I know this has taken me a lot long than expected to submit, but Agent Coulson is probably one of the toughest characters I've ever worked with. He's so completely secretive that getting information about him is like pulling teeth. However, I did manage to lure him into a false sense of security, so I was able to get this story started.

This is the sequel to Pawn Takes King and Knight Takes Bishop and I highly recommend you read both before starting Queen Takes Rook otherwise you're going to be a little lost.

Claire sat across from Camilla with what felt like a heavy stone sitting low in her stomach, waiting for the verbal tirade that should have followed her absence the last few weeks. Camilla, though only a few years younger than Claire, was filled to the brim with a much more passionate, if cautious, nature. Claire recalled sitting through numerous rant-filled conversations wherein Camilla would lay down her perspective and argue until she was nearly blue in the face. In light of the rather unpredictable and dangerously tedious life Claire had been living while the Council was in session, she looked forward to this one bit of routine and normalization. It didn't come.

Camilla sat across from her, bandaged and wrapped, cut all to pieces, and calm. She looked at Claire with earnest, tired eyes and simply asked what had happened. For the first time in Camilla's presence, Claire didn't have an answer. The words stuck in the back of her throat, spinning on ice while Camilla continued to wait for her reply.

Sighing, Claire began with slow, measured syllables, "As you know, the Council has been convened for several months debating the rise in demonic attacks across the world, particularly those encroaching upon the headquarters. As a matter of precaution, the Council was using the Deep Room next to the Gate. I was stories underground for over a month before I was allowed to head back to the surface. When I got your messages, I went straight to the airport and bought a nonstop ticket here."

Camilla looked unconvinced, "You could have checked your email."

Lifting a brow, Claire replied, "You try getting reception when you're standing next to Hell."

"Point," Camilla uttered with a small shake of her head. Her hair had grown since Claire had seen her last, the mass falling over her shoulders in soft waves. She was beginning to pay attention to her appearance, Claire noticed, using makeup and wearing more tailored clothing. With some bit of resignation, Claire admitted to herself that Camilla looked far better than she had in all the time Claire had known her. From the age of twelve, Camilla had shrouded herself in shadow and anonymity so as to draw as little attention to herself as possible. It was a defensive mechanism Claire had never quite acquired, feeling just as comfortable in front of a crowd as she was in solitude.

Adjusting the hem of her pencil skirt, Claire smiled at Camilla, saying, "What is important is that I'm here now and we have work to do."

Camilla's gaze veered off to the side, "I know."

There was a defeated tenor to her words that made Claire lift her chin a little, her eyes narrowing. "Just because one battle is won does not mean the war is over. The worst is still before us."

Camilla's shoulders slumped a little more, her hands fidgeting in her lap. "Does is ever end?"

Head tilted to the side, Claire considered the question, asserting in a low tone, "It cycles. Humanity will have relief for a few hundred years or so before a building apocalypse. It is the nature of the universe."

Some part of Claire rolled her eyes and snorted at her response to a question posed almost daily in her own mind. No matter how true the essence of the answer happened to be, it was quite blatantly the most sap-ridden Hallmark version of the truth. The 'nature of the universe' was a dark, war-ravaged battle to maintain the balance between humanity and the depraved demonic. For those who fought daily in that war, the only ending was death. It was a truth that was left unspoken, but known well in all of their minds. Claire had managed to last to a ripe age of thirty-five, but the number gave her no relief. She had to remain vigilant, careful, and continue with the training instilled in her when she was only a teen.

The five of the six lines of the Guardians had been nearly destroyed in Astar's machinations, but her strongest ally—Camilla—was still standing. Though the Council thought the massacre in the Other counted as a loss, Claire saw it as an opportunity to train in a wholly new atmosphere. The old teachers had long since moved on, leaving Claire and Camilla to take the reins on the new recruits. The secrecy, the rigorous dogma, and the isolation would all be tempered with their combined experiences. It was time the Council realized that cooperation with the major governmental agencies of the world would only serve to help their cause, giving them more resources and manpower to continue their mission.

Claire's mind drifted a little to the world outside of their small table in the living room of an audaciously decorated mansion. Outside of the protected walls of the Council's headquarters, Claire felt a stark vulnerability. Here, she had little to no power, could sway no one with her rank or title. Here, she was simply an uninvited guest who made the mistake of arriving far too late to the exorcism. Here… Claire was not the Gatekeeper, she was merely an object of suspicion. It pained her to some degree that it had come down to this, barging into a situation already brewing with tension and making demands. Yet, experience told her that there would need to be order in this chaos, that she would need take control of the growing tension before it sprang out of control.

