Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ Binah (Understanding) ❯ (Before All Hell Breaks Loose) ( Chapter 15 )

“I'm sorry, you caught us just as we were cleaning,” Robin said. In one hand was a mop. Her face was flushed; it looked like she'd been doing a number on the kitchen. Amon could only guess at the real cause of her blush—if it was the exertion of using her Craft moments earlier, or being caught in the midst of it, or even the rather ingenious lie she was now telling. Kobari and Miss Bonn looked a little poleaxed by the scene confronting them. Nagira folded his arms, slowly. Robin turned to Amon.

“Can you get me some towels? I went a little overboard.”

He arched one eyebrow. “You're telling me.” He escaped to the linen closet before he got himself into more trouble, returning with more towels. Taking them, Robin dropped them on the floor, where they began to soak up the water. They made a little path across the kitchen.

“There. Now you can make it across without ruining your shoes,” she told their guests, smiling brightly.

Kobari made a courtly bow to Miss Bonn, who warily stepped into the kitchen and across the little towel-road. Once she was in the other room, Robin began opening the kitchen window. It was squeaky and difficult. Sloshing through the water, Amon reached above Robin's head and wrenched the window open. “Thank you,” she murmured, and he knew she didn't just mean for the use of his arm.

Robin turned. “Can I get anyone something to drink?”

“Something cold would be lovely, Robin,” Kobari said. He sat down on the sofa with perfect posture. Amon did his best to ignore the man, to keep his residual anger at bay. Nagira sat next to Kobari, crossing his ankles on the coffee table.

“Whisky,” he said simply.

“Miss Bonn?” Robin asked, her voice impossibly cheerful. Amon reflected that women would never cease to amaze him: their interactions spanned from the murderous to the hospitable in the reach of just a few hours.

Apparently, this was a tiny revelation for Margrethe Bonn, as well. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. “If you have any coffee…”

Robin turned to her warden. “Get your brother that drink; I'll do the coffee.”

Grateful for a task, Amon set about pouring Nagira some Chivas Regal, and grudgingly getting Kobari some soda water while he was at it. He paused to roll up the ankles of his pants, and crossed the kitchen again with the drinks. “What, you didn't ice them, yourself?” Nagira teased.

Amon told his brother to shut up, with his eyes. He settled in a chair, facing the other three. “What did you want?” Robin asked, stepping into the living room.

“Whatever you're having is fine,” Amon answered. Robin returned to the kitchen. He heard the clinking of ice and glass. He felt Margarethe's eyes on him. Surprise was written all over her face.

“What, you thought we were beyond all civilization?” he asked with some asperity.

The Hunter smiled. She was obviously exhausted, but somehow delighted. “I never thought you'd be funny,” she informed him.

“He isn't,” Nagira deadpanned. “I wound up with all the funny genes,” he declared.

“It would certainly explain that utterly ridiculous coat of yours,” Amon retorted.

“Here is your coffee, Miss Bonn.” Robin brought the little cup over on a tray, complete with tiny containers of milk and sugar. Margarethe blinked, quite possibly about to blow a gasket over the service. Setting the tray down on the table, Robin left for the kitchen again, and returned with two iced coffees. She knelt on the floor, all the seats having been taken.

“Don't sit there; kick my brother out of his chair,” Nagira protested. “Honestly, Amon, making her sit on the floor…”

“No, it's all right-” Robin argued, shaking her head, but Amon was already out of his seat and sitting on the floor. Robin did a double-take. “Amon-”

“And a gentleman, too…” Margarethe murmured, impressed.

Confused, Robin slowly retired to the chair. Amon kept a blank face. He wasn't about to deliver a lecture to her on why the Eve of Witches should never kneel, in front of all these people. He sipped, instead.

“Things have come to a pretty pass indeed, if we're all sitting here enjoying afternoon drinks,” Kobari remarked.

Nagira stretched. “Well, our friend the Hunter lady over here said she only wanted one thing, and that was to talk to my little brother,” he said. He eyes Amon. “Why she wanted to waste her time on you I've got no clue, but hey, what do I know?”

“Not much, apparently,” Amon answered. He faced Miss Bonn, beginning to wonder if Robin hadn't left something in his system permanently, something that even now was warming him and giving him the peace of mind to look his former attacker in the eye. “What was it that you wanted to know?”

