Michael paused before lifting his hand to the keypad to punch in the four digit code that would gain him entry into Madeleine's office. He realized his hand was shaking.

He lowered the offending limb to his side and wiped his sweaty palm on his pant leg. He took a long, deep, shuddering breath. He closed his eyes and waited a few moments, consciously slowing his breathing and trying to get his pulse rate back to normal.

A few minutes went by. He was only partially sucessful in calming his body, and the voices and images in his mind were not co-operating either in his attempts to soothe them.

But it was the best he could do. Time was not a luxury he had much of. With his fear still not under control, he raised his hand again and punched in the code.

The double doors whooshed open and he stepped inside.

"Come in, Michael," said Madeleine from her chair behind the large desk.

Madeleine did not smile; the occasion was too grave for that. But the look in her eyes was not totally unsympathetic, and the tone of her voice was almost kind.

"We're very pleased with your performance, Michael," she told him. "The situation has been contained. Exposure has been kept to a minimum. The only loose end is......"

Uncharacteristically, Michael interrupted her. "Where is she?" he forced out.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he waited tensely for her answer. The offending hand trembled again and he balled both hands into fists that he held clenched tightly at his sides.

Madeleine seemed not to be offended by his interruption. "Level 5," she said calmly.

Michael let out a sigh. Level 5 - buffered hostiles. Not "Entry". Not "Disposal". Not DEAD. There was still a chance to save her.

Michael's green eyes looked pleadingly into her brown ones with an unspoken question.

Madeleine smiled now, just slightly, and her usually cold brown eyes softened.

"We're going to try memory modification," she said. "If that is sucessful, she'll be released. If not...."

Madeleine didn't finish her sentence. She didn't need to. Michael understood completely. The word "cancelled" hung unspoken in the air between them.

He flinched. Michael had seen the results of memory modifications and its failures. She could be left a vegetable- worse than dead. At best, she would be disoriented, adrift in time, bereft of her past. Stripped of her memories of him.

Something inside him cried out at this. Besides the obvious destruction of key elements of her personality, he balked at the idea that the memories of the one person who really knew him would be lost.

He didn't realize until now how painful that idea was. It was like a part of him would die, too. He almost wished the memory modification would fail--- Death would be easier.....

NO! He screamed silently inside. There had to be another way.

"How much time?" he choked out.

Madeleine sighed and leaned back in her chair.

"A day or two," she replied. "The modification hasn't been scheduled yet."

Michael echoed her sigh. There was a chance. He had to take it.

"Madeleine, please," he begged. "Let me have those few days to come up with another solution...."

He met her gaze, uncaring for once that all his desperation was there in his eyes, revealed in its raw nakedness to her view.

"Please," he said again.

Madeleine looked back at him, her gaze at once sympathetic and cooly appraising. She deliberated for a long moment.

"Very well," she answered finally.

"But Michael," she cautioned, still looking intently into his eyes. "Don't do anything..... foolish. We would hate to lose you..."

He couldn't speak, tension closing up his throat. Michael only nodded.

"Good," said Madeliene, seeming satisfied with his response. She handed him a small electronic pad lying on her desk.

"Here's the security code and her location. You'd probably like to see her now."

Michael took the device from her extended hand, noting that his own hand still trembled slightly.

"Thank you," he said softly.

His mentor nodded.

Michael turned and hurried out, heading for Level 5 to the cell that held his sister.

Madeleine closed her eyes for a moment after he had left.

"Good luck, Michael," she whispered.

************

Michael's hand still trembled over the keypad, but this time it was not from fear, but from eagerness. He punched in the code and opened the door to Cell 12-A, Level 5.

The room was dark, its occupant sleeping on the narrow bed in the corner. Michael approached slowly, looking down on the slender girl whose thick hair gleamed above the blanket in a tangle of auburn waves.

Her face was the face he remembered, still so impossibly young to him, even though she was now twenty-six years old instead of the mere twelve she had been when he had last seen her before this incident.

He bent closer. In the dim light he could see the bruises on her cheek and the large cut on her forehead, marring the creamy perfection of her skin.

His lips tightened in a thin line as he recalled how the violence of his life in Section One had touched hers. This was something that should never have happened. He was supposed to protect her, keep her safe, as he always had...

She had suffered a mild concussion and had been given drugs for the pain. Michael knew if she awoke she would be disoriented, confused, frightened.

In spite of the precariousness of the situation, part of him was thrilled with this chance, this opportunity to be so near her again, to touch her...

Reaching out with one hand, he very gently caressed her cheek. He called her name softly.

"Sasha?"

She stirred and her eyelids fluttered open. Her clear blue eyes focused on his face, exploring every feature intently. An expression that was both wonderment and confusion flitted across her face. She let out a little gasp.

It couldn't be. Her mind tilted, her thoughts chaotic as she struggled to process the impossible image that her senses presented to her.

Was she dreaming? Was she dead, too? He couldn't be here. He was dead. She had gone to his funeral. She had mourned him for fourteen years.

She closed her eyes tightly, and shook her head, as if to clear it. Then she opened her eyes and stared at him again. He was still there.

This must be a ghost, she thought. This figure before her was an apparition... He was an angel.....

"Are you...... real?" Sasha asked softly of her dream visitor.

Michael smiled a little at her question. "Oui," he answered, his voice rough with emotion. "C'est moi."

