Written by: Madame Destine
Email: madame_destine@yahoo.com

* * * * *

Fox looked up from her copy of Blush magazine as Elisa pushed back the curtain and reentered the foreword cabin. "So, how are our winged passengers faring back there, Ms. Liaison Officer?"

Elisa gave a smirk as she returned to her seat. "Still out stone cold. But sunset hasn't arrived in Manhattan yet, so we'll see what happens then. We're flying west so… well… I don't know. Do you suppose gargoyles can become jetlagged?"

Fox shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I've only done this once before, with Broadway, but we made the whole flight at night." She pushed back the sleeve of her tailored track suit and checked her watch. "I guess we'll find out in about an hour."

Elisa nodded absently. "I don't envy them, that's for sure. I'm not a big fan of long plane flights, sure, but I don't know if I could handle the possibility of waking up midway to find myself securely strapped down inside a packing crate."

"Hmm, now there's an image," Fox replied. She chuckled as the dark-haired woman eyed her warily. "Oh, relax, Elisa," she teased, "I'm just kidding."

Elisa continued to stare for a long moment before the grin on Fox's face at last drew a smile to her own. "Sorry," she said. Shaking her head, she ran a hand through her hair and sunk back tiredly against the thickly padded leather seat. "I keep forgetting about that odd sense of humor of yours." She turned to meet Fox's gaze. "And truthfully, I'm still finding it hard to believe that we're escorting two gargoyles to the west coast for an appearance at the first ever national meeting of People for Interspecies Tolerance."

"It's no surprise to me," Fox replied. "Those two are hot right now. Everyone wants to get a piece of them." She reached out across the aisle and patted Elisa on the hand. "Which is why I'm glad you decided to take me up on the offer and come along. With everything that's been going on these days, you never know when an extra pair of eyes may come in handy."

"You want me to work?" Elisa queried. "So this isn't just a chance to get away to the warm and sunny climes of southern California for an all-expenses-paid weekend of fun?" She smiled archly. "Jeez, and I went and bought a new bathing suit and everything."

Fox shook her head and chuckled. "And I'm the one with the odd sense of humor."

Elisa smirked and sat for a long moment, listening to the low drone of the jet's engines. Something was missing, she thought. But what? The feeling kept nagging at her until finally she realized what it was. She'd had an entire conversation with Fox without the unsolicited, sarcastic interjections of a certain human-by-day changeling gargoyle. Elisa slid back into a more upright position and craned her neck to peer over the headrest. The seats behind her were empty. "Hey," she said, turning to Fox again, "what happened to our pair of tagalongs?"

"Ms. Destine and Miss Calhoun?" Fox looked up once more from the magazine she had returned to reading. "Oh, I believe they're keeping themselves entertained." She nodded towards the rear of the cabin, a look of mirthful amusement dancing over her features as Elisa followed her gaze to the glowing red "Occupied" sign near the lavatory door. Fox grinned as the other woman's eyes went wide.

"You don't mean they're both in there…" Elisa could not bring herself to complete the thought.

"Validating each other's Mile High Club passes?" Fox nodded. "Yes ma'am. They sneaked in there right after you left to go check on Broadway and Angela." She gave a chuckle. "I'm sure Dominique had to have known that I'd see them, but I really don't think she cared. Look on the bright side, though, Elisa. At least they took your advice and got a room."

"They've been in there for that long?" Elisa asked, incredulous. "What on earth could they possibly be…" A dull thud interrupted her and the lavatory door rattled in its tracks, causing both women to trade a quizzical glance. After a quiet pause of consideration, Elisa waved her hand dismissively. "You know what, I don't even want to know."

Fox only snickered and turned back to her reading. "Of course," she mused aloud, her eyes never leaving the page, "it would be a shame if that door got stuck."

Elisa smiled. "A crying shame," she agreed.

"It has a nasty habit of jamming up. I've been meaning to tell Owen to have it looked at. You see, there's a little latch that keeps it secure during take-off and landing, and sometimes it just accidentally slips when someone's in there."

"You don't say." Elisa's drummed her fingers on the armrest. "And this latch, it would be at the top…"

"Bottom."

"…at the bottom of the door. Yes, interesting."

Fox turned the page of her magazine with a polished fingernail and perused the latest article by the columnist who had interviewed Angela several months before. "Dare you," she said at length. She didn't even need to look up. Out of the corner of her right eye, she spotted the blur of red jacket and blue jeans and knew that Elisa had risen to the challenge.

The smirk that came to her face had spread from ear to ear by the time Elisa returned to her seat, and Fox could only shake her head in wonderment. "Remind me never to underestimate you again, Detective Maza," she said, staving off the urge to dissolve into a fit of giggles.

Elisa settled herself back into the plush seat and acknowledged her traveling companion with a wink and a nod. "Remind me to let them out before nightfall, Mrs. Xanatos."

As the plane flew on westward, chasing the setting sun, both women shared a hearty laugh.

* * *

"Mother, please." Angela steadied herself against the narrow doorway to the rear cabin as the plane touched down. "I agree that what Elisa did wasn't the most well thought-out of practical jokes, but don't you think you're overreacting just a bit?"

"Overreacting?" Demona whirled on her daughter, eyes flashing crimson. "She locked us in the lavatory so that she and Fox could laugh at us, and then when I demanded that she let us out, she somehow managed to completely jam the door. I had to break it down so that poor Andrea wouldn't be killed when I transformed." Demona growled. "Did you see how shook up she was? We made it out with mere seconds to spare, and I ended up scaring her half to death!"

"Andrea will be fine, Mother." Angela resettled her wings and advanced a step closer. "Elisa's out there apologizing to her right now."

"I should have known better than to agree to spend five hours on a plane with that woman." Demona turned back to the mirror and tugged the silver clip from her hair. Shaking her head, she put her talons to the flame-red tresses and restored them to their usual wild nocturnal style.

Angela crossed her arms. "What were the two of you doing in there together, anyway?" she asked. "I mean, I have a fairly good idea what you were doing, but you couldn't you have waited until we got to the hotel to… you know?"

Demona rolled her eyes skyward. "If you must know," she replied as she positioned her tiara, "I was attempting to keep my mate from having a panic attack." She slipped on the gold armlet, completing her nighttime ensemble, and turned once more to regard the other gargoyle. "You may recall, Angela, the last time Andrea was on a plane, she was traveling cargo class; bound, gagged, and blindfolded."

"Oh my." Angela visibly paled as she recalled the highly abbreviated story that the artist had related to her almost a year and a half ago in the wake of her own kidnap ordeal. "I'd forgotten about that."

"Yes, I'm guessing it slipped Detective Maza's mind, as well." A gentle lurch signaled that the plane had stopped taxiing, and Demona gathered up her hastily packed carryon bag. "Now if you'll excuse me."

* * *

"It was only meant to be an innocent prank, Demona. It got out of hand, and I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as you will be if you don't get out of my way, Detective." Demona hustled Andrea towards a waiting limousine and cast an icy, annoyed look back over her shoulder at the dark-haired woman.

"Please," Elisa implored, "will you at least listen to me for a moment?"

"Domi, I think maybe you should give her…"

"I think you should be quiet and get in the car," Demona interjected. Taking the petite woman by the forearm, she guided her through the door and followed her in. "As for you, Detective Maza," she intoned darkly, "you'll get what's coming to you soon enough. And that includes the bill for my ruined suit."

The door of the long white car slammed shut before Elisa could say anything more, leaving her to watch as it drove away.

"At least you tried, Elisa," Broadway consoled. He put a taloned on her shoulder, moving her back to the rear of the plane to clear the way as another limousine pulled into view from around the corner of the hanger.

"Just give her some time," Angela advised. "She'll calm down eventually."

"I hope so," Elisa said, "otherwise this is going to become a very long weekend." As the copilot unloaded the last of their luggage, she scooped up the small bag she had left by the stairs. She and Fox had changed into business attire on the plane, but she still had a few accessories she needed to add to complete her new look. Shouldering the strap, she sighed and for the first time paused a moment to take in her surroundings. "New clothes, new shoes, new town," she muttered. Her eyes lingered briefly on the palm trees along the far edge of the airfield before refocusing on the foreground. "Hmm, and a new face," she added. "Hey, who is that?" Elisa indicated the tall, broad shouldered man stepping out of the waiting limousine. "I don't remember him from the security briefing."

Fox glanced up from her conference with the pilot, and even Angela looked surprised. "You're kidding, right? That's Ty Clearwater, star of stage, screen, and talk show circuit. I told you P.I.T. L.A. had to make a last-minute substitution for our escort. He's it. I'll be done here in a minute. Why don't you go introduce yourself?"

Elisa hesitated, finding herself suddenly and unaccountably shy. At her hesitation, Broadway said, "If you won't, I will. His last movie, Winter Kill, was great!"

The burly gargoyle bustled forward, meeting Ty halfway as he cleared the distance between car and jet. After a moment, Angela followed, taking a quick step to catch up with her mate. With a sharp shake of her head, Elisa brought up the rear.

"Hello." His voice was deep and relaxed, like a slow river. It gave Elisa shivers, and she gave herself a mental kick as she held out her hand and briskly introduced herself. Coolly, she appraised him. Tall, well, but not obviously, muscled. He filled out the newish blue jeans and leather jacket nicely. He moved easily as if there were dance training in his background. High cheekbones suggested Native American blood somewhere in his racial mix, but his skin was several shades dark than hers. Ebony eyes regarded the gargoyles with frank curiosity but unmistakable warmth.

"Ty, darling, how wonderful to see you!" Fox swept forward, cell phone still in hand, leaning up to kiss the air at his cheek.

Clearwater smiled and pitched his voice loud enough to be heard over a departing 727. "Fox, whatever you've been up to, it agrees with you."

She preened at the compliment, not noticing that his eyes hadn't left Elisa. "You're smooth as ever, but shouldn't we get moving? The rehearsal's at ten and I want to give everyone a chance to get settled before we go over to the studio."

"You're right, of course. Mandi will kill me if we slip off schedule. Ladies and gentleman, right this way."

The group moved toward the limousine and Ty fell into step beside Elisa. "So you're a cop? When you're not escorting your friends?"

"My clan," Elisa corrected mentally. "Yeah, I'm a detective, 23^rd Precinct. Usually, I work the robbery detail."

"Interesting work?"

"It keeps me busy."

They reached the car. The driver was supervising the loading of their bags by the copilot. He moved quietly to open both passenger doors and waited at a discreet distance as the party settled in, then closed the doors behind them. A moment later, the car purred to life. Elisa fiddled with her unaccustomed purse, conscious of Ty's attention. Finally, she met his eyes. "Did I put my lipstick on crooked or something?"

Angela, who was sitting across from Elisa and next to Ty, leaned forward. "No, it looks fine to me." She cocked her head in curiosity. "That is a new shade, isn't it?"

Elisa gave Fox a sidelong glance. "Uh, yeah. Courtesy of our media advisor."

Fox buffed her manicure on her lapel modestly. "I do what I can." She gave her companion a weary appraisal. "And really, Elisa, that color you were wearing was so last season. This one is much more flattering."

"I'm staring." A wrinkle of concentration marred Ty's handsome face. "I'm sorry, but you look so familiar. Are you sure we've never met before?"

Elisa shook her head sharply. "No. Sorry. I'm good at faces. I've never seen yours before."

The actor's face crumpled in a rueful smile. "Ouch."

"Nothing personal," Elisa said, softening the harsh remark. "Fox tells me you're famous. It's fallout from my life. I haven't seen a new movie for at least a year and the only parts of the newspaper I read are the police blotter and the sports page."

"Wait a minute." Recognition dawned and Ty raised a solitary finger in the air. "I've got it. I have seen you before. Aren't you the cop who busted Yuri Petrovian, the mob boss?"

Elisa frowned. "How do you know about that? The wire services didn't use my name in the stories they published."

"No, but the New York papers did," Fox reminded.

"That's right." Ty agreed. "It was on page six and the picture was pretty blurry. You had your hand up, but the photographer was good. He caught most of your profile. I thought Petrovian was supposed to go to trial soon. "

"Tuesday," Elisa admitted wearily. She watched as the limousine threaded its way smoothly through the evening traffic.

"So why are you here? Shouldn't you be back in New York getting ready for the trial?"

Elisa turned her face away from the window and snapped, "I am ready. And I'm not afraid of Yuri or his goons. I've faced tougher before."

The actor seemed awed. "They threatened you?"

"Yeah," Elisa replied. "Just like in the movies. So my boss and the district attorney decided that either I could slip quietly out of town, or I could spend the next few days in a safe house."

"It's better this way, Elisa." Broadway reached across the confines of the dove gray car and patted her shoulder.

"Sure it is. Some FBI agent gets to pretend she's me, order pizza, and feed my cat while I hide out in Los Angeles. Sounds like a fair deal to me."

Ty considered for a moment. "But what about the paparazzi?" he said as the big car exited the freeway. "You know they're going to be all over us this weekend."

