A/N: Thanks to everyone who takes the time to review. Seeing those emails gives me the energy to push forward and continue writing. And just a gentle reminder – this story is rated R for a reason.

Special thanks go to: Sparkling Cherries, Alex, Alyssa T, Shadow Dark Night, ladybug218, Janie, fanastygirl721, ChrisBianca, cold-blooded-angel, IcantthinkofaFnink

Providence

Chapter 3

We were of no more significance to him than gnats. He gave us no thought – amused by what he called our 'pathetic belief' in good and evil.
-from the letters of Darryl Morris to his wife Sheila, written after her death


She pondered the 'reception' she had just had with Wyatt. Her mother had warned her that the man was not only evil, but crazy. A very dangerous combination. Evil was one thing – she had never had any problem with that. It was the crazy ones that you had to look out for.

Bianca had questioned her mother's reasoning when she had first told her daughter that they would be joining Wyatt's army of demons.

"But why, mom? Aren't we better off on our own? We don't need them…and demons can't be trusted," Bianca had argued.

Her mother took her hand, leading her towards the couch. "The rest of the family agrees that we need to join Wyatt while we can still make it appear to be 'our' choice. It's only a matter of time before we would either have to choose his side or be destroyed."

"I don't understand."

"We don't have a choice, Bianca. Wyatt's giving us the 'option' of joining him…but if we don't, he's going to eliminate us. At least this way, it looks like we're joining him of our own accord."

"I don't like this, mom. Are you sure you and the others agree that this is the only way? I don't see Uncle Cyrus agreeing with this…he hates alliances! He's always said that we can't trust anyone but our coven. You've always told me the same thing! And now we're going to be working with demons?" Bianca protested.

"Bianca, we took a vote. Not everyone is going to agree but if there's one thing that we do know as a family of assassins is that we have to stick together. The Phoenixes have survived for so long because we stick together. And you know as the youngest daughter, I don't have much weight at the family council," Her mother explained, patiently.

"Okay – so we agree we can't go it alone. Did you guys think about joining forces with someone else?" Bianca questioned, still unconvinced.

"And who else is there? Wyatt controls ALL the demons, Bianca. There IS no one else," Her mother looked at her, exasperated.

"What about this Resistance I keep hearing about? That underground movement trying to overthrow Wyatt?" Bianca suggested. "Isn't it 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend?' Maybe we could form a temporary alliance with them until the world goes back to normal."

"Bite your tongue!" Her mother exclaimed. Seeing the hurt expression in her daughter's face, her mother tried to explain, "Bianca, darling – the underground movement wouldn't understand people like us. To them – there's only good and evil. And we are definitely not on the side of good. They'd be more likely to kill us then accept an alliance with us, however temporary."

"I just think we're rushing into things…" Bianca's voice trailed off.

"Sweetheart, I'm scared too. But the world is changing and if we're going to continue to be the most powerful, most elite coven of witches that walks this earth – we need to position ourselves in the right place. And right now, that place is with Wyatt Halliwell," Her mother stood up, gesturing towards the stairs of their home. "Come on – we need to pack. This place isn't safe anymore."

After several months at her uncle's, they, along with the rest of their coven, had moved into Wyatt's stronghold. Surrounded by demons, the coven had become even more close knit. Her uncle had positioned himself as one of Wyatt's advisors, providing them with some much needed visibility amongst the demons. The demons had also quickly learned that to mess with one assassin was to mess with them all. When one of the Scabber demons had attacked one of her cousins, the retaliation had been swift. Within three days the assassins had eliminated half of the Scabber demon population. All demons were careful to steer clear of them now.

Sighing, she quickly cleaned the blade of her knife, careful not to knick herself. The blade was small but incredibly sharp. Effective for knife throwing and slitting throats, she smiled coldly to herself as she slipped it in to wrist sheath on her right hand. She checked the matching one on her left, testing the point with her finger. She grinned as her finger came away with blood from the sharp prick, wiping the blood off on a nearby towel.

The pair of wrist sheaths had a trick release; a gift from her mother presented to her on her first 'kill.' Bianca had been both thrilled and proud – they were an exact replica of the ones her mother wore…had worn.

She scowled, picking up another knife – this one slightly longer but thinner than the ones in her wrist sheaths. She tucked it into her right boot. Surveying the array of weapons laying on her bed, she sighed regretfully at her sword which was currently occupying the pride of place with the hilt gently resting on the pillow.

