Hunter of the Shadows Book 3

Enemy at the Door.

Chapter 25

As a special treat for you all, here's an extra long intro with partying wolves…

'cos, you're gonna need it.

Now…

The hunting party obviously returned sometime during the night, and a large hunk of meat is now spit roasting over the fire. Hot fat sizzles in the pit and ignites, sending bright red and orange flames leaping and dancing, shadows twirling around the smoke and lighting up the thoughtful faces of gathered wolves, bears and humans.

But there are two newcomers, who may have come in with the hunting party.

A small, rotund, black lady with a kind smile and sparkling eyes is sitting beside Sam and holding his rejuvenating arm.

"You're doing just fine, honey," she's telling him while gently rubbing the limb. "It'll be back to full strength in no time, and you'll soon forget what it was like to live without it."

Sam dips his head, smiling shyly. "Thanks, Missouri. Feels like its taken years to grow back, but it's only been a few weeks."

The other newcomer, a tall ginger-headed, good looking guy with a boyish grin, nods in agreement.

"Lost my right big toe, once," he says. "Sod was bloody painful when it began growing back, and took its sweet time about it too!"

Dean, sitting on the other side of Sam, frowns.

"How?" he asks, curiously. "What kind of werewolf Doctor loses his own toe?"

The Doc shrugs and winks at him. "The kind who, on a drunken dare, breaks into Colchester Zoo and accidentally falls into the reptile enclosure," he shakes his head, and shudders dramatically. "Wasn't a pretty sight, let me tell you. Still, Castiel suffered far worse that night."

Everyone goes still and blinks in astonishment.

The quiet and reserved Canadian Pack Beta has been minding his own business, just sitting there listening to the conversation, but now all eyes are on him. He coughs to cover his embarrassment, and he's blushing furiously.

"It can happen to anyone," he mutters, unable or perhaps unwilling to look Dean in the eye.

"What, exactly, can happen to anyone?" Dean's grinning from ear to ear in anticipation.

Castiel takes a large swig of mead and swallows long and hard, obviously a delaying tactic.

"Mumble, mumble, mumble" says Cas, unintelligibly.

"I'm sorry," Dave the Doc cups a hand around his own ear, his brows raised, eyes wide with false innocence, and leans towards the Beta. "Didn't quite catch that, mate. Speak up!"

"Having their foot bitten off by an angry crocodile," Castiel reluctantly says a little more clearly.

Tobius, Marcus and Lucas guffaw so loudly that the sound carries and bounces off trees and mountains. Somewhere among the tall, distant peaks a small avalanche is triggered off, and the camera can just about pick up the faint rumbling.

Everyone is chortling away, holding their sides and shaking their heads.

"What happened then?" Sam manages to ask in between sniggering and desperate gasps for breath.

The Beta looks uncomfortable. "We were arrested for breaking and entering, fined £300, extradited back to Canada, and spent a week confined to quarters on our arrival back at the grounds two days later."

"Annnd?" Dave rolls his hand, in a 'please continue' gesture. "What did the nice zookeeper tell all the disappointed kiddies on a school trip when Mr Croc didn't come out to see them?"

Sam and Dean wait expectantly for the answer, huge grins on their faces.

Castiel clears his throat, so embarrassed even his ears are bright red.

"The crocodile had to be treated for food poisoning."

The entire mountain erupts with laughter, and several miles away another avalanche almost wipes out a small section of forest.

Andy is choking on a mouthful of mead. So overcome with laughter his nose begins morphing into a bear snout.

"Aw, bless 'im," Dave says, all mock sympathy. "He's laughing so hard it's thrown his change switches out."

"Shuddup!" Andy manages to choke out.

Gerald takes pity on his helpless son and thumps him hard on the back. Janaya-Maria, in bear form as always, rises up on her rear legs, waddles over to her stricken brother, and plants her paws firmly on Andy's shoulders. Her little snout sniffs around his face and neck, offering comfort of her own variety.

After clearing his throat, Andy nods. "Thanks, Dad."

"Don't mention it son," Gerald replies while Josey giggles and wraps an arm round his waist.

"I'm ok, little sis," Andy tells the bear cub and scratches gently behind her ears.

Sam is watching the werebear brother and sister with a soft look on his face.

Dean nudges him. "You wanna carry on with the journal tonight?"

