Dylan slammed the fridge door shut guiltily. He swallowed the bit of fruit he'd snatched up nice and quick. At least Eddie didn't sound so hugely annoyed. That was an improvement. Now all Dylan needed to do was take a firm hand on his own temper, his own faulty nature, to stop things from getting out of hand. "Over in the kitchen! I'm raiding the fridge." He turned back to it and pulled out the green grapes he'd been munching on. He just loved the things. Couldn't get enough of them. Hey, they were good for him after all. Much better then too much candy, anyway.

Eddie shook his head, crossing the room and entering the kitchen. "Well, glad to see you're making yourself right at home." He said, loosening his tie as he sat on the nearest stool supplied to the center island. "If you want anything specific, just make a list from that sheet of paper on the door. Anything from around the world, it'll be here the next day. Ah, well, if you stick around that long. Like I said, you'll be safe for at least a couple days, then you'll have to make a solid decision." He looked down, and traced a pale bit of the marble in front of him. "Y'know, you won't have to leave your job. You just have to be careful. Not travel until you can easily defend yourself, or at least not unless I can accompany you in case something happens. Better safe than sorry, eh? Especially with a human that has such a strong sixth sense." Maybe Dylan would find it easier to talk now that Eddie wasn't snipping or complaining to him. He didn't exactly like to rage, after all.

There was a piece of paper on the kitchen door. Dylan hadn't noticed it before, but now that he had, he could see a few scrawled words slashing across white. "I need to travel for my job. Didn't I say what I do? I'm an investigative journalist. That's all about travel, going where the story is and gathering the facts. If I can't do that without being babysat, then there's no point. " Frustrated, he scrapped the stool against the floor before settling down on it. He'd worked so hard to make a name for himself. Now that was all down the drain.

Eddie raised a brow. "And there's nothing in this town to investigate? This huge city is so boring and lifeless you'll be entirely crippled for work by not getting on a plane and catapulting yourself overseas or over the country?" He shook his head. "Look here, Dylan, I don't want to make this hostile, or have to 'babysit' you. Trust, that's the last thing on my mind. Hell, I'd like to be your friend---now as to why, I don't have the slightest idea, but it has to be easier than hating one another for however long we're in this whole debacle."

He sighed. "See, here's a new thing presenting itself to you. You can see a whole new world you never knew existed. And it existed right under your damn nose. You can't tell me you're not the least bit interested, or curious, or fascinated? I'm not saying leave your current life behind---I'm saying give something new a chance."

Dylan crossed his arms. "All the positions on the newspaper that have to do with what goes on in the city are filled. Basically, if I can't travel, I'm done for as a journalist. " And there were no other jobs he could think of that were near as interesting, as adventure filled. Dylan knew he was an adrenaline junkie. Being stuck safe and sound inside a gated community was far from his idea of interesting, of fun. Why couldn't the other man see that? Why couldn't Eddie try and understand? Maybe Eddie needed to be a mind reader, along with everything else he was.

"Of course it's interesting, but damn it. .. I want to be able to do what the hell I want, instead of being shut in like a prisoner." Giving something new a chance meant giving up his old life. No matter what happened, he would be giving up the old.

Eddie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "See, I know where you're coming from. I didn't have a choice either. Of course by that time I was dead and I didn't have a choice in anything. But I was close minded at the idea. I had a life, albeit not a strong, great life, but I wouldn't have traded it. And when I didn't have a choice I couldn't see anything but a trap, a predicament that kept me from doing what I loved. You have a chance still. You can walk out any time, you're not dead and you have no obligations to me or to my people. I can see how much you love your life, what you do, and I won't take that away, but you need to know how much more danger you're in when you leave this protected community. Here, no demons can get in. No spirits can come looking for you. Out there you're in far more danger than you might realize. But I'm no parent. It's not my obligation to keep you safe, but to let you know that you'll have a place to be safe in."

