Blair emerged from the bathroom some twenty minutes later - showered and freshly shaved. The simple routine of personal cleaning had improved his mood slightly. If he didn’t think about ... what had happened. Pathetic, he knew, but until he achieved some distance, talking about ... the situation... would only result in an emotional outburst. Once he began to dwell on what had happened he wouldn’t be any good to his Sentinel. He wasn’t pretending that *it* hadn’t happened - he was merely letting a wound heal slightly before he probed the hurt.

‘Metaphor, smetaphor’, he snarled at himself. ‘Would it have been that complicated to duck into Simon’s office to tell them that Cassie was going back to the site?’

Before he could begin to follow his thoughts to their inevitable conclusion, he noticed the priest. Philip was setting the table, dithering between the bowls, chopsticks and plates.

"I usually use chopsticks and Jim eventually gives up and uses a knife and fork." Blair said helpfully.

"I think that describes my technique." He set down all the utensils.

Drifting aimlessly, as Philip seemed to have the table under control, Blair wandered into the kitchen. There was a big, looming Sentinel missing from the apartment.

"Where’s Jim?" he blurted.

"He popped out to the hardware store on the corner; he’ll be back in a minute. He’s getting the food, too."

The front door opened and Jim tumbled into the loft, heavily laden with bags.

"Wow, what did you do? Buy everything they were cooking?" Blair grabbed the top three bags and inhaled appreciatively.

"There was a special on the banquet for three. It seemed like a good idea. Lots of food." Jim grinned widely.

"I’ll get some more plates," Philip said helpfully.

Blair rattled one of the bags he was holding. "What’s this? Nuts and bolts with noodles?"

"Bolts," Jim said absently. "You want to eat?"

"Really?" Blair raised an eyebrow, and promptly opened the bag. It contained six heavy-duty bolts and window locks. "What are these for?"

"The doors, duh."

"Duh," Blair echoed, as he set the bag aside, reaching for an egg roll. His head was aching and he distinctly felt as if he was acting below par. That Jim had rushed out and purchased the bolts was peculiar, but he couldn’t find the energy to care.

Jim smiled tentatively at him as he passed over a bowl of noodles. The understanding in his friend’s eyes cut him to the quick. Tears welled up within him. Stoically, he refused to spill a single tear. Concentrating on the food, solely on the Kung Po chicken with extra noodles, he redirected himself.

"I bought the bolts because you’ve been sleepwalking again, Blair," Jim announced, disrupting his fragile equanimity.

The food congealed in his stomach.

"What?" Blair lifted his head, looking at both priest and sentinel. The priest nodded sympathetically.

"I don’t think chaining you to the bed is a good idea. So I thought I’d put these on the doors and windows."

"When did I do this?" Blair tangled his fingers in his drying hair.

"Just before, when you had your nap."

"What?" he said stridently.

Jim paused, inhaled, exhaled and then pushed aside his meal. "It’s not uncommon to have problems sleeping when you’re stressed. I just felt that the bolts were a good idea. It’s because..."

"Wrong!" Blair snarled. "I was doing this sleepwalking gig before...." His words ran out of steam.

Jim coughed, "Yes, you’re right. The case is..." His fingernails drummed against the table. "Stressful."

Banging his fist against the table, Blair stood. "I can’t switch it off. I know you want me to - step back and view it dispassionately."

"Blair," Jim interrupted. "That’s simply not possible."

The student’s sharp intake of breath sounded loud in the suddenly quiet room. Abruptly, he composed himself, breathing in and out, finding his centre.

"The bolts are a good idea," he enunciated. "I think you should put them on the doors and windows until I stop sleepwalking."

Subject avoided.

Moving smoothly, Philip opened the other boxes of food, cajoling the detective and observer to eat. Reluctantly, Blair sat. Touched by the fact that Jim had travelled across town to his favourite restaurant to supply the perfect version of Kung Po chicken, Blair decided to attempt to eat. They had reached the banana fritters in syrup when Jim spoke.

"There’s another thing, Chief."

At the best of times fritters were a bit sickly; served with that tone of voice they were positively nauseating.

"Wot?" Blair said sullenly.

Philip rose, retrieved the book from the kitchen, and returned to the dining table.

"When you were sleepwalking you came out and showed us this article." He opened the book then pushed it across the table.

Blair read the excerpt with a befuddled expression on his mobile face. "So you think this relevant?"

"I don’t know. You must have read it and decided that it wasn’t important. Your subconscious must have dredged that up making you show it to us when you were asleep." Jim said.

"Philip, do you believe that?" Blair asked forthrightly.

"I have came across many fantastical things in my life. Jim tells me of a taker of children, who is illiterate, a very small man who lives in tunnels and fires elf shot."

"Elf shot?" Blair hissed.

"A tiny arrow which incapacitated its victim and left him numb and lethargic - certainly sounds like an elf shot to me."

"Give it a rest!" Blair spun away from the table and dropped bonelessly onto the couch. He rolled onto his back and stared at the mismatched pair who were still sitting at the table.

Jim was shaking his head in disbelief.

"Please listen to me," the priest implored. "I’m not talking about whimsical flower fairies and elven warriors wielding silver swords. We’re descended from western European stock. I myself am Irish. I suspect you, Detective Ellison, are Irish or Scottish blood, or maybe a mix of both. Blair, I have to admit I’m not too sure of your family tree but any African or Asian blood is pretty well diluted. There is one body of thought that the agricultural settlers of western Europe, from the Mediterranean and middle east, ousted indigenous nomadic hunter-gatherers as they expanded northwards. Think of it as in similar terms of the colonisation of America and the atrocities committed on the Native American population. There are a few lithographs and ethnological records about these hunter-gatherers. Most of the literature is speculative. Apparently they were short of stature, lived in dens dug into the earth and were very secretive. Agriculture was a more dependable existence and as the new ways took hold, the hunter-gatherers were starved out or absorbed into the agricultural society."

"This is all very fascinating but what does this have to do with our goblin?" Jim groused

"You’re still thinking in terms of a little man with a pointed hat and a fishing rod. This ‘absorption’ didn’t happen over night. There is some evidence that these people were still living in some form of their hunter-gatherer society in the 1800’s. We’re talking about a complicated social culture paralleling western society. Twenty years ago it was still customary to christen your baby as soon as possible so the little people wouldn’t take it away."

Jim sat ramrod straight in his chair.

"Western society destroyed this culture. Maybe they fought throughout history, taking children to bring new blood to their threatened and depleted tribes. Possibly the children they chose had more hunter-gatherer genes and they could tell by their height or the colour of their eyes."

"What about the figure?" Jim said logically.