A sharper blade she had yet to find; she had taken the sword from one of her hardest kills as a 'memento.' Lightweight, thin but incredibly strong, the sword had served her well. It was her favourite weapon of choice – the weight of it in her hand seemed to mesh perfectly with her sword work. Unfortunately there was no way she could take it with her. Hidden knives were one thing – a sword was out of the question, especially since the 'plan' required her to appear 'helpless.'

Glancing around the room, her eyes rested on the silver pendant sitting on the bed opposite to hers. Her mother's. Bianca and her mother had shared a room – safety in numbers. Demons were demons, after all. They had no sense of honour, loyalty or trust. They wouldn't hesitate to get rid of anyone they perceived as a threat to their existence. No matter that she and her mother belonged to Wyatt's elite team of witch assassins. With her mother, Bianca had had that trust. Now she was utterly alone. Picking up the necklace, she undid the clasp and fastened it around her neck. Fingering the tear drop pendant, she wondered, Mom…why did you have to leave me?

Picking up a steel box from the floor, she began to pick up the weapons from her bed and toss her treasures into the box. The task complete, she locked the box physically and magically. Satisfied that it would hold until her return, she slid the box under her bed. There was no doubt in her mind that she would complete her mission. Her mother would have expected no less.

Finished packing, Bianca abruptly sat on her bed to wait. The plan was to put her into the path of the Resistance fighters as an innocent fleeing persecution from Wyatt's demons. A common enough occurrence so as not to raise any suspicions. The tricky part was the waiting. Zankou, Wyatt's right hand man, had instructions to all the demons to be on the lookout for any movement from the Resistance. Bianca still had her doubts about the plan but hadn't been able to come up with anything better. If her mother had been here, she would have sought advice from her. Bianca wrapped her arms around herself, feeling more alone than she ever had in her life. Feeling sorry for herself, she felt the tears begin to prick her eyes.

Angrily she wiped at the tears in her eyes. Self-pity would only make her weak. Instead she let her anger boil and overrun her emotions, squashing the feelings of loneliness and grief at her mother's passing. Anger would be her constant companion now. Her mother was gone and so would the bastard that had killed her. If it was the last thing she did, Bianca vowed to make her mother's killer pay.


Grimacing, Chris lifted his hand to knock on the door to Darryl and Sheila's quarters, sparing a glance at Les. The last thing he wanted to do was celebrate his birthday. He had a mission to plan, scouting reports he needed to review and countless other little tasks that went with being the 'leader' of the Resistance. There were days, and this was one of them, that Chris thought he was more like the 'secretary' of the Resistance given the amount of paperwork that never seemed to decrease in piles. If anything, they seemed to multiply exponentially whenever he left them alone for too long. If he didn't know better, he would swear the piles were secretly breeding.

"Come in!"

Shaking his head clear of his random thoughts, Chris reluctantly opened the door and stepped into the room. A beaming Sheila rushed forward to pull him into a hug, while he exchanged a pained glance with an amused Darryl over Sheila's shoulder. Quickly schooling his features, he forced himself to put on a pleasant face as Sheila pulled back from the hug, kissed his check and looked him over, "And how is the birthday boy doing?"

"Just peachy, thanks," Chris smiled a fake smile, co-opting the breezy response his aunt Paige had always used.

Sheila's eyes narrowed, "You may not want a party, but by God, you're going to enjoy it if I have to force you to have a good time. I can't remember the last time I had a reason to celebrate."

It occurred to him that Sheila needed to celebrate something and that it just happened that his birthday was convenient. Doom and gloom were the normal day-to-day moods in the base and everyone needed to lighten the mood every once and awhile. Chris realized he was so consumed with making it through each day that he forgot how wearing things could be on the others as well. And if Sheila needed to throw a party to help her morale, who was he to stand in her way? Suddenly ashamed of himself, he said, rather shamefacedly, "I'm sorry. Thank you for doing all of this, Sheila. Really."

She looked at him for a long time, as if judging whether or not he was being sincere. As he began to squirm uncomfortably under her steady gaze, she relented, "Okay. No harm done. Let's get you a drink."

"Something alcoholic?" Chris asked hopefully, making puppy dog eyes at his honourary aunt.

"You wish," Sheila sashayed past him to head to the back where a small kitchenette was located. "Darryl – get the poor boy a drink, will you? Les – you make yourself comfortable, you hear?"

Chuckling at Chris' chagrin, Les replied, "I hear you, Sheila."

