Early posting 'cause this chapter was finished early (I iz a fasttt typer asdfgjk XP)! A resolution of the minor story arcs, such as Amshel and Nathan's bitchy feud, the Karl/Solomon/Niklas triangle (or semi-triangle...O.o), and the Chevalier's competition to get Diva gifts (anyone remember that? XD). Hope you enjoy!

Review, pretty please! ;)

Fermata: finished.

Amshel faces the mantelpiece, hands crossed behind his back.

An enormous hand-carved mirror hangs above him, reflecting the room like a portal. Brilliant chandelier, glossy paneling, antique furniture. But the elegance contrasts with the chill zinging through the air.

"You realize, of course, that your actions were incredibly reckless," Amshel says.

The tableau behind him is still: Nathan, colorfully dressed, slouches lackadaisically on a sofa. James, in his crisp navy uniform, stands straight-backed by the door. Solomon and Karl, in white and black suits, loom shoulder-to-shoulder, like paradoxical twins.

"You all could have foiled—in one fell swoop—years of meticulous calculation. If the American government discovered we were responsible for the deaths at the Met, it would impede Goldsmith Holdings progress." Amshel's voice sharpens. "As it is, Red Shield captured one of our Chiropterans last night. The subject was tagged. If they trace its origin to our labs—and inform the US about it—it will strain our ongoing dialogue with the Americans. Nothing short of a disaster—something that decimates Red Shield completely—will improve our chances of an alliance with them."

"Brother, I accept full responsibility for what happened." Solomon's voice is respectful, yet firm. "I should have exhibited greater foresight. I intended to use the Chiropterans as a scare. I did not fully consider the damage releasing them would cau—"

"No." Karl steps in. His face is incandescent—not with anger, but determination. "It was my idea, Amshel. I am the one who convinced Solomon to bring those Chiropterans from the lab. And I am also the one who gave chase to that Red Shield operative. Solomon warned me, but I did not listen."

"Karl—" Solomon protests.

Karl ignores him. "I accept full blame for what happened last night. You may do what you will with me."

Amshel glances sideways. The red light from the fireplace plays off his features. "For the moment, Karl, I intend to do nothing."

Karl freezes.

"However, this incident proves that you are an unstable factor in our matrix. You will be dealt with accordingly. But not tonight. Perhaps, years from now, you will learn the price of disobedience. Until then, you remain in a state of eternal disgrace."

Karl tactfully says nothing.

"That will be all, Karl. Now get out of my sight. Attend to your duties in Vietnam. I do not want to sense your presence in this house by tomorrow."

Karl nods, fists clenching. Without meeting anyone's eye, he stalks from the room.

Solomon shifts to go after him. But Amshel, as if intuiting his movements, says, "Solomon. I must speak with you."

Solomon halts mid-stride. "About... what, brother?"

"The dissenter. Niklas. Have you heard from him?"

"I have not contacted him since he made his final shipment. Why?"

"Sources inform me that Red Shield has discovered his activities. His stepfather sent operatives to contain him at his apartment. But Niklas managed to escape. He is currently on the run. I hear he is leaving an extensive paper-trail. At some point, Red Shield could trace him back to us."

Solomon nods, contemplative. "Shall we help conceal him, then?"

Amshel's eyes narrow. "The opposite. We eliminate him."

Solomon stiffens, but maintains his poise. "I thought you had plans to make him a Chevalier."

"I have decided against it. Closer inspection reveals he would be an unsuitable ally. Too impulsive and emotional. The last thing we need is another Karl. As it is, we could do without the original."

Solomon nods, but more hesitantly. "Then who..." His voice lowers, "Who will you be sending to kill him?"

Amshel turns fully to face him. "You, of course."

The younger Chevalier blanches. "Me?"

"Naturally. After all, you did such a good job with Martin. No evidence. No remorse."

"Brother. I think—perhaps it would be more suitable for—"

"No excuses." Amshel smiles frostily. "After all. It is not just at dancing that you excel, Solomon."

