I hope this one is as fun to read as it was to write.

Relevant reminder: the Parasites appeared in season 5 episode 16, when the Crone stopped them from draining baby Wyatt's powers to bring themselves back to full power.

A couple yards in front of Demoriel's throne stood a young woman with brown skin and straight, chestnut hair parted neatly down the middle that fell loose to the middle of her back. On the inside of her wrist was an unusually-shaped birthmark, red, like a bird mid-flight. She wore steel-toed boots and a skintight, maroon, leather jacket. Bound to a pair of black pants with thin leather straps were daggers snug around each thigh and ankle.

Ahead of her, Demoriel drummed his fingers along the stem of his staff as he assessed the woman. Her body language remained undisturbed but coiled in anticipation, prepared to, on a moment's notice, spring into action. At length, he spoke. "Have you ever met the Parasites?" he asked conversationally, lifting one open palm to his shoulder.

From an arched doorway a distance behind him emerged a pair of demons in raggedy trench coats over faded, colorless t-shirts, though they were most identifiable by their matching shock-white hair and blood-red eyes. On either side of Demoriel's throne, the two came to a stop, where they leered at the woman with feral grins.

Ignoring their sneering stares, Demoriel continued, "They have been vanquished countless times over their lifespans, but their parasitic nature allows them to crawl back out of hell time and again. This time, I resurrected them after over a decade below. They are now loyal to me."

He seemed to be waiting for something, so the woman offered the Parasites a courteous nod of acknowledgement. Finally, Demoriel asked, "Do you know why I've invited you here?"

"I've heard rumors about what you're after," the woman admitted almost tonelessly, "But I prefer not to assume. Enlighten me."

Demoriel's lips curled into a pleased smile. "Very well," he said, easing his shoulders back against his headrest. He released his hold on his staff, which remained propped against the side of the throne, to clasp his hands loosely over his knees. "I have plans to acquire the powers of the second Halliwell descendant."

"Why him?" she asked, "Most demons covet the powers of the Twice-Blessed."

Demoriel's eyes lit up with delight. "You are the first to ask me that, did you know?" She didn't respond, barely even twitched. "Those after the Twice-Blessed are fools," he scoffed, throwing one hand back in dismissal. "His power may be unparalleled, but it pales in comparison when it comes to potential. The second son's power is where true victory lies. Do you know the last time someone succeeded in killing a Charmed One?"

The woman shook her head. "It was before my time."

"Well, it was with the help of someone who could manipulate time. He rewrote the timeline until the assassin succeeded. If I control time, I control the future. I cannot lose. All will be within my grasp." His eyes gleamed as he stared past her, one fist clenching in triumph.

Once he sat back, she asked, "Why summon me? How can I be needed here?"

With a sigh, he remarked, "Alas, the help I deal with is incompetent." The demons beside him shifted restlessly. "Thus far, my plans have not borne fruit, and I grow impatient. I have heard told of your powers. Your abilities can greatly simplify my plans. You can steal his powers directly without aid of a weapon and bring them to me."

From the moment he had named his target, the woman knew she would turn him down. Recently, she had grown more cautious in the jobs she accepted, and nowadays a task even tangentially related to the Charmed Ones was far beyond the limits of what she would willingly undertake. Hearing him out was a professional courtesy, no more. When she was sure he had finished, she replied, "I don't take on risky jobs anymore, I'm sorry. I can put you in touch with others in my clan if you—"

"No," Demoriel growled, his interlaced fingers curling into each other as his claws dug indentations deep into his skin. From beside him, the ruby eyes of his snake-head staff seemed to flash in throbbing time with his anger. He leaned forward again, his own eyes glinting. "I have been told you are the best, and perfection is what I require."

Almost imperceptibly, the woman's shoulders fell back, spine straightened, legs shifted apart into a stance ready for a fight. Both hands hovered over her thighs, not yet unsheathing her daggers but prepared to if the conversation quickly devolved. The Parasites didn't look as though they planned to attack, lingered lazily in place, but the order might come suddenly. "I'm sorry," she repeated firmly, "Four months ago, I would have accepted, but I've since retired."

After a tense silence, Demoriel forced his hands to relax and morphed his face back into an insincere smile. "Very well," he said through gritted teeth. He nodded toward one of the Parasites, and for an instant she thought they would swarm her, but then, instead, the demon lord said only, "They are brothers, you know. Family is so important, don't you agree?"

