Dancing on Wire by Lianne Burwell Carpe Noctem Book Two Chapter Eight n the bathroom, Mac sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. He smelt of sweat, dry semen and a variety of other scents that didn't really combine well, his chest hair was quickly cementing to his chest, and his ass stung like a bitch from the rug burn. Not that he was complaining, mind you. The sex had been fantastic, once Vic had gotten himself back under control. However, he was probably going to be doing his job standing up the next day, and Vic had better not be hoping for a repeat any time soon. Still, all in all, Mac felt completely sated He also felt a little guilty too. He had been teasing Vic unmercifully from the moment he'd come in the door. And after the previous two nights, he should have known better than to push the man the way he had. On the other hand, he thought he had successfully gotten rid of Kata's scent in his earlier shower. After all, it had been a fully day since he'd seen her. Hadn't it? Mac stopped and stared at the mirror, idly noting the size of the hickey on his neck, and shivered. For a moment, he felt like someone had walked over his grave. He just couldn't pin down why. Then he shook it off and stepped into the shower after taking off his pendant and hanging from the door knob. The water was so hot that his skin was red within seconds and he breathed a sigh of relief. His back was knotted with tension from the break in—he hadn't told Vic about the security guard who'd almost stumbled over him, knowing what the reaction would be. He'd been in a hell of a lot lighter spots, even as a kid, so he'd kept his cool. Besides, he had gotten the information he was after, and that was what counted. Relaxing under the pounding spray, Mac hunted through the steam for the soap. He was a little surprised to find liquid soap instead of bars. On the other hand, it was Ivory Soap, which he had excepted. Mac squirted some into his hand, then set to cleaning himself of all foreign substances and scents. Mac came out of the shower even more relaxed than when he'd climbed in. The last signs of tension were gone, and he'd finally managed to get the dried semen out of his chest hair without having to resort to Vic's razor. Delicious scents filled the air, so he toweled off quickly, put his pendant back on, then went into the bedroom. The promised sweats were waiting, laid out on the bed, so he dressed and went looking for Vic. Vic was in the kitchen, serving up a plate of food. Chicken and vegetables sautéed in some sort of sauce on top of noodles. Quick and easy. A bottle of Mac's favorite Chinese beer was already waiting on the table, beads of condensation running down the green glass. A pair of fine lacquered chopsticks sat next to them. He hadn't even known that Vic owned a pair of chopsticks. Mac frowned. The food also looked very fresh. "You've found an all-night grocery in the area?" he asked in disbelief. He'd been looking for one within easy distance for months, since the job didn't usually lend itself to regular work hours. "Nope," Vic said, settling down to watch Mac eat. "Whoever stocks my fridge with blood also brings me fresh food to play with from time to time." "Hey! How come I don't get home grocery delivery?" he said in mock-outrage, lowering his chopsticks. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that I can only go out at night? After all, time spent grocery shopping is time they can't get me to work." "Oh. Makes sense, I guess," Mac said, feeling a little guilty again. Vic looked towards the covered windows, a frustrated expression on his face. "There's only so many hours in the night," he said softly. Then he brightened up. "It'll be better come winter when the nights are longer, I suppose." Now Mac was feeling very guilty. He looked down at his plate, all appetite suddenly gone. "I'm sorry." Vic seemed to drag his attention back to the here and now. "Sorry for what?" he asked, his forehead wrinkled with confusion. "Well, it's my fault that#151;" Vic cut him off. "Enough with the hair-shirt routine," he said in an exasperated tone. "If anything is your fault, it's the fact that I'm here to have this argument. Or is that what you're sorry about?" Mac glared at him. "Of course not. But you're stuck with all the drawbacks of being a vampire because you stepped in front of a bullet meant for me." "And if you hadn't, I wouldn't have known to ask Cash to change you, so you would have been permanently dead. And from what the Director said, I would have still ended up like this. The only difference is that you would have been dead. Sorry if I can't get upset about that." "And you probably would have been Brujah too," Mac added with a shudder, remembering the San Francisco Kindred thug who had been behind the bullet that had nearly killed Vic, not to mention who'd kidnapped and traumatized the still-absent LiAnn. "Exactly. A fate worse than death. Now, would you please finish eating before your dinner gets cold? I spent a lot of time on it, and we do still have a job to do." Feeling a little better, Mac took a gulp of his beer, then picked up his chopsticks again. The food was really good. Surprisingly so, since Vic didn't eat anymore. "How do you get the spices right?" he asked out of curiosity. "I mean, I thought you couldn't eat real food anymore." Vic shrugged. "Well, the taste of food is based mostly on its scent, you know," he said. "I flavor it based just on how it smells." "Is that why you're still cooking? The smell is as good as eating the food?" "That and the fact that you seem to live on take-out. You might consider learning to cook yourself." Mac waved the suggestion off. "Why should I when I have you around to cook for me?" He let his grin tell Vic that he didn't really mean it the way it might sound. "Riiight," Vic drawled. "And we are all supposed to have hobbies, you know. Agency orders. So what's your hobby?" Mac thought of the sketchpad back at his apartment and smiled what he hoped was a mysterious smile. "If you're a good boy, maybe I'll show you one day." Vic leaned forward. "Really? Let me guess, knowing you it has something to do with sex." "Maybe. Then again, maybe not," Mac said teasingly. Vic grinned, but both of them knew that they didn't really have time for a second round. Instead, Vic stood up. "Well, I'm going to go clean up. If you finish before I do, the files on Ramirez are sitting on the coffee table. Maybe you can see something I'm missing." He headed for the bedroom, and Mac watched him go, idly moving food from plate to mouth. He still couldn't believe how well Vic had adjusted to his undead state. Then again, as Vic had pointed out, it was a hell of a lot better than being dead. And someday he would be joining Vic in that Kindred state. It was still hard to believe that he could settle down with one person, and even harder to believe that if he settled down with Vic, it could for more than the standard mortal few decades. In a way, it was almost scary. He hadn't been able to make a relationship last more that six months yet. Did he really think he could go longer with Vic without one of them getting tired of the other? Well, maybe he'd find out. In the meantime, the last noodle was gone and he ran his index finger through the last of the sauce before lifting the finger to his mouth and sucking it clean. Just the simple act of cleaning off his finger was enough to bring sex back to his mind. Refusing to give in to the urge to go join Vic in his shower, Mac pushed away from the table. Vic didn't have a dishwasher, so he put his plate and chopsticks in the sink with the dishes his dinner had been prepared in. Then he headed out to the living room and the waiting files. He shuffled through the piles of paper, stopping every so often to read something that caught his eye. He'd always driven LiAnn nuts that way. She preferred to organize everything, whether by date or name or some other significant factor, then read through every piece of information in a methodical way. Mac, on the other hand, preferred to work more on instinct. His first pass, he would skim through, not really reading, just looking for key words that jumped out at him. Anything that caught his eye was set aside to read in greater detail. Ten minutes later, he'd sorted the piles into 'very interesting,' 'sort of interesting' and 'completely useless.' The shower had just turned off and he was about to start reading the 'very interesting' pile. He rubbed his chin, feeling the rasp of whiskers against his fingers, and picked up the first report and started to read it in depth. "Find anything interesting yet?" Mac nearly jumped out of his skin at the quiet question. "Make some noise, would you?" he snapped. Vic raised his hands. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." His hair was still wet and all he'd bothered to pull on was a pair of sweatpants. Mac was struck again at just how much muscle definition Vic had added since his Embrace. It really, really looked good on him, but they didn't have the time to go there. Mac made a mental note to make a long, thorough examination later, when they had time for the number of hours that would take. Instead, he sighed. "No, it's all right. I guess I wasn't paying much attention to my surroundings. And just a few vague thoughts. I need to do more reading first." "All right. Coffee?" "Thanks." By the time dawn approached, they'd gone through Mac's 'very interesting' pile and had made a dent in the 'sort of interesting' one. They'd discussed Mac's sorting techniques, the reasons for dividing the documents the way he had and the information they'd gone through. Unfortunately, Mac hadn't come up with much more than Vic had. Ramirez definitely wasn't Kindred. Vic gave him a quick run-down on just what a Ghoul was— something that gave Mac the willies—and they agreed that Ramirez probably wasn't one of those either. There wasn't any real evidence that he was even working for a Kindred, but Mac's instincts, like Vic's, said that it was likely. Something was tugging at Mac's memory, though. He ran a finger down the list of points he'd made on a yellow legal pad, trying to figure out what it was. "I've got a few questions for the Director," Vic muttered, going over his own list. "I don't remember meeting anyone from New Orleans at Luna's bash. We need to know what the Kindred situation is in New Orleans." "Think she'll tell us anything?" Mac said wryly. "If she won't, I'll call Cash. He gave me his number." For a moment, Mac was almost blinded by the flash as his memory finally kicked in. "Cash, of course!" "Hmm?" Mac shook his head. "Sorry. I just finally remembered something Cash told me the morning after your Embrace. We were talking about the Brujah in San Francisco and he was telling me about Luna's niece." Mac closed his eyes, remembering the pain in Vic's Sire's face. "Luna had given permission for Cash to Embrace her, but the previous Brujah Primogen sent a thug to forcefully Embrace her as Brujah. He eventually what was coming to him, and in a very messy way." "And the point of this little story would be...?" Vic prompted. "The point is, he said that when Sasha couldn't adjust in San Francisco, she left town, and the last he'd heard, she was rising through the Brujah ranks in New Orleans." "So there is definitely a Kindred presence in New Orleans. I wonder why their Prince didn't show at the meetings." At that moment, the phone rang. Vic groaned. "Please tell me that isn't Ramirez," he said to the ceiling. "It's too late in the night for that." The phone kept ringing. Finally, Vic picked it up. "Yes?" he said. Then he groaned again—if you could call it that when you made all the expressions, but none of the sounds—and pressed the speaker button. "Thank you, Victor." The Director. Of course. How convenient. Mac looked around, speculating on where the cameras would be. "Now, the reason you didn't meet the Prince of New Orleans in San Francisco is because there isn't one. New Orleans is a... border town, for lack of a better term." Mac frowned. "Border between what?" he asked suspiciously. There was a theatrical sigh from the speaker. "Kindred aren't the only not quite humans out there. Even werewolves are just a scratching on the surface. As well, within each species, there are sects. New Orleans is a place where they can all come together and mix freely. No one claims the city, and if someone tried... Well, they'd be disposed of. Quickly." "By sects, you mean the clans?" Vic asked. "Not entirely. Did Moira ever mention the Camarilla?" Vic shook his head. "Just in reference to you and your 'lapdogs,' as she put it." There was a tapping noise. "I'm going to have to have a talk with that girl, the Director muttered softly. Then she raised her voice. "There are many ways to look at factions with the Kindred, clans being just one of them and cities a second. But the largest division is between the Camarilla and the Sabbat." Sabbat. Just the name sent chills down Mac's back, and not the pleasant kind either. He glanced at Vic and saw that the older man's expression matched what he felt: dread mixed with resignation. These sorts of surprises seemed pretty... unsurprising when you worked for the Agency. They stared at each other for a minute, neither seeming willing to ask the inevitable question. Finally, Vic sighed and said, "All right, we'll bite. What exactly is the Sabbat?" They could hear the Director chuckle at the phrasing. "Well, you don't really to know exactly what they are. The shortest answer is, we are the Camarilla and they are the enemy, and that's all you need to know, but I doubt you'll settle for just that." "Damn right," Mac muttered under his breath. Trusting the Director is not something you did if you wanted to stay alive. While she could be trusted to some extent, she would sacrifice them all in a second to get the job, whatever it was, done. It was why she was the Director and they weren't, he supposed. "Well, I give you the almost a simple explanation then. The Camarilla want to live side by side with humans, and formed the Masquerade to do so. The Sabbat don't think of humanity as anything other than a food source. Cities they control tend to have runaway crime and violence. They are the worst of our kind." "Worse than the Brujah?" Mac said a little louder this time, unable to keep from sneering. "Mac, your prejudices are showing," the Director said, tsking. "And yes they are. One little example should do, I think. "For the most part, the Sabbat choose who to Embrace just as carefully as the Camarilla do. The basic Embrace is even the same. Then they bury the fledgling." "They what?" Vic broke in, looking a little green. "They bury them. After bashing them over the head with the shovel. If they survive to dig themselves out, they are welcomed into the family, so to speak. If they aren't strong enough, they die. Permanently. And surviving that doesn't guarantee that you won't be disposed of later on for not being strong enough or vicious enough." Mac was starting to feel a little nauseous himself at that point. "Point taken," he said. "Sabbat bad, Camarilla... not completely bad." The Director chuckled again. "Exactly. So being from New Orleans means that Ramirez, if he reports to a Kindred, could be a servant of a member of either the Sabbat or the Camarilla." Then her voice turned icy. "If it is a move by the Sabbat on Toronto, it end now. I will not have my city turned into a bloodbath." Mac gulped at the venom in her voice, but agreed completely. If the Sabbat was as bad as she said, he wouldn't want that either. "Understood," Vic said, then hit the disconnect button. "Just when I think things can't get any weirder," Mac muttered to himself. "Well, now we know that I could have done a lot worse than Brujah," Vic said. "I'm still not sure about that one," Mac said. "So, now what?" "Well, Ramirez still needs to make up his mind. In the meantime, he's lost one processing plant, so he needs to set up somewhere else. That means he needs some specialized equipment. I'm sure that the Director can trace those sorts of purchases." "Right. And I still have a museum to break into." "You sure you can do it?" Mac glared at Vic, pissed at the worry in the man's voice. "Are you kidding? I could do this in my sleep. In fact, why don't you come along and see." The phone rang again. Vic just hit the speaker button. "Remember boys, no Agency help means no Agency help. Victor stays out of it, understood?" Mac sighed and grimaced. "Understood," he said. "Spoilsport," he added under his breath as Vic hung up again. He was kind of hoping he could take Vic along, if only to show off. The disappointed expression on his lover's face seemed to say that Vic wanted to come along too. "Dawn's almost here," Vic said, glancing at the heavily shrouded windows. "You staying?" Mac shook his head regretfully. "Sorry. I've got a lot of preparation for tonight." "All right. Well, I guess I'll see you after you pull off the break-in of the decade, even if it's one that hopefully no one will ever know about." "Decade?" Mac sniffed. "Try the century." "Whatever. Just be back here well before dawn or I'm coming looking for