Sam thinks about it, then shakes his head. "Nah. I don't want to ruin the mood for everyone. Maybe tomorrow?"

Dean smiles, reaches out and rubs Sam's neck. "Whatever you say, dude."

The camera is forgotten about, but the digital audience gets to witness a Were party in full swing, and it carries on long into the night, with much eating and drunken revelry. Pups run amuck, play fighting and rolling about on the forest floor, with the older wolves watching in amusement.

Up above the party, the soft white clouds that had been covering the stars slowly disperse, baring the night sky in all its glory, complete with a bright and beautiful silvery moon.

Lucas accompanies the three brothers, Marcus, Tobius, and a rather 'trollied' Castiel (as Tobius puts it) in a few verses of Wild Rover.

I've been a wild rover for many a year

And I spent all my money on whiskey and beer,

And now I'm returning with gold in great store

And I never will play the wild rover no more.

Chorus (altogether now!):

And it's no, nay, never,

No nay never no more,

Will I play the wild rover

No never no more.

By the time the song has ended, Castiel is butt naked in human form, for some unaccountable reason balancing a mead flask on his head, and swaying from side to side while howling at the full moon above.

The low battery alert warning begins flashing on screen.

Bobby is seen discreetly talking to Lucas, and the two of them stroll casually away from the camp and disappear into the trees.

The party continues into the early hours.

Everyone is humming The Stripper. Dean, having performed a partial change so that his lower half is all wolf, is busy pole dancing by using a nearby pine tree for the pole. But it's all he can do to stay upright.

Everyone is still laughing and joking, the cooking meat is gradually whittled away to nothing, and yet more food is brought out by Victoria, with Arthur's help.

Just as Sam's furry snout and alcohol glazed blue-green eyes appear in front of the lens, the young wolf grinning widely, the screen goes blank.

There's a bleep, some swearing, then early morning light sweeps across the screen.

Sam and Dean are sitting in their usual places by the fire, but this time they are completely alone. Not even Bobby or Pastor Jim are present. The pups are gone, and the whole camp has been tidied up.

Even Tobius' cabin looks empty.

"S'ok," Sam waves at the camera and smiles. "Don't panic. Nothing bad has happened. They're all headed to over to Tobius' Special Place, ya know? Where Dean once taught me to fish?"

Dean nods, and stokes the newly lit fire pit. "Got some breakfast on the go. Thought we'd record this one last journal entry, then head out after them." He glances at Sam. "Something tells me Marcus has some news to share with us."

"Yeah," agrees Sam. "Hope it's nothing bad."

"Nah, dude," Dean replies with a cocky grin. "Don't think so. The trials are over. Most of those Type Ones were converted back successfully, and the new elder council seems to be working out ok. It can only be good news from now on, Sammy."

"Unless it's about Crowley…" Sam ponders, frowning.

"Even then, I doubt it," says Dean, confidently. "He'll wait, bide his time. Probably leave it just long enough for everyone to grow complacent or forget about him... maybe wait a couple hundred years. At least, that's what I'd do in his shoes, especially while locked up in a high security cell." He nudges Sam, staring at the kid in earnest. "And he ain't gettin' free, dude. I can promise you that."

"I guess," but Sam sounds uncertain.

"C'mon," Dean nudges him and points at the camera. "Let's not keep these folks in the dark any longer, huh?"

Sam suddenly looks anguished, as though he's half tempted to back out, but takes a deep breath and nods.

"Good boy." Dean turns to the camera and stares hard into the lens. "Remember what I said right at the start of this journal? Well, can't say I didn't warn you…"

Then…

"Well, well, well," said John with false bravado. "If it ain't the one armed bandit in the flesh!"

But for the first time the demon looked decidedly worried. He didn't seem anywhere near as confident as he had a second ago, before I handed Sam the sword.

Sam stood there in front of him, carefully hefting the sword in his right hand. His eyes never left John as he spoke.

"Are you sure, Dean?" he asked, quietly.

Was I? No. Not really. Under normal circumstances this wasn't something I'd expect, or even allow Sam to do. I wouldn't want this on his conscience, haunting him and screwing with his head. But he was right. This wasn't about John, it was about Cornelius.

"Go ahead, Sam," I answered. "Get that bastard out of our friend."

Sam carefully stepped forward, testing his balance and centre of gravity, and compensating for the lost arm. He flexed his right arm, sweeping the sword round in circles, back and forth, generally getting used to the weight.

