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Inferno- Part III

Chapter Fifteen

"Thanks for the lift, Charon," Blair called, giving a jaunty wave to the shade as the old terror pushed away from the shore in disgust.

"Having fun yet?" Jim asked, smiling at his partner's antics.

"Oh, yeah. Who's up next?"

"He is."

Blair turned around to see a huge snake moving toward them. The part that was upright was taller than Jim, and didn't include the rest which coiled up behind him as he stopped. "Only the dead belong here!" the creature hissed. "Go back, or die!"

Blair surreptitiously took a step behind Jim. He wasn't being cowardly, but practical. Jim was the one who was buddy-buddy with the angels; therefore, dealing with giant snakes was his responsibility.

"I have no quarrel with you, Minos," Jim said, spreading his hands to reveal he wasn't a threat. "We are merely passing through."

"No one comes through until I judge them."

"We are not yours to judge."

"You are here."

"In search of others you had no business judging," Jim countered.

"I judge all."

"You are merely a secondary magistrate. Those who come to you for judgment have already been judged, and found wanting. We are not those. Let us pass." It was a calmly delivered order, but an order nonetheless.

Green reptilian eyes challenged blue human ones-- and lost. "Your souls will belong to me soon enough," the parting snake warned.

Blair shivered. "What did he mean by that?"

"If we die here, we stay. I mean, who's going to come rescue us? Michael didn't even want me to come," Jim replied, as they continued across a rocky stretch.

"This doesn't bother you?"

Jim shrugged. "Why should it? I don't intend for us to die here."

Us. Blair liked the fact he used the word us. He followed the Warrior a few minutes more, before halting at the sight before them. "Uh, man, did we take a wrong turn somewhere?" he asked, staring at the lovely pastoral scene spread out on the horizon. The shades there frolicked in the lush green grass, laughing, or just basking in the sunlight.

"This is the First Circle of Hell, Chief. It's called Limbo, and it's reserved for those guilty of the Crime of Ignorance."

"Ignorance is a crime? This must be one crowded circle, huh?" Blair teased. His eyes widened as they drew closer. "Hey! I know some of these people! Naomi and I lived with that guy over there for a while. He didn't seem like that bad of a person. And there's my physics professor from high school. He didn't seem like a creep to me either."

"He wasn't. These people are ignorant of the Light. They are the Cultists, Atheists, and Agnostics. They did no evil, and are thus not punished by Eternal Torment. They are given this ideal spot--"

"In Hell," Blair tossed out angrily.

"In Hell, because, in their minds, Heaven does not exist. Without the Light, there is no Heaven, Chief. So, they are here in Limbo, kept from the Light forever."

"So, you're saying everyone who doesn't believe in God is going to end up here, even if he or she never did anything wrong in their life? That sounds unfair. What about Wiccans, and Shamans, and--"

"I said 'the Light', not God. A name is just a name, Blair. God is the Light. Yahweh is the Light. Allah is the Light. Nature is the Light. Belief is the key here, Chief. Belief that the universe was created, and is kept. These shades did not believe this in any form, using any name. There was no Light for them, no guiding force, no Creator, no Mother Earth, no Father Sky.... They believed in nothing. Therefore, they spend eternity in Limbo."

The explanation appeased the anthropologist somewhat. "I'm sorry I'm being so difficult, but--"

"You're not being difficult. Perhaps if these shades had learned to question better, they would not be stuck here now," Jim said reasonably. "You gonna be okay with this?"

Blair nodded. He wasn't one to criticize anyone's beliefs, but as Jim said, these shades had not believed in anything or anyone. How had they survived on earth without having any faith at all? "Yeah, man. What's next?"

Jim lay a hand on his shoulder, and guided him around the lush oasis that, if analyzed, wasn't much of an oasis at all. They walked in companionable silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Jim squeezed Blair's shoulder, causing the younger man to look up. In the distance were two tall cliffs with a narrow opening between them. In the narrow opening were gatherings of shades.

"Okay, Mr. Tour Guide, this is your cue," Blair said, curious at what he was seeing. It appeared as if the shades were trying to get up the cliffs in various manners. Some even seemed to be flying.

"This is Circle Two, belonging to those who have committed Crimes of Passion." He pointed to where shades were being buoyed by the wind. "The wind is strong between the cliffs, whipping wildly out of control. The Lusty are caught up into this wind, as they were caught up in lust and its emotions when they were alive. It lifts them, then," he grimaced as a handful of shades were slammed to the rocky ground, "dashes them down in angry dismissal. Also like in life."

"Reaping what you sow again, huh?"

"You will find that's the major theme around here, Chief." Jim pointed to a string of shades crawling up the cliff face. The top one would climb, finding the best foot and hand holds, and the others followed. Then, the second one would reach out for the first, and tug him off the cliff. "Those are the Greedy. They want to make it out, and cooperate for a while, but they always have to be first, have more, be the leader, and eventually, their nature gets the best of them." The tossed shade got up and headed to the end of the string. "They never learn."

Loud voices called their attention to another group of shades. "Those are the Angry. They are so busy fighting, they never even attempt to make the climb. And over there," he nodded to the shades that were climbing, then falling on their own, "those are the Careless. They are easily distracted, and lose their way."

"Carelessness is a sin?"

"They accept responsibility, then don't go through with it. They have children, and leave them locked up in hot cars. They have pets they don't feed. They have jobs that they don't do, or don't do properly, causing accidents and mishaps that kill or maim. How many people have we watched being scraped off an interstate because someone wasn't paying attention?"

"I never really thought of it that way," Blair mused, wincing in remembrance of the times he'd been careless, or said he'd do something, then didn't do it. He often kidded Jim about his strong sense of honor and duty. But now he could see the necessity of being true to your word-- always. "Why am I the only one learning something here?" he asked grumpily.

"You're not," Jim said. "Don't mistake this know-it-all tone of mine as evidence that I do know it all. Some of this I'm just beginning to understand even as I say the words."

"When we get back, we should write this all down-- maybe give someone else a clue."

"You're the writer in the family, Chief," Jim said. "We have to go through the rift now. Watch out for falling shades, okay?"

The writer in the family. I like that, Jim. Blair kept his eyes open for dropping spirits, and followed his partner through the narrow passageway. Since they had gone through a crevasse, he was surprised to find they exited on top of an escarpment. Below and away stood a great walled city. "Wow. What's that?" he whispered.

"The City of Dis, the entranceway into Lower Hell. Beyond the walls are those who have committed Crimes of Deliberation. I don't think you're going to complain much about their torment."

"I haven't been complaining...well, not really. It's just that--" He shrugged.

"It's just that you need explanations. I'm just glad that someone is supplying them for you," Jim said, bopping his friend's arm playfully. "C'mon. We have to get down there." He went over and picked up a thick vine, testing it for strength.

Blair paled, but gathered a vine as well. "Why is everything so downhill?"

"They don't call it the descent into Hell for nothing, Chief." He tied the vines together, and secured it to a sturdy promontory. "I'm going to start down first, then you follow, Sandburg. If you fall, I'll catch you, so you don't have any reason to look down or back. Okay?"

When Jim called for him, Blair blindly stepped back off the side of the escarpment, and into the care and trust of his Sentinel.

*****

Simon took the stairs, hoping the extra time would give him some idea of what to do. Parking on the street and watching someone's apartment wasn't exactly a crime. So, he had no legal recourse to lean on if he wanted to get rid of these people. And he did-- want to get rid of them, that is. Jim had called them ghouls when they showed up the last time, and his friend had been right. Some damn prophecy or something had alerted them to the fact that Jim and Blair were in Hell, and they wanted to sit around and watch. Watching was his territory, not theirs, damn it, and he watched in order to help if needed. They merely watched out of morbid fascination. Pure gawkers. Useless creatures!

Okay. He couldn't play big, bad cop and run them off-- not if they hadn't broken the law, but.... His eyes grew big as an evil thought took form. Then they narrowed, as he chuckled and approached the car. The men were staring attentively at the loft's balcony, unaware of the enemy coming up from the rear. How did they expect-- Even as Simon silently asked himself the question, he saw a collection of scopes in the backseat. The men froze when he cleared his throat at the open window and pulled out his badge.

"Greetings, gentlemen," he said kindly. If he couldn't play bad cop, he'd just play a good one. Really good.

"Uh, hi. Are we doing something wrong, Officer?" the man in the passenger's seat boldly asked.

Yeah. You're ticking me off. Simon smiled. "No. Actually you're doing something right. As a sworn officer of the Cascade P.D., I have the privilege of naming the two of you Cascade Citizens of the Month."

They exchanged a glance, then stared at Simon. "Huh?" they chorused.

"Now, what I'm going to need are your names and addresses," the captain said eagerly. "Of course, I'll have the press come out and take pictures. Probably can guarantee a page one story since everyone is so tired of bad news, you know. So, your pictures will be--"

The men paled. "We're ss-sorry, sir, but we're going to have to decline your offer," the driver stuttered.

"Nonsense!" Simon boomed, whipping out his cell phone. "It'll just take me a minute to call the press and--"

"We aren't even Cascade citizens," Passenger Boy said quickly.

"No? Who are you then? Where do you come from? Why are you here?" Simon shot out.

The driver reached for the keys in the ignition.

Simon grinned again. "It's all right. I know people can be a little shy. Don't worry. The photographer at the Cascade Times is a friend of mine. I'll make sure he only gets your good side. Of course, when you meet with the mayor--" The captain stepped back just in time to keep from getting his foot run over. He tsked as he reached for a cigar. People could just be downright rude.

"Captain, you okay?" Rafe asked, having watched the scene with concern.

"Just fine, Detective. You and your partner haven't found Little Mo yet?" Simon asked, keeping up the pretense they had started.

"No, sir. We're going to stake out the area a little longer, then I think Taggert and Dalton may continue the watch."

