Ethan watches them go bemusedly, waving wearily from his chair. After they've gone, he finishes the last sip of his drink and sets the mug down heavily on the side table.

Ethan Worthington undresses, a practiced and efficient process; folds his clothes, laying them in a chest. He stands for a moment nude, entirely unselfconscious and fearless about it. Then, his form ripples, and the man shifts seamlessly into an enormous dark gray wolf, white bandages falling in ripples around him.

The werewolf king pads over to the fireplace, and regards his daughter for a long moment. Then, grinning a wolfish grin, he lays down beside her, close to her back. She shifts in her sleep, lays her head across his paws. He bathes her face tenderly, and then the wolves fall deeply asleep.

And for the space of the afternoon, the city knows peace. It may not last long; Worthington knows this. The knowledge makes the moment more precious; something he wraps up tight in his heart like the treasure it is.

This is family. This is pack. This is what he would die to defend.

This is home.

THIS MARKS THE END OF CHAPTER ONE OF THE HIDDEN WORLD JOURNEYS. EPILOGUES TO FOLLOW.

Epilogue

Marra's House
Marra sits in the middle of her living room floor, bits of cardboard and foam scattered messily around her. "And... that should be it," she says to herself, fitting the last pieces of the crib together and screwing them tightly together.

She wipes her brow and sighs. Children are a lot more work than she'd ever guessed they would be. For the hundredth time, she glances out the front window expectantly; he'd said he was going to stop by today, but not when; and it's getting a bit late. Marra sighs, and reaches for her tea; sips it, makes a face at how cold it's gotten; drinks the rest anyways.

Duffel bag full of his remaining possessions slung over his shoulder, Oren walks down the street towards Marra's house. He's been putting this off, running other errands that need to be attended to before finally visiting his friend and the likely unpleasant conversation that will ensue.

You know the deal. Stiffen your spine a bit if you want me to be content to simply watch and comment.

Her house in view, Oren mutters back to the voice of his great grandfather. "And you know I could just as easily walk in front of a bus, leaving your little cheat for naught. Or did you forget that out of all your fine and perfectly draconic descendants, I'm the only one who can change?" The voice in his head is silent in response, and Oren grins to himself. The addition of an ancestor's mind sitting somewhere inside his own was going to be an interesting challenge.

Banishing thoughts and worries from his mind, Oren takes a steadying breath and trudges up to Marra's front door. He stands there for a minute before knocking, trying to muster a friendly smile.

Marra looks up from her mess and sighs. "Of course, it would be right now," she mutters. Pushing back her hair, she pulls herself to her feet and goes to answer the door. "Come in," she says with a smile. "Sorry about the mess." There's a few bits of styrofoam packing clinging to her sweater and in her hair; behind her is a pile of empty furniture boxes. She stands to one side as he does, looks at him with a frown. "Are you okay? You left so fast..."

Her voice trails off and she looks down at her feet.

Oren smiles back at his friend, somewhat sadly. "I'm fine. I just wanted to get away from everyone before nightfall." He says as he steps into the room looking about to the various bits of baby furniture, his smile becoming genuine, the child is adorable if nothing else. "And you don't need to apologize about the mess," He says as he sets his bag down in a corner "how are things coming along with the kid anyway? Decided on a name?"

Marra smiles. "I'm going to call her Selenay, I'm thinking, for the moon. She's going to be a challenge, I can already tell." She pushes back her hair again and sighs. "I don't know the first thing about babies, really... and she's something special on top of that." She shrugs. "We'll work it through."

She heads into the kitchen with Oren, turns the teapot back on. "What'll you have for tea? The usual?" she inquires as she pulls out clean mugs and teabags.

"That's a beautiful name, Marra. I have no doubt that you'll be able to handle that challenge" Oren says as he walks into the kitchen after her. "And yes, the usual green please." He leans against one of the counters, facing Marra as she gets the tea ready.

She can feel it hanging between them, unsaid and heavy. How to say this without breaking everything, she thinks to herself unhappily. "So," she says with a false lightness in her voice. "You declared a personal vendetta on Claude, hmm?" She keeps her gaze down on the tea, busying herself with the routine of preparation.

And then there it is.

He sighs heavily in a long stream of smoke and takes a seat at the table. "Yes." Is his simple reply. The silence that follows stretches on, uncomfortable and heavy until Oren finally rubs at his face and looks back up at Marra. It's hard to read his face, that he is conflicted, however, is readily apparent. "I promised I would answer your questions, and so I will." He says quietly.

Marra looks away from her friend. "I guess I just don't understand," she says quietly. "I mean... with everything that's coming... at least, that we suspect... do we really need any more enemies than what we already have?" She turns back and meets his eyes hesitantly. "I think I could get more out of him than you guys did. He seems to trust me a little, I'm not sure why." She looks uncomfortable. "But... I just don't know. ...Why? I suppose that's what I really want to know."

"I assure you, after a few centuries of life, you too will cease to care too much for the opinions of mortals." The words sound strange coming from the dragonkin's lips. "You may well be able to get more details out of him then any of us were. I may well not need another distraction in the days to come." And subconsciously he snarls. "But those were his words, after he glamoured us. I asked him why, knowing that his actions lead to the destruction of my home and life's work, should I set aside my anger, and he glamoured us." Oren lets out a long breath. "I was aware of the vampire nest you all destroyed for a goodly while. I did nothing." He can no longer meet his friend’s eyes at this point.

