Chapter 3

The Valley of the Gods was aptly named. Located on a mesa seven thousand feet above sea level, the perpetually snow-covered plane was as unreachable as heaven itself. Great fingers of stone rose from the barren earth, all that remained of ancient volcanic crests after millennia of erosion.

Now two months after the incident at the hospital, the big Sikorsky flew a zig-zag path over and between peaks, then dropped to nearly ground level, flitting easily into a natural cavern one hundred feet tall and nearly that as wide. It came to rest on hard-packed earth, out of sight of prying eyes. The little group of five disembarked the Santini Air copter and made their way down a narrow tunnel to the large central chamber deep inside.

"What's all this?" Stringfellow demanded, the continuous throbbing of his damaged ankle momentarily forgotten. He gazed with amazement at the multiple banks of computers and equipment that littered the wall and floor space, once bare rock transformed into a virtual control room. Anger tightened his gut at the thought of outsiders invading this very special place. "Who else was here?"

The last to emerge, Locke brushed past the astonished man, tossing him a glance as he went by. "Jo ferried in the computer hardware not long after she discovered the Lair. It was provided by our Far East connection. I think you know him -- man by the name of Michael."

"I don't like strangers in here," Hawke growled, two years worth of protecting his investment kicking into play.

The statement drew a sardonic smirk from Rivers, whereas Locke stiffened in his tracks. "I completed installation of the communications equipment and final programming four weeks ago. And in case you've forgotten, Mr. Hawke," he continued brusquely, "your arrangement with the Company ended when we broke your brother out of that prison camp. Airwolf is ours once more."

Jo, already hunched over a table behind the main console, looked up with a friendly smile. "We like to think of it as community property. Jason buys the fuel, we get to play with the toys."

"My favorite toy," Mike added, handing her some navigational charts from a rack. "Keep expecting one in my Christmas stocking, but so far...."

"She's not a toy," Hawke whispered under his breath, irrationally offended by the others' cavalier attitude. "She's a Lady." He felt a prickle on his neck and turned to meet Saint John's penetrating gaze full upon him.

"We haven't changed Airwolf at all," the older man said softly. "She's just like you and Dom left her."

"She'd better be," he snapped, actually afraid to look at the gleaming black object sitting in the precise center of the lighted landing pad. Dominic Santini. The name brought a surge of emotion that nearly broke through the walls Hawke was trying so fervently to maintain. Show nothing, he'd told himself since he was ten and mourning his lost parents. Feel nothing and don't let anyone know you're vulnerable.

He absorbed the hurt, tucking it inside where it would gnaw but not show, schooling his face into neutrality. Gabrielle had gotten close and Gabrielle had died. Dom was gone. And Saint John? He risked another glance up at his brother's face to find the older man regarding him steadily with none of the anger he'd expected at the rebuff. Stringfellow knew then his brother did understand. Why should I be surprised? he thought, warmth muting a particle of the fear he couldn't dispel. Saint John always had. No one else ever understood ... except Dom. But Dom is....

Budding confidence evaporating again, he braced his shoulders, spun on his heel and circumnavigated the metal railing that enclosed the death machine code named Airwolf. His jaw tightened as he approached; she was as beautiful as he remembered, the obsidian skin and white belly reminding him of a killer whale, the sleek streamlining that of the American eagle he loved. He stopped inches from the craft, breath drawn away by her closeness. Had it only been two months since he'd last seen her? Two months of an emptiness only partially filled by the completion of his contract with the Firm. Saint John was back, but Stringfellow was earthbound; with Airwolf he could again soar like the creature he was named after.

He raised a hand to touch the smooth metal, surprised to see it shaking. He could see his image in the polished armor plate, distorted lengthwise but still distinct enough to reveal a slim, youthful man with haunted eyes and a stern mouth. "Hello, Lady," he whispered, recognizing the loneliness of that solitary reflection. The surface rippled, another figure appearing, larger, more solidly built, and for a moment he saw Dominic Santini, the image so achingly familiar that he bit his lip. Then Dominic was gone and a different shape resolved, every bit as welcome. "I guess Locke is right," he said a little louder. "She did her job. She got you home."