"Maybe she refused to have more babies. Maybe she didn’t have the genes and she was punished."

"No, no, no..." Jim interrupted. "You said that there was ‘psychometric activity’. This is this demonic stuff again."

"Mythologically, and I shy away from using this term, ‘cos I know we’re going to go back to the gossamer fairies again, elves and the little people had magical powers - heavy duty psychic gifts."

"Aw, God." Jim looked at the ceiling in disgust. "Chief, what do you think of this?"

Blair raised his head from the sofa cushion, where he lay. "I’m familiar with the ancient history of Western Europe but that’s an interesting slant on a people how were supposed to die out thousands of years ago," he said dispassionately as he dropped his head back on the cushion.

"Are you feeling okay, Blair?" Philip asked directly, chopping their discussion short.

Suddenly, Philip was standing behind the couch, resting his hand on the back. He appeared concerned. Jim was leaning over on his chair so he could see his face. Everyone was watching him with that pitying expression he was learning to hate.

"It’s been a pretty rough couple of days, guys," Blair said defensively. "Why the *sudden* change of subject? I thought we were discussing our child stealing hobgoblin."

Blair watched Philip like a hawk as he walked around to the front of the couch and sat down next to him. It was Jim’s turn to stand. He hovered uneasily behind the couch.

"I get the feeling that you guys are ganging up on me."

"We’re your friends, Blair."

Unnerved, Blair rolled off the couch and put the coffee table between himself and the twosome.

"If you two start growing horns, I am like soooo out of here."

"Blair," Philip had his understanding father confessor voice on. "I realise that the last few days have been hard, but you’re not acting like yourself. The Blair I know would be bouncing in eagerness after what I’ve just told you."

Blair blinked furiously. While he appreciated their efforts, he was going to handle his emotions in private and at a later date. Why couldn’t people appreciate that simple little fact?

"Yeah, well, sorry, the bounce service will be resumed as soon as possible. Just give me some time." He retreated further into the sitting room, rubbing his temples. "If I remember correctly, iron is good against the little people. We know how big Charlie is, and how big the drain at the school is, so we can estimate how tall our Hob is. We have two sites; the outfall by the woods and the school. If he has a larger accomplice, they’ll be constrained to the wider tunnels. If we search the tunnels using Jim’s sentinel senses we should be able to find them."

Even Blair knew that he was babbling.

"Simon has people searching the wider tunnels and the sewers near the school," Jim said softly.

"They’re not sentinels are they?" Blair questioned unnecessarily.

"No," Jim said equally unnecessarily.

"So we go into the tunnels and we find this Hob and we defeat it," Blair said harshly.

~*~

Simon Banks set his phone back on the cradle and glared at it, as if expecting the phone to give him the answers he required. The reasons that his friend and subordinate had given him for requesting a couple of days off were logical. He didn’t believe them for one minute. What were his detective and said detective’s observer up to? What mayhem was going to ensue?

He doodled on his writing pad. Jim had a poker face to rival a card shark but Blair’s face showed every little nuance. The observer had been deeply shaken when he had slipped into the squad room after they had investigated the drain at the kindergarten. The twosome had made a quick detour before returning to the Major Crime department.

They had discovered something in the school drain, which had set them off on an odd sentinel track. A something that was so strange they weren’t willing to discuss the subject. Simon could feel the certainty in his bones.

Oscar tapped on the door and entered with a fresh sheaf of files. He shrugged and dropped them on the large table that dominated the room.

"Nothing from my end, Simon. This kidnapper is so elusive that until he strikes again we have no idea. We can’t alert schools until we have something concrete. What about your team supreme?"

Simon nursed his cup of coffee. Despite the fact that Oscar was approachable, and easy to talk to, he could hardly tell the man that his resident sentinel and guide were onto something and were in pursuit. Damn, it was hard being the man in charge. The Powers That Be didn’t pay him enough.

~*~

"We’ll go tomorrow morning."

"No, we should go now."

"It’s dark and we’re not going to wander around storm drains and sewerage tunnels in the dead of night."

"It’s pitch black down there regardless of what time we go down."

"We need supplies. Flashlights and survival blankets...."

"Like you don’t have that stuff lying around the loft."

"It’s too late!" Jim bellowed.

"For who? The next little kid to be taken?"

The smaller observer faced the detective towering over him. The observer punctuated each rebuttal with a sharp finger stab in the centre of the detective’s chest. Snakelike, Jim caught the finger and bent it backward, effectively stopping Blair dead.

"Chill," he ordered.

"Let go of my finger, man."

"Not until you calm down."

"I’m calm," Blair said, through gritted teeth.

"We’re not running into those tunnels blindly with guns firing. We are going to go to the county surveyors tomorrow and get maps of the different underground systems. We can’t get the maps until tomorrow morning. We’re going to fully equipped and we’re going to have Father Callaghan acting as back up."

Philip nodded, wisely keeping out of the fight.

In the face of such logic, Blair deflated like a pricked balloon. "You’re right, man. Sorry."

Jim didn’t release his finger, but gave it a shake. "I want you to promise me that you’re not going to sneak out and check the tunnels on your own. We’ll be going first thing in the morning. Word of honour, Chief."

Blair finally pulled his finger away and sketched a rough cross over his breast, over the small wound.

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Okay." Jim clasped his shoulder momentarily.

Father Callaghan coughed drawing attention to himself. "I think I better leave. It’s getting late. The housekeeper will be wondering where I am." He inched towards the door, keeping a paternal eye on the partners. "I’ll see what else I can find. In the Legacy database, you know."

Jim conducted the priest to the door, leaving Blair standing in the centre of the living room area, hugging his arms against himself.

"Good night, Philip."

Pitching his voice low, the priest spoke, "He will recover, just give him time. He’s had a shock."

"Thank you," Jim whispered, sincerely.

The detective waited until the priest had left the building and reached his car safely before re-entering the loft and firmly closing the door. The grad student hadn’t moved. He was still standing, mutely, watching the world around him but not becoming involved.

"Beer?"

He didn’t wait for an answer before crossing to the fridge. He didn’t like the crutch of alcohol, but the relaxation it could bring could be very welcome. Blair was a creature of emotion; occasionally it irritated the heck out of him, but there was nothing that he could do to change that fact. Once, after Blair had seen his first dead body, Lash’s victim, he had tried to counsel the advantages of emotional distance. That was when he had only known his roommate for a few weeks. He might as well have been pissing in the wind. To take Blair’s emotions, his enthusiasm, his joie de vivre, was to destroy the essential Blair. He had not succeeded two years ago, and he was glad that he had not. Yet, a shadow Blair now stood before him and it sucked.

