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     Huxley could never forget her first introduction to Bentley.  She'd been so nervous, finally coming face to face with the Academy's golden boy, her new partner.  A better part of a year had passed since he had saved her life, and she remembers thinking how weird it was that they'd never met.

It was when they took her down to the medical levels in the sub-basement of the Academy building that she realized why she hadn't seen him since that day.  A nurse-slash-assistant handed her an extra coat and she took it appreciatively, shivering in the lab's waiting room.  The sleeves were too long, her fingers just curling around the hems.  She'd spent a month here herself, directly following the incident, forgotten because she didn't wake up those first eight weeks.

While the assistant slipped into the ICU to announce her arrival, she counted back the months.  Nine months ago they moved her upstairs, and eight months ago she woke up in the hospital wing; seven months ago they allowed her to start walking again, and just six months ago she moved back into the dorms.  It had been four months since her last visit with the yellow-eyed doctor in the ground floor sickbay when he'd declared her fully recovered.

It had only taken the first month to reattach her leg, and two more for her to be able to use it.  Bentley had been in the tanks all this time:  ten solid months.  She shivered in the borrowed coat.

She remembers what happened next in the same way as she remembers her dreams; impressions of color and sensation, the gist of conversation but not the words, bolts of unfiltered emotion.  She remembers the sickly green light rippling over everything in the lab, the frozen dryness of the air, the doctor droning about Bentley's condition, and trepidation weighing her down like a too-heavy coat of mail.

She remembers Bentley's face, sunken and pale, the only thing in the room that seemed to reject the green diffusion.  She took his thin hand and he immediately opened his eyes, which startled her.  She'd been embarrassed because she'd forgotten he was a living body who was aware and could react to her presence.  Laying so still on the austere medical table, he'd looked like a corpse.

She knows they spoke then, for a short time, but she doesn't remember what about.  She hopes she covered the basics, thanking him for his gallantry, telling him of their impending partnership.  Mostly she remembers being nervous, and the unreal paleness of his face, and the ardent spirit in his black eyes that despised the frailties of its corporal prison.

     It shocks her now, four years after that first meeting, to find him looking just as she remembers.  His bright eyes set too darkly in his sallow face, spiking her adrenaline, jangling her fight-or-flight response.  She hates how easily he frightens her now, blood temperature plummeting at the sight of her one time savior, partner, and friend.

"Huxley," he says, his voice unnaturally low and raspy.  Even the way he says her name is different; out of his mouth now it sounds like something dangerous, like a warning a snake might give before it strikes.

The cracked flagstones of the abandoned courtyard grind loosely together under her boots as she circles him warily, watching, waiting for the strike.  From beyond the overgrown hedges and crumbling stucco walls she can still hear the sound of traffic, of a whole world oblivious to what's happening on the grounds of this derelict hotel, their battleground.  The sun slants down, equally unaware, casting a friendly orange glow on the smashed fountain, the broken windows, on the sword Huxley holds before her.  Only Bentley's face again repulses any color.

He's squinting into the sun behind her when he speaks again, an empty smile hesitant on his face.  "I half thought you wouldn't come.  You couldn't imagine how happy I am to see you again."

She grits her teeth, trying to squelch the tremors he causes in her with each word.  "Right.  Long time no see and all that.  Been well?"

He laughs, brittle, meaningless.  It echoes unpleasantly in her ears.  "I've missed you," he rasps, startling her with words she almost wishes were a lie.  "I know you won't believe me, but I have."

Her world reels a little bit, not enough to knock her down, but enough to let her know that something is terribly wrong here.  He has no right to have missed her, just as she has no right to feel relieved that he has.  She bodily shakes it off, telling herself he's just attacking her sentimentality.  She tells herself it's a calculated trick to get her to act according to his plans--how many times has she seen him use it in the field?

     Their first mission together had been a graded assignment in an upper division class he'd had to retake.  A two-man job, designed to dovetail their opposite skill sets into a complimentary whole.  It was one of the straight out of the gate, do or die trying, work together or face the consequences type missions that routinely thinned out the graduating class by sixty percent.

Neither had been on a proper mission since the incident that had left them in the long-term rehabilitation tanks, but they'd been training together since Bentley had coaxed the doctor into declaring him fit for activity.  That was the first time Huxley had seen him bend someone so completely to his will, and it wasn't long before she began to appreciate it as one of his most profitable talents.

The discovery of the coven, in fact, was due solely to Bentley and his silver tongue.  Her personal method of information extraction usually involved a blade, or in more intimate settings, fire, so at first she resisted his comparatively slow and indirect route.  Three, four nights in a row they settled discretely into the shadows of popular underworld haunts, listening and watching for their target.

On the fifth night they crossed paths with a tall, finely attired gentleman who identified himself as Lord Bracken.  He was, of course, the vampire they'd been assigned to assassinate, and by then Huxley'd been ready to jump right out and lop off his head, nice and neat.  But one of Bentley's most infuriating traits was his eagerness to overachieve; he was never content with just meeting the requirements for a passing grade.

"Stay put," he'd whispered as he slid out of the booth and slunk toward the bar.  Somewhat petulantly, she told herself she would, even when he got himself his throat ripped out.

But her frustration quickly faded to interest, and then to nothing less than awe as she watched her partner solicit himself to the vampire.  Quiet, down-turned eyes darted shyly from place to place while a stealthy hand snuck its way over to the vampire's.  Melodious was the boy's laugh, and ever-visible was the sleek length of his neck.  Huxley watched the vampire pour three rum and cokes into Bentley before he put a possessive hand around the boy's forearm and stood.

Immediately Bentley's eyes went wide with startled fear, and Huxley was almost halfway to help him before she caught the slight wink sent her direction.  Honorable Lord Bracken merely smirked and turned to pay the barman, and Bentley flashed her a thumbs-up just to make sure she knew that he knew what he was doing.

The vampire led Bentley out of the bar, Huxley a safe distance behind.  The twelve other vampires of the coven greedily accepted the boy into their midst, only to find half their entourage immediately blasted apart by Bentley's magic.  The remaining half fell quickly to Huxley's blade, and the pair not only passed the class, but were honored with a plaque in the main hall.

     So Huxley knows very well when Bentley is playing a carefully established role, and it breaks a part of her sanity to see that this is not one of those times.  Or maybe that's somehow part of his plan, too.  She really wouldn't put it past him.  He's done worse, in the past.

