Chapter Four

Warren Mears strolled into the demon bar on 4th feeling like king of the universe. Warren one, slayer absolute zero, he chuckled to himself. He felt jittery with energy, like his skin was two sizes too small and he was going to burst out of it, free and clear like a snake shedding, casting off the old and worn to reveal something new, something bright and wonderful.

The bar was cool and dark so he pulled off his sunglasses, sauntering past vampires and demons in a half dozen different horrific varieties.

"Whiskey, straight up!" He cried, throwing his arms out. "And get a round for the house, I'm feeling expansive!" What's a little money when I can just steal more? No slayer to stop me… He gave a gleeful little chuckle.

Warren slid onto a barstool next to a vamp watching television with hungry intent. He took a quick glance and repressed a little shudder. Some crocodile was gnawing away at a gazelle, breaking off hunks of meat, staining the water around it pink. Warren took a sip of his whiskey to distract him from the nauseating sight. His leg hopped as his foot bounced up and down on the crossbar of the barstool.

"Hey," Warren said, leaning in towards the vampire. "I bet you don't get a lot of humans in—"

Warren froze, swallowing thickly as the vampire reached out with lightning speed to grab his shoulder. He resisted the urge to wince at the painful pressure from the vampire's hand.

"I'm watching my program," the vampire said slowly, locking his yellow eyes on Warren.

Warren had a sudden thought that he knew what the gazelle felt like when the crocodile popped out of the river. He shrugged the thought aside as soon as it occurred, letting his eyes travel over the bar again. Vampires, demons, trolls, gods, none of them had been able to kill the slayer, kill her and keep her down. Only he, only Warren Mears, had been able to get the job done.

"Wouldn't want to interrupt your me time," Warren breezed, smiling, knocking back his whiskey. "Not even to buy the guy who killed the slayer a drink." He spoke the last words at the top of his lungs, grinning. Let this vamp find out who he was messing with.

The bar fell silent. Warren could feel every eye in the house on him. The croc-loving vampire turned toward him at a glacial pace. "What's that?" There was an edge in the vamp's voice that made him break out in gooseflesh. He didn't know if he was terrified or thrilled. Maybe both.

"Took her out myself. I've been heading an organization. The Trio?" Warren smiled. "You've heard of us." And now we'll go down in history, I'll go down in history. Slayer-killer.

The vampire's eyes narrowed. It took a moment, with the forehead issue and all, for Warren to realize it was confusion. The vampire locked eyes with the bartender and then looked back at Warren. "Uh, no."

Warren felt a brief flare of disappointment that crumbled into smoldering anger. They didn't know about the Trio. Fine. It didn't matter. It was all about him, it was all Warren Mears now, baby.

"Not important," Warren said, forcing a laugh. "I cut them loose. I figure, now that Buffy's out of the picture, some things have got to change around here."

The vampire was still just staring at him with those disconcerting eyes, so Warren shifted his gaze to the bartender, widening his smile. "I need a real gang, you know, not a, not a couple of wannabes." He liked looking at the bartender. The bartender made him feel handsome. I thought I had skin issues, he thought, barely holding in a chuckle.

"And you killed the slayer?" The bartender drawled. His voice was like someone crunching a handful of gravel.

"With these hands," Warren said, taking another sip of his drink. There was movement in his peripheral vision. He took a quick glance around the bar and saw some of the patrons were standing, craning to get a better look at him. Some were even moving closer to the counter.

"What are you, a warlock?" The bartender asked.

Warren did laugh this time, long and loud. "It's funny you mention that. You know, I've explored all the dark arts—witchcraft, demonology. You name, I tried it against the slayer. But you know what I found really works?

Pause for effect, Warren thought. "Gun," he purred.

"You killed the slayer with a gun?" The vampire next to him asked. Warren looked at croc-lover and saw the vampire's face spread in a wide, toothy smile.

"In her own backyard," Warren agreed. "Don't underestimate science, my friend. Good, old-fashioned metal meets propulsion." He smacked his hands together and started to laugh.

"Holy shit," the bartender drawled. "Take your money back." He shoved Warren's bills back across the counter. "Drinks are on me," the demon roared. "The slayer's dead!"

