he rat glared with beady black eyes at the broken man's approach before scurrying away into the darkness, a lone vestige of life among the dusty bones of death.

Richard McAllister ignored the rodent's departure and scanned the tunnel ahead while his other senses probed the deep shadows, a ghost given the substantive aspect of life. All was still. Faint light from the city filtered through small squares of glass set in the sidewalk above, illuminating the subterranean remains of unhinged wooden doors, beams of rusted steel, and piles of dirt and mummified refuse. Ancient brick from the turn of the last century lined the building's wall on his left, its windowless panes gaping maws of mystery; on his right, the retaining wall of the city street's foundation was thick and mortared, impervious and unyielding. All was covered in dust and aged spider webs. The constant dripping of water in the distance was his only assurance time had not frozen altogether.

He grew more accustomed to the weak light. It had been weeks since he had been called here, but it was as it had been for the two decades he had watched over it—a forgotten world by all save a few.

And those who existed in the other world.

Wiping sweaty palms on dirtied denim jeans, the man moved forward to catch unaware and vulnerable what had entered his ward, his tight-laced, heavy boots barely a whisper on the uneven concrete floor. Despite wearing a thick red-and-black checkered flannel shirt and thermal underwear, he was still chilled by what he might encounter. In all the years he had guarded this city, it never got any easier.

He scratched the silvered black stubble that clung to his gaunt cheeks. He knew how unappealing he looked. The emaciated tall frame. The dark circles under his eyes. The haunted stare and weathered cheeks. The working people and visitors who walked the city's streets saw the homelessness in his face and turned away at a glance, ignoring his existence.

But they saw something else too, dark knowledge they cowered from, a deep well shadowing his eyes and possessing all of the world's harshest and most rare hardships.

Unlike his street brethren who designated Seattle's Pioneer Square home—or the Bricks as it was called—he had a true purpose for living the life of the destitute and derelict, and that purpose stretched millennia and was unfathomably frightening to the common person.

He took his time down the passage, his left hand balled into a fist while his right remained open and free, ready for anything. Peering into every darkened cranny, he took his time. Something had come through around midnight; he didn't know where it was or what it was, but he had to make sure it did not get past him. In the past, only two had, and he regretted those failures every day of his life.

"Where are you?" Richard hissed to the air, jaw muscles clenched.

No response came. The air was as dead as when he'd entered.

He had entered the warrens beneath the city through a door existing at the bottom of a narrow staircase connected to the street above. With a word and a touch he had learned from the old man, the locked door was unlocked, giving him access where others would not go during the nighttime. The darkness of the building had embraced him as he left behind slumbering friends wrapped in sleeping bags, the odor of exhaust and garbage, and watchful police. The world that had disappeared with Seattle's rebuilding after the Great Fire greeted him—its smells musty and touch deathlike—and, with the exception of an underground tour catering to sightseers during the day, no one ventured into these environs. The world of boss and employee, government and political party, kings, presidents, dictators, and subjects was left behind.

Here, no such hierarchies existed. You were either hunter or hunted—or dead. The roles changed, even the latter one at times, but they were the only ones that existed.

Richard gave his life to keep the two worlds separate.

He was about to turn the tunnel's corner to continue his hunt, navigating the debris on what used to be Seattle's sidewalks, when the echo of deep voices reached him from behind.

Anger flooded him. In his haste, he hadn't relocked the door.

And put innocent lives in danger.

In the next second, two thin shadows separated themselves from the gloom of the backward tunnel, hesitantly stepping into Richard's view.

"Ya down here, Rick?" one asked, white eyes gleaming from a black face bearing a scraggly beard.

Richard pressed his back against the cold brick of the tunnel wall. "Leave, Al," he growled backward. "You too, Walker. Now."

"Letz git outta here, man," Walker intoned, his haggard pale face smudged with dirt and stubble, the haze of drug addiction slackening his jowls and giving his hands the characteristic palsy of awaiting the next fix. "Dis place given me jeebies."

"Shuddup, Wakkah," Al said, shaking his friend's coaxing hand from his shoulder. "You a gurl or sumthin'?"

"It's dangerous," Richard intoned firmly, moving to escort them back to the surface, a cold sweat springing up on his skin.

"Whatcha doin down here?" Al questioned, ignoring Richard and looking around. "Nuthin down here but dem rats. Warmah though, spose."

"You know not what you do."

Richard had almost reached them when the sharp scraping of claws against stone chased him through the air, followed by a low, reverberating growl. He spun, unsure of what he would find, his eyes probing the darkness of the ceiling and the corner ahead for any sign of the sound's maker. It wasn't immediately evident; nothing had changed in the tunnel. All appeared as it had for decades. But suddenly the odor of new fog coupled with dewy grass, purple lilacs, and vibrant growing vines and trees filled the air, overwhelming the underground's century of misuse, the precursor to what he knew was coming for them.

The growl came again—nearer—painful to Richard's ears with its implications.

"Whatz dat?" Al asked, taking a step backward, his voice a deep warble of fear.

"Get the hell out, Al!" Richard yelled furiously, his focus fixed on the tunnel before him.