"If Little Mo is around here, he should be okay. I'm keeping an eye out for him, you know."

"We know, Captain. But extra eyes never hurt."

Simon sighed, and took a final drag of his cigar. Even with Jim off on another plane, he knew better than to take a lit cigar into the loft. "Whatever you think is best. I'm sure Little Mo will be appreciative of your attentiveness," he added. Jim would be a little embarrassed, but honored by their willingness to sacrifice their off day. "You won't mind if I come out every now and again, maybe have a smoke while we wait?"

"You know us, sir. Always willing to share a stogie. In fact, I think Brown is packing," Rafe said, smiling at his partner.

"Well, carry on, gentlemen. I have no idea when Little Mo will make an appearance. It could be a long night," Simon warned obliquely.

"Just as long as the sun rises in the morning, sir."

Simon nodded, and headed back to the loft. Yeah, he liked that. It didn't matter how long the night was; what really counted was the sunrise in the morning.

You have the heart of a poet, Rafe.

Chapter Sixteen

"You can open your eyes now, Chief," Jim chuckled as he raised a hand to guide Blair safely to the ground.

"Hey, you're the one who told me not to look," Blair griped, ignoring the ridiculous urge to drop to his knees and kiss the sandy dirt.

"Down, Sandburg. I said don't look down or back."

"You say po-tay-to, and I say po-tah-to," Blair singsonged. "Onward to the city, now?"

"In a second," Jim said solemnly. "I want you to look at the gate, and then at this vine, Chief. Remember their relative positions, so if, say, you're running through the gate and you really need to find the vine in a hurry."

"That's why I have a Sentinel with me, Big Guy," Blair answered with a nervous smile.

"I want you to be able to do it yourself."

"Why? You know something I don't, Jim? Have you had a vision about the future, about me coming back through the gate without you? Tell me, damn it!" he demanded.

"It's not a vision, or even a feeling. It's just.... I need you to do this for me, Chief. Please."

Blair nodded. That final "please" had been unnecessary; as soon as Jim had said the word, "need", it had been a done deal. He calculated the angle between the barred gate seated in the stone wall around Dis and the vine dangling from the cliff, and knew he could navigate his way between the two. "I got it, Jim."

His partner nodded. "Good. Now, let's go visit the original Sin City."

Blair, still bothered by Jim's insistence that he be able to find the vine without him, hadn't paid much attention as they crossed the wide field, but was brought to full awareness by Jim's sudden stop in front of him. "What is it, man?"

"We're being watched."

Blair surreptitiously glanced around, and saw nothing. He turned to give his assessment to Jim, then noticed the Sentinel's gaze was fixed on the wall ahead. When he started to ask Jim what he saw, motion made him see it, too. The stone was moving, parts of it extruding outward, then breaking away to become separate-- and living. As these former pieces of mismatched stone moved forward, the rock became corporeal entities-- tall, fierce warriors, armed with swords and metal shields. As Blair watched, more parts of the wall extruded, and dozens of the beings headed in their direction. "W-who, Jim?"

"Dark Angels," Jim replied flatly. "Those who chose to side with Lucifer."

Oh. Definitely not the friendly sort. "Is this when I'm supposed to remember where the vine is?"

"No. We have not come all this way to be turned back by some candy-assed angels who had it all, and threw it away!" Jim said loudly. "If this is the best you have, no wonder Michael kicked your asses. Stone Angels, huh? Sounds like a 'rock' band. Get it?" he jeered, laughing.

"Human!" The word was spat out like an epithet by the lead angel. "You dare challenge us on our Holy Ground!"

"Unholy Ground, you mean," Jim corrected, as the renegade angels surrounded them. "You know, you really should have bowed when you had the chance."

Blair knew Jim was referring to the real reason behind the war in Heaven. Lucifer and his followers considered themselves higher than man, and refused to bow to mortals, even when ordered. But he didn't think this was the best time to taunt them with the knowledge of everything they'd given up because of their refusal. "Tell me you have a plan," he whispered frantically.

"Not my plan, Chief."

That was the only warning Blair received before lightning split the sky, and thunder rolled so fiercely that it felt as if the ground was boiling beneath them. When his eyes got over the shock of the bright light, Blair saw Jim now possessed a sword-- eerily similar to the one branded into his arm. He gave a sigh of relief, only to belatedly realize one sword wasn't going to do much to deter the armed horde around them. "Any more magic tricks up your sleeve, man?"

"Just one." Jim ran his finger along the edge of the blade he held. He smiled as the blood welled up.

"Jim?" Blair said worriedly. He wasn't planning on doing something sacrificial, was he?

Instead of answering, Jim turned his finger over and let a single drop fall to the ground.

The blood burst into a single blue flame. In a flash, it traveled across the sand, enclosing Jim and Blair in a protective ring, before spreading out like a water ripple. It reached the closest angels and incinerated them on the spot. The furthest angels saw this and began to run, but the flame followed, engulfing all in its path and cremating them in mid-stride. In mere minutes, Blair looked through the smokeless fire and saw nothing but ash around them. Then a wind came, blowing out the flame around them, and gathering the ashes to slam them back against the wall.

Blair looked at the man standing beside him. "What was that?"

"You wanted a magic trick, Chief."

An annoyed tug on a sleeve. "What. Was. That?"

"The reason why the Blood of an Innocent is rarely spilled in Hell," Jim said, his face flushing.

Blair started to worry Jim wasn't feeling well when he realized the older man was embarrassed. Oh. He guessed that being an innocent nearly forty-year-old, ex-soldier, ex-husband, police officer really did sound kind of bad. However, the innocence came not from life experiences-- or lack thereof-- but an innocence, or a purity, of faith. His faith had never faltered-- not when his mother left, his friend Bud was murdered, his family betrayed him, his men died in Peru, nor his Sentinel senses came online. Through it all, despite it all, he never "not believed." That was an admirable achievement, and nothing to be ashamed of. But he knew how much Jim really didn't want to hear that.

"Well, next time warn a guy when you're going to go for self-mutilation," Blair said lightly. "So, what's up with this Dis?"

"It's the capital city of Hell."

"No, it's Vegas," Blair corrected, as they stepped through the unguarded gate and into the city. Garish neon lights assaulted his eyes, and loud music and voices, so many voices, threatened to overwhelm him. He grabbed on to Jim's arm anxiously. "You okay?"

Jim nodded. "Just like Cascade on a Saturday night, huh, Chief?"

Blair rolled his eyes. "If this is your idea of a Saturday night in Cascade, you have got to take me with you next weekend, man." He sobered as a thought struck him. "Is this what you hear every day, Jim?"

Jim shrugged. "Pretty much-- depending on how low or high I set the dial." He focused on their surroundings. "This is where the shades hang out until they take their places in Lower Hell. It sort of lures them into a false sense of 'this ain't so bad'."

Blair noticed the skimpily dressed women and men-- uh, he meant shades-- parading through the city, flirting with patrons at gaming tables, or dancing in night clubs, or just plain-- yep, that's what they were doing-- having sex in any nearby corner. "Yes, I would say the sense of 'ain't so bad' is prevalent here, Jim."

"But when your number is called--" Jim pointed toward a shade being dragged along the street by two burly satyrs-- "you go, no matter what you might have been in the middle of."

Blair suddenly noticed the dragged shade's pants were at his ankles. Oops. Then again, satyrs weren't known for their chastity. "Okay.... So, this place just heightens the coming torment. Makes it a shock to the system, huh?"

"You got it, Ben Franklin."

Ben Franklin? Blair laughed as the non sequitur started making sense. "Shock to the system, right?"

"There's hope for you yet, Sandburg," Jim teased, and tugged his partner through the rest of the city.

It took them nearly an hour to get through the heart of Dis, and Blair had to lower the volume of his running commentary as the sounds slowly faded. "Man, there is nothing like that on earth," he said, looking back at the city.

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, Chief, because it gets pretty ugly from here on out," Jim said softly. "We have entered the actual realm of Crimes of Deliberation. The sinners of Nether Hell are not those who had a weak will, little self-control, or lacked vision to see the Light. These shades actively chose sin, and are punished accordingly."

"No fun ahead, huh?" Blair asked with a shiver.

"No fun at all," Jim agreed.

*****

"And you never found the heads? That's so whacked!" Daryl was exclaiming as Simon entered the loft.

"Everything okay, Captain?" Jack asked, with a searching glance.

"Just fine, Mr. Marshack." Simon looked at his son. "Do I want to know the beginning of that conversation?"

"Micki and Ryan had to track down a scarecrow that was chopping off people's heads," Daryl explained excitedly. "What else, Micki?"

"Why don't you tell him about meeting Bram Stoker?" Jack suggested.

"The author of Dracula?" Daryl asked. Simon raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Dad," the teen sighed. "I did pay attention in Lit class."

"Maybe there's hope for public education, after all," Simon cracked, throwing up his hands in surrender when Daryl glared at him. "I'm sorry I keep interrupting. Please, Ms. Foster, continue."

"Well, Ryan and I were after a broach that turned the wearer into a vampire. What we didn't know was that if blood spilled on the broach, it would take you back in time. Ryan killed one of the vampires with a stake from a realtor's sign, but that vampire had created another one. Blood-- my blood, actually-- spilled on the broach and suddenly Ryan, the vampire, and I ended up in nineteenth century England. We ended up staying with a nice young couple who didn't believe us about the vampire at first. Then the wife fell under the vampire's spell-- and was murdered. I fell under his spell as well, but Ryan managed to expose the vampire to sunlight, and we were able to use the broach to get home. When we told Jack about the couple, and mentioned that the man's name was Abraham, he figured it out that he had to be Bram Stoker, and that his book had so much realism because it was based on fact. I just know I feel terrible about Caitlin dying."

