Part 4

Jim phoned Simon with a heavily edited update, leaving in the missing guide/murder witness and leaving out the missing guide/kidnap victim. He felt especially guilty when Simon asked in high self-congratulation whether Sandburg hadn't been a big help, and if Jim wasn't happy now that Simon had persuaded him to take the kid along?

Eventually Simon handed him off to one of the admins, who told him that Robert Allen McElvoy lived on Hunt Club Drive in the outer boonies, but was currently listed in the GDP database as "on assignment," short for "if you have to ask, you're not allowed to know." Jim spent another twenty minutes on the phone with the GDP liaison, who reminded Jim twice that he'd interrupted him in the middle of dinner. Jim had to go into his chest-thumping Sentinel Prime routine before the liaison finally came up with the information that McElvoy was assigned to the Endicott Research Center, north of county road 7 at Bremmer Valley.

Jim had never heard of either the facility or the road, but the map showed it being just outside Blowing Falls Wilderness Area, a good hour and half outside of Cascade. Even more ominously, the map showed it right near a beige chunk of nothing labeled Naval Tracking Station (Closed). Chasing after McElvoy now seemed like a much larger undertaking, but the only plausible alternative Jim could think of was to wait for Justin's call and try to pick up some clue about where he was holding Blair. Plus, Elena might not cooperate if it looked like he was backing out of his promise. Still, at this rate, it would be morning before he got Blair back, and he tried not to panic at the thought.

"OK, I find McElvoy and interrogate him, and if I think there's anything to your story I'll pick him up as a material witness. In the meantime, I'm taking you to the station and putting you in protective custody."

Elena's draw dropped, and she looked at him incredulously. He expected her to complain about being locked up, but instead she said, "And what if something happens to you when you find McElvoy? He's a sentinel, and he could be part of this 'project'. Do you really expect me to let you go there alone? What would I tell Blair?" It grated to hear her invoke Blair against him, but he supposed he should be pleased that she knew she was answerable to him, even more than to Jim.

"I think I can handle myself, and McElvoy, and no offense, Elena, but I don't think your presence is going to help me with my abilities."

"Then take me with you because of McElvoy. Won't his reaction to me tell you something about whether my story is true?"

"Maybe all it will tell me is that there's another sentinel out there with a reason to dislike you." She cocked her head and looked exasperated, and Jim relented. Besides, if the GDP found out she was in the lockup, they might bull their way in and try to reclaim her. "Alright, then, but if we get there and I still haven't talked to Blair, I'm not going in, and I'm leaving you at that truck stop at Golden Pass." She looked like she was ready to stick out her tongue at him, and he thought, That's progress.

A half hour later they were sitting in the truck in uncomfortable silence, Jim mechanically reaching in and out of a bag of pretzels Elena had brought along while she stared at the hypnotizing pattern the wipers were making as they smeared the road salt across the windshield.

He could think of any number of things to resent her for, beginning with the big one and ending with the fact that he'd missed dinner, but she had that inborn guide's ability to suck it up that never failed to make him feel guilty. He didn't mind treating her rudely as long as she resented it or fought back, but as soon as he thought she was doing out of some misplaced sense that she needed to take it, he felt like a jerk. The silence thickened until he couldn't stand it any more.

"So, I guess you're not originally from the area? Where did you grow up?"

He felt her stiffen, draw herself up straight so that her seatbelt snapped back into place, and she said, "You're right. I'm from Borinquen."

Ouch, Jim thought, should have stuck to baseball. Twenty years ago or so, the island had seemed like it was going to be a pushover to join the Americas, but the nationalists had revolted, leading to a long period of isolation and hardship. It had finally crawled into the union a decade before, its natural resources stripped and its people on the verge of starvation.

"I'm sorry," Jim said, actually meaning it. "That must have been a tough place to grow up."

"My parents were so happy when it was found that I'm a guide. It gave them a chance for a better life. They are actually proud of me."

"What about you? Was it what you wanted?"

"Do you know what I hate about this country?" she asked bitterly. "That is always the first question you ask yourselves. Never mind what it would do for my family, or my people. No wonder you hold guides in such contempt. It's because we put the needs of others before our own."

"So I guess everyone in Borinquen is totally comfortable with the idea of people who can read other people's feelings, and tell when they're lying? Don't fool yourself, fear is universal. They didn't burn witches in the middle ages because of out-of-control consumerism."

"But there are no such thing as witches," she said primly.

