Schuldich liked working with Farfarello. The Irishman was focused, efficient, and mentally quiet. The population of New York City battered at his shields but he brushed the voices aside with the aid of long practice and concentrated on the target at hand. The man had surrounded himself with bodyguards, but he had not involved the police. A wise decision, since the police would only have been more bodies for the undertaker to remove later. Schuldich brushed against the mental connection he had established with Farfarello and received an amused affirmation from the Irishman. He was waiting on the roof for Schuldich's signal. Down in the lobby, lounging on the couch, Schuldich let his head fall back and expanded his mental awareness, searching for this man, the one their employer wanted dead.

Christopher Jarris was his name, and he was a sly, manipulative bastard who thought he would be able to pull the wool over Reiji Takatori's eyes regarding his subtle attempts to take greater control over this branch of the company. Of course, there was no fooling Takatori when there was a telepath working for him. Schuldich's features melted into a satisfied smirk as he searched through the building, hunting for that single mind, that single name.

He found it on the fortieth floor, in the middle of a conference. Hm, he would prefer this to be a clean assassination. Better to wait until the man was out of the meeting. Scanning the minds present, he realized that the meeting wouldn't be over for another two hours at least. He didn't particularly feel like waiting that long, so he worked his magic over those minds subtly, making several of them desperately thirsty, one of them want to call his wife, and a couple of them, the target included, need to go to the bathroom. In the target's mind, he slipped the suggestion that now might be a good time for a break.

He didn't have to wait long. In the meantime, he filled Farfarello in on the target's location and started upstairs himself, taking the elevator. Nobody noticed the tall, fiery-haired German walking past the front desk, past the security, past the secretary. They did not notice because he didn't want them to notice. To them, he did not exist.

Telepathy could be one hell of a formidable Gift.

He monitored the progress of the meeting as he rode the elevator upward, filling Farfarello in on the target's location and the circumstances under which he would encounter the man. He felt Farfarello pause for a split instant and then spring from his position, moving with deadly focus down through the skeleton of the building, through air ducts and abandoned hallways until he was on the fortieth floor and creeping through the shadows toward the bathrooms. In the amount of time it took the Irishman to do that, Schuldich made the fortieth floor himself. The elevator dinged and he stepped out into the clean, carpeted hallway. It was efficiently decorated in light pastels that relaxed the eye. Schuldich sneered at it as he moved toward the bathroom area, hands in the pockets of his forest-green overcoat, shiny black shoes silent on the thin carpet. His mind guided him, but it was also with Christopher Jarris as the man moved quickly toward his private bathroom with the desperate need to urinate, and with Jarris's friends as they dispersed to various locations, and with Farfarello as he slipped into the private office and melted into the shadows, waiting there. The target was entirely clueless, and Schuldich smiled.

Go ahead, he instructed Farfarello. Enjoy yourself. I'll cover you.

He felt a wash of insane glee and paused, laying a hand on the wall for support as it rocked him back on his heels. He allowed himself to bask in it for a long moment, feeling it intensely as Farfarello moved in on the target, fingering a knife. He cast another mental scan around and smirked as he found each conference member, scattered around that floor, none of them near Jarris' private office. And then the smirk faded. There was someone there… two someones… and one was a QUIET MIND….

Farfarello! he called as he broke into a run. Stop! Abort mission! Abort mission, it's a trap!

He felt Farfarello's momentary surprise, felt the rise of the killer inside the psychopath's mind as, in the office just outside the bathroom door, Farfarello stopped and slowly straightened, casting his senses out, breathing deeply as he tried to use his own, purely human senses to detect any intrusion. Blackness, evil, coiled deep in his mind and then welled up and Schuldich withdrew to a safe psychic distance before Farfarello's bloodlust could overwhelm him.

X-X-X

Farfarello's single golden eye traced slowly over the room, exploring the shadows, any darkness that might hide an enemy. No one was in the room with him. He was confident of that. But outside the room….

His other hand found another knife, a long one, as he switched the one in his right hand for one of equal length. Wickedly curved, serrated, and razor-sharp, they were almost short swords with slender blades. He fell into a ready position, tense, breathing through clenched teeth, eye wide and pupil a single pinprick of darkness in those golden depths. Bloodlust was written in his entire frame, in every taunt muscle.

