by Lindmere

This story is set, with permission, in Susan Foster's GDP universe, and takes place a few years after the current series. It also references "Dark Guide." Sure, I could summarize them, but why would I want to deny you a great read?

It is dedicated, of course, to Sue, whose compelling stories inspired me to do what I thought I never would, and write one of my own. She has been unfailingly generous, not least of all in her willingness to share.

Many thanks also to beta readers Connie and Kaye, who didn't blink when asked to read a first-timer's story. My goodness, you're brave!

Oh, and it's still "in progress" (i.e., unfinished) so abstain for now if that kind of thing annoys you.

Guide War

 Part One

Whatever else I am, Jim Ellison thought, I am not a shopper.

He had slipped out of work early to find a gift for his and Blair's bonding anniversary, to be celebrated that evening. Sure, he had a $100 gift certificate to the local mega-bookstore, but the more he had thought about it, the more lame it had seemed, like the gifts he used to get for Carolyn: a dozen roses, a gold chain, tickets to a show--all pricey and tasteful and utterly impersonal. Carolyn had borne them with good grace, but he was sure they had ended up filed under "Jim doesn't understand me at all" in the mental inventory that had led to their divorce. And if it was bad to prove you didn't know your wife, it was worse to show you didn't know your guide, the person who made your thoughts and feelings his life's work.

Jim had dropped hints, but Blair had let them land with a thud. "Anything I want, I already get from you," he had said. "Whoa, that sounds bad, let me try again. Nothing you could give me would be better than what I have."

Which was all very touching and spiritual, but no help at all. So here was Jim prowling around the quaint shops of Gaslight Square in the cold, when he could have been back home giving Blair a hand with the meal he was cooking for tonight. At least it wasn't raining. Oh, wait, now it was.

Jim peered into the windows of Olde Lantern Antiques, evidently a junk shop with a large rent bill. Deciding that chance was his only friend now, Jim went in. The musty smell hit him right away and made his nose tickle. A pale, rabbity looking guy behind the counter greeted him without looking up from his magazine.

Jim wandered through the aisles, full of chipped salt-and-pepper shakers and half-drained lava lamps. A yellowing poster in the back caught his eye: IT MAKES GOOD 'SENSE'. TEST YOUR CHILD NOW.

Jim froze and felt a shiver of memory. The image on the poster could have been mistaken for a child getting his eyes examined, but Jim knew better. It was a sentinel recruiting poster, at least 30 years old, from the era when sentinel/guide testing was still voluntary. Good citizen that he was, Jim's father had driven him down to the recruiting center for the test. They had both been disappointed when it had come back negative.

Jim drifted over to the poster, lost in memory, and found under it a strange collection of objects, like a scrapbook from his nightmares. A primitive white noise generator the size of a shoebox, with its original packaging: "Protect your family from SENTINEL SPYING!!" A couple of old GDP uniform patches, with the all-seeing eye logo that had given the conspiracy theorists fits. A children's book titled "Sentinels Save the Day" that Jim thought he remembered reading. Every kid had wanted to be a sentinel back then; it was like being Superman, having magic powers. Too bad that when Jim had finally gotten his wish, it had seemed more like being possessed.

No kid wanted to be a guide; no boy, anyway. Guides were second bananas, sidekicks who yakked about feelings and had to duck and cover when there was trouble. Jim guessed that was why there were no guide dress-up kits, just a few vintage GDP pamphlets like "Managing Guides in the Workplace." Next to them was a tangled ball of leather and nylon. Just as Jim realized with shock what it was, there was a voice at his elbow.

"Hi. Are you a collector?" It was the rabbity guy from the front counter, now alert and interested.

"Do you know what the hell this is?" Jim asked without preamble. Without Blair here to channel away his anger, maybe he could indulge himself and just pound the guy.

"Uh, sure, it's, like, a guide training harness. It helps protect guides when they're working with new sentinels."

"It's called a leash, and it's a torture device." Jim loomed over the man, contenting himself for the moment with non-violent intimidation. "Do you carry thumbscrews and bamboo splints, too? Or maybe not, since those might offend someone, and this thing is only used on guides." He shook the disgusting object in the man's face.

The man took a step back and raised his left hand in submission, while gingerly plucking the leash from Jim with his right. "Hey, sorry, I didn't know. The guy who sold me this was ex-GDP."

