Nightworld Stories

7/27/2019 Nightworld Stories

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THICKER THAN WATER

Part I

They’re gone, and I’m left behind.KellerImage

For the first time since I joined Circle Daybreak, I can’t perform my duty. Andmy duty lately had been the most serious of my life—I’m last resort to Iliana

Harman.

You don’t understand some part of that? I don’t mind explaining. It isn’t as if I

have anything else to do around here. Not now.

Iliana . . . well, I don’t think there is an explanation for her. To look at her, as

little as she is, and as fragile as she is—you certainly wouldn’t think she’d be any

good in a fight. But even if she looks like a Christmas angel ornament, she killed a

dragon with her witchlight last year—a dragon in its true form—and saved my life.

Not that I’m anybody important. I’m Keller, one of Lord Thierry and Lady

Hannah’s foot soldiers. My first name? You really want to know that?

It’s Raksha. Oh, you like it?

It means “demon” and as Rudyard Kipling once said, it wasn’t given to me as a

compliment.

I hate it and never use it, myself, even if I have to admit it’s most likely a good

name for me. I’m guessing my mother gave it to me just before she dumped me in a

parking lot as a baby. Stuck in my half-and-half form, I probably looked pretty damn

demonic.

I’m a panther, by the way. A shapeshifter, I should say. When I’m human I’m a girl with very long black

hair and gray eyes, and I wear boots that go “click click” on the floor. That last is

because I got sick and tired of hearing people scream when I turn up behind them. Ican’t help walking like a panther, and the only thing I hate more than screaming is

bawling. I have sensitive hearing and—I’ll admit it’s a fault—I’m not very pat ient

with cowards.

Which is why I didn’t understand Iliana for so long. She’s a crybaby and she

screams if she sees a mouse. Even now, even knowing what she really is, sometimes

I wonder if she should be in this business at all.

Circle Daybreak isn’t for weaklings. It might be an organization to help

humans get along better with the people of the Night World—the vampires and

witches and shapeshifters and all the rest of our motley crew—but it’s not exactly

made up of model citizens, by definition. Half of us have a heritage that taught us

that humans were prey to be eaten, and a lot of the other half have spent most of their lives trying to find and kill the evil demons. It’s always been that way in the

past, humans versus Night People.

Parasites, they called us. Animals. Murderers.

Vermin, we called them. Pests. Meat.

Maybe Thierry and Hannah shouldn’t have tried to change it. But they meant it

for the best; and for some people Daybreak is their only choice: their last refuge.

What does a vampire do when he finds out that his soulmate is a human girl—



maybe a vampire hunter? What does a Circle Midnight witch do when she’s bound

by a silver cord to a human boy?

The Night World has a flat rule about this: the sentence is death for all of them.

Well, at least you can say for them that they’re not wishy-washy.

There isn’t much tolerance built into human societies either, though: not for

anyone as different as we Night People are. Where would I have ended up if therehad been no Daybreakers to take me in? In what circus or sanitarium? I can just see

the posters: “See the amazing Cat Girl! But don’t try to pet her; those fangs andclaws are real!”

You may be able to understand why I’m a little bitter. Circle Daybreak shelters anyone who’s willing to give up the prejudices of the

cruel past. From the age of three it’s sheltered me. In return, I’ve been more than

glad to give all my loyalty to its vision. It’s the least I can do, right?

But now everything is different. The cruel past? Right now it looks as if the

future is going to be infinitely worse.

If the dreams that that odd girl, Sarah Strange, told us about are genuine

prophecies . . . we’re doomed to a future darker than anything except completeextinction. No! Extinction would be better, more merciful.

But I can’t take that in right now. It’s as though my mind were blocked to it. AllI can think about is Iliana’s violet eyes looking at me as she gave me half of herWitch

Child pendant. She knew that she was going to have to go to do the fighting of her

life, not against one dragon but against dozens— hundreds—who knows how

IlianaImagemany.

And she knew that neither Galen or I would be going with her, even though we’d

volunteered. Of course, if she’d had her choice about it, I’m sure she’d rather have

had Galen. I think she’s still in love with him, just a little bit. But she gave the

pendant to me, because she knew I would need something when she was gone. And

she knew what it was I would need, too. Something that would be a symbol of thetie between us, because the real ties were going to be cut.

That’s the way she is, you see. All the ditzy behavior and pettishness and

whining; all that goes away when somebody around her is hurt. It blows away, and

what’s left is the Wild Power, the blue firewielder, Mistress of Air, the Witch Child.

And then she fixes the hurt, whatever it is. I don’t mean she’s a healer. I mean she

cares so much about the people around her, and so little about herself, that

somehow she fixes things. She’s been doing it since she was a toddler. She would

lay down her life for a stranger—any stranger. Naïve? Yes. Annoying? Definitely.

But somehow I love her for it.

And now she’s gone and I can’t protect her any longer. I want to scream, to

curse.Hardly part of my image, right? Good old Keller, never looses her cool.

I’m so hot I could scald anything I touch.

I found out that once she gave her brand new winter coat to some homeless

person, and her mother was so mad that she wouldn’t buy her a new one. So Iliana,

who likes of all things to be in fashion, wore her old coat, a little too short in the

sleeves, a little bit frayed, all winter long—and she wore it with a smile on her face.

That was before Circle Daybreak found out who she was and took her away from



her family, or should I say, took her whole family to live here, while she lay in

cryogenic sleep most of the time, waiting.

Everybody loves her, of course. Even if they’re too stupid to see all of her, all of

what this miracle of a girl can be, they fall in love with the surface image: those

violet eyes and the white-gold hair, and her childish prattling. I don’t mind any of

that. I have my own mate, my soulmate, and even if Galen is still a little bit in lovewith her, the silver cord doesn’t lie, and we’re happy together.

Galen is a leopard. But he’s also Prince and Heir Apparent to all theshapeshifters in the world, and he’s the most handsome and gentle prince that everwalked the earth, human or Nightworlder. I know I said I didn’t like cowards, but if

you think being gentle is the same thing—well, I feel sorry for you, and get out of my

life. Please. Galen is braver than I am, and he’d be a last resort for Iliana if they’d let

him. But princes don’t live just for themselves. They live—and set examples and

policy—for everybody they rule over.

So I am . . . I was . . . the last resort, the only last resort for that miracle child.

I’ll bet you don’t even know what a last resort is.

I’ll tell you.Lowest down on the list, the ones with the lightest duties, are guardians. We

have guardians here in Harmony, the town that Thierry and Hannah created after

the millennium, when it turned out that all the prophecies had been wrong and the

Apocalypse wasn’t coming on schedule. I was eighteen then. I guess I’m getting on

eighteen-and-a-half now. That’s the way time goes in the Tower in Harmony,

keeping everybody young and fresh in case the Apocalypse suddenly came after all.

And it did. It came with a vengeance and there wasn’t a damn thing any of us

could do about it . . . .

But I was talking about guardians. Practically anybody can be a guardian. You

just have to have a black belt in karate, similar qualifications in judo and kung fu or

other martial arts; or the Powers of a vampire; or a witch commanding amber fire orhigher, or be a shapeshifter who’s proven by making enough kills that you can use

lethal force to protect your “mark.” Kiddy stuff. Next comes bodyguard. A bodyguard has to have more skills, and has to be

willing to take a silver bullet —or a pair of fangs—or a lethal spell for their mark.

That’s a bit above kiddy stuff. You have to be smart to be a bodyguard, becauseusually dying for your mark is not the optimal action. You’re supposed to find a way

to keep them alive.

After that is escort. Again, you have to be smarter, faster, more skilled than a

bodyguard. And you have to know etiquette, too, in case your mark has to go into

formal situations, like a grand ball given by Lord Thierry for the Solstice or

something like that. It takes not just strength, or skill, but grace to be an escort. Andyou still have to be ready to take the bullet, of course.

And then finally there’s the last resort. Maybe you have some idea of what that

is, now. It’s the thing that saves the target when everything else has failed. The

absolute, last, final option.

That’s what I am . . . what I was. Last resort to Iliana. I was supposed to protect

her when all the guardians and bodyguards and escorts went down. At the last

possible second I was the one she was supposed to count on.



And now she’s gone and everywhere I look I see computer screens with

pictures of the destruction of Paris. I think Paris was the last city they destroyed.

Maybe it was just the last picturesque one.

San Francisco was the first. They know there’s a Circle Daybreak enclave there. The dragons, the Apocalypse have come at last. They’re beating us hands

down, destroying us city by city. Washington, D.C. went around the same time asBethlehem and Tokyo.

Maybe I’m a little more in tune with it all now. I can feel something of thehorror. And I can feel Galen holding me, holding me in one piece, because I can’t

remember the moment of her going without wanting to fly into a million shards.

I open my consciousness and his mind in turn unfolds like a landscape around

me. We’ve been betrothed for six months of outside time . . . countess months the

way this time-bound town reckons it. We haven’t aged, but I should have matured.Why can’t I open my mind to him in the same way? Even this is almost too much.

He is making a paradise out of the landscape for me, bringing up every thought or

word of love between us to create another flower here, a crystal waterfall there, a

moon at least three times as large as the real one to glaze everything with silver.In the face of utter disaster, he’s trying to raise my spirits. He’s frightened, not of the disaster, but for me.

I look up at him. He looks, as always, like a prince out of a children’s story, with

dark gold hair and green-gold eyes as intense and radiant as any cat’s. No boy

should be so beautiful.

And now that he sees me watching him his eyes change; their pupils enlarging

hugely; a completely involuntary sign of helpless fascination, of love.

I pull him down and kiss him, enchanted by him as if I have as I have been so

many times before. Galen wears his heart on the outside, but the inside is much

more interesting. And it changed something inside me, when I met them both, to

know that there was more than one being without an ounce of malice in their hearts.I’ve kissed him too long, too well. I know what he wants now. But here is

where our opposite natures betray us.

I’m a panther. In times of stress—and what greater stress could there be—I

need to be alone. To hunt, if possible. If not, simply to pace, to run . . . I need to feel

the wind rushing past me. I need to push myself until I’m physically exhausted or I’ll

turn on all I hold dear and (figuratively, fortunately) snap their heads off.

And I need to do it all alone.

Normally it’s easy for one or the other of us to bend. And if you think it’s

always he who gives in you’re wrong. He is slowly, I think, and gently taming me.I’ve found that sometimes the need to be alone, and to exercise can be very sweetly

turned into a need to hold him more tightly, and more tightly still until we are bothexhausted. I don’t mind this form of unhurried, tender taming. Sometimes I need to

be reminded that I am more than an animal—and a job.

Sometimes Galen goes with me when I want to hunt. But we’re true beasts inour shapeshifted forms and it’s hard to stay together. I think he feels guilty

afterward, too. Our lovely town of Harmony has a paradise attached to it. That’s

what they used to be called in ancient Persia. A carefully planned park with miles of

room to run, stocked with white-tailed deer and other prey animals from around the



world. It’s not just for shapeshifters. The vampires need to eat, too—sometimes

they need to kill, as I do.

Are you afraid of me yet? You should be. If not for the ample stock of prey

nearby I might come wandering into your neighborhood. Other big cats have

snapped and paced into quiet streets in the glittering dusk or the misty morning.

Joggers are tempting fate. Dog-walkers provide appetizer and entrée. There areusually no consequences because there is nothing left —no body—no evidence—no

habeas corpus.

Be glad that if I want I can take down a wildebeest, here, in Virginia, in this

magically hidden kingdom that shelters even the most savage, as long as humans

aren’t on the menu.

Right now, Galen is . . . pressing his suit, to use an old metaphor. But this is one

of the times I can’t be tamed. I need to run. I need the open air. “I’m sorry. I can’t. Not now.”

Face buried in my hair, he gives me his whole heart, as usual. “I’m afraid it will

be the last time.”

I am wondering what it feels like to force yourself to lie still when shaking withthe need to flee when he releases me. His face is wet, but he smiles and his golden-

green eyes are blazing.

“Go,” he whispers, with one last caress, dragging his fingers through my hair all

the way from scalp to waist. Part of me is screaming, stay with him, moron. But his

gaze is steady. “I’m not afraid anymore. I believe in Iliana and the others.”

I stare at him. Sometimes I think he is a miracle, too.

I want to believe the way he does. I don’t want to be able to imagine Iliana

facing a huge dragon—an adult, fully grown, with wings spread and black fire

gathering in its open mouth. I don’t want to be Keller.

This time I let him kiss me. Then I whisper with all the fierce tenderness of

which I am capable, “I’ll come back to you. I believe in Iliana, too. Wait for me.” I’m a human being as well as a panther, so I can lie. I don’t know what to

believe. I don’t see how she can succeed. But I won’t betray her by putting it intowords.

As for the rest, I know he’ll wait. And that thought is sweet because it can be

very good after waiting. And all the time I’m running alone I’ll know that is waiting,

in exquisite torment for me to come back to him.

I’m off the couch and then out the door at once. There’s only one elevator working and a crowd waiting to go up, to see their

families. But I have priority because I work directly for Lord Thierry. I get into the

elevator and feel the acceleration, glad to have something to strain against when I

could be straining against Galen. Am I an idiot?Damn it, I need the sky and the grass.

I may need the taste of blood.

And the elevator goes up, taking me through time zones in this bizarre

underground Tower that is the heart of the town. I watch the sweeping second hand

of my watch as it goes faster and faster. I am leaving behind the depths where time

is slowed to the gait of a crippled, ancient tortoise at the end of Archimedes’ bridge.

I am headed for the town where time only flows as slow as molasses. By the



moment the elevator doors spring open I have already adjusted my body to the

change.

Nobody moves out of my way fast enough, so I use my elbows. And then my

heels are going clickety click and I am out of the building and almost running

through town.

Only almost, though. I still have some dignity.One problem with working in the underground Tower is the dress code. I can’t

wear shapeshifter hide jumpsuits all the time. A crisp white blouse, a pair of

pressed trousers, and ankle boots—that’s my usual garb. I can always change if I

want to Change.

Except that this time I forgot.

Oh, well. I reach the paradise and quickly go through the procedures to get in.

The keepers all know me. Once inside I find a handy tree, crooked and individual

enough to remember, and I strip, putting all my clothes in a neat pile with my ankle

boots on top.

I don’t think anyone who sees those boots will mess with my clothing, no

matter how enraptured they are in their animal form. I’ve done this before, seenwerewolves sniff at the pile and run.

Before I shift my shape I take another look at the tree, a good common oak.

That willow wand girl, Sarah, affected my senses much as it does. They said she was

almost a dryad, the vampires and seers and Old Souls who can feel such things. To

me, she felt like a mouse—but a mouse that was trying to be brave so desperately it

had an undertone of lioness.

And what had she said? That she believed you could get energy from a tree by

laying hands on it and give energy by embracing it.

Right now I am steaming with energy. I don’t want to kill if I can possibly help

it. Naked, I embrace the rough trunk, lay my cheek against a bole, and try to channel

my energy out through my arms. I am perfectly still except my grappling with thiswood. And then I feel it, a release of energy into the bark and through it, causing sap

to race, and a simultaneous shock like lightning from my palms to the soles of my

bare feet, resting on the trees knobby roots.

It feels . . . wonderful.

Now I need to shift.

All I need to do is to let go. There’s no thinking involved. It’s just like pulling

one end of a bow-tied ribbon. I pull, once, hard, and my body springs free.

As always I force myself not to try to make the moment in between last longer.

It’s a moment when my whole body is free; weightless as a candle flame, shapelessas a gust of wind, except that today it’s more like a forest fire or a tornado. For just a

second I feel total release and then I am subject to gravity again and everything ischanging. A glossy coat sprouts and covers my nakedness, a tail sprouts and gives

me something to lash. My bones and muscles shift and I feel an exquisite frisson as

my whiskers fly free. I fall forward and land, crouched on four delicate but heavy

feet.

My whole world changes.



I see heat; I feel every object in the park with my entire body. I hear the noise

of some small rodent digging frenetically just five feet behind me. I hear the wind. I

look up and see the sky in different colors, none of them blue.

I can feel the low growl in my throat —a continuous rumbling sound.

I’m purring.

The wind is chasing clouds through a sky that has no end. And the wind bringsthe scent of three white tailed deer in the trees just east of me.

I crouch and leap and come down running.

And then there are no words. There are only sensations as I run and run, faster

and faster, drawing energy from my terror, from my grief, from my love.

I don’t expect anyone to understand that: that I express my love by running

away. But I’m a panther. You’d understand and be damned grateful if I expressed

any feeling by running away from you.

I won’t try to pretend, though. Mostly I’m running because I need to run, on a

raw physical level.

It’s bliss.

Once again I feel almost weightless as powerful muscles propel me forwardfaster, faster, faster. My adrenaline is so high that it feels absolutely effortless. Each

leap powers me into the next leap. It’s like running on the Moon except for thespeed. Trees fly by, the deer fly by, running from a predator that couldn’t care less

about them for the moment. The fence is directly in front of me; I’ve already run the

full length of the paradise. I’m tempted to leap it; in this state I know I can do it.

Instead I sheer off at the last minute, running beside the fence, racing it.

I run until I do feel the effort. Panthers are sprinters, not marathon runners.