Eddie sighed when he fell silent, running his hand painfully up and down the middle of his chest. Under his clothes he could feel the raised skin.

Dylan leaned forward, arms pressing against his knees. "So I can leave, but come back? You made it sound like I couldn't do that, like the choice wasn't even on the table." Resentment had him spitting out the words. There were things he still wanted to do, and Eddie had made him believe there were only two options. There was no way Dylan could regard the Messenger as a friend, not after everything that had gone on between them. Sure they'd only known each other for a little while, but that had been enough to convince the journalist of that.

Eddie sighed and shook his head, battling the pained look that crossed his face. "You need to learn to loo between the lines." He said. "I said it was extremely dangerous to go back out there with the demons and supernatural world knowing what they know about you. I said for a few days you may be safe. I said you would possibly be battling these creatures the rest of your life. You need to at least know how to ward them off." He stood, stretched and went to the cabinet by the fridge, pulling a box out, then a syringe.

"Don't get squirmy, this isn't for you." Eddie shot over his shoulder in case Dylan got worried. He lifted one of the filled syringes and uncapped it, plunging it into his chest just between two ribs, the subtle sting overpowered by the painkillers that spread through his chest and down his stomach. "Ah, okay. Better." He sighed, shaking his head and making his hair fly crazily. He capped the syringe and set it under the others, closing the box. "Just know, I don't want you to die. It kind of sucks if you have to stick around." He said somberly, replacing the black box and turning to face Dylan.

Dylan grumbled under his breath. "You told me there was no way for me to defend myself either. " Parroting the man was the only way to find out the truth. Information held the key to figuring out this whole mess. As a journalist, it was the only way Dylan could make sense of anything at all. He twined his fingers together and stared down at his white knuckles. Then he looked up at the sound of something squeaking, hinges. This was more information about Eddie, and intriguing at that.

"Why do you need that stuff? What is it?" Medicine, but what kind? It could also be drugs. That kind of addiction probably lasted even after death. And if it was medicine, what could be so horrible that it would last beyond life?

Eddie sighed, leaning against the counter behind him. "Painkillers I can only get from a very specific place." He said simply. "Like I said, I got killed in an awful way, and that pain is still pretty bad. This stuff takes most of it away." He absently ran his hand up and down the length of his stomach and chest, the slight contact still more comfortable than letting the smooth inside of his white shirt rub against him all the time. "Anyway, there aren't any ways for you to defend yourself. You need charms, weapons, and knowledge that I and other Messengers have. On your own you'll be picked off by a strong demon like a flea."

The numbing ability of the liquid painkillers had finally kicked in, and he breathed in gently. He didn't exactly want Dylan to come to the same ultimate fate that he had. Indeed he was working to go against that now, or at least have a better fate when he inevitably died for the final time, but becoming a Messenger was as terrible as it could be noble, even if no one had a chance to debate.

The journalist leaned back. Now that was interesting. "How did you get killed?" Dylan knew he was being too blunt. Usually when he fished for information he was far more careful. Working his way into someone's trust was the best way to do things, but now ... He didn't care too much. Eddie had pushed him a tad too far, and even if he understood why now, that didn't mean the annoyance and frustration had disappeared.

Thinking about his bleak life though, well Dylan couldn't do that. He knew there wasn't an option if he wanted to stay alive. His work took him to dangerous places, and if demons and spirits were there to boot, his end was inevitable.

Eddie's head snapped up. "That's rather delicate for most people." He said curtly. "Luckily I'm not most people." He turned, stepping back a few feet, and untied his tie, setting it on the counter and then unbuttoning his shirt to where it was tucked into his pants. From the middle of his chest to his navel a long, raised scar defaced otherwise clean and uninjured skin. "I was gutted by a Jack the Ripper wannabe a couple hundred years ago. It took me fifteen minutes to die because I was in shock, I couldn't feel the pain and I bled out after having crawled toward the nearest road. Then I watched as my body was cleaned up, and forced into this life while my little siblings were carted off to an orphanage. I'm not entirely dead yet, but I'm sure as hell getting there."