"Exactly." That seemed to perplex her, and the conversation died a grateful death before Jim could get too far into his own feelings on the subject. Blair seemed to believe that the truth, if it could only fight its way out of the box the GDP had stuffed it into, would set the guides free. Yet Blair's own field of study seemed to prove time and time again that people believed what they wanted to, even eagerly believed lies if the pressure, or the reward, was great enough.

Jim had decided long ago that he could only afford to have one cause, and he was suffering for that cause right now, driving through a glop of rain and snow that spackled the windshield and made Jim question his faith in all-weather tires. The state road climbed and twisted among the dark firs, and in another half hour he pulled into a gated turnaround, realizing as he pulled up to the guard shack that he hadn't decided how he was going to explain Elena. Who was that lady I saw you with? That was no lady, that was a guide. Just because he knew the GDP was looking for her didn't mean it was up to him to bring her in, did it? Interestingly, there were no GDP markings in evidence, just a small signpost with unhelpful directions to Buildings 1-5 and Incinerator.

The guard, the usual eighteen-year-old-with-a-gun, took a look at his badge and ID, with its red stripe marking him as a sentinel, and looked slightly startled. "Sentinel Prime Ellison! And that's your guide?"

"No." He strived for the tone of mild contempt most sentinels used in discussing guide matters. "My guide has the flu. This one is helping me." Elena handed her ID to Jim to hand to the guard, her meekness surprising him. With Blair he always knew it was an act, because he could read his feelings. He couldn't tell whether Elena was faking or genuinely intimidated.

The kid wrote down the ID number and passed it back, saying brightly, "Who are you visiting, sentinel?"

"I'm looking Sentinel Robert McElvoy. I understand he works here."

"I'm afraid he's gone for the day, sentinel. He checked out about an hour ago."

"Does he have quarters somewhere around here?" It seemed unlikely to Jim that he snaked his way back to the Cascade suburbs every night.

The kid looked blank. "I sure don't have that information, sir."

That was it, then. He'd have to stake out the place first thing in the morning, hoping to catch McElvoy before the guard could tell him who had come looking for him the night before. That meant getting up early, so they should probably find a motel. Jim begrudged every extra hour that he had to spend with the immovable Elena, although it was some comfort to have a goal.

He swung the car around, noting a security camera as he did. Whoever ran this outfit would have ample evidence that he had visited, and whom he'd visited with. Rather than point this out to Elena, he said, "I guess we're staying up here for the night. If this is going on my credit card, then you better come up with that phone call, soon."

Elena looked at her watch, squinting in the darkness. "It should come very soon now."

Not soon enough, Jim thought, hanging a right instead of going back to the state road, toward a hazy bowl of artificial light behind a sign that declared it to be Bentonville, pop. 872. Any motel here was sure to have a totem pole in the parking lot and a dip in the bed big enough to hide a moose.

Only the Blue Goose Saloon showed any signs of life. A flock of big trucks, a few with ski racks but most with gun racks, had gathered in front, but mixed in were a couple of imports and a sedan with government tags. If any of the researchers from Endicott were here putting away $5 pitchers Jim might learn something; at worst he could find out the whereabouts of the nearest Thrif-T 8 Motel.

Jim left Elena in the truck, taking some small pleasure in removing the keys, and thus the heat. The inside of the bar looked a bit better than its unpromising outside: weathered types in flannel ate fried cheese and watched sports; a few couples sat at the check-cloth-covered tables, the women drinking pink wine. Jim caught the smell of garlic and onions, and decided that his plan for ingratiating himself with the locals had to include pizza, never mind what Blair would say about being able to drill for oil on it.

He started to walk to the bar, and suddenly felt the nerve-strumming presence of another sentinel. With effort he resisted the urge to turn around and ambled up to the bar.

"Club soda, slice of lime." The bartender nodded knowingly, though whether he read it as "cop" or "alcoholic," Jim couldn't tell. He dropped a couple of bucks on the table and walked slowly toward the back. The sentinel, a dark-haired linebacker type with a scar on his right cheek, was shooting a solo game of pool under a fake-Tiffany lamp. He finished his shot before straightening up to glare at Jim.

"Sentinel Prime Ellison." Jim recognized the belligerence in his tone, the pointless face-saving aggression. In a way, he supposed that was what the sentinel prime was there for, to keep the bull elephants in line, but it amused him how few actually challenged him.

"Hi. Mind if I join you?" The sentinel seemed surprised, but willingly grabbed a pool cue and handed it to Jim.

"Stripes and solids?"

"OK by me." The sentinel racked up the balls, then broke them with completely unnecessary force. Watching his style, Jim understood why he was playing alone.

