"I'm a slave and I am a master

I won't let this build up inside of me"

--Slipknot, "Vermilion"

"in my head I found you there and
running around and following me
but you don't, oh, dare now
but I find that I have now
more then I ever wanted to

hey, do you know
what this is doing to me?
oh, here...
here...
here. in my head"

--Tori Amos, "Here. In My Head"

"(all of my blind ambition left me deaf with perfect vision)

the time has come
for things to come undone
that we should not have begun"

--The Dresden Dolls, "The Time Has Come"

"The end, torture and death
when do they stop, when is it over?
one day they will all stand up,
rebel against us - exterminate us"

--Caliban, "100 Suns"

"I certainly hope I'm not being a bother," Reznik began, adjusting his collar in the mirror, phone cradled against his shoulder, "but I simply had to speak with you, Amon."

"I see." The cell-phone echo of the other man's fierce, short reply was almost lost in Reznik's hearing; Paz, freshly come from the Czech man's bed, was taking certain relish in berating his house staff about something or another. Turning towards her swiftly, he made a sharp motion in the art with his arm and she closed her mouth, sullenly, the housemaid she'd been laying into skittling off with a look of abject terror on her face. Paz slunk off to the balcony, gold cigarette case in hand.

"How are things, Amon?" Reznik asked, watching Paz until she was out of sight and then turning back to the mirror. He could almost picture the intense, permanently stoic face of the ex-Hunter as he stood with a phone in his hand, wondering how in the hell Reznik happened to come by his number.

Not as if it had been difficult.

Undoubtedly, the pint-sized science fair project gone wrong known as Robin Sena was simpering about in Amon Novotne's shadow, as seemed to be her habit. Reznik was starting to think that perhaps it would be a good idea to kill Amon and the human, Nagira, and then watch Robin simply kill herself.

"Splendid." The word 'splendid' had never sounded more like fuck off to Reznik's ears. "Yourself?"

Reznik bit down the urge to laugh. Was the younger Czech man capable of sentences larger than one word? "I'm wonderful. How is everyone else? Robin? Your human brother? Trygve, Finn, Sigrún? Sigrún's baby?" A grin lit up Reznik's face; he wondered how Amon would respond to that.

There was a moment of silence. "Sigrún had lost her child. My human brother—also called Nagira—is doing fine." More silence, electronic silence. "We are otherwise fine."

"Oh, she's miscarried?" Reznik said, theatrically concerned. "My condolences to the household." There was more electronic silence, Amon obviously not deeming Reznik's pity worth commenting on.

"This has been an enriching exchange of pleasantries, but I—"

Reznik cut in, stopping Amon's words cold. "Oh, but it isn't just a social call! I've called about business matters—well, social business matters anyway."

"Go on." The sounds of meek murmuring in the background could be heard through the earpiece, but then they stopped just as soon as they had started. Sena, no doubt.

"I've sent an invitation to the house for you," Reznik began, moving away from the mirror, "to a function that is to occur in two days in Amsterdam." Another grin lit Reznik's face at the recollection that Robin and Amon had just recently been chased out of Amsterdam, SOLOMON hot on their heels. "I can assure you that this time you won't be hounded by SOLOMON while there."

"Wonderful." Again, Amon's positive choice of words sounded so negative.

"The invitation should be there some time tomorrow afternoon. It's a formal affair—I suggest you have yourself fitted for a suit, and make sure that little Robin is fitted for a dress. Trygve and Sigrún—poor woman—will be familiar with the function, and their attendance is requested as well."

Reznik could hear the gears and cogs turning in the ex-Hunter's head. "If you are sending an invitation, why did you call?"

You mean HOW did I call? Reznik's mind replied. "I simply wanted to hear your cheerful voice, my boy. The invitation will be there tomorrow—look for it." Reznik looked to the patio door, which was opening to reveal Paz reentering the room. "Until then, I suppose."

"Yes," Amon replied, dryly, "until then."

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Reznik flipped it closed and slipped it back into his pocket, looking at Paz impassively. She arched an eyebrow at him with her hands on her hips.

"How much are you willing to wager that he's frantically trying to discover how you got that number and how we already knew about that stupid Icelandic whore and her child?" she asked, smugly.

"Why would I bet against something that I know is happening?" he asked of her, just as smugly. "And in the future, I'll thank you not to torture my staff."

Rolling her eyes, Paz walked further into the room. "Live a little," she chided.

………………………

"What? What is it?" Robin asked quickly, curiously, after watching Amon pull the phone away from his ear slowly, closing it in his hand equally as slowly. For a split second Robin had watched the muscles in his arm, the tics of his hand and thought that he was either going to smash the phone or throw it against the wall. "Amon, who was that?"

He looked over at her slowly, face darkened. Gone was the introspective, even friendly Amon who had just held her in his arms, who had just comforted her. "That," he began evenly, "was our dear friend Reznik; more than likely calling just to inform us that he knows how to find us. He also called to offer his condolences on Sigrún's baby—which he sounds as if he already knew about—and asked how we were all doing, including Finn—whom, somehow, Reznik knew was living here."

Robin blanched, realizing her hand was still on Amon's arm. "How?" she asked, her voice a whisper. Amon, frowning, moved away from her, his arm disconnecting from her hand with a slight jerk.

Amon paused a short distance away from Robin, who looked after him urgently. He appeared to be thinking, hands on his hips, tongue stuck in the inside of his cheek. "The doctor." His voice was flat.

Robin's eyes widened in understanding, her head tilting some. "This morning…we were all downstairs, except Trygve and Sigrún and…Finn. We stayed in the parlor while the doctor was upstairs…and then we watched him leave."

Amon was frozen in place, looking down at the floor. "He could have come into my room and obtained the phone's true number from the phone itself." Amon let his head roll back, looking up at the ceiling then. "Reznik also knew about our encounter with SOLOMON in Amsterdam."

"How?" Robin asked, in disbelief. How long had they been keeping tabs on them? What else did they know?

"I would have to assume that they've been watching us for some time," Amon replied grimly.

At a loss for words and ideas, Robin sighed, wide-eyed. "What should we do?"

"There isn't much we can do, except start trying to figure out how to prevent them from watching us," her warden answered after a moment of deliberation. "I need to speak with Nagira, and Trygve. Now."

…………………………….

It had been awkward, to say the least, to sit in the third-floor room of Sigrún and Trygve as she laid in bed looking wasted and drained, and Trygve looked rather worse for the wear himself. Robin squirmed, feeling uncomfortable, as the men discussed possibilities and theories. Trygve, despite being obviously out-of-sorts and tired, actively participated in the conversation. In the corner of the large, darkened room, the two housemaids moved about in silence, Helle holding a chattering Eirikur and crooning something to him in an unfamiliar language.

Robin would have preferred to leave their hosts to their grieving for the evening and discuss the breach of the house's security in the morning, when perhaps they would have been out and about, but Amon, Nagira, and Finn had deemed it important enough to bring to Trygve and Sigrún's attention right away.

"Well," Trygve sighed. "It looks as if we're going to Amsterdam. The function he's talking about is an annual thing, a dinner party held after a particular auction. Reznik, to the best of my knowledge, attends the auction every year."

"Huh. Not very much time to get fitted for a suit," Nagira said, rubbing his chin in thought. "I take it this is another one of those no-humans-allowed affairs?"

"Not necessarily," Trygve replied. "Witches and humans alike attend the auction and dinner. However, I think they'd probably prefer that you didn't attend."

"Well, that's too damn bad," Nagira said cheerfully. "Because I'm going." Amon looked to his brother with a raised eyebrow and what could have been perhaps a cautionary look on his face. Nagira flippantly ignored it.

Finn was pensive, standing next to Robin, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. He moved a hand to scratch at some of his haphazard brown hair, squinting. It made it appear as if his sun-freckles had multiplied. "It's kind of disturbing they knew I was here—you really think it was the doctor?"

"Who else could it have been?" Robin piped up, and an awkward silence befell the room. Amon looked to Finn with a serious—and possibly suspicious—glance.

"Unless you want us to all start pointing fingers at each other," Amon said, "we're going with the doctor. That is, unless other evidence surfaces." Finn shrugged, apparently unaffected by Amon's poking suspicion.

"But haven't you guys used that doctor for years?" Finn asked, curiously. "Didn't he deliver Eirikur? Maybe we're being tapped or something."

It was Sigrún's turn to speak, after having been silent for the entire conversation. "I would never allow a man to deliver my child. That isn't the way."

Trygve looked momentarily pained, perhaps at the mention of child-birthing. "It's Icelandic custom for a woman to assist in the birthing of a child, so no, he did not deliver Eirikur. But yes, we have been using Doctor Symons for years…rather, I have. Sig has been using him for as long as she's lived here with me, for whatever she couldn't fix herself." He shook his head, slowly, smoothing his moustache. "Perhaps that's how the committee always seemed to know what I was doing, where I was. I don't know. It is plausible."

Nagira stood from his crouching position, and looked at Trygve, whom was sitting upon the bed. "I'd say it's more than plausible, buddy. Unless someone in this room is a really good liar, that doctor ran off and spilled his guts to our committee buddies." His eyes slid over to Amon. "What's say, buddy—is it time for us to make a house call to the doctor?"

Amon shook his head, eyes staring into space. He was thinking again. "Not yet. That would just make things worse, right now. I don't think it would reflect favourably upon us to break Reznik's informant's kneecaps."

"Break his kneecaps?" Robin interjected, frowning. "You two aren't mafiosos, you know. There certainly isn't a need for you to act like them."

Finn cracked his knuckles, drawing attention. "You three are in hot enough water as it is. I'm not entirely thrilled about those bastards knowing that I'm here, so if anyone's going to be breaking kneecaps, it's going to be me."

Robin looked around her incredulously, eyeing all the men around her. "No one is going to break anyone's kneecaps. That would just be asking for more trouble." She paused for a moment, wondering where her sudden ability to speak up had come from. "Let's just…wait and see. And be careful."

……………………………..

Short notice had left the household in more or less a state of hurried disarray. Suddenly the whole household was either trying to locate something suitable within their wardrobes to wear to a high-society function or was trucking themselves into downtown Copenhagen to be fitted and have something tailored within hours. Sigrún, pale-faced and stiff-jointed, was once again Robin's shopping accomplice, although Beatrix had been taken along this time in case Sigrún needed assistance with something or didn't feel well enough to assist Robin.