In the centre of the room stood the table, already set with four places and Darryl sitting on one side. Indicating for Chris to take a seat at the table, Darryl reached over to open the door to a mini fridge. Reaching inside, he grabbed a can of pop and slid it across the table towards the young man. Nodding his thanks, Chris grinned at his friend before popping the soda can open. Taking a sip of the cold beverage, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before saying, "Did Les fill you in on our water rations plan?"

Before Darryl could open his mouth to reply, Sheila's voice from the kitchen rose, "No shop talk! Find something else to discuss!"

Shrugging helplessly at Chris and Les, Darryl replied, "I guess we'll talk about that later. Anything else you'd like to discuss?"

Chris thought for awhile, before coming up empty handed, "Errr, no?"

"Honestly! You guys are hopeless!" Sheila exclaimed, deftly transferring the pot roast from the oven to the table. Her arms akimbo, she mock glared at the three men, "What am I going to do with you?"

"Feed us?" Chris feigned innocently.

Sighing good naturedly, Sheila took a seat next to her husband. Handing Darryl the carving knife, she indicated for Chris to hand his plate over.

The four adults munched away happily in peace, enjoying each other's company. Too often, the four friends found themselves too busy with their roles in the Resistance to spend time together as a family. Because they were a family, even if it was a makeshift one.

Helping himself, Les reached into the mini fridge and selected a cold beer. Twisting the top off, he grinned at Chris' sour look, as he deliberately took a big gulp, "Ahhhhh…nothing like a cold beer at the end of a long day."

Sheila rolled her eyes. "Some people just never grow up. Stop giving Chris a hard time. It's his birthday."

"You're right," Leslie replied, a little too glibly, before gulping down other long swig of beer. "Sorry about that, birthday boy."

Rolling his eyes, Chris chose to ignore his friend and Darryl's smirks. He'd given up long ago trying to get Les to show him some respect. Les tended to follow Darryl's lead, and between the two of them, Chris would never have to worry about getting too big for his britches. "Just pass me the potatoes, will you?" Chris grumbled.

"Chris – I wanted to speak to you about some of the children," Sheila wisely chose to ignore the banter around the table. Pointing her fork at him, "We've been talking about the scouts. I think it would be really helpful for the students to really understand what would be expected of them. Do you think you can stop by tomorrow?"

When the Resistance had first set up underground, the children had been at loose ends. The whitelighters had mainly looked after them – as pacifists, they couldn't really help with the day-to-day operations. Once a routine had been established, Sheila had pointed out how the children needed something to occupy their time. She, together with some of the teachers from magic school and regular schools had started to put classes together. The children were then separated into two streams, those with magic and those without. Sheila was the only teacher to have a mismatch of kids who had magical powers and those who didn't. That was because her classes weren't normal. They were training the next generation on combative magics and demonology. Unfortunate, but necessary. Sheila ran classes for those students who wanted to give back to the Resistance.

"Of course," Chris nodded. "I still hate the idea that we need to train these kids for the war. I guess I just thought…I guess I thought we wouldn't need to."

Darryl shook his head grimly, "So did I. I think we all hope that the next generation isn't going to have to fight. And maybe they won't. But we should prepare them the best we can in case they do."

"War doesn't recognize if you're a kid or not," Les grimaced. "At least we try to keep them out of the forces until they hit eighteen. The more training they get, the better chances of their survival, Chris. That's why we agreed to Sheila's suggestion to hold classes once they hit their teens."

"I know," Chris replied, softly. "I know. I hate it, but I know."

"We all hate it, Chris," Darryl agreed, standing up to clear the dishes. Deftly changing the topic to lighter fare, he asked, "You done? I'll take your plates then."

Handing his dinner plate over to Darryl, Chris smiled at Sheila, complimenting her, "That was great, Sheila. I can't think of the last time I had such a great meal."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me. Do you even eat?" Sheila frowned at her young friend, studying his skinny frame. "Darryl tells me you hardly leave command central. And Lorelai told me she hasn't seen you in the mess hall in forever. You need to keep your strength up, young man."

Helping Darryl clear the table, Les gathered Sheila's empty plate, smirking at Chris' discomfort. The young whitelighter squirmed uncomfortably under Sheila's penetrating squint, protesting defensively, "I eat!"

"Huh," Sheila snorted, disbelievingly. Still eyeing Chris sceptically, she merely raised an eyebrow, "When was the last time you actually ate in the mess hall?"