"And now there is a new king, sitting high upon his throne. And he cares just as little for the lives of those beneath," this word is practically spat, a dark belch of smoke accompanying it "him, the living, are nothing of consequence. In his mind it was right to risk a war that may well have spiraled out into the streets and brought down everyone, to kidnap a child, because it would get him the help he needed in dealing with a problem." He shakes his head as the kettle starts to whistle. "So... why am I doing this? You asked me, in not so many words, what it means to be good, when you were wondering if the services you had rendered him made you a bad person." He smiles slightly. "I still don't think you are, for the record, for what you did. I will not think you a bad person if you cannot understand or accept why I am doing this either. I just..." He shakes his head. "If nothing else, you involving me in this group made me realize that I cannot turn away when brought face to face with something blatantly wrong. So as to why... it's so that I can keep looking myself in the mirror without being a liar."

Marra winces. "He... he said that?" She is quiet for a long moment, busies herself pouring the tea while she organizes her thoughts. Sitting down at the kitchen table, she pushes Oren's tea towards him and cups her hands around her own mug. She gazes into the hot water, watching the color of the herbs leak out from the bag and mingle with the water around it.

"I touched something dark, on the moon," she finally says without looking up. "I know it sounds like I'm changing subjects, but bear with me. It was in this cave, beneath the surface of the moon. I don't know if it was a real place... but it was a place of power. There was a pool of dark water, and when I entered it..."

Marra closes her eyes. "I felt the moon-dark wrapping around me. I felt the two sides of my soul, full-moon and new. I understood better then, what I'd seen in the Dark Pit of Self; two paths, dark and light. Two of me, dark and light, but still me. The difference... the difference being people." She struggles with her words. "Oren... if you can't bear the darkness... will you have to turn away from me?" She holds herself very still, forcing her voice to be even. "To keep looking in the mirror... without compromising yourself?"

She does not say what she is truly thinking; cannot bear to. Already she feels hot tears welling up unbidden behind her eyes; curses them away angrily and sips her tea.

"I..." Oren trails off, looking down into his tea. He is silent for a long moment as he watches his mug of tea steep. He raises the cup to his face and inhales the aroma of the brew. "Tea is interesting." He says slowly. "Steep it too little and you've simply hot, discolored water, flavorless, but pure. Steep it too much and you've an undrinkable, dark, bitter mess. Only in that balance somewhere in the middle is there value." He removes the tea bag and sets it on a napkin. Raising his mug he swallows tentatively at first, then takes a more full mouthful, savoring the heat and taste of the tea before setting the mug back down on the table.

"So if I may be allowed to extend the metaphor a bit further, I suppose my answer to your question is that I've never known you to make a bad cup of tea." He sighs with pleasure as the heat from the drink starts to spread. "If what you're worried about is that by accepting this dark side of yourself that you will do things that will drive away your friends, then that is my answer. You know how to make a good cup of tea."

His throat closes for a moment before he finishes. "If there is anything I am worried about, it how everyone will respond to my actions."

Marra smiles, feels the tension draining away from her eyes. "It's all about balance, isn't it?" she says thoughtfully. "Low tides, high tides... Oren, you shouldn't worry about how they'll respond. How we'll respond." She sips her tea, nods, and takes out the bag. "I can only speak for myself, of course, but this isn't going to keep me from calling you friend, no matter how it complicates all our lives. You know how dear you are to me." She sips her tea again, leans back in her chair.

Enough of that, she tells herself sternly. Back on topic.

"Oren, when we were in the van, on our way to the docks and all... something strange happened to you." She pauses. "I wasn't sure what to say, if anything, then..." she hesitates. "I think it had to do with your. Um. Your mother."

"I still don't remember anything about what happened in that time." Oren shakes his head, yet another vain attempt to clear some cobwebs. "We simply jumped from your house to th..." he trails off.

Oren nods, a bemused smile on his face as tilts his head to the side as if listening to someone standing behind him. "I think," he takes another swallow of tea, "that someone else can explain what happened better then I." He takes a deep breath and his face scales over. "Good evening, to you, Marra, I thank you for the hospitality you've inadvertently offered me through my descendant here."

Marra sets down her tea quickly, startled by the abrupt shift.  She smoothes her hair back in an attempt to settle herself. "Good evening," she replies coolly. "May I know who I am addressing, precisely? There are yet things I do not... that I do not understand as completely as I would like to."

The stranger possessing her friend nods and smiles what is surely meant to be a reassuring smile, though its effect is somewhat offset by the tiny, needle-like teeth now filling Oren's mouth. "I will try to make things as clear as I am able, Marra" The dragonkin takes another sip of his tea. "My name is Malithaz. Oren here is my great grandson. I am here, speaking, as result of... well, I knew my end was coming, and becoming a 'drinker isn't exactly an option for my kind, vulgarity of that particular act aside. So, with limited options and a profound appreciation for the continuing of my own existence, I hid."

"Malithaz," Marra repeats numbly, trying to stay on top of all of this. "I see. You... you hid? I don't think I know what you mean. Um. Do you... are you aware of the nature of what his mother did, in the van?" She hesitates. "I still don't know if what I did there was right." She bites her lip. "She said... My son is not ready for this. Do as I say, and the man who comes back to that shell will be the one you know. Was she lying?"

She gazes at Malithaz-in-Oren, both repulsed and fascinated at the subtle changes.

The dragon pauses, considering the words. "My granddaughter only knows what she was told by her father... he and I..." The dragon flinches, remembering some lost time. "We had a falling out, mostly due to my presence in his mind. Understand, my goal in all of this is simply to continue my existence. He, and I am sure he has passed this on to his daughter, came to believe that I wished to do so by taking control for my descendant’s bodies."   Another sip of the tea. "A ludicrous proposal. I am, at this point, nothing more then disembodied intellect."   He regards the cup in his hands a moment before smiling wide, thankfully hiding his teeth this time. “I find myself growing weak from this, it will be some time before I am able to speak out loud again, but before I go I must agree with my great grandson. Excellent Tea."

