Nothing good ever came from those words strung together, and I couldn't help but predict the following sentence. Battle tactics were much like a game of chess, a game I was woefully unable to master. My job had been peace-bringing, guiding our people to a mutual conclusion, and creating order; this part of the journey had always fallen on someone else. 

As far as recruitment, the cause had often been worthy enough to justify the expenditure and risk, yet in today's world, life's value was at a premium. 

In a dying society, we valued our existence to the point of wanting to preserve ourselves even when we knew in our hearts that this very world would be doomed without sacrifice. Judging by the look on Albert's face and the smug realization that it was I who needed him, it was the cause that could not outweigh the pang of being conquered. 

He was ready to hang up the phone on the call to arms. 

"I think you said it quite clearly, yourself, Your Majesty. You need us, but do we, truly, need you?." 

Sometimes, reveals could backfire. I keep my composure, breathing evenly so as to not ruffle the man any more than necessary. Perhaps I could still save this if I played my cards right, which seemed to always be my issue. I brought cards to a chess match, and my lack of people skills revealed my hand when I honestly should have been looking more closely at the pawns before me. 

I could entertain a room full of diplomats, but the common man continued to evade me.

Albert combs his beard so thoughtfully that it's a wonder that a strand even remains on his chin. A habit that had pulled the close-cut beard into a less natural shape at the base of his jaw. "What I see, if I may be so bold-" He begins, ceasing his sauntering. "You are not prepared. You have no other forces but mine, and I'm unwilling to throw my people to the pyre."

Quite an accurate assessment. 

"Incorrect. We have forces and as we speak, we are gathering others for the final event," I reassure him. "Building an army is no easy feat. If everyone looked at who would step first, very few would ever cross the path, I'd dare say." 

Behind me, my group remains silent, and I'm thankful for their participation. I can't afford to look weak right now, not in such fragile waters. 

Albert regards me quizzically, considering my sincerity. Not even daring to smile, I attempt my best poker face. 

My hand is dealt wrong, he frowns and shakes his head with a sigh. "Well, you won't find that first step here. We can't help you, not any more than I already have, at least." His eyes roll to our surroundings as if offering us such meager shelter was sufficient when it couldn't be farther from the truth. It only served as proof that they were underutilizing their resources. 

"If you find a force large enough to stand a chance against Master, we will revisit the topic. I thank you for what you've done, inspiring these good folks to use their powers for good, but we waited for you once before. Now, it's your turn to wait for us." His tone is final, there would be no more negotiations, and I wasn't one to beg. 

Tiberius opens his mouth to protest, but I stop him with a stern glance, my mood sinking with our chances of an alliance. 

"Thank you. We will definitely be in touch, I hope you find the resistance to your satisfaction when the time comes if there is a resistance left to have." 

My mind wanders to allowing them to rot down here; turning their back on their people seemed incredibly hypocritical when it was the very crime they accused me of.

With a one-sided smirk, he shrugs one shoulder. "I suppose we shall see." 

Gesturing with his chin, he holds out his hand to nonchalantly block us from entering further into the camp. 

"The Black Hood is an ancient society; they will surely follow you for the rest of your time here. Stay in the open, stay out of the alleyways, you'll manage." 

The Black Hood? Why does that sound so familiar? 

My lips part but he seems unwilling to speak any further. As we are pointedly escorted out, I can't help but miss my husband for more reasons than just the chill that comes over me and the desire for his company. Ryan notices my shiver and wraps his arm around me; in the newly exposed sky, the sun melts the fresh pack of snow. 

Beneath our feet, the snow turns to slush, and people grumble as they trudge through the murky puddles covering the strained streets. It's as if nothing ever happened; they move on with their lives, disregarding the fallen pillars of the earth and the melted street signs.

 Feeling exposed, I spot a pub and direct us across the broad expanse of the worn street to enter the almost vacant building. The bartender glances up in surprise from the counter he's wiping, a somewhat aged man who looks like he's seen a few wars himself. 

We crowd around a large table, I command Ryan to warm my chilled hands as I hold his fingers in my palms. 

"I can not believe you just walked out of there." While I'd like to believe Lotta was impressed, I'm not willing to lie to myself that Lotta could feel anything but resentment towards me. "That was our one chance, we didn't even ask them for information."

Tiberius crosses his arms over his chest, sighing, "Any intel they gave us could have been false; if they don't want to help us, even if they agreed to, we couldn't trust them. Would you want to work for someone who didn't have their best interests at heart? Nicolas did what he's been trained to do, what we need him to do. Lead."

Pascal nods in agreement as she ruffles some snowflakes from her hair. If only her brother had her qualities; unfortunately, he was too busy chasing me in hopes of a romantic relationship.

 "We don't even know these people and they were hasty to attack us. Especially the man who melted a post? Did nobody see that?!" 

