The old man woke up blearily to the sound of a distant rooster crying in the distance. He cracked his eyes wide open, and he slowly realized something wasn't right. He could hear men working, as it was the first of dawn. His own surroundings hadn't changed any - his memory was too good for him to miss something out of place. Despite all of his things being exactly where they had been the night before, he could not shake the feeling that something was missing.

However, without any sort of hard evidence, he rid himself of the feeling with a practiced motion of the mind. He would not pay mind to it.

He dressed for the day, walked out to the edge of the forest, relieved himself, and decided to get his day started. He took all of his things and packed them up. He placed all of his books in a single suitcase, all his clothes in another valise, and finally stowed the tent. He made sure that all of it was ready to go into the trucks before stiffly walking to the cooking fire. His joints complained testily to the abuse, and he rubbed his arthritic hands. Bookman had had to contend with the staleness of his own mortal coil for the past ten years, something he'd done his best to hide from his young apprentice. His Junior Apprentice was more than aware that his ascendancy to Head of the Clan could be rather premature.

"Good morning, Senor. Did you sleep well?" Ricardo asked. The young man was fresh-faced and cheerful this morning, a newspaper (somehow) in his hand.

Bookman gave him a rather sour look.

"Isn't that last week's newspaper?"

Ricardo's cheeks flushed, and he looked down quickly at the newspaper as if just realizing how late the issue was. He gave a nervous chuckle before explaining, "Ah, well, I haven't had anything to read these past few... days... I, uh, I guess I was just very fascinated with the news from last week."

The last few words were lost in a mumble as the black-haired scientist quickly busied his mouth with a sip of coffee. Bookman grabbed his own mug of liquid energy, and he sat for a few seconds, meditating purely on the warmth in his hands and the aroma of soaked coffee beans. As always, the smell reminded him of Colombia... of days spent sitting in front of a porch, the sun shining down on him. Each image was brought back with perfect clarity. Those had been simpler days, a respite from the rambunctious life he lead now. It seemed he had retired when he should've been working, and working when he should've been retired.

"You like coffee?" Ricardo asked after a few moment's silence. Bookman cracked open an eye, slightly irritated by the interruption of his reverie.

"Yes, I do. However, I am more predisposed to tea. I'm afraid we have none this trip, so coffee will have to do."

"I've never seen an Asian man drink coffee. I didn't know they served it in the Orient."

"They don't. Not typically," Bookman answered tersely as he took a sip of his brew. In the back of his mind, he recognized that he was being undeservedly harsh to the young man, but the feeling that something was missing would not go away.

He looked at the empty seat across the fire, and his eyes squinted as he racked his brains. Every morning, without fail, someone sat in front of him and ate. Every morning, that person would eat at least enough food for three men. Every morning, said individual would recount a dream he'd had that night to a redheaded individual who usually mouthed off to the old man in the morning.

"Where is that redheaded moron?" Bookman muttered under his breath. That was... an unusual break from the norm. Allen always ate here. Nothing in the world, barring possible incapacitation or decapitation, could stop Allen from eating breakfast. Perhaps the boy was sick. It was likely, given the fact that the water here was not the cleanest. And where Allen was, there he'd find Lavi as well.

"Excuse me," the old man said, getting up with a slight ache. He winced as his back popped, but he paid it no mind. He made his way nimbly to the tent Lavi and Allen had shared for most of the trip. He hadn't agreed with the two spending so much time together, but the extended company seemed to give Lavi some ground. Were it not for Lavi's mental health, Bookman would've raised hell over it.

He lifted back the cover to find two beds neatly made. Things were packed, ready to go, never touched. Toiletries were stowed in neat parcels. The tent was fresh with morning dew, undisturbed by two boys fighting to get dressed in such a small space. There were no shoes on the ground, no socks strewn about. All in all, it was a model living space for such a dingy camp.

Those boys had never even slept in these beds. His nostrils flared as he put two and two together. So that's what was missing this morning.