"It wasn't only Airwolf that got me home," Saint John said from just behind his right shoulder. "You were the one that didn't give up, little brother."

Stringfellow thought back to his last hospital stay and knew the statement for the untruth it was. He had given up -- on Saint John, on himself ... on life. If it hadn't been for Dom, he might have given up on the latter a long time before. "They wanted the Lady," he confessed, caressing the metal skin with real reverence. "All we had to do was hang on to her until they found you."

The other laughed, an amiable rumble deep in his throat. "Considering the lack of leisure I've had the last two months, I know holding on to her wasn't all you had to do." He shifted, stepping a little closer until his left shoulder brushed Stringfellow's right. "The Lady. Appropriate."

Dominic. "Th-that was Dom's name for her," Stringfellow choked, the hurt- filled niche in his heart swelling to constrict his throat. "He said ... she needed to be handled like a...."

"Like a Lady," Saint John finished just as quietly. "It sounds like something he'd say if he were here."

Like something Dom would say if he were here. "He should be here," Stringfellow snarled, startling himself and unable to stop. Rage and heartache overflowed, washing him in a red wave, a tsunami that returned to drown him again and again without warning. "He should be here," he repeated, slamming his open palm against the helicopter's flank. "I shouldn't have had to trade him for you the way I had to trade you in 'Nam."

Pain coursed up his right arm, returning some measure of control, just enough to catch the emotions up in a knot. He squeezed his eyes shut even as a warm hand descended on his shoulder, that simple contact offering another single thread of comfort ... and fear. If he gets close he's going to die, too, Hawke thought wildly, wanting to retreat yet not finding it in himself to pull away from his brother. Again.

With the absence of vision, memories returned, this time centering around Saint John's reappearance in his life. Those long weeks at Marty Bergman's clinic were vague at first, little but a blur of confusion and pain. The injuries had been every bit as extensive as that doctor -- Melloni? -- had suspected; indeed, the stress of being transported by air had sent Stringfellow into shock one hour into the flight. It had taken the medical staff twenty-four hours to restabilize him, only to nearly loose him again to the infection that attacked his weakened body and resisted all efforts of the antibiotics to clear up.

As Hawke had found out later, Marty, a capable surgeon as well as diagnostician, had taken him personally under his care, fighting for the young man's life every step of the way. Time had passed in a haze, with only impressions of his brother's presence at irregular intervals, talking to him, soothing when the pain was too much, encouraging when something had to be borne. Hawke had assumed it all a dream and mourned even as he welcomed the barely seen presence.

Clarity in full began to return during the third week. He'd opened his eyes to find his mind remarkably clear and his body relatively pain free for the first time in ... he couldn't remember. The sun streamed in the large window, silhouetting a husky shape against the glass. The man was big -- bigger than Stringfellow -- and stood looking out at the grounds, head thrown back and up to the sky. Bronze hair gleamed under golden rays, the brown bomber jacket hanging open from wide shoulders and a large-boned frame. Could it be...? Saint John?

As it did even now sometimes, disbelief had nibbled at String's gut, the fear that this would turn out to be nothing more than a dream as it had been so often for so many years. With that doubt came a crushing grief of loss, and the weary renewal of his vow to not give up the hunt to find his brother alive or dead. But I don't think I can do it any more. There's nothing left of me. Oh, Saint John ... I'm sorry.

"Saint John." The name was breathed softly but the maybe-image must have had the ears of a jungle beast so quickly did he turn. Long legs carried the man closer, the solid weight causing the bed to dip on one side. Blue- gray eyes looked back into Stringfellow's own, a particular joy writing itself in the long, solemn features as the man realized he was awake.