"I didn't know you invited me here for a catch-up chat," she spits, adjusting her grip on the sword.  She gives it a one-handed spin as an afterthought, to keep it loose and ready, an extension of herself.  He smiles like she's made a wonderful joke and a well of anger beats against her veins.  Aside from the pallor and the grate of his voice, he's exactly how she remembers him, and she can't believe it.

He pulls his hand out of the pockets of his black duster and raises his arms so the sleeves fall out of the way.  "There's nothing in all the world I'd like more than to catch up, but you're correct.  I invited you here to fight."  The air around his hands starts to ripple with energy, and he slides a foot back across the dusty tiles, settling easily into a no-nonsense stance.

Instinctually, she does the same, although her own posture is decidedly defensive compared to his offensive.  His primary strength lies in his range, dealing magic-based attacks that are almost as effective at twenty yards as they are point blank.  She'd found that the only successful method to combat his style was to become a noncompliant target and wait until he backed himself into a corner.

     "You're not minding your surroundings," she'd said to him after watching him claw his way into the bronze cup at the Academy's Mage's Brawl that year.

He had slumped back against the lockers, towel over his head, tournament robes torn, singed, and splashed with blood from multiple donors.  "Hrrrrmph," he'd said.

"You can't just give up your title like that, Bentley," she had insisted, "The Academy's golden boy doesn't place third.  He wipes the floor with any and all contenders and demands fresh blood."

He'd pulled the towel off his face to show her his black eye and busted nose.  He snorted blood onto the locker room floor before speaking.  "In case you've forgotten, it wasn't too long enough I was floating in a tank of green goo, re-growing a great percent of my body.  Thanks to you, I might add.  So pardon me if I wasn't up to snuff this year."

She'd stared him down, arms crossed, not about to take any excuses.

"Fine," he'd admitted later, "I don't mind my surroundings.  Usually I don't have to.  Usually I can blast a hole in the other guy before he can start to play the terrain."

She'd worked with him after that, on battle strategy and defense.  But by the time the next Mage's Brawl rolled around, he was back to blasting holes and took first place so easily that he hadn't any need for her fancy technique.  He graduated as reigning champion and never thought twice about covering his weak areas.  She took it upon herself to cover them for him.

     Huxley knows Bentley is a wicked offensive opponent, but offense is not his best defense.  All she has to do is wait until he puts himself where he can't move out of her range, and sidle up under his nonexistent guard with a killing blow.  Strategy like this runs through her mind like quicksilver, and adjusting her game plan to his vagaries comes back as easy as breathing.

She's already dodging when he sends a blast of blue heat her way.  It crackles through the air and smashes into the flagstones a yard behind where she'd stood, reducing the spot to smoking dust.  She locks on to him as soon as she comes out of her roll, gauging his distance and calculating where she'll need to go next if she wants him against the remains of the fountain in the middle of the courtyard.

Another blast chars the ruined flagstones, a half second after Huxley vacates the position.  She makes an effort to keep the sun at her back, hoping the glare will put his aim off even by a degree and save her when she miscalculates by that much.  He hurls a barrage, hand after hand, that pot holes the ground behind her as she runs for cover.  The courtyard still sports a sagging veranda along one wall, the supporting pillars promising momentary protection.

She staggers behind the nearest ivy-covered pillar, the last bolt clipping her heel, charring the back of her boot.  It's going to burn, but that's the last non-lethal blow she's going to get away with.  Bentley hates to miss.

     They had been playing basketball, of all things, when it had happened.  Sessions of one-on-one helped them unwind between studying for finals.  They both had an excess of physical energy that loathed an afternoon inside, and even training had become study on the eve of their graduation.  Basketball, it turned out, was a way for them to continue to compete on even footing and without the risk of serious injury.

As with everything, Bentley would pay little attention to anything that wasn't the ball, including the court lines and sometimes even his opponent.  Huxley was always calling him out for going out of bounds, and correcting him on the location of the three-point line.

The day that it happened, Bentley was being particularly dense about the outside line, so that when he was about to cross it in order to sidestep Huxley for the eighth time, she stubbornly stuck her foot between his and knocked him to the ground.

"Mind your surroundings!" she shouted as she went to retrieve the ball.  He glowered at her when she returned to help him up.

"I cry foul," he groused, rubbing his arm where he'd landed on it.  "I had better get a free throw for that."

"Two," she said cordially as she handed over the ball and pointed to the free throw line.

The first shot sank beautifully through the basket and into Huxley's waiting hands.  She bounced it back to him with a hotshot whistle.

The second shot bounced deceitfully from one side of the rim to the other, and Bentley ran up, competing for the space below the hoop should it not fall in.  Huxley shoved right back and when the ball eventually bounced out of the hoop, they both jumped for it, into each other, colliding with bone-jarring impact and crashing gloriously to the ground.

Huxley still remembers the fierce pride that surged through her when she landed on top of him and his breath hitched--and not from the fall.  His hands went to steady her, try to catch her even though it was too late for that, and for a long moment they lay there, not breathing, minds processing at visible speeds.

When Bentley had caught his breath, he spoke.  "Maybe I should let you foul me up more often."

     Boot still smoking, she crouches behind the pillar, counting his footsteps until he's almost too close--then she breaks for the next pillar.  A volley of magic crashes after her, none of the shots hitting home.  Once safe she risks a glance back at him, and he's standing there expressionless, just waiting for her to come back out into firing range.

She ducks back and continues to refine her strategy.  He won't follow her here, wary of a ready blade, but a long enough dash will have him tailing after her.  She'll need to cut back and forth across the courtyard at least two more times before he will have edged himself into position.

She looks out briefly to scan for a likely target destination, and a magic bolt sails almost half-heartedly past her face.  Making it across is going to be near suicidal, but it's her only chance.  She fights the urge to close her eyes and make a dash for it, feinting to one side of the pillar before whirling and charging across the courtyard.

The crash behind her tells her he took a shot at her feint, and that she only has a matter of seconds before he retargets and takes her out.  One second, two, and then she's pressed up against the far wall, panting, unscathed, and semi-protected by an overgrown lattice.