The godawful yapping of two teenage boys.

Just to verify, he walked to the horses. Sure enough, two horses were missing from the corrals, as well as two sets of harnesses and tackle. So they'd gone on a midnight ride, had they? Well! Bookman would give them such a hiding that they'd be lucky to have a square inch of skin to sit on! Junior knew better than this - he hadn't raised a hoodlum.

Bookman stomped his way back to the cookfire, where Darren had blearily made his way to the food. It was obvious that the American was led more by his nose than his eyes, as the latter were only half open. The man scratched his stubble in a most irritating fashion while rubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and Bookman took a moment to recollect his composure. He had no idea how Lavi had found such a 'friend', but he was stuck with them for the time being, seeing as he had the canister. Said object was slung across the older gentleman's back, winking in the dawning sun.

"Mornin', pard'ner. What's fer breakf'st?" Darren asked groggily, looking into the stew pot. The cook said something in Spanish, to which Darren squinted his eyes, pulled his head back like a turtle, and then stared into the pot. He took a huge scoop of the mystery food and slapped it on his plate. Bookman found his shoes suddenly well acquainted with two or three globs of rice and... meat of some kind.

"Good morning to you, as well, Darren. Could either of you tell me where my boys have gone?" Bookman asked, his hands in his sleeves. A small vein threatened to burst in his forehead as the two men stared at Bookman for a moment with blank gazes. Ricardo suddenly became incredibly engrossed with his enigmatic breakfast, and Darren coughed into his fist.

"Funny you mention 'at," Darren said, nodding his head. "You see he were go' 'a 'own an' go' a 'ringk wi' Allen."

Most of his sentence was obscured by the massive amount of food he attempted to shovel into his mouth, but Bookman knew all about avoidance tactics. Lavi was a master in his own right at dodging uncomfortable questions. One time, he'd gone so far as to stage a flight of peacocks in order to avoid explaining to Bookman why his favorite robe had a massive ink splotch.

"If you could repeat that, sans breakfast."

Darren swallowed slowly while Ricardo hid behind his newspaper. As if sensing the radiating ire, most of the men in the camp had chosen to forgo breakfast in the interest of keeping the peace. Bookman paid no mind, instead turning his direct gaze on the American who was now hot under the collar.

"They, ah... went to town, I reckon," the aging cowboy said.

"Yes. I have gathered that much. But when? And to what purpose? I was not informed," Bookman said acidly, now directing his gaze to Ricardo. The man's newspaper quivered as he realized that he was now the target of interrogation. After several seconds of trying to appear busy reading the newspaper, the scientist mumbled, "They wanted a few drinks. Just a... a nightcap, you know."

"Nightcap?"

"Yes."

"...Well, it'd be much better to call it a dawncap by now. They're not back yet," Bookman said wearily, rubbing his forehead. Ricardo and Darren exchanged looks to each other. One shrugged and the other grimaced as Bookman took a seat.

"They went down to that there li'l hole in the wall place down the road 'bout two miles or so," Darren offered helpfully, and Bookman nodded as he stared into the fire. He hadn't even noticed the boy was missing... No, he was asleep before Lavi had even left.

Not Lavi - Junior Apprentice. Lavi wasn't his real name.

The stray thought tugged at his brain. He'd taken to calling him that name, though it wasn't as if he'd neglected to use the other fake names that Lavi had bestowed upon himself. However, he'd never used the pseudonyms in his own mental realm, instead using the boy's title as a placeholder. Now, he used the name as naturally as if the kid was born with it.

Though in a way, he had been born into the name. He was a new person, freshly christened by friends and community. Quite obviously, this was not a good thing.

"I will journey there to find them, then. And chastise my idiot apprentice for leaving without telling me. He is lucky I have such a long memory, or else I would've left him. Perhaps I should, to teach him a lesson," Bookman grumbled as he once more picked up his mug and sipped his coffee. And the day had started off so well...

