A/N: I owe an apology to Lilfangs, HeavenlyAngelicG, Courage and Love, and RandomObsessionsOfMine. You reviewed, sharing your excitement for Iggy action, and then I went and had a mini-hiatus. Y'all, I feel so bad for taking this long to update. Seriously. There is guilt rolling around in my stomach. True story. And as much as I wish I could say the culprit was the butler, it was regular, dull school.

On a happier note, I had way too much fun writing the budding bromance between Nick and James (stage 1: playful banter). I never felt like there was enough of that in canon.

This chapter was not proofread because I didn't want to delay getting it to you any longer. Bear with me.

Max?

. . .

. . .

A loud expletive pops my bubble of unconsciousness.

Instincts kicking in, I work hard to pull myself from the comfortable numbness. Fang wouldn't use a word like that in front of the kids (at least not when I'm within hearing distance), so either they are out of earshot (which is bad), or Fang is so caught up in danger of some kind that he's forgotten to filter his language (which is doubly bad).

The two voices come from my left, but after a second of consideration it occurs to me that the tone of the conversation is much calmer that I would expect during an Eraser attack. I allow myself to relax, hoping the quiet rhythm of the voices will lull me back to sleep; my head is killing me, and despite being unconscious for who-knows-how-long, I feel like my limbs have been dipped in lead and I've been forced to trudge through a Jello marsh with said lead-limbs for hours.

Mmm. Jello.

I think I've almost drifted off on that thought when a snippet of conversation rudely interrupts my peace.

"Yeah, give me ten minutes, a set of pliers, and a tube of toothpaste."

The second the words register, my eyes snap open, and my glare is accompanied by my Most-Leaderly, Don't-You-Dare-Even-Think-About-Doing-What-I-Think-You-Are-Trying-To-Do voice. And there's only one, one time I need to use that.

"No bombs." I wince. Okay, my DYDETADWITYATTD voice is a lot more intimidating when it doesn't come out like an ant with laryngitis screaming in the wind. Even so, it's enough to get their attention. Groggily, I brace my hands in the dirt and push myself into an upright position, hoping I look more graceful doing it than I feel.

Fang—I blink and remind myself that this is Nick, not Fang (I thought I was getting better at this?)-and Iggy sit on the other side of a pile of glowing embers. I clear my throat. "No explosives, Ig." Then my eyes widen. Iggy?

The pale teen misses my surprise. His arms crossed in front of his chest, he recites, "Technically, it's an incendiary device. It doesn't 'explode' as much as—"

"—catch things on fire." I finish for him, still a little dazed. Then I shake my head in an attempt to clear up my foggy mind. "How—when. . . "

Nick finally speaks up. "Max, this is James. James, Max." The lanky teen throws a cheeky wave in my direction. My brow furrows. Nick sends me a look that clearly communicates that I have all of the tact of a sociopath in group counseling before he continues. "James helped us escape the police after you passed out."

Of course, I'm still paranoid, and surely there aren't doppelgängers for two members of the Flock living in the same city at the same time, so I skip civility and rush straight into ultimate-skepticism mode. I narrow my eyes in James' direction (temporarily forgetting that my glare has no effect on those who can't see it). In my most threatening voice, I growl, "Why?"

James glances at Nick, who's gone still at the tone of my voice. "Um, to cross 'drive the get-away vehicle' off my bucket list?" James is obviously nervous, but his voice carries an Iggy incredulity, a special brand that implies I may as well have asked him why he breathes air or why. . .

I rock to my feet to emphasize my point. "You drove?!" I face Nick. "You let him drive?!"

"He was already in the car!" Nick stands up to meet my gaze.

I turn to James. "Why were you driving?"

Now it's James' turn to stand. He addresses Nick instead of me. "Is she always like this?"

Nick smirks. "Yep."

James nods knowingly. "You should sit down again." Nick obliges with an eye roll. Lots of those being dealt tonight.

Finally, James turns to me. "And as curious as I am as to how you came about as a law-upholding citizen who doesn't let perfectly-capable fourteen-year-olds drive, I'm a lot more interested in how you know the ingredients in my incendiary devices."

