In the effort to dodge between a nurse pushing a wheelchair and an orderly who was hurrying an empty gurney on its way, Sammy Jo barely broke stride, long legs carrying her through the hospital corridors as fast as was humanly possible without causing a major accident, though minor risks were acceptable. God, what the hell had she been thinking disappearing where no one could find her while her family—and god help her, despite her worst intentions in originally coming to Denver, Krystle’s family had become hers—while her family was hurt, and being tormented by thugs too cruel to be contemplated?

"Oh god, please," she begged no one in particular as she prayed for the best while fearing the worst. The news broadcast she’d overheard had only said that Blake had been shot at the same time that an accident at the mansion had put several members of the family in harm’s way. Danny was okay. She’d checked on him first, but her son’s nanny hadn’t known what had happened beyond what was on TV.

Which was why Sammy Jo was running through the hospital like a mad woman. If he’d been shot, Blake would have to be here, and someone would have to be there for him. It seemed like her best shot for answers, especially since the mansion was surrounded by television trucks and reporters, and she doubted she could get through without being mobbed.

As she reached the E.R. she darted past a pair of nurses, only to pull up as a man in some sort of security uniform stepped into her path.

"Do you have business in the E.R., Miss?" he questioned with pugnacious authority.

Sammy Jo’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing as they fell on the rent-a-cop with a look of impatience. "I’m Sammy Jo Carrington," she snapped in her best imitation of Fallon at her most imperial. She flicked the badge-shaped patch on his chest with the only one of her expensively manicured nails that wasn’t showing the wear and tear of running a horse ranch. "And my guess is that my ex-father-in-law is paying your salary."

He paled, but wasn’t quite ready to step out of her way. He worked for a private security company contracted just that evening, and already he’d had to fend off any number of outrageous lies by reporters eager for the story. He wouldn’t know a Carrington from a hole in the ground, but he knew damn well that if he couldn’t tell one from a reporter he was out of a job. "I’m sorry, Miss," he said, still firm, but a bit more polite this time, "but I’ll have to see proof before I let you through."

Faintly taken aback—nobody ever questioned Fallon’s lady-of-the-manor routine—Sammy Jo momentarily froze and was just considering throwing a fit when she saw Jeff. He looked like hell, bruised, bloody, his hair and clothes grey with dirt, while he clutched his upper arm with his opposite hand. Something awful had happened, and her stomach clenched with fear at who else might have been hurt. Still speechless and in search of answers, it took her an extra beat to realize who he was speaking to. They’d only met a time or and she principally recognized her not from those brief, formal affairs, but from the photos that had appeared in the local tabloids. Jeff had denied the accusations, though Sammy Jo had wondered. It hardly seemed like the time to worry about it though.

The two of them were standing toe to toe, and despite his injuries, there was a stubborn cast to Jeff’s expression—his mouth pursed, jaw thrust forward. "No," he growled as he pulled away from the hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

"Jeff," Monica argued, her tone firm as she spoke very slowly and clearly, "there’s nothing more you can do for the moment. The doctors are taking care of Fallon, Mom and Krystina are safe in a hospital room, and L.B.’s arm is set and he’s sedated for the night...it’s time for you to let the doctors take care of you."

He shook his head, wavering drunkenly on his feet. "Fallon," he insisted, "I need to be here if she wakes up...I need to...." He trailed off, he’d been running on adrenaline for hours and the shock was catching up with him, dulling both the body and the mind. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have realized Monica was right, but all he could imagine at that point was that Fallon might waken alone in the hospital and be frightened and he couldn’t allow that.

"Jeff, stop and think," Monica pleaded. "You can barely stand...you won’t be any good to Fallon or the rest of your family if you beat yourself into the ground."

Sammy Jo abruptly realized that the security guard had grabbed her arm. She’d lost track of the idiot for a moment. She turned a frosty glare his way. "Get your hands off of me before you make yourself completely unemployable in this town."

The threat was enough to make him pause and loosen his grip ever so slightly.

Sammy Jo used the moment to yank her arm back, hurrying forward before he could grab her again, her voice rising above the din of the E.R. "Jeff!"

He turned in response to her call, then opened his arms to the hard hug she delivered as she reached him several steps ahead of the guard who immediately realized his error and pulled up short. She was still hugging Jeff when the guard turned and slunk back toward the entrance to the E.R.

"Problem?" Jeff murmured.

"Nothing important," Sammy Jo assured him as she stepped back and peered up at him with a worried look. "I heard on the news that something happened at the mansion."

He nodded. "Blake’s been shot and Krystina and Fallon were caught in a cave in...." He was just drawing breath to continue the story when Monica curved a gentle hand to his upper arm.

"Jeff, I can fill Sammy Jo in...why don’t you let the doctors take care of you."

"Fallon---" he started to argue, but Sammy Jo interrupted.

"I’ll be here if Fallon wakes." She offered a hopeful smile. "We’re friends now." Which was probably overstating the relationship, but they didn’t hate each other anymore, and there was even a certain filial respect at least, which was almost like affection. "Anyway, she knows me, and I can let her know that you and L.B. are okay." She glanced at Monica and noted her grateful look before continuing. "And it does look like you could use a doctor."

He staggered and might have gone down if not for the supportive holds of both women. "Yeah, I guess," he admitted as his knees threatened to turn to jelly, then found himself thrust into a wheelchair pushed by a waiting nurse before he could change his mind.

Sammy Jo stepped out of the way as the hospital staff wheeled Jeff off, then glanced over at the woman standing a short distance away. Obviously she’d used the moments while Jeff was distracted to signal the E.R. staff. Smooth move. Sammy Jo forgot all about it as she remembered what little she’d heard on the news. "So what the hell happened out there? And what about Blake? Is he—"

"He’s alive," Monica answered quickly. "As for rest of it...it’s a long story."