Glancing out towards the balcony, Claire noted the dried 'witch's brew' that had been used, noticed the protection spells written in clever little nooks and crannies. She recognized Lucy's work quite clearly, the tenor of the magic glowing even after the Guardian's death. Her gaze was drawn still further to the pair of men standing outside—to give them privacy—their heads bowed in conversation. The taller of the two, a bald black man dressed in head to toe leather with an unnecessarily intimidating black trench coat, looked so stern that Claire feared his clenched jaw would shatter. She didn't like the near sarcastic look in his one exposed eye, but couldn't tell the content of the situation.

Gauging any information from the other man was next to impossible with his placid face and passive body language. He radiated calm, rational thinking, but Claire knew firsthand the danger the lurked beneath the surface. Agent Phil Coulson's façade of the straight edged man worked to keep his targets off their guard, and she had to admit that for the first six months of their relationship Claire thought he was some kind of accountant. The memory made her tattoos itch beneath her skin, the gathering power working around her repressed emotions in an effort to push through to the surface.

Clearing her throat, Claire readjusted her attention on Camilla, palming the cup of steaming coffee in front of her to keep her hands busy. She diverted an extra burst of power into the mug, warming it still further beneath the porcelain. Though the main priority of a Guardian's magic was to fight the demonic, there were other avenues and paths to maneuver the flow and to keep the more delicate processes in shape. Claire had learned early on that brute strength was not her specialty, but fine 'motor' movement and intricate spells. It was the only way she had survived despite her heart stopping prematurely the previous year and it was the reason the Council had assigned her as the Gatekeeper.

The silence, Claire realized, had gone on too long, leaving the space between the pair sitting at the table filled with an awkwardness that had never been present before. Claire tapped her nails against the coffee mug and considered how she wanted to move forward. Camilla was clearly disappointed with her and Claire felt somewhat responsible for the injuries she sustained at the hands of Astar. She would need to rectify the situation post haste, and she strategized that the best way to go about it would be to recreate a sense of purpose for her...Claire hesitated to call Camilla a friend. They fought together, trained together, shared a few confidences, and Claire had seen the girl during and post possession. They were not, however, close as Claire had seen some pairs of women could be.

"We're going to need to start training," Claire murmured, raising her cup to her lips. When Camilla gave a noncommittal nod, she continued, "I have a few people tracking down the bloodlines…though it seems one has already been summoned to us."

Camilla's attention snapped upwards at the indirect mention of Darcy Lewis, a very young and—from what Claire could gather—very bright prospect.

"She's not cut out for this kind of lifestyle," Camilla urged, the tiniest bit of acid in her voice.

Claire smiled very slowly, "This lifestyle is a bit outdated, don't you think?"

With narrowed eyes, Camilla scrutinized Claire, her brows coming together as she tried to decide what Claire's ruse happened to be. It was not unheard of for agents of the Council to seek out iniquity and to drive it into the ground with a public show of force. Claire had never been one of those agents, though the Council had requested it of her many times. Camilla, Claire thought, was right to be suspicious, to think before acting. She was, it seemed, maturing a little more since coming to be with the people living in this building. It was a welcome change as Claire needed every strong individual she could get on her side with the growing darkness around them.

Time, somehow, was always running out. The difference, this time, was that Claire had no idea what event they were barreling towards. The oracle in front of her had been given no information from the powers that be and the gate kept trying to spring open at the slightest change in atmosphere. Glyphs fired and misfired all over the headquarters, expending thousands of man hours in investigations. Attacks that were demonic in nature were growing exponentially with no real pattern and all the books piled at the side of Claire's bed could not dictate what the hell was going on in the world. She was, as a result, deeply unsettled.

Eventually, Camilla dropped her gaze to her cup and considered the swirling liquid for a moment before her eyes lifted with a new, determined expression.

"It is a little outdated."

Claire's lips quirked further, "And with the old set of trainers gone…"

"…And no time to bring them back or to hire new ones…"

"We'll be left to do most of the work," Claire finished the thought with lifted brows. "It would give us an incredible freedom to tailor the training, don't you think?"