Elisa gave a knowing smile. "With these two in tow? I'll just be one more face in the crowd. Besides, I know a thing or two about going undercover." She pulled a blonde wig and a large pair of horn-rimmed glasses from her purse. With a swift tuck and twist, her mane of midnight hair was gone. With the donning of the oversized frames, the addition of a pen behind her ear, and a subtle shifting of her posture, the competent police detective had vanished, replaced by a somewhat mousy executive assistant. She looked up demurely through her lashes at the actor. "Well?"

"Wow. I mean that. Wow, you're good. You've never been an actor?"

Elisa's eyes danced despite her discontent with the situation. "In my line of work, everyone's an actor."

She disappeared back behind her persona as the car slid smoothly to a stop in front of a glittering glass façade. The doors opened soundlessly and a pair of valets bent to greet them and there was no more discussion of Yuri Petrovian as the gargoyles made their Los Angeles debut.

* * * * *

A thin wisp of smoke rose from a black spot on the carpet where, a split-second earlier, a small gray mouse had sat nibbling on a cracker crumb. "Ha!" Hyena cackled. "I finally gotcha!" With a gleeful smile, she retracted her forearm laser and settled back against the pillows of the unmade bed. The apartment that she and her brother currently called home had seen its share of better days, and the management of the rundown complex was hardly going to notice one more scorch mark on the threadbare rug. Without giving the vaporized rodent a further thought, she picked up her book and went back to reading.

"Be a Better You: Unlocking Your Secret Wisdom," proclaimed the embossed, flowing script on the front of the dust jacket. On the back cover was a photograph of the author, Dr. Phineas Phelps. "Self-help guru du jour," as Jackal had called him when he had first seen her with the book during their lunch break the week before. "Just what we all need, another pop psychologist. Eighteen bucks for a stupid book, what a racket! Next thing you know, some idiot will give him a talk show."

Hyena had quietly ignored him, but she had made a mental note that the table of contents listed a chapter specifically about sibling relations. Reading it now, she was amazed at how relevant what the man had to say all seemed. Her lips moved as she devoured each page of advice, and from time to time she paused to underline those passages she found particularly enlightening.

She was still absorbed in it several minutes later, when Jackal stuck his head into the room. "Jesus, sis," he said, "you're not still reading that trash are you?"

Hyena glowered at her brother. "It's not trash," she snapped. She marked her place and slammed the book shut. "Besides, who are you to judge what I read? The last thing you picked up that had more than ten pages was the phone book, Mister 'If it has more words than pictures, it's not worth my precious time'."

"Hey," he retorted, "all the best writers are doing graphic novels. That movie we're in right now started out as a graphic novel."

The comment earned a dramatic roll of the eyes from Hyena. "Movie" was a generous term for the low-budget potboiler that was currently paying their rent. If the film even saw the inside of an actual screening room before ending up in the video discount bin, she would be greatly surprised. "You're right." She tossed aside her book but held on to the pencil. "I should probably start working on my Academy acceptance speech," she replied, tapping it against her chin. "This has got to be the year they finally recognize 'Best Supporting Actress in a Piece of Shit'."

Jackal gave a sneer and lounged against the door frame. "This is me not laughing. At least it's a paying gig. And they did give us new paint jobs."

"It's a barely paying gig," she returned. "Cheap bastards. For what we're saving them on special effects, we should be gold-plated and living in a mansion in Beverly Hills."

"Just shut up and go in the other room." Jackal's electronic earpiece retracted from the living room. "There's something on the news I wanted you to see, and it's starting."

With a growl, Hyena got off the bed and followed her brother into the front room of the tiny apartment. A metal T.V. tray with a beer and a half-eaten frozen dinner sat in front of the couch. The television was on, and the stylishly attired newsreader was just bringing the program back from commercial. Hyena's annoyed scowl deepened. On the screen behind the woman was a picture of Broadway and Angela.

Jackal snatched up the remote and turned the sound up a few more notches. Footage was rolling of the two gargoyles arriving for a rally speech. The cameras followed them as they exited a white limousine to a red carpet welcome. In the background, the steps of the convention center were thronged with people, all cheering, some waving banners and signs bearing slogans of support.

"Security is tight at the Staples Center," the newswoman intoned, "as supporters from all over the country convene for their first ever west coast caucus. Seen here live and exclusive on KTLA are Broadway and Angela, spokes-gargoyles for Clan Manhattan, the first of what may be many gargoyle societies to come out of seclusion. We'll be bringing you live, continuing coverage of the first People for Interspecies Tolerance -"

"Oh, shut it off already. I -"

"Shut up," Jackal growled. "I want to hear the rest of this."

"- the gargoyle couple, already the toast of New York City, will conclude their weekend visit with a special appearance on a benefit edition of 'The Sunny Shores Show' Sunday night, where Tinseltown's elite and special children sponsored by area charities will make up the studio audience." The anchorwoman turned to a tall, blazer-clad co-presenter whose burly build marked him forever as a former pro-football player. "So, Chip, how does the weather look for our city's latest shining stars?"

Jackal shut off the television as Hyena began to rant. "Oh great. This is just lovely. Just when I thought this town couldn't get any weirder, they have to show up." She tapped her foot and fumed. "Do you suppose it's just fatso and the ingénue, or do you think the rest of the winged wonders are lurking someplace in the shadows, waiting for someone to tell them the coast is clear?"

"I don't know, but I'm not going to wait around to find out," Jackal declared. "I've been talking to some guys down at the studio. P.I.T.'s not the only game in town."

"You mean that Gargoyle Defense League?" Hyena chortled derisively. "Bunch of NIMBY crybabies. 'We love gargoyles,'" she mimicked in an earnest voice. "'Just not anywhere near our children.'" With a snort, she dropped onto the couch and crossed her arms over her chest shield. "Losers."

Jackal grinned. "That's just the front people, sis. You know that in every organization there's always strata: the mouthpieces, the sheep, and then there's the types looking for a different approach."

Hyena swiveled a vaguely interested eye at her brother. "You know these people?"

"Nothing concrete," Jackal admitted. "But hey, the shoot's wrapping tonight and we don't have another gig lined up. A little muscle work would come in handy right now."

"This job, I'd do for free." She flexed a cybernetic fist, studied it for a minute, and then tried to release it. Her fingers refused to uncurl. "Of course, cash is always good."

"Great." Jackal smiled happily, which was never a pretty sight. "Grab your coat. The sooner we finish shooting, the sooner I can talk to my friends about meeting their friends."

Hyena returned her brother's grin. "That's what I love about L.A. It's such a warm town. Let's see if we can't help spread the love to our gargoyle pals." She cackled merrily at the thought as the pair exited the apartment.

* * * * *

"No, I think this will work fine." Elisa handed the finalized plan back to the P.I.T. L.A. security advisor and resisted the urge to stretch. It wasn't that she was tired, exactly. Even with the three-hour time lag, by her standards the night was young. There were too many people and gargoyles in the crowded suite, and she felt constricted sitting as she was with the security team huddled around her on the sofa. "We just have to make sure that nobody lags behind and the press keep their distance. It'd be too easy for someone to try something and then slip back into the crowd."

"Don't worry, Ms. Maza, we've got that covered." The advisor, Brian Mackay, was somewhere in his mid-fifties and, if Elisa was any judge of law enforcement officers, only a year or so off the force. He still carried himself as if body armor was a habitual part of his wardrobe, although she could see no trace of it now. "Nobody gets near the proceedings unless they're properly credentialed, and that includes hotel service personnel and catering staff.

"Good." Elisa couldn't resist any longer, she did stretch and, excusing herself to the group, got up and ducked into the adjoining bedroom. She retrieved her purse and fumbled until she found the silver tube recently gifted by Fox and uncapped the dark burgundy lipstick. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Even without the wig she had to look twice at the face eyeing critically back at her. At home, she barely wore more than a touch of blush and a hint of neutral lipstick. Just enough to put a little color in her face and keep the Mary Kay wolves – secretaries and dispatchers who insisted that she'd be certain to catch a man if she only spruced up a bit – at bay. As she touched up her lipstick, Elisa reflected. It wasn't that she didn't know how, or didn't like to, but her lifestyle didn't really lend itself to primping. She was lucky to make it through most shifts without tearing her clothes on razor wire or getting smeared with garbage as she stopped some thug from running away. And as for off shift, it wasn't as if she and Goliath spent many nights dancing them away at the Ritz. Nope, makeup was for occasions like these when she needed to be someone else, just one more tool in her detective's bag of tricks.

She set the lipstick aside and removed the shoulder-length blonde wig, listening with half an ear to the happy murmur of voices in the next room as the door opened and several more volunteers bearing – from the sound of Broadway's glad cry – pizza entered.

Among them was Ty Clearwater, his presence causing less of a stir than that of the late dinner. Apparently, the famous actor was a regular among this crowd. Elisa wondered what to make of that as she began to brush her hair. The bristles felt good against her scalp, confined as it had been by the hastily applied wig, and she dug a little harder on the next stroke.

"Hey! Don't yank on the tangles, you'll only make them worse." Ty Clearwater stood in the doorway, looking on with dismay.

"How would you know?" Elisa stopped brushing long enough to address the actor then attacked the knot once more.

He advanced, crossing the expanse of deep gold carpet from walnut trimmed threshold to polished dressing table in easy strides. "Allow me?" Ty held out his hand and, with a sigh, Elisa handed him the brush.

As he went to work, the actor explained. "Experience. Sure, my hair is short now, but you should have seen me a year ago. It was nearly as long as yours."

"Really." Elisa kept her tone flat and she resisted the urge to let her eyes flutter closed in pleasure as Ty's experienced hands worked at her abused hair.

"Really. It's short now because I'm trying to get into the head of a new character. It was long then for the same reason. I had to know how he thought, and felt, and moved."

"And hair does that for you?" Elisa couldn't help the bemused smile that curved her lip.

"Hair, clothes, shoes." He freed the snarl and the brush glided freely as he styled Elisa's ebony tresses. "Tell me those heels don't make you feel different than the – what do you usually wear – high tops or sneakers?"

Elisa looked up sharply at Ty's reflection in the mirror. "How did you know that?"

The reflection shrugged. "I guessed. You kicked the shoes off as soon as you arrived and went for your arches as soon as you sat down. It suggested that you don't normally wear anything but flats. You did the same thing with your suit coat. You're not used to being restricted by your clothing. My feeling is you're a pretty casual person."

"You're observant." There was grudging respect in Elisa's tone. "And intuitive."

"You mean for an actor?" The warm voice held a gentle, mocking note.

"No! Well, yeah." Elisa noticed her own reflection for the first time. "Hey, I like what you did." While she'd been distracted, Ty had captured her hair in a simple yet effective up-do that altered, yet still flattered, the shape of her face. "Much better than that wig."

"Hang on." Ty guided Elisa's hand to the crown of her head and a mass of loose tendrils. "I need a pin." He held on a few moments longer until he was sure Elisa had the hair under control.

"Elisa?" Angela entered bearing a plate with several slices of pizza on it. She looked with surprise at the pair before the mirror. "Oh, excuse me!"

"It's okay, Angela." Elisa beckoned. "Come on in. Ty was just giving me some pointers on my hair and wardrobe."

She relinquished control back to the actor, who quickly finished securing his creation.

Angela moved forward a fraction, smoothing and resettling her wings. "I just wanted to make sure you got something to eat. Fox says we have to leave in a few minutes or we'll be late for the Sunny Shores rehearsal."

"And we wouldn't want to miss that, would we?" Elisa smiled as she grimaced inwardly. The idea of a kid's show where the cast dressed up as oversized shore birds and marine mammals and sang sappily sweet songs made her teeth hurt.

Ty Clearwater wasn't the only intuitive one in the room. "I know it seems a bit much, but little children seem to enjoy the characters and they do try an impart good lessons while entertaining. Besides," Angela added, somewhat defensively, "Fox says it will be good for our image."

"When you're right, you're right, Angela." Elisa conceded. She gave her clan-daughter a smile as she retrieved the plate of cooling cheese and pepperoni, took a piece and offered the plate to Ty, who shook his head. Careful not to smear her lipstick, Elisa nibbled at the edge of the slice rather than digging in as was her custom. "Give me a couple of minutes and I'll be right out." She caught the bemused smile Ty was attempting to conceal. "What?"

"I think I'm going to enjoy getting to know the real you, Elisa Maza."

* * * * *

"Okay, people, we've made a couple of adjustments to the script, so get the goldenrod pages from Shelly and look them over. Our guests are new at this, so you may have to prop them up a bit, but it's all for a good cause." Burt Shipley, gray-haired, veteran director of decades of children's programming, took his place at the head of the long rectangular table around which the cast of the Sunny Shores Show gathered.

Shelly, the script girl, handed around pages of revisions to a chorus of mumbled 'thanks' as the actors and staff reviewed the changes. Everyone seemed in good spirits despite the hour, chatting amiably as they settled in for the late-night rehearsal. Or nearly everyone. "Where's Cyrus?" the director muttered as he scanned the room, squinting a bit as he reviewed the knot of technicians helping themselves to sandwiches off the craft table. "Billy?" Rather than keying his microphone, Shipley raised his voice to be heard above the actors, already trying different intonations of their lines. "Where is Mr. Tremaine?"

