Hope you enjoy the extra long chapter. Couldn't end it any earlier.
[Monday, March 30, 2020]
Piper was working late at the restaurant for the rest of the evening and Leo would be at Magic School for at least the next hour or two, which meant Chris had free reign of the kitchen without risk of interrogation. The first bit of luck, it seemed, that he'd had all day. To start, he gathered as many ingredients as he could balance in his arms and lined them up on the counter, then pulled down their smallest cauldron from its shelf and set it down on the stovetop. Surveying his workspace, he gave himself a satisfied nod and got down to business.
With the dull ache in his chest where the Phoenix had begun to drain his magic, he found it difficult to concentrate; but the longer he went without employing his powers the more the pain dissipated. Besides, he'd worked under worse conditions than this. Directing his attention to the task at hand, he did not allow himself to dwell on the unpleasant sensation. You've got this.
Pixie dust went in first. He knew it enhanced already powerful magics, so it felt like a solid place to start. After that, he tossed in drips and drabs from a bunch of other jars, anjelica root, ashwinder venom (actually, a few drops from everything labelled "venom"—couldn't hurt), beetle eye, even a sprinkling of calico cat hairs from a certified witch's familiar.
At that point, he realized he had forgotten to turn on the flame beneath the cauldron, so he did so, turning it on high to speed up the cooking process. Usually, potions called for a specific and meticulous stirring procedure, but he couldn't remember the benefits of clockwise versus counterclockwise, so he just picked one at random and stuck with it.
Pretty soon, the cauldron had begun to smoke, a thick cloud curling out and over the rim, which he did not take as an encouraging sign. Quickly, he turned down the flame.
Peering inside, he decided, "Needs more liquid," and selected one of the oils, essence of daisy root, pouring in enough to cover the mix of ingredients he'd already added. The oil hissed as soon as it touched the iron edges of the cauldron, releasing a plume of steam that stung Chris's eyes.
"Right," he said, waving a hand in front of his face to clear the air, "This is not working." He coughed as the steam filled his lungs. Stepping back a few steps to breathe in clean air, he flicked the stove knob with his telekinesis to shut the flame. It was the most miniscule of motions, second nature, he didn't even realize he'd done it, but the instant he did pain flared in his chest. White-hot, it drove him almost to his knees, though he caught and braced himself against the sink just in time.
He had to exhale deeply through the wave that crashed over him, waiting for several frozen seconds until it began to ebb and he could inhale once more. "Stupid," he hissed to himself when he could breathe again.
While the concoction cooled, he ran the tap to rinse his eyes, still stinging from the steam. After mopping his face dry with a dish towel, he checked on the potion. It had stopped smoking, but…
"This is sludge," he said with disgust. Using a wooden mixing spoon, which he dipped into the cauldron, he withdrew a tablespoon's worth of liquid. When he tipped it sideways, it oozed slowly back into the brew with a wet plop. "We need a new plan."
In retrospect, the solution that came to him should have been obvious from the get-go. Prue was a potion whiz, second to none other than their mother. And she was always complaining that her brothers left her out; if he included her, Chris bet she would agree to conceal the secret from their parents.
After his fiasco with telekinesis, he didn't dare attempt to use his sensing powers to locate her. (He considered this a passive power but regardless had no idea—and no interest in experimenting to find out—whether this fact mattered or not.) So he took a guess and started with her bedroom, trotting upstairs to knock on her door.
When she called for entry and he obliged, finding her working on math problems at her desk, she blinked at him in bewilderment. When was the last time he had sought her out? He couldn't even remember.
Still stood in the threshold, Chris smiled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck as he admitted, "I, uh, need a favor."
Prue's eyebrows rose. "From me?" Chris grunted in the affirmative. "Why?"
Shrugging, he said, "Because you're great with potions. Me? Not so much."
Her eyes lit up as she pushed back her chair and crossed the room. "Yeah, okay," she agreed, following him into the hallway.
Turning back around, he held up a finger to stop her. "You can't tell Mom or Dad anything about this," he warned. "Not a word."
He could see the opposing forces warring on her face, her desire to be included pitted against her urge to tattle on her brothers' wrongdoings, her struggle to keep a secret. Ultimately, as Chris had expected, her excitement at being invited to participate, at becoming an indispensable part of the team, won out. "Promise," she agreed.
As they proceeded down the stairs, she asked, "What kind of potion?"
"For a vanquish," he replied.
Prue stopped him midway down the steps. "I need more than that to go off of."
Chris sighed, then told her what he knew about Phoenixes, the assassin's attacks, even his first failed attempt at a brew. "There wasn't a potion in the Book," he added.
"I'm not surprised," Prue replied as they entered the kitchen. "If she's a witch, who knows if it's even poss…" Her voice trailed off as she took in the chaos around her. Open jars were spread helter-skelter across the counter. The cauldron continued to hiss ominously on the stove.
Chris elbowed her teasingly. "Speechless at my brilliant attempt, huh?" She giggled, shaking her head as she rolled up first one sleeve, then the other. First, she went about screwing lids back on jars, then sniffed delicately at Chris's concoction.
"What did you put in it?" she asked.
Chris winced. "Uuuuh…"
With a groan, Prue demanded, "How did you expect to ever recreate it if you got it right?"
A self-depreciating smile graced Chris's features. "I'll be honest, I wasn't really expecting to get it right."
Pursing her lips to hide her amusement, Prue asked, "Do you remember anything?"
"Yeah," Chris said, snapping his fingers at the first ingredient that popped into his head. "I started with pixie dust."
"Seriously?" she laughed.
"What?" Chris said defensively, "It's an enhancer."
"Exactly," she replied as she set the last sealed jar at the end of a neat row. "There needs to be something already there to enhance. Otherwise, it's useless." Gripping the iron cauldron by its handles on either side, she heaved it over to the sink and spilled the oil carefully down the drain. "How much essence of"—she sniffed the congealing mess—"daisy root did you add?"
Despite it being at his expense, Chris found himself impressed at her discerning senses. "I don't know, just enough to stop all the smoking."
Once most of the oil had run out, she brought the rest of the brew to the garbage can. Raising the trash lid with her foot on the petal, she dumped out the remaining ingredients. "It's called 'essence' for a reason, you know. It's highly concentrated stuff. You should never use more than a couple drops! Here, wash this." She handed him the cauldron and turned back to the counter to organize the jars, selecting some to stay out while the others she began to return to the pantry.
As Chris got to work scrubbing, he argued, "Well, it stopped the smoking."