"So, you went back in time, and one of the best known books in history was written? Sounds like one of those space-time continuum situations in science fiction," Daryl mused. "I think Caitlin had to die, Micki, and that you and Ryan had to do what you did as well. Or history would have changed."

"This isn't one of those chicken/egg things?" Simon asked, frowning.

"Yes, Dad," Daryl said patiently, patting his father's knee as if to say he would explain it to him-- in real, real simple terms-- later, in private. "Any other time traveling?"

Micki nodded. "We went back to the Civil War using a cursed projector. A man was using the object to go back to the Civil War to pick up items that he then sold to antique dealers for a great deal of money. When he tried to steal Robert E. Lee's sword, Ryan and I went back to stop him. Later, we found a picture of Ryan as a Civil War spy in one of the old history books."

"Cool. Anything else? You ever time travel, Jack?" Daryl asked eagerly.

"Johnny and I went back to 1954," Jack answered slowly. "The object was a radio for a '54 Chevy. If you wiped blood on it, the car took you back to that year."

"Why would anyone want to go to that year?"

"The person who possessed the radio-- his father had been executed in 1954."

"Executed? As in capitol punishment?" Simon asked, now fully interested in the story he'd only been half-listening to. "What was the crime?"

"He killed a black sharecropper. He was a member of the Ku Klux Klan."

"Damn," Simon muttered. "Why did the son want to go back?"

"To kill the black lawyer who brought the charges against him."

"What happened?"

"Johnny and I managed to save the lawyer, so the man did hang for the murder."

"And the son?"

"Because of what he knew, the KKK thought he was a spy for the federal government. They burned him at the stake before we could get him back to the right time."

"Good," Daryl said bitterly. He could feel the residual anger emanating from his father, and knew Simon was recalling his own memories of those times. He tried to think of something to distract him, and managed to scrape up a grin. "Hey, Pop, since you want me to ditch the idea of being a cop--"

"Not ditch it, son. Just want you to go to college first, then decide," Simon interrupted. Daryl never seemed to understand he had nothing against his son being a cop. But the career could wait four years while he finished his education...and perhaps chose a much safer career path.

"Whatever," Daryl said with a shrug. "Maybe I could get a job at Curious Goods, and help retrieve cursed objects."

If Simon could have paled, he would have. "What about helping Jim?" he asked a little desperately. At least he trusted Jim to watch out for Daryl. "I thought you were supposed to be on his team."

Daryl debated whether to help his dad and friends, or help a beautiful woman like Micki. Sadly, he realized how much he had matured when he discovered it really wasn't a hard choice. "Sorry, Micki. My place is here, with Jim and Blair and Dad."

"It's the fight that counts, Daryl," Jack said. "Not the where, or the who, or the how."

"Besides, you'll have Ryan back to help you," Daryl pointed out.

"Yeah," Micki said, her eyes lingering on the silent forms beneath the dome. "Yeah, we'll have Ryan to help us." Her fingers crossed as Jack's hand enveloped hers.

Chapter Seventeen

"I don't like this place already," Blair said as the air grew hot and arid. A great desert stretched before them, a torrid wind swirling from it.

"This is Circle Three-- reserved for the Deceivers, aka the frauds and the liars."

"They fry in the heat, or what?"

"Watch."

A herd of shades-- they reminded Blair of a bunch of stampeding cows-- came from the west. Behind them was a sheet of flame spanning across the sand. Blair sort of wondered why they even bothered to run; it was obvious the flame was moving faster than they were. The flame reached them, and instead of incinerating them as the anthropologist had expected, it merely knocked them to the ground, then kept on going. The shades, all knocked on their backs, began to shriek, and Blair realized something was happening to them. Their bodies were distorting, the skin stretching and ripping, bones snapping, as their forms were altered. When it was all over, instead of a herd of shades, Blair faced a herd of reptiles.

"Damn," he mumbled.

"Are they men, or are they lizards? Their form was never very clear on earth, their truth always altering. So, here, when the flame hits them, they undergo painful transformations. They wear their deceit for all to see," Jim intoned. "The desert's not too big, so we can walk around it."

"Not many frauds and liars?" Blair asked in surprise.

"Not many who stopped at such a sin. Hell is like a buy-one-get-one-free sale; you pay for the sin that costs the most."

"Oh."

They walked around the edge of the desert for a while, encountering other herds who fought to stay ahead of the sheet of flame, and lost. Then Blair's nose twitched, and he found himself smelling the most awful stench he'd ever had the misfortune of smelling.

"Oh, man, I hope your sense of smell is in the negative numbers," he said as he switched to breathing through his mouth.

"We are approaching Circle Four-- the Marsh of Styx."

"Thought it was a river," Blair commented, remembering the band of the same name.

"Take a good whiff, Chief. Does that smell anything like a free-flowing river to you?"

"No. It smells more like a backed up sewer."

"Quite an appropriate comparison. The sewers of Dis empty here."

Soon, they walked up on the slime-encrusted bog, and Blair swore he could see the stench wafting up into the air. "Where are the shades?" he asked, as his eyes watered from the smell.

Jim pointed toward the center of the water, and Blair could suddenly make out the shapes that sometimes bobbed to the top of the foul water. They were covered in slime, and indecipherable sludge. "And they are?"

"Those guilty of Vice: gambling, prostitution, pornography, narcotics, racketeering, you name it."

"So now they get to play in the muck they traded in, right?"

"By George, I think he's got it," Jim exclaimed in a lousy British accent.

"Oh, man. Guess we need to get some tapes of The Professionals for you to watch, so you can get the accent right. Of course, watching those Bonanza episodes didn't do you a bit of good."

"Hey, I was doing fine until Freeman blew my cover," the offended man protested. "The Professionals was that show about British black ops specialists, right?"

"Well, they weren't exactly black ops--"

"Trust me, Chief. They were."

Blair started to argue, then realized Jim was speaking from experience. Before he could good-naturedly concede, he spotted a familiar face. "Hey, Jim! Isn't that--"

"Moses Temple," Jim murmured the missing snitch's name. "Little Mo!" he called loudly.

The shade bobbed to the surface, trying to find out who called his name. With effort, he swam/waded closer to them. "Det. Ellison and his Tonto. Never thought I'd see the two of you here."

"Don't get too excited; we're just visiting," Jim said dryly. "Rafe and Brown have been looking for you. Want to pass on a clue about the whereabouts of your body?"

"Franklin's Salvage. A yellow refrigerator over next to a toilet."

"And the culprit?"

"Joey Basso. He's the new fence in Cascade...and he's also an enforcer for the Manolo Brothers. I stumbled upon that information, then stumbled upon my death," Little Mo said, as he moved closer to the dry land.

Jim heard something racing toward them, and he managed to pull Blair out of the way, just as a three-headed dog bounded into the water and forced Little Mo back into the center. With a snarl of all three mouths, he then turned toward the two entities not in the marsh. Slime and mud from the Styx dripped from his large fangs.

Jim held out his sword. "No, Cerberus! We are not escaping shades! Let your nose be your guide!"

The beast approached, sniffing them with his three noses. With a satisfied snarl, he turned around and went back to his patrol.

"Well, that got the ol' adrenaline pumping," Blair said shakily. "So, do we walk around this like we did the desert?"

"Nope. Way too big. It's time for another boat ride."

Blair blinked, and the boat appeared. It was a small, flat-bottomed, canoe-like craft, and he knew he'd seen one like it before. "The bayou!" he exclaimed as he remembered. "They used this type of boat to navigate the bayou."

"A pirogue, Chief. They used them to recover the Lost Ones."

"Why do you do that, man?"

"Do what?"

"Name them like that: the Lost Ones, the Forty-Two? Is it easier for you to think of them as a group than as individuals?" Emotionally, I mean?"

Jim shook his head. "That's the way they come to me, the way they communicate. Remember how hard it was when the Forty-Two tried to reach me individually? My mind became too crowded. So, they merged and now they, as well as the others who come, contact me as a collective. But there are individuals who will remain individuals. Alicia has not become part of the Lost Ones, and Michael Prescott has not melded into the Baltimore Nine. They are both separate entities."

Blair nodded his understanding, and Jim glanced away from him as the boat bobbed at the edge of the marsh. "Phylegas," he said to the tall, thin boatman. "Take us across."

Phylegas looked mournfully at the whip in his hand. He had the authority to torment the shades he carried to the other side, but he knew his authority did not carry to these two. "Come, then."

The journey across the marsh was interrupted many times by the bold shades who tried to clamber over the sides, or tried to entice Jim and Blair into allowing them to board.

"Come on, baby. Minnie will do you right."

"Hey, tall and handsome, want me to do you both?"

"Ain't you sweet-looking with all that hair. Let Tommy make you feel good."

"You boys looking for a job? My stable could really use you."

"I bet you photograph well. I could put you into movies-- tasteful ones. Really. Just let me--"

Phylegas' whip sang as it forced the shades back. "This is almost as satisfying as beating my passengers," he said gleefully.

"I'm happy for you, man," Blair muttered, making sure he stayed in the center of the boat until it bumped against the opposite shore.

His nose wrinkled again as he followed Jim through the dark jungle that existed on this side of the Styx. "Don't tell me-- there's another marsh ahead?" Jim shook his head. "A cesspool? A slaughterhouse?"

"A river."

"A river?"

"Of boiling blood."

Blair gasped, and willed his stomach to remain in its current position.

*****

"So, are Jim and Blair into Feng Shui?" Micki asked as she looked around the loft. She knew she was sort of snooping, but so far, the captain hadn't called her on it.

"Feng Shui?"

"Feng Shui is the art of comprehending how the natural energy of life affects us in our daily life. It's an Eastern practice of finding balance using the five elements and the seasons, by the energetic identification of the directions of your dwelling and the rooms inside it."

"Sounds like something Sandburg might be into," Simon said with a grunt.

