The sun was setting as Peter walked into the graveyard to visit his dead wife. Bright autumn leaves swirled around granite headstones and rustled across close-trimmed grass, slowly browning in the long, hard autumn nights. They cast blocky shadows in the fading light, cutting the path into jagged chunks of light and darkness. Peter strolled through the orderly memorials, eyes skimming over half-corroded names and dates. He liked graveyards, the quiet emptiness, air filled with neatly arranged memories and farewells. Maybe it was a necromancer thing. He wound his way slowly along the gravel paths, until he stopped at a small crypt. The brass nameplate gleamed brightly: 'Sabriel Wade'. The construction was nondescript, a small concrete bunker with a wrought-iron gate worked with roses. They had been enameled blue, once, but now they were flaking and black. He produced a key and opened the lock easily, despite its age. He walked down a half-flight of stairs, and pulled an electric torch out of his pocket. A few twists had it glowing, and he set it on a nearby ledge, casting a cool glow over the interior. A chest-high pedestal in the middle held a wooden casket, slightly worse for the passing of years, but still sturdy. He placed his shoulder against the lid, uncaring of the dust that smeared on his black suit-coat, and heaved. It swung open easily. He looked down at the body inside. Every year he came here, she looked the same. It was to be expected, perhaps; the spells he had laid here were powerful in their own right, and he maintained them scrupulously. Brown curls, salted with gray, framed a face pleasantly worn with years. Delicate hands were folded atop a rose-red dress, elegant but practical. He drew in a deep breath, and raised a thumb to his forehead. "Take a breath." His voice was scratchy in the autumnal silence. "You're going to die." He exhaled, pulling his power to the forefront of his mind. A plume of vapor shot from his mouth, curling in the air. He moved his hand, pressing his thumb to his dead wife's breastbone. The twist of mist whipped forward, snaking into her mouth. She drew a shuddering breath and coughed once. "Sorry, dear." Peter smiled and stepped back as she groaned and raised her arms feebly. He grasped her hands and gently pulled her upright. "Brains," she moaned. "Heh." Peter smirked. She smiled back. "Has it already been a year?" She coughed again, hacking gravedust from stiff lungs. The color in her cheeks rose as her heart slowly began to beat. "Mmm." Peter offered her a shoulder, and she leaned on him as she climbed out of the casket. "Did you sleep well?" "I was dead, Peter," she said helplessly. "Of course." His reply was noncommittal. "You know this isn't safe." Sabriel stepped away from him. "I wish you would stop." "It's our tenth anniversary." He smiled, with a touch of loneliness. "Oh, Peter." She sighed, but smiled. "Happy anniversary, dear." He smiled and reached into his coat-pocket, withdrawing a small box of chocolates. "This isn't fair, you know." Sabriel accepted, with a wry smirk. "I haven't gotten you anything." "It's alright." Warmth filled the air for a moment as their eyes met. Peter offered his hand. "Shall we go for a walk?" "Lets." Her hand was corpse-cold in his, but he held it tightly. They stepped towards the stairs, and walked out of the small crypt. They wandered the graveyard as the sun sank red in the west. Tall, leafless trees scraped skeletally at the sky, and they spoke of small, inconsequential things. The city, held back by the tall wall that segregated the living from the rest, brightened and began to move sluggishly as dark rolled in. "This is the last year?" Sabriel pressed gently. "Of course, dear." Peter's reply was absentminded. "You sad that last time, too." Sabriel huffed. "I meant it last time, too." Peter's smile was guilty. "This isn't healthy, Peter." "I know, I know." "You should move on. Find someone else." "Easier said than done." He shrugged, and spread his hands. "Besides, where am I going to find another necromancer?" "You could teach them." A fond smile surfaced on her face. "Like I taught you." "That's hardly fair." He chuckled darkly. "We learned together, you and I." "And we both knew what we were getting into." She sighed. "You, however, were always the smart one." "It was an accident, dear." He shook his head. "I don't…" He sighed. "I don't blame you." "Anymore." Her smile was wry. "Anymore." His smile was warm. "It's good that you've forgiven. But at some point, Peter, you'll have to let me go, too." She tucked a stray curl behind an ear as she stared up at him, hazel eyes gleaming in the twilight. "I can't stay like this forever, you know. One day, I'll start breaking down." She spread her arms. "I wasn't young when I died, and even your embalming wards can only hold back so much. If you haven't released my soul by then…" "Yes." Peter nodded solemnly. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a glass vial, holding a twist of brown hair. "You were so close." "Close only counts—" "—In horseshoes and handreading." "Come now, I'm certain that some palmists have real power." Sabriel turned, looking out over the city, and leaned on his shoulder. "After all, we do." "Zombies and ghosts." Peter snorted. "No wonder necromancy is so feared." Hesitantly, he offered her the vial. "This is the last time, I guarantee it. Take your phylactery back." She accepted slowly. "Very well." She held the vial up to the dimming sky. "Then I guess this is…" She paused, her eyes going distant. "What?" Peter's brows furrowed. "Do you feel that?" She waved a hand vaguely. He frowned, and quieted his mind. His wife, being dead, was naturally more sensitive to death magic than he was. He stilled his thoughts and concentrated. At the edge of hearing, a scrabbling, shrill sound slowly seeped into his consciousness. "That's nearby." His frown deepened. "Someone's burning mandrake." Sabriel nodded, a frown appearing on her lips. "We need to go." "Mmm." He turned, and they started back towards her crypt. As they walked, the otherworldly noise grew. "That's [i]really[/i] near." Peter paused for a moment. "I wonder what…" "Peter." Sabriel's hand plucked at his sleeve. "You want to investigate, I know, but this won't go undetected. If they're burning mandrake, they're going to break the seventh circle. The authorities are going to be here." "But not immediately." He frowned. "Otriving isn't a large town, it's not like—" "Peter." Her gaze was serious. "You're the smart one." "Look, dear. If someone's testing their power in this graveyard, there's no way they're up to anything good." He frowned. "Sure, the legal mages will show up soon, and they can probably shut them down. But I don't think Otriving has a pyromancer, so they're hamstrung from the get-go. If a necrotic spell gets out of hand, there's going to be casualties, fallout. If we catch them before they get too far along…?" He raised an eyebrow. "You're too compassionate," Sabriel growled. "If you get caught, and with me here the authorities could hardly overlook you, you'll get the same treatment as any outlaw mage. They don't care one whit about necromancers; why should we help them?" "I know you're worried about me, dear." Peter smiled helplessly. "But if we simply leave, won't that reflect poorly on necromancy? This isn't going to be a small problem." "…Fine." Sabriel huffed. "You're going to get yourself in trouble, I know it. But if someone's really raising a horror of ghosts here…" She grit her teeth. "If you're willing to risk yourself on it, I'll follow you." "Alright." They both stiffened for a moment, as the ethereal screeching intensified. "Something's changing." Peter frowned, and they both turned towards the sound. "Let's go!" They jogged through the graveyard, suit and dress ruffled by the chill breeze. The burial ground wasn't very large, but it did have small, rolling hills and a few copses of trees, not to mention the occasional ossuary or crypt that blocked sight. As they neared the opposite wall, not far from the gate, Peter smelled smoke. "That's mandrake, alright." He wrinkled is nose at the acrid smell. "Hssst!" Sabriel hissed and pulled his arm, yanking him into the lee of a tall tombstone. "There!" She pointed forwards, to where a flickering fire cut through the rapidly darkening evening. A somber figure stood by it, carefully tending the spell he was building with twigs and scraps of magical material. Fresh piles of dirt surrounded him, lines bright on the short grass and a discarded can of spraypaint marking his intention clearly. "That looks like… a zombie plague," Peter frowned. "This isn't good." "Going for the old stew-and-chew?" Sabriel's eyes gazed out over the town. "By the size of the array, most everyone will be shambling by morning." "Right, let's do something," Peter mumbled. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a scrimshaw, a little bundle of twigs and feathers. He looped his fingers into the thread, and spread it wide. "Freeze, necromancer." He froze as he heard a gun click behind him. He glanced at his wife. She nodded slightly. He dropped the scrimshaw, and slowly raised his hands over his head. "Turn around slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them." The voice was low and quiet. He turned, and found a blue-uniformed woman staring down the sights of a police-issue revolver. He frowned slightly. "Officer, while I understand that this might [i]look[/i]—" "Quiet!" the woman snapped. "You're under—" "Sabriel." Peter's voice was firm. "We don't have time for this." "Right." His wife stepped forwards, shielding him with her body. He nodded and turned back to the fire. "Stop!" The policewoman yelled. "In a minute." His wife's voice was calm. "We're here to stop that madman. Please—" [i]Bang![/i] Peter flinched, nearly fumbling the scrimshaw as the gunshot went off. The necromancer at the fire jumped, nearly upsetting his spell. He looked around wildly. Behind him, Sabriel grunted once. A shocked gasp and the sound of metal hitting the ground followed, before scrabbling and panting arose. Peter tuned it all out as he spread the scrimsaw. He raised his power, feeling it swell in his brain, a green glow that flickered in the back of his eyes and lit the tangle of strings and geegaws. "Do not go gentle," he intoned. Green fire flickered from his fingertips, searing across the network and throwing fierce, dancing shadows on the ground. He raised his hands, framing the fire and the fumbling magician in it. "Break!" He yelled. His power surged, and a sound like shattering glass filled the air. His spell roared out, a gout of green fire flowing into the air, curling over the brown grass and searing it black. The paint laid out there darkened, bursting into flames which flashed along the lines and sigils, roaring into columns at the buried totems and sparkling as the energy captured there effervesced in seconds. The necromancer at the center of the formation staggered, the fire he was tending flashed and flared. He stumbled back as the heat hit him. His gaze snapped over towards Peter, and for a moment, his eyes were clearly visible as glowing green coals. "Peter!" A voice behind him called his attention back, and he spun. The police-woman, in the moments he'd been distracted, had been struggling with his wife. Sabriel was strong - both physically, as a living corpse, and as a necromancer, so he was surprised to find the conflict wasn't over yet. [i]A mage,[/i] he realized, as the officer blocked a crushingly strong kick with a palm strike, scattering blue sparks into the night. "Enough!" Peter snapped, raising the scrimshaw again. The policewoman's eyes narrowed, a frown flashing across her face. But she didn't stop moving; instead, she leaped backwards, fighting for distance. Sabriel closed, but a sudden surge of magic threw her off. The officer raised her palms, and Peter saw them glow again, that blue light outlining every crease and wrinkle with electric luminance. "Holy—!" He dropped the scrimshaw, throwing himself backwards as a spell screamed off her hands, a doubled-palm of blue power zipping towards him, fingers cupped to grasp and crush. It grew as it moved, and he barely avoided it. He rolled and sprang to his feet, eyes darkening. "Because I could not stop for death," he called, holding his hand high. His power surged again, leaving him slightly breathless as it ripped up his spine, arcing through his arm and wrapping his hand. It flashed upwards, coagulating into a glowing green blade, narrow and elegant, sharp and segmented like a spine. It had no handle, and blood trickled down his palm as he grasped it. He leveled it at his opponent. "He kindly stopped for me!" The next blue-glowing strike was met with that pointed blade, and flashed to nothing on its green edge. Peter stepped forwards, flicking the