I watched him as he stared into those black eyes, perhaps searching for Cornelius, making sure he was truly gone.

"Whatcha lookin' for, kid?" John grinned, but I noted that he kept track of those sweeping arcs, the silver sword almost mesmerising him. I think he truly didn't believe Sammy would do this.

Sam just continued staring at him, eyes narrowed, then suddenly stopped and raised the gleaming weapon.

"Seriously, Sammy," the demon chuckled cruelly. "How you getting along these days? Are you like one of those dogs in the shelters, limping along on three legs, having to beg for food 'cos you're too damn useless to hunt for your own? A wolf in the wild wouldn't stand a chance." He suddenly snarled: "You're nothing, Sammy, and you'll always be nothing!"

Sam's mouth twitched into an almost smile.

"Aw, ain't you gonna talked to me, boy?" the demon sneered. "Not sulking, are you Sammy? Ain't you gonna give me the big hero speech about how wrong I am 'bout you?"

A familiar crackling and squelching noise broke out and echoed round the room.

John stiffened up in his seat. "What the hell was that?"

Glancing at Sam, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the pain lines bracketing his mouth, blood dripping from the bandage. But he held the agony inside, kept it hidden away, refused to let John see it.

John watched him closely. "What was that noise?" he asked again, sharply.

Sam's smile grew.

He stepped closer to the demon, now right inside the devils trap.

"That was my big hero speech about how wrong you are about me," and began unravelling the bandage.

The blood soaked material fell to the ground in a small heap, revealing the regenerating mass of Sam's arm. I could see just how well it was progressing, even if it did look kind of gross. A bicep was developing nicely, and the cauterised stump was bulging out slightly, getting ready for a hand to re-emerge when the time was right. It was like watching a baby growing outside the womb.

John had originally sliced into Sam's arm at the shoulder, but the regenerating limb had already progressed halfway down to the elbow.

Sam flexed the newly formed bicep, right in John's face and his smiled turned serene.

"I'm immortal, John," I heard him whisper. "Werewolves can regrow lost body parts."

Up came the sword and before John could protest, Sam thrust it straight through his heart.

John went rigid, black eyes wide, and a hideous scream tore from him as his blackened soul tried unsuccessfully to escape the blade. But pinned as it was by demonically cursed silver, there was no way out, no way back to hell, and John was dying. We could see it in the way the black smoke was shrinking and losing momentum.

But John had one nasty surprise left in store for us.

"You should've asked, boys," he croaked out. "Sh-should've asked… about your friend…"

The smoke dissipated into nothing, blood poured from his mouth, and his eyes rolled blue.

Cornelius was looking back at us. The real Cornelius, and he was still alive.

"Holy shit!" I gasped.

Sam's mouth fell open and his eyes filled with tears. "No!"

He began shaking his head, carefully pulling the sword from the other werewolf's chest.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" Sam whispered, dropping the sword and collapsing to his knees beside his friend. "Uh… it wasn't in for long, right?" he muttered as Cornelius blinked at him dazedly.

He turned his head slightly towards me, and I saw the truth in his eyes.

The silver had acted quickly. Sam's aim had been straight and true.

Cornelius was finished and the poor guy knew it.

But Sammy, he just wouldn't give up. He covered the wound with his hand, trying to stem the flow of blood, and the injured wolf grunted in pain.

"Dean?" Sam was looking up at me in despair. "It wasn't in there too long, the silver I mean. We can still save him…"

It's alright, Cornelius told us, his newly restored thought projections sounding weak and strained. It's all gonna be ok.

Sam turned back to his friend and shook his head in despair. "No, it's not alright. God! I'm so sorry. We thought you were dead. We… oh God what the hell have I done!"

He broke down, sobbing loudly, and buried his face in Cornelius' neck.

The dying wolf gave me a faint, peaceful smile, then gently patted Sam on his good shoulder.

I was as good as dead anyway, Sam, he said.

Cornelius looked over at me again. Lift my robe, Dean.

I frowned in confusion, but when I bent down and I lifted Cornelius' robe, I understood what he was trying to tell us. Barely noticeable to the naked eye, two tiny silver pins punctured each kneecap. It was a neat job and had hardly bled at all, but it must have been painful.

