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1st Scene: Kelly Blake/Carrissa Leads

Blake-Leads Apartment, Harlem -- 25 January 2118, 2350 Hours

She was exhausted, and worried, and trying her best to avoid both while letting her wife sleep. Kelly Blake rolled her dark head against her shoulders and shivered, even under the bundling of her thick winter parka, and lifted her bottle of beer to her lips again. She probably shouldn't be drinking, right now, since alcohol thinned the blood, but she'd needed the familiar ritual, after the evening she had.

She knew Carrissa was worried. Her wife had a tendency to hover whenever Kelly had one of her fits, and that painful fear in her beloved C'rissa's eyes was like a knife between Kelly's ribs. She hated knowing she was hurting her wife.

She heard the snick of the window, then the light clanging of feet that always only barely seemed to touch the ground. A tender smile tugged at her lips as she raised the beer bottle to her lips, pausing just before she took a sip to observe, "Y'know, you'd make a sparkuva cat burglar. Or assassin."

A wordless hum reached her, and she took a drink, just as a compact, curvy form slipped onto the step just below where she sat, golden hair like a splash of sunlight against the night-dark hue of her own skin coming to rest against her chest as its owner sighed and took hold of the bottle she offered.

"Feeling any better?" Carrissa took a sip of beer and handed the bottle back.

Kelly shrugged. She didn't really want to talk about her vomiting fit, earlier. They were starting to happen too often.

In the next breath, Carrissa spoke her thoughts aloud, pulling a wry smirk to Kelly's lips. Her C'rissa knew her too well.

"They're getting more frequent, Kel. You know Doctor Harper said you needed to call her if the symptoms got worse."

"I'm fine, love." Kelly dropped a reassuring kiss to the crown of her wife's head. "Just overdoing things a bit at work, lately."

"Which is why you should quit. Kelly, you don't have anything to prove. The Commandos are going to get you killed, and I… Kel, I'm not ready to lose you."

Kelly heaved a sigh, unwilling to break her wife's heart any further with truths they both already knew and were avoiding. They were destined to run out of time -- always had been. Whether or not she was a Commando didn't change that.

Unable to expose her maudlin thoughts on mortality to the air, she changed the subject. "We got a new recruit, today. Former Marine. Solid soldier, and looks like a good fighter, by her file."

"So?"

"So." Kelly huffed a small, genuinely amused laugh. "I think Rick's already smitten."

There was a moment of silence. Then, a hesitant, "And you?"

Kelly chuckled. Like she didn't hear the unspoken jealousy in that question. Tucking her face in against her wife's neck, she breathed in the familiar scent of peaches and honeysuckle, and planted a gentle kiss below Carrissa's ear. "I, my love, am only smitten with you."

--------------

2nd Scene: Frank Harlin/Calvin Malone

Calvin Malone's Brownstone, Upper East Side, Manhattan -- 26 January 2118; 0300 Hours

Frank Harlin knew he was caught the moment he heard the rustle of fabric behind him, followed by the warmth of Cal's hand against the center of his back.

"It's only three AM, Frank, honey," the husky whisper of Cal's voice reached him, and Frank bit back a small smile at the adorably pouty, half-awake complaint. "Even God doesn't expect anyone to be up at this hour."

"Sorry, sweetheart." He turned, leaning toward his lover, pressing a gentle kiss to Cal's lips. "God might not expect it, but duty calls."

Calvin huffed a small, dramatic sigh of capitulation, then stretched, exposing the toned, slim expanse of his chest and abdomen, even as he traced one artistic finger up along Frank's bicep. "I do love a man in uniform."

Frank chuckled, leaning back in to nuzzle his face against his lover's neck, feeling the slight rasp of Cal's morning stubble. Nipping sleep-warm skin lightly, he playfully growled, "Behave."

Cal laughed, pushing him away with a hand against the center of his chest, then smiled up at him, eyes full of open curiosity. "Up to classified shit, today?"

Frank rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "It's all classified, and you know it. But the new recruit showed up, yesterday, so not sure what's going to happen."

Cal sat up, wrapping his bare arms around his knees and laying his cheek against his upraised knees as he watched Frank finish getting ready. "This the same recruit you had to go out to the base for, the other day?"