"You work up here at the research center, right?" Jim didn't play pool often, but the trajectories and angles made sense to him, and he sunk a bank shot easily.

"Sometimes." Then, as if he couldn't stand to wait any longer, "What are you doing here?"

"A sentinel was murdered. We got a tip that there might be some connection to Endicott, so I came up here to check it out."

The sentinel looked puzzled for a moment, made a ferocious shot that missed, and cursed. "The damn table is warped. Yeah, I heard about that on the news. Must be some mistake though. I've never seen that guy up here."

"Well, then maybe you've seen the man I need to question." Jim selected a shot that happened to be on the same side of the table as the sentinel, then rested the butt of the cue on the floor and gave the man the full force of his gaze. "Robert McElvoy?"

There were two types of bad guys in the world, Jim had decided: talkers and bolters. The talkers would keep insisting it was all a terrible mistake even after you found the murder weapon in one pocket and the victim's monogrammed tie clip in the other. The bolters followed a more basic instinct of self-preservation, and just wanted to get out.

McElvoy was a bolter. He dropped his cue with a clatter and moved so fast Jim had to struggle to get more than a handful of leather jacket. McElvoy responded with a roundhouse punch; Jim grabbed his wrist and pulled him in the direction of the blow, making him stagger and nearly fall as Jim tried to get a neck lock. But the floor was slick with spilled beer, and McElvoy managed to skid out from under Jim's arms and make a break from the door. Jim scrambled after him, pushing away the crowding patrons eagerly watching this free floorshow.

McElvoy reached the door at the same moment Elena appeared, face framed by the small, square window. Dammit, Jim thought, was there a guide anywhere who could be trusted to actually stay in the car? The big sentinel shoved past her, then gave a startled cry of recognition, wheeling back around as the door slammed shut.

A few long seconds later Jim made it out onto the sidewalk to see McElvoy with his right arm around Elena's throat, his left pointing a gun at her temple. Jim drew his own weapon but lowered it when he saw McElvoy's trigger finger twitch. Jim was a good shot, but could do little against another sentinel working at point-blank range.

"Whatever she told you, it's a lie!" he shouted, his mouth no more than an inch from Elena's ear. She yanked futilely at the huge arm choking her.

"How do you know she's told me anything?" Jim kept his voice low and his eyes on McElvoy, even as he waved frantically with his left hand to get the gawking bar patrons away from the window.

"What's she doing here? I know she's not your guide. Maybe you're just banging her, is that it? I guess being sentinel prime has its privileges." He tightened his grip, and Elena swallowed a cry, suffering equally from the choking pressure and the physical contact with an unbonded sentinel.

"I just want to talk." Jim took the classic negotiating position, hands up, head slightly lowered, eyes never leaving the other man's. McElvoy relaxed fractionally. A moment before, all his energy had been bent on escape, and now that it seemed he wasn't being challenged, he had to consider his next move.

It was cold and quiet on the main street of Bentonville. A long way away, Jim heard a car approaching, very fast. With Blair's help Jim might have been able to hear a police radio inside, but then if Blair were with him, he wouldn't be here. Jim's thoughts chased each other. Don't zone, don't zone. Suddenly he had a powerful sense of Blair's presence, only for a moment, but long enough to give him a feeling of peace. While McElvoy's heart rate rose and rose, Jim felt like he could have stood there all night, totally alert yet perfectly calm.

+ + + + +

Blair opened his eyes to the sound of someone climbing the creaking stairs. Please, he thought, let it be Justin, bringing the phone, bringing Jim's voice and the strength and sanity to last the next few hours, until Jim could be here himself.

It was Justin, but he had no phone. Instead, he moved slowly toward Blair with that same strange look that he'd worn downstairs, but now Blair knew it for what it was: predatory.

"How are you feeling?" he asked softly, his compassion not at all reassuring.

"I'll feel better when I speak to Jim. We had a deal, right, man?"

Justin shook his head wistfully and sat down on the edge of the bed. The air was thick around him, dense with an alien scent that Blair could not smell but feel: the potent pheromones of a sentinel in the throes of the guide-hunt.

Blair edged carefully away, not wanting to risk any contact at this dangerous moment. "Listen to me, man. You may not realize it but you've started the bonding process. Maybe it was what happened downstairs, or maybe it's just me. I, uh, have that effect on some people." Justin's vague, beneficent expression didn't change, and Blair tried talking faster. "You have no idea what a huge mistake it would be to try to bond with me. In fact, it would probably kill you, and if it didn't, Jim definitely would. And what about Elena? Didn't you make her a promise? How's she going to feel when she finds out you bonded with someone else?" He ran out of breath but hardly dared to inhale as Justin's hand floated down to rest on his head, avoiding contact only by the grace of Blair's tangled hair.