She had to be sure. She reached out a hand, hesitating, then laid her fingertips, just barely touching him, on his chest.

A beatific smile spread over her face as her fingers contacted and then registered the feel of the soft wool of his turtleneck and the hard, warm muscles beneath.

He was real.

She gave a satisfied sigh and closed her eyes.It didn't matter how this miracle came to be. Nothing mattered except that he was here now.

"How I've missed you, Michel...."

Michael took the hand touching his chest in his own and held it there against his heart. "And I you, ma petite..." He whispered hoarsely.

He pulled her hand up to his mouth and kissed her fingers. She gave a little cry and struggled to sit up, reaching out both arms to him.

He gathered her into his embrace and she clutched him, sobbing his name into his shoulder. "Oh, Michel..."

He rocked her, his face pressed close to hers, drawing strength from her. He was more comforted than comforter.

Gradually her sobbing lessened, then stopped all together. She had fallen asleep, trusting and safe in her brother's strong arms.

**********

Michael held her long after she had closed her eyes and lapsed into an exhausted, but peaceful, sleep against his chest. He let himself enjoy the feel of her in his arms, the sound of her soft breathing in his ear, the weight of the small head on his shoulder.

He held her a long time as the memories flooded over him.

Fourteen years in Section and all that time he had missed her. Some days more acutely than others- when he had lost Simone, and when he thought he had lost Nikita.

He considered it selfish, but somehow the thought of Sasha loving him had always been able to assuage his pain. Especially the pain of hating himself.

Michael supposed it was because she had admired him so much. Loved him, adored him, worshipped him as a hero. Sasha had seen only the good in him when no one else could. Not even himself.

It has always been that way. From the beginning, she had had for him nothing but a fierce devotion.

The adoration was not one-sided. Michael should have resented her from the first, this noisy usurper, this infant intruder into his ten-year-old world, claiming for herself their parents attention.

But Michael had never felt her claims to be anything less than legitimate and totally deserved. Instead of resentment, he felt for her only awe and delight at her charming baby ways.

He was as infatuated as the rest, totally captivated by her every movement, every smile and coo.

Their parents had often told the story of how Michael had scared them to death when he had taken the two-month-old Sasha on a tour of the neighborhood, taking her door to door to show her off to the neighbors.

In his enthusiasm, he had unfortunately neglected to tell his mother and father where he was going. Frightened out of their wits and panicking, they were just about to call the police when Michael returned with a sleeping Baby Sasha in his arms and a huge, proud smile on his face.

They hadn't had the heart to punish him. They, too, were completely under the spell of Sasha's charm.

Now his parents were long dead. And now Rene had joined them. Michael had "died" in prison. Sasha had had her family stripped away from her.

Michael was glad she had found a new family. Her husband, from what Michael had observed from his survbeillance of her, adored her as well. And there was the child...

Michael's breath caught, remembering. When he had first seen Sasha's son the sight had been emotionally devastating.

The child's existence had at once eased the pain of his own child's loss and inflamed it beyond bearing. It was too close to memories of the fleeting happiness he had had once with his own wife and child...

And now his sister's life and family was on the brink of being shattered again. Michael stroked her hair softly and held her a little tighter. He couldn't allow himself to be the cause of anymore pain for her.

Fear tightened in his belly. He had to come up with a plan.

He leaned her gently back down on the bed, resting her head carefully back on the pillows. He smoothed the hair from her forehead, kissing her softly on the cheek.

Sasha did not awaken, only smiled slightly in her sleep.

Michael sighed and closed his eyes. It had all gone wrong last night. He had meant to save her, not endanger her. His opponent had been strong, but Michael had fought him and won. He would fight for Sasha's life again, now. He had to win. He had to.

But this time his opponent was even stronger and more formidable than before. This time the opponent he had to beat was Section One.

Michael lifted his head and stood up. With one last glance at his sister, he walked to the door of the cell and opened it, stepping out into the hallway.

His feet automatically took him down the corridor to the elevator. He went several levels up, exiting on the main level of Section One's command center. Out of habit, he headed in the direction of his office.

When he was almost to the sanctuary of his office with its cold, gray walls, his pace slowed. He didn't want to be there, trapped, not knowing what to do.

He had to get out, had to think. He needed help.....

His footsteps slowed further and then stopped. He turned and headed in the opposite direction, leaving the Section halls for his car.

He drove aimlessly along the highway, his mind a whirl of anxiety and confusion.

Where could he turn? Who could help him?

Automatically, he took a certain exit from the highway. Almost without his conscious volition, it seemed, the car pulled up and stopped in the street outside of Nikita's apartment.

***********

Nikita was home, sprawled on her couch in her jeans and t-shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders, reading. She was enjoying a rare afternoon of downtime. There had finally been a gap in the unrelenting series of difficult missions.

She had no plans for the day except to putter around the house and unwind. Her thoughts strayed from the book, an adventure story, to the subject of another adventure that was often on her mind. Michael.

Since the mission a month ago to get Armel, things had changed subtly, but definitely, between them. They had spent over a week posing as husband and wife. They had touched each other affectionately, freely. They had spoken endearments daily, and declared their devotion nightly in an exchange of 'I love you's'. And they had made love.

Obstensibly, it had all been a front to deceive their target, but both of them knew just how true the words and acts of love really were.

