From here I look around to see what avenues belong to me. I can't tell what I've found.

[whateverthemess]

The theatre of the Empress is empty, clean, silent. The chairs, destroyed by the skinwalker, are gone--the catwalk broken down and stacked to one side of the stage. Stains are all that remain of the skinwalker--even the rift that let it through closed up in the wake of its attack

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[painhumbles]

Gabriel's been in and out since his recovery, because like hell if he's staying here and getting the stink-eye from Hawkes, Vansen, and the rest of the Boxcar Children, because Mommy got eaten by a goddamn Rift. He's got better things to do with his time, thank you.

Like terrorizing Chicago, for example.

He comes back every now and then, checking to see if Murphy's come back. Today, just so happens to be one of those days.

All of a sudden, there's a sound from the audience like a slow clap and there's Gabriel just sitting with his legs propped up on the chair in front of him, half-smirking.

"How did that not dying thing go for you, Karrin?"

This is how he falls over himself with concern. Think nothing of it, Murphy.

[whateverthemess]

Murphy closes her eyes, her throat closing up around any retort. All she can think about is being on her back, looking at the shattered hand of one of Lara Raith's bodyguards under rubble, thinking We killed it. We killed it.

She kind of wishes she were dead. Not permanently. Just long enough to get some rest.

[painhumbles]

Okay, clearly the snark-and-banter ritual only works when he's the one bleeding and slightly broken. He sighs and stands up, walking all the way up to the stage before kneeling down next to her.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" He holds up two and then quickly puts them back down. "No, better question. How do you survive without me? Take your time. I've got all day."

He might be being extra bitchy on account of the fact that it's totally not fair when he's the one who gets up and abandoned, even if it wasn't her fault. And, you know, it's totally unbecoming of someone of his standing to be genuinely worried about another person, especially a human-person.

[whateverthemess]

"It's got Thomas," she whispers. And starts laughing. It's a harsh, broken sound, a crow's bawl of amusement. "The skinwalker has Thomas. It's alive, and it kidnapped him while I was trying to save a man who spent at least twenty years trying to find an excuse to cut off my closest friend's head."

She falls silent for a moment. Very quietly, she says, "What is wrong with me?"