Chapter Eight

"I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day." – Vincent Van Gough

The archives were silent.

In truth, it was almost always silent here of late, given that there was currently only one archivist maintaining the vast, hidden, history of the OZ. Even in its heyday though, when there was at least one head curator, an assistant archivist, and four field agents, the large warehouse of artifacts still had the reputation of being near library-like in its lack of auditory presence. Now, however, it was more like a tomb for its almost complete silence and the chilling cold that permeated everything. Not that any of this bothered its chief curator. Artemis Saul simply delighted in the near-perfect stillness and would often be found working most diligently during the long, late hours of the night.

Tonight, Artie was hunched over a thick, dog-eared notepad that sat in the center of his desk. His eyes seemed glued to the small words printed on the page, which appeared to be some kind of a ledger, and he pushed back to mentally calculate something while he leaned back in his chair. Whatever he was counting seemed to give him no end of frustration, and his spectacled eyes were closed tight while his face was upturned to the ceiling, and he soundlessly mouthed something to himself when he'd completed his mental cartwheels, closing with a deep, dissatisfied grumble. It was only then that he opened his eyes and pulled himself upright once more, scanning the scarred desktop as he did, and his body stretched out across the desk like a greedy child when he'd located what he was looking for: a plate of chocolate chip cookies that sat just out of reach.

Artie chuckled with deep satisfaction when he successfully retrieved the plate and brought it into the cradle of his plump hands, and as he plucked one from the pile, he studied it with the gleam of one who'd discovered a lost treasure.

"Thought you could get away, eh?" he rumbled darkly to the pasty before he took an overlarge bite, and he moaned as the sugar and chocolate within melted on his tongue.

The cookie seemed to act as a balm in the way it calmed Artie's visible agitation, and with each subsequent bite, he relaxed a fraction more. By the time he took an overlarge gulp of the milk that had been sitting next to the plate of cookies, his mood was much improved, and he sat back to survey the office around him while he polished off the contents of the glass. Artie's desk- a scarred wooden relic with clawed feet- sat in the middle of the expansive office space, surrounded by other ancient desks and dusty filing cabinets that were piled high with files and papers. The space was really much too big for just one person, and had he not been alone, it might have been more appropriate for him to use the curator's office, whose door was closed tight like a vault at the back of the room. As it was, Artie's current workspace seemed uniquely lived in, like it doubled as both an office and private parlor, for among the office accoutrements, signs of comfort littered the space. A deep, leather armchair sat in the corner, flanked by a small side table and warm stand lamp, curled and peering over the chair like an interested interloper, and various ancient rugs spread themselves over the cool white limestone, both muffling the sounds that would otherwise echo in such a space, and infusing the room in warmth and rich, vibrant color. Artie looked past all of this and glanced at the chief curator's door, noting that at one time, the frosted pane of glass in the center of the wooden frame would be lit by the office light within the room at such a late hour, and the prior curator would often be found working within much like him, while the archives were almost wholly silent. His eyes were wistful with this memory, and a glint of moisture managed to collect around the corner of his eye before he swiped it away with a hasty grumble.

"My apologies," Artie grumbled quietly as he removed his glasses and scrubbed his face. When he'd successfully excised the tears from his eyes, he began cleaning his glasses with the corner of his shirt, and he glanced up at a framed painting of a striking woman in Ozmanian priestess garb as he continued to speak to the empty room with an air of self-admonishment, "You always said this is what you would die doing. Don't waste water on me, Artie, you always told me. I just miss you."

The woman's eyes seemed to sparkle with life-like warmth, and it was as if she was listening to Artie. Her dark, raven curls were oddly reminiscent of Artie's own graying mane, and there was a hint of a smile on her face that was tinged with almost matronly fondness. Under the gilded frame holding her image was a placard which read "Mistress Penelope Saul – Chief Curator XV."

Artie expressed his grief for the painted woman with a fair amount of frustration, and shortly after his confession, he tossed the brass frames in his hand onto the ledger and huffed in exasperation. "There are still so many missing artifacts, thanks to the Sorceress' Longcoats, and there's no way I'll recover them all without more agents. Something's got to give."