Nikita knew some barrier between them had come down. Michael still kept things from her, was still quiet and reserved in Section. But despite the distance he tried to keep between them, she knew a door inside him had cracked open, and through the crack he allowed some of his feelings to show through.

Michael had opened up a little of his soul to her and let her see inside. Astonishing as it was, Nikita realized that the words he had spoken to her after their first night of lovemaking were true-- Michael needed her. Very much.

Nikita smiled a little and touched her lips, remembering Michael's kisses there. She had already admitted to herself that she needed him as well. Sighing, she resolved to keep hold of the new closeness between them.

She would pursue the elusive mystery that was Michael. She doubted she would ever come to completely know or understand him, but the idea of exploring the hidden depths behind those compelling green eyes captivated her; Michael was an adventure she was now ready to explore with her whole soul, with her whole heart.

A new hope and a new strength grew inside her. In spite of having "died" in prison three years ago, in spite of being a Section One "ghost", Nikita felt more alive than ever before in her life.

There might even be a future for her. A future with Michael.

The subject of her thoughts now stood impatiently outside her door and knocked. He rapped sharply on the door and called her name.

"Nikita?"

She tossed the book aside and hurried to open the door for him.

"Michael, please, come in..." Nikita smiled widely at him. Delighted, she stepped back and held the door open further, allowing him to enter.

Her smile faded as took a few more steps into the apartment and the light from the big windows shone fully on his face.

He was white with exhaustion and there were lines of distress around his mouth. And was it fear she saw in his eyes?

Alarmed, Nikita stepped forward and put her hand on his arm. "Michael, what's wrong?"

Distraught, his voice catching in his throat, Michael still said nothing. But his eyes pleaded with hers for help, for succor, for salvation.

Nikita did not ask him anything else. She simply opened her arms to him. Silently, Michael went into them.

**********

Michael crushed her tightly to his chest and buried his face in her hair. "Nikita..." he choked out.

"Shhhhh...." she soothed, caressing his shoulder tenderly. "It's O.K. It'll be all right..."

After a few moments of her gentle murmuring, Michael no longer trembled in her arms. His tight grip on her loosened, and with a huge sigh, he lifted his head and stepped back from the embrace.

His green eyes locked with hers, seeing the questions and the concern in their blue depths.

"What happened?" she asked then.

Michael turned his face from her and strode to the open French doors. He stood facing the view of the city laid out beautifully before him, but his eyes were distant and unseeing.

He crossed his arms across his chest and one hand had come up to mouth. It was a gesture Nikita was very familiar with; he only did that when he was agitated.

"I... I need your help, Nikita....." He said over his shoulder, his back to her. "Section.... Section has my sister..." His voice broke.

"Your sister?" she said, stunned. "How?"

He didn't answer. Nikita crossed the room and went to stand next to him. She took him by the shoulder and turned him to face her.

She had learned that sometimes the only way to deal with the stubbornly taciturn Michael was to be just as stubborn in pushing him to talk.

She pushed him now.

Taking him by the arm, she led him to the couch. "Sit down," she ordered.

He sat.

She poured him a cup of tea from the pot on the table and set it before him. Crossing her arms across her chest, she settled on the other end of the couch and stared at him.

"What happened? Tell me," she demanded.

Michael took a deep breath and began.

"One of .. Rene's recruits attacked her last night," Michael said in a rush. "He wanted revenge on me..."

"Whoa, Michael! Slow down. What do you mean?" Nikita said, confused. "I thought all the members of L'Heure Sanguine were eliminated...."

Michael nodded. "They were," he said softly. "But do you remember the woman with Rene? His lover? Her name was Therese..."

Nikita recalled the faces of the dead. One had been a young woman, pretty, with dark hair. She had been caught in Rene's web as Michael had been.

"I remember," she said.

Michael reached for his cup and took a deep drink of his tea. "Therese had a brother. Jean St. Laurent. He was on the periphery of the group, apparently. Not quite yet won over by Rene's ideas, but close to joining them. He was close enough to know about their movements, their contacts, their friends..."

"In other words, he knew about you. And your sister," Nikita said quietly.

"Yes."

Nikita shifted, leaning toward him. "But how did he find her, Michael? Surely Housekeeping must have destroyed all traces of your connection with Rene..."

Michael stared into the depths of the dark liquid in his tea cup. "They did. They destroyed everything at their safe-house. But Therese was a careful, conscientious person. She knew how things could get lost as they moved from place to place.."

He sighed and looked up at Nikita. "She made copies of all their paper-work, their records, and gave them to her brother Jean for safe-keeping. Among the records was Sasha's address and a phone number I had given Rene to contact me..."

Nikita nodded, comprehending. "So after ... that night, the night Therese was killed, Jean St. Laurent had a way to exact his revenge..."

"Yes," Michael said softly. "My sister for his."

************

"Oh, God, Michael..." Nikita whispered. "What did he do to her?"

Michael leaned back against the couch cushions and closed his eyes. "He planned it all carefully. He took his time. St Laurent waited until this weekend to make his move. Sasha's husband had gone out of town to visit relatives and fortunately he took their child with him."

He looked up at Nikita, his eyes soft. "Their little boy. My ....nephew.."

"Why didn't your sister go with them?" asked Nikita.