The bar broke into a riot of cheers, growls, and ear-splitting shrieks. Warren found himself buffeted on every side by demons swarming up to the bar for their free drinks, a few taking the time to pat him on the back. Each hand, claw, and thing that hit him felt like it would leave a bruise, but he didn't care. These were his people. Well, not people. The bartender gave him a drink, then his vampire neighbor at the bar. Some tentacley fellow bought him a double. Pretty soon he was feeling a buzz that him humming.

"Let's watch Baywatch!" Warren cried. The crocodiles disappeared, replaced with a static-blurred beach scene covered with sunbathing beauties. "That's more like it!" He tossed back another drink.

"Hot blond running!" A demon called from the back of the bar. Catcalls and whistles rang throughout the place.

Warren was enjoying the show and yet another whiskey when the bell over the door rang. He didn't pay it any mind until his barstool was nearly knocked out from under him by a scrawny kid with curly, mousy hair and huge, thick glasses.

"Hey, watch it," Warren snarled. He reached out to push the newcomer, only to find the croc-loving vamp holding his arm.

"I wouldn't buddy," the vampire said. "He's a Slod demon. He might decide you've got some rare organs he wants for his collection."

"Gus," the kid panted, waving down the bartender. "I've got an update for the pool."

"Too late kid, we already know the slayer's dead." The bartender laughed. "Have a drink, relax, we'll update the bets tonight." He pushed a glass of milky blue liquid toward the Slod demon. "You didn't have money riding on that one did you? Hell of a long shot."

"Gus," the kid repeated. He grabbed his drink and emptied it with one toss. When he spoke again pale blue smoke rolled out of his mouth. "The slayer isn't dead."

Warren froze, whiskey glass half way to his mouth. He kept his eyes locked on the television. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. But if it was—

"What?" The bartender asked in a growl. No one in the bar was making a sound now. The television sounded tinny and strange, warped.

The Slod kid nodded his head, setting his dishwater curls bouncing crazily. "I heard some normal tried to shoot the slayer, but it didn't take, as if it would." He laughed, long and high and shrill, sending a huge curl of smoke into the air. "And the best part? Her pet witches saved her! Time to update the pool, Gus. I just won big!"

"Hold him," the bartender told the croc-loving vamp.

At first Warren felt a flash of relief, expecting to see the Slod kid seized, but it only lasted for an instant as he gasped at the burning pressure of the vampire gripping his upper arm.

"Hey," Warren began. The vampire shook him so hard his teeth clacked together.

"Shut up, normal."

"I'm shutting up," Warren babbled, holding up his hands in surrender.

The bartender turned to the paneled wall behind him and muttered a single word in some demonic tongue, waving his hand in front of the dark wood. As his gesture ended, the wall dissolved, leaving behind a chalkboard covered in phosphorescent green chalk scrawls. The demon waved his hand again and the text began to scroll upwards, line after line of it, until Warren saw a block labeled Slayer Death. There were a hundred deaths listed, from choking to vamp bite to being hit by a bus.

There were two places where lines had been drawn through a death in a deep purple-red streak: death by drowning and death by god. At the very bottom of the list was death by gun.

"You better hope this is a waste of my blood," the bartender said, looking over his shoulder at Warren.

"I don't know what that means," Warren whined, crying out as the vampire tightened his grip, shaking him again.

"I told you, shut up. Won't tell you again."

The bartender watched their exchange with a grim smile, and with no change in expression, reached up and bit the tip off his own index finger. Blood streamed from the wound.

"Let's see what we have boys," the bartender called as he chewed. Warren cringed at the sound grind of teeth on bone.

Gus the finger-eating bartender reached out and dragged his stump across the line on the board that read death by gun. The blood left a tarry black smear. Warren could hear demons in the bar behind him muttering and whispering. The demon kid was bouncing up and down as he watched the board, the puffs of smoke from his breath barely visible now.

The new blood on the board began to burn. Warren held his free hand up in front of his face against the flare of light. When it faded, he looked back at the board. The line over death by gun now glowed the same purple-red as the other failed slayer deaths.

"You're screwed," the vampire chuckled.

"It didn't fuckin' TAKE!" The bartender roared, smashing his hand to the counter.

Feeling a strange sense of detachment that fogged his bladder-weakening terror, Warren noticed that the bartender's finger had already begun to grow back, a claw-tipped bone emerging slowly from the torn flesh. Demons throughout the bar were screaming out for Warren's death. It didn't take, Warren thought. It didn't take

"Everybody shut up!" The bartender screamed. The patrons fell silent again, the air in the room left heavy with unspoken anger. You're a dead man," the bartender told Warren. "But not until you earn back some of the money you cost me tonight. We're taking a new bet, boys!"