"Well, it looks to me like we’ve got some time," the blonde said as she looked back the way she’d come and noted that the guard who’d tried to stop her was being pressured by a small but growing group of reporters. "And I suspect I’m better off knowing what the hell we’re dealing with." By the look of it, shouted questions were likely to be the order of the day for some time to come.

Glancing over her shoulder at the growing crowd, Monica nodded as she waved Sammy Jo over to a nearby bank of seats. "For now," she began when she finally spoke, "your best bet is to say nothing," she advised, leaning on her instincts as a lawyer in giving advice, "but you should be aware that there’s some kind of treasure under the house. That’s why Blake was shot...and that’s why a man named Grimes kidnapped Fallon and Krystina...."

Sammy Jo started to say something only to change her mind and simply lean back and listen to the other woman’s seemingly insane story. Only in the world of the Carrington’s could any of it possibly happen, which was why Sammy Jo was absolutely certain that every word of it had taken place no matter how crazy it sounded. In Carringtonville, the crazier something was, the more likely it was to be true.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Scotch number four, and Dex was still dead, just like numbers one through three. Joanna Sills peered at the amber liquid in her shot glass with a bleary-eyed look, her stomach rolling ever so slightly as the latest swallow burned its way down her esophagus on its way to joining the fire in her gut. Not that she’d loved Dex, mind you. She wasn’t so self-deluded as to think that their relationship had been more than friendly lust, but she’d enjoyed him and wanted him, and resented like hell when her boss, Sable Colby, had decided to simply take him. And now Sable’d gotten her way, and Dex was dead, and Joanna was none to eager to return to her very lonely, very cold bed. Another swallow of liquid fire burned her mouth and throat and her eyes flashed up to the TV over the bar as another update on the trials and tribulations of Denver’s very own royal family played out on the dusty screen.

Maybe it was time to buy an airplane ticket to somewhere random and start over, because she was really starting to hate Denver and just about everyone who lived there.

"Now this is a shame to see," an oily voice drawled near her ear while a sweat-damp hand fitted itself to her shoulder. "A beautiful woman drinking alone."

And she particularly hated everyone named Carrington. "Adam," she grumbled without looking up, wondering what nasty little insult he might come up with in the wake of Dexter’s death. The two had hated each other, and Adam was never one to miss a chance to twist the knife.

He took the stool next to her in spite of her decidedly uninviting tone.

Joanna used the moment to plot just where she would throw her drink once he got his insult out. His face was the obvious choice, but his lap had an appeal all its own. One move was a classic, but the other held out the hope of a bit of thoroughly childish humiliation. Decisions, decisions. Maybe she’d make up her mind after she heard whatever bit of nastiness he came up with.

He waved to the bartender and ordered a drink, making her wait for the insult she was sure was coming. The bastard did like to savor his moments of victory. He drew it out until after he’d taken a sip of a swiftly delivered Stoli. "I just wanted to offer my condolences for your loss."

Joanna already had her glass raised and was still debating whether to aim high or low when she parsed the meaning of his words and froze, her expression shifting from one of disdain to one of distrust. "Excuse me?" she said cautiously as she peered at him, seriously doubting she’d heard correctly.

Adam nodded to indicate the TV over the bar. "I may not have liked the guy," he murmured with a sympathetic shrug, "but I know you really cared for him." He took another sip of his drink, trying not to play his hand too obviously as he added, "Not like her."

"Her?" Joanna exhaled as she glared furiously at her drink. She should send him away, she knew. He was up to no good. But at the same time there was a certain temptation to go on listening. No one else gave a damn about what she was feeling and even Adam Carrington was better than nothing.

"Sable Colby," he drawled. "She took him away from you because she was bored...and then she destroyed him."

Ignoring the bolt of pain twisting her stomach into knots, Joanna took another swallow of her scotch. "Shouldn’t you be with your family in this time of difficulty?" she muttered, oddly glad that the alcohol stripped her of any need to be nice.

Adam shrugged and took a swallow of his own drink. "My mother’s not up to seeing visitors and I’m not exactly welcome at my father’s bedside," he said bitterly, and swirled the clear liquid in his glass around and around. "I’m like you...out in the cold."

Joanna fought the urge to sympathize. He was a backstabbing bastard, and she had no business trusting him. It was just that she was damn tired of being alone, and by the sound of it, so was he. "Yeah, well, that’s how it goes some days."

"Because of her," Adam muttered bitterly. "She took Dex from you...maybe my mother from me...and because of her lies, I can’t even see my father." He laid it on thick. He’d been courting Joanna to be his inside spy before, or failing that for a job, now he was after an ally, and to get that he needed to turn her against everyone but himself.

"Yeah, well...she does have a knack for getting what she wants," Joanna sneered, reminded of just how much she’d come to loathe her employer over the previous months. Sable crooked her finger and somehow, things just fell into her lap. Like Dex. She took another swallow of scotch, glad for the fog that rolled through her brain in response.

She was still musing on how good a little oblivion would feel when Adam’s voice insinuated itself into her head. "It’s not fair," he mused aloud. "If she’d just left the two of you alone, this never would have happened."

No, it wouldn’t have. Dex would have been ensconced in a comfortable bed with her instead of on that mezzanine between two alley cats like Alexis and Sable Colby both of whom would cheerfully kill him rather than share with the other. Both of whom probably HAD killed him rather than share with each other. However, Joanna had no desire to discuss that with Adam. Tossing down a tip, she rose unsteadily. "Whatever you’re planning, Adam," she growled, "I’m not interested." And she stormed out of the small bar, faintly annoyed by the way a chill wind threatened to clear her head as she stepped onto the street. Sobriety was no comfort at times like this.

She’d barely gone a step when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder with masculine strength, pulling her back around.

"I think you are interested," Adam disagreed as he slid his other hand around her waist and pulled her close so fast she didn’t have time to think.

Joanna didn’t fight the kiss. It felt too damn good to be wanted, even if she knew in her heart it was pure manipulation. She just didn’t care anymore.

