Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ Binah (Understanding) ❯ On Many Fronts, One War ( Chapter 20 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

The phone rang at an obscure hour of morning, when Margarethe was barely conscious. She reached blindly for the phone and spoke into it. Later, she would not remember which language she had used—German or Japanese.

“We need to talk,” Touko said.

So Margarethe began getting elaborately lost in the subways, until she found herself in a deserted women's restroom somewhere underground, in a suburban prefecture. Touko was in the largest stall at the end, the one designed for handicapped users. “Do you have an explanation for this, Touko?” Margarethe asked tiredly. “I understand that you took things-”

“This isn't about that,” Touko interrupted her, her voice thin and urgent. “You have to understand. I've been contacted by an Inquisitor.”

Margarethe frowned. The sleep cleared from her mind immediately. “You're not a Seed,” she said flatly.

“I know. It was about Amon and Robin.”

Her frown deepened. “What was the Inquisitor's name?”

“Koushon. Gabriel Koushon. He sounded Italian, I think.”

Margarethe nodded slowly. “How were you contacted?”

“I was driving back to Osaka, when I stopped in a little town pharmacy. Then I was accosted by three guys driving a van, and inside the van they had a satellite hookup. That's how I talked to Koushon.”

Again, the Hunter nodded. Her eyes narrowed, and she focused them on Touko. Margarethe was aware of the dull hum of the fluorescent bulbs above their heads, and the sick-sweet smell of air freshener being vented in. The harsh light made the younger woman look ill, half-dead. “What did you tell him, Touko?”

Touko shook her head. “Nothing,” she whispered, her voice quiet but firm. “I didn't tell him a single thing.”

“Why not?” Margarethe asked. “It would have been much easier for you if you had. And you owe Mr. Nagira nothing, any longer.”

“That's not true!” Touko insisted tersely. “Just because I didn't…get what I want…doesn't mean I have an excuse to hurt him.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “I don't want anything bad to happen to him.” Her eyes came up to Margarethe's face, wide and brown and frightened. “I want to help them,” she said. “Really help them. Nothing else. I swear.”

Margarethe folded her arms slowly, leaned against the nondescript wall of the stall. “Why would I know anything about where those two are?” she asked. “Why are you asking me for help?”

Touko blinked. Her skin was ashy-pale in the light. A bulb flickered, casting her momentarily into dim shadow. “You're the only one I trust,” she murmured.

Margarethe swallowed. “Why's that?” she asked.

“You're most sane person in all of this,” Touko replied. “You're the only one who didn't hound me for information. I had to come to you, for my own selfish reasons,” she added bitterly. “Even my therapist works for Solomon! Who am I supposed to trust?”

The German Hunter sighed. “I don't know if you'll be any safer with me than without me,” she said. “And I honestly don't know where Amon and Robin are. Really, I don't. And I don't want to know. That's dangerous knowledge. It's bad enough, knowing they're alive, and holding it back from Solomon.”

Touko's eyes widened. Hope lit them. “So, you are helping them?”

Margarethe nodded, slowly. Her eyes rolled around the stall, complete with its too-polite requests in both hiragana and katakana, just so that no one would be confused. How in the world had she gone from the Frankfurt office to this place, this little hole in the ground, dim light and the cold, empty echo of trains? “I guess it looks that way,” she answered. Her glance affixed again on Touko. “What do you want to do? What can you possibly hope to do, to warn them? We don't even know where they are.”

Touko's face looked less wan, now. Her posture straightened. “I've been thinking about that. We may have one ally, who can at least deliver a message for us to his superiors.”

Margarethe's lip quirked. “Kosaka?” she asked.

Touko smiled genuinely for the first time in what may have been months. “How did you know?”

“Hunters' intuition.” She smiled back at Touko. It was a quiet smile, and felt a little odd on her face, like a shirt that didn't quite fit, as it came out only rarely.

“What's the smile for?” Touko asked.

“Honor,” Margarethe said. “It looks good on you.”

***

Monica had called a family meeting in the dining room. The party sat around a long teak table, in chairs that sacrificed comfort for elegance. Vincenzo sat at the head of the table, and his daughter stood at the foot. The wine was poured. For all appearances, it was a formal European dinner—except for the bare feet on the part of four of the participants.

