The air was unseasonably chilled. It smelled of apples, and rotting leaves, and pumpkins from the autumn garden; but there was an edge to it, a bitter edge, the hard scent of cold. Darla’s curtains – off-white linen – billowed every now and then when the breeze rose. Every so often, they lifted enough to reveal the shadowy figure standing beside them.

The figure cleared his throat. “Miss, perhaps you’d like me to close the window.”

It was more of a request than a question, but Darla chose not to notice. She wasn’t very cold, at least not yet; her wheelchair was lined with leather, and she was wearing at least three layers of clothing. This was as close to outside as she could get, on a day like this. The doctors tended to be overly cautious with her. They didn’t want to be responsible for any illness she might develop.

“No thank you, Lawrence,” she said distantly. Her face was calm and placid. In the muted light afforded by the curtains, her pale skin seemed to glow, throwing her entire face into the realm of the eerie. Her eyes were doe-like and brown, but cold; her mouth was pouty, but set in a conservative line. If it weren’t for her blinking, she could easily have been mistaken for a rather unsettling doll.

“Then, Miss, perhaps you’d like me to turn on the lamp,” Lawrence suggested politely. Darla frowned.

“No thank you, Lawrence,” she repeated.

“I’m only thinking of your health,” he said mildly. “Hemophilia, sickle-cell anemia, weak heart –“

“Lawrence, that will be quite enough,” Darla snapped, glaring at him. “I am exceptionally aware of my own... condition. It is rude of you to bring it up.” Lawrence had been selected as Darla’s primary protector for two very important reasons. Firstly, he was able to operate some of the medical-magical equipment in the house; he’d had basic medical training, along with an extensive knowledge of combat and weaponry. The other reason had a bit less to do with job skill and a bit more to do with his genetics; Lawrence was blood type O negative, which meant he could give blood transfusions to any other blood type. Darla’s blood lacked platelets, the essential cells which cause blood to clot into a solid mass. If she so much as sliced her finger open on a piece of paper, tore a smooth muscle, or got a nosebleed, it wouldn’t scab. Instead, it would bleed, and bleed, until Darla simply ran out of blood or died – or both. Hence the wheelchair, to minimize strain. Lawrence was a handy platelet supply if anything went wrong.

There was the suggestion of a grin on his shadowed face. “You could always have Loretta replace me, Miss.”

Darla rolled her eyes. “Ugh. No. That bitch would never be able to find a competent replacement. I’d have to ask father, and god knows he’s far too busy to be bothered with anything as insipid as household staff.”

“Ah, yes. I had forgotten your feelings for your stepmother.”

“Speak of the devil,” Darla said moodily, scowling at the windows. “I can hear her car. She said she’d be back after ten.” The family limos were sleek, and silent, and the gravel barely crunched. Loretta’s car was small, and red, and sporty, and its engine rumbled like an underfed stomach, demanding a constant supply of oil and gasoline.

“Would Miss like to take dinner in her room or with the family?” Lawrence asked tactfully. Darla glared at him and he was obliged to wince to hide his amusement. “I see. I’ll have it sent up.”

“I don’t want to eat with Loretta,” she muttered rebelliously. “I want to eat with Father.” Loretta was her father’s ex-wife, and first wife; Darla had been the product of an affair. The two of them got along like a pair of exceptionally moody great lizards.

“I haven’t yet heard when he’ll be back, Miss. Perhaps I’ll have some light snacks available while you wait?”

“All right,” Darla said. Her hair hung limply about her face, her shoulders slumped – even the white ribbon on her dress seemed tired, and faded. Darla’s preference was for white clothes and pale colors; bright tones tended to make her seem even more sickly and wan than she was already. She did not appreciate pity.

The front door slammed.

Through the thick carpets, the sounds of shouting and disorder were muffled, but still audible. Lawrence discreetly laid a hand on his gun.

“Miss?”

