[Sunday, November 17, 2019]

Chris spent the next couple of weeks making himself a regular visitor at Jake's house, stopping by every other day or so, letting Jake grow more and more accustomed to his presence. Finally, little by little, Chris felt himself making progress.

One afternoon, after just such a visit, he made a quick pit stop at home in his kitchen to grab a snack before he headed upstairs to work on an upcoming English essay. Despite a temperature in the high sixties, he had chosen to throw on a snug gray hoodie that morning, a choice he had regretted. Now, he found himself searching for a crisp apple or other juicy bite to quench his thirst.

Piper was alone in the kitchen. Around her neck she had tied the apron that Chris and his siblings had painted for her when they were young. Each had stamped it with different-colored handprints and someone, probably Wyatt, had written out, we luv you momy! Right now she used it to bake a loaf of pistachio bread for her niece. Phoebe's older daughter Lea had turned thirteen the previous Monday, so the family dinner planned for tonight was in her honor. Piper had spent two hours that morning picking up ingredients she thought she might need.

While she worked, hands elbow-deep in gooey dough, she spoke into the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. "There is no way I am ordering pizza, Phoebe, no matter how much she likes it. That would be an insult to chefs everywhere, so you can tell that daughter of yours to dream on."

"She didn't mean order it, Piper," Phoebe replied impatiently over the telephone. "She wanted to know if you could make it. Come on, Piper, you think Lea is crazy enough to ask you to pick up a pizza? Give my daughter some credit here—she's smarter than that."

"Oh," Piper responded thoughtfully. She paused her kneading while her mind worked out the possibility of her niece's request. "Well, I would have to go shopping again… but she is the guest of honor." She gave the dough one last punch and then leaned over to rip a piece of tinfoil and cover her concoction. "I won't make any promises, but I'll see what I can do." Sealing the bowl, she set it aside to rise. That done, The List was consulted for her next task.

"Thanks, Piper." A pause. "What else are you planning?"

Chris listened to the one-sided conversation with half an ear as he rummaged through the fruit drawer.

The mother of three glanced around her countertop as she said, "You mean aside from cake? I'm baking pistachio bread now, and I was thinking stuffed peppers; Lea usually likes those." Sighing, she glanced over at her son. "Chris, can you get my eggs? I must've left that package in the dining room." Before he could refuse, she returned to her conversation, thoughts far from Chris's potential indignity.

Although he rolled his eyes and even pointedly checked his wristwatch with a raised eyebrow, the boy obediently shut the fridge and trudged out of the kitchen. As anticipated, he found a carton of a dozen eggs at the far end of the table. He made sure to take his sweet time retrieving them; if Piper was going to treat him as her own personal servant, he would make sure to express just what he thought of that, thank you very much. His feet dragged the rest of his body over to the end of the table, where he reluctantly picked up the carton.

Suddenly, though he couldn't say why, the muscles in the back of his neck tensed, hair standing on end. Before he had time to wonder what could have prompted this eerie vibe, an arm snaked around from behind him. It curled up his chest, snuck around the collar of his shirt, and wrapped around his throat. Long nails pierced his skin, drawing blood in shallow, half-moon indentations. Chris's immediate reaction was to struggle; one hand flew up to grasp the arm pinned to his chest, but he could not free himself from the surprisingly tenacious hold.

"Well," sulked a soft, sinister voice beside his left ear, "I certainly thought you would pose more of a challenge." As he gasped for breath, the owner of the voice stepped around to face him. Lustrous, black curls framed a pale face. Full, red lips split into a feral smile to reveal gleaming teeth. Her eyes, nearly black, glinted, devious and seductive. She leaned in close so that her face hovered only inches from Chris's. Hot breath coasting over his cheeks made him shiver. Noticing his fear, her smile widened.

