Hope people enjoy the bit of low-key interaction in the Chris abyss.


With Jake's transition and his own upcoming exams, Chris had so much going on in his life that he forgot about the freshman dance until Dwight brought it up in between periods one morning. Chris wasn't really the dancing sort. (Was anyone?) But he had to ask someone; he certainly couldn't go alone. The event was planned for the end of May, which gave him about two weeks to find a date.

He decided to ask Rina Nicholae for one simple reason: He couldn't imagine her ever getting the wrong impression if he invited her. Sure, they were friendly. But as far as he knew, neither had ever entertained even remotely romantic feelings for the other.

On Friday, he spotted her outside of class and decided to jump in. From across the hall, he called, "Rina! Hey, Rina!" When she turned around, he jogged down the hall to catch up with her. She waited for him, one brow quirked in expectant amusement. Pausing to catch his breath, he puffed, "I've got a favor to ask."

"A favor," she repeated.

"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck with one palm as he searched for the right words. Maybe he should have given this some consideration before coming over here. "You know this whole… dance… thing coming up?"

She gave a quiet snort of laughter through her nose, as though she had already guessed where this conversation would go. One hand balanced on her hip, she replied, "Yep."

"Well, you obviously know I'm a you-know-what," he said, verifying out of his peripheral vision that no one was eavesdropping. "Which means, if we went together, and I had a—er—'family emergency,' I wouldn't have to come up with a really pathetic excuse for backing out last minute," he pointed out practically. "Most people wouldn't really understand that, which basically leaves you as the best option."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he could have kicked himself. He definitely should have rehearsed this in advance. Rina folded her arms around her textbook and peered down at him with all of her extra two inches. "Are you asking to be my date for the dance?" she deadpanned.

"No," Chris spilled out, "I mean, well, yes, but not a date date. Just a…" Trailing off lamely, he mumbled out, "…date."

"How flattering," she remarked dryly.

With sharp, jerky movements, Chris waved his arms in protest in front of his body. "Come on," he protested. "You know I couldn't think of you like that. I've known you since diapers. It'd be too weird."

Rina quirked an eyebrow. "Chris?"

Wincing, he said, "Yeah?"

"Stop talking." A blush began creeping up his neck into his cheeks as she observed him squirming in place. "You know," she remarked at last, "it's a good thing you're cute because sometimes when you open your mouth…"

Despite his embarrassment, his face contorted in disapproval. "'Cute'?"

Smiling extra sweetly, she confirmed, "Like a sad puppy." For a moment, she drummed her fingers against her lips. "I wasn't really thinking of attending, but—sure, why not help out a friend in distress?"

Crossly, Chris began, "I'm not in—" But at her pointed look, he swallowed the rest of his objection. She was doing him a favor, after all. "Okay, great," he said instead. "So meet you there at, what, eight-thirty?"

She promptly held up a finger, wagging it in his face. "Uh, no," she replied. "You are picking me up." When Chris opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off with an impatient, "Do you want me to go on this non-date with you or not?" Then, before he could respond, she continued, "And don't show up in jeans, either. If I'm doing this, we're getting dressed up." As she passed him to head to her next class, she gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat.

Chris turned to watch her walk away. "I wouldn't have worn jeans," he grumbled. Though he felt righteously defiant at the accusation, he didn't dare verbalize it loud enough for her to hear. As she turned the corner, he slunk away in the opposite direction. At least he had his date.


That Saturday was Chris's second brunch with Jake. The boy seemed more relaxed than he'd been since moving in with his grandmother. This was possibly due to the phone call he had received from Carmen the day before, her first since entering the rehab facility. She had earned phone privileges that very morning and called Jake at the soonest available moment.

Yesterday had also been his first time meeting his cousins. Both his uncles and their wives brought their kids for dinner Friday evening. "I have a cousin who's two years older than me. Her name's Sarah Anne. And then there's her brother Russ. He's only six. And then there's Darren and Rachel, who are eight and seven." He rattled all this off with animation, alternating between this and wolfing down his tower of pancakes drenched in syrup.

Once he returned Jake to his grandmother's, Chris had to rush back home for a family lunch that Piper had scheduled the afternoon before. Usually, the family planned such events around birthdays or holidays, but when Prue had protested that she had wanted to spend time with friends, Piper had replied, "Paige is finally feeling up to going out, and we haven't seen Ariel since the hospital, so you can hang out with your friends on Sunday."

