New Blood
by Saber Alexander McConnell
Rated PG13

CHAPTER 32: Talpa's Dungeons

Killian sat against the wall, being as still as he could, boredom overcoming the fear that had crowded his mind. Dais hadn't done anything to him after dumping him in the little cell in some odd corner of Talpa's dungeon; he had simply tossed Killian on the ground (that had hurt!) and left him there, sealing the cell door and leaving.

The webs had dissipated once Dais was gone, and Killian had the leisure to investigate his injuries. He was badly startled to realize his ribs were either broken or cracked—he wasn't exactly sure how he knew, but he did—and the first thing he had done was to sit down and not move. The last thing he needed was to make it worse. And besides, it didn't hurt nearly as much when he wasn't moving.

He worried about what would happen when Dais came back, but wondered why he had left to begin with. Was it intimidation? Leaving him to wonder what the miserable bastard was cooking up? If so, it was failing miserably; Killian was just grateful to be away from the horrible Nether Spirits. He shivered, thinking of the vile things. If they really wanted to torture him, all they had to do was leave him where he had been!

Of course he wasn't about to suggest it.

After a while, Killian very carefully lay down on the concrete, still in full armor, and closed his eyes. He did feel far safer in his armor, even if it made lying down uncomfortable, and as he and the others seemed to have been moved out of range for mental contact, he was feeling vulnerable and alone. 'Damned Nether Realm, cutting off our telepathy—wonder if Talpa did that.'

Not five minutes later, as if his thoughts had provoked it, a sudden mental shriek made him sit bolt upright, scarcely noticing the pain in his sides as he did. He felt his whole body go cold, recognizing the cry as Tarun's, and realizing it was a cry of pain. Whatever was happening, whatever Tarun was feeling so intensely that he was able to reconnect with Killian, he was being hurt badly.

Rage was the first thing that filled his mind, rage for whoever was hurting a ten year old boy. He cringed at another cry, and clenched his fists, closing his eyes and forcing himself to calm down. Shaking, he took a big breath and focused all of his concentration on Tarun, summoning the calm, blue comfort of warm, tropical waters. As he strengthened the mental link, he could feel Tarun's terror, almost as if it were his own, and realized the kid was considerable pain. The rage threatened again, but Killian forced it away, knowing that anger would only make it worse. He had to be calm, he had to comfort Tarun somehow, he had to do something!

Killian was not sure exactly what happened but the awful, traumatized emotions coming from Tarun's mind began to ebb, slowly calming into a mental equivalent of weeping, not screaming. Killian did not think that whatever was happening had stopped, but he had helped, somehow--made it less, or sent strength, or... Killian wasn't sure what he had done, but he intended to keep doing it, focusing all his spirit on easing Tarun's distress.

As Tarun began to calm, Killian started to catch mental glimpses of what had happened—what was still happening. Kale binding the kid to a table of some kind, of the woman Jin Tanaka being summoned to the chamber... They'd somehow gotten Tarun's armor off, leaving him in his kabaddi uniform, just a little kid lying there bound on the stone; without his armor, Tarun looked like any other child in the world. Killian began to shake again as Jin began to explain to Kale her methods of physical interrogation, how she mixed psychological and physical torture, of how pain was not enough; there had to be fear, also, and despair. Of how she preferred to cause physical damage, knowing that seeing the blood or looking at the broken bones added terror to the victim's suffering.

Suddenly there was a thin, burning sensation, the welling of blood across his chest, and a screech of surprised pain. A knife in Jin's hands, a pleased smile on Kale's face, a rush of fury and fear that Killian wasn't sure came from himself or Tarun. An almost gentle touch on his hand, the grasping of a finger before he could clench his fist, and a sickening crack. Killian clenched his teeth, feeling as if it had been his own finger snapped, listening, horrified, as Jin explained exactly what she was doing, of what happened to a bone when it broke, of the horrible complications that could happen with a poorly-tended injury. Knowing little of medicine, Killian had no idea how much of what she said was true or not, but it terrified him, true or not. He knew much of the fear was coming from Tarun, but it didn't stop him feeling it.

Four more times, four more snaps, Tarun's mental voice shrieking once again, and Killian clenched his fists, focusing once more on his power, fighting to ignore the horrible pain. Water. Soothing, healing calm. Warmth and safety. He found that as he worked on calming Tarun, trying desperately to ease the pain those bastards were inflicting, he was soothing his own pain and fear, even the pain from his ribs. The power was new to him, and he felt a sudden rush of gratitude for having discovered it, for both his and Tarun's sake.

