A last fire will rise behind those eyes Black house will rock, blind boys don't lie Immortal fear, that voice so clear Through broken walls, that scream I hear Cry, little sister - Thou shall not fall Come to your brother - Thou shall not die Unchain me, sister - Thou shall not fear Love is with your brother - Thou shall not kill Blue masquerade, strangers look on When will they learn this loneliness? Temptation heat beats like a drum Deep in your veins, I will not lie Little sister - Thou shall not fall Come to your brother - Thou shall not die Unchain me, sister - Thou shall not fear Love is with your brother - Thou shall not kill My Shangri-Las I can't forget Why you were mine I need you now Cry, little sister - Thou shall not fall Come to your brother - Thou shall not die Unchain me, sister - Thou shall not fear Love is with your brother - Thou shall not kill

Imagine the worst part of every book, TV & movie juvenile delinquent you can think of, from the lost boys to The Lost Boys and beyond, with no redeeming qualities except a fierce and unbreakable loyalty towards each other. Imagine the worst 16-year-old brat you've ever known, self-centered, vile, mean, backstabbing, slovenly, careless, amoral, dishonest, and convinced they're immortal... and forget the sweet boy you know is buried inside each of these little monsters. They're reckless, with no concern for their safety of that of others. They're mischievous, with a sense of humor best described as cutthroat - and they're fiercely competitive. At the best of times, they look filthy and half-starved, even ten minutes after devouring the Christmas ham they stole off your table. They're unpredictably dishonest and casually mendacious, and entirely untrustworthy - and will look at you with perfect looks of hurt innocence if you accuse them of any of this... and so good are they at the sweet-naive-young-boy act, for a moment, you'll find yourself believing it. The Wastrels, three satyr boys, Hexis, Khole, & Melas, who all appear to be an eternal sixteen, and a revolving roster of human boys, live in a ramshackle haunted mansion off Blossom Street - the only freehold in the area other than Dai's. The front and back yards both are piled in treacherous stacks of treasured junk: the Wastrels seem to, like magpies and other wild thieves, enjoy taking anything that might possibly be useful, rather than stealing for intrinsic value. Many of the piles are booby-trapped: no-one who does not live in the mansion can make it through the yard without a guide. They know almost everything that goes on in Rochester, and are willing to sell the information for the right price. And, while Peter Pan's lost boys had Wendy, the Wastrels have Caraye, the Caryatid. At first glance, she looks like just another Wastrel. She dresses no differently than the boys, and has the same never-aging 16-year-old satyr look as they do, albeit sometimes a bit cleaner. But she is their princess, their mascot, the closest to a leader they'll accept. Hurt one of them, and they'll laugh it off - hurt her, and they'll tear you to shreds. If anyone can convince the Wastrels to do anything, it's the Caryatid. And she is as selfishly, straightforwardly bad as the worst of the Wastrels.