[img]http://i.imgur.com/UlzA0f1.png[/img]

Atticus kicked at the melting body of the Nixie. Fetid water splashed as his boots struck the amorphous blob, only angering him further. The tips of horns began to sprout from his forehead, and the skin beneath the rampant tattoos was morphing to a deep red. His fists clenched and unclenched, seeking to grasp and to damage, to strike and to tear. Atticus would have sought to further expel his rage save for the quiet sound he perceived behind him. 

Taking giant lungfuls of air and holding them in his chest, Atticus forced the anger and futility back into his stomach. The growing horns ceased and retracted, and the color of his skin returned to its natural hue. With the crimson of his eyes still glowing brightly, he turned at last to face the noise, and the scene of controlled chaos. 

His eyes first alighted upon Siya, and instantly his demonic heart jumped into his throat. She stood there, half bent with pain, clutching delicate arms tightly about her slight frame. For the briefest of moments he looked to her, unsure of what to do. Beyond the tiny vampire was the severely wounded Aislinn Hoyle, apparently alive from the ministrations of the unconscious Dr. Blair. Reginald Hoyle appeared well enough in spite of it all, though even in the dim light the powerful werewolf seemed ashen and dazed. 

In the end Atticus’ heart made the decision for him, and he moved forward to scoop Siya into his arms. He clutched her tightly against him, sitting down upon the stone floor of the cave with consummate care. With his shoulder and bicep he pressed her face beneath his jaw and beside his neck. With words spoken with a gentle urgency he breathed into her alabaster ear.

“Siya, you must feed.”

Atticus pulled lightly upon her chin, pressing the pulsating artery of demon blood against Siya’s tiny fangs. He knew of her aversion to feeding, of her hatred of its incessant call, and the disdain of her very nature, but he cared not about that now. 

“Don’t be stubborn now, not now,” he whispered with a mirthless breath of laughter. “Siya you must, if not for yourself, do it for [i]me[/i].” 

His ruby eyes looked down, imploring her to take all she needed from him, all that her beautiful, tiny body required. In a moment of weakness he added one last word, one last uttered syllable, filled with as much enchanted persuasion as he could muster. 

“[i]Please?[/i]”

---
[u][i]Reginald Hoyle[/i][/u]

The world still spun to Reginald Hoyle. It hadn’t ceased since the Doctor had released his hand from him, and had collapsed into a wakeless stupor upon the cold earth. Fighting his way from where he sat, Hoyle crawled to the still form of his sister. His hands crawled up the thick furs around her body, and he willed his knees to press him forward to her face. 

Through watery eyes he gazed upon Aislinn’s placid expression, and as tears began to stream down his cheeks he pressed an ear gently to her lips. Like the frail brush of a butterfly’s wing, he felt her breath tickle his ear. In that moment Hoyle began to sob. Mighty, body wrenching sobs of relief and joy. His tears flowed and dripped in irregular cascades, and into Aislinn’s mated grey hair. For a time he could not move, not release his touch upon the only person in the world that shared the blood in his veins.

At last he freed himself from the clutches of his relief, and lifted himself off of her. He wiped the tears from his eyes, and he traced the white scar that smiled upon the flesh of her neck. The sensation threatened to send him into another fit of emotion, but he fought back the potent elixir of rage and solace. Instead he turned upon his knees to face both Raleigh and Henry.

“Please,” Hoyle said. “Please, help him.” His fingers pointed to the exhausted Dr. Blair. 

The effort to plead care for the Doctor was too much for Hoyle, and he slumped back down against his sister. He closed his eyes, his mind sifting through the happenings of the recent past. Somehow he recalled the concerns voiced by both the Dryad and the Siren, and bringing a steadying hand to his nauseated face, he attempted to answer them.

“The mark…” he began, “…yes, it had to have been the [i]Solas na gealaí[/i]. Somehow, they must have been…” Reginald trailed off into silence.

He grimaced, wracking his brain for an explanation for it all. Never had he heard of the water spirits of the North quarreling with the children of the moon. Werewolves were often a warlike race, but not in recorded history was there a time when conflict had broken out between the two groups. It made no sense. Why would a Nixie care at all for the life of long lost werewolf…?

Then Hoyle heard the words of the Siren, and a memory thrilled through his mind. [i]The Lady of Ice[/i]

He forced himself from his back, resting upon his elbows as he looked to Henry. “The Lupus Naturae, they have come to some horrific axis with this Lady of Ice.” Hoyle’s voice was hoarse with disbelief and fear. “They are working towards similar ends, they must be. There is no other explanation.”

With a grunt and a slight stumble, Hoyle levered himself to stand. He called upon the wolf inside of him, and he rapidly transformed into his natural, massive form. Gleaming jaws snapped, and thick slabs of muscle rippled beneath his mottled silver fur. Somewhat more stable, Hoyle bent to throw his sister over his shoulder. 

“We must go.” He said to them all, his guttural voice echoing within the cave. Without a glance back to the others, he stalked away into the darkness of one of the rough-hewn tunnels of rock.