Billy Rogers, a spry man of medium height and indeterminate age, his right hand for more years than Shipley could remember, concluded his notes to the lighting technicians and gave his boss a weary look. "He won't come out of his dressing room, sir."

There were times, the director reflected, when he wished he had adopted the Cecil B. De Mille conceit of carrying a riding crop. This was one of those times. Of course, the union might frown on giving an actor, even one who insisted on nursery school antics, a sound thrashing. "What is it now?"

Billy cocked his head indicating that they should step away from the knot of actors and crew. Together, the pair walked onto the soundstage under the premise of checking over the beachside boardwalk where the main action of the show would take place. Without realizing it, Shipley scanned the set looking for problems and relaxed a trifle as he found none. The A.D. began to speak in a low, rapid voice. "Captain Braveheart, I mean, Cyrus, he's staging a protest. He says he won't appear on the same stage as -" His voice dropped even lower. "- as the gargoyles, sir."

"Excuse me?" Shipley rounded on his friend and aide. "I thought the lawyers had resolved this." The director began to redden with suppressed irritation, and Billy reached into the pocket of his gray flannel trousers for his boss's heart medication.

The director looked at upward at the moon, specially painted with a plump-cheeked smile and broad wink for the nighttime program. "He plays or he pays. Very simple, even for a dolt like Tremaine."

"Take it easy, boss," Billy soothed. He studied the older man critically and counted the carotid pulse that throbbed visibly, framed by the director's crisp, white, open-collared shirt. It was to be Shipley's final season helming the Sunny Shores Show, after which he was due to retire. Billy had every intention of making sure his boss made it through to the end of the season cast party. "There's no use getting worked up over this. Martín is talking to him. A mascara brush isn't the only thing he's good at manipulating."

"Fine." Shipley looked at the gold Cartíer watch on his wrist. It had been a gift from the network after the show had won its first daytime Emmy. "Martín has two more minutes to work his magic. And if that doesn't work, you tell Mr. Cyrus 'I'm a bloody thespian' Tremaine, that Fox Xanatos is the only reason he has this job, and if he wants to keep it, then he bloody well better get his arse out here!"

"Yes sir," the A.D. said, alarmed at the emergence of Shipley's rough, North London accent. Billy Rogers had known Burt Shipley for thirty years, and worked for or with him for twenty-five, and only in times of great stress did the expatriate-Englishman let his accent reveal his working-class origins. He placed a comforting hand on his boss's shoulder and gently led him to a canvas director's chair. "I'll take care of it. You get ready to greet Mrs. Xanatos and the others. They'll be here any minute."

"What would I do without you, Billy?" Shipley said softly.

"Let's not find out, boss," the A.D. replied. His cell phone beeped. He flipped it open even as he hurried back toward the dressing rooms. As he got to the edge of the set area, he flipped the phone shut and keyed a wireless mike that hung clipped to his shirtfront. "Two minutes, people. Our guests have just cleared the studio gates."

He ignored the upswing in noise as he hustled back to retrieve Cyrus Tremaine and was almost knocked off his feet as he turned a corner and the recalcitrant actor stalked out of his dressing room. The lead makeup man hurried to keep up in his wake. "Remember Cy, smile."

"Only when it's in my contract," Tremaine replied bitterly to his companion, not noticing the assistant director.

"Boss wants you at the rehearsal table now," Billy said. "Mrs. Xanatos and her party have arrived."

Cyrus looked down his long aquiline nose at the shorter man. "How lucky for them."

"Cyrus," the makeup man chided. "Manners."

The tall, distinguished-looking actor grunted in reply. As they neared the set however, he straightened his slumped posture and his head rose as he regally surveyed the cast and crew surrounding a knot of people and… not people. His mind shied away from the term 'gargoyles'. His confidence flickered and he flinched as he regarded the winged pair smiling and chatting with that limey bastard Shipley.

"You can do this," Martín muttered at his elbow.

"Of course I can do this," he snapped. "I am Cyrus Tremaine." He swept forward to effusively greet Fox Xanatos. "Darling!"

Fox's green eyes didn't betray her inner mirth at Tremaine's obvious discomfort. She was aware of the actor's biases, but he had been unconscionably rude to her once when she had been new to the business and he had been at the top of his game. Payback could come in all kinds of ways, and sometimes it could take its sweet time. She smiled back warmly. "Cyrus."

"All right, people, we've got a show to rehearse, so let's get to it," Shipley boomed through his microphone.

The A.D helped to settle Angela and Broadway while one of his assistants escorted Fox and Elisa to an out of the way spot where they still had a good view of the action. Once everyone had their scripts open and water or soda in front of them, the rehearsal began.

"People, let's get started." Shipley picked up his script. "For the benefit of our guests, let me go through the itinerary. First, we'll do a quick run through of the script. Then we'll walk through the set and let the lighting boys get their marks. The blocking has already been roughed, but we want to fine tune things before the dress rehearsal. Then we'll go over the songs and dances and finally, we'll do one run all the way through." He glanced over at Broadway and Angela. "Do you have any questions?"

"I don't think so," Angela said. "We learned the script that you sent over."

Shipley smiled at Angela's earnestness. "Right, that's fine. Only, we tend to change things a bit. That's why you've got revision pages in your script. Each time we change a line, we change the color of the page it's printed on. We've tried to keep your parts the same, but there may be some minor adjustments."

"Oh," Broadway thumbed the multihued document before him. "I wondered why this had so many colors."

Shipley rubbed his hands together. "Right. I think we can skip the intro since there's nothing new there. So let's pick it up at page three, shall we?"

The actor that played the anchor character, the Mayor of Sunny Shores nodded. "Right. So I do the song and the intro, and when I get to the dockside I see the pirates and call out, "Ahoy, out there!"

The actors slipped gradually into character as they worked through the first pages of the script, occasionally rising from the table to work out bits of physical comedy that would be fine-tuned later.

Angela and Broadway followed the action intently, so intently that Broadway failed to notice that the had dropped a goldenrod-colored page from his script. He realized his error and looked for it frantically, spotting it on the floor just as Cyrus Tremaine plucked the brightly hued sheet from his own script and began to read.

"Aye, mateys. We've come all the way from Castaway Cove -"

"Castaway Cove!" Broadway bellowed as he reared back from his position halfway under the table. His wings unfurled involuntarily, knocking the table askew and the actors playing Miss Emily, the postmistress, and Abe Sextant, the Dockmaster, to the floor as his eyes flared white.

Cast and crew reacted as the folding table tilted over precariously. Chairs scattered as flustered actors struggled with their 'fight or flight' reflexes. Several retreated to the safety of the set and watched the gargoyles warily as Fox and Elisa jumped to their feet and rushed to the table, circling Broadway protectively. Burt Shipley rolled his eyes heavenward. Billy clapped his hands, trying to get the attention of the cast. "People. People. Settle please!"

Cyrus fell out of character with an undignified squeak and flung his script to the floor as Broadway began to apologize profusely. "I'm sorry! Sorry!" He offered his hand, careful to keep his talons sheathed, to help the two actors back to their feet. "I… Sorry!"

"I told you this was a bad idea! You'll hear from my lawyer!" Cyrus stalked from the room and the makeup man, Martín, hurried after, calling his name.

Broadway stood bracketed by Angela and Elisa. The embarrassed gargoyle had turned a deep aquamarine and was staring at the floor. It was obvious to all that he was deeply ashamed by his outburst. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

Fox moved to the foreground and took the lead with the director and his assistant. "I should have had you fax over the revisions for approval, Burt, mea culpa." Fox shot her 'assistant' a reproachful look, as if it were Elisa's fault they had neglected to get the most current script. Elisa ducked her head and looked chagrined. Then, Fox addressed the group at large as she explained. "I'm afraid 'Castaway' has something of an unhappy association for our friends. A rather dreary man by that name led an organization called the Quarrymen. You may have heard of it. They destroyed a lot of very expensive statuary in Manhattan trying to murder Broadway and his clan as they slept."

There was a general murmur of sympathy and understanding among the company. Cries and exclamations of "How awful!" and "Oh dear," and "Sweet Jesus!" as the naturally empathetic actors put themselves into Broadway's massive shoes.

"It's all right, dearie," said Marge Dixon, the actress that played Miss Emily, a spry sixty-five year old woman whose dark skin crinkled into crow's feet around still darker eyes. "I believe I understand. That you gargoyles call your families 'clans' gave me a bit of a pause at first. We give words more power than we realize at times."

Broadway gave the woman a tentative smile. "Thanks. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Marge smiled. "Naw. I spent fifteen years working as a stuntwoman. It'd take more than a little tumble to hurt an old trooper like me."

Realizing that the crisis had passed, Elisa and Fox faded back to the their places at the periphery as the actors settled down to their rehearsal.

"Hey," Broadway said, noticing at last Cyrus Tremaine's empty spot at the table. "Where's Captain Braveheart?"

There was a brief uncomfortable moment as actors shuffled their scripts. Cyrus's sentiments about the gargoyles were well known.

"Mr. Tremaine dislikes rewrites," replied the director smoothly. He picked up Tremaine's script off the table and handed it to the script girl. "Shelly, you read Captain Braveheart." He scanned the script. "Pick it up after the intro. Doug!"

Over in the corner, several of the show's writers sat at a card table. A twenty-ish man who'd been arguing the merits of a line of dialogue with his co-scriptor and completely missed the fracas stuck a pencil behind his ear and looked up from his coffee. "Yeah boss?"

"The Castaway Cove line is out. Redo the pirate entrance. I want two versions, with and without Captain Braveheart. Have it to Billy by the end of the night. Mayor, Pirates and Crew." Several heads around the table went up. "You'll get your new pages in the morning." Having settled the issue, Burt Shipley glanced at his watch. He wondered if the lawyers would let him dock Tremaine for the loss of rehearsal time. Best be about it, mate. If they had to force Tremaine to perform, the lawyers would need time to wrangle. He got up and motioned for Billy. "Take it will you?"

"Sure, boss." The A.D. glanced at his own watch as Shipley gathered Mrs. Xanatos and her assistant and took them off the set. "Okay, Shelly, from the top."

* * * * *

Cyrus stared at the phone receiver in disbelief. "What do you mean I have to do it? Lenny, you're killing me. Literally. There is no way I can perform with those, those monsters! I don't care what my contract says." The actor took a long pull from a crystal highball glass and grimaced at the taste of inferior bourbon. In his upset, he'd grabbed the bottle at random and poured the dross he kept around for his manager, who actually preferred the horrid stuff over decent single malt. "Fine, you see what you can do. But I'm telling you right now, my mind is made up." He slammed down the phone, picked up the glass, and knocked back the rest of his drink.

Martín entered from the kitchen, a glass of milk in hand and a worried look on his face. "Who was that on the phone, Cyrus?"

The actor scowled and the angry expression became truly dark as he discovered he'd emptied his glass. "That useless lawyer of mine, Len Carter. He says there's no way he can get me out of my contract and that I'll have to do that damn benefit show."

Martín paused and considered his approach. Even after seven years and countless hours of therapy, he still felt responsible for Cyrus' attack. It had, after all, been his idea to take a romantic moonlight walk along the bank of the Seine while on their impromptu weekend adventure. How was he to know when they saw the azure gargoyle, crying as if her heart would break, their lives would be changed forever?

The ensuing year was nearly as horrible. Months in hospitals at Cyrus' bedside as he endured reconstructive surgery to repair the damage to his face and chest and arms. They had worked miracles with his face, leaving only tiny scars that the makeup man skillfully concealed each morning, but the damage to Cyrus' upper body had been extensive and costly. Relentless physical therapy would never restore the actor's breathtaking physique. It had, at least, restored a measure of his functionality, though he would never take his shirt off for the camera again. That was, if he had the opportunity. Hollywood only tolerated difficult actors up to a point.

Martín crossed to his companion's side and plucked the empty glass from his fingers. "Here, drink this," he said, offering the milk. "It's much better for your nerves."

For a second, Cyrus looked as if he might hurl the offering against the paneled wall, but instead he set it down next to the telephone. "Thank you." The actor buried his head in his hands. "Why won't these people understand, Martín? Those are dangerous animals like lions or gorillas. Would they let a gorilla go around free without chains?" He raised his head and punched his undamaged hand against the chocolate leather of the easy chair. "I mean, my god, look what happened tonight. That big blue beast went completely out of control over one little word. He could have killed us all!" A hopeful look briefly lit his handsome, suntanned features. "Maybe he did. I left in such a hurry, he could have ripped the studio apart before Security arrived on set."

"It's a cheerful thought, but doubtful, love." Martín moved to stand behind the leather chair and rested his hands against the actor's neck. As he began to rub, Cyrus scooted forward and dropped his head back toward his lap. "Come on, why don't you go take a nice soak and then I'll work those knots out of your neck."

"Maybe later." Cyrus brushed off Martín as he rose to stand before the sliding glass door

that looked out onto the canyon. "I've got to think."

His companion followed, standing a little apart. He had to pick his words carefully. Before the attack, the actor possessed something of a temper. Afterward, he'd become even more volatile. "Cyrus, honey, you're upset. Believe me, I understand. I'm not exactly thrilled myself. After all, I'm going to have to make those things fit to be seen on television." He shuddered. "But we do have to look at the big picture. You've got that audition Monday."