The window exploded inward, shattered by two dark, human-sized forms that hurtled through it. Farfarello took two steps back, placing his back solidly against the wall. One of them was about six feet tall, with sunset-red hair and a sly expression, dressed in black cargo pants, boots, and a black overcoat with a thick red crucifix design on the front. Farf felt his blood boil. The other wore black as well, pants and a sleeveless, high-necked shirt, gloves, and a mask that covered the lower half of his face. His hair was spiky and blonde, held back with a black band, and his eyes were hard and blue. Both men held swords, the redhead a longsword and the blonde a positively MASSIVE greatsword.

Schuldich wasn't giving him orders. Schuldich had withdrawn from his mind, leaving Farfarello alone. He eyed the two of them briefly. Kritiker? It seemed likely. The door was to his right, only a couple feet. He held the knives up in defense and inched toward it, but just then, the bathroom door opened and the target strode out.

"What is going on?" the man demanded, and a red haze rose over Farfarello's vision.

Neutralize the target. Neutralize the target. Neutralize the target.

KILL HIM! Schuldich's voice was frantic. I'll handle those two, you kill the target and get the hell out of here, Farf!

Farfarello didn't hesitate. He sprang toward the target even as Schuldich reached out and slowed the two Kritiker agents' perceptions, making it look to them like Farf was moving at super speed. He slashed the two knives across the target, slicing him at the throat and stomach, and kept moving even as the blonde came down, swinging that mighty sword with rather amazing speed even though Schuldich was slowing him down and cleaving the body in half as Farf dropped under the swing and scrambled on all fours toward the shattered window.

The blonde pulled around, continuing his swing and using the momentum to leap toward Farf. The sword came around and slammed into the ground even as Farfarello skidded to a stop and threw himself into a side roll as the heavy blade cleaved through the carpet and floor structure and the blonde's body continued its momentum, landing on the opposite side of the sword even as Farf tried a different route to the window.

Through all this, the redhead stood, hand on the hilt of his longsword, watching the door. Waiting.

The blonde tore his sword free from the floor and dragged it under, snapping it up across Farf's body. Farf fell backward, the knife lying along his forearm held underhand, striking the underside of the blonde's sword with the blade and knocking it somewhat off-strike. That left him grossly off-balance as the blonde continued the motion, twisting around and lashing out with his foot. Farf tried to roll even further back and strike out with a booted foot, but the blonde's foot connected solidly with his chest and sent him skidding backward and tumbling. Farfarello hissed and twisted, catlike, scrambling to his feet. He'd try once more, but he was beginning to forget his order to flee. He wanted to hurt something, and it wasn't in his nature to run from a confrontation. The blonde was between him and the window, blocking his escape, and he backed up slowly, placing his back against the wall again. That baleful pinprick of darkness in a mad golden sea pinpointed his enemy, and a sliver of tongue ran slowly across his lips.

"Kritiker," he said quietly, mouth twisting into a grin. "God's wolves… hunting the dark beasts to protect His flock…."

The blonde paused, threw his head back, and laughed, which confused Farfarello. "Not Kritiker?" he tried again.

"Hired by Kritiker, just enjoying myself," the blonde told him, readjusting his grip on the greatsword.

Farfarello considered that for a moment, then smirked. "It doesn't matter. You do God's work. Come, send me to his arms! Bring me face to face with my enemy!" He was laughing quietly, madly, slowly stepping along the wall and trying to maneuver himself into a better position.

The blonde brought that massive sword around and Farfarello managed to duck and throw himself into a forward roll just before the blade tore through plaster and wood, carving a thick gash in the wall. He came up on one knee, whirling and slashing both knives across the backs of the blonde's legs, looking to hamstring him. But the blonde wasn't there when the twin blades arrived, and when Farf twisted back to his feet and looked up, the blonde was on his feet, standing off to the side with the sword at ready. Despite the mask, it was fairly obvious that he was smirking.