As his order echoed throughout the subterranean confines, he caught movement where the tunnel veered to the left into the new passage, a sooty smudge that grew impossibly large as it came into their tunnel.

"Little man things," a deep voice snarled. Its features were still hidden by the gloom. "Where do you leave to?"

"Nowhere," Richard replied, planting himself between the creature and the two homeless men. "And neither are you."

A mewling hiss punctuated the air like released steam, a mocking laugh of self-assurance he did not like. The outline of the creature became more distinct as it entered the purplish light: broad shoulders and thickly muscled haunches, rounded head with stubby ears, long-limbed and covered in short, black fur. Its large padded paws bore it silently across the floor like a tiger on the prowl. Elegant grace permeated power with each languid step, belying its size, followed by a whip-like tail; a white mark like a crescent moon blazed from its barrel-like chest. It was alone, but it was a creature that hunted alone. Richard knew what it was—had at one time fought its kind before and had the scars along his abdomen and thigh to prove it—and he knew he wasn't going to have an easy time of it now either.

"What da fu—" Al whispered behind Richard. Frozen, Walker sobbed.

"Shut up, both of you!"

The cat looked past Richard with keen interest. "You brought me fresh meat."

Richard kept his gaze firm, ready to call his need into reality. "Begone, cait sith."

"No weapon," growled the creature, grinning fangs like daggers. The cat's ears flicked at every sound as if they had minds of their own. "You are either over-confident or faithless. Both will see you dead."

"Return to your world," Richard said. He didn't like how frail his own voice sounded. "This one is no longer your own."

"And you hold no authority over me, knight." This last word came out as a cursing spat. "I serve—"

"A master who has no authority here." Richard braced his need and faith, prepared for the inevitable. "Not any longer. He chose his path centuries ago. Let him rot there."

Two pinpricks of sharp crimson light flared in the beast's eyes, live embers ready to consume. "He will not be denied."

Richard said nothing; there was nothing else to say.

But something not quite right plagued him. Cait siths were cunning and intelligent but rarely spoke; they preferred lethal action to words. This one continued conversation where another cat would have already attacked.

What was going on? Seconds ticked by.

The cat growled low then and roared. "You are weak! Your friends will die as you die!"

"Find out how weak," he shot back.

The cait sith's tail flicked infuriatingly as muscles bunched in knotted patterns beneath its black coat, its eyes never leaving those of the man before it. A part of Richard agreed with the creature—he was weak. He knew it. The faith needed to sustain him came and went, a light bulb with a short in its electrical wiring. Now could be a time it went dark.

Either sensing his thoughts or deciding their exchange was fruitless, the giant cat leapt into motion, a blur of black rippling fur and terrible promise. Giant paws clawed at the concrete, its fangs bared. Gimlet eyes bore into Richard as the beast came on, a massive hulk of muscle, bone, and fury.

Richard took an involuntary step back, but then held his ground. The tunnel with its dead air dropped away. The screams of Al and Walker—even the cat's growls—melted into a rush of white noise. The beast and the hungry, feral gleam in its eyes were all that remained.

He reached across the tenuous fabric between the two worlds, a call of heart and faith that was his right—that had been bestowed upon him by the old man.

Nothing happened.

Panic almost froze him in place. The giant cat was immediately upon him, leaping with claws extended. Richard ducked to the side, letting the cat fly past, his scream of heightened worry mixed with defiance inhuman in his own ears. Searing pain flared to life along his left arm as he spun like a top from the slashing assault, knocking him backward and to his knees. Grime, ancient dust, and his own fear filled his nostrils. He gritted his teeth and in a fluid motion turned to again confront his foe.

The cait sith bound through a window in the brick building, melting into blackness.

Al and Walker cowered fifteen feet away—the former with a crazed look while the latter continued to weep.

A rumbling laugh filled the underground.

"Weak knight," his enemy mocked, gone from view. "Your corpse will be my trophy back through the gateway."

Richard straightened, still on his knees. He would not fail; he would not let his friends die. Ribbons of liquid fire ran along his arm, soaking his shirt, but he barely felt the wound. A white-hot pressure arose inside, quick and sustaining, coming from the depths of his chest, mind, and even from without. It blossomed as a tingling sensation and spread outward into his limbs. The pain dulled; the shock disappeared. It was not anger or vengeance that came over him. It was the calm that came with his Order's service—giving up his own desires and embracing his faith to protect others in need.

He reached back into the other world.

Where empty air had filled his hand a moment earlier, a broadsword with ancient druidic runes flowing from its hilt and along its blade materialized into existence, its length smooth and polished, its silver filigreed handle cool under his grip.

The magic of two worlds filled him, encased him like an invisible armor, sent azure fire through his being, made him the guardian he should have been the moment the creature came through.

To the side, Al and Walker backed away from him, passing one of the windows.

"Don't move!" Richard screamed, regaining his feet.

Before they could stop themselves, the cait sith burst through the opening.

With a thought, the runes flared white and blue fire lanced from Richard's sword toward the beast. It struck the creature in mid-air, tossing it aside like a rag doll before it could reach the men.