"Yeah." Frank turned to smirk at his boyfriend. "And you should've seen the sparks fly in the Command Center, yesterday. She claims there's nothing going on, but I'm telling ya, Cal, if you'd seen the way Rick reacted to her just being in the room." He shook his head.

Cal's eyes widened. "You think he's got a crush?"

Frank chuckled, crossing back to the bed to lean across and brush a farewell kiss to Cal's lips. "Oh, trust me. Whatever's going on, it's waaaay beyond crush. I'll call you later, about tonight, sweetheart."

Cal nodded, caught the front of Frank's shirt, and pulled him back in for a long, deep kiss, before letting go with a small sigh and a whispered, "Be safe."

"Always am."

The Bunker's leadership group, as it turned out, wasn't nearly as large as he imagined, given their reputation as one of the top forensic units in the country -- maybe even the world. He stood facing the seven people Mac called together in the main lab space of the building.

"Thank you for taking a few minutes for this," Mac addressed them all with a warmth and respect that brought Jonathan's attention around to her in surprise. Every time he thought he had Mac figured out, she surprised him. He expected her to be a no-time-for-niceties type of boss. Her acknowledgement and thanks to her staff told him she saw these people not just as employees or colleagues, but also as friends.

Glancing his way, Mac smiled with clear pride in her people. "Special Agent Jonathan Caulder, allow me to introduce the best of the best -- my team leaders."

Starting at the left of the group, Mac gestured to a pair of women standing close together. The first was medium height and curvy, with dark hair piled up in a tight bun through which was stuck what looked like a pen, and wearing a very professional dark skirt, pale blue blouse, and white lab coat. She looked every bit the part of a scientist. The woman beside her, however, was short and round, with a wild mop of curly brown hair and eyes of the same shade, sparkling with a mischievous intelligence that reminded him of the Gnomish prankster who worked with Maya Guardian. This woman would bear watching, he decided with amusement as Faith introduced the women, starting with the latter. "This is Doctors Sandra Leedy and her wife and partner, Doctor Rhiannon Belford. Between them, they hold doctorates in botany, geology, meteorology, and herpetology and run our specialized earth sciences and venom labs."

Jonathan offered Sandra and Rhiannon a nod of greeting, even as Mac moved on to the tall, slim, and quiet man with dark hair and haunted brown eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. His serious demeanor and observant gaze spoke of a man who missed nothing. Jonathan resisted the urge to frown, concerned, at the softness in Mac's tone as she introduced him. "Doctor Mark Trebach runs our trace evidence lab. He has degrees in chemistry, biology, forensic science, and criminalistics."

The supermodel of a redhead who first greeted him was next. She tossed him a wink and a grin and, before Mac could introduce her, stuck out her hand for him to shake. "Joyce Lindon. I'm the local arson investigator and the Bunker's fingerprint analyst."

Jonathan shook her hand, nodding in greeting.

"This is Professor Harold Chambers," Mac reclaimed his attention as she introduced the middle-aged black man next to Joyce. He had a neatly-trimmed goatee streaked salt-and-pepper, with wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. Jonathan might have thought him a professor, if Harold didn't look more like an aging hippie, with his loose, cotton clothing and a tie-dyed bandana tied around his head. "He does all our historical and statistical research. Don't be fooled by his appearance, either." She flashed a grin at Harold. "Harold is actually from your neck of the woods, professionally speaking, Jonathan. He was working in Quantico, at the NCAVC, when I first consulted with him."

Before Jonathan could respond to that, Mac moved on to an olive-skinned man with neatly-trimmed dark hair and beard and deeply suspicious dark brown eyes. Everything about this man screamed dark. "Victor Morelli is our ballistics and weapons expert. There's not much Victor doesn't know about projectiles, guns, blades, or other weapons. It took some doing, but I stole him away from Project Prometheus."

Victor smirked, but his suspicious gaze didn't leave Jonathan, even when Mac's attention moved on to a slim young woman with dark auburn hair, shot with a streaked lock of bright green that matched her grass-green eyes. A funky charm necklace circled her neck, and thin, silver bangles stacked up on her wrists and lower forearms. What surprised Jonathan most was how young she was. She couldn't be more than twenty-one or two. His confusion cleared as Mac introduced the girl.