My breath catches. He's looking right at me. Like, not "scarily-close-for-a-blind-birdkid" accurate, but "perfectly-capable fourteen-year-old" accurate. I hold up my thumb, index, and middle finger. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

He has to squint in the thin light provided by the dying embers. "Um, are you counting the thumb as a finger? Because technically you're holding up three digits, but because the thumb has one less knuckle…"

I tune out. Totally. An Eraser could swoop down from the trees and haul me to the nearest armored helicopter and I wouldn't even blink. He can see.

But of course he can, I mean, he doesn't have wings, (not that I've asked), and Iggy wasn't born blind, so why should his creepy doppelganger be?

But still. I study James' eyes, memorizing the clearness in them. There's no clouding over the pupil or irises. They're a sharp blue, the same color I remember peering at me from the cage across the aisle before the whitecoats and their disastrous experiment.

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. Darn it, I've already met my quota for sappy emotions for the next couple of years, not mentioning this last week. Instead, I settle for, "You can see."

Judging by his blink, James was expecting me to talk about how I knew about the bombs, but that could only be truly explained with a monologue about watching Iggy learning to accept his loss of sight by obsessing over small machines and eventually explosives, joking the whole time with a very young Gazzy who totally idolized him. James, on the other hand: "Duh."

"Why would you think he couldn't see?" Nick raises an eyebrow ever so slightly.

I just shake my head, crossing my arms across my body almost protectively. "Long story."

But I think Nick picks up on my hints that I don't trust James enough to talk about anything in front of him, because the next thing that he says is, "Max, I know you're paranoid, and as far as I can tell you have every right to be, but you've got to trust me. You can trust James." I eye James suspiciously. He waves again. "After all, if he were going to turn us in, we would have been gone ages ago."

What a nice transition into another pressing matter. I join Nick on the ground, signaling that, for now, at least, I'll give James the benefit of a doubt. This had better be worth it. "How long was I out this time?"

Nick pauses, seeming to weigh the consequences of telling me. With a sigh, he finally answers, "Another day."

I groan. Another day lost. At this rate, I'll be whacking Eraser butt with my walker before I find my Flock.

James speaks up, then. "Dude, you didn't tell me that this has happened before."

More than a little ticked, because James isn't speaking to me even though I'm right here and because Nick has been speaking to him, apparently about me, I fire. "And why should he tell you that?"

James crosses his arms. "Look, I don't know why you hate me so much, but I'm just trying to help." He flicks his bangs back and huffs, (an old habit of Iggy's), but his next words aren't as sharp. "I'm in the medical track at my high school. I know stuff, first aid, anatomy, CPR. Plus, my dad's a paramedic, so I kind of pick some stuff up, you know?" No, I don't, because the closest thing to a dad I ever had was Jeb, and the only knowledge he could give us directly related to the reasons he needed to be our surrogate father. Then he disappeared.

I clench my fists. Cool down, Max. Not helping.

"He redressed my wounds," Nick offers, pulling up the hem of his shirt to reveal fresh white bandages across his abdomen. Sure, I could have done it—I've found myself playing doctor plenty of times after, say, Fang tried to fly at top speed through a forest, or Nudge got so angry about who was kicked off America's Next Top Model that she dug her dinner fork into her thigh without realizing it—but I have to admit that the Flock usually heals quickly, whether proper medical attention has been paid or not. That said, James has maybe done a better job than I could've. He's done it as well as Iggy.

Shoot, it's hard to be suspicious when they literally feel like family.

So I drop my paranoid-mutant-freak act. Just for a little bit. "This is the second time I've, uh, fainted." Gosh, I sound like such a wimp saying it out loud.

James sits and steeples his fingers ironically. "Interesting. Continue."

I roll my eyes but humor him. If this is a birdkid thing, it's not like he can fix anything. If it's not, well, it doesn't hurt to try, right? "The first attack, I just kinda got dizzy and blacked out for the day. This last one was different, though."