Blair grabbed the bottle offered, as if it were a lifeline, and chugged half of it down without taking a breath. The effects of the alcohol were almost instantaneous. Shoulders that were tensed slowly relaxed. His death grip around the neck of the bottle lessened and the white skin of his knuckles became a dusky pink.

Automatically, Jim returned to the fridge and snagged a four pack. He checked the kitchen clock - eight o’clock - a film, two more beers and company might be the best thing for his stressed Guide at this point in time. A ‘time-out’ was needed, a moment to take stock and relax. It was allowed; it was needed.

He dumped the beer on the coffee table. Blair still stood in the centre of the room, but his expression was now introspective as he gazed blindly out of the balcony windows. Jim scanned the tapes beside the video; he wanted something that would occupy their attention.

He grabbed one of Blair’s archive tapes, some obscure television series, and stuck it in the machine. Familiar music filled the loft. When in the depths of writing a paper, Blair would often play such a tape as he worked. How he could study and watch the television was beyond the Sentinel, but he couldn’t refute the evidence; it worked.

Like a moth to the flame, Blair’s attention was grabbed. A creature of habit, he sagged into the sofa and watched.

Suddenly, Blair looked directly through him. Those bright eyes plumbed the depths of his soul. Unaccountably, Blair smiled, took another mouthful of his beer and then settled down to watch the television series episodes.

~*~

~mumble~ ~mutter~

Jim was abruptly, and irrevocably, awake.

No footsteps filled his ears, no doorways creaked or whispered open due to a distraught Guide’s passage. They had watched three hours of television before Blair had stumbled off to bed. Jim had followed soon after. The nuts and bolts had cried at him for attention, but he couldn’t find the energy - instead he had placed chairs in front of the doors and pushed one of the sofas up against the windows.

He was tired. He wanted to sleep. His sense of responsibility and concern wouldn’t let him sleep. Blair was sleeptalking but he wasn’t walking.

"Hobgoblin, foul nor fiend… Nah, don’t wanna talk. Sleep. Leave…me…’lone."

The bed below rocked as its occupant found a comfortable position. Jim waited until soft snores filled his ears. He fought with his pillows until he could find a comfortable upright position, then he reached for his latest unfinished novel on the bedside table. There would be no sleeping tonight.

~*~

Kevlar. Blair picked up the heavy protective vest. The priest looked a bit strange wearing the protective device over his black shirt and white collar. Philip smiled warmly and tugged at the shoulder straps, pretending to model. A sense of humour was something Blair didn’t really attribute to the priest. He appreciated the effort on his part. Deftly, Blair fastened his own vest. It said a lot about the sentinel that he had spare kevlar vests lying around the apartment.

They stood just outside the storm overflow beside the woods. A new barrier of police tape was strewn across the mouth, flapping in the morning wind. For one bare second Blair was back in the tunnel, feeling Cassie’s final breath against his neck. This time he knew that she was going to die. The sob came on him unawares.

"Chief?"

The voice broke through his grief.

"You up for this?" the Sentinel questioned.

His friend looked tired. Dark shadows gave the Sentinel’s face unaccustomed planes. Suddenly, Blair knew their source. Jim had remained awake all night, making sure that he was all right. It was a sobering thought. His friend was always looking out for him.

"Yeah, sure," Blair blurted. He unfurled the map they had acquired from city office. ‘X’ marked the entrance to the tunnels. The plan was simple: follow the Sentinel through the tunnels until they found the bad guys.

Philip visibly shook himself before entering the mouth of the outfall. The Sentinel took the lead with the grad student just behind, closely followed by the priest. Light from their flashlights cast deep, sharp shadows in the far recesses of the stonework. At a snail’s pace they picked their way onward. Blair curled his hand around the hem of the Sentinel’s coat. Philip gripped his shoulder.

‘Is this a good idea?’ Blair wondered. Perhaps not, but it was the only idea that they had agreed upon.

Then they reached the ramp. Cold fingers of terror walked up the student’s spine. This was bad... this was really bad. The cliché force a pallid laugh from his mouth. No humour was involved.

Blair fixed his eyes on the back of Jim’s coat and refused to look. The body had long since been moved. Once again, it wasn’t time to dwell on what had passed.

Guide the Sentinel. Guide the Sentinel. Guide the Sentinel. Except that he wasn’t fulfilling his role. He was blindly following, neither offering advice or guidance.

"Anything, Jim?"

"It’s like trying to, appropriately enough, follow a scent in a sewage farm."

"I know that it is complicated. But I want you to pick out one scent which stands out," Blair said by rote. He could have kicked himself; even he knew that it wouldn’t work. It was hopeless. How could he expect Jim to choose the murderer’s distinct scent in such a noxious environment?

"Can you see any scuffs in the sediment where they walked?"

Jim tensed, and stopped. Blair barrelled into his back and Philip sandwiched them together.

"Whoops," he blurted.

"Sorry," Blair answered, automatically.

They remained standing, a hairsbreadth apart, their breathing echoing loudly in the tunnel. Harsh breathing intertwined with rhythmically paced breathing. A delayed alert signal sounded in a tired, grad student’s mind.

"Jim?" Blair tried quietly. Somehow their surroundings were not conducive to conversations at normal volumes.

The back under his fingertips was too rigid. Impossibly the Sentinel had zoned yet again. This was unprecedented; twice in less than twenty-four hours. When they had first met, the Sentinel had zoned deeply and often, but now just over two years into their partnership, a zone was a rare event. Blair wiggled out from between his companions and scurried in front of his Blessed Protector. He truly was zoned - else there was no way on God’s earth that Jim would have let his Guide stand between him and the unknown.

Shielding his flashlight with his hand, Blair let muted light fall on the Sentinel’s face. The sensitive pupils were dilated to their fullest extent, the nostrils wide and flared taking in all scents and a thin lipped mouth fell open. Evidently, Jim had zoned on more than one stimulus. That, too, was unprecedented.

"Hey, Jim," Blair said softly. "You want to come back?" He followed up his words with a soft pat on the cheek. He was not going to overreact and slap his Sentinel again.

"Is there anything I can do?" Philip whispered.

"Sshhhh," Blair exhorted gently. His attention returned immediately to the Sentinel, so vulnerable and alone. "Come on, man."

Why wasn’t it working? It always had before. He didn’t like this - everything was wrong: little zones were swamping a Sentinel who was trained to overcome them; they were hunting monsters in tunnels; children were being kidnapped and Cassie was dead. He wanted to go home and wake up and know that this was all a nightmare.

Then Philip shifted and a rock moved, a gentle crash abusing a wide open Sentinel. Jim winced, his pupils contracting and his lips coming together in a pain filled line. Blair caught him as his knees buckled, shoring up a failing Sentinel.