It was going to be too much of a pain to try to find six train or plane tickets on such short notice—not to mention expensive and somewhat ridiculous, for only being in Amsterdam one night—so it was decided that driving would be wiser. Copenhagen was a little under 600 miles away from Amsterdam—a trip that could be made relatively quickly, depending upon how fast one was driving.

"We can't all fit into one vehicle, not comfortably," Robin said as the seamstress re-measured her, despite the fact that Robin's measurements had already been taken prior. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Robin couldn't help but think that perhaps the seamstress (whom had been somewhat disappointed by Robin's initial measurements) was re-measuring her in the hopes that she'd filled out somewhere. It hadn't seemed to have happened, however. "We're going to need to take two cars, aren't we?"

Sigrún nodded, watching Robin being fitted. Hanging from a rack near her were several dresses that Sigrún had suggested for Robin, all of which needed to be altered drastically to fit Robin's tiny frame. "Yes. The Checker would be rather impractical, however, so I suppose we'll open the garage up and see what else we have." She caught Robin's befuddled look and sighed. "Trygve is constantly changing the contents of the garage—buying, selling, buying, selling. I never know what we have except the Checker."

"Ah." Robin watched the seamstress disappointedly eyeing her tape, holding it out in front of her, fingers on the number that represented Robin's hip measurement. Sighing, the seamstress walked over to Sigrún and Beatrix and chattered something off in Danish, to which the two women chattered back.

Meanwhile Robin stood and looked down at her body, feeling awkward and stick-like.

"Robin, which one of these dresses are you going to decide on?" Sigrún asked briskly, indicating the dresses hanging. "Petrine needs to get to work right away if she is to have a dress ready for you by this afternoon."

………………………………….

Robin found herself feeling mildly surly as the day progressed, morning moving into noon moving into afternoon. The darkening of her mood was associated not only with the state of tension and hurriedness in the house, but with the fact that her head was beginning to feel very much as if it would explode. She'd gone to bed with a headache, awoken with a headache, and the headache had been worsening as the day wore on.

She was definitely not looking forward to a possible eight hour drive that evening, lasting well into the night—she could only pray that Amon would drive, and that he would end up driving something fast. He seemed unable to resist violating speed restriction laws if he was in a car that seemed more than capable of it.

The reason for Robin's headache was the steady and unfading hissing murmur in the back of her mind. She hadn't told anyone about it; she figured it would only rouse worry and disgruntlement. It was as if the voices of the witches she heard when she called upon them had somehow broken free of their mental moorings and were free-floating in her mind, talking all at once. She'd asked them, told them, demanded of them, and pleaded with them to be quiet hundreds of times during the day, but to no avail. It seemed as if they were content to have a party in her mind for the moment.

It was disturbing to her. Robin chalked it up to stress and sleepiness; she hadn't slept very well the night before, her mind occupied with fevered thoughts of being watched and being hunted. In her waking moments, lying in bed staring up at the molded ceiling, she'd heard Amon moving about in his room. Apparently he had been having difficulty sleeping as well.

Finn found her rubbing her temples on the massive front step of the house, eyes closed, nose slightly reddened from the cold. He looked down at her curiously, unnoticed by Robin.

"Your head botherin' you or something?" he asked her, nearly startling the daylights out of her—the voices spiked to a hiss and then faded back down a rolling murmur once she opened her eyes and saw Finn standing before her.

"A little," she admitted. "Where did you come from?"

He jerked a thumb in the vague direction of the side of the house. "I was off in the garage scoping the car selection. Looks like we can pick from the Checker, some monstrous old American beast of a truck, an old Saab, an old Audi, and a BMW." He noticed the distinctly blank look Robin was favouring him with and smiled. "I take it you're not one for cars."

Robin shook her head. "Not really. That's Amon's interest. You should tell him about the cars."

"Sure thing." Finn's tanned, freckled, typically somehow open American face regarded her with concern. "Want me to get you an aspirin or something?"

Robin shook her head again, knowing that an aspirin wasn't going to help her headache any. "No thank you. I'll be fine. The fresh air is helping me already."

Finn regarded her skeptically and climbed the stone steps. "Okay. Holler if you need anything." He disappeared into the house behind Robin, who let her eyes drift closed once more and resumed her steady massaging of her temples.

Be quiet, she willed the voices in her mind. Please.

………………………………

"It takes about eight hours, roughly, to get to Amsterdam by car," Trygve informed Amon, handing him a printed map with some printed verbal directions stapled to it. Amon inspected the map and the driving directions and then looked back to Trygve, seriously.

"Six hours, tops," he corrected. "Eight hours? At what speed?"

Trygve managed a small laugh, shaking his head at Amon, who had been in the process of packing a small bag in his room. "You young, single men, always driving like crazy men—I know because I used to be one of you. When you've got a wife and a child in the vehicle you will find yourself very loath to drive recklessly." He caught the stoically offended gaze from Amon. "Come now. You do not expect me to believe that you are going to make it to Amsterdam in under six hours by following all of the posted speed limits and other legal restrictions?"

Amon still looked mildly offended. "And why not?" he sounded defensive.

"I'd be careful if I were you, lending this guy one of your cars," Nagira piped up, appearing in the doorway in a white tank-top undershirt and a pair of dark green dress slacks. His hair appeared wet and rumpled, as if he'd just emerged from the shower and heard the conversation taking place. "He hasn't driven anything in near a month and half—except for in Iceland, and it wasn't as if he could haul ass—due to the nature of the situations he and Robin have been in."

"Why are my abilities to operate a motor vehicle safely—and sanely—suddenly on trial, here?" Amon queried, sounding harried. Nagira shrugged.

"You've got a reputation for driving like a racecar driver," his brother answered, simply. Amon's face darkened and Trygve stifled a minute, polite grin before excusing himself from the room.

"And this is from the man who drives a god damned Ferrari," Amon grumbled at Nagira, before tossing the papers in his hand down onto his bed, turning back to his bag.

………………………….

"Lay it flat," Beatrix instructed Robin as the blonde girl was loading some of her things into the trunk of the BMW—the vehicle Amon had picked as his car for the trip. Robin took the bag that contained her freshly altered dress and carefully laid it flat in the trunk. She'd just finished trying it on to make sure it fit and found that it did, with the small exception that it was still a little long. They didn't have time to take it back and have it re-altered, however, so Robin said nothing and nodded her approval about it. "You don't want it to wrinkle, no? There will not be ways to make it not-wrinkled."

The redheaded maid had Nagira's bag in her hands, and she plopped it down in the trunk by Robin's small bag, afterwards acting as if she was brushing some dirt from her hands. "Well! Mr. Nagira will be pleased that I have placed his bag into the car, yes?"

Robin, as she usually did when she was around the overly-exuberant, awkward-English-speaking, witch maid, felt exceedingly goofy and at a loss for words. "Um, yes. He'll be happy."

"Oh, very good!" Beatrix was preternaturally pleased about her bellhop prowess; perhaps the unusual amount of joy she gleaned from helping other people was why she was a maid. "Oh, Miss Robin. I have something I wish to say!"

Before Robin could get a word out of her mouth, Beatrix grabbed Robin's hands in her own and squeezed them so tight that Robin swore the circulation was being cut off. The ocean of voices in her head sounded as if it was giggling. "Er—"

"I am very worried about our situation!" the Danish girl gushed out, looking into Robin's eyes frantically. "This is all very dangerous. Someone has told the outsiders about us. I worry about you on this trip."

Blinking, Robin managed a reassuring smile at Beatrix. "Oh. Don't worry, Beatrix…we're all very aware of what is happening and we'll all be on watch." The other girl still clung to Robin's hands, face imploring. Robin searched for something else to say. "We'll find out what is happening."

"I don't want anything bad to happen!" the maid exclaimed. "You must be very careful, Miss Robin. Your power grows and they want to take this, for themselves…something feels wrong."

"But…how do you know? Your Craft is only…psychokinesis, right?" Robin asked, unsurely. She recalled the instance in her room, where Beatrix had willed the article of clothing into her hand from across the room. At the look of confusion she gained from the other girl, Robin inferred that perhaps Beatrix didn't understand the word psychokinesis and opted for a different explanation. "You move things with your mind?"

"Yes," Beatrix answered, and then her face contorted, as if in deep thought. "…yet, still, I feel as if something is wrong, in my stomach. You know? Do you understand, the feeling in the stomach—the bad feeling?"

Nodding, Robin looked concerned. "A bad feeling…in your gut?"

Beatrix nodded emphatically in return. "Yes, yes! Something is wrong. Doctor Symons…he is a good man. I knew him since I was only a little girl—I can't believe that he would talk to those people about what happens here." Her face soured, and her head shook slowly back and forth, as if condemning something or someone. "Very…suspicious."

Processing this information and storing it away for later retrieval, Robin nodded firmly and resolutely. "Perhaps it was not him. We'll find out, eventually. But…" Robin carefully extracted her hands from those of Beatrix, and smiled warmly. "…thank you for your concern. I'll mention your defense of the Doctor's character to Amon and Nagira."

……………………………..

From the open double garage doors, Amon and Nagira could see Finn coming up the walk towards them slowly, a cell phone to his ear as he walked. His mouth moved in the distance, words indiscernible. Amon exhaled a cloud of smoke next to his brother, jerking his head slightly towards the tall, lanky American. "Who is he talking to?" Amon asked, and then realized that it was a stupid question to ask—one little tweak of his Craft and he would be able to hear every word the man was speaking into his phone.

Something inside of Amon balked at the idea, though; perhaps the idea of eavesdropping when he had no good cause to. It would do them no good to fall to pieces now, now that they knew someone was keeping tabs on them. He had no evidence to suggest that Finn meant them any ill will, and before he could even attempt to justify using his Craft to listen in on the man's phone conversation, he snapped his phone closed and lifted his head, heading towards the garage at an increased pace.

"Said he was calling his ex," Nagira replied, exhaling his own cloud of smoke. "Wanted to make sure she was okay, that she hadn't noticed any suspicious characters following her around." Nagira shrugged with his eyebrows. "This whole situation has really got his panties in a twist—he doesn't like the idea that someone's keeping tabs on him at all."

"As if I do?" Amon asked, tossing his cigarette to the ground and smashing it out with his boot. "I suppose that maybe I'm just used to it by now. His ex? I thought he was related to Trygve by marriage?"

"He was. Apparently he and Trygve's sister were married for a couple of years and just got divorced a couple of months ago." Nagira shrugged with his eyebrows again. "Whatever. You and Robin should have your own reality show, you guys are so high in demand all the time," Nagira suggested, a hint of smirk in his voice. Amon remained impassive, watching the man approaching them.