She could tell that Camilla was reliving the more difficult part of her training, the long nights spent working spells that would fatigue more than the mind and body, the loneliness of living every day underground for years, the fear of facing the truth about the darkness. It was all rolling through her mind as it so often rolled through Claire's when she couldn't sleep, staring at the ceiling. Though the Council still held most of the cards in this game, Claire and Camilla could make some moves in order to tip the balance towards more equality. They could create a different kind of Guardian, one who worked with the strengths of others instead of fighting them. It could be glorious—or an apocalypse—but they were heading towards one, anyway.

Camilla leaned forward, touching the space of table between them, "How long have you been thinking about this?"

"Since I found you and the others laid out around that fire," Claire replied, her breath hissing out between her teeth.

"It's an interesting thought," Camilla voiced carefully. "The questions is: Is it doable?"

Claire chuckled, "It's entirely doable, with the right resources."

Again, her eyes flicked out towards the balcony, unable to keep from continuing her study of the two men. They were looking out towards the horizon now, exchanging a few words here and there. Whatever tension had been between them seemed to have dissipated to this kind of congenial dialogue that could have been about the local sports for all she knew. She remembered that he liked the occasional game of football on a Sunday night, a cold beer hanging loosely in his deadly hands. Claire shook her head, stamping out the memory with precise measures, her attention moving back to Camilla's intrigued face.

"By the end of the week there will be four new Guardians to train and we're the only ones left with that kind of knowledge to pass on to them. The Council wants them brought to headquarters immediately, but I'm confident I can stall for time under the guise of a continued investigation of your…incident."

Camilla leaned back from her and Claire chastised herself for the indelicate approach. She would need to tread lightly on this one, she was certain, until Camilla's injuries were healed somewhat. Again, that sharp stab of guilt hounded Claire, telling her how she'd failed to be there for Camilla, forcing her to perform an exorcism without the support of her mentor. There had never been a time that Claire had failed to be there during Astar's occasional visits to Camilla—not since the first possession. This misstep would be a learning curve on which Claire would base many of her future decisions, if only the guilt would simply stop paining her.

Camilla turned the mug slowly in her short-fingered hands, "Do you think the Council will believe you?"

"The usually do," Claire snorted, "Though they rarely take anyone else's advice."

Camilla rolled her eyes, "Still holding to the old ways?"

"Vehemently."

"Their loss," Camilla quipped with a shrug.

Claire nodded, "You don't know how right you are."

"So," Camilla started, "What would this training look like? I mean, if we're going to be changing things, we should probably have a plan."

"Agreed," Claire pronounced, pulling her shoulders back. "Ideas?"

Camilla's surprise shot across her face in lifted brows and widened eyes, "You're asking me?"

"Of course," Claire replied. "You know where the flaws in the system are just as well as I do. And, you have a reason to see it changed permanently."

Claire had yet to mention the blossomed relationship between Camilla and Shield agent Barton. Camilla was well aware of how forbidden it was to hold a relationship outside of those 'in the know' of the Council. There were far too many risks to the secrecy of their world when a Guardian became close with another. Yet, Claire also knew that Camilla needed that intimacy, was starved for it. She could see it on the woman's face all through her formative years and into her adulthood and only recently had Camilla begun to successfully hide that melancholy from her. Hiding was something Camilla did very well, and yet Claire could see the layers falling away even in the span of their short conversation that morning. Barton was the catalyst for that change, and the power behind Camilla's interest in changing the way Guardians lived.

"I won't go back to the way things were," Camilla intoned quietly, her hands tightening around her coffee mug.

Claire closed her eyes briefly, "I wouldn't ask you to. But, you know what lies waiting for us back home. This is going to be a difficult journey."

Leaning forward once more, Camilla breathed deeply, her eyes very focused on Claire's unmoved expression. "I'm prepared to take this the whole way, Claire. I don't want this life anymore, not alone. I'll keep fighting, but I need him."

"I know," Claire countered, careful to keep her voice from cracking. Christ, did she know what that was like, the needing. It seeped in like poison, sucking all her willpower away only to leave the pathetic mass of her body on the ground. The letting go left a wound so large it felt like if she looked down she'd be ripped open and bleeding through her blouse. Like most emotional wounds, it never quite healed correctly, leaving this awkward bit of her consciousness where that love once existed.

Camilla seemed satisfied by Claire's short response, "Then, we need to start with the basics, just as we were trained. History, basic magical knowledge, grounding the spirit and mind, all of this has to be where we start."