She creeps forward through the vine shadow, aiming to get a look at him now, sword held at the ready behind her.  She peeks around the lattice and doesn't see him anywhere.  It's the immediate burn across the back of her hand that lets her know he saw through her play.

He's suddenly grabbing her wrist and she drops the sword, crying out in pain as he turns her and smashes her against the stucco wall.  His other hand goes right for her throat, and it smolders with unleashed power.  He stares at her with similar fire in his eyes, easily keeping her pinned despite her struggles, despite her free hand clawing at his arm, reaching for his face.

This is the first time in two years that she's seen him so clearly, and it frightens her again at how little he's changed, how unnaturally pale he is.  His eyes are the same dark windows to the same dark soul, and it's not with malice that he looks at her.  For the first time she realizes that he's fighting to remain emotionless, and when his shield slips for half a quick heartbeat, she imagines she sees regret in those eyes.

Warning bells go off and she kicks him viciously in the leg.  "Stop.  Huxley," he commands, the burn in his hands rippling a few degrees hotter.

"You want me to give up without a fight, huh?  Like last time?" she growls back, trying another kick.

"No," he says softly, "I don't want you to give up at all."  He pulls her trapped hand toward himself and she resists, fighting him until he presses a kiss against the burn on the top of her hand.  His lips are too cold, an unsettling contrast to the heat in his hands, and there's nothing about the feel of his gesture that she remembers.

     They'd had a table of their own in the cafeteria, but not through arrogant machinations on their part.  The other students naturally gave them a wide berth, out of reverence or fear, and the hotshot partnership rarely looked outside itself to meet its social needs.

It was there that Bentley had taken her hand across the table, and she'd looked up from her text, curious.

"Let me know if I'm being too forward, here," he'd started shyly, "But do you have any plans for after the graduation ceremony?  I mean, for that night?"

She had grinned in astonishment at the sight of her partner's courage crumbling around him.  "Hold up.  Let me get this straight," she'd said, leaning in, "the great Bentley Smith is asking me out?"

Some of his swagger crystallized around him again and he answered with a wagging of eyebrows, "Only if you think you're ready for a night with the great Bentley Smith."

"Oh, you think it's me who can't keep up?  You get ready for a night with the great Huxley Brown," she'd laughed.

That's when he'd kissed her hand, just a brush of his lips across her knuckles, and she'd known that everything in the world was right.

"That's a yes, right?" he'd asked a moment later.

When the school erupted into wild speculation about them later that day, she was glad.  It would have bothered her, if the rumors hadn't all been true.

     His freezing lips take the burn out of her hand, and she watches him with great confusion.  After all, there's a scar hidden under her sleeve no farther than an inch away, an entire forearm of skin patched together without the aid of the Academy's sophisticated medical science.  He hadn't been so conciliatory when he'd burned her the last time.  He looks back up at her, still hemming the feeling from his eyes, and the power in his hands surges, filling the air around them with magical heat and the scent of ozone.

Then he lets her go.  She falters, no longer held in place by his grip, making a choking sound, surprised, relieved, confused.  She looks sharply up at him, wondering what his game-ending move will be, but there's no pressurized air surrounding him.  It's just Bentley, pale, brooding Bentley, and he kicks her sword back over to her.

"Round two," he says, flipping his head back towards the courtyard.  "Fight."

She watches him back away, into the golden light, and she reaches for her sword.  No more tactics, no more strategy.  This is winner-take-all and so far he's just been playing with her.  The old Bentley never would have been able to read her plans like that, never would have been able to be a step ahead and catch her off guard.  The rules had changed and she hadn't even seen that.

He's waiting for her again in the courtyard, hands in his pockets, which she knows he imagines to be the least threatening pose he can think of.  But even if she charges him he'll have time to free his hands and blast her away.  She knows more than one foolish demon who made that mistake their last.  But the rules have changed.  She tries it.

She comes at him with a yell, sword at the ready, and if he didn't move to the left at the last second, he'd be dead now.  She redirects her blade without a second's thought, arcing it around and up, slicing through the edge of his duster as he dodges again.

They square off, she with her sword glinting in the dying light, he with his hands resolutely in his pockets.

"What's wrong with you?" Huxley shouts at him.

He shrugs.  "I spent our time apart growing my power exponentially.  I had only thought you'd done the same."  He scuffs his boot against the raised edge of a broken flagstone, almost like a disappointed child.  "I'd imagined this showdown playing out much differently."

He infuriates her with how cavalier he's being about all this, as if this is just some sort of harmless sparring match.  She springs forward without thinking, only wanting to slash and stab and see his blood on her blade.  Only wanting retribution, to see the one who betrayed them all meet his justice at her hands.  She wants this battle to end, now.

He easily sidesteps her initial attack, repelling the follow-up with a percussive bolt of magic.  They do this dance for a while, her striking blindly, he dodging or blocking.  Occasionally he comes back with an attack of his own, blue fire forcing her footing ever so slightly, until she realizes that he's the one who's dictating the steps.

She sees him back himself into the corner she'd picked out for him earlier, each step he takes away from her blade is a step toward the fountain.  She watches him blast just a hair off-target, making her instinctually duck and come up right under his defenses.  She knows he's let her have this opening, somehow planned it all from the start, knows it's in all likelihood a trap.  She takes it, anyway.

She comes at him with her sword held on her off side, the grip reversed so her left hand can support the pommel and drive the blade forward into his pale body.  He sees her coming, nothing but grim satisfaction on his face, and he closes his eyes.  It's a killing blow, and he's letting her take it.

He wants her to take it.

This realization freezes up her entire body, but she's already moving so all she can do is swing from him at the last second.  The blade catches him on the arm and her shoulder meets him a split second after that, slamming him into the center rise of the fountain with a sick thud.  Winded, they both slide together into the weed-filled basin and fight for air.

She catches hers first and immediately rolls on him, pinning his hands to the green dirt below.  He looks up at her, unfocussed and wheezing, and his shield is completely demolished.  His feelings shine through the glassy eyes, and all she can find in them is disappointment.

"Why?" he gasps, voice reedy.

That's when she kisses him.

     He'd brushed his fingers lazily over the jagged scar that encircled the top of her leg one last time before sliding out of bed.  He tugged on some pants and crossed to the sliding door that opened onto the balcony.  From the back pocket he retrieved a crumpled box of cigarettes and pulled one out.