sword left and right as he scattered strike after strike. After a moment the policewoman spun, obviously intending to flee, but Sabriel stepped in, blocking her path. "Enough!" Peter pointed the sword at the mage. "We don't intend to harm you, miss." Silence descended for a long moment. Finally, Sabriel drew a deep breath, and stepped back. The mage relaxed slightly at that. She sized the two of them up cautiously. "Names?" She asked. "Peter Wade." Peter bowed slightly, waving his blade out. "Necromantic grandmaster." "Sabriel Wade." His wife smiled gently. "Necromantic master, decimal litch. And you?" Her smile sharpened. "Cynthia Moire." She paused. "Cheiromantic?" Peter probed. "Um." The Cynthia blinked. She looked suddenly disarming, as the ferocity drained from her face. She was slightly plump, and dark hair frizzed over her uniformed shoulders. Wide eyes gave her an innocent face, and she blinked owlishly behind wire-rimmed spectacles. "That was obviously palmistry," Sabriel said. "You don't think we wouldn't even recognize another outlaw mage, do you?" "Necromancy, cheiromancy, and omoplatoscopy." Peter grinned. "The three black arts. Head, hands, and heart. You weren't drawing on natural power for those strikes. And since you're not changing size and going berserk, I guess you're not a scapulomantic." "They don't necessarily—" Cynthia began, but stopped with a cough. "Dang." Sabriel swore gently as she looked to where the magefire was still flickering behind them. "He's gone." "Eh." Peter shrugged. "I shut him down pretty hard." "Um." Cynthia said. "Right." Sabriel turned back. "Cheiromantic?" "Cheiromantic journeman." She smiled weakly. "Hydromantic master." "Not a bad choice." Peter rubbed his chin. "If you're infiltrating the police, then—" "Hold on, hold on." Sabriel stopped him. She turned to Cynthia. "Why are you here, and are you really an officer?" She smiled disarmingly. "Erm." Cynthia paused, looking at the two of them, but eventually sighed. "Alright, I guess… I guess we need to talk about this. Right. Yes, I'm with the police. Really with them, I mean. I'm a licensed cheiromantic." "…you can get licenses?" Peter's eyes narrowed. "…sorta." Cynthia scratched her cheek. "If you're willing to swear some oaths, take some bindings. It's not too bad, but they want some insurance." "Beh." Sabriel spat. "Hypocrites. As if the internal magics are somehow worse than the external. Pyromancy! Take pyromancy for example, those bastards can immollate—" "Enough, dear." Peter cut her off gently. Given the opportunity, his wife would rant for hours on how the three dark schools were unjustly oppressed by the four elemental schools. "You know how dangerous the first few steps of any necromancer can be. If we hadn't had each other…" He glanced backwards, to the desecrated spellfire behind them. "Well, I have no idea what I'd have done, but it wouldn't have been pretty or simple. I'm sure the other dark magics have their own pitfalls." He quirked an eyebrow at Cynthia, who nodded slowly. "As you say." She shrugged. "Well, I can't speak for scapulomancy, obviously, but palmistry is… dangerous." The two necromancers shrugged and nodded. "Anyways, officer… what now?" Peter's voice was hesitant. He tightened his grip on the glowing blade he still held, feeling blood ooze from his palm and trickle into the blood-gulch, which greedily absorbed it. "Hmm." Cynthia tightened her brows. "My mark has escaped, and you two…" "We promise to be good." Peter smirked. "And I promise to not spread word that the Otriving police department is working with dark mages. Pinkie promise." "Peter." Sabriel stopped him. "Don't be flippant. Cynthia, we apologize for interrupting your… whatever you were doing." "A trap, of sorts." Cynthia frowned. "That mageling… we were fishing for his teacher." "Oh." Peter frowned, realizing. "No wonder you jumped us so easily." "Wait, 'we'?" Sabriel asked, gaze flicking around. "Eh…" Cynthia scratched her cheek. "We've got this place surrounded." "So even if we hadn't…" Sabriel frowned. "It would have been fine." Cynthia shrugged. "We could have stopped a zombie hoard. But now…" Her gaze flicked past them. "That mage, even if he's not very experienced, he's a necromancer. You're damnably hard to spot with magic, and he's likely