Likely, after all this time, there's no one still reading this. But maybe someone will stumble on it again one day.

Now, in the overwhelming silence, she heard Chris's breathing, erratic and uncontrollable. It took a moment to calm the ferocious beating of her heart, but eventually she forced her body into motion. She had to pull herself together. Cautiously, she approached and knelt by his side. "He's gone, Chris," she assured, working to speak with composure. "You're going to be fine, all right? The wound doesn't look fatal." She tried to sound like she knew what she was dealing with, as if she had any experience whatsoever with wounds from ancient weaponry. "If we get the arrow out, we can stop the bl—" She stopped when Chris shook his head, eyes clenched shut in pain. "What? Why are you saying no?" Panic bubbled to her chest, but she viciously shoved it back down. Just because Chris felt like acting stubborn did not give her permission to lose herself. As experienced as he was, she was the adult. She could take care of this situation.

"The arrow," he let out in a hiss. His teeth chattered against each other. "It's t-tipped with... poison that... k-ki-kills whitelighters."

Ms. Gowell stared at him, as if watching the words leaving his mouth would somehow help her comprehend their meaning. Chris—a fifteen-year-old boy, who had not yet graduated high school or applied for college or dressed himself up for his first job interview—this mere child lay in front of her bleeding from a wound fit for the sixteenth century? This boy she had to watch die as poison slowly worked its way through his system, impervious to doctors and medicines? Impossible. She simply could not accept it.

"Maybe," she suggested feebly, "if we take it out..."

His laugh stopped her, laced with a humor so dark it made Marcy's toes curl. There was nothing remotely funny about this situation, nothing at all. "Darklighter poison is specifically made to target whitelighters. It's working. Trust me, it's working."

She watched him for a minute more, mind frozen, unable to process. His shoulders heaved with effort; his eyelids fluttered. A stain of blood spread across the fabric of his shirt, expanding outward and growing darker. Suddenly, Marcy found herself heaving him up off the floor. The boy grunted in pain.

"What are you doing?" he moaned.

Arms linked beneath his armpits, she hefted him to his feet and ducked her head beneath one of his arms. "Getting you to the couch," she said. "We're taking out that arrow, and then we'll wash out the wound. Don't worry, you're going to be okay. We'll get you through this."

Chris gritted his teeth in a grimace-like smile. When Marcy took a step forward, one hand on his elbow, the other encircling his trembling shoulders, he attempted to steady his legs beneath him. Most of his weight flopped back against his teacher, who bore it without comment. Gently, she guided him to the living room couch, where she eased him into a supine position. Her hands peeled away from his shirt gleaming with blood. The sight of it curdled her stomach. How long before he bled out? The poison coursing through his body would be irrelevant if he died of blood loss first. They had to stop the bleeding. She was no doctor, but that much was clear.

When Chris sucked in a ragged breath, it forced itself back out of his lungs in a series of hacking coughs. Marcy grasped his shoulders to steady him as his body folded in pain.

Once the attack subsided, she crooned, "Easy, easy. It'll be okay." She helped him lie back down.

"Thanks," he gasped.

For a moment, she let him catch his breath before insisting, "There has to be a way to stop the poison. There's got to be something."

"The only…" He squeezed his eyes shut and, in a whisper, forced out, "…way to stop… the poison is for a… for a whitelighter to… heal me."

Confused, Marcy frowned. "That's good, though, right? Can't you just heal yours—"

"No," Chris interrupted. He started to shake his head but stopped abruptly when the movement made his vision spin. "I can't heal." The light prickled beneath his eyelids, making his eyes water and burn. With the greatest effort, he draped an arm over his face to block out the light.

"I don't understand. You're a whitelighter." As uneducated as her childhood had been, her dad had taught her enough to know the basics, especially about whitelighters. As angels, they had the healing touch—literally. How Chris, as a mere child, could be a whitelighter, she didn't know—but if he was one, he could heal.

"Not a whitelighter," he grunted, "I'm a W.I.T."

