It's the night of Jeremiah's said "test."

The past five days or so had been spent working Gael down to a pulp, making sure he is as prepared as he can be. Damien and I are going to be with him tonight, but we can't protect him from everything. We're hoping the element of surprise will be to our benefit: As far as Jeremiah is aware of, Gael is coming to the forest tonight on his own. That's what we want him to know.

Damien secures a strap across his shirt, sliding a few blades into the scabbards. Guns go to his hips, another sheathed knife goes on his ankle, and a gleam of determination sets in the crimson of his eyes. I begin to arm myself as I would for any other mission; a few of which I have had earlier this week, but none of which are as important as this.

"Where's Gael?" Damien asks, bending down to tighten the laces on his boots. "The sun's almost completely set; we need to go."

"I know," I reply, tossing my cloak around my shoulders. "I'm going to find him."

Damien nods, and I head out of the training arena. Mother and Finn are both on the couch, Finn fast asleep in her lap. She looks up at me as I reach the top of the stairs. "Going out at night again, are you?"

I cringe, approaching her. The television is on some boring soap opera channel; I don't have to face it to know the acting is horrible and the plot is cliché. I drop a kiss on my little brother's forehead, and embrace my mother. "I'm sorry, Mother, but I have to. If I don't..."

"It's your job," Mother tells me as I pull back. There's a small smile on her face that I wish was wider, but my mother will never be too happy to send me off to fight. "I understand, Gemma."

"I..." I smile at her and give her, too, a peck on the forehead. The hilt of my father's blade brushes Finn's side as I lean over him, and he stirs, but doesn't open his eyes. I brush my hand across his cheek, staring down at him in admiration. "I love you both," I say. "I'll be back. I promise."

"Please be careful," Mother says, and I just smile at her and continue my search for Gael.

It takes a few minutes of searching through every room in the house before I find him. He's outside on the porch, braced against the railing, his eyes on the setting sun. Damien has lent him another ensemble of protective gear, but he is still weaponless. "Gael," I say, coming up and standing beside him. He glances at me with a meek smile. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Oh," Gael replies. "Is it time to go?"

I start to answer with a simple yes before I analyze the situation further. He's outside, alone, not even prepared yet, and his voice sounds more solemn than it usually does. It appears I've caught him in one of his moods. "Is everything okay with you, Gael? Are you thinking about your home again?"

He shakes his head. "No. It's not that—"

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing, Gem. Nothing."

I punch him in the arm, hard enough to catch his attention. He rubs his bicep, looking at me as if I've betrayed him. "What was that for?" he groans.

"It was for being such a horrible liar," I say. "Come on, Gael. You can tell me."

He pauses, then just exhales heavily and looks at me. There's a flush along his cheeks, for a reason I'm not sure of. "I'm scared, I guess. I'm just...trying to make peace with the fact that I might die tonight."

I stop. The thought makes me feel something strange; years ago, before I started training with my father, Mother had warned me that hunting was a dangerous profession, that I could be hurt or killed. I have never, however, let that fact scare me; it is a fact all hunters know, but it's part of the job, and I have long since accepted it. For this reason, I am taken aback at Gael's sentence, until I ponder it further.

"Jeremiah's stupid," I say, interlocking my fingers with Gael's. He smiles down at me, eyes lambent in the setting sun's haze. "He isn't expecting us to have figured him out, isn't expecting you to bring Dame and me. We'll surprise him, and he'll be down before he can fight back."

"Maybe. But he is—"

"—a shapeshifter," I finish bitterly. Gael's eyebrow rises. "Yes, I know he's a shapeshifter, and that their breed is a very tricky one. But I know good shapeshifters; Sloane, for example—"

"Maybe, Gem, but Jeremiah isn't Sloane."

