A/N—I still don't own.

*Chapter One*

Palamedes bolted out of the cab and into the shack. He hated the rain nearly as much as Will did, though for different reasons. He didn't like getting wet. Will just didn't want to get clean. Slamming the door to the shack behind him, he sank gratefully onto his leather couch and kicked off his boots. The digital clock on the computer screen flashed 1:15. He groaned.

"Will?" he called out as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. A few texts from Francis, something from Baybars, and one voicemail. That was all. Palamedes clicked on the voicemail, wondering who's call he could have missed. He hadn't heard his phone ring.

"Palamedes?" It was Will's voice, louder than normal—he must have been screaming above the weather. "I'm just getting out of work. That paperwork took longer than I thought it would. It's about 11:30. I'm going to head home. If you're in the area, I'd appreciate a lift. If not, I'll see you when you get back. Ta!"

Palamedes glanced at the clock again. 1:20. He knew that it didn't take an hour and a half to walk from Will's work to the junkyard. It took—in bad weather—perhaps half an hour. Will should have been home.

It took him about ten seconds to decide what was more important to him: sleep or Will.

Grabbing his boots, he slipped them on and headed back out into the rain.

What is that smell?


Will gagged, his stomach twisting as he inhaled a deep breath of what smelled like decaying flesh. He swallowed, trying to fight down the nausea.

Small stones bit into his hands as he pushed himself up. "What?—where?—?" And then, suddenly, he knew exactly what the smell was.

He pulled himself up, using the garbage bin next to him as a support. The rusty metal dug into the palms of his hands, and he winced, both at the immediate pain and the somewhat more distant pain of the tetanus shots he was going to need.

The smell got stronger as he left the stale scent of the alley stones behind. It filled his nostrils and made his stomach churn. His lungs seemed reluctant to work, and he had to force himself to breathe. He didn't have to turn around to know that a cucubuth was standing behind him. He could smell it, and he could feel its aura, like cold fingers running up and down his spine. He could hear it breathing, panting like a dog. Unbidden, he whimpered softly. And regretted it.

The cucubuth had apparently had orders to keep him silent, as the moment the whimper passed his lips the creature slammed a paw-like fist against the side of his head.

Will fell forward, slamming into the metal garbage bin. He cried out in pain as he felt a strip of ragged metal scrape his side. The cucubuth responded to the sound of his voice, and struck him again, this time harder.

"Flamel." It was more a bark than a word, but it was unmistakable. "Flamel."

Cold hands grabbed at his neck, pulling him upwards. "Flamel!" the creature reiterated, more forcefully. It shook Will, and Will had to fight back a scream of horror.

"I don't know," he finally managed to choke out, but the creature either didn't believe him, or didn't understand him, and it tossed him to the ground again in frustration, delivering a painful kick to the ribs as thanks for his compliance.

Will bit back a sob. Flamel. This was all about Flamel. Even gone, the man just didn't seem to leave them alone.


The repair shop was locked. Palamedes had forgotten to take the spare key, and was forced to kick the door in, even though he highly doubted finding Will, or anything that could help him find Will, there. And he was right. Everything was packed up and put away, and the lights were all off.

Cursing, Palamedes dashed back out into the night. His watch said that it was 2:00 in the morning now, but the exhaustion he had felt as he drove back to the junkyard was gone.

"Heard about those abductions?" The passenger's words came back to him. "Heard about those abductions?" He felt his knees go weak.

"Will..." he whispered.

He couldn't do this alone. Running towards his cab, he dialed a number and put the phone to his ear.

"Baybars?"

Soon the word was out in the immortal world: William Shakespeare had joined the ranks of the missing.