"That should have been your first clue that he was lying." Jim suddenly felt tired and a little ill. The leash had brought back bad memories, and the idea of some underground economy trafficking in GDP crap depressed him.

"Hey, I'm no fan of the GDP either," the man said defensively. "Tell you what. I have a collection in the back room that this might fit better. Why don't you come back and, like, have a look?" Jim would rather have done just about anything else, but he owed to Blair to check it out, in case something creepy was going on.

The man led Jim through a creaky corridor to a narrow door bearing the business card of Nelson Muntz, proprietor. "Are you Nelson?"

"Yup, that's me, and this is my store. I'm also one of Cascade's top three dealers in sentinel memorabilia."

From Nelson's tone, Jim assumed that was supposed to be something to be proud of. It wasn't all that lucrative, from the looks of the dusty firetrap that was his office.

Nelson disappeared for a moment under a huge roll-top desk, presumably to open a safe. Jim could hear the tumblers clicking. A moment later he emerged cradling an armful of treasures, which he laid carefully, one by one, on the desk.

A button that said "Free the Guides" in bubble type. A program for a rally to "End Government Slavery." All from a time lost in fog in Jim's memory, which young Nelson Muntz could hardly have remembered.

"Where did you get this stuff?" Jim asked, picking up a thick manual, bearing the GDP logo and titled "Sentinel and Guide: A Behavioral Approach."

Nelson shrugged. "My folks were in the movement. They were pretty active for a while, at least until I was born. You know, painting their faces and marching on GDP Headquarters and stuff." Nelson smiled with the patronizing indulgence of the young.

"Oh, yeah? Were they against the wars, too?"

Nelson frowned a little; making fun of your rebel parents was one thing, but admitting they had had treasonous feelings was another. "Of course not," Nelson said primly. "They're both retired now. Mom was a banker. I found all this stuff in the basement when they moved to Arizona. They had no idea it was worth anything."

And I'm sure you didn't tell them, Jim thought. When he'd been in the army he'd been outraged by the idea of anyone back home protesting against what they were doing. Now it seemed quaint, almost refreshing, that anyone had bothered. Sentinels--and by extension the GDP--had helped win the wars and bring peace to the hemisphere, and most citizens seemed disinclined to question how they had done it.

Jim flipped through the manual and stopped at a random page, expecting to see the usual GDP blather about duty and servitude. He read:

Particularly during the early stages of the bond (0-4 weeks, or until the onset of secondary "claiming" behavior), it is important to accede to the guide's wishes in all matters concerning the sentinel's behavior and health. This helps establish a balance of power in the sentinel/guide relationship, and favorably positions the trainer as "guide-positive" during a crucial phase of boundary development.

The phrase "balance of power" jumped out at Jim, so powerfully that he almost zoned on the jagged edges of the letters.

Jim tore himself away from the manual. "How much for this?"

"I'm sorry, these items are from my personal collection." Nelson's refusal sounded well-practiced. "If I wanted to sell, which I don't, I could have the top five sentinel collectors in Cascade down here in an hour." His smug expression wilted a little. "Besides, this is mostly top-secret stuff. The GDP would probably have me killed or something."

"Maybe you don't understand how important it could be. To one person, and maybe to a lot of people."

"That was my parents' scene, not mine. I have a business to run."

Jim sighed. The kid was just a hobbyist, basking in the reflected importance of his stash of objects. Fortunately, Jim was in a position to play that game.

"OK, so how about a trade?"

"What did you have in mind?" Nelson shoved his hands in his pockets and starting to smile again, clearly thinking he was back on home turf.

"How about a sentinel full dress uniform, only worn once?" That had been for a few hours during his commencement ceremony, and Jim had hated every moment in the over-starched, tin-soldier getup. "With the ceremonial sword, of course."

Nelson stared in disbelief. "I've never seen one of those on the market. How could you possibly know where to find one?"

"The same way I know that pretty 'antique' clock on the mantelpiece is battery powered." A hint of a clue dawned in Nelson's eyes as Jim drew himself up to his full height. "Good, I think I finally hear some gears moving."