"My, you are a handsome catch, aren't you?" she whispered, licking her lips. "I almost want to just keep you." She brought herself even closer until Chris could practically taste her. He could see his own face reflecting in her eyes. "You know something? Maybe I will." Before he could react, she closed the little distance between their faces and pressed her lips to his. He felt her mouth twist against his into a smile when he began to struggle.

After a few seconds, everything stopped. Though Chris's mind still raced with fear, the muscles in his shoulders suddenly went slack. The hand he had clutched around the demoness's arm fell limp and dropped back to his side. The other hand, which had until this point still grasped the carton of eggs, also lost its grip. His fingers loosened, and the carton slipped from his grasp and plummeted to the floor.

"What's the matter, boy?" The demoness grinned wickedly and released her prey. She even took a step back, spreading her arms wide in front of herself in a mocking gesture of goodwill. "Haven't you ever been kissed before?"

Breath shallow, Chris hissed, "Why can't I move?" Already, the paralysis was creeping up over his vocal cords, his voice beginning to fail. The only parts of himself that he could still control were his eyes. They grew wide with bewildered panic as his cheeks blanched of their color.

He watched the demoness throw back her head in a cascading laugh. A cool hand patted his cheek. "I suppose you have never felt the effects of a paralytic potion, then," his attacker remarked. "How"—her lip curled into a sneer—"unfortunate."

From the kitchen Piper's voice was heard, annoyed, as she called, "Chris, I need those eggs!" When he tried to call out to her, his voice managed only a weak moan that elicited a silky grin from the demoness. Again, Piper called, "Chris, come on!" Her voice grew louder as she headed toward the dining room to reprimand the boy. He heard her shoes click against the linoleum floor. "I have a ton of cooking to do, so can we save the teenage rebellion for anoth—"

She saw the broken eggs first. Out of the corner of his eyes, Chris could make out the yolks that had leaked from the carton and oozed across the floor. "Chris!" Piper cried in dismay, "What did you—" When her eyes rose from the floor, she froze.

"Piper Halliwell." The demoness purred the name as she stepped behind her prey. Move! Chris demanded of his body, but it refused to comply. He tried to struggle against the invisible bindings to no avail. His attacker let her sultry fingers dance up his arm, and he could do nothing. They tiptoed across his shoulder, taunting him. The revulsion that his face could not express glittered like hatred in his eyes. "I must thank you for providing such a… delicious"—she drew out the word with a smirk—"assistant for my purposes."

Through clenched teeth, Piper demanded, "Let him go."

"Oh, I think not—ah-ah!" She ducked behind Chris's shoulder as Piper raised her hands. She peeked out from behind him just enough to wag a condescending finger at the witch. "I suggest you keep your hands to yourself if you wish me to do the same." She lifted her hand, palm open, to demonstrate.

As Piper helplessly looked on, the demoness's porcelain skin turned a deep shade of red. "This touches his skin," she explained, "and your little boy here gets quite a lovely suntan." She rested her chin on his shoulder and added in a conspiratorial whisper, "I can boil a brain in under a minute."

Slowly, Piper lowered her arms.

"There's a good girl," the demoness praised. "You see, Chris, how dearly Mummy loves you? You should really listen to her more often. She only has your best interests at heart."

Piper's eyes met Chris's, solid and reassuring. "Don't worry," she told him, voice laced with the determination of a Charmed One and a mother. Then, shifting her gaze to the demon, she demanded, "Leave him alone," though her arms remained carefully positioned at her sides.

The demoness's bottom lip curled into a pout. "Oh, but he is just so precious!" she protested. Carefully, she brought her glowing hand up to his face and used two fingers to brush a misplaced lock of hair from between his eyes. Chris felt the heat emanate from her palm and warm his forehead, but she made certain not to touch his skin. She enjoyed toying with him, watching his eyes follow her fingers. Her gaze glided across the smooth features of his face, the penetrating green of his eyes, the paleness of fear that tinged his skin. How perfectly lovely, she thought, and licked her lips.

