Reference will be made to season 2 episode 12, "Awakened."

Previously:

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.

MUTT

Mutt sat in a plastic chair much too big for him, watching his feet dangle several inches off the linoleum floor as he kicked them back and forth. Everywhere around him worked adults in navy uniforms with glinting metal badges. Some spoke into walkie talkies strapped to their shoulders. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched them all, training the brunt of his gaze on his feet to avoid arousing suspicion. With every passing minute that they ignored him, Mutt felt the tension grow.

He had to get out of here. If he didn't escape before they dragged him into the back room for questioning, he knew he might never see freedom again. Police officers locked people up; that was what they did for a living. Mutt could not let that happen to him. Until now he had lived his life exactly as it ought, in his opinion, to be lived, no responsibility to others, no dependence on another living soul, and he had absolutely zero intention of giving that up, at least not without the battle to end all battles.

The stiffness in the air became a crackling, a dull roar of anticipation, until Mutt could take inaction no longer. Just as he was about to hop up and sprint for the glass doors leading outside, a tight grip landed on his forearm. When he glanced up, a lady police officer with a blond ponytail and menacing gray eyes sneered down at him. "You weren't about to try to escape from here, were you?" she taunted. Mutt remained silent.

Without loosening her grip, she marched him down the hallway and into a room with a metal table, three folding chairs, one on one side, two on the other with their backs facing a wide mirror embedded in the wall. The officer pressed him into the single chair so hard his spine protested before she claimed one of the two seats across from him. She crossed her arms on the table and flashed him a smirk but said nothing.

Mutt stared defiantly back, refusing to break first. Eventually, when the silence had stretched between them for several long minutes, the door creaked open and in stepped a tall black man with a graying goatee. He took his time getting comfortable in the last chair, scraping it forward so he could plop a beige folder onto the table between them. Without a word, he flipped open the folder and started paging through notes. Mutt tried to peer over to see them (though it was a rather fruitless endeavor since he had never learned to read).

Finally, the man halted on one page, rubbed a thumb beneath his nose, and looked up to meet Mutt's eyes. "Well," he said simply, "We caught you. You're under arrest."

Feeling panic bubble in his throat, Mutt snapped, "What for?"

"For doing all the crimes," the officer replied. "Now, please state your name."

Mutt bared his rotting teeth. He wouldn't give these people anything. "Don't got none."

The man clicked a pen and jotted something down in the folder. Without looking up, he intoned, "Not having a name is another crime."

"That's not fair!" Mutt protested, "I didn't know that, did I? It don't count!" But when he threw up his hands to express his disapproval, the lady officer leaned forward in her chair to slap a pair of handcuffs onto his exposed wrists. Mutt tried to yank away from her but could only wince as she tightened the binding until the metal chafed his wrists.

All at once he knew he had lost any opportunity to escape this. They would lock him up forever. He would never see the sky again, never wake up in his familiar playground tunnel, never feel the prickle of grass blades poking up between his bare toes…

"Let me go," he moaned. The lady officer smiled.

"Not until you've gotten your punishment," the man replied with an impassive sniff.

Though Mutt dreaded to ask, he had to know. "What's the punishment?"

The man waved his pen dismissively. "Death," he said.

For Mutt the world shrank to pinpricks; he stared at the officers as if from the pinpoint of a terribly long hallway. His ears began to ring. Only when a hand grabbed him, yanked him out of his chair, did the world zoom back into sharp focus and he begin again to struggle.

The woman was dragging him toward the back wall where he could face the mirror, his reflection pale and gaunt before him. "Now, stand there so we can shoot you," she was saying, "Stand up straight. Otherwise we'll miss."

But Mutt writhed and squirmed to evade her grip. Her forearm slid around his neck to restrain him, so he sank his teeth deep into her elbow. When she yelped and jerked her arm away, he dashed for the door, fumbled with his bound hands to grasp the doorknob. It only jiggled. Locked.

In seconds, the lady officer had leapt at him, slapping him hard across the cheek. The man joined her, and blow after blow began to rain down on Mutt, who curled his head into his chest and threw his cuffed arms up for the meager protection they provided. (Imprisoned at the center of the abyss, Chris felt every blow one after the other until, at some point, he found himself on his knees, gasping for relief.) Finally, the beating slowed; the last blow landed. As Mutt yowled with pain and rage, the lady officer dragged him back across the room by his scruffy hair.

He tried to whack her with the metal of the handcuffs, but she only grabbed his wrists and tugged them above his head where he couldn't use them as weapons, then slammed his back against the wall. "Shoot him!" she cried manically to her partner, who unclipped his gun from his holster. Frantically, Mutt pulled this way and that, but she held him fast.

When the male officer cocked his gun from across the room and raised his arm, Mutt had nothing else to do, so he opened his mouth and screamed.

After Chris's hospital room emptied of personnel, it took a while for Piper and Leo to pacify Prue. She continued to gasp out sobs and clutch at her parents in a panic as they reassured her that Chris really was okay, that for the time being he was stable.