My eyes narrow, and I draw my hand from Gael's, on the precipice of exasperation. Both he and Damien will not stop reminding me that "Jeremiah's a shapeshifter," or "it's too easy for him to kill us all," and "maybe this isn't the best idea." They don't understand: None of that bothers me. If Jeremiah is up to something, and is employing Elliott as some sort of minion of his, I am going to stop them. I don't care what species they belong to. "I don't care what the hell Jeremiah is; he is hurting people, such as Sloane's father, and for that, he has to pay. He may try to give me a sly smile or even laugh and deny anything, but I know what he's done, and I'm going to get him for it, or die trying—Oh God, Gael? What the—"

He has drawn me into an embrace so tight that my air supply is becoming limited; for a second, I'm caught off guard and uncomfortable, but then I realize how pleasing his arms around me feel, and I settle into the barrier they create. So I let him hug me, awkwardly embracing him in return. "Sorry," Gael says after he releases me. "You were talking, and I had to find some sort of respectful way to shut you up."

I smile at him. "You could have kissed me."

His face goes as red as a tomato, and he knows it, for he turns away with a cough and starts to go inside the house. "You know...I should probably go...get weapons, I think..."

"Gael," I call.

He turns, looking pained. "Um, yes?"

"I was joking."

"Heh," he says, and wins the award for the most humorless laugh in history. He then disappears into the house, leaving me by myself on the porch.

The Ancient Forest shudders with the sounds of deep night, the little hoots of night birds and the constant chirping of crickets, the wind as it blows the shadowy limbs of trees.

Gael walks in front of Damien and me, where we can both see him clearly. My hand is poised on the hilt of my knife, watching for Jeremiah. He's here, I know it, and he wants us gone.

Gael is shivering, and I know it's not because he's cold—the weather is temperate, with the occasional soothing breeze, nothing too jarring. He's shivering because he's afraid; other than a healer and a vampire, Gael has not met many of the species of Maris, and he hasn't seen them in action. It makes sense for him to be afraid, but I have already made a vow to myself to let nothing touch him. I won't have a drop of innocent blood on my hands. It won't happen.

Suddenly, Damien stops walking, his feet in the leaves enough to trigger Gael's halt as well. Damien's head is ducked, his eyes intense. I brush his shoulder. "What? What is it?"

For a second, it is only the wind washing around us, until Dame's face splits into a smile as bright as the stars above us. "Jeremiah's here; I can hear him. But...daylights..." His smile fades.

"Dame, what?"

"I've brought company," says a familiar voice.

Trying to hide how off guard he's caught me, I turn slowly towards Jeremiah, who has appeared from the darkness, standing in front of Gael. Gael takes in a shuddering breath and stutter-steps back, his hand flying to one of the guns I consented to letting him use.

Beside the ghostly Jeremiah, with his pallid skin and light hair, is the dark but delicate Elliott, his skin the same olive as Sloane's, his hair the same ebony. Black moves about his eyes like cumulonimbus clouds as he grins at us, then at Jeremiah.

"So you've caught us," Jeremiah says, lifting his hands and sneering. "Boo-hoo. The lot of you are such heros, aren't you? Putting yourself in such dangerous situations such as these."

"We don't want a problem if there isn't one," I say, stepping forward. Damien reaches forward, catching at my arm, but I shake his grip off of me. "Take responsibility for Chief Capello's death, and we don't have to do this."

Elliott's eyes narrow. "My father's death was an accident—"

"Elliott." Jeremiah's tone is precise, and he turns slowly back to me. "Don't lie to her; it's obvious she already knows. Well, Gemma, what do you want me to say? I'm sorry? Not quite. I made good money off that factory."

I glance at Damien, but he looks as incredulous as I am. "You burned that factory down for money?"

"You just don't get it, do you?" Jeremiah shakes his head. "Vengeance is something all who've been wronged want, need. I make it easier for those seeking it; they tell me what they need me or my colleagues to do, they give us the money, and it's done. It pays better than you're thinking—people just aren't as forgiving as everyone thinks they are."

Damien laughs coldly, his eyes burning holes into Jeremiah's head. "So you've organized yourselves a little hitman business, is what you're telling us?"

