"Well this bar is more like a pub. When Ari dragged me to the office last month," Nixon rationalized, "I got bored so I decided to go for a walk around the city. I saw this pub and thought I'd grab some lunch. That's all there was to it."

Nixon put his back to the door. He noticed her eyes as they flecked down his body. Possibly he wasn't as tall as Asher or Ari but he never had a problem getting glances from the babes, including the blonde at the bar. He had just thought to make his move when all hell broke loose.

"Anyhow," he said, "the owner's brother is an old friend of mine from school. He's the one I told you about when we were younger."

"You mean the pig?"

Nixon tried to hide his surprise. He figured she had long since forgotten. "Yeah, well his name's Kurt and even though he was older than me, he always took up for me on the playground."

"I remember Nixon," she frowned. "Why do you feel the need to fight with everyone including me? I'm just worried about you."

"Kennedy," he firmly stated, looking straight at her for emphasis, "my mom left me when I was a kid and I don't need another one." He turned away then and opened his bedroom door. When he went to shut it she put her body in the way. "Kennedy, don't do this now. Whatever your reasons are, your place is to worry about Ari. I've got other things to deal with and the last thing I want is to have to explain my behavior to you."

"Fine," she said hurt. "I won't bother you again."

"Keni." He used the name Grant had given her and instantaneously her green eyes watered. He ran a hand along her arm. "Look, I'm just an idiot that on occasion gets mad enough at the world that I feel I need to vent, so just let me be. I'm sorry that I upset you but right now let's just concentrate on finding Ari. Now, go away so I can change."

Removing his tee-shirt he walked across the room and in the reflection of the mirror, he saw Kennedy's features twist into sympathy. She always got that way whenever she witnessed the damage his father left behind. The D in science had gotten him a Louisville Slugger across his right shoulder. After several surgeries to repair the shattered bones, the scars were still visible.

He had been recovering in the pediatric wing of Saint Francis Hospital watching the lights on the rides at the county fair several miles away, when he heard someone enter his room. But it wasn't just anyone; it was Grant Lake, the Keeper of the Union.

They had moved from Nashville Indiana to the city of Beech Grove, located just minutes from downtown Indianapolis, but it wasn't until years later that Nixon had learned through Asher, that Grant had actually banned his dad from the Union, and that's why they had moved.

Either way, that night as Grant stood over his bed telling him not to be afraid, and that no one would ever hurt him again, Nixon had hope. For the first time in his life, he felt wanted but that went short lived when Grant was killed six months later, and he quickly learned that his successor Asher didn't share the same sentiment.

Asher had never even gotten around to sealing his adoption papers.

"I'm gonna drop my pants now Kennedy so you really should go."

Nixon pulled jeans off the hanger and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her wipe a tear from her right cheek as she backed out the door. Only when she was gone, did he realize that he had forgotten to explain to her about the urine smell, but he guessed that didn't matter. Dropping his pants to the floor he heard a clunk and remembered the badge that Kennedy had found.

Taking it out of his pocket he crossed the room so that he could inspect it in the light of the lamp next to his bed. The same odd sensation returned as he examined the emblem once more. At first he couldn't make it out, but after closer study he recognized the head and body of the Raven. Two small red stones were set for the eyes.

Nixon sat up straight.

He had seen it before and now he remembered where.

"You won't feel anything. The memory cleansing is a painless procedure."

"Will it make me forget him?"

"No, I'm afraid not, for some things are best left alone."

"Then what good will it do if I still remember the pain?"

"You will remember the pain because it will only serve to protect you, just as I will."

Something ran down Nixon's cheeks. He was crying without even realizing it. The thought was embarrassing so he quickly wiped the tears away.

Nixon didn't cry, not anymore.

He didn't want to be caught blubbering like some baby but he couldn't help it. The memories came and he couldn't stop them from coming. He was standing on railroad tracks and the five o'clock memory express was bearing down on him, and he was powerless to stop it. Opening the drawer on the nightstand, Nixon dropped the badge inside and got dressed.

Asher was waiting.

Chapter Six.

Rebirthing.

Asher quietly stood, eyes taking in the pitiful sight before him. The old log cabin, gone uncared for, was indubitably a mess. A screen door hung on one hinge, and there were enough broken down appliances and garbage strewn about in the small yard to start a landfill.

Reaching for the handle on the gate, Asher pushed against the buildup of snow on the other side only to have the handle fall off in his hands. Frustrated, he threw it at an old claw foot bathtub filled with frozen leaf covered water, and then kicked the gate open.

Once inside he made his way over the snow toward the front door, and knocked loudly. Asher guessed since the old man was an owl, he didn't feel the need to shovel the walk. In the back of his mind, a small part of him wished he would have waited for Nixon, but the part that distanced himself from everyone was superior.

When the old man didn't answer he tried the handle. It was unlocked so he pushed it open. Other than a fire burning in a fireplace, the cabin was dark. At the sound of a loud screech, Asher stepped inside. He quickly spotted a barn owl on the rafter above his head.

"Get down from there old man I need to have a word with you."

