Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ Binah (Understanding) ❯ No Other Idols Before Me ( Chapter 17 )

“So, they've been alive this whole time?” Aiko asked.

“Yes,” Michael answered. “They've been out there, alive, letting us think they were dead. And then just as soon as they arrived back on the scene, they had to disappear again.”

“What a difficult life that must be, for them,” Aiko said thoughtfully. She sucked down a bit of her taro bubble tea. They were in a bright, noisy teashop housed between an electronics store and a bookstore that displayed, alternately, comic books and pornography. Piped-in pop music drifted on the air, and each store contributed its own stereo system to the cacophony. This was the third floor of a rather expensive apartment building whose built-in shopping center made certain that its residents didn't have to leave if they didn't truly wish to. The first floor was a supermarket, the second, dominated by clothing retailers. The building boggled Michael a bit, but it was about as far from the Walled City as he could get, and it was just kitschy enough that Solomon would never think to plant surveillance there. Or so he hoped.

His decision to let Aiko in on the truth was baffling, even to himself. He didn't know why he needed to tell her, only that he needed to do so, before the acid feeling in his stomach ate him alive. It was was not something he could discuss with either Miho or Sakaki, much less with Margarethe Bonn, because so much of it was bound up in a grief made intense by the very fact that Michael had had no one else to lavish feelings of grief or anything else upon in a few years.

Aiko had listened patiently, occasionally curling errant strands of expertly-dyed hair behind one ear with absent-minded fingers. Her eyes would widen slightly whenever he came to an unusually violent detail, and she interrupted his story of the attack on Ravens' Flat with “did you get hurt?” Her eyes grew steadily rounder as he described the events at Factory, and when he had finished with an account of the past few days, she was silent and seemed to be considering things.

“I think it's really taken its toll on Amon,” Michael added. “When I talked to him the other day, he was different from the guy I remembered.”

“How so?” Aiko asked.

“I'd never seen him that angry, before. Usually, he's under such control…”

“Why was he angry?”

Micheal's eyes fell. “I said something about him that he didn't like,” he answered evasively.

Aiko frowned. “And what was that?”

“I made an assumption…about him and Robin…” Michael gestured with empty hands. “Judging from Amon's reaction, I was wrong.”

“Or maybe you were more right than he himself would like to believe,” Aiko suggested. “How old is Robin?”

“Fifteen. Maybe sixteen, I don't know her birthday.”

“And Amon?”

“Twenty-five.” Aiko's eyebrows rose. “Yeah, I know, exactly,” Michael added. “I guess that's why he got mad.”

Aiko smiled. “Perhaps you offended his honor as a gentleman.” She sipped again. “Is Robin a flirt? Is she the kind to do her best to tempt an older man?”

Michael shook his head emphatically. “No way,” he said. “Not Robin.”

***

Amon's eyes opened blearily. The lids felt stuck together. For a moment he didn't know where he was, felt disoriented. Then the events of the past few hours rushed back to him, and remembering, he was better able to judge his position in them. It was late morning, and summer light was streaming in through the spaces where he hadn't quite managed to close the deep green velvet curtains. He sat up, and noticed two slender, bare feet that followed into equally slender, bare legs stretched across the floor. Making his way across the bed, he saw Robin, lying on her stomach, her right hand slowly caressing the polar bear's muzzle. She stared into its jaws, its false plastic eyes. There was even a false tongue, pink and perfect, covered in artificial, eternal saliva.

Her eyes flicked up, met his. “Can we call it Yuki?” she asked.

He sighed, and rolled backward, his head hitting the pillows. He closed his eyes. “Call it anything you like, just let me sleep.”

“Did I wake you up?” she asked, her voice disembodied.

“No, it's just the light.”

“Oh.” He felt a distinctly Craft-related twitch. The room darkened outside Amon's eyelids. He opened them again. Robin had moved the curtains without touching them, drawing them more tightly closed. The room was dimmer, now, plunged into a man-made twilight.

