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Sylvia didn't need to be told her mother was a witch to know she could work magic.  Two weeks ago, when all was right with the world and Sylvia was snogging the cute, funny blond with the Cheetos, Mitzi paused in stitching silk flowers to Ginny's body stocking and asked, "Well, honey, what are you going to wear this Halloween?  Have you decided?  Just one of Virginia's old things?"  It was Sylvia's habit, after all.  She'd wait till the last minute and then let Ginny dress her like a doll.

But this year she'd actually felt the shy nudge of inspiration as black and orange decorations began to mark the season.  "Mommy?  Can I be an elf?"

"An elf?  How cute," Mitzi crooned.  "You mean like Galadriel?  We could sew you a pretty dress."

"No," Sylvia said, embarrassed enough to feel the backs of her ears go hot.  "I have a picture."  She'd stolen it from Donnie's wall and slid it toward her mother face down.

After an excruciating conversation about the exploitation of the female body and responsible use of prophylaxis, Mitzi rolled out a bolt of muslin and began to work, and so on this Halloween evening, Sylvia stands with the drama crowd, engaged in unenthusiastic debate about the relative diminishment of Baz Luhrmann's work since Strictly Ballroom and wearing a piece of stitch witchery.  Machine embroidery, black turkey quills, and hot-glue swirls decorate the quilted pieces Mitzi stitched to yet another skater's body stocking, and Virginia dyed Sylvia's hair a shocking purple before applying those spirit-gum ears and a healthy dose of eyeshadow.

It would be lingerie if its intended audience were there to see it.  But, as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Sylvia feels merely freakish.

Donnie is a liar. When he sees the Night Elf, then realizes it's Sylvia, he does damn near cream himself.

Sammy's next target is the boy who always gets the comic roles in the school theater productions.  She spots him with a group of other drama kids, and sees... oh my god... or should that be goddess? ...Sylvia, the elf.  Sammy gapes in astonishment, then decides Syl needs some special effects, not that the costume needs a boost, but it'll be cool anyhow.  A light breeze, like something coming off the ocean on a beach, picks up Sylvia's purple hair and waves it and her feathery accoutrements gently about.  This is kept up for only a few seconds, then it is dropped as Sammy moves in to ask Scott, with little more than a tilt of the head and a hand wave towards the dance floor, if he feels like dancing.

The Marilyn Monroe moment gets Sylvia's attention, and she glances away from the speaker of the moment, hugging her arms closer to her body.  It's enough time to admire the beautifully dressed girl moving up to Scott and then the British uniform standing wordlessly not too far from the cluster of drama geeks.  Sylvia looks back at him, neither moving nor speaking, just studying him from a distance as if they were separated by a glass wall.

Donnie is stunned.

Sylvia had a habit of doing that to him, unconsciously or not.

It felt that all others in the room simply faded, except for that corridor of open space between Donnie and Sylvia, seperated painfully by some invisible barrier.

Donnie can't help himself, as a surge of feeling bubbles up from within. God I long for her.  He realizes, quite happily, that these feelings are his own. Mine, he thinks. She can't make memories flitter through my head like this. On the floor of his bedroom, Magic the Gathering cards spread out as he patiently tries to explain the game to her, as she asks question after question, the little furrowed knot between her eyebrows making him want to kiss it. And so he did. Swinging in the park, giggling like little children, daring each other to let go at the highest apex of the swing. Donnie rolled with his, but laughed in enjoyment as Sylvia does a flip in the air and lands in a perfect gymnast's dismount. Looking across the library table at each other when they should be studying for a test, slow shared smiles creeping across their faces for no other reason but happiness to be stitting with each other. This feeling is mine.

He smiles at Sylvia, and she can see he has a set of crooked Austin Powers teeth in.

That takes her by surprise, and she laughs.  The drama geek who's speaking looks at her, and she has to explain that she promised to help with something.  She slides out of the corner the drama crowd has taken for its own and moves shyly toward Donnie, stopping so she can search the look on his face before she ventures a compliment.  "Nice costume."

