Chapter 1

Deaton can feel himself start to shiver as the temperature drops, the sun must be starting to sink, it wouldn't be long until night fell and the whole place turned into an inky black fridge. Once again he pulls against the ropes that wrap around his arms, legs and chest binding him to the old heavy metal chair but they are as tight as when they were first tied and all he succeeds in doing is straining his already sore body and tiring himself even further. It must have been a day or two since he last had anything to eat and a good many hours since his last drink of water, he can feel himself weakening and his vision starting to get fuzzy as his energy ebbs. Deaton shakes his head in an effort to refocus himself but the abrupt motion sends pain flashing through his head causing his stomach to roll and a low groan to leave his lips, damn that bitch had really clocked him good!

He felt a bit silly for allowing the Desert Wolf to get the drop on him so easily but he hadn't really expected anyone else to be on the trail of the Dread Doctors history and if he had ever stopped to consider who he might end up crossing paths with on what was essentially an archaeological expedition, then one of the last names on his list would have been the bloody Desert Wolf. She had seemed just as shocked to see him there though, not so shocked she wasn't able to get the drop on him knock him out and tie him up of course, but after that it became obvious that he was more a wrinkle than an actual part of her plan. That's not to say that she hadn't seemed awfully happy to see him and tried to get as much information out of him about Malia and the Dread Doctors as she could, but even she couldn't slip smoothly passed the measured ambiguity he had spent years perfecting. Despite the fact that the blow he had taken to the head made it felt like his brain was full of thick fudge, his deflections and half truths had seem to appease her somewhat and she was currently off following the direction he had let her believe she had drawn out of him, he only hoped that it would buy him enough time to get himself free and out of here before she returned. Taking a deep breathe he tenses his arms, puffs out his chest and stretches as hard as he can against his bindings before collapsing back against the chair his vision darkening around the edges from the effort, no this wasn't working, his ropes hadn't shifted one bit and he could feel himself fading faster with every attempt, it looks like the Desert Wolf wasn't the only one to underestimate her adversary.

At some point the exertions of his attempts at escape pushed his exhausted body to breaking point and Deaton slipped into unconsciousness. The air had continued to chill and the room to lose its detail in darkness as night wrapped around the lone figure tied to a heavy metal chair in the centre of a dusty old laboratory. He was so still it was as though he was part of the long abandoned space; it was only the faint rise and fall of his chest and warm steam of his shallow breath that suggested there was still life to be found in this Dread museum… but for how much longer was anyone's guess.

In the darkness the room seemed to grow in the feeling of size but there was an ancient and unused quality to the air, an emptiness found in places filled only with the echoes of long faded memories. In the distance a faint sound, a shuffle that anywhere else would have gone unnoticed but here even such a small change is enough to tease the edges of the unconscious druids mind and he starts to stir. The small, faint sounds slowly travel closer and the air changes, becomes fuller and heavier, Deaton can feel himself being pulled back to consciousness which seems to taunt him just out of reach and he has to claw and strain to get a hold of it, he didn't even remember passing out, how long has he been here now? Suddenly he can hear them clearly, the noises are louder and much closer now, his brain does its best to focus and his eyelids stutter open enough to see a dim shaft of light pierce through the blackness and dance lightly around the room. SHIT!

Deaton focuses on pulling himself back to full consciousness; he's going to need his wits about him if the bitch is back and unhappy with his disinformation. The shaft of light grows in strength and makes its way around the room stopping when it lands on Deaton's form, the brightness of the light filling his vision causes his head to scream at him and he closes his eyes against the pain. The light doesn't leave him and even though he keeps his eyes closed he can hear that another couple of people have entered the room all moving and communicating in a military fashion. He was confident now that this wasn't the Desert Wolf returned but that didn't do anything to calm his nerves and pull back the adrenalin that was coursing through his veins. It sounded like two people were exploring the room while a third was slowly progressing towards him and then the quiet was broken by one soft word, "Deaton?"

"Chris?" He could hear the man hurry over to him and attempted to open his eyes but was met by the focused glare of the torchlight again, "Do you mind?"

"Sorry" came from the figure across the room standing directly behind the brightness and the light dropped from his face allowing Deaton to open his eyes and finally see Chris Argent clearly kneeling at his side as the hunter worked at freeing him from his stubborn bindings. "Thanks."

As Chris freed his second hand and moved down to work on the bindings holding his feet in place his gaze flicked up to focus on Deaton's face, "So I gotta say I really wasn't expecting to stumble across you all the way out here, you've wandered a little way from home wouldn't you say?"

Deaton huffed out a slight chuckle, "What can I say, I'm a history buff, and couldn't I say the same for you? I thought you were working with the Calaveras."

Chris gestures with his head towards the other two hunters currently sweeping the room, "Still am. We were following a hunch trying to track down the Desert Wolf and it lead us to this long abandoned, what is it a lair of some sorts?"

Finally free from the ropes, Deaton slowly stretches his limbs and rubs his joints to get the blood flowing again then eagerly takes a water bottle that Chris has materialized from somewhere and is holding out to him. His fingers stumble a little as he struggles to undo the cap but through sheer force of will he manages to open the bottle and greedily gulp down half the contents before answering Chris, "More like an old laboratory. Have you ever heard of the Dread Doctors?"