Chapter 1

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."

~ Lao Tzu

11.00 p.m. June 25, 2012. Steele, North Dakota

"Didn't we just leave this party?" Sam muttered as he poured a thick line of salt along the window ledge of the motel room.

Ellie smiled slightly, reloading her brush with lamb's blood. She finished the Enochian sigil of Gabriel at the edge of the Aramaic trap and closed the circle, lifting the half-full jar of blood and moving to the next window. Behind her, Dean poured a line of salt along the window ledge.

They'd been in Fargo three days ago. Dwight'd called about the vampire nest. Another big one, like Limestone, and New Orleans. Dwight, Twist and Trip had been watching the nest, built into an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city, for four weeks. Sloppy, they'd said on the phone. But effectively the same process as Dean and Sam had seen in Limestone. Young girls turned to hunt young men, who in turn were sent out to seduce more young women.

Dean, Dwight and Twist had gone in, loaded with dead man's blood and silver, armed with machetes; Trip, Sam and herself had kept to the perimeter, watching the exits with long-range tranquiliser rifles. Only twenty-six, Dean'd said when he'd come out, followed by Dwight and Twist, all three men covered head to foot in blood and smelling like a charnel house.

The master had been inexperienced, he'd added later, through the glass shower screen as he'd scrubbed the blood from his body and washed it from his hair. Hadn't thought or known to set guards and all of the vamps, fledglings and older, had been beheaded while they'd slept; only a few waking, too disoriented by the spilled blood and their own psychic pain to put up much of a fight. Of the twenty-six vamps they'd killed, Dean had said that twenty of them had been teens, none of them old enough to drink legally, his frustrated anger clear in his voice.

It'd been after they'd cleaned up, at the motel on the outskirts of the town, that the first demons had made an appearance. They'd been lucky there'd been so few, Ellie thought, finishing the design on the last glass pane and returning her brush to the jar. And, she considered as she sealed the jar and returned it to her duffel, lucky the demons were young. So young their power had appeared to be limited to possession alone.

They'd been able to break through; Dwight, Twist and Trip heading east and south, she, Dean and Sam getting onto the 94 and heading west.

"How're they finding us so fast?" Dean asked, looking out through the designs to the street beyond. "We're warded."

She didn't know. They'd stopped here at eight and gotten adjoining rooms, run the salt and iron, and less than two hours later, Sam'd come back with dinner and the unsettling news that the customers of the diner had looked possessed, although in a way he'd only seen a couple of times before. He'd fired on two, making it to the car and back to the motel, but the hellspawn had been showing up in ever-increasing numbers ever since.

"It could be me," she said, glancing down at the wrought pendant hanging around her neck.

Dean shook his head. "Katherine said that was enough to hide you from anything under one of the arcs."

"Maybe these aren't following us," she said slowly, staring through the designs on the glass. "Maybe something else is telling them where I am?"

Outside the motel, in the darkness and under the pools of light spilling from the street lights, men and women were gathering along the street, moving slowly, not speaking to each other, their empty black gazes fixed on Room 19.

"It doesn't matter," Dean grunted, picking up the gear bag and pulling out the shotguns, his hand digging around the other weapons for the boxes of shells. "However they're doing it."

"Well, you know," Ellie said. "It really does matter, Dean."

"Cabin's safe," Sam interjected. "Nothing showed up there."

Dean had wanted her to stay there, Ellie thought, turning away from the window. It looked like he'd been right, although not for the reasons he'd given.

"Why aren't they attacking?" Dean fumed, tossing three boxes onto the bedspread beside the guns. She had the feeling he was holding back on his I-told-you-so. "What's wrong with them?"

"My guess is they're young," Ellie said, glancing over the room critically. She hadn't wanted to stay in Whitefish and it was too late to apologise for that decision now. "Too young to do anything more than possess anyone with a weakness, not strong enough to draw on Hell's power."

"Or Hell's power isn't enough to do anything any more," Sam added, lifting a brow at her.

"That's a possibility too," she agreed.

Dean had mentioned, eventually and not wanting to revisit the memory, the way Crowley's power had seemed to fail, allowing him to break free of the demon's hold. The demons outside were moving more like zombies than demon-possessed, she thought, watching the incremental shuffle toward their room. More trickled out along the side streets.

"How many now?" Dean dropped the bag of salt and walked to the bed, lifting the canvas bag onto it. He pulled out a box of shells, counting the loose shells in the bottom of the bag.

"Maybe thirty." Ellie watched them approaching. "More coming."

Sam shook his head. "I can't believe they loved Crowley this much."

"They didn't love Crowley." She snorted. "They just hate us."

Dean lifted his head, looking over at her. "Not all of us."

"Think they'll let me go?" The smile she gave him was gently mocking. "If I tell them I'm not with you two?"

His gaze dropped back to the weapons, brows pinched together. Loading the shotguns, he laid them out, side by side on the bed.

"They're probably only here because of me, anyway," she added. He didn't respond to that either.

Sam glanced at him. "So, uh, Crowley dying set the archdemons loose?"

Ellie shifted her gaze from Dean's brooding face to Sam. "I think so. Most spells break when the maker dies. He was definitely vindictive enough to use that threat against anyone who might've opposed him."

Turning to walk around the edges of the room, Ellie looked over their defences carefully. They had the knives and the Colt, but with the odds stacked against them so heavily, it would be better if none of them got in.

"What's weird is that most of the demons returned to Hell when you killed him. If the archdemons were freed then, I would've thought all of them would have to return. Obedience is almost as universal in Hell as it is in Heaven."

"That's weird, why?" Sam caught the pump action his brother threw to him.

"If these are all newly-made demons, and they can't draw on Hell for power," she said, stopping at the corner of the room and looking through the windows. "Even if an arc is still seeing me, what's the point of sending them after us?"

"Looking for something –" Sam's forehead creased up.

"Sam, kill the lights." Ellie backed away from the window, turning to look at Dean. "You ready?"

"Yeah." He handed her the sawn-off double barrel, and picked up the Benelli twelve-gauge.

The demons rushed at the motel, throwing themselves against the walls and windows, against the door, those closest to the building being crushed by those behind. They were eerily silent, the only noise the thump of flesh and bone against the walls, grunts and gasps as human meatsuits were pushed together and forced down, trampled and squashed.

A crackling sound came from the bathroom and Sam swung the pump action around, eyes widening as he said, "That vent was too small!"