"Different how?"

I shrug. "Nausea, headache. Nothing terrible."

"She was limping," Nick cuts in. "And then she had to sit down because her headache kept her from moving." 'And she was totally helpless as a girl, so I attempted to console her, but her girlish fears were too much and she fainted quite completely.' Jerk.

"And this was at the vigil?" James asks.

Nick nods, his mouth a grim line. "When we climbed into your car, I had just rescued her from an ambulance swarmed with cops." I open my mouth to argue that I don't need 'rescuing', but the thought of what would have happened if Nick hadn't come back shuts me up. "She's been unconscious until now."

"Hm." James narrows his eyes dramatically and leans into his steepled hands, staring broodily into the embers.

When it doesn't look like he'll give us an answer, I stand up and take a good look around. Lots of trees, the same build as those surrounding the city. Judging by the moon, it's somewhere around two in the morning. Or eleven. I don't know, Fang was always the best at that stuff. "Where are we, anyways?"

Nick gives me the abridged story. "We're in the forest a few hours outside the city." I nod. Figured as much. "James drove, but we had to stop somewhere for tonight because we kept running into police barricades."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and make the conclusion, "So we're on the run." A thought occurs to me. I snap my head up. "Do they know what we look like? We could just-"

Nick shakes his head grimly. "They have our descriptions. And pictures from the hospital have been popping up on the news." My eyes flit to James. "Yeah, they saw him, too. We're not safe."

"Why are they after you, anyways?" James has finally broken from his thinking pose, his eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. "No offense, but you don't strike me as the murdering type."

Nick ducks his head. I consider the truth: either A) Nick's on a hit list because of his gang affiliations, B) the School is playing a wicked game of cat-and-mouse, or C) neither, and we're both screwed. I settle for the easy answer. "We don't actually-"

"I'm the leader of the Shades." Welp, so much for that idea. But Fang never did master the art of subtlety. James is shocked into silence. "The Boss, my aunt. . . disappeared, and the mantel was passed to me. You can see how that ended up." He gestures to his leg and abdomen, a mirthless grin on his face.

James gives a low whistle. After a second, he turns to me. "What about you? Secret agent? International art thief?"

I smirk, realizing James thinks I'm a bigger target than Nick. Judging by the scowl on Nick's face, he realizes it, too. "I'm running from vampires." Best to stick to the classics.

James' look of awe only lasts a second before it falls flat. "You're bluffing."

"Duh." I cross my arms.

He waits for me to continue, but when it's made clear I won't spill my life story, he sighs. "Fine, if you don't want to take part in the sharing circle, so be it. We're perfectly happy without you. Right, Scarface?"

Nick's eyes narrow at the nickname. James smiles evilly.

Just like old times.

I offer to take first watch, and when both boys refuse to let me stay up, I demand it. So that's how I end up leaning against a tree, staring into the darkness all night, listening to the soft sounds of breathing (well, James snores a little).

I can't admit it's because I'm avoiding a nightmare. I can almost swear they're getting worse. More realistic.

When I was unconscious, I could have sworn I heard someone calling my name. It sounded so real.

It sounded just like Angel.

~xXx~

"Let's go, slow pokes. We're burning daylight." I bounce on the balls of my feet, surveying the steep rise before me. If I remember correctly, the cabin is a little over a mile away, but this is the last hill to climb before reaching it.

"I don't see why we couldn't just drive here? It would be so much faster." James huffs into view from around a particularly thick copse of trees. He still has bedhead (yes, that is what it's called even when your only bed is the forest floor), and he yawns every couple of steps. His feet drag behind him dramatically. All in all, you'd think he'd been walking for days, but it's only been a couple of hours.

"Tire tracks. And you really think that dump you call a car would make it over that river we crossed a mile back?" Nick follows, looking a little pale but nimbly picking his way over the uneven ground. Definitely more acclimated to the woodsy, outdoorsy life than James. Still, his gait is uneven because of his bad leg. I've tried to make him rest at times, even offered to carry him once, but he outright refused on both counts. He says he wants to get the cabin as quickly as possible. He wants to see the last place his pseudo-mother lived before she died.

