Beneath even the best circumstances, Ira was anything but calm. He had a short fuse on sunny days and was ill-tempered in the cool evenings. So, it was no surprise that he was quickly reaching a crescendo in the less than ideal circumstances. 

He was burned by the sun, steamed by the humidity, exhausted from his absence of sleep, and stiffened by the tense air between the pine--and he was rapidly approaching the explosion. Or, implosion, because it began on the inside. 

His thoughts came to him, heavier than river silt and just as easy to sink into. He couldn't quiet his rolling mind or push out the self-destructive impulses. With each stick, root, and stone he stepped over on their path, he fell deeper and deeper into his own trap. 

You've really done it now. 

He glanced up at Melchior's back and glared daggers into his polished wooden bow. Melchior had been quiet that morning. Uncharacteristically quiet--he had been for a week and a half. Since Ira had ruined their dinner, and Melchior had left the apartment to give them space.

You ruined everything. 

Why couldn't he think for a moment before he acted? Why did he always have to blow up? Things had, for once, begun to settle until he'd gone and shaken it up again--and now he couldn't see up from down in the cloud he'd made.

He didn't know why he always did that.

He'd enjoyed talking to Melchior--until Melchior had stepped on his tail. Ira had returned fire with his sharpened claws, desperate to break the peace they'd fallen into. Why? Well, maybe it was obvious.

So Melchior wouldn't ask him anymore questions.

Angels, he really did deserve the teasing nickname Melchior had given him. If he was given affection, he'd always return it with a five-line scratch.

He'd always been that way, for as long as he could remember. Well, for as long as he'd been Ira Rule anyway.

Father Pine had said once that everyone was made up of a bunch of wires. In some people, those wires were bound so tight, cutting them would bring the whip down on your hands, and it was better to leave the wires alone until they snapped on their own.

Ira didn't really know what would happen when the wires broke or why his were so inflexible, but it had somehow become a comforting thought. A priceless excuse. He was fundamentally dysfunctional--and it was Melchior's fault for trying to loosen the strings. 

Except that Ira knew what Father Pine had really meant when he'd told him that. Ira was a ticking time bomb--scorching the fingertips of anyone who cared enough to try and help him. So, he had to do it himself. He had to become a harmless lump of clay and wires and let others pick apart his pieces--or he was going to be the first thing to get evaporated in the blast. 

Except that he couldn't. If Melchior pulled apart his metal shell to stare at the gadgets inside, he'd get that look in his eyes. The one Ira had always known. Disgust that he'd been near something so impure. Rage that he'd confided in something so untrustworthy. 

So, it was better to just blow-up. No one would stray close. No one would become something he couldn't bare to lose--because he would. Everyone left when they realized what he was. 

Unless they needed him for what he wasn't anymore--and somehow that hurt more.

Or maybe it had only started that way. Recently, it'd become a much bigger beast. Ira no longer felt content to push others away--he wanted to shut out everything else, too. 

So his chest sputtered, and his veins flushed with heat--and his head popped off at any invisible slight he could imagine. His anger had always been there, a venomous viper that he'd fed too long and had lost control over. These twisted emotions were his baby blanket. He needed it. He held it close.

How was he supposed to let it go now? What if he tossed it aside, and then he had nothing left that marked him as Ira Rule. If he was happy, was it his own? Or was it that hopelessly optimistic girl with hair colored brighter than wheat.

If he paused to admire the music playing from the bar, he was merely meant to walk past. Was it him? Or was it the lingering love of a young Polish boy? 

He hated the taste of citrus--except when he woke up from nightmares of a young girl in spain, and then he'd eat tangerines until his stomach hurt.

If he stopped to watch clouds pass, or entertained a sudden and fleeting need to pick the flowers--who could say it was really Ira at all? So little of him was himself, until the only thing that felt certain was the fly-off the handles irritation.

He owned nothing, not even the secrets inside his head. Since the very beginning. Ira Rule was only a title; and beneath that were the memories everyone so desperately wanted. Did the river silt itself hold value, if the miners needed it to find the gold?

He'd never known an Ira Rule that could last as anything else but a mouth-piece to the past.

