- Of Classes and Cousins -

Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal. – Bishop Robert South

(Year: 1998)

"How did he die?"

"Gunshot, I heard."

A nasally voice cleared its throat. "Was he involved in—?"

"No, no, none of that ugly business. Just another case of the wrong place at the wrong time. They say he got in the middle of something between a cop and some other guy. The guy pulled his gun, and…" The voice trailed off meaningfully.

Carmen had curled herself behind silky plum curtains that were draped to the ground, billowing on top of itself in folds. Each full length window was covered by similar fabric. The girl had sought one in the corner of the main room, where the people huddled in small crowds, gossiping to one another where they thought nobody could hear.

"How are his kids holding up? Must me tough on them, especially the young on—Carrie, right? Poor thing." There were murmurs of agreement from the others in the group.

"He was a good man, I heard. Real good father and all. It's a shame he hadda go."

More murmurs.

"Wrong place at the wrong time. Always comes down to stuff like that in the end, don't it?"

Carmen closed her eyes, tried to ignore the voices, hugged her knees to her chest in a vain attempt to warm the chill that made her blood run cold.

(Tuesday, October 15, 2019)

Chris rose from a restless night's sleep. Pain had leaked into his dreams the night before, had kept him from sleeping peacefully. When he rolled to sit up, bruised shoulders burned in protest. It took several minutes to coax his exhausted muscles into action. Finally, he extracted himself from the covers and stumbled over to his mirror. He had expected the sight, but it still made him wince when the mirror mocked him with various bumps and shades speckling his torso. and scratches had left dried blood on his chest and around his navel. Oh, how he loathed demons, if for no other reason than because of the wake-up call he received the morning after an attack.

He shut his eyes against the picture the glass flaunted. Expelling a hiss of breath from between his teeth, he muttered, "This just sucks."

It took ages to pull a shirt over his head and change into a pair of pants for school. When he glanced at the mirror a second time, the image had improved somewhat, with only the bruises on his face still visible. He drew up a hand to give some semblance of order to his tousled hair, but gave up without success a minute or two later. Emerald eyes stared sharply at the glass. They narrowed in concentration as he summoned from his reserves of power the strength to tap into his magic. It was a lot more difficult than it would have been after a proper night's sleep and at first even trying made him feel light-headed. Finally, though, the shimmer of his powers ghosted over his face and seeped beneath his shirt. The paleness of his skin faded into a light blue, glowing. When it faded, all bruises had disappeared. Some color had even returned to his cheeks.

"Better," he affirmed, nodding to his reflection. It still hurt, but the glamour made certain no one else would know.

He took his time climbing down the stairs, too drained of magic already to orb. When he crept into the kitchen, he was surprised to find himself the first one of his siblings in. Prue made it a rule to beat her brothers every morning, but Chris could only assume the excitement from the previous night had gotten to her. It was, after all, the first time she had faced down a fireball.

When he lowered himself into a chair, Piper turned from the pan at the stove. Along with her "Mornin', kiddo," she offered a sympathetic wince.

A few minutes passed in silence, save the sizzle and crackle from the frying pan. Chris closed his eyes as he listened. He had to shift his position repeatedly to remain comfortable. The fire snapped at the bottom of the pan; Piper's spatula clinked against the inside as she scraped it along the bottom. The cupboard door creaked as it was opened, and then thumped shut. Then more clinking, but Chris was too unfocused to pinpoint what had caused the sound. While a part of him wanted desperately to crawl back beneath the covers, his louder half argued that even his current actions were those of unacceptable weakness. The inner debate raged, serving only to fuel Chris's headache as he endeavored to silence both sides.

Finally, a shadow over his eyes made him forget the argument and look up. Piper was standing over him, smiling in that too-cheerful-for-morning way that Chris despised. The boy could only glower at the intruding disposition.

"Breakfast—have some," she offered, setting down a plate in front of him and scraping half of the scrambled eggs onto it. "It will make you feel better."

"I doubt it," he grumbled, though he obediently took up the fork she handed him. Although the very act of chewing pained him, stomach protested more forcefully than muscles. He took small bites and chewed carefully, but still managed to get himself through only half the plate. By that point his stomach had quieted enough for the protest of his bruises to be heard. Moaning under his breath, he pushed the food away and rested his head in its place.

