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HighScope Educational Research Foundation is an independent, nonprofit leader in early childhood education with headquarters in Ypsilanti, Michigan.
We are a diverse team of researchers, educators, and professionals who believe that all children deserve a high-quality, equitable early education. We spend our days focusing on the variables that allow all children to be their best selves. This conviction is at the center of our research and what we practice in the classroom.
HighScope offers competitive salaries and an excellent benefit package in a family-friendly, team environment. Please send your resume and cover letter indicating desired position to our Human Resources Department: [email protected], fax 734.485.0704, or mail to HighScope Educational Research Foundation, 600 North River Street, Ypsilanti, MI 48198.
Explore the current job opportunities here at HighScope.
We are seeking a Post-Doc/Project Manager to join our team in April 2019. The role will be based on a grant awarded to HighScope from the US Department of Education Investing in Innovation (i3) grant: Supporting Preschool and Kindergarten Students' Self-Regulation Through HighScope Curriculum Enhancements: Plan-Do-Review and Conflict Resolution. The goal of this project is to improve the self-regulation skills of Detroit preschool and kindergarten students by building off the HighScope Perry Preschool Study. This project is in partnership with Detroit Public Schools Community District. Responsibilities include data collection and management, coordinating teacher training and coaching, classroom observation and troubleshooting challenges in fidelity of implementation, data coding and analysis, grant writing, overseeing daily research and evaluation activities, developing and delivering/contributing to conference and or meeting presentations, leading and contributing to writings and publications, hosting teacher and family meetings, and more. A Ph.D. in developmental psychology, early childhood education, or related field is preferred. ABD or a Masters with highly relevant experience will be considered. Must also have experience conducting research in child care centers and/or schools, particularly in low-income, urban communities. Qualified candidates will have knowledge of the early care and education field and achievement/opportunity gap and of the development of and interventions to support self-regulation in young children. Knowledge of early childhood self-regulation literature and classroom-based interventions, including teacher coaching; and of fidelity of implementation and improvement science literature is also desired. Must be proficient in the use and understanding of statistical analysis packages (e.g., SPSS, Stata, SAS, MPlus) and procedures (e.g., HLM, mixed methods, moderation and mediation) and Microsoft Office. Send a cover letter, curriculum vitae, brief writing sample, and contact information for three professional references to [email protected] for consideration. View the full job description here.
The role will be based on a grant awarded to HighScope from the US Department of Education Investing in Innovation (i3) grant: Supporting Preschool and Kindergarten Students' Self-Regulation Through HighScope Curriculum Enhancements: Plan-Do-Review and Conflict Resolution. The goal of this project is to improve the self-regulation skills of Detroit preschool and kindergarten students by building off the HighScope Perry Preschool Study. This project is in partnership with Detroit Public Schools Community District.
Qualified candidates will have knowledge of the early care and education field and achievement/opportunity gap and of the development of and interventions to support self-regulation in young children. Knowledge of early childhood self-regulation literature and classroom-based interventions, including teacher coaching; and of fidelity of implementation and improvement science literature is also desired.
We have an immediate opening for a Preschool Teacher in our Demonstration Preschool. This is a full-time year-round position. The successful candidate must have experience in the implementation of the HighScope Curriculum. A valid Michigan teaching certificate and an Early Childhood Education (ZA) or Early Childhood General and Special Education (ZS) endorsement or a bachelor's degree in early childhood or child development with a specialization in preschool teaching is required. The transcript will document a major, rather than a minor, in child development or ECE. Must have 3+ years of EC teaching and working with families. A HighScope Teacher Certification is desired. Send your resume and cover letter to [email protected] for consideration. View the full job description here.
HighScope is currently seeking substitute teachers and substitute teacher assistants for our full-day demonstration preschool program in Ypsilanti, MI. The substitute will work closely with the classroom teachers to implement the curriculum. Substitute teachers must have a Bachelor's degree in early childhood education/child development. Substitute teacher assistants must have a CDA/Associates degree in early childhood education. Experience with the HighScope Curriculum is preferred. Send your resume and cover letter to [email protected] for consideration.
We are currently seeking an Early Math Education Specialist who will serve as a coach, resource and advisor in Early Childhood Mathematics. This individual will work to ensure that HighScope's math curriculum is research-based, validated and differentiated to meet diverse preschool student's needs. Must have a Bachelor's degree in early childhood education, child development, teaching, curriculum and instruction or related field. Experience designing or evaluating mathematics curriculum and experience providing coaching or professional development in early math teaching is also required. Send your resume and cover letter to [email protected] for consideration. View the full job description here.
We currently have an opening for a Marketing Digital Specialist who will work on a variety of projects involved in website development and design. The Digital Specialist will be responsible for helping to design and oversee the user interface and overall customer experience for our websites and applications. This includes overall navigation flow, layout of specific pages, and creation of individual graphic elements. Will also work on other electronic publications as required. Qualified candidates will have 5+ years of experience in web-based graphic design or web interface design. A Technical Certificate or Associates Degree is required; B.A./B.S. in graphic design, art or related field is preferred. Must have experience in WORDPRESS or similar CMS, Divi Builder (a WORDPRESS plug in), and experience designing webpage layout with the parameters of existing templates. Must also have high proficiency in Adobe Illustrator, InDesign, and Photoshop. Portfolio and relevant links will be requested. Send your resume and cover letter to [email protected] for consideration. View the full job description here.
We are currently seeking a Director of Early Childhood and Applied Practice (ECAP) to begin in 2019. The Director will be responsible for the direction and administration of the Early Childhood and Professional Learning activities. The individual in this role will provide intellectual leadership in the development of the early childhood curriculum; write about early childhood curriculum topics; make presentations at conferences and other venues; supervise department staff in their development of curriculum and training materials, and implement projects including training contracts and grants. Advanced degree in early childhood education, developmental psychology, educational psychology, child and family development, family support, curriculum development, adult learning (teacher-education), or related field required. Must also have 5+ years experience in relevant research, program development, and/or instruction. Send your resume and cover letter to [email protected] for consideration. View the full job description here. | {
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{"url":"http:\/\/lkml.org\/lkml\/1997\/1\/28\/24","text":"On Mon, 27 Jan 1997 21:33:48 +0000 (GMT), alan@lxorguk.ukuu.org.uk (Alan Cox) wrote:>> \\begin{C-Legalese}>> If you pass the address of object to another compilation unit>> (i.e. source file), this object does not need to be extern; it>> can be static or allocated (but NOT automatic).>> \\end{C-legalese}>Ah but the following isnt going to work>>foo.c>>static void flobble(int x)>{>\tprintf(\"Kersplat\\n\");>}>>bar.c>>extern void flobble(int);>>int main()>{>\tregister_kersplat_handler(flobble);>}Nobody has suggested making *every* symbol static, only those symbolswhich are currently external and are not referenced by name from othersources. The above example is a valid case where flobble has to benon-static and does not apply to the real problem.What Thomas Koenig and I have been complaining about is the ~2,000external symbols that are not declared as static but neither are theyreferenced by name from other sources. The fact that they may bepassed by address to other routines is irrelevant, their name scope islocal no matter what their use scope.My approach is simple - if there are no external references *by name*to a non-automatic symbol then that symbol should be static. Restrictsusage checking to the local source, makes it easier to track down thereal usage of the symbol and lets gcc find unused non-automaticsymbols.As an example, see drivers\/scsi\/53c7,8xx.c. gcc flags one of theprocedures as unused, it can only do that because the procedure iscorrectly defined as static. Comment out that procedure and anothercouple of procedures become unused because they are static and theironly reference is from the first unused proc. Result - the removal ofcode that is never used and a smaller driver.We cannot do this with many sources because their procs and globalvariables are not defined as static. However *if* they are neverreferenced by name from other sources, why are they not defined asstatic?My current report is ftp:\/\/ftp.ocs.com.au\/pub\/extra_externals-2.1.23.gz","date":"2013-05-19 14:35:23","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 1, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.46073272824287415, \"perplexity\": 4329.0958235892895}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2013-20\/segments\/1368697681504\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20130516094801-00075-ip-10-60-113-184.ec2.internal.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
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{"url":"https:\/\/electronics.stackexchange.com\/questions\/355858\/what-is-clock-data","text":"# What is Clock Data?\n\nI am learning i2c communication and I got stuck in understanding: clock data, I understand what data is, but what means: clock? Tried to google it, but cannot find proper information about it.\n\nExample:\n\nSerial ports are asynchronous (no clock data is transmitted)\n\nIt's the difference between asynchronous and synchronous data that you're referring to here.\n\nWith synchronous data such as I2C, one line (the clock line or SCL) is used to indicate to the slave that data is ready to be read on the other line (the data line or SDA). The slave also uses this clock for timing of sending out its data.\n\nThe beauty of this method is that the receiving end receives the clock that synchronises the clock and data (hence the word synchronous). This way, the slave device does not need to know what the speed of the data stream is.\n\nCompare this with a UART (serial port as you called it). This only has one input line (receive data) and has no way of knowing for sure when a data bit is valid. Both ends have to know the baud rate that each other are transmitting at.\n\nIf you Google synchronous and asynchronous data transmission you will find a whole host of good articles explaining this in depth.\n\nEdit: thanks to Tony for pointing this out. Although there is an advantage in having a separate clock and data in terms of synchronisation, the disadvantage is needing the extra line. SPI has a separate receive and transmit data line as well as a clock and a chip select. At least I2C has bidirectional comms with only two wires, but is a lot slower than SPI.\n\nLong distance is also an issue for a protocol such as I2C. It is intended for on-board communication; you start to get clock to data skew as frequency increases.\n\nYou might also be interested to read about Manchester encoded data which embeds a clock within the data stream (and can be sent as a balanced signal to give long reach at high speed).\n\n\u2022 You mention the pro of a clock in comms, as you're describing more broadly than just I2C. Worth adding the cons of a separate clock in comms, which include another signal\/track\/wire, increased skew problems at higher speeds and distance. Wil upvote if modified. \u2013\u00a0TonyM Feb 13 '18 at 11:06\n\nSerial ports are asynchronous (no clock data is transmitted)\n\nAsynchronous communication protocols don't have a separate clock signal. Both transmitter and receiver side agree on a clock. Only the begin and end of transmission has to be indicated then.\n\nSynchronous communication protocols feature a separate clock signal. The transmitter will dictate its clock to the receiver.\n\nclock data is probably a poor translation. In my opinion it should be data clock, which makes more sense.\n\n\u2022 Synchronous communication does not need to have a separate clock signal and it has nothing to do with \"protocols\". \u2013\u00a0Andy aka Feb 13 '18 at 10:59\n\u2022 What do you mean by \"separate clock signal\" \u2013\u00a0Mitu Raj Feb 13 '18 at 13:15","date":"2019-08-19 08:07:31","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 1, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.30889594554901123, \"perplexity\": 1261.3608200153371}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2019-35\/segments\/1566027314696.33\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20190819073232-20190819095232-00000.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
Books/Novels
Collectable Minis
Tools & Paints
Pandemic Fall of Rome
ZMGZM7124
Minimum players: 1
Maximum players: 5
Playing time: 45-60 mins
ZMGZM7124 Pandemic Fall of Rome /assets/thumb/ZMGZM7124.jpg?1554343412 80.95
Pandemic: Rising Tide
Pandemic: Reign of Cthulhu
Standard Shipping - $10.00
At the height of its power, the Roman Empire held more than two million square miles of territory containing over a hundred million people. Throughout the centuries of its existence, the Empire brought major advancements in engineering, architecture, science, art, and literature. By the beginning of the 5th Century, decades of political corruption, economic crisis, and an overburdened military had exacted a severe toll on the stability of the Empire. This paved the way for severe incursions from aggressive barbarian tribes, leading to a decline from which Rome would not recover. Now citizens, soldiers, and allies of Rome must unite to protect the Empire.
Combining the cooperative gameplay of Pandemic with innovative new mechanisms, Pandemic: Fall of Rometakes players back in history to the time of the world's greatest empire: Rome. A weakened military has left the borders open to invasion from countless tribes such as the Anglo-Saxons, Goths, Vandals, and Huns. As you march through the Roman Empire, you must recruit armies, fortify cities, forge alliances, and face off against the invading hordes in battle.
Simply defending Rome is not enough; players must find a way to stop the incursions and find peace with their neighboring peoples. Players collect sets of matching-colored cards to forge an alliance with the different tribes. In doing so, they gain the ability to use cards matching the tribe to convert other members of that tribe into Roman soldiers, furthering their ability to hold the line against other invaders.
Take on unique roles with special abilities to improve your team's chances to protect against the invaders. Work together, use your skills wisely, and stop the fall of Rome!
Pandemic: Fall of Rome includes a solitaire mode in which the player takes on the burden of being the Emperor and commands three different roles to try to protect the city from the invading hordes. Players who want a more difficult game can try the "Roma Caput Mundi" challenge by adding more Revolt cards to the deck; they must also respect the law in Rome that Roman legions are not allowed in the city.
(ZMGZM7124)
SKU ZMGZM7124
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Neto Theme Designed & Developed by Gallant Digital | {
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Harlan Jay Ellison (May 27, 1934 – June 28, 2018) was an American writer, known for his prolific and influential work in New Wave speculative fiction and for his outspoken, combative personality. Robert Bloch, the author of Psycho, described Ellison as "the only living organism I know whose natural habitat is hot water."
His published works include more than 1,700 short stories, novellas, screenplays, comic book scripts, teleplays, essays, and a wide range of criticism covering literature, film, television, and print media. Some of his best-known works include the 1967 Star Trek episode "The City on the Edge of Forever" (he subsequently wrote a book about the experience that includes his original screenplay), his A Boy and His Dog cycle, and his short stories "I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream" and "'Repent, Harlequin!' Said the Ticktockman". He was also editor and anthologist for Dangerous Visions (1967) and Again, Dangerous Visions (1972). Ellison won numerous awards, including multiple Hugos, Nebulas, and Edgars.
Biography
Early life and career
Ellison was born to a Jewish family in Cleveland, Ohio, on May 27, 1934, the son of Serita (née Rosenthal) and Louis Laverne Ellison, a dentist and jeweler. He had an older sister, Beverly (Rabnick), who was born in 1926. She died in 2010 without having spoken to him since their mother's funeral in 1976. His family subsequently moved to Painesville, Ohio, but returned to Cleveland in 1949, following his father's death. Ellison frequently ran away from home (in an interview with Tom Snyder he would later claim it was due to discrimination by his high school peers), taking an array of odd jobs—including, by age 18, "tuna fisherman off the coast of Galveston, itinerant crop-picker down in New Orleans, hired gun for a wealthy neurotic, nitroglycerine truck driver in North Carolina, short-order cook, cab driver, lithographer, book salesman, floorwalker in a department store, door-to-door brush salesman, and as a youngster, an actor in several productions at the Cleveland Play House". In 1947, a fan letter he wrote to Real Fact Comics became his first published writing.
Ellison attended Ohio State University for 18 months (1951–53) before being expelled. He said the expulsion was for hitting a professor who had denigrated his writing ability, and over the next 20 or so years he sent that professor a copy of every story that he published.
Ellison published two serialized stories in the Cleveland News during 1949, and he sold a story to EC Comics early in the 1950s. During this period, Ellison was an active and visible member of science fiction fandom, and published his own science fiction fanzines, such as Dimensions (which had previously been the Bulletin of the Cleveland Science Fantasy Society for the Cleveland Science Fantasy Society, and later Science Fantasy Bulletin.) Ellison moved to New York City in 1955 to pursue a writing career, primarily in science fiction. Over the next two years, he published more than 100 short stories and articles. The short stories collected as Sex Gang — which Ellison described in a 2012 interview as "mainstream erotica" — date from this period.
He served in the U.S. Army from 1957 to 1959.
His first novel, Web of the City, was published during his military service in 1958, and he said that he had written the bulk of it while undergoing basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia.
After leaving the army, he relocated to Chicago, where he edited Rogue magazine.
Hollywood and beyond
Ellison moved to California in 1962 and began selling his writing to Hollywood. He co-wrote the screenplay for The Oscar (1966), starring Stephen Boyd and Elke Sommer. Ellison also sold scripts to many television shows: The Loretta Young Show (using the name Harlan Ellis),The Flying Nun, Burke's Law, Route 66, The Outer Limits, Star Trek, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., Cimarron Strip, and The Alfred Hitchcock Hour.
Ellison's screenplay for the Star Trek episode "The City on the Edge of Forever" has been considered the best of the 79 episodes in the series.
In 1965, he participated in the second and third Selma to Montgomery marches, led by Martin Luther King Jr.
In 1966, in an article that Esquire magazine later named as the best magazine piece ever written, the journalist Gay Talese wrote a profile of Frank Sinatra. The article, entitled "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold", briefly describes a clash between Sinatra and a young Harlan Ellison, in which the crooner took exception to Ellison's boots during a billiards game.
Ellison was hired as a writer for Walt Disney Studios, but was fired on his first day after Roy O. Disney overheard him in the studio commissary joking about making a pornographic animated film featuring Disney characters.
Ellison continued to publish short fiction and nonfiction pieces in various publications, including some of his best known stories. "'Repent, Harlequin!' Said the Ticktockman" (1965) is a celebration of civil disobedience against repressive authority. "I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream" (1967) is a story where five humans are tormented by an all-knowing computer throughout eternity. The story was the basis of a 1995 computer game; Ellison participated in the game's design and provided the voice of the god-computer AM. Another story, "A Boy and His Dog", examines the nature of friendship and love in a violent, post-apocalyptic world and was made into the 1975 film of the same name, starring Don Johnson.
In 1967, Ellison edited the Dangerous Visions collection, which attracted 'special citation at the 26th World SF Convention for editing "the most significant and controversial SF book published in 1967."' In his introduction Isaac Asimov described it epitomising a 'second revolution' in Science Fiction as 'science receded and modern fictional techniques came to the fore.'
From 1968 to 1970, Ellison wrote a regular column on television for the Los Angeles Free Press. Titled "The Glass Teat," Ellison's column examined television's impact on the politics and culture of the time, including its presentations of sex, politics, race, the Vietnam War, and violence. The essays were collected in two anthologies, The Glass Teat: Essays of Opinion on Television followed by The Other Glass Teat.
Ellison served as creative consultant to the 1980s version of The Twilight Zone science fiction TV series and Babylon 5. As a member of the Screen Actors Guild (SAG), he had voice-over credits for shows, including The Pirates of Dark Water, Mother Goose and Grimm, Space Cases, Phantom 2040, and Babylon 5, as well as making an onscreen appearance in the Babylon 5 episode "The Face of the Enemy".
A frequent guest on the Los Angeles science fiction / fantasy culture radio show Hour 25, hosted by Mike Hodel, Ellison took over as host when Hodel died. Ellison's tenure was from May 1986 to June 1987.
Ellison's short story "The Man Who Rowed Christopher Columbus Ashore" (1992) was selected for inclusion in the 1993 edition of The Best American Short Stories.
Ellison as an audio actor/reader was nominated for a Grammy Award for Best Spoken Word Album for Children twice and has won several Audie Awards.
In 2014, Ellison made a guest appearance on the album Finding Love in Hell by the stoner metal band Leaving Babylon, reading his piece "The Silence" (originally published in Mind Fields) as an introduction to the song "Dead to Me."
Ellison's official website, harlanellison.com, was launched in 1995 as a fan page; for several years, Ellison was a regular poster in its discussion forum.
Personal life and death
Ellison married five times; each relationship ended within a few years, except the last. His first wife was Charlotte Stein, whom he married in 1956. They divorced in 1960, and he later described the marriage as "four years of hell as sustained as the whine of a generator." Later that year he married Billie Joyce Sanders; they divorced in 1963. His 1966 marriage to Loretta Patrick lasted only seven weeks. In 1976, he married Lori Horowitz. He was 41 and she was 19, and he later said of the marriage, "I was desperately in love with her, but it was a stupid marriage on my part." They were divorced after eight months. He and Susan Toth married in 1986, and they remained together, living in Los Angeles, until his death 32 years later. Susan died in August 2020.
Ellison described himself as a Jewish atheist.
In 1994, he had a heart attack and was hospitalized for quadruple coronary artery bypass surgery. From 2010, he received treatment for clinical depression.
In September 2007, Ellison attended the Midwestern debut of the documentary about his life, Dreams with Sharp Teeth at the Cleveland Public Library in his hometown of Cleveland, Ohio. This would be Ellison's last public appearance in his hometown.
On about October 10, 2014, Ellison had a stroke. Although his speech and cognition were unimpaired, he suffered paralysis on his right side, for which he was expected to spend several weeks in physical therapy before being released from the hospital.
Harlan Ellison died in his sleep, at home in Los Angeles in the morning of June 28, 2018. His literary estate is currently executed by Babylon 5 creator J. Michael Straczynski.
Pseudonyms
Ellison on occasion used the pseudonym Cordwainer Bird to alert members of the public to situations in which he felt his creative contribution to a project had been mangled by others, beyond repair, typically Hollywood producers or studios (see also Alan Smithee). The first such work to which he signed the name was "The Price of Doom", an episode of Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea (though it was misspelled as Cord Wainer Bird in the credits). An episode of Burke's Law ("Who Killed Alex Debbs?") credited to Ellison contains a character given this name, played by Sammy Davis Jr.
The "Cordwainer Bird" moniker is a tribute to fellow SF writer Paul M. A. Linebarger, better known by his pen name, Cordwainer Smith. The origin of the word "cordwainer" is shoemaker (from working with shell cordovan leather for shoes). The term used by Linebarger was meant to imply the industriousness of the pulp author. Ellison said, in interviews and in his writing, that his version of the pseudonym was meant to mean "a shoemaker for birds". Since he used the pseudonym mainly for works he wanted to distance himself from, it may be understood to mean that "this work is for the birds" or that it is of as much use as shoes to a bird. Stephen King once said he thought that it meant that Ellison was giving people who mangled his work a literary version of "the bird" (given credence by Ellison himself in his own essay titled "Somehow, I Don't Think We're in Kansas, Toto", describing his experience with the Starlost television series).
The Bird moniker became a character in one of Ellison's own stories. In his 1978 book Strange Wine, Ellison explains the origins of the Bird and goes on to state that Philip José Farmer wrote Cordwainer into the Wold Newton family that the latter writer had developed. The thought of such a whimsical object lesson being related to such lights as Doc Savage, The Shadow, Tarzan, and all the other pulp heroes prompted Ellison to play with the concept, resulting in "The New York Review of Bird", in which an annoyed Bird uncovers the darker secrets of the New York literary establishment before beginning a pulpish slaughter of the same.
Other pseudonyms Ellison used during his career include Jay Charby, Sley Harson, Ellis Hart, John Magnus, Paul Merchant, Pat Roeder, Ivar Jorgenson, Derry Tiger, Harlan Ellis and Jay Solo.
Controversies and disputes
Temperament
Ellison had a reputation for being abrasive and argumentative. He generally agreed with this assessment, and a dust jacket from one of his books described him as "possibly the most contentious person on Earth." Ellison filed numerous grievances and attempted lawsuits; during a contract dispute over Ace Books printing cigarette ads next to his articles, he sent them dozens of bricks postage due, followed by a dead gopher. In an October 2017 piece in Wired, Ellison was dubbed "Sci-Fi's Most Controversial Figure."
At Stephen King's request, Ellison provided a description of himself and his writing in Danse Macabre: "My work is foursquare for chaos. I spend my life personally, and my work professionally, keeping the soup boiling. Gadfly is what they call you when you are no longer dangerous; I much prefer troublemaker, malcontent, desperado. I see myself as a combination of Zorro and Jiminy Cricket. My stories go out from here and raise hell. From time to time some denigrater or critic with umbrage will say of my work, 'He only wrote that to shock.' I smile and nod. Precisely."
Star Trek
Ellison repeatedly criticized how Star Trek creator and producer Gene Roddenberry (and others) rewrote his original script for the 1967 episode "The City on the Edge of Forever". Despite his objections, Ellison kept his own name on the shooting script instead of using "Cordwainer Bird" to indicate displeasure (see above).
Ellison's original script was first published in the 1976 anthology Six Science Fiction Plays, edited by Roger Elwood. The aired version was adapted for the Star Trek Fotonovel series in 1977. In 1995, Borderlands Press published The City on the Edge of Forever, with nearly 300 pages, comprising an essay by Ellison, four versions of the teleplay, and eight "Afterwords" contributed by other parties. He greatly expanded the introduction for the paperback edition, in which he explained what he called a "fatally inept" treatment.
Both versions of the script won awards: Ellison's original script won the 1968 Writers Guild Award for best episodic drama in television, while the shooting script won the 1968 Hugo Award for Best Dramatic Presentation.
On March 13, 2009, Ellison sued CBS Paramount Television, seeking payment of 25% of net receipts from merchandising, publishing, and other income from the episode since 1967; the suit also names the Writers Guild of America for allegedly failing to act on Ellison's behalf. On October 23, 2009, Variety magazine reported that a settlement had been reached.
Vietnam War opposition and Aggiecon I
Ellison was among those who in 1968 signed an anti-Vietnam War advertisement in Galaxy Science Fiction. In 1969, Ellison was Guest of Honor at Texas A&M University's first science fiction convention, Aggiecon, where he reportedly referred to the university's Corps of Cadets as "America's next generation of Nazis", inspired in part by the continuing Vietnam War. Although the university was no longer solely a military school (from 1965), the student body was predominantly made up of cadet members. Between Ellison's anti-military remarks and a food fight that broke out in the ballroom of the hotel where the gathering was held (although, according to Ellison in 2000, the food fight actually started in a Denny's because the staff disappeared and they could not get their check), the school's administration almost refused to approve the science fiction convention the next year and no guest of honor was invited for the next two Aggiecons. However, Ellison was subsequently invited back as Guest of Honor for Aggiecon V (1974).
The Last Dangerous Visions
The Last Dangerous Visions (TLDV), the third volume of Ellison's anthology series, was originally announced for publication in 1973, but had not been published. Nearly 150 writers, many now dead, submitted works for the volume. In 1993, Ellison threatened to sue the New England Science Fiction Association (NESFA) for publishing "Himself in Anachron", a short story written by Cordwainer Smith and originally sold to Ellison for the anthology by his widow. The NESFA later reached an amicable settlement after it was revealed that the story contract had expired, allowing them to legally acquire it for publication.
British science fiction author Christopher Priest criticized Ellison's editorial practices in an article entitled "The Book on the Edge of Forever", later expanded into a book. Priest documented a half-dozen unfulfilled promises by Ellison to publish TLDV within a year of the statement. Priest claims that he submitted a story at Ellison's request, which Ellison retained for several months until Priest withdrew the story and demanded that Ellison return the manuscript. Ellison was incensed by "The Book on the Edge of Forever" and, personally or by proxy, threatened Priest on numerous occasions after its publication.
In November 2020, the executor of the Harlan Ellison estate, J. Michael Straczynski, announced on Patreon that he was proceeding with the final preparations for the publication of TLDV with the proceeds to go to the Harlan and Susan Ellison Trust. The book was expected to be published in April 2021, as significant publisher interest was expressed.
Christopher Priest was unimpressed, saying that Straczynski was "in the same sort of unenviable position as Trump's caddie", but as an experienced professional would possibly work something out. He added "I kind of lost interest in all that years ago. Ellison clearly did too, along with everyone else. (Although I gather he went on with his magical thinking if anyone asked when he was going to deliver). Many of the stories were withdrawn, because Ellison acted like a dick. Of the ones that remain, most of them are by writers who are now deceased, so the rights have expired and the estates would have to be traced. A lot of the writers have disowned their stories as juvenilia, or outdated, or simply because Ellison was acting like a dick."
Despite early hopes of a 2021 release for TLDV, 2021 came and went with no book. An October 2021 'progress report' from Straczynski revealed that the book was still in preparation. On May 2, 2022, Straczynski announced that the book would be published in 2023.
I, Robot
Shortly after the release of Star Wars (1977), Ben Roberts contacted Ellison to develop a script based on Isaac Asimov's I, Robot short story collection for Warner Brothers; Ellison and Asimov had been long-time friends, so Ellison may be presumed to have attached particular significance to the project. In a meeting with the Head of Production at Warners, Robert Shapiro, Ellison concluded that Shapiro was commenting on the script without having read it and accused him of having the "intellectual and cranial capacity of an artichoke". Shortly afterwards, Ellison was dropped from the project. Without Ellison, the film came to a dead end, because subsequent scripts were unsatisfactory to potential directors. After a change in studio heads, Warner allowed Ellison's script to be serialized in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine and published in book form. The 2004 film I, Robot, starring Will Smith, has no connection to Ellison's script.
Allegations of assault on Charles Platt
In 1985, Ellison allegedly publicly assaulted author and critic Charles Platt at the Nebula Awards banquet. Platt did not pursue legal action against Ellison and the two men later signed a "non-aggression pact", promising never to discuss the incident again nor to have any contact with one another. Platt claims that Ellison often publicly boasted about the incident.
Support of Ed Kramer
Ellison voiced strong support for Ed Kramer, founder of Dragon*Con, after Kramer was accused of sexual abuse of children in 2000. Ellison and others disputed the evidence against Kramer, and also alleged Kramer was being held in jail in violation of his right to a speedy trial.
When author Nancy A. Collins spoke up against Kramer, Ellison led a long-standing feud against her before Kramer entered an Alford Plea in 2013.
2006 Hugo Awards ceremony
Ellison was presented with a special committee award at the 2006 Hugo Awards ceremony. When Ellison got to the podium, presenter Connie Willis asked him "Are you going to be good?" When she asked the question a second time, Ellison put the microphone in his mouth, to the crowd's laughter. He then placed his hand on her breast during an embrace. Ellison subsequently complained that Willis refused to acknowledge his apology.
Lawsuit against Fantagraphics
On September 20, 2006, Ellison sued comic book and magazine publisher Fantagraphics, stating they had defamed him in their book Comics As Art (We Told You So). The book recounts the history of Fantagraphics and discussed a lawsuit that resulted from a 1980 Ellison interview with Fantagraphics' industry news magazine, The Comics Journal. In this interview Ellison referred to comic book writer Michael Fleisher, calling him "bugfuck" and "derange-o". Fleisher lost his libel suit against Ellison and Fantagraphics on December 9, 1986.
Ellison, after reading unpublished drafts of the book on Fantagraphics's website, believed that he had been defamed by several anecdotes related to this incident. He sued in the Superior Court for the State of California, in Santa Monica. Fantagraphics attempted to have the lawsuit dismissed. In their motion to dismiss, Fantagraphics argued that the statements were both their personal opinions and generally believed to be true anecdotes. On February 12, 2007, the presiding judge ruled against Fantagraphics' anti-SLAPP motion for dismissal. On June 29, 2007, Ellison claimed that the litigation had been resolved pending Fantagraphics' removal of all references to the case from their website. No money or apologies changed hands in the settlement as posted on August 17, 2007.
Copyright suits
In a 1980 lawsuit against ABC and Paramount Pictures, Ellison and Ben Bova claimed that the TV series Future Cop was based on their short story "Brillo", winning a $337,000 judgement.
Ellison alleged that James Cameron's film The Terminator drew from material from an episode of the original Outer Limits which Ellison had scripted, "Soldier" (1964). Hemdale, the production company and the distributor Orion Pictures, settled out of court for an undisclosed sum and added a credit to the film which acknowledged Ellison's work. Cameron objected to this acknowledgement and has since labeled Ellison's claim a "nuisance suit". Some accounts of the settlement state that another Outer Limits episode written by Ellison, "Demon with a Glass Hand" (1964), was also claimed to have been plagiarized by the film, but Ellison stated that "Terminator was not stolen from 'Demon with a Glass Hand,' it was a ripoff of my OTHER Outer Limits script, 'Soldier.
In 1983, Marvel Comics released The Incredible Hulk #286, entitled "Hero", written by Bill Mantlo. Three issues later, Marvel put up a letter claiming that Mantlo adapted "Soldier" for use as a Hulk story, but they forgot to credit Ellison and had it pointed out by readers. In actuality, then-Editor-in-Chief Jim Shooter signed off on the story, not having seen the Outer Limits episode it was based on and not realizing Mantlo copied it wholesale. The day the issue went to stands, he was contacted by an angry Ellison, who calmed down after Shooter admitted the error. Although he could have claimed hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages, Ellison only requested the same payment Mantlo got for the story, writer's credit and a lifetime subscription to everything Marvel published.
On April 24, 2000, Ellison sued Stephen Robertson for posting four stories to the newsgroup "alt.binaries.e-book" without authorization. The other defendants were AOL and RemarQ, an internet service provider who owned servers hosting the newsgroup. Ellison alleged they had failed to halt copyright infringement in accordance with the "Notice and Takedown Procedure" outlined in the 1998 Digital Millennium Copyright Act. Robertson and RemarQ first settled with Ellison, and then AOL likewise settled with Ellison in June 2004, under conditions that were not made public. Since those settlements Ellison initiated legal action or takedown notices against more than 240 people who have allegedly distributed his writings on the Internet, saying, "If you put your hand in my pocket, you'll drag back six inches of bloody stump".
Works
Awards
Ellison won eight Hugo Awards, a shared award for the screenplay of A Boy and his Dog that he counted as "half a Hugo", and two special awards from annual World SF Conventions; four Nebula Awards of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA); five Bram Stoker Awards of the Horror Writers Association (HWA); two Edgar Awards of the Mystery Writers of America; two World Fantasy Awards from annual conventions; and two Georges Méliès fantasy film awards. In 1987, Ellison was awarded the Inkpot Award.
In his 1981 book about the horror genre, Danse Macabre, Stephen King reviewed Ellison's collection Strange Wine and considered it one of the best horror books published between 1950 and 1980.
Ellison won the World Fantasy Award for Life Achievement in 1993. HWA gave him its Lifetime Achievement Award in 1996 and the World Horror Convention named him Grand Master in 2000. He was awarded the Gallun Award for Lifetime Achievement in Science Fiction from I-CON in 1997.
SFWA named him its 23rd Grand Master of fantasy and science fiction in 2006 and the Science Fiction Hall of Fame inducted him in 2011. That year he also received the fourth J. Lloyd Eaton Lifetime Achievement Award in Science Fiction, presented by the UCR Libraries at the 2011 Eaton SF Conference, "Global Science Fiction".
, Ellison is the only three-time winner of the Nebula Award for Best Short Story. He won his other Nebula in the novella category.
He was awarded the Silver Pen for Journalism by International PEN, the international writers' union, in 1982. In 1990, Ellison was honored by International PEN for continuing commitment to artistic freedom and the battle against censorship. In 1998, he was awarded the "Defender of Liberty" award by the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund.
In March 1998, the National Women's Committee of Brandeis University honored him with their 1998 Words, Wit, Wisdom award.
Ellison was named 2002's winner of the Committee for the Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal's "Distinguished Skeptic Award", in recognition of his contributions to science and critical thinking. Ellison was presented with the award at the Skeptics Convention in Burbank, California, on June 22, 2002.
In December 2009, Ellison was nominated for a Grammy award in the category Best Spoken Word Album For Children for his reading of Through the Looking-Glass And What Alice Found There for Blackstone Audio, Inc.
Academy of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror Films (USA)
Golden Scroll (Best Writing – Career 1976)
American Mystery Award
"Soft Monkey" (best short story, 1988)
Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine Reader's Poll
I, Robot screenplay (Special award, 1988)
Audie Awards
The Titanic Disaster Hearings: The Official Transcript of the 1912 Senatorial Investigation (Best Multi-Voiced Presentation, 1999)
City of Darkness (Best Solo Narration, 1999)
The Dybbuk (Audiobook Adapted from Another Medium, 2000)
Best American Short Stories
"The Man who Rowed Christopher Columbus Ashore" (included in the 1993 anthology)
The Bradbury Award
Given by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America in 2000 to Harlan Ellison and Yuri Rasovsky for the radio series 2000X.
Bram Stoker Award
The Essential Ellison (best collection, 1987)
Harlan Ellison's Watching (best non-fiction, 1989 – tie)
Mefisto in Onyx (best novella, 1993 – tie)
"Chatting With Anubis" (best short story, 1995)
Lifetime Achievement Award, 1995
I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream (best other media – audio, 1999)
British Fantasy Award
"Jeffty Is Five" (best short story, 1979)
British Science Fiction Award
Deathbird Stories (best collection, 1978)
Deathrealm Award
Chatting with Anubis (best short fiction, 1996)
Edgar Allan Poe Award
"The Whimper of Whipped Dogs" (best short story, 1974)
"Soft Monkey" (best short story, 1988)
Georges Melies Fantasy Film Award
Demon with a Glass Hand / The Outer Limits (Achievement in Science Fiction Television, 1972)
The City on the Edge of Forever / Star Trek (Achievement in Science Fiction Television, 1973)
Hugo Award
""Repent, Harlequin!" Said the Ticktockman" (best short fiction, 1966)
"I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream" (best short story, 1968)
The City on the Edge of Forever (best dramatic presentation, 1968)
Dangerous Visions (Worldcon special award, 1968)
"The Beast that Shouted Love at the Heart of the World" (best short story, 1969)
Again, Dangerous Visions (Worldcon special award for excellence in anthologizing, 1972)
"The Deathbird" (best novelette, 1974)
"Adrift Just Off the Islets of Langerhans: Latitude 38° 54' N, Longitude 77° 00' 13" W" (best novelette, 1975)
A Boy and His Dog (film – best dramatic presentation, 1976. The Hugo was originally given to L.Q. Jones, the film's producer and screenwriter. After the ceremony, Ellison complained that as author of the original story upon which Jones's screenplay was based, he deserved to share in the award. No extra Hugo statuette was available, so to mollify Ellison, he received a Hugo base, which he called his "half Hugo".)
"Jeffty Is Five" (best short story, 1978)
"Paladin of the Lost Hour" (best novelette, 1986)
International Horror Guild Award
1994 Living Legend Award
Jupiter Award (Instructors of Science Fiction in Higher Education)
"The Deathbird" (best short story, 1973)
"Jeffty Is Five" (best short story, 1977)
Locus Poll Award
The Region Between (best short fiction, 1971)
Basilisk (best short fiction, 1973)
Again, Dangerous Visions (best anthology, 1973)
The Deathbird (best short fiction, 1974)
Adrift Just Off the Islets of Langerhans: Latitude 38° 54' N, Longitude 77° 00' 13" W (best novelette, 1975)
"Croatoan" (best short story, 1976)
"Jeffty Is Five" (best short story, 1978) (best short story of all time, 1999 online poll)
"Count the Clock that Tells the Time" (best short story, 1979)
"Djinn, No Chaser" (best novelette, 1983)
Sleepless Nights in the Procrustean Bed (introduction) (best related non-fiction, 1985)
Medea: Harlan's World (best anthology, 1986)
Paladin of the Lost Hour (best novelette, 1986)
"With Virgil Oddum at the East Pole" (best short story, 1986)
Angry Candy (best collection, 1989)
The Function of Dream Sleep (best novelette, 1989)
"Eidolons" (best short story, 1989)
Mefisto in Onyx (best novella, 1994)
Slippage (best collection, 1998)
Nebula Award
""Repent, Harlequin!" Said the Ticktockman" (best short story, 1966)
A Boy and His Dog (best novella, 1970)
"Jeffty Is Five" (best short story, 1978)
Grand Master Award (at Tempe, Arizona, May 6, 2006)
"How Interesting: A Tiny Man" (best short story, tied with Kij Johnson/"Ponies" 2011)
Prometheus Award
""Repent, Harlequin!" Said the Ticktockman" (2015 Hall of Fame Inductee)
Writers Guild of America
Demon with a Glass Hand / The Outer Limits (Best Original Teleplay, 1965)
The City on the Edge of Forever / Star Trek (Best Original Teleplay, 1967)
Phoenix Without Ashes / The Starlost (Best Written Dramatic Episode, 1974)
Paladin of the Lost Hour / The Twilight Zone (Best Anthology Episode/Single Program, 1987)
Writers Guild of Canada
The Human Operators / The Outer Limits (2000)
World Fantasy Award
Angry Candy (Best Collection, 1989)
Lifetime Achievement Award, 1993
J. Lloyd Eaton Lifetime Achievement Award in Science Fiction
2011 recipient (Eaton Collection of Science Fiction and Fantasy, University of California–Riverside Libraries)
Parodies and pastiches of Ellison
In the 1970s artist and cartoonist Gordon Carleton wrote and drew a scripted slideshow called "City on the Edge of Whatever", which was a spoof of "The City on the Edge of Forever". Occasionally performed at Star Trek conventions, it features an irate writer named "Arlan Hellison" who screams at his producers, "Art defilers! Script assassins!"
Justice League of America #89 ("The Most Dangerous Dreams Of All") 1971, written by Mike Friedrich, is centered around a character named Harlequin Ellis. The character is smitten with Black Canary, and injects himself into Justice League adventures, taking on the role of different heroes in his attempts to woo her. Ellison himself had written several comic book scripts.
Ben Bova's novel The Starcrossed (1975), a roman à clef about Bova and Ellison's experience on The Starlost TV series, features a character "Ron Gabriel" who is a pastiche of Ellison. Bova's novel is dedicated to Ellison's pseudonym "Cordwainer Bird", who was credited as series creator on The Starlost per Ellison's demand. In the novel, "Ron Gabriel" requires the fictional series producers to credit him under the pseudonym "Victor Lawrence Talbot Frankenstein".
In Murder at the ABA (1976) by Isaac Asimov, the protagonist, Darius Just, was based on Ellison, as stated by Asimov in footnotes to the book itself, and in his autobiographical volume In Joy Still Felt.
Robert Silverberg named a character in his first novel, Revolt on Alpha C (1955), for Ellison, who was Silverberg's neighbor in New York City at the time he was writing the book. This was confirmed in a special edition on the occasion of Silverberg's 35th year in the business.
Sharyn McCrumb's mystery novel Bimbos of the Death Sun (1988) featured a cantankerous antagonist-turned-murder victim based on Ellison. Fans of Ellison sent him copies of the book, and upon meeting Ellison later that year at the Edgar Awards, Ellison told McCrumb he had read the book and thought it was good.
Ellison is a recurring minor character in the animated television series Scooby-Doo! Mystery Incorporated (2010–2013), voicing a fictionalized version of himself modeled on his appearance in the 1970s.
Ellison appeared as himself in an episode of The Simpsons ("Married to the Blob", 2014) in which he meets Bart and Milhouse, and parodies his contention that the film The Terminator used ideas from his stories.
References
Informational notes
Citations
Further reading
A small press biography of Ellison.
External links
(ISFDB)
Ellison Webderland Official website
1934 births
2018 deaths
20th-century American novelists
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Jewish American atheists
American comics writers
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EC Comics
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21st-century pseudonymous writers | {
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May be sanitized by filtering 70% ethanol through thedevice prior to use.10 Centrifugal Force Examples in Daily Life ,2021-1-13\u2002\u00b7\u2002The centrifugal force can be calculated as a negative product of mass and tangential velocity divided by the radius of the circle in which the object is moving.\n\n\u2022 ## Centrifugal Casting ScienceDirect\n\n2017-1-1\u2002\u00b7\u2002The centrifugal force also plays an important role in reaction propagation and product formation, which is realized through the control of grain sizes and compositions of the reactants. The centrifugal force affects movements of intermediate materials during the SHS process, i.e., spreading of melts, coalescence of liquid drops, and material separation by the difference of the component's centrifugal force \u4f8b\u53e5,Cambridge Dictionary Labs\u4e2d\u5982\u4f55\u4f7f\u7528\u201ccentrifugal force\u201d\u7684\u4f8b\u53e5 \u6e05\u6670\u7684\u4e66\u9762\u82f1\u8bed\u548c\u82f1\u8bed\u53e3\u8bed\u89e3\u91ca\n\n\u2022 ## Centrifugal Force Apparatus LabTechonline\n\nCentrifugal Force Apparatus Model No: AM-004 Specifications: The device is composed of a track where a low friction bobbin can run. By rotating the device with the rotation device, it is possible to read the value of the centrifugal force on the Newton spring scale fixed about the rotation axis. Moreover, it is possible to verify the centrifugal force formula too, knowing the radius.centrifugal force china centrifugal force ,centrifugal force manufacturers centrifugal force suppliers Directory Browse centrifugal force products,Choose Quality centrifugal force manufacturers, suppliers, factory at B2BAGE\n\n\u2022 ## Centrifugal Force an overview ScienceDirect Topics\n\nCentrifugal force is the apparent outward force on a mass when it is rotated. Since Earth rotates around a fixed axis, the direction of centrifugal force is always outward away from the axis, opposite to the direction of gravity at the equator; at Earth\u2019s poles it is zero. (Centripetal force is the necessary inward force that keeps the mass from moving in a straight line; it is the same sizeCentrifugal Slurry Pumps Heavy-Duty, Industrial,Centrifugal slurry pumps are among the most common type of pumps found in industrial applications. A centrifugal pump contains one or more impellers that move fluid by rotation using centrifugal force. Not all centrifugal slurry pumps are the same. Many low-quality centrifugal pumps can only pump water.\n\n\u2022 ## Centrifugal Casting Technology Materials & Steel\n\nThe centrifugal casting method is the method to produce pipes by pouring molten metal into a rapidly spinning cylindrical mold in which centrifugal force from the rotation exerts pressure on the molten metal. In 1952, Kubota developed its first centrifugal casting Centripetal Force and Centrifugal Force Definition,Force is required to make an object move. Force acts differently on objects depending on the type of motion it exhibits. In the case of curvilinear motion, two types of force come into the picture, i.e., the centrifugal force and centripetal force. Centripetal force is the force\n\n\u2022 ## Saturn Centrifugal Roaster Probat\n\nTHE CENTRIFUGAL ROASTING PROCESS. The distinguishing characteristic of the PROBAT SATURN centrifugal roaster is the rotation of the roasting bowl which is equipped with a lamellar ring around the vertical axis. In this manner, the green coffee is mixed gently during the roasting process. Hot air is guided into the roaster through the center ofcentrifugal forces COMSOL,2014-7-11\u2002\u00b7\u2002hi, I am modelling a rotor and I am wondering how it is possible to apply the centrifugal force on my Rotor. in fact I don't know if the equations are already in COMSOL or I myself should define them ( how and where I can).\n\n\u2022 ## What Is Centripetal Force? Definition and Equations\n\n2019-12-10\u2002\u00b7\u2002Centripetal force is the force on a body moving in a circle that points inward toward the point around which the object moves. The force in the opposite direction, pointing outward from the center of rotation, is called centrifugal force. For a rotating body, the centripetal and centrifugal centrifugal force \u4f8b\u53e5,Cambridge Dictionary Labs\u4e2d\u5982\u4f55\u4f7f\u7528\u201ccentrifugal force\u201d\u7684\u4f8b\u53e5 \u6e05\u6670\u7684\u4e66\u9762\u82f1\u8bed\u548c\u82f1\u8bed\u53e3\u8bed\u89e3\u91ca\n\n\u2022 ## Centrifugal Force Apparatus Datis Energy Industrial\n\n2021-6-1\u2002\u00b7\u2002The Centrifugal Force apparatus investigates forces on a rotating mass system. Two mass collections are mounted on both end sides of a rotating arm that rotates around its vertical axis. Each mass collection is consisted of two parts: masses in above part that are affected by centrifugal force and masses in below part that are affected bycentrifugal force machine, centrifugal force machine,3,056 centrifugal force machine products are offered for sale by suppliers on Alibaba, of which brick making machinery accounts for 1%, other packaging machines accounts for 1%, and other machinery & industry equipment accounts for 1%. A wide variety of centrifugal force machine options are available to you, such as none, egypt, and indonesia.\n\n\u2022 ## Centrifugal Force Apparatus Manufacturers, Suppliers\n\nCentrifugal Force Apparatus. Centrifugal Force Apparatus: The device is composed of a track where a low friction bobbin can run. By rotating the device with the rotation device, it is possible to read the value of the centrifugal force on the Newton spring scale fixed about the rotation axis. MoreoverCentrifugal force as dot products Physics Forums,2013-4-30\u2002\u00b7\u2002The centrifugal force is $$\\\\Omega\\\\times r\\\\times \\\\Omega$$ I paper I am reading then writes it as ##\\\\frac{1}{2}(r\\\\Omega)^2 \\\\frac{1}{2}\\\\Omega^2r^2## How was this obtained? Using the fact that ##a\\\\times b\\\\times c = (ac)b (ab)c##, I don't get what they are getting so there is.\n\n\u2022 ## Centrifugal Force an overview ScienceDirect Topics\n\nCentrifugal force acting on the balls in a bearing running at high speed can have a marked effect on static stiffness. Figure 2.22 shows the relationship between speed and stiffness for a 7006 15-degree angular contact bearing subject to a spring preload of 200 N, mounted with both inner and outer rings clamped. The four curves are for axial and radial components of stiffness for standard andCentripetal Force and Centrifugal Force Definition,Force is required to make an object move. Force acts differently on objects depending on the type of motion it exhibits. In the case of curvilinear motion, two types of force come into the picture, i.e., the centrifugal force and centripetal force. Centripetal force is the force\n\n\u2022 ## Centrifugal force- definition, formula, Principle\n\n2020-10-16\u2002\u00b7\u2002Centrifugal force. Definition. Centripetal force is the force acting on a body moving in a circular path along the radius of the circular path and is directed towards the center of the circle. Centrifugal force is an outward fictitious force that is experienced Centrifugal force caused high-density rotating ,Centrifugal force caused high-density rotating downward quasi-plug flow in cyclone reactors. Meanwhile, low or even zero gas velocity may result in longer residence of pyrolysis gas phase products in the reactor, increasing the probability of further decomposition of those high-value-added intermediate products, with no benefit to yield\n\n\u2022 ## Centrifugation Theory Fisher Sci\n\nTwo forces counteract the centrifugal force acting on the suspended particles: Buoyant force: force with which the particles must displace the liquid media into which they sediment.; Frictional force: force generated by the particles as they migrate through the solution.; Particles move away from the axis of rotation in a centrifugal field only when the centrifugal force exceeds theCentripetal and Centrifugal Force Science project,2021-7-22\u2002\u00b7\u2002Centripetal force exerted on a spinning object like our bucket of water also leads to an equal and opposite centrifugal force, the force that the rotating object exerts on the restraining mass (the hand that is swinging the bucket). These two forces work","date":"2021-10-20 22:36:59","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.49199047684669495, \"perplexity\": 2492.646879189833}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2021-43\/segments\/1634323585353.52\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20211020214358-20211021004358-00531.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
I Koulougli (dal turco Köleoğlu, derivato da Köle "schiavo" + Oğlu "figlio di") è un'espressione coniata durante il periodo ottomano per designare la progenie mista che si formò con l'incontro tra gli uomini turchi e le locali donne nordafricane nella costa maghrebina.
Mentre l'espressione è stata comunemente adottata in Algeria, in Libia e in Tunisia, essa non si è diffusa in Egitto.
Oggi, i discendenti dei koulougli si sono ampiamente integrati nella società dei paesi del Maghreb, tuttavia mantengono alcune particolarità culturali, in particolare nell'ambito culinario e religioso, dal momento che gran parte di queste comunità pratica la scuola hanafita dell'Islam, a differenza della maggioranza malikita. Molte famiglie mantengono cognomi di origine turca.
Storia
Nel corso dei secoli di presenza ottomana in Nordafrica, numerosi militari arrivarono partendo dall'Anatolia.
Le autorità posero il divieto ai turchi di adottare la lingua araba; questo permise alla lingua turca di mantenere il suo prestigio nella regione fino al XIX secolo.
Note
Collegamenti esterni
Gruppi etnici in Algeria
Gruppi etnici in Tunisia
Gruppi etnici in Libia
Popoli turchi
Parole e locuzioni della lingua turca | {
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Q: What does it mean for a function $u : D \to \mathbb{C}$ to be harmonic, $D \subset \mathbb{R^2}$? On page 167 of David Ullrich's "Complex Made Simple", he defines $u : D \to \mathbb{C}$ to be harmonic, $D \subset \mathbb{R^2}$, to be harmonic in $D$ if it is twice continuously real differentiable and $u_{xx} = u_{yy}$.
Since $\mathbb{R^2} = \mathbb{C}$, does this mean that $u$ is a function from $D$ to $\mathbb{R^2}$, and so $u(x,y) = (f(x,y),g(x,y))$? Then, what does $u_{xx}$ mean for a vector valued function?
A: If $u=(f,g)$, then $u_{xx} = (f_{xx},g_{xx})$. That is, do it component-wise.
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ADVANCE PRAISE
"Welcome to the Pasadena you won't find in the guidebooks as Phoef Sutton puts you in the shotgun seat with the tough and terse Crush in the cold-eyed _Colorado Boulevard_."
— Gary Phillips, editor of _The Obama Inheritance: 15 Stories of Conspiracy Noir_
"Caleb Rush, AKA Crush, has a history riveted with dangerous living: soldier, drifter, bodyguard, recovering alcoholic, and "friend bro" to his hapless stepbrother, K.C. Zerbe. When K.C. is kidnapped, Crush sets off on a madcap ride through Pasadena and environs to rescue him. Car crashes, concussions, nail-biting suspense, and a cast of quirky characters... _Colorado Boulevard_ has it all. But it's Crush's humor and humanity that highlight the resilience of the human spirit and make this story soar."
— Patricia Smiley, _Los Angeles Times_ –bestselling author of _Pacific Homicide_
"Family saga meets thriller on the streets of Pasadena— _Colorado Boulevard_ is the best Crush book yet."
— Naomi Hirahara, Edgar-winning author of the Mas Arai and Ellie Rush mystery series
"Man, these Crush novels just keep getting better and better. Crush is like Jack Reacher with a hair up his ass. And the Los Angeles that Sutton writes about is the secret Los Angeles that nobody knows and everybody wants to know. Sutton answers questions about the city that I didn't even know I had."
— Hart Hanson, author of _The Driver_ and creator of _Bones_
PRAISE FOR THE CRUSH NOVELS
_Kirkus_ 2016 & 2015 Best Mysteries/Thrillers _Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel_ 10 Best Mysteries of 2016 A _Los Angeles Times_ "Summer Reading Page Turner"
"As slick as a switchblade with a pearl handle."
— Lee Child, _New York Times_ –bestselling
author of the Jack Reacher novels
"There's magic in this book."
— Carole Barrowman,
_Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel_
"Studios, please option this immediately. With its nonstop action, snappy dialogue, and wisecracking characters, this send-up of Hollywood is a surefire winner."
— Denise Hamilton, bestselling author of the Eve
Diamond crime novels and editor of _Los Angeles Noir_
"Nonstop action and variations on the man-with- a-gun distraction that go Chandler one better.... Like [Elmore] Leonard, Sutton writes great dialogue and lavishes almost as much care and attention on his villains as he does his heroes."
— _Los Angeles Times_
"Don't wait for the movie. Buy the book."
— _Kirkus Reviews_ (starred review)
"A swagger of a book."
— _Booklist_
Also by Phoef Sutton
_Heart Attack & Vine_
_Crush_
_15 Minutes to Live_
with Janet Evanovich
_Curious Minds_
_Wicked Charms_
Copyright ©2017 by Phoef Sutton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
| Published by Prospect Park Books
2359 Lincoln Avenue
Altadena, California 91001
www.prospectparkbooks.com
---|---
Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Distribution
www.cbsd.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress. The following is for reference only:
Names: Sutton, Phoef, author.
Title: Colorado boulevard: a Crush novel / by Phoef Sutton.
Description: Altadena: Prospect Park Books, [2017]
Identifiers: ISBN 9781945551161 (e-book)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.
Cover design by Howard Grossman
Book layout and design by Amy Inouye
_To my friend Mark Jordan Legan;_
_remembering The Dew Drop Inn,_
_endless movie nights, and hard-boiled eggs and nuts_
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
PROLOGUE
JANUARY 1, 2001
The dinosaurs were causing a traffic jam in downtown Pasadena. The Brontosaurus's tail had stopped wagging and the Stegosaurus was blocking the progress of a giant bald eagle flying over an enormous American flag. The 112th Annual Tournament of Roses Parade was not going well.
The White Suits (the old-money Pasadena volunteers who were supposed to keep the street clear and make the parade run on time) were milling about and starting to panic. Fortunately, this was happening far down Colorado Boulevard, near the end of the parade route. If they could get things moving soon they would be saved the embarrassment of a televised delay back by the Norton Simon Museum where Bob Eubanks and Stephanie Edwards hosted the Tournament on KTLA Channel 5 with their usual disdain for each other.
Ray Dorsey, in his white Armani suit and red tie, made his way to the well-hidden back cockpit of the Zerbe Enterprises float named, oddly, The Age of Fossil Fuel. He wanted to see what the holdup was. Inside the rump of the Brontosaurus was a tiny command post where the man in charge of working the tail was seated. That man was actually a seventeen-year-old boy named Caleb Rush, and he was beginning to regret volunteering for Dinosaur Tail-Wagging Duty. As a matter of fact, he was beginning to regret everything he'd done for the last six months.
Sitting on a small plastic chair, encased in a claustrophobic little cell, surrounded by the deafening sounds of twenty-two high school marching bands, Caleb couldn't see anything of the outside world but a tiny patch of pavement beneath the float as it traveled down the street. A line of pink paint marked the middle of the road and was supposed to show him that they were going the right way.
The line of pink was nowhere to be seen.
Tournament rules forbade anything as high-tech as a video feed of the parade inside the float itself, so Caleb had no idea of the ruckus the stalled dinosaurs were causing. He had a radio monitor in his ear, but since they'd made the turn from Orange Grove to Colorado it had been blasting nothing but static, so he'd plucked it out. The instructions he'd been given were pretty simple anyway. Wag the damn Brontosaurus's tail at regular intervals until the float stopped moving.
Caleb had a big, muscular frame and looked much older than his seventeen years, which was why he had been selected for this job. It took strength to keep pulling the lever that operated the huge tail. It was reasoned that he could handle a prehistoric monster's rear end. There were other considerations, of course. Family considerations.
Caleb's mother had recently married the head of the Zerbe family, Emil Zerbe. Caleb thought that Emil giving his new stepson the job of piloting the hind part of the Brontosaurus was either an honor or a humiliation, depending on how one chose to look at it.
Caleb knew how he chose to look at it. Especially since the tail had stopped working halfway down Colorado Boulevard and he knew who would be blamed for this malfunction. Not the designers or the builders of this monstrosity. No, it would go down as pilot error, and Caleb was the pilot.
As it was, he was almost relieved when the bigger fuckup occurred and the float drifted off the pink line and came to a stop far from the parade's finish line. He sat calmly in the cockpit and waited for someone to tell him what had gone wrong.
Instead he heard a hammering on the hatch and someone on the street asking him what the hell was going on, as if he knew anything about it. He raised the hatch (a definite breach of parade protocol) partly to talk with the White Suit who was bothering him and partly because the claustrophobia was beginning to get to him. He had been trapped inside that dinosaur for the better part of an hour and a half.
"What's going on?" the White Suit asked him. Caleb recognized him as Mr. Dorsey, the vice principal of his school. This New Year's Day was getting more nightmarish by the minute.
"How should I know?" Caleb asked. "I just run the tail."
"Well, where's the goddamned driver?" Dorsey asked.
"At the base of the volcano." To show him, Caleb climbed out of the dinosaur's ass, which was an absolute violation of all that the Rose Parade held holy. No one was allowed to emerge from the floats except in a dire emergency. Caleb didn't know if this was dire, but as he looked back at all the floats bottling up behind them (the spaceships and Tom Sawyers and cute enormous panda bears), he guessed this at least qualified as an emergency.
Looking at The Age of Fossil Fuel float, Caleb saw that it had driven partway onto the curb, forcing the onlookers to the sides and driving the head of the Brontosaurus inappropriately close to the window of the last remaining adult bookstore in Old Town Pasadena. It seemed to leer at a mannequin dressed in a lacy bra and panties.
Caleb led Dorsey up around to the front of the daisy-and-marigold-covered volcano, which spewed smoke out of the crater on top. He hesitated before tapping on the well-camouflaged hatchway, and speaking to the driver, Victor Zerbe. Victor was Emil Zerbe's brother and his partner in industry and, in general, tearing this city down and building it back up again.
"Mr. Zerbe? Is something wrong?" Caleb asked. He couldn't quite bring himself to call the man Uncle Victor, not after four short months of being his stepnephew. There was no answer from the volcano, so Caleb rapped harder and called louder. Finally, he lifted the hatch and looked inside. Victor sat there, head tilted back, staring blankly. And not blinking. Or breathing. With a little red hole in the middle of his forehead.
Dorsey crowded against Caleb, trying to see in. "What's wrong with him?" he asked.
"I think he's dead," Caleb said.
Dorsey was silent for a moment. Then his true White Suit-ness came to the fore. "Well, can you get in there and drive the float?"
The parade must go on, after all.
CHAPTER ONE
DECEMBER 30, 2017
K.C. Zerbe opened his eyes and saw the barrel of a gun pointed at his face. "Move and I'll kill you," whispered a hoarse voice.
In a skittering heartbeat Zerbe was awake, alert and terrified.
"Do you understand?" the man with the gun said.
Zerbe nodded mechanically. He understood. The years he spent in prison had taught him to be agreeable to men who woke him up holding weapons.
Over the gunman's shoulder Zerbe could see through the picture windows. It was dark and Christmas lights were flickering through the glass. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa. It must be somewhere between one and three o'clock in the morning but he didn't have the nerve to shift his eyes to the clock and make sure. He just kept looking down, submissively. He knew not to look his assailant in the eyes. Not to challenge him. Better to do exactly as he was told.
Then another voice commanded, "Get up." Zerbe turned his head and saw another man in a ski mask holding another gun.
Zerbe hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. "Okay," he said, hoping he didn't sound like a smart-ass, "I need you to clarify something for me. If I get up I'll have to move, but if I move he says he'll kill me. Which do you want me to do?" No doubt about it, he sounded like a smart-ass. His smart-ass-ness always got him into trouble.
The first gunman kicked Zerbe in the stomach. The impact of the blow to his gut, the rush of air out of his lungs, and the taste of bile in his mouth were all familiar to him, and he felt something like nostalgia flow over him. The nights of prison beatings came back to him and he felt that the two years of relative freedom he'd enjoyed had been just a dream. This was reality. Being beaten and pissed on in a prison cot. This was real life.
"Get up!" the second gunman said. Zerbe tried to suppress his panic, but that only made the adrenaline rush stronger. He was a thirty-two-year-old ex-convict who'd never harmed anyone. What could these men want from him?
"Where are you taking me?" Zerbe asked.
"Out."
"You can't."
The second gunman slapped Zerbe in the face. He was short and round. The first gunman was tall and thin. They were like a brutal Bert and Ernie, Zerbe thought. _Why did he always think things like that at times like this?_ he wondered.
"Really, I can't," Zerbe said. "Look." He pulled the right leg of his sweatpants up to reveal the plastic electronic device strapped to his ankle. "That's an ankle monitor. I'm on probation. House arrest, you know? If I leave, they'll know."
The shorter man, whom Zerbe named "Ernie" in his mind, hauled him roughly to his feet and said, "Let's go."
"No, really," Zerbe protested. "If I leave I'll be violating probation. They'll send me back to prison."
"Do we sound like we care?"
"What do you want with me?" Zerbe knew he should shut up. He knew it, but he couldn't. That was his curse. "Do you want a ransom? You won't get anything. My folks have cut me off."
Ernie slapped Zerbe again, harder this time. "Move!" He shoved Zerbe, who took a stumbling step toward the door. They were on the twelfth floor of the American Cement Building on Wilshire Boulevard, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking MacArthur Park and the Los Angeles skyline. How the hell did these thugs get in here?
"I need to put on some shoes," Zerbe said, knowing that he was stalling, just trying to put some time between now and the great unknown outside world. He'd dreamed of walking out of here many times over the past two years, but in his dreams he'd always walked into the elevator and onto the street of his own volition. _His own volition_. The phrase struck him as odd and he almost laughed. Could he leave by someone else's volition? Wasn't that the definition of kidnapping?
"What are you laughing at?" It was "Bert" who asked this, and Zerbe detected some fear in the man's voice. A lack of confidence. That worried Zerbe. He wanted his kidnappers to have the assurance of professionals. Better to be in the hands of competent, experienced hoodlums than bumbling amateurs.
"Get your shoes," Ernie said, as if to cover his friend's mistake.
Zerbe slipped into his Merrell Chameleons. He took his time tying the laces and stood up, adjusting his T-shirt with the Captain America shield on it, sneaking a glance at the clock. It was 4:11 in the morning. His stepbrother should be home by now. Or had these gunmen taken care of him down in the garage? Zerbe doubted that. His brother could take care of himself. They didn't call him Crush for nothing.
Ernie pulled him up again. "Come on, are we gonna do this or not?" Zerbe thought it was odd that the hoodlum was asking him, but the time for delaying the inevitable was past.
"Where are you taking me?" Zerbe asked.
"Move or I'll put a bullet in your brain."
That remark was a little melodramatic, but it got Zerbe's attention. He moved past the shiny silver Christmas tree, stepped over the discarded, crinkled wrapping paper, and made his way to the loft's big metal front door. It stood open. Bert and Ernie had let themselves in. They must have had a key to the place, Zerbe realized. How in the hell had they gotten a key? Was this an inside job? It had taken real planning on someone's part. Zerbe's panic grew.
He walked to the door and out into the hall. Zerbe hadn't been out in the hall for over a year. When his probation began, when they attached the monitor to his ankle and left him here at his brother's place, he was overjoyed. As Zerbe often said, not being in prison is something you really don't appreciate until you've been in prison. Even on your worst day, when you have a disgusting stomach virus, when your best friends are annoying the hell out of you, and your future seems bleaker than bleak, you can think to yourself, _At least I'm not still in prison_ , and things don't seem so bad.
In those first heady months he had often tried to see what the limits of his freedom were, how far he could go until his ankle monitor told him to stop. And it did speak to him, in an electronic voice, like a computer-taking-over-the-world from a sixties' sci-fi movie. The voice told him when he was moving outside his "home zone." It told him when he needed to plug it in and charge it up. It told him when he had to call in and check with his probation officer. Even with its limited vocabulary, the voice had become one of his closest friends.
With the ankle monitor as his guide, he had discovered how far he could go in his house arrest. And the limit of the electronic leash wasn't the door to his brother's loft. No, it was in the hallway, just by the elevator. So he could stand next to the gateway to the outer world and watch people come and go. He was like Moses, he sometimes thought. He could see the Promised Elevator, but he could not enter it.
After about six months, he stopped going out into the hall. His brother's loft, which at first had felt so spacious, had shrunk down from its actual size of two thousand square feet, which was a hell of a lot larger than his cell in Lancaster State Prison but a hell of a lot smaller than the whole wide world. The world he could see through the big windows of his brother's loft. The world he could not enter for almost another year.
And as time passed, the loft got smaller and smaller, so to stand by the elevator seemed less like freedom and more like torment. So he passed his sentence locked behind the safety of his brother's metal door and waited it out.
Until now, when Zerbe was again thrust out into the whitewashed industrial hallway. The building looked deliberately unfinished, in order to appeal to the hipster urban dwellers who shunned the idea of living in an "apartment" for "rent" and craved the "loft" experience. Out here Zerbe felt vulnerable and exposed and he longed for the walls of the loft, like a tortoise ripped from its cozy shell.
Bert pressed the button for the elevator while Ernie thrust his gun barrel into Zerbe's ribs. "Don't even think about yelling for help," he said.
"Why are you doing this?" Zerbe whispered. "Is someone paying you?"
"Shut up," Ernie said, and Zerbe got the feeling he was talking to both of them.
"If it's money you want," Zerbe said, "you can have it. I have money. How much is he paying you?"
"Enough," Ernie hissed and gave Zerbe a shove.
As he stumbled toward the elevator doors, the computerized voice spoke up from Zerbe's ankle. "You are moving outside your home zone."
"What the hell is that?" Ernie asked.
"I told you," Zerbe said. "It's my monitor."
"Well, shut it up."
"I can't. Please, don't make me go out there."
As he said this, Zerbe wasn't sure if it was fear of what they were going to do to him, fear of breaking probation, or simply fear of going out into the world that scared him more.
"You are moving outside your home zone," the monitor repeated. It would not be denied.
"Shut that thing the fuck up!" Bert said.
"I tell you, I can't," Zerbe said.
"Does it have a GPS monitor?" Ernie asked, sounding worried. "Can it tell where you are?"
"Yes!" Zerbe seized at this way out. "So there's no point in kidnapping me. They'll find me in no time. They'll catch you."
Ernie thought for a moment. "Take it off," he said.
"I can't. It has fiber optics. It can tell if it gets cut off. It sends an alarm."
"How long have you had to wear that?"
"Two years."
"You have to take it off. Do it. Now."
"Listen to me. On my mother's grave, I swear, I can't. I don't know how to take it off."
Zerbe's mother was alive and he knew how to take the device off.
Crush, the man whom Zerbe called his brother, was taking the twelve flights of stairs up to the loft because if there was a hard way of doing something, Crush would do it.
"Showing off for me?" Catherine Gail asked with a sly smile.
"Nope," Crush said as he bounded up the stairs. "But you can take the elevator if you'd like."
"No way," she said, keeping right up with him. "The student will not outpace the teacher."
Taking this many stairs after a long day's work might have been too much for most people, but Crush and Gail prided themselves on their stamina and physical conditioning. It wasn't easy for them. They were both recovering from serious injuries, so they had a lot to prove, if not to each other, at least to themselves. She had been beaten nearly to death by Russian mobsters two years earlier; last February Crush had been shot in the stomach by an aging movie director. Trouble seemed to follow them like an old friend. Or maybe a stalker.
Gail was a lithe and lovely forty. Her raven-black hair had a shock of white running through it, just like Lily Munster, as Zerbe used to say. She was Crush's tae kwon do master. At the moment she was without a dojo to teach in or a home to rest her head. The landlord of her downtown storefront school had decided he could make a bigger profit from selling the building to a developer than renting it. This was the inevitable result of DTLA revitalization, Zerbe said. The residents were getting thrown out and the millennials were moving in.
Crush said she could stay with him for the time being. Nobody was surprised. They not only worked out together in the dojo, they worked together in a nightclub, the Nocturne, where Gail was the bartender and Crush was the bouncer. This was that odd time between Christmas and New Year's, that week of extended holiday that never seems real and that is best forgotten in the coming year. Christmas was five days ago, but the Nocturne was still open long hours, and the clientele still acted as though what happened this week, stayed in this week.
Crush and Gail spent so much time together that many people assumed that they were a couple and that living together was the natural next step. The fact that they weren't lovers, despite being two reasonably attractive people of the opposite sex, was something most people just couldn't accept. For them it was natural. It wasn't that Gail didn't find Crush appealing. It wasn't that Crush didn't think Gail was beautiful. It wasn't even that their roles as student and master made it inappropriate. Gail, the more spiritual of the two, said it was because they had been brother and sister in an earlier life. Crush, the earthier of the two, said it was because they knew each other too well to allow sex to complicate things.
Crush wasn't his real name, of course. It was just his street name. He was born Caleb Rush, and the fact that he had a different last name than Zerbe was just one reason Crush objected to being called his brother.
Crush and Zerbe were roughly the same age, both of them in their early thirties, but there the resemblance ended. Zerbe was a doughy computer nerd of average height; Crush topped out at six-foot-five and was 230 pounds of pure muscle. His head was shaved bald, and an old scar ran from his left eye across his face, like an angry exclamation mark. Zerbe's head was covered with a wild mop of curly hair that always made him look like he had just gotten out of bed.
Gail was, to her surprise, having trouble keeping up with Crush. "In a hurry, Grasshopper?" she asked him. She hadn't actually ever seen the TV show _Kung Fu_ , but Zerbe had told her about it. Zerbe was their curator of popular culture.
"Not really," Crush said. "I just don't like leaving Zerbe alone any more than necessary these days. He's getting weird."
"Weirder than usual?"
"It's hard to explain."
The whole relationship between Crush and Zerbe was hard to explain. Zerbe came from an old-money Pasadena family. Crush came from Brooklyn, by way of the Russian mob. Their families had intersected briefly when Zerbe's father married Crush's mother. It had been a short, eventful, and horrendous relationship that had occurred when Zerbe and Crush were both in their teens. It hadn't made them friends exactly, but it had made them allies.
If there had been an informal poll among their acquaintances at Pasadena Prep as to which one of them would be sent to prison, Crush would have won hands down. Instead it was Zerbe who was locked up and Crush who got a Purple Heart in Iraq. When Zerbe got the opportunity to finish his prison sentence under house arrest, he agreed to it on the condition that he live with his "brother," the decorated war hero Caleb Rush, rather than with his mother or father. The state, in a hurry to make room for more dangerous criminals than Zerbe, agreed.
So they lived together. Crush liked having Zerbe there. It was nice to know someone was always looking after the place during his frequent absences. Zerbe liked living vicariously through Crush's unorthodox life. It was nice for both of them to have company. It was a win-win situation.
But lately Zerbe had been moody and depressed. He hadn't showered or changed his clothes for days now and, what was more alarming, Zerbe's frequent masturbation rate had dipped drastically.
"Are you losing interesting in yourself?" Crush asked him last night.
Zerbe shrugged. "It just doesn't seem worth the trouble."
This made Crush really concerned. Zerbe had only eight months to go on his sentence, and Crush prayed he could do the time and stay relatively sane. Sane for Zerbe, anyway.
Crush passed the eleventh floor and put on a burst of speed. Gail kept up right beside him. Competition was part of their relationship. Crush smiled as he reached the twelfth floor and pushed open the door to the hallway.
To his surprise, he saw Zerbe stepping into the elevator with a man standing close to him and another, taller man behind them, as if standing guard.
Most people would have been puzzled. Most people would have paused to react. Most people would have taken the time to figure out what was going on. But not Crush. By the time the doors had started to close Crush had stepped forward, grabbed the tall guard by the shoulder and yanked him from the elevator, throwing him back against the wall. Sensing the movement, the doors slid open again and Zerbe almost broke loose. The shorter man seized Zerbe by the throat and pulled him back.
Crush blocked the door with his foot. "What the hell's going on?" he asked.
Zerbe croaked an unintelligible reply. The short man used Zerbe as a shield and pointed a gun at Crush. "Don't," he said.
Meanwhile, the tall guard had pushed away from the wall and tried to run past Crush into the elevator. Crush blocked his way and shoved him off, but the man was clutching at Crush's arm, pulling him off balance.
Zerbe broke free, stumbled out of the elevator, and fell against the wall. By then, Gail was in the hallway, throwing herself at the shorter man, who brandished a gun. He didn't fire it, rather, he swung it at her jaw. She arched her back and the pistol sailed past it. She brought her knee up to her chest and kicked out, the ball of her foot colliding with his chin.
The short man fell backward and Crush was on him, driving his fist toward the man's face, knuckles crunching his cheekbone and propelling him to the ground, like a hammer pounding in a nail.
The tall man grabbed Zerbe and dragged him into the elevator. The doors were closing. Crush dove for them but they slid shut before he could reach them. Gail hit the button but the elevator had already started its descent.
Crush ran for the stairs. Could he outrun the elevator? Maybe, if it stopped on one of the other floors. But at four o'clock in the morning? Not likely.
"Shit!" he said, slamming his fist into the door.
"What's going on?" Gail asked.
Crush tromped toward the short man who lay crumpled on the floor. "Let's find out," he said, reaching down and dragging the man by his arm into the loft. Crush flung him against the sofa.
The short man bounded up and ran. Crush's big body was blocking the exit, so the only place he could run was into the bedroom. A dead end with no way out. He slammed the door, but that wouldn't do him any good. The short man was trapped in there.
Something on the sofa caught Crush's eye. He reached for it and picked it up.
"Is that what I think it is?" Gail asked.
"Zerbe's ankle monitor."
"Why's it so shiny?"
"It's covered with this," he said, pointing to an open bottle on the coffee table. One hundred percent virgin olive oil.
"He slid it off?"
"I guess."
"Is it still working?" Gail asked.
"Oh, yeah," Crush said, observing the steady blue light on the monitor. "And it doesn't know he's gone."
"We better call the police," she said.
"Wait." He crossed to the bedroom door. "Let's get some answers first." Crush flung open the door. The short man was cowering in the corner, breathing heavily through his ski mask. Crush grabbed him and threw him to the floor. Grabbing a Christmas garland that was hanging over his bed, Crush wrapped it around the man's throat, choking him. "Where is he going?" Crush asked. "Where's your friend taking him?"
The man's answer was muffled by the ski mask. Crush yanked it off his head. He was just a kid. Asian, hair dyed blond with blue highlights. He couldn't have been more that twenty-two.
"Who sent you here?" Crush asked. "Who hired you to do this?"
"Him!"
"Who do you mean?"
"The guy we kidnapped. He hired us! He hired us to kidnap him!"
CHAPTER TWO
Crush was kneeling on the gunman's chest, putting his full 230 pounds on him. "What are you talking about?"
"He did! I swear!"
Gail entered the bedroom, tossing the ankle monitor on the bed. "Did he?" she asked.
"What are you asking?"
"Maybe he did this," Gail said. "Maybe he got bored. Maybe he thought he could get outside this way and the court wouldn't blame him."
Crush was silent for moment. "You know, that's not a bad idea. I never thought of that."
"He has a lot of time to think of things."
Crush shook his head. "Even if he had, he wouldn't have done this. He'd have to be crazy."
"He's done some pretty crazy things."
"Like what?"
"How 'bout the time he ordered the one-legged stripper to come and sing 'Happy Birthday' to you. And it wasn't even your birthday."
Crush looked down at the frightened kidnapper. "What's your name?"
"I can't breathe," he said.
Crush put more weight onto his chest. "Your name!"
"Donny," the man cried.
"Okay, Donny," Crush lifted his knee from Donny's sternum and unwrapped the garland from around his throat. "Tell me more."
"We were just doing what he told us! He said to break in at four in the morning. He asked us to deliver him to a warehouse in Irwindale. He told us not to be afraid to threaten him and rough him up. We figured it was some kind of sex game."
"A sex game?" Crush asked.
Donny shrugged. "It takes all kinds. I don't judge."
"How did he contact you? Through the internet?"
"No. We met at a bar."
"A bar? What bar?"
"The Abbey, okay?"
Crush knew The Abbey, on Robertson Boulevard in West Hollywood. It was one of the most famous gay bars in the country. A nice place. Crush subbed for the bouncer sometimes. "When was this?" he asked.
"Last night," Donny said. "He was sitting at the bar. He said he'd give us a thousand dollars to kidnap him. Said it was a game. He even gave us the key and a pass card to get in the building."
Crush and Gail exchanged a look. Zerbe hadn't been out in public for four years.
"Fuck me," Gail said.
"Noel," Crush said.
Donny took advantage of their momentary distraction to crawl in the direction of the door. Crush put his big hand on Donny's shoulder. "Stay," Crush said. "Hand over the key. And the pass card."
Donny searched frantically through his pockets and dropped the key and the pass card into Crush's palm.
"He gave us the gun, too," Donny said. "It isn't loaded. He just told us to make it seem really real. To scare the hell out of him. I should have figured it was a trap. That he'd get off on seeing you beat the crap out of us."
"I didn't beat the crap out of you," Crush said. "When I beat the crap out of you, you'll know it."
Donny's eyes grew wider. "Okay."
"Did he pay you in advance?"
"Half. The other half when we delivered him."
"Let that be a lesson to you. Always get the money up front." Crush stood up. "Come on."
"Where are we going?" Donny asked, trembling.
"Irwindale." Crush grasped Donny by the arm and started pulling him to the door. He stopped to pluck the ankle monitor off the bed. "Take this," he said, handing it to Gail. "Walk it around."
"Why?" she asked.
"Make it look like he's still here."
"You don't want me to call the cops?"
Crush shook his head. "I'll bring him back. Donny had Zerbe's keys. What if he _was_ in on this? What if he's violated his probation? He'll go back to prison."
"Noel's the crazy one."
"Noel may be crazy, but he's still Zerbe's brother. What if they cooked this up together?"
"I don't like this."
"Look, if you don't hear from me by eight o'clock, you can call the police."
"And tell them what?" Gail asked.
"That's up to you."
Crush floored his 1967 Chevrolet Camaro ZL1 down Rampart to the 101. He figured it should take about a half-hour to get to Irwindale at this time of night. Zerbe and his abductor had about a fifteen-minute head start on him. But then, they were probably stopping at red lights. Crush wasn't doing that. He would catch up with them.
While he sped through the darkened city streets, he thought about Noel Zerbe. Noel was K.C. Zerbe's twin brother. Born five minutes before Zerbe, he always looked to the future. Though the twins were identical in appearance, they took very different paths in life. Zerbe was the practical one, the one who went to Harvard Business School, the one who made a fortune on Wall Street before he was thirty. The one who went to prison.
Noel was the artistic one. He went to Rhode Island School of Design, majoring in scenography. He graduated and went on to design Las Vegas shows for the likes of Céline Dion and Cirque du Soleil. He did the sets for numerous Broadway productions, including the wildly successful revival of _A Little Night Music_ , for which he became the youngest winner of a Tony for Scenic Design.
The only prison Noel went to was a metaphorical one.
Noel was described by those who liked him as bipolar. He was described by those who didn't like him as bat-shit crazy. The bat-shit crazy ones far outnumbered the bipolar ones.
K.C. and Noel made quite a pair in their high school days. Identical twins, one who dressed like Jerry Maguire and the other who dressed like Neo in _The Matrix_. They had different friends and different goals. And they had a very different relationship with their new stepbrother, Caleb Rush. To Zerbe, he was an ally. To Noel, he was a rival.
But why would Noel have his brother abducted? It didn't make any sense. Crush thought of calling him on his cell phone and demanding to know what the hell was going on, but then he remembered that Noel didn't own a cell phone. According to Noel, they caused brain cancer and, more to the point, they let them track you. Who was "them?" According to Noel, "they" were everyone from the government to the Russians to aliens to the lizard people who secretly ruled the world. Noel's paranoia was inclusive.
"Where in Irwindale?" Crush asked Donny.
"What?"
"Where were you supposed to deliver him?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Don't make me mad."
"Really, Jack had the address. He was the one in charge. I was just going along with it. I always go along with him. He always gets me in trouble. This is the last time, I'm telling you."
Crush thought. Where would Noel be in Irwindale? Where would anyone be in Irwindale?
"Cool car," Donny said.
"What?"
"This is a cool car."
"It is," Crush agreed, heading down the 101 to the 10.
"You fixed it up yourself?" Donny asked.
"Why are you asking that? What are you doing? Are you trying to bond with me?"
"That's what you're supposed to do, isn't it? When you're abducted?"
"You haven't been abducted. You were the one doing the abducting."
"Was," Donny said. "I was abducting. Now I'm abducted."
Crush shrugged. He could see the man's point. You never know when you get up in the morning how the day's going to end.
"So where are you from?" Donny went on.
"This isn't going to work."
"I'm from Long Beach."
"Shut up."
"Where'd you go to school?"
Crush turned on the radio. Tory Lanez sang "Luv." Crush hated that song. He turned it up louder. Donny was still talking, but Crush wasn't listening. He was thinking about where he was from, damn it.
In Brooklyn, on a bright spring morning near the end of the last century, Crush and a woman stole a car and started driving as far west as they could go. He targeted a 1990 Nissan 300ZX that he'd seen parked along Second Street Park in Brighton Beach for a few days. He picked it partly because he thought it had already been stolen and dumped there, so it would be harder to trace to them, but mainly because he had always wanted to drive cool cars. Crush was only fifteen and he didn't have a driver's license, but he'd already done a lot of driving and he was in kind of a hurry to get away.
Blaz Kusinko, kingpin of the Russian mob on Ocean Parkway, would be waking up soon and he would be looking for them. Toni, the woman with Crush, had been one of Kusinko's "wives" until he grew tired of her, beat her up, and threw her out onto the street.
Crush was one of Kusinko's many sons and in spite of his treatment of Toni, Blaz expected Crush to retain allegiance to the mob and to Kusinko himself. After all, Crush was advanced for his age, both in size and in intellect, and Kusinko already had plans for him in the Organization. Not just as a driver but as a soldier and an enforcer. Kusinko was a powerful man and Toni was just one of his whores. Crush would be smart enough to know where his better interests lay.
Unfortunately for Kusinko, Crush didn't see it that way. Toni, the woman Kusinko had left in the gutter, was also Crush's mother. As a teenage runaway, Toni had been adopted by various members of the Russian mob until she was finally claimed by Kusinko as his own. And, as far as Kusinko was concerned, he could do whatever he wished with those who belonged to him.
Crush didn't agree. And when Crush found his mother discarded like so much trash in the alley behind Kusinko's house, he decided it was time to make his feelings known. With a baseball bat.
By the time Kusinko's bodyguard burst in and pulled Crush off him, the mobster was a bloody mess, but he was still breathing. Crush didn't much like being interrupted, so he pounded a few line drives off the bodyguard's head before he fled the scene.
Then Crush and his mother drove away, as far and fast as they could. They stopped in Philadelphia, where Crush stole another car, then they kept on driving. They did this, hopscotching across the country, doing odd jobs and getting enough money to keep moving, all that summer. They reached Los Angeles in the blazing hot autumn that only Angelenos know. They couldn't go any farther west, so they got a fleabag apartment in Koreatown and settled down. Crush was still underage but he didn't look it, so he got jobs bagging groceries, doing construction, gardening, anything that didn't require any paperwork.
Toni did other kinds of jobs. She was somewhere in her thirties, but she still looked twenty-five and with her dyed-blond locks and the wild look in her eye, she was appealing to the kind of man who liked to live dangerously.
Crush never knew what her jobs were. He didn't want to know. She was the "girlfriend" of quite a few men who gave her gifts and paid their rent. She liked to go to fancy restaurants and buy nice clothes when times were good. When times were bad, she took that in stride and did just what was necessary.
If Crush learned one lesson from his mother, it was this: never expect a run of luck to last.
During one of those bad-luck periods, Toni ended up working as a stripper in a club in the Valley called Menage. Crush was seventeen by then, a high-school dropout, and she got him a job as the doorman there. Of course, he was still too young to be legal, but with his straggly black beard and already-receding hairline, he looked at least five years older. The managers were too busy making sure their strippers weren't jailbait to worry about whether or not their bouncer was old enough to vote.
Toni was a bit more mature than most of the other girls there, so she became the den mother, giving them advice, telling them how to make the best profits in the VIP room by giving the customers just enough to keep them coming back for more, but not so much that they felt satisfied.
Then one day Emil Zerbe walked into the club and Toni's and Crush's lives took another turn. That was another thing Crush's mother taught him: there is nothing as consistent in this life as inconsistency.
"What kind of music do you like?" Zerbe asked.
Zerbe was bonding with his abductor. For instance, he had learned that his name was Jack, though he couldn't help but think of him as "Bert." And when Jack had taken his ski mask off, Zerbe had seen that he was a pleasant-looking young Filipino kid with a buzz cut at his temples and longish hair on the top of his head, flopping down over his eyes. A very likable young man, all things considered.
"I like all kinds," Jack said. "Except country music. Can't stand that shit."
"I hear you. But have you ever listened to Johnny Cash? Or Merle Haggard? Or Hank Williams? They'll change your mind, man. They're the greatest."
"I'll have to give them a try."
Zerbe had a shoe in his hand, his right leg was still glistening with olive oil and his foot was still raw and scraped. Getting the ankle monitor off hadn't been easy.
Jack turned his Nissan Versa into an industrial area full of warehouses and anonymous offices. He pulled up to the elephant doors of a large warehouse and stopped, the motor still running. The big doors were open but only slightly.
"Get out," Jack said.
Zerbe looked around. There was no one in sight. Nothing but the dark parking lot, the dark warehouse, and its darker interior. "There's nobody here," Zerbe said.
"Not my problem. Get out."
"You kidnap me and then you just let me go? In Irwindale? That doesn't make sense."
"I don't care if it makes sense. He'll probably be here soon."
"Probably? Who will?"
"Whoever you're meeting here."
Zerbe shook his head. "This doesn't make sense."
"You said that. It doesn't." Jack gripped the wheel. "I want to get paid."
"I'm sure you do."
"No. I want to get paid now. This is weird and I want to get paid."
"Take it up with whoever hired you."
"Cut it out."
"I want the five hundred dollars. Now."
"You want me to pay you? For kidnapping me?"
"That's right."
Zerbe stared at him. "Who hired you?"
"Stop it. You did, man. You know that."
Zerbe blinked a few times. "Oh, fuck me."
"Now give me the goddamned money."
"Take me back home."
"Fuck that. Give me the goddamned money or I'll leave you here."
"Isn't that what I paid you to do?"
"Damn straight."
"How much did I pay you?"
"You fucking know how much you paid me."
"I don't. 'Cause it wasn't me. How much did the other me pay you?"
"Are you crazy?"
"Yes, I'm crazy. How much?"
Jack paused, then said, "Fifteen hundred." Jack had been paid a thousand for this job, but he figured he'd pad it. "To drop you off here and let somebody pick you up."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Fine. I'll pay you twice that to take me back home. That's three thousand, if you can't do the math."
"Do you have it?"
"Sure."
"I mean do you have it on you?"
"Of course not."
"Then get out. Leave. This whole thing is more trouble than it's worth. I should never have let Donny talk me into this. He's always talking me into crazy things."
"I don't want to get between you and Donny...."
Jack pointed his gun at Zerbe. "Get out."
"I don't think that gun is even loaded," Zerbe said.
"Are you sure?"
Swearing under his breath, Zerbe opened the door and got out of the Nissan just before it screeched out of the parking lot, leaving rubber on the asphalt.
Zerbe stood alone under the night sky of Irwindale, thinking this was partly good and partly bad. He was free. He was outdoors. He was at large. That was the good thing. But he was at large in violation of his probation. If they caught him he'd get sent back to prison. That was the bad thing. And the story he'd have to tell his probation officer (that he'd been kidnapped by people who thought he paid them to do it) was suspect, at best.
But his ankle monitor was back at the loft, still registering his presence. If he could get back to it, without anyone knowing any of this, all would be well.
Now, how to cross the twenty-five miles to home without being seen? If he had his cell phone he could call Crush. But his cell phone was sitting back on the coffee table in the loft. So he had to get to a landline to call Crush. That was the only option. Other than walking home.
He sat down to put his shoe on and a car's headlights washed over him. It drove on by, but it made him feel vulnerable. What if it was a cop or a night watchman? What excuse could he give for being here? He looked over to the elephant doors in front of him. Darkness seemed to flow out from the opening, like dirty water from a hose. Inside, there might be a phone. And inside he wouldn't be so visible to passing watchmen.
Getting up to his feet, Zerbe crossed to the dark void. He stepped over the threshold and stood still, waiting for his pupils to dilate so that he could see. It took a long time, and when they did he thought he was going mad.
The warehouse was filled with dragons. And spaceships. And dinosaurs.
They stared down at him from platforms, atop giant wheeled vehicles. He blinked. He could just make out a sign, high up on the wall, and he knew where he was. Carnivàle Parade Floats. Jesus. His fucking brother.
"Noel!" he called out. "Where are you?"
His voice echoed through the black emptiness of the warehouse. No answer.
His brother Noel had been designing floats and driving for the Rose Parade in Pasadena since he got out of college. It wasn't his most lucrative job, but it was the one in which he took the most pride. Sitting in the living room of their mansion on the Arroyo Seco in Pasadena every New Year's, his father beamed with happiness as Noel piloted one of his great flowered creations down Colorado Boulevard, broadcast to the whole world in that mad orgy of Middle American floral celebration that was the Tournament of Roses Parade. It was rather unusual for a designer to also be the driver of a float, but Noel was a most unusual man. He felt that, as the designer, he knew how the float should roll down the parade route. Besides, it was a tradition for a member of the Zerbe family to drive their company's floral monstrosity and had been for many years. Tragedy and bloodshed notwithstanding.
So when Noel's float took home the Grand Marshal's Trophy, as it inevitably did every year, his father reacted with more delight than when he had won that Tony Award. Certainly with more delight than for anything that K.C. Zerbe had ever done. For longtime residents of Pasadena, first prize in the parade was more important than the Oscars or Emmys or the Nobel Prize. It was the ultimate accolade.
The parade was fast approaching. One more day and it would wind its way triumphantly down Colorado Boulevard. The workers must have just quit for the day even though it was the middle of the night. Zerbe recalled that this year's theme was Transportation: Past and Future. Hence the spaceships and the dragons with children riding them, and the dinosaurs pulling wagons full of cavemen. The Rose Parade was nothing if not historically accurate.
In a few hours this place would again be teeming with volunteers, gluing flowers and seeds and bark onto the biplanes and steam locomotives and Conestoga wagons, to give them color and life. The warehouse was empty and silent now except for his footsteps echoing off the walls.
Zerbe felt like he was inside a dark cavern, deep in the bowels of the earth, where otherworldly creatures dwelled. His high school years, spent engrossed in reading H.P. Lovecraft and J.R.R. Tolkien, came back to him in a rush. Then he heard wailing on the wind and thought he was going mad.
The wailing grew nearer and he recognized it. Police sirens. Approaching. He began to panic. They'd find him in here. He'd be sent back to that awful place. He couldn't go back there.
He stifled a scream and looked around for a place to hide. If only this really were a cavern, he could crawl deeper into the darkness and disappear. Into the eldritch, hoary depths of the earth, Zerbe thought, his mind going full-on-Lovecraft. If only one of the ancient legendary monsters that surrounded him was real and could reach down with its long neck and swallow him whole.
He heard cars pull up outside. Heard their tires squealing on the asphalt. They were coming for him. He headed deeper into the darkness. He took a left at a giant Santa's sleigh. Then he stopped as a light fell across his face and he saw something that made his blood run cold.
CHAPTER THREE
Crush saw the huge, rugged, empty industrial pits just off the freeway, looking like ancient volcanic craters, and knew he was approaching Irwindale. To most people, Irwindale was just an underpopulated suburb of Los Angeles, far out in the San Gabriel Valley, notable mostly as the site of the Renaissance Pleasure Faire once a year. To Crush it was more personal than that. To Crush it was the place he had been chosen to run the rear end of a dinosaur.
When Crush spotted the flashing lights to his right, he had to look twice before he was sure they weren't a Christmas decoration. Then he recognized it as a cop car. He took a turn toward it, into an industrial complex. He pulled the Camaro up across from a warehouse, watching the patrol car as it idled next to a bright red Porsche. The patrol car siren was off but its visibar lights were flashing like a strobe light on a dance floor. He cursed under his breath. Strobe lights always gave Crush a headache, even in the nightclub.
In the flashing light, Crush could see a policeman standing beside the Porsche, talking to someone through the window. The driver got out and walked with the patrolman toward the warehouse, and Crush thought he recognized her as she walked through the big doors. This was getting all too familiar.
He turned to Donny and said, "You can go."
"Here?"
"Yes, here."
"How do I get home?"
"Hitchhike. Walk. I don't care."
"Where the fuck is Irwindale?"
"It's where you are."
"Thanks a lot."
"Hey, I'm letting you go. You should thank me."
"I did thank you."
"You were being sarcastic. Next time, try meaning what you say. It makes a nice change."
"Fuck you. And Merry Christmas."
"That's sarcasm again. Don't you even know when you're using it?"
Donny threw open the door, got out of the car, and walked off toward the freeway.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon in front of him but Crush didn't give it a glance. He kept his eyes on the warehouse and when he saw lights come on inside, he got out of the Camaro.
Walking toward the elephant doors, Crush felt a sense of nostalgia flowing over him. He had come here once, years ago, with Zerbe and the rest of his high school class, to help pin flowers on the Rose Parade floats. It was fun at first, being out of class and all, but after a while it got pretty tedious. In fact, he had volunteered for tail-duty just because he thought it would be more exciting. That's how naïve he had been at seventeen.
Crush entered the warehouse and tried to cast aside thoughts of the past. As if bidden by his attempt to deny them, images of Angela, Noel, and Renee Zerbe and the Devil's Gate itself all crowded around in his mind. He tried to brush them aside. He was mostly successful. Inside the warehouse, Crush saw what he had expected to see. A bunch of goddamned floats with a bunch of goddamned freaky animals and monsters and rocket ships. The Rose Parade Floats. Happy New Year.
Over the years, Crush had developed a love/hate relationship with the Rose Parade, and not just because of his own bad experience with it. On the one hand, he loved that for one day everyone in the wintery, snowbound US got to envy warm, sunny Southern California and resent it even more than they did the rest of the year. On the other hand, he hated that most of the floats were sponsored by corporate monoliths and government agencies. It was basically a two-hour commercial for the powers that be.
For instance, next to him was an enormous float, fully thirty-five feet in length, featuring an Art Deco–Futurama–style locomotive taking off from its track and soaring into the air. On its top was a throne for a celebrity to ride, and on the base of the float was the legend: California High-Speed Rail—The Future Is Now.
Even the nonexistent bullet train from Los Angeles to San Francisco had an advertisement here.
Crush remembered that Zerbe's father had been spearheading that endless, mythical project that Angelenos had been reading about, and paying for, for years, but which never seemed to quite get started. If it involved graft, corruption, and wasteful spending in LA, Emil Zerbe was probably behind it. Now Noel was making a tribute to it in steel and roses. It was all too typical.
The policeman came out from under the arching neck of a dragon, looking around, not finding anything. A woman stepped out from behind a space station, calling out to the empty void, "Hey! The cops are here! You better come out!"
Crush had been right. It was Angela, Zerbe and Noel's sister and, for a brief, uncomfortable time, Crush's own stepsister. Her tawny hair still fell over her shoulders, damn it. From what he could see, her eyes were still that wicked, haunting green. Crush had seen her a few times over the past few years, but he always saw her through 2000 eyes and she always looked eighteen to him. And she always made him feel eighteen himself.
"Must have been a crank call," the policeman said.
"Bullshit," she said. "The door was opened. Somebody was here."
The policeman shrugged. "There's nobody here now."
Crush stepped forward. "There's me," he said.
She looked over at him, sternly at first, then with a bright smile blossoming across her face. "Caleb Rush! What the hell are you doing here? Don't tell me you're taking up breaking and entering?" Her green eyes were still startling and her lips were still lush with that damn tilt to the left that always made him wonder.
"Just entering," he replied. "You left the door open."
"So you know this man?" the cop asked Angela.
"Yeah, I know him."
"What's he doing here?"
She squinted at him. "What are you doing here, Crush?"
"You first," Crush said.
"Well, I got an anonymous call that there was a break-in here. So I called the police and we came out. We've been having problems with protestors."
"Oh," Crush said. "Same here."
"You're having problems with protestors?"
"No, I got a call about a break-in. Anonymously."
"Why would they call you?" the cop asked.
"I'm in security." Crush pulled out his wallet and handed over one of his old business cards from when he worked at Tigon Security.
The cop looked at it and was impressed. More impressed than Crush had expected, in fact.
"Sorry," the policeman said, handing it back. "I didn't know. Do you think it's SAGMA?"
Crush had no idea what SAGMA was, but there were times when he'd learned to just not answer. Instead he looked the cop dead in the eye and asked, "What do you think?"
"I don't know," the cop said. "Probably?"
Crush smiled at the cop sagely. "Very good. Why don't we leave it at that, Officer...?"
"Zelazny," the cop said. "Should we search the place? They could have left a...device of some kind?" It shouldn't have sounded like a question.
"We'll take care of the search, Officer Zelazny. We have the equipment."
The cop nodded. Then he looked around. "Where?"
"It's on its way. I came on ahead."
"As reconnaissance?"
"That's right, as reconnaissance. We'll take it from here."
The cop looked uncertain. He turned to Angela. "Miss?"
"I think the Tigon boys can handle it from here."
"All right then," the cop said, kicking a loose pebble down the sewer grate. "I'll say goodnight."
Zelazny hurried off, glad to hand the matter over to someone else. Angela looked at Crush, amused. "I thought Tigon Security fired you?" she asked, once Zelazny had driven off in his patrol car.
"Let's say we had a mutual parting of the ways. You hired them?"
"I remembered you said they were the best."
"They are. Why do you need them?"
She shrugged. "Family business."
"Your family owns this place, too?"
"Daddy bought it for Noel a couple of years ago. As a toy."
"What's SAGMA?"
"A bunch of crazies." She sighed. "Society Against Genetically Modified Agriculture. One of Dad's companies is Angel Foods."
"The organic produce company?"
"Well, organic- _ish_. So we sell Genetically Modified food? People have been modifying food since the Stone Age. It doesn't hurt anybody."
"But the crazies don't like it?"
"No, they insist that their food be 'pure.' Whatever that means. Why are _you_ here, Caleb?"
"I'm looking for your brother."
"Noel's back at the house. We flipped a coin to see who would come out. I lost."
So, Crush thought, she still lives with her brother. Did that mean they still lived at the house on the Arroyo. Crush hoped not. "Not that brother," he said.
"Kendrick?" Kendrick was what the "K" in K.C. Zerbe stood for. Crush could never think of Zerbe as a "Kendrick." "I thought he was with you."
"He's supposed to be."
"Did he make a break for it? I was afraid he'd do that."
Crush shook his head. "No. He was kidnapped."
"Kidnapped? Seriously?"
"Not particularly seriously, but yes, he was kidnapped. I think they brought him here."
"Why?"
"Because Noel arranged the kidnapping."
She sat down at the foot of the dragon. "Oh, my fucking family," she sighed. She was wearing black jeans and a designer T-shirt that she must have just thrown on when she got the call. She hadn't had time to brush her hair or put on any makeup. She looked beautiful when she wasn't even trying. "Just when I think they're crazy as they can be, they get crazier."
"You've been pretty crazy in your day."
"That just proves my point." She ran her fingers through her hair. "Do you really think Noel is behind this?"
"Evidence seems to point in that direction. Do you think it's possible?"
"Noel is capable of almost anything." She looked around. "So you think Kendrick is here someplace?"
"He's either hiding here or Noel already picked him up."
"Or?"
"Who said there was another 'or'?"
"There's always another 'or,' Crush. You know that."
They heard the tires of a car rolling in on the asphalt out front. There was no sound of an engine purring, so they knew it must be an electric vehicle. Looking out through the elephant doors, they could see a dark blue Tesla, powering down. The gull wing doors rose and a man got out. The man was K.C. Zerbe.
Except he wasn't. He wasn't dressed in Zerbe's usual uniform of superhero T-shirt and jeans. This Zerbe wore a russet-colored Henley shirt and an unstructured linen sports coat that had been washed within an inch of its life over a pair of green cargo pants, the kind with lots of pockets, all of which were full of unidentified objects. He looked just like K.C., but something about the way he carried himself made him look older. As if maybe he had taken on some actual responsibility. As if he had grown up and didn't like it. The man walked across the asphalt, looking around, as if he expected to see something and was disappointed that it wasn't there.
Angela stepped out of the warehouse and greeted him. "What are you doing here? I thought I won the toss?"
This Zerbe was Noel, K.C.'s older brother by five minutes. "Where are the police?"
Crush stepped out of the warehouse. "They left."
Noel hadn't seen Crush in years. He looked at him in mild surprise. "Caleb Rush. It's you."
"It is," Crush replied.
Those pleasantries taken care of, Noel looked around him. He seemed to choose his words very carefully. "They didn't find anything?"
"No," Angela said.
"What did you think they'd find?" Crush asked.
"Just...something. Somebody called about something, didn't they?"
"Yes, let's go over that call," Crush said. "They called the house, right? Who answered?"
"I did," Angela said.
"And the call was blocked?"
"Yeah, there was no incoming number on my phone."
"Your phone? I thought you got the call at the house."
"I did," she said. "I was at home. What, do you think they called the landline? Like they were selling solar panels? Nobody uses the landline, Crush."
"All right then, you got a blocked call. Where were you?"
"Asleep. It was almost five in the morning."
"But your phone was on?"
"Well, sure. Don't you leave yours on?"
"I don't turn mine on unless I'm at work."
"What if you miss an important call?"
"If it's important, they'll call back. So, the phone rang. You picked it up. The incoming number was blocked. Why did you answer it?"
"The most important people have blocked numbers, don't you know that? Also, Noel told me to."
"Wait, what was Noel doing in your bedroom at five in the morning?"
"Just basking in the postcoital afterglow," she said sarcastically. "No, stupid. I didn't say I was in my bedroom, did I? We fell asleep in the den, watching _Interstellar_ on HBO. Man, that movie makes no sense."
"I didn't see it. Go on."
"Anyway, I got the call and I wasn't going to answer it, but Noel said...."
Crush looked at Noel. "You told her to answer it?"
Noel looked wildly guilty. "Yes, I told her to answer it. Why wouldn't I tell her to answer it? What are you getting at?"
"We're not getting at anything," Angela said.
"Oh, we're getting at something," Crush said. "What did you expect to find when you got here? Did you expect the cops to have K.C. under arrest? Did you think they'd be carting him away?"
"No! Why are you saying that? Why would I want that?"
"I have no fucking idea."
Noel looked around, confused. "But nothing is here? Something must be here," he said, walking toward the warehouse.
Crush walked alongside him. "He's not here."
"Who's not here? I don't know what you're talking about." Noel was a very bad liar. He stepped inside and looked around the vast warehouse. "But something must be here...."
"What must be here?"
He wandered among the floats, searching. "Something. You're sure the police didn't find anything?"
"They didn't find anything."
"They must have!" He was starting to sound a little desperate.
"They didn't."
"But that's not right. They must have found something!" Noel had a way of getting stuck on an idea. Crush remembered how, in high school, he'd stayed in his room for a month, trying to make a miniature solar-powered aircraft to fly over the Arroyo and take pictures. A drone before drones, Crush now realized. Noel was always years ahead of his time but three steps behind everyone else in the room. "He must be here!" Noel said, in anguish.
"K.C. isn't here," Crush told him. "The police didn't find him. We didn't find him."
"But what if he's hiding?" With that, Noel gave up the pretense that he didn't know what was going on.
"Why would he be hiding from us?" Angela asked.
"I don't know. Maybe he doesn't know it's us." Noel called out. "K.C.! It's okay! It's Noel. And Angela! And Caleb! It's okay! You can come out now!"
No answer came from the dragons or dinosaurs or ocean liners. Noel looked bereft. "But...I don't understand. I arranged everything."
"You did, huh?" Crush said. "Why don't you call Donny and ask him what went wrong?"
Noel shook his head, dismissive. "Donny's an idiot. I should call Jack." He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket, punched in a number, and after a minute he started to speak. "Jack. Zerbe here. What went wrong?"
Noel was silent while Jack explained. Angela stood by Crush's side, silently judgmental.
"I don't know if I believe you, Jack," Noel said after a few moments. "I don't know if you've behaved ethically. I don't think you've earned your money. Do you understand? Hello...hello...." Noel looked at Crush and Angela, affronted. "He hung up on me. That's no way to do business."
"You should give him a bad Yelp review under 'Kidnappers,'" Angela said.
"I wish I could."
"What did he say?" Crush asked.
"He said he dropped K.C. off here, as according to plan. Of course, I don't know if he's telling the truth. I'm afraid I didn't vet him very well."
"Live and learn," Crush said. "Why don't you tell us all about it, Noel? Why did you think kidnapping K.C. was a good idea?"
Noel paced back and forth in front of the bullet train float. "It's hard to make an outsider understand. There's so much to explain."
"Try," Crush said.
"Suffice it to say that I, and my entire family, are in grave danger."
"Noel..." Angela started to interrupt.
"Let him finish," Crush said.
"I know you don't believe me, Angela. I know everybody thinks I'm crazy. That's how I know they'll win. They convince the world that the ones who know about them are crazy."
So Noel hadn't left his paranoia behind. "Who are 'they'?" Crush asked. "SAGMA?"
"Oh, please," Noel said, rolling his eyes. "SAGMA doesn't have a clue as to what's really going on. They're nothing but pawns in the game. Like everybody else."
"So you're a pawn in the game?"
"No. I've been enlightened. That's why I'm dangerous to them. That's why they have to destroy me."
"But I'm a pawn?"
Noel nodded sadly. "Yes."
"I don't feel like a pawn," Crush said.
"If you're not actively fighting them, you're playing into their hands."
"I see. And what is their goal, exactly?"
"Oh, God," Noel shook his head sadly. Noel spent a lot of time shaking his head. "Don't you see? The mere fact that you ask that question, in that mocking tone? It means they've already won."
"I didn't mean to mock. I'm trying to understand. What are they after?"
Noel shook his head again, as if helpless in the face of such massive ignorance. "The world."
"They want to take over the world?" Crush asked, and though he tried his utmost not to, he sounded like The Brain talking to Pinky in the old cartoon.
"They want to change it. To bend it to their will. Oh, God, it's like talking to someone in a different language." Noel was literally pulling his hair. "Let's just say someone is trying to destroy me. And my whole family. And I'm desperately trying to keep them safe. That includes you, Angela. I'm afraid it even includes you now, Caleb."
Crush thought it was nice to be included in the family. "How does kidnapping K.C. keep him safe?"
Noel smiled. "He was the easiest one to protect. Everybody else is out in the world, where anything can happen. But with K.C., all I had to do was make him break his probation and then I'd know he'd be in prison, safe. Where they couldn't get at him."
"So you arranged for him to be kidnapped and dropped off here? Then you arranged for an anonymous call to bring the police here and find him? So they'd arrest him?"
"Yes, isn't that simple but brilliant?"
Crush was silent for a moment. "Let me get this straight. This Great Whatever, they can reach out to anyone, at any time, in any place? They are everywhere, am I right?"
"Absolutely," Noel said, "at least you understand that much."
"Then why can't they reach out to K.C. in prison?"
Noel looked as if he'd swallowed a brick. "I hadn't thought of that. Oh, my God. He'd be trapped. They could do whatever they wanted to him."
"Fortunately, it hasn't come to that. He hasn't been arrested."
"But where is he?" Angela asked. "That's the first order of business, isn't it?"
"Not the first," said Crush, looking at his watch. It was 6:14. He pulled out his cell phone and pressed a speed-dial number. "Gail," he said when she answered, "it's all right. We found him."
Angela looked at Crush in mild surprise.
"Thank God," Gail said on the other end of the line. "Where was he?"
"It's a long story. But you don't have to call the police, understand? Just keep walking that ankle monitor around. I'll bring him back this afternoon."
"This afternoon? Why?"
"We have to take care of a few things. I'll explain when we get back."
"That won't be soon enough. Frida just called." Frida Morales was Zerbe's probation officer. "She said his monitor went out of bounds last night. She wanted to talk to him."
This was bad news. But Gail had always taught him that, during a match, it was a waste of time to resist an attack. The thing to do was to react to it. "Okay. What did you do?"
"I told her he was asleep. She said fine, she'd call back."
"Okay." Frida had been Gail's student in the dojo for some time now. "You know her. What did she mean?"
"She meant she'll be dropping by for an unscheduled visit this morning."
"All right. We'll be there." He ended the call and slipped his phone back in his pants pocket.
"You're still a good liar, Crush," Angela said.
"Not good enough. She knew I was bullshitting her."
"Is she used to you lying to her then?"
Crush shook his head. He was distracted. Trying to think of a way out of this. "It's not like that. She's a friend. I don't lie to friends."
"Only to lovers?"
"Maybe that's why I don't have many of those."
"Really? You've changed since I knew you."
"It's been fifteen years. I hope so."
"I don't think I've changed much. But then I was pretty much perfect from the get-go."
Crush wasn't listening. He headed out. "We don't have much time. Come on, Noel."
"What? Where are we going?"
"We have to keep K.C. out of prison."
"But we don't even know where he is."
"First things first," Crush said, getting into his car.
CHAPTER FOUR
Frida Morales had been a parole officer for the County of Los Angeles for five years, nine months, and two weeks. _That_ , she thought as she rode up in the elevator, _should just about complete my sentence_.
She had become a PO for all the right reasons. She wanted to make a difference. She wanted to give the downtrodden a second chance. She wanted to prove that the system could work. That idealism stayed with her for approximately ten months. The reams of paperwork, the maze of red tape, and the grinding cynicism of her fellow officers were all factors in her growing disillusionment. But the real cause of her burnout was simple. She spent all her time with ex-convicts.
All of them were guilty, of course. They had done either really stupid or really terrible things, and most of them had done both.
That was why she liked coming here, she thought, as she stepped out of the elevator and walked to K.C. Zerbe's door. Not that Zerbe was an innocent man. He hadn't been railroaded or anything like that. It was just that he was less dangerous than her average offender. He'd read the occasional book and was a good conversationalist. She liked him.
Also, she felt sorry for him. She had read his case-file and it was clear he had been set up to take the fall for wealthier, more culpable higher-ups. Zerbe wasn't blameless; he was simply less guilty than the people who sent him to prison. He deserved to have someone cut him some slack.
Cutting slack was Frida's favorite thing. She did it whenever possible, whenever she felt someone deserved it. She didn't get the chance to do it very often. When she did, it made her feel like she was on the side of mercy, and it felt good. For a few minutes.
If she could have become one of those right-wing, "lock 'em up and throw away the key" types, she would at least have had a gang to side with. But most cops she knew, though nice enough in civilian life, were bullies on the street. Too quick to look at a parolee and just see a potential threat. Too fast with their fists and their clubs and their guns. Too ready to meet any form of resistance with brutal force.
So that left her living with the volatile combination of a group of stupid, impulsive people with little or no self-control opposite a bunch of aggressive, suspicious, well-armed people who were spoiling for a fight. All Frida could do was wait for something truly terrible to happen.
It happened yesterday.
Afterward, she went home and fell into bed but she couldn't sleep. She just lay awake and stared at the ceiling and wished to God she could drink. She was over being a P. O., she knew that. All her life she had wanted to be involved in the criminal justice system, but now she wished she'd gone into teaching or accounting or comedy improv or anything else. Her life had reached a turning point but she was too exhausted to take the wheel.
That was when she got the alert from Zerbe's location monitor. It was just the distraction she needed. An excuse to visit a relatively benign offender and remind herself that not everyone in this bleak world was a piece of shit.
Not that Zerbe hadn't caused her a fair amount of grief. She had gone out on a limb for him when he had requested that he serve out his sentence with Caleb Rush rather than with his wealthy parents. She looked the other way when it became obvious that he had internet access, in violation of the terms of his probation. She argued for the continuation of the probation arrangement with Mr. Rush, despite that fact that Crush (as Mr. Rush was called on the street) was repeatedly in trouble with the law, though never officially charged with anything.
She didn't know exactly why she put herself on the line for Zerbe so often. She knew Zerbe was in love with her, but offenders falling for their probation officers was fairly common. Not as common as offenders hating their probation officer's guts and wanting to kill them, but common all the same. Her roommate joked that Frida had a crush on Zerbe, but that was ridiculous. Just ridiculous.
Frida brushed her dark hair over her forehead to cover the bruise she'd tried to conceal with makeup this morning and took a breath before she knocked on the steel door of Crush's loft. Zerbe hadn't committed a location violation since he learned how to operate the ankle monitor. With only eight months and change to go on his sentence, this seemed like a crazy time for him to go AWOL. But Frida had known felons to act a little crazy at times. Most of the time, actually. She felt a wave of weariness wash over her.
Frida steeled herself and recalled that she was an authority figure and a representative of the State of California. She closed her fist and knocked on the door. There was no answer. This was not a good sign. Had Zerbe really bolted? Run off to Mexico? True, his monitor said he was in the apartment but, although the State of California did not want this to be widely known, monitors could be beaten.
The door swung open and Catherine Gail stood inside. Gail had answered the phone when Frida had called this morning, so she had expected her to be there, of course. But seeing her like this took all the resolve out of Frida's spirit. She blinked, like a twelve-year-old girl who was caught by the Mother Superior smoking in the bathroom. "Master Gail," she said, her voice breaking.
"I'm just Catherine Gail here," Gail said. "We're not in the dojo."
"Of course," Frida said. She had been studying tae kwon do with Master Gail for a year now, ever since one of her "clients" had taken a swing at her with a bottle of Royal Crown Cola and she'd decided she needed to learn to defend herself. Zerbe had recommended her highly, so Frida thought she would give Gail a try. She hadn't realized until just now how much she had come to depend on Gail's firm and steady influence. She was the mentor Frida had been searching for all her life.
It was all she could do to stop herself from letting the events of yesterday spill out of her in a long, plaintive monologue. But this was not the time. Their roles were reversed now. Frida was the authority figure and Gail was the civilian. "I need to talk to Zerbe."
Gail hesitated. Not a good sign. "He's sick. Can he call you later?"
"I need to see him. Now." Frida used her most authoritative voice. The one her grade school teachers told her to never use. Her bossy voice.
"All right," Gail said. "Give me a minute." She stepped aside and let Frida in.
"Are you staying here, Gail?"
"What makes you ask?"
"It's a little early for a social call."
"Gail's staying with me." Crush was speaking up from the kitchenette, sipping from a coffee mug. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and sweatpants with a five o'clock shadow shading his bald head. She knew a lot of people found Crush thug-ishly sexy, but he didn't ring Frida's bell. She preferred the more bookish, nerdy, less-threatening type.
"As Zerbe's P. O., I should have been informed of any changes in the living arrangements," Frida said, as Gail climbed the homemade stairs to the upper loft-within-the-loft.
Frida had always liked Crush's place. Its odd decor of mounted auto parts hanging next to Japanese samurai movie posters gave the place an unmistakably masculine feeling, but that was belied by its uncharacteristic neatness. It was as if she'd found the mythical beast—the manly man who could do housekeeping.
She walked past the view of MacArthur Park in the early morning, over to the kitchenette where Crush was eating from a steaming bowl of oatmeal. "It's only for a few days," he said. "You know she got kicked out of her place."
"Nevertheless," Frida said. "I should have been told."
Gail came down the stairs. "He's coming but I warn you, he might be contagious."
"I'll chance it," Frida said, beginning to lose patience.
Gail stopped and looked at her. "What happened yesterday?"
"What makes you think anything happened yesterday?"
"It's too early for anything to have happened today and something's got you on edge." Gail peered more closely at Frida's face. "Is that a bruise over your right eye?"
Frida brushed her hair back down. "It's not appropriate for me to talk about it now."
"You want me to leave?" asked Crush.
"I'm fine," Frida said.
"Really?" Gail asked.
"It's nothing that won't keep till our next lesson. Have you found a new dojo?" Frida asked, trying to change the subject.
"I'm still looking. We can do our lessons here until I find a place."
"Here?"
"Why not?"
"It might conflict with my professional..." Frida faltered. "Oh, what the hell, by next week I'll be a substitute teacher anyway."
"Are you sure you don't want to talk?"
Frida was about to let it all come out when, to her immense relief, Zerbe came shuffling down the stairs, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a mug of steaming something in his hand. He looked like someone playing "sick man" in a community theater production.
"How are you feeling, Zerbe?" Frida asked.
"Not so well," he whispered in a strained voice as he walked to the sofa. He folded his feet, covered in red striped fuzzy socks, underneath him and wrapped the blanket around his head, as if were trying to disappear into his own shell.
"We think it's either stomach flu or something he ate," Crush said. "It's been pretty nasty in here the past few hours."
"Pretty nasty," Zerbe muttered.
"We're going to need to do some laundry," another woman said, coming down the stairs with a bundle of sheets in her hand. "Or you're going to have to buy some new sheets. I recommend buying new sheets." The new woman dropped the bedding into the trash and crossed to the sink to wash her hands. "Have you had your flu shot?" she asked Frida. "'Cause you don't want to get what he has."
The woman was almost a redhead and was quite a bit younger than Frida or Gail. She had a trim figure and was wearing expensive but casual clothing that said, "I make more money than you but I don't have to show it off." Frida took an immediate dislike to her.
"I've had my flu shot," Frida said.
"Good for you." The woman extended her freshly toweled hand to Frida. Her nails were manicured and painted with clear nail polish, in a "humble-brag" style of beauty treatment Frida found very annoying. "I'm Angela Zerbe, K.C.'s sister."
Frida took Angela's hand. It was soft and surprisingly firm. Damn her. "Pleased to meet you. But I thought Zerbe wasn't on speaking terms with his family."
"Yeah, but that's me," Angela said, "always the peacemaker!"
Crush choked back a laugh as he spooned more oatmeal into his mouth. Frida got the feeling that she was losing control of this situation.
"Zerbe, there's a question I need answered," Frida said, in her most businesslike manner. "Where were you at 4:13 this morning?"
Zerbe looked at her with an expression that said that either he had been caught or he was about to throw up. Or both. "I was here. Where else would I be?"
"Where, here?"
"He was either on that sofa or in the toilet," Crush said. "Take your pick."
Frida kept her eyes on Zerbe. "At 4:13 your monitor said that you left this apartment." She bent down to take a look at the device on his leg. Zerbe jerked his feet back.
"Oh, that," Angela said, quickly. "I can explain that. You see, he was alone in the apartment, feeling sick. Very sick. He tried to call Crush and Gail but he couldn't reach them. So he called me. I came right over."
"And?"
"Well, I don't know the building very well. I got off the elevator, but I took a wrong turn. K.C. came out to get me. That must have been when it registered that he went out of bounds."
Frida considered. "Okay," she said. "But I still need to examine the monitor."
The three of them exchanged a look. No doubt about it, Frida thought, they were definitely exchanging a look.
"Let me see it," she said.
"But...."
"Zerbe, look at me," Frida said. Zerbe pulled the blanket off his head and looked at her. "I'm on your side. You know that, right?"
Zerbe looked uncertain, but nodded.
"Now I need to check your monitor to see if it's operating correctly. Just like I always do. Why are you resisting me?"
Zerbe slowly slid his right leg out from under the sofa. He lifted the leg of his sweatpants to reveal the ankle monitor.
"All right," she said. "That's more like it." Frida reached out to touch the monitor. It was wet with oil. "What's this?"
"What?" Zerbe asked innocently.
"It's all slimy."
"Oh, that..." Angela said.
"Take off your socks," Frida demanded.
"My feet are cold," Zerbe said.
"Take them off."
Zerbe bent over and pulled off his left sock.
"Now the right one," Frida said.
Zerbe looked to Angela and to Crush. Receiving no help from either of them, he pulled off the right sock.
Frida looked at Zerbe's naked foot. "All right, I want an explanation."
"For what?" Zerbe asked.
"Why is your foot raw and scraped and covered in olive oil?"
"Is it?"
Frida stood up, trying to make her five-foot-four frame appear as imposing as was humanly possible. "Were you trying to take the monitor off?"
"No!"
"It was me," Angela said. "I did it. While he was asleep."
Frida turned to Zerbe's sister, relieved that she didn't have to hide her dislike for the woman now. "Why?"
"It was hurting him. Can't you see how swollen his leg is? I thought if I took it off, he could rest."
"You said he was asleep."
"He _was_ asleep. But not resting. He was restless."
"Didn't it occur to you that taking the ankle monitor off him would get him sent back to prison?"
"Yeah, that's why I stopped. I almost had it off when I came to my senses."
Frida considered. "Okay. I guess that answers all my questions." She headed for the door.
"I'm here if you need me, Frida," Gail said.
"I'll take you up on that some time. See you later, Crush. Nice to meet you, Angela." Then she added, just as she opened the door, "Goodbye, Noel."
"Goodbye," said the sick man on the sofa. Then he looked a lot sicker.
CHAPTER FIVE
Frida stepped back inside. "Okay, who wants to tell me what's going on?"
"What do you mean?" Angela asked.
"He just answered to Noel," Frida said, pointing at Noel.
"He thought you said _Noël_ ," Crush volunteered. "He thought you were wishing him Merry Christmas."
"Is that what you thought, Noel?" Frida said.
"Yes. I mean, no. I mean..." Noel lapsed into quiet muttering.
Frida stepped forward and offered her hand. "We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Frida Morales and I believe you're K.C.'s twin brother, aren't you?"
Noel looked up at Frida. Then he looked over to the others.
"Give it up, Noel," Crush said.
"I can't believe you'd do this," Frida said. "All of you." She turned to Gail. "Especially you. Why?"
So Gail told her why and when she was done Frida stared long and hard out the window at the traffic that was creeping along on Wilshire Boulevard. "Now tell me the real reason," she said.
"That's the truth," Gail said.
"Come off it," Frida said. "Zerbe just flaked, didn't he? He ran off. And you brought Noel over to cover for him? That's it, isn't it?"
"Frida..." Crush started.
"Tell me you didn't plan this so he could go on a trip to Vegas or something."
"What I told you was the truth."
"If you want to make up a story," Frida said, exasperated, "at least tell me one that makes sense. Don't tell me Noel arranged for him to be kidnapped and then you lost him. Don't tell me that."
"We'd rather not tell you that, but it's the truth," Crush said.
"Where is K.C. now?" Frida demanded.
"I don't know," Crush said.
"Gail?"
"We really don't know," Gail said.
"For God's sake don't _lie_ to me. Don't you lie to me." Frida was shocked to feel a rush of sorrow and frustration. _Calm down_ , she told herself. _Don't let them see how fragile you are right now_. She turned to the sink and gripped the counter.
Gail walked up to her and placed her hand on Frida's back. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No, I don't want to talk about it!" She spun around to face Gail. "You know what I'm going to have to do, don't you? I'm going to have to call this in. They're going to put a BOLO out on him. He's going back to prison."
"That's right," Gail said calmly. "That's what will happen. If you do that."
"What do you mean, _if_ I do that?" Frida asked, affronted. "That's what's going to happen."
"Are you on the clock?" Crush asked.
"Pardon?"
"Have you reported in? Or did you stop by on the way to work?"
Frida stared at him. "You're not really suggesting what I think you're suggesting."
"I'm suggesting it," Crush said.
Angela spoke up. "If you haven't reported in, then this really hasn't happened. Professionally speaking, I mean."
"Don't you talk to me." Frida turned to Gail. "Tell her not to talk to me."
"Don't talk to her, Angela," Gail said.
Frida pulled out her cell phone.
"Frida, wait," Crush said. "At least hear us out."
Noel shook his head. "It's useless, can't you see? She's working for _them_."
"For who?" Frida asked.
"You're not helping, Noel," Crush said. Noel huffed and shuffled back upstairs to the bedroom.
Frida's thumb was poised over the keypad on her phone.
"Tell me one thing before you call," Gail said. "How did you know?"
"How did I know what?" Frida replied.
"How did you know it wasn't K.C.?" Gail asked.
Frida paused. "I could just tell. It was obvious."
"Not from the first. If you knew from the first you would have called him out. When did you know?"
Frida thought. "I guess...when he looked at me. It wasn't the same."
"What wasn't the same?" Gail asked.
"It wasn't the same feeling. When he looked at me." Frida struggled to put it into words. "It just wasn't...there."
"What wasn't there?"
"The feeling. The familiarity." Frida shook her head in frustration. "Why am I even talking to you about this?"
"The familiarity. The friendship, you mean?" Gail asked.
"This is just wasting time."
"He's your _friend_ , Frida. Whether you want to admit that or not," Gail said. "He's your friend and you deserve to hear him out."
"All right. Fine. You win. And I will hear him out. As soon as I can talk to him. Which means, as soon as they bring him in."
"You can hear from him before that," Gail said.
"What are you talking about?" Frida asked.
Gail looked to Angela who pulled out her cell phone. "Somebody texted me," Angela said. "They said to FaceTime this number at eight-thirty."
"And you think it was him?" Frida asked.
"Or the people who _have_ him," Gail said. "There's only one way to find out. Just wait five minutes. You can be here when we call."
Frida did a turn around the kitchen table. "This is stupid."
"But you'll wait?" Gail asked.
Frida sat. "What the hell, I'll wait."
"You want some coffee?" Crush asked.
"What the hell, I'll have some coffee," Frida said.
Crush poured her a cup and Gail pulled up a chair to sit next to her. Crush poured Gail a cup, too. Gail gestured for Crush and Angela to leave them alone. Crush took Angela into the bedroom.
"That was subtle," Frida said.
"I wasn't trying to be subtle," Gail said. "I was trying to give you some space. What happened yesterday?"
Frida sipped her coffee. "I don't know whether you're my sensei, my therapist, or an accomplice to an offender."
"Well, I'm not your therapist. But I can listen."
Frida put her cup down. "Remember that INKY I told you about?"
"Inky?"
"Sorry, P. O. talk. Incorrigible Juvenile Offender. Aaron Reddick and his family. The usual Friday night routine. Dad comes home, beats on Mom, the kid tries to break it up, the parents gang up on the kid, the kid fights back, and the parents call me. To put the fear of God and the law into him."
"That sounds pretty bad."
"Yeah, it's what we call an F.U.F.U.—A Fucked Up Family Unit. They have a choice. They could work on their problems or they could blame the kid. They blame the kid. Of course Aaron acts out, just to give them something to complain about. Vandalism, tagging, shoplifting. He's been in amd out of Juvie and on probation since he was thirteen. A problem child, they say. With an alcoholic, abusive father and an enabling mother. This is the stuff I have to deal with, day in, day out."
"But this time it was different?"
Frida ran her fingers through her hair, put her hands on the table, and looked at her nails. "This time it was different. I should have sensed that, but it started just the same as always. Mom and Dad had been wailing on each other and Aaron started breaking up the place, just to distract them. By the time I got there, he was busting up the kitchen with a broom handle and they were yelling at him. I tried to get Aaron to stop, to calm everybody down. You can guess how well that went. By the time I got the kid to put down the broom, his father was picking up an old stainless-steel meat tenderizer and bringing it down on Aaron's head. So Aaron picked up a cast-iron skillet and started swinging at his father while his mother was screaming like a scalded cat.
"I don't think the dad meant to hit me with the mallet. I just got caught in the back swing. I fell back against the counter and the mother decided to help me by screaming in my face. Aaron dropped the skillet and ran to me, but his dad kept pounding at him with the mallet.
"I don't know who called the police. I guess one of the neighbors finally ran out of patience, or maybe somebody new had moved in, somebody who wasn't used to the mother's screeching. The cops burst in just as Aaron grabbed a butcher's knife off the counter. They took one look at the scene and decided that the young guy with the knife was the aggressor."
Frida paused and took a sip of coffee.
"Well, they didn't shoot him, I'll give them that much credit. But Aaron wouldn't drop the knife—not as long as his dad still held that mallet. So they tased him. Aaron fell to his knees, but he still didn't drop the knife. One of the cops put him in a choke hold. Flipped him over and put his knee on his chest and his hand on his throat. Until he stopped struggling."
Frida stared into the murky depths of her coffee cup for a long moment.
" _Positional asphyxia_ they call it. Not intentional, of course. But the position made it hard—impossible really—for Aaron to breathe. So what they thought was him resisting them was actually him struggling to breathe. And when he stopped struggling, that didn't mean he was subdued, it meant he was dead.
"The mother screamed louder then. And the father, when he saw what they'd done to his precious boy, he started to swing the mallet at the cops. Beat one of them bloody. And the other one, seeing his partner getting clubbed senseless, hollered for Aaron's father to stop. He didn't. So the cop shot him."
Frida looked out the window.
"It wasn't your fault," Gail said.
"No, it wasn't. But I didn't do anything to stop it. And that's what I'm supposed to do, isn't it? To help...I don't know what I'm going to do now."
Gail put her hand on top of Frida's. "You're going to hurt for a while."
Frida gave a wry smile. "Is that the best you can give me?"
"Yeah."
"I need a better therapist."
"Maybe."
"I keep hearing this voice in my head saying I blew it. That I should have done something."
"Fuck the voice in your head. I have the same voice. Everybody does. Trust me, it doesn't know everything."
"But it does, doesn't it? I mean, it was there. It's _me_ , isn't it?"
Gail shook her head. "The voice in your head is never you."
"How can you be sure?"
"Simple. You're the one who says fuck the voice in your head."
Crush and Angela waited in Crush's bedroom, which he hadn't put back together after the altercation with Donny last night and which was pretty small. Angela had to sit on the bed and Crush had to pace about in the tiny space.
"You look like a caged tiger, Crush," Angela said. "Why don't you sit down next to me?"
"No thanks."
"Speaking of animals," she said, "how 'bout that elephant in the room?"
Crush stopped and looked at Angela on his bed. "The whole point of having an elephant in the room is to ignore it. However big it is."
She lay back, stretched out on the bed. "What if I don't want to ignore it?"
"That's your choice. Me, I'm going to keep acting like it's not there."
"That might not be so easy."
"I've tackled worse."
She sat up and pouted. "All right. What time is it?"
He checked his phone. "Eight twenty-eight."
"Two minutes till the phone call. Do you think it was Zerbe who texted me?"
"It didn't sound like him. There was nothing funny in it."
"Maybe he didn't feel like being funny."
"Zerbe always feels like being funny."
"Can we trace the number?"
"We can try, but it's probably a burner. They'll use it and throw it away."
"Who will?"
"Whoever has him."
"It doesn't make any sense. Noel arranged for K.C. to be kidnapped. He didn't arrange for anybody to keep him."
"You sure about that?"
"Noel's crazy but he's harmless. He wouldn't trap somebody against their will."
"Not even to save them from the Great Whatever?"
She shook her head. "Noel's not lying. He's a terrible liar."
Crush walked to the door. "I guess we'll find out what we'll find out."
They walked out to find Gail and Frida sitting silently at the kitchen table. "It's time," Crush said.
Gail took out her iPhone, dialed the number, and waited.
CHAPTER SIX
Zerbe dreamed of being beaten.
The dream had the feeling of being a memory, but a memory from when Zerbe wasn't sure. Was he recalling one of his many prison beat-downs? Was it a playground altercation in grade school? Or one of the nasty scenes that played out in his high school locker room? Zerbe had to admit he'd been beaten up with regrettable frequency throughout his life.
He hoped he was reliving one particular Pasadena Prep locker room beating. The one that seemed to change his life for the better. It was after the usual painful game of dodgeball, when Zerbe had to endure the daily humiliation of the communal shower. What could be worse than having to march, naked, into a cold, tiled room and lather up with a bunch of pubescent but still immature and confused males? Zerbe darted in and out of the shower, just long enough to get his hair wet to prove he'd washed, then dashed back to his locker to get dressed.
Then the gang of blond, blue-eyed Aryans came up to Zerbe and called him a Jew-fag, though in truth he was neither. When he didn't answer to their satisfaction, they slammed his locker shut on his hand and let loose with their fists and their knees. Zerbe had tried every strategy, from curling up like a possum to ineffectual slapping in resistance, but nothing seemed to make them lose interest in the constantly entertaining sport of beating up K.C. Zerbe at the end of gym class.
And all at once it changed. Zerbe's new stepbrother, Caleb (the one who brooded silently in his room, glared at his new family over the dinner table, and had never seemed to like Zerbe), loomed up from behind his attackers, big and powerful and naked. He grabbed a couple of them by the hair, yanked their heads back, and told them to stop it. When Redmond Hart, the bulliest of the bullies, tried to fight back, Caleb showed him what a street fighter could do to a prep school bully. In short order, Caleb fractured his wrist and smashed his nose without breaking a sweat.
As Hart lay in a heap and his friends cowered, afraid to go near him, Caleb Rush said quietly, "So you won't bother him again, am I right?" They nodded rapidly.
He wasn't called Crush yet, but in his memory Zerbe got the timelines mixed and said, "Thanks, Crush." Crush just nodded and walked on to get dressed. In that moment, Crush became Zerbe's superhero.
However, the beating in his dream continued and Crush didn't show up to save the day, so perhaps this was one of Zerbe's other beatings. Which one? It was more methodical than the playground scuffles he'd gotten into in grade school. And less sadistic than his prison assaults had been. In fact, the blows seemed...softer. As if the fists that were striking him were wearing boxing gloves or at least half-finger mitts, the kind Crush and Gail wore when they sparred. And the blows came at oddly regular intervals, as if there was no passion behind them. As if they were just fulfilling an assignment.
It was then that Zerbe realized he wasn't dreaming. He was being beaten in the here and now. Tied to an upright chair, he was being pummeled like a punching bag.
Oh, yes, Zerbe remembered. He'd been kidnapped. Twice.
The first time was by an incompetent young wannabe. That had been almost funny. The second time, not so much. He had been wandering through the warehouse full of unfinished Rose Parade floats, trying to figure out how to get back home before the police found him, when he saw a figure in a baggy, black hoodie holding a machete in one gloved hand and an iPhone in the other.
The figure held the iPhone out in front of him, like the Ghost of Christmas Past pointing his finger at Scrooge. On the phone's screen were words printed in plain type: BE QUIET. COME WITH ME.
Zerbe thought of running, but the image of that machete slicing at his throat, like Betsy Palmer in _Friday the 13th_ , was too much of a deterrent. So he followed the shrouded figure through the maze of parade floats to a door in the back of the warehouse that led to the front office. He heard someone calling his name as the door shut behind him. Was it Angela? Zerbe drew a breath to answer when the shrouded figure raised his finger to point at Zerbe and lifted the machete as if to strike. Zerbe remained silent.
The figure led Zerbe to the street exit, and Zerbe reflected that, whoever the man was, he certainly knew his way around here. This was clearly an inside job. But the shrouded figure was a head taller than Zerbe, so he knew it couldn't be Noel. Who was it?
He led Zerbe across the parking lot to a nondescript white van and, opening the back doors, gestured for Zerbe to get in. Zerbe hesitated. He had seen enough serial killer movies to know that people who got into nondescript white vans seldom made it out alive. He started to run.
The figure chased after him and tackled him to the ground, bringing the machete butt down on his head. That was the last thing he could remember until now.
But he wasn't dead, he felt sure of that. If he was dead, how could he feel so much pain? Unless his Catholic upbringing had turned out to be correct after all, and this was hell. An eternity of being beaten while tied to a chair in the back of a white van. Hardly Dante, but effective.
Then the beating stopped.
The blows were no longer raining down on his face. He caught his breath. _Now what?_ he thought. Nothing happened. And nothing happened again. And again. Things were looking up.
_All right_ , he thought, _this gives me a chance to gather myself_. _To put myself back together again. A chance to see what condition my condition was in_ , he thought, and realized he was quoting _The Big Lebowski_ quoting The First Edition. He laughed at the absurdity of it and sputtered blood all over his Captain America T-shirt. _Don't get hysterical. Don't lose it. Keep calm and carry on. Just concentrate. How do you feel physically?_
The short answer was he felt bad. His head ached and his face felt like it had been gone over by an industrial sander. There was a pain in the back of his head that was greater still. Had the machete split his skull? He doubted it. He didn't feel any brains dripping down his back. So his attacker had probably been kind enough to use the hilt of the weapon on him, rather than the blade. So he wanted to keep Zerbe alive. For now. That was okay—even a "for now" was comforting under the circumstances.
_Now what can you tell about your surroundings_ , he asked himself. _The first thing you have to do is look._ He opened his eyes. Well, he opened one eye. His left one was too swollen shut to be of much use. Still one eye was better than none.
_Now, what can you see?_ Not much, at first. It was dark but not completely dark. As his eye adjusted to the murky light, he could see that he had been correct, he was still in the van. He was seated in an upright metal chair that had been bolted to the floor of the van, facing the back doors. Not a factory installation, but one that had been prepared for this express purpose. So this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment "snatch and grab." This had been planned.
That made him feel good, too. The preparation involved meant that the kidnapper wanted something specific from Zerbe or his family. And he would keep him alive, at least until he got what he desired.
Zerbe tried to move his arms and legs but they were bound tightly to the arms and legs of the chair. Probably with those little plastic thingies they used for the purpose nowadays, which was good as well. That was what a professional would do, so Zerbe was definitely in the knowledgeable hands of an expert. One who wouldn't kill him unless it made good business sense to do so.
Things were looking better and better.
He squinted through the darkness to see if he could make out anything. He saw an object in front of him. Was it a table? With something on it? He could vaguely discern three objects but couldn't tell what they were. Torture implements, perhaps? Just because this guy wanted to keep him alive didn't mean he wouldn't make him wish he were dead. Zerbe felt his stomach contract.
All at once, the back doors of the van were flung open and bright light flooded in. Zerbe flinched and shut his eye, then took a deep breath and forced his eyelid to open. _Better to see what's coming than to have it surprise you_, he thought.
The light was blindingly intense at first, but as his pupils contracted he could see, outlined by white glare, the three objects on the table in front of him become clear. An iPhone on a tiny tripod, facing him. An iPad on a slightly larger tripod, also facing him. _That's good_ , he thought. _No pliers. No scalpels. No hammers, no saw, no nail gun. This was turning out to be the best day ever_.
Then he noticed movement in the background and the van rocked. A hooded figure was climbing in through the back doors. Zerbe could barely see him, the lights behind him were so bright. _Clever of him to use the light to obscure his identity_ , Zerbe thought. The man (Zerbe felt almost sure it was a man) held a small device up to his mouth and spoke. Then a voice that sounded like a schoolgirl on Auto-Tune said, "Hello, Zerbe. If you do what I say I promise you won't be hurt."
It was the hooded man, talking to him through an electronic voice-modification device. This was even better news. This meant he didn't want Zerbe to be able to identify his voice later. This meant there would _be_ a later. There would be a time when Zerbe would be telling his story to the police and the man didn't want him to be able to describe his voice. This meant the man didn't mean to kill him after he got what he wanted.
Zerbe felt his heart flutter with hope. This was turning out to be the best New Year's of the young century. "Okay," Zerbe said. "But you know, you _did_ hurt me before. With the punching."
"I'm sorry about that. I had to do it." The voice sounded like a teenager apologizing to her father for playing hooky. "I have to make her see I mean business."
"Could you switch to another voice setting? It's hard to take you seriously when you sound like Miley Cyrus."
"Don't be a smart-ass or I'll cut off one of your fingers." He still sounded like Miley Cyrus, but a Miley Cyrus who had taken a very wrong turn in life.
"Sorry," Zerbe said.
"In two minutes you are going to get a phone call. You will see her. She will see you."
"Who?"
"Shut up. Can you read what's written on the iPad in front of you?"
Zerbe blinked a few times. There were words there but he couldn't make them out. "I'm really sorry, but I can't."
"Just a minute." The man stepped forward and plucked the iPad from its tripod. Zerbe shut his eye. He didn't want to see any more of the man than the man wanted him to see. He didn't want to give the man any excuse to kill him.
"Now?" the schoolgirl voice asked. Zerbe opened his eye. The man had made the font bigger and now Zerbe could read the words.
"That doesn't make any sense to me," Zerbe said.
"And they won't make sense to her either. But your father, he'll know what they mean."
"My father?"
"Instruct her to tell your father this. Tell her not to call the police if she ever wants to see you again."
"Is it my _sister_? Is that who's going to call?"
"Yes."
"You should have done a little more research. My sister wouldn't mind not seeing me again. We're not a close family."
"Perhaps the tragedy will bring you closer together."
"What tragedy?"
"The one that's going to happen to each and every one of you."
Zerbe swallowed. The New Year was looking a little bleaker. The phone beeped.
"Are you ready?" the girl's voice asked.
Zerbe nodded.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Angela entered the number in her iPhone and pressed "call." She put the phone down on the kitchen table and Crush and Gail and Frida gathered around to look.
The call was connected and they could see Zerbe on the screen.
"Oh shit," said Angela.
Zerbe did not look good. His cheek was bruised, his lip was split open, and his left eye was swollen completely shut.
"Hey, guys," Zerbe said. He sounded surprised.
"Are you okay?" Frida asked.
"Yeah, I just didn't expect to see all of you there." Zerbe looked "off camera." "I didn't know they'd all be there," he said to someone. "Is it all right that they're there?"
A young woman's voice spoke up. It sounded artificial, like a distorted sample from a hip-hop tune. "Just read the words."
"Are you in danger?" Crush asked.
"Yeah, I think so," Zerbe said. He looked off camera again for confirmation. "I'm in danger, right?"
"Read it," the unknown woman said.
"Yeah, I'm in danger," Zerbe said. "That's why he beat me up, I guess. So you'd see that he means business."
"He sounds kind of like a girl," Angela said.
"Yeah, that's a voice-modification app," Zerbe said. "It's very creepy."
"What does he want?" Frida asked. "Does he want money?"
"He doesn't want money," Zerbe said. "He wants Angela to do something."
"What does he want me to do?" asked Angela.
"He wants you to tell Dad something," Zerbe said.
Angela swallowed. "Okay."
"First of all, he says that you shouldn't go to the police," Zerbe went on. "At the first sign that you've gone to the police, he'll kill me deader than dead. That's what it says here. 'Deader than dead.' So that's pretty serious. Do you hear that Frida?"
Frida nodded. She tried to keep her professional composure. "Where are you?" Frida asked.
"I'm in a van. Parked somewhere. But I don't think I'm supposed to talk about that," Zerbe said. "He just wants me to read this message. And for Angela to deliver it to Dad. Are you ready, Angela?"
"What do you mean?" Angela asked, worried.
"Write this down," Zerbe said. "It's important."
Angela looked around for a pen. Crush handed her a pencil and a napkin. "All right." She took a deep breath. "I'm ready."
"Wait," Crush said. "I want to talk to the other person in the room."
"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea," Zerbe said.
"Are you listening to me, whoever you are?" Crush said. "Answer this question. If Angela delivers this message, will you let Zerbe go free?"
There was an awkward pause.
"Just let me read the message," Zerbe said.
"No. Not until we have an agreement," Crush said.
"This isn't a negotiation, Crush," Zerbe said, plaintively.
"That's exactly what this is," Crush said, and reached down to the phone and ended the call.
The others in the room gasped.
"What did you just do?" Gail said.
"Are you crazy?" Angela asked.
Crush raised one of his big fingers, telling them to wait.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Crush," Frida whispered.
"So do I," Crush said.
"If he thinks he's in control," Frida explained to others, "then he _is_ in control. Crush is giving him reason to doubt that."
"Is that a good thing?" Angela asked.
"We'll see," Crush said.
The phone beeped. Crush reached down and connected the call.
Zerbe appeared on the screen. He looked like he'd taken a few more punches to the face. "Don't make him mad, Crush. Really, don't."
"What did he say?" Crush asked. "Did he answer my question?"
"He said it all depends on what my father says," Zerbe said, not even trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. "He says it's all up to him."
Crush nodded. That would have to do. "All right. Go ahead."
"Here goes," Zerbe said and proceeded to read with great deliberation. "' _The GV is dead. The SG is out of the HSR. Remember the seventy-six thousand. The debt is not paid_.'" Zerbe looked quickly toward the camera. "Did you get that?"
Angela wrote feverishly. "I don't think so. Can I read it back to you?"
The line went dead. Angela panicked. "I don't think I got it. I didn't get it! Call him back."
"We'd better not." Crush took the napkin from Angela and read it over. "That's almost right." He crossed out a few letters and fixed some of the phrasing.
"You're sure you're right?" Angela asked him.
"I'm sure," he said. Running numbers for the Russian mob at age fifteen, Crush had developed a good memory. He'd had to—his life had depended on it. He folded the napkin and put it in his pocket.
"I'm supposed to deliver that," Angela objected.
"And you will," Crush said. "But I'm going with you." He turned to Frida. "What are you going to do, Frida?"
Frida sat at the kitchen table, her face set in concentration. "My next scheduled visit is on January 2nd. I haven't been here this morning. You have three days." She finished the rest of her cold coffee and got up. "Zerbe better be here when I get back, Crush." Her voice cracked a little as she spoke, which made it sound less like a warning and more like a plea.
"He will be," Crush said.
"How do you know?"
"Because I'll bring him back." Crush didn't say dead or alive. He didn't think Frida could handle that.
They decided to leave Noel in the loft with the ankle monitor on. He said it made him feel safer to know that "they" thought he was someone else. Gail stayed with him, to keep an eye on him and make sure that, if he went totally crazy (always a possibility according to Angela), at least he wouldn't be alone. Crush and Angela went to see her father and deliver the message.
Now Crush was piloting the Camaro through busy downtown traffic. It would still be the morning rush hour for the next three hours, so he knew enough to stay off the 110 and the narrow tunnels that led to the San Gabriel Valley. Instead, he traveled to Pasadena through the surface streets of what was nowadays called DTLA. Through the canyons of old buildings that were used by film crews to double for New York and Boston. Past the gleaming new skyscrapers that were sprouting up like immense, glass Lego kits, changing the face of Los Angeles from the sprawling western burg he knew into a Dubai-like city of the future. For all the years Crush had known it, LA had always been an evolving city. But now it was evolving in ways Crush didn't really understand.
"The skyline's really changing," Angela said, echoing his thoughts.
Crush grunted noncommittally. Then he said. "I guess that's your father's work."
"Not all of it."
"But enough?"
"Enough."
After that, they drove in silence up Broadway until it crossed the concrete ditch that was the LA River and turned into York. In no time at all, Crush felt like he was in another land. A part of the Gilded Age Midwest. _Magnificent Ambersons-land_ , Zerbe called it. The fabled land of Pasadena.
Turning left, Crush maneuvered through tree-lined streets and made his way onto San Rafael Avenue, the legendary lane of Tudor mansions that bordered the steep bluff of the dry riverbed called the Arroyo Seco. Hidden from the road by hedges, fences, and long driveways were great imposing houses. Houses that looked like Wayne Manor from the TV show _Batman_. In fact, one of them _was_ Wayne Manor, or at least the house they used for the establishing shots back in the sixties. The illusion of great wealth met the reality of great wealth on the Arroyo Seco.
The shadows of tree branches swept over the Camaro's hood and Crush stuck his head out the window and took in a deep breath of cool December air. _What was that smell?_ Crush wondered. _Oh that's right. It's the smell of power._
Fifteen minutes away from downtown LA and it seemed to Crush like another country and another time. A time of western culture and money and white people's rule. _A time a lot like right now_ , Crush corrected himself.
As he drove, he thought back to another time. Near the end of the last century, when he first drove down these streets with his mother. On the day they moved in.
Toni Rush had married Emil Zerbe in Las Vegas just a few days before. Toni had left the one-room apartment she shared with Crush in Koreatown (and this was before Koreatown got all hipster-cool) one day in late June and didn't come back till July. She was gone for two weeks, but Crush didn't worry. She did that from time to time. Went off with men for a week or two. Sometimes she even came back with them. Sometimes she came back with a few trophies. Sometimes she came back with a black eye or a busted lip.
This time she came back with a husband.
Crush hadn't thought that Emil Zerbe would be a keeper. To be honest, he thought Emil Zerbe was out of Toni's league. Crush knew that was kind of a rotten thing for a son to think about his mother, but Emil was one of the richest men in Southern California and Crush's mother was...Crush's mother. Good for a rich man's fling but not much more. To be honest, Crush was surprised when she was gone with him for more than a weekend. When the weekend stretched to two weeks, he was half afraid that Emil was a rich maniac and that he had buried her somewhere in the desert.
For that reason, Crush was ecstatic to see Toni leaning over his bed one morning, alive and well and looking exceedingly well fed.
"I'm back, Cabe," she said. "Pack your things. We're moving."
He sat up and shook his head to clear it. All right, he thought, we're moving again. What's Toni done this time. Robbery? Blackmail? Something worse? Best not to ask. Just get on the move.
"You pack," he said, jumping out of bed. "I'll get a car. An inconspicuous one. Maybe a Corolla. I saw one parked around the corner last night. I'll be back in five minutes."
Toni laughed. "Slow down, Cabe. We're not on the run. We're just moving."
He sat back down. "Where?"
"To Pasadena."
He blinked and thought. "Where's that?"
She laughed again. "It's just to the east of here. I spent last week out there. It's like another world."
"Okay." Crush tried to adjust to this new change in his always-changing life. "Is this on account of Emil? Is he getting you an apartment?"
"No," Toni said smiling. "A house! A huge fucking house!"
Crush had to ask. "What for?"
She showed Crush her left hand. There was the most spectacular diamond Crush had ever seen, with a gold band nestled beneath it, sitting there on her third finger. Still, Crush couldn't quite put it together. "Why did he give you those?"
"Why do you think? We got married, Cabe."
Crush just stared. Was she kidding? "Why?"
"What kind of question is that? Because he loves me."
Crush nodded. Then he nodded again. Then he thought to ask, "Do you love him?"
Toni looked at him like he'd asked her something that had never occurred to her. Then she answered, "Sure. Of course, I do. Now come on."
So, she wasn't kidding, Crush thought as he drove the Mustang that he'd stolen from somewhere in Bell Gardens last month down San Rafael Avenue. She had really done it. She had landed a big one.
"Here. On the right," Toni said.
"Where?" There was nothing but a large hedge on the right.
"It's there. That's the entrance. You passed it."
He turned the car around, pulled up to the massive greenery, and on closer inspection saw a small metal box inset in the bushes. Toni rolled down the window, stuck out her hand, and pressed a button on the box like she'd been doing it her whole life.
A bored, officious voice came through the little box. "Who's there?"
"Samantha! It's me, Toni."
"And?"
"And let me in."
There was a passive-aggressive pause. "Just a minute."
Toni turned to Crush with a happy smile. "Samantha hates me."
After another pause, the hedge started to open, revealing a long curving driveway. Crush steered the car down the lane and they listened to almost all of "My Favorite Mistake" on the radio before they came upon what Crush thought must have been a four-star hotel. Or perhaps they'd gone through a wormhole and ended up in England in front of a damned castle.
It sure looked like a castle. Massive stone walls overgrown with ivy. What Crush thought were called battlements along the top of the façade. The little windows to shoot arrows out of and the big windows to let light in. A huge front door with enormous iron studs set into it. True, there was no drawbridge, but the large pond in front of the house could serve as a moat in a pinch.
"Is that his house?" Crush asked as he circled the pond and pulled up in front of the stone steps that led to the entryway.
"I told you it was fucking huge," Toni said gleefully as she got out of the Mustang.
"How many people live here?"
"I don't really know. I think four. At least part of the time. When his kids are staying with him."
"And the rest of the time?"
"Emil lives here alone."
Crush got out of the car. One man alone in that gigantic mansion could get pretty lonely. But lonely enough to marry Toni Rush? Crush felt the hairs on his back stand up straight, the way they always did when he sensed danger. Something wasn't right.
Toni raced up the steps, taking them two at a time, and rang the doorbell, which chimed with appropriate solemnity. Crush climbed the stairs with more caution, eyeing the ivy with suspicion. Rats lived in ivy, he'd heard. This damn house could contain hidden dangers.
The huge door swung open and a young woman who had dirty-blond hair swept up on the top of her head with a pencil pushed into it to keep it there greeted them with a stony expression. The woman wore wire-rimmed glasses and a trim little business suit that somehow managed to look disheveled even though it was actually quite tidy. She looked all business. "I didn't expect you," she said to Toni.
"Why not?"
"Because I thought you'd come to your senses. You had a good week. You got a nice ring. Why don't you quit while you're ahead?"
"You think I'm nothing but a gold digger, don't you Samantha?"
"No, I think you're probably a number of things in addition to being a gold digger." Her eyes fell on Crush. "And who's this, if I may ask?"
"This is Caleb. My son."
She couldn't have looked more skeptical. "Your son, huh? How old is he?"
"Seventeen."
"He looks pretty big for seventeen."
"I drank all my milk," Crush said.
"Emil's waiting for you. In the swimming pool," Samantha said, her voice heavy with resentment, and left the room.
"I like her," Crush said. "She doesn't put up with your shit."
"Thanks a lot."
"What does she do around here?" Crush asked as Toni led the way through the maze that was the inside of the house.
"She's Emil's private secretary. I think she was his private secretary, if you know what I mean. She's not too happy about being replaced."
"Do you think she wanted to marry him?"
"Sure, who wouldn't?" Toni grinned. "But she doesn't have my hidden assets!"
Crush didn't know what his mother's hidden assets were and he really didn't want to.
The house on the inside looked about like what you'd expect from the outside. Colossal wooden banisters and balustrades. Colorful woven antique tapestries hanging from the walls. Big heavy furniture. Even a damn suit of armor in one corner. It looked like the setting for a Vincent Price movie, minus the cobwebs.
Toni led Crush down a tiled corridor. The echoes of water splashing came down the hall. Crush stopped. "Emil's in the pool, right?"
"Yep! You should see it. It's spectacular."
"Mom, I really don't want to see the new dude you're banging in his swimming trunks."
"He's my husband," Toni said, a little offended.
"But you're banging him, right?"
"Well, of course. Come on. You have to see this natatorium!"
"I thought it was a swimming pool."
"It is! That's how rich he is, he can call it whatever he wants."
Reluctantly, Crush followed his mother. And the pool was indeed amazing. Inside a glass-enclosed greenhouse, it was done up with what Crush guessed were Greek- or Roman-style sculptures and tiles. All blue and white. Images of gods holding up the world and statues of fat dolphins and fatter Cupids squirting water out of their mouths. Crush guessed it must have cost a fortune and supposed it was very nice if you liked that sort thing. He preferred the pool at the Y. It was less full of itself.
The pool smelled freshly of chlorine and was at least Olympic size. The tiles or the lighting made the water look blue, like Crush imagined the water looked in the Mediterranean or the Aegean or one of those far-off seas that Crush wasn't sure even existed in real life.
A man was gliding through the water with expert strokes, barely leaving a ripple as he shot across the pool. He came to the edge, grabbed onto the lip, and pulled himself out in one graceful motion. He stood dripping on the deck.
If this was Emil Zerbe, he didn't look anything like Crush had expected. If you'd asked Crush what kind of rich older man would marry Toni, he'd have picked someone with a toupee, or an artificial tan, or a serious case of erectile dysfunction—someone who was short or overweight or both. Someone who was either a nerd or a narcissistic asshole or both. Someone who wanted some thirty-five-year-old eye candy to replace his previous trophy wife who'd aged out. An insecure man with an inferiority complex who used money and sex to make up for it.
This man, on the other hand, was handsome. Movie-star handsome. His body was fit, and Crush could see a lot of it since he was wearing a Speedo. Speedos don't look good on guys unless they have a six-pack and don't have an ounce of body fat. The Speedo looked good on him.
Crush guessed he was in his fifties, but movie-star fifties. The mythical ageless fifties. He didn't look so much like Liam Neeson as he looked like the way Liam Neeson wished he looked. His graying hair was cut long in the European style, and the water glistened from the hair on his chest. This man didn't look like he ever had an insecure moment in his life.
"Emil!" Toni said.
So it was Emil. He walked over to Toni and kissed her comfortably but with great passion, as if they had spent the past week kissing and that's how they would spend the next and the next. She was wearing a Versace outfit that Emil must have bought for her and it was getting all mussed and wet and ruined, but she didn't care.
Crush took this as his cue to leave but Toni came up for air and Emil looked over and noticed him. "Hello. And you are?"
"Emil, I want you to meet my son, Caleb," Toni said, beaming with pride.
Emil eyed him skeptically.
"I know," Crush said. "I'm big for my age."
"Pleased to meet you, Caleb. Your mother's told me a lot about you. She's so proud of you." Emil spoke with a barely noticeable foreign accent. Crush guessed that it was French, or maybe Austrian.
"Well, I'm proud of her."
Toni dropped the bomb as casually as she could. "Could you have Samantha show Caleb to his room?"
After an eloquent pause, Emil asked, "His room?"
"Yes," Toni said, still calm as ever. "Where he's going to live."
"Hmmm. It's odd," Emil said, "but I hadn't really thought about that."
"Why not? You knew I had a son."
"Yes, of course. Tell you what, I could get him an apartment. One of those nice ones on Orange Grove. That's only five minutes away."
Toni tried a different tack. She pouted a little and got just the tiniest crack in her voice. "But he has to live with his mother. He's just a boy. Only seventeen."
Emil cast his eye on Crush. "He doesn't look seventeen."
"I had a growth spurt." He could tell he was going to enjoy needling this man.
Shaking his head, Emil said, "I'd like to accommodate you, but I have my own children to think about. They live here two weeks out of every month."
"Where are they the rest of the time?" Crush asked.
Emil looked askance at Crush. "With their mother, of course."
"I see," Crush said. "How long have you been divorced?"
His steel-gray eyes locked with Crush's. "Three years. Why do you ask?"
"I just wanted to make sure my mother isn't a homewrecker," Crush said, smiling a little half-moon smile.
Emil's lips smiled back at Crush, but his eyes held him in a steady gaze, like a python eyeing its prey. "No. No, the home was well wrecked before I ever met your mother."
"That's a relief," Crush said. The two men kept sizing each other up, two gunfighters in the Old West.
Toni jumped in to cut the tension. "Oh, your kids will love Caleb. He gets along with everybody!"
"Do you?" Emil asked.
"I kind of do," Crush said, dryly.
"Actually, I'm more worried about how they'll treat you," Emil said. "My children are...difficult to get along with."
"I've had worse," Crush said.
"You don't know them."
"Trust me, I've had worse."
"I really don't know...."
"He'll keep to himself," Toni said. "They won't even know he's here."
"That shouldn't be too hard, in this house," Crush added.
Emil frowned. "I suppose he could use the guest room in the East Wing."
Toni smiled. She'd won a victory. Now she had to take care of the details. "Oh, that would be perfect! Thank you so much. Of course, we'll have to enroll him in school. It's very important to us that he finish high school. It's a promise we made to his father just before he...died."
Emil looked too smart to fall for such an obvious scam. Maybe he didn't know yet what a liar Toni was. Or maybe he just didn't care. "They have very nice public schools in Pasadena. So I understand."
"But couldn't he get into that private school that your kids go to? Pasadena Prep? I want him to have every advantage. His life has been so hard up till now. So has mine."
Emil took her in his arms. "That's all over now."
"I know, baby." They were at it again. But was this kiss partially for Crush's benefit? Emil's way of claiming his mother in front of him?
When the kiss ended, Emil whispered, "I'll see what I can do."
"Oh, thank you, darling. You won't regret it."
Crush wasn't sure the same could be said of himself.
Emil extended a hand to him. "I think we'll get along fine. I won't call you 'son.' You're too old for that."
"Just call him Caleb," Toni volunteered.
"All right, Caleb. And you call me Emil." His hand was still extended. Crush took it and they shook. Emil had a firm grip and wanted Crush to know it. Crush could have squeezed his hand to a pulp, but he decided now was not the time to show off. That time would come later.
Turning to no one in particular, Emil said, "Samantha, show Caleb to the East Wing guest room."
A disembodied voice answered, sounding rather bored with the whole thing. "Yes, Emil."
Crush looked around. "Does she listen to everything?"
Emil smiled at Toni. "Not everything."
Crush was pulled back into the twenty-first century when he hit a speed bump on the road and Angela said, "It's here on the right."
"I know," Crush snapped, although in reality he'd have driven right past that hedge with the hidden voice box. It had been too long.
Angela stuck her hand out the window and pressed the button. Now the box had a camera in it so it could see who was approaching. A voice spoke up. "Hello?"
"Hi. Let me in."
"Who's with you?"
"I'll explain when I get in."
The hedge slowly started to move. "Who was that?" Crush asked.
"My stepmother. Samantha."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The van's engine started. Zerbe braced himself, still strapped in the chair, as he felt the van begin to move.
So he was being taken somewhere. From a place he didn't know to a destination he didn't know. Was this good or bad? Maybe he was being taken to a spot where he'd be released? Maybe his father had given them what they wanted and they were going to let him go?
Or maybe they weren't? Maybe they were taking him somewhere to kill him and dispose of his body? But why wouldn't they kill him first? Wouldn't that be easier?
Or maybe they were just moving him for the sake of moving him? It didn't really matter. All that mattered was that, for the moment, he was alive and he wasn't being beaten. So he could be happy for now.
The pond in front of Emil Zerbe's mansion had been filled in and replaced with a rocky lawn of succulents and cactuses, which didn't exactly suit the European-castle theme but was in keeping with the water-conservation movement that was sweeping Southern California. This drought had lasted for so many years that, when rain did come, the local news affiliates pushed their daily reports of murders and hit-and-run accidents aside and opened their broadcasts with correspondents standing under umbrellas at various points in the city and reporting that, yes, it was indeed raining.
Emil didn't seem to be the xeriscape type, so this must have been Samantha's influence. _Well, good for her_ , Crush thought as he parked the car and got out. _At least she's using her hard-won position to do some good. Even if it was only one lawn in front of one mansion_. _What does Gail always say? 'Think globally, act locally.'_
Crush looked up at the house. Maybe the ivy had been cut back a bit but other than that, it hadn't changed since Crush had last seen it some fifteen years before. It was as if Emil saw this house as an ancestral home, one that the Zerbes would pass down from generation to generation in perpetuity. In reality, and knowing Emil's children, Crush doubted that the house would last a month after the old man's death. It would be sold, razed, and replaced by somebody else's idea of an ostentatious display of wealth.
Angela and Crush walked up the familiar steps. Crush felt a chill go down his spine. Angela must have noticed his shiver, because she asked, "Are you sure you're up for this?"
"No," he said as a preppy-looking young man in his mid-twenties opened the door. Angela told him they wanted to see her father and walked past him to the living room.
"A male secretary?" Crush asked Angela.
"Sure. Samantha's no fool."
"She does the hiring?"
"Yeah. Things have changed a bit." Angela threw open the big double doors and walked into the parlor.
Samantha Adamski, now Samantha Zerbe, turned from a big flat-screen television. She looked at Angela, then at Crush. Then harder at Crush. Her face blossomed into a broad smile. "Caleb! My God, how are you?" She opened her arms and hurried to Crush, giving him a fond hug. He hugged her back. She pulled away and beamed, "Look at you! You've grown up to be such a man!"
"It's been fifteen years," he said.
"What have you been doing?"
"A little of this, a little of that."
"Mostly that," Angela added.
"Of course Angela and K.C. have kept us informed about you. Your war record. Your work with that security agency. Are you still with them?"
"He just started back this morning," Angela said.
"Oh, I'm so glad. It's nice to know you have a career." Then her face grew sadder. "We were so sorry about what happened to your mother."
Crush nodded. "Thank you, Sam."
Samantha struggled to find words. "I thought of reaching out to you when I heard but...too much had happened by then, hadn't it?"
"A lot happened," Crush said.
Angela ended the awkward moment by saying, "We need to see Daddy. Where is he?"
Samantha hesitated. "He's not doing very well. Why do you need to see him?"
Angela began. "I don't know quite how to say this...."
Crush cut her off. "It's a security matter. About the parade."
"I don't know," Samantha said. "All his energy is going into the HSR. I don't think...."
"The HSR?" Crush asked.
"The high-speed rail. LA to San Francisco. He sees it as his legacy. It's all he can think about. We're going to start construction next month, God willing. It means the world to him. He wants it to be a monument to Zerbe Enterprises. A tribute to his brother Victor. You can understand that."
"Well, Uncle Victor always did like to go to San Francisco," Angela said.
Samantha ignored Angela's quip. "The float in the Rose Parade this year is a tribute to it. Noel even wants us to ride in it. Me and Emil. Waving to the crowd. Emil says he doesn't want to do it, of course, but I know he does. It will be his victory lap."
"We have to speak with him," Crush said.
"Why don't you give _me_ the message?" Samantha asked. "I can tell him when he's rested."
"There's no time," Crush said.
"It really _is_ urgent," Angela added. "It'll just take a second."
"All right. He's in the gym. But don't upset him."
"I'll try not to," Crush said.
As soon as they reached the hall, Angela whispered to him, "Why didn't you want me to tell her about the kidnapping?"
"The fewer people who know, the better. Besides, I didn't want to worry her."
"You always had a soft spot for Sam."
Crush grunted. "You didn't tell me your father was sick."
"He had a stroke. Two months ago."
They entered the gym. Emil was hanging onto a metal walker, moving with slow determination across the mat-covered floor. He pulled his right leg behind him slowly, and his right arm looked shrunken and weak under his white T-shirt. He was concentrating so much on the effort of crossing the room that he didn't notice they'd entered until Angela cleared her throat. He looked up. Crush could see that the left side of his face was sunken and expressionless. His bright right eye stared at Crush for a moment. Then he started to cry.
Crush didn't know what to do. Emil approached him slowly, dragging his right foot behind him and weeping silently. When he had made it almost all the way to Crush, his right foot collapsed from the effort. He tried to hold himself up with his left arm but it wasn't strong enough and he started to topple to the floor. Instinctively, Crush reached out to grab him. Emil clutched onto Crush's arms, buried his head in the big man's chest, and sobbed.
Angela brought a wheelchair over from the corner of the room and Crush settled Emil into it. Seeing the great man transformed into a weeping wreck almost brought Crush to tears himself.
"I'm sorry for the display," Emil gasped when he finally stopped crying. "My emotions have become a bit unstable since the stroke." His speech was slightly slurred but perfectly understandable.
"That's okay," Crush said, because he couldn't think of anything else.
"I don't have many regrets in my long life," Emil said. "You are one."
Crush's heart almost went out to him. Then he remembered. "How 'bout my mother?"
Emil hesitated. "Of course, I was sorry when I..."
"Yes," Crush cut him off, "when you heard what happened to her. But you weren't sorry enough to come to her funeral."
"No," Emil said. "Nor was I sorry enough to check to see how you were. That is my regret."
Crush shook his head. "I didn't come here for that. I came here for K.C."
Some of the old disdain came back into Emil's voice. "Kendrick? What has he done now?"
"He hasn't done anything," Angela said.
"He's been kidnapped," Crush said.
Emil didn't sound surprised. "Did you call the police?"
"They say they'll kill him if we involve the police," Angela said.
The old man was dismissive. "Oh, they always say that."
"Have you dealt with kidnappers before?" Crush asked.
"How much do they want?" Emil asked, ignoring Crush's question.
"They don't want money, Daddy," Angela said.
"They always say that, too."
"He wants you to hear something," Crush said, pulling the napkin from his jacket pocket and handing it to Angela.
"We talked to K.C. on the phone," she said. "His face looked horrible. He'd been beaten."
Emil grunted. "Well, what do they want me to hear?"
Angela unfolded the napkin and started to read. "' _The GV is dead. The SG is out of the HSR. Remember the seventy-six thousand. The debt is not paid_.'"
Emil listened. The live side of his face was just as expressionless as the dead side.
"Does that make sense to you, Dad?" Angela asked.
Emil made a sound that might have meant he was thinking or might have meant his jaw was hurting him.
"What's your answer?" Crush asked. "What do you want me to tell them?"
"When are you going to talk to them?" Emil asked.
"I don't know. What difference does that make? What's your answer?"
Emil started to turn the wheelchair away. "I'll think about it."
Crush blocked the wheelchair with his foot. "Goddamn it, this is K.C.'s life we're talking about. You didn't care enough to keep him out of prison. Don't you at least want to keep him alive?"
"Please. He only served two years. It probably did him some good."
"Someday I'll have him tell you how much good it did him."
Angela spoke up. "Daddy, this really is serious. They might kill him."
Emil spit. "Oh, they won't kill him. They don't have the guts."
"Who doesn't?" Crush asked.
"Whoever has him."
"Do you know who that is?"
"Stop asking stupid questions."
"What does the message mean?" Crush demanded.
"I have no idea."
"HSR. That stands for high-speed rail, doesn't it?" Crush asked. "What does SG stand for?"
"How should I know?"
"SGCF," Angela said. "Is that it?"
"Could be," Emil said. "Could be a lot of things."
"What's that?" Crush asked Angela.
"It's the French railway company. Daddy's one of the main shareholders. They're the ones who are bidding for the high-speed rail."
"High-speed rail is the future!" Emil burst out with the speech as if it were his mantra. "High-speed rail was the future back in the _nineties,_ when my brother and I started _trying_ to build it. Every country in the civilized world has an HSR. Most of the countries in the _uncivilized_ world have one. But not America. Why? Why does the US lag so far behind? Why can't we invest in our infrastructure? Well, when we start building the HSR next month, that will make a _statement_. America is _not_ in decline. America is the greatest nation on earth!"
"Is that what this is about?" Crush asked. "Is somebody trying to stop you from building your bullet train? Who? A rival company?"
Emil erupted in anger. "Enough! You want my answer? I'll give you my answer. Tell them the debt _has_ been paid. In full. They can't threaten me!"
"But what about K.C.?" Angela asked.
Emil brushed her off with his good hand. "Oh, they're bluffing."
"But what if they're not?" Crush asked.
Emil leveled his eye on him. "That's a chance I'm willing to take."
Zerbe didn't know how long they'd been driving. It was certainly more than an hour and certainly less than a day. Buffeted around in his metal chair, he'd long ago given up counting the number of right turns and left turns, the stops and the starts. All he knew was he had traveled a long way through the heavy traffic of metropolitan LA until they had broken clear of the gravitational pull of the city and were now driving steadily toward destination unknown.
He listened to the steady hum of the wheels on the road and thought about his life. There were a number of things he wanted to do that he hadn't done. Direct a movie for one. Climb Mount Everest for another. Make love with Scarlett Johansson. Why not? "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" as Browning wrote.
Then he heard something and decided he was going crazy. What he heard was the road. The sound of the wheels on the road. A rhythmic sound. Almost musical. And he could make out the tune.
The theme to _The Lone Ranger_. Yes, that was it. The road was playing the _William Tell Overture_. He was definitely going crazy.
Then he thought he'd replay some happy childhood memories to help him hold onto his sanity. The only problem was that he couldn't come up with any. None that didn't turn dark in the end.
Zerbe thought of the nights he used to spend as a teenager playing Dungeons & Dragons with his brother and sister and her friends. Her friends. Not his friends. And certainly not Noel's friends. Neither of them had many friends. Or any, really.
Still, they were an integral part of what K.C. had named the Colorado Boulevard Irregulars. They played other games, of course. They even did some live-action role-playing and practiced with a bow and arrow at the Arroyo Seco Archery Range with the Roving Archers of Pasadena. But it was at Dungeon & Dragons that they really excelled.
Noel was the Dungeon Master but Angela was the Queen of the Game. The reason everyone came. Her character in the game was a high-ranking elf by the name of Loralana. Her cousin, Renee Zerbe, was the other reason they came. She was a lovely Halfling called Dardrey.
K.C. himself was a gnome named Billin. The other players were mostly male Orcs, Tieflings, half-elves, Dragonborn, even humans, and they all wanted to sleep with Dardrey and Loralana, or both. The real secret of the game was the Power of the Magical Cousins.
Renee was sad, K.C. could see that. There was a troubled look in her eyes and a deep sorrow in the way she gripped her twenty-sided dice. K.C. was two years younger than Renee and had been in love with her for as long as he could remember.
It was, of course, an impossible love. The two of them were first cousins, blood relations. A taboo if ever there was one. But still, she was his ideal. His dream woman. His Guinevere. His Zelda. His Hermione Granger. Only with long black hair, black like the night. Black like a starry sky wrapping around her face, falling upon her dreamed-of milk-white breasts. A girl he could never love, but couldn't help but keep loving.
Renee didn't love him back, of course. How could she? Or if she did love him, she loved him, quite appropriately, like a younger cousin. A friend. A group mascot. It was a role Zerbe grew all too comfortable with as the years passed. The loyal friend who was in love with the beautiful woman who didn't see him as a potential lover. Look at Frida now. The pattern only repeated itself.
It didn't help Zerbe's heartache that Renee was always attracted to alpha males who were total assholes. Football players and rich preppies who used her and tossed her aside. Who even beat her, Zerbe was sure of that. Who left her broken and yearning.
Like tonight. Zerbe could swear he saw tears glittering on her lashes. He cast his eyes around the table to see which of the players was the one who had hurt her. There were Evan Gibbard and Sonny Kraus, both obnoxious rich kids who thought they were born not on third base, but having hit the game-winning home run. Renee, suffering from low self-esteem for no reason Zerbe could think of, had been traded between Evan and Sonny like a joint at a frat party. Zerbe wondered which one had hurt her last?
Of course, it didn't have to be just romantic heartbreak that could be bringing tears to her eyes. Renee, who had always been melancholic for no particular reason, came face to face with real tragedy when her father had died just a few weeks before, on New Year's Day, in a most spectacular suicide that was all over the front pages and had brought the Rose Parade to a sudden halt. He had been in charge of driving the Zerbe Enterprises float that year, a phantasmagoria of happy dinosaurs frolicking at the base of a smoking volcano. The calm before the storm.
Halfway down Colorado Boulevard he had blown his brains out with a Glock 18. They hadn't mentioned that in the television coverage of the parade, of course. It didn't quite match the celebratory mood of the occasion. But afterward, on the evening news, it was all anybody wanted to talk about.
Renee had been very close to her father. The tragedy and the subsequent publicity cut her to the core. Her mother was all but destroyed by it. It had turned what had previously been a Byronic pose into a harsh reality. Renee really was a "sad girl" now.
As Zerbe surveyed this memory, he was a little surprised to see Crush there. Or "Caleb," as they all called him then. Then he realized what night he was remembering and he knew he'd find no comfort there.
Zerbe watched as Renee suddenly pushed away from the table and hurried into the kitchen. He didn't know if he should follow her or not. For some reason he looked to Caleb for reassurance. The big guy just shrugged and looked toward the kitchen door. Was he telling Zerbe to go after her?
Zerbe got up and walked into the kitchen. Renee was standing by the open door to the garden.
"Hi, Billin," she said. He saw that she was holding a large carving knife in her right hand.
"Hi, Dardrey," he said. "What's the knife for?"
"It's for to kill myself, Billin," she said.
Was this the game, or was it reality? Zerbe wondered. "Why do you want to kill yourself?" he asked.
"Because my father didn't," she said. Then she took the knife and slid it over her left wrist. A bright thread of blood followed the knife as she drew it across her flesh. Then she threw it into the sink and ran out the door, dripping blood on the tile as she went.
Zerbe remembered how he stood there in the kitchen, stunned, staring, thinking it must be a joke. A special effect. A magic trick.
But the blood. It looked so real. It looked so final.
Fuck that memory. This reality—being kidnapped and tied to a chair in the back of a moving van—was better than that recollection. He tried his best to banish it from his mind, but in his mind's eye, all he could see was that open door and the blood trail leading out of it.
So he tried to think of nothing at all. He tried to be grateful he hadn't had to pee all this time, but that seemed a small consolation. After a little while, the van stopped moving. Had they reached their destination? _What now?_ he wondered. He heard doors opening and closing from the outside. Was that the driver getting out of the van?
He waited. He waited longer. He waited so long he almost fell asleep. He waited so long that he really had to pee. Then the back door of the van opened. A figure in a hoodie got in and Zerbe shut his eyes. He heard the figure settling in opposite him. Heard the girl's electronically modified voice again.
"Why are your eyes closed?" his kidnapper asked.
"Because I don't want to see you," Zerbe said. "I don't want you to worry about me identifying you. When you let me go."
"What makes you think I'm going to let you go?"
Zerbe's heart sank. "Because you don't want to kill me?" he said. He didn't like that it sounded like a question.
"That's up to your father. Do you want me to tell you why you're here?"
"No. I don't want to know anything."
"Why not?"
"Because I might learn something you don't want me to tell anyone else."
"And then?"
"And then you'll have to kill me."
"And you're worried about that?"
"Yes, I'm worried about that!"
"Worrying won't help, you know. You should relax."
"Really? Relax?" Zerbe asked in disbelief. "I'm tied to a chair and you're telling me to relax?"
"I'm telling you that what you're feeling will have no effect on what happens to you. Or to your family. Or to your city."
"Jesus, shut up!" Zerbe cried.
But his kidnapper kept on talking in that silky, feminine voice. "So you might as well...relax."
"I think I'll panic instead. It just feels right, you know? And I'm going to wet my pants. I hope you don't mind."
"As long as you listen to what I'm going to tell you...."
And Zerbe had no choice but to listen.
Crush and Angela walked away from the gym, leaving Emil to his physical therapy and his regrets.
"He didn't mean that," Angela said. "He cares about K.C., he really does."
"He hides it well," Crush said. "I want to see Noel's room."
"What for?"
"Whoever kidnapped K.C. knew about Noel's plan to get him arrested. They knew where he'd be. Does Noel confide in anyone?"
"Nobody. Not me. And I'm the closest thing to a friend he has."
She led him upstairs to Noel's room. It was the same room he'd had when they were kids, but now it was transformed into an artist's studio. Scale models of Rose Parade floats and various sets and installations filled the floor so that they had to maneuver around them.
Crush opened the drawers of Noel's desk. He looked for personal papers, bills, anything to show some contact with another person. But there was nothing. No letters, of course; this was the twenty-first century, after all. But no notes. No bills. No receipts. Nothing jotted down. Nothing in his handwriting. No flyers for concerts or clubs. Nothing to show that anyone lived here at all.
The one personal item he found was a small, oblong metal disc, like an oval coin, with the initials TI engraved on one side and the words "one year" engraved on the other. "What's this?"
"I never saw it before," Angela said.
"It looks like a chip from an Anonymous organization."
"Anonymous?"
"You know, Alcoholics Anonymous. Gamblers Anonymous. I have no idea what 'TI' stands for though. Do you know if your brother is an addict?"
"He's got problems. He has OCD. He's paranoid. He may be bipolar. But I don't think he's addicted to anything."
Crush pocketed the token. "Tell me about that French railroad company."
"The SGCF?"
"Yeah. What does that stand for?"
"The Société Générale des Chemins de Fer Français. _'Chemins de fer'_ means 'paths of iron.' Isn't that a cool term for 'railroad'? It was founded in 1938."
"Does your father own it?"
"I don't think he owns it. He controls it. It's been in the family for generations."
"But they're French. What are they doing in this country?"
"Oh, they've built a lot of railroads all around the world. In Spain and Israel. South Korea and Taiwan. My father's been trying to get a foothold in America for years."
"And who wants to stop him?"
"Who doesn't? The environmentalists. The California High-Speed Rail Authority. People who don't like the route they're proposing. People who want the train to go along the coast rather than along the 5 and up through the Grapevine. And people who just want the graft for themselves."
"This is personal. Who wants to stop it personally?"
"I don't know. It's a long list. Lots of people hate Daddy. Hank Gibbard for one."
"Is that Evan Gibbard's father?" Crush remembered Evan from Pasadena Prep. Evan was a creepy friend of Noel's. He was usually accompanied by Sonny Kraus, and the two of them were notorious for supplying kids with adequate fake IDs and more-than-adequate pot.
"Yeah. He used to be my dad's partner, remember? Until he got forced out. Now he runs a nonprofit. Save the Hahamongna Watershed. That's the big muddy mess between JPL and the Devil's Gate Dam at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains."
"I know what it is." Crush didn't want to be reminded of it.
She sighed. "Well, if we build the bullet train on the route Daddy wants, which is up what they call the Grapevine, along the 210, you know? Then it'll plow right through there. They'll have to dig the whole watershed up. And good riddance, I say, but a lot of tree huggers want to save it. Something about it being an 'alluvial canyon,' or something. And there's even some fucking endangered bird that lives there, too. The Least Bill whatever.
"Believe it or not, Hank Gibbard was _suing_ us to stop the dig. But, if you ask me, he was really doing it to fuck with Daddy. He couldn't care less about some stupid warbler. Well, Daddy got that suit thrown out of court so now nothing's stopping him. The bullet train is definitely on. When it's done, we'll be able to get to San Francisco in, like, three hours. Isn't that great?"
"Is it really? I hate the Giants." Crush said as he glanced out the second-story window and saw a brown UPS truck pulling up in front of the house. He sat on the edge of Noel's bed. "Let me get this straight. Your father has the anti-GMO-food folks after him. He has the bullet train haters after him. And he has the wetland lovers after him. Are there any activist groups he's missing out on?"
"There are a few more I haven't mentioned."
"But none of them sound crazy enough to kidnap K.C."
"You'd be surprised. You don't know what these vegan enviro-nuts can be like."
"Some of my best friends are vegan enviro-nuts," Crush said.
"I bet they are. But I think it has something do with the bullet train. That has the most money surrounding it."
"And you think this is about money?"
"Don't you?"
"Maybe. But like I said, this feels personal. 'The seventy-six thousand. The debt is not paid.' What the hell does that mean?"
"Maybe we _should_ go to the police," Angela said.
"Okay. But it's been my experience that the police are not at their best when handling a delicate situation."
"Is that what this situation is? Delicate?"
"What would you call it?"
"I'd call it fucked up," she said. "And you don't have an exactly unbiased opinion of the police, do you? You haven't always been on the right side of the law, remember?"
"That's how I know about them."
"So if we don't call the police, what _do_ we do?"
"I have to talk to Noel."
"Oh, he doesn't know anything."
"Well, we can't just wait for them to call back and for your father to tell them to fuck off."
"Oh, he didn't mean that," she said. "That's just the stroke talking. He'll change his mind. I'll work on him."
"You better do it quickly. I don't know how much time we have."
Just then, the door to the bedroom opened. Samantha stood looking at them from the hallway. Her expression was odd. "We just got a UPS delivery," she said. Then nothing.
"Okay," Angela said.
Samantha still stood there.
"What was it?" Crush asked.
"It was a bomb," Samantha said.
"You'd better call the police now," Crush said as he ran to the window, flung it open, and jumped out.
CHAPTER NINE
There were a lot of things Crush could have clarified before he took that jump. He could have found out whether or not the bomb was live. He could have found out how Samantha knew that what had been delivered was a bomb. He could have asked who the bomb was from. He could have found out whether or not they were all in danger of being blown sky high.
But when he glanced out the window and saw the UPS truck driving down the long driveway, his instincts kicked in. He leapt out the second-story window and hit the ground running. Taking off for his Camaro, he flung the door open, climbed in, slid the key into the ignition, heard the engine roar to life, and peeled off down the driveway.
Speeding around the bend, he could see the UPS truck heading out through the gate. The hedge started to slide closed behind it, and Crush floored the ZL1. If he timed it right he could make it through before the gate slid shut. He jammed his foot on the accelerator and shifted gears. Too late. And he was too close to brake. Best to just crash on through.
At the last minute, the gate started to slide open again. It just scraped the side of the door of the Camaro as Crush shot on through it and out onto San Rafael Avenue. But which way did the truck go? He screeched to a halt and looked both ways.
The truck was heading off to the left. Crush spun the wheel and tore off after it. If he'd been wondering whether it was just an innocent delivery truck on its rounds, the way it sped up as he approached told him all he needed to know. As the distance between them diminished, he saw that the truck didn't have a license plate and that the shade of brown was a little off for a UPS truck.
He ran over a speed bump and his head hit the ceiling of the Camaro. The truck hit another one and nearly flew off the road. These wealthy neighborhood streets had speed bumps placed at regular intervals to stop the hoi polloi from racing through them. Another one and Crush felt jarred to the bone.
Even so, he was overtaking the truck easily when it took a hard left and went down a twisting, turning lane that was thankfully free of the asphalt bumps. Crush followed the truck, scraping against the shrubbery that lined the road.
Bouncing off the curb, he came up alongside the truck. Crush didn't want to hurt the paint job on the Camaro—it had been so hard to get just that shade of green—but he did what he had to do. He slammed into the truck, and it ran off the road.
But the driver knew what he was doing. He tore across the front lawn of the next big house and made it back onto the street ahead of Crush. When Crush tried to edge him out, the truck pulled onto a tiny, two-lane bridge that crossed the Arroyo. Crush slammed on the brakes just before he went off into the abyss.
He swerved onto the bridge close behind the truck. The Arroyo opened up beneath them like a river gorge minus the river. The bridge curved until it reached Arroyo Boulevard on the other side.
The neighborhood on this side of the ravine was merely rich instead of super-rich. The faux-UPS truck went barreling onto the lawn of a big house, caromed across it and back onto the street, traveling north. Crush hit the brakes, spinning left. He followed the truck as they raced down the wooded street that wound alongside the Arroyo, taking sharp turns with the unpredictable topography of the landscape. Crush rammed the truck from behind and sent it careening into the guardrail. The truck slid across an intersection and ground to a halt, sparks flying from the guardrail.
Running through a stop sign, Crush was getting ready to close in on the truck when a white SUV suddenly barreled into the intersection. Crush cursed the vehicle, though he had to admit the driver had the right of way, and spun the wheel to the left, hitting the brakes. His car hurtled off the road, colliding with a sweet gum tree.
If the Camaro had had an airbag it would have deployed. As it was, Crush's chin cracked against the steering wheel, causing him to bite down on his cheek, filling his mouth with blood. When he lifted his head off the wheel to look out the windshield, his neck felt sore and tight. He heard a thudding sound and, with some difficulty, he turned and looked to his left. The driver of the SUV, an angry suburban mom with a shag haircut, hammered on his window with her fist.
He cranked down the window. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" she yelled. "Didn't you see that stop sign? I have kids in my car!" Crush opened his mouth to reply and blood flowed out of it down his chin. The mom gasped. "Holy crap! Are you okay? Should I call 911?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Crush saw the brown truck back off from the guardrail and drive away. "No, I'm fine," he said, spitting blood on the mom's blouse. "I just bit my cheek. No problem." He tried to start the car, but it just growled angrily and then sputtered out.
"Really, you need help," she said, wiping the blood from her arm, "I'm sorry I yelled at you."
"Why should you be sorry? Your car's okay, right? Just go. I'll be fine."
"I should wait. I should call 911."
"Don't you have to be somewhere? With your kids?"
"Hockey practice, but...."
"Hockey practice, very important. Don't want to be late for that. I'll be fine. Look, I'm calling 911 myself." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and made as if to enter a number.
"Well, okay. But I don't feel good about this."
"You should feel good, you should feel great. I'm fine, really. Go, take care of your kids."
She got in her SUV and drove off, looking back at him as she went. Crush took a deep breath, slipped his phone back in his pocket, and tried to start the Camaro again. It didn't even make a grinding noise this time. He opened the door to go take a look, but getting out of the car wasn't as easy as he thought it would be. He was stiff and achy and he almost lost his balance. He had to hang onto the door to keep from falling down.
The Camaro didn't look too bad. The front grill was a little crumpled, but that could easily be fixed. He made his way over to the hood and tried to lift it, but the latch was jammed shut and he didn't feel like he had the strength to wrench it open. Actually, he really didn't feel very good at all. _Maybe I should call 911_ , he thought with a laugh. Then he wondered if he should be joking about it.
Well, he wasn't very far from the Zerbe house. He could walk back there and call a tow truck. And maybe take a couple of aspirin. His head really was hurting.
He stumbled once on a root, caught himself, and then walked back to the bridge. He stopped to read the sign and learned that it was called the La Loma Bridge. He thought that was a very pretty name for a bridge. He paused in the middle to look down at the Arroyo. It was really quite a view. The steep slopes covered with brush and trees; a wilderness carved into the middle of a suburban neighborhood. Not too far away, he could see the magnificent Colorado Street Bridge and beyond that the 134 heavy with traffic. It was framed so perfectly by the valley that it looked like a viewfinder card clicking into place. He sat down on the bridge to take it in.
Then he thought he'd sleep for a little bit. Why not? Just for a little bit. He could use it. He'd feel better afterward.
Caleb Rush Zerbe. Was that his name now, he wondered? It was a simple question but he hated to have to ask anyone. Why wouldn't somebody just tell him?
He hated his new bed, too. This was his first night in the East Wing and it was too damned quiet here and the mattress was too damned soft. There were too many blankets and sheets and quilts and who-knew-what-they-were-called. The pillows were also too soft. He checked his watch and saw that it was one-thirty. Fuck, the night was barely started. He threw off the covers, grabbed one pillow, and curled up on the floor. That was better. The carpet was as soft as most beds he'd slept on.
After a few hours of restless sleep, he woke up when he felt his internal warning system go off. He rolled onto his knees, ready to spring up and attack. He was all too used to late-night intrusions. They came with his mother's lifestyle.
He peered over the bed. There were two boys standing in the doorway. They looked to be about sixteen or so and they also looked just alike. A pair of twins in identical powder-blue pajamas standing there, backlit in the hallway light. He'd seen enough horror movies to know this wasn't a good sign.
"He's not there," said one twin.
"Where did he go?" asked the other.
"Maybe he's robbing the house," the first one said.
Behind them, two taller girls, maybe a year or two older than the boys, came into view. A blonde and a brunette. "He's there," the blonde said. She was wearing a Sleater-Kinney T-shirt and a pair of leggings that showed off her curves.
"Look," said the brunette, who was dressed in an oversize T-shirt with a reproduction of an old French poster with a black cat on it. "He's on the floor behind the bed."
Crush took that as his cue to stand up.
"What were you doing on the floor?" the brunette asked.
"Maybe he likes to sleep that way," the blonde said. "Like an animal. That's why he likes to sleep naked, too."
Crush wasn't embarrassed by his nudity. If somebody broke into your room, they deserved what they got. "You want something?" he asked.
"Hi," the second twin said. "We just wanted to meet you."
"Okay, you've met me."
"I'm K.C.," the second twin continued. "This is Noel, my brother, and this is Angela, my sister," he said, pointing to the blonde.
"All right," Crush said.
"And I'm Renee," the brunette said.
Crush looked at Renee. He liked looking at her. "A sleepover friend?"
Renee smirked. "Sort of. I'm their cousin."
"Which makes her your cousin, I guess," said K.C.
"Hello, Cousin," Renee said to Crush with a sly smile.
Angela noticed the interaction between Crush and Renee. She didn't seem to like it. "You're Cable, right?" asked Angela.
"Caleb," he corrected her. "But I think you knew that."
"I did," she said with a smirk. "You want to cover up, Caleb?"
"Yeah," Renee said. "There are impressionable boys present."
Crush lifted one of the sheets up to cover his waist. "That better?"
"Yes," Angela said.
"For them," Renee said.
"You didn't join us for dinner," said Noel.
"I didn't want to," Crush said.
"Why didn't you?" said K.C. He seemed like the nice one, Crush thought. Noel seemed like a nosy little kid. And Angela seemed like she wanted him out of there. Renee seemed amused by the whole scene.
"Because I didn't want to meet you," Crush said.
"That's a straightforward answer," Renee said.
"We met your mother," K.C. said.
"That's nice," Crush said.
"Angela thinks she's a prostitute," Noel said.
Crush felt his fingers squeezing to form a fist. "Is that right?" Crush asked.
"It's just a feeling I have," Angela said.
Crush wanted to knock the smirk right off her face. But he knew that was just what Angela wanted him to do. Any excuse to get Crush and his mother thrown out of the house. He wouldn't play her game.
"She's not a prostitute," Crush said, calmly.
"My mistake," Angela said. "Prostitutes fuck for money, don't they? They don't marry for it."
Crush controlled himself. He checked his watch. "Okay, we've met. It's three-thirty in the morning. Can I go back to sleep?"
"We don't like your mother," Noel said. "We don't want her to be married to our father."
"I'll tell her you said that. Now get out of my bedroom."
"It's not your bedroom," Angela said. "It's the guest room. And you're not a guest."
"Then what am I?"
"You're an intruder," Angela said. "And we're going to get rid of you."
"That's nice," Crush replied. "Can I get some sleep?"
"Sure," Angela said. "Get back on the floor like a dog."
"I will," Crush said, dropping the sheet and lying back down on the rug. "Turn out the light in the hallway, will you?"
"Good night, Caleb," he heard K.C. say.
"Don't say that," Noel said. "He's the enemy."
"Sorry," K.C. said.
"'Bye, Caleb," said Renee. "For now."
After the rest of them were gone, Angela walked around the bed and looked down at Crush. "They're stupid. I'm not. You and your mother better clear out of here. If you know what's good for you."
"Well, that's the thing," Crush said, closing his eyes. "We've never known what's good for us."
"Caleb?" Angela was saying. But it wasn't the Angela of his memories, this was the grown-up Angela in her thirties. She was standing on the La Loma Bridge calling his name. It was kind of annoying.
"What do you want?" Crush asked.
"Are you all right?"
"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You're passed out in the middle of the road. In the middle of a bridge."
"I'm just napping."
"In the middle of the road. In the middle of a bridge. Come on, get up." She helped him to his feet and led him to a Bentley Mulsanne that was parked on the bridge.
"Nice car," he said.
"Yeah, it's Dad's. Where's your car?"
"I had a little accident."
"I thought so."
"How come?"
"You're covered in blood."
"Oh, that. That's nothing. I just bit my cheek. You gotta help me get the car towed."
She put him in the passenger seat and got behind the wheel.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Back to the house," she said as she turned the sedan around.
Crush sat forward suddenly, remembering. "The bomb. What did you do about the bomb?"
"It's being taken care of. Look, I think you've got a concussion. I think we ought to get you to a doctor."
"A concussion?" He touched his head. "Yeah, it could be. It feels like that."
"Have you had concussions before?"
Crush laughed. "Yes." That was a really funny question. He laughed harder.
"Okay, you're freaking me out, Crush," she said.
"It's just that I was a Marine. In Iraq. Concussions kind of go with the territory."
"How many?"
"How many what?"
"How many concussions have you had?"
"Oh." He tried to tally them up on his fingers but he lost count. "A lot," he said.
"They're not good for the brain," she said. "There've been studies."
"I don't read studies. And I don't need a doctor. I'll be fine."
"Are you sure? Do you suffer from depression?"
"Only when people ask me questions like that."
They'd reached the house. Angela rolled down the window and pressed the magic button in the hedge. The gate began to roll aside.
"Open sesame," Crush said, and he laughed again.
"See?" she said. "That's not a normal laugh."
"At least I'm not depressed."
They'd pulled halfway up the drive when Angela stopped the car and placed a call on her cell phone. "Hey? Is the coast clear?" she asked whoever was on the other end. While she waited for an answer, Crush opened his door and got out. "Wait," she said. "I don't know if it's okay to...."
But Crush didn't need to wait to hear what she had to say. He knew she was going to tell him that the bomb had been defused or it hadn't and either way he was going to find out. He walked around the bend until the house came into view. There was a large plastic bucket in the middle of the cactus garden. A figure in a bomb-disposal outfit was bending over it, looking like an astronaut from a fifties sci-fi movie. The occupant of the heavy suit raised a hand to Crush, telling him to stop.
"Come on, Donleavy," Crush said. "Set that bomb off. I got things to do."
Victoria Donleavy gave Crush the middle finger of her heavily gloved right hand. Donleavy was the founder and CEO of Tigon Security, and Crush's former boss from his days as a bodyguard. A retired lieutenant from the Los Angeles Police Department and a retired MP from the Army, Donleavy knew a thing or two about law enforcement, security, and smart-ass subordinates.
She was appalled to see Crush keep on walking toward her, as if there weren't an unexploded bomb right there in front of her. Crush just kept ignoring her as she waved her arms at him like a crazed grade-school crossing guard. Behind her, he could see a couple of other guys back by the house, watching her. He recognized them as Stegner and Kagan, two of Donleavy's favorite operatives. They were close to danger, but Donleavy was in the middle of it. That was what Crush liked about her.
He just walked up beside her and looked inside the barrel. Yep, there was a bomb there, all right. Red wires, blue wires, blinking red lights. It looked just like a prop bomb from a TV show. Donleavy picked up a pair of wire cutters from a tray on top of the barrel, getting ready to defuse the detonator. She brought the tool close to the wires and hesitated.
"Really?" Crush asked. "The red wire or the blue wire? What is this? Are we watching _Homeland_ or _24_?" He didn't know if Donleavy could hear him through the heavy mask, but she gestured to Stegner and Kagan to come drag Crush away. Stegner hesitated, but Kagan was on the move. Crush had always liked Kagan.
"Hey, Kagan!" Crush called out. "Who was this bomb addressed to?"
"What?" He stopped, confused.
"Who was it sent to?"
"Emil Zerbe."
Donleavy gestured impatiently for Kagan to keep coming. Crush looked down. There was another pair of pliers on the barrel's edge. Crush picked them up, bumped Donleavy's heavily gloved hands aside and cut both the red and the blue wire.
He couldn't hear Donleavy's voice through the mask but her body language said something like, "Are you completely insane? You've just killed us!"
The blinking red lights went out on the bomb. There was dead silence for a moment.
"See? Done and done," Crush said.
Then the bomb went off.
It went off with a loud click, then it burst open and a mound of shaving cream flowed out of it. That was all.
Donleavy ripped the mask off her head. Her short-cropped gray 'do' had a bad case of helmet hair. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Stegner got up from the ground where he'd thrown himself when Crush clipped the wires and shouted, "Yeah, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Stegner was always Donleavy's yes-man.
"Relax," Crush said. "It wasn't a real bomb."
"Did you know that? How did you know that?" Donleavy demanded.
"Well, look at it. It looks so fake. And the truck had a bad paint job. It was total amateur-time."
"That's it?"
"And it was addressed to Emil Zerbe. Trust me, they don't want Emil dead."
"Who doesn't?"
"Them."
"Do you know who sent the bomb?"
"No idea."
She stripped the heavy gloves off. "You didn't know that bomb was a dud, did you?"
"I was pretty sure."
"Pretty sure? Pretty sure?!"
"Almost a hundred percent. But I might not be thinking too clearly. I might have a concussion."
"You might, huh?" Donleavy hauled off and slugged him in the jaw. Crush didn't expect it. He shook it off, but staggered. Kagan caught him. "How 'bout now?" Donleavy yelled.
Angela came running up from the Bentley. "What are you doing? He's been hurt."
It was only then that Donleavy noticed the blood all over Crush's dark T-shirt. "What happened?"
"He was in a car wreck."
Crush corrected her. "It was more of a fender bender, really." Then he threw up all over Donleavy's bomb-disposal suit and passed out.
CHAPTER TEN
The first three days Crush spent in the Zerbe castle after his mother moved in, he stuck mainly to his room and to himself. He made occasional forays to the library to find something to look at, but all Emil had was stuff about ancient Rome and that kind of shit. He was forced to read histories by somebody name Tacitus. It was actually pretty good when you got into it.
The reason he stayed in his room was that Emil's kids were in the house, and they'd be staying there for the next two weeks. It wasn't that Crush was afraid of them. He just didn't see the point in getting to know them. Because, though he hated to admit it, Angela was right. It would be better if Toni cleared out soon. This place was nice. This place was money. But come on. This place wasn't for them. It was too dangerous.
He was stretched out in bed—he'd gotten used to the mattress—reading his Loeb Classical when he heard a knock on his bedroom door. He closed the book and told whoever it was to come in. The door opened and Samantha and Angela walked in.
"What do you want?" he asked. "You're interrupting the Year of the Four Emperors."
"This is a serious matter, Caleb," Samantha said.
"Why don't we just forget it?" Angela asked. "It's not important."
"Why are you saying that now?" Samantha said. "You brought me here."
"Anybody want to tell me what's going on?" Crush asked. "Or do I just get to guess?"
"Angela says she's been robbed," Samantha said.
"There was five hundred dollars on my dresser," Angela said.
"And you want me to figure out who took it?" Crush said.
"I want you to give it back."
"You think I have it?"
"Nothing was ever stolen in this house before you came."
"We're not saying you stole it," Samantha said. "We're just concerned."
"We want to search your room," Angela said.
"Go ahead," Crush said. "And take out my dirty laundry while you're at it."
Samantha started going through his chest of drawers, but Angela objected. "I don't know why you're looking in such an obvious place. He's smarter than that."
"It's true," Crush said, opening his book again. "I'm a criminal mastermind."
"Look at him," Angela said. "He's lying on the bed. Why is he lying on the bed?"
Samantha looked at her as if she was waiting for an answer.
"I give up," Crush said. "Why am I lying on the bed?"
"Get up," Angela said. "Let me look under that mattress."
"Really?" he asked.
"See?" Angela turned to Samantha. "He doesn't want to do it. He's hiding something."
"Could you get off the bed?" Samantha asked him, a little embarrassed.
"All right. I'll do it for you." He got off the bed with a sigh. "Now what?"
"Look under the mattress," Angela said.
Crush looked at Samantha, who reluctantly nodded. Crush shrugged and lifted the mattress up off the bed. Angela pointed at the box spring in triumph. "There! Do you see?"
Samantha looked. "See what?"
There was nothing on the freshly exposed white box spring. Angela moved in on it in disbelief. "It has to be there! I..."
There was a profound silence in the room. "You what, Angela?" Samantha asked her.
"I...I was sure it was there."
"You want to keep looking?" Crush asked.
"Should we keep looking, Angela?" Samantha asked, but in an accusatory tone.
"Well, I don't know. I'm sure he took it, but..." her voice dwindled off.
Samantha turned to Crush. "I'm sorry, Caleb. Truly sorry."
Crush threw the mattress back onto the box spring. "No worries. She probably just misplaced the money."
"Yes," Samantha said. "That's probably what happened, Angela. I'm sure you'll find it."
Angela looked daggers at Crush. "I'll tell Daddy about this."
"Yeah, do that," Crush said, plopping back down on the bed. "I'm sure he'll give you another five hundred."
Angela huffed and stormed out of the room.
Samantha eyed Crush. "What did you do with it after you found it, Caleb?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, turning a page.
"Okay. Just keep it hidden. Angela, she doesn't give up easily," she said as she left the room. Crush grunted a noncommittal grunt, not lifting his eyes from the page. He wasn't worried. If there was one thing that life with his mother had taught him, it was how to hide things well.
Dr. Milland shined a light in Crush's eyes. "Who is the vice president?"
"Don't remind me," Crush said.
"Knock it off, Crush," Donleavy said. "He's trying to see if you're coherent."
"Then why doesn't he ask me who won the World Series?"
"Because he doesn't know," Donleavy said.
"I resent that," Dr. Milland said. "Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm not a baseball fan." Dr. Milland was the physician on call for Tigon Security. He looked like a doctor on a late-night infomercial, all well-coiffed white hair, bronze tan, and deep blue eyes. "Now what's three times twenty-four?"
"Mike Pence," Crush replied.
"Wise-ass," Donleavy said.
"So how long have I got, Doc?" Crush asked. They were in the parlor of Emil Zerbe's mansion and Crush was resting on the sofa where Kagan and Stegner had carried him, with some difficulty, after he'd passed out in the driveway.
"The way you live?" Dr. Milland asked. "I'd give you five years at most."
"What about the concussion?" Donleavy asked. "Does he have one?"
"Hard to say without an MRI."
"I'm fine," Crush said.
"See, he says he's fine," Dr. Milland said. "Think of how much money we'd save on tests if we just took the patient's word for it."
"What should he do for it?" Angela asked.
"Rest," the doctor said.
"Just rest?" Angela said in disbelief.
"Rest is the best treatment for a concussion," Dr. Milland said.
"See, all I have to do is rest." Crush started to get up.
"That's not resting," the doctor said, pushing him back down. "Resting means lying down. Resting means not reading, not listening to music, not watching TV. It means no texting, no email, no cell phone. Resting means physical and cognitive rest."
"Sounds boring."
"It should be. Most people who sustain a concussion are back to normal in a week or two. A few months at most."
"How 'bout an hour?" Crush asked. "'Cause I feel fine."
"Others can have long-term problems either from the concussion or from injuries to the surrounding soft tissues of the brain. And a word of caution: the injured person may lack clear judgment to make an informed decision regarding what goes on around him."
"Like whether or not to set off a bomb?" Donleavy said.
"That's just a for-instance," Crush said.
"Well, I've given my advice, which will no doubt be ignored. And for which I will be well paid. Take care, Victoria. And tell me where to send the wreath when Mr. Rush's time comes." With that Dr. Milland was gone and Crush started to get up from the sofa.
"What are you doing?" Angela said.
"I'm going to watch TV, listen to music, and read," Crush said. "Oh, and I'm going to get my car."
"Lie back down."
"Let him go. You can't stop him," Donleavy said.
Crush looked around. "Why aren't the police here?"
"Samantha didn't call the police," Donleavy said. "She called Tigon."
Samantha was sitting by the window. "I only did what Emil told me to do."
Crush turned to Donleavy. "So she called you?"
"That's right," Donleavy said.
"But you didn't call the police either?" Crush asked. "Even though you thought it was a real bomb?"
"Go home," Donleavy said. "Get some rest. Real rest."
"I can't," Crush said. "Didn't you hear? I'm working for you again."
"That's the concussion talking," Donleavy said.
"No, that's Angela Zerbe talking," Crush replied. "She said you hired me again."
"Since when?"
"Since this morning," Angela said. "To protect Noel."
Donleavy looked offended. "Tigon is protecting the entire family."
"I don't like the way you do business," Angela said. "And Crush has better motivation."
"All right," Donleavy said. "Everybody out. I need to talk to Crush. Alone."
"Why?" Angela asked.
"Go," Crush said. "It's all right. I'll fill you in later."
Angela and Samantha left the room. Donleavy looked through the cabinets. "You'd think they'd have something to drink in a house like this."
"It's eleven o'clock in the morning," Crush said with disapproval in his voice.
"Too early for you?"
"It's always too early for me."
"Oh, that's right, I forgot," Donleavy said. "Well, I drink early on days when I defuse bombs." She slammed the last cabinet shut. "Fuck it. I'll have to make do with a stick of gum." She sat down across from Crush and unwrapped a stick of Wrigley's. "Tell me the reason Angela Zerbe hired you."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"'Cause you'd be involved then. She doesn't want you involved. I don't either."
"How come? Are you afraid I'd go to the police?"
"Trust me," Crush said. "I'll tell you everything. At the right time."
"Do you know who sent the bomb?"
Crush shook his head. "No. But I think I know why it was sent."
"Why?"
"To get him to stop the train."
"That's what we figured. That it was probably one of the other protest groups that are targeting Emil."
"There are quite a few."
"Tell me about it. I'm thinking of joining one myself." She took the gum out of her mouth and wrapped it up in the crumpled paper. "Yeah, at first I thought this was all about the bullet train. But...."
"But?"
"Now I think it's about you, Crush."
Crush didn't react to that, not much. "Really?"
Donleavy went to the briefcase she always carried with her. Her Little Box of Secrets, she called it. She opened it and took out a piece of paper. "Remember this?" She showed him a copy of a _Los Angeles Times_ clipping from December 30, 2000. The banner headline read:
**ROSE QUEEN STILL MISSING**
**THE DEVIL'S GATE DAM MYSTERY**
Crush didn't have to read the rest. "Yeah, I remember."
"I thought you would," Donleavy said. "This was found in Emil's mailbox today. Along with this note." She showed him another piece of paper:
_REMEMBER THE SEVENTY-SIX THOUSAND_
"Do you know what that means?"
"I have no idea," Crush said.
"Neither do I. Tell me about what happened back in 2000."
"Oh, you know all about that."
"Tell me again. Tell me about Renee Zerbe's disappearance."
Just then Crush's cell phone rang. He recognized the tune (the theme from _Enter the Dragon_ ) as Gail's ringtone. "Hey, what's up?"
"He left," Gail said on the other end of the line.
"Noel?"
"Yes. He said he had to go to a meeting."
"Did he take off the ankle monitor?"
"Yeah, I've got it. I asked where he was going but he wouldn't tell me. He said it was anonymous."
"Thanks." Crush clicked off.
"Something?" Donleavy asked.
"Noel's on the move."
"Where to?"
"I don't know. At some meeting."
The door opened and Samantha came in. "I know where he is."
"You were listening to us?" Donleavy asked.
"Sure," Samantha said. "What did you expect?"
"Where is he?" asked Crush.
"He goes to a meeting at the Grace Brethren Church on Mission Street in South Pasadena at noon every day."
"What kind of meeting?" Crush asked.
"A Targeted Individuals support group," Samantha said.
"What the hell is that?" Donleavy asked.
Samantha shook her head. "I can't explain. You have to see for yourself."
"I will," Crush said, getting up.
"Sit down," Donleavy said. "I'll send Kagan to get Noel. We can protect him better at the house. Besides, you shouldn't be on your feet. You should be resting."
"I'll rest when I'm dead," Crush said.
Donleavy frowned. "I hate it when people say that."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The van was dark. He had been alone for hours. Or Zerbe thought it had been hours. Since he was tied to this chair, he couldn't check his cell phone's clock, so he didn't really know how much time had passed. That was the hardest part about being tied up. That and the fact that he couldn't get up and take off his wet pants. That and the fact that he couldn't get up at all. That and the fact that he could barely move. Okay, there were a lot of hardest parts about it.
"Hey!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. He had tried hollering that a few times. And what the hell, he tried it again. He'd been glad when his kidnapper left him alone, finally, but now he wanted some company. He wanted to know he wasn't forgotten.
He tried to peer into the darkness of the van. To see if that table with the iPhone and iPad was still there. But it was blacker than black in here. There were gaps around the doors that usually let light in, but there was nothing now. They must be parked in a garage. It was stuffy and hot, and Zerbe felt a little panic well up in his chest. What if they left him here? Forgot him? What if that was how they planned to kill him? To leave him to starve? To leave him almost buried alive?
"Hey!" he yelled again, to give the panic in his gut some outlet. "Hey! I'm here! I'm alive!" He was talking—yelling—to himself now. "I'm alive and I'm getting mad!" Then he started singing the theme to _The Lone Ranger_ , the way he used to when he was a kid. "To-the-dump-to-the-dump-to-the-dump-dump-dump." Anything to make himself heard, if only to himself.
When Crush stepped out of the Zerbe house, he remembered he didn't have a car anymore. It bothered him a little bit that he'd forgotten that, but he shrugged it off and called Gail to take one of his cars and come pick him up. Then he sat on the front step and waited.
By the time she pulled up in a red 1970 Buick GSX, Crush was curled on the step. Donleavy was sitting next to him, watching over him like a border collie tending a sick sheep.
Gail got out, worried. "What's wrong?"
"Concussion," Donleavy said. "He should see a doctor."
"I saw a doctor," Crush said, eyes still closed. "He says I'm fine."
"He didn't say that," Donleavy said. "He said you should get an MRI."
"He says I should rest. I'll rest." Crush got up, all on his own, and walked to the car. "Thanks for worrying about me, Donleavy." He swung open the driver's door.
"No," Donleavy said. "Let Gail drive."
Crush looked at her as if she were a crazy person. "But I always drive."
Gail shoved him over to the passenger side and got behind the wheel. "Just this once."
Crush didn't really fight it. "All right. Just this once."
Gail got in and Crush asked her, "What did you do with the ankle monitor?"
"Don't worry. I took care of it," Gail said as she started the car. "Thanks," she called out the window to Donleavy as she pulled out.
Donleavy waved to her. "Get him to tell you what happened in 2000."
"Mind your own business," Crush shouted back at her. The shouting was a bad idea; it made his head throb.
He rubbed his temple and Gail noticed. "We're getting you to a doctor," she said.
"No," Crush said. "First, we're going to a church."
"Did you get religion, Crush?"
"I'm thinking about it."
Gail followed Crush's directions and drove the Buick down San Rafael. Crush flexed his left foot when she touched the brakes, as if he was driving by remote control. To get his mind off the fact that he wasn't behind the wheel, he caught Gail up to speed. "I have to talk to Noel," he said finally. "He must have told somebody about his plan to get Zerbe arrested. They were waiting for him at the warehouse."
"Okay," Gail said. "What else?"
"What else what?"
"Tell me what happened back in 2000," Gail said.
Crush frowned. "It's only a ten-minute drive. It would take longer."
"Give me the short version."
"The short version isn't possible."
"Sure it is. Come on, now, I know your mother was living with Emil."
"She was married to him. For almost a year."
"When you were sixteen?"
"Seventeen."
She smiled. "I can't picture you at seventeen, Crush."
"I haven't changed much."
"And you lived back there. In that castle?"
"Yep. Just like Downtown Abbey."
"Downton. Tell me about Renee Zerbe."
"She was their...I guess, _my_ cousin. Emil's brother's daughter. We went to school together. Emil pulled some strings to get me into Pasadena Prep. I didn't quite fit in."
"I wouldn't think so."
"Noel and Angela hated me at first. Hated me and my mother. K.C. was all right. I think he felt sorry for me. I know I felt sorry for him, growing up in that freak show."
"How did Renee treat you?"
Crush was silent for a moment. "She was all right. But I didn't hang out with them too much. I spent most of my time in my room, reading."
"Reading?"
"Yeah, that'll give you an idea how bored I was. That's why I volunteered to be in the Rose Parade. It gave me something to do."
"You drove a float?"
"I didn't drive it. I was the animator."
"Animator?"
"I operated the animation. The dinosaur's tail. I wagged it."
"Sounds like fun."
"It was. At first."
Gail gripped the wheel uneasily as she asked, "And that's how you found her father's body?"
"Yeah," Crush said, "but everybody knows about that."
"How did Renee handle it?"
"How do you think? I didn't see her for a few weeks. Then..." Crush sighed. "My mom and Emil went out on a date one night and the kids had some friends over. To drink and smoke pot. And to play some stupid game."
"What game?"
"One of those nerdy, geeky games nerdy geeks used to play back in the day. Dungeons & Dragons, I think. They were talking about gnomes and elves and orcs and throwing weird-shaped dice and doing all kinds of math and acting like it was fun. Maybe it was for them. I never really played a lot of games and I never liked math. Unless you count running numbers, which I guess is both."
"Was Renee there?"
"Yes. Along with Evan Gibbard and Sonny Kraus. Those two were sort of interchangeable preppy punks. Evan was the blond Aryan mastermind, while Sonny was his dark-haired lackey. They did everything together. Smoked pot together. Cheated on tests together. They said they fucked girls together, though I don't know why the girls were there, to be honest. Their real love affair seemed to be with each other.
"Anyway, Noel was in charge of the game and he was asking the others if they'd 'taken any damage.' They all said 'no,' and Angela said Noel's dragons were 'asleep on the job' and everybody laughed, like that made sense. Zerbe said he was going to throw an Acid Splash at the dragons, and he rolled his twenty-sided dice a couple of times and Noel added up the totals and said he missed and instead he hit Renee. Everybody found this hilarious too and they laughed and laughed. But Renee started crying and ran into the kitchen. They felt bad about that, but not bad enough to do anything.
"Zerbe was the only one who ran after her. After a while, I went in, too, to see how they were getting along. Zerbe was standing there alone, looking all stunned. I asked what was wrong. He said Renee had cut her wrist and walked out into the yard."
"Whoa," Gail said. "What did you do?"
"I ran after her. She must have moved pretty fast because I couldn't find her. She couldn't have gone out through the gate. It was closed. So she must have headed across the backyard. To the Arroyo.
"Angela ran up behind me and I told her to go back and call the police. She said Renee wouldn't want that. They'd take her to the hospital and put her under observation. For some reason, I agreed that that made sense. I guess when you're a teenager you just don't trust the adult world to know best. Maybe you're right not to.
"I thought I heard footsteps in the distance, so I scrambled along the edge of the Arroyo, leaving Angela behind me. I went through the backyards of a couple of other estates until I made it to the Colorado Street Bridge. Suicide Bridge."
Gail shivered. "That's an ugly nickname for such a pretty bridge."
"I don't know," Crush said. "If I was going to kill myself, I'd like to do it off a bridge like that. You'd have such a nice view all the way down."
"That's not funny."
"It wasn't meant to be."
"Was Renee there?"
Crush nodded. "They'd put high railings up there to discourage jumpers. I guess she just took that as a challenge, because she was climbing up the fence when I got there.
"I ran onto the bridge and I called out to her. I walked up closer to her and I could see that she was bleeding from her wrist, but she hadn't cut herself deep. That made me think that she didn't really want to kill herself. That she wanted help and didn't know how else to ask for it.
"So I climbed outside the railing and held my hand out. She just looked at me and I thought I was supposed to say something, anything. Well, what do you say in a situation like that? I asked her why she was doing this.
"She said, 'Don't you know I have the power of flight?' I thought she was talking crazy. I said she didn't. She said, 'In the game, stupid. In D & D I can fly.'
"I said, 'I don't know how to play that damn game.' She said I should really learn. 'It's so much better than real life.' I said real life wasn't so bad. I said she had a lot to live for. She said, 'Like what?'
"I didn't have an answer for that. So I just said her father would want her to live. She blew up at that. She started crying and screaming that her father didn't kill himself. That the Nazis killed him."
"The Nazis?"
"That's what it sounded like to me. But then she said it was Zerbe's fault. Then she said it was the Jews. She wasn't acting rational."
"But she didn't jump?"
"She didn't jump. She fell. She climbed to the top of the iron fence and let go. I don't know how I caught her. I strained my back and wrenched both my shoulders, but I grabbed her and pulled her into my arms. I held her in my arms till the shaking stopped. Both hers and mine. Then I climbed back onto the bridge and dropped her on the pavement."
"Good for you, Crush."
"Yeah," Crush said bitterly. "Good for me."
"So when did it happen?"
Crush looked over at her, puzzled. "When did what happen?"
"When did you fall in love with her?"
Crush didn't answer. They pulled up to the church and he hurried out of the Buick. He strode to a little outbuilding behind an old adobe church. It was a ramshackle structure that had looked like it was about to collapse for the past century. Sometimes the flimsiest things are the longest lasting.
Gail caught up with him and stopped him at the door. "What are you going to do?" she asked him.
"What do you think? I'm going to grab him and drag him out of there."
"You can't do that," Gail said.
"Why not? I have to get answers from him."
"But this is a support group, Crush. You can't violate that. You know that."
Crush shut his eyes in frustration. "You don't even know what they're supporting."
"Even so," she said. "Wait till it's over. There's only another fifteen minutes."
"You don't know that. It could be a marathon."
"How would you feel if somebody broke into an AA meeting and dragged somebody out?" she asked.
Crush gripped the doorknob. "All right, I'll wait. But I'm going in."
Gail tried to stop him but he pushed the door open and stepped in. The plywood walls of the room were lined with inspirational Christian posters. Underneath them were a number of old worn-out sofas, and the sofas were filled with people. People you might pass on the street and never notice. People of different ages and races and walks of life. The only thing they had in common was that they all called themselves Targeted Individuals. Whatever that meant.
A woman in her mid-twenties was talking as they slipped in and took the last empty seats. Noel was sitting across the room, and he watched without expression as they settled onto the stained cushions. Crush noticed that there were no Big Books or pamphlets on display as was usually the case in twelve-step gatherings.
"Okay," the woman was saying in a faltering tone while brushing her long hair out of her eyes and wrapping her cardigan sweater around her like a security blanket, "my name is Amy and I'm a Targeted Individual."
"Hi, Amy," the crowd said. Crush rolled his eyes and fidgeted impatiently while Gail smiled politely at the questioning gaze of a few other Targeted Individuals.
Amy continued. "Until a couple of years ago, I didn't even realize there was a name for what I am...a Targeted Individual. I didn't know that was a _thing_ , until.... Okay, let me start over. About three years ago I started to get these intense feelings of _panic._ It took me a long time to figure what it meant. I got a lot of...not mixed messages but mixed messages. I was new to the whole...not consciousness movement, but consciousness movement. I found that most of the time a Targeted Individual will experience extreme panic or a form of psychic attack. A lot of people in the Targeted Individual Community are convinced that the enemy is using actual _weapons_ to do this. Like, they've got microwave _weapons_ that they're using. And that is _true_. There are people who've had _documented_ experiences where they've come in contact with these weapons and they've seen them and they've experienced them first-hand. They cause extreme heat. You know, it's a wave that's being shot out of these weapons at a targeted person and it's causing that person to, you know, _feel_ different things.
"But that's not the only way that they do this. Now this might be extremely left field for most who won't understand anything that I'm fixing to say, but we are more than just human beings. We have abilities that are _encoded_ into our DNA. There have been studies throughout time about psychological...not transmutation but transmutation. There's more than you can sense with your quote-unquote five senses. There are more senses in your brain than science or technology can even begin to understand. We are evolving and they want to _stop us_. It all goes along with...now I'm not trying to compare myself with Nicola Tesla, but he was a Targeted Individual. And they would _steal_ his stuff. Like he would come up with the _genius_ idea and this group of individuals would come in and steal it! And they'd try to destroy him. They didn't want him live up to his full potential. He was trying to give people free electricity and free technology. And radio. I'm pretty sure that he invented radio, right? I don't know, I'm not an expert on Nicola Tesla, but what I'm saying is, there are so many people out there that are being targeted and they don't even _know_ that they're being targeted. They just think they're having a _shitty life_. And they don't know why. And it's _not_ okay. It's _not_ okay for these people to continue to do this. Like me. I would have these instances where they were trying to make me feel like a piece of _shit._ And it wasn't my _fault_.
"Did you know that if you're a Targeted Individual everything you say and do is being recorded? It is. I know that as I am talking to you right now, _in this room_ , every word I say is being recorded. I _know_ it. I got to the point where I was scared shitless. Then I thought, fuck it, let them record me. They can't hurt me any more than they already have. What can they find out about me? I'm not about to rob and steal. I'm not planning to blow up buildings. I'm not a part of Isis! I have _vans_ , literally _white vans_ that follow me wherever I go. Like, I'm at the bus stop, taking my kid to school and at the bus stop there's a _van_ that parks there every day and has for the last year and a half. With huge antennas on top of it. Can you explain that? Can you? And then it would start happening more and more. Like, I'm at Walmart and I come out and there's a _white fucking van_ with fucking _antennas_ on top of it.
"Now, I'm not saying that all Masons are bad. But I know that there are Masons who are involved in that practice of targeting these people. And hurting them. Trying to destroy them. I can't post things on the internet without, it's like jet lag, it takes a long time for them to be posted. It's crazy. And a lot of people can't handle it. Remember that lady who drove her fucking kids into the ocean? Remember that? And that lady, she was hearing fucking _voices_. That's another thing they do when it comes to these fucking attacks, they'll make you hear _voices_. I've never heard voices. I've never heard any buga-buga voices, but that's 'cause my brain's too strong to accept those vibrations. Well, I've heard voices sometimes, but just when I'm almost asleep and stuff. But when you hear voices and you go to therapy, some of these doctors are _in_ on it! They're in on the _situation_. So they'll diagnose these people as paranoid schizophrenics. And as soon as you're diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic, your credibility is out the door. And that's part of the way that it works! That's all a part of the Overlords' major plan! To stop evolution from occurring! I'm seeing so many people getting attacked!
"So if you're targeted and you're spreading knowledge, I fucking love you, friend! I fucking _love_ you. You're _not_ alone. Find groups like this. Don't go shoot up schools for attention. Don't do that. That's bad. It's fucking _sad_ that some people feel they have to go to those extremes to make themselves heard. Share the power. They can't shut us up. There are way too many of us. Thanks. Did I go over my time?"
Gail and Crush didn't know how to react. They sat expressionless as everybody else in the room applauded. An African-American man wearing a chambray shirt over an old "Vote for Bernie" T-shirt nodded and said, "You went a little bit over, but that's all right, we needed to hear that. Thank you, Amy." He stood up and gave her a supportive hug. Everybody applauded that, too. This crowd really liked to applaud.
When he was done hugging Amy, he looked around at the others. "Now, we've had some late arrivals. Would you like to introduce yourselves, using your first names only? I'm Will, by the way. I'm a Targeted Individual."
Everyone said, "Hi, Will," in unison.
An old man wearing a red "Make America Great Again" baseball cap spoke up. "My name is Al. I'm a Targeted Individual." _At least the nuts in this crowd are bipartisan_ , Crush thought.
Everyone said, "Hi, Al," in unison. Then they turned to Gail and Crush. Crush cleared his throat. "My name is Caleb. I'm a Targeted Individual."
Everyone said, "Hi, Caleb," and then it was Gail's turn. She looked uncertain. "My name is Catherine. I don't know what I am." Everyone in the room looked a little sour but Will smiled at her in an understanding way.
"We don't any of us know who we are," Will said. "Until we do." He walked over and gave Gail a warm hug. Then he hugged Crush, too, just to be fair. "It takes a lot of courage to come here. Let's all greet Catherine."
"Hi, Catherine," they all said, shamed by Will into welcoming her.
"You don't have to testify yet," Will went on. "Just sit and listen. But when you feel the urge, by all means speak up. This a place to be heard. It's a safe place." The room applauded that, too. "Now we open the room for anyone who wants to share for five minutes. No cross talk, please. If anyone feels triggered by the testimony, please signal by raising your hand. Who would like to begin?"
Noel raised his hand. Will nodded to him, giving his assent. "My name is Noel. I'm a Targeted Individual." A man in a suit sitting next to Gail crossed his legs in what seemed to Crush to be a rather annoyed fashion. "Hi, Noel," everyone said.
Noel began. "Some of you have heard this before but I feel the need to share it again." He looked straight at Crush and Gail as he spoke. "This is my story."
The man sitting next to Gail sighed. Crush noticed that he wore a white surgical mask over his face. _This place was full of all kinds of crazy_ , Crush thought as Noel opened a worn spiral notebook and prepared to read from it.
Crush frowned and whispered to Gail, "This is going to take some time," and Gail shushed him. She had no idea.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE STATEMENT OF NOEL ZERBE
First of all, let me state categorically that I do not know what became of Renee Zerbe. I hope she rests in peace, as the saying goes. But I fear her fate is a far, far worse one.
I'm speaking of the first days of the twentieth century. January of the year 2001. (And don't tell me that the century started in the year 2000. I can count. I know there was no year 0 in the Gregorian calendar.) I was enrolled in Pasadena Preparatory School at that time and had no notion of the plans and machinations that the Overlords use in plotting against us. I was more interested in the eldritch secrets of the past: sorcery, wizardry, and necromancy. With some close friends, I played various games in which we took the characters and guises of ancient and powerful characters. Dungeons & Dragons. Call of Cthulhu. Shadowrun. These were called "role-playing games" by amateurs, but for those with more awareness of the arcane past, these "innocent pastimes" provided rituals through which one could gain access to the Ancient Knowledge.
My comrades in this quest for enlightenment were varied and joined me for a variety of reasons. Some, like my twin brother Kendrick (called K.C.), did so out of a sense of filial responsibility. My sister Angela pursued arcane secrets mainly to make our father angry. Others, like my cousin Renee, did so out of genuine curiosity and desire to know more of the secrets of the past and the present and the future. Some, like my muscle-bound and rather dim-witted half-brother, Caleb, did it out of stupid loyalty. There were others, like Evan Gibbard and Sonny Kraus, who mainly took part in the investigations from a decadent desire to taste taboos of any sort. They were merely placeholders. Spear carriers in the production I was trying to mount. Renee and K.C. were my real coconspirators.
After a time, these store-bought games and rituals became dull and pedestrian to me. I needed to reach deeper into the primordial source of the unknown. I needed to touch the real, antediluvian depths of the forbidden and the fiend-inspired! I needed to find a place where the veil between this world and the other was thin and could be pierced with incantations of proper antiquity.
There was but a single place in all of Los Angeles County that fit my needs. It was, oddly, right in my own backyard. Or near to it. At the northern end of the Arroyo Seco was the aptly named Devil's Gate. From time immemorial there have been hushed whispers of the nature of that unholy landscape. Tales that spoke of it as the very gateway to Hell itself.
The Devil's Gate was an ancient formation on the rock face of the Arroyo Seco that, some said, bore the image of Satan himself. At the very least, the jagged boulders resembled the face of a terrible, demon-like, horned creature, its features contorted in laughter at some unheard, undreamed-of jest. The Tongva Indians, in the time before the Europeans came, told of eerie, nightmarish sounds that the water made as it ran through the gorge. Sounds like the cacophonous laughter of many malignant spirits. The indigenous peoples shunned the place as evil and malevolent.
In the 1920s, the Army Corps of Engineers, in their wisdom, decided to build a dam there to control flooding. And thus they preserved the Devil's Gate and kept it dry. They even built a tunnel through it. Why? No one can say.
In the 1940s, a society of occultists became fascinated with the Devil's Gate Dam. The group was led by esteemed rocket scientist Jack Parsons, one of the founders of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena and a follower of infamous British occultist Aleister Crowley. Rumor has it that they performed rituals that were intended to open a portal to Hell itself.
In the 1950s, Jack Parsons was killed in a mysterious explosion that demolished his mansion on Orange Grove Boulevard.
After that, the strange incidents at Devil's Gate Dam took a more sinister turn. Several children were reported missing in the area. In time a serial killer, Mack Ray Edwards, took credit for the disappearances. Edwards was a highway construction worker, and the children's bodies were found buried in the concrete foundation of the freeway that borders the dam. Before he hung himself in a cell in San Quentin State Prison, Edwards is reported to have said that the devil made him kill the children.
But the disappearances at Devil's Gate did not stop with Edwards's death. Two other children vanished into thin air. One was hiking with his parents; he walked ahead, turned a corner, and simply disappeared. The other, returning to a campsite, was never heard from again.
Some believe that the rituals Jack Parsons and his acolytes performed in the Arroyo had succeeded all too well in opening that portal to Hell and transforming the area into a magnet for some unknown malignant force. Others say that it is merely a coincidence that so many tragedies have occurred in this one spot. No one truly knows. The strange face in the rock refuses to divulge its secrets. Whatever joke it laughs at remains a mystery.
Needless to say, the Devil's Gate Dam offered too tempting a target for our teenage explorations into the unknown to be ignored. On the appointed night, my crew was assembled at the top of the dam, ready to descend. The Colorado Boulevard Irregulars, we called ourselves. Named after the main thoroughfare in Pasadena, Colorado Boulevard, and the juvenile helpers of Sherlock Holmes, the Baker Street Irregulars. K.C. had come up with this rather whimsical name and I let it stand, because it amused me.
It had not been easy to gather the Irregulars. It was just after the New Year's holiday and family obligations had nearly put an end to my well-laid plans. It was only after considerable cajoling and wheedling on my part that I was able to cobble the band together. Angela stayed home, flatly refusing to go along. Gibbard and Kraus had only been able to join us by claiming they were doing charity work for their church. (Which, in a way, they were.) K.C., of course, was always at my beck and call. Being as he was my identical twin and the younger of us, I held some sort of psychic thrall over him. And Caleb, my idiot stepbrother, was easily influenced.
But Renee, the most important and the most necessary of the Colorado Boulevard Irregulars, was the most difficult to recruit for the occasion. The reasons for this difficulty were twofold. First, she had been selected as the Rose Queen. This was part of a primitive midwinter festival of harvest and rebirth known as the Tournament of Roses Parade in Pasadena. Every year, a beautiful, nubile young virgin (it was hoped) was selected from the residents of Pasadena to be a sacrifice to the floral gods. Not an actual sacrifice, you understand, at least not normally. No blood is shed; no organs are removed. America has grown too sophisticated for such aboriginal practices. It is more of a ceremonial sacrifice. Renee would ride on a structure made of dying flowers and offer herself to the crowds and the television cameras and the Goodyear blimp and the Blue Angels as they jetted high above. She would be an offering to the New Year in the hopes that it would be a propitious one and that all would have good luck in 2001. From the viewpoint of the future, one can only say that it did not turn out that way. Not at all.
Renee viewed her position as Rose Queen from a sardonic outlook at best. Her mother, a transplant from Europe, had wanted the honor for her daughter far more than Renee ever did. Renee had seen it more as a social experiment. She wondered: Could a liberal, atheist, communist anarchist really obtain this most Republican of honorifics? If she did her hair and her lips and her nails just so, would the powers-that-be not see past her perfect, smiling exterior and into the dank darkness of her decadent soul? As she waved to the crowds on Colorado Boulevard, she would think of it as a practical joke on the whole of America.
But that wasn't the reason it was hard to get her down in the Devil's Dam. There was a more mysterious reason. Renee's research. She was mum about it and shared few details with even her most intimate friends, of which I was surely one. All she would say was that her investigations involved tracing her own genealogy back to France, back to Germany, back to the Gauls, back to the Romans and beyond. She said there were dark secrets there. Secrets that would make the blood of even the strongest man run cold. Secrets that would make those hidden in the Devil's Gate seem like mere child's play. Secrets that were among the darkest and most horrible the world has ever known. Secrets that had recently led her father to take his own life, during the celebration of the Tournament of Roses.
After that, the black cloud that had always hung over my cousin Renee seemed to descend upon her and swallow her whole. Her father consummated the true meaning of the Tournament by taking his life during the parade. Still, I persuaded her to take time away from her grief to join me in my investigations into the nature of reality and unreality. To join me in delving into the cryptic mysteries of the Devil's Gate Dam.
We stood atop the soaring arches of the Devil's Gate Dam just as the sun was disappearing in the west. In the fast-fading twilight we descended the impossibly narrow concrete steps from the top of the levee down into the depths of the Arroyo. It is the nature of Southern California that the land is bone-dry 364 days out of the year, so the dam that was built to hold back flooding waters stood on a dusty, parched riverbed for most of the year. Therefore, as we walked single file down the precarious staircase into the dark ravine, we arrived on land that was as arid as the surface of the moon.
We brought some equipment with us. Flashlights to illuminate our way. Cell phones to communicate with each other. Candles, matches, ropes, and chalk for other purposes. K.C. had even brought a first-aid kit, in case of unforeseen accidents. He was so responsible.
We stood on the floor of the ravine and gazed up. A gorge of problematical depth rose above us on all sides and, as we approached the Devil's Gate, the beams from our flashlights played eerily on the rugged granite cliffs and crossed each other like the arms of an iridescent octopus swimming in the depths of a murky ocean.
As we crept across the Arroyo, a wild screaming suddenly filled the air, like the crazed laughter of a thousand maniacal children. Gibbard yelped like a little kitten and nearly dropped his light. Renee snorted derisively. "Calm down," she said. "It's just the feral parrots of Pasadena. You've heard them before." The tropical birds had supposedly escaped from a private aviary in the 1930s and found the warm climate of the Southland perfectly hospitable for them and their descendants.
"Yes," Gibbard said. "But not at night. And not sounding like that."
"Perhaps they're imitating some sound they've heard in the area," Renee said. "Parroting the Demon's laugh."
"That's not funny," Gibbard said.
"The Demon thinks it's funny," said Kraus. "Listen to him." And the parrots kept up their loud, incessant gibbering from above.
"Don't make fun, Kraus," I said. "He's right to be afraid. You don't understand what the parrots are saying. They are imitating an ancient language known only to a few expert scholars of archaic lore."
"You're so full of shit. What are they saying, then?"
"That they are psychopomps."
"You're making that up."
"Not at all. A psychopomp is a spirit who escorts newly deceased souls from this world to the next. Like whippoorwills or ravens. Or the Grim Reaper, if you insist on being obvious."
Gibbard covered his ears. "I wish they'd shut up!"
"Oh, no you don't," I said. "As long as they're still calling out, that means they're waiting for a soul to be delivered to them. But once they're silent, once they fly away, that means they have one in their clutches. That someone has died and they're carrying his soul to Hades."
Kendrick gasped, but when I looked over at him I saw that his ejaculation was not caused by what we were saying. Rather it was occasioned by what K.C. saw in the beam of his flashlight. There rising before him like a cyclopean monstrosity was the Devil's Gate itself. It looked far grander and more horrendous than I had anticipated. The twisted, gnarled expression seemed to burst forth from the granite and cry out either in anguish or ecstasy or both. The jagged horns on the monster's forehead seemed to stab at the stars like daggers of stone.
"Is that it?" asked Caleb in his halting, lumbering tone.
"Yes, that's it, Caleb. We can set up the ceremonial circle now."
I used the rope to fashion a crude ring, and with chalk I drew the hoary symbols I had learned from an ancient book of proscribed and unnamable lore. I won't tell you the incantations and rituals we performed; it wouldn't be wise. I can say only that it took some time and that while we held hands and chanted, a wind commenced to blow. The gust, trapped in the wind tunnel of the Arroyo, began to spiral and twist into a sandstorm, what we call in the terminology of the region, a "dust devil." Appropriate, no? The parrots cried out in a deafening cacophony, all but drowning out our intonations.
What was the purpose of our incantations? To open the gate to the other world. To communicate with whatever lay beyond. I should have suspected, but didn't know, that Renee had a more specific goal in mind.
The moment we finished with our ululations, the winds ceased too, but the birds continued with their harsh cries so that we did not realize it at first. And the moment we knew that the miniature twister had ended, our attention was drawn to yet another sound. A low moan that came from the bottom of the Devil's Gate. A bass vibration that rumbled in my rib cage and made my teeth rattle. I looked to the others and saw that they could hear it, too. Or rather they could feel it, in their bones.
Kraus and Gibbard took off for the stairs, climbing and stumbling for the safety of the outside world. I let them go. This was no place for dilettantes. Renee turned her flashlight toward the source of the sonorousness. There was an old, rusted gate set into the granite wall of the gorge and, beyond that, there was a dark and ominous tunnel leading off into the unknown. The sound boomed out of that tunnel, as if it were a speaker in the stage equipment of some cosmic rock band.
She approached the gate and reached out so that her fingertips brushed the bars. They vibrated to her touch. "It's behind here," she said.
"What's behind there?" Caleb intoned.
"The psychopomp," Renee said. "Or whatever we summoned."
K.C. heard that and fainted dead away. "For God's sake, brother," I said, shaking his shoulder. "It's only the wind."
Renee shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. Then she made her move. Renee, it should be understood, was small but very athletic. She had been a gymnast in her younger days. So when she climbed up the gate and slipped between two broken bars, then dropped down onto the other side, I wasn't surprised. I was appalled, not surprised.
"Renee," I said, supplicating. "What are you doing?"
"Exploring the unknown," she said. And then she was gone, running off into the darkness. The parrots screamed louder as I tried to climb the gate and follow her, but to no avail. I wasn't the gymnast that Renee was, and I slipped back down the bars, tearing my palms and skinning my knees. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Renee. She answered, her voice sounding distorted due to the echoing from the tunnel walls. "Hello, Renee here! What's up?"
"Come back! You don't know what you're doing!"
"I know exactly what I'm doing! I'm going to see my father!"
"Don't! Don't open that door, Renee!"
"It's already open!"
"Come back here this instant!" I cried.
Caleb lumbered up beside me and grasped the bars in his big, beefy hands. At first I didn't know what he was doing, then I began to hear grunting noises coming from low in his chest and I understood. The big man had sensed my distress and was trying to bend the bars so I could pass through. A loyal creature, always.
I heard Renee gasp over the phone. "What?" I asked her.
"My God, Noel! If you could only see what I'm seeing!"
Was she teasing me? I cursed the bars that were keeping me from her and yelled over the shrieking parrots. "What? What do you see?"
"It's terrible, Noel! Monstrous! Unbelievable!"
Caleb grunted more loudly and strained at the bars, the veins in his arms bulging with the effort. "What is it, Renee?" I shouted into the phone.
"God! I never dreamed of this!" she said, her voice trembling.
"What?"
Through the phone, there was a sound of shuffling feet. Of quick steps. Of running. Then Renee's voice came through. Panicked. Unnerved. Terror-stricken. "Noel! Oh God, I should never have come! Leave! Get out! Run! It's your only chance!"
"What..."
"Don't ask me to explain! Beat it! Go!"
My mind whirled. Caleb grunted, braced himself, put all his strength into his arms while I screamed into the phone and the parrots squawked ever louder and louder. The phone signal began to cut out. I could only hear fragments of what she was saying. "...hellish things...curse...legions..."
"Renee, are you there?" Then, all at once, silence. Silence more deafening than the loudest noise. The parrots suddenly and without warning ceased their chatter and took wing, flying en masse over the face of the moon, so that their bat-like shadows flittered over the mouth of the tunnel. And the low, rumbling sound was gone too. So was any audible trace of Renee from my phone. "Renee!" I shouted. "Are you there?"
From the phone I heard a rasping sound as if someone were dragging it over the rough surface of the tunnel wall. And then there was a voice. A voice the likes of which I had never heard before and never wish to hear again. A deep, gelatinous, hollow, unearthly voice that sounded like, and yet didn't sound like, Renee's father!
And this was what it said: "You fool, Renee is gone!"
Then the rain came. With terrible and horrendous force, it burst forth from the heavens as if summoned to wash away this evil blight that had been awakened. It seemed to give Caleb the strength he needed. With a great wrenching sound, the gentle giant ripped one of the bars out of the gate. As he pulled it free, I squeezed through the opening and went running down the tunnel. But as far as I ran and as much as I called out and as far as I shone the flashlight beam, I could find no sign of Renee Zerbe.
I reached the other end of the tunnel. There was only the broad expanse of the Hahamongna Watershed and the 210 Freeway off in the distance. K.C. regained consciousness and called the police. The authorities searched the area for a week.
No trace of Renee Zerbe was ever found.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Noel closed the notebook and looked up. "That was the first indication I ever had that I was a Targeted Individual. It's been a long journey. Thank you."
As Will crossed to give Noel a hug and everyone applauded, Crush felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin. The clapping for Noel was a bit longer and louder than the applause for the others had been. They knew a good story when they heard one.
Crush turned to Gail, "Now?" he whispered.
Gail gestured to him to wait. Crush ground his teeth.
"Is that how it happened?" Gail whispered to him.
"No," Crush said. "And yes."
The man next to Gail crossed his legs again. The meeting progressed. No doubt about it, this man was definitely as annoyed as Crush was. Crush took a longer look at him. It was Evan Gibbard.
_Christ_ , Crush thought, _this really is old home week_.
The meeting was over. Crush leapt to his feet and grabbed Noel by the arm. He tried to hurry him out, but Will came over to them. "We're pleased you could join us," Will said, offering his hand. Crush ignored him and hurried out.
Gail gave Will a regretful smile. "He doesn't believe in shaking hands. The Overlords can take control of your mind that way."
Will nodded. "A lot of people believe that."
"But not you?"
Will shot back his shirtsleeve and exposed a bracelet. "I wear copper to protect me."
"Good idea." Gail moved on.
When Gail got outside she found Crush leading Noel to the Buick. Before he could get him there, the man in the surgical mask came up to Noel and grabbed his arm. The man was so upset that he even lowered his mask.
"Why?" Evan Gibbard asked. "Why do you insist on reading that crap to us every month?"
Gail hurried to join them as Crush said, "Sorry, we're in a hurry," and tried to brush by Evan.
But Noel stood his ground. "Why do you object, Evan? Because you don't like hearing the truth?"
"That's not the fucking truth and you know it. It's a fucking fabrication."
"You're in denial, friend. Either that or you're in league with them."
"Shut up!" Evan said. "You know I'm not in league with anybody. You're the one who's in denial. You could have saved her and you know it."
"I'm not listening to this. You're just channeling the enemy."
"Channeling the enemy? You're the one who's channeling H.P. fucking Lovecraft. Don't you think anybody in the group has ever read a book?"
"The group supports me," Noel said. "You're the only one with a problem."
"My problem is I know what really happened. I'm the only one who was there."
"You think so? You think you're the only one?" Noel turned to Crush. "Caleb. You remember Evan?"
Crush nodded. "I remember him. How have you been?"
"Caleb?" Evan said, amazed. "I thought you'd be dead by now."
"I've tried, but it doesn't stick," Crush said. Evan didn't look like quite as much of an asshole as he had at seventeen. The years had either been kind to him or cruel. Either way, he seemed to have mellowed.
"Caleb," Noel said, "you were there that night. What I said was the truth, wasn't it?"
"It was _your_ truth. That's the important thing," Crush said.
"Yes, it was my truth because it was _the_ truth," Noel insisted. "Right?"
"Well, to be honest," Crush said, "I remember a few things a little differently."
"Like what?"
"Like...just about everything," Crush said. "Except the parrots. You got the parrots right."
Noel stared at him with the look of a man betrayed. "I thought you were on my side, Caleb. I thought you were _with_ me. But now I see you're with them."
"I'm not with anybody, Noel," Crush said. "I'm with me. Come on."
"Do you refuse to corroborate my story, Caleb? Is that what you're saying?"
Crush rolled his eyes. "Look, I corroborate the broad outline. Just not the details."
Noel looked hurt. "The only reason I shared that story was that I thought you'd back me up, Caleb. That you'd make Evan see that he's been wrong for saying I was lying."
"I never said you were lying," Evan told him. "I said you were conflating."
"It's the same thing."
"No, it's not. Lying is telling a falsehood. Conflating is combining two different things until they make something new."
"You're playing the psychiatrist game now," Noel said. "Trying to make people think I'm crazy."
"I don't really have to try very hard," Evan said.
Noel ignored him and turned to Crush. "Have you heard from my brother?"
"No. That's why we have to go."
"K.C.?" Evan asked. "Has something happened to him?"
"He's been kidnapped," Noel said, as if he was letting Evan know his brother had been suffering from a little head cold. "He'll be all right." Noel turned back to address Crush. "What did my father say after he heard the message?"
"He said to fuck off," Crush replied.
Noel nodded. "That sounds like my father. So that's what he told them? The ones who have my brother?"
"He hasn't told them anything," Crush went on. "They haven't called again. Your sister's trying to talk your father into being more cooperative."
"That sounds like my sister. When are they going to call?"
"We don't know," Crush said. "That's why we have to go."
Evan looked at Crush, alarmed. "His brother's been kidnapped?"
"Yes," Crush said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. "We have to go."
Then Will, the friendly group leader, approached Noel and took his hand. "Noel, do you have a minute?"
Crush tried to object, but Evan was still talking to him. "The Overlords are getting bolder and bolder. The End Times approach." Evan smiled. "It's good to see you again. We should talk."
"Sure," Crush said, watching Noel and Will talk on the sidewalk. "About what?"
"Iraq."
"Were you there?"
Evan nodded gravely. "I was."
"In the Marines?" Crush asked, surprised.
"No. Blackwater," he said. Blackwater was the infamous private military company now renamed Academi, to distance itself from the unfortunate massacre at Nisour Square. "Sonny and I joined in '06."
"Sonny Kraus. How is he?"
Evan made a face. "They say he had PTSD. But we know what that really means. The Overlords were trying to discredit him. In the end, they made it look like he killed himself. Typical."
"I'm sorry." What else could Crush say to that?
"Maybe we could talk sometime? About the truth," Evan said.
"Great. I'll call you. What's your cell number?"
"I don't have a cell phone," Evan said. "They listen to all wireless communication. Why don't we meet at the Devil's Gate Dam?"
"Really?" Crush couldn't help but ask.
"Not down at the Gate. On top of the dam. The microwaves can't read you there, because it's on a ley line. How about six tomorrow night? I'll be there. You will be, too. And remember to come alone. You can't trust anyone." He nodded significantly, pulled his surgical mask back over his face, and walked off.
"Why do you want to talk to him?" Gail asked.
"I want to find out what happened that night. Hear his version."
"His version will probably be crazier than Noel's version. Besides, weren't you there? Don't you know what happened?"
"I was there," Crush grumbled, "but I don't know what happened. Come on."
Crush started to walk toward Noel when a truck drove up and bounced over the curb, screeching to a halt in front of Will and Noel. The two of them looked up, startled and afraid. But they weren't nearly afraid enough, Crush thought.
He recognized the truck. It was the decoy UPS truck that had delivered the bomb to the Zerbe mansion.
Crush took off running as the truck's doors flew open and two men in ski masks jumped out, pushed Will to the ground, and grabbed Noel. They threw him into the truck and slammed the door just as Crush ran up to it. He hammered on the window as the truck pulled out and drove down El Centro.
Not even stopping to think, Crush ran to his Buick. Gail was almost as fast, jumping into the passenger seat just as Crush started the car and pulled out.
The truck passed the post office, driving straight through a stop sign and heading toward the library. Down the street toward Orange Grove Boulevard and the freeway entrance.
Crush tore away from the curb and flew down the tree-lined street. He blew through the stop sign at Fremont. Passing cars hit their brakes and honked their horns.
"You were supposed to stop at that," Gail said.
"I know," Crush said.
They drove on. They could see the truck tearing past the library and turning right on Meridian. It went out of sight.
"Fuck," Crush said and drove faster, taking the turn at Meridian with a squealing of brakes. The back end of the Buick fishtailed, but Crush was able to keep it under control and he barreled down Meridian toward Mission Street and the freeway entrance.
At the last moment, Crush slammed on the brakes and the car squealed to a halt just inches from the back of the UPS truck, which was stopped dead still. In front of it, the crossing gates were lowered and signal lights were flashing. The Metro Gold Line would be here any second.
Crush leaned forward, grabbed a heavy flashlight from the glove compartment, and leapt out of the Buick. Running up to the passenger window of the truck, just as the Gold Line sped past them, Crush slammed the butt of the flashlight into the glass, smashing it to bits. He reached in and grabbed the first person he could grab and hauled him out through the window.
It was one of the men in the ski masks, and Crush drove his elbow down on the man's head and threw him aside. The passenger door flew open and crashed into Crush's side, knocking him over. Another man in a ski mask jumped out, with a jack handle in his fist.
He moved in on Crush while he was down, ready to brain him with the weapon. But Gail was behind the man. She smacked him in the back of the head with a spinning roundhouse kick that sent him crashing into the hood of the truck. Crush sprang to his feet and slammed the man's head into the windshield. The window cracked but it didn't break. The same couldn't be said for the man.
Crush rushed around to the driver's door just as it swung open. He kicked it shut and smashed the door against the driver as he was climbing out. The driver was pinned halfway out the door. He was holding a gun in his right hand. Crush pushed on the door and at the same time slammed his forehead against the man's face with a vicious head butt, crushing his nose with a loud crunch.
But then Crush's head began to spin. The world twirled around him as he stumbled and fell on one knee to the pavement. He toppled over like a toddler who was just learning to walk. _I forgot about my concussion_ , he thought, as the bright day started to go dark.
The driver pushed the door off him with a groan and looked down at Crush, lying stunned on the pavement. He leaned against the truck, breathing heavily. Then he raised the gun that was still in his right hand and pointed it at Crush's head.
From behind him, Gail came at the driver with a left hook straight to his head, instinctively turning her foot and popping her elbow out to give it more force, twisting her hip to put her whole body weight behind it. Her fist hit the back of the driver's head with the force of a hammer. He staggered and she grabbed his right hand and twisted it around his back until she heard a satisfying crack and the gun fell to the curb.
The driver dropped into the cab of the truck, clutching his arm, and Noel came clambering over him. Gail was already kneeling over Crush to see if he was all right, so when Noel climbed out of the truck, he fell right on top of her. Gail scrambled to get out from under Noel when the crossing gate began to rise.
The driver and the two henchmen struggled back into the truck and it pulled out, turning to the left and disappearing down the road.
"They're getting away," Crush said. He sat up, shaking his head, then holding it steady with his right hand. "Remind me not to shake my head again," he said.
"Or give somebody an Irish kiss," she said, using the politically incorrect slang term for a head butt. "At least, until you're healed."
"My head used to be my strongest weapon," Crush said.
"Used to be," she said.
Noel staggered to his feet and looked down the road. "They tried to kidnap me," he said.
"That's right," Gail said.
"Why would they do that? They already have K.C.," he said, as if he were arguing about a referee's bad call.
"Maybe they think your father needs more pressure," Crush said. "To stop the bullet train."
"Is that what this is about?" Noel asked.
"Apparently," Crush said.
Noel shook his head. "Then they don't understand my father very well."
"What do you mean?" Gail asked.
"That high-speed rail means more to him than any of his children do."
"That's a pretty harsh thing to say," Gail admonished.
Noel looked at her in blank surprise. "Why would you say that? Children live and die. The high-speed rail will be forever."
Gail didn't know what to say to that. "Won't it break down eventually?"
"Of course," Noel said. "And then it will be replaced with an even better one. Can you say that for children?"
Gail didn't know what to say to that either.
Crush made it to his feet, feeling pretty steady actually.
"We should get you to the hospital," Gail said.
"I'll go," Crush conceded. "After."
"After what?" Gail asked.
"After we get Zerbe back." He took Noel by the arm and started leading him back to the Buick. "I need to ask you some questions."
"Oh, right," Noel said. "You want me to take _your_ car, so they can listen to everything we say?"
"The Overlords, you mean?"
"Yes. They're everywhere. I'm taking a random Uber. They aren't prepared for that."
"An _Uber_?" Crush said. "You know who runs Uber, don't you? The _Masons_ , that's who. And you know if the Masons are involved, the Trilateral Commission can't be far behind!"
Noel's expression grew more confused. "Well, what do we do?"
"It's only about two miles," Gail said. "We could walk." They both looked at her as if she were insane; she had suggested the craziest thing they'd heard all day: walking in LA.
"We can take my car," Crush said. "It's safe. I had it modified with special spinel ceramics so the delta rays can't penetrate it."
This seemed to convince Noel. Crush led him to the Buick, opened the rear door, and got in. Noel joined him, and Gail got in the front seat and started the car. There was no argument about her driving this time. Crush grabbed the seat in front of him to keep his balance as the car pulled away from the curb. He shut his eyes and winced.
"Are you okay?" Noel asked.
"I'm fine," Crush said.
"He should be in the hospital," Gail said. "He has a concussion."
"We don't know that," Crush said.
"We don't know that 'cause you won't get an MRI," Gail said.
"Well, I don't blame you," Noel said. "Those MRIs can read your mind."
Crush shook his head and tried to clear his double vision. It didn't work. Never mind. It was time to ask his question. "Did you tell anybody else about your plan? To kidnap K.C. and get him arrested?"
"No," Noel said. "Well, the group, of course."
"You told the group?" Crush asked in disbelief. "The Targeted Individual group?"
"Yeah, I shared about it. But that's okay," Noel reassured him. "It's a safe place. And it's anonymous."
Crush rubbed his temples. "So you only told fifteen people about your plan?"
"Fifteen _anonymous_ people. And actually, I think there were more there that day."
"Was Evan Gibbard there?" Gail asked.
"Let me think," Noel said with a frown. "Yes, I guess he was. Why?"
"Well, think about it, Noel," Crush said. "The person who really kidnapped K.C. had to know he'd be at the warehouse, right?"
Noel smiled at Crush as if he were a simpleton. "You're forgetting about their time-traveling abilities. They could've asked anybody, at any time, where K.C. was that night and then gone back in time to kidnap him. Understand?"
Crush stared at him. Maybe it was the concussion, but that almost made sense.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was the boredom more than anything else that made him do it. Zerbe would have thought, if he'd heard about someone who had done this thing, that they would have done it out of desperation or terror. But the terror he'd felt earlier had exhausted him, and he'd lapsed into a state of dull anxiety. So he did it, really, just because there was nothing else for him to do. The darkness and the silence were so all-encompassing that the only thing he had to think about was the plastic strap that tied his wrists together behind the metal chair and how to get out of it.
At first he just tried to slide it down his wrists, but his hands, of course, stopped it from going any farther. Then he tried to pull his hands apart to snap it. When that didn't work, he tried to twist his hands in such a way as to break it. When that didn't work either, he tried to pull his right hand out. Then his left.
It occurred to him that he could have gotten it off if it weren't for his thumb. His right thumb or his left thumb. If either one hadn't been there, bulging out the way it did, he felt sure he could have slipped the damn plastic zip tie off and freed his hands.
And then what could he do? He could scratch his nose, for one thing. That would be great. And he could reach the table in front of him. See if that cell phone was still there. If it was, then he could call for help. But he'd have to lean awfully far forward to get it. Maybe he couldn't reach it after all.
But wait! What an idiot! If he reached down with his freed hands and worked on the straps that tied his legs to the chair, he could get them free, too. And then? Then he could stand up and walk to the table. Hell, he could walk to the door and get out of this damn van. He could dance all the way home.
If it weren't for his fucking thumbs. But what could he do about them? He couldn't cut them off. No...but he could dislocate them. Or just one, anyway. It would only take one, right? But which one? Well, he was right-handed, so the left one would make the most sense, right? He tried to think what he used his left thumb for and couldn't come up with much. So he decided to try it.
Using the slats of the chair, he tried to push his left thumb out of its socket. It hurt so much that he stopped after only a few seconds. But then the boredom got too much for him and there was nothing else to do. He might as well try it again. It still hurt, but somehow it didn't feel as bad as it had the first time. And he kept working it and working it. It took a long time, but what else did he have to do?
He thought he'd hear a sound when his thumb popped loose, but instead it just got limp and sore and very swollen. At first he was afraid that it was so swollen that the plastic strap would be harder to slide off, not easier. But he went on trying to pull his wrist free. He tried for what seemed like hours and hours. After all, how else could he pass the time?
The rhythmic moving of his wrist was hypnotizing to him, and he'd almost fallen asleep when... _what was that feeling?_ That feeling of the strap slipping off him? That feeling of...freedom? He'd done it! He'd gotten loose from the zip tie! He gasped.
Now what the hell was he supposed to do?
He tried to move his arms from around the back of the chair but found that they were only so much dead weight. He realized that the smartest thing about his recent maneuvering wasn't that it would help him escape; it was that it kept the blood flowing to his arms and hands. Otherwise, he might have lost them. He had a mental image of his hands growing green and black and having to be amputated. Could that happen? He didn't want to find out.
Concentrating hard on his right arm, he hoisted it over the top rail of the chair. Then he brought his left arm around to join it. He rubbed his hands together and enjoyed the tingling feeling of the blood rushing back to his fingers.
His dislocated thumb started hurting more. In fact, it was throbbing with a blinding pain. To distract himself from the agony, he bent over and reached down to examine his legs. His ankles were securely zip-tied to the legs of the chair. He tugged at the plastic bonds but knew he couldn't break them. He gave up and thought he'd try to stand.
He lifted his butt from the chair. It felt good to stretch his legs, to flex his buttocks, to slowly stand upright. But before he could straighten up all the way, he bumped his head with a crack on the ceiling of the van. He stood there, bent over, stretching his legs and tightening his glutes. It felt good, but not good enough. He had to get his ankles free. He had to get out of this fucking van.
He tried to think of what his heroes would do in this situation. James Bond would cut the strap with a laser beam hidden in his watch. Maxwell Smart would have a small bomb in his boot heel. Jack Bauer would probably tear his own feet off and run away on the stumps.
_Get a little closer to home_ , he told himself. _What would Crush do?_
Crush would think.
So Zerbe thought.
When Crush and Gail and Noel got to the Zerbe mansion, Donleavy greeted them at the door. They went into the ornate dining room, where Angela and Emil were sitting at opposite ends of a long table, looking like the protagonists of a gothic novel.
Emil, eating calmly from a bowl of soup, looked up and said, "That will be all, Ms. Donleavy. We have private matters to discuss."
Donleavy cast a disapproving eye at Crush and went out, shutting the door behind her. Crush knew Donleavy's Rules for a Bodyguard, and for once he was thankful for them. Rule No. Two: Do Whatever the Principal Says. The Principal in this case was Emil Zerbe. Of course, Rule No. One was: Don't Let the Principal Get Himself Killed. The two rules often conflicted with each other.
Emil glanced at Gail. "And who's this?"
"My sensei," Crush said.
Emil gave Gail a one-sided leer. "I approve," he said, returning to slurping his soup.
Angela turned to them in exasperation. "What's the point in talking to him? He gives me nothing! He hasn't even told me what that weird message meant. He won't agree to give the kidnappers whatever it is they want."
"They're bluffing," Emil said, sipping from his spoon. He looked up with that stroke-twisted face of his. "They're too cowardly to hurt my son."
"They just tried to kidnap your other son," Gail said. "If it hadn't been for Crush and me, they'd have gotten him, too." She recounted the story as succinctly as she could. After she was done, Emil sat in silence for a moment.
He shrugged it off. "If the two of you could stop them, they couldn't have been very vicious," he said. "Why didn't they just shoot him in the truck? And shoot you afterward? No, they're bluffing. I can feel it."
Angela pushed away from the table. "It's the stroke. It's made him crazy. He's not thinking clearly."
Crush pulled out a chair and sat at the table facing Emil. "No, the stroke hasn't changed you, has it? You've always been a stubborn asshole, haven't you?"
"An asshole, perhaps," Emil said. "But stubborn? I prefer decisive."
"Right. I guess you still have those Bob Dole campaign buttons?"
"Dole would have made a fine president, mark my words."
"And you still think Nixon was railroaded out of office?"
"He should have held out a little longer."
"And you think the wrong side won World War II?"
Emil's good eye slid over to stare at Crush. "Hitler was bad. Stalin was worse. Are you going to argue with that?"
"I'm not going to pick one genocidal maniac over another."
"Roosevelt and Churchill did," Emil said.
Crush had a feeling he was getting out of his depth. Before he had to reply, they were interrupted by the loud ringing of a telephone. Crush, Angela, and Gail pulled out their phones. Nobody's phone was ringing. They were puzzled for a second. Then Angela spoke up. "It must be the landline."
"Well, answer it, why don't you?" Emil said, not realizing how rare it was to get an actual call on that piece of antique technology.
"It's just a sales call, Dad," Angela said.
Crush spotted the telephone on a side table. It was an old black rotary thing, so he had to answer it blindly, without knowing who was on the other end. Just like the old days. Plucking the receiver from its cradle, Crush held it to his ear. "Hello."
"Will you accept a collect call from Kendrick Zerbe?" an operator said.
"Yes," he said quickly. "Of course." When was the last time he'd spoken with an operator?
Another voice now. A familiar voice. "Um, is Emil Zerbe there? This is his son. Would you tell him to send somebody to come pick me up? I've escaped."
"Are you okay, Zerbe?"
"Yeah," Zerbe said, in a faltering tone, "No. I don't know."
"Where are you, Zerbe?"
"I don't know that either." Then there was only silence on the line.
"Hello!" Crush's voice came from the dangling receiver. "Zerbe, are you there?"
Zerbe was sitting in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a phone booth, watching the phone as it swung back and forth, like the blade in "The Pit and the Pendulum."
Clearly he was hallucinating. He was still, he assumed, back in that white van, tied to that metal chair, imagining this daring escape. And Crush's voice, yelling at him from the tinny speaker, was just wish fulfillment. Oh well, at least this illusion was a way to pass the time.
He remembered his dream of escape pretty lucidly. He remembered how, with his legs still zip-tied to the chair, he'd been clever enough to reach up and explore the ceiling of the van. He remembered the cracking sound his head had made when he stood up. How it hadn't sounded solid. It had sounded crinkly. Like plastic. Crush would investigate, and so Zerbe would, too.
He felt around up there until he found it. The ceiling light. With a plastic lens covering it. And he had an idea. Not exactly a _MacGyver_ idea, but an idea nonetheless. He tried to crack the light fixture with his elbow. When he couldn't strike it with enough force, he used the top of his skull, slamming it repeatedly against the lamp until it cracked. He sat back down after that, his head throbbing and spinning from the impact. Once his brain had cleared, he stood back up and reached for the light fixture, feeling the broken shards of plastic with his fingers, trying to pry one loose. One he could use as a tool.
Once he had it in his hands, he brought it down to his lap. He examined it with his fingers in the darkness. It was sharp enough. But it was sharp on every side, and he had nothing to protect his fingers. Well, if he was going to do it, he'd better do it soon. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the broken piece of plastic and bent over to saw at the zip tie that held his right leg in place. He sawed at it for a long time, the shard cutting into his fingers faster than it cut into the strap.
The blood from his fingers made them slick, and the plastic slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. He searched for it in the dark but couldn't find it, so he had to reach back up to the lamp for another.
It took him a long time to cut through the strap on his right leg and even longer to cut through the one on his left. By the time he was finished, both of his hands were useless: strained, dislocated, and bleeding. He sat with them cupped in his lap and wanted a long rest.
But no. He was free from the zip ties and he needed to make his move before his kidnapper returned. Then he realized he had no plan. No strategy. No blueprint for escape.
Well, he could sneak out of the van. Open the doors and creep out. But what would be waiting for him outside? He might find an army of kidnappers waiting for him. There had to be another way. He could stay right where he was until his kidnapper came back in. He could feign being tied up and when his abductor came close enough, he could...he could what?
He tried to picture himself struggling with a live human being, wrapping his useless fingers around a throat of flesh and blood and choking it until...until what? No, he couldn't do it. He doubted that he could do it physically and he knew he couldn't do it emotionally. He would have to sneak out now, regardless of what dangers he might walk into.
Lifting himself to his unsteady legs, he moved slowly across the floor of the van, bracing himself against the table. He explored its surface with his hands, hoping against hope that the cell phone had been left there, that he could make a call for help. But no. The table was bare.
Making his way to the doors of the van he felt for the handle with his mangled fingers, took a deep breath, and pulled it. The door swung open. He poked his head out.
The van was parked inside a Quonset hut with a dirt floor. Sunlight streamed through gaps in the corrugated metal walls. He could see that, except for the van, the building was empty. No squads of kidnappers were waiting to leap on him. They were probably right outside the hut. Waiting to leap on him.
Climbing out of the van, he stumbled and fell in a heap in the dirt. His head throbbed and his hands burned with a searing pain. Using the bumper, he pulled himself to his feet and limped around the inside of the hut. He was looking for a hiding place, but realized that that would just be delaying the inevitable. It occurred to him that he might have been better off staying tied up in the van and being a good hostage. After all, his kidnapper hadn't actually _said_ he was going to kill him. Well, it was too late to go back to that now. Better to just go outside and face the music.
Walking over to the door, he swung it open. Outside he saw nothing but scrubby hills and a two-lane road snaking off into the distance. He waited by the door for a few minutes, not knowing what to do, then made a circuit around the outside of the hut. He found himself oddly disappointed to find no one. Unable to think of anything else to do, he started walking down the narrow road. The temperature was comfortable, in the mid-seventies, but the sun beat down on him and he squinted and sweated. He wasn't used to being outside.
He didn't know which direction was north, south, east, or west. He just walked forward. His hands hurt, and he couldn't put them in his pockets, so he held them out in front of him like Frankenstein. That made him laugh so hard that he tripped and nearly fell down. He sat by the side of the road and laughed and laughed until he started crying.
He wiped off his tears, got up, and kept on going. After about fifteen minutes it occurred to him that he shouldn't be walking along this road in broad daylight. The kidnapper could drive past him, stop, and load him right back into the van. But no matter. He was too tired to walk off-road. He trudged on.
A few cars sped toward him, and though he tried to stick out his swollen thumb to hitch a ride, they just drove on. He thought he should have checked to see if there were keys in the white van before he left it. He could be driving down the road, listening to music, singing along, instead of walking drearily on. _Oh well_ , he thought, _I'll remember that next time_. _The next time I'm kidnapped_.
As he walked, he began to sing, just to pass the time. " _To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump_ ," he sang. " _To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump. To the dump! To the dump, dump, dump_."
Then he saw it. Like the monolith from _2001_ , it stood there in the lonely desert, a beacon for wandering travelers.
A phone booth.
It was then that he thought he must be experiencing delirium. What the hell was a phone booth doing out in the middle of nowhere, in the early years of the twenty-first century? He slowly approached it, expecting it to fade into the horizon like a mirage. But it remained solid and substantial, right until he reached out with his bloody fingers and touched the door.
It was real.
Either that or his hallucination was very concrete. He pushed the folding door open and stepped inside. The phone was there. The cord was attached. He lifted the receiver and heard the dial tone. It worked! He could call Crush. He could go home! Back to his beloved loft. He could leave the real world behind!
Then he realized—he didn't have any change. Change! When do you ever need change nowadays? Never! He never did until this instant, when his life depended on it! He felt like Burgess Meredith breaking his glasses at the end of that _Twilight Zone_ episode. He would be perfectly happy if he had that one thing! A fucking quarter! Without it, he was as good as dead.
He looked at the receiver. Maybe if he explained, it would let him place a call. But explain to what? It was just a machine. It couldn't understand how desperate his situation was. He thought of all those old songs where people sang to operators and explained their sorrows. But did they still even _have_ operators?
He pressed the "0" repeatedly. A voice came over the line. "What number do you wish to call?"
"Operator! Thank God. I don't have any change. What can I do?"
"Would you like to place a collect call?"
Of course, a collect call! Zerbe remembered collect calls. Collect calls didn't require change! He was saved!
"Yes, yes! A collect call. I'd like to place a collect call."
"And what number would you like to call?"
His face fell. What number? He didn't know any phone numbers. Who knew anyone's number anymore, with the memory on your cell phone? Who used their real memory for anything?
"What number would you like to call?" the operator repeated.
_Think, Zerbe! You must know a phone number. Any phone number. Think. Think of a goddamned phone number._ But the only number he could recall was the one he'd memorized in childhood. His old home number. His father's number. He didn't really want to talk to his father now, but what choice did he have?
He gave the number and waited.
It was when he heard Crush's voice on the end of the line that he really started thinking this was only a dream. What would Crush be doing at his house? Crush wouldn't be caught dead there. No, this was all just an illusion. Before long, his kidnapper would come back in the van, wake him up, and start beating on him again.
"Zerbe, are you there?" Crush's dream voice was saying to him through the phone.
"I am, but you're not," Zerbe said.
"Zerbe. Is that you?"
"Sure, it's me."
"Where are you?"
"I'm locked in a van somewhere."
"Where are you calling from?"
"I'm not calling you. You're just a dream. Shut up and let me sleep."
"Zerbe! Where are you? Listen to me."
" _To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump_ ," Zerbe sang, to the tune of the _William Tell Overture_.
"Stop singing and tell me where you are," Crush said.
Zerbe sighed. "First of all, I don't know. Second of all, you're not really there. This is just a dream."
"It's not a dream, Zerbe."
"Well, you'd say that, 'cause you don't know it's a dream 'cause you're _in_ my dream."
"Why do you think it's a dream?" Crush asked.
"Because I'm in a phone booth and there aren't any phone booths. Because you're there. And because I heard the road sing."
"You heard what?" Crush asked.
"I heard the road singing. When we were driving over it. Just before we stopped."
"What did it sing?"
" _To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump."_
"Stay where you are. Stay right there. We're coming to get you."
"What are you talking about?" Zerbe was getting very annoyed by this hallucination.
"I know where you are," Crush said. "I'm going to give the phone to your sister."
"Oh, my sister now," Zerbe said, grabbing the dangling receiver.
"Yes. Whatever you do, don't hang up," Crush said.
"Of course not," Zerbe said. Then he hung up. This dream was getting really obnoxious. He wished he could wake up.
Crush told Gail about the phone call as they rushed out to the Buick. He got behind the wheel. Gail laid her hand on his arm. "You cannot drive, Crush."
"We're in a hurry," he explained. "I drive faster than you."
"You have to listen...."
Crush looked her dead in the eye. "Not this time."
She gave up and got in the passenger seat. "So where are we going?"
"Lancaster." Lancaster was a little desert community out near Palmdale.
"Why Lancaster?" Gail asked.
"Did you ever hear of the Musical Road?"
"Is that a fairy tale?"
"No, it's a road. I heard about it at the Glendale Car Rally. It was made for some car commercial. A two-lane road with specially designed grooves in it. When you drive over it, it plays the theme from _The Lone Ranger._ "
"Why would they build that?"
"Hell if I know. They do that in some places. There's a road in New Mexico that plays 'America the Beautiful.' I hear there's one in France that does 'La Marseillaise' and one in Korea that plays 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' for some reason. I guess people have a lot of time on their hands."
"So Zerbe's not crazy?"
"I'm not saying that. But the road is real."
"And he's there?"
"He's close to there."
"How long is the trip?"
"The way I drive? A little under an hour."
A phone rang loudly. It was Crush's cell, in the back pocket of his jeans. He shifted a little. "Could you get that? What does it say?" Gail reached into Crush's back pocket and pulled out his phone. "It says, 'Unknown Caller.'"
"Answer it. Put it on speaker," Crush told her.
She did so and a voice came from the phone. "Would you accept a collect call from..."
"Yes," Crush said without waiting for the operator to finish.
Zerbe's voice came over the line. "Crush! Is that you?"
"Yes, we're..."
Zerbe cut him off, exultantly. "I remembered your number! I actually remembered your number!"
"Yes, that's right."
"I dreamed you were at my house."
"I _was_ at your house. We're coming to get you. Just hold tight."
"How do you know where I am? I don't even know where I am."
"It's okay. I know."
"How do you know?"
"On account of the Musical Road."
There was silence on the line. Then Zerbe said, "Oh shit. I'm still dreaming."
"This isn't a dream, Zerbe. I'm really here," Crush said. "Stay on the line. I'll find you, I swear."
Crush glanced over to Gail as he drove. Over her shoulder, through the passenger window, he saw it. The Devil's Gate Dam. They were driving right by it, and it didn't look ominous at all. It looked like an ordinary Army Corps of Engineers project, circa 1920.
Nothing at all like the entrance to Hell.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was January 21st, 2001.
Crush was walking down the narrow concrete steps from the top of the Devil's Gate Dam to the bottom of the Arroyo Seco, all the while wondering why in the world he was doing this. For the other kids, he knew this was an adventure, something to break the dull monotony of their lives. Crush's life had had little monotony, and the adventures he'd taken part in would put their little nocturnal camping trip to shame.
But who was he kidding? He knew why he was there. She was walking down the steps in front of him. His flashlight was playing on her raven-black hair, dipping down occasionally to illuminate her distractingly beautiful rump. Renee Zerbe was the reason he'd let himself get talked into the excursion. She was the reason they were all going on this adventure. To get her mind off her recent tragedy.
Since her father's suicide, they hadn't seen her much. She'd come over to the Zerbe mansion last night, but nobody knew what to say to her or how to make her feel better. Oddly, it was Noel who seemed to comfort her most, or at least to distract her from her grief. Perhaps it was because he was the least tactful of the bunch. While everyone else was tiptoeing around her tragedy, he just came out and asked, "Why do you think your father shot himself in the middle of the parade?"
She said she didn't know. Then Noel just changed the subject and started talking about his latest obsession: local hauntings and spooky places. He spent a lot of time talking about the Devil's Gate—he'd been going on about its history for the last few months. This time Renee said, "Why don't we explore it? Tomorrow night?"
Since this seemed to be the only thing Renee was interested in doing other than drinking and staring at the wall, they all agreed to make the trip. So here they were.
In the months that Crush had been living in the Zerbe mansion, he had gradually, in spite of his best efforts, become entwined in the household. The Zerbe children had become a part of his world, or he had become a part of theirs. They were not his siblings exactly. Certainly not his friends. What then? His extended family? Like cousins you visited on tedious holiday vacations, put up with, and eventually kind of enjoyed?
He went to school with them, for one thing. Crush had gone to school as little as possible. Blaz Kusinko didn't believe his sons should waste time in classes when they could be out learning things like how to break bones and sell drugs. Crush found that he liked school. He liked the regularity of classes and homework. He didn't do well on tests, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to be there long enough to worry about his GPA anyway.
K.C. Zerbe had told Crush that he didn't like school. He did well in classes and got along well with the teachers, but he was picked on by his asshole classmates. The bullies. Crush had little patience for bullies. He knew that anyone who bothered to tease and belittle smaller kids or outsiders was just too much of a dick to be tolerated. When he caught them beating on K.C. in the gym one day, he put a stop to it then and there.
That got Crush in trouble at school, but it made K.C. his friend for life. Really. And though this gratitude made him a little uncomfortable at first, he had to admit that he enjoyed K.C.'s company. He taught Crush the pleasures of comic books and grade-Z movies and classic rock 'n' roll, all things that Crush hadn't had the time to enjoy.
He also invited Crush into the inner circle of his siblings' friends. That, he didn't enjoy as much. Angela was like a self-centered five-year-old in a grown woman's body. Noel was a thinking machine with no empathy for his fellow humans. Evan Gibbard and Sonny Kraus and the other hangers-on were just predators who hadn't found their prey yet.
And then there was Renee Zerbe. Crush knew she was damaged far beyond her years. He knew that after what had happened to her, she couldn't ever be normal and whole again. She laughed a lot and sang a lot, but through it all there was a sadness that cut right into his soul and made him want to try to protect her.
Years later, when Crush discussed this with his AA sponsor, Bill Ingol, while going through the endless fourth step, Bill brought up the obvious. "She reminded you of your mother."
That had never occurred to Crush, and the fact that it was so clearly true made him angry. "You're saying I wanted to fuck my mother?"
"You said that, I didn't." Bill was endlessly, infuriatingly calm. "I said you wanted to protect your mother."
"Sure," Crush had said bitterly, "I wanted to protect my mother. I wanted to protect Renee. I didn't do either of them a damn bit of good."
"Is that why you became a soldier? And a bodyguard? To protect people? To make up for what you couldn't do when you were a kid?"
"No," Crush said. "That's why I became an alcoholic." And to prove his point, he went on a bender that lasted three weeks and ended up in a whorehouse in Ensenada.
But that was years later. At the time, all he knew was that he couldn't stop thinking about Renee. He even thought, sometimes on warm winter nights, that he might actually be in love with her. That is, if love was a real thing that someone could be in.
And even if he was in that thing-people-called-love, there wasn't anything he could do about it. For a lot of reasons. For one, she didn't love him, she loved Evan Gibbard. The fact that Evan Gibbard treated her like crap didn't make a difference. The fact that she threw herself at Sonny Kraus to make Evan jealous, and Sonny took joyful advantage of that, didn't make a difference either.
There was also the fact that Crush didn't know how to put himself out there, to express his feelings in a non-sleazy way. Oh sure, he knew how to hook up with a girl. He'd hooked up with plenty of them in Kusinko's bratva. But to tell a girl that he really cared about her? He didn't even know what that meant. To "have feelings" for someone? That was just TV-show talk. Stuff they said on _Melrose Place_ and _Dawson's Creek_. Nothing to do with real life.
And then there was K.C. Zerbe.
K.C. had come to mean something to Crush. Not as a friend exactly. Both from his mother and father, Crush had learned to mistrust friends. Friends were liable to betray you, and to use your weaknesses against you. If they were stronger than you, they'd try to beat you. If they were weaker, they'd resent you.
But K.C. was different. He didn't seem to want anything from Crush. He just liked to be around him. Even the protection Crush provided was just a bonus, not expected. He seemed to actually like Crush. Go figure.
Crush knew that K.C. was in love with Renee. In Love with a capital I and a capital L. In love without any of the complicated reservations that plagued Crush. He knew this was a taboo love, one that broke any number of state and ethical laws. K.C. knew that, too. He just couldn't help himself.
So Crush couldn't help but think that K.C. had "been there first," and that it would be breaking some kind of bratva friend-bro code if he moved in. Or maybe he was just using that as an excuse to not do anything about his feelings for Renee.
But as he followed Renee down into the Arroyo Seco, he knew he was at the end of his "doing-nothing" rope. Tonight he'd make his move. Whether he was rejected or accepted didn't really matter. He'd already been defeated. He was caught up in this family and its circle. He'd always told himself he could hit the road whenever he wanted. Now he knew he couldn't pick up and leave without leaving a little piece of himself behind.
He cursed his mother for bringing him into this house. Then he cursed himself for cursing his mother. It had been so easy for so many years. Just the two of them, Toni and Caleb, against the world. Now these others had been brought into it. Could you really care about more than one person? Wouldn't you eventually have to choose between them?
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairway, he was in a foul mood and wasn't talking to anybody. The others didn't notice, because he didn't talk too much when he was in the best of moods. Angela called him "the stupid silent type." He didn't mind. He supposed he was stupid in some ways. He knew he was smart in others.
They gathered in a circle, smoked some weed, and talked some shit about school while Noel gathered some dry brush and started a little campfire. They didn't perform any ritual and they didn't summon any demons. They just complained about school until the conversation lagged. Then Noel and Evan closed their eyes and fell asleep.
No one knew quite what to say to Renee. Did she want to talk about her father? Or did she want to talk about anything but her father? During the awkward silence, Angela, who'd had a little too much gin and a little too much pot, peeled off and started to make out with Sonny, which Crush thought was kind of crass. After all, Sonny had just dumped Renee rather rudely two months earlier. And that was a month after Evan had dumped her and handed her off to Sonny, like a regifted Christmas present.
A little over a year ago, Crush had been a part of the Russian Mafia: collecting gambling money, selling drugs, and worrying about being whacked by rival gangs. He found himself missing that comparatively peaceful life. Pasadena Prep was a serialized drama that made _The Sopranos_ seem tame.
Crush slid over to talk to Renee. He didn't know what to say, but he felt like he should say something. "How are you?" As soon as the words left his lips, he was appalled by them.
She turned and gave him a withering gaze. "Did you really ask me that?"
"I couldn't think of anything else to say."
"Then don't say anything." She glanced over at Angela and Sonny embracing in the dirt. She looked back at Crush. "Do you want to kiss me?" she asked.
Crush did. But from the corner of his eye he could see K.C. sitting quietly, watching them. He couldn't move. When he hesitated, Renee got up and walked away into the darkness. Crush started to go after her, but K.C. moved more quickly.
Crush stayed where he was.
"Why don't you go after her?" Angela asked. He hadn't noticed Angela come up next to him. That bothered him. He usually had a sixth sense about people coming on him from behind. He must have been distracted.
"He can handle it," he said, nodding toward the darkness.
"K.C.?" Angela asked with a drunken laugh. "You know what they say. 'Vice is nice, but incest is best.'"