“I have some discouraging news,” Monica began. “There is strife within the network of families. The Girardis, who recently lost their leader, are on the move to eclipse us. We cannot allow this to happen. For what is coming, we need as much power as possible. However, what this means is that we must all be very cautious.” She unfolded a manila envelope, and withdrew a ring of keys from it. These were tossed to Amon. “This will let you into an apartment in the heart of the city,” she said. “You will also find keys to a few of the vehicles in the garage. Should you need escape and a place to hide, you now have the resources.”

“Thank you,” Amon said gravely, inclining his head.

“Who are these Girardis?” Nagira asked.

“They are a small family,” Monica answered. “The most recent leader did not make any bids for power during his time—his brothers died trying, years ago. Now his son, Constantino, is at the head. For reasons that we do not know, he has begun a slow move against us. Specifically, his men have infiltrated our harbor operations.”

Nagira looked at his brother, then at Monica. “Could Solomon be funding him?” he asked.

Monica swallowed. The table was silent. “We must accept it as a possibility,” she said quietly.

Doujima sighed, and rested her face in her hands. Robin looked at her empty, gleaming plate numbly. Amon clenched a fist, slowly, then let it relax. He continued staring at Monica. “You said we would be safe,” he said simply. The accusation was implicit.

“You are,” Monica answered. “You are safer here than anywhere else in this country. Even if Solomon were funding Constantino's efforts, he would not risk an attack on the compound. That would incur open war. I doubt he is prepared.”

“He's green, huh?” Nagira asked.

Monica nodded decisively. “Yes. He is inexperienced in these matters. It is probably why he chose a slower plan of action rather than a hostile takeover.”

“But with the right support behind him, he could attempt anything,” Amon said flatly.

She turned her dark gaze in his direction, and met it unflinchingly. “There is no evidence to suggest that Solomon is in any way involved.”

“There never is,” Amon countered, “until it's too late.”

“What would you have me do?” she asked. “Risk everything my family has taken generations to build, because of one baseless suspicion? Turn the other families against me because they see me as a chaotic element? We didn't arrive at a position to help you because we were too easily provoked!”

“If he's after us, I want him eliminated!”

Silence reigned at the table. Few of them had ever seen Amon so vehement. In fact, his own anger surprised him. A voice within chided him for having become complacent, for allowing himself to feel safe and at ease, here, enough to feel wrathful when that safety was threatened. He felt Robin's hand gently brush his under the table, trying to calm him, quiet him. He sighed. Presently, Vincenzo said something in Italian, his low voice rumbling gently down the table. At his words, Monica nodded.

“What did he say, Robin?” Nagira asked.

“He says…you don't burn down the house, to kill a single spider.” She looked at the rest of them. Amon watched her draw breath, and in so doing, assume the posture and attitude he'd seen so often in the Walled City. “Constantino Girardi is a fly that we can swat away easily,” she said. She turned to Monica. “Meet with him. Use your Craft. If Solomon is on his mind, you will know. If there is nothing to fear, then he will only be further intimidated by you. What's important is that we defuse this situation before any blood is shed.” She breathed out, slowly. “Do you agree?”

Monica nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. She smiled affectionately. “It seems you have been listening well to your new teacher.”

“And to the Arcanum,” Robin reminded her softly. The expression on Monica's face went serious, and she nodded. She sat down. Moments later, staff arrived with the first course of the meal. Good, Amon thought. If this woman is about to lead us into a war between families, she should know exactly what she's defending. Robin has the wisdom of four hundred years' worth of Witches—does Monica honestly suppose that tactical thinking isn't part of the package?

***

“Hattori, may we have some more tea, please?” Administrator Kosaka asked, pressing a button on his desk. He was answered in the affirmative, and promptly looked up at his two guests, smiling affably.

“Touko,” he said, trying out the name, having been advised moments earlier to call her by it, and not her surname. “I didn't think to see you in these offices again.”

“I didn't think I'd ever come back, either,” she answered. “As it is, I'm here to lodge a complaint.”

Kosaka's brows furrowed. “Oh, dear, that's not good at all,” he said. “What happened? How can I help?”

She straightened a little in her chair. “I'm here to make a formal complaint against Inquisitor Gabriel Koushon,” she said clearly. “While driving to Osaka, three men who reported to him dragged me into a van, then made me listen to him interrogate me on the whereabouts of Amon Nagira and Robin Sena.”