Piper's voice interrupted her delicious contemplation. "My sisters and I will find you," she warned. "If you leave now, we may let you live."

Dark eyes brightened. With false excitement, the demoness cried, "What an excellent idea! I shall leave immediately." The statement knotted Piper's stomach, but before she could understand the implication, the demoness had laid a glowing hand on the exposed skin of Chris's left arm. His escaped moan of distress curled around his mother's ears.

Without thinking, she raised her hands to attack, but her opponent moved far too quickly, her free arm wrapping possessively around Chris's shoulders in a gesture one could have mistaken for affection.

Too late, Piper understood. She cried, "No!" but by that point the demoness had already shimmered away with Chris in tow. Behind him, one millisecond too late, the flowerpot in the foyer exploded into thousands of pieces.

When they reappeared in an unfamiliar place, Chris's insides lurched. He couldn't decide whether it was to his benefit or detriment that the paralytic kept him from retching. Never before had he had the misfortune to shimmer, and he did not wish for a repeat performance. His power to orb embodied the essence of purity and light. To use a power that so wholly clashed with his very core made him physically ill.

From behind, the demoness pressed two hands against his back and shoved him to the ground. Unable to react, he landed face-first in the dirt. The skin on his arm where she had touched him had turned cherry-red, charred black at the edges of the handprint-shaped burn, and smelled like smoked meat.

He heard her tinkling laugh once again, followed by a few sharp words to someone behind him. Two someones, he realized when he felt four burly arms drag him to his knees, pinning his hands behind his back. An added caution that seemed unnecessary when he couldn't so much as twitch, let alone attempt a full-blown escape. His head lolled uselessly to the side until one of his two bodyguards ripped it up by the hair. Tears of pain sprang to his eyes.

"Now, now," the demoness scolded from somewhere behind him, "Let's not hurt this pretty, pretty face." Chris's attuned ears caught the soft swish, swish of her heels in the dirt as she stepped into his line of vision. A few feet away from her, the dirt swirled upwards and hardened into the clay wall of a giant, round well. She turned toward the vat and picked up a small vial sitting on the rim. Gleefully returning to her captive, she held it out in front of him, pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

"The antidote," she explained, "to your… unfortunate state." She shook the clear liquid so that he could watch it slosh against the glass. It looked only slightly more viscous than water. "It works the same way the poison does, so what do you say?" Her eyes narrowed with delight. "Another kiss in exchange for your freedom?"

Chris's vocal cords had long since frozen up completely. Unable to respond, he tried to project his thoughts into his captor's head: Go to hell! He couldn't tell if she'd heard, but he hoped so.

"Shed'avi, are you torturing our prisoner already?" laughed a deep voice that echoed between the rocky walls surrounding them. The crunch of leather boots brought the voice closer as the demoness hurriedly stepped back. "Surely you can wait a couple of hours before you begin?" The feet stopped in front of Chris.

Before he could attach a face to the voice, however, one of Chris's guards grunted, "Kneel." He felt a thick palm press against the back of his scalp and shove his head into the dirt. A steel-toed boot pressed into his forehead, icy and chilling. It gave a less-than-gentle nudge and then withdrew.

Though he saw nothing but the dirt inches from his face, Chris could hear plainly the pout in Shed'avi's voice as she whined, "I was just having a bit of fun, brother. Look at this delicious human. So… enticing."

In an instant, the boots stormed away from Chris and stopped short before the demoness. "Look at that foul thing," the voice ordered. Chris could only assume he had gestured instructions to the guards because suddenly his head was yanked back up by the scruff of his hair.

Chris took advantage of his new position to set eyes upon his kidnapper's brother for the first time. He could see the resemblance between them, both with perfect features, dark eyes, and silky black hair.

The smile in the brother's voice had vanished in place of a scowl painted across his chiseled expression. "He is half whitelighter, Shed'avi," the demon snapped. "Do not contaminate yourself with the likes of him." When her face fell in disappointment, he placed a hand on her cheek. The act contained no trace of sympathy for his sister. Voice cold, he instructed, "Release him."

