Sabbath had a natural instinct for commanding others, but she did prefer to be alone. Living in cramped quarters with Schwarz had come close to driving her insane in just a couple of days (of course, Schuldich's little stunt contributed greatly to that – Sabbath would never forget the feeling of having all of NYC in her head), and so she was taking some time off for herself to do her magickal shopping. She might encounter The One's agents, she knew, but she was so desperate to be by herself that it was a risk she was willing to take. Magick versus Psionics . . if this had been Dungeons and Dragons, the psions would have won easily because she had no defense whatsoever against their power. But this was not a game world, and she did have a defense, because magickal defenses COULD keep out psychic intrusion.

Bringing Ray's soul back to his body was not the only thing she planned to accomplish, and thus, that was not the only spell she was shopping for.

The Black Kettle was actually a coffee shop, at least as far as most people knew. They sold delicious herbal teas and natural remedies, a hip and somewhat hippy hang-out for college students. Near the back was a small door, the window painted over with white paint and a small sign taped to it that read "upstairs, Craft". Sabbath took this door and closed it behind her, ascending the rickety steps to the loft. The scent of pungent herbs assaulted her, but these were familiar friends and she breathed deeply, gaining energy with every step. Finally she vaulted up into the second story, surrounded on all sides by overflowing bookshelves, and began to browse.

The bookshelves were a veritable maze, but she found her way through them easily, pausing to wistfully pick up a book of charms before shaking her head and putting it back. She had business here to conduct and she needed to keep herself focused. She found a table divided into sections with multi-colored semi-precious stones piled high in each section. Her fingers sifted through them and they slid around her hands, cool and glass-like. Nearby were stacked similar stones, but these were carved into simple geometric shapes. She selected a circle of obsidian about the size of her palm and a small oval of quartz, and a round mirror a little larger than it. On a whim, she snatched up a piece of lapis about the size and shape of an eye and slipped that into her little sack as well. She selected several baggies of crumbled leaves, incense, and spent some time mulling over candles. Then, finally, she browsed the shelves until she found several books that looked like they might contain some genuine information about psionicism. She didn't bother looking at the total that showed on the receipt for her check card. She didn't want to know, and besides, this was more important than mere money. The two bags she carried from the store were heavy with purchases and she walked quickly, head up and alert as she made her way back toward the hotel, humming Union Underground to herself. She wanted to stop for coffee, but she knew she couldn't afford it, not with The One dodging her steps. She'd need her altar and her materials, but she'd take one of Schwarz with her to go get those. Probably Farfarello, since he was really the only one she'd trust to help her get the heavy white-pine chest back to their headquarters. Crawford would pump her for information the entire way and Nagi… well, she trusted Nagi just fine, but she got the feeling he'd rather be left alone. Besides, she liked Farf. And she had a certain odd fascination with watching him. He moved in such an alien way, it never ceased to amuse her, though her random giggling outbursts did seem to confuse the poor madman just a bit.

She'd made it most of the way back to the hotel before her sixth sense warned her that she was in danger. She stopped and put her back to the wall, closing her eyes briefly and stretching out her senses. Her nerves jangled more toward the opposite side of the street, so she focused on it, called on the spirits of the air to speed her, and took off running down the sidewalk. She was not a fast runner, but she seemed to fly through the crowd, twisting and whirling to get around people. Her footsteps didn't even to touch the ground long enough to make a sound, and as she dodged the crowds, she couldn't possibly misstep. Bless you, Hermes, She thought with amusement as she careened wildly through the throng of people. She could see the sign that marked the hotel already. But then shouts from the other side of the street began to filter into her awareness. She hooked a hand around a street lamp and swung around to look, jaw dropping as she continued her swing and pulled a perfect pivot around the pole to continue on her way. On the other side of the street was a suited man with blank eyes. Chasing her. PACING her.

Kineticist, she realized as she bolted for the steps of the hotel. Once she got inside, she'd be safe. The One didn't like attention from non-psis. They wouldn't dare follow her farther, especially not with Eszet lurking in the hotel. Unless, of course, they caught up to her here. On a crowded street, but with alleys nearby into which to drag her and native New Yorkers, who weren't at all liable to call the police.