Solomon says nothing. But his mouth is a thin line. Murmuring assent, he leaves the room.

James watches him go, mildly contemptuous.

"James."

The Chevalier straightens with an almost audible snap. "Yes, Amshel?"

"Have you completed the arrangements for Karl's and your trip to Vietnam?"

"I have."

"Then I suggest you do not tarry further. I want Karl out of my sight by tomorrow. In the meantime, see to Diva. After last night, I do not trust Karl and Solomon to stay in her presence. The last thing we need are more unpleasant surprises."

James nods, eyes glowing with barely suppressed eagerness. "Understood." With all due haste, he quits the room.

The only Chevalier left is Nathan. Feline, easygoing, he yawns and stretches. Lifts his hands above his head, clapping in a slow, stately rhythm. "Bravo, Amshel. Masterful, as ever. I've always said no one can crack that whip-hand quite like you do."

Amshel ignores the remark. Throttled menace ripples through the air around him. "I want to know precisely what you were thinking, Nathan. Capturing Haji, and placing James under my nose as a decoy."

Nathan rolls his eyes. "Isn't it obvious? I was fulfilling Diva's wish."

Amshel's jaw tightens. "I appreciate neither your tone, nor implication. You make it sound as though I never attempt the same thing."

"No," Nathan says flatly. "You don't."

Amshel is shocked for a moment into silence.

Idly, Nathan examines his fingernails. "James, Karl and Solomon do behave foolishly. They often do things that are reckless. But ultimately, they all have one goal. For Diva to adore them, as they adore her. But that isn't the case for you. Oh no. The longer I know you, the more I see it." His tone is snaky, slithering. And like a snake, his eyes are flat. "You don't see Diva as your Queen at all. All she is, and ever will be to you, is a test subject. One you would rather hoard for your own sadistic amusement, than share with the rest of the world."

Amshel cannot answer.

Without waiting for a dismissal, Nathan rises. "Just remember though. Your silly experiment can only succeed so far. Sooner or later, it's going to blow up in your face. You can't control every element in the concoction, after all."

On that, he sashays from the room.

Amshel watches the door click shut behind him, then turns to face the mantel. He is somewhat surprised to see a large crack running diagonally through the mirror above. It looks like a lightning-bolt tearing through the sky.

Waiting to strike.

Red Shield traces them after a call placed at the townhouse. Haji's voice, saying little more than their address. Arriving, David finds them a-ways from the city. They are at the refineries along the Turnpike. The surreal nighttime panorama of pipes and open flames, belching smoke and a web of twinkling lights, is like a scene from a futuristic movie.

Inhaling the bilgy air, David grimaces. "Ugh. And I thought Staten Island smelled like Swass and Swalls."

"It was the first thing I thought when I woke up. And I don't even know what Swass and Swalls is."

Saya sits on a battered crate. Too thin and pale. Her hair is scraped back in a sloppy braid, one eye swollen, mouth crusted in blood. Haji's oversized jacket covers her bloodstained dress. On her ears, the diamonds still dangle—unnervingly bright against her bleak expression.

Wincing, David motions to the two Red Shield medics behind him. The operatives hurry forward with a first-aid kit. "How'd you and Haji get here?" he asks Saya. "We thought you were trapped in the Met."

"I-I don't know. The last thing I remember is seeing one of Diva's Chevaliers."

"You think he brought you here?"

Saya nods. Grim and inward, as if before a major battle. But when the medics approach, she waves them away. "What happened at the Met? Why did Red Shield pull back?"

Exhaling, David straightens his jacket. "The US Special Forces were called in. Our organization was ordered to Unass the AO. Last I heard, the city authorities were giving Joel Goldschmidt the third degree about the incident. By my guess, Red Shield and the United States' coalition is finished. Soon, we'll be ordered to pack our bags and get the hell out."

Saya nods. She doesn't seem particularly surprised. Or maybe she just doesn't care.

"...What about Diva?"

