A/N: Hello! I'm testing this chapter out to see if I really want to make this, so please tell me whether or not it's good. Please feel free to leave any sort of questions, comments, smart remarks. After all, the last is a specialty of Nick. ;)

Chapter One: Strangers

Ambrosius looked out at the streets. From the top of the roof, he almost felt at peace. He could almost imagine that his mother was out there, laughing and dancing with someone was they undoubtedly told her their life's story and she cheered them up. He could imagine that he was still just Nick Gautier and that his life was still normal, or as normal as it had ever been for him. He felt his skin marble as fury and pain wrapped around him once more and he cursed. Nowadays he had to force his skin to remain human in appearance, or else he'd look like Balthazar from Charmed. (He fully blamed his mother for the fact that he knew about a teenage girls' show so well. Of course, no one knew about that little tidbit, thank Someone, or else he'd doubtlessly have been teased to no end by Otto or another Squire…) Blood red skin covered with black tribal-looking markings, his eyes ebony, with an odd oily cover like oil spreading over a dark surface. He forced his eyes to remain blue, his skin to return to its Cajun olive and his unruly dark brown hair to grow back to its shoulder length waves once more.

Why could he forget any of it? For months now he'd been working with Acheron, the asshole that had started this whole mess, to get control of these stupid powers. Yet even as his control became better, the memories refused to leave him, making him vulnerable and unstable. Why couldn't he just let the past go? After years, those memories threatened to break him after just a split moment of remembrance, of picturing the night he'd come home and found—Forget it, Nicky. Don't be hurting yourself like this. Things go as they're meant to, for a reason. He swore he could hear her voice in his head, and his anger and pain eased just that little bit more. He didn't care if he wasn't sane anymore, as long as he heard his mother's voice from time to time, living would be okay after all.

His eyes caught on a woman below, someone he'd normally never even look at twice, but for some reason she caught his attention. It took him a second, just a fraction of time, but he swore before she moved again that she'd been looking at him. That was impossible, though. With his new powers, he'd hidden himself from human eyes, and even though it was night, she wasn't tall, stunningly gorgeous and blue or black eyed, like Daimons or Apollites. Instead, she looked like any other human from where he watched. She was shorter than most humans, what he guessed was an hourglass shape-although he couldn't be certain with the long coat she had on- and long brown hair that curled wildly at the ends. She didn't seem different than any other human, yet his newfound powers told him there was something more to this woman…

Ambrosius found out what when he watched a group of tall, exceptionally handsome-although not in his opinion, of course- blonde men trailing behind at a short distance. Here we go again, he thought to himself, and stepped off the ledge of the roof. Three stories down he fell, landing without a sound and striding from the alley without a backward glance. When he'd been human he would've loved to be able to do something like that. Now that he could, he found that he didn't even give a shit anymore. Things go as they're meant to, the voice echoed in his mind. Sure, and people in hell wanted ice water; neither meant shit to him right now.

He strode right past the woman who was approaching him, a tall redhead with stunningly green eyes and the most beautiful face the world has seen in quite some time. "Nick," she purred, and he grimaced.

"It's Ambrosius now, Artemis. Go bug someone else. I'm hunting tonight."

"You dare flick me off—"

"Brush, woman, brush you off. And yes, I do. We both know I'm more powerful than you now, and I'm not going to put up with your shit tonight. Go bother Acheron-oh wait, you can't, because his wife will beat the shit out of you if you so much as breathe in his presence. Sucks to be you, doesn't it?" He didn't even blink at the tears of rage he saw in her eyes. He'd been around her enough to figure out that she was selfish and would use anything to get her way.

"You'll regret this, Nick, you'll see." With a flourish she turned on one too-high heel and sauntered off like the bitchy goddess she was. He rolled his eyes and turned back to where he'd been going. Shit, now he'd lost the woman and the Daimons. Bitch, he thought crossly. Now he'd have to use powers that he hadn't even begun to train yet. He'd tried scrying a few times, but so far he'd only managed to get it right once. What had he done again? Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he walked to an abandoned alleyway and focused on the woman, picturing her exactly as he'd seen her from the rooftop. Small, hidden by the too-big coat, looking up at him with a look on her face that not even his god-like eyesight could figure out, and hair that had reached past her waist, straight at the top that led to waves and then to chaotic curls at the ends, a deep brown tinted with red, gold and black in the lamplight. He focused on her face, what he'd been able to tell of it, the almost-heart shape of it, the full, curved cheekbones and stubborn chin, the rounded nose, the fact that there wasn't a single sharp point in any of her features. Her eyes, what color were they? He couldn't remember, only saw the slightly tilted shape of them, felt the compassion from them—where had that come from? He'd never experienced anything like that before. Was this some sort of new, emerging gift? Someone help him if it was, because he wasn't ready for any sort of empathy…