"You laugh," Farfarello muttered, sliding his fingers into his vest and coming free with several better-balanced knives. He leaped backward and onto the desk, crouching and flinging a half dozen blades in the blonde's direction. He was too fast though, sidestepping cleanly and moving in on Farfarello, forcing him to back-somersault off the desk before the sword smashed it into kindling. With the sword down, Farfarello flung himself at his opponent, letting out a war-whoop as his original two blades reached out, hungry for the blonde's flesh.

The blonde twisted the blade so that the flat of it was facing Farfarello and levered the sword up. The blade was taller than the man himself and Farf's eye widened as he barely managed to get his knees and feet up and under him. His boots hit the blade and slipped off around it and he slammed into the flat of the sword, dropping to the floor in a tangled heap.

Toying with him. The blonde swordsman was TOYING with him. Farfarello let out a scream of rage as he tried to get back to his feet, throwing himself at the blonde, all strategy forgotten. The blonde pulled the blade free as Farf got his feet under him and stepped back, bringing the sword around his head. Farf closed the distance between them, knife slashing through the blonde's shirt and drawing a thick line of blood just before the blade – again, just the flat of the sword – slammed into his shoulder and sent him flying across the room. The carpet tore layers of skin from him as he skidded across it and he felt the peculiar shifting under his skin that meant broken ribs. His arm had not broken, and he tightened his grip on the knife and took two running steps, hurtling toward the swordsman again, screaming his rage as his muscles tensed, anticipating metal through flesh, splatters of blood, the snapping of bones.

"I liked this shirt," the blonde told him evenly, gripping the sword's pommel and bringing it up and across. It slammed into Farf's side, knocking him cleanly out of the air. He smacked into the wall, leaving a hole in the plaster the shape of his body, and crumpled to the floor. For a moment, everything was still.

The blonde was no idiot. He waited patiently, sword at the ready.

The pile of plaster shifted and swelled as Farfarello picked himself up, staggering slightly as he found his balance. He was panting, breathing gutturally, bleeding from numerable places. His body seemed to hang unnaturally, like a puppet with several cut strings. A trickle of blood trailed from his lips, down the line of the scar on his chin. His tongue flicked out and lapped it up.

The blonde didn't move, except to glance at the redhead and raise an eyebrow. The redhead nodded toward the door just as it was flung open and a green and flame-orange blur burst in. At that same moment, Farfarello snarled and rushed the blonde in a full tackle. The sword came up and around, but this time Farfarello leaped over the swing that had been intended for his pelvis, and one boot touched down on the edge of the blade as he slammed into the blonde's chest and latched on, nails tearing into the blonde's skin. His knives had been knocked from his hands at some point, though he surely had more, but now he latched his teeth into the blonde's shoulder and tore, seeking blood.

The blonde was unbelievably strong. Stronger than Farfarello, and Farf was potent for his slim frame. His fingers knotted in Farfarello's hair and he gave the flustered Schuldich an annoyed look before tearing Farfarello from his body (and losing a chunk of his own shoulder at the same time) and almost casually tossing the Irishman at the telepath. Schu slid aside and Farfarello hit the doorframe and slumped momentarily.

Schuldich wasn't paying attention. His eyes were fixed on the redhead. "Cross," he said slowly, a dangerous smirk spreading across his face.

The redhead nodded quietly, a slightly sheepish smile gracing his handsome features. "I'm afraid so," he said lightly. "Nothing personal, but we were hoping to get here before there was a death…." He glanced at the corpse.

Schuldich eyed the corpse also and sneered, one hand clamping on Farfarello's hair as the maniac tried to get to his feet again. "Well, you failed," he noted. "So what's the point of continuing this farce? You've already lost."

"I wouldn't consider this particular situation 'losing'," the blonde, Calan, pointed out smugly.

Schuldich shrugged. Get out of here, Farf, he commanded, and was met with a curtain of bloody rage in response. Curling his upper lip slightly, he bore down on Farf's mind, searching for a hold in the mind of the elusive psychopath. But there was no curbing that rage, so he tried to redirect it. God's children await your justice down the hall. The conference members, Farf. Kill them. Hurt God.

