I can't begin to apologize for such a long delay – and at such a crucial moment in the narrative. Already working on editing the next chapter as we speak, so there shouldn't be a terribly long wait for the next update.

IAN

Ian's parents were arguing quietly in the kitchen while Ian, pretending to sleep, eavesdropped from his bunk bed. Above him, his younger brother Xander snored while the youngest, Benji, in the bunk below him was quiet. Across from them, his sister Rhoda's curtain was drawn for privacy. "It's time we settle down. We've run far enough," Tată urged.

"And if they flush us out?" Mamă demanded, her hushed voice laced with suppressed unease.

"This is upstate New York, not the middle of Texas," Tată protested. "They don't hate our kind here."

"They hate us everywhere," Mamă argued. "Just because they're more open about it in the South doesn't mean it doesn't exist up here. And even if they accept our kind, what about Chris and Xander and Benji? There's talk of forced registration for witches, you know. I heard about it on the news. Pretty soon, there will be nowhere for our boys to hide."

"There's no way Congress would let it get that far."

"Oh no? They've let it get this far. People are burning crosses on lawns. When has the government ever been on our side?"

Ian felt a rustling beneath him. When he glanced below his bunk, a pair of wide brown eyes met his own; Benji had been listening in as well. His fingers clutched the hem of his blanket, which he had drawn up to his chin. At seven, and the youngest, Benji was usually the most jittery of them all. Though Ian had to force it a bit, he offered his brother as reassuring a smile as he could muster. Although their father always meant well, after all these years Ian had learned to trust his mother's instincts. She was usually right about these things.

Flipping himself to face the wall, he traced a finger over one of the protective symbols etched into the bus walls. We'll be okay, he insisted to himself fiercely. Mamă and Tată won't let anything happen to us.

Suddenly, his parents' voices were gone. When he sat up in confusion, feeling a frantic pulse in his throat that he couldn't quite justify as he threw back his covers, a glare of red and orange sprayed in through the windows. Squinting, he peered out through one of the glass panes. Outside their parked bus stood a twenty-foot-tall wooden cross, engulfed in flames.

Heart pounding, Ian stumbled off his bed, bare feet landing with a thump on the polyvinyl floor. He shook Benji awake. "Come on," he urged, "We gotta find Mamă and Tată."

Smoke began to curl in around the poorly-sealed panes of glass. The flames had raced across the grass and were licking up the wheels of their bus. "We have to get—we have to—" But as his lungs vehemently protested the polluted air, a persistent cough abruptly severed his sentence midway through.

Eyes stinging, Ian grabbed his brother by the hand and yanked him out of bed. "But what about Xander and Rhoda?" Benji protested. But through the row of windows, Ian saw a boisterous crowd of people cluster closer to their bus. If he and Benji didn't leave now, they wouldn't leave at all.

Shoving Benji's head low so he couldn't be seen through the windows, Ian led the way, crawling on hands and knees to the back of the bus. He shimmied past the curtain that separated the rest of their home from their parents' bed. Esmé and Isaac were nowhere to be found.

Carefully, Ian crawled across their mattress to reach the back of the bus, where he pried open the bar on the emergency exit. His father had parked with the back of the bus facing the forest; if they made a run for it, maybe no one would spot them escaping. Inching the door open, he peered outside.

A roaring greeted him, along with the most intense heat blasting him in the face. There, in the distance, past the flames growing higher around their home, stood his parents, frantically trying to wave the crowd away.

Nobody was paying attention to the back door as it crept open. The path into the woods was clear. Now was their chance.

Shoving Benji out before him, Ian hopped down, clasped his brother's hand in his own, and made a mad dash for the trees.

SIR CHRISTOPHER

Sir Christopher had only ever dreamt of becoming a knight of the round table, a fantasy, and yet here he sat, two chairs away from the mighty King Arthur himself. Around him gathered an array of talented, noble knights all, like him, bedecked in their finest armor.

King Arthur alone was clad in a silk tunic and deep, velvet cape, a gold crown atop his head. While the others waited, the man stroked his graying beard, deep in thought.

"Morgan le Fay has stolen Excalibur." He spoke softly enough that all had to lean in to hear him. "And now she comes for me. To steal my throne and subjugate all of Camelot."

"Sire," said the knight beside Sir Christopher, "We must seek her out before she can bring harm to you."

"No," King Arthur replied calmly, raising one patient hand. "Your duty is to my people. Protect them. Merlin will track down the fiend. With his help, I will retrieve my sword and restore order. Go. Do your duty, knights of the round table. Protect this realm."

Several of the knights stood, bowed their heads, and exited the room. Though he stood when they did, Sir Christopher did not depart. He came to his king with his head bowed and knelt at Arthur's feet, both arms folded across one knee.

