Dislaimer: I am not Ron Moore or Joss Whedon. I own nothing. Many thanks to shah of blah for the prompt, to sci-fi-shipper for the beta, and to the mods at pilots_presents for the fic exchange!

Prophecy Girl

Colony of New South Wales, Australia, 1894

Her mother always told her she had a special destiny. Always warned her it would be as unforgiving as the landscape.

Kara grew up imagining her strength growing in brittle-barked gum trees, her hatred in the thick red clay and choking dust of the bush. Her love she hid under the frame of her father's piano.

That piano was the wonder of Sofala at the century's turning. Imported direct from London, it was the most of the metropolis anyone of Kara's generation ever hoped to see. Their whole ramshackle corner of Turon Hills turned out on the Queen's birthday, miners and rangers and mothers and kids pouring over the porch and pressing close to the daub-and-wattle walls as Mr. Thrace played his rounds of "Rule, Britannia." Kara had never seen a picture of Victoria Regina, but the music spoke to her of freedom and of pride. When her father asked what songs she wished to learn, she always chose battle hymns and patriot anthems.

He left her and her mother when Kara was eight years old, but for months Kara expected him to return for the piano.

The one time she played it without him, her mother broke her fingers. A week later, Kara listened from behind the house as Mama chopped its legs and body into firewood.

Sophie Krata was a third-generation descendent of the convicts who had starved and struggled along the barren coast. She'd been raised in the mines of New South Wales – gold came and went, but coal was constant and she carried its mark in her ruined lungs. She refused to take Kara with her to that work. Her daughter was meant for some higher glory, some greater suffering, though its shape remained unknown.

In the year 1900, when Kara was fourteen, unnatural power flooded her body. She did not understand it. Half a world away, in China, another young girl had died in fire and blood, and the potential hidden in Kara's veins burst to life. Sophie never laid a hand on her daughter again, but every word she'd ever said seemed justified.

She died not long after, and Kara lived hand to mouth, sheep shearing, cattle ranging, and hunting her way through the six colonies until destiny saw fit to catch up to her.

It took its time. It was two years later that Kara walked through the outskirts of Queenstown, a rifle over one shoulder and a brace of rabbits slung over the other, to find a thickset, weather-beaten man waiting for her on the sprawling porch of her employer's ranch house. He was dressed impeccably in the latest British fashion, but his pock-marked face spoke of a life lived in the margins. A colonial, like her, not an Englishman.

"Kara Thrace?" he asked, his voice a pleasing gravel.

"Who wants to know?"

He smiled, teeth white and a little crooked. "My name is William Adama. I work for the Watcher's Council in London. We've been trying to find you for quite some time."

She raised an eyebrow, setting her rifle down and stepping into the shade to lean against the porch railing. "Well, Mr. Adama, I've never heard of this Council, so why don't you just tell me what you want?"

"I want to talk to you, Miss Thrace. About your destiny."

In an instant, everything about her turned hard-edged. "What destiny?"

"You are the Chosen One, Miss Thrace. The one girl in all the world with the power to stand against the vampires, the demons and the forces of darkness. You're the Slayer."

It was a long talk, but not as long as William had anticipated. Miss Thrace proved more ready than most to accept her calling, even though it involved facing demons from beyond the grave. He read more grim amusement than surprise in her face. Before the evening was out she had quit her job, and the next morning she followed William to the rail station with nothing more than her rifle and the clothes on her back.

They boarded the train for Adelaide, where they would transfer to the steamer which would carry them to England and the Council. William explained that he would supervise her in extensive training, teaching her to control her supernatural strength and to combat the unique dangers of her otherworldly foes. Then she would receive her posting and they would travel together to one of the world's transdimensional trouble spots, where her skills could do the most good.

It was a long train ride, and within the first half hour Kara grew fidgety. Without looking up, William marked his place in the battered, yellow-backed novel he'd been reading and set it aside. Though still in his middle age, he'd seen much of the world, and his career in the army had given him many campfire nights to master the art of storytelling.

Kara listened, entranced, to his portrait of the mountainous wastes where he'd faced the first fights of his life – ugly skirmishes against the Afghan tribes outside Kandahar, who fought, he assured her, like demons. His dearest friend had lost an eye to the same shrapnel that had carved its trail across his own face.

