Jiann shuffled over next to Orton, moving slowly. "Easy there, big fella. Ain't no need for violence at this point; we're all friendly-like now. Even if she ain't got the book, no harm done."

Cameron sniffed. "Ain't you know what us Texans do with zombies? Ain't like I was gonna let you live anyhow, you uppity ol' bastard. But you'll gimme the name afore you die." He thumbed back the hammer on his revolver. "In fact, you'll give it to me now, less you wanna see this lil' lady's brains a-splattered all over this alley."

The revenant shrugged, then cackled unpleasantly. "I hate to burst your bubble, cow-humper, but I ain't give a single shit about whether the kid's Lil' Dip lives or dies. If'n you want to ransom your hostage there, you'd best be talkin' to him; and he ain't got no power to compel me no more."

"Seems like we got us a bit of a stand-off, then." Cameron's steely eyes flicked to Orton. "Son, you and I ain't got no quarrel; but business is business, and I need the name your crusty brain-eatin' friend there has in his chewed-up head. So you best come up with some solution to our here shared conundrum, and right quick."

Orton's gaze jumped back and forth helplessly between the two men. "Shit. I, uh... fuck, seriously?"

Cameron regarded Orton and Jiann impassively; Jiann simply ignored him and focused on rearranging his shattered and torn physiology for greater comfort and mobility. Orton's pulse pounded in his ears; this was insane. Even with the revenant's true name, he couldn't compel a practitioner of his caliber, especially at his current power level; and he knew from past experience that any attempt to put anything over on Cameron would only earn him a bullet to the face. He couldn't believe how shitty his luck was today.

Unexpectedly, Enna's quavering voice broke the silence. "Um... c-could I say something?"

Cameron laughed -- a dry, unpleasant sound -- as he wrapped his arm around her throat and swiveled his revolver to point at Orton. "You go right ahead, little lady. I for one am lookin' forward to what you have to contribute to this here conversation."

All the blood drained out of Orton's face. Don't do it, he pleaded at her silently. He'll kill you!

"Ahem. Oh. Ah... well, it's j-just one word." Abruptly, her voice was replaced by something much deeper and more primal. "Ouragan."

The world exploded.

Out of nowhere, a towering blast of wind tore the four of them apart; an ocean's worth of water slapped into them as the calm night was transformed, in an instant, into the heart of a furious hurricane. Orton went flying, brushed aside like a leaf before the force of the wind, and slammed into the wall of the alley with enough force to rattle his teeth.

Shaken, he struggled to his feet, trying to shield his face against the onslaught of gale-driven rain. Holy shit. Baton Rouge is like, a hundred miles inland!

He couldn't see Cameron anywhere; Jiann's crumpled form was barely distinguishable from a trash pile, nearly invisible in the storm despite being less than five feet away. But he could see one thing clearly; Enna, right in front of him, the huge tome of Les Formes Élargies de l'Esprit - Au-Delà du Matériel clamped tight against her body with both arms. Her eyes bored into his; full of rage, hope, fear, and longing. His breath caught in his throat.

She's running.

In a flash, he understood everything. Her restlessness, her warring moments of affection and rejection, her burgeoning resentment and eventual betrayal in the previous timeline. She didn't need him. She'd never needed him.

And the problem was, she was right. He'd been helping her, but he'd also been holding her back. If she could summon a category-five hurricane with one nonmagical word as a mortal-tier neophyte, her power was like nothing he could even imagine. If she reached the fifth tier of mastery, she'd be godlike. She could crush Gentry like a bug.

And the world right along with him.

A thousand protests screamed in Orton's throat: It's too dangerous! You don't know enough! You'll Fade! But in his heart, he knew the truth. He wasn't afraid of what would happen to her. He was afraid of what would happen to him.

I still have so much to teach you.

There's so much risk letting you go.

I need you.

All he had to do was say one word. She'd stay. She'd help him get away out of the hurricane, give him the book, and do as he instructed -- after all, he was her only link to the world she'd left behind. She'd dutifully learn every lesson, faithfully obey his Obi-Wan-like taskings, and be the perfect apprentice. She'd sneak into his bed when she was lonely, and give him the affection and human connection he'd never had in any of his previous loops. Right up until she couldn't take his crap anymore. And then they'd be right back where they'd failed last time.

It took every ounce of willpower he had -- and his willpower was very weak at the moment, most of it having been consumed to power his reified sword. But he had just enough to raise his hand. Just enough to look into her eyes and tell her he understood.

Just enough to let her go.

Without a word, she vanished into the storm. And Orton sagged back against the wall, fighting against the breaking pain in his heart, for a period of time he couldn't measure.

Later, after Jiann had dragged him away, he found himself in a liquor store; he seriously considered sampling something. The revenant, his hideous undead face twisted in a grimace, worked hard to shake the water out of his various cavities and orifices. "Damn, but that sorta drizzle is rough on these old dead bones."

"Quit milking it," Orton coughed. "You've only been undead for like, fifteen minutes." He staggered to his feet. "Thanks for saving me, though."

"Din't do it for you, squirt. Like I said, I like havin' a world under my feet." The revenant waved dismissively at the proprietor, who kept peeking at them; Orton imagined that Jiann probably just looked like a normal old man to regular humans. "That said, we should probably take a lil' vacation from each other."

"That's the best idea you've had yet." Orton shoved his hands in his pockets. "We're still Entangled, I guess; we'll find each other again when we need to. Any idea where you'll go?"

The sorcerer's corpse scratched its head contemplatively. "Here, for a bit, at least; got a few loose ends to wrap up. Then prolly head up north. I had a line on an Inuit artifact I was thinkin' about sniffin' around for."

"Sounds good. I got plenty of boxes to tick off overseas." Orton thought about going back to the house he'd shared with Enna for his bag, and decided against it. There was nothing there he couldn't reacquire with a few months of dedicated bookstore perusal in New York, and he'd pass through there on his way out east anyway. He rooted around behind a few bottles of vodka and grunted with satisfaction as his questing hand closed on a tarnished silver chain.

"Damn, you just leave that lying around in a liquor store?" cackled Jiann as Orton strung the amulet around his neck once more.

"Don't judge me," said Orton tiredly. "Anytime I have to deal with you, I always know I'll be needing a drink afterwards."

In the end, he left town with nothing but his clothes, the amulet, and Enna's knife. It was better this way, he supposed, as he watched the city recede into the distance through his bus seat window -- a clean break, minimal entanglements for all of them, and fewer distractions on all of their respective training. Enna would be fine on her own -- he had to believe that. The book would provide her at least a little structure and inspiration, and she'd figure out the ugly truths of Fading on her own, one way or another. It was out of his hands. And they were still Entangled too; she'd find him if she needed him, and not before.

He hoped he'd seen the last of Cameron, though. What an asshole.

About three miles out into Lake Pontchartrain, a fisherman was having a very bad Monday evening.

Everyone had been warned about the hurricane days in advance, of course; it wasn't like the weather folks would just drop the ball. But people had to eat, and work carried on, even in the face of a category 5; only an idiot would be out on the water during a hurricane, but the sooner you got back out there after it passed, the better your chances of getting a jump on the other bastards that worked your area. And it looked like his gamble had paid off, for once; his net was full of something very, very heavy.

He dragged it up onto the deck, straining to see through the rain that was still sheeting down, and dumped it out to have a look. It wasn't until his catch produced a big-ass gun and croaked "Back up, afore I blow your damn fool head off," that he realized he wasn't going to make a big profit after all.