Mistress Saul's smile did very little to assuage Artie's frustration, and he huffed at her image once more before he glanced at the emerald sitting in a glass box on the small bookcase below her frame. He replaced the glasses on his face and picked up his pen again, seeming suddenly resolved, "No time for wallowing. I know you did everything you could to protect the archives, mother. I'm just so sick of being pulled in two different directions. I've got to have some help." he grumbled, glancing at her briefly before he bent down over his ledger again with a dramatic sigh.

Artie's review of the ledger was more focused now, and he scribbled madly on a secondary tablet as his eyes dropped down the page, littered with red marks which flagged the numerous artifacts missing from the archives. He'd just about reached the end of his page when there was a sudden buzzing, stamping the air urgently like Morse code, which led Artie to jump out of his concentrated writing with a flustered scratch on his notepad, and he grumbled non-verbally as he dropped his pen and swiped a metal case from within the desk drawer at his elbow. When he opened the case and peered inside, the buzzing instantly stopped, and Artie barked at the round view screen within the case in irritation.

"What is it, troublesome child?" Artie snapped.

A young woman, shown in shades of grey and black, winced at Artie, and she scoffed light-heartedly in response to Artie's curmudgeonly greeting while her wide eyes rolled back for a moment. "Such attitude, young man. You'd think you weren't on vacation or something."

"I'm on potentially permanent leave, Claudia, not vacation." Artie corrected her.

Claudia tsked unbelievingly and grumbled under her breath, "Potato, potato, old man. We both know you don't take breaks from the warehouse." She paused to sigh loudly, after which she continued in a much sweeter tone, "Where are you anyway? I miss you."

Artie echoed her sigh as he sat back in his chair, still grasping the metal box in both hands while he considered how to answer. When the expression on his face seemed to indicate that he would not give her the answer she wished, Claudia huffed back and complained loudly, "Pete's driving us nuts around here. Keeps treating artifacts like toys. You'd think he hadn't almost been killed by a few of them or something. Plus, the office stopped smelling like cookies a few days ago, so now I can't ignore the smell of old man and dust. If you don't come back soon, I might just have to clean that hole you call an office."

"Claudia –"

"Maybe I'll get Abigail to bring some incense from the B & B."

"Claudia-"

"Or maybe I could ask Mrs. Fredrick –"

"Claudia Renee Donovan!" Artie bellowed, causing Claudia to stop immediately, looking almost amused in the way her lips pursed together in anticipation of what Artie would say next. Artie, meanwhile, paused to take a deep breath before he continued; now sounding metered in overly patient. "If I didn't trust in you and Myka's ability to keep things running, I would never have taken the break that you all so adamantly claimed I needed. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to go back to that leave. I have much to do."

"Doesn't really sound like a break to me, but to each his own." Claudia grumbled, "But before you go, you asked me to let you know if I got any weather pings in Kansas."

Artie had begun to close the case in his hand, and his eyes were markedly wide with interest when she mentioned Kansas, and he leaned in to peer down on her with peaked curiosity. "And?"

"And nothing, you told me to tell you first, so I'm telling you. Do you want someone to go check it out?" Claudia replied defensively.

Artie smirked to the screen, and he peered over his glasses at the woman in an almost fatherly way, "I'd prefer if you didn't just yet, but seeing as I'm not in charge of the Warehouse right now, it's not really up to me, is it?"

If it weren't for Claudia's image being in black and white, Artie might have seen a somewhat bashful flush cross the woman's face, but as it was, all he had was the hint of a smile from her before she replied jokingly, "Aw shucks, Pops, you got me. I guess we'll wait for now, but the next ping I get, I'm sending Pete."

"Claudia," Artie replied warningly.

"Just kidding," Claudia laughed, "I'll go myself."

"Claudia," Artie barked back, but it was no good, since Claudia had already turned the image off from her side.

Artie snapped the case closed with a groan and he dropped it onto the desk with a sigh, grumbling at it as if Claudia could still hear him. He was still grumbling incoherently when he hunched over his ledger once more, intent on returning to work. Barely any time had passed, and he'd only just flipped the page on his notepad when the case buzzed once more, sending Artie's face into an irritated scowl.