He'd fought with his regiment against the insurgents of Burma and the Zulu of South Africa, but it was in the Caribbean that he'd first learned the realities of the occult. In the aftermath of battle he'd been forced to face his own comrade, one-eyed and reanimated with corpse-like rigor. The fire that ended their struggle burnt away his remaining illusions. After that, there was no place for him in the army.

He'd searched out creatures of darkness on his own for an angry decade before the Watcher's Council offered him a place. He spoke to her of the Council's power and wisdom, its years of history, and in his voice she seemed to hear again the songs of her childhood. When William's well of words finally ran dry, they sat together in silence in the swaying railway car with the comfortable intimacy of kindred spirits.

Kara dozed off in the rocking carriage, and when she woke they were barely twenty minutes from the terminal.

"My son, Leland, will meet us at the station," William said, pulling his rucksack from beneath his seat and packing his book away. "He's made the arrangements for the ocean liner and will have our tickets ready." Catching Kara's curious glance, he added, "He's near your age, though he has the advantage of you by a year or two. He's apprenticing to the Council, and will be helping with your training."

"Following in his father's footsteps, I see," Kara grinned.

William paused a little too long before answering. "In his way."

Shortly thereafter the train jolted none too gently to a stop, and they kept their seats for a few minutes to let the stream of passengers seated behind them pass. As Kara rose and stepped into the aisle, William touched her elbow, holding her back a moment more. "Leland can be…difficult," he said. "But at heart he's a better soldier than he knows. Try to bear that in mind."

Kara was frowning as she stepped onto the railway platform, and had barely taken two steps in the over-bright sun when she found herself face to face with the most perfect Englishman she'd ever seen. Dazzling in white linen and tweed, he looked positively crisp in the wilting heat. He extended a hand to her – pale by colonial standards – and rolled her name in his polished, unfamiliar cadence. "Kara Thrace, I presume?"

"Leland Adama?" she returned, though he looked and sounded nothing like his father.

"Indeed," he said briskly, and after nodding to William he turned to direct them toward the dog-cart that was waiting to carry them to the dock. It was a short and silent ride; the Adamas apparently had little to discuss, and Kara was happy enough to keep silent, challenging herself to trace some resemblance between these two near-strangers. Leland had inherited his father's eyes and carried hints of William's breadth of brow and of shoulder. Beyond that, she recognized little in the young man. She'd caught a hint of surprise under the impersonal brush of his eyes at the terminal, but now he kept his attention firmly fixed on the passing landscape.

The problems began once they reached the ship. Leland produced their tickets as planned, but as soon as they were escorted to their cabins he started raising needless objections. He insisted that he had been promised a cabin along the hull and near the waterline, with a porthole for ventilation. He refused to accept their slated accommodations and argued with the steward for a solid quarter-hour, despite his father's evident irritation. When the steward finally agreed to reshuffle the cabin assignments, William announced that he found nothing wrong with his room, and with a disparaging glance at his son he vanished behind his cabin door. Kara, who had made herself comfortable within the first two minutes of debate, shrugged and assured Leland she was happy where she was. With a stiff-necked bow, he followed the steward toward the other end of the ship, promising to rejoin them for dinner.

Dinner went little better. He was animated enough at first, claiming the seat next to hers and eager to hear her thoughts on the recent transition of her country from loosely-knit colonies into a federated Australia. But once she made it clear that she had no interest in politics and considered "Australia" little more than a name, he cooled considerably. William took over the conversation and shared the latest news from his younger son, Zachariah, who was posted with the army in India. His letters were full of exotic tales, and William's vicarious joy in his son was infectious. Kara relaxed enough to let out a few full-blown cackles, but Leland only grew more silent and somber as his father spoke. By the end of the evening he was tight as a clam, and Kara wasn't sorry to bid him goodnight.

Though their steamer came equipped with every modern advantage and was certainly not at the mercy of the triangular Atlantic currents, they still faced a week-long voyage through the warm waters of the Indian Ocean and up the West African coast. Before they'd even reached the Cape of Good Hope, Leland was pestering her to begin her studies. Kara believed in being prepared, so she spent a few afternoons in Leland's cabin – which smelt powerfully of ammonia, as if he scoured it daily – and listened to him read. He picked selections from a veritable library of Watcher's chronicles which he had somehow managed to haul about in his compact luggage. These were the stories of women like her, the records of their callings and the lessons their Watchers had drawn from their earliest battles.