Oren sways a moment as his face returns to normal. "The theory we've both worked out," he starts, resting his head on the table for a moment while the world swims around him, "is that I am able to... change, like I do, because of the presence of Malithaz. As to what my mother said about me not being the same person, well..." he lets out a smoky sigh. "Who could go through this past week of our lives unchanged?"

"Who indeed," Marra replies. She's still a bit shaken by the transformation, but hiding it well. It will take some getting used to, this idea that one of her best friends has this... err... passenger traveling alongside him. "That is indeed some legacy."

They sit for a while in companionable quiet, sipping the tea and pondering on the strangeness of life. Eventually, Marra breaks the silence. "What will you do next, then?" she asks curiously. Layer upon layer of question echo in her dark, quiet eyes. "Jacob is thinking of building a library, you know." Stay, she does not say.

Oren raises his eyebrows at the mention of Jacob's plans. "That will be something to see when it is done, I am sure." He takes another sip of his tea and rises from the table, wordlessly leaving the room. He returns a moment later with his bag and sets it down on the floor next to his seat. Opening it, he pushes aside some pieces of clothing to reveal a handful of books, none of which are without some sort of smoke damage or slight charring on their covers. Selecting four fat tomes, he sets them out on the table. "If you would please, give him these for me. They deserve to be somewhere where they will be useful." He thinks for a moment more and reaches back down into the bag, fishing out another slim volume. "Most of these are unconfirmed." He says softly. "But there are a number of stories in here which would, with a little prior review, be suitable for a young child.

"As for what I will do next..." Oren starts, softly, staring down into his teacup. "I am indebted, now, to my siblings. Kal and Tabitha have named their prices." He drinks the last of his tea before meeting Marra's eyes again. "I've little choice in the matter now, I leave to discharge those obligations in the morning. Hopefully, I will be able to return to Boston soon."

Marra smiles at the gift of the book, looks down at it and flips through a few pages. "Thank you, Oren. It's very thoughtful of you... especially now, when everything's upside down." She sighs, sets the volume down; stands and brings her somehow-empty mug to the sink to rinse out.

She returns to the kitchen table, but does not sit down again. Instead she stands beside Oren, looks down at him with an odd look in her eyes. "If you must go in the morning, then you must go. You have obligations that must be honored, and I hope you will be able to return soon." She pauses, smiles softly. "But if you must go with the morning... will you stay the night?"

She offers her hand, and the look in her eyes has gone deep and... peaceful. The look of a woman who knows well what she is offering; and who offers it with certainty, and no expectations or demands. She blushes very faintly when Oren looks at her, however.

Oren blinks rapidly, his mouth open, trying to form words. The moment stretches on and he realizes he's not said anything and blushes fiercely, a mild wave of heat pulsing out from him. He is proud, in a detached sort of way, that his hand barely shakes as he reaches out and takes Marra's as he stands. He is silent for a moment longer, still blushing, before he smiles, wide and content and pulls Marra in close. "Of course." He whispers.

Morning
Morning comes far too soon. The sunlight creeps in faintly through the bedroom window, setting a soft wintry-gray glow over the two sleeping figures. It is snowing again, thick and windy and gusting up high; a truly unpleasant day to even consider going outside.

A branch taps softly on the window, tinking softly in the wind. Marra stirs in her sleep, tucks herself closer into Oren's arms. Her white hair is sprawled messily on the pillow around them both, pale contrast against dark blue sheets.

Her breathing settles again, and she slumbers on peacefully. It would take nearly an act of the gods to wake her after the last few days.

Later, the clock on the bed will strike the appointed hour, and Oren will regretfully rise from the bed, ever so careful to not wake Marra. He dresses silently, head still blessedly free of thoughts of what he must now go do. Not being able to delay any longer, he tucks the blankets up around her as he kisses her brow softly. “I promise I’ll come back.” He whispers to the room as he backs out.

Down in the kitchen he stops again, looking over to the pad of paper he had used to draw out a page from his memory. Picking a pen out of a pocket, he stops to sketch something out once more. Satisfied with the illustration, he shoulders his duffel from where it was left on the floor the night previous.

The cold air of the morning is bracing, bringing into painful awareness the road ahead, and as he takes his first steps down the street towards the nearest bus stop, Oren looks up into the sun and grins a feral grin.

Time to become something else.

*******************************************************
The jet streaks through the crisp air of the morning and Oren misses the last thing that was said to him as he stared back out over the city he and his friends had saved from disaster a few days past. The sharp rap across his knuckles brought his attention back to the man and woman sitting across the table from him in the private jet. “You asked,” The lithe man in an expensive suit growls at him, “for our help. While you are about to engage in some grueling personally expenditures on our behalves in payment for this, it would still be somewhat polite if you paid attention to the details.” He sits back, an exasperated look on his face. The woman next to him cocks an eyebrow as if to ask if he is done berating their younger brother.

“Now.” Tabithas resumes talking once it is apparent that Kalithaz will no longer be speaking. “As I was saying, this vampire’s position is, for the time being, solid. It will be at least two quarters before we could expect to show even a 10% cut into his profit margin with our own endeavors.” She points to several sheets of paper in front of Oren. “However, barring any unforeseen interference from venues of a supernatural nature, and yes,” She glares at her brother, “we are taking precautions against the usual threats, we can expect that cut into his margin to increase steadily by routing excess profit from some of our other joint business ventures.”