"No sign of her. Or her Chevaliers. But on the bright side, we captured one of the Chiropterans at the Met. The little fucker was tagged. We could locate where he's originally from. According to our scientists, it might be a facility in this very city."

"I see." Saya's face is like granite; ashy and tight-lipped. Again, David can tell she doesn't care. Her only interest is Diva.

Always the one who gets away...

"Hey." Clearing his throat, David crouches beside her. Her small hand feels callused in his, like a child-soldier's. "You'll cream her next time, tiger. But right now, let's get your beat ass outta here."

Saya nods. But he doesn't think she hears him. Her face is full of thoughts he doesn't want to fathom.

Then she says, wistfully, "Your hands have gotten so wrinkled."

"Huh?"

"Your hands. They were never like this when I first met you."

"Well, uh. Yeah." David clears his throat. "Life's a waste of time an' time's a waste of life and all that shit. Besides. I got no Fountain of Youth blood like you."

"I know." She draws her hand almost sadly from his, and gives his a squeeze. "David... thank you. For coming here so quickly. And for... all sorts of other things. You've been a bigger help than you know."

"What?"

Her expression clouds. "This war hasn't been easy for anyone. But I'm still glad I got to fight alongside you. Next time... I may not have a chance to tell you these things. But you should hear them, just the same."

"Okay." Hoping his embarrassment doesn't show, David draws back. "Getting creeped out."

"You always are." She sobers. "How's your injury?"

"Nothing critical." David fingers the bandages at his throat. "Although I'll probably have a nice scar ort two to remember this goddamn evening by."

Saya shakes her head. He hears something hollow in her voice. "One way or another, we all will."

Quiet footsteps behind them. "I searched the area. There is no sign of Diva's Chevalier."

David turns. Haji is there, pale and composed, his white shirt rusty with old bloodstains. But unlike Saya, his skin is completely unmarked. David sees a faint red smudge at his lips, and understands.

He's just fed off of something. Or someone...

Uneasily, David straightens. "I'll order our men to double-check the area. Maybe the Chevalier could be hiding nearby."

"He's not," Saya says. "If Haji couldn't find him, then he's probably long gone."

"It might be best if we evacuate," Haji agrees tonelessly. "Just because he left us here, does not mean his true intentions were benign."

"The ol' 'Kill-em-with-kindness-before-killing-em-for real', huh?" David lights a cigarette. "I agree. Let's clear out. It fuckin' stinks out here."

Nodding, Saya rises. Her movements are jerky, like a wind-up toy's. Her lowered lashes cast shadows under her eyes, so that when she lifts them, her expression seems almost flirtatious. But the gaze—fixed on Haji's—is pleading.

As if on a signal, the Chevalier moves, closing the space between them. His arms come tight around her. He snatches her up so her feet leave the ground. For a moment, David thinks are going to kiss. But Saya only pushes back Haji's collar, lowering her mouth to his neck. In the gloaming, her fangs flash a split-second before they sink into his skin.

A tremor races through Haji—almost a secret vibration. Eyes slipping shut, he presses his face into her hair. They sway together, dreamlike, as if in a dance.

Wincing, David looks away. Hella creepy, having to see that up close. Even creepier, feeling like an intruder in something that is so honestly grotesque. There are some things about Saya and Haji he never wants to understand. Things he doesn't think anyone should.

But when he glances around again, Saya and Haji are gone.

Solomon finds Karl sitting on the parapet, watching the moon.

For a moment, Solomon just stands there, observing his younger brother. The desolation on Karl's face, the simmering aroma of his misery, is an embodiment of Solomon's own. The only difference between them, really, is that Karl combats his with sharp-edged venom, whereas Solomon shelves his own away with fatalistic indifference.

Or is Karl the true fatalist between us?

Perhaps he has already accepted that this life is hopeless. Perhaps he is simply biding his time, waiting for an escape.

Just as I am.

Hunched like a gargoyle, Karl looks out over the city. "Don't you have an assassination to prepare for, Solomon?"