"Your majesty."

He felt a hand on the crown of his head. "Rise, Sir Christopher." He had never imagined hearing his name from the mouth of this most honored leader and had to force himself to lift his gaze to meet those dark brown eyes. "Do not hold your tongue on my account."

"Sire, my duty is to the realm, yes, but without you this realm will collapse. The people of Camelot need their king. I beg you let me remain by your side until the threat has been eradicated." Certain his blatant disregard of a direct instruction would provoke ire, he directed his gaze to the ground in shame. But the hand on his head moved to his shoulder, drawing his eyes back to the monarch.

"You are a most trustworthy knight, Sir Christopher. I would be glad to have you at my side to defeat Morgan le Fay."

KRISSY

Krissy was supposed to have met her boyfriend at their favorite café over an hour ago. Ryan was rarely late, and he always called ahead if something was holding him up. Krissy had already drained the iced coffee she had ordered upon arrival and was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable about occupying a table for so long with just a four-dollar drink to show for it.

After another sixteen minutes—she timed it—she called it quits, tossed her empty cup in the bin, and headed out to the bike she had locked to a tree trunk on the sidewalk outside the café. On her ride home, she took a detour to Ryan's house.

According to his mother, Ryan had left an hour and a half ago to meet her. "He didn't make it there?" she asked, brow furrowed in concern.

Though Krissy finally began to feel a stab of worry worm its way into her chest, to Ryan's mother she said, "We probably just got our wires crossed. I'm sure he's fine."

Even before his mother had closed the door, Krissy was leading her bike down the path back to the sidewalk, knuckles white against the handlebars. Swinging her body over the seat, she pedaled hard to peel into the street at top speed.

Back at home, she headed up to the Book of Shadows without any real sense of what she should even search for, just a vague sentiment that something was amiss. Before she even crossed the threshold into the attic, she froze. There, hanging in midair at the center of the room, were flames that fed on nothing, vines of fire that twisted into shapes, into letters, to spell out the words, Come and find him.

While she stood rooted to the spot, the sentence faded into darkness. Her pulse began to pound rapidly in her ears. No. This could not be happening.

Thrusting back the dread that crept up her spine, immobilizing her, she forced herself into motion. She had to find Ryan, and she had to find him now.

The purse she hadn't bothered to release before rushing upstairs still dangled from its strap off one shoulder. Now, she dug through it to retrieve the key to her bike lock. Attached to it was a keychain Ryan had bought her for their four-month anniversary. A lime green cat face with wide, round eyes and a small paw touching either cheek.

Clenching it in her palm, she marched over to the table where they kept their maps. She picked a local one to unfold across the surface, grabbed a scrying crystal, looped the end of the string around her keychain, bent over the map, and began to scry.

When the crystal landed on an empty warehouse clear across the city, she sprinted back downstairs, detouring just long enough to grab a selection of potion vials from the kitchen cabinet. Stuffing these into her purse, she seized her bike off the front stoop and raced through the neighborhood.

As soon as she arrived, she leapt off her bike while still in motion and let it skid on its side before crashing to a stop beside an overfilled dumpster, its back wheel spinning frantically in the air. Creeping to the giant sliding door, she pushed it a couple of inches to the side and peered through the gap. From within she heard a familiar voice moan.

Grim with determination, she reached her hand into her purse, closed her fist around a glass vial, and then squeezed in past the door. In the middle of the cavernous space was a teenager with short-cropped red hair tied with a rope to a wide support pillar. He could barely stand upright, and his head dangled limply, droplets of blood pattering the ground at his feet.

All thought of strategy flew from Krissy's mind. "Ryan!" she cried, darting toward him. At the sound of his name, the boy's chin rose a couple inches. When she reached him, she tenderly placed her hands on his cheeks and helped him lift his head.

"Ryan, are you okay?" she half-begged. "Talk to me, babe. Open your eyes, come on."

One of his eyes had been swollen shut. Above the eyebrow was a shallow laceration. Blood dripped out of one nostril, over his bottom lip, which had been split. But after her pleading, he managed to blink his good eye open. His dirt-smeared forehead creased at his disoriented confusion.

"K-Krissy?" he groaned, "What are you…"

But his stuttered question was cut off by a high-pitched cackle. In one smooth motion, Krissy whipped around, drew the first vial out of her purse, and hurled it in the direction from which the laughter emanated.

The potion never reached its target. Just feet away from a bald, painted red face with horns protruding from its forehead, the vial veered suddenly off course in the opposite direction. It shattered against the concrete floor all the way across the echoing room. Curls of smoke rose from the broken shards of glass, swirling around before they dissipated.

