Dragon Cycle

Dragon Cycle – 07 – On Arrival

Disclaimer: Of course the boys from Weiss and Schwarz don’t belong to me, we just have fun together. I write this stuff for fun not profit.

Author's Notes: I apologize for the lame title of this chapter. Inspiration just didn’t come to the party. I’ll do better next time.

Once again many thanks go to my fabulous beta, Iron Dog.


• • • • • • • • • • • • •


Farfarello heard the faint sound of a key in the lock and rose to his feet. He made his way stealthily across the room, drawing his poniard as he went. With no more sound than a shadow, he slipped into the unlit hallway just as the front door was eased open. He stopped and waited, silent, in the darkness.

“Farfarello?” It was Crawford’s voice and Farfarello lost a little of his caution. “Farfarello?”

“I hear you,” he replied, staying where he was; poniard still at the ready in his hand.

The door opened a little wider and an arm snaked inside, the hand groping for the light switch. Within seconds light flooded the hallway, depriving Farfarello of the cloaking shadows. He blinked rapidly to adjust his eye to the sudden brightness. Crawford came through the door, followed by Nagi. Behind them came a man Farfarello had never seen before.

Crawford stopped and was looking hard at Farfarello – more specifically, at his chest and arms. He raised his gaze to meet the Irishman’s.

“How is he?” he asked without preamble, deciding not to comment about the blood.

“Alive,” Farfarello replied.

“Where?”

Farfarello jerked his head towards the door Crawford wanted. The American held his gaze a moment longer, before turning his head slightly to the people standing behind him.

“Nagi, give him his pack.” As the boy stepped around his leader, Crawford returned his attention to Farfarello. “Go and have a shower, tidy yourself up,” he ordered.

Farfarello took the pack Nagi held out to him while Crawford leaned down, setting an overnight bag and backpack against the wall. Straightening, he headed towards the bedroom Farfarello had indicated; Nagi following in his wake.

Farfarello’s attention returned to the stranger. As the Nordic blond passed him, the man gave Farfarello a brief look. His eyes were pale and cold and Farfarello didn’t care for him one bit. Internal alarms sounded in his head against this man; he would need watching. He reminded Farfarello of a great white shark he had seen once at an aquarium. Efficient; graceful; beautiful; but deadly and unfeeling for anything or anyone but himself. A predator of the highest order. Farfarello recognized another killer when he saw one and this stranger was definitely that. Farfarello instinctively didn’t trust him.

As the others disappeared into the bedroom, Farfarello trailed along, halting in the doorway. He toyed absently with the poniard as he watched Crawford lean over Schuldig, examining him without touching. He knew the exact moment the American noticed the bite on the telepath’s throat. The stillness was so brief, so subtle, that no one else would have been aware of it.

The bite itself was another matter. The stranger noticed it, his gaze going to the American.

“Brad?” he queried quietly, making a small gesture.

His use of Crawford’s first name gave Farfarello pause. He shifted his gaze between the two men as he leaned there in the doorway, picking up on the subtle tension between them. Within seconds, he'd decided that, not only was it none of his business, but he really didn’t give a flying fuck what was going on between those two.

Crawford gave his head a small shake; his only response to the blond’s query before he straightened and moved away from the bed. Coming towards Farfarello, he gestured to the hallway. Farfarello stepped back.

“Come with me,” Crawford said as he passed the Irishman.

Farfarello followed him into the living room. He had no idea what Crawford wanted to say, and it didn’t matter to him. He had his own questions to ask first.

“Where were you?” he asked before the American could speak.

Crawford looked across at him. “It’s a long story,” he answered, his tone making it clear he wasn’t prepared to elaborate. “Has he said anything?”

“No,” Farfarello replied. “He hasn’t moved; he hasn’t spoken.”

Crawford held his gaze. “I need to know exactly what happened.”

“He got a nosebleed, he went rigid, then he was unconscious,” Farfarello answered flatly.

“That’s it?”

“It was enough,” Farfarello said. His hands were by his sides, his right hand restlessly twirling the poniard.

Crawford nodded but said nothing as he moved his gaze to the drape-covered windows.

“Why did you change your mind?” Farfarello asked. Crawford turned his head, his look conveying that he hadn’t understood the question. “About coming here,” Farfarello clarified. “You phoned and told me to stay here. You didn’t say you were coming straight over, yet here you are.”