The bartender waved his arm and the text on the board scrolled until bare black was revealed. Another gesture of his hand and text began to burn green across the space. It read Slayer Kills Normal.

"All right, I'm taking times, bets are for cash or kittens, no swap-out," the bartender told the watching crowd. "How long till the slayer squashes this bug?"

Warren watched demons betting his life away. Some gave him minutes, some gave him days, and some took riskier bets by including how the slayer would kill him. The little Slod demon that'd ruined his life, spoiled his victory, bet that Buffy would use the witches to do him in. Demon after demon jumped on the Slod bet. The witches. The witches. The slayer and her damned witches. It was all their fault.

"Nobody touches him," the bartender called out to his patrons, eyeballing every grumbling demon until the place was silent as the grave. "Nobody touches him except the slayer. I find out that anybody went after him because they lost cash on that gun bet and they'll have me to deal with."

"Good news for you, kid," the croc-loving vampire growled, teeth inches from Warren's face. "I was gonna drain you dry for making me watch Baywatch, but now you're safe." The vampire laughed, sending a wave of hot breath at him. Warren gagged at the smell of old, rotten meat. "Till the slayer and her witches find you."

The vampire pushed Warren off his barstool and he couldn't catch himself, he landed painfully on the bare cement floor. He pulled himself to his feet under the baleful gaze of the bartender, saw the Slod kid smirking at him.

"We'll just see about that," Warren said. But his squeaking bravado sounded hollow, even to him.

Warren ran for the door, waiting to feel a claw or a knife in the back, but it never came. He went outside and scrambled up the steps into the daylight, panting for breath. The light was stinging his eyes so he pulled out his sunglasses, only to find the lenses were cracked, frame bent by his unceremonious shove to the floor. Warren felt a little burst of anger at the loss of the expensive glasses and then laughed as a wave of nausea clenched his stomach. Now wasn't the time to be worried about a stupid pair of sunglasses. Buffy wasn't dead. Buffy and her witches would be looking for him.

"Three to one," Warren muttered. "It's time to even those odds."

Willow woke to the hum of tires on asphalt. She felt the darkness boiling in her belly and grief lanced through her. She knew what she would see when she opened her eyes—the vast expanse of desert, pale sand, and the bleached green of life struggling to exist in a desiccated, lonely land. The sky would be fading to lavender on the horizon. They were driving, hunting Warren. I'm hunting Warren, because I'm a killer. How could Tara ever love a killer? It didn't matter of course, because if she opened her eyes and saw that desert, it meant that her Tara was still gone…

oooooooooooooooooo

When Willow opened her eyes and saw the streets of Sunnydale rolling past the window, looked down and saw the arms of her lover wrapped around her, she couldn't hold in the sob that rose in her throat. Relief warred with the darkness.

"Willow?" Tara's voice was shaking, so worried, but the sound of it made Willow's heart sing. "Are you awake baby?"

"Tara," Willow croaked, rolling her head back so she could look up into that beautiful face, those bright eyes. "Hi."

"Hi baby," Tara whispered, her crooked smile seeming out of place with the tears streaming down her cheeks. "Guys, she's awake."

"Hey Wills." She could just see the back of Xander's head over the driver's seat, the white-knuckled grip where his hand clutched the steering wheel.

"Welcome back, Will." Buffy said, turning to face them.

"Buffy," Willow whispered. "You okay?" Tara grieved the hesitance and fear she could hear in her lover's voice.

Buffy smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Don't be worried about me, silly. You're the one who's been out for almost an hour.

"Yeah, no more sleeping on the job," Xander quipped. He was trying to sound light-hearted, but Willow could hear the tension in his voice, the anxiety.

"Xander!" Buffy said, sounding stern.

"Kidding," Xander replied hurriedly.

"S'okay," Willow said, wincing at the raw needles of pain in her throat. "Don't fight." Willow closed her eyes again against the tears she could feel brimming. Tara and Buffy, both so pale, so strained.

"They're not fighting," Tara soothed, brushing her hands over Willow's hair. "They're just worried about you, baby. We're all worried about you."

Still causing them pain, Willow thought. The sorrow of it dropped like a stone into the seething mass of her belly. She felt a tear fall.

