Author's website: http://www.templeofthesentinels.com/

Dedicated to Debbie Tripp who won this story for Moonridge 2006 and waited so patiently and uncomplainingly throughout its long gestation. Many thanks.
Thanks also to Psychgirl, T Verano, Fluterbev and Skye, who watched over its creation and commented so helpfully, and Betagoddess for the super-fast final beta.

This story is a sequel to: http://Chasing Rainbows

This world was cold, crystalline, magical; a land of blue ice, white snow and the filtered light of a weak sun that danced in misted beams between sparkling, frosted trees.

He watched in fascination as each breath stilled in a cloud of glistening dust that danced briefly in the frigid warmth of a sunbeam before falling to the ground. He'd heard of the phenomenon; when the air is so cold that your breath freezes the minute it leaves your lungs, forming minute ice crystals - the Russians call it `angel dust' - but he'd never been anywhere cold enough to actually experience it. He wondered if Jim would be able to see those individual shards of ice or hear the faint tinkling as they fell to earth.

He wondered where his pool was - he missed the feral scents and wet warmth of the jungle. It had always been so easy to slip away there whenever the real world pressed on him. The wider world still seemed a strange and noisy place, full of confusion and pressure, and it was good, sometimes, to ease away to the rainforest world beyond his dreams.

Lately, whenever he slipped outside himself, he'd wind up here, in this fairytale land of ice and snow. He'd taken to meditating; trying to induce a return to the jungle, always awaking to this cold, alien, beautiful place; alone, but unafraid and strangely at peace. Why was he here? There had to be some reason for it, some lesson to learn, but so far, he'd seen nothing, heard nothing, met no one...

He heard the key turn in the lock, the loft door opening. Letting his soul slide back into his body with the gentle ease of long practice, he opened his eyes, coming back to himself sitting cross legged on the floor, his back to the couch, immersed in the scent of candle wax and incense and the sound of `Shamanic Journey Drumming' playing softly on the deck.

He leaned his head back, watching Jim hang his jacket and move to the fridge.

"Beer?" Jim asked.

"S... sure," Blair nodded, taking the proffered bottle with a smile. It was cold; made his fingers ache. He shifted it from hand to hand.

"Meditating?" Jim smiled, easing himself stiffly down to the couch.

"Y... y... yeah," Blair replied, easing himself up from the floor to sit beside his friend.

"You OK?" Jim asked. "Your stutter seems worse. You still doing your exercises?"

"Ss...sure," Blair answered, shrugging. "M' just t... tired, is all. D... dinner's all ready; l...lasagne. Just gotta put it in the o... oven." The stutter always returned for a little while when he'd been away from himself, but he couldn't let Jim know he was still doing that. "Y... you're back early."

"Yeah," Jim sighed, closing his eyes, leaning his head back against the back of the sofa. "Case finished sooner than we expected."

"Th... thought Johnstone had a good l...lawyer?"

"He did, just not good enough," Jim smiled, reaching over to tangle his hand in Blair's hair.

Blair closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of Jim's long fingers lightly rubbing at his scalp; the Sentinel grounding himself in his Guide after a long day apart.

Jim's hand stilled; he fixed his eyes on his partner, looking at him curiously. "You sure you're OK?" he asked.

Blair frowned, shrugged; "Sure," he said, afraid of what Jim might have sensed.

Jim trailed his fingers down the side of Blair's face and over his lips, letting them rest there, frowning, deep in thought - suddenly coming back to himself, meeting Blair's eyes for the briefest of moments. Just for an instant, Jim's thoughts met Blair's; mutual secrets spilled across the void, dancing between them like the angel dust of visions - it was a moment gone in a moment; scattered by the air displaced as Jim swept his hand away, leaving Blair's lips as cold as his dream world.

"How long before dinner?" Jim asked, standing and stretching. Blair heard his partner's back pop, scented the long-day's sweat that had dried on his shirt, saw the tiredness etched in the lines around his eyes; ever the stoic, hiding his pain.

"Not long," he said softly; heart swelling with tenderness for his wounded friend. "Go grab a shower, dinner'll be ready when you are."

"Yeah," Jim sighed, reaching out to slide his hand back into Blair's hair, looking down at his partner with evident fondness.

"You OK?" Blair asked when Jim showed no sign of moving.

Jim nodded, taking his hand back with obvious regret.

"I'm sorry I haven't been much help on this case..."

"I didn't want you on the case, Chief. You were too sick at the start; you're still recovering now..."

"I'm fine, Jim, I keep telling you..."

"We both know that's not true, Chief. Don't feel you have to be stronger than you are."

"We're supposed to be equal partners in this enterprise..."

"We are."

"We're not if you feel you have to keep protecting me. I'm your partner, Jim. I'm not going to stay in the truck, calling for backup, anymore. I am the backup."

Jim stared at Blair awhile with that same, strange, thoughtful expression, suddenly pulling it together, forcing himself to move away, heading for the shower.

"Dinner'll be about twenty minutes," Blair called as the bathroom door snicked shut, leaving him perplexed and wondering what it was that Jim was sensing. He could push it; keep asking till he got an answer, but was half-afraid to hear what that answer might be.

He moved to the kitchen, switching on the oven, turning to the fridge and taking out the salad he'd prepared, mixing up a dressing. He didn't like keeping secrets from Jim, he knew why Jim was concerned; scared he'd lose his way over there, or lose the will to return.

Blair threw the lasagne into the oven, set the timer and began to lay the table. Jim needed to believe that everything was alright now, that his partner was back to being his old, regular, hyper-student self - But he wasn't; Blair didn't think he'd ever really be the same again. He'd tried to explain, but Jim didn't understand, or didn't want to understand.

He scrubbed up under the kitchen tap, threw the salad into the bowl, poured on the dressing and tossed it with his hands. How could Jim comprehend how his body sometimes felt like ill fitting clothes; tight and snagging and painful, and how, sometimes... Sometimes he longed to slip it off and walk naked in the world. He couldn't find the words to explain how his physical self no longer really felt a part of him; like the most essential bits of himself were elsewhere...

He heard the bathroom door open. Jim emerged in a cloud of fragrant steam, hips wrapped in a soft, white towel, like he'd walked right off the columns at Karnak - the impressive sight softened by his damp hair, mussed and standing on end; the confused tiredness of his gaze. Blair vowed Jim was never working another case without him.

"Dinner's ready," he said softly, somehow sure that Jim's senses were acting up; not sure how loud his voice might seem to the stressed out Sentinel.

"I'll put some clothes on..."

"Stay comfortable..." Blair shrugged. "I can see you're hurting. I'll get your robe, you don't wanna get cold." - Slipping back into the bathroom to snag Jim's ratty old, butter-soft bath-robe from behind the door.

When he returned, Jim was sitting at the table, staring into space. Blair laid the robe across his shoulders, sitting opposite, dishing up the dinner. Jim hardly noticed the food, keeping his gaze on his partner.

"You OK?" Blair asked again.

Jim nodded, said nothing, still staring at Blair.

"You look beat," Blair said.

"I am." Jim turned his attention to his food and began shovelling it down, as if he'd only just noticed the plate before him, eating like he hadn't in days.

"You wanna catch an early night?" Blair said, as Jim finished his dinner.

Jim looked up, briefly startled, before settling his gaze back on his empty plate. He nodded; "That sounds good."

"You sure you're OK?" Blair tried again. "Wanna talk about it?"

"I'm fine," he snapped; the real Jim re-asserting himself. "Sorry," he sighed. "I'm just tired."

Blair nodded. "Go to bed, man. I'll clear up." He stood and began stacking the dishes.

Jim laid a soft hand on Blair's wrist, stilling the anxious movement. "You shouldn't be running around after me, Chief. You're the one who's sick."

"I'm not sick."

"You feel sick."

"I do?" Blair asked, sitting back down, curious to hear what Jim had sensed. "What is it? What do you feel?"

Jim looked away. "I don't know. I just..."

"Go on."

"It's nothing," Jim took his hand away, stood and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

"We'll talk about this in the morning, Jim," Blair said under his breath as Jim climbed the stairs, knowing the Sentinel would hear him.

Jim climbed into bed, listening to the sounds of Blair trying to be quiet downstairs as he washed dishes and ran a cloth around the kitchen; heard the soft creak of springs as he lay down in his room, the soft swoosh of paper on paper as his partner leaved through a book, senses acutely tuned to his friend.

It had started as soon as he'd walked through the door; having kept his frayed senses turned down all day in the courtroom, the sudden onslaught of Blair had almost overwhelmed him; a hyper-awareness that flared into overload when he'd laid a hand on Blair's head and felt the `missingness'; the microscopic shards of Blair that stayed absent whenever he'd been `away' - and Jim always knew; holding down the panic and the fury that threatened to boil out of him whenever he felt that Blair had been wandering. He held it together for his partner's sake, aware that Blair seemed to need to do this `thing'; terrified of what might happen every time he did.

Jim had held it inside for a long time, but it was getting harder, because Blair was doing it more and more often and Jim was scared; terrified of losing him again.

He rolled over in his bed, punching his pillow, trying to still his fear by locking his senses on his... friend? Partner? Buddy? Companion? - Blair was beyond all that. He really didn't have a word for what Blair was to him.

Jim stretched out his arm and laid his hand on the cold, far-side of his big bed; almost three months since Blair came back, and it was still hard to sleep without him. He sent his senses out in search of his partner; fixing on him as he drifted in and out of sleep, hearing the soft bump as the book slipped to the rug, as Blair's breaths slowed and deepened. Jim synchronised his breathing to the beating of Blair's heart, noting the even strength of the beats, the clear, easy breathing; the health of his Guide's body. Subliminally reassured, the Sentinel slipped into sleep.

Blair dreamed of yelling, angry voices, echoing footsteps running away, the scream of a dying man pulling him from sleep. He opened his eyes to find his room flooded with blue light; bright, like moonlight, but moving, shifting, like swimming underwater.

He could still hear the man, groaning out his life beyond his room as he stepped slowly, cautiously - knowing this couldn't be real; knowing that somehow, it was as he pushed open the French doors and walked into an alley; cold like his Other World, but there was nothing magical about this place; this was a filthy city back-street, wet with grimy snow and littered with garbage.

The dead man lay on the ground a few yards away, half-hidden by a dumpster, dark blood congealing thickly around him. Blair was terrified; torn - should he go to the man, knowing he was already beyond help, or run? His heart began to trip in panic as a dark figure peeled itself from the shadows and walked slowly towards him. He tried to run, but moving was like wading through molasses; the glacial air gripped his ankles like dead hands.

The figure held up a placating hand. "Shhh, hey," it whispered, trying to calm him. "Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you."

"Who are you?" Blair gasped, every instinct telling him to get away from the dark, faceless figure.

The shadow stopped, looked back and pointed at the body.

Blair stopped struggling. "That's you?"

The figure nodded.

"Who did it?"

He heard the voice inside his head; "I don't know, man, but I'm not the first he's killed."

"How do you know?" he asked out loud.

The dark shape gestured down the alley as another formless figure stepped out of the shadows to speak; "We're only the ones he's hit in this town. There've been others, in the past. You've gotta stop him, man."

"Why me?" Blair rasped. He was panting. Breathing seemed hard, the air thin and inaccessible.

The guy shrugged. "You're the only one who can see our world." He handed Blair a cellphone. It began ringing in his hand. "We need you, man," the dark shape seemed to say as he faded back into the shadows and Blair found himself standing, shivering, in the loft, the phone ringing in the kitchen behind him. He heard Jim pick up upstairs, talking softly as Blair wrapped his arms around himself, trying to still the violent tremors racking his body.

Jim ended the call; suddenly aware of the panicked racing of Blair's heart, he leapt out of bed, grabbing his robe before rushing downstairs, his skin goose-pimpling in the deep chill that had descended on the loft.

He found Blair standing in the middle of the room, trembling, his teeth chattering. Jim wrapped his arms around his friend, manoeuvring him towards the couch. "Hey, hey, come on, sit down before you fall down," he said, draping the afghan around Blair's shoulders.

"Hhhhhh... Hhhhhhh..." Blair tried, unable to get his tongue to cooperate with his brain.

Jim stroked the wild, bed-hair from Blair's eyes, checking on his partner with frightened eyes. "What is it buddy? What's going on?" he asked, as Blair shivered, still unable to talk.

Blair shook his head, trying to shake off the palsy that had gripped him. Jim pulled the afghan a little tighter, his pale eyes heavy with concern. "Will you be alright for a couple minutes while I make coffee and light the fire?" Jim asked, quietly.

Blair managed to jerk out a nod, curling in on himself, desperately trying to ward off the chills as he listened to Jim moving softly around the kitchen. He closed his eyes to find the shifting blue-light flooding his mind with stark terror - Snapped his eyes open, to find Jim, kneeling by the hearth, blowing on a taper; the warm scent of coffee and the comforting crackle of logs in the fire calming Blair's terrified heart.

Jim sat on the coffee table. "That was Henri on the phone," he said, watching Blair with concern.

"He... He... He... bbback n' Ca... Cas..."

"No, he called from Chicago."

Blair nodded. He wanted to know how Henri was doing in his new job in a new city, but knew he'd never get the words out, and, realising it was still dark outside, that it was unlikely to be a social call.

"There've been a couple of murders up there," Jim said. "He thinks it's Powell."

Blair didn't even try to answer, he lay back, stunned eyes locked on Jim's.

Jim smiled tightly. He squeezed Blair's thigh, letting his hand linger, comfortingly. "He's trying to get his boss to agree to take us on as consultants on the case." He heard Blair's heart pick up and begin to race. "But," he tightened his hand on Blair's leg. "If you don't want to, just..."

"Nnno, I... I... I do. I do!"

Jim nodded. "So far he's got us flights and a cheap hotel," he smiled. "He really wants us on the case, but we may not get paid..."

"S... screw the pay," Blair said, finding his voice at last. "We have to get that b... bastard, you know we do."

"I thought that's what you'd say," Jim smiled.

"He s... sss...shot you, tried to k... kill me... All those guys he murdered... When do we leave?"

"I told him, today.

"Kay."

"You sure you're up to it?" Jim laid cool fingers against Blair's forehead.

"I'm n... not sick."

Jim nodded. "So... what was going on down here, before Henri called?" Blair glanced away. Jim tilted his head, following Blair's eyes, forcing him to meet Jim's gaze

"Jim," he asked, hesitantly. "H...have you had any visions lately? You know? Black panthers. Blue jungle. Visions?"

Jim shook his head. Blair looked down at his hands.

"You?" Jim prompted.

Blair glanced up briefly, then back down at his fingers, gripping the blanket convulsively. "I had some kind of a dream - Vision," he corrected himself. "Like be... before, only... not."

"Not... how?"

"The place I go to... You know. When I... when..."

Jim's eyes had turned stone cold

"D... Don't get mad," Blair started.

"I'm not mad," Jim snapped.

"S...sure you are."

"I knew something was going on. I didn't wanna push it. I was hoping you'd tell me. I thought we agreed..."

"We did. I'm sorry, I was wrong."

"Yes you were." Jim's temper finally snapped. "It's dangerous! God dammit, you know how much I hate when you do that. What if you get lost again?"

"I won't!"

"You don't know that!"

They lapsed into silence, each unable to meet the other's eyes.

Blair laid a conciliatory hand on his partner's knee.

"I wish you'd stop." Jim said, softly, keeping his gaze on the fire. "I don't understand, after what happened last time, why you can't just stop."

Blair sighed. "I've tried to explain."

"I hate it," Jim sighed.

"I know. But Jim, I think... the visions, they've changed. The place I'm in now, it's different."

"Different, how?"

"Cold."

"You hate the cold."

"Yeah," Blair sighed. "Only I'm never cold when I'm there. It's beautiful. Peaceful..."

Like death - The thought leapt into Jim's head. His spine goose-bumped; he pulled his robe a little tighter around his body.

"...At least, that's how it's been the last few times, but tonight... tonight it changed again... I think, tonight, I had a vision of the murders... Jim?"

Jim was looking away, his face set in hard lines, eyes glacial. Blair laid his hands over Jim's.

"Jim. Jim. Look at me," he insisted as Jim's eyes came back to Blair's, naked with fear, brimming with desperation and despair.

"Ah Jim," Blair breathed softly. "Don't. Please..." He held on to Jim's hands, rocking them slightly, comfortingly, trying to find the words. "Jim, this shaman thing, it's... It's what I do. It's my role in our partnership..."

"Even if it gets you killed?"

"When you were a cop, you risked your life every time you went out on the street."

"It's not the same!"

"It's exactly the same! Equal partners, Jim."

Jim puffed out a sigh and hung his head.

"Equal partners; like we agreed at the start. But now, I'm working with you, side by side, you've lost your nerve."

"I'm..." Jim closed his eyes.

"Scared? That makes two of us. That thing that happened tonight, waking up somewhere else, talking to ghosts; that was terrifying, Jim but... Way of the Shaman, man."

"But you're not..." Jim finally met his eyes. "A Chopec Shaman went through years of training. He'd study and work with an experienced Shaman from childhood. The initiation, the ritual - that was just the graduation ceremony; but that's all you've had, Sandburg, the damn initiation! You haven't been through the training, you have no idea what you're doing here, do you? Do you?" he repeated, in the face of Blair's silence.

Blair looked away, bit his lip. Jim seized his hands.

"You're playing at this and it's not a game, Chief! You could get lost. I could lose you, and I can't... I just can't go through all that again." He squeezed Blair's hands until his partner met his eyes. "Promise me, you'll... God, I don't know; find some help, someone who knows how to do this stuff properly who can teach you the tricks of the trade, because I sure as hell don't know what's happening here and I don't think you do, either!"

Blair kept his head down as he murmured; "Where do I find a shaman-teacher in Cascade, Jim?"

"Don't do it again until we find someone who knows what they're doing." Jim insisted as Blair stayed silent, eyes on the rug.

"Jim," Blair let his eyes wander around the dark loft. "I'm not always in control. Sometimes it just happens."

"Fight it."

Blair spread his hands, rolled his eyes. "I can't. Sometimes, I just open my eyes and I'm just there, you know?"

Jim was shaking his head. "Then we don't go to Chicago."

"Jim...!"

Jim looked up, locking desperate eyes on Blair's. "I mean it, Chief. Until I know you're in control... You told me, this latest vision; it was of the murders, Henri's murders?"

Blair shrugged, weakly. "I think... Yeah. I'm pretty sure."

"So you're already locked into this case in some way?"

"Maybe the Powell connection?"

"Then it's too dangerous."

"Or it gives us an edge! If I can talk to the victims, just think..."

"No."

"Jim, be reasonable! I want to catch this monster, man. He tried to kill you..."

"But it's you he wants."

Blair sighed. "All the more reason to go after him, before he comes after me, like he said he would. Jim, listen. I do know what I'm doing here. I admit, I haven't been trained, I'm not stupid enough to think I know everything, but there is an instinct involved. I do have control, I'm always able to get back when I want, and this stuff - no matter how much you hate it, man, this is us, now; this is who we are, this is what we do. With your senses and my abilities... Powell's - just a guy," he shrugged. "What can he do against us? You and me, man, together, we're unstoppable."

"The Sentinel and the Shaman," Jim huffed. "Sound's like a comic-book, Chief.

Blair smiled and squeezed Jim's knee. "Hey. I always wanted to be a superhero."

Jim was quiet for a long time. "Come to bed," he sighed, eventually; his voice heavy with exhaustion. "Please." He rubbed at his eyes. "I sleep better when you're with me. I miss that. I need to know, when you decide to take off, wandering around the universe. It's hard, sometimes, to keep my senses pinned on you down here."

Blair felt something soften inside him; Jim had been monitoring him when he slept? Jim's eyes were pleading and terrified; Blair gave him a warm smile; tugging on Jim's hand, he stood and led him upstairs, sliding into Jim's bed, settling himself under the soft down of the comforter as Jim took his time removing his robe; draping it over the rail.

"Kinda like old times," Blair whispered, smiling softly as Jim slid between the sheets on the far side of the wide bed.

His words made Jim pause, turning to look at his friend with fond eyes. "Yeah," he sighed, shifting to his side so he could go on looking at Blair as he tugged on the cover, adjusting it around his shoulders.

Blair looked about to say something, then changed his mind. "'Night, Jim," he breathed, snuggling down.

"Night Chief," Jim replied, settling his senses on Blair; the sound of his breathing, the minute vibrations of his heartbeat, pulsing through the air as they slowed, cadence changing, deepening, as Blair slipped into sleep.

His senses safely anchored, Jim relaxed. Finally able to let go of his fear, he dived into the water and followed Blair into his dreams.

Jim's hand tightened over Blair's shoulder as they made their way through the over-heated terminal; maintaining contact, physical and mental. He could feel all Jim's senses focussed on him, keeping a tight hold, afraid that, if he didn't, Blair might `wander off'. Blair was constantly aware of Jim's fear; it disturbed the air around them, fizzing like a Roman Candle. Blair worked hard to stay calm, and project that calm back at his partner, but found that he was absorbing Jim's anger and dread instead; settling on his stomach like a blob of cold oatmeal.

Henri was waiting for them at the gate, holding up a hand in greeting, grinning. Blair waved, smiled back, taking a few seconds to remember last night, in Jim's bed; relaxing into the warmth of Jim's all-encompassing embrace; feeling protected and loved, sleeping the night through, undisturbed by dreams and visions, savouring the feeling - knowing it would be the last time he felt safe and happy till Powell was caught, or dead. Right at that moment, Jim looked down at him and smiled; a sweet smile of fond remembrance, as if he were sharing the memory.

They fixed their faces to greet Henri, Jim finally letting his hand slide from Blair's body; Blair felt the loss, sudden and terrifying, fighting down the panic that buzzed like bees in his belly. Henri smiled and laughed and slapped them both hard, on the back, then pulled Blair into a deep, soft hug; so happy to see them. Blair wanted to be glad to see Henri, too, but the sight of their old friend only served to remind him of why they were here, and his fear grew exponentially; like microbes on a microscope slide.

After they'd checked in to their hotel, Henri took them straight off to Hawkeye's Bar and Grill, a favourite with the local PD and students so guaranteed to appeal to both his friends.

Blair laid a grounding hand on the small of Jim's back as they walked through the door. The place was crowded and noisy and, even to Blair's average senses, smelled strongly of beer, but it had fried foods in abundance and sports on TV and Jim seemed to be relaxing a little in the friendly, familiar atmosphere; enough so that Blair could relax a little, too.

Henri ordered a burger and fries for himself and Jim, a turkey wrap for Blair and a pitcher of beer for them all, leaning in close to talk over the racket of the Friday-night crowd. They'd already caught up on the Cascade gossip on the drive from the airport, joking about Rafe's fling with the donut girl and Simon's frequent trips to Seattle to see Olwen, Blair's former nurse, but as they sat down to eat, the friendly banter flagged; it was time to talk business and there'd been another murder since Henri's late-night phone call.

"Third in as many weeks," Henri explained over a mouthful of fries. "Same M.O.; it's Powell; no doubt at all `bout that, but... There's no actual, hard evidence at all so far; no leads, and I'm still the new kid on the block here; s'only the fact I worked this case back in Cascade that's got anyone to listen to me; enough, anyway for me to convince the Chief to have you two come in on this." He shrugged. "They're covering your flights and three days at the Comfort Inn, no expenses, no fee. No one likes bringing outsiders in on their case, least of all private consultants."

Jim nodded. "I'm surprised you got them to take us on at all."

"I told them how close we came to getting the guy back in Cascade and..." Henri's smile slipped a little as he locked eyes with his former colleague. "I didn't tell them everything that happened, how it's personal with you two, but I figured, if it is our guy, that you'd want in on this. Thing is," Henri went on, looking down, playing with some last, uneaten fries on his plate. "The department's pretty hostile to the idea of yet more outsiders tramplin' their turf. We have to be diplomatic, how we go about this; we don't wanna look like the Cascade Contingent, goose-steppin' in on their scene, if you know what I mean? We already got a couple FBI guys nosin' around..."

"The feds are in on this already?" Jim asked, draining his glass.

"Arrived yesterday," Henri said. "'Seems they've been tailing our boy since he left Cascade; seems they figured it was Powell even `fore I did."

Henri mopped up the last of his fries and poured more beer for himself and Jim, Blair watching warily - it was pretty strong stuff; he could feel it spinning in his brain and he'd only drunk half of his. Jim saw Blair's look and smiled smugly as he chugged his second glass. Blair rolled his eyes like a disapproving spouse, pleased to see Jim grin. He felt his partner's tense aura shift into the happy-spectrum, just a fraction.

"We're under orders to give them full cooperation;" Henri went on. "You can imagine how that's going down, and now you guys arrive... I'm sure it would've gone better if I weren't the new boy in town, but I think the Chief believes me when I say I know who's doing this and that you two," he waved a finger between them; "You're special, you know? They don't know that yet, but I do and they will."

"Special?" Blair said, casting a quick glance at his partner. Jim's shutters were down, he was watching Henri; sensing him.