Not deterred, Krissy raised her arm. In a sharp jerk, she clenched her fingers into a fist. This was how she had always used her power of combustion. The instant her nails dug into her palm usually scattered demons' bodies into millions of atoms, but this demon remained unaffected by her powers.

"Uh oh," she murmured grimly.

Another cackle echoed across the space to Krissy and her boyfriend. "Come to save your dear love, little witchy?" the demon taunted.

Fists balling at her sides, Krissy ordered, "Let him go!"

"Why, certainly!" the demon chirped amiably. He twiddled his fingers, and the bindings fell away. Without the ropes restraining him, Ryan sagged to the floor.

Krissy spun to grab him around the shoulders, sinking down with the weight of his body. "Ryan? Ryan?" she said urgently.

But Ryan craned his neck to be able to look into her eyes. His own were wide with a chaotic blend of confusion, disbelief, and horror. "D-did he call you a witch?"

It seemed insane to her that, with everything he had gone through, his mind still managed to register the demon's taunts, more insane still that under these perilous circumstances she would seem to him as the greatest threat to address.

"I'm here to save you, Ryan!" she said, trying to wrap an arm around his chest to lend support. "Come on, we need to get you—"

Moaning with effort, Ryan shoved her hands away. "You—this is—you're part of this!" he spat. "S-stay away from me. You're a freak. I don't want anything to do with you." Stumbling to his feet, he began to back away.

When Krissy tried to reach a hand toward him, the heap of ropes sprang up from the floor to tangle around her limbs. As she began to struggle, the demon giggled, "Oh, did I forget to mention the provisions for his freedom were that you give up your own? Dear, dear me. How forgetful…"

Taking his opportunity, Ryan dashed to the open door, leaving Krissy behind.

[Tuesday, May 12, 2020]

Leo sat slumped over Chris's hospital bed, his head wedged beside Chris's arm while his hand loosely clung to Chris's limp fingers. Behind the bed, the steady beeping from the monitor had lulled him into half a doze.

Just before he began to snore, Piper poked her head around the open doorway. When she saw her husband's torso draped over the mattress, she tiptoed farther into the room to quietly set her purse down on the rolling table that someone had shifted into the corner. Creeping up beside Leo, she rested a hand on his back.

Grunting awake, Leo sat back. As he blinked fatigue from his eyes, he twisted in his chair to peer over his shoulder.

"Hey," Piper said softly.

He returned the greeting, then asked, already feeling doubtful from the defeated look on her face, "Find anything in the Book?"

Piper averted her gaze to her son's still form. A thin nasal cannula ran beneath his nose, making sure he got enough oxygen; his face was pallid. "Nothing," she admitted with reluctance. "We don't even know where to start. Phoebe's sticking around the house in case one of the family ghosts starts flipping pages, but without a hint…" Unwilling to vocalize the end of her sentence, her voice trailed off.

After a pregnant pause, she asked, "Any updates on your end?"

"The doctor hasn't come in yet today," Leo replied. Still grasping his son's fingers, he leaned forward and, with his free hand, swiped a stray lock of hair off the boy's pale forehead. Casting a quick glance at Piper beside him, he asked, "Did Wyatt and Prue come with you?"

The ghost of a smile echoed across Piper's face. "They went to grab you a coffee from the cafeteria. They should be up soon."

The couple waited in silence until they heard the squeaking of sneakers against the floor in the hallway beyond the door. They squealed to a stop a few feet away, backed up, and Prue peered inside. "Found them," she told her brother outside the door, and then both she and Wyatt ambled inside.

As Prue claimed the second chair, slouching against the backrest, Wyatt passed his father a steaming Styrofoam cup, then found a spot to lean against the windowsill. "How is he?" he asked the room.

"The same," Leo answered, the words crossing his lips almost unwillingly.

Wyatt looked physically pained by this update. In a quiet voice, he offered, "I could… try again?"

Leo took his eyes off Chris long enough to toss his older son a defeated smile. "Thank you, kiddo, but it's a waste of your strength. If it didn't work before, there's no reason it would now."

Piper pressed a hand to the prone boy's forehead. "We'll get you out of this, Chris. Just hang in there."

While trading places with her so that she could take up the vigil at their son's bedside, Leo forced himself to ask his other kids about their schoolwork, though the subject could not have meant less to him in this moment. Wyatt had started to study for final exams, now three weeks away. Prue, in desperate need of a distraction, had finished her book report ten days early.

When the doctor finally made his rounds, Piper and Leo ejected their two children from the room for the conversation. The doctor did not bring promising news. In fact, he did not bring much news at all. They still had no clues as to the cause of their patient's sudden coma. "We have the results of his CT scan, and there doesn't appear to be an injury of any kind. No swelling that we can see. Spinal tap shows no signs of meningitis or other brain infection. No signs of a stroke, either, and bloodwork shows glucose levels are normal. Frankly, there is no identifiable reason your son would be unresponsive."

