"Do not be stupid enough to get caught again," Tate said tartly, then turned and resumed his climb.

At the top, he burned away the door – ignoring that he was feeling more than a little dizzy now – and growled in satisfaction to see the sorcerer looking more than a little panicked and afraid.

"You are about to be my snack, sorcerer," Tate growled. "Though I doubt you taste very good."

Anger flickered across the sorcerer's face. "How is it you can do anything without your Master? Stupid dragons."

Tate snorted. "Dragons are not stupid, at least not as stupid as sorcerers. My Master does not have me fully bound. I can do as I please."

"What sort of incompetent wizard doesn't properly bind his dragon?"

"A good one," Tate said softly, anger only growing as he listened to this idiot malign his Master. "You hurt my Master. You hurt my Treasure. Did your mother not teach you never to anger a dragon?"

The sorcerer's face went white.

Apparently his mother had told him not to anger dragons, and what happened when you did.

Tate transformed.

*~*~*

It took him until late the next day, with Becket's help, to finally get home again.

Becket, he'd decided, was in general much nicer. Rougher around the edges, but he didn't tease so much and he never once tried to pull Tate's hair.

Tate missed the teasing and pulling though. It just wasn't the same.

He also missed his bed, and wanted to go to sleep in it…but Macklin was probably still using it, and he'd have to wash the sheets, which reminded him of the laundry he had to do and he so badly hoped that Master hadn't been stupid enough to try and run the shop.

In fact, he hoped Master was still in bed. Otherwise there probably wasn't much of a cottage left.

Mewling low, tired and hungry and grouchy, they finally reached the cottage – to see both Master and Macklin sitting out front, talking heatedly about something.

Not noticing them.

Tate growled loudly, and both men froze.

"Tate!" Finnegan exclaimed in relief, throwing his arms around his dragon as he drew close. "I'm so glad you're alright." He smacked him hard. "Don't run off like that!"

Growling low, Tate reached out and dug his claws in, quick and sharp – hard enough to sting but not draw blood, feeling somewhat mollified when Finnegan yelped. "Don't get caught by a stupid sorcerer," he retorted.

"Yes, yes," Finnegan replied with a grimace.

"Tate," Macklin interrupted. "I'm glad you're alright." He stood close to his brother, hand still resting lightly on Becket's arm. "Thank you," he said with a smile. "I didn't mean to cause so much trouble for you."

Rumbling low, feeling his anger and misery fading away, Tate gave a nod. His Treasure had never smiled like that. It made him prettier than ever. He smiled briefly back, unable to help it – and quietly kicked Finnegan, who had a faint smirk on his face.

Becket suddenly laughed, turning to his brother. "I get kidnapped by a sorcerer and you become a dragon's Treasure? Why do you get to have all the fun?"

"W-what?" Macklin asked, staring at his brother, then turning to Tate.

Tate turned sharply away and all but ran for the house.

Stupid Becket.

Feeling sick, he pushed inside and noticed absently that the shop was still a mess – he'd forgotten all about the blood and mud and oh how could stupid Becket say that?

Gloomily Tate tromped up the stairs and through the main room to his own bedroom, stomach twisting to see the evidence of a recent sleeper, the faint rusty stains left by Macklin's blood.

Blood was really hard to wash out of stuff.

He heard footsteps and whirled to snarl at Finnegan, who was likely going to be a know it all – and stopped, eyes going wide.

"Tate," Macklin said slowly, hovering in the doorway.

Tail lashing nervously, Tate made himself stand still and not try for the window or knocking through a wall. "Yes?" he asked tightly.

"Am I…did my brother…" He shook his head, frustrated. "Do you really think of me as your Treasure?"

"Yes," Tate said, unable to bring himself to look up, tensing as he heard Macklin draw close, stop right in front of him. "Your brother has a big mouth."

Macklin laughed. "Yes, he does. Part of the reason he was kidnapped in the first place."

Fingers grasped his chin and tilted his head up. Growling low, Tate jerked away – but kept his gaze up. "What?" he snapped.

"I knew you liked me a bit, you were always so easy to fluster…but I didn't know you thought that highly of me, Tate. I'm sorry, I had no idea."

Tate hadn't thought it was possible to feel more awful than he already did – but 'I'm sorry' could only mean—

"My brother has been troubling me for ages," Macklin continued, his fingers once more coming up to touch. "All I've been working to do for ages is find him, then get the diamond…then everything went wrong. So thank you, again, for saving him."

Tate nodded stiffly.

Then Macklin grinned, and suddenly the fingers resting so lightly on his cheek were buried in his hair and Tate's head was tilted and then oh Macklin knew how to kiss, yes.

Growling deep and low and long, determined not to let his Treasure go now, Tate pushed up on his toes and threw his arms around the taller demon, holding tight, kissing back with every last bit of emotion he'd been holding back.

Hands smoothed down his back, then strong, slender arms were wrapped tightly around his waist, and Tate's growls deepened and slowed, turning into a deep, vibrating rumble.

"Like I said," Macklin said when they at last broke apart. "I'm sorry for not realizing you thought of me as your Treasure – I would have jumped you a long time ago, Tate."

"Instead of those stupid humans in the street?" Tate asked tartly.

Macklin grinned. "You were watching me, eh? But that's just being friendly."

"Well, stop it."

"Yes, dragon mine," Macklin replied, and leaned down to kiss him again, and Tate wondered hazily where they could go to do more than kiss because his bed was messy and so was the rest of the cottage but his floor might be okay…

 

A Dozen Roses

Cliff was grateful, for what had to be the millionth and first time, that he was good at keeping his emotions from his face. It was something he'd worked long and hard at, practiced over and over again in the mirror and in front of his parents (without their realizing, of course) until he had it down to an art.

Because if his emotions had been showing, it would have been perfectly obvious to the Jerk in front of him that he was taking his heart and snapping it into about fifty bajillion pieces and then throwing them down onto the floor of the crowded hallway.

"Cliff?" Jim was frowning.

"What? Oh, sorry. Yeah," Cliff shook off his thoughts. "Yeah, sure. Of course I'll give it to him."

Jim sighed in relief and then grinned. "You're the best." Irwin waved and took off as the homeroom bell rang.

Fighting an urge to either scream or cry, Cliff turned around and went into his own homeroom class. Depositing his lime green book bag in his chair, he crossed to the other side of the room and stopped in front of Irwin.

Irwin stared at Cliff. "Need something?"

"From Jim, to you. Enjoy." He all but threw the bright red rose at Irwin, who looked startled and scrambled to catch the flower.

Cliff wished bitterly that Jim hadn't been so thoughtful as to remove the thorns. It So. Wasn't. Fair.

Life officially Sucked. S-U-C-K-E-D.

Cliff took his seat and banged his forehead against his desk. The other students barely spared him a glance, though one did mutter 'he's doing it again' to her girlfriend.

The teacher shook her head as she entered. "Cliff, please stop injuring yourself. The rest of you, stop talking until the announcements are over. You are supposed to listen to them, and that's difficult to manage if you're too busy listening to each other. Cliff, if you insist on concussing yourself to death then please wait until you are out of homeroom."

"Yes, Ms. Redmont." Cliff sat up with a sigh and pulled out his math book to finish his homework. Intro to trig wasn't until after lunch, but he had to finish Advanced Biology during lunch so he had to do trig now."

Second and Third Roses

Maybe he could get away with an insanity plea, if he killed Jim right now in a fit of rage. Plus he wasn't eighteen quite yet, so maybe it wouldn't go on his permanent record?

"Come on, Cliff."

"