One of the advantages of being housed in an underground shopping concourse was the array of facilities. When Darryl and Chris had first discussed possible locations for a base of operations, the underground city had been at the top of the list. Besides the advantage of the multitude of tunnels running beneath the city, the structure also boasted several food courts. As more and more innocents found their way to the Resistance's base, and as the Resistance's participants increased in numbers, the facilities in the food courts had been an added bonus. The 'mess' hall that Sheila referred to was one of the largest food courts in the underground mall. Lorelai, who had been a chef in a prior life, ran the mess hall with an iron first. She and her team were responsible for cooking thousands of meals a day that were nutritional and under ration conditions. No easy task but somehow Lorelai made the mess hall a friendly gathering place where innocents and Resistance fighters mingled socially.

Chris rolled his eyes at Sheila, "I usually grab something and bring it back to command central to eat. I don't have time to sit down in the mess hall. Believe me, if I could I would. I miss connecting with everyone."

About to push her point further, Sheila paused, spying Darryl with the cake standing surreptitiously behind Chris. Instead she began to sing "Happy Birthday to you…Happy Birthday to you…"

Chris put his hands over his ears as two decidedly off-key voices joined in, "Happy Birthday dear Christopher…."

"Happy Birthday to you!"

Embarrassed at all the attention, Chris glared at the three smiling faces across from him. "Thank god there aren't any candles to blow out."

"Oh stop being such a big baby and cut the cake. It's not every day you turn nineteen," Les grinned, handing Chris the knife so that he could slice the cake.

Taking the knife from his friend, Chris sliced off a huge chuck of the cake loading it onto a plate before passing it to Sheila. "I do appreciate this, Sheila. Really."

Sheila smiled sadly, watching Chris pass a slice of cake to Darryl and Les before slicing a piece for himself. "I know you do, sweetheart. I just wish that your mom could have been here. She would have been so proud."

Dropping his eyes, Chris stared at the piece of cake in front of him. Chocolate had been his mother's favourite kind of cake. Suddenly not hungry, Chris blinked rapidly before shoving his chair back, "Thanks again for the wonderful dinner, Sheila. I…I…uh…just realized I have to get back."

Before anyone could say anything, Chris fled the room and the door shut behind him. The three adults who remained behind in his wake looked at each other awkwardly. Sighing, Les shovelled a piece of cake into his mouth before standing up, "I'd best go and check on him. We've got to go over plans for a recon mission for tomorrow night."

"Should I be concerned about it?" Darryl asked, frowning. "This is the first I've heard of any recon missions scheduled for tomorrow."

Les shook his head. "I'll bring you up to speed tomorrow morning. Night, Darryl. And thanks for the dinner, Sheila."

Coming around the table, Sheila pulled Les into a warm hug, "You take care, you hear? And tell Chris I'm sorry if I upset him. I just…I was just thinking how proud Piper would be of him and I just blurted it out. I didn't mean – "

Returning the hug, Les shook his head. "He knows you didn't. Don't worry about it."

Pulling back, Sheila wiped at the tear forming in the corner of her eye. "Nonetheless, tell him I love him. You'll look out for him, right? I think…I think sometimes we forget…he's only nineteen, Les. Today."

Nodding solemnly, Les reassured Darryl's wife as he took his leave, "I know, Sheila. Good night. And thanks again."

The door of Darryl's and Sheila's quarters slammed shut again for the second time that night. Leaning on her husband, Sheila raised her concerned face to Darryl's, "He's only nineteen, Darryl."

Pressing a kiss to the top of his wife's head, Darryl merely replied, "Let's get these dishes cleared. It's been a long night and something tells me tomorrow is going to be even longer."


"You okay?"

"I'm fine," Chris responded curtly, not bothering to look up as Les entered Chris' quarters. "Did you put a team together?"

If Les noticed that Chris' eyes seemed slightly red rimmed, he chose not to say anything. "You, me, Duncan and three other members of his team. I figure the fewer there are of us, the easier it will be to sneak in. You okay with that?"

"That's fine," Chris continued to ignore his friend, studying the paper in front of him. He picked up a red pen that lay next to him and began to place markings on the map of the city laid out in front of him.

Taking a seat from across Chris, Les craned his neck to peer at the tiny markings. "What do those little triangle thingys mean?"