“Thank you,” Amon murmured. He paused. “Are you going to continue playing there on the floor?”

“I'm not playing, I'm examining.”

“They have zoos, for that sort of thing.”

“I've never been to a zoo.”

“Never?” Amon asked, rolling to his side. He could see Robin's little feet.

“Never.”

He frowned. “Even I've been to a zoo.”

But there was little chance for Robin to comment, as there was a knock on the door. Without either of them communicating, Robin skittered under the bed, hiding there behind the bedskirt. “Yes?” Amon asked, directing his voice to the door.

Monica Zabini stepped through. “I wanted to let you know that there's a breakfast downstairs, waiting for you. Papa is there, and your brother and Miss Doujima. I was about to wake Miss Sena…” Her voice hovered in the air while her eyes searched the room.

“She's in the bath, I believe,” Amon lied promptly. “I'll tell her myself, on my way downstairs.”

Monica smiled slowly, as though she knew of Amon's lie and was merely allowing him to keep it up. Her dark eyes sparkled. “I leave her in your hands, then.”

Amon nodded, and Monica was gone. He counted to three, and looked down to see Robin's head peek out from under the bedskirt. “I always suspected there were monsters under the bed,” he said. Robin frowned, and wriggled the rest of the way out from her hiding spot. She was smeared in nondescript gray dust when she stood up. “I think that bath is in order,” he suggested. Robin sneezed abruptly. “Someone must be talking about you,” Amon said.

“What?” Robin asked.

“They say in Japan that if you sneeze, it means someone is talking about you,” he said. “It's probably that pack of reprobates downstairs, stealing the coffee from us, and exclaiming over your epic bathing sessions.”

Robin's eyes went dark at the thought of her favorite beverage. He'd seen the same expression in cats, just before they went after a bird. While she stood there, Amon reached over to his nightstand and found a handkerchief, one of his own, where he'd stashed its coat-mangled form in a drawer. Unceremoniously, he began wiping the dust from Robin's face. She closed her eyes, letting the fabric drift over her face. “You're not usually superstitious, Amon,” she said. Blindly, she pointed at him, halfway smiling. “You just want me to leave, so you can sleep in.”

“You're right; I do want you to go.” Robin's eyes flew open, surprised and perhaps a little betrayed. Amon leveled his eyes at her.

“I was, at some point, planning on changing my clothes.”

Robin's eyes went even darker, if such were possible, and she blushed pink. Her eyes dipped. “I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I didn't mean to get in your way…”

“Give me five minutes,” he said. “We can go down together. You should think about changing, too…” He gestured at her clothes vaguely, realizing too late how his suggestion might be extrapolated. “You look like you've been up to no good.”

“You're the one who lied to Miss Zabini.”

“Yes, to protect your honor, I might add. Stop stalling.”

“I'm not stalling, I-”

“I am allowed to dress, I believe?” Amon asked imperiously. “Even the Eve of Witches, holder of the Arcanum of the Craft, progenitress of a new race, can't make a rule that I have to stay undressed all day.”

He expected more blushing. What he got was a wicked emerald sparkle in Robin's eyes. Power glittered there, and an unmistakable temptation to use it. It shot straight through him; he felt heat prickle all over his skin, and noticed his hands clenching the sheets involuntarily, his posture tightening. She didn't even need to touch him. “Your brother's downstairs,” she said in an altogether different tone, barely audible, but still teasing. “We could have him draw up a contract.”

She was nearly biting her lower lip, mischief written all over her face. Amon found himself leaning forward, halfway out of bed already. Robin leaned, too, bending at the waist, placing her hands on her knees. “Contracts aren't your style,” he murmured. “They imply that you expect something other than total obedience.”

“And that would never do…” Robin's eyes, dragon-like, were holding his.

“Never.” Amon found he was holding his breath. Robin licked her lips. Something rippled through him.