Cyrus watched as outside a coyote howled and in the brush beyond the patio a rabbit broke cover, darted across the rough ground of the cactus garden, and disappeared behind a sculpture of Kokopelli. "My ticket off of Sunny Shores and back into real television."

"That's right," Martín agreed. "And it's a good part too. A nice solid character role on an established show."

The actor snorted. "I used to line the birdcage with offers for parts like this. Back in the old days," he added bitterly.

Be encouraging. Stay focused. Don't let him obsess about New York and 'Big City Lights', the makeup artist thought. "Remember what your therapist said about hanging on to the past. It'll bring you nothing but heartache. Besides, that was a frothy, silly little comedy. Another season and you would have been bored out of your mind. You should be thankful that Pack Media decided to let you out of your contract. Moving to L.A. and starting over, no matter what the motivation, was a blessing."

"At least it got me away from those gargoyles," Cyrus agreed. "Flying by our window every night. It's like they were just waiting for another opportunity to finish the job." He whirled on Martín. "But now they're here!"

"Only for the weekend." Martín flipped the latch and opened the slider to allow a little of the brisk night air into the house. The pines and mesquite added a resinous scent to the air that he found soothing. "Then they'll go back to the other side of the country and we'll never have to see them again. Two days, love." He wrapped an arm around the actor's waist and nestled against his ear. "We can manage for that long? Hmm?" he whispered. "Make nice with Burt. After all, he knows you've had a rough time. He'll understand if you apologize."

"Why should I?" Cyrus said through grinding teeth. "Why should it always be me who makes the concessions? I was the one that French harridan nearly killed! I was the one who was let go when I couldn't work a full day on set even though I'd been torn apart! I was the one who was forced to start again, taking scraps when people should be begging me to accept their lousy parts. It's not fair!"

"No Cy, it's not," Martín agreed. "You've had some bad breaks. But when you get this part -"

"You mean if," he corrected sharply. "If I get this part."

"If I meant 'if', I would have said 'if'." Martín allowed a little of his frustration to creep into his voice. "There's no reason why you won't nail that audition. And I have it on good authority it's just a formality anyway. But if they get wind you've been difficult on the set, they could change their minds. Remember, the actor they're replacing was fired for being a raging prima donna."

"So you keep telling me," Cyrus said wearily. He looked down and realized that only the screen door stood between him and the night. "Why is this open? I'm cold." He started to jerk the glass slider back into place and froze. "Martín," he said weakly. "Look!"

The make up artist followed his lover's gaze and gasped as he yanked the door shut and thumbed the latch. Caught in the bright glare of the moonlight was a gargoyle riding the canyon currents. Even at a distance she seemed to be exuding frustrated energy. She screamed, that same, strange, soul-searing sound, as if she were rage embodied and yet she could find no target on which to focus.

"It's her! Martín, it's her!"

The makeup artist yanked his lover bodily from the window and pulled the blind shut. Chests heaving in fright, the pair dropped to the carpeted floor and cowered, arms around each other like children. They stayed that way until the clock in the hallway chimed the hour. Hesitantly, Martín crawled on his knees and peeked out the slider. Emboldened by an encouraging nod from his companion, he rose to his feet and searched the night sky.

The gargoyle was gone, and when he turned back to report to Cyrus, the actor's face was set in a stony mask of resolve. Whether it was coincidence or warning, Martín knew his lover wouldn't care. There was no way he would appear at the Sunday benefit. He'd be lucky if he could get him to leave the house. It would take all of his wiles and more than a little bit of persuasion to save the career of Cyrus Tremaine now.

* * * * *

The gargoyle delegates and their human companions chatted amiably in low voices as they disembarked from the elevator and headed toward their rooms. The Sunny Shores rehearsal had gone well and Fox was pleased. "You kids knocked them dead tonight. If you do half as well at the taping on Sunday, the Antis are gonna be sputtering bile for weeks."

"You really think so?" Angela said. She smiled with pleasure at the compliment despite her nerves.

"This T.V. stuff is easy," Broadway said as he slipped a wing around his mate. "And it's fun too, even if that director did make us do that one scene over and over again. Hey," he said turning to Fox. "Do you suppose if it works out, we could do our own show in New York?"

Fox considered the idea. It did have possibilities and the marketing potential would be endless. Gargoyle plush toys, lunch boxes, tee-shirts. She eyed Angela. Adults would be as receptive to the merchandise as the kiddies. "Hmm, tell you what, Broadway, let's see how the taping goes. And if you're still big on the idea when we get home, I'll talk to some people and see what we can set up."

"That seems fair." They reached the first of the suites assigned to their party. Angela noted the 'Do Not Disturb' tag on Andrea and her mother's door. "Maybe I should check in with them."

"Maybe you shouldn't," Broadway advised, always leery of Demona's temper. "She'll come out when she's ready."

Angela touched the door handle, raised her talons to knock, and then reconsidered. "I suppose you're right."

"I'll see you guys tonight," Elisa said as she keyed her room.

"Okay, Elisa, have a good sleep." Broadway replied.

Fox looked up from her clipboard. "Make sure you go straight to bed. We've got a busy morning."

"Yes, mom." The door closed with a click, and for the first time since she had deplaned Elisa was alone. She kicked off her shoes, snapped on a lamp, and dropped her horn-rimmed frames on the dresser along with her purse. There was a room service menu next to the phone, and idly she perused the selection of overpriced hamburgers and pizzas and other late-night fare. "Mmm. Hey, what's this? Hot fudge sundae. Three scoops of vanilla ice cream drenched with hot fudge, sprinkled with chopped almonds and topped with a float of real whipped cream. Why not?" She picked up the phone and rang room service, placing the order and then canceling it when the clerk told her it would take forty minutes to deliver.

"I guess that's why not. Oh well, it's not like I really need the calories." Elisa examined herself in the mirror. Rigorous training and an active lifestyle kept her trim, but that was no reason to tempt fate. "Better follow Fox's advice. Take a quick shower and call it a night."

She stripped off the rest of her clothing, leaving a trail of navy blazer, plain white blouse and trim skirt on her way into the bathroom, turned the shower taps on high, and brushed her teeth while the water warmed. A subtle change in the thrum of the pipes and a waft of steam announced the shower was ready. Elisa stepped into the marble and glass enclosure, luxuriating in the pounding spray.

Twenty minutes later, her chin bounced off her collarbone and she realized she'd nodded off to sleep halfway between soaping and rinsing. With a yawn and a spine cracking stretch, she buffed off quickly, picked up her discarded clothing and hastily hung it the walk in closet, donned a tee shirt, snapped off the lights, and slipped between the sheets of her king-sized bed. Twenty minutes after that, she was still staring at the ceiling.

"In New York, it's nearly seven. So why am I wide awake?" Leaving the lights off, she reached instead for the television remote and hit the power button. "Infomercial. Infomercial. Seen it. Seen it. Hey wait a minute." Elisa stared at the screen and quickly hit the back button. Happy people congregated in the courtyard of a Roman-style courtyard, drinks in hand. A young man in a short red waiter's coat and black pants held a bottle of champagne at the ready." Elisa squinted at the television. "Oh, it can't be. That's not Ty Clearwater, is it?" She focused her attention intently on the young actor, matching facial characteristics as if it were video footage from a crime scene and not a cheesy made for T.V. movie. "Nah, that kid has a broken nose. Still…"

The face, apart from the nose, was close, but the hair and posture didn't quite match up. Mentally, Elisa imagined the youth ten years older and began to compare and contrast the two men. Ty had a buzz cut that any no-nonsense cop would feel completely at home in. The waiter's hair was longer and styled rather effeminately with gel. The young actor lacked confidence, or at least the part required him to act as if he had none. He slumped his shoulders and stared at the ground when he wasn't pouring drinks. A girl in her twenties approached, somewhat tipsy, and waved her glass in the general direction of the bar. He must have known her or wanted to know her, because he smiled shyly and tried to catch her eye before snapping back into his subservient demeanor. The teeth were wrong, Elisa noted analytically. "This kid has a gap. Ty's teeth are perfect."

She made herself more comfortable, stacking the pillows high behind her back and shoulders. "Of course, he could have had them and the nose fixed." Elisa settled back to watch for more clues.

The scene shifted. The waiter was now toga-clad. He had gained the musculature of a man accustomed to hard work, like driving teams of horses as he was doing now. He captained the chariot with ease, though he was clearly highly agitated. He drew up before a luxurious Roman villa, gleaming with sweat, mirroring the foam-flecked state of the pale gray steeds under his command. He leapt from his post, tossing the reigns to a gardener, burst past the startled doorkeeper, and ran inside.

"Senator, I must beg your urgent attention!"

A man dressed in finest white linen reclined on a low couch. His surroundings were opulent; elaborate mosaic floors at his feet, a gilded ceiling overhead. Fountains tinkled musically in each corner of the large chamber, spilling into channels that fed a pool at the center of the room. At the center of the pool, overlooking the scene as if she hadn't a care in the world, the goddess Venus reclined on a similar couch, attended to by fig leaf-clad youths, both male and female. He looked up in consternation, a bunch of grapes halfway to grease-sheened lips, surprised to have his meal interrupted. House slaves trailed in the wake of the intruder, having tried and failed to bar his way. One female slave, standing golden jug at the ready, looked particularly shocked at the agitated young man's arrival. Her hands trembled and deep purple wine spilled onto the tiles at her sandal-clad feet.

The Senator regarded the interloper coldly. "I know you. You are that impertinent charioteer. Didn't I order you to my Sardinian holdings to haul fishing nets until you learned some manners?"

The slave bent to his master. "Yes, my lord. The ship leaves tonight." Though he was overwrought, the young man tried to conceal his agitation. He dropped to his knees before the senator's couch. "Sir, I petitioned some months ago to marry a woman of this house. You said you would consider the matter. I know I have displeased you, lord, but I wondered if you might consider my petition and grant the housemaid Elisabetta permission to join me in Sardinia as my wife."

The slave girl stood quietly in the corner, watching all with wide eyes. She offered silent prayers to Juno and to Cupid, entreating that her master would grant her lover's petition and allow them to be wed.

He laughed. "You impudent dog. Surly you jest. I should have you whipped. In fact, I think I will. " With a crook of his finger he signaled the wine bearer to his side. "Let this beauty be ruined cleaning fish and mending nets? I think not." When she was with in reach he wrapped a manicured hand around her waist and pulled her close. "I have other plans for you, my dear." The Senator glared at the house-slaves. "Get him out of here. Horatio!" he bellowed.

A hardened looking slave appeared with two enforcers in his wake. "Take this, this, ill-mannered young cur out of here and lash him until he learns some respect. Then make sure he gets on the ship with the other goods going to the coast. Now."

"Yes, Senator." Horatio bowed and his two burly assistants grabbed the charioteer.

Having dismissed the intruder and settled the matter of his punishment, the Senator turned his mind to more pleasant matters. "It's time for my bath." He appraised the dark-eyed girl at his side and wondered why he'd not noticed her before. Perhaps it was her youth. She was as lovely as a just-ripened peach and just as ready to be plucked. "I think you will attend me."

"My lord." She gave a pleading look to the other slaves, but no one had the nerve to defy their master. The others scurried to clear the remains of meal, tidying the room with scrupulous efficiency.

The charioteer struggled in the arms of the guardsmen. He lashed out with his legs as they attempted to drag him from the chamber. "No, Elisabetta! No! I'll not leave you to him. I love you!"

The senator lost his temper at the continuing disruption. "Enough! Horatio, I've changed my mind. Don't send the boy to the ship."

"My lord?"

Elisabetta held her breath, wondering at this sudden display of compassion from her master. Her lover stilled in surprise in the arms of his captors.

He pursed his lips as he regarded the finely muscled lines of youth in its prime. "Yes. Anyone with this much fight in him should go to the arena. Dispense with the beating and sell him to Antonius Maximus at once." He glanced at the two who struggled to hold the shocked slave. "Tell Antonius he should make good sport as a bear-baiter. He seems to have a talent for it."

"No!" Elisabetta screamed. She ran to her swain and he broke free a hand to touch hers.

The slave renewed his desperate struggle to break free as he realized his fate. The arena meant bloody death. "No! Elisabetta, I vowed before the sacred altar of Juno that you would be mine. I will keep my promise!"

Elisabetta joined the fight, scratching and clawing at the three men who held her lover. Together, they would find a way and then they would escape. It would be difficult to live with a price on their heads, but their love and the gods would protect and shield them from their pursuers.

Horatio hit her hard across the mouth and her head swam. He hit her a second time, a mighty belt that sent her swinging wildly away from the confrontation. She tumbled into the fountain, tripped and lost her footing again. Elisabetta flailed hopelessly for a purchase, reaching out for the pedestal of the statue at the fountain's center. Sudden, sharp pain surged through her skull as her temple connected solidly with Venus' couch.

"Elisabetta! Elisabetta!" The desperate voice faded as darkness swallowed her whole.