"Fuck you," he muttered casually, just as Finn reached them.

"Sounds like everything's good States-side," Finn said with relief, producing his own cigarette. "Hell. Our marriage might not have worked, but she's still the woman I married, you know? It's good to know she's safe." Finn's face intensified, his eyes blackening. "For now."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Nagira reassured, producing a lighter for the disgruntled man. "I doubt they'd go that far out to piss someone off. Too much effort, not enough impact, you know?"

"I agree," Amon added, staring off into the distance. "Unless," he said, and Finn's head snapped towards him immediately, eyes wide, "you have any children?"

"None." Finn was still on alert by Amon's statement.

"Too much effort," Amon said, nodding as if to reaffirm his earlier statement. "If you had any kids, then I would worry." Both Finn and Nagira spared a look at Amon that wordlessly said You're not helping.

The three men stood in silence for a spell. All three turned to look at the sound of a door opening and shutting in the garage, and Nagira offered a little wave at Sigrún, who gave a tired smile back as she loaded what appeared to be a baby bag into the backseat of the Audi. She headed back into the house and the three men went back to standing there, absorbed in their own thoughts.

"You are going to shave that mess of a face before this dinner thing, aren't you?" Nagira spoke, breaking the silence. Amon merely looked put-out in response and Finn began to laugh.

…………………………….

Green eyes snapped open, startled; hands flopped about in empty air, reaching out for something that might or might not have been there. It took approximately two seconds for Robin to realize where she was and what was happening, and then she'd assessed that she was in the passenger seat of the M5, the dark of the land around her pressing in, the synthetic light of the highway boring down on the roof of the car, shining in through the windshield.

Amon was looking at her in the split-second between downshifts, steering the car around a curved ramp, accelerating out of the turn down towards a continuation of the highway. "What?" he asked, dividing his attention between Robin's confused state and speed shifting the transmission as he roared down the ramp towards the highway, wheels chirping.

"I was asleep," she managed finally, feeling herself being pressed back into her seat by the force of the car accelerating so quickly. The voices in her head were jostled. "…Where are we?"

"According to this map…" Nagira's voice came from the back seat, and Robin looked back to see Nagira reading the printed directions by the glow of a cigarette ember, "we're about three-fourths of the way to Amsterdam. A261, exit 33." He squinted at the directions. "Yeah. About three-fourths of the way."

"You've been asleep for quite some time," Amon added. "A few hours."

"I, for one, am amazed that you could sleep with this psychopath driving." Nagira took another drag of his cigarette and put it out in what Robin presumed was an ashtray on the center console, near the floorboards of the vehicle. "I think he's been averaging 160 kilometres since we left Copenhagen."

Robin eyed the speedometer to her right and frowned, then sank back into her seat, sighing. The voices in her head were still there, albeit not as loud as they'd been earlier that day. "What time is it?"

"About 9 o' clock," Amon replied. "Are you alright?"

Robin nodded, rubbing at her eyes. She tried in vain to examine the landscape passing the vehicle, but found it was too dark and that they were moving too quickly. She shifted stiffly in her seat, the leather creaking under her body. "I dreamt."

Amon hazarded a concerned glance at her quickly, keeping his eyes on the road. He passed a slow-moving Citroen—slow-moving in comparison to the M5—and snuck another quick peek at her. "And?"

Shaking her head wearily, Robin squinted slightly against the noise in her head. "Nothing. I dreamt, that's all."

Silence reigned in the car, punctuated by the sounds of leather under moving bodies, and Nagira trying futilely to clear his throat of something.

"Well, since we're making good time," Nagira said suddenly, "pull over at the next opportunity, Amon. Robin, I have got to switch places with you. This backseat was not engineered for tall people. I think I lost all feeling in my legs about an hour and half ago."

…………………………………

They beat Trygve's Audi to Amsterdam by who-knew-how-much. Robin was reticent in the backseat, her eyes roving over the late-night Amsterdam skyline as they rolled into the "downtown" areas, her mind recalling the short period of time that she and Amon had lived here, not so long ago.

In essence, this whole crazy trip—all the people they'd met, the deaths, the committee, Nagira's arrival—all of it had started here, the night they decided to go to the symphony. The old Dutch man with the boat, their hurried exodus to England…what had that boat been called? Decision…drama…destiny…? Robin's brain worked, her eyes squinting out the window. Despair. The boat was called Despair—Wanhoop, in Dutch.

Robin was lost in her memories, caught up; drunken Amon, venturing into the city, brief enjoyment of the symphony, the frantic flight up the stairs to the roof—the door, nearly cutting Amon in half—and the fight on the rooftop, two Hunters left more or less headless from gunshots and one burned away to nothing by Robin's flame. Dear Lord, it hadn't even been that long ago they'd been here, perhaps only two weeks. Three? How long had it been; her brain scrambled to remember but found that it could not do so accurately. So much had happened in the short period of time since they'd run from Amsterdam.

Robin felt old. Old and stiff, oddly repulsed by the city—odd, one would think returning to the city under a guise of relative safety would somehow prove cathartic. It wasn't. It was like London was for her and Amon, every time they came back to it they hated it more and more.

Robin looked up to the windshield, the rear view mirror, to find Amon looking back at her, his grey eyes somehow seeming to express her own sentiments, deep within their unreadable depths. A silent, stealthy sigh forced out of her lungs.

"I did not think we'd be returning here any time soon." Amon's statement from the front seat was like an apology. Robin shifted in the backseat, slouching down, her hands on her stomach.

"Yes," she replied, half-heartedly. "Amsterdam."

"Amsterdam," Amon echoed, just as blankly. He seemed to settle into his seat more, as well, even if it was not the full-blown slouch Robin had adopted. "Amsterdam."

Nagira said nothing. He merely lit a cigarette and rolled down his window some, letting in some of the heavy, cold air from outside. He hadn't been there. He couldn't commiserate.

In the backseat, Robin closed her eyes and leaned her head back, folding her arms over her stomach. They'd come full circle, in a way, and they'd come back in some respects better than before and in some respects worse off than before. Her head felt heavy and crowded, and even Nagira's sudden whistling seemed surreal and ominous.

Their hotel was a brightly-lit, massive affair, with the same eager and polite staff that Robin found she encountered at any hotel no matter what land she was in. As per usual, Amon insisted on them carrying their own things, which wasn't so big of a deal; they were all lightly packed. Amon having to use Dutch at the counter while Robin and Nagira stood back and shot each other confused glances, keys to three separate rooms—Amon and Robin's conjoining, like always, Nagira's room conjoining to Robin's as well, except from the other side. Trygve, Sigrún, Finn, and Eirikur had not arrived yet, according to the front desk. The trio took the elevator up to their rooms, all entering through Nagira's door, since he was the first in order in the hallway, and the first with his keycard ready. They dispersed to their individual rooms after that, Nagira coming through Robin's shortly thereafter to rouse Robin and Amon into ordering food.

Amon declined, not totally atypical for him, and went off to shower. Robin and Nagira ordered food from room service and dug in with aplomb once it arrived. Still no word from their other companions.

"That figures, though," Nagira said, around a mouthful of food. "Amon was seriously going double the speed limit there for a while, or something crazy like that. They're probably still an hour or so away by now."

On cue, Amon entered Nagira's room, freshly showered and clean-shaven. Robin had found it odd in the back of her mind that it had taken Amon so long to shower, but she supposed it was due to his shaving. She found herself staring at him for a moment, caught up—she'd almost forgotten what his jawline looked like without facial hair on it. She averted her eyes quickly when he looked to her, perhaps sensing her eyes upon him as she always did, and kept his eyes on her momentarily while Nagira made a noise of shock.

"Your face!" he cried, dramatically. "It's back!"

"It had gone somewhere?" Amon asked dryly. "Any word from Trygve and the others yet?"

Nagira snorted. "Uh, no. I think they're still eating your dust somewhere outside of Munster, Germany." Nagira met Amon's look of oh, please with defiance and took a healthy swig of his gin and tonic. "You gonna eat something or what, buddy? It's not normal for a person to be able to see their ribs."

"No." Amon carefully avoided meeting either one of Nagira or Robin's questioning—and reprimanding—gazes. "I'm not hungry. Actually, I am going to bed."

"Bed?" Robin asked, her eyebrow quirking uncontrollably. "Already?" It was unlike Amon to go to bed so early, even if it really wasn't all that early. He looked at her pointedly and nodded. Amon was acting odd, acting as if something was on his mind. It was entirely possible, knowing him.

"Yes, already. You would be wise to do the same, I think." He turned and headed for the door to Robin's room, which would in turn lead to the door to his own room. "Goodnight." The door to Robin's room opened and closed definitively, as if it too had wanted to say goodnight in such a final manner. Nagira stared after his brother for a second and then rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair.

"Why is my brother so weird?" he asked of the heavens; more appropriately, the ceiling. Robin, not really wanting to say anything, and still partially reeling from the sight and remembrance of Amon's jawline, merely offered a noncommittal little shrug.

……………………………….

Two forty one am; a deathly silent time when rooms felt empty and delicate because their occupants were sleeping, all human noise ceased for a few hours until the sun came up. Sometimes it made one feel as if they were the last human being on the face of the planet. Sitting on the edge of his bed, the surroundings of his room not nearly as dark as they should have been, Amon exhaled. Two forty two am.

He rubbed at the thin, nearly invisible sheen of sweat that was breaking out on his forehead. His Craft was reaching, ever-so-slightly. The room was brighter than it would have been; all shapes and lines clearly discernable to Amon. He could smell the freshly laundered sheets as if he had his nose pressed down into them, could feel the carpet pressing into his bare feet like so many soft little pegs. He could hear through the walls, despite the sounds of the heater working like little pieces clicking together, and could hear Robin moving around in her room like a restless ghost.

He would not let himself move. This was getting damned ridiculous. He could not go running to her every time she couldn't sleep, every time she grew upset at something. What was he doing? He wasn't proving to be a warden, or a teacher, or anything of importance—all he was doing, Amon felt, was coddling Robin and teaching her that he would always be there to pick up the pieces, teaching her how to remain a confused little girl forever instead of the Eve of Witches.

Perhaps that wasn't all of it, though. Perhaps a bit of it was that he was alarmed at how close he and Robin were getting, how eased and connected their interactions were becoming.