"Yeah, Jim. Speak to me, buddy?"

"B’ ar?" Jim mumbled. "F’c, bad un…"

"Yeah, it was." Blair checked in the poor light and guided the Sentinel onto a relatively dry piece of floor.

Jim was already overcoming the massive zone out.

"What did you zone on, Jim?" Blair demanded.

Jim rocked forwards cradling his head in his hands. "Everything. Nothing. I don’t know."

"A smell?" Blair ventured. He shot a concerned glance up at the priest.

"Yeah!" Abruptly, Jim sprang to his feet, knocking the student over onto his butt. "I smelt it!"

He darted ahead, his frame poised for the hunt.

"No, no, no." Blair scrambled after him on his hands and knees until he found his footing and managed to struggle upright. The priest was at his heels.

The beam of the flashlight caught Jim’s red jacket as he disappeared around a corner. The floor of the tunnel was strewn with debris and other things that Blair really didn’t want to think about.

"Shit, shit, shit, " Blair swore uncreatively. "He’s regressing or something. He’s in hunt mode!"

"I noticed." Philip grunted as he strove to keep his footing on the uneven, littered ground.

They rounded the corner, but there was no Sentinel in sight. Their lights did little to penetrate the darkness; they stopped running and began to pick their way after the Sentinel.

"You got your holy water? Or something?"

"Crucifix and a bible."

"Will that help?"

"Can’t do any harm. And you?"

"My unfailing boyish charm?" Blair said tightly.

A hand clasped his shoulder, just for a moment.

"You do know what is the matter with Jim, don’t you?" Philip asked quietly.

Blair occupied himself clambering over what looked vaguely like a packing crate. "I don’t think we’ve got time for this," he said pointedly.

"Do you want to help Jim?"

Blair froze and glared at the dark figure with the flash of white at his throat. "’Course I do. It’s my job."

"You do know what is the matter with Jim, don’t you?" Philip repeated.

"Do you?" Blair asked curtly

"Yes. His Guide is hurting; it’s thrown him off kilter."

"Tell *me* something I don’t know." Disturbed, he turned away from the all-knowing priest. His Sentinel was somewhere ahead and he wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

‘Tell me something I don’t know!’ The words echoed in his mind as he stumbled after the Sentinel. ‘Tell me something I don’t know!’ Was it that simple? Was it that complicated? Jim was unfailingly confident; if his Shaman was upset why should that upset him? Honesty forced the answer - he was a human being not an automaton. Ellison got upset. Trying to figure out what could, or had, upset him was a lot more complicated. Moreover, an upset Ellison was an upset Sentinel. The debacle of his loss of senses, before the Chopec had arrived on the scene, illustrated that to perfection. However, Jim had not responded to his mood after the incident with David Lash, and he had *certainly* been upset after that little incident.

Blair turned another corner. Waving his flashlight to and fro did not reveal a throwback Sentinel. Behind him he could hear Philip striving to keep up. He clambered over a fallen beam and tried to pick out the Sentinel’s tracks on the dirt floor. A scuff in the soil caught his eye; Jim was somewhere ahead.

"Blair! Slow down!" Philip implored.

There was no time. Who knew into what the Sentinel was running? Jim was not listening to him. That fact was unavoidable: he was not reaching his Sentinel when he was in a zone out. Jim wasn’t listening to him as a Guide.

The thought brought up Blair sharply. He was not functioning as a Guide?

A piercing crack interrupted his thoughts. Wood - somewhere - was cracking. For the first time, Blair realised that they were no longer in the modern concrete passages of a water system, but they had ventured into tunnels shored up with wooden beams. They were in some sort of mine workings. And the supports were failing. Galvanised, Blair leaped forward, stumbling and twisting his way in pursuit of his Sentinel.

Another crack and a blast of dusty air knocked him over. Sprawled on his back, he was stunned for a second, or maybe longer.

"Blair?"

Philip’s concerned voice broke through his nice little blank spot.

"Whoa." Blair struggled onto his elbows and then sat upright. Running his fingers through his tangled curls, he felt dirt and wood, but somehow he appeared to be unscathed. His ears were ringing.

"JIM!" That blast could have seriously hurt the sentinel.

The flashlight had fallen from his fingers, but the beam still shafted through the darkness. A figure was revealed lying under a pile of metal.

"Oh my God." Suddenly he was at the Sentinel’s side. Buried under a heap of metal only Jim’s head was visible.

A thin track of blood trailed along the hair at Jim’s temple.

"What on Earth?" the priest said distractingly.

Blair started as Philip lifted the mass of metal from Jim’s supine body. Jim moved, slightly, as the weight was removed. Moving the patient was bad, he knew that and watching Jim carefully and competently deliver first aid had driven that fact home. Blair found himself running his fingers over his friend’s body for breaks. The ribs were whole, as were the pelvis and legs, but Jim had a goose egg of a bump partially hidden under his fair brown hair. And he was still unconscious - that was bad... very bad - the longer the victim was unconscious the more likely that there was a serious brain injury. One minute, two minutes and you were heading into dangerous territory. Gently, Blair peeled back an eyelid, then the other - sentinel eyes gazed up at him. Jim was locked in a zone.

"Hey, Big Guy." Blair bobbed his head from side to side, trying to catch his attention.

No response.

"Jim." There was an edge of whine to his voice that he couldn’t hold back. "Please."

Jim blinked and Blair sagged with relief. Moaning deep in his throat, Jim brought his hand up to his head, clasping it over the bump, smearing blood.

"What hit me?"

"A knight in shining armour." Philip said pithily. In his hands he held a badly connected mass of metal which once upon a time had been a suit of armour. Wire and string tied the greaves and chest plate together. The helmet looked like it had been welded onto the chest plate. It was disturbingly macabre; a puppet without any stuffing.

"Euey." Blair shivered.

Philip dropped it with a clang and brushed his hands together, fastidiously. He angled his flashlight up to the roof, where the armour had been hidden in a deep recess. A mess of ropes and wooden splints revealed that this had been intended as a trap.

"Someone, or something, has a warped sense of humour." Blair laughed hollowly, as he helped Jim to his feet.

Rubbing his head and wobbling from side to side, Jim was a long time in asking the obvious question. "Why?"

"Someone rigged a trap which involved dropping a knight. Doesn’t that strike you as just a bit weird?"

"Yeah," Jim said slowly. "A knight…"

"To catch a knight," Blair supplied.

Jim shot him a dark glance.

Blair spread his hands innocently. "Knight, Protector, Warrior, Sentinel?"

"You think the Hob knows what I am?" Jim wobbled. Blair instantly moved next to him, tucking under his arm, helping him stay upright.