"Ready?" Ellie asked, turning with him to stand in front of the door, the sawn-off levelled. "Now."

He opened the door and flattened against the wall as she emptied both barrels into the remains of the possessed human that had been forced through the eight by twelve inch vent, high in the rear wall of the room.

At close range, the salt and iron pellets drove in deeply, adding to the horror of the cracked skull, flesh peeled away from the bone, the broken collarbones and ribcage from which the arms hung, far longer than normal, skin and muscle hanging off in dangling strips.

She dropped to the floor, rolling onto her side as she caught the bag of salt Dean threw to her, pouring it along the threshold of the bathroom door. Over her head, Sam's pump action sent round after round into the walking carcass until the demon smoked out and disappeared back through the shattered vent.

Sitting up, Ellie dug in her pocket for fresh shells as Sam looked down at the pile of flesh and bone and blood on the floor, his face screwed up in disgust.

"That was … determined."

The thumping and grunting along the front of the room became frantic, and Dean lifted the Benelli, settling the stock against his shoulder, his finger resting over the trigger. Watching the hands that scrabbled over the glass of the windows, he frowned for a moment, his expression smoothing out to a cool, appraising stare as he found his targets.

Then it stopped.

The crowd of people, many broken, all of them bloodied, fell to the concrete walk outside the room together and against the red and blue neon light in the lot, the street filled with twisting wraiths of charcoal smoke, ribboning up into the night sky and disappearing.

"What the -" Sam looked around, walked cautiously to the window and looked down.

Ellie lowered her shotgun, turning to look at Dean. "Time to go."

He nodded. "What about those people?"

"Some of them might be alive. Call 911." Ellie picked up the guns and shells, salt bags and machetes and began to pack them into the three green canvas duffels that sat beside the bed. "Sam? Could you help me get this squared away? We've got to go."

9.00 a.m. June 27, 2012. Whitefish, Montana

Dean hunched into his jacket as his breath came out in clouds of white crystals.

"Dammit, Bobby, can't you take the heat from the damned walls or the floor or something?"

"This ain't easy, what I'm doing," Bobby retorted. He was fully manifested, looking as solid as any of them. Only the muted pallor gave away his state of being.

"We got leviathans doing the fuck knows what, plus there's – what? At least, three or mebbe four alphas still on the loose, cooking up new ways to either turn or feed on folks? A new rule in Hell, mostly like the Devil's seconds-in-command, and as added bonus, looks like Lucifer's still around, inside of Cas, with a demon nurse-maiding the angel and no way to get him back to the Cage. That about sum it up? I leave anything out?"

Ellie carried two cups of hot black coffee from the kitchen and handed one to Sam, the other to Dean. Turning back to the counter, she retrieved the third for herself and took a seat on the couch.

"Put like that, it doesn't sound so bad," Dean said, making a face as he sipped his coffee.

Bobby ignored that, looking around at them. "We got a priority here?"

"Lucifer," Ellie said. She tucked her legs underneath her and leaned back against the couch's arm. "If he gets out of Cas, if he can somehow rejoin the archdemons, it won't matter that he doesn't have his full strength, they have enough power between them to match anything Heaven can bring down, especially now."

"Now?" Dean asked.

"Michael's trapped in the Pit. Gabriel, Raphael and Uriel are dead. Cas needs to be freed so he can rally what forces he can while there's still time."

Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes. "Back to a war on Earth between Heaven and Hell. God, it just doesn't get any better than this."

"How do we get Lucifer out of Cas? We can't use holy oil and Cas isn't even seeing us." Sam's gaze flicked between Ellie and Bobby.

"I think … I think I'm going to have to go to Egypt for a few days." Ellie studied her coffee, knowing what Dean's response would be. She'd been thinking about it for days now. They had to get ahead of what was happening, or risk Lucifer trying to restart the Apocalypse. "We need some serious help and Penemue is the only one I can think of who's strong enough."

Dean snapped upright, staring at her. "Go to – uh – Egypt? While the demons can see you?"

"It looked like they were all pulled back," she said. "Now's probably the safest time to go."

He couldn't argue with that. On the drive back from Steele, they hadn't seen any demon activity at all.

"You're thinking of doing this alone?"

She offered him a dry smile. "Unless you're over the flying phobia? Going by ship would take a little bit too long."

He looked away, his pulse accelerating just at the thought. "How long's the flight?"

"About twelve hours."

Shaking his head, he grimaced. The flight to Edinburgh had been six hours and he'd been almost comatose for it. He'd have a heart attack or his liver'd give out if he had to do double that, and tranking himself wouldn't give her any protection. Ellie turned back to Sam and Bobby.

"He's a Watcher. He can make the transfer from Cas," she added.

"Transfer to who?" Bobby asked sceptically.

Sam ducked his head, his hair flopping forward and hiding his expression. "Back to me, I guess."

"No," Dean's voice was hard, unequivocal.

"No," Ellie said at the same time. "The way he is now, he has to go into someone we can kill, if we have to."

Bobby looked at her, his mouth twisting down. "Bet the volunteers'll be lining up around the block for that."

She tilted her head in acknowledgement. "I was thinking of Meg."

"Meg'll never go for that." Dean thought of the crafty demon, and her ability to survive … pretty much anything. "She's evil as hell, but she's not stupid."

"She will. She loved Lucifer; she would have done anything for him." Ellie rubbed her forehead. "And she's strong enough to accommodate him until we can kill him."

Sam looked at her doubtfully. "Uh, not to keep coming up with reasons against, but if she loves him, how likely is it going to be she'll be okay with us doing that?"

Ellie raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, I guess we might not fill her in on the whole plan."

An hour later, Dean wandered outside. The air was balmy, just a light breeze ruffling the needles of the pines at the back of the cabin, shivering the leaves of the clump of aspens at the front. He took a deep breath, wondering how the hell he was going to be able to convince Ellie not to go.

A slight bang from under the truck caught his attention and he walked over, seeing a couple of slender jean-clad legs sticking out from beneath the engine.

"What're you doing?" He crouched beside them.

"Changing the oil," Ellie said, her voice muffled slightly from its proximity to the oil pan. "Should've done it before we went to North Dakota."

Letting out a gusting exhale, he made a face at her feet. "You know, I would've done it if you'd asked."

She wriggled out from under the truck, propping herself on her elbows to smile at him. There was a smear of black oil across her left cheek. "I know. It's just habit."