“I’m fine, Lawrence. I only heard one person entering the house. She’s probably just in a bitchy mood, and taking it out on the staff,” Darla said, waving her hand as if to dismiss the importance of the now increasingly loud shouting and rumbling of feet. Lawrence was less dismissive. When one worked for the family of a mafia don, one was slightly jumpy.

Through the thick door, he could hear Loretta’s angry voice, and braced himself. “-the hell is that kid?” she said as she burst into the room, littering a thin veneer of ashes as she walked, her fingers already fumbling for another cigarette. Her hair was a violent shade of red, and so was her lipstick. That was the convenient thing about artificial colors; they were easy to match. “Jesus! Darla. Why the hell are you up here?”

“I hardly think that that’s any of your concern,” Darla said icily, refusing to turn. “If you must know, I was waiting for Father.”

Loretta made a sound that was half-sigh, half hysterical shriek. “Good luck, kid. That bastard ain’t coming down that drive ever again.”

“What do you ...” Darla’s head whipped around so quickly her hair flew. “What exactly do you mean?” she asked, feeling oddly as though she was merely a spectator as her mouth said the words. Her voice seemed wavering and young to her own ears. Distantly, she wondered whether or not she would remember this as a particularly important day in her life in the future; all of a sudden, the future seemed to have disappeared into a torturous now. She could barely believe how long the present was stretching.

Loretta chuckled, her hands shaking slightly as she drew her lighter. “Yeah. The old bastard’s finally dead.”

“How?” It rang hollowly in her ears.

“Murder. What were you expecting?”

Lawrence quietly began to wheel Darla out of the room, nodding towards Loretta in respect. “Excuse me, Madam, but I think Miss Darla ought to have some time alone to recover from the shock. We don’t want her to have a fit.” Darla was breathing shallowly, her eyes wide open and looking at nothing, her fingers twisting in her skirt. She was fine – for the moment – but she wouldn’t be able to relax around her stepmother. Or cry. And the smoke would tax her lungs.

Loretta just shook her head, dragging deeply on her cigarette, as Lawrence wheeled his ward out of the room, down the hall to the elevator. Silently, he made a note to cancel his plans for ordering fruit. It looked like they wouldn’t be needing snacks, after all.

Eliot was worn out and depressed as he headed into downtown Mainline, a bundle of books cradled in one arm. Normally he loved his job – he was the senior research assistant for a professor at the Westwind College of the Arts (Dark Arts and Light both; Westwind University was famous for its library’s collection of original grimoires and holy books) and most of the time he was busy attending seminars and hunting down copies of rare texts. But the past few weeks had been a strain. It was always busy, this time of year, with the convention programs starting up, but it was extra difficult this year. Somehow, everything seemed to be going wrong – he lost his first two copies of the schedule, he couldn’t find his reading glasses, all of his nice clothes suddenly developed mysterious stains and wrinkles the minute he took them out of the closet, the new head of the department didn’t know how to organize things properly, his assistant was having family problems and wanted to take two weeks of vacation, and to top it off, the local police department was having a row with the campus police about security. Eliot had spent all day trying to gather up a list of requirements for space and materials for everyone’s presentations, so that the local department would okay the event and give them their fire safety approval. There was trouble – the chief of staff from campus police had done something, lord knows what, and now the entire local police department was doubling the time it took to get anything done in retaliation.

It was annoying, and a far cry from Eliot’s ideal work day. His ideal work day involved a kettle of tea, a stack of research books and a comfortable chair, a comfortable room, maybe even comfortable music. It definitely did not involve nasally, loud secretaries and gophering across town and having to deal with people outside his comfort zone. But that was over now. He had finished, he’d put in his twelve hours, it was time to relax.

The barista recognized him when he walked into the cafe; he had been coming here about twice a week for the past six years. “Lucy, get Mr. Peterson’s cocoa ready and send it to the usual table,” she hollered. A mousy-looking waitress hurriedly dashed behind the counter. The barista – her name was Martha – grinned at him and waved him along. “Your friend is here,” she drawled. “Looks like another late-nighter.”