"Ten or more demons spotted. Our scouts have been spotting demons all over the place. I want to know if they're concentrating in any particular area," Chris replied wearily. "I think Wyatt's starting to get more suspicious. See the number of demons that were spotted here?" Chris stabbed his pen at a cluster of blue triangles on the map. "Five of these sightings were in the last three weeks."

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't know. But they're stationed damned close to our border post for me to feel comfortable. I just don't like it," Chris closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "Remind me to pass this off to Darryl tomorrow. He might have better luck trying to figure it out."

Pointing at the sheaf of papers on Chris' left, Les asked, "Are those today's scout reports?"

"Yeah."

"Any losses? Word is that Slick's team ran into some trackers on their circuit this afternoon. Any truth to it?"

"Don't you have anything better to do than listen to gossip in the mess hall?" Chris asked, exasperated.

"I just like to know what's going on in my own house. It's not like all of us have access to your scout reports, you know. Besides, you need someone to tell you how the general population is feeling," Les shrugged, unconcerned with Chris' annoyance. "So?"

"Slick's team ran into some trackers at Christie Road. The report says he sustained losses in the10 percent margin."

It was easier to refer to the losses of lives as percentages. The alternative was too disturbing – thinking of all his friends and followers who lost their lives on a daily basis. In the beginning, Chris had been unable to cope; restless nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering what he could have done differently. He had been on the verge of losing his sanity when Darryl had sat him down and explained the realities of war. Being a cop, Darryl had been exposed to psychiatric counselling and he had shared with Chris some coping mechanisms. Think of them as numbers rather than people, Darryl had said sadly. Compartmentalize everything – separate it from your home life and your job. And it IS a job, Chris. A vital, necessary, incredibly difficult one, but a job nonetheless. You'll go crazy if you don't. Chris hated that he felt that way but he acknowledged that it was the only way he could cope. When did I have to stop feeling just to function day-to-day? How does everyone else do it? God – I hate this bloody war.

"10 percent, eh? That's pretty damned good numbers considering they were up against trackers," Les mused. "So about tomorrow night…"

Chris' eyes popped open. Pointing at the campus map pinned on his wall, he gestured for Les to bring it over. The telepath tipped his chair so far back it was surprising he didn't fall over. Grasping onto the corner of the map just within reach of his two fingers and thumb, Les gave it a sharp yank, tearing the map down from the wall and leaving behind the two upper corners still tacked to the wall.

Rolling his eyes, Chris deigned to comment on his friend's action, choosing instead to smooth out the map with his palms. He used his index finger to lightly circle one of the markings on the map. "Here. Once we clear the dead zone, I'll orb us to outside the compound. We'll make our way on foot inside."

Frowning, Les stroked his chin thoughtfully, "Why don't we just orb inside?"

"Because you said Duncan didn't know if there were any demons inside. There's no way I'm orbing us into a hornet's nest. So we get as close as possible and then make our way inside. Got it?"

Les nodded, "Sounds like a plan. I'd better get going if I'm going to catch Duncan before he turns in for the night. I'll tell him to meet us at the gate tomorrow at dusk."


"I don't like this, Chris."

"I'm well aware of your opinion, Darryl. You've made it pretty clear in the past," Chris remarked as he poured himself a steaming hot cup of coffee from the percolating coffeemaker sitting on his desk. He quirked his eyebrow at Darryl, silently asking if he would like a cup as well.

Shaking his head, Darryl threw up his hands, "Fine. It's not like you're going to listen to me, anyways. I don't know why I bother sometimes."

Chris grinned. "I'm not sure why you do either. Obviously you knew this was a losing battle before you even brought it up, so do you mind telling me what really brings you by my quarters so early this morning?"

Reluctantly returning Chris' grin, Darryl replied, "Am I so obvious?"

"Let's just say I've known you for a long time."

"I've finally got the Council up and running. We've already had a couple of meetings, and I was just on my way to the one scheduled to take place today. Any chance I could persuade you to stop by?" Darryl questioned, seating himself across from Chris as he watched Chris sip his coffee.

"No can do. I want to spend today going over any last minute changes for the recon mission tonight. Make my apologies to everyone, will you? Besides, you don't really need me there, do you?" Chris asked.

Darryl shrugged. "No, but I think it would be prudent for you to attend the sessions every once and awhile. It's one thing for me to represent you, but sometimes it's better for them to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. Face it – the Council was your idea. You need to make sure it works. I want you to see all the machinations that go on behind the scenes."