"Very interested," Adam drawled near her ear when he finally released possession of her lips.

This time, Joanna didn’t argue.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Battered, sore, and exhausted beyond belief, Sable would have given anything to simply sleep her way through her time at the hospital. Unfortunately, because of the baby sedatives weren’t recommended. Besides, Krystina needed her. The child had come unglued when a helpful nurse had tried to separate them for treatment, then utterly panicked when she overheard that same nurse musing on Blake’s condition and the bad run of luck for the Carrington family.

Sable would have gratefully throttled the silly woman had she not been dealing with a sobbing, terrified child. She’d only calmed Krystina by assuring her that she’d seen her daddy and he wasn’t dead, though he was hurt, and he was the one who’d asked her to look after his children until he could again. That and continued assurances that her daddy wasn’t going to go away the way her mummy had had finally gotten things under control, but as a result, she didn’t dare let the girl out of her sight. She glanced over at the small silhouette apparently sleeping in the other bed. Good, the poor child had been exhausted, so hopefully she’d sleep the night through now.

She’d had them put herself and Krystina in the same room after wincing her way through having the cut at her hairline sutured by a ham-handed, overly cheerful doctor who felt the need to muse on how lucky she was that the scar would be hidden by her hair and none of the rest of her facial injuries were serious enough to need stitching. Speaking of the desire to throttle someone. As if she was worried about scars at that particular moment.

At least that was the worst of the damage, she reminded herself. The baby was unharmed, and while she was a bit cut up, there were no broken bones or internal injuries and the local sedative killed most of the pain from the stitches if not quite all of it. Now if Fallon and Blake would both just get better.

Best not to think too hard about that because it led too easily to envisioning all the things that could go wrong. Better to just not think, close her eyes, and sleep.

Which was far easier said than done. She was well past counting her thousandth sheep when she heard the soft sound of a door opening and closing again. Freed from the need to pretend there was a chance that such childish techniques—or anything else short of heavy drugs—was likely to result in getting any sleep, she looked up to find a familiar figure silhouetted next to her bed. "Monica?"

"Mmhm," her daughter confirmed as she leaned closer. "I just wanted to check on you."

"Doing fine," Sable assured her. "What about Fallon? I know she was brought in, but I haven’t heard anything about her condition."

"Apparently she’s been in and out of consciousness since Jeff found her. The doctors have run a lot of tests...MRI, cat scan...I don’t know what all," Monica admitted. A doctor had explained it, but it had been as mysterious to her as contract law would be to the average surgeon. "While she has a pretty nasty concussion, they can’t find any sign of a skull fracture or other serious injury. They’ll need to keep an eye on her, of course, but they didn’t seem to be too worried. Sammy Jo’s with her now. Jeff wanted to stay, but he was out on his feet. He’s in a room with L.B now...they’re keeping him overnight for observation."

Sable allowed herself a moment to absorb the quick rundown of news, then nodded. "I’m glad everyone’s all right," she murmured, then winced when she started to raise an eyebrow. Best not to try that expression again until the stitches were out. "Though to be perfectly frank, it would be just desserts if L.B. sprained his foot while kicking me."

A soft chuckle escaped Monica’s lips at her mother’s arch tone. "You know," she drawled on a humorous note, "if someone had told me you’d ever wind up saving Jeff’s son, I’d have called them a liar." She was startled when her mother stiffened at the joke, dark eyes flashing fire.

"I would never," Sable ground out, "knowingly allow any child to be harmed if I could stop it...certainly not because I didn’t like their parents."

The seriousness and intensity of her mother’s tone caught Monica off guard, and she held up both hands in surrender, but involved in her own issues, Sable didn’t notice.

"Jeff and I may not get along, but I bloody well am not Alexis...cheerfully willing to harm my enemy’s children for sport. Hell, if Alexis herself had a child that age, I’d still do my best to protect it."

"I’m sorry," Monica said quickly, "It was just a joke...I didn’t mean that you’d ever.... It was just a stupid joke," she stumbled through the apology, uncertain exactly what had upset her mother so thoroughly. "I didn’t know it was so important to you," she added after a beat.

Her eyes suddenly falling away from her daughter’s face, Sable shrugged as she realized how thoroughly she’d over-reacted. "I’m sorry," she apologized. "I just don’t believe children should ever be held responsible for the sins of their parents." Recent reminders of the past had brought up old issues, and even though Monica had no knowledge of her conception, Sable needed to stress to her daughter that she had never blamed her for any of it.

"Oh," Monica exhaled, uncertain why the issue would be so important to her mother.

"I’m sorry," Sable muttered again, her head still down. A hand rose from the sheets to flutter near her temple as though she might wave away the violent headache throbbing there. "I’m a probably a little overwrought." It was a weak excuse though doubtless true enough, but she could hardly explain how the confrontation with Dennis Grimes had brought old demons to the fore. Hunting for an excuse to change the topic, she purposely shifted gears. "Is there any news on Blake’s condition?"

Monica stiffened, ever so slightly on edge, instinct telling her that despite her mother’s denials, she was interested in Blake Carrington, which was only likely to cause more strife and put Monica in the middle between Jeff and her mother once again. Or maybe she already was. There was no denying that her mother was still a desirable woman, and Blake had been alone for some time. Her mother had denied it, but at the same time, when she asked about him, there was an underlying note of caring there that worried Monica because it seemed to go deeper than she thought it should, and she kept feeling like she hadn’t gotten an honest answer about it yet. "Holding his own by all accounts," she responded when she finally spoke, only distantly aware that she’d taken long enough on her thoughts to frighten her mother.

"Oh, thank god," Sable exhaled, her head tipping back on her shoulders as she took a deep breath and tried to control her suddenly raging heartrate. Monica had taken so long in answering that she’d feared the worst for a moment.

