Suffocation. There was no time to worry about whether the dream was real. He was too busy trying to breathe--to suck clean air into his lungs. In those few minutes, though, all the air was tainted--with the cat urine offensiveness of the Eucalyptus oil, and the sour char scent of the fast-burning bark.

It seemed forever since he'd indulged in any other kind of dream. In any fond illusions without the adrenaline rush of nightmare. He didn't know if--for him--there was such a thing any more.

This was the damnedest day for it to happen, too. It was supposed to be his first day at work: definitely not a day to be late. If what Jimmy Spooner had said was true, too many of his bridges had been burned already. He couldn't afford any more gaffes or questionable activities on his record.

Try to lay off the murder and maiming, Jarron. Or, at the very least, no explosions, theft, or larceny for the first week.

He glanced at the clock. An hour's grace. He wasn't due in until eight, and it was six-fifteen now, and he'd have to be out the door, presentable as all get-out at seven forty-five, at the latest.

Plenty of time.

An hour-and-a-half's grace. That should do it.

With the grace of God...

*

That damned Robart was at it again. He'd thought they'd come to some kind of understanding.

No, Jarron. The understanding's this: you get to stay alive, as long as you don't pull any stunts. Any tricks, any "unauthorised" use of your "gifts", any more sneaky treks out the back, and you'll be done. Joining Torres six feet under.

Colin would no doubt cremate his ass and salt the ashes, first.

He doesn't trust you, one of his voices added helpfully.

"I wouldn't, Dr. Marshall."

Jarron looked up, into the chilliest pair of blue eyes he'd ever seen. He could have kicked himself for his stupidity. His thoughts must have been playing clearly across his face, as he stood there stupidly, dumb with surprise.

"Mr. Robart's warned us to cover all entries--and exits. For your protection."

The man with the cold eyes talked on, undoubtedly clarifying his position. Only, Jarron was no longer listening. A gust of wind had slammed the door back against the stop. The thunking sound had reminded Jarron why he was standing here, making a fool of himself.

Widow-maker. But, there'll never be a widow--only a lover to mourn him.

"We have to go!" Jarron said urgently. He glanced around, momentarily concentrating his focus in hopes of detecting one of Kris' people.

No one.

Ice Eyes was checking his watch. "We'll leave at seven-forty," he said abruptly. "Plenty of time."

"Not for him," Jarron mumbled.

The man was looking at him strangely.

Jarron didn't even notice. "I have to..."

"I have orders to shoot all aggressors, Dr. Marshall."

Jarron glanced at him sharply. "All aggressors?" The way he'd said it, didn't exactly instil comfort. Jarron had the impression that the line between defendee and aggressor was a thin one in his case.

The man returned his look with that same chilling determination. "All," he confirmed.

"To kill?" Shut up, Jarron!

Ice Eyes' lip quirked in what may have been a smile. "Maiming will suffice."

"Comforting," Jarron mumbled. He backed up into the entry, and slammed the door. What the hell am I going to do? The wind slapped a small branch against the roof, but the thud echoed a thousand times louder in Jarron's head. Widow-maker. A surge of stomach acid soured his mouth.

Kris--

He ran into the lounge, and realised instantly something was wrong. I would have noticed before, if I hadn't been so distracted.

His computer and cellphones were gone. One of them was the phone Kris had given him, so he could ring without detection.

Robart's not taking any chances. Why today? he thought desperately. Why now?

Because you're going back to work. It's a warning.

No excess talking in class. No talking out of class. No revelations to staff. No use of your "gift". No unnecessary contact with students.

Students. It clicked.

No Cassandra.

Cassandra. Jarron realised he was smiling, and quickly squelched it. Robart was going to keep Jarron Marshall away from his daughter. Any aggressive behaviour toward Candy Robart would undoubtedly be rewarded with a bullet. And Robart wanted him to know it.

The wind showered the window with a spattering of dirt.

Wanted him to know it so badly, that a man was about to die.

*

Jarron poked his head back out the door so suddenly, that it took Ice Eyes by surprise. The next moment, Jarron had a gun in his teeth.

"Not a good idea, Dr. Marshall. There was very nearly an accident." Mr. Eyes stowed the gun away.

"My phone's not working!" Jarron said, then realised he sounded too agitated. He made an effort to appear calm. "The phone's disconnected."

"Mr. Robart thought it would be better if you were undisturbed this morning. He--"

Maybe she was trying to call me, Jarron thought hopefully, then dismissed it. This was just one more control tactic. Give the fungus freak a little freedom, but let him know the leash is still short.