Blair's eyes teared up as the smell of garlic filled the kitchen. Amazing that a man who could be sent into a coma by a few traces of certain minerals could handle enough garlic to take out a legion of vampires. Hopefully the red wine and lemon juice would tone it down to the point mortals could tolerate. Everything else--the greens, potatoes, dessert--was ready, or waiting to be done just before serving.

It was ironic that Blair loved cooking, and was good at it. Cooking was a "guide skill," one of those nurturing (and subservient) talents that were supposed to be innate. It didn't take a Ph.D. in anthropology to figure out that most of the "genetic" abilities that GDP researchers had "discovered" were straight out of the pork-chops-and-applesauce, greet-your-hubbie-in-a-clean-apron era that everybody except the GDP realized had ended thirty years ago. So now it was guides who cooked, cleaned, shut up, and were grateful for the scraps of food and pocket change that their sentinels deigned to give them. The only thing missing from the fantasy was sex, and even then...

No. He wouldn't let his mind go there. Not today. Today was his personal Independence Day, the anniversary of his liberation from Alex Barnes and the GDP hyenas, and the reclaiming of his life.

Blair set some tapenade, a dish of olive oil and a loaf of crusty bread on the dining room table. The centerpiece--fruit and evergreen in a pottery bowl--looked autumnal and, he hoped, acceptably masculine. He could count on Jim not to bring him flowers; there were too many weird anniversary parallels already (what was this anniversary, anyway? Crystal? Something from the periodic table?) Originally he'd offered to throw a party, but Blair had declined, knowing that Jim didn't like crowds in the loft. It might have been territoriality, or maybe just that he hated fishing cocktail napkins out of the potted plants.

Keys jingled at the door and Jim appeared, paused, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. Blair took this as a pointed compliment, given that Jim probably picked up the garlic two blocks away.

"Steak?" he asked hopefully. He was carrying a book-sized package, wrapped in marbled paper and a gold ribbon, which he laid discretely on the little table near the door. Blair contemplated its shape and mentally crossed the Classy Watch and the Nice Pen off the probable gift list. His gift to Jim, encased in a blue velvet bag, was hiding in the shadows under the loft stairs. To Blair it seemed to exude a palpable energy, but Jim did not even flick a glance its way.

"Yeah. And potatoes."

"Great. I skipped lunch to make room." Jim patted his non-existent belly and headed for the table. He paused to take everything in. "It looks great, Chief. Everything. Just great."

An hour and half later, Blair watched in awe as Jim scooped up the last bite of port wine-flavored flan. And licked the spoon. "Man, I don't believe you. "

"What, that I'm capable of appreciating a fine meal?"

"That you'd finish everything on the table just to avoid storing leftovers."

"Maybe I should eat the plates, too, and then I won't have to worry about the dishes." He pushed back from the table and gave Blair a significant look. "Anyhow, they can wait 'til later. There's something we should take care of now."

Blair nodded, feeling the solemnity of the day settle over him once again. It was nice to pretend sometimes that they were just friends, and partners. Just roommates, sharing a space and a meal. But then the world would tilt just a little and they'd be Dark Sentinel and Dark Guide, playing out a script that had been written a long time ago.

They moved into the living room, Jim refilling his glass of Rioja and scooping up his package on the way. Blair retrieved his own bundle from the corner. He thought he could feel its burning coldness through the soft cloth. Jim had already settled into the sofa, so he laid it carefully across Jim's knees, feeling a shiver as he did so. It was almost home, almost where he needed to be.

"Mine first." Blair whispered, hardly able to form the words for excitement. Jim grabbed his arm and pulled him down onto the sofa, sliding his arm around Blair's shoulders, giving them a quick squeeze. Blair took a deep breath and let his barriers down completely, drawing on Jim's strength. If Blair had guessed right, what followed would be intense for both of them.

Jim drew a breath for a question, or maybe a joke, but one look at Blair's eyes stopped him, and he turned his attention back to the package on his knees. He untied the knot in the drawstring and let the fabric fall away from its contents in one soft, velvet whoosh.

Encased in its tooled leather scabbard, only the hilt of the sword flashed bright. The pommel and crossguard bore a pattern of leaves and swirls, and the leather grip matched the scabbard. Jim grasped it firmly and pulled the sword from the scabbard. Running from the point up the sword's steel flank was a primitive geometric design, leaves and whorls and geometric shapes. Where the blade broadened were two abstract figures that Jim and Blair knew very, very well.