"Shut up. What happened to Sonny? I thought you were getting busy with him."
She just smiled a wicked smile. "I like to keep him guessing. I know you've been mooning after Renee for months. Why don't you make your move?"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"She just lost her father."
"Exactly. What better time?"
"I see," Crush said. "'Sorry your father killed himself. Want to fuck?' Like that?"
"You could just offer her some support. A kind word. A shoulder to cry on," Angela said. "Sometimes people need a little physical comfort, you know."
Crush felt a little ashamed of himself. "Okay."
"Then ask her if she wants to fuck," Angela added with a laugh.
Crush laughed too, although he felt sure he shouldn't. She moved uncomfortably close to him. "Where's Sonny?" he asked.
"Oh, he's smoking dope and nodding off. Can you believe it?" Angela was very close to him, and the night air was filled with her jasmine fragrance and her warm breath. Maybe it was because he was tormented by his feelings for Renee, maybe it was because he was seventeen, but for whatever reason, he kissed her. Or she kissed him. He was never sure which.
They were both teenagers, which doesn't excuse what came next, but it does partly explain the fumbling of hands, the rustling of clothes, the mad unbuttoning and unfastening and unzipping. The rush of skin on skin and the not-caring-what-part-of-the-body one was touching for the sheer glory of touching it.
Whether it went on for five minutes or a half-hour, Crush couldn't say, but they hadn't gotten very far through the labyrinth of clothes and limbs and hair when K.C. came up to them.
"She's gone," he said.
It took a while for the words to register. It took longer than that for Crush and Angela to untangle themselves from each other and ask what he meant.
"She went down the tunnel," Zerbe said.
The tunnel was set into the wall of the Arroyo below the rock formation that everybody said looked like the Devil but that, to Crush, looked more like one of the jagged cliffs Wile E. Coyote used to stand on and push huge boulders onto the speeding Road Runner.
And, in fact, the tunnel itself looked like one of those illustrations of tunnels Coyote used to paint on cliff faces, in order to lure the Road Runner to a particular X-marked spot. A big arch going off into nothingness with an iron fence across it. A disaster just waiting to happen.
"I was talking to her and she just ran away." Zerbe pointed frantically down the tunnel. "We have to find her. She was upset. She might do something." He didn't have to say what he was afraid she would do. They all knew.
"The gate is closed," Crush said. "Are you sure she went down there?"
"Yes!" Zerbe shouted. "She climbed up the gate and jumped over it. Then she ran down the tunnel. We have to stop her!"
By now Zerbe's yelling had awakened Sonny from his nap by the campfire. Noel and Evan woke up and rushed over to ask what was going on. When they were told, they all hollered for Renee as loudly as they could. They must have awakened a flock of parrots, because the birds started screeching and squawking so loudly it almost drowned out the human cries.
Crush tried to pry one of the bars off the gate. Noel and K.C. made an effort to hoist each other up the fence. None of this worked. Angela called 911, but she couldn't get a signal down in the depths of the Arroyo. Then Evan and Sonny got spooked by all this, but mostly by the parrots' almost-human screams. They ran away, up the stairs to the top of the dam—to get help, they said. They never came back.
For the next thirty minutes or so Crush strained his muscles on the gate while the Zerbe brothers tried to find a way around it and Angela kept trying to find a spot with cell phone reception. Finally, Crush pried the gate open just enough to squeeze his bulky frame through the gap. He ran down the tunnel. It was dark, and he collided with the walls a few times, but kept on running till he reached the other side.
It opened onto a flat, marshy plain. He ran on, calling Renee's name for what seemed like hours, with no answer, until he collapsed, winded and sweating. Since he was a kid he had relied on his strength to defeat whatever problem might confront him, but his muscles couldn't solve anything this time. He clutched his aching side and gasped.
It started to rain then. Really pouring, as if the sky had been waiting for months to let loose. Raindrops thudded down on his back, and he shut his eyes and sank into the mud.
And that was how the police found him.
A couple of cops shined a flashlight on him and yelled at him to get up. When he didn't, they pointed their pistols at him and told him to keep his hands where they could see them. They grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.
"Where is she?" a cop hollered at him. "What have you done with her?"
"Why were the cops ganging up on you?" Gail asked.
Crush shrugged. "Because I was there. Because I was big. Because they'd just found her shirt with blood on it."
"Where?"
"A few yards away from me."
"But Renee? They never found her?"
"They never did. They took me downtown and questioned me. With their fists. Everything they learned about me made them more sure I was the one who'd grabbed her. They searched that rain-swept field for days. Went over every inch of it. Again and again. They couldn't find a thing. Not a trace of her. So they had to get me to confess."
"Is that why you don't trust the police?" she asked.
"Oh God, no. I stopped trusting them long before that." Crush blinked his eyes to keep them focused on the road. "Anyway, there I was. A drifter. The son of a whore. No known father. When they traced me back to Brighton Beach and the Russian mob, I was like their wet dream of a suspect. They didn't need to look any further.
"There was only one problem. They never found Renee. They couldn't find a body or any evidence, other than that shirt. And it's pretty hard to charge somebody with murder when you can't find the body."
"It's been done," Gail said.
"Sure. But there was no evidence either. No blood on my hands or clothes. No hair. No DNA. They couldn't pin it on me. No matter how hard they tried.
"Of course, it ruined my mom's marriage. She demanded that Emil hire the best lawyer to get them to release me. Emil dragged his feet. Renee was his niece, and it didn't look good for his own stepson to be suspected in her murder. It drove a wedge between them.
"Even after I was released, she wanted to sue the police department for false arrest. I told her they'd never actually arrested me, and she wanted to sue them for that, too. But Emil wouldn't do it. He wanted to forget all about it. He even wanted to forget about her.
"One day, we went to see a lawyer on our own. When we came back to the house, the locks had been changed, and our belongings were out on the front lawn. There wasn't very much, of course. Some dresses and jewelry for my mother. A couple of books for me. Including the _Tacitus_."
"The what?"
"Never mind. Samantha came out and offered to drive us to a hotel. She'd never liked Toni, but I think she liked me and she felt bad about the way things had turned out. My mother had signed a prenup, so she wouldn't get much out of the divorce. But even that didn't come through, because he had the marriage annulled, claiming that my mother had conned him into marrying her and that she was still married to my father. Well, we didn't want to bring my father into it. Blaz would kill us if he found out where we were. So she just let it go. Within a few months, we were living pretty much as we'd been before. Easy come, easy go."
Gail let loose a long breath. "I want to say I'm sorry all that happened to you, but I know you don't want to hear it."
Crush shrugged. "It's what happened. No use whining about it."
"That's my Crush," she said with a wry smile. "But how did little Caleb feel about it?"
"Little Caleb? He wasn't so little."
"He was little on the inside. How did he feel?"
"He felt fine. What do you want me to say?" He thought it over. "I didn't miss that house. I missed Zerbe a little."
"And?"
Crush looked over at her. "Renee? That was unfinished business. Everyone thought she was dead. Some people thought she'd killed herself. A few people thought that I'd raped and killed her. I almost convinced myself she'd run off somewhere. Started a new life. A better life. Almost...."
"I wish I could have known you then," she said. "I would have comforted you."
"I wouldn't have wanted it. Besides, if I'd met you then, I'd have just tried to...steal from you."
"Thanks for clearing that up."
"Don't mention it." Crush wanted to change the subject. He addressed the speakerphone. "How are you, Zerbe? Is that how it went down?"
"What?" Zerbe said through the phone.
"The night at the Devil's Gate Dam. What do you think?"
"I wasn't really listening. I fell asleep. And I really have to pee."
"We're almost there, Zerbe. Don't hang up."
Zerbe hung up.
"Goddamn it," Crush muttered. He was getting closer to Lancaster. Taking the Avenue G exit, he drove for about ten minutes until he passed the sign that read "Musical Road." He steered the car into the left lane and slowed down to fifty miles per hour.
The vibrations on the road played the familiar tune. Sort of.
"Wow," Gail said.
"Wow," Crush said. "But didn't that sound a little off to you?"
"It _was_ kind of sour," Gail said. "But I guess it must be hard to tune road surfaces just right. You can't tighten the strings." Gail was always charitable.
They drove on for a few more miles, keeping their eyes peeled for phone booths or Quonset huts. After about fifteen minutes, they saw it by the side of the road, just standing in the dust like a relic from some forgotten time. An old-fashioned phone booth. The kind Superman used to change clothes in. Crush saw a truck parked next to it.
A poorly painted UPS truck.
"Shit," Crush said.
Then he noticed the broken window on the phone booth. And the twisted pair of human legs sticking out of it.
The UPS truck roared to life and took off down the road. Crush had a second to decide what to do. Follow the truck or check on the person who was in the booth.
He stopped the car and opened the door. "Stay here," he said to Gail. Whoever was in the booth, he wasn't moving.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Zerbe hung up the pay phone and looked around for a place to go to the bathroom. If he'd only had to pee, like he'd told Crush, it wouldn't have been much of a problem, but his situation was a bit more complicated than that. He opened the door of the phone booth and looked around for a secluded place to do his business. There was nothing but flat, featureless desert as far as he could see. A few outcroppings of succulents were scattered here and there, but they afforded no protection from the blazing sun and little shelter from passing cars.
Now that he thought about it, there hadn't been any passing cars for ages, but one was about to pass by. A brown UPS truck was kicking up a lot of dust as it drove slowly toward him. Very slowly. In fact, it was pulling over on the shoulder, just a few yards ahead of him.
Why? Did the driver need to use the phone? Had his cell phone died? Did he want to ask Zerbe for directions? He'd get a laugh out of that.
The driver's door opened and a man got out. Instead of the familiar brown uniform, he wore khaki pants and a blue chambray shirt. As he walked over to the phone booth with a cheery smile, Zerbe noted that he appeared to be a very friendly African-American man...who was holding a gun in his right hand.
Zerbe froze. What now? There was nothing he could do; nowhere he could run. Nothing but open space all around him. He backed into the phone booth, knowing that it was a dead end. That it was nothing but a glass trap. With his bloody hands, he closed the folding door of the phone booth, then opened it again, wincing with pain from his dislocated thumb. The door afforded him no protection. He was at the mercy of this man.
The man stopped just outside the phone booth and smiled at Zerbe. "Hey! You escaped!" he said by way of greeting.
Zerbe's brain whirled. He knew Zerbe had escaped. That meant he was the kidnapper. Or one of the kidnappers. This was it. Zerbe had escaped, only to be caught again.
"Did you kidnap me?" Zerbe asked.
"No," the man replied. "I just helped. I told him he shouldn't have left you there. You look dumb, but that may just be an act." He laughed as if he'd made a good-natured joke, but the pistol in his hand belied his real intentions.
"What are you going to do to me?" Zerbe asked.
"Come on." The man thrust the gun forward. "The Overlords can't help you now."
"The Overlords?" Zerbe asked. "What are you talking about? Who the hell are the Overlords?" Where had he heard that term before?
"I don't want to have to do this," the man said, looking distressed. "You're not giving me a choice."
Zerbe looked down at the gun and knew the man was going to shoot him. He decided to act. Well, he didn't actually decide. If he'd had to decide he would probably have chickened out. He just did it.
He slammed the door shut on the man's wrist. Hard. The man was thrown off balance and the gun dropped from his hand. It clattered on the floor of the phone booth. The door didn't close all the way, so Zerbe pressed his body against the fold in the door to try to keep the man's hand trapped while he bent down to pick up the gun.
The man threw his own weight against the door and sent Zerbe crashing into the back wall of the booth. Zerbe snatched up the gun and raised it at the man, who was coming toward him.
He didn't even mean to pull the trigger.
The gun's report was deafening. The man looked down at his chest in surprise. The splotch of blood that had suddenly appeared on his chest spread and grew. He dropped, falling onto Zerbe.
Zerbe screamed and clawed his way out from under the man. He dropped the gun, scrambled out of the phone booth, and sprawled on the ground. Still screaming.
Slowly, he came to his senses. Or some of them. This man was dead, but there was at least one more still out there. And then there were the Overlords.
But wait. Weren't the Overlords trying to help him? Isn't that what the dead guy had said? It didn't matter. The thing was, he wasn't safe. He went back to the phone booth and retrieved the gun. He looked over at the UPS truck. He went back to the phone booth and searched the man's pockets until he found some car keys.
Just as he pulled the keys free, the man's eyes opened and his hand grabbed Zerbe's wrist. Zerbe pulled away and stared down at him.
"Help me," the man said.
Zerbe thought about shooting him again. Finishing him off. But he couldn't do it. He hurried to the truck and started it. Just in time, too. A red muscle car pulled up to the booth.
"He" must have arrived.
Zerbe floored the UPS truck and tore out of there.
The man in the booth wasn't dead. Not yet. Blood was gurgling from his lips as Crush looked down at him. Gail pushed him aside and bent over the wounded man.
"Call 911," she said to Crush as she pressed down on the man's wounded chest. "You're going to be all right," she lied.
"He shot me," the man wheezed.
"Don't think about that," said Gail. "Think about why you want to live."
He shook his head. "They'll win. They always win."
Crush was on the phone with the 911 dispatcher, giving them as little information as he could. He glanced back at the dying man and recognized him. When he got off the phone he went back to the booth and spoke to him. "Will? Is that you?"
The man turned his head to look at Crush. "Yes, I'm Will," he said. "And I'm a Targeted Individual." Those were the same words he'd used when he'd led the Targeted Individual support group in South Pasadena. "Do you have anything you'd like to share?"
"Who sent you? Why did you come here?"
"Crush!" Gail said, reprovingly. "You don't have to answer Will. Just rest."
"I have to fight them," Will gasped. "The Overlords. Emil. The Zerbes. They've killed so many. They'll kill more."
"Who did they kill?" Crush asked.
"Victor," Will said. "And Renee. And the seventy-six thousand. Who knows how many more...and me. They killed me."
"Who killed you?"
"K.C. Zerbe. It runs in the blood. From the Templars through the Masons to the Nazis. They are the Overlords."
Crush watched him for a few moments. Then he took Gail by the arm. "Come on." She yanked her arm away and kept applying pressure to the wound. "Look, we have to go," Crush said.
"We can't leave him."
"The paramedics are on their way. He'll be taken care of. We have to catch up with Zerbe. He's in that truck."
"You go then."
"Gail, he's dead."
Gail lifted her hands from his chest and looked at his staring eyes. "The poor man."
"If Zerbe killed him, it must have been in self-defense. This is one of the kidnappers. Did you see that truck? Did you notice the cracked windshield? That's the truck they were driving when they tried to nab Noel. That's the same truck that delivered the bomb. They are crazy people. Some kind of cult."
"The poor man," Gail repeated.
"Come on." Crush pulled Gail's arm, and this time she let him lead her away. They got in the Buick, and Crush tore down the road.
"What was Will's last name?" Gail asked.
"I don't know."
"We were the last people he saw on earth and we don't even know his last name."
"Yeah, well, if it makes you feel any better, I don't think he even knew we were there," Crush said. "He probably thought he was talking to his crazy friends. His last words were about Nazis, remember. Renee talked about Nazis, too. Why does everybody get all 'Nazi' when they go crazy?"
"What a horrible way to die. A person's last moments should be peaceful."
"They rarely are, Catherine."
Gail looked over at him. He didn't use her first name often. Just like she didn't use his. "That's very sad, Caleb."
"Take it up with God. That's the way he made the world."
Then they saw it. Parked by the side of a Dairy Queen. The UPS truck. Crush pulled up next to it.
"What are you going to do?" Gail asked.
"I'm gonna go in and get a Blizzard. What do you want?"
"What if the bad guys are in there?"
"Then I'll get two Blizzards."
They walked into the air-conditioned climate of a fast-food paradise. They saw him at a table in the back, in his Captain America T-shirt and sweatpants, dabbing his bloody fingers with napkins.
Zerbe looked up at them in surprise. "Crush. Gail. So it _was_ you in the Buick. I thought about that after I pulled out. Listen, do you have any money? For a burger or something? I'm starving."
Gail sat down in the plastic chair next to him. "Are you all right?"
"I don't know," Zerbe said, thinking it over. "I don't think so. But I'm better than I could be."
"What do you want to eat?" Crush asked.
"One of everything. No, two. Two of everything. And some ketchup."
So Crush got him a bacon-cheeseburger and a chocolate shake, and Zerbe ate it without pausing to take a breath. When he was finished he held his head in his hands, belched, and said, "I think I'm gonna be sick."
"You want another round?" Crush asked.
"Yes."
"Shouldn't we be going?" Gail asked. "Won't they be looking for you?"
"Who?" Zerbe asked.
"The police. Didn't you just shoot a man?"
"Oh, yeah. I did do that," Zerbe said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "But I didn't mean to. It just sort of happened. You know how things happen."
"I know," said Crush. "I'll get you another burger and we'll go. You can tell me what happened on the way."
"Are we going back to the loft?"
"We'll see," Crush said.
"Do you want to go back there?" Gail asked him.
"I do," Zerbe said. "Very much." He closed his eyes and started to cry.
A few minutes later, Crush was driving the Buick back toward Pasadena, while Gail sat in back with Zerbe and put bandages on his damaged hands, using a little first-aid kit Crush kept in the glove compartment. Crush was on the phone with Angela, telling her that they'd found Zerbe.
"Is he all right?" Angela asked.
"He's fine. A little shook up is all." He didn't tell her about the guy Zerbe had shot. What she didn't know.... "I'm bringing him back to the loft."
"Fine," she said. "I'll let everyone know. They'll be so relieved."
"Some of them will be," Crush said, ending the call, tossing his phone into the passenger seat, and rubbing his head.
When she saw him do that, Gail remembered she really shouldn't have let him drive. "How's your head, Crush?"
"Fine," he said. "How's yours?"
"Did you hurt your head?" Zerbe asked.
"A little."
"How?"
"In a car accident," Gail said. "He was chasing that truck. The one you stole back there. After it delivered a bomb to your house."
"A bomb?" Zerbe asked.
"But it was only a fake bomb," Crush said, brushing it off. "A reminder. To goose your father into doing what they want."
"Right," said Zerbe.
"Do you know what they want him to do?" Crush asked.
Zerbe nodded. "The kidnapper talked to me for a little while. I didn't want him to. I couldn't see his face and he used that stupid voice distorter. He said they want my father to stop building the train."
"Who are 'they'?" Crush asked. "A group? An organization?"
"I don't know. He didn't say."
Crush shook his head. That was not a good idea; his world started to spin around him. He gripped the wheel to stop from seeing double and got back to the point. "I don't get it," he said. "All this just to stop the construction of a damn train? Why?"
"He talked to me," Zerbe continued. "I tried not to listen, but he kept talking. He said Victor knew. And Renee found out after that."
Crush drove in silence for a moment. "Is that why they killed her?"
" _They_ didn't kill her," Zerbe said. " _They_ want to avenge her. And Victor."
"So Victor was murdered, too?" Crush asked.
"Yes. At least that's what he said."
"Then who killed them?" Crush asked.
Zerbe hesitated. "He said it was my father. I didn't believe him."
"Of course," Gail said. "Your father would never do anything like that."
"No, I could totally see him doing it. It was just the reason he gave. My father's motivation."
"Let me guess," Crush said. "Nazis."
"How did you know?"
"It's been going around."
"He said my father doesn't want it to come out that he worked for the Nazis. That doesn't make any sense. My father was born in 1947. Germany surrendered in 1945. Unless he was a time traveler, my father couldn't have been a Nazi."
_Unless he was a time traveler_ , Crush thought. _Unless...._
"We have to go to Irwindale," Noel said, standing in the front parlor of the Zerbe mansion.
"Why?" Donleavy wanted to know.
"We have to go to Irwindale," Noel repeated. "To ride in the float. In the Rose Parade tomorrow."
Emil, who was sitting by the fireplace in his wheelchair doing a jigsaw puzzle with Angela and Samantha, growled, "Your float is magnificent, but I'm not climbing onto it and waving at the crowd like a king or a goddamned queen. I'm not going to let people see me like this."
"But it's your triumph, Dad," Noel said. "You finally succeeded in pushing the bullet train through. Revel in it."
"Zerbes don't revel," Emil grumbled.
"Well, I have to go anyway. To put the finishing touches on the float. I'll be driving it tomorrow."
"No, you won't," Donleavy said. "Have somebody else drive it. Your father's perfectly right to stay off it. It's not secure. Have Kagan here drive it." She pointed to one of her men. Kagan looked startled.
Noel made a sour face. "You can't just put anyone behind the wheel of a float. It's not like a Honda. It requires experience. I know that float. I designed it. I built it."
"It's not secure," Donleavy reiterated. "Cancel it if you have to. It's only a float in a parade."
Noel stared at Donleavy as if she had just said there was no Santa Claus. Noel turned to his father. "Did you hear what this woman said?"
"I heard," Emil said. "And you're going. The float is too important. I'm not going to let these pranks scare us."
Donleavy grimaced in frustration. "Pranks? Then what did you hire me for?"
"As a bodyguard," Emil said. "To guard our bodies. Not to keep us locked away in the house. I could have done that. Do your damn job, Donleavy."
"All right," Donleavy said, "but we're going in my car."
"That hearse?" Noel objected.
"It's a Chevy Suburban with protective armor and bulletproof glass. The kind they use in presidential motorcades."
"It still looks like a hearse," Noel said, sulking. "I want to take my Tesla."
"You'll go in the Suburban and you'll like it," Emil said.
Noel grumbled but agreed. Then Samantha spoke up. She didn't often speak, but when she did, the family listened. "Angela, why don't you go with him?"
"Why?" she asked.
"To make your brother listen to Ms. Donleavy. And not do anything foolish."
Angela sighed. "Maybe I can make him listen to Donleavy. But I don't know if I can stop him from being a fool. It's in his DNA."
"We share the same genetic makeup," Noel said. "So if you're calling me a fool, you're calling yourself one, too."
"I believe the phrase is, 'I'm rubber; you're glue.'" Angela said.
Emil Zerbe shook his gray head and muttered, "What did I do to deserve this?"
Samantha stared at him. "You tell me."
The sun was setting as Crush drove down Lake Avenue through Pasadena. They were taking a detour on their way home, because Zerbe asked to stop at Pie 'n Burger. It wasn't that he was particularly hungry, not after that orgy of food at the Dairy Queen. It was just that he realized he was going back to be trapped in his loft-prison and he hadn't been able to enjoy his involuntary freedom. He thought he owed himself at least one carefree excursion while he was in the outside world.
Crush parked on California Boulevard, and they walked up to the tiny hamburger joint. He could smell grease from the griddle that had been there since the place opened in 1963.
"Take a breath!" Zerbe said, loving it. "Can't you just feel your arteries hardening?"
"I'll have a salad," said Gail, not sharing his enthusiasm for the joint.
"You're really not entering into the spirit of this place," Zerbe said, sliding into a greasy booth. "I'll have the pie. With extra ice cream."
"Do you know what all that sugar does to your body?" Gail asked, wiping the table clean with a threadbare napkin.
"Hey, I just had a gun pointed at me," Zerbe said. "I was kidnapped and tied up in a van, and I killed a guy. I can take whatever sugar can throw at me."
They ate. Crush had a burger, fries, and an iced tea. Zerbe had peach pie with vanilla ice cream and also a piece of chocolate cake. Gail had a tossed green salad. She tried not to feel superior, but it wasn't easy.
While they ate, Crush kept flipping through his phone. This wasn't like him at all. He used his phone only when absolutely necessary.
"Whatcha looking for?" asked Zerbe.
"An address. I'm trying to find somebody." He put the phone away. "I found her."
"I'll bite," Zerbe said. "Who are you looking for?"
"Renee's mother," Crush said.
Zerbe paused, a spoonful of ice cream just inches from his mouth. "Why?"
Crush dipped a french fry into the pool of ketchup on his plate. "This whole thing goes back to New Year's Day, 2001. The day your uncle committed suicide in that damn parade."
"And you think she'll be able to tell you...what?" Gail asked.
"Why he did it. Or _if_ he did it," Crush said.
"I don't think..." Zerbe tried to think of a tactful way of saying it. "I don't think she'd want to talk to you."
"Why not?" Crush asked.
"She might still blame you. For..." Zerbe left the rest unsaid.
Crush thought this over. "Okay. But she'll talk to you. You're family. She lives in San Marino. Just about a mile from here. We have to go."
"Now?" Zerbe asked.
"Yes. I don't think this thing is over. I think your kidnapping was just the beginning. I think you were supposed to be killed. I think others are going to die."
"My family?"
"I don't know. But I'll tell you this much...the Targeted Individuals are fighting back."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On the last day of January 2001, not long after Renee's disappearance, Crush waited in a bookstore for Angela Zerbe to meet him. The place stank of incense. The rainbows from a hundred dangling crystals danced over the spines of books about yoga, alien abduction, Bigfoot, the secrets of the Knights Templar, and the lost cities of Lemuria, Ur, and Atlantis.
Crush had called Angela and asked to see her, but why she had suggested that they meet here, at Alexandria II, the New Age shop on Lake Avenue in Pasadena, he couldn't imagine. It had been weeks since they'd seen each other. Since he and his mother had found themselves locked out of the house on San Rafael and had to start their lives over again. Although those weeks had been long ones for Crush and, he supposed, for Angela, he couldn't imagine that they had been long enough for her to find religion. To go from ridiculing her brother Noel's mystic faith in demons and witchcraft to embracing it.
Still, Crush had learned the hard way in his seventeen years that you could never tell what people would do. The most abstinent people would turn into drunks. The most peaceful would turn violent. The most well balanced would go howling-at-the-moon insane. The most sensible would look for a faith. Crush had even found himself in churches occasionally this month. He couldn't explain it. It just happened.
"Hello, big guy," a voice said from behind the Cryptozoology section. He turned around and was surprised to see Evan Gibbard standing there.
Angela came out from behind him. "Hi, Caleb."
"Hey," he said. Crush had not expected Evan to be with her. He hadn't liked Evan before he ran out on them that night at the dam, and he had absolutely no use for him now. "What's he doing here?" he asked Angela.
"Well, you wanted to meet me," Angela said. "I haven't got a driver's license yet and I needed a ride. So take it or leave it."
Crush decided he'd take it. "You going to drive us there?" he asked Evan.
"Sure," Evan said. "Anything for Angie."
Crush knew that Angela hated being called Angie. Evan had a way of doing the things you hated.
They went out and got into Evan's new BMW and drove into San Marino. To Renee Zerbe's house.
Crush had never been there. He had never seen Renee's mother, except for one glimpse when she picked Renee up at school for a doctor's appointment. The world of teenagers was surprisingly parent-free.
He hadn't even known her name. He'd had to look it up to learn that it was Valerie. Crush thought it was a nice name. Valerie had no other children and, of course, no husband now. She was alone in the world.
Crush wanted her to know that he was not the reason.
His mother tried to talk him out of going there. She said it would do no earthly good for her to see him. It would only cause her pain, and it wouldn't give Crush what he was seeking. And what was he seeking anyway? Absolution? Forgiveness? That implied a sense of guilt. No, Crush wanted to be seen as innocent in the eyes of at least this one person. This one person for whom Renee's death mattered most.
So he called up Angela and K.C. Zerbe and asked them to go with him to Valerie's house. K.C. said he was crazy to want to go. He wanted no part of it. Angela said sure, she'd go. Angela was always good for an adventure.
Only she hadn't said she'd bring Evan. Crush didn't like having him with them. They should have left Evan at the bookstore and gone to see Valerie together in Crush's "new" (stolen) Mustang. But when Crush suggested that, the two of them just laughed as if he were joking and got in the Beemer. Okay, Crush could be flexible. It wasn't as if this was a date with Angela.
As Evan drove them into San Marino, land of large estates and open, manicured lawns, Crush rehearsed what he would say to Valerie Zerbe. He hadn't gotten much past "Mrs. Zerbe, I'm so sorry and I didn't kill your daughter" when they pulled up in front of the massive Craftsman-style "bungalow" that was Victor and Valerie Zerbe's home.
An elegant Greene & Greene creation, the house was a stop on many architectural tours of the city, but Crush didn't know that at the time. He just walked up to the front door, dreading this encounter more with each step.
Angela had called to say that she was coming, but she hadn't mentioned whom she'd be bringing along. "It's not too late to back out," she said to Crush, sensing his dismay. "You can go off with Evan, and I'll pay my visit."
Crush shook his head. He had to do this. And he just now realized why. He did have to ask Renee's mother for forgiveness. Not for killing her, but for not saving her. For not finding her that night in the rain. For letting her go into the darkness and disappear.
Angela walked up to the broad, carved wooden door and pressed the doorbell, which chimed majestically throughout the house. They waited a few minutes.
"I hope she answers soon," Evan said. "I gotta take a whiz like a racehorse, you know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean," Angela said. "You just said what you mean."
Still there was no answer. Evan knocked, and when he did, the door swung open.
The three of them peered into the dark house. It was dark, even though it was midday, because Craftsman-style houses had been designed to keep the inhabitants in the comfortable dimness of midnight at all hours.
Angela called out. "Aunt Valerie?"
There was no answer.
The three of them exchanged a look. "You called, right?" Crush asked. "You said you were coming over?"
Angela nodded. Then she said. "We should go."
"Fuck that," Evan said. "I have to pee. Where's the bathroom?" He walked into the foyer and started opening doors until he found the guest bathroom. While he went in to do his business, Angela and Crush walked to the bottom of the broad staircase, uneasy at trespassing in this house of mourning.
Angela cocked her head "Do you hear that? It sounds like running water."
Crush shrugged. "Well, Evan said...."
"No. It's coming from upstairs." She walked up the steps to the second floor. "Aunt Valerie? Are you there? I just came in because the front door was open...."
The door to the master bedroom was open, and Angela poked her head in. The master-bathroom door was ajar as well. The sound of running water was coming from in there. Crush joined Angela in the doorway.
"Aunt Valerie?" she called out.
The only answer was that rush of water. Crush craned his neck to look inside. He grabbed Angela's arm. There was a pool of water spreading on the bedroom floor.
Angela was about to ask what to do when Crush sprinted for the bathroom. Angela hurried to catch up, and by the time she made it to the door, he was already hauling Aunt Valerie out of the water. The tub was littered with empty prescription bottles that bobbed about like lanterns in a Chinese New Year celebration. Valerie's head was limp. Her eyes were open but drifting vaguely.
Crush carried Valerie's naked, dripping body from the tub and across the room. "Call the paramedics." He sat her down on the toilet and started slapping her face. "Valerie! Wake up!"
Valerie smiled at him and laughed, mumbled something in French, and slipped off the toilet and onto the floor.
"What's going on?" Evan asked from the doorway.
"She tried to kill herself," Angela said. "Call 911."
"No shit?"
"Yes, shit," Crush said. "Do it. Now."
"All right, I'm doing it, you don't have to yell," Evan said, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket and stepping out into the bedroom.
Crush sat Valerie up against the clothes hamper. She seemed awake but not conscious of what was going on around her.
"Caleb," Angela said. "You have to go."
"What?"
"It won't seem right. You being here. It'll seem suspicious."
Crush thought for moment. "No. I have to see if she's all right."
"She's all right. They'll be here in a minute. Go."
Crush stood up, uncertain.
Evan walked back in. "Okay. I called. You happy?"
"Not even a little bit," Crush said.
In the end, Crush left the house but he stayed across the street, watching to make sure Valerie was alive when she was taken out to the ambulance. Then he sighed with relief and started the long walk back to Lake Avenue.
As he was walking, he tried to make himself think about why Marcus Aurelius would let his obviously corrupt son Commodus take over the Roman Empire, but it was no use. He was only able to replay the events of the past two months in an endless loop.
A horn honked behind him and he jerked around. Evan's BMW cruised up, and Angela opened the rear door. "Want a lift?" she asked.
He got in and Evan took him to Alexandria II. Evan was surprised when Angela wanted to be dropped off with Crush. He drove off in a huff.
Angela and Crush had lunch at Burger Continental and talked over the events of the day. Then they went back to the apartment Crush shared with his mother in Glendale. His mother was out looking for work, so they had the place to themselves.
They made out. Then they did more than make out. Then Crush drove Angela home, and he didn't see her again until Zerbe's trial three years ago.
Hence that elephant in that particular room.
Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Bad Moon Rising" was booming through the speakers in Donleavy's Suburban. "Could you turn the radio to another station?" Angela asked.
"It's not the radio," Donleavy said. "It's my playlist. On my phone."
"Could you switch to another playlist?"
"It's only got one playlist. CCR. All day, all the time."
"Could we turn it off?"
Donleavy gave Angela a sidelong glace. "You ride in my car, you listen to John Fogerty."
"I thought this was the kind of car they used in presidential motorcades? If I was the president, you'd turn it off for me."
"If you were the president, you'd know that this music is a national treasure."
"Stop arguing," Noel said from the back seat. "You're interfering with my train of thought."
"What are you thinking about?" Donleavy asked.
"Those pits," Noel said, looking out the window of the moving car. In the dwindling twilight, the massive, empty gravel pits of Irwindale loomed around them, a hundred feet deep in places, looking like craters on the moon. "They're reminders of what it takes to build a city," Noel said. "Sand and gravel from those pits is what built the roads and freeways throughout LA. Every street and subdivision in Los Angeles County has a little bit of Irwindale in it."
"On second thought," Angela said, "turn the volume up so I can't hear Noel's inner monologue."
Instead of laughing at this quip, Donleavy took a quick breath and swung the steering wheel far to the right, but not quickly enough to avoid the impact from the SUV that came upon them suddenly, going the wrong way down the 605.
The crash sent the Suburban spinning, but Donleavy was a good wheelman and just about had things under control when another car hit them from behind, sending them off the road and careening into the depths of one of Irwindale's craters.
The paint on the Greene & Greene house was peeling. Ivy was growing over it, and one of the windows was boarded up. It looked like it was decorated for Halloween, but it was late December, and the neighboring houses still had their Christmas lights up.
"It doesn't look very inviting," Zerbe said.
"When was the last time you saw your Aunt Valerie?" Crush asked.
"I haven't been to many Thanksgiving dinners for the past few years, what with the prison sentence and all," Zerbe said. "I think I saw her about ten years ago."
"How did she seem?"
"Who's that crazy lady from that Charles Dickens book? Miss Havisham?"
"I never read it," Crush said.
"She was like that," Zerbe said.
Gail pressed the doorbell, and the same majestic chime sounded. Crush felt déjà vu, but this time the door opened and a careworn face greeted them with a wary stare. "Yes?"
Crush pushed Zerbe to the front of their little group and nudged him. "Hello, Aunt Valerie," Zerbe said, with a stupid grin.
Her face relaxed and she grinned. Her grin was prettier. "Noel, how are you?" she said, in a slight and very lovely French accent.
Zerbe's grin turned into a grimace as he thought this through. On the one hand, he never liked to be mistaken for his twin brother. On the other hand, he was supposed to be in a loft on Wilshire Boulevard, and if anybody knew he was out wandering around on his own, he might get sent back to prison. "I'm fine," he said, deciding to go with it. "I just wanted to wish you a happy holiday."
"Well, that's very nice. Who are your friends?"
"This is Catherine Gail and Caleb Rush."
Valerie didn't seem to be listening, but she invited them in anyway. She said she didn't have much to offer them but coffee and a little Bundt cake. They said that would be just fine.
They sat in the front parlor. The curtains were drawn, so the room was dark and felt oddly moist. The furniture was musty, and Crush could see actual cobwebs in the ceiling corners. Valerie was dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, despite the fact that it was 6 p.m.
"I can't remember the last time I had visitors," she said with a laugh. It was a surprisingly cheerful laugh considering the circumstances. Valerie finished pouring them all coffee in Fiestaware mugs and sat down on the edge of the sofa. The group fell into awkward silence.
Gail raised her mug in a toast. "Well, happy New Year." When she saw Valerie's face fall, Gail realized she'd committed a terrible faux pas.
"Yes," Valerie said, with a catch in her throat. "Happy New Year."
"I'm sorry, Aunt Valerie," Zerbe said. "She didn't know."
Valerie waved her hand. "It's all right. I forget that not everyone knows. I forget that it was so long ago." She choked back a sob.
"I'm sorry," Gail said, stricken.
"My husband died on New Year's, you see. Was it really so long ago? What year are we getting to?"
"I remember," Crush said. "I was there."
Valerie looked at Crush, trying to place him. "You were the boy. The one in the float."
"Yes," Crush said.
"And the one they arrested for killing my daughter."
"Yes. But I didn't do that."
She smiled a little. "I know." Then she looked at him more closely. "And the one who found me. In the tub. Was that you, too?"
"Yes."
She sat back on the sofa. "You do get around."
"I'm sorry."
"What for?"
"For not...finding her."
Valerie shook her head. "She didn't want to be found." Then she sipped her coffee. "I suppose I should thank you for saving my life." She glanced away, thoughtfully. "I suppose...."
Crush didn't want to push her, but he had to. "Do you know why he did it?"
She looked back at him. "Why Victor killed himself? Yes, I know. It was the same reason Renee ran away."
Gail spoke up. "Do you think Renee is still alive?"
"After all these years?" Valerie asked. "I don't know. I hope so."
"But you haven't heard from her?" Gail asked.
"No," Valerie said. "Not one word."
"Why?" Crush asked. "Why did they do it? Why did Victor kill himself? Why did Renee disappear?"
She shut her eyes. "It's the damn bullet train. Victor was researching the SGCF. You know, the Société Générale des Chemins de Fer Français. The French railroad. We were key shareholders, and he was hoping to bolster the company's reputation and help us get the high-speed rail through."
She paused and opened her eyes. "Do you believe that the sins of the father can be visited upon his children?"
Crush thought of his own father and of Brighton Beach. "I hope not."
"That's not an answer." She shut her eyes again and leaned back. "Victor and Emil's father was Anton Zerbe. He ran the French railroad system during the war. You know which war is the war, don't you?"
"World War II?" offered Zerbe.
"I only heard stories about it, of course. How the Germans came and everything changed. How our family had to...get along. How the Vichy government was formed. To hear it now, you'd think everyone was in the resistance. That everyone wore berets and planted bombs and waited for de Gaulle to come in and save the day. But it wasn't that way. They had to...compromise.
"Victor had known that, of course. He'd known his father wasn't a hero. He knew that the railroad was seized by the Nazis and put to use to transport Jews throughout France to the concentration camps. Seventy-six thousand French Jews. In stifling cattle cars with little food or water. All but two thousand were killed.
"Victor had known that, as I said, and it had always troubled him. That his father had been so weak, so terrified of the Germans, that he allowed that to be done on his watch, as it were."
She swallowed. "But in his research, he found documents that proved that his father...that Anton Zerbe had not been an unwilling accomplice in genocide. He discovered that Anton was in charge of the evacuations. That he'd been an eager engineer in this massive commute of innocent men, women, and children to the death camps. That he'd been well paid for it. In the beginning of the war he had been well off; by the time it was over, he was a rich man.
"Their family...my family...all our wealth had been built on the corpses of fellow Frenchmen. Victor couldn't handle it. He told me. He told Renee. He wanted everyone to know, and he couldn't bear the thought of people finding out. He went to his brother, Emil." She looked toward Zerbe. "Your father. He told him. He asked him what they should do. They couldn't keep the money, he said. It was blood money. It stank of death.
"Do you know what Emil said? He said, _'Pecunia non olet.'_ That's Latin. It's a quote from Emperor Vespasian. When his son complained that taxing urine was unseemly, he said, 'Money doesn't stink.' That's what Emil said. 'Money doesn't stink.'"
She shut her eyes again. "So my husband took a gun with him and blew his brains out in the middle of the Rose Parade. I suppose he thought he was making a statement. Then my daughter ran away one rainy night and started her life over again with a new name and a new history. I hope."
Opening her eyes, she sat forward and stared at Crush. "And I tried to kill myself, but a big man pulled me out of the water, slapped my face, and told me to live. So I've lived."
They sat in silence for a while.
"Do you want more coffee?" she asked.
They said they didn't, and got up to leave. She led them to the door and as he was walking out, Crush turned to her. "That day, when I pulled you out of the tub, you said something to me. In French. I've always wondered what you said."
Valerie gave him a sad smile. "I called you my _ange gardien_. My guardian angel," she said as she shut the door.
Gail drove them back to LA. Crush was too tired to argue when Gail insisted that she take the wheel.
"How 'bout that," Zerbe said. "It _was_ about the Nazis."
"And how do you feel about that?" Gail asked.
"What do you mean? How do I feel about the fact that my grandfather was a Nazi collaborator? Well, I don't feel great. But I never knew him, and the family disinherited me years ago. So I guess I'm clean. I guess."
"It still doesn't tell us who's behind this," Crush said.
"In books and movies," Zerbe said, "it's always the person you least suspect."
They drove in silence for a while.
"Renee." Gail said her name.
"Renee?" Crush asked.
"Well, we're all thinking it, aren't we?" Gail said. "She has a motive. And it would explain why she disguised her voice for Zerbe and all of you. She knew you'd recognize it the moment you heard it."
Crush's head really hurt. "But why now? Why wait till now to...take her revenge. And what does she have to do with the Targeted Individuals?"
Gail pressed on. "She's got reason to be paranoid, doesn't she? The Nazis were actual, real Overlords trying to take over the fucking world. And as far as 'Why now?' Well, I don't have an answer for that one. Except...why not now?"
Crush's phone rang. He was thankful for the interruption, and pulled his iPhone from his pocket. The readout said, "Unknown."
"Fuck," said Crush. He answered.
"Hello, Caleb," said the Miley Cyrus voice. "Recognize them?"
On the screen he saw three figures tied to chairs in a dark room, gagged with duct tape. Noel, Angela, and Donleavy.
"We need to talk," the Miley voice said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mick Kagan, Donleavy's right-hand man, stood at attention on the front steps of the Zerbe castle and watched as the Buick came to a halt and Crush got out. Crush had always liked Kagan. He was a fellow Marine, a few years younger than Crush and with a full head of blond hair. Crush didn't hold either of those things against him.
Zerbe, Gail, and Crush came running up the steps. Kagan stopped Zerbe. "Noel," he said. "I thought you were going to Irwindale. Where's Donleavy?"
"That isn't Noel," Crush said. "There's no time to explain. We have to see Emil."
Mick led them to Emil's bedroom, where they found him sitting up in bed watching _Jeopardy_ with Samantha. "What is it now?" he snarled.
"Hi, Dad," Zerbe said.
Emil looked at his son with his one good eye. He was a good enough father that he could tell his twins apart. "K.C. I thought you were being held prisoner."
"I escaped."
"See?" Emil said. "I told you they were bluffing."
"I had to kill somebody," Zerbe said. "It was pretty awful."
"Still, you're okay. End of story."
"Not quite," Crush said. He looked over at Kagan. He thought of telling him to leave but figured, the hell with it. "They have Noel and Angela."
Emil looked stricken. "Angela? What do you mean?"
"They have them Dad. It's not good," Zerbe said.
"Donleavy, too," Crush added, because he thought it should be said.
"I don't believe it," Emil said.
Crush showed him the picture on his phone. The three of them tied up in a dark, cavernous place.
"Let me see that," Kagan said, reaching for the phone.
"The kidnapper made new demands," Crush said. "That you should discontinue the bullet train or he'll kill them all."
"Oh, please," Emil scoffed. "He didn't kill Kendrick, did he?"
"I had to kill somebody to escape," Zerbe said. "Did I mention that?"
"He also said that he'll release the facts, Emil," Crush went on. "You know what facts he means, don't you?"
Emil glared at him with his one glittering eye. "Ancient history. No one cares about that."
"Someone does," Crush said. "Someone wants to destroy you."
"Let them try."
Zerbe sat on the edge of the bed. "Dad, look at my face. They beat me up. They beat me so you could see that they were serious. They are serious."
Emil looked at his son's battered face. His twisted face seemed to soften. "How many of them are there?"
"We don't know," Crush said. "Enough."
Emil touched Zerbe's swollen eye. "I'm sorry, son. But you do know this isn't my fault. I had nothing to do with it. I shouldn't have to pay."
"I know that, Dad," Zerbe said. "But they don't. They have Angela and Noel. And they're crazy, Dad. Flat-out crazy."
Emil looked away. "I've been trying to get the HSR built for thirty years. It is my life's work. I can't just let it go!"
"You shouldn't," Kagan spoke up. "You shouldn't negotiate."
"Then what should he do?" Crush asked.
"Go to the authorities. Let them handle it."
"The minute you do that, they'll kill the hostages," Crush said.
"Then what do you suggest I do?" Emil asked.
"Give in," Crush said. "Give them what they want. It's the only way."
Emil looked blankly ahead of him. "I wish I'd died when I had that stroke. Then I wouldn't have had to live to see this day." He gathered himself up. "All right. They win. How do I give them the message?"
Crush glanced at Zerbe. "That's the hard part."
They spent the rest of the night preparing. The next morning, at 7:48 a.m. on January 1st, Emil and Samantha Zerbe sat in the high throne on the very top of the massive floral train that was the California High-Speed Rail—The Future Is Now—Zerbe Enterprises float. Far below, Crush and Zerbe sat inside the massive float, encased in polyurethane and hundreds of flowers, staring down at the pink line on the pavement at their feet. In twelve minutes six F-16s would soar overhead, signaling the start of this year's Tournament of Roses Parade.
Getting Crush behind the wheel—well, behind the driving levers, to be exact—hadn't been the plan. Noel was supposed to do the driving, but Zerbe was posing as Noel now, and he didn't know the first thing about driving a float. So Kagan informed the White Suits in charge that Tigon Security was putting a man inside the float with Noel. To ride shotgun, as it were. When the hatch was closed, Crush and Zerbe performed the difficult maneuver of switching places so Crush could get his hands on the controls.
Actually, Crush had no experience driving a float either, but he'd at least ridden in one. What's more, he'd driven most every kind of vehicle known to man. He felt sure he could handle it. With a little practice anyway.
It had taken hours to get the huge float towed into position. Now it stood in line, its streamlined Art Deco locomotive seeming to fly off into the air, with all the other floats and marching bands and equestrian groups waiting on Orange Grove Boulevard for the parade to begin.
Emil Zerbe, in position on top of the float with Samantha by his side, twenty feet in the air, looked like the engineer of a fantastic, futuristic, organic train. He seemed as glum and grim as ever. They were just behind the Lakers float and just in front of the Singapore Airlines one. Emil had hoped for a better position.
The instructions from the kidnapper were simple. Emil and Samantha were to ride on the float. They were to follow the parade to the intersection of Colorado Boulevard and Fair Oaks. Then the float was to make an unscheduled stop. To freeze the parade in place, for all the world to see. To make the entire nation see that the float representing the high-speed rail from Los Angeles to San Francisco was stopping dead in its tracks. To announce to the world that the bullet train was dead.
While they were stopped, Emil was supposed to take the microphone and speak to the crowd. To tell them that the HSR was dead and buried. And to tell them why. To tell them about his father's Nazi collaboration. To tell them about his blood money. Only then would Angela, Noel, and Donleavy be released.
Or so "Miley Cyrus" had said. It seemed to Crush like kind of a theatrical way of doing things, but then this whole business hadn't been exactly subtle from the get-go.
A roar and a sonic boom from above told Crush that the flyby was happening and the parade was about to begin. He adjusted his earpiece and peered through the tiny peephole that provided his only view of the outside world. He waited for the cue to start rolling.
"Do you think she'll keep her word?" Zerbe asked.
"She?" Crush asked.
"Renee."
"You really think it's her?"
"If it isn't, it's somebody doing it in her name," Zerbe said.
Crush was about to respond when Gail's voice came over his earbud. "I think it's time." She was posted on the top floor of the Wood & Jones building on Colorado, with a somewhat obstructed view of the first third of the parade route, from the Norton Simon Museum to Fair Oaks and beyond.
Through the peephole, he saw the Lakers float begin to move. Zerbe turned a switch and some inspirational, quasi-classical music came blaring out of massive speakers that were hidden in the float's framework. At the same time, Crush put the engine in gear and pressed the lever that made it go forward. It was a fairly simple mechanism. Forward with the right hand. Brake with the left. There was no reverse. Floats didn't go backward in the Rose Parade.
He crept up Orange Grove and made the turn onto Colorado, using the pink line in the road as a guide to keep himself in the middle of the broad boulevard.
Colorado was the main thoroughfare in Old Pasadena. A four-lane street of storefronts from the turn of the last century, it looked just like it did in photographs and postcards from the 1910s. The buildings were two or three stories high, with shops on the street and offices on the upper levels. The best people lined the windows of those upper stories, so they could watch the parade without having to mix with the hoi polloi who lined the streets in sleeping bags and tents, eager to watch the passing spectacle.
"Who else could be behind this?" Zerbe asked. "Aunt Valerie?"
Crush grunted. "She doesn't seem the type."
"Who else?" Zerbe insisted on drawing Crush into the conversation. "Could it be an inside job?"
"Who are you thinking about?" Crush said. "Noel? Angela? Samantha? Why? Evan Gibbard? He hardly seems like an avenging angel. Personally, I think the Targeted Individuals group finally found a real enemy."
"How about my father?" Zerbe suggested.
"Your father?"
"Think about it. Maybe Emil's doing it all to himself. Maybe the stroke drove him crazy and his guilt is making him do it."
Crush shook his head. "Emil doesn't feel guilt. And that only leaves you and me. And I'm pretty sure we didn't do it."
Zerbe looked over at Crush. "I don't think you did it. You're too levelheaded. I wouldn't put anything past me though."
They rode without speaking after that. The cheers of the crowd and the syrupy faux-Puccini were all they could hear. Through the peephole Crush kept his eye on the distance between his float and the Lakers float. All he could see was that giant basketball bobbing in front of him. It was as if he were in a spaceship, orbiting around an orange moon.
Gail's voice spoke up in his ear. "You're at the intersection, Crush."
He eased the float to a stop, giving the Singapore Airlines float behind them time to catch on and not cause a ten-float pileup.
On top of the suddenly motionless float, Emil took the microphone and threw the PA switch to another setting, turning off the music. He cleared his throat and struggled to his feet, holding himself up by gripping the railing, crushing the floral decorations with his twisted hands. He stood there and looked out at the crowd.
"Hello," he said. "Sorry to interrupt the festivities, but I have an announcement to make. The California high-speed rail, which we were planning to make a reality, shall unfortunately not come to fruition. The bullet train, in other words, will not be built."
Crush opened the hatch to look up at Emil as he spoke. He was doing an admirable job of killing his life's work.
"You may be wondering why. It has recently come to my attention...." Well, that was a lie, Crush knew. Unless recently meant sometime in this century. But Crush let him have that saving grace.
Letting his eyes sweep the crowd, Crush felt his bodyguard instincts take over. This parade was a soft target if there ever was one. Cops were everywhere, of course, and the street and the floats had been swept for bombs. This year there was even a metal detector that the crowds had to pass through. But there was no way to keep danger totally at bay.
Emil went on. "It has recently come to my attention that the SGCF—the French railroad conglomerate of which I am a major shareholder..." There was a blur and a whistling sound. Emil noticed it but soldiered on. "...was involved in some less-than-savory dealings with the Third Reich during the Second World War."
Another whistling sound. This time Emil looked down at his arm and saw a long wooden stick embedded in it. He stared at it, puzzled. Another one shot through the air and stuck in his leg. He screamed.
Arrows. Someone was shooting arrows at the old man! Crush leapt out of the hatch and climbed up the float. Another arrow flew through the air and struck near Crush's leg, missing him by inches. Samantha, sitting next to Emil, screamed as an arrow pierced her shoulder. She fell over, twisted around, and tried to clamber down from the top of the float. Crush climbed up to her and dragged her down into the relative protection of the hills and valleys of the float's landscape art.
By now, the crowd had figured out what was going on and was yelling and screaming and running. Crush tried to scale back up the float to Emil.
The old man, rather than hiding or protecting himself, was shouting in the direction of the arrows. "Where are you? Show yourself, you coward!" The arrows flew past all around him, barely missing him. Emil must have thought he was invincible.
Then an arrow struck Emil in the chest. He fell back against the railing just as Crush reached him. The railing gave way, and he would have fallen to the street if Crush hadn't grabbed him by the arm. Crush pulled him back up and hoisted him onto the throne again. Crush threw himself on top of him, shielding Emil from any further shots. An arrow hit him on the left forearm as it protected Emil's head. He pushed the pain away and concentrated on his job. Protection.
Crush heard the sound of rushing feet and the panicked crowd. But there were no more arrows. He lifted his bloody arm and looked at Emil. The old man was glaring at him with undiminished anger.
"Fuck it!" he yelled. "I'm gonna build that damn bullet train if it's the last thing I do!"
They rode the elevator in silence. Zerbe was beat. Crush rested his aching head on Gail's shoulder, his left arm wrapped in stiff bandages. He told Gail he was going to the hospital as soon as he delivered Zerbe back home to the loft. Gail didn't believe him.
Angela and Noel and Donleavy were still missing. The man who'd shot the arrows was apprehended, but his name meant nothing to Crush or Zerbe. Emil was in surgery, but the prognosis was hopeful. Samantha was also hospitalized but was just under observation, having suffered the proverbial flesh wound. The Tournament of Roses Parade had never gotten such high television ratings. So there was a silver lining to this, after all.
Opening the loft's door, they were greeted by Frida Morales, who leapt up from the kitchen table, ran to Zerbe, and threw her arms around him. "Thank God, you're all right! I saw what happened on TV! They said it was Noel, but I knew it was you! How did you escape?"
Gail maneuvered around Frida and Zerbe to slump on the sofa. Crush headed straight to the fridge.
"It's a long story," Zerbe said. He glanced at her wrist. She was wearing his ankle monitor like a bracelet. "What's this?"
"Gail called me yesterday and said she had to leave," Frida said. "I came over to walk the monitor. I didn't want you to get caught."
"Thanks. But didn't you have to go to work?"
"I quit my job," she said. "It feels great. That job wasn't right for me."
Zerbe looked at her blankly for a moment, thinking it over. "That means you're not my parole officer anymore."
Frida stepped away from him. "That's right, K.C. We'll have to come up with another reason to see each other twice a month."
Zerbe's mouth opened and closed a couple of times.
Crush, rummaging through the refrigerator, said, "Don't we have any bacon? I wanted to make BLTs. We all need BLTs."
In the end, they borrowed some bacon from a neighbor and Crush made lunch for everyone. They sat around the kitchen table, munching in silence.
"The arrows were wooden," Crush said after he swallowed. "So they could pass through any metal detector. That's clever. And I don't think they even intended to kill Emil. They just wanted to make a statement."
"But if the whole idea was to get the information out there," Zerbe said, "about my grandfather and the Nazis, why shoot him before he said it?"
"I don't know," Crush said. "And why didn't they release Angela and Noel and Donleavy when they said they would? And then not make any more demands? It doesn't make sense."
"Didn't they find out anything from the guy who shot the arrows?" Frida asked. "The archer?"
Crush looked up at that. "Archer. What was that group you used to play bow and arrows with in prep school? The archery group."
"The Roving Archers of Pasadena," Zerbe said. "They were a bunch of real geeks. And, remember, this is _me_ talking. I'm telling you, they were Society-for-Creative-Anachronism-style geeks. Real Renaissance Faire geeks."
"Which one of you practiced with them the most?"
"Noel. And Renee, she was pretty good with a bow." Zerbe stopped. "You don't think..."
"I don't know. But everybody who had something to do with Renee's disappearance—you, Noel, Angela—you've all been targeted."
"And you, Crush," Zerbe said pointing to his arm. "Maybe those arrows were only shot at my father to bring you out into the open. Maybe they were really aiming for you."
"But there were other people there," Gail said, "that night at the Devil's Gate Dam?"
"Yes," Crush said. "Sonny Kraus. He killed himself. PTSD. And Evan Gibbard."
"Is he okay?" Gail asked.
"I don't know."
"Can you call him?"
"He doesn't believe in cell phones." Crush checked the Felix the Cat clock over the stove. It was almost five o'clock. "But I have an appointment with him. In an hour."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It had started to rain. A light, misty shower that the rest of the country wouldn't even notice but Angelenos call a downpour. It had just started to fall when Crush walked the long, narrow wooden pedestrian bridge on Flint Canyon Trail and turned onto Oak Grove Drive, where it ran over the top of Devil's Gate Dam.
The dam curved slightly to the right. It was dark this time of year at six o'clock. A few streetlamps threw pools of light along the path, with splashes of darkness between them. The only other light came from passing headlights from the 210 Freeway, which ran parallel to the dam.
Evan Gibbard sat on the sidewalk in one of the dark patches between streetlights. As the headlights washed over him, he turned to look at Crush, and when the lights moved on, he seemed to vanish. When the next headlights hit him Evan was standing up, leaning against the concrete railing. The illusion that he had suddenly popped into another place, without even moving, gave Crush a chill. He brushed it aside. Evan wasn't a ghost. That much he knew.
Crush walked into the light of a streetlamp and stopped. He let the light work for him.
"Did you come here alone?" Evan asked, though he could clearly see the empty road stretching off behind Crush.
"You said to."
Evan stayed in the darkness. He was invisible one moment, and the next, the headlights showed that he had moved three steps closer.
"Well," Crush said, "where are they?"
Evan stopped. "Who do you mean?"
"Angela. Noel. Donleavy. You know."
Evan stepped into the edge of the light cast by Crush's streetlamp. "What are you talking about?"
"I thought we came here for the truth?" Crush asked. "What's the truth, Evan?"
Evan looked down at the rain falling on the curb. "It's complicated."
"This isn't a Facebook status page. This is real life. This is as real as it gets."
Evan opened his mouth as if to speak. Then shut it again.
"You can talk, Evan. Remember the ley lines. The Overlords can't hear us."
"I know that," Evan snapped. "I'm not afraid of that."
"What are you afraid of?"
Evan looked ahead. "You."
Crush thought that he should be. But he gestured to his bandaged arm. "Why? Look at me."
"Because you were there. You know."
"Because I was where?" Crush spoke softly. So softly that Evan had to take another step toward him.
"Noel doesn't remember," Evan said. "Not really. He's built himself new memories he likes better. K.C. was too afraid to remember anything. And Angela was too drunk. But you...you remember."
Crush shook his head. "I don't remember much."
Evan leveled his eyes at Crush. "I'm glad you lied to me. It makes it easier."
Crush did his best to look confused. "Okay. But really, where are they? Just tell me."
"They're safe," Evan said.
Until that moment, Crush held out hope that Evan was just harmlessly crazy. Now he knew. He was anything but harmless. "Safe?"
"As long as the bullet train doesn't go through."
"But Emil said...."
Evan cut him off. "I don't trust Emil Zerbe. As long as he's alive he might make it happen."
"And after he's dead? Don't you think other people will pick it up?"
Evan smiled. "Maybe. But they'll have their own plans. Their own routes. It'll be all right."
Crush had so many questions running through his head. "So you're going to keep holding them until Emil dies?"
"Which would have been much sooner if you hadn't messed things up," Evan snapped.
"I'm sorry," Crush said. "How did you get the Targeted Individuals to work with you? Why did they do it?"
Evan looked impatient with Crush, as if he was a dull student in an advanced class. "Why did they do it? Because they had to. Emil Zerbe is one of the Overlords. We had to stop him. We had to make a statement."
Crush lost his patience. "Are you really crazy? Or are you just pretending to be crazy so you can use them?"
Evan laughed. "You might ask the same thing about Sonny Kraus. Was he really crazy, or did he just kill himself to make us think he was crazy?"
Crush didn't want to let himself be distracted. "Tell me why you're doing this. Why do you care whether the bullet train is built or not? Is that part of the Overlords' take-over-the-world plan?" He looked out into the darkness. He could feel the soft rain blowing over the Hahamongna Watershed and onto his face. Then it came to him.
" _'The GV is dead. The SG is out of the HSR,'"_ Crush said. "The GV stands for the Grapevine. This route. The one that goes up the Grapevine along the 210. _That's_ what you want to stop, isn't it?" Evan stepped back into the darkness, and Crush knew he'd struck a nerve. "But why?" Crush went on. "Do you really care about that Least Bell's bird?"
"Do you want to know the truth?" Evan asked, half in light, half in shadow.
"That's why I came here."
"But do you _really_ want to know the truth? I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." Evan stepped into the light and Crush saw that he was holding a pistol. A Glock 9mm from the look of it. "Seriously."
"Well, you have to kill me anyway, am I right?"
Evan grinned. "You're right. Move." He gestured with the gun.
"Where?"
He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it down the steep staircase that led to the Devil's Gate. "There."
"Oh, sure," Crush said. "Can I have the flashlight, though? I might break my neck."
Evan considered this. "I'll chance that," he said and gestured for him to move.
Crush walked to the end of the bridge, with Evan moving behind him, training the flashlight on the path. They climbed over the concrete railing and clambered down to the steep staircase that led to the bottom of the Arroyo Seco.
Treading carefully on the cement stairs, hoping the rain didn't get worse, Crush said, "Say, why not tell me now," as if to pass the time. "You can pretend you're at a meeting."
"A meeting?"
"You know," said Crush, "a Targeted Individual meeting. Say it. My name is Evan and I'm...."
"A Targeted Individual," Evan said completing the mantra. "Okay. I want to talk about it, actually. I've kept it in so long. And I know it will be safe to tell you."
_Why would it be safe?_ Crush wondered. "Because we're at a meeting."
"Sure," Evan said, noncommittally. "You see, she wanted to run away. She wanted to start a new life."
"Renee?" Crush asked.
But he just went on as if Crush hadn't said a thing. "She came to us. To Sonny and me. We were good with fake IDs and all that stuff. She thought we could make her a new identity. Like a witness-protection program or something. Well, we didn't know where to start, but we said 'sure.' We thought we'd make some shit up. The first step was to put her in a safe place. A motel room somewhere. Where we'd have her all to ourselves."
_Have her all to ourselves_. Crush felt his stomach churn with rage. But he just said, "Uh-huh. Then what?"
"Well, that was when they were searching everywhere for her. When they arrested you even. It was kind of funny when you think about it, because all this shit was going down and she was safe in a motel room in Alhambra. You know?"
"Sure," Crush said. He remembered that time well. He didn't think it was funny.
"But then...Sonny, he got a little rough with her, I guess. You know how he is. Or was. He got tired of waiting for her to stop crying about her father and the Nazis and show him some appreciation for...you know, for all we were doing for her. She started to chicken out. And when she heard about the trouble you were in, on account of her, she decided she wanted to go home. Sonny got mad. He said she'd better not tell that we were involved. She said she'd tell anybody anything she wanted to. Sonny told her to quiet down. He smacked her. He started to...take advantage of her. She fought him off. She scratched his face. He hit her. Hard. I tried to break them up. To calm her down. I tried, but...."
"But you killed her," Crush said.
"I didn't! It wasn't me! It was...." He stopped himself and took a breath. "It wasn't _either_ of us. It was an accident. It just happened. Something got into our brains. You know? You believe that, don't you?"
Crush could see it all. How they had taken advantage of Renee's mental state to keep her prisoner. To do God-knows-what to her and then to kill her when she got unruly. He felt anger flood every muscle in his body. He wanted to twist around and throw Evan off this steep, treacherous staircase onto the hard dirt below. To rip the bandage from his arm and feel Evan's flesh and bone collapse under his fists.
But not now. He had to know where Evan was leading him. He had to find out where the others were.
"Sure," was all he said.
"After that, what could we do? Really, what could we do? We had to get rid of her. You can see that? We had to get rid of her body."
"And what better place than the place they'd just searched."
"That's right! And where they'd found nothing. The watershed. That's what _I_ said. It was the perfect place to hide her. Nobody will _ever_ look there."
"Unless they dig it up to build a railroad."
Evan's voice dropped. "Yes. Well, we did it. We hid the body. We buried her."
Crush thought of Renee decaying and turning to dust, forgotten and alone, buried somewhere in that windswept plain. His hot anger turned ice cold. And determined.
"Well, after that things started to go wrong with our lives," Evan said.
"After that, huh?"
"Yeah. We went to college but we just couldn't find anything to focus on. We graduated. We joined Blackwater. Sonny did well for them, but he got lost I think.... He liked it too much. You know?"
"I think I know." A killer like Sonny would be right at home with Blackwater.
"And when we got back, he just couldn't fit in, you know? Started doing drugs and shit. I mean, _more_ drugs. It got out of control. He started going to that Targeted Individual group, which I thought was pretty crazy at first. I mean, at first I just went along to take care of _him_. And to make sure he didn't say too much. But after a while, it started to make all the sense in the world. There _were_ evil forces in the world. We'd seen them."
_Yes, you certainly have_ , thought Crush as he descended the rain-splattered stairs.
Evan kept on. "Then we heard about the bullet train. How Emil Zerbe was going to build it. And where. Sonny started to lose it. He got obsessed with the idea that the body would be discovered. He said we should go and find it. Move it to some other place. He went to look for it. But the only thing is, there are no landmarks on that goddamned watershed. Every place looks the same. _So he couldn't find it_. And he kept going back, again and again. Digging up the whole damn place. In broad daylight even. He was going to give us _away_. So I had to..."
"Yeah," Crush agreed, "you had to."
"I made it look like he killed himself. Which wasn't hard. He'd been acting pretty crazy for years. After that, I thought things would calm down. I thought I could take a breath. But then I read that the damn train was definitely going through. It was in the papers, on the news, in the news-feed on my phone. They were going to start digging the place up _next month_. Well, I had to do _something_. I gathered the Irregulars—that's what I called my Targeted Individual friends—and explained to them that Emil Zerbe was one of the Overlords and that his damn bullet train was really a mind-control project. It had to be stopped at all costs."
Crush reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to face Evan. "So this isn't even about the Nazis," Crush said. "Or the Overlords. It's about covering up for a murder." He tried to control his fury, to make his voice sound calm. He didn't do a very good job.
Evan looked offended. "This most certainly _is_ about the Overlords. And the Nazis."
"Then why did you make that guy start shooting at Emil before he finished his confession? Because you were more concerned with killing him than exposing the truth."
"No. That's not true. The murder is a part of it, I admit, but only a part of it. That was just the starting point. That was the way they tried to control us. To control our minds."
"By getting you to kill Renee?"
"Exactly. They got into our heads. But we outsmarted them. We have them on the run now."
"I can see that."
"Where was I? Oh, yes. Next I talked Noel into leading his brother into my trap—to protect K.C. from the Overlords, of course. I thought Emil would agree to stop the train to save K.C. Shows what I know. When that didn't work, I decided to grab Angela and Noel."
"And Donleavy?"
"She was just collateral damage."
"And how did you find the archer?"
"The Targeted Individual Group is full of people with special talents," Evan said. Then he looked at Crush as if he were considering something. "Turn around."
"Why?"
"Just turn around."
"I need to know why. Because, if you're going to shoot me, fine, but if you're going to hit me with that gun butt and try to knock me out, I have to ask you not to. My head just won't take it. I have a concussion."
Evan looked a little uncertain.
"Look," Crush said, "wherever you want to take me, I'll just go there. I'll close my eyes if you don't want to me to see. It's just that if you hit me again, you might kill me, and if you want to kill me you might as well shoot me, you know? It's quicker."
Evan looked frustrated. "I don't want to kill you. Yet."
"Then come on, do me this solid. Let's just pretend you knocked me out and I'll walk where you want. That way you won't have to carry me. I weigh a lot. You wouldn't like it."
Evan gestured with the gun and led them across the floor of the dry riverbed to the Devil's Gate itself. The gate stood open and the dark tunnel was quiet and ominous, just the way Crush remembered it.
"What happened with Will?"
"Oh, that," Evan sounded annoyed. "I told him to go and kill K.C. if he could find him. I never thought K.C. would kill _him_. Just goes to show you, you never know what will happen." Evan walked up to the iron gate and swung it open. "Anyway, the important thing is, I needed to stop that train, once and for all. And I did."
"Once," Crush said. "Not for all. Emil will change his mind."
"I know," Evan said. "That's why we have to prove to him that we mean business." He waved his gun toward the tunnel. "This way."
Crush entered the darkness, feeling a sense of dread and nausea, not only for what he feared he was going to find but for what he had not found so many years before.
Only this time there was a light at the end of tunnel. Or halfway down the tunnel, anyway. A Coleman fluorescent lantern sat on a cardboard table in the middle of the path. It illuminated the bricks of the tunnel and a lone woman standing at attention, holding a pistol awkwardly in her hand. Against the wall were three figures tied to chairs, with bags over their heads.
"What are you doing?" asked the woman. "I thought you were going to—I didn't think you were going to knock him out, but I thought you were going to knock him out?" Crush recognized her at once as Amy from the Targeted Individuals group. The first one he heard testify. Her speech patterns were unmistakable. She waved her gun around like it was a toy. It looked like a Korriphila from Germany. A mean gun.
"It's fine," Evan said. "He came along willingly."
One of the hooded figures sat up. Amy swatted it with her hand. "Down when I say down!" She looked at Evan. "What are we supposed to do with them?"
"Don't worry. I have a plan. Just keep an eye on them. Especially that one." He pointed to the figure that Crush guessed was Donleavy. At least it looked the most like her. The figure reached its hands out in front and Crush could see they were zip-tied together. "I told you to put their hands behind their backs!" Evan snapped.
Amy looked like she was about to lose it. "Hey, I'm only one person! You have me guarding these three Overlords and I have my hands literally full here! Not just full but full! Excuse me if I don't get every little detail right!"
Evan sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to micromanage. Now bring that chair over here."
Amy brought the lone empty chair over and sat Crush down on it. Out of the corner of his eye, Crush saw that, with her guard distracted, Donleavy was getting to work. She was bent over and had started to untie her shoelaces. Good. Now if Crush could just keep Evan's and Amy's attention focused on _him_ , Donleavy might have the chance she needed.
"Do you have any water?" Crush asked. "I could use a drink of water."
"No, we don't have water," Evan said. "What do you think this is, a five-star...." Amy picked up a bottle of Arrowhead from the table. Then she put it back down. Evan saw her and said, exasperated, "Well, give him the water. He sees it now. If it's here, give it to him."
Crush watched while Donleavy skootched the hood off her face and used her teeth to thread the shoelace through the zip tie that bound her hands. She knew how to get out of zip-tie handcuffs, given enough time. Time was what they all needed.
"Cover me," Evan said to Amy as he crossed to the table and picked up the voice modifier. "Now we're going to make a call. Give me your phone."
"Okay," Crush said, reaching into his back pocket with his bandaged arm, making it look as difficult as possible. "I'm just getting my phone. Nothing else. You hear that?" he said pointedly at Amy and her gun. "Don't shoot me. Not yet, anyway."
He tried not to look at Donleavy as she bent over and tied the lace she had threaded through the zip tie to the lace that was still in her other shoe.
Crush handed his phone to Evan. Evan told Crush, "Now you're going to call Emil Zerbe. You're going to tell him that his children will be held prisoner until the day he dies."
"What?" Amy asked. "We can't keep them until he dies. Until he _dies_ dies?"
"Shut up," Evan said. He turned his attention back to Crush. "That is what you'll say. Tell him he cannot change his mind about the bullet train."
"I can't," Crush said.
"You can and you will."
Still leaning over, Donleavy grabbed her other shoelace and tied the two of them together.
"No, I really can't, he's in surgery," Crush explained. "You had him shot with arrows, remember?"
Evan swallowed. "When will he be out?"
Crush shrugged. "Not for hours, I don't think. Maybe tomorrow?"
"Well, what do we do now?" Amy asked. "I can't live like this. This is a stupid way to live!"
"Be quiet!" Evan said. "All right, then you'll call K.C. He'll have to deliver the message to his father. We have to prove to Emil that we mean business!"
"You keep saying that, but this isn't really business, is it?" Crush was trying to annoy Evan, to keep him engaged and looking at Crush and not at Donleavy. "It's more like a crusade, wouldn't you say?"
Donleavy had the shoelaces tied to the zip tie in the shape of a T. She lifted her legs and bent her knees. And waited.
"Shut up," Evan said. "Do what I say!"
"I can do that," Crush said, agreeably. "I can call Zerbe and tell him that. Exactly that."
Satisfied, Evan examined Crush's phone. "He's under my favorites," offered Crush, helpfully. "Under Z. For Zerbe."
"I can see that," Evan said. He took the voice modifier and held it to his mouth. "Don't speak until I tell you to."
"Right," Crush said. Evan pressed the speed-dial number, held the phone up to Crush's face, and listened to it ring.
The screen flickered to life. Zerbe's face filled the monitor. "Crush! You're using FaceTime! I don't believe it. What's up?"
Evan spoke through the voice modifier. "Hello, K.C. Zerbe. Do you recognize this voice?"
"Fuck," Zerbe said. "It's the goddamned kidnapper." Gail's and Frida's faces filled the screen, and there was a commotion on the other end of the line. Donleavy used that distraction to begin. She kicked her legs from side to side, trying to saw the shoelace against the zip ties and break the plastic. She didn't have quite enough time. The hum of conversation on the phone ended with Zerbe coming back into view, and Donleavy had to stop.
"What the hell do you want?" Zerbe asked.
"Crush has something to say to you," Evan said in his best pop-star voice. He gestured to Crush to begin.
"Hey Zerbe?" Crush said with a smile.
"How are you, Crush?"
"You know. Been better."
"What happened?"
"I ran into a bit of a snag here."
"Was it Evan?"
Evan shook his head off-screen at Crush.
"No, it's not Evan. Definitely not Evan. Anybody but Evan. The thing is...they, whoever 'they' are, have your brother and your sister. And Donleavy, too, although nobody seems to care much about her. He wants you to tell your father that he's going to keep them, as a guarantee that Emil never builds the bullet train."
With the conversation occupying everyone's attention, Donleavy started sawing on the zip tie again.
"What does that mean?" Zerbe asked. "Is he going to keep them prisoner?"
"Yes, I think that's what it means."
"What? He's going to keep them forever?"
"Apparently. Or at least until your father dies."
"I don't think he can do that," Zerbe said. "Can he do that? Won't somebody track them down? He can't be serious."
Evan spoke up. "I am serious. I'll show you how serious this is." With that, Evan raised his pistol up to Crush's head and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER TWENTY
One second before, Donleavy had snapped the zip tie and leapt out of her chair, diving for Evan and his gun. She struck his arm just as Evan pulled the trigger. The barrel skidded against Crush's head as the gun fired. The report boomed like thunder in the close confines of the tunnel. Crush fell to the ground, limp.
Amy was taken by surprise by all of this, but she came up guns literally blazing at Donleavy. What she lacked in precision, she made up for in sheer volume. Donleavy was struck in the side, but spun around and rushed on Amy, pushing the gun to the side and pulling her down to the ground. Frightened, Amy struggled free and raced off.
Lying on the floor, blood pooling from the wound to her side, Donleavy thought she was pretty much done for the day. Crush lay motionless at the foot of the chair. Amy was gone. Angela and Noel were still tied up. Only Evan was still in motion, standing up stunned and shaking his head. The Glock was still in his hand.
There wasn't much that Donleavy could do other than push over the card table with the lantern on it and hope that darkness would help even the score. So she reached up and flipped the table. The lantern clattered to the floor and went rolling off. The scene was thrown, if not into blackness, at least into twilight.
Evan took a blind step. Crush pushed himself up and blinked, wondering if he had a bullet hole in his skull. The report of the gun had caused a tinny ringing in his ears that continued to chime. He was blinded, both from the dimness of the light and the blood streaming down into his eyes. He felt effectively helpless.
But as Evan moved, he tripped over Crush's legs and fell to the ground. Crush threw himself forward onto Evan's body and felt blindly for his arm. And the gun. He gripped the cold metal of the Glock, twisted it, and threw it away. It clattered off into the darkness.
Crush grabbed for Evan's throat, but Evan scuttled out of his grasp. He scrambled away, and Crush crawled off in pursuit. Evan made it to his feet and ran, stumbling through the tunnel. Crush clawed up the wall, wiped the blood from his eyes, and felt for his brain oozing out of his head. His skull seemed to be in one piece. The bullet had merely grazed him.
He took off in a shuffling run after Evan. Every footstep was a jarring earthquake in Crush's brain. His skull could barely contain the throbbing pain.
Rain started pelting his face. He ran out of the tunnel and onto the broad expanse of the Hahamongna Watershed. The rain was falling hard now. The ringing in his ears diminished, and he heard the sound of the raindrops hitting the grass. Then the sound of Evan's running feet, just ahead of him. Crush strained to catch up, but he was too exhausted. Digging down for some last vestige of strength, the most he could do was try to keep pace with him.
Evan was getting away. The man who killed Renee Zerbe and buried her like so much garbage somewhere in this field was getting away. Crush felt a raging fury rise in his chest. This man who had caused all this madness to fall upon them was getting away. And there was nothing he could do about it.
He heard a crazy cacophony of chittering cries and screams coming from above them. Evan heard it, too. He looked up at the night sky. An undulating black mass hovered above. Like a cloud, or a haze of smoke, that seemed to be coming down on them. Evan looked up in terror and stumbled, falling to the ground.
Crush saw his final chance. He ran forward and threw himself on top of Evan. The two of them struggled in the mud, Evan trying to push his fingers into Crush's eye sockets, Crush grabbing for Evan's throat. Crush missed and his fingers dug into the mud. They felt the hard roughness of a stone. He grasped the rock and raised it above his head....
Crush limped back into the tunnel. He picked up the fallen lantern and looked for his cell phone. Once he found it, he called 911, praying that there were more signal towers now than there had been in 2001 and that the call would go through.
The call went through. Crush told them where he was. He told them there were at least two injured people. Maybe three. Then he ended the call and sat down next to Donleavy.
"How are you doing?" Crush asked.
"I got shot," Donleavy said. "That's never good. But I stopped the bleeding."
"Help will be here soon," Crush said. "You'll be okay."
Donleavy grunted. She looked around. "Where's that crazy girl with the gun?"
"She took off, I guess."
"Good riddance. Let me see your head."
Crush lowered his head and let Donleavy see. "How does it look?" he asked.
"You don't want to know," she said. "How are Noel and Angela?"
Crush looked to the rear of the tunnel. They were still sitting with their hoods on. "They look fine."
"You oughta go check on them, you know."
"All right." Crush sighed and got weakly to his feet. His head felt like it had been run over by a steamroller and then flattened by an anvil. "You know, Donleavy, when this thing is over, I think I'm going to get an MRI."
"You do that," Donleavy said. "Grab my pocketknife from the table—the bitch found it in my boot when she tied me up."
Crush got the knife and stumbled over to Angela and Noel and pulled off their hoods. They'd been gagged with duct tape, which explained the blessed silence. He pulled the tape off Angela.
"What the hell is happening?" she asked, terrified.
"It's okay," Crush said. "We're safe."
He yanked the tape off Noel. Noel got more to the point. "That was Evan, wasn't it?"
"Evan?" Angela said. "Why did he do all of this?"
Crush was too tired to explain it. "Because of Renee. And because of the train."
Using Donleavy's knife, Crush cut them free from their zip ties. Noel got up stiffly and walked toward the back of the tunnel. He asked, "Which way did he go?"
"That way. Out to the watershed," Crush said.
Noel started walking that way.
"Don't, Noel," Angela said, alarmed. "He might come back."
Crush put his hand on Angela's arm. "He won't come back," he said.
She looked at him. Grabbing his hand, she said. "Thank you, Caleb."
He leaned down and kissed her fingers. Softly. In memory of another time. The elephant in the room always remembers.
Noel stood on the rain-swept watershed looking down at the inert body of Evan Gibbard. Crush hobbled up to join him.
"What happened?" Noel asked.
"He was running," Crush said. "Something must have startled him. He stumbled. And fell."
"What happened to his head?"
"He hit it on that rock."
"And it killed him?"
"Yes."
Noel looked at Crush, the rain washing over his face. "Convenient."
"It was."
"What startled him?"
"Oh," Crush said, looking up at the sky. "That was the parrots. They flew right over us. Didn't you hear them squawking?"
Noel nodded gravely. "I heard them. But I didn't recognize them. The psychopomps. The ones who escort the dead to the afterlife."
"If you say so," Crush said. "Anyway, they were screaming bloody murder."
"Yes, they were," Noel agreed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Zerbe watched Renee's funeral from the loft on Wilshire, via live-streaming. He thought 'live-streaming' was a rather questionable term for the occasion, but since under the terms of his parole he couldn't attend the service in person, he took what he could get. Frida bought him a dark suit from the local Goodwill and the two of them watched the service on his laptop, sitting on the sofa holding hands.
The service was held in the Wee Kirk o' the Heather at Forest Lawn, Glendale, a perfect replica of a quaint Scottish church. Ronald Reagan was married there, for the first time anyway. Jean Harlow and Carole Lombard had their funerals there. So did Walt Disney, Errol Flynn, and George Burns. More Hollywood royalty had passed through that nondenominational church than through Grauman's Chinese Theatre.
Zerbe could see pictures of Renee as Rose Queen, displayed around the urn that contained her ashes. It was all very tasteful.
Back in January, the police had spent a week searching through Hahamongna, looking for some trace of her body. They were about to give up when they brought in cadaver dogs, which sniffed something and started digging. That seemed appropriate. Renee had always liked dogs.
It took about six weeks to get a positive DNA identification and another month to discover how she died and yet another month to decide that there was nothing to be done about it, so it was nearly May before Renee Zerbe was finally laid to her eternal rest.
Zerbe could see that the funeral was well attended, despite being about seventeen years overdue. Quite a few of her high school friends had come to bid her a last farewell and, of course, all the Zerbes were there. Renee's mother sat in the front row, weeping, finally able to achieve some closure, if only of the bitterest kind. Samantha, Angela, and Noel sat with her, offering her what comfort they could. Emil sat off to the side in his wheelchair, alone and stone-faced. Zerbe couldn't see Crush or Gail, but he knew they were there, probably standing in the back, ready to make a quick exit. Crush didn't like funerals.
When the funeral ended, the screen went blank. Zerbe shut his laptop, put Jackie Wilson on the stereo, and made a couple of fried-egg sandwiches for himself and Frida. Then they talked about life. About Zerbe's new parole officer and what a dick he was. About how Zerbe was going to be finished with his sentence by the end of the year and how the first thing he was going to do when he was free was get a chili dog at Pink's on La Brea, then go to Disneyland and go on the Haunted Mansion and the Pirates of the Caribbean rides. They talked about Frida's new job as a teacher at an inner-city grade school and how much she loved it. When they were done talking, they went into Crush's bedroom and shut the door. Crush's bed was more comfortable than Zerbe's.
Two hours later Crush and Gail walked in. "Where's Zerbe?" Gail asked.
Crush pointed to his bedroom door.
"Again?" Gail asked, rolling her eyes.
"Give 'em a break," he said. "It's been a while. For both of them."
Gail wanted to say it had been a while for her, too, but she thought better of it. Instead she asked. "How's your head?"
Crush looked out the window over MacArthur Park. "May Gray" was settling in, and the city looked like it was in perpetual twilight. "My head's fine. It's tired of you asking about it."
"It's just that you didn't talk all the way home."
"All the way home from a funeral," he said. "Don't forget the funeral part."
Gail pressed her lips together. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Crush pressed his forehead against the windowpane. "I really don't."
He set the urn down on the pool table. "Why the hell did she give it to me?"
"I don't know, Crush," she said. "Maybe she trusts you." In the parking lot at Forest Lawn, Valerie Zerbe had stopped and handed Crush the urn. All she said was, "You take care of her, Caleb," before she walked off.
"What does she want me to do with it?" Crush asked.
"She wants you to take care of her."
"Stop calling it 'her,'" Crush snapped. "I don't even think it's legal for me to have this. Don't I have to file some kind of papers?"
"You're not adopting her. You're just making room for her on your bookshelf."
Crush looked at the smooth metal urn. "I didn't take care of her. Not when it mattered."
Gail put her hand on his shoulder. "You tried. You saved her on the bridge. You chased after her. And in the end, you found her."
"I didn't find her. A dog found her."
"You told them where to look."
"I wasn't her guardian angel."
"No," Gail said. "You were just the best friend she had."
Crush shut his eyes. "A pretty lousy best."
"Sometimes that's all you can hope for."
She bent down and kissed Crush on his scarred bald head. "You want me to stay?" She had moved into a new apartment in Boyle Heights, and she was teaching at a dojo near Hazard Park. Things were looking up for her.
"No, I'm fine," he said. "You go along home."
When she'd left, Crush got up and went over to the bookshelf. He grabbed some of Zerbe's polyhedral dice from his old Dungeons & Dragons set, rattled them in their cup, and tossed them across the pool table in front of Renee's urn.
He looked at the scattered numbers and weird symbols on the dice. "I have no idea how to play this damn game." He sighed. "But I guess I'm going to have to learn, huh?"
The urn sat on the pool table and did not respond.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Robert Petersen, whose "The Hidden History of Los Angeles" podcast is a constant delight and who kindly helped me trace the histories of the Devil's Gate Dam and the Irwindale craters.
Beverly Stansbury and Fiesta Parade Floats, who assisted me with the details of the Tournament of Roses Parade and the building of parade floats.
Roseschel Sinio of Li'l Book Bug Bookstore in Lancaster, California, who helped me with the Musical Road.
Colleen Dunn Bates, my beloved publisher and editor, who gave me more time than she should have and whose fine eye made this a better book. Assistant editor Dorie Bailey's fine eye helped, too.
Ronnie Wise, who helped me understand Dungeons & Dragons.
Chris Lackey and Chad Fifer, whose "H.P. Lovecraft Literary Podcast" provided inspiration and psychopomps.
Mark Jordan Legan, who contributed friendship, movie nights, and help with Targeted Individuals.
W.L. Ripley, who read this book and offered much needed advice.
My writing group: Naomi Hirahara, Gar Anthony Williams, Miriam Trogdon, Gracie Charters, and Sharon Calkin.
Lee Goldberg, for inspiring me constantly.
Pat Lenz, for her help and guidance.
And finally, my dear wife, Dawn Bodnar-Sutton, who read this book more often than is humanly possible and who helped me shape it. I couldn't have done it without her.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Phoef Sutton is a novelist, television writer, and playwright whose work has won two Emmys, a Peabody, a Writers Guild Award, a GLAAD Award, and a Television Academy Honors Award. The first novel in his Crush mystery series, _Crush_ , was a _Kirkus_ Best Mystery of 2015 and a _Los Angeles Times_ "Summer Reading Page-Turner." The second in the series, _Heart Attack and Vine_ , was named one of _Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel_ 's "Best Books of 2016" and a _Kirkus_ Best Mystery of 2016.
Sutton has been an executive producer of _Cheer_ s, a writer/producer for such shows as _Boston Legal_ and _NewsRadio_ , a writer for _Terriers_ , and the creator of several TV shows, including the cult hit _Thanks_. He is also the co-author, with Janet Evanovich, of _Curious Minds_ and _Wicked Charms_ , both _New York Times_ bestsellers. His other novels include the romantic thriller _15 Minutes to Live;_ coming in 2018 is the novel _From Away_. Sutton lives with his family in South Pasadena, California.
Table of Contents
1. Cover
2. Title Page
3. Copyright
4. Dedication
5. Contents
6. Prologue
7. Chapter One
8. Chapter Two
9. Chapter Three
10. Chapter Four
11. Chapter Five
12. Chapter Six
13. Chapter Seven
14. Chapter Eight
15. Chapter Nine
16. Chapter Ten
17. Chapter Eleven
18. Chapter Twelve
19. Chapter Thirteen
20. Chapter Fourteen
21. Chapter Fifteen
22. Chapter Sixteen
23. Chapter Seventeen
24. Chapter Eighteen
25. Chapter Nineteen
26. Chapter Twenty
27. Chapter Twenty-One
28. Acknowledgments
29. About the Author
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\section{INTRODUCTION}
Fast magnetic reconnection (at a fraction of Alfv\'en speed $V_A$)
is often invoked to explain
energetic events such as
solar/stellar flares, substorms in the magnetosphere of
Earth and other planets, coronal mass ejections,
sawtooth crashes in fusion plasmas, and
other astrophysical systems \citep{Priest2007, Lazarian2020}.
During reconnection,
oppositely directed magnetic field lines restructure themselves,
resulting in a rapid conversion of magnetic energy into kinetic energy of bulk flows, and thermal
and non-thermal particles \citep[e.g.,][]{Drake2006b}.
In the limit of resistive magnetohydrodynamics (MHD) description,
the classical Sweet-Parker (SP) model \citep{Sweet1958, Parker1957} predicts a rather slow
reconnection rate
proportional to $S^{-1/2}$, where $S = L V_A / \eta$ is the Lundquist number,
$\eta$ is the plasma resistivity, and $L$ is the characteristic length of the system. Many alternatives to speed up
the reconnection have been investigated
\citep{Priest2007, Cassak2012, Lin2015, Loureiro2016}.
A major advance came through studies related to the resistive tearing instability
\citep{Biskamp1986, Loureiro2007, Bhattacharjee2009,
Uzdensky2010, Huang2010, Ni2012, Lin2018}.
In the high $S$ limit, it is found that,
above a critical $S \sim 10^4$, the thin SP current sheets (CSs) in two-dimensional (2D)
become violently unstable to the hierarchical formation and ejection
of plasmoids \citep{Loureiro2007}, producing nearly resistivity-independent
reconnection rate around $0.01 \ V_A$.
Fast magnetic reconnection in the presence of 3D turbulence is a critically
important process in space and astrophysical plasmas
\citep{Matthaeus1986, Lazarian1999, Fan2004, Kowal2009,
Loureiro2009, Eyink2011, Daughton2011,
Wyper2015, Oishi2015, Takamoto2015, Guo2015,
Huang2016, Beresnyak2017, Kowal2017,
Pisokas2018, Li_X2019, Ye2020}, with some interesting
observation support \citep{Fu2017, He2018, Chitta2020}.
Broadly speaking three types of configurations have been studied in
some detail, depending on what ``free energy" is available.
The first is on how externally driven (or decaying) turbulence
affects the reconnection of a pre-existing CS(s)
\citep[e.g.,][]{Matthaeus1986, Lazarian1999, Kowal2009, Loureiro2009, Kowal2012}. The 3D MHD simulations have
mostly been done in the small $S$ ($\sim$ a few thousand) limit, though the externally
driven turbulence with relatively large amplitude
can greatly enhance the reconnection rate up to $\sim 0.1\ V_A$.
The second is similar to the first type except that the turbulence is self-generated
from instabilities associated with the pre-existing CS(s)
or additional instabilities due to reconnection
\citep[e.g.,][]{Oishi2015, Huang2016, Beresnyak2017, Kowal2017, Kowal2020}.
The 3D MHD simulations in this category with $S$ up to a few times $10^5$
have shown that the reconnection rate is slightly slower,
averaging around a few percent of $V_A$.
Note that these two types of studies could differ in important ways
because the available free energy in the second case is primarily
from the initial CS only
whereas in the first case both the injected turbulence and the
CS contribute to the available energy for dissipation.
In particular, \citet[][hereafter LV99]{Lazarian1999} and
\citet[][hereafter ELV11]{Eyink2011} provided the basic theoretical model
on such turbulent reconnection.
The third is to begin with the injected turbulence only without a
pre-existing semi-global CS(s). The turbulence cascade
will produce CSs at intermediate scales that could undergo
reconnection. 2D MHD simulations
\citep{Dong2018, Walker2018} and 3D kinetic simulations
\citep[e.g.,][]{Makwana2015} appear to lend support to these ideas.
In fact, the dual process of CS formation by turbulence cascade and
the back-reaction on turbulence by the possible reconnection of such sheets
have led to new models of MHD turbulence with reconnection \citep[e.g.,][]{Loureiro2017, Boldyrev2017}.
Note that the available free energy in this case is only the injected
turbulence, very different from the first two types.
Overall, the interplay among the externally injected turbulence vs.
the self-generated turbulence, and the pre-existing CS(s)
vs. the self-generated CSs makes it challenging to
build a comprehensive theory. Numerical simulations tend to have a
limited dynamic range to fully resolve several critical issues
revealed by these theoretical models (see a recent
discussion in \citet{Lazarian2020}).
In this work, we use a set of 3D compressible MHD simulations
to systematically examine how the
reconnection rate in the low plasma $\beta = 0.1$ condition
scales with the strength of turbulence as well as $S$.
Our most important conclusion is that, in systems with an initial large-scale CS,
the 3D reconnection rate can range between $0.01 - 0.1 \ V_A$,
and scales roughly linearly with the turbulent Alfv\'en Mach number
$M_{\mathrm{A}} \sim 0.06 - 0.32$.
The rate is weakly dependent on $S$ in the high $S$ limit.
Flux ropes, as the 3D version of the 2D plasmoid instability,
are frequently formed and ejected along the thin CSs.
Magnetic field line tracing yields super-diffusive behavior.
The turbulence is a combination of the externally driven
and the self-generated fluctuations, but with a second-order structure
function different from the incompressible MHD turbulence
theory by \citet{Goldreich1995}.
\section{NUMERICAL MHD MODEL}
\label{sec:model}
The isothermal resistive
MHD equations in a periodic cube with a
side length of $L = 2 \pi$ are solved:
\begin{equation}
\frac{\partial \rho}{\partial
t}+ \nabla \cdot (\rho \mathbf{u}) = 0 \ ,
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\frac{\partial \rho \mathbf{u}}{\partial
t}+ \nabla \cdot \left[\rho \mathbf{u} \mathbf{u} + ( p +
\frac{1}{2}\mathbf{B}^2 )\mathbf{I}-\mathbf{B} \mathbf{B}\right] = \nu\nabla^2
\mathbf{u} + \rho\mathbf{f}_v\ ,
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\frac{\partial \mathbf{B}}{\partial t}+ \nabla \cdot
(\mathbf{u}\mathbf{B}-\mathbf{B}\mathbf{u}) = \eta\nabla^2
\mathbf{B} \ .
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\frac{\partial s_i}{\partial
t}+ \nabla \cdot (s_i \mathbf{u}) = 0 \ ,
\end{equation}
Here, $\rho$ is the mass density; $p$ is the thermal pressure; $\mathbf{u}$
is the velocity; $\mathbf{B}$
denotes the magnetic field; $t$ is time; $\nu$ is the viscosity;
$\eta$ is the magnetic resistivity; $s_i (i=1,2) $ are the densities
of the tracer populations \citep{Yang2013a};
$\mathbf{f}_v$ is a random large-scale driving force,
applied in Fourier space at $ k < 3.5$ \citep{Yang2017a,Yang2018}.
We have used $\nu = \eta$ in all simulations.
The initial magnetic field has a Harris configuration with two thin CSs as\\
$\mathbf{B} = B_0 \left[\tanh(\frac{x-x_1}{w}) -
\tanh(\frac{x-x_2}{w})\right] \hat{y}-B_0\hat{y}$, where
$B_0$ is the asymptotic magnetic field, $x_1=\pi/2$ and $x_2=3\pi/2$ are
the initial positions of the CSs, and the parameter $w$ is set to
satisfy the SP scaling of $2w/L\simeq S^{-1/2}$. Initially,
the density profile is set to maintain a uniform total (thermal plus magnetic)
pressure, velocity is zero, and plasma $\beta$ is about 0.1.
Due to the broadening likely caused by turbulence,
the CS layer during evolution is typically resolved with more than 10 cells.
The externally driven turbulence is characterized by $\mathbf{f}_v$. When
$|\mathbf{f}_v| = 0$, the velocity is initially seeded with a random noise of amplitude $10^{-3}$.
Simulation parameters are listed in Table 1, in which $N$ is grid number in one direction.
$M_{\mathrm{A}}$ is Alfv\'en Mach number defined as $M_{\mathrm{A}}=u_{\mathrm{RMS}}/V_A $
with $u_{\mathrm{RMS}}$ being the root-mean-square (RMS) amplitude of the velocity
at the peak reconnection, and $V_A$ the Alfv\'en speed based on the
initial magnetic field $B_0$ and the average density.
Run E only has a uniform magnetic field
without any initial CSs.
We use the Athena code \citep{Gardiner2005,
Stone2008} for simulations. Specifically, we apply the approximate
Riemann solver of
Harten-Lax-van Leer discontinuities (HLLD) to the calculation of the numerical fluxes,
a third-order piecewise parabolic method (PPM) to the reconstruction,
MUSCL-Hancock (VL) Integrator to the time integration, and the
constrained transport (CT) algorithm
to ensure the divergence-free state of the magnetic field.
\section{NUMERICAL RESULTS}
\label{sec:results}
\begin{figure}[htbp]
\begin{center}
\begin{tabular}{c}
\includegraphics[width = 4.5 in]{fig1.eps} \\
\end{tabular}
\end{center}
\caption{Spatial distribution of the total current density ($|J|$) for Run A1 at
$t = 2.0$. Only intersections with the three bounding planes are shown.
The colored lines denote sample magnetic field lines.
The pink and gray contour lines show $f_e = 0.99$ and $-0.99$, respectively.
}\label{figure1}
\end{figure}
We find that all runs containing initial CSs will undergo
global reconnection characterized by inflow/outflow patterns.
Figure \ref{figure1} shows that the two initially
parallel thin CSs are now strongly deformed
by the externally driven turbulence
while undergoing 3D reconnection. The width of the
CSs also demonstrates
thinning and thickening at various places.
A number of magnetic field lines are plotted and
three typical behaviors are observed: first,
field lines that are relatively smooth and arch-looking
start at one side of a CS and end up at
the other side of the same CS, indicating reconnection accompanied with
$X-$points and large opening angles for reconnected lines;
second, field lines that are far away from the CSs
go through the box without reconnection;
third, field lines start at one side of a CS but trace out in twisted
trajectories (possibly flux ropes) and end up far away from the starting points.
\begin{table}[ht]
\caption{Reconnection MHD Simulations}
\begin{tabular}{cccccc}
\hline
\hline
Run & $N^3$ & S & $M_{\mathrm{A}}$ & $|\mathbf{f}_v|$ & CSs \\
\hline
A1 & $2048^3$ & $2.3\times10^5$ & 0.322 & 0.30 & Yes\\
A2 & $1024^3$ & $6.3\times10^4$ & 0.305 & 0.30 & Yes\\
A3 & $1024^3$ & $1.5\times10^4$ & 0.304 & 0.30 & Yes\\
A4 & $1024^3$ & $4.8\times10^3$ & 0.302 & 0.30 & Yes\\
\hline
B1 & $2048^3$ & $2.3\times10^5$ & 0.192 & 0.10 & Yes\\
B2 & $1024^3$ & $6.3\times10^4$ & 0.185 & 0.10 & Yes\\
B3 & $1024^3$ & $1.5\times10^4$ & 0.183 & 0.10 & Yes\\
B4 & $1024^3$ & $4.8\times10^3$ & 0.180 & 0.10 & Yes\\
\hline
C1 & $2048^3$ & $2.3\times10^5$ & 0.098 & 0.01 & Yes\\
C2 & $1024^3$ & $6.3\times10^4$ & 0.092 & 0.01 & Yes\\
C3 & $1024^3$ & $1.5\times10^4$ & 0.089 & 0.01 & Yes\\
C4 & $1024^3$ & $4.8\times10^3$ & 0.084 & 0.01 & Yes\\
\hline
D1 & $2048^3$ & $2.3\times10^5$ & 0.072 & No & Yes\\
D2 & $1024^3$ & $6.3\times10^4$ & 0.067 & No & Yes\\
D3 & $1024^3$ & $1.5\times10^4$ & 0.060 & No & Yes\\
D4 & $1024^3$ & $4.8\times10^3$ & 0.056 & No & Yes\\
\hline
E & $1024^3$ & $6.3\times10^4$ & 0.421 & 0.30 & No\\
\hline
\end{tabular}
\end{table}
To calculate the 3D reconnection rate, we use the method
described in \citet{Daughton2014}, which employs the mixing of tracer
populations originating from separate sides of a CS as a proxy
to identify the reconnection region and track the evolution of magnetic flux.
We solve Eq. (4) using two tracer species $s_1$ and $s_2$.
The initial values of $s_1$ and $s_2$ are such that: on one side of a CS, $s_1 = - 1$ and
otherwise $0$, whereas on the other side of the same
CS $s_2 = 1$ and otherwise $0$.
As reconnection proceeds, the populations tagged by $s_1$ and $s_2$
will interpenetrate and a mixing
fraction $f_e$ can be defined as $f_e =\frac{ |s_1| - |s_2|}{|s_1|+|s_2|}$,
which will vary continuously from
$f_e = -1$ on one side of CS to $f_e = 1$ to the other side of the same CS.
In Figure \ref{figure1}, we can see that the contours of $f_e$ enclose
the strong $|J|$ layers quite well, correlating strong mixing/reconnection
with strong $|J|$.
The 3D reconnection rate is calculated according to the time
derivative of the unreconnected
magnetic flux $\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}$ within the regions with
$f_e < - f_c$ or $f_e > f_c$ as $\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}$ is
equal to the line integral of the
electric field along the surfaces of $f_e = -f_c$ or $f_e = f_c$
due to the periodic boundary condition.
We have also calculated the change rate of the magnetic flux within the
regions with $f_e \geqslant - f_c$ and $f_e \leqslant f_c$ and found that it is an order
of magnitude smaller than $\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}$. Therefore,
it can be thought that the flux entering into the reconnection region
is dissipated quickly.
Because the boundaries that separate $f_e \ne \pm 1$ regions
from $f_e = \pm 1$ regions are quite sharp, the calculated
reconnection rate is insensitive if $f_c$ is in the range 0.9-0.995
\citep{Daughton2014}. Here, we choose
$f_c = 0.99$. The calculated reconnection rate
grows first as the reconnection starts, reaching a maximum after a few
Alfv\'en times, then gradually decreasing.
\begin{figure}[bp]
\begin{center}
\begin{tabular}{c}
\includegraphics[height=6in, width = 4.5in]{fig2.eps} \\
\end{tabular}
\end{center}
\caption{Spatial distributions of a 2D $x-y$ slice at $z = 1.2$ of the velocity components
$V_x$ (panel a) and $V_y$ (panel b), the
current density $J_z$ component along with the (blue lines) magnetic
field lines projected into the $x-y$ plane (panel c), and the magnetic field component $B_z$
(panel d) for Run A1 at $t = 2.0$.
Panels e and g zoom in
around two strong $|J_z|$ regions; panels f and h show
the one-dimensional (1D) distribution of $|J_z|$ along the black lines in panels e and g;
and panel i shows the 1D distribution of $|J_z|$ at different times, with the black line being the same as that in panel f.
The cell size is $\sim 0.003$ in this run.
}\label{figure2}
\end{figure}
To further demonstrate global reconnection in our simulations, we show in
Figure \ref{figure2} that the classic $X-$point inflow/outflow configuration
is approximately preserved in the turbulent reconnection.
The plasma originating from separate sides of the CSs flows
into the reconnection region with an inflow speed of $\sim 0.15 V_A$,
meanwhile the outflows along the CSs appear to reach values of
$\sim \pm V_A$ (from which the global reconnection rate
could also be estimated to be $\sim 0.15 $ for Run A1).
There seems to be one major
reconnection $X-$point in the left CS near $y=0$
whereas plasmoid-like chains with large $|J_z|$ and $|B_z|$
are visible in the right CS.
In addition, in the left CS between $y = 0$
and $2$, the strong shear in $|\Delta V_y| / (|B_y|/\sqrt{\rho}) > 2$
might indicate the excitation of Kelvin-Helmholtz
instability \citep{Miura1982, Kowal2020}.
To understand the current sheet structure in more detail,
we evaluate the current sheet width for Run A1 at different times,
which is defined when $|J_z|$ comes to $e^{-1}$ of
its maximum. In panels f and h of Figure \ref{figure2},
we give two examples of the current sheet width
at $t = 2.0$, in which the horizontal dashed
lines cut through the $|J_z|$ structure,
and two vertical solid lines mark the current sheet width,
which is about 0.033 and is resolved by about 10 cells.
In panel i, we show the evolution of the current sheet width.
It starts with a width about 0.073 (resolved by about 24 cells),
and undergoes a thinning process but it remains broader than
that predicted by the SP scaling, presumably due to the turbulence.
Overall, the current sheet width is adequately resolved numerically.
\begin{figure}[h!]
\includegraphics[width = 6. in]{fig3.eps}
\caption{Power spectra of kinetic energy
(panel a), global reconnection rate (panel b),
diffusion of reconnecting magnetic field lines (panel c), and magnetic energy evolution
(panel d) for different
levels of turbulence driving for Run A1, B1, C1, and D1, global reconnection rates as a function
of the Lundquist number $S$ for different values of the Alfv\'en Mach
number $M_{\mathrm{A}}$ (panel e) and as a function
of $M_{\mathrm{A}}$ for different $S$ (panel f).
Quantities in panels (a) and (c) are calculated at the time when
the global reconnection rate shown in panel (b) reaches its
respective maximum. }\label{figure3}
\end{figure}
We now discuss the turbulence properties in further detail.
Panel (a) of
Figure \ref{figure3} shows that the power spectra of kinetic energy
displays a $\sim -5/3$ power law
for different Runs A1 - D1, although the weaker turbulence runs seem to show
slightly flatter spectra.
Because the plasma $\beta \sim 0.1$, the
turbulence is sub-Alfv\'enic but becoming transonic for $M_{\mathrm{A}}\sim 0.3$
(Run A1).
The rate for the strongest external driving turbulence (Run A1) is about
$0.128 \ V_A$, which is consistent with the estimate
measured from inflow and outflow speeds shown in Figure \ref{figure2}.
The rate for spontaneous turbulent reconnection (Run D1) is about
$0.025 \ V_A$, which is basically consistent with the results
by \citet{Oishi2015, Beresnyak2017, Kowal2017}.
In addition, the sharp rise of the rates corresponds well with the
rapid decrease of the total magnetic energy within the simulation box,
indicating that the fast reconnection has dissipated a significant fraction
of the available magnetic energy (by $\sim 50\%$ to nearly $100\%$).
To see the connection between the reconnection rates and
the diffusion of turbulent magnetic fields, we measure the separation
$dr$ of numerous pairs of field lines as a function of $r_\parallel$ (the distance
along the field lines) like \citet{Beresnyak2013}. These pairs start at random positions within
the reconnection regions with $|f_e|<1$. Panel (c) of Figure \ref{figure3}
shows the relationship between $\langle dr^2\rangle$ and $r_\parallel$ in which $10^5$ field line
pairs are used for statistical averaging.
A stochastic separation of magnetic field lines follows a
super-diffusion behavior. As the reconnection proceeds, $\langle dr^2\rangle$ rises.
At the turbulence injection scale, $r_\parallel \sim 3$, we can calculate the field line separation
rate as $\langle dr^2\rangle^{0.5}/r_\parallel$, similar to \citet{Lazarian1999} and \citet{Eyink2011}.
The rates for Run A1, B1, C1, and D1 are 0.123, 0.093, 0.036, 0.023, respectively,
which are similar to the maximum of the global reconnection rates
obtained from the mixing of traced populations as shown in panel (b).
=However, when $r_\parallel>0.1$,
the standard deviation of the averaged rates for Run A1, B1, C1, and D1 increases to
be the same order of magnitude as the average value $\langle dr^2\rangle$.
Applying these analyses to all the runs (except Run E)
listed in Table 1, we summarize
the dependence of 3D reconnection rates (taken at the peak
of their evolution) on $S$ and $M_{\mathrm{A}}$.
As shown by Panel (e) of Figure \ref{figure3}, the reconnection
rate shows a rather weak
increasing trend as $S$ increases. Even higher $S$ values are needed to see if
the reconnection rate becomes weakly dependent on $S$.
Note that the variation of reconnection rates for a given $M_{\mathrm{A}}$
is within $\sim 50\%$ as $S$ goes from $4.8\times 10^3$ to
$2.3\times 10^5$.
Assuming that the reconnection rate stays below $V_A$ for
very large $S$, it is reasonable to expect that the dependence
of the reconnection rate on $S$ should be rather weak.
Consequently, we conclude that the reconnection rate is weakly dependent on $S$ when $S$ is large.
The reconnection rate, however, does show a clear dependence on the
level of turbulence.
Panel (f) of
Figure \ref{figure3} shows that the rate scales roughly linearly with the turbulent
$M_{\mathrm{A}}$.
This slope is obtained by mostly using points from simulation Runs A-C
with the same $S$.
The weak dependence on $S$ can also be seen.
In addition, it seems that the
``spontaneous" Runs D
cannot be regarded as simply an extrapolation to zero $f_v$, as their
reconnection rates are a bit lower than the extrapolation
from Runs A-C. We suggest that this is due to a fundamental change
of the turbulence properties
between Runs A and Runs D. For Runs A, the turbulence
mostly experiences forward cascades, whereas for Runs D,
the fluctuations are first injected at the CS width scales, then
undergoing both forward and inverse cascades \citep{Bowers2007}.
\begin{figure}[htbp]
\includegraphics[width = 5. in]{fig5.eps}
\caption{Second-order structure functions (SF) of velocity from
the fully developed turbulence with the large-scale CSs (panel a)
and without the initial large-scale CSs (pure turbulence, panel c); Panels (b) and (d): relationships between semimajor
axis $l_\parallel$ and semiminor axis $l_\perp$ of contours in panels (a) and (c), which measure the scale dependency of turbulent eddy anisotropy. }\label{figure5}
\end{figure}
To investigate the turbulence properties in more detail,
we analyze the anisotropy of the turbulence using Run A1, B1, and C1.
We have calculated the second-order structure functions (SF) of velocity
in terms of parallel $l_\parallel$ and perpendicular
displacement $l_\perp$ with respect to the local magnetic field
reference frame and the correspondence
between $l_\parallel$ and $l_\perp$ by equating SF values
in parallel and perpendicular directions \citep{Beresnyak2017, Kowal2017}.
The results are shown in Figures \ref{figure5}(a) and (b).
To facilitate a comparison, the results for the fully developed turbulence
without the initial large-scale CSs (Run E) are also presented
in Figures \ref{figure5}(c) and (d).
The resulting SFs clearly display that turbulent eddies
are elongated along the local magnetic field direction for Run A1.
For pure turbulence Run E, eddies become increasingly more
anisotropic at smaller scales, basically conforming to the
Goldreich $\&$ Sridhar prediction \citep{Goldreich1995}.
Comparing the properties from Run A1 and E, however,
we see that the anisotropy in Run A1 is weaker than that in Run E,
showing a power-law scaling
with $l_\parallel \propto l_\perp^{6/5}$
for all the scales captured in the simulation.
Although both Run B1 and Run C1 have smaller Alfv\'en Mach numbers than Run A1,
the anisotropy in them displays a power-law scaling closer to $l_\parallel \propto l_\perp^{6/5}$ than $l_\parallel \propto l_\perp^{2/3}$.
This may be owing to the fact that how the turbulence is produced in our current models
is different from the traditional \citet{Goldreich1995}'s model,
as discussed in the next section.
\section{DISCUSSION}
\label{sec:discuss}
The results presented here extend the previous studies in 3D turbulent
MHD reconnection by systematically examining the previous unexplored
parameter space in both $S$ and $M_{\mathrm{A}}$.
On the one hand, we find good
consistency with the previous results in the low $S$ and/or low $M_{\mathrm{A}}$
regimes such as the reconnection rates ranging between $0.01 - 0.1 V_A$.
On the other hand, we find two new conclusions: one is that the
reconnection rate is weakly dependent on
$S$ in the large $S$ limit and the other is that the reconnection rate
scales roughly linearly with the turbulent $M_{\mathrm{A}}$.
The weak dependence on $S$ is consistent with both
the turbulent reconnection model \citep{Lazarian1999} and
plasmoid-mediated reconnection model \citep{Loureiro2007,
Bhattacharjee2009, Uzdensky2010, Huang2010}.
The new, linear scaling relationship we find between the reconnection rate
and the strength of turbulence is different from the
$M_{\mathrm{A}}^2$ scaling given in
\citet{Lazarian1999}. Our turbulence properties are also different
from \citet{Goldreich1995}.
Using the anisotropy scaling from our simulations,
we can derive our new reconnection rate dependence
on $M_{\mathrm{A}}$
in the context of the turbulent reconnection theory
\cite{Lazarian1999, Eyink2011}.
From the constant energy transfer rate of $\dot{\xi} \sim \frac{v_k^2}{\tau_{nl}} \sim v_k^4 \frac{k_{\perp}^2}{k_{\|} V_\mathrm{A}}$ \citep{Lazarian1999} and the simulation result of $k_{\|} \sim k_{\perp}^{6/5} $, we can get that
$v_{k_{\perp l}} \sim v_{k_{\perp L}} k_{\perp L}^{1/5}/ k_{\perp l}^{1/5}$, with $L$ being energy injection scale, $l$ being inertial scale, $k_{\perp L} \sim 1/L$, $k_{\perp l} \sim 1/l$, and
$v_{k_{\perp L}}$ as well as $v_{k_{\perp l}}$ being the corresponding perpendicular fluctuating velocities.
As a pair of field lines with an initial distance of $l_{\perp}^{(0)}$
separate at the rate $\frac{d} {ds} l_{\perp} \sim \frac{ \delta b_{\perp l}} {B_0} \sim \frac{\delta v_{\perp l}} {V_A}$ \citep{Eyink2011}, one finds that
$\frac{d} {ds} l_{\perp} \sim \frac{v_{k_{\perp L}} k_{\perp L}^{1/5}}{k_{\perp l}^{1/5} V_\mathrm{A}}$, that is $l_{\perp} \sim M_\mathrm{A}^{5/4} k_{\perp L}^{1/4} s^{5/4}$ with $M_\mathrm{A}=v_{k_{\perp L}}/V_\mathrm{A}$. We can estimate
rate by $l_{\perp}/s \sim M_A^{5/4}$.
Given that the inertial range is limited and the turbulence is not
steady, our numerical result of the rate $\propto M_{\mathrm{A}}$ is
approximately consistent with this relationship.
The nature of turbulence from Runs A to D likely undergoes significant changes.
The turbulence in our simulations come from
both the external driven origin as well as the self-generated origin.
In Run A1, the reconnection rate is high and the flow from the 3D reconnection
is quite significant (the outflow speeds reaching $V_A$ as shown in
Figure \ref{figure2}). Both the presence of large-scale reconnection CSs
and the flows associated with reconnection are affecting the turbulence.
In fact, according to Table 1, comparing Run A2 and Run E where the
external driving $f_v$ is the same (and the same numerical resolution), the turbulent $M_{\mathrm{A}}$
is actually larger in the pure turbulence run
($0.421$) than that in the reconnection run ($0.305$).
Because the self-generated turbulence likely undergoes both forward and
inverse cascades, its spectral properties and anisotropy
will not follow the Goldreich $\&$ Sridhar theory, especially when the turbulence
properties are examined at just a few Alfv\'en times.
In addition, our simulations are in the low $\beta$ situation
(initially at $0.1$) with an aim to model the solar coronal environment
whereas most previous simulations have mostly explored
the higher $\beta$ limit \citep{Oishi2015, Beresnyak2017, Kowal2017}.
According to the results of \citet{Kowal2017},
the anisotropy degree and scaling depend on the plasma $\beta$ and
larger $\beta$ conditions tend to yield scalings closer to
the Goldreich $\&$ Sridhar theory.
The self-generated turbulence/fluctuations likely have several origins.
The first is from the resistive tearing instabilities on relatively smaller
scales of CS thickness; second is from the Kelvin-Helmholtz instability
in the localized outflow regions, again on CS thickness scales; third is from
the ``collisions" of outflows (see $y \sim 2 - 3$ in
Fig. \ref{figure2}). Although these processes can all in principle produce
turbulence, our simulations probably do not have enough
spatial separation to see the development of all these
turbulence. Overall, the third process likely contribute the most to
the self-generated turbulence.
Because the ``spontaneous" Runs can already
produce $M_{\mathrm{A}} \geq 0.06$ with a reconnection rate $\sim 0.01 V_A$,
this implies that, in space and astrophysical systems and to the extent that
periodic boundary conditions can be approximately true,
large-scale current sheets with high $S$
will tend to be destroyed
within several Alfv\'en transient times of the system.
\begin{acknowledgments}
This work is supported by NSFC grants under contracts 41974171, 41774157, 41731067 and 41674171.
HL, FG, XL and SL acknowledge support by LANL/LDRD program and DoE/OFES program.
FGs contributions are in part based upon work supported by the U.S. Department of Energy, Office of Fusion Energy Science, under Award Number de-sc0018240 and by NSF grant AST-1735414.
Institutional Computing resources at LANL and resources of the National Energy Research Scientific Computing Center (NERSC) are used for simulations reported here.
\end{acknowledgments}
\bibliographystyle{apj}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 2,406 |
THE SYDNEY BUSHWALKER OCTOBER, 1979.
Canoe Trip- Monkeygar Creek and Mantarie Marshes, August 1979
Bush Safety Awareness: Part 4. On the lookout
A Famous Walker of Yesteryear.
Abercrombie and Wingecarribee Rivers: Saturday 18th November 1939 to Sunday 2nd December 1939
The Federation Ball of 1979
The September General Meeting.
Coolana Barn Dance.
Special Notice. Motion Passed by October Committee Meeting
Social Notes for November
Alterations to the Walks Programme
The Sydney Bushwalkers Walks Programme November 1979
A monthly bulletin of matters of interest to The Sydney-Bush Walkers, Box 4476 G.P.O. Sydney, 2001. Club meetings are held every Wednesday evening from 7.30 pm at the Wireless Institute Building, 14 Atchison Street, St.Leonards. Enquiries concerning the Club should be referred to Marcia Shappert Telephone 30,2028.
EDITOR Helen Gray, 209 Malian Road, Epping, 2121. Telephone 86,6263.
BUSINESS MANAGER Bill Burke, 3 Coral Tree Drive, Carlingford, 2118. Telephone 871,1207.
DUPLICATOR OPERATOR Bob Duncan Telephone 869,2691.
Canoe Trip - Monkeycar Creek & Macquarie Marshes - August, 1979 Dot Butler
Bush Safety Awareness, Part 4: On the Lookout Len Newland 5
Paddy's Ad. 8
A Famous Walker of Yesteryear Owen Marks 9
Mountain Equipment Ad 12
Abercrombie & Wingecaribee Rivers - 1939 Dorothy Lawry 13
The Federation Ball of 1979 Observationist 15
The September General Meeting Barry Wallace 17
Coolana Barn Dance 18
Special Notice from Committee 19
Social Notes for November Ailsa Hocking 19
Alterations to Walks Programme 19
Walks Programme 20
by Dot Butler.
Since Wade's world-record 3,000 mile canoe trip, three months from Dalby in Queensland to the sea at Goolwa in South Australia following the 1975-76 floods, Jack and Rona have been consumed with a burning desire to see something of the Australian inland waterways. They have just returned to Australia after ten years' exile in California, so now seemed just right for the trip - a time of Spring and new life and nesting waterbirds.
I borrowed Gerard Putt's roof rack, Snow Brown's canoe and Alan Pike's paddles and off we went to Wade's place at Coonabarabran. Outside his log cabin, there was Wade's'trusty canoe propped up under the callitris trees, just as he had brought it back after his last trip down Cooper Creek to Lake Eyre and out to the Birdsville Track in the "big wet" of 1977. The only necessities overlooked in packing my station waggon with Jack, Rona and baby Tara (4 months) and Galen (2 1/2) and food for the trip were the paddles, left back on the lawn at Wahroonga. Nothing daunted, Wade carved a new set out of black pine in no time at all, and off we set in the late afternoon, heading into the setting sun, which means somewhere out there, north-west towards Bourke.
We travelled well into the night and eventually pulled up in the huge emptiness by the roadside where a sign by a bridge over a river announced that this was the Macquarie. We crawled under a wire fence and had hardly got up two tents and lit a campfire when a cattle transport materialised out of a million miles of amorphous night and a voice demanded to know if we had permission to camp there. (!!!??!!! This is the same reaction as you would expect if you were camped out in the Andromeda Galaxy and some green Martian complete with eyebrow antennae demanded to know if you had permission!) We assured him we were innocuous and only there for the night and he rumbled off, muttering. Next morning, having doused our fire with gallons of Macquarie River, we drove on a bit then called into a homestead to ask the owner where was the best place to start canoeing to see the birds in the Macquarie Marshes.
"Arragh, I wouldn't know; I don't follow them sort of birds (haw. haw). You could put your canoes in where the river goes through that there deserted property and come out down the Monkeygar Creek where the yaller post is." We thanked him and decided to do just that. We unloaded the canoes, then Rona and Margaret and I wandered with the infants around the sprawling decaying house and farm buildings while Wade and Jack took the cars off in a car swap operation. They must have been successful because in about an hour they were back again, having left one car behind at the yaller post some 30 miles away.
We embarked, Jack and Rona and baby Tara in her sleeping basket in one canoe, and in the other Wade at the back with the double paddle, Margaret in front in Wade's patent crow's-nest, as lookout man for snags and Galen and me and the food packed in between.
The very first obstacles were two huge fallen trees completely blocking the whole width of the river. I wondered what sort of problem this might be, unpacking and portaging babies and food in a fairly swift-flowing river, but Wade and Margaret miraculously paddled through the branches and after that nothing was a problem.
Right from the start the bird life was startling; water hens and cattle egrets out in the mud, a pelican floating above his reflection by the bank. Flocks of ducks, 100 to 200 strong, would rise up before us with a great flutter and splash and circle around to land. again up river behind us. Huge flocks of black swans flew wavering against the empty sky. Plovers, looking neat and dapper in their brown and fawn uniforms, stood around in little groups, the spurs on their wings glinting in the sun.
As we got further into the wild country flocks of kangaroos would start up along the banks keeping ahead of the canoes. One huge fellow decided to swim for the other side. He leapt into the river, swimming with powerful strokes to the other bank, and without a break in his rhythm leapt ashore and continued on into the distance, the water streaming off him in great cascades. Emus strutted around the banks, accompanied by flocks of chicks, shovelling down grasshoppers like vacuum-cleaners working non-stop. The answer to the grasshopper plague at present threatening the wheat lands is to import emus and let them do the job. Unfortunately the Government is offering free D.D.T. to the farmers for aerial spraying. This means death to next season's emus as D.D.T. so weakens the egg shells that the eggs break under their own weight and so there are no young ones next year. However that won't be a problem out in the Macquarie National Park and you can expect to see plenty of emus in the years to come.
Galen was particularly taken with the black snakes. Everywhere along the baked black mud they lay looking like large bead necklaces, each "bead" being a frog in course of being digested. Out in the lignum swamps millions of frogs were screaming "Come and get us! Come and get us!". The snakes smiled their thin-lipped smiles and waited; there was no hurry. Fat thick-tailed water-rats dragged themselves out of the water and into the mud among the lignum roots. Wade says that further out in the sandhill country they can be seen in their thousands.
We paddled through a great expanse of dead trees - a blockage somewhere up river had diverted the water to spread out over a great area, waterlogging the roots of the eucalypts and killing them. On the stark dead branches, Jack brought his spy-glasses to bear on his favourite birds, the accipiters - hawks, eagles and falcons. Pee-wits' nests, looking like unbaked clay pots stuck up in forks of the trees were everywhere. White ibis and spoonbills dotted the trees and flocks of galahs changed colour from grey to pink as they wheeled around. We passed under a cattle bridge, a frail-looking one-beast-wide structure. All the underside was plastered with mud swallows' nests. Out on the flat plains we could see cattle and trotting in and out among them were herds of wild pigs. We had been urging Wade to get out and run us down a piglet for dinner - he says that is quite possible - but his Margaret didn't want to see him gored to death by wild tuskers so we did without our roast pig.
Having passed through the open country we now swung into a weird swamp of tall feathery reeds which got higher and higher as we proceeded, effectively blocking out everything except a remote patch of blue sky above and the sinuous water trails below. Jack and Rona kept close behind Wade who has an instinct for the right direction in this sort of maze. The reeds closed in on all sides. Wade eventually pulled into the mud, fought his way through the reedy thicket and climbed up ,a tall dead tree. "What can you see?" "What can you see?" we chorused. "Miles and miles of lignum swamp," said Wade "This could go on for weeks."
We looked for a place to camp and eventually found some ground elevated about a foot above the surrounding swamp. Here was firewood and plenty of dry reeds for a bed. Apparently the pigs also viewed it as a desirable campsite. All through the high canes their runways led, and in tastefully selected spots they had made their sleeping quarters. Don't ever let anyone try to tell me that pigs are dirty. Their bedding arrangements were exquisite - just as though some perfect housewife, say Judith Rostron, had given a last touch to the bedroom; a little plumping up of the pillows here, a little puff of the eiderdown there, a gentle tug of the coverlet just so. The selected clump of lignum really had artistry to recommend it; the dead reeds* had been trampled down tastefully over a large area, but the piece-de-resistance was a great billowing heap of bone-coloured dead leaves in the dead centre. One could imagine the house-proud pig gently edging around in a circle snuffling and waffling the dead leaves until they formed a heap of just the right spring and consistency to please her artistic taste. -Judith, you would just love to see it. You'd be proud to meet a soul mate. I put up my small tent by the fire, Wade and Margaret erected a groundsheet in one pig bedroom, and I helped Jack erect the Pettigrew tent on the most magnificent pile of leaves in the whole dormitory. Luckily we were allowed unquestioned possession for the night.
Next morning it began to spit rain.,… and none of us had even dreamed of including parkas in our gear! The idea of paddling young babies through the wild country lost its attractiveness. We wrapped ourselves in makeshift groundsheets and garbo bags and paddled on with speed, hoping to come out at the yaller post before things got too uncomfortable.
Eventually we came to settled land, as evinced by wire cattle fences across the river. It took some ingenuity squeezing the loaded canoes under or through the wires but we managed. And then What's this? A car parked out on a muddy bank in the middle of the trackless lignum swamp! And what's more, WADE'S car! Galen could hardly contain himself; I think Wade has become little less than God in his young oyes. But he wasn't so pleased when Wade and Margaret took off leaving us behind to erect the tent as shelter from the drizzle and await their returnwith the other car. Not another night out in the mud and the eerie lignum swamp!
As the Wise Prophet has said, "Sorrow may endure for a night but Joy cometh in the morning." In fact it was well before morning when the two cars were spotted wavering towards us down the greasy mud road. We quickly tied the canoes on to the roof racks, packed the babies aboard and headed for home. Wade couldn't resist making another adventure out of it by taking a back dirt road through the Warrumbungles- in the pitch black night. At last we were back to the home paddocks and a big log fire burning in the cabin and hot food and soft beds. It was not a very long trip, but it was a taste of what the wild country has to offer. Jack will not be happy till he has acquired his own canoe and they come back for another trip. Me too.
by Len Newland. (and. incorporating some comments submitted. by Jim Brown)
Why do you go bushwalking? Surely each of us can supply a mass of reasons, none of which necessarily predominates at all times. Almost surely, these aspects include the overview of bushland that can only be obtained from some sort of vantage point or lookout. Even lookouts, however, have their dangers, as some of our major accidents in the Club show. The following comments apply to lookouts and cliff edges, and also to the somewhat lower rocks that we climb over or around during our walking. So if you are next to a drop of any sort, be it a shallow creek (possible twisted ankles) or a 200 foot lookout (probable broken scone), evaluate the situation in terms of these comments. Do this consciously enough times, and it will eventually be automatic, thus making these situations safer.
(1) Nature and Condition of Edge.
Is it rook? -
Is it cracked (like shale)?
Is it crumbly (like clay)?
Is it smooth or rough?
Is it wet or dry?
Does it slope down towards the edge?
Are there present leaves, twigs, moss or pebbles?
Probably the safest condition is that of a clear, dry, rough, solid rock sloping away from the edge. Loose-rock, clay or pebbles; leaves or twigs; moss or moisture, smoothness; and an outward slope all contribute to your ability to slide- fun when sliding from a low rock into a deep creek, but definitely dangerous atop a high cliff.
(2) Condition of Footwear.
Are the soles of your shoes smooth, or do you have a good "tractor tyre tread?
What did you walk in in the last five minutes?
As commented under (1), smoothness contributes to "slidability", especially when combined with, for example, wet sand that you just walked in. Pasty materials, such as found in farmers' paddocks, or granular material, such as sand (which sticks to your shoes when Wet) are very good at lubricating your slide. A recent article in a motoring journal showed that bald car tyres have a much better grip on the road than treaded ones- so long as they are dry. When wet, they offer practically no grip. The same applies to your walking shoes, especially on moss.
(3) Alertness of Walkers.
How close to the edge do you have to go for the best view, or other purpose?
How close to the edge do you have to go to collect water?
How close to the edge do you have to go before.,ceasing to jostle others or indulge in any other horseplay?
How close to the edge do you have to leave your pack?
Do you shuffle your feet while peering through your camera viewfinder?
The first three of the questions require little additional comment, as the ramifications are obvious. Packs, if left close to an edge, not only might fall off, but people have been known to trip over them (also such innocuous items as waterbags have been the cause of falls). Also, while you are reaching for your pack, or your tea, do you watch where you put your feet? Check yourself next walk, even away from edges- you might be surprised! Again, it is interesting how many people change their stance while aiming a camera see if you're one. Such a dance could well be the end of that photograph and maybe that walker. As far as collecting water at the rim edge of a waterfall is concerned, one case is known of a girl who went over, on a trip some years back. These things do happen.
If you are on a walk, and suddenly happen to remember this article, but can't remember the above question checklist, just ask yourself these questions:
What am I walking on/in?
Will it make me slip ten metres ahead?.
In Fergus Bents "Bushwalkers' Search and-Rescue' lecture in the Club in September (You missed another informative session, didn't you), he made a feature of the fact that rock climbing club members are thoroughly trained in safety techniques. We bushwaikers are not (and in effect cannot be) so trained, so we must train ourselves. This series of articles does not attempt to lay down any safety rules. It is designed to make the reader aware of the sorts of things that can go wrong in the bush, so that he can think for himself about the safe approach to any situation. The slogan is - "Bushwalker, Train Thyself".
I recently received this communication (with gratitude).
"Dear Len,
As you wanted to hear from more people re your series "Bush Safety Awareness", I am writing to tell you of a type of accident in the bush that has been common in my family. Last weekend, while taking our children for a short walk near Berowra Waters, we stopped for lunch on a rocky Outcrop. My 9-year-old daughter climbed up a sloping rock about 12 ft high. I was arrested by a cry and turned to see her rolling down the rock (45° slope). As she stood upright almost at the top, she had hit her head on a large horizontal branch of a gum tree, lost her balance and fallen back down to the bottom. Luckily, she only suffered grazes to arms, legs and spine but the outcome could easily have been more serious.
Strangely enough, I had hit my head on another branch of the same tree a few months ago (but did not fall). My husband had a similar accident climbing up the Gordon Smith Pass at Kanangra recently but without serious injury. (Perhaps we have an hereditary failing!) I can't think of any way to guard against this type of mishap. Maybe you can.
P.S. There is no hope for us - this evening I stood up after sweeping some crumbs into the dustpan and guess what - I hit my head on an open cupboard door above me!"
(Unless specifically requested, we won't be publishing names in this column. How 'bout a few more letters from members telling about their mishaps - we'd all like to know what to watch out for.)
by Owen Marks.
About five years ago, during an interval at one of the Old Tote productions, Christine Austin told me to get hold of a book by Fielding called "Joseph Andrews". Her words were "a supremely written story; much better than Tom Jones". Well, I did. buy a copy and enjoyed it immensely, but whilst reading about the wanderings on foot of this 18th Century philanderer, a thought came to me that if ever I had the time, I would chronicle only his walking tours of England. (In those days they would walk 40 miles across the county to see Lord So-and-so at a fair and would think nothing of walking in woeful weather, four miles to church after awakening from an orgy.) Well, I never did and possibly somebody else will.
All this made me think. Why not write about one of my ancestors who walked all the way from Rome to Leipzig and fiddled around Switzerland. It has all been published before in various books, but always musically orientated. My grandmother who died two years ago aged 100, had odd papers and letters and a diary that was obviously copied from another diary or letters. (It was in my grandmother's writing, so she must have copied it herself.) They were the daily jottings of her grand-aunt's "younger second cousin Jakob Mendelssohn (known to the world as Felix)", so with these hitherto unpublished letters and jottings, and from what we glean in musical history books, I shall tell of my great-great-great-great-grandaunt's son.
The diary starts off in 1837 when he was already famous and had been given an audience with the Pope who said that "although I am stone deaf, it seams to be the consensus of opinion here in the Vatican and abroad, your gifts to mankind and their Christian message will last as long as the Holy Mother Church plays music". He was, of course, referring to "Elijah" and "St.Paul" (two oratorios). The only Mendelssohn heard today in churches is the Wedding March from The Midsummer Night's Dream"; not very Christian.
As he had been too long in Rome and the weather was getting him down, he wrote to his Aunt Rebekkah (who was my family connection; it wasn't his real aunt but a second cousin on his father's side; my great-grand- mother's maiden name was Mendelssohn; no more on this family connection; if it's not clear now, it never will be; although I must confess it's my only claim to fame) that he intended to follow a party of English tourists to Florence and thence after a short stay with the Orsoni family, would walk throughout the summer before arriving home in Leipzig. His intended route was via the Dolomites, then climb a few peaks in Switzerland, cross the Rhine and walk through the forests and arrive home fresh for his new post as Director of the Conservatorium. His father owned banks, he had married filthy rich and was the cream of society, and he had no need to walk anywhere. His Aunt Becky advised him to "Take a poste. You have no need to and it will aggravate your mother if you get caught by bandits and if such a thing would happen, God forbid, it would disturb the harmony of the family". Uncle Felix had no intention of being shook up by those rough coaches, as he had a bad back.
On May 30, he set out with a Lord Effington and Paltry, the latter being the servant who objected to having to carry Felix's gear. After two days there was a split because "the English Lord insisted on washing at every stream, so from Montefiascone, Felix said farewell to them and took "a public horse" to Siena. It took three days and the "horse" was a donkey that carried the luggage whilst the hirer walked behind. Nothing of much interest happened apart from the heat which caused many frequent stops at inns and the inevitable wine "which not only is of 5th quality but makes walking more difficult due to my bodily functions being impaired". At Abbadia "I played my favorite piece on the local church organ, to the accompaniment of donkeys braying in the main square outside". The next morning "after a terrible night of fleas, I climbed the local hill for a view, and thought of my precious". (Unnamed, I might add. Also unnamed was his favorite piece. Very tantalising.)
After two days in Siena "I decided to halve my baggage and carry it on my back, because of the mixup". (It seems that four or five people shared the same public horse, and the young boy who accompanied it must have deliberately misplaced some of the luggage.) Anyway, he gave away all his heavy "fabrics" and had two canvas shoulder bags made by a local craftan and thus became a conventional modern day walker with his gear on his back and money in his pocket. He averaged 25 to 30 miles a day, which is excellent, and it gave him time to "sit on wells and make the local girls laugh at my accent".
The main roads must have been quite safe otherwise he wouldn't have done it. A hundred and fifty years ago it must have been quite lovely indeed, with only an occasional coach zipping along the dusty valleys to liven up things. Anyway, a day and a half later he was in Florence and "my friends were delighted to see me and asked how was the journey, because of the tremors in the last day, to which I replied that I was unaware of anything untoward". He sat in the gardens "behind the house" (if you have seen the house belonging to the Orsoni family, you will realise what an understatement that was. The whopping, big, dismal Pitti Palace). He rested and played the violin at night "to the children, who were always delighted to hear me in silence", but his pride made him refuse to play the organ in the Duomo, because the Papal Legation practically ordered him to, and thus he got indignant gave as the excuse that the organ stops were "too noisy and the ladies more so". It seams he loved Florence, but didn't think much of Micholangelo's David. "His hands are too big and he should be circumcised," I agree with him, and Art critics take note.
To Bologna took three days (about 60 miles). This is one of Italy's loveliest valley systems, with glorious mountains and the road winding through unspoilt villages that even today (I was there last year on my Grand Tour) is very much as it was a hundred years ago, if you can block your ears to the traffic tooting. The first day out it rained and he reached a village called San Pietro "where I dried out my leather pants and noticed a gold button missing from my waistcoat". The muddy roads held him up and he only made 15 miles before he gave up and beneath a pass he slept in a shepherd's hut. The old man "played a rough flute", but he couldn't stand the smell so "at an early hour I walked up and over and made Loiana by mid-morning where there was a small Fiesta going, and I decided to stay here all day and enjoy the peasants' merrymaking.' There is nothing that can express the pleasure in seeing people dancing and hearing their glorious voices. Why can't my own native Germans sing so eloquently?" Nothing has changed!
He left here at sunset and walked in "the cool air to Pianaro (or Bianara?) where I stayed at a local house that were expecting me." (Obviously somebody from the Fiesta had left earlier and reserved accommodation.) "Next morning I set out early for Bologna."
At Bologna something awful must have happened as he vowed "to leave this insufferable town immediately", and he took the coach to Cremona vowing "never again to travel with Italians who eat garlic, and whose rudeness made this ride really uncomfortable. Brother Pirenzo was adept at passing wind in the key of G. I declined his invitation to stay at his monastery in Cremona." Nothing seamed to please him.
Cremona, then as now, is a pleasant place. He met his old school friend who was employed by the Duke of Cicognolo, a Franz Lilienthal, and went with him into the neighboring hills to paint the peasants harvesting. (Felix M. has works in the Hamburg Art Gallery, watercolours of Venice and Scotland.) At Cremona he bought a pair of black boots with "bright green buttons, as my shoes were good for nothing", and tried to buy a matching gold button for his waistcoat and found that he had lost another button, So he bought three new silver ones "which would do as a present for Mitzi".
Also here in Cremona, Mozart's "Don Giovanni" was on, and during the interval he went backstage and promptly fell asleep on the floor in the musicians' room and woke up after the show. His head full of tunes he 'Worked all the night" (he never says at what!) And thus missed the party that was to be held in his honour. The cream of Cremona was upset at this rudeness and they were only mollified by his accepting their offer of him conducting a programme of his Symphonies. The audience coughed and talked throughout the concert, so Felix would throw his baton high into the air and catch it. A hush would be created. This he did repeatedly during the concert. A FIASCO. He wrote lime saying, "This was the highlight of my stay in Italy." He had a sense of humour.
If you are wondering what he wore to all these posh places seeing he carried so little, I can't help you. I suppose he borrowed from everyone. He was considered the Beau Brummel of Hamburg society and yet here he was literally bumming around Italy astounding one and all, and even today reading about his trip you can't help admiring the fellow.
(Part 2 of Mendelssohn's walking trip from Italy to Germany will be in next month's magazine.)
From Dorothy Lawry's Diary.
(Coincidentally, before I received Dorothy Lawry's article- see last month's magazine- Jess Martin had sent me this extract from Dorothy's diary of 1939. We print Dorothy's story on the 50th Anniversary of this "first". Editor.)
("Christine" in Dorothy's diary notes was her name for her car, a tourer with running boards. In my early days in the S.B.W., very few members had motor cars. Frank Cramp had a big touring car and after one winter weekend driving up the mountains, the boys nicknamed it the "Flying Frigidaire". I found Wingecarribee Gorge rather spectacular, and it was there, where we found a camping spot for the night, that we were entertained by lyrebirds scratching round the tent and giving us a chorus of bird calls. Jess Martin.)
Having secured Ray Birt as a mate for the first week and Jessie Martin for the second week, I planned a trip from Mount Werong south down the Abercrombie River and over the hills to Taralga, where the change of partners and direction would be made, the second week being fully occupied in going dawn Guineacore Creek to the Wollondilly and up the Wingecarribee River to Joadja, or further, and home from Mittagong or Bowral.
To get to Mt. Werong I arranged with Mr. Druitt to come along, and he and Tuggie to take Christine back to Sydney. Dorothy Hasluck came too, but only for the weekend drive, as she could not manage the whole week away from her business.
Saturday, 18th November, 1939 was fine, and. Mr. Druitt and Tuggie came to my place and we packed the luggage carrier, then picked up Dorothy at Neutral Bay Junction and put her rucksack and the veges in the side luggage carrier. Then we arrived at St. Leonards to pick up Ray at 9.30am, only half an hour late, but all packed and rearing to go.
Christine went like a bird till we were part way up a long hill not far from the Kings Tableland turnoff. Then she boiled like mad. That was the start of the trouble. After that we could not keep her cool. Tried a garage at Blackheath- he thought it might be the long pull up the mountains for an old car, and advised us to carry on to Lithgow District Depot, as she was pulling splendidly and the fan and oil pump were both working. She did not boil again until we were nearly up the hill from the Lett River and only a couple of miles between there and Lithgow; so when we found the Depot closed, we were not sufficiently worried to hunt town for the man, but carried on.
From there on Christine boiled every 5 or 6 miles, so we decided to go into Bathurst for attention. Horan's Garage there Sold us some radiator tablets and told us to flush the radiator at the Fish River, about 10 miles out on the Oberon Road.
Had a grill at the Chelsea Cafe, showed the party- Machatti Park, and set out for Oberon.
A lovely moonlight night and she went well to the Fish River. No camping spot there, but we drained and flushed and refilled the radiator, and went on with high hopes - for 6 miles. Then she boiled again - and kept on repeating the performance, but we finally reached Oberon and stopped at the first garage for 1 1/2 gals. petrol. The man said he was no mechanic, but a Mr.Lambert at one of the other local garages was excellent, if we could get hold of him. Found him just going home - from the N.R.M.A. District Depot that we had not known about! He suggested a "reverse flush" and arranged for his assistant to do it, in the morning. Drove about 1 mile further along the Jenolan Caves Road and camped by the Fish River Creek - a lovely spot.
Sunday llth November, 1939 Another lovely day. By the time we broke camp, packed, and returned to Oberon it was 9.30am, and by the time the job was complete, it was 11am, so Ray and I decided to stay with the car to the Bummaroo Ford over the Abercrombie River, and to go upstream instead of down. Had lunch there with the others, and they left at 3pm for Goulburn and Sydney, without a horn as she had blown two fuses that morning, and we could not locate the short, but Mr. Druitt would have that fixed at the first garage he came to. Otherwise the car was going like a bird - and so she ought after the dirt that came out of the radiator. When the other three left in Christine, Ray and I set out up the left bank of the Abercrombie River, and, as she did not want to wet her feet, we kept to that side all through. It would have been easier to have crossed and recrossed every now and then, instead of pushing through bushes and nettles and thistles, and scrambling in other parts. However, about 3 miles up we found a nice little camp spot, where a side creek came in that had a pool in the right place for getting drinking water.
All this country is shale, and slate capped with basalt, so that river was somewhat muddy, and along its banks were quite a lot of bushes (ti-tree, I think) with a very heavy, unpleasant stink. Evidently they use flies for fertilisation, but this first afternoon, I was blaming the water for the smell!
After tea, had a wash, lost my soap, and had to have a bath to recover it. Water delightfully warm.
(Dorothy's Diary will be continued in next month's magazine.)
by the Observationist
I have arrived home exhausted from a wow of a dance and am in a fervour. In how many ways can I describe the success of the Federation Ball? In hundred of ways. At this early hour I can still hear the trippling rills of laughter, the refreshing smells of the weary dancers, the soft lilting beat of the paso doble and the cries of delight at the fancy dress. I shall describe with no artistic merit at all exactly what went on and you will have to put it all together yourself.
The Place. Balmain Town Hall. It may have seen better days but what the hall saw last night could have rivalled Melba's last farewell in London with such a wild exuberance rarely seen in the troubled 70s. A vast spacious hall partly made from corrugated iron with narrow side passage- ways to get you to the toilets quickly. Simple fluorescent lighting that enabled you to miss the holes in the unsprung floor, and a very efficient air conditioning system called O.W.S. (open window system). On all sides were quaint trestles with firm white paper tablecloths, that were of such a variety that you couldn't tear them up for making paper aeroplanes (worse luck). The ladies brought food and the gents the drinks. Champagne, beer, soft drinks and even our tasty Sydney water flowed from the cornucopia, and the pavlovas, healthfood rissoles, cakes, were there in gargantuan gorgeous display.
Who was there? Who wasn't there! All the beautiful people of the Bushwalking movement. Canoeing clubs, the rookies, cavers, and us - the humble walkers. From smiling millionaires to soulful dolebludgers; from young innocents to old mature solid god-fearing sensible senior members. Everyone had the joy of living and sharing of hidden strengths that are a delight to see. Some groups had transcendental table decorations, others had none (S.B.W. are making plans to win the prize next year).
While none of the S.B.W. came in fancy dress, the 42 of us were by all opinion the most solid decently attired mob there. Bearded denizens of the bush were seen dancing with sylph-like Willis. Lady Sneerwell types dancing with Fagan, and the REDDY RIVER MUSIC GROUP gave us their best. Such improvisations and zest were a joy to all. The Music man called Moby Disc gave us refreshing and 'a tangy style of,"with it"rhythms. I even learnt the words of Macho Macho, Macho-Man., Thank heavens it wasn't loud; just simple style music for the simple folk. Music you can talk over is the best to dance to (so said Dorothy Butler who unfortunately couldn't make it) and she would have been happy last night at Balmain.
Was there anything worth while looking at on the dance floor? Was there ever!!!! The speleos were there in force, dancing with their helmets on, with packs on showing how tough they are. "Beware the carabieners," the Rockies kept on calling and it shows their supreme skill how nobody was injured last night. One young thing was wearing ski-boots all night, a bikini top and short, short jean shorts. Another maiden came on skis with wheels. Another obstacle was a canoe with a bod front and rear paddling around the hall, which led to Pavlovian reflexes among everybody. If they headed for you you simply made a tunnel for them and they would slide right through. Everyone being physically fit led to hardly any persons sitting out the dances. By the end of the evening everyone was worn out and yet I overheard the Y.M.C.A. "SPAN" Club members planning a trip on this very morning.
Now comes the list of S.B.W. members and their idiosyncrasies. Perfect authors would have sprinkled names throughout the entire article but as I can't be bothered being clever or have the time to set it all out (I am due at the airport in three hours before embarking for my overseas post), I am rushing this to the Editor for inclusion in the next magazine.
The ladies outshone the men as is natural seeing that women spend all their income on clothing and men have to struggle to keep house and kin together, but where was I? Yes, Bob and Christa Younger were there sharing the quadrilles with Leon Vella in a washed satin shirt and Marion Lloyd who looked as though she had stepped out of "Picnic at Hanging Rock", Neil and Anne Brown just back from Malaysia were jiving in their wedding clothes, Anne having an organza thing with roses at neck and waist, the Hodgemans were there, dancing with their bicycles over the shoulders, and this made Snow Brown laugh (Claribelle stunning one and all, by her Irish Green Gown). Robin Herbert in a diaphanous creation and her Greek God companion were having a drinking competition with Rosemary Baxter (who was attired like Nell Gwynn) and John Redfern who wasn't. Judy Maley, Helen Rowen and Barbara Bruce all wore blue, and it was a sight for sore eyes to see them sharing the one bottle of beer, just like sisters. Owen Marks, the ONLY male to came in evening suit (the same monkey suit that he wore to the Himalayas, if his story can be believed) was seen in a crocodile samba sandwiched between Twinkletoes Crane and Christine Davidson (nee Brown), the latter wearing a remarkably unique imitation cotton print of an Indian sari. Her husband Geoff and new member Ken Gould quaffed the orange drink like professionals. Frank Roberts, Wayne Steele and Peter Sargent wore working clothes. Shame. Jenny and Don Cornell were observed falling down in the Strip the Willow. Peter Christian and Vivian Shaffer (in a Dior gown of patchy proportion) led the field in tripping the unwary, and Barry Wallace and Tony Denham (who incidentally won the raffle, the prize being a beaut rucksack) were observed to never sit out a dance, (Not together, of course!) Such stamina. Sat opposite Jo van Sommers and she was enjoying the food like you wouldn't believe. Her aristocratic navy evening gown, replete with diamonds and sapphires, was the envy of Denise Brown, who was wearing nothing (jewelwise!!!). Bill Burke, smartly attired, brought along a rare 1979 Soda water and it received, rave reviews.
Not being a drink connoisseur, I will not be drawn into the argument. Forgot to mention a new prospective Diane somebody-ore-ther who was caught dancing barefoot with John Blewitt all dressed in beige tonings; their rendition of "Rock Around the Clock Tonight" brought the house down. Her spotted frock was the envy of all. A nice compliment was overheard from a lady C.M.W. member. On seeing Tony Marshall and Wayne Steele she said, "I think I'll join the S.B.W. if the men are snazzily clothed like that." Obviously clothes do make the man. Peter Sargent who damaged a shin in the Scottish Reel was seen to be inspecting Linda's back. She had Chinese writing all over her blue check gown. Bob Hodgson, who said he could read Chinese, gave up after the first attempt. Craig and Marcia Shappert were seen nearly all the time doing the twist to whatever music was playing, and our farming member, Frank Roberts, practically dislocated his vertebrae doing an impromtu Schottische. The last of the S.B.W. group were Gordon Lee and his friend Toni, her spray of orchids being unique in the hall.
Towards the end, Owen started the paper plate throwing, and it was taken up by all it far surpasses the Greek custom of chucking REAL crockery. From such a night as this are memories made. We all toasted our absent friends and President.
The night was a ripping success. Forty three S.B.W. members out of a total of 330. Approx. 13%. Next year let's make it over 20%. Our thanks to Barbara Bruce who, with her customary enthusiasm, practically forced us at the point of a gun to buy tickets, and it is her we must praise. The time is now 5am and I am off to have a cup of coffee. Dawn is coming up and another fabulous night has gone. Let us have more such nights.
by Barry Wallace.
The meeting began at 20:18 with about 30 members present. There 7 were apologies from Neil Brown, Dot Butler and Alastair Battye.
Spiro, who as you shall find was to almost single handed present all the reports for the meeting, led off by reading the minutes, which were approved.
He then went on to present the correspondence which comprised:- notice from U.N.S.W. about a forthcoming rogaining event, a letter from the Premier of Victoria concerning available information on bushcraft, a letter from Mr. Ken Booth indicating that he had passed our letter regardihg campsites on the Wolgan over to Mr. Paul Landa and a reply from Mr. Landa indicating that these campsites will in fact be included in the national park. There was also a letter to our Hon Solicitor, Colin Broad, about the E.C. of N.S.W. easement through Coolana. As well as that there was an assortment of magazines and circulars.
Then it was Spiro's turn to present the Treasurer's report. We began the month with $2053.42 and finished up with $2114.80.
Federation Report, you guessed it, was presented by Spiro. This brought news of future S. & R. exercises, a canyon rescue practice for 1st and 2nd December, and other practice weekends on 22/23 March and 7/8 June 1980. There is a report of blackening of the waters of the Upper Grose and further information is being sought.
The Walks Report, as is usual, was presented by Spiro and went something like this. Ray Turton's Newnes base camp on 10/11/12th August attracted 12 people, Jim Brown reported 38 starters on his fine but rather windy Sunday trip on the same weekend. The following weekend saw Ian Debert leading 14 people through a rainy Saturday on the Murruin Creek - Tomat Oreek loop. Their Saturday discomfort, however, was somewhat overshadowed by lunching at 4:30pm on the Sunday, and then arriving back at the cars in the dark. Len Newland's Sunday trip attracted 20 people and there was no report whether Peter Christian's Waterfall trip went or not.
Peter Harris had managed to schedule walks on two different programmes for the 24/25/26th August. He combined the two but chose the easier of the two routes. The S.B.W. starters lapped it up and the weather was perfect. The Sunday walks saw 31 people enjoying the wildflowers around Kangaroo Creek with Sheila Binns and 28 people blurring along the Upper Grose with Joe Marton.
The weekend of 31st August and 1/2nd September saw Gordon Lee leading 9 people through perfect weather on a very scenic although rather strenuous trip in the Castle area. Steve and Wendy Hodgman's Dharug area pushbike trip attracted 13 starters and Meryl Watman's day trip saw 19 starters enjoying the wildflowers in Royal National Park. Vic Lewin's Sunday walk attracted 28 people on what was described as a good trip in good weather.
The following weekend 7/8/9th September saw Bob Hodgson leading six people on his Red Rocks spectacular, while Brian Hart had 9 starters on his Mt. Yengo trip. The Sunday trips were well attended with 14 people following Sheila Binns an her re-routed Royal National Park walk, and 24 people with Roy Braithwaite for most of his Jerusalem Bay walk, brought the Walks Report to an end.
General Business required the choice of a re-union site for next year, and Coolana got the nod. The position of convenor went to Spiro. Then there was a motion that we write to N.P.W.S. concerning the obstruction of a walking track in Brisbane Waters National Park by a rifle range easement, and that saw the end of General Business.
Announcements brought the news that the neighbours at Coolana were planning to burn-off their blocks before the summer dry sets in.
The meeting closed at 21:02.
Last year this event was attended by over 100 members. Indications are for another big roll up. Mark it on your planning calendar for Saturday 3rd November and note it is also a full moon. Moonlight swimming to cool off.
The S.B.W. Bushwackers Band will be there.
That the Special Instructions on the back of the Walks Programme be amended as follows:
Point 1, "For the Party Member", be separated into two parts:
(a) It is essential to give reasonable notice of intention to join a walk to the leader, who has the right not to accept anybody who has not notified him of his wish to join the walk.
(b) It is essential to verify all transport details with the leader.
by Ailsa Hocking.
Wednesday 21 The South West Tasmania Committed has introduced an audio-visual of the last of Tasmania's wild rivers - the Franklin. Will it, too, be dammed and flooded? The audio-visual consists of 100 slides and a taped commentary on the Franklin River. Came and support the South West Tasmania Committee's effort to preserve the Franklin and the rest of Tasmania's beautiful, wild, South West.
Wednesday 28 With summer fast approaching, we need to be aware of the dangers of bushfires. Bill Gillam is a volunteer fire fighter at Engadine. He can tell us the most common causes of bushfires, how they are fought, and what to do if you find yourself in the path of one.
Two walks to be led by Vic Lewin in the GROSE VALLEY have been shown as weekend walks but should have been shown as DAY TEST WALKS. The correct dates are Sunday 28th October and Sunday 18th November.
Also on the 18th November, a day walk to -be led by Sheila Binns will START from Waterfall, not Heathcote. Train 8.45am (Country) does not stop at Heathcote.
LEADER SWAP. The Bungonia trip on 16/17/18 November will now be led by Jim Laing instead of Len Newland. Please alter your Walks Programme accordingly.
2,3,4 ++ NARROW -NECK: Splendour Rock - Cox' s River - Carlon's - Narrow Neck 65km MED/HARD Maps:Jamieson/Katoomba .A good leg stretcher with tremendous views and good walking and camp sites LEADER: PETER MILLER 952689 (H)
3,4 COOLANA HUT: 1st Anniversary Barn Dance by the light of the full moon. Good camping, swimming & music in the peaceful Kangaroo Valley LEADER: GEORGE GRAY 866263 (H)
4 ENGADINE: Tukawa Rill - Kangaroo Ck- Karloo Pool - Heathcote 15 km EASY Map: Royal Nat Park LEADER: NEIL BROWN (042) 941376
4 0 COWAN- Jerusalem Bay - Porto Bay - Railway Dam - Brooklyn train: 8.48 (C) 15 km MEDIUM Tickets to Hawkesbury River LEADER: ROY BRAITHWAITE 445211 (H)
9,10,11 0 BARRINGTON TOPS: Barrington Guest House-Rain Forest-the Corker-the Big Pool- Carey's Peak-Barrington Guest House 30 km MEDIUM LEADER: FAZELEY READ 9093671 (H)
9,10,11 WILD DOG MTS: Carlon's Farm - Iron Pot Range - Lt. Cedar Gap - Mt Debert- Medlow Gap - Glen Alan Ck - Breakfast Ck Carlon's Ck - Carlon's Farm - 26 km MEDIUM Limit 10 Maps: Jenolan/Jamieson 1.31680 . A good 2 day test walk covering a lot of traditional territory staring from Megalong Valley LEADER: IAN DEBERT 6461569 (H) between 7 and 9 pm on Thursday 8th.
11 BOUDDI NAT PARK: Little Beach -the Moorstrack -Maitland Bay -coastal track to Kilcare 15km MEDIUM. A very pleasant day trip with expansive coastal views to Manly. Swimming if desired. LEADER:HANS STICHTER 6355808 (H)
11 0 BUNDEENDA: Wattamolla Garie Beach - Burning Palms - Otford 28km MEDIUM. Glorious coastal scenery - swimming optional Map: Pt Hacking LEADER:PETER CHRISTIAN
16 17,18 0 GROSE VALLEY: Evans Lookout - Bridle track - Blackwall Glen - Upper Govett's Leap Creek to Waterfall base - Cone Wall Base - Grand Canyon - Neate's Glen - Evan's Lookout 8.30 a m. start - cars to Evan's Lookout. 13 km MEDIUM Map:Katoomba . A not too difficult 2 day test walk offering good forest & mountain scenery LEADER: VICTOR LENIN 504096 (H).
16,17,18 BUNGONIA: Long Point Lookout - Shoalhaven River - Bungonia Gorge - Long Point Lookout (base camp Bungonia Creek) Map: Coura 25 km MEDIUM. Exciting sandstone cliffs & sweeping river views LEADER: LEN NEWLAND 432419 (B).
18 HEATHCOTE: Carloo Pool - Kangaroo Ck - Waterfall 12 km MEDIUM (Swimming optional) Map: Pt Hacking Train: 8.45 (C) Lush green forest scenery 7 good gentle walking LEADER: SHEILA BINNS 789 1854
18 STANWELL PARK:Zig Zag track -Mt Mitchell-Stanwell Park EASY Map: Port Hacking LEADER: PETER SERGEANT 5023637 (H)
24,25 0 MT. SOLITARY: Katoomba -Scenic Railway -Ruined Castle -Mt Solitary - Camp at Chinaman's Cave -Kedumba Creek -Sublime Pt. Ridge -Three Sisters -Katoomba 30 km MEDIUM Train: 8.10 am. (C) Map: Katoomba. No tents required -an interesting and scenic 1½ day test walk in the popular Kedumba Valley. LEADER: PETER CHRISTIAN.
25 0 WATERFALL: Fruer Gully - Bola Heights - Burning Palms - Werong Beach- Otford 15 km MEDIUM Map: Pt. Hacking Train: 8.45 (C) LEADER: JOE MARTON 638 7353 (FT)
25 ROYAL NAT. PARK: Lilyvale - Palm Jungle - Burning Palms - Garrawarra Farm - Otford 13 km EASY Map: Otford 1.25000 Train: 8.45 (C) (Tickets to Otford) LEADER: KATH BROWN 812675 (H)
197910.txt · Last modified: 2016/12/02 04:21 by joan | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
} | 8,562 |
Ossonis mentawensis är en skalbaggsart som beskrevs av Schwarzer 1930. Ossonis mentawensis ingår i släktet Ossonis och familjen långhorningar. Inga underarter finns listade i Catalogue of Life.
Källor
Långhorningar
mentawensis | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 921 |
{"url":"https:\/\/zbmath.org\/?q=an%3A1068.17009","text":"## Binary operations in classical and quantum mechanics.(English)Zbl\u00a01068.17009\n\nGrabowski, Janusz (ed.) et al., Classical and quantum integrability. Dedicated to W\u0142odzimierz Tulczyjew. Papers from the workshop, Warsaw, August 27 \u2013 September 1, 2001. Warsaw: Polish Academy of Sciences, Institute of Mathematics. Banach Cent. Publ. 59, 163-172 (2003).\nThe authors give a study of binary operations in order to find a minimal set of requirements for the structures in classical and quantum mechanics.\nAs observed by P. A. M. Dirac, when considering the quantum Poisson bracket of observables, the Leibniz rule implies that fixing an argument in the bracket, we get a derivation. Similarly, the authors show that natural compatibility conditions imply some properties, which become superfluous to require.\nMore precisely, it is shown that the differentiability of the bracket and the Jacobi identity imply the skew-symmetry.\nAs a consequence, this result tells us for instance that Loday algebras (as defined in [J.-L. Loday, Enseign. Math., II. S\u00e9r. 39, 269\u2013293 (1993; Zbl\u00a00806.55009)]) do not exist, except for the skew-symmetric ones). In other words, it is proved that breaking the skew-symmetry in the context is impossible.\nFor the entire collection see [Zbl\u00a01011.00047].\n\n### MSC:\n\n 17B65 Infinite-dimensional Lie (super)algebras 17B63 Poisson algebras 37N20 Dynamical systems in other branches of physics (quantum mechanics, general relativity, laser physics) 53D17 Poisson manifolds; Poisson groupoids and algebroids 81R10 Infinite-dimensional groups and algebras motivated by physics, including Virasoro, Kac-Moody, $$W$$-algebras and other current algebras and their representations\n\nZbl 0806.55009\nFull Text:","date":"2022-07-01 01:16:37","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.791690468788147, \"perplexity\": 1165.472258915944}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2022-27\/segments\/1656103917192.48\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20220701004112-20220701034112-00090.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
'use strict';
async function main() {
try {
const app = await require('./app').init();
const port = app.get('port');
const server = app.listen(port);
server.on('listening', () =>
console.log(`Feathers application started on ${app.get('host')}:${port}`)
);
} catch (e) {
console.error(e);
}
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main();
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"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
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class Button;
class ToolTip {
public:
static ToolTip *Create(
UISimpleFrame *parent,
float width,
float height,
const char *formattedContent,
bool dontStore = false
);
static void Destroy(ToolTip *tooltip);
void bindButton(Button *button);
void applyPosition();
void show();
void hide();
private:
ToolTip();
UISimpleFrame* _frame;
UISimpleFontString* _text;
};
void ToolTip_Init();
void ToolTip_Cleanup();
#endif | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 6,226 |
\section{Introduction}\label{intro}
The Einasto profile is a 3-parameter function that is used to describe the spherically averaged 3-dimensional spatial density $\rho(r)$ of galaxies and dark matter haloes. The function is of the form:
\begin{align}\label{modexp1}
\rho(r)=\rho_s \ e^{- b [(r/r_{s})^{\alpha}-1 ]} = \rho_0 \ e^{- b (r/r_s)^{\alpha}}
\end{align}
where, $\rho_s$ is the 3D volume density at a scale-length $r_s$, $\rho_0=\rho_s e^b$ is the central density with $b=2/\alpha$ and $\alpha$ is the parameter defining the shape of the profile. The exponential ($\alpha=1$) and the gaussian ($\alpha=2$) functions are members of this family of functions. The function is also described using a shape-parameter $n$ where $n=1/\alpha$. Throughout this paper, we will use the form in equation \eqref{modexp1}.
This functional form, first proposed by~\citet{Einasto:1965}, has been used to model multiple components in the structure of spiral and elliptical galaxies~\citet*{Rummel:onm31, Tenjes:onm87, Tempel:4594} and \citealt{Dhar:ellipticals} (hereafter \citetalias{Dhar:ellipticals}). It has also been successful in describing the spherically averaged 3D density profiles of dark matter haloes in N-body simulations~\citep{Nav04:einasto, Merritt:05, Merritt:06}. This is probably because the Einasto profile is a very good approximation to the density profile $\rho(r)$ of DARKexp---an equilibrium statistical mechanical theory of collisionless self-gravitational systems where $\rho(r)$ does not have an analytical form ~\citep{HjorthW:10, HjorthW:15}. This similarity with DARKexp has been observed in N-body simulations \citep*{WilliamsH:10} as well as in real clusters of galaxies \citep*{Beraldo:13}.
In imaging studies, observations are of quantities projected in the 2-dimensional (2D) plane of the sky at a projected radial distance $R$, such as the surface brightness $\Sigma(R)$. Likewise, projected quantities such as the convergence $\kappa (R)$ and the mass enclosed $M_{2D}(R)$ in an infinitely long cylindrical column of radius $R$ are important quantities of interest in studying the effects of gravitational lensing. All of these quantities are related to a projection of the volume density $\rho(r)$.
Nevertheless, except for the case of $\alpha=2$, analytically projecting \autoref{modexp1} {\it and calculating} $\Sigma(R)$, $\kappa(R)$ and $M_{2D}(R)$ exactly is impossible (see \citealt{Dhar:surfden} (hereafter, \citetalias{Dhar:surfden}) and \citealt*{Cardone:2005}). \citetalias{Dhar:surfden} developed an analytical approximation for $\Sigma(R)$ and \citealt{Retana:analprops} (hereafter, \citetalias{Retana:analprops}) used the {\it Fox-H} function to {\it describe} exact solutions for several quantities. However, save for the case of the exponential ($\alpha=1$) and the gaussian ($\alpha=2$), the solutions in \citetalias{Retana:analprops} cannot be {\it computed} using standard special functions. Moreover, these two profiles do not cover several systems of astrophysical interest.
For instance, \citet{Dhar:ellipticals} have shown that the outer (dominant) component of massive ellipticals in the Virgo Cluster are described by Einasto profiles with $0.1 \lesssim \alpha \lesssim 0.2$ and other components in those galaxies as well as all components in smaller cuspy ellipticals have profiles with $0.2 \lesssim \alpha \lesssim 1.5$. The authors note the striking similarity in the range of $\alpha$ seen in the outer components of massive ellipticals and the range seen in the N-body simulations and conjecture that the surface brightness profiles of the outer components may be reflecting the shape of the underlying dark matter halo. \citet{GaoL:08} and \citet{Klypin:multidark} explored the evolution of dark matter haloes (in N-body simulations) as a function of redshift and found similar trends---$0.12 \lesssim \alpha \lesssim 0.3$ at low ($z<1$) redshift, increasing to $0.25 \lesssim \alpha \lesssim 0.44$ at high ($z>3$) redshift. We will therefore, hereafter, refer to $0.1 \lesssim \alpha \lesssim 2.0$ as the {\it range of current practical interest}. The results of this paper have nevertheless been tested for $0.05 \leq \alpha \leq 5.0$ to ensure stability of the solutions outside the range of current interest. As shown in~\autoref{Einastoprofiles}, this range covers a broad family of profile shapes as elaborated in the caption of ~\autoref{Einastoprofiles}.
While an analytical approximation to calculate the surface density $\Sigma(R)$ for Einasto profiles has been developed in \citetalias{Dhar:surfden}, a solution for calculating the projected mass (or counts), using existing practice (discussed in \autoref{newmethod}) has remained elusive. The lack of the latter limits our ability to use projected mass (or counts) to study Einasto profiles using observed data. For example, while studying flux ratios in the gravitationally lensed system HS 0810+2554 ~\citep{Jones:gravlens}, the authors could not calculate the projected mass and the Einstein radius (due to an Einasto profile for the lens) by either using the results from \citetalias{Retana:analprops} or from \citetalias{Dhar:surfden} and had to use a S{\'e}rsic equivalent profile from \citetalias{Dhar:surfden} to calculate the Einstein radius. However, such equivalences are not accurate as ~\citetalias{Dhar:surfden} notes. The goal of this paper is therefore twofold:
\begin{enumerate}
\item First is to present a new method (in ~\autoref{newmethod}) for calculating the projected mass (or counts) in a cylindrical column of infinite length. We will refer to this quantity as $M_{2D}(R)$;
\item Second is to show how this new method can be applied to develop an analytical solution for the projected mass (or counts) of Einasto profiles, and then use that expression to develop a solution for the surface density $\Sigma(R)$, as we will see in ~\autoref{approxderiv}.
\end{enumerate}
In that light, for the rest of this paper we will use the phrase {\it analytically integrable} to imply integrable in closed form using functions in standard \texttt{C++} math libraries such as the {\it GNU Scientific Library (GSL)} \citep{GSL:lib} so that the model can be used in a broad range of computing environments. We will also use the notation of $M_{2D}(R)$ to represent any integrated volume density under projection. We will therefore refer to this quantity either as the {\it columnar mass} or the {\it projected mass} or the {\it projected luminosity} or as the {\it columnar number counts}. Likewise, $\Sigma(R)$ will refer to either a surface (or projected) mass density or the projected number density or a projected luminosity density, also known as the surface brightness.
\vspace{-5mm}
\section{A New Method for calculating the Mass (or Counts) in a cylindrical column $M_{2D}(R)$:}\label{newmethod}
It is a common practice to calculate the mass (or counts) within an infinitely long cylindrical column of radius $R$, $M_{2D}(R)$, by integrating the projected surface density $\Sigma(R)$ over the projected radius $R$:
\begin{flalign}\label{TradCp}
M_{2D}(R) &= 2\pi \int^{R}_{0} x \ \Sigma(x) \ dx
\end{flalign}
We can then relate $M_{2D}(R)$ to the intrinsic density $\rho(r)$ since $\Sigma(R)$ is related to $\rho(r)$ through the forward Abel transform of $\rho(r)$:
\begin{flalign}\label{AbelTransform}
\Sigma(R)=2 \int_{0}^{\infty} \rho(r) dz \ \ OR \ \ 2 \int_R^\infty \frac{\rho(r) \ r}{\sqrt{r^2-R^2}} \ dr
\end{flalign}
where, $z=\sqrt{r^2-R^2}$ is a coordinate along the line of sight to the observer. Refer to \autoref{SphCapfig} for a schematic showing $z$, $r$ and $R$.
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[width=\columnwidth]{Einasto_linear.eps}
\vspace{-5mm}
\caption{Normalized Einasto profiles of the form $\rho(r)/\rho_0 = e^{-(r/r_s)^\alpha}$ where $\alpha$ controls the shape of the function. Profiles with $\alpha > 1$ can be used to model systems where the density rises gradually as $r \to 0$ but falls off sharply at larger $r$, while profiles with $\alpha < 1$ apply to systems where the density rises sharply as $r \to 0$ but falls off gradually at larger $r$.}
\label{Einastoprofiles}
\end{figure}
Hence, analytically computing $M_{2D}(R)$ requires computing a double integral---one over intrinsic space and one over projected space:
\begin{flalign}\label{C2Ddouble}
M_{2D} (R) &=4\pi \int^{R}_{0} \ x \ \left( \ \int^{\infty}_{x} \frac{\rho(r)}{\sqrt{1-(\frac{x}{r})^{2}}} \ dr \right) \ \ dx
\end{flalign}
Analytical computation of $M_{2D}(R)$ becomes impossible if either one of the integrals is not analytically computable. For the Einasto profile, \citetalias{Retana:analprops} presents an analytical {\it description} using the {\it Fox-H} function, but as of now there is no way to {\it compute} {\it Fox-H} functions.
We will therefore develop an analytical approximation for $M_{2D}(R)$ inspired by a novel approach first proposed by \citet{Dhar:thesis} but build the solution differently. We recall the proposal in \citet{Dhar:thesis} that since the integrals of $\rho(r)$ and $\rho(r) \ r^2$ exist in the domain $0 \leq r \leq \infty$ for the Einasto profile, we can calculate $M_{2D}(R)$ as a sum of the intrinsic 3D mass $M_{3D}(r)$ within a sphere of intrinsic radius $r=R$ and the mass over spherical caps of base radius $R$ and surface area $A(r)$ (see schematic in \autoref{SphCapfig}), instead of the conventional approach of equations \eqref{TradCp} and \eqref{C2Ddouble}. This significantly simplifies the calculation of $M_{2D}(R)$ from a double integral over two domains ($r$ and $R$) as in equation \eqref{C2Ddouble} to a single integral over just the intrinsic space $r$ as in:
\begin{align}\label{newCp}
M_{2D} (R)= M_{3D}(R)+ 2 \int^{\infty}_{R} \rho(r) A(r) dr
\end{align}
\begin{align}\label{Cr3D}
where, ~~~ M_{3D}(R) &=4 \pi \int^{R}_{0} r^{2} \ \rho(r) \ dr
\end{align}
is the mass enclosed in a sphere of radius $r=R$, \ and
\begin{align}\label{acap}
A(r)=2 \pi r^{2} \left(1-\sqrt{1-(R/r)^{2}}\right)
\end{align}
is the area of a spherical cap at an intrinsic radial distance $r$ with $R$ as the radius of the base of the spherical cap (see \autoref{SphCapfig}).
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[width=\columnwidth]{Fig_SphCapGeometry.eps}
\caption{Schematic showing $x, r, z$ and $R$ in a cylindrical column of infinite length and radius $R$. The shaded region is the spherical cap of surface area $A(r)$ at $r$ with a base radius $R$.}
\label{SphCapfig}
\end{figure}
Expanding the square root in \autoref{acap}, we get:
\begin{equation}\label{CpPowerorig}
\begin{split}
& M_{2D}(R)=M_{3D}(R) \ + \\
& 4 \pi \int^{\infty}_{R} \rho(r) \ r^{2} \left(\frac{1}{2} \frac{R^2}{r^2} + \frac{1}{8} \frac{R^4}{r^4} + \frac{1}{16} \frac{R^6}{r^6} + \frac{5}{128} \frac{R^8}{r^8}+.... \right) \ dr
\end{split}
\end{equation}
which can be rewritten as
\begin{equation}\label{CpPower}
\begin{split}
& M_{2D}(R)=M_{3D}(R) + 2 \pi R^{2} \int^{\infty}_{R} \rho(r) \ dr \ + \\
& 4 \pi R^{2} \int^{\infty}_{R} \rho(r) \left(\frac{1}{8} \frac{R^2}{r^2} + \frac{1}{16} \frac{R^4}{r^4} + \frac{5}{128} \frac{R^6}{r^6} +.... \right) \ dr
\end{split}
\end{equation}
The power series in~\autoref{CpPower} is convergent for all $r \geq R$: as $r \to R$ the expansion tends to 1 and as $r \to \infty$ the expansion approaches $\frac{1}{2}$. This opens up the possibility of developing closed form analytical approximations for $M_{2D}(R)$ by limiting the series to a few terms.
We proceed to do so for the Einasto profile (\autoref{modexp1}) by observing that $M_{3D}(r)$ and the first integral in \autoref{CpPower} are analytically integrable, while the remaining terms are not integrable in terms of functions in standard math libraries. For those terms, we exploit a simplification due to Bonnet's $2^{nd}$ mean value theorem (MVT) which states that (see \citet{Bonnet:2ndmvt} and \citet{Hobson:2ndmvt})---%
{\it if f(x) is a finite and monotonic function in the interval (a,b) and g(x) possesses a Lebesgue integral---i.e. is integrable in (a, b) or has at most one non-absolutely convergent improper integral in (a, b)---then there exists a point $\zeta$, in $a \leq \zeta \leq b$,
such that,
\begin{flalign}
\int_a^b f(x) g(x) dx = f(a) \int_a^\zeta g(x) dx + f(b) \int_\zeta^b g(x) dx
\end{flalign}
\it}
We observe that for each term in the power series expansion (\autoref{CpPower}) we can identify terms like $(R/r)^m$ with $f(x)$ and $\rho(r)$ with $g(x)$. Then, by Bonnet's $2^{nd} MVT$ , there exists a $\zeta_i >1$ per term
\begin{align}\label{betai}
such~~that~,~~~\int_{R}^{\infty} \beta_i \ \Big(\frac{R}{r}\Big)^{m} \ \rho(r) dr = \ \beta_i \ \int_{R}^{\zeta_i R} \rho(r) dr
\end{align}
where, $\beta_i$ are the coefficients of the power series expansion.
By doing so for each of the remaining terms of the expansion we can make those terms analytically integrable since $\rho(r)$ as equation~\eqref{modexp1} is analytically integrable. The values for $\zeta_i$, however, can be a function of both $R$ and $\alpha$. Additionally, the number of terms of the expansion that would be needed to develop a good approximation may also vary with $\alpha$. This leads to a complicated model.
In \autoref{approxderiv}, we will discuss the conditions under which we can consider each $\zeta_i$ a constant (independent of $\alpha$) thereby allowing us to obtain a simplified (yet highly accurate) model. Before doing so, we will evaluate the accuracy of the numerical integrations (in \autoref{accuracygauss}).
\section{Accuracy of numerical integrations}\label{accuracygauss}
In order to estimate the $\zeta_i$, we first construct numerically integrated profiles for $M_{2D}(R)$ for several values of $\alpha$ in the range $0.05 \leq \alpha \leq 5.00$, corresponding to an Einasto-index $n$ in the range $0.2 \leq n \leq 20.0$---a factor of 100. Since closed form analytical expressions for $\Sigma(R)$ and $M_{2D}(R)$ (using equations \eqref{AbelTransform} and \eqref{TradCp}) exist only for the case for the gaussian profile $\alpha=2.0$ (and at $R=0$ for all $\alpha$), we test the accuracy of the numerical integration routines using this case.
We observe that for all $\alpha$, \autoref{AbelTransform} (with $R=0$) gives us:
\begin{flalign}\label{sigma0}
\Sigma (0)=\frac{2r_s \rho_0}{\alpha \ b^{1/\alpha}} \ \Gamma \left(\frac{1}{\alpha}\right) \ \ and \ \ M_{2D} (0)=0
\end{flalign}
For $\alpha=2$ in \autoref{AbelTransform} we get:
\begin{flalign}\label{sig2exact}
\Sigma(R)=\rho_0\ r_s \ \sqrt{\pi} \ e^{-(R/r_{s})^2}
\end{flalign}
which when used in \autoref{TradCp} gives us
\begin{flalign}\label{C2exact}
M_{2D} (R)=\rho_0 \ r_s^3 \ \pi^{3/2} \Big(1-e^{-(R/r_{s})^2}\Big)
\end{flalign}
We therefore use equations \eqref{sig2exact} and \eqref{C2exact} to test the level of accuracy of the numerical integration routines in computing $\Sigma_N$ and $M_{2D \ N} (R)$ for the case of $\alpha=2.0$. The fractional (or relative) errors of the numerical integrations---compared to the exact analytical expressions in equations \eqref{sig2exact} and \eqref{C2exact}---turn out to be $\sim 10^{-15}$ for $\Sigma_N (R) $ and $\sim 10^{-13}$ for $M_{2D N} (R)$ over a large dynamic range of $R/r_s$ covering $10^{-23}$ \% to $99.99$ \% of the total mass (\autoref{cumgauss} below).
The mass enclosed within a sphere of intrinsic (3D) radius $r$ can be analytically calculated exactly (for all $\alpha$) using
\begin{flalign}
M_{3D}(r)=4\pi \int_{0}^{r} \rho(r') \ r'^2 \ dr' = 4\pi \int_{0}^{r} \rho_0 \ e^{-b (r'/r_{s})^{\alpha}} \ r'^2 \ dr'
\end{flalign}
which gives us (with $b=2/\alpha$),
\begin{flalign}
M_{3D}(r)=\frac{4\pi \rho_0}{\alpha} \frac{r_{s}^3}{b^{3/\alpha}} \ \gamma \Big(\frac{3}{\alpha}, b\Big(\frac{r}{r_s}\Big)^{\alpha}\Big)
\end{flalign}%
This gives us the total mass ($r\to \infty$) for all $\alpha$ as:
\begin{flalign}\label{cum3Dtot}
M_{3D total}=\frac{4\pi \rho_0}{\alpha} \frac{r_{s}^3}{b^{3/\alpha}} \ \Gamma \Big(\frac{3}{\alpha}\Big)
\end{flalign}
where, $\Gamma(a)$ is the gamma function and $\gamma(a,x)$ is the lower-incomplete gamma function.
For $\alpha=2.0$ (the gaussian), the above two equations become:
\begin{flalign}
M_{3D}(r)&= 2\pi \rho_0 \ r_{s}^3 \ \gamma \Big(\frac{3}{2}, \Big(\frac{r}{r_s}\Big)^{2}\Big) \ , \ and
\end{flalign}
\vspace{-3mm}
\begin{flalign}\label{cumgauss}
M_{3D total}= 2\pi \rho_0 \ r_{s}^3 \ \Gamma (1.5)
\end{flalign}
\section{Analytical Models for $M_{2D}(R)$ \& $\Sigma(R)$}\label{approxderiv}
Having generated several numerically integrated profiles for $\Sigma_N (R)$ and $M_{2DN} (R)$ for each $\alpha$, we need to determine---what can constitute a good enough approximation for our models for $M_{2D}(R)$? Since most profile measurement errors are of the order of a few percent, we define a much smaller level of fractional error $\sim 10^{-5}$ (or 0.001 \%) to be satisfied by our models for $M_{2D}(R)$.
From~\autoref{newmethod} we recall that, while the $\zeta_i$ in \autoref{betai} may depend on $\alpha$, our model would be simpler if we can make them independent of $\alpha$. This is not unreasonable to require for the Einasto profile since most of the $\alpha$ dependency of $M_{2D}(R)$ is already contained in the first two terms of \autoref{CpPower} which---i) are both integrable in closed form; and ii) make the largest contribution to $M_{2D}(R)$ for all $\alpha$. The rest of the terms like equation~\eqref{betai} make a small contribution in equation~\eqref{CpPower} to produce a better approximation than using just the first two terms. However, how many terms will be required can also vary with $\alpha$. We therefore replace the $\beta_i$ with weights $c_i$ and check to see if we can find a fixed number of terms that will give us an accuracy of the order of $10^{-5}$ or better for all $\alpha$. It turns out that if we use six terms of the type of \autoref{betai} in \autoref{CpPower}, with the $\beta_i$ replaced by weights $c_i$ for those terms, then the values of $c_i$ and $\zeta_i$ given in \autoref{coeff} ensures that we get solutions for $M_{2D}(R)$ at our desired level of $\sim 10^{-5}$ (or lower) across the board for all $\alpha$. We thus proceed to develop $M_{2D}(R)$ by first writing \autoref{CpPower} as:
\begin{align}\label{initial}
M_{2D}(R)=M_{3D}(R)+2\pi R^2 \Big( \int_{R}^{\infty} \rho(r) dr + \sum_{k=1}^{6} c_k \int_{R}^{\zeta_k R} \rho(r) dr \Big)
\end{align}
Defining the coefficients $c_0 =1.0-\sum_{k=1}^6 c_k$ and $\zeta_0=1.0$, we can rewrite the above expression as\footnote{Note the summation is now from 0 to 6 which helps simplify \autoref{Ap2dcount}.}
\begin{align}\label{initial2}
M_{2D}(R)=M_{3D}(R)+2\pi R^2 \Big( 2 \int_{R}^{\infty} \rho(r) dr + \sum_{i=0}^{6} c_i \int_{R}^{\zeta_i R} \rho(r) dr \Big)
\end{align}
Since each term is now analytically integrable for the Einasto profile with $\rho(r)$ as \autoref{modexp1}, we get (with $b=2/\alpha$):
\begin{equation}\label{Ap2dcount}
\begin{split}
& M_{2D}(R)=\frac{4\pi \rho_0}{\alpha} \frac{r_{s}^3}{b^{3/\alpha}}\Bigg [ \gamma \Big(\frac{3}{\alpha}, b\Big(\frac{R}{r_s}\Big)^{\alpha}\Big) + \\
& \frac{b^{2/\alpha}}{2} \Big(\frac{R}{r_s}\Big)^2 \Bigg \{ 2\ \Gamma \Big(\frac{1}{\alpha}, b\Big(\frac{R}{r_s}\Big)^{\alpha}\Big) - \sum_{i=0}^6 c_i \Gamma \Big(\frac{1}{\alpha}, b\Big(\frac{\zeta_i R}{r_s}\Big)^{\alpha}\Big) \Bigg \} \Bigg ]
\end{split}
\end{equation}
where, $\Gamma(a,x)$ and $\gamma(a,x)$ are the incomplete gamma functions. \\
Considering that the $c_i$ and the $\zeta_i$ are independent of $\alpha$ (as per the discussion above), we observe:
\begin{enumerate}
\item that we can derive a self-consistent expression for the surface density $\Sigma(R)$ using $\Sigma(R)=\frac{1}{2\pi R} \frac{d M_{2D}(R)}{dR}$ to get:
\begin{multline}\label{Abelmodexp}
\Sigma (R)=\frac{2r_s \rho_0}{\alpha \ b^{1/\alpha}} \Bigg[\frac{\alpha \ b^{1/\alpha}}{2} \Big(\frac{R}{r_s}\Big) \sum_{i=0}^6 (c_i \zeta_i) \ \exp \Big(-b \Big(\frac{\zeta_i R}{r_s}\Big)^{\alpha}\Big) \\
+ 2 \ \Gamma \Big(\frac{1}{\alpha}, b \Big(\frac{R}{r_s}\Big)^{\alpha} \Big) - \sum_{i=0}^6 c_i \Gamma \Big(\frac{1}{\alpha}, b\Big(\frac{\zeta_i R}{r_s}\Big)^{\alpha}\Big) \Bigg]
\end{multline}
---this is easier to see by first taking the derivative of \autoref{initial2}.
\item And, that we can estimate the $c_i$ and the $\zeta_i$ (assumed independent of $\alpha$) by fitting our model (\autoref{Abelmodexp}) to $\Sigma(R)$ for $\alpha=2$---the only $\alpha$ for which an exact analytical solution exists (\autoref{sig2exact}). It turns out that the parameters so estimated (see \autoref{coeff}), using a non-linear least squares Levenberg--Marquardt method, yield errors $\sim 10^{-5}$ for both $\Sigma(R)$ and $M_{2D}(R)$ (\autoref{fracerror}, Figs.\ref{MassAlpha005}-\ref{SigAlpha2}) for profiles of practical interest ($\alpha \lesssim 2.0$); and errors of $\sim 10^{-6}$ for $\alpha \lesssim 0.4$ which have been found to describe the density profiles of dark matter haloes in N-body simulations as well as the outer (most-dominant) component of massive ellipticals (\autoref{intro}).
\end{enumerate}
\begin{table}
\begin{center}
\caption {Coefficients $c_i$ and $\zeta_i$ for $M_{2D}(R)$ \& $\Sigma(R)$}\label{coeff}
\begin{tabular}{|l|l|l|}
\hline
$i$ & $c_i$ & $\zeta_i$ \\
\hline
0 & \textcolor{magenta}{\bf 0.2955884256 \bf} & 1.0 \\
1 & 0.374929178 & 1.06186952774 \\
2 & 0.1912226623 & 1.2949052775 \\
3 & 0.0914083 & 1.848732123 \\
4 & 0.0352298967 & 3.180027854 \\
5 & 0.0099021431 & 6.78774063 \\
6 & 0.0017193943 & 21.2555914 \\
\hline
\end{tabular}
\begin{tablenotes}
Note: The correct value of $c_0$ is listed in this table. The published paper had an incorrect value corrected in an \href{http://dx.doi.org/10.1093/mnras/stab1760}{erratum} to the paper.
\end{tablenotes}
\end{center}
\end{table}
\begin{table}
\vspace{-3mm}
\begin{threeparttable}
\caption {RMS of Relative Error for some values of $\alpha$}\label{fracerror}
\begin{tabular}{|c|c|c|l|}
\hline
$\alpha$ & Relative Error & Relative Error & Radial Extent (in $R/r_s$)\\
&for $M_{2D} (R)$ & for $\Sigma(R)$ & for 99.5\% of total mass\\
\hline
$0.05$ & $2.9 \times 10^{-6}$ & $3.0 \times 10^{-6}$ & $1,830,000$ \\
\hline
0.10 & $4.4 \times 10^{-6}$ & $4.2 \times 10^{-6}$ & $4,150 $ \\
0.20 & $6.7 \times 10^{-6}$ & $6.7 \times 10^{-6}$ & $140$ \\
0.50 & $1.0 \times 10^{-5}$ & $1.0 \times 10^{-5}$ & $12.5$ \\
1.00 & $1.3 \times 10^{-5}$ & $1.4 \times 10^{-5}$ & $4.64$~~~~(the exponential) \\
2.00 & $1.8 \times 10^{-5}$ & $3.6 \times 10^{-5}$ & $2.53$~~~~(the gaussian) \\
\hline
3.00 & $3.0 \times 10^{-5}$ & $1.1 \times 10^{-4}$ & $2.00$ \\
5.00 & $7.4 \times 10^{-5}$ & $4.9 \times 10^{-4}$ & $1.60$ \\
\hline
\end{tabular}
\begin{tablenotes}
\item NOTE:-- Column 2 and Column 3 list the RMS of relative errors over a domain (column 4) encompassing $\sim 10^{-10}$\% to $99.5 \%$ (12 orders of magnitude) of the intrinsic total mass (or counts) $M_{3D total}$ (equation \ref{cum3Dtot}). The horizontal lines demarcate the domain of practical interest $0.1 \lesssim \alpha \lesssim 2.0$ described in \autoref{intro}. While the RMS errors for only some values of $\alpha$ are shown, this level of accuracy is maintained for all $\alpha \lesssim 5$.
\end{tablenotes}
\end{threeparttable}
\end{table}
As a cross-check, we observe that \autoref{Ap2dcount} for $M_{2D}(R)$ $\to$ \autoref{cum3Dtot} for the total mass (counts) as $R \to \infty$ and \autoref{Abelmodexp} for $\Sigma(R)$ $\to$ \autoref{sigma0} for the projected central density as $R \to 0$. Further, the models under projection for $M_{2D}(R)$ and for $\Sigma(R)$ are in terms of the same three parameters describing the intrinsic volume density ($\rho_0, r_s, \alpha$) thereby giving us an insight into the 3D spatial density from the 2D models. Additionally, both models are specified in terms of exponential and gamma functions which are readily available in a wide range of computing platforms.
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[width=\columnwidth]{UpMassAlpha005c.eps}
\caption{Normalized Projected (Columnar) Mass (or counts) $M_{2D} (R)$ for an Einasto profile with $\alpha=0.05$ covering up to 99.5\% of the total mass (counts). The approximation retains excellent accuracy over 14 orders of magnitude in $R/r_s$ and over 15 orders of magnitude in $M_{2D}(R)$. Figures~\ref{MassAlpha005}--\ref{MassAlpha2} are normalized with respect to the total mass (or counts) $M_{3D total}$ (equation~\ref{cum3Dtot}) and Figures~\ref{SigAlpha05}--\ref{SigAlpha2} are normalized with respect to the central surface density $\Sigma_0$ (equation~\ref{sigma0}). The error panels show the relative error between the models derived in this paper and the numerically integrated values. The high accuracy of the approximation in these figures, over the entire radial extent, is more apparent when we compare them with profile measurement errors in observations and simulations which are typically $\sim 1-10\%$. }
\label{MassAlpha005}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[width=\columnwidth]{UpMassAlpha010_20up.eps}
\caption{Analytical models of normalized $M_{2D} (R)$ for Einasto profiles with $\alpha=0.10$ (solid) and with $\alpha=0.2$ (dashed), the latter scaled up by a factor of 100. Both profiles extend up to 99.5\% of total counts. Refer to caption of \autoref{MassAlpha005} for normalization and error panel. }
\label{MassAlpha010}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[width=\columnwidth]{UpMassAlpha2c.eps}
\caption{Analytical model of normalized $M_{2D}(R)$ for an Einasto profile with $\alpha=2.00$ (The Gaussian function)---the only case for which an exact analytical solution exists. The spatial extent covers 99.5\% of total counts. Refer to caption of \autoref{MassAlpha005} for details on normalization and error panel.}
\label{MassAlpha2}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[width=\columnwidth]{UpAlpha005up.eps}
\caption{Normalized $\Sigma (R)$ for an Einasto profile with $\alpha=0.05$. The high accuracy of the model spans 16 orders of magnitude in $\Sigma$ and 14 orders or magnitude in $R/r_s$---a spatial extent covering 99.5\% of total counts. Refer to caption of \autoref{MassAlpha005} for details on normalization and error panel.}
\label{SigAlpha05}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[width=\columnwidth]{UpAlpha010_20up.eps}
\caption{Analytical models of normalized $\Sigma (R)$ for Einasto profiles with $\alpha=0.10$ (solid) and with $\alpha=0.2$ (dashed), the former scaled up by a factor of 100. The spatial extent covers 99.5\% of total counts. Refer to caption of \autoref{MassAlpha005} for details on normalization and error panel.}
\label{SigAlpha010}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[width=\columnwidth]{UpAlpha2c.eps}
\caption{Analytical model of normalized $\Sigma (R)$ for an Einasto profile with $\alpha=2.00$ (The Gaussian function)---the only case for which an exact analytical solution exists. The spatial extent covers 99.5\% of total counts. Refer to caption of \autoref{MassAlpha005} for details on normalization and error panel.}
\label{SigAlpha2}
\end{figure}
\vspace{-3mm}
\section{Summary \& Discussion}
In this paper, we have introduced a novel methodology (in \autoref{newmethod}) for developing an analytical approximation (\autoref{Ap2dcount}) for the projected mass (or counts), $M_{2D} (R)$, for a family of Einasto profiles with a shape parameter $0.05 \lesssim \alpha \lesssim 5.0$ (or Einasto index $0.2 \lesssim n \lesssim 20.0$)---a factor of 100. We have also seen (in \autoref{approxderiv}) how the expression for $M_{2D}(R)$ can be used to develop an analytical approximation for the projected (surface) density $\Sigma(R)$ (\autoref{Abelmodexp}). Both models are highly accurate for all $\alpha$ with fractional errors of $\sim 10^{-6}$ especially for $\alpha \lesssim 0.4$. This domain of $\alpha$ have been found to describe---i) the outer components of massive ellipticals that are believed to be dark matter dominated; and ii) the dark matter haloes in $\Lambda$CDM N-body simulations as described in \autoref{intro}. It is worth noting that while \citetalias{Dhar:surfden} have provided a fairly good ($\sim 10^{-3}$) approximation for $\Sigma(R)$, the result herein provides a significant reduction in the error in $\Sigma(R)$---by two to three orders of magnitude. To illustrate, we show one example in \autoref{comparemodels} for the case of $\alpha=0.2~(n=5.0)$, which is closest to the \citetalias{Nav04:einasto} model, where we can see that although the model in \citetalias{Dhar:surfden} is quite good, the model in this paper \autoref{Abelmodexp} is significantly better (with errors indistinguishable from zero); refer to \citetalias{Dhar:surfden} for errors for other $\alpha$.
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[width=\columnwidth]{UpdatedFig9_2ndUpdate.png}
\caption{A comparison of the relative error, with respect to the numerically integrated values, between the models for $\Sigma(R)$ presented in DW10 (solid) and in this paper (dashed) \autoref{Abelmodexp} for the case of $\alpha=0.2, n=5.0$.}
\label{comparemodels}
\end{figure}
The solutions presented in this paper for $M_{2D}(R)$ and for $\Sigma(R)$ (\autoref{Ap2dcount} and \autoref{Abelmodexp}) have broad applicability:
\begin{enumerate}
\vspace{-2mm}
\item For instance, when taken as the projected mass, \autoref{Ap2dcount} can be used to calculate several quantities due to gravitational lensing by circularly symmetric lenses characterized by Einasto profiles. This is because quantities such as the deflection angle $\alpha_E (R)$ and the mean convergence $\overline{\kappa}$ depend on $M_{2D}(R)$ through:
\begin{flalign}
\alpha_E (R)=\frac{4G \ M_{2D} (R)}{c^2 \ R}, \ and
\end{flalign}
\begin{flalign}\label{meankappa}
\overline{\kappa_E}(R)=\frac{M_{2D}(R)}{\Sigma_{cr} \pi R^2}
\end{flalign}
where, $\Sigma_{cr}$ is the critical surface mass density for lensing.
This allows us to determine the location of the tangential critical curve (from $\overline{\kappa_E}=1$) and the Einstein radius ($R_E$) for Einasto profiles
\begin{flalign}\label{Einrad}
by \ solving, \ ~~~~ M_{2D}(R_E)=\Sigma_{cr} \pi R_E^2
\end{flalign}
We can also use the analytical approximation for $\Sigma_E (R)$ (\autoref{Abelmodexp}) to calculate the convergence for Einasto profiles from
\begin{flalign}
\kappa_E=\Sigma_E (R)/\Sigma_{cr}
\end{flalign}
and along with the expression for $\overline{\kappa_E}$ (equation~\eqref{meankappa}), we can now calculate other quantities of interest in gravitational lensing due to a lens with an Einasto profile---such as, the shear ($\gamma_E$), the magnification ($\mu_E$) and the distortion ($q_E$) of lensed images of a circular source---using the relationships in \citet{Miralda:1991} :
\begin{flalign}
\gamma_E &=\overline{\kappa_E}-\kappa_E \ , \\
\mu_E &=\Big[(1-\kappa_E)^2-(\overline{\kappa_E}-\kappa_E)^2\Big]^{-1} \ , \ \ and \\
q_E &=(1-\overline{\kappa_E})\Big[1-2\kappa_E+\overline{\kappa_E}\Big]^{-1} \,
\end{flalign}
respectively. And the location of the radial critical curve from
\begin{align}
1-2\kappa_E+\overline{\kappa_E}=0
\end{align}
The above discussion highlights the significance of \autoref{Ap2dcount} and \autoref{Abelmodexp} for $M_{2D}(R)$ and $\Sigma(R)$ -- that they allow us to analytically calculate several quantities in gravitational lensing (due to lenses characterized by an Einasto profile), and in terms of functions in standard math libraries which has not been possible until now.
\item Likewise, when $\rho(r)$ is taken as a luminosity density or a number density, \autoref{Ap2dcount} allows us to easily calculate the projected luminosity and the columnar number counts, while \autoref{Abelmodexp} allows us to calculate the surface brightness. It is worth noting that both expressions are in terms of the same three parameters ($\rho_0, r_s$ and $\alpha$) defining the intrinsic volume density thereby giving us an insight into the 3D density distribution.
It is instructive to note that this new methodology of first developing an expression for the projected mass (as in \autoref{newmethod}) and of then calculating the projected surface density $\Sigma(R)$ (as in \autoref{approxderiv}), can be applied to other profiles so long as the integrals of both $\rho(r)$ and $r^2 \rho(r)$ are bounded and can be calculated analytically ---that is, for profiles with finite total mass (or counts).
\end{enumerate}
\vspace{-3mm}
\section*{Acknowledgements}
I thank Liliya Williams and the anonymous reviewer for their suggestions that helped improve the presentation of this work.
\vspace{-3mm}
\section*{Data Availability}
No new data were generated or analysed in support of this research.
\vspace{-2mm}
\bibliographystyle{mnras}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 1,512 |
\section{Introduction}\label{intro}
There is a renewed interest in the hadron spectroscopy, motivated by recent discoveries of unexpected exotic hadron resonances \cite{Aaij:2020fnh, Aaij:2019vzc,*Aaij:2015tga,Adolph:2014rpp}. Currently, LHCb, BESIII, and COMPASS collected data with unprecedented statistics, BELLE-II and GlueX just started to operate, and more facilities are planned in the near future, such as PANDA and EIC. Besides, lattice QCD has been applied to a broad range of hadron processes and recently was able to calculate the lowest excitation spectrum with the masses of the light quarks near their physical values \cite{Briceno:2017max,*Shepherd:2016dni}.
To correctly identify resonance parameters one has to search for poles in the complex plane. This is particularly important when there is an interplay between several inelastic channels or when the pole is lying very deep in the complex plane. In these cases, the structure of the resonance is quite different from a typical Breit-Wigner behaviour. In order to determine the pole position of the resonance, one has to analytically continue the amplitude to the unphysical Riemann sheets. At this stage, the right theoretical framework has to be applied. The latter should satisfy the main principles of the S-matrix theory, namely unitarity, analyticity, and crossing symmetry. These constraints were successfully incorporated in the set of Roy or Roy-Steiner equations \cite{Roy:1971tc}. In a practical application, however, the rigorous implementation of these equations is almost impossible, since it requires experimental knowledge of all partial waves in the direct channel and all channels related by crossing. Therefore, the current precision studies of $\pi\pi$ \cite{Pelaez:2015qba,GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa,Ananthanarayan:2000ht,*Caprini:2005zr,*Leutwyler:2008xd,Colangelo:2001df} and $\pi K$ \cite{Buettiker:2003pp,*DescotesGenon:2006uk, Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd} scattering are based on a finite truncation, which in turn limits the results to a given kinematic region, and require a large experimental data basis. Furthermore, applying Roy-like equations for coupled-channel cases is quite complicated and has not been achieved in the literature so far. Because of the above-mentioned difficulties, in the experimental analyses, it is a common practice to ignore the S-matrix constraints and rely on simple parametrizations. The most used ones are a superposition of Breit-Wigner resonances or the K-matrix approach. The latter implements unitarity, but ignores the existence of the left-hand cut and often leads to spurious poles in the complex plane.
A good alternative to the K-matrix approach and a complementary method to Roy analysis is the so-called $N/D$ technique \cite{Chew:1960iv}, which is based on the partial-wave dispersion relations. In this method, the dominant constraints of resonance scattering, such as unitarity and analyticity are implemented exactly. Since the time it was introduced by Chew and Mandelstam \cite{Chew:1960iv}, the $N/D$ method has been extensively studied for different processes \cite{Oller:1998zr, Szczepaniak:2010re,*Guo:2010gx, Gasparyan:2010xz,*Danilkin:2010xd,*Gasparyan:2011yw,*Gasparyan:2012km, Danilkin:2011fz,*Danilkin:2012ap}. The required input to solve the $N/D$ equation are the discontinuities along the left-hand cut, which are typically approximated one way or another using chiral perturbation theory ($\chi$PT). In the present paper, we extend the ideas of \cite{Gasparyan:2010xz,*Danilkin:2010xd,*Gasparyan:2011yw,*Gasparyan:2012km}, where the left-hand cut contributions were approximated using an expansion in powers of a suitably chosen conformal variable. In contrast to \cite{Danilkin:2011fz,*Danilkin:2012ap}, however, we follow here a data-driven approach and adjust the unknown coefficients in the expansion scheme to empirical data directly. In this way, the model dependence is avoided, and the method can also be applied to the reactions which do not include Goldstone bosons, like for instance the $J/\psi J/\psi$ scattering \cite{Aaij:2020fnh}.
In this paper, we apply the $N/D$ method to the resonant $\pi\pi$ and $\pi K$ scattering in the S-wave. There are three main reasons for this choice:
\begin{itemize}
\item The system of two pions (or pion and kaon) shows up very often as a part of the final state of many hadronic interactions and therefore serves as input in various theoretical or experimental data analyses, like e.g. $\eta\to 3\pi$ \cite{Guo:2015zqa,*Guo:2016wsi,Colangelo:2016jmc,*Colangelo:2018jxw,Albaladejo:2017hhj}, $\eta'\to \pi\pi\eta$ \cite{Isken:2017dkw,Gonzalez-Solis:2018xnw,Gan:2020aco}, $\gamma\gamma \to \pi\pi$ \cite{GarciaMartin:2010cw,Hoferichter:2011wk,Dai:2014zta}, $e^+e^-\to J/\psi(\psi')\,\pi\pi$ \cite{Molnar:2019uos,Chen:2019mgp,Danilkin:2020kce} or $D\to K \pi\pi$ \cite{Niecknig:2015ija,*Niecknig:2017ylb}.
\item Even though the $\pi\pi \to \pi\pi$ (and to a lesser extent $\pi K \to \pi K$ and $\pi\pi \to K\bar{K}$) amplitudes are known very well from the Roy (Roy-Steiner) analyses \cite{GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa, Ananthanarayan:2000ht,*Caprini:2005zr,*Leutwyler:2008xd,Colangelo:2001df,Buettiker:2003pp,*DescotesGenon:2006uk,Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd, Pelaez:2018qny}, in the practical dispersive applications the final state interactions (FSI) are implemented with the help of the so-called Omn\`es function, which does not have left-hand cuts. Indeed, the left-hand cuts are different for each production/decay mechanism, while the unitarity makes a connection between the production/decay and the scattering amplitudes only on the right-hand cut. In the $N/D$ ansatz, the Omn\`es functions come out naturally, as the inverse of the $D$-functions.
\item Recently, it has become possible to calculate $\pi\pi$ and $\pi K$ scattering using lattice QCD with almost physical masses \cite{Lang:2012sv,*Prelovsek:2010kg, Briceno:2016mjc, Liu:2016cba, Fu:2017apw, Guo:2018zss,*Mai:2019pqr, Wilson:2019wfr, Rendon:2020rtw}. Since, both the $\sigma/f_0(500)$ and $\kappa/K_0^*(700)$ states lie deep in the complex plane, the reliable extraction of their properties requires the use of the formalism that goes beyond the simple $K$-matrix parametrization and incorporates in addition the analyticity constraint.
\end{itemize}
The paper is organized as follows. In the next section, we focus on the formalism that we adopt in this paper. We start with the review of the $N/D$ method in Sec \ref{subsec:N/D method}. We then discuss the left-hand cut contributions in Sec \ref{subsec:Left-hand cuts}. In Sec \ref{subsec:Omnes} we make the connection to the Omn\`es functions. The numerical results are presented in Sec. \ref{sec:Numerical results}. We start with $I=0$, $\pi \pi$ single-channel analysis of both experimental and lattice data, which is followed by the coupled-channel $\{\pi\pi, K\bar{K} \}$ analysis of the experimental data. These results are then used to determine the two-photon coupling of $\sigma/f_0(500)$ and $f_0(980)$. At the very end, we focus on $\pi K$, $I=1/2$ scattering of both experimental and lattice data. A summary and outlook is presented in Sec. \ref{sec:Conclusion and outlook}.
\section{Formalism}
\subsection{N/D method}
\label{subsec:N/D method}
The $s$-channel partial-wave decomposition for $2\to 2$ process is given by
\begin{equation}\label{p.w.expansion}
T_{ab}(s,t)=N_{ab}\,\sum_{J=0}^{\infty}(2J+1)\,t_{ab}^{(J)}(s)\,P_J(\cos\theta)\,,
\end{equation}
where $\theta$ is the c.m. scattering angle and $ab$ are the coupled-channel indices with $a$ and $b$ standing for the initial and final state, respectively. For the following discussion, we focus only on the S-wave $(J=0)$ and therefore will suppress the label $(J)$. The different normalization factors ($N_{\pi\pi \pi\pi}=2$, $N_{\pi\pi K\bar{K}}=\sqrt{2}$ and $N_{K\bar{K} K\bar{K}}=N_{\pi K \pi K}=1$) are needed to ensure that the unitarity condition for identical and non-identical two-particle states are the same and can be written in the matrix form as
\begin{align}\label{Eq:Unitarity}
\text{Disc}\,t_{ab}(s)&\equiv\frac{1}{2i}\left(t_{ab}(s+i \epsilon)-t_{ab}(s-i \epsilon)\right)\nonumber\\
&=\sum_{c} t_{ac}(s)\,\rho_{c}(s)\,t^*_{cb}(s)\,,
\end{align}
where the sum goes over all intermediate states. The phase space factor $\rho_{c}(s)$ in Eq. (\ref{Eq:Unitarity}) is given by
\begin{align}\label{Eq:rho}
\rho_{c}(s)&=\frac{1}{8\pi}\frac{p_{c}(s)}{\sqrt{s}}\,\theta(s-s_{th})\,,
\end{align}
with $p_{c}(s)$ and $s_{th}$ being the center-of-mass three momentum and threshold of the corresponding two-meson system. Within the maximal analyticity assumption \cite{Mandelstam:1958xc,*Mandelstam:1959bc}, the partial-wave amplitudes satisfy the dispersive representation
\begin{equation}\label{DR_0}
t_{ab}(s)=\int_{-\infty}^{s_L}\frac{d s'}{\pi}\frac{\text{Disc } t_{ab}(s')}{s'-s} + \int_{s_{th}}^{\infty}\frac{d s'}{\pi}\frac{\text{Disc } t_{ab}(s')}{s'-s}\,,
\end{equation}
where $s_L$ is the position of the closest left-hand cut singularity and the discontinuity along the right-hand cut is given by (\ref{Eq:Unitarity}). For unequal masses, as in $\pi K$ scattering, the left-hand singularities of the partial-wave amplitude do not all lie on the real axis and the integration in the first term in Eq. (\ref{DR_0}) goes partly along the circle. We note, that the separation into left and right-hand cuts given in (\ref{DR_0}) is only possible for the systems where no anomalous thresholds are present \cite{Mandelstam:1960zz, Lutz:2018kaz}.
The unitarity condition (\ref{Eq:Unitarity}) guarantees that the partial-wave amplitudes at infinity approach at most constants. In accordance with that, we can make one subtraction in Eq. (\ref{DR_0}) to suppress the high-energy contribution under the dispersive integrals. Thus we rewrite Eq. (\ref{DR_0}) as
\begin{equation}\label{DR_1}
t_{ab}(s)=U_{ab}(s) + \frac{s-s_M}{\pi} \int_{s_{th}}^{\infty}\frac{d s'}{s'-s_M}\frac{\text{Disc } t_{ab}(s')}{s'-s} \,,
\end{equation}
where we combined the subtraction constant together with the left-hand cut contributions into the function $U_{ab}(s)$. The choice of the subtraction point $s_M$ will be discussed later. The solution to (\ref{DR_1}) can be written using the $N/D$ ansatz \cite{Chew:1960iv}
\begin{equation}\label{N/D}
t_{ab}(s)=\sum_c D^{-1}_{ac}(s)\,N_{cb}(s)\,,
\end{equation}
where the contributions of left- and right-hand cuts are separated into $N(s)$ and $D(s)$ functions, respectively. The discontinuity relation along the right-hand cut $\text{Disc}\, D_{ab}(s)=-N_{ab}(s)\rho_{b}(s)\,$ allows us to write a dispersive representation for the $D$-function, which up to a Castillejo-Dalitz-Dyson (CDD) ambiguity \cite{Castillejo:1955ed} is given by
\begin{align}\label{D-fun}
D_{ab}(s)=&\delta_{ab}- \frac{s-s_M}{\pi} \int_{s_{th}}^{\infty}\frac{d s'}{s'-s_M}\frac{N_{ab}(s')\,\rho_{b}(s')}{s'-s}\,.
\end{align}
Due to the non-uniqueness of the $N/D$ ansatz, we have normalized the $D$-function in Eq. (\ref{D-fun}) such that $D_{ab}(s_M)=\delta_{ab}$. Since $D_{ab}(s)$ is a complex matrix above the threshold, the position of $s_M$ has to be chosen such that all of its elements are real at this point, \textit{i.e.} $s_M \leq s_{th}$. To arrive at an integral equation for the $N(s)$ function, one can write a once-subtracted dispersion relation for $\sum_c D_{ac}(s)\,(t(s)-U(s))_{cb}$ and fix its subtraction constant by requiring that
\begin{align}
t_{ab}(s_M)=U_{ab}(s_M),
\end{align}
which follows from Eq. (\ref{DR_1}). As a result, it yields \cite{Luming:1964, *Johnson:1979jy}
\begin{align}\label{N-fun}
N_{ab}(s)&=U_{ab}(s)+ \\
&\frac{s-s_M}{\pi} \sum_{c} \int_{s_{th}}^{\infty}\frac{d s'}{s'-s_M}\frac{N_{ac}(s')\,\rho_{c}(s')\,(U_{cb}(s')-U_{cb}(s))}{s'-s}\,. \nonumber
\end{align}
The above integral equation can be solved numerically given the input of $U_{ab}(s)$. Knowing the $N_{ab}(s)$ function on the right-hand cut, the $D_{ab}(s)$ function is calculated by (\ref{D-fun}) and finally the partial-wave amplitude is produced with Eq. (\ref{N/D}). In other words, if the discontinuities across all the left-hand cuts were known\footnote{in that case the subtraction constant is probably unnecessary to introduce} the exact solution can be obtained by $N/D$ method. An important property of Eq. (\ref{N-fun}) is that the input of $U(s)$ is only needed above the threshold, i.e. on the right-hand cut. In the case of many channels, both the diagonal and off-diagonal t-matrix elements have a right-hand cut starting at the lowest threshold $s_{th}$. However, only the input of the off-diagonal $U_{ab}(s)$ is required outside the physical region, while in order to solve (\ref{N-fun}), the input of the diagonal $U_{aa}(s)$ is needed in the physical region due to the phase space factor. It has a direct relevance for the $\{\pi \pi,K\bar{K}\}$ case, where in the $K\bar{K}\to K\bar{K}$ channel the overlap of left- and right-hand cuts happens, but only in the non-physical region, $4m_\pi^2<s<4(m_K^2-m_\pi^2)$, and therefore does not require any modifications of the dispersion integrals. We also emphasize that by means of Eq. (\ref{N/D}), the scattering amplitude can be rigorously continued into the complex plane, where one can determine pole parameters of the resonances. In our convention the scattering amplitude in the vicinity of the poles on the unphysical Riemann sheets (or physical Riemann sheet in the case of the bound state) is given by,
\begin{align}
N_{ab}\,t_{ab}(s)\simeq \frac{g_{pa}\,g_{pb}}{s_p-s}\,,
\end{align}
where the $N_{ab}$ factor comes from Eq. (\ref{p.w.expansion}) and $g_{pi}$ denotes the coupling of the pole at $s=s_p$ to the channel $i=a,b$.
We wish to comment on the case when there is a bound state in the system, since it happens for the relatively large unphysical pion masses. To find the binding energy $s_B$, one searches for a zero of the determinant of the $D_{ab}$ matrix for energies below threshold,
\begin{align}
\det(D_{ab}(s_B))=0,\quad s_B<s_{th}\,.
\end{align}
In this case, the solution obtained using the set of $N/D$ equations (\ref{N/D}) with input from (\ref{ConfExpansion}) satisfies the dispersion relation (\ref{DR_1}) combined with the bound state term,
\begin{align}\label{BoundState}
t_{ab}(s)=&U_{ab}(s) +\frac{s-s_M}{s_B-s_M}\frac{g_{Ba}\,g_{Bb}}{s_B-s}\nonumber\\
&+ \frac{s-s_M}{\pi} \int_{s_{th}}^{\infty}\frac{d s'}{s'-s_M}\frac{\text{Disc } t_{ab}(s')}{s'-s} \,.
\end{align}
At the same time, it is straightforward to show that including such a bound state term into the definition of $U_{ab}(s)$ does not change the solution of (\ref{N/D}) or the integral equation (\ref{N-fun}), provided that the residues $g_{Ba}\,g_{Bb}$ are dialed properly using the $\det(D_{ab}(s_B))=0$ condition.
\subsection{Left-hand cuts}
\label{subsec:Left-hand cuts}
In a general scattering problem, little is known about the left-hand cuts, except their analytic structure in the complex plane. The progress has been made in \cite{Gasparyan:2010xz,*Danilkin:2010xd,*Gasparyan:2011yw,*Gasparyan:2012km}, by considering an analytic continuation of $U_{ab}(s)$ to the physical region, which is needed as input to Eq.~(\ref{N-fun}), by means of an expansion in a suitably contracted conformal mapping variable $\xi(s)$,
\begin{equation}\label{ConfExpansion}
U(s)= \sum_{n=0}^\infty C_{n}\,\xi^n(s)\,,
\end{equation}
which is chosen such that it maps the left-hand cut plane onto the unit circle \cite{Frazer:1961zz}. The form of $\xi(s)$ depends on the cut structure of the reaction (i.e. $\{ab\}$) and specified by the position of the closest left-hand cut branching point ($s_L$) and an expansion point ($s_E$) around which the series is expanded, $\xi(s_E)=0$. Since for the $\{\pi\pi, K\bar{K}\}$ system all the left-hand cuts lie on the real axis, $-\infty<s<s_L$, one can use a simple function
\begin{equation}\label{xi-1}
\xi(s)=\frac{\sqrt{s-s_L}-\sqrt{s_E-s_L}}{\sqrt{s-s_L}+\sqrt{s_E-s_L}}\,,
\end{equation}
where $s_L(\pi\pi\to\pi\pi)=s_L(\pi\pi\to K\bar{K})=0$ and $s_L(K\bar{K}\to K\bar{K})=4\,(m_K^2-m_\pi^2)$.
For the case of $\pi K \to \pi K$, the left-hand cut structure is a bit more complicated (see Fig.~\ref{Fig:LeftHandCutStructure}). In addition to the left-hand cut lying on the real axis $-\infty < s < (m_K - m_\pi)^2 $, there is a circular cut at $|s|=m_K^2 - m_\pi^2$. The conformal map that meets these requirements is defined as
\begin{equation}\label{xi-2}
\xi(s)=-\frac{(\sqrt{s}-\sqrt{s_E})(\sqrt{s} \sqrt{s_E}+s_L)}{(\sqrt{s}+\sqrt{s_E}) (\sqrt{s} \sqrt{s_E}-s_L)}\,,
\end{equation}
where $s_L(\pi K\to\pi K)=m_K^2 - m_\pi^2$. We note that, given the forms of $\xi(s)$ in Eqs.~(\ref{xi-1}) and (\ref{xi-2}), the series (\ref{ConfExpansion}) truncated at any finite order is bounded asymptotically. This is consistent with the assigned asymptotic behavior of $U(s)$ in the once-subtracted dispersion relation (\ref{DR_1}).
\begin{figure}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width =0.45\textwidth]{1.pdf}
\caption{Left-hand cut singularities (solid black curves) in the complex $s$-plane for the $\pi\pi \to \pi\pi$ (a) and $\pi K \to \pi K$ (b) scattering. In the plot we schematically show the position of the closest left-hand cut singularity ($s_L$), Adler zero ($s_A$), threshold ($s_{th}$) and the expansion point ($s_E$). Dashed lines determine the specific form of the conformal map and subsequently the domain of convergence of the conformal expansion in Eq. (\ref{ConfExpansion}).}
\label{Fig:LeftHandCutStructure}
\end{figure}
For reactions involving Goldstone bosons, in principle, $\chi$PT allows to calculate the amplitude over a finite portion of the closest left-hand cut and can be used to estimate $C_n$ in (\ref{ConfExpansion}) as it has been done for other processes in \cite{Gasparyan:2010xz,*Danilkin:2010xd,*Gasparyan:2011yw,*Gasparyan:2012km, Danilkin:2011fz,*Danilkin:2012ap}. However, it is not clear at which point $\chi$PT calculated to a given order still represents a good approximation. In addition to that, in order to merge the conformal expansion with the chiral expansion, the expansion point $s_E$ should lie within the region where $\chi$PT can be computed safely. For instance, for the elastic $\pi\pi \to \pi\pi$ scattering the natural choice would be to identify $s_E$ with the two-pion threshold. However in that case, the last data point, which can be described with the elastic unitarity, corresponds to $\xi(s^{1/2}_{max}=0.7\,\text{GeV}) \simeq 0.45$. On the other side, the faster convergence of the sum in Eq. (\ref{ConfExpansion}) can be achieved for the choice of $s_E$ in between the threshold and $s_{max}$, i.e. in the regions where $\chi$PT is at the limit of its applicability. Besides, for the coupled-channel case, one needs to rely on SU(3) $\chi$PT, which is known to converge quite slow.
In our paper, we determine the unknown $C_n$ in Eq. (\ref{ConfExpansion}) and the optimal positions of $s_E$ directly from the data and use $\chi$PT results only as constraints for the scattering lengths, slope parameters, and Adler zero values. We note that the latter brings a stringent constraint on the scattering amplitude, since for both $\pi\pi$ and $\pi K$ scattering the Adler zero is located very close to the left-hand cut (see Fig.\ref{Fig:LeftHandCutStructure}), and cannot be determined precisely from the fit to the data. However, once the Adler zero is imposed as a constraint, it improves drastically the convergence of (\ref{ConfExpansion}) in the threshold region.
\subsection{Relation to the Omn\`es function}
\label{subsec:Omnes}
The unitarity connects the partial-wave amplitudes in production (or decay) and scattering processes. Therefore, the reactions like $\gamma p \to \pi\pi p$, $\gamma\gamma \to \pi\pi$, $J/\psi \to \pi\pi \gamma$, $\eta \to 3\pi$, etc. are very sensitive to the FSI. In a dispersive formalism, FSI are typically implemented with the help of
the so-called Omn\`es function \cite{Omnes:1958hv,*Muskhelishvili-book}, $\Omega_{ab}(s)$, that fulfills the following unitarity relation on the right-hand cut
\begin{equation}\label{Omnes_Disc}
\text{Disc}\,\Omega_{ab}(s)=\sum_{c} t_{ac}^*(s)\,\rho_{c}(s)\,\Omega_{cb}(s)\,,
\end{equation}
and analytic everywhere else in the complex plane, i.e. it satisfies a once-subtracted dispersion relation
\begin{align}\label{Omnes_DR}
\Omega_{ab}(s)=&\delta_{ab}+ \frac{s-s_M}{\pi} \int_{s_{th}}^{\infty}\frac{d s'}{s'-s_M}\frac{\text{Disc}\,\Omega_{ab}(s)}{s'-s}\,.
\end{align}
Therefore, for the case of no bound states or CDD poles, the $D_{ab}(s)$ function obtained in (\ref{D-fun}) can be easily related to the Omn\`es function as
\begin{equation}\label{Omnes_Dfun}
\Omega_{ab}(s)=D^{-1}_{ab}(s)\,.
\end{equation}
For the single-channel case, the Omn\`es function can be expressed in the analytic form in terms of the phase shift $\delta(s)$,
\begin{equation}\label{Omnes_phase_shift}
\Omega(s)=D^{-1}(s)=\exp\left(\frac{s-s_M}{\pi}\int_{s_{th}}^{\infty}\frac{d s'}{s'-s_M}\frac{\delta(s)}{s'-s}\right)\,.
\end{equation}
with the convention that $\delta(s_{th})=0$. Therefore, in single-channel approximations, the Omn\`es function is frequently computed directly from the existing parametrizations of the phase-shift data and various assumptions about its asymptotic behavior at infinity. The latter constrains the asymptotic behavior of the Omn\`es function: for $\delta(\infty)\to \alpha \pi$ one obtains $\Omega(\infty) \to 1/s^{\alpha}$.
In our approach, the phase shift curves are obtained from fits to the data using the $N/D$ method. The high-energy asymptotic of the phase shift is coming from the approximation of the left-hand cut by conformal expansion and subsequent solution of the once-subtracted dispersion relation. As a result, in this scheme, the obtained Omn\`es function (or its inverse) is always asymptotically bounded, if there is no bound state or CDD pole in the system. When there is a bound state in the system, the relation between the Omn\`es function and the $D(s)$ function given in Eq. (\ref{Omnes_phase_shift}) changes,
\begin{align}
\Omega(s)&=\left(\frac{s-s_B}{s_M-s_B}\right)\,D^{-1}(s)\nonumber \\
&=\exp\left(\frac{s-s_M}{\pi}\int_{s_{th}}^{\infty}\frac{d s'}{s'-s_M}\frac{\delta(s)}{s'-s}\right)\,,
\end{align}
where the extra factor $(s-s_B)/(s_M-s_B)$ removes the zero of $D(s)$. Due to this extra factor, the obtained Omn\`es function grows linearly at infinity and satisfies the twice-subtracted version of the dispersion relation given in Eq.~(\ref{Omnes_DR}).
For the multi-channel case, the Muskhelishvili-Omn\`es equations (\ref{Omnes_DR}) do not have analytic solutions \cite{Donoghue:1990xh, Moussallam:1999aq}, and one needs to find a numerical solution, by employing for instance a Gauss-Legendre procedure \cite{Moussallam:1999aq}. In order to achieve that, however, one needs to know the off-diagonal scattering amplitude in the unphysical region and again make the assumption about the high-energy asymptotics. On the other side, with the $N/D$ method, both the scattering amplitude and the Omn\`es function are obtained simultaneously from the fit to the available data. Additional information about the off-diagonal scattering amplitude in the unphysical region can be used as a constraint and not as a necessary requirement to obtain the Omn\`es matrix. Also, as discussed above, in most of the cases the obtained Omn\`es function (or its inverse) is asymptotically bounded. Therefore, this approach is useful in many practical applications. As a check of our numerical calculations, we verified that the Omn\`es functions obtained using Eqs. (\ref{D-fun}) and (\ref{Omnes_Dfun}) satisfy Eq. (\ref{Omnes_DR}).
\begin{table*}
\begin{tabular*}{\textwidth}[t]{@{\extracolsep{\fill}}l|lllll|c@{}}
\hline \hline
& $\sqrt{s_E}$, GeV & $C_0$ & $C_1$ & $C_2$ & $C_3$ & $\chi^2/d.o.f$ \\
\hline\hline
\multicolumn{7}{l}{$\pi \pi \to \pi \pi$}\\
\hline
\textbf{Exp., SC} & 0.740 & $16.1(8)$ & $51.7(1.8)$ & $57.5(1.4)$ & $24.6(3.1)$ & 0.4 \\
\cline{2-7}
\textbf{Exp., CC} $U_{11}(s)$ & 0.740 & 17.3(9) & 51.9(2.6) & 50.3(1.8) & 17.4(4.7) & $t_{11}$: 3.1 \\
\cline{2-6}
\hspace{1.37cm} $U_{12}(s)$ &0.740 & 10.8(9) & 12.4(1.4) & - & - & $|t_{12}|$: 3.5 \\
\cline{2-6}
\hspace{1.37cm} $U_{22}(s)$ &1.095 & 53.5(7.9) & -173.3(46.4) & 293.3(41.0) & - & $\delta_{12}$: 1.1 \\
\cline{2-7}
\textbf{Lattice}, $m_\pi = 236$ MeV & 0.646 & $8.8(3.2)$ & $61.8(1.9)$ & $73.9(6.5)$ & - & 0.6\\
\cline{2-7}
\textbf{Lattice}, $m_\pi = 391$ MeV & 0.896 & $65.5(14.5)$ & $-293.7(47.8)$ & $409.2(35.7)$ & - & 1.2\\
\hline
\multicolumn{7}{l}{$\pi K \to \pi K$}\\
\hline
\textbf{Exp. SC} & 0.853 & $16.1(8)$ & $-37.4(3.5)$ & $32.5(2.6)$ & $-20.2(6.0)$ & 1.2\\
\cline{2-7}
\textbf{Lattice}, $m_\pi=239$ MeV & 0.884 & $16.7(3.6)$ & $-49.5(2.5)$ & $27.7(8.0)$ & - & 0.2\\
\hline\hline
\end{tabular*}
\caption{Fit parameters entering Eq. (\ref{ConfExpansion}) which were adjusted to reproduce available experimental (whenever possible replaced by the most recent Roy-like results) or lattice data. SC and CC stand for single-channel and coupled-channel analyses, respectively. See text for more details.}
\label{tab:FitResults}
\end{table*}
\begin{table*}
\begin{tabular*}{\textwidth}[t]{@{\extracolsep{\fill}}l|lll|lll@{}}
\hline \hline
& $\sqrt{s_A}$, GeV & $m_\pi\, a$ & $m_\pi^3\,b$& $\sqrt{s_A}$ ($\chi \text{PT}_{\text{LO}}$), GeV& $m_\pi\,a$ ($\chi \text{PT}_{\text{NNLO}}$) & $m_\pi^3\,b$ ($\chi \text{PT}_{\text{NNLO}}$) \\
\hline\hline
\multicolumn{7}{l}{$\pi \pi \to \pi \pi$}\\
\hline
\textbf{Exp., SC} & $0.098(5)$ & $0.220(5)$ & $0.276(6)$ & $0.099$ & $0.220(5)$ \cite{Colangelo:2001df}& $0.276(6)$ \cite{Colangelo:2001df}\\
\textbf{Exp., CC} & $0.099(10)$ & $0.221(9)$ & $0.282(12)$ & - & - & - \\
\hline
\textbf{Lattice}, $m_\pi = 236$ MeV & $0.233(39)$ & $0.75(16)$ & $1.20(26)$ & $0.168$ & $0.75 - 0.87$ \cite{Colangelo:2001df} &-\\
\textbf{Lattice}, $m_\pi = 391$ MeV & - & -$4.09(40)$ & $68.4(21.7)$ & - & -&-\\
\hline
\multicolumn{7}{l}{$\pi K \to \pi K$}\\
\hline
\textbf{Exp., SC} & 0.486(2) & $0.220(10)$ & $0.114(10)$ & 0.486 & 0.220 \cite{Bijnens:2004bu} & 0.130 \cite{Bijnens:2004bu}\\
\hline
\textbf{Lattice}, $m_\pi=239$ MeV & 0.484(30) & 0.421(69) & 0.284(62) & 0.481 & - & - \\
\hline\hline
\end{tabular*}
\caption{Fit results for the threshold parameters $a$ and $b$ defined in Eq. (\ref{eq:ThresholdPar}) and the Adler zeros $s_A$ compared to $\chi$PT values. SC and CC stand for single-channel and coupled-channel analyses, respectively.}
\label{tab:ThresholdPar}
\end{table*}
\section{Numerical results}
\label{sec:Numerical results}
In this paper, we study the resonant $\pi\pi$ and $\pi K$ scattering in the S-wave. These are the channels where $\sigma/f_0(500)$, $f_0(980)$, and $\kappa/K_0^*(700)$ resonances reside. Both $\pi\pi$ and $\pi K$ channels have been measured experimentally \cite{Protopopescu:1973sh, Grayer:1974cr, *Kaminski:1996da,Batley:2007zz, *Batley:2010zza, Estabrooks:1977xe,Aston:1987ir}. However, throughout the whole energy range there are large differences between different data-sets and a careful choice of the data is required to achieve a controllable data-driven description of the phase shifts and inelasticity. For the $\pi\pi$ scattering, the situation is a bit better than for $\pi K$ scattering, since there is very precise low-energy data coming from $K_{l4}$ decays \cite{Batley:2007zz, *Batley:2010zza} and, in general, SU(2) $\chi$PT is a much more accurate theory than the SU(3) version of it. In order to be consistent with $\chi$PT in the threshold region, we employ the effective range expansion
\begin{align}\label{eq:ThresholdPar}
\frac{2}{\sqrt{s}}\,\text{Re}\,\left(\frac{t(s)}{16\,\pi}
\right)\simeq a+b\,p^2(s)+...\,,
\end{align}
where $a$ is the scattering length and $b$ is the slope parameter. For the $\pi\pi$ and $\pi K$ scattering both $a$ and $b$ have been calculated at NNLO in $\chi$PT \cite{Colangelo:2001df,Bijnens:2004bu}. As expected, for the $\pi K$ scattering, the chiral convergence is a bit worse than for the $\pi\pi$ scattering \cite{Bijnens:2004bu}, however the results for the scattering length and slope parameter do not show large discrepancies with the Roy-Steiner results \cite{Buettiker:2003pp,*DescotesGenon:2006uk, Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd}. For the case of non-physical pion masses with $m_\pi=236$ MeV and $m_\pi=239$ MeV, we only use Adler zero positions as a constraint, while for $m_\pi=391$ MeV, where $\sigma/f_0(500)$ shows up as a bound state, no constraints are imposed.
The free parameters in our approach are the conformal coefficients in (\ref{ConfExpansion}), which determine the form of the left-hand cut contribution $U_{ab}(s)$ in Eq. (\ref{DR_1}). Apart from the standard $\chi^2$ criteria, the number of parameters is chosen in a way to ensure that the series (\ref{ConfExpansion}) converges. The uncertainties are propagated using a bootstrap approach. In several cases, however, we will be fitting Roy (Roy-Steiner) solutions, which are smooth functions and their errors are fully correlated from one point to another. In these cases, $\chi^2/d.o.f$ loses its statistical meaning and can be $<1$. In our fits, this scenario will simply indicate that we obtained the $N/D$ solution which is consistent with the Roy (Roy Steiner) solutions, and we just make sure that the obtained uncertainty is consistent with that from Roy analyses.
\begin{table*}[t]
\begin{tabular*}{\textwidth}[t]{@{\extracolsep{\fill}}l|ll|ll@{}}
\hline \hline
& \multicolumn{2}{c|}{Our results} & \multicolumn{2}{c}{Roy-like analyses}\\
& $\sqrt{s_p}$, MeV &$|g_{pa}|/\sqrt{N_{aa}}$, GeV & $\sqrt{s_p}$, MeV & $|g_{pa}|/\sqrt{N_{aa}}$, GeV\\
\hline \hline
\multicolumn{5}{l}{$\sigma/f_0(500)$}\\
\hline
\bf{Exp., SC} & $457(7) - i\,249(5)$ & \begin{tabular}{l} $\gamma\gamma: 5.8(1)\cdot 10^{-3}$\\ $\pi\pi: 3.17(4)$\end{tabular}& $449^{+22}_{-16}-i\,276(15)$ \cite{Pelaez:2015qba} &
\begin{tabular}{l} $\gamma\gamma: 6.1(7) \cdot 10^{-3}$ \cite{Hoferichter:2011wk}\\ $\pi\pi: 3.45^{+0.25}_{-0.29}$ \cite{Pelaez:2015qba}\\$K\bar{K}: -$\end{tabular}
\\
\cline{2-3}
\bf{Exp., CC} & $456(11)- i\,257(7)$ & \begin{tabular}{l} $\gamma\gamma: 5.6(2)\cdot 10^{-3}$\\ $\pi\pi: 3.34(9)$\\ $K\bar{K}: 2.09(10)$ \end{tabular}& & \\
\hline
\textbf{Lattice}, $m_\pi = 236$ MeV &$528(22) - i\,138(10)$ & \begin{tabular}{l} $\gamma\gamma: 9.5(9)\cdot 10^{-3}$\\ $\pi\pi: 2.96(5)$\end{tabular}&&\\
\textbf{Lattice}, $m_\pi = 391$ MeV & $758(5)$ & \begin{tabular}{l} $\pi\pi: {3.91(29)}\qquad $\end{tabular}&&\\
\hline
\multicolumn{5}{l}{$f_0(980)$}\\
\hline
\bf{Exp., CC} & $986(4) - i\,33(4)$ & \begin{tabular}{l}$\gamma\gamma: 3.9(3)\cdot 10^{-3}$\\ $\pi\pi: 2.13(10)$\\ $K\bar{K}: 5.3(2)$\end{tabular} & $996^{+7}_{-14}-i\,25^{+11}_{-6}$ \cite{GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa,Moussallam:2011zg}&
\begin{tabular}{l} $\gamma\gamma: 3.8(1.4)\cdot 10^{-3}$ \cite{Moussallam:2011zg}\\ $\pi\pi: 2.3(2)$ \cite{GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa}\\$K\bar{K}: -$\end{tabular}\\
\hline
\multicolumn{5}{l}{$\kappa/K^*_0(700)$}\\
\hline
\bf{Exp. SC} & $701(12)-i\,287(17)$ & \begin{tabular}{l} $\pi K: 4.16(14)$\end{tabular} & $653^{+18}_{-12}-i\,280(16)$ \cite{ Buettiker:2003pp,*DescotesGenon:2006uk,Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd} & \begin{tabular}{l} $\pi K: 3.81(9)$ \cite{Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd} \end{tabular}\\
\cline{2-5}
\textbf{Lattice}, $m_\pi=239$ MeV & $749(38)-i\,265(16)$ & \begin{tabular}{l} $\pi K: 4.18(18)$\end{tabular}&&\\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular*}
\caption{Poles and couplings of the $\sigma/f_0(500)$, $f_0(980)$, and $\kappa/K_0^*(700)$ resonances calculated in data-driven $N/D$ approach compared with the results of Roy-like analyses. SC and CC stand for single-channel and coupled-channel analyses, respectively. For the $f_0(980)$ or $\kappa/K_0^*(700)$ poles we take a conservative dispersive average between \cite{GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa} and \cite{Moussallam:2011zg} or \cite{Buettiker:2003pp,*DescotesGenon:2006uk} and \cite{Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd}, similar as it was done for $\sigma/f_0(500)$ in \cite{Pelaez:2015qba}.
}
\label{tab:Poles}
\end{table*}
Before entering the discussion of the results of the fits, we would like to briefly comment on the freedom of the choice of the subtraction point $s_M$ in the dispersion relation (\ref{DR_0}). The common choice in the application of the Omn\`es functions is $s_M=0$, due to its relation to scalar form factors and matching to $\chi$PT. On the other side, one can fix $s_M$ at the threshold, $s_M=s_{th}$, and then relate $\sum_{n=0}^{n_{max}} C_{n}\,\xi^{n}(s_{th})$ to the scattering length. Similarly, one can fix $s_M$ at the Adler zero\footnote{On the technical level, it may look that Adler zero could be accounted for as a CDD pole in the $D$-function \cite{Yao:2020bxx,Salas-Bernardez:2020hua}. However, every CDD pole physically corresponds to the genuine QCD state, while the existing of the Adler zero is the property of the chiral symmetry. Therefore we encode it as a zero in the $N$-function and not as a pole in the $D$-function.}, $s_M=s_A$, which would imply that $\sum_{n=0}^{n_{max}} C_{n}\,\xi^{n}(s_{A})=0$. The last two choices can therefore reduce the number of fitted parameters by one. Eventually different choices of $s_M$ redefine the fitted coefficients $C_n$ in the $U_{ab}(s)$ function and the results of the $N/D$ method are immune to that (after computing the $D$-function, it can be re-normalized to any other point below threshold). Since not in all the fits we impose threshold or Adler zero constraints, we decided to make the choice
\begin{align}
s_M=0
\end{align}
in all the cases for simplicity. As for the expansion point $s_E$, we choose it in the middle between the threshold and the energy of the last data point that is fitted,
\begin{equation}\label{Eq:s_E}
\sqrt{s_E}=\frac{1}{2}\,\left(\sqrt{s_{th}}+\sqrt{s_{max}}\right)\,.
\end{equation}
Note, that in the coupled channel case, $s_{th}$ in Eq. (\ref{Eq:s_E}) denotes the physical threshold for the diagonal terms $U_{ab}(s)$, while for the off-diagonal terms it is the lowest threshold. We emphasize, that this particular choice guarantees a fast convergence of the conformal expansion (\ref{ConfExpansion}) in the region where the scattering amplitude is fitted to the data and also where it is needed as input to Eq. (\ref{N-fun}).
All results presented below have been checked to fulfill the partial-wave dispersion relation given in Eq. (\ref{DR_1}) or Eq. (\ref{BoundState}) in the case when there is a physical bound state in the system. In addition we checked that there are no spurious poles or bound states in the considered cases\footnote{In principle, it is possible to expect the situation when det$(D_{ab}(s))$ has an unphysical zero far away from the threshold on the first Riemann sheet. To avoid this spurious bound state, one has to impose in the fit the fulfilment of p.w. dispersion relation which does not contain the bound state.}.
\subsection{Single channel $\pi\pi \to \pi\pi$ analysis of the experimental and lattice data}
\label{subsec:SCpipi}
As a first step, we consider only the elastic $\pi\pi$ scattering, which should be enough to get a realistic estimate of the resonance position of $\sigma/f_0(500)$, which is known to be connected almost exclusively to the pion sector. The reason for that is twofold. In many practical applications it is convenient to remove the $K\bar{K}$ (or $f_0(980)$) effects, which do not influence much the $\sigma/f_0(500)$ pole parameters, but at the same time require a proper coupled-channel treatment. Additionally, the current lattice QCD result for $m_\pi=236$ MeV covers only the elastic region \cite{Briceno:2016mjc}. Therefore, as a necessary prerequisite of a meaningful $\sigma/f_0(500)$ pole extraction for unphysical pion masses, one has to test the $N/D$ formalism first for physical quark mass values, where the position of $\sigma/f_0(500)$ has already been obtained from the sophisticated Roy analyses \cite{Pelaez:2015qba,GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa,Ananthanarayan:2000ht,*Caprini:2005zr,*Leutwyler:2008xd,Colangelo:2001df}. The inclusion of the $K\bar{K}$ channel (or $f_0(980)$ resonance) will allow for a slightly more precise evaluation of $\sigma/f_0(500)$ parameters and will be given in the next subsection.
\begin{figure*}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width =0.90\textwidth ]{2.pdf}
\caption{Results for the $\pi\pi \to \pi\pi$ scattering with $J=0,\,I=0$ in the single-channel case. Top, central and bottom panels correspond to $m_\pi=\text{physical},\,236,\,391$ MeV, respectively.
Left panels show the convergence of the conformal expansion in Eq. (\ref{ConfExpansion}), central panels show the comparison with the data and right panels show the corresponding Omn\`es functions. In the phase shift plot for the physical pion mass two curves are shown: fit to the experimental data \cite{Grayer:1974cr, *Kaminski:1996da,Batley:2007zz, *Batley:2010zza} (dashed curve) and fit to the pseudo data from Roy analysis \cite{Pelaez:2015qba,GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa} (thick curve).
}
\label{Fig:pipiSC}
\end{figure*}
Relying only on the available data up to $\sqrt{s_{max}} = 0.7$ GeV, where a strong influence of the $K\bar{K}$ threshold is not yet expected, we obtain a decent fit even without imposing chiral constraints. The pole occurs at $\sqrt{s_{\sigma}}=477(10)-i\,235(6)$ MeV. The scattering length and slope parameters turn out to be compatible with those of $\chi$PT due to the presence of $K_{l4}$ data. As we discussed above, this is not the case for the Adler zero, which is located too close to the left hand cut,
\begin{align}
s_A=m_\pi^2/2\, ,
\end{align}
i.e. where the series (\ref{ConfExpansion}) simply converges too slow. With the additional constraints for the scattering length, slope parameter and Adler zero, the best fit result contains four parameters and leads to $\sqrt{s_{\sigma}}=447(9)-i\,263(6)$ MeV. This result is compatible with the value $\sqrt{s_{\sigma}}=459(7)-i\,246(5)$ MeV, obtained by replacing the experimental data with the pseudo data from the Roy-like analysis \cite{GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa}. As it is shown in Fig.~\ref{Fig:pipiSC} both $N/D$ fits are consistent within the error. This provides a proof for our expectation, that even in the case where there is no available Roy analyses (like lattice QCD data), we can rely on the $N/D$ approximation. For our final result of the single-channel Omn\`es function with physical pion mass, we opt for fitting the result of the Roy analysis \cite{GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa}, as the best representation of the data. The values of the fitted parameters are collected in Table \ref{tab:FitResults}, which result in the fast convergence of the conformal expansion (\ref{ConfExpansion}) as shown in the left panel of Fig.\,\ref{Fig:pipiSC}. Note, that in order to use these fit parameters as the starting values of the more complicated coupled-channel fit, we have chosen $s_E$ here to be the same as for the coupled-channel case, where we aim to describe the data up to $\sqrt{s_{max}}=1.2$ GeV. In Table \ref{tab:ThresholdPar} we compare threshold parameters and Adler zeros to $\chi$PT values, while in Table \ref{tab:Poles} poles and couplings are collected. Overall we achieve a good description of the Roy analyses results. In Fig.\,\ref{Fig:pipiSC} we also show phase shift and Omn\`es function. Note, that a similar result for the Omn\`es function can be obtained by using the phase shift from the single-channel modified Inverse Amplitude Method (mIAM) \cite{GomezNicola:2007qj,Hanhart:2008mx,Nebreda:2010wv,Salas-Bernardez:2020hua} and Eq. (\ref{Omnes_phase_shift}). In this method, the dispersion relation is written for the inverse amplitude, while the left-hand cut and subtraction constants are approximated by the chiral expansion. The best result for the $\sigma/f_0(500)$ pole is achieved by performing two-loop mIAM fits \cite{Pelaez:2010fj}. In elastic $N/D$ and mIAM approaches the $K\bar{K}$ channel is separated naturally from the $\pi\pi$ channel, which is beneficial for the practical applications.
Apart from the experimental data, the recent lattice analysis \cite{Briceno:2016mjc} provided the results for the energy levels for pion mass values of $m_{\pi} = 236$ MeV and $m_{\pi}=391$ MeV. While the former case is much closer to the physical pion mass, the lattice result for the larger mass deserves special attention, since in that case $\sigma/f_0(500)$ shows up as a bound state. In the lattice QCD analysis, the discrete energy spectrum in a finite volume is related to the infinite-volume scattering amplitude through the L\"uscher formalism \cite{Luscher:1991cf,*Luscher:1990ck}, which was extended in \cite{Rummukainen:1995vs,*Kim:2005gf,*Christ:2005gi,*Leskovec:2012gb} to the case of moving frames. In the case of elastic scattering at low energies it gives a one-to-one relation to $p\,\cot\delta$. The lattice results for $p\,\cot\delta$ with $m_{\pi} = 236$ MeV and $m_{\pi}=391$ MeV were shown in \cite{Briceno:2016mjc}. To fit these data, we analytically continue $p\,\cot\delta$ below threshold, such that it does not produce any cusp behaviour at the threshold,
\begin{align}
p(s)\,\cot\delta(s)=\frac{\sqrt{s}}{2}\left(\frac{1}{t(s)}+i\,\rho_0(s)\right)16\pi\, ,
\end{align}
where $\rho_0$ is the same as $\rho$ in Eq. (\ref{Eq:rho}), but without the Heaviside step function.
For both $m_{\pi} = 236$ MeV and $m_{\pi}=391$ MeV, we find that the three-parameter fit covers the data quite well (see central and bottom panels of Fig.\ref{Fig:pipiSC}). Similar to the K-matrix fits performed in \cite{Briceno:2016mjc}, we found $\sigma/f_0(500)$ as a deep pole on the second Riemann sheet for $m_{\pi} = 236$ MeV and as a bound state for $m_{\pi}=391$ MeV. In our approach, however, the obtained scattering amplitudes satisfy p.w. dispersion relations, which is a stringent constraint on the real part of the inverse of the amplitude. As a result, the pole position is determined much more precisely, see Table \ref{tab:Poles}. We also checked that the obtained scattering length $m_{\pi}\,a= 0.75(16)$ for $m_{\pi} = 236$ MeV is consistent with the chiral extrapolation result $m_{\pi}\,a_{\text{NNLO}}= 0.75 - 0.87$ of \cite{Colangelo:2001df} and therefore including such additional constraint in the fit barely affects the results of the $\sigma/f_0(500)$ pole and coupling.
It is instructive to compare the obtained pole positions of $\sigma/f_0(500)$ for non-physical pion masses with the predictions of unitarized chiral perturbation theory (U$\chi$PT). The most popular are two approaches: mIAM \cite{Pelaez:2010fj} and Bethe-Salpeter equation (BSE) \cite{Albaladejo:2012te}. Both observe the same qualitative behaviour of the $\sigma/f_0(500)$ pole. With increasing pion mass values the imaginary part of the pole decreases, then $\sigma/f_0(500)$ becomes a virtual bound state and as $m_\pi$ increases further, one of the virtual states moves towards threshold and jumps onto the first Riemann sheet and become a real bound state. For $m_{\pi} = 236$ MeV, the extracted value from lattice data is consistent with U$\chi$PT predictions for the real part, but somewhat lower for the width,
\begin{align}
\sqrt{s_\sigma}&=528(22)-i\,138(10) &(\text{lattice} +N/D)\nonumber\\
\sqrt{s_\sigma}&=510-i\,175 &(\text{mIAM}_{\text{NNLO}}, \text{fit\,D})\\
\sqrt{s_\sigma}&=490(15)-i\,180(10) &(\text{BSE}_{\text{NLO}})\nonumber
\end{align}
For $m_{\pi} = 391$ MeV the situation is a bit different. Since it is on the edge of the applicability of $\chi$PT, the results of U$\chi$PT are very sensitive to the chiral order. Both mIAM \cite{Hanhart:2008mx} and BSE \cite{Albaladejo:2012te} at one loop found $\sigma/f_0(500)$ as a virtual bound state for $m_{\pi} = 391$ MeV. However, including the higher-order corrections (two loop) in mIAM \cite{Pelaez:2010fj} predicted the conventional bound state very close to the lattice results
\begin{align}
\sqrt{s_\sigma}&=758(5) &(\text{lattice} +N/D)\nonumber\\
\sqrt{s_\sigma}&=765 &(\text{mIAM}_{\text{NNLO}}, \text{fit\,D})
\end{align}
confirming the proposed trajectory. However, as pointed out in \cite{Briceno:2016mjc}, it would be useful to perform lattice calculation between 236 and 391 MeV, to see what really happens in the transition region between a resonance lying deep in the second Riemann sheet and the bound state.
\begin{figure}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width =0.43\textwidth ]{3.pdf}
\caption{Comparison between the coupled-channel $N/D$ fits and the Roy-like solution from \cite{GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa}. The dashed curves are the fit solely to the experimental data, while the solid curves take advantage of both the experimental data and the results of Roy (Roy-Steiner) analyses on $\pi\pi \to \pi\pi$ ( $\pi\pi \to K\bar{K}$).}
\label{Fig:ReImt11}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure*}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width =0.95\textwidth ]{4.pdf}
\caption{Results for the $\pi\pi \to \pi\pi,\,K\bar{K}$ scattering with $J=0,\,I=0$ in the coupled-channel case. Top, central and bottom panels correspond to $11,\,12$ and $22$ matrix elements, respectively, with $1=\pi\pi$ and $2=K\bar{K}$.
Left panels show the convergence of the conformal expansion in Eq. (\ref{ConfExpansion}), central panels show the comparison with the data, right panels show the elements of the Omn\`es matrix. In the central plots two curves are shown: fit to the experimental data \cite{Grayer:1974cr, *Kaminski:1996da,Batley:2007zz, *Batley:2010zza} (dashed curve) and fit to the pseudo data from Roy analyses \cite{Pelaez:2015qba,GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa} (thick curve).}
\label{Fig:pipiCC}
\end{figure*}
\subsection{Coupled-channel $\{\pi\pi,K\bar{K}\}$ analysis of the experimental data}
While the single-channel analysis allows us to reproduce the low-energy behavior of the phase shifts and gives very reasonable values of the $\sigma/f_0(500)$ pole parameters, a comprehensive study of the region up to $\sqrt{s}=1.2$ GeV should account for the interplay between $\pi\pi$ and $K\bar{K}$ channels. In our normalization (see Eqs. (\ref{p.w.expansion}-\ref{Eq:rho})), the two-dimensional $t$-matrix, with channels denoted by $1=\pi\pi$ and $2=K\bar{K}$, is given by
\begin{equation}\label{t_CC}
t(s)=\begin{pmatrix}
\frac{\eta(s)\,e^{2\,i\,\delta_1(s)}-1}{2\,i\,\rho_{1}(s)} & |t_{12}(s)|\,e^{\delta_{12}(s)}\\
|t_{12}(s)|\,e^{\delta_{12}(s)} & \frac{\eta(s)\,e^{2\,i\,\delta_2(s)}-1}{2\,i\,\rho_{2}(s)}
\end{pmatrix}\,.
\end{equation}
Under assumption of two-channel unitarity, the inelasticity is related to $|t_{12}(s)|$ as
\begin{align}\label{inelasticity}
\eta(s)=\sqrt{1-4\,\rho_{1}(s)\,\rho_{2}(s)\,|t_{12}(s)|^2}\,,
\end{align}
and due to Watson's theorem,
\begin{align}
\delta_{12}(s)=\delta_{1}(s)+\delta_{2}(s)\,\theta(s>4m_K^2)\,.
\end{align}
In the physical region the $t$-matrix is fully described by experimental information on the $\pi\pi$ phase shift $\delta_1(s)$ \cite{Protopopescu:1973sh, Grayer:1974cr, *Kaminski:1996da,Batley:2007zz, *Batley:2010zza}, the inelasticity $\eta(s)$ (or $|t_{12}(s)|$ for $s>4m_K^2$ \cite{Cohen:1980cq,Etkin:1981sg,Longacre:1986fh}) and the $\pi\pi \to K\bar{K}$ phase $\delta_{12}(s)$ \cite{Etkin:1981sg,Cohen:1980cq,Martin:1979gm}.
Similar to the single-channel analysis, we first fit the available experimental data supplemented with constraints for scattering length, slope parameter and Adler zero from $\chi$PT in the $\pi\pi \to \pi\pi$ channel. As for the $\pi\pi\to K \bar{K}$ channel, the complication stems from two facts. Firstly, the experimental data exist only in the physical region above $K\bar{K}$ threshold. Therefore, in order to stabilize the fits, we make sure that the obtained $|t_{12}(s)|$ stays small around\footnote{Specifically at $s=m_\pi^2/2$ we impose NLO $\chi$PT with a conservative error that covers LO $\chi$PT result.} $s=0$ as a manifestation of $\chi$PT. Secondly, the existing experimental data for both $|t_{12}(s)|$ and $\delta_{12}(s)$ contains incompatible data sets and require to make some choice. Since the phase $\delta_{12}(s)$ is fully defined below $K\bar{K}$ threshold by means of Watson's theorem, we discard the data from \cite{Etkin:1981sg} as it suggests that $\pi\pi\to K \bar{K}$ phase goes much lower than it is forced by the presence of $f_0(980)$ resonance. Therefore, we fit the data from \cite{Cohen:1980cq} and \cite{Martin:1979gm} which are consistent due to the large error bars of the latter set. As for $|t_{12}(s)|$, the two data sets from \cite{Longacre:1986fh} and \cite{Cohen:1980cq,Etkin:1981sg} should in principle be treated separately. The best fit with $(4,4,3)$ parameters in $(11,12,22)$ channels favors the data from \cite{Longacre:1986fh}, for which we obtain $\sigma/f_0(500)$ and $f_0(980)$ poles at $\sqrt{s_\sigma}= 455(12) - 263(12)\,i$ MeV and $\sqrt{s_{f_0}}= 990(6) - 18(6)\, i$ MeV. These results are remarkably close to the Roy (for $\pi\pi\to \pi\pi$) and Roy-Steiner solutions for ($\pi\pi \to K\bar{K}$) as shown in Figs. \ref{Fig:ReImt11} and \ref{Fig:pipiCC}. The large error bars arise from scarce experimental data around $K\bar{K}$ threshold and almost unconstrained $|t_{12}|$ in the unphysical region.
On the other side, we have at our disposal very precise $\pi\pi \to \pi\pi$ Roy-like analyses from \cite{GarciaMartin:2011jx,*GarciaMartin:2011cn,*Pelaez:2019eqa} and $\pi\pi \to K\bar{K}$ Roy-Steiner analyses from \cite{Buettiker:2003pp,*DescotesGenon:2006uk,Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd, Pelaez:2018qny}. Unfortunately, they do not come from the coupled-channel Roy-Steiner analyses and may display some inconsistencies between each other. In particularly, the Roy results on the real and imaginary parts of the $t_{11}(s)$ amplitude can constrain $\delta_1(s)$ and $\eta(s)$. The latter, in the two-channel approximation, is related to $|t_{12}(s)|$ by Eq. (\ref{inelasticity}) and turns out to be inconsistent with any available Roy-Steiner solution on $\pi\pi \to K\bar{K}$ \cite{Buettiker:2003pp,*DescotesGenon:2006uk,Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd, Pelaez:2018qny}. Therefore in order to avoid possible conflict in fitting two independent analyses, we impose $\pi\pi \to K\bar{K}$ Roy-Steiner solution only as constraint on $|t_{12}(s)|$ in the unphysical region $4m_\pi^2<s<4m_K$. Currently, there are three competing solutions: one from Büttiker et al. \cite{Buettiker:2003pp} and two (CFDc and CFDb) from Peláez et al. \cite{Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd}. We let the fit decide which solution to choose. As for the $\delta_{12}$, we take advantage of experimental data of Cohen et al. \cite{Cohen:1980cq} in the fit, which are quite precise. The good description of the data can be achieved with as low as $(4,2,3)$ parameters in $(11,12,22)$ channels, respectively. The results of the fit are collected in Tables \ref{tab:FitResults},\ref{tab:ThresholdPar} and \ref{tab:Poles} and shown in Fig.\,\ref{Fig:pipiCC}. As expected, the values for the fit parameters in the $11$-channel do not deviate much from the single-channel analysis in Sec.\ref{subsec:SCpipi}. In the coupled-channel analysis the $\sigma/f_0(500)$ pole position comes a bit closer to the Roy analysis value, than in the single-channel study. Moreover, we are now in a position to calculate its coupling to the $K\bar{K}$ channel, which we include in Table \ref{tab:Poles}. By inspecting Table \ref{tab:FitResults}, one can also see the striking similarity between the fit parameters in the $22$ channel and the fit to lattice $\pi\pi\to \pi\pi$ data with $m_\pi=391$ MeV, for which there is a bound state. Similarly, $f_0(980)$ will be a bound state in the $22$ channel, if we eliminate its connection to the $11$ channel, i.e. by putting $U_{12}=0$. This feature is not new and has already been observed in U$\chi$PT calculations, see for instance \cite{Oller:1997ti}. As for the $12$ channel, the fit clearly favours CFDc solution of \cite{Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd}. This is also consistent with our previous "free" fit to to the experimental data, as shown by the dashed curves in Fig.~\ref{Fig:pipiCC}. On the right panels of Fig.~\ref{Fig:pipiCC} we show the elements of the Omn\`es matrix calculated using Eq.~(\ref{Omnes_Dfun}). The previous version of them, with the fit to \cite{Buettiker:2003pp,Pelaez:2018qny} has already been successfully applied for the dispersive coupled-channel study of $\gamma^{(*)}\gamma^{*} \to \pi \pi(K\bar{K})$ \cite{Danilkin:2018qfn,*Danilkin:2019opj,*Deineka:2019bey} and $e^+e^- \to J/\psi \pi \pi (K\bar{K})$ \cite{Danilkin:2020kce}.
\begin{figure*}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width =0.43\textwidth ]{5.pdf}\quad\quad
\includegraphics[width =0.43\textwidth ]{6.pdf}
\caption{Left panel: two-photon decay width of $\sigma/f_0(500)$ and $f_0(980)$ compared to the recent dispersive estimations from \cite{Bernabeu:2008wt,Oller:2008kf,Hoferichter:2011wk,Moussallam:2011zg,Dai:2014lza}. Right panel: total cross section of $\gamma\gamma \to \pi^0\pi^0$ $(|\cos\theta|<0.8)$ from \cite{Danilkin:2018qfn} with updated $I=0, J=0$ contribution. The data for the cross section are taken from \cite{Uehara:2009cka,*Marsiske:1990hx}.}
\label{Fig:ggTopipi}
\end{figure*}
We leave the coupled-channel study of the existing lattice data on $\{\pi\pi,K\bar{K}\}$ \cite{Briceno:2017qmb} with $m_\pi=391$ MeV for a future work. In our opinion, this channel has to be analysed together with $\{\pi\eta,K\bar{K}\}$ lattice data \cite{Dudek:2016cru}, to shed more light onto the differences between the light scalar resonances $f_0(980)$ and $a_0(980)$.
\subsection{Two-photon couplings of $\sigma/f_0(500)$ and $f_0(980)$}
As an application of the obtained Omn\`es functions in the $N/D$ approach, we would like to extract the two-photon couplings of $\sigma/f_0(500)$ and $f_0(980)$. In principle, the coupling to the external currents has the potential to infer the scalar meson composition. Furthermore, it characterizes the interaction strength of $\sigma/f_0(500)$ and $f_0(980)$ in the two-photon channel. The latter is important for the light-by-light sum rule applications \cite{Pascalutsa:2010sj,Pascalutsa:2012pr,Danilkin:2016hnh,Dai:2017cvz} and serves as a key input to estimate the isoscalar two-pion (kaon) contribution to the hadronic light-by-light scattering for $(g-2)$ of the muon \cite{Aoyama:2020ynm,*Danilkin:2019mhd}. The central result in this section will be obtained using a coupled-channel dispersive representation, however, for $\sigma/f_0(500)$ we will employ as well the single-channel representation both for physical and non-physical pion masses.
\begin{figure*}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width =0.95\textwidth ]{7.pdf}
\caption{Results for the $\pi K \to \pi K$ scattering with $J=0,\,I=1/2$ in the single-channel approximation. Top and bottom panels correspond to $m_\pi=\text{physical},\,239$ MeV, respectively. Left panels show the convergence of the conformal expansion in Eq. (\ref{ConfExpansion}), central panels show the comparison with the data and right panels show the corresponding Omn\`es functions. In the phase shift plot for the physical pion mass two curves are shown: fit to the experimental data \cite{Estabrooks:1977xe,Aston:1987ir} (dashed curve) and fit to the pseudo-data from Roy-Steiner analysis \cite{Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd} (thick curve).}
\label{Fig:piK}
\end{figure*}
The photon-fusion partial-wave amplitude $\gamma\gamma \to \pi\pi$, which we denote by $h_{I,\lambda_1,\lambda_2}^{(J)}$, is the off-diagonal element of the $\gamma\gamma, \pi \pi, K\bar{K}$ channels. Since the intermediate states with two photons are proportional to $e^4$, they are suppressed, and one can reduce the $(3\times 3)$ matrix dispersion relation down to the $(2\times1)$ form, which require the hadronic rescattering part, $\Omega(s)$, and the left-hand cuts as input \cite{GarciaMartin:2010cw, Hoferichter:2011wk, Danilkin:2012ua, Dai:2014zta, Oller:2007sh, Oller:2008kf}. For the low-energies around $\sigma/f_0(500)$ (and to lesser extent around $f_0(980)$) the contribution from the left-hand cuts is dominated by the pion-pole contribution (Born term), which is exactly calculable.
Therefore, in this approximation there is no need of modeling left-hand cuts in one way or another or introducing any subtractions. The photon-fusion p.w. amplitudes are readily obtained using the Muskhelishvili-Omn\`es representation. For more details, we refer to Ref. \cite{Danilkin:2018qfn,*Danilkin:2019opj,*Deineka:2019bey}. The two-photon couplings are extracted by calculating the residue of $h^{(0)}_{0,++}(s)$ at the pole positions, $s_p$. Following \cite{Pennington:2006dg,Oller:2007sh}, in our convention it is given by
\begin{align}
\frac{g_{p\gamma\gamma}^2}{g^2_{p\pi\pi}}=-\left(\rho_{0}(s_p)\, h^{(0)}_{0,++}(s_p)\right)^2 \, ,
\end{align}
where $h^{(0)}_{0,++}(s)$ is evaluated on the first Riemann sheet for $p=\sigma/f_0(500),\,f_0(980)$. An intuitive way of re-expressing the two-photon couplings, shown in Table \ref{tab:Poles}, is by using the formal definition of the corresponding two-photon decay widths
\begin{align}\label{Eq:Gamma}
\Gamma_{p\to\gamma\gamma}=\frac{|g_{p\gamma\gamma}|^2}{16\,\pi\,\text{Re}\sqrt{s_p}}\,.
\end{align}
Converted to (\ref{Eq:Gamma}), our results read
\begin{align}\label{Eq:GammaResults}
\Gamma_{\sigma \to\gamma\gamma} &=1.38(12)\,[1.38(8)]\, \rm{keV}, \nonumber\\
\Gamma_{f_0(980)\to\gamma\gamma}&=0.31(5) \,\rm{keV},\\
\Gamma^{m_\pi=236\,\rm{MeV} }_{\sigma\to\gamma\gamma} &=3.48(84)\, \rm{keV}, \nonumber
\end{align}
where in square brackets the single-channel approximation is shown. As expected, its $\Gamma_{\sigma \to\gamma\gamma}$ is almost indistinguishable from the coupled-channel case. In Fig.~\ref{Fig:ggTopipi} we compare our results with the recent dispersive estimates \cite{Bernabeu:2008wt,Oller:2008kf,Hoferichter:2011wk,Moussallam:2011zg,Dai:2014lza}. While the two-photon decay width of $f_0(980)$ is consistent with the coupled-channel amplitude analysis of \cite{Dai:2014lza} and the over-subtracted coupled-channel Muskhelishvili-Omn\`es analysis \cite{Moussallam:2011zg}, the two-photon width of $\sigma/f_0(500)$ is about 25\% smaller than their values. On the other hand, the obtained two-photon width of $\sigma/f_0(500)$ is consistent with the sophisticated Roy-Steiner analysis \cite{Hoferichter:2011wk} and other dispersive analyses from \cite{Bernabeu:2008wt,Oller:2008kf}. Finally, we also predicted $\sigma/f_0(500)$ two-photon coupling/width for the unphysical $m_\pi=236$ MeV, which would be interesting to confront with the direct lattice calculations.
We note, that the errors quoted in Eq. (\ref{Eq:GammaResults}) correspond solely to the uncertainties in the Omn\`es matrix. In principle, one can perform a more comprehensive study of the theoretical uncertainties, by the inclusion of more distant left-hand cuts in $\gamma\gamma \to \pi\pi (K\bar{K})$. This would require introducing subtraction constants which can be either fixed from the pion dipole polarizabilities or fitted directly to the cross-section data. Doing so would likely enlarge the error, but we do not expect a significant change of the central values, since the current parameter-free description of the cross-section data (see Fig.\ref{Fig:ggTopipi}) is quite impressive. The advantage of the approach that accounts only for pion pole left-hand contribution, is that in the absence of any single-virtual data one can predict the behavior of the p.w. helicity amplitudes for finite virtualities \cite{Colangelo:2017qdm,*Colangelo:2017fiz,Danilkin:2018qfn,*Danilkin:2019opj,*Deineka:2019bey}, which are needed as input for $(g-2)_\mu$ \cite{Aoyama:2020ynm,*Danilkin:2019mhd}.
\subsection{$I=1/2$ single-channel: data and lattice}
For the $\pi K\to \pi K$ single channel analysis we begin by fitting the experimental data and imposing constraints from $\chi$PT for the scattering length, slope parameter, and Adler zero value
\begin{align}
s_A=\frac{1}{5} \left(m_\pi^2+m_K^2+2 \sqrt{4\,m_\pi^4-7 \,m_\pi^2\, m_K^2 +4\, m_K^4}\right)\,.
\end{align}
The most precise calculation of the scattering length and slope parameter in $\chi$PT has been performed at NNLO order in \cite{Bijnens:2004bu}. While the result for the scattering length $m_\pi\, a=0.22$ is consistent with the recent Roy-Steiner predictions $m_\pi\, a=0.223(9)$ \cite{Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd}, it seems that there is a small tension in the slope parameter value $m_\pi^3\,b=0.13$ compared to $m_\pi^3\,b=0.108(8)$ from \cite{Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd}. The calculation of uncertainties is a bit cumbersome at NNLO and has not been presented in \cite{Bijnens:2004bu}. Therefore in our fits we take NNLO $\chi$PT values as central results, but include the conservative error-bar, such that it covers the recent Roy-Steiner results \cite{Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd}. The available experimental data for this process is scarce in the region close to the $\pi K$ threshold, and often contains the discrepancies even within one dataset \cite{Estabrooks:1977xe}. Since we consider only the single-channel approximation, we perform the fit till $\eta K$ threshold of the data from \cite{Estabrooks:1977xe,Aston:1987ir}. In this way we also exclude the influence of the $K_0^*(1430)$ resonance. We observe a similar situation as for the $\pi \pi\to \pi\pi$ single-channel analysis, that fitting the experimental data \cite{Estabrooks:1977xe,Aston:1987ir} or Roy-Steiner analysis of \cite{Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd} provides equivalent four parameter fits with $\kappa/K_0^*(700)$ pole positions at $688(25)- i\,263(34)$ MeV and $701(12)- i\,286(17)$ MeV, respectively. In general, these results compare well with the Roy-Steiner pole position $653^{+18}_{-12}-i\,280(16)$ MeV which we take as a conservative average between \cite{ Buettiker:2003pp,*DescotesGenon:2006uk} and \cite{Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd}. The one-sigma difference in the resonance mass can be attributed to the fact, that we are fitting Roy-Steiner solution only in the elastic region.
For the unphysical pion mass, we again use recent lattice data from the Hadron Spectrum Collaboration \cite{Wilson:2019wfr}. We analyse the data for $m_\pi=239$ MeV, where an evidence of $\kappa/K_0^*(700)$ was observed in the $p\,\cot\delta$ distribution. Due to large uncertainties, the pole position was not determined by the lattice collaboration, calling for more sophisticated approaches that include in addition to unitarity also the analyticity constraint. By employing the data-driven $N/D$ approach, the present data can be easily described with the two-parameter fit, leading to $\chi^2/d.o.f=0.4$. In this case, however, the Adler zero of the amplitude is located relatively far from the $\chi$PT value, since the lattice data in the low $p^2$ region suffers from the large uncertainties. Also, as we discussed before, in the Adler zero region the conformal expansion (\ref{ConfExpansion}) does not converge well by construction and one has to impose Adler zero as a constraint, which effectively calls for one additional parameter. In this way, the impact of two points with prominently small errors at $p^2\sim0.09$ and $\sim0.11$ GeV$^2$ is balanced out. The results of the fit are collected in Tables \ref{tab:FitResults},\ref{tab:ThresholdPar} and \ref{tab:Poles}.
Again we would like to compare our results for the pole position and coupling with predictions of mIAM. According to [53], at $m_{\pi} = 239$ MeV, the imaginary part of the pole decreases by $\sim 17\%$, while the real part and coupling slowly increase by $\sim4\%$ and $\sim8\%$ respectively. Our values extracted from the lattice data show a similar behavior, with the decrease in the imaginary part of $7.7(7.8)\%$, increase in the real part and coupling of $6.8(5.7)\%$ and $0.5(5.5)\%$, respectively.
\section{Conclusion and outlook}
\label{sec:Conclusion and outlook}
In this work, we presented a data-driven analysis of the resonant S-wave $\pi\pi \to \pi\pi$ and $\pi K \to \pi K$ reactions using the p.w. dispersion relation. In this approach unitarity and analyticity constraints are implemented exactly. We accounted for the contributions from the left-hand cuts in a model-independent way using the Taylor expansion in a conformal variable, which maps the left-hand cut plane onto the unit circle. Then, the once subtracted p.w. dispersion relation was solved numerically by means of the $N/D$ method.
Using existing experimental information and threshold constraints from $\chi$PT we tested the single-channel $N/D$ formalism for the physical pion mass, where the positions of $\sigma/f_0(500)$ and $\kappa/K_0^*(700)$ have already been obtained from the sophisticated Roy and Roy-Steiner analyses. We demonstrated that the results for the pole parameters are stable and almost do not change if we replace the existing experimental data with the very precise pseudo data generated by Roy and Roy-Steiner solutions in the physical region. As a next step, we performed the fits to the lattice data of the Hadron Spectrum Collaboration for $m_\pi=236, 391$ MeV in the case of $\pi\pi \to \pi \pi $ and for $m_\pi=239$ MeV in the case of $\pi K \to \pi K$. We provided an improved determination of the $\sigma/f_0(500)$ and $\kappa/K_0^*(700)$ pole parameters compared to the simplistic $K$-matrix approach and also compared them with U$\chi$PT predictions.
An important feature of the $N/D$ method is that the Omn\`es function comes out naturally, as the inverse of the $D$-function. The knowledge of the Omn\`es function, in turn, allows employing the Muskhelishvili-Omn\`es representation for the vast majority of production/decay reactions involving two pions (or pion and kaon) in the final state. While for the single-channel case, the Omn\`es function can be obtained analytically from the parametrisation of the phase shift, this is not the case for the coupled-channel case. In order to cover the $f_0(980)$ region we extended our analysis for the coupled-channel $\{\pi\pi, K\bar{K}\}$ case and extracted the corresponding Omn\`es matrix. In our construction it is asymptotically bounded (i.e. it satisfies once-subtracted dispersion relation) and therefore useful in many dispersive applications. The unknown coefficients from the conformal expansion were adjusted to reproduce existing Roy and Roy-Steiner analyses. As a straightforward application of the Muskhelishvili-Omn\`es representation, we estimated the two-photon decay widths of the $\sigma/f_0(500)$ and $f_0(980)$ resonances, which turned out to be consistent with the previous dispersive results. The obtained Omn\`es matrix serves as an important building block, which allows for the dispersive calculation of the isoscalar two pion/kaon contribution to the hadronic light-by-light part \cite{Colangelo:2014dfa,Colangelo:2017qdm,*Colangelo:2017fiz,Pauk:2014rfa} of the anomalous magnetic moment of the muon $(g-2)_\mu$ \cite{Aoyama:2020ynm,*Danilkin:2019mhd}. In particularly, with the input from $\gamma^*\gamma^* \to \pi\pi,KK$ \cite{Danilkin:2018qfn,*Danilkin:2019opj,*Deineka:2019bey} one can estimate dispersively the contribution from the $f_0(980)$ resonance, and compare it with narrow resonance results \cite{Danilkin:2016hnh}.
The proposed method is not only limited to the $\pi\pi$ and $\pi K$ scattering. We considered these reactions in the present paper because they show up as building blocks in many hadronic reactions/decays and have been calculated recently using lattice QCD. In principle, the $N/D$ method combined with the conformal expansion for the left-hand cuts can be applied to any hadronic reaction where there is data (experimental or lattice) which possesses a broad (or coupled-channel) resonance that does not have a genuine QCD nature. For the latter (like for instance $\rho$ or $K^*$ resonances) one needs to extend the formalism to allow for CDD poles. Also, it has to be modified in the presence of anomalous thresholds.
\section*{Acknowledgements}
We thank Arkaitz Rodas for providing the results of \cite{Pelaez:2020uiw,*Pelaez:2020gnd}. I.D. acknowledges useful discussions with Cesar Fern\'andez-Ram\'irez and Daniel Mohler. This work was supported by the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG, German Research Foundation), in part through the Collaborative Research Center [The Low-Energy Frontier of the Standard Model, Projektnummer 204404729 - SFB 1044], and in part through the Cluster of Excellence [Precision Physics, Fundamental Interactions, and Structure of Matter] (PRISMA$^+$ EXC 2118/1) within the German Excellence Strategy (Project ID 39083149). O.D. acknowledges funding by DAAD.
\bibliographystyle{apsrevM}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 9,148 |
\section{Introduction}
Anomalous dimensions of high-twist Wilson operators have a nontrivial scaling behavior in the limit
when their Lorentz spin grows exponentially with the twist~\cite{BGK06}. Recently, Alday and
Maldacena~\cite{AM07} used a dual stringy description of such operators in $\mathcal{N}=4$
super-Yang-Mills theory (SYM) to put forward the proposal that, at strong coupling, the
corresponding scaling function should coincide in a suitable limit with the energy density of a
two-dimensional bosonic $\rm O(6)$ sigma-model. In this paper, we establish the same relation on the
gauge theory side of the AdS/CFT correspondence.
The operators under consideration are built from $L$ complex scalar fields $X(0)$ and $N$ covariant
derivatives $D_+=(n\cdot D)$ projected onto the light-cone direction $n_\mu^2=0$
\begin{align}\label{O}
\mathcal{O}_{N,L} (0) = \mathop{\rm tr}\nolimits \left[ D_+^{k_1} X(0) D_+^{k_2} X(0) \ldots D_+^{k_L} X(0)\right] ,
\end{align}
with $N=k_1+\ldots +k_L$. These operators mix under renormalization and their anomalous dimensions,
defined as eigenvalues of the mixing matrix, have a rich structure. For given $N$ and $L$, they
occupy a band and the properties of anomalous dimensions are different in the lower and upper part
of the spectrum~\cite{BGK03}. In what follows we shall study the {\em minimal anomalous dimension}
$\gamma_{N,L}(g)$ in the planar $\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM theory, both at weak and strong coupling, in the
limit $N, L\to\infty$. The motivation for considering this particular limit is twofold and it goes
beyond the scope of $\mathcal{N}=4$ model. High spin/twist Wilson operators analogous to \re{O}
naturally appear in QCD (with a different partonic content though) in the operator product expansion
description of deeply inelastic scattering in the semi-inclusive regime, the so-called large Bjorken
$x$ limit~\cite{Gardi02}. On the other hand, in planar $\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM, the Wilson operators
\re{O} admit a dual description in terms of folded strings spinning on the $\rm AdS_5\times
S^5$~\cite{GKP,FT} and their anomalous dimensions can be found at strong coupling from the AdS/CFT
correspondence~\cite{Mal97}.
The minimal anomalous dimension $\gamma_{N,L}(g)$ is a complicated function of the Lorentz spin
$N$, twist $L$ and 't Hooft coupling $g^2= {\lambda}/{(4\pi)^2} = {g_{\rm YM}^2 N_c}/{(4\pi)^2}$.
For finite twist $L$ and large spin $N$ it has a remarkable logarithmic (Sudakov) scaling
behavior~\cite{K89,BGK03}
\begin{equation}\label{old}
\gamma_{N,L}(g) = 2\Gamma_{\rm cusp}(g)\ln N+O(N^0)\,,\qquad N\to\infty,\ L={\rm fixed}\,,
\end{equation}
where the coupling dependent prefactor does not depend on the twist $L$ and is given by the cusp
anomalous dimension~\cite{P80,K89}. The situation changes however when $N$ and $L$ become large
simultaneously. In that case, the anomalous dimension $\gamma_{N,L}(g)$ still scales logarithmically
for sufficiently large $N$. However, in distinction with \re{old}, the value of the spin for which
transition into the Sudakov regime takes place now depends both on the twist $L$ and on the coupling
constant. As was shown in Ref.~\cite{BGK06}, different regimes of the anomalous dimension
$\gamma_{N,L}(g)$ at large $L$ and $N\gg L$ are controlled by the order parameter $\xi$, which is
given at weak coupling by $\xi(g<1) = \ln({N}/{L})/L$ and at strong coupling by $\xi(g\gg
1)=g\ln({N}/{L})/L$:
\begin{itemize}
\item
For $\xi<1$ the minimal anomalous dimension has a BMN like~\cite{BMN} scaling%
\footnote{As was shown in Ref.~\cite{FTT06}, this scaling breaks down at higher orders in the BMN
coupling $g^2/L^2$.} both at weak and strong coupling~\cite{FT,BFST03,BGK06}
\begin{equation}\label{BMN}
\gamma_{N,L} = 8g^2 \ln^2(N/L)/L+O(g^4\ln^4(N/L)/L^3)\,,\qquad {N,L\to\infty \,,~\xi< 1}\,.
\end{equation}
\item
For $\xi\gg 1$ the minimal anomalous dimension grows logarithmically with $N$ and it has the
following scaling behavior both at weak and at strong coupling~\cite{BGK06,FTT06,CK07,AM07,FRS}%
\footnote{Our definition of $\epsilon(g,j)$ and $j$ is slightly different compared to that of
Ref.~\cite{AM07}.}
\begin{equation}\label{sum_up}
\gamma_{N,L}(g) = \left[ 2\Gamma_{\rm cusp}(g)+ \epsilon(g,j)\right] \ln N + \ldots\,,\quad \quad
{N,\,L\to\infty\,,~j = \frac{L}{\ln N}={\rm fixed}}\,.
\end{equation}
\end{itemize}
Here $\epsilon(g,j)$ is a nontrivial function of the scaling variable $j$ satisfying
$\epsilon(g,j=0)=0$ and ellipses denote terms suppressed by powers of $1/L$. We note that the
condition $\xi\gg 1$ automatically implies that $j \ll 1$ at weak coupling and $j\ll g$ at strong
coupling.
At weak coupling, the scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$ can be found in a generic (supersymmetric)
Yang-Mills theory in the planar limit by making use of the remarkable property of integrability
\cite{L94,FK95}. In QCD, the dilatation operator in the $SL(2)$ sector is integrable for the special
class of maximal helicity operators to two loops at least~\cite{BDM98,B99,BKM04}, whereas in
$\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM theory it is believed that integrability gets extended in this sector to all
loops~\cite{BS03,S}. The scaling function has the following form at weak coupling
\begin{equation}\label{weak}
\epsilon(g,j) = \epsilon_1(g) j + \epsilon_2(g) j^2 + \epsilon_3(g) j^3 + \ldots\,,
\end{equation}
with the coefficient functions $\epsilon_k(g)$ given by series in $g^2$. To one-loop order, one
finds in planar $\mathcal{N}=4$ theory~\cite{BGK06} \footnote{We displayed in \re{a13} the
dependence on $s$ to indicate that the same expressions hold in a generic (planar) Yang-Mills theory
in integrable $SL(2)$ sector of aligned helicity operators built from gauge fields ($s=3/2$) and
gaugino ($s=1$).}
\begin{equation}\label{a13}
\epsilon_1 = 4\left[\psi(s)-\psi(2s)\right] g^2+\ldots \,,\qquad \epsilon_2=0\cdot g^2 +\ldots
\,,\qquad \epsilon_3 = \frac{\pi^2}{24}\lr{-\psi''(s)} g^2+\ldots
\end{equation}
where $s=1/2$ is the conformal spin of scalar fields entering \re{O} and
$\psi(x)=\lr{\ln\Gamma(x)}'$ is the Euler psi-function. Recently, an integral equation has been
proposed by Freyhult, Rej and Staudacher (FRS) \cite{FRS} to describe the function $\epsilon(g,j)$
for arbitrary values of the scaling parameter $j$ and the coupling constant $g$. It generalizes the
BES equation~\cite{BES} which governs the dependence of the cusp anomalous dimension $\Gamma_{\rm
cusp}(g)$ on the coupling constant in planar $\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM. One of the consequences of this
equation is that $\epsilon_2(g)=0$ to any order in $g^2$.
At strong coupling, the gauge/string correspondence relates the minimal anomalous dimension to the
energy of a folded string spinning on the $\rm AdS_5\times S^5$ background~\cite{GKP,FT}
\begin{equation}
\Delta=N+L+\gamma_{N,L}(g)\,,
\end{equation}
with $N$ and $L$ being angular momenta on $\rm AdS_3$ and $\rm S^1$, respectively. Semiclassical
quantization of this state yields the expansion of the scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$ in powers of
$1/g$. The first two terms of this expansion have been computed in Refs.~\cite{FTT07,CK07,RT07}.
Recently, Alday and Maldacena~\cite{AM07} put forward the proposal that the scaling function
$\epsilon(g,j)$ can be found {\em exactly} at strong coupling in the limit $j\ll g$ and $j/m={\rm
fixed}$ (with the parameter $m$ defined below in \re{m_AM}). They argued that quantum corrections in
the $\rm AdS_5\times S^5$ sigma model are dominated in this limit by the contribution of massless
excitations on $\rm S^5$ whose dynamics is described by a (noncritical) two-dimensional bosonic
$\rm O(6)$ sigma-model equipped with a UV cut-off determined by the mass of massive excitations.
The $\rm O(6)$ sigma model emerges within the AdS/CFT as an effective two-dimensional theory
describing the scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$ in the $\rm AdS_5\times S^5$ sigma model. More
precisely, the quantity
\begin{equation}
\epsilon_{\rm O(6)} = \frac{\epsilon(g,j) + j}2=\lim_{N\to\infty} \frac{\Delta-N}{2\ln N} - \Gamma_{\rm
cusp}(g)
\end{equation}
has the meaning of the energy density in the ground state of the $\rm O(6)$ model corresponding to
the particle density $\rho = L/(2\ln N) = j/2$. The $\rm O(6)$ sigma model is an exactly solvable
theory~\cite{ZZ78}. It has a nontrivial dynamics in the infrared and massless excitations acquire
mass through dimensional transmutation mechanism~\cite{PW83,FR85}. The exact value of the mass gap
was found using the Bethe Ansatz in Ref.~\cite{HMN90}. In terms of parameters of the underlying $\rm
AdS_5\times S^5$ sigma model, its value reads~\cite{AM07}
\begin{equation}\label{m_AM}
m = k g^{1/4} \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-\pi g} \left[ 1 + O(1/g)\right],\qquad k=\frac{2^{3/4} \pi^{1/4}}{\Gamma(5/4)}\,.
\end{equation}
The dependence of $m$ on the coupling constant is fixed by the two-loop beta-function of the $\rm
O(6)$ model whereas the prefactor $k$ was determined in \cite{AM07} by matching the first few terms
of $1/g$ expansion of $\epsilon_{\rm O(6)}$ into semiclassical expansion of $\epsilon(g,j)$ computed
in~\cite{FTT06}.
The appearance of mass gap in the dual stringy description of the scaling function has dramatic
consequences for $\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM at strong coupling. It suggests that the strong coupling
expansion of the anomalous dimensions in $\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM should receive nonperturbative
corrections characterized by a new `hidden' scale $m$. This is a rather unexpected and surprising
feature given the fact that the anomalous dimensions capture dynamics at short distances and their
weak coupling expansion is free of nonperturbative corrections. Indeed, such nonperturbative
corrections have been identified in Ref.~\cite{BKK07} in the strong coupling expansion of the cusp
anomalous dimension
\begin{equation}\label{pert}
\Gamma_{\rm cusp}(g) = \sum_{k=-1}^\infty c_k/g^{k} + \alpha\, m^2 + o(m^2)\,,
\end{equation}
where the perturbative coefficients $c_k$ grow factorially at large $k$ and the value of $\alpha$
depends on regularization of Borel singularities in the perturbative series. The $O(m^2)$
corrections are exponentially small at strong coupling but they provide a leading contribution in
the region $g\sim 1$ in which the transition from the strong to weak coupling regime takes place.