It wasn't working. Farfarello's fingers curled around Schuldich's wrist and squeezed, grinding the bones together. It hurt like hell, but Schu kept the pain from his face. "Fine. You beat the hell out of an insane man. Congratulations," he sneered. "And YOU, Kreuz… how the HELL did you pull this off, if I may ask? I searched your mind. I found nothing."

Cross smiled at him. "You were expecting shields. But I don't shield, Schuldich. I veil."

Understanding hit Schuldich like a freight train and he threw his head back to laugh. "Oh, how rich," he crooned, eyeing Cross and smirking lustily. "But don't you know it's unprofessional to mix business and pleasure?"

Calan snorted and sheathed his sword, and Farfarello lunged toward him, but Schuldich was faster, catching the scruff of Farf's shirt and hauling him back.

Cross chuckled. "Who said I'm mixing anything? Fight today, fuck tomorrow, fight tomorrow, fuck the next day…. It can be a good pattern." He grinned rakishly.

Schuldich laughed. Kitten has claws of his own, he mused to himself, smirking wickedly at Cross as the other redhead faced him, entirely ready and yet entirely at ease, his mind still blessedly quiet as he watched Schuldich and waited for his reaction, a warm smile teasing at his lips.

Schuldich flicked a strand of hair back from his face. "I didn't realize Kritiker could afford guys like you," he said quietly, his voice a silken caress.

Calan laughed. "Normally, they can't. I guess they've been saving up. Though actually, since we're not planning on killing any of you in the nearby future, this is something of a freebie."

Schuldich's smirk was deadly. "Never plan when it comes to Schwarz. You'll lose."

"Hard for us to lose when you don't even know what we're fighting for," Cross said pointedly.

"You're fighting for the second-rate enemy." The German sounded amused. "You could do a lot better, you know. I'm sure Eszet could pay you more."

Cross just laughed, and so did Calan, at the very idea of that.

"Can you blame me for trying?" Schuldich asked dryly.

Cross snorted. "Actually, yes, seeing as you're not exactly loyal Eszet yourself." His black eyes turned serious and he glanced at Calan. "Schu, if we thought you were actually devout Eszet members, we would have killed you already."

"You'd have tried, that is," Schu offered amusedly, declining to mention just how much Schwarz really was Eszet's dogs.

Cross smiled at him. "We would have done it. Kritiker doesn't officially believe in psychic powers, but we know better... and we're better than Weiß. MUCH better. But I don't think that's necessary, do you? First, I don't particularly want to kill you, and second, that would truly spoil the fun of fighting you under fairer odds."

Calan smirked, mentally going, Ohhhh, diss.

Farfarello snarled and made another attempt to lunge at Calan. "A little self-confident, are we now, Kreuz?" Schu chuckled, not letting go of Farfarello despite the pain in his wrist. I know you can insult us more creatively than that... he sent to both of the Kritiker agents.

"If insulting you was my goal, I could," Cross told him honestly as Calan just shook out his blonde hair and smirked beneath the mask that covered the lower half of his face. "But it isn't. Our goals are... different. And tonight, we got what we came for." He turned and headed for the shattered window across the office from Schu.

"See you soon, Kreuz," Schuldich smirked. This was nowhere near over. Not in the least.

Cross broke into a grin. "I look forward to it," he said, adding sexy, onto the end of it. "By the way, for future reference... when we're in uniform, you can call us Schwert."

Schuldich quirked an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth twitching up as well. Sword. It fit them all too well. "Ja... der Kreuz schwert. Schwert, rot…." Cross was intriguing, all right. He could hide things from Schu, was brilliant in the sack, and had far too optimistic a viewpoint to survive as long as he apparently had. All in all, it made for a puzzle that Schu found himself wanting to unravel. Right along with that form-fitting jacket that so beautifully showcased his frame….

Cross laughed and tossed off a jaunty wave, vanishing out the fortieth story window with the tall, muscled blonde close behind him and leaving Schuldich and Farfarello in the empty office with the corpse of Christopher Jarris.

"You would not let me kill him," Farfarello snarled.

"You couldn't have killed him," Schuldich said dryly, gazing hard at the shattered window. "They're good. Too good…. We have to get home. Crawford needs to hear about this," he said harshly, hauling Farfarello off the carpet and heading back toward the elevator.