Artie swiped the case up once more and pulled it open with a flare of gusto, certainly intending to lambast his younger counterpart, given how he took a sharp breath before he opened the case and pointed his finger accusingly at the device as he opened it. "How many times have I told you, Claudia? The Farnsworth is not a toy! I will contact you when I'm ready to check that ping in Kansas, and until then –"

"You got a ping in Kansas?" a different, almost melodic voice interrupted him, sounding oddly polite for how rude he'd been.

Artie stopped mid tirade and stared at the screen, feeling suddenly flustered and embarrassed. "Oh, your majesty, I apologize," he blustered in a rush.

Lavender grinned amusement, with a fair amount of familiarity for the man on the other end of the screen. "You didn't used to call me that when we were teenagers, Artie. It used to be Lav when we were partners, remember?"

Artie chuckled, "Of course I remember, but you weren't the Queen then, and I wasn't the curator. Which, by the way, Mrs. Frederick has approved of for an extended period, given our continued efforts to restore the archives, which will be a bit difficult without agents given the inventory I just completed."

Lavender nodded in silent understanding, and she swallowed hard before she replied, "Please thank Irene for her assistance. It was kind of her to allow your leave. Now what about these pings? Do you think they're travel storms?"

Artie sat back and sighed, sounding fatigued. "Never one to beat around the bush Lav. You sure you and Mrs. Frederick aren't related somehow?" When Lavender scoffed in reply, he continued, "I don't know, I didn't ask. Wait, you know something, don't you?"

Lavender's countenance became instantly stiff, and she replied coolly, "I may, but it is still too soon to know for certain. I might have a solution, however, for your agent problem, and for this newest mystery."

"I'm listening," Artie interrupted suggestively.

Lavender's eyebrow rose quizzically, and a smirk appeared on her face briefly before she explained, "I have recruits for you, Mr. Saul, but if these pings are being caused by what I believe is causing them, they might require the assistance of the Warehouse."

Artie sat up straight and eyed the Queen with the same paternalism that he'd aimed at Claudia previously, "Not a chance Lavender. Did you forget what our mission was as agents? We're supposed to bag and tag artifacts, not use them."

"Remind me again, how you get in and out of the archives now, since your mother activated the failsafe?" Lavender inquired sweetly.

Artie huffed, "That's not fair Lav. I had no choice. Anyone who had any memory of how to get in lost it when she locked this place down. Those memories are now completely unrecoverable. You know that."

Lavender's eyebrow arched again. "You use artifacts all the time, old partner, that is all I'm trying to say."

"Not the point, Lav and besides, I seriously doubt Mrs. Frederick would allow it. Why do you need an artifact out of the Warehouse anyway?"

"He's out, Artie." Lavender answered bluntly, and she paused before she admitted sheepishly, "or at least, I think he is. I was hoping your inventory might help confirm it."

Artie's face went white, and he stared at the screen blankly while he processed what she'd said. "Lilith. Out? That can't be." He muttered hurriedly to himself. His eyes continued to stare ahead while he considered the possibility, and he was barely audible when he spoke again. "I thought that section was obliterated by the Sorceress when she raided the archives. Could she have –"

"Artie, what are you saying? I cannot understand you." Lavender cut in, her entire being reading with concern. "Did you say that the Sorceress blew up part of the archives? Why wasn't I informed of this?"

Artie's faraway look persisted, and he replied in a distant, almost wistful voice, "That was where I found mother when I finally got in with C.S. Lewis' doorknob, just outside what was left of the bronze sector. She was barely alive. I thought she'd taken it out herself to protect the archives. All she could tell me before she died was 'they escaped,' and 'get out of the OZ.' Since we had Longcoats crawling everywhere looking for the emerald, I naturally assumed that the 'they' were the Longcoats she'd been defending the archives against, and since we'd already hidden the emerald away and the plan was always for me to go to the Otherside, I thought she was just being a concerned parent. I had no idea that they'd taken –" Artie paused his reminiscence, and his focus returned with a sudden realization. "Wait, I have to see if it's still here."

