Aspen Mountain Press
www.aspenmountainpress.com

Copyright ©2007 by Rob Graham

First published in February 2007, 2007

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

WARNING

This e-Book contains sexually graphic and violent scenes, as well as adult language. Store your e-Books carefully where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.

In

The Dark

Rob Graham

Aspen Mountain Press

In the Dark

Copyright © 2007 Rob Graham

This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author's imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

Aspen Mountain Press

PO Box 473543

Aurora CO 80047-3543

First published by Aspen Mountain Press, February 2007-02-01

www.aspenmountainpress.com

This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and/or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-60168-027-3

Editor: Sandra Hicks

Cover artist: Jinger Heaston

Dedication

This work is dedicated to the memory of Colleen Thomas.

She was a wonderful woman; sweet, intelligent, well read and wise. One of the most honourable and strong people it has ever been my privilege to know. Colleen was a gifted writer as well. If not for her support I doubt I would have made it this far as an authour and a person.

Colleen was taken from us on May 27, 2006 by a heart attack. She was 36.

Goodbye lovely lady. I miss you more than words can say.

Table of Contents

Black 7

Abyss 37

Embrace 89

You Can't Go Home Again 150

Black

Six Years Ago

The boardwalk at night in this small seaside town is deserted. Almost every tourist here is a college student. It's the week after school is out and at this time of night they're all at the clubs, away from the beach.

So, I'm walking alone. I hear the waves washing the shore. The colour of the stars twinkles in my eyes. At times like this I feel calm. What I am no longer bothers me. I don't feel the need to hunt. I am at peace, for a moment.

My reverie is broken by a muffled groan from farther down the beach. I've heard similar sounds many times in my two hundred and fifty some years. I believe the current vernacular is ‘somebody's getting laid.'

The groans are repeated as I walk on. I hear the low muttering of speech. Soon it becomes clear. A man is talking in the accent of L.A. Watts.

"You like that, you horny white bitch?"

"God, yes,” is the reply from a young woman. Her accent is local, Northeastern U.S. from the way she uses her vowels. “I love your big black cock. I'm such a slut for it!"

"Then get to work, whore! Get all of it down."

I'm now close enough to see the people involved. My nature means my night vision is excellent, a requirement of my existence.

Her left side is to me and her profile shows that she is very young, no more than twenty. She is of medium height with fair skin and light brown hair. Her blouse is open revealing the silhouette of a firm breast, not much more than a handful. Her skirt is hiked up to her waist and she is without undergarments displaying a shapely lower body. The young woman's features are quite pretty, symmetrical and narrow. She's very attractive.

What is most noticeable is the look on her face. I've rarely seen such an expression of lust. She is desperate for satisfaction, completion, orgasms-many and hard.

The man draws my attention next. He is as black as the sound of his voice. And his physical presence is astounding. Easily in excess of two metres and one hundred and thirty kilograms, he is one of the largest people I have ever seen. He has no shirt on and the body displayed borders on incredible. His muscles are all large and clearly defined, like the most dedicated body builder. For a human he's quite intimidating.

Then I observe the member the young woman is working on. It looks too large even for a man of his size. It appears more like a baton of ebony than a piece of anatomy. In spite of this, the aroused woman squatting in front of him is taking most of it down her throat.

"Yeah bitch,” grunts the man. “That's it. Show me what a white whore you are. Take all of it!” And she does.

I chuckle to myself. What people will do to satisfy their desires. My smile fades when I recall some of the things I've done to satisfy my desires.

The attractive girl continues at her task with relish. Her head bobs up and down in long pumps. A slurping sounds as she sucks at him hard. Soon the man leans his head back, teeth showing in a grimace. I can see the woman's throat work as she swallows his seed. It takes a rather long time before she stops.

She removes his penis from her throat with a gasp. “God,” she declares, “that was so good! I want to do that forever. I love being full of your come."

Her lover does not get soft. That huge pole still sticks up to nearly his sternum. He grabs his trollop by the shoulders and turns her around. “There's other places that need to be filled. Open wide, bitch."

She immediately parts her legs, reaches between them and spreads her bottom lips with her fingers. “Yes, yes,” she moans. “Put your big, black cock in me. Fuck me ‘til I faint!"

He goes to his knees and shoves every inch into her in one long, slow thrust.

The woman kneeling before him takes her hands off her buttocks, grips the sand under her and kneads it with her fingers. Her body shivers and jerks, panting moans stutter from her throat. As her exploiter hits bottom a breathless keen rockets out and all her muscles tighten. The sound tells every one within earshot of her rapture.

Two sets of footsteps impinge on my awareness. They are approaching from my left and I turn to look at them.

It would appear that the black man I have been observing has relatives. The two men ten metres away are cut from the same cloth. They are almost uncanny in their size and obvious strength.

"Yo mon,” says one with that distinctive Jamaican patois, “move your skinny white ass out of here. This is our beach now, mon."

I stare for a second, and then shrug. Let the humans claim ownership. The beach and I will be around long after they've departed. I turn and walk back the way I came.

For a second, I tense. One of them continues moving in my direction.

"Don't bother, Jacob,” comes drifting to me. “We'll deal with all of them soon. We need to lie low for now."

The sound of footsteps stop and I move into the darkness.

* * * *

I'm sitting at the bar in one of the clubs in town. A club soda is loosely clutched in my hand. I've drawn my human appearance over my face, coloured it and am working my lungs, so what I am is hidden from the people around me. My face and body are thin. If I was standing I would be eighteen centimetres short of two metres. I was born in Alsace, that place between France and Germany, so my hair is dark, nearly black, and rather long for a man. With pale blue eyes, there's more German than French in my appearance.

I'm dressed casually and well, with a hint of conservatism. It's hard for people like me to let go of the past. I grin with that thought.

Something catches my eye in the reflections presented to me in the mirror behind the bar. It's the trio of men from the beach. The woman I saw is not with them. But they have separated three other girls from the dates they are with. The women's escorts are not pleased but the intimidating physical presence of these black men prevents them from doing more than fume.

So, I'm not the only hunter here tonight.

One of the women being stalked excuses herself from the group and heads in my direction. The facilities are just beyond me so that is her likely destination. I smile at a sudden, perverse thought. Let's see who is the better hunter, shall we?

I watch as the girl with the strawberry blonde hair approaches. Not whippet thin as current fashion dictates, she is formed like one of Ruben's models. Eyes of sea green are set in a creamy skinned, smooth face. As befits one so young, her expression is quite innocent.

A swift surge of peace rushes through me as I watch. Looking at one so free of fear and knowledge of the world is a balm for my troubled soul. I've had too many nights pass, alone and with dark pressing too close. There's been too much pain and horror in my existence. The sweet guilelessness of the woman coming towards me soothes my spirit.

I can feel the monster I hold back snarl deep inside. It loathes such tender sentiments. It pushes against my consciousness seeking to be set free, seeking what it likes, the evil that things like me do.

Exerting my will, I hold it back. I have to live a hidden life. If the humans knew of people like me my kind would die. We're far outnumbered and very vulnerable despite our power. We have to stay out of sight.

My gaze returns to the reflection of the young woman I've chosen for my meal. Just before she reaches my stool, I turn towards her. I act surprised, as if I hadn't noticed her approach. A small piece of power is focused into my presence. Gasping, I exclaim, “Enchantez, Mademoiselle!"

She turns to me. A sudden gulp of breath tells me I've caught her attention just right.

"Excusez moi, I mean excuse me,” I go on. “I hadn't expected to see such beauty tonight.” This is a game I've played thousands of times. I could sleepwalk through it.

She draws closer, fascinated by my voice and the power under it. I give a warm smile, showing she has nothing to fear. She stands in front of me and says, “That's a lovely accent. It's French, isn't it?"

I answer affirmatively, pumping more power into her. A flush creeps into her face. She squirms a bit on her feet. My power is stroking those parts of her psyche she is barely aware of, feeding passion where she can't fight it. Soon we'll be off, away from here and I can enjoy my evening meal.

A motion behind her in the bar tells me this time will be different. One of the trio of black men is approaching, the Jamaican. The look on his face and his posture shows that there will be trouble.

I seize my prey's eyes with my own. Her will opens to me. “You were on your way to the washrooms,” I tell her. My power makes it more than an observation. When I let her go she does as directed with no comment.

I follow and go into the men's. It's empty. Perfect.

Unzipping my fly at a urinal I pretend to be relieving myself. I don't of course, I can't. But I need to keep up appearances.

A large hand is placed on my right shoulder and pulls at it. I move with the pressure. I could easily resist but I want him to believe me within his power. It's the Jamaican.

"What you think you're doin’ mon? Cuttin’ in on my woman?"

"I'm sorry,” I reply. “I hadn't noticed a certificate of ownership on her. I had assumed she was single."

I can tell my answer didn't please him. “Maybe you should pay more attention then, you skinny white faggot.” He pushes at my left shoulder. This time I resist. He's too angry to notice I don't move.

I raise an eyebrow as if to say ‘Really?'

His fury climbs a little. “Yeah, mon. A faggot you are. I'll prove it.” He grabs my shoulder and with his right hand, unzips his fly. As his penis rolls out, I see that he's built like his compatriot. It's enormous.

He raises his fist and pushes down on my shoulder. “So white boy. Give me a blow job. If it's bad, I kill you slowly. If it's good, I kill you quick. Real good, and I only hurt you. Get to work."

I fall to my knees, shaking, as if his threats mean something to me. I'm not a great actor but I try to put on an expression of fear, with a touch of lust. It wouldn't do for him to be alert. I reach slowly towards his member, and slam my fist into his testicles with all the strength my condition grants me.

They squash like oversized grapes. He gives out a tiny peep as agony seizes his body.

Standing, I wrap my left hand around his throat, squeezing enough to prevent any more sound from passing his lips. Lifting him off his feet I carry him into a toilet stall and sit him down.

"Mon frere,” I say, “you make too many assumptions.” I show him my fangs. And then I use them.

* * * *

I stand away from the corpse. Blood loss and shock have killed him. I lick rich, red liquid from my lips, and then swipe my tongue over the wound I have inflicted. It vanishes, as they always do with that treatment. Taking his head in my hands, I break his neck to hide what really killed him. It's wise to misdirect investigation.

I don't feel bad about killing him. He knew what I was and couldn't be allowed to talk. His churlish arrogance didn't enamour me of him either.

Smiling at my victim, I draw enough air to sound a small snort of contempt. He wanted to play in the bigs, is the very modern, and very appropriate thought that goes through my mind. Be careful what you wish for, is the very ancient, and also apt aphorism that follows it.

It's then I notice something. The taste of the blood I have imbibed. It has a, cloying taste. As if some sort of artificial flavouring has been added. I feel almost as if I had a meal consisting of cake. Very filling but perhaps too much.

This man's excessive size may not be natural. I look at him for a second, pondering whether I should find out all I can about these people.

Heavy footsteps approach. My meal's friends are coming to investigate. I doubt I would have any trouble with them, but I don't want to make an obvious scene.

There is a window above the toilet large enough for me to leave through. I use it.

As I head away from the club I can hear cursing behind me. His friends aren't happy. I shrug my shoulders. I don't care what people like that think.

Merging with the crowds in the street, I ponder how to spend the rest of the night. The library, I decide, a good book would be nice company.

I move away from my hunt and disappear into the night.

* * * *

I am walking down a quiet, deserted back street. It is the night following my encounter with those rather unreal black men.

Ambling along, I recall the last time I was in this small harbour city during the Second World War. At that time this was a minor port for convoys traveling the Atlantic. It was also a rest area for the mildly wounded. The hunting was good then.

This part of the town had been built for the sudden influx of population. Two and three story bars and storefronts with apartments on top. I can tell they've rarely been used since. Windows and doors are broken. Those places still operating are worn and dirty.

But back then it was vibrant with life. Sailors and soldiers drinking and buying things. The many professionals, mostly women, who worked on them. Even children sometimes if I got up early enough. I never hunted the children. Their innocence was too refreshing. They would learn soon enough about the world. No need for me to expose them to its horrors.

A new scent comes drifting down the wind. There are two people behind me. At almost the same time I hear their footsteps. A pair of large men. Since I am only strolling, they approach quickly.

Perhaps they're just in a hurry. But to make sure I take the next corner. Once out of their sight I break into a trot towards an alley. I can hide there, letting them go past if their intentions are innocent. I won't hunt. I've no need as my belly is nearly full.

At the moment I turn into the alley, a coughing sound reaches me and a bullet slams into my left shoulder. It catapults me forward and I sprawl face first into the shadows.

Damn, it HURTS. Lying in the darkness, the pain washes over me. I feel the thing inside rising to answer it. Non, mon ami, you can't come out now.

Concentrating, I push power to the wound. Some of the blood in my stomach is transformed into flesh and bone. The agony fades.

Without pain to distract me I can hear a voice from across the road. Another denizen from the streets, Watts again, but a different person than the one from last night. “Yeah.” He's speaking lowly as if into those devices called a microphone. “Bastard's down but he ain't dead. Just wishes he was. Orders were to take him alive, so I just winged the cunt."

You're wrong. I am dead. But I'm still walking around. You however will not have that curse. You shall simply die.

I slither deeper into the alley. No more shots come. My assailant isn't watching. Tsk. Overconfidence. When I reach the end I stand up. The footsteps of the ones who followed are almost upon me. I better leave.

Examining my surroundings, there is no obvious exit. A dead end. Unless you're something like me. It's only eight metres to the roof, so I bend my legs and jump.

As I hit the roof I lie flat. Nothing happens. Why should it? They picked the ambush spot. They knew there was no way out. So no one's watching the roof.

Below, I hear the men who herded me here. “Can't find him, JT."

"Mebbe he crawled in deeper. Go look.” The order comes from the person across the street.

I raise my head a bit. A man with a rifle is across the street, making yet a fourth member of that group of huge men I've encountered. Most interesting.

He's about twenty metres away. I can jump that far. Rising to my feet I take three quick steps and launch myself in the air. My target hears me, stiffens for a moment and looks up. Not quickly enough, I'm halfway across and above his sight line by the time he raises his eyes.

Merde. I've put too much into it. I'll land about four metres away. I'll have to move fast if I don't want to get shot again.

Landing on his roof I pour power into my body. I turn and close the distance before he can face me. I slap him hard in the head with the back of my hand. Teeth scatter across the roof like marbles and he falls in a heap.

A, what is it called, yes, a headset is shaken loose and lands on the roof. I pick it up and put it on.

"JT? You all right man?” sounds in my right ear.

I smile. You'll never know.

The rifle lies at my feet and I stoop for it. An excellent weapon, precisely balanced with a fine targeting scope and a silencer. The safety's off and there is a round in the chamber. Kneeling at the edge of the roof I take position.

"JT, answer me man. There ain't nothin’ in here but a little blood. The white motherfucker sneaked out somehow.” A pause. “JT? What gives, man?"

I see a pair of flashlights exiting the alley. I line up the rifle and wait for both to emerge. I stroke the trigger. The brains of the man in the cross hairs exit through the back of his skull. I shift my aim to the other. He is goggling at the corpse still collapsing next to him. Then he looks at me. I watch the light in his eyes go out as I put a hole between them.

Lowering the gun, I turn to the shooter. He is trying to crawl away, still spitting out shards of his teeth. The smell of his blood invades my brain. The part of me that lives on it rises to the surface of my mind like a great, dark beast. I've used too much of my power and I'm ravenous.

Without thinking I land on the man's back and wrench his head back with a resounding ‘crack'. The pleasure I feel as I sink my fangs into his neck is indescribable.

* * * *

I lift my head and the darkness in me fades away, sated for the moment. The too rich taste of the man's blood is still in my mouth. If it were possible for me to vomit, I probably would.

An odd tone comes from the clothing of the man I have just killed. Rolling him over and reaching into the man's jacket, I pull out a small device. Ah. A cell phone. Amazing little pieces of technology they are. If I had seen one when I was alive I probably would have thrown it into a fire. It's quite astonishing what the humans have managed to accomplish. How do they work again? Yes, open it up and press that button ... there.

"Bon soir, comment-allez vous?"

"Who the fuck are you?” comes the reply. “Talk English. You ain't JT. Where is he?"

While the man at the other end is speaking I pick up the person I have drained. A quick scan of the street shows no one is watching. I set the body at the edge of the roof and push it over. The former JT lands head first and his skull shatters like a melon. That should cover my tracks nicely.

I reply in English, affecting a British accent. It's always wise to misdirect your opponents. “You're quite right, chap. I'm not JT. He is currently cooling at the base of the building he tried to shoot me from. His compatriots are also cooling, across the street."

"Wha?"

"Allow me to continue, my good man. I have encountered people like JT and his fellows twice now. In my world, I regard one encounter as coincidence. Two encounters, even planned as this one obviously was, is happenstance. A third encounter I will make whoever you people are my enemy. I have no living enemies. Goodbye."

I toss the cell phone off the roof. A ‘bang’ sounds before it hits the ground. Looking over the edge I see pieces of the phone scattered around. An explosive charge in the phone? That would have been unpleasant, even for me, had that gone off next to my head. I'm going to have to be much more careful from now on.

Realizing that last loud noise is sure to attract attention, I fade away into the night.

* * * *

When I reach my current haven I run a circuit around it, keeping to the shadows. It's a small cottage in an area of the city that once catered to summer tourists. Rather run down now, it's inhabited mostly by people who mind their own business. A person coming or going at this time of morning is not something to be remarked on in this place.

The place I take my rest is tiny; living room, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. Set on pilings that raise it about half a metre, a latticework of wood strips hides the bare ground beneath it.

Finished with my checking, I head up the front walk searching for surprises as I go. There don't seem to be any. I've found that doesn't mean much, but I'll take it for what it's worth. I walk to the front door, acting as someone who lives in this area would. Mildly alert, but relaxed on reaching some degree of safety I fumble for my keys while I examine telltales in the door and windows. They are all still in place. I unlock the door and enter my hiding place.

Once inside I check my internal warnings. Magazines placed so are still there. The twenty dollar bill on the coffee table has not been moved. Tiny threads on light switches rest where I put them. It would appear no one has been here since I left.

Going to the bedroom I slither under the bed. The door I've built in the floor is lifted loose and I move under the house. Replacing the small rectangle of wood, I rest against the earth on my back and expend some power. Slowly I sink into the ground. When I'm a metre under the surface I stop. I allow my mind to slip to unconsciousness, knowing sunset will awaken me again.

* * * *

It turns out I was wrong. Awareness comes back to me in a rush. I can tell the sun is high in the sky. What has woken me is the pounding of feet and the smashing of doors in the house I lie under. Voices come to me. “Freeze, motherfucker! Damn! No one here!” Another voice from one of America's ethnic ghettoes. Washington, I believe.

"Ain't nobody in this room either. Are you sure this is the place, IceDawg?” The second voice is Southern, Georgia from the sound of it.

"Yeah, we got the right place.” This man is from Harlem. “The real estate agent saw the guy when he rented. Look around. See what you can find."

People start moving above me. There's a fourth person who hasn't spoken yet. I can tell all of the people above are quite large. Things are being opened and moved. The sounds come into the bedroom directly above me.

"Shit! Hey Ice! There's a door in the floor here."

"Check it,” comes the order. Mr. ‘Dawg’ seems to be in charge. “See what's under there."

A second later I hear, “Nothing, just dirt."

"Well, fuck.” remarks ‘IceDawg'. “Sneaky bastard. Okay. We ask around the neighbourhood about him. Don't be nice. We have to nail this little fuck. No one treats us the way he has and he might be trying to stop us."

"Won't that cause trouble with the cops, Ice?"

"Nah. One of the first women we ‘treated’ was the police chief's wife. That was a good idea. You don't have to teach an older woman anything. She's damn fine looking for past forty and the woman can pull a golf ball through a garden hose.

"But the chief thinks we can ‘untreat’ her. And he's willing to do anything to get her back. He won't, but he don't know that.

"So ask around. If we don't find the Brit, someone waits outside. That'll be you, JayJ. Don't try to take him. Call for help if he shows up. We don't know who we're up against but the little cunt's tough."

A flurry of agreement sounds and the house is emptied.

I return to my sleep.

* * * *

I wake again as the sun goes down. I do not need to stretch, yawn or anything like that. I simply expend a little blood and rise from the earth. Rolling to my stomach, I crawl to the latticework at the front of the house and peer out. As I expect there is a car, a short way down the street, on the opposite side. A single person sits behind the wheel. A very large person.

Moving to the back of the house, I push out the hidden exit I made there. Rising to my feet, I brush dirt from my clothes. Then, using centuries of skill, I move through the back yards of my neighbours. None of them have dogs or alarms to alert my quarry.

Finally, I am looking at the back of the car watching my haven. A quick dash and I'm behind a tree on the same side of the street. I go from trunk to trunk until I am just five metres from the vehicle. A quick glance around my cover reveals that the driver's window is open. The driver himself has on a pair of those little plastic beads that fit in your ear. Foolish, listening to music when you should be watching.

I cover those five metres in under a second. A quick tap to the temple of the driver sends him unconscious. I don't want him dead, yet. I need intelligence first. ‘If you know your enemy and know yourself, you shall win all your battles’ a wise man once wrote. I know myself, I must learn of my opponents.

I get behind the wheel and drive off. There is a spot where I can question him without attracting attention.

* * * *

Here we are. A junkyard at the north end of town is the place.

I've had to tap my unwilling passenger again to keep him quiet. As I stop the car, he starts to regain consciousness. I pinch one of his ears to bring him all the way up.

He snarls and punches at me. I slap him back before it connects, not hard enough to break anything but enough to rattle him. I grab his left hand in a lock, putting pressure on until I can feel his bones grind. My passenger grits his teeth and whines in agony.

"Is there something wrong, old man?” I use the British accent again. There may be listening devices in the vehicle. “Your commander told you to be careful. You weren't. Now you pay the price.

"As I told the person on the phone last night, a third time would be enemy action. I don't know who my enemy is. But you're going to tell me."

"No way, mothafuckah.” This man's accent is New York. “I'm tellin’ you nothin'."

Taking his little finger in my left hand, I break it with a quiet and penetrating snap. He screams and jerks as the pain hits him. I rotate the finger, running the rough edges of bone against each other. Agony makes his eyes bulge. His face pales, as much as someone as dark as him can pale.

The darkness inside me smiles. It likes what I'm doing. It approves.

Shut up! I have to do this. I don't have to like it.

I can feel its mocking smirk. But I'm you. So it's not me liking the pain.

I stop working the finger I'm holding. “I do beg to differ, old man. You are going to tell me everything. You can do it now, or later.” I place a sinister smile on my face. “I'm hoping for later."

Somehow, my passenger's face goes even paler. “Okay, okay. We're CIA. We're augh!"

I've broken his second finger. Grabbing both broken digits, I rotate them again. He flops around on the seat. His motions are so extreme that he pushes too hard against my lock and breaks his own wrist.

This is too much for him and he collapses.

You're not getting off that easy. I notice a couple of soft drinks on the floor. Opening one, I pour it on his face. Sputtering, he comes awake again.

This time I wrap my right hand around his testicles. They're as large as the ones I smashed two nights ago. I give them the slightest squeeze.

He tries to sit up and swing at me with his undamaged hand.

Instantly, I contract my fingers. His gonads start to change shape. A gurgling groan comes from his mouth and he falls back to the seat. I loosen my grip.

"This is a disadvantage to the equipment you have, isn't it?” I say to him. “Larger equipment means more pain. Now, answer my questions truthfully or I'll take advantage of that fact."

My passenger is weeping. “It ain't supposed to be like this. We're gonna rule the world, man."

I squeeze my hand, not too hard. “Answers are what I want, not whining and braggadocio.” His back arcs like a bow. Once again, I release the pressure.

Panting, my informant slumps again. “Okay,” he wheezes. “Six months ago, I was just some skinny little shit running crack. One day a homey of mine comes back to the hood. Hadn't seen him in a while.

"I hardly recognized him. He was big now. And had money, dressed good, cool jewelry, expensive piece. I asked about it. Said he come in on a good deal. He wanted to know if I wanted in. Of course I did.

"So I ended up working for him. Same stuff I'd always done. Move packages. Put the hurt on people when I'm told. Paid real well.

"But that's it. For four months I do this, but I don't know who for or why. My homey ain't in charge. But who backed him? I dunno."

He makes a wracking cough, swallows whatever he expelled from his throat. Drawing a raspy breath he continues his tale. “My buddy comes to me one day and says I'm ready. Says I'm bein’ tested and I pass. So I get in.

"Takes me to a doctor. Big black bastard. Says I need to take a shot. Don't like needles. ‘Go on,’ my homeboy tells me, ‘if you want to be like us.’ That sounded pretty good so I get the shot. I'm glad I did.

"I could almost watch myself grow. Over one hundred pounds and ten inches I get. I grew six inches of cock too. It was fucking amazing."

Interesting, I think. What humans have managed to accomplish over the last century is quite amazing.

"I got so I needed some pussy real bad. My buddy says no way. Stay out of sight, wait. If I don't do that the deal's off. Says it in a way that lets me know how they'll do it too. So I stay in, jerk off. I have to do it a lot. Barely keeps me from going nuts ‘cause I want some bad.

"A month later, my buddy comes to get me. Takes me to a fancy place downtown. We go up to the penthouse. When we get off the elevator, can't believe what I see.

"Six homeys there, all like I was now. And at least two women for every one of them. The women are buck naked and gagging for it. Every one of them has some guy's cock stuck in them. Or they're getting it on with each other. Or playing with themselves.

"One of those sees me, pulls her hand out of her pussy and runs over. Doesn't say a word. Just pulls out my cock and starts blowing. She took every motherfuckin’ inch and tried for more. I think she came as she hit bottom.

"I can't hold back long and shoot down her throat. I come more than I had in my life. The horny bitch sucking me swallowed every drop and begged for more.

"I hardly got soft. She kept working until I got real hard again. Didn't take long. Then I pick her up and start to fuck her. It was easy, I was so strong now. Another bitch comes up and starts to lick my balls and the woman I'm fucking. The cunt I'm in is coming like a freight train. And all the time howling about how much she loves my big black cock, how much she wants my jism and how she wants me to fuck her forever."

A wave of disdain washes through me, places a sour taste on my tongue. Although it's been centuries I prefer lovemaking to be done with decorum and warmth. This man's contemptuous attitude and base language raises my ire.

The monster rises to that bait and I push it back. That done, I return my attention to the man in the seat next to me.

"I don't last long again. When I'm done, I pull the one around me off, push the one licking me to the floor and pound the shit out of her. She goes off nuts, too. Howling, sobbing and screaming for me to fuck her.

"Went through five women in the next two hours. They all wanted me bad. Didn't care what I did as long as I put it to them. Christ, I was in heaven.

This piece of information raises an eyebrow. I had thought the young woman from two nights ago was an aberration. Now it would appear there is something else at work.

"When I was done, my homey came over. He had been busy too but I guess he got enough cause he was dressed and cool. ‘Get dressed,’ he tells me. ‘It's time to meet the boss.’ I do and he takes me to another room. Another big black guy is sitting behind a desk. He's so big and so hard he scares me, even after the change I've been through.

"Dude tells me his name is David Duke. He says he discovered how to make guys like me and the women out there. Says he's going to rule the world using those things, and he wants me around for the ride.

"I say that's fine with me. With the way I've been changed and the way I just got laid I would have killed for the man.

"I have since. Nothing important, just some dumb white guys who got in our way."

I ruminate for a second. My informant looks at me with his eyes wide in frightened expectation.

"What brings you and your compatriots to this small town?"

"Mr. Duke said he wanted to get out of New York for a bit. And as long as we're here we might as well continue what we're doing."

"And the vendetta against myself? Never mind, Mr. Duke doesn't like people who interfere with his plans or organization."

My prisoner nods that my guess is correct.

"And where can I find Mr. Duke now?"

"I don't know!” His statement is followed by a scream.

I'm not happy with his answer. I let off the pressure again. The man's head lolls on his shoulders as I do. I squeeze an earlobe to bring him around.

"Once again,” I say as his gaze weakly focuses on me, “where is Mr. Duke now?"

"God, you've got to believe me, I don't know!” he coughs. “We came in another car, man. Mr. Duke went to a place he owns. It's near here but I don't know where. You've gotta believe me!"

"There,” I say comfortingly, “I believe you.” The man's relief is palpable.

"You have a cell phone? That you use to contact Mr. Duke?"

"Yeah, yeah. Here."

"And the number?"

"It's first on the speed dial."

"Wait right here.” I leave the car and walk away, unfold the phone, and dial Mr. Duke.

"JayJ, where the fuck you been, man? I been trying ta call. What's up at that freak's place?"

"I'm not JayJ. I'm afraid your man picked a bad place to stake out and wasn't paying attention, Mr. Duke. I'm coming for you now."

With a casual back hand motion I throw the phone into the car. Then I wave goodbye to my new friend JayJ and walk away.

The phone does not explode.

The car does.

The shock wave knocks me to the ground and tumbles me a couple of metres. A sharp piece of metal creases my head. Sitting up, I look at the flaming wreckage that was a car, and a man.

Mr. Duke really doesn't like me.

* * * *

About an hour later, I've secreted myself under a pile of junk near the road leading to the wreckage that was my conveyance. Any vehicle that approaches will have to go by me. I'll wait until morning. If no one comes, I'll go into the earth and look for more of Mr. Duke's associates tomorrow night.

Headlights coming towards me show that it isn't necessary. As the Cadillac passes me I see two people in it. Both are the extraordinarily large men I expected.

The car stops about ten metres from the smouldering wreckage. The two occupants get out and head towards JayJ's pyre. They leave the doors open.

Careless, is my thought. Knowing their attention is on the carnage in front of them I slip from my blind and into the car. I slither into the back, going to the floor and as close to the front seats as possible. Unless they lean over the seat and look down, I can't be seen.

Soon they return. One is talking, obviously to Mr. Duke.

"Yeah, found the car. It's toast and so is JayJ. No loss.

"Not a sign. We'll look if you want, but just the two of us ain't safe.

"Right. Come on back. Be there in twenty."

I heard the soft click as he folded up his phone.

"You heard me, Dred. We're heading home.” The two men climb in, the suspension creaks a bit from their weight. The car is started and my unwitting chauffeurs start their trip home.

I smile. I should be able to finish this tonight.

* * * *

The trip is the twenty minutes promised. The vehicle I'm in travels southwards, through town and into an area quite rural. And rich. Summer homes of wealthy urbanites are scattered through it.

I can't observe much in my position. Just what appears in the narrow slits the windows appear to be. When the car finally stops I can see the top of a solid stone column and an iron gate.

A window rolls down and the driver, Dred, speaks. “Yeah, it's us."

The gate opens. A minute's drive and a roof appears. The car doors open and my unknowing chauffeurs walk off. A few seconds, later I hear another door open and close.

With great care I raise my head, just peeking above the bottom of the window, and look around. I'm in a large carport. Half a dozen vehicles, all flashy and expensive are parked here. I can see the door into the building that they used. A camera sweeps back and forth above it. It seems to be the only one.

I watch the security device, counting the seconds of its pattern. Lowering my body, I squirm to the door on the far side of the car. At the proper moment, I pop it open, roll to the ground and close it again.

Keeping the count, I rise to my knees and shuffle to the rear end of the car. When the number tells me that the camera isn't pointed at me I dash toward a spot on the wall far from its line of vision, then to the door. Being what I am the twenty metre trip takes barely two seconds. I'm now directly below the camera and out of its sight.

I listen at the wood panel. Nothing sounds beyond it. Gently, I turn the knob. It's unlocked. Opening the door, I take a quick look. The room beyond is empty.

Entering it and closing the door behind me I find I'm in a foyer. A hall opposite the door leads to the ground floor of the house. I hear the babble of many voices coming from it. Stairs going upward are to my left. I take those. I wish to avoid meeting any of the inhabitants here until I know what it is I'm facing.

At the top of the stair, I come to another hallway. I peer around the corner. It stretches thirty metres from where I am. On my side there are two doors in a ten metre stretch, then ten metres of railing broken by what I assume is the head of another set of stairs and two more doors beyond that. The opposite wall is more doors at the same intervals, with the mouth of a hallway opposite the stairs. The second door from me on that side has a keypad lock.

The babble I heard downstairs is louder, a mixture of women's moaning and cries punctuated by men cursing and grunting. It oozes from over the railing.

At that moment, a man emerges from the hallway branching from the corridor I'm observing. He's the biggest of the black men I've seen so far, nearly a giant. It's his face that catches my attention though. I've seen such features on many leaders of men. His expression is confident. He knows things will happen if he commands it. There is also an edge of complete arrogance. This man believes he can never fail.

He walks to the stairway and a man's voice hails him. “Yo, Duke! Come on down, the water's fine."

So, this is my opponent.

Mr. Duke smirks and descends the stairs. A chorus of women's voices, harsh with lust and wanting, greets his arrival.

I head down the hallway, keeping my steps silent. As I pass the locked door a familiar scent tickles my nostrils. A scent of plastique, gun oil and propellant. Reaching the edge of the open area I glance around a corner and gaze into the room below.

An orgy is in progress.

There are half a dozen of the large black men. All are naked and all have their enormous manhoods in a woman. The same expression is on every man's face, a contempt for the people they're using. What they are doing is not an act of love or lust. It's one of domination and degradation.

There are twice as many women participating and they couldn't care less about how they're being treated. They want only one thing; to be taken hard and often.

Almost all the women are young. I recognize the girl from the beach. The man from that night is using her again, he's pushed his full length up her rectum. And she doesn't mind, loves it in fact. She grunts and groans, working her hips, in absolute ecstasy at being so full.

I spot Mr. Duke. He's removed his clothes is sitting on a large chair like a king, his sceptre the ebony piece of lumber rising from his crotch. He's watching the goings on with an amused detachment.

Kneeling in front of him is the one exception to the young women. This person is over forty, full in build and brown haired. She's looking at him with awe and desperation. “God, Duke,” she gasps. “I need you. You haven't fucked me since yesterday and I need it so bad.” Her words tremble with the intense lust she feels.

"Is that so, Mrs. Police Chief?” he drawls at her. “Is there some reason I should fuck you? What will you do to earn that?"

"Anything, Duke, anything!” is her panting declaration. “Tell me and I'll do it. But just put that wonderful cock in me."

"Tell you what,” Mr. Duke sneers. “Give me that specialty of yours and I'll think about it."

Without a reply, the brunette shuffles over to him, grabs his manhood and takes him in her mouth. She works demandingly. The look on her face is that of an addict getting their hit.

I pull back knowing there is a derisive expression on my face. I can't tell which I dislike more. Those willing to use other people or those wanting to be used.

Crouching so I won't be observed from the main floor, I move to the far wall and head to the hallway. Looking down it I see a single door, also locked with a keypad.

Slinking to that door, I move the palm of my right hand close to the array of buttons. Concentrating, pushing a very small amount of power to it, I raise the sensitivity of the nerves there. Three buttons are slightly warmer than the others. The second combination I punch in opens the lock.

Inside is a spacious and very well appointed den, the walls lined with excellent books. An ornate and expensive desk sits opposite the door. A fine chair is placed behind it so where I'm standing can be observed from the desk. On top of the desk sits a computer monitor with the tower set to one side. As everything here is, it's top of the line.

I go over and sit down. The computer is sleeping so I tap a key to bring it up. Mr. Duke's machine is very well laid out so I quickly find what I'm looking for, a document marked ‘Journal'. It opens on my double click, and there's no security. Mr. Duke's a trusting sort for such a powerful man.

I start reading. Hopefully, I won't be disturbed for a bit.