Farfarello cooperated with him, which would have vaguely surprised Schuldich if he'd been paying an ounce of attention. But his mind was in turmoil. Cross was Kritiker and he HADN'T KNOWN. He had been inside the redhead's mind and he hadn't SEEN. He, a telepath whose power was unmatched, save among the Elders themselves! How had it happened? Cross didn't shield, he veiled. He didn't shield, he veiled. He didn't shield, he veiled…. Those damning words repeated themselves over and over in his head.

He shoved Farfarello into the elevator and jabbed the button sharply, mouth drawn into a thin, sharp line. He thought back to Cross, wearing that jacket that hung to his thighs, almost like a tunic, black with the thick red cross on the front, dark, like the color of his hair, like the color of blood. And he realized that, for the very first time, he had been cleanly and thoroughly tricked.

Schwert had bested Schwarz. No one else had ever managed that… and Schwert had only two members to draw upon. Obviously, they weren't typical Kritiker agents, but then, Schuldich had known that the instant he'd had a badly beaten Farfarello tossed at his feet. Farf was fast, strong, and a skilled fighter, but Calan was obviously better. And Cross….

And Cross….

Cross. Gods but he was beautiful. Intelligent. Skilled. Amusing. Devil-may-care. He had a strong, active conscience. He was an idealist and a realist.

Since we're not planning on killing any of you in the nearby future….. I don't particularly want to kill you…

He rubbed his temples as he tried to organize his thoughts and, after a brief struggle, succeeded. They would be seeing Schwert again, of that he had no doubt. But how would that encounter go? Would they fight each other passionately, like Weiß and Schwarz? Or would they meet and greet, laugh and jibe, and agree once again to part on peaceful terms? Of course, this wasn't exactly peaceful. For the first time, Schuldich took a good look at Farf. His eyes flicked down, across the madman's body, tallying the damage.

Extensive, but not life-threatening. Calan had beaten him with the flat of the sword, bruising him badly and breaking a couple bones. But he would heal quickly, and the ribs could be set without much trouble. Crawford would be irritated, but nobody had seen the two of them so far except the two Kritiker agents and… somehow… Schuldich didn't see them turning Schwarz in to the authorities. The elevator reached the ground floor and Schuldich and Farfarello stepped out, Farfarello walking fairly steadily since his legs weren't injured aside from a twisted ankle he didn't even feel. Schuldich clouded the minds around them, made them invisible, and they made it outside and to their car without incident.

Farf climbed in, uncomplaining as usual, and Schuldich slammed his door, lighting a cigarette and dragging deeply on it as he took a moment to settle himself before twisting the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life and he put the vehicle in gear, breaking a dozen traffic laws and leaving two wrecks behind him as he fled to their apartment.

X-X-X

Crawford was up and waiting for them when Schuldich and a very battered Farfarello swept into the apartment. "You encountered difficulties," he said, and it was not a question.

Schuldich flicked a cigarette butt at him. "No shit, Sherlock," he sneered.

Crawford brushed the piece of paper and filter away from him and straightened his glasses. "I didn't See much. Tell me everything."

Schuldich sighed. "Before or after I patch Farfie back together?"

The Irishman growled. "Don't call me Farfie."

"Nagi will do it."

"Little squirt's awake? It's fucking late," Schuldich observed skeptically.

"I'm awake," Sabbath said, padding into the kitchen in pajamas and house shoes. She was wearing her spider pajamas again, and the sight made Farfarello smirk. "And I'll do it. I've taken some classes."

Crawford nodded and waved the two of them away, and they settled on the coffee table to take care of wrapping Farfarello's ribs as Schuldich sat down across from Crawford and lit another cigarette. He chain-smoked as he related events, piece by piece, and Crawford listened in silence. Finally, Schuldich finished and Crawford sat back, glancing over to the living room, where Sabbath had managed to bandage Farf's wounds and now had her hands on him and was…. Praying?

"Schwert," he said quietly. "You're friendly with the redhead. Cross."

"We've fucked each other silly, if that's what you mean," Schu said, smirking.

Crawford gave him a reproachful look. "You've slept with him, but you didn't know he was Kritiker?"