From the bed, she'd laughed, simply because she was happy.  "Smoking, really?  I never would have pegged you for clichés."

Eyes bright under wild hair, he'd pulled out another and offered it to her wordlessly.

She'd rolled her eyes.  "Can't smoke in bed.  Lemme find some clothes."

"Not strictly necessary," he all but purred, fishing around in his pockets for the lighter.  He watched her trek around the room, piecing her outfit together from every corner.  She caught him watching as she approached, slid her eyes away with an embarrassed smile.

He caught her chin and pulled it toward him, putting the cigarette to her lips.  She looked at his hands while they lit her cigarette, feeling a flash of awe at how far they'd come since they'd met.  The first time she'd held his hand it had been little more than a pile of bones held together in paper, and now, now they were something else entirely.

He nodded towards the balcony and they went out together.  It was late, but the courtyard below was still alive, festive lights playing along the hedges, the flagstones, illuminating the fountain and its coppery sunken treasure.  There was music playing somewhere, and a handful of other couples were scattered below, laughing and talking softly together.

"Did I ever thank you?" she'd asked.  "You know, for saving my life?"

He'd taken a long drag on his cigarette, as if trying to remember.  He looked back to the bed, instead.  "I believe you just did," he leered gently.

She matched his leer with one of her own, and stretched casually.  "Yeah I did."

He'd snorted and shaken his head, smiling.  "But you did," he assured her, "way back in the med lab, when I was just a half-finished rag doll.  Did you know, that the day you visited me, I had only grown back forty-five percent of my skin?"

"That's disgusting," she'd said.

"And itchy.  I'm never doing that again.  Absolutely never."  His light tone dipped, taking on a note of determination that caught her attention.

"Never heroically rescue an in-over-her-head sophomore at the risk of ridiculously severe personal debilitation?"  She put a hand over his, and he turned to look at her.  There was a veil in his eyes, something lurking there that he didn't want her to see.

"Listen," he'd said, turning his hand so her palm rested in his, "I know how much the system means to you, what the school stands for and what our licenses mean.  But they...they keep things from us.  They tell us some things are dangerous when they're really not."

She weakly tugged her hand away from him but he gripped it firmly.  She bit down her sudden unease and dared to meet his eyes.

"Huxley.  I've been offered a chance to attain greater power than the Academy can ever imagine.  Not with their superstitious rules."  He looked at her, eyebrows drawn, eyes darting from side to side, searching for understanding in her own.

Huxley had tried a smile but it fizzled out almost immediately.  "You mean like a grad school?"

"No, Hux.  The Stefan Coven."

He tried to hold on to her, but this time she broke away with a gasp, cigarette falling forgotten to the balcony deck.  "No.  No!" she shouted, fleeing into the hotel room.  "The Coven?!  Bentley!  You can't go against the Academy like that!"

He followed her swiftly, hands in pockets, shoulders slumped.  "It's not about the Academy anymore, it's about power.  They can give me that."

She turned and punched him square in the jaw.  "Don't be an idiot," she seethed as he staggered back, a hand to his face.  "Don't make this mistake."

He'd licked blood from his split lip and whispered darkly, "It's too late.  They've already accepted me.  The Academy's golden boy."

Huxley had made up her mind then.  With unwavering hands she reached for her sword case by the bed, unaffected by Bentley's look of bitter remorse.  "How did you honestly expect me to react?" she asked as she unlocked the case, "Did you think I'd just go along with it?  Give you a pat on the back?"

"Huxley, listen to me," he'd protested uneasily as she'd lifted the sword from the case, sliding it smoothly from the sheath.

She turned to him, not as his partner but as his enemy.  "Like you said, it's already too late."

And then they'd fought, starting there in the room, crashing down into the courtyard below, heedless of the terrified guests caught in the crossfire.  The power he displayed then was already beyond the level she'd known him to be, beyond what he should have been.  Masonry exploded around her under his assault, filling the air with dust and preventing her from keeping him in her sights.

Then suddenly it was over, a searing pulse catching her directly on the arm, burning away her sleeve as it passed.  She'd dropped the sword, curling down around her arm, and he'd kicked at the back of her knees, toppling her.

She'd knelt there, cradling her smoking arm, and waited for him to end it.  She'd flinched when he crouched down behind her, brushed her hair away from her ear.

"I'm so sorry," he'd whispered, touching a faint kiss to her hair.  After that she remembers nothing, only waking up in the hospital a day later and finding out the Academy was gone, overrun and destroyed by the Stefan Coven while Bentley had lured her away.

     He sputters into her kiss, still fighting his lungs.  She leans back and punches him full in the gut, a part of her satisfied with the way he doubles over, wheezing again.  Then she lifts his head, kissing his forehead gently.

"I have to have a reason not to kill you?" she whispers into his hair.  "I could be asking you the same thing."

His arms come up around her and for a moment she tenses, half expecting a trap even now.  But he just holds her tightly, face pressed into her shoulder.  She lets him hold on for a while, regaining his breath, then pulls away.

"Why did you ask me here?" she questions softly, putting her hands on his shoulders.  Her eyes ask other questions, harder questions, but she doesn't know if either of them are ready to face those answers yet.

"You were right," he rasps in that voice that didn't used to be his, "The Academy was right.  The Coven hid things from me, too, and now I'm facing my consequences."

Huxley takes in his colorlessness once more, trying to decide whether or not this creature before her deserves her pity.  "Everyone who was at the Academy died," she reminds him coldly.  "And those that somehow escaped the massacre wouldn't think twice about killing you."

He laughs, that bitter sound again, his fingers pressing into her sides.  "That's what I thought when I called you here.  A final showdown, closure for the both of us."  He looks up at her with honest vulnerability shining in his eyes, and even the soul on the other side looks weak and dim.

"I'm cursed," he admits, never looking away, "The power I sought turned against me and now I'm something I swore I wouldn't ever be again.  All I wanted from you was to end it quickly, before my mistake wastes me away."

The sun finally plunges below the wall of the hotel, leaving them in cool dusk shadow, and the last of his words are carried away on a cutting breeze.  She shivers and stands, tugging the ends of her sleeves over her hands, his eyes sharp on her every move.

"Nope," she says, holding out her hand to him.  "You don't get the easy way out.  I'm going to find a way to save you, so you can live with your mistakes.  And then I'll consider us even."

