"No...no, hurt..."

Sharael curled both a wing and an arm around Samael, shaking her head. "Not good enough. Tell her to go away."

It was horrible, every last bit of it: the unrelenting and all-too-familiar pain Samael was sunk in, Mirk's inability to do anything to help, the mere fact that the only words that Samael could work out were no and hurt and stop. Sharael was cross to begin with over how much pain Mirk’s presence caused Samael, despite her brother's agreement to bear it, as long as it meant none of the other healers had to come close. Their experimentation with ways to get Samael to the healers dormitory, no matter how careful, were pushing her to her limit. Even though her mental shielding was thick enough to keep her anger hidden, Mirk could see it just as plainly in the number of feathers she was shedding.

Sighing, Mirk stepped back out into the hall, looking for Sheila. She had made it closer to the room that time, but not nearly close enough for their plan to work. Mirk thought that if he worked together with another healer, they might be able to cast shields strong enough to protect Samael all the way to the healers dormitory if they ran. Sheila had been the only volunteer on hand to try it with Mirk that day. He’d already tried every other angle that could have solved the problem without asking for help. Sharael's ability to cast her thick shielding beyond her own mind was lacking. And she steadfastly refused to use a teleportation spell paper, adamant that Imanael would nab her brother while in the odd in-between space teleportation took a mage through.

Even if Samael had been able to bear Sheila's presence once she’d come close enough to help, Mirk was beginning to doubt that Sheila herself could have kept her senses for long under the force of Samael’s constant pain. Though she'd backed off as soon as she'd seen Mirk enter the hall, Sheila’s eyes were glassy and fully black, her breath coming as fast as a human's. Pain had the inverse effect on her demonic empathy that it did on the other healers. Sheila had explained its effects to him by comparing it to the spicy food that Emir favored: it burned, but it was still tasty. She could feed on it much like she could blood. Too much pain, however, could either make her lunge for someone's throat or leave her flat on her back on the floor in a daze, too lost in the emotion to do anything helpful. Which was what she had to be getting close to at present, judging by the color of her eyes.

"What now?" she called out to him, once she'd caught her breath.

"I...well...maybe we could clear out all the rooms between here and the field transporter? Methinks Sharael might feel better about using those than a teleportation spell..."

Sheila gave a curt hiss of a laugh. Now that she had moved outside the wards that'd been put up to hold back Samael's pain, she was quickly returning to normal. "You think Cyrus is going to put up with us moving dozens of patients for one child? He already wants to drug him. Or kill him. Whichever frees up the back half of the long-term ward quicker."

Mirk knew Sheila was right. But he was running out of ideas. He only had one real plan left. But Mirk knew it'd be profoundly uncomfortable for everyone involved. Best to avoid it unless the worst came to pass.

Sheila noticed before he did. Though Genesis's silence was absolute to most, there was no hiding the sound of a beating heart from a vampire, no matter how slow. "Oh? Finally come to put us all out of our misery?" Sheila asked the commander, as he slipped out of an empty room midway between the end of the hall and Samael's room.

Genesis frowned at her — whether it was the sarcasm or the fact that she'd heard him coming that annoyed him was unclear. "This is...pointless."

"Yes. It is," Sheila said, shifting her scrutiny from Genesis to Mirk.

He cringed. Mirk had hoped that all the other healers had forgotten about Genesis's immunity to empathy from both ends, that perhaps it only jumped so readily to the forefront of Mirk's mind because he relied on it so often. It'd been a foolish hope, one that made Mirk wonder why the others hadn't been pressing him to pester Genesis into helping right from the start.

Mirk had his reasons for not asking for Genesis's help. To all external appearances, Genesis stabbed and broke his way through the world without any particular remorse for the havoc he left in his wake. That wasn't true, in Mirk's opinion. What Genesis had done to Samael in order to let the others come close enough to heal him was causing Genesis an uncharacteristic amount of distress. Maybe the other healers hadn’t asked him to go to Genesis for help yet because the commander’s discomfort with Samael’s situation was so severe that Mirk wasn't the only person who could tell Genesis was upset, for once.