Lavender watched from her side of the screen as Artie's head suddenly ducked down, and the sound of pages ruffling filled the air. His face then reappeared shortly thereafter, looking ashen. "Ozma's Light. It's gone."

"What do you mean, it's gone?" Lavender asked.

"It's one of the artifacts that went missing during that last raid. Without it, I'm not sure how we'll pacify Lilith when we do find him." He leaned back in his chair and sighed while he ran his hands through his hair thoughtfully. "Maybe Van Helsing's Tojo Blades or Wilhelm Grimm's silver buttons might work instead." He then leaned forward and spoke directly to the queen, sounding urgent. "I'm going to have to go speak with Mrs. Fredrick."

Lavender nodded in agreement and replied, "Yes please. Give her my best."

Artie almost closed the case then, intent on contacting the Warehouse's mysterious caretaker, when he suddenly remembered, "You said you had recruits? Who are they?"

Lavender smirked. "DG and Wyatt Cain."

Artie's eyebrow rose and a matching smirk appeared on his face. "All in the family, huh?"

Lavender shrugged and replied nonchalantly, "You did say that they had excellent retrieval rates on your last encounter with them. I thought you might want to keep your exposure down. That said, if someone needs to go to the Otherside to investigate this ping or make contact with your cohorts, it ought to be those with experience in both realms. Don't you agree?" Artie shrugged back and Lavender continued, "They will be leaving to investigate travel storms in Munchkin County tomorrow. Can you meet us in their sitting room in the morning? Perhaps brief them a bit more?"

Artie chuckled, recalling the last time he'd seen Wyatt Cain. As congenial as the General could be, he was also not one to be trifled with, and had flashed Artie a rather unimpressed look when he'd suggested that he and the Princess might consider working for the Archives. Since the request would be coming from the Queen this time, he doubted that the loyal Tin Man would say no, but he equally suspected that a few suggestive looks might be thrown his way despite any compliance he might offer.

"I know better than to argue with you Lav, but I'll let you wake the happy couple up before I get there. When you call, I will appear. Now, I'm off to see my other boss. Tootaloo!" Artie replied sardonically before he closed the Farnsworth with a resounding snap.

Artie shook his head to himself as he quickly replayed the conversation in his head. The first time he'd met Lavender Gale, she was a rag-tag teenager in borrowed men's clothes, going on about demons in the OZ when they first crossed paths. He had no clue, at the time, that this dirty little waif was the future Queen of the OZ. In fact, there wasn't much he knew back then, since he was only ever in the OZ for brief spurts – a kind of custody agreement between his mother (an Ozian Priestess) and father (an unabashed slipper who refused to make the OZ his home) – but his mother knew both who she was and what she was talking about, and she believed her. That was how they both began their tenure as the youngest agents of the archives, and Artie had been given a crash course in how to get along with plucky young women with big mouths and even bigger hearts. Neither becoming queen nor the thirty annuals between now and when Ardat Lilith had finally been captured had done anything to cool Lavender's pluck – he had still seen the same teenage upstart behind her royal façade just then, otherwise he'd never dared to close the Farnsworth on her. He only wished he could borrow her gumption and natural flare for diplomacy when he talked to Mrs. Fredrick. Warehouse Thirteen's caretaker was usually very gracious to her Outer Zone counterpart and seemed to have a soft spot for Lavender in particular, but this was quite a request, even for a Queen. Artie knew it would have to be done, however, since all prior methods of wrangling the succubus were conspicuously absent. It was as if someone had intentionally stolen both Lilith and his proverbial leash, and Artie surmised that apart from obtaining the Emerald, this had been exactly as the Sorceress had intended all those annuals ago. She clearly had intentions to seek out all the light wielders and eliminate them, thus removing them as an obstacle to her overall plan. As old a creature as the witch was, she had to have known that there was no greater hunter than Ardat Lilith, but he wondered how she'd known about his capture at all. His presence within the OZ was the stuff of legend, and his capture had been even more of a secret than the true nature of his existence had been. Even more chilling, had it not been for the two Tin Men agents that had finally outhunted Lilith the first time, he might not have been at the Sorceress' disposal at all. For all their natural ability however, Ezra and Elijah still needed an edge, and the small vial of Ozma's essence, shining bright like a star, had done wonders in subduing Lilith the first time. Somehow, the Sorceress had known about it all, and had surgically removed it all right under his mother's nose. Now, without those Tin Men and the artifact they'd used to subdue the beast, he wondered if they'd be able to stop him at all. Cain was good, to be sure – nearly as legendary as the Tin Men agents before him – but he had no hope of being successful without help. The odds were not great, to be sure, and an inkling of doubt whispered to him, warning him of this issue as well as the potential mole who'd let the beast out in the first place.