Kosaka blinked. His face was stern. He did not seem pleased. “Those people are dead.”

“Inquisitor Koushon doesn't seem to think so,” Touko said. “And, because he somehow discovered that Amon and I were once…involved…he saw fit to bring me somewhere against my will and ask me questions. I'm not even a Seed, Administrator. I'm a civilian. He has no authority to arrest me, much less interrogate me.”

Kosaka's nostrils flared as he breathed in once, then let out the breath. “These are very serious accusations,” he said. “Do you have any evidence to support your claims?”

Touko withdrew a small shopping bag from the floor. From it, she brought out a ripped shirt. “I haven't washed it,” she said. “If there are fingerprints that register with the Solomon employee database, they should still be there.”

Presently, Hattori arrived with the tea. “Take this, Hattori,” Kosaka said. “Please put it in an evidence bag and prepare it for shipment to our labs.”

“Yes, sir,” Hattori answered, and took the shirt.

Kosaka set about pouring the tea. “How did you come to know our Miss Bonn?” he asked Touko, nodding at the German Hunter.

Touko had the grace to blush. “I'll confess,” she began, “I also wanted very badly for Amon and Robin to be alive. I know it was selfish, but I was mostly concerned with Amon, because of my prior involvement with him. Because of this, I asked Miss Bonn to help me in my search. She was kind enough to indulge me, until I realized my foolishness and stopped the search.” She frowned. “Inquisitor Koushon told me that he'd gotten wind of my search,” she said. Her eyes grew round. “That must mean…he's been spying on me, and on your Hunter, as well.”

Kobari's frown deepened, if such were possible. His bald pate was almost red with rage. “Very serious accusations, indeed,” he repeated. “If you please, I'd like you to write a statement about exactly what happened that day.” He handed her a clipboard equipped with pen and paper.

A while later, Margarethe and Touko stood outside the Administrator's offices. “You're quite the actress,” Margarethe said.

“I had to pretend a lot, to my father,” Touko answered. “There were times I lied to him just because he made me angry, not because it would profit me any.”

“Well, telling the truth is the last thing Koushon will expect,” Margarethe said. “It's more likely that he expected you to be quiet about the entire incident.”

“I know this probably won't slow him down much,” Touko admitted. “But even if it earns him just a slap on the wrist, maybe his superiors will keep a closer eye on him, now. He's misusing resources, and a member of the public is complaining. That has to mean something to someone.”

“Let's hope so,” Margarethe replied.

***

Constantino Girardi sighed, and poured himself a drink. His stomach was on fire. Monica Zabini had just been to see him, and had openly discussed his slow acquisition of the harbors. Well, to call it an “open” discussion was perhaps an exaggeration. In their world, all was subtlety. It wouldn't have done for her to simply march into his home, accuse him of something, and wait for his answer. What she did instead was to bring him, of all things, cuttings from her garden.

“Oh, let me get some water…” he had said stupidly, blinking at the extravagant profusion of flowers, and the woman holding them. He opened the door more fully. “Please, come in, if you can tolerate a bachelor's…” Constantino trailed off. Monica had made her way in, bearing the flowers, radiant in a white skirt-suit that showed off her tan. She cast inscrutable dark eyes around the apartment, taking in the furniture, the books, the tidiness of the front room which spoke to its complete lack of use. She proceeded into the kitchen without invitation.

“I didn't know you were such a devotee of blown glass,” she said, laying the flowers down carefully on the island. She gestured to some of the vases and bowls in the kitchen, twisted into impossible shapes shot through with equally incredible colors.

Constantino smiled, looking at his collection, momentarily calmed. “It always intrigues me that something so beautiful can come from a lump of sand, and human breath.”

“And fire,” Monica reminded him. “Don't forget that part.”

“Yes,” he answered, coming back to reality. “Prometheus might even have thought his sacrifice worthwhile, had he seen the beauty it yielded.” He tried to smile at Monica, and didn't quite make it. Turning back to the cabinets, he lifted out a suitable container for the flowers, in a deep cobalt blue bearing a ribbon of canary yellow, twisting upward not unlike a blossom itself. He filled it with water, and began placing the flowers inside.

“Oh, no, let me,” Monica said, and began arranging the flowers artfully.