Of course, she could get help. Schuldich wouldn't be able to miss a telepathic call. But she wasn't about to submit herself to the whims of that red-headed sadist. Her sleeve was tugged and she realized with shock that this kineticist's increased momentum had carried him right up to her. She dug her boots in and the thick soles caught on the concrete even as she twisted aside and ducked, an acrobatic maneuver that sent the Collective's lunge flying over her head. He missed her by nothing and his clothes brushed hers as he hurtled past. Sabbath almost turned to run the other way, but she couldn't outrun this creature and most definitely couldn't fight it. A kineticist could steal the power from her attacks and add it to his own, could speed his fists so that they did more harm, could even excite the motion of the atoms that made up her body enough that she would combust, if he was skilled enough. Of course, he hadn't already done that, so she was hoping he couldn't. None the less, the abilities he WOULD have would easily kill her.

Except that she had one or two aces up her sleeve. First, a bit of simple glamour to get most of these people to back off. She held her hands out to her sides slightly, palms tilted down, fingers clawed. Her head lolled back and her shoulders rolled, and even as they did so, she FELT immense, black-feathered wings unfold from her back and her hair tear free of its tie as she was sheathed in a flowing black and purple robe, and her eyes glowed with violet light. It was just an illusion, of course, and only those with The Sight would be able to see it fully. But the sense of power and intimidation would affect everyone in the area, and already people were murmuring and backing away from her. It didn't effect the kineticist at all, and he stalked her methodically. She could feel the buzz of his aura as it crackled with restrained energy. Were they going to have a knock-down, drag-out fight in the middle of the city? Well, if he was game, so was she. She mentally began to pray, and she knew EXACTLY who to pray to in this situation.

Kali Ma, Dark Mother from whom we all came and to whom we will all return . .

The kineticist came on and Sabbath only had a split second to react. He was supernaturally fast, but Sabbath had survived high school physics and years and years of comic book fandom. Speed was all well and good, but it was too easy to use momentum against someone. She didn't bother trying to dodge much, just twisted to the side, sweeping her 'wings' down for momentum and bringing her clasped fists down on the man's neck as he lurched past her. He made a grunting sound and stumbled and she grabbed his coat tails, pulling herself in a tight circle and down on top of him as she hooked an ankle around his foot. Not graceful, not at all, but her fighting style wasn't that. She was a roller and tussler and she needed her prey on the ground. So she had him, and she squeezed his body between her thighs as hard as she could to hang on and tangled her fingers in his hair, lifting his head and driving it down as hard as she could into the concrete. She got in two good blows that stained the sidewalk with blood before he caught on and started using his power to absorb the momentum of the blows. He was storing it to release at her in a blast that would sear her skin like fire and set her cells aflame. She couldn't afford to wait for it, so she pulled his head back. He didn't resist that, since it was the downward motion he'd need to absorb, and the harder she worked, the more she fed his own power.

Heh. So much for that idea. Had he been a telepath, he would have known better. She twisted and sank her teeth into his neck, nuzzling as she bit and searching for a pulse. He started to thrash and she growled as she found something that throbbed under her tongue. For an instant, she paused. The Collective were human beings, like any other. They breathed. They had pulses. They had just been taken over by this dark force, but that didn't make them any less people. Somewhere they had souls. Could she really tear out this man's throat as if he was a rabbit and she a cat?

And then something wicked and primal welled in her and she dug her teeth in deep. Her mouth filled with blood and the creature let out a groan. If it had been capable of independent thought, it probably WOULD have screamed, but the groan of many voices was the typical dying keen of The Collective. She clenched her jaw, felt something made of cartilage give under her teeth, and tore up and outward. Blood spurted wildly and she shoved herself back, then cursed. Some psychics could heal, and if he had that Gift, or if a Healer was around . . . .

One wasn't and he didn't. He was still as his life bled onto the pavement below. Sabbath cast a panicked look around and realized that nobody was on the street anywhere nearby, and those people several streets down who were walking didn't look her way. How had the entire area emptied so fast? She got her answer when Schuldich's nasal voice joined her frantic heartbeat in an assault on her ears.

