"Do you have to knock me on my ass every time?" Sitting on the cold ground, I glared across the yard at Donovan, whose broad smile showed that he was having far more fun than I was.

"You need to be quicker," He said, standing about fifteen feet from me, the remnants of the air weave that had sent me tumbling to the ground, still lingering in front of him.

"I'm trying," I muttered under my breath as I slowly stood up, rubbing my lower back.

I’d felt exhausted this morning, and Maggie had let me stay home from school, but that hadn't stopped Donovan from showing up after school, insisting on following through with his promise to teach me how to defend myself. Maggie hadn’t been too pleased about his arrival, and I was surprised when she didn’t immediately send him away. But she hadn’t said no. Instead, she’d watched silently as Donovan and I headed to the far end of the backyard, outside the range of the security wards.

For the past hour, he’d thrown weave after weave at me, while I tried desperately to shield his attacks, and it wasn't going well. The first time I’d found myself flat on my back, staring at the sky before I even had a chance to touch my awen. Now, I at least usually had the shield mostly formed before his weave sent me sprawling on the ground. I had managed to get the shield in place, once, but it had so many holes it might as well not have been there at all.

It was frustrating because I was actually good at shields. Shielding someone else's awen was what allowed me to get them across the veil. I’d considered myself an expert at that weave, but I’d always been slow and meticulous when constructing them since one small crack would doom my charges to a horrifying death. Throwing one together on the fly, and slamming it in place was proving to be another exercise entirely.

"You have got to get that shield in place Des, or you'll have no idea what’s coming your way," Donovan said, for what felt like the hundredth time.

He wasn't entirely correct. Since I could see his awen and the weaves he was spinning, I was well aware of what was coming my way. There just wasn't time to do anything about it. It might have been better if I couldn’t see what he was doing. Watching him spin his awen made it hard for me to focus on my own, and the closer he got to completion, the more anxious I grew, and the more disjointed my own efforts became; resulting in sloppy, half-formed shields that did absolutely nothing in the way of blocking him.

He was trying to teach me the defensive method of fighting he said the Vanguard used, where your first step was always to shield your opponent, turning the confrontation into a purely physical one on their part. It made a lot of sense. You had no idea what another Tuathan was capable of, so stopping their magic and limiting them to physical responses only was a solid strategic move, or would be if I had any combative skills to follow it up with. Donovan planned to work on that too, but insisted the shielding came first.

"You know you could try holding back a little, at least on the first day.” I said, slowly getting to my feet. “Even Mr. Miyagi let Daniel wax a few cars before he threw the first punch. How did you get so good at this anyway?" I grumbled, some of the irritation that had been lying under the surface bubbling forth.

When I left, he hadn't been any better with spellcraft than I was. The proficiency test we took our freshman year had placed his ability a little lower than my own, and I had trouble making even some of the most basic spells strong enough to actually do anything. Yet here he was forming weaves of air insanely fast and sending a current that was strong enough to knock me off my feet. With weaving like this, he should have exhausted his awen in the first twenty minutes.

"I told you, I’ve been practicing," he said, with a noncommittal shrug.

I know he said he’d been practicing, but it shouldn’t have made him this much better. Raw ability still mattered, and it wasn’t like he’d found a workaround as I had with my marbles. These weren’t new, easier weaves, he’d learned or crafted. These were the same basic ones from the proficiency test that we both practically failed.

My mother had always insisted finesse could make up for lack of power. With enough training, dexterity could replace innate ability to some degree. Still, no amount of practice was going to allow me to call lightning from the sky, and I had serious doubts that practice was what was responsible for Donovan's new-found abilities. It was more likely that he had acquired some kind of enhancement charm and just didn't want to admit it. They were rare and cost a fortune since no one had had the strength or ability to make one in centuries, but with his father's position, it wasn’t out of his reach. Donovan seemed to have a bit of a vain streak now, and if he didn't want to admit he had a little help, well, that was his business.

"Can you at least be a little gentler about it? You don't have to knock me down every time.”

"Sorry, but doing it fast takes away some of the control. I can switch to water if you want," he said with a grin. I had no doubts he would love soaking me to the bone.

I shook my head. The sun was already starting to set, and the November air held a chill that my sweatshirt was barely keeping out as it was. Cold, sore, and wet; no thanks.

"Can we just call it a night?"

"It's still early." He glanced at his watch with a sigh. "With that thing from the party and the Shifter, I would think you'd take this a little more seriously, Des."

"I am taking this seriously. I wish you’d stop saying that I’m not," I said, turning to stomp back towards the house.

"I’m sorry," he said, following behind me.

“And stop saying you're sorry.” I stopped, turning around to glare at him. “How many times have you said that to me already over the last few days. Half a dozen? Why don’t you try not doing things that you have to be sorry for?”

"You know, you’re right,” he said, stepping closer and leaning towards me until he was only inches away from my face. “I shouldn’t be apologizing because I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry that I’m finding it a little difficult to forgive and forget. You ran off without a word, not even a hey I’m okay and not dead in a ditch somewhere postcard. And then you come waltzing back without so much as an explanation or an apology. And despite all that, here I am, disobeying my father’s direct order to stay the hell away from you. Spending my free time trying to help you stay alive, and you don't seem to even really care. You didn't even have the courtesy to tell me what was going on yourself," he finished defensively.