After their morning routine, Bookman quickly mounted a horse and started for the next town over. Darren tagged along - Bookman supposed the man must feel slightly guilty for the disappearance of the two. So far that he'd learned, it was Darren that had encouraged this latest escapade. While he was by no means happy to have company, Darren did truly care for the boys' welfare. Bookman couldn't say he was pleased with the development. Of course, if Darren was good for anything, it was for finding the nearest, dingiest watering hole.

The town they rode into couldn't have had more than a hundred inhabitants. If Bookman hadn't known any better, he would've thought this was the end of human civilization. There were a few large buildings, a tavern of some sort, and several houses, some colonial and some mud-and-daub. In the center of the town was a statue that, for one reason or another, lacked a head. Bookman stared at the statue that served as the town's focal point, feeling slight unease. The statue had been of an indigenous Indian of some kind, wearing the traditional garb, though it was impossible to tell who it was considering its face (and the rest) was missing.

"I don't really 'member the name a' this here town, but I kin tell ya they got a mean gin," Darren reported as they headed towards the tavern. Bookman hoped to walk in, find the boys passed out in their stable, and then head out on the road again. Possibly, he'd have the boys shine his prolific collection of shows as punishment, but for now he wanted to take baby steps.

First, find them. Then, smack the tar out of them.

The tavern was a wooden, low building, and the inside was cramped with chairs, tables, benches, and early birds looking to wet their tongue. Bookman cast his expert eye over the place, but it seemed he didn't truly need to. There was absolutely no order to the place. All the chairs and tables had been thrown haphazardly around the room. The bartender, seemingly oblivious to the disarray, was shining glasses at the bar.

Bookman picked his way through as Darren whistled low appreciatively. Glass crunched underfoot, and the lamps overhead swung slightly, casting long shadows. Chair and table legs cast a menacing forest of shadowy spikes across the floor. The floor was scuffed, and the pictures on the walls were all crooked or dangling. Obviously, this place had been very lively the night before.

A young woman with broom was sweeping in the corner, humming to herself. Bookman yanked on her sleeve, and she abruptly turned. Jumping back in surprise, she put a hand to her chest and muttered, "Mi Dio."

"Perdon, senorita. Tengo cosas preguntas por tu. Estoy buscando por dos muchachos, un hombre con pelo de blanco y un hombre rubio. Has se visto?"

My apologies, senorita. I have some questions for you. I'm looking for two men, one with white hair and a redheaded man. Have you seen them?

The young woman, who couldn't be more than a teenager, struggled with the question before understanding crossed her face.

"Si. Esten aqui anoche."

"Why am I not surprised?" Bookman muttered in English. "Where are they now?"

"I don't know," she said defensively, her eyes squinting as she looked over Bookman's shoulder to the American who was admiring the collection of bottles behind the bar. Her body language screamed at him, that something had happened. He cocked his head slightly to the side, and he asked, "Could you tell me what happened here, then?"

She gave him a sidelong look, brushing black curls behind a single ear. Her eyes shifted around the bar, taking in the wreckage, and she said, "There was a big fight. The redheaded one... he insulted El Gordo."

"Go on."

"He said he was fat."

Bookman snorted. Leave it to Lavi to push someone's buttons and start a bar fight.

"Why did he call him fat?"

"El Gordo had Maria with him. That's his new girlfriend, and she was sitting by him. The redheaded one talked to her, and El Gordo was...upset. El Pelirrojo asked her to dance, and Gordo called him a cur, told him to go find his own dinner to eat. Pelirrojo pushed El Gordo after. The white-haired one, he tried to make the redheaded one quit. They start to insult each other, and then the redhead called El Gordo fat."

"Did the bartender throw them out?"

"No. El Gordo picked up the redheaded one and threw him out that window."

The girl pointed to a shattered window on the other side of the bar, and Bookman flatly stared at it. Well, it's not like Lavi didn't know how to go out with style.

"And after that?"

"El Blanco left to find El Pelirrojo, and then Pelirrojo came in and tried to clobber El Gordo."

