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Okay, my apologies for the extra-long delay. I'll try to make sure it doesn't happen again. I hope you like this, and as always: comments, ratings and suggestions appreciated!

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He'd left her alone. True enough that'd he'd been called away, that it had been an emergency, but it could not have come at a worse time. Or, rather, the worse time had come after the phone call. It had come when he'd barehandedly broken her solid golden collar off her throat, when he'd technically set her free. He'd exhibited superhuman (or superfurr, she supposed) strength in that moment, and didn't have the time to explain it. He had been called away to an emergency, and he could not explain that either.

This left her panicked, pacing the house, fighting the urge to flee--somewhere, anywhere, where she could start a new life. But then what? Wouldn't he come looking for her? What if he didn't? What would she do, knowing that she'd fled her fantasy--the dark, handsome, gentle stranger who'd rescued her from her hell? That maybe she'd broken his heart? He claimed he needed a companion--but why did he have to BUY one? What woman wouldn't want a rich, handsome WINGED black leopard?! There was something wrong with him--something about this job of his, about his strange strength, something he wasn't telling her. But what the hell WAS it?

These thoughts and many more plagued her as she paced frantically, striding along the halls, paws padding along the stones and wood planks that lined the huge house. She sighed and turned, paws moving over the long running rug that ran through one hall, then turned again for the kitchen, pacing beneath the bright skylight. She paused and looked up, long white tail twitching, gazing into the sun.

The bright golden-white light drifted down into the white tigress's emerald eyes, making them sparkle despite the worry in them. She peered blankly into the soothing light for a long moment, then blinked and turned away, moving for the rear sliding-glass door. Here the wolfdogs milled about, watching her, wondering why she and Xavier had left their little trip through the woods so abruptly. One looked up and noticed her and wagged his tail, panting and looking as if he wanted to be petted, but she didn't know them well enough to let them in--that, and they were all covered in dirt and slobber.

Well, maybe she could let ONE in. She moved to the door and waited until the particularly friendly one (the one who'd drooled on her when she was trying to listen in on that mysterious phone call) was closest to the door. Then she quickly opened the door just wide enough for one wolfer and let him in. He trotted in, bushy tail wagging, and leaned up against her; this warm, breathing, furry creature lent her some comfort at least. And when she went back to pacing, he followed, ambling along good-naturedly.

Veronica was like this for nearly six hours, perhaps more. All she knew was that she fell asleep on the white couch in the hallway--the one partway between the huge front door and the well-lit kitchen. The wolfdog curled up on the couch beside her and slept, and she too drifted into the darker land of dreams and nightmares, oblivious to the world, her worry--for the time being--forgotten.

At about three a.m., the front door broke open with a deafening slam. Veronica yelped and leapt to her feet, the wolfdog landing beside her in a defensive posture. They faced the door, startled as hell, as three huge men--all dressed in black--shouldered their way through the doorway side-by-side. They weren't looking up, but rather down--down, at something huge and black they were carrying. Veronica fell back, terror beginning to quickly thread its way through her. Were they here to take her away? Where the hell was Xavier?!

The wolfdog moved to stand in front of her, head low and hackles raised, growling deeply in his throat. One of the men glanced up, panting, and shook his head as he helped haul the heavy load into the house.

"Get that dog out of here!" he ordered her. She blinked. She didn't know what this man was here about, but it wasn't for her--his command, his body language and his brief glance all contained a ring of truth. They weren't here about her, they could care less, and they were obviously allowed to be here (or at least they thought they were).

Veronica nevertheless did not haul the dog away entirely but rather put a restraining hand on his neck. He turned and looked at her, ears coming up--what did she want him to do?

She turned to the men, who were dragging the black thing across the hall. "Who the hell are you?!" she demanded, trying hard not to sound like a frightened recently-freed sex slave.

The same man turned back to her wordlessly and looked at her blankly; the second also looked up, and replied. "Who the hell are YOU?" he answered, brows furrowing. She blinked, cold fear gripping her. What if this was a thug hangout? What if Xavier let strangers in to gamble, or hide bodies (and that black thing was looking suspiciously like one, actually)--or what if Xavier didn't even OWN this house? What if this was all some twisted practical joke, a very expensive one but all a joke on her nonetheless? What if--

The first man looked up again. "Get rid of the fucking dog!" he shouted. Veronica started, then turned and pulled (coaxing as she went) the dog out the door, keeping him from attacking the men; the dog had begun to snarl and growl again. She managed to close him outside, and he watched her with eerie yellow eyes for a moment before turning and vanishing around the side of the house with a growl.