The angels had willed it that way. No, Ira had caused it by committing his original sin. And this was punishment. So it was fitting that it hurt. His soul had warped under the pressure of purgatory. Unable to move on and into the angel's promise--it'd had begun to rot. 

He was damaged, and anyone who came close would be, too. 

He was consumed by his bitterness. Held by his discomfort. And nurtured by his guilt. It was for those three reasons, and then some, that Ira hadn't spoken to Melchior for a week and a half. At first, he had simply been at a loss of words--but the longer he withheld, the harder it became to start again.

For ten agonizing days--Ira had avoided him. Eventually, Melchior had begun to avoid him back. He knew he deserved it. He knew he'd caused it. The only thing he didn't know was how to fix it. 

Ira glanced up from his muddy boots to stare at the back of Melchior's head. He simmered in his reproach, watching with blatant hostility as Melchior led them between the pine. He had his head bent over the map, unaware of Ira's heated glares. 

The map was another thing Ira currently hated. It was the same one the Cardinal had given them, with marked locations of Beast corpses. 

They'd been steadily crossing out X's and had even added one silver star over the Kaaterskill. Maybe it was all the silence, but Ira was beginning to wear thin. He had a sudden impulsive desire to shred the map into a thousand slivers. The park was too big, the disposal sites too many, and their time too little. 

Ira groaned and dug his fingers into the length of his blond hair. Did it matter? What was any of this even accomplishing--besides making Melchior and himself the most prolific hikers in all of New York. The cab driver, who had somehow managed to be the same driver each time, had taken to calling them the mountain men. Which, marked the first time Ira had been called a man and not a boy--so he'd take it. 

Melchior had them heading east from the Kaaterskill, blindly chasing the next X. Ira already knew what they'd find. A rotting pink lump of flesh and nothing else. This method was beginning to prove incredibly wasteful. 

These sites were places where Beasts had been found, but who could say how long the Beasts had traveled since coming from the rift in the Trammel? They could be miles off. They probably were. Ira groaned again, causing Melchior's ears to twitch and shoulders to tense. 

It would have been easier if they could crawl inside the mind of a Beast somehow. Maybe they should have tried their hand at interrogation instead of disintegration back at the falls. Ira rolled his shoulders, adjusting the duffle bag where it wore into his skin. Right, questioning a Beast was as productive as scolding a bear for eating honeycomb. 

So, not a Beast--but a monster. Ira had hunted He-Goats before with Father Pine. He knew how much they could talk. If he could just find one, he could press his Ossein blade to it's throat and force it to speak. Then, he'd know where to start. He'd know how to save Melchior. 

How was he going to find one? They blended into human crowds as easily as fish slipped up stream. If he picked the wrong target, he'd be going to jail and Melchior would be sent straight to the Cardinal. 

Ira squinted up his eyes and furrowed his brows. How had Father Pine done it? He seemed to instinctively know. He picked them as a farmer would weeds from a garden.

He glanced up again, focusing on the line of Melchior's shoulders beneath his T-shirt. He traced his gaze down the length of his arm, stopping at the bandage fixed to his left wrist. Melchior was a Deacon, too. Maybe he knew how to pick a He-Goat from a crowd.

If they went together, they could have it done that night. If it was anything useful--they could find the Trammel rift. What other chance did they have? Searching all of New York in two months? It was becoming much clearer just how impossible of a task that was going to be. 

So, Ira should ask--but how was he suppose to now? They hadn't spoken for days, because Ira was an insufferable brat with an explosive temper--and Melchior was sick of him. 

Ira tilted his head to watch his boots pick apart the trail. 

No, Melchior wasn't that type of person. He was far more patient than Ira gave him credit for. If he could just open his mouth--it would be fine. Ira could move past this at least, if patching it was off the table. 

Right, Melchior will be fine. He thought, suddenly feeling silly to himself. It was Melchior. He'd been handling Ira's unreasonable responses well so far. He shut his eyes, and drew in one long sigh. 

"Hey-"

"-we should split up." 

Ira paused. His words crumbled, falling into tiny fragments around his muddy boots. "Oh," 

Melchior turned. He ran his hands over the back of his neck and tipped his neck. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. What were you gonna say?" 