It should have been riveting, but Leland had none of his father's gift for oratory and the chronicles themselves were written in a dry, archaic style. He seemed utterly focused on the words in front of him, hardly interacting with her at all, and after a few days she told him bluntly that she knew what worked for her and what didn't, and this didn't. After that, she only saw him at meals, which he frequently skipped.

Normally she would have been happy to let him sulk, but he was her Watcher's son, so the odds of cutting him loose once they got to London were slim. Like it or not, he would be part of her training, so she decided to straighten out their working relationship sooner rather than later.

She burst into his cabin unannounced on their fifth evening out, fully intending to bully him out of his temper, and found him kneeling on the floor vomiting helplessly into a bucket.

"You idiot!" she greeted him, struck with sudden guilt over the skipped meals and daily cleaning that had irritated her before. "Why didn't you tell us you were ill?"

"Not ill," he said, straightening halfway up before wincing and curling cautiously back down. "Just seasick. I've always been susceptible. So I learned long ago to make arrangements in advance. I can handle it for myself this way."

"Of course – the cabin on the hull with sufficient 'ventilation.' Clever. By which I mean pathetic."

He huffed in what sounded surprisingly like good humor. "I have to admit, I was a bit relieved when you walked out on our lessons. The only downside has been that this blasted mess is all the worse without distractions."

He looked sweaty and miserable, far more human than she'd ever seen him, and she felt an unexamined rush of empathy. "Say no more. Fortunately for you, I'm a very distracting person." She went over to the books spread over his bunk and made a show of examining titles while he hauled himself to his feet and emptied the bucket through the porthole. She turned to him once he'd resumed his seat on the floor. "All right. We'll try this again, my way. Which of these – " she waved a hand over his tomes – "has the best pictures?"

"I assume that by 'the best' you mean 'the most obscene,' right?"

Caught off guard, she laughed. "Naturally."

He pointed to a giant black volume. "That one."

For the next half hour Kara offered very colorful commentary on the lurid illustrations provided by the fifteenth-century author.

"Demonology was a serious academic discipline in those days," he half-heartedly protested.

"You keep telling yourself that, Leland," Kara said, flipping more pages. "Oh, right, that is just disgusting. Paralyzing mucus? He's making this up."

Leland held himself together admirably; talking seemed to help, so when Kara finished with her pictures she settled onto the floor across from him and asked him what he wanted to hear. He said 'anything,' so she rambled off the top of her head about the idiocies of the ranch hands she'd had to manage in Thornsborough, and the harsh hill country where she'd learned to hunt, and without quite knowing why she found herself speaking to him of her father's music.

Leland listened, his eyes half-closed. When she stuttered abruptly over the piano, surprised by the strength of her memories, he sensed her discomfort. "I've a bit of a tin ear, myself," he said lightly. "Zach's the only musician in our family, and he's never had much time for indoor instruments. He's more of a bugler."

"Sounds like he must fit in well in the army."

Leland winced. "He loves it."

"Is he near your age?"

"Three years younger."

"He's full young, then, to be a soldier."

"Far too young. But Dad wanted a son in the army, and he still has enough friends in the service to make a nuisance of himself. He made sure they bent the rules for Zach after I refused to enlist."

"What? Why did you refuse?"

"Because our army has no business being in India," he exclaimed, suddenly emphatic. "No more do we. Zach has no idea what he's becoming party to, he never thinks about what Britain is doing in that country – to that country."

Kara glared at him, dismayed. "You're a republican?"

"Proudly. I believe in freedom and self-determination. I can't believe you don't. You're a colonial yourself."

"Yeah, I am. And before you write off your father and brother, you should stop to consider the fact that you may not know what the hell you're talking about. The colonies don't need your pity any more than I do. I've been proud to be a part of this empire all my life."

"And what has the empire ever asked of you? It's easy to love Britain in songs and stories –" Kara bristled at his dismissive tone – "so long as it keeps its distance. But you might change your mind once it pillaged your resources or took your family for its wars without stopping to ask your leave. Once it deemed your own people unfit to rule and set its own officers above them. The empire doesn't deserve my loyalty." His rant slurred over an ominous-sounding gulp, and he pressed his hands against his stomach, slowing himself down. After a few deep breaths, he concluded simply, "You do."

Kara, still mildly outraged at his slights to the empire, echoed, "Me?"

"The Slayer, yes. Your battles are the more worth fighting." He inclined his head slightly, intense and dispassionate. "So I told my dad I would join the Watchers, not the army."