“I’m sorry.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Screaming in frustration, I turned and started running the rest of the way towards the house. He was right; I’d been unkind, even cruel, leaving the way I did. Amber and I might have been closer, but deep down, I’d known that Donovan had needed me more. Needed someone that liked him for who he was, though it wasn’t who his father wanted him to be. Someone that made him feel worthwhile. How much could I have really valued our friendship, valued him, if I’d been willing to treat him like that?

I had just reached the steps when he grabbed my elbow, stopping me.

“Des, please don’t run away from me again.”

“Donovan, I can’t make up for what I did. It was selfish and hurtful, and all I can say is that I am truly sorry; as trite as that might sound right now. I don’t know what I can do or say to make things better.”

"Why did you leave?" he asked.

"What, your father hasn't already told you?" I sounded more bitter than I’d intended and immediately regretted it when a hurt look flashed across his face.

"Whatever," he said, letting go of my elbow and turning to leave.

It was my turn to stop him from storming off. “Don’t go. I didn’t mean it like that. I truly thought you already knew,” I pleaded, grabbing a handful of his sweatshirt.

“It doesn’t matter what I know; I want to hear what you have to say,” he said, turning back to me.

Walking over to the back porch, I sat down on the bottom stair and wrapped my arms around my knees. He hesitated only a moment before sitting next to me.

"I don't know what my Mother did or where she is; dead or in prison probably," I said, without turning to look at him. "All I know is that her name isn't Carolyn Cradle, or it wasn't until about fifteen years ago. A stolen name to go with a made-up life.” I could feel fresh warm tears forming, and I quickly brushed them aside. God, it seemed like I do nothing but cry lately. “I suddenly didn't know who I was, and I did the only thing I could think of, I ran away, away from myself as much as anything else."

"You could have come to me. I would have helped you," he said, his voice soft, and I could feel him looking at me.

"There was nothing you could do," I said. "There was nothing anyone could do." I amended when I felt his body stiffen.

"Maybe, but you could have given me a chance," he said. "Maybe I can help you now."

"With the creature or Shifter? No, leave that up to the Vanguard," I said quickly.

"No, not them, with your Mother."

How could he help me with that? "Do you know what happened to her?" I asked, my breath catching in the back of my throat. No, if he knew he would have already said something. He wasn’t spiteful. He wouldn’t keep that secret no matter what I’d done to him.

"No, but we can find out."

"How?" I was suspicious of what he thought we could do. From the way he was looking at me, I was pretty sure I wasn't going to like it.

"Your house is still mostly as you left it. Most of your Mom's stuff was moved to the archives, but some of its still there. Wards secure the perimeter, but the inside should be clear. If you're as good at using the veil as I've heard, we should be able to go right in."

I had never crossed over inside before, but it really shouldn't be any different than outside. I found myself thinking of where the best entry spot would be before coming to my senses.

"No," I said, more forcefully than I meant to.

"Why not?" Donovan asked.

"I'm already on thin ice; I can't be adding breaking an entry," I said, shocked that I even had to explain my refusal. "Maybe after everything clears up with the shifter, I could risk it but not now. I don't have a big-name Daddy to keep me out of hot water."

"It's not breaking and entering. It's your house," he said, ignoring my jibe.

"It's under guard whether the guards are physically there or not. I can't claim I didn't know I wasn't supposed to be there. Besides, I'm being tracked," I said, pulling up the sleeve of my sweatshirt before I remembered that he couldn't see the bonding weave etched on my skin.

I saw a thin trickle of his awen move across my arm as he reached out to examine the mark. It tingled slightly as he carefully probed at it.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I said, pulling my arm back. I hoped Emily wasn't able to feel that he was messing with it.

"It's a pretty simple weave," he said, once I pulled down my sleeve.

“I watched her put it on; it is not a simple weave,” I said.

"Okay, the weave’s not simple, but the strands holding it in place are, I'm pretty sure I could remove it and anchor it to something else for a while, no one would be the wiser."

He sounded confident, but I didn’t want to believe him. It had been my last-ditch excuse for not going, and I didn't like seeing it shredded. The truth was I was scared. Not only of what I might find, but of even opening that door which I’d closed over a year ago. My mother was gone, and whatever she’d been doing was bad enough that a year and a half later, our house was still effectively under quarantine.

"I just can't risk it." I could hear the desperation in my voice-A plea for him to understand.

"It's a chance to find out what happened, possibly the only chance," he said, getting up. I could see the disappointment in his eyes as he looked down at me. “What happened to you Des, this is your mother we’re talking about, how can you be so indifferent?”

I reached out to grab his arm again, but he pulled back and quickly walked away. I thought about going after him, but there was nothing I could say or do to stop him other than agree to go, and I just couldn't do it. My mother was dead, and as bad as it sounds, I needed to believe that. He'd have to understand eventually.