gone. No offense." "It's fine." Peter sighed, and turned. He walked over to the spellfire and flicked his sword, scattering the embers and extinguishing what little necrotic aura was left. Grass withered and died as the ash spilled, but the soft earth soaked up the magic and diffused it harmlessly. He ran a finger through the charcoal, heedless of the heat, and raised it to his nose. He sniffed once, deeply, and his lip curled. "Pfaw." He turned to his wife, and held out his hand. "Dear, check this, will you?" Sabriel took a whiff, and scowled as well. "I think I recognize that…" "Mmm." Peter wiped his hand on his pants, then sighed, remembering he'd worn a suit today. For a moment, he smiled at the incongruous picture they made; he and his wife and formal dress, arcane energies and blood smearing them, forming an uneasy truce with a police officer. Cynthia had collected her firearm, and was casually inspecting it as they talked. "Listen, you two." She frowned and holstered the piece, turning and catching their attention. "What are you intending here? I'm sure you realize this, but I can make your lives very difficult." "You would need evidence, no?" Peter smiled, and the sword he was carrying vanished. As it did, his magic power dwindled, shrinking and curling up in the back of his head until it vanished entirely. Cynthia simply pointed to Sabriel. "I don't count, dear." Sabriel smiled. "I'm dead. What, six and a bit years now?" She nodded across the graveyard. "My crypt's over there. I'll be back in it before sunrise, or I'll be ash. Either way, I won't be walking again. I said I was a decimal litch, and that's the truth; I can walk one day a year. That's about to run out, though." She scowled slightly. "You've interrupted our anniversary celebration." "Ah." Cynthia's expression darkened, confronted with bald-faced denial. "Well," Peter shrugged, "it's not like we're trying to cause trouble." "Quite the opposite, in fact," Sabriel added. "We've been laying low. But my darling husband here insisted that if we didn't act, we'd be 'darkening the name of necromancy further'. So we came over to see what we could do." "Actually, this thing you've mentioned…" Peter coughed. "Licensed cheiromancy?" "Really?" Cynthia's eyebrows rose. "That seems a little out of character, for a necromancer." "Perhaps our reputation for pride isn't unearned." Peter smiled, and flicked his hand, banishing the blade he'd summoned. "But that doesn't mean we can't be reasoned with. If I could get a dispensation to practice my art, I'd gladly assist if asked." "Hmm." Cynthia's brow furrowed. "Well, it doesn’t [i]quite[/i] work like that. But perhaps we can negotiate something." "Good." Sabriel clapped her hands. "Then, for starters, perhaps we can help you do something about this mageling - and his teacher." "Ah?" Cynthia said. "How?" "Necromancy is a fairly… small community." Peter smiled wryly. "There aren't exactly hordes of people queuing up to delve into the secrets of death. And once I've encountered the power of a rival or opponent, I don't easily forget it." He pointed to the remains of the fire. "This mage's magic is similar to another necromancer I've known, and… clashed with, on occasion." He grinned at Cynthia. "He's a real nasty piece of work. If you're planning to take him out, I'll easily offer a hand." "I don't know if 'take him out' is what we were going for." Cynthia frowned. "I'm not sure you're approaching this with the right mindset, Peter." "Haha!" Peter laughed. "Look, Cynthia. I understand, you're wary of me." He spread his arms. "That's smart. And I'm wary of you, of course, and the power behind you. But I really do mean what I say. I promise, on my power, that I'll help you tonight, and I won't break the law or do anything against your conscience. If I can manage that," his smile quirked, going awry, " will you put me in touch with someone who can give me dispensation to be both a human and a necromancer?" "…hmm." Cynthia frowned, considering. Peter maintained his smile. He had sworn on his power, which wasn't an oath for a mage to take lightly; if broken, his power would shatter, and the backlash would destroy his body. "Alright." She nodded once. "If you can really do this, then we can talk further." "Good." Peter nodded, and a faint