"Well, that was only mildly conspicuous. You'd better thank whatever you believe in that Crawford saw this coming and ordered me to save your hide. I'd have left you to be arrested." The German lounged against the side of the building near the door and Farfarello was at his side, moving toward her. She bared bloodstained teeth at Schuldich, which actually seemed to startle him just a bit, and growled low in her throat as she shoved herself to her feet and snatched up her bags. She shifted both of them into one hand and shouldered her way past Farfarello, toward the lobby.

"I wouldn't," Schuldich said slyly. "You're covered in blood, or didn't you notice? And I don't particularly feel like clouding their minds. So many people, one might just . . slip through, ja?"

She stopped and hiked an eyebrow at him. "Well, then, maybe we should just give you to The Collective if you're that useless," she said flatly. "It's one thing to overpower one little girl who has no mental shields and can't erect them, but four or five bored hotel workers is obviously too much. I'm sure Crawford will see it that way too."

Schuldich's lapis-blue eyes narrowed at the blatant threat. "Hiding behind the Oracle's skirts? THAT'S brave of you," he sneered. "And don't think Crawford's very happy with you, liebling. You snuck off without telling anyone . . .shame, shame," he chastised with a wicked grin. "What was so important, shopping?"

"Actually," Sabbath told him archly, "I have a plan. To destroy the Collective entirely."

"And it will have to wait," Schuldich told her gleefully. "We're moving to a better location. We're supposed to stop by wherever you live in the meantime in case there's anything you need."

It was Sabbath's turn to be surprised, but she took it with grace. "There most definitely is, but first we have to make it upstairs." She whirled and headed toward the staff entrance to the hotel, where there was a stairway up that wouldn't take them past any security. Schuldich sighed at the prospect of twenty-something flights of stairs. "Farf, go with her," he said boredly. "I'm taking the elevator."

Farfarello smirked and stalked after Sabbath, movements as graceful as a tiger's.

It took him the entire alley and a flight of stairs to catch up to her. She was flying, feet light as feathers on the ground, and even to his carefully trained ears, her footsteps made no sound at all. She was taking the stairs at a run, two at a time, but he was taller and had a longer stride and eventually he was matching her. She paused on the fifteenth floor to rest and smirked at him as she tried to wipe the blood from her chin and only smeared it on her forearm. She looked more like a vampire than a witch then. "Did I make you proud of me, Farf?" she inquired with a devilish wink, and he couldn't help a slit-eyed smile. "Ug." She examined the streaks of blood on her arm and let out a sigh of irritation. "It itches."

He was familiar with the sensation and he caught the wrist of her stained arm, sliding the packages off of it. She raised an eyebrow, obviously wondering as to his motives. She'd been telling the truth about having no shielding on her mind whatsoever. He had no telepathic abilities whatsoever and he could almost read her mind himself. Of course, she also didn't have much of a poker face.

And the blood showed so beautifully stark against her flawless skin. He lifted her wrist and pushed her back, pinning her between him and the wall. For half an instant, fear flashed in her face, but Sabbath took her fear and used it for strength and she raised a knee threateningly. "What are you up to now?"

Of course he didn't answer, but his actions were answer enough. Pressing her body against the cheap plaster, he leaned in and ran his tongue up the underside of her arm.

He wasn't expecting her reaction. Her heart thumped hard and she convulsed, and suddenly he and the wall were the only things holding her up. A gasp tore from her throat. "Farf, I understand that you like blood, but I have a vampire fetish. Don't DO that," she pleaded.

"Do . . . ?" He regarded her quietly for a moment, eye wide and golden. "Do this?" This time he led with his teeth, but he didn't bite, just play-ravaged her wrist, nibbling the blood off of it. Hot still, coppery, and sweet, with the slightest pungent tint he smelled on her. Herbs, powerful ones. He liked the taste, he decided, and bit down lightly on the inside of her wrist.

