ane blinked and looked down at the hot chocolate she was holding. Something was dripping into it.

Jesus... Tears were pouring down her face, falling into the mug, getting her button-down shirt wet. Her whole body was shaking, her knees weak, her chest screaming in pain. For some crazy reason she wanted to fall to the floor and wail.

Wiping her cheeks off, she glanced around her kitchen. There was milk and cocoa mix and a spoon on the counter. The pan on the stove still had a little steam rising up from it. The cabinet to the left wasn't shut all the way. She couldn't remember taking the stuff out or making what was in her mug, but then, that was often the case with repetitive, habitual actions. You space-shotted them¡ª

What the hell? Through the windows on the other side of the breakfast nook, she saw someone standing in front of her condo. A man. A huge man. He was just outside the glowing pool of a street lamp, so she couldn't see his face, but she knew he was staring at her.

For no evident reason her tears ran harder and faster. And the outpouring got worse as the stranger turned away and walked off down the street.

Jane all but threw the mug onto the counter and bolted out of her kitchen. She had to catch him. She had to stop him.

Just as she came to her front door, a vicious headache took her down to the floor sure as if she'd been tripped off her feet. She sprawled out on the foyer's cold white tile, then twisted onto her side, grinding her fingers into her temples and gasping.

She lay there for God only knew how long, just breathing and praying for the pain to back off. When it finally did she eased her upper body off the floor and leaned against her front door. She wondered if she'd had a stroke, but there had been no cognitive interruptions or visual disturbances. Just one hell of a quick-onset headache.

Must be remnants of the flu she'd had all weekend. That virus that had been around the hospital for weeks had taken her out like a dead rosebush. Which made sense. She hadn't been sick in a long time, so she'd been overdue.

Speaking of overdue... Shit, had she even called to reschedule her interview at Columbia? She had no clue... which meant she probably hadn't. Hell, she didn't even remember leaving the hospital on Thursday night.

She wasn't sure how long she made like a doorstop, but at some point the clock on the mantel started to chime. It was the one that had been in her father's study in Greenwich, an old-fashioned Hamilton made of solid brass that she'd always sworn rang the hours in with a British accent. She'd always hated the damn thing, but it kept good time.

Six o'clock in the morning. Time to go to work.

Good plan, but when she stood up, she knew without a doubt she wasn't going into the hospital. She was lightheaded, weak, exhausted. There was no way she could administer care in her condition; she was still sick as a dog.

Damn it... she had to call in. Where were her pager and her phone... ?

She frowned. Her coat and the bag she'd packed to go down to Manhattan were sitting next to the front hall closet.

No cell, though. No pager.

She dragged her sorry ass upstairs and checked by her bed, but the pair weren't there. Back down on the first floor she went through the kitchen. Nothing. And her shoulder bag, the one she always took to work, was missing, too. Could she have left the thing in the car all weekend?

She opened the door into the garage and the automatic light came on.

Weird. Her car was parked headfirst. Usually she backed it in.

Which just proved how out-of-it she'd been.

Sure enough her bag was in the front seat, and she cursed herself as she went back into the condo while dialing. How could she have gone for so long without calling in? Even though she was covered by other attendings, she was never out of touch for more than five hours.

Her service had a number of messages, but luckily none of them were urgent. The important ones concerning patient care had been turfed to whoever was on call, so the rest of it was stuff she could handle later.

She was heading out of the kitchen, making a beeline for her bedroom, when she looked at the mug of chocolate. She didn't have to touch it to know it had gone cold, so she might as well ditch the thing. She went and picked it up, but paused over the sink. For some reason she couldn't bear to throw it out. She left it right where it was on the counter, though she did return the milk to the refrigerator.

Upstairs in her bedroom she ditched her clothes, letting them land where they did, pulled on a T-shirt, and got in bed.

She was settling between her sheets when she realized her body was stiff, especially her inner thighs and lower back. Under different circumstances she would have said she'd had a lot of terrific sex... either that or climbed a mountain. But instead it was just the flu.