"What you two do together..." Henri sighed. "Don't ask me to explain, I don't have the words for what you do, but I know something exceptional when I see it; everyone in Major Crime saw it, too; `only reason I can see why Simon Banks tolerated Hairboy here," he grinned.

"Tell us about the murders, H," Jim said. "Who, where, why - What makes you so sure it's Lew Powell?"

Henri shook his head, sadly; took a swig of his beer. "'Vics were all gay, but only one was `out'; Gary Stevens, forty three year old office worker, killed two blocks from the Casablanca Bar; a popular gay hang-out, a pick-up place; he was our second murder. The first was Damian Morales, twenty eight years old; worked for a local landscaping company. Friends and family are all outraged at the suggestion he was gay, but he was also a regular at the Casablanca, the bartenders there knew him well. His body was found two blocks from where Stevens was dumped; both were killed elsewhere and their bodies left in city alleys. Our latest is Thomas Fitzgerald, nineteen, college student; not out and not gay, according to his mother and his friends, but when we talked to his roommate..." Henri shook his head sadly. "'Boy cried like a baby, said they'd been lovers for a year. They'd kept it under wraps, the roomie's family were real religious and both of them were on the football team and terrified of being labelled `queer'."

He paused to chug half a glass of beer, casting his eyes down on his softly drumming fingers. "They were all killed the same way, slowly and painfully; tied up and beaten; with fists, with a tire iron, kicked, jumped on, stabbed repeatedly. Stevens and Morales both died of their injuries during the attack. Fitzgerald..." Henri paused for a beat, looked up for the first time, compassion in his eyes, switching his attention between Jim and Blair. "Fitzgerald drowned in his own blood," he said, so quietly, Blair had to lean close to catch what he was saying. "He was... gelded; his killer `took everything off with a sharp knife; regular kitchen knife, according to forensics. Then he stuffed what he'd removed down the vic's throat." Henri downed the rest of his beer.

Blair leaned away, looked at the floor, breathing heavily, trying not to be sick. Was that the fate Powell had planned for him? Oh geez, those poor guys, murdered, hideously... He lifted grim eyes to Jim who looked as nauseous as Blair felt; Jim's eyes were closed, he was pinching the bridge of his nose; the atmosphere around him was disturbed and dark and sparking with rage and fear. Blair reached a hand out to him across the table.

"You OK, man?" Henri asked Jim as Blair made contact, laying his hand over Jim's with the gentlest touch. Jim looked up, slowly, as if coming out of a trance; saw Henri watching him with concern; shook his head.

"Headache still bothering you?" Blair asked quickly, squeezing Jim's hand, drawing Jim's eyes to his. There was a confused pause, then Jim seemed to collect his wits, and nodded. "Jim's not been feeling too good since the flight," Blair told Henri. "You wanna head back to the hotel, Jim, get some sleep?"

Jim cleared his throat. "Yeah," he breathed softly. "Yeah, I'm pretty tired."

"You look beat," Henri said, handing Blair his car keys. "You two go get in the car, I'll get the tab and see you outside. You sure you're OK, Jim?"

"I'll be fine, H," Jim protested. "It's just a little noisy in here. A couple aspirin, a good night's sleep and I'll be good to go."

Henri didn't look too sure. "I was planning on taking you guys over to the crime scene early tomorrow, before our friends the Feds and the reporters get there."

"How early is early...?" Blair asked.

"Seven thirty?" Jim interrupted. "Gives us time to get some breakfast."

"If that's OK with you guys? We can be at the scene before eight," Henri said.

Jim nodded. "Sounds good to me. He staggered a little as he stood, Blair jumping to his feet to place a hand around his waist. Jim wrapped his arm tightly across Blair's shoulders - anyone watching would think Jim had had a little too much to drink and was steadying himself against his friend, and so he was, but not because of the beer.

"OK man, let's get out of here," Blair said, for Jim's ears only as the two men pushed their unsteady way through the Friday-night crowd.

No words passed between them once they reached the hotel. Jim's tension was a palpable thing, fizzing, like static; drawing Blair in close. He couldn't bear Jim to be hurt, and Jim was hurting. Henri's lurid description of the murders had had a powerful effect on his partner.

He led Jim into their room and sat him down on the bed. Jim was quiet; acquiescent as a tired child. Kneeling before his exhausted partner, laying his hands on his tense shoulders, Blair asked; "What is it Jim? What's happening, man?"

"It's OK..." Jim started to say.

"No, it's not," Blair said, softly. "What's going on?"

Jim broke away from Blair's hold, looking away, breathing hard.

"Jim, don't do the strong silent thing, man; please, talk to me."

"We shouldn't have come," Jim said, quietly.

"We had to come; we have to see this through, remove the threat, Jim, protect the tribe."

"I can feel him, Chief."

"Feel him?" Blair frowned. "Who? Powell? How do you mean?"

Jim shook his head, helplessly. "I don't know," he half laughed. "I'm getting that... `thing' happening. It's like... Like... Alex."

Blair felt his own heart hammering hard in his chest. "Like another Sentinel? You think there's another Sentinel...?"

"No! I don't know, I..." Jim sighed; he took Blair's head in his hands. "The feelings are the same but I think it's just... I'm sensing a threat, a powerful threat." He bunched his hands in Blair's hair. "I'm afraid - in a way I can't explain. I just know you're in danger, but I don't know where the threat is, what it is, what to expect, how to fight..."

"God, Jim..." Blair ran a sweaty palm over his partner's hair. "I've never seen you like this. It's just Powell, man. He used to be a cop, you know him, he's just a guy, another perp; an evil, murdering perp and we can stop him, Jim. You know we can."

Jim was shaking his head. "It's different now! Everything's changed! You're seeing... stuff; doing that `shaman' thing. There's a whole new dimension to everything we do and... I wish you'd stop," he said with quiet desperation. "I just know, if you don't stop, it's going to end badly."

Blair sighed. "Ah Jim. This is who we are. This is our edge..."

"I'm afraid of losing you! This feeling, it's not just me losing my nerve, here, Chief, this is something new and strange. I don't know where it's coming from, but it's there, all the time; has been since we got on the plane and I'm terrified, and it's killing me!"

Blair's heart filled with tears for his partner; this was the real Jim Ellison, this was his friend, stripped raw. Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, it seemed to him now, he'd described this as a `fear-based response'; a coldly scientific phrase to describe what the deeply wounded man before him was experiencing. Recent events had cut a deep hole in Jim's soul and all of that long-buried fear was pouring out -

And... this was good; this was cathartic, lancing the poison so Jim could heal - but it was hurting and Blair didn't know what to do to make the pain stop. He took Jim's head in his hands and pulled him in close, holding him tight, comforting him, the way he'd comforted Blair so many times.

"I know," he whispered against Jim's ear. "It's hard, but it has to be done, Jim, you know it has to be done. We can't let this guy go on killing. We can't leave him out there, a threat to everyone, not least ourselves." He planted a kiss on the top of Jim's head, wondering, for a moment, at how close they'd become; how natural it felt to comfort Jim this way.

Then Blair undressed them both, urging Jim to his feet so he could strip him to his boxers. Drawing back the covers, he eased the exhausted man down between the sheets, smoothing a loving hand over his brow then across his eyes, urging them to close, then moved around the bed and climbed in on the other side. Jim turned to curl around him, holding him close, tight as he could, as if he could meld with him, trying to keep Blair safe, even in their dreams.

Blair crunched through the blue, glistening snow. The stars were out; a million diamonds scattered over indigo velvet; bright moonlight cast his shadow, long and purple, as he moved between the tall trees.

He heard movement behind him; a skittering; whispering; he turned, but there was nothing there. The sound returned, circling so it was behind him again.

"Who's there?" he asked, his voice echoing in the still, dead, silent air; his breath turned to ice - angel dust; twinkling, glittering shards of frost, dancing in the frigid air

A whispered scream cried; "Help me!"

"How? How can I help you?" Blair turned quickly - seeing nothing more than shadows that shimmered, forming and reforming on the edges of his vision. "Who are you?" he asked the icy stillness, turning again to find a young man standing over him, too close, in his space, trying to intimidate. Blair tried to see into his face, but there were only shadows...

"Who are you?" he gasped.

"You know who I was," the figure hissed.

"You're Tom Fitzgerald," Blair breathed, knowing, somehow, as the figure melted back into the shadows.

"Help me!" the voice demanded, close by his ear; he felt the hot breath against his face, spinning around - no one there.

"How? How can I help?" he yelled at the trees. "Tell me what you want me to do?"

"I want my life back!"

"Oh man," Blair sighed. "That's impossible, you know that."

"Not! Not impossible," the voice jeered. "He did it for you."

Blair's blood turned as icy as his dream-world.

"He brought you back, your Shaman."

Shaman...? Oh - my God! Blair gasped at the revelation.

"He brought you back. You're a shaman too, more powerful than him. If he could bring you back..."

"Oh Tom!" Blair sighed. "Jim... Jim and I, we share a link, man and I was so newly dead. You... Tom, you've been dead two days. You bled out and... He mutilated you. I can't. You're too far gone."

"I want my life back," the spirit whispered, sadly. "My life had just begun. I was in love!"

"I'm so sorry," Blair sighed. "I wish..."

"Wishing doesn't help me, man!"

"But you can help me, Tom. Help me find Lew Powell. Help me catch the man who killed you."

"How does that help me?"

"We have to find him before some other poor guy ends up like you."

"Why should I care?" the spirit spat, angrily.

"Oh man, you are never going to move on with an attitude like that. You're dooming yourselfto some heavy karma in your next life, you know? Please. Help us stop him!"

The figure retreated, back into the shadows; Blair could feel its fear. "What is it Tom? What do you feel...?"

But Tom was gone and there was a new presence in the forest. The cold seemed to deepen around Blair; the air became dank and wet; the pepper-lemon tang of his ice-world gave way to the rank smell of days-old garbage. Blair trembled with cold and fear, forcing himself to turn, finding himself back in the alley, sensing the ghosts skittering around him, hiding from the roar of the leopard waiting for him in the impenetrable shadows.

"Blair."

...Heart pounding; chest heaving; unable to breathe; trying to turn, wanting to run; frozen to the spot.

"Blair."

...Oh God, oh God...

"Blair!"

...A hand came out of the dark, gripping his arm - he screamed.

"Blair, wake up!"

Blair gasped awake, eyes open and staring. Jim was leaning over him, watching him; hand grasping his arm, tight and bruising. "Hey, hey, calm down," Jim soothed, easing his grip.

Blair lay, panting; eyes darting, seeing the kaleidoscope of city lights playing on the ceiling, the dim, distant sounds of the night filtering through the thick windows. Unable to see Jim clearly in the shifting lights of the dark room, he held out his hand till it met the body beside him. Jim's skin was silky, smooth and warm. Blair ran his hand along the hard muscles, feeling a nipple rise beneath his sweating palm. He snatched his hand away. Jim caught it and held it.

"Are you OK?" he asked. "Your heart was so loud, it woke me; sounded like it was going to beat its way out through your ribs."

"M... m... my h... heart w... woke you?" he breathed, remembering how Jim had told him that he liked to listen to Blair's heart, that it calmed him, helped him sleep.

"You're stuttering," Jim said, coldly.

"S... s... so... `orry. Jim, I don't a...ask for this. It j...just ha... `appens."

Jim's hand tightened on his. "What happened?" he asked, gently. "I can smell your fear. What happened to scare you like that?"

Blair swallowed, recalling the strange conversation, his terror in the alley. "I... I... I..." Reflexively, he lifted his free hand; it was the first time in months that he'd wanted to sign. He breathed deeply, clenched his hand in a fist, calming himself, trying to control the betraying stutter. "I s... spoke to To... To... Tom..."

"Tom Fitzgerald?" Jim asked, quietly.

Blair nodded, knowing Jim could see him. "He... he's mad; so a... angry. Wa... wanted me to... to... bring him b... back."

Jim rocked the hand he held. "Go on."

"H... he c... called you my Sh... shaman."

The rocking stilled. Blair could feel Jim's gaze on him. "What does that mean?"

"Y... you b... brought me back," Blair explained. "It's the act of... of a sh... `aman."

"You're the shaman," Jim said.

"B... both, Jim. B... both of us have the gift."

"No," Jim stated, letting go of Blair's hand to lay down beside him, wrapping arms and legs about Blair, pulling him close.

"J...Jim..."

"No," Jim said again, nosing Blair's hair aside to bury his face against his neck.

"We should t... talk about this."

"In the morning. Not now." Jim pressed his face deep into the hollow of Blair's collarbone.

"OK," Blair whispered, running a hand over Jim's hair, pulling him close. "But so... sometime, Jim. We have to t...talk about this sometime." He planted a soft kiss on Jim's head, listening to him breathe as Jim slipped into sleep, his own head too busy and his heart too full to find any rest for himself.

Though it was just after eight and barely even light when Jim, Blair and Henri Brown arrived in the dank little alley, there was already quite a crowd on both sides of the yellow tape. A couple of uniforms were moving gawkers along and holding back the journalists who were busy trying to catch the attention of the four plain-clothes cops at work in the alley. His fellow detectives greeted Henri with grim nods and half-smiles, casting curious, suspicious looks at Jim and Blair.

Blair was keeping close to his partner, maintaining contact, and that was alright by Jim. He was edgy this morning; his equilibrium upset by Blair's nocturnal revelations and Henri's descriptions of the vicious murders which he'd taken very much to heart. He felt responsible; he'd let Powell get away to take three more innocent lives. He was afraid of Powell; he'd brought Jim down once already, almost killed him, in fact, and because of that, the killer had got to Blair at a time when he was weak and vulnerable and utterly unable to defend himself.

As he'd listened to Henri's harrowing descriptions of how each victim had died, Jim found himself putting Blair at the scene; inside his head, it was Blair's blood that pooling around the pale, tortured corpse. And Blair had sensed it; seen his vulnerability; Jim was awed by the care and concern his partner had shown - in the bar; at the hotel - His sick partner; Jim never let himself forget that Blair was recovering from a months-long coma; Blair shouldn't have to shoulder the responsibility of watching out for him - Blair was the one in danger, the one who needed protecting. Blair should be relying on his strength and courage, not the other way around. Jim was humiliated by the memory of his behaviour last night, terrified that Blair had been dragged into another vision, ashamed of his inability to shake off this all-pervasive fear and protect his partner.

The slate skies and bitter cold added to the forbidding mood that had settled on him like a musty blanket. This cold was a palpable thing; it tightened the skin on his face and stung his sinuses with its promise of snow. The world seemed a dark and terrifying place; he was constantly fighting the urge to throw Blair over his shoulder and run.

"Excuse me, officer? You are a cop, right?"

A tall man; silver-haired, hook-nosed, pale blue eyes, distinguished-looking; more like a Senator than a journalist - was holding out his right hand; in his left, he held a Dictaphone. Jim took the proffered hand, too polite to refuse.

"Brian Mulroney," the man smiled, showing large, white teeth. Jim's skin tingled, hairs rising all over his body; filled with irrational mistrust of this man, he nodded once, pulled his hand free of the man's firm grip and made to move away.

"You're working this case, right?"

Jim hesitated, about to walk, but said; "You're wasting your time, I'm not a cop."

"Can you elaborate on that?" Mulroney called as he stalked away. Jim ignored him.

"Who was that?" Blair asked, glancing back, curiously. Jim shrugged, taking Blair by the arm, ushering him away from the journalists, towards the group of police working the scene; taking Blair amongst his brother-officers where he'd be safer. He felt anxious, jumpy; the atmosphere in the alley was doing a number on his senses. It was nothing he could put his finger on, just a feeling; Sandburg would probably call it a `vibe'; all Jim's instincts were telling him to flee, but he had a job to do. He took a breath, laid a hand on Blair's shoulder and cast his senses around the alley, seeking for clues that would prove the identity of the man they sought.

"Mulroney here again?" Henri asked, shucking his head at the silver-haired man, stepping into Jim's field of concentration.

"You know him?" Blair asked, pushing his hands deep into his pockets against the biting cold.

"Not really," Henri replied. "He's not one of the local boys; he's some freelance, writing a book about serial killers. He was here all day yesterday, taking notes, but Jim's the first person he's talked to."

"OK, that's kinda weird..." Blair said, craning around Jim so he could get another look at the journalist.

"And here come the Feds," Henri sighed as two anonymous men in identical dark coats pushed past the journalists, flashing badges at the uniforms, ducking under the tape. Jim watched them walk towards him, his unease growing ever more potent; squirming in his belly, coiling up his spine till he wanted to destroy something to take the pain away.

"Jim?" Blair's soft voice cut through the fog of his fear. "What is it, man?" Blair kept his voice quiet, no one else could hear - Henri had moved away, talking to the guys from the FBI. Jim took Blair by the arm, hurrying him away down the alley, towards the filthy dumpster where nineteen year-old freshman Tom Fitzgerald had bled out his life.

"Jim!" Blair squeaked in protest as he was shepherded away. "Jim!" He planted his feet, turned and grabbed both Jim's arms, pushing at him, forcing him to stop. "What is it? What's gotten into you?"

Jim didn't answer; couldn't answer. He stood, staring wildly `round the busy alley. He could feel the panic rising; jaw jumping, trying his damndest to keep it under control and wondering what on earth was going on with him? The prickling pins and needles running up and down his body were intense and unbearable, making him want to tear his own skin off - looking down, seeing Blair staring at him with big, worried eyes... He took a breath. Blair was here, right in front of him holding on to him. Blair was alive and relatively healthy. He was alright. Jim wanted to snatch him up, get him away; far away from here.

"You're doing it again!" Blair hissed. "What the Hell is wrong with you? Talk to me, dammit!"

"It's Powell," Jim managed to say; his voice harsh and cracking. "I can feel him, watching..."

"He's here?!" Blair's eyes darted away, checking every corner of the cold, wet alley, the scent of his fear rose to fill Jim's senses, adding to his own rising panic.

"No, no..." Jim quickly clarified, running soothing hands up and down Blair's arms. "No - I don't know... I don't think so." Blair stared up at him; fascinated, confused. "It's... residual." Jim raised his hands in desperation, chuffed a hopeless laugh. "I don't know! I don't know how to describe it... I feel like I'm being watched. God!"

Jim glanced around him, at a loss to explain the strange sensations, the confusing emotions that were sweeping through his body like a tidal wave. Henri was still locked in what looked to be a frustrating debate with the Feds - a dispute he seemed to be losing. A couple of uniforms were staring at him and Blair. Jim saw the naked hostility on their faces; saw their suspicion; knew they didn't want outsiders butting in. He didn't blame them, he'd've felt the same way, and..." He suddenly noticed - Focusing down the alley - "Come on," he said to Blair. "I think I found something."

Ducking to one knee, heedless of the cold, wet ground, Jim crouched beside a dumpster. Blair leaned into him from behind; his body warm against his back, his breath hot and soothing on his neck.

"What've you got, Jim?"

"A partial... Hey!" he called out to whoever was there, Henri looked up, but it was another detective who came over; a big, blonde bear of a man in a flapping beige overcoat which he tucked up against his legs before squatting down beside Jim, keeping the soft, expensive wool out of the filthy puddles.

Jim pointed a finger, careful not to touch. "A fragment of a thumb-print, here. He had blood on him, touched the metal, just there; probably wiped it down but he missed this."

"I don't see anything," the big man said, not dismissing Jim, just a statement of fact.

"Anyone here from forensics?" Jim called. A small, bald man hurried over; the big guy moved aside to make room for him. He peered at the spot Jim was indicating, took out a powered magnifier, checked out the edge of the dumpster and let out a long, low whistle. "You've got good eyes! Hey! Theroux!" he called to the third detective on the scene, a well-dressed black guy, currently casting baleful looks on the FBI who were no longer debating with Henri Brown; all eyes were now on Jim. "We got a partial here. Nice work... Ellison, is it?"

Jim nodded. "This is my partner, Blair Sandburg."

"Smithson; Forensics," the bald man grinned, nodding at them both. "Brown said you were good, but this is just... I'd shake, but... working," he wiggled his gloved fingers with a smile.

Jim smiled back; a tight smile; his head was killing him, it was affecting his vision; the alley seemed full of bright lights and loud noises. He gripped the bridge of his nose and bowed his head. Blair's hand tightened on his shoulder, then slipped to caress the back of his bare neck; his hand was warm, dry and comforting.

"Come on Jim, that's enough for today," Blair whispered. "You did good, man, it's time to let these cops do their thing."

Jim nodded, but didn't rise.

"Is he OK?" the black detective asked.

"Migraine," Blair said. "Come on, Jim," he gripped his partner tightly by his arm and eased him to his feet. "Let's get you back to the hotel. You don't need us anymore, right, H?"

Henri walked over, smiling, shaking his head in awe. "No man, you've done more in an hour than we've managed in three weeks. I don't know how you do it. You OK, Jim?" Henri asked, concern in his voice. "Man, you look like shit! You still got that headache? You need a doctor?"

"No, no. It's just a headache." Jim tried to smile, but couldn't keep from wincing against the bright light that seemed to strobe off the lowering clouds.

"Must be a humdinger," Henri said, softly, giving Jim's arm a quick squeeze. "You better get him back, Blair, I'll get one of our boys to give you a ride." He waved to of the uniforms who'd been glaring at them earlier, as Blair ran a soothing hand along Jim's arm. Jim felt the tension crackling around them. It settled in his head, buzzing and spiking painfully behind his eyes.

Then Henri was back - "You guys wanna catch dinner again tonight?" he asked. He sounded hopeful, even a little needy. He seemed lonely here in Chicago - but Jim knew he couldn't cope with a restaurant tonight; the way he felt right now, he doubted if he'd be able to keep a sandwich down. "Can we take a raincheck on that, H?" he asked. "Maybe tomorrow? We're buying, if you wanna pick the place, you being the local boy and all."

Henri laughed, then sighed. He wasn't happy here; Jim could hear it in the tone of his breathing; in the hitch of his voice. "They say Gino's has the best pizza in town."

"Sounds good to me," Blair said, watching Jim, his voice tinged with stress. "We gotta go, man."

"Yeah, you take care of yourself, both of you." He patted Blair's back.

"Let us know when you get the results," Blair said.

"You got it," Henri called, raising a farewell hand and Blair led Jim away with a hand in the small of his back, pushing past the journalists and onlookers, ignoring the yelled questions; throwing an angry glance at Mulroney, who'd shoved his Dictaphone under his partner's nose, asking him questions he ignored.

"Get that thing out of my face, man," Blair spat, angrily, keeping a firm hand on Jim's back as a couple of uniforms appeared to keep the Press away and help them into a police car.

"Hey, what's up? Is the detective sick?" Mulroney drawled, loudly, as he was held back by the helpful cop.

Jim fixed his gaze on the journalist from the back of the car. He saw the man grin as he eased himself to the back of the group of journalists pressing to reach the front, screaming questions at the busy cops. Jim watched Mulroney take out a cellphone. He tried to fix his hearing on what the man had to say but the street was too noisy, the clamour of voices, the scream of traffic...

Letting his head rock back against the cop-car's stained upholstery, he let himself fall into Blair's touch; his partner's hand resting warmly on his thigh, as the car pulled away from the curb, taking them back to the sanctuary of their hotel.

Jim was quiet and intense on the drive back to the hotel, staring out of the car window, rebuffing all attempts at conversation with a grunt. Blair left him to it, keeping a guiding hand on his partner's leg, letting him know he was there. Blair had shrugged and smiled an apology on behalf of his partner as he thanked the blunt-faced cop for the ride, half-running to keep contact with Jim as he marched across the lobby into the elevator, punching buttons and standing by the door; vibrating with un-dispersed energy as they rode to the third floor, pushing the doors apart, impatiently; striding kinetically down the corridor ahead of Blair.

As Blair closed the door behind them, wondering what was up and how he was going to get Jim to talk about it, Jim grabbed him. The move was so sudden - coming while he had his back turned; he yelped then gasped as Jim pulled at his shirts, wrenching them free of his belt, sliding icy hands against his bare stomach and chest, pinning him tightly against the hard body behind him.

"Jim...?" Blair's breath caught as Jim laid his head against Blair's neck, nuzzling his hair aside, pressing his cold face to the soft, warm skin beneath Blair's ear. Blair closed his eyes, panting softly as Jim inhaled, holding his breath - as if trying to absorb every molecule of Blair's essence before breathing out; the hot huff of moist breath sending shivers along Blair's every nerve.

Jim continued to scent him, running his face up and down Blair's neck, from his ear to his collarbone, pressing one restraining palm deep into the softness of his belly, rubbing small circles there, drawing slow, surprised sighs from Blair. He felt himself hardening; gasping, eyes wide open; shock pulling him out of the sensory haze Jim was weaving in his body. He tried to turn his head. "Jim," he whispered, confused. "What's going on, man?" - Crying out in surprise as Jim ran his tongue down his throat to the hollow at his collar bone, sucking up the soft flesh, tasting him, biting and bruising, then soothing the wounds with gentle licks, again and again.