He tugged his shirt, untucking it before buttoning the front back up to the neck. It wasn't necessary, but he felt as if he'd ripped something open and it would bleed out again if he didn't contain it with the cloth.

Dylan paled at the sight. He'd seen some pretty horrible things during his career, and that scar and the pain that had gone with it certainly was up there on the list. Pale skin, near untouched save for that thing, had been exposed for just a few moments. Letting out a long breath, the journalist hung his head and stared at the floor. "I'm sorry." For being an ass, and for ripping open an emotional wound that obviously still stung. He didn't say that of course, couldn't in the face of what he'd just learned. No wonder Eddie had shown such bitterness.

After a few moments, the journalist moved to the counter and plucked up the tie. He made a motion, as if to start tying it around the other man's neck, but faltered and let his hand fall. He was just being stupid again. That couldn't be seen as a peace offering, could it? Offering to do something so simple, well it was absurd!

Eddie let his mouth quirk up in a half-smile, taking the tie and wrapping it around his hand. "Don't be." He said simply. "I don't like those 'I'm sorry' lines. I heard it too many times. As opposed to how most Messengers die, there aren't many that reach my level of gruesome, but we've all gone through the same thing that led us to being where we are. If you apologize to all of us for our lingering scars, you'll have a lot of work to do, trust me on that." He at least softened his voice so Dylan knew his apology wasn't wasted.

"So, are we on the same page now?" He asked, offering his free hand in a hope that at least part of their burned bridges would be mended. "I don't want to smother you but I do want you safe. You're an asset and a huge help to the spirits, to us. You could help so many if you knew the extent of your ability. But you have to be okay with it. You have to see all the pages of the book before you decide an ending is solid."

The young man rolled his eyes. "I meant sorry for being such an ass." He hadn't had any idea what the man had been through, what he was, why he had been so frustrated. Now he did, and knew that his attitude had been all wrong. Of course Dylan still felt bitter for being ripped from his life, but at least he had a better idea of why. It wasn't just about him, it was about the Messengers as well. One particular Messenger was an intriguing mystery. A puzzle to be solved. Dylan shook his head and took a few steps back.

He stared down at the offered hand. "Why don't you show me some of those pages so I can make a decision?" Dylan looked up instead of doing what he knew Eddie wanted. There would be no shaking of hands until he was sure he could survive in that house with this man. He didn't even know if he trusted Eddie yet.

Eddie dropped his hands, then brought them up to his hips and rested them there. "Ah, fine, fine." He sighed, rubbing one hand over his face. "C'mon with me, then, grab a snack or something because if you want to talk, we'll sure as hell talk." He stepped around Dylan and went to the long dining table, sitting at the head and crossing his hands in front of them. "Anyway, don't worry about acting an arse, you're not the first and certainly won't be the last. Only difference is your being what you are and what you can do. It makes it slightly more tolerable. Now, sit, I'll detail the pages for you."

He closed his eyes, waited for Dylan to take his place, and spoke quickly. "The pages are as follows, Dylan. You have freedom. But you have danger you've never experienced before. If you want to leave, you very well can, I'll not stop you. But you will take with you the knowledge that you will be followed by spirits and demons alike. If you so much as glance at a spirit, they will approach you because no one else can see them. If you so much as acknowledge a demon, no matter the size, they will pursue you. This place is safe to let down your guard, but outside the gates you are in danger's way. You cannot handle bladed weapons that the Messengers carry because they are simply too heavy do to their supernatural origins. You need help, whether you want to admit it or not, and until you can learn to keep demons and spirits at bay to live even a marginally normal life. I do want to help you, but you have to be willing to bend. I'm not sure how you'll be able to handle your job as it is, but if you simply can't stay away, either I will accompany you or I could get a friend to do so. I have a few that owe me favors, at least... Or I could go directly to the Council, who would give you something to keep you safe for a limited amount of time."