"He's the one who picked the loft?" Jack asked. "It's really quite difficult to find an existing building that is as balanced as this loft. Whoever chose this place, chose well."

Simon gripped the pen he'd been using to scan the reports he'd been working on. Jim had bought the loft before Carolyn, and had refused to give it up for her. Said that the moment he stepped in the door, he knew it was home. Just how long have you been indulging in this weird shit, Ellison? Apparently a lot longer than any of us, including yourself, has imagined. "Jim's always been a stickler for exactness. Should watch him hang wallpaper some day," he added.

"I'm grateful for the man, myself," Daryl said. "I don't even want to think about the nightmares I would've had in a room papered by you, Dad." He'd heard the story of how Simon had invited Jim and Blair to help him re-do Daryl's room. According to the legend, Jim had eventually kicked the captain out, and had only tolerated Blair because Blair was used to doing everything "exactly" as Jim said.

"You remember that gratefulness when you're begging for spending money at college," Simon growled.

"Oh, most beloved Father, please forgive your remorseful son," Daryl appealed with feigned earnestness.

Simon rolled his eyes. Daryl was getting more and more like Sandburg every day.

"Is this your sister, Daryl?" Micki asked, drifting over to the set of pictures on the bookcase.

Daryl loped over to her side. "No, that's Jim's daughter, Flip. I told you about her. And that's Blair's mom, Naomi. That's Dad and me, of course. I was real young in that one," he added with an embarrassed grin. It had been taken just after Kincaid had taken the police department hostage. "That's two detectives, Brian Rafe and Henri Brown. And that's my uncle, Joel Taggert. He's not really my uncle, but he's an old friend of Dad's, so.... Hey, Dad? You remember the name of Blair's Barbary ape?"

"Larry, I think. Don't tell me they have a picture of him?"

"What do you think?"

Simon sighed. "What I think is that it's time to get something to eat. Anyone have any preferences?"

"Pizza?" Daryl proposed.

Everyone nodded.

Simon let his son take care of getting everyone's favorites, and the teen even went down the block to the corner store for soft drinks.

"Hey, Dad?" he called when he returned, and Simon joined him in the kitchen. "Did you know Uncle Joel and Det. Dalton are staked out outside?"

Simon nodded. "They realized something was going on, and wanted to be of help."

"What are they watching for?"

"There's a group that keeps sniffing around. Jim calls it some kind of cult, and he doesn't trust them. They call themselves the Millennium Group, and they dabble in prophecies and trying to interpret what will happen when the millennium arrives."

"Like interpreting the stuff of Nostradamus or the Book of Revelation?"

"Exactly."

"They think Jim has something to do with the end of the world?"

Simon shrugged.

"Does he?" Daryl questioned worriedly.

The captain started to say no, then realized he had no idea. "All I know is that I trust Jim, son."

Daryl nodded. "Yeah, so do I." With the quick acceptance of youth, he dismissed his worries, and went back to his kitchen duties of getting silverware and plates for the arriving pizza.

Chapter Eighteen

"No way, Jim. Not this time," Blair said, staring at the long drop straight down.

"Relax, Sandburg. I'm not going to ask you to jump off a waterfall of boiling blood...or is that a bloodfall," Jim asked with a curious frown.

"Man, now is not the time for you to exercise your academic curiosity," Blair complained, leaning over one more time to glimpse the sickening pink froth at the bottom of the fall. A bloodfall. Hell was just one bad surprise after another. "How are we going to get down?"

Jim looked around the stark and barren terrain. "I have no idea.."

"What do you mean you have no idea?"

"What part of that didn't you understand, Sandburg?" Jim replied dryly.

"Just ask for help like you did back with the Fallen Angels."

"That wasn't a plea for help, Chief; that was the mental whimper of a terrified man," Jim admitted in grim honesty.

"Really? It didn't look that way to me."

"Never let them see you sweat."

Blair rolled his eyes. "Another game rule, right? I'm beginning to think there are as many game rules as house rules."

"Where do you think I got the idea?"

"I should have known," the anthropologist muttered. He doubted Jim had been as terrified as he said; Blair knew terror on a first-name basis, and knew it could be hidden only so well. A man like Jim probably thought fear and terror were on the same level. Blair knew differently. "So, how do you plan on getting us down there?"

Jim shrugged. "What the hell?" He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. "Hey, can I get some help around here?"

"Well?" Blair asked two seconds later.

"It's Hell, Chief. I'm not sure they recognize the word 'help'--" Jim pivoted, and froze.

Blair followed his gaze and saw this enormous creature crawl up from the side of the deep drop. It had huge, clawed feet, which Blair assumed made it possible for him to climb the sheer slope. Its back was wide and flat like an alligator's but had a series of armored ridges and ended in a barbed tail. Its head was turtle-like, but contained a pig-like snout and boar-like tusks. However, its eyes were what caught and held Blair's attention; his eyes were as warm and brown as a deer's.

"I am Geryon, Master" the beast said, as it stopped near Jim. "My Mistress Lilith bids me do your will."

"Can you take us down into the Abyss?"

"Climb aboard Geryon, Master. I will assist you in your descent."

Jim situated himself in between a couple of the ridges and instructed Blair to do the same. When he was satisfied with both their positions, he urged Geryon forward. As they headed downward, Jim was grateful for the ridges which held them in place. Concentrating on his partner, he could feel his fear, and soothed it the best way he knew how. He talked.

"This, Sandburg, is the reason why you don't make enemies of your old girlfriends."

"It's not something I do deliberately, Jim," Blair reminded him.

"It comes from the type of women you date, Chief. You see, I only date professionals."

"And criminals," Blair muttered, his anxiety already easing as he focused on his conversation with Jim.

"Ah, but professional criminals," Jim added, glad to hear his partner chuckle at that.

"Let me remind you that Sam was a professional," Blair pointed out. "And she was the worst one."

"True. I guess it's just your lousy taste in women."

"You don't want to go there, man."

"How many of your former ladies would be gracious enough to send you help in Hell? She might be a demon, Chief, but you have to admit, Lilith has class."

"Fine, Jim. You date the classy women, and I date-- well, I date. So, where are we headed?" Blair asked, deftly changing the topic.

"Into the Abyss, where dwells those guilty of Violence. We'll undoubtedly run into a few shades we knew in life."

Blair nodded. He'd come to accept violence as a part of his life since he'd met Jim. Not that he liked it, not that it still didn't scare him how savage man could be, but it was part of the Sentinel, part of the Warrior, part of Jim.... Acceptance had come reluctantly, but it had been necessary. He lost himself in that thought, and was surprised when the gentle bouncing/swaying gait he'd become accustomed to, stopped. He was equally surprised to find himself on level ground.

"Thank you, Geryon," Jim said formally as he jumped lightly from the beast.

"Yeah, thanks," Blair said. "Why are you here? You don't seem evil?" he questioned, giving the beast a pat on the back.

"I am a monster, created by evil magick. I am ugly. I have no where else to be," Geryon replied. "I will wait here, Master, in case you have further need of me."

"That's sad, Jim," Blair said as he trailed after his partner. "He might have been created by evil, but he's not."

"I know, Chief. But, remember, there is little I can do here."

"I know. And I wasn't asking you to do anything, really. I just.... It's sad, man."

Jim squeezed his arm in sympathy. "Yeah, it is. So is this." He pointed to the stark stand of trees in front of them.

Blair wanted to call it a forest because there were so many trees, but they had few leaves and the branches were thin and weak. It just wasn't "hardy" enough to be considered a forest. As he watched, a big, dark bird with the head of a woman, landed on one of the branches. A soft moan floated through the air. The bird fluttered around, tapping her beak against the branch, and the moan turned into a full-blown groan. Finally, she drove her pointed beak into the weak wood, then cawed gleefully as the branch cracked. Blair looked on in horror, as blood poured from the tree, and a scream split the atmosphere.

"This is Circle Five-- The Wood of the Suicides. For committing Violence Against Self, these shades sprout into trees who are tortured by the Harpies-- the women-birds."

"This is too harsh, Jim. These people had to be suffering on earth if they committed suicide. They don't need this shit here, too!" Blair said furiously.

"I don't make the rules, Chief," Jim said calmly. "But in this case, I understand them."

"I'm not surprised. You seem to revel in rules. Explain this to me, Jim."

"Life is a gift granted by the Creator. These people violently rejected that gift. Not only that, they made a decision that was not theirs to make: who lives and who dies are not part of free will. That's why the Violent are in the lower depths of Hell. Suicide is a form of murder."

"But they were in pain."

"And killing themselves did not ease it."

"You can't tell me that you've never contemplated it, Jim," Blair charged. "I've seen glimpses of the pain you carry, man."

"And because I did not succumb to the thought, my pain was eased considerably. I held on, Chief, and was rewarded. These people did not. They gave in, gave up. For all they knew, help would have arrived the next morning, or the next hour, or the next minute."

"Not everyone has your strength, Jim. Not everyone has your faith."

"My body, my strength, is a reflection of the way my parents' genes interacted. It's a random mixture, and no one else will be exactly the same. You're smaller. Simon is bigger. That can't be helped. But faith-- faith is open to everyone, Chief. Regardless of size, regardless of strength. I can't feel guilty for having it, and I won't apologize for not letting my demons overwhelm me. Everyone of these people had the chance to live. Some of them drank themselves to this point. Some of them popped pills, sniffed, smoked, or injected themselves to this point. Others were more deliberate, using guns, knives, or a running automobile. All are guilty of murdering themselves...and murder is a crime."

"What about euthanasia?"

"What about it?" Jim asked wearily, not wanting to get into all of this, but willing to let Blair argue his convictions.

"Will I be dooming you to Hell because one day I might be suffering so badly, that I beg you to kill me?"

"You wouldn't do that, Chief. You wouldn't give up like that."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"You? Who have made a living will? Remember the conversation we had earlier, Jim? When you were heading off with Micki? What was that all about? Murder?"