Donnie reaches tenatively out, takes her hand and bows over it, kissing her knuckles. "My dear,"  he says, in a surprisingly good British accent "you're simply stunning."  He removes the teeth smiles again, and runs his fingers through the errant strands of hair that still float about her purple face and night-elf accent marks. "I like the color. The fanboy in me is on his knees choking in abject excitement over your outfit, but god do I want to kiss you right now."

She draws a breath and looks at him, tempted to give in and step up to him like nothing's happened, but she feels a weird responsibility to them both not to do so.  She searches herself for a moment, trying to find that neutral spot in her heart that means she's not leaking emotion.  It may make her seem a little somber as she dodges the implicit question and issues a few of her own.  "Are you okay?  How are you feeling?"

Donnie reluctantly lets go of her purple tresses. "I'm better. I've made some personal discoveries, reviewed things in my head."  He pauses and looks down at his feet, taking a step back. "I don't want to pressure you in anything right now, but I'd like to talk again when we're not surrounded by masked people or dressed like every teenage boy's fantasy." He smiles again, an honest and broad smile. "You look incredible. I can't get over this outfit. I bet Mitzi and Caroline had a long talk with you before letting you out, didn't they?"

Sylvia nods, the embarassment of the friendly parental inquisition forgotten in her satisfaction with his praise.  "They gave me the talk.  I mean, they gave me the sequel to the talk--not the birds-and-bees talk but, like, the talk about how to be a responsible bird who doesn't fluff her plumage or go pecking for worms."  She hopes he got that.  She doesn't want to explain.

There is something she needs to tell him, although she thinks she can keep it to herself for the duration of the party.  "I have something to tell you, too, but it can wait.  What's your part in Greg's plan?"

Donnie looks into the darkness above. "Well, Pip gets to divebomb the guests and steal their food, Althea glides by the windows to cast ominous shadows, and Uther is on the woods, doing his best to sound like a huge, angry, hungry dragon, which isn't too difficult for him. What devious illusionary stuff are you going to do?" Donnie looks around, flexing and unflexing his hands, as if loosening them up for a fight. Sylvia had seen Kel do that numerous times, though Donnie does not do that awful neck-cracking thing that Kel does.

She watches his hands, a little apprehensive of that hint of Not Donnie.  "I was hoping you had some ideas.  I want to give somebody a scare, but just a little scare.  I don't want to put them in therapy."  She could, she suspects, and she catches her lower lip under her teeth, wishing they had a moment of privacy so she could explain exactly what she means by that.  "There are some rooms upstairs, I hear--some couples getting smoochy."  Or more.  "In horror movies, they're always the first victims.  They might be plum targets."

"Jonny Depp's first role in a movie was getting a pole shoved through his chest by Jason Vorhees in Friday the Thirteenth number three or whatever. Ask Dave or Greg. They'd know. I think he was making out with a girl. Sorry, probabl;y not the best of subjects to chat about. Hey, listen.."  He reaches out after pulling off one of the gloves. His hand is warm and a little damp from the glove. Threading his fingers through hers, he steps close. "Whatever we need to talk about, we'll do later, I promise. I just need to know you can be here for me tonight. I think we may end up meeting with the group of girls we were dealing with a while ago, remember?"  
His breath is warm against her cheek.

It's hard to focus, suddenly.  Her heart feels like it's beating in her throat.  "Yes."  She has no idea what she just agreed to.  Then her brain unlocks.  "Yes, sure.  I'm here."  She squeezes her eyes shut for a second, trying to reel in the peculiar and tantalizing excitement before it gets away from her.  "When?  And how?"

"I don't know. I asked Greg and Dave to let us know if they see one. Then? Popcorn. Circle I wave my hands a little, say some words, we walk away. Rinse repeat if we catch another one. This will hopefully be a catch and release kind of thing. Colin is right about one thing. We can't do them harm, as that continues the circle of violence. As much as I want to make it personal, it can't. Mitzi made me understand that. If we are to be instruments of fate, we can't be the ones holding the weapons, you know?"  Donnie breathes in the scent of her skin, a sudden urge of desire quickening his heartbeat. "I have always loved the way you smelled. Clean, fresh. I can still smell you under the make-up."
He tries to concentrate on watching those around him, but Sylvia just made things click in his chest, tighten.