Schuldich waved a hand, looking unconcerned. "I didn't encounter any shielding. I didn't anticipate that he might be one of the 1 of the population that can veil. Either way, I'm not in danger from him. He doesn't want me dead."

"Yes, I'm aware," Crawford told him. "As a matter of fact, I've had the pleasure of Calan's acquaintance already."

Schuldich blinked. "The blonde with the sword straight out of 'Berserk'?"

Crawford smirked slightly and nodded. "He's quite the swordsman. I'm not surprised that Farfarello failed miserably against him. He beat me in three out of three fencing matches."

"And that must hurt for you to admit," Schuldich jabbed. "So, what do they want?"

"You're the telepath, Schuldich. Why don't you tell me?"

Schuldich let out an irritated sound. "Calan has very strong shields and Cross… Cross has this maddening ability to choose what he thinks about. I couldn't get it out of either of them. They're not pushovers, Crawford. Slowing Calan's perceptions successfully took so much out of me that I couldn't even walk while I was doing it, which is why I had to give it up. They're VERY strong-willed, especially for non-psis."

"In other words," Crawford said quietly, "You think they're out of our league."

Schuldich raised his head. "They know," he said quietly, and then switched to mental communication. They know about the ritual Eszet has planned… and they know we plan to disrupt it.

Crawford's eyes widened slightly as his shields cracked just slightly to reply, How could they know? Kritiker is completely in the dark.

There's a lot that they know that Kritiker doesn't know, Brad. For instance, they believe in psychic powers, whereas Kritiker usually files the issue under 'fraud'. And I don't think they're common Kritiker stock. They don't seem overly concerned with the successful completion of their mission, which is to assassinate US.

I've determined that much, the Oracle replied, sitting back in his chair and looking thoughtful. Well.

WELL? Well WHAT? Where do we go from here, Bradley? Reassure me that we're not running blind. Schuldich's eyes were hard.

The Oracle shrugged. If they are not going to kill us, and the target is dead, we have nothing to worry about. You did your job and came out of it… mostly intact. His eyes flicked toward Farf, who was watching Sabbath in silent interest as her lips moved rapidly, but no sound emerged. As for Schwert, I don't believe we have much to fear from them despite their obvious skill. They're about as loyal to Kritiker as we are to Eszet. He smirked knowingly at Schuldich and the telepath returned the smile.

So in other words, we ignore them, Schuldich returned skeptically. They won't go away.

No, of course they won't. But they might prove useful. So keep an eye out.

"Done," Schuldich said quietly, stretching and standing. "Tell me there's some coffee around here. I'm in withdrawal."

Crawford shrugged and Schu wandered over to the coffeepot as the Oracle stood and headed into the living room.

"How badly are you damaged?" he asked Farfarello clinically.

The Irishman shrugged. "Fractured ribs, already set. Twisted ankle, already splinted. It's all healing – even God's children can not circumvent his gifts to me."

He nodded and eyed Sabbath. "And your work?"

"Slow. I need more energy." She shook her head. "LOTS more. We're talking…. What I have is a campfire. What I need is a nuclear reactor."

"And how do you plan to get it?" he inquired politely.

She sighed and looked up at him. "I have no idea. I'm not a professional, Crawford. I'm Solitary Eclectic. I've never even worked with a coven. I'm taking all this out of books and hoping to hell I can manage it, and so far, I'm not doing a very good job, okay? But I'll keep working on it."

He graciously did not pursue it. "Of course. Thank you." He retreated into his own room and Sabbath watched him go, watched the door until it swung shut.

"How will you get it, that much power?" Farfarello inquired innocently as she taped a pad over his much-bruised arm.

"I have some ideas," she told him. "We'll see if they work."

He put a hand on her head. "You are tired," he said quietly. "You have been working very hard."

"Not that hard," she told him with a sigh, rubbing her face. "I've been pouring all my energy into that little box and not leaving much for myself. So I'm tired and cranky and stuff. Gomen nasai."

He smirked and petted her hair. "Souka, Sabbath-chan. Can you take that energy from other people?"

"I could, but everyone I could take it from needs all their energy to combat The Collective as well."