“Oh, everything,” Margarethe said, her voice tired. “You know I've been Hunting you for quite some time.”

“I know.”

“You were prepared to answer to Solomon last night, and I wasn't sure why, until now,” she continued. She smiled pleasantly. “But now, I think I understand a little better.”

Amon sipped, swallowed. “I suppose it's good to know I've been replaced by someone so perceptive, then.”

“I do my best.” She set her coffee down on the tray, and folded her hands. “Of course, I had outside help.” Her features hardened. “Mr. Nagira, I would like you to know, I did not expect Touko to react so rashly. Had I known she would place herself and others in such danger, I would not have brought her along with me.”

“Did you seek her out, or was it the other way around?” Amon asked.

“The latter,” Margarethe answered. “She must still have some connections in the city, if she was able to learn I was Hunting you.”

“Doubtless, she's found them again, by now,” Kobari interjected darkly. “We may have little time.”

“What are you going to do, with us?” Robin asked, pitching her voice at Margarethe. Her knuckles were white on her quickly-condensing glass.

“The fact that your partner is a Witch changes things,” Margarethe answered. “Before, I was merely stalking a member of Solomon gone AWOL. Now he is both that, and an unregistered Witch.”

“But above all, he's still supposed to be dead,” Nagira said.

“It does rather complicate the matter,” Kobari added.

“It certainly doesn't make my job any easier,” Margarethe said. “You see, Solomon's laws on what is to be done with ex-Hunters and with Witches are in direct conflict.”

“Hunters go back for debriefing, Witches die,” Amon said.

Margarethe nodded. “Yes. And you are both.”

“The harshest law always applies; you're supposed to kill me.” He felt Robin bristle behind him.

Margarethe rolled her eyes. “Yes, kill the last known Hunter with ties to the elusive Robin Sena, about whom Solomon is very curious indeed. I do that, without providing Miss Sena herself, and watch my career go up in flames.” Her eyes flicked over to Robin. “If you'll excuse the pun, Miss.”

“In other words, if you can't bring in Robin, you can't bring me in, either,” Amon realized. “Dead, I'm no good to you, and Solomon busts you down for your stupidity. Alive, and you're on the list of potential Witch-sympathizers, dangerous as you're already a Craft-user.”

“You begin to see my problem.”

Behind him, Robin sighed. “This is awful,” she murmured. “Why is arresting me out of the question?” she asked Margarethe.

“Because it just is,” Amon answered, before his replacement could. His voice was iron.

“Because you're too strong for me,” Magarethe said, a beat later. “Because I can't kill you, to begin with.” She sighed. “Arrest and interrogation is used with a select few Witches, a group whose status you above all others apply for. But it means bringing you down in the first place. I cannot do that, my skill is not so great, and Solomon knows it. Even were this gentleman here to allow such a thing,” she gestured at Amon, “and I can almost guarantee now that he never would, you and I would be instantly suspect once Solomon had a glimpse of your true power. And let me assure you, Miss Sena, after an interrogation, they would see that glimpse.” Her face was solemn. “I do not know what happens in a Solomon interrogation, and I do not wish to know. But allow me to say that based on the rumors I have heard, your powers would be sorely tempted.” She gazed at Robin. “You could hurt a great many people.”

Robin recoiled. “I don't want to…”

Margarethe smiled gently. “I know you don't. If you did, I would be dead at this very moment.” She looked at Amon. “That was the missing piece. Until now, none of your actions made sense. I tried to put myself behind your eyes, see what you saw. But the solution always eluded me. Now, all is clear.”

Amon held the other Hunter's eyes with his own, china blue on charcoal. A few weeks ago, he would have bridled at any untoward assumptions about himself and Robin. He would have said that he stayed with Robin out of a sense of obligation and duty. And while that was true, he had sworn an oath to Robin and would feel worse than ashamed should he break it, he now acknowledged that it was the quality of the girl that encouraged his loyalty. Without Robin, there would be no promises. Without Robin, his life would be entirely different. He had not known, that night at the Factory, the enormity of what he was committing to when he swore to watch over her. In fact, it took another Hunter to show him, which proved just how far away from the fold he'd wandered. But were he asked to pinpoint the moment that it all started, he would be unable. The exact moment when the rogue seed inside him germinated into rebellion remained indefinable. What curious combination of soil and sunlight had nurtured it, he couldn't say.