"That's about when all hope is gone. According to my living will, you get to make the final decision, Blair, because I know if you're ever willing to give up on me, then all that can be done has been done."

Blair stared at him, furious for having been handed that kind of responsibility. "You know, sometimes it's quite easy to hate you," he gritted out between clenched teeth.

Jim gave a half-hearted shrug. "You're not the first one to tell me that, Chief," he replied softly, turning away to stare at the ravaged trees/souls.

"But I don't," Blair said, laying a hand on Jim's arm. "I don't hate you."

"I know."

"However, we are not going to agree on this portion of your Hell, so I suggest we move on."

"Fine," Jim said quietly. "But if you are right about this being a shared figment, then this is not just my Hell, Chief."

With a shiver, the Guide silently followed his Sentinel.

*****

Simon watched his son's animated face as he listened to more of the exploits of Micki and Jack. The captain was shocked at how far he had come-- not Daryl, but himself. A year ago, he would have called anyone a liar who said he'd be comfortable sitting around listening to his son discuss the occult with people who retrieved cursed objects for a living. No, he wouldn't have called them liars; he would have called the men in white coats to pick them up. But here he was-- Captain Simon Banks-- making candles and lending his energy to create protective domes. Captain Simon Banks-- thankful that his son was here with him, discussing evil, and not conjuring it up. Captain Simon Banks-- playing host to a witch and a wizard. Captain Simon Banks-- Watcher to the Sentinel and Companion to the Warrior. Somewhere, someone was sitting back, laughing his/her ass off.

Speaking of "she"s.... "Daryl, don't you think it's about time you headed home?" he asked, glancing at his watch. "Your mother's going to be worried."

"I'll just call and let her know I'm staying with you for the night, and--"

Simon shook his head. "Tomorrow is Mother's Day, son. Let her wake up on that day with her son under her roof at least one more time. You'll probably be off on some Senior Trip next year at this time."

Daryl sighed, but knew there was no use arguing. "Okay. But can I come back in the morning?"

"You can call in the morning. And we'll discuss your coming back after you take your mother out to lunch." Simon took out his wallet and peeled out a few bills. "Some place nice, okay?"

"And don't you forget to call Grandma tomorrow," Daryl reminded him.

"Giving me a taste of my own medicine?" Simon questioned, fastening his meaty hand around the back of his son's neck. "Let me walk you out."

"Bye, Micki. Bye, Jack," Daryl called as his dad propelled him out of the loft. "You gonna be all right here tonight, Dad? I know Teo and the others would be glad to back you up if you need it."

Simon grinned. Yes, Jim definitely had his own band of devotees. "I'll be okay. The guys are parked down the street, and as you know, Micki and Jack aren't strangers to this stuff. Go home, and don't worry about me. You know there's no safer place than the loft."

"Yeah, I guess I do know that." He gave Simon a quick hug. "I'll send Jim and Blair my best and strongest thoughts."

"You do that, son," Simon said, staring at the taillights as the car drove away. After a moment, he turned and waved at whichever duo was keeping watch.

Then, he walked into the building and up to the loft, to keep his own personal watch.

Chapter Nineteen

They followed the river. Jim had said it was called Phlegethon, and Blair figured that was a suitable name for such a horrible thing. It was constantly hazed over with steam, only an occasional breeze brushing the mist away and allowing them to see the actual roiling blood. As they traveled further, Blair began to notice there were shades in the river.

"Is this another Circle?" he asked.

"Yes, Circle Six-- reserved for those who were Violent Against Others. The crime committed positions you in the river. Minor violence gets you a place near the shore. Major violence gets you into the center of the river and atop the flames which heat it. See the blood-covered blobs screaming way out there in the middle?"

Blair squinted, then a breeze came and he could see more clearly, but not in great detail. "I see them, Jim. Who are they?"

"Two of them are Dillon and Tommy Juno."

Blair whipped his head toward Jim, wanting to see his face. The Junos had been responsible for the death of Jim's protege, Danny Choi. Jim noticed his concern, and forced his jaw to unclench. "I knew I would run into ghosts here, Chief. These won't be the last."

"Jim! Why are you here? You're not supposed to be here!" a female voice cried out in panic.

Both men turned toward the voice, and Blair paled when he saw that it was the shade of Lila Hobson. Lila had meant something to Jim; the detective had hesitantly admitted that Lila could have been the one. Blair, on the other hand, wondered how much of it had been love on Jim's part, and how much of it had been gratitude. Jim had met Lila right after he'd been rescued from Peru, and was contemplating ending what he had thought to be a life-long career in the Army. It had been a bad time for him-- the memories of the helicopter crash and the subsequent burials still vividly clear thanks to the intense debriefing; wondering if he could function as a civilian, but knowing he could no longer blindly follow orders of commanders he distrusted; re-submerging the senses that had been so natural in the jungle, yet so alien in the world which he had been born.... Into that maelstrom walked a beautiful woman, who had soothed the troubled man with her body and her spirit-- life in an otherwise barren zone. But Lila really hadn't been life. She was death, in a cold and calculated way. She was a hitwoman, a paid assassin, and with one of the few drops of mercy she had left in her, she had walked away from Jim before that part of her life touched him.

However, fate was capricious, and it had drawn the two together once more in Cascade. Jim's senses kept trying to warn him about the "love" of his life, and thankfully the Sentinel had trusted his Guide and Watcher with his unease. Together, they'd discovered who Lila was, but not before her handlers discovered who Jim was. She'd been ordered to kill him, and when she could not, another had taken her place. In order to save her lover, Lila had stepped into the bullet meant for him, and died in Jim's arms.

Apparently that was what Jim was remembering as he approached the riverbank, wearing his sadness like a warm cloak. "I'm not here to stay, Lila. I'm...I'm on a mission."

"Always the good soldier. My sacrifice was not in vain."

"Never. But I am sorry about this." He spread his arms to encompass the river.

"It's where I belong. I was a killer, Jim, and sacrificing myself for you did not redeem me. It couldn't have, because I did it more for myself than for you. I wouldn't have been able to live knowing I had killed you; therefore, it would have been a waste for both of us to die."

"I will never forget you, or what you did for me," Jim choked out, and Blair locked his hand around his partner's forearm, preventing him from stepping into the boiling blood that he hadn't even noticed he was approaching.

Lila tried moving toward him, but when she stepped out of her designated spot in the blood, a line zinged through the air, and a large hook caught her in the back. Through the mist, Blair spotted a demon "fisherman" on the opposite riverbank, gleefully reeling his charge back to her rightful place.

"Bye, Jim," she said longingly.

"Bye, Lila," he replied abruptly. Quick, long strides took him far beyond the river's edge.

"Jim?" Blair inquired cautiously as he rushed to keep up.

"Sorry, Chief," Jim said, immediately slowing his pace. "It's silly to try to outrun my ghosts, when I live with them every day."

"She meant a lot to you."

"It wasn't just her I was trying to get away from. I knew so many in that river, Blair. Most of the familiar faces, I personally dispatched to this fate. Makes me wonder why I shouldn't be out there, boiling with the rest of them."

Blair reached out and savagely pinched him. "I won't have this, Jim! I won't have you stand here in the middle of Hell, telling me how much you belong here. This is not the place to have a pity party. Do you understand? Don't let Lila and whoever else you recognized in that foul liquid make you doubt yourself. They are dead, and we are alive. If you don't believe it, focus on that spot you're rubbing on your arm." He shrugged when Jim glared at him. "If you belonged here, you would be here. You know that better than I do."

"Pinch me like that again, Sandburg, and I will belong here," Jim warned, reaching out toward his partner. Blair nimbly scooted out of the way, but couldn't evade Jim forever. However, instead of receiving a retaliatory pinch, he was rewarded with a quick embrace.

"So, where to now?" Blair asked happily.

"To Circle Seven."

"Still the Violent?"

"Yes, but these are those who attack and slaughter groups. They are your warmongers, terrorists, extremists, and those who commit hate crimes."

"Is this the really deep end of the river?"

"No. We'll have to stop just as we get through the forest, then I'll show you." They trudged a few hundred yards, before Jim pulled back some branches of a tree-- which thankfully wasn't the bleeding type-- and revealed to Blair a world of the dying. There was decaying plant matter everywhere, and the shades were decaying as well, great moans of pain erupting from them as they crawled from place to place, too weak to walk upright.

"They are dying of radiation, but will never die," Blair said breathlessly, adding together the symptoms he was seeing.

Jim nodded. "Because of them, billions have suffered throughout the millennia of man's existence. Now, they will suffer until the Apocalypse."

"Which will be?"

"When it will be-- if I keep my nose clean," Jim added wryly.

"What does that mean?"

"I... uh.... When Ahriman wouldn't take my no for an answer after I defeated Helaire, Michael sorta had to threaten Ahriman--"

"You almost singlehandedly started Armageddon?" Blair asked in whispered shock. Then he grinned. "And you have the nerve to call me a trouble magnet. Wait until I tell Simon. Man, oh man. This trip has been enlightening, to say the least."

"Remember. I'm in the middle of an identity crisis. My ego is extremely fragile at the moment," Jim said quite pitifully.

Blair burst out laughing, not buying any of it. "Forget about Helen being the face that launched a war. No, it's Jihad Jim-- instigator of the Holiest of Wars."

"Sandburg!" Jim hissed.

"So, Michael is like your Blessed Protector, right? Does he give you house rules, too? When you visit, are there color-coded containers, and can you flush after ten at night?" Blair hooted.

Jim just shook his head. "You're loving this, aren't you, Chief?"

Blair pulled himself together and looked at Jim solemnly. "Yes, James, I am." The pose held for exactly seven and half seconds (Jim counted), then Blair was laughing again.

With a sigh, Jim continued the journey, giggles trailing behind him.

