'Again'? Make that 'still.' They'd been eyeballing me from the moment I'd
walked through the door, a matched set, him and her, dark and silent, all
dressed in black. But then, everybody in this place was dressed in black.
Black clothes, chalky-white skin, long dyed-black hair hanging over their
faces, in their eyes, grim expressions to match. Goth night at Reilly's Bar.
Only it wasn't the Reilly's I remembered from FBI blue-flamer days gone by,
pub-crawling a couple times with Mulder; now it was called The Haven. Goths
in the bar, yuppies and fine dining in the back room and live music
Wednesday through Saturday nights. Shit. All I wanted was a quiet drink in
semi-familiar surroundings, and instead I get a roomful of kids looking like
they'd just come from a frigging funeral. Figured.
Then again, it was probably a good thing the place had changed hands; at
least I didn't see anybody I recognized, or who recognized me—though,
weirdly enough, it was the risk of being recognized that had enticed me in
here, a stupid, perverse thrill that fizzled away three shots of vodka ago.
Now if the two headcases in the corner would stop looking at me like I was a
rare steak, maybe I could finally start to relax.
I tossed back another shot of Stoli, savoring its long, slow burn down my
throat, and stared into the mirror hanging at the back of the bar,
considering. Part of me wanted to saunter on over to their table and demand
point-blank what the fuck their problem was. Another part of me—- the
bone-tired part—told my ass to stay put. The last thing I needed right
now was trouble. Lay low, have a couple more drinks, find a place to crash
for the night. I didn't know where I was going tomorrow, and at the moment I
didn't give a damn. Three-odd years on the run had shown me the futility in
trying to plan ahead.
"Another?" the bartender asked, fingering the vodka bottle. She was a tall,
slim black woman with liquid brown eyes and a bored expression.
"How much you got left?"
She held it up. About a third full.
I threw a twenty onto the bar. "Enough?"
"For all of it?"
"Yeah."
She shrugged and grabbed the money, pushing the bottle toward me. "You're
gonna be hatin' life tomorrow morning."
I scooped up the bottle and a clean shotglass and moved to the back of the
bar, to a tiny table in the shadows, back to the wall, with a nice, clear
view of the front door. Not to mention my fans in the other corner. Well,
they weren't going to get much of a show out of me, unless they thought
watching me get tanked was entertaining.
The next shot went straight up through my sinuses, throbbing and stinging. I
closed my eyes and leaned back against the cushions, pinching the bridge of
my nose. Images floated through my brain, slicing the blackness behind my
eyes. Kazakhstan. Tunguska. Dmitri, and the Star of Russia, sailing to the
US. Handcuffs numbing my wrist in that damp, fetid-smelling hold. Mulder's
apartment, dark, bathed in moonlight. Mulder.
Mulder. The look on his face when I was telling him what the old man had
told me. Mocking, disbelieving. Then the look on his face when I leaned in,
grabbed him by the neck, and kissed him—eyes closed, lips slightly
parted. If he'd turned into it just a little more, I would've hit his mouth,
not his cheek.
//Don't go there. Don't frigging go there.//
I downed another shot, too fast this time, and it went down the wrong way,
choking me. I coughed, sputtered, trying to keep it down, not wanting to
attract any undue attention.
"You drink like my grandfather."
The voice came from right in front of me. Lilting, feminine. It took me a
few seconds to register that she was speaking in Russian.
I looked up across the table. It was her, the female member of the
black-clad Goth duo. She was tall, taller than she'd looked sitting over at
that table, almost as tall as I was, at least six feet, lithe and
fine-boned. Black hair fell in a solid silky sheet all the way to her waist;
now that I could see it up close, the color looked completely natural. Her
eyes were blue, clear, deep blue, like Scully's. The guy she was with stood
a couple steps behind her, long and lanky, hands shoved in his pockets,
studying me intently, saying nothing.
She smiled, a tiny little quirking-up of her lips, scooping up my vodka
bottle. "Native brew," she said, still in Russian, her tones rich, plummy,
familiar. Pure Moscow. "My grandfather used to drink vodka like that,
straight shots, ice cold. A whole bottle in one sitting." She put down the
bottle. "I'm Misha."
I hesitated but only for a second. No harm in talking for a couple minutes;
maybe then they'd go away and leave me alone. "Alexei."
"Good to meet you, Alexei."
"Does your friend have a name?"
"Dusk."
"Does he talk?"
"When the spirit moves him," she replied, switching to English. She had a
slight accent, round, faintly British-sounding vowels. "Usually when he's
fucking a beautiful young man like you."
Jesus. Nothing like bald-faced honesty. I laughed—it was either that or
start choking again. "Does he usually let you do the propositioning for
him?"
"Only when I've got something similar in mind." Her smile widened just a
bit, a touch of warmth, though not enough to break character.
"Um, it's not that I'm not flattered, but why me?"
"You looked lonely sitting here all by yourself. You looked like you could
use a friend," she said softly. "Or two, as the case may be. Our place isn't
far from here. Would you join us?"
I think it took me all of five seconds to make my decision. The bottle was
almost empty, and aside from some seedy motel, I had no place to go. What
the hell. Maybe they were headcases, but she was pretty and so was he, and
offers like this didn't fall into my lap every day; I knew I'd be kicking
myself tomorrow if I let it slip through my fingers. "Lead the way," I said,
sliding to my feet.
The streets outside were noisy and wet; the air had a clean, scrubbed taste
to it, a sure sign that it had rained while I'd been inside the bar, though
only a wispy drizzle remained now. We walked through a few back alleys, up
to a row of nondescript apartment buildings, grey-toned in the darkness,
peeling paint. The elevator wasn't working, so we took the stairs up to the
third floor.
It was pitch-black inside the apartment; I kept waiting for one of them to
turn on the lights. A few seconds later Misha struck a match, and a single
candle flickered, then another, which she handed to Dusk, both of them
making their way around the room, lighting candles as they went. I didn't
see one electric light, no lamps, not even a naked lightbulb dangling from
the ceiling.
Considering the stark bareness of the place, that was probably a good thing.
It was a single-room studio, with the kitchen near the back and a couple
doors leading off to the side that I assumed were the bathroom and closet.
No furniture other than a three-tiered bookshelf, a chest of drawers, both
covered in candles, one chair, and a mattress on the floor. Well, at least
the mattress looked big enough for three.
Dusk finished lighting his side of the room and came over to me, a thick
beeswax candle in one hand, the other reaching out to unzip my jacket. I let
him do it, but when he started slipping off my left sleeve, I jerked away.
He looked at me, eyes turning from brown to blue to green and back again in
the muted light. Just like Mulder's.
"It's all right, Alexei," Misha said, coming up to me, rubbing my shoulder,
brushing my cheek with a soothing kiss. "Your flaws only make you more
beautiful to us." At my look, she added, "You didn't use your left arm the
whole time we were watching you. It didn't take us long to figure out
you'd...had an accident."
Dusk's fingers tugged insistently at my sleeve, and this time I let him do
it, let him slide the whole jacket off me, then just stood there, watching
his reaction, then hers, their eyes looking me up and down, taking it all
in, even the arm that wasn't there anymore, replaced by hard, unfeeling
plastic. Dusk's hand reached up to stroke the prosthesis, testing it with
his fingertips, following it all the way up to my shoulder, hand sliding to
my throat, the nape of my neck, pulling me closer, leaning in for a kiss.
His mouth was gentle and sweet, tongue darting between my lips for the
barest taste, then pulling away, arms going around me, burying his face in
my throat, licking, nipping at the throbbing artery. His hair was soft and
clean, and smelled like fresh peaches. I let my eyes drift shut, savoring
the scent, the warmth of him.
I think I must have gasped when I felt Misha's hand touching mine; she laid
a finger across my lips, then kissed them lightly, then did the same for
Dusk, both of them leading me over to the mattress. My knees felt ready to
give way at any moment, and I sank down gratefully, falling back against the
rumpled sheets. My head was spinning, buzzing, the vodka finally taking its
toll, turning me mindless, boneless. Somewhere in the back of my muzzy brain
I knew my boots and jeans were being stripped off, felt the cool relief of
air hitting my bared skin, then Dusk crawling onto the mattress beside me,
mouth descending on mine, fingers closing over my cock, caressing, stroking.