A wolf.

A panther.

"Blair," Jim gasped. "I don't know where you got this, but it's yours, not mine. It was made for you. It was always so important to you..."

"Because of what it symbolizes." Blair's voice was firm, although Jim could feel the air around him vibrating with his emotion. "Back then, I used it to protect you. It takes more than a sword to do that now. So this symbolizes my oath to protect you in whatever way I can, with my own life, if necessary."

Jim lifted the hand that had been tracing the patterns on the icy sword blade, and raised it to cup Blair's face. "You know I don't like it when you talk that way."

"So now I won't have to say it ever again. You can just look at this sword, and you'll know."

Jim shook his head slowly in wonder. "Where did you even find something like this?"

"Swords 'R' Us." He grinned, the serious guide expression suddenly gone. "Actually, one of my students works at that Renaissance fair they have out at Bear Meadows every fall. One of the craftsmen out there hand-forges swords for re-enactors. He was totally into it when I told him I'd seen this design in a dream."

"Did you tell him you used to be pretty handy at separating people from their limbs with a sword like this?" Blair was touched to feel pride coming from Jim, pride in an accomplishment he had technically not possessed for centuries. Jim traced a finger over the intricate design, fascinated, and then ran his left index finger down the blade. He turned his hand over, and a thick line of blood was already welling from the cut.

"Oh, man. Oh, Jim, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let him hone it so sharp. I was going to ask him to run a stone down it, but he showed me how it could cut paper, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. I'm so sorry, I'll get a tissue..." In an instant, Blair's pleasure and pride had evaporated, and self-doubt had come flooding back. What Alex Barnes and the GDP had put there would never completely go away, even with Jim's years of patient reassurance.

Jim caught Blair's wrist with his uninjured hand to keep him from darting away. "It's OK, Chief, I did it on purpose." Blair watched, puzzled, as he ran the fingertip down the flat of the blade, leaving a red film in its wake. He gently pulled Blair's hand over to rest on top of his own. "Remember? What Wolfstein said about swords being thirsty?"

Blair's panic melted away and he beamed back at Jim. "'A sword has a thirst and if you don't give it another's blood to drink it will want yours.' You don't remember nine-tenths of the things I tell you. Should I be offended?"

"Certainly not." Jim sucked briefly on his finger before reverently lifting the sword in both hands and moving it to the coffee table in front of him. "Chief, this is the most amazing thing anyone's ever given me. I'll find a place of honor for it, I promise."

Blair, full of pleasure now, pointed to the wrapped package sitting on the table. "Do I get to open that now?" Instead of reaching for the package, Jim looked suddenly uncertain. "What's wrong? Did you get me power tools?"

Jim's smile seemed a little forced as he reached out for the package. "Whatever I get you would be less than you deserve, Chief. Just--just remember that and go easy on me, OK?"

Wanting to spare Jim what was apparently the agony of suspense, Blair pulled off the ribbon and paper quickly, and stared disbelievingly at what was inside. "Do you have any idea what this is?" he whispered.

"I hope it isn't--upsetting. I thought it might help with your research."

"Jim, this is a GDP report by Dr. Edward Merganthaler that, officially, doesn't exist. Merganthaler was one of the first post-war GDP researchers to look scientifically at the guide/sentinel relationship. I only know about his work from GDP abstracts. He's regarded as a pioneer, and there was a bronze bust of him outside one of the lecture halls at the academy--the big one on ground floor of Building C, remember? But since his work predated breakthroughs in genetics, he attributed a lot of sentinel/guide behavior to 'adaptive reinforcement,' meaning that sentinels and guides learned 'typical' behavior from each other--basically, from positive or negative reinforcement when they did certain things."

"I can see why that didn't sit well with the GDP."

"Right. It means that sentinels and guides only need each other, and the whole GDP structure can go screw itself." Blair looked down at the brittle, yellowing report in his hands, and felt the same excitement he had when he'd first picked up Burton's "Sentinels of Peru" after sneaking into the state university library using a fake ID. It was a scholar's buzz of discovery, feeling the rush of cool, dry air from a tomb no one had entered for two thousand years. But it was solemn, too, for it meant that he might be closer to the liberating and dangerous truth he'd been quietly pursuing since his return to the university. He could only shake his head and look back at Jim with wonder. "This is incredible, man. Especially since I know how you feel about my thesis."

