Author's note: Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed so far, I really appreciate it, and I always welcome insight or comment. And if you're reading this, then you must have made it through the rambling, five thousand-word epic that was last chapter. So thanks for hanging in there! I'm keeping this one short and simple, because the following chapters are going to be more complicated. At least I think so!

Chapter 3: Only Questions

The next four days were devoted solely to bed rest and recovery, now that Amon had promised to behave himself. Father Adrian took him at his word and ceased his bedside vigil, though Morgan checked up on him for several minutes every afternoon to make sure he was complying with treatment. They had also agreed, at Amon's insistence, that no more sedatives be administered, leaving him lucid enough to consider things.

Time, after all, is all one has when one is confined to bed with the strict command to stay there. And so Amon went about the task of putting his mental house in order.

What dominated most of his time was the arrangement and rearrangement of the questions crowding his head. There were so many, but the first question he needed the answer to loomed over them all – why had Headquarters attacked the STNJ? He had assumed it was to hunt Robin, since both previous attempts to do so had failed. He physically winced away from over-consideration of the part he had played in that scenario. But the facts of the matter pointed elsewhere. While Robin may have been a secondary objective, she was not the primary reason Solomon had assaulted its Tokyo base office. So if not her, then what?

All other concerns and questions arose from this single event. Had Robin made it out? Had she made it to Nagira, and had he taken her in? Amon wanted to believe that his half-brother would not ignore the plea for help, especially as Amon had never before asked for such a favor. Nagira could keep her safe. After all, how many people had his older brother helped to vanish from under the nose of the STNJ?

Yes, Amon assured himself firmly, she had made it out. She had made it to his brother, and he was now ensuring her safety. But imagining was not the same as knowing. Not at all.

He couldn't think on this any more. The anxiety it produced couldn't be labeled, much less expressed. There was no one in this room asking 'why did you help her when your orders were to hunt her? Why are you thinking of her now?' Yet he felt as privately about it, yes, even as guilty, as if he were under the Inquisition.

Stop it, Amon ordered himself. No more of this.

True to his word, so to speak, he steered his thoughts to another course, albeit of a similar theme. What had happened to the others when STNJ was attacked? He knew what he had seen, and that alone was enough to produce a swallow of apprehension. The room had been a war zone, and his co-workers had been the casualties. All of them shot, all bloodied, all unconscious. Even the porter downstairs had not been spared. Amon had not had the time or the firepower to save them all. As it looked, it appeared he would have been very little use to them anyway; too late to spare them.

There had been a single person standing, and she was the person he had come for to begin with.

Damn it, he growled mentally. Knock it off.

He slid out of bed and gingerly got to his feet, too full of nervous energy to lie there a moment longer. There was nowhere to go but he paced the short trip around his bed again and again, occasionally raking his fingers through his long black hair and flexing his torso experimentally. It was feeling better, subsiding to a deep ache when he moved it too far or took too deep a breath. His left shoulder was stiff and its mobility was still limited, but he worked this too in slow circles. The sooner he recovered, the sooner he'd feel like himself.

As he continued to pace and administer rehab, he chewed on another question. He had been wounded by the Solomon strike team, as the others had. Had they all been taken to Rome as he had? Was his entire team even now dispersed in this hospital? Amon halted before the crucifix on the wall and studied it pensively. STN Japan had been a cowboy outfit, making its own rules, running its own game. Was the strike a strategy by Headquarters to bring the disobedient child back in line?

Amon was still glaring at the cross when the door swung open. Morgan appeared in the doorway, and upon seeing him on his feet she leaned casually against the jam. "Tsk tsk naughty boy," she scolded playfully. She was dressed today in camel colored pants and a soft looking chocolate shirt that flattered her eyes, STN issue black trench over all, auburn hair falling freely around her shoulders. Amon took all this in with a sidelong glance and then looked back to the crucifix.