"She had some prior committment. Something for her church, I think." Michael looked grim. "She was all alone in the house when he..."

Michael stopped.

"How..... how badly did he hurt her, Michael?" Nikita asked tensely.

Michael shifted on the couch, his hand up to his mouth again. He had to force the words out.

"When I got there, she was tied to a chair. She must have fought him, because her face was black and blue, her forehead .. bleeding.."

He stammered over the words. "I think he m... must have pistol-whipped her..."

"Oh..." Nikita reached out to him. She moved closer to him on the couch and took his hand in hers, squeezing it.

Michael looked at her gratefully. He caressed her fingers in return and went on with his story.

"St. Laurent called me last night. Said he had Sasha and that he was going to kill her.." Michael looked down at their joined fingers, his grip tightening on hers. "I was to come to her house, alone, unarmed..."

Nikita nodded. "Did you tell Section?"

"I didn't have to. Birkoff was monitoring the call in real time..."

Nikita frowned at his tone. Instinctively, she knew exactly what Michael would have planned if the call had gone undetected by Section One. Michael would have attempted to save his sister by sacrificing himself.

She hated that he had so little regard for his own life. It was one of the mysteries about him that she didn't think she would ever understand.

"So you went to Sasha's home and a Section team followed as back-up?"

"Yes." Michael turned his head away from her, but the his grip on her fingers never loosened. "Sasha was slumped in the chair, her face bleeding, her eyes half open.."

Michael paused. "She recognized me, even though I think she was only half-conscious...."

Nikita stayed quiet, merely squeezing his hand back in mute support as he continued his narrative.

"She struggled to talk to me. She managed to call my name.." Michael grimaced.

"Jean laughed and he put the gun to her head. Said he would kill her in front of me..."

Nikita flinched. Michael went on.

"I was so afraid the Section team would burst in and shoot him then, while he still had the gun to her head. I was afraid they wouldn't shoot him in time, before he pulled the trigger...."

Michael shook his head. "I was... helpless. I didn't dare try to rush him, when the gun was right THERE, pressed to her temple. And Jean taunted me, challenged me. Not with words, but with his look. He wanted me to do something, wanted me to give him an excuse to shoot her ...."

"What did you do, Michael?" Nikita asked in a low voice.

Michael turned to look at her, his proud face anguished. "I fell on my knees in front of him and begged for her life." He sighed out a shaky breath. "I begged him to kill me instead...."

"No!" The word was torn involuntarily from Nikita's throat, and she rested her head on Michael's shoulder, comforting herself that he was really here, alive and safe with her, after being so close to death.

"What happened?" she asked.

Michael rested his cheek on her hair. "It distracted him. He was still taunting me, but this time he turned the gun away from Sasha and aimed it at me..."

Nikita understood. "That's when the Team saw their chance and took him out...'

"Yes..." Michael sounded almost sad about St. Laurent's death. Perhaps he could understand that kind of grief. Michael had been there, too. Wanting to lash out, wanting vengeance, wanting to find anything, DO anything, that might possibly lessen the pain...

"What about Sasha, Michael?"

He sighed. "The whole team heard her call my name. They knew she had seen me, recognized me. I had been compromised..."

Nikita nodded. "What will they do to her?"

The grip on Nikita's hand tightened painfully. "They want to try memory modification. If it doesn't work, they'll .....kill her.." Michael choked out the words.

"Michael, no..."

"I asked Madeleine for time to come up with another solution before... before..."

Nikita sat up and turned to look at him, her eyes searching his face. "Michael?"

"I have two days...." he said desperately.

************

He reached for Nikita again, pulling her into another fierce embrace, as if the touch of her hand was not enough comfort for him. Nikita clutched him back.

She felt Michael's warm breath as he panted raggedly against her neck. "I keep thinking and thinking, but no answer comes. I don't know what to do.."

His voice caught on a sob. "I don't know how to save her. Nikita, help me. Please..."

Nikita tightened her arms around him. A calmness enveloped her, and instinctively she spoke with conviction the reassuring words.

"Shhhh... We'll find a way. Nothing will happen to Sasha. I promise..."

Her strength seemed to calm him, and Michael sat back, sighing, against the arm of the couch. He closed his eyes wearily.

Nikita looked at the lines of exhaustion etched in his face. "Michael, when did you sleep last?"

He opened his eyes. "What?"

"Sleep. How much sleep did you get in the last twenty-four hours?" She insisted.

Dazed, Michael thought for a moment. "None," he finally answered.

She nodded. "Thought so. And the day before that?"

Michael struggled to remember. It seemed a long time ago. "Two hours, night before last. Maybe three..."

She nodded again. "Michael, I have a plan."

He looked up at her eagerly. "You do?"

Nikita walked the short distance up the steps to her bedroom and returned with a pillow and a blanket. She tossed the pillow on one end of the couch and pushed Michael back down upon it.

"Nikita?" He was puzzled.

She gave him a determined look. "Michael, here's the plan. You get some rest, and I'll go over things in my head and come up with something..."

Michael tried to sit up. "Nikita, no.." he protested.

"No, Michael, don't argue with me." She pushed him down on the pillow again and lifted his legs until he was stretched out flat on the couch.

"You're so exhausted you can't think straight," Nikita told him sternly. "You're no good to Sasha this way, are you?"

Michael shook his head and then lay still. "No," he said quietly.