Lying back down, she adjusted the position of the basin and watched the oil running out for a moment, then rolled out, accepting his hand and letting him pull her to her feet.

"You're welching on our deal, Ellie." He picked up the rag that lay over the open engine bay, and wiped the oil from her face. "No more solo gigs, remember?"

"You don't think I've been doing anything but try to think of an alternative since Fargo?" she asked him.

"Maybe I can, you know, take something for the flight?"

The look she gave him was a complicated combination of compassion and exasperation, he thought. Mostly exasperation.

"How much help would you be then, really?" She shook her head. "There isn't a another way around it."

Katherine had acknowledged the pendant wouldn't hide her from the most powerful entities. The older woman had said she didn't think there was anything that could. Ellie had an anti-possession tattoo, inked into her back. So far, at least, they hadn't been able to find anything else that might keep her from view.

"How long is this trip going to take?"

He could already feel his stomach getting ready to tie itself into knots until she got back. He was still getting nightmares about the rock pillars in the cavern in the depths of Hell; about blood soaking into the base of a wall of rock and how pale she'd turned as it had run out of her.

"Um, it's twelve hours to Sharm el-Sheikh, then about three hours to drive up to St Catherine's. If he agrees, then I'll turn around and get the next flight out."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then I'll have to convince him." Ellie's gaze cut away and she shrugged.

"How do you convince a fallen angel of anything?" He already had a bad feeling about this, and she hadn't left yet. When she did get on the plane, he could look forward to at least two or three days of head-pounding, stomach-churning anxiety.

"He doesn't want Lucifer on Earth anymore than we do. I'm hoping our goals will align and that'll be enough," she admitted, turning back to him. "There isn't exactly a buffet of options here."

"No." There never was. Just the usual bad, worse and intolerable. "Is holy fire gonna kill Lucifer? When Meg walks out of the circle?"

"That's what they say. As long as the oil burns, no angel can pass through it or he dies. Lucifer's still an angel. Either he breaks free of Meg and stays in the circle, or he tries to cross out with her and dies. We have to believe in something, right?" She stepped close to him, slipping her arms around his waist. "Stop worrying, it'll be fine."

He looked down at her, focussing intently on her face. There were faint shadows and lines around her eyes. Thin white scars over brow and jaw. It continued to surprise him those seemed to add beauty to her face, instead of taking it away. Her skin was more cream than white, a scattering of pale, amber freckles scattered over nose and cheeks, barely visible in the sunshine.

He couldn't remember a time when the sight of her face hadn't brought some measure of peace and contentment to him, some unexplained feeling of hope to his soul and he'd never been able to understand the way that'd worked. There was something about her, some intangible, indefinable force that surrounded her, or came from her, he wasn't sure which. It made things seem not only possible, but likely.

It wasn't anything she said or did, it wasn't that she had all the answers or knew what to do, it was how she was … indomitable, he thought. She never gave in, never gave up, and her will to keep going, to keep fighting, was diamond-hard, carrying everything and everyone else along with it. It wasn't just him feeling it either, he knew. Sam'd told him about Black Springs, when he'd been bait for his brother. Had said she'd given him hope, wrapped up in solid certainty they could get him back.

"You look … pensive," she said, not quite a question as her eyes searched his face.

He shook his head, trying to shunt aside the unsettled feeling. He didn't want her to think he'd be a basketcase till she got back.

"Just … enjoying the view."

Arching a brow, she retorted, "You used to be much better at lying on the fly."

"Not to you," he said, pulling her closer.

"Not to me," she agreed. "This isn't going to be a big deal, Dean."

He nodded, glancing at the pickup. "When do you want to get going? It'll take about two hours for that to drain out fully."

"In about three hours. I'll do about six hours tonight and the rest tomorrow."

Over the last month, her energy levels had returned to normal, not even a sign of the crushing fatigue she'd had in the first trimester of pregnancy. He'd found it hard to stop thinking of her as easily tired and in need of maximum sleep.

"We'll go in about three hours," he corrected her patiently.

"You hate airports and you hate goodbyes. Why would you want to come?" she asked, tipping her head to one side as she looked at him.

"Firstly, you are not going anywhere alone while you're still in this country; that was the deal, right?" he told her, wondering if her independence thing was ever going to change. They'd worked extremely well together, back when he'd been glad to not have to worry too much about her. Now, it was a slightly different story.

'Two, I get to spend an extra twenty-four hours with you," he added, his heart lifting as he saw her mouth twitch, trying to hide her smile. "And C, I don't hate airports if I don't have to fly and I'll put up with the goodbye thing because of the other two."

He saw her eyes widen a little and groaned internally. It was how he felt, and he wasn't about to start hiding those feelings, but she took a perverse delight in making him pay for saying crap like that out loud.

"Oh, baby, that's so sweet," she teased, laughing when he made a gagging face at her, his hand flashing out to grab her. She shifted backwards, moving at a surprising speed, and wagged her finger at him.

"Come on, lady with a baby here."

"Funny how that never stops you from doing anything," he growled and chased her up the stairs and into the house.

8.00 p.m. June 27, 2012. Winnett, Montana

Ellie turned the pickup into the driveway of the small, single-storey motel and stopped outside the office. Turning off the engine, she glanced to her right, an involuntary smile curving her mouth. Hunched up between the door and the back of the passenger seat, his arms crossed over his chest and legs mostly stretched into the well, Dean was sleeping, his face smooth and relaxed in spite of the discomfort of his position. She watched him for a long moment. When he was on his feet, there was almost always some tension in him.

Unsurprisingly, she thought, opening the driver's door quietly and sliding out. There wasn't much in their life that didn't cause tension, recognised or not.

She leaned on the buzzer at the office door, going through when the lock clicked open.

"Evening," the man behind the counter said, rubbing his eyes with one hand as he pulled a threadbare terry robe around him with the other. "Need a room?"

"Queen bed, if you have it," Ellie said, pulling her wallet out and extracting the latest driver's licence and four fifties.

"Yeah, we got plenty. Sixty-five for the night, checkout's at ten," the owner told her. "Sign here? That cash?"

She slid two of the fifties over the counter and filled in the registration book. "Can you recommend a good place to eat for breakfast?"

The man shook his head. "Diner closed in Spring. There's a MacDonald's near the interstate, must've seen it when ya drove in?"