John had already horribly tortured Cornelius with silver. How the wolf had managed to survive this long was anybody's guess, with those silver pins poisoning his body... his heart.

I stared up at our friend in horror, eyes welling up, water spilling over and rolling down my face. The Sleepworm had restored his thought projections, even while the silver was slowly killing him.

See? The young non-lunar raised a shaky hand, reached out and thumbed away Sam's tears. You do yourself a disservice by crying for me.

"But…" Sam sniffed, stifled a sob, then leaned back to gaze at his dying friend.

You saved me, Sam, like any true friend would, Cornelius told him. I was dying, slowly and painfully each day, already beyond help. Missouri tried an exorcism but John wouldn't let go; he was just too powerful. You set me free and I thank you for that. You are both true heroes, in every sense of the word.

He took a breath, as though he was going to add something else, and then it was over.

The brave young warrior was gone, the glow fading from his eyes. His handsome face seemed at peace, almost as if he were asleep.

We stayed with him for well over an hour in complete silence, kneeling by his side, and holding each other in our grief, before Tobius, Marcus, Lucas and Castiel turned up.

They filed inside the room without a word, and unchained Cornelius from his chair.

I could tell from the looks on their faces that they knew exactly what had gone down. Lucas spotted the silver pins and his eyes briefly hardened with fury, but when he looked at Sammy and me, he smiled sadly, and pulled us both into a tight hug.

You did all you could, he whispered, when Sam once again started shaking and trying to silence his sobs. Do not blame yourselves. Cornelius didn't, and neither do we.

The three Alphas and Castiel gently lifted Cornelius up and carried him out of the cell, and we followed on behind. Vicky's mouth trembled when she saw her dead Beta, but she stoically held in her tears. Running a gentle hand over Cornelius' scalp, she whispered quietly to him, kissed his hair and wished him a safe journey to wherever it is that werewolves go after death.

The Home Pack was gathered outside in deadly quiet.

Later that week, they carried their Beta out into the forests, where his people could mourn their loss in privacy. Sam and I declined to go. This was their time with Cornelius.

The Home Pack didn't return and we didn't go after them.

It would be the last funeral in the wake of the battle.

The Canadian Pack had said their goodbyes to Sergeant Fisher and Captain Byrnes the previous week, along with the many hundreds of other wolves who'd lost their lives because of Crowley and John.

The Captain and Sergeant had been given the full Pack honours down by the lake, where Sammy and I had gone fishing the night of his so-called trial.

My prime came and went unnoticed, swept along by the tide of grief and sadness. I wasn't bothered by the anonymity of such a profound stage in life. It didn't seem right to be celebrating my coming of age when so many had died, so I kept quiet. Besides, there was too much to think about, with Sam's arm still regenerating and healing, not to mention we were both called as witnesses to some of the Type One trials. Marcus was pretty good about that and, in deference to Sam's painful growth spurts, ordered a webcam to be set up in his quarters so we could answer the questions in comfort.

Missouri and Bobby had put their heads together and come up with a way of turning all converted wolves back to their original status, using Sleepworm. It meant there were a number of very contrite and guilty looking non-lunars led into the court room, and a few bewildered humans with no idea what had happened to them. These humans were taken home by Bobby Singer and enchanted/assured that it was all just a very weird and scary dream.

Some of the wolves converted back to Type Two were traumatized and filled with horror. They had been kidnapped and tortured with Sleepworm, and though some had bravely fought back, they were eventually forced into a painful and terrifying ritual that sealed their conversion.

Some of these victims required counselling from Missouri, just to get some perspective back and try to carry on with their lives.

These were the success stories, but others weren't so fortunate. Of the several hundred who had been forced to follow Crowley, at least fifty couldn't live with themselves in the aftermath.

There followed another funeral for the tragic wolves who took their own lives.

Sam and I were kept apart from most of it, told to stay in Marcus' quarters and rest up. I guess that was Tobius' doing mostly, but no doubt Marcus and Castiel also insisted. To be honest, I didn't put up much of a protest. Sam's guilt was overwhelming him despite Cornelius' departing words, so he needed me.

Lenore, in time, said her goodbyes, gathered her nest and returned to Florida, with a promise to keep in touch. Could never tell with her, though. Might be next week, next year, or next century before we see her again.

The Werebears took their leave next. There were hugs, backslaps and even a few tears – not mine, of course, I don't do that – until Tobius reminded us all that Josey and Gerald only lived next door!