“You have five minutes,” she said, and left the room.

***

“What took you?” Nagira demanded, rustling an Italian paper that he couldn't read, looking distinctly put-off by Amon and Robin's tardiness.

“Don't tell me you were concerned,” Amon countered, not really answering the question. He inclined his head toward Robin. “You know how long she is in the bath.”

“If she was there, then why were y-” Nagira stopped abruptly, the recipient of a sharp look (and quite possibly a sharp kick under the table) from Doujima. For once, Amon was grateful for the blond woman's meddling. There seemed to be a first time for everything.

Robin ignored all of this, eagerly serving herself espresso and fruit. She tore into a red plum with noisy, juice-squirting aplomb, pausing only to lick the fluid from her fingers, eyes closed. Monica Zabini said something in a teasing tone and Robin's eyes opened shyly. Monica and her father laughed, and Don Zabini reached over to pat Robin's hand affectionately. He also said something to her, which caused Robin's eyes to find the tablecloth, and he laughed again.

“What is he saying to you, Robin?” Nagira asked.

“He says he wants me to be healthy,” she answered in a soft voice. “He says I'm too thin, and that I won't have any children, that way.”

“Not this again,” Nagira growled. “I'm telling you-”

“Do not worry, Mr. Nagira,” Monica said smoothly. “Our goal is not to use the Eve as a breed mare.” She looked at Robin, and smiled. “When that time comes, you should make your own decision.”

“You speak of it as though it were tomorrow,” Amon said, frowning.

Monica rolled her shoulders elegantly. “Sometimes we simply know what we want,” she answered enigmatically.

“It's not for a long time, yet,” Robin piped up, finally inserting herself into the dialogue. “I'm still getting used to the idea.”

“Yes, and you should have time to be young, first,” Doujima added. “Go out and conquer the world before you're trapped at home with babies and formula and soap operas.”

“Witch babies, no less,” Monica chimed in. “And that is its own burden-”

“This is fantastic coffee,” Amon interrupted loudly. Silence fell over the room. He looked straight at Monica, and raised his cup. “Really, it's wonderful.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Nagira,” Monica answered. The topic of Robin's children was closed. He felt Robin tug on his shirt under the table, and turned to face her. She mouthed a silent “thank you” to him.

Breakfast continued without incident. Amon had not lied when he said the coffee was wonderful: it was everything he could have asked for. Robin seemed to have become addicted anew, reveling in the aroma and taste as an expert wine-taster might. The hall they ate in wasn't without its charm, either, facing east and accepting much of the morning sunlight. It seemed to be adjacent to the kitchen, and was less formal than a dining room. Everything was golden pine and white damask. Amon reflected that it had been a long time since he'd breakfasted with his brother—they didn't often take meals together, even when they lived in Japan, even before Robin. Nagira seemed to be thinking the same thing, for he caught Amon's eyes and held them a moment before letting them slide away. It was not an unusual feeling for Amon—all family situations made him feel very much an outsider. Even with his brother there, he could feel Nagira slipping into another family, one that involved Doujima. And Monica Zabini, her father, and Robin were conversing in Italian, leaving Amon to ruminate over his coffee.

He felt Robin's fingertips stray to his knee, under the table. His attentions sufficiently caught, he turned to her. “Don Zabini would like to take you and me on a tour of the compound,” she told him.

“It would be much appreciated,” Amon said. Robin's hand didn't leave him when she turned to the Don and told him they were ready for the tour.

***

Amon took up the rear guard, following Robin half a step behind, while she followed Monica and her father Vincenzo. Vincenzo showed them the kitchen first, then led them into a greater, grander dining hall. Dark wood gleamed everywhere. Various display cases showed priceless silver, porcelain, and crystal dining sets. “These sets go back hundreds of years, within my family,” Monica said. “As you will soon find, the Zabinis are well known for their habit of collecting favorite things.”