“No decision that I have made thus far is one that I regret,” Amon said. “Were Solomon to apprehend me, they would discover that.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Margarethe agreed. “But that's if they apprehend you.”

“Which they won't,” Nagira interrupted.

“How can you be so sure?” Amon asked his brother.

“I know you,” Nagira said. He peeled away his index finger from his highball and pointed it at Robin. “And I know her.”

“And should you both disappear, the Witching world will most likely absorb you,” Kobari added. “Those who do not wish to be found by Solomon usually discover a way to hide themselves adequately. There are entire families of Witches who have done it for hundreds of years.”

Margarethe frowned, turned to Kobari. “There are?”

Kobari nodded sagely. “You've been catching amateurs,” he answered.

“How nice for us,” Margarethe muttered. She shook her head. “None of this solves our current problem.”

“Our current problem?” Nagira asked, bemused.

“You must leave this place,” Margarethe said, ignoring him and looking at Amon and Robin. “Any fool can see that.” She shrugged. “I do not know where you intend to go, and I do not wish to know. But if any of us are to survive this, the both of you must absent yourselves, and quickly.” She smiled ruefully. “I knew from the moment Miss Sena demonstrated her powers that I would be unable to make your arrest, Mr. Nagira. This visit is only the result of a request of mine, to meet my former quarry.” Her eyes dipped contemplatively. “What happens to me now is solely dependent on Solomon's will, and my wits. Our situations are not unalike, in that regard.”

Silence settled over them. Amon realized now just what his replacement was taking on. Should Solomon discover her betrayal, its justice would be swift and merciless. She would vanish. It was the contract they had all made at one time or another, signing their lives away to the vast network of Hunters called Solomon—some, like Margarethe and Robin, because there was no other choice. Join or die; those were the rules. It was a game Solomon itself had written, and thus always won. And Margarethe Bonn, who for so long had played by those rules, was about to step outside them for the first time simply because she had met Robin Sena—it was not an unfamiliar story, for Amon.

The silence was broken by a loud rapping at the kitchen door. “That's probably Yurika,” Nagira said, standing and crossing over the coffee table with one gigantic, long-limbed step. He checked the door, and then opened it. “Hey, baby,” he said, giving Doujima a quick kiss on the forehead.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, her tone worried.

“Everything's fine. You want something cold?” He busied himself at the refrigerator. Doujima smiled at them tiredly. It was the first time Amon had seen his former co-worker with a hair out of place, or with rumpled clothes. It had obviously been a long night for all of them. Doujima held out her arms, and Amon frowned. But Robin seemed to have received the intended message, as she stood crossed swiftly to Doujima, laying her head against the other woman's neck as Doujima clasped her into a hug.

“How's my favorite little brat, huh?” Doujima asked softly. She smoothed Robin's back. Until now, Amon had not realized the intensity of their bond. But now that he thought about it, there was plenty of time for them to speak in the secret language of solitary women while he and his brother were away, discussing whatever plot or plan would keep himself and Robin alive another day. All those months ago, Nagira had made Robin a part of his life without question. It appeared that Doujima had done the same.

Nagira appeared behind the two women with two fresh drinks. He paused, watching them, and slowly wrapped his arms loosely about both of them. He leaned his face against Doujima's. And his eyes opened, regarding his brother. This is what “family” really means, the eyes seemed to say. Despite the fact that your mother and father are dead. There was an open invitation there in his brother's eyes. But what Amon knew now for certain, and what his brother could only guess at, was that his feeling for Robin was anything but brotherly. He could not join in that particular embrace; with the memory of Robin's previous touch still radiating through him.

Nagira kissed Doujima's temple, and handed her a drink silently. Doujima opened her eyes, and appeared to brighten somewhat. “Guess what?” she asked Robin, pulling away a bit. “I got you a present.”

“A present?”

Doujima fished inside her purse, and brought out a small plastic card with a magnetic strip. “It includes a very big bathtub with jets,” she said.

Amon frowned, and stood. “What exactly should we be thanking you for?”

“You should be thanking Michael, for one,” Doujima said, handing Amon the card. “I didn't ask him how he did it, but, well, he is a former hacker…”

“This is where I should be making my exit,” Margarethe said abruptly. “I'm hearing too much.” She stood, and crossed the living room to where Robin stood, looking back and forth between Amon and Doujima. “Thank you for the coffee, it was lovely,” she said.