Soft sounds told Farfarello that the other two had entered the room. He ignored them. They wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know.

“I thought it best if we were all in one place,” Crawford answered.

Farfarello gave a small sardonic smile. “You thought I’d hurt him,” he deduced.

Crawford looked him up and down, pointedly, his gaze eventually returning to meet the Irishman’s. “Given the circumstances it was a possibility,” he said, unable to completely keep the distaste from his voice.

“No, it wasn’t,” Farfarello replied evenly.

“Oh?” Crawford gestured with one hand, indicating the Irishman’s bloody appearance. “Tell me why not?”

“Because he’s Schuldig,” Farfarello answered simply. As far as he was concerned the conversation was over. He turned and left the room.


• • • • • • • • • • • • •


Crawford directed his attention back to the windows. A suppressed shudder still crouched at the base of his spine. It had taken up residence when he’d seen Farfarello standing in the hallway, chest and arms awash with blood. The thought of what might have been was pushed firmly to the back of his mind.

“Some team you have, Brad,” came Stein’s mocking voice from his right. “Will you be needing this for the Irish Berserker?”

Crawford turned his head and saw Stein toeing the first aid kit that was sitting on the floor. He also noticed the beer bottle and empty glass on the coffee table.

“Yes,” he replied to the question. Crawford was grateful that it was only Farfarello’s blood that had to be cleaned up. He owed no further explanation to the man from Eszett. He looked at Nagi, who was standing by the bar. “Take the kit and give it to Farfarello,” he instructed.

Once Nagi had departed, Stein gave the American a flat, cold look.

“And are you satisfied now that you’ve seen for yourself?” he enquired, his tone as cold as his gaze. “You didn’t trust us, and you didn’t trust your Berserker. That’s why you rang him; so you could hear his voice and gauge his state of mind. You didn’t take our word on it.”

“In the absence of a straight answer, I had no choice,” Crawford replied, fighting to keep his temper controlled.

Stein’s smile made no pretence at humor. “I gave you the only answer I could,” he said. “I know the abilities of my team and coming here was a waste of time…”

“We’re here now, and we’ll stay until we can all leave,” Crawford interrupted shortly.

If Stein wanted to tag along, there was nothing he could do to stop him. But he’d be damned if he was going to allow himself to get into a debate about his decisions in regards to his own team.

The man from Eszett had given a careless shrug and now let his gaze wander to the bar.

“Well,” he drawled, “I don’t know about you, but I’d like a drink.” As he moved behind the bar, he looked across at Crawford. “What can I get you, Brad?”

“Nothing,” Crawford replied.

His response received another lazy shrug, and Stein began to examine the bottles on offer.

Nagi returned without the first aid kit. “Farfarello’s taking a shower,” he reported before disappearing back into the hallway.

The silence in the room was broken only by the small sounds of Stein pouring himself a drink. Crawford hardly heard them. His mind’s eye was examining the image of Farfarello again; standing there in the hallway, all but painted red. He was recalling how his heart had almost stopped at the sight, even as reason had argued that it wasn’t Schuldig’s blood that decorated the Irishman.

All the same, it hadn’t been until he’d actually seen the telepath that he’d allowed himself to feel any relief. The sharp spike of anger that had pierced through the relief when he’d noticed the livid bite…well, Farfarello had no right to go marking things that weren’t his to mark.

Crawford almost laughed aloud at his own thoughts. He must be extremely stressed to be thinking in such a way. He and Schuldig were nothing more than casual partners to each other. But the wrongness of Farfarello staking his claim on Schuldig in a physical way irritated the American to no end.

“Stein.” The man’s voice broke into Crawford’s unraveling thoughts. He looked across to where their guest sat on the couch, a drink in one hand, his other holding his cell phone to his ear. “Let me talk to Verena,” Stein said bluntly. After a short pause, he continued. “We’re at the house. How are things your end?” His icy gaze moved to Crawford as he listened to what was being said to him. “Disturbances?” he asked after he had the answer to his first question. Listening again, he let his gaze drop from the American before giving a nod. “Good. Stay alert. I’ll contact you later.”