Marcy balked. "What?"

Weakly, Chris joked, "Not what—wit. W-I-T. It stands for whitelighter-in-training."

"How can you be a whitelighter in training?"

"'M only half whitelighter," he explained, "which means I don't yet have the capacity to heal. Might never. Besides, even if I w-were a full whitelighter, you ca-can't heal yourself. D-doesn't work that way."

"Fine," Marcy replied, determination spurring her to action. "That's fine, we'll just find a different whitelighter. How do we summon one? Is there a spell?"

"No spell. A whitelighter hears and responds to the call of his charge and no one else." He was vaguely aware of his voice growing fainter.

"Okay," Marcy insisted, the clarity of her own voice keeping him tethered to reality; he tried to cling to it. "Let's call your whitelighter, then."

Chris offered a small smile, which Marcy took as a sign of encouragement until he replied, "Don't have a one."

For one terrifyingly endless moment, Marcy couldn't utter a sound. Her breath had caught tightly in her throat. When, finally, she recovered her faculties, it was only enough to stutter out a whispered, "What?"

"Wy-Wyatt can heal, so the Elders"—the whitelighter royalty, Marcy reminded herself as Chris sucked in a shallow breath for strength—"decided we could do without one."

Marcy said nothing, couldn't take her eyes off him.

Oblivious to the look of distress that descended over her face, the boy added, "Mom prefers it this way." She wondered if his mother would have the same opinion if she could see her child now. "The only whitelighter Mom ever lis-listened to was Dad." He was interrupted by a series of dry coughs. "But he-he," the boy continued, almost before he had caught his breath, "he's mortal now. Has been since I was a baby."

"Your mother married her whitelighter?"

His eyes squinted open to flash her an effort-laden grimace that passed for a smile. "Yeah," he replied in a gasp. Marcy glanced down at the boy's hands, which trembled visibly, white against the off-colored floral pattern of the couch. When he caught her staring, he clasped his fingers together to still them. Uncomfortable, as if she had exposed a secret, the young teacher averted her gaze.

Instead, she cleared her throat to say, "I'll get you a drink of water, okay? I'm just going to the kitchen." When his eyes fluttered shut, she repeated, "I'll be just a minute. All right?"

She waited until he had responded, "Okay," before leaving the room. She searched the kitchen cabinets for a cup, then checked the fridge. No water, so she filled it from the tap. Although she returned only moments after she had left, Chris already seemed to have become ghostlike in the interim. His face had blanched of all its color.

"Chris?" she said softly.

No answer.

"Chris?" she called, her voice a little louder. "Chris?" When she stepped closer to the motionless body, the minutest flutter of his chest flooded her with relief. His eyes flickered open, clouded but still lit. When she met his gaze, she said, "Hey. How are you feeling?"

"Peachy," he answered. Despite herself, Marcy let out a laugh.

With the lump in her throat slightly looser now, she gently instructed, "Come, let's get you sitting up so you can drink this. It'll help." Her hand supported his back as she helped him into a somewhat upright position. With her other hand, she steadied his grip on the cup as he raised it to his lips. After only a few sips, he returned it to her with a feeble, "Thanks."

"Listen, I've been thinking," she said slowly as he eased back down. "Now, I know it will be painful, but there's risk of infection and…" When she realized he was already nodding, she trailed off of what she had expected to become a full-blown argument.

"I know," he croaked. "I know it's got to come out. I know it's gonna hurt like hell, and I know I've got to do it anyway. Sucks, doesn't it?" He choked on a laugh.

Unsure of what to say, the woman said nothing. Without a word, she drew closer to him, hands hesitating over his chest, uncertain of how to proceed. Her plan had extended to convincing Chris; past that, she had no idea what course of action to take.

"You have to break off the tip," she heard Chris instruct. From somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered the peculiarity of the fact that he was coaching her in how to save him, but right now she was just grateful to have someone tell her what to do. She helped him roll onto his side and then numbly snapped off the arrow's gleaming point. The blood-soaked tip stained her fingers red, though she dropped it the instant it broke off.