She nodded, sighing. "Not really my definition of good," she said, pushing the book back to him and taking the key. "Thanks."

"Not mine either," he agreed. "You'll find a good place in Jordan. Bit of a haul up t'87 but Stacy makes the best pancakes for a hundred miles."

"Thanks, we'll check it out."

Tucking the key into her pocket, she turned away, opening the door and walking to the pickup. The room was across the lot from the office and she drove into the slot and turned off the engine again, reaching out to touch Dean's shoulder.

"Dean."

He opened an eye, turning his head to look at her. "Not even going to try to carry me in?"

"Nope."

He smiled lazily and straightened, rolling his shoulders and opening the passenger door as she slid out of the driver's seat.

They pulled gear and personal bags from the tray, carrying them inside and dumping them on the floor beside the bed.

There was no need for discussion of what to do. Dean pulled out two canisters of salt from his duffel and tossed one to her, turning for the bathroom and back of the room as she turned for the front. Pouring lines along the window sills, across the thresholds of each doorway and around each of the vents, they covered every entrance and opening in silence.

The armistice was over, and defensive measures were once again their normal.

It wasn't more than fifteen minutes later, the room secure and the lights off, their clothes left in piles to either side of the bed, Dean ran his hand over Ellie's hip, and she rolled over, looking up at him.

The restless ache of desire amped up as her body slid against his, her lips soft on his mouth, awareness of every sensation, every touch and breath razor keen. The steady thump of his heart reverberated in his bones, pulsed through vein and artery and capillary, a drowning kind of feeling that slowed time, isolating each sensation and intensifying it.

The room was dark, sight gone, his other senses crowding in to take its place. He heard the rasp in her indrawn breath, felt the shivering of her muscles, tasted the sweetness of her skin and every response lit another fire in him, making it hard to breathe. Even sound drifted away as taste and touch and smell flooded through him and need slid along the borders of torment.

She arched under him, and he almost lost it right there, the heat of her moaned breath against his jaw, moist, silken muscles convulsing around his fingers, the involuntary ripple of movement from her, right down the length of his body. Louder than hers, the harshness of his breath; panting and shallow and raw, filled his ears, and his heart was pounding like a tribal drum in his chest. He covered her parted lips with his own, a temblor zigzagging through him when he pushed in.

His body was howling at him, but he resisted the impulse to move faster, wanting – needing – to make it last, no matter that it was torturous, perhaps because it was torturous, those moment by moment sensations strung out to the absolute limits of bearability.

He couldn't tell any more where he ended and she began, her skin welded against his down the lengths of their bodies; her mouth, sweet against his tongue; the pressure and liquid heat of her enclosing him entirely. He found their rhythm, and stroked into it, and they rode it together, letting it increase on its own, nerve and muscle and bone and blood joined on a long crescendo. When he teetered at the peak, for a long, light-filled moment, she rippled around him again, and he fell, shuddering in time with her, until the last tremors had bled out of their limbs.

Dean eased himself onto his side, looking down at her face as she rolled up against him, her arm curling around his chest. Her eyes were tightly closed, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, his lips resting against her temple.

He wanted to say something, something that described the feelings that boiled and churned inside of him, but there were no words that could, that even came close. Feeling her arm tighten around him, he thought that probably there had never been words to describe what they felt, a chaotic mixture of love and fear, of passion and longing, of contentment and the yearning to be closer still.

It was something to have, to hold, to feel. Not to talk about.

5.00 a.m. June 28, 2012.

The room was dim and cold when Ellie woke. She stretched out, feeling the good aches through her body, the looseness of her muscles, careful not to disturb the man who slept beside her. Drawing her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees, she looked down at him, the memories of the previous night filling her.

He looked younger when he slept, vulnerable in a way he never did awake. She suddenly found herself coming up with reasons not to go, excuses not to leave, and she pushed them impatiently away. Long experience had taught her too thoroughly that not dealing with problems inevitably meant worse problems down the line.

And the problem with Lucifer could get a whole lot worse very quickly if they didn't do something about it now. The archdemons might have been content to run Hell as they always had. If they found the devil, he would want more.

Shower. Breakfast. Chicago, she told herself, swinging her legs off the bed and getting to her feet. It would only be a couple of days, three at most.

Dean woke to the sound of the shower, rolling over, his arm sliding across the bare sheets beside him, knowing that she wouldn't be there, checking anyway. He twisted onto his back and opened his eyes, pupils dilating a little with the musky smell of the linen, bringing memory back, hot and close.

He could think of a lot of good reasons to turn around right now, go back to Whitefish, forget about the devil and all the other problems that were plaguing them. Letting his lids drop briefly, he knew he wouldn't mention any of them. Problems had a bad habit of worsening when they were ignored, and they didn't need anything to be worse – things were bad enough as they were.

He pushed aside the seductive and clinging memories. He couldn't afford to be distracted and thinking about the way it was between them was a guaranteed distraction. Turning his head as the noise of the shower ceased, he sat up, rubbing a hand over his face and letting out a deep exhale.

Shower, breakfast, Chicago, he thought to himself, not giving mental room to what would come after that – driving back to Whitefish alone.

10 p.m. June 28, 2012. O'Hare International Airport, Chicago.

"Um, keep an eye on the forum, I'll let you know what's happening through that," Ellie said, taking her carry-on from the luggage scales and tucking her ticket into her jacket pocket as she moved out of the line.

Dean nodded. The forum was untraceable, at least to the levis. He would've rather heard her voice, but they didn't know how wide the leviathan net was in communications and there didn't seem to be a way of finding out.

"Be careful. I –" He stopped, looking around the bustle and movement that surrounded them, abruptly remembering the other reasons he hated airports. "I don't – you know, I can't –"

She reached up, slipping her hand up the back of his neck and into his hair. He bent his head, arms closing around her, his eyes shut tightly as their lips met. The low charge sparked along his nerve endings like a slow-burning fuse.

This was exactly why he didn't like doing the goodbye thing; his imagination conjured all the things that could happen to her, all the things that could go wrong with stupid heavier-than-air machines, all the things that were out there, looking for them … and he didn't want to let her go.

Opening his eyes unwillingly when she broke the kiss, he tried to rearrange his features into something more neutral than what he was feeling.

"You and Sam need to be careful too," she said. "You must be pretty near the top of everyone's most wanted list right now."

"We'll be keeping a low profile," he promised, hoping it would stay that way.