"I see there's no more point trying to convince you to stay in bed," she observed as he went back to his slow U shaped course around the room. "I figured as much." Waiting until he turned to look at her, she brought her hand from behind her back and produced a black gym bag.

She tossed it to him and crossed to the bed as he caught it one handed. "What's this?" he asked, not waiting for an answer as he unzipped the bag.

"Your clothes," she replied, draping beside her the long black coat she'd had over her arm. He began pulling articles of clothing from the bag and frowned as he unfolded them. "Well, not yours exactly," she admitted. "Yours weren't exactly fit for wear, what with bullet holes and blood and all that. I was told to pick out other stuff. Hope it meets your exacting standards."

Another sidelong glance showed she was teasing. "I just couldn't figure out what your preferred color was," she said in mock seriousness. Amon's scowl deepened. Every article of clothing he pulled from the bag was black, the color he always dressed in.

"You're welcome," came the brusque retort to his frown. "Now get dressed. Time to check out of here."

"Where are you taking me?" he asked suspiciously as the two agents reclined against the leather seats of a chauffeured sedan. Rome was rolling by the darkly tinted windows, dappled in the hit and miss sunlight of a fall afternoon, clouds lazily collecting and separating in a crisp blue sky.

"One of the apartments has been prepared for your use," she replied. When Amon looked at her blankly, she explained. "Solomon owns quite a lot of property all throughout Rome. It's all used for various purposes, but what we're talking about in your case is an apartment that's used whenever a foreign agent visits Headquarters. Yours is near the Vatican City." Morgan smiled. "Keeping you close, I expect."

"What do you mean?"

She brushed the question away absently. "Nothing. You'll like the place. I'm sure it'll be a lot more comfortable than the hospital." Amon opened his mouth to ask another question but she ignored this and looked out her window instead, watching the coagulating traffic in which they were being carried slip uncertainly by like blood through a clogged artery.

Amon was no stranger to silence and he too looked out at the passing city, knowing Morgan would eventually break the pause that to most people would be uncomfortable.

Much to his surprise, however, Morgan seemed quite at ease, every line of her body suggesting relaxation. Amon now found himself in position entirely unknown to him – wanting to talk. After all, he wanted the answers to the questions that crowded ever closer in his mind. He was now standing on the precipice of breaking the stalemate, and was uncertain how to proceed.

He decided straightforwardness the best course. "I have questions," he said stiffly, hoping to sound unconcerned and confident.

Her look was serious but her tone slightly dismissive when she answered, "No doubt." When it was obvious by his look he was not going to accept this reply, she continued. "I'm not the one to give you answers."

"Who then?" A slight frown formed between her well-groomed brows. "Father Adrian?"

Now Morgan's countenance cleared and she smirked. "God no. You won't be getting anything out of him." After a moment she decided to let him in on the joke. "Father Adrian is mute. A vow of silence to be more exact. He hasn't spoken in, God, I don't even know how long. Certainly not since I've known him."

Well that explained his eerie silence then. "You said you work for him as his aide, do I remember correctly?"

She nodded. "I was assigned to him five years ago. Taking a vow of silence means having someone to speak for you, at least when you're as high up as Adrian is."

"And how far is that?"

"He's a Master Hunter," she replied shrewdly, "as you've seen for yourself."

The memory of his violent and very convincing illusion made Amon clench his jaw. Being in the clutches of a Craft User that powerful had definitely left an impression. He chose to change the subject. "So you speak for him, do things for him. But how do you know what he wants if he doesn't speak?"

Morgan shrugged her shoulders. "That has largely come with time. Knowing him well allows me to read his body language and expression." Amon highly doubted - if his experience with the Father was any indication - that Adrian gave much away in his expression. Ever.

Morgan was still speaking. "And what I can't ascertain from him that way he communicates to me in other ways." A pause. "Writing, you know, that sort of thing."

Realizing he had willingly been led off topic, Amon steered it around again. "So if not Adrian and not you, who do I need to talk to? Who has the answers?"