From across the room Piper asked, "Sore?" and winced for him when he nodded against the finger-paint-stained surface of the table. After a moment of sympathy, she offered, "Well, no pain no gain, right?"

Chris barely mustered the energy required to raise his head the few inches it took to glower at his mother's turned back. Oh, as if that made everything all better. When he was a child, she had always known the magic words to make his boo-boos go away. Perhaps old age had stolen her touch. 'No pain no gain'—what had she been thinking?

He gave a start of surprise when, without turning to face him, Piper casually remarked, "Keep scowling like that and I'll cut out those eyes of yours for my next potion. I daresay green looks good on you—you should keep it."

"But–how—?" Chris spluttered.

As if in disappointment, Piper sighed, "I always know, Chris." Casting a sidelong glance in his direction, she added, "Haven't you figured that out by now?"

Chris dumped his head back onto his folded arms. Careful to keep his expression neutral, he injected as much irritation into his voice when he grumbled, "Yeah, yeah."

She let that one go.

Eventually, Wyatt stumbled into the kitchen with Prue only moments behind him. Both attempted to find their way to the table blindly, and somehow succeeded with minimal damage to themselves and their surroundings. By the time each one found a vacant chair (Wyatt accidentally chose Chris's lap at first, though the younger was sure it was on purpose), Piper had already dished out a plate of scrambled eggs to each of them.

Wyatt immediately perked up at the sight of food, snatching up a forkful and shoveling it between his lips. Only when three quarters of his plate had been cleared did he pause for a breath, swallowing the air with significantly less gusto than he had the breakfast.

He took a moment to watch his mother, who had begun to clear away the preparations from breakfast. She filled the pan to its rim with soapy water, wiped down the countertop with a damp dishtowel, and returned the carton of eggs to the second shelf in the fridge. By the time she turned around to face her children, Wyatt's face had set itself into the most pitiful expression it had available.

Piper sighed and picked up her dishtowel. She could guess what was coming next. As if she didn't know that expression well enough by now, after nearly eighteen years.

"Mom," Wyatt said, blinking his lashes sorrowfully, "can I stay home today?" He drew a pout from his lips and then added, "I had a nightmare last night. About—you know—the other me…"

Eyes wide, Chris stared at his brother, too shocked even to remember to breathe until his chest gave a sharp squeeze of reminder. That was low. Mom's emotional breakdown had been only a number of hours ago, a release of fifteen years worth of pent-up mourning. Had he no consideration for how difficult last night had been? Then again, if Wyatt could get away with it…

Innocently, Chris remarked, "So did I. About how the other me went back to the past all alone and… stuff like that." Although he knew that mentioning his future self's death would likely aid his cause, he couldn't bring himself to utter the words to his own mother. Last night he had seen in her eyes, in her tears, how much the memory pained her, even after all these years; and could not find it in his heart to bring that up again.

"Nice try." Piper frowned with real disapproval in her eyes, more genuine than he could ever remember. "I'm not about to cave just because the pain of last night is still so fresh." She gave each boy a pointed stare, as if an indication of the line she had expected them to know better than to cross. Disappointment colored the air between her and her boys. They had the presence of mind, at least, to feel slightly ashamed for their thoughtless endeavor. "Don't think I can't still tell when I'm being manipulated. Now go get dressed." She had not yelled, but Chris could tell the good humor that started the morning had evaporated. He was beginning to regret Wyatt's foolish example.

Chris, who had done so before leaving his room, slumped deeper into his chair while his brother, grumbling under his breath, stood and left the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later, clothed in a rumpled shirt and finally more awake, though reluctantly so.

"By the way," Piper remarked to her children as Wyatt reclaimed his seat, "I won't be here when you come home this afternoon. Your aunts and I are going out later today."

At this point, expecting an interruption from her youngest, Piper paused. Even Wyatt and Chris turned toward her without thinking, but Prue didn't seem to notice. Cheek pressed against her fist, she poked at her eggs with a fork, shifting the mess into a pile on one side and then scraping it to the other. After a stretch of silence, she finally noticed and looked up, surprised to find three pairs of eyes watching her. "What?" she asked rather defensively.