She covered him with the blanket and then bent to kiss him lightly on the cheek. "Go to sleep. When you wake up, we'll put together something, O.K.?"

He knew there was no point in arguing with her when she wanted to be stubborn. And he also knew she was right. He was too tired to be any good to his sister.

"All right," he aquiesced. "But don't let me sleep too long. Maybe an hour, O.K.?"

She smiled but made him no promises. "Sleep, Michael."

He sighed and closed his eyes. Less than two minutes later, his breathing had taken on a slow, regular pattern and Nikita knew he had fallen fast asleep.

She went over to him and adjusted the blanket more securely on his shoulders, looking down on his handsome face, now relaxed in sleep. He looked so... trusting.

She sighed, and began to pace restlessly back and forth across the carpet. Michael did trust her. He was trusting her with his sister's life. She was honored by that trust, but also burdened by it.

What could they do? There seemed no way out. Even Michael, Section's most brilliant strategist, had no solution. How could they save Sasha? How?

She walked to her desk on the far end of the room and retrieved a pencil and a pad of paper. Settling in the rocking chair across from the couch, she forced herself to think.

She gathered her thoughts inward from their runaway, circular patterns and proceeded as Michael had taught her.

Be logical. Plan the mission. Identify the goals. Explore all scenarios. Look at it from all angles. Stay focused.

Sasha, she thought. Sasha was the focus. If she hadn't recognized Michael, if she had been unconscious and unaware, there would be no problem now. But she had seen him..

Nikita doodled idly on her pad, imagining how it must have seemed to Michael's sister, seeing him after all these years, believing he was dead...

Sasha was probably stunned at first, not believing her senses. Unsure whether or not Michael was really alive, or if he was a ghost or an illusion....

She paused suddenly in her idle scribbling. A concept, elusive, but at the same time obvious, flitted across her mind. She was getting somewhere; she was close. She could feel it. Infuriatingly, the wisp of idea refused to coalesce into something solid that she could grasp, remaining agonizingly just out of reach.

Damn. Damn. DAMN.. she thought to herself.

Nikita threw the pencil down on her lap in disgust where it landed on her notepad with a sharp tap. She looked at the words she had unconsciously scrawled there on the page.

Ghost. See. Illusion. Unreal. Alive. BELIEVE.

A memory nagged at her. If she could just coax it out, she knew she would have the answer she sought. What WAS it?

She closed her eyes and willed herself to remember. It was something Michael had said to her, months ago. It was the first time she had had to serve as Mission Leader. She was only pretending to know what she was doing....

Pretending? That was it!

Suddenly, she could hear Michael's voice plainly in her head. "It's best to be ruthless. But if you can't be ruthless, it's essential to appear that way...."

APPEAR! That was the answer! She should have realized it before. In Section, it didn't matter what the truth was. When dealing with missions and targets, what counted was that their deception only APPEARED real enough.

That's what she had been doing for Section for years. In mission after mission, the truth of who she and Michael were was always hidden. It was the illusion that mattered...

With a triumphant cry, Nikita jumped up from her chair,the pencil and pad falling unheeded form her lap.

She hated to do it so soon, but she had to. She crossed swiftly to the couch and shook Michael by the shoulder. "Michael, wake up!"

He sat bolt upright, the blanket falling to the floor. He blinked at her. "What?"

Nikita smiled at him. "We can save her, Michael," she said.

***********

"We can save her, Michael."

Comprehension spread over his face, and his eyes widened. Suddenly, he let out a sharp cry and reached for her.

Before Nikita knew what was happening, she found herself enveloped again in Michael's arms. He crushed her to his chest, kissing her all over her face- on her eyes, her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead, then back to her mouth...

She was held immobile in the fierce embrace while the kisses rained down on her. In between each kiss he groaned, letting out little sighs that Nikita realized were from relief and perhaps admiration for her.

After a brief time he stopped his onslaught and merely held her, the embrace as fierce as before. He held her tightly against his chest and nestled his face in her hair.

"Nikita," he breathed in her ear, hugging her even closer, "Nikita, thank you...."

She laughed a little, trying to catch her breath, and pressed her cheek against his. He loosened his grip slightly; it was just enough so that she could bring one hand up to stroke his hair. She kissed him lightly on his jawline.

"You're welcome, Michael." My Love, she added in her mind.

As if he had heard her unspoken endearment, he turned his face toward hers and kissed her once again. His lips met hers with exquisite softness, tenderly lingering there.

It was a kiss of promise, and also of affection and respect. Michael made no attempt to deepen the kiss to passion, but his mouth stayed caressingly on hers, speaking without words of deeper kisses and deeper connections to come.

She was slightly dizzy from the kiss when he finally released her and pulled her down beside him on the couch. His eyes looked eagerly into her face.

He was no longer the same broken, tormented man who had come to her apartment earlier. This Michael had hope shining in his eyes instead of despair.

"What do we do?" he asked eagerly. "Tell me."

Nikita settled closer to him on the couch. She began outlining her plan. Michael listened intently as she explained, encouraging her with a nod and an occasional comment or question.

It was simple, but effective. He was stunned by the brilliance of it. Nikita had gotten to the core of the problem.

"We'll save her with a lie, Michael," she had told him. "But it will be a lie that is very close to the truth."