And what could Piper or Leo say to that? "Actually, we think he's been attacked by a demon"? Even if it were true, the hospital had no way to help their son, but where else than a hospital did he belong in this state? Somehow, this helplessness felt so much worse than the time he'd been kidnapped. Not knowing his whereabouts had nearly killed Piper, but standing right in front of him, powerless, as she watched his body slowly drain of life… this was torture beyond anything she had experienced before.

"We're going to keep looking," the doctor assured, "And we'll start him on broad-spectrum antibiotics in case there's an infection somehow flying under the radar."

Shortly after the doctor's departure, Piper sped back home and parked herself in the kitchen with a cauldron and every magical ingredient she could think of strewn around her. There existed healing ointments and blessed poultices for burns and wounds. Why not a healing potion for internal ailments? Well, she would invent one now if it killed her.

She braked once at around two in the morning because her vision had begun to swim so much she could no longer read the labels on the ingredients. As soon as she woke up a handful of hours later, she got back to work.

For the second time in a row, Leo spent all night at his son's side, watching nurses wander in and out of the room every few hours to check machines, adjust wires, and document notes in charts. As soon as morning visiting hours began, Wyatt joined him in the hospital. He spent most of his time either in Chris's room or in the cafeteria picking out premade egg salad sandwiches to make sure Leo remembered to eat.

The one benefit to Chris's very public collapse was that nobody at school expected for Wyatt to attend class the following few days. His parents, barely even noticing the day of the week, had no inkling that their other two children were currently missing school.

Back home, Prue wandered in and out of the kitchen, not confident enough in her potion-brewing abilities to offer her assistance but unable to stay away completely. Eventually, at some point in the early afternoon, she retreated to the attic where her aunt Phoebe was slotted into a cushion on the couch, the Book of Shadows resting on her protruding abdomen.

Phoebe sensed the girl's upsurges of self-conscious indecision before she saw her. "Hey, sweetie," she sighed, rubbing bleary eyes. "Come on in." Prue stepped out from where she'd been lingering behind the door.

"I won't be a distraction?" she asked hesitantly.

Phoebe offered her a smile, simultaneously extending an arm to beckon her forward. "You could never," she assured.

Hitching a breath, Prue sidled toward the couch. Phoebe reached for one of the limp hands at Prue's side, drawing the girl down beside her. She pressed her palm against the side of Prue's head, guiding her face to her own shoulder. Phoebe could sense the emotions rolling off her niece in great swells like a high tide, but she waited, letting the girl voice them in her own time.

Finally, burrowing her nose into her aunt's shirt, Prue admitted, "I'm scared."

"I know, sweetie," Phoebe replied. "So am I. But we're doing all we can."

In a small voice, Prue asked, "What if it's not enough?"

Phoebe began to rub slow circles into Prue's back. "We can't think like that. Your brother's a fighter. Remember when he was kidnapped? We just can't give up."

Prue nodded against Phoebe's sleeve, then turned her face upward. "Mom's still working on her potion," she said. "She's been at it since last night."

Frowning, Phoebe sighed, "I'll talk to her."

Prue sat up to give her space. With a grunt, Phoebe shifted the heavy tome off her lap and onto the cushion beside her. It took a minute to propel her body off the couch and stabilize herself. Once she did, she left Prue with as reassuring a smile as she could manage and went in search of her sister.

As expected, she found her at the stove in the kitchen. She stood quietly in the threshold, waiting for her sister to notice her until it became apparent that Piper was far too engrossed in her brew to pay her surroundings any attention.

Easing into the room, Phoebe set a hand on Piper's forearm. The older sister jerked in surprise and finally broke her focused gaze to look up. "My turn," Phoebe offered in a gentle tone. When Piper frowned in confusion, Phoebe explained, "I'll take over. You should go back to the hospital."

Impatiently, Piper shook her off and dropped a newt tail into her simmering cauldron. The brew hissed as it swallowed the addition, then released a belch of contentment as the tip of the tail sank below the surface. "No, Chris needs the best," she insisted.

This time, Phoebe stopped her with a hand on either shoulder, forcibly turning her so the two stood face to face. "Hon, what Chris needs is for you to be by his side right now." Piper said nothing, but her desperation crashed over Phoebe in waves, so loud and overwhelming that she had trouble drawing in a breath.

With monumental effort, Phoebe barricaded her powers enough to say, "I'll call Paige to come over and pick up where you left off. Your potion will still be here for you when you return."