“You're very talented,” he remarked. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“It's been a few months since your father's death,” she said, moving the flowers this way and that. “All of the ceremony is over, and life has continued. I wanted to know how you were handling things.”

Naturally, this became a thinly-veiled discussion of business, which in turn metamorphosed into a reprimand. She understood exactly what he was doing on her harbors, in that curious way of knowing everything that the Zabinis always had, and she was telling him to stop. There was, of course, no way that she could understand that it was his lieutenants who wanted all the power, who were champing at the bit to attain it. He had no desire to make waves. But if he made no effort at all, he could easily be overthrown—unhappy lieutenants were rebellious lieutenants. If Constantino did not bow a little to his power base, he could endanger his mother and sister. And that was something he could not abide.

Like many men of his profession, Constantino now understood how Odysseus felt, placed precariously between the Scylla and Charbydis—devouring maw on one side, lethal venom on the other. His choice of a classical metaphor only further emphasized to him the sheer unlikelihood that he could ever understand how to navigate these particular seas. “O, sing to me of that man of many resources,” he murmured to himself. “I could use a few.”

As if on cue, the phone rang. He grabbed the kitchen extension. “Hello?”

“Hey, boss.” It was Patriani, his chief lieutenant.

“Good afternoon,” Constantino said politely.

“One of our guys just saw Monica Zabini leaving your apartment, sir. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, everything's fine,” Constantino answered. He frowned, unsure what to say next. “Thank you for being so attentive.”

“It's no trouble, sir. Actually, I've taken the precaution of watching over your sister, as well.”

Constantino felt his heart drop and his blood cool. “Elena?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, sir. I'm watching over her.”

“You're at the university?”

“Yes, sir.”

The message was clear. We're watching your sister. The lieutenants would be thinking that Monica's visit had scared him off the course, which in fact it had—he had absolutely no desire to go up against her, now. But of course his officers had a plan to put him right back on track: Elena could be taken at any moment, if Constantino's leadership skills proved lacking. He realized that his palms were sweating. He had to give an answer. He had to sound unaffected. Above all, he could not sound as terrified as he truly was.

“Thank you, Patriani,” Constantino said. “That was very intelligent of you.”

“My family is your family, sir,” Patriani said, and Constantino could only think: But mine has all the power you could ever want. He said his goodbyes, and numbly hung up. One hand trembled slightly. The kitchen, the flowers, the telephone all seemed a bit unreal. He drank off the remainder of his drink and called his sister.

“Elena?” he asked into the phone when she picked up.

“Oh, Tino, hi!” she cried, using the name she'd given him when she was small and couldn't pronounce it in its entirety. The name had stuck. There was laughter and noise in the background. As usual, she was with friends. They were distinctly male voices; her entourage was with her. For once, he was glad of their presence.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Oh, I'm fine. Really tired, rehearsals are awful and the new director is so frustrating,” she said. “And I think I'm failing English—I can't get the subjunctive mode right.”

“You'll do great, you always do,” Constantino said, smiling. “I wanted to tell you; you might see some men hanging around you. More so than usual, I mean.”

Elena giggled. “Stop! I'm not like that at all!”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say.” They laughed together. He quieted quickly, though, remembering what he had to say and what it meant. “These are my guys, though, Elena.”

“Is something wrong, Tino?” she asked.

He took a deep breath. It was usually his policy to keep Elena as far out of the family business as possible. However, there were only three of them, now. Ignorance could only hurt her. “Not yet,” he answered. “Patriani wanted to take the precaution. So if you see someone following you, that's why.” He hesitated. “But you know, don't you, that even if someone comes looking for you, and they use my name, you aren't to get in a car with them.”

“Yes, Tino,” she said with mocking sweetness. “I'm not little, anymore!”

“What's the code?” he asked.

“Really? You want me to remember?”

“Tell it to me.”

“It was…it was a director…it was…hmmm….Alfred Hitchcock! I knew I would remember!”

“Good,” Constantino said, sighing with relief. “Good.” He smiled at the phone, although he knew she couldn't see him. “Well, I'll let you get back to your friends.”

“Okay, Tino. I love you!”

“I love you, too,” he said softly, as usual half-embarrassed and half-impressed by his sister's effusiveness. He hung up the phone, and stared at Monica Zabini's flowers.