Everyone cooed over the baby, passing her around the living room and complimenting her parents on what a fine specimen they had produced. All the while, Bobby followed Ariel around the room, insisting that, as the big brother, he knew best how to hold her. He leaned over everyone's shoulder to offer advice on and critiques of positioning.

The first time Ariel puckered up her chin, he swooped in to snatch her out of Lea's arms. "I know how to make her stop crying," he announced. When he stuck his face close to hers, breathing noisily into her face, her nose scrunched up further and she began to bawl.

People also fussed over Phoebe, who, at twenty-two weeks pregnant, could barely see past her extremely bulbous stomach. She was a petite woman. The growing twins threw off her center of balance and made her wobble with every step.

"I just feel so heavy," she complained to her sisters as they headed to the table for dinner. Wyatt helped Piper carry serving platters into the dining room, and the family dug in with gusto. Midway through the meal, Paige excused herself to feed Ariel in Piper and Leo's empty bedroom.

At some point, much to Chris's dismay, Coop decided to ask him and Wyatt about exam prep. "Why do people keep asking that?" he demanded, stabbing his fork into a sautéed spear of asparagus. "They're a whole month away. There's plenty of time."

"That means he hasn't started," Prue piped up helpfully from across the table. Chris shot her a glare.

From his seat beside his brother, Wyatt sighed into his chicken. "Actually, it's two days more than a month," he corrected morosely.

Chris rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

Paige eventually returned without Ariel, whom she had put down for a nap in her car seat. The evening ended on a high note. When everyone was ready to leave and Henry carried the car seat down from upstairs, Katie peered over to watch Ariel snore and exclaimed, "Look, she's smiling!"

The family crowded around to observe her. Nobody could be convinced that it was just a reflex smile, not a milestone, and the Halliwells parted feeling certain they had witnessed the work of the most advanced infant known to man.


That night, in Chris's subconscious, the crew of counterparts gathered in Sir Christopher's wedge around his giant round table. Even Merlin, who avoided group activities as much as possible, had taken the evening off from his antipathy toward magical creatures to join in the fun, though he had selected the seat farthest from Krissy.

Everyone sat except for Boy. Though Krissy had cajoled him out of his own wedge to interact with the others, he felt patently unworthy of a chair and stood at attention just behind Christian, as if awaiting orders. "Ah, leave 'im be," Demon said when Krissy tried to wheedle him into an empty chair.

The pale yellow aura emanating from the windows on Sir Christopher's back wall pulsated like a slow, steady heartbeat. Somehow, someone had procured a deck of cards, which Perry had dealt out to the group. Chris wandered over to the crowd, watching from over Mutt's shoulder.

As the dealer, Perry started the round by trading two of his five cards into the middle of the table and picking up the top two from the pile, sliding them into place in the hand fanned out between his fingers. His discarded cards, a two of spades and six of diamonds, he flipped face-up for all to see. To his left, Demon traded in one card, a seven of hearts.

Beside him, Mutt gnawed on his knuckle as he considered his hand, then pointed to Ian two seats over and said, "Got any queens?"

"Nope," Ian said, cheerfully popping his 'p.' Huffing, Mutt held out his palm for Perry to reach over and drop a card from the deck onto it.

"What are you playing?" Chris wondered as Mutt decided where in his hand to place his new card.

With a quick glance in his direction, Perry shrugged. "Nothing specific," he said.

The next turn belonged to Krissy, with four cards in her hand. She leaned over to reach the middle, where she scooped up the discarded two and six with an eight of clubs. "Got the two of spades," she announced, pleased with herself, "That's one point."

"We all saw you take it," Merlin grumbled from Perry's right, rolling his eyes. Krissy just flashed him a smirk.

Next came Ian, who asked for a five, which Mutt reluctantly passed across the table.

Sir Christopher placed a three on top of the last remaining card, Demon's seven, to build tens, and Christian promptly stole the pile with the coveted ten of diamonds. Thrusting his chair back, Sir Christopher lunged to his feet. "A cheat!" he cried, jabbing his finger into Christian's chest. The yellow aura shining through the windows flared with his rage, blinding the group for an instant.

"It is how the game is played," Christian replied calmly, the pile of cards sitting facedown beside him. "I had a ten, so I took the ten. I have broken no rules."

Nearly apoplectic, Sir Christopher shouted, "A dishonorable act regardless! I challenge you, sir, to duel for your character!"