She shuffles more paperwork about, finally digging out a sleek PDA from the pile and tapping it on. Pursing her lips, she looks over to Kal. “Now, the question that I think all of us need answered is…” She trails off, not quite sure how to delicately phrase the question to her brother. Kal, however, has no such issues and finishes with his usual brisk manner.

“What’s your endgame, egg?” He asks, not quite openly mocking his younger, and from his perspective flightier brother. “We’re setting up a number of businesses with the express intent of pissing off the resident King of the vampires of a metropolitan city. Now, the four of us will be fairly well protected, there’re so many layers of bureaucracy between these companies and the lot of us that no one will ever be able to trace it. But you…” He trails off, the joking tone gone from his voice. “You challenged this vampire on his home turf. You made it blatantly clear that any significant misfortune that befalls his clan will, hopefully, be of your causing.” He shakes his head incredulously. “And you sicced a damned hellhound pack on him already!” Kal finally trails off into an exasperated stream of cursing.

“If you’re quite done, Brother?” The hereto unheard voice from the speakerphone on the table chimes in. The cultured tones of their eldest sister distorted by the device. “Oren, while our other siblings are unwilling to ask, I must before I can sign off in good conscious on this endeavor. Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Oren’s growl causes the siblings sitting near to him to shift uncomfortably. “It’s a valid question, Brother.” Karenithas responds over the speaker. “There’s no need to get snippy.”

Regaining control of his composure, Oren huffs a stream of smoke in the general direction of the cabin’s smoke detectors, just to annoy his siblings. “I’m getting annoyed with repeating this litany, so I will only say this: my friends nearly died because he views living beings as simply tools, means to an end. He’s not old enough to have been around in the times when full-blooded dragons walked the earth, the way I see it, he needs to learn that their descendants are just as fearsome.”

“Very well then.” Karen replies after a moment of silence. “Kal, Tabitha, I’m on board, start call our lawyers and get the ball rolling. Oren, make this last stop you need to, then get ready to perform the business we’ve set before you. By the time you’re able to return to Boston, I can promise that you’ll have a giant cross-hair on your head.

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

“BOG!” Oren bellows into the din of the workshop. “BOGWIZZLE!” he shouts again, unsure, but thinking that he possibly hear the goblin’s usual cursing in response to the summons to the front of his workspace. Oren stands very still, knowing that the threats about moving from the circle painted on the floor without permission are very real as the whirring, clanking, machine sounds dim a bit, a sure sound that he’s been noticed. A few moments later and a small form, suspended from the ceiling comes flying into view, two arms of his octopoidal  work exoskeleton latched onto the revolving track that leads into the front of the workshop.

The goblin lets loose right as he hits a corner, flying across the room to a scaffolding, latching on and descending with a series of practiced swings. The wrinkled, diminutive creature only comes up to Oren’s knees normally, but standing on the extended arms of his suit, he’s capable of looking the dragonkin in the face. Scowling, he spits to the side. “Fuck you.” The gravelly voice cracks out. “Fuck you and tell me why I don’t rip your fucking head off for the job on that car. Wasn’t dwarfshit there.” He pulls a cigar out of a pocket on his jumpsuit and lights it, inhaling deeply.

Oren slimes broadly at the diminutive man. He’s not being shot at, the day is already looking up for him. “Well, I got a job for you that might…” is as far as he gets before the goblin punches him in the stomach with a metal appendage. This particular one is equipped with a boxing glove, as if its sole purpose is to bludgeon irritants with. Better then the appendage that ends with a knife, at any rate.

“You know what I said I would do to you next time you can around with a dwarffucking job.” The goblin spits off to the side again. You always say you need it, that special touch only old Boggy can bring, and then you set out in front of me some lump of shit that even the most brain-dead dwarf piece o’ shit could build, dismantle, or otherwise tinker into a doomsday trigger. Now, you come here,” He whacks Oren again as he started to stand back up. “Oh. That’s a nice sound the pistons in there are making today. As I was saying, you reeking sack of shit that aint fit to be fed to stump-fucking dwarves, you come here looking for… that old Boggy skill. Science. Tech-no-lo-gy.” He pulls angrily on the cigar. ‘Damnit! Now I’ve forgotten my point. Feh!” He sneers as Oren regains his feet. “The FUCK do you want this time?”

“Can I stand now? Oren wheezes out.

“Stand up and find out, fucker.” The goblin replies, grinning wide around his cigar.

Oren tentatively pulls himself back up into a normal standing position, just in time to watch the knife appendage stop an inch short of his left eye. “Made you blink, dwarfshit!” The goblin cackles madly, swaying from side to side, the knife appendage miraculously never moving an inch.

“Very funny Bog.” Oren replies, his body unclinching, for some reason he ever remembers how these exchanges with Bog usually go. He opens his mouth to start into his proposal when a stray thought catches in his mind. “You know, you’ve never explained why you hate dwarves so much.” He says offhandedly as he realigns his thoughts for the coming pitch so as to avoid a fatal stabbing.

“Simple.” The goblin replies. “Dwarves aint worth their weight in their own shit.” His grin is wide and impish, and doesn’t wither at all under Oren’s glare. “Seriously? You ever seen dwarves work? THEY DON’T FUCKING GET IT!” Bogwizzle screams at Oren. “They can’t understand science, so they try to do everything by blindly groping their way through the dark, cocks out, just waiting to find the ‘lectrical jack! Fucking clowns!” It is a supreme effort of willpower for Oren to not laugh at the tirade. “They get by just knowing how to piece things together and when they come to a point where a hammer, nails, and some glue won’t suffice, they don’t fucking LEARN how to get around it, they just wave their shiny little pricks about and hope that the magic they shat up will hold the damned chassis together!” Bogwizzle huffs, drawing on his cigar some more and Oren moves to cut the goblin off before he can build up another head of steam.