Chris sighed. "If I didn't agree with you, I would accuse you of trying to make me regret my decision to start up the Council."

"Who, me?" Darryl grinned, wolfishly. "So you coming or not?"

"Sure. Look – I know we didn't agree on this, but it's the right thing to do, Darryl," Chris pointed out, as the two left Chris' quarters. "When you only have one viewpoint, you might miss something. As much as you and I both hate bureaucracy, these guys may see something you and I might not normally see."

"I know," Darryl sighed. "It's why I didn't fight you more on this. It IS the right thing to do. And I do think we've got a fair representation of all the interested parties." Moving swiftly down the hallway, Darryl led the way to the room currently being used for the Council meetings. Nodding at the two guards on either side of the door, Darryl motioned for them to open the door to the Council chamber. Without waiting to see if Chris was behind him, Darryl threw over his shoulder, "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Chris muttered to himself and entered the room. The room wasn't a very large one; it housed a singular round dark wood table and matching wood chairs. Like the rest of the base, decorations were non-existent. A single halogen lamp hung from the ceiling providing a harsh, white light. An enormous tattered, yellowed map of the world was stuck on one wall and another huge map of the city on the opposing wall; both large enough so that it could be easily seen from any position around the table.

The other members of the Council had already arrived as Darryl and Chris each took a place at the table. Each chair was exactly the same at Chris' insistence so that each member could take whichever seat they chose, emphasizing that they were all equal voices here. Chris nodded his head in greeting, amused by the evident surprise in some of the Councillors' faces. Obviously they had not been expecting him.

Studying the faces around the table, Chris allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Each person at the table had been his first or second pick for the position. First was Ben who was representing the witches. His dark brown hair was liberally streaked with silver; his outward appearance was the complete antithesis of the fussy professor of magic school that Chris knew him to be. Next up was Riley, a leprechaun, who represented all the magical beings. Plump and short, contrary to his bright red hair belied a calm and even-tempered individual. The exact opposite, Lilah was slender as Riley was plump, tall where he was short and incredibly fair-haired. A whitelighter – Darryl had insisted that they have separate representation from Odin who would represent the Elders; likely Darryl's way of circumventing Chris' insistence that Odin have a voice at the table. Chris shook his head to himself, amused that even his friend wasn't beyond politicking for what he perceived as the right way.

Darryl, who in addition represented Chris' voice in his absence, was also responsible for the mortals, spoke first, "I should like to open this meeting to discuss our water situation. The scouts are spending all their time on foraging for supplies that it leaves us vulnerable on our borders. I think we need to start integrating everyone, and not just our witches, so we can expand our scout teams. Otherwise, not only will we be running our current scouts ragged, it could lead to ineffectiveness."

Odin immediately put in his two cents, "I disagree. It is your duty as witches and whitelighters to protect innocents, or in this case, mortals. Asking mortals or other beings to be integrated into the scout contingent would be a contradiction to this principle."

There was no love lost between Ben and Odin, as Ben quickly pointed out, "That's great, but there aren't ANY whitelighters, let alone ELDERS, who are part of the scouts. It all weighs on the shoulders of my people. Who, by the way, are the smallest population in this group."

Lilah, who obviously shared Ben's dislike of Odin, noted unhappily, as if it galled her to support Odin's position, "Well, we ARE pacifists. I'm not sure we could be part of the scouts. Plus, my people are healers. We can't afford to lose even one of them."

"Then we need to bring in people who will be," Darryl pronounced, practically. "I, for one, am not going to sit on my hands and let someone else take all the risks because 'in principle' we're not suppose to be involved. That may have worked five years ago but let's face facts here, people. Magic has been exposed. I see no choice but to give Ben and his team the help they need. No, deserve."

"I don't see how my people could be of any assistance," Riley protested. "Let's face it – the majority of us don't practice offensive magics – we're fairies and water sprites, for crisssakes."

"So you're all going to sit on your asses while my people die out there!" Ben jumped to his feet, anger making his voice tremble. "This is a war! Don't quote me your stupid pacifist beliefs when I'm losing friends and family every single fucking day!"

All at once the Councillors started speaking at once, yelling at one another as they tried to make themselves heard. Once again, Chris marvelled at how quickly the behaviour of adults degenerated. He watched as the arguments veered towards personal insults. Though he was the youngest person in that room by far, never had he felt more old than he did at that moment.

Chris let the arguments continue for awhile or so longer before finally exasperated, he rapped on the table to get their attention. Astonished, as if they had all forgotten that he was present, the group turned their faces towards Chris.