In this paper, we solve the FRS equation \cite{FRS} using the approach developed in
Ref.~\cite{BKK07} and evaluate the scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$ in $\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM theory at
strong coupling. More precisely, we demonstrate that, in the limit $g\to\infty$ and $j/m={\rm
fixed}$, the integral equation for $\epsilon(g,j)$ can be casted into a form identical to the
thermodynamical Bethe Ansatz equations for the nonlinear $\rm O(6)$ sigma model~\cite{HMN90}. This
allows us to determine $\epsilon(g,j)$ at strong coupling for different values of the ratio $j/m$
and to translate nontrivial properties of the $\rm O(6)$ sigma model (mass gap generation at large
distances and asymptotic freedom at short distances) into the corresponding scaling behavior of
$\epsilon(g,j)$:
\begin{itemize}
\item For $j\ll m \ll g$, or equivalently $N \gg \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{L/m}$,
\begin{equation}\label{11}
\epsilon(j,g) +j = m^2\left[\frac{j}{m} + \frac{\pi^2}{24} \lr{\frac{j}{m}}^3+
O\left(j^4/m^4\right)\right] .
\end{equation}
In this expansion, $O(j)$ terms are in agreement with the numerical solution to the FRS equation
found in \cite{FGR08}. Also, $O(j^2)$ term is absent, in a striking similarity with vanishing of the
function $\epsilon_2(g)$ in the weak coupling expansion \re{weak} and \re{a13}. Note that the
nonperturbative corrections in \re{pert} and \re{11} are of the same order in $m^2$ and are added
together in the expression for the anomalous dimension \re{sum_up}.
\item For $m \ll j\ll g$, or equivalently $ \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{L/m} \gg N \gg \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{L/g} $,
\begin{equation}
\epsilon(j,g)+j = j^2 \left[ \frac{\pi}{8\ln(j/m)}+ O\lr{\frac{\ln\ln(j/m)}{\ln^2(j/m)}}\right].
\end{equation}
This expression resums through renormalization group (an infinite number of) perturbative
corrections in $1/g$ with coefficients proportional to $j^2$ and enhanced by powers of
$\ln(j/g)$~\cite{AM07,RT07}.
\item For $j\ll g$ and $j/m={\rm fixed}$, or equivalently $N\sim \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{L/m}$, the function $\epsilon(j,g)$
does not admit a simple representation and it can be found as the solution to thermodynamical Bethe
Ansatz equations for the $\rm O(6)$ model \cite{HMN90} (see Eqs.~\re{ex1} -- \re{map} below).
\end{itemize}
These results are in a perfect agreement with the Alday-Maldacena proposal~\cite{AM07} and,
therefore, constitute a nontrivial test of the AdS/CFT correspondence.
The paper is organized as follows. In Sect.~2, we reformulate the integral equation proposed in
Ref.~\cite{FRS} and argue that it can be significantly simplified by employing a nontrivial change
of variables found in \cite{BKK07}. In Sect.~3 we work out the expansion of the scaling function at
small $j$. We demonstrate that at weak coupling it agrees with the known one-loop result, whereas at
strong coupling it matches the string theory prediction by Alday and Maldacena including expression
for the mass gap \re{m_AM}. In Sect.~4 we show that the integral equation for the scaling function
can be mapped for $g\to\infty$ and $j/m=\rm fixed$ into thermodynamical Bethe Ansatz equations for
the energy density in the ground state of two-dimensional $\rm O(6)$ sigma-model with the particle
density $j/2$. Section 5 contains concluding remarks. Some details of our calculations are
summarized in two appendices.
\section{The scaling function in $\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM}
The derivation of the scaling function relies on integrability of the dilatation operator in the
$SL(2)$ sector. To one-loop order, the function $\epsilon(g,j)$ was determined in Ref.~\cite{BGK06}
from the analysis of Bethe Ansatz equation in the scaling limit $N, L\to\infty$ and $j={\rm fixed}$.
The Bethe Ansatz solution for $\epsilon(g,j)$ is characterized in this limit by two sets of
parameters, the Bethe roots and the so-called small roots of the transfer matrix, which describe
excitations dubbed `magnons' and `holes', respectively. As was shown in \cite{BGK06}, both sets of
parameters form a dense distribution on the real axis with the holes confined to the interval
$[-a,a]$ and magnons to the union of two intervals $[-\infty,-a]\cup [a,\infty]$. The scaling
function is uniquely determined by the corresponding distribution densities of holes and magnons.
This analysis was recently extended to all loops in \cite{FRS} by employing the asymptotic Bethe
Ansatz approach proposed in Refs.~\cite{AFS04,S}. It led to the FRS equation
\begin{equation}\label{FRS}
\hat\sigma(t) = \frac{t}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^t-1}\lr{\hat{\mathcal{K}}(t,0)-4\int_0^\infty dt' \,
\hat{\mathcal{K}}(t,t')\, \hat\sigma(t')}\,,
\end{equation}
whose solution $\hat\sigma(t)=\hat\sigma(t;g,j)$ is related to the scaling function as
\begin{equation}
\label{f=sigma} f(g,j) \equiv 2\Gamma_{\rm cusp}(g) + \epsilon(g,j)= j+ 16 \hat\sigma(0)\,.
\end{equation}
The kernel $\hat{\mathcal{K}}(t,t')$ is given by a rather complicated expression that can be found
in Ref.~\cite{FRS} (see also Eq.~\re{K-hat} below). It takes into account a nontrivial scattering
phase which satisfies the crossing symmetry~\cite{J06} and whose explicit form was found in
\cite{BT05}. Later in the paper we shall use another, equivalent formulation of the integral
equation \re{FRS} which is more suitable for studying the strong coupling limit.
For $j\to 0$ the integral equation \re{FRS} reduces to the BES equation \cite{BES} and its solution
$\hat\sigma(t;g,j=0)$ determines the cusp anomalous dimension $f(g,j=0) = 2\Gamma_{\rm cusp}(g)$.
Then, the scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$ admits the representation
\begin{equation}\label{ff}
\epsilon(g,j) = f(g,j) - f(g,0)\,.
\end{equation}
At weak coupling the function $f(g,j)$ admits an expansion in powers of $g^2$ and it vanishes as
$g^2\to 0$. Then, it follows from \re{f=sigma} that the integral equation \re{FRS} has a nontrivial
solution at $g=0$ satisfying $\hat\sigma(0;g=0,j) =-j/16$.
\subsection{Integral equation}
It is convenient to split $\hat\sigma(t)$ into a sum of three terms
\begin{align}\label{sigma}
\hat\sigma(t) = \frac1{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^t-1}\left[ \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-t/2} \gamma_{\rm h}(t)+\frac{g}2\gamma(2gt)-\frac{j}{8}
J_0(2gt)\right]\,,
\end{align}
with $J_0(x)$ being the Bessel function, and rewrite \re{FRS} as a system of coupled integral
equations for the functions $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ and $\gamma(2gt)$
\begin{align} \label{gamma_h}
\gamma_{\rm h}(t) & = K_{\rm h}(t,0) - 4\int_0^\infty dt'\, K_{\rm h}(t,t')\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t'/2}\,\hat\sigma(t')\,,
\\ \notag
{\gamma(2gt)} &= \frac{2t}{g}\left[ K(t,0) - 4\int_0^\infty dt'\, K(t,t')\,\hat\sigma(t')\right],
\end{align}
with the kernels $K_{\rm h}$ and $K$ defined below in Eqs.~\re{K_h} and \re{K_h1}, respectively. The
rationale behind the decomposition \re{sigma} is that, as we will show below, the functions
$\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ and $\gamma(2gt)$ have different analytical properties. Namely, the Fourier
transforms of $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ and $\gamma(2gt)$ defined as solutions to \re{gamma_h} have the
support on the intervals $[-a,a]$ and $[-2g,2g]$, respectively, with the parameter $a$ depending on
$g$ and $j$.
The first relation in \re{gamma_h} involves the kernel
\begin{align} \label{K_h}
K_{\rm h}(t,t') & = \frac{t\cos{(at')}\sin{(at)}-t'\cos{(at)}\sin{(at')}}{2\pi(t^2-t'^2)}
\\ \nonumber
& = \frac1{4\pi} \left[\frac{\sin(a(t-t'))}{t-t'} +\frac{\sin(a(t+t'))}{t+t'} \right],
\end{align}
and the kernel in the second relation in \re{gamma_h} is defined as
\begin{align} \label{K_h1}
K(t,t') &= g^2 K^{(0)}(2gt,2gt') - 4g^2 \int_0^\infty dt''\, K^{(0)}(2gt,2gt'') K_{\rm
h}(t'',t')\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{(t'-t'')/2},
\\ \notag
K^{(0)}(t,t') & = K_+(t,t') + K_-(t,t') + 8g^2 \int_0^\infty \frac{dt''\,t''}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t''}-1}\,
K_-(t,2gt'') K_+(2gt'',t')\,,
\end{align}
where $K^{(0)}(t,t')$ coincides with the BES kernel \cite{BES} and parity even/odd kernels $K_\pm
(-t,t') = K_\pm (t,-t')= \pm K_\pm(t,t')$ are given by
\begin{align}\label{Kpm}
& K_+(t,t') =\frac{t J_1(t) J_0(t')-t' J_0(t) J_1(t') }{t^2-t'^2}=\frac2{tt'}\sum_{n\ge 1} (2n-1)
J_{2n-1}(t) J_{2n-1}(t')\,,
\\ \notag
& K_-(t,t') =\frac{t' J_1(t) J_0(t')-t J_0(t) J_1(t') }{t^2-t'^2}=\frac2{tt'}\sum_{n\ge 1} (2n)
J_{2n}(t) J_{2n}(t')\,.
\end{align}
Finally, the parameter $a=a(g,j)$ is related to the solution of the integral equation as
\begin{equation}\label{a(j)}
j = \frac{4a}{\pi} -\frac{16}{\pi}\int_0^\infty dt\,\hat\sigma(t) \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t/2}\frac{\sin(at)}{t}\,.
\end{equation}
Being combined together, the relations \re{sigma} -- \re{a(j)} are equivalent to the integral
equation \re{FRS} with the kernel given by
\begin{equation}\label{K-hat}
\hat{\mathcal{K}}(t,t') = K(t,t') + t^{-1} K_{\rm h}(t,t') \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{(t'-t)/2} -\frac{J_{0}(2gt)}{t}
\frac{\sin{(at')}}{2\pi t'} e^{t'/2} \,.
\end{equation}
We would like to stress that the functions $\gamma(t)$ and $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ depend on the
coupling constant $g$ and the scaling variable $j$. The relations \re{gamma_h} -- \re{a(j)} simplify
significantly as $j\to 0$. In this limit, we have $a\sim j$ so that the kernel $K_{\rm h}(t,t')$ and
the function $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ vanish simultaneously as $j\to 0$ leading to
$\hat{\mathcal{K}}_{j=0}(t,t') =g^2 K^{(0)}(2gt,2gt')$ and to the BES equation for the function
$\gamma_{j=0}(2gt)$.
To determine the scaling function \re{f=sigma}, we have to solve the integral equations \re{gamma_h}
and, then, substitute the solution for $\hat\sigma(t)$, Eq.~\re{sigma}, into \re{f=sigma}. Let us
apply \re{sigma} to evaluate $\hat\sigma(0)$. We put $t=0$ in both sides of the first relation in
\re{gamma_h} and take into account the relations \re{K_h} and \re{a(j)} to verify that $\gamma_{\rm
h}(0) = j/8$ for arbitrary $j$ and $g$. Substituting this relation into \re{sigma} and \re{f=sigma}
we find the following representation for the scaling function
\begin{equation}\label{f-lim}
f(g,j) = 16 g^2 \lim_{t\to 0} \frac{\gamma(2gt)}{2gt}\,.
\end{equation}
\subsection{Parity decomposition}
Similar to the BES equation~\cite{KL07,Alday07}, the integral equations \re{gamma_h} can be further
simplified by separating expressions on both sides of \re{gamma_h} into terms with a definite parity
under $t\to -t$.
According to definition \re{K_h}, the kernel $K_{\rm h}(t,t')$ is an even function of $t$ and $t'$.
Then, it immediately follows from the first relation in \re{gamma_h} that $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ is
an even function of $t$
\begin{equation}\label{gh-even}
\gamma_{\rm h}(-t) = \gamma_{\rm h}(t)\,,\qquad \gamma_{\rm h}(0) = j/8 \,,
\end{equation}
where the second relation holds for arbitrary coupling $g$. As follows from \re{K_h1}, the kernel
$K(t,t')$ does not have a definite parity under $t\to -t$ and, as a consequence, the function
$\gamma(t)$ can be decomposed as
\begin{equation}\label{g-dec}
\gamma(t) = \gamma_+(t) + \gamma_-(t)\,,\qquad \gamma_\pm(-t) = \pm \gamma_\pm(t)\,.
\end{equation}
We substitute \re{g-dec} into the second relation in \re{gamma_h} and match parity even/odd terms in
both sides of \re{gamma_h} to obtain after some algebra the system of coupled equations for the
functions $\gamma_\pm(t)$%
\footnote{In comparison with the second relation in \re{gamma_h}, these equations do not involve the
convolution of the kernels $K^{(0)}$ and $K_{\rm h}$ which appears in the kernel $K(t,t')$,
Eq.~\re{K_h1}.}
\begin{equation}\label{FRS1}
\frac{\gamma_\mp (2gt)}{2g t} = -4 \int_{0}^{\infty}dt' \, K_{\pm}(2gt, 2gt')\left[
\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-{t'}/{2}}\gamma_{\rm h}(t')+\hat{\sigma}(t')\right]+ b_{\pm}(2gt)\,,
\end{equation}
where the kernels $K_\pm$ are defined in \re{Kpm}, $\hat\sigma(t)$ is given by \re{sigma} and the
notation was introduced for
\begin{equation}
b_+(t) =K_{+}(t, 0)\,,\qquad b_-(t) =4 g \int_{0}^{\infty}\frac{dt'}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t'}-1} \, K_{-}(t, 2gt')
{\gamma_-(2gt')}\,.
\end{equation}
We recall that the kernels $K_\pm$ are given by sum over the product of Bessel functions,
Eq.~\re{Kpm}. Substitution of \re{Kpm} into \re{FRS1} yields the expression for $\gamma_\pm(t)$ in
the form of Neumann series over Bessel functions
\begin{align}\label{Bessel}
\gamma_{-}(t) &= 2 \sum_{n\geqslant 1} \ (2n-1) J_{2n-1}(t) \gamma_{2n-1} \,,
\\ \notag
\gamma_{+}(t) &= 2\sum_{n\geqslant 1} \ (2n) \ J_{2n}(t) \gamma_{2n} \,,
\end{align}
with the expansion coefficients $\gamma_n=\gamma_n(g,j)$ given by the following expressions
\begin{equation}\label{g=h}
\gamma_{n} =\frac12 \delta_{n,1}+h_n - \int_{0}^{\infty}\frac{dt}{t} \ \frac{J_{n}(2gt)}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}-1}
\left[ {\gamma_+(2gt)-(-1)^n\gamma_-(2gt)} \right].
\end{equation}
Here the notation was introduced for the coefficients $h_n=h_n(g,j)$
\begin{equation}\label{h_n}
h_n =-\frac2{g} \int_{0}^{\infty}\frac{dt}{t} \
\frac{J_{n}(2gt)}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}-1} \left[
\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{{t}/{2}} \gamma_{\rm h}(t) -\frac{j}{8}J_0(2gt) \right].
\end{equation}
We recall that the scaling function \re{f-lim} is determined by the asymptotic behavior of the
function $\gamma(t)$ for $t\to 0$. Substituting \re{g-dec} and \re{Bessel} into \re{f-lim} and
taking into account that $J_n(t) \sim t^n$ at small $t$, we find the scaling functions \re{f=sigma}
and \re{ff}
\begin{equation}\label{f=g1}
f(g,j) = 16 g^2 \gamma_1(g,j)\,,\qquad \epsilon(g,j) = 16 g^2
\left[\gamma_1(g,j)-\gamma_1(g,0)\right],
\end{equation}
where $\gamma_1$ is the lowest order coefficient in the series \re{Bessel}, $\gamma_-(t) =
\gamma_1(g,j) t + O(t^2)$.
We can obtain another representation for the expansion coefficients $\gamma_n$ in \re{Bessel} by
making use of orthogonality of the Bessel functions
\begin{equation}\label{ortho}
(2n-1)\int_0^\infty \frac{dt}{t}\, J_{2n-1}(t) J_{2m-1}(t)= 2n\int_0^\infty \frac{dt}{t}\, J_{2n}(t)
J_{2m}(t) = \frac12\delta_{nm}\,.
\end{equation}
In this way, we obtain from \re{Bessel}
\begin{equation}\label{inverse}
\gamma_{2n-1} = \int_0^\infty \frac{dt}{t} J_{2n-1}(t) \gamma_-(t) \,,\qquad
\gamma_{2n} = \int_0^\infty \frac{dt}{t} J_{2n}(t) \gamma_+(t) \,.
\end{equation}
Here we have tacitly assumed that the Bessel series on the right-hand side of \re{Bessel} are
convergent on the real axis and that the sum over $n$ can be interchanged with the integral over $t$.%
\footnote{In particular, performing the Fourier transformation on both sides of \re{Bessel} and
using well-known properties of the Bessel functions, we find that the Fourier transforms of the
functions $\gamma_\pm(2gt)$ have support on the interval $[-2g,2g]$.} Matching \re{inverse} into
\re{g=h} we obtain an (infinite) system of equations for the functions $\gamma_\pm(t)$
\begin{align}\label{FRS2}
& \int_{0}^{\infty}\frac{dt}{t} \, J_{2n-1}(2gt) \left[
\frac{\gamma_{-}(2gt)}{1-\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-t}}+\frac{\gamma_{+}(2gt)}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}-1}\right] = \frac{1}{2} \ \delta_{n,
1} +h_{2n-1}(g,j)\,,
\\ \notag
& \int_{0}^{\infty}\frac{dt}{t} \, J_{2n}(2gt) \left[
\frac{\gamma_{+}(2gt)}{1-\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-t}}-\frac{\gamma_{-}(2gt)}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}-1}\right] = h_{2n}(g,j)\,,
\end{align}
valid for $n\geqslant 1$. These relations should be supplemented with expressions \re{h_n} for
inhomogeneous terms $h_n$. The latter depend on the function $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ which depends on
its turn on $\gamma(t)=\gamma_+(t)+\gamma_-(t)$ and satisfies the integral equation \re{gamma_h}
\begin{equation}\label{gh-new}
\gamma_{\rm h}(t) = K_{\rm h}(t,0) - 2\int_0^\infty \frac{dt'\, K_{\rm h}(t,t')}{\sinh(t'/2)}
\left[ \frac{g}2\gamma(2gt')+\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-t'/2} \gamma_{\rm h}(t') -\frac{j}{8} J_0(2gt')\right],
\end{equation}
with the kernel $K_{\rm h}(t,t')$ given by \re{K_h}.
Let us now examine the system of integral equations \re{FRS2} and \re{gh-new} for $j=0$. In this
case, the kernel $K_{\rm h}(t,t')$ vanishes and we deduce from \re{gh-new} and \re{h_n} that
$\gamma_{\rm h}(t;j=0)=h_n(g,j=0)=0$. Then, the relations \re{FRS2} are reduced to the BES
equation~\cite{BES} and we denote their solution as
\begin{equation}\label{g=cusp}
\gamma_\pm(t;j=0) \equiv \gamma_\pm^{(0)} (t)=t\,\Gamma_{\textrm{cusp}}(g)/(8g^2)+ O(t^2)\,.
\end{equation}
The functions $\gamma_\pm^{(0)} (t)$ were constructed at weak coupling in Refs.~\cite{BES,B06} and
at strong coupling in Refs.~\cite{Alday07,Kostov07,BKK07,B08,KSV08}.
To evaluate the scaling function \re{f=g1} for arbitrary $j$, it is sufficient to determine the
coefficient $\gamma_1$ defined in \re{Bessel} rather than the function $\gamma_-(t)$ itself. This
can be achieved by using the fact that the solutions to the integral equations \re{FRS2} and
\re{gh-new} satisfy Wronskian-like relations. These relations allow us to obtain the following
relation for the scaling function (see Appendix A for details)
\begin{equation}\label{epsilon-g}
\epsilon(g,j) =
32{g} \int_{0}^{\infty}\frac{dt}{t} \
\frac{\gamma_+^{(0)}(2gt)-\gamma_-^{(0)}(2gt)}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}-1} \left[
\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{{t}/{2}} \gamma_{\rm h}(t;j) -\frac{j}{8}\right]
-4gj \int_0^\infty \frac{dt}{t} \gamma_+^{(0)}(2gt) \,.
\end{equation}
It is remarkable that $\epsilon(g,j)$ only depends on the solution of the BES equation,
$\gamma_\pm^{(0)}(2gt)$, and the `hole' function $\gamma_{\rm h}(t,j)$. It is the latter function
that generates a nontrivial dependence of $\epsilon(g,j)$ on the scaling parameter $j$. We note that
the integrals on the right-hand side of \re{epsilon-g} are well-defined for $t\to 0$ in virtue of
$\gamma^{(0)}_-(t)\sim t$, $\gamma^{(0)}_+(t) \sim t^2$ and $\gamma_{\rm h}(0;j) = j/8$,
Eqs.~\re{Bessel} and \re{gh-even}, respectively.
\subsection{Change of variables}
The system of integral equations \re{FRS2} has been analyzed in Refs.~\cite{BKK07,KSV08} in the
special case $h_n=0$ corresponding to $j=0$. The starting point in \cite{BKK07} was the change of
variables $\gamma_\pm(t) \to \Gamma_\pm(t)$ that eliminated the dependence of the BES kernel on the
coupling constant. It is remarkable that the same change of variables also applies to \re{FRS2} for
arbitrary $j$
\begin{equation}
\Gamma_\pm(t;j) =\gamma_\pm(t;j) \mp \coth\lr{\frac{t}{4g}} \gamma_\mp(t;j)\,,
\end{equation}
or conversely
\begin{equation}\label{gG}
2\gamma_\pm(t;j) = \lr{1-\frac1{\cosh(t/2g)}} \Gamma_\pm(t;j) \pm \tanh \lr{\frac{t}{2g}}
\Gamma_\mp(t;j)\,.
\end{equation}
Upon this change of variables, the relations \re{FRS2} take the form (for $n\ge 1$)
\begin{equation}\label{G-eq}
\int_0^\infty \frac{dt}{t}J_n(t) \bigg[\Gamma_-(t)+(-1)^n\Gamma_+(t) \bigg] = \delta_{n,1} + 2h_n(g,j)\,,
\end{equation}
where $h_n-$coefficients are given by \re{h_n} and the integral kernel on the left-hand side is the
same as for $j=0$. It is convenient to apply the Jacobi-Anger expansion%
\footnote{More precisely, we differentiate both sides of this relation with respect to $u$ and,
then, divide by $t$.} (with $u=\sin\varphi$ and $\varphi$ real)
\begin{equation}
\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{it u} - 1 = 2\sum_{n\ge 1}\left\{ J_{2n}(t) \left[\cos(2n\varphi)-1\right] + i J_{2n-1}(t) \sin
\lr{(2n-1)\varphi}\right\},
\end{equation}
and replace an infinite system of equations \re{G-eq} into a single relation depending on the
$u-$parameter
\begin{equation}\label{G-int}
\int_0^\infty dt\, \bigg[ \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{itu} \Gamma_-(t) - \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-itu}\Gamma_+(t)\bigg] = 2 - 8 \int_{0}^{\infty}
\frac{dt\,\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{2ig tu}}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}-1} \left[
\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{{t}/{2}} \gamma_{\rm h}(t) -\frac{j}{8}J_0(2gt) \right].
\end{equation}
It is important to stress that this relation only holds for $-1 \le u \le 1$. Here $\Gamma_\pm(t)$
and $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ are real functions of $t$. Taking real and imaginary part on both sides of
\re{G-int}, we can replace \re{G-int} by a system of two coupled equations. Later in the paper we
shall make use of this system.
For $j=0$ the integral on the right-hand side of \re{G-int} vanishes. Its solution at strong
coupling, $\Gamma_\pm(t;j=0)\equiv \Gamma_\pm^{(0)}(t)$, was constructed in
Refs.~\cite{BKK07,KSV08}. For $j\neq 0$ the relation \re{G-int} should be supplemented with integral
equation \re{gh-new} for the function $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$.
\section{Scaling function at small $j$}
To find the scaling function \re{epsilon-g}, we have to solve a complicated system of coupled
integral equations for the functions $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ and $\gamma_\pm(t)$. In this section we
shall evaluate the scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$ at small $j$ and generalize consideration to
arbitrary $j$ in the next section. As we will see in a moment, the first few terms of the small $j$
expansion of $\epsilon(g,j)$ can be found exactly without solving the integral equations for the
functions $\gamma_\pm(t)$.
\subsection{Small $j$ expansion}
To begin with let us consider the integral equation \re{gamma_h} for the function $\gamma_{\rm
h}(t)$. It involves the kernel $K_{\rm h}(t,t')$ defined in \re{K_h}. According to its definition,
$K_{\rm h}(t,t')$ depends on the parameter $a$ which depends on its turn on $j$ and satisfies the
relation \re{a(j)}
\begin{equation}\label{j-sample}
j = \frac{4a}{\pi} -\frac{8}{\pi}\int_0^\infty \frac{dt}{t}\, \frac{\sin(at)}{\sinh(t/2)}\left[
\frac{g}2\gamma(2gt)+\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-t/2} \gamma_{\rm h}(t)-\frac{j}{8} J_0(2gt)\right]\,.
\end{equation}
We recall that the parameter $a$ determines the interval $[-a,a]$ on which holes rapidities condense
in the limit $N, L\to\infty$ and $j={\rm fixed}$. As was shown in \cite{BGK06}, for $j\to 0$ this
interval shrinks into a point $a\sim j$ and the scaling function vanishes $\epsilon(g,j=0)=0$.
Assuming that $a\sim j$ we expand the kernel $K_{\rm h}(t,t')$ in powers of $a$ and obtain from
\re{K_h}
\begin{equation}
K_{\rm h}(t,t') =\frac1{2\pi}\left[a-\frac16 a^3\lr{t^2+t'^2}+ O(a^5) \right]=
\frac{\sin(at')}{2\pi t'} \left[1-\frac16 (at)^2\right]+ O(a^5)\,,
\end{equation}
where expansion runs in odd powers of $a$ only. We substitute this relation into the right-hand side
of \re{gh-new} and observe that the $t'-$integral there coincides with analogous integral on the
right-hand side of \re{j-sample}. Combining the two relations together, we find from \re{gh-new}
\begin{equation}\label{gh-small}
\gamma_{\rm h}(t) = \frac{j}{8}\left[ 1- \frac16 (at)^2+ O(a^4)\right],
\end{equation}
in agreement with \re{gh-even}.
To determine $a$ we return to the relation \re{j-sample} and expand its both sides in powers of $a$
and $j$. We notice that the last two terms in the square brackets there vanish linearly as $j\to 0$
while the first term is given by $\gamma(2gt)=\gamma^{(0)}(2gt) + O(j)$. In this way,
we find from \re{j-sample}
\begin{equation}\label{aa}
a=\frac{j\pi}{2\kappa} + O(j^2)\,,
\end{equation}
where the $g-$dependence resides in the normalization factor
\begin{equation}\label{kappa}
\kappa = 2 -2g\int_0^\infty dt \, \frac{\gamma_+^{(0)}(2gt)+\gamma_-^{(0)}(2gt)}{\sinh(t/2)}\,.
\end{equation}
Substitution of \re{aa} into \re{gh-small} yields the expansion of $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ at small $j$.
According to \re{epsilon-g}, the $j-$dependence of the scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$ is
controlled by the function $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$. Replacing $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ in \re{epsilon-g} by
its small $j$ expansion \re{gh-small}, we get
\begin{equation}\label{e-expansion}
\epsilon(g,j) = j\, \epsilon_1(g) + j^3\,\epsilon_3(g) + O(j^4)\,,
\end{equation}
where the coefficient in front of $j^2$ equals zero for any $g$ and the coefficient functions
$\epsilon_1(g)$ and $\epsilon_3(g)$ are given by
\begin{align}\label{eps13}
\epsilon_1(g) &= -4g \int_{0}^{\infty}\frac{dt}{t} \left[
\frac{\gamma_+^{(0)}(2gt)}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-t/2}+1} +\frac{\gamma_-^{(0)}(2gt)}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t/2}+1}\right],
\\ \notag
\epsilon_3(g) & =
-\frac{\pi^2 g}{12\kappa^2} \int_{0}^{\infty} {dt}\,{t} \
\frac{\gamma_+^{(0)}(2gt)-\gamma_-^{(0)}(2gt)}{\sinh(t/2)} \,.
\end{align}
We would like to stress that these relations hold for arbitrary coupling $g$.
\subsection{Weak coupling}
We recall that the functions $\gamma_\pm^{(0)}(t)$ satisfy the BES equation. At weak coupling, this
equation can be solved by iterations leading to~\cite{BES,B06}
\begin{align}\label{g-BES}
\gamma_-^{(0)} (t) &= \left(1-g^2\frac{\pi^2}{3}\right) J_1(t) + {O}\left(g^4\right) \,,
\\[2mm]\notag
\gamma_+^{(0)} (t) &= 4g^3\zeta_3 J_{2}(t)+ {O}\left(g^5\right).
\end{align}
Plugging these expressions into \re{eps13} and expanding $\epsilon_1(g)$ and $\epsilon_3(g)$ in
powers of $g^2$ we get
\begin{align}\label{2loop}
\epsilon_1(g) &= -8 g^2 \ln 2 + g^4\lr{\frac83 \pi^2\ln 2+16\zeta_3} + O(g^6)\,,
\\ \notag
\epsilon_3(g) &= g^2 \frac{7}{12} \pi^2\zeta_3 +
g^4\left(\frac{35}{36}\pi^4\zeta_3-\frac{31}{2}\pi^2\zeta_5\right) + O(g^6)\,.
\end{align}
It is easy to see that the one-loop corrections to $\epsilon_1(g)$ and $\epsilon_3(g)$ are in an
agreement with the relation \re{a13} for $s=1/2$.
It is straightforward to evaluate higher order corrections to $\epsilon_1(g)$ and $\epsilon_3(g)$ by
taking into account subleading terms on the right-hand side of \re{g-BES}. It is interesting to
notice that higher order corrections to $\epsilon_1(g)$ proportional to `$\ln 2$' are controlled to
all loops by the cusp anomalous dimension
\begin{equation}\label{ln2}
\epsilon_{1}(g) = - 2\Gamma_{\textrm{cusp}}(g) \ln 2 + \ldots,
\end{equation}
Indeed, such term originates from the second integral on the right-hand side of \re{eps13} with
$\gamma_-^{(0)}(2gt)$ replaced by its leading small$-t$ asymptotic behavior \re{g=cusp}.
The relations \re{2loop} and \re{ln2} are in agreement with the results of \cite{FRS}.
\subsection{Strong coupling}
To evaluate $\epsilon_1(g)$ and $\epsilon_3(g)$ at strong coupling, it is convenient to substitute
$\gamma_\pm^{(0)}(t)$ on the right-hand side of \re{eps13} by their expressions \re{gG} in terms of
the functions $\Gamma_\pm^{(0)}(t)\equiv\Gamma_\pm(t;j=0)$.
This leads to the following representation for $\epsilon_1(g)$
\begin{align}\label{epsilon1}
\epsilon_1(g) = -{2g}\int_{0}^{\infty}\frac{dt}{t}
\bigg[\left(1-\frac{\cosh\lr{t/4g}}{\cosh\lr{t/2g}}\right)\Big(\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)+\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\Big)
+ \frac{\sinh\lr{t/4g}}{\cosh\lr{t/2g}} \Big(\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)-\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\Big)&\bigg].
\end{align}
The functions $\Gamma_\pm(t;j)$ satisfy the integral equation \re{G-int}. For $j=0$ the integral on
the right-hand side of \re{G-int} vanishes and the resulting equations for $\Gamma_\pm^{(0)}(t)$
can be written as
\begin{align}\label{G-BES}
\int_0^\infty dt\, \sin(ut) \left[\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)+\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\right]&=0\,,
\\\notag
\int_0^\infty dt\, \cos(ut) \left[\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)-\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\right] &=2\,,
\end{align}
where $u-$parameter satisfies the condition $u^2\le 1$.
We observe that the relations \re{epsilon1} involve the same combinations of $\Gamma_\pm^{(0)}(t)$
as in \re{G-BES}. To make use of \re{G-BES}, it is suggestive to replace the two factors on the
right-hand side of \re{epsilon1} involving the ratios of hyperbolic functions by their Fourier
integrals. Going through calculation (the details can be found in Appendix B) we find
\begin{align}\label{eps1=3terms}
\epsilon_{1}(g) = - {4\sqrt{2}g^2} \bigg\{ &\int_{-1}^{1}du \ u \ \frac{\sinh\lr{g\pi
u}}{\cosh\lr{2g\pi u}}
\\ \notag
+& \int_{1}^{\infty}du \ \frac{\cosh\lr{g\pi u}}{\cosh\lr{2g\pi u}} \int_{0}^{\infty}\frac{dt}{t}
\ \Big(1-\cos\lr{ut}\Big) \Big[\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)+\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\Big]
\\ \notag
+& \int_{1}^{\infty}du \ \frac{\sinh\lr{g\pi u}}{\cosh\lr{2g\pi u}} \int_{0}^{\infty}\frac{dt}{t} \
\sin\lr{ut} \ \Big[\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)-\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\Big]\bigg\}\,.
\end{align}
Here we split the Fourier integral into sum of two terms corresponding to $0\le u\le 1$ and $1\le u
<\infty$ and applied \re{G-BES} in the first term.
Let us now examine the relation \re{eps1=3terms} at strong coupling. It is straightforward to work
out the asymptotic expansion of the first term on the right-hand side of \re{eps1=3terms} at large
$g$. In the remaining two terms, we replace the ratios of hyperbolic functions by their large $g$
expansion and find after some algebra (see details in Appendix B)
\begin{align}\label{eps1=m}
\epsilon_{1}(g) = -1 + m + O\left(\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-3g\pi}\right)\,,
\end{align}
where the parameter $m=m(g)$ is defined as
\begin{equation}\label{m=int}
m = \frac{8\sqrt{2}}{\pi^2}\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-\pi g}-\frac{8g}{\pi}\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-\pi g}\mathop{\rm Re}\nolimits\left[ \int_0^\infty \frac{dt\,
\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{i(t-\pi/4)}}{t+i\pi g}\left(\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)+ i \Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)\right)\right]\,.
\end{equation}
We recall that the functions $\Gamma^{(0)}_{\pm}(t)$ are solutions to the integral equations
\re{G-BES}.
According to \re{eps1=m}, the function $\epsilon_1(g)$ does not receive perturbative corrections in
$1/g$ and the leading nontrivial correction is given by $m$ which is exponentially small in $g$.
This property has the same origin as the appearance of the gap in the distribution of magnon
rapidities at strong coupling described by the BES equation~\cite{BES,Alday07,KSV08}. Namely, the
distribution density of Bethe roots vanishes on the interval $[-2g,2g]$ to each order in
perturbative $1/g$ expansion. These are the nonperturbative (exponentially small in the coupling)
corrections that generate a nonzero distribution density on this interval.
At large $g$ the integral in \re{m=int} receives a dominant contribution from large $t\sim g$. In
order to evaluate \re{m=int} it suffices to take $t=\pi g \tau$ and to replace the functions
$\Gamma^{(0)}_{\pm}(\pi g \tau)$ by their asymptotic behavior for $g\to\infty$ and $\tau={\rm
fixed}$. The leading asymptotic behavior of $\Gamma^{(0)}_{\pm}(\pi g \tau)$ in this limit
reads~\cite{BKK07,KSV08} \footnote{To obtain this relation from perturbative solution for
$\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)+i\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)=\sum_{k\ge 0} g^{-k} \Gamma_{k}(t) $, one has to take
into account that $\Gamma_{k}(t)\sim t^k \Gamma_0(t)$ at large $t$ and, then, resum an entire series
in the double scaling limit $g, t \to\infty$ and $t/g={\rm fixed}$.}
\begin{equation}\label{G-as}
\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(\pi g \tau)+i\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(\pi g \tau) =
-\frac{\sqrt{2}}{\pi}\frac{\Gamma(3/4)\Gamma(1+i\tau/4)}{\Gamma(3/4+i\tau/4)}\left[\int_{-1}^{1}du
\, \left(\frac{1+u}{1-u}\right)^{1/4} \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-i\pi g u \tau} + \ldots \right],
\end{equation}
where ellipses denote terms suppressed by powers of $1/g$. From the point of view of the underlying
BES equation~\cite{KSV08}, this expression reflects nontrivial properties of the scattering phase of
magnons in planar $\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM theory in the the near flat space limit~\cite{MS06}.
We substitute \re{G-as} into \re{m=int}, expand the resulting twofold integral at large $g$ and find
after some algebra (see Appendix B)
\begin{equation}\label{mass}
m = g^{1/4} \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-\pi g} \frac{2^{3/4}\pi^{1/4}}{\Gamma(5/4)}+\ldots
\end{equation}
This relation is in a remarkable agreement with the expression for the mass gap \re{m_AM} found by
Alday and Maldacena \cite{AM07} from string theory considerations. Moreover, the obtained expression
for $\epsilon_1(g)$, Eq.~\re{eps1=m}, is in agreement with the numerical solution to the FRS
equation and its analytical estimate~\cite{FGR08,Benna}.
Let us now evaluate $\epsilon_3(g)$. We start with the second relation in \re{eps13} and change
variables following \re{gG}
\begin{align} \label{e3}
\epsilon_3(g) & = \frac{\pi^2}{48 g\kappa^2} \int_{0}^{\infty}dt \, t \left[
\frac{\sinh\lr{t/4g}}{\cosh\lr{t/2g}}
\Big(\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)-\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\Big)-\frac{\cosh\lr{t/4g}}{\cosh\lr{t/2g}}
\Big(\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)+\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\Big)\right],
\end{align}
and analogously for $\kappa$ defined in \re{kappa}
\begin{equation}\label{k3}
\kappa = 2- \int_{0}^{\infty}dt \left[ \frac{\cosh\lr{t/4g}}{\cosh\lr{t/2g}}
\Big(\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)-\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\Big)+\frac{\sinh\lr{t/4g}}{\cosh\lr{t/2g}}
\Big(\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)+\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\Big) \right].
\end{equation}
The integrals entering \re{e3} and \re{k3} look similar to that for $\epsilon_1(g)$,
Eq.~\re{epsilon1}, and their calculation goes along the same lines as before. Namely, we replace the
factors involving the ratios of hyperbolic functions on the right-hand side of \re{e3} and \re{k3}
by their Fourier integrals (see Eqs.~\re{B1} and \re{B11}), apply the relations \re{G-BES} to
evaluate the contribution from the region $0\le u\le 1$ and express the remaining integral over
$1\le u <\infty$ in terms of $\Gamma^{(0)}_\pm(t)$. Going through calculation we find that the
leading contribution to $\epsilon_3$ and $\kappa$ as $g\to\infty$ is proportional to the scale $m$,
Eqs.~\re{m=int} (see also \re{Mass}),
\begin{equation}\label{eps3=m}
\epsilon_3= \frac{\pi^4}{96 \kappa^2} m + O\left(\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-3\pi g}\right) \,, \qquad \kappa=
\frac{\pi}{2} m + O\left(\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-3\pi g}\right)\,,
\end{equation}
so that the relation \re{aa} takes the form $a=j/m+\ldots$. Finally, we combine together the
relations \re{e-expansion}, \re{eps1=m} and \re{eps3=m} and obtain small $j$ expansion of the
scaling function at strong coupling as
\begin{equation}
\epsilon(g,j) = j(-1 + m) + \frac{\pi^2}{24m} j^3 +\ldots\,,
\end{equation}
with $m$ given by \re{mass}. This relation agrees with the string theory prediction by Alday and
Maldacena~\cite{AM07}. It can be also written as
\begin{equation}\label{e-scal}
\epsilon(g,j)+j = m^2 \left[\frac{j}{m}+ \frac{\pi^2}{24} \lr{\frac{j}{m}}^3 + \ldots\right],
\end{equation}
wherefrom we expect that the expansion of the scaling function runs in powers of $j/m$, or
equivalently, $\epsilon_k \sim m^{2-k}$ at strong coupling.
\section{Scaling function and nonlinear $\rm O(6)$ sigma model}
For $j\sim m$, the small $j$ expansion employed in the previous section is not applicable. In this
section, we will show that for $j\ll g$ and $j/m={\rm fixed}$, the scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$
coincides with the energy density of the ground state of the two-dimensional $\rm O(6)$ sigma model.
\subsection{Exact solution of the $\rm O(6)$ sigma model}
The exact solution for the ground state energy in the two-dimensional $\rm O(6)$ sigma-model was
constructed in Refs.~\cite{HMN90}. It can be summarized as follows. The energy density
$\epsilon_{\rm O(6)}$ in the ground state and the particle density $\rho$ are given by
\begin{equation}\label{ex1}
\epsilon_{\rm O(6)} = \frac{m}{2\pi}\int_{-B}^B d\theta\, \chi(\theta) \cosh\theta\,,\qquad \rho
=\frac1{2\pi}\int_{-B}^B d\theta\, \chi(\theta)\,,
\end{equation}
where the differential rapidity distribution $\chi(\theta)$ has the support on the interval $[-B,B]$
and satisfies the integral equation
\begin{equation}\label{ex2}
\chi(\theta) = \int_{-B}^B d\theta'\, K(\theta-\theta') \chi(\theta') + m \cosh\theta \,.
\end{equation}
Here the kernel $K(\theta)= \lr{ \ln S(\theta)}'/(2\pi i)$ is related to a logarithmic derivative of
the exact $S-$matrix of the $\rm O(6)$ model~\cite{ZZ78}
\begin{align}
K(\theta) = \frac{1}{4\pi^2}\left[\psi\left(1+\frac{i
\theta}{2\pi}\right)+\psi\left(1-\frac{i\theta}{2\pi}\right)-\psi\left(\frac{1}{2}-\frac{i
\theta}{2\pi}\right)-\psi\left(\frac{1}{2}+\frac{i
\theta}{2\pi}\right)+\frac{2\pi}{\cosh{\theta}}\right]\,,
\end{align}
where $\psi(x)=\lr{\ln\Gamma(x)}'$ is the Euler psi-function. Later in this section we will
encounter its Fourier transform
\begin{equation}\label{K-Fourier}
K(\theta) = \frac{2}{\pi^2} \int_{0}^{\infty}dt \,\cos{\left(2\theta t/ \pi \right)}
\frac{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}+1}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{2t}+1}\,.
\end{equation}
For $\rho/m\ll 1$, or equivalently $B\to 0$, the ground state energy of the model is given by
\begin{equation}\label{e-o6}
\epsilon_{\rm O(6)} = m \rho + \frac{\pi^2}{6m} \rho^3 + \ldots
\end{equation}
and it coincides with the energy density of a dilute, nonrelativistic Fermi gas with the particle
density $\rho$~\cite{HMN90}.
Comparing \re{e-scal} with \re{e-o6} we observe that the scaling function at strong coupling is
related at small $j\ll m$ to the ground state energy of the $\rm O(6)$ model as \footnote{We note
that the absence of $O(j^2)$ term in the expansion of the scaling function, $\epsilon_2(g)=0$, is
related to vanishing of $O(\rho^2)$ term in the energy of nonrelativistic Fermi gas.}
\begin{equation}\label{map}
\epsilon_{\rm O(6)} = \frac{\epsilon(g,j)+j}{2}\,,\qquad \rho=\frac{j}2\,.
\end{equation}
We will show in this section that the relation \re{map} holds for arbitrary $j$ in the scaling limit
$g\to\infty$ and $j/m={\rm fixed}$. More precisely, we will demonstrate that the FRS equation for
the scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$ can be written in the form of \re{ex1} and \re{ex2} upon
identification
\begin{equation}\label{rho}
\chi(\theta) = \frac{8}{\pi}\int_{-\infty}^\infty dt \, \cos\lr{2\theta t/\pi} \,\gamma_{\rm h}(t)\,,
\end{equation}
or conversely
\begin{equation}\label{g-Fourier}
\gamma_{\rm h}(t) = \frac1{8\pi}\int_{-B}^B d\theta\, \cos\lr{2\theta t/\pi} \,\chi(\theta)\,,
\end{equation}
with $B=a \pi/2$.
\subsection{Rapidity distribution}
Let us first demonstrate that the Fourier transform of the function $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ fulfills
the same integral equation \re{ex2} as the rapidity distribution density for the $\rm O(6)$ model.
We recall that $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ satisfies the integral equation \re{gh-new} with the kernel
$K_{\rm h}(t,t')$ given by \re{K_h}. The Fourier transform of this kernel can be easily evaluated
\begin{equation}
\int_{-\infty}^\infty dt\, \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{ikt} K_{\rm h}(t,t') = \frac12 \cos(kt') \theta(a^2-k^2)\,,
\end{equation}
with the step function $\theta(x)$ equal to $1$ for $x\ge 0$ and $0$ otherwise. Making use of this
identity we perform Fourier transformation of both sides of \re{gh-new} and find that the function
$\chi(\theta)$ introduced in \re{rho} vanishes for $\theta^2>B^2$ with $B=a\pi/2$. This property
should not be surprising since, in the Bethe Ansatz approach to the scaling
function~\cite{BGK06,FRS}, the function $\chi(\theta)$ describes the distribution of holes%
\footnote{This function differs from the one introduced in \cite{FRS} by normalization,
$\chi(\theta)=2j \rho_{\rm h}(k)$ with $\theta=k \pi/2$.} which condense on the interval $[-B,B]$.
For $-B\le \theta\le B$ the function $\chi(\theta)$ is given by
\begin{equation}\label{rho=sum}
\frac{\pi}{8}\chi\left(\theta\right)= \frac{1}{2} +I(\theta)- 2\int_{0}^{\infty}dt
\,\frac{\cos\lr{kt}}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}-1} \ \left(\gamma_{\rm h}(t)-\frac{j}{8}\,\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{{t}/{2}}
J_{0}(2gt)\right),
\end{equation}
where $\theta=k\pi/2$ and the notation was introduced for
\begin{equation}
I(\theta)=-\frac{g}2\int_{0}^{\infty}dt \, \frac{\cos(kt)}{\sinh(t/2)} \gamma(2gt) \,.
\end{equation}
Let us rescale the integration variable, $t\to t/2g$, and apply \re{gG} to
eliminate $\gamma(t) = \gamma_+(t)+\gamma_-(t)$ in favor of $\Gamma_\pm(t)$
\begin{align} \label{I-int}
I(\theta)
=&-\frac{1}{4}\int_{0}^{\infty}dt\, \cos \left({k t}/{2g}\right) \bigg[
\frac{\cosh\lr{t/4g}}{\cosh\lr{t/2g}}\Big(\Gamma_{-}(t)-\Gamma_{+}(t)\Big) +
\frac{\sinh\lr{t/4g}}{\cosh\lr{t/2g}}\Big(\Gamma_{-}(t)+\Gamma_{+}(t)\Big)\bigg].
\end{align}
We already encountered similar integral in Sect.~3.2. The important difference is that the
functions $\Gamma_\pm(t)$ are now defined for $j\neq 0$. This does not affect however the general
scheme that we followed in Sect.~3.2 and calculation goes along the same lines as before (see
Appendix B for details). It leads to the following relation in the scaling limit $g\to\infty$ and
$j/m={\rm fixed}$ (with $\theta=k\pi/2$)
\begin{equation}\label{A+B+C}
I(\theta)=- \frac12 + \frac{\pi}{8}m \cosh\theta+ 4 \int_{0}^{\infty}dt \, \frac{
\cos(kt)\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{{t}/{2}}}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}+\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{-t}} \, \frac{1}{\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}-1} \left(\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{{t}/{2}} \gamma_{\rm h}(t) -
\frac{j}{8} \ J_{0}(2gt)\right)\,.
\end{equation}
It is important to emphasize that this relation was derived in Appendix B under assumption that
\begin{equation}\label{asumption}
B < \pi g\,.
\end{equation}
Taking into account the identity $\theta=k\pi/2$, we find that this condition can be reformulated as
a requirement that the interval $[-a,a]$ on the real $k-$axis in which the holes condense should be
located inside the gap $[-2g,2g]$ corresponding to the magnon density at strong coupling described
by the BES equation.
Substitution of \re{A+B+C} into \re{rho=sum} yields
\begin{equation}\label{xi}
\chi(\theta) = m\cosh\theta+ \frac{16}{\pi} \int_{0}^{\infty}dt \,\cos(kt) \frac{1+\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}}{1+\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{2t}}
\gamma_{\rm h}(t) + \frac{2j}{\pi} \int_{0}^{\infty}dt\,\cos(kt) \frac{\sinh\lr{t/2}}{\cosh {t}} \,
J_{0}(2gt)\,.
\end{equation}
The last term on the right-hand side of this relation is subleading in the scaling limit (see
Eqs.~\re{Bnl} and \re{Bl}) and can be neglected. Then, we replace $ \gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ by its
Fourier integral \re{g-Fourier},
\begin{equation}
\chi(\theta) = m\cosh\theta+ \frac{2}{\pi^2}\int_{-B}^B d\theta'\,\chi(\theta') \int_{0}^{\infty}dt
\,\cos(2\theta t/\pi) \cos\lr{2\theta' t/\pi} \frac{1+\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{t}}{1+\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{2t}}\,,
\end{equation}
integrate over $t$ with a help of \re{K-Fourier} to find that $\chi(\theta)=\chi(-\theta)$ satisfies the
same integral equation \re{ex2} as the rapidity distribution in the $\rm O(6)$ model!
Finally, it follows from \re{ex1} and \re{g-Fourier} that the density of particles in the $\rm O(6)$
model is related to the scaling parameter $j$ as
\begin{equation}
\rho = \frac1{2\pi} \int_{-B}^B d\theta\, \chi(\theta) = 4\gamma_{\rm h}(0) = \frac{j}2\,,
\end{equation}
where in the last relation we applied \re{gh-even}.
\subsection{Energy of the ground state}
It remains to show that the scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$ is related to the energy of the ground
state of the $\rm O(6)$ model \re{ex1} through relation \re{map}.
As follows from \re{epsilon-g}, the scaling function admits the following representation
\begin{equation}\label{epsilon-g1}
\epsilon(g,j) =
16{g} \int_{0}^{\infty}\frac{dt}{t} \
\frac{\gamma_+^{(0)}(2gt)-\gamma_-^{(0)}(2gt)}{\sinh(t/2)} \left(
\gamma_{\rm h}(t) -\gamma_{\rm h}(0) \right)
+j \epsilon_1(g) \,,
\end{equation}
where we separated terms linear in $j$ into the function $\epsilon_1(g)$ given by \re{eps13}. As
before, we eliminate $\gamma^{(0)}_\pm(t)$ in favor of $\Gamma^{(0)}_\pm(t)$ with a help of
\re{gG} and replace $\gamma_{\rm h}(t)$ by the Fourier integral \re{g-Fourier}
\begin{equation}\label{e=int}
\epsilon(g,j) = \frac{2g}{\pi}\int_{-B}^Bd\theta\,\chi(\theta)\, E(\theta) + j \,\epsilon_1(g)\,,
\end{equation}
where the notation was introduced for (with $\theta=k\pi/2$)
\begin{align}
E(\theta) = \int_0^\infty\frac{dt}{t}\big({1-\cos(kt/2g)}\big) \bigg[\ &
\frac{\cosh\lr{t/4g}}{\cosh\lr{t/2g}}\Big(\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)+\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\Big)
\\ \notag
-& \frac{\sinh\lr{t/4g}}{\cosh\lr{t/2g}}
\Big(\Gamma^{(0)}_{-}(t)-\Gamma^{(0)}_{+}(t)\Big)\bigg]\,.
\end{align}
We observe similarity of this integral with the one entering \re{I-int}. Going through the same
steps as before, we get at large $g$,
\begin{equation}
E(\theta) = \frac{m}{2g}\lr{\cosh\theta-1}\,,
\end{equation}
with $m$ being the mass gap \re{mass}. Plugging this expression into \re{e=int} and making use of
\re{eps1=m}, we evaluate the scaling function as
\begin{equation}
\epsilon(g,j) = \frac{m}{\pi}\int_{-B}^Bd\theta\,\chi(\theta)\,\lr{\cosh\theta-1} + j (-1+m) =
\frac{m}{\pi}\int_{-B}^Bd\theta\,\chi(\theta)\, \cosh\theta -j\,,
\end{equation}
in a perfect agreement with \re{map} and \re{ex1}.
Thus, we demonstrated that, in the limit $g\to\infty$ with $j/m=\rm fixed$, the scaling function
$\epsilon(g,j)$ is related to the energy density in the ground state of the two-dimensional $\rm
O(6)$ sigma-model \re{map} and, therefore, it can be found from the exact solution of this model
constructed in \cite{HMN90}. We should keep in mind however that this result was based on the
assumption \re{asumption} which need to be checked. Let us first consider the region $j\ll m$ in
which case $a=j/m +\ldots$ and, therefore, $B=a\pi/2$ automatically satisfies \re{asumption}. The
relation \re{asumption} becomes nontrivial for $j\gg m$. In this region, the exact solution of the
${\rm O(6)}$ model leads to~\cite{HMN90}
\begin{equation}
\epsilon_{\rm O(6)} = \frac{j^2}{2} \left[ \frac{\pi}{8\ln(j/m)}+
O\lr{\frac{\ln\ln(j/m)}{\ln^2(j/m)}}\right].
\end{equation}
This expression is valid for $j \gg m$ independently on whether $j\gg g$ or $j\ll g$ whereas the
string theory consideration~\cite{AM07} suggests that the relation between $\epsilon(g,j)$ and
$\epsilon_{\rm O(6)}$ should only hold for $j\ll g$. Remarkably enough, the relation \re{asumption}
leads to the condition for $j$ on the gauge theory side compatible with $j\ll g$. Indeed, for $j\gg
m$ we expect from the exact solution of the ${\rm O(6)}$ model~\cite{PW83,FR85,HMN90} that the
$B-$parameter scales as $B\sim \ln (j/m)-c \ln\ln(j/m)$ (with constant $c$ that need to be calculated) leading to
\begin{equation}
j \sim m g^{c} \mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{B} \sim g^{c+1/4}\mathop{\rm e}\nolimits^{B-\pi g}\,,
\end{equation}
where in the second relation we used the expression for the mass gap \re{mass}. We conclude that the
condition \re{asumption} implies that $j$ is exponentially small in $g$. We expect that the constant $c$ should be equal to $c=3/4$ leading to the condition $j/g\ll 1$, in agreement with string theory prediction.
\section{Conclusions}
In this paper, we have studied anomalous dimensions of high-twist Wilson operators in a particular
limit \cite{BGK06} when their Lorentz spin grows exponentially with the twist. The anomalous
dimensions have a nontrivial scaling behavior in this limit and conjectured integrability of the
dilatation operator in $\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM theory leads to the FRS equation \cite{FRS} for the
corresponding scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$. It is believed that the function $\epsilon(g,j)$
defined as a solution to this equation should interpolate between the weak coupling result based on
explicit perturbative calculation in $\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM and the strong coupling result predicted
within the gauge/string duality.
We solved the FRS equation at strong coupling in the scaling limit, $g\to\infty$ and $j/m={\rm
fixed}$, and found that, quite remarkably, the anomalous dimensions of high-twist operators in
four-dimensional conformal invariant $\mathcal{N}=4$ SYM theory are described by two-dimensional
nonlinear $\rm O(6)$ model which is asymptotically free at short distances and develops a mass gap
in the infrared. This result is in a perfect agreement with the proposal by Alday and Maldacena
\cite{AM07} who argued, based on the dual string consideration, that the scaling function
$\epsilon(g,j)$ should coincide with the energy density of the $\rm O(6)$ model embedded into the
$\rm AdS_5\times S^5$ model.
In the Bethe Ansatz approach, the scaling function is determined by two sets of rapidities
describing magnons and holes~\cite{BGK06}. In the scaling limit, the rapidities condense on the real
axis and their distribution densities satisfy the system of coupled integral equations \cite{FRS}.
We found that solutions to these equations at strong coupling depend on a `hidden' nonperturbative
scale $m$ which determines the mass spectrum of hole excitations. The same scale has been previously
identified in the strong coupling expansion of the cusp anomalous dimension \cite{BKK07}. We
demonstrated by explicit calculation that, firstly, the scale $m$ coincides with the exact mass gap
of the two-dimensional $\rm O(6)$ sigma-model and, secondly, the dynamics of holes at strong
coupling is described by the thermodynamical Bethe Ansatz equations for the same model.
At weak coupling, $\epsilon(g,j)$ is a bi-analytical function of $g$ and $j$ \cite{FRS}. At strong
coupling, due to appearance of the mass gap, $\epsilon(g,j)$ has a nontrivial `phase diagram' in
the $(g,j)-$plane. Namely, for $m\ll g$, the function $\epsilon(g,j)$ has different behavior for
$j\ll m\ll g$ and $m\ll j\ll g$~\cite{AM07}. In both regimes, $\epsilon(g,j)$ coincides with the
energy density in the ground state of $\rm O(6)$ model: For $j\ll m\ll g$, the function
$\epsilon(g,j)$ admits an expansion in powers of $j/m$ which reflects nontrivial properties of the
$\rm O(6)$ model in the infrared. For $m\ll j\ll g$, in accordance with the asymptotic freedom in
this model, $\epsilon(g,j)$ is given by the perturbative series in $1/g$ with coefficients
proportional to $j^2$ and enhanced by powers of $\ln(j/g)$.
We would like to stress that the FRS equation predicts the scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$ for
arbitrary $g$ and $j$. The $\rm O(6)$ sigma-model only describes the leading asymptotic behavior of
$\epsilon(g,j)$ in the limit $g\to\infty$ and $j\ll g$. It would be interesting to
investigate whether the relation with the $\rm O(6)$ model also exists at the level of subleading
corrections. Based on our experience with the cusp anomalous
dimension~\cite{BES,Benna06,Alday07,Kostov07,BKK07,B08,KSV08}, we expect that the transition from
strong to weak coupling regime in $\epsilon(g,j)$ should occur for $g\sim 1$. In this region, the
hierarchy between the scales $m$ and $g$ disappears and the relation to the $\rm O(6)$ sigma-model
is lost. The crossover between strong and weak couplings deserves additional study. Finally, the
scaling function $\epsilon(g,j)$ has a nontrivial behavior \cite{BGK06} at strong coupling in the
region $j
> g$ (with $N,L\to\infty$), which is left beyond the scope of the present paper. As was already
mentioned in the Introduction, the anomalous dimension in this region does not grow logarithmically
with $N$ anymore but has instead a BMN like behavior \re{BMN}. It would be interesting to reproduce
this behavior from the FRS equation.
\section*{Acknowledgements}
We would like to thank Marcus Benna, Igor Klebanov, Juan Maldacena and Mikhail Shifman for
interesting discussions. B.B. thanks the Institute for Nuclear Theory at the University of
Washington for its hospitality and the Department of Energy for partial support in the final stage
of the work. This research was supported in part by the French Agence Nationale de la Recherche
under grant ANR-06-BLAN-0142.
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 6,358 |
Majhawan is a constituency of the Uttar Pradesh Legislative Assembly covering the city of Majhawan in the Mirzapur district of Uttar Pradesh, India.
Majhawan is one of five assembly constituencies in the Mirzapur Lok Sabha constituency. Since 2008, this assembly constituency is numbered 397 amongst 403 constituencies.
Election results
2022
2017
Bharatiya Janta Party candidate Suchismita won in 2017 Uttar Pradesh Legislative Elections by defeating Bahujan Samaj Party candidate Ramesh Chand Bind by a margin of 41,159 votes.
References
External links
Assembly constituencies of Uttar Pradesh
Mirzapur district | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 4,337 |
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} | 248 |
Could woman be an IMAM/NABI/RASOOL in a man dominating societies.While keeping in view her physical system, structure, and her psychology,also MALKA SABA.If not then what about in the societies where she has equal rights?
Dear Naeem Sheikh! Remember the term Mlaikatehee (officials of the Islamic state) must be comparatively stronger persons among the society; see the verses 27/149, 52/39, 17/40, 37/153, 43/16.
The Nabi must also be with stronger personality beside knowledge see verse 2/247.
Also the names of prophets mentioned in Quran shows that they all were MEN NOT WOMEN.
A lady (woman) with a stronger personality among society members ( if she fulfill all other attribute of rasool/nabi mensioned in Alkitab ), then Quran never denys the woman to be at the status of Nabi/rasool/imam.
What about Syedna Maryam, Was she not rasool??
Dear Naeem Sheikh MARYAM is not a proper noun rather a group of people who left their place (became a separate community) to be enlightened with divine teachings,(makanon sharqiya).
To know the sense of SHARQIYA see the verse39/69.
In verse 19/28 the word UMMUKI and ABOKI does not means father and mother this verse need to be elaborated in the context of the subject.
Dear Bilal, please follow links below which might give some more knowledge of the subject.
SA Dear Bilal Bahi: You may want to read an excellent article "Pedaish-e-Masih" on the subject by Dr. QZ.
Dear Bilal,Brother Mubashir Syed,all participants !
Please ponder in to the following verses to know the facts keeping in mind my above post let me reproduce it.
"To know the sense of SHARQIYA see the verse39/69.
In verse 19/34 the terminology Iابْنُ مَرْيَمَ (BN-E-MARYAM) means the SON of the said community MARYAM,(like son of the nation) "
LET US GO IN DETAILS.
NOOH = not a man rather an attribute.
AL-E-IBRAHIM = the followers of IBRAMEMIC IDEOLOGY.
AL-E-IMRAN = followers of civics sense.
مُحَرَّرًا فَتَقَبَّلْ مِنِّي إِنَّكَ أَنتَ السَّمِيعُ الْعَلِيمُ.
IMRAATA IMRAN = a group among the society who follows the civic sense.
The verse 3/35 shows that the said group seems much keen to produce the dedicate JAMAAT to lead the society in the cause of Allah.
Shows that the "IDARA" was supervised by the prophet ZAKARIA himself.
Verses 3/38—42 indicates that prophet ZAKARIA was also very much keen to see a leader /imam/Nabi trained by this IDARA.
Here it is realized that EISA was the IBN-E-MARYAM /RASOOL ALLAH trained AT THE DIVINED IDEOLOGY GIVEN TO MARYAM(the IDARAH).
Go to the verse 5/110 the term WALIDATIKA has been used, it means the IDARA who produced you (Eisa) see the details as under.
The meanings of وضع are to coin ,to fabricate , to create , to invent , to compose ,position , site , attitude ,figure , shape ,plan , intention , proceeding , way of acting e.t.c. but one meaning of this root letter is to give birth .
Most of the meanings give sense of creation .
وضعت means she created , she invented ,she composed.
here the word UMM is used which mean the IDARA who composed/ fabricated.
Here the IDARA established by the group of people who has been observing the civic sense, over came its short comings (purified them self from all evils) in an excellent way.So Allah bestowed upon it his bounties described in the above verse.
1:- See the commonalities between Imraata Imran and Imraata Zakaria .
3:- the time period of prophet YAHYA and EISA is same in the same nation (society).
6:-YAHYA is not a proper noun rather an attribute of a prophet who makes the dead personalities ALIVE as the sense is given in following verses.
If we consider YAHYA as a proper noun (the prophet) then there were suppose to be his TAZKIRA beside EISA same like MOSA and HAROON, IBRAHEEM and LOOT because in the same society same teacher, same time.
Thank you very much brother MOAZZAM,Daood and Mubashir sayed.God bless you all.
Sister Nargis, Brother Mubashir! YAHYA WAS NOT PROPHET RATHER AN ATTRIBUTE OF HAZRAT EISA (by Moazzam).
Dear brother Naeem sheik, this is how i understood brother moazzam, correct me if im wrong brother.
And perform masah on your head. "masah" means to intellectually cleanse someone.
and i think yahia was hayaat dene wala?
So the dead nation of Zakaria need life/ a lifegiver (Yahia), method to achieve this is is to clean themself intellectually (Masee).
so Yahia is actually Eesa, another discripition of S Eesa's task,character.
Dear Naeem Sheikh, please accept my inability to comment on the topic as am not so learned, I may need to take it as an assignment and even after that I think cant comment any better than sis Nargis.
Note : I think even if all the names from Adam to Mohammed are not proper and are attributes should not matter……….or does that really matter to the cause and message ?
Sister Nargis ,Brother Naeem ! The brilliant Sister is RIGHT in understanding my stance.
Read the Surah Maryam in consolidation with Surah Al-e-Imraan keeping in view the described terminologies, certainly you will get the said inference very clearly. It is also advised to read the book "PAIDAISH-E-MASIH" by dr Qamarzaman, only take MARYAM as a GROUP OF PEOPLE (IDARAH) instead of a WOMAN.
I mean they are mentioned seprately .
Dear Abdullahbashoeb: Very good question, I also stuck for a while at the same point when reached at verse 6/85.
To ponder in to Quran note the following points.
1:- read the verses 6/83-90, 38/26-48. 21/48-92 some of prophet names are mentioned to whom Alkitab,Hukmah and Nabowa had been given.
2:- Out of them Yahya,Yasaa, Zelkifl, Ilyas, Idrees has been discussed scarcely in Quran, the names of all four except Yahya are found separately as a rasool/nabi in verses 37/123,21/85,38/48, 6/86.
3:- The prophet Zakaria asked for a WARIS and Allah bestowed him a UNIQUE GHULAM WITH THE ATTREBUTE OF YAHA and there was never been before with the same attribute, see the verse (19/17).
But the name of Yahya has came three time as a BASHARAT OF GHULAAM to prophet Zakaria and only two time separately in the context of the Zakaria's story which has been discussed in details in my previous post.
Whereas very prominently in detailed stories of prophet EISA has been discussed at 25 different places in Quran including with the implementation of attribute YAHYA in Bani Israil.
note the commonality,what the inference you have to establish the said stance.
4:- Go to the verse 21/87 the 'ZUNNOON is the attribute of prophet Younis, and Allah called him with his attribute as a ZUNNOON . Any prophet may also have the attribute of Yahya for his nation see the verse 8/24. As the Yahya and Eisa are not two but a single personality in the story of Zakariya.
The prophet Younis called as" WA ZUNNOON" in verse 21/87. So prophet Eis and any other prophet (having the attribute of YAHYA could be called "WA YAHYA" along with Eisa in verse 6/85.
But in the story of Yahya it is established that prophet Eisa was definitely blessed with the attribute of YAHYA.
Excellent your presentation has complete logic and proof. Alhamdulillah. And keep it up you are doing excellent contribution to humanity through enlighiting Quranic Knowledge.
when you think something is NOT worth investigation ( For example like the holocaust of jews in 2 ww), then the given story is the ruling story. that story is what is accepted as true. But when someone start asking why, thats when the actual truth will come forward.
but hten D S P Moazzam start thinking, and want to solve the puzzle. then his findings will lead to me and he will arrest me ,,, while everyone will be shocked because they ALWAYS THOUGHT im bhagwan ka devta.
CLEAN WATER is hard to digest because your used to saltwater. Your body is working hard to get rid of the salt in yoru body,thats why you are getting dizzy.
Dear Naeem Shiekh, I do agree with you, initially things might look tough, slowly but surely things start getting digested. Brother Moazzam is not the ONLY person to understand this, I would say we might have come across only one person until now. Beauty of rationality is truth is mightier than majority.
Note : Truth is above all Why's………..i think we need to be ready for more surprises as interpretation of Quran with enhanced understanding has just began. Please fasten your seat belts. Please correct me if am wrong here.
i really enjoyed the link you posted " http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kv75_hrB0Fk .
WHAT THE AASTANA TEAM IS but didn't see you and Aurangzaib? o you gone to take an exercise other wise you might be like one of them.
Very well discussed .Thats the true spirit .
Keep it up everybody .
Moazzam Saheb ! I have been reading Aastana.blog regularly for the last two months, and enjoyed Aastana family a lot especially your replies.
But feeling a bit confused after reading your post at following topics.
2)YAHYA AND EISA THE SAME PERSONALITY.
3)MARYAM WAS NOT A WOMAN.
6) SCIENCE + QURAN HAVING DIVINE MESSAGE.
Brother Naeem sounds right IT IS INDIGESTABLE.
SORRY TO SAY ,I DON'T KNOW WHETHER MISS NARGIS IS BRILLIANT OR DUMB, SHE ALWAYS SECOND YOUR EACH AND EVERY STANCE SO QUICKLY ???
Just as a sponge that soaks up water instantly, my brain also absorbs information instantly!
Brother Moazam presents short summaries of what has been explained in books written by Dr Qamar Zaman. I have read these books and acquired some knowledge, which has become a strong base of my understanding.Brother Moazzam are takin it to the next level and helping us out while Dr uncle is translating the Quran. He is using what he learnt and taking it to the next level.
Nargis enjoys being a "dumb" sponge... but super absorbent, I am able to grasp what is being edified, expand and elaborate on what has been understood, and then convey this information to others.
Sister Nargis! Its a quality of good brain to be the sponge-like to soake up knowledge but shouldn't be DUMB rather FILTERED to avoide contomination (this is in response to the analogy you presented).
Dear Mujeeb! It is advised, please go through the Quranic references i quoted in all my elaborations you objected above.
Plz let me know if you find better than mine, remember there should be no any reflection of personality cult.
Sorry for being away. Trying now to catch up rapidly with the on-going developments.
In this particular thread, I would stand with my Brother Naeem Sheikh where he wrote --- "IT IS HARD TO DIGEST".
If there are no PERSONALITIES WITH PROPER NAMES,,,,,, no ATTRIBUTES can be attributed to them. Therefore, first of all, we must admit that they were existing personalities with proper names to distinguish them from the common lot. And that they had their own proper names as enumerated by Quran at different places. Only after that, we may say that …….the particular names assigned to them "may have reflected" some of their qualities???………..no problem there, I suppose! Mohammad Ali Jinnah was named Quaid-e-Azam for he had great leadership qualities.
This opinion refers to "Maryam" and "Aal-e-Imran" too, as I think both are proper names and to take them as attributes would be, at this stage of our learning, a far-fetched idea and may open up a Pandora's Box if we start exchanging Quranic references for and against the theory of "attributes".
About the "Issa" and the "Yahya" issue, right now, we only have been shown some similarities of Quranic TERMINOLOGY used in case of both the Messengers, which dear Brother Moazzam has very diligently referred to. But Quran may have countless similar things to express about Divine Messengers as all of them had the same identical qualities which elevated them to the qualifying level for messenger ship.
We do not see a categorical affirmation of them being one and the same personality. On the contrary, we do find a categorical distinction between them in 6/83-89 where eighteen (18) separate names of Messengers have been explicitly mentioned, with 'and'…..'and'…..'and'.
Isn't that "NAMES"? Look, it says: و زکریا و یحیی و عیسی و الیاس ---simply names of FOUR DIFFERENT PERSONS! Isn't it?
Please see likewise : Verse 38/48 : اسماعیل و الیسع و ذاالکفل . What would we call them? Distinct names of three different people, OR, three names (attributes) of the same personality?
Likewise: Verse 37/114, 120: موسی و ہارون . What may we call them? Two different people, OR, two 'ATTRIBUTES' of ONE personality?
What I wish to prove is that the Almighty has not created confusion or ambiguity in His Book. All the names of His Messengers are uttered by him explicitly distinctly. Hence, Yahya and Issa as explained with "Wa" و عط ف are two different personalities. "Wa" ('ataf) is always used for "and". "Wa" does have about fourteen other meanings when used in different situations, but none of them is used for showing a "similarity".
I heartily congratulate Brother Moazzam for his hard and noble work, particularly for sharing the tough responsibility of multiple responses. God bless him.
Dear Aurangzaib, welcome back your presence was missed on the blog. This blog without you is like a curry without salt and chilly, and tea without sugar.
Many many thanks for your kind words of encouragement. I don't know what I would do without you and rest of the Aastana family? Once out of touch, life starts looking meaningless! | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 5,960 |
Q: Pyplot: How to add mirrored second y-axis instead of negative values? In pyplot, how could I add a second y-axis where normally the negative values would be? The y-values should be increasing away from the shared x-axis.
Above the x-axis I want to plot time consumption and below the x-axis space consumption. The x-axis is basically the current iteration.
A: This can be achieved using sharex=True and invert_yaxis():
from matplotlib import pyplot as plt
fig, (ax1, ax2) = plt.subplots(2, 1, sharex=True, figsize=(5, 10))
xdata = [2, 1, 5]
data1 = [1, 3, 5]
data2 = [1, 4, 7]
l1 = ax1.plot(xdata, data1, "ro")
l2 = ax2.plot(xdata, data2, "bx")
l3 = ax2.plot(xdata, data1, "g")
#make the appearance more coherent
#remove space between subplots
plt.subplots_adjust(hspace=0)
#invert the y-axis
ax2.invert_yaxis()
#set both plots to the same y-limit
lim = max(max(ax1.get_ylim()), max(ax2.get_ylim()))
ax1.set_ylim(0, lim)
ax2.set_ylim(lim, 0)
#move the x-axis label to the center
ax2.xaxis.tick_top()
#remove the double zero label
yticks2 = ax2.yaxis.get_major_ticks()
yticks2[0].set_visible(False)
#create a common legend
ax1.legend(l1+l2+l3, ["data1", "data2", "again data1"])
plt.show()
Sample output:
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 1,692 |
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Implementation The dormant InterPlanetary Internet Special Interest Group of the Internet Society has worked on defining protocols and standards that would make the IPN possible.The Delay-Tolerant Networking Research Group (DTNRG) is the…
Development While IP-like SCPS protocols are feasible for short hops, such as ground station to orbiter, rover to lander, lander to orbiter, probe to flyby, and so on, delay-tolerant networking is needed to get information from one region…
The interplanetary Internet (based on IPN, also called InterPlaNet) is a conceived computer network in space, consisting of a set of network nodes that can communicate with each other. Communication would be greatly delayed by the great… | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
} | 4,828 |
Mateusz Molęda (vollständig Mateusz Krzysztof Maksymilian Molęda, * 4. Dezember 1986 in Dresden) ist ein deutsch-polnischer Dirigent.
Leben
Mateusz Molęda wurde in Dresden in eine Musikerfamilie geboren. Seine Eltern Alicja Borkowska-Molęda (* 27. Januar 1952 in Siedlce, Polen) und Krzysztof Molęda (* 6. April 1953 in Poznań, Polen) sind Opernsänger und haben über zwei Jahrzehnte hinweg auf allen großen Bühnen Europas, unter anderem der Semperoper Dresden, Komischen Oper Berlin, Deutschen Oper Berlin, der Oper Leipzig, Staatsoper Prag und der Königlichen Oper Kopenhagen Titel- und Hauptpartien im lyrischen Fach gesungen. Molęda ist sowohl deutscher als auch polnischer Staatsbürger.
Ausbildung
Molęda begann im Alter von sechs Jahren mit dem Klavierspiel und besuchte die Sächsische Spezialschule für Musik, das heutige Sächsische Landesgymnasium für Musik Carl Maria von Weber, wo er unter anderem von Winfried Apel unterrichtet wurde. Von 2006 bis 2011 studierte er an der Hochschule für Musik, Theater und Medien Hannover in der Klasse von Arie Vardi. In Zusammenarbeit mit Zvi Meniker setzte Molęda seine Studien auch im Bereich der Historischen Aufführungspraxis und Alten Musik fort. 2021 promovierte er mit einer Dissertation zu Polyphonen Kompositionstechniken in Sergei Rachmaninows 2. Sinfonie an der Krzysztof-Penderecki-Musikakademie Krakau.
Maßgeblich beeinflusst wurde Molęda von seinem Mentor Marek Janowski. Auf persönlichen Wunsch und Einladung arbeitete er für ihn als Assistent bei den Berliner Philharmonikern, beim Rundfunk-Sinfonieorchester Berlin, beim hr-Sinfonieorchester und bei der Dresdner Philharmonie. Über mehrere Jahre hinweg gab Janowski seine vielfältigen Erfahrungen an Molęda weiter und nahm entscheidenden Einfluss auf seine künstlerische Entwicklung. Weitere musikalische Anregungen erhielt er in Zusammenarbeit als Cover Conductor von Teodor Currentzis beim SWR Symphonieorchester, welche er auf mehreren Europa-Tourneen begleitet hat.
Molęda war Stipendiat des Deutschen Musikrats, der Gesellschaft zur Verwertung von Leistungsschutzrechten, der Anna Ruths-Stiftung, der Theodor-Rogler-Stiftung, der Robert-Richard-Jaudes-Stiftung und des Internationalen Forums für Kultur und Wirtschaft Dresden.
Zusammenarbeit mit Orchestern
Molęda dirigierte im Alter von neunzehn Jahren zum ersten Mal ein Orchester. Er gab Konzerte in über zehn Ländern und arbeitete mit den London Mozart Players, dem Orchester der Komischen Oper Berlin, den Nürnberger Symphonikern, der Jenaer Philharmonie, dem Philharmonischen Orchester der Stadt Heidelberg, der Staatskapelle Schwerin, dem Deutschen Kammerorchester Berlin, dem Württembergischen Kammerorchester Heilbronn, dem Folkwang Kammerorchester Essen, dem Aalborg Symfoniorkester, dem Aarhus Symfoniorkester, dem Odense Symfoniorkester dem Albanian RTV Symphony Orchestra und dem NFM Wrocław Philharmonic.
Bedeutende Konzerte
Am 3. Oktober 2007 spielte Molęda zum Festakt der Bundesregierung anlässlich der Feierlichkeiten zum Tag der Deutschen Einheit Ludwig van Beethovens Fantasie für Klavier, Chor und Orchester op. 80 mit der Staatskapelle Schwerin unter der Leitung von Matthias Foremny. Das Konzert wurde live vom ZDF übertragen.
Am 10. Juni 2016 dirigierte er ein deutsch-polnisches Freundschaftskonzert zum 800-jährigen Jubiläum der Stadt Koszalin, während Orchestermusiker der Nürnberger Symphoniker und der Filharmonia Koszalińska gemeinsam auf der Bühne standen. Im Rahmen dieses Konzerts wurden die Sinfonischen Bilder op. 19 von Karl Adolf Lorenz uraufgeführt. Das Bayerische Fernsehen drehte über dieses Ereignis den Dokumentarfilm Die doppelte Heimat.
Am 8. November 2018 dirigierte er mit dem Aarhus Symfoniorkester die Uraufführung des Konzerts für Hammond-Orgel des dänischen Komponisten Anders Koppel, die weltweit erste Komposition dieser Gattung.
Lehrtätigkeit
Seit 2022 lehrt Molęda an der Staatlichen Hochschule für Musik und Darstellende Kunst Mannheim.
Tätigkeit als Referent
Molęda hält neben seiner Tätigkeit als Dirigent deutschlandweit Vorträge mit dem Thema In Vielfalt geeint – Wie Musik zur Verbundenheit der Europäer beiträgt, unter anderem beim Forum Heiligenberg der Stiftung Heiligenberg Seeheim-Jugenheim sowie für die Hessische Landeszentrale für politische Bildung Wiesbaden.
TV- und Rundfunkaufnahmen
Es liegen zahlreiche Rundfunk- und Fernsehmitschnitte vor, unter anderem für BR-Klassik, MDR Kultur, DR 2 und KBS sowie BR Fernsehen, MDR Fernsehen, H1 und MBC.
CD-Veröffentlichungen (Auswahl)
2010 Flügelschwingen (Klavierwerke von Scarlatti, Mozart, Schumann und Chopin)
Privates
Molęda lebt in Hannover. Er spricht fließend Deutsch, Polnisch, Englisch, Französisch und Russisch. Er ist begeisterter Golfer und engagierte sich aktiv im Mannschaftssport und als Vorstandsmitglied im Golfclub Dresden Elbflorenz und im Golfclub Burgwedel.
Weblinks
Website Mateusz Molęda
Einzelnachweise
Künstler (Dresden)
Deutscher
DDR-Bürger
Pole
Geboren 1986
Mann
Dirigent | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 450 |
De Boston Marathon 1929 werd gelopen op vrijdag 19 april 1929. Het was de 33e editie van deze marathon. Marathonwedstrijden voor vrouwen bestonden nog niet.
De Canadees Johnny Miles kwam als eerste over de streep in 2:33.08.
Het parcours is te kort gebleken. Het had namelijk niet de lengte van 42,195 km, maar 41,1 km.
Uitslag
Marathon van Boston
Boston | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 8,113 |
Q: How to play video until it is finished without using Sleep Function in VLCLIB in VC++? I am just using the below code but the problem I am facing is that video play for only 10 seconds depend on the sleep function.
libvlc_instance_t * inst;
libvlc_media_player_t *mp;
libvlc_media_t *m;
libvlc_event_manager_t* em;
inst = libvlc_new (0, NULL);
m = libvlc_media_new_location (inst, "mms://16.56.16.60:5999/Video");
mp = libvlc_media_player_new_from_media (m);
libvlc_media_player_set_media(mp,m);
libvlc_media_player_play (mp);
Sleep(10000);
How Can I play video until it is finished without using sleep
function?
Please help !!
A: Reference.
You need to call this following function after playing media.
static void wait_playing(libvlc_media_player_t *mp)
{
libvlc_state_t state;
do {
state = libvlc_media_player_get_state (mp);
} while(state != libvlc_Playing &&
state != libvlc_Error &&
state != libvlc_Ended );
state = libvlc_media_player_get_state (mp);
assert(state == libvlc_Playing || state == libvlc_Ended);
}
Updated code will be:
.
.
.
libvlc_media_player_set_media(mp,m);
libvlc_media_player_play (mp);
wait_playing (mi);
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 7,812 |
\section{Introduction}
\label{sect:intro}
Massive stars (M$>8M_\odot$) are a key component in the evolution of
the Interstellar Medium (ISM). They provide the bulk of the radiation that ionizes the ISM
and transfer kinetic energy into the ISM via stellar winds, outflows and
supernovae. This injection of energy may trigger new generations of star
formation \citep[e.g.][]{elmegreen1992}. Yet our understanding of the formation of massive stars is
very limited in contrast to low mass star formation. This is due in
part to the rarity of high mass stars but also to their large distances from the Sun (typically $>$ 1 kpc) and their very brief
pre-main sequence lives. Massive stars enter the main sequence before accretion has finished and therefore whilst still deeply
embedded in an obscuring dusty nebula \citep{garay1999,Zin2007}. Due to the observational difficulty in identifying the brief and rare early stages of massive star formation, it has been only within the last decade that massive young stellar objects (MYSOs) and high mass ``protostellar objects'' (HMPOs\footnote{as these objects are likely hydrogen-burning they should strictly not be referred to as ``protostellar'' but we reproduce here the original acronym of \citet{beuther2002} to avoid confusion.}) have been identified in large numbers
\citep[e.g.][]{Lum02, beuther2002,urquhart2011}.
Despite these limitations a tentative evolutionary sequence for massive star formation
has emerged. The sequence commences with a sub-millimetre bright cold core with a typical diameter of $<0.5$ pc, a mass
of $10^2 - 10^3 M _\odot$ and a typical temperature of 10-20\;K,
embedded within a much larger molecular clump $\sim$1000 M$_{\odot}$ which in turn is embedded within a giant
molecular cloud. The presence of an Infrared Dark Cloud (IRDC) is often observed at this point
\citep{Simon06a,Peretto09,kauffmann2010,peretto2010a,peretto2010b}, but the detection of an IRDC is dependent upon observing the cloud against a diffuse mid-infrared background. The core collapses into a hydrostatically supported optically thick protostellar embryo which then accretes material from the core, most likely via a circumstellar disk. The onset of the main sequence does not halt the accretion, which continues until the young massive star is hot enough to produce ionizing UV
photons. These photons ionize the surrounding material, creating an HII
region. Initially the HII region is gravitationally bound
\citep{Keto03} but as the ionizing flux rises the surrounding hot core is unable
to contain it gravitationally.
At this point the inflow of material
becomes important in quenching the expansion of the HII region. The
ionized gas is contained as a $\leq$ 10000 AU diameter bubble
\citep{kurtz2005} and is observed in the radio waveband as a Hyper
Compact HII (HCHII) region. During this phase the material trapped
within the HCHII region continues to accrete. Eventually a combination
of reduced inflow and increased UV flux results in the HCHII
expanding to form an Ultra Compact HII (UC HII)
region \citep{Hoare07} and as a consequence any further accretion may be
terminated. The UCHII region continues to expand, with the rate of
expansion and final size and morphology being determined by the mass
of the driving core and the density of the surrounding ambient
material \citep{ellingsen2005}. Finally, the ionizing source becomes visible as a main
sequence massive star \citep[][and references therein]{Hoare07, Purcell, Keto03,Motte08,Wood89}.
\paragraph*{}
One of the principal tracers of massive star formation is the
6.7\;GHz Class II methanol maser \citep{menten1991}, thought to be exclusively associated with massive star formation
\citep{Min03,Cragg05,Ell06,Walsh99,green2012} and to primarily trace the stage between the infrared-dark phase and the UC HII region \citep{Walt05,Ell06}. Whilst much work has been recently carried out on the evolutionary period of star formation traced by the Class II methanol masers \citep[e.g.][]{Breen2011,breen2011b,ellingsen2011, breen2010b,breen2010a} a number of details remain unclear, particularly the minimum bolometric luminosity traced by the masers \citep{Min03,xu2008} and the relationship between the masers and their wider infrared environment. In part this is due to the historical lack of an unbiased and large sample of masers with positions sufficiently precise to allow reliable identification with infrared and sub-mm counterparts. Many of the presently known methanol masers were discovered via
large-beam single dish observations of IRAS point sources (see \citealt{Pesta07} for a compilation of detected masers), hence are both biased towards bright far-infrared sources and do not have positions measured to an accuracy of better
than an arcminute or so. Most of the infrared/maser comparison studies that have been carried out so far are limited to small samples of masers whose positions have been measured interferometrically or inferred by other means \citep[e.g.][]{Ell06,pandian2010}.
These constraints have now been
addressed by the Methanol Maser Multi-Beam (MMB)
Survey: a deep, high resolution, untargeted survey of the Galactic
Plane and Magellanic Clouds with the goal of providing the first
comprehensive catalogue of Class II 6.7\;GHz methanol masers
\citep{Green09,Caswell2010,green2010,caswell2011,green2012}. The 6.7 GHz methanol masers were first found using a multi-beam receiver on Parkes and then individually re-observed with the ATCA and Merlin interferometers to obtain sub-arcsecond positions \citep[see][for further details of the survey strategy]{Green09}. The Parkes MMB survey region encompasses $-174 < l < 60$ and $|b|<2$ \citep{Green09}, with plans to later extend the survey to the Northern Galactic Plane. With this two step approach the MMB Survey will provide an essentially \emph{complete} survey of 6.7 GHz methanol masers in the Galaxy, each with positional accuracy suitable for follow-up comparison studies in the infrared and sub-mm.
In this paper we describe a follow-up study which has been carried out with an interim MMB catalogue of 824 6.7 GHz masers and the GLIMPSE (Galactic Legacy Infrared Mid-Plane Survey Extraordinaire) infrared survey of the Galactic Plane \citep{Ben03}. The GLIMPSE survey (including the individual I, II and 3D surveys) covers $-65\le l \le65$ and approximately $|b|\le 1$ in 4 infrared bands (3.6, 4.5, 5.8 and 8.0\;$\mu$m respectively and usually referred to as Bands 1 to 4 in that order) with the IRAC camera on \emph{Spitzer}.
Our interim catalogue is derived from those masers that had been interferometrically positioned at the time this work was carried out. The interim catalogue includes 684 masers in the longitude range $186\degr \le l \le 20\degr$ that have already been published in \cite{Caswell2009}, \cite{Caswell2010}, \cite{green2010}, \cite{caswell2011} and \cite{green2012}\footnote{The MMB catalogue is available at \texttt{http://astromasers.org}}. The remaining 140 masers lie in the longitude range $20\degr \le l \le 186\degr$ and will be reported in a further publication (Fuller et al., 2012, in prep). Note that our interim catalogue does not include 23 masers from the published catalogue whose positions had not yet been interferometrically determined at the time this work was carried out.
Using GLIMPSE we seek to identify the infrared counterparts of the masers so that we may investigate both their environment (i.e.~are the masers preferentially found towards infrared dark regions such as IRDCs?), the colours of the maser counterparts and the likely nature of their exciting sources. This work builds upon that of \cite{Ell06} but with a much larger sample of masers and an aperture photometry approach that is not biased to the limitations of the GLIMPSE point source catalogue in regions of crowding or high background. Future publications will examine the spectral energy distributions and infrared luminosities of the masers (using MIPSGAL, Hi-GAL and ATLASGAL data; \citealt{carey2009,molinari2010a,schuller2009}), and their association with other tracers of massive star formation. Preliminary work in characterising the nature of the MMB masers is included in the present paper from comparisons with the Red MSX Source (RMS) survey \citep{urquhart2011,urquhart2008,Lum02}.
\section{Method}
\label{sect:method}
The process of comparison with the GLIMPSE survey was performed in two ways: a detailed inspection of GLIMPSE cut-out images centred on each maser and a positional cross-match of the maser coordinates with the GLIMPSE point source catalogues, similar to that performed by \citet{Ell06}. The first method allows a detailed investigation of the appearance of the maser counterparts and the wider environments in which the masers are found, whereas the second method permits the study of the infrared colours of a large sample of masers. We use the GLIMPSE I, II \& 3D survey data and images for maximum areal coverage.
The GLIMPSE Point Source Catalogue contains 69.7 million sources extracted from the GLIMPSE I, II \& 3D images which are considered to be high reliability ($\ge$99.5\%) point sources \citep{churchwell2009}. A less reliable but more complete GLIMPSE Point Source Archive (GPSA) contains some 104 million point sources. In order to be included in the GPSC each source must be a point source that is detected at least twice in one wavelength band and once in an adjacent wavelength band (referred to as the ``2+1'' criteria) with a signal-to-noise of greater than 5 for both detections. The criteria for the remaining bands are relaxed to be either $\ge 3\sigma$ or upper limits. For the GPSA the 2+1 criteria are relaxed to a detection $\ge 5\sigma$ twice in any one wavelength band or once in two adjacent wavelength bands, resulting in a more complete but less reliable catalogue of point sources.
We cross-matched the MMB catalogue to the GPSC and GPSA using a 2\arcsec\ matching radius (for discussion of this particular selection see Sect.~\ref{sect:ancap_method}). Within the GLIMPSE I, II \& 3D survey area the MMB catalogue contains 776 6.7 GHz Class II methanol masers. When cross-matching against the GLIMPSE catalogues we find 430 of these masers with counterparts in the GPSC and 519 with counterparts in the GPSA (note that the GPSA contains all sources found in the GPSC cross-match, i.e. the GPSC is a more reliable subset of the GPSA).
However, less than half of these sources have detections in all 4 wavelength bands (219 sources from the GPSC and 253 from the GPSA) and only $\sim$75\% have detections in any 3 GLIMPSE bands. This is an inevitable outcome of the GLIMPSE point source detection algorithm which, although highly successful in the detection of stellar point sources, may not be optimised for the crowded and complex environments of massive star fomation \citep[see Sect.~2.2 of][and references therein for further discussion]{robitaille2008}. Visual inspection of the GLIMPSE cut-out images confirmed that this is indeed the case; the majority of MMB masers were associated with emission in all 4 bands, in many cases with nebulous emission or emission extended beyond the \emph{Spitzer} PSF, that is not catalogued within the GPSC or GPSA.
As the primary aim of our work is to obtain accurate mid-infrared colours of the MMB masers we have implemented an adaptive non-circular aperture
photometry technique (referred to as ANCAP) to measure the fluxes of masers in all four IRAC bands. In Sect.~\ref{sect:visual} we describe our visual inspection and classification methods, followed by our aperture photometry technique in Sect.~\ref{sect:ancap_method}. Finally we inspect the relationship between MMB masers and a number of other published catalogues of star formation tracers (e.g.~Red MSX Survey objects, \cite{urquhart2011}, and Extended Green Objects, \cite{Cyg08}) in Sect.~\ref{sect:cats}.
\subsection{Visual inspection of GLIMPSE images}
\label{sect:visual}
GLIMPSE 12 arcminute FITS cut-out images were obtained for all four IRAC bands
via the NASA/IPAC Gator
database query tool, with each
image centred on an MMB maser. We select images of this size as it is the typical angular size of many IRDC complexes \citep[e.g.][]{Peretto09,Simon06a} and star forming complexes/Giant Molecular clouds \citep[e.g.][]{solomon1987}. RGB images were generated by a script with
IRAC bands 1, 2 and 4 (i.e.~3.6, 4.5 and 8 $\mu$m) represented by blue, green and red, respectively and
overlaid with the MMB catalogue. The RGB images were used to classify
the maser counterparts by environment and extension, in addition to the identification of masers associated with Extended Green Objects (EGOs), Infrared Dark Clouds (IRDCs) and infrared clusters.
IRDCs have high levels of extinction, often $A_{v}\geq100$, and appear as dark ``holes''
within the diffuse 8.0\;$\mu$m emission associated with Polycyclic
Aromatic Hydrocarbons (PAHs) \citep{Parsons09,Simon06a,Peretto09,Egan98}. We identify IRDCs in the GLIMPSE images by the absence of background 8.0\;$\mu$m emission and a reduction in the number of background stars. Given the often irregular and filamentary appearance of IRDCs \citep{Simon06a, Peretto09}, visual associations of masers and IRDCs are usually more accurate than simple nearest-neighbour matching \citep[see e.g.~][]{Parsons09} and so we choose the visual approach here.
For EGOs and infrared clusters our visual search is complementary to positional cross matches against the \cite{Cyg08} EGO and \citep{Mercer, Bica, Froebrich} cluster catalogues. By visually examining the GLIMPSE cutouts we can search for associated EGOs and/or clusters that may have been missed in the catalogues. EGOs are identified by the presence of bright green extended emission in the cutout images, using a similar process to that employed by \cite{Cyg08}. Infrared clusters and cluster candidates are identified by inspecting the GLIMPSE images and, where available, UK Infrared Deep Sky Survey (UKIDSS) Galactic Plane Survey images \citep{Lucas08}. We identify clusters via local overdensities of infrared stars, taking as a lower limit the presence of at least 10 stars as cluster members, and with the maser lying within the projected bounds of the cluster.
\subsection{Adaptive Non-circular Aperture Photometry of the maser counterparts}
\label{sect:ancap_method}
We have implemented an adaptive non-circular aperture
photometry (ANCAP) technique to measure the fluxes of extended infrared counterparts to the masers and provide as large a sample of masers with fluxes in all 4 GLIMPSE bands as possible. Our technique is based on that used by \cite{Cyg08} to measure the
fluxes of EGOs within the GLIMPSE image archive. The ``region'' feature of
the SAO DS9 FITS viewer was used to draw non-circular apertures around
our sources. The counterparts are identified by the presence of a co-located peak
in all four IRAC bands within 2 arcseconds of the maser, a radius selected to be consistent with previous studies by \cite{Ell06} and the typical resolution of IRAC wavelength band 4 (8 $\mu$m). If a clear peak cannot be identified in all four bands within 2\arcsec\ of the maser we do not undertake photometry for this maser, to avoid including local regions of nebulosity which may encompass large areas and multiple shorter wavelength sources. By utilising all four
bands to identify the counterpart the rate of misidentification is reduced. In the case where there is more than one possible
counterpart we also make no measurement, to avoid confusion.
Figure \ref{Figure1} illustrates the process used in identifying the infrared counterpart. In this
example there are two masers in the field, marked by the red and blue circles in each frame. If we
used only the band 4 image to determine our association we would incorrectly associate both masers with the large ``double-lobed''
object. However by inspecting the band 1 image we see that in fact only the maser marked with the red circle is associated with a source with flux in
all four bands. In our example, Figure \ref{Figure1} bands 3 and 4 would be rejected for aperture size and shape determination, due to the
likelihood of contamination. In this case band 2 would be used for this function.
\begin{figure*}
\includegraphics[scale=0.4]{Fig1_lowres.eps}
\caption{The above images show an illustration of the process used to select the infrared counterpart. The above images are Band 1 (3.6\;$\mu$m) top left, Band 2 (4.5\;$\mu$m) top right, Band 3 (5.8\;$\mu$m) bottom left and Band 4 (8.0\;$\mu$m) bottom right. The red and blue circles (dark grey and light grey in the print version), which are 2\arcsec\ in radius, indicate maser positions.}
\label{Figure1}
\end{figure*}
The aperture shapes are selected to avoid contamination from field sources, whilst containing as much flux as possible. Preference is given to band 4 when choosing the aperture shape, although in cases where selecting the aperture in band 4 causes avoidable contamination band 3 is used instead. The background is removed by subtracting the mean level contained in an identically sized aperture located in an area of the image representative of the background local to the maser source. Both aperture and background regions are constant in size,
shape and position across all four bands. The aperture sizes used are typically less than 20\arcsec\ in radius. The DS9 funtools plugin \url{(http://www.cfa.harvard.edu/~john/funtools/ds9.html)} allows us
to integrate the flux in both regions and thereby obtain a raw flux to which we applied unit, scale and aperture corrections as outlined in
the IRAC cookbook \url{(http://ssc.spitzer.caltech.edu/postbcd/irac_reduction.html)}. Figure \ref{Figure2} shows a set of IRAC images overlaid with the region which make up the aperture and the background.
\begin{figure*}
\includegraphics[scale=0.4]{Fig2_lowres.eps}
\caption{Example of the regions used in the non-circular aperture photometry. The above images are Band 1 (3.6\;$\mu$m) top left, Band 2 (4.5\;$\mu$m) top right, Band 3 (5.8\;$\mu$m) bottom left and Band 4 (8.0\;$\mu$m) bottom right. The vector in each image has a length of 1 arcminute. The red and blue polygons (dark greay and light grey in the print version) are the apertures and background respectively.}
\label{Figure2}
\end{figure*}
In order to confirm the reliability of our measured aperture fluxes we compare against those sources that are also contained in the GLIMPSE Point Source Catalogue (GPSC) and the GLIMPSE Point Source Archive (GPSA). Within our sample of aperture photometry measurements there are $\sim$ 200 sources in common with the GPSC and $\sim$ 300 sources in common with the GPSA (the exact number in common varies from band to band). Plots of the aperture measured magnitudes (ANCAP) versus the GPSC and GPSA magnitudes at each waveband are shown in Figure~\ref{Figure3}. For the majority of sources in common with the GPSC and GPSA we measure magnitudes that are in either close agreement or up to a few magnitudes brighter than tabulated in the Catalogue or Archive (note that the typical magnitude errors in the GPSC and GPSA are $\le$ 0.2 mag). The latter sources are consistent with those that our technique identifies as extended objects, hence the GPSC and GPSA have underestimated the total flux of these objects. We also identify a few objects ($\le$10 in total) within the common sample where our aperture photometry measurements are \emph{fainter} than those from the GPSC or GPSA. In general these objects lie within regions of complex background and, as our background subtraction method differs substantially from that used by GLIMPSE (which determines the background via annular regions using DAOPHOT\footnote{See \url{http://www.astro.wisc.edu/glimpse/glimpse_photometry_v1.0.pdf} for more details on this process.}), it is likely that the discrepancy in measurements is caused by different background subtraction. In any case the fraction of sources affected in this way is small ($\le$5\%) and so we are confident that our aperture photometry technique yields good results for the majority of sources.
\
\begin{figure*}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[scale=0.35]{GPSC1.eps} \includegraphics[scale=0.35]{GPSA1.eps} \\
\includegraphics[scale=0.35]{GPSC2.eps} \includegraphics[scale=0.35]{GPSA2.eps} \\
\includegraphics[scale=0.35]{GPSC3.eps} \includegraphics[scale=0.35]{GPSA3.eps} \\
\includegraphics[scale=0.35]{GPSC4.eps} \includegraphics[scale=0.35]{GPSA4.eps} \\
\caption{The measured magnitudes of the common set of sources that have measurements from the GLIMPSE Point Source Catalogue and Archive (GPSC \& GPSA) and the Adaptive Non-circular Aperture Photometry method described in this paper (ANCAP). From top to bottom each panel refers to 3.6, 4.5, 5.8 and 8.0 $\mu$m respectively. In general the ANCAP measurements are consistent with, or brighter than, the GPSC and GPSA measured magnitudes. This is as expected for the extended objects whose flux we recover via our aperture photometry technique whereas the point source measurements of the GPSC and GPSA underestimate the flux from extended objects. }
\label{Figure3}
\end{center}
\end{figure*}
\subsection{Cross-matches with other catalogues: RMS, EGO and infrared clusters}
\label{sect:cats}
Earlier lower angular resolution investigations overlap extensively with the GLIMPSE/MMB region studied here. In particular, there has been intensive study of red objects selected from the MSX survey \citep{Lum02}, which has yielded the Red MSX Source (RMS) survey catalogue \citep[e.g.][]{urquhart2008,urquhart2011}. The RMS catalogue is the result of a Galaxy-wide search for Massive Young Stellar Objects (MYSO) and contains over 2000 objects that have been classified as either Young Stellar Objects (YSO), compact or ultracompact HII regions, OH/IR stars or evolved stars based on their IR morphology, free-free radio emission, distance and luminosity. The RMS catalogue and its construction are detailed in \citet{urquhart2008,urquhart2011} and available at \texttt{http://ast.leeds.ac.uk/RMS}.
A cross-match of MMB masers with the RMS catalogue has been made to
identify the subset of MMB sources categorized in the RMS catalogue as YSOs or HII regions. The properties of even a small sample of these well-studied objects can
then yield insights as to the likely nature of the less-well-studied majority of MMB sources. Within the region covered by both the MMB and RMS surveys there are 983 RMS objects of HII region or YSO classification and 673 MMB masers. Note that the RMS does not cover the inner region of the Galaxy ($-10\degr<l<10\degr$) and the MMB catalogue does not currently extend beyond longitude $20\degr$. Although the RMS objects were discovered by MSX colour selection and initially had a positional accuracy of $\sim$18\arcsec, all of the catalogue objects have since had more accurate positions determined from GLIMPSE or by dedicated near- or mid-IR imaging \citep{mottram2007,urquhart2008}. We thus selected a cross-matching radius of 2\arcsec\ to identify RMS objects associated with MMB masers.
EGOs are extended bright objects with excess emission at 4.5 $\mu$m (IRAC band 2), often coloured green in three colour IRAC images \citep{Cyg08}. They are thought to identify emission from shocked molecular gas via the presence of either CO bandhead or shocked H$_{2}$ lines \citep{Cyg09}, with shocked H$_{2}$ emission recently confirmed in at least one object \citep{debuizer2010}. \citet{Cyg08} have compiled a visually identified catalogue of EGOs drawn from the GLIMPSE survey, with later VLA follow-up showing a high incidence of these EGOs with Class II 6.7 GHz methanol masers (18 out of 28 searched). Here, we perform the inverse of the \citet{Cyg09} search by identifying MMB masers associated with EGOs to test the assertion of \cite{Cyg09} on a much larger sample of masers. We identify EGOs associated with MMB masers by cross-matching against the \citet{Cyg08} catalogue using a matching radius of 2\arcsec.
The visual search process that we employed to find infrared clusters and cluster candidates might be expected to include objects that are merely asterisms rather than bona fide clusters and to assist in the identification of clusters we also included a positional cross-match with catalogues of known clusters.
The cluster catalogues of \citet{Mercer}, \citet{Bica} and \citet{Froebrich} were used, plus the the UKIDSS DR4 cluster catalogue of 477 clusters (Lucas et al., in preparation). To take into account the typical angular diameter of the infrared clusters our matching radius was set to 1\arcmin.
\section{Results}
\subsection{Visual Inspection and catalogue cross-matching}
\label{sect:class}
Of the 776 masers within the GLIMPSE I, II \& 3D survey region, seven masers could
not be used for the visual inspection process due to the maser falling slightly outside the coverage of individual images. For the remaining 769 masers we find that they are located in one of the four following broad categories:
\begin{enumerate}
\item Masers embedded within an IRDC with no IRAC counterpart. Hence
they are infrared-dark at IRAC wavelengths due to extinction (or the
lack of infrared emission). This represents 5\% (37) of our maser
counterparts. Figure \ref{Figure4} shows a typical example of this category.
\item Masers that are located within, or are located on the perimeter of an IRDC but have a visible IRAC
counterpart and therefore are infrared-bright. This class
represents 21\% (164) of our sample of maser counterparts. Figure \ref{Figure5} shows a
typical example of this category.
\item Masers that are infrared-bright and \textit{not} located within an
IRDC. This class contains 62\% (473) of our sample. Figure
\ref{Figure6} shows a typical example.
\item Masers that are infrared-dark (they have no identifiable counterpart in any band) but are \textit{not} located within an Infrared Dark Cloud. Our examination indicates that 12\%(95)
of our objects are of this type.
\end{enumerate}
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=0.4]{fig4_lowres.eps}
\caption{IRAC RGB image of a maser counterpart, with red, green and blue being bands 4, 2 and 1 respectively. The maser position marked with the green circle is located within an IRDC and has no observable IRAC counterpart. }
\label{Figure4}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=0.4]{fig5_lowres.eps}
\caption{IRAC RGB image of a maser counterpart, with red, green and blue being bands 4, 2 and 1 respectively. The maser position is marked with the green circle. It is located within an IRDC but unlike Figure \ref{Figure4} it has a clear infrared counterpart. }
\label{Figure5}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=0.53]{fig6_lowres.eps}
\caption{IRAC RGB image of a maser counterpart, with red, green and blue being bands 4, 2 and 1 respectively. The maser position is marked with the green circle. It can clearly be seen that the IR counterpart is extended in this case.}
\label{Figure6}
\end{figure}
We identify a total of 112 EGOs associated with 608 MMB masers located within the GLIMPSE I survey area (note that the \citealt{Cyg08} catalogue is comprised of EGOs found only in the GLIMPSE I images) that had good imaging data. All associated EGOs were found as a result of positional matching against the \cite{Cyg08} catalogue. The visual search described in Sect.~\ref{sect:method} did not identify any more EGOs than the corresponding visual search of \cite{Cyg08}, suggesting that the \cite{Cyg08} catalogue of 304 EGOs is largely complete (at least towards 6.7 GHz masers). Our results imply that $\sim$18\% of masers are associated with EGOs, with the implication that EGO-targeted searches would only be able to find $\sim$18\% of the masers. Conversely, we find that the fraction of EGOs that have a 6.7-GHz maser
counterpart is 37\%. but varies according to the \cite{Cyg09}
EGO classification as 'likely to be a massive YSO outflow' or 'possibly'.
With this distinction, we find 25\% (41/165) of the 'possible' EGOs are associated with an
MMB maser, increasing to 52\% (69/133) for 'likely' EGOs. The latter
statistic is in agreement with a small sample investigation by \cite{Cyg09}, yielding 18 methanol masers towards 28 'likely'
outflow EGOs, although their result was biased by the EGO sample
preferentially containing several known masers.
The combined infrared cluster catalogue used to cross match with the MMB
contains 118 clusters and cluster candidates within the region covered by
our maser sample. It is found that eight masers are located within
one arcminute of these clusters. Our cross matching with the early results of the
UKIDSS Cluster search (Lucas et al., in prep.) shows that only six more MMB
masers, out of 306 that are currently covered in the region examined,
are within 1 arcminute of a cluster or cluster candidate. Thus the total number of masers that are found within 1\arcmin\ of an infrared clusters (or candidates) is 14.
We find a total of 82 MMB masers within 2\arcsec\ of an RMS object. Within the overlapping region common to both MMB and RMS surveys there are 983 RMS objects (of type HII region or YSO) and 673 masers, thus the detection fractions of maser-associated RMS objects and RMS-associated MMB masers are 8\% and 12\% respectively. Of the 82 MMB masers matched to an RMS object 56 are associated with type ``YSO or YSO?'', 22 with ``HII regions'', 2 with ``UC HII regions'' and 2 with ``HII/YSO'' blends. We did not find any associations between MMB masers and the evolved star categories in the RMS survey.
\subsection{Adaptive Non-circular Aperture Photometry}
\label{sect:ancap}
As previously mentioned, there are 769 masers from the MMB survey with available GLIMPSE images in all 4 wavelength bands. Using the method described in Sect.~\ref{sect:ancap_method} we successfully managed to obtain aperture photometry in all four GLIMPSE bands toward a total of 512 masers. The remaining 257 masers either had no detectable counterpart to a level of 5$\sigma$ (as in categories \emph{i)} and \emph{iv)} in Sect.~\ref{sect:ancap_method}, a total of 132 masers) or were in regions too confused to reliably identify an infrared counterpart in all four bands (a total of 125 masers). A simple positional association with the GLIMPSE Point Source Catalogue (GPSC) or Archive (GPSA) results in a total of 219 and 253 masers respectively with infrared counterparts measured at all four wavelength bands (see Sect.~\ref{sect:method}). Hence our adaptive non-circular photometric method more than doubles the number of masers with known infrared counterparts measured at all four bands over catalogue-based searches.
We list the measured magnitudes for a representative sample of the infrared counterparts to the MMB masers in Table \ref{tbl:ancapmags}. The full version of this Table is contained in the Online Supplement and comprises infrared counterparts to 626 masers published in \cite{Caswell2009}, \cite{Caswell2010}, \cite{green2010}, \cite{caswell2011} and \cite{green2012}. We will publish the magnitudes of the remaining infrared counterparts simultaneously with the positions and fluxes of the 6.7 GHz masers (Fuller et al.~2013, in prep). All statistics and figures of the infrared counterparts presented in this paper refer to the full interim catalogue of 769 masers.
\begin{table*}
\begin{minipage}{126mm}
\caption{Adaptive Non-Circular Aperture Photometry (ANCAP) magnitudes for a representative sample of 20 MMB 6.7 GHz masers. The full version of this table is contained only in the online version of the paper. An ellipsis indicates that we were unable to measure an infrared counterpart to the maser at the appropriate wavelength, as discussed in Section \ref{sect:ancap_method}. The Morphology Class column refers to the four classes discussed in Section \ref{sect:class}. Where it was not possible to classify the morphology of the emission the entry is blank.}
\label{tbl:ancapmags}
\begin{tabular}{|l|l|l|l|l|l|l|l|}
\hline
\multicolumn{1}{|l|}{Source name} &
\multicolumn{2}{c|}{Equatorial coordinates} &
\multicolumn{4}{c|}{ANCAP Magnitudes} &
\multicolumn{1}{l|}{Morphology} \\
\multicolumn{1}{|c|}{($l$, $b$)} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{RA (2000)} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{Dec.~(2000)} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{3.6 $\mu$m} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{4.5 $\mu$m} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{5.8 $\mu$m} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{8.0 $\mu$m} &
\multicolumn{1}{l|}{Class}\\
\multicolumn{1}{|c|}{(\degr \degr)} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{(h m ss.s)} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{(\degr \arcmin \arcsec)} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{} &
\multicolumn{1}{c|}{} \\
\hline
312.108+0.262 & 14 08 49.31 & -61 13 25.1 &11.2&9.5&9.3&9.7& 3\\
312.307+0.661 & 14 09 24.95 & -60 47 00.5 &9.9&8.6&7.4&5.9& 3\\
312.501-0.084 & 14 12 48.95 & -61 26 03.2 &10.7&9.8&8.0&6.7& 3\\
312.597+0.045 & 14 13 14.35 & -61 16 57.7 &11.5&9.8&9.0&8.4& 3\\
312.598+0.045 & 14 13 15.03 & -61 16 53.6 &11.6&10.0&8.5&7.3& 3\\
312.698+0.126 & 14 13 49.85 & -61 10 24.1 &12.5&10.6&9.5&8.5& 3\\
312.702-0.087 & 14 14 25.12 & -61 22 29.0 &12.7&10.6&9.3&8.8& 3\\
313.469+0.190 & 14 19 40.94 & -60 51 47.3 &10.6&7.6&6.1&5.3& 3\\
313.577+0.325 & 14 20 08.58 & -60 42 00.8 &9.6&8.1&6.5&5.3& 3\\
313.705-0.190 & 14 22 34.74 & -61 08 26.8 &10.5&8.1&6.4&5.7& 3\\
313.767-0.863 & 14 25 01.73 & -61 44 58.1 &8.1&6.4&5.5&4.8& 3\\
313.774-0.863 & 14 25 04.80 & -61 44 50.3 &\ldots &\ldots &\ldots &\ldots & 2\\
313.994-0.084 & 14 24 30.78 & -60 56 28.3 &13.5&10.9&10.2&9.4& 3\\
314.221+0.273 & 14 25 12.89 & -60 31 38.4 &8.9&7.1&5.7&3.7& 3\\
314.320+0.112 & 14 26 26.20 & -60 38 31.3 &5.8&4.5&2.0&1.9& 3\\
315.803-0.575 & 14 39 46.46 & -60 42 39.6 &10.2&8.8&7.1&6.3& 3\\
316.359-0.362 & 14 43 11.20 & -60 17 13.3 &\ldots &\ldots &\ldots &\ldots & 3\\
316.381-0.379 & 14 43 24.21 & -60 17 37.4 &11.0&10.0&8.1&6.6& 3\\
316.412-0.308 & 14 43 23.34 & -60 13 00.9 &12.8&11.3&9.5&8.0& 3\\
316.484-0.310 & 14 43 55.37 & -60 11 18.8 &12.7&9.7&7.6&6.4& 3\\
316.640-0.087 & 14 44 18.45 & -59 55 11.5 &\ldots &\ldots &\ldots &\ldots & 3\\
\hline\end{tabular}
\end{minipage}
\end{table*}
In Figure \ref{fig:colcol} we show [3.6]$-$[4.5] versus [5.8]$-$[8.0] colour-colour plots of the maser counterparts compared to a sample population of 15\,000 sources drawn randomly from the GLIMPSE Point Source Catalogue (from those sources with detections at all 4 bands). We show the colours of maser counterparts drawn from the GLIMPSE Point Source Catalogue (GPSC), GLIMPSE Point Source Archive (GPSA) and the ANCAP photometry measured here. A reddening vector of $A_{K}=10$ is displayed, and was calculated based on that of \citet{Gutermuth} and references therein. The maser counterparts are, as expected for YSOs, much redder than the general stellar population and show colours consistent with the smaller sample of 6.7 GHz masers investigated by \citet{Ell06}. All three photometric systems show good agreement in the colours of the maser counterparts, although the ANCAP counterparts occupy a marginally wider range in colour space than the GPSC or GPSA sample.
We investigate trends in colour with aperture size in Figure~\ref{fig:apercol}, where the aperture size is defined as the effective radius of the non-circular aperture (i.e. the radius of a circle with the same area as the non-circular aperture). In general the infrared colours of the counterparts display no marked trend with aperture size, although there is a weak trend toward a bluer colour with increasing aperture in the [3.6]$-$[4.5] colour. This may be due to increased contamination by fore- or background stellar objects as the aperture size increases. There appears to be considerably larger scatter in the colours involving the 8.0 $\mu$m band, which could result from a contribution from extended PAH emission to the counterpart fluxes.
The largest sample of masers investigated in the GLIMPSE wavelength bands prior to the MMB Survey was that of \citet{Ell06}, who identified 41 Class II 6.7 GHz masers (drawn from a statistically complete sample) to have counterparts in the GPSC and GPSA. Figure~\ref{fig:colcol_ell} shows [3.6]$-$[8.0] versus [3.6]$-$[5.8] and [5.8]$-$[8.0] versus [3.6]$-$[4.5] colour-colour diagrams, plus a [3.6]$-$[4.5] versus [8.0] colour-magnitude diagram (c.f.~Figs.~15--19 of \citealt{Ell06}) of the 512 maser ANCAP infrared counterparts compared to the Ellingsen sample. It can be seen in this Figure that there is a close correspondence in colour-colour and colour-magnitude space between the masers whose infrared counterparts were determined by our ANCAP method and the GPSC/GPSA sample of \citet{Ell06}. The close correspondence between the two samples lends weight to the overall accuracy of the ANCAP procedure.
While the bulk of our ANCAP counterparts lie in the same colour-colour and colour-magnitude space as the Ellingsen sample, there are a small number of counterparts with bluer or redder colours. The counterparts with blue colours lie in the predominantly stellar region traced by the random GLIMPSE PSC sample (the blue dots in Figure~\ref{fig:colcol_ell}) and as such are likely to be foreground stellar contaminants.
\begin{figure*}
\includegraphics[scale=0.3]{Image8.eps}
\caption{ [5.8]-[8.0] v [3.6]-[4.5] colour plot of GPSC, GPSA and ANCAP infrared counterparts respectively. This illustrates the broadening of colour space with increased source numbers and the general consistency of colour space between the three datasets. Reddening vector $A_{k}=10$}
\label{fig:colcol}
\end{figure*}
\begin{figure*}
\includegraphics[scale=0.6]{Image7.eps}
\caption{ Colours of the maser infrared counterparts as a function of aperture size used in the ANCAP process. }
\label{fig:apercol}
\end{figure*}
\begin{figure*}
\includegraphics[scale=0.3]{fig9_lowres.eps}
\caption{Colour-Colour and Colour-Magnitude plots showing the general GLIMPSE field population (dots), the maser counterparts measured using our ANCAP method (open circles) and the maser counterparts from \citet{Ell06} (solid triangles). The reddening vector indicates $A_{k}=10$.}
\label{fig:colcol_ell}
\end{figure*}
\section{Discussion}
Here we draw together the results of our visual inspection of the GLIMPSE images, our adaptive non-circular photometry of extended IR counterparts to the MMB masers, and the results of the catalogue cross-matches. We dwell upon three main issues: the environments of the MMB masers, the colours of their infrared counterparts and the role of the masers as tracers of star formation.
\subsection{The infrared environments of MMB masers}
From our visual inspection of the GLIMPSE images we see that 6.7 GHz
methanol masers appear to occur in one of two environments: those that are embedded within
an infrared dark cloud (IRDC) and those that are associated with bright, often extended, mid-infrared emission.
We also observe an apparent intermediate stage whereby there is a bright mid-IR counterpart associated with the maser, in turn embedded within an IRDC.
We find 5\% of our MMB maser sample to be associated with IRDCs, 62\% of the sample to be associated with bright mid-IR emission and a further 21\% to be associated with mid-IR emission embedded within IRDCs. The remaining 12\% of the MMB maser sample are not associated with any mid-IR emission or visible IRDCs within the GLIMPSE images.
The difference in the environments traced by the masers indicated that 6.7 GHz masers trace more than one common evolutionary stage, as suggested by \cite{Ell06} who also found a similar fraction of 6.7 GHz masers (albeit from a much smaller sample) to be associated with IRDCs. If we assume that the different mid-IR environments reflect a common evolutionary theme, then a plausible scenario is that the IRDC-associated and infrared-dark masers trace the earliest and most deeply embedded phase of star formation, followed by a transitional stage whereby the embedded source begins to break free of the IRDC, becoming visible in the mid-IR, and finally followed by a bright extended mid-IR phase where the source exciting the maser has disrupted the IRDC.
Many of the bright mid-IR sources are found to be extended with respect to the GLIMPSE point spread function and at least some of these sources correspond to compact HII regions rather than the point-like morphologies expected by ultracompact or hypercompact HII regions.
However, this hypothesis does not take into account the distance of the maser -- for example beyond a distance of 10 kpc a typical ultracompact HII region would be unresolved in GLIMPSE. Accurate distance determinations (free from kinematic distance ambiguities) are required to determine the spatial extent of the extended mid-IR emission combined with follow-up radio observations to confirm the HII region hypothesis by detecting free-free emission that is morphologically associated with the mid-IR emission \citep[e.g.][]{hoare2007,mottram2007,urquhart2008}
To confirm that the IRDC-associated and infrared-dark masers trace an embedded phase of star formation within an IRDC requires longer-wavelength observations, e.g.~from the MIPSGAL survey \citep{carey} or the Hi-GAL survey \citep{molinari2010b}. A study based on the results of the MIPSGAL and Hi-GAL surveys is in preparation and preliminary results indicate that these masers do indeed trace embedded star formation within these clouds. In addition, if these masers represent early deeply embedded phases of massive star formation some of them may show detectable hypercompact HII regions, \citep[e.g.][]{Longmore07}. High frequency high resolution radio continuum follow-up observations will be made to discover which masers are in this category. The role of the infrared-dark masers that are not associated with IRDCs is much less clear. We hypothesise that these masers represent distant sources whose associated IRDCs have either been rendered invisible by foreground diffuse Galactic mid-IR emission, or are too small or low contrast to be effectively detected by GLIMPSE.
\subsection{The colours of the mid-infrared counterparts of MMB masers}
Prior to the work carried out in this paper, the largest investigations
of the GLIMPSE counterparts of 6.7\;GHz masers have been carried out
by \cite{Ell06,Ell07,breen2010b} and \cite{Breen2011}. In summary, \cite{Ell06}
took a sample of fifty six 6.7\;GHz methanol masers and found that 29
masers (52\%) have GPSC counterparts within 2\arcsec. This leads to a
colour-magnitude selection criterion of [3.6]-[4.5]$>$1.2 and
[8.0]$<10$. In a follow up paper \citep{Ell07} this criterion was used
to select 5676 GPSC objects. Of these the 100 brightest in 8\;$\mu$m
and the 100 reddest at [3.6]$-$[4.5] were selected as candidates for
radio observations in order to detect 6.7 GHz methanol
masers. This led to the detection of 38 maser sources, of which nine
were new discoveries.
\cite{Breen2011} followed up 580 6.7 GHz masers drawn from the MMB catalogue at 12.2 GHz with the Parkes telescope and identified 12.2 GHz maser counterparts towards a total of 250 masers. \cite{Breen2011} also investigated the detection statistics and colours of their maser sample with the GLIMPSE point source catalogue in the same manner as \cite{Ell06}. The detection statistics of the \cite{Breen2011} masers are in agreement with those of \cite{Ell06}, although there is marginally higher detection rate for 6.7 GHz masers without associated 12.2 GHz emission than for sites showing both maser transitions. \cite{Breen2011} interpret this difference as an indication that sites with both maser transitions may be more evolved than those showing only 6.7 GHz maser emission. The infrared colours of the maser counterparts were found to be similar to the smaller sample of \cite{Ell06}.
In our visual inspection of the GLIMPSE images and positional cross-matches with the GPSC and GPSA we found that a significant fraction of the maser counterparts (480 masers out of 769) are extended in the mid-IR. As described in Sect.~\ref{sect:ancap} we measured the fluxes in all 4 IRAC bands of 512 MMB maser counterparts using our adaptive non-circular aperture phometry method, which is $\sim$ a factor 2 increase over simply matching against the GPSC or GPSA catalogues, an order of magnitude increase over the sample of \cite{Ell06} and more than doubling the \cite{Breen2011} sample . Despite the much larger size of our sample we find a striking agreement between the colours of our maser counterparts and those of \cite{Ell06} and \cite{Breen2011}. Figure~\ref{fig:colcol_ell} reveals that both samples occupy a very similar colour space and are much redder than the typical GLIMPSE population. In our larger sample we observe a marginally wider scatter in colours than \cite{Ell06} and \cite{Breen2011}, particularly in colours involving the 8 $\mu$m band, however there are no clear trends. A small number of masers show stellar colours consistent with the general GLIMPSE population. These masers are likely to be chance line-of-sight alignments with foreground or background stars.
As noted
in \cite{Ell06} the masers appear to occupy a colour-space similar to
that of Class 0 protostars as modelled in \cite{Whitney03}. However,
it is also similar to the region occupied by HII regions as shown in
\cite{Cohen07} and we should not draw the conclusion that the
maser counterparts invariably represent a Class 0-like object with an in-falling
envelope without first excluding the possibility that some, at least, are
HII regions.
\subsection{The relationship between maser and infrared properties}
With our large sample of maser infrared counterparts and the measured properties (e.g.~6.7 GHz flux, luminosity, velocity range) of their corresponding masers from the MMB Survey we are in the position to search for correlations between properties of the infrared and 6.7 GHz maser emission. This would enable us to search for potential evolutionary effects similar to those suggested by \citet{breen2011b} and \cite{breen2012} in which the luminosity and velocity range of water and methanol masers are found to be correlated with the volume-averaged density of their host molecular clumps. We searched for trends in all of the measured IR properties contained in this paper (magnitude, colour, morphology) against each of the measured 6.7 GHz properties from the MMB survey (6.7 GHz flux and velocity range). We found no significant trends in any case. There is no tendency for the MMB masers to have measurably different properties for different morphological classes of infrared emission (e.g.~IRDCs or Extended Green Objects), nor for different mid-infrared colour or magnitude. We cannot rule out evolutionary effects within our sample, although we can conclude that the physical mechanism behind the GLIMPSE emission is likely to be unrelated to that driving the masers themselves.
\subsection{Methanol masers as tracers of star formation}
\label{sect:crossmatch}
The MMB masers are found to be rather weakly associated with Extended Green Objects (EGO) and Red MSX Survey (RMS) sources, with $\sim$18\% of MMB masers found to be associated with EGO and 12\% found to be associated with RMS HII regions or YSOs (with 20 masers in common between EGO and RMS, which is 3\% of the total number of masers). We find that the EGO detection rate is consistent with that of \cite{Cyg08} when the split between ``likely'' and ``probable'' EGOs is considered. Accounting for masers that are associated with both EGOs and RMS objects, there are 23\% of the MMB sample that are found to be associated with either an EGO or an RMS object. A further 17\% of MMB masers have no detectable mid-infrared counterparts, either being associated with an IRDC or with no detectable counterpart, which means that 60\% of the MMB sample are infrared-bright but are \emph{not} associated with other known massive star formation tracers such as EGO or RMS objects.
The question thus arises as to why the RMS and MMB surveys are only weakly correlated, if the hypotheses that both types of object trace current massive star formation are correct? To consider this question we must first recall that RMS is a survey that is primarily based on infrared selection, with specific MSX colour criteria required for selection as a candidate massive YSO \citep{Lum02} followed by detailed inspection at other wavelengths to weed out contaminants \citep{urquhart2008}. The MMB survey on the other hand does not rely upon infrared selection, merely upon the initial detection of a 6.7 GHz maser by Parkes and its successful recovery at higher angular resolution by the ATCA. So any difference between the populations traced by RMS and MMB may simply be due to a difference in the intrinsic mid-infrared colours of RMS sources and 6.7 GHz masers.
We investigate the colours of the RMS and maser populations in Figure \ref{Figure10}, by plotting the $[3.6]-[4.5]$ colour versus the $[8.0]$ $\mu$m magnitude for maser counterparts both associated and unassociated with RMS sources. It can clearly be seen in Figure \ref{Figure10} that the RMS-associated masers are both brighter at $[8.0]$ $\mu$m and bluer in $[3.6]-[4.5]$ than those maser counterparts that are not associated with RMS objects. The former is relatively easy to explain due to the fact that all RMS sources were selected from the MSX Survey. The MSX Survey was much shallower than GLIMPSE and has a limiting magnitude of $\sim$6.2 at 8.2 $\mu$m \citep{cohen2000}, although may reach deeper in regions that are less confused by the diffuse Galactic background. Hence the non-association of MMB masers that are fainter than a magnitude of $\sim$6.2 at 8.0 $\mu$m with RMS sources is entirely consistent with the limiting magnitude of MSX. A total of 304 of the 512 MMB maser counterparts for which we obtained photometry via the ANCAP procedure are fainter than magnitude 6.2 at 8.0 $\mu$m.
Secondly, it can be seen that the masers extend to a bluer region in $[3.6]-[4.5]$ than the RMS sources, extending into the domain where $[3.6]-[4.5] < 1$.
The RMS sources are (by definition) selected to be red in MSX bands, with one key criterion being that $F_{21 \mu m} > F_{8 \mu m}$, corresponding approximately to $[8]-[21] > 0.8$. If this is similar to a corresponding criterion $[3.6]-[4.5] > 1$ for the typical RMS source this could fully account for the observed absence of RMS sources with $[3.6]-[4.5] < 1$ in Figure \ref{Figure10}. A secondary effect may arise from the poorer angular resolution of MSX relative to GLIMPSE for 8.0 $\mu$m measurements. We might then interpret the fact that masers trace bluer objects than the RMS as being due to contamination of the MSX photometry by nearby, potentially stellar, objects. In Figure \ref{fig:confusion} we show 8.0 $\mu$m GLIMPSE images of two MMB masers that are not associated with an RMS source. The large circle marked on the image represents the beam size of MSX at 8.0 $\mu$m and shows the presence of a number of additional objects within the MSX beam. The flux from these stellar objects increases the 8.0 $\mu$m MSX flux sufficiently that these two masers fail the $[8]-[14]$ selection criterion of the RMS Survey. We checked a random sub-sample of MMB masers using MSX photometry and found that this is generally the case for those masers with bright MSX counterparts. The RMS survey is thus naturally biased towards bright massive star forming regions that are isolated on the scale of the MSX beam.
Hence the reason that MMB and RMS appear to trace weakly related populations is entirely consistent with the properties of the initial RMS selection criteria, i.e. towards brighter infrared counterparts with $[8.0] \stackrel{\sim}{>}$ 6.2 and for regions with relatively unconfused MSX photometry. The MMB survey thus offers a powerful technique for identifying massive star forming regions that is independent of infrared selection \citep[e.g.][]{ellingsen1996,ellingsen2005}.
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=0.4]{Fig10-1.eps}
\caption{Colour - Magnitude diagram comparing masers with counterparts within RMS (solid circles) to the GLIMPSE masers (open triangles). We show a reddening vector of $A_{k}=10$.}
\label{Figure10}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=0.35]{mm14_rms_aperture.eps}
\includegraphics[scale=0.35]{mm343_rms_aperture.eps}
\caption{GLIMPSE 8.0 $\mu$m images of two masers from the MMB catalogue that are not associated with RMS sources. The larger circle represents the beam size of MSX at 8 $\mu$m and the smaller circle indicated the position of the MMB maser. The GLIMPSE images clearly reveal a number of nearby confusing objects, possibly stellar in nature, whose flux results in the MMB maser infrared counterpart failing the RMS selection criteria.}
\label{fig:confusion}
\end{figure}
Looking in more detail at the classifications of RMS objects found in the MMB maser sample, we see that the majority of the RMS objects found to be associated with masers belong to the YSO category (56/82 objects), with the next highest category association being ``HII region'' (22/82 objects). This is consistent with our visual inspection of the GLIMPSE images where $\sim$50\% of the MMB maser sample were found to be point-like \citep[similar to the near-IR/\emph{Spitzer} morphology of YSOs found by][]{urquhart2008} and the remainder either extended or infrared-dark.
The RMS survey were able to determine unambiguous kinematic distances, and hence luminosities, for 78 of the 82 RMS sources associated with MMB masers. All of these RMS sources have luminosities that are consistent with massive star-forming regions; the minimum luminosity found is 10$^{4}$ L$_{\odot}$, with a median for the sample of 3.2$\times$10$^{4}$ L$_{\odot}$. Although we are only able to determine the bolometric luminosity for a small fraction of MMB masers ($\sim$12\%), by this approach we are confident that our sample of masers does not contain a significant fraction of low luminosity objects. The RMS survey contains YSOs with luminosity down to a few tens to hundreds $L_{\odot}$ and so, if low-luminosity YSOs were common in the MMB sample we would expect to have discovered some of them in our catalogue cross-match.
The implication is that 6.7 GHz masers trace a range of evolutionary stages in massive star formation, from those so deeply embedded within their parent clouds that they are undetectable at 8 $\mu$m \citep[e.g.][]{Parsons09}, to YSOs and HII regions. Caution must, however, be exercised as the reality is that massive star forming regions are highly complicated and confused complexes. We note that increasing the matching radius for MMB masers and RMS objects from 2\arcsec\ to 5\arcsec\ almost doubles the number of matched MMB masers. A more sophisticated analysis, using maps of extended structures and precise point source positions, is needed to disentangle the precise relationship between 6.7 GHz masers, HII regions and YSOs.
In a future publication we will investigate the bolometric luminosity of the MMB sample by using \emph{Herschel} measurements of their SEDs from the Hi-GAL survey \citep{molinari2010b}. We are also conducting distance determinations \citep[e.g.][]{green2011} and additional multiwavelength follow-ups (similar to the RMS survey) to complement Herschel measurements so as to achieve our goal of extending full evolutionary classification to all MMB sites.
\subsection{The infrared cluster maser connection}
The cross match of the MMB and the
infrared cluster catalogues (Mercer, Bica and Froebrich catalogue, plus the UKIDSS DR4 catalogue in preparation) yielded only 14 cross matches. A visual inspection of the GLIMPSE images and of the UKIDSS
GPS \citep{Lucas08} images, where available, shows that the majority
of the maser-associated clusters are not distinct in the near infrared
and that only two masers are clearly associated with infrared
clusters. We also cross-matched the RMS catalogue to our cluster sample with the result that only 28 clusters
are associated with a RMS YSO or HII region. These two observations
tentatively suggest that massive star formation has ended by the time
a cluster becomes distinguishable in the near infrared. However, we
must consider the fact that the cluster catalogues used in this work contain
mostly nearby clusters \citep{Bica}, or clusters with predominantly low
mass star formation, whilst the MMB and RMS sources are spread over a wide
range of distances. Therefore we should be cautious in drawing any firm
conclusions from this match. Cross matching the MMB with the much
deeper UKIDSS Infrared cluster catalogue (Lucas et al in prep.),
should provide a more reliable indication due to the number of more
distant clusters detected; a preliminary cross match with the UKIDSS
Infrared cluster catalogue so far indicates that the lack of correlation
between masers and infrared clusters continues within the deeper survey.
\section{Summary \& Conclusions}
We have carried out a detailed study of the mid-infrared environments of the 6.7 GHz methanol masers discovered in the MMB Survey using the \emph{Spitzer} GLIMPSE survey. Our study comprises 776 6.7 GHz masers within the GLIMPSE I, II and 3D survey regions. We have implemented an adaptive non-circular aperture photometry technique (ANCAP) that determines the mid-IR flux of infrared counterparts to the masers in all 4 GLIMPSE bands. Our ANCAP technique doubles the number of masers with fluxes in all four bands (512 masers) compared with the corresponding number of counterparts obtained from the GLIMPSE point source catalogue (219 or 253 masers depending on whether the reliable GLIMPSE Catalogue or complete GLIMPSE Archive are used). We also examine the positional association of the masers with a number of star formation tracers: EGOs, IRDCs, RMS sources and infrared clusters.
We reach the following conclusions:
\begin{enumerate}
\item Visual inspection of the images around each maser reveals a generally complex infrared morphology with the maser counterparts often being extended with respect to the \emph{Spitzer} PSF. The morphology of the maser environments falls into one of four broad categories: \emph{a)} the maser is embedded within an IRDC with no IRAC counterpart and thus has no detectable infrared counterpart (37 masers); \emph{b)} the maser is located within an IRDC and has a detectable counterpart (164 masers); \emph{c)} infrared-bright masers, often with extended counterparts, and that are not associated with IRDCs (473 masers); and \emph{d)} masers with no detectable infrared counterpart and that are not associated with an IRDC (95 masers).
\item We find that colours of the MMB maser counterparts sample agree very closely with those of a smaller sample studied by \citet{Ell06} and \cite{Breen2011}, but with a marginally larger scatter in colour. The region of mid-infrared colour space traced by the masers is similar to that of Class 0 protostars \citep{Whitney03} and HII regions \citep{Cohen07}.
\item We find 112 Extended Green Objects (EGOs) from the \citet{Cyg08} catalogue to be associated with MMB 6.7 GHz masers (out of 608 masers searched), with the implication
that EGO-targeted searches are able to detect only 18\% of the 6.7 GHz masers.
We also investigated extensively the fraction of EGOs that have a 6.7 GHz
maser counterpart, and show that the investigation by
\citet{Cyg09} is compatible with our more complete statistics once the \citet{Cyg09} sample is corrected for the ``likely'' rather than ``possible'' EGOs.
\item Few masers (and few embedded RMS sources) are found within 1\arcmin\ of infrared clusters which suggests that ongoing massive star formation has largely ceased by the time a cluster is discernible in the near-infrared. However this result may be due to a distance bias in the catalogue of infrared clusters used.
\item The MMB masers are found to be rather weakly associated with RMS objects. Only 82 MMB masers lie within 2\arcsec\ of an RMS object of type ``HII region'' or ``YSO'', with the majority (56 masers) associated with type ``YSO''. Combining this result with the EGO sample implies that 60\% of the MMB masers have a detectable infrared counterpart within the GLIMPSE survey but are \emph{not} associated with other known massive star formation tracers. We corroborate the common belief that 6.7-GHz masers are associated with
an early stage of star formation, often extending earlier than the
ultracompact HII region phase \citep{Ell06,Walsh98}. Hence, the MMB survey offers a powerful way of identifying massive star forming regions that is independent of infrared selection \citep{ellingsen2005,ellingsen1996}.
\item MMB masers appear to trace a range of phases in the massive star formation process, with some masers associated with IRDC and some with infrared bright YSOs or HII regions. Future work to investigate the nature of infrared-dark masers is ongoing and includes studies of the far-IR \& sub-mm SEDs \citep[using the \emph{Herschel} Hi-GAL survey,][]{molinari2010b} and of their high frequency radio continuum to identify hypercompact HII regions \citep[e.g.][]{Longmore07}
\end{enumerate}
\section{Acknowledgments}
We would like to thank the referee, Andrew Walsh, for a thorough and constructive report that improved our paper. We wish to thank the University of Hertfordshire and the Science and
Technology Facilities Council for their support. This research has
made use of NASA's Astrophysics Data System Abstract Service; the NASA
/ IPAC Infrared Science Archive (which is operated by the Jet
Propulsion Laboratory, California Institute of Technology, under
contract with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration);
SAOImage DS9, developed by Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory;
FunTools developed by High Energy Astrophysics Division of the
Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory and data products from the
GLIMPSE survey, which is a legacy science program of the Spitzer Space
Telescope, funded by the National Aeronautics and Space
Administration.
\bibliographystyle{mn2e}
| {
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Q: Is there an explanation for the contradiction between "Voyager" and "The Undiscovered Country"? In the Star Trek: Voyager episode "Flashback", Dimitri Valtane is killed. In Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, he is shown to still be alive at the end of the film on board the Excelsior. Is there an in-universe explanation for this contradiction to canon?
| {
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The French president told Saudi's Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman that he is worried and 'you never listen to me'.
Mr Macron's demand came shortly before Theresa May held face-to-face talks with the crown prince in which she promised to send a "robust" message about the murder, as well as the war in Yemen.
Mohammed has appeared isolated among fellow world leaders at the G20 summit in Argentina, with the exception of a vigorous public handshake from Russia's Vladimir Putin – himself treated as a pariah by some of those present.
Later, an Elysee Palace official said the president had conveyed a "very firm" message on the need for international involvement in the Khashoggi investigation, currently the subject of two separate probes by Saudi Arabia and Turkey.
Mrs May said she would use her meeting to press Britain's call for a credible and transparent investigation into Mr Khashoggi's death in the Saudi consulate in Istanbul in October and urge Mohammed to ensure his country offers full co-operation to the Turkish investigation.
Mrs May was also pressing the Crown Prince to ensure his country's engagement in talks in Stockholm next week to find a political solution to the bloodshed in Yemen, where a Saudi-led coalition is fighting Houthi rebels.
Following the meeting, a Downing Street spokesman said: "The Prime Minister stressed the importance of ensuring that those responsible for the appalling murder of Jamal Khashoggi are held to account, and that Saudi Arabia takes action to build confidence that such a deplorable incident could not happen again.
"Noting the steps taken by the Saudi investigation since the Foreign Secretary had met with the crown prince and King Salman on 12 November, she encouraged the crown prince to ensure that Saudi Arabia co-operated fully with the Turkish authorities and worked to bring both investigations to an acceptable close.
On Yemen, the spokesman said that Mrs May set out the "urgent need" to bring an end to the conflict and bring relief to millions threatened by famine.
"The Prime Minister stressed that the humanitarian situation remained dire and reaffirmed UK commitment to making progress on improving the situation, including through a UN Security Council Resolution," the spokesman said.
Amnesty International UK's director Kate Allen said Mrs May should "politely but firmly insist that only a UN investigation into the grisly murder of Jamal Khashoggi is going to be sufficient".
Speaking to Sky News ahead of the meeting, Mrs May said: "It is the relationship we have with Saudi Arabia that enables me to sit down with him and be robust on our views on two issues".
On the Khashoggi case, she said Riyadh must "ensure that their investigation is a full investigation, that it is credible, that it is transparent and that people can have confidence in the outcome of it and that those responsible are held to account".
And she said she was "very concerned" about the humanitarian situation in Yemen resulting from the long-running conflict.
"Now is the time, there is an opportunity to find a solution," said the PM.
Mrs May also held talks with the summit's host, President Mauricio Macri, at which the long-standing dispute over the sovereignty of the Falklands took a back seat as discussions focused on trade.
Speaking during her flight to Buenos Aires, Mrs May said the establishment of the flight showed "a different relationship developing".
"I am talking to President Macri about issues about trade and opportunities for trade, but our position on the sovereignty of the Falklands hasn't changed and will not change," she added.
The PM is using the G20 gathering to push her "global Britain" message, telling fellow leaders that her Brexit deal will be good for the world economy. | {
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Il vicariato apostolico di Beirut (in latino: Vicariatus Apostolicus Berytensis) è una sede della Chiesa cattolica in Libano immediatamente soggetta alla Santa Sede. Nel 2020 contava 18.000 battezzati. È retto dal vescovo Cesar Essayan, O.F.M.Conv.
Territorio
Il vicariato apostolico estende la sua giurisdizione su tutti i fedeli cattolici di rito latino del Libano.
Sede del vicariato è la città di Beirut, dove si trova la cattedrale di San Luigi.
Il territorio è suddiviso in 8 parrocchie.
Storia
La presenza cattolica di rito latino in Libano inizia con le Crociate alla fine dell'XI secolo e si conclude con la definitiva sconfitta dei crociati e la scomparsa dei principati crociati in Medio Oriente dopo la metà del XIII secolo. In questo periodo nelle terre corrispondenti all'attuale Libano furono istituite diverse circoscrizioni ecclesiastiche latine, che il più delle volte andarono a soppiantare antiche sedi vescovili dei primi tempi del cristianesimo: dall'arcidiocesi di Tiro dipendevano le diocesi suffraganee di San Giovanni d'Acri, Cesarea di Filippo, Sidone e Berito (Beirut), mentre dal patriarcato latino di Antiochia dipendevano le suffraganee di Biblo, Tripoli e Antarado. Queste diocesi scomparvero con la fine del periodo crociato ed oggi rimangono per lo più come sede titolari.
La presenza latina continuò nel Paese con i Francescani, arrivati fin dal XIII secolo, e poi con missionari di altri ordini religiosi, quali i Cappuccini, i Carmelitani, i Lazzaristi ed i Gesuiti, giunti nel XVII secolo. Per i fedeli di rito latino del Libano non fu istituita nessuna circoscrizione ecclesiastica, fino alla fine del mandato francese al termine della seconda guerra mondiale: il delegato apostolico della Siria svolgeva anche le funzioni di vescovo dei cattolici latini del Libano.
Il vicariato apostolico è stato eretto il 4 giugno 1953 con la bolla Solent caeli di papa Pio XII, ricavandone il territorio dal vicariato apostolico di Aleppo.
Il vicario apostolico è membro di diritto della Conferenza dei vescovi latini nelle regioni arabe.
Cronotassi dei vescovi
Si omettono i periodi di sede vacante non superiori ai 2 anni o non storicamente accertati.
Eustace John Smith, O.F.M. † (8 dicembre 1955 - 1973 dimesso)
Paul Bassim, O.C.D. † (8 settembre 1974 - 30 luglio 1999 ritirato)
Paul Dahdah, O.C.D. (30 luglio 1999 - 2 agosto 2016 ritirato)
Cesar Essayan, O.F.M.Conv., dal 2 agosto 2016
Statistiche
Il vicariato apostolico nel 2020 contava 18.000 battezzati.
|-
| 1969 || 16.000 || ? || ? || 230 || 7 || 223 || 69 || || 369 || 1.443 || 8
|-
| 1980 || 20.000 || ? || ? || 209 || 9 || 200 || 95 || || 383 || 1.800 || 9
|-
| 1988 || 20.000 || ? || ? || 271 || 3 || 268 || 73 || || 268 || 1.440 || 9
|-
| 1999 || 20.000 || ? || ? || 238 || 2 || 236 || 84 || || 243 || 1.320 || 9
|-
| 2000 || 20.000 || ? || ? || 240 || 2 || 238 || 83 || || 246 || 1.322 || 9
|-
| 2001 || 20.000 || ? || ? || 166 || 2 || 164 || 120 || || 270 || 1.275 || 8
|-
| 2002 || 15.000 || ? || ? || 138 || 2 || 136 || 108 || || 250 || 1.375 || 8
|-
| 2003 || 15.000 || ? || ? || 140 || 2 || 138 || 107 || || 251 || 1.210 || 7
|-
| 2004 || 15.000 || ? || ? || 135 || 1 || 134 || 111 || || 210 || 1.240 || 8
|-
| 2005 || 15.000 || ? || ? || 176 || 1 || 175 || 85 || || 225 || 1.181 || 8
|-
| 2010 || 15.000 || ? || ? || 161 || 1 || 160 || 93 || 1 || 208 || 1.115 || 8
|-
| 2014 || 10.000 || ? || ? || 131 || 2 || 129 || 76 || 2 || 207 || 1.105 || 8
|-
| 2017 || 15.000 || ? || ? || 135 || 1 || 134 || 111 || 2 || 213 || 1.015 || 8
|-
| 2020 || 18.000 || ? || ? || 137 || || 137 || 131 || 2 || 210 || 922 || 8
|}
Bibliografia
Bolla Solent caeli, AAS 46 (1954), p. 36
Altri progetti
Collegamenti esterni
Annuario pontificio del 2021 e precedenti, in
Scheda del vicariato apostolico sul sito di Gcatholic
Beirut
Beirut
Beirut
Beirut | {
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\section{Introduction}\label{sec:intro}
Arising from phase transformations, a classic free-boundary problem
introduces a model of phase interface with zero thickness.
Within this problem, a sharp discontinuity in properties or a jump
of fluxes and thermodynamic functions occurs across the interface.
The sharp-interface model has been a successful description
of many physical phenomena in various systems \cite{friedman}.
However, the sharp-interface model has difficulties
in describing situations when interfacial thickness
becomes comparable with the characteristic length of the considered
phenomenon, and when a topology of the interface becomes
complicated or multiply connected. In order to avoid these
difficulties in the sharp-interface model, an alternative model
with a finite interfacial thickness was suggested for explaining
phase transformations \cite{caginalp}.
Historically, the first formulation of basic principles
of diffuse interfaces was given by Poisson, Maxwell,
and Gibbs \cite{poisson} who suggested to consider
interface as a region with finite thickness in which
a steep but smooth transition of physical properties
of phases occurs. Lord Rayleigh, van der Waals, and
Korteweg \cite{rayleigh} applied thermodynamical
principles to develop gradient theories for the
interfaces with non-zero thickness. Through the
past century, ideas of diffuse interface given by
these authors \cite{poisson,rayleigh} were refined
and applied in many physical phenomena
(see, e.g., overviews in Ref.~\cite{row}).
The diffuse-interface formalism has been widely
applied to phase transformations in condensed
media. Borrowing
the formalism of the Landau theory of phase transitions
\cite{landau_00}, the first introduction of the diffuse
interface into the theory of phase transformations
was made by Landau and Khalatnikov \cite{landau}
who labelled the different phases by an additional
order parameter to describe anomalous sound
absorption of liquid helium. In its well-known form,
the formal variational approach
was established by Ginzburg and Landau for
phase transitions from the normal to the
superconducting phase \cite{ginz}.
On the basis of this approach,
diffuse-interface models with order parameters
have been developed by Halperin,
Hohenberg and Ma for the theory of critical
phenomena \cite{C-model}, and by Allen and Cahn for
antiphase domain coarsening \cite{ch3}.
The diffuse-interface model has been also developed for the
description of phase transformations of the first order, especially,
for the solidification phenomenon. The diffuse-interface model of solidification
incorporates an order parameter in the form of a phase-field variable \cite{fix}.
The phase-field $\Phi$ has a constant value in homogeneous phases, e.g. $\Phi=-1$
for unstable liquid phase which is transforming into the solid phase
with $\Phi=+1$. Between these phases in the interfacial region,
the phase field, $\Phi$, changes steeply but smoothly from
$-1$ to $+1$. In numerical solutions, it allows one to avoid explicit
tracking of the interface and locate the interface at $\Phi=0$ \cite{sahm}.
As a particular case,
the phase-field model is reduced to the sharp interface limits
\cite{caginalp1} and adopts the major models of sharp interface
(such as Hele-Shaw type models, classical or modified
Stefan problem, etc.). The phase-field
$\Phi$ is considered as an order parameter which is
introduced to describe the moving interfacial boundary
between the initially unstable phase and the final phase.
Several thermodynamically consistent phase-field models
have been proposed \cite{fife1,bis,anderson,garke}.
These include models for transformation in a pure system \cite{fife1}
up to the rather general modelling of multiphase transformation
in a multi-component system \cite{garke}. All of these models assume local equilibrium
in the system, being consistent with the basic hypothesis
of the classic irreversible thermodynamics (CIT) \cite{op,grmaz}.
This assumption leads to the examination of a number of transport
processes with small and moderate deviations from thermodynamic
equilibrium and, as a consequence, relatively slow movement of the
interface can be predicted. In principle, such an approach can be
extended to the case when the condition of equilibrium is violated locally
at the interface, e.g., as it has been made for solute trapping
and kinetic effects \cite{wheel201}. However, the local equilibrium
is missing both at the interface and within the bulk phases
for rapid transformations such as rapid solidification \cite{gs}.
In this case, the description of rapid phase trasformations might
be provided by the formalism of extended irreversible thermodynamics
(EIT) \cite{j1}
which gives a causal description of transport processes and abandons the
assumption of local equilibrium. An extension
of the phase-field methodology for rapid transformation, which is
caused by significant deviations from thermodynamic equilibrium,
has been made recently \cite{g1}.
The main purpose of the present paper is to describe a thermodynamically
consistent model for rapid phase transformation in a binary system under
local nonequilibrium conditions. Using the phase-field methodology,
we derive the governing equations compatible with the macroscopic
formalism of EIT and the microscopic fluctuation-dissipation theorem.
The paper is organized as follows. In Sec. \ref{sec:mod},
a thermodynamic description of a considered system is given.
We introduce the dissipative
diffusion fluxes for heat and mass transport together with the
phase-field rate of change as independent variables.
In Sec. \ref{sec:ea}, the generalized Gibbs equation and entropy
balance applicable to rapid advancing of the diffuse interfaces
are given.
As a starting point of the present phase-field model, an entropy
functional is used in Sec. \ref{sec:hyper_pfm}.
The analysis of the present phase-field model leads to the
governing equations for the hyperbolic system with dissipation.
In Sec. \ref{sec:generalizat}, a generalization of the hyperbolic phase-field
model is given using the flux relaxation functions as well as
a variational principle. In Sec. \ref{sec:comparison},
the model equations are compared with the
outcomes of the existing sharp-interface and diffuse-interface models.
Finally, in Sec. \ref{sec:con} we present a summary of our conclusions.
\section{Description of the system}\label{sec:mod}
\subsection{Thermodynamic variables}
Let us consider an isobaric binary system at
nonuniform temperature $T$ with no convective flow
and given concentration of atoms $A$ and $B$.
The local equilibrium hypothesis establishes that the local and
instantaneous correlations among the properties of the system
are the same as for the whole system
at a global equilibrium. Describing the nonequilibrium system
as an ensemble of small local volumes in internal equilibrium,
CIT~\cite{grmaz} is applicable to processes
not too far from equilibrium. In addition to CIT, a local
nonequilibrium formalism applicable to the
strongly nonequilibrium systems has been
developed in past two decades
\cite{j1,jp1,j,mr}. As a phenomenological
theory, this formalism is well-known as EIT \cite{j1,j2} which
goes beyond the hypothesis of local equilibrium and avoids
the paradox of propagation of disturbances with an infinite
speed.
A fundamental problem in attempting to describe systems out of equilibrium
is to select the relevant variables needed for a valid description
of a nonequilibrium state. This problem has been
intensively discussed in the literature (see references in
bibliographic overview \cite{jcvl1}). A selection of the basic
state space with the inclusion of the dissipative fluxes
is formulated in EIT \cite{j} and tested against
experimental data \cite{luz}.
Accordingly, we extend the classic set of independent
thermodynamic variables by the inclusion of dissipative fluxes as
additional basic variables.
CIT is based on the local equilibrium hypothesis \cite{op,grmaz}
which assumes instant relaxation of fluxes to their steady-state
values and describes the ensemble of atoms within local
volumes by the Gibbs-Boltzmann statistics. In the standard formalism of the
diffuse-interface using CIT, the set $\{C\}$ of independent
variables is assumed to consist of the conserved variables such as
energy density $e(\vec r,t)$ and concentration $X(\vec r,t)=X_B/(X_A+X_B)$
of the $B$ component in the system, and the
non-conserved phase-field $\Phi(\vec r,t)$ variable
[where $t$ is the time, and $\vec r$ is the position-vector of a point within system].
This can be expressed formally as follows: $\{C\} = \{e, X, \Phi \}$.
The extended space of independent variables $\mathbf{E}$ is formed by
the union of the classical set $\{C\}$ and the additional space $\{F\}$
of the fluxes of heat $\vec q$ and solute $\vec J$, and also
the rate of change $\partial \Phi / \partial t$ of the phase-field variable, i.e.
$\{F\} = \{\vec q, \vec J, \partial \Phi / \partial t \}$.
This yields
\begin{eqnarray}
\mathbf{E} = \{C\}~\cup~\{F \}
= \{e,X,\Phi\}~\cup~\{\vec q, \vec J, \partial \Phi / \partial t \}.
\label{A3}
\end{eqnarray}
Here $\{F\}$ is the space of fast non-conserved
thermodynamic variables.
There are, in fact, different possible choices of variables
(fluxes in EIT, microstructural details in theories with internal variables),
and the specific choice to be adopted depends on the aims of the
description and on the problems to be analyzed.
This does not mean that different choices of variables
are incompatible with each other. For instance,
in the study of flowing polymer solutions one may
select as independent variables either the viscous
pressure tensor or the conformation tensor describing
the average microstructure of the macromolecules of
the system; a Legendre transform exists which allows
one to pass from one description to the other,
in a similar way as it is possible, in equilibrium thermodynamics,
to pass from a description using internal energy
as independent variable to a description using
absolute temperature as an independent variable \cite{jou2000}.
Thus, our choice of the fluxes as variables does not exclude
other possibilities. To justify our choice, we
comment on the qualitative grounds, the meaning and the relevance of
$\vec q$, $\vec J$, and $\partial \Phi /\partial t$ as variables.
The fluxes $\vec q$ and $\vec J$ describe the
exchanges of heat and matter between the interface and the
neighbouring bulk phases. The fluxes do not instantaneously
follow by the classical Fourier and Fick laws, relating them
with temperature and concentration gradients, it takes them some
time (usually rather short) to reach the value predicted by the
classical transport equations. Obviously, when the interface
motion is fast enough, the delay effects in the dynamics
of the fluxes may play a determining role. This happens,
for instance, when the velocity $V$ of the interface becomes
comparable or higher than $l/\tau$, $l$ being the mean-free-path
of the particles and $\tau$ the relaxation time of the fluxes.
Thus, in these circumstances, $\vec q$ and $\vec J$ behave
as independent variables with their own dynamics, which has
important consequences on the dynamics and stability
of the interface \cite{gd3,gd4}.
The introduction of $\partial \Phi/\partial t$ as a further independent variable
is motivated by similar, though slightly different consideration. Indeed, the
space variation of $\Phi$ is related, among other factors,
to the width of the interface. Thus, including $\partial \Phi/\partial t$
as an independent variable allows for a more detailed description
of the internal kinetics and shape of the interface.
In the same way as in Newtonian mechanics, where the initial position
and velocity of a particle must be specified to determine their
evolution, here we take both $\Phi$ and $\partial \Phi/\partial t$
as independent variables. If inertial effects are sufficiently low in
comparison with dissipative effects, $\partial \Phi /\partial t$
will be directly determined in terms of $\Phi$ and its gradient
by a dynamical equation. Otherwise,
$\Phi$ and $\partial \Phi /\partial t$ will be independent and an
equation for $\partial^2 \Phi /\partial t^2$ must be found.
\begin{table*}
\caption{\label{tab:1}
Relaxation time for the fluxes of heat, solute diffusion, and phase-field}
\begin{ruledtabular}
\begin{tabular}{lllll}
System & $ \tau_T$ (s) & $ \tau_D$ (s) & $ \tau_\Phi$ (s) \\
\hline
Carbon tetrachloride & $2.50 \cdot 10^{-13} $, Ref.~\cite{net_60} & --- & --- \\
Benzene & $1.22\cdot 10^{-13}$, Ref.~\cite{net_60} & --- & --- & \\
Nickel & $1.20\cdot 10^{-11}$, Ref.~\cite{eval1} & --- & $2.30\cdot 10^{-11}$, Ref.~\cite{eval2} \\
Diluted alloy Ni - 0.7 at.\% B & --- & $1.54\cdot 10^{-11}$, Ref.~\cite{eval21} & --- \\
Concentrated alloy Cu - 30 at.\% Ni & --- & $0.75\cdot 10^{-11}$, Ref.~\cite{eval211}& $7.92\cdot 10^{-11}$, Ref.~\cite{eval3} \\
\end{tabular}
\end{ruledtabular}\\
\end{table*}
Consequently, with taking the above choice of variables,
one may distinguish between the two sets of independent
variables as it follows.
The variables from the set $\{C\}$ are
characterized as the slow
variables, as their behavior is governed by conservation laws
for energy and solute concentration plus the evolution of
the phase-field, and as they decay slowly in time.
In contrast,
the independent space $\{F\}$ consists of
non-conserved variables with relatively high rate of decay.
The variables from $\{F\}$ differ from their classical value during intervals
of the order of magnitude of the characteristic times $\tau_i$ for relaxation
of the heat flux, solute diffusion
flux, and rate of change of the phase-field variable.
For time intervals much longer than these relaxation times $\tau_i$, the rate of
variation of the fluxes can be ignored.
\subsection{Relaxation times} \label{sec:rt}
Generally, the relaxation times $\tau_i$ represent physically reasonable
time estimations for the spontaneous return of the system
to the steady state after some sudden perturbation.
The relaxation times $\tau_T$ and $\tau_D$ for the heat and solute
can be considered as the times needed for smoothing of
inhomogeneities of temperature and concentration,
respectively, by diffusion. The time $\tau_\Phi$ of relaxation
for the phase-field can be evaluated from the velocity of the diffuse
interface moving through the local volume with the characteristic spatial length.
Consequently, the rate of decay of the heat flux $\vec q$,
solute diffusive flux $\vec J$, and phase-field rate of change $\partial \Phi / \partial t$
are estimated by the following characteristic times
\begin{eqnarray}
\tau_T=a/V_T^2, \qquad
\tau_D=D/V_D^2, \qquad
\tau_\Phi=l/V, \label{A1}
\end{eqnarray}
where $a$ is the thermal diffusivity, $V_T$
the finite speed for heat diffusion (i.e. the speed of propagation of temperature
disturbances), $D$ the solute diffusion constant, $V_D$
the finite speed for diffusion (i.e. the speed of propagation of concentration
disturbances), $V$ the velocity of the diffuse interface, and $l$
the spatial length.
For instance, the time $\tau_T$ is defined by the
phonon-electron and phonon-phonon interactions
for heat diffusion
in metallic systems and it is estimated in Ref.~\cite{peierls1}
to be in the range of
$10^{-13} s <\tau_T<10^{-11} s$.
The time $\tau_D$ is defined by the time for diffusion jumps
of particles, which varies within
a wide interval: $10^{-11} s <\tau_D<10^{-7} s$ in a binary
alloy system or inorganic solution \cite{galenko1}.
In addition to this, the time $\tau_\Phi$ might be evaluated
numerically from Eq.~(\ref{A1}) assuming that the length
$l=W_0$ the width of the diffuse interface and the
velocity $V$ is the characteristic velocity for rapid adiabatic transformations.
Thus, for numeric evaluation of $\tau_\Phi$ in a pure system,
one may accept the following expression
\begin{eqnarray}
\tau_\Phi=W_0 \chi/(\mu_0 Q), \label{A_tau}
\end{eqnarray}
where $Q$ is the heat of transformation,
$\chi$ is the heat capacity (so that relation $Q/\chi$ is considered as
the characteristic temperature for adiabatic transformation), and
$\mu_0$ the coefficient for atomic kinetics. Taking the values for pure
nickel, e.g., $Q/\chi=418$ K \cite{barth}, $\mu_0=0.52$ m/(s$\cdot$K)
\cite{hoyt}, and $W_0=5\cdot 10^{-9}$ m, one gets
$\tau_\Phi=2.30\cdot 10^{-11}$ s. This value for $\tau_\Phi$ fits well
to the time of diffuse-interface kinetics which might be calculated from
the ``thin-interface'' analyses of Karma and Rappel \cite{karma1}
extended by Bragard et al. \cite{bragard}.
It is also reasonable to evaluate the relaxation time for the
phase-field in a binary system using outcomes of the phase-field
model via ``thin-interface'' analyses of Karma and Rappel \cite{karma1}.
Namely, for the nonisothermal solidification of a binary system,
Ramirez et al. \cite{ramirez1} derived the time $\tau_\Phi$ for
the phase-field as a function of $X$ and $\Phi$. It is described by
\begin{eqnarray}
\tau_\Phi=\frac {W_0^2}{\Gamma} \left( \frac{1}{\mu_0}
+ a_1 a_2 \frac {W_0}{D}
\left[ \frac{DQ}{a\chi}
+ \frac{m(1-k)X}{1+k-(1-k)\Phi} \right] \right).
\label{TAU2}
\end{eqnarray}
For numeric evaluation,
we accept the following material parameters
for a Cu-Ni metallic system in Eq. (\ref{TAU2}):
diffuse-interface width $W_0=1\cdot 10^{-9}$ m,
Gibbs-Thomson coefficient $\Gamma=1.3 \cdot 10^{-7}$ K$\cdot$m \cite{gd1},
atomic kinetics coefficient $\mu_0=0.24$ m/(s$\cdot$K) \cite{gd1},
constants $a_1=0.8839...$ and $a_2=0.6267...$ \cite{karma1},
solute diffusion constant $D=3 \cdot 10^{-9}$ $m^2$/s \cite{gd1},
thermal diffusivity $a=1.5 \cdot 10^{-5}$ $m^2$/s \cite{gd1},
adiabatic temperature (relation of latent heat and heat capacity)
$Q/\chi=402$ K \cite{herl1},
slope of the liquidus line $m=4.38$ K/at.$\%$ \cite{herl1},
solute partitioning coefficient $k=0.81$ \cite{herl1}.
As a result following from Eq. (\ref{TAU2}),
one gets $\tau_\Phi=7.92\cdot 10^{-11}$ s for the values of
$X=70$ at.$\%$ and $\Phi=0.5$.
The values for the relaxation
times for some pure and binary systems are summarized
in Table \ref{tab:1}. It can be seen, e.g. for metals and alloys,
that even though
the heat speed $V_T$ is much larger than the solute diffusion speed
$V_D$, the relaxation times for $\vec q$ and $\vec J$ have the same
order of magnitude, i.e. $\tau_T \approx \tau_D$. Therefore, a front of
the heat profile moves with a speed much higher than a front
of the solute diffusive profile. However, due to the fast thermal diffusion,
$a>>D$, the relaxation of the heat flux $\vec q$ proceeds
approximately at the same characteristic time as the relaxation for
solute diffusion flux $\vec J$.
\section{Entropy approach}\label{sec:ea}
\subsection{Generalized Gibbs equation}
For the local nonequilibrium system described in Sec. \ref{sec:mod},
we postulate the existence of a local generalized
entropy density $s$ whose set of variables is the
extended space $\mathbf{E}$ by Eq.~(\ref{A3}).
The generalized Gibbs equation for $s$ is described by
\begin{eqnarray}
& & ds(e, X, \Phi, \vec q, \vec J, \partial \Phi / \partial t ) =
ds_e(e, X, \Phi) \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & + ds_{ne} (\vec q, \vec J, \partial \Phi/ \partial t)
= \frac{\partial s_e}{\partial e}de + \frac{\partial s_e}{\partial X}dX
+ \frac{\partial s_e}{\partial \Phi}d\Phi \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & + \frac{\partial s_{ne}}{\partial \vec q}\cdot d\vec q + \frac{\partial s_{ne}}{\partial \vec J} \cdot d\vec J
+ \frac{\partial s_{ne}}{\partial (\partial \Phi/\partial t)}d \left( \frac {\partial \Phi}{\partial t} \right).
\label{B21}
\end{eqnarray}
In Eq.~(\ref{B21}), $s_e$ is a local equilibrium
contribution defined on the set $\{C\}$ of the
classic slow variables $\{e, X, \Phi \}$, and
$s_{ne}$ is a flux-dependent purely nonequilibrium part of
the generalized entropy defined on the space $\{F\}$ consisting
of the fluxes $\{ \vec q, \vec J, \partial \Phi / \partial t \}$
as the independent fast variables.
The derivatives of the entropy density with respect to
classical variables and their fluxes appearing in Eq.~(\ref{B21})
are described by
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \frac{\partial s_e}{\partial e} = \frac{1}{T}, \qquad
\frac{\partial s_e}{\partial X}= - \frac{\Delta \mu}{T}, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \frac{\partial s_e}{\partial \Phi}
= (1-X) \frac{\partial s_A}{\partial \Phi}
+ X \frac{\partial s_B}{\partial \Phi}, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \frac{\partial s_{ne}}{\partial \vec q} = - \alpha_q \vec q, \qquad
\frac{\partial s_{ne}}{\partial \vec J} = - \alpha_j \vec J, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \frac{\partial s_{ne}}{\partial (\partial \Phi/\partial t)}
= - \alpha_\phi \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t},
\label{B5}
\end{eqnarray}
where $\Delta \mu = \mu_A - \mu_B$ is the difference of the chemical potentials
for components $A$ and $B$, respectively,
and $s_A$ and $s_B$ are the entropies for pure components $A$ and $B$,
respectively. The chemical potentials and entropies of
components can be chosen for every concrete system
(see, e.g., Refs.~\cite{bis,garke}).
In Eqs.~(\ref{B5}), the coefficients $\alpha_i$ are scalars which do not
depend on $\vec q$, $\vec J$, and
$\partial \Phi / \partial t$ and are assumed to be
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \alpha_q = \left( \frac {\tau_T}{\kappa T^2} \right)_{X,\Phi}, \qquad
\alpha_j = \frac {\tau_D}{TD} \left (\frac {\partial (\Delta \mu)}{\partial X} \right)_{T,\Phi}, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \alpha_\phi = \left ( a_0\frac {\tau_\Phi W_0 Q}{T \mu_0} \right)_{T,X},
\label{1111}
\end{eqnarray}
where $\kappa$ is the thermal conductivity,
$a_0$ a dimensionless factor (dependent on the model of the
diffuse interface, specifically leading to the sharp-interface asymptotic
limit), and $Q$ the heat of the transformation.
After integration, Eq.~(\ref{B21}) can be written in the form
\begin{eqnarray}
& & s(e, X, \Phi, \vec q, \vec J, \partial \Phi / \partial t ) = s_e(e, X, \Phi)
+ s_{ne} (\vec q, \vec J, \partial \Phi/ \partial t), \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & s_{ne}(\vec q, \vec J, \partial \Phi / \partial t) = - \frac{\alpha_q}{2} \vec q \cdot \vec q
- \frac {\alpha_j}{2} \vec J \cdot \vec J
- \frac{\alpha_\phi}{2} \left( \frac {\partial \Phi}{\partial t} \right)^2. \nonumber\\
\label{0}
\end{eqnarray}
Consequently, we arrive to a generalized entropy density
given by an expansion around its local equilibrium value
up to second-order in the fluxes.
In the limit of infinite speeds
($V_T \rightarrow \infty$, $V_D \rightarrow \infty$, and $V \rightarrow \infty$),
one gets $\tau_T \rightarrow 0$, $\tau_D \rightarrow 0$, and
$\tau_\Phi \rightarrow 0$. In such a case, the term $s_{ne}$
vanishes and Eq.~(\ref{0}) gives the entropy
density $s_e(e,X,\Phi)$ for local equilibrium system.
\subsection{Entropy balance}
For the system described by the
extended set $\mathbf{E}$ of variables, Eq.~(\ref{A3}),
the local balance laws for the energy and concentration
are given by
\begin{eqnarray}
\frac{\partial e}{\partial t} + \nabla \cdot \vec q = 0,
\qquad \frac{\partial X}{\partial t} + \nabla \cdot \vec J = 0,
\label{B511}
\end{eqnarray}
and the evolution of entropy density is defined by
\begin{eqnarray}
\frac{\partial s}{\partial t} + \nabla \cdot \vec J_S = \sigma_S.
\label{15}
\end{eqnarray}
The change of the total entropy $S$ in time $t$ is described by
\begin{eqnarray}
\frac {dS}{dt} =
\left (\frac{dS}{dt} \right)_{ex} + \left (\frac{dS}{dt} \right)_{in},
\label{11} \end{eqnarray}
where
\begin{eqnarray}
\left (\frac{dS}{dt} \right)_{ex} = -
\int_{v} \nabla \cdot \vec J_S dv = -
\int_{\omega} \vec J_S \cdot \vec n d\omega,
\label{12}
\end{eqnarray}
is the external exchange of entropy due to entropy flux $\vec J_S$ and
\begin{eqnarray}
\left (\frac{dS}{dt} \right)_{in} =
\int_{v} \sigma_S dv,
\label{13}
\end{eqnarray}
is the internal production of entropy due to dissipation within the system.
In Eqs.~(\ref{12}) and (\ref{13}): $\omega$ is the outer surface of sub-volume
$v$, $\vec n$ the normal vector to the surface,
and $ \sigma_S$ the local entropy production.
\section{Hyperbolic phase-field model}\label{sec:hyper_pfm}
In this section, the important class of hyperbolic models
with dissipation is considered. We work out the explicit
evolution equations for the variables including the relaxation terms.
\subsection{An entropy functional}\label{sec:entropy}
Now we use an entropy functional of the following form
\begin{eqnarray}
& & S = \int_{v} \big[ s(e, X, \Phi, \vec q, \vec J, \partial \Phi / \partial t) \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & - \frac {\varepsilon_e^2}{2}|\nabla e|^2
- \frac {\varepsilon_x^2}{2}|\nabla X|^2
- \frac {\varepsilon_\phi^2}{2}|\nabla \Phi|^2 \big] dv.
\label{1}
\end{eqnarray}
Here $\varepsilon_e$, $\varepsilon_x$, and $\varepsilon_\phi$
are constants for the energy, concentration, and phase-field,
respectively. In the functional (\ref{1}) the gradient
terms $|\nabla e|^2$, $|\nabla X|^2$, and $|\nabla \Phi|^2$
are used to describe spatial inhomogeneity within
the fields according to previous diffuse-interface models
\cite{ginz,ch3,sahm}. It is logical to include
gradient terms in Eq. (\ref{1}) [of the so-called ``Ginzburg-Landau
form''] because, as stressed before, our interest is focused on interfaces
with steep gradients. In addition, the extension (\ref{A3})
gives the entropy density $s$ based also on the fluxes
$\vec q$, $\vec J$, and $\partial \Phi /\partial t$
as independent variables.
To obtain the evolution of the entropy, Eq.~(\ref{11}), and consider
the several parts of the entropy exchange, Eqs.~(\ref{12})-(\ref{13}),
we differentiate Eq.~(\ref{1}) with respect to time. Combining the terms,
after some algebra one obtains
\begin{widetext}
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \frac {dS}{dt} = \int_{v} \left[ \frac{\partial s}{\partial e} +
\varepsilon_e^2 \nabla^2 e \right] \left(\frac {\partial e}{\partial t}\right) dv
+ \int_{v} \left[ \frac{\partial s}{\partial X} +
\varepsilon_x^2 \nabla^2 X \right] \left(\frac{\partial X}{\partial t}\right) dv
+ \int_{v} \left[ \frac{\partial s}{\partial \Phi}
+ \varepsilon_\phi^2 \nabla^2 \Phi \right]
\left(\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}\right) dv \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & + \int_{v}
\left[ \frac{\partial s}{\partial \vec q}
\left( \frac{\partial \vec q}{\partial t} \right)
+ \frac{\partial s}{\partial \vec J}
\left( \frac{\partial \vec J}{\partial t} \right)
+ \frac{\partial s}{\partial (\partial \Phi / \partial t)}
\left( \frac{\partial^2 \Phi}{\partial t^2} \right)
\right]dv \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
\nonumber\\ & & - \int_{\omega}
\left[ \varepsilon_e^2
\left(\frac{\partial e}{\partial t}\right) \nabla_n e +
\varepsilon_x^2 \left(\frac{\partial X}{\partial t}\right) \nabla_n X
+ \varepsilon_\phi^2 \left(\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}\right) \nabla_n \Phi \right] d\omega,
\label{3}
\end{eqnarray}
\end{widetext}
where $\nabla_n$ is the gradient vector pointed by the normal vector
$\vec n$.
Now we substitute the balance laws for energy and concentration,
Eqs.~(\ref{B511}), into Eq.~(\ref{3}), and then use the
theorem of divergence. One gets
\begin{widetext}
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \frac{dS}{dt} =
- \int_{\omega} \bigg\{ \varepsilon_e^2
\left (\frac{\partial e}{\partial t}\right) \nabla_n e
+ \left (\frac {\partial s}{\partial e}
+ \varepsilon_e^2 \nabla^2 e \right) q_n + \varepsilon_x^2
\left(\frac{\partial X}{\partial t}\right) \nabla_n X +
\left (\frac {\partial s}{\partial X}
+ \varepsilon_x^2 \nabla^2X \right) J_n +
\varepsilon_\phi^2 \left(\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}\right) \nabla_n \Phi
\bigg\}d\omega \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & + \int_{v} \bigg\{ \vec q \cdot \nabla \left [\frac {\partial s}{\partial e}
+ \varepsilon_e^2 \nabla^2 e \right] + \frac {\partial s}{\partial \vec q}
\frac {\partial \vec q}{\partial t} +
\vec J \cdot \nabla \left [\frac {\partial s}{\partial X}
+ \varepsilon_x^2 \nabla^2 X \right] + \frac {\partial s}{\partial \vec J}
\frac {\partial \vec J}{\partial t}
+ \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}
\left[ \frac{\partial s}{\partial \Phi} +
\varepsilon_\phi^2 \nabla^2 \Phi \right]
+ \frac{\partial s}{\partial (\partial \Phi / \partial t)}
\frac{\partial^2 \Phi}{\partial t^2}\bigg\}dv, \nonumber\\
\label{6} \end{eqnarray}
\end{widetext}
where $q_n$ and $J_n$ are the diffusion fluxes
pointed by the normal vector $\vec n$.
Using Eq.~(\ref{B5}), the change of the entropy, Eqs.~(\ref{11})-(\ref{13}),
is obtained from Eq.~(\ref{6}). This yields
\begin{eqnarray}
\frac{dS}{dt} = - \int_{\omega} J_S d\omega + \int_{v} \sigma_S dv,
\label{8}
\end{eqnarray}
where
\begin{eqnarray}
& & J_S = \varepsilon_e^2
\left(\frac{\partial e}{\partial t}\right) \nabla_n e +
\left (\frac {\partial s}{\partial e}
+ \varepsilon_e^2 \nabla^2 e \right) q_n \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& &
+ \varepsilon_x^2
\left(\frac{\partial X}{\partial t}\right) \nabla_n X + \left (\frac {\partial s}{\partial X}
+ \varepsilon_x^2 \nabla^2X \right) J_n \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& &
+ \varepsilon_\phi^2 \left(\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}\right) \nabla_n \Phi
\label{flux}
\end{eqnarray}
is the projection of the entropy flux vector on the normal vector $\vec n$,
and
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \sigma_S =
\vec q \cdot \left [\nabla \left (\frac {\partial s}{\partial e}
+ \varepsilon_e^2 \nabla^2 e \right) -
\alpha_q \frac {\partial \vec q}{\partial t}\right] \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& &
+ \vec J \cdot \left [\nabla \left (\frac {\partial s}{\partial X}
+\varepsilon_x^2 \nabla^2 X \right)-
\alpha_j \frac {\partial \vec J}{\partial t}\right] \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\ \nonumber\\
& &
+ \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t} \left[ \frac{\partial s}{\partial \Phi} +
\varepsilon_\phi^2 \nabla^2 \Phi -
\alpha_\phi \frac{\partial^2 \Phi}{\partial t^2} \right] > 0
\label{prod}
\end{eqnarray}
is the local entropy production which has a bilinear form in the fluxes
($\vec q$, $\vec J$, and $\partial \Phi/\partial t$) and their respective conjugate forces
(expressions inside the square brackets).
\subsection{Governing equations and thermodynamic consistency}\label{sec:gov_equats}
Relation (\ref{flux}) is well known from the phase-field model based
on CIT (see, e.g., Ref.~\cite{bis}),
whereas the entropy production (\ref{prod}) includes the additional terms
$-\alpha_q \partial \vec q/\partial t$,
$-\alpha_j \partial \vec J/\partial t$, and $-\alpha_\phi \partial^2 \Phi / \partial t^2$
related to the nonequilibrium part of the
generalized entropy. This is due to the special form for entropy,
Eq.~(\ref{0}), and has a clear physical meaning: far from equilibrium,
the dissipative fluxes provide ordering that leads to a decrease of
the entropy production near a steady state
as compared with the local-equilibrium state
characterized by the same values of $e$, $X$, and $\Phi$.
The production $\sigma_S$ of the
generalized entropy, Eq.~(\ref{0}) is
positive due to the statement of the second law of thermodynamics.
This condition implies a relation between fluxes and forces which,
in the simplest cases, is assumed to be linear. For Eq.~(\ref{prod}),
it gives the following set of equations: \\
- \textit{evolution equations for heat and solute diffusion fluxes}
\begin{equation}
\left\{ \begin{array}{ll}
\vec q \\\\
\vec J
\end{array} \right\}
= \left(
\mathcal{M}
\right)
\left\{ \begin{array}{ll}
\nabla \left (\displaystyle
\frac {\partial s}{\partial e}
+ \varepsilon_e^2 \nabla^2 e \right) -
\alpha_q \displaystyle
\frac {\partial \vec q}{\partial t} \\\\
\nabla \left (\displaystyle
\frac {\partial s}{\partial X}
+ \varepsilon_x^2 \nabla^2 X \right) -
\alpha_j \displaystyle
\frac {\partial \vec J}{\partial t}
\end{array} \right\},
\label{26cab}
\end{equation}
- \textit{evolution equation for the phase-field}
\begin{eqnarray}
\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t} = M_\phi \left( \frac{\partial s}{\partial \Phi} +
\varepsilon_\phi^2 \nabla^2 \Phi -\alpha_\phi \frac{\partial^2 \Phi}{\partial t^2}
\right),
\label{101}
\end{eqnarray}
where
\begin{equation}
(\mathcal{M})
= \left( \begin{array}{cc}
M_{ee} & M_{ex} \\\\
M_{xe} & M_{xx}
\end{array} \right)
\label{26caba}
\end{equation}
is the matrix of mobilities for thermal and solutal transport, and
$M_\phi$ is the mobility of the diffuse interface.
Dependent on composition, the interface mobility is assumed to be
\begin{eqnarray}
M_\phi =(1-X)M_\phi^A+XM_\phi^B > 0,
\label{mobil_001}
\end{eqnarray}
where $M_\phi^A$ and $M_\phi^B$ are the interface mobility for the transformation
in pure systems consisting of $A$ or $B$ components, respectively. In various
formulations of the phase-field model \cite{wheel201,karma1}, the mobilities of
$M_\phi^A$ and $M_\phi^B$ are proportional to the atomic interface kinetic
coefficient $\mu_0$ and inversely proportional to the interface width $W_0$,
so that $M_\phi \sim \mu_0/W_0$.
The matrix (\ref{26caba}) of transport and the interface mobility (\ref{mobil_001})
are assumed to be positively defined for the
positive entropy production $\sigma_S$.
The matrix (\ref{26caba}) can be considered as symmetric, so that the
matrix can be regarded as being positive with the inequality:
$M_{ee} M_{xx}>M_{ex}^2$.
Note that the linear phenomenological laws given by Eqs.~(\ref{26cab}) and (\ref{101})
adopt the representation theorem of isotropic tensors \cite{true1}
according to which fluxes and forces of different tensorial rank do not couple
as far as linear relations are involved (this independence of processes of different
tensorial rank is also known as the Curie principle). In our case, the vectors of heat and
solute diffusion fluxes cannot give rise to the flux of the scalar phase-field flux
in a linear description. More complicated nonlinear relations
between fluxes and forces consistent with positive entropy
production in EIT are considered elsewhere \cite{j1,j,j2}.
For simplicity, we ignore both kinds of
``cross coupling'' effects in Eq.~(\ref{26cab}), so that
$M_{ex}=M_{xe}=0$. Then, substitution of the fluxes from
Eq.~(\ref{26cab}) into the balances (\ref{B511}),
respectively, gives \\
- \textit{the governing equation for energy density}
\begin{eqnarray}
\tau_T \frac{\partial^{2} e}{\partial t^{2}} +
\frac{\partial e}{\partial t} =
- \nabla \cdot \Bigl[ M_{ee} \nabla \left (\frac {\partial s}{\partial e}
+ \varepsilon_e^2 \nabla^2 e \right) \Bigr],
\label{103abc}
\end{eqnarray}
- \textit{the governing equation for solute concentration}
\begin{eqnarray}
\tau_D \frac{\partial^{2} X}{\partial t^{2}} +
\frac{\partial X}{\partial t} =
- \nabla \cdot \Bigl[ M_{xx} \nabla \left (\frac {\partial s}{\partial X}
+ \varepsilon_x^2 \nabla^2 X \right) \Bigr],
\label{103bac}
\end{eqnarray}
in which $\tau_T=\alpha_q M_{ee}$ is the relaxation time for the heat diffusion flux,
and $\tau_D=\alpha_j M_{xx}$ is the relaxation time for solute diffusion
(see Eqs.~(\ref{A1}) and Table \ref{tab:1}).
After simplifying the transformation, Eq.~(\ref{101}) leads to \\
- \textit{the governing equation for the phase-field}
\begin{eqnarray}
\tau_{\Phi} \frac{\partial^2 \Phi}{\partial t^2} + \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}
= M_\phi \left( \frac{\partial s}{\partial \Phi} +
\varepsilon_\phi^2 \nabla^2 \Phi \right),
\label{101_a}
\end{eqnarray}
where $\tau_{\Phi}=\alpha_\phi M_\phi$ is the timescale of the phase-field kinetics.
According to Eq.~(\ref{101_a}), the acceleration $\partial^2 \Phi /\partial t^2$ of the phase-field
appears due to introduction of both $\Phi$ and $\partial \Phi/ \partial t$ as
independent variables and characterizes inertial effects inside the width
of diffuse interface.
Equations (\ref{103abc})-(\ref{101_a}) are the central outcome of our proposal
[or, to mention a more complicated setting, we could also refer to equations
(\ref{26cab})-(\ref{101})].
The role of the relaxation times is clear: they characterize the delay with which
$\vec q$ and $\vec J$
reduce to their classical expressions (corresponding to classical transport equations),
and the delay with which the inertial effects in the dynamics of the interfacial
region are lost.
The relaxation terms may be neglected in many circumstances,
but become crucial in some important situations, leading, for instance,
to a maximum possible value for the speed of advancement of the interface
(in contrast to classic theory which allows for an infinite speed of propagation),
and to the possibility of oscillatory phenomena in the width of the interface.
Thus, the role of the new terms is not simply to add some new undetermined parameters
(relaxation times) allowing for an improved fit of experimental results. These terms also play
an important conceptual role, as they drastically change the possible kinds of
behavior of the system.
Some comments on the consistency of our proposal can be outlined.
First of all, we may refer to its internal consistency as a thermodynamic
(macroscopic) theory. Second, one must check its consistency with microscopic
descriptions based, for instance, on kinetic theory, or on linear response theory,
or in other statistical (microscopic) theories. Finally, one must check its consistency
with experimental results.
Here, we comment on the internal thermodynamic consistency and,
in the next Section, we shall refer to its consistency with a statistical theory,
based on the fluctuation-dissipation theorem. In this theoretical paper we
do not refer to experimental results. We assume that a consistent
nonequilibrium thermodynamic theory should satisfy two main conditions: \\
($i$) the generalized or extended entropy must be maximum at equilibrium; \\
($ii$) the entropy production must be positive.
To these two conditions one
could add two more requirements: \\ ($iii$) the second differential of the entropy
with respect to its basic variables (which is related to the dynamics of
the variables) must be negative in order to lead to dynamically stable
solutions; \\ ($iv$) the generalized equations of state obtained by differentiation
of the generalized entropy must have a physical meaning consistent with experiments.
It can be seen immediately that the essential conditions ($i$) and ($ii$) are satisfied
in our proposal. Indeed, the form (\ref{0}) and (\ref{1}) of the entropy
guarantees that homogeneous equilibrium state has the maximum
entropy as compared to nonequilibrium states with the same local
values of $e$, $X$ and $\Phi$. Furthermore, introduction of the constitutive
equations (\ref{26cab})-(\ref{101}) into the expression (\ref{prod})
of the entropy production
yields for the latter a definite positive expression:
\begin{eqnarray}
\sigma_S =
\left(\vec q, \vec J \right)
\left(
\mathcal{M}
\right)^{-1}
\left\{ \begin{array}{ll}
\vec q \\\\
\vec J
\end{array} \right\}
+ M_\phi^{-1} \left( \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t} \right)^2
> 0.
\label{consist}
\end{eqnarray}
As we noted, the transport matrix
$(\mathcal{M})$ and the interface mobility $M_\phi$
are assumed to be positively defined for the
positive entropy production, $\sigma_S > 0$.
If one included
higher-order nonlinear terms into the entropy (\ref{0}) or in the constitutive
equations (\ref{26cab})-(\ref{101}), thermodynamic consistency would be more
difficult to check than in our second-order approximation (\ref{0}).
This approximation is sufficient to deal with a wide range of physical problems.
We shall not deal with conditions ($iii$) and ($iv$), which are subtler and
typically involve nonlinear effects. For an indication of their
analysis in some situations involving only $\vec q$ as nonequilibrium
variables, the reader is referred to the monograph \cite{j}.
\section{Generalization of the model}\label{sec:generalizat}
The governing equations (\ref{103abc})-(\ref{101_a}) present causal
propagation of heat and mass signals and a dissipative-wave advancing of
a diffuse interface.
We generalize them into evolution equations which are nonlinear in time.
First, equations of state are considered
from the point of view of the relaxation functions for the fluxes. Second,
nonlinear evolution equations of a general type are derived from a variational
formulation.
\subsection{Relaxation functions for the fluxes}\label{sec:relax_funct}
Let's take into consideration a prehistory of the change
of the phase-field in a point of a system. Such a prehistory must be
taken if the system is not in local equilibrium. We shall use a functional
description with a memory function.
We use the entropy functional (\ref{1}), as before,
to derive the equations of the model.
In the absence of local equilibrium, one may incorporate the prehistory of the diffusion
process. Then, the connections between the fluxes, $\vec q$, $\vec J$,
and $\partial \Phi/\partial t$, from the one side, and driving forces,
$\nabla (\delta S/\delta e)$, $\nabla (\delta S/\delta X)$, and $\delta S/\delta \Phi$,
from the other side, are defined by the following integral forms: \\
- \textit{relaxation of the heat flux}
\begin{eqnarray}
\vec q(\vec r,t) = \int_{-\infty}^{t}
D_q(t-t^*)\nabla \frac{\delta S(t^*,\vec r)}{\delta e}dt^*,
\label{991A}
\end{eqnarray}
- \textit{relaxation of the solute diffusion flux}
\begin{eqnarray}
\vec J(\vec r,t) = \int_{-\infty}^{t}
D_j(t-t^*)\nabla \frac{\delta S(t^*,\vec r)}{\delta X}dt^*,
\label{991}
\end{eqnarray}
- \textit{relaxation of the phase-field rate of change}
\begin{eqnarray}
\frac{1}{M_\phi}\frac{\partial \Phi(\vec r,t)}{\partial t}
= - \int_{-\infty}^{t}
D_\phi(t-t^*) \frac{\delta S(t^*,\vec r)}{\delta \Phi}dt^*,
\label{991B}
\end{eqnarray}
where
$D_R=\{ D_q,D_j,D_\phi \}$ are the relaxational kernels for the fluxes,
and the variational derivatives are obtained from the following expressions
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \frac{\delta S}{\delta e}=\frac {\partial s}{\partial e}
+ \varepsilon_e^2 \nabla^2e, \qquad
\frac{\delta S}{\delta X}=\frac {\partial s}{\partial X}
+ \varepsilon_x^2 \nabla^2X, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \frac{\delta S}{\delta \Phi}=\frac {\partial s}{\partial \Phi}
+ \varepsilon_\phi^2 \nabla^2\Phi.
\label{01} \end{eqnarray}
After substitution of expressions for the heat flux relaxation,
Eq.~(\ref{991A}), and the solute diffusion relaxation, Eq.~(\ref{991}),
into the balance laws for energy and solute concentration, Eq.~(\ref{B511}),
respectively, one can get the following integro-differential equations
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \frac{\partial e(\vec r,t)}{\partial t} =
-\nabla \cdot \int_{-\infty}^{t}
D_q(t-t^*)\nabla \frac{\delta S(t^*,\vec r)}{\delta e}dt^*, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \frac{\partial X(\vec r,t)}{\partial t} =
-\nabla \cdot
\int_{-\infty}^{t}
D_j(t-t^*)\nabla \frac{\delta S(t^*,\vec r)}{\delta X}dt^*.
\label{103}
\end{eqnarray}
Together with relaxation of the phase-field, Eq.~(\ref{991B}),
the general system evolution
during phase transformation is described by Eqs.~(\ref{103}).
When the relaxation functions $D_R$
are specially defined, Eqs.~(\ref{991B}) and (\ref{103}) can be
reduced to known models. Particularly,
for the important class of dissipative and hyperbolic models,
one can take the relaxation kernels in the following forms
\begin{equation}
D_R=
\left\{
\begin{array}{ll}
D_R(0)\equiv const, & \textrm{wave propagation}, \\\\
D_R(0)\delta(t-t^*), & \textrm{dissipation}, \\\\
D_R(0)\exp \Big(- \displaystyle \frac{t-t^*}{\tau}\Big), & \textrm{wave and dissipation},
\end{array}
\right.
\label{26u}
\end{equation}
\\
where $D_R(0)=\{ D_q(0),D_j(0),D_\phi(0) \}$ are the relaxational kernels for the fluxes
at present time $t=t^*$,
and $\tau=\{ \tau_T, \tau_D, \tau_\Phi \}$ are the characteristic relaxation times for the fluxes.
The different transformations within the diffuse-interface are
described by different kernels in the integrals (\ref{991A})-(\ref{991B}).
As it follows from Eq.~(\ref{26u}), the relaxation
functions $D_R$ describe the memory of the system by
assigning different weights to different moments in the past.
Dissipation corresponds to a zero-memory transformation,
i.e. the only relevant contributions are the "last" ones. In
contrast to this situation, the infinite memory transformation
with $D_R\equiv const$ leads to undamped wave propagation of
the heat, solute, or the interface advancement. In between, the
combination of the wave and dissipative regimes described
by the exponentional law can be observed during rapid phase
transformations. This is the case of hyperbolic phase-field model
described in Sec. \ref{sec:hyper_pfm}. For the latter case,
the relevance of all contributions to the fluxes decreases as the
system moves to the past.
In Sec. \ref{sec:hyper_pfm}, the model macroscopic consistency
of the statements of EIT has been shown. Now, the consistency of our macroscopic
approach with a microscopic description is verified in relation
to the outcomes following from the fluctuation-dissipation theorem.
The memory functions introduced in Eqs.~(\ref{991A})-(\ref{991B})
may be related to our analysis of the dynamics of the fluxes $\vec q$ and
$\vec J$ and of $\partial \Phi/\partial t$ proposed by constitutive
equations (\ref{26cab})-(\ref{101}). To do this, first, we may consider the
fluctuation-dissipation theorem relating response memory functions to
the time-correlation function of the corresponding fluxes
(see, e.g., Ref. \cite{balescu}).
This will allow us to show the consistency of
our macroscopic formulation with the microscopic basis provided
by the fluctuation-dissipation theorem.
The corresponding expressions are
\begin{eqnarray}
& & D_q(t-t^*)=\frac{1}{k_BT^2} \langle \widehat{\vec q}(t) \widehat{\vec q}(t^*) \rangle _{eq}, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & D_j(t-t^*)=\frac{1}{k_BT} \langle \widehat{\vec J}(t) \widehat{\vec J}(t^*) \rangle _{eq}, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & D_\phi(t-t^*)=\frac{1}{k_BT} \langle \widehat{ \partial _t\Phi (t)}
\widehat{ \partial _t \Phi (t^*)} \rangle _{eq}.
\label{X}
\end{eqnarray}
Here $k_B$ is Boltzmann's constant, $\vec q$, $\vec J$, and $\partial _t \Phi$
stand for the microscopic operators
for the heat flux, diffusion flux and the time derivative of $\Phi$, respectively,
and $\langle ... \rangle _{eq}$ means an average over an equilibrium
ensemble in statistical mechanics (as, for instance, the canonical one).
Relations (\ref{X}) play an important role in modern statistical mechanics,
and may be formally derived from the Liouville equation in the framework
of linear-response theory or from information theory \cite{balescu,zub}.
However, from a practical point of view,
the computation of the evolution of the microscopic
operators for $\vec q$, $\vec J$ or $\partial _t \Phi$
on purely microscopic grounds is an
overwhelming task exceeding actual capabilities.
Such an evolution is either obtained by computer simulations,
or tentatively given by a reasonable form inspired on phenomenological
grounds. Thus, our evolution equations (\ref{26cab})-(\ref{101}) for
$\vec q$, $\vec J$ and $\partial _t \Phi$
may be considered as a macroscopic modelling of the evolution
of the fluxes, which according to Eq.~(\ref{X})
is equivalent to proposing a form
for the corresponding memory functions introduced in Eqs.~(\ref{991A})-(\ref{991B}).
In general terms, it could be said that, according to Eq.~(\ref{X}), the study
of the evolution of the fluxes around equilibrium is equivalent
to the determination of the corresponding memory functions.
Constitutive equations (\ref{26cab})-(\ref{101}) imply that fluctuations of
$\vec q$ and $\vec J$ near a homogeneous equilibrium state will decay exponentially as
$\vec q(t)=\vec q(0)\exp (-t/\tau_T)$ and $\vec J(t)=\vec J(0)\exp (-t/\tau_D)$.
Introducing these expressions into Eq.~(\ref{X}) one obtains
\begin{eqnarray}
& & D_q(t-t^*)=\frac{1}{k_BT^2} \langle \widehat{\vec q}(0) \widehat{\vec q}(0) \rangle _{eq}
\exp \left( - \frac{t-t^*}{\tau_T} \right), \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & D_j(t-t^*)=\frac{1}{k_BT} \langle \widehat{\vec J}(0) \widehat{\vec J}(0) \rangle _{eq}
\exp \left( - \frac{t-t^*}{\tau_D} \right),
\label{XY}
\end{eqnarray}
which may be rewritten as
\begin{eqnarray}
& & D_q(t-t^*)=D_q(0)\exp \left( - \frac{t-t^*}{\tau_T} \right), \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & D_j(t-t^*)=D_j(0)\exp \left( - \frac{t-t^*}{\tau_D} \right).
\label{Y}
\end{eqnarray}
Indeed, when the microscopic expressions for $\vec q$
and $\vec J$
corresponding to an ideal gas are introduced into Eq.~(\ref{Y})
and the equilibrium average is performed
(over a Maxwell-Boltzmann distribution function),
the results for the $D_q(0)$ and $D_j(0)$ are equivalent
to those obtained from the kinetic theory of gases
in the time-relaxation approximation \cite{balescu}.
Note, finally, that the usual transport coefficients
(thermal conductivity, diffusion coefficient) may be
obtained (when the relaxation time is sufficiently short)
by integration of Eq.~(\ref{X}), as
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \lambda = \frac{1}{k_BT^2} \int_{-\infty}^{\infty}
\langle \widehat{\vec q}(t) \widehat{\vec q}(0) \rangle _{eq} dt, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & D = \frac{1}{k_BT} \int_{-\infty}^{\infty}
\langle \widehat{\vec J}(t) \widehat{\vec J}(0) \rangle _{eq} dt,
\label{Z}
\end{eqnarray}
which are the well-known Green-Kubo formulae for transport coefficients
\cite{j,zub,balescu}.
Thus, our macroscopic formalism is consistent with the microscopic
fluctuation-dissipation theorem. It provides, in fact, a phenomenological
complement to the fluctuation-dissipation expressions, which are the formal
expressions from which it is difficult to obtain on exact grounds
the form of the memory functions.
\subsection{A variational principle and Euler-Lagrange equations}\label{sec:tsv}
We assume, as above, that the generalized entropy density $s$ is a continuous
and differentiable function defined by the local equilibrium contribution $s_e$
and flux-dependent nonequilibrium part $s_{ne}$ with the total set of variables
(\ref{A3}) and generalized Gibbs equation (\ref{B21}).
The balance equations for the heat and solute are the same, Eqs.~(\ref{B511}),
and the local evolution of the entropy density is described by Eqs.~(\ref{15}).
A generalization can be given by introducing the generalized terms
for derivatives into the entropy density with respect to classical
variables ($e,X,\Phi$) and fluxes ($\vec q,\vec J,\partial \Phi/\partial t$),
and also by introducing general forms of the entropy flux $\vec J_S$ and the source $\sigma_S$
in Eq.~ (\ref{15}). Depending on their own tensorial character, these are
\begin{eqnarray} & &
\left( \frac{\partial s}{\partial e} \right)_{\vec q}
= \beta_1^e(e,I_q), \qquad \left( \frac{\partial s}{\partial X} \right)_{\vec J}
= \beta_1^X(X,I_j), \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \left( \frac{\partial s}{\partial \Phi} \right)_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}
= \beta_1^\Phi(\Phi,I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}), \qquad
\left( \frac{\partial s}{\partial \vec q} \right)_e = \beta_2^e(e,I_q) \vec q,
\nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \left( \frac{\partial s}{\partial \vec J} \right)_X = \beta_2^X(X,I_j) \vec J, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \left( \frac{\partial s}{\partial (\partial \Phi/\partial t)} \right)_\Phi
= \beta_2^\Phi (\Phi,I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}) \frac {\partial \Phi}{\partial t}, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \vec J_S = \beta_3^e(e,I_q) \vec q
+ \beta_3^X(X,I_j) \vec J
+ \beta_3^\Phi(\Phi,I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}) \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \sigma_S= \beta_4^e(e,I_q) + \beta_4^X(X,I_j) + \beta_4^\Phi(\Phi,I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}),
\label{17u}
\end{eqnarray}
where
\begin{eqnarray}
I_q=\vec q \cdot \vec q, \qquad
I_j=\vec J \cdot \vec J, \qquad
I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}=\left( \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}\right)^2
\label{20}
\end{eqnarray}
are the single scalar invariants of the extended set
(\ref{A3}) of variables, and $\beta_i$ are the scalar functions depending on classic variables ($e,X,\Phi$)
and invariants $I_i$. Then, utilizing Eqs.~(\ref{17u}), the generalized Gibbs equation (\ref{B21})
gives the time derivative of the entropy density as follows:
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \frac{\partial s}{\partial t}
= \beta_1^e(e,I_q)\frac{\partial e}{\partial t} + \beta_2^e(e,I_q)
\vec q \cdot
\frac{\partial \vec q}{\partial t} \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & + \beta_1^X(X,I_j)\frac{\partial X}{\partial t}
+ \beta_2^X(X,I_j) \vec J \cdot \frac{\partial \vec J}{\partial t} \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & + \beta_1^\Phi(\Phi,I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}) \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}
+ \beta_2^\Phi (\Phi,I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t})
\frac {\partial \Phi}{\partial t} \frac{\partial^2 \Phi}{\partial t^2}.
\label{18c}
\end{eqnarray}
Locally, Eq.~(\ref{15}) is satisfied as a balance law and, for the entire system, one can
postulate extremal condition in the Lagrangian form of
$\mathcal{L}=\int_v (\partial s/\partial t + \nabla \cdot \vec J_S - \sigma_S) dv \rightarrow extr$,
implying an extremal difference between the ``kinetic'' part
$\int_v (\partial s/\partial t + \nabla \cdot \vec J_S) dv $
and the ``potential'' part $\int_v \sigma_S dv$
for the whole nonequilibrium system. Then, the entropy density
satisfies the following variational principle \cite{mexican1}
\begin{eqnarray}
\delta \mathcal{L}=
\delta \int_v dv \left(\frac{\partial s}{\partial t} + \nabla \cdot \vec J_S - \sigma_S \right) =0,
\label{18a}
\end{eqnarray}
in which the variation $\delta$ is carried out only on the nonconserved flux variables
$\vec q$, $\vec J$, and $\partial \Phi / \partial t$,
i.e. $\delta$ is taken only over the space $\{F\}$
from the set (\ref{A3}) while the variables $e$, $X$, and $\Phi$
from the set $\{C\}$ remain constant during the variation.
Also, during the variation, the tangent thermodynamic space
[time and spatial derivatives from the set (\ref{A3})] is fixed. From this it
follows that Eq.~(\ref{18a}) is a variational principle of a restricted type.
Using balance laws (\ref{B511}),
substitution of Eqs.~(\ref{17u}) and (\ref{18c}) into
variational principle (\ref{18a}) leads to
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \delta \int_v dv \bigg[ (\beta_3^e-\beta_1^e)
\nabla \cdot \vec q +
\left( \beta_2^e\frac{\partial \vec q}{\partial t}
+ \nabla \beta_3^e \right) \cdot \vec q - \beta_4^e \nonumber\\
& & + (\beta_3^X-\beta_1^X) \nabla \cdot \vec J +
\left( \beta_2^X\frac{\partial \vec J}{\partial t} + \nabla \beta_3^X \right)
\cdot \vec J - \beta_4^X \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& &
+ \beta_1^\Phi \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}
+ \beta_3^\Phi \nabla \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t} +
\left( \beta_2^\Phi\frac{\partial^2 \Phi}{\partial t^2} + \nabla \beta_3^\Phi \right)
\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t} - \beta_4^\Phi \bigg] = 0. \nonumber\\
\label{18b}
\end{eqnarray}
Variation of Eq.~(\ref{18b}) is obtained by taking as constants the time
derivatives, gradients and divergences. Since $\delta I_q = 2\vec q \cdot \delta \vec q$,
$\delta I_j = 2\vec J \cdot \delta \vec J$, and
$\delta I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}
= 2(\partial \Phi/\partial t)\delta (\partial \Phi/\partial t)$
from Eq.~(\ref{18b}) one gets
\begin{widetext}
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \int_v dv \bigg[ 2\left( \frac{\partial \beta_3^e}{\partial I_q}
- \frac{\partial \beta_1^e}{\partial I_q} \right)
\vec q(\nabla \cdot \vec q)
+ \beta_2^e \frac{\partial \vec q}{\partial t}
+ 2\frac{\partial \beta_2^e}{\partial I_q}\vec q\vec q \cdot
\frac{\partial \vec q}{\partial t}
+ \nabla \beta_3^e
- 2\frac{\partial \beta_4^e}{\partial I_q}\vec q
\bigg] \delta \vec q \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\ & &
+ \int_v dv \bigg[ 2\left( \frac{\partial \beta_3^X}{\partial I_j}
- \frac{\partial \beta_1^X}{\partial I_j} \right)
\vec J(\nabla \cdot \vec J)
+ \beta_2^X \frac{\partial \vec J}{\partial t}
+2\frac{\partial \beta_2^X}{\partial I_j}\vec J\vec J \cdot \frac{\partial \vec J}{\partial t}
+ \nabla \beta_3^X - 2\frac{\partial \beta_4^X}{\partial I_j}\vec J
\bigg] \delta \vec J \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & + \int_v dv \bigg[
2\frac{\partial \beta_1^\Phi}{\partial I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}}
\left(\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}\right)^2
+ 2\frac{\partial \beta_3^\Phi}{\partial I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}}
\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}\nabla\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}
+ \beta_2^\Phi \frac{\partial^2 \Phi}{\partial t^2}
+ 2\frac{\partial \beta_2^\Phi}{\partial I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}}\frac{\partial^2 \Phi}{\partial t^2}
\left(\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}\right)^2 + \nabla \beta_3^\Phi
- 2\frac{\partial \beta_4^\Phi}{\partial I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}}
\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t} \bigg]
\delta \left(\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t} \right)= 0. \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
\label{19}
\end{eqnarray}
\end{widetext}
Due to arbitrary variation of $\delta \vec q$,
$\delta \vec J$, and $\delta (\partial \Phi/\partial t)$,
the Euler-Lagrange equations
directly follow from Eq.~(\ref{19}). These are \\
- \textit{evolution equation for the heat flux}
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \left( \frac{\partial \beta_2^e}{\partial I_q}\vec q\vec q + \beta_2^e \mathcal{U}
\right)\cdot \frac{\partial \vec q}{\partial t} \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & + \left[ \left( \frac{\partial \beta_3^e}{\partial I_q} - \frac{\partial \beta_1^e}{\partial I_q} \right)
\nabla \cdot \vec q - \frac{\partial \beta_4^e}{\partial I_q} \right] \vec q =-\frac{1}{2} \nabla \beta_3^e,
\label{200}
\end{eqnarray}
- \textit{evolution equation for the solute diffusion flux}
\begin{eqnarray}
& & \left( \frac{\partial \beta_2^X}{\partial I_j}\vec J\vec J
+ \beta_2^X \mathcal{U}
\right)\cdot \frac{\partial \vec J}{\partial t} \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & + \left[ \left( \frac{\partial \beta_3^X}{\partial I_j} - \frac{\partial \beta_1^X}{\partial I_j} \right)
\nabla \cdot \vec J - \frac{\partial \beta_4^X}{\partial I_j} \right] \vec J =-\frac{1}{2} \nabla \beta_3^X, \nonumber\\
\label{21}
\end{eqnarray}
- \textit{evolution equation for the phase-field}
\begin{eqnarray} & &
\left( \frac{\partial \beta_2^\Phi}{\partial I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}}
\left(\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}\right)^2 + \frac{1}{2}\beta_2^\Phi \right)
\frac{\partial^2 \Phi}{\partial t^2} \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & + \left[ \frac{\partial \beta_3^\Phi}{\partial I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}}\nabla \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}
+ \frac{\partial \beta_1^\Phi}{\partial I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}}\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}
- \frac{\partial \beta_4^\Phi}{\partial I_\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}} \right] \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}
= - \frac{1}{2} \nabla \beta_3^\Phi, \nonumber\\
\label{22}
\end{eqnarray}
where $\mathcal{U}$ is the unit tensor of second rank.
Eqs.~(\ref{200})-(\ref{22}) are nonlinear evolution equations for
$\vec q$, $\vec J$, and $\partial \Phi/\partial t$ and they are of the general
form of evolution equations (\ref{26cab})-(\ref{101}). Indeed, the nonlinearity
is clearly seen from the following form of these equations:
\begin{eqnarray}
& &
\tau_T(e,\vec q) \frac{\partial \vec q}{\partial t}+\vec q=M_{ee}(e,\vec q)\nabla \beta_3^e, \nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \tau_D(X,\vec J) \frac{\partial \vec J}{\partial t}+\vec J=M_{xx}(X,\vec J)\nabla \beta_3^X,
\nonumber\\
\nonumber\\
& & \tau_\Phi
\left(\Phi, \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t}\right)
\frac{\partial^2 \Phi}{\partial t^2} +
\frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t} = M_\Phi \left(\Phi, \frac{\partial \Phi}{\partial t} \right)\nabla \beta_3^\Phi,
\label{22_a}
\end{eqnarray}
where $\tau_i$ and $M_i$ are the functions of the classic set $\{C\}=\{e,X,\Phi\}$
as well as nonlinear functions of the fluxes
which can be explicitly found from Eqs.~(\ref{200})-(\ref{22}) and relations
(\ref{17u})-(\ref{20}). Thus, taking the generalized evolution of the entropy density,
Eq.~(\ref{18c}), and using variational principle (\ref{18a}),
we arrive to nonlinear general evolution equations for fluxes, Eqs.~(\ref{22_a}),
which might be merely reduced to the evolution equations
(\ref{26cab})-(\ref{101}) of the hyperbolic phase-field model.
\section{Relation to existing models}\label{sec:comparison}
It is interesting to note that sharp-interface and diffuse-interface
models with relaxation of fluxes have been used to describe transient processes
in various nonequilibrium systems (see monograph
\cite{temam1}, Chapter 4).
Therefore we synthesize here several previous and
very recent results in comparison with the
developed hyperbolic model (Sec. \ref{sec:hyper_pfm})
and generalized model (Sec. \ref{sec:generalizat}) of rapid
phase transformation.
\subsection{Superconductivity}
Ginzburg and Landau established their variational principle for
the continuous transition from the normal to the
superconducting phase \cite{ginz}. They used a free energy density with
a gradient term which has been further used in many phenomena
(e.g., in description of spinodal decomposition
\cite{ch1} or crystal growth \cite{ch2}). As a logical extension,
the transition between the normal and the superconducting phases
can be described with the delay given by equations of the hyperbolic model
[starting from the functional of the form (\ref{1})] or using generalized
models with memory, Sec. \ref{sec:relax_funct}.
Generally, equations (\ref{103abc})-(\ref{101_a}) are consistent with
the generalized entropy density given by Eq.~(\ref{0}). The equations are reduced
to the classic equations from Refs. \cite{ginz,ch1,ch2} when the times
$\tau_T$, $\tau_D$, and $\tau_\Phi$ tend to zero.
Furthermore, the entropy density (\ref{0}) together with the evolution
equations (\ref{26cab}) has been justified microscopically
\cite{j,mr} for the one-component system and from Grad's
procedure for monatomic gases.
The choice of thermodynamic potential is important, as it governs the transition
from metastable state to the stable one.
Normally, the potential for transition is included in the
expression for entropy density (or for free energy density)
in the form of a double-well function or by a monotonically
increasing function incorporating nonequilibrium conditions
at the interface \cite{ginz,sahm,bragard}.
In the present paper,
we do not give an explicit form of $s_e$ in Eq.~(\ref{0})
and present governing equations (\ref{103abc})-(\ref{101_a})
[or variational derivatives (\ref{01})] in a general form.
The choice of the thermodynamic potential might be given
for the problem under consideration.
\subsection{Glass transition, structural relaxation and phase separation}
J\"ackle et al. \cite{binder1} considered isothermal phase transformation
in the presence of additional slow structural relaxation variables.
Considering the dynamics based on the relaxational chemical potential,
these authors refer their model to systems with phase
separation and to slow structural relaxation in polymeric solutions
in the proximity of the glass transition temperature. The calculation
has shown that, even at the early stages of phase separation, equation
for chemical potential with memory may give
pronounced deviations from the predictions of classic
linear Cahn-Hillard's model \cite{ch1}.
Phase separation during spinodal decomposition may proceed
under local nonequilibrium conditions in solute diffusion field
offered by rapid quenching. As it has been demonstrated in computational
modeling \cite{bastea1}, the rapidly quenched liquid mixtures under
decomposition exhibit non-equilibrium patterns, evolving
with universalities different from those extracted
from the Cahn and Hillard's model.
Local nonequilibrium separation in liquids can be described in terms of EIT
as a model for isothermal spinodal decomposition in a binary system \cite{g1},
in conditions of large deviation from thermodynamic equilibrium.
The dynamics of the diffusion flux $\vec J$ as a fast variable from the set (\ref{A3})
is consistent with the characteristic time of local rearrangement of particles
(atoms or molecules) or with the time of relaxation of diffusive flux
to its local equilibrium steady-state value.
The model equation for spinodal decomposition of a binary system is the
generalized Cahn-Hillard equation of the form of Eq.~(\ref{103bac}) for
local nonequilibrium solute redistribution. In this case, the dynamics
of rapidly quenched decomposition is described for short periods of time
or large gradients of chemical composition.
\subsection{Shear flow, viscoelastic fluids and diffusion-reaction systems}
The system of coupled evolution equations (\ref{26cab})-(\ref{101}) describes,
in fact, a process of phase separation under shear if temperature
is replaced by viscous pressure tensor. In this case, one may
get the condition defining the spinodal line in non-equilibrium states
[see monograph \cite{jou2000}, Chapter 6]. As a reduced one,
equation of type (\ref{26cab}) or (\ref{103}), endowed with
homogeneous Dirichlet boundary conditions, has been
introduced to model the behavior of certain viscoelastic fluids
and to predict the velocity of flow \cite{davis1}.
In addition, equation of type (\ref{103})
is used to predict a wavefront in time-delayed reaction-diffusion systems
of the generalized Fisher's equation \cite{fort1}.
The speed of the travelling wave depends
on the relaxation time and therefore spreading of population in reaction-diffusion system
might be predicted with great flexibility.
One of the consequences of this equation,
reduced to Eqs. (\ref{103abc}) or (\ref{103bac}) for modelling a
hyperbolic reaction-diffusion system [with $\varepsilon_e=0$ or
$\varepsilon_x=0$, respectively], might be considered in an
exciting example suggested by Fort and Mendez in Ref.~\cite{fort2}
for neolitic advancing of human groups across Europe.
They have shown, in particular, that hyperbolic reaction-diffusion
equations of type of Eqs.~(\ref{103abc}) or (\ref{103bac}) predict the population
spreading during the European past in agreement with the existing
archaeological data.
\subsection{Rapid solidification}
At deep supercoolings in a
solidifying system, or at high velocity of the solid-liquid interface, it is necessary
to take into account local nonequilibrium effects in solute diffusion and to use a
non-Fickian model for transport processes which is compatible with EIT
\cite{gs,gd1}.
The problem of rapid solidification within the sharp-interface limit is
described by generalized Stefan problem (so-called ``self-consistent
hyperbolic Stefan problem'' \cite{gd3,gd4})
which takes into account local
nonequilibrium both at the interface and within the bulk phases.
In such a case, the spatio-temporal evolution of solute
concentration is described by the partial differential equation (\ref{103bac})
of a hyperbolic type [with $\varepsilon_x=0$]
which takes into account the relaxation of solute diffusion
flux to the local thermodynamical equilibrium in a
rapidly solidifying system.
Advancing of the diffuse-interface with a higher velocity comparable with
the solute diffusion speed is also described by the phase-field
model with relaxation of the diffusion flux \cite{g1}. It has been shown that
choosing the concrete form of the entropy (as the thermodynamic potential),
one may recover the existing models based on the CIT and analyze
solidification under local nonequilibrium conditions.
\subsection{Motion of antiphase domains}
In the description of diffuse interface kinetics, Allen and Cahn \cite{ch3}
proposed a model for evolution of the non-conserved order field
during antiphase domain coarsening. For isotropic interfaces, gradient
flow gives the Allen-Cahn equation by taking $\tau_\Phi=0$ in Eq.~(\ref{101_a}).
This equation is true in the case of low inertial effects
in comparison with the dissipative effects.
With finite relaxation time, $\tau_\Phi$, and
finite acceleration, $\partial^2 \Phi/\partial t^2$, Eq.~(\ref{101_a})
predicts the evolution of coarsening with relaxation.
It is reasonable to say that the generalized Allen-Cahn
equation (\ref{101_a}) is true for the case of significant
inertial effects during the motion of antiphase domains.
As an advancing of the Allen and Cahn's model,
the process of the interface motion by mean curvature
with delayed response has been analyzed recently.
Rotstein et al. \cite{r1} developed the phase-field model
based on equations similar to Eqs.~(\ref{991A}) and (\ref{991B}).
These authors described the first-order transition with the delayed response
of the system due to slow relaxation of internal variables. Using the exponential
relaxation function for wave and dissipative mode, Eq.~(\ref{26u}),
which leads to the hyperbolic phase-field model, the dynamics of
the perturbed motion of interface by mean curvature has been considered.
It has been shown in Ref.~\cite{r1} that internal relaxing effects induce damped oscillations in
the interfacial motion during crystalline coarsening. As opposed to the classic
parabolic phase-field model, the hyperbolic phase-field model predicts these
interfacial oscillations in qualitative consistency with the
oscillations on the surface of quantum crystals \cite{andr1} and in crystallization
waves in helium \cite{keshishev}. From a mathematical viewpoint, a search for
existence and uniqueness of the solution and some
well-posedness results for the problem of motion by mean curvature using the
phase-field model with memory are beginning to be presented (see Ref.~\cite{r2}).
\subsection{Complex (dusty) plasmas}
Recent investigation into the field of complex (dusty) plasma physics show that
this system exhibits a complicated behavior which depends
on the behavior of its ``subsystems'' which are represented by electrons, ions,
neutral gas, and charged dust particles.
All of them have their own relaxation time to local equilibrium; therefore,
interaction among them may lead to a delay of relaxation
to local equilibrium in plasma.
Moreover, in the electronic subsystem of plasma, local
equilibrium does not exist, that stimulates development
of theories beyond local equilibrium \cite{tokatly}.
Interaction of different subsystems in complex (dusty)
plasmas with missing local thermodynamic equilibrium in
the electronic subsystem, makes the description of observed experimental data
of this object rather complicated.
Experimental results of Morfill et al. \cite{morfill1} from
plasma observations exhibit unusual behavior from
weak collisionless interaction of gases to fluid flow
with further possible crystallization of plasma. These results are
described by means of molecular dynamic simulations
\cite{morfill1}. The field approach, also, seems to be also
applicable due to the fact that during transitions in plasma,
the characteristic size of patterns is on the mesoscopic or even
macroscopic scale. The field approach to a heat- and
electronically-conducting fluid has been demonstrated in
ionized gases \cite{mexican1} using
equations of generalized type of Eqs.~(\ref{200})-(\ref{22}).
\section{Conclusions}\label{sec:con}
The diffuse-interface model for rapid phase transformation
in metastable binary systems has been presented.
To describe the steep but smooth change of phases
within the width of diffuse interface,
we use the formalism of the phase-field model.
Rapid phase transformations may proceed under local
nonequilibrium conditions.
In our phenomenological macroscopic description, we
extend the classic set of independent
thermodynamic variables by inclusion of dissipative fluxes as
additional basic variables. The evolution of the fluxes is
characterized by their own dynamics with relaxation times
$\tau$ summarized in Table \ref{tab:1}.
Thus, the extended set (\ref{A3}) of variables allows one to
describe phase transformations with finite interface velocity
that is comparable or even higher than $l/\tau$,
where $l$ is the mean-free-path of particles (atoms).
The evolution equations for the hyperbolic phase-field model with
dissipation are derived from an entropy functional (\ref{1}) based
on the extended set (\ref{A3}) of independent thermodynamic
variables. This model yields a definite positive entropy production
(\ref{consist}) in consistency with the second law of thermodynamics.
Generalization of the model has been done by introducing
memory functions and using a variational principle.
As a result, the consistency of the macroscopic approach
with the microscopic fluctuation-dissipation theorem
has been found for the phase-field with memory
[Eqs. (\ref{X})-(\ref{Z})];
and nonlinear evolution equations [Eqs. (\ref{200})-(\ref{22})]
are derived from the variational principle (\ref{18a}).
The derived equations for the evolution of diffuse interface were
correlated with existing models of nonequilibrium transport
processes and for systems under phase transformation.
Particularly, we compare our derivation to models of
superconductivity, phase separation, viscoelastic or
electronically-conducting fluids,
interface motion by mean curvature, rapidly solidifying systems,
and reaction-diffusion systems.
\begin{acknowledgments}
P.G. acknowledges financial support from the German Research Foundation
(DFG - Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft) under the project No. HE 1601/13.
He also acknowledges the support of the Administration of the Physical Statistics Group
during his stay in Universitat Aut\`onoma de Barcelona.
D.J. acknowledges financial support from the Direcci\`on General
de Investigaci\`on of the Spanish Ministry of Science and
Technology BFM 2003-06033 and the Direcci\`o General de
Recerca of the Generalitat of Catalonia under grant 2001 SGR-00186.
\end{acknowledgments}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 1,683 |
{"url":"http:\/\/openstudy.com\/updates\/51031c38e4b03186c3f9055c","text":"## anonymous 3 years ago I dont know how to do this arctansqrt((\u2212 3 ))\n\n1. tkhunny\n\nAre you sure it's $$\\sqrt{-3}$$ and not $$-\\sqrt{3}$$\n\n2. anonymous\n\nits \u2212\u221a3\n\n3. tkhunny\n\nOkay, then there is an angle such that its tangent is $$-\\sqrt{3}$$ For reference, there is an angle such that its tangent os $$\\sqrt{3}$$ I'd solve the second one, first. This will help you with the first one. You may wish to draw a Right Triangle and designate one fo the acute angles as your angle of interest.\n\n4. anonymous\n\nok\n\n5. anonymous\n\nthanks","date":"2016-12-10 14:46:03","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.4297378957271576, \"perplexity\": 628.3029876335905}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2016-50\/segments\/1480698543315.68\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20161202170903-00184-ip-10-31-129-80.ec2.internal.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
Q: jstree display document icon for some nodes I have a jstree that displays folders and documents and it works great but every node displays a Folder Icon. I have a type property in my json that determines whether it is a document or a folder(0 folder, 1 document) but I can't figure out how to switch it.
this is how my code looks like.
I tried copying the code from the demo page but it's clearly not working
$('#tree').jstree({
'core': {
'plugin': ['themes', 'types'],
"types": {
"#": {
"valid_children": ["file"]
},
"file": {
"icon": "/Styles/file.png",
"valid_children": []
}
},
'check_callbacks': true,
'themes': { 'stripes': true },
'data': {
type: 'POST',
contentType: 'application/json; charset=utf-8',
url: 'V2_DocTreeView.aspx/GetChildrenFor',
data: function (node) {
var group = 0;
if (node.id == "#")
group = getParameterByName("group");
else
group = node.id;
return '{id: "' + group + '"}';
}
}
}
}
)
Thanks in advance
A: The problem was my types definition and the plugin tag were inside the core as opposed to outside where it should be, furthermore the json (my model really) wasn't setting up the type property correctly. This is how the tree should look like
$('#tree').jstree({
'core': {
'check_callback': true,
'themes': { 'stripes': true },
'data': {
type: 'POST',
contentType: 'application/json; charset=utf-8',
url: 'V2_DocTreeView.aspx/GetChildrenFor',
data: function (node) {
var group = 0;
if (node.id == "#")
group = getParameterByName("group");
else
group = node.id;
return '{id: "' + group + '"}';
}
}
},
'types': {
"default": {
"valid_children": ["default", "file"]
},
"file": {
"icon": "./Styles/file.png",
"valid_children": []
}
},
'plugins': ['types']
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 2,963 |
Q: Terraform data block only if it is dev env I am trying to get the list of users in an IAM group. The group only exists in dev account and not prod
# lookup for user accounts in Developers group only if its dev env
data "aws_iam_group" "developers" {
count = var.profile == "dev" ? 1 : 0
group_name = "Developers"
}
When I have the below
locals = {
mapdevelopers = [
for index, x in data.aws_iam_group.developers[count.index].users : {
username = x.user_name
userarn = x.arn
groups = ["system:masters"]
}
]
}
I am getting error
│ The "count" object can only be used in "module", "resource", and "data"
│ blocks, and only when the "count" argument is set.
╵
so, I tried my locals without count.index like
locals = {
mapdevelopers = [
for index, x in data.aws_iam_group.developers.users : {
username = x.user_name
userarn = x.arn
groups = ["system:masters"]
}
]
}
Now I am getting an error
│ Because data.aws_iam_group.developers has "count" set, its attributes must
│ be accessed on specific instances.
│
│ For example, to correlate with indices of a referring resource, use:
│ data.aws_iam_group.developers[count.index]
How can I obtain mapdevelopers local variable?
A: Since you are using count for aws_iam_group, this will transform this resource into an array of resources. If you want to iterate over it and access certain item, you would want to use the splat. Moreover, in your case you need to flatten the users property to get the correct values:
locals {
mapdevelopers = [
for index, x in flatten(data.aws_iam_group.developers[*].users) : {
username = x.user_name
userarn = x.arn
groups = ["system:masters"]
}
]
}
Output will be something like:
mapdevelopers = [
{
"groups" = [
"system:masters",
]
"userarn" = "arn:aws:iam::069700690111:user/random-user"
"username" = "random-username"
},
]
This will work even if count = var.profile == "dev" ? 1 : 0 evaluates to 0.
A: Just update this data.aws_iam_group.developers[count.index].users to this data.aws_iam_group.developers[0].users
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 96 |
This is what happens when a beautiful chocolate brownie and a handsome can of chickpeas have a secret love child……Yes it's Dessert Chocolate Hummus….Yes it is amazingly delicious….And yes dessert hummus is a thing!
¼ - ¾ cup | 4 - 12 tablespoons non-dairy milk , add as much milk as necessary to get it to the texture you like.
Please visit avirtualvegan.com for full instructions.
0 Response to "Dessert Chocolate Hummus" | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 3,948 |
This is a list of spouses of prime ministers of Japan. They have all been women.
Role and duties
The role of the prime minister's consort is not an official position, and so they are not given a salary or official duties.
Spouse of the prime ministers of the Japan
References
Japan | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 6,587 |
{"url":"https:\/\/fructaroma.ru\/laplace-transform-solved-problems-64.html","text":"# Laplace Transform Solved Problems\n\n$\\begin\\mathcal\\left\\ & = s Y\\left( s \\right) - y\\left( 0 \\right)\\\\ \\mathcal\\left\\ & = Y\\left( s \\right) - sy\\left( 0 \\right) - y'\\left( 0 \\right)\\end$ Notice that the two function evaluations that appear in these formulas, $$y\\left( 0 \\right)$$ and $$y'\\left( 0 \\right)$$, are often what we\u2019ve been using for initial condition in our IVP\u2019s.\n\nSo, this means that if we are to use these formulas to solve an IVP we will need initial conditions at $$t = 0$$.\n\nNow we're just taking Laplace Transforms, and let's see where this gets us. So I get the Laplace Transform of y-- and that's good because it's a pain to keep writing it over and over-- times s squared plus 5s plus 6. Because the characteristic equation to get that, we substituted e to the rt, and the Laplace Transform involves very similar function. What I'm going to do is I'm going to solve this.\n\nAnd actually I just want to make clear, because I know it's very confusing, so I rewrote this part as this. I'm going to say the Laplace Transform of y is equal to something. We haven't solved for y yet, but we know that the Laplace Transform of y is equal to this.\n\nWe are trying to find the solution, $$y(t)$$, to an IVP.\n\nWhat we\u2019ve managed to find at this point is not the solution, but its Laplace transform.\n\nNow, to use the Laplace Transform here, we essentially just take the Laplace Transform of both sides of this equation. So we get the Laplace Transform of y the second derivative, plus-- well we could say the Laplace Transform of 5 times y prime, but that's the same thing as 5 times the Laplace Transform-- y prime. I took this part and replaced it with what I have in parentheses.\n\nSo minus y prime of 0-- and now I'll switch colors-- plus 5 times-- once again the Laplace Transform of y prime. So 5 times s times Laplace Transform of y, minus y of 0, plus 6 times the Laplace Transform-- oh I ran out of space, I'll do it in another line-- plus 6 times the Laplace Transform of y. I know this looks really confusing but we'll simplify right now.\n\nSo let's scroll down a little bit, just so we have some breathing room. And it actually turns out it's a sum of things we already know, and we just have to manipulate this a little bit algebraically.\n\nAnd so I get the Laplace Transform of y, times s squared, plus 5s, plus 6, is equal to-- let's add these terms to both sides of this equation-- is equal to 2s plus 3 plus 10-- oh, that's silly-- plus 13.\n\n## Comments Laplace Transform Solved Problems\n\n\u2022 ###### Laplace Transform to Solve a Differential Equation, Ex 1, Part 1\/2.\n\nLaplace Transform to Solve a Differential Equation, Ex 1, Part 1\/2. In this video, I begin showing how to use the Laplace transform to solve a differential equation.\u2026\n\n\u2022 ###### Solns41 Chapter 4 Laplace transforms Solutions\n\nChapter 4 Laplace transforms Solutions The table of Laplace transforms is used throughout. we take the Laplace transform of both sides of the differential.\u2026\n\n\u2022 ###### Chapter 6 Laplace Transforms - \u570b\u7acb\u4e2d\u6b63\u5927\u5b78\u8cc7\u5de5\u7cfb\n\nLaplace Transform The Laplace transform is a method of solving ODEs and initial value problems. The crucial idea is that operations of calculus on functions are replaced by operations of algebra on transforms. Roughly, differentiation of ft will correspond to multiplication of Lf by s see Theorems 1 and 2 and integration of\u2026\n\n\u2022 ###### Laplace Transform Practice Problems\n\nLaplace Transform Practice Problems Answers on the last page A Continuous Examples no step functions Compute the Laplace transform of the given function.\u2026\n\n\u2022 ###### Some Additional Examples Laplace Transform\n\nIn addition to the Fourier transform and eigenfunction expansions, it is sometimes convenient to have the use of the Laplace transform for solving certain problems in partial differential equations. We will quickly develop a few properties of the Laplace transform and use them in solving some example problems. Laplace Transform\u2026\n\n\u2022 ###### Laplace transform Solved Problems 1 - Semnan University\n\nLAPLACE TRANSFORM Many mathematical problems are solved using transformations. The idea is to transform the problem into another problem that is easier to solve. Once a solution is obtained, the inverse transform is used to obtain the solution to the original problem. The Laplace transform is an important tool that makes\u2026\n\nFurther Studies of Laplace Transform 15 45 The Laplace Transform and the Method of Partial Fractions 28 46 Laplace Transforms of Periodic Functions 35 47 Convolution Integrals 45 48 The Dirac Delta Function and Impulse Response 53 49 Solving Systems of Di erential Equations Using Laplace Trans-form 61 50 Solutions to Problems 68 2\u2026","date":"2021-03-02 03:54:41","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.9080737829208374, \"perplexity\": 427.88484295615586}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2021-10\/segments\/1614178363217.42\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20210302034236-20210302064236-00520.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
Mária Schumerová (* 18. května 1995, Michalovce) je slovenská herečka.
Je absolventkou VŠMU v Bratislavě. Hostuje ve Slovenském národném divadle a účinkovala také v Divadle Astorka. Účastní se také Letních shakespearovských slavností, kde ve hře Romeo a Julie ztvárňuje roli Julie.
Divadlo
Role v SND
Gerhart Hauptmann: Před východem slunce
Chanoch Levin: Pohreb alebo svadba - čo skôr?
Božena Slančíková-Timrava a Daniel Majling: Bál
Christopher Hampton: Popel a vášeň
Televize
Seriály
2018: Oteckovia
2019: Delukse
2019: Kriminálka 5.C
Filmy
2020: Sviňa
Odkazy
Reference
Externí odkazy
Mária Schumerová na stránkách Slovenského národného divadla
Slovenské herečky
Slovenské divadelní herečky
Slovenské televizní herečky
Absolventi Vysoké školy múzických umění v Bratislavě
Narození 18. května
Narození v roce 1995
Narození v Michalovcích
Žijící lidé
Ženy | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 4,246 |
//
// DummyAlertView.m
// popupSample
//
// Created by sonson on 09/06/11.
// Copyright 2009 __MyCompanyName__. All rights reserved.
//
#import "DummyAlertView.h"
#define DEFAULT_ALERTVIEW_WIDTH 280
#define DEFAULT_ALERTVIEW_HEIGHT 100
@interface DummyAlertView(Private)
- (void)setPathOfRoundCornerRect:(CGRect)rect radius:(float)radius;
@end
@implementation DummyAlertView
@synthesize contentHeight;
/*
@dynamic contentView;
#pragma mark -
#pragma mark Setter
- (void)setContentView:(id)newValue {
if (newValue != contentView) {
// Update instance
BOOL animated = (contentView != nil);
[contentView removeFromSuperview];
[contentView release];
contentView = [newValue retain];
[self addSubview:contentView];
// Adjust content view position to center
CGRect self_frame = self.frame;
CGRect content_frame = contentView.frame;
content_frame.origin.x = (self_frame.size.width - content_frame.size.width)/2;
content_frame.origin.y = (self_frame.size.height - content_frame.size.height)/2;
CGRect self_bounds = self.bounds;
self_bounds.size.height = content_frame.size.height + 50;
//contentView.transform = CGAffineTransformMakeScale(0.1, 0.1);
if (animated) {
[UIView beginAnimations:@"a" context:nil];
}
contentView.frame = content_frame;
self.bounds = self_bounds;
[self setNeedsDisplay];
if (animated) {
[UIView commitAnimations];
}
// [UIView beginAnimations:@"a" context:nil];
// contentView.frame = content_frame;
// contentView.transform = CGAffineTransformMakeScale(1, 1);
// [UIView commitAnimations];
//
// contentHeight automatically adjusted to height of content view.
//
contentHeight = content_frame.size.height;
}
}
*/
#pragma mark -
#pragma mark Private
- (void)setPathOfRoundCornerRect:(CGRect)rect radius:(float)radius {
CGContextRef context = UIGraphicsGetCurrentContext();
// outline
CGFloat minx = CGRectGetMinX( rect ), midx = CGRectGetMidX( rect ), maxx = CGRectGetMaxX( rect );
CGFloat miny = CGRectGetMinY( rect ), midy = CGRectGetMidY( rect ), maxy = CGRectGetMaxY( rect );
CGContextMoveToPoint(context, minx, midy);
CGContextAddArcToPoint(context, minx, miny, midx, miny, radius);
CGContextAddArcToPoint(context, maxx, miny, maxx, midy, radius);
CGContextAddArcToPoint(context, maxx, maxy, midx, maxy, radius);
CGContextAddArcToPoint(context, minx, maxy, minx, midy, radius);
CGContextClosePath(context);
}
#pragma mark -
#pragma mark Override
- (id)initWithFrame:(CGRect)frame {
DNSLogMethod
self = [super initWithFrame:frame];
self.backgroundColor = [UIColor clearColor];
self.autoresizingMask = UIViewAutoresizingFlexibleBottomMargin | UIViewAutoresizingFlexibleTopMargin | UIViewAutoresizingFlexibleLeftMargin | UIViewAutoresizingFlexibleRightMargin;
//
// Make a color gradient for growl.
//
CGColorSpaceRef rgb = CGColorSpaceCreateDeviceRGB();
CGFloat colors[] = {
1.0, 1.0, 1.0, 180.0/255.0,
1.0, 1.0, 1.0, 40/255.0,
};
growlGradient = CGGradientCreateWithColorComponents( rgb, colors, NULL, sizeof(colors)/(sizeof(colors[0])*4) );
CGColorSpaceRelease(rgb);
// Set default value
contentHeight = DEFAULT_ALERTVIEW_HEIGHT;
return self;
}
- (void)drawRect:(CGRect)rect {
DNSLogMethod
CGContextRef context = UIGraphicsGetCurrentContext();
//
// Draw window, centering automatically
//
float window_width = DEFAULT_ALERTVIEW_WIDTH;
float window_height = contentHeight;
float window_left = (rect.size.width - window_width) / 2;
float window_top = (rect.size.height - window_height) / 2;
CGContextSaveGState(context);
CGContextSetShadowWithColor(context, CGSizeMake(0, -1), 3.0, [UIColor blackColor].CGColor);
CGContextSetRGBStrokeColor(context, 0.9f, 0.9f, 0.9f, 0.75);
CGContextSetRGBFillColor(context, 12/255.0, 12/255.0, 12/255.0, 0.5);
CGContextSetLineWidth(context, 2);
[self setPathOfRoundCornerRect:CGRectMake(window_left, window_top, window_width, window_height) radius:10];
CGContextDrawPath(context, kCGPathFillStroke);
CGContextRestoreGState(context);
//
// Draw growl
//
CGContextSaveGState(context);
CGRect growlRect;
float growlRadius = 40;
float growl_horizontal_offset = 26; // round corner size?
float growl_vertical_offset = 40; // growl's height inside window
// calc. growl size
float growl_internal_width = window_width - growl_horizontal_offset * 2;
growlRect.size = CGSizeMake(growlRadius*2 + growl_internal_width, growlRadius*2);
// calc. growl origin
float growl_left = window_left + window_width/2 - growlRect.size.width/2;
float growl_top = window_top - growlRect.size.height + growl_vertical_offset;
growlRect.origin = CGPointMake(growl_left, growl_top);
// draw growl using clipping
[self setPathOfRoundCornerRect:CGRectMake(window_left, window_top, window_width, window_height) radius:10];
CGContextClip(context);
[self setPathOfRoundCornerRect:growlRect radius:growlRadius];
CGContextEOClip(context);
CGContextDrawLinearGradient(context, growlGradient, CGPointMake(0,window_top), CGPointMake(0,window_top+growl_vertical_offset), kCGGradientDrawsBeforeStartLocation | kCGGradientDrawsAfterEndLocation);
CGContextRestoreGState(context);
}
#pragma mark -
#pragma mark dealloc
- (void) dealloc {
CGGradientRelease(growlGradient);
// [contentView release];
[super dealloc];
}
@end
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 135 |
exports.up = function(knex, Promise) {
return Promise.all([
knex.schema.createTable('post', (table) => {
table.increments();
table.string('title');
table.string('content');
table.timestamps(false, true);
})
.createTable('comment', (table) => {
table.increments();
table.integer('post_id').unsigned().references('id').inTable('post').onDelete('CASCADE');
table.string('content');
table.timestamps(false, true);
})
]);
};
exports.down = function(knex, Promise) {
return Promise.all([
knex.schema.dropTable('post'),
knex.schema.dropTable('comment'),
]);
};
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 8,014 |
{"url":"http:\/\/islandparadise.wikia.com\/wiki\/Crops","text":"# Crops\n\n3,491pages on\nthis wiki\n\nThe primary gameplay in Island Paradise stems from the planting and harvesting of crops. Crops are separated into categories of Fast Growth, Medium Growth, and Long Growth dependent on how long they take to mature. There are also special crops released for holidays. Fertilizers can shorten the length of time it takes for a crop to mature.\n\nEach type of crop unlocks once the player reaches a specified level. Honeydew Melon, Raspberries, Cabbage, Beans, and special crops are available at the start of the game. Each crop requires a specified length of time to mature; these times are listed in hours and\/or days. After maturing, crops will stay harvestable for twice the time it took to mature. After three times the maturation time has passed since planting, crops will start to wither.\n\nPlant Price below refers to the cost to plant seeds for the crop and does not include the 10 coin cost to plow. Some crops have Variable Harvest. All Harvest coin yields below are the average harvest prices per plant as stated in the shop. Harvest prices per item (HPPI) do not vary. Crops also give experience points when harvesting dependent on the time they take to mature. These are listed as Harvest Experience. All crops give one experience point for plowing and two experience points for planting per plot.\u00a0 Profit is a calculation of how many coins you could make per hour (cph) on average if you harvest the crop immediately after it ripens. This includes the cost to plow.\n\nAll crops on this page reflect the original stats before any bonuses for Upgrading Crops. To see the stats after upgraded crop bonuses are unlocked see individual crop pages.\n\n## LegendEdit\n\nSymbol Description\nHPPI Harvest Price Per Item\nCoins, the in game Currency.\nItems per Plant This column reflects how many items there are per plant before any bonus from crop stars. See individual Crop pages for info on Items per Plant with a crop star.\nProfit Profit is measured in cph, or coins per hour. That is determined by the formula:$\\dfrac{Harvest - (Plant Price + Plow Price)}{Time} = Profit$ The Profit column is the profit before any crop stars are earned.\nRandom\/Friends Random event item, must find it in your news feed or on a friends profile page in order to obtain it.\n\"Full Islander\" For details on becoming a \"Full Islander\" see the Soybeans page\nClick this symbol in the upper right corner to expand the chart. This will allow you to see all the columns.\n\n## Permanent CropsEdit\n\nImage\n\nCrop name\n\nLevel Time Plant Price Harvest Items per Plant HPPI\n\nHarvest XP\n\nProfit\nBeets 1 5 m 4 18 3 Beets 6 1 xp 48.00 cph\nCantaloupe 1 3 m 2 15 1 Cantaloupe 15 1 xp 60.00 cph\nHoneydew Melon 1 15 m 6 18 6 Honeydew Melons 3 1 xp 8.00 cph\nLilikoi 1 4 h 40 64 8 Lilikoi 8 1 xp 3.5 cph\nSoybeans 1 8 h 45 85 5 Soybeans 17 2 xp 3.75 cph\nRaspberry Bush 2 4 h 10 30 10 Raspberries 3 1 xp 2.50 cph\nCabbage 2 12 h 22 50 10 Cabbages 5 3 xp 1.50 cph\n2 24 h 15 60 6 Beans 10 4 xp 1.25 cph\nCucumber 2 1 h 27 42 6 Cucumbers 7 1 xp 5.00 cph\n3 48 h 35 99 11 Corn 9 6 xp 1.13 cph\nLeek 4 3 h 27 48 6 Leek 8 1 xp 3.67 cph\nGreenery 12 h 27 60 2 Greenery 30 1 xp 1.92 cph\n4 8 h 30 50 10 Onions 5 2 xp 1.25 cph\nBaby's Breath 24 h 38 92 2 Baby's Breath 46 1 xp 1.83 cph\nBlack Tea Leaves 5 24 h 32 80 Raw Tea Leaves 10 4 xp 1.58 cph\nPotatoes 5 30 m 23 36 6 Potatoes 6 2 xp 6.00 cph\nBrussel Sprouts 5 10 h 42 75 5 Brussel Sprouts 15 2 xp 2.30 cph\nThyme 6 48 h 46 128 4 Thyme 32 6 xp 1.50 cph\n6 72 h 50 140 10 Pineapples 14 8 xp 1.11 cph\nBean Sprout Plant 7 14 h 65 102 6 Bean Sprouts 17 2 xp 1.93 cph\nWheat 7 48 h 80 160 4 Wheat 40 6 xp 1.46 cph\nWhite Aster 8 48 h 92 175 5 Cut White Aster 35 6 xp 1.5 cph\n8 6 h 55 81 9 Yams 9 1 xp 2.67 cph\nBamboo 9 24 h 70 110 5 Bamboo 22 3 xp 1.25 cph\nGrape Vine 10 12 h 65 100 10 Grapes 10 3 xp 2.08 cph\nPeanuts 24 h 80 120 8 Peanuts 15 3 xp 1.25 cph\nSumac 11 7 h 192 220 5 Sumac 44 2 xp 2.57 cph\nRice 11 2 h 35 54 6 Rice 9 1 xp 4.50 cph\nCoffee Bush 12 60 h 95 200 10 Coffee 20 7 xp 1.58 cph\nGarlic 12 96 h 164 354 6 Garlic 59 12 xp 1.88 cph\nIndigo 12 5 h 164 188 4 Indigo 47 1 xp 2.80 cph\nHorseradish 13 48 h 127 217 7 Horseradish 31 6 xp 1.67 cph\nGoldenrod 13 3 h 136 156 4 Goldenrod Flowers 39 1 xp 3.33 cph\nTaro Root 14 4 h 60 81 9 Taro Roots 9 1 xp 2.75 cph\nLily of the Valley 14 2 h 120 138 3 Lily of the Valley 46 1 xp 4.00 cph\nStrawberries 15 6 h 63 90 9 Strawberries 10 1 xp 2.83 cph\nSnow Peas 15 120 h 112 336 14 Snow Peas 24 12 xp 1.78 cph\nHuckleberry 15 4 h 150 172 4 Huckleberries 43 1 xp 3.00 cph\nPassion Fruit 16 8 h 75 108 12 Passion Fruits 9 2 xp 2.88 cph\nJute 16 6 h 179 205 5 Jute 41 2 xp 2.67 cph\nCotton 16 17 h 243 294 6 Cotton 49 3 xp 2.41 cph\nRye 17 24 h 86 136 8 Rye Grain 17 4 xp 1.67 cph\nFlax 17 8 h 210 240 6 Flax Seed & Fibers 40 2 xp 2.50 cph\nMustard 17 72 h 118 296 8 Mustard 37 10 xp 2.33 cph\nCarrots 18 10 h 85 120 12 Carrots 10 2 xp 2.50 cph\nCamellia 18 4 h 158 180 5 Camellia 36 1 xp 3.00 cph\nFennel 18 48 h 134 228 6 Fennel 38 6 xp 1.75 cph\nCoriander 19 18 h 105 162 6 Coriander 27 3 xp 2.61 cph\nAgave 20 6 h 68 96 4 Agave 24 2 xp 4.50 cph\nPeppers 21 24 h 100 160 10 Peppers 16 4 xp 2.08 cph\nSorghum 21 48 h 137 234 9 Sorghum 26 6 xp 1.81 cph\nCelery 22 13 h 134 180 3 Celery Stalk 60 2 xp 2.77 cph\nBitty Beechwood 22 24 h 150 212 4 Bitty Beechwood 53 4 xp 2.17 cph\nEdible Mushrooms 23 4 h 92 116 4 Mushrooms 29 1 xp 3.50 cph\nScallions 24 6 h 106 136 4 Scallions 34 1 xp 3.33 cph\nWatermelon Plant 24 48 h 140 240 10 Watermelons 24 6 xp 1.88 cph\nBalsa Bush 24 72 h 157 294 7 Balsa Wood 42 8 xp 1.76 cph\nTomatoes 25 8 h 120 156 6 Tomatoes 26 2 xp 3.25 cph\nPepino 25 96 h 200 414 6 Pepino 69 11 xp 2.13 cph\nBaby Ash 26 48 h 152 255 3 Ash Wood 85 6 xp 1.94 cph\nLemongrass 26 14 h 173 224 7 Lemongrass 32 3 xp 2.93 cph\nCumin 26 72 h 188 396 6 Cumin 66 10 xp 2.75 cph\nEggplant 27 12 h 165 212 4 Eggplants 53 3 exp 3.08 cph\nZucchini 27 96 h 212 450 5 Zucchini 90 10 xp 2.38 cph\nVanilla Plant 28 24 h 190 270 9 Vanilla Beans 30 4 exp 2.92 cph\nTiny Teak 28 96 h 163 335 5 Teak Wood 67 9 xp 1.69 cph\nCauliflower 28 48 h 169 291 3 Cauliflower 97 6 xp 2.33 cph\nSweet Potato 29 6 h 151 182 7 Sweet Potatoes 26 2 xp 3.50 cph\nRattan 30 48 h 154 280 4 Rattan 70 6 xp 2.42 cph\nMarshmallow Plant 30 9 h 167 207 9 Marshmallows 23 2 xp 3.33 cph\nSpinach 30 72 h 200 420 4 Spinach 105 10 xp 2.92 cph\nBlackberries 31 18 h 180 250 10 Blackberries 25 4 xp 3.33 cph\nSpaghetti Squash 31 96 h 222 470 5 Spaghetti Squash 94 12 xp 2.48 cph\nHickory 32 48 h 161 295 5 Hickory Wood 59 6 xp 2.58 cph\nCassava 32 48 h 198 342 6 Cassava Root 57 7 xp 2.79 cph\nBlueberries 33 120 h 220 480 12 Blueberries 40 15 xp 2.08 cph\nSavory 33 24 h 192 280 8 Savory 35 5 xp 3.25 cph\nChipotle Pepper 34 14 h 176 238 7 Chipotle Peppers 34 4 xp 3.71 cph\nDaikon 35 6 h 170 203 7 Daikon 29 9 xp 3.83 cph\nDill 3? 24 h 184 276 6 Dill 46 5 xp 3.42 cph\nGinger 36 12 h 177 231 3 Ginger Root 77 4 xp 3.67 cph\nGolden Straw 37 48 h 199 368 8 Golden Straw 46 7 xp 3.31 cph\nChickpea 37 72 h 203 444 6 Chickpeas 74 10xp 3.21 cph\nRed Cabbage 38 24 h 185 282 6 Red Cabbages 47 6 xp 3.63 cph\nKale 39 18 h 187 261 3 Kale 87 6 xp 3.56 cph\nSesame Seed 40 48 h 202 378 6 Sesame Seed 63 7 xp 3.46 cph\nIceberg Lettuce 4? 144 h 224 608 16 Iceberg Lettuce 38 16 xp 2.60 cph\nCowpeas 41 72 h 206 462 14 Cowpeas 33 12 xp 3.42 cph\nKumquat 41 10 h 192 240 8 Kumquat 30 3 xp 3.80 cph\nJamaican Blue Mountain Coffee 42 24 h 178 275 5 Blue Mountain Coffee Beans 55 6 xp 3.63 cph\nAnise 43 12 h 192 248 4 Anise 62 4 xp 3.83 cph\nOkra 44 16 h 196 266 7 Okra 38 4 xp 3.75 cph\nArugula 45 96 h 248 528 16 Arugula 33 13 xp 2.81 cph\nBroccoli 46 48 h 209 399 7 Broccoli 57 8 xp 3.75 cph\nGreen Lentils 47 24 h 194 294 14 Green Lentils 21 8 xp 3.75 cph\nSwiss Chard 48 72 h 210 490 10 Swiss Chard 49 15 xp 3.75 cph\nRhubarb 4? 48 h 216 410 5 Rhubarb 82 10 xp 3.83 cph\nAsparagus 50 12 h 199 256 8 Asparagus 32 4 xp 3.92 cph\nKabocha 5? 120 h 243 728 8 Kabocha 91 16 xp 3.96 cph\nLavender 52 24 h 190 306 9 Lavender 34 10 xp 4.42 cph\nYellow Tomatoes 53 8 h 192 235 5 Yellow Tomatoes 47 4 xp 4.13 cph\nBell Peppers 54 15 h 208 276 6 Bell Peppers 46 8 xp 3.87 cph\n55 6 h 190 225 5 Radishes 45 10 xp 4.17 cph\nCeleriac 5? 12 h 211 270 9 Celeriac 30 4 xp 4.08 cph\nCowberry 57 72 h 236 528 6 Cowberries 88 10 xp 3.92 cph\nArtichokes 58 10 h 211 261 3 Artichokes 87 6 xp 4.00 cph\nBlackcurrant 24 h 228 335 5 Blackcurrants 67 10 xp 4.04 cph\nKidney Beans 60 16 h 222 294 6 Kidney Beans 49 5 xp 3.88 cph\nWatermelon Radish 61 12 h 226 285 3 Watermelon Radishes 95 4 xp 4.08 cph\nBarley 63 48 h 250 448 4 Barley 112 12 xp 3.92 cph\nKohlrabi 65 20 h 237 325 5 Kohlrabi 65 9 xp 3.90 cph\nThai Basil 68 14 h 220 287 7 Thai Basil 41 9 xp 4.07 cph\nScotch Bonnet 70 10 h 240 280 5 Scotch Bonnet Peppers 56 7 xp 3.00 cph\nBlue Huckleberry 75 4 h 210 240 6 Blue Huckleberries 40 5 xp 5.00 cph\nHorned Melon 80 9 h 230 280 5 Horned Melon 56 7 xp 4.44 cph\nGinseng 83 48 h 260 462 7 Ginseng Root 66 16 xp 4.00 cph\nXanthic Mineral 86 96 h 289 675 5 Raw Citrine 135 17 xp 3.92 cph\nMephiticus 88 12 h 240 301 7 Fetid Blooms 43 7 xp 4.25 cph\nVoodoo Lily 90 8 h 229 275 5 Bones 55 7 xp 4.50 cph\n\n### Limited MC CropsEdit\n\nImage\n\nCrop name\n\nLevel Time Plant Price Harvest Items per Plant HPPI\n\nHarvest XP\n\nProfit\nSweetleaf 1 20 m 1 15 5 Sweetleaf 3 4 xp MC Crop\nBasil 1 30 m 1 21 3 Basil 7 2 xp MC Crop\n\nNote: Sweetleaf and Basil are no longer for sale in the shop.\n\n## Seasonal CropsEdit\n\nImage Crop name\n\nSeason\/ Event\n\nTime Plant Price Harvest Items per plant HPPI\n\nHarvest XP\n\nProfit\n\nTalk Like A Pirate Day '09\/'10\n\n4 h 10 50 10 Booty Berries 5 1 xp 7.5 cph\nHalloween '09\/'10, Thanksgiving '10 4 h 15 44 4 Pumpkins 11 1 xp 4.75 cph\n\nA few days\n\neach season\n\n2 h 40 64 2 Dragonfruit 32 1 xp 7.0 cph\nThanksgiving '09\/'10 8 h 25 69 3 Maize 23 2 xp 4.25 cph\nHolidays '09\/'10 8 h 35 80 8 Mistletoe 10 2 xp 4.38 cph\nGumdrop Bushes September '10 2 h 50 75 5 Gumdrops 15 4 xp 7.5 cph\nGhost Berries Halloween '10 8 h 250 287 7 Ghost Berries 41 2 exp 3.38 cph\nZombie Attack Halloween '10 12 h 55 88 4 Candied Brains 22 2 xp 1.92 cph\nSquash November 18-December 3, 2010 12 h 90 180 7 Squash 36 3 xp 6.67 cph\nCranberries Nov.18-30, '10\/Dec. 16-31, '10 6 h 70 124 4 Cranberries 31 1 xp 7.33 cph\nHolly Berry Bush Dec.18, '10-Jan. 2 '11 8 h 123 189 7 Holly Berries 27 1 xp 7.00 cph\nLucky Leaf March 3- April 2, 2011 6 h 31 84 7 Three-Leaf Clover 12 1 xp 7.17 cph\nTropical Icing August 25-September 8, 2011 4 h 26 80 1 Tropical Icing 80 1 xp 11.0 cph\nWitch Hazel Oct.27-Nov. 11, 2011 24 h 89 187 11 Witch Hazel 17 3 xp 3.67 cph\nRedcurrant Nov. 17- Dec 16, 2011 8 h 63 105 5 Redcurrants 21 2 xp 4.00 cph\n\n## Unlockable* CropsEdit\n\nImage Crop name Level Time Plant Price Harvest Items per Plant HPPI Harvest Experience Profit\nYucca Any-Random\/Friends 6 h 48 78 3 Yucca 26 2 xp 3.33 cph","date":"2017-05-23 22:21:32","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 1, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.5254415273666382, \"perplexity\": 12542.575249591588}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2017-22\/segments\/1495463607704.68\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20170523221821-20170524001821-00120.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
{"url":"https:\/\/www.getshifting.com\/wiki\/q\/q418?rev=1468736903&do=diff","text":"# SHIFT\n\n--- Sjoerd Hooft's InFormation Technology ---\n\n### Site Tools\n\nq:q418\n##### Differences\n\nThis shows you the differences between two versions of the page.\n\n \u2014 q:q418 [2016\/07\/17 08:28] (current) Line 1: Line 1: + = Question 418 = + This page is part of Q, the IT exam trainer. \\\\ See https:\/\/\u200bwww.getshifting.com\/\u200bq for more info \\\\ \\\\ **Question:\u200b** \\\\ An administrator tries to connect the vSphere 5.5 Client to an ESXi 6.x host. What will happen when this takes place? \\\\ \\\\ **Description:\u200b** \\\\ Please note that the \"\u200bold\"\u200b vSphere Client is only meant for host management.\u00a0\u200b \\\\ \\\\ **Correct Answer:** \\\\ The operation will prompt the administrator to run a script to upgrade the vSphere Client. \\\\ {{tag>\u200bqq}} \\\\","date":"2019-07-21 13:05:41","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": false, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 1.0000100135803223, \"perplexity\": 8542.198873555273}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 5, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2019-30\/segments\/1563195527000.10\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20190721123414-20190721145414-00407.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
package com.neocoretechs.relatrix;
import com.neocoretechs.relatrix.key.KeySet;
/**
* This class represents the morphisms stored in map,domain,range (codomain) order.
* The concept behind these permutations are to allow the Relatrix to go from Cat to Set.
* By storing these indexes with all their possible retrieval combinations for the morphisms,
* which turns out to be 6 indexes, we facilitate the retrieval of posets from our categories
* based on any number of possible operators and objects passed to the various 'findSet' permutations.
* @author Jonathan Groff (C) NeoCoreTechs 2014,2015,2021
*/
public class MapDomainRangeTransaction extends MorphismTransaction {
private static final long serialVersionUID = -3223516008906545636L;
public MapDomainRangeTransaction() {}
public MapDomainRangeTransaction(String xid, Comparable d, Comparable m, Comparable r) {
super(xid,d,m,r);
}
public MapDomainRangeTransaction(String xid, Comparable<?> d, Comparable<?> m, Comparable<?> r, KeySet keys) {
super(xid,d,m,r,keys);
}
public MapDomainRangeTransaction(String xid, Comparable<?> d, Comparable<?> m, Comparable<?> r, boolean template) {
super(xid,d,m,r,template);
}
@SuppressWarnings("unchecked")
@Override
public int compareTo(Object dmrpk) {
if(!this.getClass().equals(dmrpk.getClass()) && !dmrpk.getClass().isAssignableFrom(this.getClass()))
return Morphism.partialCompareTo(this, (Comparable) dmrpk);
MapDomainRangeTransaction dmr = (MapDomainRangeTransaction)dmrpk;
int cmp = 0;
if( dmr.getMap() == null )
return 1;
//cmp = map.compareTo(dmr.map);
cmp = Morphism.fullCompareTo(getMap(), dmr.getMap());
if( cmp != 0 ) return cmp;
if( dmr.getDomain() == null )
return 1;
//cmp = domain.compareTo(dmr.domain);
cmp = Morphism.fullCompareTo(getDomain(), dmr.getDomain());
if( cmp != 0 ) return cmp;
if( dmr.getRange() == null )
return 1;
//return range.compareTo(dmr.range);
return Morphism.fullCompareTo(getRange(), dmr.getRange());
}
@Override
public boolean equals(Object dmrpk) {
if(!this.getClass().equals(dmrpk.getClass()) && !dmrpk.getClass().isAssignableFrom(this.getClass()))
return Morphism.partialEquals(this, (Comparable) dmrpk);
MapDomainRangeTransaction dmr = (MapDomainRangeTransaction)dmrpk;
boolean cmp = false;
if( dmr.getMap() == null )
return false;
//cmp = map.equals(dmr.map);
cmp = Morphism.fullEquals(getMap(), dmr.getMap());
if( !cmp ) return cmp;
if( dmr.getDomain() == null )
return false;
//cmp = domain.equals(dmr.domain);
cmp = Morphism.fullEquals(getDomain(), dmr.getDomain());
if( !cmp ) return cmp;
if( dmr.getRange() == null )
return false;
//return range.equals(dmr.range);
return Morphism.fullEquals(getRange(), dmr.getRange());
}
@Override
public int hashCode() {
int result = 17;
result = 37*result + (getDomain() == null ? 0 : getDomain().hashCode());
result = 37*result + (getMap() == null ? 0 : getMap().hashCode());
result = 37*result + (getRange() == null ? 0 : getRange().hashCode());
return result;
}
/*
public Comparable returnTupleOrder(int n) {
// default dmr
switch(n) {
case 1:
return map;
case 2:
return domain;
case 3:
return range;
default:
break;
}
throw new RuntimeException("returnTupleOrder invalid tuple "+n);
}
*/
@Override
public Object clone() throws CloneNotSupportedException {
return new MapDomainRangeTransaction(transactionId, getDomain(), getMap(), getRange(), getKeys());
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 2,945 |
Q: Convert non-ascii domain to SMTP compatible When customers enter email addresses with non-ascii chars like äüö our SMTP rejects to process them.
So I think might be there is a solution to handle those domains myself and convert them to punyocode.
Is there a simple way of doing so using c#?
Would this work anyway?
A: You can use Uri.DnsSafeHost to convert to Punycode:
using System;
class Test
{
static void Main()
{
Console.WriteLine(ConvertToPunycode("caf\u00e9.com"));
}
static string ConvertToPunycode(string domain)
{
Uri uri = new Uri("http://"+domain);
return uri.DnsSafeHost;
}
}
In app.config:
<configuration>
<uri>
<idn enabled="All" />
</uri>
</configuration>
Result:
xn--caf-dma.com
A: The problem with this approach is that you'll be changing the email addresses.
The email addresses bevan@example.com and bevän@example.com are different email addresses, however much they appear the same.
Making the change you suggest will break email - people might receive the messages, but they won't be able to reply to them.
Your SMTP server that doesn't handle accented characters sounds like a dinosaur. Much as it might be a pain in the proverbial, replacement and/or upgrade is likely the best solution.
You'll likely be able to get more appropriate assistance over on ServerFault.
A: Converting Unicode characters in your email address' domain name to Punycode resolves the correct DNS records so it won't be rejected by your SMTP. It can be done simply using System.Uri without modifying app.config:
/// <summary>
/// Try passing example@äüö.com
/// </summary>
/// <param name="email"></param>
/// <returns></returns>
internal string GetSafeEmail(string email)
{
const char at = '@';
string[] split = email.Split(at);
string safeHost = new Uri("http://" + split[1]).IdnHost;
// Don't convert the username to Punycode
return string.Join(at, split[0], safeHost);
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 513 |
First published in Great Britain in 2007
by Pen & Sword Aviation
an imprint of
Pen & Sword Books Ltd
47 Church Street
Barnsley
South Yorkshire
S70 2AS
Copyright©Henry Amyas Adlam 2007
Maps on pages 149 and 167 copyright©Aza Adlam 2007
ISBN 978 1 84415 6290
ePub ISBN 9781844683741
PRC ISBN 9781844683758
The right of Henry Amyas Adlam to be identified as Author
of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission from the Publisher in writing.
Illustrations scanned by 4Word, Bristol
Typeset in 10 on 12 point Palatino by
Victoria Arrowsmith-Brown, Bristol
Printed and bound in
England by CPI UK
Pen & Sword Books Ltd incorporates the imprints of Pen & Sword Aviation, Pen & Sword Maritime, Pen & Sword Military, Wharncliffe Local History, Pen & Sword Select, Pen & Sword Military Classics and Leo Cooper.
For a complete list of Pen & Sword titles please contact
PEN & SWORD BOOKS LIMITED
47 Church Street, Barnsley, South Yorkshire, S70 2AS, England
E-mail: enquiries@pen-and-sword.co.uk
Website: www.pen-and-sword.co.uk
## Dedication
This book is dedicated to my much loved wife and companion, Saccie, with whom I shared fifty-three happy years, and to my dear son, Jeremy, whose great pleasure was to read a book.
Would that they were both here to read this one.
This story is about my war and the worst of it was the loss of so many friends with whom I flew, and who did not have my luck to have survived. Also, therefore, this book is dedicated to them.
## Acknowledgments
Mary James, who encouraged me to start writing and taught me how to write short stories good enough to be published.
Aza, my daughter, who encouraged me to keep writing, and turned out to be such a very good editor.
David Reed, who had to work hard in correcting my grammatical errors and who thought of the title for this book.
Victoria Arrowsmith-Brown, who advised me and led me by the hand through the strange world of publishers and literary agents.
## Contents | List of illustrations and maps
---|---
Chapter 1 | Fledgling Flight
Chapter 2 | Fighter Course
Chapter 3 | A Pause
Chapter 4 | 890 Squadron
Chapter 5 | Convoy
Chapter 6 | Some Happenings at Sea
Chapter 7 | Ashore and on Leave
Chapter 8 | HMS _Illustrious_
Chapter 9 | The Mediterranean
Chapter 10 | The Far East
Chapter 11 | HMS _Atheling_
Chapter 12 | HMS _Indomitable_
Chapter 13 | Palembang and the Pacific
Chapter 14 | Batsman and 1846 Squadron
Chapter 15 | Immediate Post-war: 1846 Squadron
Chapter 16 | Return to Yeovilton
|
Appendix
|
Index
## List of illustrations and maps
Illustration | |
Text
---|---|---
page | |
page
1, 2 | Advanced Flying Training at Netheravon, 1941
|
3 | At Fighter School, RNAS Yeovilton, 1941
|
4 | 890 Squadron, 1942
|
5 | HMS _Battler_ , 890 Squadron, 1942
|
6 | At Donibristle, a pause between ships
|
7 | HMS _Illustrious_ , 890 Squadron, 1942
|
8 | HMS _Atheling_ , 890 Squadron, 1944
|
9, 10 | HMS _Indomitable_ , 1839 Squadron, 1944-45
|
11, 12, 13, 14 | HMS _Colossus_ , 1846 Squadron, 1945-46
|
15 | RNAS Yeovilton, 1947-8
|
16 | Painting by Hank Adlam
|
|
Excerpts from Squadron diaries
|
|
|
|
Maps of South Asia and the Pacific
|
## Author's Note
My memories of the events and happenings described in this story are strong and clear, albeit that they occurred over sixty years ago now. But, although squadron diaries and log books are a help, I have to acknowledge that on the sequence of these events, their precise dates, and on some names, my memory sometimes may be at fault.
## CHAPTER ONE
## Fledgling Flight
This is my first solo at night and I am tense and nervous, as I line the aircraft up along the side of the flare path. Set the gyro compass, turn the cockpit lights right down, check the trim, select propeller at fine pitch, flaps up, plenty of fuel – then slowly now, I open the throttle fully while concentrating on keeping straight alongside the flare path. Flare path indeed... nothing but a line of paraffin flares set twenty yards apart and across nothing more than a large meadow at Shrewton, the satellite airfield to our aerodrome at Netheravon. Airborne now and eyes straight onto the instruments, never mind the absolute blackness outside. At eight hundred feet turn to port ninety degrees and there sure enough I see the flare path over my left shoulder. I feel more at ease in the black night now. All that remains, I tell myself, is to follow the well-known circuit procedure and to line up carefully on the final approach to land. 'Come on Henry, stop sweating. It's not really a problem.'
On the final approach, the flare path is beginning to slide away under me to my right. Bank right and quickly left again to line up... that's it. Start throttling back now, get the nose up a bit more and some right rudder... the sudden stall. And I am much too high and she drops like a brick – the port wing hits first – full throttle and full right rudder – all too late – an almighty crashing and grinding sound as the aircraft scrapes over the ground with bits coming off it in all directions. Sudden silence – except for a tinkling noise from the smashed engine and I am sitting strapped into the cockpit still holding the control column. Lights and figures coming towards me and shouting. I must get out... quickly! I undo straps and parachute harness, scramble out on to the ground because the port wing isn't there, and stumble into the arms of friends. Except for a bruise on the right side of my head, I am in apparent good order. This is more than can be said for the Miles Master which, constructed of wood, has broken its back and left bits of itself, including the wings, all along the scraped path of its passage along the ground. There go my wings too, I thought as I had most probably just failed the flying course.
Four months earlier on 3 January 1941, I had arrived at St Vincent's barracks in Gosport to join a total of one hundred and sixteen young men, some of them boys really of age eighteen or nineteen, on the 23rd Pilots' course of the Fleet Air Arm, which included an unusually high colonial intake of thirty-five New Zealanders and fourteen Canadians. The course consisted of classroom work on navigation, theory of flight, signals, information on warships and their operation but the emphasis was on square bashing and parades. It was intended obviously as a short, sharp introduction to naval life and discipline to mould a bunch of civilian boys into young men with sufficient gumption for wartime aviation. It needed to generate too, in a period of two months, an enthusiasm for the Royal Navy and a feeling of belonging to it. Sunday 'Divisions', when the entire barracks of four hundred men paraded in their No. 1 uniforms for inspection by the Captain and Officers with the Marine band playing, was a part of it.
It was not difficult for grammar and public schoolboys to learn new classroom subjects but, for those from grammar school accustomed to life at home, it must have been particularly difficult to adapt to the bad food, myriads of cockroaches and uncomfortable conditions. The Royal Navy appeared to be convinced too that doors to lavatories were tantamount to unsafe sex and that those grossly overloaded and filthy lavatories, as they were in the main building, would in time un-clog themselves without the aid of plumbers. Except for those unpleasant lavatories outside, I could cope with the accommodation conditions in the barracks itself since in some respects they were much better than they had been at Harrow. For example, at the end of the passage on each dormitory floor of the barracks there were two lavatories, two urinals, two showers and twelve wash-basins with hot water. Whereas, at Harrow, the nearest lavatory to the study-bedrooms had been down in the basement, four floors below, while washing facilities had consisted of a basin and jug of water with cold showers downstairs.
Learning how to integrate and get on with the other young men from commonwealth countries with such different backgrounds was an education in itself for us Brits as indeed, vice versa, it was for them. It was surprising how well we all got on together, although the very occasional fist fight did occur. I became involved in one against a Rhodesian boy, over where we sat in the classroom. He swept my books, which I had left to mark my place, on to the floor. No one could be less of an aggressive fighter than me, but I took a swing at him and knocked him so that he tripped backwards on to the floor. He came flying off the floor at me and we bashed at each other until the others, thank heavens, held us both back while I made feeble struggles to get at him again. He, on the contrary, appeared only too anxious to continue the fight and really did have to be restrained. The officer who was to teach us then appeared, whereupon the bloodthirsty New Zealanders implored the officer to declare a formal fight in the Gym. This was the Navy way of settling scores between quarrelling sailors, a bloody battle in the ring until one or the other was knocked senseless in front of a yelling crowd of sailors. The officer, very angry, told us that we were supposed to be officer material and not to act like slum children and refused any such nonsense. What a relief!
This Rhodesian lad and I, some time later, found ourselves alone by chance in a street bomb shelter, which we had been detailed to clean up after part of it had been demolished by a direct hit. After we had finished clearing up, while waiting for transport to take us back to barracks, we started to talk. He told me how strange and out of place he felt in our English cities and, being obviously of mixed race, he had met prejudice and felt unwelcome here. How awful it was that this young man had volunteered to come to our land to fight for us and was made to feel rejected. We made friends and I tried hard to bring him in amongst my group, but he was so very prickly that it didn't work. I learned two years later that he had been killed flying a Swordfish at night from an Escort Carrier.
All this could have been difficult enough but this course coincided with the heavy bombing almost every night of Portsmouth and Gosport resulting in little sleep at nights when guard duties on storage depots to deal with looters and fire-bombs were regular tasks. There was also the selection at early morning parade each day of men for the 'Pick and Shovel Party' which had the grim task of clearing bombed buildings after the previous night's air raids. We all shuffled around falling in for that early parade trying to dodge this loathsome and sometimes gruesome job. There was never any let up on the work and activities of the course, which remained intensive regardless of the bombing. With so little sleep at night, I was nearly always very tired, hungry and dirty, as no doubt were the others, but there was a strong sense of comradeship among us. We went out to the pubs at any opportunity and played two games of rugby, Brits against the New Zealanders. They won both times.
After five weeks, unexpectedly, we were granted a long week-end leave and I took the cross-country trains to arrive at Taplow desperate for some longed for sleep and good food at home. I had not been able to warn mother on the telephone that I was coming and I was shattered, when I arrived, to find she was away visiting friends. Our neighbours, Howard and Philippa, took me in and put me to bed where I slept for sixteen hours until midday on the Saturday when, after a heavenly hot bath, they provided me with a huge meal using their precious rations to do so. I slept almost continuously again until a bath and another good meal with them on Sunday. What true Samaritans they were. Then back to the barracks again on Sunday evening, refreshed and ready to enjoy life once more. The truth is that in spite of the bloody bombs, life was fun.
At Luton for _ab initio_ flying training we were accommodated some twelve miles away from the airfield in a large house, right in the country with not even a village nearby, owned I seem to remember by people called Cassels. It didn't matter who they were because we never caught sight of them anyway and they certainly never came near us. The living quarters were their three big ground floor rooms filled with double bunks, one on top of the other, and nothing else except the ground floor lavatory. Buses were provided to take us to the airfield where we had breakfast, midday meal and supper and then to return us to our stark and dreary habitation. Sometimes we would miss supper to share a taxi to and from the airfield to a pub in Luton. Not often, we couldn't afford it.
The only thing was to get on with learning to fly Magisters, small monoplanes, and to concentrate on the ground instruction both of which demanded our maximum effort. Despite the miserable living arrangements for us, I don't recall that we minded very much as we were so intent on the excitement of flying. The instructors were all regular members of the Royal Air Force, men who were nearly all anxious to complete their stint of instructing and to join operational squadrons. But they were good at their job, most of them, even though they wanted to be elsewhere.
My instructor was a small, elderly and grizzled sergeant pilot, who though rather gruff and morose on the ground, was a good enough instructor in the air for me to go solo safely after just under four hours of flying with him; a bit better than the average time. Going solo was the first rung of the ladder. To be airborne alone and in charge of the Magister was enormously exciting and what a wonderful feeling it was to taxi in after landing, knowing that I had done it. The snag with my little old sergeant was that he evidently did not like aerobatics. As the course continued, all the others were doing aerobatics all over the sky, or so they said, and I longed to be shown how to do them. I even tried by myself but succeeded only in scaring myself. Eventually, one fine morning, he demonstrated a rather wobbly loop to me and a ropey slow roll which became a barrel roll. He allowed me a couple of goes at them myself but just that and no more before we landed. That lack of instruction stayed with me all my flying life. Eventually, I became able to put an aircraft where I wanted usually in whatever position I wanted, but I never had that particular and precise control of the aircraft so essential for good aerobatics.
There was an examination on ground subjects and a flying test at the end of this _ab initio_ part of the flying course, which had lasted four weeks. Seven failed the test and were sent away for normal duty aboard ships. The rest of us at Luton understood that the next stage of the flying would be at Netheravon near Salisbury, but apparently there was a delay and we were sent to the Fleet Air Arm barracks at Lee-on-Solent instead.
Once again we were back into naval procedures and discipline, which meant early parade in the morning where we would be detailed off to do various cleaning jobs or armament and ship instruction if not square bashing. But I was in luck because I was with a group of twelve in one dormitory and amongst us was Jack Cole. Jack was in our terms elderly, about twenty-five years old and a natural streetwise character. He had sussed out the naval procedures and realised that, provided we never attended the morning parade, the Petty Officers would not know who we were or what we were supposed to be doing. Consequently, when the wakey wakey bugle call was made on the Tannoy for us to get up out of our bunks, dress and go to the parade, Jack called out 'Stop, nobody move!' It was a risk; we would be up before the Commander and serious trouble for the lot of us if found there.
Jack was absolutely right. No one came to check and at 10 am, the mid morning time for break, he said it was now safe to go to the canteen for our breakfast. After breakfast, Jack assembled us outside the dormitory block, told us to carry our rolled towels and then marched us smartly and correctly to the gates, called us to attention and reported to the Chief Petty Officer, 'Bathing Party from Collingwood all correct, Chief, permission to proceed to the baths please.' 'Carry on,' replied the Chief Petty Officer and we marched smartly through the gates down to the pubs. Because of Jack, our seven days in barracks became a holiday rest period. The other members of our flying course were furiously jealous.
Later on I accompanied Jack on weekend escapades to such places as Torquay. I felt that there was so much I could learn from him, particularly about women, who seemed ready to fall over backwards for him at anytime. I could not understand it.
He was really quite gross in appearance with a rubicund round face and thick cherry red lips with a head of smooth but sparse black hair and yet he had a sexual magnetism, some magic that made women want him. There was I, slim and rather good looking I thought but, with Jack, I had to accept being a girl's second choice. Perhaps I was not sexy enough but the more likely truth was that I was too young, gauche and even rather prudish still. Whatever the reason, I was having a conspicuous lack of success with women. I was learning that younger women and girls were more interested in older men – or should I say – more interested in men rather than boys? My problem was how to acquire the experience to become the former rather than the latter. I lost touch with Jack and I am not sure what happened to him. But I have the feeling that he gave up the flying course after a few weeks at Netheravon.
From Lee-on-Solent we were taken by bus to Netheravon for the Advanced Flying course. And what a cracking good and welcome surprise Netheravon was for all of us. The expectation of us all was to suffer the austerity of yet another naval barracks. It was nothing of the sort. Although we were still dressed as sailors and regarded officially as such, we found ourselves accommodated in what had been double cabins for officers and we were to use the Officers' Mess, which included the dining hall, comfortable lounge with leather armchairs and a bar. Our flying Instructors were RAF again but a new and separate Mess had been built for them leaving us with the exclusive use of their old accommodation. The cooks and stewards who looked after us were all WAAFs and our control and discipline was in the hands of Sergeants instead of Petty Officers.
At Netheravon we were selected as budding Fighter pilots or as Torpedo/Bomber pilots. I have no knowledge on what basis the selection was made or who made it. Thank heavens someone, somewhere and for whatever reason had considered me as suitable to be a Fighter pilot. As such I was appointed to a dispersal where I would fly the very latest training aircraft, the Miles Master. What luck; for it was a low-wing monoplane with a powerful radial engine, and the nearest thing to a modern fighter as it was possible to be. It was a powerful looking monster of an aircraft and very daunting. Both cockpits were enclosed in separate glass canopies with the Instructor in the rear. Communication with each other and with the ground was via one of the new Radio/Telephone sets.
My Instructor was Flying Officer Michael Helm, a tall gangly, dark young man who was my second bit of luck because he was a superb instructor as well as a good pilot. In the air he was quietly spoken and very competent in his demonstrations and instructions. When he first showed me the cockpit of the Miles Master, I felt dazed by the mass of instruments but he patiently explained them all and their place in the scheme of things so that, before we flew, I understood them and had compartmented them in my mind. The acceleration as we took off on our first flight remains in my memory but more memorable, some three flying hours later, was my first solo in this powerful aircraft which I found even more exciting than the earlier first solo in the Magister. I felt that I really was on the way to becoming a fighter pilot but, as the flying training progressed and I made so many mistakes, came the sobering realisation that I had a long way to go and much to learn before I could hope to gain my Wings.
The advanced flying training, as it was called, was divided into two parts: the first forty hours or so on learning to fly the Miles Master competently and with assurance and then another twenty or more doing more difficult exercises such as formation flying, cross-country flights, low flying and night flying. There was a flying test with a Squadron Leader at the end of the first part. I nearly failed this when I all but put us into a hedge on the final approach of a practice forced landing but it turned out to be not entirely my fault as the engine had hiccupped when I opened the throttle wide to get clear. The engineers found a fault with the petrol pump after we landed back at Netheravon so the Squadron leader, somewhat reluctantly, I thought, passed me fit for the next stage.
Low flying was great fun but had its penalties for those who flew too low or without sufficient concentration. Two chaps on our course were killed flying in formation too low down when one took a sudden turn to miss a tree and they collided. We were to complete two cross-country flights in the second part of the course. I managed one of them all right but on the second, in deteriorating weather, would have become completely lost on the way back if I had not seen a small grass airfield below. I wasn't going to mess about in that weather; the airfield seemed empty so I steep turned round, selected wheels down and landed there. An RAF sergeant came up to the cockpit and I shouted for directions to Netheravon. He didn't appear surprised, obviously I wasn't the first sprog pilot to land there, so he pointed to the direction for me and with his hands and fingers indicated twenty miles. Before I opened the throttle to taxi away, I put my finger to my mouth in a hush gesture obviously asking him not to report me to Netheravon. He laughed, nodded in agreement and gave me the thumbs up.
The next big hurdle was night flying. This took place at Shrewton, no more than a very large field near the village of that name about five miles from Netheravon. The procedure was for two senior instructors to drive there as an advance party with a van from which the aircraft would be controlled and a bus to act as a rest room for the pupil pilots. The Instructors would decide the wind direction and then supervise the laying down of a line of 'goose flares' along the take-off path. These flares were just pots of burning paraffin when lit. We pupils, about eight of us for each night, flew to Shrewton with our Instructors in the late afternoon. I was extremely nervous at the prospect of night flying and I could sense that Michael Helm, my Instructor, was at least uneasy about it too. One of the pupils on our course had been killed the night before on his solo flight and, not unnaturally, we were all of us a bit uptight. Presumably he had lost contact with the flare path and his smashed aircraft and body had been found several miles away.
All we were expected to do was a take-off, fly a circuit of the airfield area and a landing. There would be no more than two aircraft in the circuit at one time and the first two before us had already started up their engines and were preparing to taxi out. It was an absolutely black night and all that could be seen of the aircraft were their wing and tail lights and the exhaust flames from their engines until the amber Aldis light from the control van stabbed through the darkness to give them clearance to taxi on to the line of the flare path. My instructor and I were in our aircraft, with engine not yet started, watching carefully.
The first aircraft moved forward and lined up about ten yards on the right hand side of the flares It stayed there with engine running fast against the brakes and Helm reminded me that the pilots were meticulously setting the correct reading for the gyro compass which, after three ninety-degree turns in the circuit, would help them to line up on the final approach to land. As the aircraft gathered speed down the flare-path and became airborne I could see its lights clearly. The second followed the same procedure and was given clearance to take off only when the first aircraft could be seen by its lights to have turned on to the downwind leg.
The plan for this night was that the instructor would do the first circuit and landing from the back cockpit, from which incidentally the visibility was very poor, then each student pilot would complete two circuits and landings overlooked by his instructor from the back cockpit. On the subsequent night the student would do one more landing with his Instructor and then he must complete two night landings solo. We started our engine, already warmed and tested earlier, and when we received the amber light Helm taxied to the take-off position and lined the aircraft up alongside the flare path. As he opened up the throttle, I surreptitiously set my gyro compass on '0' instead of on the correct compass reading. I had decided that this would help me to keep close to the airfield when the time came for me to go solo; it would simplify checking the exact ninety-degree turns in the circuit. So I did it now to see how it would work; Helm need never know. On the other hand, as I was aware, this same idea might have killed the student on the previous night because, if he had lost sight of the flares, he could have become completely lost in the blackness without a correct compass setting and flown into the hillside.
Once airborne, it was absolutely black outside and I could see nothing other than our cockpit instruments. Helm spoke on the R/T, 'Don't begin looking for the flare path until after the first ninety-degree turn, just concentrate on instrument flying, correct airspeed and height.' He carried on talking quietly all the way round the circuit, explaining what he was doing. Lucky me to have such a good instructor just when I was feeling really frightened. He did a good landing, although I could see little of it, because I could not quite orientate myself with the ground during the final approach.
Came my turn to fly the circuit and land. I did not do well. My scheme with the gyro compass helped me to keep the flares in sight as I flew the downwind and crosswind legs, but on the final approach for some reason I kept losing sight of the flare path. Helm talked me down safely for the two landings with him and he did so without touching the dual controls. It was a cold night but I had sweated all the way round the circuit. There was a van ready to take us back to Netheravon, leaving the aircraft there ready to fly on the next night. The local pub was still open and, in company with fellow students, I sank two large and much needed whiskies. And so to bed.