*****

"These are about Jim?" Simon asked, scanning the stack of texts on the dining table.

"Mostly," Jack answered. "Blair said he wanted to read them, but that was before the uh, changes in travel plans were made."

Simon picked up the top one. "It's in English."

"Rashid translated them. Many are just fragments of their originals, the rest having been destroyed through the ages. This first one is from a Gnostic text--"

"One of the Dead Sea Scrolls?"

Jack looked impressed. "I knew there had to be more to you than just a police captain."

Simon didn't know whether to be offended, or pleased that his Comparative World Religion elective in college hadn't been a complete waste of time. That had been his original opinion when it didn't get him a date with Leona Anderson.

"Actually this one was found about fifty miles away. Rashid thinks it probably is one of the scrolls, which someone discovered and took home with them. Now, this one here," Jack said enthusiastically, "has a more detailed reference to someone resembling Jim. It's a Kabbalistic piece, which...."

During the next couple of hours, Simon wondered if Jack was so happy to have someone listen to his theories and conclusions that he didn't notice how out of his depth Simon was, or had he retained more from his religion class than he thought. He finally decided it was a mixture of both, and also concluded that he'd have Blair give him a cook's tour of Rainier's library when he returned. Not that he had any intention of pursuing his study of these ancient texts, but just in case....

"Where is that Rosicrucian document?" Jack muttered. "Micki, do you know if--" He stopped as he turned to find the redhead asleep on one of the sofas. "She had a rough night of it last night," he said apologetically.

"I'm sure she did," Simon replied, his voice warm with sympathy. "Or it could be that she's tired because it's been a long day. It's after midnight." He said it as a statement of fact, not revealing how shocked he'd been at the discovery. Jim and Blair had been gone for nearly fifteen hours.

"Did Jim have any estimate of how much time he would need?" Jack asked.

Simon shook his head. "Time on alternate planes is relative. The last time Sandburg was gone, he was out of it for three hours, but to him it only seemed like one." The captain froze, suddenly realizing this was all becoming way too familiar to him. Maybe Jim wasn't the only one experiencing an identity crisis. "Let me check Sandburg's room to see if it's habitable. Ms. Foster will probably be more comfortable there, with the additional privacy."

"Captain, Micki and I would appreciate it if you'd use our first names. You and your friends have already done so much for us, and I think we've made some personal inroads into friendship today, haven't we?"

"Yes, we have, Jack. And, please, make it Simon."

After getting Micki settled into Blair's surprisingly clean room, Simon offered Jack Jim's bed.

"Why don't you take it, Simon? After talking about some of this information with you, I'm a little wound up and might as well go through the rest of it."

"Want some company? I was curious about this mention in the Malleus Malficarus...." Snagging a couple of beers from the fridge, Simon settled in beside Jack, and split his attention between learning more about what he could expect from a future that included a Warrior, and watching the Warrior himself.

*****

Tony Bozeman tapped his fingers disgustedly against the steering wheel as he sped down the highway toward Cascade. The Millennium Group was getting slack, it's younger members not nearly as bright as they should have been. He'd asked them to keep an eye on a police detective, and they had set up a stakeout in front of his residence. How stupid was that?

"Yep. I'd give up the Group if I didn't need the manpower," he said to himself. "Of course, if the men tonight were indicative of the Group's recruits, I'd be better off hiring my own staff. I'm worried about the state of the Group anyway. To get rid of Peter Watts that way. It was bad enough that they turned Frank Black against them. I wonder if-- No, they scared him too badly. He and that gifted child of his deserve a few years of peace." Of course, they might not have a few years.

No. He couldn't think that way. Not when the truth was right before him. Not when salvation was within reach.

Not when Jim Ellison had been sent to lead the worthy into the Millennium.

Chapter Twenty

"What?" Blair suddenly demanded.

"What what?" Jim replied bewilderedly. From his viewpoint, they had just been walking along, the river a distant memory, when Blair blurted out the question.

"You just grew tense. Why?"

"How?" He stared at his partner. "I'm the Sentinel."

"And I'm the Guide who has studied you. You think I can't recognize when you grow tense, the slight hunch of your shoulders, the stiffness in your gait, that damn twitch in your jaw?" Blair asked, exasperated. "What are we about to approach? Circle Eight, right? I can already tell it's another smelly one. Or are they paving the roads to Hell now in asphalt instead of good intentions?"

"You're smelling the tar pit which comprises Circle Eight-- home to those Guilty of Special Crimes."

"How special?" Blair asked slowly.

"Mass and serial killers--"

The color drained from Blair. "Lash."

"Yes."

"Maybe we won't see him. We haven't seen everyone, have we? I mean, we've dealt with a lot of criminals and we haven't seen all the dead ones, right?"

"No, Chief. We haven't seen them all."

"And the tar pit is bound to be crowded."

Jim nodded. "It also contains torturers and those who hurt children."

"Big pit then. We won't see Lash, Jim. And if we do--" Blair shrugged. "If we do, he's dead and I'm not. Besides, that was a long time ago. I'm tougher than I used to be."

Jim gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze.

The smell was terrible and Blair wondered why smell seemed to be the major abused sense in Hell. Was it because odors made such lasting memories or had such a gut-wrenching, if not emotional, effect on the mass majority? Sound had to be regulated just right to affect people. Taste had to be placed in a person's mouth. Sight could be negated by a simple shutting of the eyes. But smell...smell was hard to ignore-- unless you were a Sentinel and were prepared for such nastiness. He glared at his partner.

"What? What did I do now?" Jim asked in confusion at the searing glance, blithely unaffected by the cloying, ever-strengthening scent of hot tar.

"Nothing," Blair muttered, as he tried to mentally settle his stomach. Approaching forms made him forget the smell. He looked at the two centaurs pawing the ground in front of them, armed with tridents. "You know, Hell has better security than the Cascade Airport," he groused, then looked at Jim in mild shock. "That's not a good thing, is it?"

"Fear not, Sandburg. You always travel with a cop."

"Should I remind you of certain trips I've taken with this cop and his captain?"

"You're alive, aren't you?"

"I'm in Hell, Jim. I don't know if that qualifies for the 'live' column."

"Halt, mortals!" one of the centaurs yelled.

"Guess that answers the question," Jim said smugly, before raising his head to confront the centaurs. "We come not to interfere, only to observe!"

"Turn back!"

"No!"

Before the shouting match could continue, another centaur galloped up. With a metal sash slung across his broad chest, it was obvious he wasn't merely another soldier. "Stand down," he told the other centaurs.

"But, Chiron," one started to complain. "They are mortals."

"Fools! Look at the tall one closely, then try to deny him."

The centaurs did as their leader asked, then one, followed by the other, performed a show horse bow, keeping their heads down until after Jim and Blair had passed.

"What the hell was that about?" Blair hissed.

"Beats me," Jim whispered back.

"I wish," Blair muttered, too soft for even a Sentinel to hear. He was beginning to get the idea that Jim commanded a lot of respect in Hell. Why then, if his Warriors had this kind of power, had Michael been reluctant to send Jim to the Underworld? Or was some of this respect due to the fact that Jim had been Lilith's...consort, of sorts? Only Jim could turn sleeping with a demon into a good thing.

Blair looked out across the vast tar pit and shuddered as black forms bobbed to the surface, sometimes breaking it, or most often, just causing a slight bulge before sinking back into the viscous substance. He didn't know why Jim thought he'd be able to pick out Lash; the clingy tar made identification impossible. Of course, his partner proved that theory wrong only a few minutes later.

"Harold Reagan," Jim gritted out, pointing to one of the anonymous black forms.

Harold Reagan. Blair liked to called him "The Beginning". Jim called him-- well, it didn't matter what Jim called him, because Reagan and his crimes were the catalyst for Jim's transformation. Okay, maybe transformation was a bit over the top; then again, Jim had been changed that day when he stood in that raided crack house and "heard" the cries of the forty-two children buried beneath the rotting floor. The ghosts had been drawn to the Sentinel like moths to a candle, but instead of the moths burning, it had been the candle which had almost been occluded. Yet, it remained burning despite the assault, until Harold Reagan had been dealt with and, apparently, sent to his proper eternal home in the Eighth Circle of Hell.

Despite the damage to the candle, it continued to light the darkness for "lost" children, until one of the lost made it possible for the candle to burn without being harmed. As usual, when he thought of Alicia Delacroix, Blair sent up a prayer of thanks.

"Helaire."

For a moment, Blair thought Jim was reading his mind, then he realized that the blob the Sentinel was looking at with such a feral gleam in his eye was Alicia's mother. Oh, joy.

"Chiron, I want that one," Jim snarled, and it was only then that Blair became aware of the shadowing centaur.

"As you wish." The centaur reached out with the long trident and savagely speared the shade in question. Then he dragged his catch to the edge of the pit.

When Helaire's hand reached out to solid ground, Jim jabbed his sword into the pitch-covered extremity. Blair flinched at his friend's deliberate cruelty, but understood it. Jim had experienced Helaire's malevolence and brutality through Alicia's eyes...and Alicia's pain. It was difficult to comprehend what adults did to each other, and it was downright painful trying to accept what adults did to children. But for a mother to do what Helaire had done to Alicia....

No one would have been surprised if Jim had returned with Helaire's body that night outside New Orleans. She had been a fleeing felon, the bayou was a dangerous place at night, etc. But Jim had not only brought her in alive, but had actually gone to considerable lengths to save her life. Why? He wasn't even sure if Jim knew the answer to that, especially after Helaire had convinced Satan to let loose his demons and go after Jim's soul. But the Sentinel's soul had been a better fighter than Helaire thought, and when she failed to deliver what she promised, she had died.

"Hello, Helaire," Jim said politely, kneeling beside the figure. "How's tricks?"