"Are you all right, Prue?" Piper asked before either of the boys could ask in a less-than-gentle way.

"Fine," Prue said, but didn't elaborate. She went back to fiddling with her food.

Watching her daughter for a few more seconds, Piper continued, "Lea and Katie will be spending the afternoon here until we get back."

"Sounds fun," Chris deadpanned.

Again, Piper said nothing, eyes focused on Prue. She set down the dishtowel she had been folding and unfolding between her fingers and said, "Prue, are you feeling okay?" Crossing the room, she pressed the back of her hand to her daughter's forehead. "No fever," she concluded, "but you're still kind of pale." She released the girl and took a step back to examine her with a critical eye. "What's bothering you, sweetie? Is it your stomach, your throat? Are you nauseous? You haven't eaten a thing."

Without looking up, Prue stabbed one of her eggs and popped it into her mouth. "There," she said, though her tone lacked the malice she had intended.

When Piper refused to back down, the girl repeated, "I'm really fine, Mom," and then in a much quieter voice added, "Just had a bad dream." Her eyes avoided her mother's searching stare as it roved over her face.

"About…?" Piper pressed. With her youngest child's powers, the mother found she could never be too careful. Although Prue tried to hide it, Piper could tell that the clairvoyant dreams often shook the young witch.

"Just… you know…" Her eyes darted up to Wyatt and then immediately back to her scrambled eggs. "What we talked 'bout yesterday…" She trailed off, cheeks beginning to glow with embarrassment.

Gripping the girl's shoulders, Piper forced her out of her chair. She removed the fork from Prue's white-knuckled grip and set it forcefully onto the table, propelling Prue toward the door at the same time. "Go back upstairs," she instructed. "I'll come up in a few minutes to see how you're doing. Try to get back to sleep."

Without argument Prue slunk out of the room. With a sigh, Piper watched her go. Prue had dreamt badly before, but even Piper didn't know the extent of that other future. Chris had always refused to tell her. How could she help Prue work through this one when she didn't know what she was dealing with?

A shower of accusations tore her from her thoughts, disbelief from her two remaining children. "How come she gets to stay home?" "I can't believe she got away with that!" "Mom, are you seriously going to let her not go to school?" "We were the ones involved in the whole thing, but she ends up missing school for it?" "How is this at all fair?"

"Enough!" Piper bellowed. In a heartbeat their voices fell mute. The boys didn't dare utter another sound. "I cannot believe you—either of you! She is your sister. You know how she can get with her premonitions. If she saw something from the past, she could have witnessed some real atrocities; and all either of you cares about is missing school!" Before they could respond, Piper turned stormed out of the room. The boys were left in a thick stillness they refused to dismiss. For a few minutes they just sat there. Then, without a word, they placed their dishes in the sink, gathered their stuff, and departed. In mutual silence they trudged down the street. Sneakers crunched against the broken sidewalk cement, and wind tickled their ears with a faint whooshing noise. Chris dug his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and lowered his head as the wind nibbled at his hair. He didn't notice his brother falling behind until he found himself at the bus stop with Wyatt still half a block away. Impatiently, he waited for him to catch up, but Wyatt seemed in no hurry to join him.

When the blonde finally did reach the corner, Chris grumbled, "It still isn't fair that she gets to stay home."

He was completely taken aback when Wyatt's blue eyes rose to glare straight at him. He thought they were on the same page with this one. What had changed?

"She was dreaming about me, Chris," Wyatt hissed. Ice sharpened his voice.

Memories of the night before returned to the younger boy's mind in a rush with enough discomfort to make him squirm. He could only begin to imagine Wyatt's guilt, especially with Prue having now witnessed at least a few events. No one else could claim that. No one else in their family knew any details of a life Prue had just witness first-hand. And Wyatt blamed himself for a world that he himself had never seen.

Trying to be generous, Chris offered, "You don't know for sure that—"

"Of course I do," Wyatt snapped, "It had to be me, you moron."

Well. That was the last time Chris offered Wyatt so much as a smile. Not if this attack was the thanks he got. As the brother's attempted to stare each other down, the school bus turned down their street and slowed as it came towards them. "You're so self-centered," Chris muttered at length. By that point, though, the bus had pulled up and Chris's remark was muffled by the hiss of the doors opening. By the way Wyatt stormed up the steps, Chris decided he was glad his comment had gone unheard. He had a sneaking suspicion it would not have helped to defuse the anger.

