"Well?" Ellison bit his lip so he wouldn’t sound like he was snarling. He failed.

Bethany was a pale as new fallen snow. She was folding in on herself, a fading wisp of a woman. They were back in the drain where Jim had traced Blair’s footsteps. Once again they were up against the solid brick wall which had flummoxed the Sentinel hours earlier.

Father Callaghan shrugged out of his heavy wool coat and draped it over his companion’s shoulders.

"He doesn’t mean it," she whispered to the priest.

The Sentinel turned away, ashamed of himself. He was trying so hard to be ‘understanding’ but Bethany was incapable of helping them. She had been ravaged by her gift to the point where she had nothing left. He could respect her personal strength but her pride was going to kill her. If they were in the Army she would have been pensioned off.

"Okay, it’s a wall. It’s not new. It hasn’t just been built. It is as old as the street above. So if Blair went through there - how the fuck did he manage it."

Bethany paled against his harsh language. Jim tucked his hands behind his back and strove to be polite.

"Beth," he began, and smiled a hesitant, slow smile. "Is there anyone else who can help us, as you’re helping us?"

"You mean another psychic?" Philip interjected.

Bethany scowled, affronted.

"Hey, I’m just concerned." He left his place by the solid wall and stood before her, looming over her slighter frame. He was not trying to be intentionally threatening, but he could not help but feeling like a menacing giant. The detective cast a sideways glance at the priest, who shrugged minusculy. Not too sure what the Father was trying to convey, Ellison turned his full attention back to Bethany. She gazed up at him, haggard, defensive and weary. Her gift was tearing her apart. To be so open to the thoughts and emotions of people around you did not look as if it could be considered a gift. He strove to impress upon her, without words, as he knew that he wouldn’t be able to convince her otherwise, that he did not consider that she was a failure... only that this wasn’t her place. Her health was too fragile, and, ultimately that that was dangerous to everyone.

She read his soul and bowed her head.

"There is someone who can help you." She spoke very softly.

"Who?" Gently Jim tucked his fingers under her chin and lifted her head so he could see her grey eyes.

"Stowe…"

"Who?"

"You met him before. But if you yell at him, he’ll cry."

"Stowe Craig? That guy from the 14^th precinct. The dweeb who admits to committing crimes?"

"He dreams them and then gets confused. It’s not something that his Jungian psychiatrist is equipped to deal with."

"And the Legacy is?"

"I think, sometimes it is a case of: ‘beggars can’t be choosers’. But he had dreamt about Nidar so maybe he can help."

"Nidar?"

"Yes, the dwarf who’s taken Blair." Her brow furrowed in confusion.

"You know his name?"

"Yes, didn’t I say?"

Ellison threw his hands in the air and appealed to the heavens for patience. "I *hate* working with psychics."

~*~

Blair wandered aimlessly around the room. Frustrated by his predicament, he felt like kicking something, or more appropriately, someone. His subconscious provided the name, but he was not a violent man by nature. Racking his brains he thought about what he knew about Philip’s hunter-gatherer people. Commonly accepted texts stated that the megalithic people had died out in the distant past. That was only one facet. If the hunter-gatherers of aeons ago were in fact now known as the elves, sidhe, (call them what you will) many cultures accepted them as living amongst them. Notably the Icelanders believed that the hidden people shared their lives. Blair hadn’t met any elves when he was in Reykjavik, but he couldn’t help but be moved by the depths of belief he had encountered during his short visit to Iceland. And he had spent many an hour when visiting relatives in Great Britain, exploring the ancient fairy knolls and stone circles.

He couldn’t deny their existence now.

So he had the dubious honour of being chosen as he carried the genes of the hunter-gatherers. He doubted that he would have access to M.T.V. in a cave somewhere in the Cascade forest.

He snorted at his fancy. This really wasn’t getting him anywhere. Stimulated, he strode out of the cell and into the antechamber. The giant still sat by the fire. His piggy bright eyes turned and speared Blair.

The anthropologist froze. "Hi. What’s your name?"

The giant’s mouth fell open displaying a mouthful of tiny nubs of teeth - this guy did not crunch people’s bones.

"Hello, my name is Blair." He pointed to his chest. "Blair."

The doughy man struggled to his feet and almost bent double he carefully picked his way over to Blair.

"Blair." He tried again.

The massive head came down and scrutinised him. Blair remained stock-still as the little eyes gathered him in. There was a rather pungent odour, something like sage but he couldn’t be sure.

"Olafur."

"Pleased to meet you," Blair said deliberately polite. He held out his hand.

Olafur looked at it as if it were a dead fish. Then, suddenly, his hand was engulfed by one three times the size. The giant knew his strength, only shaking his hand lightly.

"Have you been sent to watch me?"

Olafur nodded once; it did not appear that the giant was much of a conversationalist.

"Well, I’m going exploring. Would you like to follow?"

Not waiting, Blair darted to the side, bypassing the giant. Olafur tried to grab his shoulder, stumbled and almost fell. A heartbeat later, Blair was halfway down a narrow passage that the giant had little, or no, chance of walking down. Smoky torches lit his way. Absently Blair collected one of the brands and held it before him - partly for illumination and partly for protection. He wasn’t trying to escape per se, but if he found a way out he was going to take it. This was in the nature of an expedition, a story that he would stick to if Nidar caught up with him. Not that he had anything to explain to Nidar. The Hob was a kidnapper and a murderer. Blair felt quite justified in bringing him to justice, and he had a right to escape and bring that justice down upon his head.

He ducked under a narrow overhang and found himself in a massive cavern. And then the walls moved. Coal-grey, shadowy figures twisted.

"Shit."

Small stick figures with beady black eyes surrounded by glaring white orbs scuttled out of the darkness. Long limbs with knobbly joints caught the poor light, casting skittering spider legs on the rough walls. A sudden movement, and one scampered closer. Holding the torch high, Blair backed up into the tunnel. He wasn’t going to run; knowing that if he did the stick men would chase him. They didn’t look real, some kind of animated horrible toy made out of sticks and twine. One golem darted away from the approaching horde and Blair thrust the torch in its direction. The skin on the back of his neck crawled as it cackled a laugh.

They were a sort of puppet akin to the soul tortured figure of Evelyn Huntingtower. This was Nidar’s sorcery - some kind of sick black enchantment that bound souls to the dead.

Slowly, never showing any fear, he backed down the passage, straight into the arms of Olafur.

A massive hand caught him by the seat of his pants and hauled him into the air.

"Bad." Olafur scolded, shaking him.

Effortlessly, the giant turned and made his laborious way down another wider passage, still carrying the anthropologist in one paw.

"Do you want to put me down?"

"Bad," Olafur repeated.

