Balthazar knew that things were wrong the moment they got to the apartment. The stink of the magic hit him on the staircase, both the putrid aura and the familiar one. It was so strong that even Dave, who hadn't gotten that far in his training to know how to sense auras, looked nauseous from it. Horvath and Mordred. They had both been here, and at the same time too from the feel of things.

He didn't take his time after that. Balthazar bolted up the steps, leaving Dave behind. Seeing his master running Dave had started to as well, but he was weighed down by Excalibur. That and the fact was that no one could run as fast as Balthazar. Not when he knew without a doubt that something had happened to Veronica. That was why he reached the apartment first minutes before Dave did.

That was why he was alone when he saw that the door was off its hinges, laying in splinters all along the hallway. His heart sunk but he continued to move quickly, if not mechanically. If the door had been left like that then there was little chance that Veronica and Becky were still there.

Everything in him froze and crumbled at the thought of his former friend and the psychotic prince holding Veronica, but still he barreled onwards. Balthazar knew that he had to keep it together. He had not fought over a millennia to be with her to let her be snatched away on the eve of their wedding.

This feeling shoving the others out of the way he strode into the apartment. So far he knew the who, but not the why. The only thing for him to do was to start looking for clues. Balthazar stared ahead of him and stopped almost immediately. One the walls, scratched into the plaster, were the dark words;

Ego puto incendia est emanio

"I believe the fire is spreading," he murmured, "Stop writing in Latin Mordred. The language is as dead as you."

He'd have to use that insult at him when the time came. For now he needed to figure out what Mordred was trying to tell him. Those words were familiar and they sounded suitably ominous for such an occasion. Balthazar didn't think he was quoting anyone though. It wasn't his style.

Then he remembered. Those were the words spoken on the night of Letholdus' death so very long ago. He had spoken it of Guinevere's quarters, but he had meant so much more. His reign of terror had begun shortly after that. Mordred knew he'd recognize this. He had wanted him to know they'd been there, that they planned to do something unspeakable, or had already done something. The possibilities of what he could've done were endless.

Veronica was nowhere in sight, but with a heavy heart he had known to expect that. Mordred hated her for the scar she'd give him. However, there was hope. As much as Balthazar hated Horvath he did believe that he still loved Veronica. He wouldn't let anything harm her, not for awhile anyway. It was cold comfort to know that but at least she was alive somewhere. He'd find her before she became otherwise.

He snapped his fingers and blue coated the apartment. Balthazar saw some brief replay of what had happened. Not for the first time he had to restrain himself from attempting to intervene in a replay. It was just an echo of events; the time when he could've done something was long gone. Achingly he saw Veronica knocked out and placed on the couch. Horvath had done it with gentle movements.

"The cemetery's quiet this time of night, which is good," Mordred had said, "She'll need to remain asleep for awhile you know."

"Who knows?" Horvath had said, "She was strong."

"You're telling me."

"I did."

"Know what I told you?"

"Do say."

"I told you you'd need that spell," Mordred said, "Probably need it for Balthazar and the Prime too."

Balthazar continued watching until they decided to use Becky as a messenger before switching it off. He needed to conserve his strength and he felt like he'd heard enough. The cemetery. Whatever reason they were there he could track them. They were probably expending huge amounts of energy. He'd be able to find them.

Breathing in again Balthazar started to take the apartment in in its entirety. He knew now that at least Becky was still there, and that was good. Once he looked hard enough he could see a foot sticking out from behind an armchair. He extended his hand and levitated the armchair away. Becky was there with no visible marks on her, just unconscious.

At first he was relieved. Becky would be one less person to worry about. He would be able to fully concentrate on getting Veronica back without being guiltily aware of her missing as well. Then he noticed something was wrong. She lay at awkward angles, her blonde hair spilling out beneath her. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't looking at anything. Looking harder he could see the blood coming from beneath her head.

Balthazar felt a pain in his chest. Fingers trembling he snapped them. The spell didn't take this time and he swallowed to clear his mind. He did again so as to see the rest of the previous replay. It all flashed before him. Becky's words, her lies for Veronica, her defiance, Mordred losing his temper, and the end result. Moaning he swatted the replay away from him but it did nothing to change the events he'd seen.