"Blair, I want you to finish your thesis. I just worry about your safety. I wish I didn't, but you know better than anyone that I can't stop."

"Right. Anymore than fish can fly." Blair tried to look solemn, but his affection seeped through and he threw his arms around Jim, who grabbed the manuscript and set it out of harm's way before folding Blair in a bear hug of his own.

It felt so good, Blair thought, Jim's cotton sweater soft against his cheek, residual scents of aftershave and garlic, Jim's collarbone and shoulder equally unyielding. When he was seasick from a day of being buffeted by other people's emotions, Jim was comfort and relief. But now he was just a friend, someone who knew him well and loved him enough to want to make him happy, even if he scared himself in the process. Blair slipped his arms around Jim's slim waist and pulled away just enough to whisper to him. "I'm so glad I found you."

"Just in time, Chief. I'll never forget that. I'll never forget what you gave up for me."

Blair kept his voice soft, so Jim wouldn't hear it breaking. "No more than I got back. Everything that you are, plus everything that I am. One soul, Jim."

They held each other's eyes for a moment, and when Jim spoke the words it sounded like an echo.

"Marked and claimed, guide."

"Marked and claimed, sentinel."

And Blair put his head back down on Jim's comfortably uncomfortable shoulder and shivered with happiness while Jim gently stroked his hair, all the while watching something over Blair's shoulder. As Blair drifted to sleep he thought he heard a soft growl of contentment, coming from behind him.

Jim's morning began the way the worst ones usually did, with the phone ringing. He tried whacking his alarm clock, but the chirpy cadences of his cell phone were unmistakable. It was Simon, so there was no choice but to acknowledge its existence and answer it. He could hear Blair banging around in the kitchen, probably looking for coffee filters, of which there were none.

"Simon, it's Jim."

"Jim. Hey. Sorry to get you up so early. I know you and Blair had your, uh, thing last night. But I've got a dead body, and apparently it's a sentinel. Was one, anyway."

Better and better. "What's the address?"

"2942 Alta Vista, across from the old arena. A neighbor phoned it in about an hour ago, heard a ruckus late last night and only felt brave enough to investigate when the sun came up. Uniforms are there and forensics is on its way. Better bring Sandburg, if he's free."

"There's a hundred percent chance GDP goons will be there before we are."

"I know, Jim, but with the sentinel angle, I'd feel better if he were here with you."

It's only living sentinels that are the problem, Jim wanted to say. I'm not likely to be jealous of Blair around a corpse. But he knew Simon regarded all things sentinels as equally mysterious and volatile. "I'll bring him, but only if he's OK with it." Faint hope that Blair would actually say no.

Fifteen minutes later, he was showered and dressed and standing in front of Blair, who was offering him a cup of what was clearly tea.

"Sorry, man, I forgot to pick up coffee filters. This will have to do for a caffeine inoculation, unless you want me to run down to Grimaldi's." To Jim's annoyance Blair actually looked like he thought it was his fault, although, Jim was glad to see, he also looked well rested, for a change.

"I was supposed to pick them up yesterday, but I was running behind and I didn't want to be late for dinner. I'll get some today, and tea is fine," he said. To make Blair believe him, he grabbed the mug and took an oversized gulp. "That was Simon. A sentinel was killed last night and he thinks you should come to the scene with me, if you don't have other plans for today." Blair was already starting to nod, so Jim said hurriedly, "You don't have to. There's bound to be GDP there, and I know murder scenes aren't your favorite."

"No problem, Jim, it's my job." He grabbed his own mug of tea and sipped absently. "Anyone we know?"

The Alta Vista address was a mid-rise, post-war apartment building in ugly yellow brick, a utilitarian block dropped into the middle of one of Cascade's nicer, older neighborhoods. Jim homed in on the crackling static of police walkie-talkies and led Blair up the stairs to a third-floor apartment, open and already festooned in crime scene tape.

The two uniforms who had responded had formed a barricade in front of the door, keeping out curious neighbors. Jim recognized Keysha Simmons, a good, no-nonsense cop.

"Detective Ellison, we were told you'd be the lead on this one," Simmons said. "We haven't touched anything. The forensics team is on its way. We had to break in the door; no one could find the super."