Ellie lifted the too-large leather backpack from the floor and turned away sharply, heading for the international gates. She didn't look back.

Watching her until she disappeared in the crowd of travellers, he wondered if the faint prickle at the back of his neck was a generalised uneasiness with her leaving, or something more tangible. It faded a few seconds later and he turned away from the departures lounge, his gaze moving unseeingly around the terminal.

Fifteen hundred miles back to Whitefish was too much time to think, too much time to worry. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his jaw and down his throat, feeling the rasp of the stubble under it. Just a couple – a few – days, he told himself, straightening and heading for the parking lot.

His chest tightened as too many memories crowded him; memories when a few days had turned to weeks, or months. Cut it out, he berated himself impatiently. That's not going to happen this time.

June 29, 2012. Mt Sinai Desert, Egypt

Ellie drove through the grey desert as the sun slowly crested the mountains to the east. It had been years since she'd been here, but her memories of the roads were good; her hands automatically turning the wheel as the gravelled turning came up, leading her onto a pitted and rough road that would be far less well-guarded than the highway. There were only a few roads through the desert, all of them were easy to watch. She wasn't sure why she didn't want to go along the main one, but she listened to her instincts and they told her now that it would be safer to go along the slower, but less-travelled, Bedouin route.

The road wound through the hammada; an eerie landscape of sharp, rocky mountains and gorges, sand spills occasionally visible over the bones of the land. The sun's rising heat bounced from the stone and collected in the deep ravines. She drove carefully, coasting down the long inclines to save the engine, avoiding the washouts and potholes where she could. Nothing was easier than breaking down in the desert.

The route looked much as she remembered, and she came out onto the flat reg as expected, winding down the windows to catch the cooler wind from the high gravel plains. Another hour and she'd be at the monastery. She wondered if she was going to be able to convince Penemue to come back with her, to face the archangel that had started everything.

She hadn't spoken to the Watcher for almost three years now, the last occasion had been difficult between them. He'd accused her of allowing her feelings to get in the way of what had to be done. She chewed at her lip at the memory. He'd been right, of course, not that that meant she would do it any differently if she had to do it again.

Destiny had been broken. No more rules to follow, no more prophecies to guide them. Just free will and freedom, the ability to act on one's conscience. She wondered if that made a difference to the Watchers, or to those fighting them.

"The factions are getting stronger, Ellie." Penemue's gaze had been flicking around, his eyes narrowed as he pushed her along the teeming and crowded market street, his voice low. "Not all of the nephilim will join with us, some have already gone to the Others. You can reach Michael, through his vessel –"

"No." She'd stopped dead in the street, turning to face him, the cries of the vendors, the push of people around them abruptly muted. "I told you, that's out of the question."

"He has to know and I cannot reach him myself." The Watcher had stopped beside her, his hand closing on her arm. "This is more important than a single man."

"Find another way, Pen, that's not an option." She'd stared into his eyes, the deep blue of the desert sky, trying to suppress the anger she'd felt at the request.

"You can't protect him, you know. It will play out as it has been foreseen and he will die."

She'd closed her eyes, the flush of fear and rage at the certainty in the Watcher's words drawing a savage determination. He would not die. He would live. She would make certain of that.

"Find another way." She'd opened her eyes and shaken off his hand. "I'm not giving him to Michael."

The memory was still bitter. She'd found a way to speak to the archangel eventually, to give him the Watcher's message, but Michael had dismissed it, ignoring the battle of the fallen on the other side of the world, promising his help only if she would deliver Dean to him.

And now the Watchers were much weaker than they had been, Patrick had told her. And the primary faction opposing them was much stronger. It seemed all too likely the Others would seek an alliance with archdemons, offer their help to retrieve Lucifer. They wanted to return to Heaven, Penemue had told her. Had some plan, some way to absolve their acts, and wanted to go home. She remembered the curl of his lip as he'd said that, his disbelief clear.

The big four-wheel drive thumped into a wide washout, and she fought with the wheel for a moment, easing off the accelerator and letting the torque of the heavy vehicle pull her out.

Concentrate on what you're doing, for Christ's sake, she snapped at herself, there'll be time to work out this crap when you know for sure what Pen is going to do.

June 30, 2012. I-94W, 10 miles west of Dickinson, North Dakota

The headlights lit up the mostly empty lanes of the interstate, the flat plains to either side of him hidden by the darkness. He'd been on the road for almost fifteen hours and he had another eight or nine to go.

On the car's stereo, Zeppelin played quietly, just audible over the road noise. Against the road, he kept seeing the cages, the faces of the kids, pale and polished and hard, their eyes glittering with agonising hunger; empty blood bags hanging against the bars.

The alpha had told him he was raising an army. He shook his head. The vampires were out-powered by the leviathans and would always be out-numbered by hellspawn. Or was it an army against the rest of the blood-sucking undead, he wondered? How many monsters had Crowley found and killed?

He started in the seat as the strident ring of his phone shattered his thoughts, jerking his attention back to the road. Reaching over to his coat, lying on the seat beside him, he dug around and pulled the cell out.

"Yeah?"

"Where are you, man?" Sam's voice was tight with tension.

"Just passed Dickinson, I'm about another eight hours out." Dean shifted his grip on the wheel, tucking the phone tighter to his ear. "What's wrong?"

"Go south. Now. There's some kind of demon convention up ahead of you, in Billings. We got signs right across the board."

"What?" The whole country had been demon-free for days.

"I don't know why, but they're spreading out. Looking for someone?"

Lucifer, Dean thought. Crap. He could head south at Belfield, but it would take days to skirt Billings widely enough to be sure that he wasn't trapped on the edges.

"Do you know what's going on there?" he asked, running alternative routes and options through his mind.

"No. Just that it's lit up like a Christmas tree."

"I'm going back to Indiana. Meet me at Rochester." There was no point trying to get through, if Ellie was as quick as she'd hoped, he would again be cut off, and he wanted to be near Cas, at least be around. He'd only be an hour or so from Chicago, ready to pick her up with the Watcher as soon as they landed.

"You want to see Cas? Now?" Sam's voice rose. "Man, we shouldn't be drawing attention to him."

"Yeah, no. I know. I don't want to see him, I want to be in the vicinity, just in case." He dragged in a breath. "Just meet me there, bring Bobby with you."