The elder Chevalier pauses. "You heard Amshel's orders?"

"Of course. And if you want the truth, I am unsurprised." His voice rises in something like amusement, but darker. "The last thing our family needs is another me."

Solomon sighs. "That is Amshel's opinion, Karl. Not mine. As it is, I wanted to talk to you about something else."

"What might that be?"

Solomon swallows. His throat still feels sandy from that concoction Amshel gave him. It isn't a pain so much as an acute discomfort. He wants to gulp a cupful of acid, burn the sensation away. If he could, he'd burn away the moment he became a Chevalier the same way. He'd never have accepted Amshel's offer. Never drunk Diva's blood.

He'd have gone on being puny and human, but at least, in his own way...free.

I wonder if Karl feels the same way?

After all, I agreed to be a Chevalier. He was never given a choice.

Karl's head is silhouetted against the full moon. He watches Solomon, unblinking.

Solomon sighs again. "Karl, you did not have to take the blame for last night. If I remember correctly, we both set the Chiropterans loose. There was no reason for you to—"

"It doesn't matter. Regardless of whose fault it was, Amshel will put the blame on me. After all, you are his protégé. His shining star." He chuckles bitterly. "I am the whipping boy."

"I am not quite sure Amshel sees me as—"

"Of course he does. Amshel spent the most time shaping you. In business. In combat. You were modeled in his image. You owe your very success to him."

"That—does not mean I am exactly like Amshel."

A strange emotion flickers in Karl's eyes. "I never said you were. I simply mean, in his own way, Amshel feels responsible for you. Just as you, dear brother, feel responsible for me. You both see something of your own selves in your younger charges."

Solomon raises an eyebrow. "I thought you said I wasn't like Amshel."

"I said you weren't exactly like him. He was born the way he is. You were his creation. What was inherent for him, you had to be taught." He chuckles. "It is the same with you and I. Except perhaps you taught me a little too well."

"I don't understand you."

"Because you never listen." In a smooth, reptilian movement, Karl does a handstand on the parapet. His long hair falls down around his face, the ends of his well-cut coat dangling like batwings. The sight gives Solomon a strange pang. Karl always seems, no matter what the circumstances, to remain so in the moment.

Even now, reprimanded and disgraced, facing separation from Diva, he acts as if the world is his oyster.

Perhaps this is how he endures immortality. By losing himself. No plans or inhibitions. Total absorption. Even in the maelstrom of carnage, he has a talent for looking like the only one who is truly alive.

Solomon wishes he were the same.

His mind drifts, oddly, to that red-lily hairpin he stowed away at his apartment. He cannot explain why he has kept it. But something about the pin—its shape, perhaps its faint scent—stirs his blood. Makes him wonder who the item belonged to.

That woman who attacked me…

She was not human.

I realized that even before she'd knocked me out.

Guesswork is not required to ascertain her identity. It was obviously the Great Enemy.

Saya.

Unbidden, flashes of her resurface. The long wild hair. The silky red gown spilling like blood down her body. The electric bloodlust crackling in her eyes.

A perfect predator in her own right. Just like Diva.

No, Solomon corrects. Not just like Diva.

She was fiercer, somehow.

More…

"Thinking of her?" Karl cuts in.

"What?"

Karl somersaults, landing on his feet on the parapet. The moon casts a stark lineation over his body as he goes through a shadowboxing stance. Duck-jab-cross, elbows tight to his chest, legs poised with the graceful tension of a tightrope-walker's.

"Karl—what?"

Karl's punches are snakes—swift and mercurial. "You are thinking about her, aren't you? Our Great Enemy?"

"How do you know—?"

"You have been… inward, ever since meeting her. As if you are daydreaming." Karl's eyes are closed. But he seems aware of every particle of his surroundings. "I remember Amshel once claiming that this was Saya's most dangerous quality. Once a Chevalier met her face to face, he would grow obsessed. For her death. For something else. He referred to it as a Primal Urge. In the blood."