Eliot smiled gratefully, and headed towards the window booths with an added spring in his step, the weight of the books no longer dragging on his shoulder. Charlene was waiting for him, looking up from her work with an expectant grin and cradling a cup of espresso.

“Hey there, Eliot. You look ... well, I’d like to say you’re looking good, but to be honest, you look like something the cat dragged in,” she said, as he plopped his armful of texts down and slid into the booth across from her. Their table was farthest from the door, but right up against the windows, and there was a nice view of the street.

“I feel like it, too,” he said. “Work has been an utter nightmare. Is it any better on your end?”

“Like heck,” Charlene said, rolling her eyes. “The entire department is on their toes – the chief is even more pissy than usual lately. Say a word in the office and she’ll snap around and just glare like you spat in her coffee.”

“I haven’t seen the professor in person for a few days. I’ve been busy setting up for the convention,” Eliot said, moving his stack of books to the side as the mousy waitress came over with his hot cocoa. He didn’t really like the taste of coffee – it was much too bitter.

Charlene rolled her eyes. “I wish I could say the same,” she said mutinously. “What have you brought today?”

“Some items from the stacks,” Eliot said, shrugging. “None of it’s source material. I just need to get acquainted with the field.”

“Let me see... ‘The Common Standard’, ‘An Inquiry Into the Nature of Magic’, ‘The Practicality of the Standard’, ‘On the Union of Science and the Art’, and ... ‘Threadz : Ten Embroidery Projects for the Intermediate Student’?” she said, grinning. “Well. Looks like a lot of heavy reading.”

“You may laugh, but a true gentleman cultivates his skills without shame,” Eliot said, sipping at his cocoa, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “A truly noble life is one lived in balance.”

Charlene rolled her eyes again. “Yeah, yeah, work and play,” she snorted. “I do that. I spend all day working and then I bring my work home with me. Adds a certain special twist to the experience.”

“Well, it’s probably not my place to criticize,” Eliot laughed. “I’m just as bad as you are.”

They read across from each other in companionable silence, every so often ordering a refill and complaining about the density of the text. Charlene’s papers were all police reports; she was one of two women in her office with a somewhat decent job, and so she tended to get swamped by the paperwork her coworkers neglected. At first they’d been trying to make her job difficult for her; these days it was just plain laziness. The only reason she took care of it was to get in good with her boss, the formidable lady Chief Nein.

The cafe was open until seven in the morning, but at about two, Eliot yawned, and smiled apologetically when Charlene looked up. “Sorry. I think I’m going to head back soon.”

“Before you go, I wanted to show you these weird business cards the office got in the mail,” Charlene said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a fistful of paper. “Check these out. ‘Knighthood’. Pretty odd organization, huh? They applied for a firearms license a few days ago. Got into some trouble.”

Eliot picked up one of the cards, curiously. “ ‘For Damsels In Distress, Be They Sufficiently Rich’,” he said, bemused. “Is it some sort of bodyguard service?”

Charlene held up her hands in similar bemusement. “Looks like it. Apparently they have offices all over the world. There’s contact information on the back, and a teleportation number, but no address.”

“Maybe it’s one of those international offices where only one of the offices is the real one,” Eliot suggested. “You know – the other storefronts are just doors to the actual store.”

“Cute,” Charlene grunted. “In that case, applying for a registration here would be more of a formality. They’ve probably already been approved in their other locations. Keep the card – I’ve got plenty.”

Eliot shrugged, and yawned again, stuffing the business card into his coat pocket as he stood up. Charlene helped him stack his books back into a pile, and he head out the door, two folded bills on the table to cover his drinks. Martha waved at him as he left.

Charlene sighed, and ordered another espresso. It was going to be a long night, and she still had about a quarter of her papers left to sort and complete and file.

All of a sudden, her phone rang. She sighed, half in irritation, half in reluctance. It was the station’s ringtone; her night owl habits were well known, so sometimes cops on duty would phone her up and ask for help with files. She practically ran the office, apart from Chief Nein. Still, at two in the morning, it was probably pretty damn urgent. Tomorrow – well, today, really – was her day off.