Her feet were on the floor, walking aimlessly. Amon looked to the door that conjoined their rooms, and rubbed at his hyper-sensitive eyes. That was no approach to take, leaving Robin all alone to deal with all of her problems. She was just a girl—just a kid—and she needed someone there to help her along. He didn't have to hold her hand through everything, per se, just kind of stand on the sidelines and make sure she didn't fall off the tight rope as she walked along.

Why the fuck is this so hard? Amon's mind wondered as he stared into the light-darkness. It seemed impossible for him to simply do as his mind told him, to stand on the sidelines and watch Robin as she made her way. Every little wobble she had sent him to clutching at the air, rushing to break her potential fall; every pause for regaining balance she took found him taking her hand again, walking her along. And what was worse was the more that he helped her, the more of himself he opened, the weaker his self-control got. Jesus, he'd been ready to kiss her the other night, because he found himself incapable of doing anything else.

But then came the phone call from Reznik, which was not a good thing, yet in some way Amon was almost thankful the man had called. It had prevented him from doing one of the stupidest things he'd ever done in his life.

He needed to collect himself. He needed to step back, far away from the sidelines, and do a balancing act of his own. Somewhere along the way he'd lost track of his original plan and it was really starting to mess things up, the longer he simply played it by ear.

The footsteps of the ghost in the other room were moving across the floorboards, towards his door. Amon sighed heavily and dropped his head into his hands, resisting the urge to groan. Knuckles, plain as day, rapped against the door gently. "Come in, Robin," he said plainly, and the door opened a crack to reveal Robin's china-white face, her china-white arms and legs stretching on for miles. Her hair hung around her face, pillow-crimped.

"You can't sleep either?" she asked, timidly. He lifted his head out of his hands and looked at her from across the room, forcing his face to be stoic, stern, his mask forced on despite the fact it felt as if it didn't fit as well as it once did, dust from disuse tickling the inside of his nose.

"I was sleeping," he lied, "until I heard you moving about in the other room. What are you doing?" he asked, and Robin shrank behind the door some like a shy cat.

"I can't sleep," she answered meekly, undoubtedly associating the tension in his voice with allegedly being roused from sleep. "I…keep thinking about this place. Amsterdam, I mean," she explained. "And I keep thinking about how it is as if we've simply come in one giant circle…a loop. It feels like a downward spiral, somehow, like we're on a round slide going downward…"

Amon didn't want to talk. He didn't want to find himself saying too much, saying more than he meant to, getting too close. Robin hovered half in her room, half in his, his attitude keeping her there in uncertainty. He looked at her pointedly, fixing her with the full weight of his gaze.

"Robin." He sounded cold, clean, detached—like he'd used to sound, so long ago, before his control had started to erode. "You're letting your imagination run away with you."

She looked almost hurt. He'd let her see too much, earlier, in the car; she knew that he was as uneasy as her about being back in Amsterdam, perhaps had an inkling that he couldn't shake the feeling that they were biting their own tail, as well. "Amon…today, all day long, in my head—"

Jesus, fuck, he didn't want to hear it. He couldn't hear it, because if he heard it, Amon knew it was going to trigger some reflex in him that made him want to comfort her, made him want to hold her and protect her from everything. "Robin. I am tired. You woke me up with your pacing. Stop thinking about these things, save them for the morning, and go back to sleep."

Robin was obviously startled, moving behind the door even further. "Oh. I'm sorry. I'll tell you about…" She pondered something and then shook her head quickly, eyes downcast. "…never mind. Sorry. It's silly anyway, I suppose." Without another word, another breath, Robin closed the door and the residual outreach of Amon's Craft could hear her pad across the floor and hop into the bed, the springs of the mattress squeaking under her meager weight.

He remained frozen in his spot on the edge of the bed for quite some time after Robin had left, his brain locked into thought.

Amon needed to be a responsible adult, a warden, not some confused, emotional boy.

………………………………….

The bathtub wasn't filled all the way, just enough to keep her warm as she lie on her side with her head pillowed up on her hands, eyes staring the hundred-yard-stare of the sleepless into the side of the porcelain tub. Her slip was hanging from the back of the door, a towel lying untouched on the counter of the sink.

She'd been emptying and refilling the bathtub for the last two hours, changing out the water whenever it got cold. It had to have been dawn by then, perhaps a little past. Robin couldn't sleep, had not been able to—how does one sleep with a riot going on in their mind? Her head was so sensitive, defenses worn down by the voices, that she could hear them with her eyes, with her sinuses, her mouth.

Something wasn't right. It wasn't supposed to be like this. When had she lost control of the Otherworld? Had she ever really rightly had control of it? Shifting slightly in the lukewarm water, Robin rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling of the bathroom, eyes wide and vapid. If this kept up, she didn't know what she was going to do.

Was this the beginning of the loss of control, the backwards slide into insanity caused by the Craft when one could not control it? It had begun to frighten her so much last night that she had endeavored to tell Amon about it, only to be coldly rebuffed by a grumpy, sleep-denied attitude. Perhaps it was something out of her control telling her not to tell Amon; after all, there was little he would have been able to do, anyway. Telling him that she had voices in her head that she couldn't stop would do little more than rouse his suspicion, his distrust, his frustration. Amon had a hard enough time dealing with his own lack of control over the Craft. And she already knew that he was continually ill-at-ease with her Craft, as it was.

It seemed at times as if he was incapable of dealing with Robin's control-struggles, every mention of them bringing a detached, vacant look to his eyes—the same eyes that had stared down the barrel of a gun at her more than once, only once right in front of her. In their time living together, Robin had sensed that she and Amon were beginning to understand each other better, to know each other as human beings rather than simple partners, but she did not doubt for one instant that Amon would kill her if he had to.

He would stop her from hurting herself or anyone else. And deep within, honestly, Robin supported his promise. She didn't want to hurt anyone. She didn't want to lose control of herself, lash out blindly at everything and everyone, especially not now that her powers seemed to be growing—especially when she seemed to be able to kill people with a mere thought.

But while there was still control left in her body, no matter how tremulous, she was going to fight to keep it, and she was going to fight to convince Amon that she had it.

This, this though…this wasn't right. Robin gritted her teeth, fury building within her at her inability to make her own mind do as it should.

"Shut up," she hissed through clenched teeth at the ceiling, wet hands clutching spasmodically at white, wet arms.

…………………………………..

Something wasn't right, that much was obvious immediately. Large, nicotine-stained fingertips rubbing at his chin, Nagira watched the pair's approach from across the lobby. Everything had seemed relatively fine and normal last night, before they'd retired. This was an entirely different story, a story that suggested that perhaps a couple of chapters had been skipped and the book was being read backwards.

Amon looked arthritic, overly stern. He looked like someone's furious grade-school teacher, his eyes snapping around to rest on objects with a hidden tension behind them instead of just simply drifting about from place to place. Circles were present under his eyes, suggesting an uneasy sleep or perhaps very little at all.

Meanwhile, Robin looked flat out like twice-hammered dog shit. Her eyes were glossed over, vacant, fixing on one point and staring at it—more like through it. Limbs limp like a puppet with unmanned strings, she slunk along at Amon's side, her hair loose and wet around her face. The same circles that were present under Amon's eyes were present under Robin's, only more pronounced. Robin looked as if she'd smeared purple eyeshadow under her eyes, and somehow the garish sleep-rings under her eyes made her green eyes that much more unsettling.

"Well good morning," Nagira said, trying to keep the shock out of his voice. "You two finally decided to join the land of the living?"

His only response was a noncommittal grunt from Amon. An eyebrow raising, Nagira nodded. "Fair enough. Sleep okay?" he continued conversationally, even though it had been obvious that neither one of them had. An idea, fleeting, passed through Nagira's mind—had they slept poorly apart or together?

"Fine," Amon replied bluntly.

"I couldn't sleep," Robin muttered, and she sounded like a zombie. Nagira looked down at her; poor kid, she really needed her sleep, didn't she? "…too many things on my mind." Nagira wasn't certain if that sentence was supposed to have had a beginning or not, so he said nothing in response. An odd thing happened then—Robin opened her mouth as if she meant to speak, but no words came out. After watching her for a moment, she simply closed her mouth and resumed staring into nothing.

Even more strangely, Amon seemed either to not notice or not care about Robin's obvious zombification. Nagira began to suspect that aliens had taken his brother and Robin away and replaced them with drones. Not even these two were this morose, usually.

"How about you go back upstairs, kid?" Nagira said suddenly, moving to take Robin by the shoulders and walking with her towards an elevator. Amon looked on in disgruntlement, unmoving. "Did you not sleep all night?" he asked of Robin, who shook her head negatively after a moment of no response. It was almost as if she couldn't hear him. "In my bag, upstairs, there's a bottle of pills—remember the one I gave Amon on the plane?" he asked, looking for some sort of affirmative response from Robin. He got none. Jesus, what was wrong with her? "Take one of those out and get some water, and take it. It'll put you out for a while. I guarantee it."

With that, Nagira sent Robin into the elevator, where she faded into the crowd like a drab watercolour painting, half-heartedly remembering to reach out and tentatively poke the button for her floor. The doors slid shut after a moment, leaving Nagira with the final impression of Robin staring blankly at some spot that was between his feet and his knees.

He turned and jerked a thumb back at the elevator, looking at his brother across the lobby, a look of confused disbelief on his face. Amon was pointedly stoic. The lawyer stalked back towards his brother and stood before him, questions lining up in his mind. "What the hell is that all about?" Nagira began, almost irately. "Poor kid is acting like she's already been into the pills in my bag. Do you know anything about what's wrong with her?" After a moment of silence in which Amon stared at Nagira with his best impassive mask, Nagira's face turned critical and suspicious. "Perhaps a better question would be if you have anything to do with what's wrong with her."

"If you ask me, she's attempting to be coddled," Amon replied finally, sourly. He sounded more bitter than usual, especially where Robin was concerned. "I'm tired of doing it, Syunji. That girl has got to learn that she can't just cry about everything all the time and expect us to pick up the pieces. We are not her emotional sounding boards."

Nagira was regarding Amon with blatant disbelief. "You're joking, right? Not even you are this heartless. Is this all because you said something to her?"

Amon stared at his brother in response once more, and then turned and began to walk towards the front doors. Nagira was soon hot on his heels, anger written plainly upon his face. "You are a fuck. I hope you know that, Amon. So you've decided that you just want to be an island, all to yourself, wallowing alone in your misery?" Amon stopped with his gloved hands on the brass bar for one of the front doors, staring down at them with a tightly controlled look on his face as Nagira stood at his side, leaning over into his face. "Fine. But I just want you to know something, because Robin doesn't understand enough about you to be able to say it. You are fucking sick, little brother, sick. If you don't want Robin to want to be coddled, maybe then you should quit doing it of your own free will and then punish her for becoming used to it."