"Shush," Tara said, rocking Willow now. "It's all right."

Willow shook her head. She was so tired. Every inch of her body ached; she could swear the throbbing even wound through her hair. Xander took a corner a little too sharply; there was a hint of a squeal from the tires. Willow slid on the seat, but didn't mind, it pushed her closer to Tara. She shifted her head to lie pillowed on her love's chest, listened to the soothing sound of her heartbeat. It was fast, but steady, strong. She smiled when Tara gave her a gentle squeeze.

"Love you," Tara murmured, pressing her lips to Willow's hair.

"Love you, so much," Willow replied, looking up into Tara's eyes.

Xander took the car around another sharp bend and Buffy muttered something to him about never being able to joke about her driving skills again. Willow shook with a little chuckle at the hint of normalcy and a delighted smile spread across Tara's face.

"There's my happy girl," Tara said. Her stomach fought between fluttering and clenching as Willow smiled up at her. It was wonderful to see that smile, but Willow was so ashen, looked so frail.

"We're almost there," Xander announced.

As soon as he spoke the words, Willow felt the dark power inside her, moving, straining, imagined it like a hyena rising up off the savannah, testing the air, scenting a kill. No, she thought. Oh please, no. Xander, he told them to take me to the Magic Box. They're taking me to the Magic Box.

Tara watched the smile vanish from Willow's face, but she was still shaking. "Baby?"

"Don't—" Willow whispered, and her eyes began to change, pupils widening, growing until the green of her iris disappeared all together.

Willow bucked in Tara's arms, hand clenching as her arms and legs went rigid. The whites of her eyes began to glow, shift opalescent. She felt like she was being stretched, pulled thin as paper, and soon she would tear apart.

"No," Willow said between gritted teeth, shaking harder and harder.

"Buffy!" Tara cried. Willow began to seize, jerking in her arms.

The slayer took one look at the situation in the back seat and unbuckled her seatbelt, slipping back to help Tara told the thrashing redhead.

"Hurry up, Xander!" Buffy said, wrapping her arms around Willow's legs.

"Oh god," Xander groaned, watching from the rearview mirror. The jeep jumped forward as he hit the accelerator.

"Willow," Tara begged. "Stay with me, please."

The love of her life seized two more times; writhing so fiercely that she almost pulled her legs free from Buffy's grip. And then her eyes closed, and her breath rattled in her chest. Tara stared down at her frozen. She heard Buffy speak, but had no idea what the slayer was saying. Willow was so still, so small.

"Tara," Buffy said, reaching out and shaking the blonde witch. Tara pulled her gaze away from Willow and looked at Buffy open-mouthed. "Is she breathing?"

"Buffy?" Tara asked, her voice shaking. It was like the slayer was whispering to her from the other side of the world.

"Is she breathing?" Buffy repeated urgently.

Tara leaned over Willow's face, fighting the urge to retch. She saw a lock of her own blonde hair brushing over her lover's cheek, but Willow didn't move, didn't respond in any way. Oh goddess, oh goddess no. She could feel a scream building in her chest. And then it happened. It was so soft, and so cool, that Tara thought she was imagining it. Several long, long seconds passed, and there it was again. A breath. Tara moved a shaking hand up to Willow's throat and felt a pulse, fast and thready, pounding beneath her fingertips.

"She's b-breathing," Tara said with a shaking laugh. "She's alive."

"Okay," Buffy murmured, squeezing Willow's legs gently. "Okay."

Tara could hear Xander let out a long, rattling breath in the front seat, knew that his face was just as tear-streaked as her own, as Buffy's. The car rolled to a stop.

"We're here," Xander murmured, and his voice was thick with tears.

Tara pulled Willow into her lap and reached for the door handle, but stopped when she felt the slayer's warm hand on her leg.

"Wait," Buffy said softly. "Let me check first, okay?"

"I d-don't—"

"Warren," Xander said, turning in his seat to face them. "Oh man, Warren is still on the loose out here somewhere. What are we going to do about him?"

His face was twisted, red. Tara didn't think she'd ever seen the gentle man so angry. So scared, Tara realized. She looked from Xander to Buffy, saw how numb and worn the slayer looked. Shock. Terror. With everything they'd seen, everything they'd been through, nothing had ever rocked them as much as seeing Willow like this, seeing her so broken. Tara bit her lip, felt the copper tang of blood on her tongue. There wasn't time for tears. She had to take care of her girl. I'll take care of you, Willow. Tara thought at her love. I'll keep everybody safe, somehow.