Blair's eyes drifted closed; he moaned, arching into Jim's tight grasp. Jim tightened his hold, as if afraid that Blair's writhing was a prelude to escape. Pressing his face deeper into Blair's neck, he began to shake; Blair felt the wetness of tears against his neck.

"Jim. Oh Jim..." Blair sighed, laying his hands over the arms locked tight across his waist; rubbing his cheek against his partner's baby-soft hair; willing his heart and breathing to slow, he stilled in Jim's grasp; quiescent and yielding, letting whatever was going on with Jim play itself out in its own time. He laid a tiny, gentle kiss at Jim's temple, murmuring; "OK Jim, it's OK."

Jim released his hold a little, stroking Blair's arm; up and down, repeatedly; apologetically.

Blair turned in his embrace till he had his back to the door, facing Jim. He took his friend's face between his hands, gently caressing Jim's wet cheeks with his thumbs. Jim looked up, and Blair's heart flipped; Jim's eyes were dark, desperate, pleading, terrified. "Oh Jim," Blair breathed. "Jim... What is it? What's happening? Tell me, please."

Jim lifted his arms, laid his hands over Blair's ears, and leaned his forehead against Blair's, then, pressing his body forward, wrapped both arms about Blair, cradling his head, dragging him down to the ground, curling around him, holding him tight. Blair felt the cool dampness of Jim's powerful thighs against his hips, the hardness of Jim's muddy boots digging into his calves as Jim crushed him against his granite body as Blair held on, equally tight.

"He wants you," Jim croaked between rasping breaths.

"I know," Blair breathed, rubbing slow circles over Jim's spine.

"I dreamed... I don't remember details, just a feeling; it was cold. There were shadows. I could feel you, feel your fear. I was in your vision, wasn't I? The way you were in mine..."

"At the fountain."

Jim tightened his grip. "That's nuts, right?"

Blair shook his head, breathing hard against Jim's chest, leaving a wet spot on his shirt. "It's like we're..."

"Linked," they said, together, drawing a chuckle from Blair. Jim eased his crushing hold. He lifted Blair's head, scraping the damp curls back from his face and looked into his eyes, then leaned down to rub his cold, reddened, snow-damp face down Blair's; forehead to nose, thumbs stroking at Blair's frozen ears.

"You're cold," he sighed.

"I'm always cold," Blair said.

"Let's shower, get warm," Jim said, pulling away to stand, the break in contact tearing something in Blair's heart. Jim held out his hand, Blair took it - contact restored, Blair felt the breach inside him heal with a sigh.

Jim pulled him to his feet. "I'll order room service," he smiled, "I don't know about you, but I'm starved." Neither had eaten breakfast; too jumpy, still; their nerves too strained from the visions of the night.

Jim placed a hand on the small of Blair's back, walking him into the bathroom; sitting him down on the toilet lid while he went back into the room to make the call. When he got back, Blair was still sitting there; unable to raise the energy to move. Jim pulled at his coat, rousing him slightly. "Come on, Junior" he smiled, ruffling Blair's hair. "Time to get naked together."

Blair chuffed out a laugh, letting Jim help him out of his shirts and Henley; he felt drained; floppy, like a rag doll, sitting back down, resting a hand on Jim's shoulder as he kneeled to untie Blair's boots, pulling them off then tapping him to stand and undo his belt so Jim could strip his jeans and boxers from his cold-reddened legs.

Jim stared down at Blair's naked body, his whiskered face shadowed and haggard in the unforgiving fluorescent light. He looked so tired, so confused; Blair noticed the first grey hairs wondering; did he put them there? He lifted cold hands to Jim's face, rousing him from his semi-zone. "Jim, come on," he smiled. "Naked, remember? Get your pants off, man."

Blair kept a hold on Jim's arm, supporting him as he unzipped his wet, stained jeans; kneeling to peel pants and boxers down Jim's icy thighs, looking up to find himself face to face with his partner's cock and balls; pausing a second in surprise at how far this had gone; how far it was likely to go, before standing to get Jim unbuttoning his shirt and turning to start the shower.

Taking his time to carefully adjust the temperature and let the room warm with steam before turning back to Jim who was standing like a statue, stark naked; his body smooth and beautiful and breathtaking in its Grecian perfection, the vision spoiled only slightly by the pants pooled around his ankles. Blair smiled, held out a hand; Jim took it, then they stepped into the shower together.

It was a tight fit; the shower hung over a shallow bath - there was only room for one at a time under the spray. Blair pushed Jim under, hoping the hot, pounding water would ease Jim out of his strange, semi-zone. Blair stood behind him, goose-pimpling in the fine spray ricocheting off Jim's shoulders, handing him the soap, watching the big hands sweeping across the smooth chest and taut, rippled belly; scooping under his balls and running soapy palms along the heavy penis, half hard now, with water guttering off its pink tip. Then Jim lay his hands on Blair's shoulders, pulling him into the warm, healing spray; Blair closing his eyes as the water cascaded down over his own body, his back pressed close against Jim's torso, enjoying the feel of his partner's smooth skin, slick and slippery with soap and water

Giving in to the pleasure of Jim's nakedness against his own, Jim's cock, hard in the small of his back, Blair leaned his head back, letting the water run over his face and through his hair. The sweet, almond scent of shampoo filled his nose as Jim's hands gently rubbed at his head, moaning in pleasure, as Jim washed his hair, lifting the heavy, wet curls into the water as his sensitive fingers massaged his scalp. The wonderful sensations shot down to his groin, making his dick twitch and rise.

Jim's hands appeared on his chest and Blair watched, mesmerized as the big palms circled over and around his nipples, over his belly, then down to lift and massage his balls, groaning loudly as soapy, slippery, capable hands - Jim's hands - ran firmly over his hardening cock; once, twice... waiting for more, wanting more - sighing with loss as Jim gripped his arms and held him in the spray, rinsing him off, before he turned off the water, threw back the curtain and got out of the tub.

Blair stood, cold and shivering; the steamy room echoing with the sound of dripping water and his own harsh breathing, leaning a hand against the tiles to support his shaking body. Jim handed him a towel; their fingers touched and a thousand images flashed in his head - a flip-book montage of tender touches and loving glances. Their eyes met in wonder.

A knock at the door shattered the moment. Jim tied a towel around his waist, leaving to get the food as Blair wiped himself down, wrapping one towel around his body, twisting another in a turban around his dripping hair before padding barefoot into the bedroom to sit cross-legged beside Jim on the end of the bed.

They ate in exhausted, zombie-silence, watching a local news report on their murder; on the snow, falling hard and fast now, disrupting transport across the city; on the anger of residents over a long-closed road that was diverting heavy traffic through their formerly quiet neighbourhood.

Their meal finished, Jim clicked off the TV and laid the trays outside the room, diligently checking the locks on the door and windows before returning to wrap an arm around Blair, pulling him up, divesting him of his towels and letting his own drop to the floor; Jim's skin was warm and inviting; just asking to be smoothed and stroked.

Jim guided Blair to the bed, easing him down between the sheets, lying beside him, pulling him close. Blair leaned up to press his mouth against Jim's and they exchanged a kiss; warm and gentle, the lightest play of tongues, which Blair broke to rest his damp head under Jim's chin.

Curling into Jim's embrace, he calmed his heart and let his soul loose to wander through Jim's mind - like a warm summer breeze filled with roses and honeysuckle. He held out a hand to Jim in his dreams, leading him to a warm world of green fields and rainbow skies where they lay down together, side by side in the sweet scented grass; no words needed or exchanged.

Blair was running through snow; deep and drifting, it wrapped around his legs, slowing his progress; his breath came in short, stabbing pants; sweat rolled from his temples to freeze in his hair.

The trees grew thick here, their shadows pressing about him. He felt lost and afraid because Jim was gone! Jim had gone and he couldn't find him; he had to find him before... before, what?

He was scared, on the edge of panic. Half-dead with exhaustion, his tired legs finally gave way and he fell into the soft, powdered snow. There was no peace, no harmony in his cold place, now; the air was disturbed, crackling with static; it made his hair stand on end - or was that just the sudden terror in his heart from the roar of the leopard who was close now, so close, yet not close enough.

Blair's every breath was a wet and noisy gasp, his heart pounded; he forced his body back up, made his terrified feet move, but he was too slow, way too slow! Half-sobbing with fear and frustration, he knew he had to reach the leopard before he struck again. He didn't know what he was going to do, how he was going to stop him, he only knew he had to stop Powell; that everything depended on that.

Then he saw him; just a glimpse - the big cat; golden, malevolent; moving through the trees, stalking his prey and still so far away! Staggering drunkenly through the snow, Blair knew he could never get there in time as he watched the big cat stop, snarl, then pounce.

"NO!"

Blair screamed, falling to his knees in despair to see the huge animal crouched over his prey, lapping up the crimson blood, soaking into the pure, clean snow. The leopard saw him and roared in triumph, laughing at him; and he saw the leopard's victim; a sleek, black panther, his throat torn out, blue eyes staring blindly, the life behind them gone forever...

"Jim!!!"

He lurched back to himself, heart racing, but Jim was there to hold him, arms wrapped around him, so warm and alive.

Oh God; Jim...

"OK baby, OK," Jim cooed, stroking his hair, rocking him gently, kissing the top of his head as Blair trembled hard and uncontrollably. Jim drew him down, under the covers, laying Blair's head down on his chest.

"J...Ji...im. I s...s... `aw him... The l... leopard. Th...th... P'an'thr. He... he k... killed you. Jim, it's n.. not me he's a... after, it's you! Y...You're n... not s...safe."

"Neither of us ever were."

"J... Jim...?"

"Forewarned, forearmed, right?" Jim smiled, pulling his arm tight about Blair. "The Sentinel and his Shaman. You'll protect me."

Blair shook his head; too traumatised, too terrified to articulate what he was feeling; afraid to even close his eyes for fear of finding himself back in the cold place. How could Jim be so calm? Understanding, with a burst of irritation - of course Jim was calm now; now he was the one in danger; he could deal with that. Well that's great, Jim, but what about me? How do I deal with it?

Blair looked up at the man cradling him so closely; Jim looked as scared as Blair felt - not scared for himself, but for him, for Blair, the Shaman, the keeper of the visions - realizing; Jim was afraid because Jim loved him, just as he loved Jim. He eased out a long, surprised, wondering sigh, astonished at the simplicity of it.

Jim leaned into him till they were sharing breath. Warm lips met. Blair closed his eyes as Jim's tongue probed deep, then deeper, turning his insides to liquid and he was floating...

He placed a palm, flat against Jim's heart, grounding himself in the slow, steady beats as his head filled with flashes of colour and light, too fast to process, but which he somehow understood as the deep, dark red of fear, the clear verdant greens of hope and need and the cyclamen hues of desire...

Blair pulled on Jim's neck, deepening the kiss as his head rolled back against the pillow, gasping, flailing; blinded with pink-gold ecstasy as minds met, the need to join, urgent and pressing.

Skin against skin, sliding, slippery with sweat, sensations rising, unstoppable, like the incoming tide With Jim's panting breaths hot in his ear, Blair began a litany of soft, frantic cries, thinking he couldn't stand another moment of the pleasure-torture as, all too soon, the dam burst in a white storm of all the colours and everything changed. Bodies merged, minds converged. It was the big bang. It was rebirth. It was the start of all things.

They moved through their morning without words; the strangeness of the day before and the many hours of dreamless sleep that followed leaving them both a little spacey and working hard to get their minds into gear.

They passed a Starbucks on their way to the PD and stopped in for breakfast, sitting side by side at a table in the window, nursing their coffees; staring out at the sleety snow falling down on to the dirty, puddled sidewalk.

Blair opened his mind to Jim's, letting the soft gold and vanilla lights of his partner's languid mind invade his own; breathing in the warm honey scent of Jim's tired body. Without looking at him, keeping his eyes on the lamp-lit street, Jim took his hand and held it; Blair could hear the agitated colours colliding in Jim's head. "Are you OK?" Blair whispered.

Jim laid his head against the cold window. "I wish things could go back to how they were," he said.

"They can't."

Jim closed his eyes.

"Jim..."

"We can't keep doing this," Jim murmured. "It's going to end badly."

Blair gave Jim's hand a little squeeze. "We can't stop, it's who we are." He leaned his head against Jim's shoulder. "My vision..." he began, feeling the colours of Jim's thoughts twist and darken. "I thought I wasn't afraid to die anymore, but I was wrong, I am, and I'm scared for you."

"I know."

"We have to respect the visions, Jim."

His words hung in the air, writhing like threads of spider-silk trapped on a breeze; Blair could see their colours, dark and poisonous, wanting to bat them away like gnats. He held on to Jim's hand like a lifeline - That was how it felt; as if Jim was being pulled away on a stormy sea and Blair had to hold on with all he had to save him from being lost...

He gasped as Jim's barriers slammed suddenly down, breaking contact. "OK," he breathed, "that hurt. What did you do?"

Jim didn't answer. He shucked off Blair's hand and lifted his donut, taking half in a single bite, washing it down with a swig of coffee. "We're flying back tomorrow," he announced.

"We are?" Blair asked in quiet surprise.

"Our flight's booked, we're not getting paid; if we stay it's all on our own dollar."

"But we just got paid for the last job."

"So?" Jim turned to look at him for the first time; his eyes shuttered and cold.

"So we can afford to stay a while longer."

"Why would we do that?" Jim turned away. He popped the last of the donut into his mouth, chewing aggressively.

"Because I want to. Because we need to see this through."

"The guy threatened to kill you."

"He almost did kill you."

"All the more reason to leave."

Blair shook his head. "All the more reason to end this, here and now." He waited; Jim wouldn't look at him. "He'll come back for us..."

Jim gripped the paper cup so hard it bent, spilling coffee on to the ring-stained wooden table. Blair laid a hand on his wrist and reached out for him again across the link.

"You know I'm right," he said softly, aware of the waitress giving them curious glances. "It's not like you to run away. I know you don't like the 'vision thing', but you can't let your fear stop you from doing your job!" The flashing lights knifing from his partner's furious aura were making him nauseous, but he couldn't let go; he was back, fighting the angry sea for Jim's soul. He closed his eyes against the onslaught `til the blue light of his visions began to impinge on the raging, frightened colours of Jim's mind. The blue was so calming, so soothing so very, very blue. He wanted to step in, and float away...

Jerking back - sitting at a table. He was sitting at a table... Starbucks, he was in Starbucks. The shrill laughter of a group of girls at the counter cut a sharp, migraine pain through his skull. Jim was looking at him with frightened eyes.

"It's OK," Blair whispered at Sentinel level.

"You always say that," Jim hissed, angrily. "I felt that!"

Blair blinked in surprise.

"...And it's not OK! You have no idea what you're dealing with, here and I have a very bad feeling..."

"You always do," Blair snarked, irritated.

Jim's eyes wandered helplessly around the room, as if searching for someone or something. "You're the one saying we should trust our instincts," he whispered. "I'm telling you, something is badly off here. There's more to Powell than just another murderer. I've never felt anything like this before, Chief; not even with Alex."

"I wish that you'd trust me."

Jim's gaze snapped back to Blair. "What are you talking about? I do trust you, you know I do!"

"Do I? I can control it, Jim, can you?"

"Can I what?"

"You're feeling the same things, aren't you? That's why you're so upset. And don't lie to me, because I'll know."

Jim looked away, out of the window. Blair sighed. "You've got to get over it, Jim. It's not going to go away."

Jim closed his eyes. "I know," he sighed.

Blair laid his hand on Jim's knee. He could still smell the colours; feel the noise of Jim's confusion and fear. His headache inched up a notch; he gave Jim's knee a squeeze. "It's eight o' clock," he sighed, draining his coffee. Jim nodded, sadly. "We'd better go; we'll be late for the meeting."

Jim nodded again. Blair watched him put his dark emotions away and fix his cop face on. They got to their feet, moving as one to the door. Blair threw a shy smile at the staring waitress as they stepped out into the bitter wind and rain and the depressing half-light of the busy street.

Chilled to the bone, they were both glad to finally arrive at the Chicago Police building. Snow was falling fast to be quickly trampled into wet, gray mush on the busy street, falling thick and white on less hectic corners of the city. Blair blew on his frozen fingers as Jim pinned a `visitor' badge to his wet lapel before heading to the elevator and the seventh floor where Henri Brown worked in Homicide. Heads lifted as they walked together through the bullpen; glances and stares that were simply curious, for the most part, a few more openly hostile - but everyone seemed to know who they were.

Henri leapt to his feet to greet them, beaming, smiling, arms thrown wide for a hug. The `Cascade Contingent' - as Henri had dubbed them - welcomed each other with warmth and happiness, happy to see each other again. Henri seemed steeped in loneliness, it seemed to Jim. Blair clearly felt it too, casting H a soft, sympathetic smile when he was finally released from the crushing embrace.

"Morning," Henri grinned, ruffling Blair's damp hair affectionately; "Jim" - the two men exchanged a strong, slapping hug. "Glad you decided to stay and see it through. Sorry I couldn't get the PD to pay you guys, especially when you found the only piece of solid evidence linking these crimes to Powell. It's just," he lowered his voice. "Like I said, no one much likes having outsiders crash their party, you know what I mean? But since the print was Powell's, the FBI wanna meet with you guys," Henri switched his attention between Jim and Blair as he spoke, making it clear he was including Blair as an equal partner.

"Any idea why?" Jim asked.

Henri shrugged. "Not a clue; I'm not invited," he smiled. "I guess, they wanna talk, see what you might have that could help, you being so close to the case and all... And here they are; right on time," Henri murmured with a wry smile as the two agents swept into the bullpen - Jim felt a bristle of antipathy sweep through the room like brush-fire. "And this is where I have to leave you," Henri said, backing away and heading back to his desk.

The younger of the two men strode up forcefully, holding out his hand with a broad smile. He was slender; dark-haired with hawkish black eyes and a thin, smile-creased face. "David Palmer," he beamed, taking Jim's hand in a firm, dry shake. "You must be Jim Ellison, and... Blair Sandburg," he shook Blair's hand. "That was great work you did yesterday, Detective. A pity I didn't get to meet with you then, I heard you were sick. I hope you're better now?"

"I'm fine," Jim said shortly, smiling tightly. "But it's not Detective anymore."

"Oh, isn't `Detective' one of those honoraries that you get to keep for life, like an ex-President?" he laughed.

Tentacles of unease wrapped themselves around Jim's spine. His skin prickled and his heart-rate soared. He hated this man, Palmer - didn't know why, he just did. He felt Blair's hand against the small of his back; focussed on it, used it to will his blood pressure down.

"Just call me Blair," his partner said as the FBI man switched his attention his way. Palmer's grin broadened; he slapped his hand down on Blair's shoulder and squeezed it - Jim wanted to slam a fist into his face. The hand on his back began drawing soothing circles - Blair could sense his mood, just as he could sense Blair's, currently confused. He forced his feelings about Palmer down and focussed on the other half of the partnership; a heavy-set man with thinning blonde hair and wind-chapped skin who hung back, hands in his pockets, frowning at them.

"This is my partner, Dean Macanally," Palmer said, without enthusiasm. Macanally gave them a terse nod; he didn't offer his hand. "He's the investigative half of our unholy marriage. I'm actually a profiler; this is the first time we've worked together."

Jim nodded in understanding, warming towards the hefty, blonde detective saddled with the egotistical younger man. He gave him a nod and a knowing smile; got a roll of the eyes and an almost-smile in return.

"So, shall we get this show on the road?" Palmer lay a palm on Blair's back, herding him over to the Captain's specially-vacated office - Jim wanted to rip Palmer's arm off and wondered why. Blair cast Jim a wary glance over his shoulder as he was led away. Jim followed from the rear, keeping his senses firmly fixed on the FBI profiler.

"We always knew it was Powell." Palmer said, absently flipping through the file in front of him. "But we had no proof, right Dean?"

The big, blonde man slid a sheet of paper over to Jim. Jim picked it up; "Your profile of the killer?"

Palmer nodded. He sat back in his seat and steepled his fingers. Smugness rolled off him.

"Actually, it's not true to say we knew it was Powell;" Macanally spoke for the first time. "We knew it was a gay serial killer - `profile said it had to be." He gave his partner a deferential nod. "And since Powell was the only gay serial killer on our books and having tracked him heading south out of Canada, the sudden appearance of just such a killer in Chicago meant there was a very good probability - but we had no real evidence, till you found that print. Very nice work, Detective. Very nice work indeed." He smiled approvingly. Blair slapped a proud hand on Jim's back.

"But it doesn't really help us catch him. Does it, knowing he is who we thought he was?" Blair asked, taking the profile from Jim, casting a quick glance at it. "I mean, I'm sorry," he glanced up at Jim, as if asking for permission to go on. "I'm not a cop, I don't..."

"No, go on," Palmer said.

"Well, he's probably changed his appearance, quite radically, is my guess. I mean, unless you know otherwise?" he asked the Feds. They didn't respond, so he went on. "Unless you have a recent picture, which, I'm guessing you don't since he got across the border without any problems and then went to ground here in Chicago. And he's been pretty good at hiding his tracks and keeping forensic evidence at the scene to almost zero. I mean, we don't even know where he's killing them, yet, do we? None of the victims was killed at the scene...?"

"Well you got us bang to rights," Palmer drawled, smiling strangely at Blair, watching him as if he could see right through him. Jim wanted to put himself between his partner and the oddly reptilian profiler.

Macanally sighed. "But at least we have something now. It's just another string to our bow. It means Dave here..." Palmer bristled; Jim figured he didn't like being called `Dave' - "can fine-tune his profile. We can maybe get some clues as to where, when, who he's most likely to attack next."

Blair nodded, keeping his head down, pretending to read, embarrassed, probably, at having gainsaid the FBI. Jim slid a warm hand over his partner's damp knee, giving it a friendly squeeze. He caught Blair's smile under the curtain of hair, felt the wave of affection rushing his way. He smiled, noticed the feds watching them with odd expressions, wiped the smile off.

"Any idea who, when, where, that's likely to be?" Jim asked.

Macanally looked at his partner. Palmer shrugged. "I'm working on that," he said. "Each kill has superseded the last in viciousness and imagination. That's textbook. Homosexuals only make up a tiny percentage of serial killers, just over five percent, in fact, but they're far more prone to go overboard in the level of violence they use. They like to torture, dismember, mutilate, often quite horrifically." He slid the crime-scene picture of Tom Fitzgerald across the table to Jim and Blair. Jim snatched it up, quickly; Blair only caught a glimpse but that was enough. He looked away, turned deathly pale. Jim tightened his grip on his knee.

"I'm OK" - he said, the near-silent whisper pitched for Jim's ears only. Jim stroked his hand along Blair's inner thigh, towards his groin; gave a little supportive squeeze. As if he'd read his thoughts he heard Blair reply;' "Cool it Jim, I'm not going to faint or barf. I'm a big boy, gotta get used to this stuff so stop angsting, OK?"

Jim squeezed his thigh a little harder, heard Blair's mischievous mutter. "And you've gotta move your hand, man, unless you want to give me a hard-on here in front of these feds."

Jim snatched his hand away. Both Feds looked up. Jim pretended to catch the picture he'd `dropped' to cover his sudden movement. He smiled, apologetically.

"Gay men are also very prolific," Palmer went on with the air of a man who loves his own voice. "Once they start killing, they'll go on and on and on, until they're stopped. Statistically, they're the most sadistic of killers; they get a sexual high from the kill. They almost always attack other gay men; sublimating their own self-hatred, taking out their own homophobia on their victims. When these feelings get combined with the psychopathology of a serial killer, the results, as we've seen, can be peculiarly appalling. Can I ask, are you gay, Detective? Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair looked up in surprise. Jim fixed Palmer with a gimlet glare.

Palmer smiled, ingratiatingly. "You were both attacked. It's a valid question."

"Powell assumed we were gay," Jim said tightly. "He'd seen us around the PD, knew we were roommates..."

"Roommates..." Palmer nodded with a cynical smile, doodling on his notepad.

"That's right," Jim said, sharply, keeping his eyes fixed on the profiler, who never raised his own to Jim's; just kept on scribbling.

"But you still haven't answered my question, Detective." Palmer lifted his head and looked into Jim's eyes, a sardonic smile on his face.

None of your damn business you judgmental piece of shit, Jim thought. "No," he said. "I'm not gay; neither is Blair."

Palmer switched his attention to Blair. Once again, Jim felt the irrational urge to leap across the table, beat the man unconscious then make off with his vulnerable partner. Blair had a trapped, frightened look; He met Palmer's eyes for a second, then looked back down at the profile he was convulsively smoothing with his hands. Palmer smiled; knowingly, smugly, as he switched his gaze from Blair to Jim and back again. Jim wanted to kill him.

"The reason I ask," Powell went on, smoothly; "is that, in most gay serial murders, there's a style and pattern to the killings. It's all about domination, control, humiliation and the most sadistic sexual violence. Murders are always carried out without the least sense of guilt or shame; there is no remorse. So far, so good, it all fits the profile; but victims are, in all recorded cases, chosen at random. That wouldn't fit your case, now would it?" Powell waved a finger between Jim and Blair.