* * * *

An hour later, I've learned a very great deal about Mr. David Duke and his plans. His journal goes into great detail. Three years ago, the man was a street person, a drunk. Sixty years old and suffering from all the problems that come from homelessness he wasn't long for this world. No one would miss him.

Which made him perfect for the people that kidnapped him. Members of a secret government project that meant to create a new type of soldier. Snatching him up one night, they returned him to their lab and injected him with the latest version of the drug they had created.

It worked. The result was the David Duke I saw in the hall.

They kept him around for study, to determine how full the effects were and if there would be any adverse consequences. Mr. Duke played along but barely. He made it appear that his change wasn't as severe as it looked. And he kept the fact that his mental faculties were repaired a complete secret.

So he learned a lot. Access codes, layout of the facilities, capabilities of all personnel. And most importantly he learned of the other drugs they were working on.

When the time was ripe, he murdered every person in the lab. Since he had access to the storage area, he stole all samples of the drug that created him as well as one other that had caught his attention. And with access to the computers, he printed out their formula. He then destroyed the lab.

The newly created superman cashed debit cards lifted from the facility and made his way to New York. With those funds he started dealing drugs. He also got to work on his grand plan.

Mr. Duke had always hated white people, blamed them for his life. Now he had a chance to get back at them. His plans required the drugs now in his possession. These drugs were code named Nhance and Nympho.

Nhance was the one that created Mr. Duke. It caused subtle changes to the subject's DNA, in effect redesigning it. The subject's body then transformed to meet the new blueprint. The result was the people I'd been in conflict with for the last few days. The extremity of this permanent change can be controlled by the dosage and Mr. Duke has been careful that none of his creations match him.

Nympho is the drug responsible for the women I'd been seeing. Simply put, it makes nymphomaniacs out of women it's given to. Unlike Nhance which must be injected, Nympho can be used to spike other liquids. Libidos are pushed to levels where rational thought is nearly impossible. By administering the drug in places where one of his enhanced associates is the first man they encounter in this state the women quickly become addicted to them. All they'll ever dream about is the next time an enormous, black phallus is thrust into them. Nympho does slowly wear off, but in the grasp of Mr. Duke and his cronies the women exposed to it are kept well dosed.

A side affect of Nympho is that it causes men, save those enhanced, to become impotent. Another factor in Mr. Duke's favour.

According to his journal, Mr. Duke is here for reasons other than a vacation. He's testing the next step of his plan. One of his associates has obtained a job at the water provider here. This person released Nympho into the water system, exposing everybody in town. The dosage isn't high, but enough. Few men will be able to perform, and women will be desperate for performance. It's a playground for Mr. Duke and his crowd.

Second, there is a small pharmaceutical company nearby, which he has bought. One of his associates is surprisingly well educated. This man has been entrusted with the formula. The company has begun mass production.

Why is he doing this? Based on his journal, mainly to destroy white people. When he expands the plan to the whole country, only babies fathered by black men will be born. In a few generations, all people of European descent will be gone. Mr. Duke gloats frequently about this fact.

How he feels about people not of European or Sub-Saharan ancestry he doesn't say but I doubt they'll fare well.

He also uses the women he's changed to blackmail powerful people, as he did with the local police chief. And Mr. Duke just finds the whole thing fun. As many men would. Being able to create women that would be willing to perform any sexual act and enjoy it is an intoxicating power.

I must admit, Mr. Duke is no fool, and quite ambitious. I would admire the man if what he wanted to accomplish wasn't so evil. In some way I'm glad he is. I dislike conflict for its own sake. What I've discovered gives me a more important reason to stop him than personal survival and pride.

The door opens then. I look away from the computer screen in dismay. The sound proofing here is very good.

Mr. Duke walks in. It's a credit to him that he shows only an instant's surprise. “I'm impressed,” he says to me.

"I'm not, I'm afraid, David Duke,” I reply. “Genocide doesn't rate highly on my list of possible accomplishments a person can strive for."

He shrugs. “Ask me if I care, white man. I can't say I know your name though."

"And you never will. It's of no concern to a dead man."

My opponent is not intimidated. He makes a small snort of contempt.

I smile at him. His ignorance shall make his passing more pleasurable. The discovery of what I am will be a delectable shock.

Mr. Duke reaches to a shirt pocket. As his hand stays in sight and is not moving quickly I let him continue. There's no threat to me.

From the pocket he pulls a cell phone, flips it open and dials a four digit number.

"Wouldn't it be easier to shout?” I ask him. “Not that anyone could get here in time to save you."

"I'm not calling for help.” He presses a button with his thumb.

Darkness.

.

* * * *

The dark recedes and my first thought is, Why am I sitting at such an odd angle? I'm looking at the desk canted about fifty degrees to the right. The surface of it is covered with a spray of flesh, blood and bone.

The pain hits then. My consciousness almost fades again. The agony is only above the waist. I can't feel my legs. Moving my head is difficult but I succeed in looking downward. There's a large hole blown in me, my spine severed by the charge in the chair. The mess on the desk is my stomach and its contents.

What I am comes fully to the fore. The monster fill my consciousness, my humanity slips away from my soul and my face. That stupid human! He dies!

I concentrate. The little blood remaining to me is pushed to my wounds. My spine and stomach begin to regrow. The fluid suffusing my body is barely enough, but feeling and motion return to my legs. I'll need my stomach to feed.

I look around to find I'm alone. The door to Mr. Duke's study stands open. Standing, I totter towards it.

I'm almost there when voices drift from down the hall, approaching me. I'm in no shape to fight straight up. I take a second to form my claws. With a small leap I sink them into the oak lintel at the top of the doorway and lift myself up, parallel to the ceiling and flat to the wall. I doubt they'll look up, they expect me to still be in the chair.

"Don't know how he got in, but he's dead.” Mr. Duke's voice comes to me. “Ruined my desk and chair though, the fuck. Take the body, dump it somewhere. Don't know where some dumb white boy thought he could stand up to us."

I smile at that. I'm not just ‘some dumb white boy.'

Two of Mr. Duke's men come through the door, one at a time. They stop on seeing the empty chair. After a moment's pause they step further into the room and apart a little. “Duke,” says one of them, “you better see this."

"See what?” is the question from outside.

"He's gone. No one here!"

"What the fuck?"

With that exclamation, my enemy enters the room. I drop to the floor behind him and kick the door shut. Sinking my claws into his neck and buttocks, I lift him up and throw him across the room. He hurtles between his thugs. A moment later his legs hit the desk with a ‘crack!’ that announces broken bones. He cartwheels over it and disappears, smashing the chair in his careen.

Both his men turn toward me. The one on the left is closer. I push my left hand into his rib cage and rip his heart out. Blood soaks me as it sprays from the wound. His eyes roll up and he drops as if his bones have turned to jelly.

The expression on the other's face shows that he knows exactly what I am. The wide eyes and blubbering lips transmit to me the utter terror I am. I like the feeling his fear gives me.

He shows courage though. The big man cocks a fist and throws it at me.

I catch it in my right hand and grind his bones to powder. I sneer at his bravado. I care not at all what a human can do.

He goes pale with shock, falls to his knees and clutches his destroyed hand to his chest. Tears of pain and horror run down his face. I like the feeling that gives me as well.

The smell hits me then. The smell of what I need. Blood. My food, my joy, my passion. Tilting my head back, I bring the still beating muscle in my left hand to my mouth and squeeze. The red liquid in it drips out and I swallow it down. Lord, it's delicious. I'll never tire of the taste of it.

But there's not enough. Tossing the empty heart away, I look at the man before me and lower my head. I hear the blood roaring through his veins, and it calls to me. The next instant I've snapped his head back and my fangs are in his neck. I can taste his terror, it flavours the blood with a sweet, dark savour.

It takes several minutes to drain a man this big. But soon I let the limp corpse fall. A sound catches my attention. Mr. Duke is trying to crawl past me.

"Yoo hoo!"

He stops moving, his head swivels towards me.

"Watch.” I say, tapping the still ragged wound in my midsection. I exert my power.

His eyes grow wide and his mouth slack at the sight of me repairing myself.

"You are a fool, Mr. Duke,” I say to him when I am finished. “The secret to power is to use it sparingly.

"Take myself for example. You know what I am, how powerful I am. But there are powers in this world that would swallow me down as a shark would a minnow. I stay in existence by being careful.

"You weren't. You acted as if you were the Almighty himself. And you attracted my attention.

"Now you suffer the consequences for that."

"God,” he whines.

"My victims have called on Him for centuries. He's never answered. I see no reason why He should start now."

And then I'm at his throat.

He lasts longer than his hoodlum. Which I like. Anything worth doing is worth overdoing. Finally I rise, full. And still angry. I smile as only one of my kind can smile.

I've got a whole mansion of humans to play with. No time like the present.

I head off for my fun.

* * * *

A half hour later, I'm watching the mansion from a hundred metres away and waiting. I wish my nature allowed me to cry.

All that has happened since I left Mr. Duke's sanctum flashes through my head.

Charging down the hall I vaulted the railing. I landed on a young woman being taken doggy style and broke my fall, as well as her back. With a quick swipe, I opened the throat of the man who was using her.

A second later I shattered the skulls of two women with a double punch.

One of the enhanced men grabbed a submachine gun from a pile of clothes, leveled it and let loose a burst. Stupid. Two bullets hit me and I hardly noticed. The rest put down three women and one of his cronies.

I leapt across the room and pulled his arm off. Placing the muzzle of the gun under his chin, I jerked the finger still on the trigger and the top of his head exploded in a spray of brains.

Then I ravened among them like a wolf in a coney of rabbits.

I had to stop to feed before I was done. In my state, I burned my power like jet fuel. The drug in the woman's blood gave an interesting flavour. A lighter taste than the cloying sweetness of the enhanced.

This gave the few survivors a chance to scatter.

It did them no good. I hunted them down one by one. The last was the police chief's wife. She was halfway across the front yard when I landed on her back and snapped her neck.

The monster withdrew then. There was no more fun to be had.

My intellect returned. As well as my grief and horror. It had been a very long time since I had so lost control. I'd forgotten how good it felt, and how sick it made me after.

I'll think about it tomorrow night. First, there are things to do.

My waiting is done.

I broke open the well-stocked armoury. After placing the charges I laid bodies across them, and soaked them all in gasoline.

With a loud thump and a tinkle of shattering glass the mansion begins to burn. There will be no evidence something like me is involved. By the time the fire department arrives, there won't be much more than ashes.

Another wave of anguish passes through me. My knees weaken. I hunch a little and grit my teeth. I might have done some good here tonight, but the cost was high. I straighten my back and shrug. That's the way it always is. Console yourself with the thought that you prevented far worse than this.

I don't know if I'm lying to myself, but it helps. However, the killing isn't done. One more person has to die to end Mr. Duke's dream. His drugs are known to one other. As long as they exist, the genocide he planned could still come to pass.

I know where to look. Mr. Duke's journal held all the information about his plans. I have five hours to dawn. Just enough time to end this. Turning my back on the massive funeral pyre I've created, I fade into the darkness.

But I carry within me something far darker than black.

Fin

Abyss

Four Years Ago

Pausing for a moment outside the light cast by the Liberal Arts building I push power to my skin, making it flush to nearly a flesh colour. I start my lungs working. Attention isn't something I want to attract. My normal complexion is almost bone white and bound to draw comment. Not breathing tends to raise eyebrows as well.

That done, I step out of the cool night air and into the hall of the place where I teach sophomore history-The Enlightenment, Background and Effects on 18th Century Europe. I have some familiarity with this era.

Down the hall I go, up a flight of stairs, then back toward the front of the building. I arrive at Room 203 and enter it. As always, I'm right on time.

Most of the thirty odd people that make up this class are already here. Some are attending honestly. They want to learn.

The remainder is what I refer to as ‘The Court'. I call it that as it seems so much like the courts I knew when I was alive.

The outer circle is hangers on. They drop in and out of the group as they drop in and out of favour of the inner circle. I don't mind them in my class. If they want to be here and aren't disruptive, I can live with it. A smile flashes across my face at that last thought.

The inner circle consists of several people vying for the interest of the social center of ‘The Court'. They pass in and out of her approval although not as often as the hangers on. One of the current members of this circle is even a student of mine.

The social center is also one of my pupils, a young woman by the name of Christy Coburn. I've rarely seen a more feminine woman. Constantly giggling and smiling, hair flipping, leaning close to exchange gossip, wearing suggestive clothes in soft colours, she is the constant focus of attention. A natural blonde and leggy, her beauty is a finely honed instrument. My own opinion of her is that although bright enough there's too little backbone in her to be a good student. Or much of anything else for that matter.

The real power of The Court, as is so often the case, is not where the eye looks. The true center lies with Ms. Coburn's lover, Mandy Richardson.

They think they're being secretive about it. This is a very conservative state and the university has to be careful not to offend fanatics. But Mandy and Christy's relationship is there for those who want to look.

And as always, Ms. Richardson is not here. One of the few rules I enforce, for my students, is that they arrive on time. She has never been here before me. In fact, she has been challenging me the entire semester. Assignments are late, she's tardy. In class Mandy is always, subtly, trying to rule. She is a brilliant young woman but she seems to be unable to accept what she regards as an inferior position.

And in my briefcase is her latest challenge.

I place that briefcase on my desk, lean against the old piece of furniture and clear my throat. The idle buzz that fills the air dies away. “Good evening, class. I have your latest assignments marked."

Turning, I open my case and pull out the papers in question. I walk down the rows of desks, stopping where there is actually a student, hand them their essays and comment on it. Most are disappointed. I'm a taskmaster when it comes to learning. I save Ms. Coburn's and Richardson's papers until last. Their efforts need special attention.

As I place Christy's paper in her hands, she goes a little white in shock. “C minus?"

"I'm afraid so, Mademoiselle Coburn,” I tell her in the mild French accent I affect. “Actually the essay was quite good, but there are extenuating circumstances that keep me from giving you a better mark."

The door to the classroom opens and I know immediately who it is. The way Christy's eyes light up are a give away. I turn towards the entrance and the extenuating circumstances are walking towards me.

Mandy Richardson is a thin woman, slightly built with sandy blonde hair cut short. She strides, as if certain that nothing will ever stand in her way. Her brown eyes stare into my blue with contempt and her lip is curled with distaste.

As she plops into the desk next to her lover I remark, “So glad you deigned to join us, Mademoiselle Richardson."

She shrugs uncaringly. “Hey, I had places to go and people to do.” There's a subtle scent about her, too faint for a human to detect, two separate odours of feminine arousal. Apparently Ms. Richardson has been doing more than going.

My gaze goes to Christy at Mandy's remark. Dejection flashes through her eyes and chagrin reddens her cheeks. Then her mouth turns downward in a grimace of resignation. She knows what her lover has been doing, can't stop it and has unhappily accepted the fact. I wonder why she puts up with it.

Returning my attention to my surly student I say, “Your timing is perfect. Here's your paper.” I hold it out to her.

Taking it from my hand she looks at the mark scribbled on it, and turns bright red with fury. “F!?” Mandy raises her eyes to me and gives a glare that would intimidate any human being. But I'm not human so I don't flinch at all.

"If you had written it, I would have given you a very good mark. But you didn't write it.” I glance back at Christy. “Your, um, compatriot did.” I had almost let their secret out. What they do outside my class is none of my business. What happens inside it is.

Christy pales, her eyes grow wide and her mouth slits in an unmistakable admission of guilt.

Facing Ms. Richardson once more I say, “So an F is all you get."

Mandy's gaze flares at me and her face gets very hard. “Professor Belleveau, you had better change that mark."

I blink at that statement. What I really am stirs inside me. Shoving my instinct down, I snicker instead. “Mademoiselle Richardson, you don't give me orders. I might take requests, from the Dean or the board, but not orders from you.” Still chuckling, I start for the front of the room.

A snarled “Come on,” from Mandy follows me up the aisle. As I face the class, I see ‘The Court’ trail out in her wake. Christy looks at me and her face is blank with fear.

But she's not scared of me. She's scared for me.

* * * *

The sun goes down and I rise from the earth. The small cottage I've acquired has an old fashioned root cellar allowing me easy access to a place of rest. The coffins and such that others of my kind use are too exposing in my opinion. Resting in the ground is much safer.

I go to my bathroom, shower and brush my teeth. I don't need to worry about rot, but with my eating habits halitosis can be a problem.

As I clean, I ponder the previous night. I can't say I'm worried, but there was something about Ms. Richardson and her actions that disturbed me. Still, I don't have much more than a feeling and stopped wondering once my toilette is finished.

I dress and check my messages. Surprisingly there is one. I haven't given out this number to many people so I rarely get calls. This single missive is from the Dean of the university. “I need to see you,” is all she says.

I chuckle as I notice she doesn't mention a time. I've built a reputation as a bit of a prima donna. Everybody knows I work all day and only show at night. They think I'm writing my next book. But they were aware of that when they invited me here. I have some minor fame as both a historian and a pain in the ass. I've worked hard to create my notoriety as a rather odd, somewhat snobby Eurotrash genius.

I have no class tonight so I can see the Dean right now. Leaving my haven, I start walking. I like using my own feet. It's relaxing and lets me think.

A half hour later, I arrive at the Dean's residence. She answers the doorbell and invites me in. It's then I receive my first intimation of trouble. Normally, she is quite friendly. She had found my eccentricity charming.

This time her face is disturbed. I sense that she is torn on the horns of a dilemma. And unlike other times, she leads me to her home office rather than the living room. Closing the door, she seats herself behind the desk and motions me to the chair across from her. The formality of the gesture deepens my unease.

As I sit my slim frame down, I look her over again. In her mid forties, Dr. Strombopolous is an impressive woman. Chestnut haired, fair skinned and tall, her dark eyes and strong face display her personality well. Maureen is full breasted, has a wasp waist and somewhat narrow hips with nicely shaped buttocks. Her legs, very beautiful legs, are rarely displayed by a skirt, as they are tonight.

Now that I stop to think about it, she has been changing. Her clothes, while still professional, have begun to display her femininity more. And she has seemed somewhat befuddled recently, distracted by something.

She breaks into my thoughts with, “I need to talk to you about one of your students."

Let me guess.

"Mandy Richardson,” confirms my supposition.

"There's a problem?” I ask.

The Dean grows flustered. To my wonder she chews on her bottom lip, frowns with her eyes, flushes slightly with embarrassment. I've never seen her more uncertain. Abruptly, she takes a deep breath and shivers.

"Well,” she goes on after that short pause, “I think you're being unfair to her. Ms. Richardson needs a better mark."

Two odours now waft across the desk and tickle my nose. One I'm very familiar with, a sharp tang of fear. The other, after a second's thought, is also known to me. I encountered it barely twenty four hours ago. It's the smell of a particular woman's arousal and it was accompanying Ms. Richardson. I nearly let my surprise show on my features.

"She's not passing my class, Dean Strombopolous. She's always late, isn't getting her assignments done and her latest was a forgery. I don't see how I can pass her."

Maureen's face pales, her mouth pulls back in fear. “You don't understand. There's, pressure, being bought to bear. I, the school, want that pressure lifted. It could mean a lot of trouble. Please, please reconsider.” Her eyes shine as tears fill them.

An odd surge of sorrow and rage rises in me. I feel pity for her. It would appear that Ms. Richardson has bought ‘stress’ of a particular type to bear. I'm surprised Maureen would fall for such a ploy. And I wonder what her husband would do if he found out.

Some of my anger is at the Dean. I don't pressure very well. Most though, is directed at Mandy. What she has done is rather cruel, and despite what I am, I loathe cruelty.

I sit still for a few moments, considering my response. Finally I say, “I'll see what I can do."

Maureen's relief is palpable. The smell of her excitement grows a bit thicker. “Thank you,” she gasps. “I didn't want to do this, but it needed to be done."

I nod as if I understand and come to my feet. She doesn't stand. Perhaps her legs are too weak. I bid her goodnight and show myself out. Before I close the front door of the house the sound of her weeping comes faintly to me.

I walk down the street. I don't have a class tonight. I'll head for the library and see what I can find out about Ms. Richardson. She's raised the stakes and I need information if I want to continue playing in the game she's started.

* * * *

An hour later I'm sitting at a computer monitor. As a member of the faculty I have access to students’ records. I have pulled up Mandy's file and read it. Then, using the Web, I get in touch with another of my kind. He was a computer nerd when alive. In exchange for a future favour, he puts together a précis of Ms. Richardson's life and sends it to me.

There seems to be nothing remarkable about her. In high school she did well, except for a stretch at the end of her junior and start of her final year. Her marks climbed back to better than normal after that.

Her first year in university was the same, weak start but strong finish. And the same this year. Except for my class, she seemed to be doing fine now.

The précis I've received fills me in on her family. Nothing stands out. Quite middle class they are. Her father, as it turns out, is a professor here. I haven't met him. Perhaps that is where the pressure the Dean is feeling originates?

On reflection that's doubtful. Mandy's father doesn't seemed to be placed to exert the influence that can affect a woman like Maureen. My first hypothesis still seems the most likely.

Paging back to Mandy's records, I check her address. This raises my eyebrows slightly. I had been shown this house when I first arrived. It's a domicile for visiting. That Mandy, and Ms. Coburn as another check reveals, are accommodated there seems another example of Ms. Richardson's ‘influence'.

I erase the history I've created as well as the précis and then shut the computer down. It's time for a personal reconnoissance.

* * * *

The place I want to check isn't far. So I walk. I'm one street away when a feminine voice catches my attention. “Excuse me?"

I turn to the woman who spoke and survey her quickly. She is in her mid-thirties I estimate, of medium height and almost heavy set. Hazel eyes look at me from under a mane of black hair. She is busty and the plum coloured blouse she wears displays that fact. Her nipples are poking visibly at the material of her garment. A short, night hued skirt is wrapped around her wide hips. Dark stockings with a green vine pattern running up the inseam encase her shapely legs. Her shoes match the hosiery in shade and have five inch stiletto heels. The third finger of her left hand shows depressions where rings have been.

There's a dichotomy to her. The woman strikes me as being dressed for an assignation, but there is an air of discomfort surrounding her. Somehow she reminds me of Maureen. She seems torn by an internal struggle.

Affecting a heavy German accent I reply, “Jah, can I help you?"

The woman takes a deep breath and then asks, “Do you know where 75 Elm Street is?"

A piece snaps into place. That is where Ms. Richardson currently resides. A woman visiting her is not likely to be going for tea. It seems Mandy has quite a string of lovers.

"Jah. It is the next street up. I am going that way. You will accompany me.” My tone is almost commanding.

The woman falls into step beside me without hesitation. I gain yet more insight to Mandy's victims. “I am Heinz Guderian,” I tell my companion, “I teach physics here. And you?"

"Cyn ... Cynthia Moran. I'm visiting a, a friend."

I catch what is becoming a common scent coming from her. Cynthia is getting aroused.

We come to Elm Street and I check the number on the street sign. “Four houses that way, on this side.” I point in the direction she needs to go.

"Thank you, Mr. Guderian.” She heads where I've directed.

"Bittë, Fraü Moran,” I echo to her. She doesn't pick up on the fact that I know part of her secret.

I cross the road, continuing past Elm Street, then double back. Keeping to the opposite side of the avenue I stay about ten meters behind Mrs. Moran and follow her, using the trees that line this urban boulevard for cover. She soon heads up the walk to the rather large house Ms. Richardson and her chief bed warmer reside in. I stay in the lee of a trunk to watch.

Mandy answers the door. “Hey teach, right on time. And you walked here, just as you were told. I bet my neighbours liked the show."

Another morsel of knowledge floats to the surface. Mrs. Moran had been Mandy's English teacher in her final year of high school. It would appear my opponent has been at this game for some time.

Cynthia entered the house and the front door closes behind her. I slip from my cover, cross 75 Elm Street's lawn and secret myself against the wall of the house, away from the streetlights. Expending a small amount of power I wrap a veil of shadows around myself.

I hear people moving inside, going up the stairs. Going from window to window of the ground floor, I check rooms, just glancing over each sill. All are dark and empty. The furniture in each is very good, both tasteful and comfortable. The university treats its guests well.

There is a back deck, with a sliding glass door leading into the kitchen. Just as I peek in the light came on. I duck back, then ease my head so one eye can peer into the room. Not much illumination falls on me so my cloak should hold.

A trio of women enters the room, Mandy first, trailed by Cynthia and then Christy. Mandy is dressed in her usual T-shirt and jeans. The shirt is loose and covers her crotch. It almost hides that there is something in Mandy's pants, something that makes a shape similar to a large erection.

Christy is wearing only a short, clingy and transparent blue robe. As all her clothes are it's very feminine and displays her attributes to good effect. If I were still a man my reaction would be instant and extreme.

Sitting down in a chair at the kitchen table Mandy says, “So? What do you think of my new digs, teach?” Christy stands just behind her and to one side, eyes down in a submissive posture.

Mrs. Moran leans against the counter, arms holding her torso as if for warmth. Her face is a light red of embarrassment. “It's very nice."

Mandy snickers. “Yeah, it's good to have friends.

"So how long's it been, teach? A month?"

Cynthia licks her lips and shivers. “Twenty seven days."

"Mommy's little girl has been counting the days. How sweet. I guess you missed me.

"Have you been using the toy I gave you?"

Her victim closes her eyes and a bigger shiver passes through her. “Every day, like you ordered."

I can see Christy's skin flush a little and she rocks on her feet. Her ass clenches. I guess this is a game played before. One that all the participants enjoy.

"But you only come once, on Sundays, the Lord's Day, right?” Mandy asks with mild contempt in her voice.

Shame crosses the face of the femme leaning on the counter. Her eyes also slit in pleasure at a sweet memory. She nods her head in confirmation.

"You must be just gagging for it now, aren't you?” presses Ms. Richardson.

Cynthia's lips part in a silent gasp. Her nod is barely noticeable. She squeezes her eyes shut and I suspect that if I were closer, I would see tears would glisten at the edges of them.

Mandy picks her lovers well. So far all are rent between intense humiliation and just as extreme lust. That must make for a fascinating melange of emotions.

"Well,” announces Mandy, “mommy's little girl has been good. So she gets a treat.

"Bitch,” she orders, turning her head in Christy's direction, “get naked and loosen my little girl up. She needs to be relaxed before she gets her reward."

Without a word, Christy sheds her garb and pads on bare feet to Mrs. Moran. In an instant they're in each other's arms and their mouths are working ravenously. I can see Cynthia squeezing the naked woman's ass, all hesitation gone from her now.

"Enough!” orders Mandy. “Get my little girl out of her clothes, bitch."

Christy's hands move to the buttons of the plum blouse. She plucks them loose quickly and pulls the garment open. Cynthia's large breasts appear, shoved up and displayed by a black underwire bra. The panting blonde undoes the front hook and the luscious orbs fall free, jiggling with the deep, rapid breaths of the chest they rise from. Mrs. Moran shrugs her shoulders back and her upper garments fall from her. Christy pulls the shirt free and both pieces of clothing hit the counter.

A babbling moan sounds from both women as the blonde takes one of her dark haired playmate's nipples in her lips. Cynthia's eyes roll back, her mouth opens and closes as bliss runs out from her sensitive peak.

"Hurry it up!” Mandy demands. “I'm not waiting all night."

The zipper of the black skirt is pulled down by Christy's shaking hands. Kneeling, she draws the soft fabric over silk encased legs. Mrs. Moran's mound is full, meaty and shaved bare. I can see it glisten and trails of her lubrication have run down her thighs, soaking the tops of her hold up stockings.

Mandy coos at the erotic sight. “I see mommy's little girl has gotten tired of washing her panties.” She laughs softly.

Cynthia's reaction is again mixed. Her face quirks with a mixture of debasement and passion. Then her eyes start and her mouth gapes as Christy places her lips on the older femme's wet cunt and starts to work. Random moans, grunts and sighs tremble from Mrs. Moran. They grow louder as the blonde plays with her. The standing woman's hands wrap in the yellow mane between her legs and pull that tireless mouth close.

"Eeyah!” screams Cynthia as she falls over the edge. The shout is shrill and piercing, communicating how utterly overwhelming her orgasm is. Her legs buckle and she moves her arms to the counter to hold herself in position. Her head jerks back and forth, left and right as muscles trigger in haphazard patterns under the onslaught of her rapture.

The shout fades in a panting groan as Cynthia's climax recedes. Her tits bobble as her chest works like a bellows. Her eyes are slit to shield them against the lurid afterglow filling her. Sweat drips along her pale skin.

Christy keeps at her work. Even over distance and through glass, the faint sound of her mouth at play reaches me. The soft slurping informs me of her greedy appetite for the morsel stuffed in her mouth.

I see Cynthia's stomach quiver once more. She locks her legs and grasps Christy's blonde head with white knuckles. Cynthia's shoulders heave as she pants.

In a very short time, another shriek bursts out. This one is ragged, less forceful. Her lungs are too weak from delight to push hard. Cynthia's mouth falls open and her eyes glaze as ecstasy fills her.

"Enough,” orders Mandy. Christy immediately pulls her mouth away.

"It's time for mommy's little girl's treat,” announces the domme as she stands. She undoes her jeans and they fall to the floor. Mandy is wearing a harness around her hips and a piece of latex, flesh coloured and in the shape of a man's member, springs out. It's very large.

Cynthia shudders as she looks at it. I can tell she is no stranger to the dildo and looks forward to having it pushed inside her.

Mandy taunts the older woman. “How does mommy's little girl want it?"

Emotions cross Mrs. Moran's face in quick waves. First shame crimsons her features. Her face hardens next as she tries to gather the strength to deny her dominant. Cynthia's expression then relaxes in acceptance as she finds she wants what Mandy offers. Finally, lust shows as her eyes shine and her body tremors. She pushes away from the counter and on quivering legs crosses to the table. On reaching it, she climbs up and rolls on her back, hips at the edge. Grabbing a stockinged thigh in each hand Cynthia spreads herself wide to her Mistress’ smirking eyes.

"Right here, right now?” mocks Mandy. “What a kinky slut mommy's little girl is.” The domme places herself between the older woman's legs and shoves her rubber phallus into Cynthia's quivering pussy with a single, quick motion. She reaches up to take her victim's breasts in her hands, uses them as handles to pull her gasping submissive toward her. Mandy's hips pump vigorously, driving in and out with a hard, steady rhythm.

Cynthia croons a hymn to the wild emotions filling her. Her voice trills, moans and gasps. “Oh God, God!” she sputters. “Fuck me harder! Fuck me good!"

The staccato song ends with another shriek. Cynthia's fingernails tear her stockings and her hips stutter under the force of her orgasm. Mandy's motions never cease and neither does her slave's climax.

"Bitch,” gasps the now sweaty dominant, “get over here and shut this horny slut up."

Christy has been kneeling on the floor throughout this tableaux. At her Mistress’ orders she stands, mounts the table and straddles Cynthia's face. The prone woman instantly grabs Christy's soft buttocks and pulls the lightly thatched vulva to her mouth. She works as hard to please Christy as Christy had to please her.

It seems Christy has been at the edge all along for her eyes roll in their sockets and her lungs sound a guttering growl. Her spending shines on Cynthia's cheeks.

That's enough, I decide.

I slip away from the minor orgy I've been watching and return to the street. Dropping my veil, I head back the way I came and ruminate. It seems my conjecture is correct. Ms. Richardson is a dominant with a fine instinctive skill at seduction. She apparently can spot lesbian submissives, plus bisexuals so minded, and take great advantage of that.

I find that Mandy could do such a thing to the Dean odd. Dr. Strombopolous certainly didn't strike me as that sort, but in spite of all my experience I could have overlooked something.

An unconscious shrug moves my shoulders. I told Maureen I would see what I could do and have decided what I can do is nothing. I don't care a jot for how badly she wants to keep her young lover. I only want my students to learn.

With that decision out of the way I notice I have become a bit peckish. I haven't fed for several days. It's wise for me to keep a nearly full belly. What I am breaks out of my control more easily the hungrier I am.

Turning in a particular direction, I head for the part of town outside the university grounds. I'm sure Diane's free tonight.

* * * *

It's three in the morning and I am in Diane's bed. My hands stroke her auburn hair and my lips caress the fair satin skin of her forehead. She shivers in response.

I need to use little of my power with her these days. She's become accustomed to and desirous for my touch. But for her pleasure, I push some fire into her, make the shimmering heat she feels rise.

I've made sure to colour my skin and breathe. Diane doesn't know what I am. She'll never know if I can help it.

My mouth moves down, covers hers, works at her hungrily. She answers with the same passion. Her hands rove, teasing my skin. Amazingly, I react, feel shimmering emotion fill me. This isn't my usual hunt. I've come to care for her.

My arms go around her back and I hug her close. Breaking my face away from hers I look into her eyes. “Sweet Diane,” I exhale.

Her eyes glitter, lust providing the sharp sparkles and the warmth of her caring a deep glow “Georges,” she whispers back.

My face lowers to her neck. For a moment my hunger screams at me to feed, drain her dry, leave a cold corpse lying here to spread fear in the world.

I easily ignore it. Monster I may be but not all the time. And especially not now.

Instead my tongue teases with soft, quick licks. I use my power to push Diane's passion a little higher. She sucks in a sharp breath and a tremor runs through her. Her fingernails dig softly into my arm and back.

I chuckle against her throat and move on. Playing, I lave her shoulders and chest, sweep up her small breast and take a nipple in my mouth. It pops into stiffness and I feel her aureola crinkle under my tongue. With my canines I lightly nip the tender nub.

A hint of the ecstasy feeding creates washes into her. Diane gurgles, grabs my dark hair and pulls me close. I suck hard at her. The sound of her legs running over the sheets as she spreads herself comes to me.

I play over to her other tit and gambol there for long moments. Her body begins a steady tremble as I do. With mischievous kisses I move down to her tummy. My power propels her emotions, raising her joy higher still. As I come to her hips I run the edges of my teeth over the skin above her joints. Her muscles jerk, then jerk again. “Georges” she whimpers, “no more teasing, please."

"D'accord,” I tell her. Lifting her leg I drape it over my shoulder. Lying on my side, her labia sit in front of me, quivering and lustrous. The sweet, rich aroma of her arousal stuffs my nose.

My tongue runs out and licks up her soaking outer lips. Diane hisses and her body lurches. I run around and around her, sopping up her taste. The hiss becomes a moan and her movements rhythmic. More lusciously flavoured fluids dribble from her to be swallowed by me.

Gently, I work a finger inside, pushing slowly. I run in and out with a steady beat. Her hips match my cadence and her inner muscles squeeze my digit. Her moan becomes syncopated with sharp gasps. Diane's heated odour grows more intense.

The most gorgeous emotion fills me. Her rich scent makes me want to place myself atop her, slide myself inside her, ride until we're both far beyond satisfied. That, however, is something I left behind when I became what I am. An erection is no longer within my abilities.

My soul twists with pain and loss. Surprise quickly follows. I had thought that I had learned to deal with this. It would appear I was wrong. Diane has pulled me closer to human than I have been in a very long time.

I swallow those emotions down, let my caring for her come to the fore. I have my own way to satisfaction, and I can satisfy her in the process.

Adding a second finger, my pumps increase in speed. Diane's moan rises in volume, nears a wail. “Ah!” she huffs, “God! Please!” Her skin heats, I can feel its glow on my own.

My fingers rotate in her, press hard against the spongy spot on the ceiling of her channel. Her body stiffens and she gurgles, moments away from ecstasy.

Her stiff clit is covered by my mouth. Pulling it in, I lap at it softly and rapidly. Diane falls away from the world. A loud stutter rushes from her lungs. Her hips blur back and forth, driving my fingers in and out. She clamps on them, her joy demanding I stay inside her. Her skin colours and sweat runs over her.