A tingle of suspicion raced down Bookman's old spine as he saw the tightness around the girl's eyes, her sweeping more of a buffer than a true chore. He circled her, his stare directed at the large amount of glass, wood, and nails strewn about the bar.

"And then the bar fight started?"

"Si, senor. Arruinen todos cosas y dejaron."

Bookman stroked his chin. So Lavi had talked to a pretty girl, made her boyfriend mad, and wrecked a whole bar in a fight for his own honor and the honor of a girl. Allen had tried to be a voice of reason... and failed, as was typically the case when it came to Lavi's pigheadedness. It was a wonder that Akuma weren't involved, but there were no bullet holes in the walls - fresh ones, at least.

"Our boys have disappeared, it seems, Darren," Bookman said, turning around -

-to find that his companion had left. Bookman frowned deeply before walking around the piles of furniture and diehard drunkards. He soon found his partner talking with another person in front of the statue of the Indian, laughter frequently exchanged between the two of them. Several times, the stranger gestured to the statue, waving his hands around. Darren gave a big belly laugh, and the other man smiled widely before clapping Darren on the shoulder and bidding him farewell. By the time he'd gone, Bookman had caught up.

"I assume you've found an important tidbit of information," Bookman stated.

"Guess what happened to poor Chuy over here," Darren said, pointing to the headless statue. Bookman stared at it and then back to Darren. His kohl-lined eyes betrayed no amusement.

"Obviously, he is a head shorter than he was before."

"Yep. Wasn't like that last night."

"Oh?"

"Someone with an awful big hammer got mad and whacked the thing straight off."

Bookman stared up at the statue again with an incredulous look. Now he remembered why he'd forbidden Lavi any kind of alcohol. The boy was too reckless for his own good. Strange to say that alcohol was more dangerous to him than some of the most lethal poisons on the planet...

"When did that happen?"

"Not a single clue. Sometime last night. No one can say fer sure. But, I'll betcha one gold dollar 'at happened whatever hubbub happened in the waterin' hole," Darren guessed with his hands on his hips. Bookman was duly impressed with the man's info gathering skills. He hadn't expected Darren to be much more than a booze hound and general load, but he was full of surprises.

Pity his favorite drink was whiskey. It would've been a wonder to see what that brain could've been like if it hadn't been pickled in drink.

Over the course of a few hours, the two old men managed to create a picture of what had happened in the town that night. After consulting a few of the town's local whores, one stablemaster, a disgruntled farmer, and some women at a well, they'd learned a goodly amount just from local gossip. Bookman sat atop his horse as he looked out to the rainforest behind the well and thought on everything he'd been told.

So the story went, Lavi had gotten to be very drunk. Allen, however, had not, though that wasn't for lack of trying. The farmer had attempted to drink the gringo under the table, only to find that Allen's fortitude was more than a match for him. Allen had collected money from, not only him, but also several other men who were short a few more pesos. While Allen was busy collecting a small fortune, Lavi was talking with every woman he could find. According to a few, he would often space out in the middle of sentences, mistake a woman for a lady he called 'Mam' asking for her forgiveness, or even outright crying to them about something. This was the case when he walked to Maria and apologized to her for some imagined slight.

After regaining some of his faculties, he had tried to woo said woman, but El Gordo quickly put an end to that. After the defenestration incident, a bar fight ensued, spilling out to the square. In the mayhem, Lavi used his hammer to hit some fictional adversary - the poor Indian statue who was affectionately dubbed Chuy. At that point, the entire town seemed to converge on the two foreigners, and they'd hid in the stables underneath a feed trough. In the early morning hours, Allen had awoken to find Lavi gone, and after that the stablemaster could say no more.

"I heard he walked out to the road and into the dawn," one romantic prostitute postulated.

"He probably drowned in a well," the farmer had muttered.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he's fighting some tiger out there right now!" the stablemaster shouted.

As colorful as these predictions were, they didn't exactly help them locate the man they were searching for.