The intensity of her mother’s emotional response only increased Monica’s suspicions that she wasn’t being entirely honest about her feelings for Blake Carrington. Her heart suddenly thumping in her chest, Monica took a deep breath, quite certain she should simply keep her curiosity to herself, but unable to do so. "I know you and Dex had an affair," she began a little cautiously, "but Blake was around a lot too." She paused momentarily before blurting out, "Is there any chance it’s his baby you’re carrying? Is that why you care so much for him and his family?"

Startled by the fast run of questions, Sable was momentarily taken aback. "No," she said at last, shaking her head firmly. "Honestly, Monica...Blake and I are just friends."

Monica didn’t appear entirely convinced. "I just wondered," she muttered uncomfortably, then shrugged. "I just don’t understand why they seem to matter so much to you."

Sable considered the implied question for a moment. "I just know what it’s like to feel like your family is under assault...and I want to help if I can."

"Are you sure that’s all it is?" Monica asked doubtfully.

Dropping her chin, Sable plucked at a tiny ball of lint clinging to the surface of her sheet. "It’s all I can deal with for the moment," she admitted at last. If she was honest, there was more there, but she wasn’t entirely certain what it was, and even if it was something, Blake Carrington was a man hopelessly in love with his wife, a woman Sable had both liked and admired and who had offered her friendship at a time she’d desperately needed it. Despite any temptations to the contrary, it wasn’t a show of faith she had any intention of failing.

Realizing that was all her mother was likely to say for the moment, and uncertain she was ready to deal with a more complete answer anyhow, Monica wisely decided not to press. "I should go check on the others," she muttered after a beat, then slipped out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As Monica stepped out of her mother’s hospital room, she pulled up short, the color draining from her face as she noted the dark suited men at the opposite end of the hallway speaking to a nurse who gestured toward the room Jeff was sharing with L.B.. She’d been a lawyer too many years and involved in too many SEC investigations not to recognize Feds when she saw them. Probably FBI, but possibly from justice. In any event, they were undoubtedly the first wave of officers investigating the treasure. Somebody in the Denver mayor’s office must have called them for them to appear this quickly. Monica had made enough calls to know that Adam was threatening anyone who would listen with suit, which meant the city was probably eager to find a way to put the squeeze on the Carringtons to avoid a multi-million dollar payout for the results of Handler’s actions.

Damn, damn, damn. With literally everyone else—except for Sammy Jo, who hardly seemed like the type to deal with legal issues---on the injured list, she was the only one left to make decisions in spite of the fact she would have preferred not to get involved. Unfortunately, her mother was already front and center of the whole "buried, Nazi treasure," thing, and that didn’t even begin to address her emotional involvement. Then there was Jeff. Maybe he was technically only a cousin, but he still felt like her brother, and occupied that place in her heart. Two people she loved with all her heart were in deep, which meant she didn’t really have much choice.

"Damn," Monica muttered under her breath as she slipped into the shadows before she was noticed. Hurrying around a nearby corner, she slipped into an empty room as she grabbed the cell phone holstered on one slim hip. Thankfully, the number she needed was stored in memory so it was only a moment before a familiar voice, thick with sleep, picked up.

"H’lo?"

"Hi, Lise, it’s Monica Colby."

"M’nica, wha’ can I do f’r you," the woman on the other end of the line responded, her voice becoming a little clearer with each word spoken.

"I don’t know if you’ve seen the news," Monica began, "but I’ve got a little of a bit of a mess here in Denver...and I really need some help. Is Tim still at Justice?"

There was a beat while her old friend digested that. Clearly, she realized she wasn’t dealing with the usual, gossipy, phone call to bitch about their lives because when she spoke again, every last bit of morning slur was gone from her voice. "Yeah, you want me to have him call you?"

"ASAP, please," Monica responded, grateful to her friend for getting the message so quickly. "Tell him it’s about the treasure on the Carrington property...and that we need to find a way to avoid anyone else getting hurt or into trouble."

There was a momentary pause, then her old friend came back with the single, doubtfully asked question, "Treasure?"

"Turn on the news," Monica advised. "It’s all over the place."

"That’s what I get for going to bed right after the twins," Lisa muttered, then quickly added. "I’ll call Tim straightaway...and, Monica, be careful."

"Hey, I’m not the one with a couple of rugrats to run me ragged."

"Sounds like you’ve got enough though."

A moment later, they said their goodbyes and hung up, leaving Monica to consider what to do next.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sable would pay. That thought ran through Alexis’ mind over and over as she floated in a drugged haze that left her in an oblivion that lay somewhere between sleep and waking. Sable would pay and she would see to it. Oh yes, she would see that her cousin’s life was a living hell in return for Dex’s murder, and then when she’d suffered long enough, Alexis had ever intention of making sure she paid the ultimate price.

Concentrating on thoughts of just how she’d see it done, Alexis fought her way back to consciousness, then lay in her darkened room to find hate was her only friend. Even her son had deserted her in the hour of her need.

No matter. She’d always been alone in her fights before. This was nothing new.

Pushing up on her hands, she laughed softly to herself, the sound high pitched and slightly mad.

And she knew just the weapon to torment her enemy. Oh, she’d had doubts about going this far, even questioned the morality of it when she was putting things in motion. She’d even foolishly had a human moment of regret and seriously considered backing out, and undoing what damage she could.

No more.

All gloves were off now.

With Dex dead, she didn’t care who was hurt in the blowback or who paid along with her cousin. She would see Sable in hell if it was the last thing she did.

Laughing at that thought, she reached for the phone on the nightstand near her bed only to find it was nearly a foot out of reach. Stretching her arm did no good, so she moved to swing her legs over the side of the bed.

Only nothing happened, and she fell sideways onto her elbows while her legs stayed right where they were. Alexis twisted, staring down at the shape of her feet visible under the sheet.

She wiggled her toes, stretching them so hard she could feel the muscles pulling painfully.