His shorts were rucking up in a painful manner. They ducked into another cavern, this one well lit. A chorus of laughs greeted them. Upside down, Blair saw a group of people all ages grinning at him. One lady was tall and willowy, head and shoulders above the others. Before Blair could even attempt to see details, a gaggle of children ran up to the giant distracting him.

"What di ya catch, Olly?" one childish voice demanded.

"Naughty boy."

"Di ya try to get away? Did ya? Did ya?" The child, and Blair couldn’t tell what sex it was because of the blood rushing to his brain, bounced up and down.

The kid cocked his head to the side and contemplated, "they always try to get away until they know that home is great."

Olafur waded through his admirers. Blair caught a glimpse of a pool, surrounded women scrubbing and washing clothes, before he was unceremoniously carried down another passage. Disorientated, Blair almost missed entering his room. Easily, Olafur rolled him into a ball and tossed him onto the wad of furs

"Stay."

"Arf arf," Blair said irrepressibly.

Olafur was making his lumbering way out of the cave, leaving him alone. Blair untangled himself and sat upright. The little boy had followed them into the antechamber.

"What’s your name? My name’s Peter." He, too, was dressed in warm skins dyed in camouflage browns and greens. The bright brown eyes, hidden under raggedly cut hair, were taking in all the details of the room.

"Blair."

"This is a special room," Peter volunteered. "All the new ones get put in here."

He darted over to the cauldron and helped himself to some of the lukewarm broth.

"Gee, I wonder why," Blair said sarcastically.

Peter turned guileless eyes upon him. "It’s so you can’t get out."

"And why do I have to be kept here?" Blair said cagily.

His new fount of information bounced over and settled on the bed next to him. "Finfar says that it’s because you don’t know your place yet."

‘Finfar.’ If that was Nidar’s true name, the anthropologist would be able to put that little fact to very good use. Blair smiled down at the little boy leaning so trustingly against him, digging into his bowl of soup.

"So what is ‘my’ place."

"You’re home now. You don’t have to be scared anymore. Finfar will look after you. You have to swear… fealty to him. Then we have a big, big party to welcome you. I like parties." Peter glowed with anticipation.

"Have you always lived here?"

"Uh huh. My big brother lived with the Farmers for a little while."

"And your mom?"

"Mama has always lived here. But father was brought up by the farmers but Finfar res…rescc…?"

"Rescued?" Blair supplied.

"Rescued him. Daddy told me that it was horrible there," Peter said in a confiding tone.

"Ohhhhh?" Blair said sympathetically.

"Yes. They’re not very nice, you know. They don’t like the different ones. They’re nasty."

"Yeah, you right." Blair said absently. He sagged against the furs. The child was supplying more evidence to support Philip’s hypothesis. The picture being painted was definitely one of Nidar kidnapping those whom he perceived to be bearing the genes of the hunter-gatherers. The question was: why hadn’t James Ellison been taken - instead of his guide? Surely Jim bore the gifts that Nidar coveted? The answer was fairly obvious. Either the Sentinel would bring Nidar’s empire down around his ears in less than a day or there would be a new leader by sunset. Taking the Sentinel’s Guide killed two birds with one stone - another throwback under the wing and... therefore, a crippled Sentinel.

‘Not that I was doing him much good," Blair thought miserably.

"What happens to those who don’t want to stay?"

A perplexed expression crossed Peter’s pointy face. He shrugged expressively.

That answered Blair’s question rather eloquently. A tiny shrunken fetish came to mind.

"Do you want to show me around? I bet you’re a good…gui… guide." Blair charmed.

"Yes." Peter rolled off the bed. He grabbed Blair’s bandaged hand and started to pull him off the furs. "I can show you everything. But I canna show you the outlands. I don’t know the way. But I can show you the forest and the grove and the fountains. You’ll like the fountains. You can swim in them."

Blair allowed the kid to tow him out of the room.

~*~

Blair had an utterly fascinating morning. Olly insisted on trailing after them; that restricted them to the larger caverns. Blair’s anthropologist soul had been stroked. What he had encountered was a living, breathing community that existed somewhere between giant family and closely related clan. There was a general kitchen-dining room that fed about one hundred people, judging by the benches, underlining the commune nature of the clan. There was a segregated top table that bore some impressively different sized chairs. He had promptly been distracted by a brownie, a short man who barely came up to his thigh. All the legends had come to life – it was a heady experience. And all these people were human. They had different racial characteristics but they seemed to breed with each other with gay abandon. Peter’s mama laughingly called herself a woodwife and she had gnarled, corded skin that did indeed resemble the bark of a tree. Blair didn’t know if it was a birthmark or whatever.

What he hadn’t found out was how a community steeped in ancient Celtic tradition had found itself on the western American seaboard... but he had a few ideas. However, the majority of people that he had met were refugees from what they called the outlands. They were local, as in American, from a variety of walks of life. All colours and creeds were represented. It was only then that the folk, as they called themselves, became cagey.

Even at his most endearing, Blair had been unable to ascertain exactly where he was.

Intrigued, enchanted and puzzled, he had sought answers with his customary tenacity, and, for awhile, his grief had been set aside.

"What’s in there?" Blair pointed at massive doors at the far end of the dining hall.

"You canna go in there," Peter said tersely.

Blair cast a glance over his shoulder. Olafur was in deep conversation with a woman called Sally, who had a distinct Chicago sounding accent.

"Yes, I can."

Leaving Peter standing in the centre of the hall, Blair arrowed to the heavy doors. A smaller door was set in the woodwork of the tree high door, barred with a simple catch. Blair flicked it open and poked his head into what could only be a throne room.

Guttering torches spluttered in holders pushed into the stone. These were interspersed by flags and shields with the occasional weapon. Blair stepped over the threshold and entered the room.

A dry cackle echoed through the Hall. The cackle had come from a wizened figure on the opposite side of the throne. Sitting on a three-legged stool beside what could only be the throne, was a character wrapped in a threadbare cloak. A grimy bandage hid his eyes.

"Hello," Blair ventured.

"Come here!" The figure gestured imperiously.

"Why?" Blair asked slowly.

"Because I want to *see* you." The man put a peculiar emphasis on the word.

There was a long path of dried grasses between himself and the man. There was something distinctly creepy about the whole room. Uneasy, Blair ventured closer. Then his inner voice screamed at him not to advance any closer. Blair froze.

The old man sniffed deeply. He then shuddered to the depths of his toes. A deep hacking cough rattled the man’s lungs. A gob of phlegm was suddenly spat directly at the anthropologist. Horrified, Blair ducked, even though there was no chance of it hitting him.

"Who are you?" Blair demanded, looking at the slimy green mess on the rushes.