I moaned, sucking his tongue, pushing up into his palm, already so hard it
hurt.
Misha lay half-sprawled on the floor, leaning against the edge of the
mattress, fingers toying with mine, smiling, content to watch. I stifled the
chortle rising in my throat; from what'd happened back at the bar, I
should've figured that's how it was with them. Didn't bother me, though; I
hadn't been on the receiving end of this much attention in a long time.
//Blonde hair spilled over my pillow. A narrow ship's bunk, creamy-white
skin stretched across whiter sheets.//
Memory flashed through me, swift and searing as quicksilver, but I pushed it
aside. That was work, doing what I had to do to gain favor and information.
This was pure pleasure.
Dusk finally pulled away, lips pink and swollen from kissing, grinning down
at me, stripping off his jacket and leather vest, tossing them aside,
revealing strong, muscular upper arms. He looked younger now than he had
back at the bar, skin smooth and unlined under his pale, chalky makeup,
nineteen, twenty years old maybe, hardly more than a kid. I wondered if
Mulder had looked this beautiful and innocent at twenty, limpid hazel eyes
unjaded, still full of wonder. God.
Dusk's fingertips pushed up my t-shirt, baring my chest, lips following in
their wake, tracing a moist trail all the way down to my navel, tongue
sweeping in and out so quickly I yelped, moving lower, painting a squiggly
wet stripe down my belly, then lifting off, leaving me whimpering, but only
for a second, a hot mouth swiftly engulfing my cock, swallowing me whole in
one long stroke. If he hadn't been lying on top of me, I would've gone right
through the ceiling.
My fingers tightened reflexively on Misha's, so hard I was sure she'd cry
out, but she squeezed back even harder, kissing my wrist, tongue flicking
out, lapping at the pulse thrumming there. Something stung, pricked—her
fingernails were digging in too hard. I tried to tug my hand away, but she
clamped onto me like a fucking cobra. The pain came again, sharper, deeper
this time, tiny razorlike needles searing me, but by then I didn't care,
could barely think through the rush of blood inside my head, burning in my
cock, Dusk's mouth working me, dark head bobbing in a steady rhythm, taking
me deeper, faster, sucking, swallowing me as I came, spurting hot and thick
down his throat.
Consciousness faded, smudged and hazy around the edges. The next thing I was
aware of there was something huge and heavy lying over me, pushing me into
the mattress, lips pressed to my throat, cutting off my air. Dusk. I tried
rolling him off, but he wouldn't budge. At first I thought he'd fallen
asleep, but another nudge brought a growl from him, deep, rough, like an
animal's, and another sound too, close and wet. The pain in my wrist was
still there too, and had moved up to the crook of my elbow, my whole arm
throbbing like it'd been slashed with jagged glass and every vein in my body
was being yanked out through the wound.
"Get off me," I rasped, trying to move, but suddenly I couldn't; my whole
body had turned to lead. I stared up at the ceiling, gasping, the room
slowly growing dimmer and dimmer, black spots swirling across my corneas. I
hadn't felt this weak even when they'd sawed off my arm.
//I'm dying.//
I drifted, eyes fluttering closed, letting go; I couldn't fight it anymore,
and part of me didn't even want to. I felt calm, peaceful now, for the
first time in ages. No more running, no more living in shitholes, always
looking over my shoulder. At least that part would be over.
Then something touched my lips, something warm and wet; I lapped at it
softly, slowly, wincing a little at the metallic undertaste, then more
urgently, latching on like a greedy kitten at its mother's teat. I'd never
been so thirsty in my life. Hot liquid filled my mouth again and again, and
I gulped it down, my vision finally clearing, the room growing brighter.
The weight on top of me lifted, and I looked up, Dusk and Misha hovering
over me. Misha smiled, kissing my cheek, stroking my hair. There was
something smeared on their lips, something dark. Dark and red, like blood.
//My blood.//
Dusk's wrist was bleeding; he licked it clean, and the cut sealed itself
instantly. There were similar cuts on my wrist and the crook of my elbow,
both crusted over with thin lines of dried blood. My tongue darted out,
lapping up few stray droplets clinging to my own lips, all salty-copper. I
had the same taste in the back of my throat.
//Oh, God. Oh, sweet Jesus.//
"What the fuck did you do to me?" I croaked.
Dusk traded a look with Misha, both of them smiling. "It's okay," he said.
"You're one of us now."
Cold. Throbbing, aching, bone-shattering cold. Cold and pain, like a million
tiny fishhooks burrowing under my skin, digging and tearing.
The room was freezing and completely dark. I fumbled around, finally finding
a book of matches, striking one, lighting a few of the candles on top of the
chest of drawers. I was alone now, apparently, unless Misha and Dusk were
hiding in the closet; there was no sign of them anywhere. Picking up a
candle, I stumbled to the bathroom.
I made it all the way inside before I collapsed, doubled over the sink,
wracked by dry heaves. I hurt inside, a huge hollow ache, getting worse by
the second. My blood felt like it was burning inside my veins, scalding like
acid. I couldn't feel my heart beating or hear myself breathe. I'd never had
a hangover this brutal before. No more fucking Stolichnaya.
Spasms ripped through me again, making me grip the sink until I was sure my
knuckles would split my skin open. Finally the nausea seemed to subside, and
I splashed cool water on my face, then went back in the other room. Maybe if
I ate something, I'd feel better.
But aside from beer in the fridge and some canned soup I found in one of the
cupboards, there was nothing else even remotely edible in the house. Which
was probably a blessing, since now the thought of food was tying my guts
into even bigger knots than before. I settled for some water, then went to
flop down on the mattress again, scooping up my clothes along the way.
My jeans and boots were still there, but my jacket was missing, though
Dusk's was right where he'd thrown it. Now I was pissed as well as dog-
sick. Christ, did they bring me back here to roll me for my fucking jacket?
Scattered images of the night before whirled through my brain, jumbled,
disjointed, making no sense.
//Bad dream.//
Yeah, that was it, had to be. I'd gotten smashed out of my fucking mind and
let two strangers pick me up. If it'd happened to anybody else, I'd say the
idiot deserved what he got. At least I could still walk, and the money I'd
shoved in my jeans pocket was still there. Could've been a lot worse.
There was a window right above the mattress, and I peeked through the
blinds, jerking back, pale grey twilight searing my eyeballs, fresh pain
shooting through me like chain lightning.
A quick glance at the clock-radio on the bookshelf told me it was 6:10 p.m.
Christ, I'd slept the day away. Wouldn't be long now until it was dark. I'd
give Dusk and Misha that long to get their asses back here, then I'd go
looking for them. Luckily, I had a pretty good idea where they'd be.
They weren't at The Haven when I got there. The rest of the crowd looked
pretty much the same as the night before, even the same bartender, but no
Misha or Dusk. I still felt frozen solid inside and out—even the
scalding-hot shower I took hadn't helped. Maybe some coffee would.
The cup felt warm nestled in my hands, but the first sip hit my stomach like
a bowling ball, and I shoved it aside. It was relatively dim here inside the
bar, but every tiny glint of light from the ceiling lamps sliced me like a
hot knife. I could smell food from the restaurant in the back, and a huge
fist clenched inside me. It was all I could do to keep from doubling over.
A guy slid onto the stool next to me. Blond, spiky hair, unshaven, black
jeans and leather jacket. He reminded me of Dusk. "You okay, friend?"
I didn't move, didn't say anything. Even blinking hurt too damn much.
"Didn't I see you in here last night?" he asked.
I nodded.
A hand on my shoulder. "Look at me." I looked. "Oh, Christ," he breathed.
"You're the guy who left with Dusk and Misha."
I nodded, hunched over my cup now, every nerve screaming. What the hell was
this guy's problem? I didn't want to talk to him. All I wanted was to lie
down somewhere and let misery have me. "Leave me alone, okay?"
"I know what you need."