From behind Christian, Boy cowered at Sir Christopher's tone and took a couple steps back. Chris prepared himself to intervene. He still remembered the dull ache in his jaw that had resulted from his punching Demon and had no interest in finding out how a duel by swordfight would feel the next morning.

But he needn't have worried; Christian's gaze remained level, his body still and relaxed. "I refuse the challenge. Forfeit or be seated; I care not how you decide."

Hastily, and with a whimper, Boy stumbled forward and righted Sir Christopher's toppled chair, holding it out for him. With a frustrated growl, the knight reclaimed his seat, allowing Boy to push him in again.

The last to go, Merlin, ended the round by swapping out three cards—ace, four, six—to get new ones from the dealer. They ran through one more round, during which Perry folded, Mutt got a match, and Krissy collected Merlin's open ace, before the remaining hands were exposed. Ian, with eight cards, had a trio of nines. Demon had a flush. Christian counted up the cards in his pile and ended up with six out of eleven points.

"You want in for the next round?" Perry asked as everyone passed cards back to him. He began to shuffle skillfully.

"I don't know the rules," Chris said.

"That's okay," Ian piped up. "You just play however you want."

Perplexed, Chris rounded the table to claim the empty chair between Ian and Sir Christopher. The next round, he was dealt a hand of five, and he found that Ian's statement, though bewildering, was true. Sometimes he passed cards, sometimes traded them, sometimes plucked one from another's hands, yet somehow the game moved smoothly forward as the night progressed.

At one point, Mutt and Ian got into it. Chris didn't hear what prompted the disagreement, but he definitely saw when Mutt tried to launch himself across the table with arms outstretched to Ian's exposed neck. Between them, Krissy's arm shot out to protect the boy to her left while Perry calmly leaned over Demon's slouched form to snatch Mutt back by the hem of his pants.

Mutt did not appear remotely put out by his thwarted attack. As he reclaimed his seat, he smiled sweetly at Ian. "I'll getcha when ya sleep," he assured nastily. Ian merely stuck out his tongue with a fine wrinkle of his nose.

From behind him, Demon seemed to perk up, blinking down with renewed interest at the wretch clamoring back off the table beside him. "You're not too bad, kid," he remarked.

Turning toward Demon, Mutt bared his teeth in a feral grin. "You ain't too bad neither." With an indulgent chuckle, Demon ruffled Mutt's perpetually mussed mop of hair.

"Can we continue?" Perry sighed. Much to Chris's relief, the rest of the hodgepodge of games ensued without further insult or incident.


On rare occasion did Demoriel leave his chambers, greatly preferring to summon others to him, where home turf and the veneer of omnipotence gave him the advantage. But sometimes, like today, needs dictated flexibility.

Siyut, the demon of dreams, predated most of the Underworld by hundreds of years, growing to the peak of his powers during the Dark Ages. Now, he kept to himself in his cavern, feeding on the nightmares of humans from afar, sucking them dry, killing them, and leaving them as collapsed husks in the streets, in their homes, with their hearts mysteriously stopped.

Humans, foolish and blind, wrote off his victims as heart attacks, unaware of the psychological warfare that had propelled them off this mortal coil.

Demoriel needed Siyut's power. He could not intimidate him into a job as he had the brutes; Siyut did not get intimidated. He could not leverage a loved one as he had the Phoenix; Siyut possessed no emotional attachments. So Demoriel would have to appeal to him on bended knee. Sending a messenger, he knew, would be taken as a sign of disrespect for a demon well over one thousand years old. Demoriel was not above debasing himself to attain his goal.

As soon as he shimmered into Siyut's cavern, a tiny, hunched creature came scurrying forward, jabbering loudly. Its head did not reach higher than Demoriel's waist but demanded his name and purpose with the authority of a demon five times its size. Demoriel could have punted the bald-headed floppy-eared creature halfway across the room, but he calmly answered its questions and allowed it to scramble off back to its master to relay his request for audience.

Minutes later, it returned, ushering Demoriel down a long corridor that fed into a much larger cavern than the first. This one had giant faces chiseled into the walls, each one screwed into a different expression of horror, dread, or agony, all of which Demoriel admired out of the corner of his eye.

The space was well furnished, a long oak table with only one chair at its head, a lit fireplace carved out of one wall, and a giant floor-to-ceiling mirror hanging opposite the blazing fire, its edges inlaid with gold.