Solomon's lips thin. "Perhaps he was right."

"I doubt that. Amshel has a history with saying only what suits him. He brainwashes us about monsters in the closet. Just to keep us under his thumb." Karl's eyes open, fixing on Solomon's. "You are going to kill that human as he ordered, aren't you?"

Solomon tries to avoid his gaze. "I must fulfill my duty."

"Which means 'Yes'," Karl says. "It's strange. I was sure Amshel would make Niklas a Chevalier. To replace me. Instead, you are being sent to kill him. It makes me wonder..."

"What?"

Karl's eyes burn red. Intense. "If given the order, you'd probably kill me the same way. Wouldn't you?"

"What…?" Affronted, Solomon shakes his head. "Karl, I would never—"

"You would if you really wanted to. If you wanted something badly enough, and I was standing in your way." Karl smiles, fangs brilliant in the moonlight. "After all, Amshel is the one who shaped you to stop at nothing to get what you want. Just as you trained me."

"Perhaps so. But Amshel never shaped what I truly want. That is where we differ, Karl. Our big brother and I will never want the same things."

"So what do you want, Solomon?"

"At the moment," Solomon smiles. "For you to come with me."

"What for?"

"As you said, I have an assassination tonight. I would like your help in executing it."

Karl raises an eyebrow. "My help?"

"Of course." In a fluid movement, Solomon leaps on the parapet. Face to face with Karl. "This assignment is duty for me. But I imagine it can be something entirely more stimulating for the likes of you."

Karl makes no answer. But his mad laughter swirls into the air. Suffusing the night with scarlet hues of bloodlust.

It is several hours before dawn. Snowfall glitters in the glow of streetlamps.

Huddled in a long brown coat, collar drawn high, Niklas hurries down the street. The neighborhood is nearly silent, the apartments on either side exhaling sleep. No one is in sight. Even so, Niklas feels as exposed as a fresh wound.

The headlights of a passing car flash past him. Wincing, Niklas shrinks back. His heart thuds so hard he can feel it knocking against his ribcage. But his anxiety is warranted. The last thing he needs is someone recognizing his face.

He is running for his life.

His stepfather has learnt of his betrayal. Red Shield has been alerted to arrest him on sight. All his contacts in the organization are suddenly unavailable. And even if he gets in touch with them, there is no guarantee that they will not betray him. He is on his own.

No. That's not true.

Solomon promised that Diva would make me a Chevalier. He will come back for me.

I know it.

Nearing the tenement where he's rented a room, Niklas struggles to calm himself. He has never felt such a looming sense of terror before. High-ranking Red Shield operatives seldom face mortal danger. Their only threats are bureaucratic. Only the soldiers on the frontline—people like Saya and Haji—face death daily.

Solomon will come for me, he tells himself feverishly. He will come.

Glancing up at the building, Niklas freezes. Counting the floors, he thinks for a moment that his neighbor's lights are on. Then, in wide-eyed shock, he realizes they are his own.

Oh no…

There is no question of his having left them on himself. Who could be up there?

Is it Red Shield? Have they found me...?

Or is it...?

A flood of desperate hope swallows all logic. Before he knows it, Niklas is racing up the stairs. His door is unlocked; there is nothing in his apartment to steal. Throwing it open, he steps in.

"S-Solomon...?"

He expects to see his battered futon sofa, and a heap of dirty clothes against one bare brick wall. The grimy kitchenette, with two crates holding more clothes, passports, travel papers, and other oddments.

Instead he enters the golden glow of candlelight.

A few flickering stubs rest on the nightstand. They cast a dreamlike ambience through the room, turning its squalor into something Bohemian. Glamorous. Gilded by the glow, Solomon leans against a wall. Eerily pale and ethereal, blond hair curling over his forehead. A fallen angel.

Niklas' throat tightens. His eyes feel humid. "Solomon—is it r-really you?"

A fond smile. "Of course it is. Did you really think I'd forget you?"