"I don't care about Warren," Tara said firmly. "We have to take care of Willow. Let Mears take care of himself."

Buffy blinked and nodded her head, flashing Tara a weak smile. "I just need to make sure the coast is clear. Xander, you take Willow. Tara, you follow them and I'll take the rear okay? Let's just get everybody in there safe and sound."

Xander opened his door and rolled out of the car, crouching as he walked toward their door. At the same time Buffy hopped out her door, closing it gently as she darted to the sidewalk to check the street. Before Xander had time to put his hand on the handle of Tara's door, Buffy was already moving back into the alley, checking for threats. She came back to the car as Xander opened the door, sliding Willow gently from Tara's lap. It took everything in the blonde to let him lift Willow away. Again, Tara thought bitterly, thinking of the night of Buffy's resurrection. She wanted to hold on to Willow's hand, keep in contact so her lover would know she was there, but didn't want to risk impeding Xander's movements.

"Okay, let's go," Buffy murmured.

Xander ran toward the magic box, clutching Willow to his chest. Tara followed behind him at a jog, crouching down when she felt the gentle pressure of Buffy's hand on the back of her head. They reached the door of the Magic Box and Xander twisted to reach the knob, kicking the door open the rest of the way. Tara was right behind him, she stepped into the shop and Buffy slipped in right after her, throwing the bolt and the chain on the door. Tara heard the click of heels on the tile floor, the panel in the counter flipping up.

"Oh no, I was right," Anya said. "I'm so sorry I was right. I'm mean, it happens a lot," she said mournfully. "But this time I wish I was wrong. I'm really sorry. How did it happen, how did Tara—"

"How did I what?" Tara asked, stepping out from behind Xander.

The ex-vengeance demon's mouth dropped open and her face went pale. Tara thought for a moment that Anya would faint, but instead she threw out her arms and dashed across the shop, sweeping Tara into a tight embrace.

"Tara," she said, sounding joyous and tearful. "I'm so glad you're not dead!"

"Anya," Tara began, touched by her friend's happiness and returning the curly bottle-blonde's hug gently. "I'm sorry you w-were w-worried—"

"Wait," Anya interrupted, pulling away from her. "What happened to Willow? If you're all right, what's with the whole war and summoning Osiris?"

"War?" Buffy asked, walking up to Xander laying a hand on Willow's head. "What do you mean war?"

"And h-how did you k-know about Osiris?" Tara murmured.

Anya threw her arms into the air and groaned. "There's a war in Willow, dark and light. It's tearing her apart." She stared around at Xander and Buffy and Tara and then rolled her eyes. "Xander I can understand. But you," she said pointing at Buffy. "Slayer of dark things. And you," she said, turning to Tara with a frown. "Major powerful Wicca. How can the two of you not feel that?"

To Tara's amazement, and, she was sure, the amazement of Buffy and Xander as well, Anya walked over and laid a gentle hand against Willow's forehead, her face crumpled, a moment away from tears.

"It's okay, Willow." Anya said softly. "I know that all our friends are stupid. But I'm pretty bright. We'll get you through this. Now," she said loudly, stepping away from Willow and putting her hands on her hips. "Can one of you tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Ahn," Xander said. "We'll tell you what we know, but maybe I should lay her down somewhere first?"

"Let's put her on the table in the back," Buffy said.

Xander took a step in that direction and stopped when he found himself confronted by Anya, barring his path with her arms spread.

"My god, I know you people are stupid, but I didn't think you were complete and total idiots. War," she said slowly. "Going on in Willow. We need to keep her away from magic stuff, especially dark magic stuff. Books bad," she said, pointing back toward the table. "Keep her up here."

Tara watched the exchange between Anya, Xander, and Buffy without saying a word. Major powerful Wicca, Tara thought. She opened up her senses to the energy swirling around the magic box, gasped when she looked at Willow. The girl's aura was a wreck. The beautiful ambers and greens that usually glowed around her like light filtering down through forest leaves were nearly completely eclipsed by the same jet that kept filling her eyes. Flares of iridescent white flowed and flared sporadically through the black, like heat lightning. It was Willow, Tara realized, Willow fighting to hold on to herself. She slid Willow's hand free of Xander's grasp and held it against her chest, and repeated one thought again and again: I love you Willow, I love you.