"This is Laurel Hamilton, my pathology assistant and one of the Bunker's interns." Mac's attention moved on, then, to the last of the group -- a statuesque Hispanic woman with dark, curling hair, soulful, intelligent brown eyes and a brow currently furrowed in concentration. "And last, but certainly not least, Doctor Linda Vanderpool. She's our artist, with degrees in artistic composition and graphic design, and a doctorate in computer science. She handles all our crime scene sketches, all our suspect and victim identification renderings, and crime scene reconstructions, as well as performing wizardry with the computers, and keeping us all up and running as our chief IT guru."

Smiling at the assembled group, she continued, "Everyone, this is FBI Special Agent Jonathan Caulder. He's here to help with our current serial killer investigation."

Nods and greetings went through the group, before most of them dispersed back to whatever they'd been doing when Mac brought them together. Linda Vanderpool, however, remained where she was, her expression confused, before recognition lit her face.

"Wait a minute." Linda's gaze assessed him. "Caulder... Caulder... As in Doctor Timothy Caulder, the psychologist?"

Jonathan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Here they went, again. It always came back to dear old Dad and the insanity newspapers and urban legend still liked to embellish at certain times of the year. "Yeah. My father."

A wide grin split Linda's face. "You were the subject of his debunking work in parapsychology, right? Your father is a pioneer in the field of abnormal psychology. His work on the forensic psychology of a crime scene was--"

"Yeah. Great." Jonathan cut her off. He didn't need to hear this. It never took long for the psychology groupies to devolve into questions about "the event." He turned his attention back to Mac. "I have some ideas where to start looking for leads. I'll be in touch."

Then, before Linda could wax poetic over a man incapable of loving his own children, Jonathan turned on his heel and made for the door. It was rude, yes, but infinitely better than if he stayed.

"Agent Caulder."

Mac's voice stopped him halfway to the door. He turned, and nearly collided with her as she came to an abrupt halt practically on his heels. He lifted one brow in surprised curiosity.

"I'm heading out to speak with Doctor Lavera now. Would you like to come along? It would save a step in the process, given we're working together on this case."

Jonathan studied her for a moment, looking for any sign she was just humoring him or trying to trip him up. The sincerity shining in her eyes told him neither idea even crossed her mind. He nodded, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. "Definitely. Let's go."

Great Russell Street, London -- 4 March 2012, 2:35AM

The air stank of old fish and cold grease -- not something typical of this area. Especially at this time of night.

Hidden in a darkened alcove near the closed tavern, the dark-skinned man glared toward the high iron gates of the pillared, classical edifice of the British Museum and rubbed one hand over the pained hollow of his chest. It was a phantom pain he spent centuries trying to outrun. Physically, his heart was fine. It was his soul that twisted and screamed in agony within him. If he was right, the source of his freedom from that agony was somewhere inside the vaults of the building before him.

Why he hesitated, he didn't know. He was arguably the best thief in the world -- well, the best he knew of, anyway. In his world, association was how people got caught, and the last thing he ever intended to do was get caught, again. Most humans struck first and asked questions later with his kind. He had the scars to prove it.

Still, the security on the British Museum was nothing to the likes of him. So why were his senses -- the same senses he relied on to keep him from discovery for thousands of years -- whispering he shouldn't be here, tonight? Something was wrong. He could feel the threads of Fate winding about him again, just like they had that night at the inn in Jerusalem when Yeshua asked him...

Shit. Whatever happened here tonight would irrevocably change his life. That's what he was feeling.

He loathed the infernal itch as it tightened around his throat like the loop of coarse rope that still refused to take his life.

"You've had a hand in this, haven't you?" He muttered the words, his gaze casting skyward, aware Al-Jahava was listening. The bastard was always spying on him, taking glee from his misfortunes.

He didn't bother expecting an answer. The King of the Crystal City didn't speak to the Unclean, never mind a filthy half-breed. Not expecting answers was something he'd grown used to. Besides, he already knew the answer to his question. He wasn't even bitter about it, anymore. Not really. No, what he was, was tired.

Surely, by now, he'd paid for his sin. He just wanted the throbbing emptiness inside him to go away. He just wanted it all to end.

"Haven't I given enough?" His muttered words rasped with familiar frustration. "I let you destroy me, and for what? For daring to love someone beyond me? I gave you my bloody life. I've only stolen what had to be stolen. Let me have something back. He promised me the choice."

Only the quiet rustle of the breeze through stacks of newspaper, and the squeak of the heavy wooden tavern sign above answered him. He already knew it was the Old Man giving him the finger. He was on his own, out here.