It went on for longer than Killian would have thought it possible for a child to endure—even he was beginning to lose control of his fear. He didn't know how long his world had narrowed to only Tarun and himself—the same cycle repeated over and over: a sharp spike of pain and fear, the fight to regain the calm of the waters, and a lull of subdued weeping. He wasn't even sure anymore what they were doing to him. To them. He didn't even know how he was absorbing Tarun's pain, only that he was doing it.

Finally, after a span of five minutes with no new pain, he caught the echo of Jin murmuring that Tarun had had enough, and that they should quit for the day. That it did little good to go too far with a prisoner in physical interrogation, because it defeated the purpose. Kale had obviously agreed, because Killian got the distinct impression that Tarun was being moved, though he didn't risk losing his concentration to find for certain.

Killian felt like he could faint in relief. He was rapidly tiring, unwilling to break contact, staying with Tarun the entire way. He didn't know where the boy was taken, only that he wasn't bound. 'Probably in a bloody cell like I am,' he thought disgustedly.

Killian could almost see Tarun curled on the stone, sobbing, as he was left alone. He spent the next half hour comforting the boy, trying to ignore the throbbing in his hand and other places of injury, unwilling to leave Tarun to endure it alone. Tarun hadn't realized that Killian had mental contact with him, but he soon calmed enough to cease sobbing, and lie down on the stone. Tarun was more exhausted than Killian was, and no wonder; he'd been here for several hours longer, and had gone through a lot more. Tarun soon settled into sleep that was nearly unconsciousness.

Killian stayed "with" Tarun for several minutes after he felt the boy's mind ease into slumber, before slowly letting himself withdraw from contact. He felt his own strength ebbing, and realized his armor was low on energy. And so was he! But the pain faded almost immediately from the things Tarun had gone though, leaving Killian only with the ache in his sides and a sort of general soreness.

"I'll kill him," he whispered, banishing his main armor and reverting to the aqua blue riot gear. "I'll kill them both." "Appalled" did not begin to describe the horrible revulsion he felt that a grown adult could so deliberately torture anyone, much less a child. But he had seen the woman's cold calculation before, the wretched enjoyment she got from her victims' suffering. He'd seen it as she fought him, watching him struggle against the arid heat in the desert, against having no water in the searing sun, fighting to stay on his feet. And he'd seen how much Kale enjoyed beating down his enemies, and imagined he was pleased to exact revenge against Tarun for his harassment at the Renaissance Faire.

The young Ronin was badly startled at a noise outside his cell. Awkwardly wiping his eyes, only now noticing he had also wept, he scrambled to his feet, catching flash of pinkish metal from outside that told him Dais had returned. The loathsome warlord sat calmly outside the cell door on a stool, smiling at him, clad only in his own riot gear. Killian had the awful feeling he had been there for quite a while. "What do you want, you miserable ratbag?" Killian hissed, his fists clenched.

Dais smirked, amused rather than angry at the insult. "We soon will be brothers in arms, Killian of Torrent," he said. "You may hate me now, but it will change."

Of all the things Killian could have expected him to say, that was not it. It wasn't even close. "What?" he said blankly, staring. Surely he hadn't heard him right! Brothers in arms? With Dais? Warlord of Illusion?

"You heard me," said Dais. "Surely you don't think you can hold out forever? Power corrupts, Torrent. It corrupts everyone—the power of your armor will overcome you. Think, boy. Your armor and mine are the same; they are all small parts of the same thing, all stemming from one armor. The hate, the rage and pain, they thrum through every piece that came from Master Talpa. Everyone succumbs to it eventually."

Killian stared at Dais, honestly wondering if he had lost his mind. "You've gone troppo, Dais," he said, shaking his head wonderingly, fear edging into his mind. Even Amaya had said that the Ancient hadn't been able to truly banish the evil from the armor, hadn't she? He shook his head violently. "You're mad. There's no way I'd ever become like you!"

