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that he could see his features. The short brown hair was saturated with blood, and a huge cut would most likely leave a scar right above his left eyebrow. His nose was broken and by the looks of it, his jaw might be too. If not broken, they'd pounded it real good. Blood poured from his shoulder where he'd been shot.
    Poor kid.
    Picking him up, Kyrian carried him to his car so that he could get him to the hospital before he bled out and died.
    Kyrian paced the waiting room, where several dozen other people sat in various states of agitation and illness. It'd been almost two hours since he'd handed the teenager over to the staff and still no word about the kid he'd found. Was he even still alive?
    Checking his watch, he growled. He really didn't have the time to stay here, waiting. ...
    He had important duties to attend to and, with luck, more lives to save before dawn.
    "What are you doing here, General?"
    He froze at the deep, thickly accented voice. Since Acheron was an eleven-thousand-year-old omnipotent immortal, he was the last person Kyrian had expected to find in a hospital. Not like the man could ever break a bone or get sick.
    He turned around slowly to find Acheron just inside the doorway. At six foot eight with dark green hair and dressed in black Goth gear complete with a spiked leather motorcycle jacket, he was an impressive sight that made everyone who saw him swallow in fear. But it wasn't just his height that gave people pause. It was the lethal aura of I'll-kick-your-butt-so-hard-your-ancestors'-ears-will-ring. Anyone who came near him could feel the unearthly power that bled from the pores of this particular .
    Being.
    "What are you doing here?" Kyrian asked.
    His eyes completely shielded by a pair of opaque Predator sunglasses even though it was almost midnight, Acheron cut loose with a lopsided grin that antagonized him. "I asked you first."
    If it'd been anyone other than Acheron making that smart-aleck comment, Kyrian would give him a higher dose of attitude. But attitude didn't work on Acheron. It just pissed him off, which was never a good thing. "I found a kid getting a major ass-whipping on the street. I don't know who he is but I don't want to leave him here without an adult to watch over him. He was pretty badly mangled in the fight and not old enough to be left alone."
    Acheron tilted his head as if he was listening to voices only he could hear. Kyrian hated whenever he did that. It creeped him out to think what all whispered to the ancient being. Most of all, it creeped him out to think what all the man knew about him that Kyrian had never told him. ...
    "Name's Gautier. Nick Gautier. He's a fourteen-year-old student at St. Richard's High School on Chartres who lives in the Lower Ninth on Claiborne Ave."
    Kyrian was impressed. "You know him?"
    There was no hint of emotion from Acheron. "Never seen him before."
    "Yet you know his name?"
    That cocky grin returned to irritate Kyrian. "I know lots of things, General." Acheron held his hand up and a piece of paper appeared out of nowhere between his fingers. He held it out to him. "His mother's an exotic dancer named Cherise Gautier. You can reach her here. But be warned. She has a sharp tongue where her son's concerned and if she thinks you've hurt him or caused him to be hurt ... she's going for blood."
    Kyrian took the paper from his hand. "I'd ask you about those Jedi mind tricks of yours, but I know you won't answer."
    Acheron tucked his hands into the pockets of his scuffed jacket that had two chains wrapped around the shoulder of it. "No comment, but I will say this." He paused before he spoke again. "Nick isn't Jason. It's a different time and place, General. Don't let the past ruin your future."
    "Meaning what, oh great Yoda?"
    Acheron didn't elaborate. "You take care of the kid. I'll take care of your patrol tonight. I could use the target practice."
    "Thanks for understanding." After all, Acheron was his boss and could have easily reamed him