Description
     Huxley could never forget her first introduction to Bentley.  She'd been so nervous, finally coming face to face with the Academy's golden boy, her new partner.  A better part of a year had passed since he had saved her life, and she remembers thinking how weird it was that they'd never met.

It was when they took her down to the medical levels in the sub-basement of the Academy building that she realized why she hadn't seen him since that day.  A nurse-slash-assistant handed her an extra coat and she took it appreciatively, shivering in the lab's waiting room.  The sleeves were too long, her fingers just curling around the hems.  She'd spent a month here herself, directly following the incident, forgotten because she didn't wake up those first eight weeks.

While the assistant slipped into the ICU to announce her arrival, she counted back the months.  Nine months ago they moved her upstairs, and eight months ago she woke up in the hospital wing; seven months ago they allowed her to start walking again, and just six months ago she moved back into the dorms.  It had been four months since her last visit with the yellow-eyed doctor in the ground floor sickbay when he'd declared her fully recovered.

It had only taken the first month to reattach her leg, and two more for her to be able to use it.  Bentley had been in the tanks all this time:  ten solid months.  She shivered in the borrowed coat.

She remembers what happened next in the same way as she remembers her dreams; impressions of color and sensation, the gist of conversation but not the words, bolts of unfiltered emotion.  She remembers the sickly green light rippling over everything in the lab, the frozen dryness of the air, the doctor droning about Bentley's condition, and trepidation weighing her down like a too-heavy coat of mail.

She remembers Bentley's face, sunken and pale, the only thing in the room that seemed to reject the green diffusion.  She took his thin hand and he immediately opened his eyes, which startled her.  She'd been embarrassed because she'd forgotten he was a living body who was aware and could react to her presence.  Laying so still on the austere medical table, he'd looked like a corpse.

She knows they spoke then, for a short time, but she doesn't remember what about.  She hopes she covered the basics, thanking him for his gallantry, telling him of their impending partnership.  Mostly she remembers being nervous, and the unreal paleness of his face, and the ardent spirit in his black eyes that despised the frailties of its corporal prison.

     It shocks her now, four years after that first meeting, to find him looking just as she remembers.  His bright eyes set too darkly in his sallow face, spiking her adrenaline, jangling her fight-or-flight response.  She hates how easily he frightens her now, blood temperature plummeting at the sight of her one time savior, partner, and friend.

"Huxley," he says, his voice unnaturally low and raspy.  Even the way he says her name is different; out of his mouth now it sounds like something dangerous, like a warning a snake might give before it strikes.

The cracked flagstones of the abandoned courtyard grind loosely together under her boots as she circles him warily, watching, waiting for the strike.  From beyond the overgrown hedges and crumbling stucco walls she can still hear the sound of traffic, of a whole world oblivious to what's happening on the grounds of this derelict hotel, their battleground.  The sun slants down, equally unaware, casting a friendly orange glow on the smashed fountain, the broken windows, on the sword Huxley holds before her.  Only Bentley's face again repulses any color.

He's squinting into the sun behind her when he speaks again, an empty smile hesitant on his face.  "I half thought you wouldn't come.  You couldn't imagine how happy I am to see you again."

She grits her teeth, trying to squelch the tremors he causes in her with each word.  "Right.  Long time no see and all that.  Been well?"

He laughs, brittle, meaningless.  It echoes unpleasantly in her ears.  "I've missed you," he rasps, startling her with words she almost wishes were a lie.  "I know you won't believe me, but I have."

Her world reels a little bit, not enough to knock her down, but enough to let her know that something is terribly wrong here.  He has no right to have missed her, just as she has no right to feel relieved that he has.  She bodily shakes it off, telling herself he's just attacking her sentimentality.  She tells herself it's a calculated trick to get her to act according to his plans--how many times has she seen him use it in the field?

     Their first mission together had been a graded assignment in an upper division class he'd had to retake.  A two-man job, designed to dovetail their opposite skill sets into a complimentary whole.  It was one of the straight out of the gate, do or die trying, work together or face the consequences type missions that routinely thinned out the graduating class by sixty percent.

Neither had been on a proper mission since the incident that had left them in the long-term rehabilitation tanks, but they'd been training together since Bentley had coaxed the doctor into declaring him fit for activity.  That was the first time Huxley had seen him bend someone so completely to his will, and it wasn't long before she began to appreciate it as one of his most profitable talents.

The discovery of the coven, in fact, was due solely to Bentley and his silver tongue.  Her personal method of information extraction usually involved a blade, or in more intimate settings, fire, so at first she resisted his comparatively slow and indirect route.  Three, four nights in a row they settled discretely into the shadows of popular underworld haunts, listening and watching for their target.

On the fifth night they crossed paths with a tall, finely attired gentleman who identified himself as Lord Bracken.  He was, of course, the vampire they'd been assigned to assassinate, and by then Huxley'd been ready to jump right out and lop off his head, nice and neat.  But one of Bentley's most infuriating traits was his eagerness to overachieve; he was never content with just meeting the requirements for a passing grade.

"Stay put," he'd whispered as he slid out of the booth and slunk toward the bar.  Somewhat petulantly, she told herself she would, even when he got himself his throat ripped out.

But her frustration quickly faded to interest, and then to nothing less than awe as she watched her partner solicit himself to the vampire.  Quiet, down-turned eyes darted shyly from place to place while a stealthy hand snuck its way over to the vampire's.  Melodious was the boy's laugh, and ever-visible was the sleek length of his neck.  Huxley watched the vampire pour three rum and cokes into Bentley before he put a possessive hand around the boy's forearm and stood.

Immediately Bentley's eyes went wide with startled fear, and Huxley was almost halfway to help him before she caught the slight wink sent her direction.  Honorable Lord Bracken merely smirked and turned to pay the barman, and Bentley flashed her a thumbs-up just to make sure she knew that he knew what he was doing.

The vampire led Bentley out of the bar, Huxley a safe distance behind.  The twelve other vampires of the coven greedily accepted the boy into their midst, only to find half their entourage immediately blasted apart by Bentley's magic.  The remaining half fell quickly to Huxley's blade, and the pair not only passed the class, but were honored with a plaque in the main hall.

     So Huxley knows very well when Bentley is playing a carefully established role, and it breaks a part of her sanity to see that this is not one of those times.  Or maybe that's somehow part of his plan, too.  She really wouldn't put it past him.  He's done worse, in the past.