She picked it up on the fourth ring. “Agent Morrison speaking,” she drawled, twirling her mixing stick between her thumb and finger.

“Are you in the habit of taking half an hour to pick up the phone, Agent Morrison?” came the icy voice of her boss. Charlene froze for a moment, and then laughed nervously, holding the phone with her shoulder as she shoved her papers into her messenger bag.

“Not at all, Chief. Sorry about the wait. What’s going on?”

“Homicide. Thirteen hours cold.”

“... Oh. What does that have to do with me?”

“The victim’s a member of the mafia. I need every competent officer at the station as soon as possible.” Nein disconnected abruptly, and Charlene scrambled to pay her tab. It was starting to look like this would be a very, very long day.

Two hours later, Charlene was staring at a screen, watching Eliot stab a man with a briefcase, over and over again. The eyewitness reports – and there were several – lay in a stack beside her. Then she blinked, and shook her head. Nein looked at her, levelly, the frosty line of her mouth a clear question. Charlene gulped, and cleared her throat. “This is impossible. The suspect –“

“Eliot Cecil Peterson, age twenty-seven, occupation : academic,” Nein stated. “What about him?”

“Eliot couldn’t have done this. I know him personally – he’s a very kind, very shy person, totally devoted to his work – he embroiders, for Christ’s sake!” Charlene realized she was starting to shout, and coughed, reddening in the face. “He has no motive. I seriously doubt that that’s really Eliot in the video.”

Nein merely glanced at the eyewitness reports. “Funny,” she said, in a voice that seemed to assure the listener that there was absolutely nothing funny about the situation. “Some of the eyewitnesses were his co-workers. They identified him positively.”

“Interview them again,” Charlene said, awkwardly aware of how contrary she sounded. Nevertheless, she continued to press the issue. “Ask them about his behavior directly before the attack, and immediately afterwards. It won’t match up with his usual behavior, I’m sure of it.”

“Have you considered the possibility of a psychological breakdown?”

“Yes, and I’ve rejected it thoroughly on the grounds that I had been having coffee with him until about half an hour before I got your call,” Charlene said, desperately. “He was fine. He was utterly normal. Chief, you’ve got to let me –“

“I haven’t got to let you do anything, Agent Morrison,” Nein said, leaning back nonchalantly against the back of a chair. Charlene gaped at her wordlessly, and she broke into a tiny, unsettling smile. “But I’m assigning you to the case anyway. Good luck, Morrison.”

“T-thank you, ma’m,” Charlene stuttered, dazed. “I –“

“You actually don’t have much time,” Nein said, and the glint in her eyes became downright eerie. “I’m sure that the mafia’s bought the information off of one of our rather more pathetic employees by now. And the higher-ups are just starting to move. Our little friend Eliot,” here she nodded at the frozen frame on the screen, “is, as they say, toast.” She steepled her fingers, and Charlene shuddered. God, if the woman would just smoke or drink a cup of coffee or fiddle with a pen – anything but that terrible stare...

“Won’t he be taken into custody?” she heard herself asking in a small voice. Nein shrugged.

“Theoretically. But things rarely work that way in the real world, Morrison. In the real world, the higher ups owe the mafia for covering their sorry asses, and don’t often take the time for due process when they can pin the crime on someone and call it a day. My advice? Buy your friend some time.”

“T-thank you, Chief,” Charlene said, glancing to the door. Nein smiled.

“Better get moving,” she said calmly, and Charlene nearly ran.

“You’ve been framed – and framed but good – for the murder of a mafia don. I’m trying to prove your innocence, but I’m a girl and I don’t have enough fucking say in the matter to do anything before they shoot you – either my darling superior officers or the hit men. Eliot, you’ve got to run. I can’t protect you, but you’ve got to get to somewhere safe, and hidden, and for the love of God don’t use any goddamn magic, they’ll be able to trace you after the first use. Now.”