Nagira was shaking his head, and Amon was still standing frozen, a tic in his cheek. Other patrons of the hotel moved around them, completely oblivious. "And your sick little emo kid act is getting in the way of your warden job," Nagira went on, in a growl. "You just let Robin go upstairs by herself when she's not even capable of forming a complete sentence. Oh, but don't worry about it! You go on, do whatever it was you were going to do. I'll go coddle her."

Nagira, for once truly angry, made a noise of disgust and turned away from his brother, heading for the elevator. When he looked back over his shoulder, momentarily, to see if Amon was still standing frozen at the door, his brother had disappeared.

In the elevator up to the rooms, Nagira ran a hand over his gelled hair, sighing. The two other people in the elevator looked at him curiously and discreetly, but he ignored them. The elevator chimed on arrival at the third floor, and Nagira stepped out, headed for his room, hands in his pockets. Slipping the keycard into the lock, the door unlocked and he found Robin lying flopped in his bed, a plastic cup of water next to the bed.

"Hey kid," he greeted. "You take that pill?"

"Mm-hmm." Robin's reply was slow in the coming. Nagira moved to the side of the bed and looked down at the slight form of the blonde girl laid out on the bed, her little black mary-jane shoes sticking out from under her skirt, one black sock slightly bunched around her ankle. "So what's wrong?" he asked, looking down at her. One glazed green eye appeared above her still-coat clad arm and blinked at him, slowly.

"I am tired," she replied. Momentary silence ensued while Robin gathered her thoughts. "Last night, I tried to tell Amon…I don't feel well."

Nagira tilted his head at her. "Flu, or something?"

"No…" Robin's face went back down into the pillows. The next time she spoke her voice was muffled. "The voices in my mind…the witches…they won't be quiet. I can't sleep. I can't think. I don't know what to do."

This was an unexpected development; and if Amon knew about it, it could have been what was causing his bizarre, cruel mood. Nagira's face softened with concern, masking the internal oh shit he was thinking. "Does Amon know?"

"No. I tried…" Robin sounded exhausted. "It hasn't been happening for very long." Her tiny body, dwarfed by her coat and the bed, shifted some. "What if…I'm losing control…?"

Nagira shook his head quickly, not allowing himself to contemplate the possibilities. "No, no. I'm sure you're just exhausted, stressed-out. Get some sleep and you'll feel better."

…………………………….

Robin's eyes opened as if she'd merely blinked them; a very long, curiously blank blink. She moved upwards slowly, realizing that she was lying in bed but that it was not her own. It was Nagira's, and she remembered stumbling into his room and opening the little green bottle, swallowing one of the white pills with a thirsty gulp of water, remembered lying on the bed and speaking with Nagira very briefly.

Then she'd blinked. Hours later, the blink had finished, and it appeared to have been growing dark outside. She groaned a little, rubbing her eyes. She'd slept all day and felt bad for it, but then remembered that she hadn't slept all night. Perhaps sleeping all day was warranted then.

The train of thought stopped dead in its tracks and Robin froze, her body hearkening to hear something that was no longer there. The voices had stopped, disappeared, receded back into her mind where they belonged, silent until she asked for them. A relieved, happy sigh brushed between Robin's lips, and she sat up, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. The sound of the television was echoing from her room, and she moved from Nagira's bed to her room.

Finn and Nagira looked up at her upon her entrance through the connecting door, and she offered them a quiet smile by way of greeting. Nagira smiled, full and wide, looking very relieved.

"You're awake, finally," he said. "Are you feeling any better?" Finn was nodding, as if to wordlessly ask the same question.

Robin smiled at them still, moving into the room. "Yes. Much better." Shedding her coat and bending down to remove her shoes, Robin sat down on the edge of her bed and looked at the television with a detached interest. "What's going on?" she asked, wanting an update.

"Well," Finn began, "we're sitting here on our asses doing nothing, and Tryg and Sig were busy in their room contacting a bunch of coven members. Tryg wants to try to get them all together at the house again, soon. Eirikur's sleeping, and Mr. Sunshine is mysteriously absent."

Robin's brow furrowed at Finn's interesting nickname for Amon. There was no one else among them that could have been called 'Mr. Sunshine' in such a sarcastic voice. Nagira's face was darkened with displeasure at the mere mention of Amon, and Robin could only assume that something had happened while she slept. Amon had been unusually surly last night and that morning, but she was used to Amon's surly moods. Even if they did hurt her feelings, at times, she was used to them.

"And he'd better become mysteriously unabsent with a quickness," Nagira groused, looking over at Robin. "We need to be ready to go in about two and a half hours. That's plenty of time to get ready but I have this sinking feeling that Amon will come waltzing in with ten minutes to spare."

Confusion permeated Robin's brain. "Where did he go, anyway?"

Silence befell the room, and Finn shrugged. "Dunno. Last time anyone saw him was this morning, so who knows?"

Confusion morphed into worry in Robin's mind. It wasn't like Amon to just disappear—well, not in this situation, anyway. In the old days, in their past life, Amon had come and gone as he pleased, but not now. Never now, not since the running had began. What if something had happened? They were in Amsterdam, after all, a place they knew that SOLOMON associated with them…and Amon, alone, could possibly be easily captured or killed, depending upon his Craft. Before she knew it, Robin's heart was pounding.

"Perhaps we should go look for him," she suggested suddenly, and Nagira looked at her with a frown. Standing, she looked at him urgently. "Something might have happened."

Gently optimistic, Finn smiled at Robin. "I'm sure nothing has happened. He'll be back."

"I am not going to look for that kid." Nagira sounded rather put-out, and Robin's brain reeled—something really bad must have happened between the brothers today. "I told him how I felt this morning and he apparently didn't have anything to say about it, so that's that. He'll come back when he feels like it…when he decides to grow up."

A pained expression on her face, Robin turned to Nagira once more. "Nagira, something might have happened. SOLOMON could be in the city, or perhaps the committee…we already know they're here." Her face was starting to crumple with worry and fear and Nagira's face was softening in response. "If something happens with his Craft, and he loses control of it, he becomes basically helpless…"

A war of wills raged quietly and subtly between Nagira and Robin. Nagira caved eventually, standing with a sigh; he realized that Robin was right, and he didn't want her going out by herself to look for Amon. "Ah, shit. You're right." Brown eyes alit upon Robin with something akin to irony in them. "You coddle him, you know that?"

Already in the process of pulling her shoes on again, Robin looked up distractedly. "…coddle? Amon?" The two words simply did not belong together in a sentence, especially when in conjunction with each other. Amon could not be coddled.

"Yeah. He runs off, like a little baby, off to sulk and be an asshole and be generally…emo," Nagira said, sourly (and Robin quietly wondered what emo meant), "and you always go running after him, making sure he's alright. …Which he always is, I hope you know. This is the same shit Amon has done for years."

A faint vibrating noise was heard, and Finn dug into the pocket of his pants, retrieving a cell phone. Muttering some sort of polite exit phrase, he went out into the hallway, answering the phone just before he left the room. Robin's eyes moved back to Nagira, fixing them with a rather emotional green stare. "I'm just worried about him," she defended, quietly. "I don't care why he left. I just want to make sure that he's alright."

A laboured breath came from Nagira. "That's exactly what he wants you to do."

Robin was silent. Despite her own misgivings about what Amon truly meant to do sometimes, she couldn't believe that he would be so…manipulative. She also couldn't believe that he would engage in such a blatant ploy for attention, especially from her—he never particularly seemed to want her attention before, nor attention from anyone. However, at the same time her mind recalled the night on the train, when she'd made too many connections about how Amon dealt with her and he'd become angry. Could Nagira possibly be right? Would Amon do something as foolish as putting himself in deliberate danger just to garner attention from her?

"He will come back," the lawyer stated firmly and knowingly. He withdrew a cigarette from the never-ending pack and lit it, exhaling smoke. "He'll come back when he gets tired of brooding and realizes that you're smarter than that and that you will not come chasing after him."

……………………………………

The room was dark, but he didn't need to see; for the first time in as long as he could remember his mind and his power didn't try to compensate for the dark, try to make it lighter. He didn't need to see, his hands and mouth and skin could do all the seeing; her breath warm and humid over his lips and in his mouth, her tiny hands with their perfectly shaped nails and long, delicate fingers splaying out eagerly over his skin, her soft, muted blonde hair twisted into one of his hands to slide between his fingers like a length of silk. Orange and ginger—decidedly Japanese—burned in his nostrils, the scent of her hair carrying the ghost of whatever shampoo she'd been using.

She shivered and startled under his touch, his hands desperately trying to touch and know every inch of her; her soft, slightly-goosefleshed skin was burning into his body, into his memory, into his mouth as he trailed it along her shoulder, her arm. Muscles in slender limbs and a shapely back twitched and strained, her body arcing into whatever touches he made on her. Her mouth fell open, lips pink, swollen, and glistening, to emit a breathy gasp that was so beautiful and rapturous that it almost broke his heart to hear it.

The willowy body beneath him moved in amazing sync with his own, the heart pounding furiously beneath the white skin. Arms with tiny wrists that were dwarfed in his hands wrapped around him, a trembling fist gripping his hair to guide his lips to her neck—a slim thigh grasped in his hand, lifting the leg slightly upward—a plaintive, fervent utter of his name, voice high and breathy and right in his ear—

…………………………………………

"Fuck." Amon was bolt upright in an instant, the word flying from his mouth on instinct. One hand held the pillow he'd been laying on in a death grip, arm shaking with the effort. He suddenly noted that his whole body was shaking slightly. Robin was standing in the doorway to his room from her own, looking almost frightened and hurriedly apologetic.

"I'm sorry," she breathed quickly, breaking eye contact with him as he sat, disheveled and breathing hard in his bed, wild-eyed and strung tighter than a piano wire. "I'd said your name several times…you were asleep." He said nothing to her, only looked at her. She hazarded quick glances back at him every so often, still too intimidated and startled to look him full in the face. "I…I'm not certain when you returned from…wherever you were, but Sigrún just stopped by my room and told me that we should start to get ready, that we will be leaving in a little over an hour…"

Amon couldn't manage to tear his bewildered stare away from Robin's fidgeting form, nor could he bring himself to lower its intensity. First she invaded his dreams and then he awoke to discover that she had invaded his room. Green eyes met his grey briefly and it nearly sent an electric jolt through him. Jesus, it was as if he was still dreaming. "How did you know I was here?" he asked abruptly, almost harshly.