"Odin, Riley, Lilah – I'm sorry. As you know, my vote counts for two. And I'm siding with Ben. So with Darryl, any other arguments you may have are moot. I understand the reluctance on your parts to be further involved but the fact of the matter is we have no choice." As the protests began to come in thick and thin, Chris held up his hand, "Please. Hear me out." As each of the Councillors nodded, Chris pointed out, "Lilah – you're right. You are pacifists, and your responsibilities as healers far outweigh any motivation to put you guys on the front line. However, what I'd like to do is have your people be available to orb scout teams who patrol the outer circuits at an agreed upon point just outside the dead zone to save them time and energy."

Chris paused as he watched Lilah nod, agreeing with his request, before turning his attention to his next target, "Riley – I agree that you guys don't know offensive magics. However, you DO know defensive magics. I'd like you to take on most of the magic classes that Ben and his team are running so that it frees up more resources for them. We'll split the classes into defensive and offensive, with everyone going through the defensive magics with your people first. All right?"

Not waiting for Riley's agreement, Chris pushed forward, "Lastly, Darryl's right. We need to involve mortals into this fight. Ideally I'd like to split the scout teams to be 50 witches and 50 others. Telepaths per team are a must – communications remain are number one advantage over Wyatt. Let's not lose sight of that."

Leaning forward, Chris made eye contact with each member at the table, "It is the lives of ALL our people that are at stake here, and we need to pull together if we are going to get through this." As the other members nodded their agreement, Chris took his leave, "Darryl, I'll let you run the show. If the rest of you will excuse me, I've got other matters to attend to."


She hadn't known it at the time, but it would be the last time that they would work together as a team.

Her right leg was cramping, bent under her in an awkward position as she contorted her body to stay hidden in the shadows. Overhead, the full moon provided a soft glow of the forest clearing, illuminating a small figure standing nervously in the centre.

"Be patient," Her mother whispered into her ear, her voice soft and low.

She nodded in agreement, her hand resting on the hilt of her knife. Her mother made a gesture, and signing her acknowledgement, Bianca crept closer to the edge of the clearing, dropping into position. She heard the soft rustle of grass beneath her mother's feet as she moved away from her location, circling the clearing to position herself on the opposite side.

"Come on, come on. Where ARE you?" The light from the moon revealed the gap-toothed demon as he shifted nervously from foot to foot. He called out again, fretfully, "Come on, come on. If you ain't here in five minutes, I'm leaving. There's no way I'm going to let them catch me out."

Blue orbs materialized into the clearing. "Honestly, Phinks. It's your own fault. Why'd you change our normal meeting place?"

"Because," Phinks replied, looking over his shoulder, "I think they may be onto me. I didn't think it would hurt none to change up our locale. You brought the goods?"

The whitelighter sighed. "Yes, I brought you your…goods." Reaching into the voluminous folds of his robe the man withdrew a small brown package. Tossing it to the demon, he demanded, "What is Wyatt planning?"

"You didn't tell no one you were meeting me, did you, Marcus?" Phinks questioned, his eyes shifting left to right as he searched the shadows.

Marcus frowned at the demon, obviously impatient, "No, I did not. I have never revealed my sources, you know that. Why are you acting this way? What is going on?"

Bianca's eyes met her mother's across the clearing.

Wait for it, her mother mouthed.

Avoiding the question, Phinks continued to peer around the clearing, "You know, I always thought your kind didn't like dealing with demons. 'specially those Elders. What changed your mind?"

Narrowing his eyes at Phinks, Marcus replied evenly, "Necessity is the mother of invention. And we just choose not to inform the Elders of every single thing we do."

"Ahhhh…" Phinks nodded, knowingly. "So that's how it is."

"Look," Marcus glared at the demon. "Do you have some info or not?"

"I got info all right," Phinks sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "In fact –,"

What –!

Marcus looked down stupidly, staring at the hilt of the knife protruding from his chest. Falling to his knees, he began to choke in disbelief, "You can't kill me."

"Normally, I'd agree," Bianca replied, coldly, as she emerged from her hiding place; her mother joined her side. "But that dagger's been dipped in the same poison that darklighter's use for their arrows."

The whitelighter grasped the hilt of the knife with both hands and with tremendous effort, yanked the knife out of his upper body. Sprawling on the ground, Marcus stared up in disbelief, gasping for breath as he tried to orb away, his entire body on fire with pain.