"I didn't know you invited me here for a catch-up chat," she spits, adjusting her grip on the sword.  She gives it a one-handed spin as an afterthought, to keep it loose and ready, an extension of herself.  He smiles like she's made a wonderful joke and a well of anger beats against her veins.  Aside from the pallor and the grate of his voice, he's exactly how she remembers him, and she can't believe it.

He pulls his hand out of the pockets of his black duster and raises his arms so the sleeves fall out of the way.  "There's nothing in all the world I'd like more than to catch up, but you're correct.  I invited you here to fight."  The air around his hands starts to ripple with energy, and he slides a foot back across the dusty tiles, settling easily into a no-nonsense stance.

Instinctually, she does the same, although her own posture is decidedly defensive compared to his offensive.  His primary strength lies in his range, dealing magic-based attacks that are almost as effective at twenty yards as they are point blank.  She'd found that the only successful method to combat his style was to become a noncompliant target and wait until he backed himself into a corner.

     "You're not minding your surroundings," she'd said to him after watching him claw his way into the bronze cup at the Academy's Mage's Brawl that year.

He had slumped back against the lockers, towel over his head, tournament robes torn, singed, and splashed with blood from multiple donors.  "Hrrrrmph," he'd said.

"You can't just give up your title like that, Bentley," she had insisted, "The Academy's golden boy doesn't place third.  He wipes the floor with any and all contenders and demands fresh blood."

He'd pulled the towel off his face to show her his black eye and busted nose.  He snorted blood onto the locker room floor before speaking.  "In case you've forgotten, it wasn't too long enough I was floating in a tank of green goo, re-growing a great percent of my body.  Thanks to you, I might add.  So pardon me if I wasn't up to snuff this year."

She'd stared him down, arms crossed, not about to take any excuses.

"Fine," he'd admitted later, "I don't mind my surroundings.  Usually I don't have to.  Usually I can blast a hole in the other guy before he can start to play the terrain."

She'd worked with him after that, on battle strategy and defense.  But by the time the next Mage's Brawl rolled around, he was back to blasting holes and took first place so easily that he hadn't any need for her fancy technique.  He graduated as reigning champion and never thought twice about covering his weak areas.  She took it upon herself to cover them for him.

     Huxley knows Bentley is a wicked offensive opponent, but offense is not his best defense.  All she has to do is wait until he puts himself where he can't move out of her range, and sidle up under his nonexistent guard with a killing blow.  Strategy like this runs through her mind like quicksilver, and adjusting her game plan to his vagaries comes back as easy as breathing.

She's already dodging when he sends a blast of blue heat her way.  It crackles through the air and smashes into the flagstones a yard behind where she'd stood, reducing the spot to smoking dust.  She locks on to him as soon as she comes out of her roll, gauging his distance and calculating where she'll need to go next if she wants him against the remains of the fountain in the middle of the courtyard.

Another blast chars the ruined flagstones, a half second after Huxley vacates the position.  She makes an effort to keep the sun at her back, hoping the glare will put his aim off even by a degree and save her when she miscalculates by that much.  He hurls a barrage, hand after hand, that pot holes the ground behind her as she runs for cover.  The courtyard still sports a sagging veranda along one wall, the supporting pillars promising momentary protection.

She staggers behind the nearest ivy-covered pillar, the last bolt clipping her heel, charring the back of her boot.  It's going to burn, but that's the last non-lethal blow she's going to get away with.  Bentley hates to miss.

     They had been playing basketball, of all things, when it had happened.  Sessions of one-on-one helped them unwind between studying for finals.  They both had an excess of physical energy that loathed an afternoon inside, and even training had become study on the eve of their graduation.  Basketball, it turned out, was a way for them to continue to compete on even footing and without the risk of serious injury.

As with everything, Bentley would pay little attention to anything that wasn't the ball, including the court lines and sometimes even his opponent.  Huxley was always calling him out for going out of bounds, and correcting him on the location of the three-point line.

The day that it happened, Bentley was being particularly dense about the outside line, so that when he was about to cross it in order to sidestep Huxley for the eighth time, she stubbornly stuck her foot between his and knocked him to the ground.

"Mind your surroundings!" she shouted as she went to retrieve the ball.  He glowered at her when she returned to help him up.

"I cry foul," he groused, rubbing his arm where he'd landed on it.  "I had better get a free throw for that."

"Two," she said cordially as she handed over the ball and pointed to the free throw line.

The first shot sank beautifully through the basket and into Huxley's waiting hands.  She bounced it back to him with a hotshot whistle.

The second shot bounced deceitfully from one side of the rim to the other, and Bentley ran up, competing for the space below the hoop should it not fall in.  Huxley shoved right back and when the ball eventually bounced out of the hoop, they both jumped for it, into each other, colliding with bone-jarring impact and crashing gloriously to the ground.

Huxley still remembers the fierce pride that surged through her when she landed on top of him and his breath hitched--and not from the fall.  His hands went to steady her, try to catch her even though it was too late for that, and for a long moment they lay there, not breathing, minds processing at visible speeds.

When Bentley had caught his breath, he spoke.  "Maybe I should let you foul me up more often."

     Boot still smoking, she crouches behind the pillar, counting his footsteps until he's almost too close--then she breaks for the next pillar.  A volley of magic crashes after her, none of the shots hitting home.  Once safe she risks a glance back at him, and he's standing there expressionless, just waiting for her to come back out into firing range.

She ducks back and continues to refine her strategy.  He won't follow her here, wary of a ready blade, but a long enough dash will have him tailing after her.  She'll need to cut back and forth across the courtyard at least two more times before he will have edged himself into position.

She looks out briefly to scan for a likely target destination, and a magic bolt sails almost half-heartedly past her face.  Making it across is going to be near suicidal, but it's her only chance.  She fights the urge to close her eyes and make a dash for it, feinting to one side of the pillar before whirling and charging across the courtyard.

The crash behind her tells her he took a shot at her feint, and that she only has a matter of seconds before he retargets and takes her out.  One second, two, and then she's pressed up against the far wall, panting, unscathed, and semi-protected by an overgrown lattice.