And that made Sammy and me a little homesick, partly for the road, but also for Tobius' cabin.

As Sam grew stronger he was able to get out and explore the grounds for himself, and he quickly fell in love with the newly repaired gardens, spent considerable time in the underground Archives, visited the farming communities and, for reasons only known to him, took an interest in cheese making.

Then there was Marcus' own little surprise: a huge library, filled with leather bound books of almost every title you could imagine, and the journals of long dead non-lunars.

Bobby and Pastor Jim headed out next.

"The salvage yard won't run itself," grumbled Bobby, reluctantly. "Got enough rusting relics as it is, lying round that place."

"Will you be counting yourself among those relics?" Inquired the priest, smugly.

Bobby threw him a filthy look that had us all laughing.

But when he hugged us goodbye, I heard him whisper in Sam's ear.

"Now don't you go blaming yourself, ya hear me boy?" the gruff old buzzard gently squeezed Sam's neck. "Ain't your fault. None of it."

Pastor Jim smiled fondly at me and grasped my hand, enveloping it in both of his.

"You take care of each other, and we'll see you soon," he said, quietly. "In the meantime, I have to go see what my flock has been up to in my absence."

After a quick chat with Tobius, the priest and the mechanic, possibly the most unlikely hunter duo in the world, left the Canadian Pack with what I happen to know were at least two crates of Crowley's special ale, confiscated by Marcus shortly after Crowley went dark side.

He won't be seeing that again.

Eventually, we also parted ways with the Canadian Pack.

We tried a 'quick goodbye and sneaking out at dawn' routine, but Marcus was wise to us. He caught us at the Council Chambers, gave us a friendly scolding, then frog marched us to the kitchens where Missouri waited with a large platter of bacon double cheese burgers.

It was a small affair, partly because we were anxious to hit the road but also because Sam still wasn't one hundred percent. His arm had regenerated all the way down to the elbow and a little beyond, and he started wearing a sling to prevent it getting too sore.

Marcus had an announcement to make that night.

As we sat at the French style wooden table in Cook's kitchen, consuming as many burgers as we could, the Canadian Pack Alpha tapped a spoon against his crystal goblet.

"Crowley has been caught in Spain and handed over to the appropriate non-lunar Pack," said the Alpha. He cleared his throat quietly. "He will be dealt with in due course."

God knows why, or how, he'd headed down there, but the Spanish Pack was well known for their humane and gentle torture tactics.

Wanna know where the Spanish Inquisition really originated from? Look no further.

Marcus nodded to Castiel, who took it from there.

"We have arranged for Crowley to be transported to a maximum security underground facility, of undisclosed location," the Beta told us, in his usual solemn monotone. "It has been approved by Queen Elizabeth II that he will eventually be held under guard by formers members of the 22nd Regiment Special Air Service. Permanently."

Huh. Tobius' old regiment. In the other words, Crowley was in for a tough time of it, and I had absolutely no sympathy whatsoever for the bastard. Good Riddance.

There was a heavy silence while everyone absorbed that piece of news.

"In the meantime, and I don't think I really have to say it," Marcus uttered, sadly. "But we are all going to miss you."

Marcus paused and breathed out.

"I know that Sam in particular had a rough time, but I hope that you won't hold that against me." His head ducked briefly, then rose again. "Things are going to change around here. I've learned my lesson."

And with that qualifying statement made, he raised his goblet for a toast.

"To my brother, and his undying loyalty," Marcus gestured to Tobius and winked. "Can we hug, now? Saves embarrassment when we get drunk later."

Tobius laughed and complied, his green eyes glowing with love.

But the Canadian Pack Alpha then turned to Sam and me.

"Don't think I have forgotten you two," he said, mysteriously. "Your time will come."

We left the next morning, a little hung over and a lot silent.

Sorry if this seems cold or... I dunno... we just carried on from there, I guess. We needed a starting point and this was it...

The road kept us company for a while. But things had changed.

We barely spoke about Cornelius in those first few weeks after we left, the pain just too much, his death too fresh and raw.

We toured the country, saw the Northern Lights, headed to Alaska... when we felt ready, we returned to Canada. There was someone else we needed to pay our respects to.