Elisa bolted upright from her bed. Her chest heaved and she blinked in confusion. touching her cheek, still feeling the sting of angry fingers as the chaos of the Roman chamber faded abruptly. Pale sunlight struggled its way through the rich brocade curtains. On the television, A Clint Eastwood spaghetti western unspooled. The movie she had started to watch was long over. "It must be 'Viva Italia' night, or something," Elisa muttered as she shifted the pillows to block out the intrusive morning. She snapped off the television, confident that Clint would sort out his own problems, and wondered about the sword and sandals melodrama that had obviously leached into her dreams. "Why else would I cast myself as a slave girl and Ty Clearwater, of all people, as my love interest? I mean, really," she muttered as she rolled over and faded back to sleep, "how weird is that?"

* * * * *

"Wow, check out this place." Hyena whistled appreciatively as they approached the property whose address was scribbled on the scrap of paper in Jackal's hand. A low hedge fronted by a six-foot wrought iron fence ran along the edge of the sidewalk, and a matching gate set between a stout pair of stone columns guarded the driveway. Hyena peered through the bars at the house that lay beyond. The mission-style ranch, with its clay tile roof and arched portico, was of modest proportions by Hollywood standards. In comparison to the cramped two-room walkup that she currently shared with her brother, though, it looked like a palace. "Man, the rest of us should live this well," she muttered. "Who did you say this guy was again?"

Jackal double-checked the house number, then crumpled the paper and stuffed it into his coat pocket. "Cyrus Tremaine. One of the cast members of the Sunny Shores Show, which just happens to be where our friends from back east will be appearing tomorrow night."

"My, what a interesting coincidence." Hyena smiled.

"There's more. The guy's a card-carrying member of the Gargoyle Defense League. I'm told he speaks at their meetings all the time. He even claims he was attacked by a crazed gargoyle a few years back." Jackal grinned. "Rumor has it that he moved out here from New York just to get away from them."

"Gee, that sounds familiar." Hyena eyed the house again. "So I don't suppose he's too happy right now, having to kiss their asses in front of the whole nation on live T.V."

"Exactly," Jackal replied. "Which is why I suspect he's going to jump at the opportunity we're about to offer him."

"So what's the plan? Just stroll up to the front door and introduce ourselves?"

"Well, unless you have any better ideas…"

Hyena shrugged. "I knew I should have had some 'gargoyle exterminator' business cards printed up." She tested the iron gate that barred their way, but it refused to budge.

Jackal stayed her as she planted a foot on bottom rail and began to climb. "Uh, sis, we're trying to make a good first impression, remember?" He thumbed the button on the intercom panel to his left, and the pair waited patiently.

Five minutes later, they were still waiting. "Can we do it my way now?" Hyena asked.

Jackal stepped back, checked up and down the street for anyone who might notice them hopping the fence, then gestured for her to lead the way. "Fine. After you."

Another five minutes of ringing the bell and waiting by the front door brought similar results. "I don't think anyone's home," Hyena said as Jackal wrapped his knuckles on the door for the third time. She stepped from the porch and edged behind the shrubs to press her nose against the garage window. Squinting through the glass, she saw only an empty space big enough for two vehicles. "No cars, either. Gee, fancy that. The hoity-toity actor has something better to do on a Saturday afternoon than sit around waiting for us to stop by."

"The we'll just have to wait, that's all," Jackal grumbled. He eyed the sticker on the narrow window beside the door, which gave a terse warning of a security system being present. "Let's go back to the car," he said, deciding against the idea of waiting inside.

No sooner had they started back towards the driveway, though, when a car swung up onto the apron. Jackal raised an arm as the gate began to open, halting his sibling, and pulled her with him behind the fronds of a bushy palm. The servos in his cybernetic eye whirred as he peered between the leaves, focusing in on the driver.

"Is it him?" Hyena asked.

"No." Jackal sank into a crouch behind the foliage and pulled Hyena down with him. The silver sedan stopped in the driveway, and a slender dark-haired man got out. "That's not Tremaine," Jackal whispered. "I think that must be his partner, Martín Bouchard."

"Business or domestic?" Hyena questioned.

"The second one." Jackal hushed as the man strode purposefully past their place of concealment and up to the porch. He watched as Martín let himself into the house and quietly pulled the door shut behind him.

"So why don't we just talk to him?" Hyena asked.

"Too risky. Come on." Seizing the opportunity, Jackal made a dash for the street, pulling his sister along by the hand behind him.

"Christ," Hyena exclaimed, jerking her hand away as they reached the safety of the sidewalk. "When are you going to stop doing that? I'm not five years old anymore." She matched his pace as he started back down the street towards their car. "What do you mean 'too risky'?" she asked. "That guy looks like a cream puff to me."

"Not everything comes down to whether or not you can beat the other person in a fight, sis. If that guy blows us off, we're screwed with Tremaine. 'Whatever you do, don't piss off his wife.' That's the last thing my guy told me before giving me the address." Jackal opened the passenger door of their old Volkswagen and guided Hyena in, then circled around to take up the driver's seat. "Approaching Tremaine directly is our best bet," he continued, "but I won't look a gift paramour in the mouth, either." He cranked the key and the Beetle's little engine sputtered to life.

Hyena followed her brother's gaze, unsure of what he meant until she saw the back half of Martín's car appear from behind the greenery several houses in front of them. "Ha-ha," she chuckled. "Looks like Cyrus Tremaine's boy-toy just grew a tail."

Jackal nodded and put the car into gear. They could stay here and stake out the house until Cyrus returned, but sitting in one place for very long just wasn't their style. Besides, in this upscale neighborhood, their primer-spotted jalopy stood out like a sore thumb. If they lingered too long, it would only be a matter of time before the local constabulary arrived to ruin their day. If they followed Martín, on the other hand, the odds were good that he would lead them to Cyrus soon enough.

* * * * *

Elisa leaned against a white guardrail, pulled her floppy cloth cap further down over her face, and watched, bemused, as Ty chatted up a trio of rainbow neoprene clad beach bunnies. The most daring of the three had produced a marker from her much abused gym bag and was entreating the actor to sign her surfboard.

She felt only a slight trace of guilt for ducking out on the P.I.T. proceedings. She wasn't a politician. The competent Brian Mackay was ably handling security and she realized after the briefing she'd only get in his way. Angela and Broadway were safely sleeping behind a magically charmed door courtesy of Demona. There was nothing for her to do but relax while Fox, Andrea, and Dominique attended the legislative work sessions.

Elisa had at first looked forward to a long day of taking it easy in her suite, but after a short while she felt herself growing restless at the opulent surroundings. When Ty called, explaining that his morning session at the caucus was completed and his afternoon was suddenly free due to a cancelled photo shoot, she accepted his invitation eagerly.

She turned away at a squeal of "Mine too!" to contemplate the sun struggling its way through the melting afternoon fog and took a healthy slug of her latte. Latte. Even her coffee was continuing the Italian theme of her dreams. "How strange is that?" she mused as, surfboards signed, the girls ran giggling up the boardwalk.

"How strange is what?" Ty inquired as he rejoined her.

Elisa deliberately misunderstood. She handed him back his cooling coffee and cocked her head in the direction of the girls. "Do you always sign sports equipment?"

Ty shook his head and his lip pursed contemplatively. "Not always. Usually people are more conventional – napkins, tee shirts, body parts."

"Get out." Elisa's eyes widened. "Really?"

The actor nodded. "Yeah. It can get awkward." He relaxed against the railing next to Elisa and sipped. "Don't misunderstand. Most of my fans are great. But there are a few."

Gulls dipped and dived over the surf, picking at the bits of seaweed and the occasional scuttling crab.

"Do you always get bothered like this? I mean, it must be hard not being able to go for a walk without being accosted."

Ty shook his head. "You're forgetting. This is L.A. Stars are a dime a dozen. Sure, I get recognized, and people ask for autographs, but not all the time. I only need a bodyguard when I've got a new movie coming out. It can get a little crazy then."

"Too much love?" Elisa hazarded. She didn't usually work the crimes against persons detail, but other detectives told stories about overzealous fans who stalked and occasionally killed the objects of their affection. Several such incidents had resulted in a national tightening of privacy laws and stricter harassment statutes, but still the loonies had their way.

"Misplaced affection, aggression, expectation, it all gets confused. Some people need more help than others but I can't let a few unfortunates stop me from living my life." Ty crumpled the nearly empty paper cup in his hand and a dribble of pale brown dripped from his palm. "Oops. Sorry. It's kind of a tender subject with me."

Elisa handed him a napkin and took the ruined container, dropping it and her own into a nearby wire basket. "I wondered -" She returned to his side and they began to walk past scarred palm trees and rollerbladers braving the sixty-degree weather. "- why you didn't just write a check to P.I.T. It seems like it would be so much simpler. But you seem really involved in the cause."

Ty dug his fists into the pockets of his bulky black leather jacket. "It's because I am. I'm an actor in a town full of actors, but I'm also Tyler Clearwater, born in Tulsa Oklahoma. I was a 4-H'er and a Boy Scout. I was taught early on that it's important to give back to the community, and that's more than just having your accountant write checks. Look, I know it's goofy, but I was one of those kids that believed that there's life on other planets. I still do. But I'm also grownup enough to realize that I'll probably never see it outside of a sound stage. These gargoyles…"

He paused and Elisa realized that he probably thought he'd made a fool of himself with his admission, but it was important enough to him to complete the thought. "They're a whole different life form already here on this planet. They're sentient beings, not some bogeyman out of our nightmares. And they deserve the right to live their lives the best way they know how."

"Amen," Elisa replied softly. "I wish more people felt the way you do."

"May I ask you a question?"

They had veered away from the path onto the beach itself and were walking toward the surf. Five and six-foot waves broke in white swells, but the surfers who passed by were grumbling about mushy form and departing the shorefront steadily as the wind began to gust.

"Sure."

"How did you get involved?"

Oh, Elisa thought to herself. Something simple. "Long story. Short answer: work. I was investigating a case. There was an accident. I fell off a building and their clan leader saved City Maintenance from having to scrub an ugly stain off the pavement."

"You fell off -" Ty gave a short sharp nod of disbelief.

Elisa shrugged. "True story." Seriously abridged.

"Wow." Ty looked on her with new respect. "Is your work always this dangerous? I mean, hiding out from Russian mobsters, falling off of tall buildings."

"You have no idea." Elisa rolled her eyes. "I'm kidding. I do my share. But most nights the biggest danger I face is getting snagged on a staple from a property report. It's a job, not an adventure."

Ty stopped, zipped up his jacket against the stiffening breeze, and affected Elisa's casually annoyed stance. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, his face had become world-weary. His voice reflected disaffection. "It's a job, not an adventure."

"What are you doing?" Ty shifted his posture back to his own loose and easy stance and looked faintly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry. It's just that was such a great line and it really fit this character." At Elisa's confusion he explained. "My next part. John Butler, he's a cop, an N.Y.P.D. detective, just like you. But it's not so much a cop flick as a study of the man behind the badge. I was hoping you'd help me."

Elisa looked suspicious. "Help you how?"

"You're a detective and a New Yorker. You look at the world differently than I do. I want to get into your head, see what makes you think the way you do. I want to know what goes on in your life after you hang up your gun for the night."

Suspicion dissolved into renewed bemusement at Ty's earnestness. "Is this what they call 'Method Acting'?"

Ty nodded.

Elisa shrugged. "Why not? It might be interesting to see a real cop in a movie." Ty beamed as she continued. "First of all, its days. I work nights and my shift usually ends at dawn. And I don't hang up my gun. I lock it in a box and store it behind the flour in the kitchen."

"Right, safety first."

Without realizing it, Elisa's hand moved to the scar under her ribs. Hers had been a violent refresher course in fundamental gun safety. "Exactly." She noticed her hand and dropped it abruptly. "So what else do you want to know?"

The pair continued to talk, heads close together as they sauntered down the beach.

* * * * *

"Thank you. Your support means so much to us." Angela smiled and waved to the throng of well-wishers held back by the police cordon.

It had gone well, Elisa thought as she unobtrusively as possible fell in behind the gargoyle couple. The crowd had been receptive and extremely generous with their applause. All the media outlets had been inside, and the speech would be carried on all the networks by night's end. So far, no one had given her the slightest second glance. Still, it would be a relief once the mile and a third long, open convertible parade back to the hotel was over and she could ditch the horn-rimmed glasses.

"How 'bout a picture for the paper, miss?" a photographer shouted from behind the line.

Angela and the rest of the entourage paused. Broadway stepped up to his mate's side and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Reluctantly, with a shove from Andrea, Demona did the same. Mindful of the cameras, Elisa stepped backward, nearly bumping into Fox. "Sorry," she muttered as she turned her face away from the blinding white glare of electronic flash.

"No problem," Fox replied. "But mind the shoes, they're new and they pinch as it is."

"Tell me about it." Elisa grimaced and resisted the urge to kick her equally new shoes to the curb. "I miss my sneakers." She kept her head turned away from the still-clicking cameras and concentrated on looking secretarial.

Broadway beamed with pride at his mate. "They really love you, Angela. And your speech. You did great!"

"You had that crowd eating out of the palm of your hand, daughter. I was most impressed." Demona squeezed Angela's hand.