What did he expect? He'd done nothing but push, snap, and blow-up. How long did he expect Melchior to keep dealing with him? Forever? This was going to end--one violent way or another--in just two months. Ira was slated to be his executioner, and he'd still done nothing but throw rocks from behind his glass walls. 

Melchior was sick of him. It stung. 

It was his fault--but he didn't know how to stop. If a day came when he stopped fighting, he'd sink beneath the waves. He'd be consumed. He'd just be the latest body to an eternally trapped soul. 

"Are you tired of me?" Ira asked. He forced iron into his words and scoffed, as if Melchior was the childish one for giving in. He couldn't stop. He didn't know how. It was too late to change. Ira sunk his teeth into his tongue and swallowed down his hurt. It would be better this way. If they broke apart now, Ira couldn't be left later. 

"What?" Melchior balked. "No, of course not. I just--I have a reason." 

"Then tell me the reason." Ira pressed. 

Melchior glanced away, shutting his emerald green eyes. "I. . . can't." 

"Well, that's convenient." Ira muttered. 

"Kitten-" 

"No, you're right. The park is too big and we're running out of time, so, I mean it just makes sense." Ira forced the lead-heavy words past his clenched teeth."We only have one bag, but I can leave you with some water and snacks." 

"Ki-" 

"Take what I'm offering before I stop offering it." Ira advised. 

Melchior blew a sigh from his nose and ran his hands over his face. He was pale, and his skin had taken on a slight sheen--was he getting sick? Or, maybe it was the stress of Ira's constant battling wearing him down.

"Fine, what kind of granola bars do we have left?" Melchior said, giving into defeat. 

Ira unshouldered the bag and held it out silently between them. Melchior accepted it and placed it in the crook of his arm. He unzipped the bag and began sorting through the contents. "Uh, we only have two left. I don't really like chocolate, can I have the peanut butter?" 

Ira's lungs stung in the hollow cage of his ribs. His throat tensed and his tongue swelled. He was choking to death on a memory, the last dream he'd had. He hadn't slept for more than a few hours since. His mind lurched, and the words flung forward before he could stop them. "I'm allergic." He snapped. 

Ira froze. The world turned in molasses slow dribbles, and hardened in the air between them. Melchior glanced up in surprise. "Why didn't you tell me that? No, sorry, I should have asked. Peanuts are a really common allergy." 

"No, I'm not. I don't know why I said that--I-" Ira sputtered on his words.  

"Kitten," Melchior exhaled. "What's going on with you?"

Ira pressed his fingers to his throat. His head spun, and his vision grew hazy--he shut his eyes to avoid seeing that look. He couldn't stand the idea of the day coming when Melchior would turn on him, too. 

"Just take the whole thing, I'm not hungry." He grit out. 

"Well, sure, maybe not now, but you will be later." Melchior agreed between his frown, "it rained last night, too, so you might not think you need water but actually-" 

"Angels!" Ira snarled, "just leave it, you have no idea what I need!" 

Melchior froze. He drew his eyebrows down into a stated V over his olive green eyes, and Ira turned pale. He pressed his knuckles into his lips, and sunk his teeth into the skin. He'd done it again. He hadn't even realized until the cut had flown from his mouth.

How had Father Pine ever dealt with him? He wished he could ask. He wished he could just see him--he missed him. He missed their apartment, and their quiet mornings, and their busy nights spent hunting. He wanted to go home--he wanted to be alone. He didn't know how to walk back all his mistakes. How could he--he'd been making them for more than a century.

Ira turned on his heels so quickly he almost slipped in the fresh coat of mud across the Catskills. He'd always ran hot, but he'd never been this out of control before. He had to walk away before he lashed out again. 

He was too exhausted to contain his anger and he was too scared to sleep it off. The nightmares he'd dealt with his whole life, but having a roommate had changed his resolve. More important than rest, was keeping up his facade. He couldn't risk displaying the rotten core of his impure being.

He couldn't reveal his weakened waking self to Melchior. Once had been enough--once had been more than mortifying, and it had strengthened his determination to never let it happen again. 