Dais chuckled, setting the hairs on the back of Killian's neck on end. "No? I've watched you for the past forty-five minutes. It took me a good while to realize what you were doing, before understanding you were connected with your little friend as Kale and Jin tortured him." Killian felt his eyes go wide, and he clenched his fists. For some reason, this seemed to amuse Dais. "Look at yourself, Killian. You would cheerfully kill me as I stand, and want to rip Jin limb from limb. Am I right? Did you not feel hatred to the very core of your spirit as blood seeped across your young friend's skin?"

Killian had begun to shake, unable to deny the loathing, unable to argue Dais's accusations, not even wanting to. "Shut up," he uttered. "Shut your bloody mouth!"

"Why?" asked Dais mildly. "What you did for him, helping him with the pain, is not so different than what we have done among ourselves, using our mental bond to lend one another strength, to help them endure pain and fear...yes, we have a mental bond just as you have." He smirked as revulsion washed over Killian's expression. "Think about it. You sit within the Nether Realm, a land imbued with the anger and hatred of mankind. It's human nature, boy, to hate. Look."

Killian did, narrowing his eyes.

Dais stood, standing back, and somehow managing to summon his armor without speaking. The pink metal covered his body, splashes of dark green on his arms and legs, the strange scythe face extending behind him. "How different am I now?" came the distorted voice from behind the insect-like mask. "Look at the weapon on my back; do you not bear a similar weapon? Even down to the mask, young Torrent. You may not wear it all the time, but it is there. And what of this?" Dais pitched his voice nearly an octave higher, an uncanny imitation of Killian's Australian dialect: "Super Wave Smasher!"

Killian felt his cheeks heat up as he was imitated, giving Dais a filthy look. "What...what about it?" he finally asked, unable to help it. "I use that attack to protect people!"

Dais laughed again, eerie behind the metal mask, and shook his head. "Have you never seen the destruction it can cause? Have you never seen its power smash walls, throw bodies with the force of a cannonball? Water is not a nice thing. It has killed millions of people over the ages. It is used as a murder weapon, it drowns those who sail it, and even those who merely live by it. Tsunamis, flash floods--destruction, Killian. Your armor possesses dark powers, and you've bonded with it, a bond that cannot be broken."

Killian bristled at how Dais kept calling him Killian and Torrent, speaking as familiarly to him as if they were old-time mates, together for a casual conversation. He watched the warlord banish his armor, then sit back down on his stool, gazing at Killian. Surely he couldn't be right, could he? Killian had used this armor for weeks, practicing fighting, and learning its powers, and had not been corrupted. And water—water wasn't malicious! "Th—this armor protects people!" he finally said, taking a step forward, not realizing he was giving Dais some of the information he wanted. "It—it takes pain! It lets me cleanse the water and save the creatures who have to live in it! It can't be evil!" But an image refused to leave his mind, the image of a tsunami on the shores of northern Australia that should have killed him, but did not. But how many had it killed?

Dais shrugged, standing up from his stool, and stepping away from the cell, looking back only once. "Deny it now if you must," he said. "But you'll soon learn. It will overcome you—you and I are of the same ilk, young Ronin. When the powers of our armor unite, we will fight side by side."

And then he was gone. Shaken and upset, Killian sat back down, denying with every fiber of his being everything Dais had said. He could protest all he wanted to Dais, but he couldn't exactly deny to himself the hatred he'd felt for all of them at one point or another. He couldn't deny how satisfying it would be to smash Kale's head on a large, sharp rock. "But that doesn't make me evil," he snarled, sitting back down and scowling at the dingy walls. "Some people deserve that and it's not evil to wish it! I'm not evil, you jerk!"

Was he?

Killian scowled, wrenching his mind away from Dais and his forked-tongue words—he was as much a snake as Sekhmet was! The Torrent armor was not evil. It wasn't. He refused to believe it. And Killian certainly wasn't evil. He wouldn't believe that, either. He closed his eyes and tried to summon the image of cleansing, healing waters, but flash floods and storm-maddened seas swam up instead, and he scowled, opening his eyes. "Miserable whacker," he hissed. He turned his mind instead to Tarun, only just managing to catch the feeling of the boy's mind. It was still calm, deeply asleep, and Killian was glad. He also tried reaching Demetrius, but was concerned when he could not. He hoped it was distance, only, or some power blocking him. Killian just hoped he was okay.

His own injuries beginning to throb once more, Killian lay back down and tried to rest.