But I push myself and keep going. I can feel my heart pumping, sending blood into

necessary muscles. The muscles begin to tire, to rebel. I won’t let myself slow. Thisis what I’ve been waiting for.

I . . . can’t keep up this pace. But I do.

My heart pumps harder, harder still; my traitor breath whistles. My muscles

try to knot, but I keep them stretched, keep them supple, not allowing a moment’s

slowing.

A hundred more yards. And a hundred more. And a hundred more.

And finally I blossom for myself, almost as I would have blossomed for Galen

had I stayed back at the tower.

Second wind.

That’s what they call it, and right now, with my beloved Mistress of Wind gone,I don’t find the name as pedantic as I usually would. I am a second wind in this

forest right now. As the endorphins finally flood my body I decide that I will not killtoday. I’ve run the entire length of the fence anyway; I’ve circumnavigated the park

and set every other living being inside it fleeing.

With my blood singing and my body exhausted I’ve achieved what I set out to.

My brain, at last, doused in the endorphins and the weariness, lets go of the feeling

that I’m going to start screaming and not ever be able to stop.

I let myself slow.

Now to go back to Galen. He deserves anything I have left.



My senses are sluggish, my sight dim. I almost run into the young man before I

smell him.

I stop. Usually now it’s a matter of tiptoeing delicately away with my tail

between my legs, trying to look harmless and convince the person I’ve encounteredthat I’m not going to bite their arm off.

But this one is different. He’s lamia, I smell: a family vampire. He’s let himself age to a (to humans) sophisticated and probably attractive twenty four or five. He’s

single, though, no intimate smell of a mate on him. But under the overwhelming

park smell of trees there is a touch of Lord Thierry and Lady Hannah. And he’s

vaguely familiar smelling. Undertones of paper and computer scent —plus the

calfskin leather of a briefcase—and, ugh, alligator skin shoes. And watch strap.

If I were human I could identify him more easily by aura, but in my animal form

the only aura I pick up is “does/doesn’t like cats.” All cats have it and know exactly

who to rub up against. You guess which we pick.

But I know this man now. He’s an attaché to Lord Thierry, picked up the last

time Thierry went to the Los Angeles Circle Daybreak enclave. His name I can’t

access, not in my current state, but his identity is clear. We’ve had several talksabout improving satellite communication between enclaves.

He’s hungry, too. He’s here for feeding, for bloodletting, but I’ve scared all thecritters away. He doesn’t smell that upset.

He’s clapping. “Brava! It must be you, Keller. Only you would be training at a terrible time

like this.”

Why does he want to start this one-sided conversation with a lie? He knows

it’s me because vampires can smell almost as well as I can, and—this is the really

obvious bit —I’m the only black panther here in the Harmony enclave. He smells of

deceit.

I give a short snort, and leave him to interpret it. I turn away.But he’s crossed the distance between us and he is scratching behind my ears

now.

Under other circumstances, and with someone else, I might encourage that.

After such a good run I might even let them pet my forehead and chin. That’s as far

as it goes with petting me, except for Galen. I’m a one-man panther, and he’s a one-

panther guy.

Now, though, I don’t have time for ear-scratching. I huff. He doesn’t stop

scratching.

I growl.

Nobody could fail to get that message. Unlike my purring, my growl starts deep

and sweeps into a buzz saw sound that usually sets people running.But he keeps scratching. Why does he smell so strongly? It’s overloading my

senses, dulling them even further to everything around me.

My whiskers flicker across his hand and jerk back in revulsion.

I instinctively don’t like him. “. . . when I saw you running round and round the park,” he was saying. “You

must be pretty tired, but you looked—magnificent. Glorious. You truly are a



creature of the darkness. Everything in your way ran for cover. I have to say I

almost ran away myself.”

Another lie. Doesn’t he know that even lamia smell different when they’re

trying to deceive? It takes a made vampire: one who’s exchanged enough blood that they die and come back to confuse my nose. He’s been running and sweating all

right, but he’s been running after me. Idiot. Why?

“Keller, you’re one of the few who can survive in the new world that’s coming.I’d like to see you do that. Resume your human form and let’s talk about it.”

Like hell I’d resume a weaker form. But I’d come this way on purpose and I see

something now that electrifies my senses and brings me out of the last of my

endorphin haze and into the moment.

I’ve come back to the oak tree where I’d left my clothes in a neat pile. There is

no neat pile now. There is no pile. There are shreds and tatters. Even my boots are

ruined. And there are claw marks in the tree that I’d given energy to. The claw

marks make almost vertical splits in the tree, far deeper than anything I could

manage.I take this in much faster than it takes to say it all. And then I look at

Whitcombe, whose name I finally remember.

“Sorry about that,” he chuckles, deep in his throat. “I had to find your

insignia—such a tiny thing to swallow. I didn’t want you calling anyone to interrupt

us. And I don’t think anyone will be coming, now. I don’t smell anyone else, do you?At least no one else alive.”

I have screwed up royally. Somewhere around here I can smell the keeper—

dead. Not drained of blood, though. Dead of some massive injury. The sort a

panther might be able to do—I can’t be sure until I see him. My nose tries to findhim while my brain races. It can’t be a setup for murder because I’d hardly do that

to my own clothes. Unless it’s a really clever setup, taking that into account—assuming I’d ruin my clothes to divert suspicion.

Whitcomb’s still chuckling, deep in his throat. And I am remembering what Sarah Strange had said about the future:

“The dragons let some vampires live. They run the Houses—the farms where

they raise people for the dragons to eat. And the guards are mostly werewolves but

there are a few other kinds of shapeshifters, too . . . . ”

But this is no vampire. And no vampire could have split that tree like that.

“Have you got an answer for me, little girl?” he asks, gutturally, and I wish that I

had not just gone through a marathon. I channel energy to my back legs.

“Yes,” I hear my idiot mouth say. “Let’s see what you really look like, you

bastard.”So he shows me.

Despite my smartass mouth my first thought is impossible. Impossible because

I know Whitcombe, and this is really him, not some dragon imitation of him.

Impossible because we can’t have been infiltrated this deeply, for this long.

Impossible because this horror simply couldn’t be happening. I’ve stood up to a dragon before. Along with my trained team of agents and

Iliana, a Wild Power and the Witch Child. And Galen. And now, much as I hate to



drag Galen into this, somebody’s going to need to have a try at this thing once I’m

gone. It won’t take him long to dispose of me, and then there is the whole town for

him to go through.

I pull on the silver cord, as hard as if I want to break it. I’ve never tried this

before, only heard of it. Cheap, no frills long distance communication—I hope. I

wouldn’t have tried it for fun since that would have made a miracle—well, petty.And then I try to send a simple message, although I know I will never hear whether

Galen got it or not.

Dragon, I think, knowing that that word will get through if anything can. In the

paradise. And then, a little ashamed, I loved you.

It doesn’t occur to me to say help. This isn’t pride, I swear. It’s just that I know

I will be finished before help can arrive. It’s a long way to the Tower. And now in front of me like some recurrence of the nightmare when I’d faced

the first dragon, is another one. Splitting Whitcombe’s skin like a peach and rising

out of it. More hideous than any dinosaur, and yet with dinosaur-like skin and a

dinosaur’s stance, it stands tall beside the ruined oak tree. Then it spreads its huge

wings and the stars are blotted out and for a moment my heart goes sick and faint,just looking up at the sheer hellish size of it.

A trihorn. Wonderful. Since Sarah’s helpful revelation that dragons lose their

horns as they age rather than gaining them, I know that this beast is even more

dangerous than the one I had faced before.

Do I wonder, for just an instant, whether I can run?

Part II

Yes.

The shame of admitting that is worse than fear. But, look, I may be a grunt, but

I'm no idiot. It had made me an offer; for three beats of a hummingbird's wings I

wonder if maybe it wants me enough that it won't destroy me and I can get out and

come back with reinforcements.

But the second that the thought comes I throw it away. The dragon is laughing

now, the deep bass laugh that I remember. The smell of it is overwhelming and I

taste metal at the back of my throat. And I know I'm not going anywhere.

Well, figuratively I'm not. In real life the dragon's transformation has only takena moment; my thoughts an instant longer. And now I am gathering my muscles

under me, and now setting them free, and now I am racing up the oak tree, still

sturdy enough to support me as I go straight up, and up, and up, and then I do a

backwards somersault in the air and come down with claws out and jaws ready.



As I come down the dragon flinches away but I've already allowed for that in

my calculations. I hit its hideous muzzle dead on and flip my body again because I

know what I need to do.

Bite the horns off.

If it sounds impossible you don't know the strength of a panther's jaws. I can

crush a wildebeest's spine with one snap. This won't be so easy, but like a bulldog I

am known for my ability to hold on.

The dragon makes a guttural sound but doesn't scream. Its goal is the opposite

of mine: it doesn't want to attract attention. I bite down hard, tasting its poisonous

black blood, feeling cartilage and muscle crunch. And then I simply keep up the

pressure, clamping my jaws tighter and tighter, hearing the wonderful sound of

more things snapping and tearing as I shake my head violently without ever letting

up on the strength of my bite.

The dragon scrabbles at me ineffectually with its relatively puny upper arms. It

has claws too, and I feel thin streaks of pain down my back as it rips flesh. Nothing to

worry about.

This is the last time I will think that particular phrase.

The reason I need to bite the horns off is that this is the seat of the dragon's

power. I am down to something steel-hard at the center of one horn when the

dragon lets rip with that power-right down my throat.

Black fire. Generated in this vibrating horn to be channeled wherevernecessary. Now lashing into me, burning my jaws, my throat, my internal organs. I

can feel it crackle like lightning, making my fur stand on end all over my body.

Agony. Paralyzed, my body tries to fall off the dragon's face, into a cavernous

mouth. But my jaws won't let go.

Enraged, the dragon tosses its head. I go flying, describe an arc in the air, and

smash into the ground . . . hard.

I feel ribs break. In my mouth is the outer covering of the dragon's horn, an

unimportant trophy that I spit out since the inner horn is still intact, smooth andhard and shining like ebony in the moonlight. I can see it as I feel the ground shake.

The dragon is stepping toward me.

I give a panther's scream of pain and rage. Time to try again.

I drag my bruised body to its feet.



The beast in me wants to try the exact same method of attack. The human

knows I have to get inventive.

My fear has been conquered. This is something the beast understands, even

enjoys. A fight to the death. But again, the human interferes, and I still have plenty of

room for terror for my . . . my loved ones, I guess you would call them.

This bastard is going to take a lot of killing.

In my mind's eye I see them all standing, all in danger. Galen first, of course. But

Winfrith and Nissa-my longtime teammates, too. Lady Hannah. To know her is to

pledge your life to her. No, she's gone, but Thierry, my liege lord is here. And Aradia,

the blind seer, and oh my gods-Iliana's family.

They are all there in the town, her family. Her little brother, still a baby, still

calling me "Kee-kee" for kitty. He is asleep now, safe in his bed. Either I get better,

smarter, more deadly-and fast-or safe is the last thing he'll be.

From somewhere I find more speed. I race around the dragon, ignoring the

charred feeling in my gut and the grinding of bone against bone in my chest. I start

to leap over the huge tail, not mobile enough to lash like mine, and then I get an idea.

I turn at the last second and climb the dragon.

Just like a tree, up the tail and up the spine and up the head, while the creature

tries to buck me off but Kee-kee has the two-inch-long claws of a were-panther, and

I'm not going anywhere except over the flattened dome of skull and straight to the

same horn I attacked before.

This time my jaws need to be stronger. They will be, I promise myself as I fly at

the naked horn.

They are. I open them wide for the greatest striking power and then bite down

as if I wished to drive my own fangs through the opposite sides of my mouth.

Big crunch and I feel the horn break in two. I swallow some black fire before the

thing comes completely free, but then it's loose in my mouth and the fire has no

power to harm me.

Not from that horn at least.

I know what will come next and it happens. The dragon tosses its head, trying

to throw me off again. But just before the snap comes that should send me sailing

off, I chomp on the next horn. My body whiplashes in the air, and I feel something

else inside me tear just as the black fire comes roaring down my throat again.



And then it's just a long nightmare of burning and hurting and channeling all

my power to my jaws, which are somehow still hanging on as my body flaps like a

flag in a brisk wind. The monster is clawing me, taking strips off my already flayed

back. And the black fire is . . . indescribable. But at last, somehow in the nightmare I

hear the crack that means I've severed horn number two.

Something gives way inside me then and I let myself be thrown off, to land this

time in the jabbing, tearing branches of a tree before dropping like a stone. I wind up

landing feet first, but off balance and it sends a hot shock up one leg that means I

have broken bones there, too.

I don't have time to black out, yet it seems there is a little skip in the action.

Now the dragon is looming over me, its black blood pattering around me like rain.

Its mouth opens, undoubtedly to finish roasting me alive. I know what I have to

do-evade, find a tree, and leap to the attack . . . but my body is . . . sluggish. It doesn't

seem to be obeying my commands.

In something like a dream, I fumble for the silver cord again. Come speedily, I

send down it-haven't I done this before? But use all caution. The beast is deadly.

And, miraculously, I hear an answer.

We're here! the response comes-in a telepathic voice that I don't recognize-for

the Goddess's sake, lie still. Don't move.

And then, in a kind of fever dream, I see the impossible. I see myself, in human

form, launch upward off a ninja staff and toss a dozen shuriken-those deadly metalninja stars-into one of the dragon's eyes.

My eyesight is understandably blurry at this point, but still, if I weren't sure I

was crouched down here, I would swear I was up there. It isn't just the hair and

clothing-I see my face in full moonlight. I see myself land lightly and sprint away,

long black hair flying, crisp white shirt reflecting silver. The dragon, pawing at its

face, turns toward my other self with a whining sound.

Now, Keller! Run away and then come back!

Somebody knows me inside and out. If they had just said "run away" I neverwould have moved at all.

And now there is another figure, compact and male, who does not use artificial

weapons, but like me, his teeth and claws. He tears into the dragon's horn with his

teeth and plunges his claws into the dragon's other eye, at the same time jolting it

with kicks to the tender insides of its nostrils.



The dragon screams.

I have leaped, or rather launched myself and borne the impact somehow, into

the shadow of another tree. The dragon is blind now, or almost. I gather myself for

another horn.

Can you hear me? I call.

Yes. Are you well enough to attack? Go around back and we'll distract it.

It's a male voice-the vampire. But before we can put our plan into action, the

beast changes tactics. It seems it no longer cares for secrecy. And it shows how little

we understand these creatures.

With a roar that hurts my cat-ears, it turns and belches forth a huge stream of

black fire from its mouth, swinging its head like a flamethrower, setting the paradise

on fire.

Are you hurt? two telepathic voices ask me. I am too busy to say more than No!

I am in place and ready for the final assault. I am going to climb the dragon

again.

I leap onto the tail and run up the backbone, forcing every step, because it

knows me now, and it's trying to throw me off before I can get to the horn. Nothing

on this earth could stop me, though, now that I've started. I sink my claws in deep,

ignoring my wounds, ignoring my dizziness until at last I reach the summit of the

head and open my jaws wide.

And then I hear what I've been waiting for.

Galen's voice. Wait, Keller! Wait for us! We're all here!

And the voice of Lord Thierry, who is a vampire, of course, ringing out over all

the others in a tone not to be disobeyed: Let her draw last blood! She deserves the

honor!

The very presence of them gives me new strength. I open my jaws to their

widest and snap at the final horn as if I can win the war by severing it in one stroke.I can't do either, of course. And then there are more minutes of nightmare until I

sense another cat running up behind me. The horn is hanging on by an iron thread

now. I recognize the leopard as my soulmate and he leans against me, holding his

body up with mine as with one last crunch the horn falls severed to the ground.

The dragon bellows, shattering the night with the sound.



The others close in then with guns and steel-tipped arrows and all manner of

weapons. But they wait. They wait for Galen to snatch a naked young woman off the

back of the beast and leap to the ground. I'm only barely aware of this part, or of the

dragon's last scream.

* * * * *

I'm in the Tower infirmary. I've just opened my eyes to the most beautiful sight

in the world: my soulmate's face. My soulmate's uninjured face, except for a long cut

along one cheek. I wonder why they've left that unhealed.

I make a hoarse sound, but he is already bringing a cup of water with a straw to

my lips.

How do you feel? he asks, in tones of desperation held barely in check. This

close, the cord is very taut and we have no trouble speaking.

Like a dragon ran over me, I answer. Smartass that I am.

According to Quinn's report, you ran over the dragon even though you were

obviously-badly injured, he says and I know that he is modifying to "badly injured"

the words "almost dead." I'm amazed to be alive myself.

Were there any other dragons? I ask. How badly were we compromised?

A few others, he admits. I don't see how it could have happened. Some of the-

people-had been in Circle Daybreak for years. He adds because he knows me, and

knows what I must be wondering, There's nothing new about Iliana and the others.

So we're still in the same situation.

Yes. But for now, he looks me up and down with something like anguished joy

in his eyes, at least we can say we're alive. The healers worked on you for twelve

hours straight, you know. They took it in shifts. Even Winfrith insisted in helping

with her witchfire. They're saying, only Keller. Of everyone still here, only Keller

would take on a three-horned dragon alone.