James grumbles something along the lines of, "It wasn't a dump until you decided to jump into it."

"Come on, only a little further." I wave them on without looking, instead planning the best route up the hill without hitting any slippery spots. When they finally reach me, panting slightly, I point up the incline. "Up the hill, down the other side, then only a mile or so left. We should reach the cabin by lunch time." Three stomachs chorus their approval.

James groans as we begin our ascent. His knees are red and bleeding; his cargo shorts do nothing to protect his legs from the thorns and sharp twigs we've been marching through all morning. I wince in sympathy. No wonder the next words out of his mouth are, "Remind me again why I'm doing this."

I grab a small tree and help Nick climb up a patch of loose soil. I do the same for James. Huh. I'm not usually so winded. "Nick's on somebody's hit list" (breath), "and the only lead we have is a letter in the cabin," (breath), "that Bess lived in while hiding from the assassins." Okay, I don't actually know that they're assassins, but it's as good a guess as any, right?

"Right. And?!" James loses his balance, sliding about a couple of feet down the hill before I catch him.

Grunting, I push James up. "For you, it's either us or the cops with questionable loyalties."

Nick chooses then to chime in. "Or you could take your chances by yourself."

I can't see it, but I know James is scowling. "I can take care of myself. At school—"

"This is way different than studying physicology. You wouldn't last an hour. Do you even know the first rule to surviving in the wild?"

"It's physiology. And, yes, I do."

"Let me guess, you read it in a book somewhere?"

"Dad and I went camping once. To birdwatch." We could both tell Nick was about to respond, so James pressed onwards. "I bet you couldn't tell duck from a hawk if clawed into your shoulders and carried you away."

Nick casts an amused sideways glance at me. I ignore it, so he continues the banter: "Nerd."

"Dropout."

"Hey, I could make more money dealing in a week than you could playing doctor for a month."

"Oh yeah? Because I could surgically remove your test—"

"Boys, boys, you're both pretty." I roll my eyes. Been doing that a lot lately. I like it better when Fang is the silent, brooding type. This bickering is going to drive me crazy.

But I can't help the smile ghosting across my face.

The next mile passes, my appeal for peace ignored. I'm as thankful to reach the cabin as the boys, and that's saying something, considering they're both pesky humans who haven't really hiked in the wilderness before. Let alone lived in it for weeks on end.

Nick slows as we approach the ramshackle building. The three of us stop no more than a hundred feet away. I watch Nick take the sight in. His shoulders tighten as his gaze travels across the only window not boarded up, the gaping door, the overturned furniture loitering in the porch's outline.

James shuffles his feet nervously, craning his neck to search the surrounding trees for. . . something insidious. I can't help doing the same. My scanning the environment reveals nothing worse than an ant colony and a few patches of poison ivy. Still. Nick takes a deep breath and a cautious step towards the building. I wince, expecting it to explode.

It doesn't.

Still, I stop Nick, pushing him behind me. At his protests, I only gesture to his injured leg. He lets me go ahead of him, but lets me know – makes sure I know - he's not happy about it. A quick glance at James confirms he's not planning on following me any time soon.

I pick my way over the porch's frame carefully. Before entering, I examine the un-boarded window. Broken from the inside out. I swallow and clench my fists.

The door creaks ominously as I enter, despite my not having to touch it. It and the open broken window let in enough light for me to make out what occupies the room. It looks like a tornado hit. Light glints off broken glass, from what I don't know. There are still shards of chair scattered on the floor. Bess' suitcase had been overturned in the center of the room, leaving piles of damp clothes all over. Cans spill out of the lone cabinet in the corner by the camp stove, and from what I can tell, most have been opened.

I back out of the shack slowly. "Coast is clear, but somebody else has been here."

James kicks absently at a sapling. "Obviously." I would take it more personally if it didn't sound like he's just processing it himself.

Nick limps up next to me and silently assesses the interior of the cabin. "Somebody was looking for something." A statement, cold and removed. He makes as if to enter.