"If your potion doesn't already start with a liquid base, you're supposed to add enough water to cover the bottom of the pot to prevent any ingredients from burning. That's where that smoke came from," she explained patiently. With a dish towel, she wiped down her now orderly, clear surface. "What else did you use?"
Chris shut off the water and carried the dripping cauldron back to the stove. Accepting the dish towel from her extended hand, he began to wipe it dry. "Well, now I don't want to tell you," he grumbled, but since he was grinning she didn't take him too seriously.
"Well, I saw almost all the venoms were left open," she remarked, taking the cauldron from him and setting it beside her on the counter. She raised one eyebrow in his direction. "You know that a lot of venoms cancel each other out, right? So you basically made them all useless."
Flashing a wider smile, he said, "I'm hopeless, what can I say?"
For a moment, Prue drummed her fingers along the rim of the cauldron in thought, her nails making echoing pings as they made contact. Finally, she met Chris's eyes gravely. "If I do this, I want in for all of it. The vanquishing part, too."
For once, Chris paused to truly consider his sister. When given the opportunity, she proved herself a lot more competent than he gave her credit for. And he certainly knew how it felt to get treated like a child, not trusted to make his own decisions. Wasn't that the very reason he didn't want his parents getting involved now?
Sticking his hand out in front of him, he smiled. "Deal." She shook it, then rolled her sleeves higher above her elbows and got to work.
First, she filled the cauldron a third of the way with water from the tap and set it back on the counter beside the remaining jars. Chris watched as she sprinkled bits of this and that, drew out the cutting board to chop some roots more finely, used an eye dropper to measure out two milliliters of an oil essence. Only after all of this did she heft the cauldron to the stove, turning the flame low to bring it to a slow, cautious boil.
Once the brew began to bubble, she dropped the flame further to a simmer and swirled twice counterclockwise with a clean stirring rod. "Now you add the pixie dust," she said, sprinkling no more than a teaspoon across the surface and watching it sink to the bottom. "Leave it alone for thirty minutes or so, and then let it cool before you transfer it into vials."
"This is great," Chris said from his position propped against the island, "Thanks." She beamed up at him as the casual compliment left his lips.
By the time the brew was ready to get bottled, Leo had returned home. Chris was in the attic searching for unused vials and heard his father enter the kitchen only once he reached the landing. Holding his breath, he crept down the last few stairs, listening for conversation. This was it, the moment that determined whether tattletale Prue could lie to their father's face.
"What are you working on, kiddo?" he heard Leo ask.
Keep it simple, Chris thought. Don't oversell the lie.
"Just practicing," he heard her casually reply. Chris exhaled with relief. He waited for Leo to pass by—"Hey, buddy, how was school?"—before returning with the vials.
Prue used the dropper to fill three vials with pale orange liquid, then plugged each one with a cork before handing them off the Chris. Stuffing them into his pockets, he helped her dump the remains of the thickened brew down the drain, running the hot water to prevent it from congealing in the pipes. Under normal circumstances, they would have bottled the rest of the potion as well for future use, but they wanted left no evidence of their brew for their parents to stumble on and question later.
"You get to wash," she said cheerfully, leaving him with the dirty cauldron as she collected the ingredients to put away. By the time they were ready for dinner ("You kids wants takeout tonight?"), the kitchen looked pristine.
After dinner, the three kids conferred quietly at the top of the stairs. Wyatt seemed surprised by Prue's inclusion but not against it. "It's too late to start searching for the assassin tonight," Chris reasoned in an undertone. He paused briefly when the trill of the house phone cut him off. They heard Leo answer it downstairs. "Wyatt and I will come up with a plan—don't worry," he added when Prue opened her mouth to argue, "We'll keep you in the loop. We won't do anything until you're home from school." This seemed enough of a compromise to mollify her.
"Chris!" Leo called from the bottom of the stairwell, "Phone!"
Waving his siblings off, Chris took the steps two at a time. Leo handed off the phone with a frown. "It's Ms. Gowell," he explained, a question in his furrowed brow.
Chris shrugged and accepted the phone, mindful of his father's presence. "Hello?" He subtly shifted into the living room to give himself a bit of privacy.
"I just wanted to make sure you got home safely," he heard from the other end.
"Oh, uh, yeah." He remembered suddenly that he had left her completely exposed to the Phoenix's whims and felt a guilty twinge that it hadn't even occurred to him to check up on her. While she was the adult, when it came to magical matters, Chris was clearly the one with greater experience. Lowering his voice as he cast his gaze toward the foyer, he asked, "Did she hurt you?"
"No," she assured. "She left pretty much right after you did."
"That's good," he replied. "Thanks for, uh, what you did." After a pause, he added, "What did you do? All I remember is one second she was there, the next gone."
"I tackled her." He heard a soft chuckle, as if she herself couldn't fully believe her actions.
"Tackled an assassin. That's pretty cool."
"Thank you." There was a pause. More gravely, she asked, "Is she still out there?"
Dancing around the question, Chris said, "We're taking care of it. I, uh, might not be in school tomorrow, though."
"Well, I'd call that an excused absence," she replied dryly. Chris chuckled. Releasing a quiet breath, she added, "Be careful out there."
He assured her he would, then said goodbye and hung up. When he returned the phone to his father, Leo asked, "Isn't she the teacher who's also a witch?"
Chris made an obvious display of rolling his eyes. "She was giving me an extension on a homework assignment," he grunted dismissively. "Not everything's about magic, Dad."
This seemed plausible enough to Leo, who didn't question him any further. Chris bounded upstairs to Wyatt's room to finalize their plan for the next day's confrontation.
When Chris appeared in the abyss that night, it seemed he had entered in the midst of a heated debate. Krissy and Demon stood toe to toe, their stubbornly jutted chins only inches from each other. Somehow, this did not surprise Chris in the least. Several of the others stood in a semicircle around them, watching the drama unfold.
"He's not your slave!" Krissy was shouting at the taller man, who sneered down at her with his arms crossed.
"Well, he's someone's slave, and his master obviously didn't follow him here, so I call dibs," he replied smugly.
With her hands balling into fists at her sides, she practically shrieked, "You can't call dibs on a human being!"
Chris had too much else to deal with to put up with them egging each other on. "All right, enough!" he shouted over them. Both turned to stare at him, one with a glare, the other a smirk. "Where even is the new kid?" Perry, who stood with him on the sidelines of the argument, merely pointed to the new slot between Krissy and Merlin's wedges.
Well, at least those two are finally separated, Chris thought dully.