"Well," I croak, just to see how badly my voice is damaged, "only- Keller would

be a charred or squashed piece of bloody flesh if Quinn and Rashel hadn't turned upwhen they did."

Galen doesn't get defensive. Instead he looks, smiling, beyond my right

shoulder. I turn painfully in bed-this bad after twelve hours of healing work, eh? and

see myself lying in an identical bed. John Quinn, his hands heavily bandaged, is

sitting beside it.



Except that it's not me, of course. It's Rashel Jordan, Quinn's soulmate. This

close I can see all the little differences that make us unique. I have gray eyes, she has

green. My chin is a bit more triangular. Her hair is a little straighter and she tends to

wear it back, held by a ninja band around her forehead. Still, I'm fascinated by all the

little things that are the same. It's like looking into a slightly distorted mirror. Why

have I never realized how much alike we are?

And of course, there is the insurmountable difference: I am of the Night World,

a shapeshifter, a panther. I come from the darkness. She is from the Day World, a

human, even if a human with extraordinary athletic skills.

The guys are looking smug. I'm not sure why, but I ignore it for the moment.

"Hey," I say to Rashel Jordan.

"Hi," she says, smiling a little.

"You were the first one to hear me?"

"Yes." She looks down. Although I've never seen her look anything but

competent around the Tower, right now she seems to feel awkward.

"Then she told me," Quinn cuts in smoothly, "and she was just wild about it. She

wouldn't stay and wait for help; she was frantic. So we headed for the park together.

I guess we heard you because were just walking around town-Rashel didn't feel like

sitting still."

She didn't, eh? Chalk up another likeness. But she, sensible girl, had taken hersoulmate with her, and they obviously made a deadly hunting pair.

"Thank you for coming," I say as formally as possible, when I'm lying flat on my

back, and looking, I'm sure, like I've been pulled through a rat's ass. "Both of you

were great."

"Oh, we were, were we?" Quinn says softly, watching me with his black-on-

black eyes. "Well, you were looking pretty good yourself. Like a housecat attached to

an elephant, maybe. And refusing to let go."

I nod in thanks. I don't blush. I'm curious to see the two of them together nowthat we're not fighting.

Everyone knows their story. Rashel became a vampire hunter at the age of five

or six when good old Hunter Redfern-he was alive back then-killed her mother and

her kiddy friend. She was one of the very best, hating all "parasites" . . . until she met

Quinn. Then the soulmate principle worked its magic and she ended up falling in



love with him, but that never stopped her from trying to kill him, too, until he'd

promised to give up human blood and join Circle Daybreak with her.

And John Quinn had once, five hundred years ago, been Hunter Redfern's heir.

He had a long and an evil reputation, but he was here to wipe it out, and I didn't see

anything particularly evil about him. He wasn't big but he was incredibly fast andskilled. I am glad that he had just happened . . . somehow . . . to pick up my warning

cry.

But he hadn't, had he? It just didn't make any sense. Quinn was the vampire.

Rashel wasn't even a lost witch. How could she have picked me up first? Before

Galen had?

"Anyway," I say, "may we hunt together soon." I struggle a little to get my right

arm from under the sheets-it feels as if the shoulder has been dislocated-and hold

my hand out to Rashel.

She takes it in a firm grip, realizes how weak I am, and gentles the hold. She

squeezes. I squeeze back.

"May I just get a little background information from you two, which you

couldn't give while you were both unconscious?" Galen says in his most formal, most

princely manner. Quinn smiles-wickedly. I wonder what game they are playing. All

my background information is in the Tower computers, and all Rashel's, too. And

there is very little about me that Galen doesn't know by heart.

"What is your date of birth?" He looks at me first. Now I really wonder if he's

gone nuts. He knows I don't know that and that I don't like to have to admit it.

I refuse to flush. "I don't know when it was, but probably in the middle of

December, eighteen and a half years ago."

He turns to Rashel. "And yours?"

"December 11," she says slowly.

"Which makes you eighteen and a half, too."

"Well-yes."

Galen turns back to me, his voice gentling. "And you were raised by foster

parents from the age of three because someone-you presume your mother-left you

in a cardboard box stuck in your half panther, half human form."

I feel the urge to go into my full panther form. He knows I don't like talking

about this under strangers.



Please, love. Just trust me, he thinks. His eyes are dark because their pupils are

so wide. He's begging me.

I melt.

But I can't let these strangers see that. I take a deep breath, tear my eyes from

his, and nod.

"And you-" Galen says to Rashel.

"Whoa," she says, letting go of my hand to hold her own up in a "stop" gesture.

"All anybody needs to know is that I was raised by my mother, and I lost her in

kindergarten."

"I'm sorry," Galen looks truly chastened, but he persists anyway. That's how my

soulmate gets places most people only dream of. "I was just going to ask you,though, about your father. Do you know anything about him?"

"He was a Marine. He was killed before my mother and I don't really remember

much of him."

"Rashel," Quinn says, in a voice I've never heard him use before. So tender.

Barely audible.

Rashel Jordan looks at him, and I look at him, and I see him looking at her in a

way I've never seen him look before. A way I wouldn't have thought him capable of

looking. I have no idea of what their unspoken conversation might be, but I think shemelts.

What I know is that she says in a quiet voice, "That's what I always thought,

anyway. But when Quinn and I moved to Circle Daybreak I brought along a picture

of my parents in a ceramic frame. Wouldn't you know, it got smashed. And inside I

found a letter from my father to my mother. It seems he didn't die after all; he just

left her."

"I've got the letter," Quinn pats his pocket and I can see that Rashel is shocked.

"I went down and got it while you two were being healed. Can I read a bit of it to

Galen and Keller?"

Rashel is looking at him wonderingly. Then she nods, with a little shrug. I can

see her bracing herself to hear it, and bracing herself to see Quinn, normally so

dexterous, fumble in his jacket pocket. Those bandages make him clumsy. At last he

gets the letter out.

It's on distinctive paper . . . .



I swear, and then fall silent, thinking.

Quinn reads:

"Melisande,

You've put up with me and with them as well as any wife and mother could. But

I know how you feel-even about me. I just don't know how to show you that it isn't

true. I want to prove I could never hurt you-and yet I know I don't have the control I

did before I went overseas. I know the fits are coming on me more and more often. I

know the child frightens you. What can I do, darling, except take her away? Then

you'll be an ordinary widow with an ordinary child. And I'll go back to my own

people-if they'll have me, with our darling little misfit. At least I'll go until I can stand

before you-always-as a man."

"It goes on," Quinn says in his soft, dark voice. "But I don't think you need tohear any more. It's clear that it was written by a very troubled man-or was he a

man? What if it was written by a very troubled shapeshifter? 'I want to stand before

you as a man' can have two meanings. Rashel always assumed that it had something

to do with his disappearing and being dishonorably discharged by the Marines. But

what if you simply take it literally? He wants to be able to stay human all the time

and never give in to the urge to change . . . to hunt? And what about the child, the

'darling little misfit?'"

"That paper," I say. I've been forcing myself not to interrupt. "Please, may I see

it?"

I say paper instead of letter because it's the paper itself I'm interested in. It's

light blue and very stiff, almost glossy.

But when I see the handwriting my heart almost stops in my chest. It's familiar.

Very familiar.

When I was dumped in the parking lot I had a torn scrap of paper with me,

inscribed with my first name, Raksha, and these cheery sentiments:

People die . . .

Beauty fades . . .

Love changes . . .

And you will always be alone.



. . . all on a scrap of stiff blue paper, later worn almost to the texture of cloth. I

had always assumed that it was my mother who had abandoned me, my

shapeshifter mother who was disgusted that I, a full shapeshifter, couldn't hold one

form or the other, but was stuck as a human toddler with panther ears and eyes and

tail.

Now it seemed that every one of those assumptions was wrong.

I try to explain all this to Rashel without babbling. All right. I probably babble.

Quinn looks at me in silent amusement; he's never seen me so animated, I'm sure.

But it all seems so clear to me now.

"What if it was one of those early pairings? A couple that found they were

soulmates, or just fell in love, and got married. The husband was a panther

shapeshifter; the wife was human. They thought that love would conquer all, and

that they could live together, and they had children-twins. Fraternal but still almost

exactly alike. One twin was human but with almost superhuman reflexes. The otherkid was a mess. Maybe even born in the half-and-half shape. Neighbors stare at the

deformed child with pity and disgust-how can the mother take that? And the father-

he doesn't sound like a very stable character to me to start with. He's denying

himself the outlet of shifting-ever-and that alone can drive shapeshifters crazy."

I can see tears welling up in Rashel's eyes. "My mother-when we would go to

the zoo I would always want to see the lions and the tigers and the other big cats.

And she would never take me or Timmy there. Timmy was my friend that . . . " She

shakes her head hard. "Anyway, she would never take me to see them. She would

buy me an extra big ice cream cone and popcorn and we would go to see the

monkeys or the giraffes."

We are almost talking over each other by now. "But my father-think how bitter

and sick he must have been to leave me that scrap of paper. Not to mention leaving

me. I guess he just couldn't cope with a demon-baby."

"I think maybe they both did the best that they could," Galen puts in quietly. He

looks almost like Iliana when he says it.

Quinn gives a cynical snort.

And somewhere, in between the two them, I think, is the truth.

Rashel says wonderingly, "I used to mark my vampire victims with a mark like

cat's claws. That was my name, too, in the vampire hunter gangs I ran around with.

'Rashel the Cat.' I used to like to hear that Night People were afraid of the Cat. I don't

remember where I got the name. It just seemed . . . suitable."



I say fretfully, "I wish I still had my piece of paper. I was going to burn it, but it

disappeared on its own. And now there's no way to be sure, and there never will be."

"Oh, surely that's not true," Quinn says. "A simple blood test-we can even check

your insignia."

"My insignia," I say haughtily, "is currently inside a dragon."

Looking a little sheepish, Galen feels in his pocket.

He looks even more shamefaced as he holds out a much-folded scrap of light

blue paper. "I took it before you could burn it," he admits, catching my eye

apologetically. I thought someday it might give us a clue about where you came

from.

I look at him steadily, and with gratitude. "And you were right." Thank you,

Galen, I think. Thank you for everything.

He flushes beautifully-and something occurs to me.

If he were still a little bit in love with Iliana wouldn't I have seen it? Wouldn't

there be a closed door in his consciousness, something I couldn't see behind, a place

I couldn't go?

But there never is.

He always just throws himself open completely.

There are many locked doors in my own consciousness-places even I don't

want to see. But I resolve that next time-and I already promised him that there

would be a next time-I will be more open.

"They're the same! They're identical!" Rashel is saying wonderingly, comparing

the two pieces of paper in her hands. Of course they are. I smelled that and saw it as

soon as Galen took my scrap out. Oh, they've been different places, and one is much

more battered and handled, but the stock and the weave and the ink are, as Rashel

says, identical.

"Then it really means," she raises her green eyes to mine almost shyly, "that Ihave shapeshifter blood in me. Panther blood."

"If it's anything to brag about," I say. "You can brag on it."

"And it really means," Rashel adds softly, "That we're sisters. Twin sisters."

I am surprised at the twinge I feel on hearing that.



I have a sister. A twin. My parents may be gone, but this girl in the other bed lay

curled tight beside me for nine months in the womb. That's awfully close.

I wish I had known before the Apocalypse. I want Iliana to know Rashel as my

sister. I want to know her myself, that way.

The pain of missing Iliana and not being able to protect her doesn't just go away

because of this. But the closeness that I already feel for Rashel is balm to my heart.

"Do you think," Rashel is saying, "that it's really impossible for me to

shapeshift? If I have the blood, do you think I could try to learn?"

She means will I try to teach her. Of course I will. I owe her my life, for one

thing.

She smiles, a radiant smile that makes me involuntarily touch my own lips.

"Look, there are three things to be happy about," she says.

"There are?" I say.

"Yes. First of all we killed a dragon, and we're not even Wild Powers with the

blue fire. I think that's a good sign. Second, we found out that we were sisters. And,

third, we're still here."

She's right. We're still here in Harmony, compromised or not. Right here, right

now, we're still alive.

That is a good thing, I think and look at Galen.

He must have gone through hell while the healers were working on me for

twelve hours. I think I was just a bag of panther skin with broken bones and charred

organs floating around inside.

Please don't talk like that, he begs, and I'm surprised at how glad I am that the

silver cord is working this way. It was terrible, he goes on, but Rashel and John were

good friends all that time. They wouldn't let a healer near them-sent anyone who

had a drop of power left in to see to you.

John? I've never heard anyone call Quinn by his first name. Only Galen, I think.

Only he can get past the thorniest, thickest armor to see what's underneath.

More than just a little like Iliana, I think.

He catches the thought and flushes more deeply still.



And then a voice just outside the door says, "All rise! All rise for Lord Thierry!"

I look up to see a very young herald, who is looking from me to Rashel-to my

sister-flat on our backs in bed and covered in bandages. The guys are already on

their feet and both of them are poised to jump if either of us should be stupidenough to try to move.

It's horribly undignified, though. I've never appeared before my liege lord like

this, and I'd like to sit up at least.

A certain Quinn-ness has appeared in my soulmate's eyes, though. He locks

gazes with me, wordlessly assuring me that he'll raise holy hell if I even ask to be

propped up with another pillow.

I feel my gaze slide away. Maybe there are such things as lion tamers who use

only their eyes to control their beasts. And maybe my sister and I haven't chosensuch different mates, after all.

Instead I look at the young herald, who is looking as if she wished she were

dead, and I hear behind her the doctor's opinion of asking either of us, and

especially me, to twitch a finger.

Lord Thierry settles it by saying gently, "Let's just dispense with the formality,

shall we?" He comes in, looking as gorgeous as ever with his moonlight colored hair

pulled back into a ponytail and his dark, fathomless eyes taking in everything at

once. He makes a slight bow to Galen, who merits this as prince of the shapeshifters,

and then he makes a slight, eloquent gesture that clearly says, let's all sit down andtalk like friends. When you're that many thousands of years old you learn to say a lot

with a little movement.

He smiles and draws up his own chair. The herald hurries outside, stiff with

horror.

There is something very sad about that smile that I recognize. It's not quite his

smile from the days before he found Lady Hannah, but almost. Of course, I think.

She's gone with Iliana, too. And he should know if anyone does that they're not

coming back.

I have a realization that sends me flying bolt upright, bandaged hands

scrabbling at my neck. Galen grabs for me, voicelessly crying out,

No, love, don't! At the same time Quinn makes a sound of surprise and concern,

and my sister says, "Kel-I mean Raksh-I mean, Keller!"



"Here," Thierry says, still gently, because everything he does is gentle, but

getting up hastily. "This is what you're looking for."

He puts into my bandaged hand Iliana's flower necklace.

I slump back, my muscles screaming, my eyes shut until I can make the tears goaway. But they're tears of happiness. I hadn't taken the necklace off when I stripped

because I knew it would still fit me in my panther form, and because-well, because I

planned to never take it off. But after that fight . . .

"My lord!" I say. "You must have searched the entire paradise. How many

people . . . " I can't say any more. I'm on the verge of bursting into tears like a baby.

"They were all volunteers," he says, and smiles. "They were very happy to do it

for the hero of the day. The other two dragons took mobs of witches, I might add-

and AK-47s. In the future-if there is any future-people will talk about today as the

day that Keller killed a dragon."

I don't dare open my mouth to say a word. I might have mentioned before, I

hate bawling. Especially if the person doing it is me.

Instead I look over at Rashel and Quinn, and then up at Galen, pleadingly.

He'd risen when Thierry got up, and now he makes a full bow to him, which he

does very well, incidentally.

"We're honored and grateful beyond our ability to express," he says, expressing

it perfectly. I relax a little, trusting him. "And, of course, it must be a day for John andRashel, too . . ."

I definitely see Thierry's eyebrow quirk at the "John." I glance sideways at

Quinn who is looking at my soulmate as if he wants to strangle him.

How many times did I want to strangle you, Iliana? I think fondly about my

necklace's former owner.

"In any case," Thierry says, "I've come to thank you, formally and informally, for

all the peoples' lives that you have saved. It won't be forgotten, as long as there is a

Circle Daybreak left to remember it." He looks from Rashel, whose bandages stillallow her to be recognizable and at me, wrapped from head to toe like a mummy.

"Not so much alike today," he says, and for a moment the sadness is almost

gone from his smile. "But I'm sure you have a great deal to talk about, together."

Then he leans over and gently kisses me on the forehead.



How long has he known? Why didn't he say anything? My mind is racing as he

turns and accords the same honor to my sister, under Quinn's watchful eye.

Maybe he wanted us to find out for ourselves.

Maybe he knew how much more it would mean to us that way.

I'll never know, I think as he turns to leave, pulling into his wake the doctor

who wants to fuss over us again. The last words I hear from the doctor are, "I said

you could talk to them for just a few minutes . . ."

There is a definite sense of letdown after Thierry has disappeared. Because I

insist, Galen slips the flower necklace around my neck, where it looks, I'm sure,

ridiculous, and makes me feel . . . well, almost as if Iliana were near.

I stare at the ceiling, thinking. I can feel Galen start to worry.