There's so much blood, she thought, stomach flipping.

"Just don't think about it," her student said. Had she spoken aloud, or was her discomfort just that obvious? Chris's voice was astonishingly clear when he continued, "This one's the hard part. You have to force it out through my stomach." She recoiled at the words, hands withdrawing from his bloody shirt. "I know," he grimaced, "but it has to be done, and that's the safest way." His own blood-drenched hands inched forward to capture hers and guide them back to his wound. "Just don't think about it," he advised.

Suddenly, she began to laugh. She laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks, until she could hardly breathe. "I can't believe," she forced between gasps, "you're calming me down."

He laughed softly, too. "I've had a bit of experience with this type of thing," he explained as he closed her hands around the arrow.

"God," she murmured. "How are you guys not totally messed up?"

"Who says we aren't?" Chris countered.

She grinned, then glanced at the wound, smile waning. Almost inaudibly, she asked, "Ready?"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Chris moaned, "Just get it over with." Muscles tense with anticipation, he braced himself against the back of the couch.

Holding her breath, Marcy counted to three in her head and then gave a good, hard shove. She felt rather than heard the squish as the weapon tore through flesh. Chris's fingernails dug into the fabric of the couch. Shock-white flooded his face, paling to a pasty grey. For a split second, lips white with pressure, he sat in total silence—but then pain overtook him, his mouth opened, and he screamed.

"Chris." Marcy ran a cool washcloth over his sweaty forehead. "Chris, wake up."

He trembled beneath her hand. "M'awake," he mumbled, barely coherent.

Half an hour had crept by, but it seemed to Marcy like days, like years, that she had begun this vigil, watching her student's life slip away.

"Good. Look, I was thinking…"

"Uh-oh," he quipped through a haze of exhaustion.

Marcy allowed herself the hint of a smile to escape into the tension, a flicker of relief dashing with it out to freedom. If he still clung to his sense of humor, he had hope. Pausing the soothing, repetitive motion of the cloth, she announced, "You said you haven't learned to heal yet, remember?—Chris, remember?" She waited for the barest nod before continuing. "But you said your brother can heal." Another movement—she decided to take it as another assent. "Why don't we call him? Chris?"

After a moment of labored breathing, Chris parted his lips and, shortly after that, a voice—she thought it was a voice, but it was so soft and belabored that she partially doubted it—gasped, "Un-Underworld. Can't—hear." Although he continued, the rest came out as an unintelligible jumble of words. "Agramon… attack… summon… potion…" Marcy tried to piece together the slew of disjointed thoughts.

"You want me to finish what we started?" she guessed.

"Nng…"

Frustrated, she turned away. As a witch, since she had arrived she had felt way out of her element; but as a human being she knew exactly where she stood. She didn't walk away to let people die, not under any circumstances. "No way," she stated flatly. "We'll do it together—once we get you healed." Determined to keep him awake and aware, she returned to business: "Who else can we call? You said your family has no shortage of whitelighters. Well? Start naming them."

"There's n-no one."

Without thinking, she snapped at him, "What's that supposed to mean? What about your—your aunt? Didn't she do that orbing thing before? Isn't that a whitelighter power? Let's called her."

Ragged breath filled the impatient silence. "Underworld," the boy repeated "Won't… hear…"

"So what do you propose we do, just let you die?" Marcy shouted. At this point, she physically stalked away from the couch, unable to sit beside Chris and risk the infection of his resignation. She stopped in front of the piano in the corner of the room and closed her eyes to calm her raging emotions. After a moment, the quiet broken only by Chris's shallow gasps, she mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Soft, resigned. "S'ok."