The space was darker even than Demon's, though it had a similar makeup. Rocky walls, dwindling torches that emitted a pale lavender hue, a pole at the center that stretched upward indefinitely, and along the far edge a nest of dirt and straw that seemed to operate as a bed.
Chris couldn't even find the kid until he noticed a heap of dirty rags shift on the ground in front of the pole. "Look," Chris said, pinching the bridge of his nose with impatience, "Nobody's enslaving anybody else here, got it?"
"It's not enslavement if it's consensual," Demon argued gleefully. "He was bred for this. It's his calling."
"Not a chance!" Krissy snapped back. "You stay away from him." When Chris, ignoring them, crept toward the kid's wedge, Perry and, at a greater distance, the others, including Krissy and Demon, followed.
For once, Merlin seemed not to have a snide comment at the ready. He observed the kid with an expression twisted in horrified sympathy. Perry's face remained carefully impassive. Clearly he had encountered this sort of thing before. Sir Christopher seemed at a loss with no villain there whom he could defeat to solve the child's predicament. Christian acted as a barrier to Mutt and Ian, preventing them from seeing the boy up close, though they peered curiously around his outstretched arms.
Krissy and Demon came up on either side of Perry as Chris slid his foot inside the new wedge and crouched down to the kid's level.
"Hey, kid," he said gently. A muffled whimper came from the quivering pile. Though Chris had a lot on his mind with the assassin's attack, for the moment he cast it all aside so he could give this self the focus he deserved. "Hey," he said again, reaching out to touch the pile.
Something beneath his hand jolted, then trembled as a face lifted out of the rags and blinked up at Chris with vivid green eyes. Everyone behind them fell silent to watch. "What's your name?" Chris asked.
The boy squeezed his eyes shut and swung his head wildly back and forth. "Nononono," he moaned. Chris lurched backward in surprise.
"Um, what did I say?" he wondered in bewilderment, casting his stare over his shoulder at Perry, who watched it all with an emotionless, assessing gaze.
"No names for slaves, no names for unworthy slaves," the boy whimpered into his knees as he hugged them into his chest.
"No name," Chris said quickly, "Got it." His acceptance seemed to calm the kid down ever so slightly. He stopped whimpering, at least, though he began to rock back and forth on his heels as Chris looked on helplessly.
A hand on Chris's shoulder had him glancing up. Krissy knelt down beside him, ponytail swinging over one shoulder as she inched toward the kid on hands and knees. "Hey there," she murmured, "I'm Krissy. I can promise no one here will hurt you." The boy's rocking paused as he listened to her soothing voice.
"Listen, why don't you pick a name? Whatever you want." But the boy had once again begun to frantically shake his head.
"No names!" he wailed, "No names for slaves!"
"Works for me," Demon called from behind them.
Krissy shot him a death glare and said loudly to be heard over the kid's cries, "You're not a slave anymore. You're free now!"
The boy threw his hands over his ears to block out her voice. "Nonononononono!"
"Stop," said a firm voice behind them, and instantly the kid fell silent. Chris glanced up to see Perry standing there, towering over them. "Look at me." The kid's eyes rose to meet his. In a much softer tone now that he had his attention, Perry said, "We need to call you something. There's no alternative. But if you'd prefer it, we can call you 'Boy'? It's not a true name, not really, just a way to identify you."
"No way," Krissy argued. She sat back on the heels of her feet to glare at Perry with all the disapproval she could muster. "He's a human being and deserves to be treated like one." But the kid was contemplating Perry's compromise, pressing his lips together as he mulled it over. Ignoring Krissy's displeasure, Chris and Perry gave the kid time to decide for himself.
At length, he dipped his head into a timid nod. "Boy," he agreed softly, and Perry graced him with a smile.
But Krissy's frown deepened. "Just because he never learned to stand up for himself doesn't mean we should treat him like a nonhuman!" Now that the boy had unfurled and appeared somewhat more receptive to their presence, she slid closer still and, in a falsely bright voice, said, "Hey, sweetie, what do you think about 'Christopher'?"
He firmly shook his head. "Boy," he repeated.
Behind them, Demon gave a loud guffaw. "And you say he can't stand up for himself. Kid's got backbone." Krissy sprang to her feet and stormed toward him with her eyes flashing, but Perry cut her off, holding his arm up between them.
When she turned her glare back to him, he remarked calmly, "What's more dignified than giving someone a choice?"
"A choice?" she demanded in disbelief, "He's got no clue what he's saying!"
Boy backed up toward the pole to the sound of rattling metal. Chris glanced at his ankle to determine that the chain he had noticed during his vision in the Underworld was still affixed to him. Unlike that one, though, this chain appeared detached from the pole, allowing the boy to roam freely in the abyss if he chose to. Chris had a feeling he likely would not make much use of the freedom.
Chris, too, climbed to his feet. When he moved to brush off his knees, he realized that, despite having knelt in the dirt, his pants were clean. "He decided, and that's final," he grunted impatiently. "If he changes his mind later, that's another story." When Krissy tried to argue with him, he deliberately turned away from her to face Perry. He had more important issues to deal with than her sense of justice or her temper.
To Perry, he said, "I need your help with something. There's a Phoenix after me." Though the man said nothing immediately in response, his brows drew downward, his lips tightened. Suspicious, Chris narrowed his eyes. "Have you encountered them before?"
His gaze suddenly somewhere far away, a distant smile ghosted across Perry's lips. "I have," he murmured softly.
"So have I," Demon piped up. Chris jerked his eyes over to him in surprise. Meanwhile, Krissy, giving up on interrupting the new flow of conversation, tossed up her hands before kneeling back before Boy in a quiet attempt to reason with him. "It was over a century ago," Demon continued. "Which is probably about the time you'd have been alive," he added with a nod to Perry. "Met her at my favorite Underworld bar."
"Yeah, she frequented those places. Said it was difficult to be a freelancer. That's where she found the most work."
"Who?" Chris wondered.
In unison, both Perry and Demon answered, "Bianca." Demon looked taken aback, but Perry seemed to have expected that they shared this person in their lives.
"Important people have a way of crossing your path in multiple timelines," he remarked.
"How is she important?" Chris asked. He did not like the idea of being cosmically bound to the woman trying to kill him.
At first Perry said nothing, which gave Demon the chance to chime in. "How is she important?" he repeated incredulously, "She's only the most incredible witch this world has ever seen!"
"I take offense at that," Chris intoned.