"N-No. Of course not. It's just—for a minute I thought you might—" Unsteadily, Niklas shuts the door. His heart skips several beats. He has to cough to breathe. "God. I-I was afraid I'd never see you again."

"Ah, Nikki..." Arms open, Solomon approaches him. When they embrace, Niklas' skin leaps, as if the touch of the other man's palms is something electric and powerful. It is only then that he grasps how terrified he has been. His body thrums with the aftershocks of tension. Tears burn his eyes.

Blindly, he clings to Solomon. Everything is going to be all right now. He is with the one he loves. The one who will save him.

Drawing back, he gives Solomon a shaky, sheepish smile. "I was—just about to leave this apartment. Switch to another location. And then we might never have—God. H-How did you find me?"

Solomon taps the side of his nose. "It was easy enough. I asked around a little bit. Let rumors guide me. My senses took care of the rest."

Eyes squeezed shut, Niklas hugs him again. "I knew it. I knew you would come back. I was half-ready to lose hope, but a part of me knew—!"

"Ssh. Calm down, Niklas. You're shaking." Gently, Solomon draws back. Touches his cheek with one smooth palm. "Honestly, look at you. You're a wreck. You really were frightened, weren't you?"

Ashamed, yet not, Niklas whispers. "…Yes."

"Well, you needn't worry anymore. Soon, everything will be fine."

Niklas nods jerkily. "I know. I know. I have you with me now. Please—tell me we are going to leave this place? Tell me Diva will make me a Chevalier?"

Solomon smiles warmly. But his voice is chilling. "Keep dreaming, Niklas."

"Wh-what?"

In a guttering rush of wind, the candles go out. The room is plunged in darkness. In the gloom, Solomon's eyes glow. Devil-red.

Niklas tenses. The Chevalier's arms, still around him, are no longer encompassing bolsters. They feel like iron bands. Wincing, he tries to pull away. "So-Solomon—what're you—?"

The blond titters. "Oh Nikki. It's about time you learn that there are some people you should never trust. No matter how stupidly desperate you are."

Confused, Niklas opens his mouth to speak. Then the room spins—he finds himself hurled back, with crippling force, against the wall. He hits it at angle, shoulder-first. Fragments of plaster rain everywhere. Groaning, tasting blood in his mouth, Niklas sinks to the floor.

"S-Solomon—" His heart is speeding at a phenomenal pace. Not in confusion. In fear. "What are you—?"

Hands in pockets, Solomon steps slowly, deliberately over to Niklas. The shadowy room, lightened somewhat by the streetlamp near the window, harlequins his smiling face.

"You know, Niklas. A lady once offered me an interesting tidbit about love and sex. She said a man could never tell a woman's intentions, by how she pleased him in bed. In return, I told her a woman could likewise never tell a man's intentions, by how he pleased her in bed. And together, we reached one conclusion. Male or female, it does not matter. What matters is, regardless of how close you are—or think you are—to someone, they can turn against you. All they need is a reason to do it."

"Reason...?" Confusion and terror roils through Niklas. He trembles. "Solomon—I-I never gave you any reason to—For God's sake, why are you doing this—?"

"For the one reason you were struggling to escape, Niklas. Duty." Solomon's smile fades. His visage, frigid, impassive, seems carved from stone. "Brother Amshel has decided you are of no further use. You have no more influence in Red Shield. You are being hunted. You are leaving an incriminating paper-trail. What possible benefit could you be for us now?"

"But—but I thought—"

"Thought what? That I had feelings for you?" Smirking, Solomon shakes his head. "Oh Niklas. Just as fear keeps you alive in war, fear keeps you alive in business. And it is your fear that I fed on. So you'd do as I told you to. That is all I cared about. After all, as you said yourself, I am a Chiropteran. I have everything a person could dream of. Wealth. Immortality. A powerful family. Why would I put up with your failings and neediness, unless it was to aid Diva's cause?"