you. Got it?" "Got it," Mac said, smiling slightly. He carefully put aside the papers they'd been going through and headed for the door, stopping to collect the jacket he'd discarded earlier. Much earlier. "And Mac?" He stopped at the door, looking back at where Vic sat in a puddle of light cast by a floor lamp. "Yeah?" "Be careful." For a moment, the soft comment almost raised his ire again, but then he smiled. "Careful is my middle name. You know me, Vic." As he closed the door, he heard a muttered, "Too well. That's why I worry." Mac chuckled as he headed down the hallway for the stairwell. Chapter Nine When Vic woke, it was early evening and he had the start of a pounding headache. He sat up and winced as the many aches and pains made themselves felt. Glancing around, he realized that dawn had caught him going over his notes in the living room, where he'd gone back to the files after Mac had left, and he'd simply collapsed where he was, sitting on the couch. No wonder he felt as if he'd been twisted into a pretzel. It was a good thing that the drapes were pulled tightly shut. Otherwise, he'd already be dust. He stood and stretched, wincing at the popping sounds coming from his joints, then headed for the kitchen. A mug of bagged blood went into the microwave long enough to reach... well, blood temperature, then he drank it quickly, trying to ignore the rather lifeless quality to it. After that, a long stay under the spray of a very hot shower with use of the showerhead's massage features. By the time he turned the water off, he'd probably used a week's worth of hot water, but he felt reasonably 'human' again. A quick shave, clean jeans, a T-shirt and his favorite boots and he felt ready to face the night. That was when he noticed the light flashing on his cell-phone, telling him that he had a message waiting. He picked up the compact device and flipped it open—as always, resisting the urge to say "beam me up, Scotty"—and punched in the code to retrieve the message. "Mr. Mansfield," Ramirez's voice said from the tiny ear-piece, his annoyance clear, even in a recording. "It is one in the afternoon and you are obviously ignoring your phone. Not the proper behavior of someone hoping to do business. Do call me at the club. At your earliest convenience, of course," he added sarcastically, then thoughtfully provided the phone number before hanging up. Instead of calling Ramirez right back, Vic dialed a different number. "He called," he said briefly. "Any preferences on how to play this?" There was a long pause before the Director answered. "Come down here to make the call. That way I can monitor things." Vic snorted. "You can obviously monitor things here just fine," he said, a bit surprised at how little bitterness he felt at that, even though he still planned to hunt down and remove those cameras and microphones. "True," she replied, no apology for it in her voice. Not that he'd expected any. "But it's more difficult to whisper in your ear from this distance. Sunset is in twenty minutes. Be here in forty-five." "Yes ma'am," he told the dial tone sarcastically. Vic nodded to a few of the evening regulars as he headed down the hallway to the Director's favorite briefing room. None of them were Kindred or Ghoul, and he figured that they didn't know anything about that side of the Agency either. Part of him wanted to should "How can you not see?" at them, but then he remembered that he had worked for the Agency for more than six years without ever realizing that his boss was anything but what she seemed to be: A cold, manipulative bitch who had the occasional flash of a more sympathetic nature. Well, maybe that assessment was a little unfair. But she did have her bad days. He hoped that this wasn't going to be one of them. She was waiting for him, casually seated in the swivel chair behind her very modern looking desk, wearing something a little slinkier than usual. The bodysuit was made of black leather that was so tight and shiny that it looked like she had taken a quick dip in a pool of crude oil. Vic shifted uneasily, trying to ignore a flash of arousal at the sight. He wasn't really attracted to her, but was helpless to fight the feeling. He just thanked his lucky stars that she'd never turned the full force of her sexuality on him the way she seemed to delight doing to Mac. No wonder the young man got twitchy every time he was in the same room as her. She tapped a long fingernail on the top of the desk in front of her. "Very good, Victor. You're actually two minutes early. I do like promptness in an agent. Now, we have a phone call to make, do we not?" Vic moved around the desk to stand behind her as she pressed a button on her phone, and the sound of ringing filled the air. A moment later, it stopped. "What?" My, my. Ramirez sounded irritated, Vic thought to himself. "You wanted to talk to me?" he asked, allowing amusement to bleed into his voice. "Took you long enough. Don't you check your messages?" Vic leaned back against the edge of the desk, a picture of casual. The Director frowned at him, but he was immersing himself in the role he needed to play. "Of course I do. However, I also have a job to do. I called as soon as I had a moment free." "You should have found one sooner if you really want to do business with me." Vic snorted softly. "We have a product and a service that can be sold anywhere. We don't have to do business with you." "If you want to do business in my town you do." The Director bristled at that comment, and Vic prayed that she could hang on to her temper. Ramirez was treading on her position as Prince of Toronto and she was obviously furious at the man. "Whatever. So what's the word?" There was a pause. "I want proof that you can sell me what you are claiming. A dose of Candy and a sample of your enhanced street drugs. My people will examine them, make sure that you aren't cheating me." Vic laughed harshly. "Fat chance, Ramirez," he said, ignoring the hand gestures from his boss. "The second, fine, but we are not handing over a sample of Candy for your chemists to analyze and duplicate. That, you get when we have an agreement ironed out. Capiche?" "All right. Bring examples of your jazzed up versions of street drugs to the club tonight. If they are everything you say they are, we'll deal for the process and the Candy. We might even be able to come up with a research and manufacturing deal for the future. I trust this is acceptable?" Ramirez added sarcastically. "It will do for now. I'll be by later tonight, then." "Try not to make it too late," Ramirez said, then hung up before Vic could reply. Vic slumped in reaction to the release of the tension from the last few minutes, then looked to the Director, waiting for her verdict. "Well played," she said grudgingly. "But risky. What if he turned you down?" "Then I would have backed down on the Candy issue," Vic replied. "But if I can do this without allowing anyone outside the Agency a shot at Candy, I will. Any objections?" "None at all," she said soothingly. "Good." "Well, the conversation also confirms what Agency sources are saying: Ramirez hasn't been having much luck in replacing some of the more specialized equipment that was destroyed in the explosion at the farm. Unless he finds some way of importing it, or another source locally, he's not going to be able to fill the demand he's been creating. If that happens, angry customers are going to be coming after him." "Just what this city needs: a drug war," Vic muttered to himself. "I assume you'll have those samples for me?" he asked, raising his voice. The Director pushed an ornate box towards him. He opened it and found it spit into several padded compartments. Each compartment held a small glass jar, tightly sealed with wax and clearly labeled as to the contents. He closed the lid with a snap. Despite the beautiful exterior, the box made him sick to his stomach. The cop in him was protesting, and all he could do was remind himself that even cops used drugs as bait to stop the distribution of even more drugs. He still didn't like it. He put the box to the side. "Any luck tracking this Guylaine person he's working for?" The Director's expression immediately closed up. "That does not concern you." The only thing was, Vic was not going to take that as an answer. Not this time. "The last time you said that, Mac, LiAnn and I ended up in a warehouse rigged to blow. You were so focused on stopping Pucci that you were willing to hand Mac and LiAnn over to a man who wanted to kill them." "I didn't know what Michael was planning#151;" she started to say. "That's the point!" Vic broke in harshly. "You should have known. You, of all people, should have known better than to just take him at face value. But you were so blinded by a personal vendetta that you didn't even try to find out what he was really up to. Well, I'm not going to let that happen again." The Director stood slowly, and Vic started to wonder if maybe he'd pushed her too far this time. Her eyes were glowing a brilliant silver and her lips were drawn back in a grimace that showed, all to clearly, her fangs. Vic gulped. He'd never seen her so... not human before. "I am your Prince and you will not question me," she hissed. "I am one of your agents and I will," Vic said firmly, even though he couldn't stop himself from backing away physically. She snarled at him, then swept past. He almost collapsed in relief when he realized that she wasn't going to just kill him for questioning her, but she still hadn't told him what he wanted to know yet, and this case was reaching the point where he wasn't going to risk his life or Mac's by continuing without all the information available. The Director was pacing the full length of the room, looking very deadly and more agitated than Vic could remember ever seeing her. It was rather unnerving, considering how calm and collected she usually was, even under the most tense of situations. Suddenly, she stopped dead in the middle of the room and turned to face him. Vic stayed as still as possible, feeling like something small and fluffy under the eye of a predator. Then she sighed, and the silver glow faded from her eyes. "Guylaine is my sister." I was born in France in 1773 to a minor noble family. Little rank and even less money. Guylaine was six years older than me and I adored her. She was beautiful and kind and witty, everything I wanted to be. Our father had high hopes for her too. When she was nineteen, he sent her to court as a lady in waiting to the queen, Marie Antoinette. He hoped that she would catch the eye of a rich man who would either marry her without the usual fat dowry or at least take her as a mistress. Don't look so shocked. It was a good way for a beautiful woman of few means to become rich, and our father was definitely a pragmatist. Anyway, I was young and missed her desperately. I begged my father to send me to Paris to be with her, but he refused. I thought he was just being cruel. What I didn't know was that unrest was spreading through the lower classes, and while he wasn't worried enough to summon Guylaine home, he was not willing to send his only other daughter into potential danger. We lived in the country, and I was rather isolated from the real world. So, for the next few years I read her letters and dreamt of the apparently ideal life she was living, looking forward to the day when I would join her and find myself a dashing young lord who would love and marry me, making my life perfect. Like I said, I was naïve. Needless to say, I never got the chance. The revolution happened first. I'm sure you learned all about the French Revolution in school; everyone does. All the reasons that it happened, the stresses and excesses. But they don't teach you about the most important cause because they don't know about it. For centuries, France, and especially Paris, had been under the control of the Camarilla, and it was in their best interests to keep things peaceful, or at least stable. Then the Sabbat turned their eyes towards Paris, and where the Sabbat goes, violence soon follows. They begin by destabilizing the structure of society, increasing the conflict between groups—the classes in this case—until the Prince of the city cannot keep the peace. Then, when the violence breaks out, they use it as a cover as they pick off the Prince's defenders one by one until the Camarilla are so weak that they can no longer hold the city. This is what they were doing in Paris at the end of the eighteenth century, although I did not learn this until later. At first, the Revolution did not affect me. My family was, if not well-liked in the are, at least tolerated as being better than most. After the seizing of the Bastille, noble families agreed to give up their privileges, and the common folk took control of the government, This was the Camarilla's counter to the first feint. It didn't work. When I was nineteen, the reign of terror began and the Sabbat's attack had begun in earnest. When I was twenty, the Revolution came to me. The estate was attacked by peasants from the surrounding areas. In Paris, Madame Guillotine had begun her bloody work and she was hungry for more victims, preferably of the blue-blood kind. Rumor had it that the bodies were bled to feed the Sabbat afterwards, although I doubt that. They enjoy the hunt too much to take blood from the dead. By that time, there'd been no word from Guylaine for more than a year. I may have been naïve, but my father was not. When the attack came, I was bundled into the filthy clothes of a peasant girl, with coins sewed into the hems. He led me out of the estate through a hidden passage and we thought we had gotten away cleanly. Then, the next day, we were attacked by a band of thieves, one of the many roaming the countryside. My father was killed and I... well, let's not go there. Luckily, they didn't find the money in my clothing, and once they were done, I pulled my clothes straight and headed for Paris on my own. It took me weeks to get there. While I was no longer quite as innocent as I had been, my plans were still to find my sister. Once I reached Paris, though, I quickly lost hope and concentrated instead on survival. I'll spare you the details of how I survived, but survive I did. The streets of Paris were dangerous in those dark days, from gangs in the day and the Sabbat by night. Both hunted with impunity. Still, I survived and, to a certain extent, thrived. I gathered a new family of women and youngsters who would otherwise have been easy prey. Together, we were strong enough to defend ourselves. And I quickly learned to look back on my childhood and sneer. Then, one night, a lookout called that hunters were coming. We prepared, but in the end, we failed. Our group had been successful enough to attract the wrong sort of attention. The hunters overran us and we died, one by one. I had managed to kill one, I think, when I was grabbed from behind and slammed into a wall. I looked up... Into the eyes of my long-grieved sister. Guylaine was as beautiful as I remembered, but her eyes glowed silver, blood was smeared around her mouth and her expression was cruel beyond belief. She stared at me for a long moment and I was chilled to the bone. Then she smiled and dropped me, turning to her companions who had finished their havoc. "This one lives," she said. Then they vanished, leaving me behind with the bodies of my adopted family. After that, I survived alone. I had lost two families now, and I wasn't about to make that mistake again. And finally, after several long, terrifying years, the Camarilla launched their counter-attack. They tried replacing Napoleon, the Camarilla champion, with the last of the royal family not once, but twice. When that didn't work, they created the Republic and finally regained control of the city. Bit by bit, peace returned to Paris. But it had come at a price. The Camarilla had regained Paris, but they had lost many of their ranks. They hunted Paris, like the Sabbat had, but for potential childer instead of prey. A Ventrue saw me and decided that I had potential. She tested me, found me acceptable and Embraced me. And Victor, I had no more choice in the matter than you did. So now you know. Vic shook his head, shaking off the spell of the story. It would make one hell of a movie. Still, he'd known that the Director was older than looked, but more than two hundred years? "Did you ever find out what happened to your sister? Before you ran into her, that is." The Director shrugged elegantly. "Some. Actually, she did just as our father had asked: she became mistress to a rich and powerful man, an envoy from Prague. Unfortunately, he was also Lasombra, a Sabbat spy and saboteur who had managed to fool the Prince of the city. He Embraced her. And Victor, if you thought your Embrace was painful, the Sabbat are far worse. Their Embrace ends by burying the fledgling alive. If they can't dig themselves free, they are considered too weak to be Sabbat and are destroyed. Guylaine, needless to say, was strong enough." "But she let you live, so she couldn't be all bad." That provoked laughter brittle enough to make Vic wince. "She let me live because I was entertainment. Over the next