"I don’t know, Jim," he said earnestly. "But out of every trap which could have been made, why that one? And why use a knight’s armour? Where the fuck do you get armour from?"

"Shit," Jim said eloquently.

"Yup," Blair nodded, his curls bobbing in the dimming light.

"I think we should return to the surface and have Jim looked at," Philip said, the voice of reason.

"I’m fine," Jim said automatically.

"Yeah, right," Blair said sotto voce.

Their plans had to be shelved, Blair admitted that to himself. Jim had been hurt, the Hob was evidently on to them and he had to process Philip’s disturbing statement. Still propping up the Sentinel, he turned on his heel leading him out into the sunlight.

"Come on, Jim."

"Bring the armour," Jim directed. "It’s evidence."

~*~

Jim did, of course, refuse to go to the emergency room at the local hospital to be checked out. He argued that he hadn’t been knocked out but he had zoned. Regardless of the reason for his unconscious state he did, however, have a bump that now rivalled the goose’s golden egg on the side of his head. They had delivered the Legacy priest back to the rectory and then returned to their haven, the loft.

Gingerly, Blair brushed his fingers over the bump on Jim’s head lifting up the hair. There was a shallow gash that didn’t look as if it needed stitches but it would need cleaning. In fact Jim needed a shower; he was covered from head to toe in sandy soil. Gently, Blair began to wash out the dirt out from the wound with warm salty water.

As he worked, his thoughts wandered. Guiding had always come so naturally. It wasn’t as if he had given it much thought. If Jim was faltering because he was failing, he needed to address the situation. He laughed at himself. Once again he was avoiding the whole reason for his mood. He didn’t want to think about it, because then he would be neither use nor ornament. Any rate, Philip’s idea held water like a leaky bucket - Jim hadn’t had any problems after Lash. Blair was proud of himself when he didn’t shudder. He remembered being, drugged, abused and violated by a psycho. He had been as fragile as kindling after the affair. Lying, manacled in that dentist chair, waiting for someone to return from the cavern basement below had been a torture devised by fate. Worse still, the drug coursing through his system had threatened to spill him into unconsciousness. Determined to face his death head on, he had struggled to remain conscious and failed. He had been aware of hands plucking at his body, but he couldn’t summon the energy to penetrate the enfolding veil robbing him of action. A voice had been speaking words that made no sense. For all he knew, Lash hovered over his boneless body preparing him for his nice hot bath. Being that vulnerable and helpless had been a soul destroying experience.

"Blair? You all right?"

Belatedly, Blair realised that he had stepped away from his friend and that his hands were shaking.

"I was just thinking how close it had been. That you could have been killed." He essayed a shaky smile at the Sentinel and darted forward to finish his first aid.

He had woken up in the ambulance, bruised and nauseous. Jim had watched concerned as he had thrown up into the cardboard tray. He had looked at the Sentinel crouched next to him and promptly, and embarrassingly, freaked out. One moment he had been fighting for his life, the next he had been cocooned in a warm blanket. He couldn’t handle the sudden relief. He had been operating on an adrenaline high, for what had felt like a lifetime, which had suddenly bottomed out leaving him high and dry. Huddling under the blanket, he had striven for control and failed. The paramedic had tried to calm him, telling him that he would hurt himself if he continued. Throughout the whole experience, he had been aware of Jim’s large hand on his shoulder.

Afterwards, a wrung out dishrag of a man, Jim had been allowed to take him home. And he had survived, and Jim had catfooted around him for a few days, offering comfort food…

"Blair?"

"Yeah?" He grimaced a smile. Why was he dwelling on Lash? He had put that behind him; talked about it with the departmental psychologist until he was blue in the face.

"I think that this needs a band-aid," Blair said consideringly. "I’m going to have to cut a bit of your hair."

"Noooo."

"Sorry, tough guy, no choice,"

He carefully cut the hair around the gash and then taped together the edges of the wound with little strips of band-aid before protecting the whole thing with a waterproof dressing.

He cocked his head to the side and viewed his work. "One of my better jobs, if I do say so myself."

"Well, you get enough practice," Jim said waspishly. He escaped from the kitchen chair that Blair had set him on, immediately after they had walked through the front door. "Will it stand up to a shower? I’ve got to get this dirt off of my body."

"If you’re careful."

Nodding, Jim retreated into the bathroom. Blair noted that he was walking stiffly, there had to be a good few bruises despite the kevlar vest.

‘What now?’ Blair wondered, as he occupied himself making tea. They would have to go back into the tunnel, but how could they if the Sentinel was operating below par? With his cup of tea he wandered over to the balcony windows. As he looked over the city, he realised that he was no closer to figuring out what to do.

~*~

Movement woke the Sentinel. For a moment he wasn’t concerned. Blair took his first aid duties seriously and a head wound meant that he had to wake his patient. After his shower Jim had needed a nap. The first time that he had been woken the sun was setting, and he felt so sore that getting out of bed seem like an impossible challenge. It had taken little effort to fall back to sleep.

The mattress dipped under the weight of a body kneeling beside him. The movement was different somehow - it didn’t feel like the student. Air resonated in Blair’s presence, vibrating with the pure force of his energy. This movement was too smooth; too controlled. Slowly he flared his nostrils and, surprisingly, identified the figure kneeling beside him as his Guide. More movement and his pillow moved as a hand reached for the gun beneath it. He jerked up to grab the gun, but was stalled by the bruises on his abdomen.

Blair ‘I hate guns’ Sandburg held the weapon, pointing it unerringly at him.

Wide, round blue eyes drew, and captured, his own pale blue ones.

"It’s here, Jim."

‘Shit!’ By the otherworldly cast to his Guide’s eyes, Jim guessed that he was sleepwalking. Was the hobgoblin, foul or fiend actually lurking below or was it part of Sandburg’s fertile imagination? Looking up the muzzle of his own gun, held by his sleeping friend, brought a peculiar clarity to his thoughts. Getting his gun away from Blair was currently his highest priority.

"Hey, buddy," he said evenly, as he reached out slowly to enfold his large hand over the barrel.

Blair didn’t move. His bright eyes had a febrile quality to them that Jim did not like in the slightest. Blair remained steadfast, his aim unmoving, his finger resting on lightly on the trigger. That, too, told Jim that something was amiss. A mannequin smoothly moved before him. It looked like Blair, smelled like Blair, probably even tasted like Blair but Blair wasn’t moving like the man he knew so well.

"Blair?" Jim blurted, the question caught him by surprise. Yet, it was almost as if a stranger wore his best friend’s body like a badly fitting set of clothes.

"Come on, Jim," Blair said urgently. "We have to get out of here."