Moving to do as she was told, she assured, "I was only toying with him, Bar-shed. I never…" Pausing, she knelt in front of Chris, gave him a sultry smile, and winked as if they shared a secret. "Never would have had any"—her eyes travelled down his torso, then paused—"real fun."

Without dropping her gaze from Chris's face, she dug the stopper out of the vial. She spilled a bit of liquid onto her finger and smeared it across her lips, puckering them together to help it spread. When she split them into a grin, they glistened against the dim torchlight of the walls. She pressed her hand beneath Chris's chin and raised his head until his eyes were level with hers. Leaning in close to his ear, she whispered so that her brother couldn't hear, "So, witch, how well will you kiss on your second try?"

When she kissed him this time, she met his lips more forcefully than the last. She tried to coax his mouth open with her tongue, but by that point he had already regained mobility and jerked his head backward to freedom.

"A feisty one," Bar-shed remarked, good humor having returned. Shed'avi parted, looking annoyed, and gave his cheek a hard pat, from which he shrank back in disgust. He could taste the bitter potion that she had transferred from her mouth to his and felt the slippery residue it had left behind. He wanted desperately to wipe it off, but his hands were still pinned behind his back. "Tell me, whitelighter," her brother continued smoothly, "How did it feel to be powerless at the hands of my sister?"

Chris tried to pounce at him, only to get yanked backwards by the two demon guards still holding him in their viselike grip. Bar-shed's smirk grew.

"Bring him here," he ordered sharply.

Before Chris could even register that a command had been given, his feet were kicked unsteadily beneath him and he was dragged forward to stand before the vat in the middle of the room. Bar-shed stood only feet away, staring directly into the sludge that gurgled within it. He didn't look up, only set both hands facedown onto the rim, leaning forward as if to get a better view of the bubbles.

"Do you know what's inside?" he said aloud, perhaps speaking to his captive, although Chris wasn't entirely sure. The boy opted for silence.

"You need not answer," Bar-shed continued calmly, "I know you are curious. Everyone is." His fingers clenched gleefully over the lip of the vat. "You will learn its uses in time. Take him away."

Chris found himself dragged down a long, dark corridor and dumped behind the bars of an iron cage. A smear of blood showed his trail. His charred arm still burned ferociously, making it difficult, almost impossible, to put out of his mind. Curling his knees against his chest, he groaned. Though unlikely at best, he tried to reach out of the lair with his magic. He sensed no one, not even the demons just outside the bars. He tried to orb—nothing.

"Wyatt!" he hissed as quietly as he could, barely moving his lips. No answer. It was a longshot.

Eventually, as the hours elapsed, he fell in and out of consciousness.

The next time the minions returned, Chris tried once again to fight their hold on him. It earned him only a swift kick to the ribs that made him double over and a clawed swipe at his chest that left four deep gashes in his skin. He was dragged on his knees into Bar-shed's presence.

"Well, well, this won't do at all," the demon sneered. "Lucky you are here. It is time for you to learn about this wonderful pit. Come." Yanking Chris forward by the arm (Chris hissed in agony when claws dug into his burn), Bar-shed thrust Chris's wrist into the giant pool of gray liquid. Chris braced himself, expecting pain, but instead felt a pleasant tingle race up his arm and down into his torso. He watched as the charred skin on his arm turned pink and shiny. Through the shreds of his shirt, he saw the recently-made gashes knit themselves neatly together, leaving clean white scars in their stead.

"Why?" he asked in bewilderment.

Bar-shed smirked. "We don't want you dying before we've had our fun, do we, whitelighter? Besides, I have plans for you."

"And those would be…?" Chris tried to adopt a bored tone but wasn't sure he succeeded.