century, both before and after my Embrace, she played a cat and mouse game with me. Those around me died while I was untouched. Wherever I went, she followed, playing her game. Then she vanished, about the same time that I came to Toronto. I heard that she'd gone to Russia, and the communist revolution twenty years later seemed to confirm that." Vic leaned back in his seat, considering the ceiling. It was covered with a layer of metal, he noticed for the first time, and there were a few dents in the shine. He wondered just how hard something would have to be thrown to reach the high ceiling with enough force to dent even thin metal. "So you think she's starting the game again," he said mildly. "Probably." "And agents who work for you are probably at risk." "Yes. Dobrinsky as well, as my Childe." "Any pictures of Guylaine?" Vic asked, still not looking at his boss. "Could this Kata person be her in disguise?" She snorted. "Not likely. Guylaine is too vain to disguise herself, including her rather vivid green eyes. I doubt that the dark-eyed Kata would be her. But to answer your first question, no. Lasombra cast no shadows, so they cannot be photographed. Any portraits of her would have been destroyed during the revolution and I don't think that she would have had any painted since then." "So Kata isn't her, but she does work for her, so her orders might be to get close to Mac and then kill him." "Possibly." Now Vic sat up, eyes glowing and fangs fully out. "But you didn't think it was important to let us know about this?" he shouted at full roar. The Director's eyes flashed, but she didn't move a muscle. "Don't yell at me, little boy," she hissed. "I decide what you need to know, and you live with it." "Or die by it if you make the wrong decision." "Do you think you can do the job better? Be a better Prince." Vic was starting to get really nervous now. He'd never seen his boss lose her temper before, but it looked like he was about to. "No. In fact, I think I'd make a lousy Prince." Her temper seemed to drain away. A little. "Doesn't change the fact that when it's personal for you, you develop blind spots large enough to hide an elephant." As soon as the words left his mouth, Vic was looking around for an escape route. Even when he'd thought she was human, he'd known that defying her was a very bad idea. Even though she had a lot of affection for them, she was ruthless enough to sacrifice them at a moment's notice, even on a whim. But he wasn't about to take back anything he'd said. The stakes were too high this time. For a moment, though, he did think that after being frustrated by Cash's intervention, Death was going to catch up with him. He braced himself, apologizing mentally to Mac. Then the Director seemed to collapse in on herself, suddenly looking her age. "Perhaps you're right," she said with a sigh. "But I don't want this to become common knowledge," she added, with a hint of steel already returning to her voice. "Mac needs to know." "And you can tell him about Guylaine. But no one else." Vic nodded, relieved that she was going to be so... reasonable. Their eyes met for a long moment, and he froze. The moment had passed and the Prince was back in charge. The sound of her swivel chair was deafening in the silence as she turned away, breaking eye-contact. "You still have a meeting with Ramirez to go to," she pointed out. Taking the hint, Vic grabbed the sample box and beat a hasty retreat. Chapter Ten Mac was whistling and a wide grin threatened to split his face by the time he made it back to his car. Everything had gone exactly the way he had planned, almost scarily so. He'd proven he still had his touch, and he mentally vowed never again to let so much time go by without exercising his old training. A little observation the night before had found him the door that the security guards used for their smoke breaks, and assuming that they would be too lazy to be constantly disarming and arming the alarms on that door, he'd used for his entry into the museum. That assumption was the only real risk in the whole caper. From there it had been by the numbers. The latest in break-in clothing had fooled the heat sensors, while the motion detectors had been old enough that simply moving slowly and deliberately was enough to keep from setting them off. Timing and convenient shadows had kept him from being noticed by anyone who might be monitoring the security cameras. All in all, the path had been so easy that he was seriously considering writing up a report and sending it to the ROM to let them know just how lousy their security was. Really, it was almost insulting. Getting the bracelet into the case with the sarcophagus had been a little more problematic, though. His break-in at the security company's office had told him that the glass case was wired to detect breakage or even just opening, while the base had weight sensors that would notice and increase or decrease in the weight resting on it. He could have disconnected the system, but that would have been more likely to be noticed. Besides, his method was more fun. So, instead he'd used a few drops of acid near the edge where the glass case met the base, where the hole wouldn't be noticed without looking closely. Then he neutralized the acid so that he could use the hole to insert a flexible wire with the bracelet attached to one end. It was just a matter of getting it into position, a quick twist to release the gold chain, then a careful withdrawal of the wire. Damn he was good. After that, it was just a matter of retracing his steps and getting out without being seen by any nicotine addicts, then sauntering back to his car without looking suspicious. So now he was riding high on the adrenaline rush from both the danger of what he'd been doing and the thrill of success. It was a feeling he remembered well, but hadn't realized just how much he'd missed. But now he needed to find a way to burn off the excess energy, and he knew just how he wanted to do it, he thought as he grabbed his cellphone from the glove compartment. A moment later, he was cursing as he listened to Vic's recorded voice informing him that its owner was not at home to pick up the phone. He thought about trying the man's cellphone number, but regretfully decided not to. Vic might be with Ramirez, or worse, the Director. Now that he finally had the man where he wanted him—in his bed—he didn't want to screw it up by letting their relationship interfere with work or by doing anything else that might inspire the Director to try separating them. So since screwing—of both kinds—was out, he needed another outlet for his high energy, so he would have to go for choice number two. He put the new car he'd recently requisitioned from the Agency carpool and modified with Vic's needs in mind in gear and pointed it towards downtown and his favorite dance club. The Cave was Mac's favorite dance club in Toronto. During the months he'd been waiting for Vic to finish his training with the hot-headed local Gangrel leader he'd gone there often to work off his frustrations. It wasn't like he had many other choices. Somehow, after their fateful trip to San Francisco, he hadn't been able to work up the ambition to take anyone home —or go home with anyone else. Male or female. That in itself was strange. While he'd been hoping for a serious relationship with Vic, or at least something close, he'd never been one to handle celibacy well. The eighteen months he'd spent in Hong Kong Prison had been pure hell, the first time he'd gone more than a month without sex since reaching puberty. On the other hand, solitary confinement had saved him from experiencing a few less than pleasant sexual experiences, he supposed. However, it did explain why he'd been crazy enough to flirt with the Director when she'd shown up with her offer. But since that first night with Vic, he just hadn't been interested in anyone else. Even the exotic Kata hadn't been able to get a rise out of him, so to speak. Somehow, he had the feeling that there was more involved than just his feelings for Vic, but he couldn't even work up enough outrage to care about that. So, since he'd been uncharacteristically uninterested in sex, he'd danced his stress away, dancing himself into exhaustion so that he would sleep without dreams, several times a week. The bouncer at the club recognized him, of course, and let him straight in. Immediately, he was moving to the music, losing himself in the pulsing beat of the music before he even made it out onto the dance floor. He responded absently to called out greeting, but other than that, the only thing he knew was the dance. It was at times like this, he could understand why there were religions that included ecstatic dancing in their rites. Over the next two hours, he danced almost continuously. He had vague memories of stopping for the occasional drink or pit-stop but not much more than that. He danced with a blur of partners, but still somehow danced alone. But then, as he danced, reality started to blur further, and he started to see a different place overlaying the reality of the club, slowly growing in strength. Instead of synthesized instruments, he heard the wail of fiddles and the beat of hand-made drums. Instead of flashing neon lights, he saw the flicker of firelight. Instead of skin-tight outfits in black and metallic shades, the dancers around him wore brightly-colored, loose clothing. He wove through the crowd, now dancing to music that he alone could hear, unnoticed by the people around him, it seemed. He could no longer tell which was real, the dance floor or the camp. Both were so compelling. Then, finally, the dance floor faded completely from sight and the camp was all that was left. In the shadows, he could feel the watchers beyond the reach of the firelight. Watchers that did not feel human. Suspicious sounds came from the darkness, like the cough of a large predator on the prowl, and green eyes flashed, but he wasn't afraid. The dance was all. Then a figure stepped out of the shadows and he came to a stop for the first time. She—it was female, of that he was sure—struck him as... dangerous. When she started to weave her hands through the air, he could see the flash of long nails, or maybe even claws. Backlit by the fire, he couldn't make out any more details other than the impression of 'not quite right.' But then she started to sing, low and seductive, and his wariness faded away. She began to dance, slow and sinuous, and he found himself matching her, move for move. She backed away from him, away from the fire, and he followed her, mesmerized. Step by step, he followed her into the darkness. Mac groaned and shook his head. It felt like there was a full construction crew, complete with jackhammers, was working right next to him. His mouth was as dry as a good martini, and it took him a moment to work up enough spit to moisten it. Then he opened his eyes and looked around. Okay, this was not the dance club. In fact it looked like someone's basement, assuming that someone was the Marquis de Sade. Torches provided the only light and there were chains and manacles hanging from the drywall at regular intervals. Kind of like the ones that he was wearing, he realized. Strange devices whose function he could only guess and wish he hadn't were spread around the large room with plenty of walk space between them. All in all, it looked like the torture chamber from a really bad b- movie. Mac groaned again and let his head fall back against the wall, then winced as it set off flares of pain. He couldn't remember having drunk enough to have passed out—and that certainly wouldn't explain his current situation —so someone must have slipped him a Mickey. "Great," he muttered to himself. "All I want is the chance to do a little dancing and some freak decides to take a liking to me." The Director was definitely not going to let him live this down. Assuming she let him live. Assuming he survived long enough for her to make that choice. "Freak? Should I be flattered or insulted?" One of the shadows detached from the corner of the room and moved forward, gradually coming into focus. It was a woman, someone he'd never seen before, and yet somehow familiar. She had long black hair drawn up in a complicated twist and brilliant green eyes that seemed to suck up all the light in the room. She was dressed in an elegant wine-colored evening gown that flattered her, but looked more like it belonged in the thirties or forties. Mac backpedaled as best as he could, considering he was currently chained to a wall. "My apologies. I was thinking of some of the people I've met in the past who play these sorts of... games." He tried his best to avoid thinking of the time he'd been drugged and handcuffed to his bed, left there until the Director had shown up to tease him, then release him. "Not that there's anything wrong with those games," he added quickly. "They just don't interest me, so why don't you let me down and we'll just forget all about this, okay?" He paused and took a deep breath. The woman just laughed, and he got the sinking feeling that this was going to get really, really bad. Still, he managed not to flinch when she came close enough to run a fingernail down his chest in a way that reminded him of the Director, especially since he'd already been thinking of her. This was also the point when he realized that his shirt was gone. In fact, he was naked from the waist up, although thankfully he still had his pants. Contrary to the standard image of a dungeon, this was warm enough that he hadn't noticed his state of undress earlier. "Sorry, Mr. Ramsey, but I have too many plans for you to just let you go." She pinched his nipple—hard—and it was all he could do to keep from yelping. Somehow, he had the feeling that he didn't want to know what her plans were, but he couldn't stop himself from asking. "What plans?" She moved away, and he breathed a small sigh of relief as she let go of him. His nipple throbbed hotly in a way that could have been exciting under other circumstance, but at the moment was just painful. Instead of answering the question, she leaned back against something that looked like an Art Deco version of the rack and looked at him with a contemplative expression. She smiled softly and her eyes gleamed in the torch light. "I can definitely see why my sister keeps you around," she said, more to herself. "Sister?" Mac was starting to feel like he'd gone down the rabbit hole and landed on his head. This was Alice on crack. "Of course," she continued as if he hadn't said anything, "looking pretty isn't enough. Competence is also important. Just how competent is he?" she asked, raising her voice. The sound of someone coming down stairs echoed from a dark hole in the wall. Mac turned towards that door, and when the newcomer stepped into the light, he somehow wasn't surprised to see that it was Kata. "Oh, I'd say he's competent enough," she said, letting a stream of gold fall from one hand to the other, glittering brightly. Mac stiffened in shock, wondering just how the hell she'd managed to retrieve the bracelet so quickly. For that matter, who had she known that he was making his run that night? He'd been looking for watchers and hadn't seen any. Kata came to a stop next to the woman, who ran a possessive hand through the thief's dark hair. "Thank you, my dear," she said, taking the bracelet from Kata and fastening it around her own wrist. By the time she turned her attention back to Mac, his thought processes had come back online and he was starting to put two and two together. "I take it that you're the mysterious Guylaine," he said bluntly. "Who else would I be?" "And you're related somehow to the Director." "Very good," she said, like a mother praising a young son. Then she made a tsking noise. "I take it she hasn't told you about me. No, I suppose she wouldn't have. Her kind are so terrified of exposure. She wouldn't tell any sheep unless she absolutely couldn't avoid it, thanks to that idiotic Masquerade. Do you even know what she really is?" "Oh, she's a lot of things, I'm sure," Mac said lightly. Guylaine's pleasant expression slipped for a moment. Mac hid a shiver. "But I assume that you're talking about her being Kindred." Guylaine nodded, showing a little surprise. "She actually told you? Will wonders never cease?" "Actually," Mac said, not able to stop himself. "It was more along the lines of providing the clues and waiting for us to figure it out." As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to call them back. That plural might have given away too much. "Now that sounds more like my dear little sister: everything a test. That's the only thing we have in common. Tell me, who figured it out first? You, the ex-cop or the lovely little oriental?" That made Mac hiss. Just how long had she been watching them and why? LiAnn had been out of the country for more than a month now. "I did," he finally admitted. "Even better," she said, clapping her hands. "I do love it when everything works the way I want it to." "You mean like Ramirez's little accident?" Mac said snidely. "Was his problem at the farm according to plan?" "Why, yes it was. Kata did a lovely job