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"All right, folks, if I could have your attention please..." The compact, uniformed coyote looked around the bare anteroom of the local sheriff's office, almost biting his lip to keep from expressing his delight that the group was so small. It had been only twenty-one hours since the incident on the football field, but happily, it was generating less and less interest in the newsfeeds. This group was, to be unkind, the clean-up crew. Apparently, the fact that the victim of the attack had survived made the story uninteresting by this time. The only film crew was from the university's RTF department, although they had a long-standing agreement with one of the local stations to share footage; it was easier for the students to blend in and maneuver on campus than it was to load up and embed a truck full of faces and suits that were clearly outsiders.

He checked his uniform briefly, not too concerned about making a big impression; he was, after all, the deputy sheriff, not The Man Himself, who had made himself scarce in an attempt to continue diminishing the importance of the events. The coyote didn't mind being part of the subterfuge; as his Indian blood reminded him, Coyote was the Trickster after all.

"Most of you know me; I'm Deputy Sheriff Lucas Greene. I have a brief statement, and we'll take questions if you have them." He tried not to sound too encouraging. He made sure they saw him reading from the paper, even though he already knew the speech by heart. It wouldn't do for him to look more capable than the sheriff. "Last night's altercation on the football field at the university has been determined to be a provoked attack which, despite its severity, has been mutually agreed not to be submitted for formal charges by either party. The individuals involved are no longer in police custody, and both have agreed not to file any criminal or civil charges, so long as they adhere to the rules of a mutual restraining order. It is my understanding that neither of the players will be allowed to play for the rest of the season; other sanctions may be applied by the universities, but I have no information regarding that at this time." He folded the paper and looked up at the assembled reporters. "Questions?"

A middle-aged badger who looked out of place sucking on a slender eCig instead of the cliché stogie of his chosen profession looked up from his notepad in disbelief. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"No charges at all, after all that?"

"If I may, officer?" The coyote nodded to the expensively overdressed black-furred vole who stepped to the front of the gathering. "Good furs, my name is Valentin VanBuren of the law firm of Bozeman, Duckworth, and Dietz. While I cannot speak for Mr. Parker, my client Mr. Reeves - while admitting no wrongdoing - understands that his actions may have seemed provocative and..."

The badger snorted, loudly and derisively, still jotting notes into his notepad. He managed an impressive puff of what resembled smoke about as much as the vole's statement resembled the unvarnished truth.

"...may have_seemed_ provocative yet in no way should have provoked such a merciless beating." The black-eyed lawyer cast a significant scowl toward the reporter. "Both parties will recover from their injuries, and neither wishes to set the matter before a jury. The case is closed."

"Rhonda Shelton, Campus Newswatch." The young ocelot, dressed for visual success, bright-eyed and overeager, made sure to announce her name for the video camera just behind and to her right (to get her good side). "Mr. Van Buren, does your firm represent the Reeves family in general?"

"No, only Mr. Reeves."

"And just how does a college student merit such a high-powered law firm? Are you taking pro-bono cases these days?"

The coyote put a forepaw to his muzzle, hoping to cover up a smirk. The kit had done her homework.

Turning his hard gaze to the ocelot, the vole bristled slightly. "I'm sure that my firm will thank you for your resounding endorsement. Do you wish to ask a question worthy of an answer?"

"I'm sure our viewers would be interested--"

"Such information is covered by attorney-client privilege, and my client has directed that all inquiries be made directly to our offices only. If there's nothing further..."

"That's quite all right, Mr. Van Buren," the lady cat plunged forward. "We'll contact the family for comment."

"I'd advise against that."

"You've stated that you're not their attorney. Unless directed otherwise, we'll take it up with them."

The coyote stepped forward again, almost succeeding in keeping the grin off his muzzle. "I think that'll do, Ms. Shelton. Now, if there are no more questions..."

"Officer Greene," the ocelot, tail flicking as if she scented fresh blood, pressed her advantage. "We'd like to talk with Parker, but he doesn't seem to have a representative here."

"Perhaps I could help with that request." From the side, Professor Benedict Spenser moved to stand next to the deputy sheriff, dwarfing the small coyote through no fault of his own. No matter what room the crimson dragon might appear in, his personality filled it even as much as did his physical presence. "I am Benedict Spenser, a professor and sometime counselor at the university. Dean Williamson called me in help young Parker in an unofficial capacity. He has no attorney, specifically. No criminal charges were filed, so he could not avail himself of the Public Defenders' office; as is true of most college students, he hasn't the income to hire counsel directly."

"So we can go interview him?"

"At this time, he's being kept in hospital until the doctors are sure enough of his condition to release him." Benedict smiled coolly. "That could be another day or two. You're welcome to approach the doctors on staff at County General."

The lady cat appeared to be biting her tongue. "You called yourself a counselor. Will you be counseling Parker?"