"Oh-ho!" Bar-shed barked. "Impatient one! Not to worry. Your purpose shall be revealed in time. In the meantime, enjoy the fun. We certainly do."

At a wave of his hand, he summoned the two minions, who grabbed Chris by the armpits and levered him up against one rocky wall of the cave beneath a pair of shackles. They chained first one hand, then the other, before releasing him to dangle there. Stepping backwards, the minions each swung up a palm filled with fire; it appeared they would be playing target practice.

At the manor, the three sisters congregated in the attic. Piper stood at the Book of Shadows and Phoebe sat hunched over a map with the scrying crystal. Paige, finally starting to show the human she had growing inside her, sat beside Phoebe with eyes closed as she inhaled deeply. Her hands rested on her extended belly. The only sound was the furious turning of pages that came from the lectern.

"I'm not getting anything," Phoebe said at length, breaking the silence.

Paige opened her eyes with a sigh. "Neither am I."

"Well, keep trying," Piper gritted out.

Phoebe paused, carefully setting down the crystal as she considered her words. "Sweetie… I think we need to come up with another idea," she said softly.

"What about the 'To Summon a Witch' spell?" Paige supplied.

Piper paused her frantic search to rub her temple. "Tried it twice before you guys got here." Her eyes felt hot, prickled. You do not have time to start crying, she snapped at herself. When she felt an arm drape across her shoulder, she opened her eyes. Phoebe had sidled up beside her with a knowing look.

"We'll find him," Phoebe promised. "We won't rest until we do."

It was Paige who suggested boosting the summons with the Power of Three. Piper got started on a spell immediately while Phoebe returned to her scrying.

The summons didn't work. Neither did half a dozen other attempts to retrieve her son. The trio worked well into the night. Leo had come and gone several times already with new ideas from the Magic School library, none of which seemed to have any effect. Prue returned home from her friend's house expecting to find dinner ready and her cousins there. Instead she found a forgotten ball of dough rising on the kitchen counter and no one else in sight. She stumbled up to the attic in confusion, and her mother turned to her in the doorway. That was when Piper finally started to cry.

The next time the door to Chris's cage swung inward, Bar-shed's imposing frame blocked the opening. He was unexpectedly alone. Instinctively, Chris shrank further into his corner. His legs, pressed against his chest, stiffened. He watched Bar-shed over the tops of his knees, waiting. When Bar-shed met his gaze, the demon stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him.

"Are you ready for the first step, whitelighter?" he sneered. Chris didn't move, said nothing. Whether it was defiance or fear that held him back he didn't know.

In a flash the demon was in front of him, long claws digging into Chris's wrists as Bar-shed pulled both arms away from his knees. "I asked you a question, boy," he hissed.

That this felt closer to defiance now filled Chris with relief; he wasn't out of the fight yet. "Oh, did you?" he forced out, though his heart leapt into his esophagus when he spoke, "Sorry, must have missed that."

A fierce grip closed around his cheeks, puncturing holes into his skin as it forced him to stare into eyes only inches away. "You think I can't break you. You are wrong," Bar-shed bit out. Chris tried to tug himself free. The grip tightened painfully. Blood began to trickle down his chin and neck. "Do you think me a fool? Or perhaps," he continued before Chris could give a snarky retort, "perhaps you believe my sister is the only one with special powers. It seems you would like a demonstration." He turned Chris's face up to the ceiling.

"No—thanks," Chris gasped out, but the demon ignored him.

With his free hand, Bar-shed placed two slender fingers against Chris's eyelids, forcing them closed. The pressure built as he pushed harder. "I hope you took a good—long—look," he hissed into Chris's ear. Then, his hand began to glow. It darkened from pink to red and, after a long moment, to white. At first Chris felt no pain, only pressure, until, all at once, agony exploded. The harder he struggled the deeper those fingers pressed, growing hotter and hotter still. Chris's hands scrabbled against Bar-shed's fierce hold, trying to pry him off.