"Never tell me the odds," Artie mumbled to himself, echoing a pop culture reference from his other world.

If he wanted the Tin Man and his own plucky princess to be successful, he'd have to increase their odds in the only way he knew how – by doubling down on his connections to the Otherside and getting over his trepidation of Mrs. Fredrick. With that thought in mind, Artie took a steadying breath and arose from his seat. The little man could move wickedly fast when he chose to and being on a mission made him even quicker. His large, worn leather carpet bag seemed to zip into his hand, and his Farnsworth zoomed into his cavernous coat pocket like it was connected to him by invisible threads. The infamous doorknob then suddenly appeared within his hand, and he pushed the wire glasses up his nose before he closed his eyes to concentrate. When a quiet corner of the Warehouse filled his headspace, and a tug of familiarity seemed to pull him forward, his eyes opened once more, and he slammed the doorknob into the empty piece of limestone wall before him. His movements, once a door appeared – somehow connected to that doorknob - were equally decisive, and he flung the door open and stepped through without a second glance, closing it behind him once he'd gone through to the space he'd just imagined. The door melted away once it shut with a quiet 'snip,' leaving the archives silent once more, and the air itself seemed to pause as if it was waiting for its caretaker to return. Artie hoped that when he did finally return to his post, he'd have help both from the Warehouse and the Cains, both of which seemed oddly essential to the OZ's continued wellbeing, as if it had been their role all along.

DG and Cain were not wholly unaware of their role within the OZ, having had it unfold before them in mind-blowing increments in the past five annuals. They had become so accustomed to the twists of fate that constantly pulled them back into matters of grave importance that they approached each subsequent event since the Eclipse in an almost cavalier manner, were it not for how very seriously they truly took their responsibility. The past five annuals had taught them one thing: if they truly wanted to be effective for the OZ, they would have to care of themselves first. The combination of responsibilities, both personal and societal, weighed heavily on the pair, and when not deep into their ordained roles, they were as reclusive as a pack of spooked viewers. No one took this as seriously as Wyatt Cain, whose disdain for court was legendary, and his devotion to duty even more so. At that particular moment, when the suns had not even begun to rise, he felt a strong sense of duty for ensuring that his wife did not pop out of bed too soon. Although stalwart and reliable as ever, Cain was also older and more patient than his wife, who was nearly obnoxious in her eagerness to set out on another adventure. If he had let her, they might have left already, but he had insisted that they get a decent amount of rest while they could. While Artie had been sneaking back to the Otherside, Cain was on his own mission: wrangling DG away from repacking for the third time. It had begun innocently enough, the Tin Man rationalized to himself as he stretched out in bed, recalling the events of the evening before. DG was obsessing once again, and Cain was nearby, scowling at her while he plotted his plan of action.

Since their first adventure, DG had been insistent on preparedness. "I don't want to get caught with my pants down," she'd claimed when she'd checked everything off her ridiculously long packing list.

Wyatt recalled snatching the list out of her hands and scanning the page, his eyebrow raised skeptically. When his eyes fell onto one particularly questionable item, he scoffed and held the page up, asking DG with incredulity, "You wanna tell me why you need your sketch pad and charcoals on this trip? You gonna ask our twister friend to stop so you can take his likeness?"

DG snatched the page back from Cain with a scowl. "Girl's gotta do something while we're sitting in front of a campfire. Don't judge me." When he cocked his head to the side and eyed her suspiciously, her mouth screwed into a displeased frown while she admitted quietly, "okay, maybe I did think I could double as a crime scene artist. You never know, we might need it eventually."