blowing up the place, don't you think?" She brushed gentle fingers against the other woman's face. Kata rubbed against those fingers, and Mac could have sworn he heard a faint purring. "But, but..." he stuttered for a moment before he pulled himself together enough to form a coherent sentence. "If he's working for you, why would you destroy his operation?" Guylaine's expression turned sly. "Because that was the plan from the start, not that I told him. Can't you figure it out? Let me give you a little hint: It's easier to take over when your opponent is busy somewhere else." Mac thought about it. When the answer came to him, straight from his old life with the Tangs, he didn't like it much. "He comes in and takes over the drug trade," he said slowly. "Eliminating the competition so that the addicts have to come to him. Then, once he's got a stranglehold on the trade, you destroy his ability to deliver what he promises. The price of what drugs are available become exorbitantly high, at least until outside suppliers get wind of the demand and move in. Until then, a major crime wave starts because the addicts need more money to feed their habit." He felt sick to his stomach. "As smart as he is pretty," Guylaine said. "I am impressed. It certainly works well with my plans, even though I've had to move up the timetable some. Ramirez," she smiled, showing a flash of fangs, "has already received his reward for his efforts." Mac's mouth went dry at the note in her voice. It was perfectly matched with her expression; one that would better suit a cat about to finish playing with his prey. Next to her, Kata's expression was a near-perfect match to it. "And where do I fit into those plans?" he asked, not really wanting to know the answer. "You? You, little boy, are bait. The only question was what sort of bait: Live or dead. Originally, you were going to end up... dinner." Her eyes flashed and a few beads of cold sweat ran down Mac's face, making his eyes sting. "But then Kata asked for permission to test you. I must say, you have lived up to her expectations." She reached behind herself and pulled a cellphone into view. "Congratulations, Mr. Ramsey. You have graduated from dinner to... dead bait." Mac could hear faint beeping as the woman punched a phone-number into the cell, but his eyes were fixed on Kata. The thief's eyes were completely silver as she advanced, her wide smile showing her fangs. "You don't really want to do this," he said around the lump that was plugging his throat. "Oh, but I do," she purred, drawing close. She ran her fingernails down his chest, leaving behind welts that oozed blood. Looking down, Mac saw that her nails looked more like claws now. He gulped as she leaned in closer. Dimly, he could hear Guylaine talking into the phone. Then Kata's teeth sank into his neck, roughly. There was none of the pleasure he'd felt with Vic, just pain. Bright red blood was now running down his chest as Kata started to suck greedily, sending pain like shards of glass running through his system. He couldn't help himself. He screamed. Then everything went black. Chapter Eleven Vic finally found a parking spot a mere five-minute walk from the club and grabbed it before anyone else could. It amazed him just how many people bothered, considering the place's isolated location, far from the normal Toronto nightlife. The place should have been out of business almost as soon as it opened. He made doubly sure to activate the truck's alarm system, not that it would deter a serious thief. On the other hand, the three separate locators buried deep inside the vehicle's frame meant that if stolen, the truck would be quickly located and the thief summarily dealt with. The Agency did not like anyone messing with its property. He gave the red pickup one last check, then made sure that the sample case was safely tucked inside his jacket pocket before heading towards the club. Mac was right about one thing, though: he was going to have to change vehicles. As much as he loved the truck—and he'd been driving it for nearly four years, ever since his last truck had been demolished in a run-in with a gang of peaceful (so they claimed) Eco-terrorists—but it didn't match his new... needs. So unless he was willing to install a depressingly coffin-shaped 'tool case' in the back, he was going to need to switch to an ordinary car with a large, enclosed trunk. The club was packed—not exactly normal for the middle of the week, he thought—when he finally got there. The music was turned up to a level where he could barely even think, let alone hear anything but the pounding beat. He felt like his entire body was throbbing in time, and if he still had a natural pulse, it would probably be pulsing to the same tempo too. Confidently, he pushed his way through the gyrating crowd, ignoring a few furtive gropes from girls even younger than his little sister, until he reached the stairs leading up to the upper levels. Immediately, a beefy man with no neck was blocking his way. Vic waited for a moment, but the man stayed silent. He rolled his eyes and shouted over the music, "I have business with Ramirez." The man snorted. "Yeah, right," he said in a thick French-Canadian accent. Vic shrugged. "Fine, have it your way. If he complains about me not showing up, I'll point him your way." He turned and started to walk away, heading back the way he'd come, hoping that the thug wouldn't realize he was bluffing. "Hey, you Mansfield?" "And who else would I be?" Vic drawled sarcastically, turning around and waiting with his arms crossed over his chest. It was obvious that the man trying to play dominance games, but compared to the Director, he was a complete amateur. "You got proof?" the man growled, a mulish expression on his face. Vic couldn't help laughing, which gest made the man's darken. "You think I'm going to be carrying ID? Victor Mansfield, drug manufacturer to the stars?" The man's eyes bugged out and his face went white with shock that Vic would say that in public, and worse, in the middle of his boss's club. It was just the reaction he'd been going for. The man obviously didn't realized that no one was paying any attention to his posturing. "Up, end of the hall," he said quickly, getting out of Vic's way. "He's waiting for you." "Thanks," Vic said sarcastically. As he passed the man, he exercised a little Kindred strength and brushed against the man hard enough to nearly take him off his feet. He was almost disappointed when the man didn't respond, even though his face went nearly purple with rage. As he climbed the stairs, though, his steps slowed. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong here. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. He paused a moment to listen for anything out of the ordinary, but anything that might have been there was drowned out by the music. The office door was ajar, and he pushed it open. "Ramirez," he called out impatiently, then stopped in his tracks. His nose prickled at the smell filling the room, and he finally realized what had been bothering him. Blood. Everywhere, blood. It splattered the wall with dark red, like some sort of modern art; Jackson Pollack, or one of his fellows. The scent was enough to make his fangs drop, even though he was also nauseated by what he saw. Whoever had killed Ramirez hadn't exactly had an easy time of it, though. There were signs of a struggle. The heavy desk had been pushed nearly halfway across the room according to the scrapes on the floor. A computer desk was overturned in one corner, the monitor's screen a spider's web of cracks staring mutely at the ceiling. A warm breeze blew through the ragged hole where a glass window had been. And on the floor, sprawled out across the glass shards, was the body of Ramirez. From the extra angles they were bent at, Vic could tell that both his legs were broken in several places. His arms as well. Nearly every finger in both of the man's hands had been smashed too. He couldn't tell if the others had been since they were gone, ripped off at the root, leaving bone shards sticking out through shredded flesh. But worst of all was the expression of horror and utter disbelief on Ramirez's face. Worst, because the head that the expression was attached to was no longer fastened to his body. The man's head was sitting on the desk, facing the door. And Vic. Vic stood frozen in disbelief. It had been less than an hour since he'd spoken on the phone with Ramirez, so the man hadn't been dead for long. For that matter, the sprays of blood on the wall and floor still had a faint sheen and were tacky when he cautiously touched one, so it was more likely only a matter of minutes. So who had killed him and why? And where were they? The method matched the deaths of drug dealers that had refused to cooperate with Ramirez's plans, but why would his own assassin turn on him, killing him too? Vic had the sinking feeling that they were missing something very important. "Mr. Ramirez?" Vic's eyes went wide at the sound of a voice coming from behind him. The voice of the same tough boy who'd tried to stop him downstairs. He had the feeling that the man wasn't going to be looking at things reasonably. The only way out of the room, other than the now blocked off way he'd come, was the window. Three long strides, ignoring the body he had to step over, took him to it, and he dove through just as the thug reached the office. Vic could hear shouts as the alarm was raised but ignored them, focusing on getting down to the ground as quickly as possible. Reaching the bottom landing, he didn't bother to lower the ladder. Instead, he jumped over the side, landing on relaxed legs. He wasn't quite able to keep to his feet, but after a quick roll, he was up and running. He reached the end of the alley just as a stream of well-armed men spilled out the back door of the club. Bullets pinged off the bricks next to his head as he ducked around the corner. Heading for the truck as fast as his feet would take him, all Vic could think was: the Director was not going to like this. "Are you sure he was dead?" The Director didn't sound more than mildly peeved, which had Vic seriously considering making a break for it: usually, the angrier the Director was, the cooler she got, and at the moment, she was being very, very cool. It was getting very late in the night at that point. It had been nearly midnight by the time he'd reached The Silver Wolf, and thanks to the gunmen determined to hunt him down, it had been more than two hours before he'd been able to ditch them and get back to the Agency. "Yes, I'm sure," he said tiredly. They'd been going over this for the last half-hour and he was starting to get a little frustrated. "Ripped apart, just like all the dealers who told him no. I didn't have time to find out anything more." He eyed the clock. Three in the morning and sunrise was only three hours away. "The question is, what do we do now?" The Director ignored the question and returned to her pacing. Vic sighed and pulled out his cellphone again. He punched in the same series of programmed numbers that he'd already tried before: Mac's apartment, his own apartment, Mac's cell, Mac's pager. The result was the same as the last two times: no answer. This time, though, he'd had it. He tucked the cell back into his pocket and pushed to his feet. "Where do you think you're going?" the Director snapped before he'd gone three steps in the direction of the door. "To find Mac." "He's a big boy, Victor. He can take care of himself." Vic spun around to face her. "We've got this Sabbat organization making a move on Toronto, a woman out for personal revenge against you and our main lead is dead. All of this, and Mac doesn't even know about it yet. And now!" He took a deep breath, then continued in a lower tone. "And now Mac is unreachable. I don't know if that is directly related. Hell, for all I know, his phone battery is dead and he's had a breakdown. But I am not going to sit around here waiting to find out." He headed for the door again, but suddenly the Director was in his way, eyes flashing. "Sit down!" A moment later, he was in his usual seat at the briefing table with absolutely no memory of how he got there. "Good," she said. "Now, if you would exercise your brains once in a while, you would know why running out there with no plan is a bad idea. Can you tell me why?" Vic stayed silent. He wanted to get up, get going, but his body wasn't exactly in the mood to follow orders. Somehow, he liked it better back in the days when she'd kept her true nature—and abilities—hidden. The Director rolled her eyes. "Fine, I guess I will have to spell it out for you. Either Mac is fine, or he is in Guylaine's hands. Well, I suppose there are a few other possibilities, but those two are the more likely. If he is fine, then running out there looking for him will just mean that you're both at risk. If Guylaine has him, he is probably dead or close to. Don't growl at me, mister. But dead or alive, he is bait. Bait means that they'll be ready for you, and they'll have two hostages against me." She sighed. "Why the hell did I send Jackie and Dobrinsky out of town to that conference?" she asked the ceiling. "They are both more sensible about these things." "Now," she said, turning her attention back to Vic. "We wait until we hear something a little more definitive about Mac or Ramirez." There was no room for negotiating in her tone and Vic found himself knodding reluctantly. "And if we don't?" he said. "Dawn's not far off." "Then tonight we go hunting." This time her eyes glowed a feral silver, showing a side that she rarely exposed. Vic shivered and hunched down into his chair. Dawn was coming too soon and sunset was an eternity away. An hour later, the only thing keeping Vic in that room was the sheer force of his boss's will, and even though it was a pretty forceful will, it wasn't going to work for much longer. He'd been trying to call Mac every ten minutes during that time, along with calls to some of his favorite haunts. He had even—briefly—considered calling the police to see if he'd been caught breaking into the ROM, even though they'd already checked the police computers to find out if there was any record of that. There wasn't. The only lead was a report that he might have been at The Cave, a dance club he'd gone to with Mac a couple times. Definitely not his kind of club, though. The bartender had said he'd seen Mac dancing with some woman who he didn't know, but wasn't around anymore. He'd hung up before Vic could ask if the two had left together. Someone less confident might have worried at hearing that his lover had been seen with someone else, but Vic wasn't one of them. Maybe. Sure, he'd wondered for a moment if Mac had fallen back on old preferences, but he quickly pushed that down. He knew Mac better than that. Or so he kept telling himself. But there was a limit to his patience and he had finally reached it. He opened his mouth to tell the Director that like it or not, he was leaving to find Mac when the phone rang. Her phone. The one phone that even he didn't know the number to. They stared at it for a moment until it rang a second time. Then, moving across the room faster than he'd expected, she stabbed one of the buttons with a long, red-painted fingernail. "Hello, Dianne," a warm voice purred from the speaker. Vic knew automatically that it was Guylaine. Her voice had the same tone as his boss, but with even more sexual innuendo poured into the four syllables. "Comment vas-tu, ma chère soeur?" "What do you want, Guylaine?" the Director asked, the ice of the arctic north in her voice. "Oh, just to talk. After all, it has been a while, hasn't it?" Vic barely noticed the women trading fake pleasantries. In the background, he could hear Mac's voice. The speaker quality wasn't good enough to let him pick up what Mac was saying, but he could hear the fear in his lover's voice. The Director's hand came up, and he realized he was moving towards the phone, a low growl vibrating in his chest, but he backed down at the gesture. For now. "True. However, we both know you want something. Cut to the chase." "Spoilsport," the other woman griped. "However, I really just wanted to let you know where you can find your other delightful little boy." At that moment a blood-curdling scream came through the line, making Vic's hair stand on end. Even worse, he knew just who was doing the screaming. "What are you doing to Mac?!" he burst in, not caring about the warning on the Director's face. "Oh, don't worry, little Gangrel. I've found a... pleasant resting place for him." A click cut off the scream, leaving on the hiss of empty air. Vic actually made it to the door of the briefing room before it slammed shut in his face, knocking him off his feet. He bounced back up almost immediately, but the thick metal refused to open for him. "Damnit!" he shouted, whirling around to face his boss. She met his anger with icy control. "And just where do you think you're going?" "To find Mac," he hissed back at her. "And you're not going to stop me." She shook her head tiredly and sat down. "Fine. I'll let you go when you can prove that you have something more to go on than