“No, thank you,” Robin insisted. “Thank you for meeting us, and for…” She ducked her head uncertainly. “For not…”

“You have a personality that brings out something noble in people, Miss Sena,” Margarethe declared. “That reminds me, there was something else I meant to tell you.”

“Oh?” Robin's brows furrowed.

“The man who raised you, Father Colegui,” Margarethe said. “During the Hunt, I wrote a letter to him, asking him for any and all information he might be able to provide on your possible whereabouts. He has taken a vow of silence and is currently residing in a monastery in Italy, apparently having retired from his duties at Solomon. I know this only because his secretary deigned to write me a response.” She changed her tone, softened it. “For what it is worth, given the opportunity, he did not help me Hunt you. I thought you might wish to know that.”

Robin's lips were trembling. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Good luck, Miss Sena.” Margarethe smiled, and made a small bow of her head. She turned to Amon, who nodded at the kitchen door. They moved there, while Doujima chattered on to Robin about their new hotel stay.

“Thank you,” Amon said, surveying the other Hunter. “For everything.”

“Thank me when you make it out of this alive.” Margarethe pulled up her sleeves, revealing semi-circular bruises on her wrists, the kind that might be put there by handcuffs. “I had a long time, last night, to decide my course of action. Your brother ensured that.” Her eyes met Amon's. “I am not without self-interest in my thinking,” she added. Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “While I prioritized my career to you all earlier, you and I both know, don't we, that I would be dust and ashes, should I lay a finger on you, Mr. Nagira.” And her eyes flicked, ever so quickly, over to Robin, who innocently took in what Doujima was saying. “The irony of a Witch who can burn other Witches does not fail to escape me.”

“She doesn't want to hurt anyone,” Amon intoned.

“No, she does not,” Margarethe agreed. “But it is simply a matter of making her want to, isn't it?” A fleeting, bitter smile crossed her face. “…like the Craft itself—her greatest strength, and her greatest weakness, in one.” Her eyes met his again. “Do we understand each other?”

“We do.”

Margarethe nodded, apparently taking him at his word. “Be careful, then, Mr. Nagira. For all of us.”

Amon nodded, bowed, and opened the door for her. She exited, taking slow steps down the wooden stairs, and making her way to her car.

***

It did not take long for Amon and Robin to pack their nearest and dearest items into a few pieces of luggage that Doujima could spare. If anything, Amon and his weapons absorbed the most time. These he arranged to be left with Miho and Sakaki; while he hated to part with them, he knew they would be in safe-keeping with Hunters. Kobari informed them that there would most likely be a gathering in the Walled City, and while Amon was naturally apprehensive about the meeting, he had other reasons for wanting to attend. If this was the last time he was going to see Neville, he wanted it whatever information the old man had to give about his mother, for better or worse.

The hotel proved relatively obstacle-free. Michael had done well, choosing a place that catered to a clientele who paid handsomely for a decided lack of surveillance. In fact, Amon was given the opportunity to tell him so, upon finding Michael watching an American television channel in the hotel room when they arrived. Amon opened the door only to find Michael there, his shoes kicked off and one arm folded behind his head, a remote in the other hand.

“I didn't know that you were aware of the better yakuza hotels in the Tokyo metro area,” Amon said.

Michael's head came up off the pillow. “Oh, hi, Robin,” he said, completely ignoring Amon.

Amon resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and brought their luggage into the room. It was a double, for which Amon had to commend Michael; security would be tough enough for one room, let alone two. “Hello,” Robin said uncertainly, obviously unsure how to deal with Michael's attitude. Amon turned to her.

“I'll draw your bath,” he said. Robin's eyes lit up, and she nodded emphatically. For a Witch endowed with the Fire Craft, she adored water, and her time in it. Amon found the bathroom. Doujima wasn't wrong about the tub—it was a monster, making their tub in the apartment look like a mere childhood closet-creature. He had to hand it to mobsters; they had taste. A rather intimidating array of knobs and dials confronted him, allowing him to find the perfect water temperature and intensity for the jets. It was the most domestic thing he'd done in a long time, and in some small way he was grateful for it. Thinking about what he could do for Robin distracted him from the events of the previous evening and from his replacement's words that afternoon. When the bath was bubbling and indulgently full, he poked his head out the door. Robin sat on the bed Michael had chosen, but at the edge of it. They appeared to be conversing.