"It's about time you woke up, little brother." Saint John's murmur carried a wave of happiness, the hand he rested on String's forehead cool like water and calloused by toil. "I've been waiting a long time to talk to you."

Little brother. Saint John always called me that. Only Saint John. And for the first time in fifteen years, Stringfellow Hawke allowed himself the luxury of full belief.

All this passed behind Stringfellow's lids in the few seconds it took him to regain his control. Saint John's hand had not left his shoulder, and String felt disinclined to move away. Both highly reserved and private men had felt a need for some form of contact these several weeks -- contact Saint John had been denied by the Vietnamese and Stringfellow had denied himself. After a lifetime of struggling to feel nothing, Stringfellow found his carefully constructed walls more battered then ever and crumbling in places he could no longer shore up. He didn't understand it; Dominic would have.

Struggling vainly to push thoughts of Dom out of his mind, he forced open his eyes, finding himself face to face with the dark mirror image of the older Hawke. Saint John's strong features were creased by a load of sadness Hawke had not seen since he was ten and they were bidding good-bye to their parents at the funeral. The normal reserve of the man cracked briefly, the internal struggle for command palpable. It was only then that Stringfellow, so cocooned in his own private pain, remembered that Dominic had been a father to Saint John, too.

Hawke remembered the clinic, and confusion and crying his grief out in Saint John's arms. That had happened twice, when the painkillers had diminished control and String had not been strong enough to close everything away as he always did, tucking the pain into a small niche in his heart as Saint John himself had always done. Saint John had held him through it, for all that he must have been aching himself. There in that niche, Dominic Santini would live forever and be mourned forever. In his heart -- and Saint John's.

"I'm sorry," he blurted, half turning until he could look up at his brother. "I know ... Dom meant something to you, too."

The bigger man took a deep breath and drew himself erect, a muscle leaping in his jaw and sadness written in his eyes; beyond that, his expression was closed. "I would have liked to see him again," he admitted, keeping his eyes locked on Airwolf. "While I was in the camps ... seeing you and him again were all that kept me from giving up. And now...."

"I'm sorry." And he was, for Stringfellow would forever blame himself for Dom's death. The big Italian had saved his life a dozen times over on Firm missions, and Hawke hadn't been able to do the same in return. "I'm sorry. It was me they were after and ... if I'd been faster...."

His distress must have penetrated Saint John's own barriers for he shook himself and met his gaze. "If you couldn't save him," he said gently, "there was no one who could have." He shook String's shoulder. "Let it go, String; let him rest in peace."

"I wish I could." He would have given his remaining years to rest peacefully -- just one night without ghosts. Limbo was full of ghosts, it seemed, and it was to Limbo he was forever damned. With Saint John back he had no goal; without Dominic, no peace. For a single moment he envied the deceased Dominic Santini very much.

They stood in silence while Stringfellow's treacherous brain persisted in dredging up scenes from the last two years, all of them containing an aging, over-weight Italian with a hearty laugh and large heart. Their first training flight ... the mission against the Russian MIGs ... Dom's long lost love that nearly came between them.... "He wished you'd studied italian," String said dreamily, lost in a nearly forgotten snippet from Libya.

Saint John scratched his long nose, a trace of amusement crinkling the skin around his eyes. "Italian? He always used to nag us about picking it up. Neither of us were interested, though he and Jo used to chatter for hours in it."

Feet shuffled on the dirt floor, and Stringfellow stiffened at the interruption. Saint John's arm tightened, pulling him close for a brief instant. He gave him a squeeze and released him, the two stepping apart and turning to meet the newcomer.

"String, except for the fact that you could use a little meat on your bones," Jo greeted them, a warm smile lifting her pink lips, "you're looking pretty good to me. Nice to have you back in one piece." Hawke smiled slightly at the sentiment but said nothing. Whether it was nice or not, he didn't know yet. "How long were you in the hospital?"

"Not a hospital," Stringfellow Hawke told her, resting his weight on his uninjured ankle, still healing bones aching again. "A rehab clinic in Arizona. I was there until two weeks ago."

