The younger man jumped, then glared. "You scared the crap out of me!"

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

Connor grinned. "No. I'm not. I had my share of scares today. It's your turn."

Shaking his head, Wager pushed to his feet and stretched his tall, wiry frame. "It's good to see you smiling." He crossed his arms and stood with widespread legs. He was a handsome lad, with an appeal the female Guardians described as "bad boy."

Women. They loved trouble.

"There's not a whole hell of a lot to smile about. Some freak of nature attacked me today, my best friend has run off with the Key, and I need to get laid."

Wager threw his head back and laughed. "I bet the ladies are missing you, too. I've heard poems are written about your stamina and on Girls' Night Out they compare notes."

"No way."

"Yes, way. Morgan calls you the golden god with the golden rod.'"

Connor felt his face heat and ran a self-conscious hand through his slightly too-long blond hair. "You're full of shit. She wouldn't say that to you."

Black brows rose. "Morgan?"

A mental image of the dark-eyed slender Player Guardian entered Connor's thoughts. His lips curved ruefully. "Yeah, I suppose she might."

"First Cross takes off, now you're in exile… I bet there's more than a few broken hearts."

"You're a popular guy yourself."

"I have my charms," the lieutenant drawled.

"Sometimes when I'm waiting for Cross to connect to the Twilight, I look over the rise at the Dreamers' slipstreams and seriously think about hopping into one. If only for a half hour or so."

Wager's merriment faded into the intensity that made him a damn good warrior. "How is Captain Cross's stream? Is it coming in clearer yet?"

"No." Connor scratched the back of his neck. "It's still murky. I'm guessing that has something to do with the fact that his slipstream connects to that barren plain instead of in the Valley."