"It's interesting," says Quinn, who likes to make trouble. "We know you're

twins, but we don't know which is the older sister."

"Oh, I am."

"I'm sure I am." The words come out simultaneously. We argue about it in a

friendly, mock ferocious way. If my body wasn't still broken and healing we would

be grappling in the same way kits do to establish dominance.

We're walking right on the edge now of despair and painfully gathered hope. At

any moment dark wings may blot out the moonlight. But still something inside me issinging.

I'm Keller and I'm a panther. Well, half a panther and half human.

I'm a twin, too.

Raksha and Rashel. Or Rashel and Raksha. I'm just a grunt after all, without any

real claim to priority.

Either way, it doesn't sound so bad at all.

RashelImage

The Beginning. . . .



BRIONWY’S LULLABY

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* Ljane Smith

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© Ljane Smith (L. J. Smith)

This is a story from the Night World book Strange Fate about the future—the future

which awaits the world if the Apocalypse is not stopped. In this future, Dragons and

vampires rule. The vampires pick the most beautiful of human girls, called Beauties,

and keep them as slaves in harems. Brionwy is one such girl who is unlucky enough

to catch her vampire master’s eye. There will be much more about Brionwy in

Strange Fate, but this story is meant to stand alone. Rating: for mature people who

enjoy suspense and vampire tales.

Part I

“What’s wrong?” Panting, Brionwy arrived at the center of the commotion just as

the eunuchs shut the great doors of the conservatory behind her, keeping everyone

else out.

She was in a sea of young girls in the twilight. It didn’t occur to her to think

that each of the girls was beautiful, was in fact, stunningly beautiful in her own way,

because BrionwyImage Brionwy had never seen any other sort of girl. The only

unattractive faces she saw were the eunuchs and the old servants, and they didn’t

really count as people.

Now, a pale glow lit the faces of the girls in the conservatory. Several of them

had lanterns or candles. The rest were lit by tiny lights that wound around the

creeping ivy and wild roses that grew up the golden filigree columns of the pavilion.It was splendid here—but Brionwy no more saw the splendor than she saw the

striking beauty of the girls. She lived in splendor in her chambers, ate in splendor,

walked around the splendid gardens, with their gilded pergolas and their alabaster

benches. The only thing she could not do was to walk out of the splendor, to leave

the Great House where she lived in the harem quarters.

She was a courtesan.



Brionwy knew that, and knew what it meant, and at seventeen years old, she

was old enough to worry. The Lord Overseer was lamia, a family vampire, the kind

that could eat and drink and breathe—and procreate. But ever since Brionwy had

come of age at twelve she had heard that the Lord Overseer of the Great House liked

women, not young teenagers. That meant that she had years before she had to

worry, and at twelve, years are lifetimes.Now, though, things had taken on quite a different complexion. Things that

seemed like games when she was young, playing with her nurse, had become deadly

earnest intrigue.

“What happened?” she said again, looking for somebody sensible to answer

her. And then she saw Marlin and Lyric and went to them. They were the only two

girls who could be called friends in this entire bunch.

“What’s going on?” she asked them. “I woke up when I heard screaming and I

just followed it.”

Lyric, a diminutive girl from the north, with very fair skin, light blond hair and

eyes that were crystal gray answered her. “It’s Aviva. Her baby is . . . gone. They

took it —its . . . body away while she slept.” You had to talk like that. Even to people that you were certain were safe, you

had to talk around it. One single word wrong these days and they’d beat you on thesoles of your feet. It didn’t leave a mark, but it took a week in bed for the pain to go

away. Brionwy had heard some of the screaming from a girl being beaten that way,

and she never wanted to hear anything like it again.

She had been learning to talk like that since her first dwenna, Ceru, had taught

her not to drink the midday golden juice or wine. Her first duenna, Brionwy

corrected herself carefully. Ceru had told her it meant companion, chaperone, but to

Brionwy it had meant nurse.

Ceru had nursed all three of them, Lyric, Marlin, and her; different as they

were, they were all exactly the same age to the week.And then one day Ceru disappeared and the word was that they’d put her in

the women’s pens down below the house, waiting for the next dragon to come andsate its appetite.

There had been nothing for them to do about it.

Now Brionwy said, “How old is Vivi?”

“Eighteen, I think,” Marlin whispered back. In the dim light she almost

disappeared. Marlin was a nightskin, with dark hair that curled almost to her waist

like a mane, and startling golden eyes.

“Eighteen, just barely,” Lyric said. “That young? And already a bereaved mother . . .” Brionwy whispered.

“Don’t fret,” Marlin whispered back. “Right now our lord only has a taste fortall dark-haired girls with pale skin. That leaves all of us out.”

Lyric seemed to repress a shiver. “But that taste could change at any minute.

He might suddenly want dark-skinned girls, with the eyes of a hawk . . . .”

“Or little pale girls with gray eyes that look like ghosts . . .”

“Oh, don’t,” whispered Brionwy, but Marlin went on relentlessly shaking hercurly black mane, “Or girls with red-gold hair and violet-blue eyes.”



Brionwy knew it was true. And if the Lord Overseer did decide that he wanted

girls like that, Brionwy would be bathed and massaged and plucked and soaked in

perfume and put in a line of other redheads, all dressed in wisps of gauzy

diaphanous nothingness.

“If that happens, it may be my day to die,” Brionwy said to Marlin in an almost

inaudible voice. “Because I don’t know what I would do.” “You’ll do what you’re told. You’re his toy. You’re a courtesan.”

“I’m a human being.”

“And he’s a vampire. That’s the whole point. If you refuse him he’ll have youthrown in the pen for hinds to wait for the next dragon.”

The pen for hinds. For unmarried women. A stinking, filthy pen where

haggard girls wearing rags for clothes waited for a hungry Master to fly by the Great

House and its plantation of humans.

Brionwy was afraid of dragons, but not terrified. There was much scurrying

about in the Great House before one of their visits, and the Beauties were given a

special drink that put them to sleep for an entire day, twilight to twilight. This red

juice, she did drink. Once, when Brionwy had said she’d like to stay awake andwatch from her window what happened, Ceru had slapped her. It was one of the

few times she’d ever seen her nurse angry. But Ceru had made her understand—if

she heard the dragon Call; she wouldn’t be watching, she would be trying to get to

the dragon at any cost. That was how dragons collected their prey.

“You don’t want to be put in a pen,” Marlin assured her. She was one of those

rare girls born, not to a Beauty in the harem, but to a woman in the breeding pens.

She had made it through three tough selections before she was declared a Beauty

and brought here. A single blemish, a mole or freckle or eyebrow hair that did not

add to her beauty and she would never have made it through the third selection.

But she had, and she was taken from her screaming mother to live in luxury and

splendor—as a slave to beauty.“Besides,” Lyric was saying in a frightened whisper, “he has all those huge

eunuch guards. He might force you.”

“Ceru taught us to fight, didn’t she?”

“But we haven’t kept up practice. How can we, with that dwenna watching all

the time?”

Brionwy said nothing. She didn’t want to frighten Lyric anymore than she

already had. The tiny blond might not have kept up practice, but Brionwy had and

she knew Marlin had, too. You could tell, pretty much, when a dwenna was coming.

And each of them had been taught by Ceru to develop some special talent that took

up space and solitude, giving them each an excuse to get off the perfumed cushions

in the central pavilion and make some corner of the extensive gardens their ownprivate territory. That was how Marlin had become a dancer, Lyric, an artist, she,

Brionwy, a singer of songs.

“A singer of lullabies,” she whispered. “A singer who sings to keep from goingmad.”

“What was that?” Even Marlin’s sharp ears hadn’t caught it. “Nothing. Never mind—” Brionwy broke off as a sudden clamor of voices rose

around them.



“Watch out!”

“Here she comes—”

“She’s gone crazy . . . .”

Brionwy looked around. Yes, there was Aviva, her dark hair loose and tangled,

her face haggard. You wouldn’t take her for a Beauty now, Brionwy thought, and

then Aviva had grabbed her arms and she was being shaken.“Where is she? Where did they take her?”

“Aviva . . . Vivi . . . . ”

“Don’t tell me she’s dead! She was lying beside me. Where is she?”“Vivi, I’m sorry . . . . ”

“You know things! You know what’s really happening! Tell me where my baby

is!”

Brionwy was terrified. Aviva was saying things that should never be said

aloud. She must truly have lost her mind. She clearly cared nothing about her life,

or for Brionwy’s life either.

Brionwy could see that Marlin was trying to pry Vivi off her, but although the

muscles in Marlin’s arms were corded, the crisis had given Aviva inhuman strength.Around them, some girls were backing off. The only ones left were those who were

deeply under the influence of the golden wine and had no understanding, or those

who were very smart, and realized that they should act like girls with no

understanding. It was the middling smart girls backing away.

Brionwy knew what she had to do. But her voice shook as she did it.

“Aviva, your baby is dead. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re lying! You’re lyyying! If she’s dead, where’s her little body?”

“You know the rules.” Brionwy’s body was shaking, too. “The dead are not to

be left where they fall. They are to be burnt to holy ash and the ash—”

She broke off because Aviva slapped her across the mouth. But even with only

one hand holding Brionwy’s arm, Marlin couldn’t pry her off. “Don’t patronize me! You’re not crazy! I’m not crazy! Babies don’t just die, not

so many of them, not always in the night! What about Vivienne’s baby, andDonoma’s, and Ianthe’s—and Hajira’s? Always in the night! Always with a dwennaon watch!”

Brionwy’s mouth was stinging and she could taste the copper of her own blood.

It nauseated her.

“It’s a disease,” she got out. “They used to call it crib death—something that

little babies get —”

“Do you know what they gave meeee?” Aviva shrieked each word out

separately. “Do you know where they said my little Kefira was?”

“N-no . . . . Aviva . . . .” “Here!” Aviva screamed like a triumphant vulture and with her free hand she

pulled a small urn out of her pocket and then to Brionwy’s horror there was thick

dust in her eyes, on her face, in her nostrils, in her mouth. “Heeeere! Heeeere!”

Aviva went on screaming the words, shaking Brionwy, until Brionwy, already

nauseated, began to retch. “They said this is my baby! You have my Kefira in your

mouth!”

Blindly, Brionwy turned and emptied her stomach.



Someone—Marlin probably, was trying to wipe her face.

And then the dwennas came.

Not just the dwennas. The head dwenna, Guntra, came herself, along with

Samsana, her spy and aide-de-camp. Guntra was almost as large as some of the

eunuchs, but she looked like a goddess of war; she had muscles on her arms that

allowed her to pull Aviva backwards and force her to let go of Brionwy, althoughAviva tried to hold on to the end and her nails left five scores in the flesh of

Brionwy’s upper arm.

Brionwy didn’t care; she was just glad that the shaking had stopped. She

wished she could open her eyes without pain.

“Now,” said Guntra in a voice that should have been accompanied by lightning,

“What’s going on here? My girls fighting?”

They were “her girls” but it wasn’t a term of affection. She said it the way she

might have said ‘my dogs.’”

There was a babel of explanations from all sides. Fighting was also strictly

against the rules. It damaged the merchandise, brought down the value of the LordOverseer’s property. Brionwy didn’t understand how anyone could have gotten the

story from the tumult around her, but in a moment Guntra was saying, “That’senough!” and then, “Guards! Bring Aviva, Marlin, and Brionwy to my solarium.”

The disciplinary room! Brionwy tried to say something; that Marlin didn’t

need to be sent there at least; that she hadn’t been fighting, but it was no good. Her

mouth was still full of —of . . . she tried to stop and retch, but the softly-padded but

large and strong hands that gripped her upper arms kept her going. They couldn’t

keep her from retching, though. She heard Marlin boldly saying that she, Brionwy,

should be sent to the infirmary, and she felt a twinge of gratitude and regret.

Maybe the Lady Dwenna heard it as well, because as they reached the solarium

she said, “That girl,” and Brionwy felt hands push her f orward.“Open your eyes!”

Brionwy tried but had to close them immediately because of the dust. She tried

again. Tears were running down her face in an uncontrollable stream, trying to

wash the particles away.

“Sansa, take her and hold her under the fountain until that dust is washed out.”

There was a fountain in the room; Brionwy could hear its familiar splashing.

She went willingly with the new, cold and boney hand that gripped her arm in the

same sore place and then they got close to the wound of water. Brionwy risked a

look, saw a stream of water from the carved face of a dragon, and bent toward it,

automatically reaching up to keep her hair out of the way.

“Sansa, hold her hair.” Did Brionwy imagine it or was there a perceptiblehesitation, an unwillingness before Sansama gripped her hair, pulling on it as she

held it back, pulling it up hard that Brionwy almost hit the dragon. But then the grip

eased and she was allowed to wash her eyes out in the stream of cold water. Nothing

had ever felt so good. She washed her face, too, and then stepped back, shaking her

hands over the fountain to dry them.

“Now you come here and tell me what happened in the peacock pavilion.”



Brionwy had been wondering how the guards had kept Aviva from shrieking as

they walked toward the room where discipline was meted out. Now she saw. One

of largest of the eunuchs had her in his grip, with a huge hand over her mouth. It

was so large that it covered her nose as well, so that he could have smothered her.

Marlin was standing in the customary position of respect, head bent, eyes

down, hands crossed on her chest. Brionwy quickly joined her, but water from herwet face dripped onto the floor.

“Sansa, your handkerchief. Now, girl, begin,” said the big woman. Brionwytook a delicate, lacy handkerchief from the aide-de-camp. She couldn’t help seeingthe resentment in Sansama’s face at being given these orders, as if she were an

inferior, while the three girls heard it all and did nothing. Sansama had gone the

opposite direction from Guntra as she aged and had become almost too lean and

wiry, her face lovely and yet almost a death’s head, with the skin pulled tight under

hair that was dyed jet black.

Brionwy swiped her face with the handkerchief and began. She told of the

screams she heard, of the pavilion milling with girls, and of Aviva’s seizure of her.

Here, she tried to soften Aviva’s accusations, while making sure that no one couldsay that she had lied.

“And all Marlin did was to try to make her let go of me,” she finished.“Honestly, she wasn’t involved in the fight at all.”

But Guntra was frighteningly perceptive. “Not involved in the fight and yet

trying to get you away from the mad girl,” she remarked and smiled. It was not amerry smile. “Silas! Let go of that girl’s mouth. One of you others find some yanme.

All three of them could use a drink.”

Yanme, that was the golden wine that tasted of pears and honey. It also made

you pliant, hopeful, and truthful. Too relaxed to think of a clever lie. Brionwy only

hoped that Marlin had been doing nothing against the rules lately.“I won’t drink it,” a soft voice said.

From the position of respect Brionwy looked around in surprise to see who

had spoken. With even greater surprise she saw that it was Aviva. She now

sounded almost sane.

“You all think I’m crazy,” she said in that same dead-quiet voice. “But I’m not.There’s something going on. I’m sorry I threw that ash in your face, Brionwy. I

thought you might know something or think like I do, but I was wrong,” she added,to Brionwy’s vast gratitude and relief. Vivi had just saved her from a beating, if not

much worse. “And Marlin had nothing to do with it; she was just trying to break upa fight before I really hurt Brionwy.”

“Well, you seem to have come to your senses remarkably fast, once you saw mylittle room of toys,” rumbled Guntra amiably, like a volcano that has decided not to

erupt after all.

Brionwy dared not lift her head to see the “toys” but she could guess fromstories she’d heard what they were. . . the flexible canes for beatings, the shrews’

bits that effectively kept you from speaking, the pool for dunking, the box of

uncooked rice for kneeling in. None of them left a mark, or at least not a permanent

mark. But they were torture just the same.



“Yes, I’m sane now,” said Aviva, taking t he golden goblet and swiftly downing

the contents in one long draft. Marlin and Brionwy sipped at theirs more slowly. It

was, Brionwy realized, much stronger than usual.

Guntra’s smile was cruel, although she would have made a magnificent statue.

“Many of my girls suddenly come down with a case of sanity when they see my

solarium. But apologies won’t change the fact that you’ve damaged merchandise,and committed sacrilege, not to mention breaking my sleep.”

Sansama said, not even trying to hide her enthusiasm, “I think it’s time for a toetapping.”

Brionwy, drinking her golden wine like an obedient puppet, expected to hear

another apology from Aviva. She was waiting her chance to speak up, she wanted to

tell Guntra about the lullaby sadness—a sort of melancholy that set in after a girl

had a baby. She would be very careful to not mention the words “post -partum

depression” which would give away the fact that she was reading old books. The

ancient library of the harem was not exactly forbidden, but few of the girls even

knew where it existed.

“No, apologies won’t change that,” Aviva said, still quietly, “and apologies won’t bring back my baby. Kefira was named after my mother. She was three weeks old.

Where is she?”

It was almost worse than hearing the words shrieked, to hear them almost

whispered in this hissing, quiet voice. However soft, they still had a scream bottled

up in them.

“She sleeps with me, with my arm around her. And tonight I woke up and my

arm was empty. Empty! She was gone, my dwenna was gone, and when the bitch

came back she told me it was all for my own good. That she’d touched Kefira and

found that she was cold, so she took her away. That she’d done it so I wouldn’t have

to see her little body.”