He paused to take a breath, and looked pointedly at Dylan. "Are these pages detailed enough for you?"

He fumbled his way into a seat and leaned against the counter. He wished he had something to take notes with. Dylan's hands felt empty without a paper and pen, or a recorder. There was no way to take down the information, no way to make sure that what he would go over with his mind later on would be accurate. His memory would have to do. The journalist listened as best he could, tapping his fingers lightly against he counter now and again.

"Yeah, they are." He wished he had more time to consider them, but there wasn't. The option of time was gone, in his mind. "How much would I have to bend?"

Eddie shrugged. "Depends on how much you want to take on. How much you want to live among us, or if you want to at all. Like I said, it's up to you whether or not you want to do anything to change your life to what it could be. Bend as much as you like, but I'll not force you to do anything. Up until now I just wanted to show you what this is. If you like, leave. Forget it ever happened. Perhaps think of it as The Matrix, only without the choice to wipe your memory with a little pill. Or stay. Consider your life now. Decide to change, live here and help spirits, learn how to handle heavy weaponry or guns, and accompany me out into the city, beyond the Veil, to speak and act and watch. I promise you, it will not be boring. Not as boring as you might think living in one sprawling, ghost-and-demon riddled city is. You will experience beings that have been trapped and undiscovered for centuries, they have much to teach and it's all from a person that was there during massive points in history."

He cradled his head on his hand, brushing back his hair once again. "So, choices abound. It's up to you, really, because I don't want to keep having conversations like this."

Dylan frowned. "I thought you said you don't work with anyone else. That you don't have a partner, that you always work alone." There were so many things to be written about. Stories untold by anyone. He could be the first to break them. But they wouldn't ever pass as non-fiction, true facts. That would mean turning over a new leaf, and writing things that would be seen as nothing more then fantasy. Dylan hated the genre, but it might very well have been the difference between actually having money, and relying entirely on this half-stranger.

Still he laughed a bit. "Are conversations like this so bad?" Leaning forward, he tapped his fingers against the counter. "Maybe I should tell you a bit more about myself. I became an investigative journalist because I'm an adrenaline junkie .. And I was running away too, from a pretty bad past relationship. Suffice to say, she used me to get to a friend, then dumped me the moment she had him. He turned his back on me, and I lost two of the most important people to me in one fell blow. So I guess what I'm saying is, that so long as my life can make me forget that nasty stuff, I'm good. " Dylan leaned back, and tilted his head.

Eddie rolled his eyes hard. "Oh Jesus, I don't work with anyone else but you're not what I am, are you? I'll be dragging you along, I don't expect you to help." He might have said it harshly, but it was the truth. Dylan seemed to like to dig up what he said just a while before to throw back at him as if it would toss him off his steady ground. Still, he leaned back and propped his feet on the table. "Gee, sounds like a dick move if I've ever heard of one. Well, it's pretty far up there, anyway. Hope they're gone, so you don't have to watch them change and grow without you." His eyes grew glazed, and he went quiet.

"I had to." He muttered quietly, then shook his head. "Ah. Well, right then. You can be an adrenaline junkie all you like, Dylan, but there's a fine line between getting a thrill and getting decapitated or impaled. Doing what I do is not easy, not in the least, and it's easy to get you killed. Messengers are different. The only thing that can kill us is a demon, and our own weapon. And once we're... entirely dead... Well, you don't want to know what's in store for us." He didn't know, but he'd heard of those that had seen that existence and had gone insane. Those particular Messengers were locked away in an underground vault, so he heard.

"Right then." Dylan slid his hands onto the counter and stood up with a lopsided grin. "I'll stick around." Those two were still around. He saw her everyday on the news, he saw his ex best friend often enough too. Cameron was his boss. Grinding his teeth together, the young man had to force his grin to stay in place. This was the only option. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to fade into anonymity either. There was a chance his choice would lead to his death, but at least it would be a heck of an interesting one, and probably his own mistake, his own fault, and not anyone else's responsibility.