"Right. Do you have the victim's name?"

"Daniel Trager. The downstairs neighbor, a Mrs. Hall, knew his name, and that he was a sentinel. He complained a couple of times about her parakeet, saying the chirping bugged him. I guess it's lucky she didn't have a big dog." Simmons grinned briefly at Jim before looking back at her notes and lapsing back into law enforcementese. "Neighbor was awakened at approximately 5:15 this morning by loud noises and voices coming from the upstairs apartment. Initially she was not surprised because the victim was known to have a job that often required him to work a night shift. The sounds continued for approximately one half-hour and then ceased, at which time Mrs. Hall decided to get up and get dressed for work."

"It didn't occur to her to call the police?"

"She seems to think all sentinelsare police, and that it was none of her business. When she left for work, she saw that Trager's car wasn't in its assigned parking space. She thought that the voices she heard in Trager's apartment might have been intruders, so she called it in."

Blair had been inching closer and closer to Jim while they talked, until his shoulder was brushing Jim's. Although he had had more years of looking at dead bodies than some cops, he always found it upsetting. Jim wondered sometimes if his empathic abilities extended beyond death, and if he were able to detect some after-echoes of the victim's suffering. As Jim drew his breath for another question, Blair suddenly lifted a staying hand and asked, "Did Trager have a guide?"

Simmons looked down at her clipboard. "I don't know. The neighbor, Mrs. Hall, didn't mention one."

Of course not, Jim thought. To most people, guides were like furniture; they were seen, but stayed below the threshold of observation. Blair ignored the slight and gripped Jim's arm, asking urgently, "Can I go talk to Mrs. Hall? If there's a guide, he or she could be in danger."

Jim hesitated. Officially, Blair was supposed to be assisting Jim with his abilities, nothing else. They'd broken that rule more times than he could count. But interviewing witnesses was clearly irregular, although it could be argued that Mrs. Hall wasn't really a witness, and could just as easily have been loitering in the hall, where Blair could have struck up a conversation...

He gave Blair's hand a quick pat. "OK, but make it quick, Chief. I'm going to be scanning the crime scene, and I may need your help." Blair vanished down the stairwell before Jim had reached the door of apartment 3F.

The apartment itself was no less grim than the building's exterior: earth-toned furniture at least ten years out of style, dingy wall-to-wall carpeting in rental beige, and art that seemed derived entirely from stadium giveaways. In the middle of the rug lay Daniel Trager wearing a tan uniform with a patch that said "Rockland Security Systems" on the pocket. There was not even a pool of blood to provide a splash of color.

Jim always felt an odd stab of recognition when he looked at another sentinel objectively. Trager was tall and broad with a developing doughnut gut, clearly physically powerful, with blandly handsome, regular features. The bruising around his neck and the darkened whites of his open eyes made it pretty obvious he had been strangled, although the M.E. would have to make it official. Jim's gaze wandered from the unpleasant evidence of Trager's demise to the patch on his chest. Did Trager really have a gig as a security guard? No sentinel that Jim had ever heard of would be working a job that, at least as far as cops were concerned, only required a pulse and a regular shirt size.

Jim began a routine scan of the crime scene. Although "human crime lab" was a favorite--and tedious--saying of the commissioner's, it was true that Jim could accomplish in a few minutes what a forensics team might need days to do. Evidence wasn't about collecting every hair and cigarette butt; it was about finding that one object, large or small, that pointed the giant finger in the right direction.

He could smell nothing unusual beyond a faint, flowery scent that reminded Jim of his grandmother's house. Maybe Trager went in for room freshener; it would have driven Jim crazy, but then no two sentinels had problems with the same scents or tastes.

He scanned the floor around the body and found a few hairs, long and coppery. Possibly a man, but more likely a woman; a girlfriend? He saw metal glinting from a depression in the brown carpet and pulled out what, to Jim's once-married eyes, was clearly an earring backing. Besides that there was little else. Evidently the dead man had also shared Jim's preference for cleanliness. He would have liked to examine Trager's clothes and body more closely, but that would have to wait until forensics was finished photographing the scene.

There was a loud knock on the door, and Jim jumped up to answer it before the uniforms could, expecting Blair. Instead, there were two GDP officers, dressed in uniforms of a style Blair had once described as "Royal Mounted Scoutmasters of the Kingdom of Freedonia." The sides of beef filling out the uniforms were built to match, burly enough to intimidate and with scant evidence of a brain.