Veronica went tentatively back into the hall. The men had propped the door back on its frame, perhaps to keep out the guard dogs. Now they were busying themselves frantically with the black thing, carrying it (almost dragging it now) down the hall. She had to press herself to the wall as they went by (entirely ignoring her). As they did, she got a better look--two humans, big thug-types. They looked like Mafiosa but somehow government, too--tall, very wide-shouldered and broad-chested, with black suits and close-cropped dark hair, but broad, tough faces with bouncers' scowls. The leader (the man who had first addressed her) was guiding the way, ensuring that their package didn't hit the walls of the hall. The third man was a furr, a tall, very human-like otter furr. His sleek coat was a golden-brown--like a great tan on a human; his eyes were a dark shade of hazel, and his face was, well, otterlike--flat-headed and round-muzzled, cute and handsome. With his thatch of tousled blond head-hair, he could almost pass for human at a distance; he wore a black suit, like the ones the men wore, and topped it with a black trenchcoat like the one Xavier had worn when Veronica first met him. The otter grunted and shifted his grip on the black load, edging it carefully around the corner. Veronica turned her eyes to that... and went cold.

They carried a black trenchcoat. In it, something black lay heavy and silent--but it was furred, and as they turned the corner she caught a glimpse of wings... huge, black-feathered wings. She gasped and followed them, completely in shock. Glancing back, she could see that blood splattered the floor all the way back through the hall... he was bleeding, and badly. They moved him quickly to a main living room (not the downstairs cavelike den but a simple couch-and-coffee table room) and lay him on a couch. The otter fur grunted and stood back, and Veronica shoved him aside and dropped to her knees in front of the sofa.

Please, don't let it be him, she thought wildly...

And if it is, please don't let him be dead...

She reached forward with a trembling white paw and pulled aside the trenchcoat. The face--the black, sleek handsome feline face--was expressionless, teeth slightly bared and dim eyes half-open. Blood smeared the ruffled fur. His long black hair was half torn out of the ponytail, ragged and greasy, clotted with even more blood and lying limp and tangled over his neck... And his neck! Oh God his neck!

Veronica almost had to turn away. The sides of Xavier's neck were badly torn, bleeding lightly (how much blood had he already lost?!) and his throat had four neat clawmarks in it. Then Veronica realized she could hear a faint whistling sound... He was breathing! Maybe through the holes in his throat--but he was alive!

The white tigress stood and turned toward the men, who were standing there awkwardly. "I don't care who you are. I don't care what you think about his chances, I want to you to help me, NOW." This was snarled through gritted teeth, her voice coarse and throaty. The men stood straight, wide-eyed, immediately--they could sense the danger thrumming through her like lightning through wire. She began barking commands, and they moved--fast, to their credit--to follow them. In minutes they had his neckties acting as tourniquets for his wounded limbs (his arms and one leg were badly mangled) and hot, soaked towels cleaning up the blood. Xavier was quickly stripped down (still unconcious or close to it and breathing shallowly) and washed off, with blankets and hot towels laid over him. On Veronica's insistence, they moved him to the floor and brought in two wolfdogs--the animals' body temperatures were higher than those of humans or of furrs, and they could easily keep Xavier very warm. Then it was off to the kitchen; here Veronica went through the cupboards until she found hydrogen peroxide and a simple first-aid kit.

When she opened it, however, it became obvious that it was not so simple. In it were needles, suturing thread, and various pads and bandages, plus creams and ointments. Sutures, she thought? In a first-aid kit? She didn't dwell on it, though--she yanked the plastic case from the pantry and ran back to Xavier's side. She disinfected the surfaces of the wounds as best she could with water and then peroxide, then began suturing--well, sewing--his wounds shut, and spoke at the same time.

"I assume if you guys could have taken him to a hospital you would have, right?"