It would certainly explain the butterflies, Amon thought, but said nothing. They were led from the dining hall into a drawing room meant for entertaining guests, then into the grand foyer. It certainly was grand, as its title promised. Perhaps most interesting to Amon was the catwalk that partially comprised its vaulted ceiling. It bordered a half-circle of window, looking directly on Solomon's headquarters. “We can go up there later,” Monica informed them.

They were led to a library bordering Vincenzo's private study, and a cozier den and entertainment center, complete with its own bar. Amon wondered when Nagira would find it. Afterward, an elevator took them down two levels, past the garage into a facility much cooler and quieter than the above-ground levels. “You will find exits on this level leading directly to the sewer system,” Monica said. “They are ancient escape routes. However, very few people know about them. Even many of our staff are unaware of their existence. You two, however, are privileged. The time may come when you need to escape. We will try to keep you safe here, but the enemy is both insidious and unrelenting.” Monica opened one of the reinforced steel doors in the concrete hallway, opening a bright gymnasium. “There is another exercise room within the house,” she said. “This one is strictly for magical exercises. That is why it is sunk so deeply within the ground. You can destroy anything in this room, and none will be the wiser.”

She led them to another room, not far from the gymnasium. At this point, she issued Robin a magnetic keycard, not unlike the one used for their most recent hotel stay. “This room remains locked at all times,” she told Robin firmly. “There are priceless treasures within this room. Because you, too, are priceless to us, you are allowed in.”

“Shouldn't Amon have a key, too?” Robin asked.

Monica shook her head. “If the enemy were to take Amon, they could also take his key. We cannot allow for that possibility. If they have taken him, and you cannot escape, this room may be your only option.”

“But what if you're taken?” Amon asked.

“If we are taken, we will die,” Monica answered simply. She looked at her father, and explained her words to him in Italian. He looked at Amon, and nodded gravely. He said something, directing it at Amon. Monica translated. “My father wishes you to know that our devotion to the Eve is unwavering; we know what her arrival means, and that we are prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice.” She paused. “Kobari, our friend, was prepared to do the same, and we can only hope to follow his example, should the opportunity arise.”

With that, she unlocked the room. It was pentagonal in shape, and filled with books. The books were all very old. Upon further investigation Amon noticed great scrolls, rolled tightly but kept with great care. There were other objects: silver knives of various shapes and sizes, chalices of differing materials, and more scientific wares, glass vials over burners and jars of substances he couldn't identify. Amon felt the way he did in all libraries: instantly hushed, blanketed by the weight of knowledge aching to impress itself upon him.

“This room is the tabernacle of hundreds of years of Craft knowledge,” Monica intoned, her voice almost reverential. “We have here the rarest of texts, books and scrolls and items that have taken us years to find. Some of our scouts and buyers paid with their lives, to obtain these articles.” Her gaze moved to Robin. “But that means that you will have the best to learn from, Robin.”

Robin nodded silently, surveying the room. She inspected a few of the titles. “These books are banned,” she realized. “Solomon listed them as dangerous and subversive to all Hunters.”

“Because to Hunters with the Craft, they were a temptation,” Monica said. “Because they offered secrets to things those Hunters couldn't imagine. They show the way to skills that Solomon has never been able to duplicate or understand.” She leveled her eyes at Robin. “Those skills will soon be yours. And because Solomon has crippled its forces through its own misbegotten ignorance, they will suffer.”

Robin fingered the cracked leather spine of one volume. “You mean war,” she murmured. “You mean more death.” She turned to Monica.

“Yes,” the Italian woman answered. “There will be more of that. Our family is not alone in its support of you. More are at your side than you can know. Methuselah and Kobari made certain of that. Both of them believed in you.” Her soft smile was proud. “And you will need all the support you can find, for the fight Solomon will give you.”

“When will that be?” Robin asked, her voice small.