I had something else very much on my mind as well as the awful prospect of the solo flight on the following night. As if that wasn't enough to worry about, my other problem was that Philippa, our neighbour at Taplow, had telegraphed to confirm that she would arrive the next evening to stay at a local hotel for two nights. Ever since the weekend when she and her husband, Howard, had looked after me so kindly, there had been correspondence between us. I cannot explain how this situation had arisen except perhaps that, as a gormless boy, I had liked the idea of being chased by a mature, married woman who had appeared to be interested in me. I didn't want to be involved in an affair with her so how had it developed to this stage? There were so many factors against it. She was much older (albeit with a nice firm body) and really I preferred young girls. And overall I was preoccupied with the worries and intensity of flying and earning my wings. But letters from her had continued and I had failed to signal a firm 'no' so now here I was with the prospect of a real affair on my hands.
I was due to drive to the George Hotel in Amesbury to join her there at around 9 or 10 pm depending on what time I finished my night flying. I had arranged that I would drive to Shrewton in Emma, my little old Austin Seven, since the aircraft would already be dispersed there. I had been reconciled to the prospect of sleeping with 'Booful' as I unkindly called her and thought that, under her mature guidance, I would lose my virginity at last. This would be an essential step forward, I considered, enabling me perhaps to make better progress next time I was attracted by a pretty young girl.
It didn't happen like that at all. None of it – because that was my first solo at night and was the night that I crashed and completely wrote off an aircraft.
Immediately after the crash, my Instructor, Michael Helm, was kind and encouraging. I told him that I had weekend leave and an immediate date with a girl in Amesbury and please could I go? I felt a bit shaky and I wanted desperately to get away and to relax. There was a young RAF doctor who looked me over and agreed I could go. But I would have to report, with my instructor, to the Wing Commander in charge of training at 10 am on the following morning. So off I went in Emma.
Amesbury was only a few miles away and I stopped at a pub on the way for a large whisky and felt slightly less shaky. Arriving at the George Hotel I asked for 'Mrs Smith' and was told she had left a message to go straight up to her room. I knocked on the door and went in to find Philippa sitting up in bed, wearing a flimsy little nightie, and looking as attractive as she could. But to me at that moment the most attractive thing in the room was the bed. Perhaps it was a delayed form of shock or something, I don't know, but I was trembling and I longed for sleep. I told her briefly as I undressed that I had written an aircraft off but was unhurt except for a bang on the head. Normally I would have been modest about undressing but now I just took my shoes, socks and uniform off as fast as I could then without hesitation vest and pants and climbed naked into bed with her. If she hoped my trembling was with passion then it must have been all the more disappointing for Philippa because I fell into her arms, put my head on the pillow, and went fast asleep without so much as a single bounce.
She was an absolute sweetie that Philippa: I was hardly aware of it but she cuddled me in her arms all that night and made no demands on me. I woke up in daylight to see an elderly maid come in with the breakfast which Philippa had ordered and leave us, with a kindly smile on her face, as we sat up in bed and enjoyed the hot coffee and breakfast. I said how sorry I was to have been so useless but she replied that I shouldn't worry, it was just bad luck and anyway, it had given her pleasure to hold the body of a young naked boy in her arms all night. Oh dear, back to being a boy, I groaned to myself, when I had hoped to rise proudly as a full-blooded man. We talked it over and both decided that what had happened, or not happened to be more accurate, was a good thing as neither of us wished to hurt Howard, her husband. I would have to go to learn my fate from the Wing Commander and so we had a sibling style farewell kiss and I left her to report back to Netheravon.
I got off lightly but Michael Helm, my Instructor, was reprimanded and so was the young Doctor, both of them for allowing me to leave instead of reporting to sick bay after the accident as I should have done. I was to remain under medical observation until Monday night when, if I was passed as fit, I must carry out my two solo night flights. It was made clear that if I failed these, then I would also have failed the course.
Monday night was not quite so dark and there was even a glimmer of moon. I had become much calmer and worked out in my mind that I needed to overshoot slightly on the crosswind leg and so turn in later towards the final approach. Also I must aim at the last line of flares rather than peering down and side-slipping towards the nearer flares below the aircraft. It worked and I made two good landings.
Early next morning, eight of us had to fly the aircraft from Shrewton back to Netheravon. The engine on mine failed to start at first and I took off about ten minutes after the other six who were led by a young instructor. After a few minutes, at a thousand feet, I flew into a bank of thick low misty cloud. A bit frightening at that level on instruments but I was sensible enough not to let down through the low cloud. Instead I started a careful turn through one eighty degrees, came out of the cloud, saw Shrewton airfield and landed. The mist cleared about an hour later and then I could fly to Netheravon. I arrived to find a disaster had occurred. Apparently there had been a dangerous muddle near the airfield as six pilots and their Instructor had tried to fly under the very low cloud level to reach the field for a landing. One student pilot had hit the ground and was killed. A sad ending to our course and the instructor was very properly court-martialled; more than the one student could have been killed. He should have flown ahead of the others, seen the weather conditions and postponed their take–off.
I remember my time at Netheravon as a period of great pleasure, good comradeship and excitement as gradually I gained the necessary flying skills. I had shared a cabin initially with Jack and, after he left, I shared with Basil Bartlett, rather a shy young man of my own age but we became good friends. He and two others, Tony and Bruce, were my best friends at that time although all of us on the course got on well together. Discipline was nothing like as severe as in a naval barracks but strong enough that we had to behave ourselves. Use of the Officers' Mess made life so much more comfortable and pleasant although sorties into Salisbury for smart dinners or booze were quite frequent. Masses of young soldiers dominated the City and consequently girls were in short supply there. Some of the more capable of us, not me, were able to find girl friends among the WAAFs at Netheravon.
Several visits were made by ENSA to entertain the whole Station and we flying students, in our classy Officers' Mess, were able to invite them to drinks (beer only) with us afterwards. I met Lalline, who danced and sang a bit on the ENSA stage, a girl of twenty-three who seemed to quite like me. I invited her to dine with me at the 'Haunch of Venison' in Salisbury and thereafter we met from time to time over the next few years whenever the war and our obligations would allow. She was responsible for the loss of my virginity at last, although I cannot remember exactly at which hotel this happened – only that I enjoyed the experience. Lalline was a sensible girl and would not permit me, just because we were in bed together, to imagine that I was having a great love affair. She told me just to get on with it and enjoy it when we could. As a romantic boy still, I had rather wanted a grand affair but I would have to be satisfied with having been successfully deprived of my virginity.
Paying for smart hotels and restaurants was no problem. I had never been so wealthy and very rarely have I been so since then. Twice a month we formed a queue at the Pusser's desk for our pay and, in accordance with naval tradition, this was placed on the top of our caps which we held out in front of us. Flying pay made the difference and the total came to £5 and 12 shillings every fortnight. Everything else, other than our booze and pleasure, was paid for already. Our accommodation, our meals and uniforms were all free. Thus we were truly rich.
I do believe that the significant factor about life at Netheravon was the delightful laid-back atmosphere of the place because, despite the seriousness of their purpose and their undoubted competence, the attitude of the instructors and senior officers was relaxed. Later FAA pilot courses were sent to America to train and I am so enormously thankful that I trained at Netheravon and Yeovilton. I much preferred the flavour of Britain at war where, for example, the airfield at Netheravon sometimes closed on Saturdays for twenty minutes and all flying stopped while the local hunt, in their pinks and on their horses with their yelping hounds, were allowed to stream across the airfield making silly noises on their hunting horns. I loved that gloriously dotty English attitude in wartime England with all its lovely pubs, as compared with drinking coke and the intense formality of flying training in America.
Examinations took place during the last three days of the course. There were few visits to Salisbury or the pubs during the week beforehand, which was taken up with revising all the ground work on navigation, theory of flight and armament, etc, which many of us had neglected to study thoroughly earlier. I was worried because I had been lazy and intent on enjoying life rather than bothering with these boring ground subjects. But many before me had failed the exams and never gained their wings as the result.
The utter relief and the joy when I was included on the list of those who were awarded their priceless 'wings.' This was followed by a formal letter from the Admiralty in lovely old-fashioned and pompous wording to inform me that their Lordships were pleased to commission me as a Midshipman in the Voluntary Reserve of the Royal Navy. They also sent me a grant of £40 to purchase my uniforms. There followed two weeks leave during which I rushed to Gieves in London, where the same representative who had fitted me for my Harrow school uniform fitted me with my reefer jacket with the maroon tabs of an RNVR midshipman. Best of all, of course, were the gold-braided wings on the left sleeve.
## CHAPTER TWO
## Fighter Course
Four Midshipmen walked through the main gates of the Royal Naval Air Station at Yeovilton, Somerset in June 1941. They were self-conscious in their new uniforms which were without any gold stripes of rank, but the maroon coloured tabs on the lapels of the jackets marked them as midshipmen of the RNVR, regarded as the lowest of the low in any Officers' Mess of the Royal Navy. However, they did have on the left arm sleeve of their jackets the small gold-braided wings worn by pilots of the Fleet Air Arm. The four were Bruce Clark, Tony Harris, Basil Bartlett and myself. We were walking on naval ground not as ordinary sailors, but for the first time as officers and we were nervously uncertain how to conduct ourselves. In consequence we might have appeared too excited and loud as we walked talking down the main roadway towards the airfield and, as we passed an officer amongst other naval personnel, he stopped, turned towards us and commanded, 'Halt there. Stand to attention and salute.' We all promptly did so, our faces red with embarrassment.
He was a small Lt Commander with RN stripes of rank and sporting what in the Navy are termed 'buggery grips' being tufts of hair on each side of his purple angry face.
'Is it your normal practice as midshipmen to pass a senior officer without saluting?' he demanded angrily. 'Because if it is and you ever do it again I will have you before the Commander and confined to the Station for a month.' He harangued us at some length about how lowly we were and of the particular necessity therefore for us to show respect to higher rank. All this, while sailors and others were passing by and listening.
I noticed that he had wings on his sleeve and I would normally have accorded him willingly my respect, as would my companions, but he was so unnecessarily unpleasant and such a repellent little man that we could only feel dislike for him. What an unfortunate start to our Fighter Course at Yeovilton.
The Air Station had been established some eighteen months earlier as the Fighter School for the training of Fleet Air Arm fighter pilots. All our instructors were naval officers and each one of them had seen a great deal of action during the early years of the war. Most of them were Battle of Britain pilots and I make the point here that, not only did two FAA squadrons fight that battle in Hurricanes, but also that another fifty-six FAA fighter pilots fought in RAF squadrons. I emphasize this because not many people seem to be aware that the FAA made a major contribution to the Battle of Britain.
My expectation and fear was that the awful little Lt Commander RN, who had harangued us, would be one of our flying instructors and that he might be typical of them all. In fact, our instructors were quite different in character; they were self-assured and confident men ranked as lieutenants, most of them RNVR and some of them with DSC ribbons, who took their job as flying instructors seriously but regarded it as a quiet interval before resuming the war. The next appointment for many of them would be as Commanding Officer of one of the many new FAA squadrons about to be formed.
Our relations with these naval aviation instructors was very different than those with our RAF instructors previously. The pre-flight briefings, the flying and the post flight observations were all just as deadly serious but, here at Yeovilton, we were all officers and pilots together and they were prepared to talk and drink with us as if on equal terms. As a sprog pilot and midshipman not yet twenty years old, I was fully aware how far apart I was from these men who had so much experience, but there was much to learn from talking and listening to them over a pint of beer in a pub or a glass of gin in the Mess.
The squadron offices and aircraft dispersal area were alongside the main runway and, once we had met our instructors, no time was wasted before we were examining the Hurricanes which we were to fly and studying their cockpit layout with the Pilot's Notes. The Hurricane Mk. 1, with its eight 0.3 machine guns, was a magnificent looking fighter aircraft and it seemed to me that every line of it proclaimed its aggression and robust strength. Those we were to fly were slightly old and battered having completed several months of service in operational squadrons but I think that, whilst we were all of us anxious and to some extent fearful of our first flight in such a powerful machine, we were looking forward to it.
The cockpit of the Hurricane looked to me at first sight as if someone had chucked a handful of the controls haphazardly into the bare metal interior of the cockpit and, by a bit of luck the throttle controls, for example, had landed on the left hand side where they were needed. But the weird gate arrangement for the undercarriage selector had landed low down on the right where the pilot would have to change hands on the control column, immediately he was airborne, to raise the undercarriage. There seemed to be no actual floor to the cockpit and the pilot's seat appeared from above to be floating without apparent support in the middle of it. Inside the cockpit there was a never to be forgotten strong smell of glycol and oil from the Rolls Royce engine. It was so different and much more exciting than the clean and orderly cockpit of the Miles Master. My first flight in the Hurricane would be next morning so I spent the whole afternoon in the cockpit learning the precise position of every control and the exact procedure for using them.
In the cockpit, for my first flight in a Hurricane, I watched the propeller grind slowly round under the power from the outside electric battery and then burst into life with a great puff of black smoke from the exhausts. It responded with a powerful roar as I opened the throttle against the chocks to check the magnetos. I have written earlier of the fear and excitement of my first solo in the Magister and then the thrill of that first flight in the Miles Master but this was different. This time as I taxied out to the runway, I was excited but absolutely confident of my ability to fly this famous fighter aircraft and I felt no fear of it. I knew that I was as good a pilot as others who had flown it for the first time and better than many of them. My take-off was straight and steady and no problem as I changed hands to select the undercarriage up. I must remember to put the lever back to neutral otherwise it would become difficult later to select wheels down. I am up and climbing away with exhilarating power up to eight thousand feet ready to try the Hurricane at different attitudes and stalling speeds. Even under my inexperienced hands for the first time, the Hurricane responds beautifully and I am enjoying myself putting it through steep turns, stalls and even some tentative aerobatics.
All that was fine; now back to the circuit for the landing. How nice and steady she is on final approach at low speed with wheels and flaps down, I start to hold off then – bang – I have hit the runway already – ballooning up – open the throttle wide and round again struggling to get the undercarriage and flaps up without stalling. Second attempt and this time I am holding off too high and the Hurricane thumps down on the runway and one of the wheels is damaged. My instructor, Lt Ken Firth RNVR, is kind and puts me into another aircraft to go up again immediately. But I have the same problem landing; I cannot seem to judge my height on the final approach and I damage the undercarriage again.
At the end of the afternoon, I am called into the instructors crew room and office and told that I have failed the Fighter Course but they would recommend that I might be suitable for second-line flying as a transport pilot. I was utterly devastated with disappointment. I had been focused on becoming a fighter pilot and for the first time in my young life I had found an objective, something I desperately wanted to do. But I had flunked and it was all over.
I drove back to the Wardroom in my latest little Ford, which had replaced Emma and bumped into a wall as I parked it. 'I can't even drive a car properly,' I said to myself. That evening I kept well away from the others and sat by myself in a corner of the Mess drinking far too much whisky. I was surprised to be joined by another member of our course, a fair-haired rather pimply young chap whom I had not yet come to know well.
'I guess that you and I are in the same boat,' he said, 'since both of us are being sent to second-line non-operational flying.' I asked him how he had failed and he told me that he had found the Hurricane too difficult and had asked to be taken off the course.
I left him and returned early to my cabin to think about what had happened. How could I have made such a botch of landing the Hurricane? Then I remembered bumping my car into the wall. That was odd too; very odd in fact. Could there be something wrong with my eyes, perhaps? I went to bed early and had a long sleep of exhaustion.
First thing after an early breakfast, I presented myself at the sick bay to see the doctor as I wanted him to check my eyes. He was quite a young RNVR doctor who diagnosed that there was nothing fundamentally wrong with either eye and that in fact my eyesight was excellent. But, he told me, 'It is possible that you could have suffered a lazy eye perhaps from the unconscious anxiety and stress associated with the solo flight in a fighter aircraft.'
I had decided what I would do and at the Squadron dispersal I asked to see the senior instructor, Major Ronnie Hay, DSC, RM and with him my instructor Ken Firth. I entered their crew room and office and in front of all the instructors pleaded with them for another chance. I pointed out that the other chap had asked to be taken off the course and that this must therefore leave a space for me. I told them of the possibility that my eyes had failed temporarily but were now good and normal. They sent me out while they thought about it. Then Ken Firth came out and told me to get ready for a flight with him in the dual Miles Master, an aircraft slightly different from those I had flown at Netheravon having an in-line Rolls Royce engine. No matter, I flew it round the circuit twice and landed it with no trouble at all. We taxied back to the parking area and Ken told me to take the next available Hurricane and to do a couple of landings in it while he would watch.
I was quite calm as I took off and turned into the circuit ready to approach for a landing. But I was nervous on the final approach as I came over the aerodrome boundary. Would I be able to see well enough to judge my height? I closed the throttle, held off and... the Hurricane sank and settled gently on to the runway. Exactly the same happened on the next landing. I couldn't stop smiling and laughing with relief as I went with Ken to see Major Hay. That wonderful fighter pilot, with many victories already to his credit, was smiling too as he confirmed that I was back on the course and he congratulated me for my perseverance.
So far my time at Yeovilton had been on the downward path. But the next weeks were interesting and great fun although sometimes frightening as we flew twice a day on a programme of dog-fights in which we tried ineffectually to shoot our instructors down using camera guns, 'Follow my Leader' in which we would have to follow in line astern every tricky manoeuvre made by the instructor, a means of showing us how to fly a fighter aircraft to its maximum ability, formation flying, either close or loose cross-over formation for combat and strafing and dive bombing targets on the ground. Some of these exercises took place at heights of 28,000 feet where the Hurricane became sloppy and difficult to manoeuvre.
Later in the course, we flew ADDLs which were dummy deck-landings to learn firstly how to make the final approach on a turn and with the aircraft 'sinking' down in the nose up landing attitude and, at the same time, following the signals from the Deck Landing Control Officer. These would be essential skills for actual deck-landings on a Carrier.
And then came the dreaded night flying which we did in Fulmars, an absurd lumbering thing of a so-called fighter aircraft of Admiralty design intended to include an observer in the back. I can only presume that we used Fulmars because it did not matter much if we wrote them off with night accidents. I found night flying at Yeovilton, with its aerodrome lights and proper runway lights, so much easier than at the Shrewton airfield. But I still didn't like it although I managed not to break anything this time.
Finally, we flew to a piece of rough earth, I cannot describe it as an airfield, somewhere at the back of Teignmouth for the purpose of air-firing over the sea at a drogue towed by an elderly aircraft. This patch of earth was so rough and so small that we had to use the ADDLs approach, as for a ship's deck, to land on it. The bullets in our machine guns were dipped in different colours so that, when the drogue was recovered, it was possible to identify which of us had hit it – if indeed any of us had.
We were accommodated in a very good hotel in Teignmouth and life was pleasant. One evening, Brian, a friend and fellow pilot on the course, spotted two nice looking young Wrens having dinner by themselves in the Hotel. He was much better at chatting up girls than me and so I gladly accepted his suggestion that we go over and try to join the two girls. They appeared pleased at this and we learned that they were living in a WAAF hostel. During the conversation they disclosed that they were involved in collecting and repairing the very drogues we fired upon, which were dropped on their local field, and it was they who counted the coloured bullet holes and phoned in the results. We had struck gold! There were only four more days of air firing before we were due to return to Yeovilton but, in that remaining period, the firing results of Sub Lt Brian Prentice and Midshipman Henry Adlam showed a considerable and significant improvement which much impressed the instructors.
We had struck gold in another way too because the Wrens were both attractive girls who, after very little persuasion, agreed during the course of the next evening with us to sneak up to our hotel bedrooms after dinner. Jennifer, my girl, had short wavy auburn hair over a cheeky little face and, like me, was not quite twenty years old. We were no sooner in the room before she was undressing fast and urging me to get my shoes, trousers and pants off quickly. There was no time calmly and gently to admire and touch her pretty figure with its upturned breasts and protruding little bottom, as I would have liked so much to do. Her urgency was such that what followed could only be compared, in my experience, to a ding-dong hard-hitting tennis rally from the baseline ending with my final rush to the net to put the ball away with a final volley. The whole encounter left me breathless and exhausted. It should have been a perfect match. Jennifer was just the girl I had been hoping to meet being the same age and attractive with the sort of slim figure I liked. And yet somehow I felt dissatisfied with the experience. I was such an amateur lover that I had not realised how girls could be every bit as randy and sexy as men were expected to be. Maybe I was still a bit of a prude and had hoped for rather more than just sex, although I could not have explained exactly what I was seeking. I did not see Jennifer again. In the words of the song current at the time, I didn't think she was 'my kind of gel'.
Our fighter course at Yeovilton had been completed. At the start of it there had been thirty-three students including six Canadians, four New Zealanders and six Midshipmen, the latter still in their teens. Only seven of us out of the original thirty-three would survive the next four years until the end of the war. One of the thirty-three would earn a VC, four would earn DSCs and two would be 'Mentioned'. This little Midshipman was happy just to have survived.
One of us had been killed during the course. He had been a quiet young man, well liked, and twenty of us had piled into a lorry to attend the funeral at a small village church. It was the custom to have a party on these occasions and I remember thinking what unfeeling, inhuman creatures we must appear to be as, through the window of the village pub, I watched the grieving parents walk past to their car. We were singing our Fleet Air Arm songs and they were bound to hear the noise of our singing as they looked towards the pub in disbelief. They could not know that this was our way of expressing the sadness we felt at the loss of a friend and fellow pilot.
After finishing the course at Yeovilton, and now qualified as fighter pilots, we all expected to be sent to operational Squadrons. But not enough combat aircraft were available and only very few of the luckier ones were appointed immediately to existing Fighter Squadrons. My three best friends and I were appointed to a second line squadron at a Naval Air Station in Cornwall at St Merryn. We would have to wait there, carrying out all sorts of second-line flying duties, until new Fighter Squadrons were formed. How naïve and young we were as we desperately hoped that the wait would not be for long.
## CHAPTER THREE
## A Pause
St Merryn was rather like a museum featuring all the disastrous aircraft designs specified by the Admiralty since the last war. Most were intended to be fighter aircraft but the Admirals, only very few of whom had ever flown or gained experience of naval aviation, could not rid themselves of the conviction that there must be an observer with the pilot in every aircraft and, moreover, the observer must be the senior in charge of the aircraft. The result of this thinking was the production of heavy, lumbering, ugly, slow machines, which were more danger to their crews than they were to the enemy. Most of these aircraft, designed under Admiralty specification, were built by the Blackburn Company.
Hence there were the Roc and the Skua, much the same looking aircraft, with a couple of guns in the wings and a pop gun in the back for the observer and maximum speeds of about 160 knots. And yet the astonishing fact is that in the early days of the war an ME 109 was shot down by a Skua pilot. The latest naval fighter was the large Fairey Fulmar, again with provision for an observer, which had a little Rolls Royce Kestrel engine to pull it through the skies. Downhill, it could reach a speed of about 200 knots. And then there was the Torpedo/Bomber called the Shark. At St Merryn, I was given the task of flying this ridiculous little biplane to tow a large drogue through the air one hundred yards behind as a target. Once the drogue had been launched, the Shark could hardly remain airborne even at full throttle. I doubt if it ever had enough power to carry a torpedo or bomb, let alone drop it on an enemy.
The Shark was pleasant enough to fly, except for the oil spraying from the engine over my helmet and face on take-off, but on arrival over the sea near the coast, the telegraphist in the large rear cockpit had to stream the drogue. This meant almost full throttle again. Two Hurricanes appeared and started firing at the drogue behind us and it seemed to me and my telegraphist that they were firing straight at our bottoms. We could only cower down into our cockpits and hope for the best. The worst part of the exercise was when it came to dropping the drogue because it was rarely possible to wind it in fully and sufficiently close before approaching the dropping zone. I had to approach the zone at very low level and nearly full throttle with this damn drogue hanging down at the back and leaping about in the slipstream just missing trees and hedges. When the drogue was released, the Shark with its relieved crew soared skywards before heading back to St Merryn.
My three particular chums with me at St Merryn, all Midshipmen like me, were Tony Harris who was the tallest and not only with the face of a young boy, but with the enthusiasm and charm of one. He would be killed eighteen months later when the oxygen in his Corsair failed at height.
Bruce Clark had very blond hair with a small strong and compact body which had served him well when he had played as scrum-half for a famous rugby club. Bruce was a naturally gifted pilot with astonishing skill. His log book during every stage of his flying training had the very rare assessment of 'Exceptional' written in it. He survived the war flying mostly Seafires, the most difficult aircraft of all from a Carrier. He remained in the Royal Navy after the war and became a famous trials and test pilot before he transferred back to sea in command of a Destroyer to end his career as a Captain RN. He and I were to meet again many years later and, as a foursome with our wives, spend many holidays together.
My best friend was Basil Bartlett with whom I had shared a cabin at Netheravon and again at Yeovilton. He was the only one of us four who had been educated at a grammar school; a quiet person, more mature than I was and holding firm views quietly expressed about aspects of life to which I had barely given thought. When I had boasted to him about my joust with Jennifer in the hotel at Teignmouth, I had expected his male admiration, but instead he seriously rebuked me and made me feel really rather ashamed of the promiscuous part I had played. Without my quite realising it, the friendship of this more mature boy and his companionship was a factor in my development. But Basil was by no means a dour personality; he was good fun at any party and liked to join in the rough-house games we sometimes played in the Wardroom after dinner. His choice of sport was a bit odd for one of his age; instead of cricket and rugby and all that type of thing, he liked to play golf, usually with his father at their home in Scotland. Basil was the same height as me but not quite so thin with wavy, dark hair and often a rather serious expression on his face which belied his sense of fun and hood humour. I don't think that he was a particularly good pilot but a steady one; a good man to follow. Possibly he would have been better chosen as a torpedo-bomber (TBR) pilot than as a fighter pilot. Having compared his build with mine, I should tell that I was a reedy youth, little more than nine stone and my height was 5 foot 10 inches.
There was no great pressure to fly many hours at St Merryn. Before we four arrived, a number of pilots were already there, elderly most of them, to carry out the various tasks of second-line flying. Some of them had been professional airline pilots, others were amateur pilots, actors some of them such as Laurence Olivier and Ralph Richardson. These chaps left fairly soon to resume acting for which they were more suited.
We were given a long week-end leave and the four of us decided to go in my little Ford car to St Ives where Tony remembered a smart hotel at which he had stayed on holiday with his father and mother years before. We arrived at the Manor Hotel at the back of St Ives and Tony got out of the car to organise the rooms for us to stay there for the week-end.
He came back looking rather flushed and reported that the hotel was fully booked up and he had been told that we would have to go elsewhere. But I had noticed that there were very few cars parked outside the hotel and it seemed very unlikely to me that a country hotel should be full during wartime when petrol was so strictly rationed. I wasn't an Old Harrovian for nothing; I could easily adopt the rude and pompous manner so typically used by many young Harrovians of that time. I stumped out of the car and demanded of the female receptionist that she either booked us into two double rooms for the week-end or to send for the Manager. She could choose which option she liked but, rising to the full height of my pomposity, I told her to do one or the other immediately.
She opted for the Manager who came out of his office and smiled when he saw this irate boy in what, with its maroon tabs on the lapels, looked like the uniform of a hotel bell boy and hopping about with fury in the reception area demanding rooms. 'Look here,' I said still trying to sound important, 'we are four Midshipmen of the Royal Navy and what's more we are fighter pilots (pointing to the Wings on my sleeve) and your receptionist won't give us rooms in your damn hotel. Why not?' The Manager (probably the owner) was a kind man who, trying to stop his face creasing into laughter, apologised sincerely for the terrible mistake of his staff in failing to recognise the uniform and rank of a Midshipman of the Royal Navy. He personally showed us to two large double rooms and then said that for the honour of having four naval fighter pilots in his hotel in wartime and, in some small reparation for the mistake made by his staff, he would charge only one half the normal price, including dinner. He hoped we would have a very happy leave at his Hotel. Fully mollified, we were profuse in our thanks. And pompous little Henry Adlam gained much kudos and standing with his friends for his successful enterprise.
That was a lovely short leave and was the last time we would all four friends be together. We only wore uniform for dinner in the evening and wore holiday clothes during the day when we either went for walks or more frequently played golf at the well-known local course. The only one of us who could really play golf well was Basil and, as I had never played before, I partnered him against Bruce and Tony both of whom knew only a little about the game. The arrangement suited me as I always liked to win and was bound to do so with Basil.
I remember that on one of our walks we sat and rested on the cliff top while the conversation turned to a discussion about our families and fathers in particular. Bruce was the youngest of seven children, five of them boys, and he had very little close contact with his elderly father. But his eldest brother, a successful business man and twelve years older than Bruce, had taken the place of his father and they had a reasonable good relationship. I noted that neither his father nor any of his many siblings were much interested apparently in his success as a young rugby player or in his brilliance as a pilot. His mother had died shortly after Bruce was born. I suspect that he was very much a loner in his family.
It became evident as Tony spoke that, as an only child, he had much love for his father and also a deep old-fashioned respect for him. Tony described how, on his last leave, he had inadvertently used the word 'sod' about someone and his father had been absolutely furious and had berated Tony as if he was still a schoolboy. Tony didn't think such an intense reaction from his father was either unusual or wrong but in line with his upbringing and with a childhood which had been all the happier because of the strict guidelines set by his father. His childhood had obviously been strictly controlled by both his parents but, as he spoke about it, I sensed that it had been a very happy one.
Whereas Bruce and Tony, and myself to some extent, came from wealthy families, Basil did not. His father was a foreman in a large printing company where he earned good wages and, for his ability and good sense, was highly regarded by the management and was well liked by those who worked with him. Father, mother and the five children, of whom Basil was the youngest, lived in one of a row of houses on the west side of Edinburgh. I knew Basil was clever and intelligent but he must have been exceedingly so because he had gained a scholarship to Watsons, a fine school in the City. It seemed that he had an unusually close relationship with his father who, as a well-read man with a wide range of interests, had done much to help and encourage Basil towards the scholarship. The greatest pleasure for both of them had been to play golf together at the nearby excellent municipal course. Two of his three sisters were married but lived nearby. I felt a degree of envy as Basil told us about his family because there was obviously such a close-knit relationship among them and such a strong love between father and Basil, the youngest son.
For my part, there was not a lot I could say about my father because I didn't know him very well or much about him except that he had been Chairman of a large and successful engineering company. I explained about my parents being divorced and how my Mother had worked so hard with those damn bull terriers to provide a home for me and that I was proud of her success with the dogs, however much I loathed them. I shot a bit of a line about the South of France and the parties there and, of course, about driving Father across France to England. That was it really; there was not much more I could say about Father.
When we arrived back at St Merryn at the end of that short leave, signals awaited us appointing Bruce and Tony to join a ship which would transport them out to West Africa where pilots and aircraft were being accumulated for some secret Admiralty purpose. The airfield to which they were sent was called Mackinnon Road and some twenty young pilots with whom I had trained, including Bruce and Tony, languished in that boring and boiling hot dust bowl for eight months waiting for this top secret operation of the Admiralty to take place. Absolutely nothing happened, neither did anyone ever explain what it was all about. And so, at the end of that long period, these pilots all came back to the UK to join fighter squadrons which by then badly needed them. It was just another case of incomprehensible planning by the Admiralty when dealing with naval aviation. At the time, Basil and I were dreadfully disappointed to be left behind at St Merryn and we wondered how much longer we would have to trudge around the sky doing such jobs as towing drogues.
## CHAPTER FOUR
## 890 Squadron
I need not have worried about the prospect of towing drogues at St Merryn. Two days later, signals arrived appointing Basil and me to 890 Squadron, a fighter squadron flying an American aircraft called the Wildcat, and we were to join it forthwith at an Air Station near Greenock in Scotland. How lucky we considered ourselves, to be appointed so quickly to a first line Squadron. We indulged ourselves with one hell of a party that evening before we were flown in an elderly troop carrier to the airfield in Scotland.
The first action on arrival was to meet the Commanding Officer, Lt Jimmy Sleigh, DSC, RN, a South African who had been a Battle of Britain pilot and subsequently had seen further action in one of the early Escort Carriers. But luckily for me, he had been one of my two instructors during my training at Yeovilton. The Squadron was brand new and, as its first Commanding Officer, Jimmy had been given the opportunity to make his own selection of six pilots for it and had chosen from his personal knowledge of us at Yeovilton. We learned to have great respect for Jimmy, as our CO. All through the period of working-up the Squadron during the weeks to come, he demanded a great deal from us in terms of effort and enthusiasm and he expected us to endure long hours of flying each day. We responded gladly; he was just the type of leader we wanted. He made sure that the entire Squadron, not just the pilots, but our aircraft maintenance crews, were fully trained and ready for operations.
The senior Pilot and second in command was Lt. Dagwood Cosh who, as his rank implied, was a few years older than most of us. Although with no more flying experience than we had, he proved to be a most competent leader. More than that, he was a most amusing companion with a fund of ridiculously funny songs and stories; a great chap to have around. He left us after a year to command his own squadron and earned a DSC before being killed in action on an Arctic convoy.
Two of the outstanding characters among us were Winnie Churchill and Jack Parli, both New Zealanders. They were inseparable friends and as a pair they had fought and drank their way through the training period at St Vincent and Netheravon and got themselves into so much trouble that, after gaining their wings, they had been refused their Commissions as officers and had been given the rank of Petty Officers. The story goes that after a short while, the Petty Officers' Mess for the sake of peace and quiet, begged the Captain at Yeovilton to arrange for the rumbustious pair to be taken away and given their Commissions. And so it happened. That reads as if they were a most unpleasant couple of young men. Not so; I had known them since the first days at St Vincent and had found them to be two most likeable people, full of fun and the joy of living and great company. They just loved a fight but only if they considered the size and number of the opposition to be a suitable challenge.
Winnie was a very blond, fair-skinned young man, well over six feet and very strong with a superb physique. He could probably have passed for 'Tarzan' any day except for his charmingly ugly mug with broken nose and overlarge usually smiling mouth containing a couple of broken teeth. In spite of that, he appeared as a handsome man and women very obviously thought so. Other New Zealanders told me that, but for the war, he would have played as fly-half for the All Blacks because he was a truly outstanding rugby player.
Jack Parli had a quite different appearance. He gave the impression of normal height and size and of not being a particularly athletic man. In fact, he was a deceptively and immensely strong man who could be very fast on his feet and with his hands. Deceptive because his body, although broad, was smooth without apparent muscle and almost womanly in its sloping shoulders and yet his strength was phenomenal. He had rather a quaint face, certainly not handsome with his hair cut too short at the sides leaving a tuft on top, a snub nose with small twinkling, kindly eyes. He was not angered easily, even when fighting, but his anger when it came was controlled and ferocious. When he took his teeth out, which he often did for fighting, rugby and beer drinking, his face could look exactly like 'Popeye'. Jack played rugby entirely in the New Zealand manner which is to say that, whatever the Referee couldn't see couldn't be wrong and thus he was a very effective wing-forward on any team and a menace to the opposition. I liked both these men immensely and I am fortunate indeed to have known them as my friends.
The other three pilots to make up the Squadron were myself, Basil Bartlett, and Cliff Nell who was a very nice, rather naïve English lad much given to puns and stories about 'Sam and his musket' which amused us all except the colonials who never did fathom out the significance of Sam's musket but, it didn't matter, we all liked Cliff and enjoyed watching his performance.
The CO outlined the plan for the Squadron to arrive by fast ship in New York and to proceed as quickly as possible by train to Norfolk, Virginia which was a huge shipbuilding port combined with a large aerodrome of the US Navy. Arrangements had been made for the Squadron to borrow Wildcats, with US markings still on them, from the American Navy and we would be provided with a Hangar, complete with offices, large enough for our Squadron to operate. We would have about six weeks to work-up to a fully operational state before we were to receive seven brand new Mark 4 Wildcats under the Lend Lease agreement. At the end of that period we were due to carry out deck-landings on USS _Charger_ , one of the first Escort Carriers built in America and operated by the US Navy.
As soon as we arrived at the aerodrome in Norfolk, Virginia, which was in the form of one huge concrete circle instead of runways, we settled into the hangar and offices which had been allocated to us amongst the many other buildings. Without delay, Jimmy Sleigh set the squadron on a programme of working–up and flew the heads off us with usually three flights a day. It was a good thing that we were so busy and fairly tired out at the end of each day because there was little pleasure in a run ashore in Norfolk. (Do I have to explain that in the Royal Navy every Air Station or Barracks is a ship and, when you leave it, you 'go ashore'.) The City abounded in troops of the US Navy and dockyard workers with the result that the restaurants and bars were hugely expensive, well beyond our pockets, and usually very noisy and crowded.
The Cinema on the Air Station was right up to date with the latest films and the meals at the Bachelor Officers' quarters were very good and so, after a first few sorties into Norfolk to have a look at it, we tended to remain at the Air Station. Our accommodation was not good as, except for Jimmy Sleigh, we six pilots were put into huts on our own at the edge of the Officers' area. Since no booze was permitted in the Officers' quarters in the US Navy, we were glad of this separate accommodation because we could hold our drinking parties and gossip about the day's flying in our huts, having bought our own booze back from the City.
The truth is that we handful of British troops were not made welcome in the City.
This was difficult to understand since America was on the brink of declaring war with Germany and Japan, its Government was giving great help to Britain under Lend Lease and the great majority of American people were fully in support of us. And yet there was so much aggression towards us from the lower ranks of the American forces at that time and certainly in that City. It seemed to me that they were imbued with the myths of the Wild West perpetrated by the movies, which they had avidly watched from childhood, and perhaps they came to believe from these childish films that ridiculous brawls and fist-fights in bars were normal manly behaviour? Many men of the American fighting forces were longing to get into the war (of which they had no knowledge) and might there have been a sort of immature jealousy of the UK and its war experience? I never knew how else to explain their attitude.
The other side of the American attitude is the wonderful hospitality we received elsewhere in America. Four weeks later, Jimmy granted ten days' leave for us having accepted the offer from a Sports club to use their holiday camp near Richmond, Virginia. It was an attractive wooded place beside a lake where, in lovely hot weather, we swam every day. Here Jack, who with his apparently lazy, effortless stroke was able to churn through the water faster and for longer distances than anybody I ever knew, took the opportunity and trouble to insist on teaching me to swim. He recognised my fear but firmly helped me to overcome it. I was never able to swim well, but I no longer panicked when my head was under water.
We found Richmond to be an attractive friendly City and most evenings on that leave were spent with local families enjoying their hospitality; usually consisting of strong Mint Juleps followed by a delicious dinner. At first the problem was getting into Richmond and back to the camp because the bus service was abysmal. We were overheard in a bar talking about the problem by an elderly, well dressed citizen. He came round to our table, laid a bunch of car keys on the table and said, 'My Chrysler saloon is just outside, you boys take it for the duration of your vacation here and enjoy it.' Of course, we sprang to our feet to greet him hardly able to believe such generosity. But he meant it and accompanied us there and then out to his lovely new green and cream shining car and insisted that we drove it away. It was difficult to know quite how to express our appreciation for such kindness. However we found a shop selling Scotch single Malt Whisky and a small crate of bottles was welcomed by the elderly American who had shown us such friendship and trust. In the war years to come, I would not only enjoy the friendliness of American hosts in New York but, later in the Far East and Pacific, I would come to know many aircrew of the US Navy and admire their flying ability and courage.
When we returned to Norfolk after that pleasant holiday in Richmond we had to start preparing for our first deck-landings on USS _Charger_. For the purpose we used a small disused airstrip about twenty miles away to practise dummy deck-landings. Jimmy Sleigh did the 'batting' as well as the instruction and advice after each session of landings. In a few days of practice out on the airstrip, we all felt ready for the ordeal of our first deck-landings and we longed to get it over and done with. Despite all our flying training during the past ten months, we could not consider ourselves properly as Fleet Air Arm pilots until we had landed on a Carrier. 'It must be dreadfully dangerous and difficult landing on a Carrier, do tell me about it?' One of the pretty girls I had met in Richmond typically had asked me only the previous week and how bogus I had felt in admitting that I had not yet landed on. Now, I was about to lay the 'deck-landing' bogey to rest, successfully I hoped.
The USS _Charger_ was out in Chesapeake Bay off Norfolk and we were awaiting the signal to go out and land on her. Jimmy had decided that we would use the old Wildcats for our landings; no point in breaking our brand new Wildcats which had by now been delivered to us from the factory. He would fly out by himself and land first because he would have to 'bat' us on. The reason being that the batting signals to the pilot used by the US Navy, on the landing approach, were the exact opposite of ours. It would have been impossibly stupid for us to attempt to adapt to their system just for this occasion and so the Captain had reluctantly agreed that we might use our own batsman and signals. Actually, it would be quite an occasion since it would be the first time that a British Squadron, albeit a small one, had landed on an American Carrier. Yet another reason for some trepidation; we simply must not make a mess of it!
Half an hour after Jimmy had taken off the signal came through that, as expected, he had landed safely and the ship was ready for our first flight to land on. Dagwood Cosh was leading the first flight with Winnie as number two and Cliff Nell number three. That left Jack Parli to lead the remaining flight of three with me in my now customary position as his number two and Basil, who normally flew behind Jimmy. We waited anxiously in the crew room for a signal from the ship to be phoned through to us. Jack as usual appeared calm and relaxed and I thought, as I watched him, how lucky I had been that Jimmy had put me to fly with Jack as his number two. It never occurred to me any longer that Jack had no more flying experience than I. He was a leader I would always be happy to follow.
It was over an hour before the signal came through and we were off at last. Jack led us out over the coast on the course given to him and soon the Carrier was in sight, steaming quietly through the placid sea of Chesapeake Bay. How small she looked. Even as I watched, her wake commenced to boil up into a white foam as she increased speed and began to turn into wind. Meantime, in accordance with Jimmy's careful briefing, Jack had brought us down to eight hundred feet and was aiming for us to fly down the starboard side of the ship as she came into wind. I could see the affirmative flag flying, denoting that she was ready for us to land. It would be up to Jack now to judge when to break away to port from our formation to commence his circuit. Some seconds after he had done so, I would follow him round on to the downwind leg of the landing circuit and, after an interval, Basil would follow after me.
It had been emphasized that there must be a sensible time lag between us on this our first deck-landing and so, while I was still on the downwind leg with the hood locked back and having selected hook and wheels down, full flap and fine pitch, I could see Jack seemingly almost stationary poised on the after end of the deck before his Wildcat, at that distance appearing to alight like a small bird on to the deck. Now, looking down at the Carrier just ahead of my port wing-tip, I must make the critical judgement when to turn on to the cross-wind leg. It was happening too fast; I had failed to take sufficient account of the Carrier moving in my opposite direction and my crosswind turn was late. Thus, by the time I had made my final turn into wind, I was too far behind and having to drag along after it.
Flying straight in line with the Carrier and with the nose up in the aircraft's landing attitude, there was not much of the deck that I could see despite the short stubby nose of the Wildcat. One eye glued to the airspeed indicator to fly at exactly seventy-eight knots (just off the stall). Trying to get a view of the deck, I put on a lot of right rudder and began crabbing towards the ship. Bloody dangerous... nose up with that amount of rudder... at that speed... this was the recipe for a sudden, vicious stall into the sea. Sweating with fear, I was about to open full throttle in an attempt to go round again when... there was Jimmy in my sight giving me the 'come on you are all right' signal. Seconds later, I was over the round-down, could see to straighten up down the deck, closed the throttle and landed with a thump to be hooked to a sudden halt by the arrestor wire. Flight deck crew disengaged the hook and signalled me to taxi ahead over the crash barrier to the aircraft park on the other side, and to shut down the engine.
I sat there in the cockpit, hearing but not conscious of the sound of the wind over the flight deck, the sound of the ship moving through the sea and the shouts of command around me. I was shocked at the difficulty of the landing and shaking at the thought of the appalling mess I had so nearly made of it. I wanted to think quietly about it because I knew that in a few minutes my aircraft would be pushed back and ranged ready for take-off for at least one more deck-landing. I decided that at all costs I would avoid lining up straight behind the Carrier on the final approach; I would so judge it that I would make a curving approach to the deck, with the aircraft still banked on a turn if necessary. As I concluded this, Jimmy jumped up on to the wing to tell me that I had made a bad approach (as if I didn't know) but next time to keep my circuit closer to the ship and make the crosswind turn much earlier. He told me that he would send me off first and had briefed the other two to keep clear of the circuit for me while they waited for their turns to land. All of his advice confirmed my thinking on what to do next time.
I was ranged ahead of Jack and Basil and took-off first. I was surprised to find how quickly the Wildcat was airborne before reaching the end of the deck and I flew straight ahead up to no more than four hundred feet before starting my turn on to the downwind leg. This time I remained much closer to the ship as I selected hook, wheels and flaps down. I turned crosswind into the ship as I came level with its stern and this resulted in a gentle curving approach, with the port wing slightly down as, at the same time, I brought the nose up into the landing attitude with the speed held at eighty-five knots. I could see the deck and the batsman all the way in until a final straightening up and levelling of the wings, with speed down to seventy-six knots, I cut the throttle just past the round down and the Wildcat settled firmly on the deck and picked up the second wire. No trouble at all, I thought as the flight deck crew pushed me back ready to take off again for another landing. My third landing was as good as the second and I mentally hugged myself with the joy and relief of it. I watched Jack and Basil complete their second landings which, since they hadn't made a mess of their first, was all they were required to do.
We were invited to lunch with the ship's officers and their Commander Air who, in a nice little speech of welcome, congratulated us on our accident-free performance. Little did he know apparently how close I had come to spoiling that performance. I was longing for a couple of large pink gins, as were my fellow pilots, but no alcohol was allowed in US Navy ships. But we all appreciated the welcome and the good lunch.
Why, I asked myself the next day and many more times over the next five years, does everything in the Royal Navy have to happen in a sudden mad rush? Because the day following our completion of deck-landings on the USS _Charger_ , there was a sudden signal to pack up all the squadron gear and embark our maintenance personnel in our Carrier. The onus for achieving this fell on the CO, of course, but also on the unfortunate Cliff, who had been designated as the Divisional Officer of the Squadron. The truth is that Jimmy had recognised Cliff from the outset as a quietly competent organiser capable of setting out a clear Movement Order which all our people would understand and follow. There was some advantage, it seemed, in my role as the gormless young Midshipman of the squadron; I was never given that sort of job. Basil, I should have said, had reached his twentieth birthday two months earlier and accordingly had received his stripe as a Sub Lieutenant, leaving me as the only Midshipman.
The situation, we learned from Jimmy, was that our Carrier had completed a defect repair in the Norfolk Yard quicker than expected. This would enable the squadron to have a very brief opportunity to work-up with the ship in Chesapeake Bay before hot-footing it up to New York where we were to join a large convoy about to be assembled for passage to the UK.
I felt considerable excitement at the prospect of landing on and joining our own Carrier and I was entirely confident now about my ability to land on her. I knew that in size her flight deck was slightly wider than the USS _Charger_ at eighty feet and the same length at four hundred and forty feet.
A day later, we took off and formed up into our two flights, with Dagwood leading the second one. Jimmy led us out to our Carrier waiting out in the Bay and we kept a tight formation as we flew at two hundred feet over the ship to show ourselves off a bit. A Squadron of eight Swordfish aircraft had joined her earlier from another Carrier, now in dock for repairs, but their aircraft were all struck down now in the hangar and, no doubt, their aircrews would all be watching carefully to see how we performed. As we broke up into two flights, wheeling round to come up her starboard side, so the ship increased speed and turned into wind. I thought what a splendid sight she was with her white bow wave and white wake boiling up astern against the dark bluish grey of the sea around her.
But it was time to concentrate on the landing and Jimmy had warned us not to attempt, at this stage, a close back-up in the landing circuit. Anyway, as number four in the second flight, I was virtually 'arse-end Charlie' of the squadron and the last to land, so I could position myself on the approach exactly where I wanted. I made my curved final approach and could see the batsman clearly plus most of the deck, including the crash barrier with the other six aircraft parked ahead of it. The batsman, evidently liking my approach, gave me the OK signal all the way until a 'straighten-up' signal just before he crossed the bats for me to cut the throttle The Wildcat caught the third wire and I was safely down. Round me came the ship's flight deck crew to disengage the hook, to hold the wing tips steady against the strong wind over the flight deck and, since mine was the last aircraft to land, they signalled me to cut the throttle.
Leaving my parachute in the cockpit, I clambered down the wing and walked to where the others were being conducted to the aircrew briefing room which was just below the flight deck on the port side. Except Jimmy, who had seen it all before, we were chattering away excitedly and rather pleased with ourselves and our landings, when the Lt Commander Air, in charge of all flying from the ship and who had entered unnoticed, knocked on the table for our attention. First he introduced the Lt Cdr 'Ops' whose job it would be to keep us informed of the enemy situation at sea, and then, Lt Pat Heaton, the batsman, who had previously been a Wildcat pilot.
Commander Air commented that the landings had been satisfactory, under the circumstances and informed us that we had the next two days only, plus this afternoon, in which to work-up because after that the ship would be operational. That afternoon, he said, there would be a maximum combined range on the deck for take-off of both Swordfish and Wildcats followed by firing and bombing exercises. Get ready for it, he said, and left. Well, that shut us up all right. Much more quietly now, we put our flying kit away in a locker provided for each aircrew and found our way down to the Wardroom. There I gulped down a couple of pink gins while meeting the Swordfish boys, two of whom had been with me at Netheravon. Not much time for chatter with them; Jimmy would want us all to attend a briefing as soon as we had swallowed a quick lunch. I just had time to find my cabin which, thankfully, I would share with my particular chum, Basil.
We were up and down, off and on that Flight Deck in our Wildcats almost non-stop it seemed to me during the next two days. It was a hectic period during which the Squadrons would learn to work in conjunction with the flight deck teams of the ship's company. We had to learn how to judge our approach to the deck to land ideally within fifteen seconds after the aircraft in front of us. Once landed, we had to taxi fast forward over the lowered crash barrier seconds before the pilot behind cut his throttle to catch one of the arrestor wires. If he missed all the wires, as could so easily happen, it would be catastrophic if the crash barrier had not come up again in time to prevent him crashing into the aircraft already landed. It was all split second timing and co-ordination between the pilots and the crewmen and engineers of the flight deck. All this frantic speed was to reduce the period of time in which the Carrier would have to hold its course into wind. Not only was the Carrier vulnerable to U-Boat attack while operating its aircraft, but the course into wind might take it in the opposite direction and away from the protection of the convoy.
The training and operation of the two watches of the flight-deck crew was the responsibility of Pat Heaton, the batsman, who also supervised every movement and placement of aircraft on the deck. It was hard work all day long every day at sea for the men on the flight deck, including the Deck Engineering Officer who with his team was responsible for the slick operation of the crash barrier, the arrestor wires and the catapult launcher. Ahead of the crash barrier in the deck park and down in the hangar would be waiting the fitters, riggers, radio mechanics and armourers to service the aircraft and ready them for the next sortie. Everything was done in difficult conditions on the deck and very limited space in the hangar.
I didn't fully appreciate it at that time but one of the joys, in an American designed and built Carrier, was the provision of decent cabin accommodation for aircrew. Basil and I took the comfort for granted, as we settled into our pleasant double cabin located on an upper deck with the showers and heads just nearby. I was not to know then how palatial our cabin would be in comparison with the accommodation for aircrew officers provided in any of the Carriers of Admiralty design. Accommodation there, I would find, would be either cramped dormitories for eight young officers and their clothes or cabins for four, low down over the noise of the ship's turbines. Obviously the US Navy had a regard for their aircrews, entirely lacking at the Admiralty.
The steward had found our cases somewhere for us and, as we unpacked our uniforms, there was no foreboding about the future by either Basil or me. We were both excited that, after so many months of training, at last we were at sea in a Carrier and we looked forward with naïve eagerness to operational flying. For me, the companionship with Basil was an important factor in my attitude towards whatever the future might hold. I felt that no harm could come to such a firm friendship and I reckoned also that both of us had become competent pilots, well able to deal with Carrier operations. Full of these cheerful but absurdly naïve thoughts, I led the way along to the Wardroom to join Winnie, Jack and the rest of our squadron at the bar where we met and started to get to know the ship's officers.
On arrival in New York harbour, where there was a mass of shipping, we were told that there was to be a delay of two more days to complete the assembly of the convoy. None of us as aircrew were put on any duty during this short period but I was to find later that usually aircrew were seized upon in Carriers by the Commander to carry out duties and tasks in harbour which normally would be undertaken by the ship's officers. It was a 'fair do' really since, after all, we were naval officers and there was so much for us to learn about naval life. Apart from what we had learned in the initial weeks as sailors, plus a 'knife and fork' course at Greenwich for a week, we had received no training as naval officers. Therefore such duties were as good a way as any to learn our responsibilities and we accepted the need for them.
Winnie and Jack asked Basil and me to join them on our first run ashore in New York and the four of us made ourselves ready to see the sights of the City and for whatever else it might have to offer us in the form of entertainment. The ship was moored in the middle of the harbour, surrounded by other shipping, but liberty boats had been arranged to take officers and men, not on duty, ashore. The first place to make for was the Brabazon Plaza Hotel which was used as a focal point and as accommodation for British officers, of all three Services, who might be on leave or who had some duty in New York. We had been told that many of the wealthy ladies of the City acted as hostesses and arranged parties and dances in their houses with lots of girls all lined up to meet and date with us. So they did, but not on the particular day and evening of our visit because, as this was just a day before Christmas Eve, every event and every potential girl-friend was already booked up. Not all that dismayed because we had plenty of accumulated pay to spend and were determined to enjoy ourselves, we had drinks at a bar before seeing a matinée performance of the 'Rockettes'. These were a formation dance team of beautiful girls who performed on the stage. They were a popular form of entertainment in New York at that time. After a meal of huge steaks in a restaurant, we were joined by four young officers of the American army.
The eight of us began an evening of heavy drinking as a party together with lots of discussion about the war and what our part in it would be and how much we all wished we were having Christmas at home. It was all very amicable which was just as well because these chaps were all Texans, very tall and looked very tough indeed. Earlier experience in Norfolk kept us wary to start with as we knew how easily American servicemen at that early period of the war could take umbrage at some point during a discussion and the whole evening could end up in one of their ghastly brawls. That wouldn't have worried Winnie and Jack but I was of a naturally nervous disposition and Basil, being a normal sort of chap, wouldn't have enjoyed a brawl either. One of the American lads in particular, the youngest, called 'Hank', was the biggest of them all with immense great muscles, buttocks and thighs. He and I got on very well together while he told me about his lifestyle on a Texan ranch and I bragged about life in the south of France. The contrast between us was ludicrous because Hank, fit as he was, must have weighed around sixteen stone whereas I not only weighed in like a weed at not much over nine stone, but even looked like a weed.
Everybody seemed to enjoy this absurd contrast in our appearance and then, Winnie I think it was, suggested that we should exchange names; I would become 'Hank' and the huge Texan would become 'Henry' said in a squeaky English voice. And so that's how it happened. Later, with lots of drink in all four of us, we said farewell to our American friends and only just caught the last liberty boat back to the ship. I went aboard still called 'Hank'; a name which was adopted immediately by all my squadron and shipmates. The ridiculous result is that it followed me into civilian life and now sixty-three years later nobody alive knows me by any other name. But I like it. I often wonder if the real 'Hank' retained his adopted name of 'Henry' and whether he too survived the war?
## CHAPTER FIVE
## Convoy
It was a large convoy and would be a slow one having thirty-eight merchant ships some of them too elderly and battered to move fast. Consequently, its escort of two Destroyers and three Corvettes had taken a longer time to assemble them into an orderly formation than expected. Our Carrier had its own Corvette in attendance astern and to starboard to provide some anti-submarine protection, but its other purpose was as a rescue ship for aircrew should their aircraft crash over the side when landing. We joined the convoy at dusk and took position near the rear on the outer starboard column of ships.
Life at sea followed a regular pattern of Combat Air Patrols with periods of Stand-By, which would be either at immediate readiness on deck in the cockpit or in the aircrew's Ready room. We patrolled in pairs and nearly always I flew with Jack as his number two. The general intention was that we would fly two patrols on one day and, on the following day, one patrol plus two sessions of Stand-By. But of course the demands of the Convoy situation each day made any such regular pattern impossible and every evening Dagwood, as Senior Pilot, would put up the programme of flying for the next day.
My patrol on the following morning was scheduled for around 10 am but I was up early to watch the first patrol of Swordfish and Wildcats take off just after dawn and to look, as far as my eye could see, at the sight of so many merchant ships ploughing their way through the Atlantic sea in orderly formation. The weather was reasonable with mostly high cloud and the sea was sufficiently rough to give the ship just a bit of a roll, but I had no experience then with which to judge whether the sea was normal for the Atlantic at this time of year or not. On the stern of the flight deck, the aircraft handlers already were ranging our Wildcats ahead of two Swordfish. I made my way across the deck to the crew room where I arrived half an hour earlier than I need be; changed into my flying overalls and sat fidgeting, excited and nervous really, waiting for the pre-patrol briefing to start. Jack came in shortly after and greeted me cheerfully as usual and in a relaxed manner changed into his flying kit and settled down with me to await events.
The aircrew Ready room was arranged into rows of reasonably comfortable chairs with, at the back, sufficient lockers to contain the flying kit of all aircrew. At the front of the room, there was a large plot of the Atlantic and surrounding coastlines which covered half the wall space. This was kept up to date by Lt Cdr Ops to show the position, speed and average mean course of the convoy; the position of other convoys and, from Admiralty intelligence, the known or suspected location of enemy U-Boats in our area. According to the plot, there was a scattering of them marked ahead and to the north of our route and a larger gathering further into the mid-Atlantic. The briefing was started by Ops pointing out all these various factors shown on the chart and Jack and I noted these down on our pads, as did the Swordfish crews who had joined us. I used a small knee pad made for me in light aluminium by my fitter, Mac. It held a card showing a small compass-rose with space for notes and this neat little pad, when I was in the cockpit, would clamp comfortably on my left leg just above my knee.
The next briefing was from the Met Officer, Brian, to whom we listened with careful attention. The weather was always a main factor in our lives but, out here in the middle of the Atlantic, a good forecast was going to be crucially important to us. According to the Swordfish boys, Brian was good at his job and could be relied upon. Reasonable weather with mostly high cloud was expected for the next eight hours although the wind would remain quite strong at force five. The senior Fighter Direction officer, Lt Cdr. Ian Merry, introduced himself and gave us a suggested patrol height of 10,000 ft, if clear cloud allowed. He reminded us of the radio frequencies we should use and that our IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) should not be switched on unless we were in trouble or unless he told us to use it for his team to obtain a fix on us. The Swordfish crews had their own established procedures for anti-submarine search ahead and around the convoy and did not require so much briefing.
It was time to go and I came up from the fug of the Ready room on to the flight deck where the handling crews were standing by the chocks and the wingtips while my airframe rigger and my engine fitter prepared to strap me into the cockpit. Mac, my fitter, a fatherly old chap of some thirty years, talked about the Pratt & Whitney radial engine and how smoothly it had run on test. Then it was time to 'press-tits' to start up and the already warmed engine came to life immediately. I opened up to full power against the chocks, checked the magnetos and reduced to a fast tick-over ready for take-off. Meantime, the ship heeled over as she began her turn into wind while the deck had started to vibrate and shudder beneath the aircraft as the ship gathered speed up to her maximum of sixteen knots to provide the necessary wind speed over the flight deck. There would be plenty of wind for Jack and me in the Wildcats, but the Swordfish were very heavily loaded with depth charges and would need all the length of the deck, plus a full thirty knots of wind over it, to get off.
Looking up briefly I could see the two pairs of aircraft of the first patrol returning and approaching the ship separately, with the Wildcats ahead of the Swordfish, moving to take up position on the starboard side in preparation for their landing. They must so arrange their circuit that the first aircraft should be on final approach to land on the flight deck as the last of our patrol took-off ahead of them. Thus the ship would have to hold its course into wind only for the minimum of time.
Jack's Wildcat was ranged at the front in the middle of the deck with the chocks removed ready to take straight off. The 'Affirmative' was signalled from the bridge as the bows steadied five degrees off the wind. Pat Heaton, the 'Bats', had raised his flag and was waving it in a circular motion above his head. Jack released the brakes as the flag swept down and then opened up to full boost. The tail came up almost immediately and the Wildcat started to gather speed down the flight deck.
Even as Jack started moving, Bats was already waving chocks away and signalling me forward to face down the middle of the deck. This would be my first operational flight and my excitement and tension mounted as I looked down the flight deck and watched Jack jink slightly to starboard as he became airborne so that his slipstream would be clear of my path. Throttle open as far as possible while still holding the aircraft on the brakes, then Bats swept his flag down for me to go and, with full power, my Wildcat began the take-off. There was some roll to the ship with the sea on the port quarter but, thanks to the high wind speed along the flight deck, there was no difficulty in controlling the aircraft and keeping it straight. Seconds later I was airborne and climbing to join up with my leader to commence our patrol.
That first day there were no alarms or excitements and moreover the weather remained good. At the end of the two-hour patrol I gained my first experience of landing when there was some movement of the ship's stern up and down, although I hadn't been able to see clearly the amount of movement until the final stages of my curving approach. But the deck-landing technique I had been taught of holding the aircraft nose-up almost on the stall with a gradual rate of sink-down towards the deck, counteracted much of the pitching movement of the ship's stern. It was a useful first experience which prepared me for the future, when returning to the ship in bad weather and in rougher sea conditions would be more difficult.
Although it had been a quiet day, it set the pattern for convoy work ahead when we would long for confrontation with the enemy U-Boats or for a chance to shoot down their surveillance aircraft which, by their combining together, had so effectively been decimating our merchant shipping. It was difficult for young new pilots to appreciate at first that success should be measured not entirely in U-Boats sunk and aircraft shot down, but in the number of merchant ships convoyed safely through to their destination. The essential purpose of the Escort Carrier, working in combination with the other escorting Destroyers and Corvettes, was the protection of the convoy. But even on that convoy, regarded as a comparatively successful one, we lost two merchant ships. After the horror of witnessing from the flight deck the sudden explosion and sinking of one of them, I tried to dismiss the thought that the Carrier, day and night, was the prime target for the U-Boats.
I don't wish to denigrate the skill, courage and success of the Royal Navy in those small warships escorting the convoys, when I write that the Swordfish aircraft was the most effective single unit for combating the U-Boat in mid-Atlantic. That old-fashioned biplane, designed by Faireys happily without Admiralty interference some ten years before the war, proved to be the very best means of finding and attacking the U-Boats. Because it was so simple to fly, the pilots and crew were able to fly it with great courage from Carriers, both by day and night, in weather and sea conditions so appalling that pilots of other aircraft types could not have even contemplated operating at all. A danger for the Swordfish crews was that some RN Captains of Carriers, in their total ignorance of naval aviation and in their enthusiasm for their own personal success and that of their ship, might order combat operations to be undertaken which were beyond the capability of any aircraft or the skill of any pilot.
The function of the Swordfish was to patrol ahead and on either side of the convoy, usually about twenty-five miles out, using their ASV (Air to Surface Vessel) radar to search for enemy submarines on the surface or at periscope depth and to attack them with depth charges. Even if they could not find and attack the enemy before the boat could dive, the effect of their patrol was to keep the U-Boats down and unable to attack the convoy. By late 1941, however, the U-Boat commanders had become prepared to surface and fight it out against the flimsy Swordfish using both their cannon and machine-guns.
This is where the Wildcats, on combat patrol as a pair could come in fast on call-up from the Swordfish to fire at the enemy gun crews on the deck of the U-Boat who, intent on returning fire against the Wildcats, enabled the Swordfish to continue their depth charge attack. The Wildcat was slightly slower at that time than other fighter aircraft but it had a formidable fire-power of six 0.5 Browning machine guns and was eminently suitable for this situation.
The main purpose of our small fighter squadron, however, was to prevent the surveillance of the convoy by the Focke-Wolf Condors. These were converted four-engine airliners which, hitherto before the existence of Escort Carriers, had been able to range with total impunity over the whole area of the mid-Atlantic, to report the size, speed and course of our convoys to the lurking packs of U-Boats. They had been hugely successful in providing the enemy submarines with critical information but also, such had been their impunity, they had been able to bomb our merchant ships on the edges of the convoys. The Condor was fast and dangerous to attack having a 20mm cannon turret and three machine-gun positions giving them fire coverage from on top and below. The Germans, we knew, were producing these Condors in large numbers as they represented a major weapon in their war against our convoys. They also used for the same purpose a large twin-boomed, three-engine Flying Boat, the Bloemen-Voss 138, which operated more usually in the north Atlantic and Arctic. This was a well-armed and spiteful opponent too, but it was slow and therefore easier to knock down.
At this period of the war in 1942 and '43, the role of the Fleet Air Arm was predominantly a defensive one. Although it should not be forgotten that earlier, eight Swordfish had sunk nearly the whole of the Italian fleet in Taranto harbour. But during this same period of 1942 and '43, offensive strikes were made against German airfields and shipping in Norway and along the coast of the Bay of Biscay and again in the Med. Later in 1944 and '45, in the Far East and Pacific, large strikes of over 150 naval aircraft against Japanese oil refineries, their airfields and shipping, by Avenger bombers escorted by Hellcat and Corsair aircraft as fighter-bombers, were made constantly and daily.
## CHAPTER SIX
## Some Happenings at Sea
Jack and I were at 'immediate readiness' in our Wildcats, which were ranged as the only two aircraft on deck. The weather was foul with thick cloud from about four hundred feet going up to considerable heights with heavy rain and high winds. Nevertheless the two Swordfish had been sent off over an hour ago to carry out their patrols at almost sea level. It had not been thought worthwhile to send us up on patrol since, with such heavy and extensive cloud coverage, we would be unlikely to see and find anything and neither, for that matter, would a Condor be able to see the convoy. So we all thought.
But it was typical of such heavy and prolonged showers that occasional brief gaps were appearing and, sure enough, the message came over the deck Tannoy from Cdr Air to start engines. Whether for real or just to warm them I didn't know but frankly I hoped like hell that we would not be sent up in this stuff. Then over the R/T came Ian's voice from Fighter Control to report a 'bandit' on the screen, estimated at forty miles and angels six. Stand by to take off and he would give us a vector to steer before we were airborne. OK by me if there really was a bandit, that was a different matter, but I didn't want to get airborne to bog around up in that stuff just on the whim of an over enthusiastic Captain.
Meantime we were turning into wind and, as we did so, there was a heavy sea running against the port quarter of the ship making her roll as well as pitch into it. 'Vector 260, try angels six,' came the voice from Ian. 'Roger' from Jack.
I just had time to correct and set my directional gyro compass before the 'affirmative' was signalled and Jack at full throttle was already moving down the deck. Pat almost immediately was waving my chocks away and lining me up towards the bows.
Down went his flag and with no hesitation I opened up to full throttle... almost level with the Island and bloody hell... but I was aiming down into the sea with the bows of the ship smashing into it. I would have to pull her up into the air well before reaching the end of the deck.... I did so... and of course, with that strong wind over the deck, bless my little Wildcat she came up and airborne well clear of the sea.
Keeping low over that ferocious sea, just below the cloud base, I looked for Jack's Wildcat among the rain squalls. There he was, waiting for me below cloud, turning to port onto the vector given by Ian and enabling me to cut across to join up with him. Maintaining fine pitch of the prop, for I would need quick engine response for the close formation I would have to keep in cloud, I moved to his starboard side as close to his aircraft as possible. Jack signalled from the cockpit with his thumb up to query was I OK and ready, I nodded confirmation and so we started to climb close together up into the thick cloud.
There was considerable turbulence and I had to give maximum concentration to my formation flying and to fight my aircraft in close if I were not to lose him, but how fortunate I was that Jack was such a steady leader. I had total confidence in him. Concentrating so intensely in tight formation, I could not look at my instruments to see what height or course we were on but then, after an age as it seemed to me, suddenly at nearly 12,000 ft, we broke through into a gap between layers of cloud and I could move away from Jack's Wildcat and take stock. First action was to turn on my oxygen as, on the climb up, there had been no opportunity to do so earlier. There was no sight of a Condor, nor of the sea far below us. Jack reported the situation to the ship. Ian, from the ship, replied that the Bandit was on a course heading away and evidently had not been able to sight the Convoy.
The static on the R/T had become bad and communication difficult but we were just able to receive the order to return to base as swiftly as possible because the weather had deteriorated with an even lower cloud base and very poor visibility. Because of the bad R/T reception, neither of us could hear the course to steer for the ship given by Ian but we heard and complied immediately with his instruction to 'make our cockerels crow', which meant that we must switch on our IFF transmitters. Jack circled round before we re-entered the cloud below us so that both of us could check our YG beacons to see if a sector signal might come up indicating our course back to base. Mine came up on sector 'D' suggesting a course of about 050 degrees which, Jack and I agreed on the R/T, would be about right. So Jack started to let down through the cloud on 050 with me in formation close to his starboard side.
After about ten minutes on that course, descending slowly, Ian's voice came through on the R/T now more clearly, 'I have your position on the screen; steer 020 for base. Come in at angels one but no lower because of the convoy.' Jack acknowledged and we turned on to the given course while losing further height down to 1,000 ft but, as we expected, still in thick and heavy rain cloud. Then Ian's voice, 'You are engines directly overhead, turn on to the ship's course into wind at 210 now, repeat 210 now.' 'Roger' from Jack who had already started the turn. From Ian, 'You are clear to descend down to sea level on course 210. Mother will maintain that same course into wind.' From Jack, 'Roger, thanks and now leave us to get on with it, matey.' What a nice way of telling Ian to shut up, I thought. But Jack's laconic, confident reply warmed and cheered me when I needed it.
Jack took us down fast and barely half a minute later we came out of cloud very low over a grey and white sea of frightening appearance. Immediately, although it was difficult to establish any horizon between the equally grey sea and low cloud, Jack went into a steep turn to port on to what should be the downwind leg of our approach to the Carrier. A short pause before I turned to follow him; I must not get too close, yet in this murky visibility it would be too easy to lose him somewhere ahead. If we had judged it right, the Carrier should be coming towards us on our port quarter but, in the dreadful visibility, there was no sign of her that I could see. Wheels, flaps and hook down in readiness and hood securely locked back and open (I always had a dread of being locked in the cockpit if I hit the sea or crashed over the side and unable to get out.) There she was! Just where she should be... Jack had timed it perfectly.
I throttled back to let Jack get further ahead. He was on his final approach and I watched his swoop on to the deck and safely down. Now me and, in a steep turn on the cross wind leg, I could see the pitching and rolling of the Carrier. I had determined from experience now, that my method of landing in such sea conditions was to come in high off an even steeper turn than usual (to give me a better view and judgement of ship movement) and aim to land well up on the middle of the deck... about the fourth or fifth wire. I rarely ever looked at the batsman. I reckoned he would only befuddle me, although I recognised that some pilots were reassured by his signals. I wasn't being cocky about it; by now I had enough experience to establish my own method. Pride before a fall, don't they say?
The landing went as I intended until the ship gave one hell of a roll to port as I caught the fourth wire, slewing me towards the edge of the deck on that side, but I had already caught the wire which, straining at its full extent, held my Wildcat just on the edge so that from the cockpit I looked down on that awful sea. I was sweating from forty minutes of a hairy flight but, at that point, I think I almost wet myself. By now the deck handlers had rushed across the deck and were all round the aircraft securing it.
I was longing to go below to my cabin, have a shower because I had been sweating and then along to the Wardroom to put down some pink gins in company with Jack and Ian, the Direction Officer, who we reckoned had done a good job. But the Captain, with Cdr Air, had sent for Jack and me up on the Bridge. But bless the dear old boy. All he wanted was to say that it had been a good show our getting back. We aircrew liked him; we knew that he consulted our Squadron COs whenever a difficult decision about flying had to be made. We were luckier than aircrew in some other Carriers with Captains ambitious for their DSOs.
Basil was waiting in the cabin with a hot cup of black coffee and our small flask of whisky at the ready. In the privacy of our cabin, perhaps I had allowed myself to look as shaky as I felt after that hairy but useless flight, because he put his arm round my shoulder and gave me a slight hug. 'You really must not go out to play again when it's raining as badly as that, Henry,' he said, 'It frightens me that you might catch a cold, or something silly of that sort.' It was his way of telling me how worried he had been for me on that flight and, by the way, he still called me 'Henry' sometimes although no one else did. Both of us had long since lost our earlier naïve and sanguine outlook on the certainty of our future and of our lasting friendship. We had seen enough now to know that we would be lucky, either one of us, to see the end of the war and the future was always a taboo subject with any of us. The right attitude was to look forward to the next party or, better still, the next leave.
We couldn't foresee then how the Squadrons of the Fleet Air Arm would develop more into a striking force in the years ahead but, right now, we found that the defensive role was demanding enough. Dale, who had joined us recently at short notice, flying in bad weather had misjudged his final approach to the deck and hit the rising round-down of the flight deck. His Wildcat went into the sea upside down behind the Carrier and there was no way he could have got out. Two of the Swordfish crews had failed to return at night in particularly bad weather. For us aircrew, as with those sailors in the Destroyers and Corvettes, it was a kind of war of attrition against the U-Boats without much apparently to show for it. Winnie, with Cliff, had knocked down a Condor and had done well to get back on the deck with part of his tailplane hit by cannon fire. The rest of us, although we had been involved in a number of chases, had not been able to get close enough for effective fire at a Condor. And we had all at sometime given support to the Swordfish to keep the U-Boats from attacking on the surface.
I was finding the Air Patrols combined with the continuous vulnerability of the Carrier to U-Boat attack all rather nerve-racking. But I was thankful to have the type of war job which, at the end of the day, allowed me plenty of whisky, a good meal and a cabin with a comfortable bunk for the night. Best of all was the companionship round the bar with fellow aircrew; the laughter from the uproarious and sometimes ridiculous flying stories that flowed with the drinks. With a few drinks inside, it was usually possible to see the funny side of what had been a hairy situation at the time and generally there was a lot of ribbing and fun between us all. Thank heavens for alcohol.
On a typical start to a morning at sea, I was woken up by the cheerful voice off our young steward, 'Wakey, wakey, sir, 5.30 and a lousy morning but here's a nice cuppa tea.' His voice was enough to drag me back from sleep and to remember that I would be on the first Air Patrol of the day. Take-off would be at about 7am leaving me plenty of time, I reckoned, to sip my hot tea. I glanced down at the lower bunk to see Basil, pretending to hold on to his precious sleep and no doubt enjoying the pleasure of listening to me having to get up while he could stay in his bunk.
'Come on sir, time to be up and getting at it.' The steward was back to chivvy me up as I needed him to do. Anyway, he could afford to be bossy as, being under the T124X contract, he was almost certainly earning much more than me. Since the Carrier was always, night and day, the prime target for the U-Boats, he probably considered that he earned his high pay.
As I shaved, I felt the ship moving in a fairly heavy swell. Well I wouldn't worry about it until I got up top to the flight deck to have a look-see. I felt my bowels revving up as they always did before an early morning patrol, so I finished shaving quickly and dashed off to the heads and to have a shower. Jack was there already having his shower and grinned a cheerful greeting at me. 'Morning, Hank, feels like a nice day for it,' he said as he staggered slightly with the movement of the ship.
A bacon and egg breakfast had become traditional for aircrew before combat operations; it was considered to be a special treat, as indeed it was in wartime Britain, and a booster for the day ahead. But not many of us at breakfast that morning were enjoying the traditional treat. I was having my usual difficulty in swallowing the overcooked and greasy egg with fried bread although Jack was cracking on and seemed to be enjoying it.
At the table with us were the pilots and observers from the two Swordfish that had landed on in the dark fifteen minutes earlier. The crews had just come down after de-briefing. The faces of these four young men were grey and lined from the fatigue and stress of the hazardous flight and from the freezing cold of the open cockpits; no doubt the TAGs (Telegraphic Air Gunners) now in the Petty Officers' Mess looked the same. They were not interested in talking about the patrol as yet, but concentrated on the warmth of the food and the steaming hot coffee. Their two hours of Anti-Submarine patrol around the Convoy had been through low cloud, heavy showers and in pitch black darkness which had not lightened as they found the ship and came in to land on the moving deck. Patrolling for them in such conditions was not unusual. But they had kept the U-Boats down during the night without any loss to the merchant ships in our Convoy.
After breakfast Jack and I came out on to the flight deck and stood together against the wind and surveyed the weather and the grey sea. The weather had improved and was not too bad at all; scattered sixth/tenth cloud at about 4,000 ft and high cirrus above with a cold, strong wind of about eighteen knots which had changed the swell into a lumpy sea, causing the ship to pitch quite steeply. Around us, in the early morning light, the aircraft handling crews were ranging two more Swordfish for take-off with our two Wildcats ahead of them.
There was nothing special to tell us at the briefing and, with the improving weather, there was the prospect of a reasonably quiet patrol ahead of us. Towards the conclusion of it, after we had been circling the convoy at 8,000 ft for nearly two hours, Ian's voice came over the R/T, not as we might have expected, to tell us to join the circuit for landing but, with controlled excitement:
'Bandit at vector 290, angels 6, estimate thirty miles: buster at vector 290.'
Jack steep turned on to 290, and at full throttle and revs, we were on our way in loose formation. This could be a good interception with cloud only at half cover at some 4,000 ft although cloud was thickening up in the west where we were now aiming but, if Ian's angels were correct, we would have a 2,000 ft height advantage. The Condor, as the Bandit aircraft was sure to be out here in mid-Atlantic, was capable of a speed not far short of ours and we would need the extra height for our attack.
'Turn left to Vector 220.' Came Ian's voice.
Then I realised how wise Jack had been to keep our height because we saw the small black speck only slightly below us moving fast across from right to left. But it had seen us too and had turned away heading for the thicker clouds to the west. With full power and some extra height we were gaining but not fast enough. At about 800 yards from us it entered the first wispy clouds.
Jack was astern and to the right of the Condor, but slightly below, where the cannon fire from the top turret could not hit him. He was giving the Condor brief squirts of fire from his six Browning machine guns despite little hope of hitting it at that range. Jack called me on the R/T.
'Go left of the cloud, Red Two; I will follow him; might get lucky to see him in cloud.'
Three minutes later Jack called me again. 'No luck, return and meet me above the cloud at angels six; we must make sure he doesn't double back towards the Convoy.'
Just then, at the edge of the cloud below me, I saw the black shape of the Condor.
Time only to shout in the R/T, 'I see him!' and immediately stuff the nose down and at him with guns squirting and spraying bullets at a distance probably too far for much effect. The Kraut gunner in the top turret had been alert too and he was firing back with a better chance of hitting me with cannon at that distance. But the Condor turned back into the thick cloud immediately where I followed flying at full throttle. I desperately wanted to get him at all costs and, intensely excited and wound up, flew flat out through the cloud prepared to accept the possibility of ramming into him. Meantime my gyro horizon had toppled and I began to lose all sense of the aircraft attitude. As I wrestled with the controls, the speed was building up massively with the engine roaring at dangerously high revs. I shot nearly vertically as it seemed down out of the bottom of the clouds at about 2,000 ft which was only just enough height to pull out of the dive above the sea.
'Go back to flying school,' I thought grimly and sweatily, 'go and relearn to fly on your instruments.'
Came Jack's voice on the R/T. 'Where the hell are you, Red Two, and what the blazes are you doing?' He instructed me to steer 100 degrees and join him at angels six in clear sky. Still at full boost and fine pitch, I climbed and after several minutes caught him up bogging slowly along at about 130 knots. Flying alongside my leader, Jack, there was time now for me to take stock of the situation. With horror I saw that the fuel tanks, as shown by the gauges, to be nearly empty! 'How far do you reckon we are from base, Red One?' I asked, 'I am nearly out of fuel.'
To which Jack replied: 'I reckon as much as eighty miles. Make sure that you are in coarse pitch for the prop and fully weak fuel mixture. Don't formate on me, but keep this same throttle setting and same course until I tell you, then we are going to lose height gradually at this slow speed down to angels three. I shall be alongside you all the way.'
If the Carrier was that far away, as Jack had calculated, there seemed little chance for us to get back to it. And certainly not for me because, even in loose formation during the patrol, I was bound to have used more fuel than Jack. More particularly, I must have used a huge amount of fuel at excessive revs and boost chasing the Condor and then catching up with Jack. I was making excuses for myself really, because my engine handling during the patrol had been bad as I should have been flying at lesser power and weaker mixture.
We were down now to 3,000 ft and apparently had come near enough to the Carrier for Jack to make radio contact and to give our situation report.
'Make your cockerels crow,' came Ian's voice from the Carrier and then, a minute after we had switched on our IFF transmitters, he gave us a course to steer of 070 to the ship.
We turned on to the new course and I tried to assess the state of the sea down there and the wind direction over it. No doubt Jack was doing the same as it was likely that we were both going to have to ditch. Ten minutes later, I could just catch sight of the Convoy ahead. Even as I did so, the engine coughed and spluttered and began to lose power. I thought quickly about baling out and discarded the thought; I didn't fancy a parachute jump into the sea; that would be worse. So this was it; I would have to ditch and I dreaded it. I couldn't swim and I had always feared the sea. This was no time to be asking myself what the hell was I doing therefore in the Fleet Air Arm. I must control my fear and get on with it.
Jack kept near me as I went down; gliding by now with the prop just windmilling and no power. I decided quickly to ditch into the waves, rather than along them, which would also bring me more or less into wind.
Straps extra tight, canopy wide open and securely locked back, full flaps down and trim; about a hundred feet left now and oh hell the waves looked awful and high; nose up a bit, get the speed down; don't stall it; quite wide troughs try to clonk it down in the middle of one. The initial 'CRASH' as we hit the sea flat. Then the real 'BANG' as the Wildcat ploughed into the brick wall of the full sea. The engine and nose went under immediately and the icy sea was gushing into my cockpit. With my fear of the sea there was an overwhelming urge to panic, but I knew I must stay calm if I was to survive.
By the time I had pulled the dinghy out and scrambled into it, the Wildcat was already sinking and I watched as the tail plane sank beneath the waves. Noise of an aero engine and I looked up to see Jack circling above me. He was obviously doing so to give the Carrier a fix on where I had ditched. But by doing so he was using his precious fuel and jeopardizing his own chance of getting back to the Carrier. I waved and shouted stupidly, willing him to go. He did so but only to return two minutes later to dive down on me to show, as I was to realise later, my position to the Destroyer following him.
Jack did get back. He landed straight on to the Carrier, which had turned into wind ready for him. His engine and prop stopped as he opened the throttle to taxi forward just moments after he had landed. Once his wheels were down and he was committed to that landing, he would have had little chance of survival had the engine failed at that point.
Meantime, the Destroyer had come racing up and, almost without stopping, had skilfully dropped a boat and crew to pick me up and then hoist me on board. During the following few days, I watched and learned how well the Destroyers and Corvettes of the Royal Navy performed their job of guarding the Convoy in combination with my Carrier. When I was able to return to my own ship a few days later in Greenock, we in the two squadrons had a super drunken party on board, as was our custom on return to harbour, at which I dared to tell Jack what a silly old git he had been, taking such risks for me, and to thank him. The typically dismissive comment from Jack was 'No problem and no sweat, Hank, you would have done the same.' Basil became unusually drunk and, for a change, it was I who had to help him back to our cabin and to his bunk, rather than the more customary other way round.
Some time later, it was my turn to lie in my top bunk while Basil was woken up by the steward to get ready for the early morning patrol. Half dozing and half awake, I was watching Basil, in his underpants, shaving over the little hand-basin in our cabin, his short dark hair untidy still from the pillow and his slim body tense from the effort of holding steady against the movement of the ship as he shaved. A fine looking young man really, I thought, and I felt a great warmth towards him for the strong friendship and companionship which had grown up between us ever since the early training days at Netheravon, where we had first shared a cabin together. He turned and smiled at me and I realised that he had seen me, reflected in the shaving mirror, watching him so intently. I was momentarily embarrassed at being caught and then I thought, 'What harm can there be if he is aware that I love him like an elder brother, as I do.' I smiled back and turned over in the bunk, away from him, pretending to return to my sleep without a care, as if he was about to catch an early bus to an office job.
But I remember feeling uneasy that morning for some reason, although it was just another day of patrols at sea. I made myself lie there quietly in my bunk until I felt the vibration when the ship increased speed for Jimmy and Basil to take-off. Then I waited to be sure that there was no undue commotion up top, before getting myself up and along to the Wardroom to join Jack with Winnie and Cliff for breakfast. They would be off on the next patrol while Jack and I would be on stand-by for the morning.
After an hour of standing by in the Ready room, I thought I would wander up to Fighter Control to see if anything of interest was going on. I wasn't allowed to be in there really, but Ian would sometimes allow one pilot at a time to stay and watch. Indeed there was something happening; a clear and large blip, obviously a Condor at this distance from land, had just appeared on the edge of the screen. Ian and his team were concentrating hard on the plotting of the Condor and assessing its speed and height so that they could give Jimmy and Basil the information and course enabling them to intercept the Condor. Within a few moments, Ian was able to call Jimmy on the R/T, 'Hello Blue One this is Mother. Bandit at angels six, vector 160, buster. He should be coming from your right on a course probably of 050 and below you.'
I knew that I ought not to be in the FDR (Fighter Direction Room) in the middle of an action but I could not bear to leave it; the excitement was intense. The sailors were plotting the movements of the three aircraft, on the large vertical screen, just as fast as the information could be passed to them from the radar operators below. All eyes were glued to the screen and Ian, standing up with the 'mike' in his hand, was conducting the interception by making constant assessments of the position of our two Wildcats relative to that of the enemy and calling his vector instructions to Jimmy. Then 'Tallyho' from Jimmy, 'he has seen us and we are chasing. Good interception Ian, we have height over him and he has no cloud cover.' This came from Jimmy in almost a quiet conversational tone.
Then from Jimmy to Basil, 'Spread out ready to go for his port quarter as I take him from this side.' 'Roger,' from Basil. Then a few moments later from Jimmy, 'Going in now, go.'
There followed a silence except for the static on the R/T. It seemed a never-ending period of silence and I could visualize the two Wildcats following the classic combined attack astern and from either quarter of the enemy. The question was, what would the Condor do?
Oh, the aching silence; nothing but the single 'Roger' from Basil all this time.
Seconds later we heard a transmission... a gasped... 'I'm hit.... can't get....'
From Jimmy almost shouting, 'We've got him, he's down: tail gone and he's breaking up.'
Nothing more from Basil.
From Jimmy, 'Blue Two has been hit and is down in the sea.' Then, 'I am circling the wreckage looking for him.' And then in answer to Ian, 'Yes, the Condor is finished. I am looking for Basil.' Later, 'No sign of him in the water, just some wreckage.'
Feeling sick and breathless I turned to scramble my way blindly out of the FDR. I should never have gone there and how I wished that I had never done so. Would I ever be able to forget hearing Basil's voice on his final call 'I'm hit...'? The awful thought of him, probably wounded, striving to get a damaged canopy open and unable to get out of the aircraft as it plunged seawards.
To hell with stand-by. I just needed to find my way down to our cabin and to sit there quietly for a while. At the back of my mind, I realised that the ship had turned into wind and increased speed to receive the Swordfish returning from their anti-submarine patrol and for Jimmy, the sole Wildcat pilot, to land on. I sat there trying to come to terms with the realisation that Basil had been killed and was gone. In those wartime days, the pace of life was such that a month was almost as a year normally would be, and our friendship had been formed eight months ago and sustained over a very long period therefore. Memories of all our good times together went through my mind. And sitting in that empty cabin, I wept for the loss of him and at the awful manner of his going.
A while later there was a tap on the cabin door and Jimmy came straight in. 'I know, as we all do in the Squadron, that you and Basil were very close friends. Although my formal report has been submitted at the de-briefing, I thought you might want to hear directly from me exactly what happened.' It was sensitive and kind of him because the proper pattern of behaviour on such occasions was to go on as normal, as if nothing so significant as the loss of a close friend had occurred.
He pretended not to notice my face with its unmanly tears and spoke about the attack. 'When Basil and I started our attack together, the Condor pilot opted to turn to port, towards Basil, as he dived down trying to get away from us, thus forcing Basil to aileron round and down after him and making himself particularly vulnerable to the cannon fire from their top turret. Leaving me with the opportunity and advantage of getting up close and to fire right up the arse of the thing. As I was closing, Basil was diving and firing and taking the brunt of the cannon and machine-gun fire from the German gunners. He did a fine and courageous job. He enabled me to make the kill.'
I could see in my mind, as Jimmy described it, exactly how in less than a minute of violent action two aircraft had been shot out of the sky and nine men had been killed, there being a crew of eight in the Condor, none of whom had got out either.
I thanked Jimmy for coming to see me. 'Now Hank,' he said, 'be reminded that you and Jack have the patrol this afternoon and it is time for you to sink a couple of gins, if that is what you need, and to get something to eat.' He was quite right, of course, I must show the courage and stoicism to act as other aircrew in similar circumstances always have to do. Moreover, it would do me no good to sit moping in the cabin. I was glad too that I would be airborne without delay. Flying from a Carrier concentrated the mind wonderfully and left little room for morbid thoughts. I washed my face and went along to the wardroom bar where I was greeted by my friends and I drank a couple of pink gins with them as we talked quietly about the events of that morning.
The patrol later that afternoon was uneventful and, after landing, I returned to my cabin. The steward was waiting for me so I asked him to find Basil's two small suitcases and to bring them to me in the cabin. I had decided to have a couple of whiskies in the bar, an early dinner and then to set about the grim task of packing up Basil's uniform and going through his papers, letters and any personal things before having them sent on to his father and mother. Knowing him as well as I did, I considered it very unlikely that I would find anything in his correspondence which could upset his parents. He had a girlfriend, a girl he had known since schooldays who lived close to his home. He had told me about her and of his intention for them to get married when the war was over. I had the impression that their relationship was no great raging romance for either of them but, on the other hand, Basil had held strong views about the importance of marriage and family life. Unusual views for a young man of his age, it had seemed to me, but at least he had made me think about such things.
I sat down at the small desk to write a personal letter to his parents, telling them of our long friendship and how much it had meant to me. Jimmy as his Commanding Officer, I knew, would be writing more formally and he would no doubt tell them of Basil's courage in action. I put all his personal clothes; underpants, vests, socks and shirts into a laundry bag, sent for the steward and told him to dispose of them. Then I went to the Wardroom bar and got drunk. On return to the cabin, after undressing, I started to climb shakily up to my top bunk, with memories of Basil with his hand on my bottom shoving me up there.... then I thought 'no', I wanted to be in his lower bunk, even using his sheets and pillow. I lay face down in his bunk and cried as the full realisation that he was dead and gone forever, hit me.
That was the Squadron's last voyage in that Carrier. We were due to fly ashore to Donibristle in Scotland and the expectation was that we would go on two weeks leave from there. There was an expectation also that we would have more new pilots and Wildcats and, as a larger Squadron, join a Fleet Carrier. It was the autumn of 1943.
## CHAPTER SEVEN
## Ashore and on Leave
On a bitterly cold day in November, our small Squadron of seven Wildcats flew off from our Escort Carrier to proceed direct to Donibristle, an aerodrome not far north of Edinburgh. We didn't do much of a display over the ship on leaving it; the weather was most unpleasant with low cloud and we were all anxious to get to Donibristle where we hoped a signal would be awaiting us confirming an immediate two weeks' leave. Also, although very cheerful with the prospect of leave, we were all hung over from a farewell party the previous evening while the ship was making her way towards Gourock.
Donibristle was a small aerodrome with a single short runway, no control tower and without even a YG beacon as an approach aid. Because of the low cloud, Jimmy had briefed us to separate into two flights of four and of three to low fly in line astern along the Caledonian Canal to the east coast of Scotland. We arrived over Donibristle, admittedly in rather an ungainly heap, to find that this little aerodrome had an absurd pimple of a 200 ft hill at one end of its single short runway which, in that freezing weather, had black ice on it as an extra hazard. It was not an impressive arrival in the dark of a late winter evening but nothing, not even some of us sliding on the ice off the runway, could spoil our cheerful mood.
Transport was waiting to take us to comfortable cabins near to the Wardroom where we met five new pilots who had been awaiting our arrival during the previous two days. Jimmy Sleigh called us into an ante-room to tell what he knew of our immediate future. First of all he confirmed that we could take leave as from the following morning and unofficially he advised the six of us from the ship to go early before the Customs Officers descended on us to claim their dues on the few 'goodies', silk stockings, watches, etc which we had purchased in New York. It would be nice to be one up on the Customs men, who had to be notified whenever we flew ashore and were merciless in extracting every penny of duty on any purchases we had made in America. Such 'goodies' were packed, together with our clothes, in parachute bags which fitted snugly in the fuselage behind the cockpit. While we were away on leave, five new Wildcats would be flown in to Donibristle to bring the squadron up to a strength of twelve. Jimmy's expectation was that the squadron would be appointed to a Fleet Carrier after a period of four weeks of flying at Donibristle to work-up and integrate the new pilots.
By this time the bar was open in the Wardroom and, other than Jimmy who had paperwork to do, we all moved in there looking forward to meeting each other; the new pilots being keen to find out about the Squadron and what it had been doing and we, the original members, anxious to meet, talk and find out about the new boys. All five of them had been trained at Pensacola in America and had amassed many more flying hours at the end of their training than we had at the same stage. Since their return to the UK, they had all completed deck-landings. They appeared as typical young Englishmen, no Colonials amongst them, and keen to talk flying. One of the five stood out as being rather different from the others; a tall, slim but well-built man, probably a year or two older than the others, having black hair swept back and rather too long and with a very white skin. His name was Johnnie Lowder and he affected a languid manner accentuated by smoking expensive Balkan Sobranie cigarettes through a black holder.
Instead of standing up around the bar with us, Johnnie lay back in one of the armchairs and listened to our talk which, at first, was about the slightly awkward flight we had made in unpleasant weather from the ship and our ungainly arrival at Donibristle. In a brief lull in the animated conversations, Johnnie spoke from his chair, 'I thought your squadron landings were an utter shambles,' he said. 'More like a flock of ugly ducklings fluttering down and skidding all over the place on a bit of ice. Very disappointing,' he added. He spoke in a public school accent and with a slight stammer.
There was a stunned silence. We all turned to look at him. The other four new boys rather shocked but we, of the Squadron, in fury that some damn sprog pilot should dare to criticise experienced operational pilots such as ourselves.
Winnie moved away from the bar, his face red with anger and fists clenching but Dagwood moved quietly in front and stood over Johnnie and introduced himself as the Senior Pilot of the Squadron. He asked Johnnie politely to describe publicly to all of us the exact extent of his service and flying experience.
We waited. Johnnie's white mask-like face creased into a delightful smile and he said,
'Experience? Other than flying training – absolutely none; especially compared with you chaps whose Carrier experience I envy so much. All the more reason for my disappointment; I had so hoped and expected you to put on a good show.
'As for my service, I started by joining the Marines and transferred to the FAA when they asked for applicants. But I just had time to win the Marine's light heavyweight boxing championship before I left, if you would count such nonsense as service experience.' I noticed that he said this with a glance at Winnie who was still red-faced with anger.
All this was said with his occasional stammer, which he controlled by an intake of breath at the start of each sentence, but with his eyes crinkled up with amusement and accompanied with a most friendly smile. We had to smile with him, stand him up and insist he join us at the bar where he proceeded to put away a vast quantity of gin during the ensuing party. We were to find in the months to come that Johnnie was an entirely fearless pilot, a wild character quite unlike the smooth exterior which he affected and, so like Winnie, he just loved a fight. I had noticed the glance Johnnie had given Winnie when he spoke about his boxing championship. It occurred to me then that these two strong young men, although so different in appearance, manner and background, were extraordinarily alike in their impetuous characters. I wondered how they would get on together.
Before I had too much to drink that first evening at Donibristle, I telephoned my Mother to tell her I was back and coming on leave in four days time. I felt guilty about the delay because I knew how much she and her companion dear Maddie longed to see me. But, truth to tell, I badly wanted a bit of life and excitement before settling down to a quiet leave at home. My plan was to visit Rosa Lewis at her Cavendish Hotel where, provided she could find a bed for me, I could be sure of meeting new exciting people and of enjoying four days in London's west end with its restaurants, dinner-dances and night clubs all of which were going great guns in those wartime days. Rosa Lewis had long been a famous personality in London; having made her name in the Edwardian period as one of the best and most famous cooks of that time before, as the story goes, she was gifted the Cavendish Hotel by Edward VII for services rendered.
In the Second World War Rosa did exactly as she had done in that even more dreadful First World War, she did her best to see that the young fighting Officers, who came to her hotel, had a good time and thoroughly enjoyed the period of their leave in London. If they could not afford the bills when they were presented during or at the end of their happy visit, then 'Put a bit on old So and So's bill,' she would say to Edith, (her long term companion and hotel manager). 'He can afford it.' Usually I had plenty of money at the start of my leave but I should blush now to write that twice, when due to depart the Cavendish, I had to admit that I was broke. 'That nice American Colonel will be glad to help out I expect,' Rosa said as she passed my bill to Edith for her to transfer the amount to the Colonel's. 'But you will 'ave to do better next time, 'Enery.' Although Rosa could talk 'posh' if she wanted to, she enjoyed reverting to her original cockney speech, which she would normally use.
The Cavendish wasn't the type of hotel to take advance bookings. It always seemed to be full anyway. The thing to do was to turn up at the start of a leave and just beg Rosa for a room. If you were lucky, she might remember or think of you as one of her favourites and if so she would turn to Edith and say, 'We can fit young 'Enery in a room somewhere can't we?' Luckily for me, Edith so far had managed to do so. Well, more or less, because on two occasions I came back in the early hours of the morning to find my room already occupied. The bedrooms at the Cavendish were all large, beautifully furnished and all of them were provided with huge double beds, I don't think that there was any such thing as the modern 'twin bedded' room. The first occasion, as I came in, I switched on the light and there was a kind of squeak from the bed and there was this quite small young man, sitting up in my bed, naked, black hair standing up on end, his mouth wide open in shock at his sudden awakening and looking like a startled prawn. 'This is my room,' I snarled unpleasantly and rather drunk, 'Get out of my bed!' Well, of course, I should have realised straight away; Edith with Rosa's approval often had to double-book a couple of young chaps if she was to provide them with the accommodation which they desired so much at the Cavendish. She never hesitated to put them in together to share one of the huge beds.
The startled prawn turned out to be a Subaltern in a famous regiment, his name was Tim and we settled down comfortably enough for a good night's sleep in the bed. He was a pleasant young chap and I liked him but he left the next day. I told Rosa that I hoped I hadn't frightened him off but she said that he had only wanted a bed for the one night anyway. She added with an air of great satisfaction that he came from 'one of the very highest families in the land' which meant nothing to me but I looked suitably impressed for Rosa's sake. I said, 'Next time if you have to double me up, could you make it happen with a pretty girl rather than a chap?' Rosa was really severe with me. 'I would never do that sort of thing; if you want a girl, you go and find your own girls young 'Enery, you cheeky boy!' All too evidently, I had misunderstood the rules of Rosa's house and I apologised humbly.
After I had booked in having travelled from Donibristle, I joined a cheerful group of young officers and women in the main public room, all drinking champagne and chattering. I spoke to a good-looking dark girl. She was Eva, a young widow whose husband, a Flight Lieutenant, had been killed flying Hurricanes. I spent three hectic days with her in London, usually dining and dancing at Quaglinos or the Berkeley every evening and on to a night club afterwards. Eva lived in a little flat in Ebury Street which in those days she had been able to rent quite cheaply. I spent one night with her there but sex didn't really work out well between us; she had not recovered from the loss of her husband and I felt myself to be a very inadequate replacement, even on a casual basis. It wasn't all that important because we enjoyed going out together and we made a good pair at the various parties we attended; it was what she needed to help her through a very bad period and it was good for me too.
After paying an absurdly small bill, probably because Rosa out of habit as well as kindness had hived some of it off on to someone else, I said goodbye to her and Edith and left the Cavendish to return home to Taplow. I had enough money remaining to pop round the corner into Fortnum's before I left London to buy a wartime hamper of very expensive goodies to take home. There followed for me a quiet and very pleasant holiday with my Mother and Maddie; I had sufficient petrol coupons for us to visit friends, to see two or three good films and I enjoyed walking to my local pubs where, wearing civvies, I could feel part of normal life. I realised belatedly that this tranquillity was really what I needed rather than the hectic hubbub of people and parties at the Cavendish, or anywhere else for that matter.
Although London in wartime was always the most exciting place to be on leave, I had enjoyed some other 'runs ashore', as we termed a few days' leave, when the ship had been in harbour in New York or Halifax, for example. But I had once suffered a disconcerting experience during the summer in New York when I had met a pretty American girl at one of the dances organised where I was staying at the Brabazon–Plaza Hotel. It was at a time when I was still very anxious to prove myself as attractive to women. My last effort had been at the hotel in Teignmouth with the randy young Wren who had quite frightened me off my stroke with the intensity and dominance of her sexual drive.
So I was full of new hope when this nice American girl invited me to her apartment, having arranged for the friend who shared it with her, to be out for the evening. Being a hot summer in New York, I was wearing my No.10 uniform which is white, very smart having gold buttons all the way up the jacket to the stiff round collar with epaulettes to show my rank as a Sub Lieutenant. I had bought this uniform from Gieves who seemed to have made it of shark skin, it was so thick and stiff. It had trouser creases like knife edges, including up the middle so that it felt as if my bottom was being cut in half whenever I sat down; particularly as the trousers were so made that they could only be held up high enough by taut braces. The pretty girl was lying back on the bed, waiting for me, in just her pants, looking absolutely desirable. I felt myself entirely ready to respond handsomely but, as I finally undid all the buttons and struggled free of that shark-like jacket, I was revealed in my vest with trousers held high up above my waist by those bright red braces. I must have looked like a half-peeled shrimp.
There was a great squeal of laughter from the girl. 'Oh my Gawd,' she hooted, 'He's wearing Surrspenders!' In the face of that laughter, all of me just collapsed completely. All I could do was to put the jacket back on and leave her.
The next day I bought a uniform from the US Navy stores; it looked much the same but it was of soft material, the trousers were designed to be held up by a belt and it was not only comfortable where it mattered, but smarter. Too late!
But back to the end of that last leave, on my journey back from my home in Taplow to Donibristle, the train from London to Edinburgh was crowded almost entirely with servicemen but I managed to get a seat in the first class and settled down hoping for a solitary journey; I wasn't in the mood for chat. I had enjoyed a good leave, firstly with all the fun and excitement at the Cavendish and then the quiet pleasure of life at home with Mother. Now as I sat in the train I was a bit low, rather as I had been when a fifteen year-old boy going back for the term to the dreaded Harrow.
Comfortable with plenty of room in my corner seat of the compartment by the window, I began to think about life immediately ahead of me and cheered up as I realised that there were all sorts of excitements and interests in store. Assuming that the Admiralty might keep to its plans for the Squadron, there would be some weeks at Donibristle flying with the new pilots and then the prospect of joining a Fleet Carrier in which life might be different, in all sorts of interesting ways, from that in an Escort Carrier. And so I looked up and around at my fellow passengers in the compartment and became aware for the first time of the ferocious glare directed at me from an RN Commander. He was seated squashed in the middle of the opposite seat and seemed to expect me, horrible little junior RNVR Subbie with wings that I was, to offer him my comfortable corner seat by the window. I smiled sweetly at him and felt better.
On getting out at Edinburgh station, I found that a whole group of our Squadron ratings had been on the train also returning from leave. Some of them called out cheerily to me asking 'Had a good leave, Sir?' I went over to them to ask about their leave and fortunately, as I approached them, they all saluted me very properly. Had they not done so, that boot-faced Commander, who had been watching us, would doubtless have expressed to me in strong words the disapproval his face so clearly showed at my familiarity with the sailors. It must have been difficult, I suppose, for officers of his Dartmouth background to understand our Fleet Air Arm style of relationship with the ratings who maintained our aircraft and who looked upon us, their pilots, as their personal responsibility. They worked hard to ensure our safety. You don't ignore men such as those. It was a bit of luck seeing my squadron people because, of course, the squadron Chief Petty Officer, Carey, had been busy on their behalf and had organised a three-ton lorry to collect them and take them to Donibristle. He told me that he had reserved a seat for me in the front cab with him and the driver, which of course he hadn't since he could not have known I would be there, but it was his nice way of expressing his pleasure at being able to give me a lift. I was glad to be back with my Squadron and my earlier depression lifted as I looked forward to joining fellow pilots in the Wardroom.
There were some changes. Dagwood Cosh, who had been our Senior Pilot since the squadron had formed, had been appointed as Commanding Officer of another Wildcat squadron elsewhere. We would miss him as a good leader but also for the fun and friendliness of his character. The very sad news was that one of the new young pilots, who had returned two days early from his leave in his keenness to fly, had stalled and spun in on his approach to the runway. We, the old boys of the squadron, felt some guilt because we had been emphasising the advantages of deck-landing off a reasonably steep turn on the final approach and maybe he had been trying to do this on his last flight. This may have been the cause of the boy's misjudgement and consequent death.
Later in the week the two replacements arrived, one of whom was another New Zealander. In the meantime, much to the approval of everyone, Jack Parli had been appointed as the new Senior Pilot. I was particularly glad that, instead of being made a section leader, I would continue to fly with him as his number two. Had I no ambition then you might ask? Yes; to stay alive by flying with Jack was the extent of my ambition.
Donibristle was a lousy little aerodrome as such but what a thoroughly pleasant Station it was at which to work-up the squadron again with its new pilots. It was a comfortable Station for all of us, including our squadron sailors, and Edinburgh with all its pubs and restaurants was less than an hour away. Best of all was our local pub, the Star at the village of Aberdour only three miles along the road with a landlord quite willing to stay open until all hours and with the local village policeman equally willing for him to do so.
I telephoned Phoebe, my sister, who was sharing a flat with another widow at Arbroath where they both continued to share in the life of the RN Air Station there. I suggested that she might like to come down to Donibristle and stay at the Star for a few days before my squadron was due to leave for another Carrier. She didn't hesitate and the following day she arrived and settled into the pub. We had seen little of each other over the past three years and it was a happy opportunity for us to talk. She had suffered a very bad time with the loss of Ward, her husband who had been killed in 1941, followed by the death of her fiancé, Pat Humphreys, who had been killed a year later. Both were Observers in the Fleet Air Arm. Anyway, now it was party time for her with me and my squadron chums at Donibristle. And party we did, in the Wardroom, at restaurants in Edinburgh, at parties of highland dancing in some of the local large houses but mostly at the Star where we would drink sometimes until the early hours of the morning.
We did some flying each day too because we had the new pilots to integrate into our squadron ways and also we all had to keep in flying practice. It so happened one morning that Winnie and I were left behind while the others were airborne. 'Come on Hank,' said Winnie, 'I challenge you to a dog-fight.' Whilst recognising that Winnie was a damn good pilot, I reckoned that my flying was smoother than his and that I would be able to steep turn inside him any day and so, laughing, I shouted back, 'Yes, and let's put a quid on it.' We didn't bother to have gun-cameras fitted; we would know who won all right because, whoever had the other in his gunsight, would make a Drrrr noise over the R/T in imitation of our machine guns firing.
Not long after we had broken away from each other at 10,000 feet, I was flying craftily along close under a bank of cloud, quite sure that I would find Winnie just ahead of me round the edge of the cloud, when I heard the wretched noise of Winnie blowing 'Drrrr' into my earphones followed by his chuckled 'Gotcha Hank'. But on the second sortie, I had him in my sights briefly but he saw me and dived and turned madly vertically in typical Winnie split-ass fashion. I followed but he was getting away from me so I was inspired to shout, 'Pocker, Pocker, Pocker' into my mike and 'Gotcha!' 'Don't be daft,' called Winnie, 'you are out of range.' I replied, 'Oh no I'm not. My 'pocker' noise means that I am using cannon and you are well within its range and dead.'
And so it is that my sole claim to any distinction throughout the war is that I invented the word 'pocker'. It came to be used frequently in the FAA for expressions such as 'Go away you Pocker!'. It sometimes caused misunderstandings though and the word has fallen out of use.
Johnnie Lowder appeared entranced with Phoebe, who at age about twenty-six then and despite all the sadness in her life, was still a very attractive woman. They hit it off together immediately. In many ways their characters were similar; Johnnie had a boisterous, careless attitude to life, which matched Phoebe's feelings at that time. He was exactly the type of young man to attract Phoebe. And so, although the time had come for Phoebe to return to Arbroath, I had the feeling that these two would arrange to meet again in the future.
A few days later the signal came for the squadron to prepare to embark in HMS _Illustrious_ which was at anchor lying off Gourock. The CO, having made the necessary travel arrangements, gave our Air Engineer Officer and CPO Carey the task of getting the troops on board. We, the pilots, would have to wait a day or two before flying our Wildcats across Scotland for the landing on _Illustrious_. That evening we were all feeling excited at the prospect of joining that famous Fleet Carrier, but rather irritated at the delay and having to wait about before we could do so. None of us went ashore and the evening was spent drinking rather too much as we discussed the prospects for the future and speculated about where the Carrier would be sent and what sort of action we could expect.
At the end of the evening, after the bar had closed, I was sitting in a comfortable armchair in front of the dying log fire, somewhat befuddled with whisky, and quite content to stay there for the night, rather than rouse myself to walk a few hundred yards to where our cabins were located. The others were moving out of the wardroom, when Winnie came back and pulled me out of the chair saying, 'Come on Hank, you can't sleep here, it will be damn cold soon'. But Johnnie stood in his way and started to argue belligerently that it was my decision if I wanted to remain there and he, Winnie, should mind his own damn business. They confronted each other with fists clenched ready to fight. The aggression which had been building up between them since that first evening had reached boiling point. Jack came back into the room and saw the situation; one which we had all been expecting. 'You can't fight here,' he said, 'you better both go up to the cabin block and get it out of your systems there.'
And so this inevitable fight, which we had all been silently dreading, took place in the building of our cabin block. There was a long corridor, about four feet wide, with the doorways of our cabins running down the length of it on either side. We watched from our doorways as each of these two men, marched solemnly to their respective end of the long corridor, stripped their shirts off and turned to face each other; Winnie glaring with red faced anger and Johnnie his grim white face like a mask.
Without any particular signal being given, they started to run full tilt at each other and they met in the middle with fists flying. Johnnie was punching fast with his fists going like pistons towards Winnie's face. But many of the punches were being muffled by Winnie's strong left arm while, with his right, Winnie was swinging great haymaking blows into Johnnie's ribs and stomach. Although both men were big, Winnie was the heavier and Johnnie was having to give ground to the onslaught of the hammer blows to his body and, as he gave ground though still punching fast, so Winnie changed his tactics and began to aim blows to Johnnie's face. With a shout, Winnie then launched himself at Johnnie and crashed him down on to his back on the ground where, with his weight, he was able to hold him down. Finally, he had Johnnie by the throat, holding him firmly down with all the strength in his left arm and the full weight of his body, while he drew back his right arm and fist ready to smash it into Johnnie's upturned face. Johnnie now helpless on his back, his white face streaked with blood, glared up at Winnie and, despite expecting to be bashed unconscious, yet he shouted, 'Get on with it then, you will have to finish me, get on with it you bastard!'
Winnie lowered his fist, got up, turned his back on his opponent lying on the ground and started to walk away to his cabin. He had a badly cut lip and was also bleeding slightly from the nose. Then he stopped, turned round again and extended his hand to Johnnie lying on the ground still. 'Come on chum,' he said, 'We're in the same squadron together, fighting the same bloody war, let's forget it, and anyway you shouldn't be taking on big bastards like me.' Johnnie accepted Winnie's hand to help himself up and without further talk they each went to their cabins.
Jack Parli, to whom this sort of affair was fairly commonplace, had positioned himself during the fight to interfere if necessary had things become really rough in his judgement. He now murmured, 'Well that's over with at last, with blood and gore all over the floor and me without a spoon.' This ridiculous phrase of his, which we had all heard from him before, broke the tension and we all turned in for the night. I have always had a loathing of physical violence and this fight between two of my best friends had been particularly sickening. It has remained strongly in my memory for that reason. But the positive aspect of it, why I have told the story, is that those two young men became from then on the firmest of good friends. I know, don't tell me. It reads like a story from the 'Boy's Own' magazine; but it is true.
In the Pacific during 1945, they flew constantly together in a flight of four Corsairs led by Winnie with Johnnie as his section leader. They had just completed a strafing attack on a Japanese airfield at Sakashima and had started on their way back to the _Illustrious_ without any casualties, when Winnie for some unaccountable reason took it into his head to break away from his flight, handing the leadership of it over to Johnnie, so that he could carry out a second attack on the airfield on his own. It was utter madness. It was contrary to all we had learned which was rarely to do two runs over an airfield and certainly never to attack it solo. Of course Winnie was killed; it was inevitable. Johnnie was seen to be in tears as he reported, after landing, that Winnie had been killed.
## CHAPTER EIGHT
## HMS _Illustrious_
At the ungodly hour of dawn, a time so beloved by the Royal Navy, we clambered into our Wildcats ready to fly in formation from Donibristle across Scotland to the sea off the Mull of Kintyre near where HMS _Illustrious_ would be waiting for us to land on. Only the previous day, there had been a sudden flurry of signals reducing our Squadron once again to eight aircraft and pilots so that four of the new boys, who had so recently joined us, would have to remain at Donibristle to await early transfer to another Squadron. Johnnie Lowder, Mike Penhale the New Zealander and Ron Dugdale were the three who stayed with us.
It was a pleasant sunny day as Jimmy led our two flights of four to our rendezvous off the Scottish coast. From low over the sea as we lost height and circled her, the _Illustrious_ looked large but also long, sleek and beautiful, so unlike the brick-like appearance of our previous Escort Carrier. I felt really thrilled at the prospect of joining her. Meantime, Jimmy had signalled each flight to move into echelon starboard prior to each individual approach and landing. We were all anxious to put on a good show as there would be many members of the ship's company watching critically as our Squadron landed on.
I was number six behind Jack and I was concentrating on judging how close behind him I could land without having to take a wave-off from the batsman and be sent round again. On my final approach, the very much longer, slightly wider flight deck plus the much larger 'Island' on the starboard side, all provided more sight of the ship so that I found it comparatively easy to line up for the actual landing. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the batsman kind of cavorting about and waving his bats, but I was concentrating on the landing which I completed comfortably catching the third wire. I was surrounded immediately by the experienced deck handling party who swiftly disengaged the aircraft hook and signalled me on to taxi fast over the now collapsed crash barrier to the deck park in the bows. As I taxied forward, I could see a whole crowd of critical spectators or 'goofers' as we called them, lining the outer galleries of the Island. As for the DLCO (batsman), I hoped he would turn out to be a bit calmer and steadier as he came to know and recognise my style of landing approach.
After visiting the Ready room and finding a locker there for my flying kit, I found my way with the others down to the Wardroom. This was a very large, well-appointed room furnished with lots of tables and comfortable chairs; it had to accommodate a considerable number of officers and to provide a centre for their leisure and social hours. There was a long bar, normally with two stewards serving behind it and a Petty Officer steward was there to show us to our cabins. Opposite the Wardroom, he showed us the dining-room with its spotlessly white tablecloths on long mahogany tables sufficient to dine over one hundred officers.
Aft of these two main rooms, the steward led us along passages with officers' cabins on either side, down another deck where there were more cabins and the junior officers' heads and showers, then further down to another half-deck where we were shown the accommodation allocated to us. Here at the very stern of the ship and two decks below the Quarterdeck were six cabins, basically single ones, located just one deck above the huge revolving shafts driving the ship's propellers. Some of the cabins were already occupied by aircrew from another squadron. We were to become accustomed, to the turbine noise but were inevitably woken up by the vibration whenever the engine revolutions increased to give extra speed for aircraft operations. Our basically single cabins all contained a second bunk which could be lowered from the bulkhead and in addition a camp bed was provided so that three aircrew could be accommodated in each cabin. It was an exceedingly cramped arrangement, leaving very little room for our clothes. I shared with Johnnie and Mike and we took it in turns each week to use the camp bed. As there was no space to move about, whoever was sleeping in the camp bed had to get up first to use the small hand basin, shave and get out.
The extraordinary thing is that we aircrew accepted the situation. It never occurred to us to complain of the discomfort or lack of sleep. I think that we were overawed by the grandeur of the Royal Navy and its traditions. The ship's officers, in their larger double or single cabins on the decks above us, thought of the ship as their home and this apparently justified their occupation of the best accommodation. We were regarded as temporary members of the ship, which was unkind as we too were so proud to be serving in her. Amazingly, it never seemed to occur to people that the ship and its whole complement of fifteen hundred men existed for the sole purpose of enabling fifty-five aircrew to fly from the ship on operations against the enemy. We never reminded them of this fact because, surprisingly, the thought of it never occurred to us either. Although I did make this very point when, as a Senior Pilot in the year 1945, eight of my pilots were crammed into a small dormitory provided specifically for aircrew in the latest Admiralty design of Light Fleet Carrier. I dared to have a row with the Commander about their accommodation, but got nowhere.
Despite our disappointment with the cabins, we found the _Illustrious_ to be a happy ship and it was a pleasure to serve in her. Most of the officers had remained from the previous year when the ship had played a major part in the Mediterranean convoys and had suffered much bomb damage in fighting her way through to Malta. They had justifiable pride and confidence in themselves as a result and we, as new aircrew in the ship, respected their experience. These officers, nearly all RN, suffered the presence of aircrews maybe not gladly but pleasantly enough and enjoyed watching, or joining in with, our hectic and drunken games in the Wardroom when in harbour. We were at that time very much of a new breed to them; being almost entirely RNVR, mostly from grammar schools and many of us from the Colonies. We lacked knowledge and experience of the Royal Navy and its procedures, but it should have been apparent how anxious we were to absorb its ways and traditions.
Among all the ship's officers, there were those who were particularly involved with our air operations from the ship. Firstly, the Captain, who was well liked by all the ship's company. He had never flown an aircraft, of course, but he had captained the _Illustrious_ through the battles in the Mediterranean and had acquired some experience and knowledge of Carrier operations. But the first in our aircrew order of priority was 'Wings', the Commander Air in charge of all flying operations. He never found time to come ashore with us and to fly any of the types of aircraft under his command but we all assumed that he must have had much Carrier experience before he was appointed to such a vital aviation job. The ship's Commander was really the number two man in the ship second to the captain and he too affected our aircrew lives considerably. He would give aircrew horrible duties to do when in harbour, such as Officer of the Guard to control the men ashore or Officer of the Watch in harbour. But, if we made a mess of it, he was tolerant of our naval shortcomings.
The officers of particular importance in our lives were the four in Fighter Direction. The senior, an RNVR Lt Commander, was Michael Hordern. A charming man, quietly efficient at his war time job in the Navy but normally a superb actor who was later in life to receive his 'K' for services to the theatre. The other three, all RNVR, were also ex-members of the acting profession in their normal lives; Robert who was a very well known Shakespearean actor with a gorgeous fruity voice and the other two were delightfully amusing and more in the genre of comedy in their previous profession. They were great characters and did much to keep the ship's company happy by using the internal radio system to put on comic sketches and interviews with characters such as the Bosun's Mate, the Commander, a pilot, etc. It was an initiative which other ships in which I later served tried to follow but not with the same success. But the main thing as far as we were concerned was that, as a team of Aircraft Directors, they were first class.
The two DLCOs, Deck Landing Control Officers (batsmen), were an odd pair. The senior one was a Lt Cdr RN, no less, who had established himself as the doyen of the batsmen fraternity in the Air Arm. Before him, the signals by 'bats' to the aircraft coming in to land on to the deck had been done probably by one of the squadron pilots. But this man had foreseen a need to train pilots specifically for the job. All well and good, really, but what a to-do he made of it. He made a tremendous show of pirouetting and dancing about at the side of the flight deck while waving his bats about at the oncoming aircraft. Unlike the majority of the pilots, who paid little regard to his antics, he took himself very seriously indeed. The Barracuda pilots told me that he was much better during night landings, probably because signals had to be given slowly and positively for the pilot to interpret them. In later years, his ultimate pomposity was to insist that he have a Midshipman to carry the bats for him across the flight deck to his batting position! His colleague in _Illustrious_ , also RN and inclined to take himself too seriously as a batsman, was nevertheless good at the important and difficult task of organising the constant movement and ranging of aircraft around the flight deck. Both of these DLCOs wore wings but I never saw them fly.
In my opinion the batsman as a deck-landing aid was over rated. His signals, under the RN system, were supposed to be imperative, i.e. if he raised the bats high, the pilot was being 'told' to go higher. This was the opposite to the American system in which, with the bats held high, the pilot was being 'advised' that he was too high. However, to most pilots, the batsman served as a check that their approach was correct but they would not necessarily follow his signals if they were confident of their own judgement. The only signal from the batsman that I ever regarded as imperative and to be obeyed was the wave-off, otherwise I might land on the aircraft ahead of me. But the batsman could be a help to inexperienced and nervous pilots and, certainly, his signals were essential for deck-landings by any pilot at night. Unfortunately, it was rare for the batsman to have flown and deck-landed the type of aircraft he was batting which would have given the pilots so much more confidence in him.
The immediate programme for HMS _Illustrious_ was to work up the four new Squadrons which had just joined her. For this, she would remain in the area near Greenock, generally off the little pimple island of Ailsa Craig, and anchor sometimes for the night in Lamlash. There were two Wildcat squadrons, the other one having twelve aircraft to our eight. There was a Seafire squadron of nine aircraft. As they were unable to fold their wings for hangar storage, five of them had to be shuffled around on the deck park while four were parked on outriggers aft of the Island. Then there was a Squadron of twelve of the new Barracuda, the first time these aircraft were to be used operationally.
The Seafire, which was a normal Spitfire with the attachment of a hook for deck-landing, was in reality entirely unsuitable for Carrier operations. The narrow track of the undercarriage, its fragility and that of the whole fuselage made the Seafire unable to cope with the constant stresses of Carrier landings. The big wooden propeller constantly shattered because it had too little deck clearance. The aircraft had a very limited range, no bomb load and, with the extra weight of the hook, was not all that much faster than the Wildcat and with lesser fire-power. The in-line engine, with scoop-type coolers under the wings, made a successful 'ditching' in the sea difficult. But also, although a beautiful machine just to fly, it was very difficult to deck-land because of its tendency to 'float' over the wires when the engine was cut. Over the years, in the process of operating from Carriers, the Seafire seriously hurt or killed many pilots. Yet there were a few pilots of above average ability who loved the thing, despite its many faults as a Carrier aircraft.
It is worth mentioning, relative to the Admiralty's love affair with the Seafire and their continuous use of it, that in 1941 while in New York, I joined my squadron CO on a visit to the Grumman factory. One of the Directors told us that there was no limit to the number of Grumman aircraft quickly available under Lend Lease payment. But the Admiralty pressed on with ordering the Seafire; presumably for some good reason of their own, which has never been divulged.
The new Barracuda was made by Faireys and, in consequence of the Admiralty specification, was a monstrosity. It was a high-wing monoplane, which inevitably meant that the undercarriage, located in the wings either side of the fuselage, had to be strong and very long to reach the ground and thus of massive construction. The Rolls Royce engine was inadequate for the final size and weight of the aircraft and so, although it could stagger into the air with a comprehensive array of weaponry, it could not carry it very far. The Observer was placed in a bubble type canopy under the wing giving him visibility at both sides and limited sight downwards. It was also difficult for the poor chap to get out quickly in an emergency. For the pilots, dive-bombing was a problem when re-trimming the aircraft while pulling out of the steep dive. This manoeuvre and the re-trimming had to be done with great care to avoid pulling the wings off.
There were some good aspects of the design. The pilot was placed right on top and at the nose of the aircraft giving him superb visibility, especially for landing. Despite its rather menacing appearance, The Barracuda was nice and gentle to fly and easy to deck-land, as I was to find a couple of years later. But aircrew never liked it as an operational aircraft.
I was so thankful that, except for a short period in Hurricanes, I flew American aircraft from Carriers throughout the war. They were all superbly designed for the purpose of Carrier operations, including even the radial engines which, having no extruding coolers under the fuselage, gave the pilot a good chance of survival, if he had to ditch. The Hellcat, for example, which came into service about the same time as The Barracuda was basically a fast fighter aircraft with heavy fire power, yet it could not only carry as big a bomb and weaponry load as the Barracuda but take it twice as fast and twice as far. The American Corsair fighter was equally good; I believe that either of these superb fighter aircraft could have been made available under Lend Lease at that time in 1943, in place of the Seafire. But Admiralty seemed besotted with using the Seafire.
I have described the ship, the officers and the aircraft. The next three weeks were to be spent sailing up and down that area off the Scottish coast to work them all up into a competent fighting unit. Each day and sometimes at night, there were flying exercises. Full ranges on the flight deck of up to thirty aircraft with engines running ready to take-off, catapult launches, strafing and formation exercises for the fighters, dive-bombing and night flying for the bombers, constant deck-landings all day. A busy time and not without its quota of accidents, particularly for the Seafires with shattered propellers and write-offs from hitting the barrier. Fortunately, the pilots were unharmed. Two Wildcats were written off too, one stalled and slewed off to starboard wrecking two Seafires parked on outriggers, the other caught the top of the barrier trying to go round again from a bad approach and ended upside down on the deck park. The pilot, not in my squadron, wouldn't be able to fly again. A Barracuda hit the stern of the deck (the round-down) on a night landing and fell into the sea. It was not possible to recover any of the crew.
At the end of two weeks, the ship anchored off Greenock for some days to take in stores. It had been a bad and sad start to a new commission for the ship. Everybody had been reminded or had learned, if they hadn't known it before, that continuous deck operations under pressure, even in a large Carrier, are always going to be difficult and dangerous.
Meantime some pilots were sent ashore to pick up replacement aircraft, particularly Seafires, to fly them on board when the ship would leave harbour. In the absence of anything exciting happening ashore in Greenock, I found it preferable to remain on board to enjoy the comforts of the Wardroom and its bar, talking flying and chatting with fellow squadron mates and making friends with the ship's officers. There were plenty of duties to keep us occupied on board in a new ship, including the harbour duties inevitably given to aircrew, such as Officer of the Watch.
A Dining-In night was held and it was my first experience of such an occasion. All officers had to attend, unless on duty, and I wore my 'bum-freezer' dress uniform for the first time. I had only just bought it as one of the effects (as they say) of the pilot who had been killed in the recent Barracuda accident. It may seem grisly now as I write it, but it's no good being silly; I needed the uniform and the parents had preferred not to have it sent to them. I had only met him once briefly round the bar and he must have been smaller than I thought, as the uniform was a bit of a tight fit.
The dining-room really was a magnificent sight for the occasion with all the officers present and seated at spotless linen covered tables groaning with silver candelabra and trophies. Stewards, also wearing their best square rig uniforms, were standing behind the chairs of every three officers. The whole affair was conducted faultlessly by the Commander, as President, assisted and organised with the utmost efficiency by the Chief Petty Officer of the Wardroom who remained in the background quietly hissing orders to his stewards. The 'Chief' of the wardroom was a most important character; he received a budget based I believe on 1/6d per day per officer plus much the same additional sum taken from our Mess bills. With this budget he was responsible for all our catering. It involved his negotiating in every harbour, particularly in foreign countries, with local tradesmen. A good Chief was worth his weight in gold. Indeed, that could well have been his true worth. I remember decommissioning in my last ship after two years abroad to see the Chief drive away from the quayside in a not all that elderly Rolls.
For a Dining-in night, guests could be invited from other ships in harbour so that the tables were all filled with about a hundred officers. Masses of drink would be taken in the bar first, followed by very good wines during the dinner ending with the port circulating at the end of the meal. The most junior officer would toast 'the King' which in Royal Navy tradition was given sitting down. The President would give a brief speech followed maybe by a senior guest. The whole thing was very formal and new to most of us and we all loved it; particularly our colonial colleagues in the squadrons. After dinner everybody went traditionally mad as we played violent physical games in the Wardroom. The naval grandeur of the occasion was spoilt for me to some extent as it was my turn for the camp bed. Trying to erect the damn thing in my drunken state and in the confined space of the single cabin with two other chaps reeling about in it was a disaster. I gave up and went to sleep on the deck (floor) in what was left of my bum-freezer uniform. How fortunate that I had bought it second-hand. So ended my first Dining-in night.
Two days later, HMS _Illustrious_ left the harbour at Greenock accompanied by a Destroyer and sailed over the top and around into Scapa Flow which was filled with ships of the Royal Navy, alongside masses of merchant shipping. And there was one large Battlewagon of the US Navy anchored in the harbour too at the time. I had never been to Scapa before and, once I had been ashore, hoped not to do so again. What a dreary place it was as a base for thousands of sailors. I remember large canteen sheds there to provide beer for the sailors and acres of playing fields for football and rugby.
As 'A' for Adlam, I got caught again as the very first aircrew Sub Lieutenant to be put on the awesome duty in charge of the Guard ashore. The essence of it was to keep control of the heaving mass of sailors on the quayside as, after copious pints of beer in the canteens, they struggled to board the tenders which would take them across the harbour back to their respective ships. To make matters much worse, our sailors began to fight on the quay with the American boys who were aiming to get back to their Battlewagon.
Fatuously standing there wearing gaiters, with my guard of eight sailors and a Chief Petty Officer around me, all similarly gaited and each armed with a sort of cudgel, I assumed that I must somehow stop the fighting. I started to utter an order to them to move forward, in a voice squeaky with anxiety and fright, when the Chief stopped me in time. 'Don't,' he said, 'Don't even think about it Sir. If we get into the middle of that lot, one of the sailors will surely take a swing at you and we would have to take him to jail. Now you just rest here easy, Sir, with a couple of the lads and leave it to me.' Then he moved with six of his chaps quietly round the outskirts of the shouting, fighting sailors, picked on a couple of the most vociferous and arrested them. The word went round immediately. 'The bloody Provos are arresting people.' The fighting stopped. The Chief, with me walking along with him, established control. An hour later everyone was back in their ships and I was in the bar sinking a huge pink gin. As I sank my gin, I thought how damn stupid it had been of the Commander to send such an inexperienced naval officer as me out on such a task. I would have been in deep trouble without the Chief Petty Officer. And then I realised that the Commander had to send an officer in charge of the guard according to regulations, but he knew that he could rely on the CPO to keep me right.
During the next three days in harbour, a convoy was assembled around us and made ready for passage to Murmansk, the Russian port. The convoy, with its normal escorts of frigates and corvettes, left harbour early in the morning and some four hours later we followed accompanied by a Battlewagon, two Cruisers and four Destroyers; we were a formidable small fleet in fact. The intention, according to our briefing was for our fleet to sail separately but some twenty miles out of sight from the Convoy. From there our fighters would provide air cover for the convoy as well as for the fleet and the Barracudas would join with the escorting ships of the convoy in their anti-submarine operations. There was also the hope of inducing some ships of the German Navy out of their harbours in Norway in pursuit of what they might think to be an inadequately protected convoy. The third aim, we were told, was to act as a diversion to engage the attention of the Germans away from the Allied landings in Sicily.
The weather during those first days was not too bad with scattered layers of cloud at medium and high level. The sea, cold and grey, looked to be quite rough but it caused little movement on the flight deck of a Carrier this size. Flights of four Wildcats were flown off on Combat Air Patrol every two hours during daylight to cover the convoy and the Fleet. The patrols were limited to the two-hour duration to retain sufficient fuel at the end of the patrol in case combat action became necessary; my experience of some six months earlier when I had been forced to ditch out of fuel, proved the point. The Seafires could only patrol for an hour with their limited endurance and so were rarely used for this purpose. Sometimes patrols of Wildcats or Barracudas were launched by catapult, instead of ranging them for normal take-off, but the minimal propeller to deck clearance of the Seafire made it unsuitable for catapult launching.
There was excitement on the morning of the second day when the first bandit appeared on the radar screen. It was a small blip, assessed by its slow movement across the screen, to be a BV138 German flying boat. Four Wildcats of the other squadron were on patrol and two of them were despatched to find and attack the BV 138 while two circled awaiting further instructions or vectors from the ship's Fighter Director Control. It was essential to prevent the enemy aircraft from sighting our separate fleet, which we were so anxious to keep as a secret force. Our CO and his flight were at stand-by in their cockpits with engines warmed, ready for immediate take-off, just in case of an attack by bombers.
Those of us in the crew-room had heard the ship's Tannoy announcing the presence of an enemy aircraft and we made our way quickly up to the Goofers' gallery where we might see what was going on and could watch for the return of the Wildcats. A short while later, the Captain announced to the ship's company that the enemy aircraft had been shot down. It was a good start to the operation provided the enemy aircraft had been hit before sighting and reporting upon our 'secret' fleet or the convoy. The next few hours would tell whether the German crew had been able to send a message back to their base.
At gin time before lunch, we crowded round the two pilots who had landed from their successful attack on the German Flying boat. None of us so far had any experience of this type of enemy aircraft and we were keen to learn as much as possible about it and the best method of attacking it. Naturally enough, the two pilots who had been successful in knocking down the enemy aircraft enjoyed telling their story, but rather excitedly and not too clearly to us round the bar although, of course, they had given a proper factual account earlier at their formal de-briefing. Jack Parli signalled to me, Cliff Nell and Mike Penhale, the members of his flight, to join him in a quiet corner of the Wardroom where he discussed with us how best to attack the BV 138 from what we had learned.
Being a flying boat it was slow, but it had a formidable armament of two turrets of 20 MM cannons, one at each end of the top fuselage and one machine gun turret located between them. The rear Cannon turret could fire downwards and backwards below the tail boom. It was an unusual aircraft in its design having three engines, two being located in the wings with a third larger engine on top of the main hull. The tail unit was at the rear of two twin booms. Jack pointed out that, contrary to our previous experience with the FW Condor, we would have the big advantage of greater speed over the BV 138; we wouldn't have to be tail chasing the thing round the sky. He reckoned that our speed would enable us to make frontal attacks and that its vulnerable area was underneath particularly at the bow of the hull which appeared to be unprotected.
We had been briefed that the BV 138 with its long range and its excellent search radar had proved to be very successful from the German point of view in finding our convoys in the Arctic and Bay of Biscay. The trick was to get at it before its radar could spot the convoy and, on that day, it seemed that Mike Hordern and his Fighter Direction team had done well in launching the Wildcats at the BV 138 in time before it had come near the convoy. More of this sort of action could be expected because it was known that the Germans had produced this Flying Boat in large numbers and seemed to regard them as expendable.
The next morning all four of us in red Flight were in our cockpits ready to take off on patrol as soon as it was daylight. At the pre-flight briefing we had been told that the weather, which so far had been quite good, was deteriorating and I wasn't too sure what that would mean in this Arctic area, which was new to me. In this month of July, it was not so exceptionally cold as I had expected and I presumed the weather would be much the same as the Atlantic had been. I hated this sort of thing; waiting in the cockpit to start up before taking-off into a dark sky and unable to see what the conditions were like. Truth to tell, I had become more worried about weather conditions than anything else in flying. I was keen to have another bang at the enemy, that didn't worry me, neither did flying operations from a Carrier cause me any concern, especially not from this large Fleet Carrier. But I had suffered a few unpleasant experiences with bad weather in the Atlantic and was a bit twitched about it. Moreover, flying operationally over a sea known to be freezing cold was an unpleasant thought; there would be no likelihood of surviving from a ditching. Sitting in the cockpit like this, waiting, was conducive to what I thought of as the premonitions syndrome to which I had become prone in the previous Carrier. 'This is the flight which is going to be my last one.' Such would be my thoughts as I climbed into the cockpit. Fortunately, they were usually dismissed from my mind as soon as I lined up down the flight deck and opened the throttle for take-off.
Came the call from Wings over the Tannoy, 'Start up engines.' They had been warmed up earlier and so, as the great ship increased speed and heeled over to begin her turn into wind, four Wildcats and two Barracudas were ready to take off. Dawn had just about crept up into the sky and I could begin to see an overall cloud cover at about six thousand feet; not too bad weather conditions after all. When airborne, the three of us in Jack's flight caught up with him and moved into a comfortable 'finger' formation to commence our patrol. Under instruction from the Fighter Control room, we kept just under the cloud base and in position between the Fleet and the convoy. So we settled down to the usual boring two-hour patrol, sitting on the hard and uncomfortable seat of the combined dinghy pack and parachute. Maybe we would have a bit of luck in that there would be a Bandit to attack. Neither should we dismiss the possibility of a bombing or torpedo attack by Junkers 88s, in case the BV 138 yesterday had radioed a report of our presence before it was shot down. So we were very alert in spite of the boredom of patrol.
Suddenly the voice of Michael Hordern on the R/T, 'Hello Red One, this is Mother. I have a bandit for you at angels eight, vector 120, repeat vector 120 and buster he is moving towards the convoy.' 'Roger,' from Jack, 'Red Flight turning on vector 120 now.' As we turned, so we moved into two separate sections with Cliff Nell as Red Three leading Mike Penhale but following astern of Jack and me. Fighter Control estimated the bandit, which they assessed to be a single aircraft and probably a BV 138, to be about thirty-five miles away. They gave us continuous vector alterations to cut across its path. Jack was taking us below the cloud base at 5,000 ft but, after some ten minutes by which time we should have sighted the Bandit, the sky was empty.
Jack called to Mother, 'I am separating into two sections; Red Three and Four will remain at angels 5. I am going up through cloud to your angels 8 see if he is lurking up there in a gap.' 'Roger, understood and agreed,' from Fighter Control. I checked my oxygen on and closed up tight on Jack's Wildcat as we circled up together into the cloud above us. But it was thick cloud all the way up to angels 9. Just before we reached that height there came the call from Control. 'Hello Red One, Bandit below you has turned towards Mother. He is moving fast.' 'Your course back to us Red One is 280; lose height and buster, repeat `buster.' Jack, with a quick look at me, started his turn on to 280 and to dive at full throttle to get below the cloud where we now expected to see the Bandit. The probability was that his radar had picked up the blip of our fleet and now, having turned towards it, he had to come down below cloud to have a visual sight of what his radar had found. Sure enough, as we broke cloud, there he was nose down and heading on course for our fleet.
It was a BV138 and we were overtaking it very fast. On the R/T from Jack, 'Go to line astern Red Two, I am going under and up.' Jack dived down below and then rocketed up, in an area out of the initial firing sight of the rear turret gunner and, with the full force of his six Browning machine guns, absolutely shattered the end of the port boom and tail unit of the target. In fact, he very nearly flew into it, he was so close. The enemy aircraft reared upwards rolling to starboard, out of control, presenting me with the perfect target of its starboard engine, hull and cockpit. I just had time for a quick burst from my guns before I had to rudder and aileron violently to the right and down to avoid smashing into the huge machine which filled my windscreen view. By this time, I was down to a mere thousand feet above the sea. I pulled out of the dive and turned sharply back in time to see the BV 138, all control gone without the tail unit and with thick smoke from its starboard engine, crash headlong into the sea.
We had come down on the BV138 from out of the cloud so suddenly and so fast that the wretched German gunners had barely been given the chance of a shot at us before we were attacking them from below and clear of their firing line. Jack had done the damage that was necessary and the final squirt of fire from my guns would not have made much difference to the inevitable end of the enemy aircraft. Nevertheless, my heart thumping with the tension and excitement of the attack, I had felt slightly sick as I watched that huge and rather lovely looking flying boat plunge full tilt into the sea and smash into pieces. There had probably been eight men on board but, as we circled the wreckage, it was evident that none had survived. The whole business since we had first sighted it had taken no more than about two minutes. So there was a good possibility that, in such a short timescale, the crew had not sighted our Fleet to send back a report to their base on its presence and position.
In that case it had been a successful operation due to Jack's good leadership of his flight in combination with the excellent directions from Mike Hordern back at Fighter Control. The other two of our flight rejoined us as Jack led his flight of four Wildcats back to the Carrier, already turning into wind preparing for us to land on. My initial feeling of nausea at the violent end of the BV138 was being replaced by elation at our success and I was looking forward to landing back on board, knowing that many Goofers would be out there to watch our return. I was feeling such a fine fellow that I over-did my steep turn on to the flight deck and, just in time, corrected a stall which would have put an end to me into the sea. As it was, I was able to bang the Wildcat down on to the deck in what must have looked like a deliberately exciting style of landing. In a way, I suppose that sort of hairy approach and landing was the FAA equivalent of the slow roll, which an RAF fighter pilot might execute over the aerodrome after a successful combat. Both were equally stupid and unnecessary.
I enjoyed a cheerful session of drinks at the bar at midday chatting with fellow pilots about the events of the morning. But, later, on my own in the cabin, how I missed my late particular friend, Basil, with whom I could have spoken quietly about my sick feeling of horror when watching the violent end to the German aircraft and its crew. It had seemed to be such a one-sided engagement, with little chance of escape for the crew, and yet it had been easy only because our attack had been well managed. Had some circumstance compelled us to attack from above, for instance, which would have given their longer range and more powerful guns full scope, then it might have been a different story. Anyway, that's what I imagined Basil would have comforted me by saying, if only he had been there. Later in the afternoon of that day, it was business as usual when Red flight was back on stand-by in expectation of another patrol before dark.
We parted from the convoy near Murmansk, where other escort ships came out to join it, and our Fleet turned back for the home run. This time, without the convoy to worry about, it had been planned apparently to make our presence known in the hope of bringing out some part of the German Navy. When nearer to the Norwegian coast a major sortie of twelve Barracudas with a protective cover of eight Seafires and eight Wildcats, from our other squadron, was launched against shipping anchored in a near harbour. My squadron was detailed for boring patrols over the Fleet ready for any counter attacks. At least we had some action because Winnie, with Johnnie Lowder in his section, was vectored away to find and chase yet another BV138 which they shot down, although Winnie's aircraft did receive some hits. Our strike aircraft returned from the successful attack on the harbour without loss; apparently the Germans were surprised and quite unprepared for any attack on the shipping there.
On the return of _Illustrious_ to Scapa, all four squadrons flew ashore to the Naval Air Station at Hatston near Kirkwall. One of the tasks while ashore there was to learn and practise flying as a Wing, which would consist of several squadrons, with the fighter aircraft acting as cover for the bombers. In effect, the Fleet Air Arm was learning to operate as a major striking force, rather than maintaining the defensive role which hitherto had been most of the requirement of the early years of the war.
Controlling a Wing of some sixty or more aircraft was a new craft to be learned by our leaders and a right cock-up they frequently made of it. But it was no easy task to lead, say, thirty-six Bombers together with another forty-eight Fighters to a target maybe two hundred miles away. The fighters would have difficulty keeping station over the bombers whose flying speed was much slower. But the major problems would arise if this gaggle of aircraft, taking up a large area of sky, were to run into cloudy conditions on the way to the target and then again over it. Constant, quick decisions had to be made by the Wing leader to give changes of height or direction as necessary to the various squadron leaders who, in their turn, could not move their whole squadron fluidly around the sky as quickly as the Wing leader needed them to do. The bad tempered language over the radio between the Wing leader, Squadron and Flight leaders could be sometimes very ripe. To most of us pilots it was to say the least an interesting new flying experience and I, for one, used to chuckle sometimes at the ripe language and at the general chaos going on around me. I rather enjoyed those early 'Balboes', as we called them, but the time would come when in the, Far East and Pacific, all of us would have to be much more competent.
During that short period at Hatston, there were a couple more interesting and amusing events. The first was that all the fighter pilots, three or four at a time, were told to attend at a remote office building at the far side of the aerodrome. It was all very mysterious. I was one of the first ones to go and arrived to find two middle aged gentlemen, rather well dressed in civvies, surrounded by cardboard boxes and each holding tailor's measuring tapes. To start with I was asked gravely which side did I dress. Well, I had no idea what the man was talking about until he explained that I was to be measured as for a very tight pair of trousers, which, rather to my embarrassment, he proceeded to do.
In fact, we were being measured for the new, highly secret, 'G' suits. These suits were a typically British, brilliantly simple idea. Let me explain that when a pilot of a fast aircraft pulls out of a steep dive, or executes a steep turn, the weight of his body can double or even treble. The blood in his body is forced downwards into his stomach and legs and away from his brain and he 'blacks out.'
The boffins had come up with the clever idea of making a strong suit of a type of canvas material, which fitted from ankle to just below the heart, but with pockets on its inside, which were to contain water. Therefore, as the pilot pulled out of his dive, the water being heavier would be pressed downwards also, thus preventing much of the blood from draining down from the heart and brain. It was brilliant. We tried it out having mock dog-fights with one of us without the suit and the other wearing it. There was no doubt about it; the chap wearing the suit could out dive and out turn the other.
As with so many brilliant and simple ideas, there were unexpected snags which were not apparent until we came out to the hot Mediterranean climate. As the pilot and his blood became hot, sitting with little movement in his hot cockpit, so the water became heated which, in turn, increased the pilot's temperature yet more. I remember feeling as hot as a boiled egg after landing on, jumping out of the cockpit as soon as I had switched off the engine and turning the small tap on my leg so to release the steaming hot water from my suit. Oh the relief as the hot water poured out of my suit and ran steaming across the flight deck. But there were hoots of laughter from the sailors on the flight deck, unaware then of our secret 'G' suits, who thought I was having a desperately needed pee!
Another much more serious snag occurred when a pilot was the first to ditch wearing the suit. The water in the suit, more buoyant than the sea water around it, forced the legs and bottom of the pilot up and his head therefore down into the sea. He drowned before he could be rescued. It seems that these suits were discarded shortly afterwards, because we never wore them in action.
After another sortie in _Illustrious_ on the Arctic run, acting this time purely on convoy protection, we returned to Hatston to learn that an escape exercise had been organised for the aircrews. It was an exercise to see how we, the aircrews, would cope in trying to escape after a crash landing in enemy territory. It was also a test of the security arrangements throughout the Orkney Islands as the Army was alerted that a number of enemy agents and saboteurs were known to have parachuted on to the main Island. The Soldiers were briefed to be on their guard and to search for an unknown number of enemy agents who, when found, were to be brought to army headquarters unharmed, for immediate interrogation.
In other words, they were not to be bashed into submission first. When I heard this, I thought Heaven help any soldiers who tried to rough-handle Winnie or Jack; they would never know what hit them.
Dressed in plain blue trousers and jerseys, some thirty junior aircrew officers were bundled into the back of a large lorry on which the tarpaulin cover at the back had been firmly tied down so that they sat in the dark interior unable to see anything outside. The lorry was then driven across and around the main Island of the Orkneys, stopping from time to time to drop one officer at a time, each one in a most desolate and wild area of countryside, to find his way back to the Air Station. Two days were the maximum period allowed for each aircrew to report back to base, with the warning that the Army would be out searching for them and their arrest might not be gentle since the soldiers had not been told that this was an exercise.
I was dropped out of the lorry in high country and was able to see for many miles around me. There was not much to see except hilly scrub land with no roads visible and not so much as a single cottage or farmhouse in sight. This really was not my type of scenario at all; I was not a tough outdoor person and had never even been a boy-scout. It was no good just to stand there, I had to move in some direction. A bleak sun was breaking through grey clouds and at mid-morning I guessed it would be vaguely in the area of south east. The Air Station I knew to be on the southern tip of the main Island so I took a line and marked a point vaguely again to the south. And started walking. From all the cowboy films I had seen as a little boy, I knew I should keep off the skyline on the hill tops, such knowledge being the sum total of my escapology skills.
By early afternoon I was beginning to see an occasional habitation and getting hungry. I was thinking about approaching a farm, either to pinch some food or risk asking for some when I was startled to see a man move just near me and then duck down into the long grass but I had seen that he was dressed in blue and therefore must be one of us.
I called to him and we met for a chat about our situation. I had seen him before, of course, in the Mess although I didn't know him. He was older than me and rather a big burly chap so when he suggested that we team up and try to get back to Hatston together, I was considerably relieved and only too glad to do so. I thought, he just couldn't be as clueless at this boy scout type of activity as I was. His only plan, he told me, was to try and steal a car from a village or farm which seemed very optimistic to me since, in those days, the population was told, not only to lock their cars, but to remove the rotor arm of the distributor as well. On the other hand, it was better than having no plan at all, as in my case. However, he did agree that I was walking in the right direction.
It was hilly countryside but he insisted that we kept to the tops and, as we walked on, we began to see more houses scattered around on the lower ground. We noted one house in particular; quite a grand looking place on its own with a wide drive and courtyard in the front of it. We moved down, keeping in the cover of bushes and trees, to take a better look. A large black Humber car drove into the courtyard as we watched and a smart young sailor jumped out of the driving seat to open the rear door for his passenger who, with his cap and overcoat covered in gold scrambled eggs, could not possibly have been anything less than an Admiral. After the very senior officer had gone inside the house through the open front door, the sailor made a brief pretence of polishing the car bonnet before he chucked his cap on to the car seat and waked round to the back of the house, no doubt for a cup of tea. Dick, my companion, said, 'Come on let's get out of here, where there's brass like that, there bound to be lots of staff and guards.'
But I had been watching carefully; I hadn't seen the sailor put any keys in his pocket or even appear to lock the car before he left for his tea. I had the idea in mind to sneak down there and just see if the keys were still in the car. If so, what the hell could we lose by trying to drive off in it? The whole exercise was supposed to be about showing our initiative and there appeared to be nobody immediately around to stop us. Dick hesitated only for a moment when I explained my thoughts. 'You're right,' he said, 'let's go for it!'
When we got down there, treading carefully and skirting the gravel drive, we found the main door still wide open. So we looked into a large empty hallway and there, at the far end, was a stand with the Admiral's coat hung on it and his scrambled egg cap on a table alongside it. I left Dick looking down the hallway, watching the doors leading off it, to give warning if anyone came out while I crept quietly across the gravel to the car. Oh the joy and excitement of it; the car ignition keys were indeed still there. I signalled the fantastic good news to Dick who promptly disappeared into the hallway. Ye gods, he was going to pinch the Admiral's cap and coat; what a wonderful idea! In seconds he came hurrying out clutching them while I slipped into the driving seat. The car started immediately and very, very quietly and slowly I drove it round and back up the driveway... and out through the open gates.
We stopped briefly for Dick to put on the Admiral's coat and cap and I wore the sailor's cap. No one had come out to chase us and so I drove sedately to the Royal Naval Air Station at Hatston by following the signposts to the town of Kirkwall adjacent to it. Dick looked every inch an Admiral and I, sitting well down in the seat and wearing the sailor's cap, could surely pass for his driver. And that is what happened when we drove up to the main gates of the Air Station. The two sentries saluted very smartly and the Petty Officer came out of his office to wave us through, with consternation writ large on his face at the sight of an Admiral making an unscheduled visit. As we went, I saw him double back into his office in a panic to notify the Commander. I drove straight to the main office block where Dick took off the Admiral's uniform to put it on the back seat of the car with my sailor's cap. Then we reported our return formally to the Commander. We were the first to return by several hours.
The Admiral, who must have been a pompous ass, played hell about the theft of his car and wanted us to be formally and severely reprimanded and punished. Until our Captain of the Air Station and the Commander pointed out that the exercise had been signalled to him and that, 'With respect Sir, your security arrangements at the house were shown to be very lax indeed.' Nine others of the aircrew made it back to the Air Station over the next twelve hours. One or two were given a hard time when caught by the Army, especially dear Winnie who without the usual restraining influence of Jack Parli with him, lashed out at the soldiers. Cliff Nell didn't get back for two days; he was so cautious that he had laid up in a barn somewhere and lost all sense of time.
But it was fun, especially for Dick and me, and the exercise was regarded as a great success except by the boot-faced Admiral.
## CHAPTER NINE
## The Mediterranean
In early June 1943, fun and games at Hatston were over as all four squadrons were now due to fly back on board HMS _Illustrious_. None of us in the squadrons knew with any certainty where we were due to operate but there was a clue when our squadron ratings were issued with tropical uniforms. Moreover, we were aware from the BBC of the major preparations being made for the Allied landings and assault on the south of Italy. Sure enough, _Illustrious_ joined a convoy going south across the Bay of Biscay to the Mediterranean and the routine of Combat Air Patrols for us and Anti-Submarine patrols for the Barracudas began. The Focke-Wulf Condors, our old enemy of the Atlantic, were known to operate on surveillance for the Germans over the Bay of Biscay and there was the possibility also of attack from French airfields by German bombers, probably Junkers 88s. Perhaps _Illustrious_ might launch a pre-emptive strike on those airfields. We aircrew would have to wait and see what was in store for us.
The convoy was comparatively small, about sixteen large merchant ships, with an average speed faster than usual. There was some urgency, we gathered, to get the cargoes of mainly munitions to the Mediterranean area to back up the assault on southern Italy. I found out later on, but not at the time, that our ship was in a hurry to replace HMS _Indomitable_ which had been badly damaged by a bomb from a Junkers 88. It was extraordinary how very little information junior aircrew were given at any time about what was happening and what the plans might be for our ship. During much of my time at sea in a Fleet Carrier, I often never knew precisely where the ship was going or the general situation in which my ship was involved. Such information more often came from the lower deck via my steward or my aircraft maintenance crew, and it frequently proved to be remarkably accurate.
During the first days crossing the Bay of Biscay, the weather and sea conditions were bad but I was fortunate to spend them on stand-by in the Ready room. By the time my turn came for a patrol, the conditions had improved although there was still a heavy sea running which gave some considerable movement to the flight deck despite the size of the Carrier. At this stage of our progress, we were further from the French airfields with correspondingly less likelihood of possible bombing attacks, therefore patrols were reduced to just two Wildcats instead of four. The convoy already was steaming close into the wind and so, to avoid the Carrier having to turn fully into wind for a normal take-off, Jack and I were to be launched from the catapult for the last patrol of the day.
I hated catapult launches. I had witnessed one accident when the hydraulics of the catapult had failed and the Wildcat, with the engine roaring as the pilot had tried to get airborne, had inevitably stalled at the end of the flight deck and fallen under the bows of the ship. The crunching sound as the ship rode over the sinking aircraft and its pilot, remained in my mind. As usual, everything had to be done at breakneck speed and here I was, a mere twenty seconds behind Jack, who had been launched ahead of me. My head and body was braced back ready for the tremendous kick as the aircraft would be pulled suddenly from static to a speed of seventy-five knots in a distance of eighty feet. The acceleration would be such that momentarily I might black out and yet, within split seconds, I would have to recover and take control of the aircraft as it was literally flung off the flight deck into the air by the catapult.
I raised my left hand with the thumb up, to show I was ready, and then opened to full throttle while placing my fist behind the throttle in case, had I been holding it, the sudden acceleration should cause me to pull it back. The aircraft, while vibrating and straining at full power to shoot forward, was held back and immobile by an attachment at the tail of the fuselage. The DLCO dropped his flag, the tail attachment was released and the Wildcat was hurled forward and into the air. How quickly the body and brain reacts. By the time the aircraft was just clear of the deck and sinking down towards the sea, I had recovered all my senses and was flying the aircraft through that difficult moment of near stall, getting the wheels and flaps up and fast gaining the safety of full flying speed. Just another take-off, really.
It was almost dusk by the time we had completed our patrol without incident. The ship had turned into wind and Jack, ahead of me, was on the downwind leg with wheels, flaps and hook down about to land on when, Robert from Fighter Direction, called on the R/T, his usually fruity Shakespearean voice rasping with urgency, 'Abort landing Red One, I say again abort landing. Bandits approaching at angels ten, thirty miles. Vector 110 degrees, buster.' 'Roger, vector 110,' acknowledged Jack and immediately he and I, winding our aircraft wheels up, turned on to the vector and climbed at full throttle as we did so. 'Bandits' must mean an attacking force of bombers and all our fighter aircraft at this dusk hour had just been struck down into the ship's hangar. There must be an almighty panic down there on the flight deck, I thought, as everyone would be rushing to re-range other Wildcats and the Seafires ready for take-off to meet the expected attack.
Meantime, the two of us already in the air would have to deal with the bombers and we were at full throttle desperately trying to gain height. Robert from Fighter Control called again; this time his voice was back to its well modulated fruity tones, 'Hello Red One this is Mother, bandit now recognised as single and a Condor. Bandit has turned away and your vector now 080 degrees.' My heart gave a thump of relief; the prospect of the two of us trying to fight off half a dozen Junkers 88s had been daunting, although I don't suppose it had caused Jack any fear. Then we could see it; the Condor flying fast with plenty of height above us. There was little hope of catching it but, at least, we had chased it off before it could report the exact position and course of our convoy.
At 10,000 feet there was still some light in the cloudless sky and we could see the Condor as a far off speck. Although we chased for a short while, it soon disappeared into the gloom. 'Mother' called and, after telling us to switch on our IFF, gave us a course back to the ship. By this time it was getting dark but, at sea level, darkness would have fallen entirely, necessitating my first deck-landing at night. It would be the same for Jack. I moved into close formation on his starboard side as he began losing height on course for the ship. The ridiculous factor was that there was a whole battery of light switches down on the right of the cockpit which I had never before had occasion to use and, as I flew, I had to fumble about to find the right switch for the aircraft lights on the wings and fuselage. Down at low level, it really was a black night and I could see nothing yet of the Carrier or the convoy as we followed the course given to us and yet we must be close to them by now. I had never lost my fear of night flying after my prang at Shrewton and I felt no better now, bogging around in the dark over the sea. Thank heavens for Jack, I could rely on him to lead me to the Carrier but, after that, I would have to cope with the new experience of a deck-landing at night. I didn't fancy the prospect at all.
Suddenly we were over the convoy and I could see the wakes of the ships and a few faint glimmers of light from them. The Carrier was near the convoy but very difficult to see until, at five hundred feet, we flew over the top of it and I could look down and see the form of the ship from the line of her deck-landing lights. She was already into wind and gave us clearance to land. Jack led me in a tight circuit to bring us flying parallel along her starboard side. At least the trigger-happy gunners on the merchant ships were not firing at us, thinking we were enemy aircraft, as could easily happen at night.
I followed Jack as he broke away to port on to the crosswind and then downwind legs of his circuit and then I throttled back to stay further behind him, not to be too close as he landed. He seemed to go too far astern of the ship for his final approach and I would have to do the same. But then I realised he was quite right; we would be unable to see and line up on the flight deck lights unless on final approach we were in a direct line with them. My usual daytime method of turning on to the deck would not be practicable. For the first time since my early deck-landings, I was now reliant on the signals from the batsman. I hoped it was not the senior one of the two DLCOs, the one who tended to dance about as he batted, as I had little confidence in him. But I must press on now with the landing regardless.
It was not too difficult to line up on the lights looking over the short, stubby nose of the Wildcat but... was I too high? No, apparently not; the batsman was signalling for more throttle; telling me to hold my rate of descent. He was right and seconds later I was past the round down and received the 'cut' engine signal from the batsman to thump down on the deck. With the relief of getting down in one piece I could stop holding my breath. Two days later, after two more uneventful patrols, _Illustrious_ came into Gibraltar harbour, leaving the convoy to continue under the protection of Destroyers, Corvettes and an Escort Carrier. This would be my first of many visits to Gibraltar and I was delighted with the little streets of the town and its long history of connection with the Royal Navy. For instance, I liked the little naval cemetery in the middle of the town for officers and men killed in the Napoleonic wars. It was a sailors' town, full of bars and brothels in the little streets and good restaurants for the officers, assuming the latter would have disregarded the former type of entertainments.
There was mail waiting for me from my Mother, Maddie, Lalline and, unexpectedly, from my sister Phoebe. What she wanted, it transpired, was my old but still favourite brown civilian suit to convert into a skirt since, of course, new clothes were almost impossible to get under rationing at home. I went ashore and sent an immediate telegram via the British Post Office saying simply: 'Negative brown suit.' The meaning should be quite clear to Phoebe with all her naval connections.
Two or three days later, by which time I had completely forgotten the telegram, I was told to report to the Commander whom I found talking on the quarterdeck to a Chief Petty Officer wearing a naval police armband. The CPO had come to escort me as, apparently, I had been summoned to appear before the Provost Marshal of Gibraltar.
I had no idea whatsoever what the summons could be about even when we arrived at the Governor's Residence where I was marched into the Marshal's office. I had to stand to attention in front of his desk whereupon he harangued me about the telegram and its meaning which, he said, was deeply suspicious. He questioned me about my schools, my service in the RN, indeed on almost every aspect of my adult life.
I began by being very scared of this ferocious looking Commander, an ex-gunner's mate I learned later. Eventually, I became angry and barked back at him that, if he really thought I was some sort of spy sending secret messages, then his first action should have been to check my credentials and character from the Commanding Officer of my squadron with whom I had served for the past eighteen months at sea. 'At sea, Sir', I repeated pointedly and I glared at him sitting there behind his desk Then I drew upon my background at Harrow to add with the immense pomposity I had learned there as a boy to add, 'Properly Sir you should have obtained the permission of the Captain of HMS _Illustrious_ , the ship in which I serve, before summoning me to your office in this manner.' Absolute bull, of course, because I had no idea of proper procedures. I stopped; feeling rather frightened of my deliberate rudeness. His ruddy, weather beaten face broke into a broad smile. 'Calm down son,' he said, 'I accept what you have told me and you can go, but use your loaf in future and don't send silly messages like that in time of war. And you should know that authority for my actions comes directly from the Admiral. Also, incidentally, for your personal information, I have served at sea continuously since 1939 until three months ago.' I left his office feeling a bit silly and quite shaky from the confrontation, to seek a large gin from the nearest pub.
I dined well on the story, as the saying goes, on board that evening when it was an excuse for a squadron party. Just before we all staggered off to our respective bunks, the CO called Jack, Winnie, myself and Mike Penhale aside to tell us that he had selected us four to go by bus from the harbour, leaving at five am, to the Gibraltar aerodrome. There at the main naval hangar we would find four Hurricanes, fuelled and ready for flight. We were to fly these Hurricanes from the aerodrome to meet the Carrier later that morning at sea off Gibraltar and land them on board. It being eleven o'clock at night, at the end of an evening of heavy drinking, I thought Jimmy must be joking, since it seemed such an extraordinary requirement. But no; it was serious. Someone of high rank had made a very sudden decision that these Hurricanes were needed on board the next morning for some reason. It all seemed so dotty that I just giggled and stumbled off to bed.
A light went on in the cabin and I was being shaken awake by our steward who had already given a shake to Mike whose turn it had been to sleep on the camp bed. I looked at my watch which showed four o'clock and remembered the extraordinary requirement to fly the Hurricanes from the Aerodrome. I had dismissed it from my mind, when falling into my bunk last night, as some sort of joke. Fortunately Jack, before he went to bed, had arranged for us all to be woken up at this time. Good thing he did because, had he not done so, I would have nursed my awful hangover asleep in the bunk for several hours more. When dressed, we had to fetch our parachutes and flying kit from the Ready room. These we dumped outside the Wardroom before getting a much-needed cup of coffee and something to eat from a couple of duty stewards, morose at that early hour.
I began to feel better and listened sensibly as Jack, who before going to bed the night before, had been briefed in detail about our flight in the Hurricanes. The essence of it was that we were to carry out an hour of dummy deck-landings at the aerodrome before a rendezvous with the ship at sea in the straits of Gibraltar at midday. In due course apparently, these Hurricanes were to be delivered to Malta and we would have to fly them ashore there. It would be rather fun and exciting, I now began to think, to fly a Hurricane again and particularly so to deck-land it. There was no problem therefore to the projected flight as far as I could see.
The aerodrome at Gibraltar appeared to be a huge expanse of white concrete, of triangular shape with its broad base at the inland end of the rock of Gibraltar and with the concrete right up to the very foot of the towering Rock. This widest part, close as it was to the Rock, was in effect the main runway and the prevailing wind meant that aircraft took off and landed facing towards Algeciras, across the bay. The commercial buildings and hangars were at the narrower end of the triangle and we were driven over a mile or so of concrete to one of them. Parked outside were the four Hurricanes which we now noted were Mark 11c's with a cannon barrel protruding forward from each wing. The sun was well up by now and the aircraft cockpits would be unbearably hot if we delayed.
The Petty Officer in charge of maintenance gave us the Form 700 to sign showing that the Hurricanes were fully serviceable, fuelled and armed. At our request, he found a copy of the Pilot's Notes for us to study. The first thing to do was to re-familiarise ourselves with the cockpit and its layout and we wasted no time starting on this before the hot sun would make sitting in the static cockpits unpleasant. How strange and cramped the Hurricane cockpit seemed after the orderliness and space of the Wildcat but, after a while, I remembered the feel and place of all the various controls and instruments. After signalling to the ground crew that I was ready to start the engine, I listened to the old familiar deep note as, with puffs of black smoke from the exhausts, the RR engine started up. The other three were ready too and Jack received permission from the control tower for all four of us to taxi out on to the huge expanse of runway.
We had decided that we were going to take as much time as possible over re-familiarising ourselves with these aircraft. None of us had deck-landed a Hurricane before, it was two years since we had flown one, the 11c was a new mark and we would have no more than an hour to become accustomed to flying it. To deck-land the aircraft later that morning was going to be a considerable challenge. To make matters more awkward, we would have to fly all the way round the Rock after each landing, instead of flying a normal short circuit.
Jack took off first and I left plenty of time before I opened the throttle to follow him. The sun was already very hot by this time and, as there was a fairly strong wind blowing as well, a lot of turbulence was created close to the Rock; very noticeable even on the take-off. I didn't feel comfortable flying this Hurricane; it seemed to lack the natural flight of those earlier Marks I had flown at Yeovilton. Perhaps it was the turbulence, I thought. Normally, I would have taken the aircraft up to 10,000 ft and done a few stalls and slow flying with wheels and flaps down to get a better feel for it. But there wasn't time. So I pressed on, grinding my way round the Rock until I turned into wind as I came round the highest point of the Rock, to make my final approach. The turbulence was bad and that, plus the effect of the two cannons protruding out of the leading edge of the wings, made the aircraft feel unstable compared with my memory of the earlier Hurricanes. It was dangerous to bring the speed down to deck-landing level in that turbulence and there was no question of attempting to fly just above the stall to do a dummy deck-landing under those conditions. However, I completed the landing, selected the flaps up and opened the throttle to go round again for another go.
My approach for the second landing was no less difficult so, once down, I stayed down and called Jack on the R/T. 'Red One, these dummy deck-landings here are a waste of time and give me no confidence for the real thing on the ship, sorry but I think we should pack it in.' From Winnie on the R/T, 'That goes for me too Jack, bloody waste of time this is.' 'Right, I agree, everyone back to the hangar for coffee,' replied Jack. And so we all taxied back to the hangar to await the call from the ship. Great leader was Jack; never hesitated to make a decision or take responsibility. If any of us were to make a mess of the forthcoming landing which, as we all knew, was more than likely then sure enough the Commander Air would point the finger of blame at Jack for not insisting, as leader, that we complete further dummy landings.
An hour later the signal came for us to take-off and rendezvous with the Carrier. We formed up in close formation on Jack who took us on a low, fast pass at deck level down the port side of the ship first, before we turned round and moved into echelon on the starboard side in readiness to break away individually for the landing. I had not had time or opportunity in close formation to worry much about it but now the time had come for me to put the Hurricane down on the deck. Jack, in front of me, was already safely down as I approached on the turn, just as I would have done in the wildcat, but at faster speed and flying the Hurricane automatically and unthinkingly as I had done two years earlier at Yeovilton. I flew past the little chap dancing about and waving his bats and I caught the third wire nicely. The deck party released the hook from the wire and I taxied grandly past the Island with its galleries filled with Goofers who, reasonably enough, were expecting to see at least one of us hit the crash barrier or worse. I took off my helmet as I passed and gave them a royal wave of my hand. I felt rather pleased with myself.
Although, under all the circumstances, it had been an exciting triumph to fly the four Hurricanes on board without mishap, there was a slight disadvantage to it. As the wings were non-folding, the Hurricanes could not easily fit below into the already crowded hangar and consequently they would have to be shuffled back and forwards along the flight deck during flying operations. Instead of shuffling them about, Commander Air decided that it would be easier for our flight to fly them on patrols.
The Mediterranean by that time had become a comparatively safe area since the Italian Navy had been hammered and tamed by the Swordfish at Taranto in the previous year. But there was always the possibility, even probability, that German aircraft might attack from Italian airfields. Our four Hurricanes alternated therefore with the Wildcats in putting up a CAP during daylight hours so that, in effect, we flew two patrols each day for the short period before the ship reached Malta. I found that the Hurricane, with its tight little cockpit smelling of glycol and fuel, was more tiring comparatively to fly on two-hour patrols than the Wildcat. But the patrols were without incident.
However, flying the Hurricane over the sea, I could not get out of my mind the fear of engine failure if it should ever occur at a level so low, such as in the landing circuit, where it would be impracticable to bale out. It was well known that to ditch a Hurricane safely was impossible because of the huge cooling radiator located like a scoop under the fuselage. The radiator, as soon as it touched the sea, would inevitably cause the aircraft to bunt upside down and hard into the sea without possibility of survival for the pilot. Engine failures did occur from time to time among all aircraft in those days, but the certainty of being killed if it did occur in the Hurricane, made me look forward to the return to my Wildcat with its radial engine which gave the pilot a good chance of surviving a ditching.
Three days later I missed the pleasure of coming into Valetta harbour when the ship arrived at Malta with the ship's company paraded on deck and the marine band playing. HMS _Illustrious_ had played such a big part in the Malta convoys two years earlier that she was well loved by the population of the Island and crowds had turned out to welcome her back. Our flight of the four Hurricanes had to take-off and fly ashore to one of the two aerodromes. However, the four of us wasted no time in getting back to the ship to join the celebrations on her return to Malta. As always there were harbour duties for aircrew to do and, this time, there was the extra one of being detailed off in a motor boat to chug round and round the harbour, dropping very small depth charges by hand into the harbour waters, throughout every night. This was in case Italian frogmen should succeed in broaching the harbour defences with the intention of fixing limpet mines to any one of our many Warships. The Italians had proved themselves to be brilliantly good at this form of warfare since they had succeeded in damaging four of our Battleships, two in Alexandria and another two in Gibraltar. Although the Admiralty regarded damage to their beloved Battleships as disastrous, they were in reality no great loss in modern warfare and it was fortunate indeed that the frogmen had been so foolish as not to have concentrated on Carriers or Destroyers. Apparently our small depth charges were effective because no ships were damaged but two bodies of frogmen were washed ashore.
When off duty, most of the daytime ashore was spent as a group of chaps lying in the sun and swimming although, for me as a non-swimmer, the rocky coast was not particularly attractive. I liked wandering about in the narrow streets and steps of Valetta and, in need of more tropical shorts and shirts, I found a particularly good tailor's shop. Particularly good perhaps, because the young Maltese girl who served me was strikingly attractive, slim with dark hair and lovely wide, brown eyes. Like most Maltese people, she spoke good English and we chattered easily together as she packed up my purchases. I simply felt very much in need of female company and thought, why not try? And so I asked her if she would like to come out with me and maybe have drinks and dinner together at a nice restaurant, or anything else really that she might like to do? I did so want her to say yes, that I was absurdly shy in my manner of asking. She took her time, looking me in the eyes before she smiled and thanked me saying that she would be happy to go out with me.
I met her that evening at her parents' house, quite near the shop. Unlike English girls who tend to dress in bright colours in hotter climates, Marie was wearing a black blouse with a knee length straight skirt of a russet red material. I took her by taxi to an hotel just outside Valetta and why I can remember so well what she was wearing is because, in contrast to the few European women there, her dark outfit and olive colouring made her stand out. She looked beautiful, I thought. Most of the other people in the restaurant of the hotel were very senior officers of the three services and I enjoyed being there amongst them in the company of such a pretty girl. She was composed and conversation with her was relaxed and easy. Her parents, she told me, ran a small restaurant quite near the harbour and their business was beginning to recover from the bombing which had so badly affected all their lives. She asked me if I would like to have an evening meal there and maybe, if I liked, to have a preliminary drink at their house first. I didn't hesitate to accept both invitations.
Marie had asked me particularly to wear uniform again, otherwise I would have worn casual clothes, so I arrived resplendent in my 'whites', those which I had bought in New York, complete with epaulettes and wings. The small terrace house was off the street, cool and dark inside with a pretty and sunny courtyard at the back where Marie had arranged two glasses of cold beer. I had expected that one of the parents would be there but we were alone in the house and, as we talked, I began to realise that the intimate situation thus created was deliberate. She was older than the teenager I had first thought her to be and certainly she was making all the running when she suggested that we go inside where it would be cooler. Once inside, she began undoing the collar clips and gold buttons of my tunic. 'We must take off your uniform, she said, or it will become creased.' She kissed me hard and passionately with a competent composure which left me gasping as I felt her hands undoing the belt of my trousers.
There followed a happy hour, both of us lying naked on a long and comfortable sofa, where I believe that I may have learned more about joyful sex from Marie than in all my previous experiences put together. I could have happily continued for the whole evening but the time came when we had to get dressed for we were expected at the restaurant. Although exhausted and groggy with the excitement of our close encounter, I was elated and proud of myself. In a way it had been almost equivalent to earning my 'wings' at the end of flying training. However, I thought it odd that so pretty a girl would go out with service men, who were just passing through Malta. Her explanation was simple; she liked men. But, if she had affairs with any of the local men of Malta, her fiancé would soon know about it and there would be trouble.
The restaurant was in what should have been a good location near the harbour but the buildings around it had been badly damaged by the bombing and the area still appeared desolate There had been no attempt to make the restaurant appear grand but it looked neat, very clean and cheerful with attractive coloured tablecloths and flowers on all the tables, some of which were set outside.
Mother came to greet me and Father came bustling out of the kitchen at the back also to do so. Mum was nearly twice the size of her daughter Marie but I could see the likeness in their pretty faces. Four of the tables were occupied by civilians inside but I suggested we sit outside for an aperitif first. I wasn't all that stupid because I realised that the reason why I had been asked to wear uniform was possibly to promote the restaurant as suitable for other officers who might be walking past from the Grand Harbour to the city. It worked too because four of the Seafire squadron from my ship stopped, said hello to me and came back later for a meal. Our dinner, for which I insisted on paying in spite of protests from Marie and her Mum, was superb; so much better than the hotel meal had been. I said good-bye to Marie with a chaste kiss and, as I was doing so, four more officers entered to have dinner there. I felt that I had done my duty for Marie. I visited the restaurant with my chums twice more because the food was so good but I did not see Marie on her own again: I didn't like the thought of the big dockyard fiancé catching me with her!
In early September, HMS _Illustrious_ and HMS _Formidable_ with a complement of about eighty aircraft between them, steamed out of the grand Harbour with an appropriate retinue of Cruisers and Destroyers en route for.... Where and for what purpose?
As usual, I had no certain knowledge of the situation and the purpose of such an obviously strong task force, other than that Landings were expected to be undertaken by the Allied Army somewhere on the Italian coast. My fellow pilots and I presumed that we would be taking some part in support of those Allied landings. In due course at pre-flight briefings, we learned that we would be covering the assault at Salerno.
The essential role of the Royal Navy would be to provide air cover over the Salerno beachhead where the Army were facing a German force very much more powerful than anticipated. Airfields at Sicily or Malta were too far away for the RAF to provide such cover and thus it was an ideal job for the Fleet Air Arm.
A task force of four Escort Carriers, with a complement of some eighty Seafires, had been chosen by the Admiralty to provide air cover over the beachhead throughout the hours of daylight for as long as necessary, i.e. until an aerodrome could be captured by the army ashore when the RAF could take over. These Carriers were to operate close inshore so that the Seafires would have only a little distance to fly to their operating location and height. This was important because the Seafire had a patrol endurance of little more than one hour and twenty minutes. In effect, therefore, a patrol of Seafires had to land back on their Escort Carrier every hour.
For the Seafire to land on the small deck of an Escort Carrier, even under ideal conditions, calls for considerable skill and experience on the part of the pilot. But at Salerno, the wind conditions were no better than a zephyr breeze and almost a dead calm, conditions entirely to have been expected at that time of year. Thus the Seafires had to operate with a total wind speed over the deck of only sixteen knots, being the maximum speed of the Escort Carriers, whereas they needed a total wind speed over the deck of at least twenty-eight knots. These were desperately difficult landing conditions for the Seafire pilots; conditions which surely should have been anticipated at the outset when the whole Salerno operation was being planned by Rear Admiral Vian who, despite never having flown an aircraft or having served in an Aircraft Carrier, had been put in charge of this, the first multi Carrier Fleet of the Royal Navy.
After two days the four Escort Carriers had virtually run out of Seafires, no less than forty-eight of which had been written off as the pilots attempted to land in those windless conditions. The situation was made worse by the limited sea space available for the Carriers so close to shore; this limitation must have created a frantic situation with so many crashes occurring while other Seafires were waiting to land on. How many of the Seafire pilots were killed or seriously hurt in this fiasco does not seem to be recorded. Nevertheless, in spite of the appalling crash rate, many sorties were flown in that short period from the five small Carriers. It was a courageous performance by the Seafire pilots under dreadful conditions. Unfortunately, another ten Seafires were shot down by German fighter-bombers largely due to the lack of radar in the Escort Carriers preventing the Seafires reaching an advantageous combat position.
Meantime, further out at sea, the second task force of two Fleet Carriers, HMS _Illustrious_ and HMS _Formidable_ were stationed with the secondary purpose of providing air cover over the Escort Carriers. Their complement of fighter aircraft for this task was thirty Wildcats and fifteen Seafires and these aircraft flew about four hundred sorties on patrol over the Escort Carriers and the beach head. On the second day, _Formidable_ sent some of her Seafires to join in with the crashes taking place on the Escort Carriers. When there were no more Seafires, the Wildcats from _Illustrious_ and _Formidable_ were sent to land on the Escort Carriers to take over the task of patrolling the beach head. It was no problem for the Wildcats to operate continuously from these small Carriers. Moreover, since the Wildcats could patrol for a full two hours and more, the Carriers needed to turn into wind only half as frequently as for the Seafires.
Even with hindsight it is difficult to see how or why the Admiralty came to rely upon Seafires for this particular task. Either a deliberate gamble was taken that there would be adequate wind conditions or, more likely is my guess, Admiral Vian, in charge of the Salerno show, simply had no experience of naval aviation to make the right decisions. Any junior Sub Lieutenant pilot could have told him that the plan for Salerno was a potential disaster. A disaster salvaged by the skill of the Seafire pilots who, despite the wind conditions and the crashes on deck, managed to fly many sorties.
To summarise Salerno: neither of the two types of fighter aircraft procured and provided by the Admiralty at that time, either Seafire or Wildcat, was adequate for the task against the faster German fighter-bombers. The Seafire 11c, with the weight of the landing hook together with its supporting structure, was no longer a particularly fast fighter; very little faster than the Wildcat in fact. The two Fleet Carriers and the four Escort Carriers were adequate to operate the available fighters, if only they had been used knowledgeably, i.e. Seafires for the Fleet Carriers and Wildcats for the Escort Carriers. At least that way the air umbrella over the beachhead of twenty or more Wildcats could have been sustained for as many days as necessary. And our appalling losses of Seafires (and how many pilots?) need never have happened.
My personal part in the Salerno operation was very minor as just another Wildcat pilot flying twice-daily patrols from HMS _Illustrious_ to cover the air space over the Escort Carriers plus a small part of the beachhead. We chased about the sky after the faster German bombers none of which seemed bothered to attack our Escort Carriers. It seemed that the Germans were aware of our difficulties and were content to let the Seafires write themselves off, at a high rate each day. The Germans seem to have thought, 'Why bother to attack the Escort Carriers when they are doing such a good job in writing off the Seafires and their pilots for us.'
At the end of the second day, when the supply of Seafires was exhausted, our two squadrons of Wildcats were ordered to land on the Escort Carriers and continue patrol operations over the beach head from there. My squadron flew off early on that third morning and formed up ready to land on whichever of the four Escort Carriers indicated that it was ready to take us. The first flight with the CO had landed on and, while there was some sort of delay on the flight deck, we were told to orbit and patrol overhead at 5,000 feet. It was an intensely hot day with the sea glassy like a millpond and, looking down, I could see the Isle of Capri like a jewel sitting on a bright blue cushion. I was idly thinking of Gracie Fields, whom I believed still lived on the Island, and of her cheerful songs, when there was a kind of hiccup from the engine which then began to run roughly.
I looked down at my instruments to find that the engine temperature gauge showed at red and the oil pressure was just about nil. I certainly didn't want to ditch again. The mirror-like surface of the calm sea would make ditching difficult and this was a further factor which encouraged me to attempt a landing on a deck. I was still getting some power from the engine and I reckoned to land on whichever deck would take me. I pressed transmit on the R/T and in a voice cracking with anxiety called out 'Mayday, mayday, this is Red Two and I require immediate landing.' I squeaked this message out twice more. Down below one of the Carriers was already turning into wind preparing to take our flight on board anyway and, when I saw this, I made up my mind definitely to go for a landing on it.
Meantime, I was getting very little power out of the engine and by now was down to about three thousand feet. I was ahead of the ship and more or less on the downwind leg calculating that I had sufficient height to circle round to position myself reasonably well for the final approach. I glanced quickly round; no other aircraft near me or in the circuit, they were all keeping clear. I decided to assume that there would be no power at all from the engine should I need it, so I closed the throttle completely to concentrate on an engineless landing. I would have to come in very high on the final approach and might have to do an old-fashioned side-slip to get down. Also I must remember how very little wind speed there would be over the flight deck, sixteen knots no more and therefore the deck would appear to be rushing at me twice as fast on my final approach.
All this had gone through my mind but now, at some two thousand feet, I selected wheels down, half flap, hook out, straps very tight and hood locked open. I had already put the prop into fine pitch as soon as the engine had started running rough. There was no going back now; the decision to attempt a deck-landing instead of ditching was made. If I missed the deck, it would not be possible to ditch safely as the wheels would catapult the Wildcat on to its back as soon as they touched the sea and, whether I could swim or not, I would be drowned. Meantime, over the R/T from the Carrier, which was now into wind, I had received the affirmative to land.
I was turning on to the final approach, prop still rotating, speed at eighty-five knots, selecting full flap now, very high up astern of the Carrier with the batsman frantically signally me to 'come down'. Everything was happening very fast. Yes, I was too high; would fly straight over the crash barrier at this rate; side slip down to port, red Very light from the DLCO platform, meaning 'Abort landing, go round again.' A second red light with the batsman waving me off furiously. Straightening up from the side-slip, speed eighty knots. Oh dear Lord, I had overdone it, I was now slightly lower than I should be and I might not quite make it to the deck. I opened the throttle for the first time but only a brief response from the engine for a second before it expired, then I was over the deck to stall and thump down catching the first arrestor wire. Somehow, I was down and safe.
The propeller had jarred itself to a halt as soon as the aircraft landed and I lay back in the cockpit gasping with relief as the handlers pushed me forward. As they did so, a furious batsman jumped on to my port wing and harangued me for not taking his 'wave-off'. I looked at him; I didn't know the man; I said nothing but gave him a couple of fingers sign and so he jumped off again. As usual, the flight deck was all activity preparing for Jack and the rest of the Flight to land. The Tannoy blared out, 'Pilot to report immediately to Lt Cdr 'F' and the Captain on the Bridge.' That's me, I thought and, without any hurry, I undid my straps to climb slowly out of the cockpit then made my way across the deck to the Island and up to the Bridge.
I was confronted by the Lt Cdr 'F', red-faced with anger and, a few feet behind him, the Captain also with a boot-face. 'You stupid man,' the Lt Cdr 'F' shouted at me, 'you deliberately disobeyed a clear instruction not to land; you were likely to crash on to the deck and put the Carrier out of action; you were even more likely to have killed people on the deck park; and don't tell me that you had no engine power because I heard it. You are a menace and I personally shall see to it that you are court-martialled.' The Captain nodded his agreement.
I waited a little before I said anything; not because I was frightened of them but because I needed to contain my anger and to be sure of giving them a quiet, composed answer. I knew that I had just completed an astonishing feat of airmanship; a forced landing without engine on the deck of a small Carrier in conditions of nil wind, could be regarded as nothing less. I was not prepared to be brow-beaten by these two non-flyers.
I replied, 'Sir, you were aware that I was in a forced landing situation from my Mayday call, you gave me the affirmative to land; by the time of my final approach I had no engine power available. I suggest you wait for the report of the Air Engineer Officer, who is now examining the engine, to confirm that the engine had no power.' The Captain interrupted the confrontation immediately and agreed that the Engineer's report must be obtained before anything further was said.
I took my leave of them and the Bridge and went to look for my CO. He had not seen the landing as he was in the Ready Room being briefed by Cdr Ops on the Squadron's role in future operations from this Carrier. 'Leave it with me now, I will consult with the Engineer, see Wings and discuss it with the Captain.' he told me. Well, except for the Seafire pilots, it was a busy time for everyone and I never heard anything more from anyone about that forced landing. It was confirmed that there had been a broken oil pipe in the engine. It was replaced and I flew the aircraft from the Carrier, in some slight trepidation I might add, the next day. I am still a bit miffed, even now as I write, that my feat of astonishing airmanship went unrecorded except in my own Log Book. Everyone was far too busy to give it a thought.
During the next two days, we carried out two patrols each day with all eight squadron aircraft airborne combining with the other Wildcat squadron in another of the Carriers.
There were no problems, neither was there any action except chasing fruitlessly around after much faster enemy bombers which were difficult even to see in the thick hazy weather conditions. It was not a pleasant few days in that ship. The few remaining serviceable Seafires had been able to move to an airstrip ashore, but those pilots who remained on board, with nothing to fly, were miserable. Understandably so; they had suffered a very bad time with the constant crashes of the first two days and it must have been galling to see how easily our Wildcats coped with the deck-landings on their Carrier.
Our Squadron returned to HMS _Illustrious_ and the ship's company were given the cheerful news that we were returning to the UK, via Gibraltar.
We paid only a short visit there but it enabled me to buy some goodies to take home. In particular, I bought half a dozen bottles of good Sherry as a sort of peace offering to Father.
In November 1943, HMS _Illustrious_ returned from the Mediterranean to Scapa Flow, but before entering harbour there, her four squadrons flew ashore to the Air Station at Hatston. It had been rather a subdued farewell party on board on the final evening mainly, I suppose, because the ship's officers didn't drink much alcohol at sea, as we often did. Truth to tell, I wasn't all that sorry to be leaving HMS _Illustrious_ although it was a justly famous ship and I was proud to have served in her. The ship's officers had been an admirable bunch of chaps on the whole but I had never been able to rid myself of the feeling that they regarded us RNVR aircrews as rather below par for the Royal Navy. If these chaps were going to continue serving in Aircraft Carriers, they would have to come to terms, sooner or later, with the fact that the Fleet Air Arm had become composed of ninety-five percent RNVR officers. Another factor was that I had in time become altogether fed up with the bad accommodation.
Two days later, I left Hatston for the long train journey home to Taplow on leave.
## CHAPTER TEN
## The Far East
I arrived home at Taplow after a long journey by train from Hatston. Mother and Maddie were so very happy to see me that I was embarrassed to remember how, in the past, I had usually spent the first days of my leave in London. They were very pleased with the goodies I had brought them from Gibraltar, mainly jars of unusual types of food, but any food would have been welcome really because rationing had become very stringent. I telephoned Father at 'the old Hell House' to tell him that I had some good sherry for him and he immediately took the opportunity to invite Mother, me and Maddie to his house at Coffinswell for a short visit.
I was surprised at the invitation, bearing in mind that my parents had divorced with some acrimony many years ago, but Mother accepted and next day we trundled down to Devon in the old Austin. The short visit was a success and Father and Mother got on surprisingly well, which gave me great pleasure, so that we returned to Taplow two days day's later on a wave of good feeling. Altogether it was a quiet and pleasant week's leave and, after taking Mother and Maddie for dinner on the last evening to Skindles hotel, for I had plenty of cash remaining after such a quiet leave, I set off on the long, tedious train journey to the Orkneys and back to the Air Station at Hatston.
The biggest surprise when I arrived there was to find that a new Commanding Officer had been appointed to our Squadron, Lt Cdr. Barnett RN. I regretted that I had not had the prior knowledge and opportunity to say goodbye to Jimmy Sleigh, a superb leader, but he had been pier-head jumped to another squadron where his experience was needed. Our new CO came to be known as 'Boot' Barnett: I never knew why unless it was because he appeared always to be rather serious and anxious in his manner. Being a Lt Cdr and RN, he had been given our squadron to command based upon the seniority of his rank although he had little flying experience compared to ours. But that is the way the RN worked and always had done; command always depended upon seniority not experience. It must have been a difficult situation for him and no wonder he appeared constantly anxious. However, he was a reasonably good pilot and never lacked courage.
Also there were four new pilots appointed to the squadron to bring us up to twelve again. Two of them were huge tall chaps; Joe like a long beanpole with a fund of horribly rude stories to tell and Martin, not only tall but big with it and he would survive to play rugby for England after the war. Needless to say that Martin got on particularly well with our two rugby playing New Zealanders, Winnie and Jack. The other two new boys, Ricky and Steven, were quieter characters but both of them good company. I continued to fly with Jack but as the section leader in his flight.
We had to do night flying during that working-up period at Hatston. I knew it to be necessary since in the future I might have to repeat at any time my one night deck-landing at sea. But I loathed flying at night and the truth is that I was still scared of it. Unlike the TBR boys who flew regularly at night, we Fighter boys rarely did enough of it to become confident at night flying. This became apparent when a good friend of mine in the other Wildcat squadron, Stan Brett, was killed hitting high ground on a night exercise.
Christmas came and went while I was at Hatston with the usual round of parties in the Mess. There were not enough WRENs or other local females to jolly the place up so we relied upon boozy parties, plenty of good food despite rationing for the civilian population outside and a plentiful supply of films for the station Cinema. And there was physical recreation, of course. I ought really to have written about the range and type of sporting activities usually available to aircrew as I must have given the impression that, when not aviating, we lay about in our cabins or in the Wardroom perpetually sozzled with pink gin.
On board a Carrier, at sea or in harbour whenever it was practical, the favourite sport was deck hockey. This was played with curved sticks and a puck made of rope rings which had been hardened with aircraft dope. Every department in the ship would produce its own six-man team and the matches were played with the utmost ferocity on the forward flight deck. The other game was volley-ball and, for this, one of the aircraft lifts would be half lowered and a net strung across at the right height. It would sometimes happen, not in many ships thank heavens, that the Captain would make the lordly decision that the aircrews needed organised physical recreation. This would entail our running about the flight deck, in the freezing cold in our shorts, throwing a heavy medicine ball at each other or doing up-downs under the eye of the ship's PT instructor. What a typical bit of RN nonsense that was.
When ashore at an Air Station, my own particular pleasure was to play squash and I had been able to maintain a reasonable standard because there was nearly always a good opponent and a court on most of the aerodromes. Rugby and football matches were arranged frequently and, since most aerodromes were surrounded by fields, there was plenty of space for pitches. My squadron 890 could field an unusually strong rugby team, especially at Hatston when we had three absolutely top players then with Martin joining Winnie and Jack. My engine fitter, Mac, was also a good rugby player. I had managed to disguise from Winnie, our team captain, my natural inclination to funk a tackle but I could handle the ball and kick well and so I played occasionally in the team at centre three-quarter. But really I preferred football which, being much more of a prissy sort of game, suited me better. Moreover, the squadron had a good football team, composed mainly of the ratings, in which I liked to play.
The only other occasion of significance was my birthday in mid-February of 1944 which brought me to the not very grand old age of twenty-two. I had been flying now for three years and, having been commissioned as a Midshipman at age nineteen, I was still only a Sub Lieutenant with no high expectation of becoming anything else. Indeed, I was content to remain as just another 'squadron bog-rat' provided I could continue to be led by people of Jack Parli's quality. As for my flying ability, I had lost my earlier zing and was now no more than a competent pilot with some operational experience. I had a particular dislike of flying in bad weather, which was ridiculous of me, since such weather was a fact of aviation life almost every day. Night flying I hoped to avoid like the plague. I suspect that other pilots had fears about certain aspects of flying which they kept strictly to themselves, as I did. For instance, it was obvious that some chaps never happily came to terms with landing on a deck.
That last paragraph reads rather like a half-term school report and it could well be just that because, while people in England were thinking seriously then about the probable end of the war in Europe, my squadron mates and I were about to start again on a different type of naval warfare in the Far East and Pacific. The confirmation of this came with a signal ordering all 890 Squadron pilots and personnel to embark at Portsmouth in HMS _London_ , a Cruiser. We learned that the ship was to give us passage to Ceylon where the Royal Navy was beginning to build up and base much of its entire fleet resources. But a week of leave had been granted before embarkation; probably the last one for a long time: it could be another two years before our return.
Towards the end of that leave, I arranged for all the family to stay at the Park Lane Hotel in London for a farewell dinner party. Father agreed to come up from Devon, Mother and Maddie were only too delighted to stay for a night at the Hotel; Phoebe came too and paired up with Johnnie Lowder and dear Lalline came to keep me company for the night. Entirely unexpectedly and to my pleasure Father said he would host and pay for the dinner party. It had been a very good farewell party and, as such, a cheerful send-off for Johnnie and me to Portsmouth on the following day to embark in HMS _London._ We were to be accompanied on the passage by another Cruiser.
Life on board the Cruiser in the following days was tedious, to say the least. There was nothing in particular for us to do, no duties other than the censoring of letters written by men of the ship's company. Through our CO, Boot Barnett, we asked if we could take on duties on the Bridge as second officer of the watch, for instance. But the response to this was negative although Boot, being an RN officer with a watchkeeping certificate, was welcomed on the Bridge. The normal life at sea for the ship's officers seemed to me to be nearly as boring. Day after day they followed the same routine of watchkeeping, silent gunnery drills, divisional duties and the inevitable supervision of cleaning ship. They had nothing exciting to do each day. Except that, on one special day, there was a gun practice with live shells. The prospect of this shoot had generated great excitement throughout the ship and, when it happened, everyone seemed to enjoy it except me as the noise was appalling and I hate 'bangs.' I spent the half hour of the shoot, therefore, in the heads away down in the bowels of the ship. All their excitement was understandable since, after all, the main purpose of the ship was to fire its big 6-inch guns accurately.
By comparison, life in an Aircraft Carrier, as indeed it must have been also in the small ships of the Royal Navy, was exciting and buzzing with activity. Aircraft landing and taking-off day and night meant that everybody on board a Carrier was actively involved all the time; not just the aircrews but the engineers, the seamen, the aircraft maintenance crews, the flight deck crews, the radar operators and including the cooks and stewards who had to provide them all with continual meals. People had to work fast and hard all the time day after day and mistakes could cause loss of life. Such constant activity generated excitement and enthusiasm; it gave meaning to wartime life for everyone on board a Carrier. It was noticeable, for instance, that the sailors who normally worked below decks in a Carrier and were off duty would find space, if they could safely do so, somewhere around the flight deck to watch the landings and launching of aircraft.
After a long passage, as it seemed, we arrived at Ceylon to disembark the squadron in Colombo. From there the squadron was transported in trucks eighty miles up the west coast to Puttalam, a naval air station consisting of a single runway, made of interlaced metal tracking, cut out of thick jungle. Accommodation for everyone was in 'cadjan' huts of various sizes according to their purpose and located about a mile from the airstrip. These large huts were mostly formed into dormitories or officers' cabins but with one converted as a canteen for the ratings and another as a Petty Officers' Mess.
The whole Air Station was surrounded by jungle but with the front overlooking a salt marsh to the sea. The one really good and attractive building was the Officers' Mess where the bar and lounge looked out through rather grand portals over an open area of gardens on to the main tree-lined highway. Beyond the highway, with its native people constantly passing on foot or driving ox-carts, was the marshland and the sea. I don't know what use the building originally had but I guess it was probably a Rest House, a typical form of small hotel to be found in the Ceylonese countryside. We were very lucky to have this pleasant building to enjoy as our Mess.
During the next two years, I would come to know Ceylon very well indeed, and flying over it daily, would boast that I knew every damn tree. I wrote 'every damn tree' probably because I could never make up my mind what I would do in the event of an engine failure; bale out and become entangled in the top of a tree or crash land into the tops of them? In either case I would never be found in that thick jungle. In the end, as I would be a dead loss whichever I decided, I stopped thinking about it. We had a new batch of Wildcats to fly, which had been delivered straight from America and more new pilots to work-up, so we were going to be busy.
The aircraft were kept in the shade of palm trees as much as possible before flight because, out in the sun, the metal could became too hot to touch so that climbing into the cockpit could be a problem. However, I became used to the heat when flying, as we all did. I wore light flying overalls over just underpants, a tropical flying helmet and, in that strong sun, nearly always flew using sunglasses which the US Navy had issued to me when I was in America. Light coloured suede half-boots, known as 'brothel creepers' were the only other items normally worn. In spite of the light clothing, I sweated profusely when flying, as we all did. Unfortunately, when we hung our flying kit up on hooks at the end of the day, the various types of huge beetles and particularly the scorpions would infest our sweaty overalls during the night. Our flight office was just another cadjan hut and there was no way of keeping these horrible scorpions and bugs at bay. Before first flight each day, therefore, there had to be a careful and cautious examination of our flying kit before putting it on. I remember we counted four scorpions one morning. Eventually I discarded my flying overalls and wore just shorts, shirt and underpants for flying which could be washed every evening by my 'boy' back at our accommodation block.
My 'boy' was in fact an elderly Ceylonese man who had spent half his lifetime in the Indian army as an officer's batman. I have never known a man dress as smartly as this 'boy'. I cannot remember his name, as I write, but having asked him his name, I remember that I was meticulously careful always to use it correctly. He was quite small and very slim with dark brown leathery looking skin, little beady brown eyes in a strong narrow face surmounted by an immaculate white turban, his body encased in a gleaming white shirt and Sari from which only his brown neck, face and arms protruded. He kept my cabin meticulously clean, guarded it during the day from the many thieves about and spent most of his day 'dhobieing' all my clothes and uniforms.
Once I had arrived back at my cabin from the aerodrome, whether in the morning or evening, he would not allow me out again and to the Mess until I had showered and changed into the freshly dhobied uniform which he had laid out for me. Whenever I tried to skive off to the Mess for a preliminary gin, he would shake his head and say firmly, 'Master cannot go to Mess in dirty clothes, Master must change first.' He was so firm and intense about it that I dared not argue. But how lovely it was to have clean freshly laundered clothes every morning and evening. Whenever I returned to Puttalam during that year, he contrived to act as my 'boy'.
During the monsoon rains, the airfield could become like a quagmire of mud. Elephants were used to move and position the aircraft, which they did much more effectively than tractors could ever have done. We all became rather fond of our elephants, particularly our maintenance crews who, without the elephants, would have been pushing the aircraft around in the mud.
I had a chat with the young mahout of one elephant whom he called 'Lulu.' I asked if I could have a ride later on when he would be passing by our Officers' Mess on his way home. In fact, I had a nasty plot in mind which was to bring Lulu into the Mess if, after a two rupee tip, the mahout was willing. My excuse for this childishness is that, by then, we had been at Puttalam long enough and silly tricks such as this were undertaken to keep ourselves amused; there being not many other forms of entertainment available. The mahout agreed and I clambered on board Lulu's back but, unfortunately, she became stuck halfway through the archway into the main room of the Mess and, in the throes of extricating herself backwards, Lulu left a massive poo in the doorway. I was not the popular figure I had expected to be after that.
Occasionally, we would take one of the two Jeeps allocated to the squadron and dash down to Colombo for drinks and a meal, probably at the lovely Galle Face Hotel. Sometimes we would foolishly decide to go to one of the harbour restaurants, renowned for very hot curried chicken. As I came to realise later, the chicken invariably consisted of meat from the black crows which flocked so noisily and in abundance among the palm trees. I remember with shame now the typical British manner in which we drove to Colombo and back; always much too fast along the eighty miles of that narrow highway, hooting at the lumbering ox-carts and scattering pedestrians as we went.
How aggressive and unpleasant we British must have appeared to the local population. On the other hand I noted, later on when I travelled more in Ceylon, that everyone else seemed to drive in the same manner, hooting their horns aggressively as they screeched their buses and trucks round the bends of the dusty little roadways. But maybe they had learned to drive that way from us?
In a search for entertainment in the evenings, Jack and Winnie would put on their by now famous show of realistic all-in wrestling. Both stripped down to underpants and each grunting and groaning under pressure from dreadful-looking head-locks and arm twists and all that kind of thing. But they made it very funny to watch. Then to my dismay, Johnnie Lowder suggested boxing matches which could take place after dinner in the space near the bar. The next evening he arrived in the Mess equipped with boxing gloves which he had borrowed from the PTI. To start with, he and Martin bashed away at each other and I hoped the whole affair would be limited to the big men like them and I lurked in the background, out of sight, just in case someone might call upon me to perform. And, of course, they did so. 'Hank' was called for several times and I had to emerge from the shadows pretending enthusiasm.
My opponent was to be an equally light-weight New Zealander who, characteristically, appeared keen on the prospect of the match, dancing about prodding at the air with his gloved fists. I don't remember his name. After we had done a little circle around each other while bobbing about, he suddenly leapt at me and dealt my hooter a frightful blow which caused blood to spurt from it and knocked me on my back to the floor. Gamely, of course, I appeared to struggle with great difficulty to regain my feet for the fight back when, thank heavens, Jack stepped in and, pulling the gloves off my hands, uttered his well-known phrase 'blood and gore all over the floor and me without a spoon,' and suggested, 'We had better finish for now and give boxing a go on another evening.' Dear Jack, knowing me only too well, he had recognised my reluctance to continue. That evening was the end of Boxing as a form of entertainment; men like Jack and Winnie only fought for real with bare fists and were not interested in 'playing' at fighting. Johnnie was the only one disappointed at the conclusion; I think the silly ass was half-hoping for another go at Winnie, no longer with malice but just for the hell of it. He was that sort of chap.
One evening, when we had been at Puttalam for about four weeks, Johnnie walked to the Mess with me and told me of his scheme to go hunting for a leopard skin and of the arrangements he had already provisionally made to do so. He wanted me to join him on a hunting expedition. He proposed to borrow one of the small vans from the transport office, for official recreation purposes of course, and we would drive to a local village about thirty miles into the jungle with his 'boy' to show us the way He had also borrowed two shot guns and battery torches. 'Don't be so daft', I said, 'nobody in their right mind goes shooting at an animal as wild and dangerous as a leopard with a shot-gun.' Then he explained in more detail that the cartridges would be emptied of normal size shot and refilled with nine large shot balls; 'Far more lethal and effective than a single rifle bullet,' he said.
The idea was that we would arrive at the village late in the evening and trek, accompanied by the village tracker, to the water holes. The torches would be fitted on a band round our heads and these we would switch on as we approached the water hole. All we had to do then was to identify a leopard by the width of the eyes reflected in the torchlight and shoot it. This whole idea of Johnnie's was so typically and utterly loony that I was intrigued by it and, on consideration, I reckoned it might be fun. I very much doubted if we would see any animals at all and certainly nothing so exotic as a leopard. But it would be fun, I thought, pretending to be an intrepid hunter and it would make a good story afterwards.
It was Johnnie's show and he made all the arrangements and fixed a date for us to go in a few days time. I was quite looking forward to the little adventure when the unexpected signal came through that the squadron was to embark in HMS _Unicorn_ and the pilots were to fly on board on the very morning after Johnnie and I were due to go on this dotty hunting expedition. Well, it was all off as far as I was concerned but Johnnie argued on and on that we could still do it and be back in plenty of time to fly on board the next morning. Eventually, idiot that I was, I agreed to go with him. Our main baggage was packed and would travel with the stewards to the ship in Colombo and, on the face of it, there seemed no reason not to go on the leopard hunt, except maybe for a shortage of sleep before having to land on an unknown Aircraft Carrier. So, regardless of good sense, on the afternoon beforehand we signed for the borrowed van and set off with the 'boy' for the distant village.
It was dusk when we arrived at the village where we met the villagers and the three men who purported to be experienced trackers and would lead us to the water holes. So started the night of total disaster. It was hard going through the jungle tracks over rough ground on a dark night and, two hours later, we had only travelled about three miles when the senior tracker stopped suddenly and signalled for silence. He pointed up towards the tree branches just ahead of us and whispered 'Leopard.' Johnnie immediately shone his torch up there, where certainly two eyes were momentarily reflected, and blasted off with his shot-gun in their direction. Something came to ground (it could have been a monkey) and appeared to bound into thicker jungle ahead of us. I dare not move as I was having sudden trouble with my bowels. But the two youngsters of the three trackers could certainly move and they bolted back the way we had come as fast as they could run. Never mind where the animal went, be it leopard or not, I kept my eye on the remaining older tracker because, if he did a runner too, we might not find our way back for days. I need not have worried on that score; the old boy was a professional and intended to stick with us, for the money if nothing else. So the three of us pressed on.
We came to a sluggish stream. Our guide indicated that we would have to wade along and across it and warned us, 'Masters beware of water snakes, Masters take a stick to keep them away,' and saying this he picked up for himself a broken branch for the purpose. After tucking up his sari tightly round the top of his brown legs and wizened little buttocks, he walked slowly into the dark water up to his waist and turned to wait for us, meanwhile keeping the branch moving around him to ward off the snakes. We had both dressed appropriately for this jaunt into the jungle in long sleeved shirts and long khaki trousers which tucked into the jungle boots with which we had been issued. These boots were made of brown canvas with thick rubber soles and laced right up over the trousers half way up the calf. They really were well designed and just the job for keeping out the myriads of creepy crawlies. By this stage, without them, our legs would have been covered in repulsive blood-soaked leeches. To put it mildly, I was fed up with the whole enterprise but Johnnie, with his press-on spirit, still showed plenty of enthusiasm. So on we went into that stagnant, foul water in which I imagined poisonous snakes swimming round my legs and middle bits. However, what at first I had feared were snakes touching me, turned out to be long weeds and grasses.
After leaving the stream, our guide cautioned absolute silence because, with torches dimmed, we were at long last approaching a water hole. We could hear animals moving and drinking not far away. Creeping nearer, we loaded both barrels of our guns in preparation. Johnnie and I stood up together and switched on our lights.... and there I stopped because there seemed to be scores of reflected eyes turned towards us. How to know which pair might be a leopard?
But Johnnie had no doubt apparently because he blasted off again with his gun.
There were bellows from at least one of the beasts which, as one now came towards us, we could see were mostly buffalos, huge beasts and angry. Our elderly tracker looked very frightened and, clearly furious with these two nincompoop 'hunters', pulled at us quickly to run down a track away from the water hole.
When we were clear Johnnie swore that he had identified and fired at a leopard and wanted to go back to follow it. 'Don't be so ridiculous,' I told him, 'enough is enough of this nonsense; it is nearly one o clock in the morning and already we shall have to move fast to get back in time. And anyway you should break and unload that gun, as I have done, before running any further with it.' With that, I gestured to the tracker to get us back to his village as quickly as possible. There does come a time in dealing with madcap warrior personalities like Johnnie, who are so often like children, that someone has to call a halt to their obsessive desire for excitement. In this case, I ought to have done so much earlier instead of agreeing to go with him on this idiotic hunt. Johnnie, somewhat chastened because the rebuke about the gun had been a good line for me to take, followed meekly as the tracker started the return journey.
We arrived back at the village after three in the morning. The boy remained there, as it was his home village, while I drove off fast along the only road back to the Airstrip. The squadron was due to take-off for rendezvous with HMS _Unicorn_ off Colombo at eight-thirty a.m. so that, in reality, we had time to spare and might even catch a couple of hours sleep when we got to the Air Station. It was an uncomfortable journey in our wet clothes but I was relaxed, reckoning that we had no more than another five miles to go. At that point, the engine of the van began to fail and then stopped.
We checked; there was no petrol. The village people must have siphoned out half the tank. Nothing else for it; we would have to take the guns, leave everything else in the van and walk the remaining distance – fast.
The time was nearly 7.30 when we returned to the Air Station, a couple of dirty and bedraggled figures. At the guard-room, Johnnie ran off to return the guns to the armoury, leaving me to cope with the Transport Officer and his inevitable tantrum when he learned that we had left one of his vans unguarded on the road. He wasn't there; presumably still having his breakfast in the Mess. Good; so I briefed his Petty Officer where we had left the van and ran to my cabin to change my filthy clothes. My 'boy,' bless him, was waiting for me with clean shorts, pants shirt and stockings all laid out waiting for me and a bag already packed of long khaki trousers and tunic for on board the ship. I could have kissed his wizened old mug but instead, after I had enjoyed a lovely cold shower, I gave him a huge tip and a sincere 'thank you' for all his good service to me. Then I ran like mad with my overnight bag to catch the bus just leaving for the Airstrip.
Johnnie and I arrived breathless at the squadron office as the CO was half-way through his briefing but we got the main gist of it. Jack whispered to me the correct radio frequency we would be using and, since I would be following as number three behind him anyway; that really was all I needed to know. In fact, I was ashamed of myself for having behaved so irresponsibly. It was maybe acceptable for idiotic and childish characters like Johnnie to go on silly adventures the night before the squadron joined a new ship, but I was a normal kind of chap and should have known better. Nevertheless, despite all the rush and kerfuffle of the recent hours, I was in the cockpit at 8.30 am ready and waiting for the signal to 'press tits' to start up the engine prior to squadron take-off.
Boot Barnett took us in close formation low over the _Unicorn_ and a few minutes later, feeling very definitely tired and dozy by now, I found myself on the downwind leg selecting wheels, flaps and hook down prior to the landing. As I locked the canopy back, I had a first good look at the _Unicorn_. She was noticeably higher in the water than other Carriers, having two hangar decks, because her primary function was as an aircraft repair ship. Although I remembered her as having been operational at Salerno where she had operated some Seafires in combination with the four Escort Carriers there. She would not be capable of much more speed than them but the length and width of her flight deck was almost similar to a Fleet Carrier. But there was a good wind to-day out here at sea off the coast of Ceylon and so, with all these good factors in mind, I was not worried about the landing in spite of my lack of sleep. Nevertheless, I kept well behind the Wildcat ahead of me to give myself plenty of time on the final approach. In the event, I plonked my Wildcat down on the deck, comfortably catching the second wire without really noticing whether a batsman was there or not. After some pink gins and a good lunch, I was able to collapse into my bunk and sleep until the evening as there was no further flying that day.
The _Unicorn_ was a lovely ship being comfortable even in that hot climate, competently run and happy. Moreover, it had one enormous advantage which occurred in very few other British Aircraft Carriers during the whole course of the war, as far as I am aware. It had as its Captain an experienced naval aviator; one who not only knew about aircraft but could actually fly one. Captain St John Fancourt, DSO, RN had been the Commanding Officer of the Skua squadron which he had led from Hatston to attack German shipping in a Norwegian harbour in 1940. It is known that those ridiculous Skua aircraft made an effective attack but, more astonishingly, most of them succeeded in getting back to Hatston. The distance to the target and back was really too far and only by brilliantly precise navigation did some of the Skuas return without ditching. It does seem such a pity that this 'flying' Captain RN was not given one of the more operational Fleet Carriers to command. I can only suppose that, according to Admiralty procedure, he had not sufficient seniority in rank as a Captain over all the other non-flying Captains.
The Squadron remained on board _Unicorn_ for a period of about ten days before our troops were disembarked at Colombo and we flew back to Puttalam. During that time, we carried out some strafing exercises at sea on other warships, such as Battlewagons, Cruisers and Destroyers, which had recently come out from the UK. There was no doubt that the Admiralty was building up a huge presence in this part of the world in preparation for attacks on the Japanese. However, regardless of the unknown original purpose of our joining _Unicorn_ , it was a pleasant period on board her and there were no flying accidents. In retrospect, I guess that it had been a useful ten days all round. Our strafing attacks on the Warships had been good practice for us, training for their gun crews, and our landings had kept the flight deck organisation of the _Unicorn_ up to scratch.
On return to Puttalam, I was so pleased to find that my same 'boy' was ready to look after me. But Johnnie and I learned that the van which we had abandoned on the road, on the night of the 'hunt', had been stripped down to the chassis in the short time before the Transport team came to rescue it. We had to face the wrath of the irate Transport Officer who swore that he would have us court-martialled for our criminal negligence. It was quite funny really because signals followed Johnnie and me from ship to ship for months after, demanding that we attend at a formal enquiry in Colombo. These signals were sensibly ignored on the authority of the Captains in the ships since our purpose in life was to make war against the Japanese. I suspect that all the fighting services, not just the Royal Navy, contained chaps like the transport officer. Officers in charge of stores, men doing those kinds of jobs who, some of them, never seemed able to come to grips with the abnormal demands and events arising from war. They lived in a world of indents, lists and signed chits without which nothing could be moved or done.
A week after our return to Puttalam came the very welcome and surprise signal that the squadron was to join the Escort Carrier, HMS _Atheling_. All of us looked forward to joining an operational ship again. It was now May 1944; we felt that we had been flannelling around in Ceylon, waiting for something to happen, for far too long.
## CHAPTER ELEVEN
## HMS _Atheling_
Our CO, Lt Cdr. Barnett, was ordered to Colombo, to SEAC, I think it was called, being South East Asia Command of the Admiralty, to be given a briefing about the Squadron's future movements. He wasted no time the next day, bless him for that, in calling us pilots together to give us as much information as he had obtained. He told us that HMS _Atheling_ , another American-built Escort Carrier, was already on its way from Trincomalee, the huge harbour on the other side of the Island, to Colombo where our squadron personnel would embark. The Carrier would have two fighter squadrons allocated to it, our Squadron 890 with ten Wildcats and Squadron 889 of ten Seafires. The ship would be classified as an Assault Carrier although exactly what it was to assault with two fighter squadrons was not yet clear. No doubt we would find out in good time. But such information as had been given was very welcome; everyone in the squadron had become fed up with hanging around without having a known objective. The pilots, in particular, were excited at the prospect of joining a ship again.
The Fleet Air Arm was building up into a major striking force using Ceylon as a training area and as a base for operations against the Japanese in the Bay of Bengal. There were now five Naval Air Stations on the Island, the biggest being at Trincomalee alongside the harbour which, being so very large, was to become known as the Scapa Flow of the Far East. Already in May 1944 the harbour was becoming full of Royal Navy ships, including Battleships and Cruisers together with their attendant Destroyers all in support of the Aircraft Carriers. Supply ships in large numbers were also making an appearance. This was going to be a new form of sea warfare for the Royal Navy which hitherto had become accustomed to being dependent for its supplies, in the European and Atlantic theatres of war, on nearby harbours.
But out here in the Indian and Pacific oceans, the Royal Navy would have to transport its own fuel, ammunition and all other supplies at sea with it. Not since the blockade of the French during the Napoleonic war culminating at Trafalgar had the Royal Navy needed to keep a fleet at sea for very long periods without the support of nearby harbours. It would be a major logistic problem which the US Navy had already solved by using large fleets of supply ships. And so the Royal Navy would have to adapt quickly if it was to fight alongside the Americans in the Pacific.
I had become aware over the past few weeks of the general situation and the reason for our presence in Ceylon but, in the slack period of recent weeks with the squadron tucked away in the jungle airstrip at Puttalam, I don't believe that much thought had been given by any of us pilots to the naval developments taking place around us on the island. Our interest quickened now that we knew of the more active role the squadron was about to take and a fresh surge of eagerness to get going could be felt among all the personnel.
In the past weeks Puttalam had seemingly become full of Wildcat aircraft and pilots; our own number was twelve plus two other spare pilots and anther squadron of twelve Wildcats was also based at the Air Station. But now, 890 Squadron was to be reduced to ten aircraft and pilots before flying on board _Atheling_. Of the ten pilots, only Jack, Winnie and I now remained from the original squadron.
A few days later, the squadron was airborne to rendezvous with HMS _Atheling_ off the east coast of Ceylon opposite Colombo. We were a bit untidy as a formation, having ten aircraft, so that we had to fly a normal flight of four with the CO and then two flights of three with Jack and Winnie as the leaders. As usual, I was with Jack. I felt genuinely excited at the prospect of joining an Aircraft Carrier again. I liked being at sea. I had confidence in myself as a deck-landing pilot, I reckoned I was as good as any and better than most at putting an aircraft down on the deck. As for the sea, well it could be as safe an environment as any other on which to be forced down for any reason. There was always my particular fear of bad weather and out here, particularly in monsoon conditions, the weather could be frighteningly bad with turbulent cloud going up to great heights. On the other hand, if in thick cloud, it was always better to let down over the sea, rather than over mountainous land. With these thoughts, as we flew low in formation over our new home ship, I was on the whole a right cheerful little chap, strapped down tight into my cockpit ready for the first landing on _Atheling_. The Carrier was the same to look at as any other of the American built Escorts and it would, I knew, be much the same below decks. The important factor would be the ship's officers and whether they and we in the two squadrons would get on and work well together.
In this confident mood, I flew down the starboard side of the Carrier, ready to break away to follow Jack to port on to the downwind leg. 'Concentrate,' I told myself; 'This first landing is no time to be over-confident and to make a mess of it; so no showing off.' On this first approach, I am also watching the batsman as I turn in towards the stern of the ship. I like him; he is nicely steady and positive with the bats and no dancing about. I think to myself that his signals could be worth following on a bad day. Whoops; it is a bad day NOW! I had forgotten the much slower wind speed over the deck of a small Carrier and I am there before I know it. I had misjudged it and already I am almost over the round down. Quickly straightening the aircraft level from the turn, I lose sight of the smaller 'Island' and the short flight deck ahead of me. My normal certainty of the aircraft position relative to the flight deck is gone. In a near panic, I am about to jam the throttle wide open in an attempt to go round again, hoping to miss the crash barrier ahead, when I see the batsman giving me the 'cut engine' signal, which I obey gratefully.
The Wildcat thumps down on the deck and the hook picks up a late wire. The flight deck handlers are there fast to disengage the hook and wave me over the crash barrier to park and switch off the engine. Phew; that was frighteningly close to disaster. As I clamber out of the cockpit, I determine never to be so cocky again and to remind myself constantly how very small is the margin for error when deck-landing. A small mistake and a few seconds can be the difference between a comfortable thump on to the deck, (followed by a nice glass of pink gin in the wardroom) or the aircraft crashing on its back into the sea... and you are dead. Another thing, I told myself, don't be so damnably disparaging in future about the batsmen and their signals; you might not have made it down this time without such help. Suitably chastened, I left my flying kit in the Ready room and made my well-known way down to the Wardroom.
And then the joy of having a decent cabin again. Admittedly rather dourly decorated in grey paint on the metal bulkheads but, in the US Navy style, having everything nicely designed for comfortable living with hand basin, mirror, including plenty of cupboards and drawers for uniforms and clothes, a small writing desk and a comfortable chair. A retreat for occasional solitude when it was needed where I could read, write or just have a quiet kip on my bunk. I am sharing the cabin with Johnnie Lowder and, from custom I suppose, I opt for the upper bunk. Sharing a cabin with Johnnie was an experience in itself; we were such different characters. I would tend to do everything in plenty of time; rise out of my bunk early if I was due to fly, get changed into flying kit with ages of time to spare, that sort of thing.
Johnnie, on the other hand, to start the day would not even open his eyes until he had groped for a cigarette from the table next to his bunk, stuck it into his mouth and somehow lit it, seemingly still with his eyes shut while ignoring the hot cup of tea the steward had brought, until his fag was finished and the tea cold. I used to watch him fascinated, as he went through this morning ritual. If he was on an early flight, he would never make a move from his bunk until the very last minute. Discarding any thought of breakfast and often cutting the pre-flight briefing, he would climb into his cockpit just in time as the call to 'start engines' was given. And off he would go to fly brilliantly.
We were quite different characters, but we got on very well together in spite of Johnnie's sometimes alarming rages. Using a small sharp knife, he could carve aircraft models in wood or sometimes just make interesting shapes of the wood pieces. I remember he had all but finished the model of a Wildcat which it seemed to me to be beautifully done. But he made a slight fault at the very last and, in an absolute fury, he crushed the model in his great hands and hurled it against the bulkhead of the cabin then ground his foot over the remaining pieces. He was a perfectionist model maker.
In the meantime, _Atheling_ was making her way round to the other side of the Island towards Trincomalee where the Seafire squadron was based and from where the Seafires would fly out to join us and land on. With experience and memories of the unfortunate Seafires crashing all day and daily on Escort Carriers at Salerno, it was unfortunate that the Admiralty had not provisioned something better than the Seafire to operate from our small, slow Escort Carrier. Their expectation and hope (assuming that they had given it any thought at all) was that in the Indian Ocean the wind conditions would be strong enough to favour the Seafire landings. However, as I had enough experience out here now to know, the weather could behave very oddly, especially during the monsoon. There were times when, in spite of low cloud and heavy rain, the wind nevertheless could be almost entirely still. It would seem as if the thick, dark grey massive cloud, reaching up to 30,000 feet sometimes, was squatting down like a gigantic elephant with its bottom over the land and sea, but unable to make any wind. Such weather conditions would cause real difficulty for the Seafires and they wouldn't be much fun for us in our Wildcats either.
The next day off Trincomalee, waiting for the Seafires to appear, everybody who could do so was in a Goofing area ready to watch them land on. Being reasonably early in the morning, the weather was bright and breezy, just right for the Seafire boys to make their first landing on _Atheling_ , but big cumulus clouds would build up later on over the land as happened each day once the hot sun had risen. They arrived in formation flying low and fast over the Carrier then streamed up into echelon with the first flight ready to curve round on to the downwind leg. It was well done and we waited anxiously for the first approach and landing, hoping it would be a safe one. Indeed it was a beautifully smooth landing by their CO who, as we found when we met later, was a Lieutenant Schwenk RNVR, a small dark cheerful man usually known a 'Timo' being apparently a synonym of Timoshenko, a famous Russian general at that time. One or two of the landings were a bit dicey, but they all got down safely. As soon as they were all landed on, the ship proceeded into Trincomalee harbour and came to a mooring somewhere in the middle, surrounded by a host of other warships.
There was a party in the Wardroom that evening at which the pilots of both squadrons combined with the ship's officers not on duty. It was a most cheerful occasion which augured well for a happy ship with aircrew and ship's officers getting on well together. The Captain came to join in the party after dinner. This was the first opportunity for him to meet squadron pilots since his ship, which had arrived only recently from the UK, had been used non-operationally as a ferry to bring new aircraft out to Ceylon. I think he was rather bemused at first at the very boisterous nature of the party but he evidently enjoyed our Fleet Air Arm songs. To us at that time he appeared as an elderly old chap of about sixty, but a friendly and likeable man. He knew little or nothing, of course, about aircraft or Carrier operations.
The subsequent working up period went reasonably well with eight aircraft at a time ranged for take-off, provided there was sufficient wind, followed by strafing exercises at targets towed astern of the ship or at selected locations ashore. Two Seafires hit the crash barrier on landing and were write-offs although the pilots were more or less unhurt. One of our Wildcats made a bad approach and, trying to go round again, caught the top of the crash barrier with its tail-wheel and crashed onto its back. The pilot was hospitalised on return to harbour and had to be exchanged. The weather had been good with adequate wind speeds over the deck most of the time, except on the one windless day when the crashes had occurred.
A few days later, we left Trincomalee harbour accompanied by a Cruiser, two Destroyers and two Frigates on the first of several sorties to attack Japanese supply ships and their protective airfields along the coasts of the Andaman and Nicobar islands. The aim of our small force, we were briefed, was to cause such havoc as we could among the Japanese shipping, relying mainly on the Cruiser and Destroyers for this purpose and for _Atheling_ , with her complement of twenty fighter aircraft, to deal with the expected opposition from enemy aircraft and to strafe the airfields. Although no major warships were expected in that area now, there was an abundance of these supply ships serving the Japanese army in Burma and under the protection of the Japanese-held airfields. But, from the formal briefing in the Ready room, I rather gained the impression that in reality we had very little information about the target area. Usually, on these sorties, our Wildcats formed the continuous Combat Air Patrol over the target area or over the little Fleet since, with their limited endurance, the Seafires were less suitable for such work.
We in 890 Squadron were irritated that we had to continue the Patrols while Seafires were launched more often than us to carry out specific attacks on such 'targets of opportunity' or enemy aircraft as they might find on the coastline. It was poor thinking really because the Wildcats, with their six 0.5 Browning machine guns, had the greater firepower eminently more suitable for strafing ground targets. When flying over Japanese-held territory, there were always in my mind the lurid stories of the barbaric treatment known to be given by the Japanese to any aircrew shot down and taken prisoner. At one time aircrew had been provided with cyanide tablets; the choice of a quick death being preferable to the treatment they could expect to receive from the Japanese as their prisoner.
We did not have cyanide tablets now but we were extensively equipped to cope with being shot down over jungle type territory held by the Japanese, including a waterproof medical kit containing four strong morphine phials. One of these could be used if badly wounded or all four phials in place of the cyanide tablets. We had light-weight flying suits with the jungle-type boots such as Johnnie and I had worn on that daft leopard hunt. The suit had pockets designed to take special escape equipment which included an astonishing little combination of a shotgun cum 0.22 rifle for shooting small game, an essential machete for hacking a path through jungle terrain, a lethal-looking knife with an eight inch blade, a kit containing a small torch and waterproof match-box and, finally, a holster and belt containing a huge 0.45 revolver and ammunition. Clever little compasses were contained in such things as buttons or pencils. 'Blood chits' as they were called, i.e. letters written in the language of the area guaranteeing sums of money to any native who gave help, were also provided. Climbing into the cockpit, festooned with all this equipment, one could feel like a knight of old mounting his charger. In practice, many aircrew, myself included, discarded items such as the revolver and combination gun as being too heavy and cumbersome in the cockpit.
On these sorties, the Cruiser and Destroyers banged off their guns on targets along the coast which were selected for them by two of the Seafire pilots. These two pilots had been trained in the technique and specialised jargon used for 'spotting' and reporting the fall of shot from the guns of the warships. These operations, minor as they were, seemed to have gone quite well and undoubtedly adversely affected the Japanese military supplies to their army in Burma.
It was decided that the Seafires should take their turn about with the Wildcats at patrolling over the fleet and, although we pilots in our Wildcat squadron were glad to be sharing the task, it seemed to be rather an unnecessary risk for the Seafires. In fact, it proved to be a disastrous decision because, during the early part of a return passage to Trincomalee, the wind speed began to fall while the Seafires were still airborne.
One of the Seafire pilots, a young New Zealander of rather small stature which did not help him in seeing over the long nose of his aircraft, had difficulty on his first approach to land and had to open up the throttle to go round again. He barely did so in time and nearly hit the crash barrier as he pulled away over the top of the Seafires already landed.
I was watching these landings from a small gallery half way up and at the side of the Island and I felt nervous and worried about the young pilot as he came round again for a second attempt at a landing. He was coming in much too fast, I thought, and so evidently did the batsman who was waving him off and again the pilot opened the throttle, although before he reached the ship's stern this time, so that he went round well above and clear of the deck on this second attempt. I don't know why I stayed to watch, I dreaded any crash on the flight deck which could so often result in the aircraft going over the side. But there was always the expectation that 'it would be all right'; the pilot would master his difficulty and get down safely. Nobody else seemed to be worried, other than me and the batsman and no doubt Wings too was anxious about the situation up on his bridge, although I couldn't see him. It was on the face of it, no more than a pilot having to go round again from a bad approach to his landing. But this was unusual because it would be the pilot's third attempt.
Three Seafires had already landed and were parked in the bows in front of the crash barrier with the usual number of maintenance crews and deck handlers milling round to secure the parked aircraft. The last pilot to land was still fiddling about with something in his cockpit, for some reason, something I personally would never have done. For me the first essential action after landing was always to get the hell out of the cockpit and to the side of the flight deck as quickly as possible. Other men had to be there working in front of the barrier, but there was no reason for a pilot to stay there.
Meantime, the Seafire had gone well ahead of the ship and was just turning, quite far out, on to the downwind leg. I could imagine the young pilot, girding up his courage for the next attempt to land on the deck. I had seen his head as he went past last time, barely above the side of the cockpit with his white face looking down. I felt strongly that temporarily he had 'lost the plot' of how to land the thing and that he was desperate. Oh, why can't Wings, I thought, just pick up the radio telephone and tell the guy to go up high enough to bale out and be picked up by the Frigate? Who could care about the value of the Seafire; heaven knows scores of the wretched things had already been written off trying to land on Carriers; not to mention the write-off of pilots.
It was just a thought, a longing for good sense. But, of course, it was impossible; how could the Captain and Wings write their report afterwards to say 'Very sorry, but the pilot was having some difficulty landing so we told him to bale out.' A fighting service could never be run in such a manner. And so here he came on his third approach to the deck. Too straight he came, too low and much too fast. The batsman was trying to give him corrective signals, but on he came hopelessly wrong. The pilot swooped up fast over the round-down, ignored the batsman's frantic 'wave-off' then he must have put the nose down, desperate to get down somehow onto the deck and he flew, in front of my eyes, fast over the barrier and directly on to the Seafires parked forward. He landed right on top of the Seafire with the pilot still fiddling about in his cockpit.
There was an explosion, although not a massive noise from it, but I could see sheets of flame and many large pieces of metal flying out from the explosion in all directions. These pieces of metal caused casualties and wounds among those men working ahead of the barrier. The 'emergency on deck' siren was blaring out and people were cascading up from below decks to see what was the emergency and prepared to deal with it. The fire crew were joined by the two RNVR doctors who were both at the crash almost immediately to organise stretcher parties to help the injured. I came down from the Island to join the stretcher parties but I was not good at it. I helped one of the two sick berth attendants, on the edge of the bloody shambles, to deal with a young sailor of the deck party whose leg had suffered a huge gash down to the visible bone and was pumping blood. But that was my lot, I had to go below to my cabin where I lay on the bunk feeling shaky. Both of the Seafire pilots had been killed; the one flying and the other who had stayed in his cockpit in the deck park. Three sailors working ahead of the barrier had been killed, two more had been shoved over the side by one of the aircraft, almost on top of them, and were picked up by the Frigate. A further ten men were very seriously injured and some in a critical condition. I had seen a good many crashes on a flight deck, but that was the worst.
The ship had already turned away from the north Sumatra coast and now headed straight back towards Ceylon at her best speed. The next morning, I was feeling rather queasy still but had to rouse myself for the dawn CAP with Jack leading. I reckoned that I was probably suffering from too much of the whisky I had needed after the awful crash of the previous day but, even as I lined up for the take-off, I felt a pain in the gut and a reluctance to get airborne. I decided that it must be one of my 'bad premonition' days which usually I could disregard as soon as I became airborne. The pain in my gut continued, however, even after I had joined up with the flight and indeed it became so severe that I had to do something about it. The only thing I could do was to contact the ship asking for permission to land. What an embarrassment; they would ask me for a reason and all I would be able to say was that I had a bad tummy ache and needed to go to the heads. Moreover, for me to land back on board meant that those aircraft already ranged at the stern of the flight deck, ready to take-off later, would all have to be pushed forward ahead of the crash barrier.
The pain was getting worse; I reiterated my need to land; reluctant approval was given and the ship started to turn into wind for me. I don't remember much about the landing, only scrambling out of the cockpit and racing down below to the heads while ignoring the Tannoy ordering me to report to Wings. Almost immediately, the two Doctors came to examine me in my cabin and concluded that I had appendicitis. These two young RNVR doctors had enough on their plate already with ten men, very seriously injured from the appalling crash on the flight deck of the previous day, in need of their greatest care and attention. Meantime, while _Atheling_ was making full speed back to Ceylon, a signal had been sent to the hospital ship in Trincomalee harbour to prepare for the injured men. A second signal was sent to advise the hospital ship of two more surgical operations needed; one an appendicitis case (me) and the other a sinus operation which Jack Parli required. That tough man, Jack, had been suffering for the past two years with dreadful sinus pains while flying. He had never complained but I had seen him, climbing out of his cockpit after landing, his face ashen with the pain of it.
After transfer to the hospital ship in harbour, I had been slightly apprehensive on being greeted and examined by the Commander RN Doctor, because I had the notion that the limit of a regular RN doctor's experience of surgery was lancing boils on sailor's bottoms. But this was an unfair nonsense, of course, because this man completed major surgery with success on those badly injured survivors of the dreadful Seafire crash.
As for my appendicitis, he had whipped that out without any trouble and also had dealt successfully with Jack's sinus problem although Jack, lying in the hospital bed next to mine, was still in some pain after the operation.
Our comfort in this old hospital ship, efficient as it was, depended upon the speed of a never-ending army of ants which menaced that comfort. Their determined approach across the old decking of the ship and then up the four legs of my bed had to be combated by the speed of the orderly in coming to sweep them away. Each leg of the bed was standing in a tin of very strong disinfectant which killed immediately the advance guard of the ants but, as they expired in their hundreds in the tins, so the main body of the ant army would stream over their corpses and up the legs of my bed. I remember watching their menacing progress with fearful fascination, ready to call for help if they started to mount the legs of Jack's bed or mine.
While lying there, I gave some thought to the sailors in the next ward, whom I hoped were recovering from their serious wounds, although I had heard some cry out in pain from time to time. Sailors who worked on the flight deck, were often at risk from whirling propellers, flight deck equipment, or from crashing aircraft, as the awful injuries from the recent accident in _Atheling_ , bore witness.
After three days in the hospital ship, Jack and I were transferred by ambulance to a hospital in Colombo and there followed a period of three weeks of care and cosseting such as I had never thought to expect from the Royal Navy. After three days in the hospital ship, Jack and I were transferred by ambulance to a hospital in Colombo and thence, after one week, to an hotel in Galle. This was a lovely old town on the southern tip of Ceylon which, before the Japanese had threatened the Island with their bloody war, had been a major tourist attraction. The hotel was the best in town and we shared a large and well-furnished room. All this was apparently for free and paid for by the Navy so that these two naval aviators could convalesce from their minor surgical operations.
We spent the ten days there quietly enjoying the comfort, the abundant good food and bottled beer. We swam every day from the beach, contained within a wide bay and surrounded by tall palm trees. Jack swam and surfed, using a tiny board, entering the rough sea from far out at the edge of the bay which gave him a run of some four hundred yards to the long, wide beach where, usually in the mornings, I would be paddling about and attempting to swim or just lying in the sun.
During the afternoons, I had found another and different interest in the lovely form of the girl receptionist at the hotel. She was a local girl, small and slim of body having a strikingly beautiful face, and I made every excuse I could find to talk to her at the reception desk. It was unusual in Ceylon for a girl to obtain that sort of job but she spoke very good English with a delightful lilt to it and her father, so I learned, held some management job at the famous Galle Face hotel in Colombo and, being in the trade, had been able to help her. Her name was something like Senaika Pereira but she didn't mind if I called her Sennie. She was engaged, she told me, to a boy who worked as a clerk at the bus station in Colombo. They could only meet once a month and both were waiting until they could save enough money to get married.
Sennie was nervous at being seen talking to me too frequently at the desk and, if I wanted to talk 'seriously' she said with a smile, then we could talk together in the privacy of her room. Her room, where I spent the first of four happy afternoons, was tiny and not much bigger than a box room, but it was cool, being shaded by a hill and trees at the back of the hotel, and there was a small loo and wash-basin next door. For her job, she wore European style clothes of a cream blouse, dark blue skirt, white socks and sandals. She wasted no time at all in taking them all off together with her bra and short silk knickers, turning away from me as she did do to reveal her gorgeous little brown bottom and legs. I trembled so much with desire to touch and hold her that I could hardly fumble my trousers and pants down, but I did.
How very fortunate I was because Sennie brought such a sense of fun and laughter into our lovemaking. Although she did not actually hold up a 'no-entry' sign for me to see, yet it was clearly there for me to understand and to observe. Instead, with close cuddly hugs and busy hands, we kept each other happy and satisfied. I was due to return to Colombo and, on what was to be our fourth and last afternoon together, I told Sennie as I kissed her goodbye that I had so much wanted to buy her a nice present but I had not been able to find something she might like. I hoped she would not feel hurt, I said, because instead I intended to leave a good contribution towards the money she needed for her marriage. How pleased she was and indeed, how I had grown up. At last I had learned to do the right thing gracefully.
With very little boozing and apart from my happy little joust with Sennie, it had been a quiet idyllic holiday which I knew that I badly needed and it wouldn't have done Jack any harm either. In the evenings, we had talked quietly about our home life and I learned in confidence about Betty, the girl Jack had met in Scotland and had promised to marry, if he should survive the war. He was seriously engaged to her hence he had not been interested in finding female company during our holiday, as he normally would have done. The only other person to know of his engagement was his closest friend, Winnie Churchill.
## CHAPTER TWELVE
## HMS _Indomitable_
The comfortable, quiet and very pleasant convalescence which Jack and I had enjoyed at the hotel in Galle was over. A car was sent to the hotel to collect and drive us to the Officers' Mess at the Racecourse aerodrome in Colombo. We barely had time to settle into a cabin before we were summoned to the office of Commander Air where we were astonished to receive the news that our Squadron 890 had been temporarily disbanded. Some of the pilots, mostly the latest to join 890, had been flown by transport aircraft back to England where they would join a group of new squadrons destined, in due course, to be part of the Pacific Fleet. Both Winnie Churchill and Johnny Lowder had been sent to join 1838 Squadron in HMS _Atheling_ again, but flying the American designed and built Corsair aircraft. Jack was to join them in _Atheling_ as soon as he had obtained experience of the Corsair, flying from China Bay aerodrome at Trincomalee.
It seemed so natural and obvious to me that I should go with my three best friends to the same Corsair squadron. But no; I had been appointed to 1839 Squadron in HMS _Indomitable_ flying Hellcats, the latest aircraft designed by the Grumman Company who had produced the Wildcat. I telephoned the Appointments Officer at the Admiralty offices in Colombo and pleaded to go with my friends to the Corsair squadron, trying to make a case that we had flown together as a flight for so long and the value therefore of our combined experience. Nonsense he said (quite rightly of course) and anyway, as a naval officer I must go where I was told. He reminded me that I was due to be flown by transport aircraft to China Bay early the next morning. I must get on with it, he told me, because 1839 Squadron needed another pilot urgently and one experienced enough to convert to the Hellcat quickly. So that was that. Jack and I had just a few quiet jars together in the Mess that evening; there was too much on our minds for a party. Each of us would have to convert on to a new type of fighter aircraft over the next two days, he on Corsairs and I on Hellcats, and fly them well enough to deck-land on to our respective Aircraft Carriers. We had been told that we would have only two or three days at the most to gain the necessary experience before landing on.
The following day, in August 1944, I was flown in a naval communications Beechcraft to China Bay where I informally joined 1839 Squadron when I met the Commanding Officer, Lt Cdr Shotton RNR with one of the squadron pilots, Jack Haberfield. Fraser Shotton had trained with me on the same fighter course at Yeovilton in 1941. How very long ago that seemed. He had been a merchant navy officer before the war and being then aged about twenty-two, had been quickly promoted to Lieutenant and now he had just been given command of the squadron. I remembered him as a quiet man, a cheerful co-trainee and companion of that time and felt glad to have him as my commanding officer. Haberfield was a New Zealander, a Maori with a smiling and friendly face, and his slightly chubby appearance belied his physical strength. Shotton explained that the squadron had been embarked in HMS _Indomitable_ , now in Trincomalee harbour, for the past month. We three were due to fly on board her in two day's time.
That afternoon, after a quick lunch, Haberfield took me down to the squadron dispersal area where three Hellcats were parked in the shade of palm trees and ready for flight. This was my first sight of a Hellcat. I had heard about the aircraft, of course, and knew that the American Navy pilots had flown this latest fighter with great success against the Japanese in the Pacific. The Hellcat, with its round fuselage leading back from a huge radial engine, was basically like a Wildcat to look at but very much bigger. In fact, it seemed to me then at first sight to be a monstrously large aircraft for a single-seater fighter. One good factor, I could see immediately, was the wide undercarriage with each oleo leg mounted under each wing. Its armament was six 0.5 Browning machine guns and it was provisioned with racks for four rockets and for two 500lb bombs. In fact, it was a very fast and formidable Fighter/Bomber. I spent half an hour reading the Pilot's Notes, sitting in the spacious and well laid out cockpit while Haberfield pointed out the position of the various controls and described the aircraft's flying characteristics. Then, no good thinking about it any longer, it was time to go. From the nearby Ready room, I collected my new khaki flying suit and tropical helmet with oxygen mask, and made myself ready mentally to fly the Hellcat.
I climbed up the port wing to the cockpit and settled down on the parachute seat while the maintenance crew strapped me in. A quick look round the instruments and controls to remind myself of their unfamiliar position, checked the movement of the flying controls and then signalled the crew, by now waiting on the ground, that I was ready to start up. The huge engine bellowed into life. I checked the magnetos on the run-up and was ready then to taxi out on to the runway. Given clearance from the control tower to take off, I opened up the throttle fully and felt the acceleration from the powerful radial engine; a much greater response than the little Wildcat could give. Comfortably airborne after a short take-off run, I began a climb to 12,000 feet where I intended to carry out some stalls and slow flying with wheels and flaps down.
The weather was good; the midday cu-nim clouds had not yet built up. Down below I could see Trincomalee harbour crowded with shipping and, either side of it, the coastline of sandy beaches for miles and, inland, the jungle covered hills. The Island of Ceylon was as beautiful from the air as it was from the ground. I found the Hellcat to be a gentle giant; admittedly she dropped fast like a brick when stalled, but with no vicious roll-over. I practised slow flying with maximum drag, as for a deck-landing approach and, to finish, some steep turns. Satisfied with my control and handling of the aircraft, I returned to the aerodrome to make a normal landing. Later in the afternoon I took off again and climbed up to 32,000 ft to see how she handled at height and found control at that level to be better than anything I had ever flown before. Then down to 12,000 ft again for some of my aerobatics which, dreadfully imprecise as usual, nevertheless enabled me to learn how she handled. After landing, I felt ready for a session of ADDLs i.e. dummy deck-landings on the runway, scheduled for the next morning.
That evening, I had a long chat with Jack Haberfield who, as an original member, was able to tell me about 1839 Squadron and what it had been doing since it had been formed in 1943 at Eglinton Air Station in Northern Ireland with ten new Hellcats. All the pilots, except Shotton and Lt Cdr Jeram RN, the Commanding Officer, had been trained in America and moved initially to Canada where they gained experience on flying the Hellcat. Apparently there was a procedure for delivering both the Hellcat and the Corsair straight to Canada from the production lines in America where they were built. It interested me that, by the time these newly trained pilots had joined 1839 squadron at Eglinton, they had amassed some 330 flying hours compared with the 146 flying hours when I joined my first operational squadron 890 in 1941. During their working-up period the squadron had experienced bad luck when three of their pilots had been killed, one through oxygen failure at height. Two more were killed just before I joined; one crashed with engine failure over the jungle and the other crashed into the sea while diving and firing at a splash target behind the ship.
The squadron had embarked in HMS _Begum_ during February 1944, the aircraft having been hoisted aboard at Belfast dock, for passage to the Far East. They arrived and were put ashore at an aerodrome on the south-east coast of India. They had a frustrating time there because the Hellcats were continuously unserviceable through lack of spare parts and the pilots were unable to do much flying. Moreover, apparently the accommodation and food were foul and, to top up the ill-luck, the CO Jeram became ill.
Not until June did the whole incompetent mess start to become sorted out when the squadron was moved at last to the Racecourse aerodrome at Colombo and new Hellcats, with spare parts, were delivered to them. At about this time, the pilots carried out their first deck-landings on HMS _Unicorn_. It was not a successful performance as, although none of the pilots were badly hurt, there were three barrier crashes.
At the end of July, the squadron at last embarked all their personnel, stores and equipment on to their ship HMS _Indomitable_. The following day, at the landing on at sea, the first Hellcat flown by the CO crashed badly. He touched down all right apparently, but very much too fast, so that the arrester hook pulled out of the aircraft which then continued through both crash barriers and over the side into the sea. Jeram managed to get out and was picked up by the attendant Destroyer. He had experienced a long innings of operational flying since 1941 (he had been on the fighter course at Yeovilton ahead of me) and the Medical Officer decided that enough was enough after the crash and declared him to be operationally tired and to be rested. I was glad to learn that a medical officer had taken such an initiative. It was unusual because I doubted whether many naval doctors had any idea at all of the mental stresses caused by normal day to day service flying, particularly from Carriers. Neither did the Admiralty have any conception of flying stress in operational squadrons. In consequence, aircrew were treated as if they were normal naval officers and were transferred straight from one operational squadron to another without any break of any sort in between.
All this information had brought me up to date with the squadron and its background and I looked forward to meeting my fellow pilots the following day when, after some ADDLs on the runway, I was due to land on HMS _Indomitable_.
So many pilots were coming and going between the aerodrome and Aircraft Carriers, that a resident batsman was available at China Bay enabling dummy deck-landings to be practised with him on the runway. The chap was already out there, on the side at the end of the runway, waiting for me when I taxied out early next morning in the Hellcat which I now regarded as mine. I ought to say at this point that, although most naval pilots considered dummy deck-landings on the runway as essential, I personally didn't set quite so much value on them. They were useful to practise holding the aircraft at the right attitude and speed on the final approach, but the static runway bore little relationship with a moving Carrier. Hence I completed no more than a couple of approaches towards the batsman before landing and taxiing back to the dispersal where I told a rather surprised Shotton that I was ready to go.
The three of us, Shotton, Haberfield and me, were due to rendezvous with the ship and her escorting Destroyer at midday a few miles outside Trincomalee harbour. Shotton briefed me that I would land first, while he circled above the ship with Haberfield. After landing, my aircraft would be pushed back to the stern of the flight deck ready for me to take off and complete a second landing. He and Haberfield would then come in to land behind me.
As soon as we arrived over the ship, she turned into wind flying the affirmative for me to land on and I broke away from the little formation of three to enter the landing circuit. On the downwind leg, I felt comfortable in the Hellcat as I went through the pre-landing actions; indeed she flew like a Wildcat but in a rather more stable manner. I kept to a gentle turn on the final approach finding it not difficult to hold a constant low speed while the visibility over the stubby nose, showing the flight deck and part of the Island, was better than I had expected. The Hellcat thumped down firmly on her wide undercarriage, catching the second wire. As I was being pushed back, I could see that there was a full gallery of Goofers on the Island, most of whom I could assume would be my new squadron mates, interested to see how the new pilot in their squadron would perform. Needless for me to write, I suppose, that I could not resist showing-off on the next landing to come in on a very steep turn indeed to the deck and put her down with a satisfying thump to catch the third wire.
_Excerpt from Squadron diary:_
HMS _Indomitable_ was the largest of our Aircraft Carriers, having an extra half hangar which made her appear higher in the water, otherwise she was much the same as _Illustrious_. But, oh what a difference in my accommodation. I was given a cabin happily located just off the quarterdeck itself which I was to share with Noel Mitchell, the Senior Pilot of the Squadron. Although no more experienced than the other pilots who had joined in November 1943, Noel was a natural leader who fully deserved his appointment as Senior Pilot, second to the CO. He was also a trained Photo/Recce pilot and leader of the P/R section. As I came to know him and his style of flying, I put him into the 'Warrior' class, those with a zest for action.
On board at that time were two squadrons of twelve Barracudas; these were to be replaced a couple of months later by 857 Squadron with twenty-one of the new American Avenger aircraft; a considerable improvement on the Barras. The two squadrons of ten Hellcats each, when I joined, would be increased later to fourteen aircraft each. Truth to tell, with a few exceptions, the pilots were inexperienced and certainly so in our Hellcat squadrons. But what a pleasant, cheerful and optimistic team of chaps they were; all keen to put the dismal weeks of waiting behind them and to get on with the war. Younger at age twenty-two than some of them, I felt like an old codger amongst them. Having ten aircraft, we operated two flights with the CO and Senior Pilot as leaders, and two aircraft for P/R work. I was given a section to lead with Dick Mackie as my number two. He was a New Zealander and a very good pilot with a responsible attitude and quiet personality. I have made him sound so dreary and he was nothing of the sort; he was full of life and fun. But I suspect that of the two of us, he would probably have made the better leader; but we got on very well together and became good friends.
The ship remained at sea for the next three days to carry out an intensive working up programme. Hellcats carried out splash firing at towed sea targets, rocket firing and bombing at a range on the shore and dog fights at high level. Barracudas completed night flying and did well, in my opinion anyway, having only one barrier crash. They practised lots of dummy bombing runs on the ship but, unhappily, one of them suffered the notorious Barracuda tendency of stalling on the pull out from the dive and crashed into the sea killing all the crew. All the exercises were carried out ranging as many aircraft of both types as possible for take-offs and catapult launches so that all the flight deck crews were also given plenty of practice. It was a valuable period for me to build up my flying hours on the Hellcat and to become accustomed to the squadron procedures.
Back to Trinco harbour to refuel the ship and then two days later we were off again, this time accompanied by the Carrier HMS _Victorious_ , flying Corsairs and Barracudas. With us were seven Destroyers, two Cruisers and a Battlewagon, HMS _Howe_. At the briefing, we were told that our main target was a large cement works at a place called Indaroeg in northern Sumatra and this was to be followed by an attack on shipping in Emmahaven harbour. When the fleet approached to within five hundred miles off the enemy coast, our Hellcats commenced constant patrols of four aircraft to provide a protective umbrella against potential air attack.
No such attack materialised throughout the whole operation and it was a boring task. While we were stooging about above the fleet, the Corsairs from _Victorious_ were strafing the Japanese airfield in the area and, with the Barracudas, attacking the shipping in the harbour. The Barras from both Carriers did well by completely knocking out the cement works with the loss of only one aircraft. My guess was that our two Hellcat squadrons had suffered such a long period in the doldrums, with unserviceable aircraft through lack of spares, that we were considered to be inexperienced and not quite up to scratch as yet. Moreover, our squadron had recently lost its experienced Commanding Officer. Hence the plum job of strafing the airfield had gone to the Corsair squadron. Did I write 'plum job'? The time would come very soon when such a job would become a much feared and almost routine daily task. The good thing was that, in spite of continuous daily deck operations on patrol, there had been no crashes on the flight deck so that by the time we returned to Trinco, at least if nothing else, we had not disgraced ourselves as a squadron.
It was a pleasure to be living on board again, which was so much better than the stifling heat, insects and mosquitoes ashore at aerodromes like Puttalam and China Bay. Nevertheless, the heat on board was still difficult to bear since Admiralty ships were not designed for the tropics with air conditioning or anything of that sort. Fresh water for drinking and for showers too was in short supply. I doubt if there was anyone on board who did not suffer from prickly heat, which could drive a man dotty with its irritation but, at least, in my opinion, it was not as bad as the mosquitoes ashore.
In all Carriers in the tropics, the worst area was the hangar where the maintenance crews worked, wearing only shorts and gym shoes. It was a hell's kitchen of a huge enclosed space with the heat and the bedlam of the constant noise from the intense repair work, which frequently had to continue through the night. I felt it was important, as did most pilots, to spend some time with the men working on our aircraft there, if only as a gesture of appreciation for keeping us safely airborne. I went down to visit the engine-room of _Indomitable_ once and found the heat to be appalling and unbearable unless one was accustomed to it, but it seemed to be a more orderly and calm environment compared to the hangar.
Mid-September and we were moving out of Trinco harbour, again accompanied by the same fleet of ships. Our briefing this time would be an attack by Hellcats and Corsairs on the large airfield at Medan which was expected to be full of Japanese fighter aircraft and troop carriers. Then we were to continue on to attack shipping and any other targets at Belawan. The fleet arrived off Sumatra to find what I called the 'Elephant Monsoon' sitting over the top of the whole area; in other words thick cloud at low level and pouring, incessant rain with little wind. This was a situation which I dreaded and hated because we aircrews had to sit around in Ready rooms waiting for a decision from the powers that be whether they would send the strike off or not.
If the decision was taken to 'Go', it would mean that some sixty fighter aircraft from the two Carriers would take off and would all be milling around, just above the sea and below a very low cloud base and in bad visibility, trying to form up into the formation of a controlled and effective strike force. It was a scenario for disaster.
The 'powers that be' to make this decision, however, were a Rear Admiral and the two Captains of each Carrier, none of whom had ever flown at all and two Commanders Air neither of whom, to my knowledge, had yet been seen to fly the aircraft under their command. Our only hope, I thought as I sat waiting with Dick Mackie, was that they would consult and listen to Ronnie Hay and Tommy Harrington, our Wing leaders from each Carrier both of whom had considerable operational experience because, in truth, neither of our Hellcat squadron leaders had much experience. We sat there waiting for a long time, indicative that our very senior officers were thinking seriously of sending off the strike. I was a coward, I suppose, nearly wetting myself at the thought of trying to form up and reach the target in that awful weather. But then, if these ignorant men were to say 'Go' then without question off I would have to go. How many pilots of the sixty aircraft, less experienced than I, would we lose bashing into each other and lost in the low cloud? After putting us on stand-by in our cockpits, at one point, the Admiral eventually decided to abort the strike.
The range of targets for the fleet was largely dependent on fuel conservation by the Destroyers who might not be able to continue in the area for more than two days so, if the weather did not improve on the next day, we might have to go back to Trinco with nothing achieved. But the next day was perfect weather by which time our fleet was close enough to Sigli, in northern Sumatra, for the Barracudas to be flown off to attack the large railway centre there which was of great importance to the Japanese army.
Hellcats were to support the Barracudas and to make strafing attacks against anti-aircraft (A-A) fire from the ground and any other targets of opportunity. There were eight of us flying above and to the side of the Barras and, looking down on the land of north Sumatra, I thought how very beautiful it was but also how menacing now that it was under Japanese control. As escorts, we had a grandstand view of the successful bombing of the railway yards. There was very little flak and no Japanese fighter aircraft so nothing really into which we could sink our own teeth.
As the ship approached Trinco, all the aircraft flew ashore first to China Bay. But after a couple of days both of our Hellcat squadrons flew on to land at the Racecourse aerodrome at Colombo from where we were to carry out a new training schedule.
It was a very good place to be stationed with comfortable sleeping quarters, called Bandas, much better than the equivalent cadjan huts at Puttalam inundated, as they had been, with creepy-crawlies. At the Racecourse, there was also a posh Officers' Mess which had been, I believe, the Racing Club. A skeleton crew of our aircraft maintenance personnel were accommodated in the Grandstand. It was a bonus too in being stationed just outside Colombo, the capital of Ceylon, where there were plenty of good hotels, restaurants and a cinema.
From rubber planters who worked inland, we received invitations to their famous 'Sunday Curry' lunches. These were a major event each week for the planters themselves as well as for us because, apparently, they were limited to one such curry meal per week due, of all unexpected things, to a shortage of rice. About ten of us would arrive in two Jeeps at the planters' house on Sunday midday, drink large glasses of iced gin and lemonade until about 4 pm when boys would serve the most enormous curry. To top up a mountain of rice on our plates, we were offered the choice of sometimes as many as twenty dishes some very hot but some, such as coconut, designed to cool it down. We usually arrived back at the Racecourse at around midnight, absolutely bloated with food and saturated in gin and only just able to stagger into our cots. It was purgatory to fly the Hellcat, while groaning with a dreadful hangover, a few hours later. But I found the whole Sunday of relaxation and friendship with the Planters well worth the agony. I might add that hangovers, a more regular feature of my life living ashore than at sea, were alleviated by strong doses of neat oxygen as soon as I climbed into the cockpit.
But we had not been sent to the Racecourse aerodrome for fun. The special training we were to undergo was in the procedures of forming up into large groups of Hellcats and Corsairs to fly as a Wing in support of the Avenger bombers. The purpose was to train and accustom six squadrons or more of aircraft to form up and formate together, regardless of bad weather and over large distances, to a given target. These were basically the same exercises I had done with 890 Squadron at Hatston a year earlier, but there were no chuckles this time, it was all deadly serious. There was a much stronger sense of reality and urgency now about this form of Wing training since we were all aware that very soon the British Pacific and Far East Fleet would expect to join with the US Navy in their battles against the Japanese in the Pacific. It would be a challenge to match up with the recognised efficiency of the American Carriers and their aircrews.
Ronnie Hay, who had been my senior instructor at Yeovilton fighter school, was now Lt Col Hay RM, DSC and had been appointed as the Air Group Co-ordinator responsible for training and leading the squadrons in these Wing formations. He kept us at it so that it was a daily occurrence for the squadrons to take off from their aerodromes in the south of the Island to rendezvous and form up off the coast of Colombo. It was often midday by the time we had formed up, which made it necessary for the Wing to climb up and around the, by this time, towering cu-nim clouds to reach our intended height at usually above 20,000 ft. The same radial engine of both Corsair and Hellcat had a supercharger to force-feed air into the fuel intake, which had to be selected at about 15,000 ft to enable the aircraft to reach the higher levels up to 36,000 ft. It was a bit like changing gear in a car. This Wing flying was a hot, sweaty and difficult business and I was thankful not to be sufficiently senior to be leading a squadron; it was tricky enough leading a flight, as I had to do sometimes. The problem for the leaders was to adapt to whatever weather conditions might be met on the way to a target and to manoeuvre the great gaggle of aircraft accordingly. But with constant practise we were all getting better at it.
Three weeks later, our Squadron returned to _Indomitable_ and on 15 October in the company of the same fleet as before, the ship was headed towards the Nicobar Islands off the north tip of Sumatra. We aircrews began to refer to these monthly assaults on Sumatra as 'the Club Run'. On arrival at the area this time, the Battlewagon and the three Cruisers began lobbing their shells on targets at Car Nicobar while Barracudas from our ship were detailed to bomb the Japanese shipping there.
Eight Hellcats from our Squadron, led by Fraser Shotton, were given the task of strafing the Japanese gun positions ahead of the Barracudas to give them as clear a run as possible. It worked quite well in the sense that our earlier arrival ahead of the Barras encouraged machine gun and cannon fire at us as well as flak, thus revealing the Japanese gun positions around the harbour. I was leading the second flight and, following Shotton, turned and dived with my flight from 4,000 ft down towards where the flak was coming from to start firing at about 200 ft as we came in fast. We were all damn lucky to get away without being hit because, as I and all of us were to learn, commencing the attack right over the target at that height was quite the wrong way to go about a strafing operation. The Japanese normally would be delighted to have an aircraft target at 4,000 ft coming down to 200 ft in their sights. We would learn the hard way to come straight at our targets from the lowest possible level, more like 30 ft rather than 200 ft, having gained our maximum speed from a dive well out of the enemy's sight. To be fair, detailed intelligence maps of north Sumatra did not seem to be available at the time, so we had to find the target, by flying over it, before being able to bash it.
However, I guess we succeeded in keeping the Japanese heads down to some extent but not sufficiently because one Barracuda was shot down. We would also learn in the weeks ahead that the Japanese would rarely back away from their guns despite the intense gun fire we could put to bear on them from our six Browning machine guns and sometimes rockets too. I saw the Barracuda hit and watched hoping the pilot might be able to turn away out to sea where our rescue Submarine would be waiting. But he appeared to have lost all engine power and I last saw him heading towards the jungle. No one baled out. Later, back on board, I learned that the pilot was one of my friends, Buzz Aldwell.
I returned to the fleet with my flight in normal close formation prior to entering the landing circuit, having gone ahead separately from Shotton. As we approached at some 4,000 ft, bursts of flak appeared around us, but fortunately not close enough to hit us. Looking down, I could see unbelievably that our own ship, the _Indomitable_ , was the culprit firing at us. I called up 'Mother' on the R/T to complain in no uncertain terms that she was firing her guns at us; her own aircraft! They stopped before I could finish my abusive call and I led my flight down into the landing circuit now behind the other four Hellcats led by Shotton and, as I did so, I rehearsed in my mind just how rude I was going to be to the Lieutenant Commander RN Gunnery Officer of the ship when I landed.
But it was time to concentrate on the landing and I must time it to land closely behind the number four of Shotton's flight ahead of me in the circuit. At the end of the downwind leg now and I could see that the first two had landed on and the chap immediately ahead of me, probably Jock McKinnon, was nicely placed on his final approach. Everything seemed fine until, seconds later, I saw him hit the round-down so that his Hellcat splashed into the sea, ahead of me, upside down and astern of the Carrier on the port side. I was not far behind him and recovered mentally from the shock of seeing him go in below me, just in time to open up to full throttle to abort my own landing. The Carrier slowed down while our escorting Destroyer searched for the pilot down in the sea. Meantime, I recalled my flight to rejoin formation with me while we circled and waited for the affirmative signal to continue landings. The signal came ten minutes or so later, because there was no sign of the pilot, and the show must go on. I was extra careful with my landing and no doubt so were the other three behind me.
As I climbed out of the cockpit after landing, someone confirmed to me that it had been Jock who had gone in. He had been with 1839 Squadron from the beginning and was a very popular young man who was considered to be one of our best pilots. Another reminder to me never to be cocky and over-confident about landing on a deck.
However, I was in the right mood to confront the Gunnery Officer about his people firing at my flight and, as soon as I had finished the de-briefing, made my way to the ship's Gun Directory. I was as scathing to him as it is possible for a RNVR Sub Lieutenant to be to a Lieutenant Commander RN and suggested that he take his chaps out on to the flight deck to have a good look at a Hellcat. He explained that his people had thought my flight of four Hellcats was a pair of twin-engined Japanese aircraft called Betties. My parting shot from the doorway before I left was to observe that, as he had failed to hit aircraft flying straight and level and slowly at 4,000 ft, there was little hope of his chaps ever knocking down a fast attacking Jap. Anyway, after an eventful and not very happy day, I felt better for my rude remarks and able to relish a couple of large pink gins afterwards.
On the following day, the fleet moved close to the northernmost tip of Sumatra to attack Sabang but the weather was so bad that even our 'powers that be' realised that there was no possibility of carrying out the planned attack. Nevertheless, aircrews spent a restless day having to be at readiness to take off should the weather improve. Meantime, the fleet returned to the area of the Nicobars where, on the third day, strafing attacks were carried out by our squadron on the well-camouflaged shipping in and around the bays of Nancowry. The other Hellcats in our Wing were detailed for the usually more boring job of Combat Air Patrol over the Fleet but, just the luck of the game, they encountered a number of enemy fighter aircraft, Oscars in fact, and shot three of them down without loss. The Corsairs from _Victorious_ shot another three down.
It had been quite a significantly successful operation. Firstly, because the fleet with its Destroyers had been able to remain in the combat area for several days, having completed refuelling at sea with some success, such success being vital in preparation for operations with the United States Navy in the Pacific. Secondly, our fighters had met the Japanese fighters for the first time and had proved themselves to be superior. Only three aircraft with their aircrew had been lost; two Barracudas while striking at shipping and a Corsair on landing.
The aircraft of all three squadrons of _Indomitable_ flew ashore to China Bay when the ship returned to harbour at Trincomalee. It was now mid October in 1944. Squadron personnel were also disembarked to China Bay and given seven days' well-earned leave and, for those men who wanted to see something of the country, special transport and accommodation was laid on. Aircrews were given similar leave and with it a surprise treat from Lord Nuffield (the Morris car manufacturer) who had contributed from his personal fortune a gift of ten shillings for each day of leave given to operational aircrews of the RAF and FAA. A welcome gift indeed because 70 shillings in those days was a goodly sum. Dick Mackie and I decided to visit Neuralia, up in the hills where the air was cooler, a place well known for its grand hotel and golf club. We hoped to meet some female company but had no luck as the few Wrens and nurses on leave were already fully engaged. We contented ourselves very well with hotel comfort and golf.
On returning from our leave to the squadron at China Bay on 5 November, we found that quite a few changes had taken place. The number of our Hellcats had been increased to fourteen as had happened to the other squadron in our Wing. In addition, three new pilots had been appointed to our Squadron. All three were senior RNVR Lieutenants with operational experience. So bang went my leadership of a flight and I reverted to number three position in the flight as a section leader.
This demotion worried me not at all. In those days, while living in a frightening and dangerous environment, my one ambition was to live. To live; but not I hoped at the cost of failing to do my job properly in this war. An important consideration for me because, although never having flown with any distinction whatsoever, yet the truth was that after three years in an operational squadron at war, flying from Carriers, I had become nervy; the 'twitch' we called it. There had been times when I had felt faint and shaky, not quite in my body, while walking across the deck to my aircraft. I had experienced a feeling almost of panic that I might lose control of myself; just turn away and go to sit down alone somewhere, my cabin, any where away from the sight of that damned aircraft waiting for me. It was an effort to disregard these feelings but it had to be done and I found that, once strapped into the cockpit, with the engine started and lining up for take-off, everything would fall into its normal place. 'Too much booze last night,' I would tell myself. And that was probably the truth of it since, on most evenings, I drank myself into a sufficient state of relaxation to ensure a night's sleep.
I have digressed and should not have done so because all sorts of things were happening at the squadron, not only new pilots and aircraft but new ideas about our attack procedures, and the intention was that, while at China Bay for the next three weeks, we would practise these new manoeuvres. Contrary to the type of attacks by our Hellcat Wing over Sumatra during the last months, we would in future fly in fast and at very low levels using rockets and skip bombs as well as machine guns. 'Ramrods' they were called. All this had emanated mainly from Lt Cdr Dick Cork, DSO, DSC, RN who had been appointed as the Air Group Co-ordinator for the Corsair Wing. This brilliant fighter pilot and leader would already by now have introduced our Hellcat Wing to these new tactics had he not been killed a few weeks earlier, at China Bay aerodrome, by an entirely unnecessary and avoidable accident.
From the many reports I have read, it happened thus: HMS _Illustrious_ was approaching Trincomalee in the semi-dark before dawn with all her aircraft ranged ready to take-off for China Bay with Cork's Corsair at the head of the range. It must have been 'Elephant Monsoon' weather because all the reports tell that there was low cloud at about 400 ft with scattered heavy showers and, most significantly, no wind. They debated, the Captain and Wings, whether it was safe for the aircraft to take off. Meantime, it had been planned that a sprog young pilot was due to take off from the aerodrome at China Bay to do his first Corsair deck-landing on _Illustrious_. He was due to arrive when the range had taken off and the deck was clear.
The first failure of responsible command by the Captain and Wings, as I see it, was to agree that Lt Cdr Cork should take off 'to see if it was safe to do so.' His Corsair was at the head of the range, so there would only be two-thirds of the deck available for take-off and there was no wind. It should have been no surprise, therefore, that on the take-off his Corsair disappeared from sight below the bows of the Carrier and the wheels were within feet of hitting the sea. But, by skilled flying, he had got away with it. On seeing this, these two Commanding Officers immediately aborted the whole exercise until an improvement in the weather and wind conditions. It is obvious that they should have done this in the first place.
The second failure of command was not to have signalled the Control Tower at China Bay to postpone the take-off of the new young Corsair pilot. It must have been obvious, even much earlier that morning, that the weather conditions were entirely unsuitable for a new pilot to do his first Corsair landings on _Illustrious_.
In the event, when it was still not full light, the new Corsair pilot taxied on to the runway at China Bay just as Lt Cdr Cork came in to land. Cork landed on top of the Corsair on the runway and both pilots were killed. There was an investigation which centred around who was responsible for the failure of Air Traffic Control at the aerodrome. That appears to me to be almost irrelevant. Neither aircraft should have been allowed to take off in the first place. As I see it, this needless accident was part of running an Air Arm with senior Officers who either do not fly (Captain) or are not in flying practice (Wings).
Meanwhile, we had been pressing on with the new style of attacks and becoming accustomed to fast manoeuvres at very low level with flights of four or eight Hellcats. Actually, it was quite fun dicing along very fast just over the tops of trees or, in open spaces, below tree level. Our three new Senior Pilots had joined us in time to take part in these exercises. At the end of November, our Barracuda squadron was replaced by 857 Squadron with their twenty-one new Avenger aircraft. These aircraft carried a bigger bomb load very much faster and much further than the Barracudas could do.
_Map of South Asia_
In early December, all three squadrons embarked back to _Indomitable_ and how glad we all were to be shot of China Bay. HMS _Illustrious_ rejoined the fleet having spent some weeks in South Africa for repairs to be undertaken. I learned that my three particular chums, Jack, Winnie and Johnnie Lowder, who had earlier been transferred from _Atheling_ to _Illustrious_ , had enjoyed a good rest and that Winnie had married an attractive girl from Cape Town. But I never had the opportunity to see either Jack or Winnie again. A new arrival was HMS _Indefatigable_ with a complement of a Hellcat PR squadron, a Firefly squadron and two Seafire squadrons. Thus we now had a formidable force capable of flying off two hundred aircraft, supported by a Battlewagon, Cruisers and Destroyers. A new Rear Admiral in command of this fleet of Aircraft Carriers was appointed. He was Vian, the same man who had been in charge at Salerno.
In the early days of December, the ship was at sea doing various exercises intended to 'bed down' our new pilots and those in the Avenger squadron. The three new senior Lieutenants for our squadron were David Langdon, a well-known and fine professional artist, Timo Schwenk who had led the Seafires in _Atheling_ and Ian Black. After having had several hours ashore flying the Hellcat during the previous two weeks, they successfully completed their deck-landings on _Indomitable_. Then the fleet was off again, this time with our new gung-ho Admiral, cracking the whip and raring to go, for an attack on Pankalan Brandan where there was an oil refinery to be knocked out and two airfields to be strafed.
On arrival at the area off the western coast of Sumatra, my old enemy the 'Elephant Monsoon' was much in evidence and the weather was absolutely foul. The strike was aborted at 6 am but half an hour later, no doubt after a whip-cracking exhortation and decision from our brave Admiral, the squadrons took off into the murk from the three Carriers. Despite the very low cloud and poor visibility, all the aircraft eventually managed to form up without suffering any loss from collisions and set off for the targets.
The Gaggle, for it could be nothing else in that weather, hit the coast some thirty miles south of the refinery target which was entirely obscured by cloud and heavy rain. It didn't help matters that our maps didn't cover the area south of the target. After orbiting about in a clearer area to the north, an oil storage depot was found and bombed by the Avengers.
On the way back, the fighters formed up alongside the Avengers, since escorting them was out of the question in such appalling visibility. All the aircraft from _Indomitable_ returned and landed safely but there were aircraft and aircrew losses in the other two Carriers. It was a combination of skilled flying plus damned good luck, in my opinion, that there were not several more losses in those clouds. That afternoon, when the Fleet was further north and the weather not quite so bad, eight of us in Hellcats took off and attacked the Japanese-held airfield south of Sabang. Not a lot there and no trouble.
_Excerpt from Squadron diary:_
End of the day and a sigh of relief from me that such fruitless pursuits had not caused any losses amongst us in _Indomitable_ ; I did not know then how many losses there had been in the other ships. The good aspect of flying from Carriers, I thought, was the well stocked bar as a welcome, followed by a hot meal and a comfortable bunk. As I started to fall into a sleep, befuddled with whisky fumes, I spared a thought for our Admiral and how we aircrews must all try to do better for him, if he was to get his 'K' or whatever it was he so badly wanted.
Christmas was nearly upon us with the huge Fleet at anchor in Trincomalee harbour. A party of aircrew went ashore to hack down a tall tree, which was erected on the forrard lift and laden with gifts (procured from the NAAFI canteen ashore) for distribution on the day to the ship's company. A whole lot of mail arrived for nearly everybody and mine included letters from Mother, Maddie and Phoebe, my sister. Father never sent me a letter throughout the war. There was one from Lalline, who wrote to say her final farewell to me having married at last her army officer. I would miss her very much for she had been not just a 'girl-friend' in the conventional sense, but a true friend and good companion. I wrote back to wish her much happiness.
Victory in Europe was nearly complete and, from all these letters I gained the feeling that people at home had little idea of what we were doing out here on the far side of the world, and to put it bluntly, except for our families not much interest either. In fact, our magnificent men of the army in Burma were still fighting and now winning their horrific war against the Japs. The Royal Navy had put together the biggest and most powerful fleet in its history and, unable to rely on any home bases out here, was about to begin the most logistically difficult battle of its life. The Fleet Air Arm, which in 1940 had been a very small arm of obsolete aircraft, was now reluctantly and belatedly recognised by their Lordships of the Admiralty to be the striking power of the Royal Navy, as well as an essential defensive force. Indeed, the Air Arm, consisting almost entirely of RNVR aircrews, had superseded the Battleships and Cruisers whose range, accuracy and strength of firepower could never come remotely near now to matching that of the Fleet Air Arm.
Nevertheless, that beautiful ship the _King George V_ , for example, still had value because, provided it had air cover from the FAA and anti-submarine cover from Destroyers, was a prestigious ship eminently suitable as an Admiral's Barge. That is an unfair comment because, in fact, the Battlewagons and Cruisers served a valuable function as radar and AA ships for protection of the Aircraft Carriers.
For the first time, the four Fleet Carriers of _Indomitable_ , _Indefatigable_ , _Illustrious_ and _Victorious_ would be operating together. Consequently, a new method of controlling over two hundred aircraft during the forming up and return landings needed to be established. Hence, immediately after Christmas all aircrews of the four Carriers congregated in the Wardroom of _Indomitable_ to be briefed on a revised procedure which had been devised by our Wing leaders and squadron commanders.
Ronnie Hay, with all his wealth of experience as an enormously successful fighter pilot since the start of the war in 1939, had been the right man to lead the thinking. Moreover, he with others had learned much from our combined operations with the American Carrier, the USS _Saratoga_ , earlier in the year. Ronnie Hay, unlike most of his peers in the RN who had survived those early years of the war, had never ceased to fly the latest aircraft available and, as Co-ordinator of the Wing, always flew the Corsair. Ronnie (I never dared call him that in those days) was a small handsome, confident man who rather enjoyed projecting his image as a laid-back rather blasé Colonel Blimp, whereas in truth he had a keen and intelligent mind. There is a delightful story of his enforced attendance at an Air Warfare course for senior officers of the three services. He was seen to be apparently reading the racing form book through most of the lectures. Because of this and in the expectation that he would make an ignorant mess of it, he was deliberately selected, at the end of the course, to give an exposition and analysis of what had been taught. It was known that he did so lucidly and brilliantly.
There was a period of two days in which to try out the new method of forming up after take-off and then the landings on the four Carriers. It was based on the placing of a pivot ship, some distance from the Carriers, from which the squadrons would establish separate rendezvous areas at which to form up before either proceeding to a target or, on return, entering the landing circuit. It was a practical scheme, devised by experienced pilots, and it worked.
On 1 January of the new year 1945, the three Carriers of _Indomitable, Indefatigable_ and _Victorious_ with their supporting fleet, set out for another strike on the oil refinery at Pankalan, which we had failed to hit previously because of bad weather. This time the plan was to fly off the Carriers from the western side of Sumatra and fly overland, about eighty miles over mountains, to surprise the Japanese from a different direction. We arrived at the flying-off position on the 4th of January to find perfect weather conditions. Most of our Hellcats would act as top and close escorts to the Avengers and Fireflies, about seventy aircraft in all, but I felt fortunate to be one of the eight to carry out an advance Ramrod on the Japanese fighter airfields at Medan and Tanjong. We were to take off about an hour before the main force and join up with and follow the lead of eight Corsairs from _Victorious_.
_Excerpt from Squadron diary:_
Our function was to knock out Japanese fighters on the ground or in the air before they could attack our main force on its way to the oil refinery. At the briefing, it had seemed a more exciting prospect than escorting the bombers and I liked it.
It was a pleasant change to form up after take-off with only seven other aircraft and then our flight of eight Hellcats took position at a reasonable open distance behind and below the Corsairs. There was a distance of about 120 miles to the first target at Medan. The arrangement was that, once at the target, the Corsairs would remain at top cover to deal with any Japanese fighters already airborne while we Hellcats, at ground level, would set about strafing aircraft and whatever other targets were on the airfield.
As soon as we had passed over the mountain range, flying at 12,000 ft, we separated from the Corsairs and put our noses down to pick up speed, intending to arrive at the target airfield going fast and low. I was leading the flight on the left and approaching the enemy airfield now coming into sight, I put us into a wide echelon port as previously briefed. The other flight on my starboard side led by Noel, the Senior Pilot, were also in similar wide formation. We were flying very low and wide enough to pick our individual targets as we came on to the airfield. And what a mass of fighter aircraft, grouped on either side of the runways, was laid out for us as targets. We had caught those horrible little bandy-legged barbaric Japs with their pants down.
I had only to jink slightly to the right to line my sights up on the first of four enemy fighters (Oscars) which, with a number of Japanese around them, were probably preparing to start engines ready to taxi out for take-off on patrol. I could see the pilots in their cockpits as I flew low and fast towards them. I had done this sort of thing quite a few times by now, but the intense and lethal firepower produced by my six Browning 0.5 machine guns could still shock me. At that speed there was not much more than seconds in which to fire and hit the targets. But it was enough. The first Oscar disintegrated then burst into flame as I flew over and past it and I had seen the bullets hitting the cockpit, with the pilot inside, and the men near the aircraft. So quick and apparently silent had been our attack that only then did the gun emplacements of the enemy come alive and begin to fire at us. The Hellcats on either side of me had found targets too, and keeping very low and fast, we flew on past and clear of the far end of the airfield.
I called on the R/T for my flight to break left and come round for a second attack, as the other flight had done but breaking to their right. And so we came in again on another run, hitting more targets, but keeping very low as the best means of evading the cannon and machine gun fire from the Japanese gunners who, by now, were recovering from their total surprise at our attack. None of us were hit and we climbed up to rejoin the Corsairs overhead and headed for the second Japanese airfield at Tanjong. But that airfield, when we got there, was empty of enemy aircraft and so the Corsairs flew around firing at gun emplacements and at anything that moved. Two enemy twin-engined Recce aircraft wandered unsuspectingly on to the scene and were promptly shot down. Nothing else seemed to be going on so Hellcats and Corsairs returned to land on their respective Carriers where I found a fairly large hole, probably from a cannon shell, in the rear of my Hellcat's fuselage. Fortunately nothing of significance had been hit and it had not affected flying the aircraft during the landing.
At the later de-briefing we learned that the main force of Avengers, on their way there and back to the Pankalan refinery, had been attacked by a swarm of Japanese fighters, five of which were shot down by the escorting Hellcats and Corsairs. Evidently these Japanese fighters had taken off from Tanjong airfield before our flights had arrived there making it obvious, in retrospect, that the Corsairs acting as our top cover would have been better employed in flying direct to Tanjong. But aircrews of the Avengers complained bitterly that their escorting Hellcats and Corsairs had deserted them to have dog-fights with the Japs. As for the strafing of Medan airfield by our eight Hellcats, it was recorded that we had destroyed nine aircraft on the ground and damaged probably beyond repair another eight. Our total losses for the whole operation were an Avenger, a Firefly and a Corsair.
The post-mortem on the second strike against the Pankalan oil refinery concluded that it had been a success, having put the whole refinery out of operation. But our Admiral Vian was scathing about the lack of discipline in the air by our aircrews. During the coming weeks, we aircrews would discover that he tended to be scathing about many of our efforts and we could only presume that it was his method of keeping us up to scratch. But it was a poor form of leadership. His method would have been better received had he showed himself more interested in obtaining an understanding of the factors involved in flying from Carriers. It would have been appreciated if, for example, he had flown in the back of a Firefly or Avenger during any one of the major Wing exercises, just to see what it was like. To be fair, however, I do know that he experienced a short flight later on when, for the purpose of a meeting, he was ferried across from one Carrier to deck-land on another in the back of a Firefly.
The last two strikes had been rehearsals for the next major operation against the largest refinery of all at Palembang on the west side of Sumatra. The oil output from this refinery, assessed at nearly 40% of the total Japanese requirement, was therefore of truly immense importance to Japan and it was known to be very strongly protected.
## CHAPTER THIRTEEN
## Palembang and the Pacific
Unknown to us as aircrew, the Commander in Chief of the British Pacific Fleet, Admiral Sir Bruce Fraser, with Government support, had been involved during 1944 in discussions with the American High Command on what part the Royal Navy would play in the Pacific war now that naval operations in Europe were coming towards an end. It was understood that the Americans were not at all keen for us to take part at all, reckoning, not without reason, that the Royal Navy had neither the logistic means nor the expertise to conduct a campaign in the Pacific. They reasoned that they could not afford to nursemaid us while we adapted to the different conditions of that huge area. However, apparently agreement had been reached and now, at the end of 1944, the Royal Navy was ready and preparing to proceed to the Pacific.
Before joining with the American Navy, however, Sir Bruce Fraser was determined that the Royal Navy should have achieved some major success in the Far East to prove our worth to the Americans. To this end, he had chosen the two big oil refineries at Pladjoe and Soengei Gerong, both near the town of Palembang on the west coast of southern Sumatra, as the target. The output of aviation fuel for the Japanese from these two refineries was known to be 38% of the total requirement for their war machine. In consequence these targets were massively defended by batteries of ANTI-AIRCRAFT fire and surrounded by four airfields of fighter aircraft flown by the pick of their instructors and pilots. Their Lordships at the Admiralty were opposed to the strike, maintaining that the losses would be huge with little likelihood of success. Most of them, still besotted with their Battleships were unable to believe that the Fleet Air Arm was a formidable enough force. Sir Bruce had stuck to his guns and had received approval for the British Fleet to make the attack while it was on its passage through to the Pacific.
The attacks our Aircraft Carriers had been making against the airfields, shipping and other targets in northern Sumatra during the past months had, in effect, been rehearsals for this major strike. Now, on 13 January 1945, the aircraft of the four Carriers, _Indomitable_ , _Illustrious_ , _Victorious_ and _Indefatigable_ were to take the major part in an extensive exercise to simulate an attack on the airfields and harbours of Ceylon, which would be defended by the Royal Air Force. From before dawn until dusk simulated attacks were carried out all day and nearly every one of the aircrews completed three sorties in the day. The sky above Ceylon seemed filled with aircraft diving and swooping about over the Island and perhaps it was fortunate that there were no collisions. It was an exhausting day and it was right that we were made to do it because, as we were to find, it was typical of many days to come in the Pacific. Nevertheless, two good and experienced Corsair pilots were killed making their final deck-landings of the day on HMS _Illustrious_. They were probably very tired and unable to summon up the full concentration required to deck-land that difficult and dangerous aircraft.
On 16 January, the British Pacific Fleet left Trincomalee harbour en route for Sidney in Australia but with the intention of carrying out the major strike against the refineries at Palembang on the way. The four Fleet Carriers with their total complement of over 200 aircraft were supported by the _King George V_ Battlewagon, four Cruisers and nine Destroyers.
After refuelling at sea during the approach to Sumatra, the fleet arrived at the flying-off position, near Enggano Island off the west coast, ready to strike as planned on 23 January, but the monsoon weather was at its worst and remained so until the early morning of the 24th when the skies started to clear. Sixteen of our Hellcats from _Indomitable_ were to be the middle cover for the Avengers during their flight to the target and back. It would be a distance of about 200 miles over sea, mountains and land to Palembang. Each of the forty-five Avengers was loaded with four 500lb bombs. The Fireflies, armed with rockets, were supposed to take position ahead of the Avengers but were rather late getting there owing to an accident on take-off. The Corsairs were top and rear cover.
The take-off and forming up of one hundred and fifty aircraft in limited space, because the skies were not yet entirely clear and relying on navigation lights because it was still dark, can most kindly be described as 'hectic.' Although it was early morning, I had sweated buckets by the time I had formed up, flying number three to Sammy Langdon's flight. But I must admit that our many exercises and training at this sort of thing paid off so that, as the sky lightened, the main body of aircraft were in position and on course for the oil refinery at Pladjoe. However, the timing had gone haywire and we were late due to an accident to two Avengers on take-off and another having to make an emergency landing. The Fireflies had also been delayed due to unserviceability. The question did occur to me, not for the first time in my naval career, what necessity was there for a take-off before dawn anyway? What the hell difference would it have made if we had waited just half an hour longer? Were we to believe that the Japanese didn't man their radar stations until after breakfast? Never mind; as far as I was concerned at that time we were off at last.
Our Hellcats took up position over the Avengers, as we started the climb to reach 13,000 ft over the mountains ahead of us. We were flying slowly, keeping close to the bombers on the climb and at that speed we would not be much use to them as fighter protection. Sure enough, our Wing leader Tommy Harrington, increased speed weaving us from side to side over the Avengers. Once over the mountains, it was much easier as the Avengers were able to set a much faster pace losing height down towards the target area. There had been no sighting of Japanese fighters so far and already it was possible to see in the distance the river which I knew, from many briefings, to wind alongside the refinery.