Sylvia lives up to stereotype, expression inscrutable while her brain runs on about the color of his hair and his eyes, the shape of his mouth, the smell of his shirt and the sound of his voice.  What she says, when her brain frees up enough of its neurons for rational thought, is "If I were a witch, I wouldn't be down here.  I'd be somewhere private, and nearby.  Halloween's a special time for them, isn't it?  Mom has little things she does, for protection and to celebrate the season.  I'd be out in the woods, maybe, with a bonfire."

"True, but these ones do it to be popular, get guys, and mess with others. They would not miss a Janush party. They are the only ones that really count in terms of popularity. We're just lucky we know some of the organizers."  He grins at her, and can't keep his eyes from roaming up and down her. God she's hot. "Is it warm in here? I suddenly feel all flushed."  He removes the other glove and stows them both in a side pocket.

He seems to be resisting the urge to run his hands up her arms. He splays his hands open, takes a shuddering breath and steps back. "It's not just you and yours. I want to be with you. Me. Not affected by.."  he waggles his fingers in the air "you know. It took me several days to realize it."

"A little warm," she admits.  She's conscious of the heat coming from him as if it were an extension of his body.  It makes her want to step closer or step farther.  This middle distance is awkward and torturous.


She looks askance at him, gaze suddenly alert.  Does he mean what she thinks he means?  "Magic?"  That's what the waggling fingers mean to her.  They were going to talk about it later, but now is the time, it seems.  For lack of privacy, she builds an illusion only he can see:  the party-goers freeze in place around them, and she's standing there, perhaps closer than she is in reality.  "I did something to you, I think," she tells him, troubled.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to."

Donnie looks around, eyes wide. "Cooool."  He then zeroes back on Sylvia. Why does she feel suddenly like a rabbit in the sights of a hawk? "I think so too, but my feelings are already being magnified by the gradual exchange with my brother from the other side. Dragons have emotions that are considerably stronger than ours. Think of it this way: when we turn on water in a sink, we have a full range of options between hot and cold. Dragons have only a few options in the extremes. Hot/cold, Anger/Joy, Desire.." He reaches a hand out tentatively to her. "Yeah. So, Jealousy, Fury, you know. I have to work harder to reign in my feelings. It wasn't you manipulating my emotions all the times. Mebbie once or twice, but I know you never meant to really do it. I think. I hope."

She reaches out toward him with the speed of impulse:  as she imagines it, so it happens.  Where their fingers touch, the heat of their hands is subjectively intense.  The whole room, in fact, is rendered in dream-bright colors--the costumes more beautiful, the light clearer and warmer.  In this fairy-tale version of reality she pulls a regretful face and states it as plainly as she can.  "We're so boned."  Then, with a limp shrug of resignation, she tells him, "I found someone who's helping me."  Smith's image blooms near them--a beaky, pale man with permanent bedhead and dark, sorrowful eyes.  "He's a telepath, among other things."

"Telepathic and telekinetic," the illusionary Smith says in his weak, whispery voice.  "Don't tell."

Unbidden, but brought forth by Sylvia's power, Dylan appears next to Donnie, a heartbreakingly familiar half smile on his  face. Donnie looks over at the image and back at Sylvia's surprised one. "I met my brother."

"Your what?" Sylvia says.  She is not amused.

Donnie shrugged, looking embarrassed. "He's my dragon-brother, born a human on this side. It's the benefit of being the draconic BorderLord: to be born of man and experience life as a human with all the range of emotions we are capable of. I didn't know until I met him on Thursday night. Maybe that's why you felt something for him, a connection. I was hoping to tell you in a more relaxed neutral setting, but oh well."  Donnie scuffed the illusory floor, like a kid caught trying to steal at a candy store.
"The reason he was there for you was because of me. My emotions burned so brightly for you that he felt protective of you. He watched out for you because I couldn't. Not yet. He thinks that soon I will not need his help anymore, but I have to learn to shape these emotions like the dragons do. Their bonfire emotions are what fuels their magic. Eventually I will be able to as well. I'm sorry, I really had no idea."