"Fuck off."
"You're hurting. I can give you something to make it go away."
"Yeah, like what? A bullet in the head?"
He slid off the barstool. "Come with me. I'll show you."
I didn't want to follow him, but my legs seemed to have an agenda all their
own. He led me through the back of the restaurant, through a door, up a
flight of stairs to a small apartment. Elegant, plush furniture, thick red
carpeting. A woman's apartment. "So show me," I said finally.
He shoved up the sleeve of his jacket, biting himself right below the slope
of his palm, then came toward me, bleeding wrist outstretched. "Drink."
The smell hit me before anything else, heavy in my nostrils, same as the
taste in my mouth last night, rich and thick and dangerous. I grabbed his
wrist before I even realized I was moving, clamped my mouth to it and
started sucking, smoky, heady wine pouring down my throat, flooding me with
warmth. The ache inside me ebbed, stilled, slowly subsiding, sweet and
intense as coming, relief flooding me, so calm and soothing—
He wrenched his wrist away, pushing me back. "That's enough."
"Please...I want more." I knew I sounded pathetic, but I didn't care. He
couldn't take this away from me, not when the pain was finally starting to
fade. My skin was warm to the touch again, soft and supple. I could feel my
heart beating, pulsing in my chest. "Please."
"You take what you need, and that's all. Take more and pretty soon you'll
want more every time. Humans will start to notice." He licked his wrist,
like Dusk had, and the cut stopped bleeding. He held it up, showing it to
me. "You're not human anymore, though I think you might've already figured
that out."
Images from the night before replayed in my mind, clearer now, stark, vivid.
Sharp, needle-like pain in my wrist and elbow and throat. Dark stains on
Misha's and Dusk's mouths. Blood on my lips, in my throat. "Are you saying
you're...I'm a...a fucking vampire?"
"You're Kindred now. Gangrel clan, like me," he said gently. "We need human
blood to survive, but killing is forbidden. It threatens the Masquerade."
"The what?"
"We live among humans, co-existing with them. Violence against them is
against our laws. So is Embracing a human against his or her will."
My knees swayed, threatened to buckle under me. There was a chair a couple
steps away, and I sank down on it. "What're you talking about?"
"You didn't consent to this, did you? To becoming one of us?"
I shook my head. "No." Hollowly. "No fucking way."
He looked like he was going to say something, but the apartment door flying
open cut him off. A woman entered, a tall, stunning redhead in a black gown
and shawl, lips pursed, forehead crinkled with concern. "What're you doing
up here, Cash? I need you downstairs."
"Sorry, Lillie, I...um, had to take care of something," he replied, nodding
in my direction, taking her aside. They murmured back and forth to each
other for a minute or so, then he headed for the door. "I'll see you later,
okay?" he said to me, then was gone.
I didn't move, didn't say anything. I couldn't. She smiled at me, though,
taking off her shawl, draping it over a chair next to mine, sitting down.
She had a kind face, warm, compassionate eyes. "Do you have someplace to go?
Someplace safe?"
I shrugged.
"Would you like to stay here?"
"Why?"
"You're Kindred now. You'll always have a place with us, if you want it."
"Just like that?"
"Yes."
I laughed, a long, derisive hiss.
"Why do you find it so hard to believe that we want to help you?"
"So where the hell were you last night when those two freaks were sticking
their fucking fangs in me?"
My harshness shocked her, but she recovered quickly. "What Dusk and Misha
have done to you is...horrible, and unconscionable. We're not monsters. We
don't Embrace those who don't wish it. They'll be taken care of, that I
promise you; Cash will see to it. But for right now," she said, standing up,
holding her hand out to me, "let's get you settled in for the night. Okay?"
I followed her into the next room, a small but comfortable-looking bedroom.
I was so tired I barely took notice of anything but how soft the bed was
when I dropped down on it. All I wanted was to lie back and close my eyes
and forget about everything. The room swam in front of me, colors running
together, edges blurring. This wasn't happening. I didn't just drink blood
from another guy's wrist and beg for more. It was a nightmare, some crazy
vodka-soaked delusion. When I came to I'd be back on my stool downstairs,
bottle of Stoli at my elbow, slumped over kissing the bar-rail.
"Cash didn't mention your name."
It took a few seconds for what she'd said to sink into my hazy brain.
"Um...Alex. Alex Krycek."
"I'm Lillie. I'll be across the hall tonight if there's anything you need."
I nodded. "Thanks."
"All right, then. G'night."
I stood up and stripped off my clothes and the prosthesis as soon as the
door snicked shut, flicking off the light on the bedside table, sliding
under the crisp, cool sheets. Maybe it wasn't a nightmare. Maybe I'd finally
lost my mind. Maybe I died last night, and this was hell. If so, it was a
more comfortable hell than any other I'd been in over the past three years.
For the time being I was warm and safe and not in pain. Best enjoy it while
it lasted.
I drifted off to sleep listening to my heart's slow, muffled thud, the taste
of blood lingering faintly in the back of my throat.
//pain slashing pain blood pouring out splashing the ground red-black
draining dying Misha screaming—//
//ropes biting wrists and ankles tight too tight can't get up can't move sky
turning grey white yellow at the edges sun coming up—//
//coming at us long gold rays spreading across the roof hitting Misha first
pulling tearing at her ropes the smell flesh burning screaming again Misha
screaming burning dying—//
//me next sunlight hitting me skin smoking charring no blood left in me
can't fight anymore flesh burning boiling Alexei help Alexei save us—//
I sat straight up in bed, shaking, sweating, choking back a scream. My skin
stung, burned all over, like I was wrapped in a blanket of lit matches. I
made a frantic grab for the lamp on the bedside table, relief flooding me as
the light flicked on. The clock said six-twenty. I had no idea if that was
a.m. or p.m., but either way, I sure as hell wasn't going back to sleep.
I got up, strapped the prosthesis back on, still fuzzy-headed, then grabbed
my jeans and sweater. They felt weird, though—softer, easier to put on,
fresh-smelling. I remembered that smell. Fabric softener. I dragged the
sweater over my head, worked one arm, then the prosthesis, into the sleeves,
then grabbed a handful of wool and buried my nose in it. It'd been months
since I'd worn clean clothes, clean from the skin out. I'd forgotten how
good it felt.
I found Lillie sitting in the living room reading and sipping tea, faint
fingers of sunlight peeking in through the drapes behind her. She smiled
when she first saw me, but it quickly faded to a frown. "You should go back
to bed, Alex. You still look tired."
"I, um...had a nightmare. It woke me up." I sat down, fingering my sweater.
"Thanks for washing my clothes." All she did was smile, pulling one drape
aside to let a little more sun in. It felt warm, even this early. My skin
started to prickle, itch, tiny sharp claws digging into me, though I tried
to ignore it. "What're you doing up so early?" I asked.
"Oh, Cash and I rarely get to bed before dawn. It's the nature of our
business, I'm afraid."
"Which is?"
"The Haven's my club. Cash runs security for me."
"It used to be called Reilly's about two, three years ago."
"I've owned it a little over a year. I had a similar club in San Francisco,
but..." She reached for her tea, taking a sip, a strange look on her face.
"But what?" I prompted.
"Nothing. Just pondering ancient history."
We fell silent. I let my eyes wander around the room, taking it all in. The
club was apparently doing pretty well; she definitely hadn't gone to IKEA to
furnish the place. In fact, just about everything in the room looked like an
antique, all hand-carved oak and mahogany, and those drapes had to be pure
silk. I recognized the painting on the far wall—one of Monet's water
lilies. Somehow I had a feeling it wasn't a reproduction.
There was a small pen-and-ink drawing in an oval frame sitting on the table
in front of me, a woman in profile. Her hair was piled high on top of her
head, and she wore a ruffled high-necked lace blouse with a cameo pinned at
her throat. My gaze flicked from from Lillie to the drawing and back again.
"This looks like you."
"It is me. It was drawn when I was quite young, a little over a century
ago. They used to sell copies of it in the London shops for a few
shillings."