“Whenever you wish it to be,” Monica answered. “It is your fight.”

***

Eventually, they found themselves walking the aerial catwalk of the foyer, looking down on Solomon's architectural pastiche of minarets, towers, and rooftops. The place was sprawling, much resembling a university campus. However, the buildings were completely separate in design; there was no one unifying theme. Each had obviously been designed in a different time and for differing purposes. “You can read the history of Solomon in its architecture,” Monica said, having a timely insight into Amon's thoughts. “Everything is there, from the Saracens to the Nazis.”

“What?” Robin looked from Monica to the headquarters below, made smaller but no less intimidating by the distance separating them.

“Solomon is older than you think,” she said, gesturing. “They began in 1312, the year the Knights Templar were disbanded by the Catholic Church.”

“There was no other church, in 1312,” Robin said. “The Reformation wasn't for another two hundred years.”

Monica smiled. “Quite right. Of course, you are well aware of the Church's history. But the history of the Knights of Solomon is less well-known.”

“The Knights of Solomon?” Amon asked.

“Templars who saved their skins by confessing to the Church that while on the Crusades in the Holy Land, they had learned secrets of the Craft,” Monica answered. “Specifically, Kaballah, Jewish mysticism. Of course, Robin knows a little about that—the grounds for deciding the usefulness of a Witch during her Inquisition involve the runes of Kaballah, taken from the Sefer Yetzirah, the Book of Creation. We have various copies of it downstairs.”

“Solomon began in the fourteenth century?” Amon asked, a bit skeptical. Solomon had always seemed too concerned with modernity to be so old.

“Oh, yes,” Monica said. “The Templars were even older, having been founded in 1118. They were told to guard those on Crusade, and their original headquarters was the site of the fallen Temple of Solomon. Thus the name, the Knights of the Temple. But while in the Holy Land, they found more than just the relics they were looking for—they found the Craft, and isolated pockets of Witches and mystic scholars who told them that once, the world was populated by a race of gods, the original defenders of simple humankind, but which was supplanted by a race of demi-gods possessing greater numbers but imperfect power: they turned humans against their caregivers, and so gained control of the earth.” She turned to Robin, who had turned white. “Is this sounding familiar, to you?”

“Methuselah said…” Robin whispered, but didn't finish her sentence.

“She told you something very similar, I imagine,” Monica said. “That is because of what you are. As both the Eve of Witches and the holder of the Arcanum, you are more than those petty demi-gods who manipulated humanity. She was right, to tell you.”

“The Templars who went back to the Church, what happened to them?” Amon asked.

“They gave a false story of confession about the Templars to the Papal Inquisition, but in reality they were beginning to investigate Witches with the techniques they had learned in the Middle East. Of course, all they really wanted was what the Witches already had: power. It's rumored that some of the Templars were Craft-users themselves, and escaped into areas where other Witches would support them. Solomon's new Grail, their new Ark, was the Craft.”

“And then?” Robin whispered.

“They had insufficient resources until Ferdinand and Isabella decided to expel the Jews from Spain,” Monica continued. “Naturally some Jews decided to stay. Those Knights of Solomon within the Papal Inquisition and the Church decided that it was time to make their move. They pushed for the formation of a new Inquisition, the Spanish Inquisition, ostensibly on the grounds that the devotion of allegedly-converted Jews needed to be tested. Really, it was a guise behind which Solomon might interrogate Jewish mystics to their heart's content, with three goals in mind: the first being to learn the secrets of the Craft, and the second being to discover more means of detecting Witches, and the third being to find and kill those Witches.”

Amon crossed his arms. “The Spanish Inquisition was a Solomon plot?”

Monica nodded. “Torquemada was a Witch Hunter.” Her face darkened. “It was a profitable venture, for Solomon. The Spanish Inquisition wasn't disbanded by the Church until the nineteenth century. In the meantime, they collected a great deal of data.” Her smile was bitter. “But the Enlightenment was bad for them. No one believed in Witches any longer, and Witches themselves could escape in the political turmoil of the French Revolution and Napoleon's marches into Russia and elsewhere.”