Exiled.

Cursed.

Yet, he knew he was never actually alone. Not really. Whenever the breeze stirred or the wind blew, he caught the scents of frankincense and fresh-cut flowers, and knew he was being watched. Watched... But never answered, and never free.

"You fucking bastard," he muttered under his breath. Then, glancing both ways down the street to make sure there was no one about, he flipped up his collar, rolled the balaclava down over his face, and darted toward the looming, dark edifice containing his prize.

Forgive me, Yeshua.

*****

25 Lambston Street, Chelsea, London -- 4 March 2012, 3:20AM

The Clash's London Calling blared off the walls of the dark room, dragging a groggy oath from the man in the bed as he fumbled for the cell phone on the nightstand, shoving it at his companion with a slurred, "F'r you."

Pushing up on her elbows in the bed, Monica Reeves caught the phone with a sigh at her lover's slightly miffed tone. Far as she was concerned, getting woken up by her phone was exactly what he deserved for taking it away from her, last night. With a fond smirk his way, she pressed accept and brought the device to her ear with a hushed, "Reeves."

"There's been a break-in at the British Museum."

She blinked, then pulled the phone away from her ear to glare at it, before putting it back to her ear. "Jesus fuck, Rennie. You get your kicks waking people up in the middle of the night for this shit, now? Call Scotland Yard. We don't do break-ins."

"We do when the suspect in custody is Djinn," came the unperturbed voice of the chief Researcher and Dispatcher for Guardians, Incorporated's London office. As a Welsh Pixi, Renaissance Williams didn't need sleep. She also didn't come with a dimmer switch. Monica's lips twisted with wry humor. Rennie was eternally cheery and had no clue why everyone else she worked with wasn't equally enthusiastic at the arse-crack of dawn.

Monica froze as Rennie's words finally caught up with her, then reached over to swat the shoulder of the man beside her. "Wake up."

"Shit, Nicki," Adam Sinclair -- her partner both in life and as agents -- muttered, turning over onto his back to squint at her as he rubbed his shoulder. "Those hands oughta be registered as lethal weapons."

She ignored him. "I'm putting you on speaker, Rennie. Can you repeat that?"

Adam's eyes widened, and he nodded, a serious expression settling over his face.

"The British Museum reported a break-in, about twenty minutes ago. Metro was on scene within five, and apprehended, and I quote, 'black male, mid-twenties, with some kind of weird ocular implants'. According to what I got off of the constable I spoke with, it sounds like our B'n'E might be a Fire Djinn."

"No way," Adam muttered, his eyes widening as his gaze met Monica's. "Aren't they supposed to be, like, impossible to catch?"

"That's the theory, since no one's ever actually caught one in flagrante delicto before," Rennie agreed cheerfully. "Fires are supposed to be world-class thieves and cunning tricksters. I've heard they get away so easy because they can turn to smoke and just poof out!"

"That does it," Adam quipped, grinning at Monica as he scrubbed one hand through his collar-length sandy-blond hair. "We're cutting off your caffeine supply, Rennie."

Monica rolled her eyes. "If this is a Fire Djinn, I'm more interested how and why they got caught. Can you zip me over everything you have, Rennie? We'll go straight to the scene."

"You got it!" With that, the ever-effervescent Rennie abruptly hung up.

Adam dropped his head against the pillow with a laugh. "Someone's gotta get her some Ritalin."

A fond smirk tugged at Monica's lips as she threw back the covers and slid from the bed, already heading for the bathroom. "Get a crack on, Sinclair. We've gotta get there before they haul our boy down to the local nick. He's probably already going crackers in standard-issue steel cuffs."

*****

British Museum, Great Russell Street, London -- 4 March 2012, 4:00AM

Adam Sinclair released the breath he'd been holding for the past twenty minutes in an uneasy laugh. "Christ, Reeves. This is why I prefer to drive -- I don't do it like I just escaped from a Die Hard film."

She shrugged, tossing him a smirk and the keys. "You flew jets for years, Sinclair. I'd think you were used to a little speed. But if you insist on driving like my gran, you can drive on the way to HQ. Just don't mess with my music."

He managed another strained laugh as he caught the keys mid-flight. He loved Monica to distraction -- had for decades. He'd grown used to her near-obsession with 70s rock in general, and The Clash in specific.