That was just the first few of many swirling fears. Once he'd let them in, he knew they wouldn't stop. He was terrified of failing his Pilgrimage--he was terrified of succeeding. He was scared of the monster choked forest, and of the threat facing the Progeny. He was afraid of the Third Prince--of what would happen if they collided again in this lifetime. 

He was so scared, he didn't know how he had any room left for all his anger. 

"Kitten." His fingers were warmed where they caught Ira's wrist. "You've seemed out of it lately. Maybe you should just go back and sleep." 

Ira glanced down at Melchior's grip where it touched him. "I don't see how that will help us solve this problem." 

"Really? Cause I do. Kitten, you look exhausted. You've got shadows under your eyes big enough to shade an elephant. You can't keep going on like that." Melchior pleaded. 

"I-" Ira choked. I'm too scared. "I'm fine." 

If I fall asleep, I'll become someone else. I won't be Ira Rule anymore. What if I never wake up? What if I do, and I see you looking at me like that? I'm terrified. I'm tired. I'm Ira Rule, I'm Ira Rule, "I'm going north."

Melchior sighed. He ran his hands over his neck and shook his head. "Fine. I'll see you home later." He gave in, just how Ira wanted, but it stung with more vinegar than a wasp.

He turned his eyes away and glared down at his boots. "Sure." 

A small pitiful voice whimpered in the back of his mind. An annoying little hum. One that said he wanted Melchior to ask him to stay--but it'd had been Melchior who sent him away. And the voices in the recesses of his mind--how could he know that they really belonged to him? 

Ira trudged away, bitterly skulking to himself, until he couldn't see Melchior between the trees anymore. Even then--he kept walking. It briefly occurred to him that he was without supplies, or a map. He'd left the bag and all the water with Melchior in his heated exit.

He had his cedar-handled blade, but it was no bigger than a butcher's knife and was never going to take down a Beast. It wouldn't be as helpful as a bow. 

If he encountered one, he always had his tricks. He could jump into a nearby pond and bless the water around him--maybe that would work. If the angels happened to be listening, that is.  

He wondered if Melchior thought of any of this when he split them up. If he cared that Ira was defenseless without his aim. Maybe he hadn't, maybe he had and Ira had simply worn through the rest of his good graces. 

His head was pounding harder than the Kaaterskills in the confines of his skull. The sunlight burned his eyes, and fueled his migraine. Ira let his eyes drift slowly shut. The darkness soothed the edges off of his problem. 

He ran his fingers over his eyelids and groaned to himself. How long was he going to sulk over such stupid things? It didn't matter if Melchior was annoyed with him. They were partners by threat of death. It was pathetic to hope for a friendship in-between. 

"I'm so tired," Ira muttered into the palms pressed against his face. Maybe he should retreat home. Or, he could head back to the city and search for He-Goats. 

If he wasn't Ira Rule, he'd have started at the infamous Meatpacking District, where it was common knowledge that the Third Prince had a large collection of Lower Demons. Except that that was a remarkably terrible idea. If Ira was found out--well, he didn't know what would happen. He didn't want to know. 

Ira Rule had made himself a promise. When he set his eyes on the Third Prince, it would be to kill him. Not a moment sooner, and not a single hesitation later. So, he wasn't ready. Without a Vestige, he couldn't finish it.

Ira's boots skipped in the dirt. His steps faltered for half a second before pressing forward. Right, he didn't have a Vestige. No one did anymore. So, if they found this rift--what good would come of it? If the Third Prince had opened it, he needed to be stopped, and the only way to do that was with a weapon kissed by angel favor. 

If they found the gate--if they beat the full moon timer the Progeny had given them--what was the Cardinal going to do then? Let Melchior go? Keep a watchful eye on the gate, just as they had the Third Prince, and sit idly by? 

Wait, why was Melchior's life at stake at all? Had anyone actually given him a reason, or had they just handed him orders? 

Ira frowned into his clasped hands. It didn't make sense. He was missing pieces. Ira's heart flipped behind his ribs, sending a jolt down the length of his spine. Melchior Brisbane--his sacrificial lamb and co-conspirator in time wasting--he had to be that missing gear. 