"Well, we checked the mayor's mansion, double-checked the stables, and triple-checked the bar. I'll be derned if I know 'nother place t'look, pardner," Darren sighed as he scratched his neck. He'd suggested they go to the small 'mansion' that belonged to the town leader. They were both stunned to find that somehow, the head of Chuy the Indian had ended up precariously balanced on top of the house's chimney. Several men were working to get it back down the last time they'd been there.

"We cannot move on without them. I am the only Exorcist on this mission besides those two." And I will not leave my apprentice behind.

Bookman sat up straight as he heard the soft pitter-patter of feet, and he looked behind him to see a woman walking towards them. They both looked down on her from their horses, and she sheepishly dressed her black hair around her shoulders self-consciously. The old men exchanged glances as the woman looked back to the well where the other women were gossiping and drawing water for the day.

"You were looking for a boy with white hair, right?"

The two nodded.

"I... think I know where he might be. Someone said they saw a boy with white hair shouting for someone by the old armory, where the Spanish used to keep munitions."

"Gracias, senora. We appreciate the help," Bookman sighed, hoping this was not another false lead. Already, they'd hunted down several dead ends, most of them leading to the rainforest. For whatever reason, the boys always seemed to end up walking into the thick vegetation, never to be seen again by the eyes of man. Or so the villagers told them. Perhaps that was just wishful thinking on their part.

They spurred their horses back to the town center and angled toward the Spanish munitions building to the south. It was an out of the way ruin, built in the open Spanish style with curved walls and small windows. Most of it was falling in and covered with vines, but it could still give shelter. Bookman dismounted, his feet making a wet noise as they landed on the thick carpet of dead leaves. Darren followed close on his heels as the Chinese man headed towards the building.

"Hello?" Bookman called.

"Bookman?"

Allen's voice startled the chronicler, and he took a step back, looking for the boy.

"Yes?"

"Ah... I need help getting down. I'm inside."

Bookman stepped into the old munitions building, searching the high ceiling - and seeing Allen hanging from a rafter by a single hand. His brow furrowed in question, and Allen winced.

"I thought a higher vantage point would be... useful. I forgot that this building's less sturdy than I thought," Allen lamented plaintively. He grunted as he tried to swing his legs to wrap around the rafter, but he didn't have the strength. Darren whistled low.

"Gotcherself in quite a pickle, there, li'l man."

"I'm quite aware, thanks."

Bookman nimbly climbed around the debris and went up a rotted ladder to the loft. Boxes of musketballs and powder leaked across the wooden floor, and Bookman was careful to avoid them. He climbed to the rafter Allen hung from and carefully swung the young man back on to solid(er) ground.

When they were both on the floor of the munitions building, Bookman took a good, hard look at the younger Exorcist. Dirt smeared Allen's face, and his hair was unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot, and the scar on his face sprang out an angry red. He had bruises, and what appeared to be a hickey on his neck, though Bookman didn't ask about that (ammo for another time, perhaps). His clothes were rumpled, and he looked like he might've been crying at some point. Still, it was obvious that Allen had stayed in those town looking for Lavi for quite some time.

"I'm so sorry. I... I lost him. I didn't mean to. I just, I woke up and he was gone -"

Bookman held up a hand to quiet him. He let the silence linger before saying, "It is not your fault. He is willful, brash, and not your responsibility. However, it would please me greatly if next time, you yelled your protests rather than simpered them."

Allen winced and rubbed his neck, his eyes downcast. Darren clapped the boy on the back and said, "You had one heckuva bender, there, kiddo. Real impressed."

Bookman gave Darren a rather harsh look.

"Er... I mean, next time you shoulda told us and, uh, shouldn'a gone in th'first place, dagnabbit!"

Bookman steepled his fingers in front of him and bowed his head as he thought about the questions he should ask. This would be important, he could tell. Allen was clearly distraught, but he was also an Exorcist. He could keep his composure... Or so Bookman hoped.

"Where was the last time you saw Lavi?"

