Relief flooded through him as he watched Quentin disappear into the gloom, his lithe frame obscured by the downpour until it vanished altogether.

“He’ll find a way,” he panted as he remained fixed in the doorway. Rain hit his front and left his back dry.

Who are you speaking to? Frederick’s voice was in his head now, which seemed even worse than having the guy in the same room as him.

“You’re an asshole.”

And you’re a hunter. So, hunt.

Laurence shook his head briefly, then closed his eyes as he latched onto Quentin’s scent.

“You better hope Quentin finds you before I do,” he snarled as he slipped silently down the steps and began to track Quentin along the crescent.

How dare Frederick use him like this? The guy was picking and choosing which of Laurence’s gifts to take advantage of like he was browsing at a fucking boutique, and he was going to make Laurence track Quentin down and betray him.

Again.

Freddy wanted Quentin to know what his dad did, and he wanted Quentin to know Laurence had kept it from him, all because he wanted to break Quentin.

Break wasn’t a word anyone should use for people. The only time that word ever got used was during torture.

Laurence gasped in horror as he slinked around a corner and out onto a main road. That was it. That was what Frederick was doing, and there was no nice word for it, no polite way to put it.

This was torture.

The woodsy thread of Quentin’s scent was bright and true, a straight line as the earl ran for his freedom, and the rain had yet to wash it down the drain. If Laurence followed it, if he went unnoticed as he tailed Quentin through London, he would track his prey down and give Frederick yet more opportunity to torment Quentin.

Laurence’s anger flared. It burned. White hot, pure and bright, it seared his thoughts and made his skin burn. He screamed with mindless frenzy.

He stopped walking.

The thread of Quentin’s scent faded.

He dropped to his knees on the sidewalk, dizzy and exhausted. The fury in him gave him ideas he usually had the strength to brush aside, but now he allowed himself to wallow in them. He would tear Frederick’s heart out through his chest with his bare hands and shred it to scatter for the birds, and then he’d turn his vengeance on Mikey.

His muscles quivered as strength drained out of them. He screamed himself hoarse, then sagged and gulped down air.

But he still wasn’t tailing Quentin.

Laurence wiped the rain from his eyes with hands that were unsteady and weak, and he stood as carefully as he could.

“Freddy?”

There was no response. No sarcastic taunts, no pressure to do anything, no loss of control.

Laurence shook his head slowly. Either this was another trick, or…

Or he was free.

He hurried to the side of the street. There were so few people out in this weather that hardly anyone else was around, and none of them were looking at him. Knowing the British it was ‘cause none of them wanted to get caught looking at a crazy person, for which Laurence was thankful.

If Freddy wasn’t in his head right now, that didn’t mean the guy wouldn’t be back, and he’d know anything and everything Laurence did. So Laurence better make sure it was something Freddy couldn’t undo.

He closed his eyes and reached for the sense which had called on him so long ago.

“Where are you?” He whispered it under his breath, unsure whether he needed to voice it at all.

The connection softly roused itself, eager to answer.

I come!

Laurence hadn’t imagined it. It wasn’t a voice, nor a conversation, but just the profound feeling that he received a response which he understood.

“Windsor?”

Yes! Excitement chased the word.

Laurence took a deep breath and drew on his connection to his familiar. “Thank the Goddess. Don’t come here, Windsor. Get Rufus. He’s got to find a spell to stop Freddy getting into my damn head again!”

Windsor’s response was quizzical. With Rufus.

Laurence bit his lip. The feeling was definitely that Windsor meant right now, not that he was confirming Laurence’s request.

Rufus had said that Laurence’s connection to his familiar was as potent as a blood connection for the purposes of magic, that Laurence could understand the bird when others couldn’t, and that he could see through Windsor’s eyes.

He’d never tried it, and he didn’t know where to start, but if it was a way to communicate and get help he was willing to try anything, and he didn’t have time to worry about whether or not he could do it. He branched out, as though pushing his energy into a plant to make it grow.

Windsor reached toward him with glee, almost dragging Laurence the rest of the way, until he blinked and everything changed.

He was in Rufus’ library.