I half-expected her to grin, or laugh, or give me some kind of sign that
this was a joke, but she didn't. She looked completely serious. A sudden
chill swept over me, ice shooting straight to the bone, just like last
night.
//God, please not again.//
"You still don't believe it, do you?" she said softly.
"You want me to believe you're a vampire, that I am? We're sitting here
watching the sun come up, for Chrissakes!"
"I fed last night, and so did you. Once we've fed, we can be in the sun for
a few hours, as long as it's not during the hottest part of the day."
"Bullshit," I muttered, fresh pain gnawing, hitting me in the gut like a
brick flung through a sheet of glass; I hugged my abdomen with my right arm,
staying upright through sheer will. I wasn't about to let her see me buckle
under.
"We don't wear opera capes or sleep in coffins either, Alex. We were all
human once. And since we must live among them, and keep up the illusion of
still being human—what we call the Masquerade—it follows that we must
also retain whatever we can of our humanity. We don't kill unnecessarily or
indiscriminately. We're like humans in every way but one. The hunger rules
us, but it doesn't have to turn us into beasts. We can rise above it."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw her move, scooping up her teacup, kneeling
next to me, biting her finger, letting a few plump red droplets fall into
the cup, then holding it to my lips, letting me drink. Lukewarm Earl Grey,
bitter, tangy, tasting faintly of copper. I drank it all down, barely two
mouthsful, slurping at the last of it. The hollow ache in me faded, not
entirely, but enough to make it bearable. I still felt cold, though. Cold as
death.
"Better?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Let's get you back to bed." She tried to help me up, but I shrugged her
off, somehow getting to my feet, wobbling all the way to the bedroom under
my own steam, Lillie following close behind me, standing in the doorway. I
heard her gasp when I pulled my sweater off, and swung around just in time
to follow her shocked gaze right to my arm. My left arm. The prosthesis. "My
God," she breathed, "I-I'm sorry, I had no idea..."
"S'okay, don't worry about it." I slid to the edge of the bed, still wearing
my jeans, still too damned shaky to pull them off. "Um, could I have some
more of that tea?"
"Of course."
I'd asked her for the tea more as an excuse to get her to leave than because
I really wanted it, but I gulped it down as soon as she handed it to me,
wincing at the stinging heat of it but not stopping until I was done,
licking every last red-tinged droplet from the rim of the cup. "Thanks," I
said, handing it back to her.
"Get some rest. Cash will come by before the club opens tonight to take you
out."
"Out where?"
"Into the city. To show you what you need to know," she said, heading for
the door.
"Lillie."
She turned back. "What?"
"Am I dead?"
"Do you feel dead?"
"I...don't know what I feel anymore."
She came back into the room, smiling, reaching out to rub my shoulder.
"Well, you're sitting here talking to me. Would you be able to do that if
you were dead?"
"You tell me."
"You're alive, Alex," she said softly, "but it's a different kind of life
from what you've known before. Either you'll adapt, or you won't. Many
don't, or can't, and end up destroying themselves or having to be destroyed.
What happens now all depends on you." She went to the door again, pulling it
closed behind her. "Go to sleep now, okay?"
"'Kay." Stripping off my jeans and the prosthesis, then flicking off the
light, I fell back on the bed, tugging the covers over me. A thousand
different thoughts fought for dominance in my jumbled brain, but I shunted
them aside. All I wanted was to lie here surrounded by deep black oblivion
and feel grateful that the pain was gone, at least for now. The rest of it
could wait.
I kept coming back to one thing, though—the look on Lillie's face when
she'd seen the prosthesis. I'd thought it was pity at first, but pity
tempered with sympathy and a fair amount of outrage. Outrage for my loss.
Pity and sympathy for me. I couldn't decide which was worse.
"Looks like somebody forgot the weenies and marshmallows," Mulder quipped,
falling back a step, his stomach doing flip-flops. The lump of flesh on the
gleaming chrome autopsy table was barely recognizable as human, shriveled
and blackened by fire. He couldn't even tell if it was male or female; all
the genitalia had been burned off.
Scully pursed her lips and reached for a clipboard on the nearby tray table.
"Third-degree burns over roughly ninety percent of the body. At a glance,
I'd have to say the coroner's report is accurate. So what are we doing here,
Mulder?"
"The DC police want a second opinion, or at least some kind of educated
guess as to how something like this could have happened."
"Well, it looks like someone doused the victim with gasoline or some other
type of accelerant and struck a match."
"Then why did their bodies burn, but not their clothes?"
"What?"
"According to the police report, the fire department found both victims on a
tenement rooftop around eight o'clock this morning, after several tenants
called to report an awful charred smell in their building. But they found no
trace of petroleum or any other kind of flammable material. Other than the
bodies, that is."
"Spontaneous combustion, Mulder?"
"That's the burning question."
A heavy sigh. "Well, this is probably going to take a little while," she
said, reaching for a latex glove, snapping it on.
"I'll go on up to evidence to examine the clothing." Mulder couldn't get out
of the room fast enough, and didn't take another deep breath until he was in
the elevator, punching the third-floor button, half-slumping against the
wall. Now that he'd seen the body, he could've kicked himself for insisting
that Scully do a secondary exam. He knew what must've been going through her
mind when she opened that bag, the same thing that was going through his
right now. Skyland Mountain. The bridge in Pennsylvania. Bodies set on fire,
burned to the bone, just like this one. He'd seen the shock in her eyes, the
inevitable recognition, the momentary flash of pain. But she'd pulled
herself together and got on with the task at hand, as she had a thousand
times before. Because he'd asked her to. Shit.
The clothing was blood-stained and ripped at the side seams from having to
be peeled off the bodies. Black jeans, black boots, two pairs of each, and
leather jackets to match. One of the jackets looked damned familiar—
bulky, lined with sheepskin, high collar, wide lapels—
And a Russian maker's label inside. Now he remembered. He'd seen this jacket
up close a few nights ago. The night Krycek had broken into his apartment.
There were two small clear polybags in the box the clothing had been in,
neatly labeled and inventoried. There was a wallet in one of the bags, and
two passports, one Russian, one American. Mulder ripped the bag open,
dumping its contents onto the table in front of him. Krycek's passports,
Krycek's wallet. Christ, his FBI ID and Virginia driver's license were still
in it.
The other bag didn't contain much of anything—a few dollars, a pack of
cigarettes, a couple books of matches, a cocktail napkin. Mulder shook it
all out, taking a closer look at the matches and napkin, the same logo
imprinted on both. The Haven. He flipped the matchbook open, glancing at the
address and phone number on the inside. Some nightclub downtown.
Mulder rebagged and reboxed everything, returned it to the evidence clerk
and took the elevator back down to the basement, hands shaking, heart
skipping every other beat. He knew what he'd seen, but it just wasn't
possible. Krycek wasn't lying on that fucking autopsy table, burned to
cinders. He'd seen the man less than a week ago, had gone off on another
tear to Wiekamp Air Force Base on the strength of the information Krycek had
given him. A goddamned fool's errand that had netted him nothing but one
more gaping black hole in his memory and a royal ass-chewing from Skinner.
No, Krycek wasn't dead, couldn't be dead, not yet anyway. Not until Mulder
got another chance to beat the living shit out of him.
Scully was standing at a side table, dictating her notes into her micro-
cassette player when he walked in. "Done already?" he asked.
"Pretty much. The coroner's report seems to have covered all the bases, with
one exception."
"What's that?"
"I'll show you," she said, drawing back the top flap of the body bag,
indicating a deep laceration at the victim's throat. "I thought at first
that this was simply a case of the flesh splitting under extreme heat, but
the cut looked a little too clean and precise, so I took a closer look, and
found a few tiny fingernail slivers embedded in the tissue. I've sent them
up to the lab for analysis. But that's not all." She paused, taking a
breath, wetting her lips. "In most instances like this, there's usually
massive hemorrhaging into the brain and other organs, but there's a
negligible amount of it here."
"So what're you saying? You don't think this person burned to death?"
"That laceration cuts straight through the carotid artery, which would
explain why there's so little blood left in the body. It's possible that the
victim was deliberately exsanguinated, and his body burned to obscure the
true cause of death."