Finally, once her tears had dwindled, they guided her to Paige, who agreed to take her home. When Phoebe moved to follow them out of the room, Piper caught her by the arm to prevent her from leaving. "I need you," she stated shortly.

Once they heard Paige and Prue's footsteps recede, Piper continued, "You remember, years ago, when I caught Oroya Fever and ended up in the hospital?" Phoebe eyed her sister warily but gave a slow nod. "You and Prue used an awakening spell. I need that spell."

Though she half-anticipated the request, Phoebe still cast an incredulous glance over at Leo. The couple clearly had not discussed this—Leo's face was twisted in surprise—but he didn't object to the appeal, leaving Phoebe at a loss for what to say.

Warningly, she began, "Piper…"

But Piper cut her off before she could give voice to her concerns. "Don't you 'Piper' me," she snapped. "I'm doing this. I don't care about unintended consequences. I'm not losing my son."

Eyes pleading, Phoebe attempted to appeal to her sister's more rational nature. "Piper, our spell brought a toy to life that infected countless children with that disease. We could have killed every one of them. Do you really think you'd be able to live with all that blood on your hands?"

Piper dismissed this was a sharp wave of her hand. "So we won't let the toy out of our sight. Besides, Chris is being attacked by a demon. That's hardly contagious."

"You don't know that for sure," Phoebe countered.

"Oh no?" Piper challenged. "Then why didn't that potion work? Why couldn't Wyatt heal him?" While Phoebe said nothing in response, Piper's expression remained hard, unmoved. "I'm not taking no for an answer, Phoebe."

Phoebe would have argued further, but Leo's soft words cut in. "Phoebe, please," he begged, his voice cracking, "It's Chris. Please."

Phoebe expelled a breath in a long, slow sigh, all the fight leaving with the air. "We got the spell from the Book," she said at last. "I'll have to find it."

Piper turned to the bedside table, where she had set down her purse when she first arrived. Rummaging through it, she withdrew her car keys and passed them over to her sister. "Here, take my car."

Before she left, Phoebe planted a kiss on Piper's cheek, her lips lingering there as if hoping the contact would jolt Piper from her determination, though she knew the hope futile, before reaching out to squeeze Leo's hand. Then, without a word, she disappeared out the door. Almost an hour later, she returned with a piece of paper crumpled in one hand and a large action figure clutched in the other.

"Paige grabbed one for me from Bobby's toy box," she explained. When Piper accepted the paper and unfolded it, her eyes scanning its words, Phoebe couldn't help but interrupt to nervously ask one last time, "Are you sure about this?" Piper didn't bother to respond. She simply gave her sister a hard stare before dropping her gaze back to the spell.

With a sigh, Phoebe rounded over to the bed to start the ritual. She set the action figure down on Chris's chest, watching the steady rise and fall it followed. First, she retrieved a thin sewing needle from her pocket, which she used to prick Chris's index finger. Carefully, she squeezed a single drop of blood onto the middle of the action figure, then replaced his arm by his side. She guided one of Piper's hands to the top of the toy while she settled her own against its feet.

With her free hand, she motioned for the rumpled page, which Piper held aloft between them. Together, they began to chant. "'Troubled blood with sleep's unease / Remove the cause of this disease / Sleep eternal nevermore and shift the source of illness borne / To this poppet whom none shall mourn.'"

They waited. And waited. Watching Chris's face intensely for the minutest of movement, but nothing changed.

"Let's try again," Piper insisted after long minutes had elapsed. But Phoebe removed her own hand and stepped away. "Phoebe," she said harshly, crumpling the spell in her fist.

Phoebe couldn't bear to look at her sister. With her stare firmly on the floor, she said, "When we used it on you, it was to heal a natural illness. Maybe it doesn't help with magical ailments."

With her gaze averted, she didn't see Piper open her mouth to argue. This time it was Leo who interrupted her with a reluctant hand on her arm. "Piper, stop," he murmured. "Another time won't work. You know that. There's nothing more we can try."

When the dam broke inside Piper, Phoebe could not withstand the emotions that plowed into her chest, wave after crashing wave of despair that made her stumble backward with their force. As Phoebe placed a hand to her breast, Piper turned into Leo's arms, her face pressed against his chest, and began to sob.

DEMON

In every direction that Demon turned, a witch stood clutching a potion vial. He couldn't run, not that he wanted to—this was his lair, after all—because each of the witches had dropped a crystal into place the moment the group had arrived, effectively trapping him in his own home.

In front of him, one of the witches stepped forward, her long skirt swirling up dust as she glided past the others. Of all of them, she was by far the oldest, with graying hair that she had pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She carried herself with more authority than the rest, her back and shoulders ramrod straight as she surveyed him with an expression akin to smugness. The matriarch, he was certain.

"You have tormented our clan for far too long, Lord Christopher," she said.

Demon smiled sweetly as he conjured a fireball in the open palm of one hand. "Oh, I don't think it's been enough," he replied.

The matriarch's voice rose as she announced, "Daughters!" Several of the women around him raised their potions aloft, holding them above their ears, where their arms hovered, waiting for her command.