Suspicious at the abrupt topic change, she narrowed her eyes and said nothing. But Demoriel only continued with, "If you change your mind, please do return. I shall be most pleased to have you under my employ." He raised a hand, motioning for her to go.

Feeling as though she had missed something crucial, the woman reluctantly transferred her itching fingers away from her daggers, gave Demoriel a jerky bow, and shimmered away.

Without turning, Demoriel uttered, "You have your instructions. Go." The two Parasites were outlined in a glow as red as their eyes as they faded from the cavern.

The woman returned to Demoriel the very next day. This time she stormed in with a dagger brandished in each hand, primed for a fight. The first blade was flipping through the air faster than Demoriel could blink, but he merely raised his staff before him. The snake's eyes glowed green and, mere inches from his face, the knife froze in the air and dropped harmlessly into the dirt.

"Where is she?" the woman hissed.

"Safe," Demoriel reassured.

"Let her go." The woman raised the second blade.

"I did say family was important, did I not?" Demoriel mused as the second knife, too, plummeted before it reached his throne. When he stood, staff in hand, the woman shifted backward, already having retrieved two more blades from their straps, both of which she held aloft.

"I'll kill you," she swore.

Demoriel bared his teeth in a good-natured grin. "You could try," he countered. "And in the meantime, my Parasites will do what they wish to her."

He saw when the hint of defeat shifted across her eyes. It vanished as abruptly as it arrived, but she carefully lowered her weapons, hatred spitting from her hard stare. "What do you want from me?" she snarled.

"You know what I want," he replied amiably. Taking a moment to descend the stairs, he glided toward her. Instinct had her lifting a blade to his beck, but using one crooked finger he nudged it back down. She let him.

"Give her back first, then I'll do it," the woman offered.

Demoriel stopped before her, eyebrows raised as his index finger stroked his bottom lip. "So you can run and cloak yourselves so I can never find you?" he countered, offended by her underestimation. "I think not. But," he added, "I can be persuaded to compromise." As he spoke, he circled her, delighting in the way she turned with him to avoid letting him out of her sight.

"She will be brought home to wait for you to complete your task. Bring me the boy's powers, and you may return to her, not a single hair out of place. Return before then"—his stare hardened—"and the Parasites will suck her dry and leave her carcass for you to bury." He stepped within striking distance; if she tried, she could have grabbed the staff from him. But she did not try. Instead, she re-sheathed her blades.

With his free hand, Demoriel reached out to grip her shoulder, feeling her tense in his grasp. "Come now, my dear. I will keep your family perfectly safe until the deed is done. Now." He dropped his hand, backed up the steps, and reclaimed his seat. "Time to get to work. I look forward to seeing you again."

Glaring, she vowed, "I will kill you."

Demoriel licked his lips. "I look forward to it."

Averting her eyes, she shimmered away.

[Monday, March 30, 2020]

Wyatt and Chris were alone at the bus stop when the woman shimmered into view. In an instant, Wyatt had dropped his knapsack and raised his shield around the two of them as Chris stepped back to assess their opponent. She looked pretty human as far as demons went, except for the completely dead expression in her eyes and the dagger brandished in either hand. Chris only got seconds to evaluate before she shimmered behind Wyatt's shield. Before the teen could so much as turn around, she released one of her knives at the back of his head. Chris, who had been waiting to watch her move, sprang into action.

Shouting, "Duck!" he waved his hand to send the knife back where its owner stood. Or back where she had stood. Already she was gone again. As a bewildered Wyatt dropped his shield, Chris knelt to retrieve the blade that had landed harmlessly in the grass.

"What was that about?" Wyatt wondered, shifting closer to his brother.

Chris flipped the hilt over and over in his hand. Lost in thought, he murmured, "No idea." He could find no discernible features on the dagger, nothing that would shed light on the identity of their attacker. Still, there was something about the woman, a strange flicker in the back of his mind, as if he ought to have recognized her.

"Uh, incoming…" Wyatt said as, before him, the air began to ripple. They both turned to face the vibrating space, but it settled again without a body forming. Instead, Chris heard the thin whistle of metal cutting through the air behind them.