"Who do you think, Blair Sandburg of the House of Ellison?"

"Excussssse me. The name is Sandburg, Blair Sandburg."

"Whatever, catamite."

For a heart stopping moment, the anthropologist was blindingly angry, then the rage leached away.

"Are you trying to deliberately annoy me? You’ll have to try harder than that." Blair circled the figure, noting that under the worn clothes the body was clean. The corded muscle on the forearms looked capable of twisting him in two if he ventured too close. But the legs were twisted and malformed. Belatedly he noted that the grimy dressing seemed to be more of a badge of office than a bandage.

The figure cackled delightedly. "Nidar said that you were an Ovate. It’s not going to help you."

"What do you want? Seer?" Blair surmised. He had read about the king’s seer, either blind or deliberately sightless so they could better hone their inner vision.

The figure laughed without any humour whatsoever. "You to leave without ending what we have here."

"Show me the way out."

"There’s a nice sharp knife on the wall. Kill yourself and we can all live in peace. You might as well get it over and done with, you’ve dithered about it long enough." The hands flexed as if trying to throttle him.

"Whoa. I don’t know what your problem is, but I think you’re overreacting. I don’t want to die." Blair retreated well out of arms reach.

"Really? You seem to enjoy lolling in misery. Poor Cassie. Poor little Cassie. You let her die."

"No. I didn’t!"

"You deserve to join her."

"What?" The sightless eyes followed him as he backed away.

"You betrayed her."

"I didn’t. I didn’t tell her to come into the tunnels. I didn’t make her do anything. I tried to protect her."

"You’re not very good at it, are you? You’re not much use to your sentinel either. Poor little Blair, all lost and alone."

"Shut up!" He took an involuntary step toward the seer and white pointed teeth grinned in anticipation.

‘Shit. He wants me to get close - so he can kill me.’ He knew that as well as he knew his Sentinel.

"STOP!" An aristocratic voice rang out.

Blair spun as Nidar entered the room.

"What are you doing here, Blair?"

"Exploring."

"Where’s Olafur?"

"Your mistake compounded another mistake. If Olafur had left him with the stickies we would be all well and happy," the seer said viciously.

"I did not ask you, Shillelagh. Return to your room, Blair."

"Happily. Where is it?" Confused by the undercurrents passing back and forth between the apparent leader of the community and its resident seer, Blair had no intention of leaving until he had some idea about what was happening. He crossed his arms and pursed his lips waiting for the next eruption.

"Kill him. Before he brings the Farmers down on us all."

"Be quiet, Shillelagh."

"NO!" the seer bristled, bringing corded arms down onto the stool and forcing himself upright on bandy legs. "He is death to us all. He will kill the old ones and take the children. This I see. Kill him and toss him in a duck pond."

Nidar cast a weighing glance at the anthropologist. "He is no more capable of killing than Olafur."

"He is a crossbow. He is a scale. He will bring down retribution upon us. He’s bound to the Sentinel. The Sentinel will come for him - he can do no other. And with the Sentinel will come everything that you fear."

"You mean the knight?" Nidar ventured. "Is this true, Blair?"

Blair nodded emphatically. "You’ve got a pissed sentinel hunting you down and nothing will stop him."

"Kill him." Shillelagh demanded.

"That won’t accomplish anything, ‘cos the Sentinel will still come after you," Blair said with panache.

The seer slumped back onto his seat and glowered. Nidar’s badger eyes darted back and forth.

"Is that true?"

Shillelagh nodded reluctantly. "You’ve sounded the death knell for all you’ve created over a thousand years."

"Thousand years? Is that literal? Are you a thousand years old, Nidar?"

The Hobgoblin scowled at him. "Do I look like I am a thousand years old?" he snapped.

"Anything is possible," Blair said diplomatically.

"What’s this sentinel you’re talking about, seer?" Nidar ignored the anthropologist.

"We know of them as the Warten and Weisen," Shillelagh muttered.

"Awwww shit!" Nidar threw his head back - the swearword sounded strangely uncouth. "He is *weisen*?"

Blair felt vaguely offended by the disbelief in the hob’s voice. A stab in his gut reminded him that he had not been acting as his Sentinel’s Guide. Chastened he looked down at the floor.

"If he is weisen, why is he bereft?" Nidar demanded. "Why does he wander? Why does he call out? Why does he need succour?"

"You want to know?" Blair snarled. "Because you took my friend. She died in my arms. She breathed her last breath against my breast. You killed Cassie, you bastard." His fingers curled inwards, not forming fists, but claws of anger.

Nidar’s nose twitched at his venom. "She entered my domain and took what was mine."

"You stole a child!" Blair spat back. "We rescued him. And he does not belong to anyone!"

"The child is of my blood..."

"By who’s definition? You took him from his parents."

"They are not worthy of the gift. I will have him again."

"And the mother?"

"She is no child of mine; she cowers when she should defend her young."

"Is that why you killed Evelyn Huntingtower? Who made you judge, jury and executioner?"

"I am the king. I am the lord of all I survey. I am the voice of my people!" It was obviously a quote. "And I am sworn to protect."

The surety in the Hob’s tone was difficult to gainsay. Emotions were running high. Blair deliberately clamped down on his anger, striving to be the objective scientist. He knew, suddenly, what was happening... what drove the hobgoblin.

"Not very democratic," Blair said tightly, providing an opening that he knew the king of these hidden people would pounce upon.

"Farmer thinking."

‘Oh, boy,’ Blair thought, ‘Culture clash.’

"I find it very hard to maintain my hostility for you," Blair said conversationally, making a deliberate effort to control the thread of anger that threatened to overcome him. "I can see both sides of the fence. Who am I to say that your society is wrong." He began to pace, back and forth, gesticulating. "You’re a monarchy - the king rules. Harsh rules, I would guess, with the ultimate punishment. What did Evelyn do - abuse Sam?

"She threatened the safety of my people. She never accepted her place."

"As mother to her child? Serf to her household?"

"She spoke treason. She stirred unrest against my rule."

"Why didn’t you let her leave?"

"And bring the Farmers down on us all?" Nidar spoke as if speaking to a child.

"So you killed her?"

"I executed her," Nidar said precisely, "when she tried, and failed, to kill me."

"Why do you speak to him?" Shillelagh demanded from his seat at the base of the throne. "Kill... execute this failed weisen and dump him where his warten will find him. The shock will surely drive the warten insane and he will be no threat to us."

"Will that end this?" Nidar demanded.

The seer twisted on his stool.

"Well…"

"The sentinel will never declare a blood feud," Shillelagh dropped his head and muttered to his chest.

"Speak the truth, seer, or I will put out your eyes."