"Huh? Who's there?" The old man peered around a rocker situated before the fire, and slowly getting up as though his joints protested the very thought, he started across the room. Asher inhaled long and deep but he couldn't sense the presence of another shifter in the room, apart from the old man. And one good whiff of him was enough. He wondered if the cabin even had running water.

He looked again to the owl in the rafters. He had heard how some animals were attracted to the inborn of shifters in confusion. Yet, there weren't any wolves traipsing around in the woods of Brokenridge to further test that theory. Wolves had gone extinct in the state of Indiana a long time ago.

"Oh that's just Nick," the old man said noticing him looking at the owl. "He keeps me company. He's been hanging around here a week or two. I'd watch my head if I were you though. I haven't had this many guest in-?"

Pulling off his gloves, Asher walked around to the opposite side of the table. He had forgotten this place-his sessions until just moments before when he stood looking at the cabin. The old man came to an abrupt stop when he recognized who he was.

"Your eyes don't deceive you Master Garret. Not too many people would mistake me for someone else, not even Ari, once they got a good look." Asher dropped the hood of his coat as the old man continued to stare, mouth agape.

Asher began to move about the room taking everything in, shelves lined with dusty books, jars that contained an array of roots, herbs and spices-the very essence of the old healer which in the shifter world was one part herbology and one part magic, before coming to a stop before a window, void of curtain.

The window itself, nothing of great importance, small in proportion to the other more decorative picture window in the front section of the cabin, had been situated in a corner cupboard, which in theory was an odd place for a window. Asher stood there taking in the grey unattractive peeling paint and musty scent of decaying wood, when his eyes moved to the landscape just outside. The view was that of a side yard completely concealed from the outside world by a tall archaic stone wall.

Flashes of memory, of unjust lessons and even beatings, served well as a reminder that hidden under the snow was a large circular brick courtyard. He saw himself as a boy collapsed on the stone, trembling from exhaustion as a younger version of the healer stood over him, whip in hand.

Closing his eyes Asher savored the memory, the fragrant taste of hatred mixed with the sweat that burned his swollen parched lips that no matter of licking could suffice. The particular lesson had lasted nine hours in the heat of the summer sun without water, food or rest. Even in his physical anguish, in the brokenness of his body, he did not relent.

Determined that the matter of his mind, of his heart belonged to him and him alone, Asher had laughed-laughed instead of crying for mercy. That was before the master learned the fallibility of his control.

How could he have ever forgotten?

But then how could he remember when the old man had used the same memory erasing techniques on him that Asher himself eventually learned. Returning to the old man, Asher began to circle him.

"Wasn't it you Master Garret that taught me to be ready when someone recalled the memories I was forced to take from them? What was it you called it...aah yes the matter of recalling specific memory that has been erased is called...rebirthing."

Asher moved to the front of the old man and then stood before him. "I applaud the technique. The ability to remove memory, pain, and sorrow from one's mind is a wonderful tool of manipulation. So here is your applause...Bravo job well done!"

Asher clapped his hands loud enough that the old man jolted with each clap and the sound resonated off the walls of the quiet cabin. "As a matter of fact, I was sitting right there in that same chair before the table when you had me test the method on my brother, even though I didn't want to."

Sitting his gloves down on the table, Asher picked up a black spell book and opened it to the first page. He pretended to examine it but it was useless to him, the equivalent of a first grade reader to an English professor.

The scrawled handwriting on the top of the page drew his interest though. He recognized an r and the first part of a last name that started with the letters n-o-r but he couldn't recall why it seemed familiar to him. He snapped the book closed and the old man jerked.

"Ari didn't have the same kind of relationship with our mother as I did. She loved him very much and the feeling was mutual. His destiny at birth was to protect me but I couldn't protect him, could I?"

"The Council insisted. The boy was a wreck grieving the loss of her," the old man sniveled. "Don't look at me that way. I had no choice but to do what they said."

"The Council was afraid that he wouldn't be able to do his duty. They couldn't let his grief distract him from me. I hated what I was and they knew it. They used Ari against me, claiming that if I didn't succeed Grant, they would put both of us to death. Not, that I cared about my own life but I couldn't let them kill Ari in spite of it."

Asher replaced the book and examined a pencil, curiously inspecting what appeared to be teeth marks gnawed into the wood. Returning it as well he moved around the table so that he was standing behind the old man.

"And now they're afraid again, aren't they? They're afraid that I won't carry out my destiny?" Asher sent a wave of magic into the old man's back and when he shrieked out in pain the owl flew from its perch and disappeared into the darkened corner of the room. "I imagine your heart won't last too long," he said dispassionately. "I'll release you now, but my suggestion is that you tell me all that you know. And if I were you, I wouldn't underestimate my power. After all you're the one that taught me all about magic."

Asher released him and the old man fell forward and gripped the back of the chair. Asher felt as though he were having one of those out of body experiences. He could almost see his young boy form sitting in the chair, hair falling forward to hide a face that so clearly expressed his inner gloom. Asher hated coming for the lessons.

Grant had insisted that the old man was helping, but he had no idea what really went on inside the cabin. The Pillar Council had convinced Grant that he needed psychiatric help, but the only thing Asher truly learned was the art of influence.