Ducking, Chris swung out his arm, sending a wave of wind slicing out in all directions. The trees along the sidewalk gusted outward, their leaves rustling frantically before falling still again. Wyatt, unprepared, lost his footing and skidded a few yards away. The dagger got knocked off course. But the woman somehow managed to remain steady on her feet.

"All right," Chris snapped, "Seriously, who even are you?"

Ignoring the question, she said, "I'm feeling generous. Your brother is free to leave. It's you I'm after."

That he hadn't expected. It seemed a given that an attack on them both was really an attack on the Twice-Blessed. As the weaker brother, Chris was usually relegated to collateral damage. "Why me?" he demanded, but she didn't answer. In a smooth motion, she knelt to tug another small blade out of her boot, then tossed it into the air, catching it by the hilt. On the inside of her wrist, Chris caught sight of a strange-looking tattoo and filed it away for later.

"Chris!" Wyatt called, "The bus!" Chris glanced over. At the very end of the block, the bus had turned the corner of their street and was rumbling toward them.

Thinking quickly, Chris backed up until he was hidden behind a tree. "Meet you at school later!" he called to his brother before orbing back to the manor. He could only hope the woman either couldn't sense his location or else was too smart to risk following him to the home of one of the Charmed Ones.

Leo had already left to Magic School, but Piper was just about to head to P3 when he appeared in the foyer. Keys in hand, she frowned at him from the front door. "What are you doing back home?"

If he told her the truth, she would fuss, Chris knew. Maybe even enough to return to the idea of assigning him a magical babysitter in the form of a whitelighter. It was why he hadn't told her about the brutes' attack last month until the threat had been neutralized. It was why he hesitated to say something now.

Tucking the dagger behind his back, he said, "I forgot my homework in my room. I'll just be a second." Before she could question him further, he took the stairs two at a time up to the attic.

With his mind on the unusual tattoo, he dumped his knapsack on the floor, set the dagger on the table, and began flipping through the Book of Shadows. It took some time, but eventually he found a depiction similar to the one on the woman's wrist.

Just as he landed on the page, Wyatt orbed in. "Bus just got to school. When I didn't see you, I assumed you made a pit stop," he explained. "Find anything?"

"Yeah, actually," Chris replied. "Here." He tapped the page with his index finger and began to read. "'Descended from the Witch Trials with vengeance in their hearts, the Phoenix are a family of assassin witches who are very elite, very powerful, and who are born with the distinctive birthmark of a Phoenix, symbolizing their rise from Salem's ashes. They have no allegiances other than to their own vengeance and they will seek out and kill any bounty they're hired to hunt down.' Wait, there's a note."

At the bottom of the page, in ink from a blue ballpoint pen, was Aunt Paige's messy scrawl. Squinting at it to decipher the words, he read, "'If she drains your powers, don't use them.'" He glanced up at Wyatt, frowning. "What's that supposed to mean? How can you use your powers if they're drained?"

Wyatt shrugged as he walked over to peer at the Book over Chris's shoulder. "Dunno, but at least now we know one of her abilities."

Chris re-scanned the paragraph and Paige's addendum in the hopes he would glean more. Nothing. It was too vague to draw any conclusions on best course of action. Drumming his fingers on the page, he sighed, "I wish we could ask Aunt Paige to clarify."

"We can," Wyatt replied with a smirk, clapping a hand on Chris's shoulder. "As long as you don't mind her running straight to Mom and Dad about this."

Shutting the Book and centering it on the lectern once more, Chris retorted, "Yeah, no thanks."

When he turned to face Wyatt, he saw the smirk fade. More seriously, Wyatt said, "Maybe we should consider it. A hired assassin? She was clearly after you, Chris. That's kind of a big deal. And I didn't notice a vanquishing potion in there."

"The Book said they're witches," Chris pointed out. "Can't vanquish a witch." Feigning nonchalance, he shrugged. "Maybe I can reason with her."

Wyatt snorted. "Sometimes you are unbelievably naïve." In response, Chris punched him hard in the shoulder. With a chuckle, Wyatt rubbed the spot as he said, "Whatever we decide to do will have to wait until after school. First period is starting any minute. Unless…" Pausing, he looked his brother over carefully. "Do you think she might attack again during class?"