Niklas feels tears in his eyes. He tries to force them down, but they are already spilling down his face. Burning him alive, just like Solomon's words. Shivering, carved out, he wants to curl up and die. His life is ruined. He has no more position, no money, no family, and the one he gave it up for has turned on him.

His voice is ragged. "You n-never told me—that you h-hated me."

"Hate?" Solomon shakes his head. "I do not hate you, Niklas. That word requires a capacity for emotion. And between us, there was none. Think about it. I was always so pleasant with you. Temperate. Unpressing. Rational. Does that sound like someone in love? Of course not. It's how one would treat a mailman. Real love is something powerful. Something raw and consuming. And, quite frankly, something I would never waste on the likes of you."

The agonizing words saturate Niklas. But then they thicken, bubbling into a black vicious hatred.

"Then I hope, one day, y-you feel as I do," Niklas says. "I hope you learn how it feels to give up everything for someone. To have that person abandon you. And I hope you die like a dog. Wondering, with your last breath, if you meant anything to them."

Solomon touches his chest. "A poignant eulogy. I shall carve it on your tombstone."

"I don't care what you do." Niklas throws his head back. Tears of fury and pain slip down his cheeks. "Just go ahead and kill me."

"Me?" Solomon smiles coolly. "You have it all wrong, Niklas. I am not going to kill you."

"Wha-what?"

"Oh, Nikki. You know I detest getting my suits creased. Blood-work is not for me." Smile widening, Solomon glances beyond Niklas. "However, Karl suffers no such qualms."

"K-Karl—?" Niklas turns. From the preternatural gloom, a figure emerges. A pale Asian man with long glittering black hair. His gaze is reflective, eerie, like a cat's in the darkness. The faint streetlight strikes off his sharp white fangs.

"Here you are, Karl," Solomon says. "An armistice dinner. Something to seal our brotherhood, and let bygones be bygones. Are you hungry?"

"Ravenous," Karl whispers.

It is the last thing Niklas hears, before the Chevalier lunges at him, an open maw of dagger-teeth, and blood splatters high and red across the room.

Flicking through the pages of a fashion mag, Nathan freezes.

He sits at his favorite perch by the tall window, legs crossed, a crystal-cut glass of blood in one hand. Blue light of the television fills the room. With the volume down, the images onscreen are a pantomime. The last ten minutes of Here's Lucy.

But that isn't what interests Nathan. His senses are overwhelmed by the silence.

Another person would describe it as tranquil. A fermata note descending into graceful stillness. But not Nathan. As Diva's Chevalier, silence is never a good sign.

Setting the book aside, Nathan tiptoes to Diva's room. James is in there. Nathan catches shades of his aura—steely yet brittle; like a rigid armor over a pulpy underbelly. But Diva's aura—always so silvery and radiant, like a thrilling echo of her mother's—is subdued.

Nathan sighs. He knows what's happened, before he knocks on the door. "Yoohoo? You kids playing nice in there?"

No answer.

Nathan pauses, then shrugs. Shoving the door open, he shimmies in with his usual savoir-faire. "Anything the matter? Diva was so quiet, I was afraid you'd bored her to death, James."

"Dammit, Nathan. Get out!"

James' voice wavers at the edges, like a struck gong. Shirtless and barefoot, he sits hunched at the foot of the bed. His face is ashen and sweaty. Or is it teary? Either way, Nathan can only recall one time he's seen James that unhinged.

When Diva entered her last Long Sleep.

Feigning confusion, he asks, "Whaaat? Oh, don't tell me you're so prudish you won't let me see you half-dressed? You were a military boy, James. I thought you guys invented communal showers and circle jerks and all that crap."

James makes no answer. Only hunches further. His shoulderblades spasm.

Nathan saunters closer. "What is it? You look like someone threw you a blanket party." He pauses. "Wait. That's a Marine thing, isn't it?"

James doesn't seem to hear him. He is muttering almost feverishly to himself. "Can't believe...? How could she forget...?"