She stretched. “But with the advent of Romanticism, more everyday people were interested in the occult. Solomon realized its chance, and set up secret societies all over the globe, to lure both Witches and new Witch Hunters. Their base of knowledge increased.” She paused. “And it would have stayed that way, a disaparate union of societies, had the First World War not broken out. By the 1800's, you see, there were rumors of an American woman, who had survived the horrors of 1693, who was extraordinarily long-lived, and in possession of something called the Arcanum of the Craft.”

“Methuselah…” Robin whispered.

Monica nodded. “Yes, the same. And now she was traveling all over the world, apparently awakening the powers of Witches as fast as Solomon could kill them, if not faster. Obviously, Solomon wanted rid of her, but only after they could learn her secrets. There was, however, a rumor that her gift allowed her to see attacks before they came. After the shattering events of the Great War, such ability was priceless.”

“And Solomon offered to find it,” Amon began.

“At the cost of complete sponsorship for its other activities,” Monica finished. “Countries all over the world wanted in, but it was the Church that promised Solomon everything it desired, as they had known it would. They tried everything, but Methuselah remained elusive. Then, after the Second World War, Nazi doctors came to Solomon, begging asylum in exchange for information.”

Her voice was shaky, but her eyes were hard as she stared at Solomon's home base under the innocent blue sky. “They would trade information on the millions of families they had eliminated, and an entire database of possible Witches from all over Europe, as well as the genetic research they had conducted. Solomon took the information, and soon had, from the Nazi model, the ideas for a Witch registry and genetic research—for why kill Methuselah, when they could create a Witch even stronger than she, like the gods from the ancient Templar tales?”

A chill settled over Amon's shoulders. It wasn't his Craft—that he would have recognized immediately. This was dread and loathing, for an organization he had once served, which, if Monica was speaking truthfully, was viler than he could have previously imagined. “Solomon learned quickly, and set up regional offices to deal with specifically Witch-related problems. Witches could go there to complain. It allowed Solomon to keep tabs on them. Then their agents within world governments began demanding that Witches register. These agents already had access to the growing infrastructure of information surrounding inoculations, social security, and other programs, but an official list of known Witches was what they needed. The governments were, in large part, easy to convince. With the regional offices in place, it was a simple transition.” She swallowed. “So Solomon learned what they could from the Nazis about how to oppress a population, and now there are STN branches in every major city, and a Witch registry larger than it has ever been.” She smiled ruefully at Robin. “And we have you, Robin, the result of genetic engineering more advanced than anything Dr. Mengele could have dreamed up, although his ideas on a super-race yielded research into both your creation and that of the Orbo.”

***

After Monica's little explanation, Robin had quickly excused herself and disappeared into the bath across from her room. Amon knew better than to disturb her, although he had an almost physical sense of her personal distress. Something in his gut tugged at him to follow her, but before he could make a move, Don Zabini stopped him with a warm hand on his arm.

“You speak English?” he asked bluntly.

Amon hesitated. “A little,” he answered doubtfully.

“We will speak English,” Zabini said, and led him back to his private study, where he poured both men drinks. Monica had absented herself earlier, saying she had business to attend to, and by now Amon had already guessed that any “business” of the Zabini family was something he was better off not knowing. Amon did not ask what was in his glass, only followed the older man onto his private balcony, overlooking beautiful old hills, and the rather anachronistic turquoise swimming pool below their feet. The air was warm. Birds twittered around them. He wondered again what they were all doing there.

“You were a Hunter,” Zabini said simply, his eyes searching his property for something Amon couldn't see. “A good one.”

“Yes,” Amon answered.

“Father Colegui asked you to Hunt Robin.”

Amon nodded. “Yes.”