An ancient-looking demon stood facing the fire, staring into it with his gnarled brown hands linked behind his back. He had gray hair that fell loose down the middle of his back. He wore an azure robe whose hem pleated over itself repeatedly along the floor.

As Demoriel was led closer, he contorted his head and torso into a walking bow until he was brought to a halt by a tiny, clawed hand thrust abruptly before him. Demoriel did not speak.

Inch by inch, Siyut turned to face him. At long last, in a voice high and cracked as his skin, he said, "You wish for my aid, Demoriel?"

"I do, demon of dreams," Demoriel answered without lifting his gaze.

"Hm." A pause. "Rise, then." Finally, Demoriel straightened, jerking out his chin to retain his dignity, but did not speak. Wrinkles sagged across Siyut's cheeks, neck, even ears. A wisp of a beard dangled off his chin. In place of eyes, his sockets had two gaping holes, though he did not appear blind. Far from it. While Demoriel stood before him, he tilted his head to one side in thoughtful observation, seeming to watch his visitor intently. "You wish me to feed someone nightmares so you may siphon his soul?"

"His powers, lord," Demoriel corrected with cautious deference.

"A witch, then?"

"Yes, lord."

Siyut glided away from the conversation to place himself before his golden mirror, within which he cast no reflection. "Feasting on a witch's dreams takes time," he remarked with casual consequence. "Their powers serve as a barrier, a means of protection, from me." Demoriel could hear the smile in his voice when he added, "For a time."

"I'm counting on it," Demoriel replied. "I need that time to fully siphon his powers before he dies. His magic is strong, perhaps impossibly so. I need his mind trapped so that I may work unhindered. If he remains awake, his powers will naturally leech back to him. I need him incapacitated until it is too late."

Siyut ran a curved knuckle along the rim of the glass as Demoriel spoke. Once he had fallen silent, Siyut turned back to him. "And in what way do I benefit from this arrangement? My meals are quick and simple to procure. What reason have I to inconvenience myself for such burdensome prey?"

Demoriel crushed one hand into a fist. "Because," he insisted with a feral grin, "He is not just one consciousness. This one's mind is many. Untold numbers of nightmares for you to feast on. You could be sated for decades."

Silence echoed between them. Finally, Siyut said, "Your proposal intrigues me. I accept."


Because Dwight arrived at school on Monday only minutes before the bell rang, he didn't get a chance to talk to Chris until after first period ended and they were heading to second. "It's official, they're engaged," he grumbled.

"That was fast," Chris remarked, gathering his history textbook and notebook from his locker.

"You think that's fast? They're already reaching out to guests to save the date." They trekked to Dwight's locker so he could collect his own supplies. While there, Chris asked Dwight to fish out a couple of Advil. The boy always kept some over-the-counter pills on hand—his locker was a veritable pharmacy—and Chris's head had begun to throb earlier that morning. With a thanks, he swallowed the tablets dry.

"Mom's being totally unreasonable about the guest list," Dwight complained. "She refuses to invite any of the cousins I actually like because she says if we invite some, we have to invite all, and we have a zillion relatives. Charlie gets to invite his whole extended family, though, because why not?"

Somewhere in his mind Chris had known Dwight's mom had a handful of siblings, but as far as he was aware most of them lived on the East Coast. "Won't it be far for them to travel?"

"Exactly!" Dwight exclaimed, slamming his palm against his locker door. "Most of them won't even bother showing up, so who cares if we invite all of them?" They continued down the hall to their classroom. "And I haven't seen any of them in ages. The last family reunion was years ago. I'm going to be bored out of my mind with no one to hang out with." As they found two side-by-side empty seats, he dropped his knapsack beside one of the desks. "So long story short, you have to crash." Dumping his books onto his desk, he sank into the chair.

Chris froze midway through lowering himself into his chair, arms supporting the brunt of his weight against the desk surface as he stared at Dwight in surprise. "Huh?"

"Well, yeah," Dwight said as if the conclusion were obvious. He began flipping through his notebook to find the next available blank page. "I need someone to help me get through it. And that's you. So clear your schedule for August fifteenth of next year." After scribbling today's date at the top of his page, he stabbed the end of his pen in Chris's direction. "I'm serious." Lowering his voice, he whispered, "Tell the demons or whatever to take the day off."