//His body. Krycek's body.//
There was a stool nearby, and Mulder sank down on it, breathing deep, trying
to get back his bearings. The police report hadn't mentioned an abundance of
blood at the scene, but that didn't mean anything; the body could have been,
and probably was, moved from where the bloodletting had occurred. "That
still doesn't explain why the clothing was intact," he said slowly. "Did you
find any trace of an accelerant?"
"Not yet, but the lab's already working up tissue and cloth samples."
"What about the other body? Have you had a chance to examine it yet?"
"No," she said, yanking off her gloves, throwing them in the trash. "I got a
call from the coroner's office a few minutes ago. It was so badly charred it
disintegrated into ash and bone shards when they tried to rebag it to send
over here. They'll be sending us some samples, though. I'll look them over
as soon as they arrive."
"'Kay," he murmured, taking a last look at the body as she rezipped the bag.
"Um, did you note the victim's height and weight?"
"I think it's in the coroner's report," she said, picking up the clipboard,
flipping a page or two, running her finger down the sheet of paper. "Here it
is—78 inches in extremis, 170 pounds."
He felt all the air go out of him in a rush. Not Krycek. Krycek was six feet
tall, and weighed a good five to ten pounds more—
But that still didn't mean anything. Heat stiffening as well as tissue and
fluid loss could account for the difference in height and weight. Even
Scully would point that out.
He walked through the rest of the day in a fog, barely acknowledging
Scully's surprised good-bye when he ducked out of the office an hour early,
mumbling vaguely about not feeling well. He was pretty sure she hadn't
bought it, but he didn't care. Aside from comparing dental records—and
he'd bet his last dime the ones in Krycek's FBI personnel file were as fake
as the rest of his background—there was only one way he was ever going to
know for sure if that body down in the morgue was Krycek or not. That
matchbook and cocktail napkin were his only clues. He hoped to Christ they
didn't lead him into another fucking labyrinth of lies.
Cash came for me as soon as twilight fell. We took the back way out, down
the stairs into the alley behind the club, out into the street. The air
smelled gritty, heavy with smog; obviously it hadn't rained today. I felt
weird, rested and restless at the same time, and cold inside, cold and
aching. Wherever we were going, I hoped we got there fast.
"Lillie told me about your arm," Cash murmured. "Try to keep it hidden,
especially when we're out in the open like this."
"What's the matter, you embarrassed to be seen with a gimp?"
He gave me a hard stare, leading me down another alley. "It's forbidden to
Embrace children. Or the sick."
"Or the crippled?" I supplied.
He nodded. "We're predators by nature; any kind of physical deficiency is
seen as weakness, especially by other clans. Believe me, there are some
who'd have no problem slashing your throat open and leaving you to die in
the sun if they find out you're missing a limb. So be smart about it, and
discreet, and maybe you'll live longer. This way," he said, nodding toward a
park in the distance, benches and trees and rolling green.
"What d'you mean, other clans?"
"Every one of us belongs to a clan; it all depends on who Embraces you. Dusk
and Misha're Gangrel, so that makes you Gangrel too. I'm Gangrel, like I
told you before; Lillie's Toreador. There's Ventrue, Nosferatu, Assamite,
Brujah, a bunch of others. Most cities have some kind of governing council,
with clan leaders—we call them Primogens—and a Prince who rules over
them. But DC's a new city for Kindred; no Primogens, and no Prince, not yet,
anyway. Here the clans have to police their own." He paused, shoving his
hands in his pockets. "Watch out for the Brujah; Gangrels have a blood feud
with them that goes back centuries."
"I don't have a feud with anybody," I said. "The last thing I want is more
trouble."
"You've got no choice. It's in your blood now." We slowed, coming up on a
basketball court, two teenage boys playing one on one. Cash waved me over to
a nearby bench and we sat, waiting until the kids finished their game and
came over, scooping their jackets off the opposite end of the bench, eyeing
us warily. "You guys're pretty good," Cash said. "You play here every
night?"
"Yeah," the taller kid said. He looked about fifteen or sixteen. He had skin
the color of caramel and huge brown eyes to match. I could smell his blood
from five feet away. The fist in my gut clenched tighter.
The younger kid sat down next to me, leaning over to retie his sneakers. My
gaze went straight to his throat, to the artery softly thrumming there; I
couldn't take my eyes off it. He looked at me for a second, then froze, eyes
widening, glazing over, mouth going slack.
The taller kid standing next to Cash wore the same expression. Cash reached
for the kid's wrist, pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and lifted it to his
lips. The kid gave a tiny startled gasp, eyelids fluttering, drifting shut.
For a second I could've sworn I saw Cash's eyes glowing pale green, eerie
and incandescent, like a cat's eyes reflecting back moonlight—but only
for a second.
I leaned down, cupping the younger boy's throat, fingers sliding up,
tangling in silky blond curls, gently tipping back his head. I could feel
the blood rushing through his veins, taste the musky tang of sweat on his
skin as I flicked my tongue over the artery, poised, waiting. I opened my
mouth and drank him down, sweet and thick and hot, an endless flood sweeping
over me, drowning, smothering the freezing pain inside—
"Goddamn you, Alex, stop it! You're gonna fucking kill him!" I heard Cash
snarl, and suddenly the incredible warmth was gone, ripped away. I felt
myself tumbling to the ground, head roaring, spinning like the last car in a
chain collision, staring up at Cash standing over the younger kid, fingers
at his throat, feeling for a pulse.
"I-Is he..?" I finally managed to croak.
"S'okay, he's all right, he's alive," Cash replied, easing him back on the
bench. There was a thin line of blood on the boy's throat, but other than
that, he looked calm, peaceful, like he'd decided to stretch out for a nap.
The taller kid sat at the opposite end of the bench, head lolling to one
side, still dazed. Cash knelt down between them, leaning in to whisper, "You
both had a nice dream, but you'll wake up in a few minutes. Go on home."
Then, to me, he rasped, "They'll be okay. Let's get the fuck out of here."
We were halfway back to the club before we spoke again. "I-I'm sorry," I
mumbled. "I d-didn't know...I had no idea anything like that would happen."
"Never drink from the throat when you haven't fed in awhile; I should've
told you that before. It's too easy to drink too deep that way, take too
much. Drink from the wrist until you're used to it, okay?"
"'Kay." I could still taste it, though, the boy's blood, warm and thick in
my mouth, jetting down my throat. The cold, the pain was gone, for now, at
least. How much longer until I'd want it again? "Does it ever go away?"
"You mean the hunger?"
"Yeah."
"In time it'll get better, easier to control. If you try to feed a little
bit, say, twice a night, after awhile you won't notice it so much."
We walked the rest of the way in silence, the club finally looming up ahead,
a line already forming down the corner, around the block, waiting to be let
in when the doors opened. I recognized a few of them from the other night.
Goth night. Apparently every night was Goth night at The Haven.
"Hey, Cash," a voice called out from somewhere near the middle of the line,
"who's your new boyfriend?"
Cash turned, zeroing in on the culprit instantly—a beefy, skin-headed
leather boy with a permanent snarl and a couple buddies who didn't look like
they were in a much better mood. "You're not welcome here anymore. I told
you that the other night," Cash said, "so you might as well get out of line
right now."
"I'm looking for Misha," Leather Boy snapped.
Cash made a show of looking around. "I don't see her here, do you?"
"I saw her here two nights ago, with Dusk."
"Then you'll probably find her when you find him."
"I can't find him either."
"Not my problem, friend. But if I see you inside, you'll make it my problem.
You got it?"
"Yeah, I got it," Leather Boy sneered, nodding at his buddies, getting out
of line, brushing past me. He stopped a second, looking me up and down, a
slow, shark-like grin splitting his face, wide and toothy. "Nice jacket," he
growled, then stalked off, shoulder to shoulder with his cronies.
"What the hell was that all about?" I demanded.
"Fucking anarchs," Cash muttered, heading up the alley, toward the back
stairs, so fast I almost had to break into a run to keep up.
"Anarchs?"
"Mostly Brujah, but outcasts from other clans have thrown in with them too.