Zabini turned to him, his eyes inscrutable, his weathered face composed to stony stillness. “But you did not.”

Again, the ex-Hunter nodded. “I did not.” He opened his mouth, attempting to explain in limited English what was so difficult for him even in his native tongue. “I could not.”

Something lit behind the other man's eyes. His features softened a fraction. He nodded, slowly. “It is good for me to know that you speak the truth.”

Amon frowned. “How do you know that?”

Vincenzo Zabini smiled gently. Two of his fingers came up and tapped his temple. “My gift,” he said. The fingers pointed at Amon; he was for a moment reminded of children pretending to shoot one another and he stiffened. “Your thoughts are the same in any language,” Vincenzo continued. His teeth bared in a broad smile. “Even when they are so confused.”

Amon's first instinct was to leave. He didn't appreciate having anything of his invaded, much less his thoughts. Obviously sensing this, Vincenzo flattened his hand in a gesture urging tranquility. “Be calm. I see only what you see.” He put the hand to his chest. “A man's deepest secrets are the ones even he does not understand.”

Suddenly Vincenzo's posture changed. He was not unlike a dog, picking up a fresh scent. “Robin's feelings are intense, no?”

“You tell me,” Amon replied, annoyed at the idea that the old man could spy on Robin's thoughts without her knowledge.

“Do not give me that look. I left that habit with women behind, years ago.” He shook his head, apparently remembering something unpleasant. “It is not always so good, to know what women are thinking.” He gestured, trying to find the proper words. “Robin's thoughts are like stones dropped in water.” He two hands made a rippling motion, indicating the breadth of her thoughts' spread. “I feel them.”

After a moment's pause, Amon asked, “Is she well?”

Quietly, the older man shook his head. “She needs you,” he murmured. “You don't feel her, reaching out?”

“I do not have your gift.” Amon's eyes were now searching the house, wondering where Robin was, how soon he could reach her, how he could politely make his exit.

“Go,” Vincenzo said softly. “Tact is wasted on a man who knows your wishes.”

***

Without truly understanding how or why, Amon found himself going upstairs to his own room rather than Robin's. He found her there, back to him, her hands trailing over the books on his shelves. She turned suddenly, still dressed in a bathrobe very much like the one in their last hotel. He could still smell the sharp, gingery soap she'd used. “Amon, I thought-”

“Did you enjoy your bath?” he cut her off.

Robin frowned. Instead of answering, she went and sat down on the edge of his bed, which he incidentally noticed was neatly made in his absence. She sat and folded her hands tightly. “I don't know if I'm ever going to feel clean, again,” she whispered.

Amon crossed the room and knelt at her feet. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Robin unfolded her hands and spread her fingers, examining them. “I'm not even supposed to be here,” she said. “I'm something unnatural. An abomination.” She swallowed hard. “The creation of monsters cannot be anything other than a monster.”

“That's what Solomon would have you believe,” Amon said. “It's what allows them to suspect all Witches without a second thought.”

Robin shook her head silently. Her eyes were wet. “I'm not all Witches,” she whispered.

“No, you're not,” Amon answered. “Robin-”

“Did your parents love one another, Amon?” she asked, interrupting him. Her hands had balled up tight again.

Amon thought, forced his mind to go back to a place he did his best to avoid. There was his mother, gentle and affectionate, and his father, with an easy smile and laugh—like Nagira. And there again his mother, power bursting from her with such force it shook the walls of their home when Solomon dragged her husband away. “Yes,” he answered. “They did.”

Robin's smile was rueful. “And they made you, because of it,” she said. “They wanted you; not as a means to an end, but just because they wanted to share their love with someone new.” Her lips were shaking. “You didn't have to be anything special, just you. They loved you already, just for being—for existing, in the first place.”