“That sounds reasonable to me,” Guntra said. The volcano was still sleeping,but there was a warning rumble beneath the words. “Always remember, your

dwennas are older than you, wiser than you, that they are here to protect you.”

“If it were just me, that would be one thing. But it wasn’t just me. I slept with

her in my bed, not in the crib because so many babies have died in their cribs in the

last few months. Do you remember Hajira, who killed herself? Her baby died. And

Donoma. And Ianthe. And Vivienne—all their babies died or were taken away

because they were boys.”

“We’ve had a bad run of luck.” Guntra sat back in her chair and took out a

smoking stick, a cigar. She lit it in a candle flame that Sansama held for her, and

went on speaking, blowing smoke out with the words. “But as you said, two of them

were boys. And boys, even babies, can’t be raised here.” “But that’s just our seraglio. When I was pregnant, especially at the end, I got

frightened. I talked to some eighteen-year-olds, to nineteen- and twenty-year-

olds—”

“Those girls are none of your business!”

“Maybe they weren’t before but they are now! We all have something in

common. Shall I name some names? Phillana. Tesia. Lilike. Siany and Darrieau;

Nahiddi and Dearelle! And some of the younger girls—” Aviva slapped her forehead



as if it would help her to remember: “Rhoka, and—and Katsu and little fourteen-

year-old Meriel. They all had babies! And all just months ago. Now their babies are

gone!”

Brionwy was deeply, genuinely shocked. The harem was so large, with

hundreds of girls, that she herself hadn’t realized how many pregnancies there

were. But now she remembered some of those big bellies.“And that doesn’t count Saadoon or Delfine,” Aviva went on in a rapid hiss, as if

to get in as many words as possible before they shut her up. “What about them?They had ‘miscarriages’ in their eighth or ninth months. And Ayak o and Eavanna, I

forgot them. They had babies that died from crib-death, too.”

O Goddess, Brionwy thought. It was a phrase her nurse had often used. How

did I miss this? How did everybody miss this?

It was the honey-pear wine, she thought, aware that she was giddy and

lethargic, and aware that that lethargy probably was saving her life. She could never

have stood here and listened to this terrible list of deaths without showing emotion

otherwise. She sensed it was the same way with Marlin—otherwise Marlin would

be screaming.“You spread it out over the different groups, and over time,” Aviva was saying,

almost as if to answer Brionwy’s question. So nobody noticed or cared. But I cared.

And I want to know, where are they? Where are all the babies? What did you do

with all those babies?”

She was shrieking again now, her hands flat on Guntra’s big ornamented desk,

leaning toward the head duenna.

Very slowly and very deliberately, Guntra took a pull on her cigar. Then she

put the cigar out on the back of Aviva’s hand. Aviva screamed in pain.

I’m never getting out of here alive, Brionwy thought, terrified. Then she

realized she was being addressed and she hastily made sure she was in a perfect position of respect.

“What do you think?” she was asked over Aviva’s moaning and struggling to get away from the eunuchs who now held her hands down on the desk. “What do you

think about this baby business?

Brionwy’s intellect fought with the golden wine not just to blurt out her truebeliefs. “I think . . . she may have the lullaby melancholy,” she heard herself say, and

knew that intellect had won. “It makes girls do crazy things after having babies.

Sometimes they kill the babies themselves and don’t even remember.” Taking a risk,

she lifted reddened, bleary, but sincere eyes to Guntra’s face. “I read about it in abook.”

“Yes, I know. You’re the little librarian,” Guntra said, and Brionwy wasshocked. She’d had no idea anyone knew about her visits to the old library.

This was a very dangerous woman.

“And you”—to Marlin—“What do you think?”

Brionwy prayed for Marlin’s sake. But the black girl didn’t need any help; she was tough. She hiccupped as if the

strong golden wine had made her drunk, and when she spoke her words were

slurred. “Get rid of her, m’lady,” she said, swinging her goblet in a wide-flung



gesture which demonstrated that it was completely empty. “Throw her into the

pens! The bitch woke me up an’ attacked m’friend out of thin air.”

Brionwy tried her hardest to hide her shock. She knew that Aviva was doomed

to the pens anyway; nothing she or Marlin could say would save her or do her any

greater harm than she had done herself. Marlin was merely doing damage control.

Guntra’s eyes were back on Brionwy. “You’re shocked by your black friend’swords?”

She doesn’t miss a thing, Brionwy thought. Is she a vampire? Can she read my

mind?

“I’m shocked because she seems to be, um, a little, tipsy, Madam Dwenna, in

front of Madam Dwenna.” And Brionwy manufactured a little tipsy giggle of her

own.

“And do you think babies are disappearing?” The vital question came almost

before Brionwy had stopped speaking.

Brionwy found her mouth saying things without her even having to think about

them. “Well, no. There’s little Dovra and Tibbie and Agnes, all chubby and sweet

and as happy as—as kittens.” And they’re all toddlers, past their first year, shethought. But do I know any babies?

“There’s brats everywhere,” Marlin slurred. “You can’ dance without falling

over one. They ought to have their own section.” And she slapped a hand on

Guntra’s desk. Shocked, Brionwy realized that what Marlin had done was very clever. She

would be punished for her rudeness, but a small punishment was better than being

sentenced to the pens.

Guntra puffed her cigar back to life. Marlin hastily took her hand off the desk,

swaying drunkenly.

“Shall I tell you girls the truth of what’s happening? I wonder,” she said, as

cruel as a cat playing with a mouse.“Y-you’ll lie,” Aviva got out between her sobbing.

“No.” Very amiably. “Do you want to hear?”

Brionwy felt a chill lift hairs all over her skin. She didn’t want to hear Guntra’sexplanation. She didn’t want to go to the pens.

“I’ll tell you. The Overseer,”—and Guntra casually made something like the

position of respect —“wants to increase the numbers of the Beauties, because soon

there will be a Great Hunt. The Lady who owns this Great House will be coming.

That’s why so many girls have been bred, and with that many pregnancies you have

to expect some little problems.”

Brionwy was struck speechless, unable to tell how to react. She was looking at

Guntra with naked fear in her eyes, she knew it. Guntra liked that.In a Great Hunt, the Beauties, all those who had not been bred, were put on the

running track first, and the dragons had their pick. Only later were the pens opened,

so that the dragons could Call the barely human slaves of the pens.

A Great Hunt would be very amusing for the dragon and the Lady. They would

see the Beauties, dressed in their choicest finery, and then watch as the dragons . . .



“Oh, none of you have been bred yet, have you?” Guntra said with mock

sympathy, consulting some folders on her desk. “What a pity. But there’s still timebefore the Great Hunt, and I’ll keep you in mind.”

She means she wants us to spy for her, Brionwy thought. “Thank you, LadyDwenna,” she heard her traitorous voice say. But I don’t want to be bred, she

thought, almost hysterically.“Also there are some Selections for another duty. It’s possible that you might

be chosen there,” she added, looking Marlin over. Marlin looked exotic andgorgeous even as she slept, wearing a very low-cut gown of thin material, cut in a

startling style, diagonally from the bottom up to the waist. Gold wires were

threaded in her long, curling, black hair.

The Head Dwenna turned to examine Brionwy, exhaling a cloud of smoke that

smelled of dry twigs and spices burning. “You haven’t been caring for yourself as

you should. That stops now. Your dwenna will arrange massages and mudbaths,

and all that sort of thing. I doubt you’d pass anyway, but you’re letting yourself go to

seed, and seventeen is too young for that. Just because the Overseer hasn’t chosen

you yet doesn’t mean you can slack around. He’s picked girls in their twenties, andyou’re still his property. I won’t tolerate damage to his property.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Now, out with all of you, except the hysterical one. Ten smacks with a good

birch rod for the black girl and the redhead, for fighting. You take care of that,” she

said to Sansama, who looked elevated.

Brionwy felt weak with relief. She wasn’t going to enjoy her first beating, but it

was far better than what she’d feared. This could have ended in all three of them

being penned.

She felt terrible leaving Aviva there. Still not once but twice Aviva had said

things that she must have known would get her banished. Or worse. Brionwy had

heard of things even worse than being sent to the pens. This new Selection now, tofind the most beautiful of the Beauties who were still innocent, aroused Brionwy’s

suspicions. It could be for a bloodfeast or something like that. Oh, yes, she had

heard of worse things than being banished.

She and Marlin meekly followed Sansama, who was almost glowing at the

thought of punishment. Brionwy wondered where they were going. Somewhere

where cries of pain wouldn’t be heard, that was certain. And Sansama was just the

sort to make you count the strokes and find some little reason to increase the

number. Guntra at least had a certain majesty about her cruelty; Sansama was just a

snake.

A surprised snake, Brionwy realized after a nudge from Marlin. There was

cross-traffic here; they were heading in to a place where people were heading out.And not just people. People so richly dressed that they could only be the Lord

Overseer’s guests. Male guests, visiting the harem, Brionwy realized, admiring the

pavilions and the rockeries, and the little streams . . . and the girls.

It had happened before. Someone had shone a lantern in her face as she was

sleeping and she had done what Ceru had told her to in childhood. Her nurse had

told her to snore, and she’d even made her practice to make sure it sounded real.

The light was always hastily snatched away, and Brionwy still had her innocence.



Now, though, there was no chance of snoring. Brionwy assumed the position of

respect, hoping she looked disheveled and dirty enough to be dismissed. She

worried about Marlin, though, who was beautiful—and in danger.

Still, they were down to the last guests passing by—and a dark-skinned girl

being carried somewhere on a stretcher—when one of the men stopped and spoke

to Sansama.“Where are these fragile blooms going?”

He must be drunk, Brionwy thought. To call Marlin “fragile” was madness and

to call herself a “bloom” meant he was blind.“To be punished, sir,” Sansama replied, hands barely crossed at her chest. “For

fighting and disrespect.”

“They certainly don’t look disrespectful, now.” It was another voice, one that

made Sansama jump.

Brionwy was desperately grateful for Marlin’s good eyesight and hasty nudge.

She herself and Marlin were on their knees, arms crossed so that their hands were

resting on opposite shoulders, heads bent so that their long hair trailed on the

ground.“Oh—I—I didn’t see you, Lord Overseer.” Sansama hastily knelt. “It’s certain

that they were fighting, my lord.”

“What could such pretty girls have to fight about?” the tipsy guest asked. The Overseer said, “Somebody’s definitely been damaging my property.

There’s blood on the redhead’s arm. He lifted Marlin’s head with a walking stick under her chin. “Did you do this scratching?”

“No,” Marlin said, eyes down, but voice almost bold. “I tried to get another girl

who went mad and started attacking her.”

“Let me see your nails,” the Overseer said, and Marlin held out her hands so hecould inspect her long, gilded nails. “No, the other side. I see. You’re telling the

truth; there’s no blood there.” He looked at Brionwy who was watching everythingfrom under the curtain of her hair.

“Let’s see your face,” he said, and she felt the cane tilting her chin up, not ungently. “Ah, you’ve been weeping. Who was it that hurt you?”

There was nothing to do but tell the truth. “Her name is Aviva, my lord. She

went mad because her new baby died in the night. She made a disturbance. She’swith Guntra now.”

“Hmmm . . . . I’m sure Guntra knows how to deal with hysteria.”

Brionwy saw a chance and snatched at it before she could even think about

what trouble it might land her in.

“My lord, the Head Dwenna as good as said she was going to the pens. But

Aviva’s only seventeen and very pretty. She has dark hair and fair, fair skin.” “Gracious! Are my tastes are so well known by all the teenagers in my house?”

The Overseer held one hand up in surprise and the tipsy guest laughed. “Are you

asking for mercy for her? After she shook you and scratched you that way?”

No one ever told him she shook me.

The thought hit Brionwy like a bucketful of ice water.

He seems like a pleasant person—so much different than I’d imagined, and yet

he must have a wonderful spy system. He must have known everything that



happened practically as it happened. He must know as much as Guntra about this—

or more.

And then a second thought hit her like a second bucketful.

He’s a vampire.

He could probably read her thoughts. Yes, he had a little smile now; he could

certainly read them. Thank all the Gods that he was genuinely handsome and that she felt that he seemed fair—not like Guntra, with her cat-cruel smile.

The Overseer’s eyes seemed to pierce hers. His were a far lighter blue thanwhat she saw when she looked into the mirror. They were almost gray, like the

perpetual twilight that passed for daytime.

He was smiling again.

And then her heart plummeted in terror.

“Hands off, I’m afraid,” the Overseer was saying to the tipsy guest. “You can

have the darkskinned girl if you like. But I think I am about to have a change of

taste, the news of which will undoubtedly run through the house like wildfire. Let’s

have a look at you,” he added, and gestured for Brionwy to stand. She was wearing a

pale blue chemise with a robe of the same color thrown over it; even together theywere only translucent.

To be continued. . .

ASH AND MARY-LYNETTE

THOSE WHO FAVOR FIRE

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© Ljane Smith (L. J. Smith)

This is, at last, the continuation of the story of Ash Redfern and Mary-Lynnette

Carter. For those who haven't read the original, or don't remember, although they

are soulmates, the stargazer Mary-Lynnette sent the vampire Ash packing when she

heard about the sins of his past. Ever since, a reformed Ash has been trying to make



amends. But will it ever be enough for Mary-Lynnette? And what's on the disk that

Mary-Lynnette's friend claims will save humankind?

Rating: PG for mild violence. For romantics.

Some say the world will end in fire; Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I

hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To know that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.

-Robert Frost

Ash

Ash Redfern, descendant of the great vampire Hunter Redfern, and currently

enjoying the hospitality of the Circle Daybreak city of Harmony’s war room on the

day the world ended, was finding himself in an awkward position.

It wasn’t the impending end of the world that worried him—exactly. Ash had

lived a very interesting life and a full one, especially in terms of what he’d done to

other people. MaryImageOf course, he was reformed now. Lady Hannah had givenhim a white rose pendant at the last festival, which was extremely handy if he

wanted to catch another Daybreaker off guard. But he was finding that he wanted to

less and less. He was genuinely on the side of the Daybreakers, but more he was on

the side of one particular human girl.

Mary-Lynnette. His Kate the Shrew who had somehow shrewdly tamed him,

and without ever even breaking into a sweat over it. She’d simply picked him up,

rummaged around in his exposed soul, and calmly said, “No, thank you,” upon

perceiving some of the things she’d found there. Then she’d kicked him in the shins

a few times to make sure he didn’t forget the incident.

But by then he had already been head over heels for her. The heavy hand of theSoulmate Principle had left him no choice, and he knew, despite her behavior, that

his angel must be at least somewhat affected. Meanwhile, she had captured him, Ash

the fox, who with a tip of the hat and a “Don’t call me—I’ll call you,” had escaped somany other maiden’s tears and tantrums. Mary-Lynn hadn’t cried at all. In fact,

M’Lyn—his M’Lyn—hadn’t seemed affected by his company one way or the other. It

had taken bad old-fashioned work to even get her interested in speaking to him. It

had even taken some old-fashioned cheating, which on the whole he’d been relieved

about. Like luring her with the fact that vampires could see about ten times more

stars than humans could. He had been proud of that once; it was unfair and sneaky

and it had almost convinced his star-gazing Mary-Lynnette to become a vampire.

Besides, it had sounded quite romantic without actually meaning anything inparticular—and back then Ash had liked things that sounded romantic but didn’t pin

you down to anything. Even when he’d realized how he felt about Mary-Lynnette,

he’d tried to get out of it. Ash was, in the old parlance, a rover.

He’d also been an early bloomer and by the time he was twelve he had killed

his man (well, vampire really: a husky fellow twice his height). As far as making his

man, or woman, well he wasn’t one to kiss and tell, but from then on, according to



lamia tradition, he was an adult, and free to do what he wanted. He did, making the

most out of what he had learned. He hadn’t enjoyed killing, even if it had been in

self-defense, and he developed a smooth tongue and a ready wit as well as a long,

lean, tough catlike body that allowed him to avoid doing any more of it. He also

found that a smooth tongue, a ready wit, and a long, lean, catlike body were helpful

in another area—in dealing with the opposite sex. He’d spent as much of his time aspossible in loving his neighbor, and if that had occasionally included the choice

between an undignified exit out the window and the blacking of the eye of his

neighbor’s steady boyfriend; well, he’d done as the spirit moved him.

But that was then and this was now. He had met Mary-Lynnette, that infernal

nuisance of an angel, who had just reached into his chest and pulled his beating

heart out, and squeezed. He didn’t know how she’d done it. He’d been too busytrying to dodge kicks to his shins. He’d heard of the Soulmate Principle but he’d

never imagined that such a tragedy could happen to him. He knew other words for

what had happened. It was being caught. It was being tamed. It was even—

unbelievably for a rover—being caught and tamed and liking it.

But once it had happened, what was he supposed to do? Hang himself? Didn’t

work for vampires. Jump in front of a train? Ditto. No, what you had to do was just

go down to the nearest jewelry shop and merrily buy a ring—and make damn sure it

was a nice one.

After all, who wanted to wear an unfashionable nose-ring?

And then his darling Mary-Lynnette had found him seriously underweight in

good deeds, compassion, and repentance, and she had thrown him out of the boat.