Anya looked around the room for a moment, biting her lip. "Yeah, if she has to be here at all, it better be right here. You can lay her here," Anya said, pointing to the center of the floor between the front door and the counter. She pulled off the black sweater she was wearing and balled it up on the floor.

Tara kept hold of Willow's hand as Xander walked over to the sweater, lowering herself to the ground as he laid Willow down, using the sweater like a pillow to cushion her head from the hard tile of the floor. Buffy straightened Willow's legs and pulled off her own jacket, using it to cover Willow's legs.

"Thanks Buffy," Tara said gratefully, pressing Willow's hand against her lips.

"Don't forget about my sweater," Anya quipped. "That's a three hundred and fifty dollar pillow your girl is laying on there." She bit the tip of her thumb thoughtfully, looking around the shop. "We've got to get this stuff away from her. She walked over to the counter and kicked the wood, seemed satisfied by the thunk. "It's yarrow, it'll block a lot of the potency of this stuff." Without any preamble, she swept everything on top of the counter off onto the floor behind it.

"Anya," Buffy began.

"Don't just stand there, super-strength," Anya replied, grabbing an armful of statues from the shelf next to the counter and throwing them over as well. "Pick up some magic stuff and dump it back here, or back there," she said waving toward the research table. Just get it away from Willow."

"Anh," Xander said softly, wincing as another armful of merchandise went crashing behind the counter. "You're breaking stuff, shouldn't we be more gentle?"

"This is no time to worry about money or about being gentle, Xander." She shook her head. "You never knew when to be rough in the sack either. Look," she said sternly. "This isn't housework, Xander, because you're not at home. It's a shop, so get with the moving." She lifted an armful of books off the lower shelf and tossed them over, then grabbed a large sculpted metal pentagram and sent it flying across the shop with a clang.

"Oh god," Xander murmured. Tara watched his eyes dart to Willow and then back to his ex-fiancée. "This is bad. It's got to be really bad. Anya's not worried about losing money."

"Hah hah, I joke at the expense of the newest human," Anya said, rolling her eyes. "Enough jokes. Just help me, Xander. Besides," Tara heard Anya murmur as she walked past with another armload of goods. "I'm so billing the watcher's council for this."

Buffy paused with an armload of Magic Box merchandise in her arms, poised to throw it over the counter. "Anya, we could just put her in the practice room, no bad magic mojo back there."

"Sure Buffy," Anya wheezed, struggling with the weight of a huge amethyst geode she was carrying. She threw it over the counter and sighed at the tinkling sound of glass breaking. "Then she'll have plenty of weapons to impale and chop us with when she snaps."

Tara felt a hot wash of anger sweep through her body. She knew the vengeance demon believed in total honesty, that life was too short not to speak your mind, but she'd gone too far.

"Anya," she said, voice shaking. "Willow would never, ever hurt us."

Anya turned to Tara with a look of such sorrow, such tender kindness, that it left the blonde shaken. "I hope you're right," she said, smiling softly as she chucked a bronze Buddha statue over her shoulder, sending it unerringly behind the counter though she'd never taken a look. "But let's not test it now, okay?"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"That guys' been looking at me," Jonathan Levinson whispered to his cellmate. "I think he wants to make me his butt monkey."

Jonathan shifted closer to Andrew, who was nearly lost in the deep shadows already filling their cell though it couldn't have been past three o'clock.

Andrew sighed, rubbing his hands over his face as he tried not to think about the springs biting into his back through his thin mattress. About how many years, decades he would probably spend lying on the same type of bed. He ran his fingers over his arms again, searching for the telltale sign of a chip, a transponder, anything…

"Don't flatter yourself," he told Jonathan with a smirk. "I heard him talking to the guard. He's in here for parking tickets."

"That doesn't mean anything," Jonathan squeaked, leaning towards Andrew. "The joint changes you. I hear they like the small ones, with little hands, like their girlfriends."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm breaking you out of here then, huh my girlie-handed minions?"

Andrew couldn't believe it. Jonathan was staring over his shoulder toward the window, mouth hanging open. When he turned to see what Jonathan was staring at, a beatific smile spread across Andrew's face.

"Warren," he breathed.

"Hey guys, time to go. Unless you'd like to stay?" Warren asked, grinning from the other side of their bars.