They do anything they damn well feel like, and the more it breaks our laws,
threatens the Masquerade, the more they like it. Funny thing is," he said,
getting to the top of the stairs, unlocking the door, ushering me inside, "I
was in love with one of them, until..."
"Until what?"
He got a funny look in his eyes, sad and wistful, the same look Lillie'd had
this morning. "Until a little over a year ago, when Lillie and I left San
Francisco. Running for our lives, if you wanna know the truth. There was a
clan war, Brujah against Ventrue and Gangrel and Toreador. Guess who won?"
He let out a laugh, short and raw and bitter, rubbing a hand through his
hair. "The club's opening in a few minutes, I've gotta get downstairs.
Listen, I'm a little short-handed right now, so if you want to help out, I
could use you."
"With security?"
"Yeah. Seems like every other night lately one of my guys quits on me. How
'bout it?"
I thought about it for all of three seconds. Why not? It sounded a hell of a
lot better than sitting up in my room staring at the ceiling, or wandering
the streets. "Sure, I'd love to."
"You had any experience with security work?"
"Yeah, you could say that. I used to be an FBI agent."
"No shit?"
"No shit," I grinned, following him downstairs.
Mulder sat at the far end of the bar, half in shadow, nursing a beer, trying
to look inconspicuous while he scanned the room for a familiar flash of
black leather. Krycek, big as life and moving like a man with a purpose.
Looked like he was working here, in fact, the way he kept checking up on the
guys monitoring crowd control at the front door, then going upstairs,
surveying the bottom floor from above, him and another guy, a younger guy,
shorter, wiry and blond. Weirdly enough, Mulder wasn't the least bit
surprised—hell, the bastard had survived infection by black oil and being
locked up in a missile silo, not to mention wintertime in Siberia. He had
more lives than a goddamned tiger, and always landed on all fours.
So Krycek was still walking around, still breathing. But those two burnt
bodies back in the morgue weren't, and Mulder had a feeling his explanation
was standing right across the room. No rush, though; he had all night.
Sooner or later Krycek was bound to look in his direction. Mulder sipped at
his beer, savoring the tingle of anticipation. He'd waited this long, he
could wait a little longer.
By the time one a.m. rolled around, anticipation had fizzled into tedium.
Krycek hadn't looked his way, hadn't come anywhere near the bar, in fact,
and hadn't been alone long enough for Mulder to approach him. The club would
be closing in another hour, Mulder figured; if nothing happened by then,
he'd wait outside, by the employees' entrance in the back alley. One way or
another, he wasn't leaving till he got what he'd come here for.
I found Lillie sitting at her desk in the living room, tallying up the
evening's receipts. She smiled when I came in, and I sat down on the couch
across from her. "So how'd it go tonight?" she asked.
"Okay," I replied. In fact, it was a lot better than okay. After three- odd
years on the run, I was finally doing something useful, something I was good
at, something I could feel good about. It had been a long time since I'd
felt like I belonged anywhere. I hadn't realized how much I missed the
feeling. "I was kinda worried those goons Cash threw out of line would come
back, but they didn't."
"What goons?"
"They were looking for Dusk and Misha."
She got a strange look on her face suddenly, paling a little, mouth going
tight. "Really?" she said, turning back to her bookkeeping.
"Come to think of it, I didn't see them in the club tonight either. D'you
know where they went?"
"Why would I know that?"
"Well, you said Cash was going to see them about—"
"Then maybe you should ask Cash."
Silence.
Time to change the subject. "Um...Cash told me you two came here from San
Francisco. He said there was a clan war, that you were running for your
lives."
She nodded. "Not only that, but he lost someone he loved very much. We both
did," she said softly, putting down her pen. "And I have a feeling the same
is true for you."
Jesus, I knew I should never have started this fucking conversation. She was
too sensitive, too damned intuitive. I eyed the door, wondering how quickly
I could make my escape.
"What happened?" she prompted.
"I hurt him, betrayed him," I murmured, slumping over, elbows resting on my
knees, staring down at the carpet, "in a way he'll never, ever forgive me
for."
"How do you know? Have you tried talking to him?"
Oh, that was funny. If she only knew. "One thing Mulder and I have never
been good at is talking."
"So how long ago did this happen?"
"Three, three and a half years."
"Well, that's a long time. Things change, people change. You've changed, and
in more ways than just becoming Kindred. I can tell," she said, smiling.
"You know, it's not uncommon for us to take human lovers, bond them to us
with blood, share our secret with them. Sometimes they even choose to be
Embraced."
"But...I thought it was forbidden to tell them about us, that it broke the
Masquerade."
"It doesn't happen often, that's true," she replied. "But it's also possible
to have a short tryst with a human, no more than a night or two, as long as
their memory of it is wiped afterward."
I flashed back to the park, to Cash whispering to the kids on the bench
right before we left. "We can do that?"
"We have to. Leaving a human with memories of us is far too risky."
All of a sudden I felt it again, the cold, digging pain, just a pang now, a
bare echo of what it had been before, but there nonetheless. Maybe Cash was
right; maybe I needed to feed more than once a night, at least until I got
used to it. No way would I be getting any sleep lying there with this new
ache welling inside me. Jumping up, I headed for the door, Lillie's startled
gaze following me. "I need some air," I said, ducking out before she could
reply.
It was starting to drizzle, just a touch, just enough to lend a dreamy chill
to the air. I lifted my face to it, letting my eyes drift shut, savoring the
sweet, fresh feel of it, strolling slowly to the end of the alley. Where to
go? The park again? No, there wouldn't be anybody there at this time of
night, except for bag ladies and drunks sleeping it off under the bushes;
the thought of drinking from them turned my stomach to lead. I supposed I
could wander over a couple streets, see if there was anybody hanging around
the all-night porno theater, but somehow that idea was even less appetizing.
Now I could've kicked myself for not tagging along with Cash.
"Krycek."
It came from behind me, that flat, sensual monotone, so sudden and
unexpected I almost choked on my next breath. Mulder. I swung around a
little too quickly, knees that close to buckling. "What the fuck're you
doing here, Mulder?"
"Looking for you."
"Well, you found me. What d'you want?"
"I came across an interesting case yesterday—two bodies roasted to the
bone, apparently from nothing more than exposure to the sun. I was wondering
what you could tell me about it."
Alarm bells went off in my head, a dozen different disjointed thoughts
spinning, converging, but I pushed them aside. Not now. "What makes you
think I can tell you anything?"
"One of them was wearing your jacket, with your ID in the pocket."
"I-I got mugged the other night. The guy knocked me out, took my jacket, my
wallet, everything."
"Looks like you didn't have much trouble replacing it. What, you ripping off
restaurant coatrooms for a living now?" he sneered, stepping closer,
grabbing a handful of my sweater—
But I slapped his hand away, whirling, heading the other way, stopping dead
when I saw three hulking figures coming right at me. Leather Boy and his
buddies. He shoved me up against the wall, arm across my throat, face right
up in mine. His breath smelled like something had crawled up inside him and
died. "Where are they?"
Oh, God, oh fucking Christ. Burned bodies. My jacket. Dusk, Misha. Lillie,
shutting me down damn fast when I'd asked about them. I flashed back to what
Cash had said earlier, about being sliced open and left to die in the sun,
all the puzzle pieces slamming into place at once. I was fucked, and so was
Mulder, unless I could put the innocent act over on them, somehow talk my
way out of this. "I don't know, man...I swear..."
"Liar!" he roared, arm cutting into me, pressing harder and harder until I
thought my head would explode. I could see Mulder now, pinned to the
opposite wall by the two other guys, struggling vainly, one of them taking
his gun, the other slapping duct tape over his mouth. Leather Boy pulled out
a knife, flicking it open; the blade gleamed, shiny in the moonlight, sharp
enough to shave a sliver off a strand of hair. He held it to my throat,
right under my chin, grinning when he pierced the skin. I could smell my own
blood; my gut clenched. "You killed 'em, didn't you? Tell me the truth or
I'll cut you open, I fucking mean it."
"I didn't kill them...I didn't do anything to them..."