"Wouldn't dream of it. So," he glanced between the police cars clogging up the street around the museum and the museum itself, "divide and conquer? Flip you for the pinch?"

She shook her head. "We'll pick him up later. I want a look at the scene, first."

Adam smirked, watching Monica's purposeful stride and the unconsciously sexy swing of her ass as she went. He didn't have a single problem in the world taking commands from Nicki -- or any woman, for that matter, as long as she outranked him. In the case of Nicki, he technically outranked her, with more than two years' seniority as an agent. However, she had an air of command to her people responded to, so he was happy to play the subordinate role on the job.

Besides, she was right. Leaving the potential pinch to stew in his steel cage and cuffs might make him a little chattier, by the time they got 'round to him.

Monica stopped, glancing back at him. "Problem?"

"Not a one." He chuckled to himself, shook his head, and lengthened his stride to catch up with her. As they reached the uniformed constable at the side entrance to the building, Adam flashed his credentials at the lad, careful he didn't give the man more than a peek. They weren't technically supposed to identify themselves to anyone but the Inspectors in charge, but there wasn't any other way they were getting in this building, right now.

"Agents Reeves and Sinclair," he identified them both to the constable, deliberately omitting where they were from.

The constable took one look at them and nodded. "Inside, take a left, and then two rights, sir, ma'am."

Monica nodded. As they strode down the hallway the constable indicated, Adam quirked a smirk Nicki's way. "Want to take bets on who he thinks we are?"

"Five, most likely. Probably figures this flagged as domestic terrorism." She glanced his way, her cinnamon-brown eyes warm with humor. "It's likely above his pay grade to speculate if we might be insurance adjustors."

"Good. Then I don't have to act like I know anything about art." He winked at her. "Always wanted to try my hand at Bond, though."

Monica's lips flickered in another of those adorable smirks she favored, even as she shook her head at him and kept walking. "C'mon then, Double-oh-seven. Let's catch us a thief."

Inside the loading bay area, Adam's brows lifted in surprise at the rows of wooden shipping crates, boxes, and padded envelopes. "Not exactly what I imagined when Rennie said a break-in at the British Museum."

Monica snorted. "He'd have had to be a right idiot to attempt a break-in of the actual exhibits upstairs. But breaking in down here does indicate a fair bit of planning. He had to know what he was after--"

"Or be able to sense it. Do Djinn even have those type of senses?"

"I'd have to ask my mother. Why? Do you sense something?" She looked at him curiously

.

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. "Third-century BCE ritual blood bowl, about two rows over and halfway down. And there are a set of well-used swords and armory in the crate to your left, there. So, yeah... a bit."

He opened his eyes to a familiar look on Monica's face -- like she was in awe of him, and wanted to jump him all at the same time. He was all for the latter, but there was nothing particularly awe-inspiring about what he did. Any vampire could have told her exactly the same thing. Hell, half the Dhampir and a fair few demons out there probably could, too. Blood was blood.

"So," he swallowed and glanced away, "the question becomes, what did our lad out there sense, and why was it so important to him he decided to expose his presence in London to get it?"

"You the insurance adjustors?" A new voice broke in, and they both turned to see a bespectacled older man in a grey tweed no self-respecting Yardie would be caught dead in headed their way.

"Museum curator," Monica pegged under her breath, then faced the man with a shake of her head. "I'm afraid not. Agent Monica Reeves, Her Majesty's Ministry of Intelligence. This is Agent Sinclair."

It never ceased to impress Adam how easily she could slip into her former role, or how fluidly she could introduce him without either declaring his affiliation with Guardians, Inc or outright lying that he was part of MI6. She just implied in a vague sort of way and let others draw their own inference.

"Can you tell us what's gone missing?" Monica was asking of the man, her mask of official duty firmly in place.

"Well, that's the devil of it, now isn't it?" The man looked completely baffled and ill-at-ease. "Nothing of extraordinary value was taken. All that appears to be missing is a set of Egyptian hieroglyph panels that are, on their own, not worth much more than a few thousand pounds, and a silver statue of unknown age that's probably not worth more than the price of the silver it's made of."

Adam sensed Monica's tension, though she gave no outward appearance of any change in demeanor. "This silver statue... Does it have a name?"