He hadn't known Becky very well at all, but she was Lacy's granddaughter. He'd hoped that she and Dave would work out simply because of how violently they seemed to be in love. From the little other facts he knew about her she'd been a girl struggling with her family and school. Not the kind of girl who had this coming to her.

Slowly Balthazar turned away from Becky's remains. She hadn't deserved to die, not at all. It was made all the worse because Mordred had no real motive, had called it spilt milk. She was so young too, only twenty. It wasn't the age to die. Making his hand into a fist he leaned his forehead into it and closed his eyes. He needed to somehow block out the image of those terrible, staring eyes that saw nothing.

Heavy footfalls resounded outside of the door and broke his reverie. Balthazar's eyes snapped open. Someone was coming. Dave. Dave was coming. God in heaven, he couldn't come, couldn't see this. This would kill him. He couldn't let him see her like that, needed to clean up the blood and close the eyes for decency's sake-

"Balthazar?"

It was too late. Dave came in through the door, saw the words, and started. He opened his mouth to ask a question, probably what they meant. His eyes fell on Becky first though and his mouth shut abruptly. Excalibur slipped out of his hands and clattered on the floor. One of his feet moved forward but he stopped himself. For a minute Balthazar didn't dare breathe, not at what was happening.

With ponderous movements Dave moved past Balthazar and towards her. He sank down on his knees with the same kind of movements. His fingers reached forward before hesitantly drawing them back several times. Finally he touched her cheek lightly. As though in a trance Dave said;

"She's cold."

Balthazar didn't reply. There was nothing he could say to that.

"Why are her eyes open, do you think?" he said, "Did it catch her by surprise or was it the shock to the head? I think it's correctly termed head trauma."

"Dave-" tried Balthazar.

"She painted her fingernails," Dave interrupted absently, "Probably just getting ready for bed."

He gave a choked laugh and picked up one of her hands.

"I always wondered why she did that, paint her nails I mean," he said, "I asked her once. She said she liked the different colors. It never made much sense to me but she always told me I had no fashion sense. She was probably right."

Slowly he slid his arm under her neck and lifted her upwards. He held her in a way that her head lolled onto his chest, holding her close. One of his arms supported her. The other one went for her face. With great care he closed the eyes and brushed loose strands of hair back. It was like he was afraid he'd break her, although they both knew that no further harm could come to her. Without looking away he asked;

"Which one?"

"Dave-" started Balthazar again.

"I didn't ask my name. I asked which one did it?" asked Dave, "I know you know. Tell me."

Balthazar started to form an answer but bit it back. He hesitated, wondering what to do in the situation. Nothing had quite prepared him for this. He of all people knew what the need for revenge could do to a person. It could drive them mad, eating them from the inside. That was the last thing he wanted for Dave.

On the other hand he had the right to know. Becky's grandmother would be the only other person who had the right, and here he was asking for it. Balthazar couldn't even begin to understand what it was he was going through. If he had lost Veronica, and the realization that he still could was there, then he knew he'd want to know. He knew why he would to, and he knew he had to tell him.

"Mordred," Balthazar said.

Dave nodded as though he'd expected this. He looked around the apartment.

"Was Veronica here too?" he asked.

Balthazar nodded mutely.

"We've got to save her then, can't let anything happen to her," Dave said, "Maybe we should call Kate and the others, get a wider scope of the area. They may know something we don't after all."

He didn't nod this time, just looked at his young apprentice warily. There was something oddly distant and business-like about him, as though he were reciting lines from a strange play. No, more like being controlled by invisible strings. Even his movements were jerky like that of a puppet's.

"So we should start the search, sound the alarm, call the troops to battle, sally forth," said Dave, "Got to save her."

Once more he fell silent.

"But…but first…first…before we…" he paused, "Before we go I…I need…I need a moment…"

Balthazar nodded again, this time with a touch more agreement. Without further preface Dave buried his head in the crook of Becky's neck and began to cry. His hands were tangled in her hair, pulling her so close to him that Balthazar could only hear the sobs. Soon it sounded more like small screams than sobs though. Minutes passed this way, Balthazar feeling worse for him with each passing second.

Moving forward he placed his hand on Dave's shoulder. It wasn't much comfort, but he knew that any larger gesture was likely to be repudiated or seem wrong. The sobs stopped and Dave looked up. His expression was dark, made all the more terrible by his red-rimmed and sadness-filled eyes.

"I'm going to kill him," he said fiercely, "I'm going to kill him."