The security officer indicated they should continue to proceed to waiting cars and the group began to move slowly again. Andrea fell into step beside Demona, who continued to speak in sotto tones to Angela. Elisa and Fox fell in behind them followed by the president of P.I.T. L.A. and another security officer.

"Hey! Lady! How about one more?" Angela paused and the group stilled as she smiled.

Instead of the expected camera whine there was instead a succession of loud popping noises.

"Gun! Gun! Get down!" Years of training overtook role-playing. Elisa dropped to one knee, reached into her suit jacket, and found her holster missing.

The security people reacted. Out of the corner of her eye, Elisa watched them simultaneously shove others to the ground and radio for help as they pulled their own weapons and scanned the crowd for the shooter. Then everything went black as Angela called her name and she tumbled the short distance to the pavement.

Elisa cried out in pain as Broadway added his own bulk to that of his mate, and her elbow and shoulder wrenched under the combination of awkward position and the weight of the two gargoyles. She could hear pandemonium erupting as the crowd stampeded for cover, tripping over those who had followed the sensible path and dropped to present as small a target as possible.

Seconds passed. Sirens added to the cacophony and what was left of the stunned crowd began to stir and count its injured. Someplace not too far away, Andrea's voice was registering concern. "Demona?"

"Guys?" Elisa's muffled voice floated upward. "Guys!"

"Stay down, Elisa," Angela yelled over the confusion. "Let us make sure the shooting is over." Some of the weight eased as Broadway got off her. "Go, my love," Angela urged.

"I'm okay," Elisa insisted. "I don't think those bullets were meant for me."

"Demona!" Andrea's voice was louder and much more insistent.

"Get those people out of here!"

More sirens screamed onto the scene.

"Oh goddess! Blood!"

"Blood?" a security officer barked. "Who's injured?"

"Does being crushed count?" Elisa responded dryly. "Angela, I'm serious. Get off of me."

"Over here!" a voice cried out.

"My leg! Oh god. It burns!"

"Domi!"

Elisa cradled her left arm as Angela helped her gingerly to her feet. Crushed by the weight of the gargoyles but otherwise damaged, she dismissed her own pain and did a quick survey of the scene. L.A.P.D. officers already on hand as part of the crowd control detail were tending to the throng who had panicked as the shots were fired. More units were arriving on the scene and a trio of vans, strategically parked earlier in case of emergency, was queuing up at the curb.

"Come on, we've got to move!"

"Mother!" Angela, was staring transfixed at Demona. Andrea, unmindful of comment, was shaking the prone gargoyle's shoulders sharply, begging her to wake up.

"Angela," Elisa said sharply. "She'll be okay, but we've got to calm Andrea down before everyone else notices."

"There's so much blood." Then more firmly, "Of course." She crossed quickly to Demona's free side and knelt close. "Come on, Mother. The danger is over. Time to get up."

Elisa realized belatedly that the crimson splash that stained Demona's tunic might prove difficult to explain. She stripped off her suit jacket, wincing with the effort. "Here, wrap this around her."

Andrea, panicked tears streaming down her face, looked at the gargoyle and Elisa as if they were nuts. "What's the matter with you? Can't you see? She doesn't have a pulse! We've got to start CPR and get her to a hospital!"

Elisa grimaced with pain as she knelt at Andrea's other side. "No, we don't." She took the stricken woman's hand and felt for the first time the warmth of Demona's blood. "Trust us, it's not as bad as it seems." She gave her clan-daughter a confident glance. "Ready, Angela?"

The gargoyle nodded. "Don't worry, I've got her." She hoisted the motionless body of her mother and took it firmly around the waist, tugging the borrowed jacket closed to conceal her chest. With a worried look she glanced skyward. "Where is Broadway?"

A rustle of wings and a disgruntled, "Nothing," was her reply as, calmly as she could, she 'walked' Demona to the waiting escape vehicles.

"Are you insane?!" Andrea protested. "We need help here!" she cried to a stocky paramedic who was threading his way through the crowd.

"Are you injured? You've got blood on your hands," he said as he surveyed the two women.

"It's not mine," Andrea said through worried tears.

"I am," Elisa replied quickly, though it bruised her pride to do so. "My arm. I think it's sprained."

"Elisa," Andrea continued to protest. "What about Demona?"

Elisa winced as the paramedic examined her arm. "She's fine. Already in the van. Which is where we should be." She glanced at Broadway hovering protectively at her side. "Take her, please."

He started to protest, unwilling to leave her unprotected. "I'll be right behind you."

With a curt nod, the burly gargoyle gently shoved Andrea after Angela and her mother.

"You should get that x-rayed as soon as possible. But right now, we need to get you out of here." He put a well-muscled arm around her shoulders and guided her after the others. A metallic rap later they were rolling smoothly away from the scene. In the darkness, it was quiet but for the sound of Andrea crying.

"Why? Why did they do it? Why did they -"

Elisa cut her off before she could say anything more in front of their P.I.T. L.A. hosts. "People that do things like this are crazy, Andrea. They don't need a reason."

"Ohhhhh. What happened?" Demona's voice was thick with irritation. She reached back and gingerly touched the back of her head and then her chest. Her eyes flared crimson and her teeth curled into an angry snarl.

"Momentary amnesia," Fox said with authority as she squeezed Demona's knee. "You hit the ground pretty hard when the shooting started. My fault, I'm afraid. I overreacted."

"Clearly, Mrs. Xanatos," Demona replied dryly.

Andrea was, fortunately, momentarily speechless as her lover revived. "D-d-demona? You're -"

"Quite all right, my dear," Demona continued in the same airy tone as she adroitly removed Fox's hand. "Though your concern for my well-being is appreciated."

The van turned sharply and a moment later the door opened. The driver had bypassed the opulent main entrance of the Bonaventure in favor of the service entrance. "Ladies. Gentleman. Inside if you please."

Andrea was still staring, open-mouthed, as Demona swept passed her and regally entered the freight elevator.

* * *

Martín gave a furtive glance over his shoulder as he exited the stairwell. The throng of people assembled outside the convention center had been large. He had lingered at its fringes, waiting for the right moment, and in the panic that had followed no one had noticed his hurried departure. He had been just another face in the crowd, a nondescript man in a plain gray overcoat, seasonable attired against the mild chill of a late February evening. Collar pulled up, he had slipped away, taking a circuitous route back to the parking garage, just to be safe. As he started briskly across the ramp toward his car, he could hear sirens in the distance, heralding the arrival of the emergency crews on the scene a few blocks away.

His hands were still tucked in his coat pockets, as they had been during the entire walk back. In his left hand, he clenched his car keys. In his right, he cradled a snub-nosed automatic pistol. The gun's barrel was still warm beneath his fingers, and Martín swore he could still smell the gunpowder. He quickened his pace, footsteps keeping time with the thump-thump of the pulse pounding in his ears. The headlights of a silver late-model sedan flashed as he drew near and thumbed the button on his key fob. With a final cautious glance behind him, Martín let his hand slip from gun for the first time since squeezing off the rounds and reached for the door handle.

Out of nowhere, a metallic hand appeared and grabbed him about the wrist. Martín gave a startled, high-pitched cry of surprise. Looking up, he froze in mute shock upon seeing the grinning, pale face of his assailant.

"Hey there, handsome," Hyena intoned. "Care to give a girl a ride?"

"Can it, sis." Martín turned as another figure emerged from the shadows to his left. Jackal placed a cybernetic arm around the startled man's shoulders, trapping him, and opened the car door. "Somehow, I don't think you're his type."

"Oh yeah? We'll see about that." Hyena slipped her other hand deep into Martín's coat pocket, eliciting from the man a look of abject horror. "Crap," she muttered, drawing it back and revealing the pistol. "And here I thought you were just happy to see me."

"Stop goofing around. Let's go already."

Hyena rolled her eyes and complied. With a measure of grace that belied her crude demeanor, she slid into the car, tugging Martín in behind her. Jackal followed on her heels, ending up behind the wheel.

Martín's eyes flitted nervously back and forth as he found himself sandwiched between the two menacing figures. As Jackal pulled the driver's door shut, he found his voice at last. "Who are you?" he demanded. His eyes went wide as Jackal extended what looked like a razor sharp claw from his index finger and inserted it into the ignition. With a twist, the motor roared to life. Martín gulped. "What are you?"

Jackal smirked and made a small adjustment to the angle of the rear view mirror. "We're the answer to your problem," he replied. Taking hold of the lever on the steering column, he shifted the car into reverse and eased it out of the stall.

"What problem?" Martín asked, playing dumb.

Hyena ejected the clip from Martín's pistol, cleared the chamber, and handed the empty weapon back to him. "Your gargoyle problem," she replied pointedly.

Martín opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat as Jackal threw the sedan into gear and gunned the engine. Martín dug his fingernails into the upholstery as he was pressed against the seat, clinging to it for dear life as the car sped down the aisle. Just as it looked as though they were going to ram into the wall, Jackal jammed hard on the brakes and spun the steering wheel. The tires squealed as the heavy sedan barreled around the corner. The momentum sent Martín sprawling against Hyena, and his head bounced against her chest plate.

"Like 'em? Yeah, they're fake, but at least they'll never sag." Hyena batted her eyes, an act which sent Martín scrambling back to the middle of the bench as Jackal floored the accelerator once more. Martín rubbed at the bump on his head as the vehicle sped toward the garage's exit and winced as they raced beneath the automatic gate, nearly clipping it as it opened. His teeth rattled as Jackal executed another hairpin turn and bounded over the curb into traffic.

Horns sounded angrily to their left and rear as the other motorists on Wilshire Boulevard expressed their displeasure with Jackal's maniacal driving. He paid them no mind as he hurtled through a yellow light, cut in front of a truck, and made a wide right turn, putting them on course for the freeway. "We saw you in action tonight," Jackal said, speaking again once they were spiraling up the entrance ramp.

"Bang, bang, bang!" Hyena, one eye closed, held up a hand with two fingers extended in pantomime of a gun. "Ha-ha!" she laughed. "That was a riot!"

"In more ways than one," Jackal agreed. "Suffice it to say, we truly enjoyed the show." He swung the sedan into the carpool lane and gave the man a quick, earnest glance. "The thing is, though, Marty, if you and ol' Captain Fantastic really want to send those winged freaks packing, you're going to have to do a little more than take a few potshots at them."

"Cyrus had nothing to do with tonight!" Martín's head was spinning, and the statement escaped his lips before he could rethink it. Who were these two? How had they seen him at the convention center? And what did they know about Cyrus?

Before he had a chance to ask, Hyena gave a cackle that made him nearly jump out of his seat. "Really?" she drawled. She leaned close and placed a clawed, cybernetic hand on his leg. "Well then, cutie-pie, I guess it can be our little secret."

"Didn't I tell you to knock it off?" Jackal intoned. "It's called personal space, sister dear. Respect it."

Hyena withdrew her hand and gave her brother a withering glare. "I never get to have any fun when you're around."

Martín squeezed his eyes shut and massaged at his temples while his kidnappers verbally sparred. He needed to think, but their shrill voices grated at his ears. "Why do you two sound so familiar?" He realized only after he had spoken that he had used his outside voice.

The driver of the car smirked. "I'm Jackal, and this is Hyena. You may remember us from such T.V. shows as The Pack and America's Most Wanted."

"The Pack?" Martín blinked as a spark of recognition flared at last. "Was that the one with Fox and the evil ninjas?"

Hyena scowled at the mention of her former boss, but Jackal remained cool. "I take it you must have been a fan."

"But I thought… I mean…" Martín fumbled for words. It was difficult to speak with Hyena giving him the evil eye. "You're really the Jackal and Hyena?"

Jackal nodded. "The one and the same, at your service." He paused for dramatic effect and to check his blind spot before changing lanes. "Or rather, at your service if the price is right."

Hyena rolled her eyes. "What Bob Barker over there is trying to say is that we've had quite a bit of experience over the past few years dealing with 'pest control' problems like the one you and your pal Cyrus currently have." She placed her arm on the seat back and crossed her legs as she turned to face Martín. "We'd like to help you make sure no gargoyles is ever welcome in L.A. again, but in return we would need some sort of compensation."

"Compensation?" Martín was finding himself more confused by the moment.

"A modest fee is all we'd ask," Jackal replied.

"A girl's got to eat," Hyena added, "or she'll wind up on the street." She stared at Martín for a long moment, smirking.

"So why come to me first?" he asked, looking back to Jackal.

"Because you and your, shall we say, significant other, are working on that show with those creatures tomorrow night. It's the perfect chance to send a message that's crystal clear. We just had to find out if you were the type of people who'd be receptive to our assistance."

"We've been keeping an eye on you for the past few hours," Hyena said. "I must say, I was a bit skeptical at first. When you led us to the Staples Center, I was really worried you were going to turn out to be just another namby-pamby closet gargoyle lover. But that little stunt you pulled… woo!" Hyena fanned herself. "That removed all doubt."

"You're a man of action, Marty," Jackal said. "I admire that." The car slowed. They had left the freeway now, and Jackal's driving had grown markedly less aggressive. He used the turn signal at the bottom of the ramp, then proceeded at a sedate pace as he merged into the flow of traffic. Martín recognized the street. They were only a few miles away from home now. "I really believe we can help each other," Jackal added. "If you and Cyrus are interested."