Eliot nearly dropped the phone. The message was still playing, but he didn’t really hear it. He’d been jolted out of bed – his cellphone hardly ever rang, and the caller ID was untraceable, so the ringtone wasn’t the one he was used to hearing.

He’d fallen asleep in his clothes; panicking, he shoved his arms into his coat and stepped into his clogs, looking around wildly as if every shadow in his room might hold an assassin after his life. He slipped his wallet into his coat pocket, and his fingers brushed a foreign object; his hand flinched back as if scalded. Carefully, he drew it out – it was the stupid business card Charlene had given him, for ... for damsels in distress! Hastily, he checked it over again, and to his surprise, he found a tiny footnote that he had missed in his earlier quick scan, attached to the Knighthood’s motto, right after the word ‘Damsels’. It read ‘and Occasionally Gentlemen’.

Eliot forced himself to pack up a few items of toiletry and clothing while he weighed his options. He didn’t have anyone to go to; he was an orphan, and had been taken under the wing of the orphanage’s head teacher, who had helped him wrangle his way into university. That teacher had died two years ago. Eliot was abruptly aware of the specter of Death hanging over him, and shivered. If Charlene couldn’t help him, he had no other options; he wasn’t exactly a party animal, and he never had been; she was his only friend. The two of them weren’t even that close. Eliot was hysterically grateful she was trying to help clear his name.

He also had no idea how to survive in the ‘real world’. He’d lived his entire life in the academic subculture of magical society; he wouldn’t be able to survive in the wild. Right now, the Knighthood seemed like a pretty good option to him.

His mind made up, he closed his phone with a snap, and shoved it into his pocket. Hastily, he picked up his messenger bag. It was filled with a few items of clothing, a fresh pair of socks, and his favorite books. Eliot swung it over his shoulder and settled the strap diagonally across his chest; the strap was caught and held in place by one of the buttons of his coat.

Feeling very much the fugitive, he snuck out of his apartment and left the key to the door under the welcome mat. He didn’t know when he’d be back – or if he’d ever be back. He’d lived here for at least six years, maybe more, he couldn’t remember exactly when he’d moved in – it was his home. It was the only real home he’d ever had; the other places he’d lived were always temporary. He had thought he’d be living here forever.

With tears in his eyes, he left the building. It was so early no one was out; Eliot realized, with a sort of mute horror, that the police would probably be here any minute to kill him. Under magical law, the police were licensed to kill murderers on sight. He had to assume that whoever had framed him had done an exceptionally good job, if they were already on his tail. The sirens would probably wake everyone up; they would question everyone in Eliot’s apartment building, and they would assume he was running because he was guilty. But what choice did he have? If he stayed, both the police and the mafia would be ready to shoot him on sight the minute they found him; having his name cleared would do him no good if he was already dead.

Shuddering, Eliot stepped into the teleportation booth and closed the door. The last of his spare change he dropped, echoing, into the coin slot; the screen turned a pleasant shade of aquamarine, waiting for him to enter a destination code. Belatedly, Eliot apologized mentally to Charlene; he was going to have to use magic to get out of here. Hopefully once he was at the Knighthood, he would be under some sort of protective custody. If not, well, he’d have to think quickly.

Hands shaking, he peered at the slip of paper in the dim light. The code was 4223; he entered it slowly, painstakingly, and then, jumping at the sound of an engine on the road, he hit ‘Enter’.

The world roared into a miasma of light and sound. It was terrifying; the teleporter had never made so much noise or light before. He was too startled and frightened to scream; instead, he screwed his eyes shut and clutched the railing, while the booth shook him like a wet rag. Was the Knighthood some sort of super-special destination? Was it millions of miles away? Why was this happening? His mind babbled at him like a hysterical parrot, drowned out by the roar of light and wind and the terrible jolting of the ground. It felt like the earth was being torn apart at the seams.

Mercifully, perhaps, when the booth ground to a halt, Eliot had quite lost consciousness.