Eddie nodded. "Good. Now go pick a room upstairs and close the door so I know which one you chose. There's three I don't use and an office I haven't been in for a long time yet. Then come back down and use that pad of paper on the door to write down whatever you need from your place and slide it into the slot on the front door outside. Tomorrow it'll be here." He stood and stretched. "I'll be... well, just yell and I'll probably hear you, so I guess it doesn't matter, does it?" He laughed a bit, passing by Dylan and going out the sliding glass doors nearby, which led to a wide deck. He liked his back yard---it faced no one else's house, and beyond the gate was a large lake he enjoyed walking along from time to time. It felt like his own little world, full of flowers, low-hanging trees, with the scent of fruit and grass and warm earth. He sat near the door, watching the willow tree to the left sway in the breeze.

Dylan didn't wait long before leaving the kitchen and sauntering up the stairs of the main hall. Once up, he glanced at few of the paintings on the walls. They were beautiful and haunting. Each and every one seemed to have been created by the same hand. The brushstrokes were too similar for anything else to be true. He almost wanted to snatch one up and put it into he room he chose. It was the second one from the right of the left stairs.

He loved the four poster bed. There was a quilt covering it, and a wooden chest at it's base. Off to the side was a desk, and a padded chair. The bookshelf off to the left wall was proof enough that reading was an expected pass time. Dylan walked to the desk and used the pen and paper he found inside to write down that he needed his clothing, his computer, his passport and other important documents from his room. He also mentioned his cellphone and charger. Everything else could be replaced easily. Dylan walked down and settled the paper into the outside slot, and then clambered up the stairs again. He stripped and slipped under the covers with a soft sigh. It was time to sleep.

Before going back in Eddie went into his yard and plucked an apple from the tree. they were large, green, and the tree produced between early spring and late fall, so for the most part he had fresh apples at hand any time he liked. He took it inside, going back to the basement and sitting in front of his painting. For a time he painted without seeing what he was painting. Dark, leafless trees like spider legs snaked up from the bottom of the dark canvas, and Eddie thought about his current situation. It would be harder to get to where he wanted to go now that Dylan was around. But he couldn't completely condemn the man. A journalist was, by nature, curious. More curious than other humans.

He sighed, studying his art. Why did he bother hanging it? It was all so dark. Depressing. Maybe he should try something surreal for once. Or realistic. Or he could try portraits again. After all, he had an unsuspecting model now he could practice on. Or, perhaps, later. Glancing at the clock, he was surprised to see how late it was. Nearly eleven. Sighing, he stood, discarded the apple core in the garbage bin in the corner, and started upstairs to his room, to the left of the stairs and on the right side of the hall. Pushing the door in, he removed his shirt and changed into a pair of sleeping pants, black linen that looked a lot like the bed covers and curtains of the four poster in the corner of the room. He grimaced when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror nearby, and ran his hand up and down the scar. It looked awful, in his opinion. It made him seem... inhuman. He was, of course, but that scar just kept driving the point home. He turned off the light, crawling under the blanket and tucking his defaced body away. He didn't have to stare at the wall across from him long before his eyes fell shut.

Dylan snored softly as he slept, something which he denied ever doing when awake. He wriggled about a bit, curling himself up in the covers unconsciously while he dreamed. A knocking and tapping slipped into his slumbering mind.

There were so many of them. Dark tangles of claws kept reaching out, their fingers scrapped against the wooden door. He knew what they were. He could see them through the glass walls. Demons. Hundreds of them, all clamoring together for the prize in the little glass box.

Wide eyed, the journalist awoke. There was that same knocking! That same scrapping, pounding sound from his dream. He took a few sharp breaths, swallowed hard, before plunging from his bed. He ran from the room, and started trying doors until he found a locked one on the same floor as his room. "There's demons! They keep trying to get in!" Fear gripped his heart, as Dylan pounded on the door.