"Oh, String." Jo's face filled with sympathy. "Six weeks in the hospital? I really wish you had let us know. You shouldn't have had to go through all that by yourself."

"Saint John was there whenever he could be," Stringfellow returned simply, his tone implying that that was enough -- and such it had been.

She raised her eyes, seeking the elder Hawke's, and there was revelation in them. "That explains one mystery. We always wondered what you were up to whenever you disappeared to meditate. You were with String, weren't you?"

"Somebody had to be," Saint John answered, slapping his brother's arm with friendly affection.

Jo puffed out her cheeks, widening her gaze to include them both. "I have to admit it's good to see you two together again. I got tired of having to trek up that stupid mountain any time I needed to see String."

Saint John stared at him in mock horror, though Hawke tensed at the considering look in his face. "You didn't spend all your time up there with that dog?"

"Of course not," Hawke protested, slightly embarrassed.

Jo put her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes exasperatedly. "Don't listen to a word, Saint John. The only time anyone ever saw him off that stupid mountain was when Uncle Dom or Caitlin needed help on a shoot. Your brother does a real good impression of a hermit."

Caitlin's name niggled another pang of guilt. What's one more regret? Hawke asked himself philosophically. "Jo, have you been in touch with Cait ... Miss O'Shaunessey? She worked for Dom for some time."

The woman nodded. "Actually, she got in touch with me. Archangel...." She stopped, making a face. "All these silly code names. Anyway, Archangel told her about the notes you were getting and what was going on, so she contacted me at Uncle Dom's house to find out about Airwolf. She said she was being watched too closely to help out herself but she'd help any way she could." She smiled suddenly, waving one hand at the rock walls. "How did you think I found out where this place was, anyway? It's not like you were in any condition to draw me a map, after all."

He hadn't thought of that.

Saint John slipped his arms out of his leather jacket, then slung it over one shoulder. "Caitlin's the redhead I met at Dom's funeral, isn't she?" he asked, retucking his shirt into his jeans. "She said she was signing on with the California Highway Patrol for awhile. Still flying choppers."

Hawke bit his lip, questioning gaze centered on Jo. "You didn't keep her on with Santini Air?"

She looked uncomfortable at that. "I offered, but she said there were too many memories. Even Michael tried to talk her into keeping on with Airwolf but she started crying and...." Jo spread both hands. "Besides, Santini Air doesn't have enough work for the pilots we've got! We haven't been doing any of the movie flying you and Dom did; after the ... accident, all of the contracts went up for renegotiation, and I'm no stunt pilot. Besides, they all asked for you when they heard about Uncle Dom, and didn't want to deal." She encompassed Saint John and Mike, who was somewhere out of sight. "These guys have been too busy with Airwolf for the business to kick in, so we've pretty well stuck to charters and flying lessons to make ends meet." She stopped. "It's your fault anyway, you know."

"My fault?" Hawke echoed, surprised out of his mask. "What did I do?"

She regarded him steadily for a moment, then shook her head. "You really don't know, do you?" She tossed a look in Saint John's direction. "Never told him?"

"I was going to get around to it," the big blond replied mildly.

"Tell me what?" Hawke demanded, hating to be left in the dark about anything.

The woman smiled grimly. "That Uncle Dom left you Santini Air and everything in it. I only took it over because everyone thought you were dead."

Hawke blinked, speechless. "Dom did what?" he asked, gaping stupidly. "He couldn't have."

"I've got a piece of paper home telling me different," she retorted, looking remarkably unindignant. "All you need to do is decide to take it up again."

"How 'bout it, String?" Saint John asked, punching him lightly on the arm. "Want to be an entrepreneur?"

Stringfellow looked from one to the other, wondering what they found so amusing. "No, thanks. You keep the company. I'll keep my mountain."