"His victim's aren't random," Blair said, quietly, sadly. "He chooses them carefully; singles them out for execution. They have to deserve it."

Palmer raised one eyebrow. He raised his hands, questioningly.

Blair's eyes took on a faraway look; the same look he got when he was off on one of his sideways trips to the `Other Side'. The sight made Jim shiver. "'Faggots," Blair said, his voice flat and atonal. "I hate you all. You go against nature and God hates you for it.' That's what he said to us, at the loft, right before he shot Jim. He thinks he's God's avenging angel and he's singling out his victims for... whatever reason, I don't know how he chooses them, but they're not random." Blair's eyes returned to the world as he fixed them back on Palmer. "'This is not over;' that's what he said when he ran, leaving me alive, thinking he'd already killed Jim. He's coming back for us. We've been selected, just like every other poor soul he's killed; I don't know what criteria he's using to choose his victims, but I'd like to have a chance to find out. Do you think we could have a copy of the file?"

"That file's classified," Macanally snapped. He seemed uncomfortable; with their alleged homosexuality? Or maybe that weird little display Blair just put on for everyone; Jim wasn't sure, but he could smell the man's sudden antipathy.

"Oh come on!" Jim snapped. "Are we puling rank here? We're not on the payroll, we're doing this in our own time, on our own dollar because we want to catch this freak and you can't let us see the damn file?"

"What I don't understand is why you're here at all!" Macanally retorted. "You're too damn close; you're not cops, why'd you come up here? You must know you're targets...!"

"Hey, hey, hey," Palmer sat up, leaned across the table, hands raised placatingly. "They're here because Detective Brown asked for them to be brought in on the case and the Chicago PD agreed. Detective Ellison's already furthered the case finding that print, so let's not turn this into some jurisdictional pissing contest, alright?"

Macanally looked like he was going to explode. Jim wondered what had rattled his cage all of a sudden; wondered what was being whispered behind the scenes about himself and Blair and their position on this case.

"My esteemed partner does raise an important point here, though, gentlemen." Palmer pretended to look through the file in his hands. "You were right, Mr. Sandburg, when you said we don't know a whole lot about Powell, that we lost him in Canada. We did know he was heading south; where we went wrong is, we didn't expect him to start killing in Chicago; we expected he'd return to Cascade and go after you and your... `partner', here. You are targets; the only ones, of all Powell's victims, to survive his attacks. He will come after you, especially since he surely knows, now, that you're in Chicago. We want to put you in a safe house..."

"No," Jim said, flatly.

"Just for a little while..."

"We need to be free to move around, to monitor the case. We can't do that if you lock us away in a safe house."

"You're important to this case; we know you're targets. We can't protect you in some cheap, downtown hotel..."

"Sure you can. Put a cop in the lobby and one at our door."

Palmer looked furious - Jim knew there was more to this than just simple protection for him and Blair. He had no intention of letting this man lure them into a so-called safe-house; he knew only too well just how `safe' those houses could be. At least in the hotel, there was only one door, one window; he could protect Blair there. He didn't trust Palmer; he didn't know why, but Blair had told him to trust his instincts and those instincts were screaming at him to get as far away from this Fed as he could.

"I strongly advise..." Palmer began.

"No," Jim insisted.

Jim felt Blair's hand on his arm, felt the soft blue of soothing emotions fill his head. He let go of the world for a moment and let Blair wander through his mind; gentle and soothing, like swimming in a warm, clear sea. He could feel questions tugging at the edges of the calming lights, but he had no answers right now, he just knew if they went to the safe house, they'd both be in a whole lot of trouble.

"Just... let us think about it; talk it over," Blair said, calmly. "I'm sure we can come up with something, some compromise...?"

Palmer nodded. He picked up the file and moved to the door. "I'll get copies of as much of this" - he brandished the file - "as I can let you see." He laid a hand on the doorknob, then turned and paused, as if something had just occurred to him. Jim was instantly reminded of Columbo.

"Just one thing, Mr. Sandburg... Blair," he smiled; that insincere, painted-on snake-smile. "How'd you remember what Powell said to you that day, when he attacked you? I thought you were in some sort of waking coma, unresponsive; couldn't remember anything that happened at that time?"

Blair smiled. "It's coming back, little by little. I'm... using therapy. It helps."

Palmer nodded, still smiling; unconvinced, then slammed out of the room. Macanally put his feet up on the next chair and started drumming his fingers on the table. An uncomfortable atmosphere descended.

"Is there somewhere we can get coffee?" Blair asked him. Macanally stopped drumming, shrugged, jerked a finger over his shoulder. "There's a coffee machine next door, it's the Captain's, but he told us to make ourselves at home so knock yourselves out." Jim and Blair rose from their chairs. "But don't go wandering off anywhere; stay where I can see you, OK? Orders," he shrugged, a little apologetically in the face of Jim's hard stare.

Blair loaded the coffee machine in the Captain's comfortable office while Jim glared through the adjoining glass-panelled door at Agent Macanally, who was scribbling on a pad, pretending not to notice Jim's scrutiny.

Blair sniffed at the coffee in the canister and winced. "Man what is this stuff?" He sniffed again. "Smells like some battery acid derivative... something..." he shuddered dramatically as he closed the pot and pressed the button to start the machine, turning to find Jim holding Palmer's profile in his right hand; staring at the photo of Tom Fitzgerald in his left. "You know, Jim - this is some pretty heavy stuff we've got going on here," he said softly. Jim kept his eyes on the horrific image from the crime scene.

Blair tried again. "Since both of us are linking to Powell... Through the visions... Hey. Earth to Jim. Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, I'm listening to you," Jim said, snapping his eyes up to meet Blair's.

"So, we're linking..."

"I heard you," Jim snapped.

"So...?"

"So what? Why'd you want the file, Sandburg?"

Blair blinked in surprise. "We're supposed to be working this case..."

"Wrong. We're not `working' any case; we're not cops, remember? And even if I were still a cop, this isn't Cascade; I'm out of my jurisdiction here, so tell me what I'm doing here, looking at pictures of a crime scene, two thousand miles from home?"

Blair gaped at him.

"You're planning to use all this..." Jim waved the hideous picture at Blair. "To spark more visions, aren't you? That's the plan, isn't it?" He tossed the photo away from him, on to the coffee table

Blair sat down beside Jim. "It's how we're going to catch him," he said, quietly. Jim chuffed what was clearly meant as a sarcastic laugh; to Blair's ears it sounded strangled and scared.

"So, old-fashioned detective work's not good enough for the Shaman of the Great City? But you're out of your jurisdiction too, aren't you, Great Shaman?"

Blair sighed. "Maybe simple police work will catch him, Jim, but it hasn't yet, has it? `Probably won't till after he's killed again; till he's come after us."

The machine hissed. A cloud of steam shot into the air; a stream of coffee dribbled into the jug and the bitter-burned scent filled the room. Blair stood to pour them both a mug; spooning in sugar for Jim, creamer for himself, keeping his back to his partner, he said; "He's an ex-cop Jim, he knows how it works. He knows the cop mind; he's always going to be at least one step ahead, but we..." he turned to pass a mug to Jim. "We have an edge, man. We can see into his mind."

Jim shook his head, saying nothing as he sipped at the steaming mug in his hand. Blair moved to sit beside Jim on the couch, but Jim stood; moved away to the window and leaned against the wall there, looking out at the lake beyond the city; the sky was the same colour as the half-frozen water, all was snowy and grey; no visible line between earth and sky.

Blair sighed, and reached to the table for his mug; the picture lay there, face-up; Tom Fitzgerald's naked body, mutilated and broken and red with blood, his bloodshot eyes wide-open, frozen in eternal, staring agony; the remains of his own genitals - unrecognisable as such, just a mangled mess of bloody rags - stuffed into his screaming mouth like a crude gag. Oh shit. This is what Powell intended for me, he thought. This is what Jim was meant to find when he came home to the loft. A wave of dark nausea washed over him. Trying to breathe, he felt the world dim; felt the cold breath of snow on his face as the soft blue light wrapped him like a blanket; so soothing and inviting.

"Blair. Come back." - The command; so soft; barely voiced; Jim's voice, in his head. Jim's quiet, beautiful voice...

"Blair. Please."

Jim was holding his hand; his hand was warm and soft with small, hard calluses on the edges of his fingers. Blair opened his eyes to the scent of coffee and Jim's terror. He gave his hand a gentle squeeze, so Jim would know he was home.

"Are you OK?" Jim asked, trying to sound calm.

Blair gave a little nod, afraid to speak, afraid he'd stutter. He still felt faint; he closed his eyes, afraid of taking a header into the table.

"I don't want to lose you." Jim's weary voice seemed full of unshed tears. "But if you keep doing this, I will."

Jim was so certain he'd get lost again; what if he was right? Should he be afraid? He didn't feel scared at all; he felt very, very calm. But he could feel Jim's fear; it was always there, as familiar to him now as the scent of coffee and the feel of flannel. Had he always felt it? Was the link new, or was he only just recognising it for what it was? Jim sat close beside him; their bodies touching wherever they could. He clung to Blair's hand like a shipwrecked man clings to a shard of wood on the open sea.

"I don't mean to hurt you," Jim went on. "I know... It seems to be important to you to go back there, but it's killing me... I can't do this anymore, Chief!"

Blair laid a trembling hand on Jim's knee, thinking his way inside, trying to soothe with aquamarine, turquoise and gold...

"Stop that!" Jim snatched at Blair's hand, shaking him out of the dream state he was slipping back into. "You have to stop!" Grabbing Blair's chin, forcing his eyes to meet his own, he asked; "What did you mean when you told Palmer you were remembering things; you haven't said anything to me about that. Do you remember?"

Blair broke away and looked down at the floor. "I... th...think I r... remember sometimes. It comes, i... in p...p... pieces. I don't r...really know wh'at's r...real anymore."

It was true, lines were blurring; it was getting harder to distinguish between reality and visions, memories and dreams. He saw stuff, sometimes - fleeting images, snapshots; were they memories? He wasn't sure. Sometimes everything in his head seemed more like a half-remembered movie. It was all mixed up; the things he thought he'd been experiencing - in his visions, in the coma - it was increasingly difficult for him to separate what was real and what wasn't. Or was it all real? He didn't know. Sometimes he hardly knew who he was anymore...

Oh God - Jim was right, he had no idea what he was doing here. Jim was right to be afraid. He had to stop, at least, until he had some control - the problem being that he wasn't sure he could stop; it wasn't him behind the wheel; he really wasn't sure who was.

Blair glanced at Jim, sitting beside him; he still had hold of Blair's hand, nursing it between his knees, staring at the floor. Jim's horror was a palpable thing; Blair wished that he could stop himself from stepping through that door - a door that seemed so open to him, so easy to pass through - but he couldn't, any more than he could stop breathing.

"Wh...what's going on with Palmer?" he asked, squeezing Jim's hand. Its warmth seemed to fill him, taking the Other World chill from his bones. "I could feel it, feel what you were feeling; you don't like him."

Jim shook his head and stared at their joined hands. Blair waited.

"There's something going on, Chief. He's got my every instinct on alert. Don't ask me to explain because I can't."

"It's OK Jim. If you say there's something wrong... I trust your instincts. I trust you."

Jim squeezed his partner's hand. "Yeah," he sighed. "I know."

"Palmer's pretty convinced Powell's coming after us."

Jim nodded. "He is."

"But no safe house?"

Jim shook his head. "We'll safer in the hotel."

Blair nodded, decisively. "You can protect us better there."

Jim nodded.

Blair stood in the bathroom door, arms crossed, defensive and tight across his body as he watched his partner shower. There was anger in Jim's movements, the way he soaped his body, the way he ran his hands across his scalp. Blair stepped away, back to the bed; back to his books on shamanism. He'd brought them with him as part of his pledge to Jim, that he wouldn't journey deliberately without first trying to understand a little more of what he was doing; suddenly, it seemed imperative that he study, that he understand exactly what was happening when he dream-walked.

"It's not enough," Jim snapped as he walked from the bathroom, one towel tied around his hips, rubbing at his hair with another.

Blair sighed. "I'm just trying to understand..."

"It's not something you can learn from books, Chief." Jim walked to the door, rattled the handle, checking the lock. He glanced through the spy-hole, making sure the uniform was still out there and alert.

"Don't you think I know that?" Blair knew he sounded defensive, even a little whiny. "I swear I'm not initiating this; it just keeps happening."

"Like it `just happened' this morning at the PD?" Jim moved to the window, reaching under the drapes to check they were locked, too.

"I'm trying to learn, so I can control it better; so I'm better equipped to deal!"

"No, Sandburg;" Jim stepped towards him, anger in his face, one finger pointing accusingly; "That's not what it's about. You're planning on going in again, you admitted as much to me this morning. With everything that's happening here, you're planning to go back?"

"Can you think of a better way to catch this guy?" Blair sighed, exhaustion in his voice.

Jim lunged forward, grabbing Blair by the wrists, bending down to look his partner in his startled eyes. "What is it? Do you want to die, is that it? `Cause I've read these books too." He let go of Blair to snatch one up; flipping to a pre-marked page, its corner folded down, he ran his eyes over the print and read;

"How awe-inspiring is the ecstasy of being able to pass through death and return. I felt so calm and at peace; I felt the constant lure of the light; a constant desire to return.'"

Jim tossed the book down on the bed; Blair watched it bounce off the mattress as Jim rifled through the pile, tossing books aside, scattering his notes and papers. "Where's that one," Jim asked. "The one with the teenage kid who tried to hang himself because he `wanted to go back'?" Blair said nothing, watching as Jim hurled his books around, grabbing the one he was seeking - a lurid-looking paperback with a purple and gold cover, ripping through the pages as he sought for the remembered passage - he'd marked it; two fearsome black asterisks bracketed the words that had filled his world with terror.

"Of course, the Near-Death Experience, in itself does not grant anyone status as a Shaman," he read, throwing the words at Blair like weapons. "While the NDEer has entered the same realm as the Shaman, he or she did so only once, and does not always have the ability to repeat the experience. In contrast, the Shaman becomes a `master of ecstasy', one who is adept at consciously moving between the planes of existence at will and for a specific purpose..." Jim broke off while he searched across the page and, finding what he was looking for, held up a hand for silence;

"In Shamanic Cultures," he read, glaring at Blair, "Following initial contact with the Other World, the would-be Shaman would usually become an apprentice to a master to be slowly taught all of the techniques that comprise the art of shamanism. Only then does the individual begin to practice his or her craft within the community."

Blair nodded, "Jim, I know; I know all this, but what you have to understand..."

Jim held up his hand and read out loud again; "'Many NDEers report problems in readjusting to physical existence following their near-death crisis, not least of which is an intense desire to return to the state they found themselves in during their near death experience. By learning the art of shamanic journeying, they are actually able to enter this state consciously, repeatedly, and at will.'

"By learning the art, Sandburg," Jim snapped at him, tossing the book on to the bed. "It takes years. Believe me I know, I've witnessed it. Incacha..."

"Passed the way of the Shaman on to me," Blair said, calmly. "And you've been fighting the both of us ever since." Jim was shaking his head, preparing for another tirade, but this time it was Blair who held up a silencing hand. "This is how it all started, Jim, do you remember that? How many times do I have to die? How many times do you have to fetch me back before you'll learn to trust me?"

Jim slumped down on to the bed; hung his head and breathed hard. He seemed on the edge of tears. Blair's heart broke at the sight. He moved to his side and laid a gentle hand across the warm, naked shoulders.

"Jim," he breathed, soft as love. "You still don't get it, do you? I have something those apprentice Shamen don't have. I have you."

He stroked his hand across Jim's skin and on to the back of his neck. Jim was in overdrive; manic, scared - the atmosphere around him crackled and burned with the darkest, most frightening colours of the spectrum. Fear was there, of course, and confusion, hate, despair. But over and under it all, Blair could see the shining, pastel shades of love. It was Jim's love that drove the fear. Blair's heart broke with the weight of his love for his wounded partner. It was like a jar of warm honey emptied inside him, filling his body with tenderness.

"What did you do, Jim, at the fountain, when you brought me back?"

Jim shook his head; he wouldn't look at Blair. "I don't know," he breathed.

"Sure you do," Blair whispered, warmly. "Think back, what were you thinking? What were you feeling?"

A pause, then a quiet voice; "Guilt, despair, madness; I thought I'd lost you. And you were my life." Blair touched Jim's chin, drawing his tearing eyes to meet his own.

"What did you do, Jim? That time, and after, back at the fountain, on Christmas Eve, when you fetched me back the second time?"

"I don't know. I just... wanted it, so badly and then I was... there."

Blair thought about that. "Well, Jim. I'd say you're a pretty mighty Shaman, man, to be able to will yourself over to the other side that way. Don't you see?" he took Jim's hand and smiled. "We're connected. That time before, I was lost and alone. I'm not alone any more. I'll always be safe because you'll always be there for me; all you have to do, Jim, is connect. Connect with me and neither of us need ever be afraid of getting lost again."

Jim turned to him; grasping Blair's head between his hands, as if afraid he'd try to run, he locked his mouth on Blair's, forcing his tongue deep inside, desperate to connect, and Blair, understanding, gave him his way; letting the light of his mind soften the force of Jim's need, gentling the violence of his love into a sweet, soft kiss.

And this time, Jim let him in. Letting Blair's thoughts pass through his mind like a soft summer breeze, he rested his forehead on Blair's, breathing like he'd just run a marathon. "I can feel you inside me," he gasped.

Blair nodded. "Are you OK with that?"

Jim smiled. "Yeah."

Letting the lights of his thoughts free, Blair smiled too. "Can you feel that?" he asked.

Jim nodded.

"Open your mind, Jim, let me feel you inside me."

Jim chuffed a soft laugh. "I want to be inside you."

Blair chuckled. "Yeah?"

"Oh yeahhh..." Jim breathed.

Blair laughed. "You know I was talking about your mind?"

"Want your mind; body too," Jim sighed.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you've already got all that," Blair said, laying a gentle kiss on Jim's temple. "You know that."

"I need to be inside you," Jim whispered. "I need to know you're alive."

And then Blair felt it; Jim's mind in his - just a soft whisper of a wind at first, quickly followed by all the glittering, shining colours of the rainbow, brightening every corner, every shadow of his mind with brilliant light and so much love that Blair wondered how one soul could ever hold it all.

The ease with which they came together was startling and magical. There were no fireworks, no supernovas, no explosions or tidal waves. It was more like a stroll through a flower spangled meadow, hand in hand, the air fragrant and soft and filled with butterflies; a gentle rapture that seemed to last forever as they slipped over the chasm into orgasm together; a shared ecstasy that bounced between them so that each felt like he'd been coming forever. The connection between them deepened, becoming vast and all-consuming; formidable; unassailably powerful and eternal.

Blair opened his eyes to the city-lights playing on the ceiling. It had gotten dark; how long had they been laying here, making love with their bodies and their minds? Jim's head lay heavy on his shoulder; Blair stroked one hand softly down his stubbled cheek.

"Half past seven," Jim whispered, answering Blair's un-voiced question.

"We slept the whole day?"

"This is weird. I can feel you in my head," Jim murmured.

"Like someone threw a switch," Blair replied. "Does it bother you?" He felt a ripple of lights; a multitude of greens, like the forests of Jim's native Cascades.

"I think..." Blair said, pausing awhile, exploring the new landscape in his head. "I think I'm getting your senses."

"Yeah?"

Blair nodded into the dark, knowing Jim would see. "It's weird... It's like..." he closed his eyes in thought. "I can feel what I know is my own sensory input, but there's this..." he waved a hand in the air, wiggled his fingers.

"Echo." Jim breathed.

"Yeah..." Blair sighed. "You feel it too?"

Jim touched his heart. "In here. But then, I think, maybe, you always were." Jim smiled. Blair couldn't see him in the dark, but sensed it, somehow.

Then the phone rang, and they knew.

Jim answered. It was Henri Brown; Powell had killed again.

Jim held tight to Blair's arm as they lurched from stop light to stop light through the busy evening traffic; there was no reason for speed, the latest victim was already dead, after all. Blair glanced out at the murky night; lights gleamed off the wet sidewalks; the breath of crowds, hurrying by, misted in the frigid air. The snow had stopped, the clouds had cleared; if they hadn't been in the heart of downtown Chicago, the sky would be a sea of stars. Blair had a constant sense of his other-world; he could feel it, at the edges of his consciousness - knew, if he closed his eyes, he'd be back in the ice and snow. He didn't close his eyes.

Jim was anxiously watching out of his own window; eyes tracking the bustling street, keeping a tight grip on his partner, as if, by holding on to Blair's body, he could hold his soul in place, too. Jim's tension filled the car, darkening the air, sucking out the oxygen; it was getting hard to breathe. Blair was desperate to hold his anxious partner; lay a calming hand on Jim's thigh - but hyper-aware of the uniformed cop up front, watching them in the mirror, curiosity in every glance.

The drive took an age - this crime had happened a long way from Powell's usual haunts in the noise and bustle of the downtown gay-scene. The car picked up speed as they left the crowded city-centre. They drove through suburbs, then into a dead and derelict neighbourhood of burned-out apartments, graffitied, boarded store-fronts and dark alleys. That was when Jim yelled; "Stop the car!"

"Here?" the driver snapped; "We're over a mile from the crime scene..."

"We need to stop here!"

The uniform pulled in to the side of the road, with a sigh of exasperation. Muttering softly to himself, he pulled on the hand-brake and leaned over the back of his seat, his sarcastically witty comment dying on his lips as Jim threw open the door and ordered; "Call for back-up."

"What?" The cop asked with an air of strained patience. "Look bud, I don't know what you think..."

"And I don't care what you think," Jim snapped back. "He's here. I'm going after him and I need you to call for back-up."

"He's... what? Are you nuts...?!"

"He's right. Do it," Blair said as he was dragged from the car, Jim still holding on to his arm.

They stood side by side in the freezing street, shrouded by dark silence and the bitter cold. Jim was standing stock still, sensing the night. Blair reached inside himself, trying to feel what Jim could sense, getting only his tense anticipation, the thrill of the chase, the rising adrenaline as Jim prepared to pursue his prey.

"Jim," he whispered, his breath pooling in frozen mist around his face. "Not yet. Wait for back-up."

"He's back there;" Jim muttered, waving his free hand in the direction of a row of closed and boarded shops. "In the alleys. He's doubled over, panting; he's been running, his heart's pounding."

Blair could sense Powell too; not in the way Jim could, with his ears and his nose, but he could feel the man's confused emotions eddying through his head, rippling the calm, blue waters of his mind with poisonous colours and dark, disturbing lights. Blair shivered. "He's moving in that direction, "he said, for Sentinel-ears only. He gestured to the left. "He needs to get to the light, amongst the crowds. He's terrified, but elated."

"He's covered in blood; drenched in it," Jim murmured. "He'll need to stay out of sight."

"He's heading for home. He has a place downtown, near the bars where he hits on his victims. He's thinking of home, now."

"Come on!" Jim began moving, stealthy and quiet, dragging Blair into a dark and dismal alley at the side of the row of stores; away from the street lights; pitch-black. Blair broadcast his alarm across the link; `We have to wait for back-up! This is too dangerous!'

"He's on the move, Chief. We have to go now or we'll lose him."

Jim let go of Blair to take out his gun - the sudden loss of contact terrifying, disorienting; Blair felt like a small child suddenly losing his mother's hand in a crowded store.

"Jim!" he gasped. Panic caused him to lose the link; plunged into sudden blindness - he hadn't realised how much he'd been tapping into Jim's vision till Jim laid his hand on his back, pushing him down to crouch behind a dumpster as the alley seemed to flood with light and his ears filled with the beating of his own panicked heart.

"Sorry, Chief; didn't mean to scare you." Jim crouched beside him, wrapped his left arm around Blair's shoulders, his hand rubbing along his arm, like he was trying to warm him up. Blair gave a nod, very aware that his heart and breathing were telling Jim just exactly how scared he'd been.

"He's right over there, Chief," Jim whispered with a grin. "Behind the other dumpster; other side of the alley."

Blair nodded, heart still thumping in his ears. "I know. I can feel him. I can... Oh God, Jim, he's evil. It's like... like he's this hole in reality; just a big, dark shadow of nothing."

"I can hear his teeth chattering," Jim whispered. "He's stripping down, dumping those bloodstained clothes in the trash; he's got fresh stuff with him."

The stink of the dumpster; salt, fish, brine, rot - it was making Blair sick, adding to the cold nausea of fear rolling in his belly as he linked in to Powell; Blair felt faint. He closed his eyes and felt himself being sucked down the tunnel to the cold world; had a flash of past-visions - his eyes snapped open, startled to remember... `This is the alley!' A terrified revelation flashed through his head, never voiced, but Jim seemed to hear him all the same, glancing round, concern on his face.

Blair locked terrified eyes on Jim. "This is the alley! In my vision! You saw it too. It was right here. The leopard, he killed the panther; Jim!" He gripped Jim's arm hard; "Don't go, wait for back-up. Please!"

"Chief," Jim whispered. "In two minutes, he'll be on his way."