Sabbath let out a wild cry and sagged against him, her free hand tangling in his short-cropped hair. Her body shook and he was both shocked and amused. This was all it took to undo her, the black angel who'd spread her wings and sent throngs of people running with only a mental nudge from Schuldich to speed them on their way, the woman-cat who tore out a man's throat with her teeth? It seemed too childishly simple, and yet to him, it was significant. How many women, nuns, virgins, and faithful mothers, had he drained in just such a way? By digging in his teeth to their throats or their soft wrists and drinking the life out of them? Such a connection was beyond intimate. It went past the physical and emotional and into the spiritual, taking these lives, drinking their terror and their cries like honey mead. They always felt defiled by his touch, but not so the witch. She fought against his grip and told him sharply to stop it but he held on and methodically cleaned the last of the metallic fluid from her arm with his tongue and teeth. By the time he finished, they'd slumped to the floor and she was clutching his hair and shaking, curled into a ball. He regarded her glazed-over eyes and pale cheeks and she twitched, hard.

He smiled.

Setting the bags he'd taken to the side, he wrapped a hand in her hair and pulled her head back. He expected her to resist, but she did not, and he first attended to the smear of blood on her chin and lips. She sucked in a breath as he nipped at her chin and then pressed his own bloodied lips to hers.

Rape was a crime abhorrent to God, and thus he had engaged in it on several occasions. He had noticed that men and women tasted subtly different, though both could be pleasant in their own ways. Something of their own personalities always bled through. Schu, for example, tasted slightly mad with a tinge of electricity. Farfarello always felt just a little drugged after a few passionate hours with the telepath. Of course, Schuldich had so many drugs in his system, it was hard to tell where his power-induced mania stopped and the leftover ecstasy began. Sabbath was another story entirely. She fairly thrummed with power, not psychic power, but an aura of authority and mysticism. Schuldich tasted like lightening, neither controlled nor controllable, but Sabbath tasted like bread baking and freshly ground herbs and cool starlit nights and pine forests. She returned the pressure and he smelled fire and burning leaves against her skin and fresh-fallen snow at the crease where her lips met. And, of course, blood. She was tasting that on him too, and showing no disgust. Their lips broke and he sucked at small patches of skin, from her mouth down to her jaw line. He had more in store, though, and he ducked his head and sucked hard at a dribble of gore that had slid down that gracefully curved throat.

She cried out and her entire body ached up against his as her head thunked against the wall behind her. Her fingers were knotted too tightly in his hair, but it went without saying that he barely noticed. Her skin was so soft, and just a bit sticky with blood, and he finally pinned down what she tasted and smelled like: spiced honey. It was warmth and kick and sweetness all in one. He worked her throat with lips and teeth and relished her helpless convulsions. Schu had a couple sweet spots, but nothing that could to THIS to him. It was a rather . . enchanting . . experience. No pun intended of course.

He was thoroughly enjoying himself and utterly surprised when she found the strength to twist out of his grip and slide under his arm, tumbling onto her ass and hands as she twitched repeatedly and watched him, warily. "Enough," she told him, breathing hard, and he simply inclined his head and folded his legs under him, watching her amusedly.

She shook her head. "You ass," she chuckled, rubbing her neck vigorously to rid herself of the feel of his mouth. "There's a wonderful thing to have to explain. 'Hey, witch, how'd you get a hickey between the street and the room?' And then me: 'Um… well… Farf bites.' THAT'LL go over well . . ."

He flashed his teeth at her. "But I do bite," he said smoothly. "Often. They all know that, it comes from drawing straws to see who fastens my straightjacket on at night."

She burst into laughter. "They put you in a straightjacket at night? WHY? Well . . . okay, I know why. But I mean, they're your group. Would you really kill them in the night?"

"I have better things to do at night," Farfarello told her solemnly. "Thinking and sleeping, to name two."

She smiled. "Sounds like my nights. But seriously. Do you want them dead?"

"Crawford would look rather appealing if he was impaled from mouth to rectum on a spike, but I don't have plans to accomplish that anytime soon," he said flatly.

She snickered wildly. "I saw something like that once, in a movie," she told him. "Impaled on a spike and hung horizontally from the ceiling. I think I scared my family when I couldn't stop laughing."

He raised an eyebrow. "Where is your family?."

She smirked. "Cleveland, Ohio. I came up here this year, for college. I'm a really poor student, though, and I dropped out after about a month. Doesn't matter, though. I really didn't belong in Cleveland."