"I wished you wouldn't have come, Arimus."

"I'm not going to let him hurt you again. I feel bad that I didn't notice before now. That's why I really came."

"You can't stop them. No one can, not even me."

"Asher what do you mean by them and what are you doing...why are you crying?"

The memories flooded back, furthering Asher's torment. He recalled how he placed his hands on his brother's head, while he cried bitterly in both rage and sorrow. He wasn't mad at Ari, but instead at what they were making him do. The sadness was for Ari. His brother was such a trusting soul and when he looked up at him with his huge questioning eyes, Asher cried out in hatred of what he had become.

All of a sudden the old man spun and struck Asher in the neck breaking him out of the past. Stumbling backward, shock washed over him. The old man could barely walk, yet the Karate chop he just delivered clearly disputed that fact. Again he came at him, but Asher blocked his attempt by sending a quick palm strike to his nose. This time the old healer and martial arts master fell back upon the table. Blood began to spill down his worn face as dishes clattered to the floor along with Asher's gloves, and the book.

"So you still love to strike me when I least expect it old man, but I will remind you that you also taught me to be on guard for the second blow."

"They're in the hollow-the old logger's cabin." The old man wiped blood from his lips with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. "Don't hit me again. You're far too powerful for me!" he groveled.

Pity was a despised and ugly thing. Reaching forward Asher grabbed the old man's shirt collar and pulled him forward, until he was on his feet again, and inches from his face.

"Who took him?" Asher demanded.

"His group-those henchmen of death who call themselves Gothi, they took your brother," the old man declared. "They follow Ross."

"Ross, why does that name sound familiar to me? Tell me or I'll break your fool neck!"

"He was kicked out of the Union for his practices of death magic."

Asher narrowed his eyes on him. "By me?"

"No, by your predecessor but his son serves you, the falcon."

Jaw tightening in anger, Asher tossed the old man forward and he landed on the floor with a thud. Moving to stand over him, Asher looked downward without so much as an inkling of regret in respect to his harsh treatment, not when the old man failed to be so merciful when he was a boy.

"If you have any intentions of alerting them that I'm on the way I will return and I will kill you." Before Asher could move away the old man grabbed him by the ankle and falling off balance Asher fell forwards. Quickly catching himself he glared down at the withered wrench that he had once respectfully feared. "Let go of me before I decide to do it now and save myself the hassle of having to return."

Asher ripped his leg free and ignoring the old man's sobbing petition to take him back to the protection of the manor, he headed for the door.

"Please, don't you know anything of forgiveness?"

Asher came to an abrupt stop and spun around on his heels. He put a hand to his aching throat that paralleled the knot on the back of his head. The thought suddenly occurring to him that it was the old man that had given him the wooden globe bookends.

"With the world at your fingertips boy there is no limit to your power."

"Were you the one in my office, the one who hit me?" he questioned.

The thought made sense to him. The old man had access to the front door. Pillar Council members always had free reign of the manor. It was written law and the old man was a magic user.

"No, but I know what they wanted."

"And what was that?"

"A key. Someone gave it to me to hide a long time ago and I put it in the bookend before I gave it to you."

"What does it go to?" Asher took a long stride toward the old man and instantly he started to crawl on his hands back to the chair. With that image burning into his mind, he took pity on him and stopped. "I make you this vow that I won't lay another hand on you as long as you tell me what they want with the key and my brother."

"I never asked what the key was for and I don't know what they want with your brother."

"Then you don't know if that's what they wanted or not. Who gave you the key to hide?"

"I don't remember."

Asher watched him, realizing that in his actions the old man had no more information of value, and he had a sudden anxiety to return to the manor.

"I will leave, but as far as forgiveness goes, you'll have a better chance of getting that in the fiery pits of hell then you will ever have from me." Turning around Asher exited the cabin and started his cold trek back. By the time he realized that he had left his gloves behind it was too late to turn back. He followed the same path along the road. The theory that a wolf walked in his tracks fell along the wayside of his distraught mind.

Noticing a small black shadow on the white snow in front of him, Asher looked up to see the falcon circling in the grey sky above him. He exhaled and slowly shook his head. He should have known that he would come after him. "It's best I don't tell him," Asher said out loud. It was times like this, that he especially didn't blame people for thinking he was crazy.

Again he looked up at the falcon now flying in the direction of the manor. "Yes, for now I suppose there's no need, but eventually I won't have any choice but to tell him that father has returned."

Asher sat at his desk finishing up his latest drawing, when Kennedy entered his office. She crossed the carpet and stood looking down at the portrait of the woman he was working on. She had his grey parka in one hand, the one with the thick fur lining around the hood, and Grant's ice fishing boots in the other.

"Since when did you start using pastels?"

"I plan to leave the rest in pencil. The blue just seemed fitting for her eyes." Uncomfortably Asher sat the sky-blue pastel down on the surface of his desk. He had made a mess of things and some of the blue chalk was now dusting the tops of the papers he had pulled from his brother's briefcase. Taking a tissue from a box on the corner, he wiped his fingers free of the blue tint.