Kara took in the stubborn set of his jaw and shook her head, letting the argument go. "Fine, so you picked my team," she said, rolling her eyes. "I haven't decided yet whether to thank you."

"Fair enough." Lee let his head thud back against the cabin wall. "You're not exactly catching me at my best."

Kara treated him to a considering frown. "Oh, I don't know. I came in expecting a fight, and instead I got a front row seat to puking with a side of treason. You're a piece of work, Leland Adama, anyone ever tell you that?"

"Not in so many words. Most people seem to find me boring. Or infuriating."

"Or both," she added.

"And my name is Lee, not Leland, please."

She reached out with one booted foot and gave him a friendly nudge. "It's nice to meet you, Lee Adama."

"Likewise, Kara Thrace." He managed a wan but genuine smile before hunching over his bucket to be sick again.

They got on better, after that.

When they arrived in London, Kara was stunned by its perpetual grey. The skies, the buildings, the people all seemed swaddled in a blank, immobile fog. The stench in the hazy air caught at her throat, and she spent her first cab ride coughing violently into the handkerchief Lee had plucked from his sleeve for her. The headquarters of the Watcher's Council loomed black in the center of the City, a massive monument to Tudor excess coated in layers of urban filth.

Once through the gates, she was whisked away to be introduced to – and inspected by – the Council's directorate. This proved to be a reserved and academic collection of men, with the notable exception of Helen Cain, the acting President. She conducted Kara around the premises with blunt professionalism, surveying the weapons and combat styles she would be expected to master and outlining the vast resources at her command. "Welcome to the war, Miss Thrace," she said, pulling to a halt in front of the main training room. "The most secret and vital war ever fought. It has a proud history, and I can see it will have a bright future." Holding out her hand, she added, "You seem a woman of great potential. I look forward to watching your progress."

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, Kara matched Cain's firm grip and then stepped into the training room, relieved to find it empty. Her gaze wandered slowly over the punching bag, the pommel horse, the weights and weapons, the fencing piste. She trailed a hand along the ropes of the boxing ring, set square by Marquess of Queensbury standards, and grinned.

"You look like you're having fun already," Lee called from the door, and she turned to find both Adamas advancing her way.

"We could take you to your room and give you a chance to get settled," William said with his strange almost-smile, "but I thought you might prefer getting started right away." He tossed her a pair of thinly padded gloves and pointed toward the punching bag. "Let's see what you can do."

Her training settled quickly into an intense but sustainable rhythm – physical conditioning, combat tactics, weapons drills, and frenetic lessons in demonology. Both Adamas quickly discovered her strengths: years of hunting in the outback had made her a crack shot, she was brilliant at unconventional strategy, and her strength and reflexes made her a force to be reckoned with on the purely physical level.

Lee spent half his time squirreled away in the vast Council libraries digging up information on hellbeasts, both common and obscure. The other half he spent working as her sparring partner. The first time he stepped into the boxing ring and she saw the physique he normally hid, any lingering doubts about his anti-military stance were put to rest: he wasn't avoiding the army out of weakness. The results of formal training were clear in his every move, and his economy of motion formed a contrast to her loose-limbed, scrappy style. His formalism was often a flaw, as he tended to freeze up when she threw out unauthorized or unfamiliar moves. But he had a frustrating talent for using her superior strength and momentum against her, and half the time she found herself flattened on the mat while he politely offered to teach her the requisite defense technique for next time.

He never offered to help her up, though.

William was a hard task-master, but she could sense his unspoken praise. She amused him with her irreverent jokes, and she caught the flashes of approval in his face when he watched his son alongside her. She and Lee were learning quickly from each other, and Lee's style advanced in flexibility just as hers improved in technique. Soon she was winning nearly every round against him, no longer vulnerable to the off-center lunges and misdirections he'd exploited at first. But he seemed to take greater delight in losing to her than he had in winning. She teased him about it one evening as they were replacing their gear, and he looked at her with bemusement.

"Of course I'm glad you're winning. It's my job to make sure you do."

She bit her lip, feeling like a bad sport, and he jostled her arm with a quick flash of elbow. "So you go on enjoying your unfair advantages. Just remember you'll always need me in the library, even when you don't need me in the ring."

She tossed her gloves at him. "Yeah, you analyze the dreams and cross-index the prophecies, Leland. Have fun with that."