Chris shifted uncomfortably. "Right, um…" He certainly wanted to support his friend as much as possible, but… "Won't your mom be, I dunno, mad if I crash her wedding?"

Dwight flapped a hand at him. "Nah. I already told her I'm only showing up if you're coming."

Chris watched him with eyebrows raised. Piper would never be forgiving of such an ultimatum from one of her kids. Dwight had always had a very different dynamic with his mother—they operated mostly as a tightknit team—but still, Chris couldn't quite picture how she would react to her son demanding his best friend's presence at her special day. "How'd she take that?" he asked skeptically.

The bell rang, and Ms. Gowell shut the door as the last students slipped inside and the bustle began to settle down. Shooting Chris a smirk, Dwight replied, "She said she was already planning on saving you a seat."


By the end of class, Chris's headache had not dissipated. In fact, what had started as a dull throb, by lunchtime had developed into a piercing shard of pain that stabbed just behind his eyes.

At some point, when Chris pushed away his cafeteria tray so he could lay his forehead on his hands in the middle of a conversation, Dwight asked if he was all right.

"Fine," Chris mumbled, turning to rest his cheek against the table. "Just my head."

"Maybe you have a migraine," Dwight offered.

Chris squinted up at his friend. "I don't get migraines."

"No one does until the first time," Dwight pointed out. "You should go to the nurse."

The bell for the end of lunch sent lightning striking through his brain. Wincing, he wrapped his hands over his ears, which did little to block out the sound. Next came the scraping of a couple hundred food trays being scooped up simultaneously.

"You, uh, want me to tell Mrs. Williams you're at the nurse?" Dwight asked.

Chris had attended school minutes after getting attacked by demons and assassins. Over his fifteen years, he had endured at least a few painful near-death experiences. The idea of a headache, even a bad one, putting him out of commission was, frankly, insulting. With a groan, he forced himself to his feet. "No, I'll just get through the next two classes and go home early. My last period is library volunteering. I'll be fine until then."

Standing when his friend did, Dwight grabbed both of their trays. They followed the flow of traffic, dumping their remains and leaving the empty trays on top of a garbage can with Dwight casting nervous glances in Chris's direction. "You sure?" he asked when they reached the hallway. "You're looking a little… pale."

Gritting his teeth, Chris shook his head. "Come on. We can't be late to English." They made it almost to the door of the classroom before Chris had to halt. The strident second bell, signaling the start of class, had his lungs clenching up as his entire body braced itself against the spike of pain. He stumbled to the wall, palms pressed against it for support, breath coming in shallow gasps. He barely felt the hand that landed on his shoulder.

Just beside his ear came a forceful, "Seriously, dude, I think you need to go home."

But already, with the hallway quickly emptying of noise and people, the pain was receding. A wave of nausea crested, but he fought it down. He could do this. Just two more periods.

From the threshold of the classroom, where Mrs. Williams had come to shut the door from the inside, she spotted her two students loitering a few feet away. "Mr. Ryder, Mr. Halliwell, are you planning on joining us?" she called.

"I, uh, think he's really sick," Dwight replied, his voice urgent.

"No, I'm fine, I'm…" Chris muttered. When he straightened and squinted his eyes open, the walls spun. Dwight grabbed him by the arm as he stumbled toward the classroom.

Mrs. Williams's voice came from somewhere very far away. "Mr. Halliwell, why don't you visit the—"

His suddenly ringing ears blotted out the rest of her recommendation. His vision narrowed to pinpricks, a thin tunnel of light that seemed to come from yards and yards away. His skin began to tingle, and his head roared. Even Dwight's grip on him could not prevent when his eyes rolled back into his head and he dropped like a stone. Just before everything went dark, an ancient face loomed into view with gaping holes where its eyes should have been.


Mrs. Williams moved quickly for a woman in her late sixties, stooping beside her unconscious student and rolling him onto his back as she sent Dwight to bring the nurse. He left at a mad dash. When they returned together, the nurse checked Chris's airway (clear), breathing (steady), and pulse (rapid).

While Mrs. Williams placed a call for emergency services, the nurse instructed two students to hold his legs up to allow blood easier access to his brain. The remaining students streamed out of the classroom to watch the goings-on from several feet away. "He had a really bad headache," Dwight informed the nurse, but as a woman whose day was spent mostly dispensing ice packs and Tylenol, she had no idea what to do with that information.