But nothing moved.

"No," she exhaled, her hatred of her cousin momentarily forgotten in the wake of surging panic, she mentally ordered her legs to move, would have sworn she was kicking and thrashing, and yet still nothing happened.

She clawed the sheets back, hunting for even the small twitch of muscle that would assure her that the problem was just temporary, a side effect of having been unconscious or pumped full of drugs. But there was nothing. Her mind told her muscles were responding, but they didn’t move, and when she ran a nail along her thigh it didn’t cause even a flicker of sensation. Then she dug her nails in until blood welled up under them.

She would have given anything to feel bolts of pain, but there wasn’t even a hint of sensation, much less the kind of hurt there should have been. It was like flesh and bone had been replaced by useless lumps of clay. "No, no, no," Alexis hissed as she dug a thumb into her thigh, hunting for some response. Anything would have done. When there was nothing, she slapped with the palm of her hand, then hit with a fist.

When a nurse overheard her several minutes later, she was yelling at her legs and pounding on them with such ferocity that it took several orderlies to stop her. The nurse tried to calm her as someone else ran for a doctor, but Alexis was past hearing logical arguments. In the end, a tiny needle prick washed away the pain and carried her into oblivion.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

René Denier crouched to retrieve the handset where it had been dropped by suddenly nerveless fingers. A tall handsome man of African lineage and indeterminate age to most onlookers, his close cropped hair and fine suit only enhanced the elegant air created by fine manners and a sense of total self possession that few could match. Upon meeting him most people assumed he’d been born into the wealth and power he carried with such ease. The reality was quite the opposite. Born into one of the worst slums in the oil-rich, but otherwise agonizingly poor nation of Nathumbe, sold at the age of ten to a wealthy European as little more than a slave, he’d learned the hard way that perception was reality. If he projected the air of rich, bored insouciance, that was what the world saw. That it was a total lie was irrelevant.

René’s gaze slid over the expensively appointed hotel suite until it touched on the woman on the opposite end of the room, taking in her cut glass beauty. For all of her beauty and wealth, he was under no illusions, she too was a creature of perception rather than reality.

Like him, there was something indeterminate about her age, a hardness that marked her as older than she might appear to some, masked by a cultured femininity designed to hide the marble facsimile of a heart buried somewhere in her breast. Though completely loyal to her—or perhaps more correctly to the father she still worshipped—he was not unrealistic about what she was.

Her name was Helena Krieger, and her father, Ernst Krieger, had been a brilliant engineer who’d made the mistake of seeing only the ends without ever appreciating the consequences of the means. As a rising young weapons designer in 1930s Germany, he’d gladly served Hitler in his eagerness to make his most fanciful dreams reality. It wasn’t that he’d hated anyone, not the Allies, nor even the Jews that his master murdered by the millions. It was simply that they weren’t a part of his world or his experiments, and as such not only didn’t matter, but as far as he was concerned, didn’t even exist. His only reality had been the joy of making his rockets fly farther, hit their targets more accurately, or explode with more force. That it meant using slaves to mine the materials or build the factories wasn’t something he’d noticed even though his signature had been all over the paperwork discovered by the allies at the end of the war.

Unlike his contemporaries---von Braun and others---Krieger had overstepped the boundaries too far, his crimes too obvious and too provable. While others were absorbed into the American military complex after the war, he’d been forced to flee to avoid prosecution. In Argentina he’d married well—the pretty young daughter of a wealthy land owner—then lived on her money and done as he pleased for the rest of his life. To the very end, he’d been a self centered, self righteous, and ultimately bitter man who saw none of his own sins, but viewed even the slightest transgression against his interests with unending spite.

René frequently wondered why he’d felt any measure of loyalty to the man. Krieger had quite literally bought him on the streets of his village in Nathumbe when he was still a boy. The youngest child of a family overburdened with too many mouths to feed during one of the country’s periodic droughts, his parents had felt they were doing their best by putting him in the care of the rich European. And in a way they’d been right. Under Krieger’s stewardship he’d been educated, taught to move in a world he couldn’t have even imagined during the earliest days of his childhood, he’d gained power, money, position. For all of his sins, Krieger had been strangely without prejudice, seeing René’s intelligence rather than his skin color. René had never understood the man’s reasons, but he’d brought René home, raised him with his own child, and educated him, expecting perfection of the boy he’d bought, and accepting nothing less. Determined to remake René for reasons he’d never cared to explain to anyone, he’d meted out both praise and beatings until he was satisfied with his creation.

And now the father was gone, yet the daughter remained. Every bit as brilliant as her father—her work in microchips design had made millions and allowed her to create a small empire of manufacturing companies in the Far East—she was also five times as mad. René knew he should move on, and yet there remained the twisted loyalty. Perhaps it was simply that she was the closest thing left to family that he possessed or perhaps he pitied her in a way. Except for him, she was alone in the world and for all her brilliance and wealth, she would never have a moment’s peace or happiness—especially now.

Taking a deep breath, he nerved himself up for what was to come. Most torments he could face without flinching, but Helena Krieger on the rampage was more even than he was capable of being entirely calm about. "It’s over," he said when he finally spoke.

She tensed, slender shoulders rippling with the barely contained desire to throttle someone or something. "No," she said very softly, the word hissed through tightly clenched teeth. "It will never be over as long as anything of my father’s is in possession of anyone related to Tom Carrington."

René took another breath and let it out slowly. "Your father’s art collection is doubtless in pieces under tons of rubble." That was the news that had shaken her so badly she couldn’t even hold onto the phone. "Grimes is dead, Handler is dead, Dexter is dead...Blake Carrington will likely die...and who knows about Alexis Colby." Aware of the tension gathering between his shoulderblades, he took another breath and let it out. "It’s. Over," he repeated, pointedly separating the words for emphasis. Sometimes when he took that tone, she could manage a flash of insight and choose a sane path.