Obviously. 

Ira didn't know anything about him--except that he disliked chocolate. And he had a ridiculous amount of siblings, but clearly favored an eldest brother. And that despite claiming to be a dog person, he seemed content around Peter. He spoke to her as if she was a child who might one day learn to respond.

He didn't like the city--at all. The corners of his mouth always drew lower and lower as the cab took them out of the forest. Ira laughed to himself. He was as obvious as a blushing school boy when it came to his preference for nature, but he never complained. 

He didn't complain--even when he clearly should. He'd taken his death sentence from the Cardinal with a blank expression. So, that must have been how he'd tolerated Ira for so long. Just as he reluctantly ate the ramen back at their apartment, because he couldn't bring himself to object to anything, even when his dislike was so clear in the twitching corners of his eyes. 

He never protested anything, except wearing short sleeves. He spoke often, about such pointless things, but Ira never grew tired of it. Not even when he called Ira by that terrible nickname. 

And they were alike. Both raised by their mentors--and chosen by the Cardinal for some dark reason that Ira didn't fully know yet. He wouldn't know--unless he asked. Ira shook his head. He couldn't. He had forfeited all right to pry when he'd shaken on the deal to let the past rest and present speak for itself. 

So, whatever the Cardinal had planned--he'd have to wait to the end to find out. 

Ira ran his fingers through his hair, dragging his nails across his scalp in frustration. If he waited--if he walked obediently to the finish line, would it be too late to change the ending? What if there was no way out--and the longer Ira believed there was, the further he got from saving Melchior?

What if they ran out of time? What if Ira Rule was sentenced to kill Melchior Brisbane? Well, if it came down to it, he knew what he would do. He'd--

"Angels!" Ira gasped. His boot slipped in the mud, pitching his weight forward--right over the edge of the path. His arms came out in front of him, desperately clawing the air for something to hold on to. There was nothing, just as there was no ground beneath him.

Ira tipped forward, and fell down the side of the trail. 

He tucked his head into the cover of his folded arms, and bent his body to roll. Not that the mountain needed his assistance in chucking him down the side. His lungs shuttered in his ribs as the ground rushed up to meet him. With brutal blunt force, Ira made contact. His back slammed into the cold dirt, and he began to tumble.

He held tightly onto himself, wincing as rocks dug into the sides of his legs, and jabbed his ribs. Branches pulled at his hair, his clothes, and tore at the skin of his hands.

Ira rolled--for so long his body began to go numb from the punches. 

He thought falling might be his new eternal punishment--until it suddenly stopped. Ira slid across the slick grass on his stomach, landing in a giant heap at the foot of the incline. He gasped in shallow breaths of dirt and grass--just barely choking back the urge to empty his stomach.

He melted into the cold lawn, wincing as the dampness in the grass soaked his clothes. Ira squeezed his eyes shut, waiting until the world stopped spinning. He pushed himself slowly onto his back, and stared up blankly at the leaf-kissed sky. Between the cerulean needles, Ira could glimpse the clouds. 

He'd heard that exhaustion could drive men mad--and now he knew it was true. Ira began to laugh. Until his ribs ached in protest, and a cough rose up to stop his giggling fit. His limbs sunk into the dirt, turning into mush beneath the release of his tensed muscles. 

It was as if everything he'd been clinging to so tightly had been flung wide across the Catskills. 

Ira breathed in the warm summer air, and drank in the sunshine. His eyes began to drift slowly shut. What would be so bad about falling asleep? He couldn't remember. He was too tired, and too bruised. Dripping from a split in his lip, Ira could taste his blood. It was so familiar.

Why was that? 

He blew a slow breath from his nose, and sunk into the foggy haze swirling around the inside of his brain. He sunk his claws into the palm of his hands, rooting himself in a body bursting at the seams with pain. Ira relaxed in the knowledge that he was in too much discomfort to fade away. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, and let himself listen to the soft murmur of a distant voice. It echoed from the back of Ira's conscious, pulling him into a state just teetering on the edge of sleep and waking. It was so familiar. It was so clear. 