Demon made a show of spinning in place, then waved a wide arc with his hand. "All this just to vanquish lil ol' me?" he asked with a smirk. "Why, I'm honored."

"We will not vanquish you, not just yet," the matriarch corrected. "First, you will suffer as our family has suffered at your behest. You will learn to fear us. Only when you beg for death will we end your misery."

Demon gave her a wide yawn, baring his teeth. "Don't hold your breath," he suggested amiably.

At a sharp nod from the matriarch, the first batch of potions were released. As soon as they shattered against the hard, rocky floor, the crystals surrounding Demon flared a brilliant red. Every nerve in his body exploded in the fiercest agony he had ever experienced. Despite his best efforts, pain drove Demon to his knees.

Once the sensation relented, Demon's heavy gasps echoed in the cavernous space. His fingers curled into the dirt as he lifted his head to sneer at the matriarch. All pretense of good cheer had fallen away, leaving his face ugly and contorted with hate.

"I will tear you limb from limb, witch," he snarled. "I will force you to watch as I strip the flesh of your daughters and feast on their organs. I will chase your descendants for millennia if that's what it takes to eradicate your name from the earth."

The matriarch's face remained impassive as she raised an arm, signaling the others. More vials shattered against the ground, and Demon's world swirled into pain. Though he tried to bite it back so forcefully his lip began to bleed, eventually, he began to scream.

Just yards away from Demon's sleeping body, Chris convulsed with every agonizing spasm.

When the bell rang that evening at the manor, Prue reached the foyer just as Aunt Paige was opening the door to Chris's friend, Dwight Ryder. "Can I help you?" Paige asked blankly.

"He's okay," Prue said from behind her. Glancing at her niece, Paige shrugged and widened the gap to let Dwight ease inside. He thanked her as she waved him and Prue into the living room.

Though they entered the room, neither sat down, opting instead to stand awkwardly facing each other between the sofa and the fireplace. Once they heard Paige's footsteps recede to the kitchen, he asked her, "How's he doing?"

Without meeting his eyes, Prue shrugged. "They think it's some kind of brain infection," she mumbled.

Dwight studied the girl, her overly pale face, her puffy eyes, even the way she hugged herself by the elbows. A litany of unspoken explanation hung heavy between them. Softly, he touched her arm. "Prue…" he murmured.

She met his unflinching gaze and, in one sudden movement, burst into tears. For a moment, Dwight simply stood in place, too stunned to move. Then, shaking himself, he guided her, with one hand on her shoulder, to the sofa, where he sat down beside her. "You can tell me," he said. "It's something magical, isn't it?"

When she buried her face in her hands, he patted her back a bit uncomfortably. Her voice, once she began to speak, emerged muffled between her fingers. "Nobody knows. It's gotta be some kind of demon, but nobody can figure out which, so there's nothing to do. He just keeps getting sicker."

Dwight had no idea what to say, so he offered a feeble, "Your parents will figure it out."

"They're not even here," she sobbed. "Aunt Phoebe was back for, like, a second, but just to find something for them in the Book."

Frowning, Dwight echoed, "The Book?"

With a hiccup, Prue peered at him over the tops of her fingertips. "The Book of Shadows," she explained, pausing to mop her eyes with the back of her sleeve. "It's this really old book that has all sorts of spells and potions and stuff."

By no means did Dwight feel like any kind of authority here, lost as he was about the magical details, but he knew Prue could use assurance right now, regardless of where it came from. "Well, there you go," he said. "So they're already on their way to solving the problem."

Sniffling, Prue nibbled on her bottom lip. "You think so?" she asked.

"For sure," he said with a firm nod. "Your parents wouldn't let anything happen to him. I'm positive he'll be okay." He smiled, but his heart sank as he said this. A longing part of him wished he, too, could be lied to this simply.

BOY

Balanced in Boy's hands was a silver tray with three clean crystal goblets and a decanter of deep red wine that he carried carefully into the eating quarters, where his master sat at a small table with two prominent guests. Though he did not eavesdrop on their conversation, he did keep his ears half-perked in case they required something further of him or decided to summon him for any reason.

For the most part, they ignored the slave child with a sluggishly-bleeding gash on his forehead who set a goblet down in front of each demon and carefully filled each cup with wine. But when he stepped away from the table to exit the room, an icy voice said, "I did not dismiss you, slave."

Without a word, Boy spun back around. Setting the tray down on the nearby onyx credenza, he quickly returned to his master's feet, where he knelt on one knee, crossed his arms over the other, and bowed his head in silent apology.

"We have further use of you," his master continued. "Today, I have decided you will use your magic."

The shock of the statement made Boy raise his gaze to his master's face, a leathery hide with slitted red eyes. Boy knew he possessed witch's blood, of course. The sleek metal cuffs clamped to his wrists blocked magic, after all, and his master would have no use for such an item for a powerless slave. Plus, on occasion his master decided to extract his magic through a painful procedure that granted his master temporary use of his witch abilities. Though Boy had no access to his own magic and hadn't for as long as he could remember, he certainly knew of its existence.