"This is the way it was meant to be. I know that now." Justin was trying hard for dignity and self-importance, but the hunger was so near. "We'll be stronger than the GDP. We'll destroy them. You'll make new guides, and the sentinels will come to us, and they'll acknowledge me as sentinel prime--not just of Cascade, but of all the Americas." Mad joy lit his face. "And you'll be the guide of guides. My guide. Jim can't give you that." In that awful moment he slid his hand down to cup Blair's face, and suddenly Blair was in the maelstrom of his need. His body was too weak to flea and his mind too weak to resist. All he could do was shut his eyes and wait for the Dark Guide to come.

He did come, and of course he looked like Blair, but stronger and surer than Blair ever remembered feeling, and clad in the robes of a warrior-shaman.

"The Other tries to bond with you," the shaman said sternly. "Will you let him?"

"I can't stop him on my own. I'm too weak."

"That is because you gave some of your strength to another. You should not have done so without your sentinel to protect you."

"I didn't know!" Blair almost sobbed. "You can't let this happen. If I made a mistake I should pay for it, not Jim. If he loses me to another sentinel it will kill him."

"If his death is all you can fear, than you will be lost to each other indeed. Death and the shaman are never far apart." And with that the Dark Guide turned and stalked off.

For a moment Blair stood in the void despairing, feeling the approach of the Other's mind from far off like a coming storm. How could the Dark Guide be part of himself, when he seemed to know things Blair didn't know? Or maybe it was just that he knew things Blair wouldn't admit to himself.

He had spoken to Jim so calmly of his own death, and it was true he didn't fear it. Selfishly, he could even bear to think of Jim's death, since he knew he would never live to mourn. What he couldn't stand was the thought that Jim might believe he had left him willingly, had violated the sacred trust between them. But was even that the worst? Had the Dark Guide hinted at something beyond death, something that Blair's contact with the Other would put in danger?

Abruptly Blair found himself on a cliff-face above the ocean. The sky was gray above the tumbling waves, but the air smelled fresh, as if it had just rained. Nestled in the rocks, so that it seemed to be part of the cliff itself, was a small stone temple, two fierce beasts roughly carved from wood guarding its door.

Blair walked the short distance up the path to the temple, enjoying the brisk air and the cries of the sea birds. He had to duck his head to enter. The narrow slit windows let in very little daylight, but a few lamps burned by the altar, so that Blair could see the raised wooden platform at the building's rear, covered with furs and blankets. Blair could remember bonding there with Jim. There was no trace of Jim here now, not in the temple or anywhere on this side of the great sea.

Blair gave a perfunctory bow before the altar before reaching over his shoulder to draw out his sword. He would leave it here as an offering, keeping the empty scabbard as a reminder of what he must do in the world to come. He felt no sadness as he laid the glimmering blade across the rough altar block, only a wistful regret that he had not managed to accomplish more in the time they had been given.

He bowed again and turned away. In the doorway stood the wolf, eyes clear and ears pricking. Blair was a bit surprised to see it; he knew exactly what he needed to do so he hardly needed guidance, but then his animal spirit always appeared at times of transition. He rested his hand a moment on its silver head, then let it dart ahead of him, down the steps that had been carved into the cliff-face, eager as a dog on a Sunday walk.

Rocks had fallen from the cliff through the centuries, creating a cove that provided a natural harbor for the little wooden ship that sat, half-grounded, on the shore. The wind was freshening, filling its single sail; the voyage would be swift. As Blair put his hand on the stern, preparing to push it out into the water, the wolf gave a hair-raising howl. People, strangers, were running toward him across the shingle. The first man to reach him grabbed his wrist and cried out, "Blair! Put it down! Put down the knife." The words made no sense. Sadly, Blair watched the wolf turn and trot away; the man had him pinned, and he could move neither toward the boat nor back to the temple.

Gradually, Blair realized that the man holding his wrist was Max, the tall sentinel. Oddly, though he could feel his touch, he could detect none of his emotions. In Blair's right hand, which Max gripped fiercely, Blair was surprised to see a fishing knife, an old one by the looks of the handle, and none too sharp, judging by the shallow wound that crossed his left wrist. Blair let Max take the knife away, unable for the moment to imagine what his own actions might mean.