---

The pain had been excruciating, beyond anything Demetrius had ever encountered before in his life, but mercifully brief. He didn't know what it was, only that it had been in a dart that the English warlord had stuck into Demetrius's neck when Demetrius began to struggle with his captors. The flare of agony, and then blackness—a knockout drug, a particularly nasty one. Demetrius wasn't even sure it was anything they could reproduce in the mortal world!

When he woke, he had the feeling he had been out for several hours. He was back in his riot gear, and noticed first a horrid throbbing in his hands—he looked up to see they were wrapped tightly within manacles, and that those manacles were attached to a wall. His feet touched the floor, but his knees were bent, his body limp from unconsciousness. He'd been hanging from his wrists now so long that they'd gone beyond numbness into pain.

Grimacing, Demetrius swore softly and clumsily got his feet beneath him, still groggy from the drug that English wretch had used on him. He hissed as the blood began to flow again into his hands, making them throb yet more fiercely. The youth scowled and yanked as hard as he could on the manacle, annoyed but not particularly surprised when he was not able to break it. The Hardrock armor gave him strength, but the miserable things were surely fortified by magic.

He leaned back against the wall, feeling distinctly unrested. 'Unconscious for hours, and I feel like I haven't slept in days.' He thought disgustedly, squinting his eyes and looking around at his surroundings, trying to make out where he was. The room was dim, and Demetrius did not have his glasses, so everything was a little out of focus.

Still, he could make out that he was in some kind of chemistry lab, or something of the like. The chamber was large, though not quite as large as the cavern where they'd all been preyed on by the Nether Spirits. One-fourth of the room was taken up by a sort of quasi-room, an area sectioned off by a low wall, and filled with liquid of some kind. It looked like the same water the cavern chamber had been filled with. Another part of the room was taken up by ornate, old-fashioned cabinets and shelves, and Demetrius could see delicate vials and goblets and other containers lining the shelves. To Demetrius's right, a thick door was set into the wooden wall.

The wall Demetrius was bound to had several other sets of manacles attached to it, and there was a table at one end with leather straps. He shuddered a little, realizing that he was certainly not the first prisoner in here, and wondered if the ones before him had gotten out alive.

He scowled in irritation at the walls; he would have expected them to be stone, but they were not. If they had been, Demetrius could have taken some energy from them, and he was willing to bet that's why he was brought there, because the walls were of wood. "The enemy knows far more about us than I like," he muttered.

He was prevented from further griping by the opening of the wooden door. He looked up, his heart suddenly beating faster, feeling the familiar buzz of adrenaline that flooded him when he was alarmed or angry. Sekhmet walked in the door, looking strange in his dingy sub-armor, smirking unpleasantly on seeing Demetrius awake. "Comfortable?"

Demetrius only narrowed his eyes, deciding not to reply to the snide greeting. Sekhmet wasn't exactly someone he wanted to have a friendly conversation with, anyway.

Sekhmet did not seem put out at all, only paused for a moment, looking at the door. Demetrius was irritated to see the Englishman walk in, looking grim and intimidating. He was taller than Demetrius, perhaps even taller than Suisei, and had long, blonde hair that seemed to make his soft features look stark. His green eyes were that of a particularly sadistic tomcat. He was also in riot gear.

Demetrius resisted the urge to bite his lip, and looked to Sekhmet instead, though he wasn't any better. His skin was sallow and inhuman-looking, and his eyes were unnaturally large, with no irises—only small black dots of pupils. The bastard even looked like a snake.

"You look a bit uneasy," said the Englishman with a smirk, his soft English accent somehow made sinister by its surprising gentleness. "Don't think I've introduced myself to you. Heath Jenkins. And you're Demetrius Rost."

Demetrius scowled, turning his gaze to Heath. "How do you know so much of me?" he asked, not bothering to try and use English. They seemed to understand him no matter what language he used.

Both warlords chuckled, and it was Sekhmet who answered. "You brats don't even realize we've spied on you for weeks. We know a great deal. That's how Master Talpa knew you wretches had lied to him." His nasty smile widened. "That's why you've been given over to us."

'Oh, great,' Demetrius thought, dismayed. They hadn't fooled Talpa for a minute—the sly old wretch had tested them!

"As for the information we have of your armor, we've fought the Ronin Warriors once before, the group that had the armor before you. A hot-tempered brat name of Kento possessed the armor you now bear. We already knew most, maybe all of its powers."