"Ah. Yes, yes, I believe it does. One moment," the curator bustled over to a nearby table, retrieving a clipboard full of pages he proceeded to thumb through. "Ah, here it is. The manifest refers to it as 'The Silver Kiss' and claims -- though any such claim would be impossible to authenticate -- the statue was forged from the thirty pieces of silver given to Judas Iscariot for betraying Jesus Christ to the Romans. I can tell you this -- there's no way that piece is that old. The design of the statue would indicate it was probably created sometime in the early Twentieth Century. It's far too impressionistic for the First Century CE."

Monica, looking a little pale, slapped her notebook closed and put it and her pen away. "Thank you, Mr...?"

"Danforth. Doctor Reginald Danforth."

"Right. Thank you, Doctor. If we have any further questions, I assume we can find you through the Museum directory?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

With a nod of dismissal, Monica turned toward Adam, grasped his bicep, and took several steps back the way they'd come before leaning in to mutter, "I think we just answered the question of whether or not our burglar sensed what he was looking for. We need to figure out how he got in here, ASAP."

Adam frowned. "Why?"

"That statue? The Silver Kiss? I stumbled across a reference to it while thumbing through some archival references at the office, the other day. This isn't the first time someone's gone looking for it, and that bloody curator doesn't have a clue what it really is, if he thinks it's Twentieth Century bric-a-brac."

"You're not suggesting..." Adam grimaced.

"I don't know about the whole Judas part, but the Guardians Grimoire specifically mentions the Silver Kiss."

Adam frowned, thinking back over the last time he looked through the Grimoire. "Wait. I remember something about it being crafted by one of the Fae. A Sgàil Aislingean, right?"

"Right. Of 'cursed silver'. They just don't say whose or how."

"And you think it's the curse our thief sensed?"

She shrugged. "It's possible."

He couldn't very well argue with that. Turning his gaze toward the large loading dock roll-up gate, he nodded. "If I was a thief trying to get into a museum warehouse, I'd pop the gate up just far enough to roll under and do what I need to. Especially if the item I'm looking for is small enough to hide under a jacket."

Monica's tense posture relaxed, and she nodded toward the gate. "Wow us with your mad detective skills, Sinclair."

He winked at her, aware she was teasing, but they both knew there was no one better than him when it came to ferreting out unusual clues. Crouching down to the left of the gate, he followed the acrid scent of burned plastic and the tang of heated copper straight to the gate's alarm box, connecting it to museum security.

Adam moved one gloved hand to flick the melted wires leading into the alarm box with a low whistle, then glanced up at his partner. "Certainly looks like a professional job -- if someone intended to set off every smoke alarm in this place. Someone melted this control box so the smoke would go right up to..." He craned his head back to look up at the wall just above the loading dock gate. "Bingo. Smoke alarm. He set off the fire alarms, and given the redundancy in the system, the gradual melt set off the burglar alarm, too. No way was anyone getting out of here without going past coppers or the fire brigade."

"Yeah." Monica crouched beside him. "Begging the question, who set off the alarm? No one goes to this much trouble casing a location, only to make a boneheaded mistake that gets them caught, unless they want to be."

He cocked a brow at her. "You think this was a frame up?"

"I don't know. We need more information." Monica pressed her hands to her knees as she straightened to her feet again. "I think it's time we had a talk with our thief now, don't you?"

*****

Metro Police/New Scotland Yard, Victoria Embankment, London -- 4 March 2012, 4:45AM

Turned out, talking to their thief proved more difficult than first anticipated. By the time they'd exited the museum, the police unit holding the thief had already left the scene. Didn't take much to figure out he'd been taken to Victoria Embankment, fortunately.

A quick flash of their credentials -- not enough to raise any questions from the desk sergeant, but enough to make it seem they belonged there, when coupled with her announcement she was MI6 -- got them free reign of the entire building. Not that she needed as much. All she needed was directed to the whereabouts of the thief brought in from the British Museum.

Now, as they navigated the hallway of interrogation rooms, Monica caught a conversation that nearly stopped her in her tracks.

"Says his name's Judas Iscariot," a uniformed constable scoffed to his colleague.

"Inn't 'e the bloke who's s'posed to've killed Jesus?"

The first constable shook his head. "Nah. He gave Jesus up to the Romans, though. S'posed to have topped hisself -- hanged."

"What kinda idiot you gotta be to nick the identity of someone who's been dead thousands of years?"

"Probably trying to set up an insanity defense."