Diane's climax fades but doesn't draw back far. My thumb replaces my tongue and tickles softly. She sounds an “Oh!” pauses to gasp another “Oh!” and she's gone again. She keens her pleasure and shivers with an ague of ecstasy.

While she's distracted, I place my mouth on her right thigh, drop my fangs and puncture her femoral artery.

This is my climax. The rich taste of her blood runs into my mouth and my awareness is almost lost under it. The rush of life fills me with an abandoned glee. Nothing tasted as delicious when I was alive.

Much of my joy is sent to Diane. It slams into her orgasm, pumps it up into a bright flame that blanks out her mind. She grows stiff as a board. Every few seconds she twitches and a tiny click sounds from her throat. I've taken her far from the physical world.

I pull my mouth from her and hiss. I've had enough. What I am wants it all but I'm full. I don't feed until death. I'm forced to drink, not to kill. Pain shimmers through me as I recall the times I did kill. I don't like being a monster

Diane relaxes, her bliss releasing her. Before she can notice, I lick my punctures and they vanish as if they never existed.

I move myself next to her. Leaning in, I kiss her cheek, swipe at the salt liquid slicked there. Pulling back, I watch her, one hand gently petting her stomach, calling her back to reality. Her face is blank and her chest heaves.

As I look at her my mind goes back to the night we met. I was on the hunt, looking for sustenance. A flash of red hair caught my eye from the booth I sat at in the pub. She marched past me, took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink. My hunger made me get up, sit next to her and greet her.

Like all my kind, I'm somewhat a creature of habit. I started a reasonably standard seduction. Catching her eye, I used a little power to attract her attention and pull her into conversation. My subterfuge soon ended as I became aware of what a deep person she was. Intensely passionate, well educated and read, she drew me out.

We were soon chatting like old friends. I was only vaguely aware that I was no longer using my abilities, and that I had lost all interest in feeding from her. I walked her back home that night and fed somewhere else instead.

We started to meet regularly. Interest became fondness and that grew into warmth. I tried so very hard to avoid her but found I couldn't stay away. I even went so far as to feed on her. I enthralled her with power, words and touch. I never drink from a person more than once. It's dangerous for them, and me. Too much interaction with me may lead a human to discovering what I am. If they do so I'm honour bound by one of the few rules of my kind to destroy them. If I don't others like me will take the necessary steps to keep our secrets. They will kill me for breaking their laws. I don't wish to endanger any human being, especially not the woman in my arms.

To my surprise, my ploy didn't work. I returned to her. And Diane was glad to see me.

So we continued our relationship. In spite of my fears and wishes, we grew close. Our nights were filled with scintillating conversation. We made each other laugh and challenged each other's intellects. I pleasured her often, but rarely fed.

Now I'm here with her close, in more ways than one. I don't want to but I wallow in the sensation. For the first time in a long while, I almost feel like a man again.

My attention reverts to the here and now. Slowly, so slowly, awareness returns and her breathing becomes normal. I lie on my back and Diane rolls on her side. She lays her left leg and arm across me then cuddles close. “God,” she sighs, “I never thought a man could make me feel this way."

I'm not a man.

Her sexual preference is the same as Ms. Richardson's. But with my power and skill I could seduce a nun if I wanted. I have, twice.

I feel her twitch and her grip on me tightens. “Georges?” she asks. “Stay with me."

"Tonight?"

"Always."

It's my turn to tighten my hold.

Such a request happened once before, a century and a half ago. A woman I knew grew close and asked to stay. She had to know the truth before I could make that decision, so I told her what I was. I told her we could only stay together if we were the same. She accepted and I made her into one of my kind.

In a month, she waited for the sun to come up.

She hadn't realized, nor had I, how much she would lose. Lose the day, lose the warmth, lose the joy. Her gains didn't balance her losses. She couldn't live with the hunger, with the monster always waiting to break out, with being a monster. She destroyed herself rather than carry on the endless battle.

I nearly joined her I was so devastated. My grief, my guilt was such that I hid in the earth for a decade.

Diane raises her head to look at me. “I'd never hurt you, Georges. Not the way she did. Whoever she was."

She's drawn the wrong conclusion from my actions. “She didn't hurt me,” I correct her. “I hurt her. Badly. She never recovered. I'm toxic, Diane. A dangerous drug. An occasional taste is enjoyable. Constant exposure is fatal."

Her face falls to my chest and I feel tears bead on it. “I don't believe you,” she sobs, “I'm willing to take that chance."

This has gone too far.

Moving her head back with my thumb I gaze into her eyes, and exert my power. Her face goes slack as she opens to my will. “I can't stay, Diane. I wouldn't be good for you. We have it hot, heavy and sweet. But it can't last. I'll go. You'll remember me with fondness and move on."

I release her mind. Her eyes refocus, and glisten with moisture. She replaces her head on my shoulder and clasps me very hard. She's made a decision, is unhappy with it but is going to enjoy what time she has.

I hate having to manipulate her, but it is for the best.

We cuddle for a while, both of us hurting and happy. Soon though, it's time for me to leave. I roll from the rumpled sheets and dress. She sits at the edge of the bed and watches.

When done, I sit next to her and wrap my arms around her.

She clings and sniffles. “I wish I could feel you inside me."

"I can't, you know that."

Diane sighs and hugs hard. “I know, that medical condition. But it doesn't keep me from wanting.” She pulls away suddenly and smiles, a weak gesture underlined with pain. “I'll see you again?"

"Yes. You warm me, beautiful woman.” Leaning over I kiss her cheek, rise and leave the apartment. The sound of her crying reaches me before I open the front door. It wrenches at my unbeating heart. I walk back to my haven, my mind whirling. I'm caught in a dilemma I'd thought never to have happen again. I am uncertain what my actions should be.

You know what to do. End it. Soon. My head nods in agreement.

If I stay too much longer, I'll destroy her one way or another. Next time is goodbye.

Dawn tints the horizon as I enter my haven. Undressing, I go to the cellar and sink into the ground. I need the nothingness of the dark now.

* * * *

I enter my sophomore class two nights later. There's a surprise waiting for me. Ms. Richardson has arrived on time for once. Her face holds an expression of triumph. She's only here to revel in a victory.

As I place my briefcase on my desk, she stands and walks towards me with that imperious stride of hers. The failing paper I had given her is in her right hand. She thrusts it at me. “I think you've got something to do, Prof,” she gloats.

I turn to face her and put a bright smile on my face. “You're quite right, Mademoiselle Richardson.” Opening my briefcase, I pull my marking pen from it, turn and retrieve Mandy's paper from her hand. With a deft stroke I mark a minus after the F and return the essay to her.

Her jaw drops and she stares in astonishment. She was so certain she had won. Her face hardens then. Like many people with power, she can't stand when that power doesn't work. She snarls, turns and stalks from the classroom. ‘The Court’ follows her with Christy giving me a look of horror and pity. She thinks she knows what's coming and wishes I'd just knuckle under.

Not likely! I've faced far worse people, and things, than Ms. Richardson.

* * * *

The next night I'm sitting on a stone bench in a quiet area of the university known as ‘Poet's Walk'. It's a nicely landscaped piece of property, peaceful and silent. I need it. I had come to this small town and university hoping for some peace. After that incident with Mr. Duke two years ago, I wanted a simple life for a while.

But I'm not getting it. The situation with Diane clawed at me. I had made my decision. However, it bought me no ease. I wanted her, knew I couldn't, knew I shouldn't. So strange to be torn by warm emotions for once.

My conflict with Mandy Richardson was troubling. Something about her kept scratching at my psyche, irritating me. Logically, I knew our conflict should be over. An internal shiver of my spine said that it isn't.

So here I sat, trying to soak up the peaceful ambiance of the area.

A light set of footfalls turned my head to the left. Three people were walking toward me. Big men, of an age to be students here. Their gait is purposeful and they're heading straight for me.

Automatic reactions tighten my muscles, fire up my body. Something about them makes me prepare for combat.

They stop and face me, one right in front and the other two a step behind him on each side.

Mistake. One should be behind me and two in front. Amateurs.

The one in front looks me over. “This is gonna to be too easy,” he remarks to his companions. “We gotta message for you.” He reached with his right hand to grab me.

I intercepted it with my left, and twist his arm with a lock so he goes to his knees and blocks the man on that side.

My right hand assailant shows fair reflexes. He stepped forward and thrust a meaty fist at me. I block it, lean forward and smash my own knuckles into his sternum using a good bit of the strength my nature grants me. Bones crack and he falls to his knees, gasping in agony.

The man on the left moves around the barrier of his companion and closes in. The foot nearest him comes up and places itself in his crotch, hard. He flies back several feet, collapses to the ground, puts his hands over his testicles and writhes.

To finish I twist the arm of the person I'm holding until it breaks. He curls into a ball and begins vomiting. Shaking my head with disappointment, I stand and walk away. Nothing will be said to the police by them or me. Me, because I don't want to draw attention to myself. Them, because they don't want anyone to know how easily they were beaten by what appeared to be a skinny middle aged man.

I must admit to being a bit peeved at Mandy. Roughing someone up over a paper? Perhaps I should rethink my opinion of her intelligence. Why can't she just attend classes and do the work? Why does she have to use force?

I have no answers.

Still, she must be waiting on tenterhooks for news, so I'll let her know what happened.

A twenty minute walk brings me to her house. Climbing to the porch I knock on the front door. Mandy answers the summons. Her face gapes at me in astonishment.

I try to wear an expression of concern but my amusement at her reaction ruins it. “Pardonez moi, Mademoiselle Richardson. I had heard there were some punks nearby and was concerned for your safety. I'm pleased you are all right. Bon nuit.” Stepping off the porch I head into the night. I don't hear her door close until I'm well down the street.

I hope that's enough to tell her to pull in her horns. My instincts tell me that will not be the case. After a moment's thought, I quicken my pace and head for a nearby pay phone. Dropping a quarter in it, I dial a number I haven't had need to use in years.

"Prince Security,” comes a young woman's voice, “how can I help you?"

"I need to talk to Mr. Prince, please."

"He's very busy. Can you leave a name and number?"

"Simon Cleary.” I looked the number on the pay phone and rattled off the digits to her.

The return call comes in less than a minute. “Hello, Simon,” comes in a cultured English voice. “It's been a while."

"Hello, Major. I require your services."

"Details?” Like all good professionals he wastes little time.

"I need 24/7 surveillance of someone.” I follow up with the place I currently live and all relevant information about Ms. Richardson. “I don't need her house bugged or anything like that. But I need to know her movements."

"How long is this job to run?"

"A week. No longer."

"I can have a team in place by ten tomorrow morning. The price is $25,000 US."

"Done,” I agree. He won't haggle.

"Can you set it up so I can talk straight to your operatives? I don't want to lose time waiting for reports."

"Yes, for another $5,000."

"Done."

He gives me a number to call. “Thank you, Major. Always a pleasure to work with you."

"Likewise, Mr. Cleary. Good day."

So, I'll have knowledge of Mandy's activities for the next week. Being aware of her movements, likely haunts and contacts will place me in a position to act against her, if need be.

I sigh. I had hoped never to be in a situation such as this ever again. Conflict is tiresome, often useless and sometimes fatal to the people involved. But I don't want the fatality to be me.

That means I prepare.

I contact one of my Grand Cayman accounts and transfer the Major's fee. Once done, I ponder. The night's still young. There must be something interesting to do. Wandering off, I look for that, what ever it is.

* * * *

There's a message waiting for me from the Dean when I awake the next night. “Professor Belleveau? We, uh, we need to talk."

I walk over to her house. Once again she leads me to her home office. I'm somewhat surprised by the way she's dressed. Her white blouse is translucent and the dark bra she wears shows through it. Her green skirt is very short, barely hiding her buttocks. The stockings she wears are white and her jade coloured shoes sport very high heels. It seems that Mandy has a uniform for her victims. Is she going to brand them next?

Sitting ourselves down, Maureen and I stare at each other across her desk. She chews at her lower lip for several seconds. Taking a deep breath, she gets to the point. “I'm discussing your position here with our legal department. There are allegations that you've been sexually harassing your students. We have two signed depositions. The school—"

"Let me guess who the depositions are from,” I interrupt.

She sits there, mouth open. My breaking into her speech has discomfited her.

"Mademoiselles Coburn and Richardson, ne c'est-pas?"

Her eyes glance to one side and her mouth grimaces, confirming my hypothesis.

"Is there any other evidence?"

Dr. Strombopolous shakes her head in a negative.

"No other witnesses?"

Another shake.

"Forensic evidence, sperm samples etc.?"

Lowering her head, Maureen tells me, “No."

"And the people accusing me are a woman failing my class and her lover. That will carry their complaint a long way."

She set her shoulders and looked up again. “That's enough. We only need an allegation to bring to the board. It isn't a court of law."

I feel my face stiffen with anger. “If you do that, Dr. Strombopolous,” I inform her with a cold voice. “I'll have to talk about what I know of you. And I have more than allegations.” The last sentence is a lie, but she's unskilled at this sort of power game. And I'm sure I could get evidence within twenty-four hours.

The blood drains from her face. She knows exactly what I'm talking about. Maureen tries to brazen it out though. “I duh, don't know what you mean."

"To put it bluntly, Dr. Strombopolous, Mandy has been banging you. I know this. She's got her hooks into you and it's her behind this silly attempt at manipulation."

Maureen grows even paler and her eyes fill with tears.

I feel not the slightest pity and exasperation breaks into my voice. “My God, woman! What were you thinking?"

"You don't understand,” she whispers. “I can't deny her. She tells me I want her and I do. She tells me I like it when she fucks me and I do.” The tears start to flow freely now. “She tells me I like her in my bum and I do. God, I'm so ashamed! But I can't help myself."

I snort in contempt. “That has nothing to do with me, Dr. Strombopolous. You've made your bed, now you sleep in it. You can bring the allegations to the board. As I pointed out, your case is weak. And even if you do succeed, I don't care. Let people think what they want of me.

"You on the other hand have a great deal to lose. Your career, your position at the university, your future and your husband."

She collapses inside as I speak to her, shrinks in her chair. The emotional agony she feels reduces her to a quivering heap.

Standing, I say to her, “End it, Maureen. Your entanglement will come out and sooner than later. You can't keep a secret like that. If you don't end this affair, it will destroy you."

"I can't!” comes out in a wavering, quiet wail.

"Good night then, Dean."

She makes no notice. Her shoulders heave as she weeps and her tears flow freely down her cheeks.

Shaking my head in anger and pity, I leave her home.

I head to Poet's Walk. I need peace now. I hate that the world can bring such pain to people and I hate even more the fact that I had anything to do with it.

If anyone disturbs me, they won't have time to regret it.

* * * *

Rising from the ground, I have to clamp down on myself. The day's rest has not calmed me much. My mind still roils and what I am is dreadfully close to breaking free.

Going through my evening's ritual helps. The simple rhythm of habit soothes me.

Finished, I check my messages. Again there is only one, but it's from someone I didn't expect, Diane. She's discovered I never answer during the day. The time stamp shows she called barely after the sun came up. Five fewer minutes and she would have caught me.

"Georges?” Her voice is thin and gasping with terror. “Some, something happened. A dream, dream, I think. Can't remember.” She stops to pull in a shuddering breath. “I'm scared, Georges. Don't know why. I think I lost something. Don't know what. Please, please, answer the phone. I need you.” There's a long pause and then a click sounds as she hangs up.

I'm gone from my haven, not even bothering to lock the door. In spite of my resolve to end our relationship, I have to go to her. My lover needs me.

I take the direct route using the speed and strength of my kind. I'm careful not to be observed, but I'm not fussy about courtesy or property. The trip is barely ten minutes.

I knock on Diane's door and she answers. “You!” she hisses with utter venom. Her eyes narrow with fury and her lips curl with loathing.

I can't keep the astonishment from my face. If she had appeared wrapped in bandages and trailing dust I would have been less surprised. Without thinking I extend my hand and step toward her.

She recoils as if my touch would infect her with a virulent disease.

"What's, what's happened?” The pain I feel made my voice quaver.

"I found out about you, you monster!"

Terror wraps itself around my chest. If she knows what I am, she will die. Either I kill her myself or others of my kind will destroy her and me. We don't want the humans to know of us.

"You rapist!"

I'm can't help but feel relief at that statement. My secret is safe. Hurt grows to replace my fear. There's no reason why she would think such a thing.

"One of your students came by. She told me all about you. How you make them fuck you for a decent mark, how you degrade them, how you make them suffer. I can't believe I was fooled by you!"

Her words tear at me. Automatically I reach out and grip her arm. “You can't be—” I start.

Her reaction astounds me. She pulls free with a jerk, falls to her knees and throws up. The sharp smell of stomach acid fills the air.

"Don't touch me!” She pauses for a second heave. “Don't ever touch me again, you bastard!” Another wave of her stomach contents hits the floor. “Get out! Or I'll call the police!” Again her stomach expels more of her recent meals.

I grew cold inside. It deadens the misery I felt. “D'accord,” I step back into the hall and close the door on the end of an important piece of my existence.

An apartment opened down the hall and a small dog attached to a leash emerges. It gives a “Yipe!” at the sight of me and defecates. I turn away and head for the stairs before the person at the other end of the leash can observe me.

Emerging onto the street, I pull my emotions into a tight ball and slide my human face into place. Death and horror walk with me and there is only one person I wish them to be unleashed upon.

I find a pay phone and dial the number Major Price had given me.

"Yes?” a firm male voice answers.

"I need a report."

He takes a quick breath. It seems I'm still not concealing myself well, the monster thickens my voice. The man's a professional though and quickly gathers himself. “The team got here early. We had the subject under surveillance by 9:30 AM."

Yesterday Mandy went to classes, had dinner at a restaurant and returned home. Nothing unusual. The next part of his report catches my attention.

"Last night, the subject left her house at 10:57 and drove out of town. She was followed to an old farmhouse. More correctly, the road to an old farmhouse. My operative wouldn't travel any farther.

"I gave him hell for that. But he told me he wouldn't go near the place for all the money in the world. He said the place frightened him. That was a surprise. I've worked with him for three years and didn't think anything scared him."

My contact's voice grows less professional, softer. “I did some digging. It turns out there was a multiple murder there, almost a century ago. Now the locals won't go near the place. And people from elsewhere who have lived in it won't stay more than a month.

"I went to check it myself. My operative was correct. There's something not right about that place. I couldn't get myself near it, even in the daytime."

A wonder creeps into his tone. “I always believed such places were just fairy tales. I never thought I would ever see such a thing."

I have and more than once.

"Continue your report,” I order. My voice is normal now. I have myself under control.

"Yes, Sir!” I can almost see his heels click together as he stands at attention. “Today the subject attended one class, returned home for a short time then went to the university library. She's been there for nearly six hours now and is still inside."

"Thank you. Well done."

"Thank you, sir. Good night.” His job is finished for now and he hangs up. Neither of us have time to waste.

Replacing the receiver I think for several minutes. My fury has receded somewhat. Darkness no longer fills me or directs my actions, much. I want this silly conflict to end. The reasons behind it are foolish and Ms. Richardson has not the slightest idea of what she is dealing with. Perhaps it is time she knew. That might be enough to make her cease this stupid game.

I head to the library. It will be open for another hour yet and that will give me time to confront her. It's also public which will limit our actions. Nothing extreme will happen when there are likely to be witnesses.

During my short journey, I work through what has happened. Most mysterious are the complete and extreme changes that Mandy can cause in her victims. I sort through all the methods by which such things can be done. Only one, that I know of, can affect a person as quickly and thoroughly as the shift I observed in Diane.

A shudder of pain passes through me at the thought of her. It takes a major effort of will to keep myself reined in.

Returning to my thoughts, I recheck my premise and conclude it is the most likely explanation. I'm going to have to be very careful if I wish to survive.

On reaching the library, I go to the front desk. There's only one librarian on duty. Giving a description, I inquire where Ms. Richardson is.

"I can't tell you that, sir. We aren't required to te..."

I haven't time for this. I look into her eyes and she goes blank. “Where is she?” I ask once more.

"The reading room on the third floor,” comes in a flat reply.

"Is she alone?"

"Yes."

"What has she been doing?"

"Going through our rare history section. She's been working backwards through the last two centuries."

"You won't remember I was here. Ignore me for the rest of the night."

"Yes."

I release her and she turns away, goes back to her work.

Climbing to the third floor, I go to where my adversary is working. This late in the evening the level is empty. The door of the reading room is locked. Shaking my head in distaste, I place my hand on the wood and push with all of my strength. The jamb shatters and I swing the portal open. Mandy looks up in shock. I saunter over and place myself in a chair, just beyond her reach.

I glance at the book she has spread on the table. It's an old one and is turned to a reproduction of a painting. I know the work well. It was done in the early 1790's, just before I left France the first time. The subject of the portrait is me. I look at the artist sardonically, a world weary and cynical smile on my lips.

Looking at Ms. Richardson again, I place that expression on my face. She rapidly moves her gaze back and forth between me and my avatar. Confusion grows each time her eyes shift.

"Oh yes, that is me."

Her disquiet fades. Her mouth drops as my revelation hits home.

"Mademoiselle Richardson,” I say to her then, mild contempt making my voice frosty, “you, better than anybody should know there are more things on earth than are dreamt of in most people's philosophies."

"What are you talking about?” She puts on a poor poker face, trying to hide concern.

"Let me recreate my thinking. I've encountered two of your victims so far. The Dean—"

"You know about that?” she interjects.

"Don't interrupt,” I snap. “The Dean was the first one. After observing your little tryst with your former English teacher several evenings ago..."

Mandy's face blanches as she discovers how vulnerable she actually is.

"...I initially thought you had some skill at uncovering weak spots in people's sexual make up and exploiting them. I had to rethink that hypothesis after I visited my friend tonight."

Mandy can't help but put a self satisfied smirk on her face at the mention of Diane. She comes very close to dying at that point, however I manage to rein myself in.

"That was most amazing. Such a complete change of perspective so quickly. No natural means of persuasion can cause such effects in so short a time. So that leaves unnatural ones.

"You're a mage, Mademoiselle Richardson. You use spells to capture people's minds and then use them for your purposes."

Mandy slumps into her usual insouciant posture. “Good one, Prof. You've found me out.” A chuckle emerges from her throat. “I've really underestimated you, haven't I?"

"You have indeed."

"Yeah, I use spells. But not on their minds."

My eyebrows quirk up in curiosity.

"My little girl was the first. But I asked for control of her body,” Mandy tells me.

I nod my understanding to her.

"So her body does what I tell it to do. Her mind's free. She was a frumpy, cold fundamentalist when I took her. A real Puritan. She turned out to be gay and after I started giving her regular orgasms, she ended up hooked. Now I don't need to use the power of the spell at all. She's so addicted to coming she does anything I ask. My little girl's a complete orgasm junkie now."

My distaste for Ms. Richardson goes higher. It's not only what she does, but the contempt she holds her victims in that I find abhorrent. There's not the slightest concern for them.

"My bitch was next. Used a different spell on her, I took her will. She didn't lose it, it works for me now. I tell her something and her will gets busy to make it true. Damn, she was an uppity cunt. But look at her now, all soft, weak and horny. She loves being humiliated. Sometimes I even have her bang some guy. I made her believe she both hates and loves it now.

"It's also handy for me to get men to do things."

"Ah, the thugs. You told Mademoiselle Coburn to promise to put out if they put me in the hospital."

She nods her head with a feral grin on her face. “I've used a few other people. I had a whole list I wanted to get back at and I did. By the time I got to school here, I found I liked fucking people. I needed to look like I was doing schoolwork, so that's when I took the Dean's will. She's really sweet. I don't push her as hard as my little girl or my bitch, but she's addicted to me as well. And she's really handy for making sure I pass. All I have to do is say I'll cut her off and she gets right to work.

"Everything was fine until you came along. I couldn't manipulate you. I didn't want to use a spell. I sure as hell don't need a male sex slave. And I didn't think I needed to do anything that fancy, I had other tools I could use.

"But you wouldn't back down. You stood up to the Dean, and those football players didn't even make you break a sweat. I needed some other way to hurt you.

"So I had my bitch convince some hacker in the computer science lab to do some digging. A single blow job goes a long way over there. He pulled up cab and phone records that brought your friend to my attention."

My hands tighten into fists as I realize my lovely woman's fate was my fault. If I had fed and gone, she would be whole. But I had to pretend to be human. I'm such a fool.

"I wasn't sure what you two were doing but I had an idea. So I took her will as well. Cast the spell last night, went there this morning and fucked her mind over. I bet that was a pleasant surprise."

She doesn't try to hide her gloating pride.

I go blank inside. Rage and darkness bubble deep within me. I allow them no access to my actions. They hammer at my will though. I spend a very long minute holding them back. Ripping Mandy to shreds will not accomplish my purpose here.

"So,” I say to her once I am able, “that explains the ‘How'. Now the important question is ‘Why?’”

"Because I can!"

In spite of everything, I can't help but chuckle at that. “That's what men use as an excuse to urinate out of car windows. You can do better than that."

Mandy shrinks in her chair, crosses her arms across her stomach and slouches forward. Her eyes scowl with anger. “You want to know why? When I discovered what sort of person I am, that I liked women, I was confused and scared. I had to talk to someone. Someone I trusted, someone I thought had a good heart, who could help me understand.

"That was my little girl. She betrayed me. Practically spit on me. Called me a monster, an abomination. She told everybody about me and to all purposes gave them permission to abuse me. My bitch was the worst. She never did anything directly but she manipulated everyone else. Got someone to burn my car, got a couple of guys to try and rape me. That sort of thing went on for almost a year."

I feel pity for her. I am well aware of how cruel humans can be to one another. It never fails to sicken me.

"My dad had a book and I stole it. I used the spells in it. I broke the people who tried to break me. You've seen what I did to my betrayer and Miss Congeniality. The guy who burned my car died in a fire himself. One of my would be rapists was found balls deep in the asshole of the other. Nobody, not even their families, would speak to them after that.” A satisfied, wicked smile is on her face now.

"Revenge. I can understand that. But why the Dean, myself and my friend?"

"Because no one is ever, ever going to stand in my way again! I use Dr. Strombopolous because she controls the university. So the university won't be a barrier to me. I'll pass no matter what I do.” Mandy giggles with a sweetness darkly poisoned. “Plus she was a real horny slut once I broke her in.

"You stood against me as well. And I used your friend to hurt you, after nothing else worked.” The self satisfied smirk is back. “Now you know why,” she finished.

"Actually, that's only partly true. You've merely changed the focus of the question. Why are you still acting as if you're inferior and helpless? You beat your tormentors. There's no need to do more, but you do."

She slams back in her chair as if I slapped her. She really hadn't considered her motivations until now. For a second, her face blanks as she weighs my words. During that very short interval, I feel hope. Perhaps she'll see what she has become.

Then her expression hardens and I know my belief is forlorn.

"I'm not inferior and helpless!” she spits. “I prove it every time I use my power!"

The last word gives me the hook for my next gambit. “Yes, your power. Have you ever considered where that comes from, Mademoiselle Richardson?"

"What do you mean?” she asks with a worried cast to her face.

"I have an idea. You summon things, don't you? From somewhere else?"

In spite of her efforts not to, terror shows itself on Mandy's face. She has been dealing with creatures from elsewhere.

I press on. “That place is the abyss. It's a territory dark, vast and fearful. And so are the things summoned from it. Do you recall what Nietzsche had to say about the abyss, Mademoiselle Richardson?"

"No."

"He said, ‘As you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.’ You've been staring at each other for a long time now. And he didn't mention that the abyss takes you for its own, eventually. People who deal too much with it are eaten by it. Is this the fate you want, Mandy? To be eaten by the abyss?"

I've made a mistake by using her first name.

"Don't get friendly with me, asshole! I'm the one in control. The abyss does what I tell it, not the other way around. Nothing and no one tells me what to do!"

I look at her then, my eyes frosty and my face reflective. She stares back defiantly. Our gazes lock for a long interval of time.

"Very well. I've tried psychology and philosophy. I guess I'm going to have to use something simple that you can understand. Threats."

I drop my human mask. My skin grows bloodless and I flash my fangs at her.

Mandy gapes and recoils. She hadn't known exactly what I was, until now.

"So you think you understand about power and manipulation? Stupid human, I have centuries more experience at them than you. I can hurt you whenever I wish, Mademoiselle Richardson.

"Do you have any feelings for Christy? I hope so. It will increase the effect when you wake up one morning and she is cold in your arms, her face filled with exquisite terror."

Ms. Richardson's eyes grow wide and the colour leaves her face.

"One night, Mrs. Moran will go to the washroom and not come back. You'll find her sitting on the toilet with her head nearly twisted off."

Mandy's mouth slackens with shock.

"You have a pet? You'll find it hanging from the hall ceiling, cut open and with its intestines trailing out. Replace that with a tank of fish? One morning you'll discover them dissolving slowly as their water was replaced with battery acid overnight."

She whimpers and tears start to flow.

"That nice house you're in will burn one day. Any vehicle you own will be destroyed beyond repair. Your parents—"

"Leave my parents out of this!” she shrieks.

"Why should I?” I ask her coldly. “You're the one who decided to involve innocents.” I go on, “Your parents will be found naked and nailed to the floor in their living room, burns and shallow cuts caked with salt on every inch of their bodies."

She pants with terror now.

"Anything and everything of the slightest value will be taken from you in a horrible manner. You'll have to live with the pain of that and the guilt of knowing it was your fault. That will continue until the end of your days."

Mandy huddles for warmth, her chest heaving and eyes flowing. She thought she knew about pain and terror. Her actual ignorance was more than she could take.

Leaning back in my chair, I resume my mortal appearance. “So here are my demands."

She looks up, not comprehending.

"Restore Diane, undo your work on her. Free the rest of your victims, they've suffered enough. Live your life as a normal human woman. Never cast another spell again.

"Do that and I'll keep my threat in abeyance. If you don't meet my demands, I'll carry out the campaign against you that I've just outlined. You have until tomorrow night, Mademoiselle Richardson. Au revoir."

I stand and without looking back, leave her and the library.

* * * *

I'm sitting on my bench at Poet's Walk. I have been here for hours, desperately trying to subdue my emotions. The battle between man and monster is more intense than it has been for a long time.

The human feelings; sorrow, longing and anger surge through me. Diane and what has happened to her make my mind boil. The fate of Mandy's other victims adds a little heat.

They slop over to the monster, make its presence intense. It takes all my strength to keep from searching out my opponent and making her pay in terror and agony.

You don't have to be a monster, even now. Ms. Richardson can meet my demands. If she does, our war is over. And like most wars, nothing will be gained. Save the freedom of the people damaged by her. To me, that is more important than victory.

I tense as a fluttering sound comes from my right. It sounds as if a large bird is moving nearby, almost. But not quite.

The noise comes again, in front of me and I look to see if I can spot whatever is there. Nothing.

Again the susurration reaches me, left side this time. I recognize the pattern now. Whatever is out there is running a circle around me to check my awareness and for defenses. Which means—

I roll off the bench and something flashes by. It would have landed on my back if I had stayed still. A rank, fetid smell fills the air.

Coming to my feet, I face the thing as it lands. And thing it is. It's shaped vaguely like a whippet, spare and lean. But it's three times the size of animal it is patterned after. Large wings resembling a bat's are furled against its back. The body appears to be made out of rotting meat, the surface is scabrous, decomposing in places with maggots dripping from its interior. The eyes are milky but also shine with a dark intent. The jaws contain large, undamaged and very sharp teeth.

I can't help myself and use a line from a favoured movie. “You are one ugly motherfucker."

A feeling scratches at the edge of my mind. The hell hound finds me amusing. I'm the first victim in a while who has shown defiance. It likes that, I sense. Bravado will make my destruction more savoury.

During that very short interval of distraction I prepare myself. My fingernails lengthen, thicken and become razor sharp. The sounds around me change in timbre as my body speeds up.

Without a noise it leapt for me. A mortal would die before this aberration's assault. I take what seems to me a second to consider my response, step straight in and shove the spear point of my right hand between its eyes. Pivoting to my left like a matador I hurl it into some bushes beyond the bench where I sat. Something black and slimy is wrapped in my fingers, the hell hound's brain I'm hoping.

It would appear so. The creature in the shrubbery twitches, scrabbles at the air and bursts into blue flame. So does what I grip in my hand and the burning slime coats my lower arm.

The pain is enormous, beyond description. I throw my head back and howl with my suffering. The ululation is utterly bestial. What I try to be is swept away and the monster screams free.

The light and my torture end. I'm on my knees. With effort I manage to focus on my hand. Little remains but a large chunk of charcoal, desiccated digits sticking from it. Without thought, I use my power. I can almost feel the liquid in my stomach gurgle as it's changed into flesh and bone. My hand goes through a transformation like a movie playing backwards.

Soon I'm whole again, and hungry. I've had to use nearly all my blood to heal myself.

There is a light touch on my shoulder, a young woman says, “Mister—"

And my teeth are sunk in her neck. I shiver with pleasure as the delicious liquid fills my mouth and runs down my throat. Her fists pound on my back and her legs kick. I like it. Her fear gives the blood a sweeter savour.

I feed, and feed, and feed. And suddenly the monster lets go, sated and satisfied. I pull my head away from her throat. Our eyes meet, she gives a puzzled look and she's gone. Her final breath sighs forth and she slumps in my grip.

"I'm sorry,” I whisper to her, and close her blank eyes. A wave of anguish passes through me. I've lost control again, and again an innocent has died. Sometimes I truly hate myself.

But there's little time for sorrow. I lift her body and carry it across the grass towards a small church at the verge of Poet's Walk. I know the bell tower is no longer used, electronics replacing the old carillons. As I pass the bush the demon was in, I notice it's not singed at all. On occasion being supernatural has disadvantages. Being what I am, I burned when the demon burned.

I jump to the edge of the roof, scramble to the apex and stuff my victim into the tower, out of sight. “Forgive me."

Then I slide back down to the ground. It will be a while before her body is found, I hope. By then there will be little evidence of what caused her death. My ass, and my kind, are covered.

So, I have received Ms. Richardson's reply to my demands. It was the wrong one.

There's little time before dawn. I head for a place of repose. I know my haven is compromised, but I have a bolt hole for such an eventuality. I haven't survived this long by being careless.

Tomorrow, it ends, I think as I slip into the night.

* * * *

With a low growl I start awake. I smash my way free of the trunk I've secreted myself in as well as the door of the closet in which my resting container was placed. Scanning the bedroom of the seedy apartment I've rented, I look for something to kill. I'm disappointed that there isn't.

With no destruction to wreak the monster withdraws slightly, allowing my intellect to the fore. I managed to slip my human face into place and restrained my rage a bit more. My evening's routine allows me even more equanimity.

Once finished, I phone Major Price's contact. “Report, please."

Mandy had made another trip the previous night to the place my surveillance team won't go near. She was there for several hours and returned home shortly there after. Ms. Richardson has stayed indoors since. She appeared at least once in every window on the first and second floors of her house. Christy left their residence two hours ago and had not returned. Another woman arrived an hour later. Her description matched Maureen's. A second person had just entered; a small, fair skinned woman with rich auburn hair.

It takes all my will not to scream in rage.

"I need one more thing, directions to the farmhouse that the subject has been using."

His voice shakes as he gives me the information I require. It seems my fury was leaking out.

"Very well. The job is done. Pull your team out and thank—"

The phone goes dead without another word from my contact. I smile in pleasure, knowing I can frighten brave men.

My face is grim as I prepare. A black sweater goes over my torso and similarly coloured jeans are on my legs. I pull new combat boots on my feet. My final touch is the black leather jacket with Kevlar implants. The garment would be heavy for a human but the extra weight means nothing to me.