"He may not say the words but he will embody them in thought and deed. You will have to kill the sentinel."

Blair reacted. He kicked the stool out from under Shillelagh, toppling him into Nidar. He followed through with a kick that Jim, the ex-ranger, would be proud of. His foot connected solidly with the side of the Hob’s head. Without bothering to see the results of his actions he legged it out of the hall slamming the door behind him.

Outside in the antechamber, Olafur’s head whipped around. Knowing that he had been spotted, Blair ducked down one of the narrower tunnels as a shout went up behind him.

‘Gotta warn Jim, gotta warn Jim…’

~*~

Fuming under his breath, Ellison stomped after the two Legacy members. Philip was physically supporting the woman as they made their way through the warren of corridors in a down market apartment complex. A wealth of odours assailed the Sentinel’s sensitive nose. The disturbing artificial pine of industrial cleaners overlaid boiled cabbage and warming milk. He clamped down on his vomit reflex.

"How do you know this guy?"

The detective had called Rafe at the precinct, not wanting to broach Simon in his lion’s den, to get the man’s address. But Bethany was walking with an air of knowledge, as if she had been here before.

"I’ve met him a few times at the Golden Nut health store."

They stopped before a newly painted pale blue door and Bethany knocked. A hollow sound reverberated through what sounded like a sparsely furnished apartment. The door opened a fraction, stopped by a chain, and a demented eye peered out at them.

"You have to leave. I don’t want to come out."

"Hello Stowe," Bethany said patiently. "I wonder if you can help us?"

The bloodshot eye darted back and forth. "I told you." The eye speared the Sentinel. "But you didn’t listen."

"I didn’t understand," Jim said injecting compassion into the simple statement. "Nidar has taken my friend. You met my friend at the precinct."

"I didn’t see that," The voice behind the door softened. "I thought that he would be safe - that you would protect him."

The Sentinel recoiled as if physically hit.

"He didn’t let you though, did he?" The door opened revealing the slight, befuddled young man. "He locked himself away, while he cried inside."

"May we come in?" Father Callaghan asked.

Stowe started, seeing him for the first time. He studied the white collar, cast a weighing Bethany and then stepped aside allowing them all to enter.

The apartment echoed the man - it was empty. They stood uncertainly, unbalanced by the lack of furniture. There would be no offer of coffee, or direction to sit. Polite necessities did not play a role in this man’s life.

Bethany took matters into her own hands. "Do you know where Nidar is?"

Stowe shook his head.

The detective stood at attention, practically vibrating with tension, not wanting to upset the slight chance that this man could help them. Stowe’s rheumy eyes drifted to lock with his. The scent of alcohol was strong.

"You’re drunk."

"No, I’m not. I’m hungover. Gin blunts the dreams."

"Do you know where Nidar is going to be?" Bethany said cannily, stepping in between the Sentinel and the drained man.

"Maybe," Stowe hedged. He continued before the Sentinel could grab him and shake him by the scruff of the neck. "There’s a dark place north of here, a place of death, if you go there you’ll draw him to you. If you don’t go there, he won’t come."

"And Blair?" Philip prompted.

Stowe’s head jerked, as if another controlled his motions. "He stands on the cusp. Your guide is denying himself. Will I do in his stead?"

"Fuck you." Ellison’s response was instantaneous - thought didn’t enter into the statement. The first time he had met Stowe he had wanted to beat some sense into the man. It was incomprehensible, almost as if the man irritated him on some subliminal level, which forced a biting reaction.

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the apartment.

"Jim!" Philip followed. "He’s trying to help. We need his help."

"We don’t."

"We do," the priest protested.

"He hasn’t told us anything we couldn’t have figured out on our own."

The Sentinel picked up the pace, leaving the priest behind.

"What do you mean?" Philip said to his back.

He continued running. "The storm drain where this nightmare started."

"And...?" Philip whispered, knowing that the sentinel would hear him.

"I already have a Guide. I don’t need another one."

~*~

Blair ran as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels. He had to warn Jim. The Hob’s solution to a threat to his rule was short and to the point. The travesty of the whole affair was that Nidar was not truly evil; only that his values differed.

‘Not too different,’ Blair thought ruefully. He knew that Jim, under similar circumstances would concur with the Hob’s heavy handedness. Blair, however, could not condone Nidar’s moral certainty; he lacked that degree of self esteem, or was it self-centredness, that meant what he knew was inherently right. To him the wrong doer could learn by his mistakes, be treated or despite judge and jury still be innocent.

Now wasn’t the time to dwell on morality. When push came to shove, Nidar considered Jim a threat and he had ample evidence of Nidar’s response to threats.

Blair skidded to a halt facing a cavern similar to the one that had held the stickies.

The light from the torch that he had stolen revealed no twisting shadows. Reassured, Blair jogged along the poorly illuminated path, pacing himself for the long walk ahead.

Jim was looking for him, he knew that without a doubt. The search would take him to the mine workings, where Blair was sure he would eventually end up.

~*~

Blair examined the dirt beneath his feet. He faced a two-pronged path and a choice: left or right. Squatting down he could just see tiny stick like marks in the soil. They headed left.

"Stickies."

The right path seemed the obvious choice. A little way down the right path he realised that the stickies probably protected the entrance to this world. Blair hovered indecisively. He really did not relish the thought of meeting the animated stocks again.

Swearing under his breath, Blair retraced his footsteps. His injured foot was beginning to hurt anew - now that the adrenaline from his flight had worn off.

"Then again, the left path is usually the wrong path," Blair mused.

‘This is ridiculous,’ he realised.

Not for the first time he wished that he were a sentinel. Jim would be able to sniff out fresh air. Blair inhaled, all he could smell was musty soil. Instincts had sent him on the right path. A sense of unease warned him from the left path. Blair was a child of instincts - his mother had drummed into him since infancy to listen to his inner voice.

Reassured, Blair headed up the right path.

A skittering of footsteps sounded behind him.

~*~

The Rolls Royce handled like a dream. The detective wondered if he could finagle a Rolls Royce for the precinct’s carpool. He doubted it.

He was rather impressed when he had accelerated to 160 mph coming up the freeway to the northern forest. The detective made a handbrake turn and all four wheels of the vehicle stayed on the pebbled track.

Ellison really liked the Rolls Royce.

The perfect touch would be this Nidar’s skin as upholstery.

The car careened to a halt and he jumped out. Without pausing for breath, or to alert his superiors, he ducked into the storm drain. His pupils immediately dilated, turning the world into muted shades of grey. Their footprints from their aborted expedition glowed like moonlight. Focused, breathing the musty air, the Sentinel ran into the darkness, oblivious to everything but finding his lost guide.

~*~

The guttering torch spluttered and died, plummeting the student into darkness.