Ending the call, he slipped the cell phone back inside his jacket and relaxed back on the couch. Raising his drink, he looked at it. “Now,” he said, “we wait.”

“We don’t need company to wait,” Crawford told him. “If you want to go back to your team there’s nothing to hold you here.”

Stein met his gaze for a long moment before smiling slowly. “But, Brad, your team is so much more interesting than mine,” he replied. Cold amusement continued to dance in his pale eyes as he sipped from his glass.

“If you say so,” Crawford muttered and headed for the hallway.

He wasn’t in the mood to argue with Stein. He knew it would gain him nothing anyway. Stein would do as he damn-well pleased and if it pleased him to grate on Crawford’s nerves, that’s what he’d do. He knew he was reacting in the wrong way to Stein’s taunts. God almighty, hadn’t living with Schuldig taught him anything about dealing with annoying, snide bastards?

Letting them know they were getting under your skin was just the reaction they were looking for, he told himself as he bent to pick up his overnight bag. He straightened and turned, his gaze falling on the bedroom doorway. Of course there was no need to go and check on him again, but it wouldn’t do any harm if he did.

Silently entering the room, Crawford caught a lingering whiff of blood. No surprise given the amount of it on the walls and windowsill and soaked into the carpet. He doubted that they’d get it all out. He wondered if the smell was strong enough to have bothered Schuldig, cocooned in his own world but still vulnerable to outside influences. On second thought, he doubted it. The German wasn’t exactly unaccustomed to blood, and he’d be too focused on reclaiming his mind to allow the smell of blood to distract him.

He noticed the backpack sitting on the chair beside the bed. It was dark blue, with a shark logo. Farfarello had been adamant about its purchase. He liked the logo, he’d said. It figured. The pack’s position also figured. The Irishman was laying claim to the chair, asserting his right to the place at Schuldig’s side. That presumption irritated Brad all over again.

Arriving at the bedside Crawford looked down. Blood, dried dark brown, splotched and stained the whites and beiges of the bed linen. It was concentrated around where Schuldig was lying so he had to have been in this very position when he’d been attacked.

One arm lay on top of the covers, at Schuldig’s side. Crawford could still see the duvet caught between the telepath’s palm and his now lax fingers. He didn’t need to be an oracle to know the attack hadn’t been without pain. The signs were all there to be read.

The only other color to be seen amongst the blood splattered bed linen was the bright orange hair trailing over the pillow and disappearing beneath the covers, and the russet-colored brows and eyelashes. Crawford clenched his fist against the desire to reach out and touch that hair.

Schuldig himself displayed as much life and color as a corpse. Unless one listened very hard, it was impossible to hear him breathing; unless one looked very hard, it was impossible to see he was breathing.

Crawford had seen Schuldig succumb to backlash and collapse before, but he’d never seen him in this state. It was almost frightening. He knew the telepath would survive; that he’d come out of the stasis and, when he did, the first few days of whining and moaning about how shitty he felt would mark his return to his usual, irritating self.

Crawford told himself he ought to be enjoying the peace and the quiet of this Schuldig-free time, but…he drew a deep breath through his nose…it was more than a little unnerving to see such a usually active and vibrant young man as still and as quiet as this. Knowing the reason behind his condition made the situation even more sobering.

How long was he going to remain like this? Crawford doubted anyone could answer that question. Normally he wouldn’t have to ask; normally he’d have the answer himself. But his ability to foresee the future had been taken from him and he had no way of knowing whether it was a permanent or temporary situation. God, don’t let it be permanent! What he did know was that he hated having to do without his Talent; hated being deprived of an ability that had been a part of him for as long as he could remember; and hated the person who had dared do this to him. He hated them with an ice-cold passion, and not only for what they’d done to him.

He focused his gaze back on Schuldig. Suppose the damage done to the German was beyond total repair? He didn’t want to think about the consequences of that, no more than he wanted to think of the consequences should the disappearance of his own Talent prove to be permanent. Somehow he lost control of that shudder he’d suppressed earlier and it ran the length of his spine.

As he shook it off, his gaze was snagged by another smudge of color. The bite. It still looked fresh. Since Schuldig was in stasis, this was no surprise. His bodily functions were suspended as his mind fought to regain itself and what it had lost. That damned bite wouldn’t begin to heal until the telepath woke up.