This memory, it was his own. 

"You're really good at that, kid." The man admired, whistling between his teeth. He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers as the demon blood boiled away into a cloud of cold smoke. 

"Thank you," Ira smiled politely. Really, he'd just gotten lucky. Blessings came at the mercy of the angels, and somedays Ira was sorely lacking--but Mister Pine had told him to always mind his manners. 

And to not speak much--so it was somewhat contradictory. Ira set down the brass jar of holy water, and wiped off his palms on his pants. 

"So, who's your mentor?" The man asked. "You're kinda young to be here. Most kids start field training at ten. You can't be more than seven." He wiped his hands clean, as to not drip holy water over his blade, and began cleaning the pearl-bright Ossein sword with a new cloth. 

Ira was six, but he wasn't allowed to say that. Just as he wasn't allowed to say his name, or repeat any of his dreams, or talk much more than he had to--he knew that. Ira frowned, and glared down at his shoes. 

"Angels, kid, if I hadn't seen you bless that water, I'd think you'd just wondered in here." The man laughed. "I'm not going to tell your mama you came to see a hunt, I'm just worried about you, kid." 

Ira blinked. He was worried? He frowned to himself. Mister Pine said he had to watch his words--but he'd done that and made someone worry for nothing. Ira turned on his heels, and stared down at the wide open floor of the factory. 

The abandoned building had been nest to a large clan of Ze'ev--until the Progeny had been called in.

He rolled the carnage over with his blue eyes, ignoring the older Deacons plucking teeth, ignoring the boneless husks being melted away.

"There." Ira said blankly. He lifted his finger, and pointed at Mister Pine. 

He was at the edge of the battlefield, his cheeks red and his arms gesturing wildly. He was angry. He was shouting at another man. His voice carried across the flat warehouse, so that even Ira on the other side could hear as he loudly criticizing another mentor for the harm his Deacon had almost come to in the chaos.

The man creased up his eyebrows and frowned. "That man? Jethro Pine? Well, I think he'd make a good teacher, too, but you're wrong, kid. That man doesn't have a Deacon."

Ira frowned then, too. "He doesn't? But he's my mentor."

"Look, kid, I'm not some New Progeny crier, but lying really isn't a good habit. They got that much right when they tried overhauling history." Ira creased up his eyebrows in confusion, and the man shook his head. "Sorry, that's a lot of political nonsense for a little kid to hear." 

Ira lifted his finger and pointed again. "He is my mentor." 

He didn't know why it was so important that the man believed him. Maybe, because Ira just wanted to be liked. 

"Jethro doesn't have a Deacon. He's got. . . a ward." The man explained. 

"What's a ward? Is it like a Deacon?" Ira puzzled. 

The man laughed. "No, nothing like a Deacon. It's more of, well, a problem. Jethro's got a problem, and it's his responsibility to keep it in check--to keep little kids like you safe." 

"He does--he keeps me safe." Ira protested, "he says he's my mentor." 

"Look, kid--the only way you could be-" and then he froze. As sudden as molten glass being dropped into frigid waters. His eyes widened, and his skin became moonlight pale. Ira's heart leapt in response, his eyes darted to the pile of dead demons. He thought for a moment that one had sprung back to life, it was the only thing his little mind could conjure to explain the sudden horror on that man's face. 

He stared out at the pile of furry corpses, and then his eyes darted to Mister Pine. He was staring back. His mouth had dropped open, and his face had drained of all that angry red. 

"Ira!" He screamed, "come here!" 

Ira's stomach lurched. "Uh, sir-" he glanced over his shoulder--and he froze, too. The man stood over him, heaving and rasping. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. His eyes had blackened--filling up with that look. Disgust at having been near something so impure. Rage at showing kindness to something so undeserving. 

Ira couldn't move--he was too scared. He could hear Mister Pine's footsteps as he ran across the warehouse. He could hear the collective mutterings breaking out behind him. He could hear his whimper as it eased past his lips. 

"Ira!" Mister Pine shouted. 

The man struck out, with a hand as quick as a snake. Ira's neck cracked to the left. Stars filled his eyes, and bile rose up his throat, and he fell. He toppled backwards, landing with another skull-shaking crash. He tasted his blood as it ran down his split lip. 