"I don't know if you should go in there."

He ignores me, pausing only briefly at the doorway before stepping inside. I look over at James, who raises his hands defensively. "Hey, I don't like ghosts. I'll, uh, keep watch." I nod and follow Nick inside.

He stands at the far wall, brushing his hand along the seam between the wall and ceiling. I clear my throat. "So, you don't think they found it?"

Nick shakes his head. When he makes a full circuit around the room, he drops to his knees and starts again, this time feeling along the edge of the floor. Since I don't know what I'm looking for, I start to repack the suitcase in the middle of the room. If we're going to spend the night here—considering I don't have any better ideas—may as well make it feel less ominous.

I've just finished zipping the stuffed bag when Nick exhales, "This is it."

"What?"

Nick doesn't look up. "Hand me your knife." I scoot over and carefully hand the blade to him, mindful of the dried blood on the handle. Nick's blood. The surgeon that removed it put the thing in an evidence bag. I guess my "airtight" explanation of a car crash was a little suspicious. Anyways, the first second I could, I reclaimed it.

Nick slides the flat blade through the floor/wall seam until he seems to find resistance. Then, turning the blade, he starts to saw through the adjacent floor board. After a few tense seconds, there's a loud crack as the wood gives way under his pressure, revealing a small hole beneath the wall. Nick reaches down to grab something but immediately pulls back with a gasp.

"Your leg?" He nods, scooting backwards to give me room to maneuver my own arm into the dirt ditch. I roll my sleeves back and sink my arm shoulder-deep into the clay tunnel before my fingers lock around what feels like a hard plastic edge.

As I drag out the bundle of blue tarp, James joins us, mumbling something about fire ants and rubbing at the small red dots on his hands indignantly. He helps Nick and me carefully unfold the bundle in the middle of the room and sort through what's inside: a sizeable stack of twenty-dollar bills, another year's supply of canned food, more clothing (none of which would fit anybody in our party), a gun (which I promptly set aside—out of sight, out of mind), and a single, crisp white envelope with "Nick" scrawled across the front in dark black ink, slightly smudged.

Nick traces his name on the front. It has to be the letter his mom was talking about, from his aunt. It was probably the last thing Bess wrote.

I rest a hand on Nick's shoulder. "You don't have to open it right now." When Jeb failed to return to the E-shaped house, the Flock and I left his half-filled mug of cold coffee on his desk until the water had evaporated and the dregs had molded. It's hard to move the last thing you know they touched.

Nick lets out a deep breath. "No." With that, he rips the letter open. James and I watch his eyes scan the page, lingering on her initials near the bottom. When he finishes, he just passes the letter to me and starts counting the money left.

I squat closer to James so he can read over my shoulder, sparing Nick from hearing it all out loud.

Nick,

If you're reading this, it's because I'm dead. Well, I figured this is what would happen. So, suck it up. You haven't let anything drag you down before, and I expect you to stay strong now.

But you deserve an explanation. There's been a bounty on my head for months now; it was only a matter of time before somebody got to me anyways. The fight over the warehouse was the perfect opportunity to disappear.

Nick, the Shades were not responsible for the death of Bennett, the Reds' boss. I did some investigating. It was an outside job, an organization bigger than anything I've seen before. They're the ones that sent me on the run. For the last year, they've been conquering smaller systems like our gang all across the US - maybe further, I haven't finished my research - consolidating power.

I have raised you to be the leader of this gang, and I expect you to follow through with your heritage. Keep the gang together, no matter what. The people in the lower ranks are violent sociopaths that need to be led. If you don't lead them, They will. It will make Them stronger.

They will target you. Be careful. But nothing is more important than the family. Your girlfriend reminded me of that.

This suicide mission is worth it.

-B

We end up packing up the extra supplies and finding a different place to crash for the night.

A/N: The last 2000 words were brought to you by the stress caused by class registration (the Hunger Games of college).

Um, review? Can I still ask for that? I did just reach a 50,000 word milestone, after all!