A/N: I own nothing but Amon’s car.

 

After Hours

 

A craft user. God! How pathetic. Amon could not for the life of him understand why they’d been sent yet another one. As if Kate hadn’t been lesson enough!

Amon grimaced and swallowed the last of his whiskey. Kate was—what? Dead. A dead witch. His partner. Ex-partner. Their trust had faded long before he received orders for her termination. She couldn’t keep her cool. At random and crucial moments, Kate would lose her head—and control. So Amon carried out his duty—for the sake of the whole team.

Harry spotted his empty glass and refilled it, knowing alcohol was the only thing in which the young man could drown his sorrows.

But was he sorry? Closing his eyes, Amon could block out the light around him, even tune out the din of other patrons. But he could not escape the fact that he did not regret killing Kate. He wanted to, so badly. A tiny part in him, the part that he pretended was human, wanted desperately to feel some emotion, guilt or at least grief over her death. Was he a monster? When had it happened? He was only 25, yet somewhere along the way, he’d aged twice as many years, and now carried with him more baggage than was his right. When had he ceased to be human?

He idly wondered what this round would bring. Another death sentence? A sadistic stalking, a quick shot in the dark, noise quieted with a silencer?

She had pyrokinetic abilities. That was the official way to say she could burn you to a crisp should the idea strike her fancy. And didn’t all craft-users border on the malevolent? A crazy idea began to fly though his mind, which he couldn’t stifle. It pursued him everyday. What was the real difference between a craft-user and a witch? Apparently, Robin Sena knew all the conjurations of witches—runes, ogham. Why wasn’t she a witch? Because she worked for STN? For that matter, why wasn’t Miho a witch?

A more frightening thought entered his mind, one that he always managed to strangle before it was completely formed. What if he—

The door swung open, breaking Amon’s intense contemplations. The young woman in question walked in, her dark skirts skimming black boots. Amon could not get over her hair. It looked like handle bars on a bicycle. But he supposed that growing up in a convent left little room for individuality.

Harry smiled gently, welcoming her. She smiled shyly at Amon, who had turned back to study the fascinating arrangement of ice in his glass.

“May I sit here?” She asked quietly. Amon nodded, and she took her place next to him.

Harry filled a cup with steaming espresso and set it before her. She thanked him and inhaled the heady aroma.

Amon had not been prepared for the encounter. Still struggling with his own traitorous thoughts, the last thing he needed was the provocation chatting up with him. He was rapidly becoming drunk. And tired. He waited for her to speak. And waited.

Robin was unlike any 15 year old he’d ever seen. Granted she came from strict Catholic upbringing, but the girl didn’t even seem to be—well, she just didn’t seem to be. Robin was so quiet and self-contained, Amon thought he could easily forget she was not two feet away from him.

Except that he couldn’t. Though quiet, Robin had an air of vitality that surrounded her like fall-out. Her presence was so powerful, to ignore her would be impossible.

He pointedly knocked-back his half full glass, inspiring Robin’s awe and Harry’s concern. Without wincing, he pulled out a cigarette, then replaced it, belatedly realizing he could not smoke inside Harry’s.

He wished she’d say something. That in itself was odd, that a man who actively sought silence now wished for conversation. But Amon could not stand the pregnant air, heavy with implications only he knew and understood, because he had created them. He looked at Robin then, studied her profile, the elfin face, dotted with freckles, long lashes brushing against her cheeks. Full lips turned up on a rosebud mouth. Her green eyes bored down into her cup, and he suspected they could bore holes in him.

He really needed to stop drinking so much. Bore holes in him?

Emerald met stormy gray, and Amon knew he was human. She smiled. Whatever she knew or suspected of him in that moment was put to the side in that smile. Amon wondered if she would have to die. If he would be the one chosen to carry out the mission. He couldn’t say if he would be able to or not. But he understood, in that moment when she smiled at him, that he would regret it if he did.

Amon paid Harry, nodded good-night to Robin and left, politely but firmly declining Harry’s offer to drive him home. He would walk. He needed the exercise. It was cold outside; it would probably give some semblance of sobriety. He thought again that he needed to stop drinking, at least late at night. Silently, he vowed never to ask Robin why she drank espresso at such an hour. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to become close to her at all. In his gut, he knew any ties would have to be severed eventually. She was a craft-user. And the line between that and witch was very fine. So fine, that Amon with his keen hunter’s eyes could not see it quite as clearly as he’d like to. As he needed to.

So he would maintain his distance. Yes, he nodded sloppily to himself. Distance. He would start first thing in the morning.