Then suddenly came an excited call on the R/T. 'Bandits! Three o'clock up!'
There were specks like gnats in the sky growing larger at each second and becoming Tojo fighters as they dived fast towards the Avengers below us. Immediately came from our leader, 'Break right – Go!' Throttle wide open, guns set to fire, mouth dry, I turned hard and fired almost immediately ahead of one of the Tojos as it hurtled on its way past me towards the Avengers; I didn't see the actual hits but my bullets must have deflected him off his course. I turned the Hellcat half on its back and pulled it hard round to follow the Japanese down. He kept straight on down past the Avengers and, although by this time he was well ahead of me, I longed to follow because my Hellcat eventually would have caught him in the dive. But I remembered the strict orders that, this time, the fighter escort must not desert the Avengers.
Reluctantly I broke away from the chase and I remembered the basic rule to keep turning and look out behind and all around me. I found myself alone; my number two, Dick, and the rest of the flight were nowhere to be seen. But I was much nearer the refinery now and could see how huge it was and realise how vital a target it must be. An immense amount of flak was coming up at the Avengers who, by this time, had deployed for their attack. Moreover, as far as I could see the whole perimeter of the refinery was being protected by fat balloons tethered at about 3,000 ft. Nevertheless, the Avengers and the Fireflies too were pressing on with their attacks regardless of the balloon cables and the intense flak of all types coming up to meet them. Full marks to them all for sheer guts, I thought. But there was no point in my hanging around here now that they had made their attack and, much higher up, I could see the trails of the dog-fights that were still going on.
Sensibly, as it seemed at the time, I made straight for the rendezvous position, on the other side of the town of Palembang, to meet the Bombers and escort them on their return journey. I arrived to find most of the Avengers already there together with six of our other Hellcats. An awful lot of R/T chatter was going on making it difficult to know who was doing what and where but the obvious action for me was to join with the few Hellcats now escorting those Avengers who, by now, were beginning to make their way back to the Carriers. The return was uneventful, no attacks were made on us and gradually the rest of the escorting force joined up. The time was only about 9.30 am when our Carrier group was ready to start landing back on board HMS _Indomitable_.
I didn't find out the whole story until the big de-briefing afterwards. I learned that the separate 'Ramrod' of twenty-four Corsairs from _Illustrious_ and _Victorious_ , which had set off at full speed to hit the Japanese airfields in advance of our main strike, had in fact arrived too late. The Japanese fighters had all taken off already and had been waiting for us at 20,000 ft; hence all the dog-fighting in the area high over the refinery.
The Corsairs carried out strafing runs on the airfield near Palembang, too late really as the fighter aircraft had all gone, but they sustained five casualties from the heavy Japanese cross-fire. One of those killed was Bud Sutton, a Canadian who I knew particularly well from our early training days together at Gosport, Netheravon and Yeovilton. He was a fine, strong character of a man who had already earned a DSC. What a waste.
Looking back on that situation all these years later, the obvious and sensible course for the Corsair pilots to have taken would have been to acknowledge that they had 'missed the boat.' The Japanese aircraft had gone and, in reality, there was very little to be gained by strafing the bits and pieces of equipment on an airfield saturated with anti-aircraft gun emplacements. But common sense rarely prevails in wartime.
The Seafires from HMS _Indefatigable_ had suffered a bad time. Because of their very limited range, they could not take part in the strike and had to act as Combat Air Patrol for protection of the Fleet. But they had so many crashes from deck-landings; being the usual Seafire disasters of broken backs, burst tyres, smashed undercarriages and hitting the barrier that the task of CAP had to be taken over by the other Carriers. As I listened to this, I wondered if their Lordships would ever learn that Seafires were entirely unsuited to Carrier operations or whether, in fairness to them, they had perhaps tried and failed to obtain more American aircraft?
Whereas the Avenger boys had done a superb job of bombing the refinery out of action, the Corsairs and Hellcats had failed again to escort them sufficiently well especially, apparently, between the refinery and the rendezvous, where they had been mauled by the Japanese fighters. I realised that, although I had done the right thing in breaking away from my potential 'kill' of the Tojo, I ought afterwards to have followed the path of the Avengers to give them some protection, instead of going straight to the rendezvous. The operation had been a success having certainly put the refinery out of action for months, but the bill to be paid was the loss of aircrews from two Avengers, six Corsairs and one Hellcat. The Hellcat pilot was Jack Haberfield; he who had welcomed me so kindly into the Squadron three months earlier and who was a most popular member of the squadron.
The fleet withdrew and steamed well to the west of Sumatra where the tankers were awaiting them at the rendezvous for the refuelling operation. Apparently the refuelling went rather badly through lack of experience at this sort of thing and the operation took two whole days. Moreover, the tankers were not carrying the amount of fuel required anyway so that there was only just enough for one more strike at the Palembang refineries, whereas three strikes had been planned originally. While the Carriers were bobbing along at about two knots, tied by hoses to the tankers, the aircrews were subjected in the windless heat to a number of de-briefings and discussions about the next strike. The aircrews were lambasted again for their unnecessary chatter on the R/T and general indiscipline in the air. Fair criticism, but the thought went through my mind that the RN seamen officers needed to get their own logistic and refuelling act together too.
On completion of the refuelling, the fleet approached the same flying-off position near Enggano Island on the early morning of 29 January. The weather was bad with heavy showers, low cloud and poor visibility, but with such limited fuel available for the fleet, it was understandable that a press-on spirit would have to prevail despite the bad weather, if the oil refinery at Soengei Gerong was to be attacked at all. And press on we did because flying off was only postponed for twenty minutes until 06.40 when, at that hour, visibility was still not at all good.
The plan of attack was much the same as before except that eight Corsairs would remain behind as CAP over the Fleet. Our Admiral evidently distrusted the Seafires to do the CAP job by themselves after their debacle of deck-landing crashes during the previous strike. I felt sorry for the pilots who had the ill-luck to be appointed to a Seafire squadron; it was not their fault that they were expected to fly an aircraft so unsuited to Carrier work. How thankful I felt to be in a Hellcat squadron. The other change was that the Avengers would take a different and longer route, clear of the heavy ANTI-AIRCRAFT fire, to the same rendezvous position. Our Hellcats were mid-cover for the bombers, as before.
Since early that morning at 6.10 am, I had been sitting strapped into the cockpit of my Hellcat, among thirty other aircraft ranged on the flight deck, expecting to be flown off at any moment. Then the postponement had been announced over the Tannoy, for which I was exceedingly grateful because the weather was foul and entirely unsuitable as an air space in which to form up some 120 aircraft from the four Carriers. And I was still there, half an hour later, in my by now familiar state of personal twitch about whether the Admiral intended to send us off regardless or would he, as I hoped, wait for better conditions. It was semi-dark with low clouds above but already I could see, looking towards Sumatra in the East, a glimmer of light in the far sky. In another half hour the sky could well be quite clear. Just as I was thinking that, the Tannoy burst forth with the order from Wings, 'Start engines.' What was it with these people, I thought angrily, that they were so determined for us to get airborne so unnecessarily early and regardless of the dangerous conditions? I had the ridiculous thought that our Admiral had become besotted in his boyhood from reading 'Biggles', the dashing hero and airman of the First World War, who invariably flew 'Dawn Patrols'.
With the order to start engines, the deck party and maintenance crews moved away to safety at the sides of the flight deck before the engines burst into life to make forty huge and lethal propellers thrash the air. At the same time I felt the vibration as the ship's engines increased to maximum revolutions and the ship heeled over to port as it started its turn to starboard into wind. Tommy Harrington's Hellcat, first to be off, was already facing straight down the flight deck and, as the deck officer brought his torch downwards, so it began to move down the deck. I was number ten in the range and was girding myself up mentally for the take-off into the slipstreams of the first nine. In itself this was no problem but, in a large range of aircraft, I always hated the necessity of the jink to starboard just as my aircraft was at the end of the deck barely airborne, almost on the stall and still with wheels down. But it was an essential manoeuvre to clear most of my own slipstream away from the path of the chap taking off behind me, as the pilot ahead had done for me.
With a full range of aircraft there was a much shorter length of deck, but my take-off had been no problem because, with _Indomitable_ thumping along at full speed, there had been plenty of wind over her flight deck. Now, fully airborne and the wheels up, was the time to peer through the murky weather, semi-dark and low clouds to see whereabouts all the other aircraft might be. In particular, I needed to start a circuit to the left looking for my Hellcat leader who, in turn, would be aiming for the group rendezvous area at 1,500 ft. So long as everyone remembered the procedure and could see to follow the Hellcat immediately ahead, all should be well. And so it was for the Hellcats who formed up surprisingly quickly but the Corsairs and Fireflies seemed at one stage to be dodging about all over the sky. The visibility improved by the minute which was fortunate as it enabled the groups of aircraft to sort themselves out and to form up eventually into the agreed pattern. It was a pity our Admiral had not waited just another quarter hour before sending us off; the form up would have been so comparatively simple and hassle free. However, there had been no collisions thanks to remarkably good airmanship all round.
We set off for the target as before but, this time, there was cloud over the intervening mountains which made life more difficult for the group leaders, particularly for our top cover who above us were forced into cloud at one stage. As for me, I had settled down more calmly after the hiatus of the form-up. In my mind, having got that part over, I could now start to concentrate on our attack and to keep my wits about me ready for whatever might happen. Just as well because the Japanese had been better prepared, this time, so that a squadron of their fighters had been waiting for us at some 20,000 ft on the other side of the mountains and over the plains before reaching Palembang. The Corsairs above us went for the Japanese and dispersed them quickly, shooting several down, so that there was no need for us to break formation away from the Avengers. But the main Japanese fighter force was concentrated over the target area of the refinery.
Thus our Avengers were vulnerable to the Japanese fighters at the time when they were deploying for their bombing run on the refinery and it was difficult for us in our Hellcats to protect them. We had broken up, turning towards the Japanese as they came down and I fired for brief seconds as one came within my sights, but continued turning with my number two, Dick, staying with me on my port side. As we turned, a Tojo came fast behind us from his dive, fired but missed as I didn't feel anything, and up into a climbing turn to our left. It was a stupid manoeuvre; if he had kept turning tightly, we could not have touched him but he lost speed on the climb and Dick, lifting the nose of his Hellcat, gave him a good burst of fire which I could see hitting the tailplane and disintegrating it. I followed with more bullets into the by now helpless Tojo and watched it burst into flame and smoke. It was a shocking sight but, such was my fear of the Japanese and of their inhuman barbarity, that I felt no remorse at all.
I signalled Dick to follow and I headed for the far side of the refinery, which had become nearly impossible to see through the columns of black smoke resulting from the successful bombing by the Avengers. But then again, it was difficult to escort them away from the target because they were so widely dispersed all over the sky at that stage. Eventually, we caught up with two of them and I positioned us at a protective height about 1,000 ft above and to their side. Four Oscars circled above us at one point. We started to climb at full throttle towards them whereupon they moved away, to find easier prey in the form of unescorted Avengers. The rendezvous area was reached at last where we were able to join with others of our aircraft and to form up into proper formations with fighter escorts for the flight back to the Carriers. Even so, there was a shortage of fighters, many of whom had continued dog-fighting with the Japanese further back. At about 10 am most of the strike force reached the Fleet and could break up into landing patterns for each Carrier. In the last stages of the return flight, six of the mauled Avengers had to ditch, but the crews were recovered.
The Fleet started to withdraw from the combat zone but the Japanese, by this time, had spotted its position and sent seven bomber-type aircraft (Sallys) to attack it. The Seafires from _Indefatigable_ were already up on patrol and, to more than make up for their earlier debacle, shot down five of the attackers. Two more Japanese were downed by three Hellcats from 1844 squadron. All this was very exciting but the result was spoilt by the battleship _King George V_ shooting down one of the Seafires. Worse still, in the same form of 'friendly' fire and over excitement, two shells from one of the Cruisers hit the flight deck of _Illustrious_ killing twelve people including the Walrus pilot.
From the de-briefing, we learned that once again the advance Ramrod of twenty-four Corsairs had arrived too late at the Japanese airfields around Palembang so that the Japanese fighter aircraft were already airborne and waiting at 20,000 ft for our Avengers. Here was a situation in which, instead of our Corsairs taking-off at dawn, they should have arrived over the enemy airfields at dawn. It would have meant taking off in the dark but, for that much smaller number of aircraft, it would have been not at all a difficult operation for them to have taken off and formed up from the Carrier in the dark.
Nevertheless, Palembang was a resounding success in achieving its object of cutting the Japanese supply of fuel by nearly 40% for several months. This must have had a very considerable effect in limiting the Japanese war effort in Burma and particularly against the American forces in the Pacific. Apparently the Americans were very impressed with our results and just that little bit surprised? The subsequent assessment of the records showed that sixty-eight Japanese aircraft had been destroyed, thirty-seven of them in aerial battle and the others on the ground. Our forces had lost a total of forty-one aircraft; sixteen in combat, eleven ditched and fourteen from deck-landing crashes. Thirty aircrew had been killed; nineteen in Avengers, a pilot in one Hellcat, eight pilots in Corsairs and two in Fireflies.
A final story about Palembang has to be told. It is about Ronnie Hay, the Lt Colonel of Marines acting as the Air Group Co-ordinator who, while giving out directions to everybody here and there over the R/T, was interrupted in his continuous patter of instructions, by an attack on his flight of four Corsairs by twelve Tojo fighters. He was silent for five whole minutes while he personally shot down three Japanese fighters. His flight shot two more and the rest fled. What a fearless old warrior he was!
The British Pacific Fleet arrived at Sydney on 10 February to receive a warm and generous welcome from the Australian people. The Aussies pulled out all the stops to entertain all of us as, for instance, we learned that they had raised over half a million pounds towards a fund for the purpose. Hitherto, the Americans had used Sydney as their launching base for the war in the Pacific and had been very welcome. But now it was the turn of the Royal Navy to enjoy Aussie hospitality. I was fortunate to be in Sydney because most of the squadron had flown off the ship to Nowra, a small town eighty miles from Sydney with a nearby airfield.
While in harbour at the first drinks party on board hosted by our Wardroom, I met Joan Moorhouse. Perhaps the best way to describe our ensuing relationship is that I 'went steady' with her for that short period in Sydney very much as one would go out with a regular girl friend back in England. Joan was about three years older than I; no raving beauty but an attractive girl, slim with brown hair and a nice sense of humour. We went to dances, to restaurants and to the pictures together and I was fortunate to have such cheerful female company. As for any sexual activity this was limited to a cuddle, a kiss and an occasional tweeze of her nice little bottom. There was no flying to worry about and it was a happy and relaxed period during which I celebrated my twenty-third birthday on the 17th of that month, and with it came my promotion to Lieutenant.
On another evening, I was invited to dinner with her mother and father at their house on the edge of the City and was daunted at first to find that her father was a General, an equivalent I think to a Rear Admiral. I need not have worried; he was an excellent host and showed genuine interest in the detail of Carrier operations. He listened as, at his request, I explained some of the difficulties of flying from Carriers especially when operating with large numbers of aircraft. I remember thinking at the time what a bonus it would be if only our boss, Vian, could take the same degree of interest in the views of one of his pilots.
Meantime, we chaps who did the flying gathered from various rumours that the role of our British Fleet had still not been agreed with the American Command. Apparently, agreement could not be reached about where we would fight nor under whose overall Command our fleet would serve. However, despite this uncertainty, on 28 February the Fleet put to sea heading, we were told, to a place called Manus being a part of the Admiralty Islands a long way up north where at least we would be getting nearer the main area of operations against the Japanese. On the passage up there, the fleet carried out numerous exercises learning to use the American system of signals and procedures in readiness for combined operations with them.
_Map of the Pacific_
We arrived at Manus on 7 March. What a dump; Trincomalee was paradise in comparison. It was a huge harbour with more shipping anchored in it than I had ever seen. Some of the Hellcats had been flown to an airstrip ashore but we did little flying while living on board. The heat aboard the ship was almost unbearably high, impossible to walk on the flight deck without thick-soled shoes, for example, and down below in the hangar and offices it was at times truly impossible to work. Like everyone else, I longed for the one shower I was allowed in the evening because fresh water was at a premium. We could go ashore for a swim but the sea itself, off the shoreline, was positively warm and not much relief or pleasure. The fleet languished there because the 'Powers above' were still discussing what part we were to play in the Pacific war.
On about 15 March I think, there was agreement on what the role and function of the British Pacific fleet was to be and, without delay, aircrews were briefed on it. In essence, our role would relate to the forthcoming major landing and assault by the Americans on Okinawa. But between Formosa, held in force by the Japanese, and Okinawa lay a group of islands known as the Sakashima Gunto, the two main Islands of this group being Ishigaki and Miyako. These two Islands in particular were of vital importance to the Japanese, who would need the six airfields on them to stage their aircraft and troop reinforcements from Formosa through to their forces on Okinawa. The task of the BPF was to deny to the Japanese the use of these six airfields.
As an objective, the task did not sound in any way glamorous but it would call for a massive effort from the British Fleet which would have to remain at sea for long periods to achieve it. The complement of some six thousand men in the four Aircraft Carriers would be working flat out day and night to keep the aircraft flying throughout the strike periods and, as we were to learn, the cost was going to be high in terms of aircrew lives.
But now the waiting was over and our fleet, designated as Task Force 57, had received its 'orders' from the American High Command. To put the situation in perspective in relation to the United States Navy out there, our Task Force, bearing in mind that it was the biggest fleet ever put together by the Royal Navy, was less than half the size of any one of the eleven Task Forces used in the Pacific by the US Navy. Think about that!
We left Manus and arrived on 22 March at the Atoll harbour of Ulithi to make final preparations for action and, astonished as I had been at the amount of American shipping in Manus, it was almost as nothing compared to the warships, tankers and supply vessels of the US Navy to be seen for miles in every direction here at Ulithi. The thought occurred to me that the Japanese, by initiating this war and in their manner of conducting it, had shown themselves to be not only barbaric, but also astonishingly stupid and lacking in military intelligence not to have realised what a massive force they were taking on, when they bombed the Americans at Pearl Harbour.
It is not only the immense wealth and resources available to the Americans, I thought, which makes them so strong but, looking at all that shipping, I could appreciate their astonishing organisational ability enabling them to make the very best of their huge resources in the fast production of war materials. It seemed to me that, above all else, they were supreme organisers which showed, not only in the speed of their mass production, but in the training of their armed forces. Johnnie Lowder, who had trained at Pensacola in America, had told me of their method of training with long and intensive hours of flying including constant checks every ten hours and at every stage by senior instructors. Ye gods, I had thought, how I would have loathed it and thank heavens for my flying training in England where the more relaxed approach of my instructors had suited me.
Most FAA aircrew, unless inexperienced new boys, realised that the US Navy operated their Aircraft Carriers at a higher standard than we did. Although the Royal Navy had been the first to experiment successfully in flying aircraft from ships way back in about 1918, the Americans had long since developed the idea and the technique of Carrier operations to a high degree while, in that meantime, our Lordships of the Admiralty had floundered around still playing at Battleships. For example, every man on the flight deck of an American Carrier had a specific job to do and had been given intensive specialist training to do just that job. Whereas, in our Carriers, the Commander would allocate a number of seamen, marines and engineers from the ship's company for flight deck work. These men then had to be shown their job and trained by the DLCO.
And of course the Americans had the enormous advantage that all their officers of high rank, even their Admirals, were experienced navy pilots who knew exactly what they were about and were capable each one of flying from an Aircraft Carrier. Thus, we had to learn from them the business of operating large numbers of aircraft from three or more Carriers in company. I imagine that sometimes it must have been difficult for the high ranking Admirals of the US Navy, being highly experienced naval airmen, to communicate with our own Admirals and Captains who had no first hand and direct experience of naval aviation. Nevertheless, the senior Admiral of our Fleet, Vice-Admiral Sir Bernard Rawlings, was highly regarded by his American counterparts, as indeed he was by us his aircrews. I doubt, however, whether our immediate boss Rear Admiral Vian was equally well respected.
As regards the Aircraft Carriers, ours were designed for the conditions around Europe and were unsuitable for the extreme hot weather of the Far East and Pacific, having insufficient provision of water for drinking and washing and no air conditioning. In consequence, life on board for everybody was generally uncomfortable. Yet, at that time, every man in each Carrier was living life at such intensity, with long hours of work, that there was really no time to think too much about the discomfort. The big plus factor of our British Carriers was the thick steel flight decks, compared with the wooden decks of the American ships. A United States Navy officer was heard to comment, 'If a Kamikaze hits a US Carrier, it's a six months' repair in harbour. In a Limey Carrier, it's a case of sweepers man your brooms.'
Before our Task Force set out on 24 March from Ulithi, there was a final conference of squadron commanders conducted by a Captain, as Chief of the Admiral's staff. It was described to me afterwards over drinks in the Wardroom thus. After the conference had been going for precisely one hour to the minute, in came Admiral Vian, the boss man.
He strode into the centre and said loudly to his Chief of Staff, 'All right that's enough, if we can't organise it in an hour, it's not worth doing.' Then turning to the squadron commanders; 'All I have to say is... Get stuck in.' When I heard this story, I was profoundly unimpressed. Both the scene and the words seemed to be contrived with the intention of reflecting the bravura and warlike character of the Admiral himself, rather than to give supportive encouragement to his commanders. He was there to speak to men, many of whom with their aircrews, were very likely to be killed during the days ahead. It would have been better leadership if he had quietly emphasized the importance of the task ahead of them, expressed his confidence in them and wished them good luck.
At a similar meeting in the Wardroom some time later, attended by all aircrew wearing the normal daily tropical uniform of white shirts and shorts, Vian demanded to know why the aircrews were not wearing their wings. This, after three years as the Admiral in charge of Fleet Air Arm operations since Salerno, and he was the one person who did not know, or had never noticed before, that wings were never worn with that particular working uniform! This crashing blunder showed quite clearly how little contact this Admiral had with his aircrews.
We left Ulithi to join up first of all with the tanker force, which had preceded us. The Fleet needed maximum fuel before commencing the strike on the Sakashima Gunto Islands but refuelling seemed to take forever and at the end of a whole day I heard that it was never quite completed. The Americans, when we had the opportunity to watch them, would take less than two hours to couple up the hoses, complete the fuelling and then disengage from the tanker. It was surprising when I thought about it that our Admiral Vian, famous as a brilliant seaman, appeared unable to sort out the problems the seamen continued to have in refuelling his fleet.
The flying off position for our first strike on the airfields was 100 miles south of Miyako and from _Indomitable_ we started with four flights of Hellcats led by Tommy Harrington taking off, as usual, at dawn. There was no opposition in the air over the airfield but the flak during our subsequent Ramrod of the airfield was lethal. But we were well led and we had no casualties. On our return to the Carrier, before we landed on, the next strike of Avengers and Hellcat escorts took off for their strike. As soon as we had landed, our aircraft were immediately refuelled and re-armed and, on completion, we returned to our cockpits and remained there on stand-by.
For the next flight just before noon, eight of us escorted the second strike of Avengers to bomb another airfield on the Island. After landing back on board, my flight of four led by Sammy could relax at 'readiness' for an hour or more which enabled us to grab some sandwiches from the Wardroom to eat while being briefed in the Ready room for the next strike. The final effort of the day was another ramrod attack on the third airfield of the Island. Back on board after a dusk landing gave time at last for a shower, lots of whisky and as good a meal as the hard worked stewards and cooks could provide from limited resources. More whisky and then it was time to hit the bunk.
It was a very long day, that first day, and we had been fortunate not to suffer any casualties although, as we learned from other Carriers in an exchange of signals, one Avenger had been lost and two Corsairs one of which was the CO of the Corsair squadron in _Victorious_ who had been shot down by flak. I think that we in Hellcats were given a good start by Tommy who, on our first run, had taken us in fast and very, very low. Although there had been no attempt by the Japanese to use their airfields during that day, there had been one or two efforts by them to send reconnaissance aircraft to spot our fleet, but these had been shot down. It was reckoned that eight of their aircraft had been destroyed on the ground during ramrod attacks by Hellcats and Corsairs.
That first day set the pattern of the future strike days when I would hardly be out of my cockpit all day except for briefings, sandwiches and a quick smoke while at readiness. This same routine would continue for two days at a time. The two days of continuous attacks on the islands by the aircraft of all four Carriers would be followed nearly always by two days away from the islands, where and when refuelling from the tankers could be done and repairs made to aircraft. The replacement of aircrew casualties and aircraft was effected by using two back-up Escort Carriers enabling such replacements to fly on during the oiling period.
If I felt it hard to be sitting on an uncomfortable parachute in a cockpit most of the day for two days, either flying or at readiness, then so be it and 'ard luck, as they say. But in comparison, our maintenance crews had to work ceaselessly throughout all of the days and nights; particularly on those nights before the fleet returned to the islands when they would need to prepare and arm every aircraft ready for the strikes starting at first light next day. The fact is that there was little rest for anyone in the Carriers, whether they be officers, flight deck party, engineers, radar operators, seamen, cooks, stewards or whatever because the lives of them all would be dominated by the need to keep the aircraft flying. The two strike days were manic with constant action since all four Carriers would be turning into wind all day to fly off aircraft on strikes and landing them back on board non-stop from dawn to dusk. For many of the people, the two days away from the operational area for oiling were not much easier as there was so much to be done in preparation for the next series of strikes.
The second day of strikes continued in the same way from early morning but the Japanese were more prepared for us and the casualties among our four Carriers were higher. Moreover, we could see that much of the damage to their airfield runways had been repaired during the night. This was to happen constantly but, although our efforts might appear fruitless, the essential objective of denying the Japanese the use of these airfields was being achieved. The cost after the end of the second day amounted to the loss of seven of our aircraft and seven aircrew mostly from flak. Two of the Seafire pilots had been killed in deck-landing accidents and we had lost a Hellcat, but not the pilot, in a similar landing accident.
We suffered no casualties among the pilots of our Hellcats and Avengers in _Indomitable_ but the airmanship and courage of one of our Hellcat pilots, Alec Wilsher, brought him back safely on board after a wheels-up landing. He had been wounded in the thigh, lost much blood but had given himself a morphine injection enabling him to overcome the pain sufficiently to just about fly the aircraft on board. He was expected to die but, with good care from our ship's Doctors, he recovered.
_Excerpt from Squadron diary:_
As I have said, flying from Carriers had a particular advantage in that, provided you could get yourself back on board in one piece, all the facilities such as a Wardroom, whisky, meals, a comfortable cabin and a bunk were usually available and now I had received the reassurance of seeing how well our very good Sick Bay dealt with the arrival of a badly wounded pilot. The availability of these advantages on return from a strike could never be absolutely certain, of course, because the Carrier would always be an enemy's prime target, moreover, out here in the Pacific, there was the dominant threat of the Kamikaze attacks.
The Task Force was subjected to Kamikaze and other air attacks during this period of the strikes, but most of the attackers were hit down by our CAP patrols before they reached us; the Seafires having become particularly effective in this role. Unfortunately, two of them and one of our Hellcats were shot down by 'friendly' fire from the Fleet warships.
While I was away airborne over the Islands, the Fleet was attacked by twenty Japanese fighter-bombers. They were split up by our patrol of Hellcats led by our Wing Leader, Harrington, but one got through and machine-gunned the flight deck of _Indomitable_ wounding seven men and killing one. _Victorious_ was narrowly missed by a Kamikaze as was _Illustrious_. At a later date _Illustrious_ and _Indefatigable_ were hit by Kamikazes but, thanks to their steel flight decks, were able to operate again shortly afterwards.
For four weeks the routine of two days of strikes against the Island airfields and two days of replenishment continued. There were no great losses on any particular day; just a drainage of aircraft and aircrews lost mostly from flak and from deck-landing accidents. The pilots of both Hellcats and Corsairs were successful in air combat where very few were shot down. But the continuous task of either Combat Air Patrol over the islands and fleet or Ramrods of the airfields was an exhausting business. Usually it was arranged that a fighter pilot would alternate during the day starting off probably with strafing the airfields on the first flight, escorting the bombers on the second and CAP on the third. Sometimes, with a little bit of luck, only two strikes would be allocated for the day. Combat Patrol over the airfields, to make sure that no Japanese aircraft tried to stage through, would end with a strafing attack if any suitable targets were evident on the ground. But it was pointless to risk lives against the formidable and it has to be said courageous fire of the Japanese gunners, if the ground targets were not of any significance.
The prospect of air combat with the Japanese pilots was not a worry. We reckoned the Hellcat to be a far better aircraft than anything they flew and we had no doubt at all that every one of us was a superior pilot to the average Japanese. Our experience in the past four months had shown that to be so. Thus, to take off from the deck to carry out a CAP over the Fleet would be a comparative relaxation. But we dreaded each and every one of us the strafing or Ramrod runs on those enemy airfields. We came to know most of them and had worked out the best approach in attacking them; so much so that a pre-flight briefing from the Leader was often not necessary.
Having decided the approach, the flight leader takes all four down to low level in a fast dive from about 8,000 ft in loose finger formation, then a final turn in towards the airfield usually along the direction of the runway, all four aircraft spreading out with space between, then down, down as low as possible to ground level and flying at about 20 feet and full throttle at some 320 knots. Look for a target along the line of flight. Looks like a troop-carrier? Get your sights onto it, quick check either side that you are not running on to the same target as the others, now into the main gauntlet of Japanese machine-gun, cannon and shell fire from either side. So far the fire going over the top of you. Just keep going right down low and try to ignore it; concentrate on the chosen aircraft target ahead. Press the tit early now and give it as long a burst of fire as possible, only seconds of fire anyway but you are hitting it. Just hope it isn't a dummy target with Japanese guns already laid to cover it. Up over the top of it the danger moment, then keep down and out the other side and climb away to re-form with the Leader. Are we all four through and intact? Yes... this time. But some flak still coming up at us. What will the Leader decide to do as he looks back at the result? I know the problem; I have led a flight myself and know how everyone is hoping like hell that you as Leader will decide to call it a day. He evidently reckons we have done enough damage; he waggles his wings to sign that we are going home.
That described the third flight and strike of the day and the combination of tiredness and the relief at finishing was dangerous. There was the deck-landing still to be made and it would require concentration. The Carrier isn't really 'home' until you have landed safely back on board. So many of the deck-landing accidents, some of them fatal, occur at this late stage at the end of the day. My show-off days of steep turns on to the deck were over; all I wanted was to get down safely and I was much more respectful in my attitude to the signals of the batsman. Shortly after landing and de-briefing, it was dark and the ship turned away from the enemy island and ceased 'action stations' which had been in force since before dawn. Now the watertight doors throughout the ship were opened and I could go down to my cabin and look forward to a shower.
Since the arrival in the squadron of the three senior Lieutenants a while back, I no longer shared the particularly nice cabin near the quarterdeck and had been put into a cabin to share with an RN (engineer) Lieutenant. He really was rather a morose chap and we hardly spoke to each other. Our patterns of living on board were so very diverse; he spent his day and night watches in an engine room so hot that a human could not live in it without gradual adaptation over a long period, while I spent my day sitting in a cockpit, up top. I knew that he was disgusted because I went to my bunk every night befuddled with whisky. My mind otherwise would have been hyperactive reliving the strikes made during the day and thinking ahead to those for to-morrow. Fortunately the engineer (known as plumbers in the Navy) was often on watch when I came to bed but then, of course, he was disturbed whenever I had my early morning 'shake' for the dawn flight. Before the influx of new pilots, the Plumber had the cabin to himself so all in all his morose behaviour was probably understandable. But the situation didn't bother me much, I had decided nearly two years ago, after the death of Basil, that I did not want to form a close friendship ever again with a cabin-mate.
Admiral Rawlings was concerned, we were told, about the morale among men of the large ships in the Fleet, those in the Battleship and the Cruisers. The value of those big warships was in providing anti-aircraft fire against Kamikaze and other air attacks and in their extensive radar coverage. But their huge guns, designed for banging away at other Battleships, were unlikely to be of much use against airfield targets and so this part of the fleet had taken comparatively little direct part in the operation and had not come nearer than a hundred miles of the enemy islands. We heard therefore that a bombardment was proposed to be undertaken which, with all its fearsome noise and fury, would have the effect of cheering the men of the Battleships immensely and give them something to do. At the last minute, however, Admiral Rawlings cancelled the bombardment realising that it was unlikely to do much harm to the anti-aircraft guns surrounding the enemy airfields, yet would leave the Carriers without part of their protection.
It was on 9 April that Admiral Rawlings was asked by the American Admiral Spruance, who was in command of all naval forces in the Pacific, to carry out a strike on Formosa; he wanted us to bash a particular airfield and harbour there for some reason important in relation to the American assault on Okinawa. And so accordingly, on 11 April, the British Fleet was off Formosa ready to undertake the task. For aircrews this new sortie was a welcome change from the grind, which I personally dreaded, of strafing and bombing the airfields on the Islands of Ishigaki and Miyako; those airfields would probably be imprinted on our minds for ever, we had spent so much time on them. But the weather was bad over Formosa making it necessary to find alternative targets. It was almost a pleasure, when we did so, to be attacking shipping in a harbour where the return fire was not as intense in comparison to that of the airfields and, for the first time, I dropped or rather skipped a couple of bombs at a small elderly supply ship. They didn't seem to do it much harm, but I must have hit something because it appeared to be sinking slightly as we left. Anyway, Admiral Spruance expressed his particular approval afterwards of our efforts so we must have 'done good'.
From there we returned to join our tankers at the usual oiling rendezvous and, at that stage on 14 April, HMS _Illustrious_ left the scene and departed for Sydney en route back to the UK. She and all her crew and aircrews had done well but now her overworked engines were giving trouble. I tried to contact my old friend of earlier days, Jack Parli, before they left but was unable to do so. However it was then I learned the sad news that Winnie Churchill had been killed in action a few days earlier. The action which caused his almost inevitable death was unbelievably foolish, I have to write, because he had attacked the Japanese airfield for a second run entirely on his own. A second attack at an airfield target by a whole flight was regarded as particularly dangerous, but entirely on his own was madness. What could he have been thinking of? Jack Parli, his close companion and greatest friend for the past five years, since they joined up in the Navy together, must have been devastated at the loss of him. But of course, Jack would have had to get on with it, and he did so to earn a DSC as Senior Pilot of his squadron.
HMS _Formidable_ with her two Corsair squadrons and an Avenger squadron was there to replace HMS _Illustrious_. During that brief period of replenishment, Wing Leaders and Squadron Commanders from _Victorious_ visited _Formidable_ to brief their counterparts and their aircrews on the procedures we had learnt for attacking the airfields on the islands and on such safety measures as were sensible. To no avail apparently, as the CO of the Corsair squadron was killed on his first strike two days later when our attacks on the airfields were resumed.
There was little change in the situation. Each day our Avengers bombed the hangars and runways and every night the little yellow men came out of their holes in the ground to fill in the runway craters. Each day our Corsairs and Hellcats strafed the airfields to hit petrol bowsers, aircraft hangars, gun emplacements, particularly any aircraft visible on the ground and to hit any Japanese personnel if we could possibly catch them running about in the open. And every day the Japanese poured back machine-gun, cannon and shellfire at our Avengers, Hellcats and Corsairs from their ever-increasing gun emplacements. Every day they knocked down one and sometimes two of us. But the continuous use of their six airfields was entirely denied to them during our presence.
Nevertheless, some of their bomber or fighter aircraft would fly out from Formosa to be met by our Combat Air Patrols either over the Islands or as they tried to attack the Fleet. Few of them got through; in air combat we rarely lost an aircraft. Sammy, in whose flight I usually flew but not on that occasion, met six 'Oscars' approaching the Fleet and with his team shot down four of them. One of the Hellcats, damaged in combat, crashed on landing back on _Indomitable,_ killing the pilot. Days later, our flight were carrying out a strafing attack on Ishigaki when, on climbing away, I realised that Sammy was not with us. I had not seen him go but, circling the airfield, the crashed Hellcat could be seen. Sadly, I led the remaining three of us back to land on the ship.
There had been rumours that the fleet was due a longer period of rest and replenishment at Pedro Roads harbour in Leyte. And sure enough, we did indeed come into Leyte on 23 April to learn that the Fleet would be rested there for at least a week. What a blessed relief for the aircrews, but there was a mountain of repair and other work waiting to be done by the aircraft maintenance teams and the ship's company. Of course, aircrew had a party that first night on board including a truly loud sing-song; in my experience there was nearly always someone in the squadrons capable of bashing out a Fleet Air Arm song on the piano. But all that was as nothing compared to the sheer wonder and joy, as far as I was concerned, with which the next day ended.
First of all aircrew reported for a sort of briefing from Commander Air and Commander Ops, who was there to give us a larger view of the results of what had been happening during the past month; a sort of grim score card.
Since leaving Ulithi, the British Task Force had been continuously at sea for thirty-two days, the longest period since Nelson had blockaded the French at the beginning of the 19th century. Most of those days had been off the enemy coastline to strike at their airfields. The fleet had lost forty-seven aircraft mostly from flak over the airfields but a large percentage also from crashes on deck-landing. Thirty aircrew had been killed and ten of them, as we knew only too well, had been our colleagues in _Indomitable_. It was reckoned that thirty-nine enemy aircraft had been shot down, mostly from air combat rather than A-A fire, and another forty destroyed on the ground. But the Japanese had been denied the use of their six airfields almost entirely which seemed to indicate that it had all been worth it?
Certainly it was worth it for our Admiral Vian who, despite his signals to the Fleet which had so often betrayed his ignorance of naval aviation warfare and some of which had even implied the cowardice of his aircrews, would in due course receive his desired Knighthood as a result of the success of those aircrews.
Commander Air then informed us that six pilots and two observers were to be sent back to the UK since they had exceeded their time on operations. I hoped, as I listened to this, that he must mean those who had been serving in fighter Squadrons before coming out to the Far East in 1944, in which case surely oh surely I prayed, I must be one of the six pilots?
Later that morning I was told to report to Commander Air in his cabin. He handed me a signal ordering me to return to the UK immediately. On arrival I was to take leave for seven days before reporting urgently to Lossiemouth for a course as Deck Landing Control Officer, that is, to be a batsman. How ironic, that after years of my gentle disparagement of Batting as a deck-landing aid I was now to become a DLCO!
In fact, at that particular moment, the job seemed entirely desirable since it would not involve me in any real flying; it was a kind of flying desk job. And this appointment was particularly fortunate too, because their Lordships of the Admiralty had not yet come to realise that flying as a squadron pilot, either ashore or from a Carrier, was rather more nerve wracking than normal service as a ship's officer. In consequence, they tended happily to appoint a pilot from one squadron and Carrier to another, for years without a break. After all, in my own case, I had been flying in an operational squadron now for four continuous years without a break, although admittedly without any distinction.
Moreover, as I thought about my new appointment, I realised how our batsman on _Indomitable_ these past weeks had done a remarkably good and valuable job in helping very tired pilots down on to the deck safely, and this on top of his work in organising the flight deck from dawn to dusk every day. Indeed, he had justly won a DSC for his work often under fire. The more I thought about it, the happier I became with the appointment. After all I appeared to be right for the job because, looking at my log book, I realised that my last deck-landing had been my 102nd, a very unusual achievement in those days because one rarely flew from a Carrier except on operations and, moreover, I had done so without crashing an aircraft. It qualified me for the 'Perch Club' a fictitious club for those who had completed 100 deck-landings without a prang. Originally there was a zig-zag tie for members but in time it became available for all FAA pilots because, after the war, it became normal with improved aircraft and Carrier equipment, including in particular the angled deck, for a pilot to complete several hundred deck-landings, while accidents became very rare.
Nothing could detract from my relief and joy at the order to leave the Pacific and to go on my way home. My cabin-mate being on watch that afternoon in the engine room, I was able to take my time in packing up my clothes before obtaining my pay and air travel vouchers. As I was alone in the cabin, I was able to lie on my bunk and just let it sink into my mind that I really had survived, and tears of sheer relief flowed down my face. I had started out as a young tearaway fighter pilot, full of guts and go, but now I was no more than a rather tatty and tired old man of age twenty-three years, with the 'twitch'. I was very definitely not of the 'warrior' class... just an ordinary airman, in fact.
I learned later that, before the British Fleet left the Sakashima Gunto in May 1945 the final bill for the total time of seven weeks over those Islands was the loss of over two hundred aircraft, half of those from deck-landing crashes, and thirty-nine aircrew killed. I was lucky to be out of the final part of it.
I have to make my apology to the Seafire for, in the final stage of war in the Pacific, the aircraft did very well indeed as a Carrier-borne fighter. This was largely due to the initiative of a squadron commander who adapted an American long-range fuel tank to fit under the fuselage of the Seafire, thus improving the range and the consequent value of the aircraft considerably. But most pilots still found it to be a swine to deck-land.
## CHAPTER FOURTEEN
## Batsman and 1846 Squadron
After Leyte, I had been flown from Sydney by Transport Command of the RAF on a flight, via Colombo, to Lyneham in the UK. The whole long journey since leaving HMS _Indomitable_ had been so fast, taking only four days, that it had a dream-like quality to it. I could scarcely believe the astonishing change in my life from the dreaded, hot and horribly dangerous world of the Sakashima Islands in the Pacific – to sitting quietly at home at Taplow in England, as I was now, chatting with Mother and Maddie by the fireside.
I learned in due course that the reason for all the speed and hassle of my journey was owing to a shortage of trained DLCOs for the number of Aircraft Carriers now in operation. Hence the rush, so very welcome to me, with which I had been shot back to the UK. The function of the batsman had now come to be regarded as so essential that a Carrier could hardly function properly as such without one. To my mind that view was just nonsense but it had brought me back fast to the UK and who was I to argue with it?
At Lyneham when we landed, I had been given a sheaf of food ration coupons and petrol coupons so that I planned to enjoy a simple leave, driving Mother and Maddie about in the old Austin which, although by now it had become a bit of an old banger, still functioned well enough for the purpose. I had in mind that, armed with all those coupons, we would just bumble around to country pubs and restaurants. Very recently, Father had taken himself back to the south of France, no longer occupied by the Germans, where he was busy settling back into his villa. My sister Phoebe and Johnnie Lowder, now married, were stationed at Ford in Sussex. Lalline, my long-term 'steady' was recently married and so I would have to keep my eye open for other female company.
It gave me a lot of pleasure, now that I no longer had a Fighter Squadron to rejoin, merely to walk about a town feeling like a normal, real person who has a whole long lifetime ahead of him. During previous leaves, I had not been able to rid myself of a feeling of doom and that I did not belong to the same world as people in the community at home who lived normal, safe lives. It was a joy this time to watch people going about their business, doing all the usual things of life and to feel that I belonged with them and no longer to feel jealous of them. Meanwhile, at that time, I was surprised to realise from talking with people in the pubs, how little thought they were giving to the war against the Japanese in the Far East. The war in Europe was all but over and the joy of that realisation seemed to have filled people's minds entirely.
I was due to report to Lossiemouth in the far north of Scotland on 10 May for the DLCO course which gave me little more than a week's leave at home. Hence, to find out more about my future, I paid a quick visit to the Admiralty where I learned that my next ship would be HMS _Begum_ , another Escort Carrier, which was preparing even now at a UK port to leave shortly for the Far East. I said my goodbyes to Mother and Maddie, promising to see them again, if I could, before I joined my new ship. Then I set off to take the long and tedious journey by train to RNAS Lossiemouth at the top end of Scotland. I arrived there to find that the course had moved to the nearby small airfield of Milltown where I was thankful to be shown to a comfortable single cabin fairly near to the Officers' Mess. The next morning, after breakfast, I walked down to the office block from where the DLCO Course was being conducted.
There were only five other 'pupils', all Sub Lieutenants RNVR. Three of them had been drafted from Seafire squadrons and two from Barracuda squadrons and all of them had some experience flying from Carriers. The 'Head Boy' of the course was Lt Arthur Darley RN, my old adversary who had been the batsman in HMS _Illustrious_ during my time in 890 squadron. I use the word 'adversary' because he was prone to become so cross when I ignored his signals but, to be fair, he was as good a batsman as anyone could be who so rarely flew and good in his organisation of the flight deck. During my time in the Pacific, I had come to appreciate the value of a good batsman waiting to help me land on when I was tired. And so I felt altogether more benign now towards Arthur and his DLCO course.
The Commanding Officer of the course and indeed of the whole business of 'Batsmanship' in the Fleet Air Arm was the same chap, now a Commander RN, who also had been in _Illustrious_ at that time. As the course progressed, he would arrive from time to time to give a brief display of his now famous pirouettes and flamboyant gestures with the bats. But I contrived not to laugh. After all, despite his absurd self-important strutting and pirouetting, the school of batsmen which he had done much to create, had played a part at that particular time in the development of the Fleet Air Arm. Nevertheless, I still maintained that the role of the batsman, as a deck-landing aid, was never so vital and essential as it was made out to be. In any case, shortly after the war, an entirely new system of green, red and amber lights at the end of the flight deck, invented by Nick Goodhart, a flying plumber, would tell the pilot of his position on the approach.
There was a team of pilots, flying Swordfish and sometimes other aircraft such as Fireflies, who carried out circuits and landings all day on the runway at Milltown while we, as pupils, waved our two bats at them under tuition from Darley. After a few days of this, we pupils were all embarked into the back of four Swordfish which then flew us out to an Escort Carrier working in the usual area off the west coast of Scotland. Sitting helpless in the back of an aircraft, even the safe old Swordfish, while some other pilot deck-landed the thing, was an alarming experience. Thank heavens I had been considered as being too dim to be an Observer by the Selection Board all those years ago.
The next four days or so were spent taking turns to bat the Swordfish and an occasional Firefly on to the deck. In fact, of course, we were just going through the motions because the pilots appointed to carry out these landings could almost have done them with their eyes shut. They were known as 'the Clockwork Mice' since they did nothing else but go round and round the Carrier to touch down, after the tightest possible circuit, followed by an immediate take-off after touching down on the deck. These chaps would amass hundreds of so-called deck-landings compared with an average operational pilot who, as I have written before, rarely achieved as many as a hundred landings in those wartime days. But there was no comparison of a 'clockwork mouse' circuit and landing with that of an operational pilot, who would have to land on a deck, probably tired and stressed having completed perhaps one, two or even three strikes during the day. The large number of crashes and casualties on operations bore witness to the difficulty and danger of a real landing on the deck of an Aircraft Carrier.
I was able to finish my DLCO course early to enable me to take two days' leave at home before joining HMS _Begum_ , my new ship, which was due to leave the harbour at Greenock within days. On arrival on board, after meeting the Commander, I found that I had been given very decent accommodation sharing a large cabin with an RNR seaman officer of similar rank. For the first time I was now a ship's officer and it was a strange feeling to be serving in a Carrier but without being a member of a Squadron.
That evening I met the Lt Cdr RN who was acting as Wings for the ship although he was an Observer and not a pilot. I learned from him that the ship had been used as a Ferry to take aircraft and aircraft spares out to the Far East and this would be her second such voyage for a similar purpose. It was not a very exciting prospect but, on the other hand I told myself, this would be the quiet life that I wanted.
Our first port of call was Belfast where there were some two dozen new Hellcats and their spares to be loaded on board and struck down securely in the Hangar. The flight deck itself would not be used for the purpose just in case, apparently, the ship might have to be used for its real purpose as an Aircraft Carrier. I had a formal interview with the Commander to ask if I could have a parade of those men selected for the Flight Deck party so that I could see how many of them, if any, had prior training or knowledge of Carrier work. I didn't want to waste any time in starting to train them and work with them in preparation for an aircraft, which might in the near future need to land on. He told me, however, that he was short of seamen and none could be set aside as yet for training in flight deck work. I met the Captain, who appeared to be as bored as I was with the ship, but at least I was given permission by him to act as a sort of second Watchkeeper on the Bridge under training. It was something of interest for me to do but, truthfully, I was bored stiff as we bumbled our way across the Bay of Biscay towards Suez, It was difficult to understand the ways of the Admiralty which, having sent for me hot foot from the Pacific to be a DLCO, had now appointed me to a ship which was not intended, apparently, to operate aircraft. The workings of the Admiralty were strange indeed.
About a week later, the ship entered harbour at Alexandria and there to my joy was a sight for bored eyes; no less than four Aircraft Carriers surrounded by their supporting Destroyers. Evidently these were the new Carriers on their way to the Pacific either to join or relieve those Carriers in the British Pacific Fleet I had so recently left. I busied myself up near the Compass platform to find out, via the Signals Petty Officer, all I could about these ships. I learned that they were the new Light-Fleet Carriers, HMSs _Colossus_ , _Vengeance_ , _Venerable_ and _Glory_ and, through binoculars, I could see Corsairs and Barracudas on their flight decks with men busy about them.
Somehow, I must get off this dreary Ferry Boat and get in amongst flying people again and here, in Alexandria harbour, these four Carriers presented the opportunity to do so.
It was customary when RN ships were in harbour, either at anchor or moored alongside, for officers to invite by signal their friends in other ships to come aboard for drinks and lunch or dinner. But I was unable to find out if anyone I knew was aboard any of the Light-Fleet Carriers with whom I could make contact. Certainly I was unlikely to know any of the new young Corsair or Barracuda pilots, although I might know the Squadron COs if only I had their names. I decided to take the bull by the horns or, more precisely the Commanders Air by their horns as I intended to send signals to all four Commanders Air of the four Carriers, starting with HMS _Colossus_ , as follows; 'Permission to come aboard, please Sir. I am a DLCO with nothing to bat. From Lt Adlam RNVR.' Cheeky man that I was, but desperate because this was very incorrect procedure and I knew it. I ought to have sought permission from my Captain to apply for a transfer from his ship which would hardly have been a popular request and unlikely to be granted.
Within half an hour, before midday, I had a reply from Commander Lane in _Colossus_ to come aboard and I lost not a minute in ordering a boat to take me across. I came up the gangway of _Colossus_ to be greeted by the Officer of the watch who, advised of my visit, had detailed a sailor ready to take me down to the Wardroom to meet Commander Lane. All very promising so far, I thought. I glanced quickly round as I entered the wardroom but at first could see no one I knew. And then, over by the bar, was an enormous man who I remembered immediately as Tiny Devonald who had been the CO of a Corsair squadron in _Victorious_ and I had met him briefly at the Racecourse Airfield in Colombo when all the BPF fighter squadrons had been working up there. He was talking to a small, black bearded Commander wearing wings who therefore must be Commander Lane and so I went up to introduce myself to him.
The Commander greeted me with a pleasant smile, offered me a drink, obviously approving my request for a pink gin and, without wasting time, questioned me in his quiet, clipped speech about my past experience. Tiny, who had also welcomed me, confirmed such knowledge he had of me when both of us had served in the BPF in the Far East. It was good to have his support because Tiny was a famous FAA fighter pilot who had won the DFC flying with the RAF in the Battle of Britain. Heaven knows how he had ever squeezed himself into a Spitfire; he was so large. But he was large in character too being well known for his devil-may-care attitude to life and to authority. He took me over to a group of young pilots, members of his 1846 Corsair Squadron, who were making cheerful chat together and with their Senior Pilot, Ken Evans.
After lunch with them all, Commander Lane sent for me. The senior DLCO of _Colossus_ was with him, a Lt Cdr Buckley, and I was told that their second batsman had returned to the UK and that a replacement for him had been urgently requested. Lane told me that already he, with his Captain's approval, had sent a signal to the Admiralty appointments board requesting that I be transferred immediately to HMS _Colossus_ as the second batsman. I was to return to _Begum_ , pack my bags and to take up my appointment in _Colossus_ that day. What a wonderful and astonishingly fast pier-head jump. I was totally delighted because, sure enough, on my return to HMS _Begum_ a signal awaited me appointing me with immediate effect to _Colossus_. I didn't say goodbye to the Captain or anyone in _Begum_ other than my cabin-mate; I just ordered a boat and left the ship with gladness in my heart.
For the first few days I was busy getting to know the men of the flight-deck party, many of them Marines, with whom I would be working and for the first time learning from John Buckley the detailed procedures of how a flight deck is operated. As a pilot, I had seen often enough what these men of the flight deck did but never before had I paid regard to just how they achieved their tasks. I enjoyed having work to do and new friends to make among the young aircrew and among the ship's officers. The immediate impression of HMS _Colossus_ was that she was a happy ship.
_Colossus_ was one of the new Light-Fleet Carriers of the latest design by the Admiralty but they had failed, unfortunately, to incorporate in her much of the essential learning about Carriers which ought to have been accumulated during the five years of war at sea. The size of these new Carriers, although narrower than Fleet Carriers with a flight deck only of some 680 feet long, was not a particular problem although not good. But the three main faults were, first, that they lacked the deck armour, so much envied by the Americans, and which even then was saving the British Fleet Carriers against Kamikaze attacks in the Pacific.
Secondly they were underpowered and could barely achieve 25 knots, so no lessons apparently had been learned from Salerno, as one example, where lack of wind speed over the deck had caused continuous Seafire crashes all day, every day. Moreover, low wind over the deck not only made landing difficult for pilots, but could limit the number of aircraft able to be ranged for take-off on any one strike.
And thirdly, accommodation for young aircrew officers was even worse than in a Fleet Carrier consisting of small narrow dormitories in which eight aircrew were expected to sleep, rest and change their clothes. During five years of actual war, the Admiralty apparently had learned absolutely nothing about basic Carrier design requirements.
However, there was some plus to the design in that these Light Carriers had a longer range and all defensive armament had been deleted enabling 40 aircraft to be carried despite their small size. On the other hand, the advantage of having 40 aircraft on board was lost if the Carrier, being underpowered, could only generate enough wind over the flight deck to range half that number. And I had learned that the Admiralty, instead of giving consideration towards the operational competence of these new Carriers, had made their conversion to merchant ships after the war the priority. In 1945, I was beginning to think of such matters but, at that time, I was still in such awe of those gold-braided Admirals and Captains that I would never have dared to voice my thoughts.
In the meantime the aircraft of both squadrons were ashore at Dekheila aerodrome, outside the city of Alexandria. The two Squadrons, 1846 squadron with 24 Corsairs and 827 Squadron with 16 Barracudas, were still at the stage of working up their young and inexperienced aircrews. I was due to go ashore to the airfield to start batting the aircraft, both Corsairs and Barracudas, on to the runway for ADDLs practice, i.e. dummy deck-landings. It was then that enthusiasm got the better of me because I decided that I must make the point, in which I had always strongly believed, that ideally a batsman should not purport to control a deck-landing unless he, himself, had deck-landed that type of aircraft. It might not be practical always, I realised, but it was right in principle.
If I was so convinced that it was right in principle, then I ought to follow it through which meant asking to fly the Corsair and then deck-landing it. Similarly, I must ask to fly the Barracuda. I would need to obtain agreement from Wings, i.e. Commander Lane, and also from the COs of each Squadron. To these people the idea of the batsman insisting on deck-landing aircraft which he had not previously flown, would be entirely novel, as it would be to the pilots. But I was sure that, once I had deck-landed these aircraft, I would have a much better knowledge of their performance and characteristics when on their final approach to the deck. I would be able to see much earlier if the pilot was getting into trouble and so to give him corrective signals. The other factor, I felt sure, would be the extra confidence in me it would give the pilots to know that I had deck-landed the machine and knew its foibles. In so many of my own landings as a Carrier pilot, I had tended to ignore the batsman's signals thinking, 'What does he know about it, he hasn't ever flown this type of aircraft.'
On the other hand, if I let the idea just lapse, I would probably cope adequately and be just as good an average batsman as any. There would be no need to gird up my courage to fly the Corsair, with its reputation as a difficult and dangerous aircraft to deck-land. Indeed, I knew all too well of the many Corsair crashes on landing, most of them fatal, which had happened with the British Pacific Fleet over the past year. If I insisted on flying it, I would have to overcome yet again the 'twitch', the awful fear of having to fly. I remembered how very many times during those last months in the Far East and Pacific, I had felt so shaky as I forced myself to walk towards and mount into the cockpit of my aircraft before a flight. The saving grace for me had been the recovery once I was in the cockpit, strapped in and preparing for take-off.
I am writing about this now, sixty years later, but at the time the 'twitch' was a taboo subject. Towards the end of the war, I believe that Doctors on board Carriers were given some advice on how to recognise the symptoms of twitch in pilots and how to help them. It really was vital to ground such pilots before they killed themselves and others in some fearful crash. The Seafire crash I had witnessed on HMS _Atheling_ was a typical example of the pilot being in dread of having to deck-land his aircraft. Such pilots might recover their nerve if taken off flying for a few weeks. It seemed that I, with my ambitious intention to deck-land the Corsair, was a case in point because, after the past few weeks of rest from flying, I already felt more relaxed about the prospect of getting airborne again.
As well as the principle of a batsman being capable of deck-landing an aircraft, there were other factors at work which were pushing me towards seeking permission to fly the Corsair. The first was my pride and, whether I was imagining the situation or not, I felt that the squadron pilots, although very friendly, regarded me none the less as different and on a lower level of aviation. I realised now that this was just the same attitude as I myself had tended to take towards a Carrier's batsman. Although I was all too well aware that, as a fighter pilot, my performance over the past three years had been no more than mediocre, I considered that, as a Carrier pilot, I had proved myself to be as good as any and I was proud of my record. The truth is that, in spite of being rather scared of the Corsair, I was damned sure that I had the experience and skill to handle it and I wanted to show these young squadron pilots a thing or two on how to deck-land it.
As regards the Barracuda, despite its slightly menacing appearance and undoubted operational faults, I had seen earlier that, with its superb visibility for the pilot and good control at low speed, it would be a pleasant and comfortable machine to deck-land. I would be happy to fly it and land it on the deck as soon as an opportunity occurred.
Wings and the two Squadron Commanders were surprised at my persistence in asking for an opportunity to convert to the Corsair and Barracuda while at Dekheila airfield and to deck-land them in due course. Tiny had supported the idea straight away and I could see that Wings began to like it too although John Buckley, the senior batsman, was against it as being quite unnecessary. In the meantime, while these senior people were giving my proposal some thought, I went ashore to the aerodrome to start my job of batting the Corsairs and Barracudas for dummy deck-landings on the runway. It went rather well really; I formed a vision of how the approaches should be made correctly by starting with the Senior Pilot, Ken Evans. It was a sensible arrangement, which we had agreed between us, because Ken really was a very good pilot indeed and from his approaches I could establish in my mind a standard to set for the others. But I was surprised and impressed to find how good these young pilots were but then, of course, their training in America had included their final conversion to Corsairs. They had amassed some 350 flying hours by the time they joined this their first squadron.
The Senior Pilots of the two squadrons were busy organising the flying programmes each day for the training of their aircrews with no time or aircraft really to spare for me. I gave up on any prospect of flying the Barracuda in the near future and concentrated on Ken to let me have a Corsair to fly for an hour. Having checked up on my background, I think he was satisfied that I was reasonably unlikely to break the machine and finally he was able to make one available for me. And so one hot midday Mac, one of the pilots, accompanied me out to the tarmac where a lone Corsair stood fully fuelled and awaiting me for my first flight on the type. It really was a menacing looking beast of an aircraft with its cranked wings, very long length of nose ahead of the cockpit, huge propeller and engine. Of course, I had sat in the cockpit before to read the pilot notes carefully and now only needed Mac to describe the cockpit details and flying characteristics of the beast, which he did amiably and kindly but, did I detect just a hint of condescension? I was already regretting my keenness to fly this Corsair and it didn't help to know that Mac and everyone else in his squadron would be watching my take-off and awaiting my return.
This flight was particularly nerve-racking for me because I had flown nothing since my last flight in the Pacific. It would have been kinder if I could have flown, on this occasion, in an aircraft I knew well. But that was not possible, so now I must get on with it. The take-off down the runway was not difficult; the Corsair was easy to keep straight so, as soon as airborne, I selected wheels up, held it down to build up plenty of speed then whooshed up into quite a steep climbing turn to port. It was the sort of take-off that looks spectacular but is not in fact either difficult or particularly dangerous. Well, not dangerous normally, but it was pushing my luck rather to do it under the circumstances of not having flown for many weeks and on an unknown aircraft.
At 15,000 ft, I went through my usual routine, with a type of aircraft new to me, of steep turns and slow flying with wheels and flaps down. It had a sudden, frightening and vicious flick on to its back at the stall with no warning, which made it so dangerous to deck-land, so I was more careful after that. I found after several trials and errors that, in fact, the Corsair handled very well at speeds just above the stall, wheels and flaps down, provided there was plenty of power on always. With wheels and flaps up again, I half rolled onto my back, pulled through and up for a roll off the top of the loop. That, followed by a ropey slow roll was my lot and I returned to the aerodrome. Pity I was such a lousy aerobatic pilot, because it would have been nice to finish off with a couple of slow rolls over the aerodrome. But I felt almost back to the confidence of my earlier days and glad that I had insisted on flying the Corsair.
The next day, I completed three dummy deck-landings on the runway with John Buckley batting. This was one more dummy landing than I wanted but Ken, as Senior Pilot, had expected me to do five or six approaches and was rather cross when I refused.
Two days later, _Colossus_ left harbour first of all to take back on board the eight Corsairs and four Barracudas which had been sent ashore to Dekheila and then to proceed on her way, through the Suez Canal, to Ceylon. Tiny, the CO of the Corsairs, was happy to stay on board to enjoy the cocktail party on board in the morning (Tiny could never refuse a party) and this gave me the opportunity to fly one of the Corsairs on to the deck that afternoon. And so it was arranged.
I was not permitted to join the squadron formation of Corsairs to land on the ship, no doubt because as an unknown quantity they thought I might spoil their smart circuit and landing procedure. I was to follow some ten minutes later and to arrive over the ship after all the others had landed and their Corsairs had been struck down below in the hangar. This would leave me with a clear deck with the barrier down for my landing. The intention was that, all being well, my Corsair would then be pushed back to the stern of the deck for me to carry out a take-off and a second landing. It seemed that Wings, having taken the risk of letting me prove myself, would give me a clear deck and plenty of time in which to do it.
The affirmative signal to land on was given and, as I looked down on the Carrier from the downwind leg, I experienced again that combined fear and excitement of a deck-landing. Making a steady gentle curving final approach, the Corsair at that low speed handled beautifully and I completed a good landing catching the third wire. As I was being pushed back, I could see a mass of squadron people on the Goofers' gallery of the Island who had watched my first good landing in the Corsair and now waited to see whether I could repeat it on the second landing.
It was a scenario full of potential disaster for a 'show-off' character like mine because, in spite of my very real fear of flying, I would never be able to resist an opportunity like this to put on an exhibition. Inevitably therefore, I came in on a very steep turn, ignoring Buckley's frantic signals with the bats to go round again, straightened up in line with the deck at the very last seconds, closed the throttle and thumped down to catch the second wire. Wow! Could ever a man be more pleased with himself than me as I taxied past the Goofers' gallery. To be fair; it really was important in the circumstances for me to put on a good show for the squadron pilots. But I had nearly overdone it and in due course I would have to make my peace with John Buckley, my senior batsman, who had every right to be angry with me for ignoring his signals. Thereafter, I felt that I had a more comfortable relationship with the squadron pilots who respected my ability to fly their Corsair and, in consequence, had confidence in me as their batsman.
Of all the Aircraft Carriers in which I had served, I reckoned that HMS _Colossus_ was the happiest. At any rate, I enjoyed serving in her. It may have been partly because I no longer had a daily commitment to become airborne at that time, although later this would change, or perhaps because from the Commander downwards the ship's officers were such a relaxed crowd with quite a lot of RNVR amongst them. Not only the officers but the men with whom I worked, many marines among them, were cheerfully competent during all the long hours of flight deck operations; also I enjoyed playing deck hockey on the flight deck and football ashore with them.
Best of all perhaps were the young Corsair pilots (incidentally, I wonder why I constantly thought of them as 'young'; after all I was barely a year older than any of them.) They were so enthusiastic about their flying and their beloved Corsairs and they had been together for such a long time in their training that there was a great friendship among them all. In quiet moments, I thought with foreboding about their future, or the lack of it, ahead of them in the Pacific. The Barracuda crews were a fine team of slightly older chaps, particularly so were the Observers and their CO, a Lt Cdr in the RNVR, as were nearly all squadron commanders in the Fleet Air Arm by that time of the war.
Wings was a quietly-spoken man whom I liked and respected even though he never flew either of the squadron types of aircraft. He had been a Walrus pilot for a long period and it would in all fairness have been difficult for him to convert to the latest aircraft without a proper conversion course. He had supported me in my desire to fly the squadron aircraft and given me the best environment in which to do so. The ship's Commander was a young man for his rank, prepared to listen and to help if he could and he looked benignly upon our drunken cavortings in the Wardroom on party nights. Tiny Devonald, the CO of the Corsair squadron, had a great gift as a showman having a good voice and able to play his guitar like a professional. He would give recitals of amusing and rude songs of his own composition to the Wardroom and also to the troops gathered to hear him on the flight deck.
The Captain of _Colossus_ was an ex-Destroyer Captain and, as such, well known in the Royal Navy for his dashing exploits earlier in the war. His background therefore was similar to the Rear Admiral Vian, famous or notorious whichever way you like to think of him, for his dealings with the Fleet Air Arm at Salerno, the Far East and the Pacific. Our Captain Stokes, however, realised that he needed to learn about Carrier operations, as it was a new experience for him, and so he listened to his senior aviation advisers before reaching decisions. His background as a Destroyer man was apparent at times when coming alongside or up to a buoy in harbour, he handled his large Carrier like a powerful motor-boat; coming in fast and expertly to a halt. The official harbour Pilot could be seen sometimes white with anxiety. The ship's company, proud of their Skipper, loved his manner of handling the ship. I believe that the Captain and his young Commander set the cheerful and rather dashing tone of the ship and much credit to them for making it a happy one.
Once I had flown with them, I became accepted by the aircrews and joined them ashore where we enjoyed sitting round the swimming pool and having drinks at the Sports Club in Alex and we received many invitations to lots of parties given by wealthy local people in their large houses. One particularly pretty girl I had tried to date but the competition with these cheerful young (there I go again) Corsair pilots was too much and she was seized from under me, so to speak, by Henry Anderson who, using his Irish charm, took her from me in the friendliest fashion. Also, my inability to swim well was a considerable disadvantage for me with the local girls as we sat round the Club pool in Alex, drinking our gin and iced lemonade. I could only watch when, every now and then, one of the others would dive in to perform a racing crawl.
Once back on board _Colossus_ , however, it was back to flying for the pilots and time for me to find out if I was any good as a batsman, because there began a heavy programme of working up and flying before the ship went on to take her passage through the Suez Canal. John Buckley did most of the batting of the Barracudas, and very good he was too, while I tended to concentrate on the Corsairs. I have to write that the pilots seemed to like my style; I didn't fuss them too much, I let them alone largely to do their own thing and I concentrated on not too many but clearly positive signals during their final approach. Thus, I didn't fuss for instance when Ken, the Senior Pilot, came in always on frighteningly steep turns, as steep as mine had ever been. But then, the truth was that most of these pilots in 1846 squadron, with a long period of training behind them, were better than average and knew their Corsair aircraft well.
The Pilots and Observers of 827, the Barracuda squadron, were experienced operational aircrews with only just a few new boys among them. They too were a cheerful bunch and members of the two squadrons got on well together. During the hassle of those three days of exercises John Buckley and I formed a good friendship while we worked together to operate the flight deck. I had it all to learn and he taught me.
For the aircrews, the following days while the ship squeezed through the Suez Canal, was like a holiday as, many of them wearing just shorts, watched the scenery go by or played deck hockey. But their come-uppance was in the offing. A night exercise for the Barracuda squadron was being prepared for when the ship reached the Red Sea. On the afternoon before the night exercise the weather was intensely hot, humid and the visibility bad and limited by what appeared to be, not so much a normal cloud, but more like a reddish blanket around the ship with not a vestige of wind. It was strange and menacing weather, due it was thought to a recent sandstorm. How thankful I was not to be flying.
The intention was that twelve Barracudas would take part in the night exercise which was to bomb a fictitious target on the Egyptian side of the Sea. And meanwhile on that early evening the aircraft would have to be prepared and ranged ready for the take-off that night. At this stage the decision was made to catapult the aircraft, there being so little wind over the deck and bearing in mind that the maximum speed the ship could generate was no more than twenty-four knots. It was decided also to reduce the number of Barracudas taking part down to eight in view of the longer time factor of the catapult and consequent difficulty of joining up. As for me, apart from my one night landing two years ago in HMS _Illustrious_ and watching sometimes from the Goofers' gallery other pilots landing at night, I had no real experience of night operations on a flight deck. And for that matter, I don't think now that anybody else in the ship had much experience of night operations either. Obviously not the Captain and probably not Wings with his Walrus background. The only pilot with previous night-flying experience from a Carrier was the CO of the Barracuda squadron and two of his Observers, Alastair Maclean and Nelson Abraham, two particular chums of mine, who were experienced.
I doubt if my senior DLCO colleague, John Buckley, had any previous night experience either but, as the man in charge of the deck, he took absolutely the right action by calling all his flight deck party together for a briefing and, with the engineers in charge of the catapult, rehearsed all the actions of moving the aircraft about on the deck at night and the signals with torches that would be necessary to bring the Barracudas forward on to the catapult. The catapult launches were due to start at 8.45 pm and an hour beforehand the thick night was upon us. I don't suppose any one of us had ever before experienced such a stygian blackness as that night; it was like a suffocating black blanket all round the ship and the lights on the flight deck hardly seemed able to penetrate it.
My job was to guide the Barracudas, with a pair of wand-like torches, as they taxied carefully forward up to precisely where engineers waited to fix the aircraft on to the catapult cradle. There, just ahead of the catapult, stood Buckley with a green torch in one hand and a red in the other. Holding up the red light until he received a signal from the Engineer officer that the aircraft was correctly fixed to the catapult, he would replace it with the green light and wave this round his head thus signalling to the pilot to open the throttle to maximum power. On the downward motion of the green light, the Barracuda with engine roaring would be hurled off the deck into the black night. As I brought each aircraft forward, there was just enough light to recognise the faces of the pilots, each one showing strain, while all round me came the noise of the ship at maximum revolutions, the noise of the aircraft engines, the shouts of men further down the deck giving directions and all this din and activity shrouded by that awful darkness.
As I did my job, I ached with worry for each pilot and his crew about to be launched off the deck in those conditions and I longed to shout 'Stop' to this unnecessary nonsense. There really was no reason why the exercise had to go ahead that night. But who of our senior officers had the knowledge and self-confidence to justify postponing it?... None of them, apparently.
As the last of the eight Barracudas roared off into the night, I looked to see if any lights from the aircraft might be visible in the sky; but there was nothing in the utter blackness of the sky to be seen anywhere. The flight deck was quiet now except for the soft sound of the reduced wind over the deck and of the sea moving past the ship. The comparative silence in the pitch black around us was eerie as we tried and failed to hear aircraft engines in the sky above us. I thought about what it must be like up there and, in particular, about how damnably dangerous the catapult launch must have been for each pilot. Without even a vestige of an horizon, just total black night all round, the pilot would have needed to fix his eyes entirely on to the gyro-horizon in the cockpit as the aircraft left the deck. That gyro might well have been momentarily put off balance by the shock and acceleration of the catapult launch but nevertheless he would have had to rely on it absolutely. Once the pilot had climbed steadily up to some 200 feet, then it might be safe to start looking round the sky for the lights of the other aircraft in the formation.
John Buckley was being called up to the Bridge, presumably to talk with Wings about preparations for the landings. When he came down, he told me quietly that two of the Barracudas appeared to be missing. They had not joined up with the CO and his formation, neither had there been a single sound from their Radio/Telephones. Meantime the six remaining Barracudas were on their way back to the ship and we must be ready to land them on. It was another half hour before at last we heard aero engines above us. The aircraft had come down low to about 500 feet, flying in line astern, so that we could now see them by their lights. Buckley, on the batsman's platform at the stern of the deck, had put on his harness of batting lights consisting of a light at the end of each wand and a third light on his chest; thus he could indicate at night to the pilot whether his aircraft was positioned high or low on the approach. I stood behind him, ready to take over if necessary. We could just see the bow wave of our escorting Corvette about two hundred yards astern, but could see nothing of the small ship itself. But how comforting it was to know it was there.
The six Barracudas approached at long intervals of half a minute and Buckley batted them all down safely and without any of them having to go round again. It was the result of good combination between pilots and batsman. When the last Barracuda had landed, I went forward ahead of the barrier to supervise putting all six aircraft down into the hangar below. Meantime the crews moved slowly off to the Ready room for what would be a sad de-briefing of the night exercise. The CO of the Barracuda squadron, a man aged about twenty-seven, looked more like eighty as he walked across the deck with his face grey from the responsibility and intense concentration of leading his squadron in those awful conditions and with the realisation that two of his crews were missing. The conclusion from the de-brief was that each of the two lost aircraft had gone into the sea shortly after being launched from the catapult. In the pitch black of that particular night no one had seen them and, with the noise of the aircraft engines on the flight deck, no one had heard them splash into the sea. What a dreadful and pointless waste of the lives of six young men.
At the end of the Red Sea, the ship lobbed in at Aden for some reason (the dear old Royal Navy hadn't changed and never told us anything) but it was an interesting day ashore and some of us had a swim in the warm sea. I included myself among the aircrew now because I had been ordered to fly with 1846 Squadron who had lost a pilot through sickness. Consequently, while on our way across the Indian Ocean, I flew on two exercises with the squadron as number four in the same flight with the Senior Pilot, presumably so that he could keep an eye on me and see if I was good enough. Bless his heart, I never pointed out to him that I had much more squadron experience than he had. I was happy to recognise that he was a damn good Senior Pilot and leave it at that. We carried out simulated attacks, each flight from a different direction, on a target towed astern of the ship. The sort of thing I had done so many times before. But I wasn't going to say so. The fun of it was that, after landing my Corsair, I established a routine of running back along the flight deck to bat on those of the squadron not yet landed. It was my job still to do my share of the batting and, to be honest, I enjoyed the kudos of this unique double function of Squadron Pilot and Batsman.
Before the ship reached harbour at Trincomalee, both squadrons flew ashore to land at my old friend, Puttalam, from where in due course we were scheduled to carry out wing exercises in company with squadrons from _Vengeance_ , _Venerable_ and _Glory_ , the other Light-Fleet Carriers. Meantime, HMS _Colossus_ had sailed on round to Trincomalee harbour where she was due to be joined by the other three Carriers shortly after. Their squadrons would operate from three other aerodromes at China Bay, the Racecourse at Colombo and at Katakarunda.
All this build-up of aircraft in Ceylon and wing training of the squadrons was almost exactly as it had been for me a year ago when I was in the Hellcat squadron. It was all so much the same that I felt as though I was reliving a familiar dream, almost a nightmare. And the familiarity made me realise belatedly that I was heading for the same dreaded risks of strafing and bombing those damned Japs. Tiny Devonald, as CO of our Corsair squadron, would be the lynchpin of the overall training of the whole new Carrier Group because he had done it all before in the Pacific as a squadron commander. Meantime I had been promoted to lead one of the six flights of the squadron of twenty-four Corsairs; not forgetting also that I would have to do my share of the batting when the squadrons were on board _Colossus_.
One of the features in the design of the Corsair was the use of the specially strengthened undercarriage as dive-brakes. Tiny, based on his experience in the previous year against the Japanese, was convinced that better use should be made of the Corsair's dive-bombing capability. He reasoned that, if dive-bombing could be made more accurate, it would be a much safer form of attack and perhaps equally effective. In consequence, three flight leaders at a time flew with Tiny to learn his dive-bombing technique at the bombing range located on the coast near Puttalam. The essence was to start at 7,000 feet, select dive-brakes and fly almost over the top and slightly to the right of the target. Immediately the target appeared just behind the port wing, then roll over to port to dive apparently vertically down on to the target. In fact, this would give a dive angle of nearly 75 degrees, but it would seem vertical from the cockpit and at first I feared that my practice bombs would hit the propeller. Press the bomb release tit just before 4,000 ft and pull the aircraft up and away with the intention of avoiding the short-range fire of the Japanese gunners, which would be much more accurate below 4,000 ft.
The problems, which I knew from previous experience in Hellcats, were to aim the aircraft with any accuracy during the dive and then to judge the exact moment of the pull-out height. But Tiny reckoned that if we all practised hard and often enough, we would get it right. Well, we might have done perhaps if we could have had another couple of months at it but, in fact, the results showed that we rarely hit the target and our bombing heights were consistently wrong. We all improved with practice but not a lot. Instead, we reverted to the practice of low-level bombing and very low-level strafing attacks.
Replacement aircrews and Barracudas arrived at Puttalam for 827 Squadron and, since the new pilots needed deck-landing experience, there was an opportunity for me to join them in some dummy deck-landings on the aerodrome in a Barracuda, using the local 'resident' batsman. Wings co-operated again and allowed me to fly one of the Barras on board and to complete two landings. The actual deck-landing of the Barracuda, under the normal conditions of sea and wind, was as comfortable as I had expected it to be. Ugly duckling of an aircraft the Barracuda certainly was, but it was a pleasant aircraft to handle at slow speeds on the approach and I was glad of the chance to fly and deck-land it, although thankful not ever to have been appointed to a Barracuda squadron.
In mid July, all four Carriers of the Light Fleet group left Trincomalee harbour, en route for Sydney. The squadron aircraft flew out from their airfields in Ceylon to land on board their respective Carriers outside the harbour. It had been a busy last month in Ceylon, working up as an Air Group, learning to combine together in Wing formations and in simulated attacks on various bogus targets in preparation for operations in the Pacific. It was understood that we would join the Fleet Carriers who had moved further north of the Sakashima Gunto Islands, which I remembered only too well, and they were now operating off the Japanese coastline.
My previous ship, the _Indomitable_ , was now in Sydney harbour having completed a repair to her engines and was awaiting our arrival perhaps to act as our lead ship, flying the Admiral's flag. If so, I hoped that at least we would have a new and different Admiral. It seemed that with the sole exception of myself everybody was excited and looking forward to the prospect ahead of them. However, I was careful of course to disguise my lack of enthusiasm and foreboding; it would hardly have been the right attitude to adopt among my fellow enthusiastic Corsair pilots, including Tiny who was raring to get going against the Japanese again. Our Carrier group was due to enter Sydney harbour but, before doing so, all the Corsair squadrons flew off to Nowra, the airfield some eighty miles south of Sydney, which had now developed into a major aerodrome for FAA aircraft. It was a dreary little town and we tried to liven it up by having a party for the Mayor and local residents which went down like a lead balloon.
There was a major change and a bit of a shock waiting for me when I landed back on _Colossus_. First of all to find that a new boy second batsman had arrived to take my place in the ship. An Admiralty signal was waiting for me which formally appointed me, as from 8 August, to 1846 squadron. Commander Lane, our Wings, was kind enough to express his regret that I had been replaced as batsman but said that there was a need for experienced fighter pilots. So goodbye to my combined and unusual role as a batsman/pilot, which I had enjoyed. I was once again committed to full-time flying duties.
## CHAPTER FIFTEEN
## Immediate Post-war: 1846 Squadron
The four Light Fleet Aircraft Carriers and their Destroyer escorts were now designated as the 11th Carrier Air Group and an Admiral Harcourt, with his Flag in HMS _Venerable_ , was the new boss man. I had landed on _Colossus_ to find myself once more a member of 1846 Squadron, instead of batsman for the ship, so I was involved immediately as a flight leader in the now intensive training exercises of the Air Group. These new squadrons in the Group would have to learn the procedures and skills for taking-off from the four Carriers and forming up their 160 aircraft into wing formations, just as we had learned the year before, when I was in the Hellcat squadron. Moreover, the ship's officers would have to learn the American signalling systems and refuelling procedures. All this was scheduled for the days ahead but, on 12 August, the Carrier Group was signalled to return into Sydney harbour. I had no idea of any reason for the early recall and neither did any of the other aircrews know what it was about.
**Then on 15 August came the formal signal for the cessation of hostilities and the end of the war.**
I learned for the first time about the Nuclear Bomb and its devastating effect on the two Japanese Cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and of the consequent total surrender by the Japanese. Presumably the Captain and other senior people in the ship to some extent were aware of what had been happening but, as a typical member of aircrew, I had known nothing about it. Initially I was quite bewildered and found it difficult to accept the fact of the war end or to appreciate the enormity of what it meant. There had been war throughout all of my adult life and, having taken my part in it, my mind was attuned to think only in the short term. Now it might be possible to think ahead. But just in those first days, it was difficult to do so. With realisation that the war was really ended, came a sense of stupendous relief that I would not, after all, have to repeat the type of 'ramrod' operations of only four months ago against the Japanese. Only now could I admit to myself how scared I had been at the prospect of having again to take part in operations against that barbaric and fanatical enemy. The probability at that time of an Allied assault on the mainland of Japan was even more frightening, since the casualties would inevitably have been enormous and the Fleet Air Arm would have been in the thick of it.
On that day in mid August 1945, all was joy as Sydney and the Royal Navy and all other shipping in Sydney harbour erupted in celebration. First was the signal to all ships of the Royal Navy to 'splice the mainbrace'; meaning rum all round to every man in the Fleet and a 'rum' bar was set up in the Wardroom for all officers to collect and drink their double tot. In an earlier ship, the _Atheling_ , I had become very ill indeed from drinking navy grog (rum) when invited to the Petty Officers' Mess, which was the sort of unofficial and very unusual invitation that one could not refuse. As the result, I absolutely detested all forms of rum let alone the very strong navy grog and, even to this day, cannot bear the smell of the stuff. I drank a sip out of my glass for this very special occasion and managed to off-load the rest of it to someone else.
As it grew dark over Sydney harbour, so the celebrations began with Very lights and fireworks lighting the sky over the ships and the constant bangs of blank gunfire going off. There was plenty of whisky and booze going the rounds and two cans of beer each seemed to have found their way into the hands of the sailors. It seemed that the whole ship's company was on the flight deck to see the show but nobody became drunk or noisy, there was just a general air of happiness as the wonderful news of the war end was savoured and everyone could start to think of going home.
Alas, it wasn't going to be quite so simple as that and, in fact, did we but know it there would be many months yet before the _Colossus_ and many of us in her would arrive back in the UK. The Government had made a promise, at the end of the war in Europe, to send servicemen back home and to return them to civilian life as soon as possible. However, there was the immediate priority for the Admirals, Harcourt in Sydney and Mountbatten in Ceylon, to reoccupy all the British Protectorates in the Far East of which the Japanese had taken possession since December 1941. Even more of a priority was to evacuate all the prisoners of war from those territories taken by the Japanese. The appalling ill-treatment they had received was known world-wide and it was essential that they should be rescued and looked after properly as soon as it could possibly be done.
Immediate preparations for the rescue and repatriation of the POWs were being made on the basis that Aircraft Carriers, with their huge hangar space, would be the best possible means of collecting and temporarily accommodating the many hundreds of men who had been prisoners of the Japanese. Most of the existing aircraft and their crews would have to be off-loaded from the Aircraft Carriers without delay to create sufficient space for that purpose. It followed that there was a need to determine quickly who amongst the aircrews would have to remain with their Squadrons in the Aircraft Carriers and which of them could be sent home. The Admiralty hoped to help resolve this question by immediately offering short-service commissions of four years to existing aircrews of the Fleet Air Arm. Those of us in the Fleet Air Arm, in the situation prevailing out in the Far East, would have to make decisions quickly about what we hoped for our future.
The 'Schoolie' in the ship, i.e. the ex-schoolmaster whose main job normally had been to forecast the weather, was armed with all the information about Government Grants and how to apply for them. His job now was to advise and help us decide what we wanted to do and how to go about applying for it and he held interviews with us all in turn all day, every day. I had been thinking about what I should do for hours and hours before my turn came to discuss the possibilities with him and I had a feeling that ideally I would like to be a solicitor; the law appealed to me for some reason although I knew practically nothing about it. The truth is that, having done little else but fly aircraft since I had left school five years earlier, I was so damned ignorant about the normal world and what went on in it that I needed good advice. I didn't feel that I could contact my Father; I had never received a single letter from him throughout the war and my last contact with him had been early in 1943. Anyway, his only advice I guessed would be for me to return to an engineering apprenticeship. There was no one else to whom I could turn other than this young Schoolmaster.
At the interview, I remember the Schoolie smiling rather condescendingly when I suggested my interest in becoming a Solicitor. He pointed out that my matriculation exam passes on leaving school had not been all that good and moreover, after a period of five years, it was going to be difficult for me to start learning again, particularly learning such a complex subject as the law. He told me that, after two years at University, I would be required to study for the very much harder examinations of the Law Society. The sum total of his advice was that I should apply for the short-term commission as aircrew.
I thought about it. Maybe the Schoolie was right. The self-confidence I now possessed stemmed from my flying experience and ability, but I had little confidence in my ability to do anything else. Admittedly there were some aspects of flying which I feared but, surely, peacetime flying would be comparatively easy? Or so I reasoned at the time. Moreover, pondering over the prospect of remaining in the Royal Navy, it dawned on me that the future of naval aviation and my own part in it, if I stayed on, could be much brighter than it had hitherto appeared to be. Experienced aircrew such as myself surely would gradually gain seniority up to the highest ranks among the Captains and Admirals. Thus at last, after having had to fight a war under the command of inexperienced leaders, ignorant of naval aviation, the Fleet Air Arm in a few years time would automatically come to be led by airmen who knew what they were doing; men who would be altogether better able to lead the new generation of Fleet Air Arm aircrews.
In looking back now as I write, I can't help likening the leadership of the aircrews by the Admirals during our war, to that of the British soldiers in the First World War led by their Generals. The soldiers had been described then as 'Lions led by Donkeys.' An equally apt description for the Fleet Air Arm aircrews surely would be, 'Eagles led by Penguins,' since so very few of the Admirals and Senior Officers who led them, whether they had wings on their uniforms or not, ever flew an aircraft.
Indeed, it might have been better if the Admiralty had never retrieved control of naval aviation in 1938, so that in Aircraft Carriers during the war, experienced Royal Air Force officers would have had the direction and control of air strategy and of all flying operations whilst the Captain would have remained responsible for the handling and safety of the ship. Such thinking was hurtful to me personally, because I took great pride in serving as an officer of the Royal Navy and in carrying out the duties of a naval officer, other than being merely the pilot of an aircraft.
Despite what I have written about the misfortune of naval aviation being under the control of Admiralty during the war, now is not the time for Admiralty, under pressure from the Treasury, to relinquish that control. Over fifty years after that war, by now half of the Admirals now serving must surely have had aircrew experience in the Fleet Air Arm. It would be absurd therefore, when now at last there are senior and experienced naval aviators in the Royal Navy, to hand control of naval aviation back to the Air Force.
And yet, as I write all these years later, significant changes may be taking place already and the Fleet Air Arm appears to be gradually returning under the control of the Royal Air Force. For example in September of 2004, I was invited to attend as a guest at a Dining-in night in the Wardroom of RNAS Yeovilton, the Fighter Station of the Fleet Air Arm, where I was astounded to find that half the members of the Wardroom were in the uniform of the Royal Air Force.
It didn't help the cause of the Royal Navy and its Fleet Air Arm when, for the Falklands War, the Admiralty reverted to its tradition of appointing because of his seniority, a seaman submariner, as the Rear Admiral in charge of the sea operations, when the whole enterprise of the war was so largely dependent on the best use of the two Aircraft Carriers and their Harrier aircraft. At the time, there were other Admirals of equivalent rank available, who were experienced naval airmen and, as such, would have known how properly and even more effectively to deploy the Harrier aircraft. They would have known, for example, never to waste the precious Harriers on the inevitably ineffective bombing of an airfield, but always to have them out ahead on combat patrol to protect the fleet and the troop carriers against the Mirage aircraft of the Argentinians. It is to my point that whilst, in his book, Rear Admiral Woodward writes lengthy and deserved credits about all the Captains of the various ships of his fleet, there is hardly a mention of the Squadron Commanders and pilots of the Harriers who flew daily with courage and with such effective impact on the enemy, and who did so all too frequently in dreadful weather conditions for flying.
I am sorry that I have digressed again from the main story, but I do get so cross looking back on some of the ill-considered actions and bad decisions of the Admirals and Admiralty, relating to naval aviation, during war.
Back then to 1945 when, believing that there were prospects of a good career as a naval officer and pilot in the Fleet Air Arm of the future, I made the most significant and foolish decision of my life. I decided to apply for the short-term Commission in the Royal Navy without any doubt in my mind that, in due course, I would be offered a permanent commission. It was an ill-considered decision which would cause me stress and worry throughout most of my future life as, by the end of those four years and by then married with two children, I reluctantly concluded that naval aviation was not the right career for me, particularly as a man with family responsibilities.
I rejected the permanent commission when it became subsequently available to me. By that time it was too late to obtain a university or other educational grant and in consequence, without any qualifications whatsoever, I struggled to find work. It was two years and many lowly jobs later, including lavatory cleaner, unskilled factory worker and worst of all door to door salesman, before I learned enough to get a foot on to the bottom rung of a career in industry. Even then, because of my lack of qualifications, there were many more years of ups and downs, with all sorts of different jobs before reaching the safe haven of job security with responsibility at Director level.
If I had not taken the short service commission, I know now from the eventual success in my working life, that I would have had no difficulty in passing the Law Society exams. And then, as a typical solicitor during the long fifty-five years of almost continuous boom in post-war Britain, I would have followed a gentle albeit rather boring upward path to comfortable wealth. No doubt to share my wealth, I would have been wedded by a nice girl with whom I would have enjoyed a life beset by no more than the normal problems of an economically comfortable family in peacetime. All that would have been pleasant enough and sometimes I looked wistfully across the divide of my age and experience towards my younger friends, now in their sixties, whose post-war schooling and time at University had made such a level lifestyle possible. But in retrospect, I am glad of the life I led as the result of that rash decision I made back in August 1945. Not only because it led me to my wife, Heather, but also because I worked with people of all types whom I would never otherwise have met and in environments which I would never otherwise have known.
And so in August 1945 my decision had been made and my application for a short service commission, together with several more from other aircrew in _Colossus_ , were signalled to Admiralty. They were all accepted and approved within days. The Admiralty was evidently in a hurry to establish its nucleus of officers in the Fleet Air Arm, particularly those serving in the Far East, where immediate and urgent peacetime missions had to be undertaken.
In the meantime, HMS _Colossus_ was in a flurry of activity, taking on hundreds of camp beds and medical staff, as part of the preparations to collect and care for hundreds of our ex-Prisoners of the Japanese. The intention was to collect them from Formosa and other areas as soon as possible.
Those aircrew who had opted to leave the Navy and to get back into 'civvie street' were being sent ashore to await transport home to the UK. Nearly all of our Squadron pilots left and were replaced with some from the other Carriers in the Group leaving us with twelve pilots. The Barracuda Squadron was due to fly off eight aircraft and crew as soon as the ship left harbour. As regards all the twenty-four Corsair aircraft on board, we were horrified to learn that twelve of them, all of which had been lovingly maintained by the squadron for many months past, were to be ditched into the sea shortly after the ship left Sydney harbour. This was in accordance with the terms of the Lease Lend agreement with America which demanded, now that the war was ended, that HM Government must pay for the hundreds of aircraft provided under that agreement or ditch them.
Throughout September and until mid October, _Colossus_ acted as a ferry ship collecting those poor battered, desperately thin and sickly ex-prisoners of the Japanese, mostly from Formosa, to take them to either Manila or Hong Kong. Good accommodation and hospital arrangements had been prepared for the POWs in both those places from where they would be shipped back to the UK as fast as was possible. _Colossus_ could provide temporary accommodation for up to four hundred POWs but it was only suitable for the short ferry trips, although every effort was made by the ship's company to make them comfortable. All they seemed to want at that stage was to lie or sit quietly and be left, without talking much, to enjoy cigarettes, the good food and above all their freedom.
After completing two passages from Formosa to deliver our POWs to their hospital accommodation in Leyte, the ship arrived in Hong Kong on or about 17 October to offload into hospital another three hundred POWs. Officers and men of the ship's company were given various tasks ashore to help in the rehabilitation and reorganisation of the City pending the arrival of more professional administrators. To my joy, because by this time I badly needed something worthwhile to do, I was given the job of ensuring the security of the 'Go-Downs' on the harbour side of Kowloon.
I hadn't got a clue what this would entail and I didn't even know, as a start, that a 'Go-Down' was the local name given to a storage depot for goods and materials unloaded from ships. I was to be accompanied by a Petty Officer, a leading rate and twelve men, all dressed in gaiters and armed with rifles and cudgels and we were to go ashore for an unspecified period of time. Quarters had been found for the men in what had been a small hotel near the harbour and I was provided with a flat in Kowloon almost alongside their hotel. Despite my total ignorance of the task, it was a wonderfully interesting, new prospect and I was excited and pleased to have the job.
There was an existing manager for the 'Go-Downs' who had remained in charge under the Japanese during their occupation, as had the Overseer in charge of the Chinese labourers. My job, with my little platoon of sailors, was to protect the goods from theft. Sounded easy enough until I learned that the Chinese practically relied upon theft to make a living since they were paid such a pittance. In my little office, a long pliant cane was provided since the common practice apparently had been to mete out instant justice with it whenever a thief was caught. The first thief we caught was a very pretty young girl who, all too obviously, had wound a whole lot of silks around her body under her clothes. We were supposed to cane her and she evidently expected it. I couldn't cope with such a ridiculous situation and so, in the time-honoured manner and words of naval tradition, I said to my Petty Officer, 'Carry on then, Petty Officer.' And he, just a young chap like me, looking puce with embarrassment turned to the Leading Rate and said 'You do it.' 'Not bloody likely,' said he, an elderly rating in his thirties, 'my missus would never forgive me.' And so I gave up and told the girl she could go. At this, we were treated to such an incredulous and happy smile of thanks that we all felt vastly pleased with ourselves and our magnanimity, while hoping it wouldn't happen again.
The next thief caught by two of my chaps on patrol looked like a middle aged Chinese worker and, instead of the cane, I had him escorted to the Overseer. The man had begged and pleaded with me not to do that and I learned afterwards, to my shame, that the Overseer had banned him from seeking work again in the Go-Downs. No wonder, with a family to support, he had been so desperate. But the rate of attempted thefts dropped dramatically thereafter. Until then I had not understood the huge power held by the Overseer over his fellow Chinese workers. Early every morning they formed a long queue, young and old, outside the gates of the harbour and the Overseer would walk along the queue selecting those who, as I realised eventually, offered him the largest share of their standard pittance payment for their day's work. I was told it was the form and not to interfere. All those in the queue brought with them a ludicrously small wooden bowl of rice which would be their food for the day.
The flat where I was accommodated had been occupied previously by a Japanese Army officer of high rank who had been taken away to a prison camp guarded by our Marines. It was, therefore, a smart and well-equipped flat which included a young Chinese girl as the 'amah'. The girl spoke very little English, in itself unusual for a girl in Hong Kong, but she made it very clear to me that she had also been the Japanese officer's mistress for which, presumably, there had been some addition to her weekly pay packet. If so, then the dear old Admiralty would now be paying it on my behalf. However, it was not quite such a perfect set-up as it might appear because this nice looking girl had imposed two unsightly blemishes on herself in the form of tight bindings round her chest covering her breasts and with similar bindings on her feet. Those tight bindings spoilt for me her otherwise attractive appearance and, since she spoke almost no English, I was never able to fully enjoy her company. Although she was also a super cook of Chinese food, I went out often in the evenings to meet friends in the restaurants, which were beginning to spring up in Hong Kong and Kowloon. Indeed, all around the City, trade of all sorts already was tentatively emerging. What a resilient people they were.
While in Kowloon, I had my first close up sight of the Japanese military. There was a platoon of about twenty of them who had been put to work repairing the road in the harbour area. Two Marines were guarding them but they hardly seemed necessary because these Japanese men, who were under the control of their Sergeant, carried out their work at an astonishingly fast pace; not walking but running from one place to another and seemingly intent only on getting their job done as fast as possible. All this was done under the eye of their sergeant who shouted continuously at them and of whom they were obviously very frightened. I had assumed that these grubby looking Japanese soldiers, whose ferocity in war and barbaric cruelty to those they conquered had created fear throughout the Far East, would make the most surly and dangerous of prisoners, full of menace. Apparently it was not the case. I learned later that the Japanese, in nearly all the areas they had occupied, offered no resistance once they received the order from their highest Military Authority to surrender.
Watching these Japanese soldiers at their work, I could visualize how they had accomplished such rapid repairs each night on those runways we had bombed daily on the Sakashima Islands. And seeing their unharmed physical condition, I compared them with our own people who, as their prisoners, had been found to be in such dreadful physical condition. I wondered if these Japanese soldiers even realised or appreciated the difference in their treatment.
In particular I remembered Jack Haberfield, that friendly New Zealander who back in 1944 had shown me the cockpit of the Hellcat and with whom I had flown in 1839 squadron, He had been shot down with eight other aircrew over Palembang. All nine, as was now known for certain, had suffered torture for three months before being taken out together on to a beach by their Japanese guards where they were beheaded, one by one, in front of the diminishing remainder. I wondered, as I watched and remembered Jack, could these Japanese people really be regarded as human? Well, fifty years later, they seem to have been accepted as such since they design and sell a huge percentage of the electronic goods and equipment used by the whole of the western world.
About three weeks later HMS _Colossus_ left Hong Kong harbour and the general understanding amongst us was that we were on our way back to the UK via Cape Town. In the meantime, flying re-commenced because there were a number of new aircrew to be worked up in both the two squadrons consisting then of twelve Corsairs and eight Barracudas. I was now the Senior Pilot of 1846, not by any particular merit but because I was the only pilot of Lieutenant rank left behind although, since I had much more experience than anyone else other than the CO, my title of Senior Pilot seemed fair enough. The ship had a new batsman, a South African bearded chap, and I shared a part of the 'batting ' with him when not flying.
As regards the flying, I found little pleasure in it. It seemed to me that I had been forever going through the motions of working-up a squadron and, although service flying especially from a Carrier was inevitably dangerous even in peacetime, I was extremely bored with it. Particularly now, with the war over, when there was no longer any intensity of purpose to it. I did so hope that there would be some new and different sort of flying job available for me when we returned to the UK. I was already beginning to regret my decision to take a short service commission and I needed a new type of job, if I was to revive my interest in the Royal Navy.
By this time, it was known that when we arrived at Cape Town the ship would have to proceed to the adjacent dockland town of Simonstown and there to remain in a dock for several weeks for engine repairs to be carried out. Meantime, the squadrons would fly ashore to Wingfield, the aerodrome for Cape Town. And so the next weeks were spent meeting a whole bevy of pretty, rich girls and having endless parties with them which usually took place in their large homes in and around Cape Town. Occasionally I would bumble around the sky in my Corsair doing my usual dreadfully bad aerobatics. The old guard of the original pilots in the Squadron had been replaced at this time by new pilots who had opted like me for the short service commission. We had a new CO, Donald Dick, an unusually good pilot and, as for me, I was to be superseded in the near future as Senior Pilot by an excellent type of chap. Not as much squadron experience as I had accumulated but, as he had more than a year's seniority than me as a Lieutenant, that would automatically make him the senior man under the RN rules. Anyway he was only with us for a short time, so it didn't matter.
While at Cape Town, I escaped marriage by the skin of my teeth. She really was a nice girl. Pam Foster, and I truly liked her and enjoyed her company. In that heady atmosphere of expensive parties, I believed that I was in love and rather liked the idea of settling down in South Africa with her as my wife. The reality was, I suspect, that I was more 'in love' with the idea of being in love and with the general scenario of the rich lifestyle out there. I got on well with her father and brother and it was implied that a job in her father's building company was in the offing when I left the Navy. Thank goodness for both her and for me, immature as I was, some instinct warned me that the affair was unreal and to back off slightly. Her father frequently lent me one of his large American cars for us to drive to the beaches or to parties. But it so happened that we never found an opportunity for full sex, cuddling and groping about in the car was about as far as we ever went.
It was a pity because perhaps Pam would have been happier and less intense, after I left Cape Town, if we had run the full sexual course. For one thing, I was not a good lover and she would most probably have been disappointed and have 'gorn orf' me fairly quickly. I do so hope that she was not really in love and that it was just an infatuation on her part. I discovered later that there were a number of marriages between South African girls and young British servicemen in those first months after the war. Very few were good marriages. The girls, many from wealthy families with plenty of servants, were unable to cope in England with the stringent food rationing, the cooking, the cleaning and the small, cold, rented accommodation which was all a junior officer could afford.
There was a grave shortage of young men in Cape Town, their own troops having not yet returned from the war at that time and so, to Pam and the other girls, the advent of our two Squadrons and aircrews at Wingfield might well have appeared as manna from the skies. Also there was an atmosphere of competition among many of her girl-friends who all wanted a piece of fighter pilot if they could get their hands on one. Moreover, to be honest, I have to write that I was slim and reasonably good-looking at that time and could cut a dash at the parties being the Senior Pilot of the fighter squadron and as a Lieutenant in uniform wearing wings and the medal ribbons just issued to us. For this first and only for a very brief moment in my life, I might have appeared as a figure of glamour? Who could blame Pam therefore for what followed?
The result of this bogus glamour was that, when I eventually left Cape Town in HMS _Colossus_ , I was followed by letters written to me in loving terms by Pam and stacks of these letters in their mauve envelopes were waiting for me in every port thereafter. She must have written a full letter almost every day after I left and, I am so sorry, but I came to absolutely dread them. It was the worst possible thing a girl could do; it killed stone dead my feeling for her because to expect me to answer all those letters was altogether too demanding. I doubt if young women would ever do that sort of thing these days.
Pam's parents were divorced and her mother lived in England. Pam had written to her about this 'marvellous' young naval officer she wanted to marry and urged her to meet me when I returned to the UK. And so months later, when I was back in England on leave, I wrote to the mother and arranged the meeting. I was very nervous because somehow I had to convey to her, when we met, that I had no desire or intention of marriage to her daughter. This was a problem because, in the face of that deluge of loving letters, I hadn't had the guts yet to tell Pam kindly and firmly that I neither loved or wanted to marry her. Nevertheless, I wanted very much to make a good impression on her mother so that I would appear mature and a man of the world while explaining to her that I couldn't marry her daughter.
And so, idiot that I was, I booked a table for lunch at the Mirabelle, a hideously expensive restaurant in Curzon Street, London. I arrived early, very nervous and ordered a dry Martini. The restaurant was almost empty. I drank two more Martinis before the mother arrived. She was tall, well dressed in an austere and rather old-fashioned style and, as I rose to my feet, gave me her hand and a piercing look before she sat down in the chair held for her by the waiter. We talked of this and that and I ordered the meal and a bottle of wine after consulting her. She spoke about Pam's childhood and early life then, after asking me about the Navy, expressed her surprise that I had only a short service commission. But I assured her, garrulous by now with wine on top of the strong Martinis, that I was quite certain of a permanent commission in due course. 'Why?' she asked, to which I couldn't really find a sensible answer.
Before I could get round to the nitty-gritty matter of not wanting to marry her daughter, she said it was time for her to think about catching her train. So I hurriedly asked the waiter for the bill. It came. It was so staggeringly high that I had nowhere near enough money to pay it. So, cringing with shame, I had to ask her if I could borrow the balance. So she paid for her half. But before she left the table she said, 'You are quite the most un-impressive young man I have ever met. I shall send a telegram to Pam and her father immediately to say that for her to marry a young man like you, sodden with drink, would be madness and a total disaster. You will understand that I hope sincerely never to see you again and thank you for my half lunch.' And so saying, she swept out of the restaurant. Thus ended the most embarrassing meal in all my life.
But I digress – back now to November 1945 in Cape Town when the squadron was in a state of flux with most pilots and men leaving with new ones joining. The new pilots were reasonably experienced so that, apart from arranging some ADDLs for them on the runway, so that I could assess their deck-landing performance before rejoining the ship, we rarely flew. I could see little point in organised flying exercises at that stage.
About four weeks later the repairs to the ship were completed and, after a tearful farewell from Pam, I took off with the Squadron, following the new CO, Donald Dick, to land back on board _Colossus_ again. It was a relief really to be at sea again and away from the cloying party life of Cape Town.
To our astonishment, the ship turned towards Ceylon instead of returning home to the UK. What on earth could be the purpose in going back there? As usual, no one appeared able to tell the ship's company and, if there was some purpose, it was retained as a secret by those in command. I had long since ceased to be impressed by Naval secrecy, reasonable sometimes in wartime perhaps but quite unnecessary in peacetime surely, and I had come to the conclusion that the Royal Navy really didn't know what it was doing half the time anyway and used the cloak of secrecy to disguise its inconsistency and uncertainty.
The voyage and visit to Ceylon appeared to me then as it does now, as a post-war and time wasting exercise without any apparent purpose to it. I doubted if there would be any work or flying of value to be done and it should have been an ideal opportunity for me to learn something other than flying. Had I been sensible, I would have started a correspondence course in some subject such as contract law, accountancy or plain book-keeping because, whether or not I remained in the Navy after the short four year commission, such learning would have given me something more than just this damn fool flying as a basis for my life.
A few days later the ship was approaching the coast of Ceylon and already the warm pungent smell of the Island was pervading the air around the flight deck as the Corsairs and Barracudas were ranged for take-off. We were to land at Katakarunda, a new airfield to me as a base although I had landed there before. I remembered it as being very similar to Puttalam although located some miles inland. Indeed, the runway, squadron offices and huts were almost identical and similarly surrounded by thick jungle. What was the squadron supposed to be doing here, I wondered?
Well, the obvious answer to that was pretty depressing for me because, since each of the twelve pilots except me had only joined the squadron fairly recently, it seemed that the squadron was here in Ceylon to 'work-up' into a capable fighting force again. I was the only remaining aircrew from the 1846 Squadron of six months ago when at the time I had doubled up also as one of the ship's batsmen. To fly low and fast over that jungle again, to carry out simulated bombing and strafing attacks on the same old ranges, would be 'Déjà vu' for me for the third time. I had done it all in 890 squadron flying Wildcats during the early months of 1944, again in 1839 squadron flying Hellcats for several months during the second half of 1944 and now here I was at it again in 1945 flying Corsairs with a new bunch of young chaps. In spite of the boredom of the current task, however, I was buoyed up by all my recent thoughts about the Fleet Air Arm and how it must inevitably develop in the future and maybe my rank along with it. I must be patient.
Actually, it wasn't all that bad because, until he left to join another squadron, the chap who had superseded me as Senior Pilot was there to do all the work and arrange the flying programmes which left me free for most of the time. I took the opportunity to have an oblique camera fitted to my Corsair and I practised using it for Recce work taking photos of various locations from different heights. I had a number two with me often, Geoff Higgs, a very pleasant companion in the air and on the ground, though quite a serious and solemn chap who, rather irritatingly, flew with greater skill than I did. Indeed he was to earn in later years a well-deserved AFC as a test and trials pilot. The other new pilots were also reasonably experienced having served, albeit briefly, in a squadron previously. I didn't think there was need to fly and train such pilots too seriously as the squadron would almost certainly be dissolved when we returned to the UK in a few weeks anyway. And yet, for some reason, pilots were transported up to India to collect new Corsairs for the squadron. This seemed quite dotty as we might as well have kept the Corsairs which, only three months previously, had been chucked into the sea.
This pointless existence at Katakarunda came to an end after Christmas and the call came at last to rejoin our ship. I arranged for a session of dummy deck-landings for all Corsair pilots on the airfield runway as some time had elapsed since any of us had landed on a Carrier and, wartime or not, to put a Corsair onto the deck demanded full concentration and practice. _Colossus_ with her escort was waiting for us off the coast near Colombo and what a joy it was to see her in that dark blue sea, leaving a bright white wake behind as she turned into wind, increasing speed as she did so. After the doldrums of Katakarunda, I perked up and looked forward to the comfort and companionship of life on board again. But steady now, I must concentrate on making a decent safe landing. There was no point in showing off; after all there was no longer anyone I wanted to impress. All I wanted was to get myself home safely in the hope of a new type of flying job; anything other than working up and training a squadron please.
On a typically cold winter's day of low cloud and rain in March 1946, HMS _Colossus_ , flying a huge long decommissioning Pennant, arrived in the Solent off the entrance to Portsmouth harbour. A range of our remaining eight serviceable Corsairs and eight Barracudas was prepared and ready on the flight deck to take-off and land at Lee-onSolent. I was boot-faced and bad tempered at having to lead the Corsairs on the flight ashore but Wings was adamant that it was I who should do it. He seemed to think that there was some kudos for me in leading the last flight. Perhaps he thought it would be appropriate since I was the only remaining member of his original group of aviators. But I had wanted very much to be on board as the ship entered Portsmouth harbour to moor alongside the jetty where crowds of relatives and visitors would be waiting to welcome the ship home. It would be an occasion of much excitement and happiness which I didn't want to miss.
On walking across the flight deck to my Corsair, I saw that my fitter and rigger had fixed a long thin Pennant from the radio aerial, just behind the cockpit, which extended the whole length of the fuselage to the rear of the tailplane and already this long thin flag was waving gaily about in the wind. I wasn't too keen on the thing but felt that I had to disguise my bad temper to thank my two chaps for thinking of such a gay form of departure for me and for taking so much trouble over it. However, I had a good look at the attachment to make sure it was firmly fixed. Once I had started the engine and, by the time the wind had built up over the flight deck, the Pennant was stretched out tight along the top of the fuselage with the end of it flicking around the rudder. But I couldn't see this from the cockpit.
The weather was absolutely foul with cloud no more than a few hundred feet up and closing in with heavy rain. I had briefed the other pilots that I would not do a fly-past and that we would make straight for the aerodrome. Anyway, we all wanted to get down as quickly as possible and into the buses waiting to take us back to the jetty in time, we hoped, to see the ship come in. As soon as I got airborne off the deck, I felt something was wrong. I had to use left aileron to counteract a yaw to starboard and to keep the Corsair flying straight. I realised that the rudder must be jammed at an angle; the damned Pennant must have wrapped itself into the hinges of the rudder. On the radio, I told the two flights to break away from me and to carry on with their landings. I remembered to give them a course to steer since, although only three or four miles away, Lee aerodrome couldn't be seen. I was a bit panicky, not because I felt unable to cope with flying the aircraft but I had a ridiculously strong premonition that the jammed rudder, the very bad weather, the business of having to lead this 'last' flight and my ill-temper were all contrived by fate to indeed make this my truly final flight. After all the flying I had done in these past five years, what a damn silly way to go just because of a flag stuck up the arse of my aircraft!
I calmed down and flew around for a few minutes, to see how it flew at slow speed, before making my approach into Lee aerodrome. Keeping the Corsair on a gentle curving approach made it no problem really and so I clonked down on the runway for what, had I known it, would be my last flight in a Corsair. When I looked, a piece of the Pennant had indeed lodged in between the rudder hinge and I guess I was lucky it hadn't caught instead in the hinge of the elevator; that indeed would have been a disaster.
Before catching the bus waiting to take us to the jetty, I had what was left of the tattered Pennant unclipped from the mast and kept it for many years as a souvenir.
HMS _Colossus_ had already moored alongside the jetty by the time we got there and so we pilots had missed all the noise and cheering of the arrival. But it was all very jolly; relatives, wives and girl friends were allowed on board with their members of the crew, while a cheerful drinks party was going on in the Wardroom. My old Mum and Maddie couldn't make the journey but I had phoned and they were waiting for me at home. Anyway, I doubt if my huge old Mother could have staggered up the ship's gangway.
Best of all was a signal from Admiralty appointing me to the RAF Central Flying School for a course as a Flying Instructor; just what I had hoped for. I was to have two weeks leave and then join the course, at Little Rissington in the Cotswolds, at the end of April.
On the way home, before changing trains in London, I visited Fortnum and Mason as usual to buy a huge and horribly expensive hamper of foods for my Mum, who dearly loved her grub and suffered under the very stringent rationing still in force. I had brought some lovely dress material from Ceylon for Maddie, who had started work when a girl as a trained seamstress in Paris. She didn't have a chance to make anything with it before Phoebe, my sister, visited and talked Maddie into selling her most of the material.
I did so enjoy spending money and, as my bank balance was extraordinarily healthy after another year abroad, I decided to spend nearly all of it, about £350, on a decent car. I had seen what I wanted at the nearby home of an RAF friend who also was on leave. It was an MG sports car, a type PB of 1936 vintage with bodywork the colour of Cambridge blue and mudguard wings of royal blue. It was gorgeous and I had to have it, so I used all the early part of my leave in negotiating to buy it for £365. There was no way of ever getting my huge old Mum into any part of the MG and so, for our visits to friends or outings to pubs and restaurants, I drove Mother's old Austin. I had enjoyed my leave very much but I was looking forward to the Flying Instructors course at Little Rissington and to an entirely new type of flying task.
However, while preparing to set off in the MG, I received a telephone call from the Appointments Branch of the Admiralty to tell me that my course at CFS was postponed until early in September. Instead, I was to report to Donibristle in a week's time to act as resident DLCO and general assistant to Commander Air. In other words, I thought, to act as general dogsbody for the Commander up there for a couple of months. The prospect for so short a period didn't bother me. I looked forward to the long drive up to Scotland in the MG but the pleasure of it, on the following week, was my undoing. I drove all the way to Scotland as fast as I could until, just before reaching Edinburgh, there was a nasty noise under the bonnet and I pulled up in clouds of steam. The aluminium cylinder head had cracked and I had to leave the car in dock for a whole month.
Hence, my time at Donibristle without a car had perforce to be spent quietly in the wardroom. And I quite enjoyed it. The Commander had shot off on leave shortly after I arrived leaving me to lord it from my little office near the runway, that being the nearest thing to a Control Tower of which the small aerodrome could boast. There was a Firefly squadron forming up and using the aerodrome prior to joining a Carrier and, as required, I would grandly saunter out to the end of the runway to do the 'batting' for their dummy deck-landings. How lucky they were, I thought, to have such a highly experienced chap to bat for them. They forgave me for being so pleased with myself and often I joined them on their visits to the 'Star' at Aberdour. But the memories of Jack Parli, Winnie Churchill and all the other members of 890 Squadron, of three years ago, were too nostalgic for me fully to enjoy that lovely little pub, although in fact it hadn't changed much since then.
So the time passed pleasantly enough at Donibristle. My MG was repaired but its performance was never as good again as it had been with the original cylinder head. I had learned my lesson though and, when September came, I drove at a sensible speed down to Little Rissington to commence the course at the RAF Central Flying School.
## CHAPTER SIXTEEN
## Return to Yeovilton
At Central Flying School we flew Harvards, a robust American training aircraft with all metal fuselage and wings, strong wide undercarriage and instructor's seat in the rear cockpit. The radial engine was powerful for a training aircraft and was well known for the extraordinary noise made by the propeller. It was the equivalent to the Miles Master on which I had trained as a pupil at Netheravon and which had been regarded at the time as a good trainer, but I have to admit that the Harvard was better. There were no real vices to it other than when stalled or spun, both of which are an essential part of learning to fly, it did so quite viciously. However, it responded immediately to corrective action; a factor which made it such a good training aircraft.
The aerodrome at Rissington was large, having two long runways and was perched on the top of one of the Cotswold hills. The Officers' Mess and accommodation were purpose-built to an established RAF pattern; really rather grand and certainly very comfortable. The essence of the place, of course, were the instructors who were all picked and experienced men and qualified as A1 instructors; their job during this long and arduous course would be to teach us how to teach others to fly. Central Flying School was famous, not only as the basis of flying standards in the RAF, but for giving similar instruction to many other Air Forces in the world. Even today as I write, CFS is a very nice little earner for the British Government from the flying tuition it gives to the Air Forces of Europe and the developing countries.
There were about twenty officers of equivalent rank on my Course, three from the Indian Air Force and four of us from the Royal Navy and the rest from the RAF. I should have mentioned earlier that, from the date of my short service commission, I was now RN with thick straight stripes of rank on my uniform sleeves. I became interested and absorbed in the flying; it was so different from any I had done before; it had to be precise and accurate always and to correlate with the instructional 'patter' relating to the manoeuvre one was demonstrating. Indeed 'patter' was an appropriate word because our instructors were adamant that we had to be almost word perfect in describing each manoeuvre as we demonstrated it. I would have liked to use my own words and manner of description but I learned at CFS not to deviate from the patter path. It had the value, I suppose, of ensuring that nothing of importance was left out of the instruction procedure.
The flying encompassed almost everything I had ever done before in the air but I was having to apply precision and polish to my airmanship and, for example, this improved my aerobatics. The same applied to my instrument flying and for the first time I learned to approach an airfield for a landing under GCA, Ground Control Approach. It is a procedure in which the Controller on the ground gives the pilot constant instructions as to height, rate of descent, airspeed and precise course to steer. On several occasions the exercise had to be done blind in actual bad weather conditions. All this gave me increased confidence for bad weather flying. Night flying too became not quite the nightmare of my earlier career.
But flying was only the half of it; at least two hours every day was spent in the classroom relearning in greater depth the ground subjects such as Principles of Flight, Navigation, Meteorology and basics of aero engineering and airframe design. University lecturers were used to teach us lecturing techniques and each of us, as pupils, had to give lectures and conduct discussions in the classroom. I was bad at all this ground work; I found it so difficult to learn after such a long period since leaving school. Indeed, I became quite worried at the possibility of failing the Course. Frequently in the evenings, therefore, I made some excuse to remain behind when the others went out to the local pubs, to give myself the opportunity to work surreptitiously on some of the ground subjects.
On one such evening, I went outside for a quiet stroll after dinner before starting work when I realised that it had started to snow. This was February 1947 and snow it did, continuously for days. The whole aerodrome, including runways and taxiways, was entirely covered in several feet of snow as were all the roads surrounding it. The aerodrome was not only inoperative for two weeks but inaccessible for that period. Thus I was stuck there snowbound whereas most of the other officers, pupils and instructors alike, had escaped down the hill either to pubs or to their married quarters. In fact, however, it was rather fun. Food and other necessary supplies were dropped from the skies by RAF transport aircraft, there was plenty of booze in the bar for the few remaining officers, two good snooker tables in the Mess and, best of all, the snow provided a wonderful opportunity for me to study those dreaded ground subjects.
Two weeks after the snow had gone our Instructors' Course was completed. There were only a couple of failures and the rest of us were qualified in either B1 or B2 category as Flying Instructors. This was a normally expected result although surprisingly, thanks to my snowbound studies, I was qualified at the higher level as a B1. An Admiralty signal appointed me from early April as an Instructor to join 700 Squadron at RNAS Yeovilton. I knew no more about it than that but, meantime, I was to go on leave over the next five days until April. My memories of Yeovilton, and of every one of the thirty-three young men who had shared with me the experience of Fighter School there in 1941, were still very strong although it also seemed such a long time ago. As far as I could find out, only seven of us on that Course had survived the war. Nevertheless, I was excited at the prospect of returning there and looking forward so much to whatever the new job would be that I could hardly disguise from Mother my impatience to set off from home.
I arrived at Yeovilton in the late afternoon and turned the MG into the well-remembered gates of the Officers' quarters. The two tennis courts in the centre were still there and, behind them, the long, low building of the Wardroom and Dining Hall. On either side were the long huts of cabin accommodation, about five huts on each side. It was almost yardarm time at 6 pm when I arrived but strangely at that time the car park in front of the Mess was fairly empty; it had been hallowed ground only for Commanders and Instructors in my previous time when, as a Midshipman, the car park for us was at the back. Parking in front probably was still reserved for much more exalted beings than myself, but I decided that I might as well start by putting myself about a bit and so I parked my lovely little car there anyway.
I was allocated a cabin nearby and, after unpacking and a quick wash, I made my way back to the Wardroom. There were a few more cars and four horses parked outside. Inside, the Wardroom appeared unchanged except that there were only a dozen or so people around the bar, instead of the mass of noisy, chattering young officers as I remembered it. Most of the people there were in civvies and some in riding kit but all were laughing and talking very cheerfully together. As I walked towards the bar, the chatter stopped and immediately one of the group, a tall dark young man, came forward to greet me and introduced himself as Joe, the Captain's secretary. 'You must be Hank Adlam, the instructor for 700 Squadron,' he said, 'come and meet the others.' One of those in riding kit also greeted me; he was the Commander of the Station, Straw Morrel. What a wonderfully pleasant and laid-back group of people, I thought. Eventually, after a good dinner and more drinks and chat round the bar, I went to my cabin for bed.
The Squadron offices were located to the far left of the Control Tower where, by coincidence, I had attended as a pupil long ago. Here I met my Commanding Officer, Lt Cdr (E) Phil Illingworth RN, whom I liked immediately. He sat me down opposite him and we had a long talk over coffee and cigarettes about the squadron and its purpose and what my job would be. My function, he told me, was to retrain naval engineering officers, who had been given varying degrees of flying training in the past but who subsequently had been taken off flying. This had been in accordance with an Admiralty decision to cease the flying training of air engineer officers. Now, apparently, the Admiralty had reversed that decision. It had been decided, after all, that it was important for such officers to be able to fly the operational type aircraft for which, as engineers, they would be responsible.
My job, therefore, as the one instructor of 700 Squadron would be, firstly to assess the flying ability of each officer pupil, and then to give him sufficient flying instruction to convert on to service aircraft. Phil went on to tell me that there were expected to be about six officers on each course and the first batch was expected to arrive shortly. It was an entirely new course and it would be for me to decide how to run it, how many flying hours the pupils would need and how many aircraft of different types would be required. The other section of Phil's squadron was run by Nick Goodhart for the training of Maintenance Test Pilots. What a wonderful set-up and what a wonderful job I had been given. There were two large hangars for my allocation of aircraft which consisted of a Firefly, a Seafire, a Barracuda and a Harvard. After looking round these and meeting the Petty Officers in charge of maintenance, I asked Phil if I might now go away by myself for the rest of the day and think about the whole requirement. I arranged that, in the meantime, the Firefly and the Seafire be made ready for me to fly on the next day.
We met again at Phil's office first thing the next morning. I had prepared a hand-written paper setting out my carefully considered requirements. It was obvious that I would need at least two Harvards as a start since, at the beginning of the course, I would need to fly all day every day to assess each of my pupils and I could not afford for the one Harvard to be unserviceable. Moreover, a second Harvard would be needed for pupils who, having passed muster on a dual flight with me, might need a number of hours of practice solo flights before I pronounced them ready for conversion to service aircraft. As I understood it, some of these engineering Lieutenants had not flown for some long time and, in any case, some of them had not completed flying training before their training had been cut short by the Admiralty decree.
Secondly, I must have two of each type of service aircraft, not only to ensure the availability of a serviceable aircraft but because I did not want pilots sitting about in the crew room tooth-sucking in the absence of anything to fly. Also, I wanted to give them a good three-month course, aiming at sixty flying hours each on service aircraft. I aimed to bring them to a similar stage of competence as any pilot should be before joining an operational squadron; this would entail giving them a wide range of air experience on each of the service type aircraft. An ambitious programme indeed for a single instructor, which would involve me in many hours of flying. My excitement and enthusiasm at having this my own project to launch was matched by Phil's enthusiasm and without delay he set about procuring the aircraft I needed.
I doubt if there was an officer in the Royal Navy better than Phil Illingworth at charming his way past any procedural hindrances, such as lengthy form filling, that might stand in his way. He was not only good at everything he tackled; a good pilot, very successful motor-bike racer, scratch golfer, father of seven children and international yachtsman, but he was genuinely modest with all of it. He was unhurried in his approach to problems and seemingly never fussed by them. Hence I should not have been surprised when, two days later, he told me that the aircraft I wanted were on their way.
But I wanted more. Since I was to be the only instructor, I had envisaged the need to have the availability of my personal Radio/Telephone contact with any of the pupils in the air at anytime. Therefore I would need my own radio frequency so that I could talk and instruct without interfering with other air activities. I would need a van with an R/T set on my frequency for use, if it should prove necessary, at the end of the runway. Could Phil fix it for me, I asked? Yes, of course he could, and he did so. It had become rather like treating Phil as Father Christmas but finally I asked if one of each type of service aircraft could be put up on jacks, in the hangar with a power supply to the undercarriage and flaps. And this too would be done.
My opposite number on the squadron, Lt (E) Nick Goodhart; was supportive of my efforts and requirements. A test pilot himself, he was running a course for budding Maintenance Test Pilots and had an allocation of service aircraft similar in type to mine. Nick can only be described as an engineering 'whiz-kid' who later was to design the system of lights for deck-landing on Aircraft Carriers. This visual system of lights, which informed the pilot of his position on the approach, replaced the batsman on all future RN and USN Carriers. He was also a verbal whizz-kid; on an occasion when he selected the wheels up before the Barracuda was properly airborne and crashed it, he somehow convinced the Court Martial board that the Navy 'owed' him an aircraft based on the number of hours he had flown previously without breaking anything.
Later that morning, I got airborne in the Firefly and found it to be, as I had expected, a gentlemanly and pleasant thing to fly. Although slow for a so-called fighter-bomber, the Firefly had done well out in the Pacific using mainly rockets for strafing. I tried a few tentative aerobatics but it really was rather cumbersome for that sort of thing but I persevered as I would have to encourage my pupils to do aerobatics in it. I returned and completed a normal landing. Later I intended to carry out flapless landings so that I could advise my pupils in case their flaps ever failed.
The Captain's secretary had made an appointment that afternoon for me to meet the Captain of the Air Station, Captain Kaye Eddon, so I had to postpone my first flight in a Seafire until the following morning. I wondered what the appointment was about because I was not accustomed to meeting Captains except when they occasionally graced the Wardroom with their presence to say 'hello' to the junior officers. However, it turned out that Captain Eddon merely wanted to meet me as the chap second in command, so to speak, of the flying activities on his Air Station. He admitted that he knew nothing about aviation (which was refreshing!) but wanted to emphasize that I should take absolutely no risks in the training of the pupils as he was very anxious that there should be no accidents. We had a pleasant chat in which I acknowledged his anxiety but pointed out that, regardless of the care I fully intended to take, aircraft accidents in service aircraft under service conditions were so often unavoidable.
The following morning was time for me to fly the dreadful Seafire, for as such I had always regarded it, knowing so well the number of young pilots it had killed while being deck-landed. I didn't dread flying the thing; if other people could fly it then I most certainly could; I just didn't look forward with pleasure to the experience. I had been allocated a Seafire XV with a more powerful engine than the earlier models and assumed that it would have considerable engine and propeller torque which might give it a tendency to swerve badly on take-off. In preparation for the flight, I spent some time in the cockpit to learn the haphazard layout typical of a British designed fighter, so different from the orderly arrangement of an American cockpit. I didn't like the Seafire and I was prepared to damn it even before I had started the flight.
Well, I flew the damn thing and found that it was a beautiful machine to fly. An absolute thoroughbred of an aircraft requiring only the most delicate pressures on the controls for it to respond immediately and perfectly. I went through my usual procedure at height with an aircraft new to me and could find nothing to fear from its performance. I followed that up with some aerobatics to which the Seafire responded beautifully enough to flatter my dubious ability as an aerobatic pilot. Now back to the aerodrome for the landing and lets see, I thought, if I can find what it is that has caused so much difficulty and so many deaths in landing it on a flight deck. But on a runway with plenty of space, I found that the Seafire was the simplest of aircraft to land. All well and good, I thought, but I intended to do more landings in the week before my pupils arrived. As well as flapless landings, these would include dummy deck-landings at much slower speed with the long nose of the Seafire well up and with the intention to put the aircraft down firmly on a selected spot of the runway. These dummy deck-landings would be for my own satisfaction and not for the pupils to learn.
During the rest of that first week, I flew several times a day to carry out stalling and spinning in the Harvard, the Seafire and the Firefly but, as for the Barracuda, I decided not to allow the pupils to spin it or to use its dive brakes. I had always reckoned the wings and dive brakes of the Barracuda to be suspect and why push the pupils (or me) into a possibly dangerous situation in an aircraft which was already non-operational? I also carried out practice forced landings in all the aircraft, assuming engine failures at various heights, on the disused airfield at Henstridge near Yeovilton.
I found time to dummy deck-land the Seafire. The first attempt was abortive. Although apparently fully stalled when I thumped it down at very slow speed on the selected spot of the runway, the wretched thing still contrived to balloon upwards and would have put me into the barrier had there been one. After that I learned the trick of timing the closure of the throttle earlier, while holding the stall attitude, so that it came down a second or so later and stayed down on the spot. To complete my taming of the Shrewfire, I wanted very much to deck-land it and asked Phil if he could possibly fix it for me to do a couple of landings on, for example, whatever Carrier was currently in use for the Clockwork Mice. Sadly and I mean it, he was unable to do so.
I completed a lot of flying hours that week in preparation for the arrival of my pupils but it wasn't all work. By no means was it that, because the social life of the Mess was an essential part of the pleasant life at Yeovilton. There were nine good looking and attractive Wren officers and a glamorous RN Nursing Sister as female members of the Wardroom and I suppose about twenty-five other officers. Most of them were busy with the administration relating to the training of the aircraft fitters and riggers on the Air Station and just a few of us to do with aviation on the aerodrome. Nevertheless, they all got on well with each other with plenty of chat around the bar every lunchtime and evening and I was very happy to be a part of it. As there were no other Flying Instructors, I was pleased to consider myself, laughably, as the CFI (Chief Flying Instructor), a very grand title in the days when Yeovilton had been the fighter station of the FAA. This bogus title, plus my much-admired little MG, gave me an easy entrée into friendships with the Wren officers.
The members of my course, which came under the grandiose mouthful of 'The Flying Retraining of Air Engineers', all arrived more or less at the same time on the Sunday evening. There were six of them, all Lieutenants senior to me in terms of time in that rank but, as their instructor, of course, I was the boss and intended to make that quite clear, but in the pleasantest possible way. They appeared to be rather dubious about this, to them, yet another course and one in particular was already inclined to tooth-suck before we had even started. On the other hand, they brightened up on sensing the good atmosphere of the Mess and were impressed by the horses once again tied up outside. For some reason the horses outside the Mess seemed to set the style of the place. As I met each course member for a drink at the bar, I told him that I wanted his Flying Log book to be put in my cabin immediately after dinner and that I would meet him with all the others in their crew room on the airfield promptly at 8.30 am. There was much to be done and I didn't want any delays at the start, I told each one. After dinner, in my cabin, I made notes from their Log books on the flying experience of each one of them.
After an early breakfast, I was down at the squadron offices the next Monday morning ready to talk to the course members due at 8.30 am. They all arrived in good time and I started by outlining my programme of a sixty flying hours minimum for them over the next three months and of the standard I intended them to reach. I explained that during the next two days or more, if necessary, I would take each one of them dual in the Harvard to assess their capability. While I was airborne, there would be plenty for them to do in studying the Pilot's Notes for the Firefly, Seafire and Barracuda and making themselves one hundred per cent familiar with the cockpit layout and controls of each of those aircraft. For that purpose, I said, each type of aircraft had been raised on jacks in the hangar and power laid on so that, in the cockpits, they could familiarise themselves with the operation of the controls. At this point there was a shattering roar as a large motor-bike arrived just outside the offices with Phil on board. He came in and I introduced him as our Commanding Officer to the pupils whom he greeted with his usual enthusiasm.
After dealing out books of the Pilot's Notes on the Firefly to all six of them, we were ready to go and I selected the tooth-sucking chap as my first pupil for dual in the Harvard. He was Ace Bailey and he and I were to become firm friends. He had been grumpy and a bit of a moaner on arrival the evening before but he was probably reflecting the feeling of his group of senior Engineering Lieutenants. Despite their original enthusiasm, they had suffered disappointment and irritation when their flying training had been stopped many months ago and now was to be restarted. With such changes of mind by the Admiralty, their careers as Air Engineers must have appeared to be in a complete muddle. I think that they arrived without much expectation that my flying course would help them.
My intention on that first day was to take all six of them up for forty-five minutes each for my initial assessment which would enable me to set a preliminary programme of further flying. I wanted them to be waiting and ready to get into the front cockpit of the Harvard as soon as I had landed after each flight. On my knee, ready for my notes on each pupil, I had fixed the old wartime navigation pad which had been made for me years previously by Mac, my fitter in 890 squadron. I didn't know how or where Bailey had acquired his nickname 'Ace' but, in consequence of it, I was expecting my first flight to be with a character who would fancy his ability as a pilot to be much higher than the reality. I asked him to take off, climb to about 8,000 ft and then to carry out a number of basic manoeuvres all of which, rather to my surprise, he completed not just competently but very smoothly. It was evident to me that he was a naturally gifted aviator and I would be lucky if the others were anything like as good as this. He landed the Harvard well and taxied to where as arranged the next chap, Campbell, was waiting to get into the front cockpit.
Campbell, I knew from his log book, had not completed his advanced training over a year ago and it showed in his tentative handling of the aircraft. I urged him along for over an hour through the basic manoeuvres in the best manner of CFS instructional patter and, on returning to the aerodrome, he managed to land adequately well. How fortunate that at this early stage of my experience as an instructor, I was to have a pupil of Ian Campbell's rank and forthright character. As we taxied up to the aircraft park, Campbell asked me on the R/T whether we had formally finished the flight. 'Yes,' I said. 'In that case, Hank,' he said, 'I must tell you that if you don't curb your incessant talk in the air, you will certainly drive me mad and it is likely to be the same for the others.'
We didn't speak another word until after I had parked and stopped the engine, but I had been thinking deeply about his words. We stood quietly together by the aircraft before going into the debriefing room. Then, 'Thank you,' I said, 'I needed that and you were right to tell me. Be assured that I won't ever make the same mistake again. I shall use few words in future and they will be my own words and with my own manner of demonstration. Please keep this between us; I have much to do for this course and it is essential that you all have confidence in me.' In making that promise, I did not intend to disregard all I had learned from CFS but to adapt it to my own style of instruction. Dear Ian Campbell, who became a good friend, had done me a service.
By missing my lunchtime pink gins and having a bowl of soup instead, I was able to adhere to my programme of completing an initial dual flight with each of the six pupils. Mulling over my notes that evening, I could see that I had one unusually good aviator (Ace), two other good ones and three not so good. But, at the end of the second week, they were all flying the Firefly and I was girding some of them up to fly the Seafire. By the end of the month, all the pupils were flying all three types of aircraft and carrying out the various exercises I set for them such as practice landings and take-offs, aerobatics (but not the Barracuda), short cross-country flying, dummy forced landings, some formation flying with me to start with and then together. They were to do some of these exercises at around 25,000 ft, to become accustomed to the use of oxygen and to feel how differently the aircraft flew at height. I did though make a point of not authorising flights above 20,000 ft unless there were two aircraft together for fear of oxygen failure for any one of them alone. Each week, I used the Harvards for instrument flying with the pupils 'blind' under the hood.
That was the pattern of the beginning of each of the five courses over the following eighteen months. During that period, I trained and converted thirty pupils to service aircraft and each of them completed on average seventy flying hours on the Course. There were no accidents except that Billie Braunton carried out an entirely successful forced landing in a field when the engine of his Seafire failed at about 10,000 ft. There were some 'hairy' landings and a few near accidents but the van at the end of the runway proved its worth and enabled me to give instruction through the R/T installed in it to any pupil having difficulty.
I sent pupils on numerous cross-country flights, sometimes on a Friday for a weekend if there was a Naval Air Station near their home. At Christmas time I sent Ace Bailey and Jag Mares off in the Firefly and the Barracuda to Eglinton Air Station in Northern Ireland where, armed with a list from Laurie the Wardroom Catering Officer, they filled the aircraft up with hams, cheeses, beef and turkeys all of which were plentiful in the local shops there, despite stringent rationing in the rest of the UK. Well why not? All my pupils needed to do such long flights as part of their training and they might as well usefully enjoy them. No excuse for me though when I used a Seafire to visit friends for a boozy evening at Culham and at Culdrose Naval Air Stations.
Phil Illingworth presided benignly over all these flying activities and, in view of the intensity of them, managed to procure another Seafire and Firefly for me. A huge bonus and unexpected pleasure during the hot summer of 1947 was the arrival of an old Seagull amphibious seaplane, normally used as a sea rescue aircraft, allocated to Yeovilton apparently merely because it was surplus to requirements elsewhere. But it was agreed in principle that it could be used as part of my course for conversion of pupils to service aircraft. Anyway that was my excuse for asking the pilot, Ken Kilroy, to give me some instruction on landing and taking off on water so that, in turn, I would be able to instruct my pupils, which I had no intention whatsoever of doing. I just wanted the opportunity to fly a Seaplane. And what fun it was. Ken and I would take three or four of the Wren officers on bathing parties, landing in the sea a mile or two off the south coast near Weymouth.
Also during that hot summer, with Phil's agreement, I arranged that the squadron would start flying at 8 am and finish at 12.30 pm enabling all pilots to proceed in the afternoon to a nearby open-air swimming pool for what I described as Dinghy Drill. It meant starting work very early for the maintenance crews but they too were happy to have the afternoon off.
The social life of the Officers' Mess was unusually pleasant. Even those who were married would remain for a drink or two and a chat before going home to their rented accommodation. There was always the nucleus of the unmarried Wrens as the basis of a party and, after dinner, there would often be an exodus of cars to two or three of the many country pubs which surrounded the Air Station. On Saturday and Sunday mornings many of the officers' wives would have drinks and lunch in the Wardroom and on many of these occasions Captain Eddon and his wife would join us.
It was a most unusual naval place and, if it might appear from reading this that it was more like a combined holiday hotel and flying club than a workplace, then I would not argue with that. But it was hard work too; I flew a very considerable number of hours each week and the briefing and de-briefing of my pupils took much of my time; not to mention the constant worry of whether I had trained them sufficiently well to avoid accidents and crashes. If the previous eighteen months since the end of the war had been somewhat tedious and boring, well, the return to Yeovilton was a definite high to make up for it. And it was to become even more of a high for me.
On an early evening in May of that year 1947, I was in the Wardroom. I was standing as usual at the bar where we were all talking animatedly, when I happened to look across the room towards the central fireplace where Dorothy, the Captain's second secretary, was talking to a Wren officer whom I hadn't seen before. She really was a most beautiful girl; slim with long honey-blond hair, but most striking to me was her face, so beautiful in structure and colour with a calm serenity about it and yet a happy face with laughing eyes. As I looked towards her, she caught my eyes on her and smiled at me; it was just a friendly smile. I have never forgotten it. Without showing any particular interest, I asked the others who she was and learned that she was Heather Leaman, just back from a course in Portsmouth and subsequent leave. She was second in command of the gunnery section of the Air Station.
I saw little more of Heather during the early part of that hot summer. In spite of that smile she was not a bit forthcoming with me and I, for my part, was busy with my own newly formed flying training course. And anyway, with the slightly glamour job as the only Flying Instructor plus the advantage of my sporty little MG car, I had no shortage of girl friends amongst all the other Wren officers. I understood that Heather too was busy as the Armament Store's Officer of the Air Station in charge of thirty men and two Warrant officers under her command. She was popular and had many friends around her and clearly did not need any attentions from me.
And yet, there must have been a strong mutual attraction between Heather and me, because gradually and almost inevitably it seemed, we were drawn to each other and began to go out together and alone without joining the customary parties. There was nothing spectacular about the development of the relationship, but by the autumn we were enjoying quiet evenings by ourselves at local pubs and sometimes taking with us a picnic supper. We were in no rush; confident in the love which we now shared, we began to spend happy weekends at hotels in Dorset, Somerset and even at Browns in London. We were both happy and busy with our respective jobs. Heather, as a Wren officer, had suffered some difficulty on her arrival at Yeovilton as the men resented having a female officer over them for the first time. But, by the time I arrived there, she had earned their affection and respect by her fairness and methodical rearrangement of their workload.
Inevitably, although naively we hadn't given the possibility any thought at all, the time came in the early May of 1948 when Heather told me she was pregnant. No panic; when she told me this as we walked across the playing fields to watch the cricket at the nets, I held her hand hard and said that it was the best of news in every way because now we would have to get married very soon indeed. 'So we shall then,' she said, pretending like me to be terribly casual about it all, but I could see that she was crying quietly as she said it. In retrospect, it seems to have been a very odd way to propose marriage to the beautiful young woman I loved and wanted so much. It was obvious immediately that this was what we had both wanted but, immature and insensitive man that I was, until then I just hadn't thought to voice the idea of marriage. But first there was the business of telling her parents, whom I had not yet met and of telling my Mother and Maddie, whom she had not met either. There was the need for Heather to inform her Commanding Officer of her resignation from the Wrens and for me to tell Captain Eddon of our proposed marriage. Although very cordial and congratulatory, Eddon thought it necessary under the circumstances to arrange for me to be transferred to Culdrose Air Station after the wedding. Meantime, we formally announced our engagement.
On 17 July 1948 we were married in the old church of Yeovilton village.
The wedding and the reception afterwards in the Wardroom were attended by masses of our friends, many of whom flew in from other Air Stations, and the occasion was an unforgettably happy one. As indeed it needed to be, because Heather and I unknowingly were about to embark upon a lifestyle full of ups and downs, like a yo-yo, for the next fifty-three years.
END
_Advanced Flying Training at Netheravon, 1941_
_Hank Adlam, a cigarette between flights_
_In the cockpit of a Miles Master_
_Advanced Flying Training at Netheravon, 1941_
_In a comfortable cabin, mulling over some ground subjects_
_With Lalline_
_At Fighter School, RNAS Yeovilton, September 1941_
_Above, Fraser Shotton, showing how to shoot a line. From the left: Ernie Gaunt RCN, Tony Harris, Fraser, Ian Henderson, Pat Cowan and Bud Sutton RCN_
_Below: Hurricanes, with Hank and Harry Beeston_
890 Squadron, 1942
_From left: Hank Adlam, Basil Bartlett, Dagwood Cosh, Jimmy Sleigh CO, Jack Parli, Winnie Churchill and Cliff Nell_
_Winnie Churchill, Hank, Jimmy Sleigh, on leave in Richmond, Virginia_
_Chrysler saloon loaned to us by a kind American gentleman_
_HMS_ Battler, _890 Squadron, 1942_
_Group of pilots and ship's officers. Hank, second from left, Winnie Churchill, third from left_
_A Wildcat, with Hank aboard, being ranged for take-off_
_Swordfish, having just landed from patrol_
_At Donibristle, a pause between ships, 1942_
_Hank doing a line-shooting routine, with Johnnie Lowder, left, and Jack Parli_
_Red Section, Hank left with Jack Parli_
_Dogwood Cosh, Senior Pilot_
_Jack Parli, Winnie Churchill, that formidable pair of New Zealanders, here looking at their most angelic_
HMS _Illustrious_ , 890 Squadron, 1943
_HMS_ Illustrious _at full speed_
_About to start engines: a full range of Barracudas and Wildcats_
_Hank, plucked out of the sea by Boat's crew after ditching a Wildcat_
_HMS_ Atheling, _890 Squadron, 1944_
_Party time on return to Trincomalee harbour. From far left, Chittenden, Rikki, Hoagy, Jack, Timo, Hank, Cliff, Pat, the Captain and Winnie_
_Seafire lands over the crash barrier and dives on to parked Seafires. There were many casualties_
_Wildcat, a bad landing_
_Seafire, an all-too-common arrival into the crash barrier_
_HMS_ Indomitable, _1839 Squadron, 1945_
_Hellcats about to take off on Combat Air Patrol_
_Hellcat just landed and folding its wings before going onto the lift_
_HMS_ Indomitable, _1839 Squadron, 1945_
_Bombing up_
_Pilots on Stand-By off Sumatra, prior to strike on Palembang, January. From left: Timo Schwenk, Gammy Godson, Neil Rankin, Dick Mackie, ?,?, Stan Farquhar, Fraser Shotton CO_
_HMS_ Indomitable, _1839 Squadron, 1945_
_Flight of four Hellcats being ranged for take-off. HMS_ King George V _in background_
_Noel Mitchell, Senior Pilot, in cockpit at readiness_
_HMS_ Colossus, _1846 Squadron, 1945_
_Corsairs ready for take-off_
_Leo Budd with his maintenance crew_
_Hank, as Squadron Flight Leader with his Corsair number 122, and as DLCO batting in a Barracuda HMS_ Colossus, _1846 Squadron, 1945_
_HMS_ Colossus, _1846 Squadron, 1945_
_The Squadron in Ceylon before going home at the end of the war. Top row: no record of names Middle row: Mike Brewer, Peter Ashford, ?,?, Harry Harmsworth, Geoff Higgs Seated: Thump Orr-Ewing, Jimmy Green, Donald Dick, Hank Adlam and Harry Baines_
_Pam, second left, and Hank at a Squadron party in Cape Town_
_RNAS Yeovilton, 1947-8_
_Engineers Officers' conversion course to service aircraft_
_Pupils of my first course, on a Firefly. From left: Rooter Wood, Ace Bailey, Lucky Luckcraft, Jumbo Crammond, Johnny Haines and Jag Mares_
_Heather, just before we were married in 1948, with the MG and Tinker_
_Hank and Heather. These photographs were taken in 1942, before we met_
_Paintings by Hank Adlam_
_Two Wildcats chasing a German Focke-Wulf Condor over an Atlantic convoy. The Condor was a well-armed, spiteful opponent_
_Two Corsairs on Combat Air Patrol entering the circuit to land-on_
## Appendix
SERVICE: DECEMBER 1940 – FEBRUARY 1949 Ships, squadrons and aircraft types served in during the period
_Ships_ | _Squadrons_ | _Aircraft/function_
---|---|---
While under training during 1941: | Magister
---|---
| | Miles Master
| | Hawker Hurricane
| | Fairey Fulmar
| | Blackburn Shark
USS _Charger_ | 890 Squadron | Wildcat
HMS _Battler_ | 890 Squadron | Wildcat
HMS _Illustrious_ | 890 Squadron | Hurricane
| | Wildcat
HMS _Unicorn_ | 890 Squadron | Wildcat
HMS _Atheling_ | 890 Squadron | Wildcat
HMS _Indomitable_ | 1839 Squadron | Hellcat
HMS _Begum_ | |
Batsman
HMS _Colossus_ | |
Batsman and
| | Squadron Pilot, Corsair
HMS _Colossus_ | 1846 Squadron | Corsair
(A total of 128 deck-landings – no prangs!)
Post-war, as a Flying Instructor: | 700 Squadron | Harvard
---|---|---
| | Oxford
| | Seafire
| | Seafury
| | Firefly
| | Barracuda
Post-war, as civilian instructor and commercial pilot: | |
Tiger Moth
| | Auster
| | Piper Cub
| | Baron
| | Musketeer
| | Queenair
| | Bonanza
## Index
Abraham, Nelson,
ADDLs, dummy deck-landings, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Adlam, George, _father_ , , , , , , , ,
Adlam, Gladys, _mother_ , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Adlam, Heather, _wife_ , , ,
Adlam, Phoebe, _sister_ , , , , , , ,
Admiralty, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Andaman Islands,
Anderson, Henry,
Auster,
Bailey, Ace, , ,
Barnett, 'Boot', , , ,
Baron,
Barracuda, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Bartlett, Basil, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Battle of Britain, , ,
Beechcraft,
Betty, Japanese twin-engined aircraft,
Black, Ian,
Blackburn Company,
Bonanza,
Braunton, Billie,
Buckley, John, , , , , , , ,
BV , German seaplane, , , ,
Campbell, Ian,
Canada, , ,
Cape Town, , , , ,
Capri, Isle of,
Carey, Chief Petty Officer, ,
Cavendish Hotel, , , ,
Ceylon, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Chesapeake Bay, , ,
China Bay, , , , , , , , , ,
Churchill, Winnie, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Clark, Bruce, ,
Cole, Jack,
Colombo, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Condor, , , , , , , , , , , ,
Cork, Lt Cdr, ,
Corsair, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Cosh, Dagwood, , , , , ,
Culdrose, ,
Culham,
Darley, Arthur, ,
Deck Landing Control Officer, DLCO, , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Devonald, Tiny, , , , , , ,
Dick, Donald, ,
Donibristle, , , , , , , , , ,
Eddon, Kaye, , ,
Eglinton, ,
Emma, Austin Seven, ,
Evans, Ken, ,
Fairey, , , ,
Falklands War,
Fancourt, St John,
Firefly, , , , , , , , , ,
Firth, Ken, ,
Fleet Air Arm, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Fleet Air Arm, FAA, , , , , , , , , , , ,
Formosa, , , ,
Fraser, Admiral Sir Bruce,
Fulmar, , , ,
Galle, Ceylon, , ,
Gibraltar, , , , , , ,
Goodhart, Nick,
Gosport, , ,
Greenock, , , , , ,
Haberfield, Jack, , , , ,
Halifax, Nova Scotia,
Hank, nickname for Henry
Adlam, ,
Harrier,
Harrington, Tommy, , , , ,
Harris, Tony, ,
Harrow School, , , ,
Harvard, , , , , ,
Hatston, , , , , , , , , , , ,
Hay, Ronnie, , , , , ,
Heaton, Pat, , ,
Hellcat, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Helm, Michael, , , , ,
Higgs, Geoff,
HMS _Atheling_ , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
HMS _Battler_ ,
HMS _Begum_ , , , , ,
HMS _Colossus_ , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
HMS _Formidable_ , , ,
HMS _Glory_ , ,
HMS _Howe_ ,
HMS _Illustrious_ , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
HMS _Indefatigable_ , , , , , ,
HMS _Indomitable_ , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
HMS _King George V_ , , ,
HMS _London_ ,
HMS _Unicorn_ , , , , , ,
HMS _Venerable_ , , ,
HMS _Vengeance_ , ,
HMS _Victorious_ , , , , , , , , , ,
Hong Kong, , ,
Hordern, Michael, , , ,
Humphreys, Pat,
Hurricane, , , , , , , , , , , ,
IFF, Identification Friend or Foe, , , ,
Illingworth, Philip, , , , , , ,
Jeram, Lt Cdr, ,
Junkers , , ,
Katakarunda, , ,
Kilroy, Ken,
Langdon, David,
Lee-on-Solent, , ,
Lewis, Rosa, , ,
Leyte, the Philippines, , ,
Lowder, Johnnie, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Luton, ,
Mac, fitter, , ,
Mackie, Dick, , ,
Maclean, Alastair,
Maddie, _family friend_ , , , , , , , , , ,
Magister, , , ,
Malta, , , , ,
Manus, Admiralty Islands, , ,
Mares, Jag,
Medan, , ,
Merry, Ian,
Miles Master, , , , , , ,
Mirage,
Mitchell, Noel, ,
Morrel, Straw,
Murmansk, Russia, ,
Musketeer,
Nell, Cliff, , , , , , , ,
Netheravon, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
New York, , , , , , , , , ,
New Zealand, , , , , , , , , , , ,
Nicobar Islands, ,
Norfolk, Virginia, , , ,
Okinawa Island, ,
Oscar, Japanese fighter aircraft, , , ,
P/R, Photo Reconnaissance,
Palembang, , , , , , , ,
Pankalan Brandan, , ,
Parli, Jack, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Penhale, Mike, , , ,
Piper Cub,
Portsmouth, , , ,
Prentice, Brian,
Puttalam, , , , , , , , , , ,
Queenair,
Rhodesia, ,
Richmond, Virginia, ,
Rissington, , ,
Roc,
Royal Air Force, RAF, , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, RNVR, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Royal Navy, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Sakashima Gunto Islands, , , , , , ,
Salerno, , , , , , , , ,
Sally, Japanese bomber aircraft,
Schwenk, Timo, ,
Seafire, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Seafury,
Seagull,
Shark, ,
Shotton, Fraser, , , , ,
Skua, ,
Sleigh, Jimmy, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
South Africa, , ,
Spruance, Admiral, USN, ,
Squadron
700 Squadron, , ,
827 Squadron, ,
857 Squadron, ,
890 Squadron, , , , , , , , , ,
1839 Squadron, , , , ,
1846 Squadron, , , , ,
St Merryn, , , , , , ,
Suez Canal, , , ,
Swordfish, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Sydney, Australia, , , , , , , ,
Tanjong, , ,
Taplow, , , , , , ,
Tiger Moth,
Tojo, Japanese fighter aircraft, , , ,
Trincomalee, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Ulithi Atoll, harbour, , , ,
United States Navy, USN, , , , , , , , , , , ,
USS _Charger_ , , , ,
USS _Saratoga_ ,
Vian, Rear Admiral, , , , , , , , ,
Wildcat, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Wingfield, ,
Woodward, Rear Admiral,
Yeovilton, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
YG beacon, ,
| {
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{"url":"https:\/\/mathoverflow.net\/questions\/25597\/do-continuous-maps-give-continuity-in-the-topology-of-hausdorff-distance","text":"# Do continuous maps give continuity in the 'topology' of Hausdorff distance?\n\nI was reading this question: limiting behaviour of converging loops on a torus\n\nAnd I wanted to be able to give an argument along the lines of: \"If your loops are converging in your torus, their projections must converge in your $S^1$\", but a quick google search gives me no results along these lines- do they exist? If not why not?\n\nI am aware that if either of your spaces are unbounded then a sensible topology isn't particularly forthcoming, but is there a situation in which a result of this form can make sense? As a starting point let's set the bar at:\n\nDo compact fibrations induce maps on their subsets that are continuous wrt Hausdorff distance?\n\nCan we do better? Can we do a little worse? Or does none of this make sense?\n\n-\n\nAny uniformly continuous map $f$:X\u2192Y between metric spaces induces a uniformly continuous map $C\\mapsto \\overline{f(C)}\\$ between the spaces of closed subsets wrto the Hausdorff distances; in fact with the same modulus of continuity. (Just recall that the Hausdorff distance between A and B is less than \u03b4 if and only if for any a\u2208A there is some b\u2208B with d(a,b)<\u03b4 and for any b\u2208B, there is some a\u2208A with d(a,b)<\u03b4).\nPS: As to the topologic side of the question (stability of topological or homotopical properties of subsets of a space under perturbations in Hausdorff distance). As far as I know these things usually work well in an ANR metric space X, because of the homotopy extension property. For instance, any closed subset of X that is contractible in X (meaning that the inclusion map $C\\to X$ is null homotopic) has a contractible nbd in X. If X is also compact, the nbd is a uniform nbd, so if a sequence of closed sets $C_n$ converges in the Hausdorff sense to C, the $C_n$ are eventually contractible in X, too. Generalizing a bit, we may also say that the Lusternik-Schnirelman category of C (minimum cardinality of a contractible closed covering of C) is lower semicontinuous wrt the Hausdorff distance (the category of the limit is larger or equal to the limit of the category along the sequence). Reference (for ANR's and homotopy): e.g. the first 2 chapters of Spanier book.","date":"2016-06-27 02:29:11","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.9101521372795105, \"perplexity\": 385.3667072991356}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2016-26\/segments\/1466783395620.56\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20160624154955-00088-ip-10-164-35-72.ec2.internal.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
The spooky women of WITCHES BREW, Allison Mick and Aviva Siegel join us to talk chili dogs!
Legendary Youtuber KINGCOBRAJFS calls in to promote his new album!
SIQQ PIQQS – Character Actors!
Get KingCobraJFS' new album Willows of Sorrow! | {
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This Cotton Candy alphabet design captures the summertime fun of carnivals, circuses, county fairs and theme parks all rolled into one.
Few things bring back memories of youthful giggles, exciting rides and fun with family and friends as well as cotton candy! It's airy sweetness heightens the senses and just plain tastes good.
The second letter set inspired by my design, "Addicted to Cross Stitch - It's my bear to cross," this casual, fun alphabet can be stitched in a checkered pattern using a single color, or it can be filled in completely.
Click here or on the picture above for a printable PDF pattern. A new window (or tab) will open so you can keep your place here.
For even more personality, stitch each letter in a different color.
Line up the bottoms of the letters, or stagger them.
However you use them, this is a quick and easy alphabet, using only full cross stitches and backstitches.
These letters have varying widths.
or you can backstitch each individual interior block or square.
I suggest you try both to determine the look you prefer.
Learn any unfamiliar stitches by clicking on the "How To..." button on the left menu, then select tutorial links at the bottom of the page.
If you like the colors that I used for the stitched words "Cross Stitch Alphabet 19," I have included small squares at the bottom of this chart. These show those same floss colors, and the order in which I used them.
Click here to learn how to select and adapt cross stitch alphabets or click on the "Alphabet 123s" button on the left menu. | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 245 |
{"url":"https:\/\/blender.stackexchange.com\/questions\/108065\/duplicating-element-with-python-rigid-body-lost","text":"# Duplicating element with python, rigid body lost\n\nSo at first I was using this while having selected what I wanted to duplicate before :\n\nbpy.ops.object.duplicate_move(OBJECT_OT_duplicate={\"linked\":False, \"mode\":'TRANSLATION'}, TRANSFORM_OT_translate={\"value\":(0, 0, PH+PH), \"constraint_axis\":(False, False, True), \"constraint_orientation\":'GLOBAL', \"mirror\":False, \"proportional\":'DISABLED', \"proportional_edit_falloff\":'SMOOTH', \"proportional_size\":1, \"snap\":False, \"snap_target\":'CLOSEST', \"snap_point\":(0, 0, 0), \"snap_align\":False, \"snap_normal\":(0, 0, 0), \"gpencil_strokes\":False, \"texture_space\":False, \"remove_on_cancel\":False, \"release_confirm\":False, \"use_accurate\":False})\n\n\nBut for no reason that I could find the translation would not be made anymore, it would still duplicate but it would then left it at the same position.\n\nThen I read : Duplicating a mesh object\n\nand when using :\n\nnew_obj = obj.copy()\nnew_obj.data = obj.data.copy()\nnew_obj.animation_data_clear()\nnew_obj.location = new_obj.location + mathutils.Vector((0, 0, PH+PH))\n\n\nthe objects are duplicated and translated as I want but the rigidbody from the original object is lost.\n\nI tried adding a new rigidbody on the new object but this is slow as hell (by adding this)\n\nobj.select = True\nbpy.context.object.rigid_body.collision_shape = 'BOX'\nbpy.context.object.rigid_body.use_margin = True\nbpy.context.object.rigid_body.collision_margin = 0.01\n\n\nwould anyone know why the duplicate_move stopped working? is there a fastest way to duplicate the rigidbody?\n\nThanks.\n\nThe code you got from this answer does actually copy the rigid body settings, what it doesn't do is add the new object to the rigid body group. Without being part of the rigid body group the objects don't act as rigid body objects, even with the settings.\n\nimport bpy\n\nscn = bpy.context.scene\nsrc_obj = bpy.context.active_object\nrbgroup = scn.rigidbody_world.group\n\nfor i in range (1,6):\nnew_obj = src_obj.copy()\nnew_obj.data = src_obj.data.copy()\nnew_obj.animation_data_clear()","date":"2022-07-02 20:17:58","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 1, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.17053285241127014, \"perplexity\": 5122.238971761947}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2022-27\/segments\/1656104204514.62\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20220702192528-20220702222528-00007.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
{"url":"http:\/\/math.stackexchange.com\/questions\/32037\/combinatorics-question","text":"# Combinatorics Question\n\nHaving only digits 1,2,3. How many 10-digit numbers can you make with these digits such that you do not use 1 at all? ($2^{10}$?)\n\nHow many 10-digit numbers can you make with these digits provided you use 1 twice? ($2^8$?)\n\n-\nWhy do you think it is $2^{10}? What led you to guess that (what if all three were allowed)? In the second problem, is it exactly two 1's or at least two 1's (your answer will obviously be different depending)? \u2013 Mitch Apr 10 '11 at 14:43 ## 3 Answers Your answer to the first question is correct. In the second question you have to think about places where two 1's will stand. You can choose this in$\\binom{10}{2}\\$ ways.\n\n-\n\nAlso, it's \"10-digit numbers\" rather than \"digits of length 10\"; you may have meant to say \"digit-strings of length 10\" and that actually better captures the essence of the problem.\n\n-\n\nHint: For the second question (the first seems to be clear). Did you take into account that the two 1's can be at different positions?\n\n-","date":"2015-01-28 09:23:10","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.607533872127533, \"perplexity\": 770.1289383189844}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2015-06\/segments\/1422122691893.34\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20150124180451-00118-ip-10-180-212-252.ec2.internal.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
package de.adesso.anki.messages;
import java.nio.ByteBuffer;
/**
* Notifies the controller about the vehicle's current firmware version.
* Can be requested by sending VersionRequestMessage.
*
* @author Yannick Eckey <yannick.eckey@adesso.de>
*/
public class VersionResponseMessage extends Message {
public static final int TYPE = 0x19;
private int version; // unsigned short
public VersionResponseMessage() {
this.type = TYPE;
}
@Override
protected void parsePayload(ByteBuffer buffer) {
this.version = Short.toUnsignedInt(buffer.getShort());
}
@Override
protected void preparePayload(ByteBuffer buffer) {
buffer.putShort((short) this.version);
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 135 |
using System;
using Azure.Core.TestFramework;
using NUnit.Framework;
using Azure.Data.Tables.Tests;
using Azure.Data.Tables.Models;
using System.Threading.Tasks;
namespace Azure.Data.Tables.Samples
{
public partial class TablesSamples : TablesTestEnvironment
{
[Test]
public async Task CreateDeleteTableAsync()
{
string storageUri = StorageUri;
string accountName = StorageAccountName;
string storageAccountKey = PrimaryStorageAccountKey;
string tableName = "OfficeSupplies1p2a" + _random.Next();
// Construct a new <see cref="TableServiceClient" /> using a <see cref="TableSharedKeyCredential" />.
var serviceClient = new TableServiceClient(
new Uri(storageUri),
new TableSharedKeyCredential(accountName, storageAccountKey));
// Create a new table. The <see cref="TableItem" /> class stores properties of the created table.
TableItem table = await serviceClient.CreateTableAsync(tableName);
Console.WriteLine($"The created table's name is {table.Name}.");
// Deletes the table made previously.
await serviceClient.DeleteTableAsync(tableName);
}
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 2,510 |
<Ui xmlns="http://www.blizzard.com/wow/ui/">
<Include file="..\compat\pfUI.lua"/>
<Include file="..\compat\client.lua"/>
<Include file="..\locales.lua"/>
<Include file="..\config.lua"/>
<Include file="..\slashcmd.lua"/>
<Include file="..\database.lua"/>
<Include file="..\map.lua"/>
<Include file="..\quest.lua"/>
<Include file="..\route.lua"/>
<Include file="..\tracker.lua"/>
<Include file="..\browser.lua"/>
<Include file="..\journal.lua"/>
<Include file="..\updatenotify.lua"/>
</Ui>
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 789 |
Cyrtodactylus lekaguli, also known commonly as the tuk-kai Boonsong bent-toed gecko, is a species of lizard in the family Gekkonidae. The species is endemic to Thailand.
Etymology
The specific name, lekaguli, is in honor of Thai herpetologist Boonsong Lekagul (1907–1992).
Geographic range
C. lekaguli is found in southern Thailand, in the provinces of Phang Nga, Suret Thani, and Trang.
Habitat
The preferred natural habitats of C. lekaguli are forest and dry caves.
Description
Large for its genus, C. lekaguli may attain a snout-to-vent length (SVL) of . Adult females are slightly smaller than adult males, an example of sexual dimorphism.
Reproduction
The mode of reproduction of C. lekaguli is unknown.
References
Further reading
Grismer LL, Wood PL, Quah ESH, Anuar S, Muin MA, Sumontha M, Ahmad N, Bauer AM, Wangkulangkul S, Grismer JL, Pauwels OSG (2012). "A phylogeny and taxonomy of the Thai-Malay Peninsula Bent-toed Geckos of the Cyrtodactylus pulchellus complex (Squamata: Gekkonidae): combined morphological and molecular analyses with descriptions of seven new species". Zootaxa 3520: 1–55. (Cyrtodactylus lekaguli, new species).
Cyrtodactylus
Reptiles described in 2012
Endemic fauna of Thailand
Reptiles of Thailand | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 8,480 |
Chantal is een meisjesnaam van Franse oorsprong.
Oorsprong
De naam zou teruggaan op Johanna Francisca de Chantal. Zij werd geboren in 1572 als Jeanne-Françoise Frémyot en huwde in 1592 met Christophe de Rabutin, baron van Chantal. Ze stichtte de Orde van Maria Visitatie en werd in 1767 heilig verklaard. In de 20ste eeuw werd de naam ook als voornaam gegeven. Van 1945 tot 1955 was Chantal in Frankrijk jaarlijks een van de 100 meest toegekende meisjesnamen.
"Chantalisme"
Vanaf de jaren zestig van de twintigste eeuw werd de voornaam in Noord-West-Europa populair. In Duitsland geldt Chantal als een typisch voorbeeld van het 'Chantalisme' (of bij jongens: 'Kevinisme'), een schertsende benaming voor de gewoonte om kinderen een ongewone, exotische voornaam te geven, met name in de lagere sociale klasse. Uit onderzoek van de Universiteit Oldenburg onder leerkrachten in het basisonderwijs bleek in 2009 echter dat een naam als Kevin (en vergelijkbare jongens- en meisjesnamen als Mandy, Angelina, Justin en dus ook Chantal) gezien werd als een typische naam voor de onderklasse van de samenleving, en dat deze opvallend vaak werden geassocieerd met leer- en gedragsproblemen. De onderzoekster tekende daarbij aan dat eerst Kevin met "onderklasse" wordt geassocieerd, en onderklasse vervolgens met leerproblemen. Zodoende zouden leerkrachten last hebben van vooroordelen bij sommige voornamen.
Bekende naamdraagsters
Chantal Akerman (1950–2015), Belgisch filmregisseur
Chantal Achterberg (1985), Nederlands roeister
Chantal Blaak (1989), Nederlands wielrenster
Chantal de Bruijn (1976), Nederlands hockeyster
Chantal van Brummelen, Nederlands zangeres-gitariste
Chantal Dällenbach (1962), Frans-Zwitsers langeafstandsloopster
Chantal Demming (1978), Nederlands actrice
Chantal Goya (1942), Frans actrice
Chantal Groot (1982), Nederlands zwemster
Chantal Janzen (1979), Nederlands actrice
Chantal Kreviazuk (1974), Canadees singer-songwriter en pianiste
Chantal Lambert, Belgisch presentatrice
Chantal Molenkamp (1990), Nederlands zwemster
Marie-Chantal Miller (1968), echtgenote van kroonprins Paul van Griekenland
Chantal de Ridder (1989), Nederlands voetbalster
Chantal Roeters (1981), Nederlands zangeres en televisieproducente
Meisjesnaam | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 3,059 |
Company profile - Giambrocono & C. S.p.A.
Giambrocono & C. Spa is one of the leading Italian Consulting Offices in the field of Industrial and Intellectual Property.
Giambrocono & C. S.p.A. came to be more than 90 years ago, in 1921.
Over the course of its almost 90 years of business, it has become one of the leading Consulting Firms in the field of trademarks and patents in Italy, counting over 70 persons between employees and collaborators.
The management of the Firm has been entrusted, over the years, to three subsequent generations of "Giambrocono", who, while keeping up with the times, have shared the same spirit and the same entrepreneurial vision.
We are specialized in the procedures of filing and prosecution of patents, trademarks, registered designs, utility models, and in company operations involving industrial property rights; trademark and patent searches, administrative oppositions and disputes regarding Industrial Property, assessment of trademarks and patents, domain names, arbitration procedures on the same, customs enforcement and assistance in the drafting of contracts involving trademarks/patents and other Industrial Property rights.
We work worldwide through Consultants who are duly registered with Italian and European Professional Rolls.
Our Firm's philosophy is that of supplying the services of a large Firm with utmost seriousness, reliability, with discretion, at a reasonable and competitive price.
Our highly diversified clientele can be counted in thousands. Among our Clients one can find some of the largest multinationals of the World, Italian and foreign Universities, as well as prestigious companies. However, the most relevant part of our clientele consists of small and medium enterprises, as one would normally expect from the Italian industrial structure.
Within our Firm you will find Jurists, Economists as well as persons whose main areas of expertise fall within the field of technology (Engineers, Chemists, Pharmaceutical Chemists and Biotechnology Experts).
As is the case for all leading Firms, we are able to cover all Industrial Property matters.
Works that can be protected in accordance with the regulations regarding Models of Registered Designs or by Copyright are worthy of separate mention.
This area is covered by professional experts who are qualified both in the legal as well as in the technical/artistic fields.
Beyond the case of normal disputes whether in civil or administrative settings, our professionals also provide consultations to the Courts as technical/legal assistants to the Judges (Court-Appointed Expert Witness, Client-Appointed Expert Witness).
Particular attention is provided to the licensing and transfer of technology, to trademark priority research and verification (which was first introduced by ourselves on Italian trademarks in 1921), and to patent research on the technological frontier.
The legal field is traditionally based upon the protection of patents and models, but, above all, upon the defense of the distinctive marks (trademarks, company names, signs, domain names).
These traditional fields are completed by the following new areas: customs enforcement, the procedures for the reassignment of domain names, the protection of trademark use on the Internet, Software protection.
The financial area concentrates on the financial assessment of trademarks and patents, due diligence, assistance in licensing transactions for trademarks and patents, licensing and merchandising as well as assistance with company transactions (mergers, acquisitions, transformations, transfer of trademarks and patents, etc.).
Our Professionals are not subject to the achievement of specific billables.
Our corporate image is dictated by the satisfaction of our Clients.
Employees and collaborators, half of whom have worked for us for more than twenty years, accumulating experience and dependability, are at the basis of the Firm.
65 % of our work is linked to foreign countries and, therefore, particular attention is given to the selection of the foreign Correspondents through whom the rights of Trademarks and Patents are established throughout the World.
Giambrocono & C. S.p.A. avails itself of the collaboration of Law Firms with the highest degree of competence and specialization in the Intellectual Property area for that pertaining to strictly legal disputes. Moreover, it has been cooperating, for over 40 years, with Studio Parini-Andreolini which shares the same offices with Giambrocono & C. S.p.A. | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 1,190 |
Q: In Windows 10, why does unchecking the "Read-only" checkbox here not "stick"? This is a long-time issue which I have not noticed for a long time, because I have learned to stay away from thinking that there is any kind of control over the files and their many "modes" and weird complexity.
Basically, I right-click my "music" dir on an internal SSD disk and see that it has this:
[X] Read-only (Only applies to files in folder)
The "X" looks more like a square, BTW, if that is significant.
Alright, so I don't want any file in that directory tree to be "read only", so I uncheck the box and click "Apply" and then "OK".
Now, if I again right-click the directory and pick "Properties", it will again be checked/filled. It has not respected my choice to make the files "not read only". Or, if it has, it is not reflected by this GUI box.
Is this yet another plain bug in Windows, or is this some bizarre intended behaviour which "makes kinda sense if you know the history"?
A: Yes, the square vs the check is a very significant detail.
That square represents a "neutral setting" for a folder and is always there by default. Perhaps not the best design but it is what it is. If you do this with an actual FILE, you will see the real value.Also, this will fail on any files that you don't have permissions to change but will offer you the check boxes anyway.
Why is it there then?
To allow you to apply attribute changes in mass to the files contained within. For instance, after you check or uncheck the [X] and OK or Apply, it will attempt to apply this file attribute to all of the FILES under it.
You can always go to the command prompt and use the attrib command with the /s switch to get predictable behavior.
Please see this link for more information.
Funny.. until you asked the question, I never really thought about it.
A: The Read only property for folders is fairly meaningless. It does not make the contents of the folder read-only. It is theoretically a tristate indicator in the Properties dialog, supposedly showing whether:
*
*All of the contents are read-only [check mark].
*None of the contents are read-only [empty].
*Some of the contents are read-only, and some not [black square].
But the read-only attribute as displayed in the Properties dialog is incorrect, and has been through many versions of Windows. In the Explorer Properties dialog, when first diplayed, it is always shown in the indeterminate (black box) state. Checking or unchecking the box does nothing.
The folder does have a read-only attribute in the NTFS partition, and the attribute can be set or unset using the attrib command, as shown below, but that has no practical effect on the folder, nor on its contents, and when the folder with read-only attribute set is viewed in the Properties dialog, it is still displayed as indeterminate.
C'est la vie.
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 4,127 |
is a fictional videogame character from Capcom's popular action game franchise, Sengoku Basara, first introduced in the 2005 video game Devil Kings. In the North American and European versions, he is known as a warrior named Azure Dragon, but retained his original name in the series' third title. As with most Sengoku Basara characters, Masamune was loosely based on Japanese historical figure Date Masamune.
Capcom created this fictional version of him in order to show an appeal based on the character's dragon motifs inherited from the real Date Masamune. Additionally, Masamune's design was intended show a major contrast with the one of the other protagonists from the series, Sanada Yukimura. Despite initial mixed reactions to Masamune's designs based on him wielding six swords at once, critics praised the characterization of Masamune in both the games and anime series based on multiple traits.
Creation and development
In the making of Sengoku Basara, Capcom researched important figures from Japan's Warring States (Sengoku) period, and after noticing that Date Masamune and Sanada Yukimura were highly popular within them, decided to use the two as protagonists. Sengoku Basara 3 composer Masahiro Aoki associated Masamune with the electric guitar, and wrote a hard rock tune for Masamune's horse-racing game stage. Aoki also stated that Masamune's theme, "Dead Heat", was one of his favorite songs from the game.
Masamune was the first character created for the franchise, with Makoto Tsuchibayashi designing him. The first problem Tsuchibayashi faced was the shape of his swords (known as "Dragon Claws"), which were to resemble dragon fins. He sketched out the way he wanted the swords to hang at Masamune's hips but had trouble deciding how the rest should look from behind. The second consideration was the shape of his swords' scabbards. In Tsuchibayashi's original design, Masamune's jinbaori coat was draped over the top part of the scabbards which concealed their shape. He eventually decided to adapt the design to retain the imagery of the scabbards as the "One-eyed Dragon's gills". For the design of his jinbaori coat, he considered a long skirt-like version which reached Masamune's ankles, then tried shortening it slightly and giving it a jagged edge for a rougher look. A shorter version of his first design was also tried. In the end, he selected a shorter version and kept the jagged edge to represent a dragon. Having the title of the "One-eyed Dragon of Oshu" in Japanese history, Tsuchibayashi designed Masamune with multiple swords with the image of dragons to continue this theme. Masamune was given the color blue to contrast with the red of Yukimura and his clan. These color motifs signified the relationship that both Masamune and Yukimura have throughout the games.
In the English-localized version of the first Sengoku Basara, Masamune was renamed Azure Dragon. Masamune's English voicing varies from game to game. For Devil Kings, Kirby Morrow voiced him while Reuben Langdon voiced him in Sengoku Basara: Samurai Heroes. Robert McCollum took the English role in all of the other Sengoku Basara English titles which were the anime adaptations. In every Japanese game, Masamune is voiced by Kazuya Nakai, who stated in 2013 that he cherishes Masamune as a part of himself, and that he is one of his favorite characters he has ever voiced.
Appearances
In Sengoku Basara video games
Masamune debuted as a playable character in Capcom's action game Devil Kings from 2005. The leader of the Date clan, Masamune is a samurai who wishes to unify Japan. During the story, Masamune encounters the Takeda clan samurai, Sanada Yukimura, with whom he forms a friendly rivalry with. However, Masamune is also opposed by a warlord named Oda Nobunaga, who seeks to defeat Masamune and other warlords in order to achieve his goals of conquering Japan with an iron fist.
In the events of Sengoku Basara 2, Masamune and Yukimura continue their rivalry and once again face a new threat: Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who seeks to conquer all of Japan under his banner. In the next sequel, Sengoku Basara: Samurai Heroes, Hideyoshi has been killed by Tokugawa Ieyasu while Masamune is nearly finished by Mitsunari Ishida, one of Hideyoshi's retainers. This led to the weakening of Oshu's power. He fights against Mitsunari in order to win back his lost honor. Following Masamune's revenge, he once again faces Yukimura but decides to spare his life, having bonded with him across the story.
Masamune next appeared in Sengoku Basara 4, a mixture of a sequel and an alternate retelling of the events of the original three games. Masamune once again seeks to conquer Japan and is mainly opposed by Ashikaga Yoshiteru. Following Sengoku Basara 4, Capcom created a new title which features a younger Masamune as a playable character in a smaller role, as the game focuses more on Yukimura. During Masamune's story, he is confronted by Hideyoshi but loses the fight.
Adaptations and other media
In the anime adaptations of Sengoku Basara: Samurai Kings, Masamune's role is similar to the one from the games. In the first season, Masamune befriends Yukimura across their fights but starts feeling fear upon confronting Nobunaga. In order to overcome his fears and help a saddened Yukimura, Masamune disbands the Date clan's forces to prepare for the battle against Nobunaga. In the climax, both Masamune and Yukimura join forces to kill Nobunaga.
During the second season, Masamune defeats Yukimura but shortly after this he faces Hideyoshi. Hideyoshi easily defeats Masamune, leaving him with multiple wounds. Masamune manages to kill Hideyoshi in the ending of the second season. However, this causes Mitsunari's rage in the film Sengoku Basara: The Last Party where he seeks the death of Masamune. Masamune nearly dies in the battle against the avenger which causes all of his men to create an armor strong enough to deflect any attack. Masamune then prepares to finish Mitsunari, but Ieyasu interrupts the battle to seek peace. Nobunaga is revived and the warriors join their efforts to stop his plans to destroy Japan. In the movie's ending, Nobunaga is defeated and Masamune once again battles Yukimura to know who is the stronger warrior.
A new anime based on the hit video game, Sengoku Basara: Samurai Heroes, shows a scene with Masamune being lectured by Kojuro during the time he frets over his powerlessness. A third anime series shows Masamune as a high school student in modern-day Japan.
Masamune was planned to be added to the crossover fighting game Tatsunoko vs. Capcom but was removed due to time constraints. A manga adaptation of the second game was created by Yak Haibara with Masamune being one of the three main protagonists. A live-action television drama titled Sengoku Basara: Moonlight Party premiered on July 12, 2012, with Masamune portrayed by Kento Hayashi. In a Sengoku Basara stage play that made a crossover with the series Devil May Cry, Masamune was played by Daichi Yamaguchi.
Cultural impact
Popularity
In a poll from Japanese fan magazine Newtype, Masamune was voted the 21st most-popular male anime character from the 2000s. In July 2009, he took the 10th spot of the season. In 2009, Masamune's image was used by Capcom to raise awareness of an election in Miyagi Prefecture, a video game first, noting in a press release that "warlord samurai turned video game sensation, Date Masamune is a household name in Miyagi Prefecture. This campaign aims to use the broad appeal Date Masamune has among the residents of the prefecture to draw attention to the election and increase the turnout of younger voters."
While discussing this, Engadget noted that Masamune was far more popular in Eastern territories than Western territories due to the negative reception of Devil Kings. Nevertheless, the site expected the third game in the franchise to bring more appeal of Masamune to English players due to Capcom having it localized to be like the original. In a Yahoo! Japan poll from 2010, Masamune was voted as third-most-popular video-game character, behind Hatsune Miku and Mario. In June 2009, JYB sold a tour in Japan known as Sengoku Basara: Masamune's Grand Tour. It focused on events related to Masamune and Kojuro. A total of 90% of the people who went there were females. Multiple types of merchandising based on the character have been released such as an identical helmet. In a series of Sengoku Basara magazines, Masamune has been featured prominently in the first issue as the volume highly focuses on his role in the franchise.
Critical reception
Initial reactions to Masamune focused on his particular use of six swords, with GamesRadar jokingly speculating that they were behind Masamune having an eye patch. Nintendo World Report primarily noted how distant Masamune's characterization was from his historical counterpart as well as how he wields six swords. Japanator liked Masamune's character, most notably his relationship with Sanada Yukimura despite the irony that none of these historical figures ever met. While liking the English dub, the reviewer lamented the fact the video games lacked his Japanese voice actor, who made heavy use of Masamune's trope of using Engrish.
Game Revolution stated that they found Masamune and Yukimura to be unique characters in the franchise whose physical looks would amaze players. Gaming Nexus was more critical, finding Masamune's gameplay repetitive after a long time but would remain very fun for a while, and his search for Ishida Mitsunari to be slightly simplistic in its execution. Japanator praised both Robert McCullum and Kazuya Nakai for providing appealing voices for Masamune in English and Japanese, respectively. A similar response to Nakai's voice acting was given by Otaku News based on the delivery of Masamune's Engrish lines. Toon Zone felt that McCollum also gave a good performance as Masamune.
Critics had also focused on Masamune's role in the anime adaptation of the series, which was generally positive. FandomPost liked the action scenes featured by the two protagonists of the anime as seen in the English release of the series. Blu-ray noted that the development of Masamune and Yukimura's friendship served as one of the strongest parts of the first season, with Otaku News also enjoying the balance between these two protagonists despite their differences in personality and methods of action. Anime Herald agreed and noted the two rivals' "rise to greatness" across their fights and the lessons they learned in the series. While liking the first season's fight scenes between Masamune and Yukimura, Fandom Post felt that the second season managed to further develop these characters, with Masamune facing conflicts with his advisor Kojuro which made him more vulnerable than in the first season.
In regards to the film finale Sengoku Basara: The Last Party, Masamune's rivalry with Ishida Mitsunari was praised due to its tragic beginnings and eventual revenge clashes between Masamune and Mitsunari. This subplot was noted to be one of the major highlights of the movie. Anime News Network felt the fight scenes featuring Masamune were highly entertaining due to the visuals the anime staff provided. Japanator noted that Masamune was his favorite character from the games and believed Production I.G succeeded in adapting all of his action scenes.
References
Action-adventure game characters
Capcom protagonists
Fictional Japanese people in video games
Fictional samurai
Fictional swordfighters in video games
Fictional warlords in video games
Male characters in video games
Video game characters based on real people
Video game characters introduced in 2005 | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 8,960 |
Q: How to center a vertical aligned menu in css? Here's the HTML code itself
html {
background: url(wallpaper.jpg) no-repeat center center fixed;
background-size: cover;
}
.header {
text-align: center;
font-family: impact;
font-size: 40px;
margin-left: 500px;
margin-right: 500px;
color: gray;
}
#introduction {
font-family: times;
text-align: center;
text-decoration: underline;
color: #1F1B1B;
}
.paragraph {
text-indent: 20px;
color: gray;
text-align: center;
margin-left: 200px;
margin-right: 200px;
}
.rap {
float: left;
margin-right: 10px;
}
ul li a {
display: block;
text-align: center;
font-family: georgia;
background: rgba(16, 16, 16, 0.4);
width: 130px;
text-decoration: none;
margin: 10px;
padding: 5px;
border: 1px solid black;
border-radius: 5px;
color: white;
font-size: 19px;
vertical-align: middle;
list-style: none;
}
<ul>
<li><a href="#2pac">2pac</a></li>
<li><a href="#Bigge Smalls">Biggie Smalls</a></li>
<li><a href="#Nas">Nas </a></li>
<li><a href="#Jay Z">Jay Z </a></li>
<li><a href="#T.I.">T.I.</a></li>
</ul>
What can I do to center my menu itself? It keeps floating to the left and I want the whole thing dead center in my mock website.
A: Change the links to be inline-block and assign text-align: center; to the parent to center the links, then remove the default padding from the ul so that everything is centered exactly in the middle.
ul {
text-align: center;
list-style: none;
padding: 0;
}
ul li a {
display: block;
text-align: center;
font-family: georgia;
background: rgba(16, 16, 16, 0.4);
width: 130px;
text-decoration: none;
margin: 10px;
padding: 5px;
border: 1px solid black;
border-radius: 5px;
color: white;
font-size: 19px;
vertical-align: middle;
list-style: none;
display: inline-block;
}
<ul>
<li><a href="#2pac">2pac</a></li>
<li><a href="#Bigge Smalls">Biggie Smalls</a></li>
<li><a href="#Nas">Nas </a></li>
<li><a href="#Jay Z">Jay Z </a></li>
<li><a href="#T.I.">T.I.</a></li>
</ul>
A:
html {
background: url(wallpaper.jpg) no-repeat center center fixed;
background-size: cover;
}
.header {
text-align: center;
font-family: impact;
font-size: 40px;
margin-left: 500px;
margin-right: 500px;
color: gray;
}
#introduction {
font-family: times;
text-align: center;
text-decoration: underline;
color: #1F1B1B;
}
.paragraph {
text-indent: 20px;
color: gray;
text-align: center;
margin-left: 200px;
margin-right: 200px;
}
.rap {
float: left;
margin-right: 10px;
}
/**use text-align**/
ul li {
text-align: center;
list-style: none;
}
ul li a {
display: inline-block; /*use inline-block display*/
text-align: center;
font-family: georgia;
background: rgba(16, 16, 16, 0.4);
width: 130px;
text-decoration: none;
margin: 10px;
padding: 5px;
border: 1px solid black;
border-radius: 5px;
color: white;
font-size: 19px;
vertical-align: middle;
list-style: none;
}
<ul>
<li><a href="#2pac">2pac</a></li>
<li><a href="#Bigge Smalls">Biggie Smalls</a></li>
<li><a href="#Nas">Nas </a></li>
<li><a href="#Jay Z">Jay Z </a></li>
<li><a href="#T.I.">T.I.</a></li>
</ul>
A: I personally love another trick, quick and easy. Put it in a div container:
<div id = "menu">
<ul>
<li><a href="#2pac">2pac</a></li>
<li><a href="#Bigge Smalls">Biggie Smalls</a></li>
<li><a href="#Nas">Nas </a></li>
<li><a href="#Jay Z">Jay Z </a></li>
<li><a href="#T.I.">T.I.</a></li>
</ul>
</div>
Then, give the menu a fixed width and use auto margins, like this:
#menu {
width: 1000px;
margin-right: auto;
margin-left: auto;
}
Or you can use the same styles on the ul itself.
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 6,834 |
{"url":"https:\/\/gmatclub.com\/forum\/find-the-value-s-of-x-such-that-8xy-12y-2x-3-0-is-true-for-al-291204.html","text":"GMAT Question of the Day - Daily to your Mailbox; hard ones only\n\n It is currently 07 Dec 2019, 06:35\n\n### GMAT Club Daily Prep\n\n#### Thank you for using the timer - this advanced tool can estimate your performance and suggest more practice questions. We have subscribed you to Daily Prep Questions via email.\n\nCustomized\nfor You\n\nwe will pick new questions that match your level based on your Timer History\n\nTrack\n\nevery week, we\u2019ll send you an estimated GMAT score based on your performance\n\nPractice\nPays\n\nwe will pick new questions that match your level based on your Timer History\n\n# Find the value(s) of x such that 8xy - 12y + 2x - 3 = 0 is true for al\n\nAuthor Message\nTAGS:\n\n### Hide Tags\n\nMath Expert\nJoined: 02 Sep 2009\nPosts: 59589\nFind the value(s) of x such that 8xy - 12y + 2x - 3 = 0 is true for al\u00a0 [#permalink]\n\n### Show Tags\n\n19 Mar 2019, 00:24\n00:00\n\nDifficulty:\n\n25% (medium)\n\nQuestion Stats:\n\n75% (01:48) correct 25% (01:43) wrong based on 32 sessions\n\n### HideShow timer Statistics\n\nFind the value(s) of x such that 8xy - 12y + 2x - 3 = 0 is true for all values of y.\n\n(A) 2\/3\n(B) 3\/2 or -1\/4\n(C) -2\/3 or -1\/4\n(D) 3\/2\n(E) -3\/2 or -1\/4\n\n_________________\ne-GMAT Representative\nJoined: 04 Jan 2015\nPosts: 3158\nRe: Find the value(s) of x such that 8xy - 12y + 2x - 3 = 0 is true for al\u00a0 [#permalink]\n\n### Show Tags\n\n19 Mar 2019, 00:47\n\nSolution\n\nGiven:\n\u2022 The expression 8xy - 12y + 2x - 3 = 0 is true for all values of y\n\nTo find:\n\u2022 The value(s) of x\n\nApproach and Working:\nWe can simplify the given expression in the following manner:\n\u2022 8xy - 12y + 2x - 3 = 0\nOr, 4y (2x \u2013 3) + 1 (2x \u2013 3) = 0\nOr, (2x \u2013 3) (4y + 1) = 0\n\nAs it is true for all values of y, we can say 2x \u2013 3 = 0, which implies x = 3\/2\n\nHence, the correct answer is option D.\n\n_________________\nSenior Manager\nJoined: 12 Sep 2017\nPosts: 308\nFind the value(s) of x such that 8xy - 12y + 2x - 3 = 0 is true for al\u00a0 [#permalink]\n\n### Show Tags\n\n19 Mar 2019, 19:19\nThe easiest way I found was:\n\nGiven that \"true for all values of y\" take y as 1.\n\n$$8x(1) - 12(1) + 2x - 3 = 0$$\n\n$$10x - 15 = 0$$\n\nTest the values...\n\n$$10*\\frac{3}{2} - 15 = 0$$ ... Only option\n\nD\nVeritas Prep GMAT Instructor\nJoined: 16 Oct 2010\nPosts: 9850\nLocation: Pune, India\nRe: Find the value(s) of x such that 8xy - 12y + 2x - 3 = 0 is true for al\u00a0 [#permalink]\n\n### Show Tags\n\n19 Mar 2019, 20:23\nBunuel wrote:\nFind the value(s) of x such that 8xy - 12y + 2x - 3 = 0 is true for all values of y.\n\n(A) 2\/3\n(B) 3\/2 or -1\/4\n(C) -2\/3 or -1\/4\n(D) 3\/2\n(E) -3\/2 or -1\/4\n\nFor 8xy - 12y + 2x - 3 = 0 to be true for all value of y, the constant term should be 0 and the y terms should be 0 too.\n2x - 3 = 0\nwhich gives x = 3\/2\nThe y terms y(8x - 12) will be 0 too when x = 3\/2.\n\n_________________\nKarishma\nVeritas Prep GMAT Instructor\n\nRe: Find the value(s) of x such that 8xy - 12y + 2x - 3 = 0 is true for al \u00a0 [#permalink] 19 Mar 2019, 20:23\nDisplay posts from previous: Sort by","date":"2019-12-07 13:35:50","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.8412023186683655, \"perplexity\": 2008.3512980155394}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2019-51\/segments\/1575540499439.6\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20191207132817-20191207160817-00512.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
{"url":"http:\/\/mymathforum.com\/math\/42588-how-solve-consecutive-numbers-addition-2.html","text":"My Math Forum > Math How to solve this consecutive numbers addition?\n\n Math General Math Forum - For general math related discussion and news\n\nApril 6th, 2014, 12:14 AM \u00a0 #11\nNewbie\n\nJoined: Apr 2014\nFrom: Earth\n\nPosts: 14\nThanks: 0\n\nHello Mark FL,\n\nWhat if the smallest number is an even number and the largest number also even number, then how to multiply and minus 1?\n\nExample this question mentioned at 1st:\n\nQuote:\n Find the value of: $\\displaystyle 1+2+3+4+5+...+9+10$\nQuote:\n $\\displaystyle 1=1\u27151-0$\nQuote:\n $\\displaystyle 10=5\u27152-0$\nFinal step:\n$\\displaystyle 10\u27151=10$\n\nBut answer seems to be wrong...\n\nKindest regards,\nMai\n\n April 6th, 2014, 12:24 AM #12 Senior Member \u00a0 \u00a0 Joined: Jul 2010 From: St. Augustine, FL., U.S.A.'s oldest city Posts: 12,211 Thanks: 521 Math Focus: Calculus\/ODEs For a sum of the first $n$ natural numbers, we can use the formula: $\\displaystyle \\sum_{k=1}^nk=\\frac{n(n+1)}{2}$ In this case, $n=10$ and so we have: $\\displaystyle \\sum_{k=1}^{10}k=\\frac{10(10+1)}{2}=55$\n April 6th, 2014, 12:38 AM #13 Newbie \u00a0 Joined: Apr 2014 From: Earth Posts: 14 Thanks: 0 Hi MarkFL, This method is too difficult for me, can we use the easier method? The state method. High regards, Mai\n April 6th, 2014, 01:19 AM #14 Senior Member \u00a0 \u00a0 Joined: Jul 2010 From: St. Augustine, FL., U.S.A.'s oldest city Posts: 12,211 Thanks: 521 Math Focus: Calculus\/ODEs What is the state method? If you are going to do sums, then you need to know these formulas eventually. edit: You could state: 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 + 7 + 8 + 9 + 10 = (1 + 10) + (2 + 9) + (3 + 8) + (4 + 7) + (5 + 6) = 5(11) = 55 But this would be tedious if you had the first 1000 natural numbers. Last edited by MarkFL; April 6th, 2014 at 01:27 AM.\nApril 6th, 2014, 03:24 AM \u00a0 #15\nNewbie\n\nJoined: Apr 2014\nFrom: Earth\n\nPosts: 14\nThanks: 0\n\nHello MarkFL,\n\nThis is the state method you said:\n\nQuote:\n $\\displaystyle S=7+9+11+\u22ef+57+59+61$ $\\displaystyle S=61+59+57+\u22ef+11+9+7$ Now, if we add each column, we find: $\\displaystyle 2S=68+68+68+\u22ef+68+68+68$ Seeing that we have 28 68's on the right side, we may then write: $\\displaystyle 2S=28\u22c568$ Divide both sides by 2: $\\displaystyle S=28\u22c534=952$\nSo is it possible to use the same above method to solve the question?\n\nHighest regards,\nMai\n\n April 6th, 2014, 03:27 AM #16 Senior Member \u00a0 \u00a0 Joined: Jul 2010 From: St. Augustine, FL., U.S.A.'s oldest city Posts: 12,211 Thanks: 521 Math Focus: Calculus\/ODEs Yes, try it...write the sum both ways, then add them up.\nApril 6th, 2014, 09:50 AM \u00a0 #17\nMath Team\n\nJoined: Oct 2011\n\nPosts: 14,597\nThanks: 1038\n\nQuote:\n Originally Posted by XPMai Find the value of: 7+9+11+13+15+17+\u2026\u2026+55+57+59+61\nMark showed you the \"tricks of the trade\" used to arrive at the formula(s).\n\nThis series is a bit different from the usual; given is the 1st term (7),\nlast term (61) and common difference (2).\nThe number of terms n (28 in your example) is not given; usually it is...\n\na = 1st term (7)\nb = last term (61)\nd = common difference (2)\nn = ?\n\nn = (b - a + d) \/ d : that's the formula to calculate n\nso:\nn = (61 - 7 + 2) \/ 2 = 56 \/ 2 = 28\n\nThe standard formula for the sum is : n(a + b) \/ 2\n\nSo we can calculate the sum of your series this way:\nS = n(a + b) \/ 2 where n = (b - a + d) \/ d\n\nS = 28(7 + 61) \/ 2 = 952\n\nAnd don't ask for a simpler way...cause there ain't none!\nArithmetic Series\nQuote:\n Find the value of: 1+2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9+10\nYou can use the same formula:\nn = (10 - 1 + 1) \/ 1 = 10 (of course!)\nS = 10(1 + 10)) \/ 2 = 55\n\nHowever, this one is a \"special\" case: sum of first n positive numbers.\n\nSince a is always 1 and n is always b, then substituting in above formula:\nS = n(1 + n) \/ 2\nS = 10(1 + 10) \/ 2 = 55\n\nAnd this explains the standard formula S = n(n + 1) \/ 2\nfor the sum of the first n positive numbers. OK?\n\nLast edited by Denis; April 6th, 2014 at 09:53 AM.\n\nApril 7th, 2014, 03:58 AM \u00a0 #18\nNewbie\n\nJoined: Apr 2014\nFrom: Earth\n\nPosts: 14\nThanks: 0\n\nHehe, I've finally found out the method that I was looking for!\n\nQuestion:\nQuote:\n Find the value of: $\\displaystyle 1+2+3+4+5+...+8+9+10$\nWorking:\nQuote:\n Step 1: Pair the 1st and last number up and find the sum of them. ....$\\displaystyle 1+2+3+4+5$ ...$\\displaystyle 10+9+8+7+6$ $\\displaystyle = 11....11...11..11...11$ (Ignore the dots, the dots are just to make them equal.) Step 2: Find the number of total pairs $\\displaystyle 10\u00f72=5$ (pairs) Step 3: Multiple the number of pairs by the sum of 1 pair. $\\displaystyle 5\u00d711=55$\n\nSo that is the easiest method as compared to you guys.\n\nCheers,\nMai\n\nLast edited by XPMai; April 7th, 2014 at 04:23 AM. Reason: Add-on: So that is the easiest method as compared to you guys.\n\n April 7th, 2014, 05:02 AM #19 Math Team \u00a0 Joined: Oct 2011 From: Ottawa Ontario, Canada Posts: 14,597 Thanks: 1038 You find that easier than 10*11 \/ 2 = 55 ?\nApril 7th, 2014, 05:36 AM \u00a0 #20\nNewbie\n\nJoined: Apr 2014\nFrom: Earth\n\nPosts: 14\nThanks: 0\n\nQuote:\nOriginally Posted by Denis\nQuote:\n Find the value of: 1+2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9+10\nYou can use the same formula:\nn = (10 - 1 + 1) \/ 1 = 10 (of course!)\nS = 10(1 + 10)) \/ 2 = 55\n\nHowever, this one is a \"special\" case: sum of first n positive numbers.\n\nSince a is always 1 and n is always b, then substituting in above formula:\nS = n(1 + n) \/ 2\nS = 10(1 + 10) \/ 2 = 55\nHello Denis,\n\nYes, I found it easier to solve the question using my method than your methods or MarkFL's method because I can't understand your methods and MarkFL's methods.\n\nYou can use my method in future too because it's easiest.\n\nBest wishes,\nMai\n\n### how to add consecutive nos using calculus\n\nClick on a term to search for related topics.\n Thread Tools Display Modes Linear Mode\n\n Similar Threads Thread Thread Starter Forum Replies Last Post EvanJ Advanced Statistics 7 March 8th, 2014 08:33 PM johnr Number Theory 5 March 5th, 2014 11:03 AM davedave Number Theory 2 September 17th, 2013 03:23 PM daigo Algebra 1 May 18th, 2012 02:59 PM coax Number Theory 1 July 24th, 2009 05:36 AM\n\n Contact - Home - Forums - Cryptocurrency Forum - Top","date":"2019-09-15 14:23:20","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.6286883354187012, \"perplexity\": 2125.2541062552295}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2019-39\/segments\/1568514571506.61\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20190915134729-20190915160729-00122.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
\section{Introduction}
The availability of AutoML (automated machine learning) with publicly accessible pre-trained models enable domain experts to automatically build high-quality custom machine learning (ML) applications without much requirement for ML model construction knowledge [1, 2], which greatly speeds up the ML model development. AutoML has been an essential piece in the model-centric approach in the industry. As for the data-centric approach, the processes to improve the dataset, such as fixing incorrect labels, adding examples that represent edge cases, and applying data augmentation, are still very artisanal, and the automated tools for these tasks are lacking. Therefore, to facilitate these efforts, we develop an automated data-centric framework (AutoDC), similar to the purpose of AutoML, to enable domain experts to automatically and systematically improve datasets without much coding requirement and manual process. The remaining part of the paper is organized as follows. In Section 2, the ideation of this automated tool is described. In Section 3, the methodology is presented. In Section 4, the user workflow and AutoDC functionality are provided. In Section 5, the preliminary test results and their implications are discussed. The last section is the discussion for limitations, future works, and possible improvements.
\section{Ideation}
As Figure 1 shows, the common AutoML pipeline automates several processes, including data preparation and preprocessing, feature engineering, model generation, and hyperparameter tuning [3, 4]. Similarly, AutoDC is designed to automate the processes to improve dataset, including incorrect label correction, edge case detection, and augmentation, with a human-in-the-loop approach. By using the AutoML system, such as Google Cloud AutoML, domain experts only need to bring in the input data, and AutoML takes care of the manual ML processes, then produces output predictions, along with user-defined evaluation metrics (see Figure 1). With a similar idea, AutoDC is designed for domain experts to bring in a labeled dataset, such as annotated images, to the system; AutoDC takes care of the manual data improvement processes, and produces the improved dataset, by automatically correcting the incorrect labels (with user feedbacks), detecting edge cases, and augmenting edge cases. Note that AutoDC is still under development. Here we focus on the image datasets and image classification task as proof-of-concept (POC) in this paper. We plan to expand this methodology to other types of datasets, e.g. texts/ natural language process (NLP) as well as time-series.
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=0.20]{Figures/Fig_1.png}
\centering
\caption{AutoML functionality and the ideation of AutoDC tool.}
\end{figure}
\section{Methodology}
\subsection{Embeddings}
We utilize embeddings for the three dataset improvement routines: label correction, edge case detection, and data augmentation. An embedding is a relatively low-dimensional space translated from high-dimensional vectors [5, 6]. Embeddings represent the data in vector form that can be semantically grouped with their simility so they are useful for developing deep neural network models to tackle with large dimensional inputs; Word2Vec [7] and BERT [8] are a few famous examples. Here we generate image embeddings using pre-trained models, specifically ResNet50 [9] with ImageNet [10] pre-trained weights. We remove the last layer of sigmoid/softmax activation function of ResNet50 and pass image data to this last layer removed model to generate single-vector embeddings. We then apply dimensionality reduction technique, t-SNE (t-Distributed Stochastic Neighbor Embedding) [11, 12], to the embeddings so we can visualize the high-dimensional data in the form of clusters. Figure 2a and 2b show an example of embedding clusters for the roman numerals data "i" class.
\subsection{Outlier detection}
After the embeddings are created for each class in the dataset, we apply Isolation Forest [13] for outlier detection. Isolation Forest is an unsupervised model based on decision trees. In an Isolation Forest, randomly sub-sampled data is processed in a tree structure. With randomly selected features, the samples that end up in shorter branches are considered anomalies as it is easier for the tree to separate them from other observations. As for the samples that travel deeper into the tree are less likely to be anomalies as they require more cuts to isolate them. Figure 2c shows an example of outliers separated from the embedding clusters. These outliers are considered as either edge cases in the data or implied wrong labels. The red box in Figure 2c indicates the wrong label from the outliers.
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=0.15]{Figures/Fig_2_.png}
\centering
\caption{(a) Image embedding of the roman numerals data "i" class in clustering view; blue dots represent each image data in class "i". (b) The same embedding cluster as (a); the blue dots are replaced by actual images for visualization. (c) Edge case candidates recommended by Isolation Forest model. Red box indicates the wrong label as it should be labeled as class "ii".}
\end{figure}
\section{Workflow and functionality}
AutoDC is designed to follow three dataset improvement steps/ routines sequentially: (1) label correction, (2) edge case selection, (3) data augmentation. Appendix Figure 1 summaries the workflow in AutoDC. As discussed in Section 2, before using AutoDC, we assume the users have identified a model (custom ML model or AutoML) that is well suited for the task at hand. AutoDC is designed for the users to gain additional ML performance by augmenting the dataset quality as a whole. Note that the data quality processes (e.g. embeddings creation, tSNE modeling, Isolation Forest modeling etc.) are automated, however, the downstream ML task is not, unless the users are using an AutoML framework for it.
\subsection{Label correction}
In AutoDC, users are required to supply labeled datasets, then the system automatically creates embeddings and detects outliers using the methods described in section 3. AutoDC then presents a visualization of image embeddings and outliers for each class. For the label correction function in AutoDC, we design it to request user feedback (i.e. human-in-the-loop). Users are prompted to examine the embedding outliers and correct the wrong labels (red box on Figure 2c).
\subsection{Edge case Selection}
After correcting the wrong labels, users are prompted to select edge cases visually. The embedding outliers are the edge case candidates. This process can be subjective and user dependent. Therefore, we provide an option for the users to include all the edge case candidates recommended by Isolation Forest.
\subsection{Data Augmentation}
After the edge case selection, users are prompted to select augmentation techniques that are proper for their datasets, including adding Gaussian noise, cropping, flipping, rotation, scaling, brightness, contrast, and saturation. We also provide an option for the users to include all augmentation techniques. The default value range for each augmentation technique is listed in Appendix Table 1. The augmentation here is mainly for the edge cases. The users are able to adjust the proportion of augmented edge cases for the output dataset.
\section{Preliminary tests}
In this paper we tested three open source image classification datasets: (1) roman numerals [14], (2) Asirra (Animal Species Image Recognition for Restricting Access) for dogs and cats [15], and (3) Stanford parasitic snail for neglected tropical disease (NTD) [16, 17]. The details of these datasets are summarized in Table 1
\begin{table}[h!]
\caption{Datasets used in this study.}
\centering
\begin{tabular}{||c|c|c|c||}
\hline
\textbf{Dataset} & \textbf{Number of Images} & \textbf{Number of Classes} & \textbf{Ref}. \\ [0.5ex]
\hline\hline
Roman numerals & $2,966$ & $4$ & $14$ \\[0.25ex]
\hline
Asirra- dogs vs cats & $25,000$ & $2$ & $15$ \\[0.25ex]
\hline
Stanford parasitic snail for NTD & $5,140$ & $4$ & $16,17$ \\[0.25ex]
\hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:1}
\end{table}
In the preliminary tests for this paper, we ran through all three dataset improvement routines in AutoDC with a single node CPU cloud instance. We found that less than 1 labels are incorrect in the datasets. As for edge cases, Isolation Forecast recommended 10-15\% of datasets to be edge case candidates and we included all the candidates in our tests. As for the proportion of augmented edge cases for the output datasets, we found that a 15-25\% ratio is optimal to get the best results from our image classification model. We implemented the ResNet50 model with pre-trained weights of ImageNet and ML code is fixed (train/test split: 80/20, learning rate=0.0001, batch size= 8, optimizer: Adam) in our preliminary tests. We first tested the model with the original/ unmodified labeled datasets (as control groups) and we then tested the improved datasets (as experiment groups) that came out from AutoDC, without fine-tuning the ResNet model. We found that the improved datasets boosted the model accuracy to 10-15\% in our test cases (Table 3). Since the dataset improvement tasks were done automatically with AutoDC, although it still requires some user feedback, we estimated the users saved 80\% of the time if all the improvement tasks were done manually, for example, going through every single image for wrong labels, manually examining and hand picking the edge cases in the datasets, and manually augmenting the images.
\subsection{Next Steps}
In our preliminary analysis, we only compared the classification model accuracy of the controlled/ unmodified datasets with fine-tuned datasets that went through all three dataset routine tasks (e.g. label correction, edge case selection, and augmentation). The obvious next step would be to examine the classification accuracy improvements with each fine-tuning routine that is done (1) independently of each other, (2) mutually exclusive combination of each other, and (3) total inclusion of all methods. This analysis would provide more insights on the efficiency of each routine and their correlation with different types of datasets. Another test case would be to take a corrupted dataset to go through AutoDC fine-tuning routines and compare the modeling results, which would further prove the usefulness of this automated data-centric approach.
\begin{table}[h!]
\caption{Preliminary test results (fixed ResNet50 model)}
\centering
\begin{tabular}{ |p{3.3cm}||p{2cm}|p{2cm}|p{2.2cm}|p{2cm}|}
\hline
Dataset & Wrong label ratio & Optimal aug ratio & Model acc- unmodified data & Model acc- improved data \\
\hline\hline
Roman numerals & $0.8\%$ & $25\%$ & $0.65$ & $0.80\pm0.05$\\
\hline
Asirra- dogs vs cats & $0.001\%$ & $20\%$ & $0.72$ & $0.82\pm0.03$\\
\hline
Stanford parasitic snail & $0.5\%$ & $15\%$ & $0.81$ & $0.95\pm0.01$\\
\hline
\end{tabular}
\label{tabel:2}
\end{table}
\section{Limitations, improvement, and broader impact}
The limitations of the current AutoDC tool include (1) the users need to identify a training model or an AutoML framework in advance, (2) the process to fine tune the routine parameters, such as edge case selection ratio and augmentation ratio, is still manual, meaning how much of the improvement the model will get with the improved dataset came out from AutoDC cannot be known in advance. Therefore, we identified several improvements in our user flow and methodology that can be made for AutoDC tools. First, an AutoML framework can be combined with AutoDC so the users are able to fine-tune the dataset routine parameters in the searching fashion to improve the dataset and the model concurrently and iteratively. Second, since most mature AutoML tools have integrated frontend user interface, we also aim to build such easy-to-use graphic user interface (GUI) to the dataset routines in AutoDC. Third, for the methodology improvement, the newer and more efficient computer vision models, such as EfficientNet [18], as well as other robust dimensionality reduction algorithms, such as UMAP (Uniform Manifold Approximation and Projection) [19], can be applied to create the image embeddings in AutoDC. In addition, more advanced augmentation approaches, such as GAN (Generative adversarial networks) [20], can be tested as well. Since AutoDC tools are built on top of open source ML applications and techniques, we can adopt the newly developed ML toolings along the way to ensure its efficiency and robustness for domain experts to prepare the improved quality of datasets so they can undertake the data-centric approach with ease.
\section*{Funding and acknowledgements}
The funding for this project was provided by Hypergiant Industries LLC. The authors thank Andy Armstrong, the Design Director at Hypergiant, for creating the plots and visualization.
\section*{References}
{
\small
[1] He, X., Zhao, K. \& Chu, X. (2021) AutoML: A Survey of the State-of-the-Art. Knowledge-Based Systems, 212, 106622.
[2] Zöller, M. A., \& Huber, M. F. (2021) Benchmark and survey of automated machine learning frameworks. Journal of Artificial Intelligence Research, 70, 409-472.
[3] Gijsbers, P., LeDell, E., Thomas, J., Poirier, S., Bischl, B., \& Vanschoren, J. (2019) An open source AutoML benchmark. arXiv preprint arXiv:1907.00909.
[4] Feurer, M., Eggensperger, K., Falkner, S., Lindauer, M., \& Hutter, F. (2018, July) Practical automated machine learning for the automl challenge 2018. In International Workshop on Automatic Machine Learning at ICML (pp. 1189-1232).
[5] Kiela, D., \& Bottou, L. (2014, October) Learning image embeddings using convolutional neural networks for improved multi-modal semantics. In Proceedings of the 2014 Conference on empirical methods in natural language processing (EMNLP) (pp. 36-45).
[6] Harsanyi, J. C., \& Chang, C. I. (1994) Hyperspectral image classification and dimensionality reduction: An orthogonal subspace projection approach. IEEE Transactions on geoscience and remote sensing, 32(4), 779-785.
[7] Mikolov, T., Chen, K., Corrado, G., \& Dean, J. (2013) Efficient estimation of word representations in vector space. arXiv preprint arXiv:1301.3781.
[8] Devlin, J., Chang, M. W., Lee, K., \& Toutanova, K. (2018) Bert: Pre-training of deep bidirectional transformers for language understanding. arXiv preprint arXiv:1810.04805.
[9] He, K., Zhang, X., Ren, S., \& Sun, J. (2016) Deep residual learning for image recognition. In Proceedings of the IEEE conference on computer vision and pattern recognition (pp. 770-778).
[10] Deng, J., Dong, W., Socher, R., Li, L. J., Li, K., \& Fei-Fei, L. (2009, June) Imagenet: A large-scale hierarchical image database. In 2009 IEEE conference on computer vision and pattern recognition (pp. 248-255). Ieee.
[11] Van der Maaten, L., \& Hinton, G. (2008) Visualizing data using t-SNE. Journal of machine learning research, 9(11).
[12] Van Der Maaten, L. (2014) Accelerating t-SNE using tree-based algorithms. The Journal of Machine Learning Research, 15(1), 3221-3245.
[13] Liu, F. T., Ting, K. M., \& Zhou, Z. H. (2008, December) Isolation forest. In 2008 eighth ieee international conference on data mining (pp. 413-422). IEEE.
[14] The roman numeral dataset. DOI: 10.5281/zenodo.5385144
[15] The Asirra dataset. \url{https://www.kaggle.com/c/dogs-vs-cats}
[16] Tallam, K., Liu, Z. Y. C., Chamberlin, A. J., Jones, I. J., Shome, P., Riveau, G., ... \& De Leo, G. A. (2021) Identification of Snails and Schistosoma of Medical Importance via Convolutional Neural Networks: A Proof-of-Concept Application for Human Schistosomiasis. Frontiers in Public Health, 900.
[17] Liu, Z. Y. C., Chamberlin, A. J., Shome, P., Jones, I. J., Riveau, G., Ndione, R. A., ... \& De Leo, G. A. (2019) Identification of snails and parasites of medical importance via convolutional neural network: an application for human schistosomiasis. bioRxiv, 713727.
[18] Tan, M., \& Le, Q. (2019, May) Efficientnet: Rethinking model scaling for convolutional neural networks. In International Conference on Machine Learning (pp. 6105-6114). PMLR.
[19] McInnes, L., Healy, J., \& Melville, J. (2018) Umap: Uniform manifold approximation and projection for dimension reduction. arXiv preprint arXiv:1802.03426.
[20] Goodfellow, I., Pouget-Abadie, J., Mirza, M., Xu, B., Warde-Farley, D., Ozair, S., ... \& Bengio, Y. (2014) Generative adversarial nets. Advances in neural information processing systems, 27.
}
\newpage
\section*{Appendix}
\setcounter{figure}{0}
\setcounter{table}{0}
\begin{figure}[!ht]
\includegraphics[scale=0.17]{Figures/Fig_S1.png}
\centering
\caption{AutoDC workflow.}
\end{figure}
\begin{table}[h!]
\caption{Default value range for the augmentation technique used in this study.}
\centering
\begin{tabular}{||c|c||}
\hline
\textbf{Augmentation Technique} & \textbf{Range} \\ [0.5ex]
\hline\hline
Gaussian Noise Scale & $[10, 60]$ \\[0.25ex]
\hline
Random Crop & $[0.0, 0.5]$ \\[0.25ex]
\hline
Horizontal/ Vertical Flip & $90^{\circ}$\\[0.25ex]
\hline
Rotation & $[30^{\circ}, 60^{\circ}]$ \\[0.25ex]
\hline
Scaling & $[0.5, 1.0]$ \\[0.25ex]
\hline
Brightness & $[0.2, 0.8]$\\[0.25ex]
\hline
Contrast & $[0.1, 0.6]$\\[0.25ex]
\hline
Saturation & $[0.1, 0.6]$\\[0.25ex]
\hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:1}
\end{table}
\end{document} | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 5,963 |
import Cryptol.Parser.Lexer
import Cryptol.Parser.PP
main :: IO ()
main = interact (unlines . map (show . pp) . fst . primLexer)
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 8,645 |
Q: Split a custom condition by regular expression I'm busy writing a backend module where users can create their own conditions/rules. Now I want to split a condition in parts.
For example:
Condition: {variable} > 100
// desired output
Array
(
[0] => {variable} > 100
)
Condition: {variable} == {anotherVariable} OR {var} <= 10
// desired output
Array
(
[0] => {variable} == {anotherVariable}
[1] => OR
[2] => {var} <= 10
)
Condition: {variable} == {anotherVariable} AND {var} <= 10 AND {variable} == some string
// desired output
Array
(
[0] => {variable} == {anotherVariable}
[1] => AND
[2] => {var} <= 10
[3] => AND
[4] => {variable} == some string
)
And after that I have to split the comparison into 3 parts:
Comparison: {variable} == {anotherVariable}
// desired output
// allowed comparison operators are: ==, !=, >, >=, <, <=, <>
Array
(
[0] => {variable} // comparison
[1] => == // comparision operator
[2] => {anotherVariable} // comparison
)
I'm struggling for hours now with regular expressions but do not lead to the desired output.
A: To make it more simple I have assumed that strings are between double quotes.
The first part of the pattern defines ((?(DEFINE)...)) the needed elements with named subpatterns. There are simple elements first (comparison operator, boolean operator, operand), and more elaborated elements (atomic condition, condition, check). Each subpattern can be defined with the others and itself.
Once the define part is closed, the main pattern begins and captures three possible elements inside the "token" named capture at each iteration: a boolean operator, an atomic condition (i.e. the most possible basic condition), or the whole condition inside parenthesis
To succeed, the main pattern must pass one of two entry points, the first (that is used only one time) is the subpattern \g<check>. This subpattern ensures that the entire string is well formed from start to end, and since it is a zero-width assertion that begins with \A, forces the token search to start from the beginind of the string. The second entry point is (?!\A)\G and means "not at the begining of the string, contiguous to the precedent match". This entry is used for all other matches.
The \g<par> named capture is only here to be used by the recursive function. If the capture exists, the token is a whole condition inside parenthesis and need to be reparsed to produce an array.
define('PATTERN', <<<'EOD'
~
(?(DEFINE)
(?<comp_op> [=!]= | >=? | <[=>]? )
(?<bool_op> OR | AND )
(?<operand> { \w+ } | -?\d+ | "[^"]+" ) # you can improve the " pattern
(?<at_cond> \g<operand> \s+ \g<comp_op> \s+ \g<operand> ) # atomic cond
(?<cond> \g<at_cond> (?> \s+ \g<bool_op> \s+ \g<cond> )* | \( \g<cond> \) )
(?<check> (?= \A \s* \g<cond> \s* \z ) ) # checks the whole string format
)
(?: \g<check> \s* | (?!\A)\G \s+)
(?| (?<token>\g<bool_op>) | (\g<at_cond>) | \( (\g<cond>) )
(?<par> \) )? # only to test if a recursion is needed
~x
EOD
);
function getTokens ($str) {
if (preg_match_all(PATTERN, $str, $matches)) {
$tokens = array();
foreach ($matches['token'] as $k=>$token) {
$tokens[] = ($matches['par'][$k]) ? getTokens($token) : $token;
}
return $tokens;
}
return false;
}
$testset = array(
'{variable} > 100',
'{variable} == {zogabu} OR {buga} <= 10',
'{meuh} == {zo} AND ({meuh} <= 10 OR {zomeuh} == "GABUZO")',
'{BU} > 3 AND ({ga} == "ZO" OR ({bu} == "GA" AND {meuh} != "GA"))' );
foreach($testset as $test_string) {
$result = getTokens($test_string);
echo "\ntest_string: $test_string\n" . print_r($result, true);
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 8,518 |
Parastrangalis potanini är en skalbaggsart som först beskrevs av Ludwig Ganglbauer 1890. Parastrangalis potanini ingår i släktet Parastrangalis och familjen långhorningar. Inga underarter finns listade i Catalogue of Life.
Källor
Långhorningar
potanini | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 6,925 |
\section{Introduction}
The fact that neutrinos have very small masses has been established by a
number of neutrino oscillation experiments \cite{oscillation} in the
past decade, which is an important evident to go beyond the Standard
Model. In order to generate very tiny neutrino masses, the very
popular explanation is the seesaw mechanism \cite{seesaw}.
In the so-called Type-I seesaw \cite{seesaw}, extra very heavy Majorana right
handed neutrinos (RHN) are introduced. When integrating them out, the
neutrino mass is approximately $m_{\nu} \sim m^2_D/m_R$, so we
assume that the $m_D$ (the neutrino Dirac mass) is of the electroweak
scale, i.e. $m_D \sim O(10^{2}GeV)$, we need the RHN mass $m_R \sim
O(10^{16}GeV)$ which is hopeless to reach to direct test this
mechanism. In the Type-II seesaw (triplet seesaw) \cite{triplet}, a heavy Higgs triplet $\Delta$ is
introduced to play the similar role of heavy right handed neutrino
to suppress the neutrino masses, we have $m_{\nu} \sim
v^2/m_{\Delta}$, where $m_{\Delta} \sim O(10^{16}GeV)$ is the mass of the Higgs triplet. In a
general hybrid Type-(I+II) seesaw model, both terms make contributions to the
neutrino masses. The crucial feature of such mechanisms are
introducing heavy particles to suppress the neutrino masses, but the
smallness of neutrino mass needs them to be too heavy to have any
signals in future colliders.
Possible compromise between the impossible collider signals
of such heavy particles and the smallness of neutrino masses is
discussed in recent literatures in the framework of hybrid Type-(I+II)
seesaw \cite{hybrid}, where the small neutrino masses is from the
structural cancellation, while suppression plays no role. In such
scenario, the introduced heavy particles can be light enough to be
direct produced in future colliders without violating the current
bounds \cite{RHNbound}, so the possibilities have not been ruled out by experimental
limits so far.
These types of seesaw are consequences of the left-right symmetric
model (LRSM) \cite{LRSM}, which is a possible extension of SM. In
the model, unlike the SM that has only $SU(2)$ left handed chiral
matter, the right handed sector under Non-Abelian $SU(2)$
representation are also introduced and correlated to the left handed
sector. The LRSM not only leads to the seesaw mechanism but also
provides explanation of the observed maximal P and C violation at
low energy weak interaction, and is therefore likely in certain
sense to be the final theory. The type of seesaw deduced from LRSM
is determined by the space of parameters of the model. If we
consider the stability of the parameters under the radiative
correction, a model is "natural" if it is stable against the quantum
correction, so fine-tuning for parameters is not needed. Before the
mechanism can be tested directly in experiments, the naturalness is
inevitable an important criteria for our model buildings.
In this paper, we will deduce the three types of seesaw in the LRSM
and classify them by the ranges that the parameters locate. The
1-loop quantum correction of the parameter is evaluated and we find
that the small neutrino mass from nearly cancellation in Type-(I+II)
is more "natural" than other types of seesaw in the limit of small
couplings in Higgs potential. So unlike the literature \cite{hybrid}
where the cancellation relation is imposed by hands, the structure
cancellation in LRSM is a natural result of the model. Therefore, in
this scenario, the RHN can be light and be of order of O(10)TeV.
Finally, non-zero neutrino masses, charged lepton masses and
tribimaximal mixing \cite{TB} are generated by perturbations and
embedding an extra $A_4$ \cite{A4} flavor symmetry into the model.
\section{The Model}
\subsection{The Left-Right Symmetric Model}
The left-right symmetric model is based on the extended gauge group
$G_{LR}=SU(2)_L \otimes SU(2)_R \otimes U(1)_{B-L}$, in which a Higgs
bi-doublet $\Phi$ and left (right) Higgs triplet $\Delta_{L(R)}$ are
introduced and with the representation assignments
\begin{eqnarray}\label{HiggsInG}
\Phi \sim (2,2,0), \, \Delta_L \sim (3,1,2), \, \Delta_R \sim (1,3,2).
\end{eqnarray}
Under a discrete left-right symmetry, $l_L
\leftrightarrow l_R^c$, $\Delta_L \leftrightarrow \Delta_R$ and
$\Phi \leftrightarrow \Phi^T$, the invariant Lagrangian of the Yukawa
interaction term is
\begin{eqnarray}
- {\cal L} & = & y \overline{l}_{L} \Phi l_R +
\tilde{y}\overline{l}_{L} \tilde{\Phi} l_R +\frac{1}{2}
f[\overline{l}_L i \tau_2 \Delta_L l_L^c +\overline{l^c_R} i
\tau_2 \Delta_R l_R]+ {\rm h.c.},
\end{eqnarray}
where $l_{L(R)}=( \matrix{\nu_{L(R)} & e_{L(R)}})^T$ is the lepton
doublet, $\tilde{\Phi} = \tau_2\Phi^*\tau_2$, $l_{L(R)}^c \equiv C
\overline{l_{L(R)}}^T$ with $C$ being the charge-conjugation matrix.
At first stage, the symmetry spontaneously broken into $SU(2)_L \times
U(1)_Y$ by a non-zero vacuum expectation value (VEV) of $\Delta_R$ , leading to a heavy
Majorana mass for right handed neutrinos. The second stage, the
$\Phi$ develops VEV, breaking the symmetry to relic $U(1)_{em}$.
The developed non-zero VEV consistent with
$U(1)_{em}$ electromagnetic invariance are
\begin{eqnarray}
\langle \Delta_L^{} \rangle = \left( \matrix{0 & 0 \cr v_L & 0 \cr}
\right) \; , \hspace{0.5cm} \langle \Delta_R \rangle = \left(
\matrix{0 & 0 \cr v_R & 0 \cr} \right) \; , \hspace{0.5cm} \langle
\Phi \rangle = \left( \matrix{v & 0 \cr 0 & v' \cr} \right).
\end{eqnarray}
The measurement of the $\rho$ parameter \cite{rho} constrains the
tree-level contribution of the Higgs triplet, $v_L \lesssim 1 GeV$,
which is much smaller than the electroweak scale $v \simeq 174GeV$,
and we will work in the approximation $v' \ll v$. Integrating out
the heavy fields the effective mass of neutrino can be written as
the general Type-(I+II) seesaw formula
\begin{eqnarray}\label{seesaw}
M_{\nu} \simeq M_L -M_D M^{-1}_R M^T_D = v_L f - \frac{v^2}{v_R} y
f^{-1} y^T.
\end{eqnarray}
The dominant contribution from the first or second term determines
the type of seesaw. In the model the charged lepton and Dirac
neutrino mass matrix are simply obtained as $M_e= \tilde{y} v I$ and
$M_D =y v I$ ($I$ is the identity matrix), which we will discuss and
implement by introducing flavor symmetry in section IV.
\subsection{Higgs Potential}
Our aim here is to show the relations between the VEVs of the Higgs
fields in LRSM, for this purpose, let us write the Higgs potential
involving $\Phi$ and $\Delta_{L(R)}$. The most general
renormalizable Higgs fields potential has the quadratic and quartic coupling terms and can not have any trilinear terms. So
consistent with the transformation properties as Eq(\ref{HiggsInG})
and discrete left-right symmetry, the Higgs potential can be written
as \cite{potential}
\begin{eqnarray}\label{v}
V(\Phi,\Delta_L,\Delta_R) &=& -\mu_{ij}^2 tr[\Phi_i^\dagger \Phi_j]
+ \lambda_{ijkl} tr[\Phi_i^\dagger \Phi_j] tr[\Phi_k^\dagger \Phi_l]
+
\lambda'_{ijkl} tr[\Phi_i^\dagger \Phi_j \Phi_k^\dagger \Phi_l] \nonumber\\
&-&\mu^2 tr[\Delta^\dagger_L \Delta_L+\Delta^\dagger_R \Delta_R] +
\rho_1 [(tr[\Delta^\dagger_L \Delta_L])^2+(tr[\Delta^\dagger_R
\Delta_R])^2] \nonumber\\
&+& \rho_2 (tr[\Delta^\dagger_L \Delta_L \Delta^\dagger_L \Delta_L]
+ tr[\Delta^\dagger_R \Delta_R \Delta_R^\dagger \Delta_R]) + \rho_3
tr[\Delta_L^\dagger \Delta_L \Delta^\dagger_R \Delta_R] \nonumber\\
&+&\alpha_{ij} tr[\Phi_i^\dagger \Phi_j] (tr[\Delta^\dagger_L
\Delta_L] + tr[\Delta^\dagger_R \Delta_R]) \nonumber\\
&+& \beta_{ij} (tr[ \Delta^\dagger_L \Delta_L \Phi_i \Phi_j^\dagger
] + tr[ \Delta^\dagger_R \Delta_R \Phi_i
\Phi_j^\dagger]) \nonumber\\
&+& \gamma_{ij} (tr[ \Delta^\dagger_L \Phi_i \Delta_R
\Phi_j^\dagger] + h.c.),
\end{eqnarray}
where the sums over $i,j,k$ and $l$ run from 1 to 2, with
$\Phi_1=\Phi$ and $\Phi_2=\tilde{\Phi}$. To recover the left-right
symmetry and hermicity condition, the couplings satisfy the
constraints,
\begin{eqnarray}
\mu_{ij} = \mu_{ji}, \, \lambda_{1212} = \lambda_{2121}, \, \lambda_{iijk}=\lambda_{iikj},\nonumber \\
\lambda_{ijkk}=\lambda_{jikk}, \, \lambda'_{ijkl}=\lambda'_{lijk}=\lambda'_{klij}=\lambda'_{jkli}, \nonumber\\
\alpha_{ij} = \alpha_{ji}, \, \beta_{ij} = \beta_{ji}, \, \gamma_{ij} = \gamma_{ji}.
\end{eqnarray}
After the Higgs fields develop
their VEV, we obtain
\begin{eqnarray}\label{VinVev}
V= -\mu^2 (v^2_L + v^2_R) +\frac{\rho}{4} (v^4_L + v^4_R) + \frac{\rho'}{2} v^2_L v^2_R + \frac{\alpha}{2} (v^2_L + v^2_R) v^2 + \gamma v_L v_R v^2,
\end{eqnarray}
where the approximation $v' \ll v$ is used, and the coefficients are
\begin{eqnarray}
&\gamma = 2\gamma_{12},& \nonumber\\
&\alpha = 2 (\alpha_{11} + \alpha_{22} + \beta_{11}),& \nonumber\\
&\rho=4(\rho_1+\rho_2),& \nonumber\\
&\rho'=2 \rho_3.&
\end{eqnarray}
From the minimizing condition $\frac{\partial V}{\partial v_L} =
\frac{\partial V}{\partial v_R} = 0$, if $v_L \neq v_R$, we get the
relations for VEV of Higgs fields,
\begin{eqnarray}\label{vevRelation}
v_L v_R =\frac{\gamma}{\kappa} v^2,
\end{eqnarray}
where $\kappa = \rho- \rho'$. The mass $m_L,m_R$ and $m_D$ will be
of order of $v_L,v_R$ and $v$, respectively. In the next section, we
will classify the types of seesaw mechanism generated from LRSM by
the values of the ratio of Higgs particle self-couplings
$\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}$.
\section{The Seesaw Type and Stability}
We now discuss their contributions to the neutrino masses.
Substituting the relation Eq(\ref{vevRelation}) into the general Type-(I+II) seesaw formula
Eq(\ref{seesaw}), we get
\begin{eqnarray}\label{mN}
m_{\nu}= \left (f (\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}) - \frac{y^2}{f} \right) \frac{v^2}{v_R}.
\end{eqnarray}
According to the formula, following classification can be given.
1) Type-I seesaw: $f (\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}) \ll \frac{y^2}{f}$. It
responds to the case of $m_{\nu} \simeq -\frac{y^2}{f}
\frac{v^2}{v_R} = -m_D m^{-1}_R m^T_D$ dominant, the small neutrino
mass is from the suppression of heavy $v_R$.
2) Type-II seesaw: $f (\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}) \gg \frac{y^2}{f}$. The
term $m_{\nu} \simeq v_L f = m_L$ dominant, while $m_D m^{-1}_R m^T_D$ can be relatively
neglected, i.e. the small neutrino mass is due to the smallness of
$v_L$.
3) Nearly cancellation Type-(I+II) seesaw: $f (\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}) \simeq \frac{y^2}{f}$.
The term $m_L$ and $m_D m^{-1}_R m^T_D$ are comparable in magnitude
and will nearly cancel their contributions to get small neutrino mass, we
will see that this scenario is radiative stable.
However it is classical value at tree level, here we want to
explore the behavior of the $\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}$ defined at the
scale $\mu_0$ under the radiative correction. The correction of
$\gamma$ and $\kappa$ come from the 1-loop correction of the quartic
coupling of operators $\Delta_L \Phi \Delta_R \Phi$ and $\Delta
\Delta \Delta \Delta$, respectively. The renormalization group
equation for $\gamma$ and $\kappa$ take the forms
\begin{eqnarray}\label{RG}
\mu \frac{d \gamma}{d \mu} = \frac{1}{16 \pi^2} [(a_1 \alpha^2 + a_2 \beta^2 + a_3 \gamma^2)
+ (b_1 \alpha + b_2 \beta + b_3 \gamma) y^2 \nonumber\\
+ (c_1 \alpha + c_2 \beta + c_3 \gamma) f^2
+ (d_1 \alpha + d_2 \beta + d_3 \gamma) g^2
+ e_1 g^4 + e_2 f^2 y^2 ], \nonumber\\
\mu \frac{d \kappa}{d \mu} = \frac{1}{16 \pi^2} [(a'_1 \rho_1^2 + a'_2 \rho_2^2 + a'_3 \rho_3^2)
+ (b'_1 \rho_1 + b'_2 \rho_2 + b'_3 \rho_3) f^2 \nonumber\\
+ (c'_1 \rho_1 + c'_2 \rho_2 + c'_3 \rho_3) g^2 + d'_1 g^4 + d'_2
f^4 ],
\end{eqnarray}
in which the coefficients $a,b,c,d,e$ are constants of order $O(1)$
that are determined by computing the corresponding 1-loop Feynman
diagrams. $\alpha_{ij},\beta_{ij},\gamma_{ij},\rho_i$ are coupling
constants in Higgs potential Eq(\ref{v}) and $g$ the gauge coupling.
The Yukawa couplings $f$ and $y$ are of order $O(1)$, but the
typical coupling constants in Higgs potential and the gauge coupling
are generally assumed to be much smaller than that. In fact, for
large couplings, higher order or non-perturbative correction should
be considered and we will not discuss them here. So we assume in this
paper that in Eq(\ref{RG}) they can be approximately dropped, while
only the loops that attribute to Yukawa couplings $f,y$ play dominant role.
We estimate the magnitude of the 1-loop corrections at scale $\mu$
to be
\begin{eqnarray}
\delta \gamma \simeq \frac{-n_{f} f^2 y^2}{16 \pi^2} \ln(\frac{\mu}{\mu_0}), \nonumber\\
\delta \kappa \simeq \frac{-n_{f} f^4}{16 \pi^2}
\ln(\frac{\mu}{\mu_0}),
\end{eqnarray}
where $n_f$ is the number of fermion species. The parameter
$\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}$ is stable only when
\begin{eqnarray}\label{cancel}
0=\delta \left( \frac{\gamma}{\kappa} \right) = \frac{(\delta
\gamma) \kappa - \gamma (\delta \kappa)}{\kappa^2},
\end{eqnarray}
so we get the relation
\begin{eqnarray}
\frac{\gamma}{\kappa} \simeq \frac{y^2}{f^2},
\end{eqnarray}
which is consistent with the nearly cancellation type $f
(\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}) \simeq \frac{y^2}{f}$. In other words, if
$m_{\nu} \simeq 0$ in Eq(\ref{mN}) arises from the cancellation
between $f (\frac{\gamma}{\kappa})$ and $\frac{y^2}{f}$, because of
Eq(\ref{cancel}) it will lead to the stable value of
$\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}$ that suppresses its radiative correction.
Therefore, it is indicated that the scenario of nearly cancellation
Type-(I+II) seesaw is more natural than other types of seesaw when
we consider the factor of their stability. The neutrino mass is
vanished when the cancellation relation $\frac{\gamma}{\kappa} =
\frac{y^2}{f^2}$ is exactly hold as is shown in Eq(\ref{mN}).
The vanishing $m_{\nu}$ can also eliminate another unnaturalness that
the texture of $f$ is not uniquely determined in LRSM \cite{dual}, e.g. if $f$
is allowed, then so is $\hat{f} = \frac{m_{\nu}}{v_L} - f$. We can
see that when $m_{\nu}=0$, $f$ is uniquely determined up to an
unimportant phase or sign.
In this case, the $v_R$ does not need to play the role of
suppressing the neutrino mass, the RHN mass can be scale of
$O(10)$TeV by the constraints of $v_L \lesssim$ 1GeV. This
possibility that $v_R$ can be reachable TeV scale has not been ruled
out by current bounds of experiments \cite{RHNbound}.
\section{Non-Zero Neutrino Masses And Tribimaximal Mixing}
The textures of Yukawa matrices discussed above are simple, in which
the Dirac neutrino masses and the ones coming from the left(right)
Higgs triplet are degenerate,
\begin{eqnarray}\label{md&mlr}
M_D=y v I, \nonumber \\
M_{L(R)}=f v_{L(R)} I.
\end{eqnarray}
The neutrino is massless when the cancellation relation is hold.
However, the masses of neutrino are not trivially vanished. So we
will discuss a deviation from this scenario by perturbations and introducing flavors symmetry to get a more realistic model.
We embed the extra $A_4$ symmetry \cite{A4}
into LRSM by the assignments
\begin{eqnarray}
l_{L(R)}, \, l^c_{L(R)} \sim \underline{\bf{3}}, \, \Phi \sim
\underline{\bf{1}}, \, \Delta_{L(R)} \sim \underline{\bf{1}},
\end{eqnarray}
where, in $A_4$ group, \underline{\bf{3}} stands for the real three-dimensional
irreducible representation and \underline{\bf{1}} for the trivial
one in the three inequivalent one-dimensional representations
\underline{\bf{1}}, \underline{\bf{1}}', \underline{\bf{1}}''. So the invariant Yukawa Lagrangian for their couplings is
\begin{eqnarray}
y (\overline{l_L} l_R)_{\underline{\bf{1}}} \Phi + \tilde{y}
(\overline{l_L} l_R)_{\underline{\bf{1}}} \tilde{\Phi} +
\frac{1}{2} i \tau_2 f \left( (\overline{l_L}
l^c_L)_{\underline{\bf{1}}} \Delta_L + (\overline{l^c_R}
l_R)_{\underline{\bf{1}}} \Delta_R \right) + h.c.,
\end{eqnarray}
in which the tensor product notations and properties of $A_4$ can be found in
Appendix A. Then the above assumptions Eq(\ref{md&mlr})
as well as the lepton mass matrix $M_e=\tilde{y} v I$ can be
achieved automatically, and they preserve the form of Higgs
potential Eq(\ref{v}) since the Higgs fields now are singlets of
$A_4$.
In order to obtain non-trivial mixing, we need to introduce another
scalar $\Sigma \sim \underline{\bf{3}}$ of $A_4$ to generate
off-diagonal elements and assign the gauge group representation
$\Sigma \sim (2,2,0)$ to it. The extra Higgs potential involving
$\Sigma$ and the couplings between $\Sigma$ and $\Phi,\Delta_{L(R)}$
are list in the Appendix B. The extra terms that contribute to the Eq(\ref{VinVev}) have no effect on the relation Eq(\ref{vevRelation}), so the results in the previous sections are still valid.
Now the invariant Lagrangian of
couplings between leptons and $\Sigma$ is written as
\begin{eqnarray}
h (\overline{l}_L l_R)_{\underline{\bf{3}}_s} \cdot \Sigma,
\end{eqnarray}
in which the subscript $\underline{\bf{3}}_s$ denotes the three
dimensional symmetric tensor product as shown in Appendix A. Expanding it into matrix in flavor basis we
obtain the extra contributions
\begin{eqnarray}
\left( \matrix{0 & h v_{\Sigma_3} & h v_{\Sigma_2} \cr h v_{\Sigma_3} & 0 & h v_{\Sigma_1} \cr h v_{\Sigma_2} & h v_{\Sigma_1} & 0} \right),
\end{eqnarray}
where $v_{\Sigma_i} = \langle \Sigma_i \rangle$. In the assumption
of $v_{\Sigma_1}=v_{\Sigma_3}=0$ and $h v_{\Sigma_2} = \delta \neq
0$, the matrix $M_e$ and $M_D$ have similar forms
\begin{eqnarray}\label{md}
M_e(M_D) = \tilde{y}(y) \,\, v I + \left( \matrix{0 & 0 & \delta \cr 0 & 0 & 0 \cr \delta & 0 & 0} \right).
\end{eqnarray}
Now, a deviation of $M_e$ from $M_D$ is needed by perturbations, in
general the vanished elements will have non-zero values $\epsilon$,
and $\delta$ is perturbed to $\delta'$ and $\delta''$,
\begin{eqnarray}
M_e=\left( \matrix{\tilde{y} v & \epsilon_{12} & \delta'' \cr \epsilon_{21} & \tilde{y} v & \epsilon_{23} \cr \delta' & \epsilon_{32} & \tilde{y} v} \right).
\end{eqnarray}
We assume that $\epsilon_{21}, \epsilon_{32} \simeq \delta''$ and
$\epsilon_{12}, \epsilon_{23} \simeq \delta'$, then we get the mass
matrix of charged leptons that can be diagonalized by the unitary
matrix
\begin{eqnarray}
V_e=\frac{1}{\sqrt{3}} \left( \matrix{1 & 1 & 1 \cr 1 & \omega & \omega^2 \cr 1 & \omega^2 & \omega} \right),
\end{eqnarray}
in which $\omega=e^{\frac{2 \pi i}{3}}$, i.e. $V_e^\dagger M_e V_e = diag(m_e, m_{\nu}, m_{\tau})$, where
\begin{eqnarray}
m_e &=& \tilde{y}v + \delta'+\delta'', \nonumber\\
m_{\mu} &=& \tilde{y}v + (\omega \delta' + \omega^2 \delta''), \nonumber\\
m_{\tau} &=& \tilde{y}v + (\omega^2 \delta' + \omega \delta'').
\end{eqnarray}
Under the condition of cancellation relation $\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}
= \frac{y^2}{f^2}$ and non-diagonalized $M_D$ Eq(\ref{md}), a
non-zero neutrino mass matrix now becomes
\begin{eqnarray}
M_{\nu} = \Delta m I - \frac{2f v_L \delta}{y v} \left( \matrix{\frac{\delta}{2 y v} & 0 & 1 \cr 0 & 0 & 0 \cr 1 & 0 & \frac{\delta}{2 y v}} \right),
\end{eqnarray}
where $\Delta m I$ is a perturbation. $M_{\nu}$ can be diagonalized
by the unitary matrix
\begin{eqnarray}
V_{\nu}=\frac{1}{\sqrt{2}} \left( \matrix{1 & 0 & -1 \cr 0 & \sqrt{2} & 0 \cr 1 & 0 & 1} \right).
\end{eqnarray}
we get
\begin{eqnarray}
M^{diag}_{\nu} = V_{\nu}^T M_{\nu} V_{\nu} = diag \left( \Delta m - \frac{2 f v_L \delta}{y v} (1+\frac{\delta}{2 y v}), \Delta m, \Delta m + \frac{2 f v_L \delta}{y v} (1-\frac{\delta}{2 y v}) \right).
\end{eqnarray}
The MNS matrix \cite{MNS} is then obtained as
\begin{eqnarray}
U_{MNS} = V_e^\dagger V_{\nu}= \left( \matrix{\frac{2}{\sqrt{6}} & \frac{1}{\sqrt{3}} & 0 \cr -\frac{\omega}{\sqrt{6}} & \frac{\omega}{\sqrt{3}} & -\frac{e^{i \pi/6}}{\sqrt{2}} \cr -\frac{\omega^2}{\sqrt{6}} & \frac{\omega^2}{\sqrt{3}} & \frac{e^{-i \pi/6}}{\sqrt{2}} } \right),
\end{eqnarray}
which is the tribimaximal mixing matrix up to a phase and hence fits
the neutrino oscillation data well.
\section{Conclusions}
The Type I, II and hybrid (I+II) seesaw mechanisms can be deduced
from the LRSM, and classified by the ranges of the parameter
$\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}$, which represents the ratio of Higgs
particle self-couplings. Assuming that the Yukawa coupling $y,f$ are
of order $O(1)$, then $\frac{\gamma}{\kappa} \ll \left(
\frac{y}{f}\right)^2$ responds to Type-I seesaw,
$\frac{\gamma}{\kappa} \gg \left( \frac{y}{f}\right)^2$ to Type-II
seesaw and $\frac{\gamma}{\kappa} \simeq \left(
\frac{y}{f}\right)^2$ to the comparable or nearly cancellation
Type-(I+II) seesaw. In the limit of weak couplings in Higgs
potential, we find that the parameter region $\frac{\gamma}{\kappa}
\simeq \left( \frac{y}{f}\right)^2 \simeq O(1)$ is more stable
against the radiative correction with respect to other regions,
hence the nearly cancellation Type-(I+II) is more natural than other
types of seesaw in the LRSM.
In the framework of nearly cancellation Type-(I+II) seesaw, the
small neutrino masses arise from the cancellation between the
contribution of the Type-I and Type-II. In this scenario, the RHN
masses can be of order of O(10)TeV and be reachable in future colliders.
We give a realization of this kind of cancellation scenario by
introducing an extra $A_4$ flavor symmetry to govern the textures of
Yukawa coupling matrices. A realistic model that gives non-zero
neutrino masses, charged lepton masses and lepton tribimaximal
mixing is also implemented via introducing perturbations to the textures.
\begin{acknowledgments}
This work was supported in part by the Natural Science Foundation of
China under grant No.90203002.
\end{acknowledgments}
\newpage
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 4,420 |
Q: Global Variable MySQL I have this Query:
SELECT
qa_invoices.invoice_clientname,
(
SELECT IFNULL(MIN(qa_returns.discount_code),1)
FROM qa_returns
WHERE qa_returns.invoice_code = qa_invoices.invoice_code
AND qa_returns.discount_code <> 1
) AS discount_code,
qa_users.user_name,
(0.00) AS previous_balance,
(0.00) AS difference_to_be_paid,
(0.00) AS client_credit,
SUM(SubQueryAlias.item_discount) AS invoice_discount,
SUM(SubQueryAlias.item_subtotal) AS invoice_subtotal,
SUM(SubQueryAlias.item_total) AS invoice_total,
DATE_FORMAT(qa_invoices.invoice_date,'%M %e, %Y @ %h:%i %p') AS returnlog_date
FROM (
SELECT qa_returns_items.item_code,
qa_returns_items.item_subtotal,
qa_returns_items.item_discount,
qa_returns_items.item_total
FROM qa_returns_items
WHERE returnlog_code = (
SELECT MIN(qa_returns.returnlog_code)
FROM qa_returns
WHERE qa_returns.invoice_code = 1
)
UNION
SELECT qa_returns_residues.item_code,
qa_returns_residues.item_subtotal,
qa_returns_residues.item_discount,
qa_returns_residues.item_total
FROM qa_returns_residues
WHERE returnlog_code = (
SELECT MIN(qa_returns.returnlog_code)
FROM qa_returns
WHERE qa_returns.invoice_code = 1
)
ORDER BY item_code ASC
) AS SubQueryAlias, qa_invoices
LEFT JOIN qa_users USING(user_code)
WHERE SubQueryAlias.item_code NOT IN (
SELECT a.item_code
FROM qa_returns_items a
JOIN qa_returns_residues b
ON b.item_code = a.item_code
WHERE a.returnlog_code = (
SELECT MIN(qa_returns.returnlog_code)
FROM qa_returns
WHERE qa_returns.invoice_code = 1
)
AND b.returnlog_code = (
SELECT MIN(qa_returns.returnlog_code)
FROM qa_returns
WHERE qa_returns.invoice_code = 1
)
)
AND qa_invoices.invoice_code = 1;
The query works fine, but if we look the value invoice_code is set 5 times.
I wonder if there is any way to declare a global variable to assign the same value to all
A: Sure, you can use user defined variables.
For example:
SET @invoice_code=1;
SELECT MIN(qa_returns.returnlog_code)
FROM qa_returns
WHERE qa_returns.invoice_code = @invoice_code
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 7,902 |
Chief Business Leader Connected Care, Royal Philips
Follow Roy Jakobs
Current role: Chief Business Leader Connected Care, Royal Philips
Since: January, 2020
Born: The Netherlands in 1974
Nationality: Dutch and German
Graduated:
- Radboud University Nijmegen (Masters degree in Business Administration)
- Università degli Studi di Bologna, Italy
Roy Jakobs is Executive Vice President and Chief Business Leader for the Connected Care businesses of Royal Philips, effective January 28, 2020. He is also member of the Executive Committee of Royal Philips. Connected Care comprises the Connected Care Informatics, Monitoring & Analytics, Population Health Management, Sleep & Respiratory Care and Therapeutic Care businesses. Prior to this, Roy led Philips' Personal Health businesses.
Roy has extensive global leadership experience, with a strong business record, further to accomplishments in strategy, digital innovation and new business development in the business-to-consumer and business-to-business domains across the world.
I strongly believe in our mission to improve 2.5 billion lives a year by 2030, Connected Care will be central to us achieving this goal.
Since joining Philips in 2010, Roy has held various positions, including Chief Marketing Officer for Philips Lighting, Market Leader for Philips Middle East & Turkey (including Health Systems) and Business Leader of Domestic Appliances, based in Shanghai. Prior to his career at Philips, Roy held various management positions at Royal Dutch Shell in their retail businesses and at Reed Elsevier where he transformed the business from print to digital as Managing Director.
Roy was born in the Netherlands in 1974. He is married with three children and holds a Masters degree in Business Administration from the Radboud University Nijmegen and the Università degli Studi di Bologna, Italy. He also holds a marketing Masters degree from TIAS School for Business and Society and completed the New Board Program from Nyenrode Business Universiteit, both in the Netherlands. Roy speaks Dutch, English, German, Italian and Portuguese.
Extraordinary times call for exceptional response from Philips' Connected Care Chief (In Vivo)
How Philips has pivoted in the COVID-19 pandemic: Connected Care from hospital to home (Health Populi)
Health for the connected consumer (China Daily)
Redefining transitions of care - extending where and when care happens
Healthcare has made 10 years of progress in just a few months. Here's how.
Redefining masculinity: responding to the changing face of men's grooming
Mouth and body: new frontiers in oral healthcare
What's new and what's next in consumer health?
Born 1961, Chinese | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
} | 4,738 |
Maldives declares state of emergency as Yameen tightens grip on power
Opposition supporters protest against the government's delay in releasing their jailed leaders, including former president Mohamed Nasheed, despite a Supreme Court order, in Male, Maldives, February 4, 2018. REUTERS/Stringer
By Mohamed Junayd and Shihar Aneez
MALE/COLOMBO (Reuters) – Maldives President Abdulla Yameen on Monday declared a state of emergency, ordered security forces into the supreme court and arrested a former president, in moves the opposition called a "purge" in the Indian Ocean island nation.
Maldives police also arrested Chief Justice Abdulla Saeed and another Supreme Court judge on Tuesday, dramatically escalating the legal battle with the archipelago's top court.
Police said in a Twitter message they had arrested Saeed and Supreme Court Judge Ali Hameed "for an ongoing investigation". The gave no details about the allegations or charges against the two judges.
The president has defied a Supreme Court ruling handed down last week, which revoked terrorism charges against nine leading opposition figures including the country's first democratically elected president, Mohamed Nasheed, who is now in exile.
The court ordered the opposition figures, six of whom are being held in the country's main jail on a sparsely inhabited island, to be freed.
"The President has been compelled to declare a state of emergency due to the risk currently posed to national security," said a statement from Yameen's office on Monday. "Implementation of the Supreme Court ruling is – in its current form – incompatible with maintenance of public safety."
Police arrested another former president, Maumoon Abdul Gayoom — who is also Yameen's half-brother — at his residence along with his son-in-law. Gayoom ruled the country for 30 years until 2008, and is now in the opposition. Gayoom's son Faris is one of the jailed opposition figures ordered freed by the court.
In a recorded video sent to social media, Gayoom said he was being taken to the prison island of Dhoonidhoo: "I have not committed any crime. This arrest is unlawful. I will remain strong, and I ask the beloved people to remain strong."
Yameen, who has held his position since 2013, faces mounting pressure at home and from the United States and India to obey the court's order.
The Maldives is made up of 26 coral atolls and 1,192 islands. Politics centres on the tiny but densely populated capital Male.
China, the United States and India issued travel advisories for the Maldives, a country of 400,000 people best known as a beach paradise for the tourists that provide most of its foreign currency revenue.
The tumult comes during the peak tourism season. Tourism brought in $2.7 billion of revenue for the Maldives in 2016.
As midnight approached, roads leading to the Supreme Court had been barricaded. At one spot, police with batons charged protesters to disperse them.
"I just spoke to the Chief Justice and he told me that the gates of the Supreme Court (are) being stormed by the military. He is inside and nobody can go out or come in," Husnu Al Suood, the president of Maldives Bar Association and a former attorney general, told Reuters late on Monday.
"The emergency means the Supreme Court activities are suspended and nobody is in charge of the judiciary," he said.
A court official later confirmed that state security forces had broken into the building and were not allowing its judges to leave.
"It is a purge of the political leadership, the parliament and the judiciary," said opposition legislator Eva Abdulla.
"RESPECT RULE OF LAW" – U.S.
The U.S. National Security Council released a statement on Twitter saying, "The Maldivian government and military must respect the rule of law, freedom of expression, and democratic institutions. The world is watching."
The U.S. State Department said it was "troubled and disappointed" by the state of emergency and the failure by the president, army and police to obey a lawful Supreme Court ruling.
"President Yameen has systematically alienated his coalition, jailed or exiled every major opposition political figure, deprived elected members of parliament of their right to represent their voters in the legislature, revised laws to erode human rights … and weakened the institutions of government," it said in a statement.
Amnesty International said that the 15-day emergency declaration must not become a licence for further repression.
"The Maldivian authorities have an appalling track-record of suppressing freedom of expression and any form of opposition, a pattern of behaviour that has intensified over recent years," said Dinushika Dissanayake, Amnesty's Deputy South Asia Director.
The Maldives has experienced political unrest since Nasheed, the island's first democratically elected leader, was forced to quit amid a mutiny by police in 2012.
The following year, Yameen defeated Nasheed in an election that Nasheed's supporters say was rigged. Nasheed was jailed on terrorism charges but was allowed to go to Britain for medical treatment in January 2016.
He has lived in exile since and is currently in Sri Lanka.
"This deliberate refusal by the government to uphold the constitution further destabilises the Maldives and wider Indian Ocean security," Nasheed said in a statement on Monday.
Under the country's constitution, the declaration of a state of emergency should be submitted to parliament. In the event of a dispute about the declaration, the Supreme Court is meant to rule on its validity. With the court effectively suspended, it was not immediately clear how that might happen.
ELECTIONS IN OCTOBER
In its ruling last Thursday, the Supreme Court said it found that prosecutors and judges had been influenced "to conduct politically motivated investigations" into the allegations levelled at Nasheed, former vice president Ahmed Adeeb and the other opposition leaders.
The court ordered fresh investigations and trials to be held.
The ruling has energised an opposition that hopes Nasheed will be allowed to return home to run against Yameen in a presidential election due in October.
On Monday, before the emergency was declared, a minister quit in protest at the government's defiance of the Supreme Court.
"It is not possible for my conscience to accept the lack of answers to the way the government is dealing with the orders of the highest court on state institutions," Hussain Rasheed, the state health minister, said in his resignation letter.
(Additional reporting by Ranga Sirilal in COLOMBO; additional reporting by David Brunnstrom and Makini Brice in WASHINGTON; Writing by Tom Lasseter; Editing by Matthew Mpoke Bigg, Peter Graff and Michael Perry)
Mother happy Win will meet her Children's school needs
Thousands evacuated in Indonesian capital over floods
Last State Dinner Hosted by U.S. President Barack Obama
Infantino opens FIFA museum, says reforms are priority
UK unveils 2050 net zero carbon target, in a first for a major economy | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
} | 7,499 |
Q: Why does onChange crash Internet Explorer 7? We just released an online shop.
On this page the selectboxes crashes Internet Explorer 7 on some computers. Never on my computer.
Does anybody knows why?
Live link: http://velour.se/collection/women/tops/eloise
Update: turns out that the first like I posted did not crash.
But the following does: http://velour.se/collection/women/outerwear/irina
Screendump: http://skitch.com/jesperlind/nc4j2/tops-eloise-velour-ie7-bug
Original version:
<select id="sizeDD" onchange="javascript:SizeChange(this);"></select>
//Internet Explorer problem.
function SizeChange(e){
DrawAmountDD(GetAmountById(e.value));
}
Here's a bit of the code I think might be involved:
function DrawAmountDD(maxAmount){
/*var max = parseInt(maxAmount) > parseInt(maxShowAmount) ? maxShowAmount : maxAmount;
var html = "";
for(var i=1; i <= max; i++){
html += "<option value='" + i + "'>" + i + "</option>";
}
$("#amountDD").html(html);*/
var max = parseInt(maxAmount) > parseInt(maxShowAmount) ? maxShowAmount : maxAmount;
var ddlAmount = document.getElementById("amountDD");
ddlAmount.length=max;
for(var a=1; a <= max; a++){
ddlAmount.options[a-1].value = a;
ddlAmount.options[a-1].text = a;
}
}
Version 2:
<select id="sizeDD"></select>
<select id="amountDD"></select>
<script type="text/javascript">
var maxShowAmount = '5';
var colorSizeArr =
{ "colSize":
[
{ "color": "Black/Offwhite",
"specificId": "2",
"size": "XS",
"amount": "1" }
]
};
colorSizeArr.colSize.push(
{ "color": "Black/Offwhite",
"specificId": "13",
"size": "S",
"amount": "2" });
$(document).ready(function () {
var selectSizeDD = document.getElementById('sizeDD');
selectSizeDD.onchange = function () { sizeChange(selectSizeDD); };
});
function sizeChange(e) {
DrawAmountDD(GetAmountById(e.value));
}
function GetAmountById(specificId) {
for (var i = 0; i < colorSizeArr.colSize.length; i++) {
if (colorSizeArr.colSize[i].specificId == specificId) {
return colorSizeArr.colSize[i].amount;
}
}
return 1;
}
function DrawAmountDD(maxAmount) {
var max = parseInt(maxAmount) > parseInt(maxShowAmount) ? maxShowAmount : maxAmount;
var html = "";
for (var i = 1; i <= max; i++) {
html += "<option value='" + i + "'>" + i + "</option>";
}
$("#amountDD").html(html);
}
</script>
Update
I have not figured out exatcly why Internet Explorer 7 crashes on some computers. Any way the code above had not any thing to do with it. It was much more simpler. The browser crashed when clicking on a select-box with only one option. Like this:
<select id="amountDD">
<option value="1">1</option>
</select>
I found some info on this link where it says that the single option should have a selected attribute as well but it does seems to crash for us with out the attribute.
http://www.akselvoll.net/2007/08/ie7-crashes-when-clicking-on-drop-down.html
A: First, there's no need for the javascript: prefix in your mark up. The handler will expect that it's javascript code and I'm surprised that any browsers actually parse it. Generally you see it as a protocol tag in an href attribute and, even that's not a good way to handle it. Second, the parameter to the function is a reference to the DOM element (select) whose value attribute may or may not be well supported. There's a good reference for HTML/Javascript DOM at http://www.w3schools.com. See the Select reference there. To get the value you may want to do e.options[e.selectedIndex].value. Third, it would probably be better all around to add the handler via javascript.
var select = document.getElementById( 'sizeDD' );
select.onchange = function() { sizeChange(select); };
Or since I see now that you are using jQuery:
$('sizeDD').change( sizeChange );
A: I hope by "crash" you mean "the JavaScript doesn't work", not "Internet Explorer crashes." If it's just the page, you can usually see the error by clicking "error on page" in the status bar.
Also, try some classic JavaScript debugging - comment out blocks of the function one at a time until you find the block that crashes it, then narrow it down to the line.
A: I will answer this my self as best as I can. If some body has a more detailed answer please add in and I will mark that one as accepted instead.
Internet Explorer 7 seems to crash on under some circumstances due to a bug in the browser or the system. The machines we had issues with were from HP running Vista. Perhaps the Vender had installed something disturbing the browser like the "Sign On on my HP ProtectTools Security" as described here: http://social.msdn.microsoft.com/Forums/en/iewebdevelopment/thread/63216546-9289-4345-898c-860d02db7357
Other possibillites are described here: http://www.akselvoll.net/2007/08/ie7-crashes-when-clicking-on-drop-down.html
Easy fix is to upgrade Internet Explorer to version 8.
| {
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{"url":"https:\/\/manual.q-chem.com\/5.4\/Ch12.S16.SS1.html","text":"Searching....\n\n# 12.16.1 Introduction\n\n(December 20, 2021)\n\nThe many-body expansion (MBE) for a system of $N$ monomers is given by\n\n $E=\\sum_{I=1}^{N}\\mbox{E_{I}}+\\sum_{I}^{N}\\sum_{J>I}^{N}\\mbox{\\Delta E_{IJ}% }+\\\\ \\sum_{I}^{N}\\sum_{J>I}^{N}\\sum_{K>J}^{N}\\mbox{\\Delta E_{IJK}}+\\\\ \\cdots,$ (12.66)\n\nin which $E_{I}$ represents the energy of monomer $I$, $\\Delta E_{IJ}$ = $E_{IJ}$ $-$ $E_{I}$ $-$ $E_{J}$ is a two-body correction for dimer $IJ$, and $\\Delta E_{IJK}$ = $E_{IJK}$ $-$ $\\Delta E_{IJ}$ $-$ $\\Delta E_{IK}$ $-$ $\\Delta E_{JK}$ $-$ $E_{I}$ $-$ $E_{J}$ $-$ $E_{k}$ is a three-body correction for trimer $IJK$, etc. In a large system and\/or a large basis set, truncation of this expression at the two- or three-body level may dramatically reduce the amount of computer time that is required to compute the energy. Convergence of the MBE can be accelerated by embedding the monomer ($E_{I}$), dimer ($E_{IJ}$), trimer ($E_{IJK}$), $\\ldots$ calculations in some representation of the electrostatic potential of the rest of the system. A simple means to do this is via atom-centered point charges that could be obtained when the $E_{I}$ terms are calculated; this is the so-called electrostatically-embedded many-body expansion (EE-MBE), 246 Dahlke E. E., Truhlar D. G.\nJ.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Theory Comput.\n(2007), 3, pp. 46.\n, 969 Richard R. M., Lao K. U., Herbert J. M.\nJ.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Phys.\n(2014), 141, pp. 014108.\n, 970 Richard R. M., Lao K. U., Herbert J. M.\nAcc.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Res.\n(2014), 47, pp. 2828.\n, 637 Lao K. U. et al.\nJ.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Phys.\n(2016), 144, pp. 164105.\nwhich we will denote as EE-MBE($n$) when the expansion is truncated at $n$-body terms. MBE($n$) and EE-MBE($n$) are available in Q-Chem, with analytic gradients, up to five-body terms ($n=5$).\n\nIt is well known that the interaction energies of non-covalent clusters are usually overestimated\u2014often substantially\u2014owing to basis-set superposition error (BSSE), which disappears only very slowly as the basis sets approach completeness. The widely used Boys-Bernardi counterpoise procedure corrects for this by computing all energies, cluster and individual monomers, using the full cluster basis set. (In clusters with more than two monomers, the obvious generalization of the Boys-Bernardi counterpoise correction is sometimes called the \u201csite\u2013site function counterpoise\u201d correction or SSFC.) Note, however, that basis-set extrapolation is still necessary for high-quality binding energies. In $(\\rm H_{2}O)_{6}$, for example, a counterpoise-corrected MP2\/aug-cc-pVQZ calculation is still $\\approx 1$\u00a0kcal\/mol from the MP2 basis-set limit. 967 Richard R. M., Lao K. U., Herbert J. M.\nJ.\u00a0Phys.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Lett.\n(2013), 4, pp. 2674.\nFortunately, the MBE allows for use of large basis sets in order to perform basis-set extrapolations in sizable clusters, 967 Richard R. M., Lao K. U., Herbert J. M.\nJ.\u00a0Phys.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Lett.\n(2013), 4, pp. 2674.\n, 968 Richard R. M., Lao K. U., Herbert J. M.\nJ.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Phys.\n(2013), 139, pp. 224102.\nand one can employ a counterpoise correction that is consistent with an $n$-body expansion in order to obtain an $n$-body approximation to the Boys-Bernardi counterpoise-corrected supersystem energy. Two such corrections have been proposed: the many-body counterpoise correction, MBCP($n$), 967 Richard R. M., Lao K. U., Herbert J. M.\nJ.\u00a0Phys.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Lett.\n(2013), 4, pp. 2674.\n, 968 Richard R. M., Lao K. U., Herbert J. M.\nJ.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Phys.\n(2013), 139, pp. 224102.\nand the $n$-body Valiron-Mayer function counterpoise correction, VMFC($n$). 546 Kamiya M., Hirata S., Valiev M.\nJ.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Phys.\n(2008), 128, pp. 074103.\nThe two approaches are equivalent for $n=2$ but the MBCP($n$) method requires far fewer subsystem calculations starting at $n=3$ and is thus significantly cheaper, while affording very similar results as compared to VMFC($n$). 967 Richard R. M., Lao K. U., Herbert J. M.\nJ.\u00a0Phys.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Lett.\n(2013), 4, pp. 2674.\n, 968 Richard R. M., Lao K. U., Herbert J. M.\nJ.\u00a0Chem.\u00a0Phys.\n(2013), 139, pp. 224102.","date":"2022-01-23 01:56:22","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 54, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.7303368449211121, \"perplexity\": 3653.6878284248037}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 20, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2022-05\/segments\/1642320303956.14\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20220123015212-20220123045212-00663.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
Q: Как разделить строку на название и версию? Всем привет, помогите пожалуйста с тем что я вообще не понимаю :(
Из таких строк:
*
*CraftBukkit on Bukkit 1.4.7-R1.1-SNAPSHOT: AntiInvisible 0.9
*Dclear 2.0
*PVPGamemode 1.0
*WorldEdit 5.5.2-SNAPSHOT
Разделить типо так:
[0] => Array
(
[0] => CraftBukkit on Bukkit
[1] => 1.4.7-R1.1-SNAPSHOT: AntiInvisible 0.9
)
[1] => Array
(
[0] => Dclear
[1] => 2.0
)
[2] => Array
(
[0] => PVPGamemode
[1] => 1.0
)
[3] => Array
(
[0] => WorldEdit
[1] => 5.5.2-SNAPSHOT
)
Смысл в том чтобы разделить название и версию, как видно версия всегда начинается с цифр.
A: split ('[0-9]', 'строка',2);
тогда правим на
preg_split('[[:digit:]]', 'строка',2);
A: Если рассматривать отдельную строку, для каждой строчки такую регулярку
([^\d]*)(.*)
Не проверял работает или нет, но попробуйте.
A: Если только на две строчки:
$str = 'Version splitter 2.0-RC';
$pattern = '-^(\w+[\s\w]*)\s+(\d.*)$-';
preg_match($pattern, $str, $matches);
var_dump($matches); // [1] - название, [2] - версия
Думаю, правда, что этим не обойдется ( | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
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package org.apache.camel.component.spring.ws.security;
import net.javacrumbs.calc.model.PlusRequest;
import net.javacrumbs.calc.model.PlusResponse;
import org.apache.camel.Produce;
import org.apache.camel.ProducerTemplate;
import org.apache.camel.test.spring.junit5.CamelSpringTestSupport;
import org.junit.jupiter.api.BeforeEach;
import org.junit.jupiter.api.Disabled;
import org.junit.jupiter.api.Test;
import org.springframework.context.support.AbstractXmlApplicationContext;
import org.springframework.context.support.ClassPathXmlApplicationContext;
import org.springframework.ws.client.core.WebServiceTemplate;
import org.springframework.ws.client.support.interceptor.ClientInterceptor;
import org.springframework.ws.soap.security.wss4j2.Wss4jSecurityInterceptor;
import static org.junit.jupiter.api.Assertions.assertEquals;
import static org.junit.jupiter.api.Assertions.assertNotNull;
import static org.junit.jupiter.api.Assertions.assertTrue;
@Disabled("run manually since it requires running sample"
+ " secured ws on j2ee-compliant application server")
public class ProducerWss4JSecurityHeaderTest extends CamelSpringTestSupport {
@Produce
private ProducerTemplate template;
private WebServiceTemplate webServiceTemplate;
@Override
@BeforeEach
public void setUp() throws Exception {
super.setUp();
webServiceTemplate = applicationContext.getBean("webServiceTemplate", WebServiceTemplate.class);
}
@Test
public void testResponseUsingWss4jSampleInterceptorWithoutHeadersRemoved() throws Exception {
setRemoveHeaders(false);
PlusResponse result = createSampleRequestResponsePair();
assertNotNull(result);
assertEquals(3, result.getResult());
assertTrue(ProducerWss4JSecurityHeaderTestInterceptor.isX509DataPresent);
}
@Test
public void testResponseUsingWss4jSampleInterceptorWithHeadersRemoved() throws Exception {
setRemoveHeaders(true);
PlusResponse result = createSampleRequestResponsePair();
assertNotNull(result);
assertEquals(3, result.getResult());
assertTrue(ProducerWss4JSecurityHeaderTestInterceptor.isX509DataPresent);
}
private PlusResponse createSampleRequestResponsePair() {
PlusRequest request = new PlusRequest();
request.setA(Integer.valueOf(1));
request.setB(Integer.valueOf(2));
PlusResponse result = (PlusResponse) template.requestBody("direct:testHeader", request);
return result;
}
private void setRemoveHeaders(boolean isRemoved) {
ClientInterceptor[] clientInterceptors = webServiceTemplate.getInterceptors();
for (ClientInterceptor clientInterceptor : clientInterceptors) {
if (clientInterceptor instanceof Wss4jSecurityInterceptor) {
Wss4jSecurityInterceptor wss4jSampleInterceptor
= (Wss4jSecurityInterceptor) clientInterceptor;
wss4jSampleInterceptor.setRemoveSecurityHeader(isRemoved);
}
}
}
@Override
protected AbstractXmlApplicationContext createApplicationContext() {
return new ClassPathXmlApplicationContext(
"org/apache/camel/component/spring/ws/security/ProducerWss4JSecurityHeaderTest-context.xml");
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
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Q: Ipython double prompt after error within spyder I am using Ipython 6.1.0 / python 3.6.2 in the anaconda distribution.
Within the spyder 3.2.3 iPython console, after an error, I get two input prompts, which prevents pdb being used in post-mortem mode [pdb.pm()]. Standalone ipython works fine. Does anyone know a fix for this?
| {
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Colomba è un romanzo dell'autrice italiana Dacia Maraini del 2004.
Il libro è stato tradotto in tedesco col titolo Gefrorene Träume ("Sogni congelati").
Trama
L'autrice della storia, che si definisce la donna dai capelli corti, racconta che prima di decidere se iniziare un nuovo romanzo il suo potenziale protagonista viene farle visita e che, se lo considera abbastanza interessante, si metterà a narrare la sua storia. È questo il caso di Zaira Bigoncia, una signora abruzzese sulla sessantina alla disperata ricerca di Colomba, la nipote scomparsa. Nell'immaginazione della scrittrice, le sembra che la storia di Zaira e dei suoi famigliari sia raccontata a lei bambina dalla madre.
Il bisnonno di Zaira, Mosè Salvato Del Signore, era stato chiamato così dalle suore di Avezzano che l'avevano trovato neonato sui gradini di una chiesa, e aveva sposato Zaira Morrione, figlia di un carabiniere siciliano trasferito nel paese di Touta negli Abruzzi. Da loro era nato un figlio, Pietro detto Pietr' i pelus', amante degli studi, che a prezzo di grandi sacrifici era arrivato alla laurea in legge e aveva trovato un impiego presso uno studio legale a Torino. Lì si era anche fidanzato con una giovane di nome Amanita, figlia di un micologo professore all'università. Nel 1916 fu richiamato sotto le armi e, dopo aver aggiunto il grado di capitano; l'anno successivo morì in combattimento. Nel frattempo la prostituta siciliana Pina detta Liù era rimasta incinta di lui e nel 1918 mise al mondo un bambino, chiamato come il padre, che presto consegnò alla nonna paterna essendosi ammalata di sifilide e sentendo prossima la fine.
La narrazione si sposta poi agli anni 2000, quando Colomba Mitta, giovane impiegata dell'ufficio postale di Touta, scompare senza lasciar traccia. Le forze dell'ordine abbandonano le ricerche, ma la nonna Zaira, con la quale viveva Colomba, non si rassegna e inizia a indagare per proprio conto. Diversi ciarlatani le dicono di averla scorta o di averne avuto delle visioni, ma si tratta di affermazioni senza fondamento. Un giorno però un giovane dell'età della nipote e dall'aspetto equivoco l'invita al Rombo, un locale di Touta, per parlare di Colomba, proponendole delle informazioni in cambio di mille euro. Dopo qualche titubanza, Zaira accetta l'offerta, ma il ragazzo (che si fa chiamare Sal) le dice solo che la nipote è viva e prigioniera nei boschi. Zaira si mette allora a battere sistematicamente i boschi attorno a Touta; in una di queste perlustrazioni fa amicizia con un cane randagio che battezza Fungo e che decide di tenere con sé.
La narratrice riprende poi la storia della bisnonna Zaira Morrione, che complessivamente visse un rapporto felice col marito (benché non fosse stato scelto da lei) che morì a poca distanza di tempo dal figlio, dopodiché arrivò il nipote Pitrucc', che crebbe da sola e che dimostrò le stesse attitudini del padre, sebbene non proseguisse gli studi. Pitrucc' mise incinta una ragazza del paese di nome Antonina e poco dopo annunciò di voler emigrare in Australia, per migliorare la propria condizione economica e per perseguire i suoi sogni di libertà che nell'Italia fascista non potevano concretizzarsi. Siccome Pitrucc' non poteva sostenere anche i costi di un matrimonio, Antonina si rassegnò a sposare Cignalitt', un uomo più vecchio di lei di qualche anno, di brutto aspetto ma ricco, e dopo qualche mese mise alla luce una bambina chiamata Zaira come la nonna.
All'età di diciotto anni Zaira, che nel frattempo era rimasta orfana di madre, s'iscrisse alla facoltà di lettere dell'Università di Firenze. Prima alloggiò in una pensione gestita dall'avarissima signora Buccini, poi da Cesidia, cugina e amante di Cignalitt'. A Firenze fece la conoscenza di Roberto Valdez, studente di pianoforte al conservatorio, e se n'innamorò follemente, rimanendo poi incinta. Roberto la scongiurò di abortire ma Zaira non se la sentì; nacque così una bambina a cui mise nome Angelica. Zaira proseguì gli studi arrivando a conseguire la laurea e iniziò a lavorare come traduttrice. Anni dopo, per un breve periodo divenne l'amante di Vanni, un musicista con una casa a Touta, suscitando la riprovazione di Angelica che adolescente, che frequentava il liceo ad Avezzano e poco dopo si legò sentimentalmente col suo giovane professore Valdo Mitta, un ex sessantottino. Angelica rivelò alla madre che Valdo l'avrebbe sposata, dato che era in dolce attesa, e che una volta Cignalitt' (morto una decina d'anni prima) le aveva messo le mani addosso, con grande sconcerto di Zaira che l'aveva sempre ritenuto un padre e un nonno affettuoso.
Durante le sue ricerche della nipote, Zaira una sera torna a casa dai boschi in preda alla febbre e ha la visione di Colomba e Sal nella cucina della sua casa; quando entra però non li trova. Durante la notte, le sembra che Colomba vada da lei e l'amminisca a non cercarla, ma le rimane il dubbio che ciò sia stato solo un sogno. In questo periodo le sono di conforto le visite dell'amica Maria Menica, ostetrica del paese che le racconta di come è riuscita a far nascere in condizioni disagevoli il figlio di un pastore marocchino, e del cavallaro Cesidio, che le narra la storia, tra realtà e fantasia, di un monaco del X secolo col suo stesso nome, che andò a Roma a implorare la protezione di papa Benedetto VII contro le prevaricazioni dei feudatari locali.
Un giorno, mentre è sempre in cerca nei boschi, un cacciatore di frodo invita minacciosamente Zaira ad andarsene; il suo atteggiamento le sembra più che sospetto, tanto che alcuni giorni dopo trova un cane impiccato vicino alla propria casa, per il qual fatto si rivolge ai carabinieri. Zaira rievoca poi i tempi della vita matrimoniale della figlia con Valdo, che non era insensibile al fascino di altre donne, come la diciottenne Debora oppure Laura, moglie del suo collega Giulio. Valdo instaurò con Laura e Giulio e un rapporto molto stretto nel quale entrò anche Angelica, ma che Colomba visse con disagio, tanto da preferire la compagnia della nonna. La gravidanza di Laura, probabilmente provocata da Valdo, mise fine a quella situazione. I Mitta si trasferirono tutti a Roma, dove Valdo mise a frutto il suo talento di scultore in legno, mentre Angelica, spesso abbandonata a casa per più giorni di seguito, trovò conforto nell'alcool. Angelica morì poi in un incidente stradale e Valdo emigrò in Francia dove si dedicò a tempo pieno all'arte, mentre Colomba andò a vivere con Zaira.
Una mattina d'inverno arriva a Touta Pitrucc' i Pilus', il padre che Zaira non ha mai conosciuto e che avrebbe voluto andare a trovare in Australia, per poter morire nel paese dei suoi avi. Per la donna è una grande sorpresa; accoglie comunque il genitore in casa e gli assegna la camera di Colomba. Vorrebbe coinvolgerlo nelle ricerche, ma il vecchio è malato di cuore e deve rinunciare. In una grotta sulla montagna adibita a rifugio trova le carcasse di alcuni cervi: il fatto la turba ulteriormente (mentre l'autrice ne trae lo spunto per raccontare una fiaba su un cacciatore e un cervo) ma le guardie forestali a cui denuncia il fatto la trattano con sufficienza. Tornata tra i boschi, nota una roulotte che le sembra abitata: appartiene a Sal, che vi tiene Colomba facendola prostituire e stordendola con le droghe. La giovane, sporca e denutrita, inizialmente non vorrebbe tornare con la nonna, ma questa poi la convince a venir via con lei. Zaira chiama Pitrucc' col telefono cellulare perché venga prendere lei e Colomba in automobile; fa poi ricoverare in ospedale la nipote, che rimane per alcuni giorni tra la vita e la morte prima di riprendersi. Pitrucc', Zaira e Colomba possono così ricominciare le loro vite insieme.
Personaggi
Mosè Salvato Del Signore (1870-1918): bisnonno di Zaira Bigoncia, trovato ad Avezzano e cresciuto dalle suore. Diventa poi un pastore.
Zaira Morrione (1874-1975): bisnonna di Zaira Bigoncia, figlia di un carabiniere siciliano. Vive un'infanzia quasi selvaggia sui monti delle Madonie coi nonni. Seque il padre in Abruzzo e vi sposa Mosè. Diventa poi capo della famiglia quando il marito muore.
Pietro Del Signore detto Pietr' i pelus' (1891-1917): figlio dei precedenti e nonno di Zaira Bigoncia.
Pina detta Liù (1897-1920): prostituta siciliana, amante di Pietr' i Pelus' e nonna di Zaira Bigoncia.
Amanita Sbarra (1896): figlia del professor Michele Sbarra, micologo di fama internazionale insegnante all'Università di Torino, e fidanzata di Pietr' i Pelus'.
Pietro Del Signore detto Pitrucc' i pelus' (1918): figlio di Pietr' i pelus' e di Liù, padre di Zaira Bigoncia. Dalle sue letture giovanili matura idee anarchiche e socialisteggianti. Spinto da queste, nel secondo dopoguerra si trasferisce per un certo periodo dal'Australia in Unione Sovietica, dove viene arrestato con l'accusa di spionaggio ed è liberato da un gulag per interessamento della Croce Rossa.
Antonina coniugata Bigoncia (1920-1948): giovane di Touta, amante di Pitrucc' i pelus' da cui ha Zaira Bigoncia.
Giovannantonio Bigoncia detto Cignalitt' (1909-1969): macellaio di Touta, padre putativo di Zaira.
Maria Beatrice Zaira Bigoncia detta Za' (1940): figlia di Pitrucc' i pelus' e di Antonina, madre di Angelica e nonna di Colomba, della quale va alla ricerca dopo la sua scomparsa.
Roberto Valdez (1939): pianista nato in Veneto, padre di Angelica, del quale si è del tutto disinteressato.
Angelica Bigoncia (1959-1995): figlia di Zaira e Roberto Valdez e madre di Colomba.
Valdo Mitta (1949): uomo nativo di Mantova, prima professore di latino al liceo di Avezzano, poi scultore a pieno tempo, marito della precedente e padre di Colomba. È un appassionato di funghi.
Colomba Mitta detta 'Mbina (1980): la ragazza scomparsa, figlia dei precedenti e nipote di Zaira Bigoncia.
Don Pasqualino: parroco di Touta dal 1938 e per molti anni successivi, dalle idee fortemente egualitarie. Fa cantare Zaira nel coro della chiesa.
La signora Buccini: prima padrona di casa di Zaira a Firenze, dove gestiva una pensione.
Cesidia: cugina e amante di Cignalitt', poi sua seconda moglie.
Vanni: pianista amante di Zaira per un breve periodo, di padre veneto e madre abruzzese.
Laura e Giulio: coniugi amici di Valdo Mitta.
Maria Menica detta Saponitt' : levatrice di Touta e amica di Zaira Bigoncia. Deve il suo soprannome alla sua mania per la pulizia.
Saponitt' : figlio trentenne della precedente, dai lavori saltuari. Raccoglie molti cani randagi.
Marione: proprietario del locale Rombo di Touta.
Scarpune: giovane di Touta, cameriere al Rombo, figlio del calzolaio Tiburzio e della calzolaia Elena.
Sal: amante e sfruttatore di Colomba, dai capelli tinti e a cresta, probabilmente originario della costa abruzzese.
Fungo: cane randagio incontrato nei boschi da Zaira Bigoncia, che lo tiene con sé.
Stile
La donna dai capelli corti, nei quali è chiaramente ravvisabile l'autrice Dacia Maraini, funge da narratrice di primo grado, mentre sua madre costituisce la narratrice di secondo grado: si tratta chiaramente di un artificio letterario, in quanto nella finzione questa seconda narrazione è immaginata dall'autrice come avvenuta nella sua infanzia, quando parte degli eventi raccontati non erano ancora accaduti, e la madre cambia spesso aspetto ed età come in un sogno. Un riferimento alla vita come sogno è in effetti dato dal fatto che Zaira sta traducendo per lavoro il dramma La vita è sogno di Calderón de la Barca.
Il lessico utilizzato dall'autrice fa largo uso di termini tratti dal dialetto abruzzese, soprattutto nei dialoghi e, nelle parti dedicate al personaggio di Zaira Morrione, anche della lingua siciliana.
Note
Edizioni
Altri progetti
Collegamenti esterni
Scheda del libro su daciamaraini.com.
Romanzi di Dacia Maraini | {
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Prisma hace referencia a varios artículos:
Prisma (geometría), sólido determinado por dos polígonos paralelos y congruentes que se denominan bases y por tantos paralelogramos como los lados que tengan las bases, denominados caras;
Prisma (óptica), medio transparente limitado por caras planas no paralelas con el que se producen reflexiones, refracciones y descomposiciones de la luz;
Prisma mecánico, modelo de sólido deformable;
(1192) Prisma, asteroide de la serie (1931 FE).
Prisma, artista mexicana.
Prisma, álbum del grupo mexicano Motel.
Prisma, álbum del cantante español Beret.
Prisma Tour, gira de promoción del álbum.
Prisma, tributo argentino a la banda Pink Floyd. | {
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} | 3,118 |
\section{Introduction}
The time-dependent quantum harmonic oscillator (TDHO) is an important system in several branches of physics and has been a source of novel concepts for the past seven decades. It is a natural scenario for the study of many important topics as time-dependent hamiltonians,
foundations of quantum mechanics, mathematical theorems and the increasingly important squeezed states. Such states appear, for instance,
in quantum optics \cite{WALLS-1983, LOUDON-1987, WU-1987, TEICH-1989, PERINA-1991, DODONOV-2002, DODONOV-2003, dutt-2015, SCHNABEL-2017, Raffa2019},
in cosmology \cite{GRISHCHUK-1990, Lo-ST-1991, GRISHCHUK-1993, ALBRECHT-1994, HU-1994, EINHORN-2003,KIEFER-2007}, and in some approaches to the dynamical Casimir effect, particularly, those based on analogue models \cite{DODONOV-2005, JOHANSSON-2009,JOHANSSON-2010,DODONOV-2010,WILSON-2011,FUJII-2011,LAHTEENMAKI-2013,FELICETTI-2014}.
The main property of squeezed states is that they provide variances of certain quadratures smaller than the value associated to coherent states \cite{BO-STURE-1985, WODKIEWICZ-1985, GAZEAU-2009}, enhancing the sensitivity of several systems \cite{VAHLBRUCH-2007, GIOVANNETTI-2011}.