The cait sith crashed to the heavy stone of the floor, howls of pain and anger filling the tunnel. Back on its paws before its burning fur was extinguished, it charged Richard instead, knowing its true enemy.

Richard brought his power to bear. Blinding fire filled the passage again. The cait sith dodged it, faster and more nimble than a cougar, and with a great leap pummeled him against the brick wall with its immensity.

Richard collided with jarring force, his eyes darkening for a second, and he sank to a pile of broken bricks. The cait sith was on him, tearing. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Richard kept his focus on the sword before him, keeping the fire that ran along its length between himself and his foe, a protective shield of his soul's making.

The cat tried to fight through the defense even as its fur singed, the reek of burning flesh thick and pungent. But despite its ferocity, the cait sith's raking claws and fangs could not break through Richard's magic. The cait sith pressed inward, the glare from its maddened red eyes burning into Richard; it would not let him free and would die to see him destroyed.

But even as Richard was protected, his strength waned. The called fire took a toll on him physically and spiritually, sapping his strength. He had to end this.

The cat was nearly close enough to rend Richard's neck when its head suddenly jerked as if struck from behind and the creature's weight left Richard.

Beyond the cait sith, Al stood, his black skin glossy with sweat and conviction raging in his eyes. In his grimy hands, a long, heavy pipe was poised for another strike.

"Get off 'em, devil," Al screamed, and swung again.

Maddened, the cat knocked the pipe from his hands and pounced, leaving Richard free. Al's screams soon changed from the anger of a man possessed to the anguish of one being torn apart. With its back turned to him, Richard sent the sword's fire raging into the beast, knocking it off the helpless man.

The cait sith slammed against the tunnel's thickly mortared wall; the hollow crack of breaking bones overwhelmed Al's sobs. The cat did not get up.

Richard was on the beast in a moment, a surge of certainty giving him strength. With the tip of his blade, he pinned the creature to the rubble at its neck. Blue fire singed the cait sith as the sword's point sank into its fur, but Richard knew it could not feel the heat or the blood he drew; the cat had broken vertebrae. It was no longer a threat.

Behind Richard, Al was weeping, his clothing rent and bloodied. He gasped for breath.

"I'll make this quick, cat," Richard grated. "Why did you come through the gateway?"

"Too late," the cait sith wheezed. It bled from dozens of wounds, and most of its chest and forelegs had been reduced to smoldering flesh. Its right foreleg twitched weakly as though palsied. "You failed. The death rattle of your religion's heart is before you. Look."

Richard followed the cat's eyes. Where the stairway to the city above began, four furtive shapes not much larger than robins flew in the shadows around the rusted pipes of the arched ceiling. He sent fire in a burst toward them, frustrated with himself they had gotten past him in the fight. They rushed forward, chittering. Lagging behind, the last tiny creature burst into sapphire flame as if doused in kerosene. The rest escaped, gone almost as quickly as he had seen them; they would be outside quicker than he could catch them.

Fairies.

The cait sith had been a decoy.

"Where do the bastards go?" Richard rasped, twisting the blade's tip deeper into the cat's neck. "What is their intent?"

"Go to your hell, knight," the cat spat.

"I'm already in it," Richard growled.

He sent magic coursing down through the weapon, surging into the immobilized creature. One moment the cait sith was there; the next, it was reduced to smoldering ash and dust. It didn't make a sound. All that remained was a large blackened scorch mark on the floor.

Richard probed the surrounding warrens. Sensing nothing else had come through the gateway, he let the broadsword and its fire evaporate into nothing.

He turned, feeling decades older than he had fifteen minutes earlier. His left arm ached and, remembering what the cat had done to it, he inspected his slashed checkered shirt. The cat's claws had cut his bicep deep; his arm still bled but it was slowing, the flesh around the wounds angry and hot to the touch. He grimaced. He would take care of it as best he could, and the next day he would visit the bookstore to have it looked at properly.

Behind him, Al clutched at his abdomen as he lay in the middle of the passage; yards away, Walker rocked back and forth, his arms crossed over his chest, reduced to the timidity of a four-year-old.

"Dat ting," Al whispered as Richard knelt to him. "What was—"

"It was nothing," Richard answered, peeling back the black man's clothing to view the bloodied shreds of skin and flesh. The cat had sliced him to his ribs but he would live. "That was a brave thing you did, Al," Richard acknowledged. "I won't forget it."

"I won't evah," Al whispered through clenched teeth, beads of sweat gathering on his brow.

"Walker, get over here," Richard ordered.

The drug user's eyes refocused suddenly, and with palpable uncertainty he also knelt next to his friend. He kept hugging himself. "What yeh want? What are yeh?"

"I'm your friend," Richard said sadly.

Before Al or Walker could say anything more, Richard grabbed their wrists.

Both of the men's faces slackened; their anguish and dread became Richard's. He went deep into their minds, where their memory existed. He reduced the last half hour to an alleyway knife fight with drug dealers, ordered Walker to help Al find the nearest police officer for medical attention, and to never enter the underground world of Old Seattle again.

He watched the men slowly leave, Al on his friend's shoulder, their horrific night erased and their eyes glazed as though they had just been hypnotized.

Richard envied he could not be more like them.