"Fuck."

It was pitch black. Not a single shred of light reached his wide open eyes. Unsure, and unnerved, he held his hand out, the other holding the torch that was now a club. A moment ago he had been crossing an open cave. Now the walls closed in on him, the ceiling laid its oppressive weight upon the back of his neck and a demon stood behind him. Slowly he felt the earth beneath his feet, carefully picking each step out.

"Onwards," he whispered.

He was uncommonly thirsty; the dust sapped the moisture from his skin.

A stone moved under his foot and he shifted to safer ground.

~*~

The pencil flashlight gave just enough light for sentinel eyes to see clearly. Regardless of his abilities, there had to be a modicum of light for him to see.

He bypassed the trap, skirted another without triggering the deadfall and jumped over a pit. Judging by the traps, he had to be on the right path.

"Onwards," he whispered.

~*~

His fingers brushed a wall and Blair froze. Muscles trembled with tension. Walking in a dark void brought a peculiar strain to every movement. Sweat beaded along his spine, tendrils of hair clung to his forehead and his eyes burned with the effort of not seeing.

Slowly he walked along the wall, one hand following the granite - the other still holding the heavy torch. He had seen, with the last of his light, another passage heading away from him. Now he did not know how far off track he was but he could only fumble along until he found it.

Something brushed his leg.

Startled, he bumped into the wall, bringing the torch down to hack at whatever had touched him.

Spider’s breath touched his knee. Blair jerked again - his breathing sounding harshly in the giant cavern. Was there a giggle? He could have sworn that he had heard a giggle.

‘Oh shit.’

Something else touched him. Blair kicked out. Another thing clawed at his ankle. Sharp fingers, twists of wood, splinters of evil.

Stickies.

He swiped the air with the torch - feeling it connect. And then the temperature dropped. They were no longer playing with him. Now they meant business.

Sharp nails hooked his legs, drawing blood.

They swarmed over him, climbing up his legs - one reached his waist sinking talons into his side. He grabbed it and flung it away with a curse. They weaved around his feet. Another scrabbled up his back. Blair twisted and fumbled, losing his balance. A shriek of delight went up as he toppled like a felled tree.

He was going to die.

A flare of light washed over him, spearing his eyes. Agonised, he dropped the torch and flung his hands up, shying from the light.

"Away!" Nidar’s voice ordered.

They fled to the shadows.

"You’ve led me on a fine chase, my boy. I enjoy a chase."

"Get another hobby," Blair said harshly as he found his feet. He brandished the torch as a weapon.

"I mean you no harm." Nidar set a lantern on a rock between them and hefted his crossbow high. "You just don’t understand what I am."

"That’s where you’re wrong," Blair said forthrightly. "You’re playing your role in the age old game of fear, with hefty doses of bigotry and a little bit of conflict over what you perceive as yours thrown into the mix. I understand that you consider the Sentinel as a threat and I’ve seen how you deal with threats."

"What would you have me do, Blair? I protect the scared and abused. You threaten that." Nidar advanced.

Blair backed up until he touched the wall. "We don’t. In another world you and Jim could have been friends. But you’ve killed innocents… Cassie… and you’ve taken away people’s freedom of choice."

Nidar’s sharp features sagged. "I did not mean for your friend to die."

"Would you do it again?"

Nidar’s silence was eloquent, then, "I would attempt to stop her." The crossbow with its primed bolt stood between them. "Consider her a casualty of war."

"Oh," Blair said miserably, "the path that you’re taking is… wrong. We’re not talking about war but righting wrongs."

"I speak for my people." Nidar growled. "My word is law."

"A wise man once said that there is no American law, there is no Chopec law, there is only justice. This is going to end in tears, Finfar."

The Hob paled as he heard his true name on the lips of one who could be an enemy. "I know. If I kill you and your Sentinel, I will cry for you, but my people will be safe."

"How do you sleep at nights?" Blair asked softly.

"I protect my people - my conscience is clear."

"This is so sad." The Shaman bowed his head. "Nidar, I can empathise with your goals but they’re not realistic."

"I’m saving my people; the ones the Farmers damage."

Blair took a hesitant step towards the Hob. "I know! And, my God, abused children need help. But you kidnap people who don’t agree with your ideals. And those that can’t tolerate this hole in the earth, eventually you have to kill. You’re substituting one type of abuse for another. And you take others, don’t you? Those who you think belong in your clan?

"The Farmers have taken so much from my Family."

There was regret in that voice, Blair was so sure of the fact. They could, he thought, come to a common understanding - they just had to try.

"FREEZE!"

Both turned to the voice. The Sentinel erupted from the tunnel mouth his weapon aimed unerringly at the Hob. His hair was wild and musty, his skin covered with grime.

"Step away from Sandburg," he ordered.

"Ellison," the Hob said evenly.

"Everyone has to be calm…"

"You’re under arrest for murder, kidnapping, assault and anything else that I can come up with."

~*~

James Ellison looked at his washed out guide. The kid looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards. His curly hair was caked with dust and tracks of mud streaked his face where he must have rubbed his eyes. What really drew his eye were the thin trails of blood trickling down Sandburg’s legs. The grad student was a picture of someone at the end of their tether.

Little did he guess that he presented a similar picture.

The reptilian part of his mind, as Sandburg liked to call it, was watching the hobgoblin with a predator’s intensity. The character did not have a bright pointed hat and a fishing rod but was a short stout man, who looked capable of breaking him in two.

"Step away from Sandburg," Ellison ordered again. He focused on the pointed features, waiting for an excuse.

"Please, Nidar, set your crossbow on the ground," Blair begged.

"I protect my people."

~*~

"Nooooo!" Blair made a futile attempt to jump into the line of fire as the Hob twisted, bringing the crossbow to point at the Sentinel.

A shot echoed around the cavern, bringing the Sentinel to his knees.

Nidar lay sprawled on his back, a spreading patch of darkness covering his chest and Jim moaned in time with the receding cascade of the killing shot.

The Guide hovered for a moment, indecisively; then he darted to his Sentinel’s side.

"Turn it down, Jim. Listen to my voice. Picture the dial: take it to two. Nice and easy." He punctuated his words with soft strokes along the line of the taut spine.

He knew when his words penetrated the pain racked mind.

"Shhhssshh, relax."

Jim lifted bloodshot eyes. Seeing comprehension, Blair patted his shoulder reassuringly then moved to the Hob’s inert body.

The wound was mortal, Blair knew that; when threatened, Jim shot to kill. The similarities between these two proud men drew a sob from the guide.

Dull dead eyes stared up at him. "I didn’t want this to happen, Finfar. Truly… I didn’t. I’ll protect your people to the best of my ability - which to be frank isn’t saying much - but I’ll do my best."

