TATTOO YOUR SOUL

Nycole regretted her actions as soon as she saw what Amon had done. She had gone into him that night back at Kristo's house. The empath had done this to him, unlocked the dark gifts hidden away within the hunter. All this time, Amon had denied what he truly was, hated the blood that ran through his own veins, and Nycole had made him into a witch. No, that wasn't fair. The empath hadn't made Amon a witch; Nycole only sped the process up.

And, so, Nycole took up his pain, trying to share as much of it as she could. Amon couldn't fight her; he just lay there as the girl drew his pain from off of him.

She glanced around, at the white flames expanding outward from Amon with every breath and dwindling with each inhalation. They seemed such a rare, potent, white energy, dancing and swaying like the last bits of a dying conflagration. That fire came from his heart, from his soul and the very root of his Craft. He was like a fire starter, similar to Robin. But this flame was not like fire. No, it was spirit. The purest and most dangerous of the elements. It superseded the physical elements and, yet, was governed by them somehow, like checks and balances. Geoff dealt mainly with spirit energy, but not enough to help. Nycole reached out, into Amon's mind.

"Amon, I'm sorry."

He didn't answer.

"Amon…." The empath glanced around, feeling the all too familiar sensation of the precognitive and her unique sorrow, born of her foresight but not actually seeing the girl. "Where's Kathain?"

The flames flickered brighter, as if fueled by Amon's own anger at the thought.

"She's gone, isn't she?" Brett inquired softly from the doorframe, keeping an eye out.

The fire turned, swirling out in strange bands and curling into intricate patterns. The flames grew, stretching and elongating until they almost smothered both Nycole and Amon whole. The licks swirled into a spiraling, tight, almost Celtic-knot pattern, wrapping around the fallen man and the telepath.

Nycole's consciousness graced his mind finding him beneath all the pain. "Amon…"

The spirit fire answered for him. Under the empath's soothing administration of her mind, the fire died, circling and drifting back towards the source. The pattern unknotted, loosening and slipping away. The spirit fire dimmed momentarily before subsiding entirely, returning to the confines of Amon's mind.

The girl looked up, over the terrible wounds on his body, to Amon's back. He was one of the Thirteen; he had to be. From Amon's shoulder blades, jutted two, ebony wings, curving over his lanky form. The feathers glistened slickly, like raven's. They seemed oddly fitting for Amon, considering his dark and brooding nature. With every shallow breath, those slick feathers puffed and expanded, as if inhaling air with his lungs. The wings curled over Amon, protecting him from the falling water of the sprinkler system.

Angels are very real in this world. They always have been. They just aren't what most people think of them. Anyone can be an angel. Neighbors. Friends. Families. Enemies. Nycole had gotten used to that fact. Actually, because of that, the empath almost refused to use the "a-word" to describe the winged kind.

Nycole's eyes shifted to the puncture holes marring the perfect image of those ebony wings. Little holes, no larger than a nickel, littered the expanse of dark feathers, oozing trails of blood. The feathers, like those of any bird, guided the water down, sheeting it off the wings and onto the white, tile floor. At the rounded edges of the feathers, the scarlet dripped and trickled off of his wings. He had used them to protect himself, instinctively, and Solomon's soldiers took it upon themselves to fire upon Amon, as if he were a freak of nature. It was the saddest of sights, something so perfect and beautiful so utterly ruined. Amon looked less like the witch hunter he was and more like a fallen angel, lost from the grace of heaven.

Robin just gaped. Somehow, the others didn't seem too terribly startled by the black wings coming from Amon's body. But this was almost too much to take. The teenager had been a good, faithful Catholic, since the moment of her birth. However, angels only existed in the Bible and in Heaven, not in the real world. And Amon? How could he be one? They were servants and messengers of God, not former witch hunters. Amon was most certainly not a messenger for God. Robin bit down on her knuckle nervously.

"Amon, I need you to do me a favor?" Nycole paused, but Amon did not answer. "I need you to get lose the wings. It's going to make getting out of here a bit difficult."

Robin just bit her lip unsurely as she watched. 'Amon.'

It took a moment, as Amon seemed to focus but could not find the energy, nor the knowledge required to "lose" as Nycole put it, his wings.

"Amon, concentrate." Robin couldn't believe the words coming from the lips of the empath, but Nycole just went on. "I know it's difficult, just let me guide you."

Nycole reached into him, searching for that little boy she had seen so long ago with the sad, terrified eyes and the dark hair. He was right were she left him, hiding in the closet, but the door behind him was open. This time, however, the boy wiped away his tears and actually smiled at her. He looked hopeful. Nycole took his hand.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen.'

The empath led him out, and into the light of day.

It took a moment of awkward silence, but the sheer matter Amon's wings were made of seemed to shimmer and glimmer for a moment. Nycole smiled approvingly as the wings trembled, as the energy wavered and quivered. Then, the wings just faded away, as if they'd never been there to begin with. Robin had never seen such a thing.

The Craft user wished she never had and never would see such a thing again. No, angels were a sight not meant for most men. Angels were a divine thing, and the sight of such was a gift from God. The girl crossed herself hesitantly.

"What… where those?" Robin breathed, shaking in fear.