She looks annoyed, jaw pulling to one side and nose wrinkled.  If she could come up with a rational foundation for her irritation, she'd find an excuse to sock Dylan on the jaw, but in the end all she can do is make faces.  "It's not your fault," she manages.  Well, wait.  Now that she's in a snit, she remembers what Donnie said and how he said it.  "I'm not your property," she tells him, just to make that crystal clear.

Donnie looks abashed. "I know, I'm sorry. It's just the thought of someone else doing this."  suddenly with the speed of thought, he was kissing her, "..just filled me with a jealous rage. I said some things, then was containing my irrational anger, when you whammied me. Multiplied my fury and sense of control and protectiveness. I feel I've laid claim to you, your affection, your heart. I just want it, desire it, ache for it. The thought of sharing you with another doesn't sit well. I'm sorry if that doesn't agree with you, but I've learned sometimes I don't share well. Maybe it's from growing up an only child, or maybe it's a dragon's sense of territorialness. Who knows?" His hands are cupping her face, and there is heat there, oh so much feeling she is receiving through his touch, as if she were a vessel as his emotions pour into her: desire, joy, protectiveness, tenderness, concern, possibly..love? It's dizzying.

It is indeed dizzying, and Sylvia yearns for more--more emotion, more time, more of that rarefied phantasmal kissing, more . . . well, maybe for a flicker of an instant she betrays what exactly she wants more of before embarassment and the threat of losing her control forces her to step back and shut down.  They're back in the real world, in the same instant in which they began, but the expression on her face has changed from a kind of adolescent longing for the unknown to a pained adult yearning for something close enough to touch.

"This isn't a good idea.  You know that, right?"  She doesn't even dare take his hand.  "We're both a mess.  We'd just explode again."

Donnie closes his eyes for a moment, swaying as if weaving drunkedly. "God, wouldn't it be glorious?" He smiles, eyes, closed, happy in the knowledge of Sylvia's desire for him in that brief second before she withdrew. He knew. He knew.

I will wait for you, Sylvia. Because now I know how you feel. Not through words or actions, but because of what we just shared. I will wait, and be satisfied for you to come to me when you are ready to let me back in. I leave it up to you, becaue I don't want any decision to be clouded by emotions I might be throwing around..

He opened his eyes, suddenly boyish again, and flushed to his ears, grinning like a mad fool. Like a fool in love. He reached out to grasp he hand efore she could step back further, and kissed her fingertips and the purple laquered nails. "I will be near, if you need me."

Oh, what is he doing to her?  The anguished little voice in her head that still has not shut up about the color of his eyes et cetera yammers at high speed about the softness of his lips against her fingers until she's deafened by it--or maybe that's the ringing of her pulse in her ears.  "Maybe we should find people."  They're surrounded by people.  "Our people.  You know.  And then we can sit around and--"  Stop playing with fire.  "--talk about other things."  She's starting to feel a little shaky.  She can feel something struggling to escape her--not anger this time, but a heavy, sultry, covetous hunger that wants to curl around the party-goers, and around Donnie, like a purring, velvety cat.  Back, beast, she thinks.  "I could use some--"  Extremely cold.  "--punch."

Donnie smiles, eyes bright. "As my lady commands." Off he goes to the refreshment area, jauntily stepping in his high leather boots. His pleasure of the evening echoes to his dragons, and both Uther and Althea bugle out loud dragon calls, sharing his happiness.

Punch punch punch. If I were punch where would I be?

Sylvia watches him go and can almost feel his recession in her skin.  She licks her lips, feeling feverish, and then her gaze drifts toward the ceiling of the main-floor room in which she stands.  Everyone investigating the rooms upstairs is up there for a reason, she's heard.  They won't mind if she just pushes a little of this awkward, heady feeling up toward them, vents it through them.  Here, hold this, she thinks, and lets some of her hormonal urgency dissipate through the floors above her.