`I'm scared!' The vision, the leopard, screaming his triumph over the bleeding corpse of the Panther flashed through his head again. 'It's you he wants!'

"I know, but it's OK."

'No!'

"Chief..." Jim released his tense grip on Blair's arm. Blair's head filled with warm, soothing colours. 'Trust me.'

Blair's eyes filled with tears. He swallowed hard.

"Stay here," Jim commanded, shaking his head as Blair filled his mind with confusion and fear. "You'll be safe here if you stay still, stay hidden, keep the link and trust me." Blair nodded, unhappily - then Jim was gone, and he was blind again, lost and alone in the terrifying dark.

He crouched low against the dumpster, trembling; like a child, hiding from the monsters in the wardrobe. He could feel the flickering shadows of the dead, watching as they skittered around him like spiders. Staring into the dark, eyes wide, scared even to blink for fear of being dragged back into the place of visions, he took a breath and closed his mind to the ghosts. Shrinking down inside himself, he sent his thoughts out into the night, casting like a fisherman till he found Jim again; grounding himself in the greens and blues of his lover's calm mind, he tracked him with some inner compass as Jim moved, silent and cat-like across the soot-black alley to where Powell was waiting.

Blair felt the colours shift, panting with sudden fear as he realised; Powell knew Jim was there! How, he had no idea, but he knew it, felt it, through the ripples in the stream. He knew Blair was here, too; he could almost scent the man's desire; kill Jim, rape Blair, kill Blair, butcher Blair...

"Jim, he knows we're here!" Blair whispered; Powell couldn't possibly hear, but Jim would, unless Powell was a Sentinel too, which seemed - unlikely. "He's waiting for you, it's a trap." He felt the shower of lights; message received and understood; thought he heard... no words, and yet distinctly heard; `I've got him; stay with me, keep hold, don't let go.'

Blair held tight, seeing nothing, yet seeing everything as Jim moved slowly around the back of the dumpster. He could see the evil, slimy, stinking alley from his vision; the shadows, the ghosts at the edges of perception; skittering, whispering, excited; egging Jim on, wanting him to bring the evil-one down. Blair blocked them out; he couldn't afford to be distracted as he held on to his link with Jim and with Powell. He could feel Jim's excitement, the anticipation of the hunter, stalking his prey; could smell it in his sweat, hear the eager pounding of his heart - felt Powell's colours shifting, felt the dark, feral purple of the killer within, sensed the harsh red elation of impending victory, and Blair's heart seized in sudden terror, whispering; screaming; `He's behind you...!' - felt Jim's mind ripple as he got the message. Blair sprang to his feet, staring into the impenetrable dark; 'Wait for me!'

'No time. Stay where you are! Too dangerous.'

`Behind you, now! Gun raised! Gonna shoot! Jim!'

Jim stepped out from behind the dumpster as Powell came up behind him.

Jim ducked.

Powell's shot slammed into the far wall. Blair saw the sparks as the bullet impacted; felt hot splinters of brick sting his face - gasping, startled, but never losing touch with his lover and his prey, tracking Powell, keeping contact...

Jim, his vision dialled high; his inner mind wide-open to the messages Blair was sending, sensed the dark shifting absence of colour and light, the black-hole of Powell's dark soul as he moved to Jim's left, preparing to shoot...

As Jim crouched, spun, fired. There was a cry, a shot fired wild into the air, and the thud of dying flesh hitting the ground.

Jim stood to watch Powell's eyes glaze; heard the thrumming heartbeat slow, falter, stop.

Blair came running; standing, panting; watching as Jim reached down to touch Powell's jugular.

"Is he dead?" Blair asked.

Jim stood; smiled. "Yeah."

It was almost midday; the sun was as high as she was going to get and making little impression on the thick frost that lay heavy on the ground around the crime scene.

No longer strictly needed on the case, Jim and Blair had taken their time getting here. They'd been at the police department till midnight, answering questions and making statements before heading back to the hotel, falling into bed, needing to connect; unable to come down enough to actually sleep.

Jim stood still as a stone, watching and listening; keeping an arm wrapped around Blair, holding him close as they watched the familiar proceedings; still needing to protect, even though the threat had been removed.

Blair looked around; this is where Powell had done his killing, this bleak, windswept spot near the docks -not so very different from the place where he'd been living before Jim came along. Powell had been picking guys up in the clubs downtown and bringing them out here on who knows what pretext? - That he had a place here, nice and quiet; they could make as much noise as they pleased? Who knows what tales he'd spun his victims. It was quiet here, that was a fact; a place where few would hear a man screaming through a gag, and even if they did, the kind of people who hung out here at night would be unlikely to tell the police about it. But Lew wanted his work to be seen, so he'd taken the broken corpses back downtown, in the dead of night, bagging them first, protecting his car from all that blood, then dumping them near to the clubs where he'd found them.

But last night, it had all gone horribly wrong; cut off from his vehicle, he'd had to escape on foot, leaving the job half-done, leaving evidence behind. Blair wondered if he knew that this would be his last murder? OK, not his last; he'd intended that for Jim and himself. But did he know Jim would find him? He'd known they were there last night; Blair had felt it, loud as surround-sound. How had he known?

They'd never find out, now. Powell was dead. Blair kept telling himself that, because somehow, at the edges of his consciousness - the grey between-place where ghosts flittered and dreams and visions merged - he could still feel the killer's malign presence; he hadn't dared tell Jim, yet. Powell was dead, but he hadn't moved on - why would he? He still had unfinished business.

Blair sighed. He was tired; so tired, standing at Jim's side, a pint of strong coffee in his hand, holding on to Jim physically and mentally and heedless, for once, of the glances they were getting from detectives and uniforms and the press.

They were a raggle-taggle band of journalists that had gathered here today; the cream of the crop were over in the dank alley where Jim had killed Powell last night; that was the Big News this morning - no one seemed to care about poor Peter Dankovich, his ripped-up, blood-drenched body still lying where Powell had left it, here amongst the dreary warehouses at the water's edge where all his victims had met their fate.

Henri had asked them over, ostensibly to help with evidence; aware, no doubt, that neither of them wanted to be anywhere near the media circus. Enough shit was about to hit the fan with Jim, a civilian consultant, having shot and killed the lead-suspect. There was no real need for their services this morning; Powell had left any number of clues; it didn't take a Sentinel to find the bloodied footprints he'd had made as he ran from the scene.

So the two of them stood in the bitter cold, Blair sipping at his coffee, Jim holding tight to his hand; Jim was tense, alert; vibrating. Did he miss it, Blair wondered - being a cop, being a part of all this, not standing on the outside, as they were, with no right to participate, but simply observe?

The Feds arrived, met by Henri Brown and a flurry of questions from the journalists. Blair noticed Mulroney amongst them and wondered why he was here; shouldn't he be with the rest of the pack, down in the alley where Powell had died? As always, he seemed to be watching Jim and himself more than the police, observing the feds with a disinterested air, standing apart from the rest, asking no questions. He saw Blair watching, gave a sly grin and lifted his coffee in a toast. Maybe Mulroney, or maybe the Feds were the reason for Jim's strange, tense mood?

"I never could get used to the smell," Jim murmured softly. He stood like a statue, staring at the cops working the scene; left hand - the hand that wasn't tightly clasped in Blair's - pressed deep into his pocket. "No matter how many times I see this; violent death; it's always the same; it's always the smell that gets to me."

"What do you smell?" Blair asked softly, glad that Jim was talking. He'd barely said a word since they left Homicide last night.

Jim shrugged, took a deep breath, wrinkled his nose; spoke in a dull monotone as he catalogued; "Blood; fresh, warm blood - human blood has a peculiar odour; the body's pretty cold, now, but it still has that warm smell. Other stuff; piss; poor bastard wet himself; lymph, something else, something sticky - I don't know what it is, but it's always there. Semen; Powell's - must have come on the guy. Shit; his guts are exposed; broken. Adrenaline, terror, agony; God, he made this made man suffer... Just an all-over stink, the stench of a human, tortured and killed. I've smelled it too many times. I'm tired of death. I don't want to have to do this anymore."

Blair squeezed the cold hand in his. "We don't have to, Jim."

"Sure we do," Jim sighed. "There'll always be murderers, Chief, and they'll always need to be stopped." He squeezed Blair's hand in return. Blair saw Mulroney with a long-lensed camera, taking pictures as they clung to each other. He found didn't care; he was just so desperately sad for the loss of this life, this poor guy, tortured and hideously mutilated - and for his partner, his lover, his friend, suffering alongside him, but there would be no more victims, now, thanks to Jim.

Until the next killer came along, the devil-voice inside him said. And the next. And the next. And the one after that - a never-ending chain of pain and death; humiliation and human misery. Blair took another sip of hot coffee, trying to warm himself from the inside.

Henri extricated himself from Palmer and Macanally with a roll of his eyes and a grin, walking over to say `hi'. Jim let go of Blair's hand to return Brown's friendly back-slap. The hollow chill of loss seeped through Blair's veins again as Jim broke the physical connection; he felt peculiarly sensitive today; seemingly needing Jim's grounding presence more than ever before - probably just a hangover from the scare he'd had last night, but powerfully felt nonetheless. He moved nearer to Jim, till their bodies touched.

"Hey Jim, Blair," Henri smiled, grimly.

"Anything new?" Jim asked, throwing a casual arm around Blair's shoulders, drawing him close. Henri shook his head.

"This is just for the record, now the perp. is dead." Henri gave Jim a light punch in the shoulder. "You did good, man. You did good." Jim nodded, dourly.

"You find out what made him run?" Blair asked.

"Yeah. There was a robbery next door; security guy got hit on the head but raised the alarm. When the police arrived, Powell took off; looks like he was interrupted right in the middle of the kill. Worst of all, forensics think Dankovich was probably still alive when Powell left him - died pretty soon after, though. Even if the cops at the scene had've found him, they don't think he could've been saved, not with those injuries."

A dark wave of sickness washed over Blair; a violent tremor shook his body. Jim squeezed him tight, looked at him with concern.

"You OK, Blair?" Henri asked kindly. "Don't worry `bout it, bro, we're all feeling it this morning." Henri laid a friendly tap on Blair's shoulder. Blair nodded, embarrassed at his obvious weakness. He tried, but couldn't speak. Blair felt the colours of Jim's love wash over him; sent reassurance back through the link; 'I'm OK, just tired.' Jim tightened his hold.

Jim and Henri's conversation turned to other stuff, cop stuff mostly; he heard Henri invite them both over to his place tonight, for pizza and some game on TV since they were flying home to Cascade tomorrow. Blair only half heard was only half-there, really; lost in the cold and the misery and just feeling so damn tired. Now the adrenaline had worn off, he remembered that he was sick, recovering from months in a coma. He shouldn't be out in the cold like this; he wanted to go home - wanted to slip sideways and rest in the Other World, but it was always the cold place he went to now. Where was his jungle? He'd loved that warm forest, full of friends and friendship. He'd been safe there. He wasn't safe here, in the ice and snow and the ever-present cold. Was the chill here, in this world, or was it There? He was confused. He could hardly tell one world from another anymore - it was all so cold and white and frightening.

He felt the presence of ghosts again; they were always with him now, the poor, lost souls. He'd read that there was a way to help them; to talk them through to the light on the Other Side. He'd have to find out about that, see if he couldn't do something. This place was full of them, its aura, dark and disturbed; there'd been so much death here, so much suffering. It would take a long time to recover and he could do nothing to help; not now, not when he was so very tired.

Blair felt himself sliding into the cold; unwilling to resist, it was so peaceful and silent here, a place where he could rest, just for a moment. He threw out a line, anchoring himself in Jim; Jim's mind was a safe refuge, warm and welcoming, and he felt the link, the bright, warm lights of Jim's mind, as he talked old-times with Henri, poor lonely Henri.

Keeping a tight hold on his partner, he closed his eyes and let the blue wrap around him; felt a breeze, a whisper; turned around, but there was no one there - but when he turned back, Jim was gone. The sudden silence deafened him; Jim wasn't in his head anymore. How? Why? When had he let go? He hadn't let go, he wouldn't do that; he needed Jim. He spun in a circle, frantically searching, but Jim wasn't there. Jim wasn't anywhere.

Terrified, he opened his eyes; the warehouse was gone; no police, no cameras, no Henri, no Jim! just the snow, and the ice, the frosted trees and the breeze in the branches, laughing at him.

Frightened now; he began to walk in a circle calling; "Jim!" Screaming; "Jim!"

Why didn't Jim hear? He shut his eyes tight again, opened them, again - still in the ice and snow. He started running, where to, he didn't know. His breath frosted, pooling in a mist around him as he ran, faster and faster, panting, gasping, whooping in air, heading for a panic attack - heard a laugh, right in his ear.

He stopped, spun around, startled and afraid. All was still, and then a rustle; branches bent, the snow falling from the boughs in a flurry of rainbow ice as the leopard emerged from the trees. Eyes wide in terror, Blair watched, frozen, unable to move as the big cat broke into a run, then pounced.

Jim heard a shout and a scream, turning just in time to see Blair fall; coffee flying as his arms flailed and knees buckled and he went down. Jim raced to his side, too late to catch him; to stop his lover's head banging down against the pavement. Blair's back arched and he convulsed. Jim grabbed him, scooping him up, holding him tight as he seized, again and again; cradling his head tight against his chest, trying to still him and keep him from injury.

Henri was calling for an ambulance; the journalists pressed around them, filming, photographing, but Jim just held on tight until Blair finally fell limp, but didn't regain consciousness. Jim stroked wet hair from Blair's eyes; there was blood on his temple from the fall. God, he was still sick, too sick to have been through the things that had happened here this week. Why had he let him come? He should have made him stay home; warm and safe. Jim lay a hand on the cold, pale, beloved face, trying to connect, but couldn't; he couldn't find Blair, couldn't get inside at all; it was like being blind, feeling through the dark; searching, calling...

He heard the ambulance arrive, felt someone trying to take Blair from him; he held on tight, refused to let go, trying again and again to connect - But there was nothing there; nothing at all. Terror struck him as he realized, the very thing he'd dreaded most had finally happened and Blair was lost.

Blair opened his eyes. His head hurt; his limbs ached, his body felt stiff and old and numb with cold; his breath hung in a sparkling cloud that shimmered and danced before his eyes. Not a trace of a breeze disturbed the silent calm. He felt weak and sick, hurt and frightened.

Back in the snow; trapped in the ice world; tied to a tree, the rope wound around and around, pinning his arms, holding him fast. He coughed; pain cut his damaged lungs like a knife, making him gasp, remembering that he'd been sick, trying to remember... why he was here? Remembering...

Powell.

And Jim...

He looked around, hoping to feel Jim's presence; afraid to feel him - afraid in case he was trapped here too, in which case, all hope was lost, but Jim wasn't here - He was relieved and disappointed; there'd be no immediate rescue, but at least Jim was safe, for now.

Loneliness and sorrow overwhelmed him; the darkness pressed on his soul. The forest here was so thick, the trees pressed close, as if huddling together for warmth. It was late, and the shadows were long, slanting across the landscape, the deep, dark woods - like something from one of the scarier folk tales - more shadow than light; he could feel the ghosts hiding there, watching him; he whispered to them -

"Why are you still here?"

The vibrations from his voice scattered the angel dust and fractured the air; Blair felt the ghosts shift and skitter in alarm. "Please..." he pleaded with them. "Please talk to me. Tell me why. I need to know..."

A myriad of souls sighed as one; like a breeze in the trees, but there was no breeze, the air was still as death. Blair could hear ice cracking twigs, hear the rustling of the pine needles as snow shifted and moved in the branches.

"Why haven't you moved on?" he called, his voice clear in the still, cold air.

A flurry of echoes, like dead leaves, rustled through the shadows.

"We can't," a voice whispered.

"He won't let us," hissed another.

"He can't hurt you," Blair said.

"He has. He does..."

He felt the shockwave of their sorrow, their grief, their pity and despair. It hit him hard; knocked the breath from his lungs.

"We're trapped, just like you," said a sibilant breath in his ear.

"Why?" Blair gasped, pulling at the ropes that held him.

"Why are we here, or why are you?" the voice beside him asked.

"Both."

The voice laughed.

"Tom?" Blair asked, twisting to turn, trying to see behind him. "Is that you?" When he turned again, Tom was squatting in the snow in front of him. "Hey," Blair smiled, weakly.

Tom gave him a terse, sulky nod. "I asked you to help. Why didn't you help?" he said.

"Because what you were asking was impossible. Why didn't you help us? If you had, maybe we could have caught Powell sooner. Maybe we could have saved another life."

Tom laughed. "No one's safe, Blair" - Tom made his name an insult. "We're all prisoners of his rage; no one can leave, not even you."

"That can't be."

"OK, then. Let's see you try. Come on, Shaman, cast off your bonds, lead us all to the light."

Blair struggled but the ropes were tight and he seemed so weak, so drained "Why don't you free me?" he asked.

"Don't you get it, Shaman? We're not in the physical world," Tom explained, as if to a particularly slow child. He waved his shadowed hands before Blair's face, the image blurring, strobing; he waved them over Blair's face and through his head. Blair winced, but all he felt was a light breeze; a chill that ached in his skull like the after-burn from an icy drink. "I can't untie you because you're not really tied; you're not really here, Shaman."

"Bonds of the mind," Blair murmured thoughtfully.

"Only a part of you is here, the rest is still back there..."

"The soul divided can't function."

"The rest of you is dying," Tom agreed, sadly.

"Like before," Blair said, only... not; not at all like before. He could still feel the link; the fragile threads that tied him to his stricken body. "This isn't how it was before. Back then, I was lost, I had no memories; I had no notion of the other me in the other world. This time, I remember. Oh God, I can remember everything... everything," he sighed. "Why? Why is that? Tom...?"

But Tom was gone, running for cover like all the others and Blair knew why; he felt it too; evil descending on the forest like a dark blanket.

"How does it feel to be dead, Sandburg?" it hissed.

"This isn't death," Blair said, sounding calmer than he felt.

"Well, you'd know if anyone would, wouldn't you, little cabbage? But you're dying back there; Ellison knows it; he's trying hard, trying not to believe, but he knows he's losing you."

Blair pulled at his ropes.

"Still hoping your shaman will come and save you? Your knight in shining armour? Your Sentinel?"

"Why are you doing this? "How are you doing this?" Blair fought the bonds that held him, felt himself weakening till he sagged in the ropes, helpless; exhausted. Powell laughed.

"You're wasting your time, little Shaman. You can't get away, you're going to be with me forever, Blair baby; my little plaything."

"You can't do that, you don't have the power."

"I do, I can, I will."

Blair had to stop struggling He felt bad; weak and faint; his brief fight with the ropes had left him breathless and heaving. Then the blows began; striking at his head, his throat, his ribs and belly, harder than anything human - He tried to curl into himself, protect his body; futile, when the ropes held him fast. Then invisible claws began tearing at his clothes and flesh, dark blood soaking into the pristine snow as his gasps of shock and terror turned to agonized screams.

The spirits dashed and darted around them in the trees; Blair could feel their fear, their empathy, their desperate need to help; unable to do anything to still the murderous onslaught. Blair was forced to endure the thing's rage until it finally ran out of steam. He could feel him - it - circling him; feel its panting, wheezing, fetid gasps for breath.

Blair sobbed in pain and despair, unable to move, unable even to raise his knees, to ball up against the pain that tore him head to toe. He felt Powell close against his back - Bracing himself for another attack, Blair's breath hitched in pain and fear and he began to tremble, closing his eyes against his fear; unable to prevent the whimper of terror that slipped out, try as he might.

Powell chuckled, low and deep. The bastard was enjoying this, of course he was; he lived to torture, maim and murder. But Powell was dead, a disembodied spirit. How could he do this? Blair knew Powell was manipulating spirit; that, real as it seemed, it was all in his mind, it had to be; somehow...

But knowing didn't help; his pain and the ropes that held him were all too real. All he could do was suffer through whatever Powell had planned for him, try to figure out his game plan, if he had one, and use that to defeat him; try to work out what was going on and find his way back to Jim.

He gasped as a finger of ice touched his ribs, then a pain like nothing he'd ever felt before; a shard of ice that pierced his heart and stole his breath. Instinctively, he tried to arch away from the source of the pain; unable to escape, he screamed; a strangled, hideous sound that frightened him as much as it did the ghosts who skittered and scattered all around, darkening the shadows with compassion and despair.

Jim stood over the stove, warming milk in a pan, grounding himself in familiar routine as he fixed his senses on his partner. Blair lay lethargically on the couch; his eyes were open; seemingly fixed on the panorama of the city, gilded and golden under the setting sun. Jim wondered what he was seeing, if anything; what world he was really in?

After his collapse Blair had seized three times. The man who regained consciousness fifty two hours later wasn't Blair but this all too familiar, child-like figure; Star, but not Star, not really. Star had been happy and contented for the most part; this version was pale, sick and hurting; his eyes shadowed and haunted - he looked like a man with a terminal disease. Jim refused to consider the Doctor's kindly, hesitant suggestion that Blair had suffered brain damage. He knew that wasn't the case; he knew that wasn't the reason he couldn't find his way back to his guide.

He found himself locked in a familiar dispute with the doctors when they advised him against taking Blair away. They said he needed specialist help; it was true, he did, but not the kind they meant. Blair had no need of doctors; they couldn't help him. There was only one person who could.

Jim was persuasive and he had Blair's power of attorney. He argued that Blair had doctors in Seattle and Cascade who had dealt with this condition before, who knew what they were doing, who had brought Blair out of it once and could do it again - It wasn't the truth, exactly; he had no intention of taking Blair back to Harborview, but it enabled him to get Blair home, away from Chicago; from the alleys and the snow.

Jim smelled the chemistry of the sugars in the milk start to change as the milk simmered. He strained the hot milk into the bowl, adding a little cream, testing the temperature, he poured half into a mug and carried it to the couch. The familiarity of it all lit a fire in Jim's heart as he sat on the coffee table, nursing the mug, watching Blair slowly switch his attention from the city to his partner. Jim smiled.

"Hey buddy," he said, his voice low and warm. "You gonna drink your chocolate while it's hot?"

Jim moved to sit at his side, lifting Blair to lean against him, placing the cocoa in Blair's hands, curling his fingers around the mug, helping him lift it to his mouth. The pain-dark eyes smiled in pleasure at the first small swallow, but couldn't manage more than two or three small mouthfuls. He glanced apologetically at Jim as he handed back the still-warm, half-full mug. Jim put it down on the table and took Blair into his arms.

Holding Blair, here in the loft, in the beating heart of his territory, Jim's senses became heightened beyond anything he'd known before. He could see auras; he could see Blair's and it wasn't good. He laid his head against his partner's, closed his eyes and tried again to will himself into Blair's Otherworld, but nothing happened. This is how it'd been since Blair collapsed; he was closed to him and there was nothing. Nothing...

Then, for a moment, he felt the tired flash of distant fireworks. The lights and colours quickly died; replaced by the familiar dead stillness, the impenetrable dark - but Blair was there and trying to get through to him.

He laid a hand on Blair's head, feeling the dread `missingness', the pieces that were gone felt like shards of shattered ice. Jim knew he was the only one who could find the lost fragments of Blair's soul, but this time, he couldn't do it alone. He needed guidance. He needed a Shaman.

Blair stumbled over his own, exhausted feet, falling down into the snow again. This time, he didn't get up; he couldn't, though the thing kept tugging on the leash, cursing him and lashing out. He was too tired even to open his eyes, let alone lift himself up; movement of any kind was so far beyond what was possible... he closed his eyes and was slipping away when he felt the claw in his hair; hot breath on his cold, bare neck. To his chagrin, a small sob leapt from his throat. He heard the thing that used to be Detective Lewis Powell, laugh.

"Scared, Sandburg?" it hissed.

"Terrified," he whispered back. The thing got off on terrorizing him; maybe this time, it would be enough to admit his fear; maybe this time, he wouldn't be punished. He let himself tremble.

"On your feet!" It hissed.

Exhausted and helpless, unable to move, Blair's breathless, silent sobs turned to giggles; he was hysterical; at the very end of his endurance.

"You think it's funny, Sandburg?" It spat at him, jerking the chain that looped around his neck. "On your feet!" it screamed, tugging again at the leash, choking him as he lifted useless, broken hands to helplessly claw at the noose around his neck.

"Please," he whimpered. "Please..." Pleading sometimes helped; it liked to hear him beg.

"Please what?" it grinned, dropping him back into the snow, grinding a foot into his back. "What do you want from me, little one?" it cooed, mockingly,

"Why?" Blair sobbed. "Why are you doing this?"

It chuffed a soft laugh. The darkness morphed into the shadowed form of Lew Powell, squatting in the snow, head on one side, regarding Blair curiously.

"You mean why you, specifically?"

"To me, to all of us. You chose us; why?"

Powell reached out and traced a long, fascinated finger over the cuts and bruises that marred Blair's face; Blair twitched away as it toyed with his split lip, drawing fresh blood that dripped, scarlet and startling on the pristine white snow.

"Do I need a reason?" Powell asked eventually.