Claire nodded curtly, "A good foundation is essential. Half of them won't know a thing about the things that go bump in the night, and most of them will have misconceptions."

"Hollywood," Camilla barked with venom.

"Hollywood," Claire agreed with a shake of her head. "It's like they've never opened an ancient Sumerian text."

"To be fair," Camilla retorted dryly, "There aren't many of those lying around."

"We actually have them all stored in the vault, so you've got a solid point," Claire laughed, taking another sip of her coffee.

Camilla shifted in her chair, turning slightly to her left to prop one elbow on the table, "Can I be honest for a minute?"

"I prefer your honesty."

"I'm still pretty fuzzy on why Miranda switched sides like that." Camilla brushed invisible crumbs off one corner, "I remember Astar trying to explain, but he was half-cocked on power and I doubt anything he said was of any importance, but I remember very clearly the look in Miranda's eyes. She was completely dead on the inside."

Claire sighed and crossed her legs at the knee, tapping one heel against the tile as she gathered her thoughts. "When I pulled you off the altar, you were saying 'dead' over and over. I thought you meant the team."

"Well, yeah," Camilla shot back, "They were all dead, physically, but Miranda was dead before she was dead. I kept thinking about it while I was in recovery and I couldn't understand what had driven her to defect.

"And then started wondering if she felt like I felt, if she was filled with this abject hostility towards everything we represent simply because of how deprived we were for even the smallest bit of affection."

Claire listened as attentively as she could despite the myriad of tangents her mind was running through in almost simultaneous patterns. She weaved through a rolodex of incidents over the last year of Miranda's training, connecting events and conversations until she recognized the drifting of the woman away from the group, away from the teaching. Claire had mistakenly attributed it to an internal focus and anxiety about the oncoming fledging of Guardianship. It hadn't occurred to her that Miranda was no longer a believer in their cause.

"Yet another reason why the old ways have got to be changed," Claire declared with finality. "I won't have another massacre on our hands."

Camilla smiled crookedly, "I'd really rather not be bound to an altar again. Very painful."

"I'm sure," Claire replied, bewildered at how they could find humor in the devastation that was Astar's last demonic act. "I'm also sorry I wasn't there."

Rolling one shoulder, Camilla dropped her eyes, "I know you would have been, had you known."

"Had I known," Claire ground out, "I would have dropped Astar on his ass a few times before I let you have a go. He's been wreaking havoc on our realm for too long."

With a snort, Camilla sighed, "But he's gone now, so there won't be any ass kicking for you."

"Suppose I'll just have to rest these old bones until the time comes," Claire murmured with not a little derision. "If the gate's instability is anything to go by, there's a whole lot of battling coming our way."

Sobering, Camilla pulled her hair up into a ponytail, "Any clue as to why after so many years the gate wants to burst open and spill all kinds of unholy things into our tiny human plane?"

Claire shrugged, "Could be anything really, and with August incarcerated all we can do is baton down the hatches and hold tight until something gives us a clue."

August was a bit of a sore spot for Claire, the one failure she refused to let die. Camilla had only been so brave as to bring her into conversation a few times, usually as a point of reference for some other unimportant event. Claire had fought for a long time to keep August out of prison, but the girl was defiant of every order, spitting on the gift of Guardianship in front of the Council. She was also dangerously off balance in a key way that kept the Council from simply releasing her back into the public. Powerful as she was, August could tip the balance of the world in any such way she chose and the Council (loathe as they were to admit it) feared her as much as they reviled her.

"Do you think," Camilla began, "The Council would see fit to bring August out, considering the circumstances?"

Claire shook her head, "No, I've already asked. And, I don't know what that place has done to her, psychologically speaking. She was already half delirious with rage when they put her behind bars, I don't think any part of her humanity could still exist now."

Camilla looked thoughtful, but didn't say anything more, her gaze settling on what was left of her coffee as they both drifted into their own perspective on the situation. What they were embarking upon was ground for a similar fate as August's. One tiny misstep and they would both be condemned by the Council and brought to their knees for judgment. It was a fate Claire had nearly faced a year before, one that very nearly cost her, her life. She didn't like the idea of heading back down that road, but her conviction about how necessary these changes were made her reset the line of her shoulders and soldier forwards. The consequences would be dealt with when they arose, if they arose. And, Claire had a lot more knowledge about how the Council worked after having been assigned as the Gatekeeper. She could persuade them with much more ease than ever before, was seen as a confidant and advisor rather than a former Guardian.