With a sigh of relief, Max snapped the knife shut. "Blair, I'm so sorry. Sorry I had to touch you, sorry about all of this." He glanced back at Justin, whom the other sentinel-guide pair was lifting onto the bed. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"He tried to claim me." The other two exchanged looks of shock. "I'm not sure what happened after that. He's probably in a major zone. I didn't do it on purpose, not consciously, anyway."

"It's OK," Max said solemnly. "You had a right to defend yourself. Justin had no idea what kind of fire he was playing with here. Look, we'll leave you alone and let you rest. Elena's supposed to call Justin's cell phone. When she does we'll tell her to come here right away, and bring Jim with her."

"Jim?" Blair was puzzled. Jim couldn't be in this world, could he? Not if couldn't feel him, couldn't feel the bond and the pain of his absence?

"Yeah, just as soon as he can. Come on, let's get you cleaned up." He cupped his hand under Blair's elbow, but drew it away when he saw Blair frown, then did a startled double-take and looked into Blair's eyes. "Blair, I'm not registering you at all. When we were all downstairs I could feel you, and we weren't even touching. What did Justin do to you?"

"It's OK, I think I did it to myself." In truth, he wasn't even sure what he was missing. A moment before, on the beach, everything had made perfect sense, and now this man he didn't even know was chattering about things he didn't understand. If only he could go back, go back...

Max gingerly took his elbow again and led him down the hall, and Blair allowed it, feeling as disconnected as a floating balloon.

The master bedroom was strewn with clothes, the rustic four-poster bed unmade. With an apologetic look around, Max parked him on the wooden chest and reappeared a minute later with a first-aid kit that looked like it had survived the past three wars. He cleaned the blood from Blair's wrist with an alcohol wipe, then wrapped it with desiccated gauze and secured it with a safety pin, mumbling apologies the whole time. After hastily making the bed, he let Blair lie down, repeated his baffling statement about Jim being here soon, and gingerly closed the door.

Blair closed his eyes, hoping that in meditation or sleep he could find his way back the temple. He did sleep, but without dreams.

+ + + + +

A shrill electronic peal erupted from the small handbag looped around Elena's shoulder, making Elena and McElvoy jump. The gun tilted slightly away from Elena's head and Jim lunged, bearing the sentinel to the ground with his full weight, his right hand gripping McElvoy's wrist, his left shoving Elena clear. Instead of running, she stood her ground and aimed a well-timed kick at McElvoy's groin, her booted foot slipping in under Jim's elbow. The sentinel gave a strangled cry and stopped struggling long enough for Jim to flip him over, grab the cuffs off his belt, and snap them around his wrists, leaving him facedown on a particularly gum-spotted square of sidewalk.

Jim got to his feet, panting, and pulled his own weapon in anticipation of McElvoy getting beyond the squeaky curses he was muttering to the pavement. Among the assorted unprintables he caught something about "bitch" and "should have killed her when they had the chance."

He turned back to Elena, who was trembling and wide-eyed, but said forcefully, "He knew who I was. You believe me now, don't you?" And then, in surprise, "You saved my life."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't thinking clearly." He hauled McElvoy, still muttering, to his feet and shoved him in the direction of the truck, putting him not too carefully in the rear seat and engaging the safety locks. It seemed to sink in then that he wouldn't be free to go, and he started bouncing around and yelling about "entrapment" and "sentinels who think they're god." Jim hoped he wouldn't damage the upholstery.

A county sheriff's car finally swung in to view, and Jim had to spend ten minutes explaining the whole thing to the local constabulary, who seemed torn between the excitement of having an accessory to murder in town and resenting Jim as a big-city cop. Interestingly, neither commented on the sentinel flag on Jim's ID, although they exchanged significant looks when he mentioned Endicott. In the background Jim could hear Elena punching a number into her cell phone and waiting fruitlessly through a dozen rings.

They seemed to cheer up when Jim suggested that they take McElvoy to the county jail until Cascade PD could send a van, on the excuse that Jim had a civilian riding along and a vehicle that hadn't been angry-sentinel proofed. After seemingly endless Mirandizing, phone calls, and paperwork, the officers took off with McElvoy, and Jim led Elena back to the truck for some privacy. A half dozen bar patrons lingered on the pavement, their hopes for gunplay fading.

"Was that Justin? Did you get him?"

"I missed his call, and I didn't call back for ten minutes," she began righteously. "We had arranged that if one of us missed the original time, we..."

