The sounds of Aurelius' outrage faded with distance. 

We ran toward the east, where the horizon's crest was glowing molten with the dawn, and soon the huntress fell into stride with us, bringing the stench of gunpowder and her haggard breathing. All the while, Aurelius drifted farther and farther into the west and I caught myself thanking the King Below for that—until I spat a curse instead. I would not thank him.

My footsteps were the quietest among the three of us. Connie was weighed down by her shotgun and fatigue, her tired gait bringing her through unnecessary brush and obstacles, and though the black mage was steadier on his feet, his coat hissed across the long grass. I moved with the experience of a man who was used to running for miles through rough terrain, and though it'd been many years since I'd been forced to utilize this particular skill set, I slid easily into the routine.

I forgot that I was mortal, that I was injured and exhausted, that I held a dying human child in my arms and could hear her breath fading to nothing. I just ran.

The mage muttered under his breath, his hands moving as he blindly sketched a construct on his chest and worked to keep pace. I snarled when a shroud of translucent magic fell upon us and the taste of arcane energy filled my mouth. 

"Spells will draw him nearer!" 

"It's a dampening field—it has the opposite effect. It will hide my signature from his attention."

I had no choice but to trust the man's word. We leapt over two fences during our trek, and finally came out onto a packed gravel road, another house coming into view with the sun rising behind it. It was another farmhouse, but it was larger than the one Aurelius had destroyed, its facade reflecting better upkeep and more contemporary touches. The eaves were painted blue and strung with bushels of dried herbs. Smoke from the brick chimney smudged the golden horizon, and a rail-thin woman waited on the covered porch, watching us come nearer. 

By chance, I glimpsed the name on the mailbox as I charged by it. M. Harris. 

It seemed I had found Lucian Harris and his wife, or—technically—he had found me. 

Coming up the stairs, my shoes snagged the lip of the highest step and I caught myself on the door's frame, the girl sagging in the grip of my single arm. I was heavy, laden with the need to rest and to sink to my knees, eyes gritty and limbs shaking. Get a hold of yourself!

Without preamble, the black mage scooped the girl up and said, "Marian, I need your help," to the woman hovering in the background. She passed through the huntress and me with a quick apology, and both disappeared inside, leaving the painted door wide. Glancing at Connie, we took this as an invitation to come in.

The mage and his wife walked swiftly through the foyer to the adjoining dining room. The solid table was hemmed with heavy chairs, and the pendant light above it was comprised of bleached antler bones strung with baby's breath and strands of ivy. Every wall of the house I'd seen held a bookcase of some kind, and the tomes littered the floor and furniture like the bricks of a well-spoken empire. Spying the shelves in the dining room filled with pots, vials, and potted greens, I realized the woman was a witch. 

Lucian lay the girl on the table, her skin a dismal shade of gray that nearly matched the color of the man's duffle coat. My eye was again drawn to his attire and the black lining as I sank into one of the chairs set against the far wall. Each of the syndicates had its own distinguishing color, and that color was sewn into the lining of their standard issued coats. Black, for obvious reasons, was taboo among their kind, thus I was surprised to see it, and was also surprised by the new quality of the fabric, given that black mages weren't allowed in syndicates and thus didn't receive new coats. 

There was a question there, begging an answer.

The mage and his wife worked with purpose, she answering his spoken orders with ease and comfortable finesse. He slid a pad a paper beneath the girl's injury, a construct of intricate design already etched upon the surface, and the mage's fingers began to dance in rapid patterns. The construct bloomed with green color and the metallic bite in the air sung through my teeth as he worked, seeming to pulled the spell through the girl's injury and around one of his hands. He pinched his forefinger and thumb together and made coordinated stitching motions. The girl's flesh melded together.

A fresh wound slashed the underside of the man's branded palm. 

Black magic was not as inherently evil as the Blue Fire Syndicate would have all of Terrestria believe. It was a tool—a difficult, unwieldy tool capable of unparalleled destruction and injury, but a tool nonetheless. My knowledge of their society was limited, but—as far as I knew—every mage who'd risen to prominence as a violent, killing criminal was a black mage, but every black mage wasn't a violent criminal. They were simply treated as such. 