We headed down river from the Canadian Pack Grounds and found our little ambush camp. There was no sign of our traps, and the body of the old grey wolf was gone. Someone had done a thorough job of erasing all evidence of that distressing time, though we did find a small pile of rocks, carefully arranged right where we had left the old boy to rest.

Lucas said he would stop by here on their way through, Tobius told us. No doubt, he built this cairn for the poor old fellow.

Neither of us said a word, just nodded gratefully and sat in respectful silence.

An hour later, we were on our way again, heading back to the Impala, safely hidden away just off a main road somewhere, and resuming our journey back to the United States.

Eventually, we began to heal emotionally, though it would be some years... maybe a life time... before we fully recovered.

So Tobius took us to the Special Place, where we could run and laugh again.

And it honestly worked. For a while.

But a few days in, I had a question or two, and I waited until Sam was asleep, his furry face buried in my neck, breaths puffing against my skin.

"So, when were you gonna tell us?" I asked.

I didn't need to explain that I was asking about his Type One tendencies, when he ripped himself free of a powerful demon's hold, and took on the silver sword in Sam's stead.

Tobius sighed, heavily.

He was as tired as us, after all.

But, with a resigned huff, he explained:

"There's a reason why they are Type Ones, and we are Type Twos. They were the prototypes for our species, if you will. Rather like the apes were the prerequisites for humans, though one might argue that there's actually very little difference, especially if you've ever seen England lose to Germany in the World Cup," he chuckled a little and I couldn't resist a small curve of the lip. Guy had a point. "We are what they evolved into after the vamp wars ended several millennia ago. It was hard going; some harsh lessons about survival had to be learned. We gradually gained our empathy and sympathy for other life forms over time, but some wolves, a small minority, just weren't capable of change, of adapting, and so they broke away and formed a separate species altogether. They are more basic, more animalistic." Sire turned to stare at me. "They are the first of our kind, and as such we should afford them a certain amount of respect, for they came about at a time when their instincts were hardwired for fight rather than flight, when emotions had no place. Only instinct was relied upon. Werewolves had no other choice if they wished to survive. This was right at the beginning, when the world was new and tough and a damn sight harsher than it is now. They served their purpose, but there is no longer a place in this world for their kind, and I feel sad for them, for the ones who cannot change, who continue to live in the past."

I listened to what must be the longest speech I'd ever heard him make, and realised that I wanted to hear more.

"The damn of the thing is, the closer in the generations you are to the Type One era, the height of their existence, when they pretty much ruled the earth, the more likely that basic behaviour will emerge under the right stressful conditions. It's gradually filtering out through the years with each newborn wolf, or turned human, and it's why you and Sam, and the others of your generation, don't have quite that same irrational fire about you. Yours is more channelled, more controlled." He added with a gentle elbow nudge "and that's a good thing, you know."

I shrugged, despondently.

"Yeah, sure it is," I commented sarcastically. "My channelled, more controlled rational fire is what saved Sammy from becoming dismembered and taken to hell."

"Hey!" Sire nudged me again and frowned. "I was about to make like a wolf-shami-kebab. How would that have saved Sam? I might have bought him a few more seconds, but you saw the state Sam was in, Dean. He was spent. Done. There was no way he'd have had the physical strength to fight his way out from that."

I stayed silent, feeling a little petulant, because there's nothing my brotherson can't fight his way out of... maybe.

I can feel that look from you guys so shaddup ok? I hate it when Sire's right, but it's even worse when the very people I'm doing this damn journal for side with him. Smug sonofa...

"And besides," Sire continued and skimmed a flat stone, smiling a little when he counted up to twenty. "It was Missouri, with Bobby's help, who saved Sam. Saved us all in fact."

Silently taking back everything I just said about him, I nodded and chewed the side of my mouth for a second.

"Didn't save Cornelius though."

"No. I'm afraid not," said Tobius quietly. "No one could. His fate was decided the moment John possessed him. And that's something we shall all have to learn to live with. And learn from."

Huh. Weird conversation.

Helped more than I can describe.

TBC...in the final chapter, to be posted on Monday.

Thanks again for all your lovely reviews and marvellous support, especially after a difficult few weeks. Sorry I've not always been able to reply to your reviews, but I at least hope I managed to get around to talking to you all at some point.

Believe it or not, I actually do enjoy answering your reviews and questions in the name of friendly and interesting debate.

Much love goes out to you all.

Lots of love and hugs,

ST xxx