Not this time. She pivoted sharply, ice blue eyes raking him over, and shook her head. "Never." She moved over to the table where the photos she’d been looking at before the phone call from her operative were laid out in random patterns. The pictures had all been taken with long lenses from safe distances, showing various people going about their lives. She’d been watching Blake Carrington’s loved ones for a long time. "So Alexis may be out of the picture for awhile...fine," she hissed, and snatched a picture off the table. She knocked Grimes’ and Handler’s photos aside as well. "And these two were useless from the beginning anyway." She began grabbing up 8x10s, stacking them together, then shuffling them like some mad Faro dealer in hell. She laid them out, then snatched them up again, reshuffling, working her way through the cacophonous thoughts running riot through her head.

René wanted to grab her and shake her in an effort to make her see the truth, but knew from experience it would be pointless. Any physical contact when she was in this state would only result in an attack likely to leave him bleeding. She never pulled her punches. He always did. He would have suffered the bruises if it would do any good, but the conflict would only intensify her insanity, so he stayed back and waited. Sooner or later she would come out of the trance-like state and then perhaps he could reach her.

Finally, she sat on the couch, leaning back, the madness in her eyes dimmed by a certain wicked satisfaction. "The problem with Blake Carrington," she explained when she spoke, her tone triumphant, "is he has very few chinks in his armor. You can’t outwit him in the boardroom, you can’t seduce him in the bedroom, and if you take a baseball bat to him, you may feel better, but he still won’t give you what you want."

Realizing argument would be pointless now, René didn’t even bother to try. Perhaps if he understood her logic, he could formulate a response, but not before. "Meaning?" he questioned.

Still staring at the pictures, she tapped one finger lightly against her chin as a feline smile curved full lips. "Blake Carrington has one real weakness...his women."

It was then that René realized that in her obsessive shuffling of the photos, she’d rearranged them so that the only remaining pictures were of the various females in Blake Carrington’s life. She tapped the picture of a smiling child in the company of her nanny, then another of a pretty brunette coming out of a brownstone apartment. "Imagine, for instance, how broken hearted he would be were something to happen to either of his lovely daughters." Her finger ranged over a photo of a stunning blonde. "And then there’s the poor, not quite dead, not quite alive, but much missed and wholly beloved wife." Her finger moved on, the nail scraping across the next picture and flicking a bit of emulsion loose with the pressure. "And we can’t forget the dear friend, attractive, lonely—a walking temptation to stray, especially now that she’s the heroine of the hour who rescued his adored youngest child...and herself much in need of protection since she’s now run afoul of one of his enemies." A slender hand shifted, the movements graceful now and lacking the frantic speed present only a few minutes before. She retrieved Alexis’ picture, sliding it into place with the others. "Can’t forget his ex-wife—hated and feared, yet still the mother of his children, and not quite enough an enemy that he could ever stomach wholly destroying her. Yes, even dear Alexis may still have her uses." She laughed very softly, the sound cruel enough to send a shiver of horror down even René Denier’s spine, then her jaw hardened as she contemplated what lay before her.

"The way to break him," she said very softly, her tone that of a woman relishing every single word, "is to first break them...."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The metaphorical counting sheep in Sable Colby’s head were not so much running up to the fence and bounding over as lazily wandering in that direction, then climbing between the slats in the fence before falling into the somnolent pile on the other side. Unfortunately, the sheer silliness of that mental image worked against her intentions, drawing back from the edges of unconsciousness.

She was just about to roll over and try again to find a comfortable position in the slab of cement the hospital termed a bed when she heard the tiniest of sounds, a delicate creak, the sound of metal sliding against metal followed by the sort of light footstep that went with a child trying not to be heard. Parental instincts kicked in almost immediately—amazing how that worked even after so many years of not dealing with small children—and she sat up, searching the darkened hospital room until she saw the small figure silhouetted by the thin sliver of light that slipped in through the crack in the barely open door to the hospital room. Still groggy, it took a second for everything to come flooding back, but when it did she was awake and out of bed in an instant.

"Krystina." Squelching a groan as bruised shoulders and ribs protested the movement, she caught the girl’s shoulder, halting her in place. "What do you think you’re doing?" she questioned.

Caught, Krystina did a slow turn, then kept her head down as she answered. "I was just looking for the bathroom," she mumbled.

Sable tipped her head to one side as she considered the response. There was a restroom attached to the hospital room, which the child knew perfectly well. "I don’t think so," she said after a beat. The way Krystina’s chin pressed even harder into her chest only convinced the woman she was right and the girl was lying to her. "So what were you really doing?" she asked after a beat.

Uncomfortable silence stretched between them while Krystina’s mouth worked, but no words came out.

"Krystina?" Sable murmured after a long moment. Crouching down to put them more on level, she noted the suspicious gloss to the child’s eyes. "What is it?" she asked. "Maybe I can help."

The girl continued to stare at the floor, while her chin began quivering gently despite the way she gnawed on her lower lip in an effort to make it stop.

"Krystina?" Sable prompted when the child still hadn’t responded a long moment later, "where were you going?"

Another moment passed before the child whispered very softly, "I just wanted to find my daddy."

Feeling like she’d been gut punched, Sable didn’t know what to say. Of course, the poor child had to be terrified. "I understand that you’re worried," she exhaled at last. "But you can’t just go wandering around the hospital on your own." Especially not while the place was crawling with reporters and god only knew who else. The Carrington name was well known enough to draw more than a few wackos out of the woodwork, and of course, there was always the possibility that Handler and Grimes hadn’t been alone in their plotting.

No, allowing the child to go traipsing about on her own was not an option.

"But I need to see him," Krystina insisted, her small chin still quivering with restrained emotion. "I just..." she began only to trail off. "I wanna know he’s still alive," she finished after a long beat.

"He is...I promise you," Sable assured her, hoping the words were still true.