The thought makes me smile just slightly. 

"Hmmm, wonder who attacks people when they first meet them..." The irony is not lost on me.

She flushes, pulling her collar up to hide in it from the embarrassment. "Mr.Mercer ordered us to hunt those lycans. I don't think many of us would tell him no."

It pleases me that this seems to make Lotta relax. She needed to see that we were human, we were friends, and we all respected each other. Sulema purses her lips, scooting closer to Ryan for the warmth as well. 

Her slender body trembled from the cold, her clothes too big for her almost childlike stature. It was difficult to imagine anyone slicing off those tender ears on such a sweet, pixie-like face. 

Sulema was the poster child of why we were fighting. Innocent people who were born the wrong race didn't deserve to be mutilated. "I wish I could have talked to the one in green about the plants.. that was a really neat trick." her voice is small, slight, and hard to hear above the gentle chatter of the television. 

The woman on the screen talks about the air quality and how it had increased by over twenty percent in just a few hours. There is no mention of the explosion, no indication that a battle took place; it was a stark difference from New York, where our every move was broadcast.

 Approaching with a slight limp, the bartender spins a chair around and sits with a roughness that only an elderly man can manage. His body was a whisp, only accented by stark white hair and prominent bushy eyebrows pulling down over dark brown eyes. "What can I get you?"

"Breakfast." I sighed, the day had gone on far too long, and I was starving. 

With a disapproving look, he taps the table to reveal a menu in faded illuminated lights. While the theme of the pub seemed right out of an old-timey movie with its dim lighting and wooden tables, it would seem it was precisely that- decoration. "It's dinner time, young'in." 

I'm surprised that this man didn't even bother to speak French to us.

 Was it that obvious?

 Try as I might, the sight of the time deflates my entire being. Soon, it would be nighttime, and I would be alone. It would be my first night without him in quite some time. The anxiety curled in my stomach, and I ordered a hefty serving of vegetables instead. 

As our group ordered their variety of greasy, meaty food, I couldn't help but key in on their alcohol choices. The last time he'd left me, I had taken to the drink like a fish to water. The refusal to revert was hard-fought; my tether to this world was a distraught Spanish woman glaring down at me from above. 

Marisol would not approve of excessive drinking when I won the battle for the heart of our shared interest. Avoiding the thought altogether, I sip on water and listen to the back and forth of the individual recollections of the fight. 

While it was not the most actionable fight I'd been in, it certainly had been unnerving. Our youth shows as they relive the details for all to hear; I scan the room, deciding that morals are worth more than a low profile, if only just. 

Lotta steals a glance, frowning deeply. "You're not what I expected." She finally allows. 

A sane human would thank her and appreciate the gesture. I struggle with the judgment passed before it was rightly due. "I'm glad you're getting to know me."

The long, dark finger trailed lightly over the rim of her glass. "I've not been myself; I'm still not. I think you're an awful person." 

When I'm about to give up, she sighs. 

"But. You do care about your people. I knew that, of course, but it was good to see today."

Forcing a smile, I swallow back my pride. It's not worth the fight; I'm just glad she's grown bored of glaring at me for today. Plates piled high with food are sat before us, and the bartender sits once more with a small glass of whiskey. 

"What's a gypsy doing in France?" He asks me pointedly, gesturing towards my complexion with an almost accusing finger. "Bet you haven't gotten the best welcome. Gypsys is known for their thieving.'" 

A slight Irish accent lingers in the back of his throat.  

We were? 

In our own time, a Gypsy was merely a traveler, though I had heard rumors that that wasn't necessarily good. 

"Oh, trying to start a revolution." I attempt, but the tone sounds as if I was more severe than I'd like to admit. Lotta bumps my foot roughly with her heel. 

The man swirls his drink slowly, bored with my answer. "Best not ta be talkin' to folks much." He glances towards Lotta knowingly. "They like to watch, put it in yer file, and then ya won't be walkin' 'n talkin' much more." He downs the rest of his drink and moves to stand. 

He's effectively piqued my interest, and I clear my throat as if trying to hold back the shock. "And who, good sir, are they?"

With a scoff, he points his glass to our companion. "Oh, I think ya know who they are, boy."

"I'm twenty-seven." I point out in frustration. 

He chuckles heartily, grinning a crooked grin that plays on the wrinkles in his cheeks and around his eyes. It brings on a bout of coughing, making me wonder if he has consumption. "Yer but a babe, lad. And, yer people skills could use some work. Brrr." He rubs his arms with a grin, and I can't help but exhale roughly at the teasing. 

I fell right for it; one would think I'd grown accustomed to it by now.

Tiberius pats me firmly, "Nicolas doesn't get out much."

Our bartender hesitated; he hadn't planned on speaking to anyone else, and Tiberius's unwelcome intrusion was irritating. "Neither do you. Ya look ridiculous with all yer paint." 