Demon threw up a hand to silence him, shaking his head in mock disappointment at Chris's ignorance. Marching to Chris's side, he draped his arm around his shoulder and forcibly turned him around to face the center where all the wedges met. The index finger at the nape of Chris's neck rose to gesture forward. Clearing his throat, Demon instructed, "Attend," and gave a dramatic wave of his hand.
The space rippled as a room began to take shape and Perry's and Sir Christopher's wedges behind it became obscured. The bar that appeared was one Chris recognized from the dream he'd had of Demon's life. Searching across the bar counter, Chris spotted his demonic self in his usual stool. As Demon nursed his drink, his eyes fell across a woman taking a seat at the opposite end of the counter. She had straight brown hair, a dark complexion, and intelligent brown eyes that assessed her surroundings in one sweeping look.
"That's the assassin who attacked me," Chris said.
"That's Bianca," Perry informed him, watching the scene hungrily.
In the scene, memory-Demon waved over the Grimlock tending the bar to order the woman a drink. He watched from the distance as the Grimlock mixed a noxious-looking gray liquid in a glass and set it down with a clink before her. When she looked up in surprise, the Grimlock motioned toward Demon. Bianca met his eyes and smiled when he tipped his own glass in her direction.
When she pushed back her stool and, drink in hand, glided toward him, Perry muttered, astonished, "I can't believe she ever gave you the time of day."
"Wait for it," Demon said with a grin.
Bianca made her way over. "You looking for an assassin?" she asked, flashing him the birthmark that Chris had seen earlier on the inside of her wrist.
Demon leaned forward in his stool, one arm propped on the counter to brace himself. "Looking for a date," he corrected.
Smiling sweetly, she stepped closer. In an almost-whisper, she said, "In that case…" and dumped the drink over his head before sauntering away.
Beside Chris, the real Demon sighed, "Isn't she perfect?" as Perry snorted fondly.
Memory-Demon sat back, alcohol dripping down his hair into his eyes as he watched her return to her seat. Without a word, the Grimlock came to mop up the pool that dripped steadily onto the countertop. "I think I'm in love," Demon said dreamily to the bartender, who merely grunted in response.
"That's the love of your life?" Chris said as the scene faded to nothing. He looked from Demon, who continued to stare fondly at the empty space, to Perry, who met his eyes and shrugged helplessly.
Many of the selves had wandered back to their spaces, bored by the scene unfolding. Christian had crossed into Boy's wedge and crouched beside him to introduce himself. (Boy, who tried his hardest to ignore Krissy's imploring, accepted Christian's nonjudgmental attention with relief.) But Ian had remained, riveted to Demon's memory.
"I know her," he remarked calmly.
Chris blinked at him in surprise. "You do?" Somehow, it had not occurred to him that one of his younger selves would be familiar with this woman who appeared to regularly consort with demons. Picturing a younger version of the assassin who tried twice now to kill him was difficult to fathom.
"Yeah. We met at a witch sanctuary a couple years ago. She was nice."
Chris's mind warred between the words witch sanctuary and nice, equally confused by both. Ultimately, he landed on the former. "A witch sanctuary?" he repeated in a question.
"These places that are warded to prevent mortals from finding us. Like refuge camps, only you can't stay very long." Ian shrugged as, in front of him, a large campfire flickered into view.
On a felled tree trunk just a yard away from the fire sat a row of people. Chris spotted Ian squashed in the middle, scraping down the bark of a stick with a dull-edged pocket knife. Beside him sat a young teen, her hair clipped back in a half pony to reveal Bianca's unmistakable face. She wore a well-bundled sweatshirt, nothing like the leather attire her adult self had worn, and a pair of thick, fingerless gloves. Above both their heads glinted a delicate web of gold flecks, the magical protection that prevented mortal detection.
The Ian at the campfire grunted as his blade got stuck in the wood and he had to jerk it free. "Here," said the girl beside him. When he looked up, he saw the double-edged knife she held out to him. "You have to keep them sharp for them to work right."
"Thanks," he said. Snapping his own blade closed, he pocketed it and accepted the one she held out to him. When he tried it on the stick, the knife sliced through the bark like butter. "Oh, that's real smooth," he said, grinning as strips of bark flaked to the ground between his sneakers.
He looked back up at her, squinting against the golden light that twinkled from above. "I'm Ian."
She tipped her head to the side as she assessed him. Even at this age, Chris saw the beginnings of the intense and lightning-fast scrutiny he had experienced during her attack. Finally, her shoulders relaxed. "Bianca," she replied.
Memory-Ian nodded at the red bird etched into her wrist. "Cool tattoo. My mamă says I can't get one."
"It's a birthmark," she replied, propping her elbows on her knees as she leaned toward the fire pit. Shadows danced in harsh lines across her features, and she closed her eyes against the fearsome heat.
"Neat," Ian said.
Someone came around with food, passing out bowls of thick stew. Bianca and Ian each accepted one with thanks. There were no spoons. Bianca was the first to tip the bowl into her mouth. She pulled a face when the first chunk of meat touched her tongue. Giggling, Ian tasted his own.
"How long you been here?" he asked her.
"Three weeks," she said. "Hunters burned down our house and stoned my aunt to death." Her gaze hard, she stared into her bowl, watching the liquid swirl as she tipped it back and forth.
"Sorry," Ian offered.
Bianca shrugged, expression unchanged. With carefully cultivated indifference, she told him, "Most of my family would've died young anyway. It's a hazard of the job. We're assassins."
"Cool!"
Ian's enthusiasm softened the edges of her lips just slightly; her eyes warmed as they landed on him. "I'm going to be the best," she confided, "One day, I'm going to kill every last witch hunter out there." Bringing the bowl back to her lips, she drained the rest of her stew.
"Can I help?" Ian asked eagerly.
"Sure," she replied. "We'll be partners." Bumping him playfully with her shoulder, she added, "Just as long as you remember to keep your knives sharp."
The campsite began to grow fuzzy, but instead of fading into the background of Perry and Sir Christopher's wedges it morphed and solidified into some other place entirely. A garden, from the looks of it, or the remains of one. Ivory pillars surrounded the enclosed space, along with a couple of toga-dressed statues. One had a stone bust that now squatted upside down in the dirt a few feet away from its body; the other was missing its entire upper half. Vines had encroached over the walls and across the ground, choking out the flora that had once been cultivated there.
And at the center, on a bench smudged with ash, sat an older version of himself and the Phoenix. Chris shot a quick look at Perry, who met his gaze steadily, to confirm that the memory belonged to him.
"We don't have much time out in the open like this," Bianca was warning memory-Perry, uttering it as a criticism. Folding her arms, she said, "What was so important that we had to leave the protection wards to see it?"