But never before had his master—had any master over the course of his short life—called for him to utilize those powers. He wasn't even certain how that would work. The magic-blocking cuffs had been fused to his skin through a blood ritual. How would his master even go about removing them from his wrists to grant him access?

"I don't understand," he blurted out. Immediately regretting his outburst, he ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut with low-level dread that churned in his gut.

Instead of admonishing him or striking him for speaking out of turn, his master merely said, "You will." Something about that promise sent an ominous chill creeping up Boy's spine. "Call it scientific inquiry," his master remarked. Even without looking, Boy could hear the smirk in his voice. "My colleagues and I were discussing an interesting hypothesis that we wish to test, and you just so happen to be a perfect specimen for the experiment."

His master's entertaining of guests never seemed to end well for Boy. At best, they enjoyed tossing him around a bit as he served them or forcing him to dodge fireballs as he collected their plates. At worst, they egged each other on to try increasingly perverse forms of torture. Today appeared no different.

One of the guests leaned forward to stare at Boy over the table. "Yes, we were wondering the consequences of using magic with magic-preventing cuffs such as yours. What do you think will happen, boy?"

Boy swallowed but this time did not break his silence until his master granted him permission with a barked, "Speak!" and a booted foot jabbed painfully into his side

"Master, I can't use magic, I have no access to it, it's impossible." He uttered this in a rush that tumbled out of his mouth in a single breath.

"Well, that's what we plan to find out, don't we?" his master sneered.

The next thing Boy knew he was strapped to a cold, steel table, his arms stretched over his head and his ankles pulled taut to either side of the table. To him the position was a familiar one, utilized every time his master extracted the magic for his own use. This time, his master began in much the same manner, clasping one clawed hand over each of Boy's cuffs.

His face, hovering directly over Boy's, was contorted in eager anticipation. His hot breath coasted over Boy's nose. "Ready, slave?" he asked, and immediately began to siphon the power. Boy could feel a thin tugging that started at his navel, trickled into his chest, and grew sharper as the seconds passed. But like the table and the chains, this sensation was familiar to him. He barely even flinched as the pain developed into a steady throb. If this was all they had planned, he could handle it with grace.

When Boy's master finally withdrew with Boy's powers inside him, there was a gleam in his eyes. Behind him, one of the guests crowed, "This will be such fun!"

Boy felt shaky and empty from the transfer, an emptiness due to the lack of powers from which he had always felt disconnected anyway but still swirled inside him for as long as he could recall; his heart fluttered in an irregular rhythm, reedy. This time, instead of untying him to let him scamper back to his nest to wait for the magic to get returned, his master placed a single hand on his chest. Though Boy knew he risked punishment for impudence, he couldn't help but ask in a whisper, "But how can I use them if they're inside you, master?"

The demon above him curled his lip. "Not to worry, slave. I will use them for you." Almost gently, he pressed down on Boy's chest with his palm. The pressure deepened until Boy felt something give way, and suddenly a cool sensation washed his insides, as if someone had replaced his blood with ice water. When he peered down, the end of his master's arm vanished inside his skin. "Now. Why don't we try a bit of telekinesis, shall we?"

He felt the hand inside him wriggle, then his chest and all the way down his arms began to tingle. The skin began to heat up until it reached the cuffs at his wrists, which warmed as well. Everything beyond that, his palms, the tips of his fingers, remained icy. Boy could feel his master trying to force the telekinesis out through his own hands, could feel the pressure mounting.

The metal of the cuffs grew hotter as they worked to restrain the magic, but his master kept shoving more through, waiting for the dam to break. Boy felt as though they were twisting a tourniquet tighter and tighter around each wrist. The pain swelled.

The skin on his forearms started to blister and peel. "M-master, please," he whimpered, but his master's gleaming smile only widened.

"We must all make sacrifices in the name of discovery," the demon grunted as he poured still more effort into overloading the cuffs.

When Boy tried to shut his eyes, lights sparked and fizzed beneath his closed eyelids. The cuffs' temperature rose so sharply now that the metal had turned a rosy shade, glowing, and the skin of his wrists blistered, turning black. Distantly, he heard the voice of one of the guests exclaim, "We should've tried this ages ago!" and the second one's voice rise with manic laughter.

Suddenly, Boy felt something inside him shatter, and the pain became agony. The two guests were launched backward as telekinesis exploded from Boy's fingertips. A cyclone of air rushed around them all, kicking up a whirlwind of dust and debris. This only spurred his master on, eagerly feeding the slave more power. The sensation was unbearable, unending, and Boy screamed.

PERRY

In the middle of baby Wyatt's nursery, Perry backed away from an adult version of his brother, one arm extended in front of Bianca as if to block her from view. Before them, Wyatt's steely blue eyes narrowed with a razor smile. In one hand he grasped the hilt of Excalibur, its blade glinting in the light.

"Brother, you underestimated me. Did you really believe the two of you could hide away in the past and I wouldn't find you?"

