Gen sat on the table, idly poking at the wood with his knife. Nothing happened. He swung his feet back and forth. Nothing continued to happen. He wondered what Helen was doing. Something more interesting than this, no doubt. His partner had almost as good a knack for finding trouble as he did.

"You sure you did the ritual right?" he asked the magus, seated in a chair by the table. The warehouse was empty of any other furniture or people, lit only by the crappy old hanging lamps and decorated with the symbols the magus had drawn on the walls, for summoning and protection.

The older man glared at him.

"No need to get tetchy," said Gen. He lay the knife next to him and pushed a stray bang from his face. This was stupid. It wasn't going to work. They'd just have to try something different, until he figured out what the hell had happened to him.

Suddenly, the windows started rattling, filling the building with a cacophony of crashing. The two men sprang to their feet. seizing their respective guns.

"Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind," said Gen, looking around and knowing that wasn't true.

The crashing continued, then, one by one, the lightbulbs started blowing out. No quiet failure of wires but a series of high, small explosions that rained glass on their heads as they ducked in the sudden darkness.

Something hammered on the big barred doors. Once, twice, thrice, and they flew open. A figure stood there, silhouetted by the moon outside, lit momentarily by the sparks of the exploding lightbulbs.

She moved forward, looking around curiously, and Gen and the magus opened fire. Small holes appeared in her robe, an old, Romantic draping thing, but no blood stained the clean white fabric.

All the lights were blown out now, but the warehouse was still lit, whether by the moon or some silvery light emanating from the woman herself Gen did not know. Or care, much. As she neared them, still unaffected by either the bite or sound of ricocheting bullets, he and the magus dropped their guns and reached for their other supplies.

The woman, or whatever she was, walked straight towards Gen.

"Who are you?" he asked, gripping his knife tightly behind his back. It was iron with a silver edge, and had put end to more creepy-crawlies than he could remember.

"I am the one who records mens' fates," the woman said calmly.

"Yeah? That's useful," said Gen, and plunged the knife hilt-deep into her breast.

There was a pause, and the woman looked down at the blade with distaste. Too dignified to roll her eyes, she nonetheless somehow implied it as she drew the knife out (speckled in blood, but, again, there was no stain) and threw it on the floor.

A flicker of movement behind her was the magus swinging his axe, but the woman caught his wrist without turning, stopping him dead. She faced him and, laying a hand on his forehead, gently pushed him to the floor. The axe clattered down beside him.

She turned back to Gen. "Now will you hear my message, Eugenides?"

Gen dodged around her and dropped to his knees beside the magus, checking for a pulse.

"Your friend is alive," the woman commented. She was standing by the table now, leafing through the old book the magus had read the ritual from.

Gen stared up at her. "Who are you," he repeated.

"Moira."

"Yeah, I figured that," said Gen. The seer had lost her eyes for that, some random old name from other old books. At least it had let them summon the...whatever this chick was. "I mean what are you."

Now the woman put down the book and looked at him seriously. "I am the Messenger of the Gods."

Gen stared at her. She stared back unflinchingly.

"Get the hell out of here," he said, rising. "There's no such thing."

The woman, Moira, stepped closer to him. "This is your problem, Eugenides. You have no faith." She reached into her robes and pulled out a small grey stone, dangling from a thin golden chain.

Gen stared at it in startled recognition. Hamiathes's Gift still gave off the same faint blue sparkle when the light hit its inner gem, and the same overwhelming sense of reality that he'd long-since assumed had been a dream.

Moira gave a slight almost-smile at the astonishment on his face, reminding him for a second of Helen when she won an argument. Or that woman Irene, from whom he'd stolen the Gift in the first place. Either way, it brought him back to the present. "Some god you are," he said, defaulting to anger. "You burned that poor woman's eyes out!"

Moira dropped her eyes in acceptance of the rebuke. "She wanted a vision of the gods. It is not always wise to ask for what you want, lest you receive it."

"Yeah," Gen muttered. More loudly, he added, "But I'm talking to you, now. So why aren't my eyes burnt out?"

"I told you," she said patiently, "I am but a messenger. I speak on behalf of Hephestia, though it was not she who caught you when you fell."

"And who did that?" asked Gen, eyeing his gun still on the table. "I'd like to give them a piece of my mind."

"Eugenides."

"Yeah?"

"Not you, Thief. The god Eugenides, protector of thieves and travelers, for whom you are named."

"I'm named after my grandfather," said Gen.

"Yes," said Moira. "Your grandfather, who was named for his father, who was named for his uncle, and so on through the generations, back until the first Thief of your people, who took his name from the god."

"Is that so," said Gen skeptically. "Look, lady, my dad was a marine in 'Nam and my brother makes watches. I'm not part of any damn heritage. So who are you really?"

Moira looked at him curiously, confused. "I told you."

"Right," replied Gen. "So what have you recorded about my fate? Why didn't I go splat when I fell of that cliff, with a great bloody sword stuck through my side?"

"Good things do happen, Eugenides," the woman said, stepping forward as if to reassure him.

"Not in my experience."

She stopped and peered at him, head tilted, and it felt like she was looking straight down into his...whatever passed for a soul these days. "You don't think you deserve to be saved?"

Gen didn't answer such a stupid question. "Why didn't I fall?"

Moira straightened her head and met his eyes. Hers were dark, deep wellsprings of something he couldn't name. The wind had stopped rattling the windows, and for a moment, Gen fancied that the entire world was holding its breath. "Because the gods commanded it. Because we have work for you."