Well intentioned though it was, that reassurance didn’t help in the least. "I’ve heard people talking," Krystina murmured, her voice thick with fear and barely suppressed tears, "and what if...what if he’s like Mommy?"

Any bodily aches forgotten in favor of emotional ones, Sable had no idea what to say. It didn’t help in the least when the child looked up, turning pleading brown eyes her way. Logic said she should reassure the girl as best possible and send her back to bed with a guard posted on the door to make sure she stayed that way, but faced with that heart-wrenching gaze she couldn’t do it. "I’ll tell you what," she said at last. "I’ll speak to a doctor...and see if perhaps you can see your daddy...but in return I need your absolute promise that you won’t leave this room until I get back."

The puppy-dog gaze directed her way lit up with hope. "I can see my daddy?" Krystina asked.

Fearing she might have set the child up for a fall if she couldn’t arrange something, Sable quickly shook her head. "No promises," she admitted, "but I’ll do what I can...and I will find out how your daddy is doing." She rested a tightly bandaged hand on the girl’s shoulder. "But I need your word you’ll stay here...because otherwise I am not letting you out of my sight...."

"You’ll tell me the truth about what you find out?" Krystina questioned.

Sable nodded.

"Okay," the girl said after a long moment of careful consideration.

"All right then," Sable murmured and straightened. She took a moment to dig into the small closet on one side of the room, retrieving a thin hospital robe and slippers that did little for warmth, but would at least preserve any dignity she might still retain. "Now remember," she said as she turned to go, "no leaving until I return...on your mummy’s honor."

Her expression serious, the child nodded again.

"I’ll be back as soon as possible," Sable promised, then slipped out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Trapped in a pain and morphine induced hell of his own worst fears, Blake Carrington slipped in and out of consciousness, his very real physical injuries at war with the scenarios his brain insisted on conjuring at every possible opportunity. Time was an alien concept, its passage measured in the comings and goings of doctors and nurses rather than hours, seconds, or minutes. He heard them mumble and felt the light touches, sometimes even understood a few words, but mostly he floated in and out of reality, uncertain which was which, and with nothing to cling to in order to fight his way free of the tide.

He was still caught in that eddying darkness when a tiny voice reached out, offering a way free of the nightmares if only for a moment.

"Daddy," small and soft, Krystina’s voice washed over him, pulling him up. For hours he’d lain somewhere between unconscious and waking, unmoving yet tormented by nightmares of all the tortures his daughters might be suffering at the hands of Dennis Grimes. Then suddenly her voice washed over him and he clung to it like it was a hand offering to pull him out of the darkest, deepest pit imaginable, crawling back to consciousness inch by inch.

"Daddy," the child whispered again. "I love you."

His eyes flicked open and for a moment he was afraid he was still trapped in the nightmares, but then his daughter smiled and a small hand curved around his palm.

"You’re awake."

It took effort, but he managed a smile and squeezed her hand. "Yeah, honey," he mumbled. Seeing both her hope and her terror, he tried to ease her fears. "I had to wake up to see my best girl." He looked past the child, his expression questioning as he noted the woman standing behind his daughter, her face silhouetted by the lights behind her. Before he could form a coherent question, Krystina started to lay her head on his shoulder and he winced at even that slight contact.

The woman touched Krystina’s shoulder lightly, drawing the child back as she reminded her, "Remember what we talked about?" Sable Colby’s elegantly accented voice reached his ears.

Krystina glanced over her shoulder at the woman with a guilt-ridden expression. "That daddy’s hurt, and I need to be really careful," she whispered and Sable nodded, gently petting the girl’s hair as she offered an encouraging smile.

"That’s right. You need to be very careful."

"I’m sorry if I hurt you, Daddy," the little girl said as she stroked his forearm incredibly lightly.

He shook his head and offered a tired smile. "It’s nothing," he assured her. "I’m just so glad to see you." Reaching up, he stroked her cheek, reassuring himself this was real and not simply another trick of the imagination. And then another thought struck him, and frightened eyes swung back up as he hunted for Sable in search of answers. "Fallon?"

"She’s sleeping," Krystina explained, unaware of that the statement could be read more than one way.

Seeing the way he paled and the way the terror in his eyes instantly increased exponentially, Sable reached past the girl and touched his arm to draw his attention. "She was hurt, but she’s going to be just fine," she quickly assured him.

"The truth?" he rasped, his eyes glittering with silent command.

"I swear," Sable breathed. "According to the doctors, she’ll need to stay in the hospital for a few days, but she’s going to be fine."

He sagged back onto the mattress, nearly drained of energy by the effort. "Grimes?" he croaked as he reached out to catch Krystina’s hand, holding on as though that small contact could keep her safe.

Sable shuddered as she remembered the confrontation under the tunnels. "There’s no need to worry," she assured Blake. "They’re safe."

He wanted to ask what had put that strange note in her voice, but his strength was fading too quickly. Instead, he reached for her hand where it rested on Krystina’s shoulder. Her fingers momentarily twined with his, and he tugged lightly, pulling her forward into the light, frowning as he saw the cut and butterfly tapes above her right eyebrow and the bruises that darkened one high cheekbone and the corner of her mouth. "What happened?" he croaked, nodding to indicate the injury.

"Aunt Sable found me in the tunnels," Krystina explained innocently before Sable could draw breath to respond. "She made me run when the bad man showed up even though he threatened to kill her...she wouldn’t even let me help fight him."

Blake’s gaze swung back to the woman standing beside his daughter. "Grimes?" he croaked.

Dark eyes hardened. "Will never hurt anyone ever again," Sable intoned, her voice full of barely checked rage.

Blake suddenly understood without being told just how far she’d gone to protect his children. He swallowed hard. "Are you all right?" He noted the Krystina had turned to Sable when drawn back from him, pressing up against the woman’s hip and wrapping an arm around her waist while Sable was gently petting the child’s hair.