"Near a house on the southeastern corner of town. He... he was saying something, I don't know. Screaming. I tried to follow him, but he was already gone by the time I caught up to him. Dashed off to the forest."

Allen bit his lip and rubbed his chin with his blackened hand, looking away from the two. He sighed roughly, shaking his head.

"I don't know what was the matter with him. He started getting agitated... It was as if something was bothering him all night long. At first, he was doing alright, but then... I'm not sure, we... We went to some of the more unsavory places because Lavi wanted to just see what it was like there. And then... well, he wanted to put the head of that statue on the mayor's house, and I told him 'no'. He got mad at me, pushed me into the gutter. He ran off without me, and I lost him for a bit. Then we met up again, slept in the stables..."

Allen rubbed his forehead as he tried to think of what else had happened.

"I don't know. I can't find him anywhere. I've looked, I really have. Just... he's acting so strangely. He acts like..." Allen looked Bookman in the eyes, and for a moment the old man's bones seemed to freeze solid. There was this haunted look in Allen's eyes, a set to his face, an uncertainty in his visage that scared the historian. Allen was a man of absolutes, of certainty and politeness and knowing how the world was supposed to be. Here was a man who'd stared into the face of Death, and he was frightened of what he had seen in his friend.

If a boy who had only known Lavi for some months could be frightened of Lavi's mental disintegration, what sort of terror would besiege he who had known him since childhood?

"...like there's something following him."

Bookman nodded with a sigh.

"It is best we start looking then, isn't it? We can start from the northern part of town and work our way south. We will covered a wide area, see if maybe anyone has seen him... Though we've talked to half the town already," Bookman said, sighing wearily. He didn't relish the thought of canvassing the area for his wayward apprentice, but what choice did they have?

It had taken hours of searching. Allen had gone back to camp to get some well-deserved rest at Bookman's behest. Link, who was annoyed to find that he had not been included in the investigation of his own charge, stayed with the young man. The last they'd seen of him, the blonde was guarding the boy's tent door - possibly more to keep him in than keep anyone out. In the meantime, Bookman had recruited his own set of workers, including Ricardo and Darren, to search for the redhead.

After what seemed like an eternity of asking inane questions, dodging disgruntled men, and inquiring once more whether anyone had seen a redhead, they got a lead when an old woman said that a cry like that of some animal had come from a large abandoned house by the road. Bookman, of course, was the first to arrive.

Bookman opened the door to the house, and it creaked on rusty hinges. The floor was littered with bottles, paper, and leaves. Things grew up from the floor, and bones marked the presence of small predators who'd taken this place as a temporary home. The diminutive man looked up the stairs, noting the bloody footprint that lead up the right side in small splotches. He felt a twist in his heart as he approached the crumbling stairway, walking around an old pillar. The house was colonial style, obviously too fancy for someone like a villager to keep up. So here it was, rotting away, forgotten.

He gently trekked up the stairs, listening. He could hear something on the edge of his sense, a tickle of the ear. He crested the final step on to the hallway that led to several rooms. The bloody footprint dried up and died somewhere in the middle of the hall, leaving several different options. Bookman walked down the hallway, puffing on his pipe in an attempt to calm his nerves.

"Lavi? Are you here?"

There was no sound, only the scrape of his boots. Light filtered into the room softly, blanching the surroundings into twilit lethargy. Bookman's pipe hid a cherry red ember every time he drew breath, the only true lively illumination. He looked into one of the rooms, finding nothing but bedsprings and decay. The next room was the same. Finally, there was the room on the end.

The door was closed. Bookman grasped the handle in his gnarled fingers, feeling the grime on his fingertips. Carefully, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. His heart pounded in his chest, fit to bursting. He looked in with tight eyes, his brow lined as he peered in. A sink greeted him, dingy and mock-white. The mirror was long gone, and the toilet was a shell of porcelain covered in grime. The floor was littered with glass, but it had recently been disturbed. His eyes tracked to the tub...