"We didn't come here to hide, Wyatt," Perry countered grimly, "We came here to save you."

With an indulgent smile, as if Perry were a child who had said something unwittingly humorous, Wyatt shook his head. "You little fool. Still believing I require saving." His gaze sharpened, the congeniality dropping instantly from his voice. "I do not need to be saved. And I have lost my patience waiting for you to grow up."

From behind himself Perry heard Bianca's shoulder thump against the wall a second before he backed right into her. Nowhere else to go. Urgently into his ear, Bianca murmured, "Chris, orb, hide. I'll hold him off. You can still get out of here to finish the mission."

Without taking his eyes off his brother, he shot back, "Not a chance."

Wyatt's eyes darkened as they darted to Bianca's face. "I always knew you were a bad influence on him," he said sourly.

With confidence she couldn't possibly feel, she snapped, "Look who's talking." Even as Perry wanted to yell her into silence—did she have a death wish?—he couldn't help but admire her gumption. Nobody stood up to Wyatt.

"Enough of this," Wyatt sighed, his tone bored. "Move, brother." Perry did move, but only to insert himself more completely between his brother and his fiancée. Wordlessly, Wyatt snarled. With his sword-encumbered hand, he sliced the air before him, sending out a tidal wave of magic. Perry went flying sideways across the room, crashing into the crib for Wyatt's toddler self. The wood splintered under his weight and collapsed with him on top of the pile, a cluster of stuffed animals squashed beneath him.

Groaning, he lifted his head just in time to see Wyatt stalk toward Bianca, who conjured herself a dagger in either hand. Before Perry could even blink, the first dagger was twirling through the air end over end, but with a simple flick of his fingers Wyatt sent it veering off in a different direction. It embedded itself deep in the wall a couple feet above Perry's head.

Wyatt held up a hand, fingers clutching the open air to hold Bianca in place so she couldn't shimmer away. He pulled back his elbow, Excalibur's tip pointed at her chest. "I believe," he sneered, "you and my brother should see other people." In a single motion, Wyatt plunged his sword through her heart as Perry, looking helplessly on, released a scream.

MERLIN

Merlin could have been isolated for days or only hours; he had lost track of the time ages ago and felt as though he were losing his mind. They had left him with a bucket to use when he needed the bathroom, which he avoided until he had absolutely no other choice. Every so often he glared at the security camera in the upper corner of the room and shouted, "You've got the wrong person! I'm not one of those freaks!" but nobody ever answered.

It took hours for him to fall asleep. They had snapped a metal cuff around his neck that was supposed to deliver a stinging shock to the wearer if magic was used, and the warm metal chafed his skin every time he moved. Shortly after he had finally dozed off on the ratty cot along the back wall, he was jolted awake by the sound of voices drawing near from down the hall. Groggy from lack of food and a bit disoriented, Merlin stumbled toward the bars to peer past them.

A trio of young people in army uniforms, two boys and one girl, appeared. They couldn't have been much older than his sister Melinda, obviously new recruits.

"Looks like the magical is regretting getting involved with the devil," one of the recruits sneered. He bent his head inches from the bars. "Not so tough without your powers, are you?"

"I don't have powers," Merlin gritted out.

"That's right," the recruit replied smugly, tapping his own neck to indicate Merlin's new collar.

"You know," said the girl behind him, "We've still got twenty minutes before our shift starts." Unclipping a narrow, metal rod from her belt, she smirked. "Why don't we get in a bit of combat practice?"

As Merlin's stomach dropped, he began to back away from the bars and cast a panicked glance up at the security camera. Surely recruits weren't allowed to enter a prisoner's cell without supervision. Surely there were regulations against such behavior.

But the recruit who had sneered at him was already reaching for the key card dangling from a stretchy lanyard around his neck to swipe it through the keypad against the wall. Merlin heard an electronic trill, and the bars grated as they slid sideways to grant them entry. All three recruits stepped inside, crowding the tiny space.

Merlin held up his hands; the backs of his knees banged into his cot. "Y-you can't," he stammered. "You'll get in t-trouble…"

The third recruit laughed harshly. "Who would care what we did with scum like you?"

Without warning, the girl with the metal rod sprang forward. The tip of her rod crackled blue with electricity. "Hold still…" she advised, and descended on Merlin with the weapon.

As soon as it made contact with his skin, every muscle in Merlin's body convulsed. He collapsed to his knees, arms trembling as pain zapped through his nerves in pulses. The cuff at his neck also jolted to life, triggered out of stasis by the shock of electricity. His head felt as if it had burst open like a watermelon splattering against the sidewalk. He couldn't unclench his teeth, couldn't unfurl his fingers, which were digging crescent indentations deep into his palms. His neck contorted backward as his throat released an impossible scream.

CHRISTIAN

Melinda lay motionless at Christian's knees as Matthew stalked toward them, and at the edge of the meadow little Prudence still had not risen. Frantic with desperation, Christian lunged at Matthew. He had no plan beyond somehow forcing the warlock to release the magical pressure around Melinda's throat.