***

Amon and Robin were crouched in the dog pens after lunch, before their afternoon lessons. This had become their practice, to visit the dogs and let Robin enjoy their presence, before the afternoon was eaten up again by Malachai's strict, grueling lessons in the arts of meditation, yoga, and spellcraft. It was cooler, here, although it still smelled too much like dog for Amon's taste. Robin didn't seem to care—she was on her knees on the floor, gently placing her fingers between the chain-link fencing of one kennel. One thin, older German Shepherd was carefully sniffing her hand, and presently began licking it. She smiled with delight.

“I've never had any animals,” she said.

“Me either,” Amon replied. At Robin's questioning look, he said, “Our landlord wouldn't allow them.”

She blinked. “Would you like to pet him, too, Amon?”

“It couldn't hurt, I suppose…” Amon took a knee next to Robin and placed his hand against the chain-link. The dog sniffed his palm tentatively. He blinked a few times, and licked Amon's hand. “Took him a while to decide,” he remarked.

“I'm sure he likes you just fine,” Robin assured him.

“He likes you, better, though,” said a voice behind them. It was Francisco, the grizzled old dog-master, who had been with the family for what seemed like an eternity, and was always speaking with the dogs, carrying on what appeared to be thorough, if one-sided, conversations with them. “But then again, who can blame him?” Francisco asked, shrugging and smiling, looking at Robin.

“Francisco, you old flirt,” Malachai said, stepping into the dog-pens. He turned to Amon and Robin. “I had a feeling you two would be here, today. Come along, I want to start early.”

Robin looked at the dog and smiled. “Bye,” she said softly. “I'll try to be back later.” The dog seemed to smile back, panting eagerly and letting his pink tongue loll out lazily. Robin rose and started for the door. Amon followed. The door closed behind them.

Malachai lingered near the old dog-trainer. “Is she showing any signs?” he asked simply.

“Not yet,” Francisco answered. “She likes them. They like her. That's about it.”

Malachai frowned, obviously perturbed. “I'm not certain we have much time left.”

“Did we ever?”

***

“Focus, focus, focus!” Malachai cried in exasperation, raising his hands heavenward and directing his vitriol at Amon. “When are you going to learn, Mr. Nagira, that relaxation does not necessarily equate to laziness?”

As usual, Amon was having trouble controlling his Craft. No, that was inaccurate. It was that he had trouble summoning it, especially when he was relaxed. His Craft had emerged under immense strain, appearing in his blood like the endorphins that preceeded it. And now its use depended heavily on tension and stress. Amon, at his most contented, had to search hard for his Craft, when otherwise it would fly to him, ready for use.

Robin didn't necessarily have it any easier. All of her powers were emerging at once. When she wanted something, she couldn't help but draw it to her. She helplessly added more ice to his efforts. She had begun to know things, random bits of information garnered simply by touching this or that item in the house, sitting in the same chair that someone else had only recently vacated. Monica had helped with this, offered a few words on how to shut out the impressions, so that she was not constantly receiving too much information, or prying into the private worlds of others. And Malachai's relaxation techniques also helped—when using one Craft or another, Robin had more control than Amon could possibly dream of. Even her ice was finer than his—she made elegant shapes of it, playing until she achieved sharp, glittering spires. A wave of her hand could send them flying to shatter against the wall, or melt them into a tiny puddle.

“I'll try harder next time,” Amon said, looking at Malachai. He was answered with a furious shake of the head.

“Harder isn't what I'm looking for. If anything, I want the opposite. You need to let go, to use your Craft without thinking.” He sighed. “Your Craft is a part of you, like your eyes or fingers. It's meant to be used accordingly.” The rabbi turned to Robin. “What helps you focus, Robin?”

Robin blinked. She was sitting with her knees drawn up to her like usual. She appeared to be having some difficulty answering the question. Amon thought he saw her sneak a look at him from the corner of her eye. “My glasses,” she finally murmured.

“Your glasses?” Malachai asked. He looked puzzled for a moment, then realization dawned. “Oh, yes, your glasses, of course. Let me see your glasses.”

Hesitantly, Robin folded them away from her shirt and held them out to Malachai. The rabbi took hold of them and unfolded them, briefly looking through the lenses, and then peering at the frames themselves, as though looking for some clue. “Robin, these have little magnification at all,” he said. “And there are no runes engraved in the frames. And yet you say they help you to focus?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“How?”