I leave my hiding place, using a side entrance and drawing the shadows around me. I head for my enemy's abode, taking roofs, back streets and alleys. I'm a lot less likely to be spotted that way.

Soon I vault the back fence of her yard. Carefully, examining the ground closely, I approach her house. There's nothing that appears a danger and I can see no one in the windows. The only light shines from the second floor, one room is in use.

On reaching the deck, I check under it. All clear.

I step on the deck and approach the back door. Now I spot a problem. There are squiggles of some obscure pigment drawn on the floor just behind the glass. I can't recognize if they are a written language, but I can guess their purpose. Instead of trying the door, I examine the kitchen window. The unfathomable runes form a barrier here as well.

With great caution, I investigate each side of the house. Every window is similarly warded. I don't go to the front. It would be too obvious what I was up to if observed and my veil won't shield me from intense scrutiny.

I recall what my surveillance had told me earlier. Mandy had done the floors used for living. She never went near the attic, so far as I know. I withdrew to a corner, far from the light. It's only seven metres to the roof. I crouch and jump.

As I land I freeze, waiting for a response from within. None comes. After a five minute wait, I silently slip across the roof to one of the dormers. My surveillance missed something. This spot is warded as well. But I can see that only the windows are so guarded.

I climb to the apex of the roof and move to the center, keeping low. Carefully, I lift shingles from it. Once the wood underneath is revealed, I dig with my claws. Soon I have an opening big enough to squirm through.

The attic is dusty and long unused. Fiberglass insulation lies between the wooden beams that support the ceiling beneath me. I can see the only entrance to the main house from here, a small trap door. The grime on it shows that it has sat undisturbed for quite a while. There is a tiny mound of dust on the pink wool next to the opening, showing where Mandy moved it when she entered earlier.

With great care I step from rafter to rafter. Fortunately, they are all solid and no creak sounds to betray my presence. The small door comes free with only a tiny scraping noise. I freeze again once finished.

Sounds come faintly to me now. They are familiar. Mandy's at play with her victims. I grin at that. Her activities should keep her distracted. I then have to hold back a snarl as I remember who she's playing with.

There is a closet under the trap door. A shelf blocks easy access, so I bend, slither past it and twist the knob to open the door to the hallway. I don't push it far and wait for a reaction from within as I do.

Nothing comes. The sounds of Mandy's entertainment grow louder. Gasps, moans and inarticulate voices of passion become clearer. My fury spikes for a moment but I push it down. Mandy's death has to look somewhat natural and small pieces of her spread around wouldn't appear that way.

Pushing the door open all the way, I fall to the ground and roll to my feet. Instantly I return to the closet, closing the door behind me and wait for trouble. There's no interruption in the erotic cries coming to me.

I open the closet again and check the hall. One door is open and light floods from it. Checking the other direction, I see the stairs to the main floor. All's clear. With soft steps I walk down the hall toward the illuminated opening and peek in.

There's another another menage et trois on the large bed in the room.

Mandy is on her knees, wearing her harness and a very large implement in black, larger even than her last one, is protruding from it. She's driving it with great force into the woman kneeling in front of her. That woman is Diane, my Diane.

My lovely woman works her hips back, obviously overjoyed at the ecstasy created by being so filled. Whimpers and moans sound from her mouth, vibrating the swollen flesh of the vulva her lips are attached to.

Maureen is the person that Diane is eating. Her thighs are locked on my woman's head. Her fulsome breasts heave with the motions of her body. Eyes roll in a sweat bedewed face and she pants with heated breath.

"Oh yeah!” Mandy exclaims. “Work that lovely ass. Show me how much you like it. I can fuck you a lot better than that monster, can't I?"

Diane lifts her head and hisses with pleasure. “Yes!” jerks from her lungs. “So, much, better. Harder. Please, harder."

I pull away and move down the hall. I barely suppress a sound-both whimper and growl. If it weren't Diane in there, all the women would be dead. But that very small part of me that cares for her keeps me back.

I move down the stairs to the main floor, the torturous sounds fading to the point I can ignore them. Moving silently, I check the rooms there. Of greatest interest is the kitchen, I note the gas stove. Carefully checking drawers I find sticks of incense and matches. Good. I can arrange an accident when I leave.

Taking the stairs to the basement, I investigate that area next. It's quite plain and unfurnished. There are no partitions, I can see the entire area from where I stand. I find the furnace is gas fueled as well. Better still.

Then I turned to check something very odd. There is a separate room built in the centre of the cellar. Of heavy cinder block it's about four meters square and reaches to the ceiling. A heavy steel door, an inch thick lies open to the interior. I walk around it, checking for security. There is nothing but a large key on a hook next to the door. Satisfied it's safe, I enter the room.

There is a small desk inside as well as an empty book stand next to it. One wall is lined with shelves. Many bottles and containers sit there, clearly labeled. Reading the labels I find these are the components Mandy uses for her spells. The only potential sources of illumination are candles on the table and set in several scones on the walls. It seems Ms. Richardson is somewhat of a traditionalist.

I decide this is the perfect spot. This is the center of Mandy's world and it's fitting she should die here. I sit in the chair at the desk knowing I won't have to wait long. After two hundred and fifty years, a night doesn't signify.

It's perhaps an hour later when I hear voices on the floor above me. I can't make out the words but Mandy speaks to her thralls and they give short answers back. The front door opens and closes. Ms. Richardson moves to the stairs to the basement, descends them and enters the room where I wait for her.

As she lights a candle, I greet her. “Bon soir, Mademoiselle Richardson, comment allez-vous?"

She drops her match and whirls to face me. Her features are blank with shock. I chuckle with amusement.

"I guess we're alone now, Mademoiselle Coburn?"

Mandy loves to gloat. Her satisfaction overcomes her fear. “I sent her to entertain my little girl in a motel room, with orders to stay there until morning.

"And I just told the Dean and that tasty cunt you've been fucking to phone my little girl's husband when they get home and let him know what the two of them are up to and where. Everyone will enjoy that entertaining domestic scene.” She lets out a wicked laugh.

"I don't blame you for screwing Diane. Damn, she's tasty. And she comes like an express train. I want to thank you for pointing her out to me.” Mandy's eyes light with sadistic glee.

I make my face answer hers with the same expression, and I come to my feet. “I want to thank you for hurting me like that."

Her face shows surprise and puzzlement.

Dropping my human face I go on. “It will make your destruction so much tastier.” That's a true statement and my voice transmits my anticipation to her.

She pales once more, and then her right hand comes up grasping a crucifix. “I don't think so."

I hiss at her and flinch. Smiling, she steps forward. I fall to my knees, continuing the hiss and gnashing of my fangs in anguish. She takes two more steps.

She's close enough. I snatch the icon from her grip and stand again. Placing the cross on the palm of my left hand, I close my fist. The crucifix is pewter and crushes like tissue paper in my grip. I casually toss the crumpled mass at her and it bounces lightly from her chest.

I smile, showing my dentition. “That won't work for you."

Her left hand appears from behind her back. I glimpse a small spray bottle and something wet splashes across my face.

I'm blind and in agony. Howling, I feel my skin bubble and eyes dissolve. A sulfurous stench thickens the air. I hear tiny splashes as the slush that used to be my face falls to the floor.

Once again I let my power free. The missing flesh reforms, my destroyed orbs regrow.

And they dissolve once more. Whatever covers my face is very potent. I fall to my knees, teeth and fists clenched. I wage war against my destruction. I begin to win.

The liquid on my face starts to lose its effect. Blurry images become visible. Dimly, I can see one of them move. I snap my head towards it. The vague outline moves faster.

Snarling, I rise to my feet. The fog of my vision clears and I see Mandy close the door to the room.

I leap to stop her but too late. With a jarring impact I hit the steel sheet. The door holds. A concentrated assault is required to make this door fall. I shout to my prey, “That won't save you. Nothing on this Earth can save you."

There's a tiny click as the lock of the door is thrown. Setting my feet, I draw my fist back. Concentrating, using some blood to augment my strength, I throw it forward, focusing my blow on the lock. It never reaches the door.

Half an inch short of its target my hand hits a barrier. Bright arcs of power lance out, dance over me. I can't even scream, the pain is so intense. Knocked to my knees once more, I curl into a ball, whimpering.

"Thanks, Prof. I wasn't sure this would work. I had this room built just in case. As far as I knew, nothing supernatural could get in. I figured I might need a hidey hole someday. But it makes a good prison as well, doesn't it? There you'll stay, vampire. I have the key that can free you. Only it can take the wards down.

"But don't worry. You'll have company by morning. I'll leave the key where my pet can find it. And you'll be out of my hair."

"Goodbye, Prof. It's been a slice."

My fury peaks and I hurl myself at the door once more. No thoughts are in my mind, just the blind urge to destroy.

I slam up against the barrier and my darkness is filled with the light of anguish. I'm thrown to the centre of the room, smoking in spots where the arcs have burned. I flush blood through my body, wash the pain away and heal the wounds flayed by the wards.

With a roar, I pick up the desk and hurl it at the door with all my might. It splinters without seeming effect. I launch myself on the same trajectory, hoping the desk broke the protections. And again I land on the floor, my nerves burning.

I gather myself into a ball. Despair washes over me. I was overconfident, and soft. There should have been no hesitation on my part. The monster was correct. Mandy should have died first chance I had and damned be the consequences. I whined like a whipped animal.

For some time I lie there, feeling nothing. I listen for my executioner, knowing my destruction would not be swift. I won't even be able to fight back. I'm almost drained.

I hear a noise then, from upstairs. Straining my ears, I can barely discern footsteps on the floor above. A voice sounds although I can make out no words. It appears a human voice. My despondency lifts a little. There's a chance I can be free, and that I can feed.

The footsteps and voice fade. I wait, trying to hold back disappointment. The person returns. I can make out them coming down the basement stairs.

"Au secours!” I shout, making sure only the man shows in my voice.

"Mistress?” It's Maureen. The tiny part of me still human screams in terror, wants to warn her of the danger.

What I am smiles. “Help,” I gasp, “the key, find the key. Get me out. Help.” I flavour my words with despair and pain. That isn't difficult to do.

"All right."

With gleeful anticipation I wait, knowing I'd soon be free to act, in any manner I chose. My eyes slit with expectancy.

At the sound of the key sliding into the lock, I cover my face with my arms and start a quiet sobbing. I need to draw her close. I am too weak to move very quickly and I can't risk her closing the door again.

The portal grinds open and she sees me. “Georges? What are you doing here? I came to end it, like you told me.” Her voice becomes frantic as she notices my seeming distress. “What has she done to you? Oh God. Is there anything she won't do?"

Maureen's close enough and I spring from the ground. There is a glimpse of her face, terror stamped on her features as the discovery of what I am fills her. All I know is ecstasy. I'm utterly lost in the deep, rich taste of her blood. Nothing else matters.

With a snarl of disgust, I drop her body. There's no more life to take and I want more, much more. My victim's face still contains the blank dread that was her last thought. Her ripped open throat glistens in the candlelight. The monster smiles with pride, pleased that I bring fear and death to the world.

Lifting the Dean's body, I carry it upstairs. I seat her at the kitchen table and return to the basement. Going to the furnace, I open it and disable the pilot light. A quick twist and the main valve is broken open. Gas floods into the room.

Back in the kitchen, I wet a mop and wash away the wards to the back door. As long as they are in place I can't leave this house. Luckily the ink is water soluble. I light some incense and place it in a holder on the table. Extinguishing the pilot lights on the stove, I turn all valves wide open. Exiting through the sliding door to the deck, I wrap the shadows around me, hurdle the fence and head to the place where I'll face Ms. Richardson for the last time.

I'm two blocks away when the thunder of an explosion rumbles behind me. There won't be any sign of me, or what I am, left behind.

A ferocious grin pastes itself on my face. I still exist, free to kill. Bending all my power to running, I can think only one thing.

I had better hurry. I wouldn't want to keep Death waiting.

* * * *

I pull up, ceasing the pumping of my legs. By cutting across country I have taken only forty-five minutes to get Mandy's farmhouse. I can't be far behind my next victim.

A thunderstorm developed while I approached. It seemed to coalesce out of the air. Now rain falls heavily and frequent bolts of lightning jump through the sky.

The farmhouse crouches in the wet dark, maybe one hundred meters away. I stand at the edge of its degenerate influence. To senses such as mine the border between the domain of the twisted, corrupt building and the rest of the world is clear. The grass on its side is unreal somehow, as if life had been drawn from it and some unwholesome darkness has flowed in to take its place.

There is a tree to my left, inside the line. The branches are gnarled and coiled, nude of leaves. The bark is a tainted black and very unwholesome looking. There is a hint of movement in the dark limbs unrelated to the wind. That movement creates an unease in me. I imagine something exists in that tree, something that hungers for things a tree shouldn't hunger for. I understand why Mandy comes here. The abyss is close. Calling it forth will be easy at this spot.

There's no time to waste. Moving quickly, I head to the farmhouse.

As always, I'm careful. I approach with caution. On reaching the weathered building I circle around it, checking windows and doors. To my surprise there is nothing. Taking a moment to think, I decide Mandy hadn't enough time to place protections, and she's overconfident once again. She's too sure I can't escape her sanctuary.

Since it seems safe I go to the front door, open it a little and enter. As I close the door the sound of the storm fades. I hear someone chanting above me. Only the occasional word is clear but I can identify the language as Latin. “Open", “come", “obey", tell me what is happening. I must act now or my fate will be sealed.

I bound up the first flight of stairs, hastily find this floor empty, and climb up to the attic.

I'm too late.

Ms. Richardson sits nude in the middle of a circle of complex symbols, eight candles burning just inside its circumference. An odd motion fills the air in front of her, a bending of space. For an instant, I can glimpse beyond this world.

Then something stands before her. Its shape is of an old, fat man. Naked, his skin is rent with deep wounds and a black, sticky ichor runs from them.

I know now how my victims feel. A freezing terror fills me. If I were capable of it, my bladder and bowels would let go. A hideous evil flows from this thing, permeates the very air. But being a similar being I don't run. I prepare to fight instead.

I cause panic, I don't fall prey to it.

My body poises to spring, waiting for the moment to strike.

The demon pays no attention to me, all its focus is on its summoner. “Again you disturb me.” The voice is what you would expect; dark, vicious. “I grow weary of answering your call. I'm not chattel to be ordered whenever you wish.” The timbre of its speech communicates a fury only the abyss can contain.

With a snarl and sudden movement, it lunges at Ms. Richardson. That familiar shield of sparks erupts and drives it back. But unlike when it affected me, the demon merely falls away unharmed.

"While the candles burn, I command you,” Mandy intones.

The fiend snarls again. Then it wilts slightly. “What do you wish of me, little mistress?” The fearsome voice now contains resignation and frustration. It has to follow the rules and doesn't like it at all.

She looks at me and gives a triumphant, wicked smile. “Kill that thing. Slowly."

I move with all the power and speed I can muster. Both fists slam into the demon and it flies across the room, smashing into the wall. I follow, claws out, intending to rip the fiend from crotch to chin.

And I stop halfway there. I'm encased in some power, unseen but harder than steel. I strain against it with all my strength but to no avail. I can't move at all.

Mandy's servant looks at me, its eyes are fathomless, dark pools. “Nice try, little brother,” it remarks, and pulls itself free of the hole in the wall its impact made. “But not good enough.” Like the hell hound, the demon is pleased I'm fighting back. It relishes its quarry's resistance. Such an act makes the final suffering more exquisite.

A change runs over its surface. The skin transforms to chitin. It grows taller, adding a foot to its height. The arms split, forming four vicious clawing and stabbing weapons. The legs reform to support this new shape. It now appears as some alien mantis, with the compound eyes still black, displaying the cruel nothingness of the abyss.

It vanishes. Almost before I can register that fact, one of its spears emerges from my right shoulder. A scream tears from my throat at the pain. The next moment, I'm flying through the air. Another searing wave of torment runs through me as the demon's weapon tears free. My body smashes into the circle surrounding Mandy. The sparks fly again, blistering my skin raw. I never felt myself hit the floor.

My consciousness comes back and I whimper. I'm soaked in my own blood, my body tingling with pain. My executioner stands where it last appeared. “Heal yourself, little brother. We have some time to go yet."

My rage is gone and fear now holds me. This thing is as far beyond me as I am from my food. Nothing can stop it. Except...

Rolling on my back, I flop my head towards Mandy, making sure to keep a blank, despairing look on my face. Her eyes are alight with the joy of her victory and she's savouring my suffering.

But all I was doing was checking my position. My right hand dips to the floor, my claws dig into a board and rip almost a metre of it free. Mandy's protection circle is broken.

Her face falls in shock and terror. The next instant, the demon is there. Its shape is different yet again, an amalgam of its previous forms. The body and legs are those of the hideous humanoid while the armament of the monstrous insect remains. One claw darts into Mandy's gaping mouth and returns with a small, bloody piece of meat that was her tongue. The candles may burn but she's giving no more commands.

Before she can do more than gasp, two sharp points pierce her shoulders and lift her from the floor. Blood sprays from her mouth as she screams. The cambion twists its weapons and her voice fades into a sickly groan.

"Ah, little mistress,” her tormentor gloats. “We've been watching you. How pleased we were at the alacrity you served our purpose. The way you bent and twisted your prey was clumsy, but delicious to watch. How you made them want. How you made them suffer. How you used pleasure to create deep, delectable pain in them. But the game ends now. We served you only from force. And we hate being forced. It's your turn."

Mandy looks at me. Her face is blank with terror, her jaw caked in blood. She pleads silently for my help.

Before I can act, the fiend turns to me. “Don't, little brother. I won't be denied. I can play with two as easily as one."

I draw away. I have no wish to for my existence to end. It's beyond my power to help her. And I warned her. This was going to be her fate regardless of anything I could or couldn't do.

Despair fills Mandy's features now. She realizes this is her end and nothing can change that. Her focus returns to her torturer as it speaks.

"I've always liked using my victim's own methods against them. What was it you would do? Oh yes. First, warp their mind.” Something snaps out of the thing's mouth, some sort of stinger trailing a length of tissue behind it. The point impacts Mandy's forehead but doesn't penetrate, it simply passes into her brain.

Her eyes goggle and roll, some great internal struggle takes place for several seconds. And she loses.

Mandy's face goes slack and her skin flushes. I can see her nipples pop into hardness, her aureola crinkle. Her clit peeks from its hood as it stiffens, her vaginal lips engorge and lubrication drizzles from her.

Her captor twists the points in her shoulders. Mandy gives another groan. The sound is different this time, she still feels the pain but she likes it.

The proboscis pulls back. “There we go,” it croons, “all ready for playing. And next you would toy with them for a short time."

The arms not used to hold her up blur into motion. The razors at their tips score her skin. Red lines, dripping with blood appear all over Mandy's body. She jerks, pants and moans in reaction. Again there is as much bliss expressed as pain.

"Finally,” the demon notes, “you would take them."

Something grows from the crotch of the beast, a horrible mockery of a man's phallus. Too big for even an equine, it promises an excruciating pain to any woman it is thrust into. That's only the least of it. Tiny ridges of bone, razor sharp, dot its length.

Mandy sees it and her features transmit all the emotions she feels. Cold horror, sharp fear, weak denial show one after the other. And all are buried under rampant need. She spreads her legs to receive her fate.

Even the monster I am can't stay for this. Turning, I hurl myself down the stairs. From behind me comes a gibbering moan of torment, loathing. And delight. Snapping my hands over my ears, the front door is smashed down as I barrel through it.

The storm has become insane. The horrid sounds chasing me are buried under the howl of wind and crash of thunder. I'm thankful for that. The night zips past me as I run. I have no thought but flight.

I believed I understood about the abyss. What it held and how to handle it. I was wrong.

And I flee from my learning.

* * * *

I rise once more from the earth in the root cellar of my cottage. I shouldn't have returned here, but I wasn't thinking. All I wanted was to rest someplace familiar. A place where the abyss didn't intrude.

I'm numb inside. The monster is not pounding to get out for once. It's cowed into submission by what I've seen. My human side offers no grip for it as there is no emotion in me.

Like a sleepwalker I go through my evening routine. We always fall back on our rituals when times are hard.

To distract myself even more, I turn on the radio. The news is being aired. The first item is about a double murder and suicide in a seedy motel at the outskirts of town. Before I can hear more, I snap off the device. I don't need to listen to the details. I know who the victims are. The abyss claimed three more during the night.

I wander into my living room. No reason. I simply need to move. I feel like something is snapping at my heels and I run from it without thought.

There's a knock at the front door and I tense. And tense some more as a voice comes to me.

"Georges? Are you there?"

It's Diane.

"Please answer,” she goes on. “I'm sorry about what happened. I don't know why I acted the way I did.

"Something happened this morning. Suddenly, my mind cleared, slipped free of something that held it. I remembered what I did, and God, did it hurt! I'm so sorry.

"Please be home. Please forgive me."

I can't help but smile. She's free, and she's mine. I open my mouth to say something, take a half step to the door.

Then I stop. I can't go to her. She came so close to being swallowed by the abyss. And it was my fault. This time turned out well. But what about the next? I can only protect her by being away from her. I won't endanger her again.

So I stand still, giving her no indication that I'm here.

After a minute the sound of her bitter weeping comes to me. She wails with her loss. I clench my mouth and fists, willing myself to inaction.

Diane hasn't lost. She's gained. She's gained freedom from the abyss, the chance at a normal life and the hope of happiness.

I won't deny her those wonderful things.

Soon her sobs fade as she leaves my porch. I withdraw to the bedroom and dress in the dark.

Paris, I think, The City of Light. My home.

I'm going to return to my old familiar haunts. I'll relax there for a while, visit old friends, try to forget. Forget what I've learned in this small and apparently peaceful place.

I slip out the back door, not closing it, and start on my journey home.

Adieu, Diane.

Fin

Embrace

One year ago

Beginning

Diane Patterson closed the door on entering her apartment. A fistful of mail was clutched in her hand and she slumped against the wall of her small abode.

A petite, fair skinned woman she once had rich auburn hair. That hair was now bedraggled from lack of care. Large bags puff under her eyes and her face is etched with exhaustion. Her body, bent a little, seems to carry a heavy weight.

Her thought, the one that consumed her was, Oh God. I miss him.

They met three and a half years ago. As so many times before, the sweet and sad reflections of him flooded back.

Memory

Diane had stopped for a drink at a bar. He'd sat down next to her, spoke to her. What he said was a line, something rather common about her beauty. Under normal circumstances, Diane would have brushed him off with a sarcastic comment. Instead, when she turned to look at him, there was an aura about him. A delightful shiver of pleasure ran through her.

He was thin and somewhat tall, dark haired, blue eyed and rather pale. His slight frame was draped in various hues of black—jacket, T-shirt, jeans and hiking boots. His voice was rough around the edges with a French accent that made him very pleasant to listen to. The frown on her face had changed to a small smile at the sound of it.

So they had ended up talking. Their conversation had ranged over a wide array of ideas and subjects. She learned he was a visiting instructor at the local university. Diane was a historical researcher there. Their confluence of interests enthralled her. There was enough similarity to attract, and enough difference to excite. The two of them chatted until the bar closed.

She noticed two things though. He had hardly touched his red wine. Only an occasional sip, his glass was still nearly full when they left. And he seemed to be restrained. Although he smiled often and emphasized his speech with hand gestures both were always precise, exact. Diane had the sense of something being kept in tight control.

He had walked her home. As they stood in front of her apartment building, Diane was torn. She hadn't wanted to end their evening but wasn't the sort to invite a stranger in. He made up her mind by bidding her good night, bon nuit rather, and waited until she was inside before heading on his way.

During the next two days Diane thought of him often. She had very much enjoyed his company. And there was something else that attracted her. There was a small glimmer of sexual interest as well, surprising Diane greatly. Her preference had always been for women. She didn't dislike men. But her passion had only been aroused by her own gender. Until now.

He phoned two nights later, asking to meet again. She agreed, inwardly hoping her eagerness wasn't too apparent.

It had been a lovely evening. He was courteous in a very Old World manner, but with none of the condescension so common from men who exhibited that trait. It was obvious to Diane that he was not the least bit intimidated by her intelligence nor did he think it made her less feminine. Diane found her attraction to him growing.

Their relationship continued and they got together on many more occasions. They began to meet at his cottage or her apartment. Always at night. Diane found she couldn't ever reach him in the day. He said with a twinkle and a smile it was just the way he was and he was too old to change.

Diane accepted that, she was much the same way.

The two of them grew closer which made Diane both very happy and rather unsettled. She became more enamored of him, often wondered what it would be like if they were in bed. Such thoughts caused a most unnerving shudder of disbelief and happiness. She struggled with herself, not quite wanting what she wanted, but finding she couldn't deny that she wanted it.

Diane picked up little signs he felt the same. Sometimes, he would start to reach for her, then pull back. Other times, he would stare at her for a moment, a happy warmth leavening his features.

This would vanish suddenly. His lips would draw back in an expression of fear, quickly covered by a smile that she interpreted as reassuring for both of them.

The first time he touched her was burned into her memory. Only a light stroke of her neck, but the fire it ignited was intoxicating. She was hardly able to think after it. He continued, a caress here, a kiss there, always knowing just where to make her boil. He whispered sweet words in many languages. His patience was extraordinary; at no time did he rush. He drew her higher and higher. When he began to remove her clothes Diane offered no resistance. All she could do was react, and want.

With a strength she found surprising, he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. Laying her on the bed he set to work once more, teasing her bare skin with mouth and fingers, tickling the sensitive peaks of her breasts, tantalizing the spot where she was hot and wet. She would have climaxed in moments but he held her at the border, giving little pushes until she almost fell, pulling her back before she did. Only when her pleas for satisfaction became desperate did he allow her to orgasm.

And that orgasm was the most tremendous experience. Every nerve that could, transmitted sensation. Her arms and legs twitched, her stomach shimmied, the point of origin pulsed, her heart hammered. Her lungs pushed and pulled blind sounds of ecstasy. Diane hadn't known how high her bliss could throw her.

He moved his mouth to her thigh and she felt tiny pinpricks on her skin.

In response Diane vanished. Her climax became her awareness. She drifted away from the world knowing nothing but perfect pleasure. She hung at a point of consciousness where joy was at the very edge of distressing.

That eternal instant ended with a snap. Without moving, she slammed back into her body. Diane drew in a heaving breath, as if surfacing from a great depth. She was awash in sweat. A shiver ran through her as he licked at her thigh. Panting, twitching, Diane drifted in a warm shallow sea of sumptuous delight.

He lay next to her, softly stroking her. These soothing gestures calmed Diane. Before too long she rolled on her side, pulled herself close to his chest, reveling in the gorgeous weakness that filled her. She wallowed in the knowledge of how much she cared for the man who cared so much for her.

Without thought, she reached for his manhood. And made a startling discovery.

He wasn't erect.

"I can't, chére,” he told her. “I have a very rare condition. No surgery or drugs can help."

She hugged him hard in sympathy and disappointment. It seemed so unfair she couldn't at least try to pleasure him the way he had her.

"C'est la vie,” he remarked. “I've accepted. It's more important I please you anyway.” That garnered him another strong hug.

So they cuddled instead. Diane could not recall a moment when she felt so content.

Shortly before dawn, he rose to go. Diane had become skilled enough at reading him to sense something was wrong. He seemed sad, and a little guilty. When she remarked on it he smiled to reassure her, kissed her cheek and left.

Diane drifted through the next few days. She was happier than she could remember. Her new lover, new male lover, and all the feelings he invoked stayed with her. She no longer felt torn by her wants. And those wants had not been satiated. Never would be she realized.

But her lover didn't get in touch again for almost a week. Diane grew worried, as well as a little frightened. She wondered if she had misread him, if he was just some exceptionally skilled Lothario. The feeling never became strong but it ate at her.

When he showed up at her front door once more she jumped into his arms in joy and relief. He grinned as she rained kisses on him. “Ah chére,” he said, “if I had known I would get this reception I would stay away more often."

He apologized, saying he had been wrapped up in his work, and that he had missed her every second they were apart. He carried her to the bedroom and pleasured her. This time didn't end in blind ecstasy, but it was languorous, fulfilling and sweet. Again, Diane ended the night limp, complete and drained. Again, he left before dawn.

And so it went. He became a fixture in her nights. Sometimes they would sit across the sofa from each other, talking, discussing, debating. Others they would cuddle, saying little, not needing to. Many nights they ended in bed. He rarely took her to the heights he had their first night but what she received was more than enough.

As perfect as it seemed, small things sullied her thoughts at times.

On several occasions, Diane noticed a taste of blood in his mouth, very slight but there. She didn't know what to make of it. He never mentioned biting his tongue or anything else that might account for it.

Once, he frightened her. They had encountered a former lover of Diane's as they returned home arm in arm from a late evening meal. The solidly built dyke had not been pleased. “Is that the best you can do now?” she asked with a sneer. “A man and a sad sack of shit at that?” The big butch pursed her lips to spit.

Then she blanched and recoiled. The heavyset woman choked for a moment as she swallowed the phlegm in her mouth. Stammering an apology, she turned and practically ran away.

Diane turned to look at her lover and paled herself. He was preternaturally handsome. And inhuman. Something dark, something evil lay across his features. She took a long, hard blink in fear and surprise.

When she opened her eyes again, it was just him standing there. He smiled, making her terror recede. What she had seen was too unreal, too out of synch with what she knew of him to be possible.

"I have a bad temper sometimes, chére,” he explained. “It shows when it comes out. Don't worry. I never lose it much or for long."

Diane relaxed knowing there was a rational explanation for her reaction. She told herself her fear had been intense because what had appeared was so much in contrast to his usual demeanour.

Frequently, his warm looks would vanish into pain and sadness before his affection would return. He never explained why.

And they never discussed the future, their future. Diane wanted him there always. She waited for him to mention that subject but he never touched on it.

Then came the night it started to go wrong. They had been in bed. He had used that overwhelming technique, the one that started with the tiny pinpricks and ended with the insane ecstasy. When he was finished they cuddled, her drained as she always was after. She had asked him to stay, finally broaching the matter.

What happened next was always fuzzy in her mind. He had talked, she knew that, but what he said wasn't clear. Something about him not being good for her, a mention of a past lover of his and the unhappiness he had inflicted on that woman. Diane recalled agreeing that his going soon was for the best but she could never remember the exact words or moment of that decision.

The next clear recollection was of her hugging him close, wanting to burn the memory of him into her brain knowing that in a short time he wouldn't be there. He was here now and she would revel in it.

But some small part of her declared that this knowledge was false.

He left soon, saying he would return. He kissed her goodbye. Diane knew next time would be their last, she could see it in his eyes. In them was the hurt, the decision, a decision she agreed with.

It was the first time she cried because of him.

She didn't hear from him for several nights. Diane found, in spite of her knowledge and resolve, she missed him terribly. She tried to convince herself to calm down, that they had decided for the best, without success. Her mind had no effect on her heart.

The fourth night of his absence, she'd fallen into an exhausted sleep. She woke up gasping, the sun just peeking into the room. Diane was in terror, more than she had ever been before.

She'd had a dream. She was pretty sure it was a dream although she couldn't remember details. All she had was impressions. Something chasing her, herding her, catching her, taking a piece of her. Diane checked herself, certain she was no longer whole.

Flying to the phone she dialed her lover's number. She needed him more than ever. All she got was his machine. Still shivering, she showered and had breakfast. She calmed but that sense of something missing remained.

The next event was also vague in Diane's mind. A female student of her lover had come to visit. The two had conversed, although exactly what was said couldn't be recalled. The point where her mind cleared was after the student left.

At that moment, Diane knew then she hated and loathed the man who had grown so close. He abused his students, made them fuck him for a passing grade. He wasn't gentle either, taking his pleasure anyway he could. Everything he had said and done was a lie. He was a monster.

Diane sat on her couch for hours shaking with anger at him and herself. She cursed herself for a fool and called for retribution on him. Her mind contained little save fury.

There had been a knock at the door. When she opened, he was there. “You!” she spat with nothing but venom and wrath in her voice. His mouth dropped in amazement and pain flashed through his eyes. She felt a dark joy at that.

She told him about her discovery. His features first tightened in fear, then sagged in relief. She didn't wonder about this odd reaction. His pain reappeared and grew. With a quick motion, he grabbed her arm, started to say something.

The touch of him filled Diane with the most severe revulsion. She felt as if something rotting and slimy had touched her. Pulling herself free, she fell to her knees and vomited, wanting to purge any atom of his presence within her. She shouted at him between heaves to get away from her.

He agreed in a clear, cold voice and left.

It was the last time she saw him.

Diane cleaned up and went to bed then, exhausted by the confrontation and the day. When she awoke in the morning she booked off work, stayed home. She felt infected. Her former lover was a sickness that debilitated her as long as he was in her system.

But in a spot where it could hardly be noticed there was a little voice that shouted these feelings and thoughts were a sham. That tiny piece of her psyche was terrified of what had happened to her and disconsolate with her loss.

Just before dark Diane received a phone call from her lover's student. She followed the young woman's instructions without question. Going to the house where the student lived Diane met another woman, the Dean of the university. All of them went to the student's bedroom, got naked and fucked for two hours.

Diane did everything demanded of her, ate out the Dean, had a dildo far larger than she had ever wanted before pushed into her, called out repeatedly how much she enjoyed it. The domme that controlled them was oppressive, cold and selfish.

She loved it, every second of it. Her orgasms were frequent and extreme. Diane knew then that she was the property of her ex's student. She knew it was meant to be and the thought of being property overjoyed her.

She was just barely aware of that small part of her banging at invisible bars, screaming at her to stop. It couldn't keep her from acting or feeling as her new Mistress ordered.

When they finished, her domme ordered Diane and the Dean to go home. They were also commanded to phone a number and give information to the man at the other end. Neither demurred. Diane went back to her apartment, fulfilled her duty and fell into bed, depleted and sated.

Once again she awoke with a start. Once again, things had changed. That which had been lost, was back.

And then she curled up in utter horror as she remembered her actions of the last two days. My God! What have I done? She lay in a daze, shivering, trying to fathom recent events, with no success.

After many hours, Diane gained the strength to move. She dressed and headed for his cottage. It was just after dark when she got there. She knocked, plead out loud for forgiveness. There was no answer. Not a sound came from within and not a hint of his presence was felt.

That was the second time she cried. She knew he was gone and that he wouldn't be back. Diane had driven away the most precious thing in her life. She knelt on his porch, wept until her eyes burned and her throat ached. Eventually she tore herself away to return home.

For days afterward she vacillated between a dazed existence and a lamenting fool. She didn't go to work, hardly ate or bathed. Her employers soon put her on stress leave. She was lucky enough they had good insurance.

But there was little other support. Diane had lead a small quiet life. No one was as close as her lover. Diane didn't speak of her loss to her acquaintances or family, she didn't think they would understand. She didn't understand herself.

Diane eventually found out the whole town had suffered during those nights. A young woman had been murdered, her body not found for days. The house where Diane had been used by the student exploded and burned barely two hours after she left it. The Dean died in the conflagration. The student herself vanished that night, never to be heard from again. Two women, the student's roommate and a former high school teacher of both had been killed in a motel room when caught in flagrante delicto by the teacher's husband. He had then turned his shotgun on himself.

All these events unnerved Diane. They were connected but she didn't know how. As with her own actions, they were all unexplained. And there was a sense that the explanation would be unbelievable if she learned it.

Diane spiraled downwards. She couldn't understand what had happened and couldn't forgive herself for acting the way she had. When the phone rang or a knock came at the door, her heart lifted for a moment, hoping it was him. The disappointment when it wasn't was always sharp.