“Forget I asked, Bog, please.” He rubs at his eyes for a moment longer before mustering the courage to continue on with his proposal. “I’ve got something that I want you to make that may just pose a challenge to you.” He fishes out a folder from the inside of his coat and hands it over to the goblin, hoping that his shift into a stance that will allow for easy dodging will go unnoticed.

The mechanic barely looks at the first page before he goes white, shaking with fury. “YOU STUMP-FUCKING DWARF! YOU SHIFTY-EYED, HILL-DWELLING, ILLITERATE, BROTHER HUMPING, LUMP OF DWARFSHIT! YOU WANT ME TO BUILD A FUCKING TYRANT ENGINE!?!” Each word is punctuated by a crazed hop and a wild swing of the knife and glove appendages. The goblin’s screaming fury boils to the point where he cannot form coherent invective, which, a small part of Oren’s mind notes, is a feat hereto unwitnessed by the dragonkin. Somehow, though, his frantic screaming get’s through to the goblin, just as he finishes untangling an ancient looking revolver from his belt. “CHECK THE PAPERS AGAIN, CHECK THEM AGAIN!” He bellows, as his life depends on it. He thrusts a lose piece of paper into the goblin’s face, thankfully the last page of the schematic.

“Oh.” The goblin says, his eyes latching onto all the details the last page contains. Quickly he scoops up the other pages of the packet and flips through them. “Sorry about that, Dwarfshit. FINALLY, you bring me something worthy of my talents.” He stares off into space, pondering something. “I can make this work, price depends on what you want done with it. Significantly cheaper if you’re going to stick it into someone you hate.” A bloodthirsty twinkle is in his eye.

“I am almost afraid to ask, Bog, but why does that matter?” Oren asks, still in a defensive stance, the adrenaline in his system keeping him from feeling a several minor cuts he suffered during the brief altercation.

“You mean I never gave you the demo?” The goblin asks incredulously. “Tech and magic don’t work so well together, kid. Gotta be REAL fucking careful when designing something that’s got them both.” He pulls a lever and a door opens in one of the walls. “Here, I’ll show you what I mean.” He beckons Oren to follow him down a dimly lit corridor. At the end of it there is another door, apparently three feet thick and made of solid steel. Bog stops and inserts the ends of three of his appendages into a set of latches into the wall and twists. The wall opens up to reveal a strange transparent, cylindrical container with a crystalline cube suspended in the middle. “Now, I’m going to set this down in the other room and set the containment field here to shut off in ten seconds. You’ll want to get as much air out of your lungs as you can before that.”

The goblin grabs the container with an arm and hits a panel on the wall, opening the door. Not quite sure what to expect, Oren follows the goblin’s directions as he sets the container down gingerly, whacks it a few times, and sprints out of the room, hitting a button hat causes the door to slam shut behind him. Ten agonizing seconds pass, and yet nothing happens. “Hrm. What sort of dwar…” the goblin starts before the world goes photonegative, and Oren is shaken so hard he’s not sure his teeth are still intact. “There we go.” Bogwizzle wheezes before opening the door again.

The inside of the room looks as if it’s been hit by the hammer of some giant god, cracked and split and scorched. In the epicenter of the blast the air looks strange, thick and syrupy. “You’ll not want to actually touch that.” Bogwizzle drawls around a fresh cigar. “I’ld tell you what that is, but you don’t have enough Ph.D.s to understand. I’ll just simplify it to a point where a fucking child could understand. That thing would make what happens to something tossed into a black hole look pleasant. And shorter.” At Oren’s quizzically raised eyebrow, the goblin cackles. “Yes. I’ve got three, in the back. How do you think I power this place?”

“It’s for me.” Oren says quietly. “The device is going to go in me.” He looks imploringly at the goblin. “I need it to stand a chance in something yet to come.”

Bogwizzle nods solemnly. “Alright then. You’ll be sucking down sunshine like it was milk and fucking honey by tomorrow afternoon.”

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

The first thing Oren is conscious of is a mote of fire in his chest, like the flames of his draconic form were burning in him even now. He struggles into a sitting position, his eyes adjusting slowly to the pitch blackness. Machinery grinds and the sudden shaft of sunlight the pierces down through a hole in the ceiling blinds Oren momentarily. Slowly he takes a step towards it, one foot after another until he’s standing within arms reach of the pool of light. “If I never ask another thing, please don’t let me explode.” He whispers to himself as he reaches out a trembling hand. The instant his fingers enter the light an electric bolt shoots up his arm and into his chest, the path numbing and them warming. As the seconds draw on and it’s apparent that he’s not going to die horribly, he sticks more of his arm into the light, and the warmth grows, infusing Oren with a profound sense of warmth, safety, and vitality..

I’m not dead yet.

No, child, you’ve become the Sun.

Epilogue
"I'm going to kill him, I swear to Azemodous himself, if It takes a hundred years, I'll kill him," says Jericho, sipping a cup of coffee. His face is heavily bandaged, and most of his head is hidden beneath a snap brimmed fedora. What's underneath is a massive gaping hole where Jacob had knocked his brains out. "And once I've killed him, I'm dragging his soul to hell with me so I can torment him for eternity." He points to his bandaged face. "HE MADE ME UGLY."