She creeps forward through the vine shadow, aiming to get a look at him now, sword held at the ready behind her.  She peeks around the lattice and doesn't see him anywhere.  It's the immediate burn across the back of her hand that lets her know he saw through her play.

He's suddenly grabbing her wrist and she drops the sword, crying out in pain as he turns her and smashes her against the stucco wall.  His other hand goes right for her throat, and it smolders with unleashed power.  He stares at her with similar fire in his eyes, easily keeping her pinned despite her struggles, despite her free hand clawing at his arm, reaching for his face.

This is the first time in two years that she's seen him so clearly, and it frightens her again at how little he's changed, how unnaturally pale he is.  His eyes are the same dark windows to the same dark soul, and it's not with malice that he looks at her.  For the first time she realizes that he's fighting to remain emotionless, and when his shield slips for half a quick heartbeat, she imagines she sees regret in those eyes.

Warning bells go off and she kicks him viciously in the leg.  "Stop.  Huxley," he commands, the burn in his hands rippling a few degrees hotter.

"You want me to give up without a fight, huh?  Like last time?" she growls back, trying another kick.

"No," he says softly, "I don't want you to give up at all."  He pulls her trapped hand toward himself and she resists, fighting him until he presses a kiss against the burn on the top of her hand.  His lips are too cold, an unsettling contrast to the heat in his hands, and there's nothing about the feel of his gesture that she remembers.

     They'd had a table of their own in the cafeteria, but not through arrogant machinations on their part.  The other students naturally gave them a wide berth, out of reverence or fear, and the hotshot partnership rarely looked outside itself to meet its social needs.

It was there that Bentley had taken her hand across the table, and she'd looked up from her text, curious.

"Let me know if I'm being too forward, here," he'd started shyly, "But do you have any plans for after the graduation ceremony?  I mean, for that night?"

She had grinned in astonishment at the sight of her partner's courage crumbling around him.  "Hold up.  Let me get this straight," she'd said, leaning in, "the great Bentley Smith is asking me out?"

Some of his swagger crystallized around him again and he answered with a wagging of eyebrows, "Only if you think you're ready for a night with the great Bentley Smith."

"Oh, you think it's me who can't keep up?  You get ready for a night with the great Huxley Brown," she'd laughed.

That's when he'd kissed her hand, just a brush of his lips across her knuckles, and she'd known that everything in the world was right.

"That's a yes, right?" he'd asked a moment later.

When the school erupted into wild speculation about them later that day, she was glad.  It would have bothered her, if the rumors hadn't all been true.

     His freezing lips take the burn out of her hand, and she watches him with great confusion.  After all, there's a scar hidden under her sleeve no farther than an inch away, an entire forearm of skin patched together without the aid of the Academy's sophisticated medical science.  He hadn't been so conciliatory when he'd burned her the last time.  He looks back up at her, still hemming the feeling from his eyes, and the power in his hands surges, filling the air around them with magical heat and the scent of ozone.

Then he lets her go.  She falters, no longer held in place by his grip, making a choking sound, surprised, relieved, confused.  She looks sharply up at him, wondering what his game-ending move will be, but there's no pressurized air surrounding him.  It's just Bentley, pale, brooding Bentley, and he kicks her sword back over to her.

"Round two," he says, flipping his head back towards the courtyard.  "Fight."

She watches him back away, into the golden light, and she reaches for her sword.  No more tactics, no more strategy.  This is winner-take-all and so far he's just been playing with her.  The old Bentley never would have been able to read her plans like that, never would have been able to be a step ahead and catch her off guard.  The rules had changed and she hadn't even seen that.

He's waiting for her again in the courtyard, hands in his pockets, which she knows he imagines to be the least threatening pose he can think of.  But even if she charges him he'll have time to free his hands and blast her away.  She knows more than one foolish demon who made that mistake their last.  But the rules have changed.  She tries it.

She comes at him with a yell, sword at the ready, and if he didn't move to the left at the last second, he'd be dead now.  She redirects her blade without a second's thought, arcing it around and up, slicing through the edge of his duster as he dodges again.

They square off, she with her sword glinting in the dying light, he with his hands resolutely in his pockets.

"What's wrong with you?" Huxley shouts at him.

He shrugs.  "I spent our time apart growing my power exponentially.  I had only thought you'd done the same."  He scuffs his boot against the raised edge of a broken flagstone, almost like a disappointed child.  "I'd imagined this showdown playing out much differently."

He infuriates her with how cavalier he's being about all this, as if this is just some sort of harmless sparring match.  She springs forward without thinking, only wanting to slash and stab and see his blood on her blade.  Only wanting retribution, to see the one who betrayed them all meet his justice at her hands.  She wants this battle to end, now.

He easily sidesteps her initial attack, repelling the follow-up with a percussive bolt of magic.  They do this dance for a while, her striking blindly, he dodging or blocking.  Occasionally he comes back with an attack of his own, blue fire forcing her footing ever so slightly, until she realizes that he's the one who's dictating the steps.

She sees him back himself into the corner she'd picked out for him earlier, each step he takes away from her blade is a step toward the fountain.  She watches him blast just a hair off-target, making her instinctually duck and come up right under his defenses.  She knows he's let her have this opening, somehow planned it all from the start, knows it's in all likelihood a trap.  She takes it, anyway.

She comes at him with her sword held on her off side, the grip reversed so her left hand can support the pommel and drive the blade forward into his pale body.  He sees her coming, nothing but grim satisfaction on his face, and he closes his eyes.  It's a killing blow, and he's letting her take it.

He wants her to take it.

This realization freezes up her entire body, but she's already moving so all she can do is swing from him at the last second.  The blade catches him on the arm and her shoulder meets him a split second after that, slamming him into the center rise of the fountain with a sick thud.  Winded, they both slide together into the weed-filled basin and fight for air.

She catches hers first and immediately rolls on him, pinning his hands to the green dirt below.  He looks up at her, unfocussed and wheezing, and his shield is completely demolished.  His feelings shine through the glassy eyes, and all she can find in them is disappointment.

"Why?" he gasps, voice reedy.

That's when she kisses him.

     He'd brushed his fingers lazily over the jagged scar that encircled the top of her leg one last time before sliding out of bed.  He tugged on some pants and crossed to the sliding door that opened onto the balcony.  From the back pocket he retrieved a crumpled box of cigarettes and pulled one out.