Before he could fully dematerialize, Bianca calmly stepped forward, her boot crushing his outstretched hand. She felt the cold steel of the blade against her palm as the trick release in her wrist sheath freed her other knife and her fist clenched around the hilt. She saw his eyes widen with terror and she brought the knife down in a swift arc, slashing his throat from ear to ear.

Her mother watched impassively as his body twitched one last time and then became still. She spat, "Fool."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Phinks whimpered, stumbling away from the sight of the whitelighter's gaping throat and wide unseeing eyes.

Bianca averted her eyes from the body, picking up her other knife where it lay a few feet away, wiping both clean on the grassy floor. In her peripheral vision she could see the demon retch, and she felt her own stomach heave. Closing her eyes, she forced the queasiness back down, taking deep breaths. It didn't matter that she had killed before – there had been something too' personal' about this one.

All the others, they weren't close…not this close. I was throwing knives from across a room, from a distance. Not like this, where he stared into my eyes and bled all over the place…,Bianca thought to herself.

She felt her mother's hand on her shoulder, "You did good. We did good. We eliminated the target before he got a chance to report back. Wyatt will be pleased. Our coven will be proud."

Bianca nodded in response, still unable to bring herself to turn around in view of the body. "What about him?" She jerked her head indicating Phinks, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and swallowing down her queasiness.

Bianca's mother threw a cursory look at the demon informant, "Pathetic. I'll take care of this." She walked towards Phinks, who had finally finished retching and was leaning heavily against a tall, redwood tree. "You did good, Phinks. Wyatt will be pleased when I tell him you upheld your end of the bargain." Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a small pouch, tossing it to the demon.

He blinked in surprise as it hit him in the chest, fumbling with it before finally getting his hands around it. Opening the pouch, he peered intently into the small sac before nodding satisfactorily. "Can I go now?"

Bianca's mother snorted, "Take care of the body first."

"Me?" Phinks squeaked, before nodding hastily at the assassin's expression. "Riiiiggghhhht. I'll, ah…I'll do that."

Nodding curtly, she turned on her heel and walked back towards Bianca. Catching her daughter's hand, she inquired softly, "You ready?" At her daughter's hesitation, she questioned, "What? What is it, Bianca?"

"Mom…do you…don't you…," Bianca stumbled over the words, the question refusing to roll off her tongue. "What do you feel when you kill?"

Bianca's mother gazed into her daughter's tortured eyes and knew that she needed to give her a response that would answer all her doubts. The elder woman gently cupped her daughter's chin, "You're an assassin, Bianca. Just like me. It's in your, no – our, blood."

"I feel nothing."

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

Crossing her leg so that her right boot, the one with the knife in it, was within reaching distance, Bianca called, "Enter!"

Her eyebrow raised as Zankou, and not one of his minions, entered her room. "Zankou. And to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I've just gotten word from one of the demons manning the supplies depot at Berkley. It looks like something may be going down out there. Not sure, though. It's up to you if you want to go now or wait until we find something a little more definite," Zankou shrugged in response.

Standing up, Bianca glanced around the now tidy room. It looked empty…desolate. Turning back to Zankou, Bianca said resolutely, "Let's just get this over with, shall we?"

Zankou nodded and gesturing to Bianca to follow him, he turned to leave the room. "If you will follow me."

"I'll be right out. Just let me change into something less…threatening," Bianca replied, looking down at her leather outfit. As practical as the outfit was for someone in her profession, there was no way it screamed 'helpless' innocent.

Indicating his agreement, Zankou disappeared into the hall to await her outside, shutting the door behind him. Swiftly doffing her top, she rummaged in her wardrobe for something a little more 'suitable.' Pulling out a white sweater streaked with scorch marks, she grinned. Another momento – it was perfect. Teamed with a pair of ripped jeans, she figured she looked sufficiently 'helpless.'

Opening the door to her room, she stepped outside into the hall where Zankou was waiting for her. He quirked an eyebrow at her outfit, "I'm afraid to ask how your sweater got into that condition."

She smiled coolly at the demon, her guard up, "It's not my sweater."

The demon blinked once before understanding dawned on his face. Returning her smile with an evil grin of his own, "I will take you to the supplies depot, if you will allow me." At her acquiesce, he shimmered out.

Taking a deep breath, Bianca shimmered out as well.


To be continued….Chris and Bianca meet – but is it love at first sight?