And in that much he succeeded. As he and Matthew tumbled across the grass, he heard Melinda gasp sharply, swallowing as many lungfuls of air as she could.

Christian scrambled to prevent Matthew from finding his footing, but truly, he should have known better. After all, what could he, a mortal man, do to stop a rampaging warlock?

Something struck him sharply from behind, a branch Matthew had summoned from a tree from the perimeter of the clearing. Stars swam before Christian's eyes as Matthew shoved him to the side and swept to his feet. Groaning, Christian rolled onto his back. Matthew had jerked out of his reach and stood now with both hands extended. Summoned once more, the same branch rose into the air and swung itself toward Christian. It slowed with the slightest pressure against Christian's neck, then surged deeper, cutting off his oxygen as he scrabbled at it uselessly with his fingers.

Groping with frenzied movements, he tried to propel the branch away, but the telekinetic exertion around it was too strong to budge. His vision began to tunnel. From somewhere at a distance he heard Melinda cry out his name, but the blood roaring in his ears started to drown out her voice.

But then, all of a sudden, the pressure at his throat relented. With one final heave, the now lifeless branch rolled away. When his sight began to return in splotches, he caught an image of little Prudence swinging from Matthew's back, her arms flung around his neck as her fingers fumbled for his face, scratching and biting every inch of him she could reach.

"You little wretch!" Matthew snarled. Reaching up behind him, he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her free. But instead of tossing her aside, he held her aloft, dangling by her arm as her feet kicked with frenzy in the air.

In his mind Christian heard the echo of his own voice vowing to Melinda that he would protect her daughter with his life. And then, from within his cloak, Matthew withdrew a jagged dagger. Christian struggled to his feet even as the world spun from lack of oxygen, but all he could do before Matthew's dagger plummeted into her chest was scream.

KRISSY

Krissy's left eye had been swollen shut; blood trickled past her lips and down her chin. Her face was a mess of bruises large and small. The demon paced before her. Twined around his wrist was a glowing green wire. When he stopped before her, his smirk broadened. "What's the matter, witch? Nothing to say?"

Krissy couldn't speak past her shallow panting. She could feel a cracked rib twinge every time she tried to suck in more air. She didn't even have the resolve to lift her head.

"Are you ready for the next round, my dear?" the demon asked pleasantly. He stepped back and raised the arm with the green wire. When he flicked his wrist, the wire lashed out, lengthening as it sizzled through the air faster than the eye could see. This time, pain whipped across Krissy's chest, where the fabric of her shirt had been singed away and a thin line of blood oozed across the bared skin.

Krissy grunted as her knees caved against her will so that the only thing now keeping her upright was the rope binding her arms to the pillar behind her.

For the briefest of moments, strength flashed through her. Voice raspy, she grunted out, "My mom… will… find me."

"Oh, my dear, I intend for her to." With one bent knuckle, he tilted her chin upward. Tutting, he used his thumb to wipe away the smear of blood on her bottom lip. His own lips parted in a feral grin. "Or at least, what's left of you."

When he released her to back away, her chin thumped back against her chest. "Now, shall we go again?" The whip stretched between them, leaving behind a deep laceration that wrapped around her thigh. Again, her torso. Again, across her cheek. Again, again, again, until Krissy's whole world was pain, until her raw voice rose in a scream.

IAN

Ian didn't know how long he and Benji remained hidden from the hunters, hours at least. Enough that the sky had turned various shades of pink and lavender with the onset of dawn. Light meant an easier time tracking them down; it meant nowhere to hide.

At some point, Benji began to cry—somewhat loudly—for their parents. "W-we have to find Mamă and Tată!" he wailed as Ian tried in vain to shush him. "They'll b-be looking for us. We have to go b-back!"

"We can't go back, Benji," Ian hissed. How could he explain to his little brother? How could he make him understand that they were on their own now? "Mamă and Tată and Rhoda and Xander are gone, get it? We're alone!"

But that made Benji sob harder. When Ian heard a branch snap somewhere behind them, he clapped a hand over Benji's mouth, but it was too late. A man had launched himself at Ian, dragging him away from his brother.

Desperate, Ian shouted, "Run! Benji, run!" but the boy didn't move. Ian tried to summon his telekinesis to send Benji shooting across the woods to safety, but even in the best of times he had only middling control of his powers and no matter how hard he focused he could not seem to access the magic. His mother's rigorous training had all been for nothing.

The man wrapped a fist in Benji's collar and began to haul the two boys back toward the edge of the trees from where they'd come. "I found two more!" he hollered, and suddenly they were swarmed with men who led them out past the parked bus. Their home was a husk of dead metal; flames still burned around it, though they had shrunk back now that so little was left to feed them.

In quick order, the boys had been bound to each other side-by-side with rope. Only feet away stood the charred remains of the twenty-foot-tall wooden cross the hunters had set alight. With muted horror, Ian watched as five men banded together to erect another.

"Ian, I'm scared," Benji whispered.