Blair twisted to look over his own shoulder and Jim took the opportunity to deftly take command of the gun. Unaccountably relieved to have the weapon in his hands, he almost missed Blair’s furtive dash down the stairs. The kid only stopped long enough to grab a poker from the fireplace then he was fumbling at the front door.

"NO!" Jim ordered. He scrambled after the student, but he was hampered by his abused muscles.

Too late; the heavy door swung open and Blair, just wearing his underwear, disappeared out into the hall.

Limping, Jim staggered after him. By the time he reached the hall, it was empty. The motion light of the elevator remained constant, so Blair must have used the stairs.

Stiffened by sleep, Jim hesitated: whether or not he should use the stairs, or the elevator. Below him he heard the glass door leading to the street slam shut.

‘Damn, that kid moves like a jack rabbit.’

One hand on the banister and the other on the small of his back, Jim gamely struggled down the stairs.

Aeons later he reached the sidewalk. The street was empty. It was cold in the dead of night, despite the day’s unseasonable warmth. In the distance be could hear the wail of a police siren. Closer to home he could detect the soft hum of the pizza parlour’s neon light.

Of his Guide, there was no sign.

~*~

An hour later, Ellison returned to the loft. A police car had pulled up next to him as he hunted for any sign of his wayward Guide. Belatedly he realised what a picture he made running around the street, barefoot, bandaged, clad only in a pair of sweats. Luckily, the older police officer on patrol had recognised the eccentric Detective Ellison. The younger policeman had stared at him with an incredulous expression as he had explained that his sleepwalking partner had gone out wandering. No doubt the rumours would be running rife in headquarters in the morning. Jim didn’t care; all he wanted was his partner back, hale and healthy.

Wearily, he closed the loft door on Officers Barber and Albinoni (who had made a point of seeing him to the door). The set of bolts - still in their paper bag on the kitchen table - mocked him. Heartsore, he picked up his cell phone, left next to the bolts, and let his fingers call his friend and superior - Simon Banks.

The phone rang three times, then a tired voice answered. "Banks?"

"Simon, it’s Ellison. We’ve got a problem."

~*~

Less than twenty minutes later Simon Banks paced across the loft living area. Violently he snapped shut his cell phone.

"That was Brown. The A.P.B hasn’t turned up anything."

Jim, who had retreated to his favourite area of the loft - the kitchen - leaned back against a unit and sighed.

"How did you let this happen?" Simon demanded. "Forget it. I can see." He pointed, vaguely, at Jim’s stooped posture and the dressing peeking out from under his hair. "What happened to you?"

"Something fell on me," Ellison said succinctly. Deliberately uncommunicative, he dared Simon to pursue the terse statement.

Simon let it ride, for the moment. "What about your senses?"

"Nothing, " he said reluctantly.

"Nothing?" Simon echoed.

They stood frozen, staring at each other, one disbelieving; the other remorseful.

"Go have a hot shower," Simon directed. "Loosen up those muscles and we’ll go out and look together."

Banks watched, concerned, as his number one detective limped off to follow his orders. Whilst normally the man could handle any challenge or task set before him, the disappearance of his Guide seemed to have knocked the wind out of his sails. The Sentinel portrayed loss. It was very uncharacteristic. There was something more than Blair’s possible kidnapping afoot. As a friend he would have to act as a stand-in-guide.

~*~

Dressed, buoyed by painkillers and warmed by a hot shower, the detective carefully worked his way up the North side of Prospect Place. Simon, resolute, an imposing figure in his dark wool overcoat, stood behind him.

"Anything?" he asked eventually.

"No," Ellison replied tersely. Striding across the street, he ignored the wail of horns from early morning drivers.

Diligently he covered every inch of the sidewalk. Each can, piece of rubbish, everything in the street was turned over.

The tapping of Simon’s fingernails against his thighs was an unnerving distraction.

"Stop that!" Ellison snapped.

"What?" Simon snarled back.

"That finger thing. It’s breaking my concentration."

Simon raised his hands in surrender. Behind his metal rimmed glasses, his expression was masked desperation. The Sentinel shook his head, once, and ignored him. There was no scent. How could Blair have been spirited away? Half annoyed and more than half worried he strode into the middle of the street. Simon ran ahead of him warding off the meagre traffic. A manhole was set in the centre of the road. He squatted, his sensitive fingers drifting a fraction of an inch above the cast iron cover.

He raised his peculiarly empty eyes, and announced, "it’s warm…"

End of Chapter Two

~*~

Chapter three – Death in the Family: The Clan

"Num, nummm." Blair rolled onto his side. His lax hand rested against the wall. A cold, uneven wall, he suddenly realised. As if prodded with a hot poker, Blair was wide awake. Shocked, he looked around, for lack of a better description, a cave. The walls were hewed stone, straight from a rock face. In the far corner, a banked fire warmed the room, its glowing coals casting golden light over the rough walls. A large wooden chest dominated another corner of the room. Gingerly, Blair picked at the heavy fur draped over his body. He lay on a pallet, on what felt like a padded quilt. A folded fur acted as a pillow. Albeit concerned, he was warm and comfortable.

"Oh, Boy." Carefully he sat up, expecting repercussions ranging from a concussion to a hangover - only that would explain how he had ended up on a camping trip from hell. Apart from a dull headache, which felt as if he’d been sleeping too long, he felt fine.

Confused, he pushed back the fur. His mind balked at the fur. He was mildly repulsed. Where did people get a fur from in this day and age? Taking stock, he noted that he was wearing his standard nightwear of shorts and t-shirt, hardly his normal camping gear. His left foot bore a white dressing. Only when he noticed it did his foot started to hurt. The dressing was not a standard elasticated bandage, like the one that he wore on his wrist, but a torn up sheet of some sort. Wincing, he unwound the dressing - a long jagged tear disfigured the ball of his foot. The wound looked clean.

"Jim?" he tried, plaintively.

"The knight isn’t here, Blair," a low, gravely voice said perfunctorily.

Startled, Blair turned. A figure stood at a neatly camouflaged doorway. He was very short, but not minuscule. The man was wide and as stout as a tree truck. His skin was hazelnut brown and corded over taut, prominent muscles. Ferret sharp eyes over a pointed nose dominated an old, but unlined, face. The man walked easily into the room; his gait was bowed like a sailor’s.

"Who are you?" Blair blurted.

"You can call me Nidar."

It was obvious that that was not his real name. Blair knew, from fable and legend, that your real name was a supposed to be a closely guarded secret. He knew that this creature knew his name, and he had given Jim’s away freely.

"Why am I here?"

"You came to me." The Hob turned to the chest and began to rummage through it.