As he considered the possibility, Chris nibbled his bottom lip. "I don't think so," he said at last. "I mean, if they're witches, they should be just as concerned with exposure as we are." He couldn't be sure, of course, but in case he was wrong he planned to take precautions, keep his sensing powers active and aware of his surroundings at all times.

"Great. Come on, then." The two orbed to school and slipped into their respective classrooms just a minute or two after the bell rang.

As hyper-alert as Chris remained during the entirety of school hours, he was surprised none of his teachers commented on his behavior, sitting ramrod straight and taking meticulous notes with one ear on lessons while the other listened out for unusual activity. By the end of the day, he was mentally exhausted.

He was at his locker, grabbing what he would need at home, when the hair prickling at the back of his neck made him spin around. There, at the end of the hallway, stood the woman who had attacked him at the bus stop. She had changed into clothes that better blended in, jeans and a pressed, cerulean blouse, which told Chris she did, indeed, care to prevent exposure, a sliver of information that would come in handy. In that outfit, she could have been another assistant or substitute teacher. None of the students spared her a glance as they crossed her path. But Chris had a feeling beneath the innocent attire was a collection of knives that he had no interest in encountering up close.

Swinging his locker shut, he dashed around the corner and raced down another hallway. His hidden spot behind the school was too far to get to, but maybe he could find an empty classroom from which to orb instead.

The first door he burst through had an unfamiliar teacher conferring with a sophomore Chris didn't recognize. "Sorry—wrong room!" Chris blurted out, fumbling for the doorknob. The next door he opened was a supply closet. This would have been an ideal spot if not for the janitor standing in the hallway, staring at him strangely. The man would definitely notice if Chris didn't come out again.

The next hallway he darted down was mostly empty, which didn't bode well. As soon as the students were gone, the Phoenix would have nothing preventing her from attacking. In one classroom his English teacher Mrs. Williams was grading some papers. She looked perplexed as he mumbled out an apology and hurriedly backed out of the room.

As the din of voices began to dwindle, Chris heard more clearly the ominous clicking of steel-toed boots against the tile floor from the other end of the long hallway. In the next classroom he tried, Ms. Gowell was just starting to pack her students' homework into her overlarge purse. The room wasn't empty, but at least she was a witch, and he was out of time. This would have to do.

When Chris slammed the door shut, she looked up. "Chris, what—?"

"We have to go," Chris interrupted urgently, "Now."

"What are you talking about?" Despite her confusion, she was quick to stuff the rest of her documents into the bag and snap it shut.

"There's an assassin out there," he said, zigzagging past desks to reach her.

"What?" she cried, eyes widening with horror. "Chris, we need to alert the school. Students could be in danger!"

Chris growled in frustration and stopped in front of her desk, slamming his palms down on its surface. "The only ones in danger are—"

As the door swung open, he twisted around to meet her eyes. In she glided, the Phoenix, her mouth quirked in a smirk, her dark brown eyes narrowed. "Running to teacher, are we?" she taunted. She must have been able to sense Ms. Gowell's magic, that or she was willing to kill a single innocent bystander to prevent exposure. Neither option boded well.

Chris's mind raced for an escape. If he orbed, would she be able to sense him and follow? Had she sensed him in the building, or had she researched to find out which high school he attended? More than anything right now, he wished the Book had provided more information about what he was up against.

If he couldn't be sure she wouldn't follow him, he had to go somewhere she wouldn't be able to sense. The Underworld. It was risky, impulsive, and insane, undoubtedly, but it was also his only option to give him a moment to come up with his next plan.

Chris glanced back at his teacher, who had frozen in place. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the assassin raise a dagger, ready to launch it across the room. Now was his only opportunity. As the blade left her hand, Chris leapt across the teacher's desk, already beginning to orb so that when he fell into Ms. Gowell they were instantly swept away.

When they rematerialized, the momentum sent them both tumbling to the ground, knocking the wind out of them. Groaning, Chris rolled off her and tried to suck in a breath through lungs that spasmed from the force of the blow. Marcy flipped onto her hands and knees, blinking as she sought to get her bearings.

The space around them was dim. Beside her, she heard Chris's short, shallow gasps. First thing's first, she thought, groping blindly until she found her companion. She felt for his back and patted it firmly until he was able to draw in a long, slow breath.

"Thanks," he rasped.