ripple spread from his forehead, the oath taking effect. "However, I haven't sworn." Sabriel stepped up, scowling. "Cynthia, I'll go along with this, but… if you try to double-cross my husband tonight, I won't let you off lightly." She hacked once and spat. Cynthia's eyes widened as the bullet she'd shot earlier bounced off a nearby tombstone. Sabriel grinned, spreading the quarter-sized hole in her dress, right over her heart, showing unblemished skin. "I'm no weaker than him. And a damn sight harder to kill." "Right, right." Peter stepped forwards, breaking up the conversation. "If we're going to do this, let's get started." "Wait." Cynthia turned to him. "What, exactly, are you planning?" "You were right in how you approached this." Peter shrugged. "If his student is threatened, Crowley is likely to show up." "…Crowley?" Her face fell. "You don't seriously mean—" "Aleister Crowley." Peter's smile grew. "The evilest man in the world. Granddaddy of necromancy. You didn't seriously think he was [i]dead[/i], did you?" "You've… clashed with him?" Her eyes took on a new respect. "Grandmaster, you see." Peter's voice was absent-minded as he gathered a handful of ashes into his palm. "I've been at this a while." "I've never heard of you." Cynthia's eyes flickered to Sabriel. "Either of you." "We never attracted much attention." Sabriel shrugged. "Terror is as terror does, mom always said." "Heh." Peter stirred the ash. "Anyways, here's the thing. Crowley isn't chump change. I seriously doubt that this student of his really knows what he's gotten himself into, but my guess is that Crowley's using him for some reason. Probably viciously. But even if that's the case, if he's challenged, the old bat should show, if only from pride." He grinned at Cynthia. "You ready for this?" "Already?" Her pupils shrunk. "Right now?" "We'll never have a better chance." Peter shrugged. "Crowley's nearby; he's got to be, if his student's running around. I don't know what he's got planned for this town…" His gaze skimmed over the shattered spell formation. "But if there's one thing I can say, it's that it won't be good. This is my… our best chance to strike at him, before he realizes we're on to him." He grinned at his wife. "And one last adventure between me and Sabriel." "Till death do us part," his wife said. She grinned back. "We've got twelve hours of being married left." "True." Peter shrugged. "Sorry, dear." "I told you, you can't cling to me forever." She pulled out the phylactery Peter had returned to her and held it up, before crushing it between her fingers. "There, it's done." "Alright." A hint of sadness entered Peter's eyes. "Cynthia?" "…Right." The policewoman nodded. "I'd call in backup, but I'm the only mage in town. Unless more guns would help." "They'd be liabilities." Peter frowned. "Dear, would you do something about the wall? We'll need to close this place off when things begin." "Certainly." Sabriel looked outwards, and raised a finger. "But know your hair was bound and wound," she intoned as she drew it through the air in smooth motions, leaving glowing orange streaks behind. "About the stars and moon and sun…" As she spoke, the grass around the wall lengthened slightly, stretching upwards. "Go, Peter." "Alright." The necromancer frowned and concentrated. He glared at the ash in his hand, and blew gently on it, infusing his power into his breath as he spoke. "And you as well must die, beloved dust…" The ash curled off his hand, twisting and turning in the night air. The stars sparkled above, and it snaked through the night, curling away into the darkness. "And that's my strike." He turned to Cynthia. "Unless I miss my guess, Crowley will feel it, and come for us. Ready yourself." He turned to his wife, a looked deep into her eyes, before holding out his hand. "The carriage held just ourselves…" A spark of energy leaped from his fingertips. "And immortality." She grinned up at him, and a pinpoint of orange energy floated from her hand. The lights touched in midair, twinning together and curling, until they snapped open and unfolded into a pair of swords, with green blades and orange hilts. They each seized one, then tapped them together. A bright [i]clink[/i] rang out. Cynthia frowned at the display, and checked her gun again, before