"Excuse me?" The polite words echoed in the cave.

Nidar turned, his lips bared sharp small teeth in a travesty of a smile. "There I was watching, learning, taking what I needed and out of the protection of his home walked my prey - straight into my arms."

"You didn’t answer my question: why am I here?"

"I get curious. I get hungry."

Blair stopped himself from swallowing nervously by pure force of effort.

Nidar laughed a sharp mocking laugh. He returned to hunting through the chest. Blair remained sitting, his thoughts zinging back and forth, paralysing him. He had no recollection of coming here, and he wore his nightwear. Whether he liked it or not he must have been sleepwalking again. Somehow he had got out of the loft and had been taken by the Hob. Jim would be going insane.

The Hob had had ample opportunity to do anything while he had been asleep - yet apart from a cut to the sole of his foot, he was uninjured. The gash looked as if he had cut it on a piece of glass, that could have easily happened wandering around the streets of Cascade barefoot. Most tellingly, the wound had been cleaned and dressed.

"Are you responsible for my sleepwalking?"

"Interesting question." The Hob stood upright, holding a wad of clothes in his arms. "No, not me."

"Who then?" Blair said penetratingly.

Nidar shrugged.

"I kinda find it hard to believe I slept though this!" He gestured, encompassing the whole room.

"Maybe I helped a little bit. Enough." He tossed the ball of clothes across the room onto the end of the bed. Huffily he left the cave, the conversation terminated.

Blair was left speechless in the wake of his passage, but his thoughts were running amuck. Everything that he had read about the faerie, the Hobs, brownies or the little people, had called them capricious. That meant that he would have to tread softly and take care not to antagonise his captor. He suspected, however, that there might be a cultural misinterpretation in the legends that he had read. One did not walk up to a Muslim lady and rip off her yashmak or invade the personal space of person whom you had only just met. The capricious nature of the faerie might not have been considered capricious in their own culture. Blair now had to accept the legends that he had read had a modicum of truth. They all warned that you had to tread lightly when dealing with the faerie.

"I am an anthropologist," Blair addressed mid-air. "This is what I have trained for."

Peculiarly excited, he began to examine the clothes that Nidar had supplied. Soft doe skin trousers were rolled up in a hooded tunic of the same material. A pair of fur-lined moccasins completed the ensemble. Carefully he pulled one shoe over his bandaged foot. He was certainly been through the mill. First his wrist, then his chest… He remembered the elfshot that had hospitalised him.

The strange excitement that had made him feel almost human again, deserted him. Cassie was dead and this Hob was responsible. This Hob took children. This Hob killed mothers.

Blair looked around the cave. Beside the dying fire was a bowl of water warmed so he could wash in comfort.

A cauldron of broth, sitting on the coals, smelled appetising.

All the creature comforts of home had been provided. A gilded cage.

~*~

Ellison sat on Blair’s bed watching the F.B.I. circus unfold. The fact that Father Callaghan had arrived to check on him had only added to the confusion. Simon was perplexed by the Catholic priest’s presence and Oscar Mutawbi was intrigued. The Sentinel had a headache. The priest had taken over the host’s duties, making coffee and sandwiches for the ravenous hordes.

"Do you honestly expect this nutcase will want Blair’s mother?" Simon was saying.

"The profiler expects that there will be some sort of drawing sent here. We might as well be prepared."

"He’s an adult, not a child."

"I know that." Mutawbi said, his voice painfully even. "Where’s Ellison hiding? The profiler wants to talk to him. Maybe he and Ellison can figure out why the kidnapper broke his pattern. I also want to talk to him, now."

The silence following that bald statement echoed around the loft. Jim could hear Brown puttering uneasily by the bay windows. The detective sagged back onto the mound of cushions dominating Blair’s bed. Together, he and Simon had ventured into the drain to be flummoxed by a built up wall heading north and a putrid maze of sewerage pipes leading south. They had returned to the loft and called the precinct. The crew of Major Crime had arrived with the F.B.I. in tow. Oscar Mutawbi had viewed his injuries with a weighing glance. Simon had leapt in to distract the agent. Worn to the bone, Ellison had slipped into Blair’s room.

"Give him ten minutes," Simon said loudly and unnecessarily.

Father Callaghan tapped lightly on the door and slipped into Blair’s room. He held a mug of hot chocolate, which he offered to the Sentinel without a word. Still silent, he sat on the wooden chair next to the bed.

Jim sipped at the comfort food. This was the good stuff - made with milk and warmed in a pan with sugar and real cocoa. Obviously, Blair had mentioned to the priest about sentinels and food additives.

He had one soothing mouthful before he spoke. "Can Bethany help?" He almost hated to asked the question. To ask help of the Cascade Legacy House’s premier psychic was to admit to be grasping at straws. At the best her health was poor and the Sentinel considered her to be flaky.

The priest clasped his hands together and rested them on his lap. "She will try."

"Translation; she’ll fritz on us."

A faint frown passed over the priest’s face. "Bethany will do her best. She will always give one hundred percent."

"When can she get down here?"

"I left her in the car," he said for sentinel ears only. "There are too many people in the loft for her to cope with."

"And the street isn’t occupied?"

"If she comes in here, everyone will look at her, and think at her and emote in her direction. Will you at least, please, try to think nice thoughts while you’re around her?"

"What do you think I am? Some kind of Neanderthal?"

"I know that you haven’t forgiven her for putting Blair at risk. She didn’t do it on purpose. She had an epileptic episode and became confused and ran into the path of the daemon."

"Come on then." He set aside the half finished mug of cocoa and ducked out through Blair’s fire escape. He had been listening; the F.B.I. agents and the Cascade detectives watching the building were occupied at the pizza parlour at the corner. They would deserve the dressing down from their respective superiors when they realised that their charge had left the building.

Jim was not a monster; he had no intention of upsetting the otherworldly Bethany. He knew that he was only indulging himself in a fit of pique. They slipped down the alley and across Prospect Place to the priest’s car. Bethany was curled up in the back seat of the black Rolls Royce. It was hardly the most inconspicuous vehicle in the world.

"Hey, Bethany, how are you?" Jim said civilly.

She uncurled from hunched position and smiled tremulously. "Hello, Detective Ellison. I am fine, thank you."

She didn’t look it. The first time that they had met she was borderline anorexic. Now she was wraith thin. Ellison pitched a worried glance in Father Callaghan’s direction. The priest’s expression was stoic. The Sentinel found his senses automatically honing in on her heartbeat and breathing, both were far too fast. A beat within her sounded off centre and unbalanced.

"No way," Jim announced. "She’s not up to it."

Her wide grey eyes rounded, begging like a certain grad student of his acquaintance. "I can help. You need help."