Muckrock simply grunts, sitting feebly at the outdoor cafe. He still hasn't gotten used to his new legs, as the regeneration hadn't worked as well as he had hoped.

"Oh, don't complain," admonishes Jericho. "It cost me everything I had just to get us back onto the plane in these forms. Be happy we've got anything at all, it's not like you had any credit." Muckrock grumbles and crushes his water bottle in a gigantic fist. He grunts angrily.

"We're blending in," says Jericho. "Try to act like a mortal, for crying out loud. There he is." Jericho sees Jacob entering an auto parts store. Muckrock stands from the table with a start, ready to charge after Jacob.

"Calm yourself," says Jericho, pushing Muckrock back into his seat. "We must be patient and wait. Let him become happy again. Then we crush him and tear his soul out." Jericho arcs electricity through his coffee cup, bringing the drink to a boil. "Believe me, he's going to pay."

Many Years Ago, Africa

Wander sat with the Proud. The Elders and those counted Wise. Those who counted as Friend were also there. They sat in their human forms now, but even so they were unmistakeably Lion. The sat in a circle, around a roaring fire.

Te'earra rose, and walked, slowly, gracefully to Wander.

"He who walks between us, we name you Lion Friend."

She knelt before him, pressing her fingers into his face, every now and again her claws breaking his skin. It was painful but not at all unpleasant.

When she was done, she pulled clay from the fire pit, old clay, creation clay, spat in it for moisture, and worked it into a replica of Wander's skull. Though she had felt it only through his flesh, her fingers were accurate. Last she scraped the already dry blood from her fingernails onto the model.

Wander was surprised. This was unheard of. This rite was solely for the Proud. Their heroes, gods, and most beloved of Elders. It was not performed lightly, the head of rebirth. Every Lion every where had to approve for it to even be considered.

"I feel," said Wander, "This is too great a reward for the service I have performed for you."

Even as he said these words, he saw, through the strange, a sliver of his soul slip away, and anchor itself to the clay skull. They would always be connected.

"Oh, Blessed Stalker," Te'earra laughed, and she crawled forward and kissed Wander's lips. "Our cubs are safe. No reward is too great."

Wanders eyes grew wide with surprise, and the Proud fell to laughter.



The Moon, present day

In a cave near a spring, a body, a lifeless shell, lies alone, staring blankly into the black.

In a cataclysm of converging probabilities, the Infinity appears.

It looks at the body on the ground, and frowns.

It takes a leather bound notebook from the coat pocket of its expensive suit.

It scribbles a few words.

It subtracts itself, and is gone.


ElseWere

The crystals and the ice shimmer in this realm. It is a realm of light.

The Dream of the Dreamer lies frozen here. A tomb of ice surrounding her broken, dying body. Suspended, fighting.

The Stranger is here now, he looks down at her. Even in her weakened state, she is in possession of more grace than any being he has witnessed.

He sighs, in awe, and is struck by how different even his sighs feel in this body. New flesh. He didn't think it would be this hard to get used to. Maybe there is a way to get his old body back. He will ask some of his contacts.

He lays his hand on the top of the cold container, and then The Dream is standing next to him, not a wound about her, although she has also not left her coffin. The Stranger is once again taken aback by her beauty.

"Max," she says, her lips forming a smile. "How did it go?"

"Well," the Stranger says. "It went as well as can be expected."

"Entremont?"

"I have never heard a vampire scream in so many ways, as the light entered him. But he did not die. So he is certainly strong enough. But do you trust him to do what's right?"

"I really have no idea what Entremont will do. But in what's to come we need variables. Events not written in prophecy. That's what makes him so important."

The Stranger sighs, and rubs his neck. Dream narrows her eyes.

"Oh Max," she says, "Why didn't you tell me... Pride Rebirth?"

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Nothing worries me, Max. But you have been a good friend to me. Let me offer you a gift."

Dream puts her hand to the Stranger's face, and her face next to his, and then into his ear, she whispers his true name.

The tongue she speaks in does not have words, recognisable to you or me, but the meaning is clear.

he walks when all is still

And for the first time - The very first time since he started wandering -

Max feels like himself.

Cairn

Underneath a blood-spattered gray sky, the wriggling pulsing tower of veins and muscle speaks,
"Abstained from the above-world again once more."
"The days have changed."

Next to the shivering veins and sinew, a graying, mildewed hand unburrows itself from a mound of shivering maggots that mewl endlessly like cats hungering for milk.  The hand's fingers form a mouth and speak in response,
"We seek only the beyond, and they would give us the oblivion."

A skull rolls forward, its head rattling like a dicebox.  It comes to a stop, splitting open, three mummified heads rolling out.  They speak in one voice,
"Twas only Paddok Ka, who was so brazen."

The mound of veins writhes on itself, agitated, squirming back and forth like a worm seeking light. 
"Only Paddok Ka"

The mildewed hand rolls in the mewling maggots, kicking its fingers like a cockroach flipped on its back. 
"Only Paddok Ka"

"Herein comes the quarry, Paddok Ka, of the Chattering."
"Do heed."
"Do heed."

A slowly drifting cloud of haired worms, turning lazily in the air, drifts nearby, as if passing.  Faintly can be heard the screams of the haired worms as they tumble endlessly through the air in the distance.  The cloud speaks,
"Sing greeting."

"Sing greeting, Paddok Ka."
"Sing Greeting."
"Sing greeting."

The cloud presses in on itself, twirling tighter.  It speaks,
"Our wills indomitable, our causes are many."