Brown eyes glittered furiously out of the tar-encrusted face. After spitting out a mouthful of black goo, Helaire spoke. "Is not my torment great enough? Is it not just that I am here in this burning mire that sears my skin, and fills my nostrils and lungs? Do I not suffer enough? Or is this my final torment? That I be delivered unto you, L'Ange, to be the doomed mouse to your cat?"

"Meow," Jim replied, leaning heavily on the sword. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm not here to interfere with your eternity yet. I was just passing through and thought it would be terribly rude of me not to stop and speak. I'm sorta surprised to see you here with all the ordinary criminals. Thought you'd be demonized by now. Guess your boss is still a little pissed about not adding my soul to his collection, eh?"

"Fils de putain!"

"Ah, ma 'tite belle, it sounds as if you've missed me," Jim crooned in the peculiar French accent unique to southern Louisiana. He chuckled and blew her a kiss. "Mais non, cher. What we have, what we share, c'est ein affaire a pus finir. We will never be finished," he pronounced, making it sound like a blessing rather than the curse it really was.

Blair swore he saw her pale beneath the tar, but before he could make sure, he heard a voice behind him.

"Who am I?" it singsonged. "Who am I now? Am I you? Am I Blair Sandburg? I can be you. I can be you. I am you!"

He turned slowly to see that one of the shades had approached the bank, unstopped by the centaurs who had backed away due to Jim's presence. He couldn't see the man beneath the sludge covering him, but he recognized the voice...and the eyes. The eyes which had bore into him as the serial killer got right up into his face when he was chained to that dentist's chair.

Lash.

Being in an explosives-rigged elevator had been pretty bad, and being chased through the woods like a bad scene in Deliverance hadn't been much fun either. And no, he didn't even want to discuss what it had been like to watch the Fire People come for him-- and he especially did not want to think about that while here in the middle of Hell. But nothing in his previous experience, nothing in all the experiences that followed, scared him as much as being in Lash's clutches-- trapped in a world consisting of remnants of the lives the psychopath had stolen, so sure his own belongings would soon drape the nearby wall, so certain that he would be found with a yellow scarf tied daintily around his neck while water filled his lungs. Lash was the embodiment of nightmares past, present, and future. No! He couldn't deal with this. He wouldn't deal with this.

Before he knew what he was doing-- certainly before Jim knew what he was doing-- Blair grabbed the sword, viciously ripping it from Helaire's hand and striking out at Lash. The double-handed swing was powerful, it's aim true. The head, which had been grinning at him, sailed for yards before landing with a soft plopping sound. The weight of it wasn't sufficient enough for it to sink immediately into the thick, creamy tar, so it bobbled there for long moments, and out of the corner of his eye, Blair watched Lash's body drift away in search of its missing part.

A hand fell lightly on his shoulder, and another removed the sword from his grip. He glanced up into searching blue eyes. "That was-- liberating," he said, after searching his soul for the correct description. "Sorry about not asking," he added, indicating the sword, and wondering if touching it had been taboo.

"That's okay, Chief. What's mine is yours," Jim said solemnly. Then he grinned. "'One, two! One, two! And through and through/ The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!/ He left it dead, and with its head/ He went galumphing back.'"

Blair laughed. "Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky. Don't tell me-- more extra credit."

"Nah. More like an alternative to detention."

"Detention? Jim Ellison? Get out of town! What'dya do, man? Get caught smoking in the Boy's Room? Necking under the bleachers in the gym? Beating up the bully on the playground? What?" Blair asked in fascination. He'd always figured Jim was the saintly type in school.

"I started a food fight in the cafeteria."

"No way! Why?"

Jim shrugged. "The day was boring and the food was bad."

Blair's jaw dropped in shock and awe. "I'm impressed. I didn't think you had it in you, Jim. But memorizing Jabberwocky seems like a light sentence. What did you do? Bat those baby blues of yours at the principal?"

The Sentinel laughed. "I don't think that would've worked on Mr. Hillinger."

Blair made a choking sound. "I wouldn't bet your lunch money on that, pal. That even works on Simon."

"Are we talking about me, or you?"

"Definitely you, man. The whole unit is scared of you. Your glare makes everyone tremble, but when you smile, and gaze ever so sweetly, that's when they know a sacrifice is coming-- whether it be money to your favorite charity, a switch in days off, tickets to a game, etc."

"And does this fantasy world of yours have a name?" Jim asked, shaking his head at his partner's foolish notions.

"Yeah, Jim-- reality."

"I think the power of your liberation has gone to your head."

"I'm not the one quoting Jabberwocky. How does that start again? Twas something or other, right?"

"'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves...."

Blair smiled as Jim continued the recitation, and felt a peace descend upon his soul-- a peace lost in a moment of terror three years ago, now regained in an act of impulsiveness, and secured by the calm understanding of a Jabberwocky-quoting friend.

Yeah, he might be in Hell. But at the moment, life was good.

*****

"It's been twenty-four hours. Is that good or bad?"

Simon shrugged at Micki's question. There had been no time limits discussed, no "when to call in heavy backup like paramedics and/or priests" instructions left beside the phone. Damn. They had gone into this unprepared, hadn't they? But if something went wrong that Jim couldn't handle, it was pretty much a given an ordinary priest wouldn't be able to help. An ordinary priest. Shit! This was getting out of hand. What the hell was his friend, and why was he, average Joe Cop, involved in all this crap? He'd lied to Blair earlier, when the anthropologist had asked if what Jim did made his skin crawl. Yes. What Jim could do scared him. What Jim was scared him. Saint, Warrior, Sentinel-- all of it scared him. Because it made him believe in stuff he didn't believe in anymore. It made him have hope-- for the future, for his son. Amid all the ugliness he dealt with day after day, there was Jim. And Blair. Perhaps he would have been strong enough to ignore Jim and the lure of what he was, if it hadn't been for Blair and his apparent, easy faith in the man. Surely, if it was so easy for Sandburg, then.... What a potent one-two punch. If you weren't drawn to Jim, you were drawn to Blair, and being drawn to either of them, drew you to both.

And now, they were together in Hell.

Satan didn't stand a fucking chance.

Micki and Jack looked at the captain with concern as the big man burst out laughing. No explanation was forthcoming, but when the man settled back to continue his watch, he looked infinitely more confident of the outcome. In reflection of that, they, too, relaxed... and waited.

Chapter Twenty-One

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Deep breaths, Chief," Jim coached, grateful that Blair did not have his Sentinel sight-- sight which captured every crimson detail of the carnage below them. The scene looked as if it belonged in the past; some ancient battlefield where warriors on one side sought to destroy their opponents by sheer blood loss alone. But there were no sides in this battle, and that was exactly why the destruction was so encompassing.

"This is the Ninth and final Circle of Hell. Abattoir Valley. It is reserved for the greatest of sinners: those Guilty of Treachery," Jim said, rubbing light circles on Blair's back to ease the nausea. Not that a little vomit would be noticed in the ever-present stench of the realm, but since there was no nearby potable water, Blair would just end up suffering more.

"Why is treachery the greatest sin? Why not murder?" Blair asked, concentrating on Jim's hand and the discussion, instead of the action below the small rise they were on. Each shade in Circle Nine had been armed with a dagger, and these daggers were constantly being plunged into another's back, front, side, throat.... Blood flowed freely and in great abundance.

"There are degrees of murder. It can be done in the heat of the moment or it can be long-planned. It can be a 'cold' crime-- perpetrated against a stranger, without emotion. Treachery-- betrayal-- is by default a 'hot' crime. There is no such thing as betrayal without malice and forethought. It is always personal because it is a violation of a covenant, a sacred trust whether to country, comrade, or loved one."

Blair didn't comment, because he knew Jim spoke from experience. His friend's past was littered with betrayals, which made the fact that he had actually gained Jim's trust even that much more special. He leaned into the hand on his back deliberately, reminding Jim that the trust went both ways.

"If treachery is always personal, are all these shades personally connected?" he asked in confusion.

"Look closely, beyond the blood, Chief. The violence appears to be random, but it's not. There are groups, couples, stabbing each other repeatedly, but leaving the others around them alone."

Blair saw that Jim was right. The shades were spilling the blood of the people nearest to them-- probably co-conspirators and partners in crime.

"Look to your left. Do you see them?" Jim asked, his body tensing.

Blair followed his gaze to the couple wielding their knives. Ray Aldo and Veronica Archer. The Internal Affairs detective had betrayed his oath and a fellow officer when he had linked up with Veronica to destroy Jim. Rat bastard. And Veronica...Veronica had made an art out of betraying the men in her life. She'd set her husband up to be killed, set Jim up as the killer, set Aldo up to kill Jim, then had probably intended to kill Aldo and blame Jim for it. What a sick little perfectionist.

"Bitch," Blair growled.

"Which one?"

Blair turned, saw Jim's wicked smirk, and lost it. It was so true. If anyone had the balls in that sick relationship, it had been Veronica; Aldo had danced to her tune up until the moment he died. But that wasn't the only reason why he was laughing. He was laughing because he liked a wicked Jim. It wasn't that his roommate was perfect-- far from it in fact. Most of the time he was...too: too anal, too straight-laced, too judgmental, too stubborn, too close-minded...well, you got the picture. But when he actually relaxed enough to get...catty, Blair got glimpses of what Jim could have been-- possibly would have been-- without the pain of his past weighing on his shoulders. More carefree, more smiling, more willing to indulge himself rather than others. Not that helping others wasn't a good thing, but this was the man who let ghosts use him to keep away the boogeyman.

As Blair struggled to get his laughter under control, he noticed Jim was also doubled over with guffaws, and for some reason, that bothered him. "Jim? We didn't inadvertently huff the tar back in Circle Eight, did we?" he asked, adjusting as a stitch caught him in the side.

Jim wiped his eyes and gathered himself. "No, Chief. We're fine. I think our minds are just trying to prepare themselves."

"For?"

"For what is to come."