"It's more than that," spits Elliott, catching our attention. "The man we did business with wanted the factory gone; it was a reminder that his brother would always be more successful than him, and he wanted out. When we found out my father was going to be visiting that factory soon, it was only convenient we removed him as well."

"Now Elliott will lead the Bureau," booms Jeremiah proudly, "and I can go about gaining my money without trouble."

"But—" I can't stand it; even though Damien figured half of this out just by thinking of it, it still makes me sick to think they would do something like that. Elliott—to his father, to his own little sister. "Why confirm this? Aren't you afraid we'll go to Sloane?"

"No," answers Jeremiah, his voice clipped. "You'll be dead before you can. It was stupid to come out here in the first place. We asked for the human, not for you and your little leech."

Damien simply rolls his eyes, folding his arms. "You're not going anywhere near Gael. He's caused no trouble."

"Not yet, he hasn't," Elliott says, his voice as frozen as ice. His eyes, now an eccentric light blue, rake the entirety of Gael with contempt. "But you know he's unlike us. He's a human, a monster, and he'll kill us all."

Gael sputters. "I actually have no attention of killing anyone—"

"Look, we've already confirmed all the things I'm aware you already knew," Jeremiah says, while a ghastly grin spreads across his face. "I postponed an order of business to take care of this vermin, and I really just want it to go quickly."

The time to really be afraid has come; as we watch, Jeremiah's nails sharpen to claws, and dark fur begins to envelope his skin in shivering waves. His eyes turn the piercing gold of the werewolves, and when he smiles, his teeth are as sharp as razors. "This remind you of something, my dear Gemma?"

"These darn shapeshifters," I mutter, as Jeremiah hits the ground as the snarling beast that scratched my eye and took my father away from me. I twist my blade in my hands, ready for him to lunge.

Gael is shuddering like crazy, his eyes wide as he takes a step back for each one Jeremiah takes forward. "Did that...just happen..."

"Yes, it did," Damien snaps, "and now he's going to kill us if we don't do something—"

I am not expecting Dame to do this, but he lunges right for Jeremiah, tackling him to the ground. Jeremiah snaps his tremendous wolf jaws at him, every second getting nearer and nearer to his neck. For a second, I'm back in that night again, watching as Damien struggles with the first one—

No. This is what Jeremiah wants. He wants me distracted, and I won't do it.

Trying not to let the fact that Elliott has disappeared unnerve me, I jump onto the furry Jeremiah's back, trying my best to latch on and keep him from tossing me off. I take my father's blade, lifting it above my head, and sink it in between Jeremiah's shoulder blades. Just for a moment, as blood as black as the sky spurts out over my hands, I imagine having just avenged my father, and even if it isn't the case, I still somehow feel a bit redeemed.

It's too easy, I think, but just as quick as Jeremiah was Frederick, he is himself again, my blade still lodged in his back, blood making a dark spot on his shirt. He writhes underneath me, groaning, and Damien grunts and shoves Jeremiah off of him.

Jeremiah grimaces as he rolls over, and I leer down at him as I link handcuffs around his wrist. "What was that you said about us being dead? Huh? You really have to work on your lying skills, Jeremiah."

Jeremiah throws my blade back at me, but I catch it. "You could've killed me."

"Oh, I know."

"But you didn't."

"Maybe," I hiss, leaning down and gripping his shirt. His face is inches from mine, smeared with dirt with his teeth bared in a snarl. "I just wanted to see the look on your face when you realized it's over for you."

Securing the handcuffs, I turn, searching for Elliott. I find Gael instead, but my stomach twists at who is holding him; Damien is gripping Gael firmly, Gael's head forcefully tipped to one side, exposing the side of his neck.

I nearly drop the knife in my hand as Dame's fangs unsheathe, gleaming underneath the moonlight. "Damien! What are you doing?"

"Gemma," comes Dame's voice, but not from who I'm staring at. "Gemma, I'm standing right behind you—that's not me."