They shifted uncomfortably behind her. "Yes, Ma'am," the leader finally replied. "We have our own medical facility at work but--Oof," he grunted as the otter elbowed him roughly in the ribs. Veronica spared them a glance, and the man gave her a sheepish look, but remained silent. She shook her head and continued her work; she had just needed to know for sure that a hospital was out of the question before stitching. It was a sloppy, unprofessional job and would probably have to be redone, but it closed the wounds and stopped the damn bleeding.

She removed two tourniquets, having sutured those limbs; his neck was stitched too. His throat still had clawmarks in it but there was nothing she could do there; if she closed them now and his mouth or throat swelled, he would die. Instead she focused on the major blood sources, closing up the limb wounds and a great gash that ran across his abdomen. Shifting the wolfdogs to and fro she worked for hours, only stopping once--to run to the bathroom.

Finally she was done. Her tough determination fell away as she realized there was simply nothing left she could do. She sagged and leaned in, stroking the black leopard's blank, bloodstained features. "I've done everything I can for you, Xavier," she murmured. "Please stay here. I know we've only just met but... you can't leave this soon," she finished sadly. There was an embarrassed cough from behind her; the men were shifting on their feet, feeling very uncomfortable. For the last few hours they'd been up and down, sitting or standing or wandering off on cellphones, occassionally getting a drink from the kitchen (and one man, a sandwich) but always tense, always watching Xavier. Now they looked as if they had to say something but were embarrassed about it. Veronica watched and waited, patient, quiet... There was no reason to rush. Rushing would just get them closer to Xavier's... outcome, whatever that should be.

"Ma'am, thank you for your hospitality. I think if he lives he can only thank you. But we have to leave now--"

"Oh, you sure as hell are not," she snapped. The man blinked, stunned and bewildered. "Listen up gentlemen," she growled. "You just brought my--my host--into this house desperately wounded. You haven't told me why, or how he got hurt or why you cannot bring him to a hospital. But if he starts getting worse I will NOT be alone, he will not die alone with me, without me knowing what the fuck to do or who to contact! I don't even know who you all are! Hell, I don't even really know who HE is!"

"Then what are you doing fucking him?" the otter asked coldly. Veronica turned her glare on him. He was a young punk, not an older seasoned veteran like the other two, and he was saucy and arrogant. Well, she thought, fuck you.

"I don't know where you got that idea, asshole. I've beaten the shit out of furrs twice your size so wipe the fucking smirk off your face," she hissed. The glint in her eyes--murderous intent--did indeed wipe the glint off his face. "Now you look like the kind of guys who understand killing and death so I'm gonna make this simple. If you three leave here and he dies, and if there's anything--even in my mind--that you could have done to help him, I will hunt you down and kill you, all three." Her expression must have expressed truth, because the men took a couple steps back. A moment later the otter had pulled a gun, and was grinning wryly.

"I don't think that'll be a problem," he replied, and flicked the hammer back. She bared her teeth in fury and a moment later there was a gunshot; the otter shrieked in pain and fell to one knee. The other was shot through; fresh blood stained the carpet.

The leader had him by the throat and against the wall in a second. "Listen close, Jason," he warned, voice furious. "It's your fault Xavier got hurt tonight, and he's the best damned agent we have. You're just a goddamned rookie. If YOU die nobody will care, not yet, not now. So DON'T fuck around, and DON'T shoot at random fucking people--at DON'T shoot at someone under Xavier's fucking protection." With this, the leader dropped the otter to the ground. He turned and wiped his mouth, yanked his black leather jacket closer around his suit, and turned to the other human. "Tom, I'm getting outta here--gonna take Jason with me. You stay with this lovely lady," he added with true mafia-hitman respect, "and tell her whatever she wants to know--within reason of course," he added. When Tom began to protest, probably to ask what "within reason" was, the leader sighed. "Don't worry. The boss is expecting you but I'll cover for you. Don't worry about that. Just take care of Xavier." He eyed the tigress and leaned toward Tom, and under his breath (but with her kitty-cat hearing Veronica heard it all) added "And keep your gun and your wits about you in case she gets... angry." Then he turned, nodded to the white tigress (who gave him a thankful nod back) and grabbed Jason by the arm.