just determination. It's a large city. Where are you going to start?" Vic opened his mouth to say 'The Cave,' then stopped. It was nearly dawn and he didn't have time to play detective. But what the hell else was there? Then it hit him. "She wouldn't call just to taunt, would she? She's set a trap and she wants to make sure that it gets sprung." He thought back to what Guylaine had said on the phone. He hadn't really been paying attention, too caught up at the sound of Mac being... He refused to go there. Mac was going to be just fine. He had to be. Finally, he found what he was looking for and nearly smacked a hand to his forehead in frustration. It was so incredibly obvious that he should have seen it right away. "She said she found him a pleasant resting place. The only place that fits the bill is Mount Pleasant." Mount Pleasant was a Toronto landmark; the most beautiful, peaceful, opulent cemetery in the city, and probably the largest. With its surrounding trees and unexpected gullies—not to mention abundance of crypts and monuments—it was the perfect place to set up an ambush. Or to dispose of a body. "If they've killed him..." he started to say, but the Director cut him off. "I doubt she has," she said gently and more than a little sadly. "That wouldn't be enough for her. Remember what I told you about the Sabbat?" Vic shuddered. "When they Embrace, they bury their victims and leave them to dig themselves out alone." "Exactly. Which means we've got time to prepare. She'll expect you to run off immediately. If we wait until sunset..." "No! I am not going to leave Mac in her hands that long!" "Be reasonable, Victor. There's no way you'll find him before sunrise, let alone dig him up and find a place to hide for the day. The place it too large. If we wait and plan..." "No," he broke in again stubbornly. "I'm going, so you better open those damned doors before I rip them off their hinges." She glared at him, but he wasn't going to budge on this. Of course it was a trap. Certainly, he didn't have much of a chance of getting Mac out before sunrise. But, "Please," he said desperately. "I have to at least try." Finally, she sighed. "All right. I'll let you go. But you won't have any backup until sunset. Just because you want to risk your life doesn't mean that I'm going to throw away the lives of any other Agency staff." "Fine. Now open that damned door! Please," he added, a little more politely. She tapped a key on her computer and the doors swung open as quickly and silently as they had swung shut. "Thank you," he said softly, then headed off at a run, refusing to acknowledge the sad eyes that watched him go. Sunrise was only an hour away by the time he reached the cemetery and the sky was already starting to turn grey on the horizon. He pulled to a stop, wheels screeching at the suddenness, on the road that split the two main sections of the grounds. He could have driven the truck through the cemetery, but the driveway was long and twisting, and didn't cover the entire grounds. He would be better off on foot. But he found himself standing next to the truck, frozen by indecision. Like the Director had said, the place was huge. It was divided into several sections, each as large as most ordinary cemeteries. This, however, was the one where the elite of Toronto were buried, with family crypts going back generations, more modern headstones, statuary and crematory gardens. Where the hell did he start. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath... And guessed. Turning to his right, he moved silently into the shadows. The pre-dawn light was scattered by the branches waving in the wind, creating a pattern of movement that made it impossible to see anything clearly. Instead, he opened up his other senses, listening for any noises other than the rustle of leaves, sniffed for the scent of fresh earth or anything else unexpected. Something like the perfume he associated with Kata. The scent hit him a second before a large, furred, muscular form did. He went flying, trying desperately to keep fangs from his throat and claws from his vulnerable belly. Finally, he got a foot wedged between him and his attacker and kicked hard. The beast went flying with a yowl, then faded into the shadows. Vic was on his feet in an instant, bleeding from multiple slashes and braced for another attack. Instead, he heard soft, mocking laughter. "You're too late, 'hero.' He's mine now." "Like hell he is, lady," Vic snarled back at thin air, twisting around, trying to find her. "We'll just have to see then, won't we, lap-dog? Maybe I'll have him kill you before we leave town. Or maybe I'll just leave you to live with your failure." "I'm going to kill you," Vic said, then stopped in shock, realizing for the first time in his life, he meant it; he wanted to hunt her down and rip her heart out for what she had done. Then he'd find her boss and kill her too. He'd killed in the line of duty, but this was the first time he'd wanted to kill, gone looking to kill. After a moment, he realized that there was going to be no answer. Kata was gone. There was no further interference after that confrontation, but there was also no sign of Mac. He'd finished searching the one side of the cemetery as best he could, but there was no sign of a fresh grave or anything else that might be hiding the other man. Cursing softly to himself, he headed back across the road to the other section. He was so intent on his search that he didn't see the car coming at him until it swerved around him, horn blaring. "Hey asshole, watch where you're going!" the driver shouted before driving off again. At that point, Vic realized just how late it was getting. The eastern sky was bright grey and the first colors of sunrise were showing. When he'd arrived, there'd been no traffic. Now cars were passing with increasing frequency. It was dawn and there wasn't enough time to drive to a safe haven. Just inside the gates on the other side of the street, he looked around quickly. Unfortunately, the only nearby structures were a couple mausoleums that were securely locked. He could have broken the locks easily, but that would have been obvious to the groundskeepers and the last thing he needed was for the cops to show up to drag him out. Besides, the idea of spending the day in a building with dead bodies was not his idea of a fun time. So that just left the one skill he'd not been able to master on his own: merging himself into the earth. He'd always been blocked by a fear of not being able to find his way back, but now he had no choice. He could remember Moira explaining how to do it, though, and like she'd said, necessity was an excellent teacher. He moved into the trees, away from the cemetery proper. Stopping in a tiny clearing, he looked around nervously. He didn't want to be doing this, but he could already feel the sun coming up over the horizon. He didn't have long until the first rays hit this area. He lay down on the ground on his back, looking up into the leaves above him. He took a couple deep, if not really necessary, breaths, then closed his eyes. He brought to mind the sensation of sinking into a feather mattress, buoyed by softness and covered by thick covers. Day sleep took him, and after a moment, there wasn't even a mound of earth to show where he'd been. Chapter Twelve Mac woke to a heavy, oppressive blackness and the feeling of being tightly constrained. Actually, he was a little surprise that he'd woke at all. The last thing he remembered was a dungeon and Kata sinking her fangs into his neck with no concern for his feelings at all. In a way, the excruciating pain had put a lot of things into perspective. Suddenly, what Vic had done the other night when he'd teased the other man into losing control didn't seem so bad. He was barely starting to realized just how much control Vic had managed to hang onto, even under those circumstances. In fact, he couldn't remember ever experiencing anything worse than what Kata had done to him, not even Michael's betrayal or the warehouse explosion when his former brother had tried to kill him and both of his partners. Of course, he still wasn't sure just what Kata had done to him, but he knew that whatever it was, he wasn't going to like it. Mac shifted his weight and raised one arm. His elbow hit wood beside him, making him wince, and his hand hit wood above. He froze for a moment, then quickly felt around. An examination of his immediate surrounding confirmed his worst fears. He was in a coffin, or at least something shaped like one. Nothing fancy, made from cheap plywood that left splinters in his palm as he pressed it against the surface just above his nose. Or maybe hammering that surface was a better term for it. He'd never been comfortable with tight spaces—probably a left-over from his months in solitary confinement before the Director had sprung him from the Hong Kong prison system—but it had gotten worse since the year before when a politician under the Agency's protection had kidnapped him and packed him in a coffin to ship to Hong Kong and the loving embrace of his former family. The only thing that had saved him from spending a day or two locked in that box before being presented to a Tang Family hit squad as target practice was the timely rescue by his two partners and the Director. But he still had nightmares about what might have happened, and had even slept with a night-light for nearly a month, although he'd rather die than admit it. The one calm part of his mind that was analyzing this noted that he was well on his way to hysteria. However, it also noted that his actions were having an effect. One of the boards was loose and shifted under his hands. Since the tight space didn't allow him the leverage to push, he dug his fingernails into the edge of the board and pulled. Two nails were broken and another was ripped off altogether by the time he'd managed to pull one of the wide boards down on top of him. But the board was followed by an avalanche of loose dirt, filling his open mouth. And the truth hit him. He'd been buried. At that point, he abandoned any pretense of sanity and started clawing at the wood and earth above him. Mac drew in deep shuddering breaths of the warm night air as he pulled himself from the earth, as naked as a baby sliding from his mother's womb. It was dark and he was surrounded by trees and the whisper of breeze through the branches. He was scraped and bleeding and filthy. And he burned. Oh, how he burned. He looked around, but the only thing other than trees and bushes that he saw was a dim figure, barely visible in the nighttime gloom. He moved towards it, not bothering to try to pull his thoughts together. Behind him, the churned-up earth bore mute witness to his desperate struggle for freedom. When he reached the figure, he realized that it was just a statue: the figure of an angel carved from stone, standing on a pedestal so tall that he had to stare up at her. Pollution and weather had left there marks, wearing away details and staining her until she had a blank oval for a face. A star adorned her forehead and her arms were folded over her breast. She exuded a sense of calm compassion and he could not look away. He lifted a hand to his own chest and was disturbed to find it as bare as the rest of him, even though he didn't know why. All he knew was that something was missing. Something important. His thoughts were still sluggish and only half-formed. Everything seemed to be lost in a haze, but he could not find the ambition to worry about that. "She is beautiful, isn't she?" Mac turned to see a beautiful woman moving out of the shadows towards him. Slim and graceful, with a spill of dark hair covering her shoulders, he knew her on a deep, instinctive level, even though her name was one of those things lost in the mist. She came up beside him and ran his fingers through his hair, brushing dirt from it. He leaned against her, looking for more of that caress. A sigh of contentment escaped him, even though the burning in his gut was growing by the moment. Her laughter was like a peal of bells as she pulled his head down to her breast. "Oh yes, you are mine, no matter what he thinks. I knew you were meant for this the moment I saw you, and no one will ever take away from me. You are mine, sweet Mac." He nodded, more in response to what he recognized as his name than any understanding of what she was saying. But all she seemed to want was agreement and for some reason he wanted to please her. Then the nod turned into a nuzzle as he looked for something, although he didn't know what it might be. Then the pain struck and he doubled over with a cry, clutching his stomach. The burning feeling was spreading through him and he felt like he was going to burst into flames. Flames of need. He needed, he needed... Something was pressed to his lips, flesh and fluid and an intoxicating scent. He fastened onto it and started to suckle eagerly. When Vic woke, it was well after dark and he was lying on the ground. There was a light rain coming down and he was nearly soaked. He couldn't remember anything after lying down that morning, but he assumed that he must have succeeded in merging himself with the earth since he wasn't charred remains. Moira was right: imminent death was a great motivator. But he was no better off than he'd been before. Mac was still out there, and Vic found himself praying that he had been Embraced by their enemies. The alternative was that he was dead, and Vic did not want to consider that. No, Mac was alive and he would find him and save him. He deliberately did not think about Cash's story of being driven apart from his lover after she was embraced by a clan hostile to his. If that happened, he and Mac would just have to prove that instinct could be overcome if you wanted to badly enough. But first he had to find Mac. The Director had promised reinforcements come nightfall, but he wasn't about to wait for them. Once again exercising all the senses and talents of the Gangrel, he started hunting. "Very good," the woman crooned as Mac drank. Whatever it was, it was like the finest of wines sliding down his throat and cooling the burn. When she pulled it away, he whimpered and tried to hang onto it, but he was too weak. Immediately her voice turned hard and she grabbed his chin hard enough to bruise. "Enough, Mac. There will be more later, but you need to learn some self-control. Do you understand me?" He stared at her in confusion, but she shook him. Hard. "Do you understand?!" He swallowed hard. "Ye...yes," he managed to croak. "I... understand." The words felt awkward in his throat, but they came. And with the words came thought. He shuddered as he remembered pulling the dirt down on top of himself, praying that he hadn't been buried too deeply, thanking God that the dirt was packed down. Digging his way free hadn't been too difficult, but the panic had been all-encompassing. And before that, he remembered pain. Lots and lots of pain. Pain and silver eyes and sharp teeth. He cried out and pulled away. The cry was Mac. Vic would know his voice anywhere. Angling his path slightly to the left, he ran even faster. Mac fought to keep himself upright, but the memory of pain was threatening to overwhelm him and he ended up collapsing back to his knees. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, only just beginning to realize that he didn't need to breathe. He should need to breathe, shouldn't he? A strong hand grabbed him by the arm and hauled him back to his feet. "It's time to go," Kata said. He looked at her, confused. The haze had drawn back a little further, enough to remember her name. "Go where?" he asked, a deep feeling of foreboding. She didn't look quite as attractive anymore. Her hair was matted down by the rain turning the dirt on his own body to muddy streaks, and her expression was harsh. Then she smiled, and he shuddered slightly. "South, I think. Someplace warm and far from the Gaje. Won't that be nice?" He wasn't so sure about that, but when she turned and walked away, he followed her, almost against his will. With every step, the sense of wrong increased, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. She wanted him to follow, so follow he would. "Mac!" The shout stopped him in his tracks and he turned to see a man bursting out from a copse of trees behind the stone memorials. Green-eyed and crusted with dirt and mud, much like Mac but fully-dressed. He was familiar, but his name wasn't coming to Mac. "Time to go," Kata said, almost harshly, from behind him. He turned to see her waiting impatiently, one foot tapping lightly against the grass. He took a step towards her. "No!" "I told, you, he's mine, Gangrel. He was mine the moment I saw him. Blood calls to blood. Do you think he would really stay with a Gajo like yourself?" The man's face was twisting into a snarl now, his green eyes starting to turn silver. His hands clenched and his fingernails were... growing? Mac took a step back, confused and more than a little afraid. Silver eyes were associated with pain, he remembered. Then the man sprang forward and Mac fell over backwards trying to get out of the way. But the man went sailing over him to hit Kata. Mac blinked in confusion, though, when he realized that what had hit the woman wasn't a man. It was a large cat? It was a mountain lion, although he wasn't sure just where it had come from. Or where the man had gone. His mind was refusing to accept the evidence of his own eyes: the man had become the cat. Kata was fighting back, seemingly unconcerned about just what her attacker was. She struck out, like she was trying to slap the oversized feline, but there was a flash of light off of claws just as long as his, and the cat howled as lines of blood were left behind by the blow. Kata's lips drew back in a feral grin, exposing teeth that were longer and sharper that Mac remembered them being. The two sprang apart, settling into poses where either could attack or defend easily, although a woman facing off against a large mountain lion was not exactly normal. Mac was pretty sure of that. A flash of lightning and the answering roll of thunder just added to the unreality of the scene. And Kata's eyes were glowing an eerie silver to match the cat's eyes. Mac shuddered and bit his lip to keep from crying out. The man's eyes turning silver had made him think of the pain. Kata's eyes turning silver brought the memory of pain back full force, along with other memories. He remembered her tearing through the skin of his neck, sucking hard. Remembered the pain, followed but the darkness as his body turned cold and limp. And last of all, he remembered fluid being poured into his mouth and drinking it, before the darkness consumed everything. And then he woke up, buried alive. She had done that. Then she'd just waited until he'd dug himself free, doing nothing to help him. As the two combatants threw themselves at each other again, Mac scrabbled backwards until he was hidden behind one of the headstones. Then he pushed to his feet and ran. He just wished he knew where he was running to. Vic barely noticed slipping into cat form, it was so comfortable, so right. It was like slipping on a favorite outfit. As well, it had advantages in strength and speed that he had a hunch were going to be important. He knew that the bitch was Kindred, even before her talons and fangs made an appearance, and while he still didn't have a clue which clan she might be, he had the feeling she was a lot older than himself, and in Kindred terms, older meant stronger and cannier. Definitely more experienced in basic survival. A slash of the talons opened up his shoulder, sending shards of pain through his body. He leapt back with a howl and took a ready stance opposite her while he didn't a self-check. He was bleeding what blood he had and his leg wasn't entirely steady. She'd done damage to the muscles and worse, she knew it. "Here, kitty, kitty," she mocked softly, pushing the wet hair out of her eyes and circling to his left, trying to get an angle that would allow her to attack his injured side. Vic matched her rotation, not allowing her the opening. He might not be able to speak in this form, but his snarl spoke volumes. Unfortunately, she didn't seem in the least bit intimidated. "Poor little Gajo," she said, her lips twisting into a very unpleasant expression for such a beautiful face. "I told you that he was mine now. Romany blood and a thief. How could he possibly be happy in the world of the Camarilla? Oh yes," she crooned, flexing her talons as she inched closer to him. Vic tensed, ready. "He was born to be Ravnos and now he is all mine!" With the last word, she attacked. Vic met her in mid-air and this time when they fell apart, there was a set of parallel gouges down her chest, slowly oozing blood, and she was no longer smiling. Vic made a coughing noise that he managed to pour his derision into. She snarled, and her features seemed to melt a little. When they stopped, her appearance was more like what the movies showed as vampires: twisted, showing too much teeth and too much brow- ridge, with pointed ear-tips showing through the limp, dark hair. This time, they leapt simultaneously, both going for the jugular. They fell to the ground in a clawing jumble. Vic strained to reach her throat while kicking with his back legs to gut her. She used her own legs to keep his claws away from her vulnerable belly, and one elbow jammed under his jaw to keep his teeth away from her while also exposing his own neck to her fangs. At this point it was a stalemate. Neither one could get close enough to do damage without risking letting the other do the same. Vic snarled his frustration. He wanted her blood. He wanted to tear her flesh. This was the bitch who'd hurt Mac, who wanted to take him away. Mac was his, and he wasn't going to let some outsider break them apart. The sane portion of his brain was trying to point out that Mac wasn't his property any more than he was hers, but hunger and pain was overriding his commonsense. All he wanted was to kill her and then drag Mac home and make sure that no woman ever came between them again. The Beast was in full control. But first he had to do something about this Mexican standoff they were stuck in. Then there was a sharp double-prick of something hitting him in the back, followed by the feeling of having stuck his finger in a light-socket, only a thousand times worse. Vic spasmed, then everything went... Black. Mac ran, as fast and as hard as he could. In the back of his mind, he knew this was a mistake, but instinct was in the driver's seat. He crossed the road into the other section of the cemetery so quickly that he didn't even notice if there were any cars on the road. He wanted to stop running. His mind was starting to recover from what had happened to him and he knew that running through the streets of town completely naked, other than a layer of dirt, was a very bad idea. However, he could hear people moving in the dark, calling out to each other, and he had the sinking feeling that they were hunting for him. Now, maybe they were the good guys and he would be safe with them, but he wasn't willing to risk his life on that chance. Especially not considering the two he'd left behind, fighting over him. Part of him wanted to go back, but he wasn't sure why. She had hurt him, but he still felt drawn to her, no matter how hard he fought it. He could still taste the sweetness of her blood in his mouth. And the guy... He shook his head. He knew the man, but the name wasn't coming. But he could trust him. Maybe. He wasn't sure right then. Whichever one won the battle of the century that was going on, he had the feeling that he didn't want to be around when that happened. So he kept running until he ran out of room to run. He stared out at the city street, not sure what to do. If he stayed, they would find him. If he kept going, someone might see him and call the police. A shout from behind him decided it. Praying to a God he'd been ignoring since being abandoned on the streets of Hong Kong, Mac started running again. When Vic came to, he knew he'd only been unconscious for a few minutes. Kata was gone though, and he rolled over, scanning the surrounding area for her. "Easy, Ace," Dobrinsky said, holding out a hand. Vic took it and let the older man pull him to his feet. "Here," Dobrinsky said, tossing him a sweat suit. That was when Vic noticed that he was back in human form, soaking wet and buck naked to boot. Thankful that he didn't blush easily anymore, he quickly pulled the fleece garments on. "What are you doing here?" he asked suspiciously. Last he heard, Dobrinsky and Jackie were in the States somewhere on the Director's business. "The boss thought you might need some backup." That made sense. He just hadn't expected her second-in-command to be heading up the promised reinforcements. Vic looked around, but other than the two of them and a lot of headstones, the clearing was empty. "Where's Mac?" he demanded. "And the bitch?" Dobrinsky's lips pulled into a smirk. "The... lady is on her way to the Agency. The Director plans on questioning her herself. As for the kid, your guess is as good as mine. The two of you stuck in a clinch were all we found when we got here." Vic started swearing. "I've got to find him," he said, looking for and finding the signs of a panicked flight, fading quickly in the heavy rain. "Relax, I've got people looking. We'll find him." "Don't count on it," Vic said, already heading after Mac. "Hey!" Dobrinsky shouted from behind him. "The Director wants you back to base. Pronto!" "Screw her!" Vic shouted back, then ignored everything but the trail. Mac ran hard, looking for a place to hide until he could figure out what to do next. He hoped that Vic had won the fight, now that he'd remembered just who Vic was. He wanted to go back, but he still didn't know who the others were. Also, if Kata had won, he didn't want to be anywhere near her. She'd drugged him, kidnapped him for that Guylaine woman and she'd ripped his throat out. She'd... changed him. Kindred. He was Kindred now. Like Vic. And the Director, Dobrinsky and Jackie. But what would the Director do when she found out? Whatever clan Kata was, he doubted that it was one that the Director was planning on for him. He tried to tell himself that it wouldn't matter—after all, she'd accepted Vic after he'd been Embraced by a clan she hadn't planned on—but the part of him that was still pure instinct was terrified that she might decide to just dispose of him. He knew he was being irrational, but it didn't stop him from looking for a place to hide. He crossed another street, ignoring the offended shriek of a woman stupid enough to be taking her dog for a late-night walk in a thunderstorm, then ran through a yard. He grabbed some clothing off of a forgotten clothesline, then scrambled over yet another fence. Almost immediately, he was surrounded by green. Looking around, he realized that he'd reached the Don Valley Parkway, which traversed Toronto from the 401 to downtown. Not hearing any sounds of pursuits, he took the time to pull on his stolen clothing. The jeans were too short and threatened to fall off his hip, while the sweater was far too large for him, and both were soaking wet, but at least he was no longer in danger of being arrested for indecent exposure. Then he considered what direction to head. If he went south, he'd run out of park, but he'd be going in the direction of his apartment and Vic's. Home. North, on the other hand, led to more and larger parklands. More places to hide. Mac bit his bottom lip and closed his eyes. Going with his gut instinct, he turned. And headed north. Once Mac left the cemetery, his trail was harder to follow, but Vic persevered, using every trick he'd been taught and a few he made up along the way to keep going. Eventually he realized where Mac was headed and sped up even more. Mac was headed out of the frying pan and into the fire. Chapter Thirteen Mac followed the parkway until the green space widened into a full-sized parkland and he sighed in relief. This was so much better. He'd followed the East Don Valley River until he reached the conservation reserve, and while he could still hear the sounds of cars, the wildness of the area soothed his soul. Looking around, he found a nook underneath a bush and crawled in. The leaves of the bush protected him from the worst of the storm, and even though he was soaked to the skin, Mac didn't feel the chill. The fire in his belly was more than capable of keeping him warm. But he was exhausted already. The space was protected and he curled up tightly and closed his eyes. Maybe if he slept, he would wake up with the world back the way it should be. He'd be in his own bed, or better yet, Vic's, with the older man wrapped around him like he was an oversized body pillow. With that thought in mind, he slipped into sleep with a soft smile on his face. Vic followed Mac's trail, wincing as it headed into the wilder areas. Mac was headed into Gangrel territory, where even he was barely tolerated. As far as Moira and her lot were concerned, he was only put up with because the Director was capable of forcing them out of Toronto. If they found another Kindred in their territory... He'd seen them tear apart a mugger, once, who'd thought he could escape into the reserve and the cops wouldn't find him. He was right about that though: there hadn't been enough of him left to find. Vic picked up his pace. He had to find Mac before someone else did. Mac was drifting in a pleasant haze. He and Vic were walking along the shore of Lake Ontario, someplace outside of town. There were trees almost all the way to the waterline, and the song of night birds blending with the lap of the waves was the only sound. Then something grabbed his ankle and he looked down. A hand had burst up out of the sand and had a grip like iron on his leg. He stared at in shock for a moment. Then it started to pull him down, the sand sucking him like some sick form of quicksand. Vic grabbed his wrist and pulled in the other direct, shouting something he couldn't hear over the roaring in his ears. The suction increased, and between it and Vic, he felt like he was going to be ripped apart. He kicked out with his free—free?—leg and heard a snarl of pain. His eyes flew open and he realized that he'd been dreaming, but he really was being pulled out of his shelter. He'd grabbed onto the trunk of the bush in his sleep, but he could feel the roots starting to go. Realizing that he had no choice, he let go, and shot out from his little nest. He went flying, and whoever it was twisting his ankle lost his grip and went sprawling too, cursing the whole time. Despite the confusion of the night—and the previous night—his reflexes were still sharp. Mac rolled and came up in a martial arts ready stance. The brief nap had been exactly he needed to finish clearing his mind, although the burning in his gut was intensifying to the near pain stage again. What he saw didn't reassure him. Facing him were four men that practically reeked. They all had silver eyes and talons that were almost as long as their fingers. They also reminded him of Vic's temporary teacher, Moira. She'd had pointed and tufted ears like an animal, and these ones had similar... deformities. One had feathers instead of hair, one was shoeless and his feet resembled paws more than feet. One was so hairy that he almost counted as furred. The last looked nearly human, but there was something about him that made the hairs on the back of Mac's neck rise up. The feathered one was back on his feet after Mac's unexpected move had sent him flying. The four started to sidle to the side, obviously trying to surround him. He shifted, trying to keep them all in view, but he was honest enough to admit to himself that he didn't have much chance of stopping them. He might be hot shit in a fight, but four-on-one were lousy odds, even for him. "Hey, guys," he said, trying to put on an ingratiating smile. "Do we really need to do this?" Paws-for-feet chortled in a way that made his teeth grit. "Oh, yeah, we do. Did you really think you could just waltz in, trespassing, and get off scot-free?" "Especially one of your kind?" Black-and-furred added in a deep, gravelly voice that was almost a growl. "Um, my kind?" Mac was almost twisting, trying to keep Feathers in view. In another moment, one of them was going to reach his blind spot and he would be dead meat. "Yes, your kind." Paws' eyes narrowed as he looked at Mac. Then he grinned very unpleasantly. "Boys, I think what we have here is a baby. The freshest of meat." That pronouncement was answered by a chorus of chuckles. Mac gulped, then continued to try to brazen his way out. "I don't doubt that you can kill me," he said, going for the honest approach, "but it wouldn't be a smart move." Raucous laughter greeted that statement. "And why not?" Paws asked. He seemed like he was the leader of the mini-pack. "Because he's not alone." Hearing voices up ahead, Vic broke into a run. The rain had nearly stopped, so visibility was good enough for him to see Mac surrounded by four of Moira's top dogs, so to speak. Mac was trying to talk them out of killing him, but Vic could tell that they weren't going to go along with it. Martin —the one with the feathers—in particular had a streak of cruelty a mile wide. He'd seen the man hunt and kill a terrified homeless kid, while his bully boys had kept Vic from interfering. When he'd complained to Moira, she'd laughed in his face. 'This is what Gangrel is,' she'd told him. Well, not this Gangrel. The mugger he'd been able to justify to himself. The kid had been a different matter. "I don't doubt that you can kill me," Mac was saying, "but it wouldn't be a smart move." "And why not?" Jazz asked with a sneer. Martin might be the cruelest, but Jazz was the smartest. But not right now. Now he was in a really stupid place to be Vic smiled: It was payback time. "Because he's not alone." Jamal was the biggest of the bunch, heavy muscle under the dark fur, so Vic tackled him first. The big man went down under him in an inelegant heap, and Vic hit him in the head a few times until he went limp. He was still alive, but out of the picture. Then Vic was back on his feet, looking for the next opponent. The new voice was completely unexpected by everyone. Mac's four attackers all twisted to see who it was, but Mac took the chance to go after the weird one. He couldn't explain it, but the man scared the shit out of him and he wanted to get him out of the way fast. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vic tackle the big furry one, and the two went flying. Meanwhile, Mac kicked for Creepy's head, but the man twisted out of the way in a move that was definitely not human. He laughed, and stuck out his tongue at Mac. Mac recoiled. The guy didn't have a normal tongue, he had a snake's tongue. Complete with fork at the tip. The man laughed again, more hiss than chuckle, and wiggled his tongue in a way that was downright obscene. Mac's skin crawled. He hated snakes. With a bellow, he attacked with both fists and feet, fueled by disgust and near-panic. As a result, he was almost surprised when the man went down hard, accompanied by the sickening crack of breaking bones. The man's neck was bent at an unnatural angle, but he was still flopping, trying to get up. Mac didn't know if a Kindred could recover from a broken neck and he really didn't want to find out. But he was a little surprised at how easily he'd taken the man down. While he'd realized he was now Kindred himself, he hadn't really believed it. However, after this little show of strength, he didn't really have much choice. Welcome to life after death, Mac Ramsey. Unfortunately, he was so caught up in his ruminations on the nature of life, or un-life, that he forgot about the others. Even more unfortunately, they hadn't forgotten him. He found this out when a very cold, very sharp blade pressed against his throat. Jamal was down for the count and from the look of it, so was Sidney the snake. Mac looked like he was going into shock, but Vic didn't have the chance to reassure him. Before he could take a step in the direction of the younger man, Martin slammed into him. The fall would have knocked the air from his lungs if he wasn't Kindred: There were some benefits to being a vampire, and not needing to breathe was one of them. Instead, he twisted away from the man, avoiding talons and claws that were going for vulnerable spots. He kept rolling until he ended up back on his feet, facing his opponent. He might not be a flying kung-fu master like his partners, but in a street brawl, no one could out-mean him. "Down, lap-dog, or the baby gets it." Vic cursed silently. While he'd been paying attention to the fighters in the foursome, Jazz had managed to get behind Mac and was now holding a wicked looking dagger to his partner's throat. It was certainly sharp enough to decapitate him, something that would be beyond to even a Kindred's abilities to heal. Behind him, he heard Jamal groan and slowly get to his feet. Sidney would be a bit longer, but Martin was almost growling in his eagerness to get at Vic. A glance from Jazz quelled him, but just barely. "You want to live?" Vic asked softly, not taking his eyes off the man or his knife. Jazz's feathers were fluffed up, showing that despite his confident words, he was agitated. The man laughed, a slight edge to the sound. "I'm the one who should be asking that," he said. Vic shrugged, playing it cool. "This is Toronto. I may be the Prince's lapdog, but she takes care of her people. And she avenges them. Kill two of her people and you haven't a chance in hell of getting out of the city alive. She'd call a hunt. Let us go and you'll have the chance to get out of town with your skins intact." His words were answered by a chorus of growls, but he refused to allow that to affect him. They were getting out of this alive, but not if he didn't keep his cool. "You two vanish and how's she to know how you died?" Vic snorted. "I'm just the first one to get here. Dobrinsky and his boys were right behind me. I just ran faster." Jazz's eyes flickered in the direction Vic had arrived from, then back to him. "I don't believe you," he said, but he didn't sound completely sure of that. "Your funeral." Vic shrugged. Jazz might not believe him, but Mac was relaxing. Vic met his eyes and did his best to project reassurance. Then, ever so faintly, came the sound of voices, coming closer. "This is Gangrel territory," Jazz blustered. "The Prince can't just send invaders with impunity." That bit of bravado had Vic choking off a slightly bitter laugh. "You don't know her very well, do you? She does whatever she wants, when she wants, and you don't tell her 'no.' The Gangrel live in Toronto on her sufferance, and I doubt that Moira would appreciate you screwing that up for the entire clan." The voices were getting closer now. He could almost tell which was Dobrinsky. "Choose fast," he said, flexing his fingers before drawing them up into fists. "Run, and I'll make sure you have time to get out of town, but only if you go now. Wait any longer and the four of you will be hauled into her presence, and so will Moira. Who knows, maybe your boss will kill you herself, sparing my boss the need to get her hands dirty." He could see the man fidgeting. He didn't turn his head as one of the four took off, heading away from the newcomers. He didn't have to look to tell who it was: Martin might be cruel, but he was also a coward. If his prey fought back, he ran. Why Moira allowed him to stay, Vic would never know. "Go, Jazz, before it's too late," he said softly The man hesitated for one moment longer. Then he pushed Mac directly into Vic and took off, Jamal right behind him. The only one left with them was Sidney, who wasn't in any shape to move. He could hear Dobrinsky calling his name and speculating on his parentage, but he didn't bother to answer. Instead, he clutched Mac to him, reassuring himself that the younger man was... well, alive wasn't the right term, but at least he was still in one piece. He was clinging, he knew, but at least Mac was clinging back just as tightly. They were still wrapped up tightly in each other's arms when Dobrinsky arrived to take them home. Mac fidgeted under the Director's glare as she paced back the length of the room then turned and did it again. He did his best to look as innocent as he possibly could. Hanging onto Vic's hand helped with his anxiety levels, but it nothing about the burning in his gut. This time, he knew it was because he needed to... drink, but he really wasn't too crazy about what he had to drink. He might enjoy Vic drinking from him, but deep down, the idea of drinking blood himself was a little disconcerting. Nerves getting the better of him, he started to chew on the inside of his lip and winced as his fangs—fangs he hadn't noticed yet—sliced the tender skin open. It hurt, but the taste of little bit of blood that came out made the burning grow. He whimpered slightly and clutched Vic's had a little tighter. Now that the adrenaline rush was wearing off, his brain seemed to be shutting down again. The Director didn't miss the small sound. "Oh, for pity's sake." She headed over to her desk. A locked drawer was opened and she pulled out a baggie filled with red fluid. "Here," she said, sliding over the table surface to Mac. "Drink that before you lose it." Mac stared at the thing with distaste, but he could smell the blood. While his brain was screaming "Yuck!" at him, his instincts were saying "Yes!". He picked up the baggie, and those instincts took over. His fangs ripped into the plastic and his mouth filled with cold, delicious fluid. Almost immediately, his mind cleared again. Some of the precious liquid escaped and ran down his face to drip onto his 'borrowed' clothing. He didn't care. It tasted as good as he remembered. In fact, it tasted exactly like he remembered. That thought was like a splash of cold water in the face. He lowered the empty baggie and met the Director's eyes. "Kata?" The woman's smile was positively feral. "She didn't need it anymore." Mac gulped and fought the urge to vomit. He'd was drinking the blood of the woman who'd Embraced him. A woman who was now permanently dead. And yet, deep down, he couldn't find it in him to care. His only regret was that he hadn't been there to help. He started drinking again, this time a little more slowly. The Director watched him, a hard expression on her face. Finished, he put down the limp plastic and wiped his face on the sleeve of the oversized U of T sweatshirt he was wearing. She leaned back against her desk, tapping her long fingernails against the size. "You know," she said in an overly reasonable tone, "If I didn't like you so much, I would kill you." He flinched. "I mean, how is it you keep getting yourself into these messes?" She paused and waited expectantly. Mac opened his mouth to answer, but couldn't think of anything to say. Luckily, Vic did have something to say, and he took the opportunity to jump in. "In this case, he got into this mess because no one bothered to tell him what we were really up against." He glared at the Director and Mac wondered just what he'd missed in the last couple of days. The Director's eyebrow went up. "Are you suggesting that this is my fault?" she asked in a voice that almost dripped with sarcasm. "Did I tell him to go to a nightclub after his little excursion instead of coming back here? In case you've forgotten," she added, turning her attention back on Mac, "I pay your salary." "I didn't realize I was on company time," Mac said, then had to fight the urge to cringe under her glare. Actually, she had a good point. Going to a nightclub after his break-in was a pretty stupid thing to do, and thinking back, he couldn't really remember why he'd decided to do it. He frowned. For that matter, he couldn't remember leaving the club either. "How did they grab me?" he said softly, not really aiming the question at either Vic or their boss. The Director frowned at him. "You don't know?" Mac shook his head. "After I left the ROM, I just had the feeling that I had to go dancing. But I don't remember anything after getting there until I woke up in Guylaine's dungeon." The Director finally stopped her tapping and crossed her arms over her chest. "Nothing at all?" she asked. Mac closed his eyes and scrunched up his face in an effort to force the memories. "I remember dancing. Then..." he paused, not sure he wanted to say the rest, it was so crazy. "I remember flashes of a gypsy camp and fiddles and a woman singing." The Director was silent, and when he opened his eyes again, her gaze bored into him. Finally, she seemed to relent. "You were influenced, so I suppose you can't be completely blamed. This time. But I suggest you don't let it happen again." She moved to take her seat at the head of the conference table, the seat she gave them their instructions from. She stared at him for a long moment. Then a small smile forced its way free. "But still, only you could end up in this position, deliberately or not." "What do you mean?" "I mean, of all the clans you could have been embraced by, it figures that it would have to be Ravnos." Mac glanced at Vic and clutched his hand a little tighter. "What sort of clan is that?" he asked, his voice breaking a little. She snorted. "Ravnos and Gangrel don't get along, despite legends that say they are related. But relax, it's a... political animosity, if you like, not an instinctual one. The two of you aren't going to be playing Romeo and Juliet anytime soon. "As for what sort of clan they are, they're mostly gypsy-born, thieves, smugglers, con-men." She shook her head. "Chaos. They refuse to join either the Camarilla or the Sabbat. The last thing any prince wants is for the Ravnos to move into town. If they are noticed, they're run out of town or killed. On the other hand, being gypsies, they tend to travel a lot, which is why they still exist at all." This time it was Vic who snorted. "No wonder she kept saying that Mac was meant to be one of them." "Exactly. He would be irresistible to any Ravnos that crossed his path." Mac wasn't sure whether he was being complemented or insulted, but they had a point. Other than the first few years of his life before his mother had died, he'd traveled the world, learning the art of the con from his unreliable father. After his adoption by the Tangs, those skills had been refined, turning him into one of the best thieves in the world, if he did say so himself. "And what about Guylaine?" Vic asked. The Director deflated. Mac stared in disbelief: he couldn't remember ever seeing the woman look so defeated. "Kata was... convinced to tell us where she was, but by the time the team got there, she was gone." She didn't look angry that the ringleader had escaped, Mac noted. Instead, she seemed almost sad. He opened his mouth to ask, but Vic squeezed his hand warningly. "I'll explain later," he hissed. Now he really wanted to know what had happened while he'd been playing hostage, but he decided to wait until he and Vic got home. With a start, he realized that when he thought of home, it was Vic's place that came to mind. He squeezed Vic's hand and leaned a little closer. The older man glanced at him and smiled warmly. Yeah, home was a good idea. A real home. The Director sighed. "It's nearly dawn, so I suppose that the two of you should head off. Normally, I wouldn't let Mac go anywhere, but he seems to be doing as well, if not better than you did, Victor. And by the way, your fridge has been stocked for two." Mac was on his feet immediately, and pulled Vic in the direction of the door. He did not want to know what the alternative to him going home would be. They just made it to the door when the Director called out, "Mac!" He winced, then turned around. He should have known that getting away wouldn't be that easy. "I think this belongs to you," she said mildly, then tossed something at him. Reflexes took over and he plucked the object out of the air. Opening his hand, he smiled. "Thanks," he said softly, and hung his pendant back where it belonged, around his neck. For a moment it seemed to pulse warmly against his skin, almost like a living thing. Then he turned and followed Vic out the door. He wanted to go home. Epilogue: Vic nearly had to carry Mac into the apartment. The sun was coming up and he could feel it like an itch under his skin, like a cut draining all his energy away. "Should be wearing white," he mumbled as Vic unlocked the door while trying to balance his weight. He was answered by a snort. "White is for virgins, so unless there's been a miracle of epic proportions, you don't count." Mac found the energy to smile. "Haven't I been reborn? Everything is new again, including me, so I am a virgin. Again." Vic stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then nearly fell over laughing. If Mac hadn't known better, he might have thought that the man was having hysterics. "Fine," Vic said, wiping away pink-tinged tears. "You're a virgin. Do you want to wait for me to go find you something white to change into, or do you want to go to bed?" Mac closed his eyes. "Bed," he whispered, awed at the thought. Beds were soft with covers and pillows and someone to curl up against. Beds didn't have earth or leaves. Beds were wonderful things. Vic caught him as he started to slip down the wall he'd been leaning against. "Bed," he said firmly. Seemingly an instant later, Mac landed on the promised bed. He blinked and Vic was gone. He blinked again and his partner was back, carrying a couple of those damned blood baggies. "Here," Vic said. He started to toss the baggie, then thought about it and decided to just hand it to him. Mac stared at the squishy thing. "Huh?" was all he could say. It looked liked a red version of those icky breast-implant thingies. "Drink it, or you'll wake up starving." Leading by example, Vic draining his own baggie. Deciding that since the other man had been doing this longer—by a few months, at least—Mac did the same. He still found the idea distasteful, and the baggie was so uncouth, but the taste was... incredible. But he didn't really have time to enjoy it before his eyes started to drift shut. He tried to force them open again, but his entire body had gone limp. Dimly, he could feel Vic stripping him down to bare skin, then climbing in next to him. Vic was naked too, and while usually a naked Vic was to be enjoyed, he couldn't move a muscle. Vic curled up around him, a comforting presence. "Go to sleep," he whispered in Mac's ear. "Tonight we can discuss what happened. But for now, just sleep." And Mac did. The Director watched the two men on the screen. They looked good together, she couldn't deny, even though this had never been in her plans. San Francisco was supposed to be a turning point for her favorite team, but she'd foolishly thought she could decide what direction they would be turning to. She briefly considered separating them. Julian might be willing to take Mac in. Then again, considering the young man's resemblance to the late, lamented Zane, that might not be a good idea. Or maybe she could send Vic to the Prince of Vancouver. After all, he did owe her a favor. Then she shook her head ruefully. She'd practically thrown them together. She couldn't complain if it had... 