"Angels! What's wrong with you? Why would you do that?" Mister Pine was shouting. He gripped Ira by his arms, and hauled him to his feet. Ira's legs trembled. He dipped, giving up against Mister Pine's rough handling. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stifling away the dizziness as Mister Pine pulled him up into the air. 

"Me? What did I do? Look at you, Jethro! Holding onto that thing like it's a child." The man snarled. "Why would you bring it here? What if it had turned on us, it could have warned the Ze'ev and led us right to an ambush!" 

"He is a child, Matthew! He's just a few years younger than your Rachel." Mister Pine snapped. He held Ira to his chest, clinging to him as much as Ira was holding back. "He has a right to learn if he's going to be a bishop." 

"Don't mention my daughter!" Matthew growled. He paused and then he laughed a sound as bitter as dog barking. "A bishop? Do you think that thing is your Deacon? He's nothing but a traitor. The angels dumped him on us--all he's good for is telling bedtime stories. You and the Cardinal might think you can get the upper hand out of something like that, but mark my words, he'll turn again. He always had, and he always will." 

"You know better than the Cardinal, do you?" Mister Pine countered cooly. "What the Cardinal decides is beyond your petty arguing--and he decided that I'd raise the boy, however I saw fit." 

Ira nuzzled his aching face into the side of Mister Pine's warm neck. "I wanna go home," He whispered. "Please, papa." 

Mister Pine's grip tightened.

"Angels, Jethro--you've lost it." Matthew laughed. "Do you think that's really your kid? If you want to involve the Cardinal so greatly, why don't I go tell him that you've got that thing as your pretend son. We'll see what he has to say then." 

"He means Father, I told him I was a priest." Mister Pine scowled. "He's just confused--you hit him across the face, Matthew." 

"Wait, that kid is the Soul?" A woman whispered. 

"Yeah," another agreed, "he got off easy, if it was me I'd hav-" 

"Knock it off, Daniel. It's the Soul of the Progeny. The one the angels gave us. You don't get to decide when we're done with it." A woman said. 

"Matthew is right. The Soul always returns to the Third Prince. It was a risk to bring it in--an even bigger mistake to train it and show it our secrets." Daniel growled. 

"What'd you expect--he's a laity recruit. He's got no right to be here himself." 

"Alright--that's enough." Matthew shouted. "Jethro, come on. Don't be stupid. If you play your cards right, you could make archbishop--at least. Don't let yourself lose focus." 

Pressed so close to Mister Pine's chest, Ira could feel their heartbeats as they pounded in sync. 

"I'm right where I need to be, Matthew." He sighed. "Well, since I'm just some laity nutjob--I assume the rest of you can handle the clean-up. So, I'll be off." 

Ira squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered. He didn't know any Prince--he didn't know any souls, either. He wanted to go home. He swallowed down the rising tightness in his chest and held his tears. 

"I didn't tell him my name." Ira whispered. 

He could hear the sound of bones snapped, and flesh bubbling, and people whispering. 

"I know." 

"I didn't tell him how old I was." Ira promised. 

Mister Pine adjusted Ira in his arms to retch open the creaking warehouse doors. 

"I know." 

The air outside was bitter with cold. Ira pressed his face to Mister Pine's chest and sniffled. "I can't come out with you anymore?" 

"You'll come, and you can even say your name now. The rumors are going to blow this up--I'll just have to keep you closer." Mister Pine's palm rested between Ira's shoulder blades. 

"Why did he do that?" Ira whispered. "Did a demon make him do it? Like that girl. You said a demon made her pull her sister's hair." 

"Quinn? You remember that? You were so little when we worked that case." Mister Pine laughed, but Ira frowned. He sighed, and shook his head. "No, kid. It wasn't a demon. It was very human." 

"Why?" 

"You know how we go talk to the Cardinal sometimes? You tell him your dreams." Mister Pine stroked a palm down Ira's head and pressed him into a hug. "It's about those dreams. It's about what you did in them." 