"Your friend Catria…"

"My sister. Witches are sisters."

He smirked slightly. "Your sister. She took energy from me to heal you. I am none the worse for wear."

"You were also in a blind rage," Sabbath said dryly, sitting back slowly as she let out a sigh. "And you're not right now, and I don't want you to voluntarily enter one." She picked at one of the spiders on her pajamas, at the hourglass symbol on its back. "I'll have to go higher."

"Go higher?" That single golden eye burned her when she looked into it, and she hiked an eyebrow. What did she think she was doing, trusting a tiger trapped in a man's body by the tail?

"Drawn down the moon," she said quietly. Even as she said it, she remembered the one time she'd seen it done… the awe, the fear, the joy, the sheer unbelievable POWER in the hands of one woman, the incarnation of the Goddess herself. Could she, a mere Maiden, handle that? The ritual was often (wisely) reserved for Mothers and Crones. She'd be a conduit for something so much more powerful than she was, and something that was also dangerous, because there was no question about who she would channel, and Kali was no pushover. Kali was equal to Shiva, had, in fact, raped him in many mythologies and was often depicted dancing on his ravished body. The great Goddess, the great Destroyer, the one who brought all things into the world and took them all out.

Kali.

Mother.

Sabbath was scared shitless of the prospect.

"What is drawing down the moon?" he inquired, still watching her. She looked at him and had to smile slightly. He was badly beaten, but at least he was alive. She knew he was furious about the outcome of the fight, but she would thank Calan if she got the chance. He could easily have killed the madman, but he had not. His restraint was admirable.

"I would become a direct conduit for the Goddess. Not just for Her power – for Her, Herself. I would become an avatar."

His eye widened. "She comes into you… and you become her?"

"In a way."

"Like the Christ."

She smirked. "Not exactly. Christ was an avatar, but he was… sort of different. I mean, I could withstand that for maybe an hour, at the most. The length of a ritual. But he lived his entire life, the actual son of God. In any case, if I can get her blessing, I might be able to get a chunk of that power I need, but even that might not be enough. I'm just one person, Farfarello. There's only so much I can do."

His brow furrowed. She sounded very tired, too tired for her own good. And her skin was an unhealthy shade and her hair was tangled and limp. How much of herself was she putting into this thing that was supposed to destroy the Collective, this thing she had ironically named Pandora's Box? She was dedicated, he realized. She would kill herself for this if she had to.

"Is this safe?"

She glanced up at him and chuckled. "Goddess, Farf, when did you become a mother-hen? It's not like you and I don't think I like it. As for whether it's safe, I'll quote C.S. Lewis for that: Of course it's not safe. But I'm good. And you're just going to have to trust me, and why do you care anyway?"

He glared at her. "Because I have decided that I would not like it if you were harmed."

"Unless you're the one hurting me, right?" She sounded amused.

He smirked at her. "Perhaps. You have very nice skin. Blood shows so starkly against it. I could decorate it with pictures, make it a beautiful sea of destruction."

She grinned ferally at him. "Try it and I'll tear out your larynx and shove it up your ass."

He returned the grin. Now THAT was better. That was the Sabbath he had met, the headstrong, belligerent young woman who'd managed to charm him. He did NOT like this tired, pale, and drawn version of his vivacious little witch. It made her look like walking dead, and he had decided recently that he didn't want to lose her, though he knew that leaving her for a time was necessary for the fulfillment of Schwarz's plans. He didn't want her…broken, that was it. He didn't like seeing her broken.

"But you can draw pictures on me if you like," she told him. "Ever done henna?"

He hiked an eyebrow. Henna dye? "Why? Does it matter?"

"I need some henna done, I don't feel like paying for it if I don't have to, but I can't do it myself and get it right. You'll get to poke me with toothpicks," she told him enticingly.

He smirked. "Interesting…."

"Only you could be wooed that way," she told him dryly, and he smirked.

"Only you would dare to try."

X-X-X

"Ne, Farf?"

"Mm."

"I know I promised you that you could poke me with toothpicks, but in REALITY, if you poke me with that, I will take it away and destroy your other eye."

"Mm."

X-X-X