Patiently, memory-Perry cupped each of her hands in his own, drawing them away from her chest. With a sigh, she turned to face him fully. One of her hands he continued to cradle in his. The other he let drop into her lap so he could fish something small out of his pocket. Chris watched her go still beside his counterpart. Carefully, memory-Perry eased a zircon ring onto her finger.
"Will you marry me?" he murmured into the silence between them.
Chris's eyes went wide as he spun back toward the real Perry. "The assassin out to kill me is your wife?" he cried in disbelief.
The accusation seemed to land on Perry like a physical blow. His posture went rigid. Squeezing his eyes shut briefly, he corrected in a whisper, "Fiancée."
Chris did not miss the catch in Perry's voice. Biting his lip, he averted his gaze back to the happy couple. Bianca had raised her eyes to meet memory-Perry's, tears gleaming within them. The hopeful smile she couldn't quite bite back softened the harsh lines of her face, making her look younger, more human. Forcing Chris see her as a real person for the first time.
"You're asking me now?" she half-laughed, and he grunted a confirmation. "Here?" she pressed, her eyes darting for a single instant to the desolate garden around them before returning to Perry's face.
His hand slid comfortingly across her knee. "This is still our spot, Bianca," he insisted, "No matter what he's done to it."
The scene became hazy and translucent. They heard memory-Perry utter one last pleading, "Marry me," before the duo and their garden vanished completely. Chris wasn't sure what to say. Even Demon gave deference to Perry's silence.
Ian was the first to break it. Somehow, the warmth and sympathy in his tone, wise beyond his years, softened the question, "Why didn't you ever get married?" as he sidled closer.
Gazing past Ian to where Bianca had sat, Perry murmured, "She died." His eyes looked glassy but didn't leak. Ian set a hand on his arm, the gesture laden with compassion. Perry didn't lean into the touch, but he also didn't push it away.
In his dream, Chris stood in a row of six other people dressed in the same shapeless rag pulled snug with a rope cinched around the waist. Like the others, he was barefoot, his feet and shins littered with cuts and bruises. All seven of them were chained together with shackles on their wrists and ankles. Because, at four years old, Chris was by far the youngest of the prisoners, all of whom had long since reached adulthood, he had to keep his hands raised to his shoulders to prevent the conjoined metal from chafing his skin.
The seven were tugged onto a narrow stage, forced to huddle together to avoid falling off the edges. Chris was the last to climb the steps but the first to be yanked forward, nearly tripping on the chain tangled around his feet.
The broker demon held him upright by his collar, making his smock ride up above his knees. "Don't underestimate this next one, folks," the broker called, pitching his voice to be heard over the chatter of the demonic marketplace. "He may be pint-sized, but he more than makes up for it in the power department. Let's have a demonstration."
Releasing Chris's collar, he rested a hand on the wrist shackles, his own hands beginning to glow lime green as he drained power from the magical binding. Chris's vision swam. He felt suddenly sick and empty to the depths of his stomach. Fatigue hit him like a truck, causing his knees to buckle. The only thing keeping him vertical was the vicelike grip on his wrists.
The broker lifted his free arm up in front of him, opening his palm. Between his fingers danced pale blue orbs, twining around his knuckles, to the impressed oohs and aahs of his audience. Closing his hand into a fist, he snuffed out the orbs and twitched his wrist. The ring of iron keys that dangled around his belt unlatched themselves and rose up to his hand, where he snatched them out of the air.
There was a smattering of applause from the audience as the demon dropped his hand from Chris's cuff and the magic flooded back into the boy, trapped beneath his flesh. With an oily grin, the broker added, "And he's young yet, which means more powers are sure to come." He took a moment to re-hook the keys back on his belt before saying, "Shall we start the bidding at seven powers?"
When Chris awoke, covered in sweat and feeling woozy, the first thing he did was wave his hand to summon his magic. He felt it there, simmering just under his skin, ready to leap at his command. But as soon as he used it, just a smidge to reassure himself he could, causing the papers on his desk to rustle, a sharp pain erupted in his chest.
Gasping, he stumbled off his bed clutching his shirt. In the first moments of the morning, still hazy with sleep and half-stuck in his dream, he had forgotten the wound the Phoenix—his one-time fiancée no less!—had inflicted on him.
He hated feeling powerless. Magic was a sixth sense to him, an extension of himself. He had to solve this issue quickly. Last night, he and Wyatt had agreed that Chris would skip school today, mostly to avoid another run-in, since Bianca would likely expect him there. He would use the time instead to try to turn the tables by finding her location, taking the fight to her and hopefully catching her off guard long enough to hit her with Prue's potion.
A part of him did feel bad about vanquishing his other self's girlfriend, but he had not started this fight. And in this timeline she was clearly a different person.
Downstairs, Chris made a show of getting ready for school, finishing breakfast, and following Wyatt to the foyer. But once they were out of their parents' earshot, Wyatt touched his forearm and orbed him to a deserted spot in the Underworld. They had decided this would be the safest place for him to lie low, out of reach of any sensing powers the assassin might have access to.
"I filled Prue in on the plan," Wyatt said as Chris assessed the space. It was pretty cramped, blocked in on all sides with piles of boulders that would conceal him from outside view. The crevice in one of the boulders also looked like it might make a relatively comfortable seat with its smooth, unbroken surface.
"We'll pick you up after school and go from there. Try not to use your powers until I get back," Wyatt warned.
"Trust me," Chris said darkly, massaging his breastbone, "I know."
Wyatt orbed away, leaving Chris alone. With a loudly heaved sigh that reverberated off the rocky walls, he dropped his knapsack at his feet and unzipped the top pocket. He had packed well for the day: a map of the state of California (he had reckoned, after learning of Perry's relationship with her, that for them to have met in the apocalypse, Bianca likely lived in the area), a scrying crystal, the dagger he had gotten off her during their first fight, and some snacks to tide him over throughout the day
In addition, in the smallest pouch, he had stashed the three potion vials as well as, in the largest, some homework that he had neglected the night before in the unlikely event that he found himself bored enough to get some done.
Taking out the map first, he unfolded it on the smoothest boulder. Wrapping one end of the scrying string around the hilt of the dagger, he knelt before the map and dangled the crystal above it. He gave it a gentle swing to start off, then let it move itself, rotating at a steady rate as he guided it from one corner of the map to the other.
Nothing jumped out on his first try, but scrying rarely worked that quickly. Often intent mattered just as much as the intimacy of the object used to scry. He had plenty of time. Settling in for a long morning, he continued his search.