After a few seconds, Marcy's eyes began to adjust. Unsurprisingly, the classroom was gone. In its place now were walls of jagged rock. From the low-hanging ceiling grew stalactites while stalagmites rose from the uneven ground beneath her.

"Wh-where…" She coughed as dust settled in her mouth. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "Where are we?"

After a couple more grateful breaths, Chris answered, "The Underworld."

She stared at him blankly. Then, because he didn't notice the expression sent his way, she asked, "I'm sorry?"

Climbing unsteadily to his feet, Chris offered his hand to help her up as well. "The Underworld," he repeated. "It's where demons, uh, live, I guess. Mostly."

"And this was… a smart place to come?" she asked skeptically as she brushed dirt from her slacks.

Chris shrugged. "She can't sense us here. I hope."

The Phoenix stood too far away to make a grab for her target before he orbed. She watched her blade spin past the now empty air and embed itself into the wall beside the whiteboard. Following its trajectory, she glided up to the front desk and rested a curious hand on the overlarge purse the bystander had left behind.

Peering inside, she rummaged past a notebook and batches of assignments, a day planner, a box of sugar-free gum, and a pair of car keys—useless trinkets—landing finally on the woman's wallet. Plucking it out, she flipped it open and eased the top card out of its laminated sleeve. Driver's license. The assassin ran her index finger over the home address with a smile.

The classroom door creaked open, and an elderly janitor shuffled in, pushing ahead of him a large trash bin on wheels that contained a wooden mop. He paused when he saw her.

"I was just leaving," she said, returning the ID to its sleeve and snapping the wallet shut. The gentleman's gaze slid past her to the knife burrowed in the wall. She followed the direction of his stare, then smiled. "Class demonstration," she offered smoothly. She gave the blade a few solid tugs before it came loose. Tucking it into her sleeve, she swung the purse onto her shoulder as if it were her own, then marched past the bewildered man.

"Goodnight, miss," he said as she squeezed past his trash bin to get to the door. She returned the farewell, then slipped into the hallway, found a corner unseen by security cameras, and shimmered to the address on the card. The boy had to return his passenger home eventually. When he did, she'd be waiting.

Deep in thought, Chris paced the length of the cavern. He could orb home—likely the Phoenix wouldn't risk attacking with his whole family of witches around, never mind one of the Charmed Ones—but he couldn't very well hide at home forever. What would happen the next time he stepped foot outside?

He could try concocting a vanquishing potion. But even when he followed a recipe, his skills were spotty. Attempting to invent one himself took that much more proficiency. How would he pull that off? Not to mention, he didn't know if it was even possible to brew a vanquishing potion for a witch.

Suddenly, he heard a distant noise, an echo, as soft as a whimper. He whirled around, seeing nothing.

Nervously, Marcy watched him. "What is it?" she asked.

Eyes narrowed, he glanced at her. "You didn't hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what?" She shifted her weight from side to side. "Is it her?"

"Unlikely," he muttered absent-mindedly, "But it could be this lair has an owner." He spun back around to continue pacing in the opposite direction, hands clasped behind his back. She stepped in front of him, interrupting him in his tracks.

"So we escaped from one demon to fall into the hands of another?" she demanded, voice half an octave higher than she'd intended.

"Well, no," Chris corrected, "Because the person after me is technically a witch, not a demon." He pondered the point, then added, "Although she did shimmer, so—not sure what that's about. Maybe they're half demons?" If so, he realized, a vanquishing potion had a shot.

When he noticed that his teacher still wasn't letting him pass, he said, "Plus, it's unlikely this place is inhabited." He waved a hand at the rocky walls. "No torches for light. No furniture. Some of the more animalistic demons live in bare nests, so it's not impossible, but it's a reasonably safe assumption."

This thought did not seem to mollify her. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he sighed. "I didn't mean to drag you into this. I panicked. I thought if I left you there, after she'd seen you, she'd hurt you to get to me."

"Right," she said weakly.

Another indiscernible echo. Chris's head shot up. "Okay, you heard that one, right?" Bemused, Marcy shook her head. Trying to locate the source, Chris turned in a slow circle. Nothing. "Okay," he decided, "Maybe it's better if we go invisible. Just to be safe." Hand outstretched, he took an expectant step in her direction.

"We?" Marcy echoed, backing away. "I've never used my power on someone else before."