A quiet moment passed as Martín considered the offer. Intrigued but not yet ready to commit, he asked, "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, for starters," Hyena replied, "we sure as hell don't want to make martyrs out of the freaks like someone almost did tonight."

"Too true," Jackal agreed. "No, what needs to be done is something that will turn the tide of public opinion. The media is always telling everyone that gargoyles are cute and cuddly, so that's what everyone believes. No one ever shows the viewers at home how volatile and dangerous they really are. I mean, just imagine what would happen," he mused, "if the fat one and his girlfriend went postal during that live broadcast tomorrow night."

Hyena laughed. "Little kiddies everywhere would be peeing their beds for weeks!"

"Oh my," Martín muttered. "If something like that occurred, the media would eat them alive." He quieted, his expression taking on a contemplative cast as the gears in his head began to spin. If the cards were played just right, he pondered, the gargoyles would return to the east coast in disgrace and Cyrus would never have to worry about seeing another one in Los Angeles ever again.

Jackal and Hyena exchanged a knowing glance at realizing the man sitting between them had slipped deep into thought. Trailing Martín Bouchard around the city had paid off in spades. With him on their side, winning over Cyrus Tremaine would be a piece of cake. Jackal continued to drive, and the trio rode the rest of the way in silence.

* * * * *

Elisa didn't know how to feel. She set down her cell phone on the night table and slumped against the headboard of her bed. The bullets hadn't been meant for her. Matt had just dismissed that idea with news of his own. A delivery boy who had brought a rigged pizza to the safe house and was currently under interrogation by U.S. Marshals. The FBI agent who was acting as her double was in intensive care and a second agent had been killed outright in the explosion. Matt had warned her to keep her head low and out of sight of the media.

Her arm ached. It was bruising ugly purple near the elbow and her shoulder felt like it was probably doing the same. The hotel doctor had examined it at Fox's insistence. He had poked and tutted and proclaimed that it looked worse than it was. He had left pain killers and advised her to avoid playing tennis until it had a chance to mend before breezing out the door to deal with a stockbroker's sudden onset of gout.

Elisa glanced at the long black ball gown hanging in front of the mirrored closet door and contemplated skipping out. But if the earlier attack demonstrated anything it was that there couldn't be enough security on hand, even if it was only an extra pair of eyes watching for anything suspicious.

"The show must go on." She rose with a grunt and glanced at the desk clock. The festivities were being slightly delayed to allow for the placement of extra metal detectors and the arrival of bomb-sniffing dogs. There was time for a soak in the oversized bathtub before she had to meet up with the hotel security team.

A few minutes later, Elisa was ensconced in the bubble-filled bath. She sighed with contentment as the throbbing in her shoulder began to dissipate, but it didn't stop the little cop in her head from reviewing the shooting, their reactions and the final aftermath. "We were lucky," she decided. "Nearly all the injuries were minor; two grazed spectators, a handful of trampling cuts and contusions." Of course, she added to herself out of cautious habit, there was Demona's would-be fatal bullet to the chest and Andrea's near hysterics that we had to deal with. "But anyone would have acted that way under the circumstances." She sunk lower in the tub, allowing her chin to dip under the foam. "Yeah, we were lucky."

A knock at the door interrupted her reverie. "Just a minute." Reluctantly, Elisa emerged from the comforting waters and buffed off quickly with a thick cotton towel before quickly donning an equally luxurious hotel bathrobe. "Who is it?" she called before peeping through the door-guard.

"Room Service."

A young Hispanic man in a white shirt and dark pants stood a pace back from the door, holding a box. Elisa frowned but opened the door anyway.

"What's this?"

The boy kept his eyes carefully on the box in his arms. "Flowers, miss. Where should I put them?"

Mindful of the exploding pizza her decoy had received only a short time before, Elisa indicated a coffee table underneath the panoramic window. "Over there." She disappeared into the bedroom long enough to retrieve a single from her billfold.

"Thanks." She handed the tip over and the boy flashed white teeth before hitching a half bow and retreating.

Alone with the box, Elisa studied it for moment. A plain white box tied with gold ribbon. Gingerly, she lifted it and carried it into the bathroom. It was probably silly, but she couldn't shake the image of her double lying in a hospital bed. She dropped it by the gold ribbon into the bathtub. It floated and bobbed among the dregs of her bubble bath, the cardboard getting steadily more soggy. Finally, deciding she was paranoid, Elisa rescued the parcel just as it started to sink.

"Who would send me flowers?" she wondered aloud. With a shrug she undid the sodden bow, dropped it to the floor, and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, rested a spray of tiny pink roses arranged with ivy and tied with a soft pink bow. A tiny parchment envelope was tucked carefully in the corner of the ruined box, and after setting the corsage on the marble counter, Elisa extracted a note card from the heavy paper sheath. "Thank you for a wonderful day. Will you save me a dance tonight? Affectionately, Ty."

Elisa smiled at the card and at the memory of the man who had written it. Despite the Hollywood trappings, he really was sweet and unaffected. He must have ordered the corsage after he had dropped her off from their Venice Beach outing. "Careful, Maza," she warned as she realized how much she was suddenly looking forward to the ball. "Fun is fun, but you've got a guy."

Elisa regarded the mirror sharply, suddenly aware of exactly how far her thoughts had strayed from Goliath. She hadn't thought about him once all day. Actually, she hadn't thought about him at all since she set eyes on Ty Clearwater.

Ty. Just thinking about him made her feel different somehow. It was weird, but from the moment they'd met she'd felt an odd sort of connection like they'd always known each other and were just waiting to take up wherever it was they'd left off. It made her uncomfortable at first, the odd déjà vu. It bothered her and made her irritable, like an itch she couldn't scratch. But the more she was around him, the more she relaxed and the more the itching was replaced with a warm and welcoming sense of anticipation of what was to come.

"I'll tell you what's coming," she said as she retrieved the black velvet ball gown. "You're going to go to this dance and keep an eye on the other guests. You're going to go to the television taping tomorrow night, and then you're going to get on an airplane and go home to your job and your mate and soon enough Ty Clearwater is going to be nothing more than a distant memory."

With her face set in a determined mask, Elisa dressed for the ball, but her features softened as she eyed the spray of pink roses. "What can it hurt?" she wondered as she pinned the corsage to the bodice of her gown.

She tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach as she picked up her room card and went to her briefing.

* * * * *

"Martín, there you are. I didn't hear you come in." Cyrus waved him over and turned his gaze back to the television. "Did you hear what happened? It's all over the news!" He sounded nearly ecstatic.

"What is?" he replied. Jackal and Hyena entered behind him, and Martín gestured for them to wait in the foyer as he stepped through the archway into the living room.

"There's been a shooting at that P.I.T. rally!" Cyrus exclaimed. "Somebody finally had the nerve to take a stand. I think they said one of those accursed gargoyles was hit." He inched closer to the edge of the sofa. "Maybe they'll have to cancel the show tomorrow night," he added hopefully.

"- and this is a KTLA news special report. Let's go back now to our correspondent in the field. I understand you have another update for us, Colleen?"

The image on the screen shifted from the newsroom to a smartly dressed blonde standing in front of a bank of glass doors. "Yes, Ryan," she replied. "Police have now cordoned off the area near the Staples Center where shots were fired just a little over an hour and a half ago. I'm here now at the Bonaventure Hotel, where I've just been informed that the rest of tonight's events will be proceeding as scheduled. Convention organizers with People for Interspecies Tolerance have also stated that there is no truth at all to an earlier report that one of the female gargoyles was injured in the shooting."

"So at this point, it doesn't appear that anyone was seriously hurt?" the anchorman in the studio prompted.

"That's correct, Ryan. Good fortune was apparently shining on everyone, both human and gargoyle, tonight."

Martín's hands clenched into fists. "Impossible," he muttered under his breath. He had seen the creature go down. His aim had been dead on, a single shot to the heart from not more than ten yards. The moment replayed in his mind. A gap opened in the edge of the crowd as the winged beast approached. He took aim, staring down the barrel of his gun at the cleft of her chest. He pulled the trigger, and the crowd erupted into a screaming panic. The gargoyle collapsed and he ran, firing the rest of the clip wildly as he made good his escape.

"- it's early, but do authorities have any leads so far on the shooter?"

"No leads yet, Ryan, but the L.A.P.D. has indicated that they are taking this investigation very, very seriously."

"Any thoughts, Colleen, on how this will affect the rest of gargoyles' itinerary?" the anchorman questioned.

"I'm sure we'll be seeing security stepped up quite a bit tomorrow for the final day of the convention. As for the gargoyles' appearance on the special live broadcast of the Sunny Shores Show tomorrow night… given what we've seen so far, Ryan, I'm getting the distinct impression that the sentiment within P.I.T. right now is 'The show must go on.'"

"Damn it all!" Cyrus rose angrily from the couch and shut off the television. "It's like nothing anyone does has any affect. It just makes them more determined!"

"I know," Martín said, echoing his partner's frustration. He shook off the unpleasant musings of what could have possibly allowed the gargoyle to survive and refocused his attentions on the situation before him. Cyrus's euphoria had peaked. Martín would have to act now to catch him before his mood could plummet any further. "Perhaps something else can be done, Cyrus," he asserted. "I've met some people who want to help."

"Some people?" Cyrus turned at that and froze, wide-eyed, as he caught sight of the two slender, shadowy figures standing in the doorway.

"My new… friends, Jackal and Hyena," Martín said as the pair stepped into the light.

* * *

"Okay, okay. So let me get this straight." Cyrus held up his hands to quiet the group. "You two," he said, gesturing to Jackal and Hyena, "want us to help you get on the show so that you can egg the creatures into a frenzy on live television?" He looked to Martín. "Isn't that going to be awfully dangerous? I mean, what if they come after me?"

"Don't worry, Captain," Jackal replied. "We're used to tangling with these beasts. We'll make sure you stay out of harm's way."

Hyena nodded grimly. "And we'll make sure Pack Media's nationwide audience gets a show they'll never forget. Goodbye, Sunny Shores, hello Gargoyles Gone Wild!"

"They'll be permanently blacklisted, Cyrus." Martín took his partner's hand and patted it gently. "Think about it. We'll never have to worry about seeing another gargoyle in Hollywood ever again."

"Not to mention that P.I.T. will be forever known in this town as the organization that haplessly set a pair of craven monsters loose on a studio audience filled with celebrities and kindergarten cancer patients." Jackal gave a feral grin. "I can feel the ranks of the G.D.L. swelling already."

"Amen, brother!" Hyena replied. She turned to Cyrus. "So what do you say? Isn't it time we all did something to repay those damned gargoyles for everything they've done to us?"

Cyrus looked at her, peering into the deep brown eyes that still reflected a glimmer of humanity beneath the strangely alien cybernetic exterior. Quietly, he recalled the tale the siblings had related to him a half hour earlier. She and her brother had been human once, but because of the gargoyles they had ended up as like this, trapped forever in unfeeling robotic bodies. The horror of it all made the scars he bore from his own encounter with the beast in Paris seem trivial by comparison.

"All right," he said at last. "I'm in." He thought for a moment. "I can get you some backstage passes to help you get past security. Once you're on the set, though, you'll be on your own. You'll need to find some costumes."

Hyena traded a glance with her brother. "I'm sure we can find something to 'borrow'," she replied.

"There's a flock of seabirds that always follows my ship," Cyrus suggested. "They don't have any lines in this episode." He made a face. "They're all just supposed to sit there on the railing while the one called Angela tells a story."

Jackal nodded. "Got it. Now, there's just one thing left to work out. We need to make sure that the gargoyles are the ones who attack first, so those bleeding hearts at P.I.T. can't just spin-doctor the carnage away." He smiled at his sister. "It's a good bet that the little miss and her overweight beau won't be too happy to see us, but we can't take any chances on them suddenly growing some self-restraint."

The others were quiet for a long moment. "Just leave that to me," Martín said at length. "I'll see to it that they put on a terrific show for us."

* * * * *

Elisa smiled politely and declined a glass of champagne from a waiter as he past by. She felt like a fish out of water among California's glitterati, though her graceful black velvet gown purchased in a New York secondhand store was as chic as any of the designer labels the other guests sported. She supposed it had something to do with her status at the event. She wasn't really a guest, though she was on the guest list, and she wasn't really a part of the security team, though she held the title of Manhattan Clan Security Liaison. Neither one nor the other, and unaccountably restless, she endured the gala, smiling and making polite conversation with people she didn't know, remaining vigilant in case of the unthinkable.

It was sort of awe-inspiring, she mused, the way the crowd was defiantly enjoying themselves despite the pall cast by the shooting only hours before. When the president of P.I.T. L.A. had mounted the podium for his opening remarks, the throng of actors, politicians and other notable citizens had applauded until the chandeliers trembled. "We may be bloodied," he said pointing to the small white bandage on his own forehead, when the assembly finally quieted enough for him to be heard, "but we are unbowed." The cheering drowned him out again for several minutes, and finally he had dispensed with any further remarks and cued the bandleader.