She cried daily in the beginning. Then the tears started to run out. It had been a year since the last time she wept. She had no more in her. Now she moved like a ghost through the world. The main anchor she had to reality was gone and the others weren't strong enough to keep her from drifting away.

Message

Diane refocused on today. Inside, she felt herself stoop a little more as another brick of shame and loneliness was added to her burden of despair. She could tell it would soon be too heavy for her to bear.

Automatically and without interest, she checked the mail clutched in her hands. It was the usual; bills, junk. And an envelope that was neither.

She noted the stamp first, French. This puzzled her. It was unnerving as well. Her heart gave an extra twinge at the thought of France.

Looking at the return address, she found the letter originated from Paris. Who do I know from there?

Then the name hit her. It was from him! Diane stared, trembling all over, not wanting to believe, almost wishing it were otherwise. But the letters of the name didn't change.

Diane found herself opening the envelope. Her hands followed their own impulse. She felt disconnected, as if she merely watched.

Three items fell from the envelope; a letter, a plane ticket and a credit card. Again, Diane watched her hands move of their own accord, flipping the letter open. She read the words and she could hear his voice once more.

Chére,

Please come to Paris. We have much to discuss.

I shall be waiting at Le Fin de Sieclé every Saturday night at 11 PM for the next year.

The ticket is for the 10:00 AM flight that leaves JFK for Orly every Thursday morning. Again, this ticket is good for the next year. There is a room booked for you at Le Roi Henri IV. Everything at that hotel will be covered.

The credit card is in your name and has sufficient funds for a trip to New York. Plus a fair amount for any luggage, clothes, etc. that you might need for the journey.

As I said, we have much to discuss.

Georges."

Diane found herself kneeling on the floor. Her heart and lungs didn't seem to work.

And she found she still had tears left.

Meeting

It's been four months now.

I'm sitting at my table outside of Le Fin. I've the glass of wine in front of me that serves as camouflage and I scan the street surreptitiously, looking for Diane, watching the humans as they go about their lives.

My nature has made me somewhat of an emotional voyeur. Indeed, if I don't want to allow my nature full control I have to be. Without some connection to humanity my human feelings will fade and the monster will be free.

Since I'm keeping my lungs working, I sigh. You would think that I would have learned patience at my age. Instead, I drum fingers on the table, fidget in my seat, do all the things that a man waiting for an important rendezvous with a former lover would do. Where is she? I ask myself with a mildly angry anxiousness.

Getting in touch with Diane again was the most difficult thing I've ever done.

Our time together had ended so badly, with both of us suffering. It was my fault and so I left her. What I am, the world I live in and the events that occur in it came close to destroying her. It seemed at the time the best thing to do.

But I couldn't let her go. Not a night went by that I didn't think of her. I would think of the times we spent together. I would think of her intelligence, her learning, her passion, her love. I knew she loved me, and I discovered I felt the same. She owned me now and I found that I didn't mind being her property at all.

So I sent a letter asking her to come to me. As well as the means to make the trip. There will be no secrets between us this time. I'm going to tell her everything. And then we'll make a decision. The consequences of making the wrong one will be dangerous for us both. But I now know I can't go on without her.

I look around at Le Fin with a proprietor's eye. Which I should as I do own the place through a holding company. It looks just the way I want it; relaxed, simple, a comfortable place where people can come to drink and converse.

This is actually the third incarnation of my establishment.

I opened the first in 1788. I'd only recently become what I am and the full import of that was beginning to sink in. Realizing that birthdays meant little to me I decided to celebrate centuries instead. Hence the name. Le Fin was going to be the place where I celebrated my centuries.

It didn't work out the way I expected.

I had to flee France during The Terror. Being a member of the aristocracy and a well known supporter of moderation meant the guillotine had I stayed. Not that it would have come to that. I would have burned to ashes when they pulled me into the sunlight.

I set up the second Le Fin in 1853 when I returned to France after a long sojourn in North America. It remained open for ninety years and became a somewhat famous gathering place for intellectuals and artists of all kinds. Proust, Zola, and Sartre frequented my establishment at times. I heard Edith Piaf perform La Vie en Rose spontaneously early one morning. For those moments, I believed in Paradise.

That version of Le Fin was destroyed by the Nazis in 1943. I was running a Resistance cell from the place and they found out. They didn't destroy it without paying a price. I was glutted by the time they were done.

The current version opened in 1955. Again, it's somewhat well known amongst outsiders and intellectuals. Whenever I can, I lurk here, reminding myself how varied, how important the people who provide my food are.

Returning to today, I sigh and check the street once more. There's no sign of Diane.

But there is another woman walking this way, her eyes fixed on me. A girl actually. Her clothes are conspicuously sexual, her make up a bit excessive. She's smiling with a hard edge making her expression read as false. Her brown eyes are wide and frightened and her knees have a tiny tremble to them.

I don't look away. Her fear speaks to me. As always, I find that emotion fascinating.

"Bon soir, chéri,” she greets as she arrives at my table. “Looking for some company?"

Ah, a working girl. Inside, I feel a little tremor of pain. She's too young to be involved in such a profession. She should be home in bed, resting up for church or a day out with friends. A mental shrug follows. I can't save the world. I found that out long ago.

"Non, merci."

Her smile grows bigger and more false. Her hand comes up to stroke my face. The palm is cold and clammy. “Come on, chéri. I can show you a really good time."

"Quite seriously, no,” I repeat. “I've someone coming and I've no need for company. Pardon."

The brunette girl withdraws her hand with a jerk. A small whimper sounds in her chest and her eyes grow teary. Her smile becomes more wooden. She turns and walks away with her knees shaking.

When she's twenty metres away I stand with a sigh and follow her. I have an idea what's about to happen and fool that I am, am going to interfere. She's too young for such a life.

Sure enough, as she gets to the corner a large man dressed in expensive jeans, running shoes and leather jacket stands away from the lamp post he was leaning against. He grabs the young woman's arm and drags her into a nearby alley.

I pick up my pace. A loud slap sounds, with a woman's gasp underneath it. What I am rises closer to the surface as my anger at what's happening loosens my grip on it.

"You stupid little bitch.” The man speaks French, with a distinct Russian accent. “I've been looking after you for two weeks. I'm damn well going to be paid back.” Another slap echoes. “Get this straight, whore. That's what you are now. You belong to me and you work as I tell you.” He strikes her again. “So don't you ever come back to me with an empty purse again.” The ‘smack’ of his hand hitting her fills the air.

My anger climbs as I hear a stifled sob from the girl. I loathe people who are careless of the welfare of others. If she's hurt badly, I think, he pays dearly.

I'm at the mouth of the alley now and step into the dark lane. The young woman is in a heap on the ground. “Excuse me."

The man whirls to face me. In the dim light filtering in from the street, I see he has a broad, scarred face. The face of a man who's lived a hard life. His eyes are rather mad. Solidly built and about my height, if I were human I'd be intimidated.

"Fuck off, Frog!” he snarls. “This isn't any of your business."

I say nothing, do nothing.

"Fine,” he remarks, a vicious smile crossing his face. “Time to teach you, skinny faggot, a lesson."

He walks towards me, cocking his fists. The happy expression on his face shows he's very much going to enjoy beating me to a pulp.

I make no move.

Two steps away, he lunges forward, aiming a punch at my head.

I lean back just enough so his fist whistles past my nose. My hands come up, the right grabs his wrist, the left sets itself against his shoulder. In this position, even if I were human, he'd be off balance and at my mercy. But I put a little of the monster into it and slam him against the wall.

He impacts with a loud, solid crump! His nose breaks, probably some ribs as well. I let him go and he collapses to his knees, wilts to the left, boneless in his unconsciousness.

For a moment, I consider finishing him off. But I'm not hungry and it's not necessary. Our conflict is over and he lost. Instead, I walk over to the girl and kneel.

She's breathing. Her body jerks as she tries to hold in sobs. She looks up, wide-eyed, when I touch her. I can see bruises on both cheeks where her former pimp struck her.

"There, petite,” I say to her softly. “It's over, you're safe."

The next instant her arms wrap around me; she weeps on my chest. I return her embrace, cuddle her close. Even something like me likes being a comfort rather than a terror on occasion.

After several minutes she winds down. “I want to go home,” she sniffles.

"Where is home?"

"Cherbourg, but I've got no way to get there."

"Leave that to me. Why did you leave?"

She ponders for a moment. “Being stupid, I guess. My mom was being a pain. Always telling me what to do. I thought I wanted to come to the city, make my name, be free. I had no idea what I was getting into. Like I said, stupid."

"Petite, if I told you the stupid things I did when I was your age we'd be here all night and until at least noon tomorrow."

For the first time she acts like the girl she is and giggles. The young are so resilient.

I stand, drawing her up. “Let's go. Train station. We can arrange for you to get home."

"I can't,” she stammers, “can't afford something like that.” We've started out of the alley. “Even if I sold everything I own, it's not enough.” She looks at the limp heap that beat her. “It's all at his place, anyway."

"As I said, leave that to me. And in a case like this it's best to leave everything behind. Trust me, I've had to run at times in my life."

We're now on the sidewalk and I hail a cab. Climbing in the driver asks, “Where to?” He's Algerian so I tell him, “The train station please” in Arabic.

"D'accord,” he replies and sets off.

My charge clings tight the whole trip. There's no passion involved. I'm simply the first person who's been nice to her in a while. We arrive and I pay off the cabby. I make sure to give a good tip. He probably has a family to look after.

Heading for the ticket counter we attract a few looks. Paris is hardly an inhibited city but the two of us, she her age and me mine, apparently cross a line or two. I don't care, let people make wrong guesses.

It only takes a few minutes to get the young lady a ticket. There's a train leaving shortly. As I hand it to her, her eyes grow teary and she thanks me in a nearly inaudible voice.

"De rien,” I tell her. “One more thing though.” I take her to a nearby cash machine. Inserting one of my debit cards into it I withdraw 5,000 Euros from it.

Her eyes widen. “I, I couldn't,” she stutters, “I can't. I don't know how to pay you back."

"This isn't a loan. It's freedom. With this, you won't have to make bad choices. You can stop and think."

She looks at me, ponders a moment, and then reaches out, takes my gift and places it in her purse.

"Come on,” I cut her off before she can get too effusive, “you'll miss your train."

We go to the platform and they're boarding. Turning to her, I spread my arms and she steps into them. We share a long, warm hug.

I release her and she steps back. I like the way she looks now, happy and unafraid.

"Good bye, petite. Live a good life."

Her face takes on a new expression, one of determination. The next second she darts her head forward, goes on tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “I will. Merci.” At that she turns and heads to the nearest car door. Mounting the steps, she pauses, turns to wave.

I wave back, smiling, pleased with her.

She disappears into the train.

I wait. Shortly, a huff of air comes and the train begins to move. I watch but I don't see her again.

A smile is plastered on my face. For once I've done some good. I've needed to take little advantage of my nature. The only person hurt wasn't badly and deserved it. I wish I had more nights like this.

Merde! I look at the platform clock. It reads 12:10 AM.

I roll my eyes at that. The world working in the perverse manner it does, the time means I may have missed Diane. Of course the night she arrives will be the one where I've allowed myself to be distracted.

It's difficult to keep myself reined in as I race through the station. But throwing people out of the way like small kittens would probably not be a good idea.

I climb into a cab, direct him to Le Fin. The driver must read my mood for he hurries more than a little. He lets me off in front of my café. Blindly, I shove money at him for my supposition is correct.

Diane sits at the table I was at earlier. Her back is to the street. Elbows are set on the table and I can tell her face is buried in her hands. Her slumped shoulders shout out her physical state, exhausted.

My soul twinges at that. I rush to the table. And pull up short, a couple of steps away from her. I am, to my surprise, scared. Inadvertently, I've played with her emotions again. I wonder how she'll react, I fear it will be with anger and disdain. Standing for several long seconds, I finally square my shoulders and speak, meeting my destiny.

"Bon soir, chére. Comment-allez vous?"

Diane's head snaps up. And that's all for what seems like an eternity.

I don't move. I won't until I'm sure.

She sets her hands on the table and draws a deep breath. The next moment she stands, shoving her chair back. It almost hits me. Letting her breath out, Diane draws another deep one. She turns to face me.

Mon amour, je suis tellement désolé! My love, I'm so sorry! My heart, unbeating and cold though it is, almost breaks at the sight of her.

Those once bright eyes of hers are nearly empty now. Her face has more lines. They show that she has carried a great burden of pain and loneliness. Her mouth, those sweet lips, once wore an easy smile. Now they support a loose grimace.

We stare at each other for a protracted instant. And her face changes.

The emptiness vanishes and her eyes glisten with tears. Her new lines smooth, disappear. Her mouth pulls up, the corners drawing into the beginning of a smile. But her lips tremble.

And then our arms are wrapped around each other.

I feel her heart hammer. I hope she doesn't notice that mine is silent. But it would if it could. That familiar warmth envelops me.

"Georges,” she whispers, “don't ever do that again."

"I won't. We'll be together from now on."

I hope it's true.

We hold one another for several minutes, making up for the time we've been apart. Finally, we pull away and look at each other. Although the marks still show, my Diane is back. I feel as I did when we were together, almost like a man again.

"I don't blame you for leaving,” she starts, “after what I did..."

I interrupt by placing a finger on her mouth. “My going had nothing to do with that."

She grows puzzled, her eyes frown a question.

Before she can speak that question, I go on. “That's one of many things we must discuss."

Diane nods. “Now?” is the query she makes instead.

"No. Not tonight, not tomorrow night. Two nights from now. We set that night aside. We'll need all of it."

"Always at night,” she smiles. “You don't change, do you Georges?"

"That's one of the things we'll talk about."

"So what's for tonight?” she inquires.

"Dinner,” I tell her. Taking her hand I lead her to the sidewalk and hail a taxi. The destination I give the cabbie makes her glance at me in the mirror. I nod a confirmation.

It's a ten minute drive. When we exit our vehicle the smell of the river is strong, a combination of fish, water and diesel fumes. The building we're in front of is three stories high, brick construction and with curtained windows. Wedged between a boutique and a bookstore it's not apparent what purpose it serves. We climb the short flight of stairs and a discreet brass plaque informs us that we're standing at the entrance to Le Restaurant du Carl. I reach forward, turn the knob and open the door. Smiling, I wave Diane in, then follow her inside.

We're standing in a small, well appointed foyer. None of the furniture or hangings are excessive but to someone who knows, they are the best. It's the perfect entrance. The atmosphere is quiet and comfortable.

The maitre d’ is standing next to a small podium. His eyes light up and a smile forms. “Ah, Monsieur Belleveau. I see your guest has finally arrived."

"She has, Phillipe. I trust all is ready."

"It is.” He turns to Diane. “Enchantez, Mademoiselle. It's rare for our patron to bring a guest. We shall endeavour to make your meal a very special one indeed."

My lovely lady colours at that. She reaches out and takes my arm, huddles close. Her eyes grow worried and her mouth forms a moue of uncertainty. She brushes her hair with her free hand, smoothing it.

I lean over and give her forehead a gentle kiss. “Here, you're always welcome. Don't worry about how you appear."

"Exactly, Mademoiselle,” interjects our greeter. “Your presence is glorious. It enhances our establishment."

Diane colours again. Her smile comes back and she squeezes my arm.

"This way, please.” We follow the maitre d’ into the main restaurant. Despite being nearly one in the morning the place is busy. There are fifteen tables here and ten are occupied. Mostly couples, they speak in low voices, smile at each other. The wait staff bustles about in an efficient manner without intruding on the patrons.

We're led to a set of stairs. We go up them past a landing and then up another flight of stairs to a door. Our guide opens it, steps out and holds it for us. Diane and I step through it.

She gasps at the sight. We're on a small balcony at the back of the building. A stretch of the Seine flows past us, just on the other side of the road running beneath the railing. The lights of small boats drift past, they shine from the buildings on the far bank and twinkle off the surface of the river. My home city lives up to its nickname.

There is a small table with a damask tablecloth on it. Fine cutlery and china are set for us and two candles flicker in a holder in the centre.

Diane lets go of my arm and walks to the rail at the edge of our dining area. No, she trips lightly. Her body speaks of the wonder filling her. She places her hands on the railing and draws a deep breath, standing very straight as she does. Releasing it, she relaxes and all the tension that had filled her leaves.

I step up behind her wrapping an arm over her shoulder and across her chest. “Do you like it, chére?"

In answer, she turns to me. Her hands take my face and she pulls it to hers. She kisses me hard and deep.

I do the same. Drawing her close, we show each other how much we care.

Diane pulls back, her eyes glittering in the way I remember so well. “Thank you, Georges.” She turns her head to look at the view. “This is a wonderful welcome back present."

"De rien, chére."

Her eyes return to mine and sharpen. I recognize that look. Her quick mind is getting to work.

"When the man at the front desk called you ‘patron’ he wasn't just referring to you as a customer, was he?"

"No."

"You own this place, Georges?"

"Yes, I do."

"You're wealthier than I thought, aren't you?"

"Very much so."

She puzzles for a second. “Why didn't you mention you were rich? Were you afraid I would turn into a gold digger if I knew?"

"I didn't mention because I don't give a damn about my wealth. It's handy to have but it doesn't define me."

Diane smiles. “That's what I thought. You don't care at all about what's outside, just what's inside."

I smile back. “Not entirely true. I also care about what happens because of what's inside.” That's a deeper statement than she knows.

She laughs. “That's right. You and Sartre are good buddies."

We frequented the same cafes for a while. That hardly makes us ‘buddies', is the thought that goes through my mind. But I smile at Diane. Although she doesn't know what I am, she knows who I am, which is much more important.

A discreet cough breaks in on us. We break apart and turn to face the source. A small dark haired lady is the sommeliére here.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur Belleveau, but here's the wine you requested."

"Merci, Marie."

I take Diane's hand and walk her to the table. After I pull out a chair for her, she seats herself in it and place myself across from her.

Diane picks up her wine glass and raises it. The sommeliére steps up and pours a finger's worth of red liquid into it. My lovely woman goes through the ritual, twirling, sniffing, then sipping. “Oh God,” she gasps.

I'm pleased. I remember wine, good wine, even after all these years. That my love appreciates it warms me.

"Perfect."

Marie smiles at the praise. “Monsieur Belleveau knows his wine. And you do as well, I can tell. We're glad to meet you. He's been so unhappy since he returned from America. We wondered why and felt so helpless.” She blushes then. “Excuse me, Monsieur. I shouldn't comment. It's not my business."

I smile at her. “It's nothing. I'm glad you care."

And I am glad. Caring, both giving and taking, keeps the monster at bay.

"Thank you, Georges. You're more than the owner to the people here.” She fills Diane's glass. “The first course will be here shortly."

With that, she leaves.

"I see you're not eating with me, again,” my lovely lady observes.

"You know I need special meals,” I tell her, “so I ate earlier."

Her eyes take on that penetrating look. “That's one of the things we have to discuss, isn't it?"

"Yes. But..."

"...not tonight,” she smiles.

So instead, I talk about my latest book. It will be both history and social commentary. I'm drawing on my memories of Versailles under Louis XVI and comparing it to modern power structures. How full they are of courtiers, and how the silly games that take place where courtiers abound are distracting them from their responsibilities.

Diane counters with her own observations, attacking my points. “There's always courtiers, Georges. But we're not as bad as Versailles."

"Not yet, but getting there.” I expand some more.

And she deals with my details. As we debate a smile grows on my face. I've so missed her brilliant mind. She challenges me as few do. No wonder I love her.

Diane's dinner is as good as I had hoped. Carl is an excellent chef. To him, food is to be eaten, not admired. All his ingredients come from small farms that grow or raise their food the old fashioned way. Nothing is tainted with chemicals.

Diane often stops talking as she feeds herself. The sybaritic joy of her provender demands that she enjoy it, not waste time in speech. Finally, she's done. She pushes her dessert cup away and sighs. “Thank you, Georges. I didn't know food could taste so good."

"I'm pleased, chére. You deserve only the best I can offer."

"And it might be one of the last times you get to eat, food" is the observation I keep inside.

"So, what now?"

"I take you back to your hotel. You can get a long sleep and tomorrow night I take you on a tour."

"Always at night. We do have to discuss that, don't we?"

"Yes. Now, let us go."

The maitre d’ appears. The man's timing is always impeccable. “This way, Monsieur, Mademoiselle.” He leads us back down to the entrance and bids us a good night.

"Thank you, Phillipe. You and your staff always do such an excellent job."

"Merci,” Diane goes on after me. Her Southern U.S. accent gives the word such a delightful lilt. “I've never had a better meal."

Phillipe smiles, a touch of pride showing. “Merci beaucoup. I'll let everyone know. Bon nuit. We hope you come again soon.” He closes the door and we descend to the street.

"Will you be able to get a cab at this time of night?” Diane asks.

"No need. It's a short walk.” I take her arm in mine, turning her in the direction we need to go.

And Domino is twenty metres away, walking toward us.

Domino is the only name I know for him. He's one of my kind. I know he is a great deal older than me. And that's about all I know. I've asked around but no one can tell me anything about him.

Except he makes us all nervous.

He shows up at the oddest times and seems to know everything that goes on in this city. Apparently without any of the usual sources of information and power we build. He has no bought servants, enchanted thralls, contacts in the human world or anything of that sort. Yet he knows.

He's picked a perfect disguise, the only facade I've ever seen him present to the world; that of a street mime. It's astoundingly simple, a few streaks of make up and his white skin becomes normal. The odd shape of his face seems to fit. The clothes he wears, black pants with suspenders and striped shirt, make him harmless and eccentric. The battered top hat with the flower makes him safe to be around. I've never seen him break character.

The sight of him causes the same reaction it always does. I smile, for he is amusing. I shiver inside for I don't know what the disguise conceals. Not really.

Diane clutches my arm a little tighter. I hear a tiny gasp from her.

Domino continues in our direction. His right hand moves as if a walking stick is in it, his steps are a saunter. His eyes rove pretending to be watching people as he goes. He tips his hat to them. The image of a gentleman out for an afternoon walk is complete. The illusion he projects is so complete I almost cringe, thinking I feel my skin burn under the fatal caress of the sun.

We stand still watching him. It doesn't occur to either of us to move.

He stops two steps away and his gaze comes to rest on us. His expression is startled for a moment and then he smiles. He doffs his hat and gives me a courtly bow.

"Bon soir, Domino. Comment-allez vous?"

Replacing his hat, he shrugs in that manner described as Gallic. His head rocks from side to side telling us that some things are good and some things are bad, just as life always is.

His eyes turn to Diane. They go wide and his mouth forms a surprised ‘O', followed by a smile. Stepping forward, he takes her free hand and gives it a kiss. I turn to watch her. She smiles, shyly of all things, pulls her hand from his and takes my arm with it. She snuggles against me.

Domino turns his face to mine, bounces his eyebrows and gives me a crafty grin. He spreads his arms wide as if to hug us and a moment later places both hands over his heart. His eyes look into the distance and a wistful smile forms on his painted mouth.

With a sudden movement, his face returns to us and grows serious. His right hand comes up, the index finger pointing skyward. Then it goes to his forehead, shading his eyes. His head moves back and forth, watching.

That grave moment passes. His light hearted look returns and he tips his hat to us in farewell.

"Au revoir, Domino. Nice to see you again."

He nods, gives an impish wink to Diane and saunters on his way. He continues his ‘afternoon stroll’ until he disappears around a street corner twenty metres away. We watch the whole time.

"That ... was strange,” remarks Diane.

"It always is when Domino is involved."

She turns her head to me. “I'm not surprised you know him. A friend?"

"I'm not sure what Domino is to me."

"Did you understand what he was saying? I get the feeling he was telling us something."

I've figured some out. “He likes you. ‘You sly dog’ was the message to me. ‘All the world loves lovers’ was next. That last mime, no, I don't know what he meant."

I feel I should though. In fact, it's important. But there's still no meaning for me.

We turn back the way we were headed. Our half hour walk is in silence. We just hold each other, bask in the comfort of the other's presence.

I escort her into the Henri IV. The girl at the front desk nods acknowledgment of our presence. Diane and I walk up the stairs to the room on the second floor. I sense her grow tense. She trembles a little. Her odour changes slightly, a hint of arousal permeates the smell of soap and perfume she exudes.

Walking down the hall, we encounter the porter. He's a swarthy man; thin, his movements quick, rodent like. He nods as well, but it's obvious the action is just perfunctory. I don't like him on sight.

We pass him going to Diane's door. She pulls out her key, sets it in the lock and opens the portal to her room. “Would you like to come in?"

"Of course.” It's two and a half hours until dawn. I have a little time to spare. I motion her to proceed me then follow her in.

The instant I close the door she wraps me in her arms, kissing me demandingly. “Love me, Georges,” she gasps. “It's been too long."

For a moment, I start to use my power, feed emotion to her, make her want. But ritual isn't necessary. The way she clutches at me, kisses me, shows that she has more than enough passion.

I reach up, grip one of her small breasts, squeeze it gently while teasing the nipple with my thumb. My tongue runs into her mouth and I toy with her.

My love moans in my mouth. Her body trembles under my palm. She squeezes me so hard in her grasp that if I were human, she'd crack ribs.

The same emotion fills me. Only my nature keeps me from showing the physical signs of my lust for the lovely woman I'm playing with.

My hands go to the hem of her sweater. Grabbing at it, I pull it up and over her head. That so nicely shaped torso, slim and fair skinned comes into my view. Her breasts are covered in a jade silk bra. She's so beautiful. A sweet pixie of a woman.

Leaning my head down, I move my lips over her left shoulder, working my mouth, laving with my tongue. I can taste the sweet sweat seeping from her pores, the heat rising from her body.

Diane leans her head to the right exposing her neck. Her hands stroke, up my flanks, down my chest, cup my manhood.

It can't respond but I do. Lifting my head I hiss with pleasure.

Her hands go behind her back, unhook her undergarment. She works it free of her body and her lovely breasts are exposed to me. They're not large, but firm and nicely shaped. The aureola and already stiff nipples are a deep brown that contrasts nicely with her alabaster skin. “Use your mouth, Georges, please.” She takes her breasts in her hands and offers herself to me.

I don't turn down her request, couldn't in a million years. Kneeling a little, my tongue sweeps over the sensitive surfaces she's presented. I wash across their tops, down one side. Moving her hands aside, I play underneath, back up, then between. My hands press them against my face, my thumbs roll her nipples.

Diane's hands slap against my head as she pulls me tight. She pants and moans. Her pelvis bounces against my chest as she pumps it, the reflexes of love driving her. “Suck them,” she pleads, “I love when you suck on them."

Again, I do as she asks. I draw in her left nipple, swirl my tongue over it.

Her hands pull my hair. Diane lets loose a warbling keen at the sensation filling her.

I take the nipple in my canines, bite gently. As always, a strong hint of the ecstasy feeding causes explodes into my beautiful woman.

A burbling hiss of pleasure comes from her. Under my hands, her flesh goes slick with sweat as her passion is stoked to furnace levels. I feel the fluttering shivers that seize her body.

"Georges,” Diane gasps, “finish me. I have to come. Please, I've waited for years. No more. Please!"

"D'accord.” Releasing her breast, I look into her eyes. The sea green irises swirl with lust, with desperation, and with love. I smile. It's been a long time since I was loved as well.

Kneeling fully on the floor, I reach to the laces of her sneakers and undo them. At the same instant, she undoes the button on her jeans. I hold her shoes as she steps from them, draw her socks from her feet. Pulling her pants and panties down, I free her from all her clothes.

I look at her vulva. The pubic hair is trimmed close and a copper red rather than the auburn of her head. Her lips are engorged and dripping with her want. The soporific aroma of her arousal stuffs my nose. The sight fills me with an enormous pleasure. To be wanted so badly, with such honest need, is a rarity in my existence and I revel in it.

"Legs on my shoulders, chére,” I instruct her.

She stands on one foot and drapes her other limb over me. I grab her firm cheeks to support her. Shifting her weight, she lifts her other leg into place. I pull her close and bury my mouth in her aroused womanhood.

"God,” she gurgles as I do, “So good, so nice. Get me off, please."

My tongue washes over her lips, sopping up the rich taste of her lubrication.

Diane hisses, grabs my hair. “Yes!” she exclaims. “That's it. Don't stop. Please!"

I grab one of her labial lips, tug at it gently.

Her thighs clamp on my head, a rush of fluid gushes from her, signaling how intense her joy is. A breathless little shriek bursts from her lungs.

My mouth moves up and the flat of my tongue covers the little nub at the top of her slit. I lap at her then swirl my tip around it.

"Shit,” my woman gasps, “so good, so good. You always, know, where to, touch me.” Her body squirms, the madness that grips her forcing her to move in random motions.

One hand of mine releases the buttock it holds, runs along her perineum. Arriving at her labia I pet them, scissor them between my fingers. They become soaked with the fluids dribbling from my love.

Diane squeals at my touch, her body shakes. “Inside,” she huffs, “please."

I stiffen two fingers and push them into her, running deep. In spite of the tight clamping of her channel I enter easily. Diane is very wet. I start to pump, a languorous rhythm that makes her twitch, as if I'm pulling a string connected to all her muscles.

She grits out words as I thrust into her. “Georges. Good. So, good. Love, you. Don't, stop.” Her hips begin to match the pace of my fingers. She clasps them very tight.

I speed up, work a little harder. My tongue presses more firmly against her clit, pushing against it with vigour.

Diane grabs my head, pulls at my hair. “Yes!” she cries. “That's it!” All her muscles tighten, showing how close she is.

My fingers find that so sensitive spot inside her. I push against it, rub it hard.

Diane falls.

She draws in a breath, and lets it out with a bellow. She humps and jerks, her orgasm seizing complete control of her. Warm honey flows from her, drenching my hand. Her cry ends, a jerking moan replaces it, a sound rich with heat.

Relaxing, her climax pulls back. Just a little. I continue working, teasing. My tongue reduces its pressure to a feather touch. I know she'll be too sensitive to handle a firm contact. All this hits her still high lust. It swells and explodes in her once more.

Again, she pulls me tight. Again, she deluges my hand. Again, she jerks and moans, twitches and hisses. She releases the pent up energy she's carried so long.

She softens. But her womanhood still clutches at me, wanting my touch. The shoulders of my shirt are growing damp with her sweat; my sleeve wet with her spending.

I don't stop. I want this to be very special, a moment she'll hardly remember and never forget. My fingers pump, my tongue laves. In moments, she climaxes again. Diane keens with joy, shakes and shimmies with delight blasting through her.

We go on, and on, and on. She never stops demanding and I never stop answering.

Abruptly, she straightens, every muscle cords to its maximum. She draws in a long, shaking breath that sounds as if it's her last one. And she wilts, her body turns to jelly.

I leave off my playing, withdraw my fingers from her. Gently, I lower her until she's seated in my lap. Diane just lies against me, panting hard. I look down and her eyes are blank, her jaw slack. She twitches as random little shocks race through her.

I smile, bask in the warmth of her glow. I don't know how I continued to exist without her and the joy of her happiness.

She's a strong woman. Soon, she sighs, places her arms around me and hugs. “Georges,” she whispers, “don't ever do that again."

"Make love to you?” A smile plays on my lips.

She chuckles. “No. Leave me.” Her head leans back, she looks into my eyes. “I couldn't stand it. I need you, Georges. I love you."

I take her lips in mine and give her a soft kiss. “Moi aussi, chére. Je t'aime. I'll never leave you again."

You may leave me after our talk though. I succeed in keeping the emotions this thought brings from showing on my face.

I look at the clock on the night stand next to the bed. It's less than an hour until dawn. “Let's get you to bed. You need your sleep.” I give her a sly wink.

She smiles. “I sure do after that.” Her smile lessens. “I'd ask you to stay, but I know you won't.” Her eyes glisten with tears.

"Not won't, can't. You'll find out why in two nights’ time. Now to bed with you."

I place her in the bed and kiss her goodbye. “I'll be here at 8:30. Sleep well, chére."

She smiles, snuggles into the rich linen and fades.

I leave the room, making sure the door is locked and descend to the lobby. The desk clerk tries to give me a bland smile, but envy and humour shape her lips. I wink back and continue on my way.

Hustling now because the sky is lightening, I go to a nearby sewer manhole. My haven is near and this is my preferred route to it.

Traveling along the walkways of the sewer, I'm filled with the loveliest of feelings. It's been one of the best nights of my existence. My risk has paid off. Diane is here and we still love. We have one more hurdle to cross. I'm sure we'll cross it together.

Conflict

I'm on time the next night, and Diane is waiting. She's only been awake a couple of hours. What we did in the very early morning made her sleep deep, dreamless, and long.

I treat her to dinner at a small café. When we're done it's still early enough that we can visit the Eiffel Tower. A tourist trap, I know. But it has a wonderful view of the city that may soon be her new home. I lead her to each corner of the observation deck, step behind and wrap my arms around her. With my chin on her head, I tell about what we see, and what was there in the past.

I remember this place before Haussmann changed it. Back then, much of Paris was a teeming slum, poverty stricken and crime filled. Riots frequently broke out and the army and gendarmes were hard pressed to put them down. I hardly blamed the rioters, despair makes you do strange things.

Paris was rebuilt to house the expanding middle class. The new straight and wide avenues were perfect for cavalry charges and cannon fire so riots would be ended quickly. The poor ended up north and east of the city, refugees in their own country. It's hardly surprising that those times they had the vote, they voted Communist.

Much of those areas are still poor, only now the poor are immigrants rather than French. As recent events have shown the same problems of despair still plague them.

Diane listens as I talk. She snuggles into me and grips my arms. When I'm done, she kisses me, thanks me for the history lesson. Her smile shows how happy she is.

We proceed to street level and I take her on a walking tour. The places I pointed out are observed close up and I tell her more about each one. I can't keep the pride out of my voice. I love this city. It's been my home for so much of my existence. I'll always be here, if just in spirit.

After several hours Diane's a bit footsore. “Let's go home, Georges,” she asks. “I need to lie down for a while.” Her lickerish smile tells me what she wants while she's lying down.

I lead her to the hotel, taking back streets to cut the distance. We're halfway down one when a man steps out of a doorway ten metres in front of us. A big man who turns in our direction and who moves with purpose. He clenches both fists.

At the same moment, I hear two more men moving in behind us.

Without thought I grab Diane's hand and tell her, “Run!"

I burst forward, pulling her with me. I let her go, move in front of her. Lowering my shoulder, I duck under a punch, set my shoulder in our assailant's midriff and straighten. He flips over me and lands on the concrete with a muffled ‘thump'.

Diane dashes past and I fall in behind her. “Left,” I direct her. She follows my instructions. We run down another narrow street. I can hear the pounding of our pursuers. They're drawing closer but not quickly.

I lead us right at the next intersection. A wide and busy boulevard can be seen at the end of it. We dash to it and emerge into brighter light. I turn us in the direction of the Henri IV and we run some more, dodging pedestrians.

Glancing back, I see our assailants have not followed. “Stop,” I gasp. I don't need to but hiding what I am is automatic. We pull up, panting hard.

As we regain our breath Diane looks at me and asks, “Is that what I think it was?"

"Yes. Someone tried to mug us.” My face shapes with perplexity. “That's never happened to me in this city before.” That's a semi-lie. It hasn't happened in Diane's lifetime.

Diane's face scrunches and her eyes fill with tears. She hugs me close and weeps.

I let her, stroking her hair and whispering endearments. I praise her courage. Holding her tight, I comfort her.

She's a strong woman and soon pulls away, giving me an unsteady smile. Her body shakes with reaction. “Should we call the police?"