The mummified heads lick their chapped lips and speak,
"As are the dead."
"Many." the hand and the maggots concurs.
"And yet the songs of the shadowless coloured continue, unbidden yet heard." adds the veins and sinew.
"The sky roils yet red."
"The ground stirs yet black."
"The horizon of the twilight of our golden sun bids us yet from marches unseen."

The cloud twitches, the screams of the haired worms briefly becoming louder.
"Each dead carries the daggers of permanency."
"Yes."

In the distance, a hunched shadow with four legs and two arms lumbers over the the horizon, passing by.

"Unwise was the nightwalkers' association.  Petulant, untrustworthy."
"Yes."

Overhead, a flock of insects the size of a human head buzzes madly by.

"Foul are the changers' magics.  Earthly, unbecoming."
"Yes."

The cloud collects on itself, thickening, the howling worms gathering in clumps that thrash and struggle against each other.
"Only one question remains."

An eye, formed of sizzling blue electricity, perched atop of a column of sizzling blue electricity, drifts to a stop next to the cloud of crying, screaming haired worms. 

The eye speaks,
"No.  Only two questions remain."

The cloud of haired worms drifts,
"She Who Was Kallia of the Fifth Circle."

The pile of veins and sinew pulsate, the shape of several of the veins defining themselves with the effort.
"Sing greeting.

The mummified heads roll into each other, the tops of the heads grinding togetherwith a dry scraping noise.
"What question could possibly remain."

The maggots crawl up onto the hand, caressing the motionless flesh.
"I know what question remains.

"The question of Iszatz Imhotz Imoun Doz, and he, our brother, who was charged with his return."

"Garaszthenizatzatalu of the Bale."

"Lost to the above." the veins say.

"Our brothers and thus they know our love." the cloud of worms say.

"And yet lost, irrevocably." the mummified heads say

"Irrevocably." the hand perched atop maggots concurs.

"Like the Twin Soul Chaotic." the sinews agree

"We shall attain them when time and space bids."

The electric eye departs.

Things chatter in the darkness.

The mummified heads collect and right themselves, tugging at the skull.  Again, they speak,
"No longer will we wait.  Stagnation awaits us in inaction, and yet demise sits at the end of reliance.  We no longer need the changers' whelps or the nightwalkers' bones to stir ourselves into the above." 
"No."
"Then our wait ceases."
"Our wait ceases."
"Stirred from the bowels of the dragonchild's library was the book.  With it, our spirits indisposable, shall no longer be cast unto a void from whence they cannot be retrieved.  On the eve of the Harajj comes the great black, and with it the howls of our light."

"Our light!" screams the hand, thrashing atop its bedding of mewling maggots.
"At last." the veins and sinews hisses, quivering.
"The long awaited end of our debility." shrieks the cloud of worms.
"Yes!" gnashes the mummified heads.

And with that, they parted.

(I only managed to finish it today, but better late than never, I guess)

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

It's either very early in the morning or very late at night, a couple hours after the boat that escaped from the island made dock. A cab pulls up to the curb near Rosamond's apartment. The door opens and she climbs out, leaning heavily on the door. Her jacket's been tied tightly around her waist, and it takes her a minute to fumble her wallet out. She pulls out a handful of money and shoves it wordlessly at the driver. The cab glides off into the city.

Her door is only around the corner of the building, but she walks slowly, leaning on her sword. It takes her a while to get there. When she reaches it, she leans on the wall for a minute, forehead pressed against the brickwork. Another minute is spent getting her keys out of her pocket. Finally she gets the door open.

She heads straight to the bathroom and draws a bath. The water is lukewarm. There's a canister of epsom salts in the cabinet, as well as some table salt. Three carefully measured cups go into the bath, emptied into the froth below the tap. Her jewelry goes into a little dish by the sink. She doesn't look in the mirror as she deposits it. Once the tub is full, she sits on a stool and carefully undresses, wincing.

Her legs have an impressive array of bruises and minor scratches with a good bit of dried blood around them. Her arms are in the same state. When she unties the jacket, it's dark and wet where it touched her skin. Her shirt comes off and reveals a long, purple-green mottling of bruising from her collarbone down past her belly button. There are deep scrapes in the bruise, and a bad gash on her stomach surrounded by more dark brown dried blood. All the injuries look like they've already been healing for a few weeks; the bruises are yellow at the  edges, and the cuts and scrapes are showing scabs and scar tissue.

The black tee shirt she was wearing goes in the trash.

She lowers herself into the bath, an inch at a time The water quickly becomes tinged brownish-red. She lets some down the drain, draws more, adds a bit of salt.

After a while, she gets up, bandages what is now a bad cut on her stomach, and goes to bed.

The next morning she wakes up enough to make a few phone calls, then goes back to sleep. That evening a man dressed in a dove grey suit shows up at her door and she drags herself out of bed to answer it.

"Good evening, Miss Bamborough. I have your prescription and the books you requested."

"Hrm. Hi Edwards." She grabs the little paper sack, tears it open, scans the label on the little orange bottle. She takes three of the big white pills. Edwards looks decidedly uneasy at this. Rosa ignores it. She nods in the direction of the stack of books wrapped in brown paper. "That can't be all of them. I asked for all of the books that were mine."

"Your mother says some are currently in the library in England..."

"What?"

"Your aunt needed them."

"What for?"

"Your mother says she is working on the... problem with your great grandmother Vannah."

Rosa snorts. "She's not hurting anyone. She has plenty of fish. If that hasn't changed in seventy-five years, it's unlikely to change any time soon." She winces in pain and leans on the doorjam, her eyes seeming to darken in pain from bright blue to grey blue. "She's probably a hell of a lot happier than she was before."