She smiled as she watched the others out on the dance floor. Angela looked blissfully happy as Broadway led her carefully around the polished oak. Both of them were chatting easily with the other dancers that surrounded them, as if cotillion had been as much a part of their training regimen as aerial combat. Fox danced gracefully with the Mayor of Los Angeles, Andrea was in the arms of a noted character actor, still gilded and tattooed from his latest turn in an epic adventure, and even Demona was doing her part. The shooting seemed to have buoyed her mood. Perhaps, Elisa thought sourly, it had justified the generally low opinion that the immortal gargoyle continued to hold about humans. Dressed to the nines in a short taffeta dress of darkest midnight blue, she adeptly kept the Governor from stepping on her tail as she flashed him one of her most dangerous smiles.

Of course, not all of the dancers had paid the $500.00 per head gate fee for the sumptuous banquet and other festivities. More than a dozen plainclothes officers had been forced to rent tuxedos and ball gowns at the last minute to beef up the already tight security. Elisa had noted with professional interest from her early vantage-point near the bar the cuts and styles of certain women allowed discreetly around, rather than through, the metal detectors, trying to figure out where they had secreted their holsters.

She absently touched the roses pinned to her bodice. The corsage had been the subject of mild teasing on the part of Fox and a raised brow ridge by Angela when Elisa had revealed who had sent the gift. "Actors," she had dismissed airily, though she found herself unaccountably piqued at a certain actor's absence when he hadn't appeared by the main course. "They're supposed to be big with grand gestures. And it's just a little corsage," she added off of a bemused twitch of Demona's fangs, "not two dozen red roses. He was probably just being polite because I gave him some tips for his next part." The conversation had turned to other matters, and though Elisa felt glad to no longer be the subject of speculation, she still felt the other's eyes upon her as hers strayed to the entrance of the banquet room.

The band changed tempo, segueing from the apropos "Accentuate the Positive" to a slower, dreamy waltz she didn't recognize. Without realizing it, Elisa began to sway along with the dancers.

"You are too beautiful to be a wallflower."

Ty approached, his eyes lighting with pleasure as he saw the roses pinned to Elisa's black velvet gown. She smiled self-consciously as she realized the irony. Though she had been careful to move with the flow of the guests, her current observation post was indeed against the back wall of the opulent ballroom, the traditional hiding place of the terminally shy and socially stunted.

He held out his hand. "May I, Elisa?"

To refuse would be rude, not to mention, mark her as Security. Elisa smiled, then winced as she raised her hand to take his. She shrugged and offered him the uninjured arm and his smile turned to a frown of worry. "You're hurt."

"Mostly my pride." Gently Ty took her into the traditional waltzer's pose as they joined the others on the dance floor. Elisa startled as a little jolt of electricity jumped from his palm, warm and though well manicured, callused to hers. She wasn't alone. Ty blinked as if caught by surprise. He stumbled on the first step of their waltz, then recovered, leading as if they'd been dancing together for years. Elisa was amazed how easily they fell into sync with one another. Normally, she had to fight her instinct to lead, but yielding to Ty seemed natural and the pair flowed seamlessly into the rhythm of the lush orchestration.

"I've been trying to see you since the shooting," he began, pulling her a closer and out of the way of a less adept couple. "But with the lockdown I couldn't get through to the hotel." The male of the pair offered a sheepish grin as his partner attempted to yank him closer to Ty and Elisa. The actor sighed and without prompting pulled a small notebook and a pen from the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. With a mouthed "Excuse me" to Elisa, he asked the woman's name, which she gave with a stammer, and he quickly personalized a sheet off the pad, tore it and handed it to the now furiously blushing fan. Clutching the autograph, she stumbled off the dance floor, leaving her partner solo.

"I wouldn't have expected that to happen here," Elisa commented as Ty pocketed pad and pen and took her back into his arms.

"You're right." They settled back into the music. "This crowd is pretty jaded. Anyway, back to my unforgivable tardiness. My manager tried to pull rank to keep me from coming."

"Did he?" Elisa snuggled a little closer to make conversation easier.

Ty gave her a rueful half smile. "He said the studio wouldn't appreciate the star of their new movie getting killed for charity. I argued it'd be good publicity. He thought about it for two beats and called the limo himself."

Elisa frowned at the machinations of the Hollywood mind. "It's standard procedure," she explained, pulling the topic back to her own familiar ground as they moved smoothly toward the center of the dance floor. "Once you're in, you stay in. Those who are out -"

"Stay out," Ty finished. "I get that. But it didn't stop me from worrying. My god," he said as he gathered Elisa closer to him and she settled her cheek against the lapel of his tuxedo, "you were right in the middle of it! You could have been killed!"

Elisa looked up. Concern marred Ty's handsome features. And was that the tiniest patch of razor stubble under his ear? She had to resist strongly the urge to run her fingertips along the hollow of his jaw line. "That's a risk I take every day."

He cupped her chin between thumb and forefinger and tilted it gently upward so that she had to meet his eyes. "I thought you said your job wasn't that dangerous," he said referring to their beachside conversation. "The greatest risk were paper cuts?"

"I might have downplayed things just a little," she replied smoothly. Her eyes shone with merriment as they swayed to the soft music. "I didn't want to give you the impression I'm a cowboy."

With appreciation, Ty gathered her even closer. "A cowboy and a lady. It's a combination I could learn to live with."

The tune ended and was replaced by another and then a third. The pair failed to notice as they continued to sway softly, no longer waltzing, just rocking slowly in place as the rest of the assembly moved rhythmically around them. Ty's hands had slipped to Elisa's waist and her cheek had shifted to rest against his.

With trembling fingertips Elisa touched the stubble in the hollow of Ty's jaw. "You missed a spot," she said stroking it softly.

"Did I?" His fingers grazed against hers. "I guess I was a little bit nervous about tonight."

The pair ceased their pretense of dancing and Elisa met his eyes. Feeling strangely shy she asked, "Why's that?"

Ty's voice went husky. "Because I've been thinking all afternoon about doing this" He tilted her mouth to his. Elisa's lashes fluttered close as she anticipated the taste of his lips.

"Really, Detective," a voice from behind her commented archly. "What will your husband think?"

"My hus-" A ten-gallon bucket of ice water would have had less impact. Elisa broke from Ty's embrace as if he'd suddenly sprouted snakes from his head and whirled to find Demona in the arms of a famous Austrian action hero, giving her a fanged grin.

"As I recall," she added smoothly, "he is the jealous type."

Elisa bolted. Ty stared after her, confused. Demona continued to smile serenely as her partner led her away. "Oh dear, was it something I said?" she called to Ty over her shoulder as he began to cut his way through the crowd.

* * *

Unmindful of the sharp reactions of the startled dancers, Elisa pushed her way through the crowded ballroom and out towards the elevators. She knew that Ty was close behind her; she could hear him calling her name begging her to wait up. She couldn't face him, not after what had nearly happened between them. After what had happened already. "What is the matter with me?" she berated as her palm came down hard on the brass call button. The elevator car was floors above; she could see it lumbering slowly back down through the glass shaft.

Her eyes darted toward the emergency exit, but it was too late. Ty was closing in and there was no way to delay the inevitable. Elisa closed her eyes, took a deep calming breath and willed her trip-hammering heart to slow. There was no reason to feel like a rookie at her first shooting. It was all a misunderstanding. She was an adult. He was an adult. They had been caught in a moment and things had gotten a little out of hand. She stiffened her spine and turned to face him.

And promptly her resolve fled, taking her courage and cool with it. She had come to realize in the brief time they'd known one another that Ty's Hollywood success had less to do with his exotic good looks and more to do with something that couldn't be taught in an actors' studio. He could say volumes without reciting a single line just by the set of his jaw or the cant of his head. Right now, it seemed that Demona's honey-toned barb had caught both of them through the heart.

Hurt, confusion, and anger; he was feeling them all and Elisa knew she had no one but herself to blame. This was all her fault.

"That was quite an exit," he said as he closed. Ty's clipped tone garnered a number of different reactions from the half a dozen or so other guests who had gathered near the elevator. A mousy looking couple gave the actor a wide-eyed look and suddenly decided they'd rather go back to the ball. A field stringer for a noted gossip columnist sharpened her eyes with interest and the rest did their best to ignore the sudden and rising tension in their midst.

"I -" Elisa started then realizing she didn't really want an argument or a scene, shook her head. "Yeah, I guess I overreacted." She gave a pointed look at the nosey woman and the others and added, "Look. Could we talk about this some other time?"

The elevator finally reached their floor and the glass doors opened with a small chime. Elisa got on the car and stabbed the button for her floor and the close key without waiting for the others to board. The doors began to retract, earning an angry mew from the stringer. Ty stuck his hand through the gap and with a quiet "Sorry" cut in front of the others and shouldered his way into the car, catching the coattail of his tuxedo in the process as the doors closed.

Elisa noticed and yanked at the fabric, freeing it just as the car began its ascent. "You don't want to ruin a perfectly good suit," she admonished softly.

"Thanks." He smoothed the fabric back down against his hip. Having saved Ty's sartorial honor, Elisa stepped as far away from the actor as the elevator car would allow and pressed against the glass. "Elisa. I can see you're upset." Ty began. "I'll confess to being a tad perturbed myself, but will you answer me one question?"

"If I can," she replied guardedly. The elevator indicator ticked off one more floor. Two floors to go. Surely she could keep her cool that much longer.

"Is it true?"

"Yeah." She couldn't meet his eyes. It felt like a betrayal. But a betrayal to who? she wondered. One more floor down, one to go.

"Unhappily?" he pressed.

"That's two questions." From her vantage point high above the main lobby, she watched absently the ebb and flow of the staff and guests as they went about their business. No one else seemed to have a care in the world. "But I'll answer anyway. No. Everything was good. At least it was until I met you." The chime sounded and the doors opened. Elisa breathed a sigh of relief. "My floor." She moved to exit the elevator car, skirting carefully around Ty. He moved to follow. "Please don't."

"Five minutes," Ty said. "Please. You owe me that much."

Did she? Elisa supposed that was fair. But five minutes or five years, she doubted she could find the words to explain what was happening between herself and Ty. She turned away and with fumbling fingers extracted her room card from the tiny black velvet bag that hung at her hip. She managed to open the door on the third try. Get a grip, Maza, she ordered sternly as she flipped on the lights and ushered Ty inside.

"So, married lady," Ty folded his arms across his chest and leaned against a tasteful ecru wall. "Why didn't you say anything?"

You hurt him, Elisa reminded herself. He's earned the right to vent. Still, her chin rose as she replied. "When? At the beach when you were picking my brain about how to be a cop? Or last night when you were giving me hair and makeup tips?"

His jaw worked with frustration. It was true while they'd talked about everything and nothing, they'd never come anywhere near the core of their personal lives. "You wore the flowers I sent you," he countered.

"I thought it would be rude not to," Elisa's voice rose as she realized she was in a damned if she do, damned if she don't scenario. "Besides," she said using the argument she'd tried at dinner. "It was just a corsage, not a dozen red roses." The argument hadn't improved since she'd offered it to Demona. It still sounded lame even to her ears.

"You should have said something." He launched off the wall and took her left hand in his. "No ring, not even a band mark. How was I to know?" Ty's fingers lingered over hers and Elisa felt her knees start to weaken. She pulled her hand away and stepped backward bumping the back of her shins against the coffee table. Her legs folded and she sat.

"I - It's complicated." Elisa could still feel the imprint of Ty's hand on hers. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Then why did you let me in?"

"I don't know. To apologize?" Elisa's vision was suddenly blurry and she blinked away tears of frustration. "I should have found a way to tell you. But it never seemed to be the right moment. We were having such a good time. I was having such a good time. Just doing normal things like walking on the beach in the sunshine. That doesn't happen very often in my life." She studied her hands for a minute then rubbed a corner of her eye when it threatened again to overflow. "There's something about you. I don't understand it. Everything else just seems to fade away."

"But I do understand!" Ty replied fervently. "Elisa, from the moment I saw you I knew that we were meant to be together." He took a step toward her and she stiffened. His face crumpled as he fought to explain. When he looked up again he was ruefully bemused. "I feel stupid," Ty admitted. "I wish I had a script in front of me, because there's no way I'm going to say this right. Elisa, I love you. I didn't fall in love with you when you insulted me in that limo, I didn't have to. You were already here in my heart."

Elisa looked at him, dumbfounded. It was true. What else could explain the feeling of utter completeness when he was near? Of yearning when he was absent? "How can this be?"

Ty shook his head. Mindful of Elisa's recent injury he gently brought her back to her feet. Her nerves sung as he slipped his arms around her waist. "I don't know. I only know what I feel." He placed his hand gently over his heart. "You're here, Elisa."

Elisa reached out with a curious expression and placed her hand over Ty's. He nodded, his dark eyes smiling as his fingers closed over hers. "You feel it too."

It was as if Demona had never interrupted their moment on the dance floor. Ty leaned down and Elisa closed the distance offering her mouth. His lips felt as she imagined they might, warm and soft and eager to please. A soft moan escaped her as the kiss deepened and she pressed the length of her body against his.

Her hands slipped easily to cup Ty's body at the nape of his neck and the small of his back. His in turn, were rest