'taken' better than she had expected. If the separation during Vic's training period hadn't cooled them off, nothing would. And now she had the additional problem of Mac's Embrace. She gritted her teeth in frustration. Mac was supposed to be Ventrue, damnit. She'd planned it all out so carefully. True, he had a taste for larceny, but he also had the polish and the poise of a Ventrue. All he needed were the rough edges filed off, the impatience tempered. She'd even considered taking him as her own Childe, before deciding that Dobrinsky would do a better job of taking him in hand. And now he was Ravnos. Might as well call him chaos. Still, she would deal with it. That's why she was Prince; to deal with the tough problems. And unfortunately, Mac wasn't the toughest one. Her phone rang and she stared at it, waiting for it to rear up and bite her. It did no such thing, though. It just kept ringing. Finally, about the tenth ring, she stabbed the speaker button. "What?" A soft chuckle answered her, and she stiffened. "Guylaine." "Who else? Did you miss me?" "Get within firing range and I won't." More laughter. "Such a far cry from the worshipful little sister I remember." "Well, we all grown up sooner or later," she said, resting her chin on her intertwined fingers, staring off into space. "A pity. I quite miss my little sister." The Director snorted and shook her head. "Yes, you miss me so much that you came to town just to see me." "Actually, I did. I wanted to see just how good a Prince my dear Dianne had become. I was quite impressed with your two boys. They took out my little operation, stopped my right-hand man. Or woman, I should say. Very impressive for a baby Gangrel and a human." "Don't play games, Guylaine. The only reason they got as close as they did was because you let them. Why?" "Did you like my last present?" the voice on the other end of the phone said, bypassing the question. "And which one would that be?" the Director asked, leaning back in her chair. "Why, your little boy, of course. He'll make such a lovely Ravnos, I think. So much untapped potential, there. A pity you didn't think to take advantage of it sooner. So ripe for plucking, and I beat you to it." "He's still mine," she replied, bristling at the satisfied tone in her sister's voice. "Exactly. And every time you look at him, you'll see plans thwarted. I had him first, and every day, you'll have to face that. Enjoy." There was a click, followed by a dial-tone. It was a long time before she could bring herself to turn that dial-tone off. She glanced back at the screen where she could see Mac and Vic, still wrapped tightly around each other, and made a decision. Keeping them together kept them both tied to her. And it wouldn't take much encouragement on her part of bind them even closer. The sun was heading down when Vic finally woke. It was late for him, but all of the stress and activity of the last few days had exhausted him. He felt completely drained, but absolutely fantastic at the same time. Mac was still in the same position he'd landed in that morning, looking almost heartbreakingly pale. His chest didn't rise, Vic couldn't hear a heartbeat and he was cool to the touch. To every sense, Mac seemed dead. In fact, technically speaking he was dead. But at the same time, he wasn't. While Vic wished he could have had the chance to personally rip Kata to shreds for hurting his lover, at least she'd Embraced him instead of just killing him. Mac was Kindred now, which meant that forever just got a whole lot longer. And forever was what he wanted. He and Mac had been dancing around the whole commitment issue, even before San Francisco, if he was honest with himself. And while forever was just the sort of thing he wanted, he hadn't been sure that it was something Mac could give him. But after nearly losing Mac, he'd decided that he'd rather try and fail than not try at all. Mac was his and anyone who tried to take him away was going to learn to just what lengths he was willing to go to keep him. Now, if Mac wanted to leave him, that would be a different matter, and he wasn't sure just what he'd do then. Let him go? Turn stalker? He really wasn't sure. In the meantime, the sun would be setting in a half-hour, and he knew from personal experience that despite the snack before bed, Mac would wake up starving. For that matter, he was more than a little hungry himself. He could hear the sound of rain on the large picture-windows in the living room, muted by the thick drapes, so he was safe to leave the bedroom. He headed for the kitchen to make sure that they had enough blood for the night at least, then stopped dead. In the middle of his tidy living room was a pile of boxes, along with two larger wardrobe boxes. There was a note pinned to the side of one of them and he pulled it off and started reading. "Victor," the note said in the Director's no-nonsense script. "Mac's apartment will require major renovations before it is... livable. There are no other appropriate accommodations available at the moment, so Mac will be staying with you for the time being. "I will leave it to you to teach him the basics that he needs to know. I will expect to see you both on Monday after sunset. "Enjoy yourselves." He could almost see her smirk in the last line of the note, and it was matched by the one on his own face. It was just too bad that Mac had to move in with him. And who knew for how long? Reading between the lines, he could read matchmaking there. They'd just been given the equivalent of a honeymoon. Now he just had to hope that Mac didn't run scared when he found out. Leaving the boxes for the moment—they could unpack Mac's stuff later— he continued on to the kitchen. The fridge had enough blood to keep them going for almost a week. He dropped a couple of baggies into a large bowl and set the kettle to boil. Blood tasted better at... well, blood-temperature, and pouring boiling water on the baggie didn't make it clot the way the microwave did. Vic stopped and shook his head in bemusement. Only a few months ago, saying something like that would have made him ill. Now it was just a fact of life. As soon as the blood had warmed up enough, he quickly drank it down. He started a couple more baggies warming for Mac, then had a different thought. Almost immediately, his cock surged to life and he found himself drifting back towards the bedroom. He'd seen the effect of his own feedings on Mac, but he'd never had the chance to experience that for himself. After all, he wasn't about to go around asking the Director or anyone else to bite him. He didn't want any of the Kindred at the Agency to bite him. But the though of Mac biting him... He moaned softly in the back of his throat, standing in the doorway, watching Mac sleep. Pale and unmoving, he looked like he was carved from marble. Soft marble. Touchable marble. He moved forward and tugged the covers down the bed, leaving Mac bare to his eyes. He'd seen the young man naked before, but nearly having lost him added a spice to the experience. Mac was definitely the most beautiful man he'd ever seen. He could feel the sun slipping below the horizon as he crawled up the length of the bed to hover on all fours above Mac, waiting for the moment when the new-born Kindred woke. He had to fight the urge to just take the man; an act that would be akin to rape in Mac's unconscious state. Besides, he liked his partners a little more... involved. The moment the sun was completely gone, Mac's eyes flew open, already gleaming silver. "Vic?" he said, a little hoarse. "Vic?" Mac stared up into the eyes of his partner and frowned. He lifted a hand to trace the ridge of bone below one eye. "What?" Vic said. Mac opened his mouth, then shook his head. "Nothing." He wasn't sure he was coherent enough to explain to Vic that his eyes were... different. Not noticeably unless you looked real close, but the feline green eyes were even more feline than they'd been before. Then his nostrils flared. He could smell blood. Blood on Vic's breath. Vic had been drinking blood. Blood. He growled softly in the back of his throat and reared up to catch the man's mouth in a kiss. The taste of blood was there too, and he plunged his tongue into the man's mouth, hunting for more. More taste. More blood. More Vic. He reached up and grabbed Vic, pulling the man down on top of him. He dimly heard the man chuckle, but ignored it. He needed to touch, to feel, to taste. He wrapped arms and legs around the man to keep him from getting away while he finished plundering his mouth. But it wasn't enough. While the taste was there, his instincts were crying for the real thing. He ended the kiss and buried his face in Vic's throat, shuddering. "Vic," he whispered, trying to articulate what he needed. In response, Vic tilted his head back, exposing the entire length of his throat. "Go ahead," he said in a tone of voice that was almost a moan. Taking the invitation, Mac fixed his lips on the offered throat and sucked hard. He tickled the flesh with the tip of his tongue and felt Vic shudder against him. That shudder aroused more needs in him, the need to dominate, to take. He surged upwards, flipping them over. He landed on top of Vic, his mouth never having let go of the man's throat. Vic was making whimpering little noises that just made him hotter. Mac reached over and pulled the bedside table's drawer open and pulled out a tube, going just by feel. He was able to control himself long enough to coat his cock with gel, but need was screaming through his veins. He tossed the tube over his shoulder, dimly hearing it hit the floor with a moist thud, then pushed Vic's legs apart, tilting the man's hips to the right angle. He pulled away from Vic long enough to moan the man's name, then sank his cock into the man's ass the same time as he sank his fangs into the man's throat. Tight. Liquid. Feel. Taste. Scent. Scream. Vic exploded across his every sense, and he found the control to wonder if this was what Vic felt every time he fed on Mac, fucked Mac. It was so damned good. Mac wanted to fuck Vic, keep fucking him until the world crashed down around them. Vic's blood was flooding down his throat, soothing the hungry burn. Vic's ass was clenching around him, soothing the other burn. Everything he wanted—the beast wanted—was found right here. He heard Vic scream one last time, then he arched up against Mac, spraying them both with cum. The scent added to the whole sensory cocktail that was happening and Mac pulled away from the vein he'd been nursing on and roared his approval, his hips pumping at blinding speed as he emptied himself into the other man. Then he collapsed onto Vic, his eyes shutting, remembering how the French called an orgasm 'the little death' before the world went away again. Mac didn't think he was unconscious for long, just a few minutes. He opened his eyes to see Vic sitting next to him with an amused look and two mugs in his hands. "Good evening, again," Vic said in a chipper voice that made him growl. Mac pushed up into a seated position and accepted the mug held out to him. He sniffed it briefly, then chugged the thick liquid down. He eyed Vic, who was sipping his own blood in nonchalant way. "Are you okay?" he asked when the older man stayed silent. "Hmm? Me? I'm fine. I'm better than fine." The man's lips curved up in a satisfied smile. "In fact, I'm fantastic." Mac should feel guilty for nearly raping the man, but the feeling just wasn't coming. Vic certainly didn't look injured. Or upset. What he looked like was someone who'd been royally fucked and loved it. It was a look that Mac really liked. But if Kata'd had her way, he never would have seen Vic again, like this or any other way. And if those three Gangrel'd had their way, he would never have seen anything again. He'd nearly lost everything important in his life, and Vic topped that list. Mac put his mug down, then took Vic's mug from the man and put it on the table next to his and pulled the man into his arms. He could feel the confusion radiating from the man, but he stayed silent. He needed to feel Vic against him, to know that he hadn't lost everything. After a moment, Vic relaxed against him, his arms coming up to wrap around Mac's back. Mac pulled him a little closer and sighed in contentment. "Mac?" Mac took a deep breath, taking in the scent of blood, of sex, of Vic. "Yeah." "Are you okay?" He thought about it for a moment, then smiled. "I'm great." "Good." "Can I move in?" Vic stiffened, and he wondered if he was pushing a little too hard. All he knew was that he didn't want to let go. Ever. "Do you want to?" Vic asked. "Makes sense," he prevaricated. "The bedroom at my place has a big window." "Is that the only reason?" He slumped a little. "I want to be here. With you." "For how long?" He could hear the tension in Vic's voice, and started to second-guess himself. However, it was too late to back down. "Forever? Or at least until you want me to leave." Vic's arms tightened around him. "Forever sounds good," the man whispered. Mac pulled back and met Vic's eyes seriously. "I've tried forever twice now," he said, thinking of LiAnn and Claire and how those relationships had ended. "I failed both times. But I do want to try." Vic smiled slowly. "Good, because I wasn't planning on letting you leave. And luckily, the Director seems to agree." "Huh?" Vic's smile turned to a smirk. "Everything you own is in boxes in the living room. She says there's no other Agency apartment available, so you have to stay here temporarily. Personally, I was planning on it being permanent." He was? "The Director?" Vic kissed him hard, then pulled back again. "In fact, she's given us until Monday off." "Time off?" "Yep. To teach you the basics, she said." Mac frowned. "She was here?" He had a sudden image of the Director molesting them in their sleep. It was just the sort of thing she'd do, too. Vic pushed him onto his back and kissed him again. "She just left a note," the man reassured him, then kissed him a third time. He was still wrapping his thoughts around the idea of the Director ordering them to move in together. On the other hand, was it really much different from locking the two of them in a room together after Vic's Embrace? He'd had the feeling that she disapproved of them continuing to sleep together, though, but now she was throwing them together. He'd never understand the woman. But since she seemed to be encouraging them, at least for the time being... Mac purred softly as Vic nibbled on his earlobe. "Monday, huh?" "Yep." "Whatever shall we do until then?" He felt Vic smile against his throat before thrusting against Mac's groin with an already recovering erection. "Oh, I'm sure we'll think of something." Oh, yeah. He could certainly think of something to do. A lot of somethings. Mac spread his legs and offered himself to his lover. Jackie weaved her way through the crowd, ready to enjoy a night out. After the last few days, she needed some relaxation, and a rave was just the ticket as far as she was concerned. The conference in the States had been pretty damned dull, so Jackie hadn't minded when the Director had called them back unexpectedly. Dobrinsky had been sent to back up Vic and Mac—just how did those boys get themselves into these messes?—while she'd been sent to clean up the dance club that the bad guys had been operating out of. There hadn't been much left to clean up, and when they'd been sent to the big cheese's place, it had been cleaner than a baby's bottom. Then again, maybe that wasn't a good comparison to use. Whatever. The place had been spotless, nothing useful left behind for them to find. Not that that had stopped the Director from making her spend two nights going over every square inch with a all-Kindred team. You'd think it was personal or something. But she'd finally admitted defeat and had given Jackie the weekend off, and she was going to take advantage of it. She popped a couple of tablets, then took a swig from her water bottle. Ecstasy was a favorite of the young crowd, and while it didn't have the same effect on her that it did on them, it did provide a really nice buzz. The bottle empty, she tossed it away and dove into the writhing crowd. The heavy techno beat was making the walls vibrate and she wanted to dance. And after that, maybe a little hunting. She grinned. Then she saw something out of the corner of her eye and twisted to get a better look. A slim figure was working her way towards an exit. Forgetting about dancing, Jackie followed. The press of bodies made the going tough, and she had to resort to elbows and claws to discourage a few hands that tried to hold her back or grope her. One persistent asshole even got a fanged snarl in his face, which got him to back off in a hurry. But by the time she made it to the door, the other woman was gone. Jackie stood in the doorway, looking up and down the street outside. There was no sign of the woman she'd seen. Or had she really seen what she thought she'd seen? After all, wasn't LiAnn still in China? END OF ON A WIRE Book III: Never the Twain Just where is LiAnn anyway? And why hasn't anyone heard from her? And what is with that damned necklace anyway. I can't promise all the answers, but we shall see. lburwell@adan.kingston.net

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