He crouched down and closed the sightless eyes.

"Seer," he addressed the air around him. "I’ll convince the Sentinel to leave your King here; his body would only confuse the authorities. You have to tread more warily - whether or not you consider people to be farmers or of the clan - and we are *all* from the same stock - you can’t take away freedom of choice. Those who you hold against their will… will be your downfall."

"Blair?" The voice was a soft whisper of confusion.

The sentinel had found his equilibrium. He stood a step behind watching his Guide with a hooded expression.

"Who are you talking to, Blair?" His hands fluttered against his sides then he gave into temptation and felt the student’s forehead.

Blair batted his hand away, affectionately.

The cant of his head told the student that he was listening with all his sentinel abilities but he wasn’t picking up any other people in the area.

"Did he hurt you, Blair?"

"Can we go home, Jim? I really want to go home. No police, no nothing - just home."

Indecision flared in the Sentinel’s eyes. "This is a crime scene - we have to report it to the authorities."

"Why? Justice has been served."

"Inquiry? An autopsy? You know the drill."

"He’s dead, Jim. An autopsy would be degrading."

"I can’t shoot someone and then just leave him to rot! Why are you bothered? He’s a kidnapper and a murderer. Do you know where the other victims are?"

"Oh, boy." Embarrassingly, Blair’s knees folded in on themselves, dropping him to the ground. How was he going to begin to explain this to the Sentinel?

"You all right?" Crouching next to him, Jim lifted his chin up and stared at his eyes.

"Nidar took children and adults who were at risk. I’m fairly sure that we’ll find that Marcus and Charlie have been molested or abused. We’ll have to look into that - when we get to the otherside. The other ‘victims’ are happy, at least everyone I met was. I didn’t meet Sam, though. I guess he misses his mom. Poor kid. Why does everything have to be complicated?"

Honest confusion played over the Sentinel’s classic features.

"Do you want to start at the beginning, Blair?"

Blair rocked back on his heels, and then he began with gallows humour. "Once upon a time…."

~*~

"It sounds a bit fantastical, Chief. We can’t leave these people down here - what do they eat?"

"You seem to think that we’re in a mine on the west coast of America. We’re on the otherside."

Jim’s brow furrowed as he contemplated the grad student’s words. Evidently he set them aside; as he made no comment. He had probably decided that his Guide was distraught, exhausted and babbling. Candidly, Blair admitted to himself that he was a tad tired. Slowly the Sentinel hoisted Blair to his feet, supporting him with a sure hand. Blair let him offer support. Jim needed to be needed - trite but true.

"We have to inform the authorities," Jim continued, "child Services, search and rescue."

Blair stared over the Sentinel’s shoulder into the cavernous darkness that consumed the poor light from the lantern. Shadows moved - stickies and larger figures waiting to bury their King.

"Yeah, sure, Jim. Nidar made his choice. The needs of the many do not outweigh the needs of the few."

"What? Who are you talking to?" Jim asked again.

"The shadows."

The Guide allowed the Sentinel to steer them away from the scene. They took the tallow and wick lantern - leaving the body to the darkness.

"Do you know which way to go?" Blair asked.

"Yeah, I’m retracing my footsteps."

"How did you know how to find me?"

"I just… uh…came." Jim scowled down at him. "I knew that you were down here somewhere."

"How?" Blair asked eagerly - thoughts of extrasensory perception flashing through his mind.

"I met a guy - who might be a guide - he told me you were down here." Jim blew his hypothesis out of the water. "Squirelly little flake, I think maybe you should talk to him and give him a few pointers."

A thread of eagerness was plucked. Nestled under his best friend’s shoulder, Blair gazed up at his resolute features. He had learnt some important lessons in Nidar’s world, now he had to process them.

~*~

The flare of emergency lights, from police cars, ambulances and local mountain-rescue vehicles, cast lurid colours over the riverbed. A spelunking search team was emerging from the storm drain. The leader held a boy who was maybe eleven years of age. The kid appeared traumatised. Jim guessed that it was Sam Huntingtower. As soon as the kid saw daylight, he whimpered, hiding his face in the folds of the blanket wrapped around his skinny body. The boy looked bereft. The Sentinel’s thoughts automatically turned to his Guide.

Blair was wrapped in a tartan rug and curled up on the back seat of the Rolls Royce. His huge eyes were taking in every aspect of the scene before him.

Jim tagged one of the team as the man passed.

"What happened?"

"We found the kid in a little shaft off tunnel A."

"Did you find the body?"

"No, man. That place is a warren - we were lucky we found the kid. Do you know if there is anyone else down there?"

Jim found himself staring at his friend. Their initial contact, using the cell phone in the Rolls, to Cascade P.D. had been garbled to say the least. He mentally reviewed what they had said: a body and people in the mine, had been salient points. In the cold light of day, Jim realised that he didn’t want to say anything about Blair’s hidden people. How could they explain an entire community? Would they find them? Several days ago, the police had been scouring the drains and mine workings looking for clues, but they had found nothing.

The F.B.I. director crossed to Sam Huntingtower, his expression calculating as he took in the kid’s weird animal skin clothes. They were same type of clothes that Blair was wearing, Jim realised belatedly. The enfolding rug hid Blair’s clothes.

"Detective, is anyone else down there?" A hint of irritation told the Sentinel that it wasn’t the first time that the rescuer had asked the question.

"I don’t know. Sandburg said that there was a lot of people down there."

"People get disorientated when they are trapped…"

Wryly, Jim realised that people’s own inability to suspend disbelief would prevent them from taking Blair’s story at face value. He felt like saying: "yup, there’s a buncha fairies living down there and my partner’s one. Oh, yeah, so am I - ‘cos I have hyperactive senses which means I’m a throwback to a pre-civilised form of man." That would go down well at the precinct.

A yell went up, interrupting his train of thought. Another team was emerging from the tunnel.

"We need forensics down in the west wing. We’ve found a whole mass of buried bodies!" The young man’s face was shock white.

The F.B.I. contingent immediately perked up; they had been forced to take an observer’s position while the rescue services worked - now they could act. Directed by Oscar Mutawbi they began to transfer equipment and personnel into the mine. Ellison took the opportunity to escape. Sneaking past Simon, who was deep in conversation with Henri, he crossed over to the Rolls. Blair leaned over and opened the driver’s door as he approached. Jim clambered in. Turning, he leaned over the backrest to better see his Guide.

"What’s happening?" The anthropologist squinted through the window.

"They can’t find Nidar’s body."

Blair shrugged. "I guess that Shillelagh’s moved it."

"They haven’t found anyone down there except one kid…"

"Really?" Blair suddenly appeared energised.