Some remarkable examples are in telecommunications \cite{SLAVIK-2010, Fedorov2016, Pogorzalek2019},
spin-squeezed states \cite{Leroux2010, Hosten-2016, Bao2020}
and some variations of the Landau problem with a time-dependent magnetic field \cite{Dodonov2018,Dodonov2019}.
Moreover, when squeezed states of light are employed, an astonishing improvement in the detection rate at LIGO \cite{Barsotti2018, Tse2019}
and a sensitivity enhancement in the shot noise limit at the Advanced Virgo gravitational wave detector \cite{Acernese2019} are observed.
The more general case of a driven TDHO has already been formally solved by different methods and approaches.
The first solution came from Husimi in 1953 \cite{Husimi-1953} where he used an ansatz of a gaussian type
to show that the formal solution of this problem can be obtained from the corresponding classical solution.
Further important contributions were made by Lewis and Riesenfeld \cite{LEWIS-1969}, Popov and Perelomov \cite{Popov-1969},
and Malkin, Man'ko and collaborators \cite{Malkin-1970, Man'Ko-1970}.
An extensive list of references in this line can be found in \cite{DODONOV-2005}.
In these papers the authors introduced the use of invariants for time-dependent hamiltonians,
a method still very used nowadays \cite{nagiyev-2019, zelaya-2020}.
Algebraic solutions for the driven TDHO have been known since the 80's,
see for instance the papers of Ma and Rhodes \cite{Rhodes-1989}, with further contributions from Lo \cite{C.F.LO-1990}.
In these papers it is shown that the time evolution operator (TEO) at any instant can be expressed as a product of
a squeezing operator, a Glauber operator and a rotation operator, apart from an overall phase factor.
Other authors have also investigated the TDHO considering different initial states and
specific time-dependent parameters \cite{DODONOV-1979, ABDALLA-1985,CHENG-1988,GERRY-1990,CFLO-1990,CFLO-1991,Kumar-1991,
Twamley-1993,JANSZKY-1994,Pedrosa-1997,Pedrosa.I.A.-1997,Lima-2008,Buyukasik2019}.
Some particular cases with exact known solutions, namely the sudden and linear frequency modulations have also been considered
\cite{JANSZKY-1986, Kumar-1991, JANSZKY-1992, JANSZKY-TE-1994, MOYA-2003, 2019-AJP-Tiba}.
It is worth mentioning that previous solutions of the TDHO
based on algebraic methods are not very practical for numerical implementations, since the final expressions
are written in terms of functions that satisfy non-linear differential equations involving the time-dependent
parameters under consideration. In this work, our main purpose is to establish a procedure
for solving this system in such a way that no matter which time-dependent functions for the parameters are considered, one will be able
to calculate the quantum state of the system at any instant and with the desired precision for any initial state.
Using operator ordering techniques, similar to those used in Refs.\cite{truax-1985, CHENG-1988, Rhodes-1989, Rau-1996, paredes-2020},
based on BCH-like relations of the \textit{su}(1,1) Lie algebra and
a time-splitting approach exploring the composition property of the TEO,
we obtain an iterative analytical solution given by simple recurrence relations
presented in the form of generalized continued fractions. The TEO is written in terms
of the \textit{su}(1,1) Lie algebra generators and therefore is ready for application over
any initial state.
In order to prove the usefulness of our method we consider the HO initially in its fundamental state and
we study its time-evolution for a variety of non-trivial frequency modulations. At first, these frequency modulations
are chosen in order to reproduce some results from literature.
Secondly, we analyse and compare two important cases:
the parametric resonance modulation and the so-called Janszky-Adam scheme \cite{JANSZKY-1992}.
This paper is organized as follows. In Section \ref{Meth}
we introduce the system studied and a detailed discussion of our method, the main theoretical result of this work.
In Section \ref{RAD} we perform some numerical implementations and use our results to compare the efficiency on squeezing among different procedures.
Section \ref{C} is left for the conclusions and final remarks.
\section{Time-dependent Harmonic oscillator}\label{Meth}
Let us consider a one-dimensional harmonic oscillator (HO) with arbitrary time-dependent parameters, namely, its mass $m(t)$ and frequency $\omega(t)$, whose hamiltonian is given by
\begin{equation}
\hat{H}(t)=\frac{\hat{p}^{2}}{2m(t)}+\frac{1}{2}m(t)\omega^{2}(t)\hat{q}^2\, .
\label{eq:HOVF}
\end{equation}
%
Our purpose is to determine the time-evolution operator (TEO) of the HO at an arbitrary subsequent time.
However, this is not an easy task, since the hamiltonian is a time-dependent one and, hence, the computation of the TEO is quite intricate.
In fact, from its definition
%
\begin{equation}
\left|\psi(t)\right\rangle = \hat{U}(t,0)\left|\psi(0)\right\rangle \, ,
\label{Definicao-U}
\end{equation}
and the Schr\"odinger equation (we are using $\hbar = 1$),
%
\begin{equation}
i\frac{\partial}{\partial t}\left|\psi(t)\right\rangle=\hat{H}(t)\left|\psi(t)\right\rangle\, ,
\label{eq:Schro-Eq}
\end{equation}
it is immediate to see that the TEO
satisfies the following differential equation,
\begin{equation}
i\frac{\partial}{\partial t}\hat{U}(t,0)=\hat{H}(t)\hat{U}(t,0)\, ,
\label{eq:Schro-TEO}
\end{equation}
with the initial condition $ \hat{U}(0,0) = 1\!\! 1$, whose solution
can be written as the formal expression \cite{Sakurai-Book-2014}
\begin{equation}
\hat{U}(t,0) = T\left\{\exp\left[-i\int_0^t{\hat H}(t^\prime) dt^\prime\right]\right\}\, ,
\label{eq:DysonB}
\end{equation}
where $T$ means time ordering operator. This expression is known as Dyson series and
its application to the problem at hand is extremely difficult. Instead of using Dyson series
it is more convenient, as we shall see, to appeal to the composition property of the TEO which follows directly from
definition (\ref{Definicao-U}), namely,
\begin{equation}
\hat{U}(t,0)=\hat{U}(t,t_{N-1})\hat{U}(t_{N-1},t_{N-2})\cdots\hat{U}(t_{1},0)\, .
\label{eq:compoTEO}
\end{equation}
Although for finite time intervals the expressions $\hat{U}(t_j,t_{j-1})$, with $j = 1,2,...,N-1$, are quite involved since the problem under consideration has a time-dependent hamiltonian (they are given, essentially by Dyson series), if we take
$\tau\rightarrow 0$ ($\tau=t_{j}-t_{j-1}; j=1,2,...N$) and $N\rightarrow\infty$ with $N\tau = t$, we can write the TEO as an infinite product of simple infinitesimal time-evolution operators, namely,
\begin{equation}
\hat{U}(t,0) = \lim_{\substack{N\rightarrow\infty\\ N\tau = t}}e^{-i\hat{H}(N\tau)\tau}e^{-i\hat{H}\left((N-1)\tau\right)\tau}\cdots\;e^{-i\hat{H}(\tau)\tau} \, .
\label{eq:TEOin}
\end{equation}
Our iterative method is based on the above equation.
Let us introduce, as usual in algebraic methods for the HO, the annihilation $\hat{a}$ and creation $\hat{a}^{\dagger}$ operators
\begin{equation}
\hat{a}\equiv\sqrt{\frac{m_{0}\omega_{0}}{2}}\left(\hat{q}+i\frac{\hat{p}}{m_{0}\omega_{0}}\right) \; ;\;\;\;\;
\hat{a}^{\dagger}\equiv\sqrt{\frac{m_{0}\omega_{0}}{2}}\left(\hat{q}-\frac{i}{m_{0}\omega_{0}}\hat{p}\right) \, ,
\label{eq:instantbasist0}
\end{equation}
where $m(t=0)\equiv m_{0}$, $\omega(t=0)\equiv\omega_{0}$ and $\left[\hat{a},\hat{a}^{\dagger}\right]=1$.
We recall that we are working in the the Schr\"odinger picture. Therefore, inverting the above equations and substituting the expressions of operators $\hat p$ and $\hat q$ in terms of the operators $\hat{a}$ and $\hat{a}^{\dagger}$ into Eq. (\ref{eq:HOVF}), we obtain after a straightforward calculation
\begin{equation}
\hat{H}(t)=2\omega(t)\cosh\bigl[2\rho(t)\bigr]\hat{K}_{c}+\omega(t)\sinh\bigl[2\rho(t)\bigr]\left(\hat{K}_{+}+\hat{K}_{-}\right),\\
\label{eq:HamLie}
\end{equation}
where we defined
\begin{equation}
\rho(t)\equiv\frac{1}{2}\ln{\left(\frac{m(t)\omega(t)}{m_{0}\omega_{0}}\right)} \, .
\label{eq:compdgr}
\end{equation}
as well as the operators
\begin{equation}
\hat{K}_{+} := \frac{\hat{a}^{\dagger^{2}}}{2}, \:\: \hat{K}_{-} := \frac{\hat{a}^{2}}{2} \:\:\:\: \mbox{and} \:\:\:\: \hat{K}_{c} :=
\frac{\hat{a}^{\dagger}\hat{a}+\hat{a}\hat{a}^{\dagger}}{4}\, .\\
\label{eq:LieAlgebraGen}
\end{equation}
It is straightforward to show that the above operators satisfy the following commutation relations
\begin{equation}
\left[\hat{K}_{+},\hat{K}_{-}\right]=-2\hat{K}_{c} \:\: \mbox{and} \:\: \left[\hat{K}_{c},\hat{K}_{\pm}\right]=\pm\hat{K}_{\pm}\, ,
\label{eq:algebraK}
\end{equation}
so that they can be identified as the three generators of the \textit{su}(1,1) Lie algebra. This fact will allows us to use appropriate BCH-like formulas for this Lie algebra to obtain the TEO of the system.
For future convenience, let us now introduce the so-called vacuum squeezed states (a detailed discussion can be found in Ref.\cite{Barnett-1997}).
A single-mode vacuum squeezed state $\vert z\rangle$ (referred to, henceforth, simply by squeezed state) of the initial hamiltonian $\hat{H}_{0}\equiv\hat{H}(t=0)$,
can be obtained by application of the squeezing operator ${\hat S}(z)$ on the fundamental state, $\vert z\rangle = {\hat S}(z) \vert 0\rangle$, with ${\hat S}(z)$ defined by
\begin{equation}
\label{gensqop}
\hat{S}(z)\equiv\exp \left\{-\frac{z}{2}\left.\hat{a}^{\dagger}\right.^{2}+\frac{z^{*}}{2}\hat{a}^{2}\right\} \, ,
\end{equation}
where $z = r e^{i\varphi}$ is a complex number. With the aid of ordering theorems the squeezed state can be written as a superposition
of the even energy eigenstates \cite{Barnett-1997}
\begin{equation}
\left|z\right\rangle=\sqrt{\mbox{sech}(r)}\sum_{n=0}^{\infty}\frac{\sqrt{(2n)!}}{n!}
\left[-\frac{1}{2}e^{(i\varphi)}\tanh(r)\right]^{n}\left|2n\right\rangle.
\label{eq:squeezed}
\end{equation}
Note that $z$, and hence $r$ and $\varphi$, determines uniquely the squeezed state. In order to interpret $r$ and $\varphi$, it is convenient to introduce
the quadrature operator ${\hat Q}_\lambda$, defined by \cite{Barnett-1997}
\begin{equation}
\hat{Q}_{\lambda}=\frac{1}{\sqrt{2}}\left[e^{i\lambda} \hat{a}^{\dagger}+e^{-i\lambda} \hat{a}\right] \, .
\label{eq:quadratureop}
\end{equation}
The quadrature operators satisfy the commutation relation $[{\hat Q}_\lambda,{\hat Q}_{\lambda + \pi/2}] = i$.
It is evident from the previous definition that
$\hat{Q}_{\lambda=0} = (\hat{a}^{\dagger} + \hat{a})/\sqrt{2} \propto \hat{q}$ and
$\hat{Q}_{\lambda=\pi/2} = i(\hat{a}^{\dagger} - \hat{a})/\sqrt{2} \propto \hat{p}$.
It can be shown that the variance of the quadrature operator in a squeezed state is given by \cite{Barnett-1997}
\begin{equation}
\left(\Delta Q_\lambda \right)^2 =
\frac{1}{2}\left[e^{2r} \sin^{2}\left(\lambda-\varphi/2\right)+e^{-2r} \cos^{2}\left(\lambda-\varphi/2\right)\right]\,
\label{eq:quadratureopvariance}
\end{equation}
and the harmonic oscillator is said to be squeezed if the variance of one of the quadratures is smaller than $\frac{1}{2}$. Note the explicit dependence of $\left(\Delta Q_\lambda\right)^2$ with $r$ and $\varphi$. Further, from the previous equation we see that
\begin{equation}
\frac{e^{-2r}}{2} \le \left(\Delta Q_\lambda \right)^2 \le \frac{e^{2r}}{2}\, ,
\end{equation}
which justifies the interpretation of $r$ as the squeezing parameter (SP). Parameter $\varphi$ is referred to as the squeezing phase (Sph).
\subsection{Time evolution}\label{Evl}
In this subsection we shall obtain the TEO of the system through an iterative method. To simplify calculations, but without any loss of generality, we consider the explicit time-dependence of the HO lying only in the frequency, such that $m(t)=1$.
\subsubsection{Time-Splitting}\label{timespli}
Let us consider a time discretization in small intervals of equally size $\tau$ and let the frequency function $\omega(t)$ be considered constant in each of these intervals as follows \cite{JANSZKY-1994}
\begin{alignat}{2}
\omega(t)=\left\{
\begin{array}{ccc}
\omega_{0} & \mbox{for} & t\leq 0 \\
\omega_{1} & \mbox{for} & 0<t\leq\tau \\
\vdots & & \vdots \\
\omega_{j} &\mbox{for} & (j-1)\tau<t\leq j\tau \\
\vdots & & \vdots \\
\omega_{N} & \mbox{for} & (N-1)\tau<t\leq N\tau \\
\end{array} \right.
\label{eq:discrete}
\end{alignat}
where $\omega_j$ can be taken as any value assumed by $\omega(t)$ with $t_{j-1} < t \le t_j$. For convenience, we choose $\omega_{j} :=\omega(j\tau)$.
Recall that $N\tau=t$ and an exact result is obtained only in the limit $N\rightarrow\infty$ ($\tau\rightarrow 0$). Note also that we chose time-dependent frequencies that are constant and equal to $\omega_0$ from $-\infty$ to $t=0$.
Once $t_j - t_{j-1} = \tau$, for any $j$, Eq. (\ref{eq:compoTEO}) takes the form
\begin{equation}
\hat{U}(t,0)=\hat{U}(N\tau,(N-1)\tau)\cdots\hat{U}(2\tau,\tau)\hat{U}(\tau,0) \, .
\label{eq:GenTEO}
\end{equation}
Assuming $N$ is as large as we want, we may approximate the hamiltonian in each time interval $t_{j-1} < t \le t_j$, denoted by $H_j$, as a constant one. Hence, from
Eq. (\ref{eq:HamLie}) we may write
\begin{equation}
\hat{H}_{j}=2\omega_{j}\cosh(2\rho_{j})\hat{K}_{c}+\omega_{j}\sinh(2\rho_{j})\left(\hat{K}_{+}+\hat{K}_{-}\right) \, ,
\label{eq:HamLiegen}
\end{equation}
where from Eq. (\ref{eq:compdgr}) it is clear that $\rho_{j}=\frac{1}{2}\ln{\left(\frac{\omega_{j}}{\omega_{0}}\right)}$.
Since all $H_j$ are now considered as time-independent hamiltonians, the TEO for each time interval, ${\hat U}(t_j,t_{j-1})$, with $j = 1,2,...,N$, can be written as $\hat{U}_{j} := {\hat U}(t_j,t_{j-1}) = e^{-i\hat{H}_{j}\tau}$. Therefore, using Eq. (\ref{eq:HamLiegen}), we can write
\begin{equation}
\hat{U}_{j}=e^{\lambda_{j+}\hat{K}_{+}+\lambda_{jc}\hat{K}_{c}+\lambda_{j-}\hat{K}_{-}},
\label{eq:TEOjk}
\end{equation}
where we defined
\begin{alignat}{1}
\label{truej1}
&\lambda_{j+} = \lambda_{j-}=-i\omega_{j}\tau \sinh(2\rho_{j}) \, , \\
\label{truej2}
&\lambda_{jc} = - 2i\omega_{j}\tau \cosh(2\rho_{j}) \, .
\end{alignat}
Using well known BCH relations of the $su(1,1)$ Lie algebras \cite{Barnett-1997, 2019-AJP-Tiba}, it is possible to write Eq. (\ref{eq:TEOjk}) as a product of exponentials of the Lie algebra generators in a suitable order, namely,
\begin{equation}
\hat{U}_{j}=e^{\Lambda_{j+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{jc})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{j-}\hat{K}_{-}},
\label{eq:jTEO}
\end{equation}
where
\begin{equation}
\Lambda_{jc}=\left(\cosh(\nu_{j})-\frac{\lambda_{jc}}{2\nu_{j}} \sinh(\nu_{j})\right)^{-2} \:\:\:\:\: \mbox{and} \:\:\:\:\:
\label{truej5}
\Lambda_{j\pm}=\frac{2\lambda_{j\pm} \sinh(\nu_{j})}{2\nu_{j} \cosh(\nu_{j})-\lambda_{jc}\sinh(\nu_{j})} \, ,
\end{equation}
with $\nu_{j}$ given by
\begin{equation}
\label{truej6}
\nu_{j}^{2} = \frac{1}{4}\lambda_{jc}^{2}-\lambda_{j+}\lambda_{j-}.
\end{equation}
Inserting Eqs. (\ref{truej1}) and (\ref{truej2}) into Eq. (\ref{truej6}) it is straightforward to show that $\nu_{j}=\pm i\omega_{j}\tau$, and substituting the obtained result into Eqs. (\ref{truej5}), consequently we obtain
\begin{alignat}{1}
\label{truej8}
& \Lambda_{jc}=\left(\cos(\omega_{j}\tau)+i\cosh(2\rho_{j})\sin(\omega_{j}\tau)\right)^{-2}, \\
\label{truej9}
&\Lambda_{j\pm}=\frac{-i \sinh(2\rho_{j})\sin(\omega_{j}\tau)}{\cos(\omega_{j}\tau)+i\cosh(2\rho_{j})\sin(\omega_{j}\tau)}.
\end{alignat}
Therefore, using Eqs. (\ref{Definicao-U}), (\ref{eq:GenTEO}) and (\ref{eq:jTEO}) the state of the system at an arbitrary instant $t>0$
can be written as the following product of operators
\begin{alignat}{1}
\left|\psi(t)\right\rangle =& e^{\Lambda_{N+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{Nc})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{N-}\hat{K}_{-}} \, e^{\Lambda_{(N-1)+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{(N-1)c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{(N-1)-}\hat{K}_{-}}\; \cdots\cr
&\cdots\; e^{\Lambda_{2+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{2c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{2-}\hat{K}_{-}} \, e^{\Lambda_{1+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{1c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{1-}\hat{K}_{-}}\left|\psi(0)\right\rangle.
\label{eq:finalstate}
\end{alignat}
This formula is not yet suitable for numerical applications but, as we shall see in the next subsection, it is the starting point for the deduction of a very convenient recurrence relation which will be the core of our iterative method.
\subsubsection{Iterative method and TEO}\label{RF}
Here we shall show that the composition of $N$ operators $U_{j}$ of the form of Eq. (\ref{eq:jTEO}),
can be written as another operator with the same form, as is the case of the TEO in Eq. (\ref{eq:finalstate}).
In fact, this is possible since any $U_{j}$ is an element of the Lie group and, as it is well known,
the composition of two or more elements of a group yields to another element of the group \cite{GILMORE-2012}.
Since we assume $\omega(t)$ is constant by parts, as defined in Eq. (\ref{eq:discrete}),
then any change in the frequency is abrupt, \textit{i.e}, a jump.
It is worth mentioning that a HO with a jump in the frequency is one of the few cases
of frequency modulation with analytical solution.
A detailed study of the later can be found in Ref.\cite{2019-AJP-Tiba}.
In order to obtain a recurrence formula we initially calculate the composition of the first two elements
present in the TEO of Eq. (\ref{eq:finalstate}), namely,
\begin{equation}
\hat{U}(2\tau,0)=e^{\Lambda_{2+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{2c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{2-}\hat{K}_{-}}\, e^{\Lambda_{1+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{1c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{1-}\hat{K}_{-}} \, .
\label{eq:GenTEO2}
\end{equation}
Since we want to write the above operator product as another $U_{j}$,
we shall use ordering techniques to move the operators until obtaining the desired configuration.
In the following discussion we will use the well known BCH relations \cite{Barnett-1997}
\begin{equation}
\label{eq:BCHclasic}
e^{\hat{A}}\hat{B}e^{-\hat{A}}=\hat{B}+\left[\hat{A},\hat{B}\right]+\frac{1}{2!}\left[\hat{A},\left[\hat{A},\hat{B}\right]\right]+
\frac{1}{3!}\left[\hat{A},\left[\hat{A},\left[\hat{A},\hat{B}\right]\right]\right]+\ldots \, ,
\end{equation}
and
\begin{equation}
e^{\hat{A}}f\left(\hat{C}\right)e^{-\hat{A}}=f\left(e^{\hat{A}}\hat{C}e^{\hat{-A}}\right) \, .
\label{eq:BCHfunc}
\end{equation}
Using the identity as $\mathds{1}=e^{\Lambda_{1+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{-\Lambda_{1+}\hat{K}_{+}}$ and Eq. (\ref{eq:BCHfunc}) in Eq. (\ref{eq:GenTEO2}), we obtain
\begin{alignat}{1}
\hat{U}(2\tau,0)=&e^{\Lambda_{2+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{2c})\hat{K}_{c}} e^{\Lambda_{1+}\hat{K}_{+}}\, \left(e^{-\Lambda_{1+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\Lambda_{2-}\hat{K}_{-}}e^{\Lambda_{1+}\hat{K}_{+}}\right) \, e^{\ln(\Lambda_{1c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{1-}\hat{K}_{-}} \cr
=&e^{\Lambda_{2+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{2c})\hat{K}_{c}} e^{\Lambda_{1+}\hat{K}_{+}}\, \left(e^{\left\{\sigma_{+}\hat{K}_{+}+\sigma_{c}\hat{K}_{c}+\sigma_{-}\hat{K}_{-}\right\}}\right) \, e^{\ln(\Lambda_{1c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{1-}\hat{K}_{-}} \, ,
\label{eq:GenTEO3}
\end{alignat}
where
\begin{equation}
\sigma_{+}=\Lambda_{2-}(\Lambda_{1+})^{2} \:\:\: \mbox{;} \:\:\: \sigma_{c}=2\Lambda_{2-}\Lambda_{1+} \:\:\: \mbox{and} \:\:\:
\sigma_{-}=\Lambda_{2-} \, .
\label{eq:sigmas}
\end{equation}
Now, for the embraced exponential in Eq. (\ref{eq:GenTEO3}) we can use the factorised representation Eq. (\ref{eq:jTEO}) to write
\begin{alignat}{1}
\hat{U}(2\tau,0)=&e^{\Lambda_{2+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{2c})\hat{K}_{c}} e^{\Lambda_{1+}\hat{K}_{+}}\, \left(e^{\Sigma_{+}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Sigma_{c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Sigma_{-}\hat{K}_{-}}\right) \, e^{\ln(\Lambda_{1c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{1-}\hat{K}_{-}} \cr
=&e^{\Lambda_{2+}\hat{K}_{+}}\,\left(e^{\ln(\Lambda_{2c})\hat{K}_{c}} e^{(\Lambda_{1+}+\Sigma_{+})\hat{K}_{+}}\right)\, e^{\ln(\Sigma_{c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Sigma_{-}\hat{K}_{-}} e^{\ln(\Lambda_{1c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{1-}\hat{K}_{-}} \, ,
\label{eq:GenTEO4}
\end{alignat}
where
\begin{equation}
\label{eq:Sigmapfin}
\Sigma_{+}=\frac{(\Lambda_{1+})^{2}\Lambda_{2-}}{1-\Lambda_{2-}\Lambda_{1+}} \, , \:\:\:\:
\Sigma_{c}=\left(1-\Lambda_{2-}\Lambda_{1+}\right)^{-2} \:\:\:\: \mbox{and} \:\:\:\:
\Sigma_{-}=\frac{\Lambda_{2-}}{1-\Lambda_{2-}\Lambda_{1+}} \, .
\end{equation}
Following a similar protocol, \textit{i.e.}, insertion of the identity as
$\mathds{1}=e^{-\ln(\Lambda_{2c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{2c})\hat{K}_{c}}$
followed by the use of Eqs. (\ref{eq:BCHclasic}) and (\ref{eq:BCHfunc}),
the embraced quantity in Eq. (\ref{eq:GenTEO4}) results in
\begin{alignat}{1}
\hat{U}(2\tau,0)=& e^{\Lambda_{2+}\hat{K}_{+}}\,\left(e^{\left\{(\Lambda_{1+}+\Sigma_{+})\Lambda_{2c}\,\hat{K}_{+}\right\}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{2c})\hat{K}_{c}}\right)\, e^{\ln(\Sigma_{c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Sigma_{-}\hat{K}_{-}} e^{\ln(\Lambda_{1c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Lambda_{1-}\hat{K}_{-}} \cr
=&e^{\left\{\Lambda_{2+}+\Lambda_{2c}(\Lambda_{1+}+\Sigma_{+})\right\}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{2c}\Sigma_{c})\hat{K}_{c}}
\left(e^{\Sigma_{-}\hat{K}_{-}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{1c})\hat{K}_{c}}\right)e^{\Lambda_{1-}\hat{K}_{-}}\, .
\label{eq:GenTEO5}
\end{alignat}
As before, the embraced exponential product in the above equation is reordered by introducing
this time the identity as $\mathds{1}=e^{\ln(\Lambda_{1c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{-\ln(\Lambda_{1c})\hat{K}_{c}}$
followed by the use of Eqs. (\ref{eq:BCHclasic}) and (\ref{eq:BCHfunc}) as
\begin{alignat}{1}
\hat{U}(2\tau,0)=& e^{\left\{\Lambda_{2+}+\Lambda_{2c}(\Lambda_{1+}+\Sigma_{+})\right\}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{2c}\Sigma_{c})\hat{K}_{c}}
\left(e^{\ln(\Lambda_{1c})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\Sigma_{-}\Lambda_{1c}\hat{K}_{-}}\right)e^{\Lambda_{1-}\hat{K}_{-}}\, \cr
=&e^{\bigl(\Lambda_{2+}+\Lambda_{2c}(\Lambda_{1+}+\Sigma_{+})\bigl)\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\Lambda_{2c}\Lambda_{1c}\Sigma_{c})\hat{K}_{c}}
e^{(\Sigma_{-}\Lambda_{1c}+\Lambda_{1-})\hat{K}_{-}}\, .
\label{eq:GenTEO6}
\end{alignat}
Finally, substitution of the big sigmas, Eq. (\ref{eq:Sigmapfin}), in the above equation results in
\begin{equation}
\hat{U}(2\tau,0)=
e^{(\Lambda_{2+}+\frac{\Lambda_{2c}\Lambda_{1+}}{1-\Lambda_{2-}\Lambda_{1+}})\hat{K}_{+}}
e^{\ln\left(\frac{\Lambda_{2c}\Lambda_{1c}}{(1-\Lambda_{2-}\Lambda_{1+})^{2}}\right)\hat{K}_{c}}
e^{(\Lambda_{1-}+\frac{\Lambda_{2-}\Lambda_{1c}}{1-\Lambda_{2-}\Lambda_{1+}})\hat{K}_{-}} \, .
\label{eq:2compfin}
\end{equation}
The recurrence relation for the composition of $N$ operators $U_{j}$
is a natural consequence of the previous result.
For convenience, let us first define
\begin{equation}
\alpha_{1}=\Lambda_{1+} \:\:\:\:\: \mbox{;} \:\:\:\:\: \beta_{1}=\Lambda_{1c} \:\:\:\:\: \mbox{and} \:\:\:\:\: \gamma_{1}=\Lambda_{1-} \, .
\label{eq:alphagammabeta1}
\end{equation}
Then, if we write Eq. (\ref{eq:2compfin}) as
\begin{equation}
\hat{U}(2\tau,0)=e^{\alpha_{2}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\beta_{2})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\gamma_{2}\hat{K}_{-}} \, , \\
\label{eq:2compgamalta}
\end{equation}
comparison of the last two equations with Eq. (\ref{eq:2compfin}) allows us to make the identifications
\begin{equation}
\alpha_{2}=\Lambda_{2+}+\frac{\alpha_{1}\Lambda_{2c}}{1-\alpha_{1}\Lambda_{2-}} \:\:\: \mbox{,} \:\:\:\:\:\:
\beta_{2}=\frac{\beta_{1}\Lambda_{2c}}{\left(1-\alpha_{1}\Lambda_{2-}\right)^{2}} \:\:\:\:\: \mbox{and} \:\:\:\:\:
\label{beta2}
\gamma_{2}=\gamma_{1}+\frac{\Lambda_{2-}\beta_{1}}{1-\alpha_{1}\Lambda_{2-}} \, .
\end{equation}
It is worth emphasizing that the above relations are obtained no matter the ordering followed to move the operators,
as long as the final operator have the structure of an $U_{j}$. Therefore, from Eqs. (\ref{eq:2compgamalta}) and (\ref{beta2}), the TEO is given by
\begin{equation}
\hat{U}(t,0)=
e^{\alpha_{N}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\beta_{N})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\gamma_{N}\hat{K}_{-}} \, ,
\label{eq:GenTEO1}
\end{equation}
where coefficients $\alpha$, $\beta$ and $\gamma$ are given by the following expressions
\begin{equation}
\alpha_{N}=\Lambda_{N+}+\frac{\alpha_{(N-1)}\Lambda_{Nc}}{1-\alpha_{(N-1)}\Lambda_{N-}} \:\:\: \mbox{,} \:\:\:\:\:\:
\beta_{N}=\frac{\beta_{(N-1)}\Lambda_{Nc}}{\left(1-\alpha_{(N-1)}\Lambda_{N-}\right)^{2}} \:\:\:\:\: \mbox{and} \:\:\:\:\:
\label{eq:betaN}
\gamma_{N}=\gamma_{(N-1)}+\frac{\Lambda_{N-}\beta_{(N-1)}}{1-\alpha_{(N-1)}\Lambda_{N-}} \, .
\end{equation}
We recall that $N\tau=t$ and the exact result is obtained by taking the limit $N\rightarrow\infty$ ($\tau\rightarrow 0$) in the above expressions.
However, since to perform numerical calculations we must set the value of $N$, once its value is found that guarantees the convergence, we can say
that our result is as exact as our computer allows us to increase $N$ above it convergence value. From Eqs. (\ref{eq:finalstate}) and (\ref{eq:GenTEO1}) we obtain the state vector
\begin{equation}
\left|\psi(t)\right\rangle =e^{\alpha_{N}\hat{K}_{+}}e^{\ln(\beta_{N})\hat{K}_{c}}e^{\gamma_{N}\hat{K}_{-}} \left|\psi(0)\right\rangle.
\label{eq:finalstatef}
\end{equation}
Note that the coefficient $\alpha$ in Eq. (\ref{eq:GenTEO1}) is independent of $\beta$ and $\gamma$.
This enables us to write it in the following convenient form
\begin{equation}
\alpha_{j}=\Lambda_{j+}-\frac{\Lambda_{jc}}{\Lambda_{j-}-\frac{1}{\Lambda_{(j-1)+}-
\frac{\Lambda_{(j-1)c}}
{\Lambda_{(j-1)-} \, -\frac{1}{\ddots \Lambda_{2+}-\frac{\Lambda_{2c}}{\Lambda_{2-}-\frac{1}{\Lambda_{1+}}}}}}} \\
\label{eq:gammarecursive}
\end{equation}
The above expression is a generalized continued fraction (GCF) for which some topics such as convergence can be investigated.
Notice that Eq. (\ref{eq:gammarecursive}) enables an easy numerical implementation. GCFs lie in the context of complex analysis and are specially useful to study analyticity of functions as well as number theory among other fields. For an interested reader we suggest Ref.\cite{Kinchin-1997}.
Note that, from Eq. (\ref{eq:finalstatef}) we are able to calculate the final state provided any initial state is given.
However, to do numerical calculations and in order to prove the usefulness of our method, we shall consider
the initial state as the fundamental state $\left|\psi(0)\right\rangle=\left|0\right\rangle$.
This will enables us to reproduce and analyse some well known results from literature.
From Eq. (\ref{eq:LieAlgebraGen}) we have the following results
\begin{equation}
\hat{K}_{-}\left|n\right\rangle=\frac{1}{2}\sqrt{n(n-1)}\left|n-2\right\rangle \:\:\: \mbox{,} \:\:\:\:\:\:
\hat{K}_{+}\left|n\right\rangle=\frac{1}{2}\sqrt{(n+1)(n+2)}\left|n+2\right\rangle \:\:\:\:\: \mbox{and} \:\:\:\:\:
\hat{K}_{c}\left|n\right\rangle=\frac{1}{2}\left(n+\frac{1}{2}\right)\left|n\right\rangle \, .
\label{eq:rules}
\end{equation}
Using the above equations and the well known expansion $e^{\hat{A}}=\sum_{n=0}^{\infty}{\frac{1}{n!}\hat{A}^{n}}$
(valid for a general operator $\hat{A}$) in Eq. (\ref{eq:finalstatef}), it can be shown that
\begin{equation}
\left|\psi(t)\right\rangle=\sqrt{\left|(\beta_{N})\right|^{1/2}}\sum_{n=0}^{\infty}\frac{\sqrt{(2n)!}}{n!}
\left[\frac{1}{2}\left|\alpha_{N}\right|e^{i\vartheta_{N}}\right]^{n}\left|2n\right\rangle,
\label{eq:wfinalg2}
\end{equation}
where the overall phase was removed by the redefinitions
\begin{equation}
\alpha_{N}=\left|\alpha_{N}\right|e^{i\vartheta_{N}}, \:\:\:\: \mbox{and}\:\:\:\: \beta_{N}=\left|\beta_{N}\right|e^{i\chi_{j}}.
\label{eq:phasecoeffg2}
\end{equation}
Note that, for any $j=1,2,...,N$, the relation
\begin{equation}
\left|\alpha_{j}\right|^{2}+\left|\beta_{j}\right| = 1
\label{eq:modulustrig}
\end{equation}
must be satisfied, as it can be straightforwardly checked.
Summing up: we have shown that any change in the frequency (as well as in the mass) of a HO, initially in its fundamental state,
brings the system into a squeezed state of the initial hamiltonian $\hat{H}_{0}$: $\left|\psi(t)\right\rangle=\left|z(t)\right\rangle$, with $z(t)=r(t) e^{i\varphi(t)}$. The corresponding SP and Sph can be computed by comparing Eqs. (\ref{eq:wfinalg2}) and (\ref{eq:squeezed}), a procedure which leads to
\begin{equation}
r(t)=\tanh^{-1}\left|\alpha_{N}\right|, \:\:\:\: \mbox{and}\:\:\:\: \varphi(t)=\vartheta_{N}\pm n\pi \:\: \mbox{with} \:\:(n=1,2,...)
\label{eq:phaseparamsque}
\end{equation}
Observe that the state is totally defined by the complex coefficient $\alpha_{j}$, since its modulus gives the SP
$r(t)$ and its phase $\vartheta_N$ gives the Sph $\varphi(t)$.
\section{Numerical implementations and discussions} \label{RAD}
In this section, we will apply our iterative method, described previously, for a variety of frequency modulations.
The numerical calculations will be implemented in the platform \textit{Mathematica},
where each frequency function will be discretized using very small intervals. We have established the optimal amount of such intervals for a given frequency function by studying the convergence of the method, so we can assure that the minimum used of 150.000 points (jumps) is good enough to perform a physical analysis.
Initially, in order to check the consistency of our method,
in subsection \ref{AR} we recover some interesting results for the variances obtained by Adams and Janszky
in Ref.\cite{JANSZKY-1994} by using a non-trivial frequency modulation.
In this reference, the authors considered time-dependent frequencies that
return asymptotically to their original values as $t\rightarrow \infty$.
In the last subsection, we consider time-dependent frequencies corresponding to
two very efficient ways of generating squeezing states, namely,
the parametric resonance modulation and the so-called Janszky-Adam (J-A) scheme \cite{JANSZKY-1992}.
Choosing appropriately the parameters for both frequency modulations, we compare them and show that
squeezing with the Adams-Janszky scheme is more efficient.
In the following discussion, we shall use the particular definition of the scaled quadrature operators
used by Janszky in Ref.\cite{JANSZKY-1994}, given by $1/\sqrt{2}$ times the quadrature operator
defined in Eq. (\ref{eq:quadratureop}). As a consequence,
squeezing occurs when the variance is smaller than the coherent limit given by $1/4$ instead of $1/2$.
Despite our results are valid for any initial frequency,
for convenience we choose in all our numerical calculations $\omega_{0}=1$.
Also we will use dimensionless quantities in the analysis.
\subsection{Checking the method}\label{AR}
In order to get confidence in our method, in this subsection we will recover a well known result of the literature involving a harmonic oscillator with a time-dependent frequency.
Our main purpose here is to obtain the squeezing parameter as well as the variance of a quadrature operator for the system discussed in Ref. \cite{JANSZKY-1994}. Following this reference we consider a non-oscillatory frequency function of the type:
\begin{equation}
\omega(t)=\left\{
\begin{array}{ll}
\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\: \omega_{0} \:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\: \mbox{for} \:\:\:\:\:\: t\leq 0 \cr
\omega_{0}\left[1+ \frac{\omega_{0} t}{2} \exp\left(-\frac{\omega_{0} t}{B}\right)\right] \:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\: \mbox{for} \:\:\:\:\:\: t>0\, ,
\end{array} \right.
\label{eq:frequency2}
\end{equation}
where $B$ is a dimensionless positive parameter.
In Fig.(\ref{fig:ExponentialDecres}.a) we plot the previous frequency as a function of time for different values of $B$. Note that these frequencies are
functions that start increasing, but after passing by their maximum values, they approach monotonically and asymptotically their original values. Also, note that the larger the parameter $B$, the longer it takes the frequency to return to its initial value $\omega_0$. In Fig.(\ref{fig:ExponentialDecres}.b), applying the method developed previously, we plot the squeezing parameter $r(t)$ as a function of time for the three frequencies plotted in Fig.(\ref{fig:ExponentialDecres}.a). We see that $r(t)$ has an oscillatory behavior which crudely follows the shape of the corresponding time-dependent frequency. Notice that the oscillations in $r(t)$ tend to cease as the frequency asymptotically returns to its original value and the squeezing parameter evolves to a constant value which depends on $B$. This is a direct consequence of the fact that the final value of the frequency is the same as the initial one.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics*[width=16.0cm]{Combined.png}
\caption{From Eq. (\ref{eq:frequency2}) are plotted in the same time interval: (a) the frequency functions and, the time-evolution of (b) the SP and of (c) the quadrature variance. The curves associated to the three different values of the parameter are $B=0.5\pi$ (dashed line), $B=3\pi$ (dotted line) and $B=5\pi$ (solid line).}
\label{fig:ExponentialDecres}
\end{figure}
In Fig.(\ref{fig:ExponentialDecres}.c) applying again our method we plot the time-evolution of the quadrature variance. This variance has an oscillatory behavior even after the oscillations in the squeezing parameter tends to cease. This oscillatory behavior even after $r(t)$ has achieved a constant value is due solely to the squeezing phase term
present in Eq. (\ref{eq:quadratureopvariance}).
Our results are in total agreement with those appearing in Janszky's paper \cite{JANSZKY-1994}.
In fact, we have extended our analysis into a larger time-interval, from $\omega_{0}t=30$ (Janszky's paper) to $\omega_{0}t=150$,
enabling us to see the behaviour in the asymptotic limit.
Since the time-dependent frequencies considered in this subsection are quite non-trivial, we can be very confident with our method and results.
It is worth mentioning that in Janszky's paper \cite{JANSZKY-1994} only the time-dependence of the quadrature is plotted, but not the time-dependence of the SP.
\subsection{Parametric Resonance}\label{PR}
Here we shall use a pulsating frequency function in the study of quantum parametric resonance. We shall show that in the resonance condition the mean value of the SP grows linearly with time, showing a certain characteristic angular coefficient, while for the non-resonance cases it has oscillatory behaviour (like beatings), with larger amplitude and period when closer to the resonance condition. After that, we also characterize the complex map (fingerprint) of the final state.
Let us consider the following frequency function
\begin{equation}
\omega(t)=\left\{
\begin{array}{ll}
\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\: \omega_{0} \:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\: \mbox{for} \:\:\:\:\:\: t\leq 0 \cr\cr
\frac{1}{2}\left[\left(\omega_{0}+\omega_{l}\right)+\left(\omega_{0}-\omega_{l}\right)
\cos\left(\epsilon \omega_{0}t\right)\right] \:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\:\: \mbox{for} \:\:\:\:\:\: t > 0
\end{array} \right.
\label{eq:frequency3}
\end{equation}
where $\omega_{l}$ is the maximum value reached by $\omega(t)$. Recall that $\omega_{0}=1$ and we fixed $\omega_{l}=1.04$, both in arbitrary units, for latter convenience. In Fig.(\ref{fig:ParRes}.a) we plot the above time-dependent frequency as a function of $\omega_{0}t$ for different values of the dimensionless parameter $\epsilon$. This parameter allows one to tune the parametric resonance phenomenon which occurs when $\epsilon\omega_{0}$ equals
twice the value denoted by reference frequency $\omega_R = \frac{\omega_{0}+\omega_{l}}{2}$,
which is the time average value of the harmonic oscillator frequency $\omega(t)$.
The parametric resonance condition is then achieved with $\epsilon=2.04$.
The other values of $\epsilon$ were chosen so that they are close but smaller than the resonant value\footnote{We could have chosen values for $\epsilon$ close but greater than $2.04$, but the results would have been the same.}.
In Fig.(\ref{fig:ParRes}.b) we plot the SP as a function of time for different values of $\epsilon$. The main characteristic shown in this figure is that at the resonance condition, the average value of the SP grows linearly with time, indefinitely, in contrast to what happens in the non-resonance cases, where the average value of the SP starts growing, achieves a maximum value and then diminishes until it vanishes and then starts the process again, presenting a periodic behaviour. Note that as $\epsilon$ approaches the resonant value, $\epsilon = 2.04$, the period of oscillation of $r(t)$ becomes larger, tending to infinity as $\epsilon \rightarrow 2.04$. It is worth mentioning that at the resonance condition the average energy is always increasing.
In Fig.(\ref{fig:ParRes}.c) we plot the variance of the chosen quadrature as a function of time. Note that the characteristic time of the variance oscillations is associated with the squeezing phase dynamics, while the amplitudes of those oscillations are related to the mean value of the SP (see Eq. (\ref{eq:quadratureopvariance})). As a consequence, the non-resonant cases exhibit modulations as beats while at parametric resonance, since the average SP grows linearly with time, the modulations of the oscillations (the envelopes enclosing the oscillations) are exponentially increasing at the top of the oscillations and exponentially decreasing at the bottom of the oscillations.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics*[width=16.0cm]{Mixed3.png}
\caption{(a) The frequency functions and, in the same time interval, the time-evolution of (b) the SP and (c) the quadrature variance. In (b), it is also shown the behavior of SP for the initial dynamics. The curves associated to the three different values of the parameter are $\epsilon=1.96$ (dashed line), $\epsilon=2.0$ (dotted line) and $\epsilon=2.04$ (solid line and resonance case).}
\label{fig:ParRes}
\end{figure}
In Fig.(\ref{fig:Resonance}) we used Eq. (\ref{eq:phaseparamsque}) to plot, in the complex plane, the dynamics of the complex function $z = r e^{i\varphi} = \tanh^{-1}\left|\gamma\right| e^{i(\vartheta\pm\pi)}$, where $\left|z\right\rangle=\left|r e^{i \phi}\right\rangle$ is the (squeezed) state of the system, as it was similarly done in Ref.\cite{GERRY-1990}. This is a geometric representation containing all relevant information about the dynamics of the system and can be considered as a fingerprint of the dynamics of the state. The non-resonant cases are plotted in Figs.(\ref{fig:Resonance}.a) and (\ref{fig:Resonance}.b). For these cases, the curves are limited and bounded by a maximum radii in the complex plane of $z$, since, when out of resonance, the squeezing parameter ($r = \vert z\vert$) has a maximum value. The closer to the resonant condition, the larger the radius in the complex plane of the curves that describes the dynamics of the system. This can be seen by inspection of Figs.(\ref{fig:Resonance}.a) and (\ref{fig:Resonance}.b), since the larger radius corresponds to the larger value of $\epsilon$. At the resonance condition, as shown in Fig.(\ref{fig:Resonance}.c), there is no enclosing circle and the curve is given by a growing spiral since $|z|$ increases exponentially indefinitely.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics*[width=16cm]{ResonHori.png}
\caption{Plot of the time-evolution in the interval $0\leq t\leq 120$ of the complex number $z$ characterizing the final state of the system for the frequency function given in Eq. (\ref{eq:frequency3}) and for the different values of the parameter: (a) $\epsilon=1.96$, (b) $\epsilon=2.0$ and (c) $\epsilon=2.04$ (resonance case).}
\label{fig:Resonance}
\end{figure}
\subsection{Janszky-Adam scheme $\times$ parametric resonance}\label{JAS}
The Janszky-Adam (J-A) scheme is known as a very strong squeezing model by frequency modulation in the harmonic oscillator \cite{FUJII-2015} and useful, for instance, in the description of a confined light field strongly coupled to a two-level system, or qubit, in the dispersive regime \cite{joshi-2017}. It uses sudden jumps between two fixed frequencies appropriately synchronized \cite{JANSZKY-TE-1994, JANSZKY-1992} and these abrupt frequency changes produce a high degree of squeezing \cite{Kumar-1991}.
In Fig.(\ref{fig:JanzskyModel}.a), the time-dependent frequency of the HO in the Janszky-Adam model is plotted. It consists, as mentioned above, of periodic sudden jumps between two constant frequencies, namely $\omega_{0}$ and $\omega_{1}$ (chosen to be 1.0 and 1.5 in arbitrary units in Fig.(\ref{fig:JanzskyModel}.a)). The respective time intervals in each frequency are suitable chosen to optimize the increasing in the SP.
In Fig.(\ref{fig:JanzskyModel}.b), we apply our method to plot the SP as a function of time corresponding to such a frequency modulation. First, note that there is an increasing of $r(t)$ only when the frequency jumps from $\omega_{0}$ to $\omega_{1}$, but not when the frequency jumps back from $\omega_1$ to the initial frequency $\omega_0$. In fact, after the frequency abruptly changes from $\omega_1$ to its original value $\omega_0$ the SP remains constant in time until the next jump from $\omega_{0}$ to $\omega_{1}$. This can be understood in the following way:
after the jump from $\omega_{0}$ to $\omega_{1}$ we showed that the state of the HO is a squeezed state of the original hamiltonian $\hat H_0$ (a HO with constant frequency $\omega_{0}$), and it is known that the time-evolution described by $e^{-i\hat H_0 t/\hbar}$ of a squeezed state with respect to hamiltonian $\hat H_0$ does not change the value of the SP (though the variance of a quadrature operator oscillates with time due to its dependence on the squeezing phase $\varphi$). That is why in Fig.(\ref{fig:JanzskyModel}.b) we have plateaus whenever
$\omega(t) = \omega_0$. Our description should be contrasted with that appearing in Refs.\cite{JANSZKY-TE-1994, JANSZKY-1992}, where it is suggested that the SP suffer abrupt (discontinuous) changes as the frequency jumps from $\omega_{0}$ and $\omega_{1}$ and from $\omega_{1}$ back to $\omega_{0}$. However, this is only an apparent disagreement since here the SP is always considered with respect to the original hamiltonian $\hat H_0$, while in the above mentioned papers, though not explicitly stated, squeezing is considered with respect to the instantaneous hamiltonian.
It is worth mentioning that since finite changes in the HO frequency cause only finite changes in the corresponding hamiltonian, the physical state of the HO evolves continuously in time since
%
\begin{equation}
\lim_{\delta\rightarrow 0} e^{\frac{i}{\hbar}\hat H \delta} \vert\psi(t)\rangle = \vert\psi(t)\rangle\, .
\end{equation}
%
Hence, the same thing occurs with the SP, it can not suffer discontinuous changes, unless it is defined with respect to the instantaneous hamiltonian (which is not our case).
%
In Ref.\cite{2019-AJP-Tiba}, we analyze a simplified version of the Janszky-Adam model which consists of one sudden frequency change from $\omega_{0}$ to $\omega_{1} > \omega_0$ (at $t=0$) followed by another sudden change from $\omega_1$ back to the initial frequency $\omega_{0}$ after a time interval $\textsl{T}$. We obtain an exact analytical solution with the aid of algebraic methods based on Lie algebras and use this problem to unveil some qualitative aspects of squeezing processes by abrupt frequency changes. Particularly, we show why there is no change in the SP when the frequency jumps back to its original.
Note that, as in the parametric resonance case, the mean value of the SP grows linearly. As a consequence, it can be shown that both frequency modulations have a similar fingerprint in the complex space \textit{i.e.}, the curve exhibits a spiral like behavior, since the modulus of $z$ increases without bound, as in Fig.(\ref{fig:Resonance}.c).
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics*[width=15.0cm]{freqSP.png}
\caption{(a) Plot of the frequency modulation function of the J-A scheme. (b) Time-evolution of the SP.}
\label{fig:JanzskyModel}
\end{figure}
Finally, in order to compare which process between the parametric resonance model and the Janszky-Adam scheme is more effective to squeeze the HO, we plot in Fig.(\ref{fig:JanzskyModel2}.a) the frequency modulations corresponding to these two models. Of course, for our comparison to make sense, we must choose appropriately the parameters in both models. Since the parametric resonance model to be used is that described by Eq. (\ref{eq:frequency3}), it is natural to choose both modulations between the same minimum and maximum frequency values, and the amplitude is small, between 1.00 and 1.04 (in arbitrary units). In Fig.(\ref{fig:JanzskyModel2}.b) we plot the SP as a function of time for both models with the above choices for the parameters involved. Although both curves have the same general form and show squeezing parameters that increase without bound, it is evident from Fig.(\ref{fig:JanzskyModel2}.b) that the Janszky-Adam scheme is more efficient to squeeze than the parametric resonance (a similar conclusion was obtained by Galve and Lutz \cite{Galve-2009}).
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics*[width=15.0cm]{definitive.png}
\caption{(a) Plot of the frequency function for the J-A scheme and the parametric resonance model in time with the same minimum and maximum values, and (b) the resulting SP as a function of time.}
\label{fig:JanzskyModel2}
\end{figure}
\section{CONCLUSIONS} \label{C}
In this paper, using algebraic methods and appropriate BCH-like relations of Lie algebras we developed an iterative method for solving the problem of a harmonic oscillator with an arbitrary time-dependent frequency. Although the problem of a harmonic oscillator with a time-dependent frequency had already been formally solved
by algebraic methods (see, for instance, Refs.\cite{Rhodes-1989, C.F.LO-1990}), our method has the advantage of being very well adapted for numerical calculations no matter the time dependence on the frequency. In other methods, only a few particular cases of time-dependent frequencies can be handled easily. As it was already known in the literature, we have shown that a time-dependent frequency gives rise to a squeezed state. Our results enable us to follow the state of the system at any time and with the desired precision. As a consistence test, in order to get more confidence in our method, we first recovered some important results found in the literature \cite{JANSZKY-1994}. Then, we considered other important cases, namely, {\it (i)} the parametric resonance model and {\it (ii)} the Janszky-Adam scheme.
By computing the squeezing parameter and the variances of quadrature operators for these models, we showed that the latter is the most efficient method for squeezing.
We think our method may be useful for a deeper understanding of squeezing procedures as well as of general time-dependent problems involving Lie algebras.
Our method seems to be computationally attractive for the study of shortcuts to adiabaticity \cite{Chen-2010, Del-Campo-2011, guery-2019},
harmonic traps \cite{Grossmann-1995, schneiter-2020, qvarfort-2020},
and problems with coupled HO's \cite{urzua-2019, urzua-2-2019}
Moreover, since the HO with a time-dependent frequency appears in many different areas in physics, from quantum optics to quantum field theory in flat space-time (for instance in the dynamical Casimir effect) as well as in curved spacetimes (for instance in cosmological particle creation), we hope our method may inspire alternative ways of attacking problems of particle creation in general time-dependent backgrounds.
\section*{Acknowledgments}
The authors acknowledge R. Acosta Diaz, D. R. Herrera, L. Garcia, C. M. D. Solano, Reinaldo F. de Melo e Souza, M. V. Cougo-Pinto, A. Z. Khoury and P.A. Maia Neto for enlightening discussions. The authors thank the brazilian agencies for scientific and technological research CAPES, CNPq and FAPERJ for partial financial support.
\newpage
\bibliographystyle{unsrt}
\biboptions{sort&compress}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 8,297 |
\section{Introduction}
\label{sec:intro}
Machine learning applications of 3D audio are gaining increasing interest in recent years.
Tasks like sound source localization, sound source separation, speech enhancement and acoustic echo cancellation, among others, potentially benefit from tridimensional representations of sound field, as they carry additional spatial information \cite{abesser2020review, DBLP:conf/ijcnn/AdavannePV18}.
Consequently, in these tasks 3D audio formats (in particular Ambisonics) usually provide performance improvements compared to single/dual-channel formats \cite{DBLP:conf/ijcnn/AdavannePV18, DBLP:conf/icassp/AdavannePV17}.
Based on this motivation, the L3DAS (Learning 3D Audio Sources) Team has proposed the L3DAS22 Challenge involving two tasks, 3D Speech Enhancement (SE) and 3D Sound Event Localization and Detection (SELD), both relying on multiple-source and multiple-perspective (MSMP) Ambisonics recordings.
3D SE aims at removing unwanted information from spurious spatial vocal recordings and further enhancing the speech intelligibility and clarity.
A widespread strategy to perform SE is to use deep neural networks to estimate a mask in the Time-Frequency domain that tries to remove unwanted noise components from the signal mixture \cite{DBLP:journals/taslp/WangC18a}.
Neural beamforming techniques, such as the Filter and Sum Networks (FaSNet) \cite{DBLP:conf/asru/LuoHMCL19}, provide state-of-the art results for Ambisonics-based SE and are usually suitable for low-latency scenarios.
Also U-Net-based approaches provide competitive results both for monaural
\cite{DBLP:journals/eswa/GuimaraesNS20}
and multichannel SE tasks
\cite{xinleiref}, at the expense of higher computational power demand.
Other techniques to perform SE include recurrent neural networks (RNNs) \cite{DBLP:conf/icassp/HuangKHS14}, graph-based spectral subtraction \cite{DBLP:journals/speech/YanYWG20}, discriminative learning \cite{DBLP:conf/interspeech/FanLTYW19}, and dilated convolutions
\cite{DBLP:journals/taslp/LuoM19}, among others.
3D SELD, instead, aims at obtaining exhaustive spatiotemporal descriptions of 3D acoustic scenes, predicting which sound categories are present in the scene, and when and where each sound instance is active.
SELD can be considered as a combination of the traditional sound event detection and sound source localization tasks, and it was presented for the first time in the DCASE2019 Challenge \cite{DBLP:journals/taslp/PolitisMAHV21}.
Also here, the state-of-the-art methods are based on deep learning strategies \cite{DBLP:journals/corr/abs-2006-01919}. SELDnet \cite{DBLP:journals/jstsp/AdavannePNV19} adopted a convolutional-recurrent design with two distinct branches for localization and detection and it was used as a baseline model in SELD tasks of the DCASE challenges.
An improved SELDnet model was then introduced by \cite{DBLP:conf/eusipco/GuirguisSGAY20}, including temporal convolutions.
Other novel solutions for this task include ensemble models \cite{chytas2019hierarchical}, multi-stage training \cite{DBLP:journals/corr/abs-1905-00268} and bespoke augmentation strategies
\cite{DBLP:journals/corr/abs-1910-04388}.
In this second edition, we improved many aspects of the L3DAS21 challenge \cite{guizzo2021l3das21}.
First of all, we generated a new dataset (L3DAS22 dataset\footnote{The L3DAS22 Dataset is freely available on Kaggle: \url{www.kaggle.com/l3dasteam/l3das22}}) with an augmented number of datapoints, increasing the total dataset duration from 65 to more than 94 hours.
Moreover, we analyzed the major difficulties encountered by the participants of the previous edition and we modified the dataset synthesis pipeline in order to promote less resource-demanding trainings and facilitate both tasks.
In addition, we propose an updated baseline for task 1, using the model architecture that ranked first in the previous edition, which provides an improved baseline metric of 0.81 (previously 0.62).
Finally, we rewrote the supporting API, fixing existing bugs and making clearer and faster the preprocessing and baseline training/evaluation stages.
The rest of the paper is organized as follows: Section \ref{sec:data} exposes the details of the L3DAS22 datasets for both the tasks of 3D SE and 3D SELD. Section \ref{sec:tasks} describes the challenge tasks, while in Section \ref{sec:reseval} we illustrate the details of the baseline models. Section \ref{sec:rules} contains information on the challenge conduct and Section \ref{sec:results} discusses the submission results. Finally, Section \ref{sec:conclusion} draws the conclusions of this paper.
\section{A 3D AUDIO DATASET FROM A REAL REVERBERANT OFFICE ENVIRONMENT}
\label{sec:data}
\subsection{3D Impulse Response Recording and Data Collection}
\label{sec:collection}
The L3DAS22 dataset contains approximately 98 hours of MSMP B-format audio recordings.
We sampled the acoustic field of a real office room with the approximate dimensions of 6 m (length) by 5 m (width) by 3 m (height).
The room has typical office furniture, a wooden parquet floor and painted concrete walls and ceiling. We used two first-order A-format Soundfield Ambisonics microphones\footnote{Oktava MK-4012}, one placed in the exact center of the room (mic A) and the other 20 cm distant towards the width dimension (mic B), as shown in Figure \ref{fig:3d-view}. We positioned both microphones at the same height of 1.3 m, which is the average ear height of a seated person. Moreover, their capsules have the same orientation.
\begin{figure}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.48\textwidth,keepaspectratio]{l3das-sala.pdf}
\caption{3D representation of the office used for the recordings. The red sphere represents microphone A, while the blue one represents microphone B.}
\label{fig:3d-view}
\end{figure}
We reproduced an analytic signal using a speaker\footnote{Event PS6} placed in 252 fixed spatial positions chosen according to two criteria: a fixed 3D grid (168 positions) and a 3D uniform random distribution (84 positions).
Figure \ref{fig:gridpositions} shows a 2D projection of the grid from above. Given the first criterion, we placed the speaker in a 3D grid with a 50 cm step in the length-width dimensions, as represented in Fig.~\ref{fig:gridpositions} with gray dots.
In the height dimension, we considered 7 position layers at 0.3 m, 0.7 m, 1 m, 1.3 m, 1.6 m, 1.9 m and 2.3 m from the floor, as shown in Figure \ref{fig:3dpositions}.
On the other hand, the random positions are uniformly sampled among those available in a virtual 3D grid having a 25 cm step and are depicted in red in Fig.~\ref{fig:3dpositions}.
For all measurements, we directed the speaker's tweeter towards mic A by changing the incline of its support.
The analytic signal is a 24-bit exponential sinusoidal sweep that glides from 50 Hz to 16000 Hz in 20 seconds, reproduced at 90 dB SPL on average.
The IR estimation is then obtained by performing a circular convolution between the recorded sound and the time-inverted analytic signal, as introduced by \cite{farina2000simultaneous}.
We finally converted the A-format signals into standard B-format IRs\footnote{\url{http://pcfarina.eng.unipr.it/Public/B-format/A2B-conversion/A2B.htm}}.
\begin{figure}[t]
\centering
\begin{subfigure}{0.5\linewidth}
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{grid_final.pdf}
\caption{3D speaker positions}
\label{fig:3dpositions}
\end{subfigure}
\begin{subfigure}{0.48\linewidth}
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{grid_cube_ok.pdf}
\caption{Grid projection}
\label{fig:gridpositions}
\end{subfigure}\hfill
\caption{(a) Tridimensional distribution of the speaker positions. In gray the fixed 3D grid, in red the distribution of the randomly-selected positions.
(b) Projection from above of the microphones position (center dot) and the speaker positions of the fixed 3D grid (red dots connected by the blue line). }
\label{fig:totalpositions}
\label{fig:positions}
\end{figure}
We considered the collected Ambisonics impulse responses and some existing clean monophonic datasets, and we applied a convolution operation to virtually place that sound source in the spatial position occupied by the speaker, as perceived from the 2 microphones. The result is a set of synthetic tridimensional sound sources obtained by convolving the original sounds with our IRs.
We aimed at creating plausible and diverse 3D scenarios to reflect office-like situations, in which disparate types of sound sources and background noises coexist in the same 3D reverberant environment.
For this purpose, we used the Librispeech \cite{DBLP:conf/icassp/PanayotovCPK15} and FSD50K \cite{DBLP:journals/corr/abs-2010-00475}
datasets.
More precisely, we selected a total of 1440 noise sound files from FSD50K equally distributed between 14 transient noise classes:\textit{ computer keyboard, drawer open/close, cupboard open/close, finger snapping, keys jangling, knock, laughter, scissors, telephone, writing, chink and clink, printer, female speech, male speech}, and 4 continuous noise classes: \textit{alarm, crackle, mechanical fan, microwave oven}.
Furthermore, we extracted clean speech signals (without background noise) from Librispeech, taking only sound files up to 12 seconds.
Our dataset is partitioned into two sections, each of which is dedicated to a different challenge task. As predictor data for both tasks, we supply normalized raw waveforms of all Ambisonics channels (8 signals in total), whereas the target data differs significantly.
Also, we developed a variety of acoustic scenarios that were tailored to each task.
\subsection{L3DAS22 Dataset for Task 1: 3D SE}
\label{sec:dataset_se}
For the task 1, related to 3D SE, we synthesized more than 40000 virtual 3D audio environments, for a total length of approximately 90 hours. In each data point a speech signal with a duration up to 12 seconds is always present, mixed with various types of background noise.
We extracted all the speech sounds from the clean subset of Librispeech (approximately 53\% male and 47\% female speech).
We added up to 3 simultaneous non-speech background noises of the above-mentioned categories, extracting them from FSD50K.
With a 25\% chance, one of the background noises is a continuous noise.
The signal-to-noise ratio ranges from 6 to 16 dBFS (referring to the signals' RMS amplitude), where the voice is always the prominent signal. We randomly placed all sound sources in the 3D environment, paying attention to obtain a uniform distribution of locations within this dataset section.
The predictors data for this task are released as 8-channel 16 kHz 16 bit wav files, consisting of 2 sets of first-order Ambisonics recordings.
The channels order follows the Ambisonics Channel Number (ACN) system of the AmbiX format \footnote{\url{http://pcfarina.eng.unipr.it/aurora/B-Format_to_UHJ.htm}}, thus having [WA, YA, ZA, XA, WB, YB, ZB, XB], where the letters A, B, refer to the used microphone and W, Y, Z, X, refers to the B-format Ambisonics channels.
The target data provided contains the clean monophonic recordings of the only speech signals (16 kHz 16 bit mono wav files), as well as the words uttered in each data point (in a txt file).
For this task, we have also provided an informative csv file for each subset, where we annotated the coordinates and spatial distance of the IR convolved with the target voice signals for each datapoint.
This may be useful to estimate the delay caused by the virtual time-of-flight of the target voice signal and to perform a sample-level alignment of the input and ground truth signals.
\subsection{L3DAS22 Dataset for Task 2: 3D SELD}
\label{sec:dataset_seld}\
For the task 2, related to 3D SELD, we synthesized 900 30-seconds-long data points, reaching a total length of 7.5 hours of audio.
Each data point contains a simulated 3D office audio environment in which up to 3 simultaneous acoustic events may be active at the same time.
Moreover, when multiple sounds are active at the same time, the probability of the sounds to belong to the same class is artificially increased. As a result, in the case of a maximum of 3 overlaps, two simultaneous sounds may belong to the same class with an approximate probability of 15\% when the overlapped events are 2 or 22\% when 3 sounds are overlapped.
Although, when this happens, we forced the simultaneous sounds of the same class to be virtually positioned at least 1 meter distant from each other.
The tracks with 1, 2 and 3 overlaps contain an average of 7, 13 and 20 acoustic events, respectively with a standard deviation of 2, 3 and 4.
The sound events belong to the aforementioned 14 transient noise classes and are therefore 1120 in total.
As opposed to the SE dataset, here the data points are not forced to contain speech signals, although they may contain voice sounds. The volume difference between the different sounds ranges from 0 to 20 dBFS (referring to the signal's RMS amplitude).
Also here, we randomly place all sound sources in the 3D environment, paying attention to obtain a uniform distribution of locations.
The predictors data for task 2 have the same form as for the task 1, except for the sampling frequency, which here is 32 kHz.
As target data, we provide a csv file containing the onset and offset time stamps, the typology class and the spatial coordinates of each individual sound event present in a data point.
\subsection{Dataset Splits}
\label{sec:dataset_splits}\
We split both dataset sections into a training set (approximately 80 hours for SE and 5 hours for SELD) and a test set (approximately 7 hours for SE and 2.5 hours for SELD), paying attention to create similar distributions.
The train set of the SE section is divided in two partitions: train360 and train100, and contain speech samples extracted from the correspondent partitions of Librispeech (only the samples up to 12 seconds).
All sets of the SELD section are divided in: OV1, OV2, OV3.
These partitions refer to the maximum amount of possible overlapping sounds, which are 1, 2 or 3, respectively.
The test set of both dataset sections is further split into two equally-long subsets that present a similar distribution: one development and one blind test set.
The first one is part of the initial release of the dataset, and it is aimed, as usual, at the model's hyperparameters fine-tuning.
The latter, instead, is aimed at the submissions' evaluation and was initially released with the only predictors data, without target labels/signals.
\section{CHALLENGE TASKS}
\label{sec:tasks}
We propose 2 different tasks, both based on our L3DAS22 dataset: \textit{3D Speech Enhancement in Office Reverberant Environment} and \textit{3D Sound Event Localization and Detection in Office Reverberant Environment}.
Each one is divided in 2 sub-tasks: one-mic and dual-mic recordings, respectively relying on the sounds acquired by one or both Ambisonics microphones, as described in Section \ref{sec:data}.
In this context, the information predicted for one task may be beneficial for the other one.
For instance, the sound localization parameters may be re-used to improve the performance of 3D speech enhancement networks, as in \cite{DBLP:conf/eusipco/ChazanHHGG19, DBLP:journals/corr/abs-2010-11566}.
Therefore, participants are encouraged to develop a strategy to bootstrap the resources and exploit the output of one model to enhance the performance of the other one (although this is not mandatory).
\subsection{Description and Goals of Task 1: 3D SE}
\label{subs:speechenh}
The objective of this task is the separation and enhancement of speech signals immersed in a noisy 3D environment, basing on the SE section of the L3DAS22 dataset.
Here the models are expected to extract the monophonic voice signal from the 3D mixture that contains various background noises.
The evaluation metric for this task is a combination of the short-time objective intelligibility (STOI), which estimates the intelligibility of the output speech signal, and word error rate (WER), computed to assess the effects of the enhancement for speech recognition purposes.
We use a Wav2Vec \cite{DBLP:conf/nips/BaevskiZMA20} architecture pre-trained on Librispeech 960h\footnote{\url{https://huggingface.co/facebook/wav2vec2-base-960h}} to compute the WER.
The final metric for this task is a combination of these two measures given by \((STOI+(1-WER))/2\).
This metric lies therefore in the 0-1 range and higher values are better.
\subsection{Description and Goals of Task 2: 3D SELD}
\label{subs:seld}
The aim of this task is to detect the temporal activity, spatial position and typology of a known set of sound events immersed in a synthetic 3D acoustic environment.
This task is performed on the SELD section of the L3DAS22 dataset.
Here the models are expected to predict a list of the active sound events and their respective location at regular intervals of 100 milliseconds.
We use a joint metric for localization and detection: location-sensitive detection error, as defined in \cite{DBLP:conf/waspaa/MesarosAPHV19}.
This metric is computed on each time frame and consists of measuring the Cartesian distance between the predicted and true events with the same label, and counting a true positive only when its label is correct and its location is within a threshold from its reference location.
After this operation, we compute the regular F score.
Since the scenario is particularly complex and challenging, we fixed the spatial error threshold to 2 meters for this task.
\section{BASELINE METHODS}
\label{sec:reseval}
As baseline methods, we propose state-of-the-art architectures, specifically adapted for each task. For both tasks, we used only signals coming from one Ambisonics microphone (mic A), leaving room for experimentation with the dual-mic configuration.
For task 1 (SE), we use a beamforming U-Net architecture
\cite{xinleiref},
which provided the best metrics for the L3DAS21 Challenge on the SE task.
This network uses a convolutional U-Net to
estimate B-format beamforming filters and contains three
main modules: encoder for extracting high-level features, decoder for reconstructing the size of input features from the output of the encoder, and skip connections for
concatenating each layer in the encoder with its corresponding layer in the decoder.
The enhancement process is performed as that of the traditional signal beamforming.
We multiply the complex spectrogram of B-format noisy signal with the filters estimated by U-Net through element-wise multiplication, and
then sum the result over the channel axis to estimate a single-channel enhanced complex spectrogram.
In the end the ISTFT is performed to obtain the enhanced time-domain signal.
With this model we obtained a baseline test metric for task 1 of 0.83, with a word error rate of 0.21 and a STOI of 0.88.
For task 2, instead, we developed a variant of the SELDnet architecture \cite{DBLP:journals/jstsp/AdavannePNV19}.
We ported to the PyTorch language the original Keras implementation\footnote{\url{https://github.com/sharathadavanne/seld-net}} and we modified its structure in order to make it compatible with the L3DAS22 dataset.
The objective of this network is to output a continuous estimation (within a fixed temporal grid) of the sounds present in the environment and their respective location.
The original SELDNet architecture is conceived for processing sound spectrograms (including both magnitudes and phase information) and uses a convolutional-recurrent feature extractor based on 3 convolution layers followed by a bidirectional GRU layer.
In the end, the network is split in two separate branches that predict the detection (which classes are active) and location (where the sounds are) information for each target time step.
We augmented the capacity of the network by increasing the number of channels and layers, while maintaining the original data flow.
Moreover, we discard the phase information and we perform max-pooling on both the time and the frequency dimensions, as opposed to the original implementation, where only frequency-wise max-pooling is performed.
In addition, we added the ability to detect multiple sound sources of the same class that may be active at the same time (3 at maximum in our case).
To obtain this behavior we tripled the size of the network's output matrix, in order to predict separate location and detection information for all possible simultaneous sounds of the same class.
This network obtains a baseline test F-score of 0.34, with a precision of 0.42 and a recall of 0.29.
For further implementation details on our baseline models, please refer to the L3DAS official GitHub repository\footnote{\url{https://github.com/l3das/L3DAS22}}.
\section{RULES AND CONDUCT OF THE CHALLENGE}
\label{sec:rules}
The L3DAS22 Challenge lasted 8 weeks, from the release to the submission date. All the participants were allowed to submit results for at least one of the two challenge tasks. Each individual participant was not allowed to join more teams, thus having the possibility to submit only one set of results.
No restrictions were placed on the methods to be used for the two tasks. Teams had the possibility to choose their best results among those obtained in the 1-mic and 2-mic configurations. It was also allowed to augment the L3DAS22 dataset and/or to integrate additional data with pretrained models.
Challenge winners have been selected according to the best performance for each task, separately.
\section{CHALLENGE RESULTS}
\label{sec:results}
\begin{figure}[t]
\centering
\begin{subfigure}{\linewidth}
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{ResultsTask1.png}
\caption{}
\label{fig:resultsT1}
\end{subfigure}
\begin{subfigure}{\linewidth}
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{ResultsTask2.png}
\caption{}
\label{fig:resultsT2}
\end{subfigure
\caption{L3DAS22 Challenge results for (a) Task 1: 3D SE, and (b) Task 2: 3D SELD.}
\label{fig:results}
\end{figure}
The L3DAS22 Challenge has received 46 registrations and 24 result submissions: 17 teams submitted results for the task 1 and 7 teams for task 2. A graphical illustration of the results has been reported in Fig. \ref{fig:results}, where it can be seen that several teams have improved the baseline results.
In particular, the winner team for Task 1, ESP-SE, has obtained a T1 metric score of 0.984, with a WER of 0.019 and a STOI of 0.987. On the other hand, the winner team for Task 2, Lab9\_DSP411, has obtained a T2 metric score of 0.699, with a precision of 0.706 and a recall of 0.691. Further information about challenge results and awards can be found on the L3DAS22 Challenge website\footnote{\url{www.l3das.com/icassp2022/results}}.
\section{CONCLUSION}
\label{sec:conclusion}
This paper has introduced a Signal Processing Grand Challenge, named L3DAS22 Challenge: Machine Learning for Signal Processing. Alongside the challenge we presented a new dataset on 3D audio recorded in a real reverberant office environment and two different tasks on 3D SE and 3D SELD.
Future works by the L3DAS Team will involve more challenging 3D acoustic scenarios, different microphone configurations and also new tasks.
\clearpage
\balance
\bibliographystyle{IEEEbib-abbrev}
\ninept
| {
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Нађа Хигл (Панчево, 2. јануар 1987) је репрезентативка Србије у пливању у дисциплинама 100 и 200 метара прсним стилом.
Биографија
Чланица је Пливачког клуба Тамиш из Панчева, а тренер јој је њен брат Себастијан Хигл. Висока је 173 цм, а тешка 69 kg. На Светском првенству у пливању у Риму 31. јула 2009. године освојила је злато у дисциплини 200 -{m}- прсно а својим резултатом 2:21,62 поставила нови европски рекорд у тој дисциплини. Овим успехом Хиглова је ушла у историју српског пливања, као прва жена која је постала светска првакиња.
Крајем године добила је златну значку Спорта, награду за најбољег спортисту у Србији, Олимпијски комитет Србије ју је прогласио за спортисткињу године, а од Спортског савеза Србије је примила "мајску награду". Добитница је и награде "Вихор" за најбољу спортисткињу Војводине.
Учествовала је и на Европском првенству на малим базенима 2007. у Дебрецину, Светском првенству у малим базенима 2008. у Манчестеру, Олимпијским играма 2008. у Пекингу. Европском првенству у кратким базенима 2008. у Ријеци, Медитеранским играма 2009. у Пескари и Летњој универзијади 2009. у Београду.
Држи националне рекорде у дисциплинама 100 метара прсно (1:07,80) и 200 метара прсно (2:21,62).
Удата је за Милана Бохаревића од септембра 2013. године.
Резултати
Лични рекорди Нађе Хигл
31. децембар 2009.
Референце
Спољашње везе
Резултати Нађе Хигл (-{www.swimrankings.net}-)
Профил Нађе Хигл на званичној страници ОКС са резултатима до Олимпијаде у Пекингу
Рим 2009. СП У Пливању - Видео снимак целе трке, Јутјубу
Рођени 1987.
Спортисти из Панчева
Српски пливачи
Пливачи на Летњим олимпијским играма 2008.
Српски олимпијци на Летњим олимпијским играма 2008.
Пливачи на Летњим олимпијским играма 2012.
Српски олимпијци на Летњим олимпијским играма 2012.
Светски прваци у пливању
Светски прваци у пливању из Србије
Биографије живих особа | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 47 |
{"url":"http:\/\/surface.syr.edu\/eecs_etd\/235\/","text":"## Electrical Engineering and Computer Science - Dissertations\n\n1997\n\nDissertation\n\n#### Degree Name\n\nDoctor of Philosophy (PhD)\n\n#### Department\n\nElectrical Engineering and Computer Science\n\nHong Wang\n\n#### Keywords\n\nsignal detection, space-time adaptive processing (STAP)\n\n#### Subject Categories\n\nElectrical and Computer Engineering\n\n#### Abstract\n\nWe are primarily interested in radar signal detection, using STAP technique, in a nonhomogeneous noise background which has unknown covariance information. We should know that nonhomogeneous data, once joined to the covariance matrix estimation, will cause the degradation of STAP performance. To this end, the purpose of this dissertation is to find solutions to reduce the STAP performance degradation caused by the nonhomogeneous data.\n\nWe first discuss what nonhomogeneity is and its effects on STAP. Nonhomogeneity will cause the SCNR loss via the filtering, and the CFAR loss via the estimation of the threshold. These two losses are derived from a bad covariance matrix estimation because the weighting vector of STAP is ${\\bf w}=u{\\bf\\ R}{\\bf{\\sp{-1}s}}.$ Thus, the covariance matrix estimation plays a decisive role regarding the reduction of the STAP performance degradation.\n\nWe introduce two methods, sample selection and data weighting, to handle nonhomogeneous data. Sample selection is a pre-STAP data processor in which we aim at screening the nonhomogeneous data before forming the covariance matrix. In other words, we choose only the likely homogeneous data to gain a better covariance matrix estimation. Definitely, sample selection is appropriate for discrete type nonhomogeneity.\n\nThe covariance matrix estimation via the maximum likelihood estimate (MLE) results in an equal weighting of all sample data, which is not an especially effective approach to control non i.i.d. nonhomogeneous data. Rather, we suggest a weighted average covariance matrix estimation, in which we weight the likely nonhomogeneous data with a smaller weighting than that of the likely homogeneous data. We thereby show that both the SCNR and the CFAR losses, under the data weighting situation, can be reduced.\n\nMoreover, we must test all secondary data, and thus know their characteristics, before we can apply either a sample selection or a data weighting, or a combination of both to the data set. Indeed, choosing a proper test algorithm for nonhomogeneity detection is critical. Consequently, we also include a comparison of three CFAR embedded algorithms, GLR, MSMI and $T\\sp2,$ in this dissertation.\n\n#### Access\n\nSurface provides description only. Full text is available to ProQuest subscribers. Ask your Librarian for assistance.\n\nCOinS","date":"2014-11-24 05:22:03","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.30755624175071716, \"perplexity\": 1722.7688071586492}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 5, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2014-49\/segments\/1416400380394.54\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20141119123300-00155-ip-10-235-23-156.ec2.internal.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
{"url":"https:\/\/math.stackexchange.com\/questions\/584522\/how-to-show-that-exp-is-a-diffeomorphism-between-symmetric-reals-and-positive-de","text":"# How to show that exp is a diffeomorphism between symmetric reals and positive definite matrices?\n\nI am looking for an easy proof of the fact that the exponential function is a diffeomorphism between the finite dimensional vector space of symmetric real nxn-matrices and the open subset of positive definite symmetric real matrices.\n\nI know that the exp-map is a bijection and that it is smooth. So, there are two ways to proceed:\n\nOne way would be to use the Inverse Function Theorem. But this would require to calculate the derivative of exp at a matrix A in the direction of another direction B and then we would have to show that this linear map (seen as a linear map in terms of B) is ivertible. I have no clue how to do that. I know that it suffices to show this for a real diagonal matrix A since we can always diagonalize real symmetric matrices, but since it is not possible to diagonalize A and B simultaniously, it is no fun to calculate the matrix exponential...\n\nA totally different way would be not to use the Inverse Function Theorem, but to construct the inverse (the \"logarithm\") directly and show that it is smooth. One could use the series expansion of the real logarithm and then plug in positive definite matrices, but this seems to be complicated again...\n\nAre there any ideas how to show this without introducing too much complicated machinery?\n\nThanks very much in advance, Tom\n\nDefine $\\log(A)$ as follows. Since $A$ is positive definite, $A = U^{-1} D U$ for some orthogonal $U$. Then $\\log(A) = U^{-1} \\log(D) U$, where $\\log(D)$ simply applies $\\log$ to the diagonal entries. Clearly this is a two sided inverse to $\\exp$. To show it is smooth, use $$\\log(A) = \\frac1{2\\pi i}\\oint \\log z \\, (z I-A)^{-1} \\, dz$$ Use a counterclockwise contour that stays in the right half plane, and includes all the eigenvalues of $A$. Use the standard branch of $\\log$ that has a cut along the negative real axis. To show the formula, first diagonalize $A$, and then use the Cauchy integral formula on each diagonal entry.\n\n\u2022 That's the best I can think of right now. Nov 28 '13 at 14:30\n\u2022 I think I used an over-complicated way to show it is smooth. Simply use the fact that the local inverse of a smooth, invertible function is itself smooth. Jan 24 '15 at 23:32\n\u2022 The inverse of a smooth function is smooth? What about f(x)=x^3 ?\n\u2013\u00a0Tom\nJan 28 '15 at 15:30\n\u2022 @Tom Oops. I meant: the local inverse of a smooth function whose derivative is invertible is itself smooth. Jan 29 '15 at 4:18\n\u2022 @AsafShachar Think of the integrand as a function of the entries in $A$ and $z$. Just by writing out the formula for the inverse, it is clearly smooth in all the entries of $A$. And integrating out $z$ won't stop any of the smoothness, because you can pass the derivatives under the integral sign. Jun 26 '16 at 14:11\n\nIn the meantime, I found another possibility and for completeness sake, I want to show it here:\n\nLet X be a real symmetric matrix. Without loss of generality, we may assume that X is diagonal with entries (lambda_1, ... lambda_n).\n\nWe define the following function h of two real variables as: h(x,y):=(exp(x)-exp(y))\/(x-y) for x noteq y and h(x,x):=exp(x).\n\nThis function is symmetric in x and y and is always >0 .\n\nNow, let e_{i,j} denote the elementary matrix with one 1 at position (i,j) and zeroes otherwise.\n\nThen we may form the directional derivative of the matrix exponential function at point X in the direction e_{i,j} and obtain:\n\nh(lambda_i,lambda_j) * e_{i,j} .\n\nNow, we fix the following basis of the real vector space of symmetric matrices:\n\ne_{i,j}+e_{j,i} for all (i,j) with 1\\leq i\\leq j \\leq n.\n\nThis yields:\n\nThe directional derivative of exp at point X in direction e_{i,j}+e_{j,i} is h(lambda_i,lambda_j) * (e_{i,j}+e_{j,i}) and therefore each basis vector is mapped to a positive multiple of itself.\n\nSo, the linearisation of exp at point X is a diagonalisable with eigenvalues h(lambda_i,lambda_j)>0.\n\nHence, the linearisation at point X is invertible and hence exp a local diffeo.\n\nTogether with the bijectivity, we get a global diffeo.\n\nThe only technical thing at this proof is the calculation of the directional derivative at point X in the direction e_{i,j}, which can be reduced to a calculation of an upper triangular 2x2-matrix.\n\nDo you think, this proof works?\n\nThank you, Tom\n\n\u2022 Can you please elaborate on how to show the directional derivative in the direction $e_{ij}$ is what you claim it is? I am stuck with the case $i \\neq j$: Take $X=\\begin{pmatrix} \\lambda_1 & 0 \\\\ 0 & \\lambda_2 \\end{pmatrix} \\,, \\,i=1 \\, \\,,j=2$. How do you show that $\\frac{d}{dt} exp(X+te_{12})=\\frac{d}{dt} exp(\\begin{pmatrix} \\lambda_1 & t \\\\ 0 & \\lambda_2 \\end{pmatrix})=h(\\lambda_1,\\lambda_2) \\cdot e_{1,2}$ I understand terms involving $t^2$ and higher powers of $t$ will vanish after taking derivative at $t=0$, but I still do not know how to finish the calculation. Jun 26 '16 at 11:15\n\u2022 I tried to understand what I did back in 2013 and I think what I meant was the following: For $\\lambda_1=\\lambda_2$ there is no problem since $X$ and $e_{1,2}$ commute in that case. To evaluate $exp(X + t e_{12})$ for $\\lambda_1\\neq\\lambda_2$ you have to diagonalize $X + t e_{12}$ first. This is quite ugly and is what I called \"the only technical thing\" in my answer. For the diagonalisation: It is clear what the eigenvallues are and the eigenvector $v_1$ is also obvious. But some nasty calculations remain... I would like to know if there is a more elegant way, though\n\u2013\u00a0Tom\nJun 27 '16 at 15:00","date":"2022-01-29 05:56:01","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.8813314437866211, \"perplexity\": 179.47475812781462}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2022-05\/segments\/1642320299927.25\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20220129032406-20220129062406-00223.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
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Home › News › New Paris Hilton store in Makkah
New Paris Hilton store in Makkah
Posted on April 20, 2013 by admin — No Comments ↓
Paris Hilton has once again undertaken the venture of opening her 5th store of handbags and other accessories product lines in Makkah Mall, in the City of Mecca, Saudi Arabia. This has been another successful mission for Paris as she seeks to continue the legacy of her grandfather who was very successful with the Hilton Hotels as most of us may remember. Her personal announcement came via the highly utilized social media site "Twitter" where she happily expressed that the venture was a success.
The announcement however sparked a lot of criticism as many followers saw the venture inappropriate given the lifestyle and reputation that Paris Hilton currently holds. She is infamously known for her sex tape leaked videos and imprisonment. Her reputation may have finally caught up with her because the comments go back to that period – it shows that fans and critics never forget! Many commented that in no way was she supposed to be given the opportunity to open a store in the Holy City of Mecca because of the her reputation. Most of the fans saw the negative comments as being merely naïve and religiously based. They concluded that the brand was more than just a person – it is an international brand that merited the title of success and that has been sold all over the world. Other fans added that the critics who thought that introducing western brands in eastern countries was sign of cultural invasion lack the vision of international trade and should stay away from trading themselves. It is very obvious that Paris Hilton's reputation is the main cause of nearly all of the negative comments, but that definitely is questionable once consumer satisfaction is achieved! Merely commenting on her past lifestyle and not relating in any way to the quality of products that she sells would not convince customers to stop buying. The fact that she happily speaks about opening a 5th store in the same country simply means that she is reaping the rewards that she has aimed at.
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Paris Hilton extends her brand to Mecca
Paris Hilton Expanding Her Business Venture
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{"url":"https:\/\/mathoverflow.net\/questions\/126654\/every-continuous-function-is-homotopic-to-a-locally-lipschitz-one\/126689","text":"Every continuous function is homotopic to a locally Lipschitz one\n\nI would like to know for which category\/class\/set of metric spaces the following holds: for any two metric spaces $X$, $Y$, for any continuous function $f:X\\to Y$ there exists a locally Lipschitz continuous function $g:X\\to Y$ which is homotopic to $f$.\n\nEDIT: One could also ask a class of metrizable topological spaces such that each one of them can be given a metric so that the above property holds. Actually, I am more interested in the underlying topological space than in the actual metric space.\n\nIn general, the metric spaces I am considering are complete and weakly separable (there exists a sequence $(\\phi_h)$ of $1$-Lipschitz functions such that for any two point $x,\\ y$ $d(x,y)=\\sup_h|\\phi_h(x)-\\phi_h(y)|$).\n\nI don't know if this is a known fact among experts or not; in that case, I apologize for the standard question and would ask only for a reference.\n\nADDENDUM: Although I also have an interest for the general question as it is posed above, I could try to highlight some classes of metrizable spaces I have particular interest in knowing if they fulfill the request or not: manifolds, singular spaces (which singularities are allowed), spaces which are manifolds outside a \"small\" (in some sense) set, compact manifolds of infinite dimension or manifolds modeled on some \"nice\" linear space (Banach, Hilbert, Fr\u00e9chet, ...).\n\nThanks.\n\n\u2022 If $Y$ be a convex subset of a topological vector field,then every two maps $f,g$ from $X$ to $Y$ are homotopic because the map $(x,t)$ to $tf(x)+(1-t)g(x)$ is continuous,now a constant map is locally lipschitz continuous. \u2013\u00a0R Salimi Apr 6 '13 at 20:04\n\u2022 Samuele: It should work if domain is a metric simplicial complex (or an Alexandiv space) and range is CAT(k) with $k<\\infty$. In general, it would be good if you were more specific about the classes of metric spaces you are interested in. \u2013\u00a0Misha Apr 7 '13 at 4:50\n\u2022 Well, I assume my metric space to be complete and with a weak property of separability (for any two point $x,\\ y$ there exists a sequence of $1$-Lip maps $(\\phi_h)$ such that $d(x,y)=\\sup_h |\\phi_h(x)-\\phi_h(y)|$). But obviously I don't expect that every of each spaces has a metric such that my request is satisfied. I think I could ask the following: is it true for manifolds? does it remain true if we allow singularities? which ones? is it true for infinite dimensional manifolds (maybe compact)? for Banachian or Hilbertian compact manifolds, at least? \u2013\u00a0Samuele Apr 7 '13 at 6:45\n\u2022 Samuele: Your last condition is satisfied for all metric spaces, since you can use distance function to x as your 1-Lispchitz function. Riemannian manifolds and manifolds with singularities belong to the class from my comment, provided dimension of the domain is finite, dimension of the range could be infinite. \u2013\u00a0Misha Apr 7 '13 at 13:31\n\u2022 Samuele: If you have a compact manifold modeled on a Banach space, then the Banach space has to be finite-dimensional. \u2013\u00a0Misha Apr 7 '13 at 13:48\n\nA modest start.\n\nConsider two finite geometric simplicial complexes with reasonable metrics, e.g. inherited from the ambient Euclidean (or Banach) space (where simplices are affine). Then every continuous function $f$ between them is uniformly approximated by the simplicial maps of iterated baricentric subdivisions of the first complex into the second complex. All these simplicial maps are Lipschitz. When approximation is close enough to $f$ then it is homotopically equivalent to $f$. This gives a positive answer to your question for finite geometric simplicial complexes.\n\nREMARK 0 For the sake of obtaining a Lipschitz map homotopic to a given continuous map one does not need to subdivide the second complex.\n\nOn the other hand, it is not difficult to provide two metric functions (distance functions) for the unit circle $S^1$ (thus let's talk about two metric spaces anyway) such that the identity map from one of them to another is not homotopic to any locally Lipschitz function. Indeed, there will not exist any locally Lipschitz function at all (not even at any inverse image of any non-empty open set) from the first space onto the second one (under the fixed but properly selected metric functions; the first one can be the standard metrics).\n\nREMARK 1 Instead of $S^1$ we could consider a space consisting of a convergent sequence and its limit, endowed with two distance functions such that the identity is not Lipschitz (at the limit point). The only map homotopic to the identity is the identity, hence another instance of the negative answer. But $S^1$ is nicer :-)\n\n\u2022 First of all, thank you. So, finite (geometric) simmplicial complexes work. Why do you need them to be finite? About the counterexample, that's interesting! But I was kind of expecting something like that: that's why I asked for a class of metric spaces, which come together with their distances. Another way to put the question could be to ask for a class of topological spaces which can be endowed with a distance (inducing their topology, hence metrizable spaces) so that the property holds. Could it be the case that CW-complexes do work? \u2013\u00a0Samuele Apr 7 '13 at 2:01\n\nSuch approximation is possible under some mild assumptions about domain and range.\n\nFor the domain you want to have structure of a finite dimensional structure of a metric simplicial complex of locally bounded geometry. For example, a Riemannian manifold or Alexandrov space would do. For the target you should impose some conditions implying local linear contractibility, for instance, a space which is locally CAT(k), where $k<\\infty$ would suffice. The proof is based on barycentric maps of smplices, which you can find in the paper of Bruce Kleiner, \"The local structure of length spaces of curvature bounded above\", Math. Z. 1999.\n\nThe construction of Lipschitz approximation is the same as cellular approximation in algebraic topology. First, approximate your map on the set of vertices. Then extend to simplices by induction on skeleta, using barycentric simplices as in Kleiner's paper.\n\nSome of this might even work if domain is infinite dimensional, but you would need to control the Lipschitz constant for the barycentric maps.","date":"2019-12-09 13:28:00","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.9192005395889282, \"perplexity\": 263.67891129254207}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": false, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2019-51\/segments\/1575540518882.71\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20191209121316-20191209145316-00055.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
\section{}
Three-dimensional fluid turbulence is characterized by an energy cascade process whose concept was introduced by Richardson in 1922 and developed by Kolmogorov in 1941 \cite{kolmogorov41, frisch1995t}.
The idea is that if one injects energy at some scale, creating eddies, then those eddies may interact and create smaller and smaller eddies up to the dissipation scale.
The result is the famous power-law Kolmogorov spectrum which corresponds to a constant flux of energy from large to small scales.
Some years later, in 1965 \cite{zakharov1965}, Zakharov found that dispersive weakly nonlinear wave systems, e.g. surface gravity waves, may exhibit a very similar phenomenology as fluid turbulence, i.e. a constant flux of energy towards small scales, a {\it direct cascade}.
Besides ocean waves \cite{zakharov1967ess}, these cascades have been studied in a large number of weakly nonlinear systems such as internal waves \cite{lvov2004eso}, nonlinear optics \cite{dyachenko:1992hc}, Bose-Einstein condensation \cite{PhysRevLett.74.3093, nazarenko2006wta, proment:051603}, magnetohydrodynamics \cite{galtier2000wtt}.
Such regime, valid for weak nonlinearity, is now known as {\it weak wave turbulence} and the power-law flux carrying states are called Kolmogorov-Zakharov (KZ) spectra.
The extraordinary fact is that the KZ solutions corresponding to the turbulent cascades are found to be exact analytical solutions of a {\it wave kinetic equation} which describes the evolution of the wave spectrum.
The wave kinetic equation has a structure that resembles the classical Boltzmann equation: the evolution of the distribution is driven by a collision integral which conserves mass, momentum and energy.
Keeping in mind such an analogy, our aim is to address in the present Letter the following fundamental questions.
Let us consider a gas whose single-particle distribution evolution is described by the Boltzmann equation and suppose that we inject in the system particles with a specific energy and remove those that reach an energy larger/smaller than a preselected threshold.
How does the distribution function change with respect to the thermodynamic equilibrium solution?
How the temperature and chemical potential will be affected by the presence of forcing and dissipation?
In order to answer we will first consider numerical simulations of the Boltzmann equation in the homogeneous and isotropic case and then present an argument based on dimensional analysis that allows us to explain the numerical results and make some predictions on the steady nonequilibrium properties of the system.
Our starting point is the homogeneous, forced and damped Boltzmann equation
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
& \frac{\partial n_1}{\partial t} = I_{coll} + F - D, \, \, \, \, \mbox{with} \\
& I_{coll}=\int_{-\infty}^{+\infty} W_{12}^{1'2'} \left[n'_1n'_2-n_1n_2\right] d\mathbf{v}_2 d\mathbf{v}^{\prime}_1 d\mathbf{v}^{\prime}_2,
\end{split}
\label{eq:BE}
\end{equation}
where $ n_i \equiv n({\bf x},{\bf v}_i,t ) $ is the single-particle distribution function and primes denote particles after the collision.
We have included a source term $ F $ and a sink $ D $ which will be specified once the numerics are discussed.
As we consider elastic collisions, the general way to express $ W $ is
\begin{equation}
W_{12}^{1'2'}=\sigma \, \delta(\mathbf{v}_1+\mathbf{v}_2-\mathbf{v}^{\prime}_1-\mathbf{v}^{\prime}_2) \, \delta(E_1+E_2 - E_1^\prime-E_2^\prime),
\end{equation}
with $E_i=|{\bf v}_i|^2 /2 $ being the kinetic energy per unit mass.
The $ \delta $-functions assure conservation of the total momentum and the total kinetic energy.
In this Letter, we consider the three-dimensional rigid sphere gas ($ \sigma$ is independent of ${\bf v}$) in isotropic conditions.
In absence of forcing and dissipation any initial condition will relax to the Maxwell-Boltzmann (MB) distribution
\begin{equation}
n_{MB}(E)= {n_0}\,e^{-\frac{E+\mu}{T}}= A \, e^{-\frac{E}{T}},
\label{eq:MB}
\end{equation}
where $ A\equiv{n_0}\,e^{-\frac{\mu}{T}}$ with $\mu$ and $T$ the chemical potential and temperature of the system respectively.
This equipartition mechanism, consequence of the H-theorem, has been checked as a benchmark of our numerical code.
In order to consider an open system we have then included forcing and dissipation written in $ E $-space.
The forcing term
is constant in time and has the role of injecting particles with energies narrowly concentrated around some value $ E_f $,
i.e. $F(E) = F $ if $|E-E_f|< \delta_f$ and zero otherwise, where $ F $ is a positive constant.
The dissipation term
is implemented as a filter which removes, at each iteration time, energy and particles outside of the domain $ \left(E_{\min}, E_{\max} \right) $,
i.e. $D(E) = 0$ if $ E \in \left(E_{\min}, E_{\max} \right) $ and $D(E) = - \infty$ otherwise.
In such conditions, a dimensional analysis shows that
(\ref{eq:BE}) may have also solutions characterized by
a constant flux of energy and mass which corresponds to
the KZ solutions. Indeed,
the particle flux $\eta$ and the energy flux $\epsilon$ can be estimated as:
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
& \eta = 2\pi\int_0^E \frac{\partial n}{d t} \, E^{1/2} dE \sim n^2 E^{7/2} \\
& \epsilon = 2\pi\int_0^E \frac{\partial n}{d t} \, E^{3/2} dE \sim n^2 E^{9/2}.
\label{eq:flux}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
Assuming that one of the fluxes is constant trough energy scales, we can immediately derive the KZ solutions $ n_\eta \sim E^{-7/4} $ and $ n_\epsilon \sim E^{-9/4} $ \cite{kats1973symmetry}.
In our simulations the computational domain is uniformly discretized in 501 points having $ \Delta E= 1 $ and the initial distribution is $ n(E, t=0)=0 $.
We first consider the case characterized by $ E_{\min}=5 $, $ E_{\max}=250 $ and the forcing located at energies between 35 and 37.
Numerical results for the final steady states evaluated for three different forcing amplitudes, $ F=10^{-4}, 10^{-5}, 10^{-6} $, are presented in Fig. \ref{fig:exampleSpectra}.
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=1.3]{exampleSpectra-2.pdf}
\caption{Final steady states of the Boltzmann equation (\ref{eq:BE}) obtained for different values of the forcing amplitude $ F $.
Axes are in lin-log coordinates.
$ E_{\min}=5 $, $ E_{\max}=250 $ and $ E_f=35-37 $. \label{fig:exampleSpectra}}
\end{figure}
Independently of the forcing, a stationary distribution is reached in the simulations, implying the existence of a flux from the forcing region to the boundaries of the domain.
The steady solutions of our simulation do not appear to be very far from the Maxwell-Boltzmann distribution (\ref{eq:MB}), which corresponds to a straight line in a lin-log coordinates.
It is clear from the plot that the only consequence of increasing the forcing rate is to shift upwards the curves, leaving unchanged
the slopes. This is the first indication that the temperature of
the system remains constant, independently of the forcing.
We can also compute, as a function of time, the average energy per particle $ \rho_E/\rho_M $, with $ \rho_M = 2\pi \int n(E) \, E^{1/2} \, dE $ and $ \rho_E =2\pi \int n(E) \, E^{3/2} \, dE $.
As shown in Fig. \ref{fig:exampleEnergyMassRatio}, for large times this quantity reaches a unique value for the three simulations considered. We recall that for a pure MB distribution such ratio is
proportional to 3/2 the temperature of the system.
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=1.3]{exampleEnergyMassRatio.pdf}
\caption{Time evolution of the average energy per particle for different forcing amplitudes.
Axes are in log-lin coordinates.
$ E_{\min}=5 $, $ E_{\max}=250 $ and $ E_f=35-37 $. \label{fig:exampleEnergyMassRatio}}
\end{figure}
We have not observed KZ solutions in our simulations.
The reason is that the interactions are non-local in scales, as already pointed out in \cite{kats1975}: the collision integral does not converge for such solutions.
Moreover, the energy and particle flux directions, \cite{kats1976}, associated to such solutions, are opposite to the
one predicted by the Fj{\o}rtoft argument which imposes that the energy should have a direct cascade, i.e. from low to high energies, while particle an inverse one \cite{2011arXiv1101.4137P}.
As shown in Fig. \ref{fig:exampleSpectra}, we observe distributions not far from the thermodynamic equilibrium (\ref{eq:MB}) solution.
However, we are in a forced and dissipated situation and let us assume the existence of a small but finite flux correction ``living on top" of the Maxwell-Boltzmann distribution. This behavior, named {\it warm cascade}, has already been observed in other physical systems \cite{dyachenko:1992hc, nazarenko2004warm} and is characterized by constant flux cascades perturbing the thermodynamic equilibrium distribution.
Mathematically, we assume that
\begin{equation}
n = n_{MB} \, (1+\tilde{n}),
\end{equation}
with $\tilde{n}$ the deviations with respect to the MB distribution
which are responsible for the fluxes; note that not necessarily $\tilde{n}$
is small with respect to one. If we plug such {\it ansatz}
in the equations for the fluxes (\ref{eq:flux})
we obtain
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
& \eta=c_1 \, n_{MB}^2 \, \tilde{n} \, (2+\tilde{n}) \, E^{7/2} \\
& \epsilon = c_2 \, n_{MB}^2 \, \tilde{n} \, (2+\tilde n) \, E^{9/2},
\label{eq:flux'}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
where $c_1$ and $c_2$ are two constants which cannot be
determined through dimensional analysis.
The term $n_{MB}^2$, corresponding to the unperturbed MB distribution, does not give any contribution because it is not responsible for any net flux.
Our aim is to relate the macroscopic properties of the system with the forcing and dissipation rates.
From our numerical computation we observe that, as we get closer to the
cut-off scales ($ E_{\min} $ and $ E_{\max} $), deviations from a
pure MB distribution becomes more relevant.
Consequently, $ \tilde{n} $ becomes of the order one for $E=E_{\min}$ or $E=E_{\max}$ and therefore from (\ref{eq:flux'}) we have
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
& \eta = c_1 \, A^2 \, e^{-\frac{2 \,E_{\min}}{T}} \, E_{\min}^{7/2} \\
& \epsilon = c_2 \, A^2 \, e^{-\frac{2 \,E_{\max}}{T}} \, E_{\max}^{9/2},
\label{eq:pred-flux}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
where we have redefined the constant $c_1$ and $c_2$.
We now verify the above relations through the direct computation of the
Boltzmann equation. In Fig. \ref{fig:AOfEtaAndEpsilon} we show the dependence of $ A $ on the fluxes for three simulations previously described (Fig. \ref{fig:exampleSpectra}).
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=1.3]{AOfEtaAndEpsilon.pdf}
\caption{$ A $ as a function of the fluxes. Circles (and squares in the inset) correspond to the numerical simulation results.
The continuous and dashed lines are the predictions (\ref{eq:pred-flux}) where the temperature, $ T = 2 \rho_E / 3 \rho_M $, has been defined using the pure MB distribution.
The values of the constant $ c_1 $ and $ c_2 $, shown in the plot, are found by a fit.
\label{fig:AOfEtaAndEpsilon}}
\end{figure}
Supposing to use as temperature of the system the simple relation coming from the MB distribution $ T = 2\rho_E /3\rho_M $, we can observe in Fig. \ref{fig:AOfEtaAndEpsilon} (and its inset) that $ A $ scales as the square root of the incoming fluxes for fixed dissipative scales $ E_{\min} $ and $ E_{\max} $.
From the numerics we can estimate, by a fit, the constants $ c_1 $ and $ c_2 $ whose values are reported in the figure.
We are now able to predict the dependence of the temperature on the forcing and the dissipative scales. Assuming that they are widely separated, that is $ E_{\min} \ll E_f \ll E_{\max} $, we have $ \epsilon = \eta \, E_f $.
Then from equations (\ref{eq:pred-flux}) we get
\begin{equation}
T = \frac{2 \, (E_{\max}-E_{\min})}{\frac{9}{2}\ln{E_{\max}} - \frac{7}{2}\ln{E_{\min}} -\ln{E_f} + c_3 }
\label{eq:T}
\end{equation}
with $ c_3 = \ln{(c_2/c_1)} $.
The temperature of the system does not depend on the incoming fluxes but only on the forcing and dissipative scales; this is consistent with results of the numerical simulations presented in Fig. \ref{fig:exampleSpectra} and \ref{fig:exampleEnergyMassRatio}.
We can check the validity of prediction (\ref{eq:T}) by considering different simulations of the isotropic Boltzmann equation (\ref{eq:BE}) changing the forcing and dissipative scales.
Before entering in the details, we emphasize that our
predictions are based on a dimensional argument and $ c_1 $ and $ c_2 $, which define $ c_3 $, can only be measured {\it via} numerical computations.
In our simulations we have observed that, as $ E_{\min} $, $ E_f $ and $ E_{\max} $ changes, $ c_1 $ and $ c_2 $ assumes different values.
This may be related to the fact that we are considering the hypothesis that the particle flux is all dissipated at low energy scales and all energy flux at high ones, that is $ E_{\min} \ll E_f \ll E_{\max} $.
This is not always verified in the numerical simulations due to finiteness of the computational domain.
In our numerical simulations we have measured an upper and
lower bound for our constants leading to $-4.21 \le c_3\le-1.05 $.
This interval includes the analytical prediction $ c_3 = 2 \ln{(2/9)} $ obtained using a {\it diffusion approximation model} in the limit $ E_{\min} \ll T \ll E_{\max} $ presented in \cite{2011arXiv1101.4137P}.
In Fig. \ref{fig:temperatureOfEmin} we show the comparison between the estimation of the temperature from (\ref{eq:T}) and the numerical simulation varying the low energy dissipation scale $ E_{\min}$.
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=1.3]{temperatureOfEmin-2.pdf}
\caption{Temperature as a function of the low energy cut-off $ E_{\min} $, keeping fixed $ F=10^{-3} $, $ E_f=36 $, $\delta_f=1$ and $ E_{\max}=250 $.
Circles represent the results from numerical computations.
The continuous and dashed lines are the prediction (\ref{eq:T}) for different values of $ c_3 $.
\label{fig:temperatureOfEmin}}
\end{figure}
The incoming flux, the forcing and the high energy dissipative scale have been kept fixed to the respective values of $ F=10^{-3} $, $ E_f=36 $, $\delta_f=1$, $ E_{\max}=250 $.
The dashed and the solid line in the figure are the predictions obtained with $c_3=-1.05$ and $c_3=-4.21$, respectively.
The agreement between the temperature prediction and the computation is satisfactory.
In Fig. \ref{fig:temperatureOfEmax} we present the behavior of the temperature as a function of the high energy cut-off scale $ E_{\max} $, with $ F=10^{-3} $, $ E_{\min}=5 $ and $ E_f=36 $, $\delta_f=1$.
\begin{figure}
\includegraphics[scale=1.3]{temperatureOfEmax.pdf}
\caption{Temperature as a function of the high energy cut-off $ E_{\max} $, keeping fixed $ F=10^{-3} $, $ E_{\min}=5 $ and $ E_f=36 $, $\delta_f=1$.
Circles represent the results from numerical computations.
The continuous and dashed lines are the prediction (\ref{eq:T}) for different values of $ c_3 $.
\label{fig:temperatureOfEmax}}
\end{figure}
The comparison between our estimation (\ref{eq:T}) and the numerics is very good.
In the present Letter we have investigated the stationary states of a three-dimensional hard sphere gas whose single-particle distribution function is modeled by the homogeneous isotropic Boltzmann equation.
In particular, we were interested in the steady nonequilibrium states in an open system condition, i.e. in the presence of a forcing and dissipation mechanisms.
Using the language of wave turbulence theory we have assumed the presence of a {\it warm cascades} as steady distributions.
These solutions are characterized by constant particle and energy fluxes superimposed on the thermodynamic Maxwell-Boltzmann distribution.
Our assumption has allowed us to relate the thermodynamic quantities of the system to the characteristics of the forcing and dissipative terms of the equation.
In particular, we have been able to give an analytical relation for the temperature reached in the system as a function of the forcing and
dissipative scales.
One of the main results is that the temperature is independent of how much energy and particles we inject in the system but depends only on the cut-off scales and on the forcing scale.
By a direct numerical integration of the Boltzmann equation we have shown that our numerical results are consistent with the aforementioned prediction.
We believe that the approach used in this Letter may open some perspectives towards understanding nonequilibrium steady states in other physical systems via analogies to cases widely studied by the wave turbulence theory.
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 8,035 |
> Welding Parameters <
Producing a weld bead that's the right size, shape and depth involves many variables. Arc welding students remember most of them by reciting the acronym "CLAMS", since each letter stands for a welding parameter. Here's the list:
Current - Amperage generally dictates the size and penetration of a weld bead when you're moving your torch at the right speed. Welders refer to charts from welding machine and electrode manufacturers, or a welding procedure specification (WPS) for their current settings, or try welding on sample plates of the same thickness to see what works best.
Length of Arc - How close to the work plates the welder holds the arc of a wire or welding electrode can affect the amount of current and heat going into the joint. Held close to the work plates, the current and heat in the weld remains high. Held farther away, the electrode produces less heat and more spatter.
As a rule of thumb, in stick welding arc length should match the diameter of the electrode metal. In other words, if you're using a 1/8 inch rod, hold it 1/8 inch from the joint surface. You can increase the length of the arc to reduce heat to the puddle or to limit the deposition of weld metal.
In a wirefeed operation (i.e. MIG or flux-cored welding), the wire electrode is held farther away from the joint than in stick welding. That's because the arc is more concentrated, and thus capable of burning through metal. For this reason, students also learn the difference between Electrode StickOut (the wire length from the contact tip) and Contact-To-Work-Distance . Variations in the ESO or CTWD affect the amount of the current going into the joint, regardless of the wirespeed setting on the machine.
Angle - There are two torch angles to remember when welding. The first is the work angle, which is the relationship between the joint and the torch (or rod). Ideally, you'll hold your torch perpendicular, or 90 degrees, to the joint. The big exception to the rule is T-joints, where the work angle varies between 30 to 50 degrees. The second angle used in welding is the travel angle. This is the relationship between the torch and line of travel. In order to see the joint and puddle, the welder may tip the rod up to 10 degrees in the direction of travel, or sometimes against the direction of travel.
As you can see in the first diagram, the angle of the torch to the work piece (left) is 90 degrees, allowing maximum heat and current focused down into the open groove butt joint. (Think of this as the front view of the work plates.) In the diagram on the right, the travel angle shows a 5-10 degree tilt along the joint. This gives the welder a better view of what's going on in the puddle. When you drag your torch or electrode, the tilt is directed towards the puddle, which helps with penetration and achieving a thick bead. When you push, the tilt is away from the puddle, which limits penetration and heat going into the base metal.
Manipulation - This refers to the movement of the welder's hand as he or she guides the electrode along the joint. Achieving tie-in at the toes is paramount, but it's also important to control penetration and heat. As described in Types of Beads, a weave, whip, drag or push motion are all examples of manipulation.
Speed - If you move too fast, the size of the weld will be small and achieve insufficient penetration. Move too slow and you'll end up with a fat weld bead and likely too much heat going into your work plates.
The following chart shows how some CLAMS variables impact a weld bead:
In the last two examples, "WFS" stands for wirefeed speed, which is how MIG and flux cored welding machines regulate current. Notice that when the voltage is too high, the bead is wide and flat. Also, when the rate of voltage is too low, the weld bead sits on top of the base metal rather than penetrating into it. So voltage determines the overall profile, or geometry, of the weld.
In stick welding, the welder sets the voltage directly but not the current, so the machines are referred to as Constant Current (CC). In MIG/flux cored, the machines provides Constant Voltage (CV), so the welder usually only sets the current. Some stick machines also have a setting known as Dig. This setting allows you to increase the current above the set output amperage if your arc starts to fizzle out.
Although the photos above don't show it, too long of an arc can cause porosity (air bubbles) inside the weld, spatter on the base metal and undercutting at the toes of the joint. See Weld Defects for more on this subject.
In addition to CLAMS, there are a few other variables to think about when planning a weld operation:
Joint Design and Fit-Up: How you prepare your work plates (or stationary structure) for welding may contribute more to the outcome of the operation than anything else. Your joints, beveled edges, grinded root faces and surfaces should fit together in a smooth and uniform manner before you start the weld. There shouldn't be any burrs, gaps or evenness.
As a student, it's easy to assume that once the metal heats up, everything falls together naturally and all the little rough spots will disappear like magic. In fact, you can make things worse if you don't take the time to do your fit-up correctly. Needless to say, the angle of your beveled sides should be appropriate for the thickness of the metal and the welding process being used. (In MIG welding, steeper angles are possible than in stick welding.) You should also tack your plates and use clamps as needed to prevent the joint from closing up in advance of the weld, or other distortion caused by heat.
Cleaning your weld edges in advance is also important. While some stick electrodes are designed to penetrate through rust and millscale, those impurities can still cause problems. And while low-carbon steel is much easier to work with than other metals, you should still adopt the habit of cleaning or grinding the areas you plan to weld.
Size: The thickness of the base metal should factor into the decision about which diameter electrode, rod, wire or torch tip you use to make the weld, as well as your voltage, wirespeed and/or current settings. There are plenty of other size factors to consider, but metal thickness usually comes first.
Heat Dispersal: Different metals disperse heat differently. The mass of your work pieces also has an effect, with tinier work pieces heating up much faster than large, heavy pieces.. Low-carbon steel can be very forgiving when overheated, but other metals may lose their tensile strength or other qualities if you don't monitor the heat going in and out of the plates or pipe.
As you learn more about the chemical and mechanical properties of different metals and alloys, you may decide to include a pre or post heat treatment or your work pieces as part of the welding operation. Quenching plates after welding (to cool them down) is a practice that's generally frowned upon after the first semester of welding school. That's because the quench has a sort of traumatizing effect to the metal and can make it brittle. A metallurgy class teaches welders the many forms of heat treatment and their advantages - like hardening, tempering and annealing.
Next: Types of Welds
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Resources/Docs
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Intro to Hardfacing
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Improving Your Stick Welding Technique MillerWelds.com
Stringer bead along a lap joint video
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Using CLAMS paramenters in Stick Welding
TheFabricator.com
Welding to Code
Organizations & Companies
Steel & Pipe Construction
Code Welding
Anatomy of a Weld
Types of Beads
Welding Parameters
Types of Welds
Common Weld Defects
Welder Qualification Test Via Advice section | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
} | 9,588 |
\section{Introduction}
In recent years the automotive industry has witnessed a rapid revolution in the way its products are created and what functionality can be offered to their customers.
Software is nowadays one of the main components of any vehicle~\cite{URL_FUSE_Hiller}, enabling more and more functions necessary to achieve automated driving capabilities in the foreseeable future.
In order to be competitive in this scenario it is important to roll out changes and new software as quickly as possible. Such a routine would require less effort in a context where safety was not as fundamental, but due to the risks involved in the automotive field, safety regulations rightfully impose important restrictions on what hardware and software are allowed on public roads.
An effect of this is the need for lengthy testing and verification processes.
ISO 2626
~\cite{URL_iso26262} and ISO 2144
~\cite{URL_iso21448} are two of such standards, involved in the definition of the functional safety requirements of vehicles.
A possible way to accelerate the release of new software is to make use of the data that are already available and that are generated during a vehicle's lifetime.
An engineering practice with this aim is Continuous Experimentation, which enables the product owner to deploy additional experimental software alongside its official version to obtain data and practically verify its performance with respect to specified evaluation criteria.
The experimental software can be run in closed- or open-loop mode, depending on whether it is the experimental or the official software to have control over the system.
While Continuous Experimentation\ is widespread in settings like web-based software-intensive systems~\cite{KDF+13}\cite{TAOM10}, it is still not largely applied in the context of embedded and cyber-physical systems such as the automotive field~\cite{RR18}.
A reason for this is the possibility to introduce safety risks to road users, not only because of the experimental nature of the software under test, but also because of the few available computational resources.
The physical limits of the available resources introduce in their own right additional challenges to the adoption of Continuous Experimentation\ and will require ad-hoc solutions, as highlighted in a previous study~\cite{GBK17}.
This paper aims at reporting the feedback, impressions,
and expectations from industrial representatives that participated in a series of workshops focusing on what Continuous Experimentation\ can offer to them in terms of advantages and expected challenges with respect to their role in their respective companies. In this sense, the goal of this work can be expressed through the main questioning: \textit{How desirable is the Continuous Experimentation practice to automotive practitioners and what are the obstacles that they perceive are preventing its adoption in the industrial field?}
This work contributes to the current body of knowledge with a depiction of the present \textit{understanding} (the term is used as opposed to \textit{state-of-practice}) of Continuous Experimentation\ in the automotive field, grounded in empirical data.
The principal observation emerging from the study is that Continuous Experimentation\ is perceived as a positive practice capable of bringing to this field the same advantages that it has brought to web world, but its realization is opposed by both significant technical challenges and a conservative organizational and legal framework, making the automotive industry fall behind with what concerns the adoption of this practice.
Although some of the causes for this delay can be intuitively inferred, this study has been devised to clearly understand the reasons by involving the practitioners and investigating both the positive expectation and the challenges that this practice can pose for their professional role.
\section{Research Method} \label{sec:RM}
In order to engage and discuss with industrial representatives in relevant roles, such as technical leaders and supervisors, a series of workshops was organized by the authors, one for each of the companies.
The theme of the workshops was the introduction of the concept of Continuous Experimentation\ to automotive representatives to provide a common vocabulary for the workshop in order to obtain their feedback on two questions, derived from the main questioning:
\begin{enumerate}[leftmargin=*,align=left,label=\textit{Q{\arabic*}:}]
\item \textit{What would be the added values for your role in the context of self-driving vehicles if Continuous Experimentation\ is successfully in place?}
\item \textit{What would be the additional challenges for your role in the context of self-driving vehicles if Continuous Experimentation\ would be in place?}
\end{enumerate}
The resulting answers and discussions helped to clarify the state-of-practice of Continuous Experimentation\ and the prospects and obstacles that are still perceived in the way for its adoption in the companies that participated in the workshops.
\subsection{Involved companies}
Four companies were involved in this study.
They were chosen due to their known efforts towards autonomous driving.
Additionally, they constitute an interesting set due to their diversity, as they comprise two automotive OEMs (Original Equipment Manufacturer) in this article named Companies A and B, a Tier-1 supplier named Company C, and an autonomous driving start-up company named Company D.
The OEMs have a years-long history of developing consumer vehicles and recently increased activities in their research around highly automated driving solutions.
Complementary to the OEMs, an established tier-1 supplier was also contacted.
This company has a years-long experience in supplying safety systems for automotive OEMs and has increased its activities towards components and solutions for active safety systems and automated driving solutions.
In contrast to these companies, one workshop was also run at a start-up company working on an autonomous electric vehicle, which does not have to obey to a large legacy code-base grown over the years but could nearly start from scratch adopting the most suitable processes.
The participants were chosen among diverse technical roles in the companies.
Among the overall set of attendees there were developers, software architects, team leaders, and a manager.
The variety of roles was reputed a positive factor due to the fact that the workshop questions related to the participants' role in their respective companies.
An increased diversity of represented areas was hence considered an element providing additional perspectives in the answers and discussion.
The participants' roles were: from Company A, 3 software developers, 1 team leader and 1 manager; from Company B, 2 software developers and 2 team leaders; from Company C, 1 software developer and 2 team leaders; lastly, from Company D, 1 software developer and 1 team leader.
\subsection{Format of the workshops}
Each workshop lasted in total between 1.5 and 2 hours, depending on the number of participants. During the workshops, one of the authors would lead it through its different phases, while the other authors would assist and take notes.
The format was organized in four phases as follows:
\textbf{Phase I:} After each participant would have presented himself and his role to the group, an initial presentation was shown.
The goal of the presentation was to establish a common understanding and vocabulary of the Continuous practices, namely Continuous Integration, Continuous Delivery/Deployment, and Continuous Experimentation. This phase would take around 20 minutes;
\textbf{Phase II:} At the end of the presentation, the participants were asked the two aforementioned questions.
They were given time to individually devise their answers, writing each idea on a note. This phase would take around 30 minutes;
\textbf{Phase III:} The participants took turns to go through their notes in order to explain to the group their meaning and the reasoning behind it. Each note would then be placed near others on the same theme on a whiteboard, thus creating thematic clusters. This phase would take around 40 minutes;
\textbf{Phase IV:} An infrastructure model for Continuous Experimentation\ devised for companies with web-based products~\cite{FGMM17} was presented to the participants. They were asked to jointly discuss the model with the aim of identifying critical points and necessary changes if it had to be applied to the automotive industry. This phase would take around 15 minutes.
The described format with open questions, which are locked on a structured topic, categorizes the workshop series as semi-structured case study~\cite{RH09}.
This approach was chosen because it fits well the exploratory and explanatory goal of this work by promoting the participants to provide original feedback, ideally completely unbiased by the authors.
\subsection{Data collection and handling}
The notes and comments of the industrial representatives were transcribed and used to identify common themes among advantages and challenges.
To improve the quality of the data and increase the validity of our results the ``observer triangulation'' was implemented whenever possible, meaning that there was more than one observer collecting data and feedback~\cite{RH09} in all workshops with the exception of the one organized with the start-up company representatives.
At the end of the data collection the transcriptions and the raw data,~i.e., the notes produced by the participants, were re-examined and discussed to ensure a common understanding among the authors and an accurate representation in the present article.
\section{Results and Discussion} \label{sec:R}
The findings are a result of a bottom-up approach in which topics of interest from the discussions in the workshops were identified.
The topics take into account the data obtained from the four companies and were combined into a comprehensive list.
They are organized and described according to the two research questions that guided this study: the Added Values of Continuous Experimentation\ answer Q1 and are summarized in Table~I, while the Challenges Continuous Experimentation\ will pose assess Q2 and are reported in Table~II.
\begin{table*}[ht]
\begin{tabular}{m{1.5cm} p{2.5cm} p{11cm} c}
\textbf{Category} & \textbf{Value} & \textbf{Description} & \textbf{Companies} \\ \hline
\multirow{3}{*}[-2.28em]{Safety} & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Monitoring} & Allows for constant notifications about software issues, therefore leading to quicker fixes. Developers can also obtain a better understanding of the user interaction and system behavior. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{B, C, D}\\ \cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-1.1em]{Mechanical integrity} & Constant monitoring result in a slower wear and tear of mechanical components by interpreting situational/behavioral states of the system. Once identified, wear-prone situations could be avoided. & \multirow{1}{*}[-1.1em]{C, D} \\\cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Easier testing} & Field testing on the fly makes it easier to detect bugs, and with the constant feedback it would be easier to find relevant test cases for the system. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{A, B, C}\\ \hline
\multirow{2}{*}[-2.85em]{Speed} & \multirow{1}{*}[-1.15em]{Faster data collection} & Relevant data can be collected on demand, rather than from controlled tests, allowing for fast analysis of system behavior. OEMs can benefit from the real-world system usage due to the OTA connection. & \multirow{1}{*}[-1.15em]{A}\\ \cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-1.7em]{Faster time-to-market} & Software can be updated regularly, without manual delivery of new versions. Instead of typical acceptance testing with a reduced number of users, the acceptance can be measured from real-world scenarios as fast as the data can be transmitted to the headquarters. Further, developers can avoid ``big bang'' integration by incrementally adding features. & \multirow{1}{*}[-1.7em]{A, B, C, D}\\ \hline
\multirow{1}{*}[-0.55em]{Quality} & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Customer satisfaction} & Functionalities are reassessed using data from regular usage. The customers' preferences are captured and implemented into the system through updates, improving customer satisfaction. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{B, C, D}\\ \hline
\multirow{1}{*}[-1.15em]{Sustainability} & \multirow{1}{*}[-1.1em]{Energy efficiency} & Unused functionalities can be disabled to reduce energy consumption. The data resulting from a constant monitoring of the hardware's energy consumption can also be used to improve energy efficiency. & \multirow{1}{*}[-1.1em]{D}\\ \hline
\multirow{3}{*}[-1.65em]{Opportunities} & Real-world data usage & Learning from data enables research and improvements of both the process and the product. Further, the collected data can be analyzed and/or sold as services. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{A, B, C}\\ \cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Incremental delivery} & Large and complex functions can be delivered step-by-step. Certain functions can be implemented and updated at a later time. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{C}\\ \cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Fleet view} & Companies may have the opportunity to obtain a comprehensive view of the behavior of their products based on the collected data from the fleet. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{A}\\ \hline \\
\end{tabular}
\caption{Added values of Continuous Experimentation\ (Q1) reported in the workshops}
\label{tab:AV}
\end{table*}
\begin{table*}[ht]
\begin{tabular}{m{1.5cm} p{2.5cm} p{11cm} c}
\textbf{Category} & \textbf{Challenge} & \textbf{Description} & \textbf{Companies} \\ \hline
\multirow{3}{*}[-3.4em]{Safety} & \multirow{1}{*}[-1.7em]{Impact measurements} & Measurements must occur before the deployment phase, i.e., the real impact of changes are not entirely under control. Testing is a challenge, e.g., experiments that affect the control of the vehicle. Further, changes in the user experience (e.g., user preferences) may not be appreciated by users. & \multirow{1}{*}[-1.7em]{B, C, D}\\ \cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-1.15em]{Fallback plan} & In case of failure, a fallback plan must always be ready. With multiple versions of the software deployed, this solution demands a robust versioning system that allows safe rollback in case of emergencies. & \multirow{1}{*}[-1.15em]{D}\\\cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Regulations} & Complying with strict governmental regulations (e.g., in the automotive domain) can be a challenge. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{A, B, C, D}\\ \hline
\multirow{2}{*}[-1.2em]{Security} & \multirow{1}{*}[-1.25em]{\shortstack[l]{Data protection \&\\ privacy}} & Major concern since information will move to and from the vehicle. The integrity of the transmission must be preserved through security mechanisms that reduce the risk of interception, impersonation, or tampering. Further, customers might not want to be monitored or participate in experiments. & \multirow{1}{*}[-1.7em]{A, B, C, D} \\ \hline
\multirow{2}{*}[-1.3em]{DevOps} & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Versioning} & Developers must acknowledge/monitor versions that are deployed. Different configurations of the same software may be deployed and running on different vehicles. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{A, C}\\\cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Data management} & Collecting, structuring, and analyzing data becomes an integral part of the development process. Only relevant data should be managed rather than excessively large amounts. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{A, B} \\ \hline
\multirow{4}{*}[-2.3em]{\shortstack[l]{Quality Assur-\\ance}} & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Performance} & Running various instances of the software can be very demanding to the automotive hardware, which is typically resource-constrained. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{C, D}\\ \cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Validation} & Validating software against standards such as the ISO 26262 can be challenging in such highly dynamic environments. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{A, B, C, D}\\ \cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Remote execution} & The risk of unwanted or unknown behavior of the system is increased. Moreover, updates could be at risk of not occurring due to poor, faulty, or non-existing network connections. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{C}\\ \cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Testing} & Since most of the testing in the automotive industry is done manually, this stage represents very high costs. Further, developers may question ``\textit{what is enough testing?}''. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{A}\\ \hline
\multicolumn{1}{l}{\multirow{2}{*}[-1.4em]{Costs}} & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Hardware} & Additional hardware represents an increase in the cost of the product. Such cost needs to be properly justified by the returns. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{A}\\ \cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Data handling} & Managing large amounts of data reflects on elevated costs e.g., costs for storage and transmission of the data collected by the systems in the fleet. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{A}\\ \hline
\multicolumn{1}{l}{\multirow{2}{*}[-0.6em]{Hardware}} & Resource constraints & A highly resource-constrained computational environment limits the options for experimentation. & A, B, C\\ \cline{2-4}
& \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{Heterogeneity} & Systems with different hardware specifications pose a challenge in ensuring that new software versions are supported by the available hardware platforms with their different setups. & \multirow{1}{*}[-0.5em]{B, C}\\ \hline \\
\end{tabular}
\caption{Challenges of Continuous Experimentation\ (Q2) reported in the workshops}
\label{tab:Ch}
\end{table*}
An analysis of the main trends and notes of interest that emerge from the collected data, organized by the research questions from which they originate, follows now.
\subsection{Added values (Q1)}
As shown in Table~I, the analysis of the results from the workshop yields that the most mentioned added values, i.e., values that appeared in at least three workshops out of four, were \textit{Easier testing}, \textit{Faster time-to-market}, \textit{Customer satisfaction}, \textit{Real-world data usage}, and \textit{Monitoring}.
These values hint at the companies' desire for improvements of the testing processes by means of employing data coming from the application field and from the platforms themselves, with the aim to release new software in a faster way and raise its quality while aligning it more to the desires of the customers.
In particular, \textit{Faster time-to-market} was mentioned by all companies, showing that this is the most desired result expected by the adoption of experimentation practices.
A point of interest emerged from one company, which mentioned the advantages of gaining a \textit{Fleet view} over their vehicles.
This highlights how even projects relatively small in numbers can introduce a more holistic vision in companies when the products allow them to monitor and influence their behavior in relation to the environment.
Additionally, it is interesting to notice how Company D
mentioned as advantages the monitoring of \textit{Mechanical integrity} of the physical elements and the improvement of \textit{Energy efficiency} thanks to optimized guidance software.
This could hint at a different view of the role of the software as part of the final vehicle: while companies with legacy products may see the software as one of the many components comprising the vehicle and a process to go through to achieve the final product, the autonomous electric vehicle company alludes at the software as the main actor in the product, capable of influencing deeply
its well-being and lifetime maintenance
\subsection{Challenges (Q2)}
The results highlight how the most mentioned challenges, i.e., challenges that were mentioned in at least three workshops out of four, were \textit{Impact measurements}, \textit{Regulations}, \textit{Access to data}, \textit{Validation}, and \textit{Resource constraints}, as shown in Table~II.
This aligns with the expected obstacles for a practice that involves experimental software in vehicles, which are 1) the possibly negative effects that such software would have on the safety requirements of the vehicle, risking its compliance to existing legal frameworks, as well as 2) the protection of the connected vehicles from malicious third parties that could exploit data or software transmissions to inject unsafe code into the system and 3) the technical difficulty of running a Continuous Experimentation\ process on a platform such as a vehicle, which is equipped with limited computational resources.
Another interesting note can be extrapolated from the input provided by one company which mentioned the costs of \textit{Data handling}.
This relates to their aforementioned point about \textit{Fleet view}, as in a pilot project they had a team whose job was to periodically physically access specifically equipped platforms to collect their recorded data.
The need for such a manual work highlights how important the data retrieval process is, and how expensive it could become when remote or automated procedures are not in place.
An additional interesting point is the one raised only by Company D, which is the presence of a \textit{Fallback plan}.
That is necessary for their platform as human accessible maintenance is very limited.
In this setting there are no vehicle occupants that could take control in case of software failure
\subsection{Related works}
A number of experience reports and studies have been conducted on Continuous Experimentation\ in the past years.
Recent mapping studies show how the almost totality of these works is set in the domain of web-based systems, which is the field where the practice originated~\cite{RR18}~\cite{AF18}.
Very few studies on Continuous Experimentation\ have been performed in the field of embedded systems, cyber-physical systems, or the automotive industry.
A study linking post-deployment data (although experiments are not explicitly mentioned) and the cyber-physical and automotive field is the one by Olsson and Bosch~\cite{OB13}.
In their study they interview representatives from three companies, one of which is an automotive manufacturer.
They show that while post-deployment data collection mechanisms are in place, the collected data is only partially used.
Moreover, they report that the purpose of this feedback is normally just troubleshooting and not supporting a product improvement process.
A recent study is the on by Mattos et al.~\cite{MBO18}, which investigates the challenges that embedded systems companies could face when applying Continuous Experimentation. The challenges are identified by analyzing the literature on Continuous Experimentation, which focuses for the most part on web-based systems, and comparing the ones found therein with industrial representatives in order to verify whether those challenges apply to their companies as well.
A number of their identified challenges overlap with the ones found in the present study, e.g., the potential difficulty and costs to be faced in order to perform effective tests on an experiment-capable platform, and the safety concerns that running experimental software on a safety-critical system would raise.
However there are also several challenges which are not present here, due to the way their set of challenges was defined, e.g., the lack of experimentation tools integrating with their existing engineering tools, and the need for skilled personnel to tune the experimental software to get meaningful results.
The present work differentiates from the aforementioned one in both the industrial scope and the format of the case studies, as in the present article the list of challenges are produced by the industrial representatives themselves, and the industry scope is restricted to the automotive field.
The difference in the way the challenges are produced is the likely reason for the dissimilarities in the challenge sets of the two studies.
Despite the differences, there is agreement on key issues that make the adoption of Continuous Experimentation\ by the cyber-physical systems\ industry a complex process.
\subsection{Threats to Validity}
A first possible threat to the validity of this work is rooted in the format of the workshops, as it cannot be ruled out that the presentation run during the initial phase of the workshop biased the participants into focusing mainly on a subset of the possible themes.
To prevent this, the authors avoided whenever possible to give examples or descriptions of this practice use that could suggest practical applications in the participants' field in order to avoid biases.
Another threat is the fact that one of the workshops was conducted with only one observer, thus threatening the observer triangulation.
The counter-measure in this case was to document the workshop as carefully as possible and to later review the notes thoroughly with the other colleagues involved in the study.
One additional threat to the validity of the conclusions is the fact that was not possible to perform data triangulation,~i.e., to run the same workshops again after a certain period of time to confirm the findings, due to the limited availability of the workshops' participants.
Finally, another possible threat is the low number of participants, although in the case of Company D this can be explained with the fact that it is a start-up company with a low number of employees suitable for the workshop format.
However, the limited number of people and companies involved means that the results may not be generalizable to other automotive companies or industrial contexts. Additional workshops will be conducted to verify whether these findings hold true for other companies as well.
\section{Conclusions and Future Work} \label{sec:CFW}
With this work the authors report the results of a series of workshops executed with automotive representatives.
The workshops introduced the concept of Continuous Experimentation\ to the participants and asked them to describe what can this practice offer to their role in industry in terms of advantages and improvements to their work but also current or expected challenges.
The results of the workshop confirm that many advantages of Continuous Experimentation, which are well-known in different fields of application, could also be transferred to the automotive field.
Such advantages include, among others, reducing the time-to-market of new functionality and improving the effectiveness of the software tests using real-world data.
However, several challenges are still present, such as the possibility to introduce safety risks by adding additional computational load to the system
and the difficulty to adapt the paradigm shift of this new practice to the existing legal and organizational framework.
The results describe for Companies A, B, and C a generally interested but conservative attitude, which can be expected of established companies in a highly regulated field facing a novel approach to their work.
It can be expected however that in time different companies, possibly as Company D is doing, will align their way of working to take systematically advantage of the real-world data that could be available thanks to Continuous Experimentation, in an industry-wide productive trend similar to the one recently witnessed in web-based systems.
As future steps, additional workshops are planned with other companies in order to further validate and expand the study, providing additional insights into what the industry considers viable, useful, or challenging in the Continuous Experimentation\ practice.
\section*{Acknowledgment}
This work was supported by the COPPLAR Project -- CampusShuttle cooperative perception and planning platform~\cite{URL_copplar}, funded by Vinnova FFI, Diarienr: 2015-04849.
The authors wish to thank Hang Yin for his availability and help during and after the workshops, and all the industrial representatives for their time and feedback.
\bibliographystyle{IEEEtran}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
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{"url":"http:\/\/tex.stackexchange.com\/questions\/24785\/deleting-external-auxiliary-files\/28669","text":"# Deleting external\/auxiliary files?\n\nIs there a way to make TeX delete files?\n\nIn my document a lot of auxiliary files are created and it would be wonderful to have them removed after their content has been used.\n\n-\nSee also this answer about why the files are important, and why you wouldn't want to delete them too often! \u2013\u00a0Seamus Aug 3 '11 at 10:30\nif you store your lxtex files in git, the you can ignore all the auxiliary files with a .gitignore, and easily get rid of them with git clean -x -f. But check first with git clean -x -n! \u2013\u00a0naught101 Jul 19 '12 at 5:43\nYou may be interested in the beautiful tool by Paulo Cereda as demonstrated in this answer: tex.stackexchange.com\/a\/77879\/11232. It also has a clean utility. \u2013\u00a0Harish Kumar Dec 29 '12 at 1:40\n\nif you want get rid of those files in your document directory then use the optional argument -output-directory=whatever. Then all auxiliary files and the pdf are saved in that directory. For example what I use:\n\npdflatex -output-directory=target <file>\n\n\nthen my <file>.pdf is also in target, but I always use a softlink ln -s target\/<file>.pdf then I have it in my documents directory, too. But as Martin already pointed out, deleting the auxiliary files makes only sense when you are really sure that your pdf file is finished.\n\n-\nDoes anybody know how to get this to work with Kile (in combination with Okular but even just Kile would be a start)? I can get pdflatex to put the files in another directory but then Kile can't find them. I tried setting the relative directory in the build settings but all that seemed to do was screw up my ability to change settings and delete a bunch of custom keyboard short-cuts which wasn't quite the effect I had hoped for. Unfortunately, the help only explains obvious things. \u2013\u00a0cfr Nov 30 '13 at 4:24\n\nNo, TeX itself can't delete files, just create or overwrite them. You need to use an external tool, like a LaTeX editor or Makefile to delete it for you. For example latexmk has a -c option which cleans up all auxiliary files.\n\nI also use Makefiles under Linux which contain a clean rule which remove all auxiliary files. However, this isn't really a good way under Windows. At least if you are not used to it. You can find a list of auxiliary file extension in the thread Which auxiliary LaTeX files should be ignored by Version Control Software?).\n\nHowever, you should note that removing auxiliary files often will have an negative impact on compile time. You will then be forced to compile your document 2-3 times or sometimes more often. Some (La)TeX compilers (e.g. MikTeX) also offer to place the auxiliary files in a different folder. This way they don't annoy you in your main folder.\n\n-\nI'm using latexmk and it is helpful also for cleaning purposes. LaTeX can be very creative in terms of auxiliary\/temp files. To that end, you might want to edit ~\/.latexmk and add something like \\$clean_ext = \"synctex.gz pdfsync out bbl %R.%R.table %R.%R.gnuplot\";, depending on your needs which are derived from the packages you're using. \u2013\u00a0Dror May 17 '13 at 5:36\n\nUnfortunately, latexmk -c does not delete all generated files by default. For example, it does not delete files generated for glossary, acronym and index creation.\n\nI managed to have latexmk -c delete more temporary files by creating a global .latexmkrc file (on Unix-like systems, put it into your home directory):\n\n@generated_exts = qw(aux idx ind lof lot out toc acn acr alg glg glo gls ist);\n\n\nIn general, though, I prefer using the solution of Herbert, the -output-directory flag for latex, which is also supported by latexmk.\n\n-\nNot to forget the extra ton of auxilary files generated by synctex, beamer, biblatex and further packages (.synctex.gz .nav .vrb .snm .blg -blx.bib .bbl, .run.xml) to mention a few. The list is endless; Herberts approach really is the way to go! \u2013\u00a0Daniel Nov 22 '11 at 14:24\nFor more information on where to put the .latexmkrc file, see tex.stackexchange.com\/a\/41149\/4012 or p. 9f of the latexmk documentation. \u2013\u00a0doncherry Jun 18 '12 at 13:20\n\nAnother solution is to use the --clean flag from rubber.\n\nrubber is, according to the project description, \"a program whose purpose is to handle all tasks related to the compilation of LaTeX documents. This includes compiling the document itself, of course, enough times so that all references are defined, and running BibTeX to manage bibliographic references. Automatic execution of dvips to produce PostScript documents is also included, as well as usage of pdfLaTeX to produce PDF documents.\"\n\nLet's say I have a mydoc.tex file which creates the following auxiliary files:\n\nmydoc.aux mydoc.ilg mydoc.log\nmydoc.idx mydoc.ind mydoc.toc\n\n\nbesides of course of mydoc.pdf. When running the following command\n\nrubber --clean mydoc\n\n\nonly two files remain:\n\nmydoc.pdf mydoc.tex\n\n\nIf I want to have only mydoc.tex, using rubber --pdf --clean mydoc will do the job.\n\nAccording to the manual:\n\n\u2022 --clean: Remove all files produced by the compilation, instead of building the document. This option is present in rubber only. It applies to the compilation as it would be done with the other options of the command line, i.e. saying rubber --clean foo will not delete foo.ps, while saying rubber --ps --clean foo will.\n\nIn case you need some \"advanced\" cleanup process, there's also a clean directive. A directive is a line like\n\n% rubber: cmd args\n\n\nThe line must begin with a %, then any sequence of % signs and spaces, then the text rubber: followed by zero or more spaces and a directive name, possibly followed by spaces and arguments.\n\nLets say we have a dummy.txt file generated on every compilation of mydoc.tex. I want to get rid of it, so I add the following directive in mydoc.tex:\n\n% rubber: clean dummy.txt\n\\documentclass{article}\n...\n\n\nNow, when running rubber --clean mydoc, dummy.txt will be removed. According to the manual:\n\n\u2022 clean <file> Indicates that the specified file should be removed when cleaning using --clean.\n\nThere we go, a clean project folder. :)\n\n-\n\nIn case you are using Emacs with AucTeX, just run\n\nM-x TeX-clean\n\n\nThis does not get rid of any temporary directories that are created, just files\n\n-\n\nIn MiKTeX, you can specify an aux-directory, where all the auxiliary files (ergo basically everything except the pdf) are written, so use e.g.\n\npdflatex foo.tex --aux-directory=\"C:\\Users\\JaneDoe\\Documents\\LaTeX\\auxiliaries-global\"\n\nAs a result you'll get foo.pdf in whatever directory foo.tex is; foo.aux, foo.out and whatnot go in the aux-directory that you specified.\n\nAs has been noted, it's not recommended to delete the auxiliary files every time, but this is a neat way of \"hiding\" them and keeping your working directories from getting cluttered.\n\nSince I don't use TeX Live (yet), I don't know if there's a comparable tweak for it.\n\n-\nIsn't it dangerous to use one global directory because there might exist foo.tex in two directories that end up overwriting their auxiliary files in the global directory? \u2013\u00a0Christian Lindig Sep 16 '11 at 16:14\n@Christian: You pinpointed a possible disadvantage of this method. However, I've been using it for some time and have never run into trouble. After all, I suppose LaTeX will just overwrite the old auxiliary files and perhaps be slightly confused on the first run? \u2013\u00a0doncherry Sep 16 '11 at 17:01\nFor others who want to use this solution: Bibtex may not be too happy with this solution. Bibtex needs the aux file, but it also needs the bib file, which is (typically) not stored in the global aux folder. I fixed this by making bibtex search in a different folder (the same folder as the tex file -- that's where I store my bib file) for the bib file. \u2013\u00a0Robin Kothari Aug 30 '12 at 21:06\nWinedt users can do this very easily as shown in this answer: tex.stackexchange.com\/a\/87818\/11232. This way The disadvantage raised by @Christian Lindig can be over come. \u2013\u00a0Harish Kumar Dec 29 '12 at 1:46\n\nThere is @paulo's awesome arara (The cool TeX automation tool) without which I can't image working anymore. It has a predefined clean directive that allows to specify which files should be seleted after compilation. The following file called test.tex would be compiled twice and then the aux and the toc file would be removed:\n\n% arara: pdflatex\n% arara: pdflatex\n% arara: clean: { files: [ test.aux , test.toc ] }\n\\documentclass{article}\n\\begin{document}\n\n\\tableofcontents\n\n\\section{Test}\n\nfoo\n\n\\end{document}\n\n\nAs I found it tedious to specify the whole filename that should be removed (I had to prepare about 60 different small files where I wanted the directory cleaned up after successfull compilation) I asked @paulo if there was an arara equivalent for \\jobname\n\n% arara: clean: { files: [ \\jobname.aux, \\jobname.log ] }\n\n\nthat would allow me simply copying the arara directives from one file to the next. He came up with the following nice rule (thanks again @paulo):\n\n!config\nidentifier: remove\nname: Remove\ncommand: <arara> @{remove}\narguments:\n- identifier: remove\ndefault: <arara> @{isNotEmpty(item, isWindows(\"cmd \/c del\", \"rm -f\").concat(' \"').concat(getBasename(file))concat('.').concat(item).concat('\"'))}\n\n\nWith this rule correctly installed the above example becomes\n\n% arara: pdflatex\n% arara: pdflatex\n% arara: remove: { items: [ aux , toc ] }\n\\documentclass{article}\n\\begin{document}\n\n\\tableofcontents\n\n\\section{Test}\n\nfoo\n\n\\end{document}\n\n-\nIs there is particular reason, why remove is not included in the 3.0 version? I find it quite useful and I would imagine many people would use it. \u2013\u00a0Andy Oct 15 '14 at 12:37\nYou need to ask Paulo but IIRC this rule was created later than v3.0 \u2013\u00a0clemens Oct 15 '14 at 16:41\n\nFWIW, in ConTeXT you can delete the temporary files by passing --purge to the command line program context. Thus\n\n context --purge filename\n\n\nwill run context multiple times and then delete the auxiliary and log files.\n\n-\n\nA TeXShop solution (Mac OS)\n\nAs others have mentioned, deleting auxiliary files as a matter of course is not usually a good idea, especially for complex documents. However, it is useful to be able to delete them manually when needed.\n\nI use the following Applescript (written by Claus Gerhardt) saved as a macro in TeXShop. The script could also be adapted to other Mac editors. What I like about this script is that I can add new aux file extensions when needed, and it is able to deal with multiple part aux extensions such as -blx.bib, etc.\n\n--AppleScript\n-- Apply only to an already saved file\n-- Claus Gerhardt, September 2006\n(*This script gets the path of the frontmost (tex) document in TeXShop and removes the corresponding auxilary files the suffixes of which are listed in the list L. Beware of the quotation marks. The list L may contain suffixes to which no corresponding files exist.*)\n\nmy remove_auxiliaries()\non remove_auxiliaries()\nset L to {\".aux\", \".synctex.gz\", \".fdb_latexmk\", \".out\", \".toc\", \".bbl\", \".blg\", \".ind\", \".sind\", \".run.xml\",\"-blx.bib\",\".log\", \".end\", \".1\"} as list\n\ntell application \"TeXShop\"\nget path of document of window 1\nset fileName to result\nend tell\n\nset {baseName, texName, pdfName, namePath, dirName, dirNameunquoted, logName, logPath, rtfName, docName} to my setnamebbedit_rootn(fileName)\n\n(*\ntell application \"TeXShop\"\nclose document docName\nend tell\n*)\n\nrepeat with x in L\ntry\nset shellScript to \"cd \" & dirName & \";\"\nset shellScript to shellScript & \"rm -f \" & baseName & x\ndo shell script shellScript\nend try\nend repeat\n\nend remove_auxiliaries\n\non setnamebbedit_rootn(x)\nset n to (number of characters of contents of x)\nset fileNamequoted to quoted form of x\nset windowName to do shell script \"basename \" & fileNamequoted\nset m to (number of characters of contents of windowName)\nset dirName to quoted form of (characters 1 thru (n - m - 1) of x as string)\nset dirNameunquoted to (characters 1 thru (n - m - 1) of x as string)\nset theText to contents of windowName as string\n\nset n to (number of characters of contents of theText)\nset i to n as number\n\nrepeat while i > 0\nif character i of theText is equal to \".\" then\nset m to i\nexit repeat\nelse\nset i to (i - 1)\nend if\nend repeat\n\nset baseName to (characters 1 thru (m - 1) of theText as string)\nset texName to baseName & \".tex\"\nset namePath to dirNameunquoted & \"\/\" & baseName as string\nset pdfName to namePath & \".pdf\" as string\nset rtfName to namePath & \".rtf\" as string\nset logPath to namePath & \".log\" as string\nset logName to baseName & \".log\" as string\n\nset theFile to POSIX file x as string\ntell application \"Finder\"\nget displayed name of the file theFile\nend tell\nset docName to result\n\nreturn {baseName, texName, pdfName, namePath, dirName, dirNameunquoted, logName, logPath, rtfName, docName} as list\nend setnamebbedit_rootn\n\n-\nWhy I use it, it reported in TexShop: Excepted expression but found end of line. What's the matter? \u2013\u00a0WonderTree Mar 12 '13 at 12:19\n@WonderTree No idea. What version of the Mac OS and TeXShop are you using? \u2013\u00a0Alan Munn Mar 12 '13 at 13:24\nMoutain Lion and the version of texshop is 3.11. I just copied the code in macro in Texshop, should i need do another thing? \u2013\u00a0WonderTree Mar 12 '13 at 14:59\nUpdate: this script still seems to work for me on Mavericks. \u2013\u00a0Alan Munn Jan 15 '14 at 1:52\n\nYou can also do Windows shell scripting with LaTeX as follows.\n\n## Main input file\n\nLet main.tex be your main input file that you want to compile and delete its auxiliary files.\n\n% main.tex\n\\documentclass[12pt]{article}\n\\usepackage[a6paper,margin=2cm,landscape]{geometry}\n\\begin{document}\n$$E=mc^2 \\label{eq:Einstein}$$\n\\newpage\nSee equation~\\ref{eq:Einstein} on page~\\pageref{eq:Einstein}.\n\\end{document}\n\n\n## Shell scripting input file\n\nCreate additional input file for shell scripting as follows.\n\n% host.tex\n\\documentclass[preview,border=12pt]{standalone}\n\n\\usepackage{pgffor,graphicx}\n\n\\foreach \\x in {1,...,3}{\\immediate\\write18{latex main && dvips -t unknown main && ps2pdf -dAutoRotatePages=\/None main.ps}}\n\n\\foreach \\ext in {aux,log,dvi,ps}{\\immediate\\write18{cmd \/c del main.\\ext}}\n\n\\begin{document}\n\\pdfximage{main.pdf}\n\\foreach \\ip in {1,...,\\the\\pdflastximagepages}{\\fbox{\\includegraphics[page=\\ip,scale=0.5]{main}}\\endgraf}\n\\end{document}\n\n\nThe code snippet below\n\n\\foreach \\ext in {aux,log,dvi,ps}{\\immediate\\write18{cmd \/c del main.\\ext}}\n\n\nremoves the auxiliary files.\n\n## Compile with pdflatex -shell-escape\n\nCompile the host.tex with pdflatex -shell-escape host. And you will get an output as follows to make sure everything was done properly.\n\n## Complete code\n\nThe following code simulates everything in one invocation of pdflatex. Make sure to compile it with pdflatex -shell-escape host.\n\n% host.tex\n\\documentclass[preview,border=12pt]{standalone}\n\n\\usepackage{filecontents}\n\\begin{filecontents*}{main.tex}\n\\documentclass[12pt]{article}\n\\usepackage[a6paper,margin=2cm,landscape]{geometry}\n\\begin{document}\n$$E=mc^2 \\label{eq:Einstein}$$\n\\newpage\nSee equation~\\ref{eq:Einstein} on page~\\pageref{eq:Einstein}.\n\\end{document}\n\\end{filecontents*}\n\n\\usepackage{pgffor,graphicx}\n\n\\foreach \\x in {1,...,3}{\\immediate\\write18{latex main && dvips -t unknown main && ps2pdf -dAutoRotatePages=\/None main.ps}}\n\n\\foreach \\ext in {aux,log,dvi,ps}{\\immediate\\write18{cmd \/c del main.\\ext}}\n\n\\begin{document}\n\\pdfximage{main.pdf}\n\\foreach \\ip in {1,...,\\the\\pdflastximagepages}{\\fbox{\\includegraphics[page=\\ip,scale=0.5]{main}}\\endgraf}\n\\end{document}\n\n-\n\nFor manual deletion, the latex editor TeXstudio (and probably its parent TeXmaker as well) contains an option \"Clean Auxiliary Files\" in the Edit menu.\n\nAs advised in other answers, aux file deletion should only be done manually when document no longer needs any further editing.\n\n-\nTeXstudio \"Clean Auxiliary Files\" does not delete .bcf, .run.xml, and .synctex.gz \u2013\u00a0Echeban Jan 7 '15 at 15:56\nIts easy to write all these extensions in the respective dialog box. \u2013\u00a0Ammar Jan 8 '15 at 16:40","date":"2016-02-13 06:54:36","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 1, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 2, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.8153532147407532, \"perplexity\": 6750.517910890343}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2016-07\/segments\/1454701166222.10\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20160205193926-00345-ip-10-236-182-209.ec2.internal.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
ACCEPTED
#### According to
Index Fungorum
#### Published in
Sydowia 10(1-6): 21 (1957)
#### Original name
Synchytrium lithophragmatis Karling
### Remarks
null | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 5,114 |
This program has been approved by the Alaska Bar Association for 13 credit hours of general Continuing Legal Education and an optional 1 hour of Ethics.
Michael L. Perlin is Professor of Law at New York Law School, an adjunct Professor of Law at Seton Hall University Law School, and an Adjunct Professor of Psychiatry and Law at the University of Rochester Medical Center and the New York College of Medicine. He also serves on the Board of Directors of the International Academy of Law and Mental Health. His three-volume treatise, Mental Disability Law: Civil and Criminal, won the 1990 Walter Jeffords Writing Prize; and has since been expanded into a five-volume second edition. His book, The Jurisprudence of the Insanity Defense, won the Manfred Guttmacher Award of the American Psychiatric Association and the American Academy of Psychiatry and Law as the best book of the year in law and forensic psychiatry in 1994-95. Another book, The Hidden Prejudice: Mental Disability on Trial, was published in 2000 as part of the American Psychological Association Press's Law, Society and Psychology series, and received the Otto Walter Writing Prize.
Robert Whitaker has been reporting on science and medicine for nearly 15 years. He first worked as a science-medical writer at the Albany Times Union, in Albany New York. Later, he was Director of Publications at Harvard Medical School, and in 1994, he co-founded a company called Center-Watch, which covered the business aspects of the clinical testing of new drugs. His articles on the mentally ill and the drug industry have won several awards, including the George Polk Award for medical writing, and the National Association of Science Writer's Award for best magazine article. A series he co-wrote for the Boston Globe on psychiatric research was named a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in 1998. Since "Mad in America," was released Mr. Whitaker has been writing books full time.
Nationally recognized expert on Mental Disability Law, Professor Michael Perlin of New York Law School and Robert Whitaker, award-winning author of "Mad in America," a social and medical history of our society's treatment of the severely mentally ill, will be presenting this seminar on Mental Health Disability Law September 10-11 in Anchorage.
The single person price for the entire seminar, including the optional one hour on ethics is $175.
An early registration discount of $25 will be given to those who register by August 15th.
In addition, up to five organizations can send up to ten people each for just $995.
For attorneys who just want to take the optional one hour presentation on Ethical Issues in Mental Health Law, subject to space availability, the price is $75.
Seating is limited so sign up early to ensure your spot! | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 333 |
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
PART I
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
PART 2
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
Teaser chapter
**Mouth to Mouth**
Lilith turned to go, and hesitated. That should have warned him, but it wasn't until she looked back over her shoulder and he saw the mischievous gleam in her eyes that Hugh realized her intent. He didn't have time to make a decision or protest. Between one moment and the next, Lilith was bending down and covering his mouth with hers. Anticipating a forceful kiss, Hugh began to resist, but his tension drained away when he felt the difference in her touch. She'd done this before, but never so gently. Her hands remained at her sides; with light pressure, she ran her tongue across his bottom lip. Lilith exhaled softly in pleasure and her breath filled his mouth with heat. And he was the one who reached up, clasping her nape to pull her more tightly against him—he who sought her tongue with his, suddenly starving for the taste of her. How did she affect him so deeply, and after so long? He had no defense against it now . . .
**PRAISE FOR "FALLING FOR ANTHONY" FROM** _**HOT SPELL**_
"An emotional roller coaster for both the characters and the reader. Meljean Brook has penned a story I am sure readers won't soon forget."
— _Romance Junkies_
"Intriguing . . . I wished for more time with the characters of her debut release."
— _Romance Reviews Today_
"In-depth and intriguing. I loved the obvious thought and ideas put into writing this tale. The characters are deep, as is the world that is set up."
— _The Romance Reader's Connection_
"Fantastic death-defying love."
— _Fresh Fiction_
**THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP**
**Published by the Penguin Group**
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
DEMON ANGEL
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / January 2007
Copyright © 2007 by Melissa Khan.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN : 978-1-101-56802-6
BERKLEY SENSATION®
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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_With all of my thanks to Echo, Megan, and my in-laws, for watching the tot. To Soojee and Maili, for helping me along. To Kat, for being there every single step of the way._
_And with my utmost gratitude to my editor, Cindy Hwang, who likes men in tights and women in bustiers as much as I do._
_A million times, thank you._
**PART I**
**CHAPTER 1**
# **County Essex, England**
## **October 1217**
The road lay enshrouded in mist. Though Hugh had traveled through this area many a time—as a squire accompanying Robert d'Aulnoy to Colchester, and once as a knight fleeing to the sea and seeking passage to Normandy—the familiar verdant landscape receded under the fog as it smudged groves of trees into vague shadows, erasing distance and detail with unrelenting gray.
The fog lay across the road, but could not obscure it. If not for a well-worn track, Hugh would have been forced to wait; the river ran too close to venture forward blindly, and his cargo was too precious to risk. But in the soft, illusory mist, the ancient road proved a solid guide as it unwound below him. Hugh watched fine gray tendrils eddying around his gelding's legs, and each step pushed them into a swirling dance.
The ring of hooves against stone, the murmurs of the servants, and the wooden creak of the countess's wagon seemed more insistent with nothing but the ground to look upon. He glanced back at the sun once; poised like a dull, silver coin, it shed weak light that turned gray to white, but failed to penetrate or burn away the thick vapor.
"Will we lose our way, Sir Hugh?"
Hugh turned in his saddle, reined his mount to the side and waited for the wagon to draw even with him. Lady Isabel had ordered the curtains tied open to better watch their progress—though there was not much to see. The countess's silks, weaved through with metallic threads, failed to shine as brightly as she'd no doubt intended them. Even the golden curls peeking from beneath her filet seemed subdued. Though she had dressed in her finest raiment for the final day of their journey and the reunion with her husband, Hugh detected neither excitement nor pleasure in her expression. And despite her question, nor did she appear concerned that the fog might delay them; her countenance remained as sweetly demure as ever.
"Nay, my lady, so long as we do not stray from the road." The perfection of her cheek drew his gaze; younger even than he was, she possessed flawless skin unmarked by time or labor. His hands flexed in his gauntlets, and he felt the rasp of calluses against leather. He'd earned them protecting her—in constant _preparation_ to protect her, and to serve d'Aulnoy.
"Are we near Fordham Castle?"
"If not for the mist, we could see it." Hugh pointed to the northeast. "Do you notice the incline of the road? We are approaching the ridge on which the first Earl of Essex built the castle."
The countess glanced down, as if searching for evidence of the gradual rise. Her servants did not need to see: they would feel it in the ache in their legs.
"Are we near the ruins, Sir Hugh?"
He dipped his head in confirmation. The remains of a Roman settlement marked the beginning of d'Aulnoy's holdings. "We shall come upon them soon. They lie a short distance from the road, however; we may not see them through the fog."
One of the countess's ladies-in-waiting leaned forward. "The thieves' den you spoke of, Isabel? Is it true, Sir Hugh, that we shall be set upon by bandits hiding among the ruins?"
The young countess blushed delicately; but Hugh had realized long ago the serene demeanor she affected in the courts and before her subjects hid a fanciful imagination, and it did not surprise him to learn she had been spinning tales to her ladies in private.
Would that he could blame his own yearnings on his age, but seventeen was long past time for fancy.
"Indeed, my lady. An ideal spot for an ambush it is," he said solemnly. In truth, lovers were more likely to be discovered between the deteriorating walls than outlaws. "Fear not, however; you are well protected against their villainy." He waved behind them, indicating the two knights who rode at the tail of their train and the foot soldiers. "I shall return you unharmed to your husband within hours."
The lady offered him a soft smile. "You have fulfilled your promise well, Sir Hugh. My husband shall be pleased, and I will request that he rewards you accordingly."
Surprised by her compliment, and trusting that the pale light and his helm masked the betraying heat in his cheeks, he bowed and said, "Serving you these two years has been its own reward, my lady."
He immediately regretted the triteness of his response, but she blushed and sat back against her cushions. She slanted him a glance wrought by delight and longing before she looked away, regaining her serenity. A low murmur from one of her attendants was followed by a burst of giggles from inside the wagon; Lady Isabel's mouth curved into a small, sad smile.
Contemplation of her expression suddenly felt like treason. Urging his horse forward, Hugh took lead again.
Despite the countess's promise of reward, he doubted d'Aulnoy would greet him with riches or lands. Hugh had been raised in the baron's castle and had acted as his squire for years; but the Earl of Essex could ill afford to bestow valuables upon a poor, unconnected knight, regardless of his affection for Hugh. The baron would have to strengthen his political alliances and repair whatever damage Lackland had wrought on his properties during his siege and afterwards.
And Hugh's service surely paled in comparison to those knights who'd been at d'Aulnoy's side during those desperate hours against the king. Protecting a child bride, however commendable, would not shine as brightly nor as immediately in d'Aulnoy's mind.
The shadow of the ruins appeared on the left, and he gratefully turned his attention to them. Though pleased their journey had been without incident, Hugh wished it hadn't provided him so much time to reflect on his uncertain future upon his return to Fordham Castle. And, despite his assurances of safety, it would be foolish not to be wary as they passed; in two years and under chaotic rule, a lovers' hideaway could easily turn into a site of ambush.
Centuries of pilfering for materials had left the walls partially intact. At least three buildings had stood beside the road; Hugh had examined them on previous trips and knew the layout well. The two closest to the roadway had been stripped almost down to the foundations, leaving a knee-high wall of masonry. The one behind retained its height, though the ceiling had long since fallen in. Columns lay broken into heavy cylinders at the entrance; it was generally accepted that it had been a temple, though to whom—or what—Hugh had never learned.
His gaze skimmed over the low walls, and he looked past them toward the temple, but could not discern the barest outline.
"Oh!" One of the women cried out, and he turned. The ladies' faces crowded the wagon's window. "I do hope the thief who steals the jewels from my kirtle is a handsome one!"
Their laughter trilled from the wagon, and Hugh allowed himself a smile before facing forward again. Spurring his horse on, he cast one last glance toward the ruins.
A figure in crimson rose from the ground behind the nearest wall and darted into the mist surrounding the temple.
Hugh blinked, certain he'd imagined it and mistook shadow for human. Nothing could move with such speed, not hind nor hound, but the ladies' shrill screams confirmed he had not been the only one to have seen it. He drew his sword and peered blindly into the fog. Was the person alone, or did the ruins conceal a party lying in wait?
Despite his attempt to calm himself, Hugh's pulse quickened until his heart pounded into a galloping beat. From behind him came a flurry of activity as servants and soldiers formed a defensive ring around the countess's litter. A few murmurs from Lady Isabel quieted the other women, and silence fell over the group, save for the jingle of mail and thud of hooves as Georges de Rouen rode to Hugh's side.
"You saw?" Hugh asked in a low voice.
"A female, richly dressed." The knight shouldered the crossbow that usually lay slung across his back and slid a bolt into the shelf. The Church frowned upon the weapon, but Hugh had not argued its presence for this journey. "You know this area best; what are your thoughts?"
A woman? Hugh had not been able to determine shape from his brief glimpse, but he trusted Georges's assessment. The older man's eye was unparalleled, whereas to Hugh, objects appeared blurred until he came within fifteen or twenty feet of them.
"Though the ladies would make this place a site of villainous infamy, the only sin I have encountered here is that of fornication." He met Georges's laughing gaze with his own before he sobered and added, "But women, even those fearing discovery of an assignation, cannot run so fast as she. An arrow from a bow couldn't have caught her."
Georges nodded thoughtfully and looked into the mist. "Should we suspect a trick? A cloak tied to a string? Or did the fog distort our vision and give her the illusion of quickness?"
"I know not." With a frustrated sigh, he glanced back at the litter. But for Lady Isabel, fear pinched the women's expressions. The countess watched him with calm, steady attention, trust shining in her eyes.
Hugh's gut tightened. "I will go," he said without thought. "If thieves wait, I shall flush them out before they can cause harm."
Georges's eyebrows rose, disappearing behind the brow of his helm. "Do you wish to prove your mettle, there are more worthy opponents than outlaws. Let us go on; they would be foolish to attack a party as well armed as ours." A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Of course, perhaps a jaunt into the mist would allow you to end this journey with an act of courage."
Noting the knight's wry tone, Hugh reddened. Was his attachment to the countess so obvious? And, apparently, harmless—Georges seemed to view Hugh's feelings with amusement rather than concern of infidelity or disloyalty.
"Go on, boy," Georges urged quietly. "Had we been in danger, they would already be upon us. And I doubt the lady we saw belongs to a band of thieves. More likely, you shall find her lover's braies left behind in his haste to escape." He raised his voice and cried, "Rout them, my brave lad! I shall cover your backside!"
Hugh lowered his head to hide his embarrassment and laughter, but obediently kicked his horse into motion. Once off the road, the gelding picked his way between the foundations and discarded stone of the nearest buildings, his steps muffled by the soft clay and thick grass.
At the temple's southwest corner, he paused and glanced behind him. Fog masked both road and travelers. The trepidation roused by the woman's appearance had faded during his conversation with Georges, but now, isolated from sight, his tension returned. If he and Georges had mistaken their safety, Hugh's display of bravery could endanger them all. Holding his sword at ready, he circled the temple walls, keeping their solid bulk on his left. Even should someone hide within the temple, he could not attack Hugh through the thickness of the masonry. Though perhaps by climbing the rough, rectangular stones . . . Hugh stole a glance upward, almost expecting to see a horde of thieves peering over the walls. No one. He grinned in self-reproach, chided himself for his nervousness, and approached the temple entrance. His horse skirted around the fallen columns. His apprehension eased into confidence when his first glimpse into the interior revealed it to be empty. But as he urged the gelding past the threshold, a moan sounded from the southeast corner.
Pivoting his horse with pressure from legs and reins, Hugh backed his mount against the opposite wall. He hefted his sword in warning, and his vision quickly adjusted to the dim light inside . . . there. A man stood by the—
Hugh's eyes widened and he barely contained the laughter that threatened to erupt from him.
Sir William Mandeville. D'Aulnoy's seneschal had not changed in two years, though Hugh had never seen him stretched as he was now: his hands tied over his head, his hose bunched around his spindly, white ankles. His partner had left him with the hem of his surcoat resting atop his erect rod and trailing down either side, exposing his ballocks and inner thighs. A woolen scarf covered his eyes, but couldn't disguise the rigid cast of his ruddy features, nor his rage and fear as he cried out, "Who is there? I hear the footsteps of your horse! Reveal yourself, coward! You dare look upon me in secrecy?"
The query cut through Hugh's amusement; silently, he watched the man struggle against his bonds. A part of him enjoyed the seneschal's humiliation; he well knew Mandeville's temper and pride, had been a target of the cruelty lingering beneath his words and actions. Mandeville was a fine seneschal, but should he realize Hugh had seen him in such a state, he would make Hugh's position in the castle unbearable.
As his status could not survive Mandeville's hatred, Hugh swallowed the response that rose in his throat, along with the temptation to declare himself the owner of this bit of power over the knight.
The gelding shifted uneasily beneath him, as if in response to Hugh's tension. There was nothing to do here—nothing to report. With a press of his heels, Hugh guided him back the temple's entrance. Once outside, he drew on the reins, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply the clean, thick air. A trembling had taken hold of his hands, and his sword rattled against the wooden scabbard as he sheathed it.
Shame and temptation shook him equally. If he had been older, more secure of his position, would he have taken advantage of the seneschal's weakness? Undoubtedly. But such an action would have been foolhardy; no matter how he wanted it, how it burned bitterly in his gut, he must act in a manner that would ensure his future. He must curb his tongue. He must act with honor—even though Mandeville rarely did the same.
"A rather disappointing display of cowardice, Sir Pup."
A woman stood by the gelding's head, stroking the horse's broad cheek. Though her words had been spoken softly, Hugh startled, and her lips tilted into a secretive smile as she looked him over. Her gaze finally rose to meet his, her eyes dark and amused.
He quickly recovered his composure, but the quick beat of his heart did not immediately ease. Had he been so distracted that she'd been able to sidle up to him undetected? How did she move so swiftly, so silently?
Like she, he kept his voice low so as not to be overheard by Mandeville. "Cowardice, my lady?"
For indeed, her clothing declared her such. Her scarlet cloak was thrown back, revealing an overdress of fine black. She wore no cap over her dark hair, though it was parted and bound as severely as any other lady's. No beauty was she, but broad-beamed and flat-featured, like an ill-tempered cow.
Yet her eyes sparkled with wit and vivacity, as if she would not be contained by her lackluster features, and demureness were a sin.
"Yes, cowardice. Imagine the power you could wield over him had you the courage to grasp it." Her expression challenged him to take offense. When he made no response, she stepped forward and traced her fingers over his hand, still clenched around the hilt of his sword. Her skin was warm—hot—despite the cool air. "You shook with desire, Sir Hugh. Could it be I'm mistaken, and you have not been aroused by the opportunity to secure a better position within Fordham? If you threatened to bring each member of your party into the temple so they may be shocked and decry his perversity, do you not think he would honor your every request?"
Her breasts pressed against his leg. His chausses prevented direct contact, but the pressure of her soft, generous curves drew his eyes. Though a moment ago he had not noted any immodesty in her dress, he realized naught hid the upper swell her bosom, and creamy flesh mounded over her neckline. Hugh stared down into the depths of her cleavage and swallowed, finally remembering to reply.
" 'Honor' is not a word I would associate with profiting from a man's humiliation."
Her laugh set the mounds a-jiggling. He hastily returned his gaze to her face, and she said, "Do not pretend you aren't tempted, honor or no. I am sorely tempted to expose him, and I'm the one who tied him there."
Aye, he could easily imagine this woman, with her wicked eyes, binding Sir William and teasing him into the state Hugh had seen. Who was she? She'd known his name, his destination, yet Hugh was certain they'd never met. "If you wish his humiliation, then you must know Sir William well," he said.
Her grin revealed sharp, white teeth—unexpectedly perfect teeth for someone of her apparent age. "Indeed. Although the position you found him in is a far better indicator of how well I know him." She smoothed her palm over the back of his ankle, unprotected by armor. The heat of her fingers burned through his hose and boots. He shifted his foot in the stirrup. Her breasts heaved upward with the movement, and her hand slid up the length of his calf, hugging his leg against her.
_Trapped by a fine pair of bubbies._ Choking back a laugh, he said, "You have me at a disadvantage, my lady, for you know far more than I."
An unfathomable emotion flickered in her dark eyes. Just as quickly, it disappeared and her amusement shone bright again. "An innocent, are you?" Her fingernails tickled the back of his knee, and she smiled when he drew in a sharp breath. "Then perhaps we should make a bargain, and even our playing fields? What would you like?"
"Your name."
A harmless request, but unease skittered down his spine as she drew back, her expression triumphant. "A name is nothing, Sir Hugh. Agreed. 'Tis Lilith." Surprise fluttered across his features. Before he could respond to the unusual name, or demand a family and connection, she pursed her lips and added, "And I should like you to announce your presence to Sir William."
He began shaking his head, and her smile grew disdainful. "Or shall you betray our bargain and your honor?"
Lilith struggled to keep her scorn on her bovine features when all she wanted was to bang her head repeatedly against the temple's rock wall. Stupid, to try casting aspersions on his honor or courage in order to generate a heated, thoughtless response. She'd done so earlier, and he had regarded her as calmly as he did now.
Did she never learn? Or had she become so used to men of Mandeville's ilk—proud, vain, cruel men—that she'd become a creature of habit? True, she'd become bored in her old role, and seized the opportunity to corrupt an innocent when Lucifer had offered it, but she hadn't expected innocence to present a challenge.
Nor had she expected the challenge to be so pleasant to look upon. A pity this innocent was not hers—still, that would not prevent her from playing with him.
"Honor?" he echoed, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. Oh, those were fine brows. Even a demon could not find an imperfection in them, though she might try. Like dark mahogany, they matched the hair that curled soft as a cherub's, barely visible beneath his helm. Thick lashes framed clear, azure eyes. At an age between adolescence and maturity, his cheeks and jawline curved gently, as if his face were too youthful for angles. "What you ask is hardly in fair exchange for what you deemed 'nothing.' "
"My good sir, the terms of the bargain are equal! I gave you my name . . . and you have only to give yours to Sir William."
A smile seemed to threaten the corners of his mouth. "The consequences are uneven. Name another—worth nothing—and I will leave you to your assignation and return to my party."
She affected a pout. She'd been listening to those waiting on the road, but Hugh's absence had not yet caused them significant worry. Much longer, however, and they would come after him. "Perhaps they already begin to search for you," she lied easily. "Your resistance will be for naught, and they will all look upon Sir William. I heard the ladies laughing earlier—will they laugh the louder for his prick being exposed to their gaze?"
"Not one lady," Hugh said beneath his breath, but Lilith had no trouble discerning his words.
"Ah, aye," she said. "Lady Isabel. She is far too kind a creature to laugh at another's misfortune. And she would not think the better of you for being the procurer of their amusement. Does her opinion matter so much?"
To her frustration, she could not read his face, and he had unusually strong shields for one so young—as if he often hid his thoughts even from himself. But the granite voice with which he replied gave her the answer she sought. "Name your side of the bargain, lady."
"A kiss." He looked at her with surprise, and she arched a brow. " 'Tis nothing but a meeting of lips. It only has meaning when there is love or a promise involved, and there is neither between us."
"It should not be given without love or promise," he said, but his gaze fell to her lips.
"So idealistic." She grinned and slid her tongue over her teeth. "I should love to corrupt you."
A chuckle rumbled from him as he leaned over. "I promise I would not be worth the effort."
She had to rise on her toes to meet his lips. They were firm and cool beneath hers, and he did not immediately pull away, but neither did he deepen the kiss. She felt his tension—as if he expected her to take the kiss farther, and both feared and hoped she would.
Oh, to choose between desire and fear. Her instincts cried for her to take his mouth fully, to subject him to a sensual onslaught, to play on his fear—but her instincts had guided her wrongly with him before. And so she decided to both assuage his fear and deny his desire by ending the kiss.
She nipped gently at his bottom lip and his mouth opened. The beat of his heart skipped and increased, drumming loud in her ears. Pleased by his involuntary response, she stepped away to gauge his reaction. He blinked and straightened, his cheeks flooding with color.
"I see you make a habit of only taking a man so far," he said ruefully.
Had he said it in any other tone, it would have been a condemnation of her as a cock-tease. Instead, he made sport of himself.
"Only as far as they will," she replied; for truthfully, she could not act contrary to a human's free will.
"Perhaps you mistook mine."
She pushed the absurdly pleased rush of emotion away, and wondered if she should feel insulted that he suggested she'd misread him. "I think not."
"I've never pitied Sir William before this day." He smiled as he delivered the backward compliment, then bowed. "My lady."
Lilith seized the reins beneath his horse's chin before he could turn away. He frowned.
"Do you not realize the women will speak of your brave venture into the ruins after they reach the castle?" The words tripped from her mouth. "Mandeville will discover who saw him thus."
Hugh nodded solemnly, his beautiful mouth tightening. "Of course I have realized, my lady. But the dishonor of his reaction—should it be dishonorable—will belong to him alone. I will not compound it by threats or humiliation."
She narrowed her eyes and studied him. How foolish to set himself up for the punishment Mandeville would undoubtedly deliver when its avoidance could so easily be had. Then inspiration struck: he had already made one bargain. It should be easy to convince him into another. "I will enter into another agreement with you, Sir Hugh. You undoubtedly want Sir William to have no knowledge of your seeing him—I can guarantee that."
"How?"
She lowered her lashes. "Come now, you do not think I will reveal my secrets?"
"I think you have already revealed them." His gaze fell to her chest.
She did not need to feign her laughter. When it faded, she asked, "What say you?" He had little choice but to accept her offer; he must know that.
"What shall you ask in return?"
She hid the triumph that shot through her. "I do not yet know, but it shall be an equal favor." When he hesitated, she pressed, "Have we a bargain, Sir Hugh?"
He gave a short nod. "We do. I'm in your debt, my lady."
He did not sound as though he relished that knowledge—all the more reason for her to enjoy it. She lowered her lids to hide the glee that boiled within her. Her nape burned as his stare fell upon her like a hot iron prodding for lies. He doubted his judgment in making the bargain, and did not trust her—but he would not renege. Of that she was certain.
She folded her hands demurely over her midriff to prevent herself from rubbing them together in anticipation. " 'Tis nothing, Sir Hugh."
Lilith watched as the mist swallowed Hugh's mounted form, listened to the laughing, nervous coos of greeting from the women. All but one woman—Lilith paid particular attention to that lady's relieved sigh.
Ah, but this was almost too easy.
The rough slide of rope against stone recalled Sir William to her. Gathering up her skirts, she skipped into the temple.
He turned his head, blindly following her trampling path. "Marie?"
"Aye, 'tis I," she sang and danced into a spin. His hesitation pleased her, as did his fear.
"You ran, and I was seen." She felt his shame roll into rage. He shook his head as if to dislodge the blindfold. "Untie me!"
Her good humor dropped from her like a shroud. "You were not seen," she lied, observing his angry struggles with distaste. Whilst she waited at the castle, she had chosen him to play with, to pass the time, but it seemed little worth it now.
"I heard—"
"A horse."
"Without rider?" he scoffed. "You are both slut and liar."
"Oh, I am more than that," she murmured, settling herself lightly upon a fallen column. Perched as she was, he might have discerned something of her true nature—but, blindfold or no, such as Sir William had no discernment. It had served her so well over the centuries: those she had manipulated saw nothing beyond themselves.
She sighed as he roared for her to untie him. Destroying him would have been a sweet pleasure, if a rather worthless one. Unless Sir William had a dramatic turnabout in his nature, he was destined for Hell; anything she did would only accelerate his damnation. One such as Hugh, however, or the baron, or Isabel—their temptation and damnation would add a soul not already doomed.
She touched her lips, ignoring Sir William's increasingly furious demands. If she did this well, perhaps she could tempt all three. Such a coup—and on her first attempt in this role!—should win her some reward. And Hugh would make a fine companion, with his beauty and his absurd mix of practicality and idealism. He could entertain her for a time, perhaps even a century or two. Beneath her fingers, her mouth curved into a frown. Of course, Lucifer would not allow him to retain his beauty, as she had not been able to keep hers. Nor would his innocence survive the descent and torture Below.
"—IMMEDIATELY! Do you hear me, Marie? Marie!" As if her silence had made him fear she'd left him again, he repeated her name with a hint of uncertainty.
She eyed his flaccid penis, then leaned forward and collected a long, slender branch from the floor of the temple, where she'd dropped it after a similar encounter a sennight earlier. It had left satisfactory stripes across his arse, she remembered. "Have you finished bellowing?"
A poke to his testicles sent the heavy sac swinging. He gasped in pain—but not too much, she noted, as his cock began to fatten. "Marie?"
That ridiculous name. She lifted the tip of his burgeoning penis with the switch, balanced its length along the wooden shaft. Studied the blind little eye.
And because there was no one to see, she let herself be Lilith. Her constricting clothing vanished. The shift from human to demon form was instantaneous, a shiver of newly crimson skin and a ripple of muscle. Black, membranous wings sprouted from her back; she stretched them wide, debating whether to push the transformation further. No one would appreciate the effect of fangs, forked tongue and claws, so she grew them for her own pleasure and imagined William's reaction if he saw her this way.
His screams would be as music to her pointed ears.
But she'd made a bargain with Hugh, and so she must create a different tune. She had to fulfill the terms of her agreement; as with human free will, it must be honored. She was unused to bargaining—her slip with the name, allowing Hugh to ask for her real name instead of what she was 'called'—had been a mistake, but not an irreparable one. Bargaining wasn't usually part of her repertoire when tormenting murderers and rapists, but a skill she still had to learn. In a hundred years, she'd be a master—but for now, she would do what she could.
Lowering the stick, she fastidiously wiped the tip on the ground. She didn't need pain to get her point across.
Her tongue would do quite nicely.
**CHAPTER 2**
The celebratory mood that swept over the castle slowly faded as the day wore on, and though Hugh was greeted with exclamations and felicitations for his successful return, these were soon replaced by the duties life demanded, conversations became shorter, men more ready to excuse themselves from Hugh's recounting of the journey.
Robert had claimed his wife and kept her by his side throughout the day, her ladies-in-waiting settled themselves and set about their work, and Hugh found himself in the bailey, standing beside Georges and watching the squires' fencing practice. Though Hugh knew many of the squires well and was of the same age, he couldn't ignore the separation that seemed between them now. More than two years, it was the separation of rank and position—one that, judging by the glances he'd received, many of them felt he had not deserved.
"When do you return to Anjou?"
"A fortnight, perhaps; the court should like me to report that the lady is settled well," Georges said. "The boy should plant his feet less firmly."
Hugh nodded as a squire failed to give against his opponent's blow and was knocked to the ground. Beyond the field, a figure rode through the gate, and Hugh stiffened. Mandeville.
Lilith did not seem to be with him—but no, likely they'd have arranged to return as if separately.
"The lady in crimson," Georges said softly. He was looking in the opposite direction, and Hugh turned to see Lilith striding across the bailey. She saw him at the same moment and smiled boldly, redirecting her steps on line with him and Georges.
Georges rested his hands on the hilt of his sword, as if casually, but Hugh had known him long enough to sense the tension and readiness within the older man. He had barely a moment to wonder at it before Lilith reached them.
"Sir Hugh." He bowed, and as he rose noticed her sudden rigidity. Her hand clenched at her side. Her smile was brittle. "And—?"
Realizing that she stared at Georges, he quickly made the introduction. "Sir Georges mentored me during my time in the Angevin court," he added.
Her head tilted, her eyes narrowed. "Indeed."
"Indeed," Georges echoed.
Awkwardly, unsure of how to explain her when he knew only her Christian name and nothing of her connections, Hugh continued, "And this is the lady, Lil—"
"I am Marie de Lille," she said smoothly. "Recently come from Rochester Castle."
Hugh nodded; likely, she'd been a part of the household before the siege and had been shuffled between distant relatives after the castle had changed hands. Unmarried, brash, unremarkable in face and form—she would be a difficult fit in many ladies' circles. He eyed her rich clothing; she must have some form of support, and he doubted it was the generosity of other women.
She slanted him an amused glance, as if she could read his thoughts, and his cheeks heated. He was almost thankful when Sir William interrupted them.
"I see you are returned, pup." His gaze ran between Lilith and Hugh, hot with anger.
Hugh fought to keep his dislike from his expression. "I am."
"And you returned on the same worthless nag you borrowed ere you left," Mandeville said.
Hugh felt the insult. A horseless knight was one of little value, a burden to his lord. "He was too worthless to eat, and so I rode him," he said.
"For two years? Tourneys are not outlawed in France, yet you've not earned arms nor mount."
Lilith stood with her hands behind her back, rocking back and forth from heels to toes as if enjoying the tension immensely. "Why is it, Sir Hugh, that you have armor but no arms?" He flushed, but she only pursed her lips and allowed her eyes to run the length of his form. "I have heard speak of a young man—an exceedingly young man—knighted the evening before the barons met Lackland at Runnymede. And of how d'Aulnoy gave him his own suit of mail, feeling the deepest affection for him."
Hugh shrugged, trying to control his embarrassment. "He'd had another made for him; it no longer fit him, but it did me."
"Aye, he grew too fat," Lilith said bluntly. "But you have grown in those two years, for you've had to split the links at the shoulders."
She couldn't have known that, since he'd removed the heavy armor soon after arriving at the castle, but she'd seen him wearing the mail. It was impossible to pretend he'd not met her at the temple now. Mandeville's face mottled with his rage; Georges stared at her without expression.
"I had plenty of time to practice," Hugh said quietly. "I expanded."
Her eyes glittered with humor. Tapping her finger against her bottom lip, she continued, "But Sir William thinks you should have been making your fortune in tournaments. Yet you did not enter even a one, and so you own nothing of a knight's belongings but a poorly mended bit of armor. Even your horse was loaned to you for the mission only." A sly look entered her gaze. "But I suppose it would have been difficult to protect the countess had you jaunted off to every tourney."
"Aye," Hugh said, suddenly baffled. Was she making sport of him or defending him? "Many men die in the tournaments, and I couldn't fulfill my duties injured or dead."
"So you let yourself grow soft in the courts?"
"He has said he expanded in practice," Lilith said to Mandeville with a touch of exasperation. "Sir Georges mentored him."
"Aye?" He gave the older man a dismissive look.
"You are welcome to try his arm," Georges said.
A bit of glee lit the seneschal's face. "Are you game, pup? Want a bit of practice?"
Hugh grinned, a cold, confident expression that belied the angry resignation in his gut. "Of course."
Lilith leaned against the wall next to Georges, her hands behind her back. In her fists, she clutched the sword she had called in from her invisible cache of weapons, and hid its length between skirts and stone.
Unfortunate she couldn't make it appear in the center of his chest instead of in her hand.
"You reek, Guardian," she said for his ears only.
"You did not notice my odor at the ruins earlier."
That he was right annoyed her. "You sent him in, knowing I was there." She glanced away from the field, where Hugh and William circled, each holding swords with blunted edges. Though he'd adopted the appearance of a man long past his youth, this close he couldn't hide what he was from her. Michael—the Doyen, leader of the Guardians, sworn to protect humans from such as she.
Except he had never killed her as he did other demons; she knew why, and the reason made her bold and angry. "You should no longer be so careless with innocents around me." Unlike Lilith, Michael did not take his eyes from the combatants on the field, as if he did not consider her a threat. "You thought he would distract me from my mission," she guessed.
"He has."
She smiled. "He is but part of my plan. Surely you've seen how he looks at the countess? And she him?"
"It means nothing; he will not do what you think."
"Of course he will." She returned her attention back to the combatants. William fell back, unable to withstand the onslaught of Hugh's speed and quickness. Easy to admire the play of strength and agility in his body. "You've trained him well, for a human."
He cast her a disapproving glance. "You are not so different from him."
She let her eyes glow red for the briefest moment. "I am."
He stared at her, seeming to pierce inside her until she had to look away. "This new role is not for you, Lilith. The old one, where you played the Fury and acted in the name of vengeance sat more easily upon you."
She laughed. "I grew bored, and that role wore thin. Damning souls for the armies Below will be much more rewarding." She looked at Hugh, who had finally managed to win and gave an exaggerated lick of her lips. "Much more rewarding."
"I will not allow you the same leniency in this new role, Lilith," he warned.
"My sword is ready."
"Your soul is not," he said. When she waved a dismissive hand, he continued, "You are not the first of your kind, the halflings, to attempt this role. They all failed." She felt him study the stony line of her face. "How many are left, Lilith?"
Only five. Sick dread tightened her belly, and she forced it and the image of the frozen faces away. _She_ would not renege on her bargain.
"Perhaps if you succeed in this, the Morningstar will make more of your kind. Perhaps he'll include you in the making of them. Instead of collecting souls, you'll simply have to persuade men into blood sacrifice. How would that role suit you? I wager no better than this one."
Her mouth firmed, but she was distracted as, on the field, Mandeville was forced to his knees. The fine tremor in Hugh's arms, his stranglehold on the handle of the sword suddenly fascinated her. "Look," she said. "He shakes with the desire to strike the seneschal again, and the effort it takes him to hold back. All for a bit of practice. Think you not I can break him, bring that forth in a manner so destructive it will tear him apart?"
"Aye, he bends to temptation," Georges said. "But he will not break. You know naught of good men, Lilith."
Unsettling, that a Guardian said what she'd thought to herself upon meeting the young knight. And, indeed, Hugh was pulling back from Mandeville now—the danger had passed.
"I know I should like to kill _you_ ," she said sweetly. "And he has already entered into a bargain."
No surprise on Georges's face; of course not, he would have heard its making from his post on the road. "Will you not release him?"
She answered with her laughter. Entering a bargain didn't endanger its participants' souls, but failing to complete it did. A human could release himself from a bargain in which neither of the terms had been fulfilled, or only the human's part completed—and a demon was bound up to that point. But once a demon had fulfilled its part, only she could release the human.
And she had completed her part.
He sighed, and she clenched her jaw against his disappointment. She should not feel it.
"I leave this evening," he said.
Her brows rose, mocking. "To search for your sword?" All knew he'd lost that great weapon a millennium before.
"A nosferatu, in the northern part of the isle."
Anticipation of a hunt boiled through her, but she forced it away. She could not chase after nosferatu _and_ work on the baron and countess.
The Doyen smiled. "Aye, this new role chafes already, does it not?"
And she could only seethe, for Hugh's return to their side prevented her the last word.
"I do not think you've fulfilled your side of the bargain," Hugh said, unable to hide his amusement. Flicking a glance at Mandeville's seat upon the dais, he found the seneschal watching them. "He glowers at me like death. 'Tis fortunate my lord has forbidden weapons in the great hall, or I fear I would be one of the courses, skewered and laid out on the table."
Lilith turned to see, her eyes narrowing as she took in the seneschal's expression. Hugh watched her stare him down with a touch of amazement; Mandeville looked away, his face flushed and with not a tiny bit of fear.
She glanced back at Hugh, her chin raised at a haughty angle. "Death," she said, "would never cower before me."
"I should like to learn that trick," he murmured. "Though I'm certain I wouldn't like to do what it was that made him fear you so."
"His fear will turn to anger soon enough," she said. "As for the matter of our bargain, I did as you asked. He has no idea that you saw him."
He sliced her a doubtful glance.
She laughed. "You must allow that I had little to work with; tales of your jaunt into the ruins have already spread through the castle. I had to include that into my tale, or he would find me out for a liar."
"What was your story?"
Her mischievous gaze held his. "That I encountered you outside the temple, enticed you from your horse, and allowed you under my skirts."
He paused with a bit of lamb halfway to his mouth, his eyes widening. "Nay," he said, choking on a horrified laugh.
"Indeed." She grinned. "And I explained that your horse wandered into the temple, and then out between the time I first took you into my mouth and you spent your seed within me."
A groan rose within him, accompanied by a rush of heat, but he couldn't stop laughing. "Nay," he repeated, and dropped his head into his hands. He peered through his fingers. "Please tell me that you jest."
"I'm in earnest." She dipped her fingers into her goblet, lifted them to trace wine over her lips. "And when you had left me, I returned inside the temple and explained to him that you had left me so well used that I did not feel like finishing with him. That, in comparison to your great length, youth, and virility, there was little reason for me to continue with him. He was so distracted by such a thought, that all his anger turned to me and the idea of his having been seen by a stranger fled."
Hugh held himself very still, his laughter dying. "The aim of our bargain was to keep myself from his anger; you have merely transferred it from one reason to another."
She blinked slowly, like a cat full of canary. "I fulfilled the terms of the bargain."
And he was in the same predicament he had tried to avoid. Bewilderment and a sense of betrayal stalked his emotions, though he did not know why. He could not find anger within him at her, though—he had himself to blame. He should not have trusted her.
"Aye, you did," he agreed. "And I owe you a lie. Perhaps I should call you a beauty."
He immediately regretted such cruelty, but it was as if she didn't feel it. "Nay," she said, her eyes leveled on his face. For the first time, he could detect no hint of amusement, or mischief. "I will let you know when I need the lie."
Nodding stiffly, he turned back to his food, began eating with his full attention. He felt her gaze upon him, though. Trying to ignore it became impossible, and when he finally gave in, he found her grinning at him.
He couldn't resist. She was wicked, terrible—and the most intriguing person he'd met. Perhaps he was too easily led astray by sin, too eager to enter into bargains and let his curiosity get the better of his judgment, but for now, he would allow it. "How did you know me?"
"At the temple?" At his nod, her grin widened. "Sir William spoke of you often. 'The foundling pup favored by the baron.' That is what he calls you: Sir Pup." She looked him up and down. "I knew who you were, not only because the castle was expecting your and the countess's return, but because of your youth. And your beauty; Sir William is not the only one to talk."
He blushed, and she looked upon it as if his embarrassment were a present solely for her.
"Though Essex does not seem to favor you so much now," she said softly. Hugh's gaze dropped to the table. It was true; a coolness had descended between, though he knew not the reason. "Perhaps he has realized that knighting a boy in his fifteenth year could be perceived as a display of weakness, more than strength. How many were knighted that day?"
A smile touched his mouth. "All who had earned it and had the means to procure their armor and arms." Hugh had not been one of them, and he was three years younger than any other. "You think it a weakness, to arrive with a large retinue of knighted men?"
"It is when the soldiers are boys, and the knighting an obvious attempt to bolster his numbers. It reeks of desperation. Perhaps you have become a symbol of that failure to d'Aulnoy—he lost his holdings for a year and a half. His display of strength was apparently not great enough to keep the king at bay." She smiled suddenly. "But perhaps an advantageous marriage will change your luck. Amongst the ladies, there is naught but gossip of the handsome knight who has finally returned."
Hugh glanced down the length of the table, uncomfortable with this talk of what he had—and what he did not—and met the interested gaze of several women. A few puzzled looks as well, as they glanced past him to Lilith. He quickly dropped his gaze again; he should not be sitting with her—he had not the importance. But, upon meeting him within the hall she had insisted he serve her, and he'd not wanted to cause a scene by refusing. And, he forced himself to admit, he still resented that Mandeville had put him in his place in the courtyard.
A capon sliced easily under his knife, and he laid several choice pieces upon Lilith's trencher. " 'Tis unfortunate they do naught but gossip."
"And which one would you have do more?" Though neither her expression nor tone betrayed her amusement, he felt it and could not resist smiling in return. "Behind you sits the youngest daughter of the sheriff of Chelmsford, and I have heard her speak of your eyes, bright blue as the afternoon sky. She is exceedingly comely, is she not?"
"Aye, but her poetry lacks originality."
"Her father is rich."
He stole a look over his shoulder, grinning. "Aye? Perhaps her singing will compensate for her poor verse-making."
"A fine voice can give life to dull lyrics," Lilith nodded, her eyes sparkling. "And she will sound lovely in bed, even if her movements put you to sleep before the song is spent."
Hugh choked, coughing until his laughter cleared his throat. "Has a man ever dared fall asleep before you?"
"Only very brave and very stupid men." She placed a small bit of roasted apple daintily on her tongue. "But I'll admit my singing is not particularly fine."
"Just exceptionally loud?"
"Aye, loud." She tilted her head, and her gaze dropped to his lap. "And I have mastered the appropriate instruments."
Her words inspired an image that heated his blood, and he was grateful for the table, hiding the effects of it. His breath hitched, and her gaze met his; knowledge and temptation burned in the dark depths of her eyes. Remembering Sir William's situation, some of the wicked bravado that had allowed him to equal her in the conversation deserted him.
As if sensing his withdrawal, she frowned. "Come now, Sir Hugh. Do not disappoint me."
"I do not mean to, my lady," he said, his voice rueful. "But I'm unused to such conversation with a woman."
"You were enjoying it."
"Aye."
A page set the new course before them, allowing Hugh a moment to gather himself—though it was not a lonely moment, for he felt Lilith examining his face as if she could discern every thought that passed through his mind.
"Perhaps that is the difficulty," he said when the boy had moved down the table. "I should not take pleasure in such a discussion.'Tis . . . unseemly."
She regarded him in silence for a moment. "I frighten you."
A flush reddened his skin. She was laughing at him, and after a moment of wrestling with his masculine pride, he allowed himself the same. "Aye, my lady. I would not like to end up tied to a wall—but I think your conversation and the temptation you offer may lead there."
"Such frank conversation arouses you?"
His face burned. "Aye."
"Is it so terrible to be aroused?"
He nodded, and took a sip of wine, hoping that it would soothe his suddenly parched mouth.
"Then we should turn our conversation to a different topic," she said. "What non-arousing subjects did you and the countess speak of when you fled to Anjou? And in the two years during? For certain, you never discussed anything that wasn't perfectly innocent. What could have filled your thoughts two years ago? The decision of the Lateran Council, forbidding clerics from issuing an order of execution? Forbidding them to bless the water and hot iron used in torture?" She nodded, her lips tilted in amusement. "Such would be fine conversation between a lady and a knight."
"We spoke of the barons' rebellion," he said slowly, certain it was true but unable to remember her position aside from the demure support of her husband. Pleasantries, such as _I am certain my lord will prevail_ and _I trust my lord will do what is right_ had fallen from her lips many a time, with no indication that she possessed a real understanding of the rebellion. At the time, he had found her unquestioning support a sign of true love and devotion; now he wondered if she had simply been so young the situation had bewildered her, and his own youth had hidden her lack of understanding.
"And what did you say of the barons' rebellion?" Lilith did not seem interested in his answer; she pushed her food around with her fingers, and Hugh noted absently that aside from a few tiny bites, she had not consumed much at all. Hardly enough to maintain her bulk. Perhaps she was a woman who had meals sent to her later, when no one could observe her gluttony.
But no, that did not fit. He could not imagine her hiding any sin. She flaunted her faults.
He might as well flaunt his. In a low voice, he said, "I thought they should have dragged Lackland to a platform and hanged him."
Her head jerked up, and she stared at him in surprise. "You _said_ such to her?"
"Nay." He glanced up at the dais, where Lady Isabel sat next to her husband, smiling sweetly at him. D'Aulnoy appeared utterly enraptured by his young bride. "But his tyranny should have been halted with more than a document that he had no intention of honoring."
"He was forced into signing," Lilith said. "By barons who had only their own interests at heart."
"Better the interests of many be served than the selfishness of one. His wars would have taken all, from all."
Lilith lifted a shoulder. "He was king. The barons' duty was to serve him." She slid a sliver of capon into her mouth.
"He was king. His duty was to serve and protect his subjects."
Licking a trail of almond milk from her bottom lip, she raised an eyebrow, her expression one of obvious doubt. "So, if a ruler is selfish his subjects may remove him from his throne?"
"Aye," he said. "And if there is no other course to remove a tyrant, then what other option but death?"
She smiled. "You are bloodthirsty, demanding the head of a king whose offenses are not truly terrible. I think you must carry the opinions of your liege, for were you older, you would know what Lackland did was not truly tyranny."
He flushed. Had he not thought the same thing of Lady Isabel a moment ago—that she was too young for understanding? True, the countess was a woman and should not have a head for such things, but he was only two years her senior.
"And who determines his selfishness? Those who benefit from his removal?" She waved a hand at the dais. "A boy rules now," she continued. "There can be no more selfish creature than a child. And he is hardly competent but for those around him . . . who happened to advise the return of Essex's holdings. Do you approve of his leadership because you benefit from it as well?"
His color deepened. Did she twist his words to suggest that he would execute a boy king? That his acceptance of an incompetent ruler was only because he'd been able to return to Fordham Castle? "If a ruler is just, whether it be due to advisors or no, then all benefit, and his removal will not be necessary or called for."
Her laugh took on a brittle edge, as if echoing against something hard and hollow within her. "The Morningstar and his followers are a primary example contrary to that statement, I think."
"That was their evil, not His," he said.
"Ah, but who created them?" She pushed her trencher forward. Her dark gaze seemed lit with inner fire. "He must have known what would happen and allowed it. Is the evil theirs, or His? Why give the individual free will, then punish them for the wrong decisions, when He must know the wrong decisions will be made? Is everything a test?" Lilith's eyelids lowered. "We all fail."
Hugh stared at her, his stomach twisting into a knot at such blasphemy. "The mother who has lost her babe asks the same question. Why allow such a thing to happen, and innocence to be lost? 'Tis not a new question, but one we do not need to ask. If He planned it, it must be right. There are many questions I could ask, many laments: why was I not born into a noble family, but a foundling? Why are those without honor or piety rewarded now? I don't question, but accept what I've been given and make the best of it, and trust that we receive our due in time."
"Then you shall sing with the angels in no time at all," Lilith said.
He frowned at her sarcasm. "I don't pretend to be without flaw. None of us are."
"Except, of course, your Lady Isabel."
How had the conversation delved into this? He ran his hand through his hair, strove for something lighter. "She snores in her sleep." She pursed her lips, and he hastily added, "I know because I was guarding her, not because I made a habit of sleeping near her."
"She desired otherwise."
He shook his head, rejecting her claim.
"Aye," Lilith said. "And how could she not? Look at her husband: powerful, but thrice her age and nothing to desire."
"He is a good man," Hugh protested.
"You think that matters to a girl such as she? In ten years, she will become a powerful woman in her own right. She is not a silly girl, but she is a fanciful one at times. Tell me, Sir Hugh: in the Angevin court, did you hear the songs of the troubadour, the tales of the beautiful maidens and their loyal knights? Don't you think she spun you into her dreams? What is that popular one? About the knight in the cart who abases himself for love of a married lady? Who saves her by crossing a bridge of swords? Who bleeds when he breaks through the bars of her bedchamber to have her?"
"Nay," he managed. "She knows her duty."
"Aye, duty. Her mind does, but does her heart?" Her gaze pierced him. "And what of yours? If a tournament were held tomorrow, and she asked you to do your worst and to wear her favor, would you?" Her voice lowered further, and he strained to hear her, though part of him rebelled against her words. "No one would think anything of it; her husband would not fight, for he is too aged, and it would seem natural for her to pick you in his stead. But the two of you would know the significance behind such a choice. If she asked, would you lower yourself before her to prove your devotion, like the knight in the cart? Would you give your life, your good name, and your soul for the adoration of a woman who will never be yours, and who, within ten years, will have lost the innocence you so cherish in her?"
"My life, my good name—aye," he breathed, and it was as if she had pulled that exhalation from him. "But not my soul. She would not ask for it."
"She asks for it with each longing glance she fails to hide," Lilith said.
"And what do you ask? With your wicked words and your suggestions? What is it you want from me?"
She held his eyes over the rim of her cup. "The same as Isabel."
**CHAPTER 3**
Even in the dead of night, the castle never quieted; always a noise intruded, from human and animal. Lilith lay between the daughter of the Chelmsford sheriff and Colchester's youngest sister, staring at the ceiling and counting lines of wood grain until she thought she might go mad from it. She could hear Isabel's snores, and she grinned into the darkness, thinking of Hugh. The baron's breathing was low and deep, though an hour ago he had been straining and grunting over Isabel, punctuating his groans with murmurs of love and devotion.
_Love._ A human weakness, easily confused with lust. And when it was true and fierce, as Robert's love for his wife was fierce, its strength was the perfect tool for destruction.
She should have been taking this opportunity to enter his dreams, as she had the past few weeks, planting suggestions of Isabel's betrayal. Should have been sending erotic images of the young knight to the countess. Should have sought out Hugh's mind, suggested ambition and adultery.
But she did not.
The Chelmsford girl rolled in her sleep, pressing against Lilith's breasts. With a shove, Lilith pushed her off the pallet, biting her lips against a laugh when she heard the thump. She regretted it when she was forced to close her eyes and feign sleep as the girl crawled back into the bed and snuggled against her side, shivering, and she waited interminably for her to fall back into slumber.
It was intolerable, having to live among them, pretending to sleep and eat when the food was tasteless, sleep impossible, and dreams far from her. She ached with boredom, reduced to staving it off with petty pleasures. Certainly, it had been relieved for a few moments during supper with Hugh, but now it fell upon her again like a hair shirt, itching and scratching until she thought she might scream from inactivity.
Finally, unable to bear it a moment longer, she slipped from the bed.
The floor was freezing beneath her bare feet, but she paid no attention, focusing on the sounds outside the castle. Mandeville had assigned Hugh to castle guard, and she doubted the seneschal would have given him a cozy spot within the keep or the newly built garrison at the front gate.
She stepped silently through the hall, avoiding the benches topped with sleeping knights and servants. A couple rutted in the shadows of the spiral stairwell, and she gave them barely a glance as she passed them.
The curtain wall surrounding the inner bailey still held evidence of John's siege; though d'Aulnoy had begun repairs and added fortifications, the masonry was patterned with jagged holes and uneven pilings. A half-moon shed pale light across the scene, though she did not need it to illuminate her way. She waited a moment, sniffing the air, until a thread of scent led her to the tower that joined the south and west walls. She climbed the stairs and found Hugh asleep, his back against the parapet, his chin hanging against his chest. His helm lay next to him, and he'd wrapped his arms around himself as if cold mail could warm him.
He stirred. She had formed no real plan when she'd sought him, and she had but a moment to decide to appear as Marie or Isabel—and though sense and purpose demanded Isabel, her vanity overwhelmed them and she remained Marie.
Hugh looked up, scrubbing his hands over his face and squinting against the darkness. She knew the moment he saw her. He rose awkwardly to his feet, still half-asleep, his arms and legs at odds with his intention to stand.
"And this is how you guard your lord and his lady?" she chided, and though her tone was light, he flushed. She sent the heavens an exasperated sigh. "Truly, I don't care should the walls fall down around them."
Hugh smiled drowsily. Tapping his heel against the battered stone, he said, " 'Tis possible they will."
She pretended to examine them. "They would not even hold a man tied."
"Is that why you ventured into the cold night?" He gave a short laugh and hunkered down again, as if respect to a lady must only go so far against frigid air, and rubbed his hands together. "Sir William has a much more comfortable alcove than I."
"I could warm you." She caught his hands in hers, held them clasped between her palms. His shivers eased as her heat enveloped him.
"Aye, my lady," he said. For a moment she thought he was agreeing to something more, and unfamiliar lust twisted in her belly. "You burn like hellfire, and I fear you would reduce me to ashes."
"I do. I would." She lifted his hand, slipped his forefinger into her mouth. He drew in a sharp breath between his teeth, and she straddled him, seating herself in the cradle created by his raised knees and body. Her skirts settled over his legs like a blanket, her skin radiating heat through her clothes. "Shall we bargain?"
A low, tortured groan escaped him, rumbling against her chest. "God, no."
She laughed but persevered. "I'll keep you warm."
"And I will owe you doubly? A lie and . . . a kindness?"
Rocking against his arousal with a wicked smile, she said, " 'Tis not kindness I offer you, but pleasure. Or temptation. Or pain, depending on how you take it."
"To me, it would be comfort and warmth only," he replied, then pulled back to stare at her face as if intrigued. "What would bring comfort to a woman such as you? What would be kind?"
She stilled. Felt her mask of amusement slip. He must have seen her—desperation? Regret? She dared not name them, even to herself. "Naught you can give."
"Who could? Mandeville?—but no, you have already rejected him," he said with a smile, gently prodding deeper. "The baron, or one like him? To offer you power and riches? Success . . . but in what?"
"No man or woman," she said, her eyes on her fingers as they traced his throat. "He who does not cower."
He watched her, as if trying to determine whether she spoke truth or merely toyed with him. "The bargain cannot be struck," he said with regret. "Though I would offer kindness, it seems equality in this exchange is impossible."
"And would you take the temptation if I were like Isabel? Beautiful and pure?" Her voice challenged him, sought to call him a liar.
"If you were like Lady Isabel, you would be married," he said. "And it would be a betrayal of fealty to my lord and God. Will you betray your liege in return? To whom do you owe loyalty, that it would be equal?"
She remained silent for a moment. "Do not be kind to me," she said finally.
The stone floor was hard and cold beneath him—the harder and colder for having had Lilith's softness and heat and then losing them. As the ache of arousal slowly subsided, Hugh realized himself a halfwit. What was he, that an eager woman sat upon his lap and he spoke of _kindness_?
He would have called her back, but she'd disappeared into the darkness, and he daren't alert the castle to their activity by making noise or seeking her out.
Pushing to his feet with a frustrated sigh, he tucked his hands into his underarms and stepped to look over the wall. The bailey was empty, save for outbuildings and—
A man crossed the distance between keep and wall, and for a moment Hugh thought it was Mandeville, searching for revenge upon Hugh for what he thought had taken place at the ruins. The dread of such a meeting was neatly cut off as the figure came closer and he recognized Georges—and seconds later, a figure swooped down from the top of the keep, landed facing the knight, and folded great, membranous wings.
The impulse to raise the hue and cry warred with his disbelief, his doubt that he was seeing aright. The creature was no taller than Georges, apart from the wings that rose above its head. It stood with its back to Hugh, and though the wings hid most of its form, he caught brief glimpses of long, dark hair, the elegant curve of feminine hips and waist, and strong, lean legs. Georges did not move to defend himself, and after a moment, in which it seemed he and the creature spoke, it disappeared into the night with a powerful flap of its wings.
Georges looked up, and Hugh thought his gaze settled directly on him—or perhaps his destination had always been to Hugh's post—for he continued walking toward the wall.
He must have been mistaken. He _must_ have been. But try as he might, Hugh could not convince himself an owl or a falcon had deceived him for something else in the darkness. Hugh's hand settled upon his sword hilt as Georges climbed the wall steps, and he was reminded of the older knight's stance upon meeting Lilith in the courtyard earlier.
"I do not see everything clearly," Hugh said as Georges stepped onto the allure. "But my confusion cannot be blamed on poor vision this time."
The moon silvered the older man's hair and face, lending a marble cast to his features. "Will you skewer me for your confusion?"
Though Hugh could not remember sliding it from the sheath, he stood with weapon drawn. An ignoble reaction toward one who had mentored him well for two years, perhaps, but he found trust difficult to recall over memory of the creature. "Do you leave me no other choice, I will. If you tell me other than the truth."
"Truth is not always a choice," Georges said.
Hugh smiled thinly. "Then I shall choose whether to believe you."
He spread his hands wide, palms upturned, but Hugh did not relax his defensive stance. "Aye, I can not force you to believe," he agreed, irony tingeing his voice. "Nor will most of what I tell you require more belief than you already have."
"What of my patience?"
"Of that, you have an excess." Frowning, Georges dropped his arms back to his sides. "After Morningstar led his revolt on Heaven, he and his conspirators vowed to complete the fall of mankind."
Startled by the shift of tone and subject, Hugh lowered his sword fractionally. "Aye."
"Though the seraphim were sent to Earth, to interact with men and protect them against the demons' manipulations, they could not be as men. Before long, humans began to look upon the seraphim as gods themselves."
"Their idolatry incurring His wrath?" Hugh guessed, his mouth twisting. "Surely you don't think I will believe—"
"No." Georges's voice swelled and took on a melodic cadence. More than a rejection of Hugh's doubt, it surprised him into— _commanded_ —silence. "Stirring Morningstar's jealousy. His former brethren worshipped by men? He could not tolerate it. He rose up, better prepared by time and experience of the first battle, and led his demons into a second. With him were the creatures he'd created of Hell and Chaos, hounds born of sin and death and darkness, whose bite proved fatal for the seraphim. The first defense against the demons' attack failed, and the seraphim protecting Earth fell. The second phalanx from Above arrived quickly enough, but they had to take care—even though Morningstar did not—for a full-scale battle between Heaven and Hell should not take place on Earth."
It would tear apart and destroy those they sought to protect from the demons, Hugh realized, trying to imagine such an event.
"Morningstar chose his arena well," Georges continued. "For though the seraphim managed to destroy many of the hounds and their demon handlers, their ranks were badly damaged due to the care they took to keep the fighting away from the human sphere. But they pressed onward, and seemed almost to prevail until Morningstar brought in a wyrm. The seraphim fell back against the terrible dragon, attempted to regroup, but were scattered."
It was preposterous, shockingly blasphemous. Hugh turned away, but Georges's story followed him, weaving it in a voice as deep and compelling as the most talented troubadour.
"But it was impossible to keep such a battle from the ears of men, and many rushed to join the fight."
Hugh closed his eyes. "Only to be slaughtered, surely."
"Neither demons nor angels have leave to take human life."
"As dictated by God?" he guessed, swinging back to Georges. "After his revolt, why would Satan agree to such terms? How could killing a human be worse?" As the words left his mouth, he felt a rush of shame and horror that he had asked the question in earnest, as if it were a truth to be sought.
"Free will and life are the two gifts bestowed upon humanity which may not be compromised." Humor flitted over Georges's face. "And as few men will bring injury upon themselves, the demons could not hurt them."
Questions flooded Hugh's mind, but the image of Sir William bound and awaiting Lilith rushed to the fore. He gave a short laugh, and the answering smile on Georges's lips told him the older man divined his thoughts. "Aye, some do will it upon themselves," he said, sobering. Perhaps the man _could_ see within his mind.
But if Georges did, he gave no indication that he recognized Hugh's suspicions. His gaze, though directed at Hugh, seemed far beyond him. "The men could do little against the demons, for they had neither the strength nor speed to combat them effectively. But the army of human foes distracted them, scattered them, as the dragon had the seraphim. And one man, finding himself alone against the wyrm, managed to defeat it with a strike to the heart."
Of course—Saint George and the dragon. Hugh had heard this tale from the time he'd been a lad. "Do not forget to include the virgin, _Georges_ ," he said, his mockery little disguising his anger. Young he might be, but rarely a fool. "The king's daughter, a sacrifice to the dragon, saved moments before it devoured her."
"That is a later story," Georges replied. "And I failed to save her."
Hugh shook his head in disgust. "You are mad." But his breath drew fast and tight, and he could not erase the image of the winged creature from his mind. If Georges was mad, then Hugh must be equally.
"And what of that?" he said, gesturing with his sword to the bailey. "A demon, was it? Or a dragon come to devour the castle?"
Georges did not answer him directly; he stepped to the parapet and looked over the side. There was naught to see. This side of the castle faced the valley, and everything below the ridge lay in shadow. "The ruins here, in Greece and Rome—we heard many a tale from the Crusaders and traveling knights while in the Angevin court, did we not? Of their magnificent structures, and the wonder of a society that could produce that beauty. That ours is a poor and corrupt society in comparison, succored on the last remnants of their greatness."
"That is what they claim," Hugh said impatiently. "If not for the degeneracy of men, it would still be standing, not a rotting memory."
Georges shook his head, turned to lean against the parapet, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. "Men are no more evil—or better—than they were then. Nor has the number of demons, sent to tempt and lead men astray, dwindled. But that second battle made apparent to those Above that the seraphim, in all their power, could not relate to men, nor protect them, without being worshipped themselves. And men could not be blamed for that—the seraphim were too different, too . . . _inhuman_ ; they could not pass, even in a human guise. Likewise, so the demons are too inhuman for one who knows how to look—for one who knows that he needs to look. And so to gain an advantage, those Above created the Guardians: men and women given angelic powers, enabling them to defend against the demons, but who remained men and women. The one who destroyed the dragon was the first made, and he was given the task of choosing others to join him."
Hugh's laughter rang out over the bailey, echoing against the stone and returning, the angry edge worn off by disbelief. "I suppose you are here to recruit me then? What shall be my test? To kill the demon in our midst?"
"That is not how it is done." His eyes darkening, Georges said, "You saw that demon, and you still reject the truth I have told you."
"Aye, because demons are well known—but men who are as angels, and take the name of Guardian? 'Tis profane."
Georges stared at him for a moment, and then his face softened with the slightest of smiles. "I told her you would bend, but not break—I was mistaken: in some things, you don't even bend."
"Does she think to unbalance me?" Hugh did not need to ask whom Georges was speaking of. _If one knew how to look;_ it had not taken him long to think of all he'd seen since his return to Fordham Castle. There was Lilith, who moved with uncommon swiftness. Who bargained for kisses and lies. Who indulged men's perversity. "Is that what you spoke of? How she intends to corrupt me?"
Georges's eyebrows rose. "Nay. Indeed, if there has been an unbalancing, it has been hers. She informed me that she would do no work upon you, and focus on her true target."
"Isabel." Hugh breathed the name, dread tightening his throat. "Why did you not kill this demon, if you are one of these Guardians?"
"Ah, and now you charge me with failing in duties you do not believe in."
Frustration, worry for Lady Isabel, fear—aye, fear, though he hated to admit to it—forced the words that burst from him. "You have given me nothing to believe! Only an impossible, blasphemous tale!"
Georges's transformation was so swift that once again Hugh doubted his eyes. Then he accepted, and fell back; his breath rushed from him, and he stumbled, landing hard upon the stone walkway, his spine jarring from the impact.
The knight stood before him, but no longer Georges. With close-cropped dark hair and features that seemed sculpted in bronze, wings of black feathers, and a body garbed in a loose, flowing garment that draped over one shoulder and gathered at the waist, he appeared an ageless warrior, terrible and deadly in his beauty. His eyes glinted like obsidian. "Do you see?"
"Aye," Hugh whispered, sweating as if with sudden sickness, his stomach balled into a tight knot. His fingers automatically rose to his forehead, but he paused, uncertain. "Who are you?"
"Michael."
Unable to comprehend, Hugh looked away. His hand fell to his side. The stone pressed cold and hard against his back, but now he welcomed its solidity. Michael: the same name as the archangel, but the man before him claimed to have been human once. Did he also lay claim to the deeds that had been ascribed to that other, greater being? And if such an illustrious figure appeared before him, what manner of creature had Hugh seen speaking to Michael? Lucifer, in the guise of a woman? "The demon. Was it the Deceiver?"
He transformed back into Georges and proffered his hand, but Hugh could no longer see his friend in that skin. He stood without help, refusing to lean against the parapet though the trembling in his legs demanded it.
"Nay. Though the name fits her, in her fashion." Michael's arm dropped to his side. "Many things from Above and Below are not as they seem. You must learn that appearances are almost always deceiving."
A wry smile curved Hugh's lips as his gaze skimmed over his mentor's changeable form. "I am well taught."
**CHAPTER 4**
The castle readied for evening's entertainment. Servants folded tables and pushed them from the center of the great hall. Conversation accompanied the scrape of wooden benches against the floor as they were shoved and carried toward the perimeter of the room. Lamplight flickered, lit each corner and crevice, and danced over the ceiling's great polished arch.
In the minstrel's gallery, a player struck a discordant note on his pipe, a short, piercing shriek that drew attention and laughter from the ladies gathered near the screen's passage.
Hugh looked toward the group in time to see Lilith slipping away from the women, threading her way through the hall and disappearing behind the dais.
Hesitating but for a moment, he moved to intercept her. He used the opposite entrance into the family chambers; his departure would not go unnoticed, but it was unlikely any observer would associate his leaving through one door with Lilith's exit through another.
The partition separating d'Aulnoy's rooms from the hall did little to muffle the noise, and the chambers were dimly lit. Hugh waited for his eyes to adjust, uncertain of her direction. Instinct drove him through the archway that led to the newel stairs. Isabel's bower was on the floor above the chambers—and it was there that Lilith had managed to avoid Hugh for nearly a sennight.
Hugh paused on the first riser; darkness filled the stairwell. Below, the faint glow of the torch lit the flight from the lower floors. It flickered against the curving stone near his feet, but didn't penetrate the shadows above.
The air was laden with a thick, acrid odor, the heavy scent of a flame recently snuffed.
He pulled his eating knife from his belt and briefly wished for his sword—but perhaps it was better this way. If someone should come upon him, he could more easily hide his dagger than sheathe a larger weapon.
His back pressed to the cold stone, he presented as small a target as possible. The newel stairs had been designed with defense in mind, spiraling so that the person ascending, with a weapon in his right hand, would leave his body open to attack. _No need to fear attack,_ he reminded himself; though he'd not seen Michael since that night on the wall walk, he'd reviewed the conversation in his mind countless times, and had accepted the Guardian's declaration that humans could not be harmed by demons. For if it were not true, wouldn't they have destroyed mankind, and murdered every last man, woman, and child?
True or not, he took the stairs with care, and his need for caution seemed verified when he reached the torch; the head was still hot under his questing fingers.
He lurched up the next step, into cobwebs that tickled his cheeks and nose. He brushed them away impatiently; Lilith was expecting him, or she wouldn't have extinguished—
His heart caught, skipped.
For as long as he'd been in the castle—as a young page, carrying items up and down these stairs—the passageways had been kept scrupulously clean.
Not cobwebs. Hair. Automatically, he glanced upward and felt the strands sliding over his face again. He grabbed them, gave a sharp tug.
His pull met resistance, and a brief hiss of pain was followed by a scrambling noise, like claws against stone.
Lilith's voice came from the darkness above him. "You think to take that sticker to my flesh and devour me?"
Though unnerved to realize she could see his knife when he might as well have been blind, he shook his head and blithely raised the blade. "I think to take a trophy."
The edge sliced through the strands held taut between them. Released from the strain, the cut ends curled soft in his palm, and he wondered at his daring. Why did he bait her when he knew what she was?
"Is it not the custom to take a trophy _after_ the opponent is defeated? Are you so confident that, because a kiss was easily attained, my heart will be easily opened as well?"
He felt her amusement, imagined the white flash of her grin. Hefting his knife, he said softly, " 'Tis long enough to open any heart."
"No man lives who does not think his blade long enough."
He smiled despite himself. Tucking the dagger and the hair into his belt, he tried to gauge her position by the sound of her voice, the angle of the hair he'd cut. Did she lay on the upper curve of the stair, leaning over? "Why are you here, when the rest of the castle revels in music and acrobatics?"
"I left a kerchief half-embroidered in the bower, and I must finish my work." She did not disguise her mockery. "I could ask the same of you, but I know your answer."
"And what would it be?"
The unexpected touch of her finger against his lips made him draw a sharp breath. He reached for her hand but could not find it, and lowered his arms to his sides rather than flail about in the dark.
"You desire my companionship," she said lightly. "For I have been required by Lady Isabel to embroider and sew and gossip the last sennight, and you've had no one with whom you can speak. Aye, for Sir Georges has absented himself, has he not? And everyone else looks at you askance—as if tales and rumors had been spread, naming you mad." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I have heard you spoke to Father Geoffrey about a demon in our midst."
Could she see the flush that rose over his neck? He had visited the priest, confessed what he'd seen; Hugh did not blame the man for doubting him. "He did not see; he could not believe what I had to tell him, but called it a nightmare."
"Perhaps the good father is correct." Her breath skimmed over his forehead, teasing the ends of his hair and sending a shiver over his skin. Where was she? He wasn't certain he wanted to know the answer. The sudden image rose of her hanging above him like a bat, and he shoved it away. She must want his fear, would likely feed on it. "A nightmare—brought about by frustration. I left abruptly that evening. If I had stayed, perhaps you would not have these notions of demons in the castle."
Remembrance of her weight, her warmth made him ache. "My flesh and my eyes are weak, my lady," he said, "but my mind is not."
Her lips brushed his eyelashes, and he felt a soft exhalation against his cheek. He leaned into the contact. As if surprised, she drew back.
Did she expect him to retreat, then? He had no intention of playing to her expectations.
"What do you think you know, Sir Pup?"
"That a woman came to me with the intention of leading me like an animal to her bidding."
"Whatever you think my sins might be, I assure you I have never done _that_ with an animal."
He bit back his laughter, shaking his head. How did she so easily manage to amuse and distract him? "A horse, a dog, oxen—all are led by the foremost part. You thought to lead me by mine."
The slight thump as she landed on the stairs in front of him and sudden waft of displaced air were his only indication of her movement before her palm covered his burgeoning arousal. "Indeed, a woman has but to touch it and it swells to better fill her grip. I daresay it was made for this."
"A man is not an animal." His throat closed on a groan, and he had to clear it before continuing. "After you left, I saw you—"
He broke off, sweat breaking over his skin as she placed his hand on her breast. Bare, it burned like fire under his fingers, her nipple tight beneath his palm. "Then a woman must be led by these," she said.
Heat rushed through him, and he ground his teeth against the ache of his erection. Acting on the lust she created in him—or running from it—would both serve her purpose; he could neither give in nor flee. Steeling his resolve to act contrary to her expectations, he gently pinched the tip of her breast and pulled.
She gasped and fell against his chest, his hand caught between them. He echoed her earlier mocking tone. "Apparently _you_ can be led thus." Letting go her nipple, he traced his fingers along the underside of her breast. He cupped his hand; she filled his palm, but barely. Certainly not as much as Marie's generous proportions had suggested. The beat of her heart thrummed against his fingertips. "But I find most women are led by what is beneath."
Her chest rose and fell in a quick, ragged breath, and she wrenched herself from his embrace. He let her go, listened to the scratch of claw and stone. Her voice came from above again, laced with bitterness. "Only when she is a fool." As if with great effort, humor returned to her tone and she added, "Fortunately, there are many women willing to think with their hearts, and it makes them as brainless as their tits."
"And there are many demons willing to take advantage of them." Hugh crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back against the wall, and let the cold stone ease the heat she had built within him. "After you left me, I saw you in the courtyard with Michael."
She did not reply; music and voices from the hall filled the air between them. He wished for a light that he could see her expression, discover what lay behind the darkness. She wore neither clothes nor the form of Marie, but he did not think she looked as she had in the courtyard, either. She'd not had wings when she'd been in his arms.
"Will you not try to convince me it was a nightmare? Or pretend to have no knowledge of that which I speak?"
"I'm not a priest, nor do I have need for lies." She paused as he burst into laughter, and she joined in after a moment. "Why are you not afraid of me? It is extraordinarily vexing."
He smiled broadly. "I was told you cannot do me harm."
"Michael." The name was followed by a hiss of displeasure. "And you believed him?"
Recognizing her question for what it was—an attempt to fuel uncertainty—he shrugged and said, "Difficult to refute the evidence I saw."
His casual tone held no indication of the doubts and thoughts that had plagued him over the week, the sickness that roiled within him as he'd forced himself to accept a different version of truth than he'd known. How easy it would have been to take Father Geoffrey's explanation, to call it a nightmare. How many times had he almost convinced himself that he'd heard incorrectly, that he'd experienced an hour of madness?
But he could not. He'd _seen_ the demon—Lilith—and Michael's miraculous transformation into a thing of terrible beauty and power.
"Evidence? A figure in a night-filled courtyard?" She drew a sudden breath. "Your certainty is not because you saw _me_ —he showed you what he was."
"Aye."
Her snort of laughter echoed through the passageway. "You trusted his _appearance_?"
Sparks flew above his head. He ducked, belatedly realizing that she'd only scratched the stones with her fingernails. She did it again, and in the flash of light he saw her: a lithe, strong figure clinging to the spiraling stairs with her feet, her black hair trailing toward the floor. Another flash, and her wings spanned the width of the stairwell; horns smooth as polished jet curled from forehead to ears. Fangs gleamed over her lips.
Darkness again. He blinked away the spots that crawled behind his eyes, willed away his unease. "You have a mummer's dramatic flair. Perhaps the entertainers in the hall could apprentice you."
She laughed and struck the wall; the sparks landed on the resinous torchhead and caught. The tiny flames slowly climbed higher.
He turned back toward her and froze.
She stood on the stairs, though he'd not heard her movement. Her face was Lady Isabel's, as was the blond hair tumbling down her back. Naked skin appeared golden in the dim light. White, feathery wings waved behind her, stirring the air around them.
"I must concede that I understand your fascination with the lady," she said. "I like her myself. Though nothing surprising passes her lips, everything she says is charming. Packaged in such innocence, 'tis hard to resist, is it not?"
He swallowed hard, backed up onto the next riser. There was nothing angelic in her smile.
"Shall we bargain?"
To Lilith's surprise, he halted his retreat. The corners of his mouth quirked into a smile, but she could not read the emotion behind it. Whether amusement or self-deprecation, it did not please her. Could the man do nothing she predicted? He did not drive himself mad questioning what he'd seen, nor was he weakened by self-doubt and fear. He should have been fleeing—or falling prostrate, overcome with desire for the body she'd assumed.
She deliberately embodied his fantasy, his ideal. Chivalry and his code of honor should have repulsed him; his love for Isabel should have drawn him near. Yet he smiled and remained where he was.
Frustration fueled her next words. "Or shall I simply make you beg?"
"If I beg, it shall be of my own volition, not forced by a demon."
His smile widened, and she had no trouble deciphering his triumph; she pursed her lips and studied him, trying to maintain her annoyance. Michael must have told him that his free will would be honored.
That the Guardian had told Hugh anything at all settled uneasily in her chest; she'd thought Michael had been protecting Hugh, but if he'd revealed all, 'twas possible he considered the young knight a candidate for the transformation.
She shook herself. She should not care if Hugh sacrificed his life. A woman led by her heart could be called foolish; a demon who did the same courted Punishment.
But the tightness the thought of his death created beneath her breast did not quickly fade.
His gaze narrowed upon her face, as if weighing her response and calculating his. Unusual, that he was so calm, that he sought ways to thwart her, and tried to remain little influenced by his emotions. She'd let herself be discovered before, but—if not full of anger and fear—men typically became sycophants, courting her power in hopes of securing their own. They'd never presented this challenge, nor gazed upon her as if he were her equal.
"What manner of men are you accustomed to, that you anticipate so few responses from them: lust, anger or fear?"
Though she could have screamed in frustration at his acumen when he should have been terrified beyond reason, she fixed her smile and ran her fingers over the pale skin on her hip. "I'm not accustomed to men who have as little drive between their legs as a eunuch."
The corners of his eyes crinkled with laughter, though he did not give it sound.
She bit her lip to keep from letting loose her own. Cerberus's balls, could the man not take offense at anything? Would he twist every insult to find the humor in it? He looked exceedingly young, unrepentantly so, like a boy caught stealing a pasty from the kitchens and who licked his fingers during the scolding.
"You know your beauty," she said. "If you give me neither lust, anger, nor fear, would you indulge me and reveal a hidden vanity?"
He flushed with embarrassment, but did not protest her claim. He did not even suffer from false modesty—and she should not be charmed by it. Yet she delighted in the blush that heated his cheeks. She could have told herself she found pleasure in his discomfort, but such would have been a lie. She simply took pleasure in provoking a reaction that he couldn't hide behind calculation and calm.
Smiling, he said, "I have a bargain to offer, my lady."
Her eyes widened, and her hands flexed convulsively at her sides. Her tongue seemed heavy in her mouth, and she was slow to respond. "A bargain," she echoed finally.
"Truth for truth."
To enter willingly into a bargain, knowing . . . She laughed silently. Too certain of himself, he was. 'Twas not physical vanity that she could exploit, but his intellectual vanity. His conviction that he would not succumb to her, that he could remain separate from their dealings. Did he think to play with the demon's tools and not be worked on in return?
Only fair that she should warn him.
She didn't.
She pretended doubt. "Truth for truth? You get the better bargain. My truth is valuable to you, whereas yours is nothing to me."
He raised a brow and smiled again, as if amused by her lie. Aye, he was too certain—but not without insight. A combination of imprudent bravery and cleverness.
"Truth for truth," she agreed.
He grinned as if she'd fallen into a web of his making rather than the reverse and took her hand in his. She allowed him to lead her up the stairs, circling round and round, feeling uncharacteristically dizzy and out of sorts—and excited, as if she were a girl following her lover to a hideaway. She stifled the urge to transform so her appearance would fit the sudden playfulness that overcame her: into a maid with a circlet of flowers in her hair and white gown, trailing velvet ribbons. What would he think, should he look behind him?
Bemused by the fancy that took hold—resenting that bemusement—she became the demon. At the click of talons against the stone steps, he glanced back. The crimson glow from her eyes limned his features; his lips tightened, but he did not let go her hand. He continued up and up, allowing her touch though her fingers ended in claws, her wingtip scraped the wall beside them, and her form declared her a monster.
_What would bring comfort to a woman such as you? What would be kind?_
She blinked away that memory, absurdly grateful when they reached the top and entered the tower chamber. Moonlight spilled weakly through the shutters, illuminating the family's private chapel. Using the pale light to navigate, he led her to a cushioned bench on the far wall.
"Father Geoffrey is in the hall," he said with a lift of his brows. "Despite the Lateran Council's rulings that suggest they avoid such entertainments."
Pursing her lips, she glanced from him to the bench.
He answered her wordless query with a laugh and a shake of his head. "The stairs are much too uncomfortable. It would be torture seeking truth there."
"For you," she said. "The stairs suited me well."
"Perhaps I could apply an iron rod to your skin during the questioning and make it equally torturous."
Her gaze dropped to his groin.
"The priests forbid that as much as possible, too," he said as he sat down. Leaning back, he crossed his ankles and linked his hands behind his head.
'Twas a pose without easy defense; was it designed to lower hers?
Unwilling to relinquish whatever unease her demon form created in him—and it must, no matter his relaxed posture—she hopped onto a stout table and perched, her knees against her chest.
His eyes widened and he looked away from her.
Her sultry chuckle drew his gaze back. He swallowed convulsively.
"You expose yourself, my lady." His throat worked again. Abandoning his careless posture, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and pressed his head into his hands. "I'm only a man. Take pity." 'Twas a sound between a laugh and a croak.
The note of arousal under his tortured plea, and the bulge that had risen beneath his hose soothed her pride; she relented and called in a hose and tunic that matched his.
"Now we are equal," she said.
His shoulders shook, and he gestured to his lap. "I don't see you with this problem, my lady."
"I'm not willing to grow one for the bargain," she said, brushing a long black curl from her forehead and tucking it behind one of her horns. Trouble was, she did feel the arousal that their exchange had risen within her. A liquid heat and velvet tightness that settled in her breasts and belly.
Bedroom games were a tool, a method of persuasion and power, or even pain. There was only the chase, the corruption, the attainment of souls. Only bargains and negotiations. A demon might take pleasure in those results, but not for herself.
Never for herself.
"What truth do you need?"
If he was surprised by her abrupt question, that the humor had faded completely from her voice, he did not give evidence of it. His eyes met hers levelly, their blue depths silvery in the moonlight.
"As Isabel, you assumed a pleasing shape. Why do you not always?"
'Twas not the question she had expected, and there were too many answers to offer. She gave the simplest one. "The measure of a man cannot be taken by beauty; all love it, and treat it with reverence—even though, aye, it also inspires jealousy and lust." Her lips twisted. "But the plain, the ugly, the poor and lowly? Easy to forget them, or to abuse them."
He nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. "But is it not easier to corrupt with jealousy and lust when you are beautiful? Is that what you tried to do to me?"
"Tried?" she echoed, brows raised high. "If not lust that you felt on the allure a sennight ago—if not lust that rose your cock-stand here, then what? Surely you don't think _this_ form pleasing? You gave not a thought to beauty. No man does when faced with tits and a lifted skirt."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps that is true of some men, but not all." She snorted derisively, and his grin flashed. "But what of your vanity? As a demon, surely you indulge every sin. Do you not crave beauty for yourself?"
She stared at him, tracing his features. Craved? Surely it was too weak a word, when his question made her feel as if a knot unraveled beneath her breastbone, loosening skeins of emotion and drawing them through her body. She recognized anger, despair; she grasped at those threads and held them tight.
"Aye," she said, and dropped from her perch. His nostrils flared, as if sensing danger and preparing to run. But he wouldn't, would he? He would stay, certain he knew enough to be safe. Certain he knew enough to handle her, when she hardly knew herself.
"Lilith." Did he say her name as a warning as she stalked toward him? Hard to determine, when the beating of her heart pounded in her ears.
Foolish of her, to hear it at all.
**CHAPTER 5**
It did not speak well of his morality that a woman—nay, a demon—could take a monstrous form, clothe herself in masculine garb, and he failed to summon disgust and horror.
Uncertainty, aye—but even that faded as she seemed to rein in the tension that had overtaken her. She crouched before him, her face level with his.
Falling through the shutter, the silvery moonlight touched her features, washing away color and emphasizing shadow, and leaving him unable to distinguish the obsidian horns from the midnight of her hair. She no longer smiled, and her fangs were hidden behind full lips.
Strange, that shadows revealed what light had not. A widow's peak framed her high, smooth forehead, and her brows formed elegant arches above the ebony depths of her eyes. Her cheekbones were angular, instead of broad and round as Marie's had been. This was also beauty; not delicate and ethereal as Lady Isabel's was, but strong and fierce.
And yet it must be a pale reflection of what she'd been before Morningstar's rebellion.
"I have answered your questions, Sir Pup. Now I would have your truth," she said, her voice a soft slither, silk drawn across stone.
How easily he could imagine that whisper warmed by arousal. He resisted the urge to shift in his seat, remembering the ease with which she had brought him to readiness. His erection had subsided, but desire remained. "I do not believe I've received my part in its entirety."
Her eyes narrowed, but he raised his fingers to her lips, preventing her reply. His calluses rasped against her skin, and he felt the tremor that shook her as he disarmed her with a touch.
He'd noted the same reaction in the stairwell, when he'd taken her hand, but had put the notion of her temporary weakness aside, blaming it on fancy. Had it ever occurred to him to consider the weaknesses of demons, he would not have imagined one susceptible to a simple touch. 'Twas a bizarre realization, that he had power over her. Surely after the wonders of Heaven and terrors of Hell, nothing human could impress her.
Nor would he have imagined that his fascination for her would give her equal sway over him.
"It must be forbidden," he mused, before he could explore the extent of that power. Was he master of himself enough to stop before a touch became a caress, or more? "A punishment, to deny beauty to those who had once been nearest its source."
She shrugged, but the intensity of her gaze belied the casual gesture. " 'Tis true the rebels were transformed when they were cast down, but they are not prevented from resembling spirits of light by _Him._ "
"Who then?" Her hands slipped over his thighs, as if to distract him; he stiffened, but did not stop her until she reached the knife at his waist. He wrapped his fingers around her wrists, holding her still.
Huffing out an impatient breath, she tugged her hands from his grip. "You have seen what happens when subjects forget their place, and think themselves equal to a ruler. They make demands, threaten war, force him to acknowledge rights and sign charters."
She sat back on her heels, and tapped the point of his dagger against her chin.
When had she stolen it? She'd had only a second's opportunity, and the theft had been so light he had not felt it. She grinned, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment of her skill. "So long as you do not steal the throne, aye?"
"Aye." She slowly retracted her horns and fangs. Unable to suppress his curiosity, he reached up and felt the smooth protuberance above her left temple as it flattened and disappeared. He brushed his thumb across her hairline. No lump remained, only silky red skin edged by soft curls.
His voice was low, rough. "Is this your true form?"
He met her gaze for a breathless moment before she slapped his hand away. "Nay," she said flatly. She stood and took a step back, crossing her arms over her chest. "Your truth: Why did you enter into this bargain?"
He clenched his fingers, welcomed the stinging pain. "Because I cannot be near you without forgetting my intentions and transforming into an imbecile."
"You cannot blame a demon for that." Her lips pursed. "I daresay you must have always been an imbecile."
"Aye," he agreed. "I must be, else I would have followed my first instinct upon discovering your nature."
"To slay me?"
"Aye." He eyed her warily, wishing her countenance revealed her thoughts, but her posture was a study of indifference.
"You would have found that difficult. If you wish to test my sword, however—"
"Nay," he said. "I have no inclination to fight a woman who possesses the speed of the wind itself."
"You fear defeat?"
He considered her wording. "I don't see the wisdom of entering into a fight in which victory is impossible."
"So you think to engage a different sort of battle? To outwit me with this bargain?"
"Surely a mere man cannot use a demon's bargain to his own ends. In the years you've lived, your wit must have been honed to perfection."
She gave a reluctant laugh. "You seek to flatter me."
He did. "Do you fear flattery, my lady?"
"Am I too weak to resist the compliment to my vanity, and thereby incur Lucifer's wrath?" She smiled, as if delighted he would try such a tactic. "I think not. Your pretty words are naught to me, and the risk is only yours."
"Mine?" He shook his head. " 'Tis flattery, but is also truth. I don't admire your intentions, or your methods—there is little risk that I would use them. I could never be as you are."
"Nay," she said, her eyes flaring red. "You risk engaging my vanity so strongly that I would cleave myself to you for the remainder of your life, begging for bits of kindness from your lips, tormenting you when you do not offer them."
The censure in her voice made him flush, reminding him that he had been the one to follow her from the hall. True, he had some effect on her, but she had not sought his company as he had hers. Had not Michael told him that she'd said she was done with him?
"I want to know my role in this," he said suddenly. "That is why I made this bargain."
Her lids lowered. "What conceit convinces you that you are involved at all?"
"Though he must have known what you were, Michael encouraged me into those ruins," Hugh said. "Of my feelings for the lady, you make something of nothing. I have been included—of my own will at times—but also unwittingly. Included by a demon, which should not surprise me; if I were to commit evil I would use any tool available. But Michael, who is an instrument of Heaven—"
He broke off, realizing that his voice had risen and anger coursed through him like fire. Struggling to contain it, he abandoned the seat, striding across the small room to the opposite window and throwing open the shutters. The cool air did not ease his sudden choleric temper.
" _Formans lucem et creans tenebras._ " Did his voice shake? He rested his elbows on the stone sill and lowered his head into his hands. "There must be something good in what you do, even if it is only to try men's hearts, to make them earn their place with God. There must be a reason that I'm drawn to you, even if it is only so that I resist. But I no longer know what is truth, or what to believe."
"There can be no light without darkness," he heard her say quietly, as if to herself.
He laughed shortly, bitterly. "And that _you_ say something similar makes me doubt it the more."
From beside him came a flash of moonlight against steel, the clang of metal against stone. He spun around, tensed for her attack, but she'd only slammed his knife onto the sill. "You think Michael led you like a lamb to the slaughter?" A mocking smile curved her lips. "You are no lamb, Sir Pup. I do naught but sow the seeds that have already been planted: jealousy, lust, and greed." Her gaze skimmed the length of his rigid form. "Wrath."
His hand clamped down over hers, and he pried his knife from her fingers. The knowledge that she _let_ him take it made his stomach tighten: were all in the castle acting by her leave? Was everything dictated by the whims of these demons and Guardians?
Her brows lifted, and she nodded toward the weapon. "Would you use that on me now?"
Nay, he could not defeat her with it. Its threat held no sway.
She stood close; he could feel the warmth of her body, the brush of her exhalation against his skin. She was tall, her lips only inches from his.
'Twas no effort to close the distance between them, to fist his hand in her hair and seal her mouth with his. Did her lips part in surprise or protest? Surely not encouragement, for there was no kindness in the way he tasted her, none of the gentleness with which he had touched her before. He'd meant to use those against her, but lust fueled him the moment her lips met his.
Her mouth was hot, and she tasted like cream and subtle, exotic spice. He delved more deeply, and she lightly suckled his tongue in return—a sweet, delicious pull that conflagrated the ache into exquisitely painful arousal. He pushed her against the wall, pressing his length tightly against her.
She'd spoken true; there was nothing innocent in him, in the ache that spread through him as she opened herself to his kiss. Would that he could blame his desire on her, on her temptation and wiles, but it was his own.
A shudder ran through him, and she laughed softly into his mouth.
He stepped back, shaken. He would have turned away but for the hint of sympathy in her dark eyes, the clenching of her jaw that told him, despite her laughter, she was not unaffected.
His breath came sharply. "Can you not leave us? If our sins lead us to destruction, why do you need to help them along?"
"I have a role to play, and I must play it. Humans have the luxury of free will; demons do not, for a singular choice made long ago."
"I cannot accept that," he said quietly.
" 'Tis not for you to accept."
He wanted to grasp at her explanation as a way to exonerate her, but could not. She enjoyed what she did; he'd seen her amusement at human folly, the pleasure she took in exposing their flaws. Whether she thought she had a choice did not signify as much as her willingness to accede to her role. "Why does Michael not kill you?"
"Because there are many things worse than I stalking the night and preying on man." She transformed suddenly, into a pale, hairless creature. Towered over him, her ears ending in points, fangs protruding over thin red lips. "Those who abstained from choosing a side in the First Battle were cursed with a bloodthirst and an intolerance to daylight. The nosferatu can kill humans, and they follow none of the Rules set down for Guardians and demons; Michael hunts one now." She watched him for a moment, as if searching for signs of fear, then sighed and regained her form.
He frowned, shook his head. "But the presence of other—worse—creatures is not reason to let you live. Is he allowing you to play out your role? An acknowledgment of light allowing—needing—the dark?"
"Nay." A shadow moved across her features. " 'Tis guilt."
"For what—"
"You venture beyond the boundaries of our bargain, Sir Pup," she said. Then her voice softened, and she added playfully, "Unless you wish to enter into another?"
Did he? Perhaps his desire to do so was an indication that he shouldn't. He could little trust himself near her. Shaking his head, he walked back toward the bench, but did not sit down.
"I cannot conceive a way to stop you," he said. "If I pursue the truth with Father Geoffrey, I will soon be called mad." He glanced at her beseechingly. She had remained by the window; with moonlight behind her, he could only discern her silhouette and the eerie scarlet glow of her eyes. "Is there no way to appeal to the part of you that must yearn for goodness, the part of you that once called itself angelic?" She did not respond, and he wondered if he could trust any answer she gave; if truth were no longer required by the bargain, would she speak it? _Could_ she speak it? Or did acknowledgment of life before a demon's fall from Heaven resemble vanity—did Lucifer consider both an insult to his rule?
"I was never a denizen Above," she finally said.
He did not mistake the bitter humor in her voice. "What are you?"
"I sprang fully formed from Lucifer's head." Once, he would have immediately dismissed such a statement as fantasy—no longer. But he could not determine from her tone if her claim was a jest, and she gave him no opportunity to ask. "I'm one of his plans—a failed one. His daughter, conceived of a brilliant idea, embodied in a worthless form."
"And you intend to prove your worth by damning us? Does that not approach ambition? Surely he forbids that as well as vanity."
She laughed and hopped onto the sill in an easy, lithe movement, folding herself into the window's small space. "You do not understand; Lucifer always speaks with doubled tongue, and always has a plan."
"To what end?" But no matter what else he'd learned—had to relearn—he did not think Lucifer's nature would change.
"To gather souls for his armies Below. To torture them. To bring Hell onto Earth and to rule the world of man." She waved her hand, a gesture that encompassed the castle around them—casually, as if what she suggested had little import.
He resisted the urge to leap forward, to pull her back into the room as she leaned out the window. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Do not come near me again if you wish to succeed; I will defeat you, one way or another."
Her eyes dimmed. "You will try," she said quietly and fell over the side.
His heart dropped to his stomach though he knew she was not in danger—knew before he heard the flap of giant wings and saw the figure that flew past the window.
The sound of the entertainment in the hall faintly reached his ears; he did not rejoin them, but made his way through the darkness of the stairs, blindly spiraling down.
Thinking of a demon who was both monster and woman—and neither.
The end came swiftly, as it always did.
Sitting atop the peaked roof of the keep's southwest tower, Lilith watched Isabel venture across the bailey. The lady's head was down, her hood up, and she'd dressed in a washerwoman's clothing as a disguise.
That had been Isabel's idea, inspired by some troubadour's tale. Lilith would have preferred that Isabel march through the bailey in her fine gown, leaving no doubt to her identity, but she had to appreciate the girl's ingenuity. In the darkness, no one bothered to look past the rags, and the lady reached the wall steps unmolested.
Isabel would have to be quick; from within the keep, Lilith heard the suspicious note in d'Aulnoy's voice as he inquired of his wife's whereabouts.
She wrapped her arms around herself to make a smaller silhouette, though none but Hugh would look for her in that spot. And if someone caught a glimpse of her outline, they would never think it a demon come to observe the results of her labor.
Isabel's betrayal. A husband's jealous rage. A knight's folly. None immediately damning, but the events of this night would eat at their souls, twist them into something . . . unclean.
Lilith knew the feeling well.
Though she wasn't cold, she scrubbed her hands over her arms. The wait for Isabel to climb the stairs to the allure seemed interminable.
Was this all there was to this new role? Waiting? Endlessly waiting and living among them, letting their humanity seep into her with a touch or a word of kindness?
Far better, what she had been before. The targets were already damned, and she had only to secure their souls by arranging their deaths. If they committed suicide or were executed before they could repent, they were hers.
But it would take many years before Hugh would be hers—and there was always the chance he wouldn't be destroyed by this, just as Isabel or Robert could make peace with their betrayal and rage.
That was if they ever did anything to make peace with. She tried to laugh at herself, her impatience—Lucifer must have known this waiting would seem like punishment.
She tried to laugh, but she could not look away from Hugh.
He had not yet noticed Isabel's approach. Leaning with his elbows on the parapet, he looked out over the valley, his head bent. Thinking of a way to thwart her, most likely. It should have made her smile, but she could see the invisible weight that lay across the line of his shoulders.
Ridiculous, that she should want to ease it. That she would have traded herself for Isabel at that moment. That she yearned to appear before him—not as the demon, Marie or Isabel, but as she'd been once, before she was Lilith.
But that was forbidden, as was the envy rising in her heart as Isabel lay her hand on his forearm.
Hugh turned, saw the woman beside him, and did exactly as Lilith had known he would: he assumed it was a demon, come to torment him.
And now Lilith laughed softly, bitterly, because she realized had Isabel _not_ worn the commoner's garb, Hugh might have paused. For there were reasons a lady might be on the allure with a knight, and he might have waited until he was certain'twas not a demon. But, given his belief that Isabel was all purity and innocence, he could not conceive of her betrayal. Could not imagine she would appear before him wearing deception.
"Isabel," he said with enough sarcasm and disrespect that the lady hesitated.
But she did not lack courage, and bolstered by weeks of Lilith's encouragement, did not retreat. Her words poured forth in a rush, a declaration of love and devotion, of fate and fancy.
Lilith heard the lady's nervousness, the effort it took for her to say those words; Hugh heard a demon playacting.
"You have come to pledge yourself to me?" he asked, affecting surprise, but with an unmistakable edge of anger beneath.
Isabel mistook it—for passion or something else, Lilith couldn't say. "Aye." Suddenly shy, she lowered her head and stared at his hands. "If you would have me."
"If I would have you?" he echoed, then laughed. "I would die to have you. And then, perhaps—if Robert would oblige us—we could marry." His voice deepened, exuding a lazy sensuality. Lilith's skin seemed to tighten and prickle; he intended that voice for her, and it promised heat and a slick tangle of limbs.
And it promised violence. The sensuality was a thin veneer; he was furious.
Isabel raised her face, tears glittering in her eyes. "I do not think we will be allowed to consecrate our love with vows."
"Nay!" His eyes widened dramatically, and he grasped her hands, pulled her against him. "Perhaps we could kill him then. As a widow, you'll need a new husband." He ground his hips against hers, and Isabel gasped, tried to tear herself away. "We could consecrate our love every night."
"I . . . I do not think—" Sudden fear broke her voice.
"Come now, my lady. Let us seal our promise of love with a kiss. 'Tis nothing, a kiss. All of this is nothing."
The last was said bitterly, and the ache that had threatened beneath Lilith's breast bloomed into full. Hugh kissed Isabel hard, ignoring the beating of her fists on his shoulders.
Lilith looked away, her throat tight. It might have been a good plan, if he meant to punish Lilith with such a kiss. If he meant to hurt the demon who'd proved susceptible to his touch.
In the courtyard below, d'Aulnoy and Mandeville began a slow, deliberate trek toward the tower post. Their swords were sheathed at their hips, and she could hear the weapons' soft swaying with every step they took. The baron radiated jealousy and disbelief, Mandeville cold satisfaction.
Aye, she had sown the seeds well. _Wait_ , Lilith thought, but couldn't give voice to the word. _You are fools to have listened to me._
Isabel's frightened gasp sounded loud as a scream, and Lilith shot to her feet as Hugh bent the lady over the parapet. But he did not toss her to the ground; his hand pushed her skirts up, his fingers roughly sought her femininity. Isabel sobbed as he shoved himself against her.
"If he throws her over the wall, thinking she is you, her death will be more than you planned. Is this what you wanted?"
Lilith startled and tore her eyes away from the scene; Michael stood next to her. "Aye," she whispered, but she shuddered as she looked back.
Hugh had stopped as if frozen, staring down at the woman in his arms. At the tears streaking her cheeks.
"I think you lie," Michael said.
"Isabel? My lady? Nay." Hugh groaned the denial, staggering away from the countess. The lady collapsed in a heap. He stared at his hands, at the glistening moisture on his fingers. "Oh, God help me."
Lilith sprouted her wings, but Michael clamped his hand over her shoulder before she could jump from her perch. "You cannot interfere."
She halted, her breath coming in sharp pants. "You can."
He shook his head.
"You _won't_." She called in her sword. Robert was running up the stairs ahead of Mandeville.
"It is too late," Michael said. "Are you not proud of what you've done, Lilith?"
_It was not only me,_ she thought, but could not voice her automatic response. Not when 'twas obvious that, had she not interfered, human thought would never have become action. Not when Hugh pleaded for help.
But did she help him, Lucifer would have no mercy.
Perhaps d'Aulnoy would. She wavered and waited again. Her success depended on the baron's rage, but perhaps he could forgive what met his eyes as he climbed onto the wall walk.
Though his expression was tormented, Hugh straightened and stood with squared shoulders as the baron took in the scene, as he recognized the lady in the washerwoman's rags. Lilith recalled Hugh's description of d'Aulnoy: _He is a good man_. Would he see the clothing, understand what Isabel had tried to hide? Would he think she sobbed from Hugh's rejection of her adulterous advances?
Indeed, the confusion on the baron's face gave Lilith hope.
"My lady," the earl said, his voice tight. "Can you explain why you are dressed thus?"
No mistaking the guilt that trembled over her features. She took a deep, shuddering breath, wiped the tears from her cheeks. Aye, no weakling she. Lilith wanted to slap her. "I sought Sir Hugh's company and did not want to be noticed."
D'Aulnoy flinched as if struck. "For what purpose?" It was clear he yearned for any answer than the one he suspected, but Lilith knew Isabel would not be other than honest.
Lilith glanced at Hugh; he stood rigidly, but his gaze was not on the baron or young countess, but directed atop the keep. At her.
_Lie,_ she urged him silently. _Convince him she seduced you but you resisted. You owe me a lie._
A half-smile curved Hugh's mouth, and he spoke before Isabel could answer. "I took advantage of the friendship my lady and I cultivated while in France, my lord. Then I brought her up here—nay, forced her here—with a threat on your life. She attempts to protect you by claiming this was of her own volition."
Isabel shook her head. "Nay! Only after I came did you threaten—"
"Do you see?" Hugh laughed. "Marie de Lille and I have been planning to reach this moment; we were so successful that, even now, Isabel worries that you will challenge me for daring to force my touch upon her and fall before my sword."
"What madness is this?" Lilith whispered.
Michael's smile could have been carved from stone. "He is saving his lord and his lady from your scheming. Rape, treason, and murder? Justifiably punishable offenses. The baron will feel no guilt after, and the lady will eventually make peace with her part in this—for _obviously_ , 'twas all a terrible plan of Hugh's and yours from the beginning. He believes he is saving their souls."
"I can smell her sweetness on my hands," Hugh continued. "She is ripe for the pluck—"
D'Aulnoy's fist shot out, catching Hugh's jaw and knocking him back against the parapet.
His hand rested upon his sword hilt, but he did not draw his weapon. He turned to his wife, his chest heaving. "My lady, is what he says true? Did he touch you with force? Did he threaten my life? Did another lady convince you to come here?"
Isabel looked from her husband to Hugh; he clung to the low wall, clearly dazed. "Aye, but—"
"Take his sword, William. And his mail. 'Twas an honor he never deserved."
He was stripped of his rank. Lilith sank onto her haunches, letting her relief ease the tension that had held her motionless. He would be exiled, then, as had many of the barons who had been called traitors to their liege.
"We are even, demon," Hugh muttered; no one but she and Michael could have heard it.
Lilith's mouth fell open. "He has defeated me." She began shaking with laughter. "And he has fulfilled his bargain in the doing: a lie for a lie."
Perfectly equal lies, spun of half-truths that held no advantage in the telling. Unable to stop her grin, her expression a reflection of disbelief and admiration, she hid her face so Michael would not see it and triumph.
"Nay, do not look away." Michael's voice was sharp in her ear. Searing pain tore through her scalp as he jerked her head up by her hair. "Witness the results."
Furious, she transformed, her horns sprouting from her temples and stabbing through his wrist.
He did not make a sound, but encircled her with his arms and drew her hard against him. It was like being crushed by a boulder. "Open your eyes and _witness_!"
Unable to move, she stopped struggling. What did he speak of—what was left to observe? It was over, she had failed. On the wall walk, Robert tucked Isabel close and led her toward the stairs as Mandeville roughly stripped Hugh of his hauberk.
The baron descended the steps, and said over his shoulder, "Put down the faithless dog, William. Now, and quietly: the heart as he tried to take mine, then the head for his traitorous thoughts."
There was no pleasure, only grim duty in Mandeville's expression. "Aye, my lord."
Isabel made a sound of protest, cut off as Robert shook her with barely restrained violence. "Had he gone further, I would do it myself. Be grateful your youth and inexperience does not put his blood on my hands, and that he didn't get far enough to put a babe in your belly."
Michael's arms tightened, though Lilith hadn't struggled. "Watch."
She tried to sound as if it did not matter. "Hugh has beaten Mandeville before."
"Do you think Hugh means to fight?" His laugh was cold.
She hated martyrs. "Foolish. How can he be so foolish?" If he ran, he might escape. He was young, strong—much faster than Mandeville.
Michael clapped a hand over her mouth. "Do not interfere."
Her heart pounded and she began fighting in earnest against Michael's hold as Hugh rose to his feet. His chest was bare, and despite the lean strength of him, to Lilith he seemed utterly defenseless.
Why were men built so weakly? What chance did they have against steel or fangs?
She heard Isabel's weeping as the lady walked across the bailey under the protection of her husband's arm. Did the sound of her tears reach Hugh's ears? Was he glad for them, that the woman he'd sacrificed himself for wept for him? Was it any comfort?
"I am sorry, pup." Mandeville's voice shook. "I cannot think what evil took you."
Michael said into her ear, "Look; though he had no love for Hugh, it is not easy to execute a man."
Hugh raised his head. He must see the burning of her eyes. Could he see that she was held back, that her feet scrabbled for purchase on the roof as she tried to escape Michael—or did he only see that demonic glow?
"Was a woman."
"Always is." Mandeville's short laugh held a note of hysteria. "I cannot do this if you do not close your eyes, pup."
"Perhaps you can still win," Michael said. "Will surely be a mortal wound, but if Mandeville does not have the stomach to take his head, you'll have time to transform him. _If_ you gather the blood, perform the ritual, and call for Lucifer to make his bargain."
Lilith froze.
Hugh bowed his head, closed his eyes: a kindness for the man who would kill him.
A scream of denial built in her throat. Mandeville whispered a prayer for forgiveness, and his blade struck true, slicing into Hugh's heart.
Michael released her.
She dove, arrowing toward the allure as Hugh fell to his knees, clutching his chest. Mandeville raised his sword over Hugh's exposed neck.
The blade cut deep into her shoulder, but she scooped Hugh into her arms with nary a break in movement. With a terrified shout, Mandeville pulled his sword from her flesh. Lilith hissed and lashed out with her foot, hard enough to numb his hand, knocking the weapon from his fingers.
"He's mine," she growled. Nodding frantically, emitting a stream of high-pitched whimpers, he scrambled toward the stairs; she was airborne again before he reached them.
Hugh's skin was cool and slick with sweat, his muscles bunching as he convulsed with silent, heaving coughs. Blood pumped from his wound and streamed in pulsing rivulets over his chest, pooling on his abdomen. With a small, sobbing breath, she lifted his knees higher, cradling him tight against her so as not to lose any of the precious fluid.
_Imbecile._ But she couldn't say it aloud, not when her throat burned with acrid fear. What was she doing? Even if the transformation was successful, even if Hugh agreed to his terms, Lucifer would not forgive her part in this. Would not forget that'twas not cruelty that drove her, but something . . . human.
His back arched violently; she fought to regain her balance, angling her wings as he nearly broke from her embrace. Head thrown back, cords on his neck straining, he began shuddering; there was nothing beautiful in it, and she should have gloried in the ugliness that death ravaged upon him, but she could not.
"He's mine," she said again, but instead of anger, desperation laced her voice.
And she knew death would not cower before anger or care for desperation.
It was only seconds until they reached the temple ruins. She landed amongst the fallen stones, holding him against her. His shudders began to weaken, and for a terrible moment, she couldn't remember the markings needed for the ritual. She had not thought of it in so long, had made herself avoid the memory.
But 'twas not something she could truly forget.
She shifted into the body that had been forbidden her, and a single glance at the designs on her skin brought it back. The one between her breasts—her name—would be different than his, but she could use her body as a guide to creating Hugh's new life.
She laid him on the ground, reforming her wings and sliding the membranous tissue beneath him to catch the blood. They'd removed his sword, but his dagger was still in its sheath; she pulled it out.
The convulsions had ceased, and she could not hear the beating of his torn heart.
Her mind blanked. The point of the blade hovered over his chest as she tried to think of a name—any name would do, any name, but it had to be quick. The name did not matter: she could be Marie or Lilith or Isabel and . . .
Her vision blurred.
_He_ would not be the same. How could he not lose his humanity if he became what she was? Even if his beauty remained, would there be anything left of him? Did anything remain of her?
The knife trembled in her hand.
"Hugh," she whispered.
And then spoke another name, knowing that it sealed her fate.
He heard a voice, though it seemed far away. His chest burned, but the pain was easing to numbness. He was colder than he could ever remember being.
Seemed the greatest effort he'd ever made, to open his eyes.
Though darkness edged his vision, he did not mistake the loveliness of the face staring down into his, the outline of wings behind her. The realization of what she was took his last breath.
"Angel." His hand lifted, and he touched her face. It was oddly familiar, yet he was certain he'd not known her. Surely he could not have forgotten this beauty.
Her skin was warm, so warm.
Her eyes widened, and he tried to memorize the display of emotions sweeping across her exquisite features. Sadness . . . grim amusement . . . regret.
"Nay," she said softly, "not me."
She caught his hand, clasped his palm to her cheek when his strength failed. Her touch, her warmth, her face slowly faded.
When she spoke again, her voice surprised him. "Will you take him? Is it not what you planned?"
Hugh tried to answer, was relieved when he was saved the effort by another. Georges? "You could not have done what was required, Lilith. It is not a failure that you tried but you could not carry it through." He paused. "He will punish you for this."
She laughed bitterly. "Do you invite me to Caelum then and give me asylum? Do you transform me to Guardian?"
Hugh knew the silence she received in response was telling, but could not remember why it meant something.
"I do not have that power," Georges said finally. "I am sorry, Lilith."
Her fingers clenched on his; Hugh tried to squeeze back reassuringly, but he couldn't offer even that small comfort. Her voice softened, but lost none of its bitter edge. "What did you think would happen when you manipulated me to this point? Are you satisfied upon proving that I can be—" She broke off, and her tone was devoid of emotion when she continued. "Don't pretend to concern yourself about my welfare, Michael. You must be glad to be rid of me."
"Not in this manner."
What manner? Hugh wanted to ask, but the darkness was closing in. Beneath him, the ground began to rumble; the air reeked of sulphur. Fear crashed through him as he realized the demons of Hell were coming to collect him. He braced himself against the inevitable pain.
He felt the faint touch of the angel's lips to his—then she was gone, leaving him bereft, seeing and feeling nothing.
And then all he could see was light.
**CHAPTER 6**
# **Caelum**
## **1217**
Hugh looked around him with perfect vision. Caelum, a city of marble, with spires that streaked into a brilliant sky, must be as Heaven itself. And it was more than Hugh could have dreamed. Even the Crusaders, with tales of temples and ruins, of societies great—without corruption—could not have imagined such beauty.
The stories of the holy wars, of knights who had brought glory to His throne, had fueled his dreams as a boy; here, in Caelum, surely only the angels were closer to His purpose. This must be what he'd been born for—and what was worth dying for. He would serve for eternity and could think of no better fate.
His blood still sang from the transformation. Beside him, Georges . . . no, Michael—waited silently. He must be accustomed to this awesome display; Hugh was certain he never could be.
Guardians milled about—men and women, some with wings, some in human garb, some nude—and he searched the faces for the one who had come to him, saved him.
And did not see her.
"Where is she?" He blushed as Michael raised his brows. Would the Doyen think his intentions toward the woman were impure? But still, he asked, "My angel."
Michael did not reply.
Hugh swallowed, looked at the ground. Pure, clean—no dirt nor rot. " 'Twas Lilith?"
"Aye."
How could it be? Except that there must be good in her, must be something within her that resisted the demon. "Can she be saved?" Did he not owe it to her to try?
Michael studied him with obsidian eyes. "I cannot save her."
Hugh nodded. If a place such as Caelum could exist, then it was surely possible to save a demon. "Then I will."
# **The Pit**
The floor was wet, but Lilith did not let herself think of what she might be lying upon. So long as she could remain still, she was content.
But as with all things Below, contentment was denied. Tremors rocked her surroundings at regular intervals, and she was tossed against items solid and soft, alive and . . . not alive.
It was some time before she heard the whimpering, before she recognized what the warm, squirmy thing that huddled next to her must be. Her fingers explored the coarse fur, scratched the pointed ears; she laughed as its tongues licked her hand eagerly in response.
She could not see it. Though a demon's eyes made darkness visible, they had been taken; she would need time to regenerate them. And as she tried to pet it with her other hand and could not, when the tremors jarred her and phantom pains tingled in her limbs, she was glad she couldn't see what had been done to her.
They had left her tongue—not out of kindness, but because they knew she would still taste the metallic liquid slide of blood, though none remained in her mouth. Clever of them, to return her sense of taste for the Punishment. Would a symbol be missing from her skin, or a new one added?
But it mattered little when she could not see them. "And what could you have done, pup, that would bring you here?"
Chuffing softly, it nudged her hand, neck and shoulder with its cold noses.
"I see," she said. "You are far too friendly for a hellhound. They will try to take that out of you."
It broke into a chorus of frightened barks as the room shook; something crashed against the wall and shattered, raining debris.
She pulled it against her, protecting the small body with hers. "Might take them a while to return to our Punishments.'Tis war out there, and they have no time to concern themselves with torturing the likes of us. I did not think Belial had it in him to challenge Lucifer, but it seems he did. Which outcome shall we hope for?"
One of its heads whined and another growled; she nodded her agreement. "No good for us, either way." She sucked in a lungful of the foul, sulphuric air. No need for her to breathe except to provide a medium for speech, but she liked the rhythm of it, the push and pull—and stinking air was better than drowning in blood. She measured time in those breaths.
No surprise she'd lost track of it years—decades—ago.
"Perhaps you'll be full grown before they return for us," she mused. "If so, you'll not have much to fear from them. Your bite is death for a demon, and they'd likely not risk it just to teach you a lesson." She felt it startle and back away from her and laughed. "You are not a threat to me: I'm but a halfling. Only those of the original orders—demons, angels, nosferatu—have aught to fear from you; and if you did not have power over them, they would not need to subdue you. If they come—"
Another tremor; she buried her face in his fur and waited for it to pass. Pain streaked through her as the room shifted. Its whimpers matched hers.
It was nearly two hours before she roused herself, remembered what she had been going to tell him. "If they come, there are ways to endure. Aye, you might be slightly mad by the end, but it is much easier to endure without _full_ sanity."
His sharp, pointed bark made her laugh again. "Not revenge, though I do dream of that. Revenge is not enough to sustain yourself. You must look forward to something." She stroked his coat, and it grew silky under her touch. Pleasure rushed through her; most often, hellhounds protected themselves with barbed, poisonous hairs or venom-tipped spikes. "You might imagine a field of werehares, I suppose, or pettings without cease." Two of his heads were snuggling into the crook of her neck, but he lifted the other and studied her.
Realizing she could see him—not well, but it was vision—she grinned. "You're as ugly as your father. I often take his name in vain . . . or, rather, his male bits. I suppose you come from those bits."
He panted, tongue lolling, and seemed to return her grin as his lips drew back against sharp, gleaming teeth.
"Aye, I heal quickly. Though they'll take it all again soon, I suppose." She sighed, and he gave a questioning whimper and a doubled growl. "How do _I_ endure? I anticipate the end, of course. When I can return to Earth and resume my duties. Though I doubt it will be the same role; I failed spectacularly. Lucifer was . . . displeased with my performance." The pup might have laughed at such an understatement; Lilith wasn't certain. Her voice softened as she admitted, "I look forward to seeing him again. His eyes are the same color as I've always imagined Caelum's sky. He must still be training there; he will train for one hundred years. There are endless Scrolls to read, did you know? There is naught like that here; Lucifer adores ignorance." She frowned. "But perhaps the century has passed? Perhaps he has already returned to Earth and is slaying demons and quietly dispensing moral advice to humans."
She lay still for a moment. A scrabbling on the floor next to them was followed by a squeak. Calling in her sword, she twisted and stabbed, and the wyrmrat squealed and wriggled at the blade's end. She tossed it to the pup.
"I would very much like to see what I've made; he will be entertaining. And that is all he will be. Whatever Punishment the victor in this war comes up with will surely rid me of any of those human emotions that got me into this mess," she said, and tried to persuade herself that she spoke true. The pup's three heads stopped tearing into the rat, and in unison gave her a doubtful look. She laughed, rolled over, and stood up. "Oh, I'll make his life a living hell, of course. What do you take me for?"
# **Lille, France**
## **August 1389**
The scent of the nosferatu was strong; it nearly overwhelmed Hugh's senses. Though his Enthrallment upon first returning to Earth had not lasted for long, still there were moments when the sights and sounds of Earth overtook him, made him doubt he was seeing and hearing aright.
Such it was for a man who'd been given the ability of an angel; it did not rest easy.
There—a furtive movement. The nosferatu's pale skin glowed bright beneath the moonlight, and its psychic reek permeated the village. How many had it murdered? The odor of blood was thick in the night air.
However many it had killed, it would not take another.
Hugh made the vow, then cursed when a woman came out from one of the small dwellings at the edge of the village. Her gray hair and sagging form revealed her age, her slow walk her frailty. But blood was blood to the nosferatu; did not matter the source, old or young.
And she was a temptation the nosferatu couldn't resist.
It darted from behind a tree, soundless over the ground. Hugh called in his sword, created a suit of armor over his body and moved to intercept him. He barely had time to shove the woman out of the creature's path before engaging him.
The nosferatu did not have much skill with his weapon; it was as if he had not used it for centuries. Still, he was strong, quick—it took all of Hugh's concentration to match each of its blows.
But the killing stroke did not come from his sword. His eyes widened as the creature's head was lopped off in front of him, rolling across the ground to stop at his feet. The old woman?
His heart skipped—no frail woman that. The nosferatu's psychic odor disappeared with its death, and he could smell, feel, taste the demon before him. Had he not guarded this part of the country because of its small connection to her?
"Lilith," he breathed. "I have looked for you."
Her eyes began to glow, that eerie scarlet he'd not been able to forget. She shed the old woman's form, became the demon he remembered from the castle tower—and attacked him.
Laughing. How could he be laughing as her sword clashed against his faster, ever faster? Yet she was, too—perhaps it was madness that had taken them both.
He tripped. And she was on him, a whirlwind of teeth and wings and naked crimson skin. She could have killed him but she kissed him. He stiffened beneath her, unprepared for the onslaught of lust and pleasure. Like Enthrallment, but from one source. Then pain, as her fangs cut his lip—and she scrambled off him, put the point of her sword to his throat, wiped her mouth with her free hand.
For a moment she stood, her chest heaving; then her gaze fell to his suit of armor. "I see you have made something of yourself, Sir Pup." Her teeth flashed as she smiled. "Though you shine so brightly you could be a target for a blind woman."
He flushed. The armor had been the first thing he'd created, when he'd learned how to make clothing for himself, to dress with a thought. The polished metal did shine, aye—but as befitted a soldier from Caelum. "Or an old woman."
"Aye." Her grin widened. "To change one's shape is a fine trick, is it not—yet you do not use it for yourself. You appear as ridiculously young as ever. Or perhaps you have not mastered the ability?"
"I have." But he had no need for deception, as she did. His natural form was not terrible to look upon.
Though it was difficult to think it terrible when her form was so strong—so appealing.
"And what of your Gift—have you yet received it?" Her head tilted as she studied him. "I have heard a Guardian's unique power reflects him as he was in life. Perhaps your Gift shall be the ability to leave a man's prick limp and useless. For certain you never succumbed to the temptations of the flesh while human." Her sword rattled over his armor as she trailed the tip from throat to groin.
"My Gift has not come upon me," he admitted, then stiffened as she slid the sharp point into the armor's vulnerable joint between his torso and thigh. Beneath the metal, blood trickled over his hip. "Will you slay me now?"
Her brows rose. "Slay you? I made you."
"Aye," he said. "Strange that you did."
Her sword vanished, and her eyes narrowed on his face. "Not strange at all, Sir Pup. I have paid for, but have not yet gotten the use of you."
He rose to his feet. "What purpose could I serve for a demon—except that I could slay you?"
"I'm not likely to ask for that," she said.
"Then let me save you."
She stared at him for a long moment, then burst into laughter. "Oh, you cannot save such as me. And I serve a better purpose than you."
He frowned. "You cannot believe that."
Pointing toward one of the small wooden huts, she said, "In there sleeps a man who murdered his brother and his brother's wife so that he could have a bit more barley for supper. I am his mother—though she died ten years ago. I harangue him day and night, until his guilt will drive him to confess, or take his own life. What do you plan to do, to make certain he pays for his crime?"
He could do naught. "This is why Michael did not slay you. You provide justice we cannot."
She smiled slightly. "There are more reasons than that. Will you stop me, Guardian?"
"It is my duty," he said. "Those condemned souls feed Lucifer's armies Below; perhaps if you do not kill them, they will repent. Given time, a murderer can become a saint. So, aye, I will stop you."
She grinned in full. "You can try." Turning, she began to walk away.
"Lilith," he said. The amused glow of her eyes as she looked over her shoulder made his body tighten. "Thank you for giving me this."
Her amusement faded. "Don't thank me yet, Sir Pup. It wears thin."
# **Wallachia**
## **November 1461**
It should not have shamed her that he saw her this way.
She did not look at him as he got her down, and rolled away from him when he would have held her and offered comfort.
And she willed herself to heal quickly, so that she would not look weak.
Hugh did not appear weak—not in that gleaming armor. Giant wings sprouted from his back; she was not accustomed to seeing him wear them, but they had been necessary for him to reach her. He was beautiful and did she look much longer, she would begin to weave silly dreams around him. She closed her eyes, rested her cheek on the snowy ground.
He lowered to his heels next to her. "I sought you tonight, but I did not think I would find this. Who was it?" No mistaking the rage in his voice.
She would have replied, but he would have known the lie. When she was healed, she could tell him whatever she pleased. But her shields were not strong enough yet.
Then his Gift hit her, forcing truth. "Demons." Her laughter was hard, bitter. "You use it against me when I am like this and cannot resist?"
"Belial's?" He sighed when she remained silent. "Lilith, please."
Her body did not pain her as much now, and it did not hurt when he used his Gift, but still the admission came through clenched teeth. "Azzael. One of Lucifer's lieutenants." And she had to continue when he asked the reason, "I was sickened by the Impaler's offering to Lucifer. The prince courts my father's power and invited us to witness it. My father was not pleased by my response." Release, and she quickly asked, "Why did you seek me?"
He hesitated but for a moment. "I cannot kill Prince Vlad; but if anyone deserves the justice you offer, it is he."
She laughed and shook her head. "I do not think he has a conscience to work upon." Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. "I could not anyway. Humans have proved unreliable allies in the past, but my father tries again—attempting to gain Earthly power by pulling a prince into his service."
"That is what this series of massacres has been? Vlad courts him for vanity, power—immortality? But for the last, he could not have them and still serve."
"Aye." She smiled, but it held no humor. "And he will not succeed. He values himself too highly or lacks sufficient belief in Lucifer's power. He sacrifices others, never himself—all that he makes is display. A worthless, bloody display; but one that Lucifer enjoys, even if Vlad fails to offer that ultimate sacrifice." She sighed. "Either way, Lucifer surrounds him with his lieutenants, who protect him. I would be no more successful than you even should I try. And did I try, this punishment would be nothing in comparison."
He nodded, bowed his head. " _This_ is a tyrant."
"Aye." Sitting up was possible now, and she folded her legs beneath her so her eyes would be level on his. What had it taken him to approach her, ask this favor?
"And there is naught I can do to stop him." Resignation, anger in that statement. His armor disappeared. A brief flash of naked skin, before he covered it with a brown robe, such as those she'd seen in monasteries.
Surprised, she touched the coarse material. "What is this?"
"Humility. To remind myself that I serve." He remained still for a few moments, then his fingers brushed her face. "What will save you, Lilith?"
"Do not ask me," she said. "For I also have to serve."
He sighed, and then his mouth drew into a tight line. "Where is Azzael now?"
"In Vlad's fortress." Studying his features was no hardship, and she looked long before she said, "If you kill him, do not say it was on my behalf. I dare not revenge myself; I will owe you."
"No, Lilith." His voice was cold. "You owe me nothing."
She lifted her brows. "I thought we'd established that 'nothing' is a kiss."
Finally, warmth in that blue gaze. But she called in her sword; though it was nothing, better to have him earn it.
# **London, England**
## **September 1666**
Lilith found Hugh atop St. Paul's Cathedral, standing on the roof and staring out over the city.
"Even you cannot stop its approach," she said, landing lightly beside him.
He gave a half-smile. Soot covered his skin; the edges of his robe had been singed through. "Aye, it will burn." Flaming debris fell around them; none had yet caught on the peaked iron roof, but it would not be long before the timbered scaffolding would. The recent restoration would be for naught. He slanted her a curious glance. "You have not yet drawn your sword."
"I have decided it will be far more entertaining to watch you attempt to maintain your countenance in anticipation of my attack," she said. A buttress arced from tower to roof; she hopped onto it and perched. The air around them shimmered with heat. To the southwest, St. Andrew's-by-the-Wardrobe collapsed in an eruption of smoke and fire. "It cannot be a surprise if I immediately engage or kiss you _every_ time. I should hate to become a bore."
"You could not be that."
She grinned, but it faded as she turned to study his expression. Exasperation, humor—she was accustomed to seeing those. Not the careful scrutiny he subjected her to now, as if he were trying to probe her mind's darkest recesses.
"Is it thus Below?"
She searched his eyes, but could not see the purpose behind the question. No reason not to answer, though. "In part. Rivers and lakes aflame." She waved her hand toward the Thames. "But our cities do not burn. Nor are they constructed of wood, and infested with a plague-ridden population. Perhaps," she mused, "this destruction will be of some benefit; purify the city of that which keeps it corrupted, diseased." She raised her amused gaze to his. "Below, we are the plague, and cannot be purified by fire."
He did not laugh. "Aye, it might release it from corruption. But at what cost?"
Acrid air filled her lungs as she drew a sharp breath. Did he ever think of aught but saving her? She pretended to misunderstand him. "The cost will not be dear; how many did you and your students save this night? When they make a history of these days, will it not be with amazement that more did not perish?"
"I saw you carrying children from their homes," he said quietly.
Grateful for her red skin and the orange glow of the fire that hid her embarrassment, she grinned and said, "It is difficult to tempt people who are not living. I fully intend to return later, and lead them to eternal damnation." Pursing her lips, she added, "Only do not tell Lucifer. He will not like that explanation, and would have preferred death and grief. I do not think he would consider it a service."
He shook his head. "I imagine not. Why do you still serve him?"
The question and the powerful thrust of his Gift took her unawares; she dug her claws into the buttress and held herself still. But his attack struck when her resistance was low, and she could not stop the words from tumbling from her mouth. "I am bound by my bargain."
He froze. "A bargain?"
"Yes," she hissed. Her sword glinted in her hand. "I will kill you if you do that again."
His lips tilted, but the smile held no warmth. "You will try. Why do you need a bargain to serve?"
Again that wave of power; she was prepared and leapt forward. His blade met hers, but he never halted the flow of his Gift. Impossible to fight _and_ resist it—it was likely what he'd planned, to provoke her so that she was so busy with her weapon she could guard neither her mind nor her tongue.
Only him—why did _he_ have to be Gifted with truth, the one thing that could destroy her? She had to hide it even from herself; if she failed in her bargain, her Punishment would be more terrible than any Lucifer had given her before. And it would be an eternal Punishment, not simply a hundred and fifty years of torture.
She transferred her strength to her shields, and fell.
His body was heavy atop hers as he held her down on the steep roof, his sword at her throat. His Gift smashed into her mental defenses, and she gasped as she felt them begin to crumble. _No, no._ She lifted her hips, trying to dislodge, trying to arouse—but there was no hardness in him except of muscle and bone.
There hadn't been since he'd become a Guardian—since she'd been able to test through the flimsy barrier of his monk's robe. Why would there be, now that he knew what it meant to be a demon? Yet still she tried to distract him with touch; once, it had been his weapon against her—but with his Gift, one he no longer needed.
"Tell me. The others put him on the throne Below, swore their fealty. But you say you were never an angel—that, like the hellhounds, Lucifer created you; you should have no obligation to serve. Yet you do."
Her scream was of anger and fear. Desperation. She called in her heaviest sword. It was impossible to bring it from her cache directly into another body, or anywhere but empty space—she had to hold it separate from other objects. Yet she could place it a hundred feet into the air, directly above him.
Any lower and it would not have enough force from the fall. It would likely pin them together in death, but she would be fighting . . . if she did not fight it would be a betrayal of her service.
He must have heard the whistle of air across the sharpened blade; he rolled, taking her with him. Not fast enough; it sliced her side as it embedded deep into the softening roof.
His face whitened beneath the mask of soot, his skin drawing tight. His left hand still pinned her wrists, but he vanished his sword to staunch the flow of blood with his right. "Lilith?"
She laughed, though the metallic scent filled her lungs and she'd rather have vomited. Yet another weakness, this sickness. That he saw her this way was worse than the injury. He created a length of linen cloth, held it against the wound.
Why must he be kind? It made her more vulnerable than truth, than blood.
His Gift surrounded her with unrelenting force; combined with his gentle touch, she was defenseless. "Aye, I was created by him. I serve through the bargain—but I must serve, regardless," she said. "There has to be one who reigns: to enforce the Rules, to administer Punishment or destroy any demons who think to deny humans their free will, or to bring death to them."
"Aye, one must lead. But why not Belial?"
She laughed again, bitterly. "He would be no different, though he promises much. He says we would all rule, and it would be equal; but that is a lie. It may be better to reign in Hell, but only one truly can—the rest serve. And I am bound to Lucifer."
"What happens if Belial wins the throne?"
"I will be destroyed, as have the rest of my caste." Surely Belial would not tolerate the presence of a halfling; their creation was Lucifer's evil, a corruption of the demon race. She closed her eyes, and Hugh finally relented. The crackling roar of the fire grew ever closer; the southern part of the roof was aflame. "Do not ask me these things, Hugh. There is nothing that can save me."
"That is a lie," he said quietly. Her wound had healed, and he vanished the cloth. He stood, pulled her to her feet. "You will not tell me."
She smiled bleakly. "I cannot tell you."
"And that is truth." He sighed, ran his hand through his hair. "I have something for you."
Her gaze dropped, and she forced humor into her voice. "Do you?"
With the tips of his fingers, he tilted her chin up. "Nay, it isn't that. I know you could not enjoy that; demons do not feel what humans and Guardians do. You only tease me to torment me."
She looked away, out over the glowing sky darkened by smoke. The roof beneath their feet was hot, melting; the interior of the cathedral must be burning. "Yes."
He was silent for a moment, then he said, "I found this in a library; I did not think it so wrong to take it. It would have been destroyed had I not." A bound quarto volume appeared in his hands. "It is Marlowe's _Doctor Faustus_."
Her heart thundered. "You would give this to me?"
"You haunted him mercilessly. As you did Milton, playing his amanuensis after his eyesight failed. Shakespeare and Donne. There was hardly a poet or playwright in the last century you did not torment with your stories." His gaze pierced her. "Why?"
She couldn't tell him she was the last halfling left. Impossible to say that her destruction weighed upon her with every passing year, her inevitable frozen end. And so she only laughed and said a partial truth, so that he would not ask again. "I seek a second immortality; I'm too greedy to settle for only one." She affected a pout. "Yet they always twist it, make it a male demon or villain . . . or Lucifer. Their quills and the printing press erase my sex, remove my identity, and destroy me more efficiently than a sword."
There, a true smile from him. "Will you take it?"