"C'mon, rook, let's go," he spat, yanking him off the ground and storming off. The otter limped after him, whimpering and hissing a little in pain but otherwise silent.

The heavy door shut (or perhaps was pulled closed, as it was now broken) behind the men. Veronica ran to the back door and called the wolfdogs to her; they came, tails wagging, and ignored the engine starting in the front of the estate. Then she went back to Xavier, to the human and the two wolfdogs. First she went to Xavier. She checked his pulse and breathing; neither had changed. His breathing (still whistling through his throat) was slow, shallow and labored, his pulse racing and faint. His eyes had slipped shut.

Veronica sat beside him, curling her white furr's feet beneath her, placing one hand on his cheek. She watched this human, Tom, in the black suit, watching him from her black-clothed position like a meditating assassin.

"So, Tom. I wish I could say it's nice to meet you but I suppose the circumstances aren't exactly nice." He nodded at her wordlessly.

"Please--what exactly is it that you do, and how is it that Xavier got injured?"

"First," he replied, shaking his head 'no,' "I want to know who YOU are. Eh," he added, holding up his hand as she began to protest, "I know what my boss said but I am not saying anything until I know. Security reasons," he added quietly, seriously. She sighed.

"I'm his new girlfriend, and that's all you need to know," she answered. He mulled that over for a moment, then nodded and sat on the couch.

"Xavier got chewed up pretty bad tonight," he began softly; obviously the two knew one another well. "Jason wasn't where he was supposed to be, mind you--Xavier isn't sloppy, he's never once messed up a job. He's clean, methodical, quiet and he gets the job done fast. Jason was his scout, and Xavier--hell, all of us--were relying on him. Goddamned otter went for a fucking smoke. Missed the furrs coming into the building. We thought it was still empty when we sent the leopard in there, I swear it to you," he added, haunted eyes pleading. "We'd never send Xavier in somewhere we thought he couldn't handle."

Veronica glanced down at the great black cat, the gentle, caring creature who'd rescued her and now lay helpless and near-death beneath the blankets, his wolfdogs lying beside his tucked black wings.

"So what happened?" she asked, looking back up at Tom.

"The mark got smart. Called in the friends we--Jason--didn't see go in. Xavier went into a dark room, the lights came on and there were two fucking lions in there. Two lion furrs, waiting for him." The man shook his head and dropped it into his hands. "We couldn't even--"

"Mark?" Veronica interjected, that now unfortunately-familiar feeling of fear gripping her. "The mark?! Tell me, Tom, what is it, exactly, that Xavier does?" Tom remained silent. Beside her, Xavier let out a deep, rattling breath. "Tom? What does he DO?"

Tom just shook his head again. Veronica stood and moved toward him, and gently placed one pawhand beneath his chin, tilting his jaw so that he faced her.

"I won't attack you, Tom. I won't even get upset. Just tell me--what does Xavier do?"

Tom looked at her for a long, long moment. Then he blinked, and looked back down. "He kills people," he replied quietly. Veronica felt her knees go rubbery. She sank to the ground, into a sitting position.

"He kills humans?" she responded softly. "So that's why it's a secret--that's something your government can't even reveal, isn't it? A furr assassin, a furr allowed to hunt humans--"

"No," choked Tom. Was he crying?! And--no?

"No?" she asked, confused. "What do you mean?"

"He doesn't hunt and kill humans. Xavier, for a living, hunts and kills furrs." Tom looked up at her and then looked away, refusing to meet her eyes. "He's one of the Order of the Seraphim."

She stared, silent, and fell back against the wolfdog behind her. No. No. Oh, fuck no...

Oh, but yes... the irony was just right. You wanted a savior? she asked herself bitterly. You always knew there would be something... who would save a slave? Only someone who could have no other. And what better reason!

The Seraphim. Every furr knew the legends, the myths. But they were supposedly a conspiracy theory--nothing real! A group of government agents, furrs created and trained by the military or secret service or something, soley for the purpose of hunting and killing furrs. A quiet, efficient way of doing work--the Seraphim did the government's dirty work, and they did it silently and well.

And Xavier, it seemed, was one of them.

Veronica stared into nothingness, mind empty, soul dark. A Seraphim. Xavier was a goddamned Seraphim.

A murderer.