I whirl, just for a moment, to ensure Damien speaks the truth, and he does. Realizing in horror what this means, I sprint for who I now realize is Elliott, brandishing the stake I always keep at my hip. I start to shove Gael from Elliott's grip, but before I can even knock him out of the way, Gael has tackled the shapeshifter to the ground, his elbow crushing Elliott's collarbone.

I don't question how he did that, just toss Gael the stake. He drives it through the fake Damien's chest, and it is like watching a letter being opened; Damien's skin falls away like paper, leaving the frustrated Elliott behind. The click of a pair of secure handcuffs, and our second shapeshifter is no longer an issue.

Gael gives me a high-five. "Haha! Yes! We just did that! What now?"

I laugh at his clear exuberance. "Well, now, we take them back to—"

"Gemma? We have a problem..."

It's rare Damien sounds so afraid, so I know that when he does, it's for a heck of a reason. I turn, slowly, and wish I hadn't. Jeremiah is no longer lying restlessly on the forest floor, but his body is stretching, stretching upwards, blue-green scales folding over every inch of him. His body elongates, his nails turning to talons as sharp as swords, all of his teeth just as terrifyingly keen. Jeremiah's pupils thin to slits as a tail grows from him, and as he hisses at us, fire bellows from his throat. Damien barely dodges it, collapsing on the ground with a squeal.

Gael freezes. "He...he's a..."

"Dragon," I breathe. "Dear Lord, he really does want us dead."

"Gael," I say promptly, turning towards him. I draw a roll of tape from my belt, probably something I should have used on Jeremiah, but I was too busy trying to keep Gael from being eaten. I toss the tape at him. "This is shapeshifters' tape; it keeps them from changing shape. Tape Elliott up; Damien and I will handle the hothead."

He nods, kneeling down beside Elliott, and I turn just in time to face an onslaught of fire.

I manage to roll to the side, but the side of my arm comes into contact with it, my shoulder singed and black. I yelp in pain, and hear Damien call for me as if I'm in danger, but the burnt skin is already disappearing. With a heightened sense of determination, I spring back up, beginning to bolt in the direction of Jeremiah the dragon.

I skid to a halt as a tree falls to its end in front of me, its trunk and branches blazing up in white flame. Again comes Damien's voice, but he is far from me now, on the opposite side of the tree. The barrier makes me feel as if my heart is tearing; I can't see Dame, can't tell if he's okay. It would be endless hell to lose him.

Seeing no other option, I make to scale the tree, knowing that I'll heal. A few moments of agony and some temporary burns are nothing compared to Dame's safety. The fire scorches my hands and parts of my legs, but I shake it off, hopping over and running to Damien.

With a sigh, he pulls me into him, then quickly releases me, handing me one of the better daggers. And as Jeremiah rears up with a roar, his teeth dripping with drool, I am prepared to take him down.

From there, fighting beside the same person I have fought beside for years, it is a simple task. Damien, with a grunt of effort, swiftly flies a few throwing stars from his deft fingers, all of them landing where he wants. Jeremiah roars again, and we duck to dodge his fire, smoke burning my eyes. The night is even blacker now, with the destruction Jeremiah has committed, and some of the forest's ancient trees have fallen victim.

Damien dislodges another throwing star. "Gemma! Now!" he shouts, and as I roll underneath another curtain of flame, I strike.

I come up, my dagger sliding into Jeremiah's enlarged heart. Jeremiah's roar comes out a mere squeal this time, and he seems to fold in, shrinking down to the puny boy he really is.

Jeremiah's moaning, and he tries to cower away from me, to get up and get away, but a quick kick in the stomach incapacitates him. He looks up at me, ash coating him, just as ash coats that factory now. "You bitch."

"Aw," I say with the least genuine smile I can muster. "What? Did that not go as quick as you wanted?"

Jeremiah opens his mouth to say something else, but my boot comes down over his teeth.

"I suppose your order of business must be further postponed, Jeremiah Gilby. My apologies for any inconvenience."