They staggered as the roof buckled and caved; a hole opened yards from where they stood. Flames shot up, sparks showered down around them. Yes, it was much like Below. What would Lucifer do, should she have such a gift in her possession? She wouldn't be able to hide it, or excuse it. It was not a theft—was not something she could cover with a lie.
She clenched her hands by her sides, tempered her shields, and forced the words through the tightness in her throat. "No. I want nothing so worthless."
His features hardened, and his gaze dropped to the book. He slid his palm reverently over the tooled leather cover.
Then he tossed it into the fiery pit beside them and walked away.
# **Lake Geneva, Switzerland**
## **June 1816**
"This must certainly be the lowest point to which a Guardian has ever descended."
Hugh felt Lilith's amused gaze, her psychic scent before she spoke. No, she no longer hid from him when she approached. So much easier when she had; he did not have to conceal his eagerness to see her when he'd no idea if she'd appear. But this waiting she forced upon him now, the anticipation—it was its own torment.
He did not take his eyes from the scene before him. Frustration spilled from her before she closed herself away.
Yet her frustration could be nothing like his.
He stood stiffly, willed his heart to keep its steady beat, his body its indifference—all the more difficult with the soft moans that surrounded them, the cries of pleasure.
"It is a vampire?" She tilted her head to better see through the window.
He gave a short nod.
"It is the one from Derbyshire? The one we helped create?" Surprise in her voice now, laughter. "I know he is extraordinarily handsome, but I cannot believe you would follow him from England for that."
"No." He had to fight his smile.
"Why do you watch him fuck her?"
Hugh closed his eyes. Cold. He needed to be cold. "He will feed. There have been deaths in this region; I know not if they are vampire or nosferatu."
"Likely nosferatu," Lilith said. "I hunted one in these mountains only last month; I came searching for poets and found a bloodsucker. They have become bolder of late. I think they tire of their solitary exile and centuries hidden in caves." She paused. "Do you see how he kisses her thigh? Will he bite her there, do you think? Or simply feast from her? Do Guardians feast so splendidly in the halls of Caelum?"
Her voice had deepened, as if in arousal. But it could not be; impossible for demons to feel such. Only a trick to lower his defenses.
_Concentrate on the nosferatu._ "You have become too reckless, fighting them alone."
"They are stupid. Ignorant."
He could not keep himself from turning, from lifting his hand to brush her throat with the backs of his fingers. Her crimson skin burned under his—a warning, and one he should heed.
His hand fell back to his side. "Stupid also to allow one close enough to rip out your throat, without certainty we would make it back to a Healer in time."
"It cannot be as stupid as turning your back on a demon when Michael's sword is within reach; had your fledgling student not been near, I'd have had your head and the Doyen's sword to present to Lucifer." Her glowing scarlet gaze held his. "And I didn't _allow_ it. I fought. It was service, even had I been killed."
His heart clenched in his chest, and he returned his attention to the bed, the darkened room. "You are correct," he said softly. "I am the greater fool."
A scream came through the glass, but it was not of pain. A name.
"Colin," Lilith echoed, a smile in her voice. "I remember his vanity well. I believe had I ever called him beautiful, he would have done anything I asked."
"Yes," he said, but his gaze went to the cloth that the vampire had draped over his lover's mirror. Did he hate so much what he'd become, or did something else haunt him? Guilt?
"Are you here to slay him for taking her blood?"
He shook his head. "He is not nosferatu; there is human in him. I will not begrudge him survival, so long as he is not cruel. So long as he does not kill."
Her silence stretched the air between them, until she said, "I have been cruel. You may not have been a voyeur outside my window, but you know I have been so."
"Only with their consent," he said, betraying nothing of his jealousy, his despair. Keeping his indifference firmly in place. "But a vampire does not have to honor a human's free will."
"Nor do I a Guardian's," she said softly, her breath in his ear. He'd not heard her move. "He is inside her now, taking her blood; she wills it, and he brings her only pleasure. Are you satisfied?"
"Aye."
Quick as thought, her hand was beneath his robe, gripping him, stroking him. It took all his strength to keep his body from responding. Sweat broke over his brow. He could not think. Only hold his defenses . . . they could not hold long.
Lilith's patience ran out more quickly.
With a sound of disgust, she turned away. Hugh ground his teeth together to keep from dropping his glamours, showing her the truth of it. From hauling her back, burying himself within her.
Losing himself within her.
"You swore to your student that you would protect the vampire, yet you contemplate his execution?"
How had she known of his promise? Had she listened in doorways after Ramsdell had Fallen? It was several moments before he had the ability to say, "Yes." He glanced at her; her mouth was set, her eyes flaring with anger.
"You would break your vow?"
"Yes," he said quietly. "If he cannot be saved. If his bloodthirst overwhelms his humanity."
"I will kill him now." Her sword appeared in her hand, a hard smile on her lips. "It shall bring me pleasure to finally rid the world of all bloodsuckers, half-human or no."
"No, Lilith." He laid his hand on her arm. She looked down at it. "As long as he is not cruel, not a murderer—I will not break my vow." And he could not keep the rest from hanging unspoken between them. _Even for you._
She grinned suddenly, and said, "A vampire's life is nothing. Shall we bargain? A kiss, and I'll promise not to kill him."
It was impossible not to agree; she would be bound by the bargain, and it was a small price to help secure his vow. Perhaps it was what saved the vampire that night, and those that followed; but as her lips touched his, he felt his destruction bearing down upon him.
When had the price of saving her become his soul?
# **New Orleans, Louisiana**
## **August 1857**
The moonlight cast long shadows across the graveyard; stone angels guarded houses for the dead, locked in endless prayer.
They'd have been better served protecting the living.
Lilith darted between granite tombs, her taloned feet silent over the red clay. It clumped between her toes; she paused and shook it off as she listened.
The thick perfume of magnolias hung in the humid air, and the cicadas chirped their annoying tune. A psychic probe revealed nothing. No sign of the Guardian she'd followed here, or the human Selah had been protecting.
Her breath hissed out between her teeth. Most humans wouldn't have been able to hide their minds from her, but this young man had much to conceal—from those humans around him, and that which he attempted to hide from himself lest it rage inside him.
He'd do well to release some of that anger.
Lilith's focus narrowed. There—a heartbeat, a low, quick breath. She called in her sword.
Selah leapt out from behind a low wall, a tall blond figure in a white gown. Not to fight; she held the young man in her arms. His dark form was in stark contrast to her pale skin and wings. She raced toward a tomb, his slim arms clinging around her neck. Hardly older than fourteen, but of age to decide his future.
With a triumphant laugh, Lilith gave chase. The Guardian was a fledgling, only recently returned to Earth after a century of training in Caelum. Lilith would have her skewered before—
_Oh, fuck._ The tomb opened; Selah and her charge fled into the dark interior. Hugh closed the heavy stone door and stood in front of it, his arms crossed over his chest.
He caught her wrist before she could bring her blade down on his head. She took hold of the neck of his robe and whirled, slammed him back against granite. The tomb shivered under the impact.
Her eyes shone red across his skin. Her fingers wrapped around his throat. "She's your student?"
"Yes." He stared down at her, his gaze hooded. "Let him be, Lilith."
She snarled, her lips drawing back over her fangs. "Give him to me. You cannot save him; he will not leave of his free will. Not without his mother."
"No. But driving him to murder will not save either of them."
"It _is_ justice. He is free, but his mother is not." Her hand tightened; Hugh didn't flinch. "Do you know what her owner does?"
With barely a thought, Lilith shifted. Her black hair became an artful tumble of auburn ringlets; her breeches widened into hoops and skirts. Ridiculous trappings, in a ridiculous society.
She pressed her lips to his cheek; her slim white hand covered his flaccid cock through his robe. "Service me, boy. I should like to ride upon you—you are nothing but a beast. An animal." Her slow drawl dripped with bitter honey. "And if you do not . . ." Her gaze rose to Hugh's. "The threat depends upon her mood: one day, his mother's back is stripped of its skin by a whip; the next, she is sold to a plantation upriver."
"If he kills her, he will have a noose around his neck and his mother would still suffer—perhaps still beaten and sold. That is not justice."
"And what is your alternative?"
His fists clenched; his mouth hardened, and she briefly felt his psychic despair before he closed his mind to her.
It was answer enough: there was nothing.
"Poor Guardian. So limited in your options; so long as he will not leave, you cannot force him to go."
Her tongue traced his lips; Hugh did not react. Not even a twitch from his limp flesh. She vanished her skirts and rammed her knee into the offending organ. His mouth opened on a pained grunt, and she swept inside.
For an instant, he responded with gentle suction, his palms rising to cup her jaw—and then he shoved her away.
Lilith grinned and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "Let me have him. You know you would like to kill her yourself; I will convince him to do it."
He watched her with cold eyes. "You will try." Stepping aside, he opened the tomb.
Her brows drew together; Selah was not inside. Nor was Lilith's target. There was only one entrance, and they'd stood in front of it. "What kind of trick is this?"
"No trick," Hugh said softly. "We leave such methods to you. We will both be protecting him, Lilith—and we will convince him to go. His mother does not believe she owns herself; once we persuade her of that and she acknowledges her free will, we shall take them both to the North."
"So he will flee, and his abuser shall never pay . . . and you will let him be used in the meantime?"
"It is unfortunate, but aye. I must."
" 'Unfortunate'?" Hilarity rolled from her, high-pitched and wild. "Just as losing an eye is unfortunate?"
"For a Guardian, losing an eye is nothing at all. It regenerates."
She searched for any humor accompanying the statement, and found none. It did not surprise her; she had not heard him laugh for two hundred years.
Hers had become increasingly desperate.
Her amusement faded; a strange lethargy took its place. She could not even make the effort to fly—she perched on a nearby tomb, and watched him walk away. It was hard not to admire his form; even in that endlessly youthful body, he had powerful shoulders and a strong back.
She should have stabbed him through it.
# **London, England**
## **October 1945**
Despite the early morning sun, London lay drab and tattered, like an old woman abed in a ragged dark cloak. The wartime blackout had ended; electricity hadn't yet been restored to this part of the city, but still the mortar-pocked townhouse was closed and shuttered.
Hugh was not surprised; the vampire inside didn't need the light. The front door opened easily—the lock had been broken. The rooms were bare but for the cracking plaster, rubble and dust. A broken portrait frame lay empty near the fireplace in the front parlor; the marble mantel had been removed.
A tortured moan drifted down the stairwell, ripe with pain—and human. A wet, wheezing cough followed it. The scent of blood permeated the air: the human's, and the rich, heavy odor of a vampire's.
Colin's.
Hugh frowned as he moved toward the stairs, automatically transforming the suit he'd worn on the street into his woolen robe. The vampire had never managed to create more of his kind; each attempt had ended in death. Did Colin try again?
The risers screeched under his weight; the carpets had been ripped away, the wood left to dry. As if disturbed by the sound, a shower of debris rained down from the vaulted ceiling.
Hugh froze; the building had been damaged, but it was not so shoddily constructed. His sword appeared in his hand. "You promised you would not kill him," he said softly.
Lilith dropped from above; the banister splintered beneath her boots, but did not collapse. Her wings snapped wide. "This house reeks of sickness and blood," she hissed. Her weapon glinted at her thigh. "I tire of both."
So did Hugh. "Then you ought not to be here; if you have sought me in hopes of finding relief from them, you must be disappointed." He turned, continued on to the next step.
Her sword pressed against his throat; he knocked it away with a dismissive swipe of his blade.
The psychic blaze of anger hit him before she did. His steel shattered under the force of her blow. Hugh called in a second sword, blocked a thrust that would have torn through his heart. He spun; his heel slammed into her jaw.
Lilith crashed through the banister; the foyer wall crumpled around the shape of her body before she slid to the floor. Blood streamed over her chin, splattered at her feet along with a small chunk of flesh.
She'd bitten through her tongue.
His gut roiling, Hugh watched her spit into her hand, her body heaving, and waited for her second attack. It didn't come. She stared up at him, her narrowed gaze radiating crimson heat.
Then her attention shifted, moved past his shoulder. Surprise etched a line between her brows.
"How marvelous! A demon is struck dumb by my countenance," Colin said. The vampire stood at the head of the stairs; his slim sword gleamed as sharply as his smile. "How fortunate that you do not need a tongue to appreciate it." He glanced at Hugh; his mouth dropped open in exaggerated shock. "Good God, now _I_ am speechless. I daresay that robe is a greater sin than any she could imagine."
"I rather doubt it," Hugh said. His face was without expression as he took in the vampire's appearance; the dark suit and vest were perfectly pressed, but his blond hair was disheveled as if he'd just risen from his bed. Never before had he seen Colin with a strand out of place. Tall, slender—but paler than their last meeting, and his skin tautly drawn. "Have you had trouble feeding?"
"No. The London vampire community is . . . difficult, but there are war widows and shell-shocked soldiers enough, and I shall soon return to San Francisco." With an elegant wave of his hand that included both Lilith and Hugh, Colin gestured for them to follow. "Since you are come, I may as well take this opportunity to hunt. I am drained," he said as he entered a room. "I prefer not to pass the day in hunger, but I do not like to leave him alone."
Unlike the rest of the house, these quarters had not been stripped of their furnishings—or the suite had been redecorated. An old man lay sleeping fitfully on the bed; his breath rattled in his lungs.
Lilith strode to the window, threw open the shutters, and leaned against the sill. Fresh air flooded the room, and daylight fell across the occupant of the bed and the vampire. Colin slanted her an amused glance before stepping out of the sun's path.
"Tuberculosis?" Hugh frowned; bloodstained metal bowls and yellow tubing cluttered the top of a nightstand. "You have been providing him with transfusions?"
"Yes. He'd not have survived the journey from California without it. His family is in Hartington; I hope to travel with him to Derbyshire tonight. They asked that he be with them when it took him."
Hugh nodded. A human could be transformed into a vampire if he was drained of blood, and then drank vampire or nosferatu blood; transfusions offered strength, and if applied to an injury, could speed healing—but the effects were not permanent. "Who is he?"
"My valet," Colin said. "The fourth Winters. Unfortunately, his niece has no desire to take his place. I'll have to learn to comb my hair, I suppose."
"In San Francisco?" No surprise then that he'd not been able to locate the vampire for more than four decades.
"Yes, but I shall not give you my direction." The vampire grinned. "Protecting me should be a challenge."
"I found you easily enough merely passing through London," Hugh said.
"Yes." Colin retrieved a black umbrella from a stand near the door and propped it casually against his shoulder. "But you knew very well that my family has owned this property for generations. It shall not be so easy in the future, for I've every intention of discarding it. Shiftless ruffians have scrambled through it from kitchens to attic, and the house is hardly livable with their boiled-wool stench about." With a shudder, he left the room.
"He does not use the shade," Lilith murmured. She looked out over the square; Hugh joined her at the window and watched as Colin strolled across the street. He glanced up at them, his golden hair brilliant in the sunlight. "He should be afire by now—and he should be in the daysleep."
"Yes," Hugh said. "He should." The vampire disappeared; if they hadn't been Guardian and demon, they'd not have seen him move.
"A vampire cannot run so quickly." She pushed away from the window, began a circle of the room. "Not even one who is nosferatu-born. And despite his vanity, there is not a mirror to be found."
"There is not."
Her lips curved. "Has he taken Stoker's tale deeply to heart, and convinced himself he has no reflection?"
"I believe," Hugh said, "Stoker met Colin, and added that detail to his tale. Or perhaps he merely heard rumors; Colin did not abandon Society until the turn of the century."
"How extraordinary. And how pitiable—a creature as beautiful as he, unable to see it." The hard crimson shine of her eyes told Hugh she did not pity Colin at all. "He is entertaining; I rather like him. And I am pleased by his cruelty; it alleviates the dissatisfaction my promise brings me now."
"His cruelty?"
"What else can it be, when one prolongs the suffering of another?"
His jaw hardened. "You twist it, Lilith. Colin is quite capable of cruelty, but he is not in this."
Her head tilted as she studied him; she slid her forked tongue over her teeth. "And is it not selfish of the family to extend it so that they may say their farewells? It is not to give this dying man comfort, but to gratify their grief and weakness. If they cared for him more than of themselves, they would let him die. No," she amended sharply, holding up her hand when Hugh took a step toward her, "they would kill him, and stop his pain. There is nothing left on Earth for him to do but suffer. Waiting only draws it out unbearably."
Numbness slid over him, brittle, icy crystals beneath his skin. "Perhaps you ought to remain here, and try to convince Colin of it."
"Perhaps. I have not the time, however, nor the desire to wait and play nursemaid until he returns. I've had enough of that role." She shifted, took on face and body of a Japanese woman in a nurse's uniform. "I saw your Guardians trying to use their healing Gifts among the humans in the hospitals. They were useless, but they continued to try."
Aye, it must have been useless. A Guardian—even the Doyen—could not heal damage humans inflicted upon each other, whether it was with a sword or a destructive weapon of war and its resulting radiation sickness. Michael would have no better luck healing the consumption that took Winters in this bed. "Why were you there?"
"For my pleasure, of course," she said, and slipped back into her red skin. "There is nothing quite like the flesh falling from bones outside of Hell, and we do not get any children Below."
Her shields had not slipped, but he read her lie. How easy it was; for centuries, he had been able to determine truth from lie with the lightest psychic touch—now he no longer needed that touch. Forcing truth, however, still required his Gift.
But he did not use it; he could imagine all too well what had happened: Lucifer had once again determined she should enjoy the humans' suffering—and what he deemed a delight would be as punishment to her.
"You did not save any of them," she said softly. "Nor any in the camps, or the trenches, or in the firebombing—"
"I could not save them," Hugh bit out. "I cannot stop them if they kill one another of their free will." He swallowed past the bitterness in his throat. "What will save you?"
Her face was rigid. "Not one such as you. Not a coward who ties his own worthless hands." She turned, leapt out the window.
Coldness worked its way through him; he'd not known his heart could still beat when frozen.
_That_ had been truth.
**CHAPTER 7**
# **Seattle**
## **February 1991**
The bridge shuddered against the gusting wind; Lilith dragged her sodden hair out of her eyes and decided that if Thaddeus White didn't jump to his death soon, she would push him.
After weeks of whispering suggestions of suicide into his sleep, and twice as long listening to his whining declarations of misunderstood genius, her patience was at an end. The satisfaction of his splattering against the highway below would almost be worth the inevitable Punishment killing a human would bring.
Almost.
He whimpered and turned away from the edge. Lilith fought the urge to roll her eyes and let them glow bright red instead. The effect wasn't as startling as it had been before horror films had inured the American population to monsters and demons, but it was still impressive.
So were the membranous wings and crimson skin she'd chosen to shift into during this assignment. Her face was her own, but when she saw him wavering yet again, she adopted the features of his first victim.
"The police—they suspect, they know," she said. A hint of impatience threaded through her voice, but she doubted he noticed: he was transfixed by her appearance.
She tucked in the grin that pulled at her mouth; this tactic was one of her best, and she'd employed it often over the weeks with him. He fancied himself in love with his prey, and her ability to mimic each of them had alternately frightened, overjoyed and enraged him—and had reinforced his delusions of godlike impunity. He thought of Lilith as a manifestation of his work, a sign of his imminent triumph over the rest of humanity.
She played on that now.
"They'll take that away, lock you up and keep you from me forever—but you can join me." Lilith shifted into another woman and another. "You can join _us_. And those pigs will never touch you. You'll have beaten them."
He gave a greedy, self-satisfied smile and looked down at the wet concrete as if it held glorious reward.
Lilith shed the dead woman's likeness and angled her wings to keep the worst of the rain off her head. It wouldn't be long now; her father would have another soul for his army, and she would be one step closer to regaining his confidence. She'd had a succession of failures, but this time she'd performed her duty and composed Thaddeus's suicide with skill and style.
So why wasn't she taking pleasure in the result?
_If there is going to be a result._ She frowned as Thaddeus paused yet again. For a man who killed others so easily, he apparently considered his own life—and death—valuable. But his wavering kept her from what would likely have been an unsettling self-analysis, and relief slipped under annoyance.
"Why do you hesitate, my love?" she said and grimaced. The _my love_ was overdoing it—certainly none of his victims had ever called him that.
Thaddeus didn't seem to notice; he stared at the highway below, and his voice held an awestruck tremble. "There's . . . an angel waiting for me," he said and dived.
" _An ang_ —oh, for fuck's sake!" Lilith leapt atop the railing just as the figure below—bewinged and dressed in a monk's robes—caught Thaddeus.
_Hugh._
Though he obviously did his best to cushion Thaddeus's fall, the impact of the thirty-foot drop into Hugh's arms knocked the human unconscious. Which, in Lilith's opinion, was splendid—there would be no need to worry about the serial killer witnessing something he shouldn't. He'd have a nasty case of whiplash and a few unexplained bruises, but he'd remain unaware of her—and Hugh's—true nature and his brush with _real_ immortality.
Her sword materialized in her hand, and her blood thrummed in anticipation of battle.
_This_ was something she could take pleasure in.
She couldn't subdue her delighted grin, but she disguised it by affecting a cry of outrage. "This is the last time you interfere, Guardian!"
A flash of lightning accompanied the declaration, and her grin broke through. The more theatrical the confrontation, the better—and it looked as though nature was cooperating in the drama.
Thunder cracked and rumbled as she waited for his response. Hugh tilted his head back to stare at her for a long, silent moment, and she greedily searched his features for a hint of regard. It usually lurked in the silky line of his bottom lip, in the crinkle at the corner of his eyes.
Disappointment and anger settled in her chest when she could find no warmth in his expression, only the somber mask he used to hide his emotions. Her breath hissed through her teeth. Why did he always resist her? Why must he—
"It is the last time," he agreed quietly.
His tone startled her out of her anger. She considered deliberately misinterpreting his words, taking them as a challenge, but the weariness in his voice was too unfamiliar—and too unnerving—to disregard.
Hugh didn't sound tired, but _exhausted,_ as if something within him had burned out. A chill that had nothing to do with the rain sheeting upon them rushed under her skin.
Her eyes dimmed, her sword lowered a fraction of an inch. "Why?"
He glanced down at the man in his arms when Thaddeus shifted and groaned. "I have decided to Fall," he said, and carried Thaddeus beneath the bridge.
She stared unseeing at the place he'd been standing, felt the nausea rise in her throat. _Falling._ For a Guardian, it meant a reversal of his transformation. A release from his duty and a renunciation of his role.
It meant that he would travel a path she could no longer ambush.
It took her a moment to recognize the cause of the yawning, hollow ache in her stomach: Pain. Loss. It only took another moment for her to twist it into something she could understand and use.
Rage.
She didn't remember jumping, but she must have remembered to break her fall with her wings; she landed silently on the concrete highway, her muscles coiled and ready. Thaddeus lay on the incline on the side of the roadway—Hugh was gone. A growl rumbled up from her chest. Opening her senses, she focused her anger into a searching sweep of the area. He wouldn't have left Thaddeus alone with her, couldn't have gone too far.
"I _made_ you!" she shouted into the dark. Her voice echoed in the concrete barrel of the overpass; knowing he could use the noise to cover his attack, she ground her teeth together and delivered her threat with quiet intensity. "I'm the reason you aren't a stinking, rotting corpse, and you think to become human again? I'll see you dead before I allow it."
A whisper of movement. Instinct and skill proved too slow; he caught the wrist of her sword arm and bent it around, holding it immobile at her side. He yanked her back, trapping her wings between them and dragging her to the shoulder of the highway. Sharp, cold steel pressed against her throat.
"I should have killed you in Lille."
She felt the difference in the rasp of his voice into her ear, the tension in the taut form behind her: exhaustion, yes—but also something deeper, darker. A shiver ripped through her, and it was answered by a tremor in his hands, his breath.
"You're on the edge," she realized. Jealousy dug its claws into her chest, and she welcomed the pain it brought. What—who—had managed to shatter his control, brought this heat from ice?
_It should be enough that he came to me, even if it was only to kill me._ But it wasn't enough—she didn't like to settle. Humans could be happy with half of something; she could not.
She arched her back and ignored the pinch at the base of her throat where his sword cut into her, the warm liquid slide of her lifeblood. "Are you to finish this, then?"
She didn't think he would—didn't think he _could_.
He inhaled sharply, and she knew he scented the blood by the way his grip shifted on his sword, easing its pressure without removing its threat. "I've already gone over and back again," he said.
_But not all the way back._ If he had, she wouldn't be able to feel death still burning within him. And then the import of his statement sank in. She vanished her wings and turned in his arms to look at him in surprise, unmindful of the blade he held against the side of her neck.
Hugh slew demons and nosferatu with barely a thought; something else—someone else—must have pushed him to this point.
"You killed a Guardian?" Unimaginable. Whereas demons might destroy each other, the Guardians practically oozed brotherly love and kindness. It was disgusting, really. A wicked grin tugged at her lips. "Was it Michael? Because I'd love to see the golden boy's head on a pikestaff."
His gaze dropped to her throat. She was certain the wound had already healed, and the rain had washed most of the blood away. Only a faint stickiness remained. "It was a human."
"Don't be ridiculous," she said it automatically, because it _was_ ridiculous, impossible; she could understand his being driven to kill a Guardian—applaud it, even. But he'd never slain her—as he should have—and so she could hardly believe he would have murdered a human. No matter the provocation.
But Hugh never lied—and only moments before she had been certain he would kill her. It seemed inconceivable, but perhaps, after endless years of sameness, something within him had truly changed.
Rain dripped from his lashes; she'd once thought his eyes must be the same blue as the sky in Caelum, and the only bit of that sacred place she would ever have. Now they were dark, and reminded her of the frozen faces Below, the blue of the tormented and the damned.
"I became you," he said.
Fear scrambled up her spine. She covered it with a laugh and tried to pull her hands from his grip. He held her fast. Pausing, pretending to submit to his strength, she said lightly, "You became me? If you'd wanted my body that much, you know you could have had it."
A mistake. She realized it immediately, but it was too late. She should have fought him; he was different, but she wasn't: she had responded as she always had, expecting him to rebuff her suggestive playfulness.
And this Hugh used her hesitation—and her weakness—against her.
He leaned forward. "I became you," he repeated softly. "I didn't put the gun to his head, but I used my Gift against him and he did it himself. He couldn't face the truth, and he pulled the trigger." His lips were a breath from hers, and the gentleness in his voice—from him, whom she'd fought and fought for so long—disoriented her; he wrapped her in his Gift before his words registered.
He'd used it against her before. He'd compelled truth and taken information, but it had always been in focused bursts of power—never this sweet persuasion that seemed to wind through her and steal her resistance.
_Because your resistance is a lie,_ her mind whispered.
She caught the thread of that truth, used it to steady herself. Of course it was a lie; she was a demon. Demons were nothing if not brilliant liars.
And truth was not a tool used solely by those Above.
"So? That was his failing, not yours," she said, and tilted her head to indicate Thaddeus's prone form. Hugh's gaze didn't stray from her face, as she'd hoped. Relaxing her sword arm, she continued, "Truth is a weapon that can be easily twisted. If humans believe in something strongly enough, it can be used against them. It becomes a truth."
"No, that is delusion."
She smiled and shifted her weight to her left leg. "Perhaps. Is there a difference?"
"Yes." Sliding his hand from her wrist to the hilt of her sword, he pried the weapon from her fingers. She let him have it; she had others, and her hand was unencumbered now.
He'd used gentleness and seduction as part of his artillery; so could she. She threaded her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled his mouth closer to hers. He smelled of damp wool and warm skin, a disturbingly human scent.
But he wasn't human yet. Wouldn't be. Her hand itched to call in her second blade, but she wanted—needed—more from him first.
He cupped her chin; his palm was rain-wet and cool. His thumb brushed her lower lip. "Your role is your delusion, Lilith."
She laughed and shook her head. "The outside is an illusion, Hugh, but the role is true. It's essential."
He took his sword from her neck, and his arm dropped to his side. "Why?"
Her eyes narrowed. He wasn't asking because he didn't know, but because he wanted her to say it. But for what purpose? Her blade appeared on a thought, heavy in her hand, hidden behind his back.
"Because—" Her throat closed, and she felt his Gift strangle her answer. She tried again and couldn't produce anything but a choked, whistling exhalation.
As if his exhaustion had finally taken him over, he rested his forehead against hers. "I know what you want to say: _There is no light without darkness._ That is the lie, Lilith. One of many. You must see it. Neither Guardians nor demons have a place in this modern world."
"No—"
He halted her denial with the soft press of his lips against hers.
This was almost what she'd been waiting for—a touch, given without coercion. Simply Hugh, without having to steal a kiss or bargain him into it. Nearly eight hundred years of wanting, and now she could finish what she'd begun.
But she lost her grip on her sword. Her arms were weak, her chest tight. Her breath burned her lungs.
"Lilith," he said. His hand moved between them, and the pressure beneath her breast became screaming pain.
She didn't need to look down at the hilt protruding from her chest to know he'd cut through her heart. She'd waited too long; but then, she'd always been greedy. She'd always let human emotions dictate her actions; it was no surprise that failing had brought her end.
He slid the sword out and held her securely against him. She couldn't maintain her glamours, and she felt him shudder when he recognized the pale, naked woman in his arms. He smiled and pushed her hair away from her face with his bloodstained hand. His voice was laced with sadness, but not regret.
"So my angel was always under there."
It hurt to laugh, to shake her head, but she did both. _Not me,_ she'd told him the last time he'd seen her this way. It had been the truth, yet he had persisted in holding onto the illusion that she could be something she wasn't.
"I am sorry I cowered for so long, Lilith."
She tucked her face into the warmth of his neck. Hell must be nearing; the raindrops splashing against her cheeks burned her skin. No . . . no. The oceans Below were of fire, but not salt. No, do not weep—this was not Hell, but release. But she had no breath to tell him. She closed her eyes, and there was silence.
It did not last.
**PART 2**
**CHAPTER 8**
# **San Francisco**
## **May 2007**
The rain had not let up.
Hugh leaned against the wall, staring through the water-streaked windowpane to the darkened street below. His skin prickled as his warm perspiration slowly dried in the cool room. He'd pulled on a T-shirt to top his pajama bottoms when he'd finished his reps, but the thin cotton did little to ward off the chill.
Just as the exercise had done nothing but delay the inevitable. It had certainly not kept the thoughts that plagued him at bay.
He turned away from the window; nothing was out there. Not now, anyway. It was considered a quiet neighborhood, and four in the morning was one of the few times it matched the description and was truly quiet.
How long would it last?
Amidst the pile of sheets and blankets, Emilia woke, stretching her paws to accompany a long, feline yawn.
He shouldn't have been so grateful for the distraction. "I doubt very much that you'll be hunting today," he told her. San Francisco's generally mild weather had been temperamental of late; instead of fog, the city had been covered with heavy rain clouds. Nearly every day for the past month, Hugh had taken his morning and afternoon runs surrounded by cold and wet. "The forecast was incorrect. For all their technology, men are no better at predicting the future than the crofter and his gouty leg."
She lifted her head and glared as if to chastise him for his inane conversation, then launched into a rolling purr—designed, no doubt, to lure him back into the bed so that she could take advantage of his body heat.
"You have been sleeping well without it for the past two hours." His feet had warmed the floor where he'd been standing, but the floorboards were cold as he crossed the room. The mattress gave under his weight as he sat, and he scratched her ears fondly when she crawled into his lap. Her claws pricked his skin as she kneaded his leg in appreciation.
There was always a price for kindness.
_For cruelty, too,_ he thought, though the ones who paid it were often not the same as those who paid for kindness.
Sighing, he picked up a slip of paper from his nightstand. Nightmares of his cruelty—kindness?—had left the phantom odor of blood and dirt on his hands; perhaps it was better not to be left to his thoughts in the midst of silence. Better he could not sleep.
And it was not the sort of call one made during the daylight hours. Nor was it a call Hugh wanted to make, but he found himself dialing.
The slip of paper he held had an address written beneath the phone number. Perhaps it was cowardly to ask this way. But it would be foolish to delay longer in order to visit in person, particularly as Hugh did not know who he would find there. _What_ he might find.
But there was no mistaking Colin's voice when he answered. "Savitri Murray. What a delightfully mixed-up ethnicity you must have, and how delightfully foxed you must be to ring the wrong number at four in the morning. I must confess, I love nothing so much as exotic women who drink excessively."
Hugh pinched the bridge of his nose and rested his elbows on his knees. Caller ID. Careless, to have forgotten that Colin might trace the call back to Savi. He wanted her to remain completely distant from the vampire. But it was done; the rest should be done quickly, as well.
"I am—unfortunately—sober," he said.
Silence reigned for a moment.
"Hugh. You must have seen the news footage of the fire at the club."
"Yes," Hugh said. Emilia jumped down and twined between his legs. Absently, he reached down and rubbed beneath her chin. Her soft purr eased some of his tension, made the question less difficult to ask. "Do you require assistance?"
An edge of astonishment sharpened the vampire's laugh. "Do I want you to fulfill the vow you made two hundred years ago and try to protect me against the horde of nosferatu that has descended upon the city?"
Hugh's breathing stilled. A horde? Was it that dire, or did Colin exaggerate? Difficult to determine truth without seeing the person; he preferred to observe faces, expressions—not to guess from tone and inflection. "Do you need help? Or protection?"
"No."
Strange, to feel disappointed in Colin's answer when it was the one he'd hoped for. Ridiculous, that his urge to offer the strength of his sword dwelt so long on his tongue. It was for the best; the only weapons he owned now were a pair of decorative Japanese swords Savi had given him years before. He scrubbed his hand over his face. Forced himself to remember the last time he'd seen his sword: buried hilt-deep within the Earth, the handle left exposed to mark Lilith's gravesite.
Did she rest easy?
His stomach clenched, but his voice remained even. "Very well. Good evening, Colin."
"Good eve—ah, hell." Colin's formality broke. "Are you well? Who is Savitri? Is she beautiful? Have you become entrenched in suburbia, lost your boyish charm and half your hair?"
Hugh grinned despite himself. "Yes. Good-bye, Colin."
"We should speak," Colin said quickly.
"Of things past? I think not."
"Things past have a way of presenting themselves in the present." He paused, and his voice lightened. "Well, that was a bloody awkward way of saying: I have much to tell you. Meet with me tomorrow. During the day, if you no longer trust me; I'll not likely chase you into the sun if you need escape. Bring your Savitri, and we'll have lunch."
"Better to protect her from creatures such as you." Hugh shook his head, smiling.
"Beautiful? Sartorially exquisite? Witty? Aye, creatures such as I are a menace indeed."
"Dangerous." Hugh pushed away the temptation to meet with Colin; it would do him no good to revisit the past, to reenter a world he was no longer a part of. His curiosity was just another symptom of the restlessness that burned within him of late.
But was it curiosity or sense when Savi might be in danger—not from Colin, but from the nosferatu? Why not gather information from this source? "Have there been any human deaths?"
"Only vampire," Colin said. "They seem intent on exterminating us. There were seventy or so at the club; the community elders thought there would be safety in a group."
Hugh nodded slowly. It wasn't surprising; in the last hundred years, as the nosferatu neared extinction, the creatures had been unable to endure the combined insult of the destruction of their kind and its corrupted continuation in the diluted, human form. They had begun killing their vampiric offspring, and the vampires had little protection against the stronger, older nosferatu. But as the number of nosferatu decreased, the danger to vampires had been slight.
Until now.
"What protection have you?"
Colin seemed to choke. "A dog."
Hugh frowned. "Colin—"
"I'll explain tomorrow. After six? You choose the location."
Withholding information was an old bargaining tactic, and one Hugh had always been susceptible to. "No."
"She'll kill me, but it's time you knew." _She?_ The vampire forged ahead before Hugh could question him. "Oh, and Hugh—I read your book."
The dial tone cut Colin off mid-laugh.
Hugh slowly replaced the phone. Emilia licked her paw and stared up at him. "A menace," he told her, feeling a bit as if he'd fought three invisible demons and come out the loser. Miraculously alive, and unsure of what the hell had happened.
A light knock at his door was followed by Savi opening it and poking her head through. "I heard your voice, and broke in," she said. They kept the door connecting her upstairs apartment to his house unlocked, but she always insisted on making her visits sound like a crime. Her way, Hugh assumed, of adding excitement to a rather tame living arrangement—a tame _life_. "The team in Mumbai just finished the code on the update. Since you're awake, want to play? I need a beta tester."
He groaned and dragged his hand through his hair. "No."
"No fun." She pretended to pout, but her quick eyes focused on the paper in his hand. "Did the number reach who you thought? Were you speaking with him?"
"Yes. Thank you." He crumpled it, and tossed it into the garbage bin, then picked up his glasses from the nightstand. He slipped them on, grateful that her presence would keep him from dwelling on his conversation with Colin—and the reason he'd been awake to begin with.
She shrugged and stepped half inside the room, leaning against the doorjamb. Her short black hair had lost some of its spike, but otherwise she looked fresh, alert. "I'm always up for a quasi-legal search of government databases." She cocked her head. "The London address you had was fifty years old. I went into the IRS records—followed that trail from Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals. The grandson is the major shareholder now, but it was like the same man . . . don't give me that big brother look. You may have only asked for contact info, but you _know_ I'm nosy. So it's your fault."
He only stared at her.
She grinned. "Food then? I'll meet you downstairs; I have to burn the new version onto a disc first. And then you can watch me as I kick the demons' asses. And they're bigger and badder than ever."
_Bigger and badder than ever._ Hugh rewound the video, paused as the camera panned across the crowd. The fire flickered across the features of those who had gathered to watch Polidori's burn, but only two faces had caught Hugh's attention the night before.
To the casual observer, they would only have seemed to be large men who had taken body modification to an extreme. It was not unheard of—particularly in the Goth community—to have undergone cosmetic surgery that lightened the skin to such a degree, pointed the ears and removed any trace of hair. Fangs could be dentures, or implants. Their appearance might be remarked upon, remembered, but no one would assume they were truly inhuman—particularly outside a club famous for its vampiric theme. Very few knew the vampires inside had often been real, but even those humans who might have known would be hard-pressed to tell the difference between a vampire and a human in costume.
Not so the nosferatu. Along with an inability to shift form, they had long been denied the ability to move through society without their physicality exposing them to human disgust and revulsion. But now, in a culture where plastic fangs could be purchased at a local drugstore, their difference was noticed—but accepted.
What a blessing it must seem to them, an era in which they could walk amongst humans without facing pitchforks and burning torches.
And how dangerous it was for man.
Hugh frowned, studying the screen. The nosferatu should have been dead. That one nosferatu could have gone unnoticed and unchallenged for any amount of time seemed impossible—and yet there were two, standing in a crowd of humans as if they feared neither notice nor challenge.
Where were the Guardians? Or, at the very least, the demons who should have hunted and killed their former brethren?
"You're looking at those freaks again? You've developed an obsession." Savi dumped a plate of chips onto the oversized ottoman that served as a coffee table, then crossed over to the entertainment center and pulled a disc from the pocket of her loose pajama pants. "Do you mind if I . . . ?" She tilted her head toward the game console.
He thumbed off the recorder. "Go ahead." There weren't answers to be found, anyway. Only questions.
Savi pushed her chair closer to the television, and Hugh obligingly shoved the ottoman alongside it. She flopped into the deep cushion and crossed her legs beneath her, wires trailing across the floor. "Ah," she sighed, and scooped up salsa with a chip. "A game and munchies. My life is excellent."
The smile that had formed as he'd watched her settle into her gaming ritual faded, and he suddenly could not tolerate the idea of sitting, of being still. He pushed to his feet, but she stopped him from leaving with a wave of her slim brown arm.
"You have to see this new opening sequence. The First Battle."
Angels and demons warred against the backdrop of the cosmos; Hugh didn't watch. With her back to him, Savi wouldn't see and feel slighted by his inattention, the way he restlessly skimmed his gaze over the room, searching for something—anything—out of place so that he'd have an excuse to move. But everything was in meticulous order; nothing cluttered the end tables or shelves, and the Spartan furnishings had clean lines. Except for Savi's chair, there were no pillows or loose cushions to straighten. He'd chosen them for that reason; he disliked the smothering, sinking sensation of too-soft furniture, but now it left him with nothing to keep him occupied.
"Cool, yeah?"
He glanced up as the scene faded to black. "Nicely done."
She chattered on about the features of the game, but trying to drum up matching enthusiasm proved impossible. His perfunctory responses didn't satisfy her; after a few minutes, she gave an exasperated sigh and fell into silence. Her fingers jabbed at the control buttons, and the demon slayer on-screen whirled in a dizzying pirouette, swords and fists flashing through the air.
Except for practice, it had never been that choreographed. Battles had been fierce, quick. Never a dance. The only sparring with that much give-and-take had been verbal.
And with Lilith, often playful. Sensual.
For a moment, the yawning darkness within him seemed to open wide and swallow him whole.
On leaden feet, he forced himself to walk across the room toward the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the far wall. Like the rest of his house, his books were neatly arranged, but there would be something to distract him, to keep his mind busy even if his body was not.
But it was not the books that ultimately drew him.
He'd placed the swords Savi had given him on display beside the shelves and had barely looked at them since. Seventeen years old and a devoted manga fan, she'd thought them the perfect gift when he'd received his doctorate. He glanced back, at her complete involvement in the game, at her character's choice of weapons. Smiling, he stroked his fingers over the hardwood sheath of the longer sword.
It was lighter than he'd expected. His broadsword had been brutish in comparison to the elegance of this blade. The katana had a thicker handle—to his surprise, it allowed for easier handling. A looser grip and greater maneuverability. Not effective against mail or plating, but for drawing and slicing flesh. He rotated it in his hand: excellent balance, and the air fairly whistled around the razor-sharp edge.
He eyed the shorter sword. Perfect for defense, for blocking a blow from an opponent while keeping the advantage of the longer sword on the leading side. And in close quarters, better for a disemboweling slice, or a strike to the heart.
"Where did you learn that?"
His hand stilled, and he realized he'd been absently spinning the sword. He slid it back into its sheath with a dismissive snap.
"It's nothing."
"You were twirling it. Really quickly. Did you just happen to run across Ninja 101 at Berkeley?"
Normally he enjoyed her sarcasm. Normally he would have insisted he didn't _twirl_ anything. And though she didn't deserve it, he couldn't keep the ice from his voice as he repeated, "It's nothing."
Her face hardened. "Fine."
He replaced the sword with more force than necessary. They'd be useless against the nosferatu anyway. Difficult to disembowel a creature that moved more quickly than a human could see.
"By the way, Nani's pissed at you." From her tone, he could hear the _too_. Her felt her gaze burning into the rigid line of his back, but he didn't turn. She added in Hindi, " 'Ungrateful, worthless boy! More interested in his books and his papers. If he insists on making such a long day at work, he should have become a doctor as I instructed him!' "
He had to chuckle at her perfect imitation of her grandmother, and some of his unreasonable coldness faded. Turning, he leaned against the shelves and crossed his arms over his chest. She never remained angry for long, at anyone or anything; indeed, she looked at him now with a mixture of amusement and concern.
"You're lucky she then launched into another tirade about my dropping out of college, and I didn't get a chance to tell her the truth."
"Which is?" he asked softly.
"You don't sleep. You get up within hours of going to bed and have since I moved in six months ago. I hear you."
He stiffened. "You hear . . . what?"
"Your damn gym is right beneath my office. Three o'clock: _clank, clank, clank_. Five o'clock, I hear you leave to run." She snorted. "Imagine Nani's reaction if I told her it wasn't just work, but that you spent five hours a day deliberately driving yourself to exhaustion."
He bit back a sigh of relief, and the moment's fear that he'd been crying out during the nightmares. "I sleep."
She looked pointedly at the clock on the VCR. "I'm up because much of the development team is half a world away. You have classes to teach in four hours; unlike me, you don't make up for it during the day. So what's your excuse? Chronic insomnia?"
"I'm fine." It was almost a growl.
"You're not." Her mouth firmed, and she began counting off his flaws on her fingers. "You're withdrawn. Moody. Cold. Granted, not as cold as when—"
She broke off, and his stomach sank. "Savi—"
"In the hospital, and the two years after I got out, you remember? Except with Nani and me, you were the coldest bastard I'd ever seen. And while Nani and I loved you—adored the boy who'd come from nowhere to help us out in that awful time, who spoke Hindi and every other language anyone spoke—everyone else thought you were an emotionless psychopath." She raised her hand when he would have interrupted. "I was only nine, but I _remember_ . And I don't want you to be that again."
His eyes stung. Dipping his head, he rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of how to respond.
She saved him. "And now that I know you have ninja skills, I definitely don't want you to be a psychopath."
He laughed, but found he couldn't assuage her fears. The restlessness within him did not abate, and he would not make promises he couldn't keep.
Instead, he approached her, touched his lips to her forehead. "I'll try."
She blinked quickly, gave a watery smile. "Do, or do not. There is no—"
"God," he groaned before she could finish. "No more. I'll try."
"But you're going running now." She drew back to look at him. "Aren't you?"
"I have to." He clenched his teeth, wishing he could lie more easily to her. A glance at the window and the darkness outside made him pause. "But I'll wait until dawn. And try to sleep."
**CHAPTER 9**
For two thousand years, the night had been her ally.
Men's fears ran shallow in the dark, made their souls easier to manipulate with whispers and dreams. Lilith had learned to use its inky face to mask her own; deception had become her sword, her shield.
But there were others who'd known the darkness longer than she had, and the night betrayed her in favor of an older acquaintance: the nosferatu.
The night, Lilith decided, was a bitch. A bloodsucking, hellhound-whelping bitch. And she was going to enjoy tearing out the hearts of the two bloodsucking, night-loving nosferatu in hungry pursuit behind her.
That is, she was going to enjoy it _if_ she survived.
The line of trees surrounding Lake Merced blurred as she ran; she couldn't outpace the creatures behind her, but as long as she maintained some distance she could plan her defense and try to think of a way to gain an advantage.
Unfortunately, the nosferatu had superior strength and speed, and they knew it. Delight tinged their psychic scent: her flight pleased them, allowed them to play a malevolent game of cat and mouse.
Nude, hairless, seven-foot-tall cats, against a halfling demon mouse.
Lilith let them play; she benefited from the extra time afforded her. With every step, she learned more about them. The smaller nosferatu seemed just as interested in upstaging his companion as chasing her. The tempo of his gait increased in spurts, as if he occasionally needed to overtake the other nosferatu, to prove his power like a peacock flaunting his feathers.
She could use that against them, if she could only find the right stage for the confrontation.
Turning down a lightly used path, she sprinted away from the lakeside, toward the municipal golf course. It had closed hours ago, and little danger existed that a human might see her demonic form. The open fairways wouldn't hide her from her pursuers, but without the distraction of the obstacles in the wooded area that kept them marginally occupied, they might reveal more of the rivalry—and weaknesses—between them.
Odd, that they were together at all. She'd never heard of a nosferatu paired with another. Not that she minded; nosferatu-slaying was one of her few remaining pleasures, though an infrequent one of late. She hadn't seen a bloodsucker in almost a decade. And though she'd returned to San Francisco that afternoon and found the city reeking of nosferatu, she hadn't anticipated finding one in plain sight. It hadn't been necessary to track him; she'd been flying over the park, spotted his poor attempt at traveling furtively from shadow to shadow and dived into her attack.
The appearance of the second nosferatu had been an unpleasant surprise. Unprepared, outclassed, she'd run.
It was humiliating.
She reached the seventeenth fairway seconds before the nosferatu and streaked down its length. The instinct to materialize her wings and escape by air grew insistent, but she ignored the impulse—flying limited her maneuverability. She concentrated on the sounds her pursuers made instead, on the flavors of their psyches.
The first one—the peacock—radiated confidence. Unconcerned about losing his quarry, he chased her for the pleasure of it. He did not fear her. Good. She'd take him out first, before he could learn differently. But the effort would leave her open to attack from the second, whose focus hadn't deteriorated. Though he thirsted for the kill, he remained cautious.
Leaping across a bunker, she landed hard and veered right. Her boots flung divots from the carefully manicured green as she ran up the slope toward the clubhouse. Behind her, she heard one of them slip on the rain-soaked grass.
Idiots.
But bless their worthless souls—she hadn't been this exhilarated in years: her heart pounded, excitement hummed along her skin. For the past six months she'd been stuck in a podunk town in Oregon, infiltrating a Satanic cult and gathering evidence against the leaders. Their eventual arrests had taken place without a single shot being fired; a travesty, in Lilith's opinion. All that time—all that _paperwork_ —and no shoot-out.
Unfortunately, the past sixteen years had followed the same pattern as the last half-year. If the nosferatu didn't kill her, boredom soon would.
God, but her life was shit.
Had she not needed to hear the nosferatu's progress, she would have laughed aloud at how far she'd descended since the last time she'd died: from a low-ranking, oft-thwarted demon; to a chicken- and goat-sacrificing government lackey; to a bloodsucker's snack on a putting green.
She wasn't afraid of death, but she would have preferred to avoid a pathetic end _this_ time.
It was Hugh's fault she'd come to this. If he'd cut off her head instead of tenderly wrapping her body and burying her, she'd have been free—not fleeing from white, naked creatures who had likely spent every year since Creation in a cave.
Hugh. He probably had a paunch, thinning hair, a vapid blond cheerleader wife, and ten fat kids by now. When she finished with the nosferatu, she was going to find his address and spend the rest of his life tormenting him. No need to wait for her father to call in her debt; for once, she'd be proactive. Hugh had wanted her to move into the modern era? She'd proactively stick her modern FBI-issue pistol up his ass and tell him to dance.
The image broke her control, and she was shaking with laughter when she reached the clubhouse. Backing up against the side of the building to protect her rear, she called in her weapons and waited for the nosferatu.
Judging by the way they slowed in their approach, they hadn't expected to find her giggling hysterically. Most of their prey probably screamed in terror or cried for mercy.
Lilith was tired of terror and sick of mercy.
Peacock halted fewer than ten feet from her, grinning. His fangs glistened in the moonlight. For a moment Lilith was tempted to show her own, but shifted to her human form instead. The peacock underestimated her; she might as well capitalize on his assumption and appear as weak as possible.
The other nosferatu was not fooled. Unlike Peacock, who disregarded the sword in her right hand, he carefully approached Lilith on her left. Did he not recognize the gun in that hand, or just not fear it? After all, a bullet couldn't decapitate him, nor rend his heart in half.
"Did you think to escape us, little demon?" Peacock asked, his English absurdly over-enunciated. He strutted back and forth, chest puffed out, and his exaggerated musculature rippled with each step. He apparently hadn't been out of his cave very long; Lilith hoped the same was true of his companion. "Look, Mondiel, how the halfling threatens us with her steel."
Not just steel. Lilith's laughter slipped away, and she repressed her triumphant grin. Ignorant bloodsuckers.
Mondiel materialized his weapon, a bronze battle-axe. Ancient, but just as efficient as her blade. "Silence, Pandibar." A simple command in the Old Language; it could be an indication of his unfamiliarity with English, or a tactical decision. He might think she lacked fluency in the angelic tongue.
He would be wrong.
"Pandibar?" she echoed in the same language, lacing the name with scorn. "My father has spoken of you. How you cowered behind a frozen mountain on Pluto until the victor was declared in the battle between the demon army and the angel horde. How you, wormlike, slunk back to the Throne and declared your fealty. How you sobbed when He cursed you and the others who abstained from taking a side in that war." She pointed her gun at Mondiel, and felt no reaction in his psychic scent. "Mondiel's name is not mocked Below, but we all laugh at Pandibar the Worm."
"You lie!"
"Do I?" She did, and the blinding rage that filled him was exactly the response she'd wanted. Now, to blind his companion.
She squeezed off two shots. Mondiel fell to his knees, howling and clutching at his eyes. Pandibar swung around in surprise and disbelief, vulnerable for an instant, and she scythed his head from his shoulders.
Moonlight flashed against bronze. Dropping to a crouch just as Mondiel's axe sliced the air above her, she twisted, stabbed upward.
And missed. She felt her blade cut through flesh, saw the line of blood appear on his chest, vivid against his pale skin—but steel hit bone and was deflected away from the creature's heart.
_Oh, fuck._
His foot shot out, caught her chin. Luckily, it was only a glancing blow; even so, her head snapped back and pain shot through her jaw and neck. Rolling with the momentum to keep his next kick from taking her skull off, she barely avoided the swing of his axe. It dug into the ground an inch from her left shoulder. Too close.
She levered her legs under her, tried to push herself upright, but his foot slammed down on the wrist of her sword arm, pinning it against the grass. His hand clamped around her throat, fingernails cutting deep. Her gun slipped from her fingers.
Mondiel's face twisted into a snarl, revealing his canines. His eyes had partially regenerated; glassy white orbs reflected her moonlit face. This was the end, then. Again. She thought she'd be angry, mortified, but instead a fierce pleasure rose.
Lucifer wouldn't be able to revive her after this. Nosferatu tore their demon and Guardian adversaries apart. Finally, escape from her role. The nosferatu would thwart Lucifer and his plans for her, as she'd never been able to.
Mondiel paused, stiffened. "The Morningstar? Your father?" His hand flexed on her neck with crushing pressure.
Lilith's eyes burned. Morningstar—the name by which Mondiel would have known her father before the First Battle. Had he arrived just in time to 'save' her, to keep his plot alive?
But no . . . Mondiel did not look around; his focus remained intent on her face. She realized she must have been projecting her final thoughts, that Mondiel must have picked the name from her mind.
"You are not one of Belial's, but Lucifer's?" The nosferatu ground his foot against her wrist, snapping bone. Lilith dropped her sword, stifling a cry of pain. Her left hand fisted in grass, tore it from its roots. She'd suffered worse than this in silence; she'd not break now. "Did the Betrayer send one of his halflings to kill us? Does he betray again?"
His furious questions barely registered, but the brush of her hand against hot metal did. The gun barrel, still retaining the heat from the two shots she'd fired. She grasped, clutched, until its familiar weight rested in her palm.
Suddenly, with hope in her hand, death didn't seem as agreeable. She'd only have one chance—a slim chance—but she'd take it.
"Are you Morningstar's? Are his promises made with doubled tongue?" His blind eyes bored into hers, reminding her for a moment of a poet who'd said her fate and her role were fixed, unchangeable—and of Hugh, certain that the poet had been wrong. Hugh, who'd cut her heart in half.
One bullet might not do the same, but surely ten would.
Cerberus's balls, this was going to hurt.
She slipped the gun between them, pressed it hard against his breastbone, and pulled the trigger in rapid succession, changing the angle slightly with each shot. As the first bullet whipped through his chest, he tore her throat out. The third, he dug his fingernails into her abdomen, burrowed under her ribs toward her heart. The eighth, he shuddered, fell dead atop her.
She quickly pushed him off to keep his blood from mixing with hers. Her body screamed at the movement; light-headed, too numb to triumph, she curled into a ball and waited for her body to heal itself.
It'd better do it quickly. Morning neared, and the maintenance crew would arrive soon. Finding her like this would be bad enough; seeing the nosferatu might have irreparable consequences. Though their bodies turned to ash at the touch of the sun, she couldn't depend on their remaining undiscovered until then.
She lay with her eyes closed and dragged a wet breath through her regenerating windpipe. The rush of cool air into her damaged lungs felt like heaven. Her gut slowly knitted back together; in a few minutes, she'd be able to move without her insides falling out.
Lucky that Mondiel had been distracted by her connection to Lucifer. Why had he assumed she'd been one of Belial's demons? The war between Lucifer and Belial for supremacy over Hell had raged for eight centuries, but both sides hunted the nosferatu with equal fervor and hatred.
The rumble of a diesel engine brought a halt to her uneasy contemplation. Staggering to her feet, she vanished her sword and gun. Nothing could be done about the blood; the nosferatu's would be destroyed by the sun, but hers wouldn't—and it would make her sick to carry it in her mental cache. It would be found, investigated, but remain a mystery.
Next time, she promised herself, she'd have more firepower. She'd pull out an Uzi, and the nosferatu would never get near her.
A self-deprecating grin tilted her lips as she hoisted each nosferatu up, her arms wrapped around their waists. She lied even to herself: she'd never give up hand-to-hand combat—she enjoyed it too much, and only rarely had circumstances been so dire.
She'd been fortunate the bloodsuckers had been ignorant of modern weaponry, but she couldn't depend on it again.
And she had no doubt she'd soon be fighting more. With the death of Mondiel and Pandibar, the psychic stink should have dissipated. Instead, it surrounded her, coming from the city in waves and pulses as if previously shielded bloodsuckers were opening their minds and reaching out for their dead companions.
Six months away, and her city had become infested.
Her unease multiplied. Had the nosferatu, like those Below, decided to infiltrate human society and live among them? Why hadn't the city's demons and Guardians sought them out, killed them before now?
She jogged across the golf course, the nosferatu bouncing limply at her sides. She'd dump their bodies in the lake, and then return to her apartment and clean herself up.
She might find the answers she wanted at work; if anyone would know the reasons behind this infestation, it would be her boss. Her grin twisted into a snarl.
God, but she hated her day job.
**CHAPTER 10**
ASAC Bradshaw's office reflected its occupant all too well: bland and tasteless. The Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the San Francisco Division of the FBI, Bradshaw was also careful, precise, intelligent—and completely unaware that his immediate superior, SAC Smith, happened to be one of Lucifer's lieutenants.
And although Lilith suspected that Bradshaw thought her a nutcase, she knew he had no idea how far from normal she actually was.
He listened silently as she gave her account of the Oregon arrests, steepling his chocolate brown fingers as if in deep contemplation. More likely, he was trying to think of a way to take her badge. He'd quietly opposed her methods and assignments since she'd been transferred to the San Francisco office ten years ago, suspecting their legality and her reliability.
With good reason, too. Lilith didn't hesitate to manipulate evidence when the truth couldn't be proven through usual means. With demons and vampires involved, truth and lies became distorted; she created an official version that was as authentic as possible.
She doubted that Bradshaw would appreciate hearing that the head of the cult had been a rogue demon posing as a god; Lucifer had taken exception to the rogue's arrogance, and SAC Smith had given her the assignment. She'd had only to capture and take the demon to one of the Gates leading Below, but bringing down the human part of the cult legitimized Lilith's presence there.
Why Lucifer didn't just send a horde of demons in and take out the rogue, she could only guess. Perhaps he enjoyed playing according to human rules, and then bending them to his purposes; perhaps it gave him pleasure to infiltrate and act through human institutions.
And perhaps he just relished the knowledge of how much Lilith despised it.
In any case, the favoritism and leeway shown her by SAC Smith hadn't earned her any friends in the division—not that she needed or wanted any. But she would have appreciated avoiding the type of bullshit she was being forced to endure now.
Still, when Bradshaw closed the case folder and didn't run through his typical piercing questions in an attempt to locate flaws in her report, she was almost disappointed. She'd created some truly spectacular lies; it was a pity her brilliance would be wasted, accepted without a single argument.
What he said instead was better. "I don't like you, Agent Milton."
She stared at him expressionlessly a moment, delighted by the unexpected admission. How she loved it when humans were honest. "I'm sorry to hear that, sir," she said. "I shall make acquiring your respect my sole endeavor from this point forth."
In a twisted way, he already had her respect—not that she'd let him know that. His insight and determination to do right reminded her of Hugh, though Bradshaw lacked the underlying passion that had drawn her so powerfully to the knight. Bradshaw presented her a pale substitute, but it was, at times, an entertaining and challenging one.
He tapped the folder against his desktop, contemplating her wordlessly. "Just so we understand one another," he finally said and passed the file back to her.
Her smile was genuine. "I think we always have, sir." Tucking the folder beneath her arm, she stood.
"You've put in for time off this afternoon?"
She couldn't tell him that she wanted a chance to backtrack the nosferatu's trail through the park and would rather do it during the daytime. "Yes, sir. I have no current investigations, and during my absence my personal affairs—"
"It's been approved." He waved off her explanation.
Lilith snapped her mouth closed, disappointed that another lie had gone to waste.
"Thank you, sir. Good day, sir." She clapped her heels together and saluted because it amused her and left him shaking his head in disapproval.
Feeling quite jolly, she paused at the front desk, inquired after SAC Smith, and heard the same reply she'd been given all morning: he was in a meeting, and taking neither calls nor appointments.
The prick. Unfortunately, she couldn't determine the veracity of it; his office and the conference room had been soundproofed, even against hearing as acute as hers, and his psychic blocks were impenetrable.
Oh, well. She had other ways of finding out information about the nosferatu.
"Hey, Dr. C! Dr. Castleford!"
Hugh tested the padlock to make certain his bike was secure, then looked up, squinting against the bright morning sun. Jason Willis jogged toward him, holding his neon orange board shorts up at the waist, his book bag swinging against his hip.
"Dr. C. What's . . . up?" Too winded to say more, he dropped his bag to the ground. It landed with a solid thump. His freckles had been nearly lost amidst a deep tan, and Hugh wondered where he'd managed to take in so much sun since the last time he'd seen him.
Hugh glanced at the sky. "I was just thinking that gouty legs make fine barometers, after all." Accustomed to the look Jason gave him—at one time or another, almost all of his students stared at him with similar expressions on their faces—he paid it no mind and unbuckled his pack from the bike frame. Slinging it over his shoulder, he nodded toward Jason's overstuffed bag. "My office hours are in ten minutes, but I won't make you carry it back to the Humanities building. I haven't seen you in class lately."
"Yeah, well, that's what I was coming to see you about." Worrying the beaded leather thong around his neck, he explained, "My mom lost her job, and I've been working odd hours at the video store; that's why I've been gone a lot. But my schedule's worked out, so I wanted to make sure I could still catch up."
The kid was a terrible liar.
Hugh sat down on a bench, slipped off the elastic he'd used to keep his pant leg from catching the bike chain, and considered his options. Though he no longer had his Gift, centuries of being able to feel truth, to force it, had left him with the ability to read it in the most accomplished of liars. Jason, though he clearly wanted Hugh to believe what he'd said, was barely an amateur in comparison to the demons he'd known.
But pressing Jason for the reason behind the lie wouldn't serve a useful purpose; no matter the cause of the absences, if he thought he could make up the work, Hugh wouldn't prevent him from doing so.
He wouldn't make it easy for him, though. "You still have your syllabus?"
Jason nodded, clearly relieved by Hugh's response.
"Catch up within two weeks; and by the end of the semester I want two extra journals. Next week's paper should be on time."
"I will." With a mixture of chagrin and relief, he hiked up his shorts again and leaned over to grab his bag. "Thanks, Dr. C."
He wouldn't be feeling quite so grateful once he realized how much work he'd have to do over the next two weeks. "My pleasure," Hugh said, and waited until Jason backed up a step before adding, "In the future, when you decide to take a vacation in the middle of the term, you'd do well to e-mail your professors first."
"Oh, man." His blush at odds with his grin, Jason began walking backward. "Did Ian tell you?"
Hugh shook his head. "I haven't been to Auntie's in a month or so."
"You gonna be there tomorrow?"
"Yes." After Savi's outburst that morning, it seemed the best way to mollify both women. Auntie would appreciate the visit, and Savi could hardly call him withdrawn if he sought the company available at the restaurant.
"Where tomorrow?" A tall blonde sidled up to Jason. Tanned, athletic; Hugh would wager anything it hadn't just been surfing that had pulled Jason from classes. They shared a long, deep kiss, and Hugh grinned as he finished unrolling his cuff.
Had he ever been that young?
"We were talking about playing DemonSlayer at Auntie's," Jason told her after she released him.
"That card game you tried to teach me?"
Jason turned to Hugh. "I couldn't teach her."
"I like the video game, but the other . . ." She flashed a brilliant smile. "I always get to the succubus card and want to try out the powers myself."
Hugh should have been used to it by then. He watched them saunter off, arms around each others' waists, and experienced a second of chronological vertigo.
It wasn't the frank sexuality of the modern era that unstead-ied him, but the lack of shame that accompanied it. How different it was from the rigid moralizing he'd known as a boy; and later, from what he'd observed on Earth through the centuries. But now he saw everywhere what he'd only regularly seen in Caelum . . . and Lilith, who had been shameless in all things.
It had always been one of her most admirable—and frustrating—traits.
One of her more distinctive ones, as well; when she'd operated in her typical servant's disguise, it had often been her unapologetic mien that had led him to suspect her true identity. Over the past sixteen years, the instinct to search every face for Lilith underneath had faded, and it was only when a certain expression, a mischievous laugh, or the tilt of a woman's head reminded him that he was struck by these instants of recognition.
There were worse things, he decided, than having unexpected flashbacks to his centuries as a Guardian or nightmares that left him sleepless for months at a time. He wasn't certain if he should bemoan or rejoice that his life had become so uneventful that the most exciting episode that week had been a forecast without rain—but it was better than an existence permeated by a lack of faith in his role.
And his memories of that time were not completely unwelcome.
A light breeze picked up as he walked across the quad. A pair of students—engineering, Hugh judged by the spill of books on the grass—began an impromptu game of Frisbee, and he had to duck as the plastic disc whizzed by his head. They shouted an apology; he grinned to himself, and mentally adjusted that week's tally. Exciting moments: two.
He might not have a Guardian's reflexes anymore, he mused, but as long as he came out of a Frisbee incident unscathed, his life wasn't so terrible.
As he drew closer to the Humanities Building, however, the heavy sensation that had grown so familiar of late returned to his stomach. Not dread, but something akin to it. Unable to define it precisely, he'd suppressed the feeling.
Given that Savi had noticed it, he'd not suppressed it well enough.
He took the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor, where he shared an office with Sue Fletcher, another adjunct professor. At least he could be certain that it wasn't his occupation; he enjoyed teaching, and as he paid little attention to the politics of academia, the bureaucracy did not engender the same negativity in him that he witnessed in many of the other faculty.
But if he could not ascertain the root of the problem, no matter—whatever the feeling was, it would eventually pass. Given enough time, everything did. Perhaps he just needed to meet with Colin, engage him as a fencing partner. The vampire would be safe acting as a target for his restlessness, and Hugh would be hard-pressed to find a more experienced opponent.
Or one who would remind him of everything he wanted to leave behind.
No; it was better to forget Colin's offer. Better not to get involved with problems that, as a human, he couldn't solve.
Not that he'd been particularly successful solving them when he'd been a Guardian.
By the time Hugh reached his office he was brooding, though he was careful to keep his dark mood from his expression. He hadn't scheduled any appointments, but it didn't surprise him to find two people waiting outside the office door: a tall, barrel-round man, pushing fifty; and a woman—the male's younger, vibrant opposite—her short auburn hair and tailored navy suit neat and efficient. Judging by the man's bearing and gray suit, probably law enforcement, though not quite clean-cut enough for FBI.
If they'd come to question him about Savi, they'd have been federal; a visit from local officers was unusual, but it wasn't alarming.
He supposed if he turned around and ran, it would cause another exciting moment—but it would hardly do to act in such a manner just to ease his ennui.
He shook himself, frowned. Where had _that_ bit of nonsense come from?
Better to get this over, before another ridiculous notion could occur to him.
**CHAPTER 11**
"Professor Hugh Castleford?" Her inflection made his name a question, but Hugh didn't doubt they knew exactly who he was. She smiled; her eyes remained flat and cool. "We're Detectives Taylor and Preston of the SFPD." She indicated herself first, then her partner.
"Detectives." Hugh nodded his acknowledgment as he slid his key into the knob. "What can I do for you?"
They came in and took in everything with a single glance. Hugh scrutinized them as quickly as he put down his bag and seated himself behind his desk. They moved in tandem, the familiarity of a long partnership. Taylor sat in the chair facing his desk, her feet placed neatly in front of her. Preston dragged the visitor's chair from Sue's side of the office, whirled it around and straddled it. "We're looking into a missing person's case," he said. "Javier Sanchez. He's in one of your classes?"
Hugh easily pictured Javier: quiet, intense, bright. "He was in Composition last term." He studied the detective's solemn countenance and unease settled across his shoulders. Would they have come in person to question him about a _missing_ college student? Or did they suspect worse?
"But not this semester?" Taylor flicked a glance at her partner.
Hunching his shoulders in his worn jacket, Preston asked, "Have you seen him since your Comp class?"
"Several times; the latest was a month ago Friday. At Auntie's, on Irving Avenue."
"Your aunt's?"
Taylor's demeanor warmed slightly. "It's a restaurant, Joe. Southern Indian," she said. The corners of her mouth tilted in amusement. "You'd be popping antacids like candy."
Preston grimaced; though the expression seemed to age him ten years, his sharp gaze never strayed from Hugh's face. "How would you characterize Mr. Sanchez's behavior?"
"Normal." Silence followed his succinct description. Hugh recognized the tactic, and obliged them by adding, "A few of my current and former students meet at Auntie's every Friday night to play DemonSlayer. It's a CCG—a collectible card game. Javier is one of the regular players. I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary when I spoke with him."
The detectives didn't look at each other, but he felt the undercurrent that passed between them.
Tight-lipped, Taylor flipped open her notebook. "Will you give us the names of the other attendees?"
Hugh recited the list without hesitation. When he finished, Detective Taylor nodded and tucked her notebook away. "Thank you, Dr. Castleford. You've been helpful."
He hoped that would prove true. "I'll be available should you have any more questions."
Taylor stood, then paused when her partner was slow to do the same. The hint of mirth Hugh had seen before appeared again. "Ask him, Joe."
With a sheepish grin, Preston reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a slim paperback. "I wondered if you would sign this for me."
Hugh automatically accepted the book, and stemmed the shout of laughter that always rose whenever he saw the red cover and embossed silver lettering that spelled his name. The black font used for the title seemed to drip blood, and the 'T' resembled a silver dagger.
_Lilith._
It had never been intended for a public audience, but two years after he'd written it, Savi had found the file while rebuilding his computer and assumed Hugh had been a stereotypical English grad student cum frustrated author.
She'd been fifteen years old when she had used an Internet translator to transform the Latin text into English and had it printed at a vanity press as a gift. She'd also had access to a large bank account and contacts with online distributors. The print run had been two thousand copies; of those, Hugh had received twenty.
His narrative ability was mediocre at best, and the translation awful. The final, terrible product had become infamous among Hugh's colleagues when he'd been studying at Berkeley; and later, among his own students. Fortunately, when he'd applied for his position at San Francisco State, the department heads thought he'd intended it as an ironic statement about the corruption of language over time. He continued to let them think so.
The copy he held now had been well-worn: dog-eared, spine-creased and the pages splotched with coffee stains.
"It's my stakeout book," Preston explained.
His partner sighed heavily. "No offense. But . . . he reads it _aloud_."
"None taken." Hugh opened to the title page, wrote a brief message and his signature. "I can obtain a new copy for you; this one is ready to fall apart," he said as he slid it back across the desk.
With a wry glance at Taylor, Preston said, "I'll keep that in mind." Without checking the dedication, he pushed the book into his pocket and gave it a protective pat, then rose to his feet. He rolled the chair over to Sue's half of the office, paused and looked at her political posters and haphazard stack of papers and books. "Professors today aren't nearly as stiff as I remember them."
Hugh glanced down at the shirtsleeves he'd folded back over his forearms and his khaki cargo pants, and silently agreed.
Preston continued, "Although from your accent, I suspect yours were. The U.K.?"
The detective was making a rather broad guess; Hugh's accent was almost imperceptible—certainly too slight to pinpoint an origin. His first language most closely resembled French, but they wouldn't have recognized it as such now. "My formative years were spent traveling throughout Europe. And my tutors were, indeed, very strict."
He felt Detective Taylor's penetrating gaze on his face before she turned away. "Let's get started on these names. Thank you again, Dr. Castleford."
"When you find him, I should be relieved to hear from you," Hugh said. His tone spoke for him: alive or not.
"I'll let you know." Preston touched his pocket. "Thanks again."
Hugh sat quietly long after their footsteps receded down the hallway. They were very good; they hadn't given away much between them, but Hugh was certain they thought he had been involved in Javier's disappearance. How deep their suspicion went, he couldn't guess, but it was enough to take his fingerprints by asking him to autograph the book.
He couldn't resent their surreptitious method of collection; if it eased their doubts about Hugh and led them in the proper direction toward Javier, then it was for the best.
The detectives would find little to act on. The few items in his past that skirted legality—the birth certificate and school records Michael had provided Hugh after he'd Fallen—had been tested seven years before by the FBI, when they'd been investigating the fake identification Savi had been creating for her underage friends.
No, the only real secrets Hugh possessed were laid bare in the book they'd used to collect his fingerprints.
An irony, he mused, that only he could appreciate; to every other human, his story would remain fiction. From the date of his Fall, he'd determined not to share the truth about his past. A strange decision from a Guardian whose gift had been Truth, perhaps, but honesty would serve no purpose.
Who could believe his tale? Even Savi, who considered him as close as an older brother, would look at him askance if he told her he'd been born during the reign of King John. Could Savi, for all her brilliance and trust, really understand the steps he'd taken from a castle in Britain to her side when she'd been a young girl?
No. Nor did he want to place the burden of _trying_ to believe him upon her; he would continue to isolate his history from those closest to him.
And in the end, seeing the book in print had done what writing it had not: put his past into its proper perspective. The gaudy cover and horrible prose were silly; so had been his attempt to recreate Lilith.
He looked around his office, suddenly struck by the institutional paint, the economical furniture, the windows no wider than an arrow-slit. So different than Caelum—but had he simply traded one comfortable institution for another?
His stomach tightened, heavy beneath his chest.
He recognized _this_ feeling: futility. It will pass, he reminded himself. But he picked up his keys, and walked out.
With the sun and physical exhaustion, it always passed more quickly.
Lilith found the body near the edge of the southern lake.
When she'd followed the nosferatu's trail through the park, she'd caught the scent of human death and had expected to find a mutilated corpse. But this . . .
Death held few surprises anymore, but this one stunned her. For several minutes, she stared with frozen recognition at the arrangement of flesh and bone with her head bowed and her hands fisted in her pockets. She knew the ritual that had been performed here. God, how well she knew it.
Lucifer must be connected. What bargain had been struck, that the nosferatu also had knowledge of this ritual?
Dread knotted her stomach and rose like bile in her throat.
What had they done?
The crunch of bicycle tires along the recreation trail shook her out of her numb reverie, and she quickly dropped into a crouch to avoid being seen. The remains weren't far off the path, but had been hidden from easy sight by patch of willow scrub. Fewer than twenty-four hours old, they hadn't suffered significant decomposition or putrefaction, but it wouldn't be long before they were discovered. Though this portion of the park wasn't as heavily visited as others, it was typically used by joggers and bicyclists; she hadn't changed her clothing since leaving the federal building, and her suit would be memorable in these surroundings.
The sound of the bicycle faded, only to be replaced by the light, quick tread of a runner. Lilith breathed a sigh of frustration. Why couldn't these idiots be like normal humans: their asses on a sofa, eating potato chips and staring vacuously at a television?
Growling a little, she thought about jumping out of the bushes in full demon mode to see just how fast the jogger could run, but the idea didn't cheer her. She turned her attention back to the remains instead, and examined them with an objective eye.
The ground had been cleared, creating a circle of dirt almost three feet in diameter. The victim had been dismembered—not a surprise, as nosferatu often tore their prey apart—but the symbols carved into the skin across the torso were not as usual. And in the middle of his chest, a name was spelled out in a grisly, flowing script.
_Moloch_.
She frowned. That didn't make any sense. The victim's new, demonic name should have been written there, not that of a nosferatu—and instead of death, there should have been a transformation. Had the ritual failed?
On the trail, the runner's steps slowed and came to a halt on the other side of the scrub. She heard the catch and pause in his ragged breaths as he recognized the scent of death. Fuck. Nothing to do now but slip away before he saw her.
And then he sighed. It was a simple exhalation, full of resignation and disappointment, but its familiarity sent a shiver racing along her skin. Hardly daring to believe, she reached out with a psychic probe.
Hugh.
She closed her eyes against a creeping sense of inevitability, and Lucifer's voice rang in her ears: _His death will be yours to give, or your soul mine to keep_.
Could it be a coincidence that he should happen upon this scene? She knew it couldn't be; somehow, between the nosferatu and the ritual and Hugh, she was certain that Lucifer's long-held plans were finally coming together, and the pieces were falling into place.
Where would she fit?
She should flee, and keep Hugh unaware that she lived; her father depended on her to play a part. A demon worked under concealment, creating temptation by using the target's ignorance against him and manipulating with lies. Hugh was no longer the Guardian she'd known, but a human. He was nothing to someone like her.
She opened her eyes, saw the ruin that had once been a man.
And waited.
**CHAPTER 12**
The sun shone low and warm at her back; it cast her shadow across the clearing and must have prevented Hugh from immediately recognizing her. He narrowed his eyes against the light, and she rose to her feet.
Age had roughened the soft perfection of his youth, broadened his slim form. His golden skin was bathed in perspiration from his run, the sheen catching the sun and highlighting strong cheekbones and dark, slashing brows. His mahogany hair was cut short, erasing any hint of curl. The line of his jaw had once been smoothly curved, as if an artist had tenderly formed him from alabaster; time had proved a less patient sculptor, but the straight, clean angles were in as beautiful proportion.
His clothing, she noted, was as atrocious as ever, but afforded a much nicer view than his brown robe. The thin blue T-shirt—sleeves torn away, a faded rainbow emblem on the front—clung damply to the muscular planes of his chest, and his loose navy sweatpants had small holes at the knees. Only his shoes were in decent condition.
No paunch, no thinning hair. He'd gained weight, but no fat. His bare arms looked as taut and defined as the day she'd first seen him practicing swordplay in a castle courtyard.
Wanting to berate herself for caring, but unwilling to miss the moment of recognition, she searched his expression and waited . . . for any reaction. Surprise, hate, joy: she would take anything.
His firm, sensuous lips parted slightly. Surprised, then. She would have been satisfied with that, but there was more: doubt, in the minute wrinkling of his brow; violence, in the clenching of his right hand, as if he wanted to materialize a sword.
Of course he doubted, she thought. He'd killed her, and because all demons could shape-shift, he assumed that someone intended to deceive him. She considered pinning him to the ground and stealing a kiss as she had so many times before, but the gruesome scene between them kept her where she was.
"Hello, Hugh."
If he'd been trying to convince himself that she was just a human with an uncanny resemblance to a demon he'd once known, she'd shattered that by knowing his name.
A muscle in his jaw flexed. His breathing had eased into a deep, even rhythm, and his eyes were cold. "You aren't worthy of that face. Shift into another."
His voice had deepened over the years. Lower, with a rough timbre. Pleasure rushed through her, tinged with delicious irony. "I can't."
The human form that she'd hidden from him for years was now the only one Hugh would see. It wouldn't be long before he deduced that she wasn't everything she had once been.
She sobered quickly. "No demon would take on this appearance, Hugh. Mine is not a popular visage Below."
He remained silent, returning her comment with a flat stare. Finally he looked away from her, and turned toward the macabre arrangement on the ground.
"Two nosferatu," she said. "Last night."
"No blood," he murmured, then glanced at her sharply. "Two?"
She nodded, thinking about the blood. If the ritual she knew had been performed, it would have been everywhere: coating the remains, soaked into the ground, congealed into puddles. "Together, in the northern end of the park." A grin flashed over her lips. "I killed them both."
"Good," he said softly.
She shrugged. "It was fun." Hearing a pair of bicycles along the path, she eased into a crouch.
His gaze slid down to her neck, and she knew he wouldn't miss the faint pink of healing skin at the front of her throat. His fingers clenched again. "You were hurt."
The concern and anger in his tone that he tried to hide, but couldn't, sent a thrill down her spine. She grinned. "I _knew_ you still cared."
Humor lit his eyes, but it quickly faded and he stood in silence, watching her. He used the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, revealing a tight, rippling abdomen and smooth golden skin above the low-slung waistband of his sweats.
"I thought you'd be fat," Lilith said, her gaze fixed on his stomach.
The corners of his lips twitched. "I thought I had slain you."
"You did. My father brought me back."
He frowned, his brows drawing together. He swallowed before he said, "I cut through your heart."
And it would have killed any other demon—Lilith had thought it would kill her, too. "Imagine my surprise as well. Perhaps it is one of the benefits of being Lucifer's creation, rather than one of his brethren—you ought to have removed my head." No amount of blood would have revived her if she couldn't drink it.
"I should have," he agreed.
Had he not bothered, assuming that the injury through her heart had been enough—or had he not been able to mutilate her form in that way? But she had no time to ask.
"There are two bicyclists coming. Get down or they'll see you."
He turned toward the path. "I need to ask them if they have a cell phone, and call the police."
Growling low in her throat to capture his attention, she darkened her skin to crimson, and curving horns sprouted from her head. She licked her lips with a forked tongue. "Get down, or I'll let them see me."
He barely spared her a glance. "You told me the same thing in Paris, after the revolution. You were bluffing then, and you are now."
If her skin hadn't been red, he might have seen the blush spreading across her cheeks. She hated recycling her tricks; being caught doing it was worse. Not that it was exactly the same—her threat in Paris had been intended to blackmail him into bed—but it had been a ruse he'd easily foiled by calling her on it.
But circumstances were different.
She stood. The bicyclists were still out of sight, past a deep curve in the path.
Hugh eyed her with amusement. Apparently, he thought she would drop to the ground at the penultimate moment. "Your wings will add authenticity."
"My suit is real." She grimaced, thinking of the holes her wings would tear in the fabric. Her charcoal three-piece pantsuit had been tailored to hide the bulge of her gun, and lay immaculately over her lanky form. "And my salary is pathetic. I don't want to buy another."
"Your salary?" He shook his head, as if to clear sudden cobwebs. "You have a job?"
"Everything has changed since you've Fallen." She took a deep breath. "Give me five minutes, Hugh. Then you can call the police. There's more going on here than just two nosferatu killing a human."
His brows rose. "No attempt to bargain? My time for yours?"
"Bargains don't have the same allure as they used to," she said. Feeling him waver, she added, "Please."
He'd become soft, Hugh thought as he sank down onto his heels. A murder had been committed, he'd found a demon hovering over the kill, and he was letting her convince him to wait because she'd said "please."
That word alone should have shaken him out of the madness taking hold of him—this _couldn't_ be Lilith. However, despite his painfully vivid memory of her death and his certainty that she'd never deigned to say "please" before, his instincts said she was who she appeared to be.
Her laughter, the wicked tilt to her eyebrows as she perused his body, the fluidity of her movements, and her habit of positioning herself so that she was ready for combat in an instant— they told him the truth, impossible as it seemed. This was Lilith. A subdued version, perhaps, of the demon he'd killed sixteen years before, but another demon couldn't have imitated her so well. Their egos prevented them from completely disappearing into another personality.
And those Below might have known Lilith and he had shared a singular rivalry and planned to use their history against him, but they couldn't have known to choose the form she currently wore, nor realized its significance. Only Michael had been present the night she'd called for the Guardian to save him. Only Michael had known that Hugh had thought her an angel when she'd bent over him.
Her skin paled and the horns slid back into her skull; he regarded her steadily, conscious of the odor of death in the air and the ache of sudden inactivity settling into his leg muscles. She'd pulled her midnight hair into a high, tight queue, and the severe hairstyle emphasized the arch of her eyebrows, her Mediterranean-olive skin, and angular cheekbones.
He resisted the urge to reach out, to trace the beautiful line of her features with his fingertips and ascertain they were real.
Hugh had only seen that face once again, in Seattle. He didn't know why she'd chosen a human form to die in instead of her demonic one. Perhaps she'd hoped to inspire pity and mercy in those last moments? Or, considering her acute sense of fatalism and her flair for drama, maybe she'd simply thought it appropriate, bringing them full circle from that first night.
He rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together instead. "Two minutes," he said.
Expecting her to triumph over his capitulation, he was surprised when she said without humor, "You need to walk away, and pretend you never saw me, or this." She gestured toward the massacred body with her head, but her gaze never left his face. Her irises were dark brown, almost indistinguishable from her pupils, and her expression grave.
He sighed. "You know I can't."
She sucked in a breath between clenched teeth and continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I will erase any evidence that you've been here." She glanced down; the ground was soft from the weeks of rain, and his shoes left clear impressions in the soil. "You'll remain outside the investigation, and anything that follows. Just walk away. Now."
He shifted to ease the stiffness developing in his legs, and her face brightened. She thought he was going to go, he realized. Shaking his head, he said, "I won't leave him here; nosferatu and demon influence over him ends now."
"He's dead." Her voice shook with frustration, and he wondered at her vehemence. "It's a corpse, not a human."
"If it weren't for the nosferatu, he still would be human," he said quietly. "Why does it matter if I'm the one who finds him?"
His question seemed to puncture the intensity he had sensed building within her; she exhaled deeply, closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, as if warding off a headache.
Momentarily taken aback by the gesture, Hugh stared at her. She'd never seemed so human as in that second; demons couldn't develop headaches, and yet she'd performed the movement as if it was familiar, natural.
Guardians kept their habitual gestures long after they'd been transformed. He tried to remember if she'd done it before, and couldn't; but there had been thousands of other actions, small and large, that had seemed as human. He'd always attributed them to her acting skill, and the length of time she'd been living with mankind—nothing about it felt artificial now.
He pushed his uneasy thoughts aside when she lowered her hand and glanced up at him with a wry smile. "You've always been a stubborn ass, Hugh. I hate free will."
Meaning that if she could, she would force him to leave—by carrying him away, most likely. When he'd been a Guardian, she might have tried; now, she was hampered by rules against interfering with a human's will.
She stood before he could respond. "My two minutes have passed," she said.
Surprised that she'd adhered to his time limit, he absurdly wished he'd taken her offer of five minutes. He hadn't learned more about the occupation she'd mentioned, or any of the changes she'd said had occurred.
He shouldn't _want_ to know—he'd deliberately left all that behind.
She turned to go and hesitated. That should have warned him, but it wasn't until she looked back over her shoulder and he saw the mischievous gleam in her eyes that he realized her intent.
He didn't have time to make a decision, or protest. A Guardian could compensate for a demon's speed; Hugh could not. Between one moment and the next, she was across the clearing, bending down and covering his mouth with hers.
Anticipating a forceful kiss, he began to resist, but his tension drained away when he felt the difference in her touch. She'd done this before, but never so gently. Her hands remained at her sides; with light pressure, she ran her tongue across his bottom lip. She exhaled softly in pleasure, and her breath filled his mouth with heat.
And he was the one who reached up, clasping her nape to pull her more tightly against him. Who sought her tongue with his, suddenly starving for the taste of her. _Lilith._ How did she affect him so deeply, and after so long? Could not time have dimmed this, too? But no, it was as fierce as ever; need for her burned through him—and he had no defense against it now.
He pulled away and fought for control, forced himself to recall where they were.
She watched him with dark eyes and a small, knowing smile. "You never let go."
He laughed, and it sounded harsh and bitter. "I have."
"I remember."
Silence fell between them. Finally, Lilith straightened. "Go away, Hugh. I killed the two nosferatu, but the city is overrun with them. Lucifer is involved—with the nosferatu, with this death—but I don't know how. I do know that your being here isn't an accident."
He waited, sensing that she wanted to say more. When she didn't, he said, "My decision to take a run this afternoon was an impulsive one, Lilith."
"I won't be able to convince you it wasn't a coincidence then." She sighed. Pausing, she looked away from him. Her nostrils flared delicately. "When was the last time you spoke with Colin? With this many nosferatu in the city, he must be in danger."
He frowned, wondering at her familiarity with the vampire. "Last evening."
Her body was rigid, her eyes alert as she skimmed the area surrounding them, but she sounded almost grateful as she said, "You are protecting him then?"
"No."
She glanced back at him. "Why not?"
At her admonishing tone, defensive anger slipped into his reply. "And how should I protect him? I have neither Guardian strength nor speed."
"You must be pleased to have such a compelling reason to shirk your duties." She backed up a step.
Her retreat when they'd just begun to argue jolted him out of his anger. She never ran from a fight with him; she might delay it to gain an advantage, but never leave in the middle of it. She was deliberately provoking him, but not for his sake.
She wanted someone—probably not human—to think all connection between them was gone, that everything but antipathy had vanished.
By all rights, it should have.
"This is nothing," he said, watching her expression closely. "Only sixteen years. I managed to shirk my duties for eight centuries by not killing you, and I had far less compelling reasons."
The corners of her mouth turned up, but no trace of humor tinged her voice as she spoke. "And, observe: I still live. Your restraint was for naught, as was slaying me." She scented the air again, took another step back. "You know, Hugh—the outside looks better than ever, but inside you've become a worthless, self-pitying wimp. What a fucking waste."
She stalked away, throwing over her shoulder, "Don't worry your pretty head about Colin; I'll protect him tonight."
And she was gone.
Hugh stared at the space where she'd been standing, his stomach heaving as if he'd been sucker-punched. Attempting to fight off the nausea by taking deep, cleansing breaths only filled his lungs with death and rot.
That she'd said it to deceive another didn't make it any less true.
No wonder she'd managed to convince so many men to kill themselves; she saw right into them, stabbed deep, and twisted.
**CHAPTER 13**
Lilith ran. She didn't know if the Guardians she'd sensed pursued her or stayed behind with Hugh, but she wasn't going to give them a chance to kill her. Not now.
Michael and one other. Selah, perhaps; Lilith didn't know her scent well enough to be certain.
Rushing through traffic, glancing off bumpers and rebounding with a few choice curses, she made it across the city to Fisherman's Wharf within minutes. The area was lousy with tourists; she'd be safe among them.
It was the second time in twenty-four hours that she'd had to flee for her life; normally, she'd have been upset by the repeated humiliation. Instead, she strolled through Pier 39, grinning like an idiot.
Their reunion had gone well, until she'd had to call Hugh a spineless worm.
A stiff breeze skimmed across the pier, carrying voices and a mixture of aromas. She singled out an oily, musky thread, and followed it to the northwest end of the dock. A crowd always gathered near the sea lions that sunned themselves on the boat docks. If she mingled long enough, she could determine whether the Guardians had followed her; if they had, the strong odor of the sea lions might mask her scent, and provide enough confusion to enable another escape.
She couldn't feel Michael or Selah now, but she hadn't expected to; Michael was particularly adept at blocking psychic probes, and Hugh had been Selah's mentor. He'd have taught her well.
Too well, she thought with a touch of self-disgust. Lilith hadn't known the Guardians were near until she'd scented them the usual way: with her nose. Until that moment, she'd been stupidly unaware of everything except Hugh; she'd been swimming in his flavor, intoxicated by the brief taste she'd had of him.
Her lips held the tang of sea and fish now, but she rubbed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, savoring the memory of their kiss, trying to recapture the sensation. She'd never before noticed that humans smelled and tasted _alive_ in a way immortals could not; when Hugh had been a Guardian his body had been sterile. Today, she'd perceived the routine of life on his lips: the bitterness of coffee, the warmth of cinnamon toothpaste, the bite of pepper and tomato.
She'd decided she would kiss him again and soon. But first, she'd had to pretend—for the Guardians' sake—that her interest in him had vanished. If they knew how he affected her, they'd be at an advantage, and expect her to approach him again. It did not fit her plans to show up at Hugh's house only to find Michael and Selah waiting for her.
Better to let them think she found him revolting. Michael could easily look into Hugh's mind and find the same fear she had, and verify the reason behind her apparent disgust.
The number of people watching the sea lions had dwindled, so Lilith joined a group of retirees on their way to a restaurant. Conscious of her dark and formal suit amongst the plethora of pastel knit shirts and khaki shorts, she smiled brightly at a grandmother and inwardly cursed Lucifer. Once, she could have looked as matronly as any of them and shifted into different clothing with barely a thought.
With a short laugh, she forced her shame and embarrassment away; neither emotion was useful, and limited her as much as her missing powers did.
Strange, that someone like Hugh harbored doubts about his worth, but the fear had been real and lurking at the edge of his thoughts like a sharp-toothed eel. He had probably been able to feel its presence, but it would have slipped away if he attempted to see or name it. Her experience had allowed her to simply catch hold of it and drag it to the surface—but she'd been surprised when she'd felt the shape and heft of it.
She couldn't determine if the fear was recent, or if he'd managed to hide it when he'd been a Guardian. If it was new, then what had Hugh become in the past sixteen years to give him such doubts? Was it just a fear—or an unconscious acknowledgment of truth?
Either way, if— _when_ —Lucifer decided it was time for Lilith to fulfill her bargain, she could easily manipulate it, make it grow and fester like a cancer.
Her stomach was heavy and throat tight when she broke away from the retirees and darted through the restaurant kitchen. She found the exit, joined a small party of teenagers leaving the pier, and waited with them for the bus. Squeezed in among tourists and commuters, she determinedly forced thoughts of Hugh from her mind.
Bad enough that Guardians might sense her vulnerability—disastrous if another demon did.
By the time she entered the federal building and passed through the security check, her psychic defenses were tight, impenetrable. Even so, she was almost relieved when her query at the front desk received the same response as earlier: SAC Smith was unavailable.
Smith might have the answers she sought, but he would wonder why she asked them—and, given incentive, he had power to look deeply enough to find Hugh.
But he wasn't the only source of information.
She entered the stairwell and ran up one flight. The Bureau was housed on the thirteenth floor of the building; Congressman Thomas Stafford's offices on the fourteenth. The foyer welcomed her with soothing cream and aquamarine; the receptionist, in a conservative blue dress, narrowed her eyes and frowned. The perfectly coiffed redhead clutched her purse in one hand. Must be quitting time, Lilith mused. Not much daylight left.
"Is he in?" Lilith smiled her widest smile as she strode toward the desk.
"I'm sorry, but our offices have closed for the evening."
Lilith kept on walking. "Too bad."
The receptionist's mouth fell open, and her free hand fluttered in the air. "You can't go back there!"
"Silence, twit," Lilith said pleasantly. It wasn't difficult to find his office; she simply headed toward the corner of the building with the best view of the city. The double mahogany doors were closed, but unlocked. She shoved them open, pushed them shut behind her and engaged the lock. "Hey, Tommy."
Behind his desk, Thomas Stafford sighed and shifted from a demon to a middle-aged human. "Must you be so obnoxious with my staff, Lilith?"
"She's new," Lilith said.
The congressman vanished his swords and relaxed back into his chair. Handsome, tanned, with graying sandy hair and a perpetually honest expression, he was the image of the perfect West Coast politician. "Not really. She's been here almost two years." Peering at her through lowered lids, he added, "I assume you aren't here to kill me."
"Not today," she agreed.
The beep of the intercom was followed by the twit's urgent voice. "Should I call building security, sir?"
Lilith could see that he considered it for a moment before responding. "No. Thank you, Lynne. Agent Milton is an old friend of mine."
A lie, but then, not _all_ of Belial's demons were idiots.
Lilith laughed softly at his compliance, and dropped into the chair facing his desk. Her gaze roamed over the room, taking in the expensive furnishings, the plush green carpet and dark wood, and the United States and California flags hanging in the corner. "Your constituency has been kind to you."
"I've been kind to them. What do you want, Lilith?"
She leaned forward and picked up a grizzly bear paperweight from his desk. "There are nosferatu in the city—a lot of them. I want to know why."
"Ask Lucifer or Beelzebub."
Looking up from the ceramic animal, she pinned him with a stare, let her eyes glow crimson. "I'm asking you," she said coldly.
He spread his hands, palms up, the consummate politician. "Ease down, halfling. They started coming in about a month ago; they travel in pairs, so every demon's attempt to hunt them has failed. Every one of _my_ liege's demons' attempts, that is."
Lilith frowned. "They won't kill Lucifer's?"
"I don't think Lucifer's demons are hunting them."
That matched what she'd been able to parse from Mondiel's cryptic outburst. "What of the Guardians?"
It was no surprise that the demons had been killed off; they fought singly, never trusting their brethren to watch their back. But Guardians would work together to rid the city of nosferatu if they could.
Not that they'd been very successful ridding it of demons—but demons couldn't kill humans, only tempt them to murder or suicide. Anything more would interfere with human free will. The nosferatu followed no such rules, making them an immediate danger.
"I'm hardly privy to Guardian intelligence, halfling," he said.
She snapped her teeth together in frustration. Really, this should be easier. Hopping onto his desk, she perched on the edge closest to him. To his credit, he didn't flinch. "This _halfling_ ripped two bloodsuckers apart with her bare hands this morning. Want proof?" She waved the fingers of her sword hand under his nose. Despite numerous washings, the stink of the nosferatu's blood lingered on them; she'd smelled its nauseating odor all day. "Just imagine what I can do to you with this little bear here, particularly as you've been riding a desk for twenty years." She hefted the paperweight and bared her fangs with a smile. "Come on, Tommy. Give the halfling a break."
"You're _Lucifer's_ halfling." Disgust filled his voice.
"I'm not the one who followed him in his rebellion, then put him on the throne Below."
She felt him relent; he pushed back his chair and wandered over to the window. "Last week, a contingent of thirty Guardians located a nosferatu nest. Only one or two made it back to Caelum's Gate."
Unbelievable. They must have been heavily outnumbered—and surprised—to endure such a loss. Could so many nosferatu exist in one place without the Guardians being aware of it? Or had the nosferatu been assisted by Lucifer's demons?
"Since then, we've heard reports that Michael is scouting the city alone, preparing another advance."
Michael wasn't alone in the city; there had been another Guardian with him. Stafford's information was incorrect—or he was lying.
He was probably lying; she would have. No sense in giving an enemy accurate data—not that the exact numbers mattered. Even if Stafford exaggerated, and in fact only ten Guardians had been defeated, then Michael's next strike would have to include at least four or five times that many. How could he hope to bring in such a large group and remain undetected by humans?
And how had the nosferatu managed to hide? They didn't _need_ to feed, but how had they managed to live amongst humans and control the bloodlust?
"I've looked over the missing persons reports and murder dockets for the past three months," Lilith said. "I couldn't find any activity that might be related to nosferatu, and no spike in frequency."
She didn't mention the body she'd found that morning; Hugh was too closely connected to that memory, and she didn't trust this demon any more than she did Smith.
Hopefully, that human had been the first. And the last.
"Vampires," the congressman said flatly. "The nosferatu have been hunting down their offspring and feeding from them. I've had several vampires come to me for help, but"—he spread his hands in a helpless gesture—"as one of Belial's, I can offer little protection."
Even if he hadn't been powerless, Lilith doubted he'd have helped the vampires. She pushed her rising concern for Colin aside; she had good psychic blocks, but she didn't want the congressman to suspect she might be worried about a vampire's well-being, nor let him know that she'd become friends with one.
There were some things demons just did not do, whether they followed Belial or Lucifer.
Outside the office window, the sun descended slowly toward the horizon. Sensing that Stafford had nothing more to tell her, she slipped off the desk and landed silently on the carpet. "Thank you, Congressman. You've been helpful."
His deep chuckle made her look back over her shoulder. "If platitudes such as those fall so easily from your mouth, you've spent far too much time amongst the humans."
She gave him an assessing glance. His current form fit him comfortably. "As have you."
"Perhaps. Earth is preferable to your father's kingdom." His humor faded. "Join us, Lilith. You would be welcome on Belial's side. Once he takes the throne, he promises to restore us to His Grace."
She arched a brow, her cynicism obvious. If Belial won, did Stafford honestly believe the demon lord would relinquish the power he'd spent centuries securing? "Thanks for the offer," she said. "But I'll take my chances with the devil I know."
The activity around the crime scene had settled into a slow, methodical rhythm. Uniformed officers milled around the perimeter, just outside the yellow tape that cordoned off a section of the path and a hundred foot circumference around the body. Floodlights had been set up to illuminate the area, and a team of officers walked in ever-widening circles, searching for evidence with flashlights in hand. Within the tape, Detectives Preston and Taylor consulted with the medical examiner, and a pale-faced photographer recorded the scene on film.
From his seat atop a picnic table thirty feet away, the strobe of the flash left afterimages on Hugh's vision. He couldn't see the body on the ground, but didn't need to; it was impossible to forget.
A uniformed officer had already taken his information and initial statement, along with the woman's whose phone he'd used. She had been sent home an hour earlier, but Detective Taylor had asked Hugh to wait until she or Preston could collect a full recounting of his discovery of the corpse.
How had she managed to fight _two_ nosferatu? The few times they'd worked together in the past had been while hunting the creatures; even with their combined skills against one nosferatu, they'd rarely emerged unscathed.
She'd been lucky not to have been torn apart.
Lilith. He bent his head, ran his hands through his hair. Hard not to smile, knowing she was alive, but it was a pleasure dulled by dread: Lucifer did not give second chances. He did not _give_ anything, but made his subjects pay for them with his favorite currency: pain.
What had Lilith's price been?
A shout from the team sweeping the outlying vegetation drew his attention. Preston ducked his round bulk under the tape and jogged heavily toward them; he'd taken off his jacket, and the dull glow of his white shirt allowed Hugh to track his progress outside the reach of the floodlights.
"The nosferatu placed his clothing and possessions beside a fallen log. The searchers just found them," Michael said from behind him.
Though the voice was familiar, Hugh froze and had to stifle his impulse to leap into a defensive posture. The day's exciting moments were becoming less and less welcome.
Michael walked around the side of the table and sat down, the wood creaking under his weight. He wore a crisp EMT uniform, but the short black hair and bronze skin were his own.
"You're cold," Michael observed.
Hugh glanced down at his bare arms, and fought the rage that began rising in his gut. Cold, hungry, tired—and alive. "Are there any nosferatu here?"
"No. Only their scent on the body and the surroundings." Michael watched him for a long moment. "The symbols allow the nosferatu to call for power, for a transformation."
Hugh nodded, but couldn't speak. A terrible pattern began to fall into place.
Why had he never seen it before?
Though Michael didn't appear to move, a woolen blanket settled on Hugh's shoulders.
Hugh pulled it securely around his chest, gathering the edges together in his fisted hand as if containing himself within the coarse fabric.
Michael's corroboration of the nosferatu's involvement should have relieved him. He'd been wondering for the past two hours if she'd been lying to him, and he hadn't been able to read the truth. He had been wondering if she'd tempted someone into performing that ritual. Had been wondering if he'd let his memories of her cloud his judgment.
Instead of relief, a new concern rose: if Lilith had been telling the truth about the nosferatu, then this probably wouldn't be the only death to result from their presence.
"If you aren't protecting them, then these men don't need your assistance." They needed Michael to slay the nosferatu left in the city, needed him to prevent further rituals.
"You do."
With a hollow laugh, Hugh drew the blanket tighter and nodded toward the clearing. "So did he."
"You are not in danger from the nosferatu."
"But I am from Lilith?" Hugh guessed and shook his head. Lilith was many things, but unlike the nosferatu she wasn't a murderer.
And he knew her tricks too well to fall prey to them.
"From Lucifer," Michael said, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs. "Using this death and the humans' laws against you. He has more influence than ever. His demons have infiltrated the government and social systems in this and many other nations."
It was a different kind of power than Lucifer had previously wielded then. He'd always had indirect influence, using his demons to tempt humans to act in certain ways; putting his demons in positions of authority was a bold move and a cunning one.
"And Lilith?"
"FBI. Lucifer has her under Beelzebub's supervision."
Hugh gave a brief laugh. Trying to control Lilith would be a monumental task. "Why would Lucifer go to such lengths?"
"For you? I don't know. I can't see his entire plan yet." Michael raised his face to the heavens, and smiled grimly. "There was an Ascension."
Ascension—the opposite of a Fall for a Guardian. Instead of reversing the transformation and returning to Earth to live out the remainder of his life, a Guardian could choose to meet whatever fate the afterlife had to offer him. "How many?"
"All but seventy. And I lost half of them against the nosferatu."
Hugh stared at the ground, at the scatter of leaves and dirt. When he'd Fallen, there'd been thousands. That an Ascension had occurred didn't surprise him; immortality did not sit easily. Though an individual could make the choice at any time, occasionally a fervor would sweep through the corps, and many would go together. He'd witnessed two Ascensions during his time in Caelum, but each had only been a group of a few hundred.
"So many?"
Michael glanced at him. "You were an inspiration; they agreed that this is an age that does not need the influence of Above and Below."
A hard laugh escaped him. "Did they misunderstand me so badly? A fine teacher I was." Better for humans to make their own way—and better were there no demons to tempt them; but as long as there were demons, there _had_ to be Guardians to check them. If one Fell after losing faith, or five hundred Ascended to show theirs—it mattered little. But to destroy the corps when Lucifer still held power?
"If it is any consolation, the majority of those who stayed were your students. And there were a few others who were on assignment on Earth." Michael shook his head. "It was inevitable; there were too many, and not enough were active. Lucifer's methods had changed, made him less visible—the danger was not so apparent or immediate." A wry smile pulled at his mouth. "I knew it was coming, though I'll admit I did not think it would be so many."
"What will you do?"
"Fight. There is little else to be done."
There was no blame in Michael's tone, nor disapproval, but Hugh felt the cold, heavy weight of his Fall settle in his stomach, banking the fury that had burned there.
But Michael was shaking his head. "It is better that you are human. If it ends, if they destroy the corps and slaughter the vampires, there will be no one who knows the truth—except for you."
A burden Hugh would rather not bear.
He rubbed his forehead with his free hand and thought of the other responsibilities he'd shunned. One, at least, he could make amends for immediately. Michael could offer protection that Hugh could not.
"The vampire Colin Ames-Beaumont could assist your cause."
The table trembled under the force of Michael's silent laughter. Hugh grinned a little as well, and added, "He is proficient with his sword."
After another bout of laughter, Michael managed to say, "Selah is on her way to his residence. When you spoke with her, Lilith indicated her intention to see him."
Hugh's humor vanished. He let the blanket fall from his shoulders, stood, and began pacing in long angry strides away from the table. Finally he turned and faced the Guardian. "You'll not kill her."
Michael regarded him carefully. "A strange command, given the source."
"Perhaps," Hugh said, his throat rough. "But you'll not kill her."
"No," Michael said, and gracefully rose from his seat. "I won't. If I didn't in the thousand years after her transformation and before yours, I see no reason to do so now."
Her transformation? Hugh frowned, but had no time to question the Guardian. Michael abruptly turned and walked toward one of the waiting ambulances and disappeared into the back of the vehicle.
"Dr. Castleford?"
Hugh turned. Detective Taylor had spoken his name, but her gaze slid past him. Toward the ambulance, Hugh realized. After a moment, her attention returned to him. "Did he speak to you?"
"He brought me a blanket," Hugh said.
He could see she wasn't satisfied, but she didn't pursue a more direct answer. Instead, she held out a small, clear evidence bag. "We found an identification card from San Francisco State. We cannot determine if it belongs to the body, of course, until forensics identifies the remains. Do you recognize this student?"
Hugh knew it was the victim's; Michael had told him. He looked blindly at the small rectangle of plastic, letting the picture and letters blur. Cowardly not to focus, but he didn't want to know.
"Dr. Castleford?"
He blinked, and drew in a ragged breath. "Ian is one of my students."
Taylor's mouth hardened into a thin line. "When was the last time you saw Mr. Rafferty?"
"A month ago," he said, and forced the next words out. "At Auntie's."
"Playing DemonSlayer," she said, her voice flat. "A game based on your book."
"Yes."
She lowered the evidence bag. "I'd like you to come to the station for an interview, Dr. Castleford. If it's convenient."
"It is," he lied, and knew it was the first of many.
**CHAPTER 14**
Night had fallen by the time Lilith got off the train in Richmond. Slipping into an alley, she stripped off her shirt and jacket and vanished them. The skin on her back rippled as her wings materialized; she sighed in pleasure and took to the sky.
A three-quarter moon rose behind her, slinging a dancing path of silver light across the bay. Each powerful beat of her wings made her feel strong, invincible. She gained altitude and speed, her hair tangling behind her. The wind stung tears from her eyes—the only kind of tears she'd shed in two thousand years.
How could Hugh have traded this kind of freedom for a life on the ground? He could have given hers without losing his own.
Using Alcatraz to orient her approach to the city, she flew into Golden Gate Park and found a secluded area in which to dress. If the Guardians had managed to follow her from the federal building, and during her underground trip around the Bay Area, they would attack her now.
Minutes passed without her sensing anything out of the ordinary. Torn between relief and disappointment—she didn't want to die, but a fight would have been enjoyable—she walked out of the park, and caught the first bus that would take her south. She'd run enough for the day.
The bus was almost empty. She chose a seat in the back and growled softly until the only nearby passenger, a teenager strung out on meth, freaked out. The driver kicked him off at the next stop, and Lilith was able to call Colin in relative privacy.
He answered on the first ring. The loud, jingly tones of a TV game show played in the background as he said, "Agent Milton, my dear, I'm going to murder you."
She grinned. He'd been a member of the British aristocracy as a human and hadn't let go of his accent; every threat of violence that rolled off his tongue sounded like an invitation to tea. "How's my puppy?"
"He . . . they . . . _it_ is fantastic. Eating everything in sight. And last week, it killed and ate two nosferatu who were intent upon ruining my rather spectacular visage. Which, I confess, makes up for the outrageous expense of feeding it for the last six months." His voice lowered. "And I believe it is keeping my new visitors away as well."
Lilith sank back into her seat and closed her eyes in relief. She'd deliberately left the Guardians with the impression that she'd go to Colin's house that night. The vampire's cryptic response confirmed that at least one waited outside—combined with Sir Pup's protection, Colin would probably be safe. "The nosferatu won't risk coming after you with hellhound and Guardian stench everywhere. Especially if it's Michael's stench."
They fell silent, and she heard a car salesman screaming about finance charges. The high volume on the television wouldn't keep the Guardians from hearing his part of the conversation, but it might mask hers.
She waited until the game show resumed before speaking again. "Do you have your weapon?"
"Next to me."
"If anyone but me knocks at your door, use it." Pausing, she reconsidered. After their confrontation in the park, Hugh might seek out the vampire. "Unless it is He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named."
"Voldemort?"
She envisioned his smirk, and wondered how he'd managed to make it through two centuries on a steady diet of pop culture and little else. "The other one."
"Does this mean the ban is lifted, and I can finally talk about him?"
Oh, how she'd love smacking him around for the amusement in that question. "Yes."
"Why now?"
Lowering her voice to a whisper, she admitted, "I need you to tell me his name." She could use her computer to look up Hugh's address, but she didn't know his surname, or even if he still used "Hugh."
She had to yank the phone away from her ear when he shouted with laughter. What had ever possessed her to become friends with a vampire? Particularly this one. "I swear, Colin, the only reason I only tolerate you is because you're extremely handsome."
That quieted him. "Oh?"
_Ah, Vanity. Thy name is Colin Ames-Beaumont._ "That's all you're going to get until you give me what I want."
She easily imagined his grin as he said, "Christian name is the same. Family name is a stony demesne, often of the motte and bailey variety, and a dead automobile manufacturer with a first name not unlike an English king who liked to behead his wives."
Hugh Castleford. "Thank you, Colin."
"I'm glad you've returned."
She stared up at the bus's ceiling, trying not to feel uncomfortable. They'd been friends for a decade, but she still wasn't accustomed to someone caring about her. "I'll see you later this evening," she managed. "Don't die between now and then. Unless my dog is hurt or unhappy—then you'd better wish for death before I get there, because I'll kill you slowly and painfully."
"Don't ring off," he said quickly. "You promised more. Give me a _lot_ more and I'll tell you the name of the woman not-Voldemort is living with."
Her gut twisted. "I could strangle it out of you."
"Through the cell phone?"
Rolling her eyes, she quoted, " 'The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history. . . .' "
And decided to strangle him later.
The windshield wipers swished out a soothing rhythm, and unintelligible codes crackled from the police radio at regular intervals.
Hugh scrubbed his hand over his face as they neared his house, trying to fight the queasiness that riding in a moving vehicle always gave him. He didn't have a watch, but he thought it must have been nearing midnight—the interview had not been long, but the waiting had been. Taylor and Preston had not wanted to let him go, but had no reason to keep him—sending him home with the uniformed officers had not been an act of kindness, however. Hugh was certain that they'd be watching his house after they'd dropped him off.
A few minutes later, he stood at his front door and smiled grimly as the cruiser pulled out of his driveway and parked next to the curb. They were in for a long, boring night—but they were welcome to try to follow him when he went for his morning run.
Inside, he toed off his shoes and shrugged out of his damp T-shirt, balling it up and tossing it in the direction of the door to the garage and the laundry. The upstairs windows had been dark; Savi was either asleep or out. Considering the hours she and her friends kept, probably out. She was going to be upset that he hadn't called her from the station, but she would likely be involved soon enough, as the detectives verified the story he'd given them.
And Hugh hadn't wanted to give her news of Ian's death in those surroundings.
Anger and grief welled up again, but he tamped them down. They served no purpose; better that he channel them into action. And for once, the gym he kept had no appeal.
He'd thrown Colin's number and address into the garbage by his bed. He strode soundlessly through the darkened house, shaking off the last of his nausea. Once he'd met with Lilith, had seen the body, his decision to avoid the vampire had seemed ridiculous. If not for the trip to the police station, Hugh'd have met with him. And now, it did not seem so terrible to ally himself with someone who might know something about the nosferatu, and why they had begun ritualistically killing humans.
He sat on his bed, and reached down to pick up the slip of paper from the bin. Lilith would have known more, but he didn't trust himself around her. Not that he knew where to find her. Michael had said FBI; perhaps Savi could—
His skin prickled. His hand stilled, and he looked up, into the opposite corner of the room.
Clinging to the ceiling, Lilith stared back at him, her eyes glowing in the darkness.
"Should I get my sword?" he asked softly and switched on the lamp.
"That depends on what you plan to do with it. I prefer my heart intact."
She dropped to the floor. Her human form had vanished beneath the crimson skin and black wings, claws and fangs. He studied her, wondering how much of this was truly her, and how much of her was the form she'd worn earlier.
She had clothes on—not the suit from earlier, but an updated version of the tight leather breeches and corset she'd begun wearing in the mid-eighteenth century. Black boots ended at her knee. She did not wear the clothing out of modesty; they molded to her curves so well they left little to the imagination. Nor did she seem to intend them to titillate. Her heels were low, and her shoulders squared in a strong, rather than seductive, posture.
Perhaps she wore them as a defense? Suddenly aware of his own half-dressed state, he had the urge to find a shirt, to put even a flimsy barrier between them.
But she would take advantage of such a telling gesture, and so he remained where he was.
His gaze lit on her bare arms, the upper slope of her breasts. "Vanish your clothing."
Her eyes widened. He'd surprised her, but only for a moment. She quickly recovered and said, laughing, "Oh, I do like you better when you are human." She leaned against his teak dresser, and with an easy push from the heels of her hands, lifted herself onto the dark surface. "I'm surprised they took you down for questioning. It should have been a simple matter of taking your information down and conducting a preliminary interview, then calling on you later to follow up."
"I knew him."
Her smile faded at his quiet announcement. The red glow left her eyes.
Standing, he said, "He was my student." Her fingers clenched on the dresser's edge, but she didn't move as he approached. "His name was Ian, and he was nineteen years old. I saw his best friend this morning; tomorrow, I'll be telling another group of his friends that he's dead. But I won't be able to tell them how or why. Do you know?"
She shook her head, her bottom lip pressed between her teeth.
Disappointment twisted in his stomach. Why had he thought she'd tell him the truth? "I'm not as adverse to lying as I once was, which is for the best. For I won't be able to tell my students or the detectives that I _have_ seen something like what had been done to him before. Not the ritual, but the script that was used. But it wasn't in Caelum, where I might have expected to see it. The Scrolls there are in a human language. Latin," he added when curiosity flared across her expression.
Then she stiffened, as if in realization. "Where?"
"Here." With the pad of his thumb, he traced a curling pattern on her right shoulder. Her skin was red, without blemish, but he could easily recall how pale it had been, washed clean by the rain. His hands had left bloody prints; he'd wiped them away with his robe, but he hadn't been able to erase the markings that had patterned her torso like vermillion tattoos—they'd remained indelible on his memory, as well. "And here." A series of chevrons and dashes, from the hollow of her throat to the edge of the corset. He pressed his palm between her breasts, felt the heat of her body through the tight bodice. "And here, though different from Ian's, a design that—"
She caught his wrist. "Stop."
For a moment, he could scarcely breathe. There had been more—many more. Carved into Ian's body, and, sixteen years ago, echoed in her lifeless one.
"I should thank you for killing them," he said hoarsely. "But I'd rather have them alive to answer the questions I cannot."
Her eyes searched his. "And once they gave answers? What could you do then?"
" _Then_ I'd kill them." He pulled away from her grip; she opened her mouth and then closed it, her lips curving slightly. Releasing a long breath, he walked to the window and pulled the drapes back. The cruiser still waited by the curb. "I didn't misunderstand you; I know what you meant. Even if I received answers, I'm the only one who could believe them. And giving the truth to the detectives would only increase their suspicions."
The pane was cool against his forehead. Foolish of him to turn his back on her, but he needed a moment to gather his thoughts, to push aside the emotions that threatened to overcome reason.
She didn't give him the opportunity.
"And this is why you want to get me out of my clothes? To see if you can find answers beneath the glamours? Will you parade me naked through the police station as your defense?"
"Perhaps." He smiled, and turned to find her standing beside him, her hip against the sill, arms crossed beneath her breasts. "Though I'm less concerned with defense than protecting those connected to me. You may have slain two, but there are more—and I want to know: Why Ian? Coincidence? I have difficulty believing that."
"That has always been one of your greatest faults: your difficulty believing anything," she replied evenly.
"Yours is accepting too readily, because it is easier to live with than the alternative."
Grinning, she said, "And will you destroy me for it this time?"
He couldn't bring himself to see humor in it. "No."
She tilted her head, studying his face. Could she read him? Psychic blocks took practice and concentration—and though it was uncommon for humans, who didn't recognize the need to have strong mental defenses, it wasn't impossible.
Her brows arched, her eyes glittered with amusement. "Ah, yes; it's no longer your job to kill me."
If she thought that was his reason, she could not read him at all.
Leaving her by the window, he gathered a shirt and jeans from the walk-in closet and used the relative privacy to strip off his sweats. Was Savi upstairs? If she heard them talking, she wouldn't interrupt; but if she thought he'd returned alone she might come down.
"How long have you been waiting here?" He'd fastened his jeans and was shrugging into the shirt when she swung the door wide. Her gaze roamed over the neat—if sparse—piles of clothing on the shelves, finally coming to rest on him.
"Almost two hours." She watched his fingers as they worked their way up the buttons. "I spent most of it looking through your housemate's things. You aren't lovers?"
"I prefer not to seduce children." Not that, at twenty-five, Savi could be considered a child. She would have been furious had she known he often thought of her that way.
"I remember one young woman you wanted very badly. Granted, it wasn't so unusual then, but she was still a child."
He lifted a brow.
"Isabel?" she prompted.
"I was two years older than she was, not eight hundred." A slow grin spread over his lips. "And I haven't thought of her as anything other than 'the countess' or 'the lady' since my transformation. I didn't remember her Christian name," he said. "Interesting that you did."
For an infinitesimal moment, she seemed nonplussed. Then she returned with a lazy smile of her own: "Your sense of humor has obviously been restored now that you're human, for you surely jest; I don't believe for a second that you've forgotten my brilliant mimicry in the castle stairwell."
No. But he was not likely to tell her the only reason Isabel's face—if not her name—had remained so clearly in his memory was not because of his youthful infatuation with the lady, but because Lilith had once inhabited her form. Even his shame upon mistaking the countess for Lilith upon that wall walk had faded; but every moment with the demon, and every emotion she had aroused, remained all too clear.
"And whose form did you mimic this afternoon?" he asked. "Do you no longer fear Lucifer, or does he no longer forbid beauty?"
She shrugged lightly, but he saw the flicker of shame in her expression before she covered it with irony. "It is a punishment."
Uncertain how to interpret her statement and sensing she would not volunteer to clarify it, he murmured, "Aye. Mine." He cupped her chin in his palm, felt the heat of her throat, the beat of her pulse. Beneath the obsidian horns and crimson skin, he could see the same features she'd worn in her human form. The bone structure was the same, the line of her nose, the shape of her eyes. "I can only hope it is a short-lived tyranny."
She pulled in a sharp breath as he released her. Intent on putting space between them, he began to brush past her, but she stopped him with a hand on his forearm.
"I'm going to kiss you before I leave tonight," she said. Focusing on his lips, she moistened her own. "I'm feeling generous, so I thought I would warn you."
The wicked slant of her brows told him it was not generosity at all, but an attempt to unsettle him.
It worked. His muscles tightened in anticipation, and he was swamped by memories of other kisses, stolen and bargained. Of the hot press of her mouth. Of the sounds she made when playfulness became passion—and ultimately, frustration.
He'd held himself distant when he'd been a Guardian, but his indifference had been dishonest. And though a part of him wished to thwart her by initiating the kiss now, he did not trust himself to keep it a purely defensive maneuver.
Shaking off her hand, he strode to the nightstand, swept up Colin's number and headed for the living room. And tried not to acknowledge the part of him that wanted to kiss her—not to undermine her ploy, but for the pleasure of it.
**CHAPTER 15**
The world was a better place when Hugh bent over in those jeans. She stifled her disappointed sigh when he straightened and walked toward the door. "Running scared?"
He cast a rueful glance over his shoulder as he left the room. "Yes."
She grinned, following him. It wasn't fear in the rigid line of his shoulders, the slight stiffness in his tread.
He was aroused—and resisting it.
The narrowness of the hallway forced her to fold her wings tightly to her back or risk scraping the paint from the walls. She hadn't spent much time in this part of his home, preferring to investigate the girl's—Savitri's—apartment instead. It had been an explosion of metal and plastic; computers and electronics, many of them half-assembled, had littered every available surface. A geek's paradise.
Lilith hadn't cared for it, but the DemonSlayer paraphernalia she'd found in one room had fascinated her. Sketches, games, cards—she'd vaguely known about the video game, but had never paid attention to the details of its storyline. Wouldn't have this time, either, but the connection between Hugh and the girl led her to take a closer look. To her surprise—though much of it inaccurately represented demonkind—it contained just enough truth in the relationship between nosferatu, demons, and halflings to make Lilith wonder.
Had he told Savitri the truth? How deep did the trust between them run? And, given the girl's age, why? Theirs wasn't a lovers' bond.
The soft, rhythmic pad of his bare feet against the dark hardwood floors was muffled as he entered the living room and stepped onto the thick rug at its center. Unlike the mess upstairs, everything here was uncluttered, minimalist. She would have thought it sterile, if not for the colors. Bright jewel tones and dark woods warmed the room: a rich blue sofa, a supple leather ottoman in chocolate brown, gold paint on the walls. Behind her, the kitchen boasted more wood, stainless steel, and a deep, luxurious red.
Apparently, he abhorred white.
He picked up a remote control, and she snorted in surprise. Did he intend to sit down and watch football next? "You've become quite the domestic, haven't you?"
A smile played around his mouth. "I can even program a VCR."
She couldn't. Suddenly feeling out of place in her demonic guise, she turned toward the bookshelves and forced herself to ignore the heavy settling of her stomach. "At least you still read," she muttered. She glanced at a title and rolled her eyes. " _The American Ideal: Literary History as a Worldly Activity_?"
"Too domestic?" he asked, and she heard the amusement in his voice. He knew she was uncomfortable, and he was enjoying it.
She could return the favor. Running her hand along a row of books, she said, "I think it'll be a soft kiss, at first. I won't touch you anywhere but your mouth. Fangs or no fangs?"
He grinned. "No fangs, please."
She nodded solemnly. "I'll keep the horns, though. They make wonderful handholds. When you are overcome with desire, you can pull me closer with them."
The television illuminated his features with a soft blue light; his lips were pressed tightly together, and he shook with silent laughter.
"I'll be certain to remember that," he finally said.
"It wouldn't be gentle for long, would it?" she mused. "It never is with us. I'd have to touch you. I didn't force you when you were human before, but perhaps I would now. Do you remember the temple and Mandeville?" Her voice deepened, deliberately sensuous. "Would be simple to do the same to you—but I would not leave you waiting for more. I'd wrap my hands around you, stroke you until you begged. Taste you until you were weak. Ride you until you could no longer stand."
He drew in a ragged breath, as if the air around him had thickened. Only with effort could she keep herself from betraying a similar arousal; the images her words conjured gathered like liquid fire beneath her belly.
His throat worked, but she anticipated his response. "It would be free will, Hugh. You already want it." She slid the flat of her palm up a book spine, imagined the hardness and heat of his erection. The rigid shaft strained against its denim confines; the racing of his pulse matched hers.
Unable to resist, she approached him, ran her fingers down the front of his shirt. He stopped breathing. The flesh under his clothing was taut, hard. She wanted to rip it away, smooth her hands over the skin beneath. Run her tongue over the ridges of muscle in his chest and abdomen, licking and tasting. She settled for flattening her palm against his pectoral, relishing the tension she could feel coursing through him, the beating of his heart.
He caught her wrist as she began to slide down to his stomach, lower. Immediately releasing her, he pinched the bridge of his nose as if to steady himself, then let his hand drop to his side. He looked at her without expression. "I'll oblige you then. Vanish your clothing, lie down on the sofa and spread your legs."
Her mouth fell open. "What?"
"I'll admit, I want to fuck you. So we will fuck." His hands went to his waistband, and he began to unbutton his fly.
As if mesmerized, she stared at his fingers as they worked at the fastenings. The tails of his shirt covered him, but the movement of his hands allowed her glimpses of white cotton briefs stretched tight by his cock. She swallowed and glanced at the sofa.
Did he really mean for her to do as he'd commanded? The _way_ he'd commanded it?
Despite the hardness etched across his features, his control, she could feel his heart pounding, smell the perspiration tinged by sexual arousal—but also by unease and determination.
He desired her, would fuck her if she complied with his demand . . . but he didn't want it now, not like that.
She didn't either.
"You win," she conceded wryly and held up her hands as if in surrender.
His expression did not immediately warm, as she'd expected it to. The intensity of his cold blue stare held her frozen. The he slowly blinked, releasing her. His hands trembled as he refastened his jeans.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That was . . . unfair."
Something in her chest squeezed painfully, but she shrugged and said, "I'll admit you surprised me: I've never heard you swear before. It was wonderfully vulgar."
A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. "Compared to my students, I'm not very proficient."
She would have laughed but for the change that came over him: his shoulders slumped, and he ran his hands through his hair in helpless frustration. It had been the mention of his students, she realized; he grieved for one now. Wondered if he'd brought death to the boy just by knowing him.
"Are these the nosferatu you killed this morning?"
She turned to face the television and frowned. "What is this? When is this?"
"They burned Polidori's. Three nights ago." He glanced at her curiously. "You didn't know?"
"I've been out of town," she said, leaning in to examine the nosferatu on the television screen. He likely wanted to put faces to the creatures who had killed his student. "These are not the same."
"Damn," he said softly, and she smiled.
"I must be a terrible influence."
She felt his gaze on her. "You are." The words held no sting, though, as if he'd said them by rote, his mind occupied by weightier problems. "Lilith, the designs on your skin . . . did the nosferatu—"
"No." She couldn't look at him. "My father did."
"Why? What purpose have they?" He tilted her chin with his fingers, brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. His eyes were troubled; for her sake or Ian Rafferty's, she didn't know. "As punishment?"
"For power." She smiled bitterly.
"Whose?"
She closed her eyes. "I don't know. Your student's were different. Not much, but enough to convert the ritual into something beyond my ken."
Tension suddenly radiated from his body. "Have you done this to a human?"
Wanting to laugh but unable, she shook her head. "No. I tried, once."
She saw the realization on his face, the memory. "To me, in the ruins of the temple. But you told Michael to take me instead." He swallowed thickly. "What would it have done?"
He knew; she saw it in his eyes. Her throat was tight. "Guardians and vampires are not the only halflings," she said, barely above a whisper.
"Nay," he breathed. A low moan sounded from his chest, a tortured denial. "Lilith—"
"Do _not_ pity me," she said stonily. "I made a choice."
"To be this?" His voice was harsh as he wrapped his hands around her horns, forcing her to look at him.
"I didn't want to die." She ripped out of his grip; his strength was no match for hers. But she did not have the strength to turn away from him. "And this is what I am now, what I have been for two thousand years. This is my role," she said with finality.
A war seemed to rage within him for a few breathless moments. She knew he wanted to argue, to question—to convince her she was wrong. He'd always done so, and sixteen years couldn't erase the custom of eight hundred.
"Do you think Ian had to make a similar choice?"
She released the breath she'd been holding. It was not a permanent reprieve; he would consider her revelation, examine it in context of his memories before bringing it up again. "I can't say, Hugh. The involvement of the nosferatu . . ." She trailed off, knowing she wouldn't need to explain.
He hesitated, and then said, "Another of my students is missing. Javier Sanchez. If it's related to the nosferatu, the detectives are outclassed. _I_ am outclassed."
Shaken, she stared at him. He trusted her to help protect the young man? And more unbelievable: "Do you intend to fight them?"
"I'll find a way," he said, his blue gaze level and determined. A half-smile creased the sides of his mouth when she continued to gape at him. "Do you think I'm going to descend upon their nest with sword in hand?"
Finally recovering her wits, she said, "You really must do something about your imbecilic martyr complex."
His deep laugh rumbled through her. As if drawn by the sound, a seal-tipped Siamese cat strolled in from the kitchen, glanced at Lilith and just as effortlessly dismissed her, rubbing her long feline body against Hugh's legs. With the ease of familiarity, he scooped up the cat, nestled her against his chest and began stroking beneath her chin. The tendons in his forearm flexed with the movement, drawing Lilith's gaze to the taut muscle.
"You may be in excellent shape for a human, but you're no match for the nosferatu."
His brows drew together. "Of course not."
"The Guardians—"
"Michael did not know Ian," he said quietly, but she felt the force of his anger and frustration. "I don't intend to rid the world of nosferatu, only try to help those who have been targeted because of _what I used to be_." He breathed deeply, as if to calm himself, then added with a wry smile, "I'll leave the slaughtering to those who are more able."
Like her. She absently rubbed the column of her neck, remembering how close her last encounter with the bloodsuckers had been. The next would probably not go any better. "Lucifer has told his demons to let the nosferatu be."
His hand stilled on the cat's fur. "You killed two this morning."
"I don't dare again," she said. "I've hunted enough rogues to learn I should avoid becoming one."
"I would not ask you to take that risk."
She could not read his expression, but she felt his withdrawal, his disappointment. He didn't attempt to convince her to help, to appeal to her humanity; in the past, he would have. His easy acceptance that she wouldn't—couldn't—destroy the nosferatu shouldn't have shamed her, but a dark ache bloomed in her chest.
She needed to go, before it could become something painful. She'd come in through an upstairs window—she'd leave the same way.
"Lilith."
Pausing, she turned.
"You didn't carry out your promise." His eyes searched hers. "I assumed that was your purpose for coming here, yet you've forgotten it."
She gave a short laugh, though her heart tripped unsteadily beneath her breast. "Are you _asking_ me to kiss you?"
"I want to know why you are really here."
Sighing, she closed her eyes. "Lucifer hasn't included me in this alliance with the nosferatu. I'm certain he has other plans for me."
His sudden tension broke through his psychic blocks, filling the room. That some of it was tinged with worry for her nearly undid her. "What plans?"
She swallowed past the tightness in her throat, finally looked at him. "We made a bargain in Seattle. A life for a life."
Hugh flinched as if struck; the cat hissed and leapt from his arms. His face pale, he unclenched his hands and stated, "Mine for yours. He brought you back to life on the condition that you would take mine."
She nodded.
"A bargain made after I killed you." His voice was stiff. "It's fair."
Blinking, unsure she'd heard correctly, she echoed, "It's fair?" Rage built, made her voice shake. "What you did to me was . . . it was _right_. It fit, it was the way it should have ended between us. And he hasn't called in his part of the bargain yet, but he will soon. The next time I see you, it will be with the goal of tearing you down, tearing your soul apart until you can't live with yourself and you take your own life. And it's _fair_?"
"When did you become concerned with fairness?" She had been shouting, but his soft reply rang in her ears. Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Her mouth snapped closed. She shouldn't be. With anyone else, she wouldn't be.
He sighed, and his smile faded. "You won't be able to break me."
His certainty should have offended her, but it was despair she felt instead. "Do you think I cannot find the darkest part of you and—"
"No, Lilith. I've no doubt of your skill, nor do I think you are too weak."
Her lips pressed together, and she blinked away the sudden sting in her eyes. _Now_ he looked for goodness in her, the humanity, when there was little—if any—left. Because she couldn't do the ritual, and transform him into a demon, he thought she would not carry this through either.
She didn't know how she would, but she couldn't face another Punishment, or the consequences of breaking her bargain with Lucifer. She _was_ weak. She was afraid.
Most demons were.
"I have to, Hugh."
He nodded slowly, his gaze intense upon her face. He'd tucked his thumbs into his pockets, hunching his shoulders defensively.
Standing in the middle of that near-empty room, he looked incredibly alone.
But not lost.
Lilith averted her eyes. "Goddamn it all," she whispered, and streaked up the stairs before she could do something foolish.
Like follow her heart.
Colin Ames-Beaumont raised his glass, drank deeply of the crimson liquid. He tried not to grimace at the lack of taste—pig's blood. While satisfying on a basic level, it did not assuage that deeper thirst or slide like liquid lightning across his tongue.
He set the tumbler on a side table, briefly considering changing his glassware to stemware; drinking blood from wineglasses was much more dramatic, elegant.
Apparently Lilith thought so, too.
"You have no style, Colin," she announced from the French doors that opened to the balcony. She didn't bother to ask permission to enter, but crossed the room, throwing herself face-down onto a striped damask sofa.
He raked his gaze over her, his expression amused. "You have more than enough for the both of us, my dear," he said.
She turned her head toward him and smiled; no humor touched her eyes. "I was hoping you would notice."
He'd have to be blind not to notice. And, notwithstanding his long, platonic friendship with her, he couldn't help but appreciate the brief sight of her sweetly rounded bottom encased in the black leather before she settled her wings against her back, hiding the view.
"If it was up to you," Colin said, settling himself into an adjoining chair, "I'd skulk around the house wearing a tuxedo and cape."
"Well, you wouldn't have to skulk. Lurking would be accept—"
She broke off as a black form silently streaked past Colin's chair, almost knocking it over. He righted it just as the huge dog launched itself onto the sofa, whining and barking and wriggling. Colin couldn't see how she wasn't squashed beneath the hellhound's bulk, but Lilith laughed and kissed each of the dog's three noses, patting and rubbing the three enormous heads. She didn't seem to care that the thing was as big as a Bengal tiger, or that a flash of its teeth could make a nosferatu flee in terror. Its tail wagged with barely restrained joy, and its tongues slobbered over her neck and face in desperate welcome.
Colin shivered. Though he'd taken care of the hellhound for the past six months, and many times before that, it'd usually adopted the guise of a Labrador retriever. Its true form was . . . disturbing, even to a vampire as old as he was.
Still laughing, Lilith gently pushed the dog to the floor. "Lie still, now." It complied, and she turned back over, raising her head and resting her chin on one hand so she could see Colin, her other hand trailing over the side and resting on Sir Pup's shoulder. She shifted as she tried to find a comfortable position with the bulk of her left wing pressed tightly against the back of the sofa. After a moment, she gave up, simply making the wings disappear.
Colin would have made the attempt to view her bottom again, but with her torso elevated he had a glimpse of her cleavage which he was determined to enjoy.
He didn't leave the house often anymore—not when he could sense so many nosferatu in the city. They'd curtailed his nighttime activities to the extent that he was reduced to drinking animal blood.
They deserved to die for that alone.
"Did you see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"
Her eyes glowed red for a moment. She stood up, walking over to the window and looking out. The hellhound stuck close to her heels, tongues lolling. Colin waited, knowing she'd speak when she was ready.
"Yes," she said finally. She rested her hand on the leaded glass pane, her nails tapping lightly.
"Did you reprise the sword fights of old?"
"No," she said, giving him a reproachful look. "He's just a human."
Colin quirked an eyebrow. "That only explains why you can't kill him. Those ridiculous 'thou-shall-not-kill-or-eat-or-maim-humans' rules that you demons follow for some reason. But just because you are stronger, faster, have the ability to fly and can shape-shift doesn't automatically suggest victory over a well-trained human. Surely you remember what my sister did to the nosferatu who transformed me, and Emily was 'just a human.' "
"She also had Michael's sword," she said with a slight scowl, and Colin bit back his laughter. Lilith had never liked Emily, thought of her as a spoiled aristocrat with her head in the clouds. She turned back to him. "You're envious of my power, admit it."
"You possess only two more abilities than I do; I've strength and speed, and I don't see the need for the rest." Then he had to admit, "Well, perhaps flying—but not shifting. I have no wish to take on the form of a bat." Or upset the perfect composition of his features.
She rolled her eyes. "You've been watching far too much television. We can't transform into animals. Although, it would be entertaining to see you flapping around outside a window."
"It would shrink important parts of my anatomy to the size of a pin," he said, shuddering.
Lilith smiled, resting her hip on the windowsill. "And when was the last time you used that part of your anatomy?" she taunted.
Almost twenty-five days—yet another reason to slaughter the nosferatu. Colin stood and moved to the sideboard, refilling his glass. "More recently than you have."
"I've never used _yours_." Her gaze narrowed on the tumbler in his hand as he took a sip. "Animal blood; how long have you been drinking it?"
"The better part of this month."
Her focus shifted; she studied his length, and a brief psychic touch flitted over his mind. Colin didn't argue; admiration undoubtedly accompanied her exterior examination, and he rather liked it when she looked. When anyone looked.
It was unfortunate he could not.
"No tremors," she said finally. "And you've not yet descended into drooling stupidity. What is the other effect of prolonged pig-sucking?" Her eyes widened in mock surprise. "Ah, yes . . . no sexual drive. Want to see if that vital part of your anatomy still works? Tonight, with me?"
He choked on a mouthful of blood; Lilith burst into laughter. When his coughing fit subsided, he gave her an admonishing stare. "Bloody hell. You did that on purpose," he said.
"Maybe," she said, her dark irises sparkling with amusement. She tilted her head, resting it against the windowpane as she regarded him. "Did I scare you?"
"Good God, the very thought inspires fear enough to shrivel me permanently." He paused, realizing that she had neatly turned the conversation away from her encounter with Hugh. "And I suppose I would just be a substitute for him."
Colin knew it was a testament to the strength of their friendship that she didn't tear his head off for daring to suggest such a thing.
"I'm not an idiot," Lilith said flatly. She didn't move from her place at the window, but her fingers clenched into fists. "I paid for my weakness once before, and no human is worth two Punishments."
"But he was worth one?" He couldn't resist asking.
"Colin . . ." she began warningly, then paused. On the floor, Sir Pup growled low in his throat. Lilith cocked her head to the side, as if listening; standing slowly, she put a finger to her full lips, gesturing for Colin to remain silent. Mischief lit her face.
Whomever she'd heard probably had no idea of the trouble he was in.
"You vampires," she said loudly, "don't know the joy of destroying lives."
Playing along, he said, "I've ripped out a few throats in my time." He watched as she moved quietly toward the balcony doors, which had been left open after her entrance. A sword appeared in her left hand, a length of metal chain in her right. Wings sprouted between her shoulder blades.
He pursed his lips in silent envy.
"Throats?" Lilith forced a laugh, gazing intently outside. "You've got to go for the balls to really do some damage."
"It's not as easy to drink the blood . . . there . . ." He trailed off when she and the dog disappeared. The crash of the French doors swinging against the wall signaled the force with which she'd opened them. He winced, mentally tallying up the cost of glass replacement for each shattered pane.
A heavy thud against the roof rattled the chandelier. Colin eyed the swaying crystals, willing it not to fall. The house shook as something slammed into the side. A car alarm from across the street began blaring, followed by the crunch of metal. The alarm stopped.
Moments later, a grinning Lilith hauled an unconscious Guardian onto his balcony, dragging her through shards of glass as she pulled the mass of white feathers and golden flesh inside.
Colin rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. Surely nothing good would come of this.
Lilith crouched next to the Guardian, reaching down and lifting the head by the tangle of blond hair to look at her face. "Selah. I thought so." She chuckled, and glanced up at Colin. Her tone was playful—and wicked. "So, Colin . . . do you want a pet?"
The Guardian's neck was long; the skin, smooth and unblemished. He touched his tongue to the tips of his fangs; the bloodlust was slow to respond. "Does Guardian taste better than pig?"
Lilith grimaced, wrapping the chain around the Guardian's wrists. "I'm not likely to ever try either. And you're a freak, even for a vampire; so for all I know, their blood will kill you." She glanced at Colin, raked her gaze up and down his body. "Only one way to find out."
**CHAPTER 16**
"Are you certain this will hold her?"
With a practiced eye, Lilith studied the chains and manacles, gauged the strength of the bedposts and the padlocks. "No."
Selah still hadn't regained consciousness. She lay on Colin's bed, arms stretched above her head. The puncture wounds in her neck had already healed over. Lilith hadn't watched Colin feed, but of course it hadn't hurt him. She'd known that very well, yet it had been entertaining to watch him waver between the desire for living blood and the uncertainty of its effect.
He must have realized she was lying, however; he wasn't inclined to risking himself. He might have guessed she wasn't inclined to risking him, either—but after his comment regarding her Punishment, she hadn't been above punishing him a little in turn.
His skin was flushed with Guardian blood—or anger. If it was anger, it wasn't very potent; he was shaking his head in exasperation, but a smile tugged at his mouth.
"You are a bitch, Lilith."
She patted his cheek as she passed him. "You adore me. And Sir Pup will watch her until daybreak. I need him for something else then." The hellhound gave an inquiring whine; Lilith glanced at him and shook her head. "You can't eat her. We may need her later. No. Not even one bite." She grinned at Colin, whose face had paled. "Obedience training. I don't want him to forget he can't eat human-shaped things while he's on Earth."
She heard the vampire choking as he followed her downstairs, and she wondered if he was upset over the thought of sharing a meal with a dog, or just squeamish.
Probably squeamish. He'd been a terrible fop when she'd first met him; that hadn't completely changed. He was also incredibly tightfisted. He wouldn't relish the idea of all that gore in his expensive and tastefully appointed bedroom.
As she had no intention of letting Selah die—not when the Guardian could be so useful—Colin needn't have worried.
Not that she would tell him that. She enjoyed unsettling him; it kept their friendship interesting.
"I must confess I'm pleased he remembered that while you were gone," Colin said as they entered his study. "As I happen to be a human-shaped thing."
"A very nicely human-shaped thing," she agreed.
He sighed, and it was more amused than harassed. "You want something."
"I do," she said, but needed to gather her thoughts before she could fully articulate it.
The fight with the Guardian had restored most of her good humor, but more importantly, cleared her mind. She couldn't think around Hugh, hadn't been able to feel anything past the ache and frustration rioting within her.
And she found it ridiculously hard to lie to him; for a demon, whose life was based on lies, it meant he brought out the worst in her. Her lips curved. She had to admit she liked the irony of the worst in her being what a normal human would consider _good_.
Lucifer, she was sure, would not be amused. Nor would he approve of what she was about to do—but he wouldn't have to know.
She strolled over to the fireplace, examining the painting hanging above the mantel. A life-sized self-portrait: Colin's gray eyes stared back at her, his blond hair in a slick, old-fashioned style. He'd painted himself in modern clothing this time—an elegant silk shirt and pants, much like his current attire.
"Your nose is slightly off; it's a bit longer."
Coming to stand beside her, the vampire looked up and self-consciously touched the tip of his nose. "What about the rest?"
"Your hair." Lilith tilted her head, studying the original. It was softer without the heavy pomade. "The color is right, though."
He nodded. "I cut off a piece to be certain."
She glanced back up. In that moment, the face on the canvas seemed harder, less vulnerable than the vampire beside her. Colin would not appreciate that observation, however. "You knew John Polidori."
His brows rose. "Yes."
"Do you still have any of his letters in your possession?"
"Yes." He watched her, his expression curious.
She took a deep breath. "How do you feel about forgery?"
"Artistic, carefully orchestrated forgery? Or just your run-of-the-mill check-cashing scheme?"
Snobbery, even in this. Lilith blinked, keeping a tight rein on her laughter. "Artistic. Of a sort."
"I wholeheartedly support it—out of necessity if nothing else," he said. "It's difficult to get through two hundred years without mastering the art of falsifying documents."
Frowning, she said, "I have."
"Difficult to _pass as a human_ for two hundred years without mastering it," he amended with a smile. Then he said, slightly horrified, "What are you doing?"
She quickly unlaced her corset, let it drop to the floor. With barely a thought, she stripped off her glamours, stood before him naked from the waist up.
His gaze was riveted on her shoulders. "What are those?"
She didn't glance down at her arms, her chest. As plans went, it wasn't a very good one. A distraction, really, and an opportunity to use the little power she owned in this human world.
"A way to make life a bit more interesting for the SFPD," she said.
At six, Hugh left Savi sleeping on the sofa, snoring into a pillow she'd brought from her room.
And ran.
An hour before, two officers had relieved the pair who'd sat through the night. If Hugh had been less tired, if the memory of Lilith's stricken face and Savi's red-rimmed eyes had been less immediate, he might have taken pity on them.
It was petty and unsatisfying, but still he veered away from the roadway circling through the park, where the cruiser had followed him at a discreet distance. Smiled as he heard the car doors slam, and the pounding of stiff-soled shoes on the wet grass. The officers were young and athletic, but couldn't possibly keep up with him.
Rose and gold streaked the lightening sky, the chilled air was heavy with the odors of the lakes, birds filled the park with their chirping; Hugh kept his eyes on the ground in front of him and pushed himself hard. Twice he had to stop and run in place, waiting for the officers to draw close enough to stay within sight—no sense in taking his pettiness to a degree that seemed evasive—but it was several miles before he noticed the dog.
He loped along about fifteen yards to Hugh's left, keeping pace without effort. Though shaped like a domesticated breed, he was as large as the wolves that had once roamed the medieval forests. San Francisco had strict leash laws and he wore no collar, but he looked too healthy and well-fed to be a stray. Sleek black fur covered rippling muscles, and his eyes shone brightly in the pale morning light.
Perhaps too brightly. Uneasily, Hugh cast another glance to the side; the dog turned his head and seemed to grin.
Colin had said a dog was protecting him. Hugh had thought it a joke, but now he wasn't certain.
Hugh eased down to a jog, and the length of the dog's stride shifted. Then, as if his legs were too long for such a slow gait, he transformed until he was only a few inches taller than the average retriever.
Hugh stopped beside a tree and braced his hand against the trunk, then doubled over and laughed until his stomach ached.
Eventually, a quiet growl brought him to his senses. The short hairs on the back of the dog's neck were raised, and his gaze was fixed on the approaching officers.
"They're no threat," Hugh murmured, and he wasn't surprised when the dog relaxed, lying down with his muzzle on his front paws. "Are you Colin's?"
The dog shook his head, his ears flapping wildly.
"Lilith's."
Canine lips stretched back, as if in another grin.
"Everything all right, Castleford?"
Both men were flushed and winded, but neither showed any signs of temper. The younger one, Hugh judged, couldn't have been more than a year or two older than Savi.
"Everything's fine," he said. "Just a stitch. I'll take it easier on the way back."
The older one sighed with relief. "We'd be grateful."
"We'd also be grateful if you ran by a coffee shop on the way back," the other added with a grin. "We weren't expecting a morning run, and we'd like to refuel."
Hugh nodded absently and glanced at the ground where the dog had been. It was gone—or hidden.
A hellhound. He'd never seen one before, but what else could it be? They were rumored to be nearly uncontrollable, feared by demons and nosferatu.
Yet somehow Lilith had befriended this thing. And despite her declaration that she was determined to fulfill her bargain with Lucifer, she'd sent it to watch over him.
This time as he ran, he let himself remember their conversation from the night before instead of using the exercise to drive every thought from his head.
She'd been human once.
Why hadn't he seen it before? His gut burned, but he forced himself to keep a steady pace instead of trying to outrun the pain his ignorance—and now knowledge—brought. How easily he'd dismissed the humanity he'd seen within her, so certain that such a thing would be impossible. Yet it made sense of everything he knew of her: her difficulty in carrying out the more horrific demonic tasks, her father's constant disapproval, her low status in the demon strata, and the conflict he sensed within her—all the result of her human side fighting the demon within her. How Lucifer must relish Lilith's internal dilemma, even while hating the human cause of it. Guardians had been created because their humanity assisted them, creating a bridge between humans and Above. Lucifer must have found a way to do the same with the ritual, creating a demonic version Below. Only in those circumstances, the human side would have been a disadvantage: the human propensity for empathy, love and pity warring with Lucifer's demands that she should never feel those emotions.
Why had she accepted Lucifer's bargain two thousand years ago?
_I didn't want to die._ And yet she hadn't seemed to care that Hugh had slain her.
His steps faltered. He knew what destroying her had done to him. He'd wanted to save her, to give her freedom—but he had lost her, and much of his humanity, in the doing.
If she managed to kill him, what would it do to her? The only choice was to convince her not to make the same mistake he had. When she tried to tempt him, he would have to wage a counterattack to halt her self-destruction. He knew her weaknesses, had refrained from exploiting them for too long for fear of his own.
Demons damned humans through temptation—perhaps a human could save a demon the same way.
Her flight to Los Angeles had taken more time than she'd anticipated, and her clothes still reeked of smog and copy-machine toner when she arrived back at her apartment.
Sir Pup waited for her; the odor of the park and Hugh lingered on his fur. He glared at her with four eyes, but refused to look at her at all from his middle head. She grinned.
"I _meant_ police officers. You didn't really think he might be harassed by pigs?" She dumped a pile of dry dog food into the bathtub, promised she'd bring bacon to Colin's house for his dinner, changed into her suit and ran out the door.
An hour and a half later, she was sitting at a table centered in a small conference room, accepting a paper cup full of coffee from Detective Preston. He took a cup for himself; judging by the exhaustion lining his face, one he desperately needed.
But his pale blue eyes were alert, and though he gave nothing away in his expression, his psychic scent burned with curiosity. Strangely, it wasn't directed toward the manila envelope and disc that lay on the table between them, but at Lilith.
Uneasy, she tried to redirect his attention. "Should I—"
"She should be here in a few. Trying to light a fire under the ME's ass." He leaned back in his chair, grinned. "And Andy's the type to keep someone waiting when she thinks they might be butting in on her case."
But Preston didn't think so; she felt no animosity from him. She rested her elbows on the table and smiled over the rim of her cup. "If that was my intention, Detective, then I wouldn't have told you I was coming in. I like to take over jurisdiction by surprise."
"I know." His grin faded. "I helped dig up Paula Roberson."
Lilith set her cup down. "You were in Seattle."
He nodded, scratching his whiskered jaw. "Transferred here about thirteen years ago. Couldn't take any more of Chief Bowman; he was a real dick, and he wasn't going anywhere, so I did."
Her lips twitched. "I thought it was just me."
"No." He looked her up and down. "Though he must have been pissed when you showed up, some gorgeous young thing fresh out of Quantico, waving that profile around. And then being right, down to the last detail. Even guessing where White hid the victim's bodies, based on some mumbo-jumbo psychology shit. No offense."
"None taken," she murmured.
As if struck by a memory, he chuckled and nodded to himself. "God, you nailed that bastard. I'll never forget his face when we walked into his accounting firm and put him under arrest. Pissed his thousand dollar suit, started babbling about angels." Preston paused, glanced back at her. "You weren't there. You deserved to be. He was under suspicion, but we had nothing substantial on him until you showed up. He'd certainly never have given us the location of those graves."
"My superiors decided I'd caused enough of a diplomatic problem with the locals," she said dryly.
His brows rose. "Oh, Bowman cursed your name for at least a year. Might still be cursing it, for all I know. If you hadn't been—what, seven years old?—when White killed the first one, he'd probably have tried to get you as an accessory, claiming that was the only way you could have known all that. If you don't mind me saying, you've aged well. You don't look a day over twenty-six or seven." He looked her over, then down at his own solidly fat stomach.
She smiled and said, "I made a deal with the devil."
"Heh. Anyway, between Thaddeus White pissing himself and seeing Bowman's glory taken by a bit-of-nothing fibbie—no offense—you made my year. So when you call me and my partner up and say you've got something that might point us in the right direction on a murder that makes White's slice-and-dice look pretty, I'm willing to listen."
"You may not like what I have to show you."
He shrugged, and every bit of humor left him. "I don't like any of this."
Neither did she. His compliments had taken the exhilaration out of the game; she felt no guilt in deceiving him and his partner, just as, sixteen years before, she had no compunction against writing the stack of lies that led them to Thaddeus White. It was unfortunate she couldn't dislike Preston; _then_ it would have been fun.
But in the face of his respect, it became something she just had to do. At least it was of her own volition, not forced by Lucifer.
Caused by him, perhaps, but not forced.
She became hopeful again when Taylor finally came in. Lilith stood, and was subjected to a flat, searching stare followed by a cool handshake.
She could dislike this woman.
Then the detective ruined it by turning to Preston and commenting, "You're right: she _could_ kick my ass."
The older man flushed slightly. "I told you; she has six inches and thirty pounds on you."
"Oh, at least forty," Lilith said, glancing down at the detective's wrist. It looked as fragile as a swan's neck.
Taylor sighed. "Dammit." She pulled her fingers through her hair, and every strand of her neat, auburn bob fell back into place. Though Lilith could feel the other woman's weariness, hear it in the hoarseness of her voice, none of it showed on her face or in her posture. "So, Agent Milton—what have you got for us?"
"Maybe nothing," Lilith said, and pulled a sheaf of paper from the manila envelope. "I received these in my inbox six months ago. Forensics looked over them: no prints, no DNA on the original envelope, and the paper was a brand and weight used by every major print-and-copy store in the region. I've been sitting on them, because though they were a curiosity, they didn't seem to relate to anything."
Taylor accepted the copies, unclipping them and passing half to Preston. "It looks like an old letter." She flipped through the pages. Lilith waited for a moment. Taylor paused, her breath hissing through her teeth.
Preston glanced over, his eyes widening. "What the hell?"
"When I heard the . . . nature of your victim's death, I thought of these. I see I'm not wrong in thinking they are similar."
"Where did you hear?" Preston glanced up. "The details weren't released." There was no accusation in his gaze, though Taylor's was suspicious.
"One of the agents in the Bureau has a brother who works for the ME," Lilith said truthfully, knowing that would be enough. Cops talked to one another, and the method of this murder was a remarkable one.
Taylor nodded, and squinted down at the page. "I can't even read this."
"There is a typewritten transcript at the bottom of the stack. A handwriting expert has verified the letter was written by John Polidori, who wrote a popular vampire tale nearly two hundred years ago. You can see his signature on the last page. We don't know who the 'L' in the salutation refers to. And we don't have the original letter, only copies."
"What does it say?"
"The text of the letter details a dream that he had, in which he witnessed the end of the world at the hands of huge men with fangs and pointed ears. He calls them 'nesuferit,' probably from a Latin word meaning 'not to suffer.' That drawing is his depiction of the torture they put him through in their attempt to transform him into a vampire, before they finally set him on fire."
"You've got to be kidding me," Preston said at the same time Taylor exclaimed, "January 4, 1822?"
Lilith nodded. "The year after Polidori died."
The detectives exchanged a look.
Taylor set the letter back on the table and folded her hands. "Is this some kind of sick joke, Agent Milton?"
"Yes. But it isn't mine."
Silence met her reply. Preston looked at the drawing Colin had made that morning, then at his partner, then back to Lilith. "Goddammit. Goddammit! What are we supposed to do with this?"
His outburst wasn't directed at Lilith, but the frustration of having a relatively straightforward investigation shot to hell.
But Taylor thoughtfully tapped the jewel case beside Lilith with her forefinger. "Why would they send this letter to you?"
"I've made a name for myself in some circles debunking paranormal phenomena, exposing leaders of Satanic cults for fakes, that kind of thing. It's possible whoever sent this to me did it as a challenge."
"So you've become Mulder," Preston said.
"Scully, actually," Taylor said. Preston's brows rose, and she added with a shrug, "She was the skeptic." She glanced back at Lilith. "There's more, isn't there?"
She nodded, relieved. If Taylor was listening now, too, it made this much easier. "A club downtown—Polidori's—burned to the ground last week. I went to KRON this morning and got footage from the newscast, including a few shots that had been edited out for the broadcast. It includes a scan of the crowd. There are men who match Polidori's description of the nesuferit very nearly perfectly."
"Nosferatu?" Preston said, then hastily added when both Lilith and Taylor looked at him, "Or, guys dressed up like them?"
"I wonder if Ian Rafferty frequented that club. Or if our professor is also in that footage," Taylor mused.
If, through some coincidence, Hugh had been there, Lilith would never have given her the disc. And would probably have made the cameraman, reporter, and the news file database quietly disappear.
Preston let out a long sigh. "So you're saying that whoever did this has a copy of the original letter, and is thinking of using it in some delusional scheme to transform himself into a vampire instead of just playing at it? Or maybe more than one plan to, like members of a cult? And setting fire to the club bearing Polidori's name was some kind of symbolic thing?" he summed up, then groaned softly when Lilith nodded. She fought to hide her grin. It was always best when _they_ said it; people were always more likely to believe what came out of their own mouths. "What a mess."
"At least these guys won't be too hard to find," Lilith said. "When you see the tape, you'll know what I mean."
"Joe," Taylor said suddenly. "Let me see the book. He never makes mention of any kind of script, but there's lots about the nosferatu and vampires. If the original letter is in his possession, or even a copy of it, and we can prove a similarity between that book and what's here in this letter, showing he had knowledge of it . . ."
What book? Lilith's stomach tightened. Why did she get the feeling she had just made a critical error, and that her attempt to divert their attention from Hugh had done the opposite?
Preston reached into his jacket and withdrew a paperback. "He'd have to be the ballsiest nut ever to have published clues to his insanity ten years before he goes on his killing spree."
Taylor opened the slim volume and began leafing through the pages.
Lilith stared at the title and author's name for a full minute before she croaked, "May I see that?"
**CHAPTER 17**
It came as no surprise to Hugh when, toward the end of his last class period, Detectives Taylor and Preston entered the room though the door at the back of the lecture hall and took two of the empty seats.
That Lilith was with them did surprise him, though it shouldn't have. When would he learn that he could never assume he knew what she would do?
The day's lecture consisted of a discussion of Donne, and he half-expected Lilith to raise her hand and say something scandalous. But she remained still, watching him silently through the last ten minutes of class.
That alone put his guard up.
He was determined to save her, but he didn't want to hang himself in the process.
They approached him as he began stacking his papers into his pack. The detectives' guarded expressions told him that despite his alibi, despite their questioning last night, their suspicions had deepened.
Was Lilith the cause? He glanced at her, trying not to show undue interest or familiarity, though any man in his right mind would have stared. She'd coiled her hair neatly behind her nape, emphasizing the fierce, lush beauty of her features. Her suit jacket hung slightly open; the crisp shirt, the vest buttoned snug over her flat belly and breasts, the fall of her pants doing little to hide the strong, lithe form beneath.
It would be more suspicious not to look, he decided, and searched her features for a hint of her emotional state. He did not have to look very long: a thin red line ringed her pupils, as if she barely held back their crimson glow.
She was angry.
That was . . . unusual.
"Detectives," he said, and gestured toward the students still remaining in the room, talking to one another or gathering their books. "Shall we take this to my office?"
Preston nodded. Hugh brushed past him without pausing to see that they followed. Outside the room, the two officers who'd been shadowing him all day long were gone. Sent home? Was he no longer under surveillance because he was no longer a suspect, or was it a temporary reprieve?
His lips twitched. Of course, the other option might be that the detectives were here to arrest him. But, as they hadn't immediately done so, he did not think that the case.
Michael had said Lucifer would come at him though the system, using mankind's justice against him. Was Lilith the face of that? If so, strange that she was angry. If the detectives had followed her plan to entrap him for these murders, she should be ecstatic, gloating.
Remembering how her hellhound had watched over him that morning, he shook his head. He couldn't make sense of it, and the short walk from the classroom to his small office was not long enough to determine Lilith's role.
Relieved to see that Sue wasn't in the room, he laid his pack on his desk and leaned against the front. He didn't want to sit behind it; too easy to seem as if he was hiding behind its bulk. They were here on the offense, and he had no intention of giving them an advantage, even if it was only of position. The room was not large, and four standing adults did not fit comfortably. The detectives made no move to sit in the chairs, or to shake his hand in greeting. Their gaze quickly moved around, as if to determine if he'd changed anything from their last visit, if he'd hidden anything.
Standing behind them, Lilith did not look away from him, and he held her gaze.
As if noticing his attention, Preston said, "This is Agent Milton, of the San Francisco FBI. She's agreed to assist us on this case."
Milton? Hugh quirked a brow, but his voice was flat as he said, "I'd like to see your identification, Agent Milton."
Taylor and Preston looked surprised and offended, respectively, but Lilith's expression never changed. She approached him, flipping a wallet from the inside of her jacket, and held it open.
"Closer, please," he said pleasantly. "I'm not wearing my spectacles."
Her mouth tightened, but with annoyance or laughter he could not determine. Reluctantly, he dropped his gaze from her face to the ID. "Lily," he murmured. He raised his eyes to hers again. "I like it very much."
He said the words like a caress, so softly Taylor and Preston couldn't have heard him. Lilith did. Her lips parted slightly, and the red faded from her eyes. Heat replaced it, was quickly banked.
She snapped the wallet closed. "Satisfied, Dr. Castleford?"
Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, he smiled. "Not yet." Her breath hitched, but he allowed his gaze to slide past her toward the detectives, pleased for the moment that he'd disconcerted her. His voice hardened. "But I will be when you discover who killed Ian."
"So will we, Dr. Castleford." Taylor's tone echoed his. "I hope you don't mind if we ask you a few more questions."
Hugh nodded. "I didn't think you were here for the poetry." Lilith backed away. She sat down at Sue's desk as if to participate only as an observer. He could feel her studying him, and though he did not look directly at her, he could sense the slight shift in her posture, in her mood when Taylor gestured to a manila envelope Preston carried.
"You studied literature, Dr. Castleford. Do you know of a John Polidori?"
Hugh fought the urge to look at Lilith for her response. "Of course. He wrote _The Vampyre_ —a story that originated from a challenge Lord Byron gave to a group on holiday on Lake Geneva in 1816. Mary Shelley conceived and wrote _Frankenstein_ that same summer. Both are considered classic gothic tales; _The Vampyre_ , in particular, was a strong influence on Stoker's _Dracula_. Nineteenth-century lit isn't my area of expertise, however. If you need information relating to Polidori, Byron, or the Shelleys you'd be better served asking one of my colleagues."
"What is your area of expertise?" This, from Preston.
"Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century drama, poetry." This time, he did allow himself to glance at Lilith. "I wrote my dissertation on Milton's use of the demonic female figure."
Her chin dipped, but from this distance he could not read her expression.
"And is it from Milton that you got your ideas for your book?"
"Which one? I have two books that include discussions of Milton's works that have gone to academic press."
" _Lilith_."
His stomach clenched, and he would have done anything for clear vision at that moment. He let his gaze rest on Lilith for a long second, felt no reaction from her. "In part." He turned, opened the side pocket of his bag and pulled out his glasses. "What has this to do with Ian?"
"Just gathering as wide a range of background as possible, Dr. Castleford," she said. "What of the nosferatu? They are in your book, but Milton makes no mention of such a thing in his work."
He paused, glad that he was partially turned away so that he could better hide his surprise. They'd made a connection between Ian and the nosferatu? Lilith must have had something to do with it, but why? He slid on his glasses and looked at her. She shifted in her seat, and once again he saw her tightly contained anger.
How to answer Taylor's question? He had the feeling anything he said would damn him in the detectives' eyes.
Did Lilith intend for that damnation to be literal?
He thought quickly. When did the word enter the human lexicon? "The nosferatu has been a traditional part of vampire literature since the late eighteen hundreds. I think Stoker was the first to use it in English."
"Seventy years later than Polidori?"
Hugh nodded. The truth was, Polidori might have known it through Colin. Guardians and demons had long called the creatures _nosferatu_ , and a few vampires knew the truth behind their origins. Colin was one of them. "Yes, but again, this isn't really my area. I didn't research the book very carefully."
He didn't meet Lilith's eyes, afraid he would begin laughing if her expression was even slightly amused. Afraid he would see something other than amusement.
Had she read it? He fought the slightly sick, vulnerable sensation it left in his gut, forced himself to push that thought aside.
The detectives exchanged a look. "You're an educated guy," Preston said abruptly. "Do you know any other languages?"
"Yes. Quite a few." Several that were extinct.
The older man scratched his chin. "Any ancient languages? Can you read obscure writings, that kind of thing?"
Were they trying to determine the nature of the writing used in the ritual? Of course—they assumed it was a human language. "Latin and Greek," he said carefully. "But nothing older or nonphonetic, such as hieroglyphs or cuneiform."
"Why would you study them if your area of expertise is English lit?"
"In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, all of the English writers read and wrote Latin and Greek," Hugh said dryly. "It was a standard part of their education, so I made it part of mine." Not exactly true, but answer enough.
Taylor pulled a sheet of paper from the folder. "Have you ever seen writing like this?" Both she and Preston watched him carefully.
Symbols covered the page. The ink smelled fresh, as if they'd recently been copied by hand.
He recognized many of them from Lilith's skin, from Ian's corpse, but he shook his head. "No." He pretended to study it. "It looks a bit like Devanagari script, but I'm certain I've never come across a series of glyphs like this in my studies." Raising his head, he added, "Perhaps the linguistics depart—"
"Thank you, Dr. Castleford. We'll consider that." Taylor snatched the paper back, her impatience showing in the tightness around her mouth, the narrowing of her eyes. She knew he was giving her indirect, runaround answers—but did she want the truth?
He didn't think she would. And he didn't dare offer anything more without knowing what input Lilith had in their investigation.
She still sat, her gaze fixed on his face, her long legs stretched out in front of her, ankles crossed. But for the crimson glow around her pupils—did she not know she did that, or was she warning him of her anger?—her expression was unreadable.
God, but he needed to get her alone. Needed to question her and break through her defenses. To get to the truth, to bring her humanity to the fore before she destroyed both of them.
"Aside from the DemonSlayer games at Auntie's, do you know anything of Mr. Rafferty's activities?"
Hugh returned his attention to Detective Taylor. "He played football in the fall, I think. His papers often used analogies comparing the sport to devices in literature."
Preston gave a bark of laughter, which he quickly smothered.
Hugh allowed himself a smile. "It could be tedious reading at times."
"As tedious as your book?" Taylor said sweetly.
His smile faded. "No." Behind the detectives, Lilith's eyes shone furiously crimson. He frowned at her, and as if remembering herself, she visibly regained control. "I don't know much beyond the football. I imagine Courtney Eliot would."
"His girlfriend," Preston said, and Hugh nodded. "So during those game nights, he never talked about clubs they might have frequented? Any type of music he liked?"
"If he did, I don't recall mention of it."
"Do any of the other students who meet talk about a specific hangout, a place they got together?"
Hugh shook his head. "I don't recall any," he said truthfully. "I'm often at the restaurant, but I'm not active in the game itself, so I'm not privy to many of the conversations that take place while they play." He checked the clock over the door. "They'll be meeting tonight, at eight. If any attend, that is; I imagine most of them have heard about Ian by now."
Even as he said it, he knew that many of them would be there. It was human nature to gather and grieve, sharing their memories of the life they'd known.
And often dangerous to grieve in solitude. He knew that well.
He didn't dare look at Lilith for the ache in his chest. If she was trying to read him, she would feel it. Would she think it was for Ian?
"Are you familiar with a club called Polidori's? Have you ever heard any of your students mention it?"
Startled, his gaze locked with Lilith's, and he suddenly understood. She'd somehow pointed them in the direction of Polidori's, suggesting a link between it, the nosferatu, and Ian's murder. And, because of the book bearing her name and its contents, it made him the primary suspect, solidifying the detectives' suspicion that he'd been involved.
"No," he said flatly. Lilith looked away, her jaw flexing as if she wanted to speak but could not.
His hands clenched in his pockets. A moment alone. Then she was going to talk. If he did it well, didn't hold back, she was going to scream.
"He's smart," Taylor said. She unlocked the sedan's door, then looked across the blue metal roof at her partner and Lilith. "And he knows it. I expected that his arrogance would lead him into a mistake, that he'd claim to have some knowledge and show off, but he gave us a neat runaround."
"Smug bastard," Preston agreed. "What was your impression, Agent Milton?"
Her lips tilted slightly. The look Hugh had given her as they'd left had created the most significant impression; she could still feel the arousal the heated glance had stirred within her.
She didn't know what he was thinking, and she didn't like how eager she was to find out.
But as she couldn't tell them that, she gave them an answer by rote. "I think he knows we're on to him; you should continue surveillance, see if he tries to cover any tracks he might have left. If nothing else, he'll be wondering what we didn't say, and he'll want to determine if he's left any evidence, or if someone connected to him has revealed more than they should have." She paused. "If he's our man."
"You don't think he knows something?" Preston raised a brow.
"Knowing is not the same as perpetrating," Lilith said.
Taylor smiled thinly. "But it might make him an accessory. He's our strongest lead, Agent Milton, but don't think we aren't investigating every possible avenue."
Lilith heard the territorial note in the other woman's voice and couldn't care less. She had her own territory to protect; it made no difference hers was not a case, but a man.
"She's not suggesting we aren't doing our job, Andy."
Knowing she was going to piss them both off, Lilith said with a shrug, "Maybe I am." She had to force away the regret that rose when Preston's expression cooled and Taylor's hardened. "That book you showed me was not written by a man congratulating himself on his mental prowess. ' _The demon from Hell itself, burning and terrible, speaks with fearsome intonation, "No recourse will you find, no escape from my horrific clutching. All your souls are belong to us,"_ ' " she quoted, shaking her head. "It's ridiculous tripe, not an intellectual treatise designed to stroke his ego."
Preston raked his hand through his hair. "Then explain why an obviously educated man would write it so badly, except as a puzzle for others to decipher?"
"I can't," Lilith admitted. And she didn't care; there were other portions of it that concerned her more. They could talk of codes and hidden meanings; she just wanted to know why Hugh had written her story with the skill and care of a retard.
And why he'd lied to her for eight hundred years. The anger that had boiled in her belly for hours began to rise again.
"You looked through that book for the first time on the drive here," Taylor said. Her psychic scent radiated suspicion and disbelief. "But you quoted that passage verbatim."
"And so you think I'm not being honest about having read it before?" Lilith guessed, unwilling to mince words. She grinned, and despite the absence of fangs and horns there was more demon than human in the expression. Her fingers clenched on the rear door handle, denting the metal. "Just like Castleford, I'm really fucking smart."
Cerberus's balls, she was being incredibly stupid. Her stomach and chest ached, her head felt ready to explode. What was wrong with her? She needed to get out of here, to settle herself. Through her ignorance of the book, she had screwed up the letter as evidence that would help direct the investigation away from Hugh. Now she was alienating the two people who might hold Hugh's fate in their hands.
Better human detectives than Lucifer to own that fate? Or Lilith, once Lucifer called in her debt to him?
Before either detective could launch into the angry response Lilith could feel them getting ready to deliver, she held up her hand, took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. That was out of line, and I apologize." She smiled sickly, and she didn't have to fake it. "I don't think I'm feeling very well, and I'm taking it out on you."
Taylor stared at her for a moment before giving a short nod, getting into the car and slamming the door. Preston hesitated for just a moment. "Agent Milton—"
The words wanted to stick in her throat, but she forced them out. "I know. I wouldn't want to ride back with me, either. I won't have a problem making my way back." She sighed, leveled a look at him. "You have something on this guy, something you haven't shared with me. This book isn't reason enough for the certainty you two have that Castleford's your guy."
Preston opened his door. "I'll send a copy of the file to your office for you to look over. We can use your expertise, but"—he gave a humorless snort of laughter—"if this is how you work with others, I can see why the Bureau keeps you out of the locals' faces."
She deserved that, Lilith mused as they drove away. She opened her fist, and the mangled door handle dropped to the pavement with a clatter.
Petty pleasures. She'd existed on them for far too long.
She wanted deep, meaningful pleasure. The kind Hugh had promised with his eyes in his office, with his lips as he'd spoken her name. The kind she couldn't have.
The building in which Hugh was now, teaching kids who probably didn't know their ass from their balls, sat only yards away, at the other end of the parking lot. Easy enough to walk back there, see if he'd follow through on that promise.
She closed her eyes so that she couldn't be beckoned by the curving concrete and glass, and the man within. Was her desire to have him stronger than her desire to avoid Punishment?
She breathed out slowly. Yes.
But any emotion that forced her to choose between him and herself was a treacherous one, and she couldn't trust it. After all, it was the type of emotion she had spent her existence engendering in others. That choice would only be destructive for both of them.
It was reason enough to walk away—but she couldn't.
She heard the clacking of his computer keyboard from the hallway. Her ego bruised that he hadn't been sitting in silence, brooding, she opened the door.
"That took longer than I thought it would," he said. Lilith frowned, wondering if she'd been so predictable when her decision to come had been one of the most foolhardy choices she'd ever made.
_He_ was certainly predictable in his lack of reaction; he didn't look away from his computer. From her angle, the glare of the screen on his lenses made his eyes impossible to read.
"I know what you're doing; I read it in your book. You're trying to provoke me by ignoring me. It won't work."
"Only because you make it impossible to ignore you. And I daresay you would have been provoked even if I had given you notice."
Smiling, she rested her hip on the edge of his desk, thumbed through the papers and books spread across the surface. He continued typing. A paperback selection of poems stood on edge next to his monitor; she picked it up. "Donne?"
Hugh only grunted an assent.
Lilith pursed her lips. "He was fun when he was young. Then he met me, and he only wrote sermons after." A glimmer of a smile around his mouth. Much better. "You, too, have become something of a monk in a man's clothing. You may have discarded your robe, but this . . ." She gestured to the Spartan office, the stack of student essays—and remembered the description of Caelum in his book, its white sterility. "You've exchanged one monastery for another," she realized.
An infinitesimal flinch, as if her comment had struck something painful within him; but still, he did not turn to face her. "And what have you become?"
"Certainly more patient," she muttered.
"Yes." He paused, and finally looked at her. "I fear I am less."
"You could _only_ be less patient than you were as a Guardian. Though imagine my surprise, when I discover that so much of it is false." With a sarcastic lift of her eyebrow, she quoted, " ' _Demons remain a stranger to physical need; like a demon, deceptive and concealed, remained I._ ' "
"This is why you were angry," he said slowly. "Because you learned I used my Guardian powers to hide my body's response to you."
"You lied." Even as she said it, color washed her face. They revealed too much, those two words. How she had depended on his unfailing honesty; how she had desired—needed—his attention.
Worse, she was a demon making an accusation of a lie; it would have been laughable, had it not been so humiliating.
And he seemed to understand, damn him. His gaze softened. "I didn't know. I _felt_ it, Lilith. I just didn't allow it to show. Demons don't experience physical desire; I protected myself as best I could. If I'd known you weren't . . . if I had guessed . . ." He trailed off. "But I didn't know it could be anything other than a game for you."
She averted her eyes. It shouldn't have been. The sense of betrayal she felt was a result of her vanity, her certainty that had he desired her as strongly as she had him, he couldn't have held his glamours. Shrugging, she said, "It was nothing."
His mouth thinned. "Was it?"
"Yes," she said, and he relaxed into his chair as if she'd said the opposite, turning back to the computer screen. Suddenly, she didn't care if he intended to or not: she was provoked. She unclenched her teeth, her voice low and silky. "Though I'm pleased, knowing you have no defense against me now. That I could come over there and have you begging for me within moments."
"Let me finish this e-mail first." His tone was mild, disinterested.
Her breath hissed out. She launched herself over his desk, landed behind him, and caught a glimpse of her human name and a mention of swords before he hit Send.
Slowly, he swiveled his chair around, tilted it back to look up at her. "Will you materialize your horns?" he said, his expression unreadable. "If you are here to lead me to prison by my cock, I'd like something to grab onto in turn."
Prison? Her eyes narrowed, and she pushed away her disappointment that he hadn't seen the truth behind her ruse with the detectives. But how could he have? "That's what my tits are for, you imbecile." Planting her foot on the seat between his thighs, she gave his chair a shove.
Stupid, to unbalance herself like that. Quickly—he was faster than she'd thought he'd be, but when had she last fought a human?—he pulled on her knee and rose up and bent her back over his desk. Books and her gun jammed against her spine and shoulders, his hips wedged between her thighs.
How the hell had that happened? He'd planned it, that was certain. But she couldn't question him, didn't have any breath except to laugh when he grinned and said, "Good-bye, monk" and lowered his head to her breast, pushed aside her vest and began suckling her through her shirt.
Her arms rose of their own accord and she slipped her fingers into his thick hair, her nails against his scalp. She meant to shove him away, but her back arched and she pulled him closer.
His teeth caught her nipple. Oh, God, if the pain in Hell was anything like the torturous pleasure of that bite, humans would be lining up to jump into the Pit.
He reared up, unfastened her vest but didn't take the time with her shirt. Buttons flew.
She groaned, half-laughing. "I told you my salary—"
"I've been domesticated." He stared at her bare skin, her taut nipples. "I'll sew them back on." And then his tongue was hot and wet against her.
Her laughter was lost as he began thrusting his hips in time to the pull of his mouth. His arms, braced on either side of her head, trembled as if it took all his strength to keep it slow. The rhythmic friction against her sex was nearly unbearable. For Hugh, too—his shields fell, and she was slapped by a wave of desperate arousal that equaled hers, tinged by surprise and fear. _Too much, too fast, too good._
He'd expected to be in control. Her eyes blazed.
His teeth scraped her breast as she tugged his head up. A growl of protest sounded from his throat, silenced when she said, "You still think to resist me? ' _Temptation the demon was; an angelic face and false impotency my only defense._ ' " Her voice mocked him, though she would have done as well to make fun of herself. "You no longer have that defense, yet you cling to it."
"I'm no longer impotent, either." He rocked forward, and smiled wryly when she bit her bottom lip to keep her moan from escaping.
She was so wet; the scent of her arousal should have embarrassed her. Her fingers still threaded through his dark hair. Why did she not let him go? It was a human response, a weakness—
"Lilith," he said hoarsely, and he was staring at her chest again. "Where are the others? There are but half the symbols here."
_Oh, fuck._
**CHAPTER 18**
"Get off," she said tightly. "Now."
Her glamour had failed. How could his touch make her lose her control—her sense—so quickly? Re-forming it over her skin took barely a thought, but it was too late. His eyes found hers, and she shoved away the shame of his seeing the proof of her Punishment.
He nodded, began to ease away from her. "I didn't—"
A rasp of metal as the doorknob turned. Lilith's eyes widened, and Hugh barely had time to pull the edges of her shirt together before a woman—forty, plump, smiling—opened the door and shuffled in, carrying a tall cup of coffee and weighed down by several bags. Her mouth fell open when she saw them.
She recovered quickly. "New student?"
Hugh grinned. "A particularly slow one. Sue Fletcher, Lily Milton." He introduced them without a trace of embarrassment, though he was still between her legs and she was lying atop his desk. Despite herself, Lilith began shaking with laughter. "You don't have to go, Sue; we were just finishing."
"You look as if you've just begun," the other woman said, cheeks pink. "I'll drop off this stuff and go grab something to eat. But I have an appointment here in half an hour," she added apologetically.
Hugh lifted his brows. "That's more than enough time."
Sue chuckled and turned toward her desk to unload her bags; Hugh pulled Lilith to her feet. The door closed again a few moments later, and Lilith tried to summon the shame and anger she'd felt before the woman's entrance, but couldn't. She glanced down at her shirt. "Can you really sew?"
His heated gaze lingered on the vertical slice of exposed skin. "No."
"Shit," she said, and busied herself tucking and buttoning. The vest would hold it all together—mostly. She didn't look at him. "You have friends."
"A few."
"Have you told them?"
"No."
She nodded, then slanted a glance at him. Not much space here behind his desk. Less than two feet away, he leaned against his bookcase, the heels of his hands resting on the shelf behind his hips. Despite his easy posture, she knew he was calculating, weighing, considering.
"It must be lonely," she said before he could draw any conclusions about the symbols. Distract him by delving into the personal. Once, she would have used sex; but, as touching him had unsettled her so much she had lost her glamours and been unaware of Sue's approach, she was too susceptible to it to try now.
His half-lidded stare never wavered. "Better than the alternative: did I tell them the truth, they would be forced to decide whether to believe me. It is a measure of trust that I'm not willing to ask from them."
"You fear rejection?" She snorted. Tried not to remember the regret she'd felt when she'd pushed Taylor and Preston too far. "Fine friends these."
"Don't, Lilith," he said softly. "Don't twist it."
And she saw the quiet pain in his expression then, felt the isolation that weighed on him. She should use it against him—would have to, eventually.
But not yet. Not until Lucifer demanded it.
She arched a brow and let her eyes glow. "I like twisted. And I well remember how you began to believe. If you like, you can invite a party of your friends to your home. I'll show up, attack you, transform and scare the hell out of them. I may not be Michael, but I can be very impressive." She flashed her fangs before retracting them again and grinned. "I'll even recite the terrible dialogue from your book. ' _Away, foul fiend! Suck thy bloody heart of death!_ ' is my favorite—though I don't recall saying that when we fought the nosferatu in Lille. I was not that ridiculous until I came to America."
The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile, but his gaze was thoughtful. "You didn't know about the book when you left last night."
"Oh, I've known for years and years," she said, rolling her eyes.
Something tense within him seemed to ease. "You pointed them to the nosferatu and Polidori's somehow, but it was never with the intention of increasing their suspicions of me. You _were_ angry about the book itself, but also because you failed to redirect the focus of their investigation." His eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"
Sex again, and quickly. "I didn't kiss you last night," she said, and stepped forward, crowding him into the bookcase.
"I won't forget to ask again when you are done. I'm not so easily distracted as that." He caught her waist, pulled her up against his lean, hard length. "It must have been something ridiculous for you to hide it with a kiss," he said against her lips. But he did not kiss her—no, he must be waiting for her to initiate it.
"Not very well thought out," she agreed. "Colin saw me naked."
His free hand buried in the coil of hair at her nape. "Many people have seen you naked." Then he stiffened. "He saw the symbols."
A flash of jealousy from him, and she triumphed in it. His shields were good, but they were not as strong when she was this near to him, touching him. She only had to keep herself under control. Her hands curved over his shoulders, his muscles warm and firm beneath her palms. "Why did you write the book?"
"Are we bargaining?"
"Not officially," she said. "Just . . . trading."
"And you'll kiss me if I do—or if I don't?" Humor and need in that deep-voiced question.
She slicked her tongue over his bottom lip, quick as a cat. "Come now, Sir Hugh. Don't disappoint me."
His eyes darkened, and he drew his moistened lip into his mouth for a moment, as if to savor her flavor. "I intended to give it to Michael. What did you give the detectives?"
"Blow jobs," she said, and he laughed. It rumbled from his chest, through hers; her nipples tightened, still appallingly sensitized by his tongue, his teeth. She willed herself not to feel them and concentrated on the shape of his eyeglasses. _Not_ the gorgeous blue behind them. "Colin and I forged a letter. Why would you give it to Michael?"
"Because of Donne. And Shakespeare and Marlowe and Milton. What were the letter's contents?"
Her throat tightened, and she could barely answer his question. "We described a fake dream, in which Polidori saw the nosferatu and a person who'd undergone the ritual. You remembered what I'd told you during the fire in London—about my attempts to earn a second immortality?"
His fingers smoothed the hair at her temple. "Yes—though for other reasons, as well. And the letter also included the symbols? Colin copied them from your skin?"
"Yes. Why did you publish it?"
He shook his head, and his smiling lips brushed hers. "I never intended to. I had intended it for the library in Caelum, if Michael—"
She had to silence him; there was no control in the way she took his mouth, took the confession from his tongue. It was not gratitude that burned in her chest—could not be. The book would destroy her if Lucifer ever discovered its existence. Knowing Hugh had tried to give her what she'd never obtained on her own should not create such an upwelling of pleasure within her, except that it was another vulnerability of his to exploit.
And Lucifer would make certain that she collected his weaknesses like butterflies in a case, to pin and examine.
Eight hundred years—she should have known them. He should not have been able to surprise her. Even human, even in this modern age, the scent and taste of him should have been familiar. Yet there was a newness in his response, a newness in the impatience and the force of it. His lips moved over hers, heated and insistent, and laced with a hunger that matched her own.
She shouldn't have been matching anything—certainly not hunger.
And bringing the kiss to a halt shouldn't have been difficult, but she lingered over it before pulling away. She answered the question in his gaze with a mischievous grin, and twisted her hips, a teasing rub against his arousal. " _Not_ kissing you would have been a repression of your free will."
"Stopping represses it," he said ruefully. "But I don't think half an hour would be enough, so it is best we stop now when we can."
Best that she withdrew from him, as well. She hid her reluctance as she unwound her arms from his neck and backed up to sit on his desk. His hair was mussed by her fingers, his lips reddened from her mouth. Had she hurt him? Her stomach dropped. It would have been so easy to do so without noticing, as lost as she'd been in that kiss. She looked down, stabbed her fingers into a container full of metal binder clips. Crushed one with a pinch. She knew her strength—she did not know him. Not anymore. "What were your other reasons?"
"You're cheating," he said. His gaze fell to her fingers, then back up to her face.
She reviewed their exchange, realized he was right. It was his turn to question. Dammit. "Then continue the quiz, Professor."
He smiled, and she would have given anything at that moment for the power to shift into a schoolgirl's uniform. To sway her plaid skirt-covered ass in front of him as she crawled across his desk. She sighed.
Lucifer had taken the fun out of everything.
She shook her head at his puzzled expression. "I was wondering how many students you've had on this desk."
There was something wicked in the way his eyes glinted with laughter, something sinful in his slow, "I thought of you as I had every single one."
Images flashed in front of her eyes—forbidden sex, bent over the desk, rough and slick. Young, nubile limbs and his masculine strength. She had to swallow her jealousy before she said, "Liar."
His smile widened. "If you want the truth, you'll have to ask in the trade." Obviously considering his own question, he brushed his thumb against his jaw, rasping the afternoon stubble. She tensed, expecting him to ask about the missing symbols on her skin.
It was senseless to be so ashamed of it; but, whether she liked her role or not, her identity had been tied to her demonic powers for two thousand years. For Hugh to have evidence of how easily Lucifer could strip her of her abilities, how she'd been degraded, how little she mattered to those Below—the thought was mortifying. Even demonkind would like to reject her; in that, she was no better than the nosferatu.
But it was almost as difficult to answer when he finally asked, "If the nosferatu and Lucifer are setting me up for Ian's murder, then why do you try to thwart it? Do you intend to betray your liege?"
She shrugged, and told him what she would have told Lucifer. "It will be difficult to fulfill my bargain and drive you to your death if you sit in jail. Keeping you free will allow me better access to you." Another clip flattened between her fingers. "What were your other reasons?"
"To be certain I didn't lie to myself about my past, and my reason for slaying you: to give you freedom, aye—but at what expense?" He drew a deep breath. "And to capture you, in whatever form I could. I have done nothing but search for you since that night. My work, this career is but an excuse to find you again."
She fought to keep her voice hard, emotionless. "Do you not know I'll use this against you?"
"I know." His hands clenched in his pockets, as if anchoring himself to the spot. "Do you not still wish for your freedom?"
"The bargain changes the price," she said quietly. "Before, fulfillment required my service. Now it requires your death. What is this girl to you? Was she worth your Fall?"
His brow furrowed. "Savi?" At her nod, he said, "I hardly knew her then. It was only after I had Fallen that I returned here to San Francisco to see how she fared. Her grandmother took me in; and, as soon as she recovered, Savi did, too. I did not Fall _for_ her. She was the catalyst, but not the cause."
"Why does she live with you?"
He smiled slightly. "She is rebelling. And I had an empty room over my garage."
She heard more than he said: he'd wanted the company, wanted to ease his isolation. Had it worked? Why had he never taken a wife, found companionship in another way?
"What was the cause?" Two questions now, without offering information of her own.
He flicked a glance at the clock above the door. "Our time has almost passed."
"We are uneven in our trade," she immediately protested.
His voice was low, entreating. "Spend the afternoon with me, Lilith. I'll give anything you ask for free."
Temptation ripped through her, but she shook her head. "I have to get back to work." The surveillance team had returned—she could hear them in the hall. She could pass off a brief visit as official, but not an extended meeting.
"Then spend the night with me."
It would leave her absolutely defenseless, when she needed to strengthen her resistance to him. "What was the cause? In the book, you only say that you saved a girl from a demon. I know that is not all of it; you told me that night you forced your Gift on a man." Her breath came hard and fast. "Tell me, and I will spend the night with you."
His eyes darkened, his jaw clenched. "I won't hide it from you—even if you try to use it against me in your bargain—but I don't want it to be the reason you come to me."
Her laugh held an edge of desperation. "Then tell me, and I will not."
"Lilith—" He broke off, laughing and shaking his head. "Nothing is owed in this. Come to me tonight, or do not—but it is not a condition of the telling." He waited until she nodded. "A demon was working on Savi's father, an innocent. Murray and his family were inside a restaurant. The demon had followed them, and I found him outside, killed him. I had to wait with the body, make certain it wasn't found until I could get it to a Gate without being seen." He paused, rubbed his forehead. "Savi was nine. She had a brother, a year older. It was late, but their home wasn't far from the restaurant, and they walked. Mother and father, both successful surgeons, and two children. Easy targets."
"Targeted by a human?" And nothing to do but watch. A Guardian couldn't prevent a human from exercising free will, even if that will meant death for others.
He nodded stiffly. "And even I'm not faster than a bullet. Was not. I ran as soon as I heard the first, but—"
"Faster than . . . you tried to stop him? You interfered with his will?"
"Yes. I arrived, too late for all but Savi. And she'd seen him, had seen his face when he'd shot them—he was going to kill her for that. I put myself in between, but the bullets went through, hit her anyway. I took her to the hospital, but it didn't look like she would . . ." He trailed off, and his face hardened. "So I went after him."
Lilith's gaze dropped to his waist, imagined the bullets tearing through him. She'd done worse to him, but the thought of anyone else . . . "Good," she said.
A tiny smile on his lips. "But it was not that, Lilith. Not _only_ that. It was Vlad, and the boy in New Orleans, and a thousand others I hadn't been able to help because I had to deny my will for the Guardian code. I had to serve . . . but I could no longer. And I broke." His smile faded, and his tortured gaze held hers. "But I also knew there would be no one to free you after I Fell. So I found you. I made certain you did not believe in your role, that it was because you were bound to service as well, then . . ." Again he faltered, his throat working. "Though it must have been for naught, for you are bound again."
Her heart thundered beneath her breast. "You would have let me live if I had believed it?"
"Yes." His voice was hoarse. "I knew you feared the Punishment failing your bargain would bring. For centuries you told me what would free you without actually asking me to do it—and I knew that if you asked it would be tantamount to a betrayal of your service. But if you truly served him . . . if the only thing that held you to Lucifer was the fear of Punishment, I could not leave you in that."
"If you knew, why not earlier?"
"I was too greedy. Too weak. And for centuries, I had searched for another way to save you, yet never found one." He gave a half-laugh and scrubbed his hand over his face. "Allow me some defense, Lilith."
No. "Would you have slain me if you had known I was a halfling?"
He stilled. "I don't know. Could you have Fallen?"
"You mean Ascend?" Her mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. "No. Lucifer has never reversed the transformation." And if she had asked for it, he would have called it a betrayal of their bargain, a renunciation of her service to him. Hugh had been right in that.
He closed his eyes, and his chest rose and fell on a heavy sigh. "Yes. I would have."
It was not the answer she'd expected. She felt him watch her as she walked to the door. Her hand on the knob, she turned—and gave him a little bit of what he'd given her. "It worked. Those two hours, before Lucifer found me—I don't know if it was Heaven, or Oblivion, or something else . . . but it was two hours of freedom. Two hours without Hell clawing at my back." And reason enough to risk Lucifer's anger now; she owed Hugh freedom, even if it was only an earthly freedom that kept him from being imprisoned on false charges.
His eyes glistened, and she had to look away.
"Is this why bargains no longer have any allure? Why you've changed?"
"Have I?" A smile pulled at her mouth. "If I have, it might just be when I'm around you. You are a corrupting influence, to be certain. Soon I'll be _good_." She shuddered facetiously.
He gave a choked laugh. "Perhaps you should be with me more often. Complete your bargain, Lilith—only spend a hundred years in the doing. Torment me for decades. After all that time, old and decrepit, I will finally give in to you, and in the interim you will discover how corrupting I can be."
"Don't tempt me, Hugh." Her eyes glowed in warning. "It would take very little persuasion for me to do just that—and it would be a torment."
"For me?" He shook his head.
Her smile was pure bravado. She opened the door and paused. Looked at the desk. "How many?"
His cheeks colored slightly, and he ran his fingers through his hair. "None." Her brows rose, and their gazes locked. "Ever."
The air left her lungs in a rush, and she sagged against the doorframe. "Why?" She stared at him; what was wrong with women, that they hadn't taken him? Or had they tried and been rebuffed?
His eyes were shadowed. "When I first Fell, I was too . . ."
"Fucked up?" she offered.
"Yes." His voice was grim. "An eight-hundred-year-old Guardian transformed back into a human teenager. And later, it seemed dishonest to be with a woman—truly be with her—when I couldn't divulge my history, and any developing love would be based on lies. I'm not designed for casual sex simply to relieve my frustration; I don't think there is any sin in it, I just cannot do it."
"And when you were a Guardian? I thought it was a love-fest in Caelum." So different from Hell, where lust and physical pleasure were forbidden to halflings—and impossible for demons to feel.
His mouth quirked into a smile. "For many. But I served, at first, with religious—and celibate—fervor. Later, many of the Guardians were those I'd mentored. They were students, and it was . . . awkward."
"But there were those you hadn't mentored, and after a while those you trained would be—" She broke off as she realized the truth. "And there was me."
"Aye." He didn't look away. "I spent so much time resisting you, I could not be certain that I would not think of you when I was with another. So I was not with any others."
Crazy chivalrous martyr. She ignored the melting warmth that stole through her. "Are you offering yourself up as a virgin sacrifice then? You think that will be enough, that you'll have the skill to tempt me? You don't have a prayer."
His gaze raked over her form, heated and intense. "I don't need prayer—I have eight hundred years of imagining what I would do to you."
"I will use that against you as well," she said, breathless.
He grinned suddenly. "And _that_ is something worth praying for."
Lilith heard ASAC Bradshaw coming, but had nowhere to hide. She'd claimed desk space in one of the empty cubicles in the guts of the department office, and she was hemmed in by a wall and the gaze of the rookie in the cube across the aisle who hadn't taken his eyes from her since she'd returned from San Francisco State. For a moment, she considered going through the rookie to make her escape; he'd been stuck with background checks for the past couple of days, droning away on the telephone. He was probably ready to put a gun to his head. A visit to the hospital and an exciting tale of a crazy demon would have been doing him a favor.
She looked up and sighed. No escape there, either. The ceiling panels would never hold her weight.
"Agent Milton." He held a package in his hands, his dark skin in sharp contrast to the thick white envelope.
The SFPD shield decorated the upper left corner. Preston had been quick; too bad Bradshaw had intercepted it. She hoped she wouldn't have to go through _him_.
"Sir."
"Since your return, I've asked that all your correspondence come through me first." He paused, as if expecting her to object. When she said nothing, he continued, "This arrived by courier not ten minutes ago. I don't remember a request for assistance from the Ingleside station, Agent Milton. And I'm certain I would have heard of it, as Captain Jorgenson is a particular friend of mine."
"I approached them, sir."
"What did you approach them with, Agent Milton?"
"Expertise, sir. They have a recent murder in which the ritualistic nature resembled one of my previous cases. I delivered files which I thought might help their investigation, and the detectives asked for my assistance in preparing a profile."
"This may come as a surprise to you, agent, but we do have standard procedures, particularly when dealing with other agencies. I expect you to follow them."
"Are you forbidding me from assisting the SFPD on this case?" Lilith asked, her voice cooling to match his. "Sir."
"No." With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the package onto her desk. It landed with a solid thump. "But as you represent this agency, I do expect you to act with a measure of decorum."
Her eyes widened. "When have I not, sir?"
A muscle in his cheek flexed. "I hear one thing about you ruffling feathers, and I pull you. One misstep, one bit of questionable evidence, and I pull you."
She barely held her wince in check. Hopefully, Taylor wouldn't complain about her earlier conduct. "Yes, sir," she said meekly.
If he was suspicious at her sudden compliance, he gave no indication of it. With a final, hard stare, he turned and left.
The rookie had his nose practically pressed to his desk, determinedly looking as if he hadn't heard or seen a thing. She waited until he glanced up, gave him a conspiratorial wink. "I slept with his girlfriend. He didn't take it very well."
He blushed to the roots of his prematurely-receding hair. Sweet boy. Hugh used to blush as easily. With a grin, she swiveled her chair around and ripped open the envelope.
She'd only read through half of the reports when the thick reek of nosferatu penetrated the air. _Several_ nosferatu. Her psychic shield snapped up, but she rose to her feet unhurriedly, and looked over the tops of the cubes. Any nosferatu would be tall enough to be visible, but no bloodsuckers were in sight.
Uncertain if she'd be back to collect the reports, she vanished them into her cache. There were weapons there, too, swords and guns; she let her mental touch linger over each one in turn, but she fought the urge to arm herself. She could do so quickly enough, if she had to.
Though instinct demanded she protect her back, she walked boldly through the office, following the scent trail to the primary conference room. She picked up the physical odor of nosferatu there—along with a demon's, just as recent: SAC Smith.
Beelzebub.
She wavered, disinclined to face the other demon, but she needed to know if he was with the nosferatu.
Out, past the front desk, and they stood in the hallway near the elevators. Four nosferatu, hulking in black suits, bowler hats covering their pointed ears and bald heads. Smith glanced at her with a smile that seemed to fill her blood with ice crystals—even in his tall, bulky human form, he stood inches shorter than the nosferatu. And another human, whose scent was disturbingly familiar, almost like—
Her heart thudded sickly, as if unwilling to accept what she was seeing, feeling; her expression remained impassive, disinterested.
He smelled like a combination of Ian Rafferty and nosferatu.
And he was in the shape of a man.
"Lilith," Smith said. Like Congressman Stafford, he'd adopted a handsome blond visage; unlike Thomas, there was nothing friendly or open in his features, and his body was ridiculously muscle-bound, as if he couldn't bear the thought of being perceived as weak. "Let me introduce you to our guests."
The elevator dinged, opened. No one moved. The nosferatu stared at her with hooded, expressionless eyes, but she felt the malevolence that emanated from them. The thick carpet muffled the sound of her steps, and she fought to control the racing of her pulse that would give her away.
No fear, she told herself. But it was difficult, given the combined power before her, and the implication of the man-nosferatu.
She drew to a halt a respectable, but not cowardly, distance from the group. "Sir."
Chuckling, Smith held out his hand. She had to unclench her fist to place her palm against his. His skin burned hers, a thin trail of smoke rising from their clasped hands; she smiled, as if the stink of burning flesh were sweet.
Beelzebub had his petty pleasures, too.
"These gentlemen," he said as he pulled her toward the nosferatu, "were dismayed to learn that you had slain two of their brethren."
She looked at each one in turn, spoke deliberately. "And I was dismayed that I received notice regarding our new alliance _after_ I killed them." Nodding at the creature that smelled like Rafferty, she added, "I'm pleased to see that Moloch's ritual was successful."
Surprise flared from the nosferatu, distrust. Apparently, she wasn't supposed to know either his name, or that the ritual had taken place. Smith's grip tightened on her hand, grinding bone.
"Leave us, Agent Milton," he said through clenched teeth. "Await me in my office."
She gladly began to turn away, but a rough voice stopped her.
"One moment, halfling." Moloch laid his hand on her arm, each of his teeth shifting to points, his tongue and the inside of his mouth turning black. "I require a taste, to test your trustworthiness."
Disgust spread from the surface of her skin, deep into her stomach, followed by a rising panic. He wanted her blood. And with a taste of her blood, her psychic blocks would be useless; nosferatu could open the strongest mind with a simple nick of a vein.
A secretive smile curved her lips. "Trustworthy? Lucifer would not be pleased if I were such."
Moloch's face contorted, but Smith snatched her hand from the nosferatu before he could bite. It had been a risk, but the demon warlord _was_ uncertain of the extent of her knowledge, and her trustworthiness . . . or of Lucifer's. Probably all three.
"Leave us, Lilith." His anger was palpable.
She grinned, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and strode away on trembling legs.
**CHAPTER 19**
After the soundless cocoon of Beelzebub's office, the noises surrounding her cube seemed loud, frenetic. Or perhaps it was the pounding in her head. She'd expected a punishment from Beelzebub, but it had been something more frightening: an instruction to traverse the Gate by midnight.
Summoned by Lucifer.
She didn't glance at the rookie, but sat, holding her burning palm against the cool desktop. The phone was in front of her. So easy to lift the receiver, to call him and hear his voice. Would he still be at the university? Home?
She had an excuse: he'd want to know what she'd read in the files Preston had sent. He needed to know about the nosferatu and his student. But she couldn't risk being overheard. She'd be lucky if Lucifer didn't destroy her; she shouldn't give him additional reason.
The pain in her hand faded to a mild sting. Her laptop was in her cache; she called it in. Her mouth twisted in self-derision, but she still went to the university website, looked up his e-mail address. Was she so desperate for contact with him? Even in this cold, distant way—
She didn't have to send anything; it was waiting for her in her inbox. A simple message, with a document attached.
Spend the night with me.
The document was several hundred pages, all in Latin. She read through the first pages, her eyes blurring. _This_ had been written with care, reverence. And her fingers shook as she typed out her reply:
I can't.
Hugh hadn't walked more than two steps into Auntie's before she had his left cheek in a fond, if uncomfortably tight, pinch. She gave a half-indignant laugh as he swept her forward and hugged her tiny frame—partially to break that hold on his cheek, and partially because he needed to. Her bangles clicked and sang, and her bright turquoise sari held the thick, warm scent of garlic and onion that permeated the restaurant.
"You treat me very poorly," she said when he let her go, smoothing her hair as if to make certain every strand remained tight within the long black braid. "An old woman doesn't deserve your attention?" She harrumphed, though her eyes were bright with amusement. "No gratitude, no respect."
Even after forty years in San Francisco, her accent was heavy; but as she spoke in English he answered in kind. "I owe you everything, Auntie," he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. "Where would I be today if you hadn't given me a job and a bed to sleep in?"
"A doctor." Her lips pursed, as if she were trying to be stern rather than smile. The red _bindi_ she'd painted between her brows wrinkled. "You wasted your time serving here. If you had spent more time on study, you could have been a fine surgeon, married a physician."
The bell atop the door jingled. "Dr. C!"
Hugh lifted a brow. " _Doctor_ C, Auntie," he emphasized, and grinned when she pursed her lips again in disapproval. Then he turned to greet the three who'd come in. All former students, they had been coming regularly on Fridays for almost two years. They'd heard about Ian—probably through Savi—and there was a lot of head shaking and disbelief before Auntie urged them to get something to eat.
Hugh and Auntie watched them as they walked toward the buffet. "It's a terrible business, what happened to that boy," she said. Then she looked him sharply up and down. "Come into the back."
Knowing he was in for the feeding of his life, Hugh followed her. According to Auntie, all things were made better with food. A lot of food.
The restaurant was small, and, as it was known better for its lunches and takeout, not very busy in the main dining area in the evening. The tables near the back, where the gaming group usually congregated, had already been pushed together in preparation. He had always loved the atmosphere, the bright silks on the walls, the worn but comfortable benches lining the walls, the cane chairs, the air redolent with spice. He nodded toward a silk painting of Kali on the far wall, the material a soft cream, allowing the blues and reds of the goddess's skin and tongue to stand out.
"Did Ranjit bring that back from his last trip?"
"He's a good boy, thinking of me." She slanted Hugh a look from under her lashes before pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen, and he laughed as he followed her through.
Heat and humidity hit him instantly, throwing him back to the years he used to wait tables, running back and forth between the kitchen and dining room. Keeping occupied, earning his way through college—cleaving to the grandmother and granddaughter. And it had been in these kitchens that he'd slowly, slowly healed.
But not completely.
A small office, not much larger than a closet, sat to the left of the kitchen entrance. Savi sat at the desk, entering in the day's receipts into the computer. He paused, and she looked up.
"Are you well?" he said.
She shrugged, dragged her fingers through her short hair. "Okay, I guess. Considering." Her gaze sharpened. "I brought the swords, as you requested in that e-mail."
She waved her hand toward a duffle bag on the floor. The canvas bag hadn't been long enough; the hilt of the katana protruded from between the zipper teeth. "Thank you. Brandon, Matt, and Zack are here."
"I'll go out to see them in a minute." She looked at him, unsmiling. "And this is the second time in a week you've asked me for an address—and the second time I had to break a few laws to get it. Are you going to tell me what's going on? You're in real trouble, aren't you?"
"Yes." He could give her the partial truth, at least. "And I will tell you, but I'm about to be stuffed."
The humor in her eyes eased the heaviness that had sat with him since receiving Lilith's reply. "She got me when I came in, too. I don't think I'll need to eat for two weeks." She tilted her head. "So, who's this Lily Milton, and why do you need her info?"
He felt the flush rise up his neck, and she stared at him, fascinated.
"You have a _thing_ for her." She pursed her lips, and for a moment she looked exactly like her grandmother. "That's kind of weird. I know you don't date often—actually, never—but this isn't the way to woo a lady."
He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, laughing so hard that Auntie peered around the corner of the wall to look at him. Wiping his eyes, he gestured toward the swords and said, "Trust me, this is _exactly_ the way to woo her." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Savi, her real name is Lilith."
Her mouth fell open. "You're joking." Her eyes narrowed when he shook his head. "It explains a lot, though. What was it, in high school? She got to you so bad that you turned her into a demon in your book?"
"Not exactly," he choked.
"Well, in any case, you might be interested in what else I found out about her." With a mischievous grin, she added, "I poked around."
"Good," Hugh said, his own humor fleeing. "I need every advantage I can get." The headache that had been threatening since late afternoon began to throb in earnest. He rubbed his forehead, fighting his guilt at using Savi to gain any of those advantages. But he couldn't do this alone—not completely alone.
Auntie cleared her throat, and he looked up to find her glaring at him, a platter in her hand. "Come, _beta_. Eat."
Colin waited in the alley beside the restaurant, the smell of food threatening to overwhelm him. His mouth watered, but it was a craving that had more to do with memory than actual hunger. "I may as well be one of Pavlov's dogs," he said with a touch of bitterness, and ignored the look Sir Pup gave him. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses. "Very well, then. Harness?"
The hellhound obliged by calling in a guide dog's apparatus, and allowed Colin to fasten it over his shoulders.
Across the street, a male and a female—one tall and fat, the other tiny—stopped next to the police cruiser parked at the curb. The man made a gesture with his hand, and Colin heard the passenger window slide down.
"Anything?"
"No, sir. He went home, ran in the park, then came here."
"And you say that Agent Milton left his office after you returned to your surveillance?"
"Yes, sir."
The female sighed, and tilted her head back to look at the sky as if exasperated. The pale skin of her neck seemed to glow under the streetlights, and Colin's fangs throbbed in response. If he hadn't glutted himself on the Guardian still lying unconscious and chained to his bed, he probably would have taken the opportunity and protection of the hellhound to hunt. As delicious as Selah's blood had been, he preferred them awake.
It was difficult for a woman to admire him when she was unconscious.
"This isn't good, Joe," she said as they crossed the street. "Something's way off."
"Yeah," her partner agreed. "We'll get Jorgenson to talk to . . . what's his name? Bradshaw?"
"Yeah." Resignation in her voice.
He moved deeper into the shadows, waited for them to go inside. A few minutes later, he followed them.
The hostess was older than she appeared; and though her eyes widened at the sight of the dog, she gave no indication of the displeasure he felt emanating from her. As Colin disliked the hair and other . . . things . . . the dog had trailed into his house, he couldn't blame this woman for a similar reaction.
"You'll be having the buffet? Or you would like a menu?"
He bit back a sigh as his gaze skimmed over the table surrounded by young males—hot, thick blood. The full-bodied taste of the matrons in the corner. The delicate, ripe flavor of the lady detective filling her plate at the buffet. And the wild, tangy essence of the woman—little more than a girl—who came through a swinging door at the back to greet the group of boys at the first table.
"A menu, please," he said with regret.
"Of course. If you'll allow me . . . ?" She held out her arm, her bangles sliding up her forearm, almost to her elbow.
Colin stared at the pulse beating beneath the golden brown skin of her wrist before he remembered that he was supposed to be blind. "You're very kind," he murmured finally, inwardly cursing Lilith for talking him into this, and himself for going along with it. _In my long life. I've never seen beauty such as yours, Colin!_ He mimicked her voice internally, then glanced down at the dog, who seemed to be laughing up at him as if it could read his thoughts. "She's a liar."
The hostess turned. "I'm sorry? This table isn't to your liking?"
"It's fine, thank you." Perfect, actually. From the bench, he had a view of everyone in the restaurant and could clearly hear each conversation. "I was simply instructing my dog to lie down."
"Ah, very good." Again, that flicker of distaste as she looked at the dog. Sir Pup's tongue lolled, dripping saliva on the wooden floors. Colin was certain the hellhound did it deliberately. "You are familiar with our menu? My granddaughter will read the items, if you wish."
As if she'd heard 'granddaughter,' the wild-tangy girl-woman looked over at them. Her breath caught as her gaze ran over his face. Sweet torture, to have that delicious morsel so close.
He smiled, savoring the anticipation that shivered up his spine. "Yes, please."
Hugh scraped up the last bit of dal with a piece of ghee-soaked naan, slipped it into his mouth, then pushed away from the counter before Auntie could return to the kitchen and ladle more onto his plate. He opened the swinging door with his shoulder, still wiping the ghee from his fingers onto a napkin, his stomach pleasantly full but happily not bursting. Auntie was as manipulative as a demon when she thought he hadn't eaten enough.
Not that it was a hardship; a man could fall prey to gluttony rather easily when a meal tasted as good as—
"Savi." A whisper, a warning. No mistaking the ecstasy on the vampire's face as he leaned toward her arched neck and inhaled deeply. She didn't hear Hugh, but Colin did. A cruel, predatory expression flashed over his features before it changed to a look almost comical in its surprise. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, but Hugh felt the quick survey the vampire took of him before murmuring something to Savi that made her dissolve into giggles.
His tension subsiding, he finally noticed the silence that had fallen over the gaming table.
Taylor and Preston sat with them. The group had tripled in size, and the greetings from the boys held a note of guilt and unease. Preston rose to his feet, extended his hand.
"Didn't think you'd mind if we talked with these guys, Castleford."
Hugh stepped forward, shook it, not bothering to keep the wry smile from his face. The detectives hadn't been so friendly that afternoon, but they likely didn't want to raise any protective instincts in the group that would make them less open to discussing Ian, Javier or their professor. "Of course not."
Taylor gave Hugh a cursory glance, then looked past him toward Colin and Savi. Had she seen the fleeting exchange between the two men when he'd opened the door?
If she had, she kept her curiosity well contained, nodding toward her plate. "Excellent selection here."
"I'll convey your compliments to Auntie," he said. "Agent Milton couldn't join you?"
"No," Taylor said, not quite hiding the dislike beneath the flat tones.
Hugh's lips twitched. Lilith had that effect.
Another burst of laughter from Savi, this time with a deeper, throaty edge to it. He clenched his fingers in the napkin. "I don't know if you've had an opportunity to speak with Savitri Murray," he said. She'd been interviewed by uniformed officers and confirmed Hugh's story about the night before he'd found Ian, but as far as Hugh knew, hadn't talked to the two detectives. "But she created DemonSlayer. Any questions you have about the game, she could answer them; and she knew both Javier and Ian."
Preston and Taylor looked from him to Savi. The question on Preston's face was clear. " _Just_ housemates," Hugh clarified.
"We had hoped to interview her today, before—" Preston stopped, but Hugh imagined he knew what had happened. Before Lilith had shown up with the symbols and the story that had led them to his office. "We intended to speak with her tomorrow."
Hugh smiled thinly. "I'm glad to speed things up, then."
A burning frustration stalked with him to Colin's table. The vampire looked up at his approach, but with a studied lack of focus in his expression. Hugh frowned; then he saw the dog on the floor, the harness, and understood why Savi was reading aloud a description of bhindi masala.
The hellhound grinned up at him.
"Savi," he said, his gaze never straying from Colin's face. "I believe the detectives would like to speak with you."
"Oh, but—" As if his words finally registered, the dismay left her voice and her tone hardened. "What detectives?"
He glanced away from Colin, found her staring over his shoulder at Taylor and Preston. "They just want to ask a few questions."
She straightened. "What should I tell them?"
She sounded as if she wanted to tell them to go to Hell and quickly. He noted Colin's sudden grin and had to smile, too. "The truth."
"All right." A little deflated, she sucked her upper lip between her teeth, the lower pushed out into a pout. It was a gesture she often made when she was torn between doing the correct thing and doing the thing she considered more exciting.
"The truth," Hugh repeated. Seeing how Colin was suddenly entranced by her mouth, he gave her a push.
"Oh! Will you, uh—" She gestured to the menu, to Colin's sunglasses. Then she slapped the laminated menu into his hand. "Take over? I was on forty-two."
Colin watched her walk away with a heavy sigh.
"No," Hugh said and took the seat opposite the vampire. The hellhound scrabbled to his feet, pushing his cold nose into Hugh's lap. After a brief, frozen moment, Hugh began scratching its ears. "She's my sister."
"Oh, come now—" Cutting himself off mid-protest, the vampire exhaled sharply. "Very well. If you call her sister, I'll not pursue her."
"I do." That relationship wouldn't have mattered to the vampire—most women were sister to someone, after all—except that _Hugh_ claimed it. Two hundred years before, Hugh and Lilith had helped protect Colin's sister from a nosferatu . . . and from the newly turned, starving Colin.
Colin had very few scruples, but in his appreciation for that he remained steadfast.
With a petulant curl of his lip, the vampire said, "You're looking very"—he waved his hand at the stubble on Hugh's jaw, the casual roll of his sleeves over his forearms—"disheveled. Scruffy, even."
Hugh blinked, and a reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. "Better than the friar's robe?"
Colin shuddered, as if something unpleasant had crawled over his skin.
"You aren't here to critique my appearance."
"No. She asked me to spy on them. The critique is an unexpected bonus."
Hugh's stomach tightened. "Why isn't she here?"
"I don't know." Colin slid off his dark glasses. "Her message was rather cryptic. I'm supposed to watch the pigs in the mug-gle's kitchen, which I understand well enough. Though I might have gone to your house had the dog not led me here instead. And, afterward, I'm supposed to stop by her apartment and collect something to give to you."
Hugh nodded slowly, unsurprised that the vampire and demon had a system of code to speak in public. The hellhound whimpered and licked his hand, diverting him from his contemplation of it. "Are they speaking with Savi?"
"They're asking about the game and the nosferatu." Colin looked over Hugh's shoulder, an assessing expression in his eyes. "Did you tell her the truth?"
"Not yet."
He said no more, as Auntie appeared next to the table and her quick gaze moved between them. "You're a friend to Dr. Castleford?" She emphasized the title proudly. "You should have said."
Colin gave Hugh a brief, quizzical look before turning to Auntie with a smile designed to charm. The vampire maintained the pretense of blindness; his gaze rested just above her shoulder instead of on her face. "My apologies, madam."
The placement of Colin's lips, perfectly concealing the sharp points of his fangs without appearing to hold the smile in an unnatural position, was the most accomplished Hugh had seen; an untrained human would never be able to determine the difference. "Mrs. Jayakar," Hugh supplied. "This is Mr. Ames-Beaumont."
"Call me Auntie." A blush darkened her cheekbones to a rich cinnamon. She fussed with her sari, slipping her fingers along the sash as if to make certain it still covered the bare skin at her waist. "Are you from Great Britain, Mr. Ames-Beaumont?"
"Colin, please," the vampire said. "Yes, originally from north of London. But I emigrated some time ago."
"For your profession?"
Colin's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Yes."
Hugh opened his mouth, but Auntie lifted a single finger toward his face. He snapped his teeth together.
"And what is it you do?"
"I'm an artist," Colin said. "I paint."
She gave a startled glance at his unfocused eyes. Taken aback, she looked from the vampire to Hugh again, and Hugh said, "He's interested in the Raja Special."
She inclined her head, her expression brightening as she took in Colin's slim frame. Given a chance, she would feed him herself. Colin watched her walk toward the kitchen, but without the hunger with which he'd looked at Savi. His brows drew together, and he returned his attention to Hugh. "You've made a family for yourself."
"Yes." He looked across the table at the vampire, felt the hellhound's heavy head against his leg. "So has Lilith."
"Yes. She has spent many a night with me." Leaning back, he curled his lips into a mocking smile.
Hugh shook his head, grinning. "There is truth in that, but not what you suggest. She's your reflection, not your lover."
"My reflection?" The vampire laughed, as if startled by the idea. "Yes: vain, selfish, greedy." Despite his words, his gaze had warmed.
"Exceptionally loyal to those few she cares about," Hugh said, and rubbed the hellhound's ears when it gave a quiet bark of agreement. Difficult to keep the roughness from his voice. Before he'd Fallen, there had been no one else she'd cared for—but she hadn't been alone these past sixteen years. "She trusted you enough to show you the symbols."
"Yes, but she did not expose herself for my sake." Colin pierced him with a hard stare. "I don't know what was done to her; perhaps we should exchange information. She said it was not from the Punishment she received, but I don't know if I can believe her."
A low growl rumbled from the hellhound's chest. Hugh had to force the words out through the tightness in his throat. "What Punishment?"
The vampire blinked, and then his eyes narrowed. "She never used it against you," he said, a disbelieving laugh slipping from him. "She cannot speak to me without manipulation."
Hugh's fingers clenched. "Explain yourself."
"Tell me about the symbols first."
"She was human once." His chest ached, as it had whenever he thought of her revelation. He saw the surprise on Colin's face, then the confusion. "The symbols are a part of a ritual that transformed her into a demon."
"But—"
"Guardians. Vampires. It follows demonkind would have their own version." Hugh shook his head, anticipating Colin's question. His bitterness was self-directed. "I didn't know, either. I suspect only Michael did."
"Why the need to mislead the police?"
"One of my students was killed by the nosferatu, and the symbols were carved into his body."
Colin was nodding, as if in sudden understanding. "Hence the forgery of Polidori's letter."
"Yes," he said. "Do you have a copy?"
"She took the originals. They might be at her apartment, too. You may as well go in my place; being a courier has never appealed to me." He nudged the dog with his foot. "Sir Pup, do you have a key you could give Castleford?"
"Sir Pup?" Bemused, Hugh looked down at the hellhound, who was flopping his ears from side to side as if in answer to the vampire. A sweet pain sliced though him, left him open and vulnerable. "She named you _Sir Pup_?"
"The detectives are leaving," Colin said softly. "The woman just received a phone call; they're both getting up to go."
Hugh turned. Taylor and Preston's faces were hard, bleak. Taylor slashed Hugh a look, but they left without speaking to him. "Could you hear the voice on the other end?"
"No."
Auntie reappeared, her arms laden with trays, and Hugh stood up to help her. Savi slipped in between them, arranged the chutneys to her satisfaction, and transferred the platters to the table.
Colin stared at the volume of food, swallowed hard. Auntie waited with her hands folded at her waist, but as Colin continued staring without moving to fill his plate, she began scooping and explaining the location and taste of each dish, stopping just short of spooning bites into Colin's mouth.
Savi stood by Hugh, her head at the level of his shoulder. "He's very handsome," she murmured in Hindi. Colin glanced up, but the rapacious pleasure in his gaze turned to something painfully beleaguered when she added, "It's too bad he's gay."
Hugh looked down at Savi, then back at the vampire. Some lies were definitely useful. "Yes," he said, as the vampire choked on a mouthful of rice. "I suppose it is."
**CHAPTER 20**
The misting rain formed a halo around a light illuminating the front of a run-down apartment building. Though Savi had lifted Lilith's address from a law enforcement database, he doubted she actually lived there.
He frowned. Despite eight hundred years spent fighting them, he didn't know what demons did when they weren't convincing humans to create chaos. Like Guardians, they didn't need to sleep or eat, so it was possible there was no downtime; and unlike Guardians, demons were not social creatures—particularly not with their own kind. Lilith's friendship with Colin was an anomaly; any other demon would have considered it a weakness.
Rain beaded on plastic surrounding the bus stop, and steam slowly crept up the inside of the glass. Hugh shifted on the bench; his nausea from the bus ride across town had passed. He could either get out and check on the apartment—or sit here and do nothing.
He reached down and picked up the duffel. No matter how unlikely her presence at the apartment was, it would be foolish to go in unarmed. But he kept it covered—if someone else lived in the apartment, he didn't want to brandish a two-foot blade in her face.
The front security door was broken; inside, the row of dilapidated mailboxes confirmed her apartment number: Milton, 4D. Shaking his head over her choice of last name, he took the stairs two at a time, trying to ignore the smell of cat litter, dirty diapers, and frying meat that permeated the air. The stairs creaked under his weight; if she was in the apartment and listening, she'd hear his approach—and he knew she could probably distinguish his footsteps from the other tenants'.
Not that he intended to surprise her—he just wanted answers.
The fourth-floor landing carpet was well worn; ground-in dirt darkened what had probably been blue to a dingy brown. Lilith's door was the last on the right; a single bare bulb lit the hallway.
Hugh frowned, almost certain now that the address was fake. Why would she choose this as a dwelling? He could afford better, even if his only income had been his adjunct professor's salary—and she had access to whatever monies and connections had pulled the strings to create her current persona.
Deciding to follow through, now that he'd come that far, he knocked twice on the door marked 4D.
No answer.
He knocked again, then listened for sounds from inside. Water pipes groaned, but he couldn't be certain if they were from 4D or the rooms on the floors below. He tried the doorknob, and it turned in his hand.
He didn't hesitate to swing the door open, reaching into the duffel to grasp the handle of his sword. The room was dark, but the source of the noise became clear; within the bathroom, a shower was running.
His eyes quickly adjusted. A studio apartment, bare of furniture except for a twin-sized bed pushed into one corner, and a metal folding chair tucked under a cheap card table. Slung across the back of the chair was a suit—the same suit that Lilith had worn earlier. He could see the dull shine of photographs and manila folders spread across the tabletop.
Books were piled and stacked on every other available surface, stuffed into cases lining the walls, filling the open-faced cupboards in the kitchen.
Relaxing slightly, he flipped on the light and grimaced. Although clean, the studio was as shabby as the rest of the building. Evidence of water damage streaked the ceiling, and the linoleum in the tiny kitchen cracked and buckled. On the bed, a lumpy striped mattress looked as if it could have come from a jail cell; it had probably been included with the apartment, since Lilith didn't need to sleep.
She certainly hadn't bothered to decorate.
The shower shrieked as the she turned the water off. Mildly surprised she hadn't already charged out of the bathroom, weapon in hand, skin red and eyes blazing, Hugh pulled his own sword from its sheath, dropped the duffel onto the floor, and stepped across the room to stand next to the bathroom door.
The distinctive slide of shower curtain rings across metal followed by the squeak of old floorboards allowed him to track her movements within the room. A faucet turned, water splashed in a sink. Then the slow, steady brush of terry cloth over skin.
Blood rushed to his groin as the image immediately formed in his mind—Lilith, one foot propped on the edge of the tub, running the cloth down her long length of leg. Would her skin be crimson again, he wondered—or the pale silk she'd assumed that afternoon?
He'd find out soon; the floorboards creaked again, and he lifted his sword, holding it across the width of the doorway at neck height.
A rush of steam escaped as Lilith opened the door, stepping through—then belatedly noticing the sword aimed at her throat.
_Crimson skin_ , he noted as her eyes widened, darting from the blade to him. But otherwise human in appearance. Her surprise was quickly replaced by indifference.
"If you are going to break in and point something at me, Hugh," she said, raising one hand and pushing the blade out of her path, "at least point something _interesting_ at me."
Her gaze dropped to the front of his jeans, and then she turned away from him with a languid roll of her hips. "Did you not receive my e-mail? Or are you so eager to lose your virginity that you ignored it?"
He allowed her to pass, watching her as she walked across the room to a small closet door. She'd wrapped herself in a bright yellow towel that covered her from chest to mid-thigh; droplets fell from her length of dark hair with each step, creating tiny circles in the threadbare carpet. She moved with a lanky, casual grace that belied her agility and strength.
Sheathing his sword, he said, "No. Colin said you'd been Punished."
Her back still to him, she pulled several items from their hangers. Her voice was disinterested as she asked, "Did he?"
She pulled a black T-shirt over her head, then reached down, stepping into a whisper of blue satin. Hugh didn't look away as she skimmed the panties over her legs, catching a glimpse of the curve of her bottom as she lifted the towel to slide them into place. She let the towel drop to the floor.
The methodical cleansing, the lack of emotion: impossible not to recognize it. There was no need for a demon to bathe. She was going through a ritual, purging herself. For what purpose?
"Why are you dressing like that?"
She froze, then glanced at him from under her lashes. "You prefer me unclothed?"
"I wonder why I haven't yet seen you in any form other than Lily and the demon. I wonder why you wear real clothing, when you can create it with a thought. I wonder how it is that I surprised you in your home, and why you sent Colin to the restaurant instead of going yourself—in any guise. You enjoy those powers, revel in them."
He nearly took back his words as she glanced down at herself, and shame flickered across her features, erasing her amusement and leaving a blank, remote expression.
"Lucifer claims it is an effect of the blood loss and the subsequent resurrection," she said without emotion. "But I know a Punishment when I'm subjected to one."
"He has taken your ability to shift?"
"Except for my full demon form, and those in between. And to send dreams. A few other minor abilities, too."
Lucifer had that kind of power? "This is why the symbols are missing," he realized. "Why give you the form you use now?"
"To remind me that I subjected my will to his when he transformed me." Turning toward him, she swept back the wet curls that had fallen onto her forehead. "And to punish me for my long-ago vanity, I imagine. One of his promises was that I would never age, that my beauty would never succumb to time."
"Then he denied it," Hugh realized, following her to the table and laying his sword down. And when Lucifer allowed Lilith her own face, it was not a reward, but a constant reminder of the choice she'd made. There had been many times Hugh had taken on the face of another, but he'd always been able to return to his true form.
"I often work undercover. More difficult to remain unnoticed with this face, with the _same_ face each day. He relishes that difficulty," she said, but with that awful, uncharacteristic detachment.
Hugh studied her, looking for any emotion, and found none.
"Lilith," he hesitated, then lifted his hand to her jaw. "Are you well? What has happened?"
A shudder wracked her body. She pressed her cheek into his palm, then wrapped her fingers around his wrist and dragged his hand from her face. "Do not be kind to me," she said from between clenched teeth, her eyes glowing brightly. "You will destroy me with it."
Though her statement felt like a blow to his chest, he said, "If it brings you pleasure, I shall do my worst."
Her grip tightened, but the pain of it was nothing to the smile that tilted the corners of her lips. With a sigh, she released him. "I heard you come in; I was surprised by the sword. I did not think your babysitters would allow you to carry one around the city."
"They don't know," he said. "I left through the back of the restaurant." He'd taken the opportunity the detectives' precipitate leaving had given him; their surveillance team had not yet arrived when Hugh had slipped out. Savi and Auntie would likely be upset with him, but it seemed the only time to search Lilith's apartment.
An unexpected boon, that she was still here.
"At night?" She shook her head; the smile had not yet faded. "You couldn't have waited until the nosferatu . . ." Trailing off, she regarded him with narrowed eyes. "Have you ever heard of a nosferatu resistant to the daysleep? Or day _light_?"
"No. And the only vampire is—"
"Colin, I know. I don't know why or how he is, though. And no matter how I threaten him, he won't tell me."
Hugh knew, and he had no reason not to tell her now. "Michael's sword tainted Colin's blood when he was human. You remarked once on his sister's resistance to your suggestions; she came by it the same way: the sword."
"The spoiled little slut," Lilith said absently, as if her mind was working through something else. Hugh suppressed his grin.
"You saw a nosferatu during the day?"
She nodded, and her mouth thinned into a grim line. "Perhaps they used the underground parking structure to escape the sunlight, but they were awake."
He searched her face, caught the lingering fear that crossed her features. "How many?"
She held his gaze. "Five. And one was in a human's form. He had your student's scent."
"Ian?" His breath stilled, and his hands trembled as rage tore through him. Though she must have felt it, he kept his voice even. He would not make her a target for his anger. "The ritual gave the nosferatu that power? To shift, to resist daylight?"
"I think so," she said slowly, watching him. Then her gaze lowered to the table, and she pulled a report from a stack of files. "There was very little blood at the scene."
"Not surprising, given they are nosferatu," he said. It was a coroner's report, and he only gave it a cursory glance.
"No, but it is a change from the ritual I knew." Laying her hand on his, she opened to the second page. "Stomach contents."
He forced himself to read through the haze that clouded his vision. "Just milk and cereal."
"No blood. The blood is the key for the transformation—the power is derived by ingesting the blood that flows after the symbols have been carved. It's collected, and then the person must drink it before they fall unconscious from the blood loss. My guess is that instead of your student ingesting it, the nosferatu did—and they took in the properties of the transformation that way. Perhaps the one I saw took more than the others, or the full benefit of the transformation can only go to one. But nosferatu don't trust one another, so they would demand at least a share of the power, even if it is very small. And it does not take a great amount of blood, only the endurance to remain alive until the end of the carving. That is how I was made. And at the end Lucifer asked me if I wanted to drink and live, or die. And we made a bargain that I would serve him for as long as I had my demon powers." A bitter smile curved her mouth. "I assume that is not how Michael does it."
"Nay." He had to put the report down, clenched the edge of the table to control his hands' shaking.
She gestured toward his sword. "Do you want to stab me?"
As she no doubt intended, the offer startled him out of his anger; but the energy coiled within his muscles did not fade as easily as the rage. He raked his hand through his hair, stalked across the room. It wasn't enough. He turned back. The detachment had settled over her again; she stood, looking at him without expression, her arms folded beneath her breasts, her demonic skin like a violent gash against the black shirt.
A few long strides and he was beside her again. She took a deep, sudden breath, as if something in his appearance unnerved her. A human response, despite her apparent intention to show none.
"This is not kindness," he said. He slid his hand over her jaw, behind her neck to thread his fingers in the damp curls at her nape. Her skin burned beneath his palm, sent warmth spreading through him.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. "What is it?" Her chest rose and fell in a quick rhythm.
"Envy." He envied her control, desired it for himself. And when he touched her, his restlessness fell away. Left a new purpose in its place, a direction for the energy within him.
He closed the distance between them, grazed her upper lip with his tongue. And immediately wanted more. "Avarice."
"Wrath?" The word shook, with laughter and fear and—
He smiled against her mouth. "Lust," he corrected, and his voice was rough with it. He drew her lower lip between his teeth. Why fear? He couldn't hurt her. His wrist still throbbed from her grip earlier, but she . . . "Why is kindness more destructive than a sword?"
She closed her eyes, began to pull away, but he followed. "Gluttony." He whispered it against her mouth before kissing her, coaxing her open with the gentle insistence of his lips and tongue. Despite his claim, he drank from her with delicate sips; he had less control over his hands, and they gathered and pressed her full-length against him. Slid up her ribcage, over her peaked breasts.
Arching into his touch, she moaned low in her throat, yet amidst the desire he could still hear the fear. She responded, but held back. His chest tightened with an unbearable pain.
The last time he had kissed her thus, he had killed her.
Hugh dropped his hands, staggered back. Lilith's stance mirrored his, her hands fisted at her sides as she stared at him. In her attempt to resist touching him, her nails had cut into her skin.
Of course, her resistance indicated that, for all her preparation, the emotions she'd tried to hide were not far from the surface. Lucifer would easily sense these, and physically smell Hugh on her. She'd have to cleanse herself again when he left. But for now, she was finished with suppression.
She licked her lips, slowly uncurled her fingers. "You've never been a proficient sinner. That," she said with a grin, "was not gluttony."
"If it had been, it would be the least of the sins I have committed against you."
Her eyes widened, and a laugh broke from her. "You're overcome by guilt . . . because of Seattle?"
His mouth compressed. "You are not free; and you are still afraid. I should have found another way."
"Hugh, I couldn't tolerate the idea of your Fall. I would have slain _you_ had you not me first. Like this."
Quick as thought, she was back in his arms, her lips raised to his. His body was taut and hard, and he drew in a sharp breath.
She shivered, resisted the urge to rub against him like a cat. "Your sword, here." She called the broadsword in, placed it in his hand.
He looked down at the weapon, and his gaze flew back to hers. "Lilith," he said softly. "How did—"
"And mine."
He stiffened as the cold length of her blade pressed against his back. She drew the point up his spine, slicing his shirt but careful not to cut his flesh. With her free hand, she circled around his chest, smoothed her palm over the plane of his shoulder blade. "Your wings were here," she said. Her fingertips found the edge of the tear, and she pulled. The shirt ripped as easily as tissue. Bare, warm skin beneath. She slid her forefinger across his back, felt the shape of the bones under the sheet of muscle. "And this would have been the entry point for my sword. Between your ribs, through your heart."
She pressed on the spot, then raked her nails gently over it. The swords vanished, and he shuddered as if she'd released him from an invisible hold. "That does not absolve my—"
"I would not have regretted it." The words fell between them like drops of ice. "You have nightmares, do you not?" She knew he did, even without the confirmation in his tight nod. Impossible to have that level of guilt without it manifesting in some way. "I don't."
A wry smile touched his lips. "You don't sleep."
"I wouldn't have them even if I did. By that time, you were not worth the regret. There was nothing left of the man who'd once fascinated me, who'd ruled emotions I'd rather not have acknowledged. Yet you were still my tyrant."
His face whitened. His throat worked, and she dropped her gaze to the buttons at his collar. The top two were undone, and she began unfastening the rest.
"Will be easier for you to fulfill your bargain."
His voice was hoarse, thick. It took a moment for her to realize what he meant. She looked up from the smooth expanse of his chest. "No. That was then. Now, I would regret. Why else would Lucifer have waited so long? No reason, but for you to shed the skin of frost you wore as a Guardian, and to become Hugh again."
She pressed her hand over his heart, and he captured her wrist, held it still. "What do you need from me?" He searched her face, and she wondered what he saw there. "Do you need me to be as I was when I was a Guardian?"
She shook her head, laughing. "You cannot save me." Pushing the shirt from his shoulders, she vanished it before it hit the floor. Oh, but he was beautiful. Golden flesh, sculpted by his inner demons, and more perfect than any illusion he'd been able to create as a Guardian.
He lifted her chin. "I can try."
"I hate martyrs," she said, smiling. Her hands moved to the waistband of his jeans. Her fingers dipped in, stroked the hot, silken tip of him.
A broken, unraveling breath escaped from between his teeth, and the muscles of his abdomen stood out in sharp relief. "What is this?"
"Pride." She cupped her hand, slid down his thick length. She could have eased her way by unzipping, unbuttoning—eased the tight fit of her fist and his cock within the clothing. His groan made her glad she didn't.
"Mine?"
"No, it is mine," she said, and squeezed. Heat gathered low in her belly as he shuddered again. "Though you have reason enough to be proud."
He laughed, but it held a desperate edge, and she could feel his need to move within her grip. "Vanity." He choked on the word as she pulled upward, pumped her hand at the crown.
"Aye, vanity."
He closed his eyes, and his hips jerked once, as if he had to thrust or expire. "The book."
"Mmm, the book," she agreed, her tone teasing. She spread a bead of moisture over the head of his shaft with her thumb. Her nipples were tight, and the slow heat had become a burning ache.
She ignored it.
"You don't like the translation?" he said, and his head bowed as she circled the crown again.
Her lips pursed. "Couldn't you have reprinted it? It's humiliating. But the original is very good."
"You wish another version? A new translation?" He was shaking, with laughter and frustration.
Her eyes narrowed. "You're _allowing_ me to punish you this way, so that you feel less guilty for it."
"I hardly think"—he broke off on a gasp, clenched his teeth as she stroked down his length with pressure that bordered on the painful—"this is punishment."
"No." She released him, stepped back. If her grin was strained, she doubted he would notice. "This is."
She was disappointed, however, when he only stood stiffly, staring at her with amusement. As if his cock didn't strain and pulse, as if he weren't moments from release—she knew he was.
"I think I finally understand why Mandeville allowed himself to be tied to that wall. You make a man nearly desperate enough to drill a hole into a stone and rut."
"You aren't." He didn't even touch himself.
"I'm well-versed in this kind of frustration." He tilted his head. "My hand has been my only companion these eight hundred years. I'm glad this time it is yours."
He smiled as he approached her, lifted her palm to place a kiss in the center. Her breath caught, strangling her laughter.
"Mine are rough," he said, his voice low. "When I served d'Aulnoy, I always had a sword in my hand, practicing so that I'd be ready if he needed my weapon. And I carried the calluses with me into death, though I had not arms nor armor to take."
He smoothed his thumb across the heel of her hand, and she shivered. He still had a warrior's calluses, though he'd not lifted a weapon in years. As if divining her thoughts, he shook his head.
"These are not the same. Falling leaves its mark, but this is not one of them. This is the result of trying to forget—trying to understand—what I've done to you. And I have done naught but think of it these sixteen years. So, yes, I'm glad of your touch. Not only because it is soft, but because it _is_. I should never have rejected it."
Her gaze traced the line of his fingers, studied the contrast of tanned skin against red. He'd not been the only one who'd needed protection. She had, too—from his touch, from his kindness. There'd been safety in his rejection of her; and though she'd not known the truth behind his ability to resist her, she knew her weakness: she'd craved his touch as much as she had feared it would be her undoing. As a Guardian, he'd been safe.
But now he did not hide from her, could not hide—and the humanity that denied his protection denied hers as well. And this kindness would destroy her.
She pulled back her hand and looked away. Methodically, she began calling in weapons from her cache, placing them on the table. A sword, crossbow, rifle. She nodded toward the files. "Those are all related to the investigation." Daggers, a pair of semiautomatic pistols. Another sword. "There isn't much you don't know—except that Sanchez's mother told Preston and Taylor that she saw him leaving with you the night before she reported him missing. At least, with someone who matched your description and had a slight accent of indeterminate origin. Probably a demon. But it was reason enough for them to focus on you." She unloaded more weapons. "Take the reports with you."
"I will." He stood behind her, but she could hear the frustration in his voice. "Quite the arsenal."
"Yes." She paused, let her mind run over the remaining weapons. Took out a few more, then located her badge and ID. Her suit was on the back of the chair; she slid them inside the pocket and hung it in the closet.
When she returned to the table, Hugh was studying the pile of weapons on its surface. He reached down, slid his finger along the barrel of a pistol. "You don't need this many guns for work."
"No. I like them. And I've found they are effective against the nosferatu, as well."
"Slows them down?"
"Not much, but enough to help." She met his eyes, had to bite back a smile. "When I was allowed, that is."
"May I?" He picked up the pistol at her nod. "Michael and I used to practice with a flintlock revolver, but found it was too unreliable, and the damage too minimal to be of use." He blinked. "That was two hundred years ago."
"You should have tried them again."
He chuckled, set it back down. "The corps does not readily accept change."
"They should. Take it." She called in an extra clip. "But if you have to use it, make certain there isn't any evidence. It's registered to a man I arrested seven years ago."
Laughing softly, he shook his head. "And if I'm caught with it on my way home?"
Her lips quirked. "Run very fast," she said, but didn't argue when he left it on the table.
Next the books, and she set those on the already leaning tower beside the kitchen counter.
He squatted next to them, looked at the spines. The broad line of his naked back drew her gaze. After a moment's hesitation, she called in his robe and sword. Held them, waiting.
"These are from various public libraries," he said. Looking around the room, he realized, "All of them." He opened one of the covers, glanced back at her with a lift of his brows. "They must be overdue by now."
"I didn't check them out."
"Planning the downfall of mankind by stealing books from the library?" There was no censure in his tone, only curiosity. Then he froze, his gaze fixed on the items in her hands.
"There are no books Below. And if I take any with me in my cache, Lucifer will confiscate them. I can get away with it here because I can make the theft seem a petty pleasure. But if he realized that it was the books I enjoyed, and not the theft . . ." She shrugged. "He'd take my ability to read, and it is one of the few true pleasures left to me."
Hugh rose to his feet, his expression stark.
"I've seen him do something similar to a musician—took away the music he'd been creating in his head as an escape from the torment." She looked down at the robe, at the pile of weapons. "Everything that I need, everything that means anything to me, I leave here. I wash to rid myself of the scent that clings to me after living on Earth for a while. And then I strip away all that is human, because he hates it." She vanished her clothing, felt the instantaneous shift as she transformed.
He'd never seen the cloven feet or the scales that gleamed over her skin, but he did not flinch or look away. He stepped forward, lifted the bundle from her grasp, and dropped it to the floor beside them. The wool muffled the clank of metal against the carpet. "Lilith—"
"Do _not_ be angry on my behalf," she growled. "Do not pity me. And do not be kind to me."
"Why? Should I think you less human because of what I see now?" His gaze traveled down her length, and she fought the urge to transform back, to hide.
"Because he hates self-pity above all other things, considers it an insult to his rule. And because I must go Below, and he will decide whether to make me fulfill the terms of our bargain, and destroy you, or to Punish me for stepping into—perhaps undermining—whatever bargain he has made with the nosferatu. I must present a face that is entirely inhumane, entirely without self-pity and completely in line with his goals, or he will destroy me. I must convince him he will be better served by our bargain than by my Punishment." She looked down at her hands—claws. Twisted, with obsidian talons. "There are no other halflings like me because, at some point, they have all wished for something human, a return to what they were, and he has destroyed them all."
No, not destroyed—what he'd done to them had been worse than destruction. It was that fate Hugh had saved her from when he'd killed her. He couldn't save her from it now.
She lifted her head. His shoulders were hunched, as if in anticipation of a wound. "And when you are kind to me, when you touch me, I desire what I cannot have."
And she watched the indifference enter his eyes, his withdrawal, knowing he would make no other choice. There were few things she could depend on, but the actions of this knight she would never doubt. He would subjugate his desires for the life of another. He would slay dragons when they threatened—and when a lady asked him to let her be, he would leave.
And if his leaving was like another death, it was only because she _must_ be a dragon.
He did not feel his legs as he went down the stairs; even the weight of his duffel, increased by the files—and the sword and robe she'd stuffed in at the last moment—was nothing. There was naught to do but leave, though he would have stayed, would have...
What? Earlier, he'd thought to use her susceptibility to him to prove her humanity, but if Lucifer would destroy her for it, he could not. Would not.
Cold rain pelted his bare skin—he paused on the sidewalk, abruptly aware of his half-naked state. She hadn't returned his shirt. A short, hard laugh escaped him as he dropped the bag. On one knee, uncaring that the wet concrete soaked his pant leg, he pulled out the robe, felt the familiar wool beneath his fingers.
The rain beaded on the material, the drops glistening beneath the streetlamp.
_She'd kept it sixteen years._ Unease filled him at the realization, though he couldn't pinpoint why. Suddenly still, he examined the rough weave for stains. It had been cleaned, and he would have been glad for it had he not the sinking certainty where the blood had gone.
He let it fall back onto the canvas, wiped away the water from his face. He could not wear it again. Foolish to have worn ever worn it, when it stood for a humility he had not truly felt. An illusion, as false as her demon skin—a denial of his will to a greater purpose, a denial he'd resented, but not resisted.
And when he'd finally resisted it, he'd destroyed the one person he'd most wanted to save. Had destroyed himself.
It would have made more sense for Lucifer to have forced her into the bargain earlier, when his soul had been hard but for the cracks Savi and Auntie had—
He rose slowly to his feet, his heart thundering.
_Sixteen years._
Had Lucifer been interested in obtaining Hugh's soul, he would have acted earlier. But it was not Hugh's damnation the demon lord truly sought.
It was Lilith's pain.
Lilith knew that. The Morningstar spoke with doubled tongue; he forced Lilith to purge any humanity out of hate for its source, but wanted the pain it brought her when she could not. He'd waited sixteen years to call in the bargain as a Punishment.
But if she could convince Lucifer the bargain was not a Punishment, that she was eager to destroy Hugh, wouldn't Lucifer choose that which gave her greater pain? Would he not choose the real Punishment?
Instinct—sharp, predatory—led him back inside. She had expected him to leave, and he had; but sixteen years had not turned him into the boy he'd been before, the knight who lived for the chivalric code. Nor was he the Guardian who'd lost faith.
He was a man who needed to make certain she could not hide what she felt for him from Lucifer. When she returned from Below, he'd deal with the consequences then.
But she had to return first.
He moved with slow deliberation up the stairs, preparing. Giving himself completely over, losing himself in the memories of her—teasing, arousing—so that she would not feel the intent behind the action. He knew how to approach her, how to start, but to fully convince her . . . he had to feel his way through, find a vulnerability and exploit it.
She would hear him; and, indeed, she opened the door before he could reach for the knob—no longer in the shape she would use Below, but the form in between. The form she'd been so many nights: in the castle tower, his bedroom the night previous . . . Seattle. The black corset hugged her torso, the leather pants her legs to just below her knees. She was barefoot, and it would have made her seem vulnerable but for the sword in her hand.
He leaned against the door frame, hooked his thumb in his pocket and smiled lazily. "Shall we bargain?"
**CHAPTER 21**
_No._ The answer hovered on Lilith's tongue, but she couldn't force it past her lips. A demon had no choice but to consider a bargain, to hear the terms before rejecting it as unsatisfactory. He knew that. She eyed him warily, distrusting his stance, his smile, the impenetrable psychic block around his thoughts. And she distrusted herself, for the skip of her heart when she'd heard him returning. Would that she'd had more time, to banish the pain of his leaving, the lingering arousal.
As if he felt her probe, his blocks disappeared, leaving her mind awash with images of heat and raw sexual congress.
Her breath sped from her lungs, and the heavy, liquid melting she had suppressed weakened her knees, leeched the strength from the limbs she'd determined would be as steel.
"You have nothing to interest me," she said, but her eyes made her a liar. She couldn't look away from him, from the dark hair wet and tousled, as if he'd run his hand through it to shake off the rain. The drops that clung to his cheeks, ran in rivulets down his shoulders and chest, beside the bronze nipples puckered by the cold; she wanted to follow that trail with her fingers, her lips, her tongue.
Vanishing her sword, she turned away. And immediately realized it was a mistake when he stepped into the room, set his bag down, and shut the door. Locked it.
He had not taken her response as acquiescence, but had taken advantage of her reluctance to fight, to argue. She had retreated from a defensible position, and he'd claimed it for his own.
"Coward," he said softly.
Gathering herself, she looked over her shoulder and slanted him a wry smile. "Self-preservation is not completely divorced from cowardice, as you well know."
"Aye."
The guttural assent sent a tremor through her stomach. He'd discarded his accent, the language of his birth hundreds of years before, but it bled through when he was deeply affected or harassed.
Or aroused.
The memory of the feel of him, his hard length, lingered on her palm; she flexed her fingers against it. She refused to glance down, to see the physical evidence of that assent. Did not need to see it: he projected it as clearly as a child.
She stood still, silent as he approached and stopped a breath away.
"It was the first name you called me: coward." A gentle smile curved his mouth as he touched a curl above her ear, but the softness of his expression, his action, did not deceive her: she could feel the heat within him. "For not making sport of Mandeville. For caring more of a comfortable situation than obtaining power over him."
"Yes, and look what it got you: a freezing post on the allure and a sword through the heart." Her tone mocked him, but he only raised his gaze to hers, a hint of triumph rolling through his psychic scent.
"You offered me a bargain that night on the wall walk, my lady—a bargain I was a fool to have rejected. I will accept it now."
She shook her head. "It is not still—"
He halted her denial by placing her hand against his skin, drawn tight by cold and rain. "You can burn me with hellfire. What has changed that you would withdraw the offer? Are you so different you cannot sit on a man's lap without it being a kindness?"
It was a challenge—a trap, though she couldn't see his purpose. She withdrew her hand. "I am as I always have been," she said, and it took all of her control to keep the trembling inside her from manifesting outwardly. He would kill her with this; did he not see that?
He lowered his head. "I see your lie," he whispered against her lips. No part of him touched her, yet she felt enveloped by him, surrounded. Under siege.
Did he seek her surrender or her resistance?
"You cannot. You're no longer Gifted—" She wasn't making sense, couldn't think as his mouth skimmed down the side of her neck, still not touching her but for the warmth of his breath.
He straightened. His gaze was cold, hard. "I see your lie," he repeated.
He pivoted and strode toward her table; shaken, she stared as he sifted through the items there. Perhaps he could still see Truth, perhaps eight hundred years as a Guardian had left its mark on him in ways not entirely human—
A pair of handcuffs dangled from his fingers as he turned back.
She laughed. "What do you think to do with those?"
"I think to obtain the power I once denied myself," he said, and though the reply sent prickles of unease down her spine, she let him slip them over her wrists, click them tight. She could break them if she desired. "Surely even your father would approve of it, for I intend to help you along in your bargain with him."
Was he mad? But, no, the purpose emanating from him wasn't tinged by insanity, only arousal. Curiosity and excitement—worse, anticipation—made her question breathless, "How?"
He scanned the apartment; his gaze lit on something behind her, and he began pushing her in that direction. A devilish grin creased his cheeks, flashed white teeth. "I get to play the demon. To tempt someone who has strayed from the path."
Her back hit the open closet door, the hinges squealing as her weight forced it as wide as it could go. He raised her hands, snagged the handcuff chain over the coat hook screwed to the top of the door.
"You jest," she laughed again. "And will you torture me now? Perhaps if you do so, I will be able to hate you and won't need to _pretend_ to look forward to fulfilling Lucifer's bargain."
Her laughter faded as she caught sight of his face. He closed his eyes, as if against terrible pain—but when he opened them they were filled with determination.
The wild tousle of his hair should have softened his appearance, but his features were stark, edged with desperation. His gaze pierced her like blue steel: steady, resolute. He traced the line of her jaw with his forefinger. "Now we bargain, Lilith."
Too late, she realized his humor a moment ago had been a ruse, designed to lower her guard, to allow him to position her just so. "What are the terms?" she said, her voice hoarse.
"You will resist me as I torment you, as I prove your lie and your humanity," he said. "And forcing it from you will take mine."
"It is more like a wager than a bargain." Dependent not on an action, but an outcome.
"A wager binds as closely, does it not?"
He knew it did. "You'll hurt me?" She swallowed. Though she had been joking before, it might be a way . . .
"Yes," he said, his face carefully blank, and her stomach twisted.
She jingled the cuffs. "These will not hold me."
"The wager will." His lids lowered, his psychic blocks snapped back into place. The sudden absence of his emotions left her floundering to make sense of her own. "I have seen you do this to a human; but if you haven't changed, if you are demon, it will be nothing to you."
She searched his face, could read nothing in his expression. "You know it isn't."
"Then you best fake it—as I did for centuries. If you cannot hide your response from me, how will you from the Morningstar?"
Was he trying to _save_ her? Would he never learn?
"He does not touch me." No one's touch, no one's kindness had ever affected her as Hugh's did.
"He does not have to."
She squeezed her eyes closed. He was right. "You'll destroy us both."
"It is equal consequence, then." He hesitated, and she looked up at him. "I will not hide from you, Lilith."
A reversal of their past. "And yet I must from you."
He nodded. She laughed bitterly, but could not deny the temptation of having him open to her. Finally.
And it was that temptation which decided her. "You are an imbecile to use a demon's methods."
He tipped her chin up. "I know." Pressing his lips to hers, he inhaled, as if taking her into himself. "Shift. Full demon."
It was a gentle command, one that didn't immediately register over the pleasure of that soft kiss. When it did, she smiled, shook her head. "You don't want that one; it will make this impossible for you." How could he desire the thing she became? It made her uneasy, ashamed, to think of him touching that form.
But perhaps it would be easier for him to be cruel.
"Your shape has never mattered; I have seen you in too many," he said, his eyes searching hers. "But it might be the mental defense you need. Shift."
A defense . . . she did not know that she had any against him.
But the wager had been made, so she transformed. And though he had seen her naked in this state less than fifteen minutes before, she was relieved when he told her not to vanish her clothing.
Her brows arched. "Mandeville I left with his hose around his ankles. Will you do the same to me?"
"Nay," he said, his voice rough. His hands trembled slightly as he brushed her hair back over her shoulders. "I won't leave you."
There was more meaning in his response than in her question, but she had no time to ponder what lay beneath the statement. His fingers skimmed the crimson scales on the arch of her neck, his thumbs meeting at the hollow of her throat, then running the length of her collarbone. "They are like newly blown glass." At the point of her shoulder, he traced the rounded edge of a scale with his fingertip, then circled behind, back up under her arm. "But softer here." His head dipped, and he pressed his lips to the vulnerable skin.
She clenched her jaw, her claws curling into fists over her head. So simple to break away, yet she could not. How long would he be gentle? When had he learned the torment was deeper when it followed pleasure? Had she been the one to teach him?
"Perhaps you would perform a reenactment in other ways," she said and pulled in the long, slender branch from her mental cache, let it fall to the floor. No decay in that space; it was as supple as it had been in the thirteenth century. "I striped his ass with this."
Hugh glanced down. "Perhaps you would have been better put to use preserving England's forests than whipping men with them." He cupped her bottom, lifted her against him. She gripped the hook with her hands, thought it might snap off—but, no, he easily supported her weight, her thighs alongside his hips, her wings pressed to the door.
Ridiculous, to be thrilled at his strength when hers was exponentially greater. She could kill him with a squeeze of her legs, and yet it was pleasure she wanted when she pulled him closer, hooking her ankles behind the small of his back and forcing his erection hard against her. Exquisite pressure. She grinned as he drew in a sharp breath.
He thought to play the demon? He should have chosen less capable prey.
"This is not resistance," he said.
With a lift of her hips, she stroked up and down his length. "I'll resist when you hurt me."
"I've no intention of hurting you physically." In her moment of surprise, he pushed her legs to the floor and spun her around. His weight forced her against the door, her cheek pressed tight to the wood. "I only intend to torment you, to prove your humanity." His breath was hot in her ear. "My idea of torment happens to differ from yours."
"You knew I thought—"
"That because you could not deny your human nature and save yourself, I would deny mine and be damned for it?" Gently, he bit her earlobe, then flicked his tongue across the scales behind it. She shivered, and she felt his smile against her neck. "How readily you accepted that your solution must require your pain."
"So speaks the martyr," she said bitterly.
Cool air against her nape as he lifted her hair. "Your tyrant." His fingers tugged at the lacings of her corset. The leather slowly loosened, and he eased back to slide it over her hips. Then his chest was warm against her back, wings crushed between them, his arms circling around.
She tensed her stomach muscles as he flattened his palms against her abdomen. The scales were softer there, rectangular instead of rounded. Though he couldn't see them, he would recognize their shape. They must remind him of a snake's belly, remind him of what she was.
Perhaps he was right—perhaps this body would be her best defense, despite his claim that it did not matter. It did not matter how she'd begun life; she'd been a demon for two thousand years. And demons did not feel physical arousal, took no pleasure from it.
She clung to that thought as he explored the curve of her ribs, where the scales hardened again. As his fingers traveled along the crease beneath her breasts. She did not breathe, would not expose herself. Waited for him to go further, to discover just how different this form was.
He cupped her breasts, ran his thumbs over her nipples. Pleasure shot through her, but his hiss of surprise and pain dampened it. She closed her eyes. Though she intended to laugh, her reply seemed carried on a sob. "A fine joke, is it not?"
Slight tang of blood in the air, and she felt his wariness. But he managed to express his humor, forced or not, better than she did. "Should I avoid any other portions of your anatomy?"
"All of them," she said into the door, her chest aching.
"Your teeth," he mused, as if she hadn't spoken. "Though it would be hard to kiss you with your face turned away from me, I should have liked to finally use your horns as handholds. Would almost be worth it to risk your fangs for that."
Damn him. She shook with laughter.
He laid his cheek against hers, his unshaven skin scraping, tickling. Her waistband parted as he untied the fastening. "I have missed your laugh, Lily."
Forcing away the bittersweet pleasure of that confession, she said, "You shouldn't have killed me, then." She meant it to be hard, cruel, but it escaped on a gasp as his hand slipped between black leather and blue satin.
"This is your resistance? This is your control?" His fingers stroked the moist fabric. " 'Tis a weak showing." Then his bare skin was against hers, where she was wet and soft and hot, sliding against her clit, his calluses rough on the sensitive flesh.
"There are teeth inside," she said, panting. "Sharp as razors. They slobber in anticipation, that you'll be foolish enough to—"
He parted her, pushed two fingers deep. She moaned, her head falling back onto his shoulder. Thrusting his hips forward, he captured his hand against the door, his erection hot and hard against her bottom. The action shoved his fingers further inside, ground the heel of his hand against her clit. "Grab on to the door," he growled.
She could feel him shaking behind her, the tension that held him rigid. Without a word, she flexed her claws, ripping through the hollow-core door and clinging to the holes she made.
He rocked his hips, pushed his thigh between hers to widen her stance. "I've missed your heat."
Shutting herself away from the pleasure of his thrusting hand, the slippery, rhythmic pressure against her clit became impossible. "I only pretend to enjoy this."
"I've even missed your lies," he said, laughing breathlessly against her ear. "A demon would not come."
"As I will not," she said, though the liquid ache coiled through her, wound tighter. "It's only the power of this that excites me."
He slid in a third finger, stretching, pushing. "Whose power?"
"Mine." But she could not stop herself from pressing down, to take him deeper again. "You think that if I show any human tendencies, undeniable human response, it will"—he twisted his hand gently, and she had to grit her teeth to keep the moan inside—"mean that I am good. But humans are as capable of evil—ah, fuck—"
He pulled his hand away, fell to his knees. Yanked her pants down with him, pulled them all the way off. Cheap wood shredded beneath her talons as he turned her again.
He draped her thigh over his shoulder. "Go on," he said, his voice thick with arousal. Perspiration glistened over his cheekbones, his eyes were like glittering blue stones, but he was grinning. "Persuade me that you are in control. That you have power."
She forced herself to speak evenly. To ignore how near his mouth was to her. To pretend that as he rubbed his chin against her inner thigh, it didn't send shivers over her skin. "Demonic influence does not account for the evil done by humans—most of it is of their free will. Proving that a portion of my humanity still exists will not mean I am good. That _you_ think it does gives me the advantage, the power in this."
His brows drew together. "You think I want you to be a paragon of innocence, like the countess?" A laugh rumbled from him, and he shook his head. "That is one thing I did not miss, for I don't believe I ever saw it in you. Nor did I ever want it."
"What do you want, then?" She told herself she asked so that she could deny it, to exercise that power over him. Not because his answer had shaken her, and she needed to center herself, to find something to hold to.
His lips parted, and he took a deep breath that rocked her against him, reminded her how exposed she was, wet and slick. Her legs quivered as his exhalation skimmed over her sex.
Despite that terrible vulnerability, she was dismayed when he slipped her thigh from his shoulder and stood. She tilted her head back, watched the play of emotions on his features, suddenly uncertain that she wanted an answer.
Softly, with his fingertips, he touched her chin, her lips, traced the arch of her brows. "I want you brimming with humanity, with feeling, so that Lucifer will choose to punish you for it by returning you to Earth to fulfill your bargain. I want to stop missing you. I want to wake up without nightmares and know that you are alive. You may not be good, Lilith, but you are the best thing in my life, and when you were not in it . . ." His throat worked, his gaze lowered before meeting hers again. "Does not matter if this bargain destroys me, for I did it well enough when I killed you."
There was too much in his intense blue stare to process, too much emanating from his psychic scent—except that he spoke the truth, and that it resonated within a hollow, unbearable place within her.
"You would manipulate me in this way?" Cerberus's balls, but she sounded so weak. Looked weak. Ripping the cuffs apart, she lowered her hands to his shoulders, clenched on the muscle there—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him of her strength. And still, her voice shook. "It's the worst kind of manipulation, one without lies. You play your role well, Hugh. A fine demon you make."
"Aye. You call me martyr and ascribe altruistic motives to me, but I confess I think only of myself. It's an honest manipulation, but it is a selfish one, made entirely from what I want." The corners of his mouth lifted. "Sixteen years ago, you would have been pleased."
"Sixteen years ago you said you became me, and I got a sword through the heart," she shot back, grateful for an excuse to think of anything but how his "selfish" declaration had affected her. "I've learned since then it's best not to be around those who resemble me in any way."
His gaze softened. "There are none such as you, Lilith."
"Because Lucifer has killed them all." Her hands trembled, and she took them from his shoulders lest they betray her. "You must see that you risk too much with this plan. I can't bear another Punishment."
"He has only taken your ability to shift into various human forms with it, to change your clothing. Is it so terrible not to have that power?"
"No," she said slowly. "But that is not what I speak of."
He stiffened, then lowered his forehead to hers. "All the more reason to make certain you return."
She closed her eyes, sagged back against the door. "Release me from this wager, Hugh. Let me try to convince Lucifer."
"I cannot." His lips caressed the side of her mouth.
She tried to move away as he licked her lower lip, but had no retreat. "My fangs," she breathed.
"Then I will bleed." But he lifted his head, silent until she looked up at him. "You may convince him, but if he thinks you take pleasure in destroying me, what will keep him from choosing Punishment instead? You lie too well—and you are most adept at lying to yourself. You tell yourself that there is no light without darkness, you convince yourself your role is to be the darkness so that light will exist—yet moments ago you admitted humans are fully capable of it without help from Above or Below. Do you think I don't know what you'll tell yourself as you move through that Gate? That your reaction to me was a scheme to draw my feelings for you into the open, so that you may manipulate them later, destroy me with them? That you have been a demon for so many years, it was impossible that you truly felt desire? And you would force yourself to believe it, because Lucifer will see if you do not, if it is only an illusion. But I won't allow you that lie, not when it might destroy you."
She laughed without humor. "And this is how you save me? With sex?"
"With evidence that you cannot lie away. For no matter what you say to yourself, no demon feels physical desire, nor physical release. Even you cannot rationalize it into something else."
"Release me from this wager," she said, her voice flat. "It will fail."
"If you don't return, then I will traverse the Gates of Hell to retrieve you." It was said like a vow, and she did not doubt the truth of it.
She steeled herself against it, and said harshly, "You would die. Release me."
"Then I would die sacrificing myself for another." He smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. "Perhaps Michael would turn me back into a Guardian, and I would try again."
"Release me." The pleading note in her voice terrified her.
He lowered his gaze, but not before she saw the pain that flashed across his features. "I did not truly want it to be force," he said, and turned her to face the door.
"And I didn't want it to be kindness," she said bitterly, placing her palms flat against the wood on either side of her head, the broken handcuff chains dangling. The top of the door was almost completely destroyed from her earlier response, but this time, she determined, she would resist. Shut herself away from his touch.
"At least I have never been raped by a demon," she said, her eyes burning.
"Aye," he agreed thickly. "Men can be infinitely worse."
And his hesitation was almost a cruelty, drawing out a moment that she'd rather have gotten over with quickly. She wouldn't care that it was born of the inner conflict she could feel raging within him. Unnatural for a man of his character to touch her in this way: against her will, even if by her consent—and she should not feel betrayed by it. She had given up her will long ago; it should not matter who used it against her: Lucifer, Beelzebub. And now Hugh.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, and she flinched away from the words. She pressed her wings together to block his view, block access, but he slipped his arms between the membranous folds and smoothed his hands down the length of her spine.
His groin rested against her bottom. She could no longer feel his arousal, only the breath that shuddered from his chest, his palms as he moved them around to her stomach. They slid up, cupped her breasts.
He laid his cheek against the top of her head. "The first time I saw you, I could not stop staring at these," he said softly. "I think you meant to distract me so you could make your bargain." His thumbs caressed the outer curves, moved in, strayed close to her nipples. "They are still beautiful, even tipped with these razor ruby scales. And just as dangerous."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"I kissed you then, without love or promise," he continued. "I could not do so again."
"Stop," she said, but the tightness of her throat made it a wordless sigh.
He pressed a kiss into her hair. Against her temple, where obsidian horn met crimson scales. He lifted her breasts; her nipples rasped against the wood grain. She should have laughed, it seemed so absurd, but had to bite her lip as the vibration quivered through the sharp, crystalline flesh. He must have felt her response, for he did it again.
Even that defense, he found a way around. And as if her pleasure fed his, he rocked against her, his shaft slowly hardening again. "How many times have I kissed you since? But I have never touched you thus, though you would have bargained for it, or tricked me into it." His left hand trailed down the line of her belly, circled her navel. "And I would have, but for the bargains and tricks. In Paris, you stood before me with auburn hair and a courtesan's body, and I would have traded the secrecy of our kind for a night in your arms." His voice roughened. "But it was not secrets I wanted, and so I declined, and kept my desires hidden."
She did not breathe, held herself still as his fingers drifted further down, traced the crease between torso and thigh. If she could have stopped the tell-tale pounding of her heart, she would have.
"Open for me, Lily."
She did not, clenching her thighs so tightly she shook with the exertion. No need for that much effort, except that she did not trust herself, did not trust her body to respond to her will. And despite her resistance, he slid the tip of his finger into the part of her with no defense at all—just enough to reach the small, erect organ at its peak.
As if to distract her, he swept her hair to the side, bit the curve of her neck. Followed it with a lick of his tongue. Then he gently rubbed her clit.
Her knees buckled, but he caught her, held her up with his arm around her waist. His erection was thick and hard behind her now, insistent, yet he did not remove that last article of clothing.
She should not want him, naked and hot against her. Should not desire him within her.
"Open for me, Lily."
He worked his hand deeper between her thighs, her arousal easing his way. Wet, slick—she should not be. Her body did not need its breath, and yet she was panting with each stroke of his fingers. His scent surrounded her, and she took him in with each inhalation; he was inside her, had been for centuries.
This body should not be soft, should not be yielding.
And yet she was.
The constriction in Hugh's chest, the thick ache in his throat began to lessen as she slowly parted her legs, let him in. He tightened his arm around her waist, forcing himself to ignore the painful rise of his erection, the exquisite torture of feeling her against him, but knowing he could not have her. Not like this.
She made no sound but for her rapid breathing, did not move but for the shaking that had taken over her upon his first command to open.
_This_ was gluttony, to move his fingers inside her, and take more. She was hot, her inner muscles welcoming him. He did not need to invade her like this, could bring her release just by stroking her clit, but still he marauded, claimed. And it must be vanity, to swell unbearably when the first mew of pleasure broke from between her clenched teeth, when she began to writhe back against him, as if the thrust of his hand was not enough. Theft, to take what was not his, and call it his own.
He set his jaw, leaned his forehead against her nape. God, but she was soft; he'd never imagined her so. Made his hardness doubly profane.
_I will not,_ he swore—it was selfishness that had brought him to this, but he would not take his own pleasure now.
Yet he had to acknowledge it for a lie; there _was_ pleasure in this, ecstasy in the slick glide of his fingers, her weight against his arm—even in the frustration of denying his own release. And he sought hers, more quickly now, because he felt himself weakening.
He had never been good at resisting temptation.
"Lily," he urged, "come for me now."
She made a sound, and he could have wept when he recognized the denial. _Please, please._ He did not voice it, but his thumb, strumming over her clitoris in quick firm strokes, took up the same refrain: _please, please_. His fingers, thrusting within her: _please, please._
She reached back between them; it was an awkward angle, but she reached and her palm ran the length of his cock.
"No, Lilith—" He broke off, sweat beading over his forehead, dotting his lip with the effort it took to hold his hips still. She supported herself now, did not need his arm, but he kept it around her for fear that did he have an idle hand, he would unbutton and unzip and force himself inside her.
Her strong fingers tore the button free, ripped the zipper down. The sudden release of pressure against his shaft was both relief and torment. Cotton shredded beneath her sharp talons, and then there was bare skin, and wet slick heat.
"Please, Hugh." And that seemed torn from her as well, but he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, focused on the feel of her beneath his hand instead of the delicious, tortuous rasp of smooth scales and burning softness against his cock. "Please," she moaned as he plucked at her clit, as the first tremors shuddered through her. "Please," as her back arched, as her inner muscles clenched around his fingers, as her wings stretched wide and fluttered, vibrated.
His chest heaved, his skin drawn tight and hot as she relaxed against his forearm. Then she moved, rising and arching with another shuddering gasp, and the movement lodged him between her thighs, the head of his shaft pressing against his fingers, still buried within her. He tensed, shaking. Just one more moment of selfishness, he wouldn't . . .
He wouldn't.
But he withdrew his hand, slid forward with a groan. Heat, hot, hellfire, and only around the very tip of him, but it clasped him, drew him in. Only an inch, now two, but it was the most exquisite burning. "Lilith," he said, his eyes closing, his voice pleading. "Deny me." _For I can not deny myself._
She could; their wager was done, he had gained what he'd wanted—her release, and it had torn him apart, that façade of kindness, of _right_ ; no good man would do this. Yet she didn't push him away, held herself still as he worked slowly deeper, deeper.
He felt huge within that tight silken grip, powerful as she yielded and stretched around him. Bowing his head, he thrust all the way in, trembling. He'd used the devil's tools, and they'd worked on him in turn, made him this. Or he had always been this. Tears stung, and he opened his eyes, blinked them away. "Lily—"
"Again. Do it again." A sobbing breath. "If you are going to destroy me, then don't make me settle for half."
He hesitated, and she gripped the top of the door with both hands, lifted herself. The dragging slide of her withdrawal ripped a moan from his throat, and he pushed her back down; unbearable to be outside her. Another long stroke. And again—deep, hard. Her scales rippled, smooth pale skin fading in and out. She cried out her triumph, her pleasure, and he gave himself over to his own, whatever it meant he was.
Only certain that he was hers.
**CHAPTER 22**
He wore the robe.
There was nothing left of his clothing but shreds on her apartment floor; he left them behind—the wool was better suited for flying through rain, anyway.
She held him securely against her, cradling him as if he were an overgrown child. He'd carried her thus once, when a nosferatu had torn her throat out and left her too weak to fight or fly on her own. Panicked, he'd clutched her to his chest until he'd found a Healer—Colin's friend—one of the Guardians Hugh had been mentoring. If that Guardian had refused to heal her, Hugh might have killed him—but it had not come to that, and he'd never been tested in that way again. Perhaps he should have been; it had only taken two hundred years to forget that panic, to shove it deep inside himself, and forget how it had tortured him to see her hurt. "I should drop you."
"Aye," he agreed. He would have agreed to anything she said, so long as she spoke to him. After her last, shuddering cry, everything she'd said had been a threat. But they'd been without force or anger, as if her vulnerability was a surprise—as if she were as frightened by her loss of control as he was his.
It was a fear he welcomed.
Below, the streetlamps along Haight Street guided them through the city toward Colin's house; they had to fly below the cloud cover to see them—risky, though the chance of detection was slim. "It was a good tactic, the diversion you created at Beaumont Court to save Colin's sister."
"It wasn't to save her," she said. "I enjoyed skewering you. I should do it again."
He rubbed his chest, remembering. "The nosferatu didn't expect it."
"Nor did you."
"No." He smiled. "Your letter from Polidori was not so successful a diversion."
"I should drop you," she said again, but her arms tightened.
Colin looked at Hugh and grimaced. "Good God, the horror. I'm too ashamed to invite you in."
Lilith pushed past them both, striding through the door and into the foyer. "Be ashamed then. And find him something to wear; something warm, as he's probably freezing. He's always freezing," she said on a mutter. Hugh began laughing, and she hastily added, "That thing doesn't fit him anymore. It looks ridiculous." The sleeves too short, the hem above his ankles. Though still lean and strong, as he'd been when a Guardian, his shoulders were broader; she'd clutched at them as he'd driven within her. He was taller, only an inch or two, but it had given him the height to find exactly the right angle, thrusting so deep . . .
She took a breath, released it slowly. It was best, she decided, not to think about why he wasn't in his clothes. Best not to look at him at all; it was too strange, a mature Hugh, the one who had drawn more from her than she'd felt in two thousand years—ever—in that brown monk's robe.
A familiar scent hung in the air. She paused, glanced back at Colin, then gestured to the ceiling. "Oh. Is she still up there?"
His eyes wide, Colin nodded.
Grinning, Lilith looked at Hugh. "He tied Selah up in his bedroom and has been feeding from her for two days."
"Is that so?" His gaze lit on her, and she warmed to it before she could remind herself to be distant, to be cold. "I don't suppose he was the one who caught her, though."
"She trespassed," Colin said with an arch of his brow, clearly thinking that he needed to defend Lilith's actions—not realizing she needed no defense with Hugh. Not in this, at least.
Hugh's lips twitched, but his eyes were quiet, solemn. "As we all do."
He did not have to apologize; she knew what it had done to him to take her that way. Her throat tightened.
Colin sniffed the air, grimaced. "You smell like a human. And I wish you'd let me know you'd been one; perhaps then I wouldn't have been so frightened of you."
She turned, her eyes glowing bright. "Did you know about that ridiculous book? And didn't tell me?"
"Yes." He grinned unrepentantly. "I didn't want you to steal it from me."
She bit back her laugh, turned away, and walked toward the stairs. In less than an hour, she had to be through the Gate, and she couldn't go like this; she needed to wash, though she could not erase him from her skin. She needed to find disdain, anger and hate. But she searched within herself and could not. Not for Hugh, anyway.
Sir Pup bounded toward her when she opened the bedroom door, and she lauded compliments upon him for his fine Guardian-watching. Selah was awake, and her face suffused with color when she saw Hugh.
"Well done," he said dryly, nodding. His gaze ran over the chains, the manacles holding her to the bed. "It is a fine thing, to see a student excel."
The Guardian's blush deepened, but her eyes were bright with anger and disbelief. "You would align yourself with this demon?"
Mentor and student stared at each other; Lilith buried her face in the hellhound's fur. There was an undercurrent, a knowledge between the two she could feel but not penetrate.
"With _this_ one, aye," he finally said. He accepted the pile of clothes Colin brought from the dressing room. He began pulling on the pants beneath the robe, casually, as if unaware how his declaration tore through Lilith, sharper than a sword.
Sir Pup whimpered and licked her face with multiple tongues. "Come on," she said, and stood. She could not look at Hugh, not at that moment—so she looked at Colin and saw his wonder; damn him, he studied faces, and he would see too much in hers. "I'll feed him now, but I'm leaving him with you again. Take care of him or I'll kill you."
She didn't wait for his nod or his argument, but left the room quickly, the hellhound at her heels. Colin's self-portraits lined the hallway, and she ignored his knowing stare, just as she had in the bedroom. Bare feet sounded behind her; she could have outrun him. Could have, but still turned at the sound of his voice.
"Lily." Hugh stood, pulling up his zipper, the robe hiked over his hip. The sweater Colin had given him trailed from his other hand. His hair was damp again, wild from the flight; his dark lashes spiked, intensifying the blue of his eyes.
She should not see Caelum in them. Not heaven.
"You look like an imbecile." He looked beautiful. She stalked toward him, and he did not flinch, even when Sir Pup growled and slavered beside her. As given to dramatics as she was, her hellhound. She gripped the neckline of the robe, ripped it down the center of his torso. "I hate this fucking thing."
"I do, too," he said, laughing. "Take it, throw it into the Lake of Fire." Catching her hand, he brought it to his mouth and pressed his lips to center of her palm. Still smiling, but his eyes were dark now. "And come back to me. I'll find a way to free you again, Lilith, I swear it. Just come back."
She yanked her hand away, and rose up, slanting her mouth over his before he could move. Delved deep, capturing the flavor of him. Holding it tight and pushing it down within herself; then, abruptly, she pulled away. "I do not promise," she said, breathing hard.
He touched his lips, where the moisture from their kiss lingered. "This is enough."
_It is nothing._ Her hand clenched, but she did not speak; he would know her denial for a lie. She walked away, her heart thudding painfully.
She could not love him. Would not love him.
Should not love him.
She did not turn around, or look back. Of course she didn't. Hugh let out the breath he'd been holding, then shrugged out of the remains of his robe. Slipped into the sweater, smiling to himself.
"Lilith left a satchel for you in the room," Colin said from behind him, then strode past him toward the stairs. "Green canvas. Ugly."
Hugh's smile faded. Without a word, he returned to the bedroom and shut the door behind him.
He watched as Selah looked up at him and disappeared from the bed; the chains that had been holding her fell back against the coverlet. Hugh waited, and she reappeared a few moments later beside him.
_Why?_ He gestured with one hand. A modified version of British Sign Language—one of the changes the Guardian Corps had been willing to incorporate over the years to allow silent communication amidst creatures with preternatural hearing.
_The Doyen said to protect them,_ she signed back, her mouth twisting. _The vampire would have let me stay if I had flattered him, but you know Lilith would have soon as killed me as accept my help._ She shrugged, and pointed to her neck with a grin. "It hasn't been all bad, but his vanity knows no bounds."
_He's neither as shallow nor as useless as he appears,_ Hugh warned. _Nor harmless. Where is Michael now? Why protection? Is there a specific threat against them?_
_Looking for the nosferatu; he's been tracking them, trying to determine the demons' and nosferatu's movements, make some sense of them. And not a specific threat—just that they have tried to attack the vampire several times, only to be chased off or killed by the hellhound. Michael believes the nosferatu are aware of your relationship to the vampire, will use it against you or her in some way, or else there is no reason to focus on him._ Her head tilted, as if she listened to a conversation Hugh couldn't hear. "Are they truly friends? They are squabbling like children over the cost of keeping the dog."
"Yes." Hugh rubbed the back of his neck and kneeled beside the bag. The files were in the white envelope at the bottom. He reached in past the swords, and his fingers brushed cold, thick metal. The gun she'd offered at her apartment, and he'd refused. "She shows her affection in unusual ways," he murmured.
He pulled it out, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and stuck it into the back of his waistband. He'd have to give it to Colin before he went home; should the police ever decide to search his house, he didn't want it among his things.
Selah sat on the floor next to him, again in his line of sight. A frown marred her brow. _You didn't tell her I could have 'ported out of the chains at any time._
Hugh paused with the envelope half-opened, raising both brows in an expression of disbelief. _Do you want a demon—on her way to Hell—to have fresh memories of you and your Gift? You and Michael are the only two to move between realms without the use of the Gates; Lucifer would not dare attack Michael to gain use of that power, but a young Guardian?_
_Do you not trust her?_
_I think that Lilith will do whatever it takes to return to Earth. I trust her to act in her own interest, and perhaps in mine; I don't expect her to extend the same courtesy to you._
_But you could have given it to her to use as a bargaining chip._
His smiled turned bleak. _If she is forced to resort to bargaining with Guardian powers, then it is too late to save her; it would buy her but little time._
Selah sighed, cocked her head to the side again. "She is gone; the vampire is on the stairs, coming this way."
His chest tightened. Gone. And her position so precarious; had he made the right decision, to force her to respond to him? He felt Selah's searching stare, the question she did not ask. "No. I'm not the man you knew."
"In some ways, perhaps," she said dryly. "But your loyalties lie in the same place."
"Has it always been so apparent?" He held her gaze.
"Yes. Not any individual thing you said or did; but after hundreds of years of failing to kill her, it was clear there was more than simple rivalry between you. We knew saving her had become your obsession. None of us were surprised when you chose to Fall after finally slaying her."
His throat closed and he nodded. Blankly, he looked down at the envelope in his hands.
"You killed her because she's a demon and you no longer cared to make the effort to save her, but discovering she was once human has made her worth fighting for?" Colin said from the doorway, sarcasm lending an edge to his question. The hellhound padded past him, sniffed Hugh's bag as if searching for a treat.
_I remembered that I was human,_ he thought. But he only glanced at the vampire with mild reproof. "Don't be an ass."
"She's going Below," Colin said. "And she reeks of you and of her emotions."
Hugh rocked back on his heels, rose to his feet. "Think like a demon instead of a man. What would you do if you wanted to hurt her?"
Colin stared at him, then crossed his arms, shaking his head. "You manipulative bastard," he said, with a touch of admiration.
But Selah's voice held disappointment. "I am glad I did not learn _this_ from you."
"Perhaps I should have taught you," he said tightly. "Perhaps the corps would not be cowering before a horde of nosferatu and beaten down by demons had we not spent centuries upholding impossible ideals. We were men, not angels. It was why we were created, and yet we put ourselves above men anyway, put our code above their lives."
Selah's eyes glowed, brilliantly blue. "No. We were created because Michael failed to protect your demon from Lucifer."
Hugh stared at her.
She looked away, as if ashamed she'd revealed that much. "Don't try to go this alone, Hugh. You may think you have no use for us, or our ways, but a complete reversal from our _impossible ideals_ is not going to save her, either."
His muscles like ice, Hugh took a step forward. "What—"
The hellhound growled softly, his heads swinging toward the window.
At the same moment, Selah frowned, turning to face the same direction. Her sword appeared in her hand.
"Bloody hell," Colin said. He streaked across the room, opened a cupboard. Weapons lined the interior. "The basement is most easily defended." He slung an automatic rifle over his shoulder, and reached in again, selecting two rapiers.
"Six or seven nosferatu. And a demon." Selah glanced at Colin, then Hugh. "You can't fight them. I'll get you out of here."
Colin snorted. "You'll leave me here to be killed—and after I treated you so well?"
"We'll go to the basement," Hugh said. Demons liked to talk, to brag; they might be able to find out part of their plan if they allowed them enough time. "Selah, take these." He tossed the files to her, and they vanished midair. He knelt, pulling his weapons from the duffelbag; the Japanese swords felt light in his hands, and he smiled grimly. Hopefully, the nosferatu would not get so close he had to use them. "And the rest."
His broadsword and bag disappeared. He glanced at the hellhound. The dog shook his heads, and he had but a moment to see Sir Pup transform—terrifyingly huge, barbed spikes ripping from beneath his fur—before Selah lifted him and they sped downstairs. A crash of broken glass and splintering wood behind them. Colin groaned, but the sound was overwhelmed by the tortured screams of a nosferatu, and the eerie chorus of growls from the hellhound.
Concrete walls ringed the basement; Colin barred the steel door. It wouldn't hold the nosferatu or demon back for long, but it would allow time to set up a defense.
The basement was almost empty; only a few boxes and portrait-sized crates lay stacked on the cement floor. "There are more weapons in that trunk." Colin pointed to the far wall.
"We should have brought the hound down with us," Selah said.
"He chose not to come," Hugh said, and strode to the furnace. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet. "Lilith will have taught him to take out as many as possible before they can reach us. Is this gas?" If it was, it could be a useful weapon—
"Coal," the vampire said. At Hugh's look, he shrugged. "I don't need heat."
"And you're too cheap for updates," Hugh muttered, but he couldn't stop his grin. He met Colin's eyes as the door bent inward with an earsplitting screech. Another nosferatu screamed, and was cut short by a wet, tearing crunch. Sir Pup's triumphant howl reverberated through the house.
Colin returned his grin, his swords ready at his sides. "I adore that dog."
Hugh did, too.
But even a three-headed hellhound couldn't be everywhere, and it did not surprise him when the pounding at the door stopped, replaced by a pounding on the ceiling at the opposite side of the house.
"They're coming through the floor upstairs," Selah said, and all three moved back, toward the trunk Colin had indicated earlier. _Should we 'port?_ she signed.
Hugh shook his head, tucked one of his swords under his arm to sign, _Not until we must; this may be our only opportunity to find out more information. Remember, I'm safe from the demon, and we have the advantage of your Gift. They think we are trapped_.
"What are you two doing?" Colin stared at Hugh's hand, his brows drawn together. "What are you saying?"
Hugh gripped the hilt of his sword again. "I said"—a taloned fist punched through the ceiling, raining down wood and insulation—"let them come."