"It’s probably Samuel Huntingtower." Jim paused. "They also found a… cache of bodies."

"A grave yard or a plague pit or… what?"

"I don’t know. One of the rescue workers just said that they’d found buried bodies."

Blair’s forehead furrowed. "I suppose we better have a look."

"Whoa." The detective caught the grad student’s arm as he made to climb out of the car. "Mutawbi looks like he’s pretty sure that there is something going on here. He’s seen the kid and his weird clothes; if he gets a look at you in that get-up, you’ll be down the local divisional HQ before you can say ‘anthropological study’." Ellison’s expression took on a cast of calculating intelligence. "What do you think they are going to find down there?"

"A graveyard, I guess. I suppose the hidden people have to bury their dead somewhere."

"Are they going to find your hidden people?"

"Nah, man. You could probably lead them to them. That’s what Nidar feared. But I don’t think that they have a hope in hell of finding them otherwise."

"Should I?" Jim said, his voice was even. No hint of his true thoughts showed on his face.

Blair sunk back against the upholstery, his demeanour introspective. "I hate this, but I don’t know."

"What does your heart of hearts tell you?"

"You been speaking to my mom again?" Blair countered.

Jim chuckled, a dry pensive chuckle. "The Chopec hold onto their land only at the whim of the Peruvian government and the fat cats in industry. Maybe the Chopec should be assimilated, so the resources can be exploited and their abilities… studied?"

Blair didn’t even bother rising to the bait Jim was waving before him. "So what are you saying, man?"

"I think that this is bigger than both of us. And it is not a decision that we should make here *and* now. I don’t particularly want to be responsible for destroying what could be the last remnants of a megalithic society purely because I disagree with their recruitment policy."

"You’ve been reading my anthropological journals again, haven’t you?" Blair sniped.

"No, I’m using my experiences with the Chopec and governmental organisations," Jim said darkly.

"They’d shit all over them, wouldn’t they."

Jim nodded bleakly.

"I know that you had no choice about killing Nidar. He was going to try and shoot you. But I wish it could have ended differently."

Jim clenched his jaw, to better maintain an impassive façade. Regardless of his reputation as a hard-ass ex-ranger, killing people did not come easily, regardless of the provocation.

"Let’s get out of here. We’ll talk with Philip and Bethany. The Legacy Organisation is probably better equipped to deal with the supernatural aspects and they’d be able to talk with these people. You know Bethany would make a great liaison."

"Sounds like an idea."

Jim settled himself in the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. Fumbling with the stick shift, he finally found the reverse gear.

"Jim?"

The detective paused, feet poised on the gas and clutch pedals, holding the car still.

"There’s a good chance that Marcus and Charlie have been abused somehow," Blair reminded him unnecessarily. "We have to talk to Child Services."

"Top of my list, Chief. Before we talk to anyone else."

~*~

The day dawned bright and beautiful. The air held the kind of crispness that only the clearest of autumn days could bring. The golden leaves on the trees around the cemetery added to the illusion.

"It should be raining," Blair muttered throatily.

He stood next to his Sentinel - surrounded by others of their crew as they paid homage to one of the fallen. Cassie’s family stood on the other side of the burial plot. The cadre of men and women in smart, pressed uniforms added to the solemnity. Everyone was striving to be brave as the family priest spoke the eulogy with a deep, rounded voice.

The Sentinel’s hands, encased in his white dress gloves, twitched. Blair watched him rather than listening to the priest or watching Cassie’s distraught parents. When James Ellison had descended from his bedroom attired in his pristine dress uniform, the anthropologist had found himself taking notes on the bereavement rituals of military societies. Then he had realised what he was doing; he was avoiding the real reasons for a funeral. Jim had looked at him very curiously when he had coughed a depreciative snort at himself.

Now he stood with his friends and tribe, a single man in black surrounded by a sea of dark blue.

The priest tailored to the end of his speech and invited family and friends to approach the grave. Cassie’s younger brother had opted to speak.

At the young man’s grief stricken words, Blair once again allowed his attention to wander. The child, Charlie, who they had rescued, was cradled in his mother’s arms. His father was a step behind and to the left of the mother and child. It had emerged that he was an alcoholic. He was now undergoing treatment.

The brother finished his address, which signalled a twenty-one gun salute from the Cascade police officers. At each piercing shot Blair, amongst others, jumped. The flag dressing Cassie’s coffin was then folded and Simon, with great dignity, offered it to Mrs Wells.

They were silent as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Silence reigned, then little Charlie, whispering, broke the moment, and the gathering began to disperse.

"Are you coming down to Arista’s?" Rafe asked, naming the bar they were meeting in for the wake.

"Yes," Jim said perfunctorily, for both of them.

Blair remained stationary, watching, as Simon, followed by the chief commissioner, spoke words of condolence to the family.

"Do you want to speak to Mrs Wells?" Jim asked.

"No, I don’t think that it will help her," Blair said thickly.

"Do you need to speak to Mrs Wells?"

Blair looked up at his Sentinel. He lost himself for a moment, taking in the sharply pressed uniform, the cap held precisely under his left arm, the gleaming sam browne and, finally, the wet eyes - tears held back - as the Sentinel refused to yield to his emotions.

Seeing the unshed tears, feeling the empathy, Blair allowed the first, of many, tears to fall. Through watery eyes he saw his misery mirrored in his best friend’s eyes.

"Oh, Blair," Jim said softly.

The hoarseness in the Sentinel’s voice, the final proof that Jim commiserated, brought forth heartbroken sobs from the depths of the Guide’s soul.

"I’m sorry, man. I didn’t want to cry," Blair blurted. Suddenly he was engulfed in strong arms. He was home. This was what he had needed.

"It’s okay to cry."

"Oh, God."

He let it all out as they held onto each other.

~*~

Finally, Blair pulled back, wiping at his nose with the cuff of his suit. "Sorry, man. I’ve messed up your uniform." He gestured vaguely at the damp patch on the detective’s breast.

"Your hair’s a bit damp, buddy." Jim ruffled his curls. Where maybe a few, unintentional, hot tears had fallen from a stoic Sentinel. "You feel better now?"

"Yeah, man." He continued to rub at his nose until Jim offered him a white handkerchief. Blair blew his nose lustily.

Finding his composure he looked around. They were alone, standing amidst a forest of gravestones.

"I’m sorry, Jim."

"Why?" Jim asked softly, understanding in his crystal blue eyes.

The Sentinel didn’t look like he had been crying; he had the colouring where he could cry without going bright red. Whereas Blair knew that he now looked as if he had been beaten up.