Despite himself, Demetrius was interested; he'd not known the names of the previous Ronin, except for Sanada Ryo. Kento. He would have to ask Amaya of the other Ronin. "Where are the others?" Demetrius asked, not sure he wanted to know.

"That's not your concern." Sekhmet turned his back on Demetrius, opening one of the cabinets, revealing several rows of small vials, all filled with different liquids. Sekhmet looked back at Demetrius and smiled, and Demetrius felt cold with fear.

"Which will you use first?" asked Heath, ignoring Demetrius for the moment, but it was clear he was asking for Demetrius's benefit, not his own.

"I think we'll start slow," said Sekhmet. "This one." He selected a vial from the cabinet and left it open, no doubt so Demetrius could enjoy the view.

Demetrius clenched his fists, his entire body tensing, as Sekhmet and Heath approached, fear spiking into his stomach. He never could have imagined how frightening it was to be bound helpless while the enemy approached. He kicked viciously out with one booted foot the moment Sekhmet came into range, growling furiously, taking both men by surprise. His foot connected with the vial, sending it flying across the room, where it shattered with a nerve-wracking peal of delicate, broken glass.

Sekhmet hissed, recoiling and summoning his armor without uttering a word; he stepped forward and swung his armored fist around to catch Demetrius alongside his face. Demetrius grunted, kicking out again, but Sekhmet was prepared for it this time, catching his foot and yanking it so that he was jerked off balance. Demetrius grimaced as his body fell, straining his still-sore wrists, and fought to regain his footing.

Sekhmet didn't give him a chance. He let go of Demetrius's foot, but drew one of his katana, swinging it viciously down to strike Demetrius across his legs.

Demetrius was clad in sub-armor, but it did not give him nearly as much protection as his full armor did, and he yelled in pain as the blade cut into the metal. A second, lightning-fast strike from the unnaturally powerful blade broke through the armor, cutting into Demetrius's skin, staining the metal with blood. Demetrius screamed, realizing immediately that the blade was coated with some sort of toxin from the sudden, unnatural pain the burned from the wounds and spread down his legs.

For a moment, things went blank as Demetrius dealt with the pain, which seemed to spike out from the injury into the immediate areas. The full effect of the blade did not lost long, mercifully, and the world began to slowly come back into its quasi focus. When he could see again, Sekhmet and Heath both stood in front of him, returning his gaze with amusement. "Let's try that again," said Sekhmet, turning his back on Demetrius once more to open his cabinet.

Heath still gazed at him while Sekhmet searched for his drug, but Demetrius ignored him, taking a deep, shaky breath and trying to get back onto his feet. But as soon as he moved his legs the slightest bit, another wave of nauseating pain spiked, and Demetrius ceased moving at once, clamping his lips shut on another outcry, uttering a muffled groan. 'What kind of sick mind invents something like this?'

When the miserable half-breed returned (Demetrius was convinced Sekhmet was not completely human), Demetrius had to exert every bit of willpower he possessed not to try and kick him again. His instinct was to hurt him, to fight him with every weapon he could use. Sekhmet nodded to Heath, who reached forward and grabbed Demetrius's jaw, digging his fingers into his cheeks, obviously intent on prying open his mouth. Demetrius growled, violently jerking his head to the side, the only way left to him to fight. But the bastard didn't let go, only gave a powerful wrench, yanking his lower jaw down.

Sekhmet grabbed Demetrius's face as well, forcing the vial between his lips, throwing the liquid back into his throat—before Demetrius could react, he'd swallowed the contents, shaking his head as Heath released it, fighting a deep-down panic about what kind of poison he'd just been forced to drink.

Looking at the captive youth for a moment in disgust, Sekhmet muttered, "You may not be as hot-tempered as your predecessor, boy, but you're just about as obstinate."

Demetrius didn't answer, hardly hearing the insult, being far too busy trying to anticipate what was going to happen. Anything else Sekhmet had used thus far had been immediate, its purpose apparent seconds after it was used. But this wasn't doing anything!

He looked up at the two warlords, who seemed to be sharing some kind of inside joke, and wondered if he was going to be let in on the joke. He didn't wonder long; Sekhmet seemed to greatly enjoy letting his victims know exactly how his abominations functioned. "In case you wondered, Hardrock--Demetrius, is it?" Demetrius scowled. "The little concoction you just partook of is not a poison. Not quite."

"It's an inhibitor," said Heath. "It suppresses your body's natural defenses."