He heard a growl of laughter. "Oh, no, whitelighter. You'll know when I'm finished. You'll know."

The pain overwhelmed him. Blood spurted from his nostrils. His vision behind his eyelids turned red, flashing with every color until they all oozed together. Chris had promised himself to allow his captors no satisfaction, to show no weakness. But when he could take it no longer, he began to scream.

Chris didn't know how much time had passed with him curled in on himself in the farthest corner of the cage. The rocky ground dug tiny needles into his side as he lay there. He could feel the bars pressing into his spine, warming from his body heat. He could smell, almost taste, the iron. The steady tick tick tick of his wristwatch echoed loudly in his ears. He let it soothe him.

He could see nothing, not even shadows. What had started as random flashes of color had long since faded to a black so deep even heat seemed unable to penetrate it, leaving Chris shivering in the humid air.

His latent sensing ability amplified his natural hearing now—the slow dribble of water down the creviced cave walls, the murky murmur of minions talking in the outer corridor, the creak of rocks as they shifted in the earth—but he wished it wouldn't. Every whisper, every groan of settling metal, made him flinch. Cradling his wrist up against his ear, he tried to slim his focus down to the ticking of his watch.

From somewhere out beyond the corridor he heard a sultry voice say, "The apothecary arrived. Our potions are ready."

"Excellent," replied a crisp sneer. Then, louder, a command: "Bring him."

The murmurs stopped. Shuffling, as if the minions had gotten to their feet. A few moments later came a high-pitched creak, along with the stench of dried blood and rotting meat.

"Up," grunted one of the minions.

Chris tried to let the ticking fill his ears, drown out the voice.

"Up," the same one said more forcefully, this time close enough that Chris could feel hot breath on his face. A hand ripped him up by the hair, and Chris grunted in pain as his feet were forced under him. Another pair of hands grabbed him by the bicep, wrenching him forward.

Chris tried to find his courage, his resilience, but all he managed was a weak, "Lemme go."

The demon who still had not released his hair sneered, "Shut up." Before Chris knew what had happened, the air had rushed out of him from a sharp blow to the gut. His knees buckled, and he remained standing only thanks to the grip on his bicep keeping him upright.

"Enough!" One of the demons beside Chris stiffened. It seemed Shed'avi had snuck up on them as well. "You were tasked with bringing the boy. Do it," she snapped coldly.

The minion grunted an apology before half-dragging, half-leading Chris out of the cage. He caught a strong whiff of perfume as they passed Shed'avi.

They returned him to the room with the healing pool; the air got clammier, and the area took on a musty smell acquired from the sloshing gray liquid. Chris's knees got kicked out from under him to bring him to a kneeling position.

He could tell Bar-shed was there—could detect his foul odor and even hear his quiet breathing—but couldn't identify precisely where until he spoke. "Lift his head." Chris jerked back from the voice inches in front of him.

There was nowhere to go with two minions at his back. One grabbed him by the nape of his neck while the other yanked up his face. With nothing else in his power, Chris tried his best to glare. He heard the click of a lock swinging open ahead of him.

"Ready?" Bar-shed said.

"For what?" Chris demanded even as he tried to wiggle free.

"Don't talk!" barked the demon holding his face still, digging its nails deep into his skin. The hand moved lower to strangle him as blood began to stream freely again, pouring over what had dried earlier down the front of his shirt.

"Do not"—the shout made Chris jump—"touch a hair on his head, you worthless nothing. There are millions of you. I will dispose of you without a moment's hesitation."

"I thought…" the demon started to say, but whatever look Bar-shed shot him silenced what he thought. The hand at Chris's throat loosened, and Chris gratefully swallowed in lungfuls of air.

"You are not paid to think," Bar-shed hissed. When he addressed Chris next, he sounded perfectly calm. "Let us satiate your curiosity, then, shall we?"

When Chris opened his mouth to say, "No thanks," a glass vial was pressed against his lips. Instinctively, Chris clenched his teeth.