Following Wyatt onto the bus, he found a seat at the back and claimed it for himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Wyatt had chosen a seat away from his friends.

He's so dramatic, he thought half-heartedly to himself—but the twinge of concern did not go unregistered, if not outwardly then at the very least subconsciously. Yesterday had been rough; Chris had to wonder how long its effects would last.

Morning passed rather uneventfully. Mrs. Williams reminded the class about an essay due the following Monday. With six full days to complete the assignment, Chris decided he could afford to worry about it later. Mr. Randall raised his eyebrows at Chris's lack of completed homework (it was only at that point that he remembered he was supposed to have called Dwight for the list of assignments the previous night), but he knew he could get away with it. Especially in math of all subjects. Mr. Garcia less so, but who liked biology anyway? When he failed to hand in his homework during third period, that old professor started on another of his blue-faced tirades. That had been expected. By now Chris had heard it enough times to quote it back verbatim (and did so with frequency to entertain some of his classmates). Somewhere after, "failure to take pride in your work!" he tuned out.

At one point, when Mr. Garcia seemed to be losing no steam, Chris began to worry that an after-school detention would interfere with the evening with his cousins. Hurriedly, he offered a contrite nod and a "Sorry, Mr. Garcia, won't happen again." He slunk to the back of the room to claim a seat, leaving the man standing at the blackboard rather sourly.

"Well," came the gruff remark, "Well then. See that it doesn't." To Chris's immense relief, he left it at that.

By the time fourth period and then lunch came around, the glamour was beginning to itch and Chris's bruises ached fiercely. Dwight caught him outside the cafeteria just before he could sneak off somewhere quiet to release the magic stuck at his cheeks.

"You never called," he pointed out.

Distracted, Chris said, "Sorry, we went out to eat afterward. Didn't get home 'till late."

Dwight accepted that without questioning. "How was the appointment?" he asked.

"My teeth still hurt from the dentist's drill," Chris offered, gritting his teeth to keep his wobbly powers in place. He needed to find somewhere private now.

Dwight frowned. "I thought you were at the eye doctor."

Shoot. Chris never confused his lies. Although he supposed pain and a prolonged use of his powers could do that. "I was," he replied, feigning confusion. "What did I say?"

"Dentist."

"Oh. Weird. Sorry, must be my head. Feels like it's about to explode or something."

Dwight watched Chris's face with concern. "You know, you do look a bit off. Want me to call the nurse or someone?"

"Nah. 'M just gonna take something and find somewhere quiet. See you in sign language, 'kay?" He left before Dwight could offer to walk with him; that was the last thing he needed right now.

The bathroom was deserted when he slunk inside and leaned heavily against the last in a row of four partially broken sinks. Staring at his overly-pallid reflection, he sucked in a deep breath and counted to three. As he expelled the air from his lungs, a soft cerulean glow dribbled from his forehead down his cheeks and beneath his shirt. Where it faded, it left dark shades of blue, black, and purple. His eyes traced them from the one on his left cheek to the two small ones protruding from his chin to the large one only half visible at his collarbone, the rest of it hidden by the material of his shirt. He wondered how beaten up he looked beneath the fabric.

Closing his eyes, he released a short breath. Wyatt? he called, hoping his brother wasn't still upset from that morning.

After a moment, his own head echoed with a voice that didn't belong inside it. Yeah?

Chris sighed, gritting his teeth; he hated admitting defeat, especially to pain but right now the blooming headache in his left temple seized control of his logic. Besides, if it had not been for yesterday's confrontation, Mom would have gotten Wyatt to heal him last night anyway. I could use a bit of healing.

A few minutes later, Wyatt barged into the bathroom with a flourish. The door banged against the wall, exposing the inside of the room to a trio of girls nearby, all of whom began to giggle obtrusively at the unexpected publicity. Chris rolled his eyes.

"Do you know how to come into a room quietly?"

Mimicking his little brother's tone, Wyatt countered, "Do you want to get healed?"

Wisely, Chris fell silent. At length, he admitted, "Yeah."