"So where'd you get this, huh?" he said, dragging the blade down the front
of the jacket, slashing it all the way through to my sweater, then stopping,
the razored tip poised right above my heart.
"They picked me up in the club, took me home, Embraced me against my will. I
woke up and they were gone, and so was my jacket. So I took Dusk's. That's
the truth, I swear."
He stared at me, finally taking the knife away, pulling me off the wall,
pushing me out in the alley ahead of him. "Move."
With the other two guys and Mulder bringing up the rear, we trudged through
alleys and deserted streets, a run-down apartment building finally looming
up ahead. Dusk and Misha's place. They dragged us upstairs, into the
apartment, yanking open the closet, Leather Boy flinging me inside it so
hard I bounced off the back wall. Luckily, there wasn't anything else in it
to bounce off of. "What the hell's this?" I demanded.
"Figured I'd give you a little more time to rethink your answer. It's still
a few hours till dawn."
My gaze met, locked on Mulder's. He looked like he was just about ready to
piss his pants. "Let him go," I said. "He's got nothing to do with this."
"Fuck, no." Grinning, Leather Boy rammed his fist into Mulder's gut,
smashing him on the back of the head with the butt of Mulder's service
weapon as he crumpled to the floor, then scooped him up by his collar and
belt, tossing him into the closet with me. "Might as well leave you a little
snack, y'know—just in case we forget to come back for you till tomorrow
night."
The door swung shut, covering me in blackness. I threw myself against it,
pounding and scratching, but apparently they'd barricaded it on the outside;
it didn't budge a millimeter. Sinking to the floor, I fumbled around until I
found Mulder, peeling the tape off his mouth, relief sailing through me at
the soft, warm feel of his breath on my skin, sliding my hand down to his
wrist, searching for a pulse. It was there, thready and sluggish, but there.
I could sense it, febrile, alive, trembling beneath my fingertips, echoing
between my ears. It took a few seconds before another sound seeped through,
louder, heavier and harsher, blotting out everything else. Metal and wood.
Hammers pounding nails. They were boarding us in.
I moved my arm just enough so that he tumbled forward, head cradled in my
lap, then bent down, touching my mouth to the wound, licking it clean, my
saliva healing the gash at the same time.
Not enough. I was still cold, cold all the way to the bone, shivering. I
needed more, just a mouthful or two, enough to stave off the hunger just a
little longer, maybe even enough to give me the strength to break down that
fucking door and get us out of here.
Mulder's wrist lay across my lap. I stroked his skin, warm, delicate as
living rice paper, lifting it to my mouth, finding the small pulsating vein
there in his wrist, tracing its length with my tongue—
//I'm sorry, Mulder. Forgive me.//
And sank my teeth in, flesh and vein splitting with a plump, juicy pop,
liquid nirvana sweeping over my tongue. He tasted like honey, all thick and
golden, like sunshine, like Sunday at the beach, like a weekend curled
around him in bed, like all the things I'd been wanting for years but never
let myself think about because it was impossible, would never happen, not in
a million goddamned centuries—
Enough. More than enough. I tore myself away, heart skidding at Mulder's
faint, broken moan, sighing a little, feeling his blood's warmth coursing
through me, filling my aching veins. Finally he settled against me again,
falling quiet. He was all right, though; strangely enough, the pulse in his
throat was stronger now, a steady, rhythmic beat.
Something in me was beating too, pulsing and throbbing, and it wasn't my
heart. I was hard, for the first time since I'd been Embraced, I realized,
so damn stiff my jeans were starting to feel like they'd shrunk a size. And
here I was, sitting on the floor of this tiny pitch- dark closet with
Mulder's mouth right over my crotch, breathing on it, for Chrissakes.
Terrific, just fucking terrific—
I heard a noise and almost hit the ceiling, a loud banging noise, then
muffled footsteps coming closer. God, no, they couldn't be back already-—
"Alex?" came a voice, low and urgent on the other side of the door. Cash.
"You all right in there?"
"Yeah," I replied, relief flooding me, Mulder groaning as I eased him off
me, lurching to my feet, cramped legs screaming. "I'm fine, we're fine. Just
get us out of here, okay?"
"Give me a couple minutes, I gotta get these boards loose."
More noise, pulling, rending sounds, nails being wrenched from wood. Finally
the door swung open, cool air washing over me, so sweet and good I could
barely stay standing. Mulder's eyelids fluttered, but other than that he
still didn't move. "C'mon, give me a hand here," I said to Cash, both of us
lifting Mulder up and out of the closet, moving toward the front door. "We
need to get him home."
"Don't worry, I've got Lillie's car downstairs."
We didn't say anything more until Mulder lay sprawled across the back seat
and we were on the way to his apartment. Dawn had broken, greyish- rose
slashes of it streaming down from the sky, banishing the night air's chill.
"So how'd you know where to find us?" I asked finally.
"Lillie heard the commotion out in the alley, looked out the window just in
time to see them dragging the two of you off. Lucky for you she found me a
few minutes after that, or you'd still be in that fucking closet."
"That still doesn't answer my question."
Cash kept his eyes on the road, licking his lips. "I tracked them down, made
them tell me where you were."
"Then what? You just let them go?"
"No," he replied flatly, jaw tightening. "They've been dealt with. That's
all you need to know."
"Like you dealt with Dusk and Misha?"
"Look, I did what I had to do. Let's leave it at that."
"No fucking way, Cash. What the hell gives you the right to—"
"I was Gangrel Primogen back in San Francisco. Old habits die hard," he
spat, then, taking a breath, went on more calmly, "Look, I told you, the
clans police their own here. What did you want me to do, give them a slap on
the wrist and send them on their way, after what they tried to do to you
tonight? After what they tried to do to him?"
My brain went cold, momentarily flash-frozen by what he'd just said. "H- how
did you know about—"
"Lillie heard what you were saying to him out in the alley, pieced the rest
of it together from what you'd told her about him earlier. She's pretty
intuitive that way." He paused, squirming in his seat, rubbing a hand
through his hair. "Look, Alex, I, um...don't know what else Lillie told you,
but getting...mixed up with a human is a real bad idea. Believe me, man, I
know. I've been there."
"This is different."
A curt, strangled snort. "Yeah, right, it's different. When it happens to
you, it's always different."
"Cash—"
"Look, just try to be smart about it, okay? Don't let your guard down, don't
go telling any secrets. Don't bring the rest of us down with you when it all
finally hits the fucking fan. And it will, man. You can count on it."
I sat there in silence for another few minutes, until we finally pulled up
in front of Mulder's apartment, and Cash cut the engine. "How do I know you
won't do to me what you did to Dusk and Misha?"
"You don't," he replied. "Break the Masquerade, and you'll leave me no
choice."
I got out, opening the back door, helping Mulder up and out. He was a little
more awake now, conscious enough for me to get him upstairs by myself. "See
you back at the club later," I said, slinging Mulder's arm over my shoulder,
heading for the foyer. If Cash said anything else, I didn't hear it.
I got Mulder upstairs, into his apartment fairly easily, helping him into
the bedroom, letting him down on the bed. He flopped back on his pillows,
sighing, finally lying still. I pressed my fingers to his throat, checking
his pulse again, relieved to find no change. For a second or two I thought
of calling Scully, but decided against it; the lump on the back of his head
had disappeared, and he seemed to be resting comfortably. A whisper from me
and he'd sleep the rest of the day, wake up remembering nothing. That was
the best way to play it.
Sunlight was coming in through the blinds on the other side of the room. I
went over and closed them, throwing the room into murkiness. There was a
chair near the wall, and I dragged it over next to the bed, dropping down on
it, exhaustion sluicing over me. Five minutes, and I'd be on my way. Five
minutes.
I glanced over at the bed, at Mulder. He looked so peaceful in sleep, sweet
and innocent, curled there on his side, lips parted, fist close to his
mouth, like a little kid sucking his thumb. The mattress was big enough for
two. I could grab a quick nap—an hour, hour and a half, tops—and still
make it back to the club long before the sun got too hot. Why not? Mulder
was never going to know I'd been here anyway. Pulling off my jacket and
boots, I climbed on top of the rumpled sheets and blanket, eyes drifting
gratefully shut.