Another hour passed. Marcy spent that time alternating between standing vigil at her student's side and, at Chris's insistence, returning to salvage their potion in the kitchen. It still bubbled patiently on the stove. She didn't know if potions could be overcooked, couldn't guess whether it would still work or not, but she bottled it up in a tiny glass vial. Now she sat in a chair beside Chris, the Halliwell Book of Shadows in her lap as she flipped through pages without direction. She recalled how effortlessly Chris had searched, its pages as wearily familiar as an ancient friend, how he had raised a hand to still the magically turned words, how the Book had fallen open to the exact entry he had sought, almost as if reading his mind. She tried that now—I need something to tell me how to save him, she thought, but when she turned the page, yet another useless face stared up at her, gloating at her fallen hope.

Sighing, she closed her eyes. There had to be something.

"Mm…"

Marcy twisted to glance down at Chris. He lay motionless on the couch, but his face was contorted, lips moving soundlessly as if he were attempting to speak.

Leaning closer, Marcy murmured, "What is it?"

Enthused by her voice, the boy pushed himself to moan, "Mommm…"

Her heart ached for the longing in his tone. "Chris, your mom's not here, remember? She went to find the demon that attacked us—Agramon—do you remember that?" Subconsciously, her hand closed around his, tentative, waiting, hoping.

When, after the longest few seconds of her life, she saw the boy give a tiny nod, she squeezed his slack fingers with relief. A moment later he croaked, "Dad…"

"No, he's not here either. He's…" Marcy frowned. That had not occurred to her. "I don't know where he is."

"P-P3."

The nightclub? At a time like this, while his son lay dying? Now wasn't the time to press, but she couldn't help but say, "He goes there frequently when his family's in danger, does he?"

"Mom—he's… helping out…"

Marcy frowned. "Your mother—wait, what?"

"Mom's owner. D-Dad's helping s-set up."

"Oh," she mumbled, enormously thankful at that moment that Chris was too weak to open his eyes to see the blush creeping over her face. "When will he be back?"

"Dad…" Chris moaned again.

Desperate, Marcy moved to stand. "Does he have a cell phone? Or—what's the number for the club. I can call and have him come—"

All of a sudden, Chris's hand shot out and yanked her back, nails digging into the exposed skin of her arm. Stunned, she stared at him. His eyes had finally opened; they were glazed with fever. "I-I'm-I'm—"

"Easy, Chris. What is it?" When she turned back to face him, he relaxed slightly.

"Sorry," he gasped at last and, with his burst of energy, hurried to continue, "f-for being d-dif-diff—"

"Forget it," she interrupted. Although she attempted to pull away, his grip only tightened. Eventually, afraid to hurt him, she surrendered, heart pounding with terrifying ferocity.

"M'sorry," he persisted, "for not paying atten-attention…"

"Chris, you can tell me these things when you're better," she insisted, her tone imploring him to stop.

Ignoring her desperation, he continued, "M'sorry you hated me."

"I don't hate you," she replied. "I never did. Chris, stop talking like this. You'll get better, okay? And when you do, you'll be able to help your brother with all those demon hunts and—I don't know—yell at your sister for getting on your nerves, whatever sisters do."

"I love her," he whispered.

"Of course you do," Marcy found herself saying.

"Tell her, okay?"

This she staunchly refused. "You're going to tell her," she said.

"And tell Wyatt, too. Tell him he was never evil to me."

"Stop it," she begged.

"And tell my dad I'll mi-miss him," Chris continued, almost wildly.

"Wyatt!" Marcy found herself shouting. "Wyatt! Come on, your brother needs you!" There was no answer and no sign of orbs.

"And Mom—"

She cut him off. "Paige! Your nephew is in trouble!"

He continued as if she had never spoken. "Tell her I'm sorry I argued about… about everything."

She doubted Piper had the super-hearing power reserved for whitelighters, but it couldn't hurt to try. "Piper! Someone! Anyone!" No help came. Her mind raced. She watched Chris fall limply back against the cushion and knelt again beside him. Think.

"Chris. Is there—is there some way to summon your brother back from the Underworld." She paused, held her breath, watched his chest stutter shallowly. "Come on, Chris, open your eyes."