It was in how Genesis's face went forcibly blank every time Mirk updated him on how Samael was doing, how he refused to give his opinion whenever Mirk asked him whether or not Sharael's fear of Imanael snatching the boy out of thin air was unfounded. Coupled with whatever guilt was plaguing Genesis over what had happened when he'd called upon Mirk and K'aekniv to help him tug his own bindings loose enough to bind Samael, it made for a tense atmosphere in the infirmary that Mirk couldn't find a way to alleviate. There was no projecting to Genesis how he felt on the matter, or empathically impressing on him how grateful Samael had been to avoid purification. Genesis had to process his emotions on his own. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't the commander's strong suit.

Seeing Samael in pain would only make it worse, Mirk feared. But he'd stalled for as long as he could. There was no choice left but to turn to Genesis. Still, Mirk made a token attempt at discouraging Genesis from slinking off down the hall to Samael's room. "You don't have to worry, messire. You're still recovering yourself. I'm sure I'll think of something eventually..."

Genesis neither looked down at Mirk nor commented as he slipped past him and entered Samael's room. Sheila shot Mirk a knowing look before turning and walking away. He'd always told the other healers to leave the problem of Genesis to him. Now all those months of scolding were turning on Mirk when he least wanted them to. Defeated, Mirk followed the commander into Samael's room, already struggling to think up some way to smooth Genesis and the boy's first conscious interaction.

Samael’s pain was tinged with surprise. It had to be completely foreign to him, not being able to sense another living being's presence well before they came within sight. But Samael was unafraid, or at least no hint of fear disturbed his continual suffering. Sharael was a whole other matter. She immediately put herself between Genesis and her brother, her feathers lifting in anger as she spread her wings to hide Samael from sight. "It's all right, Sharael," Samael said to her in angelic from somewhere behind her bristling wings. "I can't feel anything."

"What?" Sharael ducked one wing, just far enough to peek over her shoulder.

"Mirk was telling the truth. He feels like...nothing."

Mirk sighed, shutting the door to the room before going to Sharael's side. Perhaps she'd feel less threatened if it looked like they were standing together as a united front against any potential threat posed by Genesis. The commander's expression was completely closed off, cold. It wasn't helping matters one bit. "He will not hurt you," he said, following Samael's lead and speaking in his halting, rusty angelic. "He will help."

"He's one of those things. From the stories. A Destroyer," she said, still not budging. "And he did blood magic on Sam."

He snuck a glance back at Genesis. No reaction. None that was visible, in any case. "We had to. To help Samael."

"Why not let the monster speak for himself?" Sharael asked, switching back to English to be certain Genesis understood. Despite her anger, Mirk thought he could detect a hint of fear buried underneath it. It was in the way her wings were trembling, her feathers standing up so far that it would have been comical in a different situation. Mirk knew that angels puffed up like that both when they were angry and when they were afraid.

Samael must have sensed it as well. He forced himself up onto his feet, taking hold of Sharael's arm for support. "I'm not afraid. And we need his help again."

"You are...correct. I bound him...against his will. It is unacceptable. In one sense...I have paid the price. But it is not enough."

Both of the young angels were surprised by Genesis's words — his angelic was stiff and very formal, but precise. Better than Mirk's was, in any case. After a pause, Genesis shifted his attention from Sharael to Samael. "For what I have done to you...I am in your debt. I will remain so...until such time...as the harm I've done is outbalanced."

Samael only stared up at Genesis. Mirk could sense the young angel's confusion. It had to be strange, not being able to read another person and respond directly to whatever they were keeping hidden behind expressions and words that could always lie. When Samael did speak, his words were halting, uncertain. "You didn't hurt me. You made the pain stop. And you took care of me while I was sick. You don't owe me anything."

An emotion finally crossed Genesis's face, one that it took Mirk a moment to sort out: the commander was just as puzzled as Samael was. "Nevertheless. Some things...cannot be dismissed. I am in your debt."