The thought hadn't finished when he found himself facing the three Daimons, whose faces quickly turned from smug to confused. "Surprise, assholes. Didn't know someone was watching, huh?" A savage grin lit his features as he raised his hand and blasted two of them against the wall, crushing them to golden dust that disappeared before it could touch the ground. Damn, he'd been aiming for all three. The last one lunged for him, a sword whipping out of some hidden compartment in his trench coat, but Ambrosius was quicker, flipping the blade strapped to his wrist up as his other arm raised and he stepped forward. The fluid movement caused the death of the last Daimon, whose dust revealed a dagger hanging in mid-air still.

Sensing the woman at his back, he turned, fully expecting fear or revulsion or even worse, arousal, and was just as ready to erase her memory as quickly as possible and get the hell out of there. His thoughts stopped as he got a good look at her. She'd taken her coat off and was still in a fighter's stance, although she stood to her full height-not that there was much of it, she was only about five feet and two inches, making her over a foot shorter than his six foot four-now that he turned to her. For the first time in ages he felt his throat dry and felt the stirring of heat in his veins. Christ, just by looking at her? You need to get laid, man, he thought dimly. Traveling from the ground up, his eyes noted everything. She had tiny feet, strong legs, hips that flared proudly, the skinniest waist he'd seen, her breasts made him stop and stare for a moment, given that they were just as large and proud as her hips and that her shirt made a V that showed a fair bit of skin revealed by a camisole underneath that had drifted down, but he couldn't think of that. Slender shoulders, he tore his gaze up and saw, a delicate neck, and… her face was perfect. Not beautiful at all, but striking. The rounded cheekbones and stubborn chin masked a soft quality to her face that made him think of his mother—an odd that, he added in his head…

Her eyes. Now that he saw what they were like, it was no wonder he'd forgotten them. They were old-soul, depthless, tormented with sorrow and overflowing with life and holding inside of them a serenity and contentedness that made him dizzy. One was green and he swore he could see grey in the bottom left, then green and brown in the same position in the other one. They were soft in color, not blazing, like some people described his striking blue, but just like soft earth or drifting air—where the hell was all of this coming from? The part of him that wasn't captivated by those strange eyes noticed randomly that she had double-lobe piercings in one ear and a cartilage piercing on her left, a green ring with a green ball of some sort…

Her eyes lowered and she cleared her throat, uncomfortable. "Thank you, sir, but I think you might want to change your skin back now…"

It took a moment for the words to sink in—her voice was deep and calming, like heated silk and warm water. What she said hit him like a freight train, and he raised his arms, looking down at his hands in astonishment. He hadn't even felt the change, he'd been so wrapped up in her appearance. He concentrated on being human again before he realized that she wasn't screaming, wasn't panicking, wasn't running away. Instead, she'd calmly told him to change his skin back. Who was she—what was she?

"Thanks… who are you?"

"You mean what?" She grinned, but he had the strange thought-as every single one of them seemed to be lately-that the words saddened her.

"Are you a mind-reader or something?" he asked gruffly, trying to hide his suddenly unsteady voice, body, everything.

"Not with you, Malachai. You should know that nobody can read you. I'm Elektra, though, to answer your question. Al… Elektra Paeus." She's lying, he thought, but brushed the thought aside. Why would she lie about her name?

"And to your own?" His head tilted to the side, studying her closely. Those eyes looked down for the briefest moment and he knew he saw sadness in them. For some reason it tugged an echoing one in him, but he couldn't remember where from. She doesn't know, his mother's voice whispered in his head, and he knew it to be true. "Where are you from, then, let's start with that?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I should be saying anything like that to someone I really don't know. So thank you, Malachai—"

"Ambrosius," he said automatically, hating his form, even the name of it.

She lifted an eyebrow but gave in and just nodded. "Fine, thank you, Ambrosius, but I should be going, before any more things that go bump in the night decide to make me a late night snack." She hurriedly grabbed her coat and ran for the other side of the alley, practically becoming a blur in her effort to escape.

You always did know how to make an impression, his mother's voice said, and he actually found himself laughing. He'd always known how to chase after the ladies, too, and this case was no different. You can run, Elektra, but you can't hide. There's something about you that I know is important, I just don't know what yet. You'll tell me, though, soon enough…