"For tryin' to nick a statue? I heard the DI say it weren't even worth much. He's gotta already be outta his bloody mind."

Monica caught Adam's eye, jerking her head subtly toward the two constables. "Sounds like we're in the right place."

"Sounds that way to me, too. How d'you wanna play this?"

She lifted one eyebrow at him sardonically. "Seriously? First day on the job, Sinclair?"

They both knew it wasn't. He chuckled but rolled his eyes at her. "Funny. I meant, are we identifying ourselves to everyone in the nick, or just playing your Six card and hoping they keep buying it?"

By way of answer, she marched up to the two constables, a saccharin smile on her face. "If you could point me in the direction of the gentleman you were just talking about?"

They blinked at her. At least one of them -- a portly fellow with close-cropped dark hair -- had the good grace to look abashed to be caught gossiping. "Y'must be the prosecutor Inspector Barnes sent 'round for. Third door on yer left, ma'am."

"Thanks." Returning to where Adam stood just a few feet away, she muttered low enough the constables couldn't hear. "I think we're in luck. If this is the Inspector Barnes I think it is, we've worked with him, before." Then, with a grin and a wink, she spoke normally so the constables could hear. "Shall we?"

Adam just shook his head with a small laugh and fell into step behind her as she set off down the corridor. "Right behind you."

Following the constable's directions, Monica knocked on the door to the third interview room on the left of the corridor, but didn't bother waiting for a reply before opening the door. With a brief scan of the room, she noted several things. The Inspector Barnes in the room was indeed Inspector Malcolm Barnes, standing to one side of the table with his arms crossed over his chest, scowling at the dark man seated at the table. When said man at the table looked up at the new arrivals, she could clearly see the golden rings circling his amber eyes. This was a Fire Djinn, all right, and he was about ready to combust.

Shit. Time to do damage control.

"We'll take it from here, Inspector Barnes," she instructed quickly, entering the room the whole way.

The detective inspector looked up, and groaned when he saw her. "You lot again?"

"Us again, saving your arse from the big, bad scary things."

He swore under his breath. "Christ, Reeves. Figures this's another one of your lulus. Keeps claiming he's Judas-fucking-Iscariot."

Monica flashed an apologetic smile toward the dark-skinned man seated at the table as Adam went to work taking the cuffs off him.

"I wouldn't be takin' those off him, if you know what's good for you," Inspector Barnes instantly objected.

Adam glanced up. "Like the lady said, we do this for a living. Mr. Iscariot won't be any further problems. Will you, mate?"

The dark man eyed them both warily, but slowly shook his head. Monica suppressed the urge to wilt in relief. Apparently, he had decided to trust them, at least for now. Hopefully, they could keep that trust long enough to figure out what was going on. She caught Adam's eye with a subtle shake of her head as he reached for the silver cuffs in his back pocket. If they were going to foster trust, they were going to have to take a big chance, here.

Adam nodded, letting her know he understood what she intended, then winced as he looked down. "Nicki..."

The alarm in his tone brought her across the room to his side of the interrogation table. She followed his gaze to the man calling himself Judas Iscariot's wrists, and swore.

"Shit." Sliding her phone from her pocket, she hit speed dial for Dispatch, and waited for Rennie to pick up.

"Hey, Monica!"

"Rennie, we're gonna need Doc Asharam."

"No." The man at the table spoke for the first time, his voice hushed, before he looked up at Monica, the gold rimming his amber irises flashing violently. "No Waters. I'm fine."

"Just to take a look at those wrists..."

A small flame sparked in his eyes. "I said no. I'm fine."

"All right." Into the phone, she said, "Cancel Doc Asharam, Rennie. But see if someone from the infirmary can drop some iron-burn supplies at our office, yeah?"

"I can do that," Rennie assured her.

"Thanks, Rennie. We'll be there shortly."

Ending the call, she tucked her phone away and nodded to Adam, then look at the man at the table. "Shall we?"

With just about the grimmest expression she'd ever seen -- looking more like he was on his way to the executioner -- the man who called himself Judas Iscariot rose from the table. Flanking either side of him, just to make sure he didn't bolt, she and Adam escorted him out of the police station and into their waiting SUV. She didn't have any answers, yet, but she was determined they were going to get to the truth. Starting with his real name, and what he was doing in London, robbing the British Museum for cursed silver statues and worthless Egyptian artwork.