Robin looked cowed. "I…kind of didn't. I thought I would check your room, to see if perhaps you had returned, before I went to Sigrún to have her help me prepare…" She trailed off, hesitantly. "…I felt your presence, a bit. I didn't think I'd feel it if you were not nearby."

Felt his presence. His mind reeled. He prayed to whatever semblance of God he still believed in that Robin didn't up and become a mind reader one of these days.

"I will be ready shortly." Robin nodded quickly in response to his blunt statement, and excused herself quietly from his room. He stared after her for a moment, attempting to slow his breathing.

After he'd spent a few good, long minutes calming himself sufficiently (which involved a lot of staring at the ceiling with mind blank, completely immobile, regulating his breathing), Amon sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed at his eyes. He'd been gone most of the day, his feet taking him back to the semi-familiar neighbourhood that Robin and he had frequented during their time in Amsterdam. It had been stupid of him to do such a thing, a whim of angry nostalgia that he'd entertained out of lack of things to do. For hours he'd wandered, hands jammed in overcoat pockets, face numbed in the onslaught of the cold wind. The fog rolled in and rolled out and rolled back in again, and Amon found himself feeling lost, suddenly, alienated and odd.

He'd come back to the hotel. In a fit of secrecy, he'd come back to his room and laid in the bed, hearing the voices of the others in Robin's room but refusing to go to them or let them know that he had returned. Eventually, weary from his ill-slept night, he fell asleep.

And now he was standing, sober and forcing his mask back into place, beginning to unbutton his shirt. A scent only discernable to his nose was permeating his being, the scent of nervousness and shame at being unable to stop himself from dreaming of Robin so. The familiar scent was mixed in with the one he'd picked up from the fog in Amsterdam, the scent of past failure and defeated retreat.

He was going to shower before he did anything. The scents were making him mad.

………………………….

Robin was glad that her dress was too long. Sigrún had all but had a minor coronary when she'd discovered that they had neglected to purchase shoes for Robin in the process of assisting the Eve of Witches to get ready. It had been too late to do anything about it, there was no time to go out and find shoes for Robin.

Luckily the dress was long. No one was going to notice that under her very elegant and expensive-looking dress that she was wearing the same old black mary janes. They'd also neglected to purchase her a coat that would match her dress, so she was clad in the same old blue peacoat that Nagira had bought her. It was the only coat she'd brought along, and the only one that was suited to the elements. If it hadn't been for her carefully parted hair, straight and glossed to perfection, and the dress, Robin figured she would have looked completely rag-tag.

Nagira seemed to be amused by it. At least someone got amusement out of the situation.

Her dress was long, amazingly white, and satin. Robin had moved about in it a token stiffly, afraid to brush the skirt against anything lest she dirty it (yet another thing Nagira had been amused by). Starting from her knees down, there were stark black maple-leaf branch designs, something that had struck her as oddly Japanese for the style of the dress; Robin had been reminded of some kind of very plain kimono pattern when she'd seen the dress. Sigrún had found it fitting. Robin's skin, in contrast to the dress, looked even whiter, but all of her other features looked almost eerily enhanced. Her eyes, if possible, were even brighter green. Her hair looked truly auburn blonde for once, instead of the plain mousy colour it always looked—or so Robin thought.

She didn't look real. She didn't feel real. She felt like someone's large doll, terrified and nervous and stiff, and she kept busy with chewing the inside of her lip to shreds in the car on the way to the appointed estate. Nagira—whom had insisted upon driving—looked over at her in concern. With typical Nagira flair, he was brightly dressed about sixteen ways from Sunday. His grey suit and salmon-pink shirt went together startlingly well, and his grey and darker pink tie topped it off. Nagira was the only man alive who could get away with wearing pink and still look dashing.

"You're not gonna have a lip left by the time we get there," he commented, and in the back seat Amon looked at Robin but did not say a word. She'd felt his eyes on her. Amon was like a shadow in the backseat, silent and black. His mood was black, his clothing was black, his whole outlook on the evening was black. At Nagira's disgruntled urging, Amon had changed his black dress shirt to a grey one and shortly declared that yes, grey was a colour.

He'd stared at her briefly, before entering the car. Robin sighed. She probably looked as odd as she felt, all dressed up but somehow managing to not even get that right.

"I'm getting you two Prozac for Christmas," Nagira commented finally, tiredly, into the stark silence of the car.

………………………………..

Luckily doormen had taken Robin's coat away from her before anyone could have really noticed how mismatched she looked. They were all handing away their coats, and Robin found herself wondering how the multiple doormen could keep track of which coats belonged to which guests. There must have been a fairly complex system to it all.

She realized she was attempting to distract herself from the abject fear she had brewing in her gut. As the group moved down a large, vaulted hallway, following Trygve, Robin watched the faces of the people who passed them. Most of them seemed rather confused, probably wondering where these people had come from, having not seen herself or any of the others at the auction that had supposedly preceded the gathering. Most of the people were older and extremely well-dressed; the men greying and immaculate in their suits, the women perfectly made up and adorned with jewelry that probably cost as much as a small car.

Watching the people they passed, Robin realized why they were looking at the group oddly, at her in particular—she was easily the youngest person there that she'd seen so far. Well, save Eirikur, but he didn't really count.

Along the way to wherever Trygve was leading them, Sigrún was distracted and detained by a woman who looked very happy to see her, and even happier to see Eirikur in her arms. The group was momentarily stalled by Sigrún's stop, but she told them to go along without her; she was going to catch up the woman. They moved on.

After a few minutes of walking through the massive house, passing crowds of people and rooms (and after Nagira had hooked a beverage of some sort from a passing maid), Finn looked to Trygve. "Where the hell are we going?" he asked.

"To the same place I've always met up with Reznik whenever I attend this gathering," Trygve replied, his voice calm. "He always seems to be in the same room at the same time, looking over the spoils of the auction with others. Perhaps he waits there for me."

Finn made a noise of acceptance and after passing a few more rooms on the second floor of the mansion, Trygve opened a heavy, ornately carved wooden door to reveal several men in a room—one of whom was Reznik. He looked up from the painting he'd been looking at—at least it looked like a painting from the back—and grinned broadly, looking like a wolf.

Robin noticed disturbingly familiar aspects in the smile, aspects that she'd seen in Amon's smile, rare as it was. The face seemed to move in vaguely the same way; perhaps common among men of Czech descent? Irrationally a little voice in her head screeched about possible relation, but she squelched it down. Now she was really being ridiculous, her fear making her imagination rampant.

Belatedly she realized she was the only female in the room. And she was still the youngest person she'd seen so far. Reznik's grin did not waver even as his eyes settled upon the two unfamiliar people in the party, Finn and Nagira, even if his eyes did speak of either mild interest or disgruntlement. He moved across the room to them, grasping Trygve in a sudden bear-hug. "How good of you to come, friends! I see that there are new members among you—or are you just multiplying?"

The multiplying comment seemed to insinuate that they were in a league with something that would multiply rapidly, such as insects or vermin. This was not lost on Robin. Trygve managed a gracious smile and indicated Finn. "This is my brother-in-law, Finn DeSoto, from America. He is a Witch, like you and I," Trygve added at Reznik's faint and? Look.

"Earth craft," Finn added with a smile that seemed as gracious as Trygve's, and a firm handshake. "Not too strong with the actual earth end of the Craft, never was…but I've got a fairly awesome grasp on the illusory end of the power, if I do say so myself."

"Splendid!" Reznik said and then turned to Nagira, who was taking a drink from his glass, and eyeing the men smoking pipes and cigars in the room, reaching as if he was going for his cigarettes. "And you, sir?" the Czech man said, watching Nagira closely.

"I'm Nagira Syunji," said the lawyer. Placing his pack of cigarettes in the same hand as the glass, he reached out and gave Reznik a handshake. "A lawyer, from Japan. I'm about as human as human can be, but I do seem to have a peculiar affinity for you and your kind in my work."

Reznik's face tightened momentarily but released very quickly. "So you are the fabled lawyer I hear about."

Nagira, not even bothering to ask if he could smoke cigarettes in the room, lit up and looked at Reznik with raised eyebrows. "Oh? Didn't know I was famous."

"I hear the stories out of Japan, sometimes," Reznik said simply, looking at Nagira's cigarette with pointed shock, as if he couldn't believe that the man possessed the audacity to light up without asking. Ignoring Nagira for the moment, Reznik turned to Amon, who looked as stony as ever, staring back at the man impassively. "Amon! Dobry večer! Good evening!"

Nodding curtly, Amon appeared as if internally debating whether or not he wanted to say anything back. "To you, as well." Apparently he did not wish to speak Czech, which was almost inevitably the language Reznik was speaking. Moving away from the reticent Amon, Reznik's eyes finally alit upon Robin and she forced a polite smile onto her face. He took her hands in his, that same sharp, winning grin on his face, and leaned away from her.

"And you, Robin! Moje mila! Dej mi pusu! My dearest! Give me a kiss!" His words, in Czech, had no meaning to Robin, but she sensed Amon bristle at them—which, possibly, had been why Reznik had said them, whatever they were. He leaned forward and exchanged polite cheek pecks with her and then leaned back to appraise her once again. "Ty si hezka holka. You are such a pretty girl. How do all of these men allow you out in public?"

"We keep a close eye on her," Nagira replied around an exhale of smoke. "Lots of weirdos out there, you know."

"Indeed," Reznik said, still looking at Robin. "If your harem will allow you away for a moment, I'd like to show you something." He took her by the arm and led her over to the painting he'd been admiring previously, a portrait of young girl sitting upon a rock. Her doe-like, curiously blank brown eyes stared directly out at the observer, the fingers on one of her hands hooked almost teasingly in her sock, pulling it off. "It is called Avant Le Bain, one of William Bouguereau's paintings. I spent a decent sum to win this, this evening."

Robin stared into the eyes of the girl, feeling faintly as if the painting was somehow voyeuristic, despite the fact that the young girl was still completely clothed. "Before The Bath," she murmured, and then remembered to say something else. "It's lovely."

"Yes, very," Reznik agreed, smiling down at her. "But enough of this gazing at ancient paintings. Shall we go downstairs, all?" He looked from Robin to the rest of the group.

……………………………….

