The skies over San Barkett were as gray as smeared ash when the winter squall began its march through the coastal town. The clouds' swollen bellies dragged upon the rooftops and lingered at the crest of the mountains. It wasn't raining. Not yet—but the Sin of Wrath could smell the oncoming storm like the blood of a wounded animal about to die.

He savored it. 

Sethan sniffed again at the dirty, torn sleeve tied about his wrist. It had once been a vivid blue but was now as drab as the sky. The faint scent of orchids filled his nose, then vanished, but he could sense the twin of that scent nearby.

Oh, it had been a long hunt. Balthazar had given him the shirt months ago, and Wrath had spent those months sniffing and traipsing through the years of Sara Gaspard's life. He followed every crumb of information backward through time, pulling himself along that rope an inch at a time until he had returned to her beginning. It had been a long hunt, but Sethan was at its end.

The Sin paced the suburban street, his long coat brushing the side of his legs as the first drops of rain splattered upon his shoulders. The two vampires stumbled in his wake, both hungry and mindless under the sway of his compulsion. The one was an older vampire, a man who had spent too many years scrounging in the shadows under the boot of the otherworlders to mind being Sethan's servant. The other, a young woman freshly turned, kept fighting him but was far too weak.

Sethan let his nose lead him along the street as he listened to the quiet hush of suburbia and the tap-tap of droplets landing in puddles. His eye was drawn to a new-traditional house with white columns and a lot bordered by juniper bushes. A large dogwood tree dominated the yard, dormant for the winter.

He stopped at the mailbox and stuck his hand inside, withdrawing a water-spotted flyer addressed to Luc Gaspard.

A smile curled at the corners of the Sin's lips. Crumpling the flyer, he exerted his will over the two creatures shivering in his shadow. He wordlessly sent the male to scout the lot and the yards, and the woman went to block the rear door. Sethan started up the brick walkway.

It was late in the afternoon, but not quite late enough for the mortals to be asleep. Sethan could sense their movements as if he were a shark and they were fish thrashing in the water. Every ripple stirred his hunger and threatened to break the tenuous serenity of his mind. He dared not move too quickly, lest it awaken him again.

The lock didn't hold against his touch. It shattered, and the door swung open on silent hinges. The interior of the home was dimly lit but spotless, the furniture and wood floors swept and polished to a lasting shine. Voices murmured within, accompanied by the low strains of a television.

Sethan silently shut the door and continued inside. The shadows veiled his ominous presence.

A woman was speaking. Seeing as no one was replying to her, Sethan guessed she was speaking into one of those little telephones the mortals were so fond of. He followed the sound into a spacious living area positioned off the main foyer. A middle-aged woman with umber hair and unblemished skin was speaking into the phone as she paced behind a sofa. A man—tall and slender with sable hair and scarred ears—sat on the couch, watching the television.

"You listen to me, Saryt Gaspard," the woman all but snarled into the phone's receiver. "I am your mother, and you will answer my calls. Don't think for an instant I don't know you're sending me straight to voicemail. Return my call immediately!"

She lowered the phone and softly swore as she dragged a hand through the fine hairs escaped the clip restraining the rest. The bluster she had shown seconds before was leached from her.

"She won't respond to your threats," the man on the couch said as he continued to watch the television. "She's waiting for you to apologize."

"I know that!" the woman snapped. She kept pacing, her sensible heels striking the floorboards hard with every pass. "I know that."

The man chuckled as he changed the channel.

Sethan didn't bother to waste his energy on theatrics. His arm shot out from the shadows and coiled about the woman's neck. She only had time for a brief yelp of alarm before he began to squeeze. The man heard the noise and looked over his shoulder, confused. He saw Sethan and hurtled to his feet.

"Don't do anything stupid, boy," the Sin intoned as he continued to put pressure upon the woman's throat. She thrashed under his arm, throwing elbows and blows into his body, but Sethan's grip was unrelenting.

The man held up his hands—but he didn't have the expected terror upon his face Sethan had come to expect from humans. His vivid eyes narrowed and he became very still, almost like a predator before it launches itself at its prey.