"Where do you belong?" he asked, as though he asked this of people every day and expected a quick and confident answer.

"No idea," she told him wryly. "I find kindred spirits, you know… around, but it's never really right. Not the right coven or the right group of psions. Which is weird. You'd think I'd belong with SOME group." She seemed about to say more, but shut her mouth quickly. She'd almost startled rambling, something she did at the slightest provocation, and even she didn't have the patience for that at the moment. Doubtful Farf did.

But to her obvious surprise, he was watching her with curiosity that was both innocent and predatory at once. "Go on," he told her, his voice cool.

"I'm too normal for the Goths and too gothic for the Normals. I'm too stupid for the nerds and not dedicated enough for the geeks. I don't belong anywhere. I don't . . FIT. No matter where I join, I have to be a leader or we can't find a place for me, but I don't want to lead. I'm strong of will and personality, but I don't like having people look up to me. It's unbelievably frustrating, like I don't have a true place in the world. Even my family couldn't make a place for me. The only place I belong is at Kali's right hand, and that certainly doesn't give me a place in ordered society. Civilization abhors destruction and that's what I do best." She blinked, then chuckled. "I guess we're not different much."

He smiled. "No, we are not." He tilted his head up, suddenly, like a cat who'd heard the scratching of a mouse, and unfolded from his sitting position gracefully. "We should go. They'll be angry." He offered her a hand.

Pure foolishness to get any closer to this madman, Sabbath thought briefly, but then again, in the time since she'd met him, she'd behaved more insanely than he did by far. She took his wrist and he pulled her easily to her feet.

X-X-X

Calan strode into Cross's apartment without so much as a greeting and made himself at home on the couch, leaning over the coffee table and spreading his tarot deck with a flick of his wrist. He was tall, with skin the pallid color of too little sun. His hair was long, brushing his thighs, and silvery blonde, pulled back with a band. He wore an everyday sort of suit, the top buttons of his shirt undone and his tie loose. Reading glasses crowned his nose and he smirked at Cross from his position over the cards.

"Care for a reading?" he inquired mischievously, and Cross rolled his eyes.

"I've got something better for you to read," he said dryly, waving the file folder that contained Kritiker's briefing at Calan.

The blonde hiked an eyebrow. "Oh, really. What could be more riveting than the future of someone as unpredictable as you?"

Cross laughed. "I'm perfectly predictable and I'm sure my future isn't too much to look at. Death, sex, the summer's hot movie, death, sex, some partying, death and sex."

Calan flipped over a card and chuckled. "Oh. Heh. Pretty much. You should go light on the death though, it's not good for life."

"My life is about death," Cross said negligently, walking over and sitting on the couch across from Calan with his arms spread lazily across the back. "So how much did Kritiker tell you?"

"Hmph. No more than usual… just a little more than nothing and not quite nada."

Cross laughed. "Sorry about that. Here's what they gave me… you'll be pleased. It's at least two steps above nada." He nodded solemnly and set the file down between them, flipping open the cover and turning it so they could both read it. "Schwarz. It's German for 'black', though I'm sure you knew that. By all reports, they're one of Eszet's best teams running, undefeated, loyal, and deadly as all hell." He flipped one page and tapped a picture of a severe-looking man with glasses, black hair, and a slightly wicked glint to his narrowed blue eyes. "Brad Crawford, codename: Oracle. Precognitive." He flipped that page and pointed to a picture of a blue-eyed devil with spiky orange hair who had committed the fashion travesty of wearing dark green with that hair color. "Schuldich. Codename: Mastermind. Telepath." The next picture, a lanky man with short white hair, one golden eye, a black eye-patch, and a delicately beautiful face trisected by three deep scars, soon stared up at Calan. "Farfarello. Codename: Berserker. Immunity to pain. And Naoe Nagi, codename: Prodigy, hacker and telekinetic." This picture indicated a slender youth with dark brown hair and solemn blue eyes.

Calan picked up Crawford's picture and smiled. "Wow, I think I like him," he murmured, then gave Cross a teasing look. "In a purely professional manner."