He shifted slightly, tilted his head and squinted up at her. "I don't… know… I just… I don't…" His eyes fluttered shut again.

"No, Chris, you've got to stay awake for a bit longer, okay? I can help you but only if you listen to me. Just listen to the sound of my voice."

"Okay," he agreed tiredly. "I'll try."

"Okay." Marcy sucked in a breath and forced herself to focus. "Now, can I write a spell to get him back?"

"You can write a spell to do anything," he said, his voice faint and nearly inaudible.

"Good. I'll do that. Just… just keep listening to my voice. Make sure you stay awake, got it?" She raced back to the kitchen, where she found the pad of paper with Chris's summoning spell on the table. She grabbed both it and the pen beside it and returned to the living room. Tearing the top page off the pad, she tapped the pen forcefully against her chin. She wouldn't let Chris die. All she needed were a few words to rhyme, but somehow her mind drew a blank. You can do this. What is wrong with you? Chris's life depends on this spell!

Distantly, she heard the front door open. "Anyone home?" called a male voice.

Chris, who had been motionless for some minutes already, reacted to the sound, head turning very slightly toward the door. "Dad…" he moaned.

"That's your father?" Marcy asked. When Chris didn't answer, she scrambled to her feet. "We're in here!" she called. "We're in the living room!" She rushed out of the room and skidded to a stop in front of a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair. He was a bit round in the middle but still retained an underlying well-built physique. He seemed to draw conclusions quickly from her mere presence.

"You must be an Innocent," he said in a voice both gentle and confident. "Do you know where I can find the sisters?"

Her words tumbled out in her hurry to convey all the important details. "There's a demon—the Underworld, they're in the Underworld, hunting it. But your son—your son—"

The man's expression morphed from patience to concern. "Wyatt? Chris? What is it? What happened? Are they hurt?"

"It's Chris," she said. "Agramon… the demon… he attacked us in the kitchen"—Leo sprinted toward the living room before she finished speaking—"he had this weapon, this poisonous weapon, and now Chris is…" She couldn't finish the sentence. Instead, she fell back on, "I don't remember what Chris called it. A black-lighter bow, maybe, or a—"

"Darklighter," Leo supplied grimly. Immediately, he was by Chris's side. One hand went to stroke the hair matted to his son's forehead, the other to cup one slack hand in his own. When Chris felt this, he turned toward the warmth, too weak to open his eyes.

"Hey there, buddy," Leo murmured. "How're you doing?"

"Hey, Dad," Chris breathed. "M'okay. Tired."

"I know you are, Chris."

"So tired…"

"I know. Listen, I'm going to fix this, okay? You just hang in there, son. I'm so sorry I let this happen, but I am going to fix it." Without looking up, he asked Marcy, "Where's my son?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "Wyatt! Wyatt, your brother needs your help right this minute!"

"He… uh… he can't—hear you, that is. At least that's what Chris said."

"Well, if he won't come back on his own, I'll have to get him myself." He stood abruptly and, collecting the Book of Shadows from where Marcy had discarded it, he set it down on the coffee table beside the potion vials. "I need a few things," he muttered and sprinted for the stairs.

Marcy could hear him a couple flights up, rummaging. He returned with a miniature pot, a handful of jars, and a serrated dagger. Setting himself up on the coffee table, he sprinkled a few ingredients, various forms of colored dust, into the pot and briefly mixed everything together with his fingers. Then, wiping his hands on his pants, he reached for the dagger. While Marcy looked on with horror, Leo grasped the knife in one hand and pressed the sharp edge into the other palm.

Finally, Marcy managed to find her voice. "What are you doing!" she cried, grabbing his arm to pull the blade free.

"Relax," he said, gently but urgently shaking her off. "I need my blood to summon him." He nodded to the Book of Shadows, which he had flipped open to a passage entitled, To Call a Lost Witch. The page was bent and worn with use but still legible in ancient, extravagant cursive. And there at the bottom of the page, the last requirement before a short incantation written hundreds of years ago with the quill of a skilled hand, that one word—"blood."