Edwards shifts uncomfortably. "It is the principle of the thing, miss."

Rosa sighs and pushes herself upright. "I guess. I bet Mother asked her to look into it again. Oh well... Can you put those on the kitchen table? I am afraid that I am having a bit of difficulty at the moment." She limps into the apartment and goes back to her bedroom, clutching her pill bottle. Stopping in the doorway, she looks back to where Edwards is unwrapping and carefully stacking the books: some are new, some are older with leather or canvas covers, and some reek of ancient musty vellum and are what book collectors and librarians charitably describe as "somewhat foxed".

"Thanks, Edwards."

"Of course, miss. Shall I give your mother your regards?"

"...Would you not if I asked you not to?"

"Probably not, miss."

They shared a brief smile.

"Well, fine. Just don't make it sound too bad, please?"

"For your sake, Miss Rosamond."

"Thank you," she whispers. This time when she goes to bed, she sleeps for a few days, half-waking every so often and taking more pills. She's unsure of how many, or how long she is in bed. She's finally woken by the smell of cigarettes.

She looks around and hears someone in the kitchen. Walking out of her room, she finds a middle aged woman dressed in a stylish business suit and pearls sitting at the kitchen table, using a saucer as an ashtray.

"Hello, Mother."

The woman looks Rosa up and down.

"Good god, duck. You look like utter shit."

Rosa gets herself a glass of water and sits down at the table. "I hope the flight went okay."

Her mother waves a hand, trailing a ribbon of smoke. "It did, thank you. You should  change that bandage. It's gone crusty and it smells."

"I'll do it directly after your visit."

"And you should let me move you into a nicer place and out of this basement. It's not like it would be a burden..."

"I'm fine here, mother. I like it here." She takes a long drink of water as her mother studies her.

"Hmm." Mrs. Bamborough takes a drag from her cigarette, finishes it, stumps it out, and fishes another out of her purse. "So. What's this I've heard about werewolves, vampires? And if my associates aren't mistaken, there's been considerable demonic activity in this city recently. Dr. Roberts tells me you recently called in a prescription for 30 500mg pills of ibuprofen with codeine? What are you thinking with that dosage, even for you? Not to mention the bill I got for repairing your brother's car, and - I shudder to even say it - searching it for bombs?"

"We did fine, Mother. There were some bad things happening to innocent people. I helped stop it. And I'll be all healed soon. I need that dosage to have any effect. It won't hurt me. Nothing at all happened to Derrick, I promise."

"Hmm." They sit and regard each other for a while. "Your father would approve." Rosa is silent. "I am not sure I do. But..." Mrs. Bamborough pauses to flick ash into the saucer. "...I don't suppose I can stop you. You always did have the most fun when the shit was hitting the fan. You can't do this forever, though, duck."

"Mother?"

"Sooner or later you have to acknowledge your responsibilities."

"Oh, Mother..."

"Hush, I'm talking. Now, your brother should have no trouble finding a nice girl and passing on the name and line, so I am not worried about him. No, I am still talking. You are coming quite to close to endangering yourself, and bringing on your... condition. I want you to exercise more caution in the future, for the sake of everyone around you, if not yourself and your immortal soul. Hush! I am speaking. Another thing. You haven't put a word in your journal for the past year. That needs to be remedied. You owe the family an account of your experience, for future generations' reference. You know how much it helped you when you were younger, to read them." Rosa glowers. "Oh, don't look at me like that. Now, since you seem at least mostly ambulatory, get yourself cleaned up. Our flight leaves in a few hours."

"What?!"

"Did you not hear me, darling?" Rosa starts to protest, but her gathering anger is smothered by the steel in her mother's eyes. She deflates.

"Yes, Mother."

"Oh, good. Now, you'll only be gone a few weeks, don't worry about it..."

"But! They might need me here...!"

"I daresay that 'they' will be fine for a little while. Now, please get ready. Oh, don't pout. It will be so restful. You can write in the mornings, we've quite upgraded the library so you can just do it on your computer... then do whatever you like in the afternoons... listen to your music, go riding or hiking, do your own reading in the library, post around in that LiveJournal account of yours... Really, darling, did you think I didn't know? Your mother is neither stupid nor technologically illiterate. No, not those clothes. You look like some sort of punk lesbian. Don't you have the nice dresses I sent you? Or those blouses and slacks? Ah, much better."

Mrs. Bamborough smiles as Rosa moves from the bedroom to the bathroom and back again. Her hair is now brushed and she's wearing a pair of form-fitting pants and a stylish, pretty blouse. Her jewelry is not in evidence. Rosa sticks out her chin and looks at her mother mulishly, clutching a locked box to her chest.

"Oh, Rosa... surely you can leave that behind." Rosa narrows her eyes. Her mother sighs and puts out her cigarette. "Fine, then. But try not to wear so much at once, it looks barbaric." Mrs. Bamborough stands. "I suppose it could be worse. It could be those damned china teacups like your sixth-great-Aunt Abigail. I swear, I think we've found them all, and another one turns up hidden in an old hatbox or behind the jars in the pantry. They're worse than mice."  Rosa looks smug.

She cuddles her box as she follows her mother to their car. It's not so bad. It will be nice to see Aunt Laura... and then I can get my books back. He might want any of them, so the more I have to offer, the happier he'll be. I can't imagine losing it all like that... Dad would be proud of me for my charity. She smiles to herself, squeezing her box of jewels contentedly. I hope I get back before he comes to get them. Oh, I really hope he's very happy when he sees what I have for him!