Blair shook his head, despairing, resigned and wanting to cry. "I guess not," he whispered.

Powell sat back again, toying with the end of Blair's leash. "Hate," he said, after a long, thoughtful pause. "I really, really hate you," he said flatly.

Blair waited.

"Why should you be happy?" Powell asked, trailing a finger through the blood in the snow, lifting it to his tongue; tasting, thoughtfully.

"That's why you killed them?" Blair felt the ripple of emotion from the ghosts; watching; waiting for Powell's answer.

Powell didn't respond, so Blair did it for him. "You singled out the happy ones, the ones who had what you could never have; love, happiness, a life. Like me; like Jim..."

The thing's rage hit him like a tornado. A single pull on the leash yanked him hard along the ground, dragged him through the snow then swept him up and hurled him against a vast, ancient pine.

"Don't you get it, Shaman?" the thing screamed. "Love is power. Why should they have it, why should you? You have it all and me, nothing?!"

As he crashed to the ground, Blair curled into a ball against the beating he knew was coming; shattered hands trying to shield his head as he was kicked and punched with unearthly force; unable to faint, unable to escape, simply forced to endure.

Blair tried to take refuge inside himself, deep in the dark place beyond his conscious mind - but Powell was stronger, dragging him out every time, renewing his attack, but tiring a little more each time until Blair's barriers became too much for him and he was forced to retreat. Fading fast, using the last of his energy to lash Blair to the tree, Powell fled to wherever it was he went to lick his wounds and gather strength.

Blair knew Powell was using some kind of psychic energy against him and knew that was the key to his defeat, but how it all worked - he just didn't know. He thought he'd be able to do all this stuff by instinct - he'd laugh if it weren't so tragic. Jim has been right about that, about everything; Jim was a powerful Shaman in his own right and if Blair ever got out of this terrible mess, he swore, he'd listen to his partner; 'stay in the metaphorical truck, Sandburg', he giggled, feebly.

If he ever got out of this - He was fighting a losing battle and he knew it; Powell was stronger by far, he recovered fast and recovered fully; Blair was growing weaker all the time.

Knowing time was short, that Powell would soon return, Blair lowered his shields and reached out, casting into the void, seeking, searching; looking for the thread that bound him to Jim and the Real World; trying to communicate across the dimensions.

Startled by a sudden flash of confusion and fear, Jim glanced down at the man in his arms. "What is it buddy? What's going on?"

A shudder shook Blair as his eyes snapped open and he reached up and gripped Jim's arm tightly. Jim pulled Blair hard against him as a split-second, blinding moment of dark colours; terrified hues - fire and ice, spiked in Jim's mind like nails and knives. He gasped in pain, holding tight as Blair shuddered in his arms and buried his face in his chest.

Jim crushed his partner against himself; "I've got you buddy," he panted. "I've got you. Not letting go; never letting go" - holding on until the storm subsided into flickering sparks and tears and grasping fingers, as a rush of sudden emotions danced between them; frightened, helpless lights that flooded his mind with terror and pain and images of snow and ice and his partner, tied to a tree, battered and bleeding - dying - reaching out to him with shattered fingers...

Blair wasn't lost at all; he was trapped... trapped by Powell.

Then the door slammed shut, and all was empty darkness and silence again.

Blair could feel himself; his physical self, weak and sick, and Jim holding him, caring for him and for one glorious, shining moment, he knew Jim could feel him, too - just before his strength gave out and he was forced to let go and watch the tenuous, golden thread of their link snake away into the void.

Broken, bereft and alone, he gave in to his weakness and cried.

He couldn't hold on to the link for long, it was sapping all his power keeping that part of him secret from Powell; maintaining the connection to his physical self, holding on to Jim, keeping his barriers up so that Powell couldn't feel the thread that kept him from being forever lost... Sometimes, like now, it was too much. He needed what little strength he had left to ward off Powell's attacks -strength that was rapidly waning and would soon be all gone. He wondered bleakly, what would happen to them, then; to Jim, to himself, to the desolate ghosts that watched from the trees, weeping and helpless and lost as himself.

The Mexico City - Sea-Tac flight was delayed and had been for almost three hours. The airport static was starting to get to Jim; it was in the monitors, in the plastic and chrome and the acres of nylon carpeting. The air smelled burned; his skin flinched and tightened across his bones.

Blair was asleep, leaning heavily against him. He seemed paler than ever, his soft, round features become pinched and drawn, his eyes over- large in his thin face, luminously blue and fever-bright. He was getting sicker by the day and showed little interest in anything; Jim couldn't get him to draw anymore - he'd given him back his pens, paints and pencils but all he'd produced were a few dark, disturbing doodles. Jim had even tried to interest him with Panther, the squished and battered little toy he'd found such comfort with before, but Blair just looked at Panther like he couldn't fully comprehend what it was, had stuck his toy behind a cushion and gone back to sleep. Blair spent a lot of time sleeping - and in nightmares.

Consequently, Jim couldn't sleep; he spent long hours on the computer and reading, books and magazines, some academic papers - looking for solutions to Blair's condition. When he wasn't reading he was pacing the loft, anxious, hyper-active, possessed by a desperate sense of urgency, oftime running out and a powerful need to be doing something when there was absolutely nothing to be done. Maintaining a round-the-clock vigil on Blair's state of health and state of mind was like being on the Blair-SETI program; constantly monitoring for signs of activity. It was draining and exhausting and it wouldn't let him rest. When he did try to sleep, he'd wake in a panic; heart throbbing from a fear that stole his breath; hounded by an ever-present sense of pursuit; of being hunted. He was feeling it here, now; found himself constantly on the alert; senses wide open, scanning the vicinity for unseen dangers.

Blair woke, rubbed his eyes and looked up at Jim.

"Hey buddy; you slept well, no bad dreams," Jim smiled down, getting the familiar solemn, searching gaze in return. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Snickers bar. "Think you could cope with some candy?" he asked.

Blair switched his gaze to the Snickers bar, watching it, unblinking; deep in thought. Jim tore down the wrapper and held it out, temptingly close to Blair's nose.

Blair's nostrils twitched. He took it between two fingers, stared at it for a moment then took a small bite, chewing diligently. Jim wanted to punch the air - it was the first thing Blair had eaten all day.

He put an arm about his partner's shoulders and pulled him close. Blair was eating - a silly little thing that made Jim's heart overflow. He ruffled Blair's hair; Blair stared up at him with smiling eyes. He made it through half the Snickers bar before handing the half-melted remains to Jim who took a wet wipe from their backpack and cleaned his partner's sticky face and hands. Jim held on to Blair's head to keep him steady as he cleaned up the mess, leaning in close; Blair smelled of chocolate and caramel and baby shampoo.

Blair tilted his head and leaned into his hand and Jim felt a faint buzz of electricity and lights, sparking silently, like distant explosions. He closed his eyes and let the connection tingle across his skin, raising hairs and making him shiver. The link was still there; weak and fluctuating, but very much alive. What was it costing Blair to keep it open?

Jim leaned his forehead down to touch against Blair's. "It's OK" he murmured, soft as he could and still be heard over the airport din. "I love that you're trying so hard but don't. You're exhausted; I don't know if you know this but, you're sick and getting sicker. Hell, I don't know if you can even hear me but... don't do more than you have to. I'm going to get help, Chief. I'm going to get you out of there so, rest a while and build your strength 'cause I've got a feeling you're going to need it.."

Heedless of curious eyes around them, Jim used the hand on his head to pull Blair closer and laid a kiss on his curls. Blair snuggled his face down against Jim's chest and was soon sleeping, limp and heavy against him. Jim put an arm around him, holding him close, keeping him safe. Every time Blair tried to communicate, he ended up unconscious; the effort was clearly taking its toll.

He shifted in his seat, trying to accommodate his lax and flopping burden a little more comfortably while relieving the pressure on his own sleeping buttocks. He needed to get up, walk around, stretch his legs. He considered a coffee, glanced again at the arrivals board; flight 5879 was still `delayed'. Jim fidgeted, fretfully. Blair gripped his shirt a little tighter, but didn't wake.

Jim huffed out a sigh, running his mind over the things he'd learned about Powell. He'd spent the past two days researching; trying to find out how he'd acquired the skills he was using against Blair; it was pretty powerful magic - Jim didn't like calling it that but couldn't think of a better word. He'd spent most of the past several days on the computer researching a dead man, except that Powell wasn't dead, not really; Jim was having a little trouble getting his head around that, too, but had to accept that it was true.

With more than a little help from Jack Kelso, he'd been inside the FBI's files, and the CIA's, plus one other, shadier institution connected to the Government but not open, not accountable; not `known' in any real sense. That was... interesting. Why would covert operatives be interested in a gay serial killer?

He'd learned a few interesting facts. The FBI had indeed lost sight of Powell while he was in Canada, but not WASP - an organization neither he nor Jack had ever heard of before, but who seemed to have taken a huge interest in Lew Powell.

Their operatives had followed the man's every move (and in which case why hadn't they arrested him? Obviously because they wanted to watch him in the field which made Jim ask again; why? Why was Powell so interesting to a shady covert organization like this mysterious WASP?).

Powell had hidden out in a New Age Community - had grown a beard and become discipled to the community's leader; a Guru-Shaman who called himself Cayuga (but whose birth name was Brian Sharples, a native of Moose Jaw Saskatchewan). It seemed that Powell had studied with this charlatan, but that didn't explain how Lew Powell (Detective Lew Powell, he reminded himself, a man Jim had known as nothing more than a hard-working cop for over five years) - had become so adept in the arcane arts? How had Powell become such a powerful shaman that he could apparently hold Sandburg's soul captive somewhere beyond reality? He couldn't imagine Powell learning to manipulate time and space, life and death from a man called Brian Sharples.

The long-awaited announcement pierced his musings; flight 5879 from Mexico City had finally touched down. Jim roused Blair gently, helping his sleepy partner to his feet, taking hold of his hand and leading him down to arrivals to meet Eli Stoddard.

Eli came striding through the doors with his usual air of purpose; brisk, vigorous, energetic; looking tanned and healthy, pushing a toppling cart piled high with baggage and boxes.

"My boy, my boy," he tutted, as he joined Jim and Blair in the waiting crowd. "I got your message Tuesday, got the first flight I could. Oh dear, dear, dear, this doesn't look good," he frowned, leaning to look Blair in his vacant eyes. "What happened?"

Jim gave Eli the story as they walked, holding tight to Blair, ushering him along the long, crowded route to the car park. Jim was perspiring; a feverish sweat brought on by lack of sleep and exhausted nerves. He pulled at his collar, trying to pay attention to Eli's news of the expedition to the Temple of the Sentinels as he glanced about, searching the crowd - for what? He didn't know; his paranoia was kicking in again.

As they made their too-slow way through the endless halls, he found himself looking up, checking the shopping galleries, the hairs of his body all on end, the sense of threat ever present, rippling over his skin like electricity; like the buzz he got when passing under power lines, clutching Blair's arm a little tighter as he auto-checked every face, his sub-conscious telling him someone was watching them.

Stoddard was still clucking away beside him; Jim tuned him out, walking a little faster, trying to egg the old man on with his impossible pile of luggage, wanting to run as he cast a sensory web searching for... Something had raised his inner alarm. Something had his all instincts on high-alert, but there were so many sounds, sights, smells to analyze and his senses were on the fritz and he really didn't know...

Cologne.

One amongst so many, but this he recognized; not just the cologne but the scent of the tired, sweaty body beneath - Knew it, but couldn't place it... Wincing, raising his hand to rub at his ear at the odd little pop; the disconcerting crackle that told him...

White noise generator.

He stopped, turned three hundred and sixty degrees, sight tuned to the max, searching for the perpetrator, suddenly scared. He moved his hand from Blair's upper arm to his hand, holding it tight, then felt a hand on his own arm, shaking him and Stoddard's nervous voice suddenly breaking through...

"...Alright? Detective. Jim. Can you hear me?"

Jim turned, Blair and Stoddard, both looking at him with identical expressions of wide-eyed curiosity. He switched his attention back to the galleries - zeroing in on where the man had been, but was now gone.

The soldier in him wanted to go on the offensive, go after whoever was watching them, but that would mean leaving Blair with the professor and that that would be dangerous. Whoever they were, they had white noise generators. They knew. He tightened his grip on Blair, used his free hand to grab Stoddard. "Come on Professor, we need to get out of here."

Jim perched on a stool as Eli busied around his big, basement kitchen, making tea, casting him occasional shy looks. Jim and Blair were staying with Stoddard in his rambling house in the same Seattle neighbourhood where he and Blair had lived the last time Blair was lost.

Eli poured tea from an orange pot; the air filled with the scent of bergamot and China tea. Jim took the proffered mug with a quiet `thank you'; Stoddard was still casting him doubtful looks as he poured cold milk from the fridge into Blair's mug, making sure it was cool enough not to scald if spilled. Blair gripped the mug unquestioningly in both hands, lifting it to his lips.

"...But you say it's different this time?" Jim pulled himself out of his weary stupor, responding to the question with a nod. "I must say," Eli said, perching incongruously on a stool to peer closely at Blair - "he doesn't look at all well, do you, Blair. My, my, whatever is happening now? You do seem rather prone to getting lost while rambling over there in the spirit world, don't you? You never did have a very good sense of direction. He always used to lose his way," Eli said, talking to Jim. "It got to be quite a joke in the department; never let Sandburg navigate unless you really don't care where it is you end up." Jim chuckled. "I suppose it could be the same on the other side, do you think?" he asked Jim, as if he thought he would know. Jim just shook his head, sadly.

"He's not lost, Eli."

"No, no, a prisoner, you say, of this man...?"

"Powell."

"The serial killer. Yes..." Eli took a thoughtful sip of his tea. "The man you killed."

Jim nodded.

"Revenge, do you think?"

"I don't know."

Eli nodded, thinking, turning the question over in his head, examining all the angles. "Of course, it's a well-documented phenomenon; most shamanic cultures believe in soul capture and have ceremonies that the village spirit doctor - a more correct term than shaman in our part of the world; the word shaman actually comes from Siberia and has a specific meaning - but, I'm so sorry, I'm rather losing my thread again, aren't I?"

"You were talking about soul capture..."

"Ah! Yes!" the little man literally bounced on his stool with enthusiasm. "I could show you hundreds of documented cases. Many traditional cultures still believe that a certain kind of sickness is caused by the loss of part of the soul. The village doctor, the shaman if you will, travels to the other side; is said to `walk in spirit' in search of the lost one. He debates, or does battle with the one who is holding the soul captive and brings the soul home to the body, which then recovers..."

"And does it? Recover...?"

"Well you've seen that for yourself," Eli said with a sly smile. "I'm still hoping to get a paper out of that, Jim."

Jim nodded. "Yeah, well, if it works again; if we bring Blair home - "he gave Blair's hair a little rub. "I promise you'll get your paper. Just... Keep our names out of it, won't you?"

"Jim!" Eli held his hands up in horror. "A good anthropologist never divulges the names of his subjects. Never!"

"And you say you know someone who can help?

"Actually I do," Eli slid from the stool to rummage through one of his many bags that had been dumped in the kitchen. "His name..." Eli extracted a battered little book bound in cracked and torn leather - "is Jefferson Watson."

"And he's a Shaman?"

"Oh yes indeed, a very good one, very respected; a former anthropologist, which is how I know him of course; he's studied under tribal medicine men for the better part of thirty years, and he's right here in Seattle; retired from the University, but still working, writing his books."

"Can he help?" Jim asked. "I mean, would he understand, he wouldn't think this is a lunatic request?"

"Absolutely not."

"Could you arrange for us to see him?"

"I can do it right now," Eli smiled, lifting the receiver on the kitchen phone. "Did you figure out who was watching us?" he asked as he dialed, peering at the book, following the number with a careful finger.

Jim drained the last of his tea. "Yeah," he said, laying the mug down carefully over the wet ring it had made on the polished wooden counter, adjusting the mug so that it fitted exactly over the little puddle of tea. "His name's David Palmer. He's an agent with the FBI; he's working the Powell case."

Eli paused a moment in shock, then dialed the last number and waited for Jim to go on as he listened to the sounds on the line. Jim just kept playing with his mug, shifting it infinitesimally over the ring of tea.

"He followed you. Why? Powell is dead..."

"That's what I'd like to know," Jim said, lifting his head to look at Eli, a tight smile on his face, both hands wrapped around the mug, clenching hard enough to shatter. "He had a white noise generator, Eli. Why would he have a thing like that? Unless he knows what I am"

Eli's mouth hung open. "I don't know, Jim," he said quietly. "Are you in danger?"

"I don't know... I think so, yes."

"Oh, hello," Eli said brightly into the receiver. "Is that Susan? Yes, hello Susan. It's Eli Stoddard... Yes, indeed.... Well yes we must. Susan;" Eli's voice took on the urgency of someone desperately trying to get a word in edgeways. "Look, darling, this is a rather pressing matter. I really need to speak to Jeff.... Oh, he is. Well, does he have a cell...? Then, could you take a message...? Good, good. This is rather urgent, my love. It is very important that Jeff gets this just as soon as he gets in... Yes, very important, thank you... She's gone to get a pen," he whispered to Jim. "She's a lovely woman, but rather vague, I'm afraid... Yes, I'm still here. Well, I have a case of soul capture for him... That's right; Soul. Capture. A friend of mine; a rather bad case that requires his urgent attention... You will? Thank you darling.... Yes, and the same to you... Indeed... We certainly should... You do that.... I have to go now, Susan, darling... Yes... Yes... I will... Thank you so much."

Eli hung up and turned to Jim with an embarrassed smile.

"His wife?" Jim asked.

"Mother. You heard...?"

"I don't eavesdrop."

"No, no, of course not. Well, Jefferson's gone shopping for groceries, but should be back shortly. Assuming he gets the message, I'm very confident he'll get right back to us. I've baited the hook; he won't be able to resist a case of soul capture."

Eli was beaming, Jim got the impression he was enjoying this a little too much. He obviously cared very much about Blair, but always had one eye firmly on his paper. Jim wasn't sure he had much confidence in this Jefferson Watson, a suburban shaman who went grocery shopping and lived with his mother. But what choice did he have? There weren't too many shamans - shamen? - in the Yellow Pages.

Jim cast a look at his partner. Blair had finished his tea and was sitting, nursing the empty mug, staring vacantly - soullessly - into space. Jim carefully prized the mug from his fingers; Blair turned to look at him with the ghost of a smile. Jim laid the mug back down on the counter and ruffled Blair's curls.

Blair could hear the thing panting. It was somewhere behind him, gathering strength. It'd been beating him for - who knew how long? He was hanging in his bonds like a badly stuffed scarecrow, weak and hurting; his ribs were broken, he could feel them scraping and moving as he breathed. Though terrified of fresh tortures, he steeled himself to bait the thing again. Blair wanted the Powell-thing mad; mad made it violent and violence drained its powers; he needed it exhausted, needed time for what he had to do.

"You were lovers, weren't you, you and Joe Miller?"

Blair felt its rage wash over him. He huffed a weak laugh. "Ah c'mon, you are so in denial. Those killings are totally symptomatic of a self loathing homosexual, they're classic, man. What'd you do? Go on a killing spree after you had sex, exorcise those demons...?"

Demons. Man... The thought had never occurred to him before. Possession - was it possible? Blair turned the idea over. It sounded crazy, but considering his current situation, with half his soul trapped who-knew-where, he could hardly discount the occult.

He felt hot breath on the back of his neck; trying to control his emotions, swallowing down the fear, he asked; "Lew; you ever hear voices?"

It tried to strike out at him but all Blair felt was the whisp of a breeze; Lew was out of juice. He should say something provocative, totally drain the creature so it was forced to go back to its lair but it was all starting to make sense to him now and he couldn't help thinking; joining up the dots. Drawing on all he knew and all he'd researched as they'd embarked on this case, adding in this new knowledge, that Powell had somehow become a master of spirit magic, a dark shaman, Blair found himself working on a theory. Lew behaved like a classic sexual sadist. Such killers rely heavily on fantasy and ritual. There was usually a compulsion to collect trophies; pieces of clothing, body parts. Powell had gone one better than all his predecessors; he had collected the souls of his victims.

"Tell me, man. Tell me about the voices."

"Why should I?" it hissed, breathily.

"Maybe I can help you, Lew?"

"I don't need your help. And you can't help me. You can't know what it's like to hear everything."

"The voices, did they tell you what to do?"

It chuckled and trailed an icy finger down his cheek. Blair froze; dreading the thing sticking its claws in him again, he shut his eyes and tried not to shake, tried to keep breathing.

"Voices? Inside me?" it snorted. "You think I'm some sort of text-book madman? I'm not crazy. I'm talking about the voices out there. The constant chattering, the whispering, the yelling and screaming; the noise of the traffic, the airplanes, the rattling of the furnace five fucking floors below...! The goddam noise! Everywhere! Plaguing me, so I couldn't sleep, couldn't rest! Can you make that stop? Can you, Shaman?!"

No.

It couldn't be.

"I like it here," it said, calming a little. "It's quiet. I like the silence. I can think now. I never could before."

"Oh man;" Blair whispered. "You're telling me you were hearing stuff, stuff you couldn't possibly hear?"

"They wanted me to work with them."

"Who did, Lew?" The man-spirit-whatever he was, was breathing hard; he sounded about as close to the end of his tether as Blair was, which was good; which was exactly what Blair wanted, and he should be pushing that, getting the guy mad, not interviewing the fucker. But he had to know... "Who, Lew? Who wanted you to work with them?"

"Fucking FBI," he panted.

"FBI?"

"Some kind of training program; fast-track for people who could see and hear really well. I can't see too well - need glasses, but hear really well - too well - it was killing me."

Blair realized he'd stopped breathing. "The FBI had a program for people with super-senses?" he whispered.

Lew materialized. He sat down in the snow beside him. "Not FBI," he panted, breath whistling in and out of his lungs. "Said they were, but not really. Joe said it was some secret government organization, that the FBI was just a front. Joe said the FBI was a front for everything; the whole fucking Jewish, homosexual, wall-street, black-helicopter, illuminati government conspiracy." He laughed. "Joe was a nut, but he was right about them just being a front `cos I heard `em talking." He chuckled; a wheezing sound like broken bellows. "Pretty dumb, huh? They're dealing with people who can hear really well and they talk about it all the time. It was another organization that was looking for people like me; something way more sinister than the FBI."

"Did they know you were a killer, Lew?"

"How the hell should I know? `Spect so, they seemed to know everything else. Knew all about you and your Sentinel, little faggot. `Spect they're coming for him, too, only they won't get him, `cause he's mine." Powell leaned in close; Blair cast a quick glance at the thing, then looked away; he couldn't look at it, couldn't bear to be so near. It was pure evil; a black shadow with a passing resemblance to the man it once was, shifting and changing like a half-seen something from his nightmares.

"I know you talk to him, Shaman; I can feel it when you talk to him. He's coming for you, you know, and when he does..." Blair felt the breath on his neck again, felt a claw scrape down the length of it, drawing blood that trickled down beneath his collar.

"Am I scaring you?" it asked with mock-concern. "Of course I am. You look bad, Blair, really bad. You wanna die? `Bet you do, but you can't you filthy little fag because I will never let you." Powell was growing stronger again; a whirlwind of rage and passion and all of it directed at Blair. "You're going to stay with me," he screamed, "and he'll come... he'll come and I'll have you both and then I'll really have some fun..."

Blair was in shock, his head was full of memories that stole his breath. Lew's revelations had lit a fuse and - with the sudden shock of a bomb in a crowded street, he found his mind suddenly flooded with forgotten events, long-suppressed memories that... Oh God, he was remembering things that happened when he was in the coma, how he came to leave the hospital, how he came to be on the street and he knew, now, what was happening and why it was happening and how it was all connected and... gasping as the full force of realization hit him - Jim was in the most terrible danger, they both were and, knowing he had to warn Jim, his mind reached instinctively for the thread that bound him to the world...

"What?!" Suddenly Lew was in his face, spitting, demanding - "You're up to something; I can feel you! What's going on? What are you doing?!"

"Nothing; nothing, I'm..."

"LIAR!!!"

"No, no, Lew I swear, I'm just..."

The first blow hit him across the eyes, blinding him; unable to lift his hands to shield his face, he hung his head and tried to raise his knees to protect his body as claws ripped and fists punched, puncturing organs, splintering bone, spilling his blood, staining the snow. He was Prometheus, condemned to eternal suffering, unable to die, unable, even, to take refuge in unconsciousness as he screamed in agony and outrage, calling on the frightened ghosts that filled the air around them, begging for help that he knew would never come.

Blair couldn't help but wonder; since it wasn't a real flesh and blood body he currently inhabited, how could he hurt so much? Slouched painfully half in and half out of his loosened bonds, he struggled to breathe against shattered ribs and a broken nose, watching his blood dripping, hot and steamy into the snow, his life draining away - only Powell had told him he would never be allowed to die.

How was Powell able to manipulate space to this extent - create this snowy Other World and populated it with apparently solid beings who had blood that could be spilled, bones that could be broken?