Demetrius stared for a moment, comprehending what that might mean. He knew a person could fight off toxins and others things, like viruses—did he mean that they had discovered a way to break down those safeguards? He began to feel numb, shaken by the idea.

"You understand correctly," said Sekhmet, grinning widely and looking more insane than ever. "My poisons are powerful, but those miserable brats—the other Ronin—were able to combat them, even without the help of their armor. This little potion will eliminate that obstacle. It is also a powerful immobilizer."

Demetrius realized with horror that he was right; the numbness he felt had not been from mental shock. He could move neither his arms nor his leg, though seemed to be able to move his head. 'Of course,' he thought giddily, 'he needs me able to talk!'

Heath laughed, am eerie howling sound that did not match his gentle voice; it sent gooseflesh across Demetrius's cold skin. "Do you feel it, lad?" he asked. "Do you feel its relentless passage through your blood? Can you fight it, Ronin? Can you stop its invasion? Do you not feel it shutting down your defenses, one by one?"

Demetrius clenched his fists, trying to stop them shaking, trying not to imagine that he could feel the vile thing, suppressing the chemicals and glands in his body that would normally help protect him. He tried to ignore the fact that he couldn't move his body, to pretend he wasn't afraid that the drug might not wear off. He fought to keep from his expression how badly the warlord was daunting him.

Sekhmet managed to arrange his own expression into one of mock hurt. "You don't look impressed! I worked several months on developing this potion, Ronin. You have the very great honor of being my first human test subject."

"Nothing you touch could know honor!" Demetrius hissed furiously, expending some of his fear into anger.

Sekhmet narrowed his unnatural eyes for just a minute before the grin was back, and he opened up his cupboard once more, making a great show of selecting just the right vial. Despite himself, Demetrius grimaced at the sight of it; it was a sick, vivid yellow. He watched in horror as Heath took out one of the darts he's used on Demetrius earlier, tipping a bit of Sekhmet's yellow venom into its hollow tip, and approaching. Demetrius could do nothing to stop him jabbing it into his neck.

The pain was immediate and sharp, and Demetrius only barely kept from crying out. He squeezed his eyes shut as his skin suddenly seemed to be burning, as if they'd been seared with a hot iron. "Kinda feels like nerve gas, doesn't it?" asked Heath, his voice shaking with a slight chuckle. Demetrius could not have answered, but he couldn't imagine anything human made could hurt this much.

Demetrius remembered little after that point. He remembered questions, and remembered fighting against the toxins that he was being subjected to. He remembered struggling not to answer them, hating them for how difficult it was—when he refused, they jabbed him again, each dosage larger than the last, working in tandem to multiply his suffering each time, until each time he didn't think he could bear it any longer.

Sekhmet and Heath left the room at one point, though Demetrius scarcely noticed. The venom still raged through his system, and even if the paralyzing drug was not still affecting him, the pain would have crippled him. The minutes crawled by, until even the seconds seemed to drag past, adding up to over an hour of agony.

Finally, Demetrius began to discern a lessening of the pain, dimming down as the poisons began to lessen. Demetrius quieted, his throat raw and sore, and slumped exhaustedly in his bonds. The original drug, the defense-system suppressant, was beginning to wear off, which allowed the poison to begin wearing off, too, leaving a throbbing ache over his entire body.

Demetrius began to sob, startling himself, but not able to hold it back. Nothing in his life could have prepared him for the kind of pain those poisons had inflicted. Clenching his teeth, trying to control the half-hysterical weeping, Demetrius slowly moved his legs beneath him, shakily straightening out to stand upright, taking the terrible strain off of his wrists. He groaned as he remembered his legs had been injured and looked down, shivering a little at the blood, and hoping it wasn't serious.

It was fatigue more than anything that calmed him. As he leaned back against the wall, wishing he could lie down, he hoped to the bottom of his soul he had not given out any information that could harm his friends. He couldn't even recall the questions he'd been asked—the drug fogged his mind as much as the pain had. The only thing he could think of that they didn't already know was information about their families; most of them had families alive, and vulnerable, in various parts of the world. If he had given them locations or identities...

Demetrius twisted a bit, half curled up against the wall behind him, and lay his aching head against the smooth wood, wishing it was stone instead. He hoped the others were not doing as badly as he was.

Demetrius, in the company of Sekhmet and Heath.

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