Ian twisted his wrist in the bindings until he could feel his brother's fingers beside his, then opened his palm to grasp his hand. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. Focus. In his mind, he pictured the rope twined around both their hands. All it required was a little nudge. Without a proper witch to guide him, he had never mastered his powers, but if he tried hard enough he could do this. Benji's life depended on it.

The cross began to tip, and all the hunters rushed over to help stabilize it, leaving the brothers unguarded. But Ian barely noticed, his mind one hundred percent fixated on the task at hand. Finally, after seconds that felt like years, he sensed the rope twitch. It was no more than an inch, but for Benji's narrow wrists that was enough.

Ian forced his voice to remain absolutely calm. "Benji, listen to me. You are going to do exactly what I say, understand?"

With a whimper, Benji met Ian's eyes. After a long moment, he nodded. Ian forced himself to give his most collected, reassuring smile. "Slip your arms out of the rope."

"I c-can't," Benji protested.

"Yes you can," Ian insisted. "I loosened it for you. Go on." Ian felt the gentle tug as Benji adjusted his position and the ropes slipped right off. When he tried to remove his own hands, as he had half expected, the binding held fast. He hadn't loosened the knots on his side. But it didn't matter, not so long as Benji got free.

"Good," Ian whispered. "Now, you're going to run as fast as you possibly can toward those trees behind us, okay? You're going to run, and you're not going to stop for as long as you can."

"Wh-what about you?" Benji sniffed.

Ian knew they didn't have much time left. If they waited for him to try to free himself, too, Benji might lose his only chance at escape. "Don't worry about me. You just keep on running. Trust me."

He stared down at his brother and nodded gravely. Nobody was watching them. Now was his chance. He nudged Benji with his shoulder, and the boy reluctantly turned and fled back into the woods.

Ian closed his eyes and breathed out a slow sigh. He opened them only when he heard a voice shout, "Hey, where'd the kid go?" and a handful of hunters trotted back to him. In the distance he saw the second cross now stood tall, towering over everyone.

One of the men grabbed Ian by the arm hard enough to bruise. "Find the other one!" he instructed the others, some of whom fanned out as they headed toward the trees. The rest closed in as the man glared down at his captive. "We're not losing our chance with this one. Come on." And he began to drag Ian, stumbling, toward the cross.

Run, Benji, Ian thought desperately, Keep on running.

With another strip of rope, the man secured Ian to the base of the wooden cross. He turned to those who had not joined the search and accepted from one of them a torch, which he held to the wood directly behind Ian's ankles.

After the couple of seconds it took the flames to catch, the fire began to climb. Ian felt the wall of heat at his back. His fear spiked as he tried to struggle, too afraid of accidentally fanning the flames to try to use his telekinesis now. The heat swallowed him until that was all he could think of, until every muscle strained against his bindings. When he could take the pain no longer, he threw back his head and screamed.

In the abyss, Chris's vision began to blur. Though he fought valiantly through the fatigue in his straining muscles, he could not force them into motion, could not even raise his head off the ground. In his own mind he heard a tangle of voices, all of them, every one, screaming, screaming, screaming.

As his sight began to tunnel, he watched the appearance of a now-familiar man, exceptionally tall and wearing a black cloak, a man he had not seen for several months but about whom Perry had once imparted an ominous warning while reading off a Tarot card: his future. The Angel of Death.

He stood just in front of Chris and yet looked so very far away. When their gazes met, the angel's was brimming with pity. "I am truly sorry, old friend." With a puff of smoke, a curling parchment materialized in his hand.

Everything around Chris grew dimmer. But before it swirled into complete darkness, someone else appeared. He dressed as the Angel did, in a black, buttoned-up cloak with a high-necked collar, but he was shorter and his hair much darker, though it, too, fell to his chin.

This was the man he had met the last time he had been at the brink of death, the man who had said little to Chris, though his words rang now in his ears: We will meet, Christopher Halliwell, but not today. It seemed, finally, that day had come.

"Y-you," Chris grunted with monumental effort. "You're… the…" But that was all he could say before his body failed him and he tumbled into subconsciousness.

Siyut did not see the Angel of Death, but he did sense the other newcomer's arrival. He had been consuming the waves of light coasting off of Ian's nightmare but stopped and turned to face the man. "Another one," he rasped, licking his lips in delight. "How did I miss your presence?"

"I have only just arrived," the man replied, taking a calm step forward. Though he looked much older, he had Chris's same bright emerald eyes.

"No matter," Siyut said, "You will be mine soon as well." He lifted one hand, clenching it into a fist, but unlike the others this man did not collapse.

When the demon of dreams frowned, the man said, "I am above your powers. I do not dream." He raised an arm of his own, palm face-out. "I can, however, take back what is ours." The nightmare scenes all around them flickered and died. The glowing cracks stopped pulsing with light. From Siyut's chest, slowly at first, and then faster, the light from the nightmares streamed out and toward the man's open palm.

The demon roared in outrage and pain. Beneath the glowing waves, his face began to age. His cheeks sank in, eyes bulged out as tissue melted off his face. His skin shriveled until every bone protruded from his body, until he was barely a skeleton with fathomless black eyes. His hair receded, then vanished completely.

