Disclaimer: I don't own Charmed, the show or the characters. Jordan is mine, though.

Please forgive me for being so bad about updating—but I wanted the next few chapters to be really good, and I'm working on some other things to post for you lovely readers.

I hope you like this newest installation. It's my baby. Sorry it's a little on the short side. I do better with one-shots, I know.

Enjoy.

X

X


The fireball burst into a bright shower of sparks and skin-licking heat, fizzling out just before Piper's outstretched spider-webbed hands. Her arms were extended in front of her, alert and ready. Tense features and a narrow glare spoke volumes on just how tired she was of demonic interruptions at this point in her day.

Jordan ducked a little to the side as another fireball whipped past overhead, the distinct crackling alerting his instincts—seemingly molded from life-long survival. Jostling his time-hopping friend roughly as he moved, he tried to steady the angel as best he could while slightly off balance himself. A small cry of surprise and pain slipped through Chris' lips before Jordan nearly felt his determination to ignore the burning discomfort in his shoulder. Now would not be the time to alert the demon to possible weak links in the group. He'd surely use that to his vindictive advantage.

Except, there were no more hurdling demonic orbs of fire.

In fact, there was no more demon.

The shocked silence that radiated from the group as their vision cleared was so thick, tangible as the smoke was choking. That attack, if it could even be called one, had been rather out of place; in the experience of the Sisters, odd was normal for them, but suspicious behavior like that rang the alarm bells like a dinner gong.

Piper took a hesitant step forward, palms still poised, ready to leap on the offensive should another demon spring up from the shadow of the departed one. Jordan remembered how Chris used to talk about her so adoringly, that her family was everything to her—nothing would ever hurt them if she had anything to say about it.

All eyes swept like hawk wings over the vast demonic emptiness of antique crowed the attic. There was nothing to suggest that they had just been attacked by a demon—no scorch mark, no ringing scream of vanquish, no fiery combustion. Not even a dead innocent. If it weren't for the fact that the rest of the charmed family members were picking their jaws up off the floor, as well, he might have gone for the hallucinating bit.

Jordan looked around at the rest of them, still wary and watchful. There was a terrible foreboding feeling in the air, one her didn't like.

"Darryl," He heard the black woman whisper—Sheila, he realized—watching her lean in close, presumably incase the demon was still actively pursuing them. Personally, Jordan wished she would have stayed quiet through the whole ordeal, and let the resident exerts handle the rest of the situation.  He didn't even like the fact that Darryl was here, in the face of danger, but he felt better knowing the man could take care of himself. Jordan couldn't say the same about Sheila.

Upon closer inspection of her by his senses, he deduced she was worried. Not for herself it seemed—her tone was more informative than scared.

He quickly tried to think of what the future Darryl had told him about his late wife, when he suddenly made the connection—two of his closest friends, sons of Darryl Morris, also sons of Sheila. It was an alien thought, as she had long since passed away on the streets of San Francisco by the time he had met the hardened cop. As he studied her, it seemed the presence of danger had raised her maternal hackles, and he had a feeling she hadn't come to this House by herself. She must have brought her children with her; they had to be pretty young in this time, the oldest no more than eight. He sensed them. She must have been aware of the fact that her sons were down two floors below them, alone with no supervision and no protection. A fleeting thought of the whereabouts of Wyatt panged across his consciousness as well. She whispered again, her tone plaintive,"The boys."

Her husband turned to her after one last official sweep over the room and nodded, backing out of the attic still on full alert. He shared a glance with Paige, obviously leaving his wife in the protection of the youngest sister, and Jordan heard him trot cautiously downstairs before he lost all sense of the man's whereabouts. There was too much magic in this house.

Phoebe harrumphed, stepping out of the huddle of protection around the remaining Morris, and spoke with a confused lilt clearly coloring her words.

"Uh, guys, I'm not sensing the demon itself, but…uh," the middle sister took a breath, trying to find the right words to describe what he knew from experience she could only feel in a non-tangible manner at best. "Maybe…something of his?" she turned to her older sister, who had crossed her arms by now, listening to the columnist talk. "Piper, is that possible?"