pulling a pair of fingerless gloves from her back pocket and slipped them on. A moment later, off to the east, a sound like thunder rolled out and a ripple of power flashed past. "Didn't kill him," Peter said, to Cynthia's questioning gaze. "That mageling. He'll be hurt, but he should be fine until we can collect him." She nodded. Something shrieked overhead, swerving and skewing through the night, dark and terrible against the stars. "And that's Crowley, going to investigate…" Peter frowned. "He was closer than I thought— Dear!" "On it." Sabriel's voice was calm, as the dark shape twisted and turned back towards them, piercing the air with a shrill whistle. It flashed forwards, hitting the ground with an echoing [i]thump[/i] not far from where they stood. A second later, the grass around the wall shot upwards, branching into snarls and curls and twists of intertwining leaves. It arched overhead, interlacing into a lacy net. "That'll hold him, for now." "He's fast," Cynthia muttered. "He barely swung past where you'd struck." "I didn't try very hard to hide my hand," Peter replied. The shape resolved itself, slowly fading out of the night. It was a hulking creature, all spines and wings and blades and teeth, like the offspring of a chainsaw and a flying fish. It wriggled like a snake, oozing its way along the ground and between the tombstones. "Homunculus," Peter spat. "Disgusting things. I'll take care of it." He dropped the sword, which hung patiently in midair, and raised his scrimshaw. Fire raced along his fingers, and he leveled them like pistols at the thing. He focused, and lances of flame flashed from his hands, spearing into the abomination. It screeched and writhed, knocking over tombstones in its agony. "Well, you've finally desecrated a graveyard." Sabriel laughed lightly. "Told you we'd do it one day, dear." "First time for everything, I guess," Peter grunted. "Break!" He spread his hands, and the lances exploded with shocking force, sending chunks of slimy flesh flying. "Aaaaaagh!" A pained scream rose from the creature. Its struggles intensified, before they suddenly slackened. It was still for a moment, until a bulge appeared in its side. The bubble grew as they watched. Peter snagged his sword again, holding it before him as the creature's flesh split, and a human flopped out. "Go!" Sabriel yelled, as soon as the figure was free. Peter and her dashed forwards, streaking across the grass, jinking and ducking past gravestones. Cynthia concentrated, a blue glow gathering around her hands. She slashed with her hands, and glowing blades formed in the air before her. She flicked her fingers and they swarmed forwards, slashing at the man as he stumbled upright. "Peter!" The word cracked through the air. "Crowley." Peter growled in response. "Aleister," Sabriel sang. "Sabriel?" The shock on Crowley's face was apparent as they drew close. His eyes flicked back and forth between them, clearly wary of the blades they carried. He darted back, his long black cloak fluttering as he leaped up, up, up and landed atop the homunculus. He spread his lanky arms, an ash-gray flame rising in his eyes and pouring from his fingers in hundreds of threads. "Cynthia, cut them!" Peter called. The policewoman grimaced, but quirked her fingers. The blades she had shot swerved in midair, slicing upwards towards the spell. "Too late!" Crowley snarled. The shape of the homunculus squirmed and separated, splitting into chunks. It wriggled and reshaped itself, oozing into a dozen humanoid forms. "You've gotten stronger," Peter called, as he slashed and hacked at the group. His sword sizzled as it arced through flesh, easily severing limbs and blank, fleshy heads. Crowley grunted, and waved his hands. The creatures began fighting back, their attacks vicious and swift. "Peter," Sabriel called. "Do it!" he replied. "If I should die, and you should live," she called, "and time should gurgle on…" There was a resounding [i]snap,[/i] and everything seemed to slow. Crowley's expression shifted, gradually, from surprise to shock as his movements became sluggish. Sabriel smiled, and darted towards him. "I call on the seventy-two demons!" The words were slow, but they were clear. Crowley's eyes narrowed as he spoke, grey fire rising in them. "The lesser key of