"Cassie was dead and all I could think was that ‘Cassie was dead’. It hurt so much. I couldn’t feel anything. It was like everyone I was seeing, talking to - were just bags of water. Nothing was important except Cassie was dead and not thinking about my misery. You could have shot me and it wouldn’t have hurt. But…I … didn’t give you any consideration. I know that Cassie’s… abrasive…manner, pushed all your buttons… but I know you knew that… her heart was in the right place. She was one of your tribe; so you were hurting too… and all I could think of was that I was upset. I ignored you, man."

"It’s called grief, Blair. I understood. I grieved in my own way, but I was more worried about you," Jim said solemnly. "You weren’t yourself."

Blair nodded sorrowfully. "Yeah, I know and that affected you. Philip tried to tell me but I didn’t want to think about it, ‘cos then I would have cried and I didn’t know if I would stop. But then when I was on the otherside, I realised that I’d cut everyone off, especially you," Blair’s words began to stumble over themselves. "When Nidar decided that killing you would protect the clan, I realised that I already had a family and I was throwing it away."

"Come here."

Blair found himself in a sharing hug. He sniffled against the damp patch on Jim’s shoulder.

"It’s kinda weird, don’tcha think, that you kept zoning?"

"Uhmmm?" The chest beneath his cheek vibrated.

"Why?" Blair prodded.

"You said it yourself, junior, everyone ‘were just bags of water’. You weren’t…I don’t know how to put this…connecting with people."

There was a long pause while Blair processed the Sentinel’s words. "That kind of implies that you’re effected by my emotional state."

"Certainly seems so."

Blair pulled back, just enough so he could see his friend’s face. "Was it me or was it you?"

"You want to rephrase that so I know what you mean?"

"Were you zoning because you were grieving and I was upset and I wasn’t helping you, or was I letting you zone ‘cos I wasn’t doing, or missing, something?"

Jim took a deep breath. "To be honest, I don’t know. But when you put it like that, I think maybe it was a bit of both."

Jim clasped Blair’s shoulders once, and released him.

"What do I do? To make you stop zoning?"

The Sentinel pursed his lips, deep in thought. "I don’t know, you’re just there."

"But I was there, I never left your side." Blair said tenaciously, like a dog worrying at a bone.

He sighed deeply. "Okay, I’ll say it, since we’re both avoiding the subject. I couldn’t tell what you were thinking, I didn’t know how to help you, and I couldn’t… damn this’ll sound weird… I couldn’t feel you. Now, I know, you’re sad…but it’s the difference between knowing something in your heart instead of in your head."

"Wow." Thoughts were running rampant in those expressive eyes, but for once, Blair set them aside. He gazed up at his friend, his expression no longer shuttered and hidden.

Jim smiled a slow, easy, content smile... a smile that Blair echoed. If the Sentinel had a tail, it would have been switching, blissfully, from side to side.

Jim cuffed his friend’s head, ever so gently. "Don’t get all emotional on me," he chided, laughing.

"Maybe we can come up with some tests?" Blair chewed on his full bottom lip, the smile still frittering on his lips. "I have to admit I don’t know where to start. I mean, how can I study … the heart?"

"I think that this goes beyond science," Jim said soberly. "It’s about friendship."

New tears threatened to fall. "I won’t lock you out again. I promise."

"I promise to tell you if you do." The Sentinel slung a comforting arm over his Guide’s shoulders. "Works both ways, you know. If I get all pissy and uncommunicative, well, more so than normal, you have to tell me."

"What happens if we both get out of synch?" Blair asked, feeling ice water in his veins.

The arm over his shoulders clenched, uncertainly.

"I guess we have to cross that bridge when we get to it."

They cast one final glance at the freshly dug grave. The gravediggers waited in the distance for the last of the mourners to leave so that they could fill the hole. Blair allowed Jim to conduct him away.

"Do you want to go to Arista’s?" Jim asked.

"I think we should." There was a hint of a question in the grad student’s voice.

"I think it is a good tradition."

Blair was about to launch into a lecture on the positive effects of a wake, when he realised that Jim had stopped.

He nudged his friend with his elbow. "What’s the matter?"

Jim jerked his head at an oak tree on the outskirts of the cemetery. Blair blatantly stared in the indicated direction.

He was struck dumb. The seer, Shillelagh, stood under the shade of the oak, with the giant, Olafur, but what robbed him of speech was the presence of the ethereal Bethany. They all wore black - partaking in the ceremony of mourning.

"My God, I never thought, when we told her of the hidden people…. She’s joined the clan," Blair blurted. "Jim?"

The Sentinel understood his Guide’s wishes and allowed himself to see across the distance separating them from the trio.

"She’s smiling. That’s the first true smile I’ve seen on her face. She hasn’t been coerced," he reported.

Jim allowed his senses to scan the area around him. Blair waited patiently and followed his search, until the Sentinel’s gaze settled on the Legacy House limousine parked at the entrance to the cemetery. Philip stood patiently beside the jet-black car waiting for the Sentinel and Guide.

Blair darted ahead, leaving the Sentinel scrutinising the trio. He paused a moment to scrub his eyes and nose with Jim’s handkerchief before reaching the Catholic priest.

"What happened?"

"Hello, Blair," the priest said politely.

"Hello, Philip," Blair enunciated carefully. "What happened?"

Father Callaghan smiled down at him tolerantly. "I think there will be some changes within the Clan. And those that cannot find peace within the caves, may find peace with the Legacy and vice versa."

Blair looked back to the hidden people. "It’s going to work, isn’t it?"

"I think so," Philip said sagely. "I think that the world would have been lessened if we had destroyed the hidden people. You have to remember, Blair, when push comes to shove, nobody is perfect but as long as we can recognise that, and strive to overcome wrongs, the world will become a better place."

"Amen," Jim’s strong voice finished the speech. He smiled as he joined them.

Epilogue

~mumble~ ~mumble~

‘Oh God. Can’t we just have one uninterrupted night’s sleep?’ Jim thought waspishly. He felt little bit worse for wear after a serious drinking session.

He grabbed his pillow and pulled it over his ears. Sentinel ears listened despite the padding. He had forgotten about Blair’s new talent for sleepwalking as events had overtaken them. He pulled the pillow away from his ears, not that it affected his hearing, and listened. The talking had ceased. Curious now he sat upright and peered down into the living area below. The new locks gleamed on the door and windows. However, no sleeping Guide was wandering around.

~mumble~ ~mumble~

Jim cocked his head to the side and concentrated.

Blair was sleeptalking but he wasn’t walking.

"Worm at the bottom... of ma garden....."

Jim smiled, his Guide was singing.

finis

Acknowledgements/references: 'The God of the Witches' by M.A. Murray and 'The Golden Bough' J.G. Frazer