There's something else to it, Jarron--

I know, Jarron thought reproachfully. Now, bug off, and let me bask in my resentment.

"Where's Andy?" Jarron asked urgently.

"At work."

Jarron nodded. He was looking inward now. As a blast of dirt flecked his face, he dimly heard Ice Eyes saying, "Why don't you get ready for wor--"

There was a giggle behind them, and Jarron jumped. Stephanie! He flashed her a grateful smile as Ice Eyes whirled, to discover who'd tapped him on the back. The whine of the wind was suddenly so loud, that he never even saw Jarron leave.

*

They don't want you dead, Jarron?

Robart does--

Jarron made an effort to tune out the squabbling voices. Ice Eyes was on his trail now. Ice Eyes and his big gun. The only wonder was that he hadn't taken his car.

More fun this way.

But, the others would have transport. And, Ice Eyes would have a partner. Plus a back-up team to cover anything he couldn't. Robart wasn't taking any chances today.

I'm surprised he's letting you go to work--

It'd be easier on him if he just had you killed--

Maybe not. It already got him into trouble once--

Shut up! Jarron told them. I don't want to die, he said silently but pointedly, riinding them what was at stake here. He realised they might not be really impressed by his reasoning, so he added pointedly, It's too damned noisy--and nosy. For a moment, other than a background snigger, it had the effect he wanted, and everything went silent.

There was dirt in his eyes now, and for the five-hundredth time he was wishing for his car. He realised he'd been spoiled recently. During the last six weeks, while he was recovering from Torres' invasion of Robart's house, Andy had made sure there was plenty of support for his rescue missions, even when he couldn't assist personally. Now that he had no one--no Andy or Kris or Earl or any of his other "guards", Jarron realised just how much help they'd been.

He glanced back over his shoulder, at Ice Eyes. The man was gaining, and he now had friends. Uh-oh.

The wind was getting worse, and Jarron was heading directly into it. Each vacuum puff in his ears was reminiscent of his dream.

It seemed like he'd been going for miles...

You have been running for miles--

...before his feet tripped over the first of the small branches now littering the Eucalyptus forest. "Why--would--anyone go for a--jog," he puffed, "on a day like this?"

Because he's an idiot, he thought self-derisively. Like you.

A fat droplet hit him, but there was so much debris in the air--so much leaf litter and so many bark shards--that he didn't notice. The drops seemed improbably warm, and at first he felt relief. Rain. Hope, to counter the fire.

No, Jarron. It's not gonna be that easy. The fire was coming, no matter what. It was a Eucalypt forest, and there was too much of it left on the ground.

In that instant, Jarron knew he was wrong about the source of the blaze. The man's cigarette would have been enough, on a dry day. Not today.

Another fat drop plopped down Jarron's cheek. It was muggy, and close, and the tension was building. Jarron had the impression the world was about to explode around him.

In the not-so-very-distant anvil clouds, there was a low rumble.

The man would be running again now, stumbling and tripping; catching his feet in branches as he picked up speed--fighting to get clear before the rain. Jarron could see it all--and he was no longer sure whether the vision was his own, or someone else's. It was all a confused blur of rain and sweat, whipping leaves, and creaking branches, while overhead the thunder grumbled.

Ice Eyes was trying to grab him now, and Jarron writhed away. The guy had a gun, and he was going to shoot, but it didn't matter. Because Jarron could see the flash of a red shirt in the near distance--and for a moment, confused as he was by the visions darting through his vision--he thought it was blood.

Too late--

No, Jarron.

Jarron never heard it coming, but he felt the sting. Distractedly, he plucked the dart out of his skin. That's how it was going to be--not to kill, but to control. He looked up, seeing the distant figure in motion again. "Stephanie!" he whispered, desperate now.

She took his hand, and he pushed on. He could hear cracking branches, but no one was grabbing him, and in his yawning bemusement, he couldn't figure out why. "Stop him, Steph," he pleaded. "Before it's too late--"

She looked at him with sad, and desperate, eyes. I can't. Her tears were as big as the drops that were now drenching his skin, and he recognised what she was telling him. She couldn't interfere. She could help him, but the saving was his.

"All mine," he muttered.

He looked back, searching for Ice Eyes. He was standing there, with some other men, a satisfied--and amused--expression on his face.

"What's wrong with you?" he yelled, unaware that his voice was slurred. He pointed at the fleeing figure in the distance. Ice Eyes didn't even bother to look.