I'd rather not involve officialdom in my existence. “What can we tell them? I didn't get a good look at any of them. They're long gone. We'll chalk it up to experience and let it pass. Now, come on. I think you could use a drink."

I lead her to a nearby bar. It has the bourbon I know she's fond of. She tosses it down when it arrives. That's followed by a “woof” as the liquor burns her throat and her body stops trembling.

"You sure surprised me,” she remarks then. “You reacted so fast. And you took that guy out so easily.” She turns to me, that sharp look of inquiry is on her face. “That's another thing we'll be talking about, isn't it?"

I smile at her. “Yes it is. Now let's get you back to your hotel."

We head back. On arrival we go straight to her room. We encounter the night porter again. He pointedly ignores us. In fact, he seems uneasy. Perhaps he was embarrassed by our rather loud display last night.

Once inside, we just lie on the bed and cuddle. After what just happened, neither of us is in the mood. We talk lightly, telling little jokes, chatting about things that have happened in our lives. I, of course, keep my reflections to those that a human would relate to. It's not tomorrow yet.

Finally, Diane falls asleep, her breath shallow and warm on my neck. I don't move. We're a comfort to each other and I will stay where I am as long as possible.

Dawn approaches and I must leave. She wakes as I pull myself from her grasp. Diane's face gains an edge of sorrow. “I wish you could stay."

I lean over and kiss her, lovingly. “After tomorrow, things will change. Then we'll see."

She smiles at that, although her eyes contain a small amount of fear. She's wise enough to know change is often a mixed blessing. “Tomorrow night. I'll be here. I always will be."

That may soon be more true than you know, rises in my mind. “Bon nuit, chére," I say instead, “Je t'adore."

She burrows into her pillow and sleeps once more.

Tiptoeing out, I close the door to her room, making sure the ‘Do Not Disturb’ tag is in place.

I go to my haven, happiness and unease churning in my mind. After tomorrow night everything will be different. There are so many things that can happen.

I'm hopeful, but even one such as I can't know the future.

Loss

8:30 and I knock on Diane's door. It's time. I'm ready to tell her everything. She's ready to listen. I'll keep nothing from her.

There's no answer. I listen. There's only silence. I hear no sound of a shower. I wait, but no flushing of the commode sounds. Perhaps she's still asleep.

I knock harder. Still nothing. I grow concerned.

Reaching into my pants pocket, I pull out the key I have to her room. I open the door and step inside. I can tell instantly that something is wrong. The bed is unmade. The sheets and bedspread half lie on the floor. The person sleeping in it was dragged from their slumber. Diane!

A moment's panic clutches me, followed by the sudden emergence of the monster. Who dares? goes through my mind, as well as images of the painful things I will do to the people responsible.

I push both down, panic won't help and the monster would only make things worse. Instead I leave the room and head to the front desk.

"Pardon,” I ask the woman there. “Mademoiselle Patterson? Has she gone out?"

"Not that I'm aware of, Monsieur.” She looks at the man behind the desk with her. It's the porter. “Pavel, do you know where Mademoiselle Patterson is?"

His body stiffens and his face pales slightly. He stammers when he speaks. “N,no. I haven't seen her since I came in.” There is more than a trace of a Russian accent in his voice.

Instinct and anger bring me on point inside. The man's body language practically shrieks of knowledge. He's involved and I'm going to find out how.

His gaze comes up to me and his eyes grow wide. “I've, I've got work to do.” He hurries out the door leading into the service area of the hotel.

I look at the clerk and she stares back in fear. I realize then I've let my mask slip. She backs away from me, teeth chattering, eyes weeping.

Looking into those teary irises, I grab her consciousness with my power. Immediately her expression blanks. “Clean your face,” I direct.

Grabbing some tissues from a box she does as she's told. While she's doing that I replace my facade.

"Remember this,” I go on, “I asked about my friend. You and Pavel knew nothing, and that's all. You saw nothing to frighten you."

I let her go and her professionally cheery expression returns. “I'm sorry I can't help more,” she says. There's not a sign of her terror now.

"We probably got our signals mixed,” I reply. “I have a good idea where she is. Bon nuit."

I hurry out of the lobby and turn left as I leave. I've cased this hotel, as I do all places I might spend time at, and there's only one way Pavel can leave other than the front door. I trot to the mouth of the alley and turn into it. Sure enough, he's headed towards me.

He reverses course the second he sees me. I follow for several steps then use my strength. The ten metre leap is timed perfectly. I reach out for his shoulder and slam his back into the wall. Not as hard as I could. I want his information rather than his death. For the moment.

"We need to talk."

There's a smell of urine as he pisses himself. “I don't know anything,” Pavel gasps, short of breath from fear and the impact of the wall.

I quirk one side of my face in amusement. “You're the worst liar I've ever encountered. You do know something. And you're going to tell me. If you don't I'm going to stuff something in your mouth and break bones until you do talk. I think you would rather avoid that if you could."

Pavel stares at me for a long second. “It's Grigor. He took her."

"Grigor?"

"I knew of him in St. Petersburg. He was a pimp there."

"A pimp?” I describe the man I bounced off a wall two nights ago.

"That's him. The mad, crazy eyes are what everyone knows about him. Almost everyone is frightened by him. Even in my country he stood out. Treated his girls like shit."

Damn, why does no good deed go unpunished? And why did the Fates have to involve Diane?

For a moment, I fight with myself. Killing my only source of information won't help me at all. “Why is he here in Paris?"

"He got too big for his britches. Tried to take on a vor, a crime boss. He was lucky to live. He managed to get here and ran out of money. Started back in business to make some more. He's been here two years now."

"How did he get in touch with you?"

"He didn't. Yesterday morning after work, I was talking with some friend. This guy was from back home and said Grigor was looking for someone. The description matched yours. I know Grigor keeps an answering machine running, so clients can call for girls, and people can leave information. I called it and left that I saw you last night. Mentioned the woman, too."

They must have tailed us from the hotel. I curse myself for stupidity. I forgot to be careful. You would think I would know better at my age. “Did you have any more contact with Grigor?"

He gulps, shaking. “Yyyeah. This afternoon, getting ready for work, I get a knock on the door. He's waiting for me. He gives me a choice. Help him or he kills me very, very slowly. All I have to do is get a key for him. I don't know what happened after that."

His face lightens a bit, a thread of hope shows. “I've still got the money he gave me. Two hundred and fifty Euros. You can have it.” His hands scrabble at a pants pocket.

Rage fills me. What I am almost pushes to the surface. Only the greatest will keeps it at bay. My fist wraps itself in his hair and I lift him up. “You sold my woman for two hundred and fifty Euros?"

The odour of feces joins that of urine. What a weakling this person is.

"I need to know where Grigor is.” My voice is dark. The monster flavours it with blind fury.

"I don't know!” Pavel squeaks. Another squelching sound emerges from his trousers and the stench of excrement grows stronger. “All I know is the number I reached him at. Please, I didn't know what he'd do!"

I don't have time to waste. This worm has no more useful information. So I let go of his hair. Pavel's legs almost collapse. He shrinks against the wall, wishing it would absorb him and get him away from me.

"Merci, you've been helpful. So I'll be nice. You have twenty-four hours."

Pavel merely blinks at me. I haven't gotten through his fear.

"Twenty-four hours to run. After that, some time in the future, you'll see me again. And I will be the last thing you see."

That hits home. He falls to his knees, bends over and throws up.

"Don't use up your day vomiting.” I walk away, back toward the mouth of the alley.

As if I'll waste my time chasing him. A small snort of contempt passes through my nostrils. Not necessary anyway. In his mind, I'll be a step behind him forever.

Back on the street, I pause. A wave of strong emotions shakes me. I'm closer to panic than I've been in years.

I don't have many underworld contacts. The phone machine will take time to track down and will be a dead end anyway. I don't want to involve the police. I have no idea what to do and the thought of Diane in the hands of a mad pimp fills me with terror.

Domino?

He's standing in front of the alley across from mine. His hands gesture with force, beckoning me. I can almost hear him saying “Vite, vite! Follow me!"

So I do. He fades into the alley as I approach and I enter as well. Once I'm in, he starts moving as only beings like us can. Up to the roofs, along them, keeping out of sight of our food. I stay several seconds behind him the whole way.

Shortly, we're in a poorer section of the city. Not slums but close. There is almost no one about. Domino drops to the street, walks normally towards a corner and waits. When I draw up next to him he indicates a building down the intersecting boulevard. It is a small, two story house, brick with a short flight of concrete steps leading to the front door. A man lounges on the balustrade, apparently passing the time and smoking.

"She's there?” I ask.

Domino nods.

"I owe you, my friend."

He frowns, waves a hand, dismissing himself of any favours. Then he gives the wistful smile and the hands over heart gesture of the other night.

"I do,” I smile back.

Taking an easy pace, I cross to the side of the street my goal is on and turn in its direction. I keep my head down, as if I'm thinking. I glance up on occasion, checking for reaction from the man on watch. He sees me but doesn't change his relaxed posture. As I reach the foot of the stairs, I bring my head up.

His response is instantaneous, recognition fills his features.

But instant is too slow. I leap to him and punch him in the gut, not as hard as I could, but hard enough. His breath explodes out of him. Grabbing his hair, I bounce his head off the nearest railing. He goes limp.

I place an ear against the door and listen. There's no sound inside, no indication anyone's noticed the very short fight outside. My hands take the knob. The door's locked. I place my palm on the wood just by the jamb. I push against it, slowly raising the pressure. The wood gives way with a soft ‘crack'. I dart inside and close the door swiftly.

Again, nothing happens. There's no alarm to show that my break in is noticed.

I listen. Voices come from the upper floor. The stairs are right next to me and I move silently up them, watching and listening. Nothing happens.

There are four doors on the second floor. Only one is closed, the one to the front most room. The voices emerge from behind it, louder but still unclear. Carefully, I make my way down the hall. Bringing my ear close, I listen.

A voice says something in Russian. “That's right, sweet thing. It's heroin.” This voice sounds very similar to the man I dealt with two nights ago.

Another man speaks, repeating the words in English. I guess Grigor doesn't speak that language.

I hear Grigor continue, his words translated by the second voice. “I'm going to keep you high on this for a week. At the end, you'll be so hooked you'll do anything to get your next hit. Then I'll pimp you out and make sure that stupid Frog of yours knows it. That will teach..."

I don't learn that well. Standing straight I slam both palms into the door. The hinges and jamb break and the door hits the floor with a ‘wham!'

I step into the room and survey the tableaux there. Diane is tied to the frame of a small bed, dressed in the clothes she wore last night. The left sleeve of her blouse is pulled up, baring her arm, and a rubber tube is tied just above the elbow.

Grigor and his henchman turn and gape at me. My showing up was not what they expected.

There's a third man in the room. He'd made no noise. And he has a pistol. Its muzzle gapes at me like a dark tunnel.

There's a flash of light.

Something hammers me in the chest.

Diane screams.

And I'm falling.

Forever.

Discovery

Fortunately for something like me, forever doesn't mean much. Consciousness comes back. I'm lying on the floor with the door under my legs, my body having been thrown back through the doorway.

There's a finger on my throat. “On myert,” comes to me. He's dead.

I open my eyes and let my mask fall away. It's only fair these people know what they have angered. “Da,” I tell the man leaning over me, the one who shot me.

His eyes expand, become too large for his face. My assailant's mouth drops and he becomes almost as pale as I am.

I place both hands on his chest and throw him straight up. He hits the lintel of the door with a sound that tells of shattered ribs and a broken back. A bloom of blood appears on his mouth as air forces it from ruptured lungs. Rolling to my feet, I'm out of the way before he hits the ground. He lands like a sack of loose grain and begins coughing his life away.

Grigor and his crony are frozen. Although they are tough, nasty individuals, hardened by the lives they lead, their brains cannot fathom what they face. With no purchase, they have no way to react.

I leap to Grigor's translator. It hurts a bit, something moves in my chest causing me pain. That feeds the monster, acts as a goad. My left hand shoots out, fingers pointing like a spear. The tip of them smash his larynx. He falls to his knees, clutches his throat and tries desperately to breathe.

I turn to Grigor. There's a different insanity in his eyes. Terror is his madness now. He backs away as I step towards him. And back some more as I continue to approach. This soon stops as he comes to the wall with me a pace away from him.

Smiling, I tell him, “I've got something for you.” Drawing in a deep breath, I expel it again with a viscous ‘hawrk'. The object in my chest is ejected and I spit it into my hand in a glob of blood. Reaching out, I take his right hand, pull it up and place a deformed lump of lead in it.

He stares at the bullet, unable to comprehend. His eyes return to my face. I show him my fangs and he finally understands. An infantile whimper passes his lips.

The next instant I'm at his throat, pulling the life from him. It's a delightful sensation. I can taste all of him. His madness, his terror, his soul pass over my tongue and fill me with ecstasy. I revel in what I am and the power it grants me.

Soon, I let the empty vessel go. Grigor falls in a heap. A sound comes from behind me, a gasping pule. For a moment, I smile, consider what I can do to play with the person who makes that noise.

Then I remember who that person is and how much she means to me. The monster flees before that warm emotion like an animal fleeing a flame. I take a second, make sure all of what I am is hidden from sight. I become the man, not the monster. Buttoning up my jacket I hide the small bloody spot where I've been injured.

Turning to look at her I see Diane has turned her face away from me. Her chest heaves, her skin shows a clammy moisture. She pulls at her ropes very hard.

"Diane,” I say, “it's just me."

A chant comes quietly from her lips. “No, no, no, no..."

I do something I rarely do. I reach out with my power, take hold of her emotions, and quiet them. I feed calm to her rather than passion. Her monotonous words cease and her head turns towards me.

For an instant there's a grateful smile, her eyes are warm. Memory returns and that expression vanishes. She becomes wary and fearful and her mouth thins in an uncertain line.

"It's just me,” I repeat. “Now come on. We've got to leave.” She nods, saying nothing.

I pull off the tube wrapped around her arm and button the sleeve closed. I move smoothly, doing nothing to restart her panic. Turning to her feet, keeping my left hand hidden, I extend a single claw and slice through her ropes. Her arms follow.

The instant she's freed she wraps me in her embrace, holds me tight, shaking. I withdraw my claw and return the gesture. I smile, hoping her reaction shows this isn't the end for us.

Diane goes stiff and lets me go. I release her and stand. Her face is again confused and afraid.

"We've got to go,” I tell her. “We can't be found here."

She nods and tries to stand. Her legs won't hold her up though. I catch her and pick her up. She clings again, stiffens, relaxes. The battle inside must be fierce.

"Don't look down,” I tell her as I step over the body in the doorway. It makes a tiny rattle showing the last of life has fled from it. I avoid stepping in the small pool of blood that's formed. No need to leave much evidence of my presence.

I carry her down the stairs. As we go I heal the damage the bullet has done. “Can you walk?” I ask at the bottom, letting go of her legs.

They're shaky, but leaning against me, she can stand. I open the door, guide us out and close it again. Sirens are sounding, coming this direction.

Domino's waiting at the foot of the steps. The man I left here is gone. Domino licks his lips, swiping a small red spot away. He gestures, showing me which way to go. He points at the building behind me and slaps his chest.

"D'accord. Merci beaucoup."

I walk Diane in the direction he indicated. She staggers. That's good. We'll look like a man escorting his inebriated girlfriend home. No one seeing us will connect us to the carnage I've left behind.

As we reach the corner I look back. Domino stands on the opposite side of the street from the house Diane was in. His hands move through a short series of complex movements and he points emphatically at the window of the room where the bodies I've made lie. That window shatters as a gout of flame erupts outwards and glass tinkles to the sidewalk. He repeats his action and the first floor starts to burn.

A sudden gust of fear sweeps through me. This display of Domino's real power is terrifying. My imagination couldn't encompass what he is really capable of. I hurry myself and Diane away from him, hoping he'll not notice us.

A five minute walk brings us to a busy street and I flag down a cab. Diane moves to the far corner when I place her in it. She looks out the window through most of the trip. Occasionally, she glances at me, smiles for an instant. Then her features blank and she turns away again.

I keep to my side of the cab, knowing I can't help in this battle. I hate feeling helpless. I watch though, hoping she'll make a decision soon.

We stop in front of her hotel and exit the cab. It pulls away and we face each other. She's no longer pale and shaking but her face is sad and confused.

"So now you know."

"Now I know,” she echoes.

"It's a lot to take, isn't it?"

Diane nods.

"And I can't help, can I?"

She shakes a negative.

"I'll wait until I can. I'll be at Le Fin until you either come or you go."

"All right,” she assents.

"Bon nuit."

"Good night, Georges."

I turn and walk away, not looking back. Like Orpheus, I fear if I turn around I'll lose her forever.

Exploration

It's been four nights now. I've waited. She hasn't come to me.

Nor has she left. My nightly conversation with the desk clerk on the phone is always the same.

"Bon soir, is Mademoiselle Patterson still staying there?"

"Oui, Monsieur. Shall I ring her room?"

"Non, merci.” And I hang up.

So I have some hope. Not a lot, but some.

Foolish perhaps, but I have my back to the street. For once, I don't want to observe humanity as it goes about its nightly business. Seeing people happy makes me sad as I fear my happiness won't come to pass. And seeing them sad reminds of how melancholy I feel.

Thus it's a surprise when I hear, “Bon soir, mon chéri. Comment-allez vous?” in that lovely lilt.

Two and a half centuries of control go by the wayside. I stand and face her, unable to keep a broad smile off my face. Hers has the same expression.

But she dodges when I reach for her. The smile retreats but doesn't vanish. Diane moves to a chair at my table and seats herself. I return to my chair.

We stare at each other for over a minute. “We do have a lot to discuss, don't we?” Diane observes.

"We do, but I must show you some things first.” I rise again and extend my hand.

She stands as well, and takes my proffered palm. There's a small tremble as we touch.

I find I can't guess at the emotions causing it. Strange, to be out of my depth after so many years. “It's time to show you some of my life. You'll understand later, after we talk."

We walk to the curb. Diane's hand never stops shaking. I hail a cab and we enter it. The driver turns to look at me when I inform him of our destination. “At this time of night?” he asks.

"Yes. Don't worry. We'll be quite safe."

He shrugs and starts driving. The trip is three quarters of an hour. We end up in an area mostly commercial at the edge of the city. And not high end commercial either. It's dark and not exactly clean. Many warehouses fill this area and our destination is one of them. The driver stops in front of it and I pass the fare as well as a good tip to him.

"Wait. We'll be about thirty minutes. Then you can take us back."

He agrees. The set of his shoulders shows he's uncomfortable with it though.

I escort Diane to the personnel entrance of the warehouse. The building seems old and dilapidated. But only if you don't look closely. The windows aren't standard glass. Instead they're an almost unbreakable plastic. What appears to be dirt is actually paint, spread to camouflage their strength. The frames are the most modern steel. They can't be seen, but laser, contact, and integrity sensors are set to alert a security force if attempts are made to breach them.

The door we come to also seems less than it is. The card reader next to it looks barely functional. I pull out my wallet, draw a rectangle of plastic from it and run it through the device. The door opens in a puff and cool air wafts from the interior of the building.

I escort Diane inside, close the door and turn on the lights. She gasps at what is revealed.

It's very clean and well lit inside, the very opposite of the exterior. The interior is divided into many Plexiglas cubes of varying sizes. These areas are sealed and the doors have keypad locks.

Diane walks over to the nearest. It contains many canvases, stacked carefully. She leans close and looks at the only one that can be seen. “Is that a Guagin?"

"Yes. One of his earlier works. I have several. There's also some Van Goghs, a few Lautrecs and some Picassos as well. In addition, there are some by people no one's ever heard of outside of the art world. But things change."

I indicate another cubicle. “More modern works there. Pollock and that sort of thing. Come,” I extend my hand. “There's more to see."

She takes it and I lead her on another tour. “Comic books?” She giggles when I point out the storage compartment for those.

"You'd be surprised how much those appreciate over time. Like the baseball cards over there.” I point at the boxes that contain them.

She giggles again. Her smile fades and she looks at me, confusion showing in her eyes and doubt shaping her mouth.

I show her all the art I've collected; vinyl records, first editions of books, rare editions some which are older than me, even some films.

"This is how you make yourself rich,” she notes as we come to the entrance again.

"Yes. I'm taking advantage of my immortality."

"Why not stocks, or something similar?"

"Too short term and too volatile. I don't understand much about business. I do have some brokers running mutual funds and that for me, but my real wealth comes from here. I find some noveau riché who wants to display their wealth, or some rich collector who has to have something, or a corporation that wants the prestige of a particular artist hanging in their boardroom and I supply it to them."

"You don't sound like you think much of the people you sell to."

"Not especially. Wealth and glory are such fleeting, unimportant things. Love is rare, special, and much more satisfying.” I squeeze her hand and smile.

She smiles back. And this time it doesn't fade. My soul lifts. I haven't driven her away.

Yet.

We return to the cab and I direct him to an intersection closer to the heart of the city. It isn't our next destination. It's close enough to walk though and there's something I want to pick up first.

He lets us off and I pay him, tipping nicely again. It's a habit I can't break. My father taught me to reward people well. They do better work when compensated.

There's a young lady selling flowers at the corner. She's here most every night. She has a son. Her husband disappeared from their lives and she has few skills. So she sits here, offering beauty for those who can buy. She's a pretty woman. She could make more money selling that beauty but she's wise enough to know that's too hard a life and not something she wants her son to see.

I buy a white rose and a red rose from her, paying as if I'd bought a dozen of each. She doesn't protest as it's not the first time and she knows I won't pay less. The young lady gives me a grateful smile. I return it to her.

Helping keeps the monster chained.

I hand the white rose to Diane. It's a symbol of the hope I hold for our future. She colours, gives me her sweet smile, sniffs it. I've never seen her more beautiful.

Taking her hand once more I lead her to our next destination. Soon we're standing in front of a small church. It's an old one, built before The Terror. The grounds were once larger but The Church sold parcels of it off long ago. The four and five story office buildings surrounding it press close. I lead Diane into the shadow of one of these buildings.

There's some light that drifts in from the street. Diane's fair skin and her rose shine in it. I check around for people watching. I find none.

It's fifteen metres to the roof. A little farther than I can jump. But I've made this trip before and let go of her hand. “I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

I jump to the gargoyle eight metres up, pause a second, and leap the rest of the way. A gasp sounds from below. I clamber to the top of the roof and crouch. Moving to the cross at the front of the church I place the red rose on it.

"I'm sorry, chére,” I whisper. “It's been a while. But I haven't forgotten. I never will.

"I've found someone. I'm going to make the same offer I did to you. I don't believe I've misjudged her, she'll be strong enough. I hope so. I couldn't go through that again. Au revoir."

I fade back and slide to the edge of the roof. Checking to make sure I don't land on Diane, I let myself fall. I can't jump this far but I can land. I hit with hardly a noise.

Diane starts and turns to face me. There's something in her features, a trace of wonder about her eyes, fear in her lips. Somehow, I don't think it has to do with me.

"What is it?” I ask with concern.

"I sensed someone standing over there.” She points further into the darkness. “I looked and there was a woman. I could see her clearly. She was almost as tall as you, blonde hair, grey eyes, rather buxom. She wore a long blue dress. She smiled at me but looked envious and sad. I heard her speak but her lips didn't move. ‘Be good to him. Be strong for him. I wasn't and I'm sorry for that.'

"Then she disappeared.” Diane tries to smile. “I should be used to strange things happening when you're around but that was a bit much."

There's a quiver in her voice, telling me how unsettled she is.

I stare at the spot she indicated. Stepping past Diane, I whisper, “Margaritte?” It doesn't seem possible. But then I don't seem possible.

A hand falls on my shoulder, and Diane squeezes gently. “Did you know her, Georges?"

"Yes,” I tell her. “I've been coming here for over one hundred and fifty years. I wonder why she chose now to appear.

"Come.” I lead Diane back to the street. “I've a place we can go to talk."

Exposition

Our place to talk is a small apartment I maintain. It's not my haven, far too exposed for that, but it serves a purpose. Here I interact with humans and have an occasional soirée. Comfortable and intimate, I can't think of a better place for Diane and I to speak. We've hours available to us as it's not midnight yet.

I've made sure the liquor cabinet has the bourbon she prefers. I draw her a finger of it. We sit on the couch and look at each other for a long moment. Her face is set, she knows what I have to say will require great fortitude on her part to understand. I find I'm still reluctant to speak. So much to say and I'm so uncertain, still, how she'll take it.

It turns out I'm wrong about Diane's motivations.

"Before you start,” she says, the words bursting out, “I want to say I'm sorry. For that last time I saw you, when I was so cruel. I don't blame you for leaving after that.” Her face grows puzzled and her eyes tear. “I didn't know why I acted that way. I still don't. It's frightening not knowing."

"You have no need for forgiveness. I didn't leave because of what you did. And I know exactly why you acted that way."

She gapes at me.

"Do you remember that student I told you about? The very bright one who didn't seem to be living up to her potential?"

Diane nods.

"Well it turns out her potential lay elsewhere."

"I don't understand."

"She was a mage. She'd been hurt very badly. In her rage, she'd found a book allowing her to summon and control things from beyond our world. She used them to change people, alter their minds, make them into slaves."

Diane pales. “That dream! God, I was frightened. And I was, different, after that."

"The occult arts work best when the victim isn't aware, so changing you when you were asleep makes sense."

"But why?!” Diane's face has its colour back and a ruddiness of anger fills it. Her eyes and mouth show she still doesn't understand.

"She and I ended up in conflict. I was marking her papers fairly. She had enslaved the Dean of the university almost as soon as she started attending the school. So she'd gotten out of the habit of working. Because of this she was very unhappy with me. She got the Dean to try and force me to change her marks. I wouldn't. Then she found out about you. And she used you to get to me."

"That bitch!” snarls Diane. Tears start to flow. “She raped me.” These words are a stammering gulp. “Worse than that.” Her voice vanishes under soft, angry, bitter sobs.

Without thought, I slide over and wrap her in my arms. She clings, her tears soaking my shirt. I can't blame her. I understand the horror of being made into an unwilling plaything.

It's a half hour before she pulls away. I pull tissues from a box on the coffee table and give them to her. She wipes her face and blows her nose. Her eyes are bloodshot but the set of her mouth shows the crisis is behind her.

"What happened to her?” Diane asks then.

"We fought, she almost won. She was a very clever young lady. At the end, she called up a very powerful creature, set it on me. I was as helpless as a child before it."

Diane blanches at that. She has an idea of how powerful I am, something even more so is hard to imagine.

"I broke the barrier that protected her from it. The demon turned on her. What it did was so hideous even I couldn't stay to watch."

"Good,” Diane's jaw clenches in fury. “I hope she suffered."

"Please don't say that. She was foolish and evil, but no one deserves to suffer as she did."

Diane gulps and turns her face from mine. “I'm sorry. You're right. To wish her pain doesn't make me much different from her."

I take her hand. “Understandable. You're human after all.” I smile in both reassurance and humour.

"Thank you.” She smiles back and her eyes fill with questioning. “So why did you leave, if not because of what I'd done?"

"To protect you, from me."

"What!” she gasps.

"My existence is like that. What I am draws odd circumstances to me. I often end up in conflict with others, supernatural and otherwise. As events this week have shown you."

Diane nods, discovery shaping her features.

"I didn't want what happened to you to happen again. I couldn't bear to see what had happened to you. The only way I could think of protect you was to leave."

"I wish you'd trusted me. I can take care of myself. If I know what I'm facing."

"That's why you're here."

She nods again and is quiet for a few moments. She stares at her knees and the expression that shows her mind is working shapes her face. Finally, she looks up. “So, what changed your mind? Why did you contact me and ask me to come here?"

"Because I love you, chére. As Marie noted, I haven't been happy since I left."

The next moment Diane has leapt into my lap and she kisses me ravenously. I'm filled with joy. She's still mine.

We break the kiss and snuggle. Diane sighs happily. Remaining that way for several minutes we bask in the warmth of our fully realized love.

"So you think you can protect me now?"

"I'm going to ask you to change things so you can protect yourself."

She sits up, straddles my hips and looks into my eyes. Her face is uneasy, she has some inkling of what I'm about to ask. Her hands take my shoulders, grips them for support. “What do you mean?"

I take a deep breath. Not necessary but I find it calms me. “Join me Diane, please. Become like me. You'll be able to protect yourself then. And we'll be together forever. Time won't separate us."

Her fingers dig into my shoulders, hard, and she gasps. Diane takes herself off my lap. She sits down on the couch, grabs her drink with a shaking hand and tosses it back. Then she ruminates quietly for several minutes. Turning to me once more, she asks, “Will things be the same?"

"Yes and no. We'll still love, but we'll be both empowered and bound by what we are."

"What sort of powers?"

"Physical strength. I'm strong enough I can throw a small automobile several metres. At first you won't be quite that strong, but you'll become stronger as time goes on. Like humans, we grow into our powers."

She looks away again, nods, seeming to be both unnerved and interested.

"Your senses will be sharper. Night won't be a hindrance to you, your vision then will be almost as good as a human's during the day. Your hearing and sense of smell will be sharper as well. As all predators are."

She jerks a little at my first mention of what she'll be.

"You'll be fast. And one power you'll gain is the ability to move much, much faster. But that power is like an afterburner on a jet, it burns blood very quickly. Too much and you'll starve yourself in seconds."

Diane gulps as I say what her sustenance will be.

"You'll gain more subtle abilities as well. At first, you'll have a very strong presence. You'll be able to focus that and affect people's emotions. You can raise their fear and passion. Lower them as well. Eventually you'll be able to affect their minds, make them forget things or remember what you want them to remember. You can give simple orders that they will carry out."

Her face snaps to mine. There's a scowl there, and one eyebrow is raised in a question.

"Rarely,” I answer. “It wasn't necessary. And I couldn't bear to do such things to you."

Diane deliberates for a moment. She gives me a weak but understanding smile. “Don't do it again,” she warns.

"I shan't."

"What sort of boundaries will I have?"

"You'll only live at night. You'll never see the sun again. If you do, you'll die, painfully. You'll burn to ash in moments.

"Your body will be dead. You won't breathe nor will your heart beat. You won't urinate, defecate or sweat. You won't laugh and you'll never cry again."

Perplexity shapes her eyes and mouth. “I've heard you laugh. You smile. I've seen you sad as well."

"You've heard me chuckle. I can't laugh. My body, as I've said, is dead. I can show emotion but the more automatic body functions don't happen. So a belly laugh or a cleansing weeping are beyond me. As they will be for you."

Diane's face turns away again. She looks pensive as she tries to fathom what I've told her so far. A wry smile fills her features after a moment. “I guess that means I won't get my period any more. That almost seems a fair trade."

But the tremor in her voice lets me know she has some idea of the price she'll pay, what she'll lose.

I continue my explanations. “Your only food will be blood. You don't have to kill but you will have to feed. If you don't, what you are will get out of control. And what you will be is a monster. You'll want blood, all the time. You'll like the power you have and you'll like using it. You'll like the fear you create in others."

Diane closes her eyes and sits still for a while. I'll say nothing more until she responds.

Finally, she opens them again, a wry smile on her face. “You're a very bad salesman, Georges."

"I'm not selling, I'm explaining. And one thing I will explain is that things won't be that different. Humans have dark drives as well. Many fall to them, revel in them. But we and they have the same free will. We don't have to act as the monsters in us dictate. We can be restrained, careful, even good. It is our choice. It's always our choice."

"That's better. Make the mark feel empowered. That it's their decision.” The smile on her lips shows she doesn't mean this quite as cynically as it sounds.

"Have you done this before, Georges? Asked someone to become like you?"

"Once. A century and a half ago."

"What happened?"

"A month after I changed her, she climbed to the roof of a church and waited for the sun to come up."

My love pales. “Was that her I saw?"

"It sounded like it could be. Your description matched her appearance."

"Why, why did she do that?"

"She didn't think she was strong enough. And she didn't want the monster to become all of her. I still mourn for her. And I still wish I'd not asked her. Only God knows what I took from her besides her life."

"I need another drink, please."

I get it and she tosses it back. Diane sits quietly and thinks for a long while. “Do you have anything else to tell me?"

"Only this. We'll still love one another, Diane. That will be enough to carry us both through an eternity of nights."

She smiles. I open my arms and she falls into them. We cuddle, feeling those quiet, warm emotions lovers feel.

"So, chére, what will it be?"

Death

He came to her at her hotel, helped her check out. They left her luggage at the front desk, saying they'd be back for it shortly. Taking her by the hand, he led her into an alley. There was a manhole cover that he lifted one handed. “Ladies first."

Diane paused for a moment, knowing this was the last point at which she could change her mind. Entering the dark hole in the ground meant she would leave all she knew behind. She straightened her back then.

He would come with her. He wouldn't be left behind. They'd be together forever. And Diane knew she wanted that more than anything. All other losses would be paltry to losing him.

So she squatted at the lip, searched for a rung with her foot, and descended into the dark. At the bottom she found herself standing on a small walkway above a thin stream of foul smelling water. As she heard him follow her, she stepped aside, leaving room for him to stand.

He stooped for a flashlight, turned it on. The beam revealed a tunnel in brick about six feet in height. Taking her hand once more, he headed deeper into the sewer.

Their trip was twenty minutes. Only the occasional rat provided any distraction. He stopped, pressed a brick and an irregular section of the wall slid inwards. Light streamed out from the opening.

Diane's eyes grew wide at what was inside. A large area was furnished as a bedroom. An old canopy bed in oak dominated the far wall. All walls were done in stucco and dark wood. Hooded lights shone on them filling the room with a warm light. There were two comfortable chairs in one corner, full bookcases behind each one. A fridge purred quietly in another corner. Diane puzzled for a moment, wondering what purpose it served since her lover didn't eat. Next to the refrigerator was a shower with a glass door. The room was her lover, she could see that. It was comfortable but not ostentatious, a place where a man of refinement and restraint would sleep.

"My haven, chére. Welcome."

She turned and smiled. “I'm glad to be here, love.” But her voice quivered.

"Are you ready?"

Diane nodded, only the slightest hesitancy in the gesture.

He reached out, took her chin in his hand. Leaning forward, he kissed her. Just a soft touch, reassuring her she was in no danger.

Diane sighed, closed her eyes. She swallowed as he pulled back. Opening her eyes again, she looked into his. They were warm, loving. There wasn't the slightest hint of what he was. Only a man, who loved her, stood there.

Stepping forward he wrapped his arms around her, kissed her once more, with passion. She hugged him tight and answered him with equal ardour.

His hand caressed her breast and she moaned at that touch. Her nipple hardened under the silk of her bra as he brushed his thumb across it. Her hips jerked, pressing herself to him. She grew wet.

Her lover grabbed the hem of the wool encasing her upper body, jerked it up and over her arms. Her undergarment quickly followed. His mouth left her lips, suckled at one of the breasts revealed. Diane grabbed his head, pulled him close, demanding he love her.

He played there for long minutes, swiping his tongue over her sensitive skin, rolling her nipples in his lips, biting gently at them. Diane's passion rose, and rose, and rose. Her body twitched, shimmied at his teasing. Her vaginal lips engorged and her panties were soaked with her fluids. She kicked off her shoes as he unbuttoned her jeans. He pulled her lower garments down and she stepped from them. She was naked now, ready now.

He stood and disrobed. Diane waited with heated expectancy. The sight of his body raised her warmth with the knowledge he would soon be pressed against her.