It was bright, filled with light and color, the San Diego morning sun just peeking in through the windows. Windsor could see the yellow tint to the sky outside more vibrantly than Laurence was able to with his own eyes, and as he looked around, other parts of the library seemed to have more color to them than usual.

Windsor cawed with excitement and flapped his wings, then hopped toward Rufus and cawed again.

Rufus plucked a book from the shelves to add to the pile in his arms, and frowned down at Windsor. “I’m going as fast as I can!”

Laurence strained to speak, but Windsor’s beak didn’t move like human lips, his throat didn’t do what Laurence’s own did.

He cursed inwardly.

“Poop!” Windsor declared. The bird seemed to think he was being helpful by translating Laurence’s swearing into the only naughty word he could say out loud.

Nice try. Can you tell Ru I’m in London?

Windsor tipped his head back and forth as he searched the room, revealing the presence of Myriam at the table as he turned.

Mom!

Windsor flapped proudly and made noises which sounded like an engine.

You got her to drive you all the way to Ru’s house?

Windsor clacked his beak in agreement.

Goddess, you’re a smart little bird, yes you are!

Windsor cooed with pleasure and hopped his way over to Myriam, then pecked at her thumb.

Myriam leaned in close and peered at the raven.

I don’t know how long I have. Tell them where I am, Win. Tell them Quentin’s brother is a telepath, he’s trying to break us. Tell them they’ve gotta find a way to stop him getting into our heads! Can you do that?

Windsor clacked his beak and hopped up Myriam’s hand onto her forearm, then pointed toward the door with one wing.

Laurence could’ve cried, if he weren’t so dehydrated and sore from doing so for what felt like forever already.

“What’s he doing?” Rufus’ voice came from behind, and for a moment Laurence almost thought the witch was in the street with him.

“He wants me to go this way,” Myriam murmured as she stood.

Fatigue gripped Laurence. He was still deep in withdrawal, and now the adrenaline crash was taking its toll, too. He felt the connection slip through his grasp, and he was cold and wet and shivering in a grey afternoon in a city he didn’t know.

Had he done of that of his own free will, or had Freddy influenced him? He couldn’t know for sure, but it had to be his own mind, surely? Why would Freddy want Laurence to reach any kind of help at all, especially if that help could stop Freddy re-taking control over him?

The press of the tin in his pocket was cold and hard.

Laurence pushed his hands into his hair and gripped it, then tugged hard. The stab of pain helped him think for an extra couple of seconds.

Mikey gave him the tin, which meant Freddy wanted Laurence to have it. Was it there to taunt and tempt him, or was it Freddy’s ultimate goal to have Laurence relapse?

Either way, if Laurence was high as a kite, Frederick might not want to be inside his head. Heroin addiction was a psychological thing more than it was physical, and touching an addict’s mind during a high might have long-term effects Freddy wasn’t willing to expose himself to.

Or it just made Laurence more pliable. Controllable.

Fragile.

How much of the stuff had Mikey brought with him? If Laurence ditched this, would there just be more of the shit waiting for him whenever Freddy recaptured him?

Get high.

You think better when you’re high.

It was a lie, but it felt true. The only thing he could cling to was the knowledge that shooting up on the street was a bad idea, but he had nowhere to go.

Except back to Freddy.

He scowled and dug through his pockets. He didn’t think he had his wallet or cellphone on him, but it was better to check.

No.

Just the tin.

Which was in his hand now.

If Mikey didn’t have any more with him, this could be Laurence’s last chance. Just this one shot and then it’d be over. He’d be free of Freddy for a while, and the pain would go away. He could come up with a plan, figure things out, all right under Freddy’s nose.

Quentin would save him. All Laurence had to do was hold on to hope.

He stared at the tin, then flung it into the street and ran as hard as he could to get away from it, away from Freddy, away from the rain and the heartache and the voice in his head which told him he could just turn around, get the tin, take a hit, get high…

Horns blared at him. Lights flashed in the grey. He weaved and ducked, but his mind was back in the gutter.

Back where he could escape.

So when the car hit him, he didn’t even see it coming.