Samael's eyes darted to Mirk. He felt the young angel's mind slide past his shields, a wave of his constant pain coming with it. Mirk couldn't keep himself from wincing. What does he mean? I'm in his debt? I...I think it must be something important, but I can't feel him...

I don't know exactly what it means either, Mirk thought back to him. But it is something important, yes. It must be some form of sincere apology, to him. He hardly ever says that kind of thing to anyone. It'd be better if you just accepted it, for now. He's very stubborn when it comes to this kind of thing.

Nodding, Samael looked back up at Genesis. "I accept your debt, Lord Genesis."

This startled Genesis enough to knock him out of whatever emotional distance he'd been imposing on himself. He frowned. "I am no lord. Nor will I...ever be one."

Samael looked back and forth between Mirk and Genesis, curious. "Then why does he call you lord in his language when he thinks of you?"

The tension in the room shattered. Mirk couldn't keep himself from chuckling into his sleeve, and Genesis gave a tired sigh. "It is a...royalist habit I am...unable to convince him to break," Genesis said.

I don't really mean it, now, Mirk thought to Samael. He could still sense the boy in his mind, using his emotions to help him gauge how he should react to Genesis's strangeness. It's more like a...term of affection. It annoys him, but much less than a nickname would.

Samael smiled, finally seeming to understand. Like how I can't stop Sharael from calling me Sam. I hate it, but she won't listen.

Sharael, for her part, still was wary. Instead of holding her wings out to shield Samael completely from Genesis, she now had the one nearer to her brother wrapped around him. To ward off unwelcome emotions along with the chill of being apart from the Light Eternal. "It's all right, Sharael," Samael said to her, squeezing her arm. "We're going to go somewhere better now. Right?" he asked Genesis.

"Correct." Genesis considered the boy for a moment, thinking. "Your empathy is...very strong. Though Imanael is...no threat to you in the Abyss, I believe the thoughts of the creatures will...disturb you. Thus, we must...walk."

It was a strange walk. Genesis had to keep a veil of shadows around Samael to keep the emotions of the crowds out on the streets of the City of Glass from reaching him, but Samael refused to be separated from his sister, or her from him. He cast his magic over them all instead, Mirk included, and they made the walk from the infirmary to the healers dormitory completely blind. Mirk wondered whether Genesis could see through the shadows, somehow, or if he'd memorized the number of steps between each of the City's main buildings. He wouldn't have put it past him.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

As soon as Mirk had unlocked the door to his room, Samael bolted into it, turning in a slow circle in its middle, dazed. The continual streaming from his eyes stopped, as did his constant trembling. He threw himself onto the leftmost of the two narrow beds Mirk had asked K'aekniv to bring upstairs for him days ago in preparation, buried his head in his arms, and went still. Rather than going to the second bed, Sharael scooted her brother's body over and curled up beside him, wrapping both her arms and wings around him. With assurances that he'd be back to check up on them later and bring them supper, Mirk left his key on the dresser and withdrew, waving the shields on his old room up to full strength as he shut the door.

Genesis had remained out in the hall. Mirk was surprised Genesis hadn't taken advantage of his distraction to slip off unnoticed. He may not have had the energy to yet, even if he'd wanted to — Mirk had noticed on the walk over that Genesis's magic, though it was strong enough to hold off the emotions of passers-by, was less restless and seeking than usual. And by the time they'd reached the healers dormitory, Genesis looked much more pale and drawn than he had before. He must have used more of his magic to bind Samael than Mirk had been able to perceive. That or fighting against his own bindings exhausted Genesis in a way that no other kind of magic did.

Mirk flashed him a reassuring smile, leaning against his door and savoring the warm touch of its shielding spells. "See? Everything's fine, messire. Methinks I might have been worried over nothing...."

"There is a certain...pressing matter you have neglected. I believe."

"Oh?"

"You are...homeless. As it were."