"Sentinel Ellison. I'm Patrick Dennehy and this is John Metzger," the taller, dumber-looking of the two said. "We appreciate your securing the scene. You can tell these officers to leave now. A GDP team will be here shortly." Annoyingly, Metzger brushed right past Jim and began snooping around, poking his head into first the bedroom, then the kitchen.

Without Blair present to channel away his anger, Jim was forced to count to ten. He made it to three. "Are you prepared to state that Sentinel Trager died while carrying out an assignment for the GDP? Because otherwise this is Cascade PD business, and you're intruding on a crime scene."

"We're not prepared to make any statements, sentinel," Metzger said smugly, returning to his partner's side. "But I can tell you the GDP rents this apartment on Sentinel Trager's behalf."

"Right, and I'm sure he appreciated all 20 square feet, and the leaky faucet," Jim said. "But of course you know that owning a property doesn't give you jurisdiction. This is a privately owned building in downtown Cascade, not a GDP facility. And that means you're entitled to regular updates on what we find, but nothing else."

"Jim!" Blair pushed through the two annoyed guards, either not noticing or not caring that they were GDP. But even as he reached for Jim he froze, apparently sensing the glares being directed at him.

Blair dropped his eyes, and his body language became submissive. "Sentinel. I need to talk to you for a minute. Please."

"Excuse me, but my guide needs me," Jim said.

"Quite alright, Sentinel Ellison. We're already aware of your eccentric preferences concerning your guide." They were fairly smirking now. Jim would given a hundred dollars for a clean shot at both of them.

Blair hooked his hand under Jim's bicep and drew him to the far side of the small room, half-clinging to his arm. He spoke in a barely voiced whisper. "There is a guide. Mrs. Hall doesn't know her name because Trager never introduced her. But she says some of the shouting she heard last night could have been a female voice. Jim, a guide would never leave her sentinel's side if she could help it."

"Unless she's the one who killed him." Jim regretted the remark even before he saw Blair wince. Blair knew too well that it was possible, although Jim hoped Trager had not been even half as cruel to his guide as Alex Barnes had been to Blair.

"Or she could be blaming herself for his death, and be suicidal. We have to find her, Jim."

Jim put both hands on Blair's shoulders and gave them a squeeze, ignoring the audience that was crowding the small apartment. "We'll do our best, buddy." He looked pointedly at the goons, whose cultivated surliness couldn't hide their prurient interest in Jim's dealings with his guide. "If you gentlemen can't find the door, I'm sure these officers would be glad to help you."

"We have orders to retrieve the body for analysis at headquarters," Metzger said. He frowned as if considering for the first time that they might fail to get their way.

"I'm not authorized to release it to you," Jim said glibly, with pleasure. "You'll have to contact Captain Simon Banks of Major Crimes. I'm sure he'll be glad to cooperate in any way necessary with the GDP." Provided he's drugged, hypnotized, or possessed by aliens first, Jim thought. "In the meantime, I suggest you vacate the premises since a truck from forensics is about a block and a half away, and I don't think this luxurious GDP apartment can take the crowd."

Dennehy and Metzger gave a last run through their repertoire of scowls. "Yeah, OK, Sentinel Ellison, but we'll be talking to your captain about this." You do that, Jim thought, not bothering to watch them leave.

"Wait!" Blair called out. To Jim's disbelief, Blair was chasing after them. "Please. Sentinel Trager had a guide. You have to tell us her name."

The goons turned back, smirking now that they knew they'd get their parting shot. "We don't 'have' to do anything for a rogue guide," Dennehy said, grinning. "Of course, if you show the proper respect, we might tell you as a favor. Otherwise you'll have to go to headquarters, and I don't recall that you enjoyed that very much."

Oh God, not this. "Simmons, why don't you go flag down the forensics team so they know where to find us?" he said. At least he could spare Blair the added witnesses.