If the demons were nosing around Montana, maybe someone'd been talking down in the pit. Telling tales about Winchesters and their friends. Ellie was on a plane, halfway across Africa by now and safe. He hoped.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Any, uh, signs of demon activity anywhere else?" he asked, flexing his fingers on the wheel.

"You mean outside the US?"

"Yeah."

"Gimme a minute." There was a clunk on the other end of the line and the faint sound of tapping keys.

"Dean? Nothing really outside the States," Sam said a moment later. "Uh, just the usual clutter in Europe. Can't see anything in Egypt."

"Good. Okay." He let out the breath he'd been holding. "See you in a couple of days."

"Alright."

Closing the phone, Dean put his foot down, looking for a turnaround or ramp. They had to be looking for the devil. He hoped they were. Looking so hard they wouldn't even think of tracking her. He glanced at the cell, lying on his coat. He'd have to get a message to Ellie, let her know the schedule'd been changed.

The off ramp signs appeared and he slowed, changing lanes and taking it, heading south for the 90 and glancing at his watch. Fifteen hours on the road and he didn't think he had much more. The next motel, he'd stop, catch some sleep.

June 29, 2012. St Catherine's Monastery, Egypt

Ellie pulled around the dry fountain in the village, finding a parking spot in the shade of a mulberry overhanging the high stone wall. She wiped her hands on her jeans, shaking her head at her nervousness. She had nothing to fear from Penemue. He would either help or he wouldn't, but he wouldn't offer harm.

Getting out of the car, she shivered, and reached back into the rental for her jacket. Despite the heat of the sun and the reflection from the sand and gravel and stone, the altitude kept the air cool. The monastery was held in a cup between the ridges running down from the mountains that surrounded it, over five thousand feet above sea level and even in the depths of summer, it wasn't too hot.

Snagging the bulky leather pack from the seat, she locked the car, turning and walking along the wall that divided the village from the gardens. As she climbed the wide steps that led into the walled monastery, she avoided the tourists who flocked to the monastery at all times of year, weaving her way through the partially open courtyards and taking the chapel path to reach the library.

The air cooled further in the high-ceilinged, stone building and she slowed down, wondering where to start looking. Not here, she thought, where there were so many people. Resettling her pack over her shoulder, she started to walk through the building.

She found him an hour later, bent over a computer screen in the sub-floor office. On the large monitor, several open windows showed the progress of a document scan, the soft hum of a machine on the next table the only noise in the room.

"Eleanor."

He didn't look around when she walked into the room, and she stood next to the open doorway, waiting for him to finish. He brought a different window to the foreground and studied the screen for a moment.

"Modern technology," he said, straightening and turning to face her. "We've been digitalising the library's contents for the last two years."

The darkly tanned skin was no more lined than it had been the first time she'd met him, almost five years ago. His eyes burned fiercely against the tan, and no smile curved his lips.

"Sit." He gestured to the window, flanked by two woven armchairs and a small, octagonal table.

She walked to a chair and sat down, dropping her bag at her feet. He took the chair opposite, one dark, winged brow cocked.

"You're here about Hell?"

She shook her head. "Only indirectly. I'm here about Lucifer."

Penemue leaned back in the chair, his breath hissing in. "The Morning Star is in the Cage. "

"That might not be the case." She watched his face turn pale under the tan. "He – we think – I think – he got out when his vessel's soul was retrieved."

"That's impossible," the Watcher said. "There were no signs of his release, no –"

"Does destiny rewind when the same thing happens twice?" she asked abruptly. "Or does it take a new path?"

He scowled at the stone-flagged floor. "What do you know?"

She leaned forward. "Not much. Sam Winchester was lifted from the Cage, by a demon and a seraph, without his soul. It's possible Lucifer was hiding, in his vessel, when that happened."

"He wouldn't hide for long," Penemue said.

Ellie shrugged. "The Pale Rider went into the Cage almost a year later, retrieving Sam's soul and returning it to him."

The Watcher's eyes narrowed. "You believe Lucifer was powerless until the soul was returned?"

"The Horseman put a wall around Sam's memories, to keep him sane," she told him. "The seraph broke the wall and Sam started having hallucinations. Of Lucifer. Being back in the Cage."

"Death would've felt the angel when he returned the soul," Penemue said. "He would've known."

"I thought so too, but Sam was Lucifer's true vessel and he could've hidden, within Sam's existing memories. Particularly if he was weak."

"So he lives, in the body of his vessel?"

"Ah, well, no." She dropped her gaze. "Sam was unable to sleep or rest, and his brother called on the seraph to help him."

"The seraph was Castiel?"

She nodded. "Cas took Lucifer into himself."

Maybe, she hedged internally, although no other explanation fitted the circumstances Dean had talked about.

Penemue got to his feet, walking restlessly to the computer table, tension visible in the line of his shoulders, the stiffness of his gait. "Why are you here?"

She turned her head to look at him. "Cas can't control him. He can't force Lucifer out, can barely keep him from taking over. You can."

The Watcher shook his head. "Transfer him? Where? Into what?"

"Into a demon."

He swung around to her, his mouth curling down in disparagement. "You believe that is a good solution?"

She smiled. "A demon held in a circle of holy fire."

She watched him absorb the idea, his expression thoughtful. "So the demon walks out, and Lucifer either remains or is killed."

"That's the idea."

"It might work." He crossed the room slowly, sinking down into the chair again. "Yes. It should work. If the vessel walks, and he chooses to stay in the circle, he can be sent back to the Cage. If he remains with the vessel, he will burn."

"Will you come with me? Castiel is in America, in Indiana."

"What you're asking, it's not an easy thing." He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "We would have to get something first, to help me contain him."

There must have some reluctance in her expression, she realised, when he added, "I can't do the transfer without it. I'm not strong enough to withstand Lucifer without it."

She felt her heart sinking at the prospect of an additional journey, additional time. "Can you get it alone, meet me back in the States?"

"No. I can't get it without you at all." He got to his feet, his expression shadowed. "What I need is in St Parisius, in Father Monserrat's vault."

The Benedictine monastery was high in the mountains of northern Afghanistan, close to the borders of China and Tajikistan. She'd been there for two months in 2007; looking for a way to kill Lilith, to save Dean.

"There is an item, in the catacombs beneath the monastery. I need it." Penemue looked away, rubbing the bridge of his nose lightly. "He trusts you. He'll let you borrow it."

"Pen, you're an angel. He'll trust you too," she argued weakly. Her estimate of a few days was going to turn into weeks. She could imagine all too clearly Dean's reaction to that.