He was expected to make good on all three deficiencies before she would even think of hauling him back out of the water. She seriously expected him to atone for each

wickedness he’d performed, in a way that would wipe out the original wrong.

Quinn had gotten off easier than he had, and Quinn was over four hundred

years older than him.

Even at that price, with his word of honor behind it, his angel refused to

promise anything. We’ll see, she had said. Had there ever been such a belle dame

sans merci?

Meanwhile, he was not even allowed to see her, not even when she had beenliving in the San Francisco Time Bubble. It left him thinking all the more about her,

her quick eagerness at anything unknown, her bravery in the face of danger, her

kindness to small things. Or the sharpness of her wit, ever looking for something to

whet itself against. Or her eyes, clear larkspur blue and snapping with interest or

anger or excitement. Or her triangular kitten-shaped face that somehow took the

edge off all her insults. Or her long limbs, tanned from all the work she did outside . .

.



It was better not to think about things like that, although it was difficult to help

it. The warmth of her, the smell of her . . . But he couldn’t afford to get distracted.

Because Mary-Lynnette, after spending years in the San Francisco Bubble, had

finally decided that the Apocalypse wasn’t coming immediately and had gone off to

college. In fact, he had just been thinking about requesting an Audience with herHighness to see if she might approve just slightly more of him now. She might

even—if he had bared his inmost soul to her—have agreed to a new deal. He had

remade himself, all for the sake of his lady, and he was eager—no, make that

desperate—to see what she thought of the results.

All that had been true up until five minutes ago, when that TV anchor had

announced that many towns, including Cambridge in Massachusetts, had been

“bombed” and were now a wasteland of raging fire and destruction.

And then there had been just one thought in his mind. Find her. Find Mary-

Lynnette and face the end together. Whatever else was happening he had theillogical feeling that she needed him, and the thought was enough to drive him

insane.

Insane enough that when Thierry Descoudres, the Lord of the Night World,

who was also the owner of this Bubble and everything in it, had turned away from

his consultations for a moment, Ash had walked right up to him.

And fallen on his knees.

He, Ash, who had never begged for anything in his life, had begged. He’d

pleaded with Thierry for a helicopter, the only way to reach Cambridge in time, hebelieved.

But that was impossible. All the Night World military helicopters had already

been sent out, some to pick up vital personnel, some to try to track down the

dragons who were doing this “bombing” of major cities.

But Ash knew that there was something else: Thierry’s private helicopter.

And so he had stayed on his knees.

“Thierry—Lord Thierry—I know you have a personal helicopter. Please. I’ll onlykeep it for a few hours, maybe less. Lord Thierry”—he was aware that everyone in

the room was looking at Ash Redfern: Ash, the imperturbable, Ash, the Rude, the

Snide and the Sarcastic, Ash Redfern, the lineal descendant of Hunter himself,

groveling on his knees—“it’s my soulmate. She goes to Harvard. I know she’s not

dead.” He gave the silver cord a tug, just to comfort himself with this at least: theother end wasn’t flapping loose. “I know she’s not dead. But she needs me. She may

be hurt, trapped . . . in danger of her life. Please, Thierry. I’ll never ask anything of



you again,” he added, wildly, because Thierry wasn’t saying anything, but was

looking at him with those great dark, bottomless eyes, eyes that were the way they

had been before he had found Hannah.

And when Ash couldn’t put the illusion of safety behind him any longer by

babbling, Thierry had a chance to speak.

First, though, he just looked at Ash with those sorrowful, infinitely

compassionate eyes. The bubble of hope that had been rising in Ash wobbled.

Finally Thierry said, “Ash, I can’t do it. Not because I don’t want to, but because that

helicopter isn’t mine to give or loan any longer. I gave it to our newest member to

use, to evacuate her family. It belongs to Sarah Strange.”

Ash felt the shock go through him as he remembered; the stomach-hollowing

fear. Not so very long ago he had called this girl’s soulmate a whole packet of

venomous names, and for some reason that he couldn’t retrieve immediately he’d

said something about her as well. “Sniveling little girlfriend.” Not wise. Not wise at all. M’Lyn would be disgusted with him. If M’Lyn was all right. If M’Lyn was safe

enough to be able to think at all. Slowly, excruciatingly aware of the eyes on him, he

got to his feet. Even more slowly, he turned toward Sarah. He made himself throw a

glance at her face.

Not good. She was looking serious. He had already tried the throwing-himself-

to-his-knees trick. And maybe she could be taken in by that if he tried it again, but

suddenly Ash was sick of himself, and his tricks, and his smooth silver tongue.

One foot in front of the other, he made his way to Sarah. He was still looking

down. She was short compared to his height, so that his looking down meant lookingher right in the face.

He stopped and took a deep breath and then he looked her directly in the eyes.

“I’ll go on my knees if you want. I just thought maybe it might look cheap, after .. . Can I tell you why I want the helicopter?”

She nodded, gravely, obviously trying to fight off her own terror at the

situation they were in. She was such an ordinary slip of a girl, he tried to tell himself,

but she’d been with Lady Hannah before dinner and Winfrith had dolled her up until

she was almost frighteningly beautiful. She was wearing that sweeping corn-coloredgown, with her light brown hair up, and what looked like several million dollars of

canary diamonds. And in spite of all that, it was her face that caught you. Huge eyes

the color of deep jungle pools—aquamarine in its purest, truest blue. A sweet wide

mouth that was trying to be stern but was quivering too much to do its job right. No

makeup that he could see. But no makeup or jewelry or other adornments could be

more attractive than the involuntary quiver of that mouth.



Who was this girl?

Ash was an expert in perhaps half-a-dozen things. One of them was women. If

he tried, he could find the proper key to unlock this nature child who didn’t need

makeup—but he didn’t try. It wasn’t the two two-legged guard dogs on either side of

her, Kierlan Drache and Mal Harman, each glaring at him as if they wished he woulddrop dead with no further ado, either.

It was the pulse in the tender column of her throat. Vampires always watched

an opponent’s throat. And this girl wasn’t amused, as you could tell by the mouth

quiver; and she wasn’t just frightened . . . she was terrified. Her heart was pounding

so hard that it almost shook the slim body in the sweeping gown. And if it gave her

any comfort to have the helicopter—well, Thierry had given it to her for a reason.

Ash would find some other way to get to Mary-Lynnette. He’d walk before he’d take

this girl’s last comfort.

He turned away abruptly. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, and turned away.

Now he was thinking: what else? A car? —and felt a gentle hand on his arm.

And then he heard the most beautiful words he ever had before.

“Don’t go.”

He half turned, afraid to hope, and she went on. She had a beautiful voice, he

thought wildly, very young, but very gentle. “The helicopter’s not really mine. And I

don’t really have anyone to save out there—”

“Alan and the Alan-ettes?” one of the two guard dogs suggested.

“Her step-father and step-brothers and sisters,” the other one translated.

“This area hasn’t been attacked. I’ll find some other way—”

Ash groaned internally. No. “No.”

Sarah looked muleheaded. “Yes.”

“No. I mean it.”

“Yes. I mean it.”

He’d found himself a girl as stubborn as Mary-Lynnette. He hadn’t thought they

made that kind anymore.



“Before this sinks to the level of rather ludicrous nobility”—Quinn’s dry voice

cut through the murmuring that had taken over the room—“we can settle it in an

instant. Flip a coin.”

“A coin?” somebody said, “Over a matter of life and death like this?”

“No,” Sarah said, suddenly gaining authority from somewhere, drawing it out of

the air to wear it like a cloak. “We’ll work it out; one uses the helicopter first, then

the other one.” Then she did something so unexpected that Ash almost jumped. Sheturned to him and said, “Tell me about Mary-Lynnette.”

Ash opened his mouth and shut it. He did know women. He’d bet he already

had the key that would turn this one. But would that be fair? He thought a little more

and decided it was when Mary-Lynnette’s life was on the line. It couldn’t be wrong

just to show this girl, Sarah, how much she was like his M’Lyn.

“She loves walking in the night forest,” Ash said slowly. “She knows all thedifferent plants. It was out there, at night, that she finally accepted she was my

soulmate,” he added, the words coming more quickly now. “But even when sheadmitted that we were soulmates she wouldn’t let me make her a vampire—and it

takes a strong character to refuse me when I’m wheedling.”

Sarah shuddered slightly. Ash could read it as if she’d said the words aloud,

“I’m no strong character, but I would never be a vampire.”

Terrific. She was prejudiced against blood-drinkers, on top of everything. Ash

winced before he could stop himself; Sarah drew a step back.

“It’s the way I was raised,” Ash said softly. “I don’t think you can really imagine

it, but try to think of the Amish. I was raised in isolation like that. The only customs I

knew were the ones my family had created. We didn’t have slaves. We had . . .human servants. They weren’t badly treated.”

Sarah was looking at him with absolute horror.

Something inside Ash folded. “You’re right. It was terrible. ‘Abomination.’

That’s what she said.”

“He and his sisters and Rashel and I went a while ago and cleared it out,” Quinnsaid, in the same tones he’d use if he were saying they had all gone to a concert

together. If you could imagine Quinn going to a concert.

Sarah looked even more horrified at this.

Ash suddenly wished desperately for Rowan, the oldest of his sisters. She

would look at them all with her steady, clear-sighted brown eyes and they would



understand. “We didn’t hurt anybody unnecessarily,” he said heavily. “We did use

wood and fire when they were needed. Mostly they weren’t; without Hunter; thevampire’s spirits were broken. We—“ He broke off. The naive girl in front of him

was a vampire virgin. She had only just been introduced to the Night World and the

kind of people who lived there. She found all vampires repulsive.

She’s due for a shock soon, he thought, glancing at her guard dogs.

“May I try again?” he asked and was desperately grateful when she swallowedand said huskily, “Yes.”

“Mary-Lynnette wouldn’t approve of me trying to make her a special case. But

she really does deserve it. She’s one of the people who’ll help put the world back

together after—all this.” He gestured to the banks of computer screens showing the

ruins of the earth’s cities. “She’s kind and she’s brilliant and she loves the stars.

She’ll put the earth back together just to get to the stars. And,”—he realized that his

voice was shaking—“I can feel that she needs me.” He clutched unthinkingly at thesilver cord. “As long as she’s alive I can track her and help her, but if I wait too long,

or if she gets too weak . . .” He bowed his head. He couldn’t finish, and he couldn’t

look her in the face. His longing for Mary-Lynnette was like a physical pain, so that if

anyone had asked ‘do you miss her?” it would be like asking, “do you miss your leg?”

“Do you realize, you told me all about her, but you never once mentioned what

she looked liked?” asked Sarah. Was there a hint of approval in her voice?

“She’s—well, what does it matter? She’s dark with fair skin. And she’s tall. She’snot beautiful, I suppose, but she’s striking. If you ever saw her you wouldn’t forget

her. And she’s my soulmate.” He turned away.

“You can have the helicopter.”

“And I don’t even know how long I can go on, needing to go to her without

going crazy.”

“Ash,” said Quinn. “She said you could have it.”

Once, he would have swung her off her feet and spun her around the room,

regardless of the disasters outside. Or else taken the opportunity for a celebratory

kiss on the mouth. Now, he fell involuntarily to his knees and kissed her hand,

clasped it to his cheek a moment and then jumped up.

He couldn’t help but turn back, though, for a moment, curious as a cat. “Thank

you. I do thank you. But why did you do it?”

“I found out why you loved her.”

“And how does that make a difference?”



“You didn’t start by telling me how beautiful she was. If you’d said that I’d haveknown you weren’t really soulmates.”

Love Mary-Lynnette just for her outside? He’d fallen in love with her at first

sight —but that was through the rosy glow of the soulmate principle. There was somuch more of Mary-Lynnette inside to love that her inside had showed on her

outside—or something. Anyway Ash had seen too many beautiful outsides with

nothing of worth inside them to get caught that way. Even an eternally beautiful

woman with no mind to sharpen his against would be a deadly bore shortly.

Whereas Mary-Lynnette’s mind was so beautiful that he would never get tired of

looking at and the outer packaging was almost irrelevant.

“I love her because I love her,” he concluded. “I’ll get to her if I have to walk all

the way, but —she needs me now. I—can take the helicopter now?”

“Right now. And—Ash?”

“Yes?”—sharply. He was suspicious to the last.

“Take care of yourself. And call me whenever you can and tell me if she—if

Mary-Lynnette’s—okay.”

“Of course,” Ash said automatically. He stared at this willow wand of a girl who

seemed to really care about other peoples’ problems. It didn’t occur, even to his

cynical mind, that she’d said it because once Mary-Lynnette was safe, the bird would

be free for Sarah's own use. And if it had, he’d have known that it wasn’t true. She

cared.

He just wished he could bring himself to like her companions, especially

Kierlan. As a rogue himself, he knew when a guy was an even bigger one. And he’d

swear that this guy was off the charts.

Mary-Lynnette

When Mary-Lynnette came to she was sprawled beside her bed. Her first

thought was: earthquake. But the room was still jolting—roughly enough to send

college textbooks cascading out of the shelves, papers and pens flying off the desk,

and clothes spilling out of the closet, all without stopping as if the building weretaking hit after hit from bombs. At the same time there was a noise like the roar of a

giant flamethrower.

Thank God my best telescope is back in Briar Creek, she thought a touch wildly.

And then she thought, but what’s happening in Briar Creek? As the room settled

down, she took out her earplugs. Mary-Lynnette was at heart country girl, used to

the shriek of the bluejay and the creak of the ponderosa pine. Here, she just wasn’t



used to the sounds of a bustling campus and the streets around it. Her earplugs were

good earplugs, attenuating up to 40 decibels, at frequencies from 125 to 8000 hertz,

and when she was wearing them it was almost impossible to hear anything from the

outside world. But now, taking them out made no difference. The world was as

silent as if she still had them in. She got up and slipped her feet into sneakers and

went to the window to see the world.

She looked out on hell.

The sky was a strange dark orange streaked with pale green. She guessed the

effect came somehow from flames that were reflecting off low-lying clouds. She

could see the actual fires here and there through gray smoke. What she couldn’t

see—or hear—was traffic, not the wild honking of horns in the distance, not the

bass roar of a truck nor the squeal of brakes, nor the hooting of ambulances.

The silence was downright eerie. There was no shouting, no thud of running

footsteps, no alarms. It was as if everyone in the world had disappeared except her.The campus was an island to itself; set back from outside streets, but from what she

could see through the window, there were abandoned cars stopped everywhere—

even on the grass—with their driver’s doors open. As if people had just stopped, got

out, and walked away.

How long was I unconscious? Mary-Lynnette was a human, but in some ways

she had a vampire’s enhanced senses. She ought to have been able to hear

something from the streets.

She stood there for one moment, caught by the sight, by the soundlessness, and

then she began to move.

Stepping back from the window, she unzipped her sweatshirt and dropped it

behind her. She then stepped out of her sweatpants bottoms, underpants, and socks,

heeling the socks off and flinging the clothes away without looking to see where

they fell. She was at the same time leaning to reach for a very special gray duffel bag

in the back of her closet. Finding it, she pulled it forward. In another second she was

dressing in a heavy dark shirt, Levis, thick socks and sturdy boots, suitable for cross-

country walking. She topped the outfit with another sweater, added a windbreaker

with detachable hood, and then finally gave a few licks and a promise with a brush

to her wavy dark hair—so much shorter than it had been years ago.

Reversible hat in pocket: check. A pair of sturdy hiking boots and extra socks:

check. Basic toiletries: in duffel bag: check. Laminated maps of the area: check.

Waterproof pad and pen in notebook: check. Several MRE (Meals Ready To Eat) for

basic field rations, extra bags of jerky, peanuts and a few power bars: check. Water

in eco-friendly disposable pouches: check. Two flashlights, with extra batteries for

each: check. Compressed block of toilet paper, space blankets the size of candy bars,



sleeping bag the size of a thick book: check. Stun gun, mace, brass knuckles, cosh,

and a few other little pieces of equipment that classed the user as a realist: check.

The bag was not graceful, or cool, or glamorous. The only statement the bag

made was that this princess planned to rescue herself.

Mary-Lynnette had known for years about the Apocalypse. It was just that, like

everyone else, she had stopped believing it was coming.

Mary-Lynnette didn’t hoist the bag to her shoulders right away. She did

something she’d been putting off, something so frightening that tears were dripping

down her lashes even as she opened a safe in the closet and pulled out a strange

looking cell phone, bulkier than the usual and with two thick black antennas.

Then she made a phone call.

Ash

From the launch pad, Ash climbed into the luxurious, black-leather padded

helicopter’s rear cabin. He almost expected to be offered a glass of champagne by a

crisply uniformed flight attendant. Ash had been in many different kinds of

helicopters but he had never before seen this kind of flying tank turned into an oak-

and-leather conference room that was the epitome of luxury.