"I will be," she whispered, then reached up, fingering one of the marks as though that was what she’d been referring to. "Just needs a bit of makeup to hide the bruises until they heal...and then it’ll be fine."

Instinctively certain it was nowhere near that simple, he said the only thing he could think of. "Thank you," he repeated, his voice ragged with pain and exhaustion. She’d protected the most valuable thing in his world. There weren’t words. "I owe you more than I can...." he trailed off, his breath coming rough and uneven.

"The only thing you owe me is to rest and get well."

"No," he disagreed, fighting the encroaching waves of darkness to reach out and pet his daughter’s hair. He might never have touched or seen or held her again if not for the woman in front of him. "I owe you everything."

The warmth of her hand covered his and she was silent for a long moment, her voice rough when she finally managed to speak. "I understand how precious ones’ children are."

His eyes fluttered closed for the briefest second, but he fought to remain conscious, needing one more thing. "I don’t have the right to ask, but—" his gaze dropped to touch on his daughter’s face, his lips tilting in an encouraging smile.

"Don’t worry," Sable assured him, "I’ll make certain she’s all right until you’re there to protect her again."

He swallowed hard, uncertain what to say for a moment, then nodded in acknowledgment before smiling at his daughter, his eyelids feeling like they weighed a ton in spite of his determination. "Thank you for visiting me," he whispered. "You do what your Aunt Sable says."

"I’m glad you’re gonna be okay, Daddy," the little girl murmured.

Realizing Blake was fading fast, Sable touched Krystina’s shoulder lightly. "I think your daddy needs to rest now." She started to pull back, but he caught her hand again, holding on tight. "There aren’t words," he said very softly, well aware that she understood the depth of his feelings where his children were concerned.

The fingers of her other hand just barely brushed his shoulder, and she looked away for a moment, visibly struggling to speak. Finally, she simply said, "I’m just grateful I was there."

"I won’t forget," he assured her.

She didn’t respond directly, just offered the smallest of smiles. "Sleep now."

Already sliding back into unconsciousness, Blake managed faintest of nods before the darkness swallowed him once again.

She was still alive, he reassured himself. She’d come close, but the damage was remarkably minor: some nasty bruises and a bad concussion, plus some slight intracranial swelling the doctors were keeping an eye on. They didn’t seem to feel it was likely to be a problem since she wasn’t comatose, but if anything changed they could operate to relieve the swelling. She was going to be okay. She had to be.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly in an effort to release some of the stress of nearly losing her. "You’re going to be all right," he whispered to no one in particular. He stayed where he was for a long time before his own exhaustion and injuries threatened to knock him off his feet. Accepting he needed to return to bed, he stepped away, ignoring the nurses as he staggered back toward his room.

He pulled up short a moment later when he purposely passed by Blake’s room and realized he wasn’t the only paying a late-night visit. His aunt stood at the window, a small figure held in her arms.

"You see," Sable murmured, her normally crisp accent soft, "I told you your daddy will be fine."

As Jeff watched, Krystina reached out, resting a small hand on the window much as he had and Sable mimicked the gesture.

Jaw clenching, he strode forward, his expression suddenly stormy with disapproval. Trust Sable to make the best use of the situation. "Shouldn’t she be in bed?" he muttered as he nodded to indicate the child nestled in his aunt’s arms.

Sable stiffened with surprise and looked his way. "Jeff."

"I couldn’t sleep cos I was worried about daddy," the girl said before his aunt could answer.

"I thought perhaps if she was reassured about her father," Sable added, her tone faintly defensive, "that she might be able to get some rest. The doctor agreed," she added, making the point that she’d had approval for this particular outing.

The muscles along the line of Jeff’‘s jaw rippled with tension, her tone making him feel churlish which made him feel even more resentful. "How’s he doing?" he mumbled at last and managed a loose wave in Blake's direction.

"He was awake for moment...." She ruffled Krystina’s hair and pressed a small kiss to the girl’s temple. "Long enough to know she and Fallon are safe now."

Jeff nodded slowly. "Good," he exhaled, then offered Krystina an encouraging smile as it occurred to him that the child might misinterpret his difficulties with his aunt. "He’ll be okay."

The little girl nodded, resting her head on Sable’s shoulder as she wrapped her arms tightly around the woman’s neck. As Jeff watched, his aunt patted the child’s back soothingly, her behavior so totally at odds with the mental image he had of her that it was almost surreal.

"Well, I should get this one back to bed," Sable sighed, then ran an assessing gaze over her nephew. "You’d do well to do the same by the look of it," she pointed out practically. "I suspect the next few days are going to be very long ones."

He nodded. "You too."

Uncomfortable with one another at the best of times, they barely looked at each other, and finally Sable turned to leave. On impulse, Jeff reached out, catching her arm and tugging her back around. His gaze dropped to where his hand was wrapped around her upper arm just above the edge of a stark, white bandage, and he realized that must have been where L.B. had bit her. And still she’d dragged him clear of danger.

"Yes?" she asked with some trepidation. It was seldom good news when Jeff had something more to say to her.

They’d been at each other’s throats for so long that he wasn’t quite sure what to say. As a result the words came out disjointed and strangely timed. "I just wanted to thank you...for what you did...for saving L.B.. He told me how you pulled him out when he tried to go back after me." He paused long enough to take a deep breath. "If you hadn’t...." He trailed off, but they both knew the ending to that sentence. If she hadn’t, L.B. would likely have been caught in the tunnel collapse.

Sable glanced down at the child in her arms, noting that she’d slid off to sleep somewhere during the intervening minutes. Good. This wasn’t really a conversation she wanted Krystina hearing. "You and I have had our difficulties," she began when she finally looked up, "but I hope you know that I would never willingly let any child be harmed...and that I’m very glad he wasn’t hurt." Perhaps they could finally have a little peace between them.

Jeff nodded his gratitude and then with a few more platitudes, they both slipped off to their respective rooms.