Lee shrugged. "I don't care for prophecies, actually. I've no interest in them."

Kara dug out her shoes and sat down on their work bench, hunching over the laces. "You'll be pretty damn unprepared for this job, then," she said over her shoulder. "The worst watcher in the history of watchers, I'd wager. This whole Slayer business runs on destiny."

Lee shook his head. "If something is truly fated, then it will happen no matter what. Real destiny doesn't require you to see it coming in advance."

"Sure enough." Kara double-tied the knots. "But isn't it better for us to see what's coming?"

"No," Lee said. She sat up, surprised to see him staring at her with real concern. "If events actually depend upon your hearing a prophecy, then they aren't destined. They rest upon your reactions and choices. Prophecies are designed to confuse that simple fact, and you shouldn't let them."

"So…you think destiny's real but prophecies are traps?"

Lee ducked his head, ankles turned and hands unsettled. "That's right."

"Even for me, being 'chosen' and all?"

He caught her eyes. "Especially for you."

The worst part of training in Watcher headquarters was the audience. Though William fought to keep most of their sessions closed, every week at least one appointed 'observer' circled through their space to evaluate Kara's progress. She never saw the forms they constantly circulated, but flicking pencils seemed to haunt her peripheral vision. After two months of living in a hive of bureaucracy, the actual demons were looking better and better.

William took her out on supervised runs through the London back alleys, and she discovered the midnight rush of combat with creatures whose strength approached her own. There was a heady joy in it, a chance to discover who she was when she held nothing back. She reveled in the dances she learned with these devils. William called her a terror, with pride.

But she was getting impatient. She wanted to be let off the leash, and so far they were scheduling her slaying just as rigorously as her diet. She had always made her own calls and judged her own strength, and if she couldn't carve out a measure of independence, she would grow to resent even William. She lived for the day she was cleared for the field.

She saw less of Lee as she moved into real combat. He accompanied her as back-up once or twice, but he was focusing more heavily on research in preparation for their posting. Once they were sent to an outpost, they would lose their easy access to the central archival collections, and it was hard to predict what snatch of arcane knowledge might make the difference between life and death. From what Kara could see, if Lee didn't take notes on every single one of the rarest volumes, it wouldn't be for lack of trying.

They passed each other in exhaustion one night as he headed to bed and she headed to work – she was scheduled for her first cemetery run at one in the morning. She gave a small wave as she came down the stairs and he smiled.

"Your hair's getting so long."

"I know," she said. "Cain's minions keep telling me to cut it. I think it's losing me points on their tally sheets."

He glanced away. "Well, they do have a point. You wouldn't want to get caught or pulled along by it. It's a bit of an unnecessary risk."

She punched him lightly on the shoulder. "What's life without a little risk?"

For a minute it looked like he might argue, but in the end he waved a hand and said, "Good luck tonight."

His fingertips grazed the back of her arm before he vanished up the stairs.

After four months, Kara faced her final set of evaluations to be cleared for the field. Her performance was, on all accounts, stunning. William's brief smile spoke volumes, and he walked into Cain's office with just a touch of overconfidence to receive their assignment.

It was two hours later – and Kara was starting to worry – when he called her and his son into his workroom. They stood before his desk, and it was clear from his determined neutrality that something had gone badly wrong.

"President Cain sends her congratulations, Kara, on your achievement. You apparently surpassed all previous records in marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat and tactics. She feels that you are more than ready, and your first assignment will be to our outpost in Zurich. Your new Watcher will be –"

"My what?" Kara interrupted. Lee looked equally shocked.

William sighed. "President Cain does not appreciate the…'family spirit' in which I have undertaken your training. She feels that we have all grown too close to one another and are lacking the necessary objectivity for the field. Leland and I have been reassigned."

Kara and Lee broke out in an instant cacophony:

"Well, President Cain is deluded and she can kiss my –"

"She can't just throw Kara to the wolves without any of the support network she's devel –"

"Enough!" William shouted, and for the first time Kara saw the real depth of his temper. "President Cain is the leader of this institution which we all serve and which will be your support against the worst evils of this world. Her word is law and I expect you both to do your duty, as I will do mine."

"This is insane," Kara said, and slammed the door on her way out.

For the first time she took to the streets alone. She worked through her anger in a flurry of violence and felt her blood sing with the power of her calling. She scoured the cemeteries and took her time driving her stakes home.