She looked at the floor. “I don't know,” she answered softly.

“Don't look at the floor when I'm the one you're speaking to,” Malachai ordered. Robin's head came up. “How do they work?” he repeated.

“Really, Malachai, I don't know,” Robin answered. “They just do. I concentrate better when I wear them.”

“Where did you get them?”

Helplessly, Robin's eyes darted to Amon and back again. Malachai's posture changed. He too looked at Amon. Needlessly, Robin said, “Amon gave them to me.”

“Why did you do that, Amon?” Malachai asked.

“I thought they would improve her vision, when she used her Craft,” Amon answered. “I theorized that the brightness of the flame was interfering with her visual perceptions, and therefore her accuracy. Before the glasses, she was having trouble hitting her targets.” Of course, those early days in Tokyo seemed like ages ago, another lifetime even, and it felt like years since he'd watched Robin fight tooth and nail to get those glasses back, lighting another young Witch's hair on fire with complete accuracy, the glasses nowhere on her face. But Amon saw no need to inform their teacher of those events, of course.

Malachai turned to Robin. “Had you noticed problems with your vision before, Robin?”

Clearly, the young Witch was uncomfortable with the question. Amon knew why—the day he'd given her the glasses, she'd protested: but my eyes are fine, she'd insisted. She had never experienced difficulty seeing, before. And yet, the glasses worked. For whatever reason, she now refused to state the obvious, perhaps even for the same reasons that Amon was stubborn with his brother when Nagira asked about the glasses. It's just a psychosomatic thing, isn't it? Nagira asked, not really expecting an answer. At the time, Amon had not wanted to believe him. Now, he wasn't quite so sure. Part of him, perhaps even the dark, spiteful, possessive part of him which had given her the glasses in the first place, wanted her say that it wasn't the gift which held the power, it was the giver.

“No,” Robin said quietly. “My eyes were fine.” Without looking, Amon felt her eyes burning into him, a soft, insistent pressure—perhaps her reach into the minds of others was increasing, as well. Perhaps this was the ripple Vincenzo felt. He steeled himself.

“I see,” Malachai said, looking back and forth between them. “Well, it's not unusual for some Witches to have a focus object,” he continued. “All this time, I thought it was that pendant of yours.”

As Robin's hand sought her pendant, Malachai turned away from them. He drew a deep breath. “Come into the library,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

***

They were once again looking at the Tree of Life. “Which one is this, Robin?” Malachai asked, pointing at one of the upmost of the nine circles within the design.

“Binah,” she answered. “It's the third Sephira, situated just below Keter, the formless, unknowable void of God, and Hokhmah, the source of all things. Usually it symbolizes knowledge.”

“Make an analogy for it, if you please.”

Robin frowned. Her hands worked together in her lap. “It's like…the canals in Venice,” she said. “Hokhmah is like water—very powerful, but without a place to go, useless. Binah is the structure that gives Hokhmah a use. It's like the network of canals, or pipes in a building, delivering water throughout.” She smiled, a thought occurring to her. “Without Binah, it's impossible to use Hokhmah at all.”

Malachai nodded. “Very good. Did you also know that Binah is associated with the feminine aspect of God?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Again, he nodded, and folded his arms. “Well, it is. Sometimes it's referred to as the womb of raw understanding. This is because the womb is the first place we learn anything—even before we achieve consciousness, our very cells are learning, making us one thing and not another, forming us into human beings and not mere animals. Moreover, understanding can be interpreted as empathy—a quality which, unfortunately, women are more famous for than men. Empathy is a complete understanding of the Other, a willngness to see with his eyes.”

Malachai's eyes flicked to Amon. “Of course, Binah is also interpreted in other ways. Certain lines of the Sefer Yetzirah refer to it as a power God himself used to write his name on his heavenly throne. This is because the very word, Binah, when split into its Hebrew roots, is made of the words for water and fire—two elements which, when used together, are commonly understood to signify lightning.”