"James?" Nathan waves a hand before his face. "Helloooo? Earth to James? What's eating you? I mean, aside from the obvio—"

James springs up, nearly unbalancing him. Grabs up his clothes, neatly folded on the dresser-chair, and yanks them on in tense, frantic motions. He looks like he is trying to escape a guillotine. Or running headlong into one. "She didn't—couldn't remember. She forgot—"

"Forgot what?"

For a split-second, James' eyes meet his. Nathan is unsurprised by the pain burning them. One way or another, Diva burns all her Chevaliers. Her casual destructiveness is worse than wildfire.

"Me!" James snaps. "She—forgot—me, forgot my name! Right before she closed her eyes! She didn't—recognize me. She kept asking for—for—"

For Sister Saya.

Nathan blows air through his cheeks. Poor James. Like all the brothers, he has a Chevalier's body, but a human's ego. And egos are such fragile things. Nathan would know. His own—like parts of his consciousness—shattered when his Queen died. All that's left are jagged chunks remodeled in a pitiful attempt at something arty.

If you can call it that….

He sighs. "Let's not dwell on it, James. At least you got to spend the last few minutes with her. That's what's important. Once you're in Vietnam, busy with duties, I guarantee you won't have time to remember her insensitivities and lapses in affection or—"

"Dammit. Dammit."

Like a baying rottweiler, James lunges from the room. The stench of misery trails after him.

Smirking, Nathan buffs his nails. Works every time.

Making light of his brother's unhappiness might seem callous. But what does Nathan care? Adorable as James is, he's not really Nathan's brother. And, well, the boy is sort of a twinkie. A few negative experiences might just give him some psychological depth.

There's more to life than hickory dickory docks and mice running up the clock.

Sighing, Nathan draws open the curtains at the window. With the city aglow and the moon full, the room is bright, even with all the lights off. His eyes fall on the figure in bed.

Diva.

Lying on her side, she is fast asleep, her rhinestone necklace ripped to pieces. Nathan wonders (with a ghastly giggle) if James tore it off her during their earlier throes. Tiny crystals glitter on the bedsheets, on her bare skin, like snowflakes.

Diva's expression reminds him of the same thing. Something cool and dreamy and pure. Diva really is pure, in her own way. She has none of the guile or malice that this world teems with. But that is exactly what makes her so dangerous. She is the embodiment of everything people would rather see crushed.

Nathan sighs. You really are just like your mother, aren't you?

And, like your mother, I suspect you're not meant long for this world.

Smoothing Diva's rumpled hair from her face, Nathan pauses. A thin tube is clutched in her little fist. Prying it away, he realizes it is a kaleidoscope. Probably Karl's. He remembers Diva prattling gleefully about the Magical-Rainbow-Looking-Glass-Thingy Karl gave her.

"Well, dip me in duck shit." Nathan chuckles, recalling the rules of his contest. "She did pick the present she loved best."

Which means that Karl, ostracized and wretched though he is, is now responsible for shipping Diva's cocoon.

Lucky bastard.

Of course, none of this will improve Karl's likeability in his other brothers' eyes. But what difference does it make? Like Diva, Nathan often suspects Karl isn't meant for this world, either. In a way, perhaps none of their family is.

Maybe Saya is right to erase us all? Maybe that's the only thing left?

Then again, maybe not.

Nathan doesn't really care. Right and wrong, philosophy and duty—none of that matters to him. He's only here to watch the story play out. And, in its wake, honor the memory of his queen.

Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love…

As the years pass, that's the only emotion he holds sacred anymore.

Doubt thou the stars are fire/ Doubt that the sun doth move… Taken from Shakespeare's 'Hamlet'.

The Saya/Haji portion will be resolved (in a manner of speaking… XP) in the last two chapters! Do let me know what you guys thought! Was Niklas' death justified? Does Solomon deserve what we all know happens to him later on? Was it too far-fetched that Sol didn't recognize Saya until it was too late? Doesn't hesitate to speak up!

FEEDBACK IS TEH AWESOME! XD