What a foolish notion. 

"Let her go," was the human's solitary demand. 

Sethan ignored him and waited for the woman's struggle's to subside. His bloody eyes flickered from her to the man. "Are you Luc Gaspard?"

The human glanced at the woman and gave a curt, frustrated nod.

"Who is this?" The Sin shook the woman in his grasp. She was weakening, her face turning a delightful shade of blue. Her manicured nails sought traction on his coat's sleeve but couldn't manage to tear him off.

The man grit his teeth as those keen eyes took in every detail of the room and every detail of Sethan's appearance. The Sin of Wrath wondered what the human saw as he allowed his talons to grow and pierce the woman's taut flesh in silent warning.

"Eleanor," Luc Gaspard quipped as a thin bead of sweat welled upon his temple. "Her name is Eleanor. Let her go."

"Ah. The mother."

"Mother?"

Sethan let the woman drop. She crumpled and fell, unconscious, and the Sin stepped over her prone form.

The man moved, though not in a way Sethan expected. He didn't heedlessly throw his body at the Sin or over the woman, or even try to run. He stepped back, putting distance between himself and Sethan, and twisted his arm to display the underside. He wore a watch upon his wrist, and across the band was a very delicately carved circle of runes.

Wrath had barely a second to dodge the resulting calamity. The construct revved to life and sputtered with raw, unchecked energy, sending a pure stream of it straight toward the sulfurous creature. Picture frames shattered and the sofa smoked. Sethan tasted the metallic twang of wild magic upon his tongue and felt the static of it bubble in his veins.

Not human. Not human at all.

Luc had a hand hooked about the woman's arm and was trying to drag her clear of Sethan's reach. The Sin snarled and dissolved into the Realm an instant before the second construct etched on the watch could unleash its deadly payload. He reappeared behind the man, and before he could whirl about and hit Sethan with another spell, the Sin threw him with considerable strength.

Luc crashed into the wall and slumped at its base with a groan. The thin streamers of energy that had gathered in his hand ebbed, then died. Sethan snarled as the state of his mind began to unravel as his rage pooled in his belly. Outside, the vampires felt his anger and screamed their wrath into the quiet of the residential street.

The Sin of Wrath picked up the phone that had fallen by the woman's feet, then grabbed Eleanor and Luc each by a wrist and vanished.

The lab smelt of rosemary and burnt sage. It hardly ever smelt pleasant, but today Anzel Vyus thought the odor was particularly rancid. He sat on his stool at his cluttered station, working by candlelight, and lamented that putrid smell of his failed concoctions.

His sword was balanced upon his knee, his other hand clasped on the whetstone as he slowly dragged it over the blade's honed edge. The scraping sound of rock upon metal was loud in the quiet surrounding him.

He stared at his own reflection within the sword's polished blade. A lone eye was mirrored in the metallic strip, and it was dark with inward thoughts of melancholy.

I cannot go, her voice echoed.

The Vytian's hand hesitated, and the sound stopped. 

Because I'm dying.

The image of Sara's skin colored purple and black beneath a bandage sopping with dark, rank blood surged to the forefront of his thoughts. Anzel's grip upon the sword's slender handle sent a find shiver through the blade and distorted his reflection.

He had noticed her tendency to protect that side of her body, to wince and flinch whenever someone so much as brushed against her arm, but he hadn't been able to identify the cause. He hadn't realized she'd been hiding such a grievous wound. He could have been able to help her earlier, if she had only asked for his assistance.

If she had only asked—but she didn't ask. She won't ask. She's much too proud for that.

It wasn't a negative trait for a Vytian woman to have. Vytians in general were a proud and fulsome people. It was undoubtedly something she's inherited from the paternal side of her family.

A door opened with a soft hush, then shut with the same subtlety. Anzel's gaze flicked to side entrance as Elias appeared.

"Well?" Anzel asked as he once more began sharpening the spelled blade. The rasp of the stone against the edge was a comforting sound that helped settle his mind and ease his worry for Sara.

