Havenwood, NY

The palace had been quieter than normal, the absence of Aisling becoming sharply evident. Usually the past several days would have been spent in celebration, all culminating in the largest of them all, on the night of Aisling’s birthday. Instead, there was something of a heavy silence on the shoulders of the Spring Court, many of whom viewed the princess’ birthday as the event of the year. He heard the disappointed whispers and curious looks, as her absence had only been explained with a vague statement of travel.

The rumors were only fueled by the King’s depressed state; in the days since Aisling had departed for the mortal realm, Liber’s mood was no longer buoyed by his daughter’s light. Cavan himself had overheard theories that ranged from an illegitimate pregnancy - fathered either by Prince Malachi out of wedlock, or the mutt guard she had insisted on - to the princess committing an act of treason that had resulted in her banishment. When asked directly by the insipid members of the Court, he had simply demurred politely, doing his own part to fan the flames of conspiracy theories until they began to reach the ears of the King.

With his father and his advisors now desperately trying to put an end to the simmering maelstrom, it was easier and easier for Cavan to slip away unnoticed. Upon learning that his sister had been granted permission to reunite with Flynnwood in the mortal realm, he had sent word to the shapeshifting whore he’d recruited to keep a closer eye on his brother. But when he’d heard little from her, or any of the other spies he held, he came to the decision that it was time for him to take a more direct approach.

His trips to the mortal realm had made him well-practiced at slipping through unnoticed, as well as with the comforts he required already at hand. Faerie jewels could fetch a hefty price in the right markets, and with that he had built himself a small fortune to operate with when he arrived. He had kept an apartment in the city they called New York, having used it mostly to host the various women he picked up for an evening or two for entertainment. But it wouldn’t do to be so far removed from his siblings.

No, he’d need to stay much, much closer to them this time. Actually living with them would, of course, be out of the question, as would staying in the quaint hotel his brother owned and operated. He’d need something more private, more secluded.

As he stood in the living room of his apartment, looking out over the twinkling lights of the city, the river caught his eye. In the distance he could see a number of sails, softly listing side to side as they were gently buffeted by the breeze. A slow smile began to grow as he sipped at the glass of faerie wine he’d poured himself.

Yes, a boat would make for a grand entrance. Now all he had to do was find the right one.

Despite the apology, despite his understanding of Anya's reason for her threat that loomed in the room, Ben could not relax until she left it. Still, his attention lingered on the doorway she had retreated through until Zee's voice cut through the tension and his gaze shifted to the weretiger. This time when he smiled, there was notably more warmth to it than the one he'd given Anya.

"No," he said with a slight chuckle and shake of his head, "No, with a weeks bedrest and a couple more taking it easy, I'll be fine." He glanced toward the doorway one more time before focusing on Zee again.

"Your mom and I just… came to an understanding with one another." Ben couldn't blame Anya one bit for her reaction. If the situation had been different, if Zee had disappeared or they'd been lead to believe she was dead, just like Ben, and she suddenly came crashing through their door… His own mother would likely find it suspicious and he had no doubt that she would say anything to Zee to ensure the safety of her sons. That's what mothers who loved their children did.

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It had been a year almost to the day that he escaped the iron fist of the Taiga when a group connected to the clan found him near the Canadian border. In hindsight, Ben had been stupid. The strategy had always been to say no more than two months in a place before moving on. He'd been pushing through nearly three in North Bay when he'd broken up the wrong fight in the bar he worked at. Realizing his blunder too late after the looks he'd gotten by a few members of the group, they caught up with him three days later outside his cabin while he was transferring supplies from his car to the kitchen. Despite getting the drop on him, Ben was able to take out two before the scuffle got serious between him and the remaining three. Fearing that one of them would clip him if he took flight to escape, Ben used everything he had on him to bring down the rest when he was rushed.

Ben had not been known for grandstanding during his fights and in the beginning he was not particularly popular due to his efficiency. That unpopular efficiency, however, had earned him his popularity later because of its brutality. That same brutality echoed through the clearing that made up his front yard as fists thunked against muscled flesh, chased with grunts of pain while fingers curled around limbs and snapped bones. Short-lived screams cut through the muted symphony only to end suddenly as a hand chopped at a throat, cutting off air. The performance came to an abrupt halt when the bark of a gun created a temporary cacophony of noise that ended with Ben's screams scattering through the trees on the frantic beat of startled wings.

As he hit the ground, the shifter could smell and taste the tang of copper on his tongue thanks to the inside of his cheek being cut by his teeth when he'd been punched in the face. But that was nothing compared to the fire that ripped through his shoulder, side, and back when he turned to flee, stumbling briefly from the pain. The sound of tearing fabric could be heard in Ben's scramble to rid himself of his shirt and despite the agony of his shoulder, he threw himself into the sky, shifting into a Barred Owl, and took flight. After that, Ben didn't have much recollection of anything else. It took everything he had to keep his concentration on flying and not lose his form thousands of feet up. He stopped only a few times to rest, digging out the bullets that he could and cursing whoever had been the smart enough to load the mag with silver ones.

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