By early afternoon, Chris had found and made note of a couple of hot spots that were likely candidates. There were a couple of hits in San Bernardino when he scried for assassins, some strong tugs between Fresno and Tulare when he focused on Phoenixes specifically, and at least three when he concentrated on any creature who siphoned magic. But only one, an address on the coast of Santa Barbara, was a mark for all three.
When Wyatt and Prue orbed into his little alcove after school, there was barely enough room to maneuver. Prue pressed her back into one of the taller boulders to give Chris space to pack everything away. The crystal he wrapped up in its string, the map he folded carefully along the creases, before stuffing both into the pocket with his untouched homework. When he swung the knapsack over his shoulder, it whacked Wyatt in the face. "Careful," Wyatt complained.
"Sorry. Can you get into the bottom pouch? I left the potions in there." Ultimately, only Prue could reach between them to retrieve the vials. She distributed them to her brothers, wedging her own into the front pocket of her jeans. She was nervous but, aside from the way she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, didn't let it show.
Wyatt took a couple minutes to orb Chris's knapsack back to his bedroom so Chris wouldn't have the extra burden weighing him down during the battle. Once he returned, Chris conveyed to him the address he had found. They linked hands, and Wyatt orbed them out of the Underworld, rematerializing in a spacious living room with sleek, gray furniture. The room looked simple—all clean, sharp lines—and well-kept. Splashes of brighter colors appeared in accent pillows, hanging photographs of landscapes, and the striped blue and orange vase at the center of the coffee table. One entire wall was floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view from above of the glittering sun reflecting off the Pacific Ocean.
"Do you think it's her apartment?" Wyatt wondered a bit too loudly.
"Did you hear that?" grunted a male voice from another room. All three of them tensed in anticipation. Prue stuffed her hand into her pocket to wrap her fingers around her potion.
Between the living room and open kitchen, which appeared just as pristine, was a short hallway. It was from this direction that the demon entered. He had shock-white hair and wore a trench coat that brought with it the familiar sulfuric stench of the Underworld. When he turned toward them, his bright red eyes widened in surprise.
"What—?"
Without giving anyone a chance to react, Prue leapt forward and launched her vial at his feet. It landed on the soft gray carpet without shattering, but Chris, thinking quickly, closed his hand into a fist, crushing the glass with his powers. His chest flared with a pain that drove him to his knees, but the potion released a plume of smoke that rose rapidly to swallow the demon, vanquishing him instantly.
Wyatt crouched at Chris's side to help him stand. "I told you not to use your powers," he chastised in a voice just above a whisper. Chris grunted with effort but managed to stay on his feet unaided, though only just. Unlike the last time he used his powers, this time the throbbing did not dissipate. It forced him to draw shallow breaths. Anything deeper sent fiery shards piercing through his lungs.
Once he managed to cut through the sensation, at least enough to stabilize his swimming vision and focus on the present, he cast a glance at Prue, who looked wide-eyed and white-faced as she stared at him. "Fast reflexes," he complimented quietly. She gave a tight, trembling smile, not daring to risk speaking herself.
"Brother, what was it?" they heard from the direction the demon had come.
Glancing at each other, the three shifted toward the hallway. A few yards down on the left side lay an open door. Wyatt held up his hand, gesturing for his siblings to wait, pressed his back against the wall, and inched toward the door.
"Brother?" the voice called again, closer this time. The second demon stepped over the threshold, eyes landing on Prue and Chris, missing Wyatt entirely. "What have you done to my brother?" he snarled.
"We vanquished him," Wyatt replied from beside him. The demon whipped around to face him just as Wyatt flung out his arm with a wave of telekinesis. Just before it hit, the demon threw up a palm. It glowed pink, absorbing Wyatt's magic.
"Chris, your potion!" Prue squeaked.
The demon's eyes narrowed. The edges of his body began to glow as red as his eyes. Realizing escape was imminent, Wyatt cried, "No!" and flung himself at the demon. His arms wrapped around the demon's knees as the two vanished in a puff.
"Wyatt!" Prue cried, latching onto Chris's forearm with terror. "We have to go after them!"
"We can't," Chris replied grimly. "I can't use my powers, remember?" He had a feeling if he used them again he'd end up losing consciousness. As it was, he could barely manage the pain, and he dreaded to think what would happen to Prue if he fainted mid-orb.
Prue's grip on him tightened. With a sigh, Chris unlatched her hand and held her gently by each arm. He gave a tender shake until she raised her eyes to meet his. "He'll be fine," he assured her. "Wyatt has plenty of experience hunting demons." Though Prue looked terrified as ever, at least she nodded. "Come on, we've still got one potion left for the Phoenix."
Grasping her hand to reassure her, Chris edged toward the open door and peered inside. Bianca wasn't there. Unlike the muted hues of the living room and kitchen, this room had been painted a canary yellow. Beside the door stood a white dresser and, next to that, a changing table. At the far end, against the wall with a window overlooking the ocean, in one corner sat a wooden rocking chair, in the other a white basinet.
From over Chris's shoulder, Prue said, "Is that a…?"
They stepped inside. "I think it is," Chris replied numbly.
Releasing his hand, Prue glided closer to the basinet as she peered at the slumbering child within. "Does that mean it's the wrong place?"
Chris glanced at the dresser beside him. On it someone had propped a frame with a close-up photo of a newborn child, its eyes still glued shut, and Bianca's face, her eyes closed, too, nestled up against the infant, kissing its cheek.
"It's her apartment, all right," he said bleakly. His churning gut didn't like where this was headed.
The instant Prue lay a hand on the rim of the basinet, an astringent siren pierced the air. The infant asleep in it jolted awake and let out a high-pitched wail that rivaled the alarm.
"Shh, shh, it's okay," Prue murmured. Reaching into the basinet, she lifted the baby up in her arms. The child, no older than four months, was wrapped in a knitted, multicolored blanket with her arms free to flail. Prue groped around inside the basinet for the pacifier the baby had dropped when it began to cry, then pressed it to the baby's lips until she began to suck. Cradling her close, Prue began to rock her back and forth, cooing into her ear. Though the siren continued to blare, the baby, with a hiccup, began to settle. Prue smiled when a tiny hand reached up and curled around her index finger. On the exposed wrist was a small, red bird.
Prue peered up at Chris. "She's so cute," she exclaimed quietly.
Suddenly, the siren stopped. Prue looked relieved, but Chris didn't think it boded well. Quickly, he crossed the room to stand in front of his sister. An instant later, the Phoenix shimmered in.
