"Sex is the last refuge of the miserable." - Quentin Crisp

Brand sighed heavily realizing he'd run out of water and was still covered in grime. He was about to wrap the blanket around himself and go in search of more when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He crossed his arms and waited for Shaye to make another appearance.

"Brand?" Cyréne called. "I'm on the way down."

He lunged for the blanket, wincing as the injury on his side pulled. "Alright, I'm covered."

She appeared at the door lugging a heavy bucket of steaming water. She had, what appeared to be towels, under one arm and a small bag was tucked inside them. He stepped toward her and took the bucket.

"Thank you," she breathed. "All that healing wore me out. Are you still feeling okay?"

"Yes, just filthy."

She gave him a sympathetic look. "Well, that's what the extra water is for, and I found some other things that might be useful."

She handed him the small bag and set the towels on the bench at the back of the cell.

"There is soap in the bag too. It smells like honey – sorry about that – it's all I had with me."

"Why are you doing this for me?" he asked.

"Do I need a reason?" she asked, surprised.

"Most people do."

"Well," she said coming up to him. "I don't have one, except that you were in need. And you should thank Tina, she did as much as I did."

He nodded. "I will."

They looked at each other for a moment.

"Um, do you need . . . help with anything?" she asked hesitantly. "I don't mean to be forward but, you probably shouldn't be reaching and stretching too much."

"Don't you think that's a job for Tina?"

She blushed. "I can get her for you."

"Uh, no"

"Well . . . okay, I'll leave you to it then."

"It's not that I don't appreciate your offer," Brand said. "I just can't ask you to do something like that for me, you're obviously . . ."

"I'm obviously what?" Cyréne asked with her arms crossed.

"Not loose . . ."

Cyréne smiled. "Thank you, and no I'm not, but I don't mind helping you. I'm used to being around brothers, if you know what I mean."

He looked down at the floor, realizing he needed help, but not wanting to shame himself further.

"Tina!" Cyréne called. "Brand needs a bath, wanna help?"

Brand looked at her, startled.

"No!" Shaye called from upstairs. "Send him to me when he's clean."

Cyréne grinned, "Sounds like you're going to get lucky," she teased.

"That's not what I'd call it."

"Oh please," Cyréne said. "She's attractive and she wants you – a lot, apparently. Sounds like luck to me."

Brand looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. "Yeah . . ."

"Here," Cyréne said. "At least let me wash out your hair for you. You don't need to be stretching that injury on your side." She walked back to the bench and stood behind it motioning for him to sit down."

He obeyed, simply because he couldn't think of a way to refuse without being rude. Cyréne grabbed the tankard that was floating in the bucket and filled it with the hot water. "Okay, lean your head back."

When he did she soaked his hair and then reached inside the bag she brought down and retrieved a small bottle. "Well, you're definitely going to smell pretty," she said, pouring the scented soap into her hand."

"It's better than wet dog, I guess."

Brand fought the urge to flinch away when she touched him. He felt bile rise to his throat as unwelcome memories of the past few months played through his mind. If anything has seared itself into his consciousness it was that "touch" was not his friend. The healing spell had helped, and the bath was helping, but he still felt filthy, and used, and less than human. He swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut and his muscles tensed. Behind him, Cyrene's brow creased. She weighed her options, and wondered a bit about the ethics of manipulating his mind before silently sending a soothing, calming energy through her fingertips, slowly, so he wouldn't notice. A moment later his muscles began to relax and Brand had to stifle a groan of pleasure as Cyréne scrubbed his scalp with her nails. She smiled to herself at the relaxed expression on his face, despite the small nagging guilt in the back of her mind, and kept scrubbing. After a while she directed some of that calming energy back at herself, and guilt assuaged, told him to lean back again and rinsed his hair out and dried it quickly with a towel. She ran her fingers through it gently, releasing the tangles, and then reached over his shoulder and handed him a razor.

"I don't think that beard can be salvaged."

He sighed and started shaving.

"Here," Cyréne said after a minute. "Wrap this towel around your waist instead of that blanket, and I'll get some of this dirt off of your back."

She handed him the towel and he looked around to find her turned away from him, staring at the wall. He did as he'd been told and then sat back down on the bench. "Okay, you can turn around, now."

He went back to shaving, but closed his eyes for a moment as warm water splashed down his shoulders and back, followed by a soapy cloth. Cyréne was tired, and under her own spell of distorted calm, and her mind was wandering. She watched the dirt disappear from his shoulders and back, not missing the flex of his muscles under her touch. She found herself eyes closing and was only jerked back to consciousness by Brand's hands on her wrists.

"Hmm?" she murmured.

"I can take it from here, unless you'd like to keep going, which I wouldn't advise."

"What?" she said sleepily. She opened her eyes halfway to find herself leaning against his back with her arms over his shoulders, absentmindedly running the soapy cloth over his abs. she jumped back, dropping the cloth in his lap. "Oh, Brand – I'm so sorry. I'm just tired, I didn't mean to—"

He chuckled and glanced over his shoulder. "Well, I don't even have that defense; it just felt good."

Her guilt kicked into full gear and she abruptly cut off the tiny bit of energy she realized was still seeping from her fingers. No, it didn't "just" feel good.

She sighed, "Am I forgiven then?"

He turned to look at her and her eyes widened.

"Well . . . wow! That's quite a change. Tina might change her tune about you not being delicious." She gave him a sleepy smile.

"What's your deal?" he asked, suddenly wary.