Wyatt took the time to give Chris a long once-over, while the younger fidgeted with impatience. Someone could burst in on them at any moment; besides, his muscles throbbed. He was careful not to rush Wyatt, though. It didn't take much brain power to realize nagging would only convince Wyatt to slow down the process—or perhaps cease altogether. Oh yes, Wyatt was a thoughtful brother, all right.

Finally, Wyatt set a glowing hand on Chris's shoulder. Orange light trickled down his torso and rose up his cheeks. The fierce ache receded to the back of his head, muted, though still steady. The blackish purplish blue began to fade to a greenish yellow tinge, which a few seconds later returned to his regular skin tone, if slightly pale. When the older boy took a step back, Chris turned to examine his newly-healed face in the mirror.

"I know," Wyatt quipped, "a masterpiece. Go on, admire it. I should charge to let people see my work of art."

Leaning forward, Chris prodded the repaired skin while absentmindedly responding, "What, you mean like a lion on display at the zoo?" Through the mirror, he watched Wyatt smirk.

"I was thinking more like a monkey, but lions work, too. You know, whatever makes your denial a happier place."

Without taking his eyes off the mirror, Chris muttered, "Oh, shut up."

"Hey, watch it," Wyatt warned. "I just healed you."

As he headed toward the door, Chris snorted, "I'll take care not to ruin your precious masterpiece, then." And then he walked out to face the rest of the day.

He found Dwight sitting beside Keith Manning as Keith's hands motioned wide arcs in a fabulous display of storytelling. Dwight offered a rather pathetic smile (which Keith, in his exuberance, seemed to overlook) and took a stab at his liquefied mashed potatoes with the plastic fork Bernice the Lunch Lady had handed him.

As Chris joined the two, he heard, "…telling you. It was revolting." Dwight nodded along and then, catch sight of Chris, threw out a pained smile. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly as Chris joined them. With some quick explanation that he was feeling much better—miraculously—Chris scooted in on Dwight's other side. They chatted for the last few minutes of lunch, much to Keith's consternation, until the bell dismissed them from their table. Together, they dumped out their trays; said goodbye to Keith, who had English; and headed to the second floor for sign language.

In the back of the room, with Ms. Kramer's back turned, Dwight dealt out a game of Poker to himself, Chris, and Andrew Martinez—the only other boy who had dared take the subject. No one ever asked why, but somehow Everybody knew that no one who was Anybody would take sign language. Chris and Dwight never believed in following unwritten rules anyway. As for Andrew… quite frankly, he was as big of a Nobody as anyone could get. Plus, he had a terrible Poker face.

At 1:30 the duo reluctantly split; Dwight heading toward his biology classroom, Chris to the library. They met up again in front of Chris's locker just before history.

"How's my house sound?" Dwight suggested, leaning against a locker as Chris stuffed potentially important sheets behind his text on English literature. "Tonight."

"Can't." Chris shut his locker with a bang, spun the lock. "The cousins are coming over so Mom and the aunts can have some sort of 'girls' night out' or whatever. I can't ditch them."

Dwight 'hmphed' but understood well enough to let it go pretty easily. "Tomorrow, then. Or Thursday. Whatever." The bell rang. Chris followed Dwight to his locker, where they collected a notebook and text book, then leisurely made their way to class.

Two hazel eyes darted in their direction the moment Dwight opened the door. "You're late," Ms. Gowell remarked, as if the statement were at all necessary. As if the boys couldn't already conclude such for themselves by the way her hand had stopped halfway to the blackboard with a broken piece of chalk.

"Sorry," Chris said without hesitation, "we had to stop on the way for a sanity check. We're fine now, don't worry." He gave a cheerful smile and trotted to his seat as Dwight did the same, snorting back a laugh.

"Oh?" Ms. Gowell remarked with a sigh.

Pleasantly, Chris answered, "Yep. Chased the sanity right back out."

Despite herself, Marcy smiled. She supposed there was no harm in letting that go—just this once.

By the time school ended, Chris had just about had enough and was more than ready to turn in for the evening. Wyatt had forgotten his math text book in his locker, and Chris had absolutely no intention of waiting for him. Trotting to the bushes, he took a quick look around before orbing. He appeared in a swaddle of blue light, facing the steps across from the foyer in the manor. Before he could even set down his knapsack, a voice announced his presence.