He knew someone would eventually call Chris's parents, if they hadn't been informed already. Still, when they sat back to wait for the ambulance, Dwight slipped out of sight and raced for the stairwell to sneak into the eleventh grade hallway on the second floor.

After peeking in through several doors, he found Wyatt's classroom. Without waiting to catch his breath, he burst inside. The teacher, a man in his mid-forties with a goatee, appeared immediately prepared to kick him right back out, so he spouted as quickly as he could, "They need Wyatt downstairs."

"Do you have a signed pass?" the teacher interrupted impatiently.

"They're taking his brother to the hospital." He wasn't certain this would be the case (though he strongly suspected so), but the statement had the desired effect of silencing the man's protests.

Wyatt was on his feet and out the door before Dwight had even registered him passing. He hurried to follow Chris's brother out, forgetting to close the door. "What happened?" Wyatt demanded, keeping pace with Dwight, who led him back downstairs.

"I don't know, he just fainted," Dwight replied.

Grabbing him by the arm, Wyatt spun him around, stopping them in the middle of the empty stairwell. "Was it a demon?" he asked gravely. Though he kept his voice low, the sound reverberated in the enclosed space.

"No," Dwight insisted, then, after a pause, reconsidered. He had never personally witnessed a demon, so how could he say for sure? Could they be invisible? Could they attack from a distance? "I mean, I don't know. But no one else was with us," he amended.

At least for the moment, that seemed satisfactory to Wyatt, who released Dwight and motioned him forward. When they arrived back on the scene, a male paramedic and two female EMTs had already arrived. A stretcher lay empty on the ground. Dwight shoved into the crowd of students who had gathered around to watch despite teachers' attempts to shepherd them away. When kids saw Wyatt and Dwight elbowing through, they parted, opening a path.

Once Dwight thrust Wyatt before the first EMT, the older teen was barraged with questions. Any preexisting conditions? Allergies? Recent hospitalizations? "No, nothing," Wyatt answered numbly.

He watched the paramedic, kneeling over Chris, tie a tourniquet into place midway between his shoulder and elbow, calmly palpating the vein inside his elbow. Using an alcohol wipe, he swiped concentric circles along the skin, grabbing a needle from a black bag with his other hand. With his thumb, he popped a cap from the needle, then slid it smoothly into Chris's bulging vein.

Pressing down on the catheter, he untied the tourniquet with his free hand, discarded it with the needle cap on the floor beside his knee, and threaded the needle out of the catheter, placing it more carefully on the floor.

Meanwhile, beside them, the second EMT was twisting an IV tube into a saline bag, squeezing any air bubbles out of the tubing, and sliding shut a clamp at the bottom of the wire. The paramedic screwed a line a few inches long into the catheter hub, then secured the point of entry with a transparent square patch. Reaching for a strip of tape he had dangled off Chris's forearm, he taped the tubing down against the boy's arm.

Without looking up, he held up a hand to the EMT behind him. She passed him the end of the tubing linked to the bag of clear fluids, which he attached to Chris's IV. Finally, he slid the clamp into an open position and accepted the bag from his underling.

This he placed in the middle of Chris's chest, folding his patient's arms on top of it to keep it secure. "Okay, let's transfer him," he announced to the other two, rolling the stretcher beside the prone boy.

One EMT squatted at Chris's head, the other at his feet. They rolled him sideways to slide a sheet under his body, then gripped each of the four corners in one hand.

The paramedic moved aside and called out briskly, "Three, two, one, up," and the EMTs heaved Chris a foot off the ground and swung him onto the stretcher.

After that, things moved quickly. They lifted the guardrails into place on either side, raised the stretcher and locked it in place at waist height, then started to wheel him toward the door. Without hesitation, Wyatt trailed after them. Nobody tried to stop him.

The vice principal met them at the back doors of the ambulance while the paramedic climbed up and the EMTs loaded Chris in afterward. She spoke to one of the EMTs for a moment in a soft voice that Wyatt didn't overhear. Though she eyed Wyatt up and down, she didn't comment on his presence.

The only person to react was the paramedic, when both Wyatt and the vice principal moved to follow the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. "There isn't space for both of you here," she said, holding out a hand to stop them.

Turning to meet the vice principal's gaze, Wyatt's own stare hardened, unyielding, until the woman heaved a sigh and stepped down. "I'll sit up front," she conceded. Wyatt couldn't care less where she sat; he would not leave his brother's side. The instant they were alone together, he could heal him.