The car had pulled up to the curb, and Morgan opened her door. "We're here," she called as she climbed out, leaving Amon grinding his teeth. Was she dodging the question or just playing with him?

'Here' was an obviously old but very well kept stone building with large windows sandwiched between other buildings of a similar style. It spoke of money without overstating the issue – a dark clad doorman stood unobtrusively under the unmarked awning leading up the front steps and into a tastefully furnished lobby where another dark attendant stood at attention. A old fashioned elevator complete with sliding iron gate lifted them with heaves and groans to the third floor, where Morgan unlocked a massive oak double door and ushered him into his apartment.

The door opened to a foyer, which emptied into a large living room. Well-preserved parquet floors shone beneath Persian rugs and heavy red drapes showed off the huge windows lining the far wall. Amon passed the comfortable plush furniture in the center of the room to take in the view. Beyond the buildings on the other side of the street, the dome of a giant cathedral could be seen in the near distance. Vatican City was indeed quite close.

Morgan had followed Amon into the living room and she tossed a set of keys onto the mahogany coffee table. "Not bad, huh?" she stated, a sweep of her arm taking in the plush apartment and the view outside. Amon didn't respond, standing with his back to the windows.

"I have to return to Father Adrian," Morgan said, "but if you need anything just pick up the phone and give the operator my name. The switchboard will page me."

"Solomon owns the whole building then?"

Morgan smiled wanly. "Solomon owns everything." The weak grin slid from her face and an air of gravity fell heavy between them. She walked to Amon and stood before him, her chestnut eyes probing his own. "I don't suggest you wander very far," she said in a near whisper, leaning in as though confiding a secret. "Stay here for now, okay? Don't leave here with anyone but me."

She was very close now, close enough for Amon to feel her breath on his face, to smell the lilac perfume she wore. "Why?" he asked cautiously.

"For your own protection."

"Protection from what?"

She didn't answer, but her intense gaze made him feel as though she was trying to impart something crucial. The moment stretched out and she let her gaze linger just long enough to put Amon off balance. Then she stepped back and the moment was broken. Turning on her heel she headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, "Be good, Houdini."

He stopped her just before she reached the door. "Morgan," he called. She turned and looked at him expectantly. "Answer me one question."

She slumped ever so slightly. "If I can," she replied unpromisingly.

"Where is the rest of my team?" he asked quietly. "Were they brought to Rome as well?"

Morgan stared at him, expressionless. Finally she opened her mouth. "They're in Japan."

Amon's instincts prickled. "I was the only one brought here?"

A pause. "Yes."

"Why?"

She shook her head. "I only agreed to answer one question. I think I've answered two. You're out of luck buddy."

Her hand was on the doorknob and he called out again. "I need to know what's going on."

She opened the door and turned to look at him over her shoulder. "You will."

Morgan exited the apartment building and walked briskly to the waiting car, sliding into the back seat a moment before the sedan pulled smoothly out into late afternoon traffic. Across the street in a sleek black Porsche, a pale, blonde haired man picked up his cell phone and punched a number.

"I found him. Yes, you were right. He was brought to a company apartment."

The man paused to listen. "I understand, but she got there before me and…"

He was cut off by the other person on the line. "Yes," he grated around a clenched jaw. "I should have foreseen it. I accept the failing. But the point is that we know where he is."

The man listened, tapping long ivory fingers impatiently against the supple leather of the steering wheel, his glacially blue eyes riveted to the door of the building Morgan had just left.

He sighed, irritated, and ran a hand through his spiky platinum hair. "We can't just go in after him?" He waited for the answer. "Of course. Very well. I'll just have to wait for him to come out."

A question came over the line and the man snorted indignantly. "He'll leave. I don't know what she did or didn't tell him, but he's arrogant. He won't accept being locked up."

Another pause to listen. "No, I don't want backup." He considered the caller's next words before replying. "He's only a Seed."

The person on the other end of the conversation made a comment, and the man's ice chip eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, he's dangerous … but so am I."