"I suppose I am, aren't I?" Mirk ran his hands over the spells on the door to his room a final time before forcing himself to stand up straight. He'd miss them, but he'd make do. Samael was the one who needed them now. "It's no trouble, really. I'll find somewhere else. Emir said that the dormitory is full right now, but I can draw on grand-père's accounts to stay at an inn in the meantime."

Genesis disapproved of this plan, considering how his frown deepened. "There are numerous...hazards outside the City. Moving through London and remaining in it are two different things. The fact that you require...shielding to rest properly aside."

Mirk shook his head, though part of him was touched by Genesis's concern. A matter of practicality rather than sentiment, no doubt, but it was concern all the same. "I'll be fine. Methinks you've taught me well enough to avoid thieves."

"There are...worse things than thieves."

"Worse than the Fourteenth? Or the assassins?"

"That is not the point."

"Do you have a better idea, messire?"

For once, Genesis had nothing to offer aside from his glowering. "I will investigate the matter. As I am currently too...indisposed to do anything else."

"Well, I appreciate the help. Since I know it won't do any good to tell you not to trouble yourself."

Mirk had meant to tease him, to joke a little to lighten the mood. Genesis missed the cue and nodded gravely, as if they were discussing a matter of life and death rather than his not having a room for the night. "Correct."

Trying to ignore the sudden fluttering in his chest, Mirk laughed and shook his head. He really was doomed if something as simple as polite concern was enough to set his mind running down the wrong path. It was all nonsense. He needed to be sensible. Like Genesis. He was, after all, a valuable asset in the commander's plans, despite how he felt like nothing more than a fumbling, half-trained healer. An asset needed to be protected. Sentiment didn't factor into it in the slightest.

- - -

"Ah...I suppose it's not so bad..."

Mirk was lying to himself again. A reoccuring vice, as of late.

The inn wasn't bad, per se. But it wasn't home. The room he'd bought for the night was dark, musty, and cramped. It had a window that overlooked the street, but it didn't brighten the room any, perhaps because it was well after sunset. Mirk had grown accustomed to the bright magelights that lined the main thoroughfares of the City of Glass. They illuminated the spotless cobbled streets of the City with a cool, blue-white light all through the night.

In mortal London, everything was consumed by gloom and fog. Picking his way through it to the inn had been a trial. More than the absence of auras cast by mages in the townhouses and shops around him, the street itself had told Mirk when he'd crossed from the mage quarter into mortal London. The street had become filthy over the span of a dozen yards, strewn with refuse and waste Mirk was glad he couldn't see well enough in the dark to identify.

Mirk couldn't recall ever having been so bothered by the filth of mortal Paris. Then again, he'd never had to walk there. Even the shortest trip was made by the family coach. He'd always been fully removed from the destitution of the city poor, either by magic or gold. The rural poor he'd worked among at the abbey at least had the benefit of fresh air and clear running water from streams and rivers to make their lives a little less dismal.

And he never would have spent the night at an inn at home, not even one for mages. It wasn't the done thing; it tarnished both your own reputation and those of your friends. Who was so insignificant that they couldn't depend on an acquaintance for lodging? And who would be so haughty as to refuse their hospitality? Even the poorest nobles were always willing to accommodate a friend, even if only to prove that they hadn't fallen so far that they could no longer fill a table for a guest.

Looking at it that way, Mirk supposed he could have gone to Madame Beaumont. But he felt as if he'd be imposing on her. For one thing, he had no place of his own at the moment where he could return the courtesy, should his godmother ever be in need. For another, she'd already housed his uncle and cousins for weeks already, the matter of her using her connections to rescue them from Henri's workshop in Bordeaux aside. Even though Mirk knew she would most likely relish having her godson available to gossip and plot with at dinner, he couldn't bring himself to ask. It was the principle of it all. He had been taking for too long. He wasn't willing to snatch up any more until he had something to give.