"I don't give a flying fuck about your little spy plans, OK? We had a deal: I help you find the killer; you let me speak to Blair. Now we've got McElvoy, and you're an eyewitness that can place him at the scene. That should be enough." Actually, Jim thought, they could hold McElvoy temporarily on a grab bag of charges, but if he went the name-rank-serial number route they'd have nothing but Elena to connect him to the murder. Jim knew from bitter experience that a guide's word counted for very little, in the world in general and in front of judges in particular. Now that she thought she and Justin were out of the woods, Elena seemed to be closing up, so Jim took another poke at her sense of honor.

"I did what you asked. So what's the next step? We go back to Cascade and watch videos until Justin decides he wants to call? I'm having a hard time finding a good reason that you're keeping me away from Blair. Unless you were lying about that clearing-your-good-name crap."

"I wasn't lying," she huffed. "Alright, I'll try calling Justin again." This time the phone rang only twice before someone picked it up. Jim could easily hear the other voice, tense and quavery.

"Elena?"

"Andrei? Where's Justin?"

"Elena." The voice choked a little. "Something really bad happened. Justin's in a zone and we can't get him out. I think you should come back here."

"What about Blair? Can't he help him?"

"Blair..." Jim didn't know what that tone meant, but he knew he never, ever wanted to hear it in conjunction with Blair's name. "Blair's in trouble, too. Being away from his sentinel has really upset him. We're afraid he..."

"Andrei, what did Justin tell you do? What did he want me to do next?"

"None of that will matter if he's dead. Just come quick, Elena. This has all been a horrible mistake."

Of course it was, Jim thought. And I let a bunch of kids experiment with Blair like he was some kind of science project, as long as they promised I could have him back when they were done. The taste of failure should have been familiar by now, but it burned, acid as ever. Because of him, Blair had a hole in his heart, through which rivers of pain could flow into his soul. Jim had made that hole, and only Jim could stop up that hole, so why, except for Jim's carelessness, was Blair alone now?

"Tell me where he is. Now." The cold threat in his voice made Elena's eyes go wide, but he could spare none of his attention to enjoy her fear.

+ + + + +

It was no more than thirty miles from Bentonville to the mountain cabin where Elena said Blair was being kept, but it took more than an hour on the winding mountain roads. Jim tried to concentrate on navigating the truck around the slick twists and turns so that he neither had to talk to Elena nor think about what might be happening to Blair.

When they reached the cabin, a cozy-looking log model whose glow of electric light proclaimed modern conveniences, Jim ejected himself from the truck and through the open door, where a pair of scared-looking sentinels waited. The taller one gestured weakly in the direction of the stairs, and Jim took them two at a time, following Blair's scent.

Blair lay asleep on big wooden bed, face so pale and placid that Jim caught his breath in fear, even though he could hear his beating heart. As Jim crouched carefully down by the bedside, Blair opened his eyes, smiling faintly. Jim sat down beside him on the bed and took his hand, seeing his weakness in the relaxed lines of his body. Although the contact flooded Jim with relief, the electric hum of connection he usually felt with his guide was missing. How severely had his abilities been taxed, if Jim couldn't even feel him in that way? He felt a chill of fear, but moderated it out of respect for Blair's no doubt weak barriers.

"How are you feeling, buddy?"

"Not too bad, considering. But I'm a little confused, man--what are you doing here?"

Jim wasn't sure if he was being teased; even by Blair's standards, the timing seemed bad. "What do you mean? The guy who called Elena--Andrei?--said Justin had zoned, and that you were sick. I came as fast as I could. I'm just sorry it couldn't have been sooner."

"That's OK." Blair's smile was so bright, yet so wistful, that it made Jim's heart ache. "This is going to sound weird, but I'm not exactly sure right now what world I'm in. I mean, you're here, and I'm here, but I can't feel you." He gave Jim's hand a squeeze. "As a sentinel, I mean. Jim, I think that in this world I may not be a guide any more."

At first Jim thought he meant it metaphorically; Blair was his mother's son and had a gift for dressing the mundane in cosmic allegory. Jim hoped it was only that and not and not one of his bouts of punishing self-doubt. God knew what Justin and the rest of the lot had been telling him for the last few hours. Trying to keep his tone light, Jim asked, "What do you mean, 'not a guide anymore'?"

"I mean just what I said." He thumped his head on the pillow and rubbed his temples, as if he was trying to get his tired mind to work harder. "We're both alive, but I can't sense you. How could I have screwed this up? No wonder the shaman thinks I don't know what I'm doing." Blair whacked his head on the pillow again as if he wished it were something harder.

More in desperation than because he had any idea what Blair was talking about, Jim said, "You told me once that sentinels sometimes lose their abilities when they come to believe they don't need or want them. Does something like that happen to guides?"