And the huddled form in the corner of it, red hair a shock of color in the wan light.

"Lavi?"

He didn't look up. He was naked from the waist up, clothes in tatters. He'd lost his right shoe, and his hair was unkempt. His bandanna was curled in his hand, and he was shaking. His face was pressed against his knees, and Bookman could hear him mutter a few words now and again. He was battered, bruised, and cut. His hand was swelled at the knuckles, the aftermath of a clumsy punch.

But the worst part were his fingernails. Under them, old blood had crusted and new blood was bright red under them.

Bookman approached softly, but Lavi ignored him. The aging patriarch finally stood beside the man in the dingy tub, and he put a hand on Lavi's shoulder. He didn't move, merely continued whispering something.

"Apprentice. Look at me."

As if finally noticing him, Lavi stopped. He lifted his head slightly... then curled tighter into a ball.

"They'll get you... They're going to get you if I don't give it to them..."

"We need to go home, Lavi..."

Bookman extended a hand to his apprentice, but he didn't lift his eyes. At last, Bookman stroked the boy's hair, and for a second he relaxed.

"I don't want them to get you. I... I tried. I did try, but I couldn't get it out."

"Get what out?"

"I couldn't. It... I couldn't do it."

Bookman stared at his apprentice, wondering what he was going to do with him. He wouldn't move. The sun was going down. If they didn't leave soon, others more unsavory than he would come for the boy. Bookman rubbed Lavi's shoulder.

"It's alright. We should go home now, apprentice. It's getting dark."

Finally, Lavi lifted his eyes to stare at Bookman, and Bookman pressed his lips together hard. His nose had poured blood, and deep circles ringed his eyes. His lip was split, and it was obvious he'd been in a fight. Bookman's eyes tracked down... down... down...

His chest was a mess of blood and skin. It was as if he'd tried to claw it apart with his bare hands. The stitches had been torn apart, and the half-healed flesh was torn. The fingernails suddenly made much more sense. Bookman's stomach roiled as he stared at the grievous wound, and he stared at Lavi.

"What did you do?" Bookman asked, rubbing his bald pate frantically.

Lavi looked down at his chest and said, "They... I have to give them my heart. I couldn't get to it. This... bone's in the way... And now... I don't want you to go. They'll take you if I don't give them my heart..."

The redhead brought his hand up to his chest, fingernails poised, but Bookman snatched it back and away. Lavi looked up in surprise, a single green eye filled with almost childlike awe. His lips were tinged with blue as they slightly parted with surprise, but Bookman couldn't see it. He couldn't look at his apprentice.

Was this what he had done to him? He'd known the risks. He'd played his gamble... but it was Lavi who was paying the price.

"They won't get you tonight. They'll give you time," Bookman reasoned, trying to twist this senseless logic into something useful.

Lavi, disoriented, nodded slightly. "They'll give me some time... Yeah, they'll have to."

"Where are the pills I gave you?"

"I..."

Lavi frowned heavily, shaking his head. He looked at the wall and touched it with his fingertips.

"Tile. It's...Spanish tile. There used to be Spanish tile in the bathroom at the Milanese hotel we stayed in on April 26th, Friday, 1882, the Berlesconi war... It was red, and blue, and yellow with flowers on it. Each tile had five flowers, either two red, or two blue, or two yellow with the other three one of the other primaries. With acrylic paint, hand painted, made in four factories, one in Madrid, one in Coruna, one in Berlin, and one in Milan."

Bookman stared at the boy in the tub, with his bleeding chest and his fleeting, though sharp, memories. What had he done?

"We should go back."

Lavi stared at Bookman dumbly. The old man took the boy's hands and slowly pulled him to a standing position.

"Where?"

"Home, Lavi."

"Where is home?"

"Where... they can't get you."

Lavi thought hard for a minute. And then, he walked out the door. Unsteadily, but surely, he walked to the stairs and waited. He gave Bookman that same, almost simpleton stare.

"Then take me home."