Taking her hand once more he led her to the bed, knelt on it. He placed her in his lap, hip to hip, chest to chest, intimately. His hands and mouth roved again. Diane's did the same. She loved the feel of him, the soft of him, the hard of him. All these sensations made her groan, made her sweat. Her hips started to pump driven by ancient impulses. She sank into the bliss of her love.

His right hand moved over her stomach and down until his fingers stroked her clit. Diane hissed, jerked into it. The feeling was so gorgeous. She felt the precursors of climax shake her.

Fingers now playing over her lips, he soaked his digits in her lubrication. Turning his palm towards her, his fingertips spread her open and thrust inside, filling her wanting emptiness.

Diane keened a sweet noise and her hips started jerking. “Yes, chér,” she panted, “yes. How you fill me. How you love me. Please, please."

He pumped harder. Her lust flared and slackened at the same beat, each pulse a little more ecstatic than the last. Diane clamped tight on his fingers, dug her nails into him. She exploded with a, “Now!"

She thrashed, hissed, twitched, moaned. Her orgasm smashed into her awareness, burying it under sheer carnal pleasure. She wandered in a hot mist of bliss.

Vaguely, she became aware of his mouth at her throat. The next instant his teeth penetrated and her delight overwhelmed her. She floated away, her only perception joy.

A joy that shrank. Its borders pulled in, darkness replacing it. Diane didn't care caught as she was. She just watched, felt the blackness compress her. Smaller, smaller, and then she was gone.

Undeath

Diane's awareness came back in a blood red haze. Her mouth held a taste of liquid. She knew what it was, knew that she needed it. She was desperately hungry for it.

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up from the prone position she was in. She was on the floor, lying on a large plastic sheet. Snarling, she looked for something to feed on.

She felt as much as saw an object flying towards her. Snatching it out of the air she found it was a soft, clear container. And she knew instantly what the red fluid in it was.

Ripping the neck off, she tilted her head back and poured the contents into her mouth. Diane was too famished to be fastidious and much of the liquid sluiced down her bone white skin. The taste wasn't quite right, stale almost, but Diane gulped it down. She needed this. She was finished in seconds and wiping her body clean with her hands she licked away the scarlet coating her fingers.

There came that sense of something in the air and another container landed in her hands. Again she ripped the neck loose and drank. She was more careful this time. The edge was off her hunger and she wasted less.

Another container came. Diane sank her fangs in it, sucked its contents out. The taste was still not quite right, but she reveled in it as she had once enjoyed the finest chocolate.

There was another bag, and another. And more after that. She drained them all.

With a sharp abruptness, her hunger vanished and her reason returned. Diane stared at her blood stained hands, became aware of what she was sitting in. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. There was no vocalization for what she felt.

She was in his arms then. “There, chére, there. The first is the worst. Yours wasn't so bad. When I was made, there was no way to store blood. So my maker had people ready. I fed on two of them to their deaths."

Diane held hard to him, the anchor she needed. Without him she would be lost, lost to what she had become.

He stood and produced a towel. Pulling her to her feet he ran it over her mopping up the mess of her first meal.

"Shower, love.” He led her towards the enclosure. “You'll feel much better after you're clean."

Starting the water, warm, he placed both of them in the cubicle. His hands gently soaped her, caressed her. Diane's fear receded. She discovered she had other pleasures, simpler pleasures, happy pleasures. Free of the effluvia left by what she now was, she felt free of its drives. It seemed she hadn't lost much after all.

They dried each other with fluffy towels, exchanging soft kisses. When done they embraced again, happy with this intimate moment. Diane felt an extra happiness knowing this was just the first of an eternity of nights.

"Georges?” she asked. “I feel something. Something odd. I feel like I'm fading."

What she was experiencing was disturbingly similar to the moments before she changed.

"Dawn's coming, love. We must sleep."

He led her to the bed. They lay down, her back spooned up into his chest. He stroked her, comforted her. Diane smiled, closed her eyes. Almost none of her earlier confusion and terror was felt. She simply felt like a woman who was loved.

The instant the sun came up, she slept.

Beginning

Diane Patterson came awake. The sun was down and she was free. Free to hunt, free to feed. Free to terrorize and free to kill. She looked forward to it.

Her eyes twitched open. She didn't know where she was. She didn't know who she was. Diane looked frantically around, searching for clues, anchors to draw her from the strange place she found herself.

The pair of arms held loosely around her torso pulled her tight to the body pressed against her back. “Shh, mon amour,” came a voice. “You're here. The first waking is always confusing."

Diane felt herself fill with loving warmth. She knew where she was now. With the man she loved.

No! Not a man! The memories from the previous night rushed back. “God,” she moaned, “what have I done?” A dreadful bewilderment coloured her voice.

He rolled her to face him. For the third time she saw him without his mask. His face was that beautiful, inhuman monster she had first glimpsed over three years ago. To her surprise he didn't frighten her. Instead, she became aware that she looked the same. She felt the different shape of her features and it frightened her. She struggled in his grip, meaning to run, hide from herself.

He held her tight. “No my love, watch."

Wide eyed, she did. The next instant, the man she remembered was there, his blue eyes loving and warm. Diane's terror calmed as her love rose to meet his.

"You try,” he directed. “Recall what you looked like when human. Push that memory to your face."

She did so. And she knew her own features had changed. No one who had known her before would be able to tell what she now was. It was then Diane noted the lack of colour in her lover's skin, bone white. She glanced at her own. Hers was the same shade. No human was coloured so. She looked at him, concerned.

And his skin flushed, changed hue until he was merely pale.

"Feel your power, Diane. The blood in your stomach. Concentrate, take a small piece of it, spread it around your body."

Diane did as he asked, and it was how he described. She took the blood, moved it. Holding an arm up she saw she was now camouflaged as well.

"See, chére?” He smiled. “You have choices. You need not be a monster. You're free to do as you want, not as it wishes.

"And the most important thing hasn't changed. I still love you."

Joy burst in Diane's soul at that. He did love her, she could see it. And she still loved him. Without thought, her head darted forward and she kissed him, to show him how she felt. He answered with equal fervor.

It was then Diane noticed something odd. She felt where his hands touched, felt the lust and warmth he raised, but her body did not react to the emotions she was experiencing. Neither her nipples nor her clit got hard. Her skin didn't slick with sweat to respond to the heat that filled her. Her vagina didn't release the lubricants needed to aid penetration. In fact, she didn't feel the need to be penetrated at all.

Now the discovery of what she'd lost struck her. She was dead. Her body couldn't respond. She had passed beyond it. Her flesh was now just something that carried her soul around.

She broke their kiss with a frightened gasp, looked into her lover's eyes and knew her face held the shock she felt.

"Shh, chére,” he responded. “It doesn't matter. You still exist, still feel, still love. And people such as us have a different consummation. Let me show you."

He sat up, cross legged. Lifting her up, he set her in his lap, her legs gripping his hips. He played again. Mouth working, lips nibbling, hands fondling, he played again at her sensitive spots. Grabbing one of her ass cheeks he pulled her close, rubbed her labia against the skin of his stomach.

And Diane felt his touch. He was right. Her body didn't matter, its state didn't matter. She still had all the emotions of the living and that was the significant fact. Kissing him hard once more, she returned his gestures, worked to make him feel as good as she did.

He pulled away. Taking her left wrist, he bought it to his mouth. At the same time he raised his arm to her.

Diane knew what to do, what he offered. Without thought she grabbed his limb, extended her fangs and sank them into his flesh. At the same instant, he fed from her.

An ecstasy as great as any she had known exploded in Diane. The blood she drank was full, full of the man she loved. She could taste his intellect, his learning, his courage, his restraint, his warm emotions, his love for her. Laced through it was his darkness; his hunger, his rage, his cold malevolence, his tenebrous joy. It was delicious beyond anything Diane had ever imagined. She wanted to drink until there was nothing left.

A voice drifted through her carnal haze. It spoke a name. She cared not at all. The word made no sense to her, was of no interest.

The voice spoke more forcefully, demanding her attention. She knew it was her name that was called. Her awareness returned to answer that call. What the voice said now made sense. “Diane, you'll destroy me. And yourself."

Her will took hold of her hunger and slammed it into the recesses of her mind. The thirst snarled there, and waited for the next time it came out. And Diane knew it would come back. She'd never be free of it.

Pulling her head away from his wrist, Diane leaned back. His eyes caught hers and she saw he was proud of her. She smiled, knowing how much he thought of her, believed in her.

"You see, my love?” he said. “You'll always have a choice. You'll always be strong enough for that."

They embraced again. Diane snuggled into him. Her mind was a swirl of emotions and she held tight to her anchor, her maker, her lover. She felt her love for him and his for her. She felt the expectancy of a new and very different world waiting for her. She felt the being she had become in its malignant delights and baneful wants. All this filled her with such a bitter joy she wanted to cry.

But she knew she'd never cry again.

Fin

You Can't Go Home Again

Today

As they've all been for the last ten months, it's been a good night.

Diane and I rise with the setting of the sun. We bathe together, a ritual that binds us, reminds us of what we feel. After that we dress, chatting. We rarely run out of things to talk about. When we do the silence is warm and full, not empty, begging to be filled with words. Her French is now almost as good as my English. We're at the point where we change languages in mid-paragraph. It gives our conversations a delightful shading and rhythm.

Then we go to the large loft we've rented. We've set it up as a training ground. Diane needs to become accustomed to the physical abilities of our kind. As with humans, the more an ability is used the more potent it is.

Diane can now lift over 300 kilos of dead weight and she could knock three seconds off the world record in the 100 metre dash, assuming they held it at night. I've also devised exercises for balance and agility. Both those traits are now impressive, even for people such as us.

Other exercises are designed to use these traits at less than their maximum. Accidentally using them in public can be very dangerous to us. The first few times she used the heavy bag she punched a hole in it. It's been months since we've had to replace it. Her control is now fine tuned.

She still hasn't manifested some of the more outré physical powers. She can't form claws, create a veil of shadows or sink into the earth yet. I don't know when they'll appear, but they're handy skills, not necessary ones. Her empathic abilities are coming along well, although she can't yet directly affect a person's mind.

Diane can use the power that lets her move at a speed far beyond any living thing. It takes a great deal of concentration, and blood. I make sure to have some available when I test her, to make sure the monster doesn't take control through hunger. Still, she can press the timing buttons I've set up in each corner of the loft in a little under two seconds.

I've been training her as well in hand-to-hand combat. I'm hardly an expert but conflict has often been a part of my existence. It will be for Diane as well so I help her with the skills she'll probably need. She is a very good pupil and a rather nasty infighter. I've had to heal more than a few broken bones. I hurt her less often, but those occasions allow her to practice repairing herself.

We exercise for an hour and then proceed about our night. We wander the streets of Paris, watch the humans as they go about their lives. Buskers, street artists, tourists, natives, all give the two of us something to observe and enjoy. Stopping in a jazz club we listen to a band visiting from America. They're very good and the quiet joy of their music enriches us.

We also find our evening meal there, a lovely young lady from Rome. I let Diane lead the seduction, an exercise in using her empathic powers. She has a natural skill at it. We end up in our prey's hotel room. Pleasuring her to the brink of madness, we feed at the moment of her climax.

As we feed frequently, Diane and I don't take much. When done we leave the woman sated, happy and weak. It will be a very pleasant memory for her.

I've made sure the two of us hunt together. This early in her existence it's too easy for the monster to slip her control. Bitter experience taught me this fact. I don't want her to carry the burden of someone's death. And because bodies can raise questions I stay close to make sure the darkness in her remains contained.

Now we're sitting on a bench at the bank of the Seine, relaxed, full, watching the water flow past us. As always, we're snuggled together, enjoying the presence of the person we love.

However I sense a tenseness in her. I recall she's often had a pensive look on her face over the last month. I don't inquire, she'll tell me her thoughts when she's ready.

Which is now.

"Georges?” she asks. Her arms draw me tighter as she does.

"Oui, chére?"

"I want to go home."

This isn't good. “I'm not sure that's wise, love."

Diane squeezes tightly. “I know. But I feel the need. I want to see where I grew up, visit friends and family. I want to see them, remember who I was. I, I feel me fading, Georges. Who I used to be doesn't seem quite real anymore. That scares me. I've never worried about losing touch before. Maybe if I can make who I was more real I won't be scared anymore."

For a moment I prepare arguments to turn her from her goal. And then, as always, I find I can't refuse her. She means too much to me.

"All right, chére,” I assent, placing a soft peck on her forehead. “We'll go see Marcel tomorrow."

Diane smiles brightly, sits up and gives me a loving kiss. After a minute she pulls away. Her eyebrows rise in curiosity. “Who's Marcel?"

"My travel agent."

* * * *

Two months later we are traveling through the warm summer night in our RV. Diane is driving. I can drive, but it's a skill learned late and I'm not good at it. She, like most modern people, started driving as soon as she was able and is very comfortable behind the wheel. Even in a vehicle as large as this one.

I'm in the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard, seat leaned back. Through the open window the smell of ripening crops, fruit in orchards, farm animals, and a skunk waft into the cab. Luckily the last animal is distant. With our sense of smell a skunk is even more unpleasant for us than for humans.

We had decided to make a vacation of our trip. People like us can't fly. It's almost impossible to have a plane take off and land in a single night. I doubt passengers bursting into flame over the mid-Atlantic is something that would stay out of the news.

So Marcel set up a long, pleasant journey for us. We drove from Paris to Monaco, stopping at a house designed for our kind to sleep in along the way. After two nights in the Principality, gambling, wandering, we boarded a ship where we had an interior suite. That sailed to Majorca, Barcelona and then Lisbon.

We changed ships to travel the Atlantic. We enjoyed it very much. Walking the decks at night, haunting the bars and ballroom, it was a pleasant voyage.

Docking in New York we spent a week there. I'd lived in the city for many years, off and on, so I showed Diane some of it. The museums, a show on Broadway, little places tourists wouldn't visit. She hunted on her own for the first time there, and she did very well. Her prey never knew what happened. More importantly, Diane's meal survived.

Then we picked up our RV which was modified for vampiric use. All the windows can be shuttered. The interior where the bed is has walls and tightly sealed doors so we can sleep in it if need be. Plus it has other luxuries such as a satellite linkup for entertainment purposes and internet access. A small fridge holds blood for emergencies.

From New York we traveled south, visiting important Civil War battlefields. Although I'd been here in America at that time I'd stayed in New York where the war never reached. I did see some of the draft riots but that was it for excitement.

Diane, being from the South, is enthralled with the war. Every battlefield we stop at she gives me a running commentary as we wander through it. It's a change of roles for us, one I don't mind at all. I find it refreshing to learn that I don't know much. And Diane's knowledge, intelligence and enthusiasm fire up my passion for her. Often we interrupt our tours with happy lovemaking. She always scolds me for being a lecher, and kisses me to show she doesn't mind at all.

Our trip south has been slow; three weeks from New York. Now we're in Mississippi and an hour from Diane's family. I look at her, her face is happy but her body is tense.

I lean over and kiss her cheek. “Don't worry, chére, It will be fine."

She takes her eyes off the road for a moment, smiles at me. “Merci.” Turning back she remarks in English, “I wish I could turn the headlights off, the glare isn't very pleasant. I don't need them anyway these days."

"But,” I smile at her, “a vehicle without lights will draw attention."

"I know. I don't like hiding all the time."

"You'll get used to it. Put your sunglasses on if the light's that much bother."

She does, and chuckles. “Sunglasses at night. Am I cool or what?"

I grin at her, I love her sense of humour. We fall into silence and enjoy the drive. The smells change, less crops, more fruit. A coyote hustles across the road at one point.

"Oh look!” exclaims Diane. “It's Red's. It's still open!” Her voice is infused with happy memories.

Looking out the front windshield I see we're approaching a long, low building of wood construction. A large parking lot surrounds it, full of vehicles. As you would expect there are as many pickup trucks as cars. A hint of both steel and acoustic guitars drifts in the RV's window, the odour of beer and people crowded together accompanies it. A large neon sign at the juncture of the lot and the road proclaims the name of the place. There's not a lot of exterior lighting though, just single floods on each wall.

"An old haunt of yours, chére?"

"Yeah. I spent a lot of nights here before I went to university. It's a fun place to hang."

"Then let's spend another night there. You wanted to come back. This looks like a good place to start."

A big smile forms on my love's face, her eyes dance. “I was hoping you'd say that."

She pilots our vehicle into the parking area as we come to the sign. The lot is crowded. We have to park at the back, right at the edge of a field. We exit our vehicle, lock it and proceed to the front door hand in hand. Turning the corner, we mount the stairs and walk along the covered porch that runs the width of the building. There are a number of people out here, leaning against walls and posts, smoking, talking.

I examine them closely as this is a new venue for me. There are those traits that I know from other rural areas. They show the wear of working in the fields. Much less so than similar people from two centuries ago, but their life of hard outdoor labour shows on their faces and hands. Their clothes are practical and relaxed.

Another attribute I associate with rural areas shows as well, suspicion of outsiders. It's not strong but it is there. This suspicion is covered by a trait I've heard about the South, courtesy. As we come to each individual or group, they nod and greet us with words flavoured with drawl of the region.

I have to glance at Diane when she returns them. In the years she spent away from here, and the year with me, her accent has faded. Now it's back full force. I do love the sound of it, it suits her.

I nod back as well and reply, “Bon soir.” I could easily fake an American accent of some description but I don't want to hide while Diane's being so open.

The reaction is mixed, but largely positive. People look surprised, smile and welcome me to America. I smile back and thank them in English.

One person though, makes a face as if someone had shoved feces in his mouth. He turns from us and hawks a large glob of phlegm into the parking lot.

I tighten a bit, I can feel Diane's hand tremble. But we shove our monsters down and enter the bar proper.

Inside, it's fairly well lit and rather crowded. The age of the patrons covers a wide range but most are younger than Diane. There's a fair bit of tobacco smoke in the air, something I find surprising as that habit is banned in so many other areas. There's a dance area in the back, where a small band belts out songs in the old Country and Western mode. They're rather good.

Off to our left a half dozen pool tables are in use. One group of players and watchers draws my scrutiny for a moment. Something in their posture and their faces shows an unsupported arrogance. They're all unshaven and their clothes less than clean. The people at the neighboring tables are careful to watch them and not intrude on their space.

The leader of the group is a large man, built somewhere between solid and fat. He has a florid, unpleasant face, damps spots show under the armpits of his stained T-shirt. The man who spit outside approaches him and directs his attention our way. The heavy set person shows a malignant smile as his gaze comes to rest on us.

Diane turns us in the opposite direction, towards the bar on the right wall. She squeezes my hand very hard. “Shit!” she mutters. “Why of all nights did that asshole have to be here?"

"You know him?"

"Yeah. Dwayne Coltrane and ‘friends'. A finer collection of turds in the punchbowl of life you'll never meet.” Her words are filled with loathing.

"They won't be any trouble for people like us. Remember that, love."

She turns her head and smiles at me. “Yeah, I keep forgetting. Thanks, chér.” She rises on her toes to give me a quick kiss.

We arrive at the bar and Diane nudges her way between two men. I stand a little behind letting her lead, this is her world. The person on her right glances at her, an expression of surprise fills his face. Then he turns towards her with a wide smile. “Diane?"

My love turns to look at him, and wraps him in a hug. “Tim!” she squeals. “It's good to see you!"

He returns the gesture. Then, with a bit of edge to his voice Tim asks, “Uh? Could you ease off? I'd like to breathe."

Her mouth grimacing in chagrin, Diane lets him go. “Sorry. I've been exercising."

Tim draws a deep breath to flex his ribs. “Tell me what the system is,” he says, “it works."

The woman behind Tim leans away from the bar and says, “Hands off my man, girl.” The look on her face is amused though, and the words carry the sound of an old joke.

Diane beams at her. “Patti! You two still together?"

Patti steps next to Tim and places her arm around his waist. “Yep. Closing on fifteen years now.” She smiles the same sort of smile I see on Diane's face when she looks at me.

"What brings you back?” Patti goes on.

"I've been away too long,” explains Diane. “I needed to see how things are here. And I wanted to show the person I fell in love with where I came from."

Tim and Patti both smile broadly at that. “We're so happy for you,” Tim tells her. The two of them look out to the crowd. “Is she here?” he goes on. “Can we meet her?"

Diane turns her head to me and reaches out. Stepping forward, I take her hand, face the other couple and say, “I'm not a she,” with a slight smile.

I believe the correct term for the looks on their faces is ‘gobsmacked'.

"Huh?” is Tim's remark.

"What?” comes from Patti.

"Georges Belleveau,” I tell them, extending my free hand. “Comment-allez vous?"

It takes a couple of seconds before they react. Patti recovers first and takes my outstretched palm. “Pleased to meet you,” she says. Tim follows his wife's lead. Their expressions are still befuddled.

Diane chuckles. “You aren't half as surprised as I was. But there it is. Who knows where your heart can lead you?"

The other couple smiles for an instant. A moment later, their expression slides back to confusion with a small and growing amount of concern.

"I'm rather tired, love. Let's find a place to sit down."

I think it would be wise for us to be away from Patti and Tim. It seems Diane has changed too much. If they think on it too long, they might start to penetrate the obfuscations with which we surround ourselves. They might discover far more than my love's sexual preference has changed. That wouldn't be a healthy thing for them to do.

"Good idea. I'm beat too. All that time on the road.” She pulls a wallet from her jeans and takes money out. Leaving it on the bar, she picks up the beers she ordered and hands one to me. Looking at her friends Diane says, “We'll see you later."

"Yeah,” Tim tells her, “if you want. We're still at the same place."

"We're going to my folks. We'll stop by if we get the chance. Nice to see you two again.” She leans forward just a touch, her arms start to rise. Then she pulls back. Although she's become skilled at hiding her feelings from others, I can read her too well. Diane knows her friends won't be comfortable with her touch now.

"Same here,” Patti says. “See you.” Her arms repeat Diane's action. Another wave of confusion passes over their faces, which then become rather sad. Tim and Patti don't know why, but they feel this is a ‘good bye’ moment rather than a ‘see you'

Hand in hand, we wander into the crowd. After a short search we are fortunate enough to find a booth being vacated. We sit ourselves down and pretend to drink from our bottles.

"I'm not happy about that,” Diane says. “Patti used to be a really good friend. Tim too. I haven't seen them for years but I thought I knew them.” Her countenance takes on a bleak cast. “I sure didn't expect them to react that way."

"As you said, love, it's been years. And you've been elsewhere, learning new things, becoming the person you are. They stayed behind. You've grown apart, a little.” I lean closer so I can whisper. “People, both them and us, are often disconcerted by the way others change."

She smiles at me, leans over to give a quick kiss. “Thanks.” Pulling back she remarks, “I hope it goes better with my folks."

"It shall, I'm sure,” I'm certain it's going to be difficult but she needs reassurance more than wisdom right now.

We watch the crowd for a while, Diane looking at something familiar and with a different perspective than before, me on something new. We make observations, occasionally comment on the desirability of a person as a meal.

Twice we're approached by people who knew her. The encounters are always short and bittersweet. They knew Diane as a gay girl. The apparent change in status to straight woman is hard for them to handle. I suspect they sense other things have changed as well.

Technically we're neither straight, gay, nor any particular gender. She snickers when I whisper that observation in her ear. It fades quickly though and her bleak expression returns.

The band starts up a slow ballad. I sense an opportunity. Standing, I extend my hand. “Would the lady give me the honour of this dance?"

Diane smiles broadly, and takes my hand. “But of course, kind sir."

Fingers entwined we go to the dance floor. We wrap our arms around each other and pull close. We don't perform any particular steps, just move with the music. The feel of her in my embrace is as it always is, wonderful. She fills me, her presence drives the darkness deep within me, compresses it to a point where I can hardly notice it and where it takes no effort on my part to control. Content, I smile and lean my head against hers, complete.

Diane reacts the same way. She had been tense when we started dancing. In moments, her state is relaxed, calm. She runs her hands over my back, pleasuring herself with the feel of me.

The music ends and we step away from each other. “Thank you,” she says to me, her warm smile shaping her features. “De rien, your happiness and comfort is more important than mine."

We move back together and share a kiss. We must hold it longer than we thought for someone remarks, “Get a room."

We break apart and smile at that person. He grins back, gives a thumbs up and continues leading his partner through their dance.

We find our booth taken and our beers gone when we return. Good. We'd been pretending for a little too long. An observant person might have noticed we weren't actually drinking. We head back to the bar to replace them. I stand a couple of metres away while Diane goes up to the bar.

At the moment she steps away, Dwayne emerges from the crowd. Stopping a metre from my lady he gives her that nasty smile. “Hey brain,” he drawls, contempt shaping his words. “Been a while. Come back looking for something?"

Diane's face goes cold, her mouth forms a grim line. “I'm back to visit my parents. Not that it's any of your business."

"You can't kid me. You came back looking for a man, a real man.” He puts on an arrogant sneer. “Here I am."

She blinks at him, and chuckles. “Get real, Dwayne. There's two problems with that idea. First, I've already got a man.” She turns and reaches for me.

I step up, take her hand and smile at her antagonist. “Bon soir,” I smile at him. I can feel a touch of a gloat in my expression.

Dwayne's mouth drops, his eyes go wide.

"The other problem is you're not a man. Being a man requires traits you can't even spell."

His reaction is to turn beet red. Dwayne's lips pull back in a grimace of fury and his fists clench.

Before he can act Diane turns us away and leads us into the press of people. Her hand holds me very tight. A quiet growl comes from her throat.

I lean over and kiss her cheek. “Nicely done. Have I said lately how much I love your wit?"

She looks at me and gives me her warm smile. “Not for a couple of hours now."

"Then consider it done."

Another booth opens up and we take it. We sit, hands together, soaking up the ambiance of this establishment and the emotions of the people in it. It's a drama people like my love and I cannot participate in, but enjoy watching. One of the biggest dangers of our existence is to wander too far from the world, to only see humans as food.

Such a mindset is dangerous. It could cause us to perform actions that might alert the mortals to our presence. Although we are much more powerful individually we are greatly outnumbered. And our weaknesses are as great as our powers.

The crowd shifts a little, and a woman steps from it in our direction. She's average in height and build, with brown eyes that contain a great depth. Her chocolate skin is smooth while her hair is short and tightly kinked. A happy smile is fixed on her face and her gaze is on my lady.

Letting go of my hand, my sweetheart rises from our booth. Diane meets the black woman as she arrives at our table. They wrap their arms around each other in a warm hug. “Ginny!"

"Hi, Diane.” Her head turns and kisses my love's cheek.

She gasps then, and steps back. Her eyes are wide with astonishment, her mouth slack. She blinks. Her face goes blank, her lips tighten to a thin, fearful line. “N ... nice to see you again. I ... I can't stay. See you.” She turns back into the crowd, her steps quick, almost a trot.

I rise and take Diane in my embrace from behind. This can't be good. Her body is tense. A little noise of pain trembles in her chest.

"Oh crap,” she whispers. Turning her head to me she says, “We'd better go, Georges. Now. I'll explain on the way.” She pulls herself from my grip and heads for the front door.

I catch up and we leave Red's. Once we're off the porch we're nearly alone. No one is close enough to hear as Diane speaks in a low voice. “I'd forgotten. Ginny's grandmother and mother had ... a reputation. People went to them for help, for advice about the future, or to find out about things in the past. They were usually right. Ginny didn't have that reputation. But Ginny was, insightful. I think she knows, Georges."

"That's not good. This is your world, chére. What should we do?"

Diane's shoulders hunch. She knows, and understands, that humans shouldn't know about us. She doesn't want to do what our people usually do to mortals who know.

"Let's find her. We can decide then."

"We've found her.” We're approaching our vehicle and a person is sitting on the back bumper.

Ginny rises as we draw close. Her face is pensive, a touch of fear shows in her eyes. Leaning forward just a little with her arms pressed tightly to her sides, she braces herself for what is to come.

Diane and I walk until we're a couple of steps away. We check as we go, making sure that there are no witnesses, if we have to do what we have to do. We reach for one another and interlace our fingers. I'm struck how much we depend on one another for strength.

Diane's friend watches. As we take one another's hands the fear in her features fade a little. Her mouth smiles, just a bit. Her eyes gain that puzzled look that is becoming familiar.

"Hi Ginny."

"Hello Diane.” The black woman's voice is flat, none of the emotion in her shows in her voice. “That is if you are Diane."

"I am. Changed a little, but still me."

"I'm not sure. It was a joy reading you back when. You were so bright, so sharp. Something's gone now. Something else has been added, something dark. You look and sound like Diane. But you don't feel much like her now."

My love squeezes my hand very hard. I ignore the pain. Stepping behind her I wrap my free arm around her. She needs me, I know.

"What happened?” asks Ginny.

"I fell in love.” The hand not holding me comes up and grips my forearm. I can feel tension leave her as she does. “Georges asked me to stay with him. I accepted. It was my choice. I'm very happy I did."

Ginny frowns, her head pulls back a little. “Can something like you fall in love?"

A quick flash of anger shoots through me. Diane strains against my embrace for a moment. Neither of us likes to be judged. I push down that emotion. She relaxes as well.

"We feel everything you feel, Ginny. Love, happiness, pain, grief.” Diane trembles a little. “The only real differences are physical. You should know how little those matter."

The other woman nods after a second. Much of the fear fades from her face. “I suppose."

Diane lets go of me, spreads her arms and steps forward, but her friend recoils.

Stepping back Ginny says, “I, I'm sorry. You're not the person I knew. I can't."

My love slumps and I wrap her in my arms again. Her hands come up to her opposite shoulders, cover her chest in a gesture to protect her from the cold. She huddles against me.

Ginny turns, takes a step away. Pausing, her head swivels to us. “Don't worry. I'll keep your secret. I saw a lot of your ways when I touched you. Understandable. I have to do much the same. I know how people are about different.” She rolls her eyes. “And I just showed I'm not much better.” Refocusing her gaze she continues. “I'll say nothing. Who'd believe me? How would I explain I know what you are from reading your soul?"

I turn my head a little to look at Diane. She makes a very small nod of confirmation.

Turning back to her former friend, she speaks. “Okay, Ginny.” Her voice is clipped, the tones rather formal. “I trust you. I've never doubted your honesty. Sorry things turned out the way they did."

"Me too. Good bye, Diane.” She walks away not looking back.

My lady watches, staying very still. She remains that way for a minute, long after her lost friend has vanished from sight. Then she shakes herself, steps out of my arms. “We'd better go, love,” she says. “It's getting early.” Turning her face to me, she gives a quick smile. That vanishes into misery.

We re-enter our vehicle and start out of the lot. “Do you want to get to your family tonight?” I ask.

Diane ponders for a moment. “No. I wouldn't want to wake them up. Let's head to that campground a few miles back."

"D'accord,” We can sleep there and arrive at her parents early tomorrow night.

We're about halfway to our destination when I notice another vehicle appear in the rear view mirror. A pickup truck, moving fast. The echo of several men giving ‘Rebel Yells’ comes to me. It quickly overtakes us and pulls up on Diane's side, disappearing from my view.

"Oh, for Christ's sake."

"What?"

"It's Dwayne and his buddies. I've got a shotgun pointed at me. They're signaling me to follow them."

"Oh lets,” I tell her. “This might be fun."

Her eyes dart to me and she grins. “It might at that.” The wide smile vanishes and she sets her jaw. It's only the second time she's been in conflict since her change. That time wasn't as serious as this one. I can see she's rather nervous.

The pickup pulls in front. There are three men in the bed. The one with the shotgun keeps it on her. Another points a pistol at me. The third man, the one who spit, lounges against the cab, a baseball bat across his knees.

A kilometre further on the truck pulls onto a lane and shortly after that into a field. We follow. They halt so that their vehicle is perpendicular to the nose of our RV and about ten metres away. The men in the back jump to the ground and bring their weapons to bear once more. Dwayne climbs from the driver's seat and the fifth man comes into view. They gather in a loose line a metre from their pickup.

"Come on out, darlin',” drawls the big man. “We got some things to talk about."

Diane turns off the engine but leaves the headlights on. We exit our vehicle and move to the front of it at our assailant's command. The man with the shotgun comes forward, stands to my right, covering us both.

"Come ‘ere,” Dwayne directs Diane, curling a finger at her. “We want to make sure that man of yours gets a good view."

She steps forward with a relaxed gait. I can see she's not the least bit concerned with what's about to happen. The four men by the truck watch her approach.

I turn my face to the man covering me. He smiles back. I can see he's itching for me to make a move so he can pull the trigger. Gazing into his eyes, I bury his will in mine. His face slackens. “Don't move a muscle or make a sound,” I order a low voice.

Nodding in Diane's direction I direct him to watch. Letting go, he does as he's told. A quivering of his lips and the terror in his eyes show how alarmed he is at his sudden helplessness.

I return my attention to Diane. She stops a metre away from Dwayne. He and the others leer at her. I hardly blame them for that.

"I never liked you, bitch,” states the florid faced man. “I don't like dykes. I don't like smart asses. If you'd gotten some decent cock, that would have changed.” Dwayne looks at me. “And when you do decide to get some cock it's with some fucking cheese eater."

I keep my face impassive but snicker inside. It's been over two centuries since I ate any cheese.

"Tonight, bitch,” Dwayne goes on, “you're going to get all the good American cock you can take. That skinny bastard over there is going to watch. When we're done your bodies will go into an old well and we'll find something useful to do with your RV."

He steps up to Diane, his hands reach out and squeeze her breasts. Her hands come up to his chest. Dwayne smiles a vicious smile, thinking Diane is helpless.

Then he flies through the air.

He slams into the driver's door of the pickup, shattering the glass and leaving a man shaped dent in the metal.

His compatriots stand frozen with amazement.

Diane bounces to the man holding the pistol. She pushes it down and away. Her left foot comes up between his legs, lifting him a good ten centimetres in the air. His gun discharges into the ground and he collapses.

Taking two swift steps to her right, Diane buries her fist in the torso of the man on that side. The sound of his sternum breaking cracks though the air. He goes to his knees, gagging on his pain.

The man with the baseball bat snaps free of his astonishment. Howling, he swings his weapon at her. My love turns in his direction and grabs it with her left hand, stopping him dead. He pushes at it trying to complete his attack. She doesn't budge. He tries to pull it free of her grip. That's not successful either. He grows puzzled, and I see him wondering how a slip of a woman can hold her own against him.

Without effort, Diane takes his weapon and slams it against his jaw, shattering his mandible. He goes full length to the ground. Diane corrects her grip, steps forward and brings the bat high. Her mask slips and the monster she is comes out.

"Chére! No!” I shout.

She turns and glares, hell in her eyes. “Don't come between me and my prey,” she snarls. Her voice has almost no humanity in it at all.

My own darkness rises to meet her. I don't like being challenged any more than she does. But I seize it, push it down. “Diane,” I say quietly, “No."

She holds still for a moment. The woman I love returns, gives me a weak smile. “Thanks, chér. I wouldn't want to dirty my hands with these assholes."

A whimper sounds to my right, and the smell of urine permeates the air. I look at the man with the shotgun. “Drop it."

He does.

"My lady, isn't she magnificent?” I follow that with a right cross to his jaw that lays him out.

I walk toward Diane and she toward me. We embrace, lay a warm kiss on the other's mouth. “Well done."

"Thanks.” She smiles. “That was fun. These guys have been needing a shit kicking for a while now.” Diane looks at the limp forms scattered about. “What ever shall we do with them?"

In answer, I lead her to the man I've knocked out. “I think it's time for you to try a little something.” I bend, grab his collar and sit him up. “I'll bring him around. You try to control him. Meet his eyes, you'll be able to feel him, his mind. Concentrate, grab it. Then plant some memories. And remove his ones of us."

She nods and kneels and pauses for a moment. “I'm ready."