A set of long, manicured nails caressed his neck. "Open wide now," Shed'avi coaxed in his ear. Her hand began to heat up. He felt his pulse beat thickly beneath her fingers. The smell of cooked meat pervaded his nostrils. Chris held himself in check as long as he could, but as soon as he opened his mouth to scream the vial was tipped between his lips and liquid streamed downward. The glowing hand went up to cover his mouth, preventing him from expelling the foul-tasting potion.

All of a sudden, the roof of Chris's mouth began to burn. Eventually, it spread to his lips and tongue until his entire mouth felt aflame. His efforts to free himself grew wilder and more frantic.

Bar-shed, sounding almost sympathetic, remarked, "The less you fight, the more easily it goes down. The brew was created specially to combat noncompliance. Swallow, boy."

But Chris refused. Running out of patience, Bar-shed elbowed his sister to the side and pressed a hand against his captive's Adam's apple, forcing the boy to either swallow or choke. The potion burned his esophagus raw as it went down. Heat settled in a stomach empty for at least a day, maybe more. That, too, protested with sharp, scorching spasms that further ricocheted through the rest of his body.

As soon as the demons released him, Chris doubled over to the floor, retching relentlessly. His arms, also freed, curled around his abdomen, clutching it desperately as tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Heal him and take him back to the cell," Bar-shed said lazily.

Chris's body was dragged through the dust back to the cage. He prayed unconsciousness would come quickly. Instead, after the minions dropped him and stepped away, Shed'avi's distinct scent flooded his nostrils. Past his pounding heart, he heard the light swishingof her skirt against her legs as she neared, then knelt, beside him. Suddenly, her hand was on his cheek. Chris jolted back in terror.

"Oh, you poor little whitelighter," she crooned. "Look at your beautiful green eyes. They've gone white. Fitting for an angel, I suppose." She gave his cheek a gentle pat. "But come. Let us heal them. You will need your sight for the task ahead. And they are too beautiful to leave so impaired."

Tilting his head back with one manicured finger, she peeled one eyelid wide. Chris felt something cold at the corner of his eye, then two quick drops of icy liquid. She did the same to the other eye. He could feel her breath coasting over the bridge of his nose but didn't seem to realize how close she was until she had kissed the sensitive skin of his rapidly blinking eyelid.

Panic-stricken, he kicked outward. Her tinkling laugh dodged his flimsy attack. "So jumpy," she remarked. "I bet that makes you quick with your reflexes." Without warning, her tongue darted out to lick the bridge of his nose. Chris tried to shove himself back, but by that point Shed'avi was already across the room, relocking his cage from the outside. Her mocking laughter echoed down the corridor as she sauntered away.

"Buchanan, Jared." Marcy glanced over her attendance sheet to see Jared raise his hand. "Falken, Ally."

"Here," Ally intoned.

Ms. Gowell paused at the next name, frowning. "Where's Mr. Halliwell?"

"Absent," Dwight answered. "And I did try to call him this time, Ms. Gowell. No one picked up the phone."

"He's missed three days of class. Does anyone know where he is?" His absence bothered her more than it should have. It was especially worrisome knowing how rarely his parents seemed to let him miss school, even after near-death experiences.

Nobody spoke.

"Well, someone try to get in touch with him. He'll have plenty of work to catch up on." Sighing in frustration, she began the lesson, her eyes frequently straying to Chris's empty seat.

Piper tossed down her pen with a loud clatter. Phoebe, her back propped against the couch as she sat cross-legged on the dusty attic floor, looked up. Asleep on said couch, Paige didn't stir. Piper swiped a frustrated hand at the tears that collected beneath her eyelids. "He was standing right there," she snapped. "Right there, and I did nothing."

"Piper, if you'd tried to stop her, she would've killed him. There's nothing you could have done."