Phoebe saw the instant the fight rushed out of her sister. Piper's whole posture sagged into her grasp; her eyes clenched shut. Gently, she guided Piper toward the front door, where her keys waited in a bowl on the foyer table. "I'll take care of Prue. You don't worry about anything." As soon as the words left her mouth, she winced. "I mean," she corrected hastily, "You focus on just being with Chris."

CHRISTIAN

In the middle of a copse of trees, on a patch of verdant grass, Christian sat with a youthful Prudence and her mother Melinda. Between them sat a basket of strawberries that Prudence had spent that morning gathering. Much of the juices had stained her white apron, which only changed color further when she collapsed, giggling, into the grass beside her mother.

Melinda laughed and unwound her daughter's braids, from which so much hair had escaped that most of it fell forward to obscure her face. Carefully, Melinda smoothed out the unkempt locks and began to separate them into sections anew.

From behind her, a man stepped out of the trees. Matthew. Instantly, tranquility forgotten, Christian clamored to his feet. "Melinda, take Prudence and run!" he hissed without taking his eyes off the warlock.

But when Melinda, bewildered, turned to see what had caught Christian's attention, she said, "Oh, but it's only Matthew. He's—" But abruptly, her voice gargled to a stop, and her hands flew up to scrabble at her throat.

With a dark sneer, Matthew had raised a hand, curling his fingers as if around an invisible neck. "Melinda, no!" Christian cried, tearing his gaze from the man to grasp her by the shoulders and shake her vigorously, willing her to inhale.

"Mommy?" Prudence squeaked, crawling toward her on her hands and knees.

But Christian shoved her away. "Prudence, you must run. I cannot protect you from him. Go. Go!"

Prudence did as she was told, scrambling up, bunching the folds of her skirts in one fist, and dashing for the trees at the far end of the clearing. Before she could reach the safety of the forest, Matthew waved his other hand. The girl's feet flew out from under her, and she went sprawling forward.

"Leave them be!" Christian shouted in desperation, but Matthew only threw back his head and laughed.

Prue didn't remember falling asleep, but she must have because all of a sudden she was standing in Chris's hospital room, staring at the monitor beside the bed with its steady beeps filling the room. But when she followed the tangled wires with her eyes, she realized they were not attached to her brother; Chris's bed lay empty.

Frantic, Prue dashed into the corridor. "Where is he?" she shouted.

Someone from the nurses' station glanced up from a computer. "Oh, he didn't make it," she replied dispassionately, then resumed typing. As Prue, without forming words, began to scream, the rest of her world fell away.

She awoke on the living room couch with damp cheeks and a raw throat, gasping. Her too-warm face had burrowed into the fabric of the couch while a hand rubbed firm circles into her back. When she turned her head, she saw Aunt Phoebe seated on a chair that she had dragged over.

"You're okay, honey," Phoebe murmured, "It was just a dream."

More tears spilled over the girl's cheeks. "It wasn't," she sobbed, curling into a ball. "What if it was a premonition?"

Gently, Phoebe coaxed her into a sitting position, drawing her hands out as she sat on her knees. "Tell me what happened," Phoebe said, and Prue obediently transmitted all the details she could remember. "Oh, honey, come here."

Phoebe slid onto the couch beside her and tugged the girl to her chest, letting Prue fall into her embrace. The position felt uncomfortable for the pregnant woman, with too much pressure against her uterus, but she didn't try to shift the girl. Instead, she began to stroke the top of Prue's head. "It was a dream, trust me. That's not gonna happen."

"But how do you know?" Prue pleaded, her voice muffled by Phoebe's shirt.

Phoebe carded her hand through Prue's hair, softly scratching her scalp as she went. "Because I know a thing or two about psychic powers, don't I? And people in premonitions don't interact with the person having the vision."

Prue couldn't argue with her logic, though the dream had felt incredibly vivid and real. She could still hear the beep of the machine echoing in her ear, the tick tick tick of the keyboard as the nurse casually returned to typing… "Please don't leave me," she begged her aunt.

"I won't, honey," Phoebe promised. Shifting into a slightly more comfortable position, she eased herself back against the couch, taking Prue with her. Her fingers continued their repetitive motion through her hair, lulling the girl into a state of relaxation.

"Are Mom and Dad still with him?" she asked softly.

Phoebe confirmed this, then added, "Aunt Paige is in the kitchen now. I'm sure she could use your help on that potion. Want to give it a try?"

After a moment, Prue admitted in a small voice, "I don't want to mess it up."

"I don't think you will, hon, but it's up to you." Prue mulled it over for a minute or two before unfurling her legs and stepping out of Phoebe's embrace. After rewarding her aunt with a shaky smile, she started for the kitchen.