Wyatt had to admit that there was some logic in her thought process, but given the length of her list, he was certain that she had about a dozen other scenarios working in her head and had tried to pack for them all. While he considered this, he was silent, and DG took this as a sign of his agreement and returned to checking off the items she'd secured from her list. There was a look of dogged determination in her eyes that was bordering on manic, and Wyatt knew he'd have to break her off before she went overboard. His eyes narrowed and he huffed quietly through his nose when he marched over to her and hauled her unceremoniously over his shoulder.

As he marched them to the bedroom, DG cried out in outrage. "Hey! I was in the middle of packing, Wyatt. Put me down!" She smacked his backside with the open palm of her hand while he continued to march forward.

Wyatt answered with a resolute "Nope," as he stepped them through the bedroom door and shut it with his bare foot. He only spoke again once he'd dropped her onto the bed, and only after he'd climbed over her and pinned her to the mattress with his body pressed against hers. "You're all done obsessing for the night, DG. You're not a one-woman show, and I'm not going to let you run yourself ragged."

While DG allowed Wyatt's hands to slip into hers, she continued to protest. "I am not running myself ragged, Wyatt. I just want to be prepared. That's all."

Wyatt grinned to the ceiling with the recollection of what had happened next. What always happened when he got this close to the princess: Fireworks. From his position at that moment, pressed against the princess, he could feel her body vibrate against his when she spoke, and she could feel her breath go shallow when her resolve crumbled, being quickly replaced by arousal. Up until that moment she was still doggedly determined to have her way and squirmed against him in a half-hearted attempt to escape. Finding herself solidly pinned by Wyatt's body made her stop almost immediately, and her breath seemed to leave her momentarily, only to speed up when her eyes connected with his, hooded and dark as he watched her struggle. His hands held fast to hers, and his mouth curled seductively while a deep, satisfied laugh vibrated through him and right to her core. When DG's pupils dilated in response, he knew she'd given up getting away, and his mouth was on hers in an instant, causing the princess to whimper and gasp in excitement. It had been so long since they'd be able to go at each other like this that they had to remind themselves not to rush. What had first been a fevered reunion, with mouths fighting each other for domination, slowed to a delectable pace, which each savoring the other almost in fear of missing out on something so fleeting and unique that it might never come again.

Wyatt had no trouble keeping DG's attention then, he recalled with another naughty grin, and she'd gladly let him relieve her of her clothes, one wonderful article at a time, until she was spread out beneath him, bare and beautiful, her entire body flushed from his care. In the annuals they'd been together, she'd never lost that flush – and every time he looked on her she blushed like it was the first time he had given her a look of adoration or desire. He had to admit that he loved it, and it goaded him into looking at her as often as possible, if only to feel that rush of falling in love all over again.

Wyatt groaned contentedly at this thought, all while his arms curled around DG's body, causing her to moan in her sleep. As he inhaled deeply at the scent of her hair, he reminded himself that this would be their last truly private moment for a while. Part of him wanted to wake her with kisses – to feel her warm body wake and stretch against his, but another part of him just wanted feel the warmth of her bare skin against his a bit longer; To be still a while longer, hopefully fooling the day into believing that it should wait a bit longer, just so he could steal a few more moments of privacy with her.

DG always seemed to hear him though, even when he hadn't spoken a word, and it wasn't long before she'd turned over in his arms and flashed him with a sleepy smile. "Hey there General," DG purred quietly, ending her greeting by reaching up to leave a soft kiss on his lips.

Wyatt answered only by humming contentedly against the seam of her lips, and his arms tightened around her small waist while he turned onto his back, taking her with him. Now on top of Wyatt, DG propped herself up on her arms and smirked at her now grinning husband. "Hey there Princess," he answered back with groggy brightness.