Thierry Descoudres, Lord of the Night World, the lawful ruler of every vampire,

witch, shapeshifter, and tea-leaf reader in the world, believed in going first class

everywhere. The passenger compartment here looked like the interior of a small

airplane. Its roomy, leather upholstered seats were designed to slide on rails towardor away from each other. A gigantic refrigerated compartment in back reminded

hedonists irresistibly of that phantom champagne, and doctors irresistibly of

necessary medications (as did a screened-off area to one side where everything up

to and including major surgery could be done); there were magazines, fresh flowers,

munchies, flagons of water, all securely contained. There were headsets for those

who wanted to talk to the crew, earphones for those who wanted to listen to music,

and ear-mufflers for those who just plain didn’t like noise. There were night -vision

goggles for humans not naturally endowed with night vision, and individual

computer screens for passengers, which at the moment were all showing a room full

of somber-looking people in formal dress having a polite and vehement argument —

the war room, Ash thought. They’d been interrupted during that formal dinner bythe Apocalypse. In general, the chopper had anything a reasonable traveler could

want.

After Ash was inside, black-visored figures helped aboard two large wolves

that were restrained by neither harness nor leash, but that each wore a silver collar

with an emblem: one a stylized rose and the other the simple outline of an

archetypical flower with five petals.



“Hey, Remy; hiya, Lupe.” Ash said. The werewolves turned keen, intelligent

eyes on him. The silver rose meant that Remy, the all-black wolf with a blaze of

white on his forehead, worked directly for Lord Thierry; the simple five-petalled

flower was the symbol for Iliana, the Witch Child, and meant that Lupe, the brindled

wolf, was working for the Wild Powers right now.

Inside his own head, Ash raised his eyebrows. Thierry was providing him with

everything. His personal helicopter, a highly trained crew; werewolves from

S.E.A.R.C.H.; everything. Now it was going to be up to Ash. If he couldn’t find Mary-

Lynnette with this lot, he didn’t deserve her.

The two wolves headed toward the back of the spacious rear cabin to make

themselves secure and comfortable in their own way. Yes, Ash had more than

everything a reasonable person could want, but what he wanted was something

unreasonable. “Can I talk to the pilot?” he asked of the black -clad, black-helmeted

figure who had boosted him into the helicopter. His words were ignored, which hetook pretty much as meaning, “No, you ungrateful loony.”

“The pilot’s probably pretty busy right now, sir,” a voice said, or rather

shouted, from just a few feet away.

Ash almost jumped. The only thing you could complain about in this helicopter

was that it was noisy. He’d logged the presence of the flight officer in his mind and

then forgotten about him. The man was fiddling with a HF headset which seemed to

blend into the quiet luxury of the accoutrements around him, his black and silver

uniform almost making him disappear.

But his presence was there. Ash should never have lost sight of it.

I am really, really tense, Ash thought. He checked, found the officer to be a

vampire like himself, and began a quieter, telepathic conversation.

Sorry. You probably know; my name is Ash—

I don’t know anybody in the Night World who doesn’t know Ash Redfern, sir.

I’m Petty Of ficer Nate Campell.

About the pilot; I just wanted to ask him—

Her, the navigator interrupted.

Her, then, if we could do something like a routine Coast Guard search pattern

for Mary-Lynnette, with me conning for the pilot. I don’t know the first thing about the Night World military, so I don’t know if everybody’s familiar with the Coastie’s

system of search—”



Here he was interrupted again, politely but firmly. If you’ll look around, sir,you’ll see this is a modif ied Sikorsky H-60 Jayhawk —

“Paint me blue like a baboon’s bottom!” Ash hadn’t even glanced at the

helicopter’s profile. Thierry had probably never used it for an actual rescue before,but —

Lord Thierry sent you a crew that’s all ex-Coastguard or trained by Coastguard,

the other vampire went on, forestalling Ash’s next question. And the werewolves are

here for onshore search.

Then Ash looked behind him. Through the rear jump door, someone had just

dumped packets of flares and chemical lights next to the collapsible wire basket for

survivors into the immaculate interior of Thierry’s private helicopter. Ash started to

address them, then checked the person’s features in what light there was to be had.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“No problem; I’ve got to secure all that before we take off. And I’m not a“ma’am,” sir; I’m Petty Officer Georgie Douglas, shapeshifter and the rescue

swimmer.”

“Thierry thinks I’m going to find Mary-Lynnette in the water?” Horrifying

images rose in Ash’s head.

“Well, sir, I guess Lord Thierry figures that there’s a big pond close to the target area: we call it the Atlantic Ocean.” The young woman’s smile took the edge off her

words. “And the last vampire enclaves we know of in that zone were on islands out there in that pond. If they’re taking her there—this basket isn’t just for water rescue.

It’s for picking folks off boats, all sorts of things.”

“I know about the enclaves.” Ash remembered what it had felt like, being part

of the crew that had helped burn them to the ground and take the occupants

captive—the ones who hadn’t fought to the death, anyway.

“That was a proud day for us all, sir,” Georgie Douglas said. Ash had been

broadcasting his thoughts unintentionally. He really was close to losing control.

“But you think any vampires after her might still head for there,” Ash said. “Andthat they definitely will go for her.”

The way the rescue swimmer looked down was answer enough.

After the last of the equipment was stowed, Ash asked again to talk to the pilot.

After a moment, everyone was connected to the cockpit, one way or another, and

Ash had been introduced to Lieutenants Raleigh and Simms in the cockpit. When the



two-way mirror separating the cockpit from the passenger cabin was turned off he

could see the pilot, a young black woman wearing one of those ebony and silver

helmets, and the co-pilot, another young black woman, also helmeted. They were

both vampires.

“Okay, so everybody’s familiar with the Coastguard search patterns,” Ash said,getting straight to the issue. “I just don’t know if you people are familiar with S.S.O.”

They looked at each other and Ash could practically hear the pilot say, “Huh?”

“Soulmate Search Operation. It’s experimental, but this is going to be the best

chance to prove that it works. One soulmate homes in on the other one’s psychic

profile. I figure that’s the only way to run an operation like this, since we don’t know

where the target, my soulmate Mary-Lynnette, is. We don’t know whether she’s

gone to ground or on the move. We don’t know whether she’s been taken captive,

maybe out to sea. We don’t know much of anything. But she’s sending out a signal

like an EPIRB—psychically—and I’m the only one that can pick that up. The closerwe get, the stronger it is. I figure it should be no problem.”

And then he swallowed, because it was a new idea and NIH—not invented

here. This Coast Guard crew was used to homing in on the warbling of a radio

distress beacon, and then working as a finely-tuned team to get the aircraft to its

goal. They weren’t used to an unproved program that relied—completely—on a

civilian’s feelings of romance.

Ash heard a new voice, concise, feminine, used to command, in his mind. It was

on a private channel in his head. Must be the pilot. Has this ever been done in a field

situation, sir? she asked slowly.

No. Just practice runs.

There was another moment and then to his great relief she said for all to hear, I

can’t think of a better cause with which to christen it. Welcome aboard. So you’re

doing the conning for me? From the beginning?

Just like a sea rescue, even if we never leave land. That’s the one big advantage

of it —you can look for anybody without them knowing you’re after them.

In other words, fly high. You got it, sir. We’ll be all over them before they knowwere in the area.

Just one other thing . . . Ash liked to be on a first name basis with those who

were responsible for his life. Call me Ash, please.

From the cockpit came, I’m Cobra, and this is Mantra. Both from Master

Thierry’s personal entourage.



Cobra? Ash thought. Mantra? Are we in a comic book now?

I meant your real names, please, he said persuasively. Oh, come on—we may all

be dying together soon.

There was a pause of ten measured seconds. Then, finally, I am Courtney

Raleigh, sir.

And another voice, mellow and just slightly amused, I’m the copilot, sir. Tracy

Simms. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

Something inside Ash whimpered softly and said, you’re being flown out t o

fight dragons by a Courtney and a Tracy who both sound about two years out of high

school? But he managed to say “hello” politely.

But not without revealing some of his reservations, apparently. When he wasdone, the pilot said sweetly, Close, but not quite right sir. It’s Kourtney, with a “K,”

sir; and Tracee, with two ees at the end. And we’ve both won the Distinguished

Flying Cross, sir.

Ash’s mind gave up, then. It was beaten. He apologized.

A few minutes later they were speeding along the runway, and then Kourtney

Raleigh pulled power and they were going up, fast, fast into the blackness above.

Mary-Lynnette

“Help!”

There it was again. Mary-Lynnette was jogging roughly parallel to Oxford

Street. She had just gone past the massive Science Center and was heading by

Jefferson Hall, when she’d first heard the cry. The campus itself was decimated.

Harvard Yard, where her dorm was, looked as if it had been bombed. While she

jogged she used the odd, bulky cell phone she’d unshipped back at her room.

Nothing. Not even a busy signal or recorded message. And that proved that

something was wrong—very wrong. The Night World telephone system was so good

somebody had suggested it must be subetheric. Not true—but it did make use of

some pretty amazing microchips and a dash or sorcery, and it operated onfrequencies that weren’t supposed to be open to the public.

She was trying to get in touch with her family, with her brother Mark, and

Ash’s three sisters, all in the San Francisco Bubble. They had several phones like

this. So did her father in Oregon. And the fact that she couldn’t even raise one sent a

feeling like the trickle of an ice cube down her back, and a prickling all over her skin.



Bad news, kiddo, she thought. You’d think at least that Ash might have called.

“Help—”

There it was. Mary-Lynnette moved smoothly into higher gear and ducked into

Jefferson Hall. She kept up the run; this building didn’t look at all stable. And shetried not to think of Ash as she went. She was tempted—more than a little—to tug

on the silver cord that connected them so that at least she would at least know he

was alive. But what could kill Ash? she thought sardonically, still straining her ears.

He would survive a universal flood. Paddling in a ducky, boat, getting a tan.

“Please, help! Somebody!

There! It wasn’t a classroom; it was coming from off to the right, from one of

the teacher’s offices. Mary-Lynnette saw a door ajar. She looked inside and at first

saw only chaos, then realized what had happened. A smallish girl had been sitting at

the largeish desk when a row of heavy steel bookcases that had been stacked allaround the desk had fallen. Now, they had formed a cage around her so that she

couldn’t pull away from the desk again, or even lift her head.

“Please! I’m trapped! Please!”

“It’s okay. I’m here,” she said. “And I’ll get you out; just wait a sec.”

“Oh, thank God, thank God!”

“Don’t be scared,” Mary-Lynnette said, in big-sister mode already. Just give me

a minute.”

“I’ll try. But it was so awful when everyone start ed going toward that —noise.

That call. I wanted to go to, but I couldn’t. I was stuck.”

“A—call?” Mary-Lynnette was bewildered.

“Yes. If you’d heard it, you’d never forget it—but it’s too hard to describe. It was a terrible sound, awful, but when I heard it I had to get to it. But I couldn’t.”

That may have been your good luck, Mary-Lynnette thought.

“Is that where everybody else has gone?”

“Is everyone gone?”

“Yeah. It looks like we’re the only two people on campus.”

“Thank God you came to save me,” the girl under the shelves said quietly, then

added something in a foreign language; Mary-Lynnette guessed it was a prayer or



saying. After a moment she said, “My name is Devi Srinivasa.” She laughed. “But with

my last name, most people just say Devi S. What’s yours?”

“Mary-Lynnette Carter. But with my first name most people leave some part of

it out even though I ask them not to. I answer to Mary, or Mare, or Lynn, or M’Linn—

okay, now I’m going to lift this top shelf off to the left. It might hurt as the blood flowcomes back.”

“I’ll help push. No, please—I want to. Just tell me which way.”

As Mary-Lynnette got the steel bookcase off the girl she could see more of her.

She was very small, with bones like a bird, and dark hair falling in one long braid

down her back.

There was a long, busy time, during which Mary-Lynnette figured out which

bookcase needed to come off next, and which way it ought to go. At last they were

down to one.

“What were you doing in here?” Mary-Lynnette asked, prying the last of the

bookcases off and pushing it across the desk. And almost in the same breath, “Are

you okay? Is anything broken?”

“My wrist hurts a little, but I’m sure it’s not broken.” Then Devi’s chin came up

in determination. “As for the other, I could ask you the same question. What are you

doing here?”

“I’m here because I was hiking out,” Mary-Lynnette said. “And then I heard this

little thin sound like a call for help from the rubble here. Do you know there’s onewhole wall missing from the Science Center?”

“No.” Devi had managed stand up, and was fumbling around the desk. She

found a computer disk. “Got it. And it looks undamaged. He Ram. . . Now, if I can just

find my folder . . . ”

“Forget your folder. This whole building could come down at any minute and

kill us both. Let me help you over the bad spots and let’s get out of here.”

Devi hesitated, then put the disk in her pocket and let Mary-Lynnette help her

crawl over the desk —there was no other way, the shelves that had fallen all aroundwere too unstable—then off the other side. They grinned at each other briefly when

Devi was free, and Mary-Lynnette slipped her backpack back on.

“Okay, this way. Hey, do you know how to use a taser? Or Mace?

Devi shook her head. “Sorry.”



“Never mind.”

“I did have an uncle who was a priest,” Devi offered, apparently out of the blue.

“That’s nice,” muttered Mary-Lynnette, busy finding a place they could get

through the walls to the outside of the building. It was dangerous because of cablessticking up from nowhere and piles of debris t hat looked solid, but weren’t.

“The world will be grateful to you for you helping me rescue this disk,” Devicontinued. “That was my mother’s office. She is a physicist, but mostly she works at

the Polar Station. In the Antarctic, you know. She e-mails her findings back here. We

have a sort of system—” She went on talking, but Mary-Lynnette couldn’t really

understand what it was about. Besides, she had something else to listen for.

She found the whole story of the “call” extremely dist urbing. She had no idea

what could make a noise that would draw you to it —even though it was a terrible

noise and you didn’t really want to go. It was Night World stuff, no doubt about that.But from the looks of the city around her, the area had been bombed, and that

wasn’t like any Night World stuff she’d ever heard about.

What could wreak such havoc, but leave people alive to get out of their cars

and follow some eerie “call . . . ?”

Nothing natural, that was certain, nothing natural.

Off campus, walking beside cars parked at crazy angles, their footsteps always

accompanied by the crunching of glass, she tried to keep her mind on track. They

were two young girls, and night was falling. That meant that they wereautomatically in trouble, in a city where all the rules had broken down at once. And

Mary-Lynnette had a feeling, a sixth sense that said she hadn’t been left alone onthat campus for nothing. That there were people just waiting for her to get out into

the open, people after her specifically.

The hairs on the back of her neck lifted suddenly. She held her breath and

listened.

Yes.

“Devi?” she whispered as they reached Windell Street.

“Yes, Mary-Lynnette?”

“Since you don’t fight, can you get ready to run? There are people behind us—

don’t look—and they’re not nice people. They’re not following us to ask us if weneed help. They’re bad people, and I’m going to have to deal with them sooner or

later. But first I’m going to get my back to a wall. Then I’ll say, ‘Now!’ and you run



away as fast as you can and don’t look back. Don’t worry about me. Just run. Do you

understand?”

“I understand, but if you think that I’m going to leave you alone af ter you

rescued me, you’re”—Devi knocked on her own forehead—“suffering from

concussion, I suppose.”

Mary-Lynnette almost laughed out loud. “All right, but don’t try to fight them.These aren’t normal people. Run and try to find help if you can.”

“In a city where everyone has disappeared except us?”

“Well, you can try—shh! Don’t talk.” Mary-Lynnette froze. She had just heard

something different behind them.

It was glass crunching. Not loudly, furtively. Mary-Lynnette put a finger to her

lips. Sure, there ought to be looters and worse stalking the buildings, but her sixthsense told her that these followers were after her. Ahead she saw a little cubby hole

of rubble that protected them on two side. She motioned with the tiniest tilt of her

head that she and Devi should get into it. Devi looked frightened, but obeyed, and

silently.

And not a moment too soon. They had just stepped in when the crunchings got

louder and louder. “Where’d they go?” a clear male voice said.

“They just—disappeared,” another one answered.

“Nobody disappears on my watch,” a third, menacing-but-laid-back soundingvoice said. “They’re twenty feet in front of you, to the left. Use your eyes, since it

looks like there’s nothing worthwhile in between them.”

Voice One chuckled sycophantically. Mary-Lynnette was already talking to

Devi. “I’ll be using Mace and this stun gun, so stay away from me. Swing mybackpack at them, if you can. It’s pretty heavy; you might knock somebody over. And

be ready to run when I say ‘run.’”

Devi looked at the backpack doubtfully. “I really think that I—“

“We don’t have time to talk. Here they come—“

“But I still feel that perhaps I would be of more use—“

And then the first thug came around the corner.

Mary-Lynnette felt the small hairs trembling at the back of her neck. He looked

human, but something told her he wasn’t. The jubilant howl he set up when he



found them might have helped her reach this conclusion. She raised the can of Mace

and gave him a faceful, holding her own breath.

“You—bitch!” He shook his head angrily but seemed in no way incapacitated by

the Mace. Just then Guy Number Two arrived. Guy One was still cursing, but was

now blocking their way onward, so they were stuck in their cubby hole.

“We got her. She looks just like the picture,” Guy Two, the new arrival, said.

“Stay behind me,” Mary-Lynnette gasped, thinking that it might have been safer

for Devi to go her own way. Obviously, they were after her, Mary-Lynnette, and not

any of Mary-Lynnette’s chance-met companions.

“Okay—run,” Mary-Lynnette said, making a dive for the first guy, who was still

doing nothing but congratulating himself. Maybe she could hold them both off while

Devi got away.