"No. Not now." He turned away. "The Others have not been idle since the Apocalypse was averted, Ellie. Father Monserrat doesn't trust the Watchers any longer. He has had good reason not to."

Ellie stared at his back, frustration filling her. "We've got a three-hour drive back to Sharm el-Sheikh, Penemue. I expect you to fill me on this stuff on the way."

He nodded. "You drove here?"

"Yeah." She stood, slinging her pack back over a shoulder and thinking of times and of distance, of situations and which army was where. "We have to get going; I'm gonna have to pull in a lot of favours to make this happen quickly."

From the bottom of the Sinai Peninsula, it would be a four-hour flight to Kabul. If they were lucky, someone would be doing manoeuvres around Qal-eh Wust, close enough to drop them there. It would save another few hours driving through highly questionable territory.

For a moment, they looked at each other, a tacit apology and an acknowledgement of sorts passing silently between them.

The fallen angel was still angry with her, she knew, still felt the sting of what he saw as her betrayal of their friendship, but until they'd destroyed Lucifer, or sent him back to the Cage, he would put aside his feelings and work with her, to the utmost of his ability.

Turning for the office door, she walked quickly for the library, hearing his steps behind her.

Midday. Hyatt-Regency, Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt

Ellie looked around the plush suite and sighed. A huge living area, with a bar and kitchen, several seating areas taking in the incredible view across the Red Sea and two bedrooms, both with ensuite baths, it was extravagant for what would be, at most, an eight-hour stay, but it had the facilities she needed.

Dropping the three bags of clothes she'd bought in the hotel's arcade onto the floor, she gestured to the Watcher to precede her, tipped the bellboy and closed the suite door behind him. The new clothing were a change for her and a selection of Westernised clothing for the fallen angel, less conspicuous than the tob and robes, she hoped.

"The blue bag and the gold one are for you," she told him. "You can shower and change in there."

She waved a hand toward the suite's second bedroom, crossing the large room to the arrangement of sofas and low tables by the enormous windows. Setting her pack on the low table in front of the largest sofa, she pulled out her laptop and logged into the lepidopteron forum, a small crease appearing between her brows when she saw the message from Dean blinking at her.

Looks like all bets are off, he'd written. Watch your back. Demons spreading out from Billings here. Get the first plane you can.

She groaned softly under her breath. Getting the first plane was a priority, but it wouldn't be to Chicago.

Chewing on the corner of her lip, she thought about how to word a message that would be both informative yet reassuring about the delay in her travel plans. Nothing too detailed, she decided after a moment. She was hoping that he wouldn't know where either Kabul or Qal-eh Wust were, and wouldn't be too worried about it.

The news about the demon activity in the US was a different matter. There was only one reason she could think of for Hell to have allowed so many out. They were looking for the devil. If they'd started in Montana, someone had told them to find the Winchesters. She wondered if Crowley had left notes about the brothers … or anything else … in Hell.

She'd better do something about that, she thought, rubbing tiredly at her temple with the inside of her wrist and glancing at her pack.

Five minutes later, she headed for the suite's master bedroom. Grimy and dust-laden from the hours in the car, she needed a shower, a change of clothing and something to eat before she started the long process of calling around to see who was available to help with transport from Egypt to Afghanistan.

The ensuite was as luxurious as the rest of the suite, and she stripped off her jeans, shirt and underwear quickly, undoing the long braid and stepping under the gush of the wide showerhead. The soap lathered richly in her palm and she washed absently, her thoughts circling the two main problems they would be facing to reach St Parisius quickly.

Afghanistan was not an easy country to move around in now. She thought Tatiana would probably lend them her jet, which would get them to Kabul. From there it was another two hundred miles north and west, through the mountains. Driving was not an option. Although ISAF and the Northern Alliance had held the area for a few years now, even a single small guerrilla unit could capture or kill travellers with little interference.

Rinsing the conditioner from her hair, she wondered exactly where the British troops were located. She turned off the shower and stepped out, drawing the hotel's thick, soft robe around her.

The first year she'd spent hunting with Michael, he'd taken her to England, introducing her to his friends there. James Cross had been Captain then, and they'd spent three months with his unit, Michael telling her she'd learn more about different weaponry and tactical thinking from training with a military team than she could any other way for twice the time. He'd been right, she thought, picking up the blow dryer and switching it on.

The last she'd heard, he was in the area. That might've changed, but he'd know who could help her, at the very least.

Walking back out to the bedroom, she dropped the robe on the bed and pulled out the lightweight khaki pants, white cotton shirt and underwear she'd bought at exorbitant prices downstairs, dressing quickly. The hotel had a fast laundry service and she picked up the hotel phone to get her clothing picked up. It would be returned in a couple of hours.

When she returned to the main living area, she saw Penemue, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows. He'd changed from the flowing white robe into jeans, boots, a crisp, white button-through shirt and soft, suede coat and she was a little surprised to see how well they suited him; his black hair long over broad shoulders accentuated by the coat, the warm tan of his skin a strong contrast to the white shirt and the clear, bright blue of his eyes. He looked like a rock star, hiding out from his fans, she thought, mouth tucking in at the corners as she tried to hide her smile.

He turned as she walked across the room, his expression irritable. "These are uncomfortable."

"You'll get used to them," she told him, picking up the room service menu from the kitchen counter. "What do you want to eat?"

"I thought we were in a rush?" He took the menu from her, flipping it open impatiently.

"We are," Ellie said. "But it's not going to be that easy."

He glanced back at her, one brow cocked. "When is it ever?"

The food arrived forty minutes later, and Ellie spent the next two hours on the phone, calling in favours and organising the details.

Tatiana had been her first call, the Russian widow fortunately at home and amenable to loaning her Gulfstream without questions. It would be at the airport in three hours, another bit of luck that it had been serviced at Tangiers and she hadn't organised its return. The pilot would handle the flight details and would wait for them at Kabul and bring them back to the US when they were ready.

Contacting James had been more of a challenge, necessitating several calls to the UK to talk to someone who could give her his location, but her luck was holding. He was in Afghanistan, midway through a tour. Another four calls got her connected to the base and they put her on hold.