Cross laughed and tapped Schuldich's picture again. "Nah. Fellow red-heads are more my style. They tend to have a sense of humor, even if this one dresses like an idiot."

Calan pointed at Farf. "Thought you liked the strong silent type."

Cross laughed and shook his head. "No, I never have," he corrected, casting a glance toward the bedroom door, behind which Yuka was taking a shower. "I like people who are vivacious. You know, the ones who laugh and blush and fly into rages." He shrugged. "Anyway, you didn't come here to drool over pictures with me. These four have been an established team for two years now. They've been giving another Kritiker team by the name of Weiß some trouble in Tokyo, and their 'boss' is Reiji Takatori, head of Takatori Enterprises and the Jingen party, which stands a good chance of winning this year's elections." He paused and gave Calan a weighty look. "Which would make Takatori, and by him, Schwarz, and by THEM, Eszet… the leaders of Japan."

Calan gave him a dry look. "So they want us to clean up Weiß's mess."

Cross sighed and raked his hands through his hair. "You know how Kritiker feels about psychic powers," he said quietly. "The organization as a whole refuses to officially believe they even exist. Eszet is a cult to them, a bunch of drug-enhanced, power-hungry madmen and nothing more. But you and I know differently. Unless I miss my guess, Weiß would share Kritiker's reluctance to believe in the supernatural, so they'd never really allow themselves to prepare for an enemy of this caliber. We're different." He smiled slightly at Calan, a knowing smile of wry camaraderie. "We've seen things like this before."

Calan's fingers nimbly plucked a card from the top of his deck and held it upright, facing Cross. Cross took a look and laughed; the Devil card. "Damned right, we have," the blonde affirmed.

Cross nodded. "So. Kritiker doesn't have any other information on Schwarz. There's some stuff in here about Takatori, but he isn't our target. He's not the real threat. Even if we can only kill one or two of them, it would give Weiß a chance to finish the rest of them off."

"You know, if they're as good as they say, it'd be a real shame to kill them, wouldn't it?"

"It's what we're getting paid for," Cross said flippantly. "Unless you have a better plan?"

He shrugged. "If they're really that good, I might get a rush out of this mission. You know, I miss that."

Cross grinned wickedly. "We could always find you a different kind of rush," he said silkily, but he was only teasing. Calan was as straight as an arrow, and though neither of them minded the other's orientation, they teased each other about it a great deal.

"Er, I think I'll just stick to poking people with my sword," Calan said, and when Cross's wicked grin deepened, he amended, "not THAT one."

Cross laughed. "You're no fun. You should give it a try, Cal. Might get rid of some of that boredom. Anyway, we're supposed to gather information too, and assassinations aren't expected. So do what you want, you know… as long as we talk to each other. Me, I think I know where to start." He smirked at the folder darkly.

Calan gathered his deck together, stood, and headed for the door. "Okay," he said cheerfully, then turned and winked at Cross. "You evil, evil man."

"That's me," Cross agreed gamely, folding his hands behind his head and propping his feet on the coffee table. "The incarnation of wickedness. Or was it lust?" He winked back, then tilted his head. "Sure you won't stay? I'll even be all domestic and cook you dinner. Or grab you something to drink."

Calan considered the invitation, then shook his head. "No thanks. I'd rather lounge and relax a little with a good book. Maybe one about psychic powers. I'll call you tomorrow morning to see what your plan is."

Cross nodded. "Goodnight then."

Calan stepped out and closed the door quietly behind him.

Cross shook his head slowly and started to stand up, when the door to the bedroom cracked open and Yuka peeked out. "I didn't want to disturb you," he said, flushing slightly as he pulled the door the rest of the way open and stepped quickly out.

Cross smiled warmly at him. "Not a chance. It was just Calan… you've met him before, remember?"

"That guy you have business with sometimes," Yuka said, nodding faintly. "I remember."

Cross stood and stretched. "You ready for dinner? I'm hungry, personally. Wish Calan'd stayed… I was going to make pork chops." He shook his head in chagrin and then grinned at Yuka. "Oh well. More for us, eh kanojo?"

Yuka beamed. "Hai, Korossu-kun!"

X-X-X