"Somehow I thought you'd say that," Jo returned wryly. "Just remember it's still yours if you ever want it back. Jason has the disk up and running," she went on, gesturing to where the black man sat at one of the many computer terminals littering the cave. "We've got a satellite photo of Casa del Suerte and a layout of the inside." She shook her head, blonde hair bobbing against her neck. "It doesn't show a single weapon anywhere within a six mile radius. I wonder if Marella could have gotten her facts mixed up."

"Marella never gets her facts mixed up." Stringfellow spoke from old experience, having dealt with the efficient female agent many times in the past. "If she says there's a Haversham defense perimeter, you can expect it."

Jo shifted her feet nervously. "Will any of the weapons be manned? Or is it all computerized? I've never flown through an artillery barrage before."

"If we do our job right ..." Saint John leaned comfortably against Airwolf and crossed his arms; his biceps bulged out, the fruitage of many years of back-breaking physical labor. "... you won't have to. The Lady will knock out the hardware; you should have a clear way in and out."

Jo shuddered. "I hope so." She made to say something else, breaking off when Mike Rivers approached, carrying some terrain charts.

"Hope hard, schweethard," Rivers greeted her with a lopsided smile. "It's cheap."

Saint John chuckled. "Your Bogie stinks, Mike. I think you should stick to Cagney."

Rivers made a face. "Same to you, you dirty rat. Here." He shoved the charts into Saint John's hands. "You might want to do a little homework before you hit the wild blue yonder." He cocked his head at Hawke, who looked calmly back, feeling oddly left out by the cheerful banter between this man and his brother. "You're closest to my size. You can borrow one of my flight suits."

"Got my own," Hawke murmured, brushing past the man and heading for a metal trunk he saw in the corner, Air Force Major Rivers' taunt of, "Army!" flowing past like water. It opened at a touch, revealing four flight suits and two pairs of boots, sized for himself and Santini. He ran a finger across the tough gray material, then pulled out a jumpsuit bearing the name Hawke neatly stitched over the left breast. Behind him he could hear the other three chatting amiably, the conversation shifting when Locke joined them. It took little effort to tune them out; they were outsiders who didn't belong here. This was his place. And Dom's. And Airwolf's.

Quickly he donned the flightsuit, then, considering briefly, unsnapped the leg brace and put on his boots. Running a hand through his light brown hair he strode back across the cave toward his goal. Four jaws dropped at the sight. "Where do you think you're going?" Locke challenged, stepping forward to block the way.

Hawke stopped, blue eyes glittering like sapphires. "If it's any of your business," he said coldly, "I'm taking her up. As Rivers pointed out, I can use the practice."

Locke flared and Hawke braced himself, ready to take on the agent or anyone else who tried to keep him from Airwolf. Tension held, then snapped when the black man stepped back, audibly grinding his teeth. "You won't be able to get in," he gritted with some degree of smugness. "We changed all the security codes."

Stringfellow ignored him. He circled the black flying weapon to the right- side door, his fingers playing lightly across the tiny, multi-colored panel inset. There was a hiss of escaping air and the door clicked open."

"How did you do that?" Locke demanded, gaping. "I personally purged all access codes before entering the new ones."

Feeling that unworthy of a reply, Stringfellow climbed into the seat and donned his helmet.

"You want a co-pilot?" Saint John called, barring the door with one hand.

Stringfellow spared him a bare glance. "No." Saint John hesitated, nodded and slid the door shut.

"Try not to scratch the paint," Rivers called as a parting shot.

Hawke had no trouble ignoring him. He climbed into the pilot's seat, ran a quick instrument check and began take-off sequence. Ninety seconds later he pulled back on the joystick, nosing Airwolf up into the clear, open sky.

***
With Stringfellow Hawke gone in Airwolf and leaving no estimated time of return, the remaining four members of the team finished what preparations they were able for the mission, then took the Santini chopper back to Van Nuys. According to Marella's instructions, Jason Locke and Mike Rivers were dropped off at the airfield where their own transportation to Mexico awaited, then, by mutual decision, Jo and Saint John returned to the mountain cabin to await the reappearance of their missing member. They arrived to find Marella, wearing one of Stringfellow's shirts and little else, on the couch facing a neat fire. She cradled a steaming cup, while Tet sprawled comfortably at her feet.