Things were different now. His family and his grandfather's ledgers weren't gone, but he was still a K'maneda. And, as K'aekniv and the other men of the Seventh always said in the face of any misery or inconvenience, a K'maneda made do. It wouldn't hurt him to start to come to terms with it.

Mirk distracted himself by putting up shields and wards. A mage inn would have offered them as a basic amenity, but he'd decided a mortal inn would be safer. No one would think to look for him there, among the long-suffering mortals. Though he had caved and paid for one of the finer establishments among those close to the mage quarter. The first one he'd paused outside had been radiating so much unbridled lust and misery that it'd turned his stomach. Genesis probably would have made some dismissive comment about his royalist habits and finery if he’d been there. Mirk felt he could just as easily ask the commander whether he would have tolerated sleeping on a mattress that was home to whole colonies of insects, even if they weren't so numerous as to be audible from a distance. He could have used his magic to check the bed he was vacillating in front of for pests, but something in Mirk recoiled from knowing.

...maybe he was a bit spoiled.

Once he finished the wards and shields, Mirk lowered his personal mental shielding to check the quality of his work. He winced. Someone a few rooms over was having a severe bout of cramps. He could feel the twisting in their gut just as easily as if he'd been holding their hand as they emptied their body yet again. That would make getting any sleep difficult. An empath couldn't keep up their mental shielding while they were unconscious, even if they were so accustomed to holding them up during their waking life that they hardly ever had to think twice about maintaining them any more.

He could pour hours into strengthening the shields and wards around the room until he could steal a few hours of sleep, though it would drain him so badly that he'd be completely useless in the morning. A sleep-deprived healer could still be useful in a pinch. A drained one was only good for making bandages and potions. If he was going to be staying at the inn for a week or two, it might still have been worth it.

But his resolution to tolerate the inconveniences of the non-noble mortal world was quickly weakening. A more pious and conscientious man would have borne it with grace and used it as a reminder to be thankful for the gifts God had bestowed upon him, motivation to be more charitable and understanding of others in the future. He really was spoiled. And as for pious...

Mirk's estimation of that quality within himself had always been low. But with recent events taken into consideration, if he was the final Judge, Mirk would have placed himself among the ranks of the unrepentant murderers when it came to sinfulness rather than among those who were prone to falling asleep during Mass on sunny days.

"Brooding's not going to do you any good," Mirk mumbled to himself, to try to bolster his resolve. Before getting into bed, he double-checked the locks on the windows. Flimsy things — a stout stick jammed in the frame would have been a better deterrent. Mirk drew his grandfather's staff out of the pocket of his waistcoat and magicked it to fighting length. Maybe its faint warmth and reassurance would help to ease his mind. The mattress certainly wouldn't. Despite the chill and the damp, Mirk couldn't bring himself to wrap himself in the worn bedclothes after blowing out the candle on the nightstand and lying down, fully clothed.

He tried closing his eyes, expecting the residual fatigue of the past few days to roll over him and drag him down into slumber. Nothing. He tried a centering technique Danu had taught him, slowing his breathing until each inhale and exhale was deliberate and controlled, tensing and relaxing all the muscles from his toes to his shoulders in turn. It helped a little. But he was still acutely aware of the life stirring in the mattress beneath him and the poor person down the hall still suffering through their indigestion.

Unwillingly, Mirk's eyes drifted open. It was dark, but it wasn't the absolute, magicked kind of shadows that always brought him the most comfort. No. No, he wasn't going to let his mind go there. He fumbled at his neck for his mother's rosary.

That didn't help either. The familiar prayers, instead of lulling him into a more peaceful frame of mind, ignited a war in it, conscience against nature, guilt against longing. Mirk kept fighting, hoping all the thinking would wear him out some. Then he heard it: a faint rattling at the window. He cast out his senses; there wasn't a trace of magic beyond his room. Sighing, he rolled out of bed, staff in hand, and went to open it.