Shit. Columbia. The interview.

She'd call Ken Falcheck later this morning, apologize for what she hoped was the second time, and reschedule. They were hungry for her to come onboard, but not showing for an interview with the chairman of the department was insulting as hell. Even if you were sick.

Rearranging herself against her pillows, she couldn't get comfortable. Her neck was tight, and she reached up to massage it, only to frown. There was a sore spot on the right side in front, a real... What the hell? She had a pattern there, some raised bumps.

Whatever. Rashes were not unheard-of with the flu. Or maybe a spider had done her in.

She closed her eyes and told herself to rest. Resting was good. Resting would get rid of this bug faster. Resting would bring her back to normal, a reboot for her body.

Just as she drifted off, an image came to mind, an image of a man with a goatee and diamond eyes. His mouth was moving as he looked at her, framing the words... I love you.

Jane struggled to hold on to what she saw, but she was sliding fast into sleep's dark arms. She fought to stay with the image and lost the battle. The last thing she was aware of were tears flowing onto her pillow as the blackness stole her away.

Well, wasn't this awkward.

John sat on the bench-press in the weight room and watched as Zsadist did bicep curls across the way. The huge loads of iron made a subtle clinking sound as they went up and down, and that was it for noise. There had been no talking so far; it was just like one of their walks, only without the woods. The convo was coming, though. John could sense it.

Z put the weights down on the mats and wiped his face. His bare chest gleamed, his nipple rings rising and falling as he breathed.

His yellow eyes shifted over.

Here we go, John thought.

"So about your transition."

Okaaaay... so they were going to ease into the lesser thing. What about it? he signed.

"How you feeling?"

Good. Wobbly. Different. He shrugged. You know when you, like, clip your nails, and your fingertips are weird for a day, all supersensitive? It's like that all over me.

Oh, what the hell was he going on about? Z had been through the change. He knew what it was doing afterward.

Zsadist dropped the towel and picked up the weights for his second set of reps. "You got any physical problems?"

Not that I know of.

Z's eyes locked on the mats as he alternated lifting his left forearm, then his right. Left. Right. Left. It seemed strange that such heavy weights could make that gentle sound.

"So, Layla reported in."

Oh . . . shit.

What did she say?

Please ... not the shower...

"She said you two didn't have sex. Even though it appeared that you wanted to at one point."

As John's brain shut down, he mindlessly kept track of Z's reps. Right. Left. Right. Left. Who knows this?

"Wrath and me. That's it. And it's no one else's biz. But I'm bringing it up in case there's something physical going on that you need to get checked out."

John stood up and paced around in his gangly way, nothing but sloppy arms and legs and a drunk's sense of balance.

"Why did you stop, John?"

He glanced over at the Brother, about to give some kind of blow-off, no-big-deal answer, when he realized to his horror that he wouldn't be able to do that.

Z's yellow eyes glowed with knowledge.

Holy fuck. Havers had spilled, hadn't he. That therapist session at the clinic when John'd talked about what had happened to him in that stairwell had gotten out.

You know, John signed with fury. You fucking know, don't you?

"Yeah, I do."

That cocksucking therapist told me it was confidential¡ª

"A copy of your medical records was sent over here when you started the program. It's standard procedure for all trainees in case something happens in the gym, or in the event the transition starts while you're on-site."

Who's read my file?

"Just me. And no one else will, not even Wrath. I locked it up, and I'm the only one who knows where it is."

John sagged. At least there was consolation in that. When did you read it?

"About a week ago, when I figured your change was going to hit any day now."

What... what did it say?

"Pretty much everything."

Fuck.

"That's why you won't go to Havers, right?" Z put the weights down again. "You figure the guy's going to snatch and drag you into another therapy hour."

I don't like to talk about it.

"I don't blame you. And I'm not asking you to."

John cracked a little smile. You're not going to hit me with all kinds of talk-is-good-for-you shit?