Lightning. Electricity. The sensation Amon felt whenever he and Robin touched. He felt his eyes find hers before either of them could stop themselves. Now she knew about it, too—had jumped when he touched her. Her green eyes were wide, on him. And he felt it again, that soft, velvet pressure, like a hand swathed in silk, brushing at the outermost reaches of his mind. She was reaching out to him. And suddenly he remembered the industrial-strength lightbulbs in that abysmal little warehouse in the Walled City, each of them flaring to life, blazing brightly until they exploded in a rain of shattering glass much like the spattered remains of Kobari's head, and Amon's hand in Robin's, clutching with white knuckles. And he knew she remembered it, too.

Malachai continued. “Electricity is a dangerous power for one Witch, alone,” he said. “This is because it is made of two such powerful elements. They struggle for power within the consciousness of the user. Witches with this Craft usually do not live for very long.”

Robin didn't break the gaze as she spoke. “The Witch Methuselah controlled, in the Walled City,” she murmured.

“Without her, he had no control,” Amon answered. He looked at Malachai. “It needs to be two, doesn't it? Otherwise, it spirals out of control.”

The rabbi nodded sagely. “As with less symbolic wombs, it takes two,” he intoned. “But true understanding is always that way—a dialectic, a conversation. It cannot happen in complete solitude. Nature abhors a vacuum, and all of that.”

Amon narrowed his eyes at their teacher. “You mean for us to use our powers together,” he stated, and wondered if the man knew that they had done it already.

Malachi's lips quirked above his copious beard. “I mean for you to work together,” he answered. “To cooperate. Is that so hard, for two people who have already been partners?” He looked between them. “You depended on her Craft during your time in the STN-J, didn't you, Amon? And she depended on your skills, too. How is this any different?”

“It just is,” Amon answered curtly.

Malachai smiled slowly, knowingly. He leaned back in his chair. “So, you have already tried it.”

“We didn't mean to,” Robin insisted. “It just…happened.”

“And when was this?”

Robin's knees came up to her chest. Amon could see the memory at work on her face. “When Tenchou, our friend, was killed,” she said. “I was so…” She gestured, her hands working in the air to describe what Amon already knew was an un-nameable combination of horror, fury, loss, and regret.

“They did it right in front of us,” Amon supplied. “It was a ritual execution. The Elders were proving their loyalty by sacrificing a man they thought of as a traitor. They thought they were doing something to please Robin.” Beside him, Robin flinched.

“I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate this…”

“Reach out to him, Robin,” Malachai instructed softly. “Do what you have the instinct to do.”

Wordless, her eyes averted, Robin outstretched her right hand. His throat suddenly gone dry, Amon let his left hand gently take hers in the space between them. Power blossomed up his arm, wrapping itself around his muscles, singing its way through his veins. It was the gold of before, only now more directed, less lazy, empowered, given a mission—rays of intensified sunlight shooting down to a dark and cool forest floor. There was an ebb and flow to it, a rhythm not unlike a heartbeat, a lifepulse of the Craft, pushing its way into him. “But you're not using your power,” he whispered.

“Yes, she is,” Malachai said. “Can't you feel it? She's holding back. That's part of the Craft, too.”

Amon was suddenly irritated at the thought of a third party—this was between him and Robin, this sharing. And yet even as he felt the irritation, the resentment, another force within wrapped itself around his awareness and tried to calm him. Robin. Every cell burned brightly, fed by her light. Lights were flickering throughout the room. The hairs on his neck and arms were standing on end. Or were they Robin's neck, Robin's arms? Senseless, gibbering panic crawled through him, suddenly. He was losing all control, felt naked, violated, unsafe inside his own mind—how was this any different from what Single Eye could do? Two hearts hammered wildly inside him. Despairing, he felt her near-complete advance, he was not alone inside his skin any longer, Robin was with him everywhere and nowhere, seeing everything, and he sensed the helpless merging, the slippery change from two people looking at each other to two shared eyes looking in the same direction. Was there a difference? Had there ever been? Wasn't it always like this, this we, not a solitary, lonely I—weren't we always this completely-

Robin gasped. The world went dark and cold and until now he hadn't realized the warmth, the gentle thrumming pulse of her Craft whose sudden silence was now deafening. He was panting in the blackness—together, they had burned out every lightbulb in the room, plunging them into claustrophobic library-darkness. Amon blinked at their hands, suddenly had a memory he knew wasn't his own--we split apart; he left me. He stared at Robin as a single candle lit of its own accord. It flickered. She was shivering.

“Class dismissed,” Malachai said.