She seemed to have expected someone else, likely those two demons, because her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly when they landed on Chris and Prue. From somewhere behind her back she withdrew a dagger, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white. "Let. Her. Go."
In this moment, noting the barely-concealed panic in Bianca's eyes, Chris knew without a doubt he had the upper hand. He also knew he would never use it. Turning to the frightened Prue, he carefully retrieved the cooing baby. He tried to hide a wince as one of the flailing arms whacked his wounded chest. It left him short of breath. Eyes glued to the weapon, he closed the gap between himself and his would-be assassin. She re-sheathed her dagger behind her back and opened her arms for Chris to deposit the baby in them. Without taking his eyes off Bianca, he took a quick step back to Prue.
Bianca seemed to hardly notice them, though, as she pressed her nose against her child's forehead. "You're okay," she whispered, hugging the small body to her chest, "I've got you now. Those nasty demons can't hurt you anymore."
Until that, Chris hadn't been entirely certain of the demons' purpose here. For all he knew, Phoenixes hired demonic babysitters while they went about assassinating people. But the relief in her voice as she cooed to her child told a different story.
"We vanquished one of them," Chris offered uncertainly. "My brother's after the second one as we speak." When she looked up to acknowledge his statement, the hard assassin's stare had melted into something softer. With a flash, he thought of the teen playfully bantering with Ian beside a campfire, the woman blinking away tears as Perry slid a ring on her finger. Bianca the mother was much more like these two iterations than the killer he had previously encountered.
It hadn't occurred to him before, mostly because he thought of her more like a demon, ageless, but standing here watching her embrace her baby it struck him that, as a witch, she was likely much younger than he had assumed. To be honest, she didn't look that many years older than Wyatt.
"What are you, nineteen?" Chris asked cautiously.
She stared at him, assessing whether or not the information could be used against her in some way. At length, she answered, "Twenty."
Chris held his breath. "Truce, Bianca?" He wasn't sure what he would do if she didn't agree. He still had one potion left, but he couldn't imagine trying to vanquish a mother.
Bianca narrowed her eyes. "How do you know my name?"
With a half-smile, he hitched up one shoulder in a shrug. "We know each other, apparently. In another life."
She frowned but didn't press further. Chris tried to wait her out, but the steady ache in his chest was draining his stamina. At a certain point, his knees buckled. He grabbed the edge of the basinet to stabilize himself at the same time that Prue caught him by the arm, but Bianca clearly noticed.
"I can reverse that," she said, nodding at his chest. Chris hesitated. "I either have to drain you dry or reverse it," she continued, sensing his unwillingness to take her statement at face value. "If I do nothing, you'll die soon."
Prue's grip on his arm constricted. He realized then that he had not told her about the gaping wound his attacker had inflicted on him. He didn't like the idea, but Bianca was right: he couldn't very well do nothing. Even without the impact to his magic, eventually the oozing hole in his chest would begin to fester.
Sighing, he gently pried loose from Prue's grasp. "It's fine, Prue," he assured, then locked eyes with Bianca, "I trust her." If she was telling the truth and really did heal him, he would take it as an olive branch, an indication that she agreed to his truce. If she was lying, then he would be at her mercy.
Intuiting his thought process, Bianca offered him the strongest reassurance she could by turning to Prue and saying, "You'll need to hold her while I work."
Prue gave an eep! at being addressed directly but, after checking for a nod from Chris, dutifully stepped forward to accept the bundle. "Hey there, cutie," she crooned, extending one finger to be latched onto.
When Bianca motioned Chris forward, he came willingly this time. She put one firm hand on his shoulder, the other on top of his chest. "This will hurt," she warned.
"Oh, I know," he said with a humorless smile. Despite his nonchalance, his heart pounded, and he knew she could feel it thrumming through his shirt.
"Take a deep breath," she instructed. The moment his lungs filled, she pressed her hand into his torso. He could tell she was trying to do this more gently than her first attempt, but that didn't mean much. The process of streaming his powers back into his body seemed to set his nerve endings on fire. Every part of him tingled and burned until, after a span of time that felt truly endless, she withdrew her fist.
The hand on his shoulder kept him steady as he drew in a couple of shaky breaths. A few feet away, he noticed Prue had squeezed her eyes shut. "So gross," she whispered to herself on repeat.
"Better?" Bianca asked as he stumbled away from her. He nodded as Prue handed the child back to the assassin. Once her baby was deposited back in her arms, she cleared her throat uncomfortably. Chris squinted up at her from his keeled-over position. "Thank you," she said at last. "I wouldn't have taken the job if the demon who hired me hadn't sent those Parasites to keep me from my daughter." She seemed to feel it important that he knew this, but Chris was struck by a different thought.
"Someone hired you? Who?"
Wincing, she averted her eyes. "I can't," she said, "I'm sorry."
Chris surged forward, desperate. "What does that mean? Why not?"
She walked around Chris and then Prue to the basinet, where she leaned over to tuck her baby back into bed. Raking her fingers through the soft tufts of the girl's hair, she said, "I can't give him another reason to come after my daughter. I can take her, find a safe place for us. But if he finds out I gave you critical information like that…" She closed her eyes, said again, "I'm sorry."
What could Chris say to that? Her dedication to family was as resolute as any Halliwells, and he would expect nothing less from one of them. Somewhat reluctantly, he sighed, "I get it."
When he turned to Prue to orb them, Bianca called after them, "Just… stay alert. He's determined to win." She turned to face them, leaning against the basinet with her hands gripping its rim. "For what it's worth, I hope you outlive him."
"Uh, thanks," Chris said. Eyes closed, he took a moment to reach out his sensing powers to locate Wyatt—at a secluded forest a couple counties away—lay a hand on Prue's elbow and orbed them away.
The duo rematerialized at the perimeter of a strange clearing, where all the trees had been ripped out of the ground for ten feet in every direction. Every root had been vaporized; trunks lay askew. And at the epicenter of this razed earth crouched Wyatt on his hands and knees, groaning, with his shield up as the demon, its back to Chris and Prue, towered above him. The shield, normally a vibrant sky blue, looked so sheer it was almost invisible, and it flickered precariously. The Parasite's outstretched hands glowed pink as he siphoned off power from what remained of it.
With one arm Chris shoved Prue to safety behind a tree at the edge of the clearing while, in the same motion, his other arm sliced the air. Too focused on draining Wyatt's power, the demon did not notice fast enough to absorb Chris's attack. The stream of magic between Wyatt and the Parasite stuttered out like a candle as he went crashing into a tree at the opposite end of the clearing. A gash split open across the demon's temple but within seconds had knit itself neatly together again. Meanwhile, completely spent, Wyatt crumpled into the dirt and dead leaves beneath him.