"Some people know how to live," Saint John said, allowing Jo to precede him through the door, then shutting it tight against the evening chill. "It must be thirty degrees out there already."

Marella smiled lazily. "Blame your brother. This place always has this effect on me. I'm actually going to enjoy being here for the next twenty- four hours." She stretched her legs out straight, wiggling her bare toes, then scowled and moved them over when Tet licked her foot. "Sort of."

Jo pulled off her jacket and hung it on a peg by the door, sniffing the air appreciatively. "I hope there's still some of that coffee left. It smells dreamy."

"Full pot on the stove."

"Want some, Saint John?" the blonde asked, heading into the little kitchenette off to the left.

He nodded and joined the agent on the couch, stripping off his own jacket and tossing it into a corner. "We decided this would be the best place to hole up for the night. Jo will be leaving before dawn for the airstrip; if necessary, she can drop me at the Lair to rendezvous with String."

"So long as you're outside Casa del Suerte by one tomorrow afternoon," Marella said seriously, curling her legs under her. "Nothing must interfere with that."

Saint John accepted a cup from the returning Jo Santini, who took the chair opposite. "We'll be there," he returned mildly. "My brother may be a little volatile, but he's pretty sound when he gives his word."

Marella considered this between sips. "I've never doubted Stringfellow's word," she said thoughtfully. "But I must admit to some early skepticism about his abilities."

"And now?" Saint John asked, staring at the fire.

She hesitated, biting her lip. "Computer projections give me an eighty- five percent probability that recent events have seriously destabilized Stringfellow Hawke on four psychological levels, moderately so on another three. Firm analysts long ago evaluated him as being too emotionally damaged by loss to allow anyone to get too close to him, hence, the defensive nature. Add to that the stress of maintaining a search for you, Saint John, the death of Gabrielle AdeMuir, a woman he'd fallen in love with, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs and now Dominic Santini...." She shook her head. "I can name several Ph.d.'s who are chomping at the bit for the opportunity to put him on a couch and figure out what's keeping him going."

"You sound like a textbook," Jo commented, dipping her pert nose into her cup.

"Mr. Hawke is considered almost a textbook case," the pretty agent answered with cool detachment.

Saint John turned his head until he could look at her with one eye. "My brother's got a lot of steel in him. He doesn't give up so easily."

"How did he react when you told him Archangel was dead?" she shot back unexpectedly.

That stopped him cold. "Betrayed," he said, groping to identify the indescribable emotion that had flashed in his brother when he'd heard the news. "Like Michael had turned on him."

She raised sad brown eyes. "I'm ... glad I didn't have to be the one to tell him about Mr. Santini."

"I don't even know String anymore." Jo kicked off her shoes and settled back with a sigh into the deep cushions, holding her cup in both hands. "He did a lot of changing after Viet Nam -- maybe even more than you," she told Saint John without looking up. "Except for some stunts with my Uncle Dom, I didn't know he was still flying. I know he used to be a test pilot or something but I never dreamed he was working for the Company."

Saint John Hawke raised his coffee to his lips, draining half of it in a single gulp. "Viet Nam changes everybody," he stated harshly, lines around his eyes and mouth betraying a deep-rooted bitterness. "It was a thief; it robbed me of fifteen years of my life, and String of ... maybe more than that."

"I have a question." Jo called from her chair. "If you have such doubts about Stringfellow being able to pull off this assignment, why are you going with him as a choice of pilots? I would have thought you'd prefer Saint John or Mike handling the Lady."

Marella shivered, then tugged at an afghan sitting folded at one end of the couch. When it didn't move, she gave Saint John a light kick. "Move it or lose it," she offered amiably, draping it around her shoulders once it was free. She gave Jo a smile, a flash of white teeth by the light of the fire. "Frankly, Miss Santini, I didn't realize I had a say in deciding who was going to be piloting Airwolf. That decision was made without my input, you'll recall."