No help there--

The rankness of despair soured his stomach. Their job was to control, and they were waiting him out. Standing in a relatively dry patch, and waiting for him to drop. Conveniencing thiselves despite the inconvenience he was causing them.

He was angry at their stupidity; furious at the futility of it all.

Help! he wanted to shout. Or, maybe he shouted, but they just weren't listening.

They should be, he suddenly realised. It was one of theirs. One of their own?

Jarron's feet stumbled at that. One of their own. Not some distant friend of a friend. Someone they knew.

Someone he knew. Oh, Jesus! Jarron gritted his teeth, fought back the waves of fatigue, and pushed ahead.

They'd wait for him to drop, then drag his ass out of here--

So tired.

Take him home. To sleep it off--

Sleep--

Jarron fell to his knees.

There was a sudden crack, over the sound of the wind, but it was nearly lost in an explosion of lightning. The wood was falling now, and Jarron grabbed a limb and pulled himself to his feet.

Brittle bones.

The adrenaline rush helped him fight the heaviness in his legs; the fatigue that seemed to be cottoning his head. Stephanie took his hand once more and he followed numbly in her wake.

He could see the red of the shirt long before he could make out the crumpled body beneath the bough. Mike Erlenberg was lying there, buried under the enormous weight. "Mike!" Jarron tried to shift the branch that held him pinned.

Shattered, like the branch--

No--

He inched the wood away, aware that the others were coming now, but there was no satisfaction in knowing he was finally going to get the help Mike needed. He was fighting the torpor--the lassitude that was making him slow and stupid.

Think, Jar. Leverage! That's what you need--

But somehow, all he could think of was falling rain. As he pulled and pushed at that damned wood, all he could think of was the way it was blinding him, making the wet red fabric spread like pooled blood.

I'm not gonna make it--

He'd failed. The day was here, and he'd missed. Only, he'd missed with Mike.

No! Not Mike!

Mike, who'd laughed at his jokes, and thought the best of him, even after Colby Maxwell had played with his head--

"You can't do this!" he yelled to the skies. "It's not a fuckin' game!"

Make Jarron run. See if he can get there in time--

Mike had hated the fact that Robart had pulled him off Jarron's case. He'd felt as though he'd been demoted.

Over the horrifying reality before his eyes, Jarron could see another: smoke wisping in the air, curling in coils. An ominous crackle was building to a roar.

It's not over till it's over--

It was one of his voices, and at first Jarron thought it was being flippant.

But, it was right. There was still something Jarron could do.

He's going. Jarron could feel Mike's pain now. It crippled him, doubling him over until he was nearly writhing in the dirt.

So much undone--

There was blood seeping down into the leaves, drenching the humus layers with human detritus. Jarron didn't have to see it to know it was there. He could feel the slippery passage of Mike's draining body as though it were his own.

They were shifting the wood now--desperate hands trying to inch it away from Mike's mangled body without damaging it more.

"Help us!" Ice Eyes ordered him angrily. He yanked Jarron to his feet, impatient with what he saw as drama. As long as you're on your feet, he might as well have said, you can help.

Help. Ice Eyes was right. There was still one thing he could do. Jarron fell again, then crawled forward, oblivious to the splinters of wood jabbing at his wet skin--and flopped face first onto the leafy crud. He twisted on his side, and the rain, heavy now, dumped wind-whipped lashings of leaf-held water onto his face. For a moment, he had the impression he was drowning, and he searched out Mike's face, buried in the debris.

His gut told him what his eyes couldn't, and panic roused him from his forced lethargy--from a despair that was more than drug-induced. Frantically now, ignoring the scratching jaggedness of the broken branches, he forced his arm between the interlacing daggers that held Mike pinned. As his fingers contacted the man's soggy shirt, Jarron instinctively recoiled, sucking in a deep breath that was half fear, half regret.

I don't want to do this--For a moment, all he could think of was the pain he'd sensed. Only a fool would take it on willingly. A fool, or someone with a death wish.

No more--

But you have a chance of making it. He tried to look at it objectively--at the way Mike was buried beneath his burden--the way he'd been impaled on a spike of wood. Oh, God--

He gagged.

Widow-maker.

You have a chance. Mike doesn't--

What should I do? The voices in his head were silent. The decision was his.

All mine--

Jarron's hand was palsied as he tore at Mike's shirt, tugging and tearing it impatiently out of the way. Eyes squinted, his fingers hovered just above the surface, feeling the life-heat lingering there, while he searched for the resolve to make it happen.

Mike, laughing at his dumbest jokes. Shaking his head that one alleged to be so smart could be so stupid--

It's not over till it's over--