Once more Crawford resisted the urge to reach out and touch. No one could lay hands on Schuldig at the moment - not to caress him or to shake him - not even his leader and sometimes lover.

Drawing a deep breath, Crawford turned away with more reluctance than he should have had.

In the hallway once more, he saw one of the bedroom doors was closed. Nagi had obviously laid claim and was, no doubt, now ensconced in the room doing whatever he did to pass the time. Crawford opted for the room opposite Nagi’s. It hardly mattered since one room was much the same as the next.

Closing the door behind him, he went to the bed and set his bag down. Straightening, he rolled his shoulders a few times, trying to ease the tension in them. A hot shower, that’s what he needed. Not only to relieve the knotted muscles but also because he was feeling decidedly unkempt. As soon as Farfarello was done, he’d take his turn in the bathroom.

With a sigh, he relaxed and moved to the window. Hooking a finger around one of the curtains, he drew it back a little and looked out into the gloom. Finding nothing of interest, he let the curtain go and returned to the bed, sitting down alongside his bag. It was time to gather back his scattered thoughts.

The one thing that stuck out from all other events of this unusual day was Stein’s continuous use of his cell phone as a means of contact. Clearly Stein and the rest of his team were not only avoiding the use of their mind-links, they were avoiding mental contact altogether. Although it was true that Clara had been keeping tabs on Farfarello, that only required she scan his mind, not that she actively contact him. So it seemed that actual contact had been perceived as the risk.

He tried to follow the line of thinking that had led to the formulation of the theory.

The meager clues they had thus far led one to conclude the assailant was a telepath. After all, who else but a telepath could get inside the minds of others? Depending upon the extent of their Talent, a telepath could kill simply by reaching into another mind and frying it. They didn’t need to have a mental-link with the victim; they didn’t even need to have active contact with them. All that was required was access.

Which was well and good for one victim but Stein had said several teams had been killed. Since no alarm had been raised by anyone on any of those teams, it may have been assumed that all the members died at the same time. Crawford didn’t know if a telepath existed who was capable of such an act. The amount of power required to achieve that outcome was beyond the ability of all the telepaths he’d known. Even Schuldig, the strongest telepath Crawford had ever met, could only manage the destruction of one mind at a time – two, in a pinch.

However, Crawford mused, if a telepath was strong enough and fast enough, they could take out a whole team, one mind at a time, within a few minutes of each other, leading investigators to believe the attacks were carried out using the mind-links shared by the team. But surely someone at Eszett had considered the “stronger, faster” method, too? If they hadn’t, perhaps they were considering it now that Schwarz had proved the mind-link theory wrong.

And with that theory disproved the question remained; why were Stein and his team still avoiding all forms of mental contact?

He gave his head a small shake. These were all questions for Stein to answer, and it seemed he wasn’t prepared to tackle the subject until Schuldig was able to participate. And who knew how long it would be before that was possible.

But that didn’t stop him from trying to find out more from Farfarello. The Irishman had been present when Schuldig went down, so maybe he’d have some light to throw on the situation. Although, Crawford reconsidered, Farfarello hadn’t been expansive in his responses to questions earlier. Crawford needed answers from him and he was going to get them one way or another. He just needed to figure out what buttons to push to make Farfarello tell him what he knew.

The sudden sound of his cell phone ringing brought Crawford out of his reverie. He pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket. He knew who was calling. Pressing a button, he held the phone to his ear.

“Good evening, Mr. Takatori,” he said.

“Crawford, we have a change of plan,” Takatori said, beginning the call in his usual blunt fashion.

“Which plan, sir?”

“The mountains. We’ll have to go sooner than we planned. Tokie has an assignment now that commences during the second week.”

“I understand, sir,” Crawford replied smoothly, hiding the annoyance he felt with this repulsive man.

“Come in tomorrow – 2 o’clock – and we’ll discuss details,” Takatori ordered.

“Very well, sir,” Crawford said.

The call ended there and, as he put his phone away, Crawford wondered how much longer they’d be required to play the part of protectors to that bastard. He’d take great joy in killing the man with his own hands, although he had a feeling that pleasure would be denied him.

Right now, Takatori, his model-mistress and the mountains didn’t matter. Crawford stood up. Right now all that mattered was a shower and what Farfarello was going to tell him.