"You backed him," Jo pointed out, leaning her head back.

Marella tipped her chin in acknowledgement. "Stringfellow's major strength as a pilot is to be able to divorce himself from anything except the mission at hand. As long as he's flying, nothing else exists except his craft. I was of the opinion emotion would play no role while he was penetrating Mejindas' defenses. My only concern was that he would display a disregard for his own life without Mr. Santini to rein him in; recklessness has been an issue in the past."

"Not when lives are at stake," Hawke stated flatly, though there was a hint of a question in his eyes.

Marella nodded. "My evaluation precisely. Despite being far less hardened than he'd like everyone to believe -- and far too sensitive for the type of missions we specialize in -- your brother would never risk an innocent human life. And Michael never doubted him at all." She waved her cup vaguely at their surroundings, then placed it carefully on the floor. "It's also helped that he's got a refuge here. This place is lonely but the peace must be healing."

Saint John followed her gesture with his eyes, from blazing hearth to the rare and expensive paintings covering the walls. "He always loved this place -- we both did, even after Mom and Dad's accident."

Picking up her ears at that, the black agent fixed him with an inquiring gaze. "I read about that in his file. Stringfellow nearly died in that same incident, didn't he?"

Rather than answering, Hawke handed her his nearly empty cup and rose, unbuttoning his flannel workshirt. "I think I'll go wash up."

Marella stared ruefully at his departing back, waiting until his footsteps had disappeared into the bathroom before sighing loudly. "I guess I must have touched on a nerve. I didn't think it would still be a taboo subject after almost a quarter of a century."

Lids beginning to droop to half-mast, Jo chuckled softly. "They've always been like that -- the both of them, reserved like their father." She rested her coffee on her thigh and centered an unfocussed gaze at the ceiling. "I remember when their parents died. I was staying with Uncle Dom for the summer, and we flew right up to the cabin. Saint John and String were stuck together like Siamese twins; it was like no one in the world existed except them." She sighed. "I didn't take too kindly to them staring at me every time I tried to talk to them. I even hit String for it once."

"What did he do?" Marella asked, smiling.

Jo shrugged. "Nothing. He just walked away, which made me even madder. It took Uncle Dom a long time to get through to them, but then, Uncle Dom had the touch."

"He certainly kept Stringfellow human all those years," the agent returned thoughtfully. "I wonder if Saint John is going to be able to do the same?"

To this there was no answer. A long silence fell between the two women, Marella contemplating the fire and Jo frankly dozing in her chair. This lasted until Hawke returned from the washroom, dark bronze hair damp, legs showing beneath his shorter brother's terry robe. Tet's tail thumped lethargically at his appearance then went quiet.

"Shhhh." Marella greeted him with a finger to her lips, using that same hand to point to Jo. "She fell asleep about twenty minutes ago."

"She has all the right instincts," the big blond returned easily, stoic mask now firmly in place. "Bed or couch?"

Marella snuggled down further in place. "Couch. I doubt Stringfellow would take kindly to finding me in his bed when he gets back."

"My brother hasn't changed that much," Hawke chuckled, running a handtowel through his hair. When she didn't return the smile, he frowned. "What is it?"

She hesitated, pulling the afghan a little tighter around her shoulders. "Don't rely on that, Mr. Hawke, not completely. It's been a very long fifteen years, and these last two months can't have helped."

His frown deepened, adding years to his still youthful features. "Why are you saying this, Marella? Are you trying to make me doubt String?"

She shook her head definitely. "No. But Michael's life may depend on your being aware of just who you're flying with."

"I'll be flying with my brother," Saint John snapped back. "That's all I need to know." He headed for the stairs, taking the towel with him. "I'll see you in the morning."

"So long as you see me the day after," she murmured too low for anyone to hear.

***