He had nodded, agreeing that the illusion would not be an entirely false one. The fear that had clutched him so tightly that morning loosened its grip, and a new confidence filled him.

It seemed that the feeling of peaceful serenity that had enveloped Nikita earlier had settled over him as well.

Finally, they both grew quiet and knew they were ready to face Section. It was time.

Michael held out his hand to her. "Let's go," he said calmly.

************

Sasha stirred restlessly on the bed in the sterile white room, tossing her head on the pillow. Her forehead was wrinkled in a frown above her closed eyes. She let out a low moan, but did not awaken.

The dreams had taken her again, the images repeating in their cyclical pattern. It seemed to be an inexorable sequence, a karmic wheel she could not escape from.

She was forced to relive last night's events once again. Her mind was unable to let it go. St. Laurent haunted her even in her sleep.

She was back in the house, her assailant standing over her as she quivered helplessly in her chair. At first he just gestured threateningly at her, yelling and shouting.

Incomprehensibly, he raved angrily on about her dead brother, his rage directed senselessly at a man who had died fourteen years ago. Sasha could only sit mutely, bound in the chair, while the angry tirade washed over her.

Shortly, the angry words were not enough to vent his rage, and he struck her. The first slap was followed by another blow, and then another, each one more forceful than the one before.

It was as if each blow fed upon the last, escalating his fury. It was almost as if St. Laurent believed that hitting her would bring him some relief from the ravaging grief that consumed him, but instead the blows drove it higher and higher.

He invoked her brother's name as a curse. Called him a killer, a coward and a Judas. St Laurent had to be insane, she reasoned. Michel was none of those things and never had been.

Her Michel was a brave hero, now gone from this world to the next one. He was in some unreachable realm beyond, dwelling now with the angels....

St. Laurent had called his name out as a curse, and Sasha called out his name as well. Instinctively, she called for the person who had been her protector from birth, her strong one, her guardian, her life-long comforter. He was the one who could keep her safe from anything. Her Michel...

Almost magically, as if her cries had conjured him from the world beyond, he had appeared. Her vision was blurred and she was struggling to not pass out from the pain, but she knew without doubt that it was him. Michel was there.

Even if her senses were not quite reliable then, her heart was sure. She felt her brother's unmistakeable presence.

The rest had been a blur. Sasha had lost her struggle to remain conscious, sinking gratefully into the deep healing darkness. She surfaced sporadically from its depths into the painfully bright light of a bare white room. The hospital, she supposed.

She preferred the world of sweet darkness to the other. In spite of the drugs they had given her, she was still in pain, both emotional and physical.

Her thoughts tormented her as much as her injuries did. She asked herself anguished questions. Had she really seen him? Or was it some soothing hallucination that her mind had presented to her to keep her sanity intact?

Or worse, was sanity gone from her, too, along with her ability to distinguish fantasy from reality? She had to know. Was he real?

Blessedly, in answer to her great need, he had appeared again. She was lost in confusion, and he had come to rescue her from it. She had opened her eyes to see him standing by her bed, solid and real. He was no dream.

She had touched him, felt his arms around her, felt his warm kiss on her cheek. How could there be anything more real than that?

It WAS her Michel.

Sasha's lips curved into a smile and her body relaxed on the bed as she reached this part of the dream, reliving it.

She sighed deeply. In spite of her ordeal, some part of her was humbled, feeling undeservedly blessed that she had been allowed entry into angelic realms, or rather, that an angel had come down from those realms to visit her.

The dream had reached its highest point. Before the wheel of the dream could turn downward to its nightmare beginning again, a dark-haired woman stepped into the room to stop it.

She approached Sasha's bed and reached for the equipment behind it. Swiftly, an I.V. was adjusted, allowing a drug to drip into the younger girl's veins.

At the same time the stimulant was entering her blood stream, a soft voice called her from the dream.

Sasha stirred and opened her eyes, looking up into the smiling face of the woman by her bed.

"How are you feeling?" asked Madeleine.

***********

"How are you feeling?"

Sasha blinked several times and sat up further in the bed. Her head was pounding painfully, but she managed to smile at the pretty doctor in the white lab coat.

"I'm fine..."

Madeleine continued to smile, but gave the patient a challenging look. "Really? I don't believe you..."

She took a step closer to the bed, her voice still warm, but teasing. "You have a concussion and a pretty serious cut on your forehead, not to mention the bruises. So, why don't you tell me how you really feel?"

Sasha gave a little laugh, then a groan. "O.K. My head is killing me and I ache all over...."

Madeleine nodded. "I thought so. We'll try to help take care of that with some pain medication. Is there anything else I can help you with? Anything you need?"

Sasha leaned forward eagerly. "Could I call my husband? He's been out of town with our little boy. He probably doesn't know about any of this...."

"Of course you can call him," Madeleine reassured her.

"Thank you."

The doctor continued to smile at her and, unlike most people Sasha had encountered in her profession, this one didn't seem in a hurry to leave Sasha's bedside for other duties.

"Is there anything else? Any other concerns?" Madeline asked kindly.

Sasha considered for a moment. This doctor seemed so friendly and open. This might be her chance to get some clarification on the questions that tormented her. She decided to speak.

"I'm ... I'm a little confused about what happened..." Sasha said shyly, approaching the topic obliquely. She didn't want to just blurt out that she had seen her dead brother.