"Tattoos." He corrects happily. 

I can practically hear Ryan's palm hit his forehead. I didn't need the ability to read minds to know what he was thinking; we were blowing our only chance of talking to a local. If I had learned nothing else in my time with commoners, it was that shop owners were a valuable resource. 

Squeezing Ryan's arm, I will him to speak. 

Searching the table for answers as he stuffs a spoonful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, he swallows hard and sits up squarely. "This place is unique."

Our host stops his sweeping to glance over his shoulder. "Tis. Was owned by my father and his father before him, last of its kind."

Ryan tilts his head, curious. "Was it always a pub?"

He nods. "In some ways. It depends on who's asking." My breath catches, and the man smirks. "Sometimes folks get too rowdy, rough each other up. Then, it becomes an infirmary. Though I don't suppose anyone much cares for my fixin' nowadays."

His words sound incomplete; they hang in the air as if the true meaning were below the surface. Lotta shrugs at our exchanged expressions, out of her element as far as deciphering an old crazy man. 

Tapping his fingers lightly, Ryan takes a small bite of bread to mull over his response. "It takes a good man to heal the injured, even if it was their own doing."

The dark eyes peer at us through the heavy eyebrows. "Some battles are worth havin'. Blame does not discount a man from what is fair, his right to live; in this world, there ain't much help for a man like that."

The fire mage raises his eyebrows just slightly. "Some of us feel everyone deserves the right to live."

He shrugs, the playful look returning to his eyes. "You might be among company, though I can't call it polite..."

"Honor the Good King." Ryan sighs in relief; our bartender limps to lock the door and drop the shades before returning to sit with us. 

"I wondered how long it would take for ya ta find me. Ron said you'd be comin'." 

This only surprises me; perhaps I'm the only one who showed it. Looking slightly offended, he leans back as if he wished to fade into the store. "Lad, where there be brew, there be friends. The liquor business has been keeping your people safe for centuries. I recognize ya from the messages I sent back 'n forth to Soli." 

Even in her death, she's still helping us. 

I try not to allow it to overwhelm me. "Soli?"

He nods, tilting his head towards a picture of him standing with the woman. "She was a good one. Drove a hard bargain, better people skills, though." He winks at me and smacks the table firmly with his palm. "You'll stay here for tonight; it's not safe to go home just yet with the Black Hood sneakin' around as they do. Ya caused quite an uproar today, that won't be taken too lightly."

In all of our travels, noting that the sale of alcohol was directly linked to our survival hadn't dawned on me for a moment. We had frequented brothels, mafia hideouts, and wine cellars, and even during this time, Marisol had given water to the poor under the table at her nightclub.

 Often, I had thought it was my husband's way of returning to what he was familiar with, considering his profession before he was a slave. 

Subconsciously, I had even run to alcohol when my world was falling apart. Perhaps I had grown conditioned to seek it out for a friend, the thing that ultimately drew me here. It was totally by chance that we had happened upon an ally. 

"How can we trust you?" Lotta breaks my musings, pulling us out of the security of a friendly face. "Soli was friends with many people; you could easily work on both sides."

Stroking his scruffy chin, he considers this. "Ya sure do have a way with people... You're welcome to go if ya wish. I'm doing this as a favor ta a friend, though I support the cause." Retrieving a key from his pocket, he places it on the table. "Yer welcome to stay. It'll be suspicious if the door stays locked too long. The patrol will be makin' their rounds in twenty minutes. I suggest you either be gone by then or go upstairs. I assure ya, they're on the hunt fer yer likeness." 

As he hurriedly limps over to the door to unlock it and we finish shoveling down the rest of our food, I can't help but think that we should at least spend the night here. Running in a crowded city at night with little backup was not ideal for remaining alive. 

"We vote," I tell them finally. "Raise your hand if you wish to remain; keep it lowered if you wish to leave. We will do what the group thinks is best."

Ryan frowns in response. "I follow you, Your Majesty. It is not my place to tell you what to do; we must follow your instincts and lead." 

While I appreciate the gesture, sentiments like this weren't helping my case with Lotta. 

"Please, Ryan, a vote." 

If we wanted a new world order, it had to start here. 

Much to Lotta's dismay, we decided the best course of action was to stay. Finishing our meal, the group moves towards the stairs, and I steal a glance over my shoulder to spy the bartender carefully dusting off the picture of him and Marisol. The way his eyes reflected in the shiny glass it was a cherished memory. Knowing that Marisol liked him enough to stand beside him was good enough for me if there was no other reason to stay. 

"Thank you," I tell him gently. 

He smiles, bowing his head for a moment. "She believed in this cause. Support for Soli runs deep in the community; ya just gotta find it. I'll help as much as I can."