Zac tried to stay alert after the Initiative men wandered off. There was still a Slasher unaccounted for, although Skye did not appear to be too concerned about it. Despite his best efforts, though, he felt himself drifting into the floating mists of Elvin rest. He leaned against a concrete pillar, well aware that only the condensation damp surface was keeping him upright. 

There was the sound of an engine, and a van stopped in front of them. Zac caught Skye’s wrist and pulled her behind him. They would not take the child. He couldn’t do much, but he was still standing. He would make that be enough. 

“Zac!” Skye was shouting. Had been shouting his name. For how long? 

He focused on her face, on the blood drying on her cheek. She wasn’t getting hurt again. 

“Zac,” her voice was softer now that he was looking at her. “It’s okay. This is my... friend. Kind of. He’s safe. Come on, we’ve got to get in the van.”

Zac remembered the last van. The burning, the fog of drugs in his blood. He shook his head and fought to focus. Skye needed him to be alert. 

“Hang on a second, Murg,” Skye called into the van. 

She rested her hands on Zac’s shoulders, and he tried to pretend that her support was only moral. 

“You need a safe place to rest,” she said. “I know a place, but it’s too far to walk. Murgatroyd is a good man. I trust him to get us there safely.”

“Okay.”

Zac let Skye move him towards the van, and was unspeakably relieved to see a paint splattered bench seat. Not exposed steel floors. She was right; it was safe.

Skye was speaking again, but Zac lost the thread of her words, again fighting off a wave of exhaustion that threatened to carry him into true sleep. The world went foggy and soft and he soon found himself secured to the seat with a seat belt. He shifted uncomfortably and found that he was sitting on the gun Skye had loaned him. He tapped her shoulder and offered it to her. 

“Holy crap! You gave him your gun?” 

Zac looked around for the source of the voice and realized it was the driver. What was his name? Skye had just said it. 

Zac missed Skye’s response, but it must have been sufficient for the stranger because he heard the engine shift from idle to active driving, and the world outside shifted in a way that had more to do with velocity than Zac’s increasing vertigo. He twisted so that his less injured side was resting against the seat and let his head loll against the headrest. 

He didn’t mean to drift off but the car’s steady motion and the soft rhythm of Skye’s and the driver’s voices lulled him. Everything ached and he was just so tired. It wasn’t like he could do anything useful at the moment. Zac’s eyes fluttered closed and the next thing he knew, the van had stopped and the two humans had twisted around in their seats to watch him. 

“I didn’t think elves slept,” the driver said. 

Had Skye told him Zac was an elf? She had said he was trustworthy, but still. 

“They do when they’re injured, or exhausted, or a lot of both,” Skye said. “Zac, do you think you can walk just a little bit? We’re here.”

He turned to look out the van’s window. They were in a suburban neighborhood, with dozens of near identical beige and pale lavender houses lining the street. It could be any of a dozen similar neighborhoods in town. Why had Skye brought him here?

She’d asked him a question. He should answer. But what was the question? Oh, right, could he walk. 

“Yeah,” Zac said. “I can walk.”

For just a second there, as he staggered out of the van, Zac thought maybe he’d lied to the girl. But no, his legs held him. He had to go slow, and he appreciated the shoulder Skye offered in support, but he could walk. 

“Thanks, Murg,” Skye said to the driver of the van. “Tell Jake he’ll get my report.”

“When you’re good and ready, yeah,” the driver said, “No worries.”

“Right. And, uh. Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone to ground. I need a little time,” Skye said. 

“Sure, no problem.” 

Murg, what an odd name, drove off leaving Zac and Skye alone on an otherwise empty street. A look up and down the street showed that most denizens were either already at work, or more likely sleeping in because he was pretty sure it was Saturday now. 

Skye led Zac up the sidewalk and along the nearest walkway to one of the more lilac shaded houses. It was a pleasant little home, with a slightly overgrown garden framing a faded white porch. Zac stumbled up the steps even with Skye’s help. He rested against one of the support columns while Skye stood frozen in front of the door.