Jim didn't know if he'd said the right thing, but at least Blair's eyes lost that unfocussed look, and he appeared to be thinking. "Yeah. Yeah, you could be right. If I thought I didn't need to be a guide in this world anymore it could make my abilities go away, like a defense mechanism or something. Jim, try to bond with me."

Jim caught Blair's wrist as his hand reached toward Jim's cheek, noticing as he did a white bandage under the sleeve of his plaid bathrobe. "Wait. A defense mechanism against what? What did they do to you?"

Blair lowered his eyes, as he often did when he told Jim something he knew he wouldn't want to hear. "Justin tried to claim me."

"Shit. I'll kill him." Jim jumped to his feet, half determined to go do exactly that, but Blair made a weak lunge after him and grabbed his sleeve.

"Whoa, whoa. It didn't work. I think it may just have short-circuited my pathways. At least it didn't kill me, right? Why don't you just try connecting with me?"

Jim wanted very badly to do just that, afraid that Blair might be hiding some kind of injury, mental or physical, from him. "But what if you're right and this is permanent? Maybe we shouldn't be in such a hurry. This could be an opportunity to be free of--" he gestured vaguely in the direction of the hallway "--of all of this, of getting hurt, and having the GDP on your back, and having sentinels chase after you like a pack of wild dogs in heat and--"

"Will you just stop?" Blair sounded exasperated. "If my abilities went away, it wasn't because I didn't want to be a guide anymore, it's because I thought I didn't need them because where I was going--" he stopped and dropped his eyes evasively, fuelling Jim's suspicions. But before Jim could object, he started again. "Look. We're both alive, so you're still a sentinel and I'm still a guide. Justin didn't claim me, so I'm still your guide. Cogito ergo sum, right? It's just a question of unblocking my abilities now that the threat is over. I mean, you wouldn't want me to get massive empathic buildup or something, would you?"

That line of reasoning worked, as Blair obviously had known it would. "If you're quoting Latin at me, you must be all right." A little nervous about what he might find, Jim reached out and gently laid his hand along Blair's neck.

"Your pathways are still there. I can feel them." In fact, Jim, thought, they felt even stronger than before. He reached in a little further, only to pull back immediately when he heard Blair moan.

"Don't stop," Blair said hoarsely. "I think they're just a little sensitive from what happened before. But it's working, I can feel it."

Jim let his mind creep slowly down the delicate pathways, as careful as if he were treading on rose petals. Blair's eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing labored, and just when Jim thought he had to either give up or scream, he felt it: Blair's emotions, strong and clear, full of joy and triumph, and the remnants of honest fear.

He didn't want to disturb Blair by lifting him up, so instead he lay down on the quilt beside him, never breaking contact, but letting his hand slide down to rest on Blair's bare shoulder beneath a fold of robe. Though Jim knew he was giving Blair his strength, he felt weak with guilty relief. Blair was his guide again; the other sentinel's taint was gone, and soon, Jim would make sure, his scent would be as well.

It was a long time before Blair opened his; Jim knew it would be a long time yet before he recovered completely. Still, he was strong enough to turn an incandescent smile on Jim and say, "Wow. All I can say is, I guess I won't be taking any long trips for a while."

+ + + + +

Blair managed the Everest-like feat of making it up to loft under his own power, so proud of himself that he decided to actually hang up his jacket for a change. As he reached up for the coat hook his sleeve fell back, revealing a slice of white bandage on his wrist. Jim had paused, halfway to the kitchen, and he could hear him sniffing.

"What is that?" And then, more fiercely, "Did they hurt you?"

"Nah. I cut myself. On a..." Think, Sandburg. "...nail. Sticking out of the wall. Those rustic places are charming and all, but I tell you..."

"Let me take a look."

"It's nothing. Anyhow, they patched it up for me."

"I wouldn't trust those kids to patch a tire. Come on." Jim headed to the bathroom, expecting to be followed.

Blair dragged after him, reluctantly. He would have liked to spare Jim this after the kind of day they'd had, but short of running out the door there was no way he was going to stop it. It was all he'd been able to do to stop Jim from killing Justin, leaving him instead to the dubious care of Elena and her friends.

He had tried more than once to have a mature, adult conversation with Jim about the behavior of sentinel and guide upon termination of one of the above, but they always ended the same way, with Jim walking out of the room and toward the fridge, grabbing a beer and combing the tube for some rerun shlock-a-thon to take his mind off mortality. "I hate these conversations, Chief. You sound like my Dad trying to get me to sign some piece of the paper promising to pull the plug if he turns into a vegetable." Well, I'm sorry, Jim, but if not talking about death kept people from dying, the world would be a lot more crowded.