There it was again, almost a keening. Dropping his arm, Chris tucked away the desperation on his face and, with his eyes closed, took a second to draw in a calming breath. When he felt more in control, he blinked them open. "Might as well try. No reason it shouldn't work."

"All right," she said. Gliding toward him, she extended her hand, but suddenly reality settled in. He stared at it, feeling silly for his reticence. She had seen him on death's door. She had watched him throw a demon across an alley. He had nearly killed her, for crying out loud! The fact that she was his teacher should mean nothing outside of that classroom. After only a second's hesitation, he slid his hand into hers.

Picking up on his discomfort, she offered a smile. "Holding hands," she teased, "Can't get any worse than that, can it?" Chris peered at the stalactites above their heads. "What are you looking for?"

A grin tugged at his lips. Casting her a sideways glance, he replied, "I'm waiting for rain. Whenever people say it can't get worse, it starts raining. That's just basic science."

Rolling her eyes, Marcy fought a smile. "You're as bad at science as you are at history, I see."

Chris chuckled as she closed her eyes, drawing her focus inward. It didn't take very long for her to tap into her emotional trigger; after that attack, she felt fear aplenty. She let the icy sensation of her powers tickle up her spine, then silently urged it into the palm that she had extended to Chris.

When she opened her eyes, her own arm had vanished entirely and Chris's was translucent and growing paler quickly. "You got that pretty fast," he said with an impressed whistle. She felt her cheeks warm into a blush, though she knew it went unseen.

"Now what?" she asked into the silence.

"Now we figure out our next…" She felt his fingers go rigid in hers as his voice trailed off.

"What? Chris, what is it?"

In a flat tone, he replied at last, "That would be the metaphorical rain."

Try as she might, Marcy could not see what, to Chris, was right in front of their faces. Before them, from floor to ceiling, rose a thin, metal pole. Attached to that pole was a solid metal chain, long and winding, overlapping itself in several tight coils, like a snake, until the last few feet, which stretched out around one bony, shackled ankle.

The ankle was attached to the curled-up figure of a boy about Prue's age. He wore overlarge rags, mere patches of colorless fabric that fell below his knees, held together with staples and a rope tied snuggly around his waist. He had no pants, and his feet were bare, their soles cover in irregular scars, as if his feet had been burned on hot coals. Around each wrist was a gleaming, titanium cuff about two inches thick that emitted a dim glow and exuded powerful magic. His unkempt hair fell around his head, obscuring his face, but Chris could guess, from the blank, unseeing eyes of the woman beside him, that the boy's features would match his own, that this was another vision of a different self.

Releasing his teacher's hand, he threw his arms skyward. "Now is so not a good time," he growled to the Powers that Be as his body slowly faded back into view.

The captive boy's head shot up, just as Marcy, heedless of the scene, wondered aloud, "Not a good time for what?"

Beneath one of the boy's bright green eyes ran a thin scar that crossed over his nose and split the corner of his top lip. His hair fell in a tangle into his face, but he didn't shake it away.

Instead, eyes wide with fear, the boy extended his arms across the ground in front of him and pressed his forehead into the dirt in the deepest bow he could muster. Chris couldn't take any of this right now. He had enough on his plate with a magical assassin on his tail without having to worry about more whacky characters filling his head.

"That's it," he snarled, "We're leaving." The boy continued to tremble at his feet.

A little bit at a time, Marcy's body reappeared. She looked hesitant and clearly more than a little worried for her student's sanity. "Where are we going?" she asked and then jumped when Chris barked, "Anywhere!"

He forced himself to take a breath, counting to five through clenched teeth. Releasing the breath slowly, he muttered, "Sorry," before sucking in another lungful of air. His heartbeat began to slow. "It's not safe to take you back to school. She might be waiting for us there. I'll take you home. Except, wait, your car…"

"I'll just get a cab in the morning," she said dismissively. "I'm more concerned with where you're going to go. Will you be safe with her after you?"

Chris massaged his temple. The boy at his feet had begun to weep, shoulders heaving dramatically. If Chris had any extra energy, he would have felt sympathy for the boy's clearly terrible predicament. As it stood, he just wished the kid would keep quiet. "I'll be fine," he said to Marcy. "I'll start on a potion once I'm back home."

Still looking reluctant, Marcy nevertheless accepted his hand when he offered it. He orbed immediately, hoping the vision would remain in the Underworld when they departed.