Elias stared at the floor, at the bits of greenery and clippings Anzel hadn't bothered to dispose of after his latest experiment. When he spoke, he was hardly audible above that soft scraping noise.

"He's granted my leave."

Anzel's motion paused again.

Elias wasn't bound to Crow's End as Anzel was. The older Vytian hadn't been banished when the Republic overthrew the Kingdom; he had come to Terrestria of his own volition, choosing to follow Anzel and see to his upbringing while the prince remained locked in this utter hell. Elias always stayed for a year or so before returning to the safety of Vyus, where he would remain for several years before he could return again.

Elias would stay here longer if Anzel allowed it—but he wouldn't. Only one of them needed to waste away in Terrestria, and the best way to see his will exerted within the Vytian realm was to send Elias in his stead.

"So, you'll be off then." Anzel traced the construct hidden below his shirt, pushing just a tendril of energy into it, and the sword dissolve from his grip. He dropped the whetstone without thought.

"Yes. He's not in a mood to be trifled with. I cannot keep him waiting."

Elias didn't have to mention Sloth by his odious moniker for the Vytian prince's anger to be riled. He smacked the flat of his palm against his workstation but otherwise didn't react.

He wanted to go home. Anzel often woke in the dead of night with the nebulous memories of his homeland taunting him in the dark, always just out of reach. He surrounded himself with items from Vyus, but they too soon lost their magic, their essence. They were claimed by this place, became part of this place, and Anzel hated it. He hated Crow's End, and he hated Sloth.

Anzel lifted his hand and blew upon the stinging flesh.

Elias yet lingered by the door. He was watching Anzel closely as his own thumb and forefinger adjusted and readjusted his cravat. It was a nervous habit of his. Anzel could remember him always doing the same, for all the years he'd known Elias, even in those hazy recollections of seeing Elias in Helzin's court in Vyus.

"I could...stay," Elias said with reservation, like a swimmer testing the waters before jumping in. "I could...wait."

Wait. Wait until I'm dead. Anzel gave him a watery smile despite the sudden turn of his mood. Once in Vyus, it took Elias years to return to Terrestria—Sloth's doing, no doubt. If the older Vytian left now, he wouldn't be back for quite some time. He wouldn't be back until Anzel was already dead. If the Vytian prince didn't find a way into the Vale, this would be the last time he saw Elias.

"No. You go on ahead of me," Anzel said as his fingers curled into fists. He hid his hands below the table's lip so Elias wouldn't see them shake. "And I will be along as quick as I can."

It was the same salutation they exchanged every time Elias left. Anzel always promised to follow, and yet he never could. He was always stuck here. 

Elias simpered, his teeth briefly catching the candlelight before the staunch man schooled his features. "I have a request of you, my king." 

Anzel's brow rose. "Of course, old friend."

Again Elias fidgeted with his cravat, thumb and forefinger soothing the already limp fabric. "I never had a chance to explain things to Sara. The opportunity never seemed appropriate, though I always find myself...rehearsing what I would tell her. I didn't know Rene and Blanche escaped that night. I thought...." He swallowed. "I thought they were buried there with the others."

Anzel didn't interrupt, though images of the war flickered in his eyes. Bombs and tanks. The racket of airplanes roaring overhead. The humans and otherworlders lost many during those years. Elias was no exception.

"Will you watch after her for me? She seems such a clever girl, but I fear she doesn't understand the trouble she's walking headlong into."

The images of the war were replaced once more by that fleeting glimpse of bruised, bloody skin on Sara's middle. "I will while I can."

Elias began to turn, then paused. "And...when you return, bring her along. Bring her home." The authority in his voice was wan but growing, a vestige of a younger time that had gone uninvoked for many years. "She may have denied you, but she cannot deny me. That is my right as the family patriarch, after all."

Anzel inclined his head, dark hair spilling forth to frame his face. "As you wish...Lord Elias Gaspard."

The ex-nobleman of the Vytian court scoffed at the old title, then shook himself. He bowed and departed without another word. 

Anzel listened to his fading footsteps as he laid a hand upon his and felt the magic there hum in silent invitation.

"As you wish...."