Mirk had hoped his slapdash attempt at a disguise would have made him a less appealing target. Even his shabbiest suit was leagues better than that of an average traveler, so he'd gone to Mordecai for another option. Yule was close enough to his size, but he suspected that the clothes Yule favored when he left the City were bound to attract attention rather than deter it. Mordecai had presented him with the suit of a decent, middling sort of mortal man, its fabric rough despite its excellent craftsmanship. The teleporting mage had gotten them as a parting gift from his uncle, a tailor. Mirk had promised to take good care of them. He could feel how much Mordecai valued them, even though Mirk planned on wearing them to convince any curious mortals that he didn't have anything of value worth robbing him for.

The thief dangling from the windowsill was young, more a boy than a man. At first, the thief was shocked by his appearance on the other side. Now he seemed to be debating what odds he stood of standing against Mirk in a fight. Mirk shook his head at the boy, offering him a tired smile.

"I would try somewhere else, sir. Methinks I don't have much of anything you'd be interested in," Mirk said.

The boy growled something in response. Mirk couldn't understand a word of it. The thief might have been speaking English, but his accent was too thick and strange for Mirk to make sense of. Sighing again, Mirk resorted to sticking his grandfather's staff out the window and gently rapping on the boy's knuckles. The boy cursed him and scrambled down the drainpipe beside his window, vanishing into the dark and the fog.

Was it even worth shutting and locking the window again? Probably not. But leaving it open would let in the damp and the stench of the street. Mirk shut it again before returning to bed, but he didn't bother locking it.

After staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, watching the spiders move in the cobwebs between the rafters, Mirk tried to clear his mind again. He should have brought a drink with him. It'd mean he'd be too defenseless to put up much of a fight if someone more than a desperate boy came after him, but at least he might have been able to get some sleep first. As he debated the merits of going downstairs and seeing if there was someone still awake who could pour him enough ale to take the edge off things, Mirk noticed that the spiders had gone still. And he was having trouble picking them out of the gloom. It was a subtle change in the quality of the darkness above him, but one that he recognized nevertheless. Someone was trying to call the darkness down on him and pin him to the bed.

Miserably, Mirk hauled himself out of bed yet again and returned to the window. There was a man out in the lane below, just barely visible by the light of the lanterns in front of a raucous establishment down the street. Taller than the average mortal Englishman, he was pacing restlessly as he cast his magic up into Mirk's room. Despite the bulky overcoat he was wearing and the hat pulled low over his face, Mirk could tell with a glance that he had to be some kind of demon. It was his legs. They moved too smoothly, too fluidly, with an animal's grace. Mirk reached out his senses again, testing how strong the dark magic above him was growing. Nothing to be afraid of. Genesis summoned stronger palls of shadow unconsciously when he got annoyed by a particularly stubborn stain.

The man's face turned toward the window, confused. Mirk didn't feel like getting into a physical altercation. Instead, he touched the wall beside the window, disabling the shields and wards he'd cast over the room and projecting his annoyance at being preyed upon down at the man, full force. The man's reaction was easy for Mirk to sense — shock, followed by a combined rush of fear and embarrassment as he jammed his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and hurried away. Mirk must not have felt like much of a mage through his wards and shields.

And he didn't feel like much of one even once he was fully exposed either. His wards had been so poorly constructed that even a weaker demon had been able to cast straight through them.

"Juste ciel…” Mirk muttered under his breath. Shoving the annoyance out of his mind and heaping it on someone else hadn't made it dissipate, though now all Mirk was left with was annoyance at himself rather than at the interloping demon. He didn't bother to reactivate the wards or shields as he turned away from the window.Instead, he picked up his traveling bag from the foot end of the bed, unlocked the door, and left.

Obviously, he didn't have the necessary wits to pass the night alone in a mortal inn. It was pathetic. And he shouldn't have even tried. It was time for him to go back to where he belonged, the City of Glass, along with all the other wayward and maladjusted mages in England. It'd be a cot in the long-term ward for him that night. And probably the next. And the one after that, and on and on until he came up with a more reasonable plan or broke down and went groveling to his godmother for aid, once again.

But first, he needed a drink.