The witch uncorked various vials and pots as she worked around Lucian. A few of the vials were tipped into the child's unwilling mouth and she shivered despite her insentient state. Other concoctions were splashed over the witch's hands or applied directly to the girl's skin. The pungent aroma of beeswax and lavender lifted from the table as the witch worked to pour life into the child once again, and her earthier energy played through the metallic nature of the mage's like a vine twisting through a rusted chain.

I wrinkled my nose.

From the chair next to me, Connie muttered, "Ain't never seen anything like that before in my life."

As a huntress sequestered to the southwestern plains, I doubted she'd ever witnessed anything of much note—but I'd never seen anything like this before, either. In the past, had I been in the presence of a mage compiling such intricate magics, I would have left before he could turn that ability against me. It was still strange to sit and do nothing while such power flowed across my skin.

My injuries ached. A section of my back had been flayed open by the rubble, and the scab forming on my cheek stung with every twitch of my jaw. Wary, I leaned my elbows on my knees and propped my chin on my folded hands. The huntress said something else, but I ignored her as I thought on the enormity of the task I'd been charged with by the Baal.

Driving Aurelius from the realm would be daunting and close to impossible for a mortal, but the black mage had proved resourceful against him. He'd known to blind the Absolian, to obscure his senses to allow us a swift escape—but if Aurelius had been intent upon following us, nothing could have stopped him. The creature had his own agenda, and we weren't on it. Not yet, at least.

"Did you kill the vampire?" I asked Connie, my voice low and rough, wishing to distract myself.

"No. I ran across this guy," She shook her head and jerked her thumb at the mage. "And he told me to let it go and to follow him." 

I sighed and said nothing else.

The day rose outside the covered windows, thin bars of yellow peeking through the blinds as the sun gained vigor and the hours passed. In time, the girl's breathing eased and her skin flushed with a semblance of color again. The mage and witch stopped charging spells and concentrated instead on mundane medical treatments, winding white bandages about the red seam between her arm and shoulder, laying a cold compress across her brow. I watched and said nothing.

At last, the mage took a rag to his bloody hands and turned his attention from the table to the huntress and me. "Before we trade introductions, I'd like to know what you're doing out here," he said as he scrubbed his fingers and stripped the dried, flaking runes from his wrist. His gaze rested on Connie. "You've the look of an enclave about you, but you—." He pointed to me. "You do not."

His compliment was unintentional: I didn't want to look like one of the rash, idiot hunters out of the enclave, and it pleased me to not be identified as such. "I am not a hunter," I conceded, intertwining my fingers as I peered up at the taller man. He looked to be in his early thirties, a few scars flecked over the right side of his face. The mage was as tall as I was but had softer muscles, the angles of him more padded and well-rounded. His blond hair was dark and streaked with gray at the temples. "I came in search of you. You could say I was distracted."

If he was shocked to hear that'd I been searching for him, it didn't show. He looked at the recovering child, lips pursed. "It appears so." He extended a hand and we shook, his contact brief but leaving a lasting snap of electricity. "As you must know, I am Lucian Harris. This is my wife Marian and our home. You are?"

"David," I responded, remembering the moniker I'd given Connie.

"No surname?"

"No. Just David."

The huntress extended a hand and the mage took it as well. "Connie Rumar."

"A pleasure." The mage folded his hands before himself, unperturbed by the blood covering my front or the shotgun laid across the huntress's lap. "I presume you had a reason for seeking me out, just David. Would you like to discuss the matter while I check your own injuries?"

I shrugged, receiving pangs from the wound in my back as I did so. "In private."

"Certainly." He nodded to Connie, then to his wife. "We'll be in the study if you need anything, Marian."

"Okay. I'll make our guests something to drink."

It was an off-putting scene of domesticity, considering he was an outlaw and she was most likely covenless for marrying a mage. I rose from the chair and followed Lucian from the dining room to the foyer again, then along a dark hall to a smaller, windowless room situated in the rear of the house. It had most likely begun life as a bedroom, but had been converted to an office for the mage's use. There were more shelves and books here, and one wall was covered from floor to ceiling with an ancient mirror separated into three panels.