MERLIN

Merlin was in the middle of an argument with his mother in the living room when the front door burst open. In streamed a slew of people in military uniforms with thick boots that made the room shake when they marched in unison. Several of the soldiers had giant video cameras propped on their shoulders. Merlin, who had studied their tactics obsessively (so he would be well-versed once he enlisted), knew well the purpose of these devices. Cameras were standard procedure when dealing with magicals to prevent the suspect from evading captors with magic that would make them forget. What they were doing in his house now, Merlin didn't know.

The rest of the soldiers carried guns, which they now aimed directly at Merlin, who was too stunned to even consider evasion. One man stepped in front of the rest. "Ma'am," he said to a confounded Piper, "We have evidence that your son has exhibited magical abilities. We have the authority to take him in."

"That's crazy!" Merlin cried frantically as two soldiers surged up behind him and grabbed each of his forearms. "I'm not one of those magicals. I hate magic!"

"What evidence do you have?" Piper demanded.

"I can't disclose that, ma'am, but the information was passed along to us from an anonymous tipster. It was very compelling. Your son will be held in a military prison until trial."

"Military prison?" she cried in horror, "He's fifteen!"

"Magical minors are tried as adults, ma'am," the man replied. "We have the authority to search the premises." He made a swirling motion with his finger above his head, and many of the men holstered their weapons and dispersed, heading into other rooms. Those who remained began overturning couch cushions, flipping up the top of the piano to examine inside, scatter magazines on the coffee table to sift for other documents.

"This is insane," Merlin pleaded, "Seriously. I've been planning to enlist as soon as I'm old enough. I have a poster of the Colonel on my wall. You can check my room. You'll see!"

But the grasp on his arms grew tighter and marched him forward. The man in charge peered down at him imperiously. "Under Article Forty-Seven, suspected magicals are not entitled to representation. You will remain in isolation until a judge has heard your case, at which point you will either be released or receive your sentencing." With a jerky nod from the man, Merlin's two captors dragged him through the foyer and out the door.

Stuck in his prison at the center of the abyss, Chris observed helplessly as scenes across the wedges continued to play. A translucent version of Perry sat cross-legged on a bedroom floor with a woman Chris recognized, Bianca, several years older than the day he had met her. Between them sat a blond-haired, blue-eyed toddler pushing a plastic truck back and forth across the carpet.

Suddenly, the toddler's body began to expand, stretching taller and taller as Perry scrambled backward, dragging Bianca with him by the shirtsleeve. Before them, when the child finally stopped growing, stood a broad-shouldered man with curls that fell loose to the base of his neck and eyes that glittered with menace.

Christian knelt over the dazed form of a young blond woman in a dark petticoat, pleading with her to get up, as a man with long, dark hair stalked toward them. Chris could not hear the words exchanged in any of these scenes, but he did see Christian's lips move as he shook the woman by the shoulders.

Merlin sat huddled in a jail cell, his face pale and drawn and his exposed forearms speckled with bruises large and small.

Translucent, Demon stood surrounded by witches, a smirk on his face.

From each of the wedges, deep cracks began to splinter across the ground, inching bit by bit toward Chris at the center. The cracks glowed with colors from the wedge to which each Chris belonged, red pulsating light from Krissy's carpeted floor, navy from Perry's, lavender from Boy's.

Every so often, one of the splintered hues would flash white, sending a stream of light toward the demon of dreams. The stream would pour into Siyut's open palms, and he would throw back his head, close his eyes, and drink his fill. Once the light had faded, he was left every time with a drunken smile on his lips.

There had to be something Chris could do. He couldn't be helpless in his own mind. Wake up, come on, he thought forcefully. But not one of his selves stirred. Each time he pounded his fist against the invisible wall of his prison, light flared beneath his knuckles.

In the distance, he saw Boy whimper in his sleep and toss onto his side in the mound of dirt that served as his bed. All around him, the lavender cracks hummed with energy, splitting wider and wider apart.

Before Boy's prone form rose a version of himself bound with a long chain between his two feet. He shuffled forward carrying a silver tray of meat, but the chain got tangled between his feet and sent him sprawling forward into the dirt. This translucent Boy's forehead split against a jagged rock.

From within his prison, Chris felt a sharp blow against his own forehead. When he reached up two fingers to touch the spot on his own body where the rock had made contact with Boy's face, they came away bloody.

Boy swiped away the rivulet of blood that dribbled down his eyebrow, then carefully untangled his chains before he retrieved his tray and began to clean up the scattered mess of meat in the dirt.

Once Paige deemed the potion complete, Prue bottled a handful of doses and packed them into an old lunchbox, filling the inside with crumpled newspaper for cushioning. After they retrieved Phoebe from the attic—another inspection of the Book—the three of them orbed straight to an empty handicap bathroom in the hospital.