One of the EMTs climbed into the back after Wyatt, motioning where the teen could sit. She pulled the double doors closed from inside and took a seat opposite him. The paramedic, situated on a bench at Chris's head, was busy gathering the IV bag from Chris's chest and looping it over a hook located on the wall behind him.

The other EMT led the vice principal to the cab in front, and they both got in. Wyatt heard their doors slam and the engine rev to life. As they pulled out of the school parking lot, the sirens began to wail.


They were sent straight to a back room in the emergency bay. If not for the vice principal, who never left Chris's side, Wyatt would have had ample opportunity to heal his brother. Though the nurses and at least one doctor walked in and out regularly to draw blood, set him up on a vital sign monitor, and assess his state, they were left alone for a majority of the time.

Wyatt felt torn between not wanting to leave Chris and wanting to duck out to his parents to orb them back here. At some point, the vice principal had assured him, "Your mother was called and is on her way," but as far as Wyatt was concerned she could not come fast enough.

He wiled away the minutes pacing back and forth across the floor, waiting for the vice principal to step away for the bathroom so he could use his powers. But she obviously took her role as chaperone here quite seriously. She didn't budge.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Piper arrived. Wyatt heard her voice down the hall trying to get information from the triage desk and leaned his head out the door. "Mom! We're back here!" he called, waving a hand to get her attention.

Her head whipped around, and she rushed away from the desk while the nurse was midsentence. She pulled Wyatt into the briefest hug, already peering over his shoulder to catch sight of her second child.

When the vice principal saw her, she drew Piper aside to the corner of the room to bring her up to speed. Meanwhile, Wyatt shuffled to his brother's bedside. A quick glance over his shoulder told him the vice principal was still facing in their direction, Piper with her back to them, which meant he couldn't try to heal Chris yet. The wait made his skin itch and his teeth grind in frustration.

Instead, he sat in the vice principal's recently vacated chair, twirled it to face the bed, and put a hand on his brother's arm. Just hang tight, Chris. You'll be fine.

Attached by a small clamp to Chris's middle finger, the monitor displaying his vital signs showed no causes for concern. His blood pressure was normal, his temperature was 98.4, his respiratory rate was within range. His heart rate, although slightly elevated at one sixteen, did not bother the nurses who regularly came in to check on him.

Wyatt listened to the steady beeping of the monitor and the whirring of the machine, the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. In the background, he heard the vice principal murmur, "They'll be admitting him as soon as the room is ready."

Tuning out the noise, Wyatt focused on the steady rise and fall of his brother's chest. The gentle, repetitive motion lulled him to a state of meditation.

When he sensed someone draw up behind him, he turned his head. It was Piper. The vice principal had apparently departed after updating her and leaving her with a phone number to call to keep her—and the school—posted.

Wyatt hopped up to give his mother the chair. "I haven't had a second alone with him. I would have healed him before," he told her, feeling guilty for not yet making the attempt. As Piper leaned forward to cradle Chris's slack hand, Wyatt rounded to his brother's other side. Carefully, placing his open palm on Chris's forehead, Wyatt sucked in a deep breath and let the orange glow radiate from him.

After several long seconds, the light faded. Chris remained as still and pale as before.

"What happened?" Piper demanded, voice tinged with panic, "Why didn't it work?"

Wyatt stared at both his hands, feeling hollow. "I… don't know."


When Chris opened his eyes, he was standing at the very center of the abyss with a low, ominous buzzing pervading his consciousness. At first he spotted none of his counterparts, and though he couldn't put his finger on what, something else felt wrong.

"Hello?" he called into the empty space, his voice echoing faintly. He turned in a slow circle but stopped when he saw a figure in the distance. A tall, robed creature with a wispy gray beard and wrinkled skin that made him look properly ancient. And his eyes—his eyes were pits of darkness.

Something told Chris this wasn't another version of himself. This figure did not belong here.

Across the space between them, he called, "Who are you?"

When the creature, silent, drew nearer, Chris took a step back—or tried to. Instantly, a translucent pillar of white light flared up around him, a physical barrier keeping him immobilized.

Beyond it, he saw the creature bare his jagged teeth in a smile. After a couple of seconds, the light surrounding Chris faded, though he could still feel the crackle of solid energy at his back. A couple yards from Chris's prison, the creature stopped, raising his palm between them, just shy of where the barrier had appeared. He waited for the crackle to dissipate completely before saying, "He was right. I have never seen a mind like yours." His awed voice came out as a soft rasp, like an old man who had smoked for decades.