“It's ready,” he said, pitching his voice at Robin. She nodded, and gave Michael a tiny smile. Then she entered the bathroom. He heard her thank him warmly, but he was more concentrated on Michael. Robin closed the door quietly, and Amon made his way to the other bed, seating himself across from Michael.

“You and I have to talk.”

“Oh yeah?” Michael asked. “I was under the impression that you liked keeping me out of the loop. It would certainly explain a few things.” He turned to his former superior, his face tight. “Like why you didn't fucking tell me you were alive, for starters.”

“You know why I did that. It was to protect everyone involved.”

“Not least yourself and your cozy domestic bliss with a fifteen-year-old.” Michael's voice was pure venom. It didn't suit him at all; his anger had distorted his features and his lips were pulled back in a snarl. He jerked his head toward the bathroom. “You draw her baths, now?”

“She's done the same for me.” Amon bit his tongue, realizing instantly the other ways his words could be interpreted.

Michael looked ill. “And what else is she doing for you, Amon? Now that you're both Witches, I'm sure you have lots to teach each other-”

Amon rocketed off the bed, standing over Michael in a single motion, his fists clenched. His rage was written clearly on his face—he could tell by the way Michael shrank, still afraid of his old superior despite his talk. That fear fueled Amon's calm. It was something he at least recognized, was accustomed to, and could use to further his own ends. His voice came out like the killing frost he had made in their old kitchen. “If she weren't in the other room, Michael, I would beat your face in with my bare hands, for insinuating such a thing.” His fists tightened. “I don't need the Craft to hurt you.”

“You kept her all to yourself,” Michael murmured after a pause, his words still full of accusation although his posture spoke of an expected attack. “You let us think you were both dead, and you kept her to yourself.”

“Would you have done any differently?”

Michael's eyes fell at the challenge. “I…”

“The day you have a gun in your face because you made a promise to her, then you can judge my decisions in this matter,” Amon spat. “Until then, I don't want to hear any more about it.” He watched Michael cringe under the force of his words. “My job will be finished the day one of us dies. And that means she's going to outlive me, whatever happens.”

The faint sounds of Robin's splashing punctuated the quiet. “Jesus, Amon…” Michael's eyes drifted to the window. “I didn't think…”

“No, you didn't,” Amon agreed abruptly. “Can we still count on you for assistance? I need to know now.”

Michael nodded silently. “I'll help you any way I can.” His eyes found Amon's again. “This hotel thing was actually pretty easy,” he said. “I can do it again, wherever you guys go. I'm working on getting you some real money, too; it's a little skim-job on some other accounts-”

Amon held a hand up. “Don't tell me. I don't want to know.”

Michael nodded. “Airfare is my next project.”

Amon watched him. “Thank you.”

Michael nodded once more to himself, and sat up on the bed, clicking the tv off. “I should go, then. There's plenty for me to do.” He stood, and finding his shoes, began putting them on again. Once they were tied, he faced Amon again. “Tell her…something nice, okay?”

“I will.” Amon made a small bow, and watched Michael leave.

It was a while before Robin made her way out of the bathroom, letting a cloud of steam out with her. She was wrapped in a fluffy, oversized white hotel bathrobe. “Did Michael go?” she asked.

Amon nodded, from his reclining position on one bed. Robin nodded to herself, apparently digesting the information. “That was the last time I was to see him, wasn't it?” she asked.

“Probably.”

Robin looked regretful. “I should have been nicer. He…he seemed like he just wanted me to be happy…”

“It's called a crush, Robin,” Amon said bluntly. Robin's eyes widened at him. She looked at once surprised and embarrassed and sorry. She seemed unable to meet his eyes, and her arms wrapped around herself, as though she wanted nothing more than to hide. “And like all crushes, it will fade,” Amon reminded her gently. Her posture loosened warily. “He'll get over it.”

Robin sat on the edge of the other bed, her face pensive. “Did he actually use that word?” she asked, apparently very worried over this. “Crush?”

“Don't tell me you didn't know. You'd have to be blind not to see it. I knew when we still worked with him.”

Robin looked positively agog. “You…knew?”

“Of course I did.” Amon's lips quirked. “I didn't get top marks in Profiling for being inobservant.” He watched her. “You never knew?”

