The Edgewise didn't quite have the knack for linear memory. It's grasp of such a concept improved out of necessity after the incident. It had to. But linear time is a mortal restraint, and the Edgewise finds it a terribly dull experience. Time is fluid, circular, branching. It resonates on a million different frequencies, each slightly different, a possibility unrealized or fully realized through the thin veil of another reality. Most of the patrons exist in a linear reality; a few are more malleable, but most are firmly anchored in one reality.

The Edgewise shivers at the sensation of footsteps, entering in the sacred place, the inner space. Not meant to be, never meant to be, but there nonetheless. The fibrous influence of the Edgewise twitched, pulling taut, hyper focused on the figure descending.

Jacob Henderson.

The Edgewise knows why he is here. It sees him descend the steps in a thousand fractured timelines, all of which abruptly end.

Time is fluid.

A hand touches the outer door, a silent plea, chaos barely contained beneath the skin. The Edgewise hesitates. There is danger there, but not intent. The Edgewise does not care about morality, but need. This one needs sanctuary. The door swings open. The patrons present shift their attention. A hand appears, weak, shaking, clutching at the threshold. It is the blood prince and the warrior who react first, sensing the desperation there. They move with surety and speed, dragging the body inside. The warrior rolls the body over. A man, a facade to the curse shifting beneath a flimsy barrier of flesh and bone. He gasps for breath. The warrior pulls his head into her lap, brushing aside dark sweat matted curls.

"He's ill," says Lady Agatha.

"He's dying," says Eugene.

"Like hell he's dying on my bloody floor," says Mack. The tavern master pushes through the gathered patrons. He frowns at the man as he kneels on the floor. "Barely more than a boy." He mumbles, reaching for the man's forehead. The Edgewise creaks in warning, a whine of cracking timber that gives Mack pause.

The man stares up at him with gray green eyes full of fear. "Please, stop it."

Lady Agatha yelps, but Eugene is already moving, yanking her back as chaos writhes beneath the skin. Mack catches the man's head before it hits the floor, hissing at the contact.

"So it's like that is it," he says, "Why did you bring this poor sot in here?"

He glances up at the rafters as he speaks. The Edgewise doesn't understand why the tavern master does this. It's influence surrounds Mack, always within reach. It surrounds him now, bolstering his energy against the violent chaos spilling from the man. There is no speech forthcoming from the tavern. That is a concept it has not mastered. Instead it imparts warmth, well aged whiskey, wood smoke, sun soaked glass, and the lick of banked flames. A collective sigh passes through the patrons. Some drift closer. Jacob kneels beside Mack, worry in his youthful face. The man on the floor gazes in wonder at the tavern.

"Like home," he whispers.

Jacob Henderson laughs as he approaches the core of the Edgewise. A knobby withered hand reaches, presses against the barrier, the final defense the Edgewise has. The Edgewise knows Jacob is not only aged by time, but by the stress of powers his body is never meant to handle. The dark paths he walks in a quest for a love never realized, a love that will never meet expectation. Behind the barrier, the heart beats, a restless pace. This time is uncertain, full of indefinites, of choices. Jacob's hand flexes, fingers pressing hard; energy crackles as he attempts to destroy this final hurdle, but he pauses, studying the heart, his smug expression turning incredulous.

"What have you done?" Jacob's voice cracks, and the Edgewise can hear the long buried anguish and regret.

"You shouldn't do this," says Jacob, the unburdened one, smooth fingers gripping Mack's arm. His brows draw together with worry. Mack is father, brother, dearest friend to this one, the one who taught him to travel between worlds, to sense the layer of reality beyond his own.

"The Edgewise gave him sanctuary," says Mack. The muscles of his jaw are tense but he takes a breath, bracing himself for pain as he pushes back against the lurking chaos. The Edgewise shores up the tavern master's power. It cannot prevent all the damage. Mack groans, a poisonous burn flushing up his forearms, but the dark power finally gives, sinking back. The man on the floor releases a breath, blinking up at the others.

"You--you--"

"A temporary fix boy," says Mack through his teeth. There is pain, but also relief in his gaze. "What's your name?"