"That's possible." The dragon nodded his large head slowly. "One cannot be forced into taking therapy - at least, not successfully. However, the college is within its rights to recommend that counseling be a condition of Mr. Parker's continuing his education here. That will probably be up to the Dean of Students." He looked over to the well-dressed wolverine who had been standing in determined silence to one side of the proceedings, trying to look for all the world as if he weren't really important enough to have to speak yet ready to jump in if there were no better choice. Turning back to the reporter, Benedict continued. "If I may anticipate your next question, Ms. Shelton... I am indeed fully qualified and licensed as a therapist, so anything said between me and Mr. Parker would be considered privileged. I will, however, be happy to convey to him that you are seeking an audience."

After several seconds of frustrated silence had passed, the coyote took that as a good sign and raised his forepaws gently. "I think that's all the questions we have time for this evening, good furs. Thank you for attending, and good night."

With very little mumbling, the few reporters in attendance seemed to agree readily enough. Rhonda Shelton hissed something to her camera person to be sure to get plenty of footage of everyone in attendance, which included Dean Williamson and Professor Spenser. She was dying to know what they were_really_ there for, but she'd run out of usable background information. Besides, she wanted to stay on the deputy sheriff's good side (at least for now) so she vetoed the idea of clothes-lining the celebrities (ditto). There should still be some dirt to dig up on this case, she'd bet her dewclaws on it. Meanwhile, she verified with the Dalmatian now packing up the camera that the brief exchange had been both recorded and uploaded to the station; they'd had to vamp the seven o'clock news, but they'd have the new footage well in time for the wrap-up at eleven. Not like the story was worth headlines at this point anyway.

Officer Greene stuck out a forepaw for the professor and the Dean to shake. "Thanks for keeping the peace, gentlefurs. Sometimes, reporters are more dangerous than criminals."

"Surely not," the dean smiled amiably. "At least the reporters don't use bullets."

"No, sir - just bulletins." The coyote grinned. "And that's about as clever as I get. No worries about Parker; the doctors agree that we need to keep him for at least overnight, probably longer."

"Not much time, then." The dragon sighed, a heavy sound accompanied by a small, airy wisp of smoke from his nostrils. "We still need to eat. Nelson, I'm going to ask Eoin to meet me for dinner at the Rathskeller; would you care to join us?"

"I think you'd get more pleasure out of a dinner for two than three, and besides, I suspect that Emily would be quite put out if I didn't at least try to get home for one good dinner this week." The dark-furred wolverine patted the professor gently on the shoulder. "Keep me posted, whatever the hour. We'll find an answer, old friend."

"Of course." Benedict produced his tablet and tapped out a note on the keypad. An answer appeared moments later, causing the drake to grin hugely and send out a response that, if local authorities were monitoring, would have alerted them to a potential morals charge about to happen. It would depend upon exactly how long the tablecloths at the Rathskeller were...

* * * * *

Eoin McCracken sat at the large drawing desk that Benedict had bought for him and perused the architectural drawings before him with only a token amount of his attention. Part of the distraction was a comfortably full belly (no one left the Rathskeller hungry, unless it was his own fault), part amusement at his dinner companion's audacious suggestions (alas, short tablecloths put the mockers on that particular idea), and part was a mild frustration at being back in Benedict's house without the company of the great dragon himself. Eoin wasn't actually angry; he understood the reasons behind his lover's stay at the hospital tonight, since it might be the last time that anyone would have the chance to get to the root of the football player's breakdown. Somewhere around noon tomorrow (most likely), the pup would get his walking papers, and there was no telling if he'd stay at university and accept help, or if he would simply leave town and vanish into obscurity.

It wasn't as if staying up all night would harm the professor; dragons in general (and Benedict in particular) had stamina that would allow them to stay awake for days on end, if they so chose, or to sleep for a week at a stretch. And of course, Benedict would return to his own home, and Eoin would be there to welcome him back, in whatever fashion might be appropriate, sexual or otherwise. The saluki chuckled softly to himself - no, he wasn't angry, nor jealous. A little selfish, perhaps, which he blamed equally on himself and Benedict. Dragons, it would seem, were quite addictive.

He set down his mechanical pencil and stretched his long, lithe canine body with a grace usually reserved for felines. It was amazing how comfortable he felt here. He hadn't moved in; he still had a dorm room of his own to return to, and he slept there a few nights each week, if only to ensure that he actually spent some time in bed_sleeping_ for a change. Even so, Eoin had a few drawers in a dresser, a segment of closet, his own towels in the sumptuous master bath, space in the refrigerator, some shelves in the kitchen, and his own workspace in the smallest of the spare rooms (which was almost as large as his dorm room). It would be easy to entertain the fantasy of being a kept boy, but the saluki had no such false illusions. If he let his grade point average slip a tenth of a point, Benedict's disappointment in him would be unbearable. There was something about the dragon that brought out his very best, in all ways, and it would be foolish to jeopardize any of them.