Robin's heart lurched in her chest. She'd been more or less attached to Reznik's side all evening, unable to get away, inevitably trailed faintly by one of the men or Sigrún. At times they came up directly and engaged them in conversation, engaged in conversation with whomever Reznik happened to be introducing Robin to. In Amon's case, several times he had come up and stood next to Robin and Reznik, silent, but somehow watching ominously. To Robin's great unease, shortly after Amon had left their side for the final time that evening, she was suddenly and unceremoniously passed from Reznik to Julien, the Frenchman on the committee. She hadn't actually spoken with the man at length, and he seemed fairly harmless—as harmless as anyone associated with the committee could be—but she didn't know him, and she remained stiff as a board with her arm linked through his, affording her no escape.

"Ah, Robin," he said to her, accent strong, "how does it feel to be back in Amsterdam?"

He knew we'd been here, as well? Robin's mind asked itself, nervously. "Fine, I suppose." She drew a blank. What else was she supposed to say about it? I hate being here and all I can think about is either you or SOLOMON around every corner? "Do you…um, come here often?"

Julien shrugged noncommittally, looking bored. "Not really. I don't care for it here. I'm much fonder of France. Plus, it's easier for me to manipulate SOLOMON from there."

Something in Robin's head clicked after a moment but she shoved it away, afraid to dwell upon it or think about it in detail. It crept back in, however: this man knew we'd been here in the Netherlands, before. He probably knows that SOLOMON Hunted us, here. And he casually drops a mention about working with SOLOMON? …was it really so casual?

"What? You look disturbed, my dear," Julien said, but something about his accented voice had changed. It seemed smug. "Oh, SOLOMON is very easily manipulated. They're mostly brainless, easily deceived. Very easy to control." He smiled. "They're not much smarter than an attack dog on a chain, trained to follow certain commands."

Robin had to fight to keep her eyes from widening. This was not casual conversation. He was telling her something, blunt under the polite front. "I see." Her voice, remarkably, did not sound as horrified as she felt. This was how they'd known that she and Amon had been in Amsterdam before—they'd ordered SOLOMON to Hunt them there! There could be no other explanation, Robin felt, unless she was somehow mistaken. She didn't feel very mistaken, however.

"You look as if you are scaring her to death," a female voice said suddenly, and Robin was transferred from one arm to another yet again. Lookng up, her face froze and nearly fell. "Buenos noches, gatita. Have you been well since I last saw you?"

Robin stared blankly into Paz's face, her stomach roiling. "Yes," she managed. Her mouth was dry and so were her vocal chords. No other words would come. Paz looked from Robin to Julien and made a sharp hissing noise, waving her free hand at him impatiently.

"Go away," she snapped, shortly. "Go frighten someone else." Julien shot the woman a particularly spiteful look and turned away, wandering out into the crowd of laughing, chatting, well-dressed people. Paz turned to Robin then, waiting until Julien was out of sight. "That man angers me so. So incompetent."

Robin managed a nod in reply. "Oh." Swallowing non-existent saliva in an effort to wet her throat, Robin forced out more words. "I…haven't seen all of your colleagues, tonight."

"Yes," Paz answered, beginning to walk through the crowd with Robin. Their proximity was that of close girlfriends, walking down the street together, but Robin wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run. "Donald—that rich old bag—is not one for art, or so he says. He never attends." Paz rolled her carefully-lined eyes. "Oskari is detained off-Continent, helping to take out la basura."

"The garbage?" Robin managed, weakly, wondering what Paz had meant.

"Trouble in Iceland," the Spaniard replied, at which more horrifying connections were made in Robin's mind. "But you already know about that, gatita. Someone has to pick up the mess. SOLOMON is too incompetent to take care of their own."

The implications of how far this was reaching were starting to make Robin sweat, faintly. She felt small, alone, hunted, especially without the reassuring presence of either Nagira or Amon nearby. It scared her to think that they'd come this far, gone this deep far in without realizing how deep they were digging the hole about their head. As the pieces came together in Robin's head, she realized that they weren't just digging a hole, they were digging a grave.

And the smiling faces of SOLOMON and the committee were waiting at the top, atop the growing mounds of dirt, waiting to push it all back in on top of them.

"You aren't stupid, gatita." Paz was looking at her, solemnly, their movement stopping suddenly in a small alcove just outside of the main room, away from the crowd. Robin's heart pounded double time, her skin burning with a Craft begging to defend herself somehow. One quick flame—a burst so hot that possibly no one would even see it, not even ashes left behind—and this woman would be gone from her life. "You are naïve, but you are not stupid. You know the roles of power." Here Paz paused for effect, allowing the unfinished statement to sink in: and you are not the upper hand. "SOLOMON is a tool that has long since outlived its usefulness to us. You, too, know that they are as untrustworthy as they are foolish—they turned on you yourself, gatita, unaware what they let get away."

Robin's mind conjured Finn's words from the dining room the other night, his knowledge of the committee and SOLOMON's history together, and how Toudou—her father—whatever he was—had fit into it all. They rang through her head, echoingly: I don't know what they're trying to do. Remember that they had originally wanted Robin dead, when she was an infant. SOLOMON was the thing that kept her alive, and then they lost control of her…it could be possible that the committee will use Robin to scare SOLOMON for as long as they see fit. "You want to use me against SOLOMON."

Paz nodded slowly. "Yes, gatita. We are prepared to make a deal with you and your warden. Do you really think you two alone, with the assistance of a rag-tag group of witches who fear SOLOMON and my colleagues can accomplish anything? Especially when you are not fully aware of the powers of the Arcanum, when your warden cannot even manage his own Craft, does not even know what it is?" She looked vaguely triumphant at Robin's almost guilty look. "We can help you, protect you. We can help your friends, as long as you remember that we are the ones who did it."

Silence. "As long as you help us start to break SOLOMON down." Paz eyed Robin powerfully, intensely. "This is a most gracious offer, Robin Sena. Your games of the Eve nonsense will stop. You accomplish nothing save upsetting the balances of power, and you do not even know where you will go from there, living day to day. It would be better for you to come with us. We know the balances of power, we know where you could strike to cause the most damage. You wish SOLOMON gone, yes?"

Robin looked at Paz, wishing that it was all as simple as the older woman was making it sound. Finn's words echoed in her head, on an endless loop. …remember that they had originally wanted Robin dead, when she was an infant… "And what then?" the blonde asked, suddenly, catching Paz somewhat off-guard. "After SOLOMON is gone. What then? What usefulness will we have? What would you have done with us?"

"Why, nothing!" Paz exclaimed in an undertone, one of her hands cradling Robin's face. Robin's skin felt as if it wanted to crawl away from the touch. "You and us, we are the same, gatita. We would accept you, just for what you were."

It occurred to Robin that she had been deliberately passed between committee members all evening long in an effort to break her away from the presence of her confidantes, her protection. They'd planned this. They knew that alone, she was quiet, unsure. "This…this would have to be considered with the others," Robin said slowly. Paz looked disapproving.

"What manners of power have you, if you cannot make decisions for your so-called followers?" she asked, her voice sounding almost snappish for a moment. "It is very simple, Robin. You make a decision. We cannot guarantee your protection forever."

"You would send them to kill me." Robin's voice was trembling, accusatory. "You would send SOLOMON to kill me."

Paz looked theatrically indignant. "If you think so." It was neither a confirmation nor a denial. "Contrary to whatever you may believe, they are not the only ones who wish you ill." Robin's refusal to make a commitment was obviously frustrating and irritating the Spanish woman, whose face was contorting slightly with anger. "I offer you my hand in friendship, companionship, whatever you wish, Robin Sena, and you are spitting upon it."

"I spit upon nothing," Robin replied softly, steel under the voice despite the tremors in her body. "I cannot give you an answer now. I will consider it." Green eyes were staring into brown, Robin's skin burning, her being burning, the fear and loathing within her urging the fire to come forth.

"We are not so dissimilar, gatita," Paz said, in a voice that was nearly a growl. "We are women of power, surrounded by men who are fools, slow to act; other women who hide in the shadow of the men. You are throwing away an opportunity with your foolishness."

Something in Robin snapped, fiercely, hurt and reviled and angry that the woman in front of her would even dare to liken herself to Robin. Evil, through and through, manipulative and disgusting—Robin could not imagine lowering herself to a level. "You and I are nothing alike," Robin stated firmly, lowly. "I will never—"

A hand on Robin's arm jerked her out of her infuriated utterances, and she looked over and up in surprise to see Finn standing there, his face questioning and oblivious. "Hey, I hate to interrupt girl talk," he said mildly, "but the others have been looking for you. Can you excuse us for a sec?" he asked of Paz, who merely glared at him and gave a tight little nod. Robin followed Finn's leading hand and walked away with him, her body still shaking with fear and rage. He looked down at her, sensing something awry.

"…Are you okay?" he asked, as if just realizing that he'd interrupted something very bad.

"No, I'm not." Robin's face was frowning, dark. "I have to speak with Amon. Now."

………………………………

The problem was, Amon was nowhere to be found. Robin's insides twisted and churned with helplessness; the man who had told her he was her monster; that he would help her do anything, laying there that night on the couch in Iceland, was nowhere to be found. Nagira, confused by Robin's urgent and serious air, adopted a serious one of his own and set out with grumbling to locate his missing brother. Finn, also sensing the importance of the situation, volunteered to try to locate Amon as well. Trygve and Sigrún, their son between them, stood with Robin in an anteroom.

"It was all planned," Robin was explaining, hurriedly. "They've been telling SOLOMON to chase us, ever since Amsterdam—possibly before. Finn told us of the relationship between the committee and SOLOMON, when I was born…it's just as he said. They're going to use me against SOLOMON, or try to. Then, when my usefulness has passed, they're going to try to kill us."

Sigrún looked to her husband, her face steely. "She is right. We cannot be certain that they inevitably plan to kill her and Amon, possibly us as well, but it is a fair bet. We know them. We know their ways. This reaches further than any of us had seen."

Robin hesitated slightly before adding the next part. "They must have had you two in mind. I…I'm almost certain they were the ones who sent the Hunters to Iceland, after us." She paused, catching the couple's combined anguished look. "…They're the ones who sought you through Gróa's death."

"Miskunnarlaus Cruel" Sigrún hissed, her face twisted with rage and repulsion. "Systir…what have we done to you?" she said, her voice fading from a hiss to whisper, her face relaxing into sorrow. "This is our fault. We should have seen."

Despite being obviously disturbed and devastated himself, Trygve kept a strong front. "We could not have known."

Robin regretted having brought up Gróa's death, but felt that her hosts should have known about it, for their own purposes. "Paz has threatened, vaguely, our own safety unless this offer is accepted."