Marcy wanted to close her eyes but couldn't help her stare as Leo closed his hand around the blade and swiped it down. He sucked in a soft breath. Fingers unfurled, opening up to a slow rivulet of blood that trickled down his wrist. Only after he guided four droplets into the pot did Marcy realize she was holding her breath.

Voice clear, Leo intoned, "'Blood to blood I summon thee; blood to blood return to me.'" Marcy waited, expectant, but nothing happened. No glowing lights, no earthquakes, and no reappearing teenagers.

The sudden bang! made her jump in surprise. Leo had slammed his fist against the coffee table, frustration etched into his forehead.

"What's wrong?" Marcy demanded in panic, "Why isn't it working?"

Expression tight, Leo growled, "I thought—with the right ingredients and the blood—but I'm still just a mortal." He turned to his son, motionless on the couch, skin glistening with sweat and fever, face gray and pasty. "Chris, I promise I'll find another way."

But this time Chris didn't answer.

"Could I—help?" Marcy offered. "What if you use your… blood but I cast the spell? Are we—can it even work that way?"

"It's the best we've got." Leo shifted the Book of Shadows in front of her and pointed her toward the relevant passage. He squeezed his hand into a fist to let still more drops dribble into the pot. "Now," he instructed.

"'Blood to blood I summon thee, blood to blood return to me.'"

This time, a gust of wind swept past Marcy's shoulder and swirled into a tornado before them. In a cyclone of white lights, a body began to take shape. Arms up, fists clenched, Wyatt appeared mid-battle. His expression, cocky and self-assured, morphed to confusion, which melted into guilt when he caught sight of his father.

"Dad, I can expl—"

"Your brother," Leo interrupted sharply.

Wyatt's eyes scanned the room. They fell upon the couch, upon his brother's pallid complexion, the remains of an arrow on the floor a few feet away. His feet surged into motion before he found the voice to whisper, "Oh…" Kneeling, he posed his hands to hover just above Chris's wound. The orange glow came as a beacon of relief for the duo waiting behind him with bated breath—Chris still had hope.

Chris had never died before. When he paused to ponder that, the thought nearly made him laugh. Oh, sure, he'd been dying plenty of times over the years—bounty hunters with a death wish, possessive ghosts with a score to settle, demon children he'd tried to put in time-out (that hadn't gone over too well)—but Chris had never actually up and died. He wasn't sure exactly what it was meant to feel like, but the sudden absence of the pain that had plagued him to the brink of—well, death—made a certain kind of sense. He opened his eyes. Beyond him a stretch of void extended for as far as he could see. There was no floor beneath his feet, but nonetheless he seemed to stand on solid ground. The couch, the blood, Ms. Gowell—they were gone.

A steady pulse began to radiate through his body. The universe around him throbbed along with it, reality expanding and contracting, pressing against his skin and then leaving him naked with space. He was alone. Terribly, hauntingly alone.

Until a voice—he couldn't find its source—remarked gravely, "I did wonder if I would see you here today." The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time; it echoed, it whispered, it curled inside Chris's chest like a swollen balloon. When Chris turned around, there stood the owner of the voice. A towering form, black coat swirling around him like a cloak in the still air, a wave of long blond-brown hair swept behind his ears. At first Chris thought he saw the skull beneath the man's very skin, but when he looked closer it seemed just a trick of the light.

The man spoke again. "I would say it is good to see you again, old friend, but under the circumstances, perhaps that would appear insensitive."

Chris frowned. The face was that of a stranger, and he certainly didn't remember that British droll. "Do I know you?"

"Oh, we were very well acquainted. Will be," replied the man. "Time is a funny thing. The last time we saw each other, you were only a baby. Or, rather, I should say, 'The last time you saw me,' for I have encountered you on numerous occasions in the interim. Your name appears on my list every so often, but it always disappears in the end." He lifted a hand. A puff of smoke swirled, then faded around a long, stained parchment. The man paused, thoughtful as he stared down at his list. "Not this time, it would seem."

