"You stink of beer and red meat." He sat cross-legged on the bed, a serene statue repeatedly tossing and catching his knife so quickly that it was a silver pinwheel spinning in the air before him.

"Bonding with the boys." I grabbed the desk chair and straddled it. "They ravaged my liver and then my wallet."

The long nose wrinkled fastidiously, but he let it go. "You weren't followed?"

"No." Which was why I'd walked, taken the subway… doubled back at several stops, then walked some more. Rubbing at my eyes, I asked, "Promise or Robin get any information on Caleb or his crown?"

"Not so far." Catching his knife, he uncoiled and moved to the edge of the bed. Tapping my knee with the point of his throwing blade, he asked quietly, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," I said, dismissive. "So far I've just eaten steak and been hit with about a gallon of drool. Nothing to write home about."

There was one more tap, oddly reassuring; then the knife vanished. "And Cerberus?"

I grimaced, caught in the lie. "I didn't need a change of shorts, but it was a close thing. He's a cold son of a bitch. Or they are. Hell, I don't know."

"Ah." His mouth twitched, Niko's equivalent of a smug grin. "We may have come up empty on Caleb's location or the history behind the crown, but getting a background on Cerberus was easily enough accomplished. He has no secrets he wishes to keep hidden—on the surface, anyway. And the word you've no doubt been searching for is 'dicephalus.' One body, two heads."

"Smart-ass." The air of industrial-strength cleaner clung to the plastic and imitation wood of my chair and I swallowed a sneeze. At least it smelled clean… for the first time. I'd been staying at the hostel on the Bowery for two days now. I needed to be well and truly separated from the others if Cerberus did some cursory checking of his own. I could've stayed someplace a little more upscale, but I also wanted to give the impression I was in this for the money. Just your average working stiff willing to kill, mutilate, and wreak havoc for the Kin's version of minimum wage.

"How is Flay living up to his felonious end?" he asked, his austere features tightened with minute distaste. A traitor and a kidnapper's accomplice—neither would appeal to my brother's code of conduct, and Flay was both.

"Believe it or not, pretty well." I frowned, then straightened to shrug off my jacket and holster. A gun that size was good for one thing and one thing only, and carrying it under your armpit wasn't that one thing. Massaging the chafed area through my shirt, I continued. "Either he's smarter than we thought or he's hell on wheels in the instinct department."

"It could be both. Either way, don't be tempted to turn your back on him."

"Grandma, please," I snorted. "Who are you talking to here?"

"You've been under too long already. You're speaking like a thug." He reconsidered dryly, "Then again, you've always spoken like a thug. That's one thing we can't lay at Caleb's door." Standing, he held out his hand. The throwing blade had reappeared to lie flat across his palm. "It's balanced for you."

I took it and hefted it. Nik's were normally feather-light, but this one was significantly heavier. Myself, I'd never owned one. I had my talents, but knife throwing wasn't one of them. "How do you know?" I said skeptically. "I don't use the toothpicks."

"It's weighted for a beginner—a rank amateur. I believe that would cover you." With a resigned exhalation, he patiently manipulated my hand into the correct position. "Not that it matters. This one isn't designed to do much damage. All you have to do is hit something… anything with the tip. It's silver-painted glass. Under that is a bit of electronic elegance that will let us know you need help." Satisfied with my grip, he let go. "That you're in trouble."

"Ye of little faith," I said absently, tucking the altered blade away. He was right, though. There was little chance that I would find the crown, steal it, and make it out without running into some sort of trouble. We both knew it, and Niko had to know it from a powerless distance. "Thanks, Cyrano. Worse comes to worst, I'll break it over my own head."

"It would be gratifying to see you use it for something," he retorted, leaving no doubts to what he was referring.

"Yeah, yeah." Pushing the chair away, I headed to the bed and flopped onto my stomach. I was still chronically short on sleep. There were dreams. Dreams of red hair soaked with redder blood. I was tired. So goddamn tired. I pillowed my head on my arms, closed my eyes, and delivered the bad news, "There's a job tonight. Eight. No idea what."

"Not unexpected." His tone said "not unexpected, but certainly unwanted." There was the light squeeze of fingers on my shoulder. "I'll be there." Niko already had the address of the warehouse from Flay. He would be able to follow us on whatever little job Cerberus had in mind. George wouldn't thank me if I hurt someone innocent while trying to save her. And she would know. Hell, I would know. I rolled over and grimaced at the sight of a cockroach trundling happily across the wall.

"Why didn't she see it coming?" I asked abruptly.

The change in subject didn't throw him. Knowing Niko… or better yet, knowing Niko knowing me, I realized he had to have been aware the question was lurking in my mind somewhere. There was a moment of silence as he considered the question. "Difficult to say," he said thoughtfully. "I would say that perhaps Georgina can't 'see' herself. At the center of her own psychic nexus, there could be a natural blind spot that surrounds her. But…"

"But what?" I prompted, when he paused.

There was the warmth of affection underlying the next words. "But knowing Georgina, she most likely simply didn't look."

Hadn't looked. And the thing was, I knew that was exactly what had happened. I'd known it all along, but I didn't want to admit it to myself. If I admitted it, then I also had to admit that it could've been avoided. It meant that if George had managed to overcome that whole "what's meant to be is meant to be" crap, even for just a minute, she might be safe now. If she had for once recognized like the rest of us that life was brutally short and mercilessly chaotic, she might have used a little goddamn common sense. She might be safe.

Blaming George for her own kidnapping—how much of a bastard did that make me? Maybe I deserved those dreams. From the exhaustion creeping in, I wasn't going to be able to avoid them much longer anyway. I rolled back over, subject closed. "Nap time. See you tonight, Nik."

"Doubtful." The mock disdain was a shade less convincing than usual. "I'm the wind, invisible. Untouchable. Unknowable." Then he made a subject change of his own. "How's your arm?"

"Fine," I murmured, voice and thoughts equally thick. "What arm?"

"That's what I thought."

He might have said something further, but I was out.