Despair washed over him; Powell was an absurdly powerful Shaman. He was like a thing of myth. How could this be? How had a small-time petty crook, a teenage bully turned murderer, a former cop, become this terrifying creature?

There were so many questions, too many questions, and time was short; he could feel his physical body - the one on the other side - weakening and sickening. Was he dying over there? If his body died there would be no way back and Jim - Jim would follow and be trapped here too and that...

That could not be allowed to happen.

Blood was leaking into his throat forcing him to cough, spattering blood across the shadowed snow. Broken bones scraped against each other - the pain was unbearable; he felt his physical body spasm and moan in empathy.

He reached for the thread again, the one that tied him to Jim, but it eluded him. He was so weak, in so much pain; he wanted only to sleep but he had to warn Jim, tell him the things he remembered, the things that had happened to him as he walked in his coma.

He remembered the dreams that had haunted him; the damp, feral scent of the jungle, the blue light and the brighter light that beckoned him, shining and irresistible. He remembered being pulled from his calm, quiet dream-world by a needle in his arm and the cold drug that shot fire and ice through his veins, dragging him back by the heels into the harsh, white light of a hospital room; waking, confused and afraid, to see the man he now knew as Brian Mulroney, in a doctor's coat, grinning at him with a syringe in his hand.

A big, shaven-headed Hispanic man, also in a Doctor's white coat, had helped Mulroney dress him. He'd flopped and fallen, unable to control his body, unable to resist as they'd dumped him in a wheelchair, taken him out into the cold rainy night and buckled him into the back of a car driven by Lee Brackett.

Mulroney had sat at Blair's side in the back, the big bald guy up front with Brackett. They hadn't restrained him, there was no need, though he was starting to regain control of his body, but - jerked out of a coma with who-knows-what drug, he was weak and sick, confused and bewildered; not really knowing what was happening or why.

He didn't know where they were taking him - never got the chance to find out. He could only assume they must have been somewhere near Seattle when the rain turned to snow and they hit ice on the road. He remembered the sudden spin, the loss of control, the yelling, the screams of terror as they crashed into the tree and everything stopped. All was silence and he found himself on the floor of the car, staring up through the smashed window at the flakes of snow trickling in on the wind. The air smelled of ice and gasoline and there was blood on the window. Mulroney was lying across the back seat groaning, his head gashed open, bleeding heavily. The bald guy was alive but out cold. Brackett was clearly dead, his head hanging at a sick angle, his neck cleanly broken. A door had sprung open. Blair climbed out and began walking.

He walked a long way; half in, half out of his mind as he staggered barefoot along the road, cold and numb, not feeling the stones that ripped up his feet...

Around about here, his memory of events became a broken-mirror of splintered images. He remembered living on the streets, always hungry, eating from the garbage; mostly he remembered the all-pervasive feeling of loss and confusion and the constant cold that ate into him and never went away, not even when he was in the jungle. He remembered being always afraid, terrified that the men who had taken him away would find him, so he stayed hidden, sleeping in the shadows, afraid to come out in the light.

He remembered sheltering in a derelict, broken building with others; being attacked one time and protected by another homeless man whose name, he was sad to realise, he couldn't now remember. He remembered the lizard, or did he? Was there a lizard? Was that someone's name, or was someone from his jungle world?

He remembered sleeping in a doorway on the coldest night of his life when a gang had found and threatened him; one pulled a knife and he'd run - they'd chased him out onto the well-lit streets where men were yelling and fighting; he'd been grabbed and fought like a cornered lion till they handcuffed him and threw him in a van, wide-eyed with terror, thinking he'd been caught at last, but it was only the police.

He was sick, too sick to live on the streets, they'd probably saved his life. He'd been thrown in a cell, photographed and fingerprinted (and why didn't that flag up at the Cascade PD? He needed to ask Jim about that).

Two men had come to check him out and talk to him, only he couldn't understand anything they said, half in and out of his dream-world as he was. They took him to a hospital where the little cockatoo - no. No... it was Mainey, Doc Mainey who'd come. He took him away to Harborview where they cut his hair and bathed him and he was warm, at last and...

Here his memories became confused, crossing over into the imagined world, the warm world of the jungle and animals and he couldn't distinguish much of what was the mundane world of the hospital; of drugs and tests and doctors, of strange smells and warm beds and cocoa and the warm, wet jungle...

But these details didn't matter, only three things mattered and they were Brackett, Mulroney and Bald-Guy. Brackett was no longer a threat but Mulroney was still out there and... Jim... Jim was in such danger.

Blair could still feel himself through the link, could hear Jim's voice, like the faint whispers of distant voices echoing down a long, dark tunnel. Concentrating everything he had on the link, trying hard - too hard? Maybe he should just relax - consciously letting go, settling his mind into a meditation stance, he felt for the link, that slender, glittering thread, trying to reach Jim and make him understand - Save Jim, help Jim, tell Jim; warn him - trying to send him the image of Mulroney's face; silver-hair, hook-nose, pale eyes. Taking a chance, throwing everything he had into communicating with his partner he dropped all the barriers he'd erected, knowing Powell would feel him, would know what he was doing and would return to inflict fresh tortures on him, he threw everything into telling Jim, warning Jim, praying he would get the message to be on his guard against Mulroney and whoever -whatever shady organisation - was behind him.

"Blair, hey Blair, you OK?" Jim lifted Blair's chin, tried to look into his eyes but they were rolling in his head; his breathing was off, his heart a little trippy. As Jim held him, trying not to panic Blair moaned long and low, and began to jerk and spasm.

"Everything OK back there?" the taxi-driver called, watching them in his mirror. "He don't look so good, maybe I should drive you to a hospital?"

Jim hesitated; the seizure seemed to be over but Blair looked worse than ever; his breath hitched as if he was in great pain; he was conscious but his head flopped and rolled as if it were too heavy for his neck; his heart was missing occasional beats, he was sweating, feverish. The thought shot through Jim's head that Blair was dying; panic told him he should rush him to a hospital - knowing as he thought it that that would be useless; no hospital was equipped to deal with Blair's condition.

"No," he said, his voice a cracked half-whisper - clearing his throat; "No," he said more strongly. "We're taking him to his doctor, he'll be OK."

The taxi-driver didn't look too sure, but he nodded and kept driving.

Eli threw Jim a worried glance. "How is he doing?" he asked softly.

"Not good," Jim confessed through gritted teeth. "This shaman had better be good, Eli."

Stoddard laid a hand on Blair's sweaty hair. "He's the best, Jim. I promise you, if anyone can get our boy back, Jeff Watson can."

"I don't know, Eli. This is all so wild, are we really doing the right thing? I'm so on edge, so cranked up; I hardly know what to think about anything anymore."

Stoddard sat, absently stroking Blair's hair, staring ahead, avoiding Jim's eyes; the professor looked scared half to death - a frisson of doubt and terror washed through Jim as the car drew up outside the pleasant, dove-grey, clapboarded house, deep in the leafy suburbs; the home of Jefferson Watson, Urban Shaman.

The man who answered the door was tall and distinguished-looking in a pale-grey suit of expensive cut; Professor Watson - `please call me Jeff' - was a man designed to inspire confidence in any number of establishment professions; Jim would have happily tagged him a doctor, lawyer, banker or politician, but shaman? Doubts crowded in as Watson ushered their strange little party into his home, as genial and welcoming as if they were carolers he'd invited in for egg-nog. Jim's confidence fled with the last of his courage and he would have gone straight back out to the taxi and asked to be driven to the hospital if Blair hadn't suddenly seized, clasping Jim's biceps in a crushing grip as his legs gave way and he began to slide to the ground. The two academics rushed to his side, helping to maneuver Blair into a large, sunny room where Jim laid him down on the couch and kneeled at his side, the better to monitor his life-signs.

Blair was weak; his heart flittered feebly like a butterfly caught in a spider's web. His eyes flickered under blue-veined lids; trapped in a bad dream Jim ached to wake him from. He laid his hand on Blair's brow; he was sweating but icy cold.

"What do you feel, Jim?" Watson asked, incongruous and tall as he perched on the arm of the sofa by Blair's head; his voice kind and gentle and full of concern.

Jim swallowed; his throat was tight, constricted by fear at what he was sensing. "So much of him is gone; I don't know how to describe it to you. He's... broken, splintered, like a shattered mirror hanging over the fire; little pieces falling to the hearth. It's like Blair's shattered too, losing little shards of himself; I can feel them peeling away..." Jim felt himself drifting, losing himself in Blair, suddenly finding himself standing on the dark end of a long tunnel, dimly lit by light shining from the other side, which was far, far away; unreachable. There was a breeze, ice cold and smelling of snow.

He heard Blair's voice, yelling, afraid; frightened and in pain. Jim began to run towards the light, fast as he could, but it was so far to the other end, he might as well be standing still; then he heard Blair's command to `stop!'

It was dark and cold; what had been a mere draft, like a door left open on a winter's day, was now an arctic blast that shrieked down the walls of the tunnel so that Jim had to shield his eyes against the stinging cold and howling wind.

"Blair?" he called. "Where are you? Let me help you!"

The voice came back, echoing inside his head and flashing with terrified colours; "No! Jim! Go back!"

"I'm here to help, let me help!"

"It's too soon, I'm not ready..."

"Time's running out!"

"I know!" Blair's voice, desperate then despairing, tearful - "I know, man. I know but... he's too strong; Jim, like you wouldn't believe. We can't defeat him, not yet, but I'm working on it; give me a little more time..."

"Blair there is no more time!"

"Yeah, there is; not much, I'll grant you, but there is still time, Jim. I have a theory - all those books - not wasted - trust me, Jim. Please."

"How long?"

"I don't know. I'll tell you when..."

"How?!" Jim heard himself, panic-stricken, devastated, hopeless.

"You'll know when - but Jim, you come now and it'll all be for nothing; he'll have you too; he'll have everything he wants and there'll be no defeating him. Don't let him win! Wait, just a little while. I think I know what I have to do."

Jim felt hands on him, tugging at him, pulling him back, out of the tunnel as he resisted, fighting them, screaming as he was dragged into Jefferson Watson's cosy sitting room where everything was safe and normal, where Blair lay dying on a feather-stuffed couch.

Jim was lying on his back on the rug, wet with sweat and shaking violently. Watson was holding his head, rubbing thumbs against his temple in slow, soothing circles. Stoddard was gripping his shoe-less feet and looking terrified. "Dear God, dear God, Jim," he stuttered. "You frightened me half to death!"

`What happened?' was what Jim intended to say; all that escaped was a mush-mouthed groan.

"Easy; easy now'" Watson crooned. "That was quite a little trip you took there, Mr. Ellison, perhaps you'll tell us about it when you're ready?"

"Blair..." Jim croaked, suddenly scared, craning his head, trying to see his partner.

"Is just fine," Watson said. "Thank you mother," he said softly, switching his attention to the silver-haired woman, looking down on Jim from what seemed a tremendous height.

"Is the young man alright, Jefferson?" she asked in a clipped, New England accent. Bone china jingled as she maneuvered a rickety wooden tea-trolley over the thick Persian rug. She seemed unperturbed; maybe, as the mother of a shaman, she saw this kind of thing all the time, Jim thought. He tried to sit up but felt dizzy and nauseous and glad that Watson's large, square hands insised on pressing him back down.

"No, no, no, Jim, you stay where you are for now; that was quite a tumble you took."

"You had a seizure of some kind, Jim," Eli said. He was still kneeling at Jim's feet, dabbing at his face with a huge white handkerchief.

"Have you had them before?" Watson asked Jim as his mother rattled cups and poured tea somewhere overhead; the warm citrus scent of the tea met Jim's nose and he wondered if all academics drank Earl Grey. "Seizures, I mean;" Watson went on, accepting a cup from his mother, putting it down on the table to his right; when his fingers returned to Jim's temples they were warm from the cup; Jim closed his eyes, enjoying the massage.

"No, he said. "I've never had one before."

Watson gave a knowing little nod. "Not really a seizure was it; not in the medical sense. You took a little trip to the other side, didn't you? Did you see your friend there?"

"We talked," Jim said; he felt heavy, sleepy.

"Uh hm," Watson murmured, waiting for him to go on.

"Blair...?" Jim gasped, starting as he remembered, getting on his elbows so he could see his partner sleeping, apparently peacefully; heartbeat steady, breaths slow and even.

"Has calmed down now," Watson said. "Though he became very agitated when you collapsed."

Jim swiped a palm across his face. "You shouldn't have brought me back."

"We couldn't have left you where you were, the way you were..."

"You don't understand! He's dying, he's running out of time!"

"I understand perfectly well, Jim, but we have to do this properly if we're not to lose you, too."

Jim sat up; he leaned over so he could see Blair, see his face, hear his heart. "OK," he sighed. "I hear that. You're saying you can tell me how to do it right; you'll help me help him?"

"Jim, it's what I do," Watson said, smiling softly. "I know what you're thinking, that I'm just a crusty old academic who's lost a few marbles; a silly old man playing hippie tricks, thinking he's a shaman - but I really do know what I'm doing. Not all shamen wear paint and feathers, you know.

"I think you already have the basics, I sense that the power is strong in you but you don't have the experience and this business, retrieving a captured soul, is not a job for an amateur. You need guidance, an anchor, otherwise you're likely to get lost too and that won't help your friend now, will it? Perhaps you should try to sit up on the couch now, Jim, have some sweet tea and cake, get your blood sugar up and then, perhaps, you'll be able to tell us about what happened to you on the other side and we can begin to talk strategy, plan tactics." ~

Professor Watson took a hold of Jim's arms as if about to lift him, encouraging Jim to get up off the floor and into the armchair behind him. Watson balanced a cup of hot tea on the arm rest. Jim took a sip, grimaced - almost spat it out.

"Too much sugar? Sorry," Watson smiled. "I really think you need it, messing with the metaphysical plays havoc with the blood chemistry but perhaps you should just have some cake? I'll get you a fresh cup of tea."

Jim watched Blair who lay very still on the couch beside him. He reached over and laid his hand on Blair's neck feeling the blood pulsing in his throat. He seemed very weak; his heartbeat was steadier now, but fast and feeble.

Watson placed another vast slab of cake and more tea at Jim's elbow and Jim found his temper starting to rise; while everyone was sitting around drinking tea and nibbling pastry, Blair was...

He didn't want to say dying, even to himself.

"How is he?" Watson asked, easing himself into the chair beside Jim's.

"Not good," Jim snapped. "Why are we wasting time like this? Shouldn't we be doing something...?"

"We are doing something. You just took a header on the rug, Jim. When did you last eat?"

"I feel fine! I'm doing a whole lot better than Blair."

Watson shifted in his chair, made himself comfortable and spoke in a tone of heavy patience. "What you are about to attempt is highly dangerous and arduous in the extreme even for a practiced shaman. I won't help you do something for which you are ill-prepared and which would most likely kill you - such an outcome would damage my reputation." He smiled, his tone warmed. "Jim, you can't go fighting demons on an empty stomach. I need you to eat and while you do, I'll tell you as much as I can about what you're attempting and how you might deal with what you're likely to find on the other side. Is that alright with you?"

Jim broke off a piece of the cake and popped it in his mouth. It was very good, home-baked; he could taste butter, vanilla sugar, lemon peel. He took another bite.

"Good," Watson smiled. "And when you've finished that, might I suggest a gingerbread cookie? Mother bakes them herself."

"They're excellent," Stoddard agreed, finishing the last of his cake, speaking with his mouth full. "Susan sends me some every Christmas."

"Sugar," Watson explained, holding out the plate of cookies. "You're going to need it. Take two - at least," he said as Jim reached out his hand. "And now," Watson sighed, leaning back in his chair again. "I shall try to explain..." He paused a moment, gathering his thoughts.

"What has happened to your friend is called `soul capture'; nothing special or unusual about it, it's a recognized phenomenon in all shamanic cultures, only our mundane Western world with it's fixation on provable facts, refusing to acknowledge anything but the visible - only in our world is such a concept considered in any way incredible. When such a tragedy occurs, the task of the shaman, the spirit doctor, is to pass into one of the many worlds that parallel our own, find the lost soul and bring him back. This, of course, is highly dangerous. Normally, none but a highly experienced shaman would attempt such a thing, but you..." He slapped a firm hand down on Jim's knee and shook it with a manly grip. "You share a powerful link with this young man, do you not?"

Jim nodded, still a little unsure of this suburban witchdoctor; far from convinced that the man was anything other than a charlatan.

Watson took a drink of his tea and went on; "The big thing you have to understand is that the shaman exists simultaneously on the spirit and the worldly plane - normally in such a ceremony, not only the shaman's body, but the biggest part of his soul stays behind; the part that journeys is called the `fetch' - the shaman frees the fetch to travel beyond him or herself do such dangerous tasks as the one you are about to undertake.

"The trouble is, creating a fetch, learning to control spirit - that takes years of learning; I'm not sure you'll be able to do that, Jim, I think you're going to have to send the whole of yourself out there and that, of course, is extremely risky. Would you like to tell me what happened to you before, when you saw your friend?"

"I didn't see him. I was trapped in some tunnel; it was cold..."

"Heard him then? You were talking, shouting his name while you were out."

Jim tried to remember every detail. His main memory of the event was Blair's fear and desperation, the frightened colours. "He was frantic, begging me to go back; said it wasn't time yet, he had things to sort out."

"Things to sort out...?"

"That he - Powell - was strong, too strong for us to defeat. He said he had a theory about that but he needed more time. I told him we didn't have more time. He asked me to trust him."

"And do you?"

"Of course."

"Good." Watson steepled his fingers against his lips and sat in thought awhile. Jim exchanged a glance with Eli who was sitting, listening, transfixed, his cake half-eaten, forgotten.

"I wonder what it is that he's planning," Watson said eventually, almost to himself. "Have you any idea?"

Jim shook his head. "I wish I did."

"Hmmm. And how are we to know when he has tested his theory and feels it's safe for you to travel?"

"He said he'd let me know."

Watson nodded. "The link is that strong?"

"Yes," Jim said, without hesitation.

"Good." Watson clapped his hands together, startling both Jim and Eli. "Well then, I suggest I continue to teach you all I can Jim, while we wait for a sign from your friend. More tea, gentlemen?"

He felt a shimmer of uncertainty run through the link.

"I know. It's hard to explain but I'm running on empty here and I'm using pretty much all the strength I have to block him so he can't hear me through you. Guys, you have to believe me and trust me; his power, this immense power he has, is all down to you. It's your energy he's using to keep you all prisoner here and... I'm getting help to fight him, but it won't be enough unless you all detach, disassociate, break the link; don't be afraid..." Blair's voice broke and he had to stop. Trying to breathe through the pain, he felt an energy - several energies - at his back; then the ropes binding him to the tree loosened and fell away.

Blair sank down into the snow, looking up through the snow-laden trees into a white sky, scant snowflakes flickering down to melt against his face. He closed his eyes, tried to gather strength. "We have to stop him from feeding on your energy," he murmured. "Deny it to him and use it ourselves."

"And how do we do that?" Tom Fitzgerald's voice echoed, disembodied from behind him.

"Hey, Tom," Blair smiled. "You seem to be the only one who can materialize enough to actually talk. I wonder why that is? - maybe because you've been here the shortest time; he hasn't taken as much energy from you. You finally figured out a way to untie me. Cool..." his voice faded to a whisper.

"How do we stop him using our energies?"

"Well, we combine forces." Blair spoke softly, hardly able to speak at all, forcing the others to gather closer.

"How?"

"You're full of questions, aren't you?" Tom's form shimmered out of the shadows; he stood over Blair, looking down at him. Blair felt the others circling; he had their full attention. "Feel for him," he breathed. "Find him inside you then cut him out; deny him, ignore him..."

"Then attack...?"

"No! No; he feeds on anger and fear - all the negative emotions make him stronger. This is more like peaceful..." he waggled a hand in the air, searching for the word - "non-resistance."

"Non resistance?"

"Yeahhhh..." Blair breathed with a smile. "We cut ourselves off from him completely. We don't run from him, don't fear him, don't answer back or respond in any way and at the same time, we link together as a group, make bonds, mental bonds - shouldn't be hard, we've been doing it the whole time; I can feel you all, feel your emotions here" - he tapped his forehead. "I'm willing to bet you can feel me, too." He felt the warm colours; a glow of wonder as they started to link into each other.

"Yeah," he smiled. "That's the link; we all share it, even Powell - especially Powell because he's using terror to block us, stop us from using it, but if we stop being afraid he'll have no power over any of us. That fear, it's a physical thing, the thread that binds us all to him; we break it; he'll lose all his power. Together we're stronger than him."

Tom squatted down on his haunches, to look Blair in the eye. "And you know all this, how?"

Blair grinned. "I'm a shaman, man, it's what I do. Got it from a book, actually, about the shamanic practices of the Jivaro Indians. `Read it the night before I got here."

"So why'd it take you so long to figure out?"

Blair's smile slipped a little. "Well, you know, I've been pretty traumatized too."

Tom was looking at his feet. "I'm really dead, aren't I?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

Tom nodded. "So, what happens next, after we free ourselves, assuming we can?"

"I don't know, man. One step at a time, right? Whatever happens can't be any worse than how it is now."

"For the shaman, many sicknesses are caused by literal dis-spiritment; losing a part of oneself, a part of the soul. Looking at Mr. Sandburg," Watson laid a palm, softly against Blair's head and paused a moment; closing his eyes in thought. When he opened them again, his forehead was furrowed, worried. "So much of him is gone," he said his voice tight.

"You feel that too?" Jim asked, shocked to hear a stranger voicing what he'd known from the start.

"Yes indeed." Watson said softly, lifting his hand, keeping his eyes down, not looking at Jim. "Jim, I'm afraid there's very little left linking him to this world." - His voice, with the solemn, practiced kindness of a doctor about to announce bad news, flooded Jim with terror. "I just don't know what we're really up against here and you... You've no experience..."

"I've been to the other side before," Jim snapped defensively.

"Jim brought Blair back from the dead," Eli added. "He's journeyed to the other side and brought Blair home twice now, Jeff. He's hardly a novice."

"Yes, you told me the story in detail, Eli but what you don't - what neither of you seem to understand, is that the situation facing us now is very different from before. Blair is not lost; he's the prisoner of a powerful being. I'm not saying he can't be returned, but the task will be arduous and dangerous in the extreme."

"I don't care," Jim said. "I'll bring him home, or stay; whatever..."

Watson didn't look too impressed with that idea. "I can't let you go if I don't think you'll come back. I can't let you sacrifice yourself."

Jim swallowed a curt reply. "I was a soldier," he said. "I'm not afraid to risk my life. If you won't help me..."

"Did I say I wouldn't help?" Watson leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes. "I'm happy to do all I can, Jim and I know that you'll do all in your power to save this young man but - In all honesty? I'm a little lost; not at all sure what's happening here." Leaning over the arm of his chair, he laid his hand back down on Blair's forehead. "I can feel that Blair has power; he has the potential to be a strong shaman but... that power is raw, untrained; his antagonist, this Powell, he's..." Watson closed his eyes; there was a long pause; the room and everything in it seemed to hold its breath as Watson attempted to read the situation through Blair. Finally lifting his hand away with a sigh, he shook his head and met Jim's frightened eyes. "I can't break through Blair's barriers to read him; your friend is blocking him out rather effectively. That must be using a great deal of energy."

With an arthritic cracking of knees, Professor Watson stood to pour more tea from the seemingly endless supply in the big brown pot, keeping warm under a hand-knitted cosy. "Let me tell you about the first time I brought back a kidnapped soul," he said, turning to offer Jim a cup. Jim didn't think he could drink more tea, but he took it anyway; stuck it on the arm of the couch, beside his half-eaten ginger cookie and turned his gaze back on Blair. Watson eased himself down in his chair, adjusted the cushions, sipped at his tea; fidgeting and fussing as Jim made tight, tense, fists and tried to control his irritation with the man .

"It was a young man called Michael," Watson said at last. "He was in a beautiful meadow of golden flowers, tied to a tree by his neck; by a rope wrapped around and around" - Watson gestured wrapping a noose about his own throat then paused again to sip at his tea.

"He looked terrible; defeated and broken; his head was hanging down, he was in great pain. I was very angry, enraged; what sort of a soul would do a thing like this to a fellow being? So I called on my spirit animal..."

Jim's head snapped up in surprise. Watson smiled. "We all have one, Jim. I see yours, the jaguar; a handsome beast. He's been pacing and snarling around us the whole time. He, like you, is impatient to get this quest underway but he, like you, must wait until the time is right."

Jim glanced around - he'd felt the panther's presence; hadn't seen him yet - but Watson had. The old man was smiling, pleased to have surprised him; Jim felt the first true spark of respect; it seemed the Professor was a bona-fide shaman after all.

"Your spirit animal will help you create a force field to protect you from harm as mine did for me that time. The woman - she was called Amber, a sweet girl, by all accounts - went on the attack. She'd been Michael's lover and was determined to keep her loved one with her." He paused to sip at his tea. "She'd died in an accident but couldn't move on, too tied to her life with Michael. He'd been sick and she'd seized her chance, stealing a chunk of his soul as he hung between worlds, hoping that he'd die so they could be reunited." He finished his tea. Jim shifted uncomfortably as he waited for the man to go on.