The heavy glass doors of the balcony slid open, disturbing the air of the room very slightly. Claire adjusted her position, dropping both feet to the floor as she watched the two men approach. From her vantage point she could observe the stride of each man. One's footsteps were hard, heel to toe, determined. The other stepped far more lightly, centering each downward movement for optimum movement. Though their styles of gait contrasted incredibly, their pace was equal in both forward motion and pattern. Claire instinctively knew that they had made some kind of decision and were displaying a united and impenetrable front. She set her coffee down and waited.

"I have just been briefed on the events occurring in this building for the last month," the tall, dark man said, his voice near hostile. "And I want to know what the fuck you have to do with it."

Claire had to crane her neck to look up at him, but she was far from cowed by his demeanor, "I had little to do with Astar and his antics. But, I will have everything to do with what happens next."

"And what happens next?"

Standing, Claire reveled in the shrinking distance between their eyes, a distance closed even more so by the height of her heels. "I will recreate the team of Guardians, train them, and I hope to work with your team to stop whatever apocalypse the dark realm is planning. Camilla has already agreed to help me train, and Miss Lewis has already been chosen. I will need three more from the bloodlines to complete the team."

His mouth thinning, the man replied evenly, "I don't believe Miss Lewis has agreed to be trained by you."

Claire blinked, "She doesn't have a choice. None of us did." Then, "I'm sorry, who am I addressing? I seem to have forgotten my manners."

"Director Fury, of Shield." His name certainly was an apt description of the man. Director Fury continued, "I believe you are already acquainted with Agent Coulson."

Her eyes flicked briefly over to said agent, noting the cool expression and loose muscles of his stance.

"We've met," Claire affirmed, careful to keep her expression neutral. "Now, I should have my three chosen here by the end of the week. Can I count on you to work with me, or should I move our efforts elsewhere?"

Director Fury studied her a minute, testing her resolve with his open critique. He shifted on his feet ever so slightly, his good eye dropping down the length of her body. There was nothing sexual about the glance, merely an assessment of her determination and plea. Eventually, he nodded.

"You'll have access to the second floor training area—you already know where that is—and I expect you to work with Agent Coulson. He will be reporting back to me the progress of your training."

Claire nodded despite the clenching of her stomach and the internal shaking out of her body. As hostile as Coulson was towards her now, it would be worse if they began working one on one with each other. There was far too much distrust between them for the course to run smooth enough for training to commence unhindered. She sat down, thinking that nothing ever went off without a hitch or two, as the two men strode away.

Camilla eyed her from across the table, "You don't want to work with Coulson?"

"That obvious?" Claire murmured with a slight smile.

Shrugging, Camilla replied, "Not really. But I know you well enough to notice when you don't like something."

"It's not a matter of like." Indeed, it certainly wasn't a matter of 'like' for Claire, as 'like' had never quite been a part of their repertoire. From the moment she'd seen him, Claire had felt something so much more than simple 'like'...

Standing at the entrance to a large ballroom, Claire smoothed the lines of her gown down her sides, feeling the fabric slide over her fingertips like so much water. The cobalt blue color was her favorite, and she had to admit that she looked fantastic even with the ridiculously long opera gloves she'd donned to conceal her tattoos. The Council wasn't keen on sending out their agents to events like this, finding them too frivolous. But, they were beginning to see the need for connections in the governments across the world, and diplomatic galas were the easiest ways to make contacts and friends.

Stepping inside, Claire made a circle around the room, listening intently for names and any other information she might be able to derive from eavesdropping. The party was just starting, so most of the conversations were still steeped in pleasantries. Completing the circuit, Claire took a glass of champagne from a server and sipped at it as she backed against a nearby pillar. In the excitement of getting to attend the gala, Claire had somehow forgotten that she knew absolutely no one in the diplomatic community. Without an escort, she was left standing alone by herself for far longer than she would have normally liked.

In a short while, music cued up, a string quartet set discreetly in the corner. The sound, however, was beautifully made and the acoustics of the room were prime for this kind of entertainment. She leaned back further into the stone of the pillar, nursing the champagne while the group played through a suite, beginning with a waltz. People milled about the room, talking and laughing in their small groups, oblivious to the stranger within their midst. They seemed so…normal. Claire wasn't sure what she was expecting when she arrived, but there was a kind of staunch stick-in-the-mud attitude that she assumed came along with being a diplomat. These people seemed downright lively compared to the persona she had in her mind.