With Jim's support, Blair had long ago ceased to show the GDP their humiliating brand of 'respect.'" He had overcome intimidation, bitter experience, and the fear they'd bred into him, but he would yield now if it would help save a stranger's life. Jim loved him for it, even through the bitterness of watching a scene he had never hoped to see repeated. Blair folded gracefully to his knees, head bowed and wrists joined at the small of his back. Jim used to hate the gesture, considering it a humiliating anachronism. But Blair had taught him its true and ancient meaning, as a symbol of absolute allegiance and commitment of guide to sentinel. Now, on the rare occasions that Blair performed it, Jim was able to appreciate its beauty, and Dark Sentinel within him swelled with the pride of possession. To see it done here, under the prurient gaze of the GDP goons, tempted Jim to make it the last thing they'd see on earth.

Eyes trained on the dull carpet, Blair said, "Guard Dennehy, I would be grateful for any information you can give us about Sentinel Trager's guide."

"That's better." Dennehy smiled expansively, shooting a glance at Jim to make sure he was watching the show. "We also have orders to pick up Guide Elena Olvera. She's not at her sentinel's side where she's supposed to be." He tore his eyes away from the riveting spectacle in front of him and addressed Jim. "If you want any more information from us, sentinel, your captain's gonna have to play ball." Satisfied with his exit line, Dennehy pivoted and disappeared in a blaze of royal blue polyester, with Metzger right behind him.

Jim immediately bent down and helped raise Blair to his feet. "Easy, tiger," Blair said, putting a calming hand on Jim's arm as he rose from his knees.

"Is that supposed to be a sample of Director Claydove's new and improved guards?" Blair's touch was quickly draining his anger away, and he wanted to indulge it while he could.

"Maybe he kept a couple of the old ones freeze-dried for emergencies," he said, patting away Jim's hands. "I'm fine, really. As far as I'm concerned, I was manipulating them. Now we've got a name. Jim, if she was here when it happened, there's no way she would leave his side, let alone if he were wounded or dead. And if she wasn't here, she'd be locked up at the dorm, and the GDP wouldn't be looking for her. I'd bet you anything that whoever killed Trager took her. Maybe that was even the motive. After all, if they'd just wanted to get rid of a witness, they could have killed her, too."

Jim's reply was interrupted by the reappearance of the uniforms and the sound of shuffling and banging in the stairwell.

"Detective Ellison?" Simmons cast a quick, nervous glance at Blair, apparently reassuring herself that whatever sentinel weirdness had transpired was over. "The examiner wants to know whether you're finished with the walk-through, and it's OK to bring everybody in."

"Who is it? Bob Taylor?" Simmons nodded. "Sure, go ahead," Jim said. "Tell him I'll have my report to him as soon as possible."

Forensics began to file into the hallway, bearing enough equipment for a month-long safari. Jim was heading out the door to talk to Bob when a piercing ring, seemingly coming from the body of the dead man, made everyone jump.

It rang again. Thank god for cell phones, Jim thought; they had replaced barking dogs as the detective's best friend. He yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and dove for Trager's side, wrapping the cloth around his hand so he could reach into the dead man's pocket.

"Hello?"

A pause, and then, "Dan? Where's Dan? Is this his phone?" The voice was male and quavery.

"Yeah, but he can't come to the phone right now." Jim had done this often enough that it no longer struck him as a morbid joke.

"Who are you?" Doubt, and fear, crept into the voice.

"I'm a friend of Dan's. Look, he's in the shower. You want me to take a message for him?"

A longer pause this time. "No, that's OK, I'll call back later." Before he could speak again, the line clicked and he got the dial tone.

"Dammit." If it hadn't been for the GDP idiots, Jim would have found the earlier phone and put a trace on it.

Blair, who'd been listening in, leaned over him and reached toward the phone. "Let me see that for a minute," he said softly. Jim handed over the phone, still cradled in his handkerchief.

Blair delicately lifted a corner of the hanky and began beeping around on the keypad. In less than a minute a smile spread across his face and he turned the phone around, showing Jim a number displayed on its face. "Caller ID. Pretty convenient, huh?"

Jim grinned back. "I guess all that time you spend on the phone pays off." He patted Blair's shoulder and accepted an arm up. "Why don't you call the services desk and get them to look up the number? I'll phone Simon and let him know we have a possible abduction, and see if I can get Simmons to take over the scene."

"Thanks, Jim," Blair said smiling. As grateful as Blair sounded, you'd have thought he knew Elena Olvera. In a way, Jim thought, taking a last look at the body of the dead sentinel, he supposed he did.