Robin shook her head violently. “Never! I would never even think such a thing!” Her eyes came up, to see Amon watching her with an expression she would perhaps have recognized more easily on his brother's face. “What?”

“You can take the girl out of the convent, but not the convent out of the girl,” Amon told her, and rolled off the bed. “Is there any hot water left?”

***

Both Amon and Robin were taking a well-deserved afternoon nap when Nagira and Doujima knocked on their door. Being the lighter sleeper, Amon stood to answer it, and greeted the duo with a finger to his lips. “Robin's asleep.”

“Poor kid, she must be all tuckered out,” Nagira murmured, stepping quietly into the room. Doujima followed, taking in the room. “It's been a long day, for her.”

“You're telling me,” Amon muttered, giving his brother a look. Doujima, watching the space between them, made an excuse about “freshening up” and hid herself in the enormous bathroom.

“Are you pissed at me?” Nagira asked outright, his voice still quiet.

“For telling her?” Amon watched Robin sleep, clad now in his t-shirt, curled up in a little ball under the covers, her hair still ever-so-slightly damp. “I was.”

“She wanted to know.”

“I know.” Robin's chest rose and fell evenly.

There was a ghost of a laugh behind Nagira's lips. “She said you looked cute, when I showed her some pictures,” Nagira added. “You know, when you were little.” Amon frowned at him. “You're fucking ugly as sin, now, of course.”

“I'm sure those are the exact words she used.”

“She said you smiled more, then.” Nagira's hand fluttered. He obviously wanted a cigarette. “She was right.”

“It doesn't matter.” Amon's eyes flicked to the bathroom door. “Tell Doujima she can come out.” He strode over to Robin's bed and knelt, putting a hand to her hair. She was almost fever-warm, having buried herself under so many blankets. “Robin, it's time to wake up,” he murmured. “We have to go, now.”

Robin's eyes opened slowly, sleepily. “Amon,” she said, a decadent, dreamy smile spreading across her face. He resisted the desire to return the smile.

“It's time to leave; Nagira and Doujima are here.”

Robin nodded slowly, as though the messages took time to permeate her sleepy ether. He realized it was the longest stretch of sleep either of them had enjoyed in perhaps two days. It was no wonder that Robin, the expert sleeper, was loath to abandon it. “You can sleep on the plane,” he offered, tugging now at her head. “All the way to Italy. I'll buy a drink and you can have it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Get out of bed.”

***

Nagira and Doujima promised to wait outside the warehouse where the Elders had scheduled their meeting. They sat inside Nagira's car, eyes out for intruders. Robin and Amon, whose packed bags waited in the trunk, entered the darkened warehouse only to find a convocation of Witches with the Elders at the head of the room, candles already lit.

“Eve of Witches!” they hailed Robin as one. She stopped short. Already, her posture had shifted; she stood taller, shoulders thrown back. Her glasses reflected the flickering golden light of the many candles.

“You have been betrayed!” they called. “And for this, there will be justice done!”

A group of Faceless attendants now appeared from another darkened doorway, leading a hunched form wearing a black hood tugged over his face. Sickly dread washed through Amon's stomach. Acid bubbled up to his throat. He felt Robin tense beside him. At that same moment, Neville came from the shadows in his vanilla summer suit, using his cane to find his way in the darkness.

“My boy, I have some things to tell you,” he said in hushed tones.

“What's going on?” Amon asked.

“Amon…” Robin's voice was full of fear.

“Those who betray the Eve of Witches will know the wrath of the Witching world!” the Elders chanted. “She is our savior, our mother, our goddess!” The man in the black hood was made to kneel before the Elders, his face to them. His hands were tied at his back.

“Your mother did come to us, asking for help,” Neville continued. “She did seek Methuselah, but by that time-”

A Faceless attendant ripped off the black hood from the kneeling man. Amon recognized Kobari instantly, having seen the barman turn his back to make drinks time and time again. Robin saw the same, and yelped behind her hand, which had found its way to her mouth. She shook her head in terror.

“-it was too late,” Neville said.

“You, Kobari, let many of our brothers and sisters die at a Witch Hunter's hands, and more than that, you did it so that a member of Solomon could kill our beloved Eve!”

“No…” Robin murmured. Her face was paper-white.

“I did it so that she would be free of you, and your tyranny of ignorance,” Kobari said with bitter calm. “You pack of know-nothings have kept her under your thumb long enough. You've taught her nothing!”