"Melvin," says the man, "Melvin Deacon." The grip of exhaustion pulls him under.

Jacob eyes the unconscious Melvin Deacon with trepidation. "You've helped him. We should send him back now."

The Edgewise creaks. Mack raises a brow.

"No, we'll give him a room," says Mack.

Jacob slams his gnarled fist against the barrier.

"You've created a great weakness for yourself," he sneers. The Edgewise knows this. The scar on the heart throbs with a pain long faded and ever present.

The man Melvin Deacon lies in an upstairs room. The Edgewise studies him, the carrier of the bête noir. His memories are soaked in sorrow but there is hope and laughter too. Grey green eyes flicker open, taking in the room. A room in shades of yellow and warm blues, plush furniture, and a constant presence of sunshine. A vase of fresh sunflowers sits on the bedside table. Melvin smiles, his eyes sad.

"Sunflowers, my favorite," he says. He sits up, jaw trembling as he glances around. Melvin brushes a hand against the wall. "Thank you."

No one has spoken to the Edgewise like this except Mack. But Melvin's contact is more intimate, something pure and inviting. Tentatively, a golden fiber reaches and brushes against his mind. Melvin shivers at the connection. "Who are you?"

The Edgewise has never been a 'who'.

Jacob paces outside the barrier. His steps slap over stone, a staccato beat in time to the heart. "It appears I need my trump card after all," says Jacob. "This is a trifling delay. It changes nothing."

It changes everything. The others mill above, a collective pulse of panic and fear. The Edgewise stretches, to the point of breaking, but it must protect them. Sanctuary is its purpose. It fails that purpose with Melvin Deacon.

"You're taking him on as your apprentice?" Jacob's voice is rife with disbelief, with pain.

"It's his best chance," says Mack. His fingers tap the bar, a Morse code of conflicted thoughts. Melvin sleeps above. Their travels today exhausted the young man. Mack gazes upward, but not to the Edgewise; there is a push and pull of worry and affection in those ancient eyes. The Edgewise feels his determination to save Melvin from his fate. It feels his love, the deep unshakable love of family. Mack has no family. Mack comes from nothing, from unrealized possibility and the fluid time between, but Mack is not like the Edgewise. Whether due to his form or his connection to the patrons, Mack is lonely. Mack has long been lonely.

"I thought I was your apprentice," says Jacob.

Mack's attention shifts. His words are lost in the explosion of Jacob's hurt and anger. The younger man's emotions are raw, an open wound, infected by bitterness.

Mack understands more about people than the Edgewise, but he doesn't fully understand them. There are some emotions the tavern master has not experienced yet.

Jacob runs impatient fingers along the barrier, his expression one of dark promise. "So much effort to bury the memory. He won't forgive you for this." Jacob talks to the Edgewise like Mack since the incident. Rage imprints on his wrinkled visage.

Such rage. The Edgewise feels the moment it spills over. But Jacob is not within the tavern. Nor is Melvin. A hand presses to the door, a desperate plea. There is no hesitation. Only sorrow. The Edgewise understands sorrow in this moment. The door opens to allow Melvin inside. The wound is mortal, Melvin is mortal, more so than most. Mortality is something Mack cannot fix.

It is something the Edgewise cannot fix. But that does not stop the Edgewise from sinking its essence deep into the dying man, grasping at something intangible as memory, vital as air. The bête noir shifts beneath the surface, restless, wanting, cognizant. A consciousness as malleable and undefined as the Edgewise, entangled with everything that is Melvin Deacon.

"I don't want to die."

Time is fluid, a million possibilities in a moment, of unrealized choices, lines as tangible as smoke until the moment snaps and reality shifts.

Jacob recedes to fetch his trump card. The Edgewise shifts. It is weak, this effort weakens it further.

"Burn the blood," Mack orders. He carries Calponia in his arms. The blood prince waits unseen, but his gaze follows her, filled with an emotion still forming, but rooted deep. Eugene studies the vial of blood. He knows to destroy it, to keep her safe he'll destroy anything. The Edgewise sends a pulse of influence through their connection, a delicate shift of judgement, an afterthought. The moment swells with possibilities. The vampire slips the vial in his pocket.