In the pale light just before dawn she returned and found Lee sitting, worn out, across from the punching bag in their training center. The bag was lying on its side on the floor, its supporting chain broken and dangling loosely from the overhead frame.

"Rough night?" Kara drawled.

He didn't bother to reply.

"Get up," she said, more seriously. "Come on. Go pack your things."

"Give it up, Kara."

"Excuse me?"

"I said give it up." He glared at the wall. "There's nothing we can do."

"That is the most pathetic and abject surrender I've ever heard, and with an attitude like that I'm not even sure why I want you on my team."

"Kara…"

"But I do." She hit the wall with the flat of her hand.

Cain's secretary, Miss Shaw, rose from her seat when she saw the Slayer coming. Moving smartly from desk to door, she stood stone-faced in Kara's warpath. "You have no appointment, Miss Thrace," she said.

"Let me in," Kara ordered. "Now."

Shaw stared straight ahead, unmoved. "I wish you well, of course, but I'm not under your command. You'd do well to remember that." Altering neither tone nor expression, she added, "As it happens, the President is expecting you."

Shaw unlocked the office door and swung it wide, announcing, "The Slayer to see you, ma'am."

Momentarily flat-footed, Kara hovered on the threshold, then stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her. The room was tidy and bare, lacking even in chairs. Nothing showed a hint of personality except for the weapons carefully mounted on the far wall. Cain stood at a filing cabinet, her back to Kara.

"I heard about your little excursion last night," Cain said, not bothering to turn. "My sources say you killed seven vampires in a single run. Astonishing." She pulled a file out, propping it atop its drawer and scanning over its contents. "I've reevaluated my initial decision. You can handle bigger game than the riffraff in Zurich. I'm sending you straight to the Hellmouth in Corsica." She turned her head to the right, speaking over her shoulder in a slightly softer tone. "Believe it or not, that's quite a promotion, and you wouldn't be getting it if you hadn't earned my faith. Congratulations, Miss Thrace."

Kara clenched her fists but kept her voice level. "I want the Adamas on my team, ma'am."

Cain turned, tossing her file on the desk and clasping her hands behind her. "It's fairly obvious what you want, but I'm more interested in what you need. The Adamas have done a fine job with your training, but as you enter the front lines your Watcher's most important gift will be his judgment. That judgment cannot be impaired by sentiment. It's a weakness you won't be able to afford."

"We're not sentimental," Kara gritted. "And we're sure as hell not weak. We're a team that works very well together and we've got the results to prove it. I just broke half the combat records in Council history, and I'm only getting started."

Cain sighed. "Let's cut through it, shall we? William has a father's love for you" – Kara caught her breath – "and as comforting as that may be, it is useless to our cause. His son is a free-thinking, disloyal menace who was accepted into this institution over my objections. And you, Miss Thrace, are a soldier of great potential who has gotten far too close to her handlers. I'm not trying to interfere with your mission, believe me. I'm trying to save it."

At the word 'handlers' Kara had spun for the door, but she stopped with her hand on the knob. She gripped it hard and waited until she found words. "You're making a mistake."

"I think not."

"You are."

Slowly she walked back until she stood square before the President. "You want to cut through it? I'm the Slayer, the strongest weapon you have. You need me, and I need them. So I'm taking William and Lee, and we're going to fight your war. And you'll let us, because you'd sacrifice anything, even a piece of your own authority, for the sake of victory. To do anything less would be a waste. And that's a weakness you can't afford."

Kara leaned forward against the desk and held out her hand. "You're a good soldier, Madame President. But so are we. Give us a chance, and we'll show you just how good."

Once the Slayer sailed out of Cain's office, Miss Shaw slipped in and offered the President a cup of tea.

"I take it you're cancelling the Adamas' reassignments?" she remarked.

Cain smiled slightly against the rim of her cup. "I don't have to cancel them, as they were never filed. I'm a connoisseur of rare weapons, you know, and I believe in testing their mettle. Miss Thrace is a determined young woman. I expect to see great things."

Shaw nodded. "And of course," she said deferentially, "there is the prophecy to consider."

"Indeed," Cain said, setting down her saucer and reopening the folder on her desk. "At a guess, I'd say it is referring to Leland rather than William. But time will tell. I'm most intrigued by this 'harbinger of death' passage."

Her finger hovered just above the ink. "It has possibilities."