Eoin cast his scholarly eye over the drawings, not so much scrutinizing as feeling them. It was a trick that Benedict had taught him, to let one's eyes gaze without particularly focusing, allowing the input to enter the brain comparatively unfiltered. Instead of looking for what might be important, or extraneous, or missing, one let the gestalt of the image float comfortably in a space that wasn't wholly conscious, and in so doing, aberrations seemed to make themselves known without effort. It helped to have something very slightly distracting in the background, something not especially important, without particular form or coherence - which was a good description of the local news.

The budding architect glanced up at the television monitor because his peripheral vision had detected a large amount of a familiar color on the screen. He had heard about the press conference at dinner, and he grinned when he saw Benedict on the screen. The story had been downplayed enough that actual sound bites from the press conference had been suppressed in favor of simply showing the film of the participants while the local anchor droned out perhaps a hundred fifty words about the outcome of the incident. To bend the cynical observation of the news media that "If it bleeds, it leads," the wounds appeared to have been stanched and were no longer interesting to the carrion mongers.

A brief shiver coursing through him, the pup chastised himself mildly for being so callous about the football player's ordeal. Although Benedict had respected the strict bounds of the therapist/client confidentiality, he had told him more than he probably should have. Without knowing the whole story, Eoin nonetheless had pieced together enough to think that... what's his name, Parker?... had been treated to the dirty end of a particularly nasty stick at some point. The saluki was tender-hearted, as a rule, and he disliked seeing anyone suffer.

A sharp double-trill resounded from several locations in the house. Eoin let it ring. If a call were important, it would go to Benedict's cell; if it were for Eoin, it would have come to his own cell. Generally, the house phone was for strangers who had found the listing for something other than his office number. The answering machine, that delightfully archaic predecessor to voice mail, would pick it up.

"Hello!" lilted the dragon's enthusiastic voice from the device next to the front hallway phone. "You've reached the number that you dialed, whether you meant to or not. Next, we'll find out if you want to leave a message. I'll bet you do... and if you don't leave a message, I won't know who called, so I can't pay the debt. Looks like I win!"

Eoin grinned as the tone sounded, then heard the sound of a clearing throat."Benedict... it's me, Jerry. Saw you on the news. Maybe I... I don't know, I think I might be responsible for what happened to Parker. I don't know if he still wants to see me. I just... if you think I can help, call me."

A click indicated the end of the call, and the pup sat quietly for a moment. Benedict had told him a little of Jerry's involvement with Parker, and it was difficult for Eoin to think that anything Jerry had done had actually caused Parker to explode the way he had. It did occur to him, however, that the dragon might want to know about the offer. Strange that the otter had left a message on the home phone; why not call the cell? Surely, he had the number... well, perhaps not. Benedict and Jerry had done a bit of playing about (No Secrets was a particular policy of the dragon, considering the nature of his varied relationships), but perhaps they weren't really that intimate after all. Perhaps it would be better to let Benedict decide.

The lean and lanky pup eased himself off of the stool and moved to fetch his cell phone. Just before he could punch in a well-used speed dial number, the house phone rang again. It was uncommon for it to ring twice in a week, much less within five minutes of each other. Eoin waited to hear who else might be calling.

"This is the buyer in Cairo," oozed a deep and powerful voice, old, commanding, insidious."Also the chess master in Reykjavik, and the negotiator in Pimpri-Chinchwad. I hope you won't find it necessary for me to sing the O Fortuna."

The daunting voice paused, the silence somehow more intimidating than the confusion of words."I know you won't back off, Benedict; you never did, never would. Quixotic old bugger. You'll have to decide how important this pup's life is to you. You have the key, as we all do. Turn: Signum is a binary. The triptych formed naturally, from truth, control, and loss. Turn back: One blue and one dark star." Another pause, this filled with a huge sigh."They wanted him silenced. I did what I could; I knew that it couldn't last. Truth will out. You, above all, know that. You'll have to decide if you'll risk his life from within or without. It's out of my claws now."

The click from the small speaker sounded loud, final. Eoin shivered once, violently, as if shaking off the clutch of something tangible. It took him a moment to realize that he was breathing quickly through his open muzzle. Something small curled in his belly, a feral knot of fear that he couldn't explain. It was the voice. Something in that voice, dangerous, primal, controlling. The pup became aware of the small weight in his forepaw, flipped open the phone and dialed.

"Benedict?" The name came out in a voice too high-pitched and fragile for him to recognize as his own. "No," he said, "I'm not all right. Call the home phone - you need to hear the messages. And then call me back. Please call me back."

Hanging up, he ran into the master bathroom, at the furthest end of the house, and closed the door behind him. With the bathtub tap at full blast, he barely heard the double trill of the phone, but just in case, he wrapped a towel around his head and held his forepaws firmly over his ears, shouting agonized, incoherent syllables at the top of his lungs to drown out any possibility of hearing that terrible voice again. It was almost enough, even though the voice had a claw-hold in his mind, it was almost enough...