Doodling idly on the notepad in front of her, her subconscious drawing pictures of angels in fiery battle, she wondered if Dean had got her message. The thought of him had brought oddly ambivalent feelings all day long. She missed him, and a part of her was longing to be done with this trip, longing to see him again. Another part, however, was revelling in her autonomy here, in the ability to make decisions, take action without the need for consultation or negotiation. It was unsettling, that contradiction. It felt vaguely traitorous.

"Miss Morgan? We've located Major Cross. Patching you through now," the operator's clear English voice broke through the discomforting thoughts.

"Thank you."

The line crackled loudly in her ear and she pulled the handset away a little. "James? It's Ellie Morgan."

"Ellie? My god, how are you?" She listened to the man on the other end of the line, trying to separate his words from the persistent crackle.

"Good. Well, busy," she said, pressing the phone back against her ear as she tried not to hear the echo that bounced her words back at her. "I'm sorry I haven't been in touch."

"Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart," he said. "I heard what happened. Some of it, at any rate. It's been – what? – two years now? Don't tell me you're in London and at a loose end?"

"No, actually, uh," she hesitated. "I need a favour. Are your boys still in the north?"

She let out the breath she'd been holding when he told her they were.

"What do you need?"

"A ride, if you can swing it," she said, chewing on the end of her pen.

"To where?"

"Qal-eh Wust, the monastery there, St Parisius'," she told him. "Any chance you're in the area?"

"As a matter of fact, we are," he said. "Not a lot of action. Some weather reporting and keeping an eye on the local rabble raisers. Do you have a job there?"

"No, nothing like that. Just a visit to an old friend."

"I won't be in Kabul for another couple of days," he said, regret tinging his voice. "I don't suppose you have the time to hang around and wait?"

"Not this time, I'm afraid." Thinking about the next few months, she wondered if free time was going to be an option in the foreseeable future. "But, uh, if you let me know when you're home, I'll make a trip out."

"I'll hold you to that," he said, his voice breaking up again. "Alright, give me an hour to talk to Bob. He should be able to pick you up in Kabul – at the northern end of the markets."

"Got it." She let out her breath. "Thanks, James, I really owe you one."

"You do," he said, a chuckle coming through as the line miraculously cleared for a second. "I'll look forward to due return. Ellie? Be careful out there, alright? There's been a lot of unrest in the mountains, the last day or so."

"I'll be very careful," she said. The line closed and she set the handset back on the cradle, looking over her notes.

Well, they had a ride in and out. The whole thing shouldn't take more than about twenty hours.

"We have a way to the monastery now?" the Watcher asked and she glanced up, nodding.

"Yeah. We'll be leaving here in an hour for the airport."

The knock on the door was soft and unexpected.

"Yes?" Ellie called out, getting to her feet.

"Uh, I'm here to collect your cart?"

Glancing at the room service cart, Ellie walked to the door. She needed to call the airport, she thought, check the jet had made it in. The timing would be tight all the way around –

She turned the knob and the door slammed into her, the edge striking her forehead and knocking her backward into the room.

July 1, 2012. Bowman, South Dakota

The insistent ringing of the phone prised Dean from sleep. He stuck his arm out of the bed, feeling around on the floor in the heap of clothes he'd left there last night – this morning – until he found his coat.

"Dean? You all right?" Sam's voice sounded slightly tinny on the phone.

"Yeah, man, you woke me up." He lifted his watch close to his face, squinting at the time. "It's only seven-thirty!"

"Sorry." His brother didn't sound all that sorry. "We're going to Indiana through Wyoming and Kansas. I just wanted to let you know."

That really could've waited a few more hours, Dean thought, rolling his eyes. He struggled onto his elbow. "Right. Thanks for sharing."

"There're demon signs all over the place now. Right through Montana, heading into North Dakota. It's not a joke," Sam warned.

"Yeah, alright." He sat up and wiped a hand over his face, his gaze travelling around the cheap room without focus.

"Have you heard from Ellie?"

"No. She said she'd leave a message on the forum if she had news." He yawned, wondering if he could get back to sleep again. He'd caught four hours, he could use eight.

"Hang on."

On the other end of the line, he heard the engine noise slow, dropping to an idle after a moment or so. Rustles and a bang. The hell was his little brother doing? There was a distant beep, the all-too familiar sound of Sam's laptop starting up.

"Uh … yeah, there's a message here." Sam's voice sounded edgy.

Dean waited a moment, brows drawing together when Sam didn't seem inclined to give any more details.

"Okay. What's it say?"

Leaning back against the pillow, he fought off another jaw-stretching yawn, vaguely wondering what the fuck was wrong with his brother as the line stayed empty, hissing faintly with static. Was Sam trying to make him feel worse?

"Sam!"

"Uh … she's flying to Kabul," Sam said hurriedly.

"Kabul," he repeated, rolling the sound around his mouth. "An' that would be in –?"

It didn't sound Egyptian. Not that he knew much about Egypt, or anywhere else in the region.

"It's, uh, it's in Afghanistan."

"What?"

Afghanistan? The fucked up country somewhere on the other side of the world the US had been sending troops into for the last how many years? That Afghanistan?

"It's the, um, capital of Afghanistan."

"Why, Sam?" Dean demanded, rolling to the side of the bed, his feet thumping on the floor. "Why is she going to Afghanistan?"

"Oh. Well, she says Penemue needs something from a place in northern Afghanistan."

"Sam? Read the whole freaking message."

"Uh, yeah … Slight change in plans. Penemue needs an object from Qal-eh Wust, northern Afghanistan, for the transfer. Have arranged transport in and out via Kabul. Should only be a day or two at most delay to getting back."

Dean heard the apology in her words but it didn't help. Of course she was going to a country that was at war. Naturally. And, as usual, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

"Alright. Thanks."

"She'll be alright, Dean."

"Yeah." He shifted restlessly, acknowledging that any chance of more sleep had gone. "I'll see you later, Sam. Uh, call if there's another message, okay?"

"Yeah, of course."

Dean put the phone back in his coat pocket and sat on the side of the bed for a moment longer. Afghanistan. Whatever it was the ex-angel wanted couldn't've been in Detroit, could it? No. It had to be in Afghanistan. It was like this hinky rule. Take something dangerous, multiply by a factor of ten and add a bit more, just for fun.

He got to his feet and stalked across the room to the bathroom. It was Ellie, he reminded himself. Crap like this happened all the time. She always came out alive.

None of it reassured him. He flushed the toilet and reached into the small shower cubicle, turning on the water.

He would keep going, get to Rochester, wait there. It was the only thing he could do.