[IMG]http://i.imgur.com/UlzA0f1.png[/IMG] Atticus sat looking at the aquamarine waters of the Mediterranean Sea, and took a sip of his Maghrebi tea. The green tea was sweet, with a pleasant bite from the mint leaves that were pressed into the glass. He was on his second cup of the traditional three cup flight, in which each successive glass became stronger and bitterer as the tea continued to steep. Atticus tilted his head to recall the Algerian phrase that was to accompany the second cup, [i]le deuxième est aussi fort que l'amour[/i]—the second glass is as strong as love. His eyes shifted to the modernly styled Library of Alexandria, just a few hundred feet down the coastal road from where he sat at the outdoor café. [i]Strong as love[/i], he thought as he took in the magnificent beauty of the library as the sun sparkled of its alabaster stone façade, [i]and the third cup is to be as bitter as death[/i]. The simile brought memories flooding back into his mind, and his jaw set with a frown. Staccato images of the last battle with Decima flashed like a broken movie reel. The fire, the destruction, the agony of his friends, his [i]family[/i], as they fought in desperation against the mighty Daughter of the First Blood, all came to him now. It had been this way on and off for the eleven months since Decima’s final destruction, and the memories always ended the same way: with Max emerging from the realm of the dead, clutching Decima’s soul in his hands, allowing Atticus and the others to at last strike the vampiress from the world. And then, with horrific finality, Max was there again, being drawn back into the churning waters of death once more, gone from them all. Atticus drained the remains of his second cup of tea, and motioned the waitress for the third. [i]As bitter as death[/i], he thought once more. Being a demon, he was familiar with the accompaniment of death in his daily life, and his profession had brought it often perilously close at times. It had never struck him as an inherently undesirable or absolute facet of reality. That is, it hadn’t until he had witnessed Max’s final sacrifice, and had seen him ripped from the world with his fingers still clutching at Veti’s outstretched hands. The tea arrived, and Atticus took his first sip of the steaming liquid. It was sharp and bitter, just as it was promised to be, and just as fitting for his thoughts. Following the dramatic conclusion to the affair with Decima and the Pieces of 8, Archibald Bain and Reginald Hoyle had granted all of the Boston team indefinite leave, along with full pay and a large bonus for their troubles. It was a small consolation for ultimately saving the world from enslavement, but Atticus was glad for the time. In the past months he had devoted his time to roaming the world alone, searching for a means to bring Max back into the realm of the living. His travels had taken him across the globe; to Istanbul, Kashmir, Sri Lanka, Okinawa, Tibet, Columbia, Madagascar, and finally Egypt. His travels had yielded mostly false hopes, but in the depths of the archives in Alexandria, Atticus thought he may have at last found a lead with true promise. Throughout his time away he had had little to no contact with his former team, and his mind often wandered to Henry, Veti, Daisy, Nestor, Oro Mai, and Siya. Especially to Siya. It was a strange sensation for an incubus, but there was something magnetic about the petite vampire that set his heart to missing her. The last time they had been together for any peaceful length had been the last night in London, before circumstances had thrust the entire Boston team into the maelstrom that would eventually lead to Decima’s defeat. Atticus had not laid eyes upon her since Max’s memorial service. He had sent her a small bouquet of White Zinnia’s some weeks ago, a flower he had learned traditionally represented thoughts of one who is missed, but he had not heard back. Atticus could say that given the conditions before everyone parted ways that he couldn’t blame her for the silence. The buzzing of his phone in his jacket pocket brought Atticus back to the present, and the demon unbuttoned his tan linen suit to retrieve the device. The number on the screen was not one he recognized, but he answered it anyway. “Hello?” “Atticus?” came the reply, a voice as recognizable as any Atticus had ever heard. Atticus rose from his chair. It had been months since he had heard the voice of Reginald Hoyle, and now it came as a welcome surprise. “Sir, yes this is Atticus. What can I do for you, sir?” “I am hesitant to ask this of you,” Reginald paused for a moment, and Atticus could hear him exhale deeply, “I have come across a situation that is very near and dear to me, and I need someone whom I can trust to help me solve it. I know you and your team has already done so much for Bain & Hoyle, and for me as well. I…” “Please sir, you don’t need to say more. Whatever you require, I am your man. I can’t speak for the rest of the old team however. To be frank sir, after what happened I could never demand anything of them again. I’m not sure how I stand with some of them in all honesty.” The phone was silent, and Atticus could almost see the kind werewolf nodding his head in understanding. “Heavy lays the crown,” Reginald said at last. Atticus did not reply to the comment, instead he chose to press Reginald on his request. “What can I do for you, sir? Specifically?” Reginald answered, and described briefly the situation. Atticus listened, and did not interrupt. The werewolf’s story was a sad one, and one that set as bitter in his stomach as the tea before him. When Reginald had finished, Atticus agreed to get back to Reginald as soon as possible after he had gathered a team together. The pair rang off with a short goodbye, and Atticus settled back into his seat, his mind whirring. He finished his tea, and ordered strong coffee. With his mind made up, Atticus withdrew a ream of paper from the attaché case that set beside his chair. The paper had a shimmering metallic quality, though it moved and felt like natural paper. Next he pulled an Omas fountain pen from the case, and unscrewed the cap. He took the pen and held its sharp tip above the blank pages. For a time the pen hovered in his hand, and then as if a switch had been flipped, he put the tip to the strange paper, and began writing furiously. --- Atticus spent the next two hours writing fifteen letters in all. In them he explained that he had received a request for a team that would be tasked with helping Reginald Hoyle on an important personal matter. He did not specify the details of what or why. If the recipients of the letter accepted the request, they were to meet at the [url=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a1/Ardgroom_Stone_Circle.jpg]stone circle[/url] in Ardgroom, Ireland, by 7 P.M. the following day. When complete, Atticus crushed each letter until it formed a perfectly round metallic sphere. Once in this state, he released each sphere into the air, and it would immediately shoot out in search of its intended recipient. Letters were sent to Semyon, Anastasia, Sethan, Henry, Siya, Veti, Cal, Mila, Anselm, Adam, Nestor, Daisy, Aethelreda, Dr. Kinnon Blair, and Raleigh. In the letter to Veti, Atticus added a second note, stating that regardless of whether or not she chose to join the team in this latest mission, he was pursuing a possible means to bring Max back from the realm of death. He urged her to at least contact him at her earliest convenience should she choose to not meet in Ireland.