Prue led the sisters to the correct floor, then to Chris's room. While Piper had taken up watch in Leo's chair, Leo himself had nodded off in the second chair set beside a wall, where he tilted his head back into the window pane. Piper looked up when the trio trooped in, and Prue went to her immediately.

"Where's Wyatt?" she asked timidly.

"He left to check up on his charge," her mother replied.

Paige handed the lunchbox over with a hopeful quirk to her eyebrows. "It's as potent as it can possibly be. It's definitely his best shot." Mutely, Piper laid the box on the edge of the bed and clicked the clasps open.

"What do we do, stick it through the IV?" Paige asked, peering over Piper's shoulder at her nephew.

"That seems risky," Phoebe chimed in.

Piper nodded in agreement. "Besides," she said, "Most potions work through inhalation or ingestion. I think our best bet is to have him swallow it." She picked up one of the vials and wiggled the cork plug out of the opening.

"What if he chokes on it?" Paige protested.

"I know," Piper said grimly, "It's not without risk, but it's our best option right now." With a gentle caress through his hair, she tilted her son's head back and pressed down on his chin to open his mouth. Balancing the bottle on his bottom lip, she tipped it forward to let the liquid trickle out a drop at a time. She watched with relief as Chris's Adam's apple bobbed in a swallow until the vial had been upended completely.

"If it works, it shouldn't take long," Paige said.

So they stood back to wait. But by the time a nurse came in for the afternoon inspection, bustling in without even bothering to glance once in their direction, there was still no change, save the tightness with which Piper grasped Chris's slack hand.

Meanwhile, Wyatt, after checking in with his own charge, stopped by somewhere new: a one-story house in Silver Springs, Nevada. Someone had to speak to Jake. When Chris awoke (Wyatt refused to consider any other outcome), he would be dismayed by how long Jake had been left alone. While Wyatt could do nothing to aid in his brother's recovery, protecting and reassuring his charge was certainly in his wheelhouse. If nothing else, it gave him something to do.

The boy, who was seated on his bed reading a book, scrambled to his feet as Wyatt's orbs dissipated. "W-who are you?"

The stuttered question caught Wyatt off guard. He had expected Jake to remember him from the time he had lent a healing hand. Regardless, he would do his best to assure the timid boy. Holding out a placating hand in the boy's direction, he blurted out, "It's cool. I'm actually Chris's brother. Wyatt. Chris is… indisposed right now, so he asked me to check up on you."

Jake's face crumpled in apprehension, sucking in his bottom lip to nibble on it as his shoulders hunched into his neck. "Is he… mad at me?" he asked, half swallowing the words as they came out.

"No!" Wyatt vehemently insisted.

Jake didn't appear especially convinced. "Because he usually brings me homework, but he didn't Monday or yesterday. I thought maybe I did something…"

"He's not mad," Wyatt repeated. "Something unexpected came up. It's…" Although he had no idea how to frame the absence, he knew at the very least he could not admit the truth. It would instill nothing but panic. "He's training," he said with a sudden snap of his fingers, "Angel training. We all do it. It's nothing to worry about."

"Training?" Jake echoed skeptically. "How come he didn't warn me?"

Wyatt eased himself backward so he could lean against the dresser behind him. As his mind swirled in search of a believable response, he reached his hands back to prop on the dresser surface. "Uh… surprise testing. Like a pop quiz."

This much, finally, Jake appeared to accept. With a whoosh of air that seemed to deflate his entire body, he edged closer to the stranger, casting an assessing gaze from top to toe. He certainly didn't look like a sibling. In place of Chris's dark hair and vibrant green eyes were blond curls and bluish-hazel irises. But how else could Wyatt have known where to find him, known about his existence altogether? Surely he was safe to trust, at least until Chris returned.

Struck by that thought, he cleared his throat to ask, "Well, when will he be back?"

With a wince (as he tried his hardest to dispel the image that rose in his mind of Chris's prone, pale, comatose body), Wyatt admitted, "Don't know. They don't tell us how long it takes. The, uh, angel bosses."

Tilting his head to one side, Jake pointed out rather practically, "But how will I get my homework?"

Tone resolute, Wyatt replied, "I can pick it up. Like I said, Chris asked me to take care of you until he got back." He gave one firm shake of his head to dislodge the lingering worry over his brother, then forced a smile to his lips and met the boy's nervous gaze. "We're gonna be just fine."

SIR CHRISTOPHER

In a gaping, vacant meadow, Sir Christopher stood shoulder to shoulder with King Arthur, both with swords drawn. Several yards away stood an impossibly tall woman, her youthful face covered by a sheer veil, her blond hair flowing freely to her hips. She wore both gown and cloak of deep, black velvet and a crimson paint outlining her lips. Strangest of all was the raven perched on her shoulder.