Chris didn't give the demon time to recover. Snatching up the potion stowed in his pocket, he hurled it as hard as he could. When it smashed against the tree trunk over the demon's head, his body was swarmed by a thick cloud of smoke. He vanished before he could even scream.
Prue scrambled past Chris, dropping to her knees beside Wyatt and calling his name. When Chris joined her, together, the two managed to roll their brother onto his back. He was still breathing, his chest rising and falling at a steady rate. When Prue grabbed his shoulders to shake him awake, he moaned, "Stop, stop, I'm not unconscious," without opening his eyes.
"What happened?" Chris demanded. Never before had he seen Wyatt lose.
Blinking lethargically, Wyatt stared up at his brother with haunted eyes. "Everything I threw at him just made him stronger. How did you…?"
Chris shrugged. "He was distracted, that's all." Sticking out his hand, he helped Wyatt into a sitting position.
Feeling a bit dizzy, Wyatt drew up his knees to lean his forehead against them. The pitiful picture his brother made reminded Chris with a jolt of Boy, curled into himself in his wedge. It was so disjointed a connection, his powerful brother with the helpless child version of himself, that Chris for a moment was struck speechless, could think of nothing reassuring to say until Wyatt raised his own voice to ask, "Did you get the Phoenix?" He felt a small hand start to rub circles on his back and tilted his head to the side to smile at Prue, as much to reassure her as to express gratitude for the soothing gesture.
Shaking away the errant reminder of the submissive slave child, Chris assured, "She won't be bothering us anymore,"
Prue piped up to add, "She has the cutest little baby. We're kind of friends now."
Too bewildered to know how to respond to that, Wyatt only expelled a lungful of air and folded his face back into his kneecaps. "Come on," Chris said as he clamored to his feet. The knees of his pants were covered in dead leaves, which he brushed off with a distracted air. "Let's get you healed." It took both him and Prue, grunting from their brother's added weight, to heave Wyatt to his feet. Even then, to remain upright he needed to be supported with an arm draped around Chris's shoulder, Chris's hand on his chest to keep him stabilized.
At eight and a half months pregnant, Paige had been put on bed rest. After at least one late-term miscarriage, her doctor had wanted to play it safe. (She had found herself a witch gynecologist, who understood that for Paige an average day included the occasional demon attack, a firm no from a medical standpoint.) So when the siblings orbed to her apartment, they found her curled up on her couch underneath an afghan, flipping through channels with the remote.
"My favorite niece and nephews!" Paige said brightly when she saw them. "Come to visit me in my infirmed state?" Tossing the remote onto the cushion beside her, she opened her arms in welcome. As they stepped closer, she noticed how heavily Wyatt leaned on Chris and quickly dropped her chipper tone. "What happened?"
Chris guided Wyatt over to the couch. With effort, Paige shifted her legs to the floor so he could sit. "We were attacked by Parasite demons," Chris explained before Wyatt or Prue could let the truth slip. He didn't relish the thought of their parents finding out they had tracked a magical assassin to her own turf to vanquish her without their approval, but he stuck as much to the truth as possible under the circumstances. "We managed to vanquish them, but they siphoned some of Wyatt's magic."
"We were hoping you could heal him," Prue chimed in.
For his part, Wyatt remained uncommonly quiet, cowed even, avoiding eye contact with anyone until Paige put a hand on his knee.
"Oh, kid, I'm sorry," she said with a sympathetic wince, "You can't heal magical drainage. It's like exhaustion; you just have to sleep it off."
"But he looks awful!" Prue protested.
As Paige barked out a laugh, Wyatt wrinkled his nose and grumbled, "Gee, thanks, Prue."
Instead of shooing them out, Paige let Wyatt catch his breath on the couch while she shuffled off to the kitchen to grab him a glass of cold water from the fridge, the cup clinking with ice when she returned. He sipped at it, politely expressing his gratitude, but seemed too uncomfortable with the attention to stay more than a few minutes. Only halfway through the drink, he set it down on the coffee table and insisted he was strong enough to go home (though he needed Chris to steady him when he stood up too fast and his vision briefly swirled).
In the time it took the trio to orb home and shuffle into the kitchen, Paige had already managed to fill Piper in. "It's like sister voodoo," Wyatt muttered to his siblings as their mother swooped down on him to check him for injuries.
Once she was satisfied that he would survive, she sent him up to bed with the promise that she would send food up after him. Chris and Prue tried to tiptoe, unnoticed, upstairs while Piper rummaged through the fridge, but she straightened to point them to the table with an expression that brooked no argument.
While she got to work heating some leftover chicken soup on the stove, she pelted the pair with questions. How had this happened? Why had she heard about it secondhand? Were they positive the demons had been properly vanquished? They—mostly Chris while Prue sat carefully silent beside him—answered as honestly as they could without revealing anything about their encounter with the Phoenix.
As Chris, at her demand, walked Piper through the attack, she plied them with food of their own. Until then, tight with nerves, Prue had been unable to even contemplated the possibility of eating. Now, finally, relief washed through her, making her taut shoulders go limp and allowing her to tuck in with gusto to the plate of eggplant parmesan set before her. Once the siblings finished their meal, Piper shoved a tray into Chris's hands and sent him up to Wyatt with a piping hot bowl of soup.
He knocked but got no answer. Without a free hand, he twitched his nose to telekinetically twist the doorknob, hypersensitive now to his own magic inside his skin, as if having it blocked for the day had somehow attuned his senses to its presence once the dam broke.
Wyatt lay on top of his covers, fast asleep, with his clothes and sneakers still on. He had picked up a book to peruse while he waited, but as he dozed it had fallen upside down across his chest, pages crumpled beneath the covers.
Tiptoeing over to the bed, Chris set down the soup tray and eased the book out of his brother's slack grip. He smoothed out the pages, then set it beside the tray as Wyatt blearily opened his eyes.
"You should change," Chris remarked, "You're covered in mud."
Wyatt grunted something incomprehensible and tried to wave Chris off. With a shrug, Chris started for the door. On the way, he spotted a pair of rumpled pajama pants splayed out on the floor and knelt to retrieve them. "Here," he said, lobbing them at Wyatt's face, "In case you change your mind." He flicked the light shut as he left, easing the door closed behind him.
Reviews are greatly appreciated!
Review reply to Guest - I hope you enjoyed what you saw of Bianca. I tried to do her scenes justice.