DG's smirk quickly turned into a full watt grin of her own. She loved this tousled, impish version of Wyatt, and found him irresistible. Although his arms had relaxed, and he now only held her by the hips, his grip was firm and possessive, and she suspected if she tried to move, he'd return to pinning her to the bed as he'd done the night before. "Am I still under arrest, Tin Man?" She asked coyly, letting her long locks hang between them, tickling his face when she moved her head.

When Wyatt's eyebrow curved upward in a quizzical and challenging arch, DG tossed her hair back and chuckled, testing his resolve by pressing her core against him as she adjusted her knees on either side of his waist. Wyatt laughed with her, knowing that she was purposely taunting him, probably hoping for a repeat of the night before. Instead of delivering on that prompt, Wyatt surprised the princess by meeting her downward push with an upward thrust of his own. The move had its intended, explosive effect, causing the princess to gasp in ecstatic surprise at the sensation of being so suddenly filled by him. A low moan escaped DG as Wyatt stretched her from within, and she soon took over, gyrating as if to music and mesmerizing Wyatt with the slow, rhythmic turn of her hips.

As enticing as it was, allowing himself to be consumed by Dorothy's overwhelming desire for him, a niggling feeling in the back of Wyatt's mind told him that they should stop. A groan escaped his lips while his hands continued to ignore him, rebelliously guiding his wife's hips to move more urgently on him. DG was far from oblivious to this, but was likewise reluctant to listen to her own instinct, and instead leaned down to leave kisses on her husband's outstretched neck, purring all the while, "What is it, Tin Man? Should I stop?"

Wyatt could feel his body tensing in anticipation, and despite the continued warning in his mind, he answered with a strained and breathless "No," that left DG smirking with feminine satisfaction.

Despite DG's hypnotic pull on him and the sensations she squeezed out of him with her movements, now more intense for the assistance of the headboard behind his head, which she grasped as she continued her sensual dance, the hairs on the back of Wyatt's head continued to stand on end. Beyond the sound of his heart thumping in his ears, he could swear he heard Tiger rouse in the next room with a sleepy trill. DG continued to move though, rendering him unable to resist her for the pressure building within his groin. DG was oblivious to all of this, having come close enough to her own climax to render her senseless and completely uncaring unless intrinsically linked to their rapture. Her head was thrown back, and her eyes shut to the ceiling while she gasped like a runner for air. The paleness of her chest was flushed pink from her exertions and was pebbled with delicate drops of perspiration which glistened in the pale light of the morning. Her raven hair was wild about her, and brushed his thighs when she leaned back, frantically trying to hit that marvelous button within the nest of her womb. Wyatt's attention to the next room was utterly shattered by the sight of DG so consumed before him. Rather than stop her, Wyatt cursed under his breath and reached between them, causing her to cry out when his thumb crushed itself against her core. The free hand that had once been holding her hip pressed against her back, bringing the princess's mouth to his, and he kissed her hotly, effectively muffling her moan with his ardent demand.

Even for Wyatt, moments like this made it difficult to be attentive to anything else. He'd almost abandoned his prior concerns that they'd somehow been heard during their lovemaking while DG's body trembled within the circle of his arms. Her hands on his chest, his neck, and his face demanded every ounce of his attention, but then Tiger trilled again, this time just outside the door, and he knew their time was up.

There was a polite, if not embarrassed sounding cough on the other side of the door, just mere steps from where DG still sat atop him, purring in near irrational contentment until that sound broke the spell. The sounds emitting from his wife stopped immediately, and the flush to her cheeks turned scarlet as she slid off him and back within the confines of the blanket, her face a mask of horror.

Then there was the knock, contrite in its slow, deep thuds. Most certainly, it was Gates, their steadfast guard, rather than Ana, who wouldn't arrive for at least another hour with their breakfast. "General, Sir. I'm sorry to bother you," Gates announced without opening the door, "but there's been advance word from the Queen's guard. The Queen's on her way up shortly to see you and the princess."

"You've got to be kidding me," DG muttered under her breath as she scooted out of the bed and rushed to the closet.