Only half of Chris paid attention, the other part of his brain scrambling to find a way out of his prison. "Who was right? Who are you?" he demanded. And where were his other selves? He had not felt this alone in his own mind since Perry had first taken up residence. It wasn't simply that he couldn't see them; he had not realized until this instant, when a gaping emptiness had supplanted it, that he had always sensed their consciousnesses when in his own mind. Now, he sensed nothing, a void.

As if reading his thoughts, the creature said, "They are still here, the slivers of your mind. Look closer."

Narrowing his eyes, Chris swung his gaze in a wide arc around the abyss. It was then that he realized what else had felt so wrong. The lights were out.

Every time another version of himself appeared, he (or she) brought with him a unique aura that emanated from his space. Merlin's cinnamon orange glowing from his ceiling fan, Ian's deep cyan streaming in from the bus windows, Boy's pale lavender leaking out of the torches on the wall… All of that had gone dark.

Jerking his head to one side, Chris squinted into Demon's wedge. At first he saw nothing, just a stretch of jagged walls and shackles. But after a moment, the four-poster bed in the middle of the room shimmered. There, sprawled out, lay Demon, unconscious.

Feeling a spike of panic, Chris peered into the next wedge over. On the worn sofa was Perry's prone form, his skin also shimmering. And beside that, on the straw floor palate, lay a crumpled Sir Christopher.

Chris spun back to face the creature. Without hesitating, he whipped his arm through the air, ready to send the creature flying backward. Nothing happened. "My… powers," he whispered, staring at his palms with a dawning sense of dread.

The creature's smile widened. "Your powers only exist in the real world, child. You cannot fight me here. The subconscious is my domain."

Honestly, Chris should have anticipated the lack of powers. If they had their abilities, he had no doubt Krissy long would have since killed Merlin by now. Demon likely would have attacked at least one of them just for the fun of it. It explained why even Perry and Demon, whom Chris considered the most experienced and powerful here, had so easily fallen prey to this creature.

But if he didn't have his powers, how would he eject this creature from his mind? How would he save everyone?

Whether because he had appeared first or whether he simply exuded leadership, Chris had always considered Perry the others' keeper, the voice of rationality amid the chaos. If he could just rouse him, Perry would surely know how to fight the creature.

His prison left him just enough space to drop to his knees. Doing so, he closed his eyes and focused on Perry. He shouldn't need his magic in order to communicate. They were still slivers of his own mind, extensions of himself.

Determination coursed through him with a rush of adrenaline. Wake up, he thought with an internal growl. Visualizing Perry's prone form as vividly as if he stood before him, he reached out to mentally give the man's shoulders a vigorous shake. Come on.

The high wheeze of laughter emanated from every direction. Every tiny hair on Chris's body stood on end. "He will not wake," the creature said. Chris could almost feel him mentally drawing up behind, reaching out a skeletal hand to graze his shoulder.

Dropping the image of Perry from his mind, Chris's consciousness raced under the creature's extended fingers and sped across the wedge perimeter into Sir Christopher's, then beyond that into Christian's small cottage space. The man lay unmoving on his bed, but Chris didn't bother slowing down to try to wake him, just kept moving.

But when he reached the periphery where Christian's cottage melted into Ian's bus home, the visage of the creature erupted from the ground before him. Chris, whose body had not left his central prison, opened his eyes. The creature stood before him, now only feet away. The murky pits of his eyes began to glow white. "Now, it is time to begin."

The ominous hum Chris had been hearing since his arrival made his head vibrate with its intensity. All around him, images rose out of the wedges. From Christian's space, an open meadow surrounded by trees. From Mutt, the interrogation room of a police station. From Perry, an infant's bedroom.

"You asked me for my name," the creature reminded him. "It is Siyut. By many I am known as the demon of dreams. I can draw upon one's deadliest nightmares and trap one there. You cannot wake him. You cannot wake any of them. They will sleep until they die."


Now the real fun begins.

Reviews are shiny. Please let me know what you think!

Guest - Thanks for the comment. I'm glad you felt Jake's feelings on his situation worked. I definitely struggled with creating a believable anger response in someone generally so passive and accepting of his fate. I appreciate your thoughts.