His hope was short-lived. The pole, chain, and prostrated boy all materialized with them in Marcy's cramped living room. But, frankly, that was the least of Chris's worries because across the room, behind the coffee table, stood the Phoenix.

Chris barely had time to duck as a dagger sailed by over his head, so close he felt the wind as it passed. But when he stood again, the assassin's face was inches from his, baring her teeth in a sneer. Before he could blink, she thrust her arm straight into his chest.

Unable to make his limbs function, Chris froze in place. Pain pulsed through his body, wave after wave. He could feel her little by little leeching his powers away. His breath came in shallow gasps as the room around him began to dim.

Marcy screamed his name. Frantic with terror, her body evaporated as she charged toward the woman, tackling her into the sofa. Chris collapsed to his knees. If he'd been able to think straight, he never would have considered orbing and leaving Marcy defenseless with an assassin in her apartment. But he could hardly think at all. The only sensation that registered in his mind was pain, pain and a crescendo of fear. Without making the conscious choice to do so, he orbed home.

Marcy had rolled off the attacker the moment they landed and crawled as fast as she could across the room, holding her breath. Could the assassin hear her heart racing? Would she see indentations in the rug where Marcy knelt, cowering in fear?

She needn't have worried. Though the woman leapt to her feet with the ease and grace of a lithe feline, she glanced around only briefly for Marcy. She wasn't the target. The woman cursed loudly and stalked to the far wall to dig out the dagger she had hurled.

From the kitchen, Ginny darted into the room, hissing viciously, all her fur standing on end. Don't! Marcy thought desperately. Ginny, leave her alone! But the assassin spared the animal a single glance before waving the cat away. "Oh, go tend to your witch, familiar," she snapped impatiently before shimmering away.

Agony made Chris's orbs short-circuit midair. He groaned as he crash-landed on his bed. His vision spun; his head pounded. Most of all, his chest felt white hot and ached fiercely. Stumbling over to his mirror, he tugged down the neck of his shirt as far as it would stretch. On his chest, the top of a gaping wound greeted him, perfectly round and dark red, the circumference blackened like an impossibly large cigarette burn. In fact, it was almost exactly the diameter of a woman's fist.

Groaning Wyatt's name, he leaned his hands and forehead against the door to steady himself. When he released the neckline, he winced as the fabric sprang back into place, rubbing against broken skin.

His brother appeared in a swirl of orbs at the center of the room. "Chris, where were you? I couldn't sense you. I thought the Phoenix—what's wrong?" He closed the distance between them, placing a hand on Chris's back. "You're sweating. What happened?"

Pushing himself off of the door, Chris wheeled around to face Wyatt. "I think… I understand… what Paige meant," he said between gasps. "About not using your powers."

"She drained your powers?" Wyatt demanded, sounding horrified as he carefully led Chris by the elbow to his bed. He helped Chris sit, kneeling in front of him.

"Only partially," Chris assured. Finally, he started to catch his breath. "I orbed away in time. Worst orbing experience ever," he confirmed. "Definitely made it worse."

Wyatt set a hand on Chris's knee. "Just tell me how I can heal it," he insisted.

Chris shrugged out of his shirt to bare the wound. After a thick swallow, Wyatt leaned forward, raising a glowing hand to Chris's chest. They sat like that for several dragged-out moments before Wyatt, frowning, finally sat back. "It's not healing," he said, voice tight with frustration. Chris sighed. Somehow, some part of him had known that would happen, that a quick healing would be too easy.

"Chris," Wyatt said, climbing to his feet, "I think we should get Mom and Dad involved."

"No way," Chris argued, stuffing his arms back into his shirt sleeves and tugging it back over his head. "Look, I have a plan, all right? It's going to be fine. I'm gonna come up with a potion. I'll bet once the Phoenix is vanquished, this… thing"—he waved his hand over his chest—"will be healable."

Wyatt didn't look convinced. "You owe me, Wy. For all the times I covered for you when you went out hunting."

Reluctantly, Wyatt looked away. "Fine," he grumbled, "But I'm going with you when you confront her." Chris nodded. Though he'd never admit it aloud, he would be relieved to go into battle with the extra firepower his brother offered.

Hopefully a treat for those of you who enjoy Chris/Marcy interactions.

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