**CHAPTER 23**
The bridge swayed as another gust of wind ripped through the bracings, howling across the diagonal ribwork of steel. Lilith clung to the girders with her feet, letting her body swing, her hair whip around her. Below, waves slapped against the center mooring, the froth and caps white against the nighttime water.
This was beauty, man-made and natural. The symmetry of the bridge, the glittering San Francisco skyline, the dark rise of Angel Island in the distance. Beauty that drew millions—but it was only a thousand or so who had helped create the Gate beneath. Thirty years before, the Gate hadn't been there. But she'd seen it happen before: a site of despair and death, combined with the anger and frustration of a city, and slowly the fabric of the location changed, began to resonate differently. The temple where she'd met Hugh all those years ago had been such a Gate, though rarely used, and the energy reeking of sacrifice rather than suicide.
But violent death, no matter its form, left its mark. Here, mid-span, the fall was over seventy yards from bridge to water. A quick death. And there had been over a thousand quick deaths in the past century. Though none of them had been provoked by demons, it still served them well.
She sighed, and the wind stole it away. A mental probe verified the Gate's location directly beneath her; she could sense it as easily as her cache, feel its shape and size—but still, she did not fall. There was no reason to wait, no reason to wonder if it was death or something else that had shaped Caelum's Gates. No reason to remember the many times she'd followed Hugh to one, watched him disappear through it—yet had been unable to sense or use it herself.
The memory did not bring her as much pain as it had once; and there was no reason to wrap her arms around herself, relive his touch, and recall how everything had faded against the pleasure of it.
But she was still upside down, clinging to the steel and feeling the vibration of wind and traffic through her, when she heard the distinctive clank of boots against metal, the squeal of brakes and shouts for help. She closed her eyes. If he waited long enough, there were people who were trained for this, who might be able to talk him down—
Someone screamed, and Lilith swung over, hard, stretching her wings and bracing against the impact. He slammed into her, and she fell with him, rolling over and over until her wings caught air and she lifted them up, up. Cerberus's balls, she was going to be seen. Around, the other side of the bridge, and she threw him onto the pavement between two stalled vehicles, barely remembering to take her human form before she straddled him, slapped him across the face.
He stared up at her, his eyes wide and stunned. Sixteen years old, maybe. She slapped him again, leaned in close to growl, "You stupid little shit! Are you dying, wasting away? Did you kill your mother or rape your baby sister? Have you torn your girlfriend's head off and smashed her body to pieces? Is it that fucking _bad_?"
"No," he choked, and began to cry. Horns blared, drivers pissed off that traffic had stopped for something as routine as a jumper. Small wonder a portal to Hell had opened beneath them.
"Come here again when you do, and I'll push you myself. There are things like me waiting for you down there, waiting to eat your flesh and suck the marrow from your bones." Her eyes were illuminating his face, glinting red off his tears. Her voice softened. "And get some help, for fuck's sake."
Sirens from the north; she stood and looked at the crowd that had circled them. A man crossed himself and backed away, and it was then she realized that though she'd taken her human form, she hadn't vanished her wings.
"A miracle," another woman breathed.
The boy sobbed on the road, his cheeks bright from the abuse she'd given him. Her eyes were glowing crimson and her wings were visible for everyone to see. Suddenly tired, Lilith shook her head. The man retreating in fear was closer to the truth. There was nothing good in this, in what she'd just done.
Was not a higher power that had kept her there, delaying until she saved the boy. It had been Hugh. She'd been thinking of him, which was exactly the opposite of what she should have been doing, if she wanted to save herself.
She backed up, leapt over the rail; there were no screams, only the pounding of feet as they rushed to the side, as if to see what she did.
She hit the icy water, and vanished through the Gate.
The huge, handsome man who came through the ceiling smiled, but the two nosferatu behind him did not. Hugh preferred the honesty of the nosferatu.
From upstairs came another crash and howl; one of the nosferatu flinched. But the demon only shook his head, as if the hellhound was a mild annoyance. "Dr. Castleford, I presume?"
Colin choked on a laugh. He knelt beside and just in front of Hugh, the rifle raised to his shoulder. Selah held her swords ready on his other side.
"Beelzebub." Hugh nodded his acknowledgment, though he was just as tempted to mock the demon. They relied on clichés whenever in their human form; Lilith had not, except to twist them, but then she didn't need to simulate human expression.
He'd known that, but like many other times, had ignored the evidence in front of him.
Beelzebub's face changed, and Hugh quickly pushed all thoughts of Lilith away. Too late.
"Ah, sweet, delicious halfling," Beelzebub said. "She has betrayed you. I was most pleased when she told us your location. It's too bad she has to pay homage to our liege, or she would have personally enjoyed your surrender and deaths."
Behind the demon, the nosferatu shifted impatiently. They did not want talk; they wanted to fight, to kill.
Hugh smiled. "You do not lie well."
As intended, the insult sparked the demon's temper. His eyes began to glow. "Do you think, human, that because she fucked your brains out that she loves you for it?"
Colin began shaking with laughter. Selah shot him a quelling glance.
"Do you know why she helps us? Because she is a worm, full of fear. Because I once cut her to pieces as Punishment, and she will do anything to avoid that pain again. She'll do what we ask, including helping us procure your loved ones for the ritual. She has already given us two more."
Truth and lies; difficult to separate them, when his blood pounded at the thought of Beelzebub torturing her—that had been truth. Who had been taken? Could he find them, stop it? "I think you had to Punish her because you cannot control her," Hugh said, his voice carefully contained. Shift the focus from Lilith, from any students who might be in danger. "Just as you barely control the nosferatu with you."
He did not need psychic sensitivity to feel the way the nosferatu bristled, nor the demon's sudden wariness.
"Not subservient," the one on the left said, his voice guttural.
"Ah," Colin nodded. "That is why you wait for his signal to attack us. Because you are not subservient."
Nothing worse for a nosferatu than to be mocked by a vampire, yet it did not move. Colin slanted a glance back at Hugh, the understanding between them clear. Beelzebub _did_ control the nosferatu, either through a bargain or some other agreement . . . and the nosferatu hated it, but would agree to subject themselves to the demon to gain the power offered. What was worth that trade? The ability to transform into human shape? Daylight?
It did not seem enough—not when two nosferatu could stand outside a burning club and pass as human. And darkness was not so terrible when human advancement could make it bright as day.
Beelzebub spread his hands. "We three have equal opportunity; one of you for each of us. And each of us likes to play with our things."
"And those still upstairs?" There couldn't be many left.
"They will have to lick the remains," the demon said, smiling again. "And then perhaps we will travel to your house, and they will feast on the girl there."
Savi. Hugh tensed, but he kept his voice even. "Do I have anything to persuade you otherwise?" This must have been what the demon had been waiting for—Hugh had something he wanted. It was the only reason to threaten Savi; the demon would probably try to bargain for her life.
"Submit to the ritual." The demon smiled, and he indicated the two nosferatu with a sweep of his hands. "I have friends who desperately want to tear the girl apart, but they will settle for you."
A lie. No doubt they would enjoy killing Savi, but they _needed_ Hugh. It would not be settling.
"Why?"
"Is always better when the sacrifice is willingly made. The power of free will," Beelzebub said.
That was truth. Selah gave him a warning glance, and he understood; they were running out of time, and the nosferatu out of patience.
Hugh shook his head. "No."
His denial snapped whatever had held the nosferatu back; Colin began firing. Selah held out her hand, ready to teleport them to safety. Hugh's fingers brushed hers, and then he was knocked back, slammed against the concrete wall. Not the demon, who couldn't have killed him—the nosferatu stared down at him with burning eyes. Just enough time for a quick slash; the nosferatu howled in surprise as his belly opened—he'd not expected a human to have Hugh's speed. The creature's hand shot out, connected. Dark spots swam before Hugh's eyes and he felt himself fall, the swords slipping from his grip.
Dimly, he heard the rifle fire cease, and the second nosferatu's angry cry as Colin went to work with his blades.
The nosferatu's teeth sank into his neck; unlike a vampire's bite, no pleasure in this, but a dark tearing through his mind. He heard the demon yell for the nosferatu not to kill him, wondered if the creature was going to listen.
His lower back ached, throbbed where he'd landed on Lilith's gun.
God, but he loved her.
The nosferatu eased back, grinning, his lips rimmed with Hugh's blood. "And we will have her, too."
Arrogant and proud creature—bragging in the midst of a fight, even when victory seemed assured, was a terrible habit. It did not give Hugh a lot of time, but enough to slip out the gun and pull the trigger.
The safety was on. Hugh fumbled with the unfamiliar weapon. Hard to say who was more surprised, Hugh thought, as the nosferatu's eyes widened before he trapped Hugh's hand to the floor, and began laughing.
Sir Pup cut his laughter short. The hellhound took the nosferatu's head in one mouth, and clamped down on each arm with the others. The nosferatu's body jerked. A sickening crunch, and Hugh rolled out of the way of the gush of fluid, swayed as he climbed to his feet. "Selah," he said, the sound barely escaping his damaged throat, and he had to lean against the hellhound for support.
Colin was retreating from the nosferatu, slowly wearing against the creature's superior strength. Selah glanced over at the vampire, ducked a slice from Beelzebub's sword, and dived for Hugh, her wings outstretched as if to block him from the demon's sight.
He needed to see that Savi was still safe. Selah grabbed his arm, and he rasped, "Savi," opening his mind to give her an anchor, though his blood would have been enough.
The world spun around him, and they crashed onto a table; it collapsed under their combined weight, sending metal and plastic skittering across the floor. Pain seared through his side, but he forced himself to remain conscious, look around.
From her small kitchen, Savi stared at him, a shattered teacup at her feet. Her mouth was drawn tight with fear and disbelief, and the remnants of grief.
Someone was sitting at breakfast bar, but he couldn't focus. Auburn hair. He knew—
"Hugh," Selah said urgently, "I need to get you to a Healer."
He shook his head, the movement an agony. "Colin first."
She nodded tightly, flicked a glance at Savi and the woman, and disappeared.
"Hugh? How the fu—ohmygod." Savi fell to her knees next to him, yanked up his sweater and pressed it to the wound at his throat. "What the hell is going on? What was that?" She glanced over her shoulder, and began whispering, frantic. "The cops are searching your place. They have a warrant—Javier . . . and Sue—they're both dead."
Other hands touched him. Taylor. Detective. Talking into a phone, a civilian down.
"Stay with the police," he said to Savi, not even sure she heard him. "Don't be alone."
She nodded, tears streaking her face. "Okay. Okay." And more voices now, but they were fading. No—
He was.
Colin stumbled and it saved his head from being split in two, and the nosferatu's blade slashed his cheek open instead. It would heal, but only if Sir Pup stopped playing with that demon and killed the nosferatu, because it didn't look like Colin was going to last much longer—
But the nosferatu paused, and Colin realized that the demon had given the creature a command in some unrecognizable language.
"Your friends have abandoned you, vampire."
There was a sickening clench in his gut as Beelzebub spoke again, and the nosferatu laughed. The hellhound lay on his side, whimpering, the demon's sword through its belly. _Oh, no. No, no, no._
But he forced himself to speak evenly, though the scent of Hugh's blood, the hellhound's blood, his own blood maddened him. "So they have." He smiled, his most charming expression, but could not hide his fangs. "Would you like to strike a bargain?"
Delaying, forcing the demon to wait to hear the terms; he could not believe he was going to end this way, in his basement, surrounded by ugliness and death. But why would the Guardian come back for him? Hugh was injured, badly, and Colin had spent two days sucking the lifeblood from her. "You have nothing we want; vampires are good for nothing but feeding their betters." The demon smiled. "It is another type of halfling that interests us."
_What kind of halfling?_ he wondered, and said: "But I'm extraordinarily handsome." He used the demon's flummoxed pause to leap forward, avoiding the nosferatu as best he could. Take out the demon first—the nosferatu was but a lackey, a valet, waiting for instructions from his master. No way to get out of this, might as well do as much damage as—
Selah appeared in front of him, and he slammed into her. He would have laughed and kissed her on the mouth as they teleported, as the world ripped away from around them, but something went wrong. Her eyes were wide and blue, and he could not see his reflection in them—but he saw the sudden horror and fear.
He recognized this place. "Don't look, don't listen," he said, his throat tightening. "Try again. Keep on trying." _Just please don't leave me here._
The nosferatu and demon would have been preferable to this.
Lilith fell through the Gate with a rush of seawater, landing atop a stinking pile of—
It didn't bear thinking about.
No guards at this Gate, or in this territory. She glanced around, orienting herself. Barren, with red sand and crimson sky—it hadn't always been so. One thousand years ago, before the war between Belial and Lucifer, this had been one of the few _almost_ pleasant territories Below.
But Lucifer had reshaped it after Belial had claimed the territory abutting this one, erasing temples and fountains, and setting loose packs of hellhounds to keep the rebellion from encroaching further into Lucifer's holdings.
Lilith quickly took to the sky; the hellhounds didn't differentiate between Lucifer's followers and Belial's, and it would be suicide to stay on the ground for long. Whatever she had landed in had probably fallen prey to them.
No, that wasn't right—hellhounds wouldn't have left any carrion. So it had been killed by something else; whatever it was, she didn't want to meet it. After the Second Battle, Lucifer had never managed to call forth another dragon from Chaos, and had slowly lost access to that realm and its creatures—including the wyrmwolves, from which he'd bred his hellhounds. But the things he continued to experiment upon and create from the remnants of Chaos were almost as frightening as a dragon, and usually uncontrollable.
She flew toward the throne. Even from this distance it was easy to see, rising like a gargantuan spear from the center of Hell. If not for the demon's false corporeality, she would have thought it grossly phallic; but Lucifer had no masculinity to prove, and it was a symbol of military power in its simplest shape—and the most inescapable height. The ground Below had no curvature, and the column was visible from every corner.
Just as Belial's temples, newly built in the outlying territories, could be seen from the center though they stood not even an eighth as tall.
Perhaps men had existed as long as they had because the horizon and poor eyesight saved them from perpetual insult. Lilith grinned, trying to imagine Earth if all men, instead of a few in power, were constantly aware of their enemies' progress, and continually measured it against their own. Demons had not been blessed with such happy ignorance, and war had decimated the population on both sides. Unsurprising that many demons had gone rogue, or chose to live on Earth in whatever capacity they could, whether congressman or FBI lackey.
Much better than here, where the stink of death permeated everything. Lucifer's empyreal throne: built on rot, gilded by deceit. His cities had deteriorated since last she'd come Below. Though a simple thing for him to reconstruct them—little more than a thought—buildings lay in ruins, pitted by the sulphuric air. The lake had grown beyond its boundaries, and liquid fire ran in rivulets down the streets, melting away gold and dulling the black marble with smoke.
It had never been beautiful—too gaudy for beauty—but Lucifer's pride had disallowed him to rule over a kingdom in disrepair.
Strange, that it was now. She did not know what to make of it. But she did not know what to think of many things of late.
No. She took a deep breath, let the stinking air fill her. This was not the time for confusion, or for uncertainty. Not the time for sentiment.
She circled around the cities; though war had reduced their populations, the air above them was still busy with demons, like bees over a hive. And though a confrontation and fight might have steadied her nerves, she dared not risk it. Lucifer might approve of such squabbling—or he might not, depending upon his mood.
And it was the territories closer to the throne she needed to focus on, to get through, before she could think about fighting.
She flew through the barrier ringing the throne's territory—Lucifer's magic vanished her wings, and she plummeted. She'd known the barrier was there, could have prepared for it, but she'd seen halflings and demons try to avoid the fall and be punished for it. None could approach Lucifer without being reminded from whence they all came.
But she had no intention of crawling to Lucifer on broken limbs; it would inspire hatred, not pity. She controlled the descent, fast but not reckless, and rolled at the last moment. Breathed a prayer of thanks to the scales and hardened flesh.
A growl from beside her made her quickly amend, "Thanks to the Morningstar for giving me scales and flesh of stone," she said with an ironic smile, but Cerberus only cared that the words were correct, and thought nothing of the tone.
She did not stand half as tall as the hellhound's shoulder; a few more centuries and Sir Pup would be as large. "Your son is well; he begs for pettings and obeys my every command, just like a human's dog." Rage darkened the hellhound's eyes, and Lilith added, "I'd have a treat for you, but I fed the pup the last of the meat I had for being such a _good boy_."
Cerberus went still, as if deciding whether to kill her. But he would have only left the throne at Lucifer's behest and most likely to fetch her. Lucifer would not mourn her death, but he would punish Cerberus for disobeying him, and the hellhound weighed that decision now.
As Lilith had known he would, he let her live, pushing her forward with a violent shove. Through another barrier, from heat to ice. On Earth, the cold did not affect her; here, it bit and clawed, tore hungrily at her feet. Magic, most likely. Use of which Lucifer kept a closely guarded secret, as he did most knowledge.
She tripped as Cerberus pushed her again, and she sprawled flat—and squeezed her eyes shut too late. Only inches from hers: a face, frozen into the ground, frozen in an eternal scream of horror.
Darius. One of the demon halflings; once a murderer, Lucifer had transformed him—then later, destroyed him for taking pride in his human accomplishments. Impossible to serve Lucifer if one prided oneself in giving—or taking—life. When Darius had made that last trip to the throne, the halflings and demons had lined up, watched him walk though the frozen wasteland. He'd walked with his head down, placing each step carefully, though it was not so packed with those terrible visages and stepping room available. The demons had mocked him for his cowardice, for refusing to meet their eyes with pride as he marched to judgment. Such it was Below; to be destroyed for pride, and then mocked for lacking it.
But the halflings watching him had known Darius was thinking of how soon he'd be in that frozen stretch, and that he did unto others as he would have done unto him. They would not do the same—not until their own destruction came and they had nothing left to lose. Only a halfling already doomed would dare betray such a human sentiment.
Lilith rose to her feet; the ground was uneven, the faces mounded together with barely space between them. How many halflings were down there? How many had Lucifer determined had failed in their service to him? Once, the cities Below had swarmed with halflings; now, they populated this frozen stretch of Hell.
And though Lilith was the last of the halflings, she would not end like them.
As she always did, Lilith kept her gaze fixed on the Throne, stumbling across the field, refusing to look at those she stepped on. The silence in this realm was absolute; though her feet—taloned, softer than the cloven hooves, less likely to crunch and shatter frozen flesh—must have made noise as she walked, it didn't reach her ears. Nor could she hear Cerberus, though he walked next to her now.
Only the frozen, silent screams of the damned who had reneged on their bargains. Those who had been greedy or stupid enough to bargain with a demon, but not greedy or stupid enough to uphold their part in it. Not all halflings, but many were.
Lilith had been in the Pit, received Punishment there; the thought of that pain was less terrifying than an eternity trapped here, motionless. Particularly as the ice did not offer numbness or oblivion. Their eyes were not frozen. They wept and pleaded for release that never came.
_His death will be yours to give, or your soul mine to keep._ Lucifer had chosen his bargain well; no matter her decision, it would bring torment.
But was one Punishment truly worse than the other?
Her eyes burned with cold; it must have been the cold. She looked down and took care where she placed her feet.
**CHAPTER 24**
Though the exterior of the throne and much of the interior did not lack for decoration—indeed, sculpted marble friezes and fretted gold adorned every inch—Lucifer's den was comfortable and understated.
As was Lucifer.
Lilith stifled her uneasy laughter as she took in his appearance: a human male, skin just beginning to wrinkle; soft brown eyes and a short brown beard, only a shade darker than the thinning, graying hair on his pate. A blue cardigan and gray slacks completed his look as a friendly, unassuming, middle-class retiree.
He waved aside her formal greeting, then sat in a wingback chair near a fireplace and invited her to take the matching seat. He gestured to a steaming pot on a small table, and said, "Would you like to take tea?"
Biting her lip to halt the bubbling, hysterical laughter that threatened to erupt, she simply nodded. Her hands were shaking, and she willed them to stop as he poured the tea into delicate cups, folding them together in her lap.
She had to sit perched at the edge of the seat to make room for her wings; she dared not vanish them, despite the human form _he'd_ assumed. The wingtips lay on the floor on either side of the chair, the spread of their bulk leaving her unable to see behind her chair, even if she turned—she was vulnerable and exposed. Her cloven hooves looked ridiculous against the thick white carpeting; and when he gave her the tea, her claws were inadequate for holding the small porcelain cup.
Fear that she'd scratch the teacup made her tremble again, and he watched intently as the liquid sloshed near the rim. Suddenly certain that he would kill her simply for staining his carpet, she froze.
He smiled. Took a slow sip.
She didn't know if she should do the same. To leave it untouched would be an insult to him; to drink would be human.
Raising the cup to her lips, she held it there and spoke over the rim. "Thank you, Father."
Apparently, it was the correct response, as he didn't immediately destroy her.
"Ah, Lilith," he said, leaning back and crossing his legs at the knee. "You are such a disappointment to me."
"Stupid and weak," she agreed.
"Yes. I'm not certain what to do with you."
"In your infinite wisdom, I'm certain that whatever you choose will be the correct decision, Father."
"Of course." He set his cup on the table and steepled fingers that could tear apart mountains. "You told the human the truth of our bargain."
"Yes, Father. I find their terror is best prolonged and thereby better enjoyed when they know their damnation is imminent and inevitable."
"I prefer surprises."
She dipped her head. "I am but a lowly halfling, Father, and do not always make the best decisions, though I would try to emulate you."
"Do you think you could be as I am, Lilith?"
"I could never be half as magnificent, Father."
"You should lie to the human. You should lie always."
She lowered her eyes. "You are so very benevolent, Father, to share your wisdom with a worm such as I."
Perhaps she had gone too far with the last remark; he stared at her without expression, but the fire in the hearth leapt and crackled.
"I can smell his seed within you. It defiles my Realm."
"It was not my intention to defile, Father, only to offer proof of his weakening."
"And your own?"
"Is but a part of my design, Father. He thinks to save me, and I give him as much hope as possible toward that end: I plan to make him believe that my reaction and desire is genuine before I take that false hope away and destroy him, as per our bargain," she said, and her stomach clenched as she realized she'd done exactly as Hugh had predicted: attempted to lie to herself.
"Your pleasure was genuine."
She shrugged carelessly. "It was but a physical manifestation of the pleasure I took in deceiving him."
"You lie."
"As you wished, Father."
"You _care_ for him."
She fell silent, not daring to hope that Hugh had been right about Lucifer's response as he had been of hers, that his plan might work after all.
"How delightful, then, that you must kill him." He sat forward, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. "I have a surprise for you, Lilith. Two surprises, actually."
Tensing, she prepared to flee. "Yes?"
"The first is a visitor. We found him wandering the Pit."
She frowned, confused. But she recognized the long, confident strides of the Guardian who entered the den, his physical scent.
Michael.
Lucifer did not rise from his seat; nor did she, or turn to acknowledge him, though it left her blind to the Guardian's expressions and appearance.
"You are embarrassing me, daughter."
Anger in that statement; she leapt to her feet, forcing a smile. "I'm certain that the Doyen understands he is not worthy of notice when in the company of such as yourself, Father."
Michael nodded slowly, his obsidian gaze unreadable as it traveled between Lucifer and Lilith. With his black feathered wings, soot-stained toga and bronzed skin, the Doyen looked more the denizen Below than Lucifer, but she did not make the observation aloud.
"Would you take tea?" Lilith said.
"No. I have only come to look for someone I misplaced. I will be leaving shortly; I wished to pay my respects." Michael's tone made it clear he had little, if any, respect for the demon lord.
"Misplaced?" Lucifer echoed, and laughed. "Careless of you, I daresay. Be certain that if I find this lost soul, I shall find a place for him."
"Yes." Michael did not look away from Lilith. "I sense your halfling is eager to return to Earth."
"I have a bargain to fulfill," Lilith said quietly, wishing the Guardian would not speak of, or to, her at all. His attention would only put her in line of Lucifer's anger.
"Hugh. Do you truly believe you'll succeed where you failed before?" His lips quirked, and he turned to Lucifer. "You have indeed made her in your image; she fails too often to be anything but your daughter."
"She'll not fail in this," Lucifer murmured.
"All of those you transformed have been worthless, the result of a faulty ritual—else they would still populate this realm," Michael said. Lilith stood, absolutely still, and they spoke as if she did not exist. Vexing, but safer than notice. "And applying that false transformation to the nosferatu will not save you from inevitable ruin."
"It gave the halflings power; there was nothing faulty in the ritual, only the recipients."
"You could not make true demons from a human template."
"And that is why I shall succeed with the nosferatu," Lucifer said, smiling. "They are pure, of the original angelic orders, and their power will add to mine."
Michael started, as if in realization. Strange, Lilith thought; she had never seen him react with such obviousness. Would Lucifer know it was unusual?
"Their power to kill men," Michael said slowly. "That is what they trade; they would kill in service of you."
"Much more efficient than the halflings, don't you agree? And at little inconvenience to myself; they only wish for access to Hell, safety from my demons, and a territory in my realm in exchange. Belial's would be the perfect size, would it not?"
It would not. Though Lilith could readily believe the nosferatu desired a home—they had been hunted endlessly on Earth by demon and Guardian, and their rejection Above and Below had been their greatest Punishment, even greater than the curse upon them physically—Lilith could not imagine Lucifer allowing the nosferatu control of that much territory. A small slice of it, perhaps, but not all that Belial had claimed.
And why the transformation to daywalking and resistance to sunlight? It would not make a difference Below.
But it would in Caelum.
Michael glanced at her; shaken, she lowered her gaze. Her psychic blocks were in place; he probably couldn't read her. Lucifer might have been able, but his attention was focused on the Guardian.
"Belial is strong," Michael said. "I do not think he will fall easily."
Lucifer laughed, as if to convey how little the Guardian's opinion mattered. "I will succeed."
"Will it be as successful as your rebellion?" Michael said, his eyes glinting with mockery. "In your arrogance, you give too much away."
"Then Belial will have time to contemplate his imminent and inevitable destruction, and his extended torment will prolong my enjoyment."
Lilith bit her lip, but looked up in dismay when Michael said her name.
"Of course, Lilith plans her own rebellion."
"I am meek," she said quickly, flexing her talons. "Never rebellious."
"Hugh will not break; and, already, he manipulates you," Michael continued, still speaking to Lucifer as if she were not there. "Certainly you realize it was his intention that you should send her back to Earth, knowing you would choose to cause her the most pain by fulfilling the bargain? Truly, you do exactly what the human has desired."
Lilith sucked in a sharp breath.
She felt Lucifer's anger, quickly suppressed. Of course, he would never admit to being surprised or lacking knowledge. "Yes, I'm aware of his puerile attempts to manipulate me. But he _has_ broken—has lost his humanity. My Lilith knows this well; it was that which led to her death." He rose to his feet, stood before Michael. "And what was it that broke him? That girl, and thinking that she had been killed. Easy enough to arrange like circumstances."
Wrong, Lucifer. Lilith smiled to herself, though she betrayed it by neither thought nor expression. It hadn't been that Savi had been shot; it had been the decision he'd made, that he'd no longer hold an ideal over human life. It had been reclaiming his will, his freedom—and his break had come from knowing that the only way to give Lilith hers was death. He'd nearly destroyed himself when he'd slain her.
"And your halfling will exacerbate his grief and bring about his death?" Michael shook his head. "He _will_ find a way to save himself, do not doubt it. He has thwarted her before; he will again. Even human, he is stronger of mind than she. He is stubborn, and cannot tolerate failure in himself."
"A delightful flaw," Lucifer said.
Lilith clenched her fists, glaring at the Guardian. "One I shall happily use against him."
"Do you think so, daughter?" The demon's voice was soft. But though he probably would have liked nothing better than tossing her in the Pit, Lilith had already told Michael she was returning to Earth to fulfill her bargain. If Lucifer changed his mind now, it would appear he had not known of Hugh's manipulations.
Michael smiled, as if realizing Lucifer's difficulty. "She is your last halfling; therefore, I suppose she is the best of that failed experiment? I offer a wager. Your halfling's skills against my former pupil's resistance to them."
Lilith's lips parted in shock. Was he mad?
"What are the terms?" Lucifer asked, his eyes gleaming. "Do you wager your sword?"
"Should Lilith be the direct cause of his death, through whatever skills she employs _personally_ —she cannot instruct a nosferatu to kill him, a more capable demon to torment him, nor manipulate another human into killing him—I will open Caelum's Gates to you and your kind for eternity. If she fails, you close Hell's Gates to Earth for five hundred years."
"It won't require skill," Lilith said dryly, though her heart pounded. "In sixty years I can jump out of a closet at his retirement home and induce a heart attack."
"And it must be done within the next fourteen days," Michael said. "Furthermore, you must discontinue the rituals until the end of the wager; his grief acts as an outside influence. The nosferatu must be dependent upon you for knowledge of how to perform the ritual; refuse to do it, and do not allow them to abduct more humans, until the end of the wager. I will not have you and the nosferatu kill all of his loved ones to assist Lilith, only to claim it was a separate action."
"Why would you enter into such an agreement?" Lucifer watched the Guardian carefully.
"I want him in the corps. As I'm certain you are aware, my ranks have been severely reduced of late. Hugh was my best warrior, the best mentor; and if he dies, it will likely be sacrificing himself to save _her._ He will accept the transformation again, and I will have him teach my new recruits, as I have neither the time nor inclination to do it myself, and no one else is as qualified as he is." Michael smiled coldly, and his gaze raked over Lilith's form. "And I believe I have little to lose, as I have the advantage here."
"Seven days, and you cannot speak of our wager with anyone else—human, demon, halfling, or nosferatu—except to instruct your Guardians that they may not attack my demons or the nosferatu, unless they are breaking the agreement and have begun the ritual on a human against the human's will," Lucifer countered, and Michael's brows rose.
"If you wish. Making Hugh aware of it won't change the outcome; he already has full knowledge of what Lilith is, and what she will try to do. And so long as your demons and the nosferatu are not instructed to perform any rituals nor abduct any humans, my Guardians will not engage them."
Lucifer did not try to hide his triumphant smile. "It is done, then."
"It is done," Michael agreed.
The Doyen spared her a final glance, then disappeared. Lilith stared at the empty space, trying to comprehend what had just taken place; beside her, Lucifer began laughing.
"He is surely not so desperate to have one man return to the Guardian corps," Lilith murmured.
"It is an act of desperation, but not for the human's sake," Lucifer said, returning to his seat. "His hold on Caelum is tenuous; he wagers what he will lose anyway."
"Why do you take the risk?"
"Do you think I make rash, thoughtless decisions?"
"No, Father," she said immediately.
He smiled, and a shiver ran over her skin. "It would be a risk, if not for the other surprise I spoke of. For it would be stupid to think that you could bring him to suicide within a week. Do you think me stupid, Lilith?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Only if it gives you pleasure."
"You dare too much," he said quietly, and leaned back into his chair. "Sit. I do not like you standing above me."
She complied, vanishing her wings. Whatever his next surprise was, she wanted to see it coming.
A book appeared in her lap. She looked down at the embossed lettering, the now-familiar cover, and saw her doom.
"I have overlooked the others for centuries; the poets and the playwrights whom you would have sought immortality with—is not the immortality I gave you enough?" When she did not answer, he said, "He only mentions my name three times, Lilith. Do you think you deserve such attention?"
Instinct demanded that she flee, but she couldn't move; his magic suddenly held her frozen, motionless. But she could speak, and the words tumbled from her mouth without heed. "Do you envy me, Father?"
His fingers clenched on the arms of the chair, and the fabric ripped under his nails. "When I made you, you swore to serve me for as long as you were a demon. You do _not_ place yourself above me."
"I serve. I will serve until I'm dead of it," she said bitterly.
"Which will be sooner than you think should you fail in this new bargain." His eyes flashed. "Six days; you have six days to fulfill your bargain, to see him dead, and then I send the nosferatu to kill you."
One day less than he'd wagered with Michael; apparently, he did not trust her to fulfill her bargain. If she failed, Lucifer would likely lead an attack against the Doyen, and attempt to kill him before the wager ended.
"You do not destroy me yourself? Have you not the stomach for it, Father?"
He sat forward in his seat, smiling. "Will _you_ have the stomach to kill _him_?"
"Even now, I am thinking of the best way to go about it." A lie. She could only think of escape.
He rested his elbows on his knees and whispering conspiratorially, "I've thought of one for you." Reaching across the space between them, he grasped her wrist, his skin slithering over hers. "But first, I have to take the demon out of you. No need for him to commit suicide if you can kill him with your sword. Six days, Lilith. You or him."
Her eyes widened, and she frantically tried to move—and could not.
His face transformed. Huge, terrible. Ice slipped through her, and the markings on her chest began to burn. Closing her eyes, she clenched her teeth and refused to scream, though it felt as if he tore her to shreds.
"Do you like your surprise?" he asked, laughing.
She looked up, though she could barely focus through the haze of pain. "I've had better."
And was grateful for the silence that followed.
**CHAPTER 25**
Hugh held his hand to his side as he shuffled across the hospital room, ignoring the tandem sighs of frustration from the detectives, just as he'd ignored the countless questions they'd asked since he'd woken.
Almost forty-eight hours since he'd last seen Lilith, and he had not yet heard from her. Those who might have known where she was, what might have happened to her, were equally silent: Michael, Selah, Colin—he'd have welcomed a visit from Beelzebub if it brought him news of her.
Thoughts of the demon made him close his eyes against a wave of doubt. He'd called the demon a liar when he'd said Lilith had procured another human for them, but had it simply been Hugh's arrogance that had blinded him to the truth? Sue had been killed, and Lilith had seen her alive the same afternoon. She'd been preparing herself, as if for a ritual—had he believed her explanation because he was accustomed to catching lies?
If they had threatened her with Punishment or death, would she lie to him, help with the ritual—and he'd been too desperate to believe her to see the truth?
He couldn't believe it . . . didn't want to believe it. But he couldn't force away the doubt.
"I don't think you understand, Castleford," Taylor said as he gathered the clothing Savi had left for him earlier. Every movement ripped at him with angry teeth. "The last thing you should do right now is leave here."
"You said I was not under arrest. You have no reason to keep me here." His voice was still hoarse—a bruised windpipe. The bandage around his throat and the sutures beneath itched, multiple contusions pulled and ached, but it was his ribs that bothered him most: two cracked, one broken. Each breath burned.
"Putting you back in that bed would suit me just fine right now," Preston said.
Taylor laid her hand on Preston's arm, then stood and walked over to Hugh. "Look, Castleford," she said, taking a shirt from him and unfolding it. He hesitated, then accepted her help, sliding his left arm through the sleeve. She moved around to his other side, easing it over his shoulders. "I don't understand what I saw in Miss Murray's house. Frankly, I'm a bit . . ." She paused, as if searching for the right word. ". . . freaked out by it."
"And the idea that the shit you talk about in your book might be true," Preston added.
"We've just told you we have two eyewitnesses who will testify they saw you dump the bodies of Sanchez and Fletcher in Harding Park. We have a fire at a location that matches a name and address written on a note found during our search of your house, and the owner of that house—whom we know you spoke with only hours before the fire—is missing. We have a missing FBI agent, with your torn clothing, traces of your blood and semen, and your fingerprints at her apartment."
"Along with almost half a million dollars in stolen books and an arsenal of stolen weaponry."
Taylor flicked a glance at Preston. "Our case against you seems solid—except that we were talking to you when you allegedly made the dump in the park. Except for reports of howling from several of Beaumont's neighbors, and another eyewitness in the area who told the police they saw someone matching the description of a nosferatu exit the house after the fire started, accompanied by a man she later identified as FBI Agent Smith—who, two hours ago, took over our jurisdiction in the investigation of the three murders, Milton's disappearance, Beaumont's disappearance, and the fire. The three bodies have disappeared from the morgue, and though we are being told by the Bureau that they've taken possession of them, we have no records of transfer, nor any evidence that they've been picked up through official channels. We don't like what we're seeing, Castleford; and now his office is denying our requests to share information. It reeks of a cover-up, or a setup. And the few things my partner and I have to go on are an unbelievable story from me, and a letter whose authenticity is questionable, at best. And that you show up with an injury that looks like something out of a horror flick, and that the doctors tell us your rate of recovery has been . . . unusual. But we have no evidence to give to my superiors that might protect you—and I don't doubt Smith will be coming after you soon. We _can_ help you," Taylor said. "But we need you to give us something, too."
He smiled for the first time since awakening. "That sounds very much like a bargain," he said. Pulling away from her, he slowly walked back to the bedside table and collected his eyeglasses. "But not one either of us can fulfill. I don't have any evidence to trade, and you certainly can't protect me."
"If you don't have physical evidence, we'll take information."
"What good will anything I have to say be? Even your partner doesn't believe you," Hugh said, glancing past her to Preston.
The older man stiffened. "I do."
"You only believe that _she_ believes it."
"Perhaps that is true, but it doesn't change the fact that he is willing to listen," Taylor said. "And I couldn't blame him for not believing what he has not seen."
He'd once told Lilith almost exactly the same thing, but referring to a priest instead of a detective. His chest ached at the memory, more fiercely than his injuries.
Where was she?
Taylor's cell phone rang, saving him from an immediate response; she scowled at the display before answering. Her tone changed quickly, and she looked at Preston, wide-eyed.
"Tom's sending the images through now," she said, and handed her partner the phone. Tucking her hands into her blazer, she rocked back on her heels and waited, watching Preston with an expectant—almost triumphant—expression.
Hugh turned away, looking over the room to make sure he'd left nothing unpacked. It was white, sterile—exactly the type of room that made him most uncomfortable, and he'd heal no more quickly here than at home. And, when she returned, Lilith would know where to find him.
If she returned.
"They could be faked," Preston said suddenly, with a note of aggrieved disbelief.
"Dr. Castleford, is Agent Milton a demon?" Taylor asked.
Hugh's ribs protested as he jerked his head up, turning back to stare at the detectives. Preston held the phone in his hand, frowning down at it.
Taylor's eyes narrowed on Hugh's face. "She is. And you knew who she was when we visited your office with her on Friday." She made a disgusted sound. "And the setup congeals. She gave us the letter, which, because of your book, only made us more suspicious of you."
Hugh looked between the two of them, then at the phone; relenting, he offered, "She didn't know about the book. The letter was designed to lead you to Polidori's and the nosferatu, and to remove suspicion from me."
As if understanding the information meant that he was bargaining, Taylor countered, "You must realize telling us that only implicates you in a conspiracy to falsify evidence. Why is one agent from the FBI planting evidence against you, and another agent trying to do the opposite? Why would she use the letter, instead of bringing forth real evidence to clear your name?"
"There is none. And the semen and the blood at her apartment _are_ mine." Hugh glanced at Preston. "She has to lie; she's a demon. She protects herself by lying. It allows her to excuse any good that comes from it."
"Why would she need the excuse?" Preston rose from the chair, gave the cell phone back to Taylor.
Hugh's expression hardened, and he shook his head. "No. It's your turn."
A smile played around Taylor's mouth, and she gave him the phone. Hugh had to squint to make out the picture on the display: black and white, slightly blurred—but the figure in the center was undeniably Lilith. In her human form, except for the dark outline of her wings. A small, dark figure lay at her feet.
"Press the back arrow," Taylor instructed.
With his thumb, he moved through two more pictures: a close-up of Lilith's face, and the grainy image did little to conceal the resignation in her expression; and another, from a different angle, with her back to a small crowd—she was poised on the bridge railing, as if about to leap over. His throat closed; wordlessly, he handed it back to Taylor, and waited.
Preston said, "According to witnesses, she caught a jumper, then jumped over the side herself."
The relief and joy that washed over him left his knees weak, and he slowly sat down onto the hospital bed. "She saved him?"
"Scared the shit out of him, too." Humor in the detective's gruff voice now. "Of course, he was so high on meth, a squirrel might have done the same."
Hugh's breath caught as realization struck: she'd interfered with his free will. Oh, God no.
"We've had a hell of a time keeping them out of the media," Taylor added. "I had one of our guys clean up these images from the traffic cams, but if they get out . . . er, Castleford, are you okay?"
She wasn't coming back.
He clenched his teeth, but still the harsh sob tore from him. No possibility that she was being forced to help the ritual out of fear of Punishment; she couldn't be, to then save a boy from suicide. Punishment, destruction, or transformation—Lucifer _had_ to do one, and he'd never allowed a halfling to Fall. Had never reversed the transformation. Had she been so certain she would be Punished or destroyed that she'd forced Lucifer's hand? Had she so little faith that he'd find a way to save her?
Or had it been because he'd only talked of saving her? He'd opened himself up to her, but he'd never spoken of love. Had kept that part of him back.
His breath came raw, tears burned. And he could only be grateful that she'd never seen his doubt. That she hadn't seen how he had failed her again . . . had not believed in her until too late.
Salt, stink, rot, fire.
Running through it, sniffing, her trail bright and crimson above his heads and he had to keep one gaze on the sky, the other two gazes watching the sides. Wary of those like him but not-him. The distant howls of those like him, calling.
_Hunt._
_Chase._
_Kill._
Ignore those urges, pass the hives. The frigid faces, screaming, hurting his paws. The musk of the father, growls but lets him pass when he widens his own jaws and roars. The strange, golden odor of the one who had healed him while the oil-paint vampire's den burned around him, and the yellow scaly one—distant, relief. And her, her. The voices speaking to her: _Kill him, you or him, must save yourself, fulfill your bargain, halfling, nothing._
Cries of the guards, those who talk in hisses and lies, their delicious fear. _Hunt, chase, kill_. Tear through them, then into the dark, where she crouches, cold.
Different, but her arm curling around his shoulders, her voice, the same. Desperate, amused, tired.
"I'll hold on. Just run." Her weight on his back.
_Run, run, run._
"So, have you been laughing at Ganesh all this time?"
He felt Savi's concerned gaze, and forced a smile for her sake. Difficult, when he seemed empty, hollow. "No."
She shouldered his bag before he could reach for it. "Are you just saying that?"
"No. There are other realms."
"Have you seen them?"
"No."
"Then how—" She broke off and sighed. "Sorry. I'll save my questions for later. You've probably had enough of them. They're waiting out there to give us a ride home. I think you scared them. They didn't expect you to break down—oh, holy shit."
She stumbled back, and Hugh turned to look behind him.
"Michael." Hugh's voice was flat. "Should you feel inclined, I believe the two detectives outside could benefit from one of your displays."
Savi's eyes widened, and she slid her hand into Hugh's.
Michael's gaze flicked down to their linked hands. _I need to take the girl to Caelum. She'll be safe there_ , he signed.
"From whom?"
_The nosferatu._ The Guardian's jaw clenched, muscles tightening beneath the bronze skin. _Lilith. She's coming back._
Hugh's eyes closed, not daring to believe. "How?"
"I cannot speak of it."
His heart thudded. "Auntie, too," he finally said.
Michael nodded shortly, and Hugh turned to Savi. "You'll have to go with him of your free will; you have to choose to go, he can't simply take you."
Though there was fear in her gaze, excitement quickly began to replace it. "Where?"
"Heaven." Hugh smiled, but he couldn't keep the sardonic edge from it.
Savi placed her hand in Michael's without hesitation. _Too trusting, too accepting,_ Hugh thought, but he could not fault her now for what had helped heal him sixteen years before.
Michael's eyes narrowed on the bandage at his neck. A pulse of power flowed from him; Savi staggered, but the Guardian slipped his arm around her waist to steady her.
"What was that?" No fear in her eyes now, only that wide curiosity.
"A display," Michael said with rare humor, and they disappeared.
Taylor and Preston burst through the door, their weapons drawn. They stared at Hugh, standing alone. He looked back at them without expression, taking a deep, pain-free breath.
"You have a camera in your phone, too?" he asked. Taylor's brows drew together, but she nodded and holstered her gun.
In the hallway, he heard two nurses chatting easily as they exited another room; Michael's power must have been closely contained, only felt by those in a very small radius. Though a hospital-wide healing might have been a more spectacular display, a Guardian's healing power only worked on injuries sustained from inhuman causes: a nosferatu's bite, a wound from a demon's sword, or a bad landing made during transportation.
"It's not much," Hugh said, peeling away the bandage at his neck.
"It's enough for now," Taylor breathed as he exposed perfectly healed skin. "It's _something_."
"Perhaps he has a twin," Preston said, but Hugh could hear the uncertainty in his voice.
"Those pictures from the bridge," Hugh said. "Has anyone else seen them?"
"No. And except for a few people, it would be taken as seriously as a grilled cheese sandwich," Preston said, shaking his head. "But there were witnesses, and we don't know what lengths these things would go to keep their presence a secret."
Hugh suddenly felt like laughing. "Not very far; they'd love the results of such a revelation. Imagine, if it became known that evil creatures, who could take any human form, walked among us." At their blank looks, he said with a wry smile, "You would never get another conviction, to start. A shape-shifting demon is the best defense."
Taylor nodded slowly. "Then why don't they?"
"Lucifer," Hugh said simply. "No demon wants to be singled out, or star in a world-wide broadcast."
"You singled out Lilith with your book," Preston said.
"She was dead."
"But no longer."
"No." He held Taylor's gaze with his own, saw the knowledge in her eyes. "But she's not behind the murders. Don't waste your time looking at her."
Preston's brows raised. "Who should we look at?"
There was a threat in that question, and the offended tone of one who didn't like being told what to investigate, but Hugh didn't respond to it. "The nosferatu. Beelzebub." He recalled the demon's appearance in Colin's basement, the witness who'd seen Smith leaving the house. "Who must be Agent Smith. Was the house completely destroyed?"
"No. Neighbors saw that one side of the house had imploded, and thought there'd been an explosion, so the fire trucks were already on their way. Were you there?"
"Yes," Hugh said. "There will be traces of my blood in the basement. There might be ash remains of several nosferatu."
"Within two hours you were at Auntie's; Milton's apartment in Hunter's Point; the Beaumont place in The Haight; and back to your place?" Taylor frowned. "You got around the city rather quickly."
Realizing what she was thinking, that he had also managed to be in two places almost at once, Hugh said softly, "I didn't murder those kids, or Sue. Some things are exactly as they appear, and some appearances are deceiving."
"We just have to trust you?"
Hugh ignored the mockery in Preston's tone. "No. You just have to look for the truth. Trust takes much longer." Eight hundred years, at times.
**CHAPTER 26**
Waiting had been easy for Hugh, once. Easy to let things happen around him, without doing anything himself. Now, when it was forced upon him, it ate at him with sharp teeth. He pounded the weights until he shook with fatigue, but the exertion was routine, leaving his mind busy and his thoughts drawing out endlessly—as time seemed to.
Javier, Ian, and Sue, dead. Colin and Selah, missing. Savi and Auntie, swept away to Caelum for their protection though no human had ever been taken to that realm before.
Had he failed them all?
Curled atop his desk, Emilia watched him, blinking lazily each time the bar clanged into its cradle. The minutes crawled by. It was near midnight when the cat rocketed across the room, screeching, her fur standing on end. His heart pounding, Hugh let the weights fall to the floor, and ran after the cat. He detoured to the living room when he saw it disappear under his bed. If the cat was afraid, then either a nosferatu had come to finish him—or a hellhound.
A scratching at the back door, then an urgent chorus of barks.
Sir Pup broke the latch just as Hugh skidded into the room, and he caught her as she tumbled from the hellhound's back. She was shivering—her clothing soaked through, her lips blue, her skin pale and bloodless.
Only one symbol remained on her chest.
"Lilith," he said, gathering her close against him. He pressed his lips to hers; they tasted of sea water. Her eyes opened.
"I'm really . . . fucking . . . cold." Her teeth chattered together, and realization and panic struck him at the same time. He lifted her; her head lolled back against his shoulder.
_Human_.
His eyes burned as he carried her down the hall toward the bathroom, as he set her down on the toilet seat, holding her up with one hand as he turned on the taps to fill the bath with the other. Working quickly, he unlaced the corset, stripped it off. The wet pants clung to her legs; weakly, she tried to help him, and with a final yank he ended sprawled against the opposite wall.
"Stupid . . . leather," she said, and whether she shook with laughter or cold he couldn't tell.
"I like them," he said simply, and slid her shivering form into the lukewarm bath.
Her breath hissed from between her teeth, her eyes squeezed shut. "I hate this. I can't _be_ this."
His heart seemed to tear from his chest. Kneeling beside the tub, he pushed tendrils of hair from her forehead. "I know."
She slept. Eventually dreams felt like madness, and she clawed her way out of them. Two thousand years without sleep, and she had forgotten how to tell dream from reality, forgotten how easily they fell away on waking.
She was still tired—exhausted—but it was a pleasure to open her eyes. A pleasure to see the wash of midmorning light across the room. A pleasure to see Hugh, leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, his long body absolutely still. It was a protective stance, yet unguarded in its focus: as if he'd been content to watch her for an eternity, and had settled into the watching with his entire being.
Strange, that a man could do nothing but be, and it was a pleasure.
She grinned suddenly, rolling over onto her side and propping her head on her hand. One day as a human, and she'd descended into maudlin sentimentality.
Her movement seemed to spur his, and he sat down on the bed next to her, laying his hand across her forehead. The mattress was soft beneath her, the blankets a comfortable weight. At some point, he'd put a sweatshirt on her, and she felt loose fleece sweatpants against her legs.
"I have to kill you." Her voice was light, but she regarded him intently, searching for his reaction. "If a fever takes me first, Lucifer will be furious—though it would be his fault. Even a demon should know that a human body cannot easily withstand the frigid water in the bay."
His brows rose, and a smile seemed to flirt with his lips. His gaze touched everywhere his hands had not, as if looking for signs of sickness or injury. "Are you well?"
Weak, tired, with aches that she couldn't remember if they were normal or not. But she nodded. "I'm fortunate that Sir Pup swims very quickly."
He looked at her for a moment more, then said, "Very fortunate. I fed him a few small children as reward."
A few moments later, she held her belly and groaned, "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."
That smile that had appeared with her laughter immediately failed. His throat worked before he said, "Why are you not angry?" At her sigh, he continued, "Have you resigned yourself to this so easily then?"
She stiffened, then saw the brief flash of humor in his eyes and realized he was trying to provoke a heated response. Unwilling to give in, she relaxed back into the pillows, and pulled the comforter up to her chin. "I'm building up to it; within ten minutes, I'll be myself again."
He stretched out on his side next to her, crooking his elbow and looking down at her face. "Who are you now?"
According to the symbol over her heart, still Lilith. But she did not want to think of that at this moment; beneath the blanket, she ran her hand down her torso. "Do you want to come in and find out?"
His gaze fell to her mouth, but he shook his head.
She hid her smile, rounding her lips in an O of surprise. "What is this I've found? Round and"—she gasped exaggeratedly, and tented the blanket over her chest—"no longer sharp? There are two!"
"Not that large, certainly," he said, pushing the blanket back down. His brows drew together, and he studied her as if he'd seen something new in her features. "And so you delve into absurdities when you wish to avoid a truth, whereas I brood and overanalyze myself into permanent inaction."
"I hate that you know me so well," she said mildly, and then narrowed her eyes. "How are you resisting me? Is this your inaction?"
He grinned. "I would love to give in to temptation this time, but we don't have protection."
"Sir Pup—"
"Condoms." His hand found hers through the comforter and tightened when she looked at him, stunned. "Assuming that we live through the next year, I'm too old for children and far too—as you once put it so eloquently—fucked up."
She was, too. Bile rose in her throat; her body still too vulnerable, though in entirely different ways.
"I believe they call it 'having issues,' " he continued. His voice was rough, but his lips quirked into a smile.
His attempt at humor renewed hers. "Baggage," she said, grinning. "Though I'm certain such a thing didn't exist when I was born. Everyone was perfectly adjusted." Now she had two thousand years' worth, and the heaviest was her bargain with Lucifer. Her smile faded, and she sat up.
A moment later, she had him flat against the bed, and she straddled his hips. His gray T-shirt was warmed by his body heat; curling her fingers into the soft, worn cotton, she tugged and said, "Let's do this quickly. No drawing it out." When he nodded his agreement, she placed her hand on his chest as if to hold him down—but it was more for her support than fear he would try to escape.
He ran his palms up the length of her thighs, let them rest at the top. Holding her down, in turn. "There have been two more murdered."
"Your missing student? Who else?"
"Sue Fletcher."
Lilith hardened herself against the grief in his voice and delivered the next blow. "I have to fulfill my bargain in . . . what is today?"
"Monday morning."
"Four days. Michael made a wager with Lucifer; if you are not dead by the fifth day, Caelum's Gates will be opened to those Below. My father stipulated that the Doyen may not speak of it to the other Guardians; I don't know that they'll be able to help." But there was no reason Lilith could not speak of it; she was bound by her bargain to kill Hugh, but Michael's wager only included her in a peripheral sense. It depended upon the result of her actions, but she was not a participant in the wager itself.
"And if you don't kill me?"
"The nosferatu come for me on the fourth day. They will kill me if the bargain is incomplete; my soul will be frozen in Punishment, and Hell's Gates closed for five hundred years."
His hands tightened. "Colin and Selah are missing. Beelzebub—Smith?" At her nod, he continued, "—attacked us at Colin's house after you left. Selah managed to transport me out, but I don't know that they are alive."
She had to look away for a moment, her breathing ragged. Swallowing, she focused again and said, "Lucifer planned to transform me back into human even before Michael offered his wager. The nosferatu intend to take Caelum for their own and will act as Lucifer's assassins in payment."
"A nosferatu at Colin's could have killed me, but he did not pierce the jugular; I don't think it a mistake." His thumbs smoothed over her inner thighs, not to arouse, but to soothe. "We are both halflings who have been returned to our human forms."
"They will use Savitri against you; they know you broke when she was shot."
Hugh was shaking his head. "Michael took her to Caelum."
"But how—?" She sucked in a deep breath when she saw his face, the regret lurking in the lines around his mouth. "You have more. Quickly."
"Beelzebub tried to bargain Savi's life for mine and wanted me to submit to the ritual. They set fire to Colin's house. I have no weapons; my swords and your gun were lost during the attack. Taylor and Preston know you are a demon; they have pictures of you saving a boy on the bridge. Smith has taken over each investigation associated with the rituals, and he has witnesses who saw me in the park with Javier's and Sue's bodies, which have been stolen from the morgue, along with Ian's. You are listed as missing, presumed dead; I'm the primary suspect and all of the weapons and books at your apartment were confiscated."
She collapsed against his chest when he finished, and his arms came up, his palms warm and strong as he gently began to massage her lower back. "Please tell me there's good news," she said into his neck.
"I was fired." His solemn announcement surprised a burst of laughter from her. "Though it was not put so harshly as that. The university has kindly given me as much time off as I need during the investigation, but they don't think I will be needed in the fall or beyond that term."
"That cannot be legal," Lilith protested. "One of Lucifer's demons must be president of the university."
He grinned. "I actually think it was the result of the media attention. There are several news vans parked outside."
"You put this in the 'good' category?"
"Yes. It will be difficult for the nosferatu to attack us if we are under constant public surveillance—and if anything happens to one of my students, we'll likely know right away. And without my presence at the university, there will be less danger of my students there being targeted, though there is still a core group of DemonSlayer players."
"DemonSlayer—Lucifer focuses on them not just because of your relationship to the players, but because he finds the game offensive," she realized. "Its source bears my name instead of his." Lifting her head, she moved forward slightly and nipped at his earlobe. "Now: _real_ good news. I want it."
He shifted beneath her, ran his hands up the length of her spine. She heard the smile in his voice. "Taylor and Preston are aware Smith and the nosferatu are corrupting the investigations in some way and may even be responsible for the murders."
"But they have little evidence," Lilith guessed.
"Very little."
She waited, then planted her elbows on either side of his head and rose up to look at him. Her hair fell forward like a curtain in front of her eyes, and she impatiently pushed it away. "That's it?"
"I was waiting for your contribution," he said. Gathering her hair at her nape, he traced his fingertips over the bare skin beneath.
She desperately tried to think of something. His lips were so close to hers. "I still have my job."
"With Beelzebub as your superior, that is indeed an advantage," he said dryly.
"This is what we have?" She lowered her forehead to his and smiled when she felt his breath quicken. "We are lost."
"And neither of us has ever proved a successful guide for the other," he said with self-deprecating humor. She brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth; his body tightened beneath hers, and his hands moved to her shoulders. "Shall we simply try to hack our way through the nest?"
"We lack swords, and I'm no martyr."
"We could throw books; I have plenty."
"Now who's delving into absurdities?" She licked his jaw; his unshaven skin was rough beneath her tongue.
"I've never thought clearly with you sitting atop me." In a smooth movement, he rolled and pinned her beneath him, his hips wedged between her thighs.
Laughing, she hooked her ankle behind his knee, pulled with her leg and twisted her torso. She straddled him again, but her laughter died. His eyes were arrested on her face, and the wealth of emotion in his expression made her chest ache.
"You are still strong, Lilith." She looked away, but he captured her chin, brought her gaze back to his. "Not as you once were, perhaps, but still strong. Not as fast, but quick enough. You have not lost the skills behind the demon's powers. And your psychic abilities are gone, but you have two millennia's experience reading faces, body language."
She dipped her head, but couldn't contain her sad smile. Though his Fall had been voluntary, he must know exactly how she felt. "And my cache?"
His mouth twisted with wry humor. "Pockets are a wonderful invention." His knee rose, nudged her back as if to draw attention to his olive cargo pants.
"Which are appallingly empty; I would kill for a rubber," she said, and meant it. Smoothing her hands against his chest, she absorbed his deep rumbling laugh through her skin, and felt an echoing rumble in her stomach. "I'm hungry," she realized, with a touch of wonder.
His gaze dropped to the spread of her thighs over his abdomen. "I am, too," he said gruffly, and heat shot through her.
"I'm more than willing to wait—" Her stomach growled again, loudly.
He gave a shout of laughter, and laced his fingers through hers. His muscles flexed beneath her legs as he sat up, the motion bringing his face close to hers, her bottom seated firmly over his erection. "You haven't eaten in two thousand years; I'll feed you first."
"Hugh—" she moaned softly as he scooted forward to the edge of the bed, her sex tight against the hardness of his cock, sliding over his thick length with each movement.
"I cannot think when you are on me," he repeated, his laughter strained now.
She caught his laugh in her mouth; it was a promise, this kiss, though it remained unspoken—all of her promises and bargains and wagers had been made with her tongue, but with tricks and lies attached to them. If only this time, it would be pure; and she lingered over it, tracing the contour of his lips with hers, feeling his response as he tasted and explored the shape of her. There was an answer on his lips and tongue, but she did not allow herself to hear it; she had little worth giving but a promise, and would not take more than she offered. She pulled away—and already, the mischievous smile on her lips was a lie, and her words had different meaning below the surface of them. "Then you should not carry me."
Should she be sorry that he read the truth? It was impossible, when he echoed what she'd just promised him in silence. "Then I must be fated to remain an imbecile, for I will not let you go."
**CHAPTER 27**
Over the years, he'd used Truth in an attempt to tear down Lilith's defenses; never had he thought he'd use it to rebuild them. Hugh prowled the length of the living room, debating the wisdom of forcing honesty upon her when she clearly wanted to hide behind lies. Her vulnerability had torn at him, and perhaps he should have allowed her that false defense—yet he could not. Had they the luxury of time, he could have waited until she recovered from the transformation. Waited for her to erect emotional shields to replace those she had depended on her demon physiology to provide.
But he knew—as she did—the nosferatu would come for them in four days, no matter the outcome of the bargain. If her shields were brittle and false, they could be easily penetrated. If they found a way to fight the nosferatu, to defeat Lucifer's bargain, she needed to be confident—not just in herself, but know he would support her, wouldn't fail her. And so he had forced her to acknowledge the emotional intimacy between them, as surely as he had forced the physical intimacy two nights before.
Manipulation, yet again. He'd become a master of it.
Books lay scattered from the police search, but he made no effort to set them to rights. He paced instead, listening to the sounds she made as she showered and dressed, wanting to help her, but knowing that, did he offer too much now, she would not shed the certainty that she had become a burden to him. Ridiculous, that—how could she not recognize how much he _needed_ her; not just to fight the nosferatu, but in every way possible? His body still ached from the frustration of wanting her, having her so close—but she was far too vulnerable to press that physical advantage. She would have used sex to forget what Lucifer had done, used it to conceal her emotions in yet another way. Another false defense she'd been trying to build, but that he couldn't allow. Despite her declaration that she was herself again . . . she hadn't been.
And he needed Lilith; needed the woman who'd survived as a demon, when no other human had. The woman who made him laugh without trying. The woman who was devious, and mischievous, and relentless. Whose vulnerabilities stemmed from her capacity for softer emotions, not her fear of them—
He tensed as he heard her on the stairs from Savi's apartment. Though the hellhound had been stretched out lazily in the pool of sunlight that streamed in over the kitchen sink, Sir Pup perked his ears at her approach, his tongue lolling in anticipation. With a wry grin, Hugh realized his expression must be a human reflection of the hellhound's.
Lilith wasn't the only one who'd exposed her vulnerabilities.
She strode into the room with the long, loose-hipped gait of a warrior, strength in the set of her shoulders. Her dark eyes were intense as she surveyed him, and his body hardened in response to the piercing, claiming expression within them.
No shyness in that gaze, nothing coy or hidden. He stared at her in return, letting his gaze drift down the length of her. She'd raided Savi's closet, and the small black T-shirt with SIN CITY emblazoned across her chest made his lips quirk into a smile, even as the cling of material to her firm breasts, the outline of her taut nipples sent heat spiraling to his cock. His khakis—with pockets lining the pant legs—hung low on her hips, and the bare skin between the hem of the shirt and the waistband almost brought him to his knees, so that he could kiss that pale strip, bury his face against her abdomen and worship her as she deserved.
There was a wicked tilt to her lips as she finally turned to glance at the hellhound. "Don't eat his pussy." She sauntered into the kitchen; Hugh followed her, unable to tear his eyes from the dip of her spine, the sway of her hips. The ends of her midnight hair brushed against the small of her back with each step, and the rhythm seemed to echo the heavy pulse of his blood.
He swallowed, and gestured to the cat, lounging on the top shelf of the empty bookcase. "I believe he and Emilia have called a truce; she will take the upper regions of the house, and he will reign over the lower."
The condoms had been an excuse; no reason he couldn't withdraw before spilling his seed. He had that much control, didn't he? A medieval method of contraception, certainly, but—
"We need weapons." She slipped into the stool at the breakfast bar, brought one knee up against her chest, her heel at the edge of the seat. Not a perch, but close.
"I don't think we will be able to access your apartment or Colin's house without drawing attention to ourselves." Grateful that the granite counter concealed his erection—now _he_ was hiding, he realized with chagrin—he began unloading plastic takeout containers from a paper bag. "Unless attention is what we want."
She shook her head. "Beelzebub must know I am here, but—" Breaking off, she looked at Sir Pup. "Are there any near to hear us?" When the hound flapped his ears, she continued, "I prefer they think I'm going to kill you. What is this?"
A bit of eagerness in her voice that she couldn't hide; Hugh smiled and began loading dolmathes on a plate. "Greek. I ordered when you were in the shower." He raised a brow. "You were in there quite some time."
"Masturbating," she said, her tone matter-of-fact, and the container he'd been holding skidded across the counter. It was a lie, but the image the words conjured—Lilith, dripping with warm water, her hand between her thighs—was as powerful as if it'd been truth.
"Lilith," he said, and he couldn't contain his laughter, nor the harshness arousal lent to his words. "Have pity."
In a slow, deliberate movement, she unzipped one of the pockets at her thigh. Slapped a handful of square foil packages onto the granite. His breath stopped. "I have pity. Seven pities. I remember seeing them when I searched the upstairs apartment last time, and despite her rebellion, she has not used them since then. But you said food first."
"I am an idiot."
"I am hungry."
She bit her lip, as if to ward off the grin he could see pulling at the corners of her mouth. His cock ached. He made a mess of the lamb moussaka, in such a hurry was he to scoop it onto the plate.
Her gaze fell to the dish, and her smile faded. "I can't eat anything that has bled."
He froze and looked up. Seeing the fleeting shame, the horror, he took out a clean plate and began filling it with more dolmathes, horiatiki, and then poured lentil soup into a bowl. "Does it bother you if I do?"
She shook her head, but he set the first plate on the floor, along with the remaining moussaka. Sir Pup rose immediately, devoured it within moments. She pursed her lips, watching the hellhound. "I didn't lie."
"I don't eat meat with Savi or Auntie, either," he said with a shrug. He passed her the food and began piling his plate high. Deciding it would be easier to get through the meal without her pity staring him in the face, he slid the condoms off the breakfast bar, stuffed them into his pocket.
She watched him, laughing with her eyes. A flush rose over his neck, and he turned to the utensil drawer. "Fork?" When she answered him by scooping up feta cheese and olives with her fingers, he collected glasses from another cupboard and a bottle of wine from the icebox.
"I was right; you have been completely domesticated." But there was appreciation in her voice as he opened the bottle, filled her glass with the pale golden liquid. She took a bite of a dolma, closed her eyes. "Oh, these are good."
"Aye," he agreed, tearing his gaze from her mouth. His own food didn't appeal to him nearly as much, though he hadn't eaten since the previous evening.
She didn't notice his distraction; she was examining the grape leaf and its contents. "My favorite treat when I was a girl was something very similar to this."
Silence fell as she took another bite. Standing with the counter between them, he stared at her, unwilling to ask, though curiosity burned within him—he had forced enough from her.
Lifting her wineglass, she took a sip and looked over the rim at him, her eyes dark and amused. "I've been married twice."
His fingers clenched; aside from that small betrayal, he waited, motionless.
"The first when I was fifteen, to a general in my father's army. The second, six years later—a Roman senator, who was assassinated within three years of our union." She grinned when he raised a brow. "I didn't do it; though I would have, had I the opportunity."
His unreasonable jealousy faded. He choked on a laugh, gulped his wine to clear his throat. "Why?"
She shrugged. "The marriage was a political alliance, but despite his promises to smooth relations between Rome and Carthage, he helped implement the plan to destroy us without mercy."
"You were illegitimate?" he guessed.
"Yes," she said with an ironic smile. "But still useful as a pawn."
From her tone, he understood she was also speaking of Lucifer. "Is that why you were transformed? You were a pawn?"
She nodded, and she said without inflection, "Immediately after my husband was killed, I returned to Carthage. It was just before the siege began, and my father had been convinced that a sacrifice would be needed to save his city. Rome would descend upon us like a dragon, but with a human sacrifice—but not just any human, one of the ruler's progeny—to the right gods, we would be spared. And I was . . . expendable."
"Lucifer convinced him?" His voice was hoarse.
"Yes."
Her simple answer kindled fury within his chest. "Where were the Guardians?"
"There were none," she said. "And Michael arrived too late—delayed by a creature Lucifer had created and let loose near the city. And once the ritual was complete, Lucifer offered me power, beauty, and immortality, and I took them." A hard smile curved her mouth. "And he offered revenge; had I been a better daughter, I would've died willingly for my father and my kingdom in that ritual. But I wasn't, and I relished the chance to revenge myself upon him."
"Did you get that chance?"
She shook her head. "No. Not on my father; Rome destroyed him before I could."
He reached across the counter, cupped her cheek in his palm. She raised her eyes to his, and her expression was entirely without self-pity, without bitterness. How could it be?
"How can you not want to revenge yourself upon me?"
"You would let me?"
His eyes darkened. "Aye."
"Martyr," she muttered, but her smile warmed. "I was willing to die that night; that's the difference."
"Are you willing now?" He couldn't allow her to sacrifice herself; it would be his death, as well.
"No." She grinned. "I intend to wipe the Earth clean of nosferatu and demons, then salt the ground in Hell. Are _you_ willing?"
To die for her, aye. But he only said, "We'll need more salt." Her grin widened, and she popped an olive into her mouth. Withdrawing his hand, he took another drink and calculated in his head. "You were twenty-four?"
"It's fitting, isn't it? Like Faustus." She grimaced. "Only my twenty-four years were free of demons."
He laughed. "Mephistopheles would have cowered before you. So you are almost two thousand one hundred eighty years old."
"With either four days remaining, or sixty years. Either way, I'm the oldest woman on Earth. Of my few accomplishments, it's one I can take pride in," she said, her eyes shining with amusement. She lifted the soup to her mouth.
"And I the oldest man." He rubbed his chin, felt the stubble there; he should have shaved. It would not do to scrape her skin. "It may be more than sixty years," he said absently.
She lowered her bowl, wiped her upper lip with her thumb and licked the tip. "Sixty-five? A significant difference, indeed," she said, rolling her eyes.
"Most likely twice that." He frowned slightly, realizing that if no demon halfling had been transformed back into human before, she would not know the consequences of it. "Lilith—" he paused, unsure how to explain it. He did not know the reason behind it, only that it was true of every Guardian who had Fallen. "You'll age relatively slowly. Look at me—really look. I am, in human years, thirty-three."
Her gaze traveled over his face. "You do look younger than that, but modern nutrition and medic—"
"You are simply too accustomed to me at seventeen," he said, smiling. "And without eyeglasses. I am changed, but only by seven years' worth, at most. Do you not notice your strength?" He thought how she had easily tossed him over on the bed. "Perhaps because you were a demon much longer than I was a Guardian—but you almost equal a vampire. I have only half that."
Her mouth was hanging open.
"It leaves its mark," he said, pleased that he could be the one to tell her. "You are probably the strongest, fastest human woman on Earth."
She smiled, but dipped her head as if to hide her surprise. "I _like_ that. A lot," she added thickly, and he laughed.
"How do you think you survived a trip through the bay? And you recovered from it within hours. Did you think I was speaking metaphorically of your strength? Of your quickness?"
She lifted her shoulders, and said with a note of embarrassment, "I thought it was your idea of a pep talk, your supportive teacher role. 'Believe in yourself,' or some other twenty-first century self-esteem shit."
"No." He laughed softly, trying to imagine himself saying that to Lilith—or to anyone else. "And your strength is not anything near what you had before; it isn't enough to defeat a nosferatu should you have to wrestle one," he said. "But you won't be helpless."
Her eyes narrowed. "What did you refer to earlier—the nosferatu not biting into your jugular? Don't tell me you fought one."
It was his turn for embarrassment. "I did not intend to fight it; I misjudged the control Beelzebub exerted over them." Her brows lifted in a mocking gesture, and she gestured with her wineglass for him to continue. Hugh quickly recounted the flight to the basement, focusing on the hellhound's victories to direct her attention from his own idiocy; she grinned and tossed Sir Pup cheese from her plate. "He killed the nosferatu who attacked me, and finally Selah was able to teleport us out," he finished.
"She can 'port?" Surprise in her voice, then realization. "That's how she got the kid out of the tomb in New Orleans— and why Michael allowed her to return with him. She can get to safety without a Gate."
"Yes. She went back for Colin," he added, his eyes troubled. "They could have made it out, but I don't want to raise false hope."
"Was Sir Pup there?" She turned when he nodded, and threw another piece of cheese. "Did they make it out? The vampire and the Guardian?" The hellhound whined and barked, wagging his tail. Lilith's mouth relaxed into a smile. "Yes. More difficult to tell without feeling his emotions, but I'm certain that was 'yes.' And Michael had said he was looking for someone in the Pit. It might have been Selah and Colin—though, if they were there, he did not find them. Perhaps Colin made her teleport to Paris for a shopping expedition," she said dryly.
Hugh knew she didn't believe it, but made no comment. He briefly described Beelzebub's attempt to bargain Savi's life for his, and her expression became pensive.
"I agree with your assessment; he needs you for the ritual," she said, shaking her head. "But what use could you be?"
His lips quirked at her blunt phrasing. "Moreover, why would Lucifer strike the bargain with Michael? If you kill me, Beelzebub and the nosferatu would not be able to use me. Which leaves three possibilities: Beelzebub is betraying Lucifer in some way; Lucifer thought you would be persuaded to perform the ritual when you killed me; or, the ritual and the bargain with Michael have the same end."
"Caelum," Lilith said, and Hugh nodded. "But I don't see how including you in the ritual would secure Caelum for them. Nor do I think Beelzebub would betray Lucifer."
"Does he think you would perform the ritual on me?" His eyes locked with hers.
"Perhaps," she said slowly, and looked down at her plate. "I tried once and failed; it's possible he thought that with the proper incentive, I would try again. Before Sir Pup came for me, his demons were conditioning me."
"Conditioning?" Hugh stiffened. "Torture?"
"Of a sort—they couldn't physically hurt me, of course; the Rules prevent it. But I was in a dark chamber, and they continually spoke of how you don't care for me, but only for your own success in saving me; that it was your life or mine—" She must have seen his expression, for she paused. "I wasn't hurt."
He could barely speak past the rage clogging his throat. "It was something Vlad might have done. In a few more days, you would have been starving, dehydrated—hallucinating. You might have done anything at that point, out of your mind and hardly aware of it."
"Yes. I'm certain that's what they planned."
Unable to have it separating them any longer, Hugh pushed away from the counter, circled it. He tamped down his anger—and in truth, should he not direct it at himself as well? Had he not manipulated her, forced her to face Lucifer without defense?
And so he hesitated when he reached her chair; she swiveled the stool to face him. "Is this kindness as well?"
"Nay." He would have given anything to feel her skin against his; still, he did not reach out. "I do hate my failures, but it is not the reason I fight to save you."
"I know." She looked down at her hands, resting atop her bent knee. "I rarely trust a demon's words; lies are compulsory. Lucifer was upset that I had chosen to tell you the truth about our bargain. I don't think he realizes you would not be fooled by them, and so they are useless." A half-smile tilted her lips. "That could work to our advantage. I shall only speak lies, you shall divine the truth—and if we are heard, the demons and nosferatu will assume I'm fulfilling my bargain."
He shook his head, and his eyes searched hers. "We have both tried to solve our difficulties by going around them, and have only made of mess of it: you forged Polidori's letter, and it has created more problems for us than it has solved. I tried to subvert your Punishment by forcing pleasure from you, and he took your powers. Now the bargain's resolution is imminent, and the consequences no longer affect just the two of us."
"And you would have us confront the nosferatu directly?" she asked.
She began laughing, as if she'd imagined them fighting the nosferatu and found the thought hilarious. Mesmerized by the sound, he forgot his earlier reticence and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was still damp from her shower, and he could smell his shampoo, his soap on her skin.
"Only that we should approach it differently than we have in the past," he said when she paused for breath. Her eyes shone with amusement, and her skin gently flushed with laughter and wine.
Sliding down in the seat, she raised her leg and rested the ball of her foot against his chest. "So you think I shouldn't lie?" She gave him a light push.
Automatically, he caught her ankle and used it to anchor himself, shifting his balance; when he had his feet well-braced, he smoothed his palm under the cuff of her khakis. The pants were too long; her foot, half-covered by the material, looked dainty, fragile—the opposite of what she truly was. Appearances were deceiving, even in this.
"No, I think it will be useful," he said finally. "But in this instance, it would not serve us. A demon would not believe you were following through on the bargain if you only spoke in lies."
Her brows drew together as if she'd taken offense, and he laughed. Never would it be said Lilith did not pride herself on her ability to lie, to succeed in any purpose with deception.
"Go on," he challenged. "Lie to me."
**CHAPTER 28**
She only debated for a moment. It was ridiculous; if he could read her lies, was it an assessment of her skill to hide them? But for what purpose?
"Your décor is atrocious," she said, testing.
His eyes widened in mock horror. "I shall kill myself immediately."
So that was the game. Lies that would lead anyone listening to believe her aims were to kill him. Lies that would serve a demon. "Colin would have," she muttered.
"I"—he lifted her foot, nipped sharply at her big toe—"am not Colin."
Her breath caught, and she struggled to keep the arousal that kindled warm and tight in her belly from spreading. Her toe, for fuck's sake. Ridiculous to respond to it. Or to the expression in his eyes: even with humor brightening azure to sapphire, even behind the shields of his lenses, his focus was so intense it felt like a touch.
He let go her foot. "You can do better," he said.
No, she could do worse. She drained her face of emotion. "You're a coward."
He smiled, studying her. A fascinating thing, how he translated the cues of her eyes and tone as easily as her words. "That does not fit the criteria: you must only speak lies. There might be truth in that. I _have_ been a coward where you are concerned, else I would have pursued you as we both wanted, long ago. Perhaps we would not be in this position now if not for my cowardice."
Now, simply his voice—and a hot, spiraling ache began to coil through her. "This is _all_ the fault of your cowardice," she said dryly.
"Much better, though absolutes make for rather easy lies."
"I think you are a coward." She grinned, and slid off the chair. His hands settled on her hips, as if she were a lady dismounting from a horse and he would support her until she found her footing. He did not remove them.
"Now you flatter me," he said, and then his smile faded. Standing, her gaze was on level with his mouth, and it was no effort to imagine flattering its beauty, the firm curve of his lips, the simple power they seemed to have over her. "It would be the type of lie you would need if you wanted to break me. But you are here to kill me. Given that you did not immediately pull out a sword and stab me through the chest, would you not try to convince me to lower my guard? To make me love and desire you, so that the betrayal is more sweet? Is that not what a demon would do?"
Her heart contracted, and for a moment she could not meet his eyes. She already wanted those things, but they were not lies, nor designed to destroy him. She was not a demon, and no longer served Lucifer—that agreement had been terminated when he transformed her into a human—but they probably still expected her to act like one. Funny, that demons would be deceived by truth, and only because they did not recognize it as Hugh did.
"So lie to me, if it pleases _you_ ," he said quietly, and slid his palms up the sides of her waist, beneath her shirt. "But do not do it for _them_."
She rose up on her toes. Lifted her mouth, not to kiss—not yet—but so that he couldn't mistake her teasing. "I wonder that you accept me so easily, knowing what I have been—what I _am_. You must have a terrible flaw, your soul irrevocably corrupted by temptation." Winding her arms around his shoulders, she leaned against him. Had she once thought him vulnerable in this human form? Difficult to remember why, with the broad strength of him so close.
"Easily? It has taken eight centuries, a multitude of kisses bargained and stolen, both of us dead and brought back to life, one terribly translated manuscript and thousands of lies for me to accept you." His voice was light, amused; but she felt the tension in his hands, saw the self-derision in his eyes. "I only wonder that it took me so long."
She did not. It would have been nothing like the emotional torrent she felt now: beautiful, brilliant. She would have turned it into something ugly, something safe—never realizing that there was another kind of safety in this, despite the threat of the bargain and the nosferatu. Never allowing it to just be.
Impossible to tell him that; it was easier to lie.
"I'm still hungry," she said.
He went rigid against her, and she dipped her head to taste the strong column of his throat. A reverberation against her tongue as a groan escaped him, but the sound was muffled as if he'd clenched his teeth. Did he resist her then?
Remembering his earlier hesitation, she bit him on the muscled arch between his neck and shoulder. He shuddered, but still did not do more than hold her, his hands firm at her waist.
Guilt, she guessed. That wouldn't do.
"I didn't like being taken against the closet door," she whispered silkily. Her tongue swirled over the stretch of skin below his ear. His erection rose taut and hard between them. Desire licked at her, then pulsed deep. "I don't remember how good it felt when you were inside me."
His breathing was ragged now, his fingers sliding around her back. "It shouldn't have been like that."
She laughed, forgetting to lie. "How should it have been? Gentle, with marriage vows between us? A lord and his lady, quiet in their bed, thinking of duty and England?"
"Not a betrayal," he said.
"Of what? Of whom? Not of me." She pulled back to look at him. His features were drawn tight, his eyes bright with self-directed anger. "I won't lie to please them, only if you do not judge yourself by a morality that has nothing to do with _us_. If I'd been any other woman, yes, what you did might have been unforgivable. But do you think I didn't feel your struggle? That I didn't rejoice when you failed to resist? I want everything from you; I won't settle for half. I'm selfish and greedy. If I were a better woman, I wouldn't relish the knowledge that you risked your soul to save me; nor, after you'd fulfilled your wager, that you took me despite your honor, your sense, and your character, because you couldn't deny yourself. And I could have escaped you then, saved you in turn, but I chose to stay because I couldn't deny you, either. We are not human, nor Guardian, nor demon; we have made choices that have set us apart, but they were the only choices available to us. What was the alternative to that night? _Any_ night—Essex, Seattle, last week? Every other choice ends in disaster or death. And we are on the cusp of disaster again, but I prefer four days with you than another thousand years as a demon." Her voice broke; she hadn't meant to say it, but now that it had been spoken she would not retract it. "That is the choice I make now. And to fight; there is little else to do."
She stopped, suddenly embarrassed by the vehemence of her speech. Though she knew he would not accept all she had said, some of the tension faded from him. He lowered his head, rested his forehead against hers. "Michael said the same thing: that there is naught to do but fight," he said, and laughed when she made a sound of dismay.
She closed her eyes, grateful he'd let her escape into humor. "Shit. The next time I sound like him, stab me."
"I will," he said, and brushed his lips over hers. "I love you."
She'd known—she'd known and yet had no idea that hearing the words would burst within her as it did, a release, a freedom. She trailed kisses quick and hard over his lips, missing his mouth more often that not. He was a fool to love her—she'd not known anything of love but to twist and ruin it. And it was only fair that she warned him.
"Imbecile," she said between his jaw and his neck, and he laughed again and lifted her against him, half-dragging her out of the kitchen. The bedroom—he was headed to the bedroom. Too far. Impatient, she twisted and tripped him, fell atop him on the corner of the living room rug, a tangle of legs and tongues. His hands were on her breasts, plucking at her nipples through thin cotton.
"Take it off," he commanded, but didn't wait for her and began pulling up her shirt. He paused for an infinitesimal moment, as if drinking in the sight of her—then his mouth was on her, suckling and licking before the T-shirt cleared her head, and she was caught in darkness, the black material trapping her arms and covering her face. Wordlessly, he reached up, fisted his hand in the shirt and hair, held her immobile.
And there was only his lips and tongue on the aching peaks. The scrape of his whiskered jaw on her skin. The thick ridge of his cock beneath her. Her spine arched, and she gasped as he captured her nipple between his teeth, not enough to hurt but to make her fall silent, still.
Blind, she waited breathlessly as he unfastened her pants and slid his hand inside. As he cupped her sex. Then moaned as he let go of her nipple and slowly, slowly swirled his tongue around the taut flesh.
She heard the smile in his voice, felt it against her breast. "Do you want kindness, Lily?" He pushed a finger inside her, and she pressed her bottom lip between her teeth to stay her cry of need. _More, more_. As if he heard that silent plea, he drew her nipple deeply into his mouth. Her blood seemed to carry fire through her veins. She panted, the small confines of the shirt hot and humid.
Another finger, stretching and thrusting, and she grunted with frustration and rocked against him, trying to spread her thighs wider, grind herself closer to him, needing more.
"What would be kindness now? Do you want to look?" He pumped his fingers, his palm slick with her arousal, gliding over her clit. "Do you want to see that I'm inside you? But not enough." His voice was hoarse. "I'd have to let go your shirt, free my hand to unzip. And you would see. Would that be a kindness? You wouldn't see what I do."
"What would I see?" she whispered, the words ragged.
His tongue began to trace a pattern on her skin. Realization struck, and she shivered, tried to pull away from his mouth. Didn't want him touching what Lucifer had put on her.
"No!" His harsh denial surprised her, the desperation and anger behind it. "Don't hide from me now, Lilith. I see it, but it's not all that I see. I'm not a fool in this. I can take it all. There's nothing you have been—or could do—that would make me reject you." His grip loosened on the shirt. Quickly, she ripped it the rest of the way off. And caught her breath at the stark beauty of him, the emotion that filled his eyes.
Unwilling to have anything between that expression and her, she leaned forward and removed his glasses. Tossed them on the sofa cushion. "What do you see?"
"Look."
And she rose up, looked down between them. He was fully dressed, she half-dressed—it should have been a wanton and sinful display. Perhaps it was. She couldn't care. She only saw her dark-tipped breasts, the nipples drawn tight. The whisker-reddened skin. The spread of her thighs over him, his fingers buried in her glistening sex. His marks.
"My angel, above. The firmament between." He touched her face, her breasts and belly. Moved his other hand, still between her thighs, where she was hot and wet. "Flood and furnace. It has left its mark, but there is no part of you that is Hell for me—and the only torment would be losing you again." He drew her back down against him.
"Good," she said fiercely against his mouth. "Because I'm too greedy to let you take your love back, and too selfish to push you away."
"Good," he echoed, and traced the seam of her lips with his tongue. Dipped inside to taste before pulling back. "Let me be kind to you, Lily."
But it was not kindness when the delicious torture of his fingers halted, and he withdrew his hand. She snarled in protest, but he only laughed, the sound roughened by his arousal. "Up," he said, pushing her up over the length of his torso, tugging down her waistband at the same time.
"Oh, yes," she said as she realized his intent, and scrambled forward on her knees, kicking at the pants until they came off. "God, yes, be kind. Be very, very—" The heat of his mouth seared through her, and she fell, her elbows hitting the rug, bracing her only by virtue of their construction, because every other bone in her body seemed suddenly weak and useless.
She gasped as his tongue brushed her clit, when it returned to stroke more firmly. Then she couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. His hands curled around her thighs, held her against him—but she wasn't going anywhere. Not with his tongue licking, darting, suckling. Trembling, she looked again, and he tilted his head back to watch her watching him, canted her hips to keep her against his mouth.
Leisurely now, he licked through the soft folds. Used his lips to tease at her clit. Her jaw clenched against the whimpering moans of pleasure that built inside her with each luscious slide of his tongue, and she only heard the wet slick sounds, the low encouraging noises that came from his throat. Until he said, "Open for me, Lily," and she laughed, shuddering with need, wondering how she could open any more for him.
He licked. "I won't settle for half." She thought he was throwing her words back at her, and she shook her head. He needn't worry—this wasn't half, he was giving her everything. But he growled with frustration and rolled her over. Pinned her wrists to the floor. "You don't have to hide from me. Lie, if you must, if you can't tell me with truth. But don't hide. Not when I'm touching you, not when I'm inside you."
And she realized she had been holding back, refusing him her response except for those she could not control. She'd been conditioned for too long; denying herself any pleasure, denying the acknowledgment of it.
She pulled her hands free. She didn't have to use her strength; he let her go, but didn't move from between her legs. His muscles were rigid with tension. His eyes searched her face, as if waiting for her to come to a decision.
And a part of her rebelled— _he'd hidden from her_ —but the need in his expression quelled that vengeful little voice. She would do unto him in this, if only this—if only Hugh.
"I don't want you to touch me," she said.
His lips parted, his head bowed in relief. "Lie to me again," he said.
She grinned, and smoothed her hands over the muscular planes of his chest. "I don't want you inside me. I don't want you to be kind to me." She tugged, and his shirt joined his glasses on the sofa. Threaded her fingers through his dark hair, pulled him down and kissed him long and deep. His fingers worked between them, and then his skin was bare against hers.
He filled her palm, his length hot and hard. Each stroke of her hand pulled a harsh breath from him.
"I don't want to fuck you until you can't walk."
He groaned, thrust into her tight grip. The protuberant head was slick, and she swirled her thumb over it.
Laughing softly, she said, "I think you have a word fetish. Fuck." She whispered it into his ear, and he jerked against her. "Why, my virtuous Norman knight likes a dirty Anglo-Saxon word. And lies."
"Only when you say them." His laugh was tortured.
She licked his mouth. "I don't want you to fuck my—"
"Lilith, for god's sake!" He fumbled with his pants, lying discarded beside them. "I need pity."
She did, too. He rose up on his knees, and he was beautiful, his erection ruddy with need, arching toward his navel. Her breath hitched, and the slow, throbbing ache centered in her core twisted, speared through her. His eyes were dark as he unrolled the sheath over his cock.
And then he bent, lifted her easily and set her on the edge of the large ottoman, hooked her legs over his arms. The leather was buttery soft beneath her.
"Do you want to watch?"
"No," she said and couldn't look away as he pressed against her, slid the thick head of his cock up and down, teasing.
He pushed forward. Sank into her.
It burned and stretched. Pain, just a little, but it was good—she hadn't felt it when she'd been a demon. She panted and writhed against her seat as he went deeper, feeding his shaft into her inch by slow inch.
He paused, his breathing harsh. "Am I hurting you?"
Yes and no were both lies, both truth. In answer, she pushed toward him. Full penetration, and she cried out, unable to contain it.
"Aye, Lily—like that. Let me hear it again." He withdrew, then stroked thickly back inside. Braced his forearms on either side of her. Another thrust, slowly, and he groaned in triumph, in pleasure as another cry tore from her. "I'm greedy, too," he said.
Her laugh ended on a scream as he began to drive into her, hard and fast, but even that sound was cut short as his mouth took hers and his tongue and breath pulled and pushed in rhythm with his cock. Unable to keep still, she arched up against him. Dropped her feet to the floor and lifted. And almost sobbed as the new angle allowed him even deeper, hitting just right with every sharp thrust, an overwhelming, terrible pleasure.
He slid his hand beneath her, to support her or to hold her still for him, she didn't know, didn't care. Short lunges now, each one quick and unbearably perfect. And her orgasm ripped through her, an unexpected release that left her shaken, falling, clinging to him inside and out.
Gradually, she became aware of his skin, slick with perspiration. The muscles in his back flexing under her hands. He slowed, waited as if to give her time to come back to herself.
Had it always been like this: laughing one moment, intense and earth-shattering the next? Full of need, then certain she'd never want for anything else? She could never be restless with him, never bored—never had been. Even stillness with him was a constant revelation.
She pressed her lips to his throat, blinked away the burning behind her eyes. "Four days is enough."
And then she pivoted, knocking him back, sprawling atop him. Rode him as she'd promised once, threatened hundreds of times. His fingers tightened; she didn't remember threading hers through his, but their palms were locked together.
"I can't love you," she said, and the thrust of his lean hips became erratic, a staccato beat.
"Lie." He panted the word.
She clenched her teeth, bore down, grinding against him. "I shouldn't love you." He tensed beneath her, and her name was a plea on his lips. But _shouldn't_ was Lucifer's lie, not hers.
"I don't love you," she lied instead, and he arched beneath her, shuddering. The pulse of his release sent tremors through her again, and she didn't resist the simple human pleasure of it.
She lay on his chest, felt the racing of his heart, his ragged breathing. They eased, and he finally managed to say, "I should have given in the night on the wall walk."
Laughing, she turned her head and bit his shoulder. Licked, tasted salt and warm, satisfied male. His hand smoothed down the length of her spine. She glanced up at him, but he was staring at the ceiling, his gaze unfocused.
"I'll find a way, Lilith," he said quietly, and unease shivered over her skin.
But she didn't object when he mistook it for cold and was kind to her again.
**CHAPTER 29**
"Oh, Liiiiil-LITH!" Her father's singsongy call became a roar, demanding obedience. She tasted dirt and blood, and her stomach heaved in revulsion.
"If you puke, you're going to die." He sounded pleased by the idea.
Lilith forced her eyes open. Lucifer perched weightlessly on her stomach like a vulture. He'd adopted the form of a towheaded young boy, eight or nine years of age; his jeans and T-shirt were pristine and dry despite the misting rain.
She tried to speak, but her tongue lay stiff and cold in her mouth. Lucifer tilted his head and smiled.
"You've got just enough left in you," he said. Plunging two fingers into the wound in her chest, he wriggled them around. "If he'd taken your head off, I wouldn't be bothering with this now." He wrapped his free hand around her jaw; withdrawing his blood-slicked fingers, he slipped them into her mouth.
" 'The blood is the life,' " he crooned, and then giggled.
A scream built in her throat but she dared not release it. She kept her mind and expression carefully blank. He could do much worse than this— _would_ do worse if he knew the extent of her fear.
"I'm extremely displeased, Lilith," he said conversationally. "Are you a succubus? No. And yet you stood there: a whore with your mouth and legs open, begging for his sword. 'Kill me, kill me!' " He imitated her voice, his expression disgusted. "Where was the woman who, only two thousand years ago, sobbed so pathetically? 'I don't want to die!' You accepted my Gift—and let a Guardian take it without a fight?"
His voice had been rising, each word a thundering shout. A second mouth opened above his eyebrows, its voice terrifyingly calm.
"The same Guardian for whom you betrayed me before!"
From his forehead, he said, _"I try to imagine your reason for allowing him to Fall."_
"This is the second time you've proved your worthlessness and ruined my plans."
_"You did not kill him, but perhaps your redemption lies in his humanity."_
"But you won't again, Lilith; there is no more room for your errors."
_"He would not have belonged to me, but as a human he will be fragile, susceptible—and he has shown his weakness: you."_
"You no longer believe there is no light without darkness?"
_"My plans for him are ripe, but all the pieces are not yet in place."_
"I'll enjoy reminding you."
_"Until that time, I have another project in mind for you."_
Both pairs of lips smiled, and the mouths spoke together. "We will wait, Lilith. When the time comes, you will succeed where you failed before; his death will be yours to give, or your soul mine to keep. Have we a bargain?"
_No, no, please, no._ But she couldn't respond; he sighed, grabbed her hair and rocked her head back and forth in a disjointed nod.
"Wonderful!" he crowed. Reaching over her shoulder, he unfolded something from the ground and brought it to his lower mouth. The scent of it was both sickening and achingly familiar: Hugh's robe, soaked in her blood.
Lucifer began sucking on the coarse fabric, and the mouth on his forehead said, _"He buried you, did you realize that? Shedding tears all the while. Quite touching. He wrapped you in this thing and stuck you in the ground."_ His cheeks puffed out as his mouth filled. " _Did he think to give you peace? Foolish Guardian. There is enough blood here to reanimate you a thousand times over. And I don't even have to do the rest. You remember last time—_ " He made a slashing motion with his left hand, and Lilith whimpered.
He grinned. "That's my girl. You've been a very good girl, haven't you? But that has to change: it's time to be bad again." Dropping the robe onto her chest, he leaned forward. Blood dribbled from his mouths. "Give Daddy a kiss."
"Better now?"
Even before she nodded and said she was, Hugh knew she would lie. Sighing, he helped her to her feet, then closed the toilet lid and flushed. There'd been nothing left in her stomach at the last, but she'd still heaved as if her body could purge whatever the nightmare had left in her.
He knew the feeling well. Had recognized the terror and sickness when she'd bolted from the bed, her hand over her mouth. And though he'd known she'd hate him witnessing it—would consider it a weakness in herself—he'd remained with her, leaving only for a moment to collect pajama bottoms for himself and a covering for her. They'd been in the cramped, cold bathroom for almost an hour, silence between them but for his soothing murmurs when each bout of retching had taken her.
She swayed. He steadied her, his hands on her waist. The thin flannel robe he'd placed over her shoulders slipped, and he tucked her arms through the sleeves, tied the sash.
"Bulimia . . ." Her face was still pale, but as if to signify that she had finished vomiting, she reached up and pulled apart the messy braid Hugh had made to keep the hair from her face. ". . . is a necessary evil; I am too vain to gain an ounce."
He smiled and wordlessly handed her his toothbrush.
She met his gaze in the mirror as she scrubbed her teeth. Her eyes were dark and haunted, and his chest ached when she looked away. She spat and rinsed before carefully replacing the toothbrush in its container. Each movement was deliberate and precise, overly studied in its attempt at normalcy.
His throat tightened; she seemed brittle, overwhelmed. Yet he couldn't leave her alone. Searching for something trivial, something to make her smile, he glanced down at the uncluttered shelf beside the sink. "Throwing up will keep you thin, but if you are to completely indulge your vanity, we'll need lady-things: lotions, perfumes." Her profile was to him; her lashes were lowered, a thick sweep against her cheek. Her black hair tumbled the length of her back. "Cosmetics, though you don't need them. Brushes and jeweled combs. Spices and silks." He would gladly give her anything.
"Another razor," she said, turning toward him. Self-consciously, he touched his jaw, remembered the whisker burn on her skin. But she only pulled aside the bottom of the plaid robe, exposing the tops of her thighs, the length of her legs. "I dulled yours shaving."
His gaze skimmed from thighs to feet, and he sighed. "So you truly weren't pleasuring yourself in the shower earlier."
"My vanity could hardly bear you seeing stubble." Her hand slipped between her thighs, and she arched a brow. "But I couldn't finish the rest." She lifted the edge of the robe higher.
"There are refills in the cabinet," he said, his mouth dry.
She traced her fingers through the dark curls. "Shall I shape it like a heart?" Her eyes glittered with wicked laughter. "An arrow, pointing you in the right direction?"
He choked, torn between amusement and arousal. Though his erection was suddenly painful in its intensity, straining against the front of his pajamas, he remained where he was and watched her play.
How many times had he had her? He'd essentially spent the entire day within her, but it still wasn't enough—and the moonlight spilling through the room reminded him he had only three days left.
He forced that sorrow away as she leaned back against the wall, raised her knee and braced it against the sink. She shrugged, and flannel whispered to the floor. "Look"—she exposed pink flesh, swollen with desire; her slim fingers slid down, then inside, and his entire body clenched with need—"at how wet I am."
"Lilith—"
Her back arched, and she licked her lips. "AmI a bad girl, Professor?"
A change came over her, as if she'd said it in jest but it had struck a different note within her. Her mouth twisted, her eyes hardened. Hate and anger in that look—but not directed at him.
Before she could twist it back at herself, he crossed his arms over his bare chest. "I haven't seen any evidence that you are, Lilith." Challenge in his voice. "Nothing that earns the reputation you've cultivated, anyway."
She blinked, and her gaze refocused on him. Her foot dropped to the floor. Her smile was slow and dangerous. "You're going to pay for that."
An hour later, his throat was raw, his voice all but gone. Two hours later, she finally let him come, and he went over soundlessly, certain his jaw would never unclench and his body would never have enough of her lips and tongue. Never enough of the scratch of her fingernails and grip of her hand. The bite of her teeth and the rasp of her voice. Or the slick, heated clasp of her sex.
They had no more condoms; she'd taken him without barriers, and then used it against him, riding him to her climax several times though he could not take his own. And again, using her hands and lips and tongue until he was on the verge of orgasm, then sheathing him inside her body, forcing him to hold back. A sweet torment, to have what he most desired, but unable to have it in full. Exquisite agony to choose between the pleasure of being inside her, or release—and then to be denied choice. He had begged, but did not know what he begged for: both choices were torture, both mercy. Now she wiped the seed from his abdomen with a soft washcloth, and each stroke quivered through his sensitized flesh. He laughed silently; he'd thought his muscles were all but water, but they still responded to her touch.
"This was stupid," she said, but her tone was smug. He would have argued—provoking her had been the smartest decision he'd ever made—but his voice didn't work.
She tossed the cloth to the floor and untied his wrists. The bindings hadn't been tight, but it was a relief to lower his arms, to touch her as she lay down on her side next to him and propped her chin on her fist.
She looked down at him and laid her other hand on his chest. "I don't know that I can have children, anyway. I didn't when I was alive before." She leaned over, kissed his eyelids. "And despite immortality leaving its mark, not everything is healed, or made better, or stronger. You're still practically blind; I may still be barren."
He nodded, unable to do more.
She grinned. "But we'll buy more anyway." Scooting down, she laid her head on his chest. Her fingers circled his flat bronze nipple, and they both watched as the nub puckered. "I _am_ good," she said. With a self-satisfied laugh, she relaxed against him and let her palm rest on his abdomen.
They lay in silence in the darkened room, until she finally said, "The nightmare—it was Seattle." A harsh breath ripped from him; though she didn't raise her head to look at him, she shook it in denial of his assumption. "Not you slaying me. My father. The bargain."
He waited; eventually, she turned her chin against his breastbone and met his eyes. He slid his arm around her, pulled her closer to him so he could read every nuance of her expression. Her breasts were a soft pressure against his chest, the bulk of her weight supported by her forearms, denting the pillow on either side of his head.
"The man who shot Savitri—do you regret his death?"
The man who'd killed Savi's parents without reason or guilt? Had murdered others as well? Would have killed Savi, simply for being able to identify him? "No," he said hoarsely, forcing it out. "The method. Using my Gift in that way. He shot himself of his own will, but I could have made certain he was caught, convicted—tried under human law—yet I did not." Each word scraped his throat like broken glass. "And we should not be executioners. Of demons, nosferatu, even vampires: aye, for there is little alternative to contain them but death. But Guardians should not execute humans, lest we become tyrants and think ourselves above them."
She touched his neck, he felt a tug as she slid her fingers up to toy with the short curls against the pillow. "You can sign with your hands. It's not as secret as you Guardians think." Her smile was wry, her gaze steady—and tinged with fear. "Are you certain you can take me?"
It wasn't sexual, that question—he'd claimed there was nothing that could make her reject him, but she apparently thought whatever she was going to tell him would change his mind. Or perhaps it was what she'd just done.
His arms tightened around her. "I'm certain," he said, unwilling to let go to sign. Pain was preferable to that.
"I enjoyed it." She focused on her fingers, gently twisting a short lock of hair behind his ear. "When I first began, I enjoyed it. The first one was in Greece: a husband who had killed his wife for bearing yet another daughter. The second, a woman who'd tortured and killed her male slaves. A father who'd raped his daughter, then killed her when she became pregnant. On and on. And I tormented them until they took their own lives. I thought of myself as one of the Furies, a servant of the gods—not answerable even to the gods—and I enjoyed it for over a thousand years. Not because it served Lucifer, but because I thought they deserved it." She took a deep breath, met his eyes again. "I still do."
"Enjoy tormenting them?"
She shook her head. "That wore thin before I met you. And though it was still deserved, I no longer had a taste for it. In that you are right; we have no place in this modern age to be executioners. To assist, perhaps, but not to judge." Almost absently, she began rubbing her toes up and down the length of his calf as she spoke. "But I still enjoy the . . . the _game_ of it. The challenge of trying to make the impossible seem an everyday occurrence, the extraordinary seem normal. That's what I did with them; I took their fears, paranoia and guilt, and used my powers and deception to draw them out—without ever letting them realize it was something outside of themselves. And that is the only part of my job that I enjoy now: coming up with explanations that, while sometimes absurd, at least were believable to someone who'd never seen a demon, a vampire, or a Guardian. Explanations that made sense within the context of the modern world."
He fought to hide his smile. Did she think he hadn't known this? That he would ask her to be something she wasn't—had never been? "So you are saying you could never be a suburban housewife." The words came out as a rough whisper.
"Yes," she said quietly. "There is truth in the mark Lucifer left on me: I will always be Lilith."
And she thought he would turn away from her because of that? That he wouldn't stay with her? He briefly wrestled with the bitterness within him—she hadn't believed him, didn't think very highly of his declaration of love—and found it was easy to push away in the face of her fear. Far more important to erase it than to wallow in his own pain. He lifted his head and pressed his lips to hers, then flipped her over onto her back.
Only the barest light shone in from the windows, but it was enough to see the design between her breasts, the hesitation in her eyes. "Is that what this is? Your name?"
She nodded.
His mouth hovered over the mark. "What was it before?" He kissed the upper curve of the design, tracing it to the upper swell of her right breast.
"I don't know." Her chest rose and fell with her quick breaths. "He took it from me; he stripped all halflings of the memory of their human names. Michael would know, I suppose"—he closed his lips over her nipple, unable to resist the taut bud so close—"but it hardly matters."
He returned to the mark, his lips and tongue painting glistening strokes. _It doesn't matter,_ he signed over his head, his mouth too busy for speech. _Did you choose Lily Milton?_
"Not Milton—" He heard the smile in her voice. "Lucifer wanted to remind me that 'They also serve who only stand and wait' as I spent my years in the Bureau, anticipating the onset of the bargain."
Hugh lifted his head and stared at her. "You're joking." It was the last line of a poem John Milton had written after he'd lost his eyesight; it questioned whether he was as valuable to God if he could not perform any great and heroic deeds that served Him.
She shook with laughter. "No. Lucifer is quite willing to twist anything that refers to Him to suit his own needs."
"And Lily?" He lowered his head again to tug lightly at her other nipple.
"I chose it," she gasped. "It is near to Lilith in sound, and I was tired of remembering which name I was supposed to respond to. You've called me Lily."
He slid lower, and his lips caressed the dip of her navel. _Only when I want to be inside you._ He had to use his hand to push her knee over his shoulder, then cupped her bottom in both palms and lifted her to his mouth. "Lily," he said aloud against the silky skin of her inner thigh. Beautiful, wild, fragrant. He inhaled, and her scent filled him. That it was laced with his own masculine odor sent possessive lust surging through him, and he barely held it in check. If he hadn't just spent two hours hard and begging for release, he'd have already been inside her again. "But only if you want it."
"The name?" She laughed, and tugged on his hair. "Or do I want your tongue on me, right _now_!"
"The name. Hold yourself open for me." He blew lightly through her curls.
"I love how you say it: Lily," she said the name languorously, her voice deepening; and he smiled against her skin. It echoed how he felt with her; he'd no idea it had been so obvious. Her hands left his head, then her fingers slipped between her thighs. "In that moment, I am soft and yielding." Her legs trembled as she bared herself, and he drank in the sight of her, wet and plump with arousal. "But not always, and only with you."
"Only with me," he echoed hoarsely. "Lily."
She shivered, and he bent his head. Her moisture flooded his mouth, exquisitely sweet, exquisitely Lilith. He'd meant to tease her, to draw it out, but as he laved lightly at her clit she begged, "Not soft now, Hugh," and he was lost. A growl of hunger escaped him, and he took from her mercilessly, lapped up her cries with each stroke of his tongue, each thrust of his fingers into her slick heat. She lifted, grinding her clit against his tongue, rubbing and rubbing, and he had to pump his hips against the bed to keep from slamming into her. Her back arched, her body drew tight beneath him.
"Harder, harder." It became her chant; he used his teeth. She came with a guttural scream, and still he licked and sucked at her, until the clenching of the smooth muscles around his fingers became flutterings, until she fell back to the bed and her hands dropped from between her thighs.
"Holy fuck," she said, her voice awed.
He chuckled against her belly, then rose up to lie next to her. Rolled her so that her back was against his chest.
"Lily," he said, his voice deliberately low and sensuous, and he laughed when she shivered again.
He waited for her to sleep, but she seemed just as content to lie in his arms as he was to hold her. It wasn't until the first rays of the sun settled in stripes across the bed that he spoke again.
"Lilith?"
She made a soft, drowsy reply.
"If waiting serves him, then we'll not wait." He already knew what would save Lilith, knew what he'd have to do. But first he had to make certain she—along with everyone else around him—would be safe from the nosferatu.
She tensed, then turned to face him. "I have a few ideas." Her smile was wide, wicked.
God, but he loved her. His heart ached, but he didn't have to force his laughter. "Are they absurd?"
Her eyes danced. "Oh, yes."
**CHAPTER 30**
What was truly absurd, Lilith decided as she scanned Hugh's closet for anything to put on her feet, was attempting to get around San Francisco without shoes. Or a car.
Once they got to her apartment, she'd have clothes—they wouldn't have confiscated all of them—but _getting_ there was the problem. Sighing, she pulled out a huge pair of battered tennis shoes and slipped them on.
Hugh grinned when he saw her, but it was easy for him to laugh when he had jeans and boots that fit, and his shirt looked as if it clung to him out of sheer desperation, afraid of losing contact with his skin. She envied that shirt, hated it.
She clomped out of the bedroom. "They won't let us on the bus without shoes, and your precious Savi's feet are the size of a fairy's."
Was he still grinning as he followed her? She would have turned, except that she was afraid she'd leap on him and they'd be waiting for another hour. Or two.
"We aren't riding the bus," he said.
"Oh?" She paused to scratch Sir Pup's neck as he skidded up to them, his claws sliding on the wood floor. "You have a car?"
"No. I don't like enclosed moving vehicles: planes, cars, trains."
He _was_ grinning.
She closed her eyes, trying not to laugh. "Your bike? Will you pedal me around on that trusty steed?"
"Aye, my lady. My bike. It will add to the absurdity." He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the garage; on the way, he opened a closet and thrust a leather jacket at her. "How can you wear leather but not eat meat?"
She slanted him an exasperated look as she shrugged on the jacket. It was too big, but a fine quality. "I don't eat leather. Why do you ride a bike?"
He looked over his shoulder at her. "It's too far to walk to the university, and I get time to think. _This_ is for when I don't want to think anymore."
He opened the garage door, and her heart filled with lust and pleasure. A black BMW motorcycle stood in the corner, sleek and compact. Built for speed.
"Oh," she said. "Oh. I want one."
He tossed her a visored helmet, and she caught it by reflex. "That's Savi's, but luckily her head is bigger than a fairy's. If you tuck up your hair, anyone watching the news won't be able to see who you are."
She quickly wound her hair into a coil. "Can I drive?"
"Not a chance." He slung his leg over the back of the bike, patted the seat behind him. "I've seen you fly."
The ride was too short. She rested her head against his broad back and clenched her thighs alongside his as they arrived in her neighborhood; he pulled to the curb a block away from her building. Her hair caught as she took off the helmet, then cascaded down her back as it fell out of its twist. She'd left her visor up; the wind had whipped tears from her eyes, and she hastily wiped them away.
Sir Pup sat on the sidewalk. He was too big to be mistaken for a normal dog, but he'd taken on a form with only one head. His tongue lolled, his tail waved happily; Lilith guessed that he'd enjoyed the run almost as much as she'd enjoyed the ride.
"We send him in first?" Hugh braced his feet on the ground and ran his fingers through his hair. Unshaven, slightly rumpled—but with a glint in his eyes that made him look dangerous. Sexy. He'd put in contact lenses that morning, and she realized now they were more practical when riding the motorcycle than glasses—but she almost missed the professorial air they had given him.
It was a safe look: safe and comfortable for _her_. This Hugh was new—another surprise.
He caught her studying him, and his gaze heated. "Lily?"
"We send him in," she confirmed, her voice thick. He hadn't argued when she'd outlined her plan to gather information, though it put him at considerable risk.
Sir Pup disappeared after a quick command to check the apartment for anyone inside. Lilith slid off the bike, watched as Hugh lowered the kickstand.
"When he comes back, we'll have him look after it. No one will steal it then," she said.
Hugh nodded. She knew he couldn't have missed the dilapidated housing around them, but he hadn't commented on it.
Of course he wouldn't. "They won't deign to come to this area," she explained, and slid her hands into her pockets. "Beelzebub, other demons. They prefer luxury, and I found the poorer my surroundings, the less likely I would be bothered by them, or have them show up unannounced." She smiled wryly. "And it takes almost all of my salary to feed Sir Pup."
He arched a brow. "You didn't just vanish it from a pet store? Like the books?"
"I have _some_ morals; I won't feed my dog stolen food. And I didn't like meat in my cache. It makes me feel . . . bloody." She shuddered. "And I couldn't, even if I'd wanted—books were in the public sphere, but the meat was under private possession. I could have fought the butcher for it, I suppose, defeated him in battle and then vanished it . . ." She glanced at his expression and sighed. "I won't do it anymore. I _can't_ do it anymore."
"Is it so terrible?" His voice was low.
"No," she admitted.
Though he looked relaxed, half-sitting on the bike and his hands tucked into his pockets, his intense regard sent shivers over her skin. "I'll give you all the books you want," he said.
She leaned down, and his lips were warm and firm under hers, full of love and promise.
And it was easy to let go her petty pleasures.
A ribald shout from a passing car broke them apart. Sir Pup lay at her feet, grinning up at them.
"Pervert," she told the hellhound, laughing. "All clear?"
He chuffed softly.
"Let's do this quickly then," Hugh said.
The hellhound had already broken through the locks and the police tape at her door. Though very little of it had been hers, her throat tightened when she saw the state of the room: stripped of books, the weapons gone . . . even the threadbare carpet ripped up, as if they'd searched for items beneath the floorboards.
Hugh's hand found hers, and he gave it a gentle squeeze. When he gestured toward the closet, she burst into laughter. They'd taken the door. She imagined a forensics lab trying to make sense of the ragged holes from her claws, the scrapings from her nipples.
She quickly stifled her amusement; very likely, the neighbors had been asked to contact the Bureau if she came home. A quick glance in the closet confirmed that it still held most of her clothes. She grabbed several items at random, breathed out a sigh of relief when she saw her suit hanging in its place near the back. Her heart lightened even further when a quick search of the jacket yielded her badge and identification.
"Got it," she said and began changing.
Hugh appeared at her side, a plastic bag in his hand, and piled her extra clothes inside. "Taylor and Preston don't seem the type to have missed your ID in a search."
Lilith frowned. "They aren't. It's evidence of an abrupt departure, perhaps under coercion—no agent would leave without his ID. This is probably Smith's work. The Bureau took over the investigation, yes?" At his nod, she said, "Then this is a result of their search, not the SFPD. They just got rid of the weapons and books, then left a mess to make it look good." There were enough demon agents in the Bay Area that the search could have been handled solely through them; no one would question poor investigation techniques.
"Did your saving the boy on the bridge force Lucifer's hand?"
Her zipper rasped as she yanked it up. Her holster and gun had been in the pile of weapons; she would have killed for them now. She hated to go anywhere empty-handed. "What do you mean?"
"You interfered with his free will when you caught him." Hugh's gaze was dark with remembered pain; she sucked in a breath, realizing how her action must have seemed deliberately self-destructive.
"I didn't even think of that when I caught him," she said. "I was just pissed that he was being so fucking stupid, and interrupting my brooding time."
Hugh's lips twitched, but his gaze was serious. "But Lucifer had to either destroy you or Punish you—or, since you were a halfling, revert you back to human. He would have had to make that decision even if I hadn't forced your physical response. So had he already decided to _condition_ you"—his mouth twisted with quick anger—"or did he have to make the decision after you caught the boy?"
"I don't know." She finished buttoning her vest, and met his eyes—and suddenly saw what he was getting at. "You think that even if I was brainwashed and went through with it, he never intended for me live much longer than it took to kill you."
"You had no shortage of time, no need to be conditioned before Michael made his wager. But if Lucifer had another deadline to meet and another bargain to fulfill—with the nosferatu—he might have already planned your Fall and your death."
She looked around the room and results of the half-assed search. Smith was likely compiling and forging evidence in his case against Hugh before he went for the arrest in Lilith's disappearance. A lot of work, when he could have easily spun a story about an assignment to explain it, could even have covered up the books and weapons . . . but had chosen to pursue a murder investigation instead—without her body and little evidence of violence. Had he planned on providing that body and violence later?
Why bother, when there was enough evidence to take Hugh into custody—even of short duration—for the other three murders?
"I don't know," she said again, and slid on her boots. "All I'm certain of is that Beelzebub's going to be pissed when I show up with you at the Bureau and blow his murder case. _If_ he has time to be pissed when I'm pumping him full of hellhound venom." She glanced up at Hugh and grinned. "Either way, it's a good day to be alive."
She wrapped her arms around his waist as they sped north to Tiburon. The smooth rumble from the engine was a constant presence between her thighs, through her body—pleasant, but not half as thrilling as the firm muscle of Hugh's back, his taut abdomen beneath her hands. Now and then she glimpsed Sir Pup running alongside them, ears flopping.
At first she thought the strange reverberation in the back of her mind was a result of the engine, but as they neared the bay it became insistent—and familiar. Overwhelming as they crossed the bridge, then fading again on the northern end.
Suddenly sick, she tugged on Hugh's shirt, signed for him to stop. A scenic viewpoint for tourists was off to the side; he pulled over. She tore off the helmet and walked to the low wall at the edge of the cliffs. Took deep, cleansing breaths. The hum faded, though it seemed an effect of her will rather than a lessening of its presence.
Hugh touched her cheek, smoothed back her hair. "What is it?"
"I can still feel the Gate." She pointed over the side, where the bridge spanned the mouth of the bay.
A thoughtful look slid over Hugh's features. "When in close proximity to them, I can still sense Caelum's Gates. Another mark left behind."
"This is normal?" She should have been relieved, but his expression made her wary. He wouldn't meet her eyes.
He nodded. "We can't go through them, but they still resonate." Abruptly, he turned and remounted the bike. "Come on. We have a visit to pay to our congressman."
Dread knotted her stomach, but she got on behind him. She felt the new tension in the line of his shoulders, feared she knew its source. It was one thing for her demonic name to be scrawled across her chest; another to have an invisible, irreversible link to Hell.
No. She squeezed her eyes shut, forced that evil little voice away. That wasn't it; those were her doubts, not his. The gentleness in his hands, the hot touch of his mouth—his words—had spoken for him endlessly the previous night and day.
But what had forced this withdrawal? She knew he didn't want to hurt her, so why withdraw unless he thought he'd cause her pain? What would—
_No. Oh, God, no._
If she'd had her gun, she would have shot him, injured him so badly he couldn't get out of bed, much less jump off a bridge. She dug her nails into his waist, and she might have thrown him from the motorcycle had he not turned into a driveway. She barely saw the manicured lawn, the landscaped borders of the drive.
She was off the bike instantly, shaking with rage. "You selfish fucking martyr."
Her throat closed when she saw his eyes, dark with defensive anger, as if her assault had hurt him. He spoke from between clenched teeth. "I don't want to, Lilith. That's why we're here: to find another way. But if there is no—" He bit off the rest. "This isn't the time."
A voice spoke from behind her. "But I'm enjoying it immensely."
Her hands flexed as she automatically tried to call in her swords—but there was no need. Stafford couldn't attack either of them; if he could, Lilith would never have risked coming here.
She turned, but Stafford's gaze was on Hugh, his blond eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. He stood in front of the entrance to his house, arms crossed over his chest as if guarding it. "I know you."
Hugh smiled coldly. "And I, you. Rael."
Lilith blinked, looking between them uneasily. She had not known Stafford's demon name; there were many of Belial's she did not know.
"You have slain hundreds of my brethren."
"Thousands," Hugh corrected softly. "As you have mine."
"Not as many," Stafford said, and opened his front door. "We are not equal. Do you still regard the Guardians as brethren?"
"Yes."
Stafford's eyes narrowed. "And yet you are Fallen."
"As are you," Hugh said. "Only I have not fallen as far."
With a quirk of his lips, Stafford gestured for them to come inside. "It is a pity that you dragged Lilith down with you."
Hugh shook his head at the same time Lilith began laughing. "Oh, Thomas," she chuckled as she passed into the foyer. "Don't even attempt it. You can't break him, can't make him bend. Believe me—I've tried for centuries, and you aren't half the demon I was."
**CHAPTER 31**
How had Michael let it come to this? Demons in positions of power in a human government? Hugh took in the expensive furnishings, the tasteful décor. Oddly feminine touches throughout—flowers, patterns—were probably the influence of a designer who'd been instructed to make the room appeal to all his constituents; manipulation, down to the last detail.
Outside the windows stretched a multi-million dollar panorama.
Money was also power, and Rael apparently had a lot of it. Was it only Belial's demons who had managed to gain such a gilded foothold in human society—or Lucifer's as well?
Hugh's fists balled in his pockets, and he welcomed the cold that settled in him. It made it easier to think, to examine the pieces falling into place around him.
He knew feudal systems; from all Lilith had told him, Lucifer's reign resembled one. Protection—of a sort—and power traded for service and payment. But Rael did not have the same obsequious air as Beelzebub, or any of Lucifer's demons.
Any of Lucifer's demons, except for Lilith. She'd always resisted and hated her service, whereas Beelzebub seemed to find honor in it.
Rael was a mystery, but his willingness to cooperate was not. He hadn't taken his eyes from Sir Pup since he'd scratched at the door and Lilith had let him into the room. The hellhound hadn't transformed—appeared only as a large dog—and lay at Lilith's feet, staring up at her adoringly. Hardly a scene to inspire terror, and yet the demon looked almost sick with it.
"We need weapons, Thomas," Lilith said. Her hair caught the light streaming through the window, the deep black strands glinting blue even under the golden sunlight, as if they refused to be gilded with false color. He'd not often seen her in the daylight, no matter the form she'd taken—it suited her as well as the darkness did.
As if she'd felt his gaze, Lilith turned. She flashed a quick, mischievous grin, and something inside him warmed and softened. She was still angry with him, and he had no doubt he'd pay for it—and not as pleasurably as he'd paid before. Had no doubt they would argue again. But for now, he simply allowed it to be—and took pleasure in watching her work. Though it would be more difficult for her now. Hugh had made the demon uneasy; although he thought Rael rather enjoyed Lilith's presence, he did not appreciate Hugh's.
Rael stared at her, as if trying to probe her thoughts. He'd done the same to Hugh when they'd been outside and failed. Hugh doubted he'd be any more successful with Lilith—particularly not with the hellhound as a constant distraction.
"Why?"
Lilith shrugged, and reached down to scratch Sir Pup's ears. Hugh had to fight his grin; she'd never let the demon forget the hellhound's presence. An unspoken threat lay beneath that fond caress. "What if I said I plan to kill Lucifer?"
"I wouldn't believe you."
"And if you did believe me?"
"I still wouldn't give you weapons to do it; killing Lucifer is an honor that belongs to my liege."
Hugh's eyes narrowed. Rael actually believed that. "Because it would secure Belial's power Below?"
Rael nodded slowly, his gaze traveling between Hugh, Lilith and the hellhound. "Perhaps we can bargain."
Hugh's stomach turned to ice, and Lilith's gaze hardened. "No bargains," she said, and Hugh relaxed slightly. "What if I said we'd kill the nosferatu with them?"
"I'd laugh," Rael replied, although laughter seemed the farthest thing from him at that moment. "You two? Even with your hellhound and an arsenal of weapons, you'd fail. And I don't think you play to fail, Lilith—so I wouldn't believe you."
"I don't. Thomas, be reasonable. You know I won't kill you, because then I wouldn't get any weapons. But what if I ask my puppy to eat your limbs one by one? Sure, they'll grow back, but—and you can believe me on this, because I speak from experience"—her lashes lowered, and she smiled down at the hellhound—"it really, really hurts."
Sir Pup woofed, as if in agreement.
Carefully maintaining his psychic blocks, Hugh turned away, and wandered over to a large fireplace. Pretended to study the pictures atop the mantel, though he didn't see them. She'd spoken the truth about her experience. Beelzebub had also mentioned a similar torture, but it had been so wrapped up in his manipulation and lies that Hugh hadn't been able to separate them perfectly.
He closed his eyes. Not now. He couldn't think of Beelzebub now. Lilith was carefully dancing around every reason but the real one; though the truth might be reason enough for Rael to offer his help, to tell the demon of their intent would also carry the risk that he'd betray them. One phone call would ruin the only real weapon they possessed: surprise.
And neither Hugh nor Lilith trusted the demon not to give them away.
Exhaling deeply, Hugh faced them again—and caught the flicker of unease in Rael's expression when the demon glanced at him.
"You could rob a gun shop," he said.
Lilith's brows rose. "That's completely inane. They don't have the kind of weapons we need, Thomas." Then her eyes narrowed, as if she too noticed something _off_.
Slowly, Hugh turned. Saw the wedding picture. Without a word, he picked it up and tossed it to Lilith. Rael groaned.
"Fuck me," she breathed, and peered closely at the photo. "Is she a demon? She looks bitchy enough to be one. Do you love her?"
"Yes," Rael said quickly.
"Lie," Hugh said and glanced with new eyes around the room. "Human, and you don't love her. And I'd wager she's an heiress."
Lilith grinned. "You kept this quiet, Tommy."
"You don't pay attention," Rael said, exasperated. "You never have. It was the Wedding of the Year in 2004."
"And it will be the Divorce of the Year in 2007 if I tell her about your lovers. I imagine she'll believe it readily enough; you aren't a sexual creature, can only simulate it, so you're probably cold in bed. Do you think it'd be hard to convince her you're getting it elsewhere? Do you think her daddy would like to receive a letter, complete with photos? Or the local news?" Lilith tilted her head. "Voters are unpredictable when it comes to these things. How far do you think you'll get with that kind of scandal? I don't believe for a moment you are aiming for anything less than president."
Rael was unimpressed. "In ten years, it will have been forgotten. Infidelity won't damage my political career—and my wife is as ambitious as I am. She'll accept that I might have other women, and eventually we'll spin it to our advantage: the couple who persevered through adversity."
Hugh stifled his laughter; Rael didn't think Lilith was done, did he?
Her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Have you seen what happens if pure hellhound venom gets into a demon? It paralyzes them. Think how easy it would be to pose you for photos then. I'll probably keep a few for my own enjoyment; you're both so handsome."
"I want to be on top," Hugh said.
Startled, Rael glanced at him, then turned to stare at Lilith. "This is San Francisco," he said weakly.
"True. But you don't plan to stay in California, do you? And we could always put Sir Pup on the bottom, make him a poodle; then there wouldn't be a conservative or a liberal in the country who would support you." She sighed. "I suppose you could remake yourself in another identity, but that takes so much _work_. Would that be worth it for a couple of weapons?"
Rael held up his hands, a smile twisting his mouth. "Very well." His eyes glowed. "But I can't just _give_ them, Lilith. You'll owe me a favor."
She agreed before Hugh could object. "I can live with that."
They found a motel in the Tenderloin to wait out the afternoon. It was cheap and ugly, but it wasn't any worse than her apartment had been. As long as it had a sink so she could wash away the blood later, Lilith was fine with it.
Sir Pup lay stretched out on the bed, and she practiced with him, asking for specific weapons and rewarding him with bits of cheeseburger when he called in the correct one.
Hugh sat at the table, cleaning a crossbow and inspecting the bolts for flaws. He'd worked over each weapon in that careful, precise manner—not just to ascertain the demon hadn't given them faulty weaponry, she knew, but to avoid discussing his plan to sacrifice himself for her.
But as she couldn't think of it without her throat tightening and her eyes burning, she avoided it as well.
Grabbing another burger from the stack on the side table, she unwrapped it and tossed it to Sir Pup. He caught it midair in a movement so quick she couldn't follow it and settled back down on the bed.
"Axe," she said and held out her hand. The hellhound was only a little bit off; the handle was at her fingertips instead of squarely in her palm, but she could compensate for it with a flick of her wrist.
The danger was not in his placement of the weapon, but in how slow she was compared to Beelzebub. She sighed, and glanced up to find Hugh watching her with his steady blue gaze.
"Two axes, three swords, a crossbow, a mace, and it's still not enough," he said.
She rubbed the back of her neck to ease the tension there, and nodded. "I was hoping I wouldn't, but I need a gun." Stafford hadn't had one, and Hugh had confirmed it wasn't a lie. What kind of asshole had unlimited storage for weapons and didn't pick up a gun? It was pathetic; everyone Above and Below, stuck in the Dark Ages. Frustrated, she kicked the corner of the bed, and it lurched across the room. Sir Pup woofed and grinned at the impromptu ride, but she didn't get as much pleasure out of it.
Until a pistol fell at her feet.
She recognized it; it was the same one she'd put in Hugh's bag on Friday night. She looked at Hugh, startled, then back at the hellhound. And remembered Hugh's story of how he'd lost it.
"You picked this up from Colin's basement? When did you plan on letting us know, you ungrateful cur?" Sir Pup opened his mouth, flopped his ears. The ungrateful cur was laughing at her. She fought to keep the smile from her lips and failed. "Was it the pig thing in the park? You're still punishing me for that?"
"Do you have my swords?" Hugh said from beside her. She hadn't heard him move.
Two slim blades landed on the mattress. Hugh picked them up and nodded his appreciation to the hellhound. "If we are looking for speed, these will be better than the heavy swords Rael gave us." Turning back to Lilith, he said, "So we didn't gain anything, but you are indebted to a demon again."
"It's not the same kind of debt. If I don't fulfill it, I don't spend eternity frozen in Hell," she said and strode past him to pick up the quarrels from the table. "And we gained these."
She returned to the bed, laid each bolt out on the mattress. Picked up the gun, pulled out the clip, and pushed out the bullets into a neat pile. She slipped out of her clothes and stood silently for a few moments, clad only in her underwear.
"Do you need help?" Hugh said quietly, removing his own shirt.
She shook her head, but she had to swallow several times to push down the sickness that began roiling within her. "The venom sacs are under his tongues. Only two incisions each, but they'll be deep and long," she said hoarsely. "Just hold the ice bucket underneath to catch the fluid."
"He'll heal quickly."
"Yes," she said and laughed without humor. "But it will hurt him. All these years he avoided Punishment, and now _I'm_ the one to hurt him."
Sir Pup looked at her mournfully and shifted into his three-headed form, growing until he filled most of the queen-sized bed. Her vision blurred, and she spent a few minutes rubbing his noses, letting him slobber kisses across her cheeks. "You shouldn't let me do this," she told him, but he only licked her face again.
Dammit. She was drawing it out. "Can I have your short sword?" Her hands trembled.
Wordlessly, Hugh gave her the blade, and his palm lingered against hers, solid and warm. It was the sharpest of the swords, would cause the least damage and pain—but if she hesitated or shook, it would hurt him more.
Hugh withdrew his hand from hers, then brushed his thumb over her cheek. "He allows you to do it because he loves you," he said.
The knowledge didn't help steady her, but that simple touch did. She steeled herself and began to cut.
**CHAPTER 32**
"Sword," Hugh said as she exited the bathroom, and that was the only warning she received before he swung the blade at her head. Instinctively, she ducked and threw herself at his legs to knock him off balance. He staggered back into the TV stand; Lilith rolled to the side and leapt up onto the bed next to Sir Pup.
Probably a mistake; though it offered height, her feet sank into the soft mattress. It would slow her down. "Crossbow," she said, and the stock immediately landed on her palm—perfect placement. She closed her fingers around it; the skin around her knuckles felt uncomfortably tight, raw from the harsh soap and endless scrubbing.
Hugh lifted a brow as she raised the weapon to her shoulder and took aim at his throat. "The bolts are still drying on the table."
A quick downward glance confirmed the truth of it. The weapon wasn't loaded. They would ready it and the gun—bullet in the chamber, safety off—before they left, but she _should_ have been aware of the crossbow's state before calling it in. Beelzebub couldn't hurt them, but if he managed to get past them they'd lose their chance to get the information they needed. There couldn't be any mistakes. "Shit," she said, sinking to her knees beside the hellhound. "That would have been very, very bad."
He nodded and dragged his fingers through his hair. "The venom didn't coat the bullets well."
"We just need enough to slow him down. A trace amount will do that." She ran her hand under Sir Pup's jaws; no swelling or abnormal heat. The incisions had closed and healed within the first half hour, but it had taken her twice that time to let him move from the bed, to let herself be certain he was no longer hurting.
Hugh watched her. "How did you manage to befriend a hellhound?"
It wasn't a casual query; he was leading up to something. Though she feared she knew what it was, she stroked the length of the hellhound's back and tried not to lie. "Eight years ago, I went through the Gate and there was a pack of hounds waiting. I was bit, once—halflings and humans are immune to the venom, so I wasn't paralyzed—but still injured badly enough that I'd probably have been killed. Except he was in the pack and managed to fight through and hold the others off. So I took him back through the Gate with me."
Sir Pup licked her hand, and she waited for the next inevitable question, dreaded it. She stole a glance at Hugh; yes, he was weighing her response, listening to what she had left unsaid.
"He must have known you before to have protected you," he said finally. "You spoke of a Punishment that he'd managed to avoid; did you help him in that?"
Dammit. "Yes."
A muscle in his cheek clenched before he asked, "What kind of Punishment did you suffer?"
"The normal kind," she said flatly and slid off the bed. Her suit lay folded atop the dresser, but she only picked up her shirt, shrugging it on before turning to face him. His unreadable expression made her chest ache; he'd closed himself off from her. He hadn't hidden anything since the night at her apartment, and she hadn't realized how dependent she'd become on the transparency of his emotions.
In the past, he'd hidden from her to protect himself. Had she hurt him so badly now, or did he hide to protect her?
"No," he said, shaking his head. For a moment she thought she'd been completely unguarded, had said it aloud, until he continued, "I don't know what 'the normal kind' is, Lilith—and Beelzebub will use it against me if he can. He mentioned it before, and I could not separate truth from lie; I was not prepared for it. It will be like charging in with faulty weapons if he can twist my emotions, yet you could prepare me for whatever he might say."
He shoved his hands into his pockets, and she could read that easily enough: he was angry, on the edge of violence. He wanted to move, but he forced himself to stay in place.
She turned away, laid the crossbow on the table. He was right, of course; she had to tell him. Beelzebub _would_ use it. "Dismemberment. Burns. Eyes and organs taken," she recited. "They heal, or grow back, so it doesn't matter much. The worst is the contraption they make to keep the blood circulating." She couldn't look at him, so she busied herself refilling the clip with ammunition. "If the blood is gone, you die—and their fun is over. So it's collected and pumped up to a cistern. It has a hole in the bottom, and if they put your neck in the hole with your head inside, it plugs the hole and the cistern fills and they don't have to worry about it, because you drink or drown in it . . . either way, you ingest it and you stay alive, because _not_ to ingest is a form of suicide, and that would be a failure in service to Lucifer, and you'd end up frozen in the field anyway."
His footsteps were soft; that she heard them at all must mean he'd wanted her to. He wasn't trying to take her unawares. He was giving her the choice to acknowledge his approach—or not.
She did. And his mouth was warm and sure on hers; no heat in this kiss, only tenderness and an offer of strength, did she need it. She would have preferred heat—she could distract him with that, avoid telling the rest of it.
He didn't give her the opportunity. His palms cupped her face when he pulled back, his gentleness its own vise, holding her still for his relentless, searching gaze. "As terrible as your Punishment was, that is not reason enough to have hidden it. Colin was surprised you hadn't manipulated me with it—and initially I thought he meant the loss of your shifting ability these past sixteen years. But it was this Punishment he spoke of. Was I the cause of it?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You take it upon yourself too easily. _I_ was the cause; the decision was mine to make. I knew the consequences of it."
"Of giving me to Michael," he realized.
"That and interfering with your execution. Had Mandeville lopped off your head you would be neither Guardian nor demon. I interfered with his will and had to be punished for it."
His lips thinned, and his hands fell to his sides, releasing her. But he did not move away, and she couldn't mistake the tension in his long body. "Did you think I'd lament you'd ever saved me and sacrifice myself on a rack of overwhelming guilt?"
"I'll admit it had occurred to me." Arching her eyebrows, she said, "You were Catholic once."
He stared at her for a frozen moment, then turned away. Almost immediately he glanced back at her, the corners of his mouth tilted into a reluctant smile, unraveling the hard little knot that had formed in her chest. "You disarm me without effort; you always have—and for _that_ I once felt guilt. I thought myself far too susceptible to your humor, to sin and temptation."
"And to my tits."
"Yes." His smile widened, and he gave her chest a cursory glance before meeting her eyes again. "And you do it again. You leave me defenseless, Lilith."
"If I can manipulate you with laughter and bend you to my will with sex, be certain that I'll keep you permanently disarmed," she said. "Because your defense is to fall down upon your sword."
His smile faded. "You think it is easy for me, that it is my first choice."
"I have seen you do it before," she reminded him.
The frustration in his voice echoed hers. "Aye, but if I were in the same position as I was then, I would not do it again." Her surprise must have shown on her face, for he gave a hard, short laugh. "What were my reasons? Guilt, for encouraging you, challenging you, and not knowing a way to stop you? Piety? Duty? Those are the reasons of an idealistic fool, a youth who imagines himself a hero. There was no gain in the lie I told; not for the baron nor the countess, nor for you. You think that by telling me of your Punishment, I will feel obligated—because of guilt, because of duty—to die for you. Yet none of these reasons are mine now: not piety, not guilt, and certainly not obligation."
She bowed her head, her breaths coming in sharp pulls. "You are a fool to love me," she said tightly. "I did not ask this of you—don't want this from you."
"And yet you have it. You accepted me, knowing the type of man I am. Do you reject me now?"
She should; for his sake, she should. But his carefully even tone—after anger, laughter, and frustration—alerted her to the pain and fear beneath the question better than a shout could have. She glanced up, and though his gaze was calm and steady, his shoulders slumped as if in defeat, his body braced for a blow. And even did she say yes, she realized, he would not stop his efforts to save her; he would just do it alone.
Wordlessly, she shook her head. His eyes closed, and he released the breath he'd been holding. A quick step forward, and he swept her up and spun her around in a circle, his laughter a deep rumble in his chest. "You will be the death of me, Lilith," he said as he set her back down.
She bit back her grin. "That's not funny."
"Yes, it is," he said, and caught her fist before she could hit him. He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, then to her lips.
"Promise," she said. "If I can't stop you, then promise that it'll be the last option, not the first."
"It will be the _last_ , I promise you that."
This time she connected, and he laughed though it must have hurt him. She shook the stinging from her hand, and her heart clenched as she looked at him. His eyes bright blue with amusement; his beautiful, sculpted mouth; the strong, masculine line of his jaw and throat. And the rest of him: a warrior contained within that body, though little used for battle since his Fall. He'd not been able to deny his physicality, channeled it into different activities; he'd not been waiting to fight, but he'd been unable to resist what he was.
What he always would be.
Despite the mirth lingering at the corners of his eyes, the curve of his lips, his voice was solemn as he finally said, "I am here, Lilith." He gestured to the table and the venom-soaked bolts, to Sir Pup. "If I thought my death was the only way to save you, I would have you tied to the bed at home and spend my last hours lost within you. Four days are not enough to make up for the eight hundred I was too foolish to take for my own, yet I would try."
She nodded slowly; she could be content with that, for now. After a glance at the clock, she said, "I saw a condom dispenser near the soda machine. We can make up for time now."
His gaze darkened, but he shook his head. "We need to practice; I haven't used a sword in sixteen years, and you are still unaccustomed to your new levels of speed and strength."
She rolled her eyes, though he was right. The room was smaller than Smith's office, but it would serve them well to test their skills within the tight confines, using the furniture as obstacles. "Sword," she said, and grinned when he did the same. "And when you are satisfied, Professor—may I screw you after that?"
"If we haven't been tossed out for making noise, certainly." He was quick; his blade flashed, and rang against hers. His smile was slow. "But as all of my students will tell you: I'm rarely satisfied."
Though she recognized his gambit—he intended to distract her—she could not stop the heat gathering within her, the moisture pooling low. She saved her breath for combat, or else she would have laughed: little did he know she was accustomed to fighting him with her body afire. Still, it took her longer than she'd anticipated. Cerberus's balls, but he was clever with his weapon, even disadvantaged by his lesser strength and speed, even taking care not to hurt her.
It seemed an eternity before she finally pinned him against the wall, her body pressed into his, her sword at his throat.
Perspiration slid down the side of his neck, and she suddenly felt parched, desperate to sip from his golden skin. Her chest heaved against his, her nipples tight and aching beneath the thin cotton. His denim jeans were rough against her bare thighs, his arousal hard and hot against her lower abdomen. "Satisfied?"
His hand fisted in her hair, and for a breathless moment she thought he would continue; he had several escape maneuvers from that angle: from his legs, from the leverage in that grip.
And when his sword dropped to the floor, it was hardly surrender, but a challenge.
"Not yet," he said, lowering his lips to hers. And his mouth was a much more effective weapon; she held onto her sword, but within seconds she was disarmed. Defenseless.
The screams had stopped—or he and Selah had clawed so far into the cave the sound no longer penetrated the thick walls. Too dark to see, but he could feel Selah's terror. His had faded days before, replaced by resignation, numbness.
"Try again," he said.
He hadn't taken blood from her since they'd teleported here; he barely had the strength to lift his hand, to search her out. Her fingers touched his.
And he knew she'd failed when she gave a shuddering sigh, let go his hand.
She'd promised not to leave him and had kept it. He'd brought her to this place, where giant scaled creatures tore and ripped and clawed. Where bodies dangled from a ceiling of frozen flesh, all but their faces exposed to the dragons' hungry jaws—but even without faces, they screamed. And screamed as their bodies regenerated and were eaten again.
He could feel more creatures—smaller but just as deadly, just as hungry—moving in the darkness; it would not be long before he and Selah were found, and had to flee again. But he had no strength to flee this time. And he was tired—so tired.
"Try without me," Colin said.
And when he reached out, she was gone.
The security at the federal building was thorough, but they got through as easily as Lilith had predicted. A uniformed guard ran a metal detector over Hugh's shoes, then turned and performed the same scan on Sir Pup's harness. Hugh fumbled over the basket that held his keys and sunglasses, listening to the banter between Lilith and the guards as she went through the same routine. It was a short conversation, but revealing: she deliberately shoved many people away, such as Taylor and Preston—but for everyday, casual acquaintances, she allowed a friendly relationship instead of playing the bitch. He slipped on the sunglasses and studied her behind the cover of the darkened lenses.
She spent most of her time away from San Francisco on assignments, away from Colin; had she cultivated any other friendships that weren't false? Or had her existence been as solitary as his?
They crossed the lobby together, just before five o'clock. The descending elevators were full, and most of the people headed out. She'd timed it well: late enough that the offices would be emptying, but before Beelzebub's assistant would have gone for the day.
"It's unfortunate you can't just kiss Smith and have the same effect on him as you do on me," Lilith said as she punched the button for the thirteenth floor. Her shoulders were rigid, her form tense—too tense.
Hugh slanted an amused glance down at Sir Pup. "Why is it that she's so determined to put me in a sexual situation with another man?" He caught her look and raised a brow. "I'll do it, if it makes you happy."
She pursed her lips. "Maybe when Colin returns."
"I wonder if _his_ fangs—"
She growled low in her throat. "You'll touch no one's fangs but mine," she said, baring her teeth and returning her attention to the floor indicator.
He laughed softly and saw an answering shake of her shoulders. Then the elevator stopped with a quiet ring of a bell, and calm settled over him. Always, that calm before a battle; it was familiar and welcome, as was the thrum of his blood, the subtle tightening of his muscles.
Easy to fall into sync with her; he had fought her often and he knew her patterns. He made the rhythm of her stride his own, was as attentive to the cues of her body as he was the sights and sounds around them. The advantage of familiarity with the terrain and the people was hers; she took point, just slightly ahead of him. It must be strange for her to trust him at her back—to trust anyone—but she didn't hesitate or glance over her shoulder to confirm he'd taken his position.
She'd outlined the Bureau's layout before they'd come; Beelzebub's office was in the southwest corner of the building. Hugh quickly adjusted to the low-level noise of the office—telephones, chatter—and it faded into the background. Silence followed in her wake. Agents, casually leaning against desks, talking on phones, paused and watched her progress. More than once, Hugh saw someone begin to call to her, to express surprise or disbelief—or perhaps even to begin an inquiry—but stopping before making a sound.
It was not just the forbidding expression on her face, he realized, but the result of years of distancing herself from them. She'd established no camaraderie—and they felt no real concern for her beyond the loyalty of brotherhood. She'd cultivated that distance, and now she used it to move undisturbed. A high price to pay for a smooth journey, and he could see her regret that it had cost so much. Had she ever regretted it before? Or only now, when she was on the verge of making the distance irreparable?
Then she focused, and the regret dropped from her. The assistant's area lay outside the main office; an enclosed room, a waiting area with chairs, but no door—and the desk manned by a demon. It shouldn't have surprised him the assistant had taken the form of an elderly woman; Beelzebub would want his subordinate's appearance to be weak. She wore a headset over her gray curls, and was speaking into a microphone and staring at a computer monitor as they entered. Hugh smiled. Starched and efficient, but too arrogant to give them more than a cursory glance. Her psychic probe told her they were human; they couldn't be a threat. He wondered if she even bothered to scan the dog—probably not.
Lilith stopped in front of the desk, and slipped her hands into her pockets. "Keep your hands on the desk and your weapons in your cache, or my hellhound will tear you apart," she said quietly. "Is he alone?"
The demon's eyes widened with shock and confusion. Obviously, Beelzebub hadn't told her about Lilith's transformation. Her gaze slid past Lilith to Hugh and Sir Pup, and fear flashed over her features.
"No," she said.
Hugh gave a tiny shake of his head. Lilith's smile was cold and dangerous. "Run," she said. "If you stop before the Gate, he'll eat you." The demon hesitated, and Lilith sighed. "Or he can do it here; I have nothing to lose."
Whether Lilith opened her mind to the demon to convince her, or if it was simply a lack of loyalty toward Beelzebub, Hugh didn't know—but in the next instant the chair was empty.
Lilith grinned and turned to Sir Pup. "She is gone?" When the hellhound gave his affirmative headshake, she signed, _Demons only care for their own asses. But it won't take her long to realize he isn't on her heels._
Hugh gestured to the open doorway of the waiting area. They'd hoped to arm themselves in advance, but there'd been too many agents walking past the room to risk it. Apparently, word of Lilith's return was spreading, and a few of the more curious wanted to catch a glimpse of her themselves. _We can't call in the weapons out here._
"Shit." She took a deep breath. _Shut the door as quickly as possible._
They'd practiced this, too. The door had to be closed for the soundproofing to cover the noise of the gunfire; it wouldn't completely muffle it, but outside the assistant's room it could be mistaken for a dropped file, the snap of a laptop closed too hard.
"I'll be right behind you," he said.
**CHAPTER 33**
She measured it in breaths. The first just before she opened the door, and it was used calling for the gun. Her hand was already in front of her, she only had to wrap her finger around the trigger. Beelzebub looked up. A blur as he leapt atop his desk, and Sir Pup streaked past her leg. _Don't engage him_ , she thought—it wasn't part of the plan. A demon could kill a hellhound, but not a human, so she wanted Sir Pup as far away from him as possible. _Only surprise him, make him hesitate_.
She exhaled, fell to her knee, and waited for the click of the latch. The hellhound stopped in the middle of the room, bracing his paws and shifting. Two swords in Beelzebub's hands now. Just far enough into the room that Hugh wouldn't have to maneuver space for himself as he closed the door.
Not aiming for the eyes this time; easier to track their red glow than his body as he sped toward her. And Hugh would need them to—
_Click_.
She pulled the trigger. Less than four yards away, a crimson flower bloomed from Beelzebub's chest. Another from his gut.
His momentum helped carry him forward, but he was slower. Vampire speed. Good enough. Two yards now. Her ears rang; she hadn't heard Hugh call for his weapon over the report of the gun. Had Sir Pup?
She saw the bolt embed in his stomach before she heard the twang from the crossbow's string, the thunk of its impact into flesh.
Beelzebub dropped.
A single breath, and it was one of the sweetest she'd ever taken.
"Do I enjoy this too much?"
Hugh turned the lock, then glanced back at Lilith. She stood with her boot pressed to Beelzebub's throat, and cheerfully placed the point of the crossbow to his left shoulder. The demon roared as she shot a bolt through, pinning him to the floor. The feathered butts stuck up from his right shoulder and his wrists—necessary after he'd managed to rip the shaft of the first from his abdomen.
"No," Hugh replied. "What about his legs?" If the demon got his feet under him, it would give him too much leverage.
Beelzebub shifted, his clothes disappearing, hard scales covering his large form.
Lilith grinned. "A little late. Bet that took just about all of your energy, didn't it? But a tougher hide won't save you, and your belly's still nice and soft." She covered his eyes with her foot, then looked over at Hugh. _Any more venom, and he might not be able to talk._
Sir Pup lay in front of the door; Hugh debated for just a moment before signing, _We need him as our defense there. Will more blood make you sick? I can remove his legs._
Her lips twisted, and she tried to look affronted but failed. _Probably. And he's weak as it is: we can't take the risk he'll lose more._
Hugh moved to stand next to the demon, examining him closely. The bullet wounds had healed, the scales closed up around the shafts of the bolts. Only the venom held him still, but they had to ride a fine line between weakness and full paralysis, and they didn't know how long the effects would last. "Axe," he said finally, and then lowered the edge against the demon's throat. More venom on the blade, but if Hugh used the weapon it wouldn't be to slow him down. "If you move anything but your mouth, I'll take off your head."
Lilith lifted her foot, stepped onto Beelzebub's stomach and crouched. She held the crossbow between her knees, tipped down so the bolt was aimed at his heart. "We need information," she said. "And it's going to be very simple—you answer our questions, or you die."
His burning red gaze moved between them. "Kill me. You will anyway."
"It's true I have not forgotten what you've done to me," Lilith said. "I'll slay you if I can . . . unless we strike a bargain. I don't kill you, and you answer our questions truthfully."
Hugh ground his teeth together, but remained silent.
"It is not equal."
She smiled. "You aren't in a position to bargain for equality. You have ten seconds to decide, or I kill you anyway. Starting . . . now."
At three seconds, Hugh signed, _He is too afraid of Lucifer, or that we will be able to stop the nosferatu with what we learn. There is no point in this._
_You have no stomach, Guardian_ , she signed back with a scowl. "Eight," she sang out, "nine . . ."
"You do not kill me," Beelzebub growled, "and I answer your questions."
"Done," Lilith said, and she glanced at Hugh, her eyes bright with gratitude. They hadn't planned on pricking his vanity with that short exchange, but it had worked. "Why do you need Hugh to be a part of the ritual?"
"Let me up first. I have agreed to answer."
"But you did not agree to stay in this room, and letting you up was not part of the bargain." Lilith smiled. "You don't do this very often, do you?"
Beelzebub's eyes flared at the insult. "The book is an offense to the Morningstar."
"Yes, but that is not why you need him for the ritual. You must answer the question asked."
"But _I_ did not say truthfully."
Lilith's jaw worked, and though she hid her frustration well, Hugh knew she was berating herself for her carelessness in the bargain. A result of the quickness with which she'd had to make it, and an easy mistake, but not one she would take lightly. Hugh could read truth—and there had been truth in the response about the book—but Beelzebub had twisted the bargain so that the question had to be asked perfectly. And without knowing Lucifer's plan, Lilith did not know the questions to ask.
Hugh did. "Is it because my blood resonates with Caelum's Gate?"
"No."
"Lie." He glanced up at Lilith, saw her surprise and the subtle tightening of her mouth. He shouldn't have kept it from her, had hoped it wouldn't be true—hadn't even thought of it before she'd recalled him to the resonance with the Gates. "The ritual couldn't grant access through the Gates, because it requires self-sacrifice in the process of saving the life of another," he said aloud, thinking it through. "So Javier, Ian, and Sue . . . have any others been taken?"
"No."
Hugh nodded—that was truth and in keeping with the wager. "Yet you fought Guardians, must have had their blood. Is it necessary to take it from a human?"
"Yes."
"Truth," Hugh said. "Do I have to submit to the ritual willingly?"
Beelzebub's hand clenched. "No."
"Lie." He felt Lilith's gaze on him. "Another bolt through his left arm; he can move his fingers. Do they need Lilith's blood to get through Hell's Gate?"
"No." He smiled tightly as she aimed and fired, his fangs gleaming. "I will enjoy tearing you both apart."
Hugh glanced at Lilith as she reloaded the crossbow. "That was truth. Only ask questions he has to answer yes or no; be as specific as possible."
A long process, but Lilith was able to tease out the details of the ritual; she'd been correct in most of it. The nosferatu drank simultaneously, so that there would be no betrayal or inequality among them. One was chosen randomly to receive the full transformation; the others took sips to increase their resistance to sunlight and the daysleep. The bodies had been used to fuel the investigation against Hugh, but the nosferatu had reclaimed them for their cache, so there would be no decay in the symbols. There was no evidence that the body's decay would weaken the transformation, but they did not completely trust Lucifer's ritual.
Impossible to narrow down the location of the nest, however, except that it was in the Inner Sunset district. No use asking street by street; they couldn't attack the nest anyway.
Lilith tried another thread. "Does Lucifer plan to use Hugh's affection for me to convince him to submit to the ritual?"
"Yes."
Hugh nodded. She looked at him thoughtfully, then asked, "Does Lucifer plan to let the nosferatu kill me?"
"Yes," he hissed. "And I will enjoy watching it."
Hugh gave a slight nod, and she said, "Am I to be subjected to the same ritual?"
"Yes."
"Lie." A mocking smile curved Hugh's mouth. "Are you humiliated, knowing that two humans have gotten the best of you?" This was taking too much time, but much more humiliation, and he did not think Beelzebub would bother with one-word replies. The demon was enraged; Hugh doubted he could keep his control much longer.
"No."
Lilith laughed aloud. "I don't need his truth-telling to know that for a lie." She shifted her weight, her heels digging into his stomach. "I'm a gesture of Lucifer's trustworthiness, aren't I? Because I killed the nosferatu, and knew too much about Moloch, the nosferatu demanded he prove himself by delivering his 'daughter' to them."
"You are an abomination, a corruption of our kind," Beelzebub said. "You are no loss to us."
Truth, but Hugh did not confirm it. "Then why have they not come for you? If you are not to be subjected to the ritual, an attack on you does not break the terms of the wager," Hugh said instead, looking at Lilith.
She bit her lip, then asked, "But they are waiting because of the wager, aren't they? If there is a chance I can open Caelum, and Lucifer will triumph over Michael, he would take it. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
When Hugh nodded, she grinned. "I guess the golden boy isn't such an asshole. He tried to give us a week." Her grin quickly faded as Beelzebub growled again. Her eyes were dark and haunted when she asked, "Do you know of anything that could persuade Lucifer to release me from my bargain?"
Beelzebub's anger quickly changed to laughter. "Did I know anything that had that much sway over him, halfling, I would have used it to secure the throne. He has never released anyone from a bargain, and I know of nothing that could persuade him. It is simple: you kill your human, or you spend eternity frozen in the field—and I will spend eternity shattering your face to pieces and waiting for it to reform so that I may do it again."
Hugh's breath stilled. Lilith's face was pale, but she lifted her gaze to his and waited. "He speaks true," he said, forcing it past the tightness in his throat.
Her eyes closed in defeat.
"Do you have anything more to ask him?"
She shook her head. "You?"
"No. Step away from him." Cold descended over him as she stood, backed away.
"Don't let him up," she said. "The bargain doesn't require that we release him. Better to get away while he's still weak." Then she realized his intent, and she drew a sharp breath.
Beelzebub's eyes went wide. "The bargain—"
"Was that _Lilith_ wouldn't kill you." Hugh stared down at the demon, his veins like ice. "You made the bargain too quickly and foolishly. The only choice you have is between the mercy of the axe or the hellhound."
"Coward! You will slay me when I am defenseless!"
"Not a slaying, but an execution. Lilith's Punishment. Ian. Javier. Sue. And countless other offenses which human law can never redress."
"You dare!" he roared. "You are nothing, a worm, and you dare execute me? For the lives of equally worthless worms? Do you know that they cursed your name, human? That I took your form when Moloch cut into the first, and the worm begged for mercy as I laughed. That Moloch wore your face as he took the woman, and the second boy, and that they screamed when the nosferatu fed from them. And I laughed and enjoyed every moment of their pain. That they cursed you, and begged, and pleaded. But _she_ never begged, though for a hundred years I tore pieces from her. Did you know that she dreamed of you, of Caelum? That she waited for you to save her and take her to that place but you never came—"
Hugh's foot cut off the rest of the tirade. "Do you have any unfulfilled bargains?"
"Yes." An angry hiss.
Truth. "Then this will not be freedom." And he did not feel sorry for it, but he was cold . . . numb. He hardly felt the vibration as the axe dug into the floorboards.
But her hands were warm on his shoulders, even through his clothes; his skin burned where she touched him when she pulled him to his feet. "Thank you. I would have done it were it not for the bargain," she said quietly. "But I would have let Sir Pup eat a few pieces first."
He buried his face in her hair, held her tight against him. "You don't have to make me laugh. I do not like how it was done, but it _had_ to be done."
And letting her go was difficult, but it also had to be done. He leaned over, picked up the axe. Wiped it off on the carpet and tossed it to Sir Pup. "Do you want his swords?"
She glanced over at the two swords Beelzebub had dropped and shook her head. "We could vanish the body. Carry it out and dump it over the bridge."
He wrapped his hand around the bolt in Beelzebub's right shoulder, pulled it out. "Why change our course at this point?"
"We knew we might have to kill him," she said. "But we did not know it would be this; we assumed it would be fighting, that he would have shifted into his demon form, and that it would clearly be self-defense." She gestured to the body, and he looked at the form beneath his hands. Except for the scales and fangs, Beelzebub looked human—and no one could mistake the wounds nor the precise decapitation as the result of a battle. "We understand this—but I don't know that they can."
He quietly removed the rest of the quarrels, let Sir Pup vanish them. There was nothing to wipe his hands on, so he let the hellhound lick them clean. "There is blood on the carpet," he said finally. "We were seen entering the office. Even if we remove the body, there will be no doubt we did something to him. With the body we have some explanation; without it we have none."
"We don't need an explanation, we need a fucking miracle." With a growl of frustration, she kicked a chair, then turned and glared at the demon's head as if she'd like to punt that next. He bowed his head to hide his laughter, and after a moment she smiled and sighed. "All right. What's the worst that can happen? You are thrown in jail and someone makes you his bitch, and I go to Hell. You call Taylor and Preston, I'll go get Bradshaw. I should warn you, though: I'm not his favorite person in the world."
Why wasn't he surprised? "This was your idea," he reminded her, smiling. The telephone was on the floor beside the desk; Beelzebub had knocked it down when he'd charged them. Hugh replaced the receiver in its cradle, sat on the edge of the desk, and dug in his pocket for the number.
"Well, the next time I have such an absurd one, stab me."
"I will," he said, and she threw a grin over her shoulder as she opened the door.
A man stood there, fist poised to knock. Her eyes rounded in surprise. Swearing, she quickly grabbed his tie and hauled him into the room, slamming the door.
Hugh slowly rose to his feet. The agent's eyes widened as he saw Beelzebub, then narrowed when they focused on Hugh. Recognition filled his expression.
"Fuck. Fuck." She pushed him up against the wall, his feet dangling ten inches off the floor. Though he outweighed her by at least seventy pounds, she lifted him as easily as Hugh would his cat. "Dammit, I was supposed to have time to explain, to get you ready for this."
Bradshaw. Hugh studied the agent's shaved head, the lean, dark face. The other man's hands hung relaxed at his sides; no fear in him, despite Lilith's display of strength and the demon on the floor. "I don't think he needs to be prepared," he said.
Her head whipped around, and she stared at him. "What do you—" Realization flared in her eyes. A long stream of curses flowed. She finally finished, out of breath: "A _Guardian!_ "
"You asked for a miracle," Hugh said dryly. In spite of his tone, relief flooded him; it was more than he could have hoped for, wished for. They weren't completely alone in this.
She clenched her jaw, then dropped Bradshaw to the floor. "Someone up there hates me."
"It was someone Below," Bradshaw said, and straightened his tie. "Smith's assistant called from a pay phone, because she'd 'forgotten' to tell me that he'd wanted to see me before I left for the evening." He looked past Lilith to Beelzebub's decapitated form. "I guess she lied."
**CHAPTER 34**
Lilith knew she was extraordinarily lucky—but it was still humiliating. How could she not have sensed the truth? If she and Bradshaw had only a brief meeting, she could have excused herself . . . but ten years' acquaintance? And Hugh had been able to tell within seconds.
She glanced over at them; the two men stood near Beelzebub's body as Hugh recounted everything the demon had revealed about the ritual.
Sir Pup nudged her knee, and she leaned down to scratch his ears, frowning. The hellhound hadn't known, either—he was supposed to have given warning if anyone came to the door, but he hadn't sensed Bradshaw's approach.
"It's your Gift," she realized aloud. "A perfect psychic mask, so that you can pass as human." And like Selah's teleporting, the Guardians had hidden knowledge of the ability from demons, the better to use it to their advantage—and safety. Michael wouldn't place one of his Guardians in such a dangerous position unless Bradshaw had some protection. If he hadn't been able to pass as human, Beelzebub would have had him killed.
Bradshaw gave a short nod.
"And the others with the same Gift? All in subordinate positions to Lucifer's demons?" Though humiliating for her, it cheered her to think others remained unaware of the Guardians in their midst.
"There are very few others," Hugh said quietly. "It's a rare Gift."
An edge of resignation in his voice; he was pleased that Michael had managed to counteract the demons' foray into human society, but frustrated by the limitations of it.
Bradshaw frowned slightly. "How did you know? I never took this form in Caelum, and you weren't my mentor."
Hugh's brows drew together, and his gaze unfocused, as if he were remembering and thinking about it. "You didn't have any involuntary reactions when Lilith lifted you: no breathing change, no pupil dilation, no muscle reflex. You were prepared for Beelzebub—and prepared _not_ to react. It was the response of someone who'd trained himself to stifle human impulse, but it takes decades of practice to reach that level of mastery over your body."
Lilith snorted with laughter. "As you well know."
He smiled, and his gaze heated as it skimmed her length. "I do." Then he shrugged, and glanced at Bradshaw again. "You overcompensate for your Guardian reflexes; fortunately, most demons are arrogant and self-absorbed, so they probably won't notice."
Lilith scowled. Arrogant and self-absorbed? She wasn't the one showing off and conducting an impromptu fool-the-demon lesson. "Thank you, Professor," she said, and his lips pressed together as if he were holding back his laughter. "Where are the nosferatu hiding?"
Bradshaw ran his palm over his bald head, as if uncomfortable. He shot a glance at Hugh. "You've found out more from Beelzebub in half an hour than I've been able to glean in years. We've concentrated our efforts since the nosferatu came into the city, but even Michael didn't know most of this."
Lilith's eyes narrowed. "Does Michael know where the nest is?" When Bradshaw nodded, she flashed a broad smile. "He's keeping it secret; he's concerned that if Hugh finds out, he will do something absurd." As well he should; if Bradshaw had known and refused to tell them, he'd likely be stretched out next to Beelzebub.
Bradshaw nodded again.
Hugh arched a brow, looked pointedly to the floor. "More absurd than ambushing a demon in a building filled with armed federal agents?"
His blue eyes were filled with amusement, and it was difficult to maintain her own sobriety. Difficult to keep her heart from her throat, from launching herself into his arms. Did he know how it affected her, his ability to shed insult, to laugh at himself so easily? "Rushing into a nosferatu nest is much more absurd than this," Lilith said. "The nosferatu can kill you."
"So could have anyone outside this office, if he'd managed to escape us and raise the hue and cry."
Lilith grinned. "The hue and cry?"
"I would have shot you," Bradshaw offered. Every trace of mirth fled from Hugh's features, and Lilith placed her hand on his forearm. His muscles were like steel beneath her fingers. Bradshaw noted the exchange with a widening of his eyes, then added with a grimace, "On second thought, I couldn't have. Why are you human?"
"So that I can kill Hugh," Lilith said, waiting until Hugh met her eyes. Animosity between Guardians and demons—even a Fallen demon—was to be expected; it wouldn't disappear simply because he loved her. When she felt the tension ease from him, she turned to Bradshaw. "There's more Michael isn't telling you." Michael _couldn't_ tell him; the stipulations of the wager forbade it—but they didn't forbid Lilith.
It didn't take long to outline the terms of the wager, and though it was obvious Bradshaw thought Lilith's soul wasn't worth the loss of Caelum and Hugh's life, he didn't say it aloud. Smart man, Lilith mused—he may not understand Hugh's protectiveness toward her, but he'd wisely decided not to test it.
"Where's Michael now?" Hugh said when Lilith had finished.
Bradshaw's brows drew together. "Your house." When they looked at him blankly, he said, "Selah came back, and Michael managed to go get the vampire."
Startled, Lilith met Hugh's gaze, saw the same relief and surprise reflected there. "Let's go."
Bradshaw's sigh caught them halfway to the door. "What am I to do with this?"
Lilith turned. "Spin it. You have the case files." She did a poor job of concealing her enjoyment when his jaw clenched. After ten years of trying to expose her lies, he needed her to create more. This was difficult for him; she wasn't going to make it any easier.
"Lilith," Hugh said quietly. She arched a brow at him, and relented when he said, "Take pity."
It was only fair, she supposed; they had created the mess. She glanced at Beelzebub, slid pieces together, rearranged them. Bradshaw's abilities were going to make this much simpler than if she and Hugh had only themselves to rely on. "I suppose you don't want anyone to know you are a Guardian?"
"No."
Of course not, Lilith thought; the fewer who knew the better. A psychic mask was useless if a demon could pick the truth from another Guardian's—or human's—mind. "First, you are going to shift into Smith's form and walk us to the elevator. Then, as Smith, you'll put in for emergency family leave, transferring his cases to yourself, particularly the investigations involving the nosferatu." She nodded to herself, thinking it over. They had intended to use Beelzebub as the evidence Taylor and Preston had been looking for, knowing it wouldn't completely exonerate Hugh, but it would at least give more credence to his story—and though they'd have to keep it quiet it would allow the two detectives more maneuvering ability. Lilith didn't like the idea of all of the responsibility falling on the Guardians, via Bradshaw, just as it would have been the demons' when Beelzebub had taken over the case. "You're friends with Captain Jorgenson, Ingleside? Get his two detectives working with you; call them tomorrow morning, when you've got the files on your desk. They're going to come in with two nosferatu. Dead, of course."
"From the lake?" Hugh said.
Lilith nodded. "I'll give them an anonymous tip tonight. When I dumped them, I hadn't realized they wouldn't disintegrate in the sun. But it was after the first ritual, so they'd have resistance; they're likely still there." She saw the doubt on Bradshaw's face and frowned. "They already know a lot of it, and they aren't going to run around screaming about demons and vampires. It'll stay quiet if you make certain it stays that way. Run with the cult angle as in the letter. Keep your team busy tracking down phantom leads: hardcore Goth clubs, the missing bodies, linguists to explain the symbols and whatever shows up after the autopsy of the nosferatu, like body modification. Let the detectives go after us; we won't hide much from them, except your part in it, but I doubt they'll even mention to you the possibility that any of this is nonhuman; they'll be content, for the moment, just having access to the case again. But if they do, pretend to be skeptical until you get irrefutable evidence."
Bradshaw nodded slowly. "What will that be?"
Lilith shrugged, her heart suddenly heavy. "In about two days, you'll know. Keep Beelzebub's body in your cache until then. The blood, too." Sir Pup didn't have the precision to vanish something as amorphous as blood without destroying the carpet or leaving trace evidence behind, but a Guardian would.
"And what about you?"
She blinked, and an ironic smile curved her lips. "You finally get to suspend me, pending investigation of the stolen books and weapons found in my apartment." She slid her badge from inside her jacket, tossed it to him.
He reverently smoothed his thumb over the gleaming shield. "No spin on this?"
She shook her head. _It was all I had_ was not a defense, and it wasn't worth the effort to create one. More important to concentrate on the last thing she had, the only thing that mattered.
She slid her hand into Hugh's. "Let's go," she said.
Darkness had fallen by the time they made it through the rush-hour traffic. As they turned from Sunset Boulevard and neared Hugh's neighborhood, Sir Pup began running close to the motorcycle; she could hear his uneasy growls over the smooth rumble of the engine. She tightened her thigh muscles, felt an answering tension in Hugh's.
With a twist of the throttle, the bike rocketed forward. She let go of his waist and called for the crossbow. Though venom laced all of their weapons, the gun was too loud, the sword's range too limited. Sir Pup missed on the first attempt, and it smashed into the back of her hand before vanishing again.
Too much to ask, they were all moving too quickly; the hellhound sprinting, and they had to lean into the turns so deeply their knees skimmed millimeters above the rough pavement, the constant motion denying him a stable target.
She flipped up her visor and glanced back, up—there, the pale figures against the night sky . . . two of them. Nosferatu. Were they just watching, or planning to attack?
Either way, she didn't want to be defenseless. "It's all right," she said quietly, "Try again."
Three streets away from Hugh's house now; hopefully the news crews had given up, or they were going to get one hell of a story. The crossbow landed in her palm, and she carefully turned—dangerous to throw off their balance, particularly as they decelerated.
The two nosferatu hovered as if uncertain, then turned and fled. Her triumphant laughter faded as she tilted her head farther, saw another figure flying directly above them. He held a blazing sword, and as she watched, it dimmed and vanished.
Michael.
About fucking time. She readjusted her aim as they rounded the last corner and pulled the trigger. The Doyen teleported an instant before the quarrel pinned his balls to his ass. Coward. Lilith burst into laughter, slapped her visor down and tossed the crossbow to Sir Pup.
The garage door rose when Hugh pressed a button on a device near the handlebars. Two media vans still sat in front of his house; a cameraman and a smartly dressed reporter scrambled out of the first van. Too late. Hugh pulled in, came to a smooth stop, cut the engine.
For a moment, the hum of the lowering door and her laughter were the only sounds in the garage. Then his helmet hit the concrete floor, and he reached behind with one arm and hauled her around astride him, her thighs atop his. Her laughter died on a wave of heat. God, but he was still so strong, so quick. He fumbled with her helmet, pushed it off. Half-lowered, his lashes were dark, thick, hiding the intense blue of his eyes as he glanced down her length, his hands everywhere, as if to be certain that she hadn't been injured.
"Lilith—God, Lily." His hands buried in her hair, pulled her down for a hard, searching kiss. His erection rose thick beneath his jeans and she arched back, finding an angle to stroke against him. Her panties were wet, soaking. He slid back along the seat, pulled her with him. _Hurry._ The tank dug into her spine. His hand moved between them. Something ripped.
Her trousers. She couldn't stop sucking, licking at his mouth long enough to protest. _Faster._ Rough denim against her skin; he hadn't done more than unfasten them and his urgency made her wild, frantic. Dimly, she heard a voice at the door and Hugh's rough reply, and then he was inside her, his hot hard length thrusting deep. His mouth closed over her nipple and she came, her breath locked outside her and her inner muscles clenching in desperate, melting release. The motorcycle swayed and he hooked her knee over his arm and lifted, shoving into her again. A harsh moan tore from his throat as he withdrew, pausing with the thick head of his cock just inside before pulling all the way out.
She would have cried out at the loss, didn't care who might have heard her—but she was faster, stronger even than he was. A heartbeat's time, and she moved and her mouth surrounded him. A ragged, shuddering breath; his hands on her head; her name from his lips. She tasted herself, then he pulsed beneath her tongue; their flavors mingled, hot and raw. And it was not a rhythm, not routine—just life.
**CHAPTER 35**
"That was quick," Colin said from his reclining position on the sofa, and Hugh didn't need to see him to know a smirk accompanied the statement.
"You look like a wyrmrat," Lilith said, stripping away her trousers and tossing them toward the trash bin. She stalked into the living room, her long legs bare. "No, now that I'm closer: you look like a wyrmrat's ass."
A glimmer of a smile touched Hugh's lips, but when he took in the vampire's drawn, skeletal countenance, he had to agree with her assessment. Moving nearer the sofa, he noted the broken nails, the reddened fingertips. He was clean, freshly showered, and wrapped in Hugh's bathrobe, but the lingering odor of soot and burnt fibers hung in the air.
"This is your fault," Colin told Lilith as she examined his hands, but there was no accusation in his voice—only a deep, overwhelming relief.
"Many things are," she said mildly. "Are you lounging on the sofa because it shows your features to their best advantage, or are you unable to sit up?"
A brief flash of frustration and anger in his eyes before Colin looked heavenward. "The former, of course."
A lie. Hugh touched Lilith's shoulder. _He needs to eat_ , he signed.
She glanced up as he began rolling his sleeve back over his forearm, then quickly back to Colin. "Where is Selah?"
"Caelum—Michael bade her to return, to tell your Savitri all is still well." His lips twisted with self-derision. "I believe she desired a few minutes alone as well."
Hugh frowned. Lilith wasn't concerned about Selah; that hadn't been the question she'd wanted to ask. Why would she be afraid of the answer? He crouched down next to her and offered his arm to Colin, turning his wrist up. Lilith swallowed hard. "I hear Sir Pup scratching at the back door," he said softly.
A wry expression chased across her features before she sighed and stood. "He probably wants to play fetch with that quarrel I shot at Michael."
Hugh watched her leave, then glanced back at the vampire. His lips were pulled back over his fangs, need burning in his eyes—but he waited.
"I don't think I can keep this from being painful," he said finally.
Hugh nodded; he'd known the vampire would have little control. Impossible, if he was as hungry as he looked. "It's for the best; if I'm pleasured by it, Lilith will likely force me to kiss you. And though you are rather comely for a man, I much prefer her lips to yours." Though his gaunt face lit with humor, still the vampire hesitated, and Hugh added, "I can stop you from draining me, do you lose all sense."
Despite those assurances, Colin must have taken care; the bite pained Hugh no worse than the slice of a sharp knife. He counted the draws, estimated the amount; when he heard Lilith's footsteps and the clatter of the hellhound's paws, he pulled back. Colin had taken little more than a pint, but already the hollows in his cheeks filled, his skin and hair regained some of its normal luster. Hugh clamped his hand over the wound as Lilith came into the room.
She arched a brow. "That was quick."
Hugh laughed and stood, but Colin was staring at the hellhound. "He made it out."
"Out?" She sat on the ottoman and tucked her legs beneath her. Hugh sighed as he went into the kitchen to grab a towel to wrap around his wrist; she'd delayed her return by changing her clothes, and his pants didn't look half as appealing as her bare skin had.
"Beelzebub put a sword through his gut."
Hugh froze mid-wrap, listening for her response. Would she blame herself for leaving the hellhound with them? Sir Pup had saved them, but had almost died in the process. Lilith was silent for a moment, and there was cold humor in her voice when she said, "Hugh put an axe through Beelzebub's neck."
His tension eased, and he walked back into the living room just as Michael teleported in. No use putting it off any longer then. He looked over at Colin. "Where were you?"
"Hell, I imagine," he said. "I have seen it before in mirrors—have heard the screams."
Lilith's face hardened. "The Pit?"
"No," Michael said. He stood rigidly in front of Hugh's bookcases, his black wings folded behind him, his arms crossed over his chest. A relaxed pose, for him. "Chaos."
Lilith's breath stilled. Chaos. Lucifer had summoned the dragon from that realm. Sir Pup whined and lay his head on Colin's lap, and she was reminded that hellhounds were also descended from creatures of Chaos. Hybrids that Lucifer had made, hoping to control them better than the pure breeds. But Lucifer had not had access to the realm in millennia, slowly losing his power to call creatures from it. How had Colin and Selah found it?
"According to the Scrolls, even you are denied access to that realm. There are no Gates, and teleportation requires an anchor," Hugh said to Michael, his thoughts apparently echoing hers. He drew in a sharp breath as he realized, "Your sword. The dragon's blood imbued it with some of its power—and not only was Colin's blood tainted with it when he was human, we made him with the blood of a nosferatu slain by the sword. His blood was the anchor when Selah tried to teleport, and it took them to Chaos instead of my home."
Michael nodded. "Yes, but his anchor was too strong to allow her to transport them away." His gaze flicked down to Hugh's wrist, and a tremor shook her as power flowed through the room. Sir Pup gave a sharp, happy bark. Hugh tossed the bloody towel aside, and moved to stand behind her; she realized he'd been staying away so she wouldn't see or smell the blood. Her heart swelled in her chest, left her full—too full.
She should thank the Doyen, but the words would not come to her lips. She glanced at Sir Pup, realized she had even more reason to be grateful. "You got him out of Colin's basement, healed him." Her voice was rough. The hellhound flapped his ears, grinning.
Michael's face did not soften. "I was almost too late."
"You always are," she said and took a deep breath. A Guardian had no obligation to save a hellhound. "I owe you."
"No," Hugh said. She tilted her head back. His eyes were cold, his mouth hard. "You don't." He waited for a moment, his gaze holding hers; then he looked up at Michael. "Take her to Caelum. Keep her safe there until the time for Lucifer's wager has passed."
Hugh did not include himself; he probably intended to stay and fight the nosferatu. She could—would—change his mind. At least he was trying to find options other than self-sacrifice. But the brief hope that filled her was destroyed by Michael's reply.
"I can't."
Hugh's body trembled behind her; she reached back, lay her hand on his hip. "You won't. Naught forbids you from taking humans but custom. You protect Savi there; you can protect Lilith."
"You know I speak the truth: I can't," Michael said softly, and then he was in front of her. A blade flashed, and her shirt parted down the front. "He left his mark. She cannot traverse the Gates, and I cannot take her to Caelum; her anchor is in Hell. And unlike Colin's, it is etched so deeply I cannot overwrite it by force of my will." He stared down at the symbol between her breasts, his jaw set, his bronze skin drawn tight with anger.
Stricken, Lilith placed her hand over her name. Lucifer had left it deliberately then, to prevent her from escaping to Caelum. "Can you remove it?"
"Yes," he said. "But the price may be more than you are willing to pay."
Sweat ran in rivers over his face. His arms and chest burned, but he couldn't stop lifting. From the living room, he heard occasional bursts of laughter from Colin and Lilith. A note of strain beneath it; neither the vampire nor she felt like laughing, yet they did. God, but he wanted to be with her, but his pain might force a decision from her that he prayed she would not make.
Did Michael remove the symbol, it would erase all that she'd gained since she'd become a demon. The lingering power and speed—but also the knowledge and memories from the past two thousand years. She would be a normal human woman, alive—lost in a modern world, but that would not signify if she lived in Caelum. And though Hugh had no doubt the woman she'd been had many of the same traits, same strengths . . . she would not be Lilith.
She would not know him, nor love him. The ache deep within his chest spread, burning into his gut.
He couldn't protect her from the nosferatu. Nor could Sir Pup or Michael—not every moment. And Lucifer would never let up; it would be too humiliating if a human got the better of him. Eventually, there would be a mistake made, and they would take her.
But she would be safe in Caelum. Her bargain with Lucifer would still be in effect, but without her having knowledge of it. And when Hugh eventually ended his life—it wouldn't matter when, tomorrow or in a hundred years—it would be for her. She would be the cause, and it would fulfill the terms. Her soul would be safe, and she would not be pained by losing him as she would now.
She would never know he'd existed. And he would stay away from her, to save her from ever knowing.
It was the best option for her. She would have Caelum, as she'd once dreamed—Beelzebub had not been lying in that. And when she eventually died—five decades, six?—she would not be frozen in Hell.
And perhaps, one day, did they destroy the nosferatu . . .
He forced away that thought. Even did the Guardians slay all, even did Michael allow him to visit Caelum, Hugh would still have to fulfill the bargain. If she loved him, it would hurt her when he finally did. And there was no guarantee that she would love him again; would it not be worse torment to see her, but not have her?
Nay. Her death would be the worst torment.
Michael appeared beside him, clamped his hand over the bar. _Destroying yourself in this way will not help her,_ he signed with his other hand. The weights slammed into the cradle, and the bench shuddered beneath Hugh's back. No use fighting against the Doyen; the outcome would be laughable.
He sat up, bowed his head. Looked at his hands, his chest. "Where are ours?" Perhaps if he cut his out, it would not hurt as much. But, no, he _had_ to remember. If he did not, he could not fulfill the bargain.
Michael eyed him silently for a moment. "The ritual is a false transformation. The effect is similar, but the method is different. The symbols are there, Hugh—but they are written on every cell, every particle of your being. And the longer they stand, the more they become your own. I can erase the depth of them when you Fall, but I cannot erase the whole without destroying you. I can leave a part of her, but there would be none left of you."
It did not matter; he could not be that boy again—he did not want to be him. He would carry Lilith with him, even did she exist nowhere else . . .
He rubbed his forehead with trembling fingers, then stood, and walked to his desk. In the bottom drawer was a thick sheaf of paper, and he picked it up. "Will you take the book, put it in the library?" A grim smile touched his mouth. Perhaps she would run across it, wonder at its author and subject. "It is not a Scroll and is missing much of her story, but I would be grateful."
Michael nodded, and it vanished from Hugh's hands. "Will you fill in the rest?"
"If I live long enough," he said, and ran his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "I wanted to be angry at you for failing to tell me that she was a halfling—but I cannot. I should have seen; I knew how to look."
"You saw what was important." Michael hesitated, then said, "There are parts you don't know, and failings for which I'm culpable."
"Carthage? I know of it. Lilith said there were no other Guardians, and Selah mentioned that you created the corps after that failure."
Surprise flickered in Michael's eyes, and he shook his head, a reluctant smile pulling at his mouth. "Lilith was the last halfling made, but all those before had been . . . not worth saving. Each as inhuman as demons in their own way. And she was no innocent, but not a monster. Lucifer had become too bold, so I recreated the corps."
Hugh's brows drew together. Recreated? Had there been an Ascension, as widespread as the latest? "There is no mention of an earlier corps in the Scrolls, nor do any Scrolls predate the Latin." No surprise the Scrolls were in Latin if they'd been written after Lilith's transformation; it would have been the language most common to those in the corps after that time.
The Doyen's mouth flattened. "I destroyed them."
The former, older Scrolls or the Guardians? But Hugh knew him well enough to see that he would not speak of it anymore. Nor could he speak about the wager. "Savi?"
Michael gave a short nod. "Well. The nosferatu who followed you were searching for her. It won't be long before they realize she is out of their reach."
He did not need to say the rest. Nosferatu would not easily change their plans, but once it became apparent using Savi had become impossible, they would try to use others to force Hugh to submit to the ritual: Lilith, most likely—but if not her, his students.
How well could Lucifer control them? According to the wager, he could not instigate another kidnapping or ritual, but if the nosferatu became impatient and acted without Lucifer's consent...
Hugh shook his head and turned away.
Steam filled the small room. Lilith quietly closed the door, began slipping out of her clothes. The outline of Hugh's body wavered behind the frosted glass; his hand was braced against the shower wall, his head bowed beneath the spray.
She stepped inside, and he turned toward her, gave a halfhearted smile. "Are you here to tempt me?"
"No." She ran her hands over his shoulders, and she kissed him. His lips were salty; she drew back, studied him. Not all of the moisture on his face was from the shower. "I'm keeping the symbol," she said.
His eyes searched hers; his muscles were rigid beneath her fingers. "Did you hear my conversation with Michael?"
"Colin did; he told me." And she knew he could have signed, kept it private—but he'd wanted her to hear, wanted to remind her that if she had decided to remove the mark, there would still be some version of Lilith in existence. Wanted her to hear that the woman she had been was reason enough for Michael to reestablish the Guardian corps.
"You would be safe. You would be free."
She shrugged. "Safety and freedom would mean nothing to the woman I was." She dipped her head, caught the stream of water sliding across the hollow of his throat with her tongue. "And I know it would not stop you from sacrificing yourself."
"Lilith—"
"I know," she whispered. "I know. But we have two more days; another option might present itself."
But there were not many left.
**CHAPTER 36**
Hugh woke just after dawn; she watched him leave the bed and gather his clothes from the closet. He murmured something to Sir Pup, and the hellhound gave a short bark of agreement. A run, then. She closed her eyes against the heaviness in her throat, her chest. An idea must have occurred to him, and he was working it through, teasing out the threads, examining the weave of it.
Unable to fall back asleep, she slipped into one of his shirts and padded barefoot down the hall. Colin sat on the sofa, watching spellbound as a woman chopped and sautéed on the television. Lilith rolled her eyes and continued through to the kitchen.
She poured a glass of orange juice and returned to the living room to look him over. "Did you hunt?"
"Why?" His fangs flashed when he grinned. "Are you afraid I'll eat you now that you're human?"
"Your clothes," she said, nodding toward the silk trousers, the tailored shirt. "Did you attack some unsuspecting fool and leave him naked?"
"I'd hoped you'd be afraid." He sighed dramatically. "As for the clothes, I'm a _most_ beloved client at Wilkes Bashford. They delivered."
She stole a glance at the clock, and shook her head in disbelief. He complained about the price of dog food, and then paid unimaginable amounts for clothing. "Did you take a sip from the delivery boy?"
"And the housewife across the street." He paused. "Everyone in the neighborhood may be anemic by the time this is sorted out."
It might be sorted out sooner than Colin thought. The juice was tart and cold over her tongue, but she hardly tasted it. What was Hugh planning?
The silence stretched between them. Colin studied her features, and she wasn't certain what he saw there. Waiting became a physical ache; every passing moment seemed to unravel into an eternity. She searched for something to fill it.
"Are the reporters still outside?"
"No, unfortunately; I'd have liked a bite of the Channel Five correspondent. She's starred in my eleven o'clock news fantasies for years."
Hard to muster a smile, though she tried. "Did Selah return?"
The humor in Colin's eyes dimmed. "Yes. She's out with Hugh. Michael's still here, using the computer in the upstairs apartment."
Her brows rose, but he lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug.
"I can't make sense of it, either."
She nodded slowly. Michael must be in contact with someone—Bradshaw, perhaps. As difficult a time as she had imagining Michael typing, at least he wasn't using smoke signals or Morse code.
He must have heard them; moments later, he walked into the living room. No toga or giant black wings, simply a loose white tunic and cotton pants. No display of power in that appearance, and she wanted to curse at him for it. Perhaps if he had made a better showing of strength, Hugh would not take this all upon himself.
He met her gaze, his features without expression. "They are returning."
"You can stop him," she said without thought and was horrified when tears sprang into her eyes, as if the words had released a terrible pressure within her.
His visage blurred, but his words rang clear. " _I_ cannot."
Footsteps at the back door; she drew in great breaths, but though her chest filled and filled it seemed she could get no air. "Please," she whispered. "You know what I will do. You know what I am."
Michael shook his head. "So does he."
She turned. Hugh. God, but he was beautiful. And he did not look away from her, though he should have.
"I will submit to the ritual," he said quietly.
The glass slipped from her fingers, vanished before it hit the floor. She did not notice; her focus narrowed down to Hugh.
"No." A strong denial, but it would not be enough.
His jaw clenched, and he continued, "It is not just for you, Lilith. Eventually, they will use my students against me, Savi—even Colin. Or innocents that I don't know; it does not matter." He swallowed, and signed, _I can destroy the nosferatu._
"Let the Guardians kill them; that is why they were created."
_There aren't enough of them. There are very few left._
She shouldn't care; she shouldn't be startled. "You are not a Guardian."
_They drink the blood in unison. If we replace my blood with Colin's, they won't discover it until it is too late. It will be an anchor; Michael and Selah can transport them to Chaos, though they think it will be Caelum. If Colin performs the ritual, he can change the symbols so that the resonance follows the blood, doubling the effect._
She squeezed her eyes shut. It was a good plan. "You could be healed."
Silence followed her statement, and she shook her head in denial.
"No, Lilith." His voice thickened. "It will use too much blood; I couldn't survive it. Michael can heal tissue, but he can't create blood that is not there." _And Caelum would be saved, for Lucifer would have lost the wager—you would not do it personally. The five hundred years can be used to rebuild the corps._
"No," she said.
"It must be done anyway, Lilith. It fulfills your bargain—and the sooner it is done, the better. I would wait a hundred years, but even do we survive the nosferatu, there is no guarantee you would not have an accident. A car, the motorcycle. A stray bullet. If you died before me, your soul would be lost."
All would be saved but Hugh. She bowed her head.
"My name and my life are worthless," she said, and couldn't stop the tears from spilling. "But I would give them for you, do you not do this. I would give my soul for you to live."
She did not hear him move. He lifted her chin with gentle fingers, stared in wonder at her tears. "That is why I cannot let you. I would be worth nothing did I take a few days—a few years—in exchange for it."
_Worth nothing._ Only a week ago, she had stood across from him and reached into his mind, and found that fear lurking: worth nothing. A fear that did not have to be based in truth for it to be worked upon, for it to fester.
For it to break him.
The mark weighed heavy on her chest. She did not want to be this—but she could not let him die, and she did not know how else to save him.
"And so despite your claim that you are not a hero, you'll try to be one. Like the foolish boy you said you were." Mockery in her voice. A tone could lie, but more important her words did not—and she said them quickly, so that he had no time to consider nuances and words left unsaid. Made them painful, so that his emotional turmoil would cloud his reading. "You will try to do what is best for the most. Do you think you are a king, your sacrifice worth that much? You are not a king; you are not even a knight, stripped of your rank."
"I remember," he said harshly.
He was close; her hands were between them, beneath his line of sight. He would not see her fingers moving.
"What are you? You think to defeat those who once were angels? You are a man, a common man, saved by the lowest kind of demon. Never meant to walk among the angels." _They had run from Earth, and you never run from anything._ "You could never be compared to them." _Your worth is infinitely more._ "And you cannot save me this way." _It will destroy me._ "You are worth nothing." _To them, but not to me. You are everything to me._
His features were absolutely still. "This is truth? You believe this?"
"Yes."
His eyes closed, and a sob rose in her throat when he opened them again; she'd seen this before. They glittered like blue ice. Not Caelum there, but the tormented faces Below—just as when he'd slain her, given her freedom.
She'd thought then it was a reflection of her Hell, but it was his.
His—and she was its cause.
"I will not be worth grieving then." His hand dropped from her face, and he turned away.
She stared after him; his broad shoulders were squared against her words. It was like being ripped in two, to cause him this much pain and know it had been for nothing. No, he did not break; but she would—
He stopped, thrust his hands in his pockets. He did not turn to look at her. "I can accept that you will always be Lilith, will always be the demon." A visible tremor shook him, and she pressed her fist to her teeth to hold in her explanation, her denial. _I don't know how to save you._ A demon knew nothing of saving, only lying and deception. "I do not understand why you still serve."
Roaring in her ears as he left the room. Blood in her mouth.
"Is this what you wanted, Lilith? Are you proud of what you've done?"
She did not know if Michael spoke, or if it was an echo of her last failure. But the answer—the true one—was the same.
No.
He was not there to hold her this time.
The tile floor was cold beneath her legs; she couldn't stop shivering, though the window was open and the breeze warm. Her knuckles no longer bled, but she could still taste it.
No. She closed her eyes. Honesty with herself, at least—it was not the blood that had made her sick.
"You did well, daughter. Tore out his heart without lifting a knife. Smashing performance!"
Wearily, she looked up. Still the retired gentleman, Lucifer perched on the commode, patting his hands together. A golf clap. She shook her head, laughing at the absurdity; he had no claim over her, could not command her attention. "Did you climb up the tree?" She waved toward the window, wiped the tears from her cheeks. "It bears no fruit, and you have nothing with which to tempt me."
"Not even the lives of four boys?" Quickly, he shifted through four different forms before returning to the original.
Her back straightened. "You broke the terms—"
"No, no," he chuckled. "Your Guardian guessed correctly; the nosferatu grew impatient. _They_ do not know how to stand and wait."
"They waited in caves for thousands of years," Lilith said dryly, climbing to her feet. "Perhaps they simply lose faith in you. Or they worry, because two humans managed to kill your lieutenant."
A flash of anger and heat before he was smiling again. "Regardless, it is a simple message I deliver today: you perform the ritual, kill the Fallen one—or the boys die."
So that he would have Caelum; her eternal Punishment paled in comparison to that gain. "You already lose control of the nosferatu; I can hardly accept your word that they won't kill them if I comply."
"You have little choice. But do you immediately tell them he will submit to the ritual, and make his students' continued living a condition of that submission, they will likely delay." He pursed his lips. "For a day or two."
Her jaw clenched. There was little choice if he did not lie about the boys being taken. And he was making certain the ritual would take place before the wager expired.
Hugh would sacrifice himself for a hypothetical danger to them, and for her soul; she would sacrifice him for the reality. Cut into him, kill him. Little wonder Lucifer was content for her to fulfill her bargain. Even if the act was brief, and her life not much long after . . . She could not imagine a worse torture.
As if he felt her acquiescence, he smiled. "I am pleased, daughter. Him, I expected—it is his nature to risk all for those he loves. But you cannot hurt them without making yourself sick. You tear him apart, only to puke from it." His lip curled. "Look at you. You embarrass me."
She tucked Hugh's shirt closer around her torso. "I'll be certain to wear this in front of your new subjects then, and call you 'Daddy.' "
A pile of clothes landed at her feet. "Appearances are everything. Do not disappoint me, Lilith." He leaned toward her, and she had to resist the urge to turn, flee. "And a little surprise."
A dagger appeared in his hand; she recognized the hilt. Hugh's. The knife she had tried—and failed—to use on him in the temple. She raised her eyes to his. "Why?"
"I know you appreciate drama." He smiled coldly. "It adds a certain flair."
Carefully, she took the blade.
"Ah, Lilith," he said. "You're such a good girl."
She blinked; he was gone. The curtains fluttered at the window, and she hurried over to close it. Not that it would keep him out. He must have been using some kind of magic to prevent the others from hearing or sensing him. She touched the sill, and her eyes widened. The three symbols carved there: silence, surround, lock. A drop of blood in the center of each one. She destroyed them with a slash of the dagger.
"—LITH!" Hugh's frantic voice. He crashed through the door, Sir Pup on his heels; Michael teleported in, sword blazing. The hellhound leapt through the window, shifting to fit through the small space. After a quick glance around the room, Michael disappeared.
Hugh lowered his sword and was at her side in two long strides. His face was dotted with perspiration, his breathing rapid. How long had he been trying to get in? "Are you well?"
Was she? "I'm not injured," she said.
Truth, but the difference between question and answer was not subtle. His fingers shook as he brushed back a curl from her forehead—as if he had to touch her, but did not trust himself to touch her skin.
His throat worked, and he pulled his hand away. "Does he know?"
"That you will submit, yes. The nosferatu have taken some of your students so that you won't change your mind—we need to contact Taylor and Preston, have them make certain it wasn't a lie." It didn't matter if it was; they had little choice. Lucifer must love that. She rubbed her forehead, then signed, _But he doesn't know about Colin, nor the nosferatu. If he did know of a link to Chaos, he would care little for anything else until he had obtained it._ She frowned. _He must be concerned he will fail, to risk using his magic, and then leaving traces of it. He guards it closely, to keep his control over those who would take his throne._
A short laugh escaped her; he well knew he did not have to fear such from her.
Hugh's gaze fell to the dagger in her fist, then met hers again.
"He must have taken it when he pulled me through the Gate in the temple." She set it on the counter, glad to be rid of it. "If he intended to increase my sense of fatalism, to remind me of the consequences of failure, it was the right thing to give me. I did not serve him that night," she said, her voice bitter.
He mistook the cause of it, and shook his head. "Lilith, I did not mean—"
Her heart suddenly thudded in her chest, and she did not hear what he said, could not hear anything but its racing beat. _She had not served._ It had been a rebellion, and it had given her Hugh—and it was the best thing, one of the few good things, she'd ever done.
She pushed past him, scooped up the leather breeches and corset, then went into the bedroom for her boots. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she listened—did not even know if he said anything, though she could feel him watching her.
Michael returned. Sir Pup, Colin, and Selah stood at the bedroom door. In the living room, they had turned from her, their expressions showing disgust or rejection or pity. And she had deserved it.
"He is gone," Michael said.
She finished lacing her boots, stood. She didn't look at Hugh. "There is a dagger in the bathroom; I need you to check it for poisons."
The dagger appeared in his hand. Touching the blade to his tongue, he frowned and nodded.
Lucifer thought she might be able to begin, but he apparently hadn't trusted her to go through with killing him. She smiled wryly. "If you would clean it for me, I would be grateful," she said. "I'm going to perform the ritual with it."
Protests from Selah and Colin; one did not want to lose Caelum, the other was concerned for her. Nothing from Michael. He vanished the poison from the blade's surface and produced a sheath for it. Sir Pup lay on the floor, his three mouths opened wide in identical grins.
She did not look at Hugh.
She strapped the knife to her thigh, her focus on the buckles more intense than the act warranted. "Continue with what you're doing—Colin can procure the equipment from Ramsdell." She glanced up at him, and though his brow was creased with confusion, he nodded. Little that he did not know about blood or transfusions, but he had not been able to read the sign language Hugh had used to outline the plan. "Selah, you explain to him what we need—write it out." _Keep Hugh's,_ she signed. _Colin will want to drink it, will need it after he gives his own, but don't let him._
The blond Guardian's mouth was set in a mutinous line, but she gave a short gesture of assent.
Lilith looked at the Doyen. _Michael, store the blood in your cache._ "But first, go to the nest and let them know we're going to do the ritual tonight. A location of our choosing. If they touch Hugh's students, I'll kill him before he can submit to anything, and it won't matter if the wager is lost for they will have no access to Caelum." A lie, but only Hugh would know it. "The students are to be released after the bloodletting—but before the nosferatu drink—or else you will vanish it from the cups."
"Lilith," Hugh said softly.
"Don't ask me what I'm doing." She took a deep breath. The corset did nothing to hide the symbol between her breasts. "I need your bike."
"The keys are hanging by the garage door." Warmth in his voice. "Is this going to be absurd?"
She grinned. "Oh, yes."
And her attack wasn't as quick as she would have liked; he had time to lift his hands to hold her against him, met her kiss with open lips, and a laugh. She smiled against his mouth. Pulled back.
No ice in him now, but she was not done. "I have to do it alone," she said. His eyes searched hers; slowly, he nodded.
Relief filled her. She would do this regardless, but it was easier with his acceptance. She turned away, ignoring the looks from the others. Sir Pup trotted at her heels as she stalked toward the garage.
Time to be her father's daughter.
**CHAPTER 37**
The day wore on, but she didn't return. By the time the sun began to slide toward the horizon, Hugh felt scooped out, hollow. Preston and Taylor had arrived not long after Lilith had left; he had not needed to contact them. Four, taken that morning.
"Are the detectives still waiting in the living room?"
Colin nodded, checking the tube leading to Hugh's arm. He'd fed sometime in the last twenty minutes—already his color was renewed.
The last bag was almost empty; perhaps it was best she hadn't returned yet. She wouldn't want to see this, know the long process of the blood draw and transfusion. For all her wicked humor, the power in her when she'd decided to act instead of wait—instead of serving—he would still be her weakness.
He closed his eyes, recalled how she had looked when she'd pulled on the clothes she'd worn for hundreds of years—but had outshone them, as if they were only an accessory to the rest of her. A costume, put on for a play.
What had she done? He sighed, rubbed his forehead. And why had she to do it alone?
He looked up as he heard the click of Sir Pup's claws.
Then Lilith stood in front of him, her eyes dark, glistening. "I love you."
She had not said it without lies before. He'd always read the truth, but it was nothing to hearing it when it needed no translation.
And it filled him, left him unable to reply.
"I can leave the room," Colin said.
Her gaze sharpened on the vampire's flushed cheeks. "Did you drink from him?"
He shook his head. "Eleven o'clock news."
A ghost of a smile on her lips. She turned as Michael came into room. _Can you take him to Caelum—can your will override his anchor that much? We don't want him near when Lucifer realizes the truth about the blood._
"Yes." The Doyen inhaled, and Lilith's eyes flashed with annoyance.
"Don't."
Apparently, she didn't want them to have knowledge of where she'd been, who she'd been with. Hugh slipped the small tube from beneath his skin, stood. Michael immediately healed the puncture, erasing physical evidence of the transfusion.
She glanced at him, then back to Michael. _I need to speak with you about the symbols, the ritual,_ she signed. "But I need a couple of minutes with Hugh first. Alone."
Hugh frowned when he read the hesitation on Michael's face; the Doyen did not trust her. "Get out," he said, his voice harsh.
The Guardian's jaw hardened, but he disappeared. Colin left, and Sir Pup whimpered softly. Lilith smiled. "You, too, but sing for a while."
She closed the door behind the hellhound, and Hugh grinned when he began howling. With the point of the dagger, she quickly scratched out three marks on the wood beside the door, stabbed her thumb and placed a drop of blood over each.
Sudden silence.
Hugh saw the surprise in her eyes; she hadn't known it would work.
Surprise—but also uncertainty. "It's Lucifer's trick," she said quietly, and walked toward him. Her gaze flicked to the transfusion equipment. "Are you well?"
"Aside from a nigh uncontrollable urge to paint my self-portrait, yes." Better than he'd ever been; if these were to be the last hours of his life, they would be perfect hours, so long as she loved him, so long as she did not serve.
Her smile did not last. "I can't tell you what I've done," she said. "If you know, and they take your blood, they will know it, too. Once the nosferatu have drunk the blood, it is too late for them, but I can't have them warn Lucifer."
He slid his hand into her hair, laid his forehead against hers. Fear coiled in his gut. "Did you bargain?"
She did not answer, but said, "What I told you before, it wasn't truth. There was much left unspoken."
"I know." He felt her startle and smiled. "Not immediately, but upon reflection." And there had been nothing but time to think of it as he'd waited for her to return. To realize what his pain had not allowed him when she'd been saying it.
She drew back to look at him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her thumb smoothing over the planes of his face. "You have never failed me, though I have failed you many times. I have always been waiting: for you to give me my freedom, for you to save me. And you gave me freedom in the only way you could, though it was Hell for you. You had no other options—but I might have, had I ever looked. The cowardice was mine. I was not strong enough, nor brave enough. Yet you always were."
His throat closed and he shook his head. Her fingers were warm against his lips, denying his protest.
"I have given you little reason to trust me, little evidence of my worth, but I need you to trust me in this. I will let you do what you must to save me—but you must let me save you in turn."
He studied her face, trying to read the mixture of emotions there. "What must I do?"
"Look away. When I am about to cut into your heart, look away."
It was the same thing Mandeville had asked of him—but Lilith did not need that kindness, would never ask it for herself.
But what difference could his seeing her make?
His lips parted as the truth struck him, and his laughter rang through the room. She was going to lie. And she did not want him to give her away; he would be weak from blood loss, his psychic blocks almost useless.
A demure smile curved her mouth. "I'm simply doing what my father wanted."
She found Sir Pup at the threshold to the living room, his muzzles pointed toward the ceiling. A touch on his shoulder and the chorus ended.
On the sofa, Detective Taylor pulled her fingers from her ears and sighed with relief.
"You verified that they've been taken?"
"Yes," Preston said from the entrance to the kitchen, a soda in his hand. His face was haggard, drawn. The investigation had taken its toll on him—or perhaps it was just the past few hours.
"You know what to do?" Easier to include them than to fight them. Hopefully, Michael or Hugh had outlined their course very clearly.
Preston nodded. "Once they release the four, we take them and get them to safety." The nosferatu would be focused on the blood, and any demons wouldn't be able to interfere with the detectives' will to leave.
"Good," Lilith said and turned to find Michael.
"Agent Milton!" Taylor was on her feet now, her lips pressed tight. "It's _not_ good. We know what you intend to do to Castleford, and we can't allow—"
"I'm allowing it," Hugh said, brushing past Lilith's shoulder. A small touch, but not accidental. Warmth spread over her skin.
"We don't care if it's murder or suicide," Taylor said. "If she tries to go through with it, we are obligated to stop her."
Hugh leaned against the doorjamb, smiled lazily. Heat raced up her spine. "You could come back after you've gotten the boys away. Risk the nosferatu and shoot her before she cuts out my heart." They likely didn't recognize the dangerous glint in his eyes; Lilith did, and a melting awareness pooled low in her belly. He glanced at her, and she realized he'd been trying to distract her with sex. That was her trick, dammit. "I think we've a problem; Michael showed them what he was, they've seen Selah and Colin, but they don't yet realize the danger from the nosferatu."
She frowned. Remembered that Taylor had already been convinced of their existence, but that her partner had doubted. Her gaze shifted to Preston. "You believed because you saw _Michael_?" What was it with men, persuaded by that warrior-angel display?
The older man flushed. "Hard to refute."
Taylor shook her head. "And you may have once been a demon, but it doesn't change that you intend to kill a man. We don't understand a lot of the forces at work here, but I don't care whose law you think you are following. In this you'll follow ours."
Hugh began to speak, but Lilith said sharply, "Then arrest me afterward—no, I'll walk into the station and give myself up. We're the only access you have to those boys, and Hugh is the only way we have of saving them. This ritual is the only hold we have over the nosferatu now, the only reason they aren't slaughtering humans all over the city. You think these things are just serial killers, some creatures who get their kicks by slashing up a couple of humans? You think Selah and Michael are just pretty angels with wings and swords? You think my hellhound is just a freak three-headed dog? Show them your mean face, Sir Pup."
He shifted, taller than her shoulder. Spikes tore through his fur, scales rippled the length of his belly. Blood-flecked foam dripped from his mouths, his eyes burned with hellfire.
No mistaking the legacy of the dragon in him; no pretending he wasn't a creature from Hell.
Drama. Appearance—and it worked. Taylor paled; not from fright, Lilith realized, but with the understanding of what the nosferatu were, what might happen to the boys did Hugh not go through the ritual. Understood the choice he was making.
She couldn't resist an exit line. "You get those kids, and then you get the fuck out of there."
Two more things to take care of—the most difficult first. No sense drawing it out.
He caught her hand before she could open the office door. He stared down at her, and he saw too much. _You don't have to make it irreparable._
She sighed. _I like them both—respect them. And I like them the more for objecting to your death. But trying to explain to them that I'm doing this because I love you wouldn't have worked as well, nor as quickly._
He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. _I know,_ he signed finally. _But you should have let me do it. If what you've planned doesn't work, I don't want you to be completely alone . . . after. I don't want you to drive everyone away._
"After" wouldn't matter if this didn't work. "What time did Michael stipulate they meet us?"
The change of subject didn't faze him. "Midnight." Leaning in, he kissed her upper lip, then her lower. "We'll need to leave in four hours."
The expression in his eyes was a reflection of hers: not enough time.
"We'll split this, get it done faster," she said, her throat tight. "Sir Pup, the item." A small plastic bag filled her palm. "I have to talk to Michael. Make certain Colin goes to Caelum, and give this to Selah. Then we go to the bedroom and don't come out again until we have to leave."
He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. His voice was low, rough. "I'm going to leave my mark, Lily."
Heat tore through her; her knees turned to water. She hurried through her silent explanation with hands that only wanted to touch him, to leave her own mark—then forced herself to wait.
Michael first.
Hugh found Selah and Colin in the kitchen. "Are you ready to go?"
Colin looked up, his anger still evident. "I can help you. My sword—"
"You can help us better in Caelum. And their supplies will have been used by now; they need to eat." Hugh gestured to the grocery sack intended for Savi and Auntie. No food in Caelum—Guardians didn't need it.
"So do I," Colin said, a silken threat.
"She's my sister," Hugh reminded him, then sighed. He understood the vampire's frustration—it echoed his own. Whatever Lilith planned had to be done in secrecy; it ate at him that he couldn't do more to help her. Colin likely felt as useless. "I need you to protect them afterward: Savi, Auntie—and Lilith. She'll be alone, just as your sister was before we came to help her."
A muscle in the vampire's cheek flexed. "Don't manipulate me. You have humans assisting you, yet I cannot? Bloody ridiculous."
Another way, then. Impossible to say aloud the true reason—Colin was the anchor to Chaos. He probably wouldn't have accepted that, anyway; he was more concerned with helping them than worried about possible danger to himself. Hugh's voice hardened. "You're a liability to us. I'm sworn to protect you, Lilith loves you. Should you become endangered, you'll divide our attention and leave us vulnerable."
The vampire fell silent, his jaw set. Furious, but reluctantly accepting the truth.
Selah looked away from them, her gaze dropping to the granite counter. Hugh tossed the small plastic bag into her line of sight.
Her head jerked up. "What the hell—"
Hugh slashed through the air with his hand, a demand for silence. _After the boys have been taken, after the nosferatu have drunk the blood, use this as an anchor and return with whoever you find there, as quickly as possible. Don't open it before then; the scent might give her away._
With her thumb and forefinger, Selah delicately lifted the bag by the corner. _Whose are they?_
_I don't know,_ Hugh signed. Lilith couldn't tell him, and though he had his suspicions, he pushed them far back into his mind and refused to consider them further.
Colin stared at the bag, at the three severed fingers inside. Black nails, red skin—a demon's talons. "Did Lilith do that?"
Hugh nodded. Selah vanished the bag into her cache and shuddered.
A wry smiled pulled at the vampire's mouth. "Perhaps I should still be afraid of her, even human."
Laughing, Hugh said, "Then don't let her know you refused to go to Caelum. She'll send you in pieces, if she must."
He sobered suddenly, and slid his hands into his pockets. Caelum. One of the few things she'd dreamed of, forever denied her. Lilith should have been there, instead of risking all for a bargain she'd had little choice in making.
He met the vampire's gaze. "See it well, Colin. And bring it back to her."
"You can't have the sword." Michael didn't glance up from the Scrolls spread out on the floor.
Lilith pursed her lips. "That's not why I came in here." The Doyen slanted her a glance, and she amended, "Not completely." _You have his blood?_
He sat back on his heels, studied her carefully. "Yes."
_I need you to keep him alive with it._
_You're human. If you are the one to cut him, I can't heal him._
She waved that off. _That is not what I ask. After the cups have been filled, I want you to keep him alive by returning his blood to him. I just need extra time._
His eyes narrowed as he considered it, then he shook his head. _It cannot be done._
_It can be done. You are a Healer. Others are limited by their focus, their inability to take their perception down to that level. There is space within for you to place the blood._
Again he considered it; he wanted to save Hugh almost as badly as she did, despite the dangers to himself. Possession, will, and the integrity of the object—all necessary for calling items from a cache, or vanishing them. Demons, nosferatu, and most Guardians couldn't psychically move beyond the integrity of the whole body, or weapon; Healers could. But he would have to transfer the cells singly: tiny, precise transfusions into Hugh's continually flowing bloodstream.
His mouth firmed. _It would take the focus of a transformation. I couldn't protect you, nor defend myself._
That was what she needed. Not just to keep Hugh alive, but to have Michael completely distracted by the process of it.
She took a deep breath. _Then you could give me the sword, so that I may protect us. I have the speed and strength necessary to respond to an attack, and I would not likely be challenged if I carried it._
He stared down at the Scrolls for a moment, then looked up. _I will attempt the transfusion, but will not give you the sword._
Her stomach tightened into a hard knot, but she nodded. Sinking down on her heels, she touched one of the Scrolls in front of her. "This is not the Latin."
"No." He slid a piece of notebook paper across the floor. _You must carve these into his skin._
She traced the symbols with her finger, felt the sickness rising in her throat. "Follow the blood," she said in the Old Language. His eyebrows winged upward in surprise, and she shrugged. _They covered my skin for two millennia; when certain symbols disappeared, so did specific powers. And demons do not deign to speak in human languages when they are Below. I cannot read as fluently as I can speak, but I'm not as ignorant as Lucifer would like me to be._
_He did not try to take it from you?_
_I hid it well. And he never expects humans to have more than limited understanding._ She glanced up, found him watching her. Quickly, she changed the subject. "Why aren't there many Guardians left?"
"An Ascension," he said quietly, still studying her.
Her brow furrowed. "Thousands at once? Like a cult?" Her mouth fell open when he nodded. _How could you lose control of them? Why didn't you stop the Ascension?_
His laugh startled her. "I don't control them, nor rule over them; I am not Lucifer."
That was undeniable. She shook her head, trying to understand the structure of power in Caelum, and finally said, "I don't think I could have been a Guardian."
She stood to the sound of his laughter and went in search of Hugh. She'd failed partially, but it was only in saving herself. Hugh might live now, and that would be worth the price she had to pay.
And the end, as always, would come too quickly.
"Bloody hell."
Just like Michael to throw a vampire to the floor in the middle of a giant room and disappear. Colin rose to his knees, then thought better of standing before making certain—
There, the girl-woman. Savitri. She stared at him with those wide brown eyes, her fingers clenched on the back of a sofa. Her body was hidden from view, as if she were kneeling on the cushion—probably she had been taking a nap when she'd heard Michael dump him.
He must be in the Doyen's apartment; his brother-in-law had described it to him once: a single, enormous room—empty but for an armory, and a sitting area filled with mismatched furniture.
He grinned, flashing his fangs. "Are there any mirrors in here?"
She slowly shook her head. "You're not blind." No fear on her face, though she couldn't mistake what he was now.
He climbed to his feet, straightened his clothes. "I'm not gay, either."
"That's unfortunate," she said. Her eyes widened farther as he stalked toward her. "Because I think I'm half in love with Michael and I could use a friend to talk to about it."
He bit back his laugh. "You should run," he said. Still no fear. What was wrong with her?
"And leave Nani defenseless?"
He glanced past her, to the woman lying on the sofa adjacent to hers. A light snore came from the older woman's nose.
Savitri stared up at him. Licked her upper lip. "How strong are you?"
Did she appreciate his form? This was much better. If not fear, then admiration. He eyed the slender column of her throat.
"Are you strong enough to open the doors?"
Startled, he looked as she pointed toward the massive carved doors at the other end of the room.
"I have free will, but will alone can't force those doors open. I've spent four days trying."
He raised his brows, turned back at her. "Will you allow me a sip?"
"Yes. But I also haven't showered in four days, so it might be ripe."
Like a peach simmered in brandy and cinnamon. But he sighed and offered his arm. "Come along."
Her smile was blinding, and she darted around the sofa, tucked her hand into his elbow. "How is Hugh?" Something in his face must have told her; her smile faded, her chest rose and fell in a silent, sad breath. "Did Lilith return?"
"Yes." And when Colin had left, they'd been in the bedroom. Impossible not to hear their laughter, their soft declarations. Impossible not to recognize it as their farewells to each other.
His throat tightened, and they walked silently to the doors. They were heavy; he pulled, and dazzling sunshine poured through. Savitri stepped back, and he shook his head. "I won't burst into flames." If he didn't stay out too long.
She went through ahead of him, stopped suddenly. "Oh, my God. He gave this up to save me?"
Dumbstruck, he came to a halt beside her. Tried to take it all in at once: the pure white marble, the towering spires, the symmetry and beauty. "Don't be absurd," he finally managed. "He did it to save himself. And Lilith." And Colin was supposed to bring this back to her? How could he possibly—
"Where is everyone?" Savitri was turning in a circle, frowning.
He shook his head, and didn't know if he answered her or himself. "I don't know."
**CHAPTER 38**
He was embedded in her skin. His scent, his touch, his voice.
Even now, walking across the concrete floor of the warehouse Michael had chosen, she did not smell the stale air around them, did not feel the frigid temperature inside the building, did not hear the hollow echo of their footsteps. Dangerous, to be so lost in him, but she wanted to savor it for as long as she could.
It was not long.
A fluttering of wings surrounded them, but the figures dropping from the rafters were not what she'd expected. Guardians—about forty of them. A few landed awkwardly, and she glanced at Hugh to confirm her suspicion. His lips were thinned with anger.
She turned to Michael. _You brought fledglings?_ She could understand bringing those in the latter half of their century of training. But a few here had no more than a year's skill. If there was a battle, they would be slaughtered.
His brows rose. _If I lose Caelum, should I leave them there to defend themselves against the nosferatu?_
Hugh's tension eased, and Lilith drew in a quick breath. A lie was hidden in that question. If Caelum was lost, he would have time to transport them to safety. This was Michael's display, but one of uncertainty and weakness.
Definitely nothing like Lucifer. Even in frail human form, Lucifer never let it be forgotten how powerful he was.
Preston looked around uneasily. "Where are they?"
"Lucifer will want to make an entrance," Lilith said. Not just for them, but for the nosferatu.
Hugh met her gaze, a smile tilting the corners of his mouth. "Not the best place for it."
Lilith laughed softly in agreement. No, Lucifer would not appreciate the stark, empty warehouse, with its bare ugly floors and industrial metal siding.
Taylor glanced from Hugh to Lilith in disbelief. Hugh's smile widened.
His incredible mouth; she wanted to taste him, but she slid her fingers over his instead, locking his palm against hers. It was cool and dry; his calm fed hers. Sir Pup nudged her back and leaned one of his heavy heads over her shoulder. She reached up and scratched his chin with her other hand.
"They come," Michael said.
So easy to fall into position: the Doyen in front, Hugh by her side, Sir Pup just behind her. Taylor and Preston flanked the hellhound, and the Guardians formed a semicircle behind the small human group, their weapons drawn. As per the wager, they would not engage, only protect.
Hugh removed his shirt and threw it to Sir Pup. Lilith raised her brows, and he said, "Blood stains are difficult to remove, and I hate laundry."
Her lips twitched, but she understood this, too; it was an unmistakable signal of his intention to submit. And despite his lean, hard strength, the nosferatu and Lucifer would look upon him as frail, defenseless. As she had once.
"And we've ruined so many clothes this week. Very practical." She nodded sagely.
She heard Preston's snort of laughter behind them, but her own smile faded.
"You will be cold." Her voice was thick.
He touched her face. "I'll trust you to be kind."
She was holding his gaze with hers when they came, and she did not see Lucifer's display. She didn't miss it. It could never equal the intensity of emotion in Hugh's eyes, the beauty of the smile curving his lips.
This was strength, too—and it steadied her.
Perfectly composed, her psychic blocks as tempered steel, she faced the nosferatu. Ten yards away, they mirrored the Guardians' formation and were almost equal in number. In his demonic form, Lucifer stood with Moloch and two others who'd been transformed by the ritual. Behind them, the four boys stood wide-eyed with fear, silent.
Lucifer had not brought his demons, but that did not surprise her. His vanity would demand that he appear alone, declaring a lack of fear and no need for assistance—or to bring many, and show his power by demonstrating his reign over the demons. But no one would question his reign, so it was more important to him that no one questioned his fear.
And it would have been exactly as she'd wanted . . . had she the sword.
His dreadful crimson gaze settled on Hugh, then moved to Lilith. "You should know how to use this, daughter."
A machine appeared in front of Michael: an inclined bench lined with shackles and tubes, a cistern at the top.
She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. "Just the bench. He'll submit without restraints, and Michael will provide the method of collection. The blood is in the Guardian's possession until he releases it." This had already been stipulated, but apparently Lucifer had hoped to unsettle her with the device.
Lucifer stared at her for a moment; finally, all but the bench vanished.
Hugh immediately strode forward, and though her heart constricted, though she wanted to call him back, she walked with him. She knew he moved so quickly for her; no waiting, no drawing it out. She helped him settle onto the metal panel; half-standing, half-leaning, his weight supported by the jutting footrest. Her palms smoothed over his skin; he needed no assistance in this, but she needed to touch him.
Michael called in the table and cups. A long table, so that each nosferatu could lift and drink at the same time—but also serving as a barrier between the two sides. Not an effective barrier, should the nosferatu attack, but its own symbol: do not cross.
Lucifer approached the table and dropped a clay tablet onto its surface. "Cut these into him. Exactly like this."
Lilith glanced down at the multitude of glyphs and drew her dagger. "Just these." She turned the tablet over, carved out a small series: _Let the blood serve as the anchor, the Gate: follow the blood._ Impossible to tell if he was surprised. "Any more are for his pain, and your enjoyment; he will not be your entertainment."
"Michael gives too much away." A mocking smile twisted his lips. "Very well. It does not matter how many there are, so long as he bleeds. Then _your_ pain shall be my entertainment."
She shrugged, turned back to Hugh. He regarded her steadily, his expression unreadable—not to hide his emotions from her, but to keep others out. How long could he hold his blocks? It had to be at least until the nosferatu drank; not only did he have to hide her lies from them, but his plan.
"Stay with me," she said quietly and lifted the knife. It trembled, and he reached out, covered her hand with his, and drew the point to his chest.
Her face swam in and out of focus. He couldn't tell if he heard her now, or if it was an echo from before she'd begun. _Stay with me._
It had not hurt much—she had been quick, the dagger had been sharp. But now the waiting, as she held the wide-mouthed glass ewer beneath his chest, watched it fill. A hungry chick, beak open for worms. He'd had to tip forward for it to drain better, and he was not certain how much she held him up, and what was done of his own power.
Three liters, that ewer. Even did Colin's blood strengthen him, he couldn't survive . . . Nay, nay—do not think of the vampire.
_Stay with me._
"I will miss your laugh, Lily," he said. "I will miss your heat and your lies."
All his strength to lift his head; a moment ago, he thought he'd not had even that much left. She was staring at him, a fierce joy on her face. And a terrible sadness.
"I love you." Her voice was soft, but he heard it clearly. He leaned back, grateful for the support of the cold metal. She pressed the dagger into his hand, and he closed his fist around it.
She turned away. "It's done," she announced. The ewer was full; she began pouring it into equal portions under Lucifer's watchful eye.
Stirrings, odd murmurings among the nosferatu. He did not know the language, but their concern was palpable, the reason plain.
He should have been dead. He was weak, breathless, nauseated—but alive. He should have been dead.
An odd hum under his skin, in his blood. He'd felt it before, during his transformation to Guardian—and again when he'd Fallen. He turned his head.
Michael stared at him, his body rigid. His bronze skin glistened with sweat.
This would not fulfill her bargain. What had she done?
"What have you done?" Moloch's voice. He approached the table, eyeing the blood suspiciously.
A cold smile touched her mouth, and she filled another cup.
The nosferatu turned to Lucifer, hissed the words in the Old Language. "Do you betray us, Morningstar?"
"You watched him bleed," he replied in the same tongue. She felt his gaze on her, trying to penetrate her thoughts. "Are you so foolish you cannot see? She loves him. She trades her soul for his life; she means to betray me by returning him to Guardian, preventing his death."
"And us? Does she betray us?"
The air around Lucifer began to heat with his anger. "Do you wish to know, taste her."
Cold fear twisted in her stomach, but she only lifted a brow and said, "Are you certain, Father? I'm hardly trustworthy. I may know more of your magic and symbols than you think; do you want him to know as well?" Filling her thoughts of symbols and blood on the windowsill, on a door, she opened her mind and showed him the truth of it. Hoped he would fear she knew more.
A weak gamble; he was not impressed. "A parlor trick, Lilith."
The last of the blood into the final cup; her hands were trembling.
Lucifer smiled. "Taste her. She is yours, anyway. Does not matter if I give her to you sooner than I anticipated."
She backed up a step. "Michael," she said hoarsely.
Moloch leapt over the table. "He cannot help you, halfling. The wager stipulated that there would be none killed for the rituals; we have no intention of using you. Does he attack me to help you, he loses."
She shot a glance at Lucifer; amusement gleamed from his eyes. And why not? He won either way: if Michael helped, Lucifer would take Caelum; if Michael did not, she was at Moloch's mercy.
Hugh's arm came around her waist. His still bleeding chest heaved against her back; he was too weak to help her, but he was trying.
Moloch laughed and shifted. Terrible, to see Hugh's face on that creature. "I must admit, I've taken a liking to this form. They trusted him, and screamed the louder for it being done by one they cared for. Will you?"
Shouts from Taylor and Preston—they could not understand what Moloch said, but no mistaking his intention.
"Michael," she said again. Her heart pounded. Her left hand gripped Hugh's forearm, she searched for the dagger with her other. "Please."
Too fast—his fangs were buried in her neck before her next breath. An explosion in her brain, a ripping, and he pulled back, his eyes wide.
"Michael!" Hugh's desperate shout.
A weapon in her hand—not the knife. The Doyen's sword. She did not know how to make it blaze, but she did not need fire. With this sword, even a human could kill a nosferatu; and she had more strength and speed than a human—not as much as she had as a demon, but enough. Moloch's torso thudded to the floor before his legs toppled over.
Her hand clapped to her torn throat; Michael's power knitted it together beneath her fingers. She shook her head, rasped, "Hugh." Forced away the sickness of feeling, seeing, smelling the blood everywhere.
Needed to keep it flowing into him. She stole a glance at the Guardian; he focused on Hugh again, and she breathed a relieved sigh. Behind him, Taylor and Preston lowered their weapons. She looked down. Two neat, round holes bloodied Moloch's temple.
It wouldn't have killed him, but it had probably helped slow him down.
Grinning, she turned back to the nosferatu, gave the sword a little spin. "The boys for the blood," she said.
**CHAPTER 39**
Hugh watched Lilith's face; he could understand nothing of what the nosferatu said as they argued amongst themselves, but she could—and it did not please her.
The fear of betrayal warring with the desire for a home. He filled his mind with images of Caelum, let them filter out. The nosferatu fell silent.
Until Lucifer spoke. "You saw him bleed. The symbols are true, the anchor will hold. You do not need these four to kill; once in my service, there will be much blood to spill." Arrogance, pride. He had not perceived a trick, except for Lilith's keeping Hugh alive instead of sacrificing him—and now the nosferatu's hesitation angered him, cast doubt upon the power of the ritual. Lucifer turned to Lilith. "Once they drink, they will be released."
Truth. But the moment the nosferatu drank the blood they would know the deception. Hugh's fingers moved by his leg, the signal hidden from the nosferatu and Lucifer.
"Agreed," he said quietly. Lilith's body quivered, but she gave no other sign of her dismay. He glanced over at his students; he had avoided looking at them until this moment—too much anger in him at the sight of their fear. "Are you guys ready to go? You want to go?"
Necessary to make it clear; this couldn't work without their willingness to go. And they'd have no time after to explain about free will.
Four pale, stricken faces nodded in reply.
The nosferatu moved forward as one, lifted the cups. Drank.
The hum in his blood ceased as Michael teleported. He and Selah, taking two boys each—they disappeared. The boys were safe then, but the screams of outrage from the nosferatu echoed through the warehouse. Weapons flashed as they came across the room on a wave of rage; the Guardians met them halfway.
Lilith scrambled back, pulling him with her. She pushed him as a nosferatu flew over their heads, and quick human hands caught him. Taylor and Preston.
"Sir Pup—get them out." The hellhound whined, but Lilith clenched her teeth and repeated the command, hauling Hugh to his feet.
Hugh could stand, had the strength. "Crossbow," he said, and Lilith let go of him again to swing at the nosferatu. She severed the creature's arm, but took a slice from its remaining weapon.
He aimed, fired. The nosferatu dropped, and she finished it with a blow through its neck.
"Get out." Blood streamed down her chest, splattered across her neck.
"They're going." He spared a single glance at the two detectives, struggling against Sir Pup as he sprinted for the door, carrying them by their jacket collars like a mother with kittens.
"You, too."
He only grinned and fired another bolt. It caught a nosferatu's shoulder, slowed him down. Gave time for the novice who'd fallen in front of him to rise up, strike a killing blow.
"Michael's back," Lilith said and began laughing.
The Doyen didn't have his sword, but he was more than effective picking off the nosferatu. Teleporting in front of them, touching them and taking them away. No need to respect a nosferatu's free will; no punishment for denying it—and now they had an anchor to somewhere other than Earth.
Fast, incredibly fast—ten, then fifteen. Twenty. The others tried to scatter, but the Guardians outnumbered them now, trapped them. Twenty-five.
"Sir Pup could have saved you," he said quietly. "Against Moloch—either given you the crossbow, or—" He broke off as he understood: she'd needed Michael's sword. Had risked her life for it.
"Yes." She met his eyes. "I want more than four days."
Hard to catch his breath suddenly. "You've always been greedy." But so was he.
Her gaze dropped to his chest, and her mouth tightened. "Where's Selah?"
He swayed, shook his head to rid himself of the dizziness. When he focused again, Lucifer stood in front of them. At the demon's cloven feet, Sir Pup's huge body lay stretched out, bloody stumps where two of his heads should have been. He held his sword to the last of the hellhound's throats. "Choose," he said.
Lilith went absolutely still, her features frozen in horror. "I'll kill you," she whispered.
"Choose. Save your soul and save your pet—or save the human." He flicked a glance at Hugh. "Much longer and it won't matter anyway."
It was true; Hugh's blood was still leaking out, and Michael couldn't replace it now. Before, it had been freshly drawn, then preserved in the Doyen's cache. The blood on his chest could not be recycled the same way. "Lilith . . ."
She turned to him suddenly, her face white. "Do you agree to give your will, your life to me? Will you let it be taken in any way I choose?"
Lucifer laughed. "You do not need his permission; why else would I have turned you into this?"
Hugh ignored him. "Aye."
She swallowed. "Then don't look."
Movement behind Lucifer's shoulder. Selah, finally. Michael. Rael, his left hand regenerating half its fingers.
And Belial. It must be: the demon looked a spirit of light, as if he intended to return to His Grace at any moment.
Hugh closed his eyes.
Lilith watched as Hugh closed himself completely off, then turned to Lucifer. Forced away the image of Hugh's blood, of Sir Pup's prostrate, mutilated form.
A burst of power from Michael; she felt the injury from the nosferatu's weapon heal—but it could not help Hugh. She looked down, glanced quickly back up. Sir Pup still lay there; Lucifer must be using his magic to block it. Somewhere, on the hellhound's body, was a symbol that was preventing Michael from healing him.
Lucifer was smiling. "I created them."
She spoke to Michael. "Do you have any blood left?"
"Very little."
"Use it." Any extra time. Any.
The Doyen didn't answer, but the intense focus told her that he was transferring more to Hugh.
"Choose, Father."
Lucifer waited, smiling. He must have known Belial stood behind him, but he gave no indication of it.
Of course he wouldn't. But his rival's presence must be distracting; even Lucifer could not monitor Michael, Belial and Lilith at once . . . and she would be considered the least threatening, even though she held the Doyen's sword.
Belial came to them. He stopped beside her, and Lilith gestured to the sword in her hand.
"A weapon for a weapon," she said to him, her heart thudding. "Rael offered me one, and I promised to repay him. I offer this one to him and his liege—but I will not if Lucifer chooses to release me from my bargain."
Michael's face hardened, but he did not look away from Hugh.
"Choose, Father," she said. "Right now, Hugh is dying by my hand—but he has given over his will to me. And I _will_ allow Belial to impale him. You'll lose the wager, because it was done at my behest, but not personally by me. And after his death Michael will make him a Guardian, so I lose nothing. You have only one choice: release me from my bargain."
Lucifer's eyes burned with hellfire. "You dare—"
"Choose, Father." Her voice commanded his silence, and she got it. "If you release me from my bargain, Michael has agreed to release you from his wager. You won't have Caelum, but you will not have to close the Gates to Hell. Is having my soul and Hugh's temporary death worth five hundred years without access to Earth?" Her brows rose mockingly. "Are we so important to you?"
Belial smiled. She couldn't look at him for long; his beauty seemed to incinerate her from within. "It appears you are," he said in the Old Language.
Lucifer did not move. Humiliation was already his, simply by being put in this position. Now he had to decide between the slight humiliation of releasing her from the bargain, or losing control of the Gates—and possibly his throne, if she gave Belial the sword.
"Choose, Father." She pursed her lips at his continued silence, then grinned. "There is little choice, isn't there?"
His mouth curled into a snarl. "I release you from your bargain. But you will always wear my mark, Lilith."
"Truth," Hugh said, the word no louder than an exhalation.
A smile touched her mouth. He had closed his eyes, but he had not left her—and he had feared that Lucifer would attempt the same as she. "I know," she said. "I will always be Lilith."
She turned and gave the sword to Belial. It flared to life in his grip.
Lucifer stumbled back.
She wrapped her arms around Hugh's waist. He blinked, looked down at her. His eyes were glassy, his breathing shallow. "Get him to a hospital, now," she said when Selah appeared beside them. Lilith could not go, could not teleport—her anchor was too strong. She would have to follow.
Selah touched Hugh's hand, and they disappeared.
The Doyen stared at Belial for a moment, then slowly nodded. He turned to Lucifer. "You will close the Gates upon your return; you have twenty-four hours."
Kneeling beside Sir Pup, she looked up and met her father's startled gaze. "I lied," she said. "You'd better run, Daddy."
**CHAPTER 40**
"Agent Milton!"
Lilith glanced up from Sir Pup's harness. Detective Preston walked quickly across the federal building's lobby, his hand raised as if hailing a cab. When he saw that he'd caught her attention, he lowered it and increased his pace.
Detective Taylor remained near the elevators.
"I don't know yet that I am still 'agent,' " she said. "But I imagine you are here to determine that."
Preston shrugged. "Just here for our debriefing with Jor-gensen and Bradshaw." His gaze fell, and his tree trunk of a throat worked as he swallowed. "I thought Michael had been able to reattach his heads."
Lilith looked down. Sir Pup grinned at her, panting as furiously as any normal dog. It was easy to return the grin now; until Taylor and Bradshaw had returned to the warehouse, each laboring under the weight of the hellhound's massive heads—before Michael had located the symbol Lucifer had carved beneath his stomach that had prevented his healing—she hadn't been able.
"Michael did. This is the form he takes in public." Her teeth clenched, but it was not so difficult to add, "Thank you for your help that evening. And I'd appreciate it if you'd extend my gratitude to Taylor, as well."
"Yeah." He scratched his chin, studied her. "After Lucifer appeared in front of us and"—he made a chopping motion with his hands—"I've decided you aren't so bad. No offense, but she may take a little longer to come around."
"She may have the right idea."
"Maybe." His lips twitched before he turned his wrist, glanced at his watch. "We've got to get up there. Good luck, Agent Milton."
"Thank you," she said, and it fell effortlessly from her tongue.
Lilith waited until they disappeared into the elevator before urging Sir Pup forward to the next. _That_ was not so easy; she'd have relished Taylor's discomfort. But as the next car stopped at the lobby and opened, a wicked grin spread across her mouth.
She'd been rewarded for waiting, after all.
"Good morning, gentleman. You look as ridiculous as always in that toga, Michael." She stepped inside, Sir Pup following at her heels. Rael moved uneasily to the side.
The doors closed. The hellhound shifted, filling up most of the elevator with his huge form. He turned his left head toward Rael, let his tongue loll.
The demon flattened his back against the wall, smoothed his hand over his tie. "We have something to discuss with you, Lilith."
"Do you?" She looked at Michael; a half-smile curved the Doyen's hard mouth. "Have you apologized to him about the fingers?"
"I did not cut them off," Michael said softly. His obsidian gaze held a slight warning—one Lilith willingly heeded.
She wasn't about to let any demon have knowledge of Colin's anchor to Chaos. The amputation had been extreme, perhaps, but after Selah had failed to bring the vampire back from the Chaos realm, Lilith had wanted the Guardian to have the strongest possible link to locate Rael and Belial in Hell.
Lilith simply hadn't known enough about teleporting; and she couldn't have asked if anything less than body parts would have sufficed without exposing her plan.
Hugh had told her afterward that a drop of blood would have done—unlike teleporting to Chaos, Selah could go Below without an anchor. The blood only gave her a specific location.
"Any apology I give would be false," Lilith said. "I enjoyed it too much."
"It hardly matters," Rael said weakly, wiggling his fingers. Sir Pup pressed his flank against the demon's chest. "They healed."
"That's exactly what I wanted to hear," Lilith said. "I hope whatever it is you want to discuss is half as good."
Not everything could heal.
The scars on Hugh's chest were still livid; like she, he would always wear the mark. But it was hard to accept that she'd been the one to put it there.
But she had not lost him—they had not lost one another. For that, she would have borne any mark, any burden.
He set the weight in the cradle—he was not finished, but it was the best opportunity for her attack.
Lilith straddled him before he could start another set.
He half-rose, but she pushed him back down. Kissed him until she felt the hard rise of his shaft beneath her. "I don't want you to think."
"You are in the best place to accomplish that." His hands settled on her hips, his thumbs began a lazy stroke of her inner thighs. And with that easy touch, she was disarmed. His eyes searched hers. "Did it not go as you'd planned?"
She dipped her head, smiled. Her fingers traced the powerful line of his chest, swooped in to circle the flat bronze nipples. "Bradshaw told them a story about my apartment being used as storage for a theft ring; that somehow the thieves had known it lay empty most of the time."
He grimaced. "That's awful."
"Terrible," she agreed, laughing. "He'll become more creative with practice." His abdomen rippled with muscle; she trailed her fingers over the defined ridges.
"An evil twin is not all that creative."
She pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes. "You couldn't have come up with better, given what I had to work with." And Moloch's transformation just before she'd killed him had been the most incredible luck—a miracle, if she'd been inclined to believe in them. "And the media started the 'evil twin' nonsense, not me."
Rising up, she slid her hand beneath his waistband, gripped him firmly. His breathing changed, deepened, and he watched her with a half-lidded stare. "The university called," he said. "They will renew my contract in the fall."
Her stomach clenched. Would he accept that offer? Or would he hers? Silk and steel and heat against her palm, and she began a long, slow stroke. "I am no longer with the Bureau."
And now his hands, deliciously rough against her skin. Sliding down, finding her hot and moist. "Tell me, Lily," he said.
She bit her lip, her head falling back as he pushed inside, his thumb working over her clit. "I don't want _you_ to think," she gasped, laughing.
He sat up. Lifted her in an easy movement, his arms beneath her thighs, holding her open over his hips. The cool wall against her back. His mouth warm on hers. His cock slid through her wet folds, but he did not enter.
"Tell me, Lily," he said against her ear. Rocked against her.
How could she be so open, so vulnerable—so needy—yet still so strong? Safety in this.
He bent and his mouth closed over her nipple, pulling and biting at the taut peak.
"There are rogues—hundreds that fled before the Gates closed. And if Belial overthrows Lucifer, he won't be bound by the wager to keep them closed. Vampires. A few nosferatu that didn't join with Lucifer."
"And evil twins." She heard the smile in his voice as he moved to her other breast. "Shall we become demon slayers, traveling the country?"
"I want you to teach." And moaned as he nudged inside her.
Hugh paused, brought his face back up to hers. "That's unfortunate, because I told them I would not be returning." Her back arched as he sank into her; she writhed, trying to push down, take him all the way in, but he held her fast. "I've been offered another position."
She drew a breath. "Damn him—Michael!" The name came out as a scream as he suddenly thrust deep.
He shook with laughter.
"That is not what I expected to hear," he said.
Her hands gripped his shoulders; if he denied her legs movement, she would use him for leverage. "Don't stop," she panted.
"Oh, God, Lily." He buried his face in her neck, lifted her higher. Began pistoning into her with long, smooth strokes. "You know I can't."
"Can't teach them?" No, no—she needed him with her, needed—
"Stop."
"Good," she laughed breathlessly. Much better.
He flattened his palms against the wall, held her weight on his forearms. So strong. "You don't have to convince me," he said, working against her, into her with each thick slide.
That it was good? Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. "I can't think."
"Good," he said, and then she lost every thought. Only felt.
"You cheated." She tried to glare at him over the top of her glass, but only succeeded in grinning. She sat a little deeper into the sofa, watched as Hugh pulled the cork out of the bottle with a slight pop. Sir Pup glanced up from beside the bookcase, then lazily lay his heads down again when he saw there was no food to be had.
Hugh laughed, topped off her wine, and propped his feet up on the ottoman. "Michael came to see me earlier today, but he apparently didn't tell you he'd already spoken to me when he made the same offer to you. Said that he'd managed to convince a few officials in Washington that they might need to fund a new division."
"Did he do the warrior-angel thing again?" Lilith rolled her eyes.
"I imagine so," he said. His eyes shone bright blue with humor. "Although he said Congressman Stafford also pushed for it."
She shook her head, still disbelieving that Rael had gone rogue, choosing to stay on Earth rather than fight with Belial. "Michael just wants you mentoring them, he doesn't care how it happens. And I think he wants to keep an eye on me." She laughed. "Exactly what I need, another father figure."
His gaze held hers. "What do you want?"
"I'll be directing operations: overseeing, then spinning the story." She shrugged. "It's the perfect job for me: I boss people and alienate them, I lie, and I kick ass. And I thought I'd pull some vampires in, if I can recruit them." Her bare feet slid over his. "You'd be training them, the fledglings and the human agents, and helping with operations. I'd need you there; I'd be an imbecile to waste you on rookies. But mostly I want to spend the next hundred years working beside you, and then come home with you every night."
He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to her lips. "I want that, too." He glanced up at the clock, and his eyes darkened. "I have something for you."
A thud and clatter behind them; she spun around on instinct. Michael stood for a moment, watching them with his obsidian gaze. His eyes lowered to her midsection, narrowed. His expression was grim when he raised his eyes to hers.
"You are barren. I cannot heal it."
She stared at him a moment, then shook her head and burst into laughter. "Good, because we are completely out of condoms." When he frowned, she said, "Idiot, just because we are settling down you think we want a kid? We already have Colin."
Hugh choked on his laugh. "Sir Pup. Savi."
"We are doomed," Michael said and disappeared.
"That's probably what he said in D.C.," she said, examining the huge paper-covered frame he'd left behind, leaning against the wall: ten feet wide, seven feet high. "Do you think he's still furious about the sword?"
"Probably." Hugh clasped her hand in his, pulled her around the sofa. "Colin painted this for you."
He reached up, tore part of the paper away.
"Oh," she said, and everything inside of her softened. The sky in Caelum _was_ the same color. It blurred in front of her, and she turned away from it—found its original.
He slid his arms around her, enveloped her in his touch. A kiss, that was love and promise.
And it was kindness—more than kindness—to a woman such as her.
_Turn the page for a sneak peek at Meljean Brook's next paranormal romance,_
DEMON MOON
_Available in June 2007 from Berkley Sensation!_
Colin rested his hand against the small of Savitri's back as he guided her past a long line of clubbers. As an act of courtesy, it proved a masochistic one; beneath his palm, the gentle curve of her spine moved in rhythm with her steps, with the beat of the music from inside. Matched the need throbbing within him.
He ground his teeth together, urged her forward a little more quickly. How could he be so desperate to feed? He'd taken enough for two days from the last blonde alone.
"It was popular before, but not like this," Savitri murmured.
Colin glanced at the queue; mostly human, but a few vampires waited as well. A growl rose unbidden in his throat. He didn't want her here; he didn't want to be here—yet he'd been unable to refuse her request.
And she hadn't even flattered him.
His gaze dropped to her neck; her short hair left it deliciously exposed. He should mark her as his. Protect her from the vampires here and the others inside. Inhale her, drink her, sink into her—
He swallowed thickly and forced the territorial hunger aside. What he wanted to do to her could not be considered protection.
"It's morbid fascination," he finally replied.
She sighed, and her lashes swept down against her cheeks. The investigators—and the press—had linked Polidori's to last year's ritual murders; burning it had been determined a cult's symbolic way of beginning its quest for immortality.
All lies, of course; Colin had helped fabricate them. But the story had entertained the public for months, and many of the people standing outside had only come because of the club's connection with death. Her friends' deaths.
"And I spent a sordid amount of money on it," he added. "I can't fault them for recognizing my unparalleled taste, and flocking here to revel in it."
Her lips curved into a smile, and she slanted a glance up at him. "Was it truly that much? Lilith claims you are the cheapest bastard she's ever known."
Pleased with himself for turning her thoughts from her grief, he said, "Agent Milton has a demon's tongue. I am not _cheap,_ my sweet Savitri. I've an eternal retirement; I budget wisely."
Her throaty laughter pulled at already tight nerves along his skin. Her hip bumped against his leg as they rounded the corner to the entrance; her fragrance wafted around her. In her heels, she stood only a few inches shorter than he. So easy just to bend and press his mouth against . . .
He dropped his hand from her waist, clenched it into a fist. This was bloody ridiculous. A fruity perfume, and he had as much control as an adolescent pulling himself off on his sheets.
A huge vampire guarded the entrance and ran the guest list; he towered over Colin by his bald head, outweighed him by half. His muscles bulged through the tight black T-shirt. An intimidating presence, and one most vampires respected; but then, they were often fooled by appearances. Colin had deliberately chosen him for his resemblance in size and baldness to the nosferatu—but though the vampire was strong, Colin could have torn him in two with little effort. It was one of the advantages of Colin's transformation with nosferatu blood, instead of an exchange with another vampire.
And the taint Michael's sword had left in his blood had generated the other differences.
The bouncer's eyes widened—Colin usually didn't use the front entrance—and he quickly unhooked the velvet rope. "Mr. Ames-Beaumont."
The urge to dash inside, to find the nearest willing body and glut was almost overwhelming. "Mr. Varney, this is Miss Savitri Murray. She should be on the short list."
Her chin tilted up, her gaze leveled on Varney's features. It was difficult to tell human from vampire, but Castleford would have taught her to recognize the signs: the careful placement of the lips during speech; the slight perspiration in heated rooms or warm nights; abnormal respiration and reflexes. "What's the short list?"
"Full access, miss, including Mr. Ames-Beaumont's personal suite. No charge." There was more, but Varney didn't mention that any vampire who tried to drink from someone on that list would receive a visit from Colin. It hadn't happened yet; there were very few people this side of the Atlantic to whom he'd give anything for free, and Lilith and Castleford were the only other names listed.
A vampire would have to be a blithering idiot to attack _them_.
"Except for tonight." Colin led her forward, and descended the stairs. "You'll pay the cover and for your drinks." An auburn-haired beauty was going up; she glanced at him, then froze with her foot in the air and watched as he passed. "Do you know the Guardians' sign language?"
"No," Savi said, and looked back over her shoulder. "I hope she doesn't fall."
He suppressed his laughter with difficulty, and said in Hindi, "I'll walk with you to the bar; then I must leave you alone for a few minutes. Because you came in with me, you'll be a curiosity to the vampires inside. They may approach you. Don't ask them questions, don't talk to them."
"Why? Isn't the point of all this that I'm seen?"
"You'll be seen, sweet Savitri." But he didn't want them to have any more of her than that.
And hopefully, once he'd fed, his need for more would also fade.
It was inelegant, perhaps even ill-mannered, but Savi eschewed the straw and gulped straight from the glass. Lime and salt, sour and sweet. And cold—she couldn't get enough of it.
Delayed reaction from the flight? Her breath fogged the inside of the tumbler. Heat from the mass of bodies?
Perhaps he'd been too stingy to pay for air conditioners.
She fished out a cube of ice, sucked it into her mouth. The bartender glanced at her. Another vampire. Colin had been right; they'd all watched as he'd taken her hand and led her through the club. As he'd dropped a quick kiss onto her forehead.
Like a little girl. A little sister. She'd known what it was: a display of protection. Because Hugh had saved Colin's sister, the vampire felt obligated to guard Hugh's adopted sister in return. She should have been grateful. Perhaps she would have, if she didn't feel so restless, as if she'd suddenly been caged.
It was a familiar feeling, but it usually didn't make her angry.
She crushed the ice between her teeth. Why was it so fucking hot in here?
She lifted her hand and gestured for another, asked for a water to accompany it. The wounds on her palm had almost completely healed over; only a lingering stiffness remained. She examined the thin pink lines on her fingers. The blood sped healing—is that what allowed them immortality? Accelerated regeneration or cell replication, with no degradation over time?
But wouldn't their hair grow more quickly if it was replication? Did it simply keep existing cells in perfect repair, not speed the manufacture of new ones?
Why did it only heal humans when applied topically, or through a transfusion? And why was it safe? A transfusion would temporarily give a human some strength and healing ability, but it didn't last. Only through ingestion was there a danger—blessing?—of transformation.
Was it the act of taking it in and the choice to drink that provided the power, or the blood itself? Before Michael could transform a human to a Guardian, the human had to agree to the change; she'd heard the same was true of a vampire—the transformation didn't take well if it wasn't voluntary. Could blood recognize choice and free will?
The blood _lust_ supposedly did—except for the free will of the vampire it controlled.
She felt Colin before she saw him; he stood next to her, leaning gracefully against the bar. His expression was unreadable, his gaze hooded. Even in the dim lighting, she could see the slight flush on his skin.
She'd seen it before.
Lifting her glass, she took another long drink. Licked the salt from the rim, from her lips, and forced a bright smile. "The redhead on the stairs?"
His mouth tightened, but he gave a slow nod.
She arched a brow. "You must lose a lot of clients if the ones you feed from leave bleeding."
"She wasn't. And I don't often feed here; I prefer the hunt. Pursuit offers a challenge." He looked away from her toward the dance floor, his mouth pulled down in a grimace of distaste. "When it is readily available, it is merely scavenging."
Her chest squeezed painfully. She'd not only been available; she'd thrown herself at him. "So the aristocrat surveys the unwashed masses, and finds them lacking," she murmured.
And she was just a brown little girl.
"They have their use during revolutions, but there is no rebellion here. Only a mess of conformity." His gaze met hers again. "But I do not care if they bathe, Savitri, as long as they bleed."
The glass was slick with condensation; she wiped her palm across her forehead, hoping to ease the heat with cold and wet. "I thought, because of—" She paused, switched to Hindi. He probably didn't want anyone to overhear that he couldn't create other vampires. Surely his impotency embarrassed someone like him, and she wouldn't prick his vanity again. "Because of your _incapability,_ that you couldn't heal me. I was wrong."
He contained his emotions too well to interpret his response. "Yes. You also believed Castleford when he confirmed your assumption that I was gay."
It had been easier; a woman had little defense against a face like that—except to believe it couldn't be hers. But she'd been mistaken in that, too. Gloriously mistaken, until it had turned into something . . . painful.
"Did she tell you what you wanted to hear?"
A mocking smile. "She screamed it."
She nodded, drained her glass. "I'm going to go dance." Sweat out some of the heat boiling within her. Feel someone's touch on her skin.
Anyone's but his.
She'd known better.
Before her family had been destroyed by a few bullets, Savi had been surrounded by stories—her mother had loved them. Both surgeons, her parents had limited time dedicated to Savi and her brother. But in those rare evenings when her mother had been home, fairy tales and fables had been standard bedtime fare.
The music drowned out the voices of the men dancing with her, but she could still hear her mother's voice clearly—one of the advantages of a memory like hers.
_. . . and the girl came across a cobra curled up against the freezing night air. The cobra begged her to stop and carry him in her pocket until the sun rose in the morning, but she refused. "You will bite me," she said. But the cobra promised not to. "I will die here; if you save me, I will treat you as a friend." The girl was too soft-hearted to let him freeze, and so she picked him up and put him in her pocket. She'd taken not two steps before she felt his fangs against her breast. "Why?" she cried, her voice weak from the poison. "You said you would not!"_
_"It is my nature," the cobra replied, "And you knew what I was."_
Cold hands clasped her hips, pulled her back to gyrate against her. Vampire, but not Colin's hands. His were warm. He could walk in the sun. He was beautiful and charming.
She'd thought if she offered her blood to him, she wouldn't be hurt by it.
She should have known better.
Frigid fingers drifted beneath her shirt, along the curve of her waist. It felt fantastic. Her skin was tight, burning, and his hand trailed over her stomach like a block of ice. His cold form rocked against her back. His erection. Perhaps he could cool her from inside, make her forget . . .
But no—that was one of the drawbacks of her memory. Her mother's screams, forever captured. Her brother's tortured, bubbling breaths. Her father's silence.
And Colin's fangs buried in her throat, desolation and horror tearing through her mind as her body shuddered beneath his.
He'd done it to teach her a lesson—and, by god, she had learned. Her brain had gotten the message.
Her body had not.
She was on fire. Alcohol hadn't dulled it, water hadn't doused it. She hated being drunk; she couldn't think.
A shiver wracked her when his fingers slid higher. Her nipples drew tight beneath the silk.
"You're so hot," said the rough voice behind her.
Like a demon. Averaging 106.7 degrees Fahrenheit, 41.5 degrees Celsius, 314.65 degrees Kelvin. Or did he mean it in that you're-sexy-come-home-with-me way? Didn't he have a partner to share blood and a bed with? Perhaps he was one of those vampires whose partner had been killed by the nosferatu.
Vampires didn't drink from humans, not unless they intended to transform them. If that was what he offered, why not take him up on it? She was going to eventually anyway.
He could turn her, and she would live forever.
Clammy lips touched the back of her neck. Cold, wet—like the nosferatu. _Oh, god._ This wasn't what she'd promised Nani. She ripped out of his grasp, staggered forward.
Colin caught her. He hadn't been there a moment before; she was certain of it. She'd seen him at his table, where he'd spent the whole of the night. Watching her.
She hadn't known he could move so quickly.
His arm circled her waist, his chest hard and warm against hers. He didn't look at her, but over her head. His jaw clenched in a tight line.
Behind her, the vampire babbled incoherently.
"He didn't do anything," Savi said quickly. She'd seen that expression on Hugh's face once, when Lilith had come home with a knife wound across her chest after a fight with a vampire. Had Lilith not already killed it, Savi was certain Hugh would have left the house and not come back until he'd done the same.
But this vampire didn't deserve to pay for her mistake, her stupidity, her drunkenness. How to convince Colin?
Trying not to slur, she said, "Your lips are beautiful."
He flinched, and lowered his gaze. "You bloody foolish chit. You think to manipulate me?" he said through gritted teeth, but his eyes softened as he searched her features, as he inhaled her breath. "Christ. You're completely foxed."
"Deep in my cups," she agreed, nodding.
He blinked. After a long moment, a smile teased the corners of his mouth. "Sweet Savitri—what have you been reading?"
She needed to stop looking at him; surely he was worse for her brain than alcohol. But the firm curves of his upper lip were extraordinary—the dip in the center looked as wide as her forefinger. She reached up to test it.
"I had a phase about five years ago. I read about lords and ladies. Waltzes. Did you waltz?" The faint stubble was rough against her fingertip; a perfect fit.
Colin gripped her wrist, pulled it away and slid his hand down to clasp his palm against hers. "Yes." His other hand settled over her hip. "Toss him out," he said to someone behind her. "Clear them all out."
And he swept her off her feet.
She didn't know how he did it; though past closing time, dancers still bumped and ground across the floor—yet he twirled her through them without touching a single person. She couldn't keep up or match his steps; he lowered his forearm to cradle her bottom. Then he lifted her against him and glided.
"Oh my god," she said. Lights and colors whirled around her.
"Focus on my beautiful lips, Savitri, lest you become dizzy."
"And cast up my accounts?"
"Yes," he said, laughing; how could she _not_ to look at his mouth when he did that? At his elongated incisors, the sharp white line of his teeth. But safer than looking at his eyes and risk seeing the wholehearted, almost boyish delight that had so captivated her in Caelum.
The sound of his amusement rumbled through her, combined with the heavy beat of the music. He wore cologne, a masculine fragrance so light she'd not detected it before. Notes of orange and papaya and sandalwood. She buried her face in his neck, wrapped her thighs around his lean hips.
"Oh my god." His cock was thick and hard beneath his trousers, nestled between her legs. Another perfect fit; she remembered all too well how perfect.
She could come just from this.
"It didn't work," he said in Hindi. He sounded almost apologetic.
She was burning, burning. Just like Polidori's. "What didn't?"
"The woman from the stairwell. Acting the ass at the bar, that you would put distance between us. It seems I can protect you from everyone but myself."
Her body went rigid; her eyes flew open. _I don't always have control._ He'd tried to regain it by feeding, but that had been hours ago. How thin was it now? Her heart pounded. "You were lying at the bar?"
"No. But a gentleman can tell the truth without being cruel, if he wishes it." He slowed next to his table, and eased down onto the sofa without letting her go. Her knees sank into the cushions. His arm across her lower back trapped her hips against his. "Do not mistake me for a kind man, Savitri."
She wouldn't. Not again.
"What are you going to do?" She pushed at his chest.
"Taste you." He cupped her jaw. His thumb smoothed across her cheek. "Only your mouth, and only if you agree."
Tension coiled through her stomach, arousal and fear. And heat. He was a fever inside her, a sickness. "What if I don't?"
"I'll carry you to my suite and do it there." The apology dropped from his tone. He'd set his course; he would follow it. "I don't intend to take your blood, Savi. I simply want— _need_ —to taste you." His chest rose and fell beneath her hand. "I think I will die if I do not."
She wouldn't believe that; only poets and horny teenagers did. But her gaze dropped to his lips. "Just a kiss?"
"Yes." With gentle pressure, he urged her nearer. "A sword lies behind the wall panel; the spring is two inches above the sofa, one foot in."
A strange offer. Did he think she would need it? But if he lost that much control, she'd have no possibility of defense.
She'd had a better chance against the nosferatu.
Her palms slid over his shoulders, up to curve around the back of his neck. Her fingers buried in the hair at his nape. So thick and soft.
"This must be because I'm drunk," she whispered as she lowered her mouth to his. "I know better."
So did he.
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaBook"
} | 6,481 |
\section{Introduction}
Simulating numerically or reproducing experimentally the dynamo action
in astrophysical bodies is challenging in many respects and the
question of converting kinetic energy into magnetic energy through a
realistic forcing mechanism is seldom addressed either numerically or
experimentally. For instance, numerical simulations are often
restricted to \emph{kinematic dynamos} where fluid flows are
prescribed for simplicity reasons and bear little resemblance to reality.
The three fluid dynamo experiments~\cite{Ga2000,StMu01,Monchaux07} that
have been successful so far do not model astrophysical
dynamos either, since the external pumps or internal impellers which have
been used in these experiments have no astrophysical counterparts. As
far as natural forcing mechanisms are concerned, buoyancy and
precession are believed to be possible sources of energy for the
geomagnetic dynamo. The precession hypothesis has been formulated for
the first time in \cite{malkus_precession_1968} and has since then
been actively investigated from the theoretical, experimental and
numerical perspectives \cite{Gans70,JL_PL_JLG_FP_2001,Lagrange_PoF08}.
To the best of our knowledge, however, it seems that it is only
recently that numerical examples of precession dynamos have been
reported in spheres
\cite{tilgner_precession_2005,tilgner_kinematic_2007} and in
spheroidal cavities \cite{wu_dynamo_2009}. While spheres and spheroids
are relevant for planetary dynamos, cylindrical containers seem more
convenient for experimental purpose. In this respect we have in mind
the large scale MHD facility DRESDYN currently being built at
Helmholtz-Zentrum Dresden-Rossendorf in Germany where, among other
things, the action of precession will be tested on cylinders
(F.~Stefani, personal communication). The objective of the present
Letter is to report numerical evidences supporting the idea that
precession is indeed a potent mechanism to drive dynamo action in
cylindrical containers.
The conducting domain considered in this letter is a cylindrical
vessel $\calC$ of radius $R$ and length $L$. The vessel contains a
conducting fluid and is embedded in vacuum. The solid walls of the
vessel are assumed to be so thin that their influence is henceforth
neglected. The container rotates about its axis of symmetry with
angular velocity $\Omega_r \be_z$ and is assumed to precess about a
second axis spanned by the unit vector $\be_p$ forming an angle
$\alpha$ with $\be_z$, $(0<\alpha<\pi)$. The precession angular
velocity is $\Omega_p \be_p$. A cylindrical coordinate system about
the axis of the cylinder is defined as follows: the origin of the
coordinate system is the center of mass of the cylinder, say $O$; the
$Oz$ axis is the line passing through $O$ and parallel to $\be_z$; the
origin of the angular coordinate $\theta \,(0\leq\theta\leq\pi)$ is
the half plane passing through $O$, spanned by $\be_z$ and $\be_p$,
and containing $\Omega_p \be_p$. The third coordinate, denoted $r$,
is the distance to the $Oz$ axis.
We denote by $\calL=R$ and $\calU = R \Omega_r$ the reference length
and velocity scales, respectively. The fluid density, $\rho$, is
assumed to be constant and the reference pressure scale is
$\calP:=\rho \calU^2$. The magnetic permeability is uniform throughout
the entire space, $\mu_0$, and the electric conductivity of the
conducting fluid is constant, $\sigma_0$. The quantities $\mu_0$ and
$\sigma_0$ are used as reference magnetic permeability and electric
conductivity, respectively. The reference scale for the magnetic field
is chosen so that the reference Alfv\'en speed is $1$, \ie
$\calH:=\calU \sqrt{\rho/\mu_0}$. We are left with five
non-dimensional parameters: one geometrical parameter $L/R$ (aspect
ratio); two forcing parameters $\alpha$ (precession angle) and
$\varepsilon=\Omega_p/\Omega_r$ (precession rate); and two fluid
parameters, namely the Ekman number $E=\nu/R^2 \Omega_r$ (where $\nu$
is the kinematic viscosity) and the magnetic Prandtl number $Pm=\nu
\mu_0 \sigma_0$. We finally define the kinetic Reynolds number
$Re=1/E$ and the magnetic Reynolds number $Rm=Pm Re$.
The non-dimensional set of equations that we consider is written as
follows in the precessing frame of reference:
\begin{eqnarray*}
\partial_t\bu + (\bu\ADV)\bu + 2\varepsilon \be_p \CROSS\bu + \GRAD p
& = & \frac{1}{Re}\LAP\bu \label{eq:nsp}+ \bef, \\ \DIV \bu & = & 0,
\label{eq:divp}\\ \partial_t\bh -\ROT(\bu \times \bh) & = &
\frac{1}{Rm} \LAP \bh, \label{eq:ind} \\ \DIV\bh & = & 0,
\label{eq:divh}
\end{eqnarray*}
where $\bu$, $p$, and $\bh$ are the velocity field, the pressure, and
the magnetic field, respectively. In the following we consider three
different modes to solve these equations: (i) The incompressible
Navier-Stokes mode; (ii) The Maxwell or kinematic dynamo mode; (iii)
The nonlinear magnetohydrodynamics mode (MHD). In Navier-Stokes mode
the source term $\bef$ is set to zero and $\bh$ is not computed. In
Maxwell mode, only the induction equation is solved assuming that the
velocity field $\bu$ is given. In MHD mode the full set of equations
is solved and the source term $\bef$ is the Lorentz force per unit
mass, $\bef:= (\ROT\bh ) \CROSS \bh$. The no-slip boundary condition
on the velocity field is written as follows in the precessing frame of
reference: $\bu=\be_\theta$ at $r=1$ and $\bu=r\be_\theta$ at $z=\pm
1$. The magnetic field is represented as the gradient of a scalar
potential in the vacuum, $\GRAD\phi$. The magnetic boundary
transmission conditions enforce that the magnetic field is continuous
across the walls of the vessel, say $\Sigma$, \ie $\bh|_{\Sigma}=\GRAD
\phi|_{\Sigma}$.
The above equations are solved numerically by means of a code which is
specialized to axisymmetric domains and has been presented in details
in~\cite{GLLN09,GAFD_Giesecke_2010b}. The code is called SFEMaNS for Spectral/Finite Elements for
Maxwell and Navier-Stokes equations. It is an hybrid algorithm that uses
finite element representations in the meridian section of the
axisymmetric domain and Fourier representations in the azimuthal
direction. The magnetic field is
represented as a vector field in the conducting region and as the
gradient of a scalar potential in the insulating region. SFEMaNS can
account for discontinuous distributions of electric conductivity or
magnetic permeability and all the required continuity conditions
across the interfaces are enforced using an interior penalty
technique. The solution technique is parallel and parallelization is
done with respect to the Fourier modes.
The typical spatial resolution in the meridional plane
of the conducting domain is $\Delta x =1/160$. We take 32 Fourier
modes ($m=0,\ldots,31$) for Navier-Stokes runs and 64 Fourier
modes ($m=0,\ldots,63$) for MHD runs. The typical time-step is
$\Delta t=0.001$. The grid is non-uniform in the vacuum with $\Delta x
=1/160$ at the cylinder walls and $\Delta x =1$ at the outer boundary
of the numerical domain, which is a sphere of radius ten times larger
than that of the cylinder. A typical MHD run requires about 1000 CPU
hours per rotation on 64 processors on an IBM-SP6.
Let us first briefly recall what is observed in a typical precessing
fluid experiment starting with the fluid at rest, (see \eg
\cite{Lagrange_PoF08,JL_PL_JLG_FP_2001}). The vessel is first set in
rotation without precession. The fluid motion is then governed by the
formation of a viscous Ekman boundary layer during the acceleration
ramp. The resulting flow is a stable solid rotation independently of
the strength of the acceleration phase. Once precession is applied,
the Coriolis force generates an axial motion of the flow supported by
the Fourier mode $m=1$. When $Re$ is large enough, the flow undergoes
a transition from laminar to turbulent even for small precession rates
and small angles~\cite{Lagrange_PoF08}. The range $\varepsilon\in
[0.1,0.15]$ has been shown in \cite{JL_PL_JLG_FP_2001} to maximize the
ratio of axial to transverse energy in a cylinder of aspect ratio $2$
in the range $Rm\in [500,5000]$ when $\alpha=\pi/2$. Although a
detailed study of the various transitions between these hydrodynamic
regimes is interesting per se, due to limited numerical resource we
reduce the dimensionality of the parametric space to one aspect ratio,
$L/R=2$, one precession angle, $\alpha=\pi/2$, one precession rate,
$\varepsilon=0.15$, and only two values of $Re\in \{1000,1200\}$ and
four values of $Rm\in \{600, 800, 1200, 2400\}$.
We start our investigations with a Navier-Stokes run at $Re=1000$.
The initial velocity field is the solid rotation in the precessing
frame: $\bu_0=\be_z{\times}\br$. The onset of the axial
circulation induced by precession is monitored by recording the time
evolution of the normalized total kinetic energy $K(t)= \frac{1}{2}
\int_{\calC} \bu^{2}(\br,t) \diff\br/K_0$ and normalized axial kinetic
energy $K_z(t)= \frac{1}{2} \int_{\calC} u_z^{2}(\br,t) \diff\br/K_0$
where $K_0= \frac{1}{2} \int_{\calC} \bu_0^{2} \diff\br$ is the kinetic
energy of the initial motion. The time evolution of $K(t)$ and
$K_z(t)$ for $t\in [0,272]$ is reported in
fig.~\ref{fig:K_Re1000_Re1200}. The time $t=272$ corresponds to
$43.3$ rotation periods. After a transient that lasts
5 rotation periods and peaks at two rotation periods, the axial
kinetic energy reaches a plateau value $K_z \approx 0.1$. Meanwhile,
the total kinetic energy decreases and reaches a plateau value
$K\approx 0.42$ after 5 rotation periods also. To enrich the dynamics
of the system we have restarted the computation at $t=72$ (\ie
$11.5$ rotation periods) and increased the Reynolds number to
$Re=1200$. The time evolution of $K(t)$ and $K_z(t)$ for $t\in
[72,342]$ and $Re=1200$ is also reported in
fig.~\ref{fig:K_Re1000_Re1200}. The time evolution of the total
kinetic energy shown in fig.~\ref{fig:K_Re1000_Re1200:c} presents
doubly periodic oscillations with one long period of about 8 rotation
periods and one small period of about one rotation period. The short
period oscillations correspond to energy exchanges between the north
and south halves of the container, with a period of 2 rotation
periods. The energy exchange mechanism is visible in
fig.~\ref{fig:K_Re1000_Re1200:d} where we have reported the time
evolution of the kinetic energy of the north and south halves of the
cylinder for $t\in[312,342]$. Similar oscillations between
north and south hemispheres have been reported to occur in a
spheroidal cavity in \cite{wu_dynamo_2009}.
\begin{figure}[ht]
\centerline{
\subfigure[total kinetic energy $K$, $Re=1000$, $Re=1200$ ]{
\includegraphics[width=0.24\textwidth]{.//K_Re1000_Re1200}
\label{fig:K_Re1000_Re1200:a}}\hspace{-0.015\textwidth}
\subfigure[axial kinetic energy $K_z$, $Re=1000$, $Re=1200$ ]{
\includegraphics[width=0.24\textwidth]{.//Kz_Re1000_Re1200}
\label{fig:K_Re1000_Re1200:b}}
}
\centerline{
\subfigure[zoom of (a), $t\in{[}50,342{]}$, $Re=1000$, $Re=1200$ ]{
\includegraphics[width=0.24\textwidth]{.//zoom_K_Re1000_Re1200}
\label{fig:K_Re1000_Re1200:c}}\hspace{-0.015\textwidth}
\subfigure[zoom of $K/2$ in (a) and north and south kinetic energies, $Re=1200$, $t\in{[}230,342{]}$]{
\includegraphics[width=0.24\textwidth]{.//K_Re1200_North_South}
\label{fig:K_Re1000_Re1200:d}}
}
\caption{Time evolution of the total kinetic energy $K$, axial kinetic
energy $K_z$, and total north and south kinetic energies as
indicated.}
\label{fig:K_Re1000_Re1200}
\end{figure}
We now solve the full MHD system using as initial velocity field the
velocity computed at $t=192$ during the Navier-Stokes run at
$Re=1200$. The initial magnetic field is defined as follows to
trigger efficiently the dynamo instability. For the Fourier modes
$m\in\{0,1\}$, the homogeneous Dirichlet boundary condition on the
scalar potential $\phi$ is replaced by $\phi=0.05 z f(t)$ for $m=0$
and $\phi=0.05 r f(t)$ for $m=1$, where
$f(t)=\frac{\tau_a^3}{1+\tau_a^3}\left(1-\frac{\tau_e^4}{1+\tau_e^4}\right)$
with $\tau_a=\frac{t}{0.4}$ and $\tau_e=\frac{t}{2}$. For $m\ge 2$,
the amplitude of each Fourier mode of the initial magnetic field
components is set to $10^{-5}$.
Various MHD runs are done at $Re=1200$ for different values of the
magnetic Prandtl number. The onset of dynamo action is monitored by
recording the time evolution of the magnetic energy in the conducting
fluid, $M(t)=\frac12 \int_{\calC} \bh^2(\br,t) d\br/K_0$. Dynamo action
occurs when $M(t)$ is an increasing function of time for large
times. The time evolution of $M$ for $Pm\in \{2,1,\frac23,\frac12\}$
are shown in fig.~\ref{fig:M_Re1200:a}. The runs at $Pm\in
\{1,\frac23,\frac12\}$ are done by using the velocity and magnetic
fields obtained from the run $Pm=2$ at $t=211$ as initial velocity and
magnetic fields. The flow is above dynamo threshold for $Pm=1$ and
$Pm=\frac23$ but is subcritical for $Pm=\frac12$. Linear interpolation
of the growth-rates gives the critical magnetic Prandtl number
$Pm^*\approx 0.625$ corresponding to the critical magnetic Reynolds
number $Rm^*\approx 750$.
\begin{figure}[ht]
\centerline{
\subfigure[linear regime]{
\includegraphics[width=0.24\textwidth]{.//M_lin_Re1200_log}\label{fig:M_Re1200:a}}
\subfigure[nonlinear regime]{
\includegraphics[width=0.24\textwidth]{.//M_nonlin_Re1200}\label{fig:M_Re1200:b}}
}
\caption{Time evolution of the magnetic energy $M$ in the conducting fluid
(a) in the linear regime from $t=192$ for $Re=1200$ and various $Rm$
as indicated (in lin-log scale) and (b)
in the nonlinear regime from $t=192$ to $t=241$ ($Re=1200, \, Rm=2400$),
from $t=241$ to $t=271$ ($Re=1200, \, Rm=1200$)
and from $t=271$ to $t=292$ ($Re=1200, \, Rm=600$).}
\label{fig:M_Re1200}
\end{figure}
We now wish to observe the nonlinear saturation and evaluate the
impact of the magnetic Prandtl number on the nonlinear regime. To
reach nonlinear saturation in reasonable CPU time, we have used as
initial data for the velocity and magnetic fields the velocity and
magnetic fields from the MHD run $Pm=2$ at $t=217$. The velocity
field has been kept unchanged but we have multiplied by 300 the
amplitude of the Fourier modes $m=0,\ldots,5$ of the magnetic field.
The time evolution of the magnetic energy of this nonlinear run in the
time interval $t\in[192,241]$ is shown in
fig.~\ref{fig:M_Re1200:b}. We observe that $M$ grows smoothly until
$t=222$ and begins to oscillate thereafter. The ratio $M/K$ is
observed to be of order $10^{-2}$ during the nonlinear oscillating
regime. After restarting the MHD run at $t=241$ with $Pm=1$ and
running it until $t=271$, we observe that the dynamo is still
active. After restarting the MHD run at $t=271$ with $Pm=\frac12$ and
running it until $t=292$, we observe that the dynamo dies in a short
time lapse, indicating that the dynamo bifurcation is not
sub-critical for this set of control parameters. This experiment
confirms the interval $\frac12 < Pm^* < \frac23$ for the critical
magnetic Prandtl number for dynamo action which has already been
observed in the linear regime.
Tilgner~\cite{tilgner_precession_2005} has observed that unsteadiness
and breaking of the centro-symmetry of the flow facilitate dynamo
action. A similar observation has been made in~\cite{wu_dynamo_2009},
and dynamo action is reported therein to occur when cyclic
oscillations of the kinetic energy between the north and south halves
of the spheroidal cavity occur. Although the loss of centro-symmetry is
not a necessary condition for dynamo action, we now want to test this
idea in the present cylindrical setting.
The loss of centro-symmetry of the velocity field can be monitored by
inspecting its symmetric and antisymmetric components: $\bu_s(\br,t)=
\frac{1}{2}(\bu(\br,t)-\bu(-\br,t))$ and $\bu_a(\br,t)=\frac{1}{2}
(\bu(\br,t)+\bu(-\br,t))$. In the Navier-Stokes simulations reported
below, we monitor the loss of centro-symmetry by inspecting the time
evolution of the asymmetric kinetic energy $K_a(t)= \frac{1}{2}
\int_{\calC} \bu_a^{2}(\br,t) d \br/K_0$ and we define the asymmetry
ratio $r_a(t)=K_a(t)/K(t)$. The computations reported below have been
done on centro-symmetric grids, but centro-symmetry is not otherwise
enforced.
The time evolution of the asymmetry ratio $r_a$ is shown in
fig.~\ref{fig:KasK} for the precessing cylinder at $Re=1200$ in the
time range $t\in[72,342]$ (dotted line). The ratio $r_a$ varies
between $0.004$ and $0.01$ when the nonlinear regime is well
established, \ie $t\ge 220$. In order to evaluate the impact of the
dynamo on the symmetry of the flow, we have started the MHD run at
$t=192$ with $Pm=2$ (\ie $Rm=2400$). The time evolution of $r_a$ is
shown in solid line in fig.~\ref{fig:KasK}. Note that the solid and
dotted lines coincide since the dynamo regime is linear in the time
interval $t\in [192,217]$ and the magnetic field is too weak to have
an impact on the energy ratio $r_a$. We have restarted the MHD run at
$t=217$ after multiplying the amplitude of the magnetic field by $300$
as already mentioned. The
ratio $r_a$ clearly departs from its Navier-Stokes value thereafter as
seen in the figure. At saturation, $r_a$ oscillates between $0.09$ and
$0.011$; these values are slightly greater than those reported
in~\cite{tilgner_precession_2005} for a precessing sphere. We have
restarted the MHD run again at $t=241$ after reducing the value of $Pm$
to $1$, thereby reducing the magnetic Reynolds number to
$Rm=1200$. The asymmetry factor is not dramatically affected by the
change, as seen on the figure. We have finally restarted the MHD run
at $t=271$ after reducing the value of the magnetic Prandtl number to
$\frac12$. As expected the dynamo dies and $r_a$ decreases to its
hydrodynamical level.
\begin{figure}[ht]
\centerline{
\includegraphics[width=0.4\textwidth]{.//KasK_Re1200_Rm2400_Rm1200_Rm600_2}
}
\caption{Time evolution of the asymmetry ratio $r_a$ at $Re=1200$ for
$t\in[72,342]$ in Navier-Stokes regime and $Re=1200, \, Rm=2400$ for
$t=[192,241]$, $Re=1200, \, Rm=1200$ for $t=[241,271]$, and
$Re=1200, \, Rm=600$ for $t=[271,292]$ in MHD regime.}
\label{fig:KasK}
\end{figure}
In order to study the impact of the centro-symmetry and the
unsteadiness of the flow on the dynamo action, we have performed two
Maxwell runs at $Rm=1200$ with the following characteristics: (i) the
velocity field at $Re=1200$ is frozen at $t=211$, (ii) the velocity
field at $Re=1200$ is frozen at $t=211$ but only its symmetric
component is retained so that the resulting velocity field is
centro-symmetric. The time evolution of the magnetic energy of the MHD
run and the two Maxwell runs (i) and (ii) are shown in
fig.~\ref{fig:M}. It is remarkable that, in the two considered kinematic
runs, the dynamo keeps growing with
a rate similar to that of the MHD run. These computations show that neither the temporal oscillations
nor the flow asymmetry play a crucial role on the dynamo action in the
precessing cylinder at $Rm=1200$.
\begin{figure}[ht]
\centerline{
\includegraphics[width=0.33\textwidth]{.//Comp_Re1200_Rm1200_cin_mhd_2}
}
\caption{Time evolution of the magnetic energy $M$ at $Re=1200$ and
$Rm=1200$ for $t\in [211, 229]$ in MHD mode (denoted as 'MHD'), in
Maxwell mode with the velocity frozen at $t=211$ (denoted as
'MAXWELL') and in Maxwell mode with the symmetrized velocity frozen
at $t=211$ (denoted as 'MAXWELL SYM').}
\label{fig:M}
\end{figure}
A snapshot of the vorticity and magnetic lines at $Re=1200$, $Rm=2400$
is shown in fig.~\ref{fig:KasK_Re1200}. We observe a central S-shaped
vortex which is deformed by the precession and reconnects at the walls
through viscous boundary layers, (see fig.~\ref{fig:KasK_Re1200:a}). The
magnetic field lines exhibit a quadrupolar shape which is best seen in
the vacuum from the top of the cylinder (see
fig.~\ref{fig:KasK_Re1200:b}). The magnetic energy is dominated by
azimuthal modes $m=1$, $2$, $3$.
\begin{figure}[ht]
\centerline{
\subfigure[from the side]{
\includegraphics[width=0.15\textwidth]{.//LdcB_RotU_persp}\label{fig:KasK_Re1200:a}}
\subfigure[from the top]{
\includegraphics[width=0.35\textwidth]{.//LdcB_zmoins}\label{fig:KasK_Re1200:b}}
}
\caption{Snapshot at $t=241$ for $Re=1200$, $Rm=2400$ showing
vorticity field lines (red) and magnetic field lines
colored by the axial component in the cylinder (grey/black for
positive/negative $h_z$ component).}
\label{fig:KasK_Re1200}
\end{figure}
Forty years after the promising experiments with liquid sodium by
Gans~\cite{Gans70}, we have numerically demonstrated dynamo action in
a precessing cylindrical tank. The bifurcations through
symmetry breaking and cyclic time dependence are similar to those
already observed in dynamo flows in spherical or spheroidal precession
driven cavities. There is however a large gap between the control
parameters used in the present simulations and those achieved in
experimental set-ups and planetary dynamos, where $E=1/Re$ and $Pm$
are many orders of magnitude smaller. Following this preliminary
evidence for dynamo action, two further steps appear now as most
urgent: (1) studying parity breaking and unsteadiness by varying the
forcing parameters (precession angle and rate); (2) searching for a
scaling law for the critical magnetic Reynolds number as a function of
the hydrodynamic Reynolds number. Such a relation has been proposed
by Tilgner in a precessing sphere~\cite{tilgner_precession_2005}, who
argues that it is the asymmetric part of the flow that plays a key
role in the dynamo. The research program (2) will be time consuming
as it will necessitate large scale computations to explore a wide
range of Reynolds numbers. It will also require to develop nonlinear
stabilization techniques to simulate small scale viscous
dissipation. A major step in the understanding of precession dynamo
will hopefully be achieved in the near future with the construction of
the large scale MHD facility DRESDYN at Helmholtz-Zentrum
Dresden-Rossendorf (Germany). The cooperation between simulations and experiments
will lead to a better understanding of natural dynamos,
including the geodynamo.
This work was performed using HPC resources from GENCI-IDRIS (Grant
2010-0254). We acknowledge fruitful discussions with
D.~C\'ebron, W.~Herreman, P.~Lallemand, P.~H.~Roberts, F.~Stefani and A.~Tilgner.
\bibliographystyle{plain}
| {
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} | 1,183 |
Q: Replace Number in Row with Description When Running SELECT Query Let's say I've got two tables: one with customer data, one with location data.
TABLE1 has four fields: USERNAME , FIRST_NAME , LAST_NAME and REGION. The data that can come back from that REGION field can be either '1' or '2'.
TABLE2 is basically acting as a "definition" table. Within, there are two fields REGION_ID and REGION_DESC.
A SELECT query on the first row of TABLE 2 might look like this:
REGION_ID | REGION_DESC
-----------------------
1 | Eastern
When running my select query, I'd like to be able to pull, for example, USERNAME and then REGION_ID as "Region" and then have the '1' or '2' automatically be replaced with its respective definition; "Western" or "Eastern."
So, instead of this:
USERNAME | REGION
-------------------
1 | 1
I'd see this:
USERNAME | REGION
------------------------
jasonh | Eastern
I'm sure I've seen this before I but I can't seem to find what this is called... and, for whatever reason, I'm apparently unable to find the appropriate verbiage because my Google searches because I just can't find that for which I'm looking.
Any help would be greatly appreciated.
A: You want to JOIN the two tables together based on the common region ID that they both share in common.
SELECT t1.USERNAME, t2.REGION_DESC
FROM table1 t1
INNER JOIN table2 t2
ON t1.REGION = t2.REGION_ID;
| {
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Az 5411-es mellékút egy bő 25 kilométeres hosszúságú, négy számjegyű mellékút Bács-Kiskun megye és Csongrád-Csanád megye határvidékén; Kiskunmajsa keleti szélétől húzódik Ópusztaszerig. Az ópusztaszeri Nemzeti Történeti Emlékpark legcélszerűbb megközelítési útvonala Bács-Kiskun megye középső területei (és a Dunántúl) felől.
Nyomvonala
Kiskunmajsa belterületének keleti szélén indul, az 5405-ös útból kiágazva, annak a 30+900-as kilométerszelvénye közelében, kelet felé. A negyedik kilométerétől egy darabig Csólyospálos lakatlan külterülete közt húzódik, és 6,5 kilométer után lép át Kömpöc területére. 8,4 kilométer után, ott keletnek haladva éri el a község északnyugati szélét, majd délebbnek fordulva – a Rákóczi Ferenc utca nevet viselve – beér a központba, ahol egy elágazása következik: délnyugat felől beletorkollik az 5442-es út, az 5411-es pedig újból keletnek veszi az irányt (lényegében az 5442-es egyenes irányú folytatásaként), és kevéssel ezután ki is lép a belterületről.
A 12. kilométere közelében elhalad Kömpöc, Csengele és Balástya hármashatára mellett, majd a folytatásban egy jó darabig a két utóbbi község határvonalát kíséri. Itt át is lép Bács-Kiskunból Csongrád-Csanád megyébe. 14,1 kilométer után felüljárón keresztezi az M5-ös autópálya nyomvonalát, de még előtte, a sztráda Szeged felé vezető irányát kiszolgáló csomóponti ágak kiágazásánál találkozik az 5421-es úttal, mellyel közös szakaszon húzódik több mint fél kilométeren át, az ellenkező forgalmi irány csomóponti ágait is kiágaztató körforgalomig (ahonnan az 5421-es út délnek folytatódik).
14,9 kilométer után az út Kistelek határai közé ér, 17,4 kilométer után szeli át a vágányait, onnét a város házai közt húzódik, Rákóczi utca néven. Kevéssel ezután kiágazik belőle északnyugat felé az 54 321-es számú mellékút, amely Kistelek vasútállomást szolgálja ki, 18,5 kilométer megtételét követően pedig – a település központjában, a város római katolikus templománál – keresztezi az 5-ös főutat is, annak majdnem pontosan a 141. kilométerénél. Hátralévő belterületi szakasza már az Árpád utca nevet viseli, a lakott terület keleti széléig, amit nagyjából egy kilométer után ér el. 21,7 kilométer megtételét követően lépi át Ópusztaszer határát, ahol az utolsó métereit leszámítva külterületek közt húzódik. A település nyugati széle közelében ér véget, egy körforgalmú csomópontban, beletorkollva a 4519-es útba, annak a 27+500-as kilométerszelvénye közelében.
Teljes hossza, az országos közutak térképes nyilvántartását szolgáló kira.gov.hu adatbázisa szerint 25,421 kilométer.
Története
1934-ben a kereskedelem- és közlekedésügyi miniszter 70 846/1934. számú rendelete a Kistelek és Sövényháza (a mai Ópusztaszer) közti szakaszát harmadrendű főúttá nyilvánította, a Kistelek-Hódmezővásárhely közti 422-es főút részeként.
Települések az út mentén
Kiskunmajsa
(Csólyospálos)
Kömpöc
(Csengele)
(Balástya)
Kistelek
Ópusztaszer
Források
Jegyzetek
05411
05411
Ópusztaszer
Kiskunmajsa
Balástya | {
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Q: Pointer arithmetic post and pre decrement behaves different in VS2019 and VS Code mingw-w64 I have detected a difference between VS2019 C++ and VS Code (mingw-w64) about pre post decrement with pointer usage. The following code in VS2019 shows prints the third element of array, 12 (a[2]):
A:
int a[] = { 10, 11, 12, 13, 14 };
int *p = a;
int *q = p + 3;
*q = a[(q--) - p];
cout << *q << endl;
If I change the post decrement operator as pre decrement:
B:
int a[] = { 10, 11, 12, 13, 14 };
int *p = a;
int *q = p + 3;
*q = a[(--q) - p];
cout << *q << endl;
it prints again 12 (a[2])
But if I run the code in VS Code with mingw-w64, then the first code block A: shows the fourth element of the array, 13 (a[3]) and the block B: shows the third element, 12 (a[2])
Why is VS2019 ignoring in this case the pre and post decrement and mingw-w64 not, if I use the same pointer on the left hand side of the assignment, which I use for indexing the array?
Do you have any experience/explanation about this behaviour?
Thank you
Onur
p.s It is an exam question, not a real case. Please don't ask me for a logical use of this code
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