"Huh?"

"What's your deal? No one is this nice, no one is this kind, and no one helps werewolves. So, what is your angle here?"

"I . . . don't have an angle. Or, I don't understand what you mean. "

He stood and approached her, and Cyréne realized that he towered over her.

"I'm sorry if I've done something to offend you," she said in confusion.

His eyes narrowed. "And now you're apologizing. Do you just have to feel needed or something? What are you getting out of this?"

Cyréne closed her eyes for a moment and then walked away without a word.

"Is he clean yet," Shaye asked as Cyrene walked by.

"More or less," Cyréne said. "Have at it."

Shaye grinned and headed down the stairs.

Cyréne sat down on the floor and wedged herself into a corner between the wall and a bookshelf. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, resting her head on her knees.

Why do I try to help people? I always screw it up – always. And illusion magic? What was I thinking? I take it too far, or I don't pay attention. Maybe he's right – maybe I'm just doing all of this for myself. Maybe I'm a sick, twisted person inside. Or maybe . . . I just want other people to find a little comfort and happiness, just because I can't. Or maybe . . . I'm just tired of being alone . . . but, am I willing to bend someone's feelings? Gods! Who am I? I don't even know anymore. She sighed and closed her eyes, falling into a restless sleep.

Shaye crept down the stairs, every bit the assassin she was, and peeked around the corner. Brand had taken up where Cyréne left off and was indeed, almost clean. He saved the best part for last, in her opinion, and she watched him stroke himself with a soapy hand before creeping up behind him. She reached around and took over mid-stroke.

"Stop it!" he growled trying to pull away.

Her grip tightened. "I don't think you want me to," she said confidently.

"What the hell have I fallen into?" he asked.

Shaye grinned, "You my friend are caught between a very, very good girl and a very, very bad one. She's done her part, now let me do mine. Most men dream of situations like this."

"I dream of killing things," he said sharply.

"What a coincidence," Shaye purred, still stroking him. "Me too."

Brand closed his eyes. "If I let you do this, will you stop everything else?"

"If you still want me to when I'm done, then yes, but you know it's going to feel good."

That infuriated him and he slapped her hand away. "Stop it! I'm not in the mood for whatever game you're playing."

Shaye shrugged. "You will be eventually – just hope I'm still feeling generous."

"I've no doubt you're always feeling generous," he said, scowling.

Shaye's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Life is short, I believe in living it to the fullest." Her eyes narrowed suddenly, "And by the way, you're probably the most ungrateful asshole on the planet. We risked our lives for you, and Cyréne has just about exhausted herself trying to take care of you. I heard what you said to her, and she didn't even respond to you, so I'll do it for her. Fuck! You! You bastard – we should have tossed you out of the back of that carriage and let those damn zealots have you." Shaye pivoted to stride up the stairs, but then turned back. Staring into his eyes, she dumped a cupful of clean water over the last soapy part of him and then dipped down, wrapped her lips around it and gave him one long, luxurious stroke with her mouth before glaring at him and leaving him panting and staring after her as she stomped up the stairs." You're gonna be okay, Wolf, you just don't realize it yet. I promise.

"Thanks for what you said," Cyréne said as Shaye passed her.

"You need to learn to stick up for yourself," Shaye scolded. "And as for whatever the man trouble is, take my advice; there are just some of them out there who aren't worth it. Gather up all the tears you've cried, and drown him in them."

Cyréne looked up at her, expressionless, "I didn't cry. I stabbed him."

Shaye's eyes widened and a grin split her face. "Now you," she said, "are my kind of girl."

Cyréne shrugged. "He really, really, pissed me off."

"Remind me not to get on your bad side," Brand said, walking into the room. He glanced over at Shaye, "All you have is a bad side."

"Damn right," she said proudly.

Cyréne ignored him and tried to concentrate on anything but reality. She held up her hand and searched her mind, until she found Janus. He appeared before her and she beckoned to him. She shoved her satchel under her head and curled up on the floor with her arms around him.

Brand looked at Shaye, who just shrugged and crawled into her bedroll.

"You ruined her stuff with your dirt and wet dog smell. You're on your own about finding somewhere to sleep."

I should probably just leave, he thought, later. He looked around at the two sleeping women and rolled his eyes as his conscience kicked in. They had risked their lives to save him, and more. I guess I'm stuck with them, until I can drop them off wherever they belong. The thought of what he would do next, or where he would go sent a shot of paralyzing fear through him and he took a few deep breaths to calm himself. Just get through tonight.

He checked all the doors to make sure they were secure before stoking the fire and settling down in a chair for the night. He found himself amazed at the turn his day had taken. He'd gone from being a tortured prisoner to having two more-than-attractive women taking care of him in less than 24 hours, and all he'd done was bitch and moan about it. Cyréne and Shaye seemed to be polar opposites, but they complimented each other – he could definitely do worse as far as the company, and the view. He looked from one of them to the other, contemplating. Shaye, he didn't trust because she made it obvious that he shouldn't - and that, that was something he was comfortable with. Cyréne on the other hand . . . she seemed good, and sweet, and trustworthy . . . which, in his experience meant she was most definitely not all of those things - or that she had a hidden agenda. They're both dangerous, he decided. But, so am I.

He looked over at the huge blue wolf Cyréne had conjured and it raised its head and glared at him – aggressively. Cyréne hugged it tighter and said its name in her sleep, and it settled down again with its head by hers. Strange, that she's clinging so tightly to something that won't last.