From the bed, she'd laughed, simply because she was happy.  "Smoking, really?  I never would have pegged you for clichés."

Eyes bright under wild hair, he'd pulled out another and offered it to her wordlessly.

She'd rolled her eyes.  "Can't smoke in bed.  Lemme find some clothes."

"Not strictly necessary," he all but purred, fishing around in his pockets for the lighter.  He watched her trek around the room, piecing her outfit together from every corner.  She caught him watching as she approached, slid her eyes away with an embarrassed smile.

He caught her chin and pulled it toward him, putting the cigarette to her lips.  She looked at his hands while they lit her cigarette, feeling a flash of awe at how far they'd come since they'd met.  The first time she'd held his hand it had been little more than a pile of bones held together in paper, and now, now they were something else entirely.

He nodded towards the balcony and they went out together.  It was late, but the courtyard below was still alive, festive lights playing along the hedges, the flagstones, illuminating the fountain and its coppery sunken treasure.  There was music playing somewhere, and a handful of other couples were scattered below, laughing and talking softly together.

"Did I ever thank you?" she'd asked.  "You know, for saving my life?"

He'd taken a long drag on his cigarette, as if trying to remember.  He looked back to the bed, instead.  "I believe you just did," he leered gently.

She matched his leer with one of her own, and stretched casually.  "Yeah I did."

He'd snorted and shaken his head, smiling.  "But you did," he assured her, "way back in the med lab, when I was just a half-finished rag doll.  Did you know, that the day you visited me, I had only grown back forty-five percent of my skin?"

"That's disgusting," she'd said.

"And itchy.  I'm never doing that again.  Absolutely never."  His light tone dipped, taking on a note of determination that caught her attention.

"Never heroically rescue an in-over-her-head sophomore at the risk of ridiculously severe personal debilitation?"  She put a hand over his, and he turned to look at her.  There was a veil in his eyes, something lurking there that he didn't want her to see.

"Listen," he'd said, turning his hand so her palm rested in his, "I know how much the system means to you, what the school stands for and what our licenses mean.  But they...they keep things from us.  They tell us some things are dangerous when they're really not."

She weakly tugged her hand away from him but he gripped it firmly.  She bit down her sudden unease and dared to meet his eyes.

"Huxley.  I've been offered a chance to attain greater power than the Academy can ever imagine.  Not with their superstitious rules."  He looked at her, eyebrows drawn, eyes darting from side to side, searching for understanding in her own.

Huxley had tried a smile but it fizzled out almost immediately.  "You mean like a grad school?"

"No, Hux.  The Stefan Coven."

He tried to hold on to her, but this time she broke away with a gasp, cigarette falling forgotten to the balcony deck.  "No.  No!" she shouted, fleeing into the hotel room.  "The Coven?!  Bentley!  You can't go against the Academy like that!"

He followed her swiftly, hands in pockets, shoulders slumped.  "It's not about the Academy anymore, it's about power.  They can give me that."

She turned and punched him square in the jaw.  "Don't be an idiot," she seethed as he staggered back, a hand to his face.  "Don't make this mistake."

He'd licked blood from his split lip and whispered darkly, "It's too late.  They've already accepted me.  The Academy's golden boy."

Huxley had made up her mind then.  With unwavering hands she reached for her sword case by the bed, unaffected by Bentley's look of bitter remorse.  "How did you honestly expect me to react?" she asked as she unlocked the case, "Did you think I'd just go along with it?  Give you a pat on the back?"

"Huxley, listen to me," he'd protested uneasily as she'd lifted the sword from the case, sliding it smoothly from the sheath.

She turned to him, not as his partner but as his enemy.  "Like you said, it's already too late."

And then they'd fought, starting there in the room, crashing down into the courtyard below, heedless of the terrified guests caught in the crossfire.  The power he displayed then was already beyond the level she'd known him to be, beyond what he should have been.  Masonry exploded around her under his assault, filling the air with dust and preventing her from keeping him in her sights.

Then suddenly it was over, a searing pulse catching her directly on the arm, burning away her sleeve as it passed.  She'd dropped the sword, curling down around her arm, and he'd kicked at the back of her knees, toppling her.

She'd knelt there, cradling her smoking arm, and waited for him to end it.  She'd flinched when he crouched down behind her, brushed her hair away from her ear.

"I'm so sorry," he'd whispered, touching a faint kiss to her hair.  After that she remembers nothing, only waking up in the hospital a day later and finding out the Academy was gone, overrun and destroyed by the Stefan Coven while Bentley had lured her away.

     He sputters into her kiss, still fighting his lungs.  She leans back and punches him full in the gut, a part of her satisfied with the way he doubles over, wheezing again.  Then she lifts his head, kissing his forehead gently.

"I have to have a reason not to kill you?" she whispers into his hair.  "I could be asking you the same thing."

His arms come up around her and for a moment she tenses, half expecting a trap even now.  But he just holds her tightly, face pressed into her shoulder.  She lets him hold on for a while, regaining his breath, then pulls away.

"Why did you ask me here?" she questions softly, putting her hands on his shoulders.  Her eyes ask other questions, harder questions, but she doesn't know if either of them are ready to face those answers yet.

"You were right," he rasps in that voice that didn't used to be his, "The Academy was right.  The Coven hid things from me, too, and now I'm facing my consequences."

Huxley takes in his colorlessness once more, trying to decide whether or not this creature before her deserves her pity.  "Everyone who was at the Academy died," she reminds him coldly.  "And those that somehow escaped the massacre wouldn't think twice about killing you."

He laughs, that bitter sound again, his fingers pressing into her sides.  "That's what I thought when I called you here.  A final showdown, closure for the both of us."  He looks up at her with honest vulnerability shining in his eyes, and even the soul on the other side looks weak and dim.

"I'm cursed," he admits, never looking away, "The power I sought turned against me and now I'm something I swore I wouldn't ever be again.  All I wanted from you was to end it quickly, before my mistake wastes me away."

The sun finally plunges below the wall of the hotel, leaving them in cool dusk shadow, and the last of his words are carried away on a cutting breeze.  She shivers and stands, tugging the ends of her sleeves over her hands, his eyes sharp on her every move.

"Nope," she says, holding out her hand to him.  "You don't get the easy way out.  I'm going to find a way to save you, so you can live with your mistakes.  And then I'll consider us even."