Geoff looked to her with sure eyes. "Have you any faith?" The teenager didn't answer at first, stumbling over the words as she struggled to form them. "Have you faith, Robin?"

"Ye-yes." The words trickled from her mouth.

Geoff nodded. "Good. Get rid of it."

Brett and Geoff moved to Amon's side, helping the injured and tortured man up. Nycole took a moment to scour the puddled floor for the Orbo necklace, only to place it around Amon's neck, to control his unstable Craft. Her hands slipped over his back, sensing for wounds and finding the broken and shattered ribs, even as Brett and Geoff dragged Amon up to his feet.

The teenager didn't know what to think or do anymore. The sight Amon so tortured had brought her to the point of a pure anger, rage such as she had never felt before. Robin yearned to both hold Amon and avenge him. And, yet, the Craft user couldn't quite bring herself to, not after seeing those wings. She wasn't entirely sure who or what Amon was anymore. Suddenly, Robin found herself longing for days long past when she tragically found herself to be the man's prey in a Solomon ordered witch hunt.

"Amon…" Robin tried to step towards him.

Nycole waved a hand over the fallen man's head, a few inches over his skin. "Don't bother." The empath sounded so distant and far away. "He can't hear you."

Robin had been hoping for some semblance of hope, some promise that the man would live. But there was no comfort nor kindness in that dark place deep beneath St. Peter's. No, in truth, Robin would find no solace in any of the others, either. Not then. For, even as she looked around, Kristo and Bear were already peering out into the hall, listening keening at the sound of approaching footsteps, splashing through the corridor.

"Solomon," Kristo hissed, his fingers brushing the bindings on his katana.

They waited in silence, everyone holding their breath. The footsteps drew near. Deathly close. Kristo whirled out, into the hall, amassing the bleak dark of the hall and the inky black of the shadows around him. His katana slashed out, seemingly wildly, cutting the air itself. The shadow walker slipped into the abyss on the other side of the hall, as a row of soldiers fell. The remainder stopped and stepped back, their eyes having only caught the gleam of metal shining under the red lights and not the man wielding the blade.

Witch killing shots were fired out madly into the shadows, but Kristo was gone, lost into the abyss and hidden away from this world.

He grinned a toothy grin.

His shoulder throbbed from the action. It had yet to fully heal from the gunshot wound, but Kristo ignored the dull ache, concentrating on the matter at hand. However, judging by the warmth that suddenly spread over the wound, Nycole would most likely have to stitch and bandage it again, and Kristo at least had to acknowledge that. In truth, he almost savored the added challenge the injury tacked onto the battle.

In the cell, Geoff stepped out from under the weight of Amon, knowing Brett could take it up. He straightened, cracked his neck out with sickening pops. He stood, gathering his own energy around him, pooling it and congealing it around himself. His eyes flashed open, unleashing hell as he let the wave of pure energy free. It radiated outward from him swiftly, knocking the guards down.

Bear leaned out, into the hall, for just a moment. With a quick, practiced motion, Bear reached out with his telekinesis, swatting their guns aside.

The guards dove behind a corner, hiding.

Brett grunted as he half-carried, half-dragged Amon's limp body closer to the door. The former hunter was so heavy, not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him. While that normally gave a good advantage, to be on the same side as a lean and built fighter, Brett suddenly loathed it. He cursed the extra burden muscle mass added when dead weight.

"If we're going to do something, we had been do it fast." The fire elemental gave a nod to the corridor, in the direction the guards had chosen to hide. "They're not going to give us much of an opportunity, y'know?"

Kristo stepped out of the shadows, his shoulder slick with blood. "Agreed."

Witch-killing bullets screamed through the air once again, as another volley was sent from the guards. They grew daring and cocky, trying to take down any of the intruders or just keep them cornered in the dank, wet cell. Raven shot out a returning burst of energy. Small, glowing glyphs, the strange mark of a sort of 'I' spun on the wind. Isa. The Rune of Ice struck the bullets. The slugs slowed before coming to a stop, midair, frozen both in time and in tiny bits of crystalline ice. The small chunks fell, shattering when they hit the floor, smashing the metal its self as if the bullets had been coated with liquid nitrogen.

Raven grinned. "Piece of cake." A stray bullet smashed into the doorframe beside him, sending a burst of concrete; the runemal plunged back, into the room, a look of chagrin forming on his face. "Week old cake left on the counter of Hell's kitchen."

Robin blinked. With all the Orbo lying around that facility, it seemed impossible that any witch, without the use of the Arcanum, could even muster a tiny bit of Craft. And, yet, they were so strong, so powerful. They acted with such force and ferocity. It seemed so utterly impossible. Robin couldn't believe her eyes. These people, they weren't witches. They just couldn't be.

"What are you?" the teenager whispered, tiptoeing back, deeper into the cell and away from them, suddenly terrified of the witches she had grown to consider friends and allies.

Geoff took a small pistol from under his coat. "You don't want to know, Robin."

"But…." The color melted away from her.

"Trust me on this one. You don't want to know."

xxxx

Alas, very short but worth it, in my humble opinion. So,.. anyone out there in the Pit of Voles have any idea what the Thirteen are, yet? And… no… they're not really what you think they are, I promise, but I'm willing to entertain guesses.