"Chris!" it shrieked. He turned to see two girls standing in the threshold of the living room. The taller had dark brown hair, nearly black, like her father's, cropped to her shoulders and held in place by a bright pink scrunchy. She came to Chris's shoulder, which she insisted was average, if not downright tall, for her age. She was wearing a pink, flairy skirt and a white shirt, short-sleeved despite the briskness of the air outside, that had on it the face of a purple kitten. When Chris met her eyes, the girl's lips quirked into a wry half-smile.

"Melon!" Chris exclaimed cheerfully. She rolled her eyes.

"Shut up, Chris," she retorted with the casual tone of something spoken often before. She stepped forward and slung an arm around Chris in an affectionate embrace, which was readily returned.

Beside her sister stood Katie, expression eager at her cousin's arrival. She had the same light brown eyes and mouse-brown hair as her mother, and stood rather short for her age, at almost a head underneath most of her classmates. She was dressed more appropriately than her twelve-year-old sister, if a bit warmly, in a wool sweater and red, denim pants. Her face was pale, though both parents were naturally dark; her limbs looked frail.

Chris smiled benignly at his young cousin. He shifted to detach himself from his current embrace and then offered the girl a friendly wave. "Hey, Katie," he said.

"Hi, Chris," she squeaked brightly in return. Both hands linked together behind her back as she rocked onto the balls of her feet.

"So…" Chris prompted when she said nothing more, "are you excited, or what? In a week you'll be eight years old. That sort of thing doesn't happen every day."

Giggling softly behind two thin hands, she corrected, "Six days."

From beside Chris, Lea rolled her eyes. "Same difference, Katie."

"Nuh-uh," Katie countered with confidence, "it's a whole entire day more."

"Whatever." Lea brushed past Chris and sidestepped her sister as she motioned for them to switch over to the living room. Dumping his bag by the door, Chris followed her, with Katie gliding behind them. On the floor by the coffee table, he found a spread of cards dealt for two with a sloppy pile in between them. Go Fish, of course—it was all Katie ever liked to play. Stepping over the set-up, the boy bounced onto the couch, slid dirty sneakers off his feet, and kicked his legs onto the coffee table.

Lea wrinkled her nose as she sat down beside him. "Your feet smell," she complained, fanning a hand in front of her face. Smiling, Chris leaned back, wriggling his toes. Lea rolled her eyes. "Get them off the table."

"Hey, Melon," he protested, "you're the guest. I live here."

One hand pinching her nostrils shut, she replied nasally, "I'm sure Aunt Piper is totally okay with your stinky socks smelling up the whole manor, then."

Scowling, Chris slipped his feet off the table. "That's bribery." He glowered when she grinned at her triumph.

"Technically it's blackmail," she pointed out. When his scowl deepened, she flashed him a cheeky smile.

"So," he said when Katie had settled herself in the chair opposite them, "how's school going?"

Lea sighed. "Oh, don't start that, Chris. You know I'd trade you in a second." She pulled a face. "I hate Magic School."

Snorting, her cousin replied, "That's only because witches don't freeze. Not to mention"—His eyes glimmered mischievously—"there are anti-astral spells on all the boys' bathrooms…"

"Hey!" Lea protested hotly, ears darkening to a deep maroon. "I'm not a pervert, Chris. That's just gross!" When he began to laugh, she smacked him across the arm, but even that didn't stop him.

"Sorry, sorry," he chuckled at length, waving off her assault. "Just saying."

"Yeah, well," Lea grumbled, "I'd rather Mom and Dad let me go to public school. I could get tutored on the side, like you and Wyatt and Prue do."

"And what would Katie do?" Chris remarked.

Delighted to be part of the conversation, Katie piped up, "Mommy and Daddy say I can't go to a regular school like yours, Chris." He looked toward her, noting the way her small frame swam in the size of the leather chair. She had always been so small for her age.