Finally, the fearsome cry petered out as his voice failed him. The light spluttered before blinking out completely, spent. The demon's charred body cracked. Crumbled. Disintegrated into dust, which itself disintegrated into nothing.

When all fell silent, the man turned to the Angel of Death behind him, giving a cursory nod. "We are not meant to intervene," the angel said to him, sounding almost disapproving.

"In here I am not an angel of death," the man remarked. "I am a figment of his consciousness. I need not remain neutral here."

As his list vanished from his hand, the Angel of Death smiled. "No, I suppose not," he agreed. "Then it appears Christopher has defied death yet again. I suppose by now this should no longer surprise me." After giving the man before him a familiar nod of farewell, his outline began to glow, leaving his form to fade out of existence.

The man left behind took a leisurely moment to cast his gaze across the abyss. After a motionless stretch of time, he glided toward one of the wedges, Perry's cramped office. Stopping before the couch, the man hovered his palm over Perry's creased face. In a second, Perry bolted upright, gasping for breath.

"You are safe," the man stated dispassionately. At the sound, Perry's gaze, darting blindly around as if searching for someone, landed on the speaker in front of him. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the man's appearance. "You're an angel of death, aren't you?" he said at length. The man said nothing, but gave a single nod. "I met one of you. Once."

"I know." A ghost of a smile crossed the man's features. "Old friend."

"Ah," Perry remarked. "So you all have a blended consciousness." He kicked his feet off the couch, and the angel backed up a pace to let him stand.

Instead of responding, the angel said, "Come. Let us rouse the others."

"What about him?" Perry asked, jerking his thumb toward the middle of the circle, where Chris lay in an unconscious heap.

"He will wake in his own time," the angel replied.

Together, the two came before Sir Christopher's wedge. Cracks had split the floor here far deeper than elsewhere, long, jagged crevices that ran beneath the table and up the stone walls. Sir Christopher was nowhere to be found, his rumpled palate disturbingly empty.

"He's gone," Perry said somberly. "Don't ask me how I know. I can feel it. What the demon put us through—he didn't survive."

"Yes," the Angel of Death agreed. "Death in a dream begets death to the soul. It is why the demon of dreams held so much power over his victims. I'm sorry." After a brief moment of reverent silence, he left Perry alone, circling back in the opposite direction, past Perry's office, to enter Demon's lair. He raised a palm above the prone figure on the four-poster bed.

When, in a single breath, Demon abruptly awoke and shot to his feet, the angel stepped backward in a fluid motion to give him space. "The nightmare is over," he said. "There is no further need to fight."

Demon snarled at him but slowly eased out of his battle-ready stance once he realized the coven of witches that had surrounded him had vanished. The angel continued on to Mutt, placing his hand on the outside of the tunnel. He and Demon, who had trailed behind him, heard a gasp from within and then a voice began to sob.

Demon knelt to stick his head inside and slowly coaxed Mutt out of the tunnel. "You were dreaming, kid," he assured. "Forget it. None of that stuff was real." Once Mutt crawled onto the landing, Demon began to rub circles along his back as he cried.

As the Angel of Death moved on to Merlin's bedroom, Perry finally started on his own half of the abyss, forcing himself past Sir Christopher's barren wedge to wake Christian with a hand on his forearm. The two woke Ian together, and when the boy hid his face and moaned, "Mamă," Christian scooped him out of his bunk bed and sat with him beside the table, an arm draped across the boy's shoulders.

Perry left them there to rouse Krissy. He helped her sit up, then, with her at his side, stepped up to the perimeter of Boy's cavern at the same time that the angel arrived from the opposite direction. Over the angel's shoulder Perry saw Merlin, white as a sheet, sitting on his bed with his knees drawn up and his arms hugging them to his chest.

From behind Perry, Krissy met the other teen's gaze. Merlin was the first to look away.

Boy awoke with a whimper, scraping himself back to the wall and burrowing his face in his knees. Before anyone else could act, Krissy passed Perry to kneel in front of Boy, whispering reassurances as she drew nearer. He rocked back and forth, sniffling into his knees and shying away from her outstretched hand, so she eased back on her heels to wait, her soft voice continuing to repeat comforts to a child she wasn't even certain could hear them. But after a moment, the moan echoing from deep within his throat settled to silence, and he paused his repetitive rocking motion.

Though he refused to lift his face, Krissy could tell by the set stare that darted up to her without turning his head that he clung to her every word, so she inched forward once more with her hand outstretched, never halting her soft speech, never stuttering as her fingers crossed the chasm between them, but never rushing either. Eventually, he let her touch him.

Perry took that as a promising sign and made his way to Merlin's room to sit at the edge of his bed. The teen had his back pressed into his headboard, his stare far away. "We're safe now," Perry offered. Merlin barely reacted to the sound of his voice.

Meanwhile, at the center of the abyss, finally, the unconscious Chris began to stir.

Reviews are golden. Please let me know your thoughts, especially on these past two chapters.