Jim had flipped the toilet cover down and Blair sat, feeling like a kid with a scraped knee. He didn't watch Jim strip away the powdery gauze because he knew what he'd see, a decisive, if not neat, incision, not the jagged cut Jim would be expecting.

Jim reached out and traced a trembling finger along it. "What is this, Chief?"

"My wrist?"

"Be serious for just five seconds. What did you do? What did you try to do to yourself, Blair?" The Dark Sentinel's anger was rising; not even the guide himself had the right to take the Dark Guide from him. "We talked about this. I thought I made myself clear there was going to be none of this falling-on-the sword shit." He jumped to his feet and started pacing in the little space between the sink and the tub. "Did you really think I'd let Justin take you away from me? Didn't you think we were strong enough to undo whatever he did?"

"Of course I did." He stretched his good hand to grab Jim's wrist, flinching a little at the anguished sense of betrayal he felt coming from him. "But I couldn't stand it, I really couldn't. I'm sorry, Jim, I wish I were stronger, but I don't think anyone could. You don't know what it was like."

"Yes, I do." Jim had crouched down in front of Blair, his voice soft now, and almost breaking. "When we bonded I could still feel some of it, in your mind."

"I couldn't force him away, and I couldn't live as his guide. Maybe I deserved to, after what I did to Michael, some karmic price for condemning somebody else to that life. But I swear dying seemed easier than doing that." Blair wanted to tell Jim about the temple, and his encounter with the Dark Guide, but it would seem like another weak excuse. Jim hadn't seen those things and so was entitled to his anger. Blair bowed his head and waited.

When Jim said nothing after a few moments, Blair looked up again to see Jim regarding him with more sorrow than anger. He folded his arms and said with mock sternness, "You told me yourself that Maggie Speke should be able to help Michael, so I don't think you need to worry about your monster looking for revenge, Dr. Frankenstein."

He grabbed the tube of antiseptic and squeezed a fat line along the length of the wound, then began to carefully wind it with gauze. He taped it neatly and stood up, Blair hoping against hope that maybe the discussion was over, but instead he led him back into the living room.

"Are you hungry?"

"No thanks, man. My stomach's still a little queasy."

"Something hot to drink?"

"I don't think so."

"Alright, then." Jim bounded up the stairs to his bedroom and bounded down a few seconds later. Blair knew without looking what he carried.

Jim held it out to him, balanced on both hands, as he had the night before. "I want you to swear that if anything happens to me, you won't try to hurt yourself."

"You know I can't do that. It's how we're made." Surely Jim would understand. Even ordinary lives reached a point where mere existence wasn't enough. "We're two halves of the same life. We can't survive without each other."

"So what if you die first? Do you expect me to fall on this sword?" Blair could sense the naked terror just below the surface of Jim's anger.

"No. It's different for sentinels. When a sentinel lost a guide in battle, he often bonded with a new guide, even the same day, to give him the strength to avenge the old one's death."

"Spare me the historical bullshit. You expect me to go on living, so it's not fair that you get to die." He sounded almost pettish. "Swear it."

"If I thought it was possible, I would."

"I'll make it possible. I'll find a way. Just swear."

Sighing, Blair laid his left hand lightly on the blade. So I don't really believe it. What could happen? Break my mother's back? My spirit guide will lick my toothbrush when I'm not looking? "OK, I swear." Jim gave him one of those glass-cutting stares. "Not to try to take my own life if something happens to separate us." How's that, Jim? Didn't even use the D word. Jim looked touchingly relieved, as if Blair's words somehow had the power to wipe out millennia of evolution.

As Blair pulled his hand away, he saw a drop of blood on the sword blade. Jim hissed, "My God. What does it mean?"

"I think it means you should have bought the good first aid cream, and not the store brand." Blair rolled over his wrist and peered at it. Oddly, there was no stain on the fresh dressing. "See? No problem."

Jim looked skeptical, but also tired. "Then come on up to bed." Blair took the hint that it was going to be one of those sentinel nights, and followed Jim up the stairs, Jim carrying the sword like they were in some kind of weird parade.

Later that night, Blair woke to find that Jim had let him pull two-thirds of the covers onto his side of the bed. Looking at his peaceful face, barely visible in the dim light but with details filled in by bright memory, Blair thought, He was right all along. There is a way. How did he know that, and I'm supposed to be the shaman?

But in the morning all he could remember was that he'd missed dinner the night before, and that French toast for breakfast sounded pretty good. If he played his cards right, Jim might even let him use nutmeg for a change.

The End

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