"Even the doctor," Sigrún murmured, almost to herself. "They even had our doctor watching us." She bounced Eirikur in her arms gently, distractedly, as the small child rubbed at his face. Robin looked at the couple—the family—in front of her, and realized suddenly what a terrible and awful risk they'd taken for her and Amon, and Nagira as well.

"I am so sorry," Robin said, quietly. "I…told Amon once that everywhere we went, death seemed to follow us, and sadness, and awful things…"

Trygve looked to her firmly, his eyes still sad behind his glasses, amplifying the sadness. "No. Robin, we knew these dangers when we undertook this, when we helped you. We were—are—prepared to face whatever consequences come to us. We will fight them, but we expected that there would be some."

Sigrún was looking at her as well, her face serious. "You are the Eve. Whatever it takes, someone must accept the consequences, or there can be no hope. Without you, there is no hope."

She called me hope. Robin's mind screamed, cried, kicked; unwilling to accept that these people believed in her so much and regarded her so highly that they would sacrifice their own lives, that of their child, for hers to continue. "There won't be any consequences," Robin said, softly, a token reassuringly. "We are going to do something about this."

A sound from behind Robin turned their attention back to the door, where Nagira's head was poking in. "I can't find him," he said, tiredly. "You know how he disappears when he wants to. But…" A faint grimace. "…our absence is starting to be noticed. We need to get back out there. I say we find Amon and get the hell out of here."

"Agreed," Trygve said, nodding. "We need to find Finn as well. After that, we return to the hotel rooms and pack, and leave immediately."

………………………………..

Finding Amon was easier said than done, although Robin knew that she certainly hadn't expected it to be very easy. She didn't think anyone else had, either, deep inside. Finn had been relatively easy to locate, within a ballroom just off the long, tiled main hall. He hadn't caught sight of Robin's erstwhile ex-partner, either.

Something like irritation and a feeling of abandonment was coiling within Robin's chest. Why would he disappear at a time like this? Especially given the shaky nature of the situation—Robin's mind, as usual, began to worry that Amon had been cornered somewhere and lost control of his Craft. She didn't even think he was armed. Upon second thought, she reconsidered that. Amon was hardly ever unarmed, especially in public.

"Look at you all, crowded together like little children on a school trip!" Reznik exclaimed, upon finding the group off to one side of the ballroom. A very miniature orchestra group was playing music, couples dancing about the floor elegantly and ignorantly.

Perhaps not ignorantly, Robin's suddenly overly-paranoid (but with good reason) mind added. She managed an even look at Reznik. This man would not intimidate her. She could not allow him to. In Amon's absence, abandoned, she had to act as her own warden. She could not expect anyone else to do it for her if the man who'd sworn to couldn't even do it. Hurt pricked at her heart. "We are actually preparing to leave for the evening," Robin answered, with quiet resolve in the face of Reznik's almost mockingly interested face.

"My wife is not well," Trygve supplemented, somehow managing to retain his mask of polite civility. Such a diplomat, walking carefully among the minefield of enemies. "Regretfully we shall have to leave early this year."

"But your numbers seem to have shrunk one," Reznik pointed out in quiet amusement. "It appears as if my fellow countryman has taken leave of the group."

"He will return shortly," Robin replied before anyone else could. Her voice sounded testy to her ears. Reznik, sensing a sensitive spot, smiled knowingly.

"Well, in his absence, I do believe that I shall have to ask you to dance," he said, taking Robin's hand without warning. "It would be unheard of for you to leave without a dance, first." He looked at Robin with subtle threat. "Not to mention horribly rude."

Her lip wanted to curl but she didn't want to risk anything before they'd even escaped the estate. Acquiescing, Robin followed the tall Czech man towards where the other couples were dancing, looking over her shoulder reassuringly at the group. Nagira, in particular, wore a look of pure murder upon his face.

Oddly enough, various types of ballroom dancing had been one of the things drilled into her head during her Hunter's training. SOLOMON, being a fairly Old World type of organization, insisted that all their Hunters have varying degrees of societal training. Robin had been vaguely confused as a younger girl, during training, why she would need such things, but now she was thankful for them. Reznik guided her to a place on the floor, relatively open, and bowed low to her. The small orchestra was finishing up their previous song and as Robin remembered to curtsy, her insides protesting at such shows of politeness to this man.

Her hand touched upon his arm lightly, as if she didn't want to touch too closely, her other hand within his. Reznik's other hand rested upon her side, their fronts together—too close for Robin's comfort, frankly. She'd been a younger girl when she'd learned to dance this way, learning to do so with other younger people. This was too much, too nerve-wracking, too close to Reznik. She wanted to be as far away from him as she could. She fixed her eyes in the correct position, which would have been over his shoulder, if she could have seen over it. Instead she stared blankly into his chest, trying to ignore the way he looked down at her in amusement.

The music started. The steps, which Robin pulled out of her mind, moved precisely as they should, Reznik spinning her about the floor as they moved fluidly along, with all the other couples. She hated him. She hated dancing with him. She wanted to leave.

The Viennese Waltz, the most graceful of the ballroom dances, and Robin's mind was so poisoned with fear and hate that she couldn't comprehend how she could think straight enough to perform the dance.

"I take it Paz spoke with you?" Reznik said, out of nowhere, above the music. Robin's eyes jerked up to his face, his grin. They slid back to his chest. "She must have. Suddenly you are not as friendly as you once were."

"I told her I would consider it." Robin didn't want to talk.

"I would suggest you do," Reznik said, looking over in interest at a few couples who had decided to coordinate an interesting, fluid partner change into their continual spins. "The offer does have an expiration date. Circumstances will not allow it to stand forever."

"I will consider it." It was all she could bring herself to say.

"What else shall you do, my little Robin?" he asked of her, laughing somewhat. The situation seemed mighty amusing to Reznik. "You haven't many options. You need the protection we can afford you, and we would like to have your power. We don't necessarily need it, but it would be welcomed."

Robin's face looked up to him, eyes wide and accusatory as they spun around another couple-change. "And then? Afterwards? Paz couldn't answer that question satisfactorily for me." Reznik smiled at her, all cunning and intimidation, and his gaze bored down into her eyes.

"Why don't you ask the man who takes care of those things?" he suggested in a light tone. "That is, he takes care of them when they go badly, which I trust that they won't with you." And then she was released from his arms, flung lightly in the middle of a spin, landing unceremoniously in the arms of another. Eyes wide, bewildered, Robin grabbed onto whoever it was awkwardly and looked into the face, eyes going yet wider.

The old Romanian. Teodor. It was no coincidence that Reznik had sent her to him, his hands upon her, her brain feeling transparent. Her body tensed under his touch, her steps stiffening. They could not move with the fluidity or the speed that she and Reznik had moved along with, and she shot a hurried glance over at Reznik, who was stepping back from the floor with laughter, out of the way of spinning couples. Her eyes barely caught Nagira's on the edge of the dance floor. He appeared ready to jump in any moment and start throwing punches.

"So tense!" Teodor exclaimed, squeezing Robin's hand. "You cannot dance when you so tense." Robin's mind felt fuzzy, hollow, easily dug-through, her eyes stuck riveted to his. "What a shame. You looked so wonderful dancing with Reznik. I would like to dance that way, as well." Their eyes locked, his mind searching through hers by way of his hands, Robin felt like a giant window. She was a giant window being used to look into Trygve and Sigrún's household.

Blinking, she fought to snap her mind closed, to break off the connections that the old man was making somehow. Robin's sight was darkening, the bodies in the room taking on diffused glows. Teodor intensified his stare at her and the room lightened a bit, her head throbbing. He was fighting her entrance to the Otherworld! Trembling slightly, the voices in her head starting, Robin concentrated harder. The room began to darken again, the faint glows around bodies returning.

"Stop it," she whispered to him, harshly. Pushing as hard as she could against whatever he was using to push back, Robin's head began to swim vaguely, the voices chanting. Robin clenched her teeth, her hand unconsciously squeezing against Teodor's.

If you have any worth at all, you would help me, she murmured internally to the chanting voices. She was more than a little startled when they actually seemed to obey, her brain starting to feel a little less see-through and jumbled. Green eyes narrowed at Teodor, who looked just as startled as her, his own eyes squinting. A noise of anger or perhaps shock escaped him, and he released her suddenly mid-spin, swinging her out into oblivion just as Reznik had. Still light-headed, vision somewhat blurred and hazy, blinded by dim glows, Robin collided with a figure. Bringing her dazed face up, she found herself staring up at Amon.

"You," she said, sounding weak and tired. His hands gripped her tightly, the dance moving on as if it had never been interrupted at all. She was too dazed and sapped to even register that she was still dancing, really; her feet were on auto-pilot. His Craft, faintly activated, seemed to seep through her skin, the glow within her and in her mind. "Where have you…"

"Observing," he answered shortly. "Robin." He was studying her unfocused gaze, scrutinizing. "What happened between you and that man?"

"A battle," Robin answered, faintly. "Amon, where have you been? You've missed everything—tonight, I figured it all out—"

His gaze hovered between even, very quietly hurt, and oddly knowing and proud. They were still dancing, Robin looking up and over at his conflicted face in confusion. "You can tell me about it on the way back to the hotel."

"But where were you?" He hadn't answered her question; it wasn't as if she was worried that he was off doing something nefarious, something in league with the committee, she simply wanted to know for herself in hopes of assuaging her hurt at his absence.

"You managed to do fine without me," he replied, firmly, enigmatically. "You said it yourself—you figured it all out." Abruptly he stopped leading her and ushered her off the floor hastily, face cool and unreadable. "We've overstayed our welcome. It's time to go."

Halfway to the others, Nagira confronted them from the crowd. He glared at Amon, who stared back, unaffected.

"'Bout damn time," the lawyer snapped, sticking a cigarette in his mouth. "Let's blow this joint."

……………………………………….

A/N: Wow. Holy hell, 38 pages. I didn't mean for this to be so long, but it kind of ended up happening anyway. If only I wasn't so damned long-winded, it probably wouldn't have.

OHNOES. The plot thickens. Sadly, next chapter will probably be just as long and rambling, because within it the plot thickens even more. Eek.

So, uh, yeah. Good stuff. Betrayals and moments of teenage awkwardness and shaving and dreams about sex and Viennese waltzing! Whee!

Amon, the randomly-abandoning asshole! Nagira, the patience-wearing-thin random human guy! Robin, the spine-growing possibly schizophrenic Eve of Witches! AND OTHERS AS WELL! …uh, in the next chapter. Yes.