A dark night where the soft whispers of the falling leaves rustle against dry branches; crisp air with a brisk wind – and the moon glowing soft through the clouds, shadows fleeting past as the current carries them along.  A dark figure leans against the wooden railing – house all dark wood and cedar shake and knotted, tangled ivy crawling up stone walls – property nestled in a little crook of forested Maine wilderness.  The soft red light of a fire leaks through the glass paned doors behind, but the figure's back is turned to the door.  A glass rests on the railing beside him, half full with a pale, amber liquid.  Smoke curls around his face, drifts off to merge with the breeze between each drag from the cigarette.  

(And I reach a hand in my pocket for another – I always rather liked it here; thought maybe this time I'd stay to see the rest of fall and hole up for the winter, spend lazy evenings contemplating the fire, quiet days sauntering through the woods in those quiet recollections of times long past.  I take another sip from the glass, let the burning liquor worm its way across my tongue before working its magic in my belly; spark the lighter and take a drag.  Six months at least, I told myself.  Then it'd be back to work.  But I fully intended to take this winter for...

A buzzing, fluttering sound distracts me from my thoughts.  Silver ball of hazy light streaking through the night toward me.  Without thinking, my hand blinks out – snatches it toward me even as I take a step back.  

“Goddamn it, what now...!” I blurt aloud.  I had made it clear with my secretary I was on -vacation- for the next several months.  Voicemail and E-mail responses to suit.  I toss the now inert ball a few times in my hand, idly ponder whether I could manage to throw it far enough to clear the trees and hit the lake beyond.  But an all too familiar voices drags me out of my thoughts.)

“Oooh.... No you don't, Nestor!” The man turns and glares at the speaker; a svelte woman, delicate frame perched up against the corner of the railing with all the grace of a model mid-shoot.  Thin eyebrows arch ever so slightly as her piercing blue gaze jerks toward the device in his hand.  “Besides, you -know- you want to.  Admit it!  Keep prattling to yourself.  All this time out here good for the soul and good for the health and you'll have a grand old time tromping through the woods and romping in the bed with -him-” and here she juts her chin out toward the door behind them, gives a sly smile before adding “you could down all the single malt between here and Scotland for the next six months and still wind up in the same place.”  Nestor snorts at that.  Takes another swallow from his glass before flicking his butt across the porch toward her, the wad whistling just past her ear before vanishing into the night.

“Blow me.”

“I might, if you hadn't spent the last few months balls deep in that Siren you managed to fish out of the sewer; the smell is bad enough.  Now just imagine what a fish's ass must -taste- like.”  Nestor just glares back at her, presses his thumb against the ball and releases as the mechanism springs into life.

(Now, this was a surprise!  Atticus, of all people.  Wanting me?  I'd heard the old bastard had gone off and tried drinking himself into a stupor... I still got the invites to his parties, every now and then.  Couldn't help but feel a little bad I never at least showed my face.  I glance at my glass and can't help but give a snort.  Birds of a feather...)

But an instant later the Demoness had snatched the message from him – given it an icy stare of her own before positively shivering with excitement.  “Atticus” she mouths, then gives Nestor a gaping, lascivious grin before laughing again.  “Now there's one I might go for.  Shame you're too much of a pussy to go to any of his parties.  I hear they've been positively -vile-.  Nestor just shoos her away with a light wave of his hand, drains the glass before turning and stepping back inside.  Moments later, a tousle-haired face emerges from beneath the covers, blinks sleepily a few times before speaking:

“Goodness it's late... are you ever coming to bed?  No?  What?  Are you seriously getting -dressed-?”

“Yeah.  I'm off.  Job.”  The sleepy siren blinks a few more times, then bolts upright with a start and lashes back.

“-What-?”  

“Duty calls, you know.  Gotta go and all that...”  Nestor purses his lips, a few moments passing as he eyes his outfit.  

“But it was supposed to be just -us-.  You and me!  Whatever happened to all that?”  Halfway through buttoning his shirt, Nestor turns and cocks a single eyebrow up at the irate Siren, lips pursing a moment as he runs his eyes over that perfectly androgynous form, then just shrugs.

“Guess you'll just have to stick around for whenever I get back?”  He doesn't wait to hear the response, and moments later he's already out the door, waiting in the gravel drive as a garage door slowly opens, slick lines of  a black Range Rover emerging from within.  

(I open the door and slip inside.  Give a nod to my Butler.)

“Evening, Sir.  Where to?”

“Evening, Ned.  Boston.  Hit it.”  The vampiric driver raises an eyebrow, asks:

“Hmm.  Atticus again?”  Nestor just nods in response, then reaches for his breast pocket to produce a flask.  The engine roars into life, gravel spitting from beneath the tires as the vehicles lurches off; spray of dust and stones showering the door even as the still half-asleep siren stumbles through the opening, bathrobe barely tucked around his half-naked form.  

																



It is a little after two by the time they roll to a stop not far from where Atticus waits.  The engine remains running, sputtering quietly away as Nestor hops out and digs into the back.  A moment later, he emerges again – a rather heavy, military style duffel slung over his shoulder.  The vehicle speeds off, leaving him alone as he makes his way toward the waiting Incubus.

“Afternoon, Atticus.  Been a while, eh?”  Nestor offers a hand to shake, before dropping the bag down at his feet and turning to stare off at the building in the distance.  He takes in a long breath.  

“Yeah... stinks like demonic summoning alright.  I got a glance at the team you've got together for this one... honestly not sure if we're trying to stop an apocalypse here, or start one!”  He gives a grin, settles himself against a nearby tree before producing a pack of smokes.  He offers one to Atticus before taking another himself, lighting up and preparing to await the rest of the arrivals.