"Nah. I'm not a talker myself. Can't recommend it to others." Z put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. "Here's the deal, John. I want you to have absolute faith that that shit's going nowhere, okay? If someone wants to see your record, I'm going to make it so they don't, even if I have to burn the fucker to ash."

John swallowed through a sudden lump in his throat. With stiff hands, he signed, Thank you.

"Wrath wanted me to talk to you about the Layla thing because he was worried there might be something wrong with your post-transition plumbing. I'm going to tell him that you were nervous and that was the why of it, deal?"

John nodded.

"Have you jerked off yet?"

John blushed from eyebrow to ankle and considered passing out. As he measured the distance to the ground, which seemed like a hundred yards, he figured this was not a bad place to keel over. Plenty of mats to land on.

"Have you?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Do it once to make sure nothing is wrong." Z got up, toweled his torso off, and pulled on his shirt. "I'm going to assume you'll take care of it in the next twenty-four hours. I will not ask you what happens. If you say nothing, I'll take it that everything's cool. If it isn't, you come to me and we'll deal with it. We solid?"

Um, not really. What if he couldn't do it? I guess.

"Last thing. About the gun and the lessers?"

Fuck, his head was already spinning, and now he had to deal with the shit about that nine? He lifted his hands to make excuses¡ª

"I don't care that you were packing. In fact, I want you armed if you go to ZeroSum."

John stared at the Brother, stunned. That's against the rules.

"Do I look like the kind of guy who worries about that shit?"

John smiled a little. Not really.

"If you get in the crosshairs of one of those slayers again, you do him just like you did. From what I understand, that was some impressive shit you pulled, and I'm proud of you for taking up for your boys."

John flushed, his heart singing in his chest: Nothing on the face of the planet, except Tohrment's safe return, could have made him happier.

"By now I'm guessing you know what I hooked Blaylock up with? About your papers and ID and only going to ZeroSum?"

John nodded.

"I want you to keep hitting that club if you hang downtown, at least for the next month or so, until you're strong. And though I'm willing to stroke you on what went down last night, I don't want you out hunting for lessers. I hear that's going on, I'm going to ground your ass like a twelve-year-old. You have a lot of training ahead of you, and you've got no idea how to work that body of yours. You fuck around and get yourself killed, I'm going to be really pissed off. I want you to give me your word, John. Right now. No going after those bastards until I say you're ready. We down?"

John took a deep breath and tried to think of the most solid vow he could offer. Everything seemed flimsy so he just signed, I swear I will not hunt them.

"Good. Okay, we're done tonight. Go hit the sack." As Z turned away, John whistled to get his attention. The Brother looked over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

John had to force his hands to sign what was in his mind... because he doubted he'd have the courage to do it again.

Do you think less of me? Because of what happened back then... you know, in the stairwell? And be honest.

Z blinked once. Twice. A third time. And then in a voice that was curiously thin, he said, "Never. It was not your fault, and you did not deserve it. You heard me? It was not your fault."

John winced as tears stung his eyes, and he had to look away, glancing down his big body at the mats. For some reason, though he was far from the ground, he felt shorter than ever.

"John," Z demanded, "you heard me on that? Not your fault. Did not deserve it."

John didn't really have a reply, so he shrugged. Then he signed, Thanks again for not telling. And for not making me talk about it.

When Z didn't say anything, he glanced up. Only to take a step back.

Zsadist's whole face had changed, and not just because his eyes had gone black. His bones seemed more prominent, his skin tighter, his scar shockingly evident. A cold blast emanated from his body, chilling the air, turning the locker room into a freezer.

"No one should have their innocence raped from them. But if they do? They get to pick how they deal with it, because it's no one else's biz. You never want to say another fucking word on the subject, you're getting no lip from me."

Z stalked off, the drop in temperature easing off as the door shut behind him.

John took a deep breath. He never would have guessed that Z would end up being the Brother he was closest to. After all, the two of them had nothing in common.

But he sure as hell was going to take his friends where he found them.