The pretty doctor nodded. "Your confusion is totally natural. It's normal for persons with head trauma to have blanks in their memory."

"Would you like me to go over what happened for you?" Madeliene offered.

Sasha nodded gratefully. "Oh, yes, please..."

Madeleine settled on the end of the bed and began. "The man who attacked you was Jean St. Laurent. He was a diagnosed paranoid-schizophrenic. His condition was being controlled with medication, but it seems he hadn't been taking his meds for several weeks. He was deep into a psychotic delusional phase at the time he focused on you..."

Sasha twisted her hands in her lap nervously. "He was angry at my brother. He said Michel had killed his sister."

Sasha paused, then with great sadness, said, "My brother died when I was twelve..."

Madeleine nodded. "It's typical. St. Laurent conjured up a victim, an imaginary sister, and an imaginary enemy- your brother..."

Sasha frowned. No, she thought. It wasn't her assailant that had conjured up Michel. SHE did. She had seen him. He was real.

"But.. But.. He was there!" Sasha confessed spontaneously, her words coming out in a rush. "My brother Michel. He rescued me..."

She sobbed harshly, tears springing to her eyes. "Didn't he? I saw him. I'm not crazy too, am I?"

Madeleine patted her arm. "Calm yourself," she said soothingly. "Of course you're not crazy. There WAS a man who rescued you..."

"Yes?" gasped Sasha, her eyes wide.

"Yes. It was a neighbor of yours who stopped by to check on you. He heard you screaming. He called the police and then he went into the house to try to talk St. Laurent down..."

It wasn't a neighbor, Sasha thought. It was Michel. Wasn't it? She felt more confused than ever.

Madeleine went on. "Your neighbor was luckily able to distract St. Laurent long enough for the police to get there. They shot St. Laurent before he could hurt you any further..."

"Your neighbor saved your life," the doctor continued. "He was a very brave man..."

"Yes, Michel always was very brave..." Sasha said in a dazed voice.

"Michel?" quizzed Madeleine. "No, your neighbor's name is Andre Charlois. He's been here at the hospital since you were brought in. He's very anxious about you..."

Sasha sat up straighter. "He's here?" she said eagerly.

"Yes. Would you like to see him? Do you feel up for a visit?"

Sasha gave a little laugh, and smoothed the hair back from her forehead. "Oh yes! Yes, I would like to see him, please...."

She felt suddenly breathless. She knew it was Michel. He was the one who had rescued her. She was certain of that.

"Good." Madeleine got up from the foot of the bed. "He and his wife are waiting just down the hall. I'll tell them to come in."

Madeleine walked to the door and opened it. She leaned just a little ways past the door frame and nodded at the couple in the hallway.

Michael and Nikita, prepared for their roles, entered the room.

************

Nikita's hand clung tightly to Michael's as they stepped into the room. He squeezed her hand back so hard that she felt the wedding band she wore bite painfully into her fingers.

They were both nervous. Sasha's life was riding on how well they performed their roles right now. There was only this one chance. They had to make it convincing.

Nikita took a deep breath and pulled Michael after her toward the hospital bed.

Sasha stared at them. Or rather, at Michael. She wore an expression of total shock.

Nikita rushed to distract her.

"Oh, you poor dear! How are you feeling?" Nikita took one of Sasha's hands in both of hers and patted it.

"I'm Josephine, Josephine Charlois. And of course you know my husband, Andre.." she said, gesturing to Michael behind her. "We've both been just so worried about you," she gushed.

Speechless, Sasha could only nod numbly, and she looked past Nikita's shoulder at Michael standing shyly back from the bed.

"Hello," he said.

Sasha blinked, then stared at Michael again. "How did you....?" she stammered out.

Before Michael could say anything, Nikita continued. "How did Andre know to help you, you mean?" She smiled self-consciously.

"Well, I guess that was my doing. Oh, I know I don't know you well. I've only seen you in the grocery store a few times, I guess. But I had you on my mind a lot this week, and now I know why." Nikita shook her head, knowingly.

"I had a bad feeling all yesterday afternoon, thinking of you all alone in that house, without your husband and all," Nikita explained.

She patted Sasha's hand again. "So I insisted to Andre that he go and check on you right then."

Nikita nodded emphatically. "And see how right I was, too. My intuitions are rarely wrong..." she finished smugly.

Michael nodded. "My Josephine has good instincts," he commented soberly.

Sasha pulled her hand from Nikita's grasp and reached it out to Michael. "I want to thank you, for what you did..." Her voice was choked with the tears that were forming in her throat.

Michael took a step forward and took her extended hand in his, and shook it briefly. He dropped her fingers quickly and stepped back again, staring shyly at the floor. "It was nothing.." he said gruffly.

Sasha turned her head away, tears forming in her eyes. She couldn't look at him anymore. She had been wrong. She must have merely dreamed of Michel, or hallucinated everything after all.

This man wasn't her brother.

The height was right, and the body size, she supposed. But there the similarities ended. Andre Charlois was at least ten or fifteen years older than Michel, his short, dark brown hair streaked generously with gray at the temples.

His features were all wrong, too. Andre lacked the full lips and cleft chin that had added so much to the handsome visage of her brother.And his eyes were wrong, too. They were a drab brown, not the fascinating gray-green she wanted them to be.