Ira tipped his head. He recalled his latest dream--he'd been running through a large field with another little girl. A big dog had been chasing them, and the echoes of their laughter had drowned out the sound of it's happy howls. "He was mad at me because of my dreams? Then I won't have them anymore." 

Mister Pine laughed and poked Ira in his ribs. "How are you going to stop dreaming, kid? You're pretty stubborn, but not even you could fight that. Besides, it already happened." 

"Oh," Ira murmured--because there was so much he didn't understand, he didn't even know where to start. "Then, everyone is going to be mad at me if I tell them my dreams?" 

"No! Uh, well, you should only tell the Cardinal and I." He said. 

"So, they will be mad?" Ira asked. 

Mister Pine sighed and nodded. "You did something, Ira. They're still upset." 

Ira frowned. He didn't do anything. He'd remember if he had. "Everyone is gonna be mad at me? For how long?" 

"I don't know, until we fix it?" He shrugged, "wait, not everyone is mad at you! I'm not!" 

"So, I got nobody but you--forever!" Ira gasped. 

Mister Pine poked his ribs and Ira giggled. "Not just me, kid. Someday you'll meet someone special--someone who isn't angry." 

"Who?" Ira asked. "Where?"

"I don't really know." He shrugged. "It's just something some people believe. We all have another half of our soul out there--and it's up to us to find them." 

Ira squinted up his eyes. The soul, they'd said. "Is it the Prince?" 

Mister Pine tensed. He sighed, and shook his head. "No, it's not. It's someone kind." 

"How do you know they're nice if you don't know them?" Ira pouted. 

"Well, because you gotta be nice to not be angry." He answered. 

"How will I know they're not angry?" Ira asked. 

"You just have to try." Mister Pine answered. "You have to be honest, lay it all out, and wait for them to come back." 

Ira shivered. He remembered those eyes--darkening into blinding hatred. He didn't want to ever see them again. "I can't. I think I'm just gonna get smacked a lot." 

"Yeah, love is scary. It hurts, too, but you know what's worse?" Mister Pine said. "Never finding out what it feels like to be loved. So, sometimes you gotta take those risks. You'll know when you're older. You'll find that person who makes you want to be honest--even when you know you screwed up." 

"Did you?" 

"Angels, kid. You ask tough questions." Mister Pine laughed softly. "I did--but then I found something even more important; you."

Ira nodded. His eyes were so heavy. He rested his chin on his mentor's shoulder and sighed. 

"Don't fall asleep, Ira." 

"I won't." 

"Don't forget what happened today, Ira." 

"I won't." 

He nuzzled into the warmth of his mentor's chest and sighed again. A question prickled at the base of his skull. He shifted and opened his eyes. "Hey, papa?" 

"Yeah, kid?" 

"What's a preest?" 

Mister Pine laughed. "A priest? It's what I was before I joined the Progeny." 

"You're not one anymore?" Ira asked. 

"No," he sighed, "but you should probably start calling me Father. It's what they're going to believe now. It can be like a secret code, just between us." 

Ira didn't really know what being a priest had to do with being a father, but he nodded anyway. 

"Okay, Father." He murmured. The word was thick on his tongue.

"I know it's scary now, but one day you're going to do something incredible--and no one will pick on you anymore." His mentor promised.

"What am I gonna do?" Ira asked.

He only shook his head and smiled against Ira's soft yellow hair, "its a secret. You'll have to find the way on your own."

"Like a pilgrim's age?"

"Yeah, kid. Just like a Pilgrimage."

Ira laid his head back against his mentor's shirt, where the warmth of their closeness soothed his aching cheek. Held tightly against his chest, he could hear the distant hum of Father Pine's heart. 

Thump. . . thump. . . thump. . . thump. . .

Ira's eyes fluttered open. His battered body pulsed with each steady beat. It raced through the ground, the cold wet grass, up into Ira's black and blue skin. He stared up at the sky, covered by all those cerulean pine needles.

Thump. . . thump. . . thump. . . thump. . . 

The trees began to shake, and the earth began to creak. Ira sighed, a slow exasperated breath. It was happening again. Ira Rule was alone in the forest--and a Beast was coming his way.