The music played on and fairly soon couples had begun to dance haphazardly around the perimeter of the room. The crowd backed away a little, fanning out to give the dancers room and it was in that motion that Claire first caught sight of him. The tuxedo was tailored very well, she could tell that even from a distance. He was standing very straight, very tall, as if he had a string tied to the top of his head pulled tightly from above. Claire watched him watching the dancers, her glass hanging limply from her fingers.

Eyes moving sharply across the floor, Claire noticed how he seemed to be moving right along with them, though he physically hadn't budged. As another waltz queued up, she smiled as he shifted a little on the balls of his feet. A pair of dancers passed by in a quick twirl of fabric and air, the woman laughing at the overly dramatic waves of her partner's arms. The sound echoed over the music, drawing several eyes towards the couple, including that of the man standing across the room.

Claire caught his eye with a smile, tilting her head to the side as she held his gaze for what might be considered far too long to be courteous. To his credit, he didn't even blush, returning her look brazenly, unrepentantly. She liked that. Needing something to do with her hands, she sipped from her glass, the view of him obstructed by more dancers. The floor was beginning to fill up, to Claire's surprise as she really hadn't thought diplomats danced. But, the liquor had been flowing for a while and she guessed even dignitaries had to let loose sometime.

Stepping out and to the side, Claire circled around the group, dodging a few errant couples and edging around groups of people. She picked up the hem of her gown and ascended the stairs, wedging between a particularly portly man and his escort in or to make her way to the first balcony. From this vantage point, she could better map out the VIP's from the rest of the crowd. Aside from the dancers, there were tiny cliques of people at the four corners, pairs littering the space in between. No one seemed to be discussing anything of importance—a stark change from Claire's normal routine. All the conversations she had been a part of since completing her training were based on the essence of plague and global destruction. To see people simply enjoying themselves was an incredible, and refreshing, change of pace.

Still, she could not forget why she was here, to make 'friends' of the Council and to feel out the possibility of a partnership with the US government. The prospect, somehow, seemed more daunting now that she was present than it did sitting at the table facing the three council members. She leaned on the railing and continued to scan the crowd for clues as to who would be the best to approach first and which group seemed to be the most influential.

A hand slipped around the railing about half a foot from her gloved fingers, followed by a body moving so that they were standing side by side. Claire glanced over to find the tuxedoed man from across the dance floor looking out to the crowd in much the same was she had been seconds earlier. From far away he was intriguing. Up close, the man was far more interesting—not only because she got a better look at his features (which, she had to say, were easy on the eyes), but because he had chosen to approach her after only a glance across a crowded room. Claire was faintly reminded of most plotlines in romantic comedies. She hoped this was more of a thriller.

"What's your name?" He asked, voice even despite the forwardness of his question.

Claire bit her lip to hide her smile, "I'm Claire. You?"

"Phil," he replied, eyes still on the crowd.

Phil. A regular, American kind of name that rang with not a little bit of solidarity. Claire decided that she liked it.

"So, Phil, what do you think of the party?"

After a moment, his eyes flicked over to her from their station on the crowd, "It's looking up."

"Is it?" Claire asked with lifted brows. "You know, this is my first time at one of these things and I have to say they made an excellent choice of venue."

Phil nodded, "They usually do. Are you from GBN?"

Claire blinked at him for a moment, recalling every acronym she could in an effort to locate the correct response. "No, I'm not. We aren't really into three letter acronyms."

He smiled and she caught a glimpse of the white of his teeth, "What are you into?"

Again, the forwardness of his inquiries stunned her momentarily and she had to make a strategic retreat into a turned glance towards the crowd. The music still played, a staccato filled concerto featuring the cello that flowed so smoothly to her ears.

Leaning over, Claire motioned to the quartet, "See those men playing down there? Their playing Bach, but none of these people know that. They don't know what a vibrato is, or three-four versus four-four time. All they know is that music is playing and it makes them want to dance. They're spinning around to music that existed long before them, and they're doing it because those men are following Bach's long-dead lead."

Phil considered her little tangent for a moment, one finger tapping against the wooden railing. "A philosopher."

"My supervisors have been known to call me a bull shit artist."

He chuckled, "Likewise. Would you care to join the dancing?"