He hardened his heart. "No, you’ll be a liability."

"And where do you start your search, Sentinel? In the forest, under the city or on the otherside?" she responded softly, without rancour.

"You’re ill."

"I’m always ill. I’m allergic to the twentieth century. I’m a throwback to a pre-civilised form of woman." She smiled, her pointed face appearing foxy. "There are too many people living in this day and age."

"Become a forest ranger - isn’t that what you psychic folk want to do?"

"I don’t know, do we?" Bethany parried.

The detective actually growled. "Once you’ve set us on the right path, you’re going home. Start the car, Philip."

"Yes, sir." Philip doffed an imaginary chauffeur’s cap.

As they pulled out into the traffic he heard, "Sentinel of the Great City, you surely are a great big softie."

~*~

Blair pulled the soft skins over his underwear and ventured towards the concealed entrance. He poked his head around the corner and was greeted by a tunnel. A flickering light at the far end was probably fuelled by firelight. Hugging the wall, he crept near the light and peered into another room. Reflexively he ducked back, for a moment his mind refusing to accept what he had just seen. Sitting beside the fire was a guy - verging on the gigantic - easily seven foot tall. In that quick glimpse he had seen a puffy pale face with currant-like eyes. The giant looked as if he had been made out of unbaked dough.

Blair clasped his hands over his mouth, to mask his harsh breathing. That was the man that he had met in the tunnel … when Cassie had been killed. The giant smelled the same; sour and unwashed. Blair darted back into what he thought of as his room. He paced around the cave, favouring his wounded foot. There was no way out.

‘Okay. There’s always a way.’ He allowed his eyes to study the room. The banked fire caught his attention. Grinning inwardly, he checked the coals, judging them cold enough, and then he looked up the chimney. The darkness was as black as the ace of spades. He couldn’t judge the width of the chimney. A candle, or preferably a lantern, was called for.

"It won’t work, Blair."

Blair jerked around, surprised by the quiet voice; he hadn’t heard anyone approach.

"There’s a metal grid thirty hand spans into the chimney." Nidar held out a beefy paw and splayed his fingers. "You’re in the inner room of my lair. You’d have to get by the entire clan to get out."

"Why am I here?"

Nidar ambled over towards the cauldron and doled out two bowls of broth. He set one on the stocky wooden stool that stood between Blair and the Hob. The invitation was plainly obvious, as was the deliberate placing. Nidar had at no time entered his personal space. Blair was not too sure why the Hob was deliberately avoiding coming too close.

"Legend states that if I accept your food I have to stay," Blair said quietly.

"You’re staying. You can starve or not, it’s up to you. But the food will set no geis upon you." He deliberately took a mouthful. "That’s a myth."

"Hmmmm." Blair stepped away from the bowl, leaving it untouched. "You didn’t answer my question."

"I do what I need to do to ensure the survival of my people."

"So you want me well fattened. Yum. I wondered what you did with the bones of Evelyn Huntingtower."

"Waste not; want not." Nidar said with a toothy grin.

"If you’re trying to cajole me to eat, that’s hardly the way to do it."

Nidar hooked a knucklebone out of the broth and chewed on it, slurping noisly. Blair forced himself not to react, knowing that, based on the size, it was probably an off cut from some animal.

"Kidnapping me doesn’t ensure the survival of your clan - it puts it in danger. The knight will come after me and nothing will stop him."

"It’s been a long time since I fought a knight. They’re the best, the most entertaining and the most satisfying. And you’re assuming that he will find you." Dark-badger eyes flashed.

"Oh, he’ll find me."

"You sound so sure."

"I am."

"More fodder, then." His eyes fixed on Blair, he licked the bowl clean with slow measured strokes.

"Why is everything food orientated?" The anthropologist in him asked the question.

Nidar blinked like a lazy fat cat.

"If we’re right in our suppositions," Blair began, settling in to teaching mode, "you’re part of a hunter-gatherer lifestyle. As such, your food will be subject to seasonal availability in variety, quality and amounts. Thus it will be very important in your culture, entertainment and language."

"And food isn’t important to the farmers? They destroyed us so they could plough their fields and breed like rabbits. We are speaking the farmer’s warped tongue."

‘Good point,’ Blair thought candidly. "What’s your native language?"

"It doesn’t have a name. It’s the way I speak when I’m not speaking to a farmer and speaking to the family."

"What do you call yourselves?"

"Why do you insist on asking these questions?"

Blair began to pace, or at least as much as his cut foot would allow. He started to tick points off on his long fingers. "One: I’m an anthropologist. Two: I’m interested. Three: I’m interested..."

"You’ve said that."

Blair gripped his middle finger and waggled it. "I’m doubly interested?" He moved onto his next finger. "Four: if you took me for your ‘clan’, I need to know more about you."

There was the faintest whisper of air and Nidar stood directly before him. The skin on the back of his neck crawled eerily as they faced each other. A dark weather beaten hand came up and Blair stopped dead before Nidar could touch him.

"So you know. Are you a Seer?" Nidar breathed heavily - trancing. "Taisch.. Bright star. Nei, you’re Ovate. You watch... and invent."

‘Ovate?’ Blair thought feverishly, hunting for any clues that would give him an advantage. His eclectic education only came up with a few nebulous memories linking to Celtic druidism. He had vague recollection of the Ovates being skilled in prophecy and divination, maybe... possibly.

"You’ll be a good son of the clan. Home." Nidar finished. He had missed his other words.

"I’m flattered, Nidar. But I have a home."

"You have none." Nidar intoned. "Where’s your family? Blood?"

"Last time I checked I had a mom."

"You don’t live with her. She would be a true child of the Sidhe. Fickle and fey - as are you."

"I’m not fickle," Blair protested, "neither is my mom. Neither am I some kind of elf." He emphasised his words by hauling back a hank of hair showing a non-pointed ear.

"Bah!" Nidar pushed and Blair stumbled backwards.

"And I’m too old to live with my mom," Blair finished.

"That’s the problem with the Farmers and those brought up by the Farmers. You think family’s a bad thing... that it ties you down... that the old are time wasters and give nothing back.... Instead, family is a gift - it shows you where you are, where you are going. They are your support."

"You probably have a point there," Blair said, as reasonable as always. "It does appear that in western society there is a general trend toward decay in the family unit. But I would like to think that I would support my friends and relatives."

"See you already belong to the clan."

"I belong to no one!"

"Bah!" Nidar erupted again. "This way; that way. You don’t know where you come from."

Growling under his breath, Nidar made his bow legged walk to the doorway. He did not look back.

"Yes, but I know where I’m going," Blair said softly to the Hob’s retreating back.

~*~

Part IV