Comprehension crept up on Chris, making him shiver. "You're…" He didn't finish the thought and the man made no gesture to affirm Chris's suspicion, but it didn't matter. Chris knew. They stood in silence, Chris and the Angel of Death, staring at each other with eternity stretched between them.

At length, the angel remarked, almost conversationally, "Your family has put me in a unique situation." When Chris didn't speak, the angel sighed, impatient, "Well? Do you want to know how?"

Throat suddenly parched, voice raspy, Chris forced out, "How?"

"I don't get attached to my clients, you see. The job does not lend itself to long-term relationships. But you Halliwells are a reality unto yourselves, it would seem. You play games with me. On my list one minute, gone the next. Over twenty years now, I have been following your mother and her sisters, but they always squirm out just in time."

"Yeah, they're good at what they do."

"Skill has nothing to do with it," the angel replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But it is irrelevant. The point is that I have grown somewhat fond of them over the years. And then there is you."

"Me…" Chris echoed weakly.

"Yes, you. In some ways we have not met, and in others we are all too well-acquainted. As intimately as if I had collected your soul fifteen years ago," he said meaningfully. Chris's brain felt foggy; he fought to grasp the significance of those words, but his mind swam. The air behind him began to splinter, and cracks exploded outward. Chris had to shade his eyes against the ethereal, blue glow that spilled out. Through squinted eyes, he watched the lines in the sky swirl around each other, forming a circle—a doorway. Instinctively, he took a step back. "I am sorry, old friend, truly I am," the angel said, "but I cannot interfere."

The boy threw up his hands, a gesture of defense, of desperation, of fear. The spike of adrenaline cut through his haze and brought everything into sharp focus. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let's not make any hasty decisions." The portal continued to expand. He had a feeling it would swallow him whether he agreed to walk through it or not. "Can't we just talk about this?"

Stepping to the side, the angel allowed Chris full view of his destination. "This is out of my hands," he sighed. "I only collect souls; I don't kill them. Your soul is splitting from your body as we speak."

Within the sea of blue moved shadows, vague shapes. Were they people? Did he know them? Were they beckoning him, or gesturing him away? He couldn't tell. But the movement beyond the portal calmed him, a gentle back-forth-back that swayed. It surged and ebbed like a tide. Unconsciously, he glided forward.

Suddenly, from a distance, an echo—"Chris…" The voice made the light ripple. The shapeless forms beyond the portal stilled. Had one of them spoken? Were they drawing him in? Were they calling out to him? In welcome? In mourning? He stepped closer, only feet away. Why couldn't he just make out their faces!

"Chris," the voice hummed again, the pronunciation clearer this time and more discernable.

"What was that?" He turned back to the angel. "Do you hear someone?"

"Come on, Chris, just hang in there." The blue light dimmed; the portal began to collapse in on itself, a dying star. For one terrifying moment, Chris feared it would suck him in like a black hole. He fought for strength, forced himself to backpedal, and found this time that no opposing force tugged him forward. The cracks healed as new, leaving them again in the dark.

"What's happening?"

"It would seem," drawled the angel, "that you are getting a third chance." His mouth quirked in an ironic smile.

"Third?"

"Take care to protect yourself, old friend. The world will not be kind to you."

In the distance a pinprick of white light began to glow. This one felt familiar. About to turn away from the angel, he spun back. There, beside the Angel of Death, hovered a haze of smoke that hadn't been there before. Chris half-expected the haze to dissipate, but instead it solidified into something—someone. Another billowing coat, pristine boots, a face cast in shadow. The shape sharpened into broad shoulders with hands linked behind its back.

"Who…?" Something drew Chris toward this stranger. A feeling of déjà vu. If only Chris could see his face… "I know you…"

The shape shifted. "Everything has its time," he said in an impossibly familiar voice, "This is not ours. We will meet, Christopher Halliwell, but not today."