"Yeah," he acknowledged, "because if even one person tries to touch you, our cover is blown wide open." He examined her eyes, soft and sad. Sometimes, after one of their family dinners, when everyone had said their goodbyes and parted with hugs, Chris though about Katie, standing slightly to the side, as if she wanted to fade into the background. As much a part of the family as anyone but an outcast in ways nobody but she could ever understand. A part of him wondered what it felt like—seven years old and never been touched. Once, a couple of years ago, he had asked her.

"What's it like not to feel anything?" And she had countered chillingly, "What's it like to feel?" That night, expression grave, Piper had sat her son down and instructed him never to broach the topic again. It became an unmentionable. When she was two, a ten-year-old Chris had reached into her crib and tried to stroke her chubby belly. His hand had passed right through her stomach and thumped against the mattress beneath it. He had withdrawn quickly, had scrambled to his mother with terror in his eyes. That was when he first learned of his baby cousin's power: intangibility. Unchecked. Forever incapable of feeling another person's skin on hers. A fate, he believed, almost worse than death itself. To never feel the blankets wrapped around her in bed, to never feel a kiss goodnight, to never be able to hold her mother's hand…

Chris shook his head sharply, ridding himself of the flash of a life that his cousin endured daily. It did not do for him to dwell on such thoughts. Instead, he address Lea again, forcing a smile as he remarked, "I'd still trade you any day. I wish I could go to Magic School. All this hiding stuff from my friends—it's totally unfair."

"Oh yeah," Lea teased, "poor you with your hard life." When he scoffed in mock affront, she smiled sweetly. Eyes twinkling, she tucked her feet under her legs, curling on top of them until she found a position that suited her. At length, she gazed toward the front door and wondered, "So where are Wyatt and Prue? Shouldn't they be home by now?"

Chris frowned. "Well, Wyatt should've been here already. He must've gotten caught up in something else. Prue's… sick."

"Sick? What's she got?" Katie wondered, shivering slightly at the thought. She always had to be cautious; it didn't take much to overwhelm her immune system, especially when the colder seasons blew in.

With a sympathetic smile, Chris replied, "Premonitions. Don't worry, far as I know, they're not contagious."

She giggled, the concern fading from her eyes.

More curious than her sister, Leo said, "Must have been some premonition to make her sick and all."

Forcing a laugh, Chris suggested, "Nah, she's just ultra-sensitive."

"Don't be mean to your sister, Chris," Lea admonished. Rather hypocritically, in Chris's opinion. Before he could mention such, she continued, "So what did she see?"

Suddenly, Chris found the tips of his fingernails insatiably intriguing. Picking at them with deliberate casualty, he offered an indifferent, "Dunno. You'd have to ask her. I'm sure whatever it is was absolutely fascinating." The added sarcasm did the trick; Lea dropped the subject in favor of reprimanding her cousin's intolerable attitude.

"She's your sister. Be nice to her, Chris."

From across the room, a voice snorted, "Like that's ever stopped you." They all spun around and Lea launched herself off the couch in order to greet her oldest cousin. Catching her in his embrace, he laughed, "Nice to see you, too." Over her shoulder he added, "And you, too, Katie. How've you been?"

"Good," the child squeaked. "Mommy says the pneu…pneu… that my cold is all gone now."

"The pneumonia?" Wyatt guessed, smiling.

"Yeah, that." When Wyatt released Lea, Katie asked, "Will you play Go Fish with me? Lea won't play once you're here. She thinks you guys are more fun." As Katie pouted sullenly, Lea once again gave her trademark roll of the eyes.

"Are you kidding?" Wyatt demanded, "Nobody's more fun than you." Pleased, Katie grinned, but then Wyatt added, "I'd love to play, kiddo, but I have some chores to finish up." He passed her and Chris, promising, "I'll do my best to get back in time to play a bit before you go."

Chris frowned at the back of his brother's blond head. 'Get back'? What sort of chores required that he leave the house? When Wyatt exited the room, Chris padded after him. Halfway up the stairs, he grabbed Wyatt's arm.

"Hey!" Wyatt protested, spinning to face his younger brother.

"You're going to the Underworld," Chris accused flatly.

Wrenching his arm from Chris's grip, Wyatt countered, "So?"

"So?" Chris repeated with incredulity. He followed when Wyatt resumed his trek up the stairs and into the hallway. "So you just went two days ago. Twice a week? Since when did you start going this often?"

