Her drive back to her apartment is silent, but the brightly colored yarn of her hat beckons to her from the empty passenger seat of her car. It is the first thing she grabs when she leaves her SUV and the last thing she puts down when she enters her apartment.

She goes to her closet and removes the clothes from the day. That could be me, she thinks as she strips out of her jeans and t-shirt. That could be me on a picnic with my family—Sunday afternoon by a stream. Kids. Husband. Family. She shakes her head and laughs at her fancy. What am I thinking? If Corbin knew—

She catches herself, but she is too late. She forgot, for a moment, in her moment of wanting, she forgot who she was, the price she's paid, and the mission she is been given to fulfill.

Regret fills her, and as she pads around her apartment in flannel pajama pants and a tank top, she picks up the brightly colored hat, her prize from the day's games, and throws it into her increasingly large pile of stuff for later. Magazines, nail polish, New York Times best sellers all gather in a pile on her table, now along with a brightly colored hat, for a time in her mind that she thinks of as Some Day, after the Apocalypse is averted.

Abbie sighs, but the doorbell rouses her from a true slide into self-pity, and she goes to answer it.

In front of her stands a disheveled, tired looking, British fellow Witness. "Abigail."

"Crane." She thinks about their exchange in the car the other night, about the feel of Crane's fingers running over the skin of her shoulder, and about the tickle of his warm breath against her neck as he inspected her in jury. Her breath catches, and the hair on her neck raises. "What's going on?"

"Abigail. I need you. Please."

Abbie closes her door slightly and shakes her head. "I'm sorry Crane. It's late, and I'm tired. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Please, Abigail. I need you. Please." Crane raises his voice and speaks persistently through the small crack. "You are the one person in the world who knows me, who truly knows who I am. It is to you alone whom I can turn when I am in need of aid."

Abbie opens the door further and steps through halfway. "You okay, Crane? Are you hurt? What's going on?"

"I . . . need . . . you . . . but . . . I . . . am not hurt." Crane appears to fight with himself. He turns and walks away slowly. "Leave me, Lieutenant."

At his strange behavior, Abbie grows concerned. Abbie is tempted to invite him inside, but the memory of the day is fresh, and she thinks with frustration about the pile of Some Day waiting for her on her table. Some day, when the Apocalypse is averted, Crane, fellow Witness he may be, will be reunited with his wife, and together, they will live the life of which they were robbed when Crane was slain by the Horseman 200 years ago. For him, Some Day means that a new life, with love and possibility waits for him.

For Abbie, however, an estranged sister and a pile of mail are her only rewards. But damn it, as meager as the rewards may be, it is her sister and her pile of Some Day. They may not be much, they belong to her and her alone, and for her, they will be enough.

Abbie steps out of her apartment, discreetly closes the door, and goes to him. "I'm not leaving you, Crane, but this is some strange behavior. It is late, I'm tired, and if it can wait until tomorrow, I'd really love it if we can deal with whatever this is then."

Crane grimaces, as if hurt, and rushes to Abbie. He grabs her shoulders harshly, but she stands unruffled, if confused. "I said leave me, Lieutenant. Please. I fear . . ." He trembles as he holds her, then a deep stillness takes him. "Please, Abbie. I need you."

Abbie looks searches his face for some clue to his confusing behavior. The thing about Crane has always been that although he is smart, one of the smartest people she's ever known, she knows it is his feelings that drive him, feelings and passions that write themselves too plainly upon his face for all to read. She has seen him smug. She has seen him surprised and delighted, confused, appalled, and outraged. She has watched his face contort with a myriad of emotions, the movement of his eyebrows and cheeks pulling his face into infinite varieties of expression. But now his face is strangely blank, and the only clue about the strangeness is the slight growl of his voice. His voice, usually so warm, is brittle and hard, and it unnerves her.

Something is not right, but she is too tired and too lonely to figure it out tonight.

"I'm sorry, Crane. As long as you're not bleeding or injured, and if there's no demon or gate of Hell that's opening, I'm going to ask that it wait until tomorrow." She gives him a tired smile of apology and removes herself gently from his grasp. She opens her door and walks in.

"Abbie, please."

"Tomorrow, Crane. I promise." She looks at him. It is brief, but a slight shadow of relief passes over his face before the blankness settles in again. "Good night, Crane."

She closes the door behind her. She walks to her bedroom, goes through her night rituals, and is about to go to sleep, when she feels strangeness settle over her. Something is here—something she can't see, can't hear, and can't place, but she knows something is wrong.

Abbie removes the gun from her nightstand and listens in the darkness. In her apartment, everything is still, but from outside, she can hear howling.

Coyotes. Or maybe that new Coyote Wolf hybrid—don't they call them Coywolves or something? Abbie wonders.

She listens to a few more moments, and the stillness of her house settles her mind, if not her nerves. It is with a tired reluctance that, after a moment more, she holsters her gun and goes to sleep.


Relief and dismay fill Ichabod as Abbie closes the door to her home. He knows what would have happened if she had let him into her home, and the thought of it frightens and dishonors him. And yet, though he is glad for her safety and for her prescient refusal of his request, he could not help but wish that she would have known his struggle, known of his true need for her. He wishes that she had let him find aid with her.

Though he fights the Yenaldooshi, its grip on him strengthens, and he is losing his battle of wills against it. He has stayed in his cabin during the weekend, fighting, and tonight, the creature forced him, against his will, to find the home of his partner, his fellow Witness, and accost her.

The Yenaldooshi binds him, prevents him from revealing itself, prevents him from harming himself, so that even though he has tried in all manner of ways to alert, confine, banish, or annihilate the creature and himself, the creature and he remain bound in body, and increasingly, in will.

A pain grips him, blinding, fierce, and all consuming. He cries out, but instead of a human vocalization, an animal howl emerges from him.

He lowers his head and pants, saliva dripping from his mouth. The creature has once again gained ascendance.

The scents around him fill his nose. The lights of Abbie's house blind, him, scare him, confuse him. He crouches low and runs from the warm ring of light around Abbie's building toward the ominous dark shadows of the forest.

Yenaldooshi has not fed in seven days; its hold on its last host was tenuous, and the prey of the host before that was too strong. This host, this Crane host, is strong and smart, but has no clan, no group, and no family upon which Yenaldooshi can feed.

Yenaldooshi growls again and runs deeper into the forest. It must feed again, and soon.

A small scurrying in the brush turns its head, and the scent of a warm-blooded creature fills its nose.

The flesh of a raccoon will not be enough to sate the Yenaldooshi's, but tonight, that is not enough to save the animal.

A warm rush of blood fills Ichabod's mouth, and as the last pieces of his fragmented humanity leave him, he gags in disgust.

Though it fills its belly with animal viscera, Yenaldooshi is hungry for human flesh, and it will feed again soon.

Tomorrow.