"How do you know my name?" In the back of his mind, he heard his name called again but ignored it. The light at his back grew brighter, the world around him dimmer. He felt as if everything were shrinking, falling away. Desperately, he clung to reality as the universe tipped on its side. "How do you know me?" he cried again.

The man, in a voice grown faint with distance, said, "You should go. They won't wait forever. If your brother stops healing before your soul has reunited with your body, you will be stuck here. I assure you"—Chris could barely hear his last words, as if his ears were clogged with cotton—"this half-existence is not for you."

Then Chris was alone. When he opened his mouth to respond, to cry out, he heard nothing. Sound, color, reality all swirled down the drain as the light blanketed him, blinded him. Then a faint buzzing that became a roar, and he blinked his eyes open. Color bled back into his vision. Shapes took form: two people kneeling over a prone body, a third hovering off to the side. From above Chris watched his brother's glowing hands rove over his own chest while his father caressed his matted hair.

Leo gripped Chris's limp hand. Chris stared down at his own hand, flexing his fingers. A part of him—he thought, anyway—could feel his father's hand over his. It filled him with a burning and unexpected yearning.

"Come on, Chris," Leo murmured into his ear. This time Chris heard it clearly, "Come back to us."

Chris glided closer. "I'm here," he whispered. "Dad, I'm right here." Without thinking, he reached out a hand to himself. When his fingertips grazed his own forehead, both his fingers and his face tingled. A zinging sensation raced down the rest of his body. Suddenly, he felt as if he had been stuffed into a garbage disposal. His bones crunched down, squeezing everything into a tiny, cubit-sized box. The pain that had been left behind exploded again, every limb burning. He couldn't bear it.

But then something registered beyond that: Leo's hand on his. Clinging to that sensation, he fought to break through the surface. Just before he released his mind to the unconscious, he mustered the remainder of his energy and squeezed his father's hand.

In the dim cavern light, the marble throne cast shadows along the walls. Before it knelt Chris's attacker, head bowed, eyes glittering with fear. The demon on the throne had his claws curled around the armrests as he leaned forward to glare at Agramon. "I told you to wait for my signal, you fool!" he hissed.

"You told me to gather powers," Agramon protested. "How was I to know the Charmed Ones would follow? What was I supposed to do—let the witch go?"

In one fluid motion the demon lord had left his seat and surged toward his minion. "Yes," he snapped at once. "You were ordered to do anything but attack the boy. Did you forget that?"

"He attacked me," Agramon feebly defended.

"One rule." His voice dropped to a deceptively soft volume. He paced around his kneeling minion, claws drumming against his chin in thought. "Now they know about you. They will come after you and find me." Stopping in front of the demon, he pressed a toe against Agramon's chin. Swallowing hard around the knot in his throat, Agramon tilted his head upward. "You have outlived your usefulness."

"But, Lord Demoriel, I—"

In a gesture akin to dismissal, the demon lord raised a hand. From the solid floor around Agramon rose blue flames that jumped and surged. They licked up Agramon's knees, then shoulders, as Demoriel turned away in disgust. Over the roar of agony, the demon remarked casually, "I do so despise excuses."

A few feet away, a swirl of blue orbs began to form. The demon vanished in a tornado of his own blue flames, leaving Agramon to die alone.

The words, "I definitely sensed him this time," echoed over the jagged walls before the orbs had solidified. They were swallowed by Agramon's vicious scream, and the sisters appeared just in time to see him disappear in a plume of smoke.

Paige looked around, eyes wide. "Okay, that was weird." She walked over to examine the remains, a small pile of ashes in the dirt.

Her own voice dubious, Phoebe posited, "Maybe he had other enemies?"

"Or maybe," Paige suggested, "we have a friend somewhere."

Piper stared at the marble throne in the corner of the room. She shivered. "Yeah," she said darkly, "Maybe."

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