"Yes," Jordan interrupted, seemingly not the least bit shameful of his abrupt way of cutting off the Halliwell matriarch. His eyes were suddenly on the floor, though, intent on something resting atop the creaky, lightly dusted floorboards.

"What is it?" Chris asked softly, and out of the corner of his eye, Jordan saw his friend holding his arm tightly against his side as he soldiered to his booted feet. Their eyes met and Jordan directed his gaze to the wooden panels of the attic floor, knowing Chris spotted the small, rough-looking cloth sack, no larger that his fist.

By now, the rest of the witchy company was clued in to what the boys had found, and approached warily. Jordan, being the decisive person he was, deemed himself the gofer and crept over to it, bending down to scoop it into his hand.

"Shit!"

He leapt back like he'd been bitten and cradled his hand, which now seemed to be giving off a small skyward drifting stream of smoke. He waved it around lightly, before tucking it back against his chest and looking at Chris, mouthing a small curse once more.

"It's got a Power Lock on it, dude."

Chris nodded, green eyes analyzing as he let go of his own arm and stepped forward, "Yeah, I noticed. You okay?"

Still looking sourly at the innocent little sack taking up space on the ground near his feet, Jordan shook his head, muttering, "Just be careful when you open it, Chris."

The young Resistance leader moved forward, but Piper's hand shot out and jerked him to a halt.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing? You'll get burned, too, Chris," she said, nearly shouting at what she obviously thought was a stupid move on his part, something to add to his list of Whitelighter screw-ups. And boy, could Jordan tell she thought he was a screw-up as their whitelighter. Her tone of voice said it all. "Let one of us handle it."

The half-breed frowned with a little sarcasm in his eyes, "What? And have you get the same result? Trust me, I can do this safely."

Chris ignored Paige's indignant snort, and Phoebe's reluctantly worried eyes on his back as he focused his attention on the mysterious package once again. Jordan heard Sheila make a strangled warning noise in the back of her throat, and had to fight his lips from trying to smile. The more and more he saw of her, the more he felt like he'd missed out on her mothering and caring spirit. The future really could use more people like her.

Chris raised a pale, slender hand, fingers lax, but outstretched and slowly called upon his telekinesis, fusing it with his thoughts. Jordan knew the routine, even had experienced it for a time. The bag stirred, raising itself from the floor, steadily rising into the air until it was eye level with the young prodigy. He twisted his wrist, hand changing positions, and the bag swiveled, dropping to the floor with the mute rustling sound of cloth to reveal what was inside.

Chris stumbled back a step, the breath knocked out of him as the object wavered in the air, before the connection was severed altogether and the item fell from its hovering existence.

The crest hit the floor with a small clatter, its silver chain sliding across the floor with a dull metallic dragging before coming to rest. A streak of blood marred the old attic floor in the wake of the shining cord. Fresh blood.

"…Jordan…what…?"

The voice was so small, and so heart-breakingly desperate, that even Piper turned to look at Chris, to watch his ashen face and shaky movements.

The boy was pale, and trembling, his wide green eyes glued to the object on the floor.

"Chris," Jordan said softly, approaching his friend and taking him by the shoulders. He blocked the other's view of the past resting in a bloody puddle on the floor, and forced him to look into his eyes.

"That's what I came back to tell you," the demon offered gently, his otherworldly eyes turning guilty. "I didn't want you to find out like this," he said earnestly, finally succeeding in garnering the attention of the emerald gaze in front of him.

"She's…alive?" The question was tentative, as if testing the truth and sound of that statement after so much time of believing the opposite, the terrible. Chris laid his hands upon the junction of Jordan's hands and arms, looking at the man intently, face searching, needing desperately to know if this was true.

"Yes," he kept his voice soft, his bangs fluttering a little as he nodded with the words, those sweet words he knew the angel had been denying himself till now.

Jordan's heart ached.

X

X


I hope you enjoyed this. Hopefully, not everyone has deserted this story. Just know that Reviews keep me going. :)