“Skye?” Zac asked when she’d stared at the door for a solid minute.

She turned back towards him and gave a tiny shrug before retreating to the steps.

“Just, uh. Knock on the door. Tell them I sent you. They’ll think you mean my ghost. They’ll help you.”

“Wait,” Zac said. “Tell who?”

He had a pretty good idea who she meant. But he didn't want to believe it.

“My parents," Skye said.

Zac reached out and caught her arm. She jerked to a stop before she dragged him face first down the stairs. 

“No,” he said. “I can't lie to them."

Professor Rowan, her father, had always been kind to him. Even broken by grief, the man remained gentle and patient. That was a rare and precious thing. Zac refused to give such a man more pain.

“You have to. It’s... it’s not safe.” Skye pulled her arm free and gripped her other arm. Her voice trembled.

“For whom?” Zac asked.

“Zac.” Skye shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t face them after what I...” Her voice trailed off, helpless and pleading.

Zac shook his head. “We’re already here. Come on. It’s time you went home.”

“I can make you let me go," Skye said. She probably thought it sounded like a threat.

Zac shrugged. “Probably. I’m in no fit shape to fight a flea. But you won’t. You’re not that kind of person.”

“You don’t know what kind of person I am," Skye's voice was barely a whisper.

“You’re the kind of person who risks her life to save men who hate you just for existing," Zac said.

“I didn’t do it for them," Skye said.

“You did it because you couldn’t let that creature loose to hurt who knows how many innocents,” Zac said. “You did it to protect the people in this house.”

Skye shrugged.

Zac took her hand and pulled her up the stairs. She allowed it, and stepped onto the porch beside him. Zac knew part of her cooperation was because she knew any physical struggle would knock him on his ass. Zac knew part of it was because she wanted so desperately to go home.

Skye stood by the door. Her hand drifted up, brushed against the sun warmed wood, and fell to her side.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“I’ve seen you fight a living nightmare with nothing but a pocket knife and rage,” Zac said, “and you hesitate to knock on a door?”

Skye looked away, silent. 

“All right,” Zac said, softening his tone. He wrapped one arm over her shoulders and reached out. It was, after all, only a door to him. He knocked, and waited. 

The door creaked open to reveal a petite, blonde woman whose face showed what Skye might mature into one day. Her eyes were pale blue and her hair was more golden, but otherwise she and her daughter were nearly identical. The same narrow chin, the same button nose. The same pained shadows behind a puzzled frown.

“Hello, can I help... you...” Her voice trailed off as she saw who supported Zac’s weight. 

The woman’s eyes glistened with tears that didn’t dare to fall, and one hand stretched out, almost but not quite touching Skye’s cheek. 

“Are you," the woman's voice choked, the last word came out as a breath, "real?"

Skye nodded silently.

The woman’s hands flew to cover her mouth, stifling a soft cry. The tears began to trickle over her cheeks. 

Under Zac’s arm, Skye’s shoulders trembled. 

“Rose? Who is it?” a man's soft voice asked from within the house. 

Professor Rowan stepped into the doorway behind his wife, and froze. A choked sound came from his throat, but no words.

Skye swallowed heavily, and whispered, “Mom. Dad. I’m sorry. I... I’m sorry.”

Zac tried to step away, to give the family a moment of privacy. Skye’s grip was too tight to let him slip free, though, and his movement caught Professor Rowan’s attention.

“Zac, what are you doing here?” he asked, quickly followed by, “What happened to you? You’re hurt!”

He reached for Zac, who stumbled as he was drawn into the house. He had a vague impression of plush carpet and a wall of family photos before he found himself settled in a brightly lit kitchen that smelled warmly of french toast and coffee. 

“He’s had a pretty rough night,” Skye’s voice came from somewhere to Zac’s left.

The little Reaper was a master of understatement.