Wyatt's jaw hardened while a wide array of emotions washed over him. Beyond the sudden rush of pain in his midsection, frustration and irritation also battled with slight mortification at being interrupted mid-coitus by his wife's guard. Exasperation and reluctant defeat finally won over though, seeing as it had been his idea to remain within the palace after the last time they'd been so dangerously exposed to enemies. Seeing that their last foray with enemies of the state had resulted in their near death and Zero's escape, it seemed prudent to stay within the protective walls of both Central City and the Royal Palace. It was a damnable nuisance though, and one that he was coming dangerously close to rescinding. Wyatt put these thoughts aside with a low grunt, and his voice was gravely and dark when he answered in his most courteous rumble, "Thank you Gates, we'll be out in a minute. Please send word to Ana to have coffee brought up early."

"Already done, sir." Gates answered back through the wooden barrier between them, causing Wyatt to smirk gratefully.

There was a twinkle in his eye then, and the momentary gratitude was enough to lighten the Tin Man's heart a little. "Thanks, Gates, for the heads up," he replied loudly, adding with a stretch in his voice, "and the coffee."

"Yes sir," the man replied, just before his shadow moved away from the door.

With Gates now gone, Wyatt could now see the golden rays of the morning suns streaming through the crack at the foot of door. Too soon, already, it was another day and whether he wanted it to be or not. He considered that he and DG's role within the OZ seemed just as inevitable as the sunrise, and even before the dark days of the Sorceress, their paths seemed linked, as if fate had been pushing them together all along.

"Fate or a meddling seer?" Wyatt grumbled thoughtfully under his breath.

His eyes wandered the dim room while he reflected on this and landed on the small tin man sculpture sitting atop the coffee table in their sitting area – a bittersweet smile cracked his façade when he remembered sculpting him for his mother's handwork stall at the Ozian Market. DG had once said that he'd been the reason why she'd stopped at the Cain stall at all during her mad dash away from her uncle. The princess was already trouble at five, he remembered with a shake of his head, and had quickly turned a simple trip to the market into a game of high stakes hide and seek. That one small decision to stop at the Cain stall had triggered a chain of important events within both of their lives, including his assignment on the Mystic Man's detail, and his courting of Adora. Without DG's direct involvement, neither of those things would have happened, and Cain often wondered about DG's uncle, the famous Mystic Man, and his role in the whole thing. DG had only been a kid then, and hardly aware of any greater purpose she might have. Her uncle had never been far behind her back then, he recalled, and was just as impish as his young niece – frequently leading her into trouble when she didn't have a plan of her own already. Beyond the Mystic Man's penchant for trouble, he was also a seer – the best in fact – and his clarity and accuracy were renowned throughout the OZ. After knowing Matthew Gale for a number of annuals, he had come to learn that Matthew was much more cautious than he appeared however, and only truly acted as a facilitator to what was intended all along. Matthew Gale had to have known that Wyatt was supposed to meet DG, and she was supposed to thrust him and Adora together, meaning that he was always meant to be where he was when DG reappeared in the OZ. He was supposed to protect her, and they were supposed to protect the OZ together.

"You know who she is now," he'd once reminded Cain forcefully. "Promise me," Matthew had continued, "I want your word as a Tin Man – you will not leave her side at any cost."

Cain had given his word, but it had been more than a promise to an old friend or a show of fealty. He'd always loved DG, and he and Adora had mourned her when they thought she'd died. When she'd come back into his life, he knew right away that there was something important happening, and he suspected that Matthew had known all along. His also suspected that the Mystic Man had known that there was much more to Cain's promise – that he was voicing an oath to protect not just the princess, but the future of the OZ itself – not that either of them would have said it aloud. Despite knowing that he was a willing participant, and would happily do it all again, Wyatt couldn't help feeling a little like a puppet on a string. It was a sobering thought so early in the morning, and his prior irritation seemed suddenly trivial when weighed against the bigger picture. Wyatt finally rose with a sigh, feeling suddenly sluggish and tired. For one so devoted to duty, the mantle he put on every day seemed suddenly heavy, as if loaded with lead. The only solace he had was his family, now greater for the addition of DG and their daughter, and he silently hoped he and DG might finally get a moment's peace once this latest threat was resolved. Now was not the time, however, and all the grumbling in the world would not slow either duty or a Queen from beating down his door.