Well, that sounded rather dire. Then Blair remembered that the bloody scene in front of them-- damn, how could they be laughing-- was the Ninth Circle, the last one before the Pit of Hell and its inhabitant-- Satan. "He will attack."

"Yes-- our minds first." Jim motioned that it was time for them to go. "No time for thought, Chief. What is your greatest fear?"

"Moving."

Jim frowned. How could a guy who had moved as much as.... It came to him much as the other information he'd been receiving, but from within this time, instead of without. It wasn't the actual packing up that Blair feared-- it was leaving, maybe even the stuff and people that would inevitably be left behind. "Fuck," he said as he was hit with another realization. "I kicked you out of the loft when Alex.... I made you move."

"Yes," Blair said solemnly.

"And I hurt you more than Alex ever did."

Blair watched as his left foot followed his right one. Left. Right. Left. Right. "There is that," he finally admitted.

"Fuck."

A small smile. "You're starting to repeat yourself."

"It's a good word. Sums up exactly how I feel."

"You've always been a man who preferred precise to verbose."

"I don't know what kind of man I am. I didn't think I was the type to torture his friends with their own fears, but I did. I didn't think I had the capacity to be that cruel-- No, I take that back. I knew I had the capacity, I just thought I was a better person than that. I guess I was wrong."

"You didn't know."

Jim shook his head. "Ignorance isn't an excuse. Neither is the distraction of the dreams. I should have known.... For all the good it does, I'm deeply sorry, Chief."

Blair shrugged. "I accepted your apology when I moved back in. Besides, it wasn't all your fault."

"I can't always hide behind Alex and all that craziness--"

"I'm not talking about Alex. I'm talking about me, and who I am."

Jim couldn't let that one go. He stopped, and made sure Blair did the same by snagging his arm. "What does that mean?"

"Jim," Blair protested weakly.

"No, Chief. It will be used against us otherwise."

Blair sighed knowing Jim was right. "Naomi and I always seem to wear out our welcome eventually."

Jim closed his eyes. "Have I ever kicked Naomi out?"

"No."

"Not even when she moved the furniture, burned sage, brought a tagalong psychic, and/or popped in unexpectedly?"

"No."

"Do you know why I've never kicked her out, why I never will?"

Silence. Then a heavily breathed, "Why?"

"Because her son is my partner, my anchor when the seas get choppy, my rock when I'm up to my neck in sand," Jim said earnestly. "I try not to repeat my mistakes, Blair, and believe me, moving you out of the loft was my biggest mistake, and my biggest regret.... I wish I could say that it wouldn't happen ever again, but--"

"But?" Blair urged hesitantly.

"Sometimes I can get stupid if I'm left on my own for too long. I might one day, in a fit of extreme insanity, kick you out again. It probably won't even be because of something you've done."

"Okay," Blair sighed. "Can't say you aren't giving me fair warning," he added, grudgingly.

"Not just a warning, but an edict."

"Which is?"

"If I ever try that shit again, you are to kick my ass, and 'just say no'."

Blair gave a wry grin. "Me? Kick your ass? Right, man."

Jim gave him a singular hard stare. "You know my weaknesses better than I do, Chief. Kicking my ass is only one of the things you could do to me." Totally destroy me is another.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why let yourself be so vulnerable to me? Despite all the begging and pleading, I never really expected that you'd let me stay with you. It was pretty easy to tell that you enjoyed your personal space-- all one hundred yards around you. You know, even when you condescended to cleaning out your spare room for me, I never thought I'd actually...."

"Move in?" Jim completed. "Was there fear in that move too, Chief?"

"Fear isn't the word, Jim. Try terrified or petrified," Blair said, with a chuckle that bordered on being a sob. "The risk was obvious, even back then."

"Risk?"

"That my next move would utterly devastate me."

So much admitted in that statement. Jim felt himself humbled, and a little terrified himself. Blair had become equally as important to him. "Moving on will always be your decision, Blair. Just like when you were planning to go to Borneo."

The younger man gave a sad laugh. "Borneo was supposed to be my salvation-- my one shot at saving myself. It was early in our relationship. I thought moving then would be easier than moving later. I thought wrong."

"I'm sorry about your fear, but not about you staying."

Blair nodded, wanting to believe, but still wary. "You never answered my question of why, Jim. Why give me so much power?"

The cop shrugged, not comfortable with the question, but understanding why Blair needed the answer, and why it had to be answered now-- before Satan could take it and contort it at will. "I don't think you ever realized just how close I was to-- to finding my own solution to my problems when you showed up in that examination room."

"You wouldn't have committed suicide," Blair said firmly.

"I'm a cop, Chief. There are more subtle ways than eating my gun, that would render the same desired results."

Blair blanched, imagining Jim playing the hero a little too aggressively, or protecting an innocent using himself as a shield, and ultimately as a target. Still.... "I have trouble seeing you giving up that easily."

Another shrug. "Maybe I had the same trouble. Maybe that's why, when you demanded, I let my guard down. I did a lot of token screaming and kicking, but you saw straight through it."

"I demanded?"

"Yes. All those 'you can do's' were demands you made. When I obeyed, I was rewarded; when I didn't, I was punished."

"I never punished you," Blair argued.

"No, but the world did. Working with you kept me, and the others around me, safe. Disobeying you led to pain and danger. You saved me; my soul seemed like ample payment."

Blair swallowed hard. "And now...are you still paying off that debt?"

"No," Jim said with a faint smile. "I'm vulnerable to you now because I want to be...because I can be."

Blair was silent, taking the tribute to his heart. "What is your greatest fear, Jim?" he asked a few minutes later.

"Being betrayed by the ones I love."

His friend quirked an eyebrow. "Didn't have to stop and think about it, huh?"

"It's an old fear, one I'm quite comfortable with."

"Am I counted among that number?"

"Which part? As someone I love? Sure. As someone who will betray me?" Jim looked away, unwilling to see the hurt in Blair's eyes. "I'm sorry, Chief, but thirty years of learned behavior is not going to disappear in three."

"Is there any way I can assure you that it won't happen?" Blair asked softly.

"Yeah. Don't betray me." He tried to sound flip, but it came out more as a plea.

"I'll do my best," Blair vowed. His eyes searched his friend's. "How can you function like that, Jim? I wouldn't exactly call you outgoing, but you're not a hermit or a recluse by any stretch of the imagination. You have friends. You had a wife. How can you let people get so close? Why hasn't your fear crippled you? How can you be that strong?"

"So says the man who was brave enough to move into the loft despite the risk, then do it for a second time. If you want to compare strength, Chief, I'm game, and so are you."

Blair's mouth quirked at the corner. "I used to mock those trite sayings like, 'men of destiny'. However, I'm starting to believe I shouldn't have."

Invisible fingers danced along the Sentinel's spine. "No, you shouldn't have, Chief. Because I think in the end, destiny will have the last laugh."

*****

Simon sighed and clicked off the phone. He always felt so conflicted when he talked with his mother. He could tell from minute changes in her speech, in the way she breathed, that she was getting older, and he knew with certainty that he should spend more time with her. But he had responsibilities here in Cascade. He was an important police captain, and damn proud of it. The job didn't give him much free time, and what he did have, was spent with his son...and his friends. This Watcher business was turning out to be time-consuming, but important-- even more important than being a cop.

Jack and Micki had asked if the supernatural interfered with their jobs. The answer was a resounding yes. He had compromised his oath too many times to count. From Blair's unlimited access to crime scenes and police records, to that damned convenient suicide which wrapped up the Lilith murders, Simon had crossed the line over and over again. And it wasn't just him alone; his officers had followed him into these violations. Reports had been fudged, evidence overlooked because it couldn't be explained, and now-- when they should be enjoying a weekend off-- they were out there, blindly and selflessly standing guard. Was it just plain, ordinary loyalty that made them do this, or was it some ancient force, some tickle in their conscience or their souls which urged them to help Jim and Blair? He shivered at the thought.

"Everything okay, Simon?" Jack asked anxiously, noting the captain's involuntary shudder as he joined him on the balcony.

"It's fine. Just got lost in my thoughts," Simon explained, embarrassed by his drifting. "You need anything?"

"Just wanted you to know lunch is ready." Micki had insisted on cooking.

Simon nodded and followed the older man inside.

"You would think," Jack began, "that after all the times I've watched my own friends get sucked into the supernatural, it would get to be routine. But it never is."

"You seem quite paternal toward Micki. Is it that way with Dallion and the other guy, too?"

Jack smiled. "Ryan was-- is-- like a son to me. So youthful, so quick to head into danger just because it was the right thing to do. We respected each other, loved each other. That's not to say we didn't have differences of opinions-- loud, vocal differences. He was a bit too juvenile for his age, had little control around women-- fell too easily, and too fast.... I don't know, maybe some of that had to do with Micki, and trying to impress her...or maybe sublimation," he added with a fond smile. "If Jim does manage to bring him back, that part of his return should be interesting.

"As for Johnny, he was a friend of Ryan's who got caught up in one of our messier retrievals. When we lost Ryan, it only made sense that he took his place. But Johnny lacks Ryan's intelligence and understanding of what we're doing. He's been known to use the objects themselves to get himself out of sticky situations. We've all been tempted to do so at one time or another, and Ryan and I both did it when we used the coin to restore Micki's life-- even though we could rationalize it as just undoing what the coin had already done. But I'm not sure Johnny gets the concept of rationalization." Jack bit his lip. "That wasn't a nice thing to say, was it?"

"It's okay," Simon said. "I understand. I work all my detectives equally hard, and I appreciate their work, but there is a team I prefer." He looked at the pair beneath the protective bubble. "One I prefer very much."

Jack nodded. "That's what I want; my preferred team back together."

"May we all get what we want, my friend," Simon whispered. "May we all get what we want."

To TVLIT 101

Comments? D.L. Witherspoon