"Knowing what I was there to do, naturally, she was very angry; she threw everything she had at me, but she was a newly dead soul with little power and couldn't even break through the protective force my spirit guide had thrown around me. She burned out very quickly; broke down in tears, poor soul. We - myself and my animal friend; he's a stag, by the way, beautiful creature - we let down the protective shield and approached her; explained to her what had happened, how what she was doing was very wrong, that she was hurting the man she purported to love. Fortunately, she knew she was dead - not all of them do, you know - and it didn't take long to persuade her to let her lover go. She was easy to defeat and turn to the light.

"I freed Michael and brought him back to his body. The poor boy was very sick, greatly weakened by his stay on the other side but immediately began to recover when his soul parts were returned and he's stayed strong and healthy to this day."

Watson laid his cup and saucer carefully down and leaned forward to look Jim in the eye. "That one was easy; most of them are - most imprisoned souls are being held by misguided former lovers or family trying to cling to a loved one. What has happened to Blair is different. Blair is being held by a jealous and malicious being of great power. Bringing him home is going to be very hard, harder than anything I've ever been asked to achieve."

"I'll do what it takes," Jim said.

"I'm sure you will, Jim but..." Watson leaned back in his armchair, steepled his fingers and chewed on his lip. "I have to say, I don't envy you. This Powell must be drawing on a great source of power..." Watson turned the full force of his ice-blue gaze on Jim. "We have no idea how strong he is. Of course, Blair was already weakened by sickness before he was taken, was already spending time, too much time it seems, on the astral plane; he must have been easy to grab. Nonetheless..." Watson mused a moment, drumming thoughtful fingers on the chair. "Nonetheless, to take the soul of one still conscious and ambulant in the full light of day when he was surrounded by other souls, including one so tightly linked... It sounds like we're dealing with a pretty tough cookie, Jim. You'll have the help of your spirit animal, but so will he and who knows what other powers he's gathered around him. Persuasion isn't going to do the trick this time; you're going to have to use brute force. Do you think you're up to that?"

"Do I have any choice?"

Watson suddenly leaned across the arm of his chair, laid his hand on Blair's head and closed his eyes for a second or two then looked up at Jim with a rueful smile. No, I don't think you do," he answered, enigmatically, then - "I think your young friend is ready to talk to you."

Watson got to his feet and sat on the table in front of Blair. Laying one palm against Blair's head, he reached out with the other. "Hold my hand, Jim. Come on!" he snapped as Jim, confused by the sudden change of mood, was slow to react.

Jim gripped Watson's hand in his, feeling a mild buzz of power thrumming through the professor's body. "Ah yes, that's better," Watson smiled. "You can feel that?"

Jim nodded. Watson stood, pulling Jim up with him. "You should sit here, where I am." He maneuvered him over to sit on the table, beside Blair. "Place your hand on the crown of Blair's head." Jim did and felt the buzz, much stronger now it was coming directly from Blair. Watson sat on the table beside him. "Take my hand, Jim." As Jim took hold of the shaman's hand he felt energy flood through him.

"Stoddard, come on, you too, Watson said, snapping his fingers impatiently. Eli shook himself from his fascinated reverie, moving to the couch, sitting at Blair's feet and taking Watson's outstretched hand, letting out a yelp of surprise as he joined the chain. Watson laughed.

"See Jim, even Eli Stoddard, the most insensitive, un-psychic man in Washington State can feel the energy; imagine how strong it must be! Stoddard, place your other hand on Blair."

"Where?" Eli asked uncertainly.

"Anywhere! Come on, man, complete the chain!"

Eli laid his right hand on Blair's feet; the energy generated hit Jim with the force of a speeding train, almost throwing his hand clear. It took strength to keep contact with Blair, like trying to bring two powerful magnets together. "What's happening?" he gasped. "What are we doing?"

"Creating a circuit, Jim," Watson yelled, laughter and triumph in his voice. "The energy circles, we let it build and feed it back to Blair!"

Jim closed his eyes, concentrating on the link. It was a rush, like mainlining something profound and powerful.

He felt darkness envelop his mind like clouds on a mountain; the air around him became frosted and cold. Suddenly overcome with weakness, his head rolled back and celestial rainbow lights - powerful, undulating; bright and beautiful, like the aurora borealis he'd never seen - flashed through his mind, luminescent and beautiful and loving - so much love; an overwhelming force of perfect love...

He heard Watson calling him. "Jim. Jim, are you alright?"

Jim opened his eyes; he could still see the colours, still feel the love; like a daydream watched through the mind's eye as the real world passes by, half-seen. Professor Watson was smiling, Stoddard watching, wide-eyed and a little afraid.

"Yeah," Jim breathed, turning a soft, druggy smile on Watson. He felt stoned; high on the beauty and the love.

"I'm guessing Blair sent you a sign."

Jim nodded, unable to speak. He closed his eyes, savouring the afterglow. Blair. The signal was strong; Blair had recovered, or was drawing power from a new source.

"Are you ready?" Watson asked.

Jim nodded.

Watson stood. Walking round the room he lit candles and turned of the lamps. The room warmed with flickering lights and the heady scent of incense and amber. Then Watson placed a disc in the sound system and the sounds of drums and chants - so reminiscent of Blair and his `Earth Music' - hypnotizing rhythms that seeped through Jim's consciousness like spilled oil. Jim found himself slipping away, his connection to Blair deepening.

"Good luck Jim," Watson said softly, his voice already a thousand miles away as he sat beside him and joined Jim's hand with his.

Blair felt the surge in the link when Jim arrived; heard the crunch of his feet through the snow as he approached. Making sure the chant was solid, that the chain would hold steady before lending a little of his mind to his partner, Blair lifted his head, blind eyes staring, seeing only with his inner eye; to do otherwise would mean linking back into Powell's world and he couldn't risk that.

"Hey," he said, smiling as Jim's joy at seeing him sang along the link.

"You look terrible." - It was so good to hear Jim's voice, stark and clear in the cold air.

"Nice to see you too," Blair whispered, softer than ever. He grinned, enjoying the sensations of Jim's presence here, feeling the link between them strengthen and shine.

"I can smell blood."

"Yeah; he did quite a number on me but he won't be doing it again. He's tried three times now to break through our shields but he can't. Can you see them, the others, here with me?"

"No, but I know they're there; not sure how, it's more like a disturbance in the... I don't know. I don't know what I'm sensing; nothing here feels like anything I've ever experienced. I can feel the power; like standing in a gale only there's no wind."

"We're creating a vortex, keeping our own energy circling, inaccessible; drawing power from him as he tries to break through."

"We're doing the same, back there..."

"We?"

"You, me, Eli Stoddard and a shaman called Jefferson Watson."

Blair laughed out loud; the sound rang like temple bells in the frosty forest. "Eli Stoddard's part of a chant-circle?"

Jim chuckled.

"Jeff Watson huh? Way to bring out the big guns."

"You know him?"

"Read most of his stuff."

"He seems to know what he's doing."

"I'll say."

"Powell...?"

"Don't! Jim, don't think about him; the others will feel it through the link. He's feeding on our energies; only by denying him can we weaken him. You have to close him out, don't let him link to you. He'll try and he's strong; if you let him in. you'll be lost. Stay linked to me."

"You'll be my anchor."

"Yeah." Blair smiled. Jim believed in him. "We all will. Make sure you're firmly tied to us before you go up against him, Jim; it's not just one soul you're fighting; he has two shamen with him. One was Powell's friend and teacher; he killed him and stole his soul. He used the power that gave him to trap a second soul, one as wicked as himself; he has incredible energies at his disposal."

"How do you know all this?"

Blair chuffed a soft laugh. "I don't know; I seem to know a whole lot of stuff I never knew before. Jim," he said, sobering; "We're in danger back there, almost as much as we are here. I found out all kinds of stuff..."

"One thing at a time, huh?" Jim interrupted him. "Time's running out, and, you know," Jim smiled, nervously. "If I don't get this part right, there'll be no need to worry about `after'"

Blair swallowed, nodded. He bit back his fear; it was leaking into the circle; he could feel the eddies in the vortex. "I hear that," he whispered. "He's weak now, Jim, getting weaker all the time; his hold on everything is slipping; at times I can hardly feel him at all."

"Is it enough? You said he was immensely strong; can I defeat him?"

"I don't know," Blair murmured, faint and frightened.

Jim walked over to where Blair sat, cross-legged beneath a stately, frosted pine - the strange, glassy stare, unkempt curls and meditative stance gave him the look of a creature of Greek mythology. Jim sat down beside him and laid a hand on his head. He was hit by a dizzying power surge but felt no warmth; Blair was cold as a corpse, reminding him that Blair's physical body was lying on Jeff Watson's couch, that none of this was real in any sense that he'd previously understood - that his understanding of what was real and what was not was undergoing a radical overhaul; that nothing in his life could ever be the same after this.

Blair bent his head slightly, leaning into Jim's touch. "Detachment, Jim," he murmured. "Don't be swayed by anger, he'll use that, it gives him his power. Fight without rage, I know it's hard, but he's losing his grip. I know you can do it, man."

Jim placed a kiss on Blair's icy cheek; vermilion, amber; a flood of warm emotions surged through Jim's consciousness as a single tear tracked down the pale face, freezing as it fell; a tiny icicle of sorrow.

"Don't be afraid," Jim whispered into his ear.

"Together we're strong," Blair whispered in agreement.

We have to be, Jim thought, schooling his thoughts, mindful of the link - allowing nothing but strength and confidence to flow back to Blair as he stood, dusted the snow from his pants and set off through the trees on his quest.

Jim's feet crunched through the thick snow; he felt strong here, felt loose and easy and young again. He could smell the ice, the pines; he hadn't expected it all to be so real. Of course, he knew it wasn't; he could still feel his physical body, hear the chants, the music, scent the candles - Watson had told him they were the life-line, anchoring him in the physical, to stop him being lost.

He didn't need any of it; Blair was keeping him grounded; he could feel him and the shining thread that linked them - the power of it thrummed through his veins like cocaine as he reached for Powell along the link, finding him easily, following the faint and fading thread that led to a clearing where the leopard lay cowering in the snow; alone, defenceless and terrified, his terror and confusion howled through the link. Jim stopped a few feet away, leaned against a tree, tried to sense what was happening but felt... nothing. No vibrations, no life force; as if Powell was dead, even in death.

Then the illusion of the leopard fell away, leaving the battered, half-transparent image of Powell, crippled and helpless in the snow. He smiled up at Jim. "Chose your enemies carefully," he croaked. "The more time you spend thinking about them, the more like them you will become."

"Napoleon," Jim responded.

"He knew what he was talking about. He was like you, Jim; he knew about fear."

"I'm not afraid of you."

Powell rattled with laughter. "Oh, Ellison, you misunderstand!" he mocked. "I know you're not afraid of me; were you ever? Your little buddy, Sandburg was scared shitless from the start because he understood. He knew what I was; knew my power, knew what I was capable of doing with it. But you?" he tut-tutted. "So closed off, man; so terrified of what might touch you? You didn't have the sense to be afraid. Sense. Ha! Ironic, huh? That's almost a joke."

Powell was weak, his outburst exhausted him. He leaned his head back, gasping for breath.

"You're wrong, Powell. Blair was the only one who wasn't scared..."

"Not of this! Not of the power, that's his strength the way your denial is your greatest weakness - but he was scared of me, Jimmy boy, I knew it, I felt it - that's how I was able to take him, right from under that super-charged nose of yours."

What happened, Powell; why'd you do it - how'd you do it?"

"It's all about the power, Jim," he murmured, breathing hard. "You have to be strong. I needed him; all of them; had to be strong to fight them."

"Them?"

"Can't fight `em now; no power left. I'm lost. No, you're not afraid of me, now are you, Jimmy? Course you're not, but as I was - oh you were scared, Jim, whatever you claim, I know you were terrified - of this..." he gestured at the icy world he had created; thawing now - water dripping from the icicles that hung from the trees. Jim could feel the air warming, the snow beneath him softening; see his breath misting, hear water rushing.

"The mystic, the magical," Powell went on. "If you can't see it, can't touch it, it ain't real, ain't that right Jimmy?" he taunted. "Well you can see all of this, touch all of this, can't you? Can't you?"

Jim said nothing; too angry, too full of hate to speak.

"I know what you think of me Jim,that I'm deranged, evil - but I did what I did to stay strong. You gotta be strong to fight `em Jim. They're after you, your little buddy too; I know because they sent me to do the job. They want us all and who's to stop `em, Jim? I tried man, I learnt the secrets of the universe, I got power, man." Tears choked him; breathing hard, fighting for his voice, he pressed on with his strange, garbled attempt to explain. "Don't judge me. Please, Jim. It was the only way to fight 'em; I did it because I had to! I did it for us all..."

"You're rambling, Lew ..."

"Believe me, we need that power, gotta know what they're doing before they even think it; gotta stay one step ahead. That's why you need the magic, man! And they're coming for you, Jim, you and your little fuck-buddy. They want us all, men like you and me..."

"There are no men like you and me, Lew; we have nothing in common."

"You think?" Powell threw back his head and laughed. "Oh baby! Well maybe I won't tell you, then. I'll let you figure it out for yourself, Jimmy boy. Your little baby boy, your l'il fuck toy - he knows. He ain't as stupid as you. He knows and he's scared."

Jim came forward, crouching down, coming face to face with this man; former colleague, fellow cop - a man who had caused so much pain and suffering. Powell reached out and grabbed him; Jim tried to feel him through the link but he was all but gone; no energy flowed the way it had with Blair and the other spirits. Jim felt nothing in him but cold derision and hate.

"I may not be the man I was but I can still see inside you," Powell hissed. "I know you better'n you know yourself. I can see your fear. You'll never be strong if you fear it, Jim; an old soldier like you should understand that. Embrace it, Jim, embrace the power..."

"And be like you? I don't think so."

Powell laughed weakly; Jim could hear more tears rising in his throat. "But you are Jim; you're just like me! The only difference between us is that I fought. You'll run."

Ferns and grasses were breaking through the snow around them; everywhere the ice was melting. Jim felt a weak force thrown against him; like a child pushing against his chest. Powell gasped with even that feeble effort, collapsing back, panting and sobbing. Jim walked over to sit beside him. He felt the force against him again, even weaker than before.

"S'all over now," Powell sighed, laying back. "I tried, but they still won in the end. They've gone, Jim, they've all left me."

"Who left, Lew?" Jim moved closer. Lew was fading, becoming more and more like the formless energies of the spirits he had held here for so long.

"What happened to me?" Powell asked, pathetically. "It all fell apart. I was powerful, I was strong, but then... I couldn't hold on to anything. They kept evading me - I searched everywhere; I couldn't find them and while I was out looking, the shamen spirits got away. I don't know where they are now, wandering around out there somewhere I guess. They hated each other; I used that, it was good, it made me strong but ... I lost control. When I couldn't hold them apart any longer they fought each other and denied me their power and now I've lost them and they're gone and I'm alone, all alone, Jim!"

Powell was babbling; Jim couldn't understand a word. Then Lew waved a hand in front of his face. "I'm blind!" he screamed. "I've gone blind! Oh God, what's happening?"

Jim took a deep breath, tried to control his anger tried to work through his feelings to do what Watson had taught him. "You have to move on, Lew."

"I can't!" Powell backed away, blind eyes panicked; raking the greening landscape. "I can't move on!"

"Sure you can..."

"With what I am? After the things I've done? Can you imagine what's in store for me? I'm going to Hell! You too, Jim; you and your little fuck buddy, all the fagots; we're all going to Hell!"

"No Lew, that's not right," Blair said - Jim turned to see him as he arrived in the clearing. The trees were green now; a bright sprinkling of flowers had appeared in the grassy meadow where he and Powell sat. The ice-blue sky had warmed to a dazzling, cloudless cerulean.

"What you did was terrible and you'll have to pay for that," Blair said calmly. "But not the way you think. No one's punished, Lew." Blair laid a warm hand on Jim's shoulder as he came to stand behind him. Jim looked up at him; healthy and whole, the sun shining in his hair; so beautiful...

"You don't know that!" Powell spat.

"Actually, I do." Blair sat at Jim's side, the sun shining, hot on their backs. "Come on, Lew, let me help you."

"The others..."

"Have already gone over."

"They'll be waiting for me!"

"It doesn't work that way."

"Yes! There'll be retribution!"

"Lew, you have to let me help you. This world you made, it's over, done; you can't hold us here any more, we're already being drawn back..."

As Blair said it, Jim realized that the drums, the chants, the scent of incense and candles, were much stronger than before. Watson's room seemed very close now.

"When we're gone, you'll have to find your own way over.I don't know if you'll be able to do that, please, let me help..."

"Aren't you listening to me? I don't want to go!"

"Lew, there's nothing to be afraid of." Blair reached out to Powell who backed away as if Blair's touch would scald him.

"Get away from me!" Lew's scream of horror was like a distant echo, like a shout from the far side of a deep, wide gorge. Powell was right in front of him but Jim could feel the distance between them lengthening; if he reached out, he could touch him, yet he seemed a thousand miles away. Accelerating - Jim felt a rush and clutched his head; sick with vertigo, he heard Blair's desperate cry:

"Lew! Please! Let me help you!"

And Lew's terrified response; "Get away! Get away!" - reverberating in his mind like a voice in a dream, already fading as he felt Watson's rich, red velvet couch beneath his fingers, smelled the tang of his own adrenaline and sweat and the oily reek of burned out candles; heard Watson's anxious pleading; "Come on now, Jim, come back to us."

He felt Blair's hand - warm, solid, real, in his; waking to see a pair of worried blue eyes watching him from the other side of the couch - Blair; awake and whole, undamaged, returned.

Blair stood by the window, looking out on a city shrouded in white. His reflection stared back at him with Cassandra eyes; he was not the same being who had left this loft a year ago, his possessions in boxes, his life in ruins; he was something stronger now.

They'd made it home just ahead of the snow. It fell thickly, steadily, all through the ride back to Prospect, the journey taking three times longer that it should. By morning it lay thick and white on the silent Sunday streets and there were frost ferns on the windows - an impenetrable forest of silver and white that hit him with a powerful sense of Dj vu.

Blair opened the doors and stepped on to the balcony. A water-colour sun and a fat, placid moon hung out together in the cloudless, silvered sky. Such weather was abnormal for the usually mild Cascade spring - a cold front bringing winds from the north. Shivering suddenly, he breathed in, then out; his breath misted but didn't freeze; he really was home.

There were ghosts everywhere; in the street, in the loft. Deeply aware of their vibrations, their rainbow hues pulsed around him; weak and barely visible amongst the powerful vibes of the living - how had he failed to notice them before? Poor disembodied souls, too attached to a place or time in their lives to even think of moving on, some were waiting on loved ones, others were like Powell; afraid to go forward for fear of what might be waiting on the other side. So many ghosts - another new experience; learning to live with the dead and the unfamiliarity of living in more than one dimension.

He took a sip of his tea, mug steaming in the arctic air like some infernal brew from an old horror movie. So tired; he closed his eyes, just for a moment, feeling the tug of the jungle, warm and welcoming, always so close, always calling - urging him to step through and rest awhile. He hadn't accepted that invitation since they'd returned - not because he was afraid; his experiences in Powell's world had left him stronger than ever; he was confident in his abilities, he knew what he could do now; what he was capable of. He felt powerful, strong and confident - a shaman. He didn't cross over because it would terrify Jim.

He opened his eyes, lifted his mug to his lips; acutely aware of Jim's scrutiny from the other side of the glass.

Jim still hadn't accepted the changes in their lives; the change in their mission; unlike Blair, his encounters with the Other Side had left him suspicious, unhappy and afraid; he still saw the spirit world as a menace that threatened to steal Blair from him - a thing to be fought, not embraced.

Jim had taken to hiding his apprehension in work. It was a week since they'd returned from Powell's world, both shaky, feverish and exhausted. Blair couldn't speak at all for almost three days and was still stuttering badly. He'd spent his recovery time learning all he could from Jefferson Watson; exchanging experiences, seeking answers to a thousand questions. Jim had wanted nothing to do with the shaman and had instead, exhausted himself working eighteen hour days, obsessively seeking their enemies - Mulroney, Macanally, Palmer, the mysterious W.A.S.P; who knew how many more there were? - Refusing to discuss what had happened, taking refuge in the work, napping on the sofa, computer at his side, protecting them; preparing to run.

Blair understood; they had to learn all they could about these shadowy figures who knew Jim was a Sentinel; Brackett, Powell, the fake-feds - all knew their secret, but they didn't only want Jim, they'd come for Blair first; they wanted them both. They were both in great danger.

And he couldn't help wondering and worrying about Lew Powell. He'd looked deep inside him and spoken with the souls he'd imprisoned. It was his conversations with the soul called Cayute that had helped him form the plan that defeated Powell and robbed him of his power.

On the run, knowing something of what he was, Powell had been drawn to seek help from one of the few who understood what a Sentinel was and what he needed. Cayute had once been Guide to a Sentinel; he'd taught Powell, tried to help him use his gifts, but Powell used Cayute's teaching against him; he repaid the old man's kindness with murder, stealing his soul, using Cayute's knowledge and power to take another shaman's soul, a man almost as evil as himself, going on to kill other innocents, holding their souls prisoner, too; using them to build his power to almost unimaginable levels.

It should have taken him years - a lifetime - to develop such skills yet Powell had done it in a matter of weeks. How? Could it possibly be because Powell had been a Sentinel? Perhaps some Sentinel senses were enhanced beyond normal and into the paranormal? - And Powell was only part-sentinel, with only three enhanced senses. Could Jim - if he undertook some training, if he let go his fear and accepted what he was - could Jim become as powerful a shaman as Powell had been?

Clearly, there was much to think about; many lessons to be learned.

Blair's eyes tracked to his partner, tapping away on his laptop by the fireside - Jim seemed to have developed an aversion to the cold. When they got home last night, he'd lit the furnace and the fire and they'd cuddled together in the warmth and soft light of candles...

Their first night together in Jim's bed had been electric; the connection between them extraordinary, in every sense. Blair felt what Jim felt, sensed what he sensed; knowing that Jim was feeling exactly the same.

It was like nothing - nothing - either had ever experienced before; touching was being touched, fucking was being fucked; the sensations were vast, drawn out beyond the stars, beyond eternity; as tightly compressed as the singularity at the broken heart of a black hole. All and nothing, everywhere and nowhere, unbroken pleasure arced between them, building and building and with each thrust, Jim entering his mind as well as his body so that Blair could see and feel and hear his thoughts which were terrifying and beautiful, afraid of what was happening while loving every second; a frantic, chaotic firestorm of light and colour and love and so fucking perfect and so intense, Blair actually slipped out of his body for a time, only to find Jim there with him, in the jungle and still inside each other's heads. Then they were back in the bed, bodies sliding together, minds reaching out to each other in the timeless vortex of unbearable pleasure and being inside each other's bodies and souls...

And when it all finally broke in a frenzied light-storm of oneness and they were floating down, back into the real world of uncertainty and fear, Blair found himself back, briefly, in the world of ice and snow, scenting the candles and hearing the chants and, knowing this was Jim's pain he was feeling, Blair took Jim's hand and drew him out of time, into the warm, bright rainbow of his embrace, where there was no one to hate, or hurt and nothing to fear.

When they finally dropped back into reality, Blair was shaking and sweating, half dead with exhaustion, his body reminding him he was still sick; letting Jim soothe and nurse and hold him, protect him; knowing Jim needed to love as much as he needed to be loved; that helping Blair was helping Jim heal, too. Jim was not as visibly wounded as Blair; his wounds were deeper, too deep for anyone but Blair to see.

Blair glanced back through the window; Jim's eyes met his and Blair's mind filled with a confusion of colours - warm, frightened, loving, tired. There were no barriers between them any more; sometimes it seemed, not even air. He shivered; it was too cold out here. He went back inside and shut the door on the snow. The loft was warm, too warm; Jim was keeping the heat high because Blair was sick. But Jim was sick too...

Jim got up and came over to him, wrapping Blair in his arms like a blanket, warming him inside and out. Placing a warm hand on Blair's face, he tilted his chin and took his mouth in a deep kiss.

"They're coming for us;" Jim whispered. "I can feel them and I'm... We can't just run or we'll be running forever. We have to stand and fight."

Blair couldn't argue with that, though the prospect filled him with dread. 'together we're strong,' he said without speaking. stronger than them.'

Jim's arms tightened around him.

`that doesn't mean I'm not scared.'

Jim grinned. "Not as scared as they're going to be when we go after them... Are you laughing at me?"

`no,' Blair laughed; felt the ripple of bright colours bounce back at him as Jim deepened the connection. He closed his eyes, ignoring the ever-present pull from the other side as he leaned into Jim's embrace; he could stay here forever.

It was good to be warm again; to be home.

End

Angel Dust by Panik: maya.paneka@gmail.com
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