Solomon, the legemeton, and the powers and principalities of the air!" "How wonderful is Death," Peter called back, "Death and his brother Sleep!" Crowley flinched, as specks of green power flicked out, lancing into the homunculus, but he refused to give up. "Purson, Stolas, Seere and Buer!" His movements were slow, but he raised his hands high, and power crackled in them. "Sabriel, it seems last time we met, I didn't kill you dead enough!" "We all make mistakes." Sabriel smiled. "Don't worry, I'll be cautious." "Urgh." Peter groaned as the power lashed out, spiraling into a long, fierce bolt. It stabbed at his wife, lacerating her arm and searing her shoulder. Sabriel staggered, but her speed was too fast; the magic missed, at least enough for her to avoid a killing blow. Even as he watched, her flesh was beginning to heal. She leveled her sword, and lunged for the magician. "Die, Crowley!" "As if!" He spat back. His riposte was fierce, the energy in his eyes lashing outwards and slicing at her. For a moment, it seemed like she might be blown backwards, but suddenly, Cynthia appeared. "None can escape my palm!" the policewoman yelled, throwing a hand forwards. A blue circle lashed out, expanding until it slashed into the magician, blowing him backwards. "Enough!" Peter yelled, leaping into the fray. His sword whipped out, meeting Crowley's neck. There was a flash of light. "Death is inside the bones," he called, "like a barking where there are no dogs!" As he spoke, his sword swayed, the joints in it cracking and separating. It writhed and leaped forwards, snarling itself around the magician with a whipping sound. "Aaaah!" Crowley threw his head back and screamed, pale fire fountaining from his mouth. It exploded outwards, washing over the three of them. Peter blocked it and Sabriel ignored it, but Cynthia groaned, barely managing to direct half it away from herself. Sabriel lowered her sword, to where Crowley lay panting on the grass. "There's little joy in life for me, and little terror in the grave—" her power flashed, an orange surge scorching its way down the blade as she drove it through his head. "I've lived the parting hour to see, of one I would have died to save," Peter finished solemnly. His sword, still wrapped around Crowley, surged green. There was a moment of crackling power as the two magic's intersected, and Crowley went still. "Haaah, haaah, haaaah…" For a long, long moment, there was nothing but heavy breathing among the three of them. Finally, Sabriel raised her head. Her charred arm was nearly done repairing itself. She kicked Crowley once. "You'd better take care of this bastard before sunrise, Peter." "Yes, dear," he sighed. "W-what?" Cynthia choked out. She was clearly suffering, blood flowing from copious cuts and slashes where Crowley's magic had hit her. "He's not dead-dead." Peter shrugged. "It's a necromancer thing. I'll need some salt and silver, to truly bind him, but he'll be… eh. Maybe not 'fine', but he'll live for his trial, I guess." "Speaking of which." Sabriel eyed the policewoman. "You're not going to do something silly and ungrateful, like arrest my husband, are you?" "No." Cynthia grit her teeth. "You've helped me, both of you; we set out to capture whoever was behind that rogue mage, and we've done it. One way or another." "Mmm, good." Sabriel looked her up and down. "Peter… I think this is it." She smiled at her husband. "You going?" He returned a somewhat helpless grin. His wife had never liked farewells. "Mmm." "Alright." He walked over her and kissed her, once, her corpsebreath cold on his lips. "I'll see you… eventually, I guess." "Mmm." Sabriel nodded, and walked over to Cynthia. "Look at me," she demanded. Cynthia raised her eyes. "Be straight with him." Cynthia nodded. "Good." Sabriel held the look for a moment, before raising a thumb to her head. "Take a breath," she said brightly. "You're going to live." She breathed out, a wisp of magic curling off her lips. It settled on the policewoman's wounds, and they visibly began healing. "Bye." "…Bye." The two of them watched as she walked off into the darkness. When her silhouette finally faded into the dimness, headed in the direction of her crypt, Peter sighed. "That's it, then." He raised his eyes to the heavens. "Happy anniversary, dear."