The disappointment was almost unbearable. Stupidly, she had expected to see Michel again, walking boldy into her hospital room, having somehow resumed his place among the living.

But that was impossible. He was dead. He was unreachable to her, just as he had been these past fourteen years. Just as he would forever remain.

"Thank you for coming," Sasha said hoarsely to the drab middle-aged wife of her rescuer. "Thank you for everything,...Andre..."

She couldn't contain the tears then, her shoulders shaking as the sobs took her.

"Aww, Honey, now. Don't cry.." Nikita shushed her, patting her shoulder. "Everything will be fine now, you'll see..."

With one final maternal pat, she straightened and reached for Michael's hand again. "C'mon, Dear," she said, urging him toward the door.

"Let's let the poor little thing rest..." Nikita had reached the door with Michael in tow, but he stopped, standing rigidly in the doorway.

He looked one more time at the weeping Sasha.

"Good-bye," he said softly.

************

When the older couple had left, Sasha buried her face in her hands and cried in earnest.

"M..Michel.. Oh, Michel..." she sobbed out brokenly, her shoulders heaving violently.

She felt a gentle hand on her arm and she paused in her sobbing, her breath stopping in a great gasp. At first Sasha thought that Josephine had come back to comfort her, but when she looked up, it was into the soft brown eyes of the friendly doctor.

"I think it's time you took your pain medication now," Madeleine said soothingly, holding out a small paper cup with two large white pills in the bottom of it.

Numbly, Sasha took them from her and Madeleine reached for the pitcher of ice water on the night-stand and poured her a glass. "Go on, swallow them down. They'll help you sleep."

Obediently Sasha took the pills. Madeleine took the glass and the empty paper cup from her and Sasha leaned back, sighing, against the pillows.

"I'm sorry," apologized the doctor. "I didn't realize seeing the Charlois couple would upset you so.."

Sasha shook her head. "It's not that. They were really nice. It's just that.." Her voice choked on a sob again.

"What's bothering you, Sasha? Tell me.." Madeleine coaxed.

Sasha wiped her eyes and looked at the other woman. She heaved a big sigh. "It's just... I was so sure...."

"So sure of what?"

"So sure I had seen Michel. Instead of Andre." Sasha closed her eyes. "But I was wrong. I guess it was all just a dream...."

She shifted on the bed and looked at Madeleine again. "I suppose you'll tell me it's normal for someone who got hit on the head to hallucinate things..."

Madeleine smiled gently. "Yes, I suppose I could tell you that. It would be true, too."

She settled on the end of the bed again and looked at Sasha sympathetically. "But there's another explanation that's possible as well."

Sasha stared at her, wide-eyed. "What's that?"

"Some people believe that the world of the dead is not really that far from our own. And that sometimes the spirits of those who have gone on watch over us..."

"Oh!" Sasha gasped. "Then when I saw Michel, it was real? You think he came to me as an ..... angel?"

"Yes. Or a ghost, perhaps, if you prefer that term." Madeleine smiled a sad smile. "Sometimes the world of ghosts touches the world of the living..."

Something in the doctor's expression made Sasha reach out to her. She hugged her, gratefully, wanting to return comfort for comfort.

"Thank you. You've been so kind.." Sasha gave a little laugh. "I was beginning to think you might be an angel, too."

Madeleine stiffened for a moment in Sasha's embrace. The girl did not know just how close to the truth that comment had been. Madeleine was, like everyone else in Section, a ghost.

She recovered quickly from her shock, and hugged Sasha back. She pulled away from the embrace and patted the girl on the arm.

"I'm glad I could help." She smiled, noting that Sasha was already becoming drowsy. "Rest now. You'll be going home soon."

Sasha caught her hand before she could lift it away. "Wait please," she begged. "I need to know something else..."

"Yes?"

"I didn't get to talk to Michel. To his ghost." She looked down at her hands, twisting them together agitatedly above the blanket. "I didn't get to thank him.. to tell him anything..."

She looked up at Madeleine. "Do you think he knows? That I'm grateful he was there with me? And that I miss him ... that I love him so?" I want him to know that..." She choked out.

Madeleine rested her hand on Sasha's cheek, feeling the tears there.

"Yes, he knows," she said. "I'm absolutely sure he knows that..."

Madeleine patted her cheek one more time and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Sasha lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes. "Michel.." she whispered.

Somehow, she could still feel his presence nearby. He was still watching over her.

She opened her eyes and gazed at the far side of the room, where a mirror hung on the wall. She stared intently into the mirror for a long time, lost in something behind its reflection, seeing something far beyond her own image in the glass.

"I love you, Michel..." she whispered softly. The pills finally overtook her, and turning her face away from the mirror, she slept.

From behind the two-way mirror in the small observation room next door, Michael stood, trembling, and put his hand up to the cold glass. "Moi aussi, ma petite," he whispered back. "I love you, too."

From behind him, Nikita put her hand on his shoulder. He turned mutely to look at her.

They had both removed their latex masks and contact lenses when the charade as Andre and Josephine was over. Now Nikita looked into the glistening green eyes and handsome, familiar face of the Michael she knew.

As before, she said nothing, unable to find any words of comfort. She opened her arms to him and once again he went into the sanctuary of her embrace.

Clutching each other tightly, the two ghosts stayed that way in the small room buried far underground, holding each other for a long, long time.

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