Across the distance between them, Arthur called, "Surrender, sister!" but she only parted her lips in a smile.

"My dear Arthur, why ever would I surrender? You are without your true sword, without your knights, save one." She acknowledged Sir Christopher with a single nod. "You are entirely at my mercy."

"Neither my knight nor I will spare you this time," King Arthur insisted. "You have gone too far. Your grave will lie here forever."

"Is that so?" she said. Motion fluid, she swung her hands heavenward. The raven atop her shoulder gave one reedy caw and took to the air, flapping its wings to gain altitude. From the distant treetops rose a dark cloud, which advanced quickly in their direction. When the distance closed, Sir Christopher realized it was an unkindness of ravens, all flying as one, summoned by Morgan le Fay's upraised hand.

When he returned his gaze to her, Sir Christopher saw the sorceress reach into her cloak to retrieve a golden dagger. Was this how she expected to fend off a practiced knight and the king of the realm? With a tiny knife and a handful of birds?

King Arthur forestalled Sir Christopher's confidence with a warning uttered sharply out of the corner of his mouth. "Beware her dagger. It is poisoned with magic. One wound to the flesh will rip the soul from the body."

Bearing this in mind, when Morgan le Fay sauntered forward, dagger aloft, Sir Christopher thrust himself in front of King Arthur and blocked the first blow with his sword.

Up close he saw Morgan's teeth bared in a snarl, her eyes spitting hatred. Her pale blond hair swept around her as if pulled by a never-ending gust of wind, swirling. Sir Christopher shoved her back and followed with smooth, practiced steps, swinging his blade in an arc that she leapt backward to avoid.

By then the swarm of ravens had reached them and dove to attack their faces. Behind him, he heard King Arthur slice his sword through the air, heard the screech of birds as, one by one, they were cut out of the sky. Sir Christopher, too, felled a handful of them, though still more managed to avoid his attack to rake their talons across his scalp. Deep gashes punctured his skin, leaving him with bloody stripes that trickled down his forehead and into his eyes.

The battle blurred as it raged on. Sir Christopher did not know how long it continued before, suddenly, he was back in front of Morgan once more, his sword swooping this way and that as gracefully as an acrobat twirling through the air.

But then Morgan le Fay tilted her golden hilt just so to catch the rays of sun, reflecting them into his eyes, blinding the knight in an instant. He saw her smirking face and then nothing, white spots blotting out his vision, but he heard her spin to Arthur, heard Arthur's grunt as he dodged artfully out of the way—most horribly—heard the sharp release of breath as the king's foot caught on a rock and he stumbled.

As Sir Christopher blinked furiously to dispel the spots in his eyes, he saw Morgan raise her dagger over Arthur's exposed side.

"No!" he shouted. In one motion, he leapt at her knees, dragging her with him into the dirt, where they went rolling together in a heap. He landed with Morgan beneath him and tried to secure her, but when he looked down she was smirking.

"Your life is forfeit, Sir Knight," she hissed. His gaze dropped lower, and he saw a golden hilt protruding from his chest, the dagger having punched straight through his armor.

He didn't even feel the wound. It could only be magic, he thought distantly, to allow a soft metal like gold to slice through steel as though through butter.

And then, her smile widening, Morgan le Fay withdrew the blade. From far away, he heard King Arthur cry out his name in despair, and then the world fell away as Sir Christopher drew his last breath and his heart stuttered to a halt.

Piper was jolted awake by a blaring from Chris's monitor. She didn't even have time to see the screen before several people streamed into the room and someone in scrubs was nudging her aside. Another person dragged her chair out of the way as the hospital staff swarmed around Chris's bed.

"Asystole. You start compressions," she heard someone say, and then, "Epi." The sudden bustle after so much quiet disoriented her with the speed of its onset. Without even realizing it, she ended up standing beside Leo, who wrapped his arms around her shoulders, clutching her like a buoy in a storm.

Her daughter's shock-white face swam in front of her, lips moving soundlessly, mouthing the words, "Mommy, what's happening, what's happening?" Piper had just enough presence of mind to pull Prue to her and turn the girl's face into her chest so she could not witness the proceedings. Her own eyes streamed with tears as she watched the horror unfold.

There was a sound like a gargle, and then the long, steady alarm paused, just for the span of a heartbeat, a single heartbeat, and then it was back, the steady beepbeepbeep of the monitor, exactly as it had sounded before.

"He's back," that same voice said, and the sea of people around her son parted, giving her a visual on the almost imperceptible rise and fall of the boy's chest.

"No he's not," she heard Prue sob into her shirt. Squeezing her eyes shut, Piper hugged her daughter closer.

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