My reflection was changed in the flecked glass, my eyes black with hunger, teeth honed like a wolf's. Lucian's image was difficult to look upon, like a glare coming off metal in direct sunlight. If he noticed the shift in my appearance, he didn't mention it.

The mage leaned upon his desk with his arms crossed. "Does your inquiry have something to do with the world going mad out there?"

"You could say so." I perused the accumulated books, finding some I had read in a bygone age, and others clearly magical in inclination. There were a number of medical manuals, and after observing Lucian's skill with the wounded girl, I had to wonder if he was a professional doctor. Being an outlaw didn't pay, after all. No stipends from the syndicates.

I glanced again at his coat and its confounding color. The mage shucked it from his arms and went to hang in on an antique rack after shutting the door.

"I'll be forthright with you and expect a similar treatment in return," I said, observing the desk, the two chairs, and the sheaf of paperwork cluttering its expanse. I noticed an emblem at the top of one of the documents that matched the disfiguring brand on his left hand that he and Cage—and all high risk black mages—shared. "I wish to free an outlaw from the Facility, and the Mistresses Blue Fire has accosted as well. Are you capable of helping?"

Lucian's brow rose, but he didn't balk at my request. He pointed at the shorter chair by the desk and I took it, not caring what bloodstains I imparted upon the leather. "That certainly is...honest. I cannot guarantee my assistance, but it is possible to break a man out of the Facility. I've had to recover associates from time to time. May I ask how you knew where to find me?"

"I strong-armed a mage by the name of Everett Robinson. He couldn't say precisely where you'd be, but it seems my luck was greater than I knew it was."

Lucian swore under his breath as he paced the length of the room, shoes leaving muddy prints on the carpet. "Coward."

"Indeed."

The mage blinked, having not expected my agreement, and sank into his own seat, gripping the armrests as he mulled through his thoughts. "I've known that Blue Fire has been attacking covens, but I didn't know they were taking the Mistresses into the Facility. How do you know that's where they've gone?" 

"I have it on good authority." Saule had heard a mage confess the details during the attack on her own coven and it was the only solution that made any sense. Imprisoning so many women would require a dedicated force, meaning the Blue-Iron Syndicate had to be involved.

"I see." Unconvinced, the man glared for a moment and considered coercing more information out of me. He would be displeased with the results, though I gave the mage a sliver of respect for thinking of it. Outwardly, he wore the face of a healer: his soft-spoken voice conveyed compassion, geniality, and goodwill—but under that charade was a craftier man, one who understood the extent of his arsenal and denied himself no advantage based upon moral ambiguity. "Who is the mage you wish to free?" 

"He goes by the name Cage." 

The swearing began again—louder now, and undisguised. "That fucking moron. What game is he playing now?"

"I take it you are acquainted."

"Unfortunately!" The mage slammed his hands on the desk, then cursed at himself as he rubbed his tender palms together. Augurs were typically gentler with their hands, as they were a vital instrument to their craft. I had often noted how precise Cage had been when handling anything, or when cleaning his fingers, as it had been like watching a warrior polish his favorite blades.

"I must ask if this familiarity plays in my favor. Will you assist in his rescue?"

Lucian grimaced, and I heard him hiss the word "Rescue" as if it were slanderous. "I have little other choice. That bastard."

I was curious of their antagonistic relationship, but chose not to ask as it was unimportant to my goals. Instead, I followed Lucian's movements with my stare as he stood and went to the cabinet situated behind his desk. He unlocked it with a gesture and retrieved something, though I couldn't see what it was with his back turned to my chair. Lucian turned and lifted a stone for my observation.

It was a rune, larger than many of those I'd seen used by mages in the past, carved from a solid piece of black marble that was the size of my fist. The rune affixed to the stone was purple and glittered in the lamplight, and because I didn't sense any magic hanging about the object, so I assumed it hadn't been activated yet.

"Are you telling me that's all I need to free him from the Facility?" It was hard to believe. How could a single rune penetrate the deepest sanctum of the mage city and break one of its highest profile criminals from its confines? It was ludicrous—and yet I wanted it to be true. Needed it to be true.

"Yes, and no." Lucian set the dormant rune on his desk and I realized I was leaning forward in my chair, legs braced and ready to snatch the rock and run. "It's the means to an end. Get it into Micajah's hands, and he can get himself out—but you have to find him in the prison, and reach him. That's an entirely different issue."