An earthquake woke me, a harsh, sudden jolt, making me grab hold of the edge
of the mattress to keep from getting dumped onto the floor. Not an
earthquake—Mulder, tossing and thrashing, crying out in the throes of a
nightmare. Rolling onto my left side, I slid over beside him, pulling him
close, stroking his arm, my mouth close to his ear. "S'okay, s'okay, it's
me, it's Alex. You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be fine, it's just a
dream," I kept murmuring, "just a bad dream."
After a little while he finally stopped trembling, letting go with a long,
ragged sigh.
"You want to tell me about it?" I prompted.
"I, um...I dreamed I was locked in this room, this pitch-black room, and I
tried beating on the walls and door, screaming, but there was no way out,
nobody there to let me out. And then this...all of a sudden I realized there
was something else in there with me, something alive, and it...it knocked me
down and it bit me, started eating me, tearing me open..." Another sigh,
bone-deep this time, exhausted, almost resigned. "A-Alex?"
"Yeah?"
"What the hell're you doing here?"
"You, um...had an accident. I brought you home."
"A car accident?"
I froze. Apparently that whack on the head had royally screwed with his
memories of last night, at least temporarily. I didn't know whether to be
relieved or concerned. "Not exactly. How d'you feel?"
A groan. "Like Godzilla's been using my head for a fucking basketball."
I bit back a chuckle. He'd be fine. Actually, I was a little surprised he
hadn't kicked me out of bed the second he'd realized it was me, but for the
moment he seemed still muzzy-headed enough to let me stay. All I wanted was
a few more minutes lying here like this, then I'd go.
Maybe I could do something for him before I left, though. If I could blank
out his memory with only a whispered suggestion, maybe I could blank out his
pain the same way. It was worth a try, anyway. I pressed a soft kiss to the
nape of his neck, to the purplish-yellow bruised spot where Leather Boy had
bashed him, where I'd licked away his blood earlier. "It doesn't hurt
anymore," I murmured, rubbing my hand up and down his arm, gently squeezing
his shoulder. "Let it go, let it all go. No more pain."
He gasped, just a tiny sound, soft and choked, then a long, slow hiss of
exhaled breath.
"How d'you feel now?"
"Mmmmm." He rolled over on his back, snuggling deeper into the covers like a
sleepy kitten, smiling. I'd never really seen him smile, not like this, with
such dreamy, blissful abandon, relaxed, totally unselfconscious. If this was
what a few whispered words could do, I was sold. I leaned down until my lips
hovered right over his, close enough to taste his breath. "Mulder."
"Hmmm?"
"I want to kiss you."
One eye opened the merest sliver. "D-Didn't you already do that?"
"On the mouth this time."
He was staring up at me now, blinking, lips working slowly. "I-I, um...don't
know if I..."
"I'm not gonna hurt you."
"Alex..." I could see the wheels turning behind glazed hazel eyes, sense his
will weakening. One more push, that's all it would take.
Just one more. "S'okay, Mulder, let yourself go. Let me in," I whispered,
dusting my lips over his forehead, across both gently fluttering eyelids,
his last shred of resistance seeping out of him like air from a balloon. "I
won't do anything you don't want, I promise..."
His lips parted softly, gently under mine, tongue flicking, inviting me in.
He tasted rich and fresh and clean, like his blood, like swallowing
sunshine, drinking down a whole week's worth of daylight. I could feel his
arm encircling my waist, pulling me down right on top of him, his hand
drifting down, cupping, kneading the rising bulge at my crotch. He was a
rushing river now, wild, roiling under me, all rocks and white water, and I
didn't give a shit if I drowned.
He was hard too, stiff as a steel club and straining at his zipper; my
fingers flew there on pure instinct, yanking it down, freeing him into my
hand. He gasped at my touch, whimpering with need, back arching like a
cracked whip, eyes dark as amber, hungry. I couldn't get my own fly ripped
open fast enough, rolling us over until I lay on my left side again, careful
not to let him see or feel what had happened to my arm, slinging my thigh
over his hip, pulling us closer, our cocks touching, sliding together,
rampant and leaking, trailing wet, sticky kisses across both our bellies. I
thrust, rolling my hips against him, and he thrust back, tangling sweaty
fingers in my hair, pulling me down for another bruising kiss. I sucked his
tongue, nipping at his luscious lower lip, plump and juicy as a ripe peach,
then moved down, Braille- reading his jaw with the tip of my tongue, dipping
lower, burying my face in the hollow of his throat, inhaling him, warm and
spicy. The artery was right there, right under my mouth, thrumming, rapid,
like a hummingbird's wings beating together, full of life. Full of what I
needed.
He spurted into my hand the exact same moment my teeth pierced his skin,
sliding in smooth as butter, silken heat bathing my belly, mine and his,
shooting down my throat, thick, limpid jets of it, spinning my brain into
toffee. He was an ocean and I was hurling myself into him, sinking, going
under for the last time, craving what I knew would crush me, wanting more.
Wanting too much.
Too much and not enough.
He wasn't moving when I finally lifted my head, but I knew he was all right;
I could feel his heart thumping, see his chest rising and falling in a slow,
steady rhythm. I lapped at the tiny twin punctures in his throat, healing
them, taking my last taste of him. Hopefully when he saw them in the mirror
tomorrow morning, he'd think he cut himself shaving. Hopefully.
We were both smeared sticky with come from crotch to chest, and I went into
the bathroom, wetting a cloth with warm water, cleaning myself off, then
going back in the bedroom to do the same for him. He moaned a little when I
touched him, rezipping his pants, then rolled to one side, resettling into
the mattress. I pulled the covers up over him.
I sat there looking at him for a long time, watching him sleep, until the
sunlight seeping through the window blinds started to fade and the
clock-radio on Mulder's bedside table read seven-ten p.m. Time to get back
to the club. Cash and Lillie were probably wondering what the hell had
happened to me.
Mulder's eyelids barely twitched when I leaned in over him, ruffling his
hair, dusting his forehead with a kiss. "No more nightmares," I whispered,
getting up, heading for the door, not looking back.
I walked back to the club, letting twilight's coolness bathe me, taking the
time to think. I hadn't done it, hadn't wiped Mulder's memory of last night,
of what we'd done together today. I couldn't. He'd lost so much in his life,
had had so much stolen from him, I couldn't bring myself to add to the list.
Maybe that blow to the head would take care of most of it anyway, maybe not.
Maybe he'd show up back at the club in another night or two, and Cash would
find out, and I'd burn for it.
Yeah, I'd burn for it, gladly, willingly. Mulder was worth burning for.
Mulder was worth anything. Hell, after today, I'd walk barefoot over a
thousand red-hot butcher knives just to have his tongue in my mouth again.
For just one taste of him.
One more taste.
Grinning, I turned the corner into the alley leading to Lillie's apartment,
heading upstairs. Heading home, where I belonged.
Continued in Afterbite
Safe Haven
by Sugar Rush
They were watching me again.
The autopsy bay smelled like a barbeque pit. Scully unzipped the body bag
and the odor smacked them both full-force, smoky-bitter and acrid, Scully's
hand flying up momentarily, covering her mouth and nose.
Everything went so smoothly the evening flew by in a blur. Finally we sent
the last customer home, and Cash sent me upstairs. He wanted to go out
again; I wanted to go to bed.
Times like this made me sorry I never got the light on my digital watch
fixed. I'd lost all track of time sitting here on the floor in the dark,
with nothing but Mulder's shallow, steady breathing and the slowing thump of
my own heart for company. It was way too small a space for us to sit apart
comfortably, though Mulder had already slumped over next to me, head resting
heavily on my shoulder, still pretty much out of it. I couldn't help
reaching up, fingers carding through his hair, finding the lump at the nape
of his neck where Leather Boy had whacked him, still barely oozing blood. I
licked it off my fingertips, stomach cramping, tearing at this tiny taste of
sweetness, craving more. I needed to feed, and badly.