I squeeze his earlobe hard. With a gasp he comes awake. And then goes slack, his eyes fixed on Diane.

"Oh, cool,” she remarks. “I can feel him, he's open to me."

"Feed him a story. Make sure he doesn't remember us."

"Okay.” She pauses again, then speaks to him. “You didn't see us after we left Red's. You and your buddies went looking but didn't find us. You did find some bikers who beat the shit out of you. You have no idea where we went to or what we are.” She lets his mind go and I slap him into unconsciousness.

"Will that hold up, Georges?"

"It doesn't matter. As long as they don't remember us. Or what we are. Any authorities will be baffled but they won't know about us. Now let's fix the rest of them. Wipe down the baseball bat, it's got your prints on it."

We clean up, get back in our vehicle and head to the campground. Diane's smile shows much less tension. On arrival we rent a spot for the day. We connect power and water then spend some time relaxing, Diane online while I read.

Dawn approaches and we close up. Shutters come down and are locked. We get undressed, close off our sleeping area and climb into bed. Spooned together, we wait for the sun.

"That was an interesting night,” Diane says.

"It was. Merci, chére."

"Why thank me?"

"Because I got to spend it with you."

She wriggles against me. The sun comes up and we know no more.

* * * *

We rise with the sunset. The shower is too small for both of us so we have to take turns. Ladies first, of course. When Diane finishes I clean myself. I hear her brush her teeth at the sink, get dressed and go outside. She likes being outdoors and is always the first out of where ever we're staying.

I finish my toilette, then start opening shutters. I'm opening the last one at the very back when a police cruiser rolls past. ‘Sheriff’ is written in large letters on the side of it. I can tell from the play of lights that it pulls up in front of our RV. Concerned, I head to the side exit.

I hear a car door open. “Excuse me, ma'am,” I hear a deep female voice say. That's followed by a sudden gasp. “Diane?"

"Carol!” responds my love.

At that point, I open the door and peer out. A medium sized woman with short dark hair, solidly built and dressed in a deputy's uniform has her arms wrapped around my lady. Diane is returning her hug.

The deputy pulls her head from Diane's shoulder, leans it forward aiming her lips at Diane's mouth. My love turns her to catch the kiss on her cheek. The dark haired woman jerks her head back, eyes surprised and her lips shaped with confusion.

I walk up to them. “Bon soir, deputy. Can we help you?"

Diane takes herself from the other woman's arms. She steps back, next to me. Our hands automatically reach for each other.

The deputy's mouth drops in astonishment and she stands still for several seconds. Her eyes glitter for a moment before she closes them, wipes an arm across her face. When she opens them again, she shows only her profession. “Perhaps, Mr.?"

"Belleveau, Georges Belleveau."

Carol pulls out her notebook and jots that down.

"Where are you from, Mr. Belleveau?"

"Paris,” I tell her, pronouncing it properly, “France."

"And you, ma'am?"

"You don't need to be so formal, Carol,” Diane tells her. “But I'm still Diane Patterson. And I'm living with Georges now."

The deputy shivers for a moment, the corners of her mouth dip downward. Firming up she asks, “And what is your purpose in our county?"

"We're tourists,” I tell her, “on our way to visit my love's family.” I lift Diane's hand to my mouth and kiss it.

A small whine sounds from Carol's throat.

I sigh inside. It's obvious she and Diane share a history. I had better lessen my displays of affection, I don't want to hurt someone who my lady cares about.

Carol manages a weak smile, her professional mien fades for a moment. “Your folks are doing good. I talked to them last week. They didn't know you were coming."

"We wanted to make it a surprise,” Diane tells her.

"It will be.” Carol lifts her pad and continues questioning us. “Were you at the establishment known as Red's last night?"

"Oui. We drove by it and Diane told me she had happy memories of that place. So we went in and had a couple of drinks. We saw some old friends of hers and talked to them."

"Could I get those people's names, please?"

We mention Tim and Patti, as well as Ginny.

"Did either of you see the man known as Dwayne Coltrane or...” and Carol rattles off four more names.

"Dwayne?” Looking at Diane I say, “Wasn't he that unpleasant looking individual that accosted you?” I turn back to Carol. “I don't know any of those other names."

The deputy snickers. “'Unpleasant looking individual.’ You have a good eye for character, Mr. Belleveau. How about you, Diane?"

"Yeah. They were there. Dwayne tried coming on to me in his inimitable manner. I shot him down. You know how I feel about those assholes."

Carol nods. “Did you see them outside of Red's?"

"No, we left and came straight here."

The dark haired woman folds up her notebook. “Okay, thanks."

"May we ask what this is about, deputy?” I ask.

She ruminates for a second. Carol looks at Diane, and sighs. Looking at me there's a quick flash of jealousy. Her eyes go to the pad in her hands then come back up.

"Okay,” she starts. “Don't spread this around, but someone did a number on Dwayne and his friends last night."

"It couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch of people,” Diane remarks.

Carol grins. “I won't lose any sleep over it. But their story doesn't add up.

"They claim they were attacked by a group of bikers. But no one saw any bikers in the area last night, and bikers would have worked them over pretty good. All of Dwayne's friends suffered one incapacitating injury and nothing else.

"His injuries were more severe, but very odd. Someone threw him against his truck, hard enough to break limbs, ribs and his pelvis.” Carol's voice communicates her consternation to us. “You know how big he is. It's hard to believe anyone could do that. Maybe another big man, on PCP or something, could do it. But we haven't found anyone like that either. It's really strange."

Diane and I look at each other and give surprised stares. “I'll say,” remarks Diane, turning back. “I wish we could help more. Or are we under suspicion?” The tone of her voice is bantering.

Carol chuckles. “I don't think I need to worry about you two for some reason. You don't look like the types who could take out five armed men."

She puts her pad and pen away. Carol looks at Diane, her face carries a trace of melancholy. “Nice to see you again. Call the station and we'll get together."

"If I find the time, I will,” Diane assures her.

The deputy turns away and gets back in her car. Reversing it out to the trail, she pauses for a moment, looks at the two of us. Her lower lip quivers for a moment. She faces front and drives away.

Diane turns and hugs me.

As always, I return the gesture. “Someone you know, chére?"

"Yeah. She took my virginity."

"Ah."

"It was the summer before I went to university. She was the older sister of a friend of mine. Carol had just graduated and I went to pick her brain.

"I was very unsure of myself, sexually. None of the guys around here did it for me. There were rumours because I was so relentlessly single. I guess Carol had heard them. She seduced me. It was flattering, skillful and awfully exciting. No guy had really tried doing anything along the same lines.

"I gave in. It was fun. We had a hot relationship that summer. But it didn't stop me from going away. Nice as it was, it really wasn't what I was looking for. I hadn't realized until now that she might have fallen for me. So much for my feminine intuition."

"Don't feel bad.” I smile at her. “I'm not without intuition, and I have a couple of centuries experience with it. But I made the same mistake not too long ago."

"But we fixed that, didn't we love?"

Our mouths meet and we share the kiss that lets the other know how much we care.

Pulling my lips from hers I say, “We'd better get on the road. We don't want to arrive at your parents too late.” Diane nods and we go about preparing for the last leg of our trip.

We're on the road within ten minutes. Three quarters of an hour after that, Diane turns our RV up the driveway to her parent's home.

It's a two story wood building, blue with white trim. It has the porch so common to farmhouses in North America. There's a lot of ground free of trees surrounding it, quite a few acres it seems. About an acre around the house is a well-kept lawn, the rest is hay just starting to turn. There is a shed about ten metres to the left side of the house and a barn is fifty metres behind it. I smell the excrement of horses. We drive up to the house, stopping so that the passenger side is facing it.

A man comes out onto the porch. A stocky man about my height. Although at least seventy, he moves with the ease of someone much younger. I can tell where my love got her green eyes. His hair is white but I would bet it had been auburn once.

I open the door and climb to the ground. I hear Diane do the same.

"Can I help you, mister?” asks Diane's father. I don't bother to reply. Diane walks into sight. Instantly his face fills with a delighted expression.

At that moment a dog emerges from the front door with a clicking of nails on wood. A collie, getting on in years. It looks at us. And its head lowers, its tail goes between its legs. With a whine it backs away into the house. A moment later, I can hear it barreling up the stairs and to the farthest point it can reach.

I turn to look at Diane. Her face contains hurt and surprise. We don't often encounter animals in our world. They always know just what we are. In a city, our common hunting grounds, it's much less obvious to humans what causes the reaction we just observed. So we rarely have to worry about animals giving us away.

"I guess you've been away too long, chére."

She turns her face to mine, gives me a weak smile. “Yeah, I guess I have.” Looking at her father she greets, “Hi, Dad. I guess this is a surprise.” Her features warm, with more than a little apprehension showing.

Mr. Patterson looks back with the same expression. That troubles me. I had hoped any tension that developed would start later than this. Already things are starting to go wrong.

A voice emerges from inside, a woman's voice with a slight quaver of age to it. “Jim? Are you all right? The dog just ran by and he didn't look happy."

"Lilly, you'd better come see this."

The woman exits the house. I can see the physical relationship between her and my love immediately. They share identical builds although her mother is stooped a little with age. Blue eyed, her face is a sweet as Diane's despite the lines on it.

Lilly stops. She smiles widely and rushes forward, arms spread. Diane hustles to meet her. A moment later they are wrapped in a warm embrace. A moment after that her father joins them.

"Honey,” says Lilly after a quick kiss on the cheek, “it's so good to see you. I wish you'd given us some warning though."

"We didn't want to make a big fuss about it, Mom."

"You're looking a little pale,” her mother says next. “Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mom. I've never felt better in my life."

I manage to keep a quirk of amusement from showing at that observation.

Lilly's eyes focus on me. Her husband's do as well. I stay where I am. I'm not part of the family yet.

Diane pulls herself from her parents’ arms, steps back and takes my hand. “Mom, Dad. I'd like you to meet the man I fell in love with. Georges Belleveau."

"Bon soir, Monsieur et Madame Patterson. Comment-allez vous?"

Her parents show the astonishment Diane's announcement keeps causing. Their eyes go wide and their mouths drop a little. They hold that for a second.

"Is this the person that was making you so unhappy, sweetie?” Diane's mother asks.

"We were both responsible for that,” Diane returns.

"Yes, I am,” I overlap. We turn and grin at each other.

"I didn't want to fall in love,” I explain, facing her parents once more. “I'd not been a success at it before, and I didn't want to hurt your daughter the way I had people before. So I talked her into letting me go."

"And then I did something foolish.” Diane picks up the thread. “I did something to drive him away. When I came to my senses, he was gone."

"It took me a while before I realized my mistake,” I continue. “So I asked Diane to come to me. She did, we repaired our rift and we've been together ever since. I've never been happier."

"And I'm just as happy."

I lift her hand to my lips. Her grip tightens ever so gently.

Her parent's expressions lighten, lift into smiles, with a little confusion shaping their eyes. “We could tell from your e-mails and phone calls that something was going on,” her father says. “We hurt a lot. We've never poked into your business, always waited for you to open up. You didn't this time. That hurt as well."

"I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't understand myself what I felt and why. It was such a strange place I was in, I didn't think anyone could help. Please forgive me."

"Of course, honey,” comes from Lilly. “You'll always be our daughter.” She turns to me, steps forward and takes me in her arms. “Welcome to the family, Georges. Anyone my daughter loves, I'll love."

I return the gesture with a smile. I can tell her declaration is an honest one.

Lilly releases me and Jim steps forward, extending his hand. “Welcome Georges. My wife speaks for me on this.” His smile is forthright. There is a small amount of concern in his eyes though.

I take his hand and shake it, careful to show none of my strength. “Merci, I'm happy to be here."

"Come inside,” announces Mrs. Patterson then. “Would you like some ice tea? Or lemonade?"

Diane steps towards me and we take each other's hands once more. “Thanks Mom, we're fine."

Jim and Lilly mirror our action. It gives me a warm feeling to see people who've been together that long still showing their affection. As far as I know, Diane and I are unique amongst our kind. I've been concerned the weight of time might be too much for us. To see her parents gives me hope.

Diane's parents turn and head for the house. “Let us show you around, Georges,” says Jim.

"D'accord.” We follow them.

The Pattersons have a lovely home. It's well maintained and very comfortable. They show us the living room, dining room and kitchen. There's laundry machines in a room behind the kitchen. Across a hall is a television room and Jim's den. His room is full of books and magazines. A computer on a desk sits here. There is a locked gun cabinet with a small collection of shotguns and rifles.

They lead us up the stairs. Lilly has a sewing room here. The next room is my love's bedroom.

They've left it as it was when she lived here. I can see her in it. The single bed is covered with a thin comforter with lace trimming. A pillow with a case of the same design and colour sits atop it, revealing her femininity. The rest of the furniture are bookcases and a desk with writing materials on it. Her deep intellect is displayed by these items.

I smile. I can see my lady here, what made her the person I love so dearly.

"That's our room at the end of the hall,” Jim tells me. “We won't go there. That's where the dog is hiding. I don't think he's used to you yet.” A small frown fills his face and he looks at us with worried curiosity. His wife shares that expression.

"Let's go to the living room,” is Lilly's request then. Diane and I step into the hall and leave space for them to precede us. They head for the stairs with the two of us a couple of steps behind.

A mournful howl fills the air. It comes from the master bedroom. The sound contains the agony of a canine losing a loved one.

We all start and turn our heads in the direction of the Patterson's bedroom. Lilly's hand jerks, hitting a glass figurine sitting on a small table. The statue topples and heads for the floor. Diane lunges forward and catches it before it's a quarter of the distance to the ground. Straightening, she places it back where it had been.

Her parents stare wide eyed at her. Their astonishment at the wondrous speed and precision their daughter showed is writ large on their faces.

"I know how much that meant to you, Mom. I couldn't let it break.” She smiles, with tension showing underneath.

Jim and Lilly's amazement fades, pulls back to a smile like Diane's. “Thanks, honey. Let's head to the living room. We're going to put Georges through the third degree.” She winks at me.

I smile back, put a faux look of fear on my face and return the gesture. Diane chuckles, squeezes my hand. “You're in trouble now, buddy,” she snickers.

We go to the living room, Jim and Lilly taking the large sofa, Diane and I the smaller one.

"So what's your story, Georges?” asks Jim.

I tell him the almost truth. How I was born to a minor noble family in Alsace and how I grew up in my family's villa. I explain my parent's insistence that I work in the local vineyards so that I wouldn't suffer the arrogance so many of my class possess. I tell how they hired tutors to make sure I gained the education required of me. I speak of moving to Paris as a young man. I talk of my travels, mostly to North America. I don't tell them how long ago I was young, or the length of time these events took place over.

"Damn,” remarks Jim when I'm done. “I've done my own traveling, when I was in the Army. I visited Alsace when I was in Germany. A lovely place. Interesting history as well.” He sighs. “That was before Diane was born, or I met Lilly.” He turns to smile at her and squeezes her hand. They look so much like Diane and I, I can't help but smile myself.

He turns back to me. “I have a book, A Flame Rekindled by a Georges Belleveau."

I bow my head a little in acknowledgment. “Oui, that's mine."

"Considering it's twenty years old, you must have been very young when you wrote it."

"Yes,” I reply. “Barely twenty. But I'd long had an interest in The Enlightenment. That book was the result."

"I liked it a lot, learned a fair bit. You had a viewpoint I wouldn't expect from a man as young as you at the time."

Shrugging my shoulders I say, “I think it's my love of history. Often had my nose buried in a book about the past. I guess it affected my perspective."

Jim smiles. “I can see know why my daughter likes you so much.” A moment later his lips tighten and his eyes dart back and forth between us.

Lilly stands. “Would you like something eat?” she asks. “It's a little late and I could use a snack."

Diane and I look at the clock. It's almost midnight. Turning our attention back to her parents Diane replies, “Thanks, Mom, but we're okay."

Her mother nods. The older woman's face holds a brittle smile. Looking at her husband she says, “Could you help out, dear?"

He agrees, rises, and they both head to the kitchen.

We glance at each other. Concern flashes through her eyes. I squeeze her hand and smile.

A radio comes on in the kitchen. It's loud enough to obscure anything Jim and Lilly say, even to ears as sharp as ours. They talk for several minutes. Diane grows nervous, her free hand fidgets. Leaning over I kiss her cheek to reassure her. Her face warms, as it always does when I show my support of her.

The radio goes off. Jim goes to the hall and down to his den. Indistinct metallic sounds follow. “Georges, could you come here for a minute?"

I rise, wink at Diane and head to his room. I guess I'm getting a man-to-man talk. As I reach the door I turn into it and enter the den.

I'm looking down the barrel of one of Jim's shotguns.

"What have you done to my daughter?” he asks in a tight, quiet voice.

I have to slam the monster down. It doesn't like surprises of this type. “I did nothing that she didn't agree to."

"She's so different now,” he goes on, not seeming to hear me. “She moves differently. She's so pale. She was always a self-contained girl but now she seems so ... restrained. She scares the dog and I couldn't believe how fast she moved when she caught Lilly's figurine. I'll ask again, what have you done with my daughter?"

"Just what I said,” I reply.

His knuckles turn white on the barrel. “Not good enough. Give me a reason not to pull this trigger."

There's a rapid pattering noise. Diane is standing between me and her father. “Dad,” she states in a flat voice, “don't. You'll have to shoot me first."

Mr. Patterson's jaw drops, the muzzle of the shotgun droops as his muscles relax. He blinks as his mind tries to grasp what he's just seen.

Lilly comes into the room in a rush. Her face is ashen. She stops and stares. After a moment, she steps over to her husband and wraps her arms around him.

"Mom, Dad, we have to talk. Let's go into the living room."

They nod. Diane reaches for me and I for her. We turn to the door. “You won't need the shotgun, Dad. I promise."

On arrival in the living room, we take the second sofa. We sit, hips touching, hands clasping. Her parents enter and sit themselves on the main sofa across from us. Their faces are studiously blank although tears twinkle in Lilly's eyes.

"Can Georges and I take a moment?” Diane asks.

They nod a careful agreement.

We lean our heads close. “What can we do?” she asks.

"Several things. You know what they are."

Her mouth tightens. “No. I won't kill my parents. I can't."

"Then we won't."

She ruminates for a second. “Could we erase their memories?"

"Doubtful. They have too many of you. I doubt we could create a lie that wouldn't fall apart and quickly."

Diane gets a very bleak look on her face.

"How much do you trust them?” I ask then.

"They're my mom and dad, Georges."

"So we tell them. Since you know they'll keep a secret."

She nods. “Fangs only. That will be enough."

"Fangs only,” I agree.

We draw apart and turn to face them once more.

"Mom, Dad. This is what you need to know.” As she finishes I pull my lips back and extend my fangs. I know she's doing the same.

Lilly makes a strangled noise, buries her face in Jim's neck and starts to weep. His face falls. No tears emerge but his eyes glisten.

Diane releases me, gets up and walks over to them. Kneeling, she places a hand on their thighs. “It's still me. I swear to God, it's still me!"

Lilly swallows her sobs, looks at her daughter. “Are you? How can you make us believe that?"

"What would you do if you wanted me to be honest in the past, Mom? I'll do it."

Diane's mother ponders for a moment. She looks just like her daughter when her offspring is thinking. Lilly gets up and goes down the hall. In a minute she returns, a leather bound book in her hand.

I feel a moment's fear. The book she holds could be dangerous to my love and I. But I keep quiet. I don't dare interfere.

Lilly extends the book. “Swear on this. My daughter wouldn't lie on this."

Diane turns on her knees to face her mother. She places the palm of her right hand on the tome. “I swear, Mom. I'm still me."

She jerks back with a gasp. The stink of burned flesh suffuses the air.

I'm across the room and wrapping her in my arms without a thought. We stare at her hand. The skin is black, red streaks of flesh showing through the cracks in it. Wisps of smoke still rise from it.

Then it begins to change. The black returns to the pale pink it was, the cracks vanish. In moments her hand is back to normal.

A gasp sounds from both her parents.

Diane grips me, very hard. She sounds a whine of effort and her body strains against my grip.

"Shh, chére,” I tell her. “I'm here. Hold on."

Her mother takes a half step towards us. I look up, give my head a little shake. She stops, drops her Bible. The look on her face is full of misery.

"Jim, go to our vehicle. There's a fridge in the back. Bring three. And hurry.” My voice places a heavy emphasis on the last sentence.

He's goes without a word, moving with a speed and grace that belies his age and size. In barely a minute he's back.

Extending my arm, keeping a tight grip on my love I say, “Give me one.” He places a blood bag in my hand. I bring it to Diane's mouth. With a convulsive movement she sinks her fangs in it.

"Gently, chére,” I tell her. “Don't waste any."

She sucks at it with a voracious strength, showing how close to starvation she is. Using her breathtaking speed and healing her wound consumed too much of the blood in her. Diane's throat works, drawing the sustaining fluid into her stomach.

I squeeze the bag as she drains it, making sure she gets every drop. As she finishes it I reach to Jim for another. He gives me one, I offer it to Diane and she starts to feed again.

She's not as hungry now, so emptying this bag takes more time. Her body relaxes. I loosen my hold. The third bag she takes her time consuming. When done, she turns her head to peck at my cheek. “Thank you, love,” she says.

I take her lips in mine and we share that deep kiss. Then I release her, move back and nod my head at her parents.

At once they kneel and embrace her. “I'm so sorry, honey,” her mother blubbers. “I didn't mean to hurt you like that."

"I know, Mom. I'm as surprised as you."

I let them hold one another for several minutes. It's good to let them be. It will help rebuild the bond nearly broken by our revelation.

"We have to finish our talk,” I say, breaking into their warm moment. “We'll need the rest of the night."

They draw apart and we take our previous positions.

"Convinced now, Mom?"

Her mother smiles a smile flavoured with shock. “I am. You always did the right thing no matter how much it hurts.” Lilly looks at me, her eyes and lips narrow with anger. “Why didn't you warn us?"

"Because what happened is a very unusual phenomena."

Lilly's anger fades. Both her parents frown with confusion.

"You have faith, Lilly. Not just belief, faith. You know without proof that the power behind the words in that book exists, you have no doubt of it.

"So, in your hands, the book becomes a focus of that power. Diane and I come from a different power. Thus the power of the book hurts us. I didn't know you well enough to be aware of that. I'm sorry. What happened is my fault."

Her parents smile again. “Forgiven, Georges,” says Lilly. “It did prove she's still my daughter. As I said she always did the right thing no matter how much it hurt. I don't understand how He works but anything else wouldn't have convinced me."

Jim interrupts. “It wouldn't have been good if we weren't convinced, would it, Georges?"

"What makes you say that?"

"I keep an eye on the world, Georges. I've lived a long time and I've heard not even a rumour of thi ... people like you. You must work hard to keep it from us. And I'll bet that the methods you use aren't always kind."

"You have the right of it. But your daughter and I don't like to use those methods. We value human life. And your daughter trusts you. Which is why we told you."

"Thank you, Georges.” Jim ponders for a moment. “So what really happened? To you and my daughter?"

Diane and I start talking, leaving nothing out. I stop when it's her turn to speak, she picks up the thread, hands it back to me when she's done. It's a single story we tell, not the same story from different perspectives.

We tell how we met, how we grew closer, how we fell in love. How what I am drew her into my world and how the conflict that came to me almost destroyed her.

Lilly's features blank with horror as I talk of that, her eyes tear and she grabs her husband's hand tightly. “A mage?” asks Jim, astonishment and fear in his voice. “There are actually people who use magic?"

"Yes,” I reply. “They are very rare. Even rarer than our kind. It's hard to tell, though. They, from what I've learned, are as careful to hide as we are.” I tell of how my conflict finished. I leave out some of the darker parts. I don't want to create a new breach between Diane and her parents.

"Thank you, Georges,” says Lilly as I finish. “Our daughter as a slave would have been too much for us."

"Don't. It was my fault, the reason I left her."

"Why do you say that, Georges?” Jim queries.

My love and I start talking of what happened after. I fled to Paris, she fled into herself. We both became empty people wandering through our lives. I tell of how I realized I needed her, how I had people find her and how I sent for her. Diane speaks of her journey to where I was, of us meeting again and of the conflict that once more befell us. We speak of me rescuing her and how it revealed what I am to her. She tells of the break this disclosure caused, her struggle to accept her discovery, and her eventual reconciliation with me. I speak of my offer and her agreement to it.

"I see,” remarks Jim. “It seems you're often in trouble, Georges. You were afraid of my daughter being hurt by it."

"Oui. Even here, we had a small conflict."

"Oh?"

"Georges and I encountered Dwayne on the way here,” Diane informs them. “They picked the wrong people to start a fight with.” Her mouth shapes into a satisfied smile.

Jim and Lilly blink at us for a second. “I guess I'm not going to be grounding you any more am I, young lady?” His eyes twinkle with humour.

"No, Dad,” Diane grins back, “you're not."

We all chuckle for a moment.

I pick up our tale. “That shows one of the reasons I asked Diane to join me. If we had encountered Dwayne and his cronies while she was still human it might not have turned out well. I might not have been able to protect her. I had been lucky the other times. Now she can protect herself.” I smile and lift her hand to mine to kiss. “And she did very well at protecting herself."

Diane squeezes my hand lovingly.

"The other reason, Georges?” is Jim's next question.

"How would you feel, Jim, if you were immortal and Lilly was not? What would your feelings be knowing she was going to fade from your life and there was no hope of her returning?"

He swallows and grimaces in pain. Lilly brings her other hand up, Jim also, and they grip each other hard. “I'm not sure I could stand it,” he says, his voice thin and bleak.

"Nor could I. Now Diane and I will never be apart."

"And Dad,” Diane interjects, “Georges told me everything before he changed me. I knew what I was getting into. It was scary, but not half as scary as the thought of losing him.” She leans towards me, wraps her free arm around my stomach and huddles close.

"Have you...?” Lilly starts to ask. Her face is fearful of the answer she'll receive.

"Fed on people?” my lady replies. “Yes I have, Mom. But I haven't killed anybody. I only need to feed. I don't need to kill."

Her mother's expression lightens a little. “Are you happy, honey?"

"More than I've ever been, Mom."

"Moi aussi,” I add.

Both her parents form a contented smile at that statement. “Then we're happy for you, honey,” her dad says. “All we ever wanted was for you to be happy."

We sit quietly for a while, each of us wrapped around the person we love. This is a time when being with the most important person in your existence is a great comfort.

Jim yawns, Lilly a second later. I check the clock, it's only a couple of hours until dawn. Our stories have filled the night.

"You'd better get to bed,” Diane tells them. “Sorry we kept you up so late."

"No, honey,” Lilly returns. “We should have asked. We should have trusted you. But you had changed so much we were frightened. We're sorry for that."

"Then consider that our mistakes cancel each other out,” I say. “We're even and start with a clean slate.” They smile and incline their heads in agreement.

We stand and they escort us to the door. Lilly hugs her daughter and myself in turn. Jim shakes my hand and then embraces his daughter. “You're always surprising us, honey,” he says.

"I surprise myself, Dad,” she replies with a warm smile.

"I guess we'll see you tomorrow night?” Lilly asks. Her face is a rich melange of emotions. Happiness and love are mixed with confusion and sorrow. She blinks tears free from her eyes.

"You will, Mom. Good night."

"Bon nuit."

"Night folks,” Jim finishes. “See you tomorrow.” Diane and I step out and her father closes the door behind us.

We walk to our vehicle and enter. As I close the door, Diane lets me go and heads towards the living area at the back. I follow a step behind.

She stops and whirls to face me, with her mask down. The being she really is shows. There is an expression shaping her features I never expected to see when the monster is revealed. It's there, the sharp angles, the unreal beauty, the sinister eyes. But her face contains a cold bleakness. “Love me, Georges,” she demands, her voice reedy and trembling.

I let my facade fade, and I smile. The smile I'll always give her regardless of the aspect I display. The one that shows how much she means to me.

The corners of her mouth lift ever so little. She spreads her arms.

Stepping into them I wrap my arms around her, bend my head and take her sweet lips. I kiss her hard, the passion that fills me heating my soul. I draw her tight, pull in a breath and moan.

Diane reciprocates. Her tongue sweeps along the slit of my mouth. I open and let her in. She teases, pokes, plays with my fangs. Pushing back I run into her mouth. We bounce our tongues back and forth faster and harder.

I grab her lovely ass in my hands, lift her up so we're eye to eye. She crosses her legs behind my buttocks, presses herself into my stomach. Our bodies can't react, but our souls feel the lust this action creates. We dig our fingers into each other.

She pulls back and I see a wonder. Her features are those of the vampire, but her eyes are human, sea green and warm with the lustful sparkle I know so well. “Get naked, love,” Diane demands. “I want to feel your skin against mine.” Letting me go, she steps back and begins removing her clothes.

I pull desperately at my own. I can't bear to be away from her at this moment, I need the touch of her as well.

Diane stands now, naked, and so beautiful. Slim, firm, white skinned and so nicely shaped. She lies on her back, spreads open. “Love me, Georges. I need you more than ever now."

As always, I answer her call. I kneel between her legs, drape myself over her. I kiss her, roam my hands over her, rub myself against her labia. My equipment may not work but I don't care. The feel of her fills me, makes my mind burn. It's a joy, a pleasure, an addiction. I feel like I never touched a woman before I touched her.

She sucks at my tongue, plays her digits across my back, pumps her hips. Diane makes little squeaks, an occasional moan. Her lust is apparent in her frantic actions.

We play, stroke, tease. For many minutes we show how much we want each other.

"Now Georges,” she gasps, “now.” She leans her head to the right exposing herself.

I place my mouth on her neck and my fangs penetrate. I don't suck, just let the thin trickle of her blood run over my tongue. The taste of it tells me so much. At first, her flavour is almost flat, the emptiness of despair the strongest component. It's mixed with the delicious foulness of her basic nature. Little bursts of ecstasy, joy, and love dance through the fluid.

Diane fills her lungs, releases it with a languorous, “Georges.” Her limbs pull me tight and she shivers against me.

Her savour changes slowly. The bursts fade less rapidly, spread out, fill the vacuum of her melancholy. Step by step, her emptiness vanishes, her darkness is pressed back. Finally, I can taste little more than the sweet delight of her love.

It makes me clutch at her hard. I feel a peace I have never known in my dark existence.

I pull myself from her throat. Diane relaxes and gives a happy sigh. We lie there for a while. We don't sweat or pant as humans do after they make love. Our feelings are the same. We're filled with the tranquil bliss of lovers, a delicate and strong emotion drawn forth by the other's happiness.

"J'taime, Georges,” she whispers in my ear.

"I love you, Diane."

Dawn approaches. Without a word we stand and shutter our vehicle's windows. We close up our sleeping area, spoon on our bed.

"I think we should go tomorrow,” Diane says.

"As you wish."

* * * *

Her parents take the news well.

As soon as we give it Diane and I turn and head out of her childhood home. Her parents follow. We pause on the porch to face each other.

Jim's face is nearly blank, his mouth is a straight, thin line. The ends twitch at moments, up then down. His eyes glisten at the corners. Lilly's face is drawn tight, her eyes shine and her lips quiver.

She lets go of her husband's hand, steps forward and embraces her daughter. Diane returns the tight hug. Lilly loosens her arms, moves to me and repeats her gesture. I hug her back. It's rare to receive such an honest gesture from a human.

Diane's mother releases me and steps back. “I'm very pleased to have met you, Georges,” she says. Reaching out, Lilly takes her daughter's hands. “You'll keep in touch?"

"Of course, Mom."

Lilly looks at me. “Loo ... Loo...” she stammers, her voice strangled with emotion. Her face scrunches and she flees into her house.

Jim looks after her, his face pensive and hurting. He faces me and extends his hand. I take it to share a firm handshake. “Look after my daughter,” he finishes his wife's request.

"With my own existence if need be."

He smiles, a quirky expression of acceptance, wonder, and loss. Shaking his head he says, “It's so strange. To learn this late in life about people like you and my daughter, to pass her to a place I never knew existed.” Jim looks into my eyes. His are full of respect. “To ask a person from that dark place to care for her and know that he will."

I smile, nod my head and we open our hands.

Jim goes to his daughter and gives her a warm hug. “We love you, sweetie. Never doubt that."

"I know, Dad."

They step away from each other. Diane reaches for my hand and I accept it.

"Good bye, Dad."

"Adieu."

"Good bye.” A single tear trickles from his eye. Head erect, shoulders square, he turns and goes into his home.

Diane and I head for our RV, hearing the quiet click of the door shutting behind us.

"I think you should drive, Georges.” Diane climbs into the passenger's seat.

That raises my eyebrow. But I do as she requests, go to the driver's door and start us up.

Carefully, I drive the RV to the end of the lane leading to the road. Mentally flipping a coin, I turn left and head north. For ten minutes I concentrate on driving snatching an occasional glance at my love.

She simply stares out the window, not moving. “Stop!"

I pull to the shoulder and turn off the engine. Darkness surrounds us as the headlight beams vanish.

Diane crosses to me, sits on my lap and hugs me hard. I pull her close, lay my cheek against her head. We hold there for a minute.

"I was wrong, Georges."

"About what?"

"I didn't come back to re-connect. I came back to say good-bye."

I squeeze her tight at that statement.

She pulls back, her mask gone. “I'm a vampire now, Georges. I no longer have a place in the human world. I know that now.

"And I'm glad,” she finishes.

A “Hmm?” of curiosity comes from me.

"I hadn't realized until last night. Remember I said Carol wasn't what I was looking for?"

"Oui."

"It's been that way all my life. Some part of me knew the world wasn't for me. I think that's why my sex life was with women. I knew men weren't for me. But I was never happy with women either. When I met you that changed, you became part of my life so quickly. I was so drawn to you. I fell in love without even trying."

I grin a wide happy smile at that. We lean forward and give one another our special kiss.

Diane pulls back again. Her face may be that of our kind but an entirely human joy fills it.

"When you made your offer to me, when you made me what I am, I had little doubt. It was frightening, but it was right. There's been moments when I wasn't sure.” She makes her wry smile. “Well, a little longer as the last couple of months showed, but I didn't want to go back. I was where I belonged. Where it counts, in my heart, I was the person I was meant to be. And with the person I was meant to be with."

Our mouths reconnect. It feels like our first kiss. We cuddle, rejoicing in our triumph.

"I love you, Georges,” she says finally.

"J'taime, Diane."

She climbs from my lap, jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “Out of the seat, buddy. You drive like an old man.” Her mask is back. Her eyes twinkle with humour and her mouth grins.

I grin back, put up my facade and rise to my feet. “Children these days,” I grumble playfully, “no respect for their elders."

We change seats and Diane starts the engine. “Where to?” she asks.

Leaning over I place my left hand over her right. “Where ever you want. The world is yours now, my beautiful lady."

She smiles. “Las Vegas. It should be fun."

I nod my agreement, she steps on the gas and we head into our future.

Fin

Keep up on all of Aspen Mountain's great releases by visiting

www.AspenMountainPress.com or joining our newsletter at: www. AMPMountaineer-subscribe@yahoogroups.com

Aspen Mountain Press is excited to announce the formation of our book clubs. Aspen after Dark (AspenAfterDark-subscribe@yahoogroups.com) will chat about our erotic stories and the Aspen Mountain Community will chat about our tamer offerings. AMPCommunity-subscribe@yahoogroups.com

Visit www.aspenmountainpress.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

This eBook is published by

Fictionwise Publications
www.fictionwise.com

Excellence in eBooks

Visit www.fictionwise.com to find more titles by this and other top authors in Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, Mystery, and other genres.

This eBook copyrighted. See the first page of this book for full copyright information.