"And how do I accomplish that?"

The man had the audacity to smirk, and I sneered in response, wanting to strangle the man for his impertinence. Patience, Darius. Patience. "We can discuss the specifics later. First, I should tend to your wounds. Remove your shirt, if you would."

Glowering, I grabbed my t-shirt by the collar and tugged it off over my head, throwing the soiled garment to the floor. As he came around the desk, the black mage hesitated when he saw the scar over my heart, his navy eyes glimpsing the mana ampoule hanging about my neck before I closed my fist over it. My torso was a road-map of yellow, green, and blue bruises, the skin peppered with scabs and small, weeping cuts.

"I take it your search hasn't been an easy one."

"You've no idea."

He stepped forward, circling the chair, and my gaze followed his progression in the mirror as the mage saw the word carved into the flesh stretched across my shoulders and audibly swallowed.

Lucian's silence spoke volumes.

The irritated heat infusing my low, calculated laughter wasn't faked. "Though my face has passed into obscurity, I take it the syndicates still teach their youth about the Betrayer and his scars? It's good to know something never change."

Paling, Lucian mumbled a response. "You're...you're the Sin of Pride." He said the words as if they were absurd, the syllables whispers of air crossing his lips like tiny escapees. He didn't believe what he was seeing, but couldn't argue with the logic of what he knew.

My initial reaction was to say "I used to be," but I stopped before the statement could form, and my gaze traced my unearthly reflection in the mirror, lingering on the sharp slant of my teeth and blackness of my eyes. "Yes. I am."

"But you're—you're human. How—?" The mage fumbled for an explanation and couldn't come up with one. I doubted the truth would be any more believable than the lies he could tell himself to rationalize this turn of events.

"It's a long story, Lucian. Are you going to heal my wounds?"

Stirred, he moved and laid a hand against the open slash crossing my spine and ribs. The magic he pushed into my flesh burned like a branding iron, but if the outlaw expected a reaction, he would be sorely disappointed. I grinned as he cauterized the wound shut, and I felt the faintest of tremors shake Lucian's arm.

"Why did you save that girl?" he asked once he finished closing the cut, and he passed a swift gesture over my bloody ears, ceasing the muffled ringing. I could suddenly hear Connie and the witch Marian speaking together in the dining room. "Everything the syndicates know of you and your...kind says you're motivated only by personal gain. That the lives and deaths of mortals, be they adult or children, do not matter. Why save her life and risk your own?"

"I don't know," I confessed, which was true. I had asked myself the same question several times over the past few hours and had yet to decipher a plausible answer. "It was an impulse," I said, twisting a hand in a circular gesture, displaying the brown and crimson splotches marring the palm. "My hatred for the vampires is well-known, is it not? I...I do not know if I simply meant to deny the creature what he wanted, or if I wished to save her life. In that instant I felt guilt, and it was an unpleasant thing. I hated it as I hate those creatures, as I hate your kind, and I wanted to rid myself of it. Such is my selfish nature; your syndicates are not wrong about that."

Grim, Lucian fixed the cut on my cheek and I resisted the urge to rear back from his touch. He was silent until the deed was done, speaking only when he returned to his chair and settled into it. As I shrugged the filthy shirt on, the mage stared at his strange mirror and let his voice dip with anger.

"Her name is Fate. I was friends with her parents, Jasper and Caroline. They were simple people, humans without connections to this dark, unkind world of ours. I spoke with them just yesterday, urging them to stay indoors at night while these vampire raids persisted, but I never thought....I ran when I saw the fire. Had you and your companion not been there, I wouldn't have known. I wouldn't have known until I headed over there to check on them, and I would have been much too late."

The mage fixed me with a hard stare and the magic thrumming beneath my feet reacted, vibrating like the strings of a violin being tested and found wanting. "For that simple impulse, be it an act of kindness or selfish impropriety, I will assist you. I will tell you how to set that bastard free because I like to think not all monsters are as unfeeling as they are made out to be."

Lucian grinned as he braced his arms on the desk. The rune glittered between us, an unspoken promise for a resolution I'd fought and bled for. Soon.

"This is what you must do...."