And the full weight of Neville's words came back to him then: She loved you, Amon. And for the first time, Amon understood what his mother had done. And how deeply, totally, and irrevocably he'd betrayed her and his father, by becoming the very same foul force that tried to eradicate all Witches, united forever with the alchemists of genetics who had created Robin to serve merely as a tool of destruction. Kobari was right. He was very selfish, indeed, and had been so most of his life. Selfishness was easier than feeling.

“A monster is defined by actions and decisions,” Amon intoned. Tentatively, he placed a hand over Robin's fisted ones. “And you've done nothing that needs forgiving.”

Robin was barely breathing. “Nothing?” she asked.

Very carefully, Amon reached out his other hand, to tuck a feather of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered there. “She called you `hope,' Robin,” he said simply.

Robin flinched. Her eyes shut, and tears rolled down her face. Amon let them fall. Her hair was still damp, clutched there between his fingers. She opened her eyes again and contemplated him again, frozen still. “She knew the danger of having a baby,” Amon continued. “She did it anyway.”

Robin nodded, visibly attempting to forestall her tears. She caught her breath. “What was it like, Amon, to have a mother?”

“Wonderful,” Amon answered without reserve. His lips closed abruptly. The immediacy of his answer was a surprise to him. Now that he was asked to remember, he could not recollect an unhappy time, when his mother was alive. It was not a privileged life, to be sure, but it was certainly better than what happened afterward. “I was happy.”

“I'm glad,” Robin said, nodding to herself, as though agreeing with herself on a point in an unheard conversation. “It makes me feel better, that you have good memories.”

He frowned. “Why?”

Robin wrestled with something difficult, the lines of her face deepening. “I want you to have been happy,” she said distantly. She shook her head, frowning. “I know it makes no sense. But if having a mother is wonderful, then I don't have to be so afraid of doing poorly at it, myself. Everyone expects me to have children…but I don't even remember my mother. I don't know what to do. What if I'm no good at it?”

Amon flattened his hand against her face, tipped her chin up. “All children should wish to be so lucky,” he said. “You love them the way you love God; sight unseen.” He sighed. “But don't let it worry you, now. You're young. Too young.”

Robin smiled against his hand. “I know,” she said. “Sixteen is very young.”

He frowned. “Sixteen? When did that happen?”

She gestured vaguely. “After the attack on Ravens' Flat, when I was with Nagira,” she answered. “It didn't seem polite to bring it up.”

“That was months ago.” He brought her face around to his, stared. “You mean you're almost seventeen?”

“I don't know how old I am, anymore,” she said. “The Arcanum…” She shrugged. “Does it make a difference?”

Amon wondered. “I still say you're too young for children.” His lips quirked. “Certainly you need more space than that above a restaurant in Tokyo.”

She smiled brightly. Her eyes took on that look of mischief from earlier in the morning. “And fewer weapons in the house.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

Robin grinned. “They'll be Witches, they won't need guns and knives and who knows what else.”

“You'll have another man to protect you, then—you won't have need of me.”

Robin frowned deeply, her eyes almost indignant. “I'll always need you,” she protested. One of her hands reached out for his, gripped it.

“You don't know that for certain.” Amon tried to avoid her eyes, smoothing hair that was already smooth behind her ear, attempting to ignore the intensity with which she held onto him. “You're strong, and someday you'll-”

“What if he betrays me?” she demanded. “What if he was cruel to me, or one of my children? Or if-”

“He would know better, than to be cruel to you, or your children,” Amon said heavily, silencing her. “If not for fear of your wrath, then…” He felt his face pull into a bitter smile. “I'd send Yuki after him.” His hard smile grew. “Polar bears are quite vicious creatures, when provoked.”

“Polar bears,” Robin murmured. A tiny smile replaced her frown. “Right.” The hand clutching his was terrifically warm; he could feel it there like sunlight itself. His own Craft resisted it, sending shooting sparks of electricity up his arm. He swallowed, looked her in the face, wondered if she felt the same energy radiating through her.

“Right.”