Without turning around, Wyatt responded, "Since this week, apparently. Leave me alone. This isn't your business." When he tried to close his bedroom door, Chris jammed a sock-clad foot into it. Wyatt yanked back just in time, and reluctantly opened it enough to see Chris's resolute expression.

"What about Mom?" he challenged, "Do you think she'll agree that it's none of her business either?"

"Just go away, Chris."

Ignoring the demand, Chris narrowed his eyes, inspecting his brother's irate face. "Hang on," he said, pausing. "Does this have something to do with what we found out last night? About the other you and the stuff he—?"

"No, Chris," Wyatt snapped, and before Chris could react, the door slammed shut in his face.

Sounded like a pretty big yes to me, he thought crossly. Of course, Wyatt always had been a rather useless liar. Who needed tact when he had the brute strength necessary to be as blunt as he pleased? Still, Chris decided to let this go. Persisting right now would get him nowhere, not with Wyatt's present mood.

Sighing heavily, Chris started toward the stairs. As a safety precaution, he summoned his magic, which protested weakly at being used so soon after his glamouring earlier that day. He mustered up his strength and forced out his sensing powers to scope the vicinity. Lea had an inquisitive nature and could be sneaky when the situation called for it. This was not a conversation he wanted her to overhear.

The threads of his magic listened blindly, groping for any vibrations of familiar sound. In the room a few doors down they felt a high-pitched, off-tune whistling—which Chris recognized as Prue—muted by soft, even breathing as she slept. A slow moan, but Chris drew his powers away before they could determine what had elicited the sound. He didn't want to know what she was dreaming about.

Aside from her he found no one, which meant Lea had not overheard. That was something to be thankful for, at least. Threads of magic spilled down the stairs and into the living room, where they heard the identifying sounds that made up his cousin: mischievous chuckling and applause—because, after all, Lea always did enjoy being the center of attention.

Creeping behind that, they heard a soft sigh, forlorn, nearly inaudible, a wisp of a sound from which Chris instantly forced his powers to retreat. Hearing Katie's essence had always been nearly too much for him to bear. Instead, he turned his magic back the other way, to Wyatt's bedroom to sense how his brother was faring. But when the threads trip to wriggle beneath the door, they rammed headlong into a wall of hot metal, glowing with the fire of Wyatt's emotions. They were denied access to the familiar sounds that identified Chris's brother—like the half-hearted groan and the snort of poorly-held in laughter—denied all that Wyatt's essence usually echoed back to them. But they did hear something, a noise so dark and unfamiliar, a cross between a snarl and a wail of despair; livid, feral. A sound so deeply subconscious that even actively blocking sensing powers could not mute it entirely.

Chris called back his magic, and it receded into him with the comfort of returning home. He felt it settle in his gut, falling back into a state of dormancy. All the sounds it had collected settled down with it, finding rest in Chris's chest. That wail—so ridden with guilt and horror, with disgust—it reverberated between Chris's ears. It rang down his spine and echoed through his veins. It would not settle, would not still.

Shuddering, Chris withdrew. Now was certainly not the time to confront Wyatt, not with his older brother in such a state of turmoil. No, he would wait until Wyatt had left off some steam. He just hoped his brother would not get himself killed in the process of releasing some of that pent-up pain. An emotionally-charged twice-blessed witch was a danger to every demon out there—but he was equally a danger to himself. Chris could only hope the intensity would fizzle out sooner rather than later, but with the mere echo of it still plaguing him he somehow doubted that would be the case.

Sighing, he returned to his cousins, the calls of an unvoiced scream still raising goose bumps on his skin.

To my dearest readers:

I know this chapter is long overdue, and I can only apologize repeatedly for the time. Actually, apologies to very little at this point. I hope this extra-long chapter will be a bit of retribution for those of you who waited by your computers in desperation. (Ah, I flatter myself too much.) Anyway, my person to pay tribute to today for excellent reviews is Artsfan. She's always thorough and tells it like it is - the good and the bad. What lovely reviews! ...And for such a lousy responder, too. I always put off responding to your reviews because I want to give thought-out responses, but since I never have time to actually sit down and think I take so long to get to them. :P Nice way to repay you for your lovely reviews, isn't it.