“You dare to insult us?” one Elder roared. Kobari earned a kick in the kidneys for that. Robin yelped again, and Amon felt her hand reaching for him. He found it without looking and their fingers enlaced. Energy rippled between them; he could feel Robin's Craft kindling with fear. Dread flowed through him like cold water, brushing her Craft, creating a crackling tension between them.

“Robin is not your tool!” Kobari shouted defiantly. “People are not a means to an end! You cannot keep her locked away forever!”

“Our methods are blessed by the Eve, and by her predecessor Methuselah!”

“Methuselah chose to die rather than spend another day with sycophants like you!”

The accusation rang out in the air and hung suspended. Complete silence reigned. The Elders seemed to have taken a step back. One stepped forward, a woman. “We helped you,” she rasped. “We helped your son. When you needed us, we were there for you!”

“My needs are nothing compared to the way all Witches need the Eve!” Kobari barked. “If Robin is to save Witch-kind, she must do so unfettered, off your leash!”

“Ingrate!” another accused. “Heretic! Ingrate! Traitor!”

“Now the Eve will fly away from you, safe, to another place where your petty politics and oppression can't hold her down again,” Kobari intoned. A Faceless, this one in black, began moving toward Kobari. Robin's hand tightened in Amon's.

“Heretic!” two of the Elders shouted. The man in black continued his walk. Heat sizzled between Amon and Robin's hands. He felt the tingle shooting up his arm, into his shoulders, into his hair.

“I've done nothing that I didn't believe in,” Kobari said simply. The Faceless halted behind him. Kobari's voice rang out. “What I believe in is her. Hers is the only heart any of us can trust.” The lines between Amon and Robin were distorting, becoming invisible, they were not two hands, but one, one in will and in heart, white with heat, ice that burned…

“Please stop…” Robin whispered. Amon heard it in his head.

“May you burn like the Witches who preceded you, for all eternity, for the treachery you have committed,” the Elders said as one. The gun cocked. A shot. And blood, spattering daintily on the elegant Noh masks of the Elders.

“No!” Robin screamed long and painful. With her scream, each bulb in the warehouse, row by industrial row, flared at once into brilliant life, each filament singing hot with intensity and illuminating the place, exposing its tawdry, barren lack of mystery. The light burned with her voice. Amon poured his own feeling into her scream, felt her voice as thought it were his own, the lines between them gone—his rage and hers indistinguishable, feeding each other. The scream built, rising to an impossible, unnatural shriek, the power between them finding an outlet in each bulb: they all burst as one, darkness and glass falling together in one ozone-scented explosion.

Power flooded back into Amon. Vertigo assailed him; he felt a quaking fear at his own psyche's momentary inseparability from Robin's—it was vaguely violating, an exercise in existential horror. He was light-headed and nauseated. The other Witches stared at them. He blinked, panting. His and Robin's hands were still linked, and he pulled her, now, toward the exit.

“Where are you going?” one Elder demanded. “Warden! What are you doing with her? Let the Eve go!”

“Robin, run!” Amon yelled, and Robin did run, still gripping his hand. She pulled him, now, running with tears in her eyes. Other Witches began running after them, hands out. Amon's feet pounded the cement, and the door before them blew wide open just as he felt Robin's Craft come to life again. They flew across the gravel at breakneck speed, to the safety of Nagira's car. Amon wrenched open the door and threw Robin inside, jumping in after her only to have his coat grabbed by one grubby Witch. Viciously he slammed the door anyway, hearing the other man's yowl of pain. He shut the door definitively this time. “Get us the fuck out of here!” he ordered his brother.

“No problem,” Nagira said, and the car roared into life. The tires spat gravel, and they were on their way. Behind them, the warehouse's roof burst into flame, a eliciting a collective cry of fear from the other Witches. Robin sat hunched over, her knuckles white in her hair. She rocked back and forth.

“Tenchou,” she sobbed. “Tenchou…”

“Robin,” Amon said, and gingerly put a hand to the back of her neck. Robin crawled blindly across the seat to him, settling almost in his lap. She roared into his chest as the car sped off into the night. Amon held her there, his insides icy cold and jangled. Amon had seen much of death in his time. He had dealt it out—killed other people at Solomon's behest. He didn't remember it feeling this way. The other times, he had not felt so powerless. The other times, Robin wasn't watching it happen.