Claire smiled and nodded, managing not to flinch at his sudden turn to take her hand. Setting the glass to the side, she allowed him to guide her down the staircase and to the dance floor, his hand warm even through the gloves. As they moved through the perimeter of the crowd, Phil circled her gently, hand moving to pull her into a traditional ballroom stance. Claire followed his lead in their positioning, waiting a moment before she felt the tell-tale clench of muscle that signaled the first step. She tilted her head slightly and stepped back with him, pivoting a little in a slight turn as he brought her around the first bend of the dance.

Phil, surprisingly, had a fairly good grasp of formal dancing. His arms held the circle of poise without strain and his movements were always practiced and confident. She found that dancing with him was effortless as breathing, her own lessons coming back to her without thought. His hand high on her waist kept her from turning away too quickly and he gave her a beat of notice before commencing with a turn or pivot. She smiled at him at the dance ended and new song began, the notes moving much slower than before. This was not ballroom material, but a contemporary piece to contrast with the formality of the evening.

Standing close, Phil adjusted their position to one much more intimate, their bodies mere inches apart. Their circle of movement was much smaller, a few steps in any direction, and Phil did not allow her to step out into a turn despite the many opportunities he would have had to do so. Claire inhaled lightly, noticing the sandalwood of his cologne. The scent reminded her of her home deep underground, dark and dangerous and thrilling. She looked up at him through her lashes, wondering just what he was thinking behind that serene expression.

"I once heard that the difference between the poise of a ballroom dancer and the poise of a swing dancer had something to do with their gods."

Phil's eyes lit with the seemingly new knowledge, "Really?"

Claire nodded, "Hmm, ballroom originated from a primarily white, Christian community, thus the poise is lifted towards the heavens. Swing dancing, jazz, and blues dancing originated in a primarily black community. The gods of the Africans were gods of the earth, thus, the poise is lowered closer to the ground."

"Is that true?" He asked, his movements slowing as he considered her little bits of information.

Claire laughed lightly, "I have no idea. It's just something my dance instructor once told me."

Phil turned her a little away from the center of the room and the myriad of dancers settling into the new song, "I noticed you've had lessons."

She shrugged as much as his arms would allow, "It was an elective in my schooling."

During the course of training for Guardianship, the potentials were allowed outlets for their interests under the careful scrutiny of the Council. Claire had always loved music, and dance was a natural alternative to her consistent musical training. There were only so many hours she could spend working through her assigned music before her fingers started to ache. Besides, dancing was an easy way to manage the grace needed to fight properly.

"Where did you go to school?"

Without hesitation, Claire answered, "I was home schooled for most of my life."

Phil noticed the evasion, she could tell, but he chose not to comment, bringing them to a final dip as the song closed. As he lifted her back to standing, Claire noted the way his eyes checked the room as if monitoring for potential threat. Alerted, she also glanced around them, seeing nothing amiss in the crowd of happy, dancing people.

"I don't suppose you'd be interested in a glass of champagne," Claire murmured, hoping to pull away from the mass in case he'd caught something she hadn't. It had been far too long since she'd been around this many people and her years of training her kicking into overdrive to pick out where the threat may be. Of course, she might be overreacting and he'd simply looked around to see if the band was taking a break, but Claire was nothing if not careful.

Phil guided her from the dance floor with one hand at the small of her back, "I'm working, but I'll be happy to acquire one for you."

Curiosity piqued, Claire leaned into his body slightly, "What kind of job has you working on a night like this?"

He smirked, "I'm a handler."

"A handler? Of what?"

"People," Phil replied easily, plucking a flute from a nearby tray and presenting it to her.

Claire accepted it readily, "I wasn't aware there were people who 'handled' people. Sounds a bit confusing."

Shrugging, Phil took her elbow and led her to a bench near the entrance, helping her to sit.

"It can be, but I'm very good at what I do."

Claire crossed her legs and angled herself so that she could speak with him comfortably, "You must be, if you can work and dance at the same time."

"I have to admit I'm a bit distracted tonight," he replied, and Claire caught the hint of teasing in his voice.

She smiled, "Am I going to be reprimanded by your superiors for distracting you?"

"No," Phil countered, "Not by my superiors."

Both of Claire's brows lifted in surprise and amusement at the underlying meaning beneath his words and tone. Her smile widened considerably as a new layer of this intriguing man worked its way to the surface between them, displaying vast new opportunities for exploration. Thrilling. Absolutely thrilling.

Let me know what you think! As always, your feedback helps motivate me to write better and faster.