Phoebe tried to close her eyes again, but Piper's scoff from the back of the throat stopped her. "But I didn't even try. I just stood there and let that demon take my son."

"Piper." There was a note of finality in Phoebe's tone. "I love you and I know you're scared and I know you're hurting, but I really need you to shut up."

Piper balked. "Excuse me?"

Phoebe sighed and relaxed her arms at her sides, leaning herself further back against the sofa. "I need to concentrate. I've been trying to sense Chris through his emotions. It's hard enough doing it when he's so far away, let alone when tensions are high around here. I don't need the extra background noise distracting me."

Piper inhaled deeply as if preparing to yell, then let it all out in a whoosh. With decidedly more temerity, she asked, "Have you got anything?"

"I don't know," Phoebe admitted. "I'm feeling a whole lot of fear, but that's to be expected around here. I can't tell if it's him or just us." Piper bit the inside of her cheek and looked away.

Just then, the door swung open to admit Wyatt. He wore cargo pants and a trench coat. His scowl and clenched fists indicated he came prepared for an argument. Before he could speak, Piper said softly, "Please, Wyatt, I can't have this fight with you again."

His gaze remained firm. "Then don't. You've kept me out of this long enough. I'm going down there to look for him."

"You think that's what Chris would want?" she snapped back, "For you to put yourself at risk, too?"

"You think I care what he wants?" Wyatt retorted. "You're acting like he's gone for good."

But that was clearly the wrong thing to say. Piper drew herself up to full height, eyes black with anger. "I'm very happy for you to try sensing him from—your—room, where you can spend the rest of the afternoon. And I'm happy to cast an anti-orb spell if you feel that will be difficult for you."

Wordlessly, Wyatt spun back around and marched out the door. He didn't show it one bit, but Phoebe sensed both his hurt and his regret at pushing his mother too far.

"He didn't mean it," she offered gently.

Piper turned her glower on her sister. "Let's get back to work."

When the phone rang a couple hours later, it was Prue, self-assigned crisis-public-relations manager, who answered it. She'd been sitting in the living room with a blanket over her shoulders, trying and failing to forget about Chris long enough to complete her homework.

"Hello?" she said into the receiver.

"Hello," said a female voice on the other end. "Is Mrs. Halliwell there?"

Prue tucked the phone into the crook of her shoulder and said, "She's, um, busy. And so's my dad."

"All right, well—is Chris around?"

Prue froze, heart pounding. "Who's calling?" she asked at length.

"My name is Marcy Gowell. I'm his teacher," the voice replied.

For a moment, mind racing, Prue couldn't think of anything to say. "Chris is… sick," she exploded at last. Then, in a single breath: "He's been coughing and throwing up for three days straight. He's been to the hospital a bunch of times so far. And he's resting, so he can't come to the phone right now. And he said he didn't want to talk to anyone because he's tired. And he said especially not teachers because that's awkward, so I'm really sorry. But I'll let him know you called to wish him a quick recovery. Thanks so much for calling, bye!"

Marcy heard the line disconnect and stared at her phone, somehow even more confused than before.

Demoriel's fist crashed down on his stone throne. "Well, where is he?" he demanded of the demon at his feet. The eyes of the snake head in his staff glittered dangerously.

The demon barely twitched, his forehead pressed against the floor. His bright shock of red hair was pulled into a horsetail at the back of his neck. His folded-over frame was stretched out, too tall for normal proportions. "Word in the Underworld is he was taken by the fire-touched twins, my lord Demoriel," he offered his master. "Kidnapped." After a moment's hesitation, the demon added, "I believe they're after the witches' famed Book of Shadows."

"Those fools," Demoriel snarled. "That stupid book is worth nothing compared to what I'm after. If they kill the boy, I will lose everything I've worked so hard to achieve." Briefly, he drummed his fingers against the armrest. "Go—warn the Halliwells. I cannot have Bar-shed and his idiot sister foiling my plans. That boy is mine."

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