But instead of running, Devi dropped the backpack, did a beautiful pirouette,

and kicked Guy Two in the head. Then she rounded on the first guy, who was trying

to slug Mary-Lynnette, mulekicked him in the chest to get his attention, and then

unleashed a whiplash of a kick somewhat lower, causing him to bellow in pain like

an ox.

“Now, let’s run,” Devi said, not even out of breath. They ran.

Mary-Lynnette gasped, “I thought you were just some pacifist. You wouldn’t

even take Mace!”

“My uncle was a genuine fighting priest. They’re growing more and more

scarce these days.”

“I can see why, if they fight each other they way you fought him!”

They came out to the streets. Everything in the night seemed supernaturally

clear, and Mary-Lynnette felt she could hear the drop of a bobby pin. They look a

moment to look up and down the smoldering street and then started toward a

flattened playground.

“I’d give anything for a drink. I was st uck under those bookcases so long,yelling.”

Still trotting toward the playground, Mary-Lynnette pulled out a super-sipper

full of water and gave it to her. “Just keep moving.”

“Oh, God, you’re like a miracle. My family would be glad to adopt you.”



They got to the playground. There was plenty of space there, so an enemy

couldn’t jump out at you from concealment. But there was also nothing but space,

nowhere to conceal themselves.

It looked as if that wasn’t going to matter for very long. They could hear little

rustling movements on either side of them, and now, movements ahead. They werebeing herded into that playground.

“Did your uncle tell you what to do when attacked by about twenty guys at

once?” Mary-Lynnette asked.

“I think he would have answered with a suggestion to prepare my soul for the

coming of my next life. I hope it will be more peaceful.”

“Terrific,” Mary-Lynnette said.

It wasn’t just noises now. They could see glimpses of faces and hands in thelarge circle that was slowly tightening on them, closing in. There were far, far more

than even Devi could manage. Over twenty. More than that.

And, in the hands, the glitter of steel.

And the remarks, of course. Mary-Lynnette just filtered them out: the

invitations to go to a knife-wielder’s house to party; the personal remarks, the

smooching noises. If you were female you had to learn to not hear this kind of stuff,

just let it fade into a sort of hum in the background. She hoped Devi’s uncle had

taught Devi the same kind of trick.

Funny, though, that when they were really up against it, two unexpected things

happened. One was that some of t he taunting got through. “You an’ me, we’re gonnapartee later,” a tall thick voice said, and she had a glimpse of a hand waving what looked like a machete. “After our—uh, employers—are done with you, we get to

have a good time!”

You sap, Mary-Lynnette, thought, your employers are never going to be done

with us, and you’ll be incredibly lucky if they let you out of this alive.

The second unexpected thing was that another one of those earthquake-like

events happened, while brilliant red light blossomed. The sound wave hit themalmost instantaneously. Missile fire? It was like nothing that Mary-Lynnette had

heard or seen before. But it was like something she had been dreading.

If only she’d been able to get the emergency signal on. But whoever was

conducting this war was smart; blocking the stolen frequencies that the Night World

used for emergency contact was a clever, if horrific, idea.



“Hey, girlie!” Somehow this deep voice did keep cutting through her filters. “I’mMannie here, and I’ve decided I like you. You come with Mannie right now, no fuss,and we won’t turn you over. The rest of them will pretend they never saw you.”

Just for the heck of it, Mary-Lynnette said, “And this little girl goes free, right?”

There was a silence, then everybody laughing at once. It wasn’t nice laughter.

“She’s our consolation prize,” one sneering voice said.

“Well, Mannie, or Manless, or whoever you are, you can go to hell. Which

should feel just like home to you,” Mary-Lynnette said.

Devi had been looking at Mary-Lynnette. Now, she smiled a little, grimly.

The circle was close enough now that Mary-Lynnette could see whole bodies,

not just hands with silvery knives. And oh, wouldn’t the circlers be enjoyingthemselves now. Knowing that there was no way for their victims to get away except

straight up.

“Hey, can you fly, girlie?”

Yes, they knew exactly the kind of fear that their victims must be feeling, and

they wanted to stretch the moments out —though not too much, since their

“employers” were undoubtedly waiting.

Mary-Lynnette wondered if Devi could hold it together when she saw that

some of the attackers were not human. When bodies began to lengthen and fangs togrow, when faces became grotesque and two feet dropped down to four. But it was

too late to begin a lecture about the Night World now.

Strange, that at a time like this your mind wandered, she thought. Her own

mind was wandering to the most absurd things: like a lazy, drawling, catlike young

man who could never be joined with her—and who could never really be apart from

her, either.

Oh, it was enough to drive a girl to clichés. She’d say his name then. Ash. Ash

Redfern. Ash of the many-colored eyes. Ash whose dark existence depended on

persuading young girls to share their blood with him. Ash of whom she was sure sheknew only a tenth, if that, of his many misadventures.

He ought to have had a sidekick, she thought irrelevantly, except that Ash was

his own sidekick. He knew just when to move in . . . and just when to let go. He’d

gotten every girl he’d ever met to run after him, except one. The truth was, that Ash

made his living off women, and that he was never going to change. The swelling in



her chest that made her want to cry out his name just once, and have it be answered,

was almost too much to stand.

And then there was a roar from above them.

Goodbye, Ash, she thought, as the thug in front of her knocked her flat with asingle blow into the dust that was all that was left of the playground. It would have

been nice to know . . .

There was an explosion of light from above them.

White light.

Like a midnight sun.

And then they were all staring upward, as if they were in a scene from Close

Encounters, and then a hallucination was dropping down among them. You had tobe awfully close to realize that it wasn’t a giant, alien Chistmas ornament, but a wire

basket, threaded with those long-lasting green chemical lights for maximum

visibility in the dusk.

Except that it wasn’t dusk. There was a helicopter hovering over them,

dangerously low, dangerously high. A real helicopter.

And Ash Redfern, not looking in the least lazy or lounging, was getting out of

the basket.

“Get it! Get in!” Mary-Lynnette said frantically to Devi, trying to get up.Mannie—or someone—had a foot planted firmly on her own back.

But just then Mannie flew straight out of her range of vision, with a howl that

showed clearly that the flying was not of his own volition. And she was picked up. In

the weird green light Ash looked—wonderful. He smiled, lazily. And then he simply

swung Mary-Lynnette into the hanging, gently bobbing basket and it seemed to

stiffen around her, to form a solid square.

“You, too,” Ash was shouting with both mouth and mind at Devi. He tried

to pick her up and swing her into the Christmas-ornament basket.

“My disk!” Devi was chasing like a chicken around her computer disk, which

was being kicked back and forth by scuffling feet on the blacktop.

“Forget your disk!”

“I can’t! It may mean the future of the human race!”



Just then, though, Ash got hold of Devi and swung her up in the air like a piece

of thistledown, only to land with a crash in the basket, half on top of Mary-Lynnette.

Then he was yelling, again with mind and voice, “Survivors in the basket! Good to

go! Hoist basket!”

That was when Mary-Lynnette went mad.

“No!” she screamed and then, seeming much louder to herself, No! Ash! Ash!

But the basket was going up, getting higher, leaving him behind in the dust.

And he, the insolent boy, was smiling and waving to her as she was taken away, and

he dodged a left cross from the first of two dozen stunned enemies.

Mary-Lynnette screamed again, her arms held down to him. Then she tried to

swing herself out of the basket, but Devi shrieked in terror and she realized that she

was putting them both in danger. And then they were too high, and nothing was any

good.

For the very first time in her life, her heart got the better of her head.

Everything went gray before her eyes. She fainted.

Devi

Devi clutched the disk of vital data to her chest, chanting prayers, while

watching the dusty, gorgeous fair-haired boy’s attempts to wake the dusty dark girl

out of her faint.

He really was gorgeous, she thought, mourning a little because he was soobviously taken. He had hair that was white-blonde, and eyes that seemed to change

color every time he glanced at, which was fairly frequently. But they were only

beseeching glances, asking how to make Mary-Lynnette’s spirit come back before it

was ready, so she answered with sloe-eyed, but sympathetic, silence.

Finally, it was one of the uniformed figures who splashed water on her face.

They had her wrapped in a sort of silvery cocoon they said was good for shock, and

so far it seemed to be working with Mary-Lynnette’s shaking.

First, her eyes flew open. Then she made a sound—an involuntary sound Devi

thought —of horror and grief.

Then she saw Ash. Covered with dust as he was, bleeding from someone’s lucky

jab to his mouth, leaning over her where the uniformed ones had slid the ebony

seats apart to give the cocoon room on the floor.

“Drink this before you try to talk,” he said.



“Ach?” she said thickly, completely ignoring him.

“Drink.”

Devi watched them and remembered how he had come swarming up the rope

just like Hanuman the monkey-king, with the rope penduluming wildly in the wind,and how there hadn’t seemed a chance he would ever get to the top before the wind

tore him off. And how he had leaped into the helicopter, with her disk between his

teeth like some old-time privateer. Mary-Lynnette had been long unconscious by

then and the man in uniform behind Devi had been taking care of her.

Slowly, Mary-Lynnette drank.

“Something hot now?”

Mary-Lynnette nodded.

Devi would never forget either, this girl trying to climb down the rope below

the basket, not least because it had put the basket in danger of collapsing around

both of them.

Heroes, Devi thought, and shook her head.

Then she chided herself. The heroes had saved her, and maybe everybody left

on the planet. Her eyes filled with tears.

Mary-Lynnette was trying to sit up. Gentle hands tried to force her down and to

suck at her foil of hot broth. But Mary-Lynnette was surprisingly strong. She waslooking at Ash, but her eyes were clouded with dust and tears.

“—soulmate right in front of him,” Devi heard when she picked up one of theearphones. “We’re headed back. Diamond One out.”

Devi watched unashamedly watched the lovers. Both covered with the chalky

white dust, both anxious and worried.

“Here,” the uniformed man, said, handing both of them flagons of water. “If you’re that healthy, you can do it yourself.”

A few minutes later the dark-haired girl who was washing grit off her face with

water, might as well have been sparkled with stardust as she looked through the

rivulets at the boy and the white-haired boy looked as if he had seen a mirage in the

desert come true.

“Ash.”



“Mary-Lynnette.”

“You got hurt.”

“It’s nothing. They didn’t hurt you?”

“Barely even touched me.”

The boy looked as if he were trying for one last minute to be nonchalant, and

then he had the girl in his arms.

Ash

She looked as if she had been through hell, and there had clearly been no more

than seconds of safety when the helicopter dropped down . . . into that. No sane pilot

would have dropped when the altimeter of her craft was reading practically zero,

but Kourtney had done it . . . for Ash. Just the same, no rescue swimmer would havelet Ash down in the basket just to hang . . . but Georgie had, for Ash.

No, Ash thought, disgusted with himself. Not for me. For her.

Still, the Night World was going to have to investigate using telepathy or soul

bonds instead of the traditional visual sightings to pin down their survivors in wet

or dry situations. The soulmate principle had worked its magic again.

And now he was looking into eyes that a man could drown in, and he knew that

his beloved Mary-Lynnette was alive because she was yelling at him.

“ . . . . the risk you took!

“You didn’t exactly seem to be in a risk -free situation yourself —“

“How did you get that pilot to do that —”

“—batted my eyelashes and looked sweet and dumb—“

This was one too many, he saw immediately. “No, no, Mary-Lynnette, please.”He slid to the floor so he could kneel and look up at her. “I didn’t know what to do. I

didn’t have a plan. But then I saw you and I just knew I had to get to you. So therewas this silence and then I said, I can do it by intervals of feet. And she said . . . ” He

suddenly changed to telepathic communication: I can maneuver it by intervals of

feet, meters, millimeters, or rat farts.”

And that’s when you dropped down like a genuine deux de machine in some

old Greek play.



And Ash smiled, but said nothing more about rat’s-farts. He was slowly getting

it that Mary-Lynnette wanted the real Ash, the Ash who could drop the mask of

sarcasm and be himself.

“Ash?” she said aloud.

“Angel,” he said fervently.

“Thank you. Obviously you saved my life.”

“And possibly the human race,” Devi said. She tapped her the disk at her breast

again.

Ash glanced at his M’Lin, and then at her friend. Then he addressed Mary-

Lynnette alone. His face was seriously unhappy. Umm . . . Mary-Lynnette? I don’t

know how to put this but . . . but . . .

No matter what, we don’t have a lot of time?

Ah . . . how did you guess?

Does it matter? Ash—do we mean a few minutes, or a few days, or—

Something in between, I think.

. . . . . . . . . . .and all the things I wanted to say to you . . . . . . . She broke off .

Mary-Lynnette

Suddenly Mary-Lynnette was back in survival mode. “Devi, you keep sayingyou have something that might save the entire human race. But it sounds as if a lot

of cities—more than I knew about —are already destroyed. What are you talking

about?”

Devi looked suddenly serious. “I know. There’s nothing to do about the cities

that have already been destroyed. But my mother works in Antarctica, studying

meteorites. She’s on vacation, right now, but she found something, something

incredible. She faxed pictures of it back to her office and emailed me to get them. She

told me how important they were. I figure they might fit in with what’s happeningright now—that somehow she got a clue or an answer or something.”

Mary-Lynnette looked at Ash, who was looking doubtful. If the whole of the

Night World hadn’t been able to find out what was going on—or that anything had

been going on at all . . .



But Mary-Lynnette guessed that Ash had learned a new and deep humility. He

looked at the young man in uniform sitting across from them. “Will you inform thepilot of what we may be carrying? I know: we’ll probably just get orders to come in

as quickly as possible and we’re already doing that. But let Sarah know that she’llhave her helicopter back in the same condition it went out in.”

“A little dustier, though.” One of the werewolves, Lupe, had changed shape and

was now human, a girl who was kind and gallant-looking, if not pretty, with striking

hair the brindled color of a wolf’s fur.

Mary-Lynnette realized that they were all trying to be brave, and that they were

all trying to be brave for her sake. She wanted to thank them, and she realized that

the best way was probably by . . . completing this mission.

“Back there,” she said to Ash, lowering her voice slightly for effect. “Is that a

screened-off area?”

“It is,” he said, not even bothering to look. His voice was shaking slightly.

“Do you think—that for just a minute—we could—”

“I’m sure the others will entertain each other,” Ash said rapidly, almost

gabbling, and he took her hand and easily swung her up again. He seemed feverish

as he led the way to the small area screened off for medical purposes.

Calm, Mary-Lynnette tried to think to herself. Calm. She was frightened of the

synergy between Ash and herself, frightened of what it might lead to. With them, the

whole was more than the sum of its parts.

Ash sat down—not slouched, not sprawled—but sat, which was a little like

seeing a cat at attention, and looked at her. And Mary-Lynnette looked back. She

could see the tension in his face, in his—for the moment —shadowed cobalt blue

eyes. She was just about to speak when he did, and she realized that he was too

focused on the moment even to see her, to read the expression on her face.

“Well?” he said. “Do me a favor will you and just say it straight out. Yes or no?

Has it been enough or not? I don’t suppose you know about anything else I’ve

done—”

“Oh, Ash,” she said. “Look at me. Lord Thierry himself has sent me reports on

everything you’ve done. And if ever anyone made amendments—”

“There were times”—huskily—“when it wasn’t possible to. Do you understand

that? Times when the things I’d done—”



Mary-Lynnette put two fingers on his lips to stop him speaking. “They say you

still act like the old Ash, full of —of bravado and vinegar. They say they wouldn’t know you’d changed except that you’ve gone back to everyone you’d hurt before—”

“No one could do that,” he said. “The living, I’ve had a try at.”

“I’ve heard it all. I would have told you so a year ago, but you never came for

me—”

“You never called for me!”

They smothered laughter, tears in their eyes at their first quarrel as lovers.

“Then you forgive me?”

“Ash.” She was serious suddenly. She’d been warned that Ash might want

forgiveness. “I can’t give you that. Only the people you wronged—and some of themare dead now—can give forgiveness. But for my own part, I can forgive you; and I

can ask your forgiveness for any wrong I’ve done to you.”

“And that’s asking a lot!” Ash’s voice was suddenly stern, and Mary-Lynnette

looked up at him, frightened.

“Where’s my heart? Can you find that? Give it back to me again,” he demanded,

but this time she saw that he couldn’t keep up the façade. “You took it, so you must

have it. Or maybe you’ve lost it—”

“Ash! Lose your heart? I’ve lost everything else—including my family, I think”—and here she turned aside, tears coming unasked to her eyes—“but I’d swear I never

lost your heart. You never gave it to me.”

“I did. I did. And if I didn’t, then I do. Oh, Mary-Lynnette, M’Lin, my heart. To

have come so far and to end like this.” His eyes were golden and filled with tears.

“This isn’t what I asked you back here for.” Mary-Lynnette swallowed her own

tears and turned her face up. Ash wasn’t much taller than she was, but he turned his

face down and for a moment there was no world, no worry, nothing else except the

two of them.

And it was sweet. After a moment she had to stop, with a small, caught breath.

I’ve missed you.

I love you.

You always made me laugh.



I love you.

I began to wonder if I would ever see you again. It hurt me so much.

Oh, Mary-Lynnette, I love you.

You’re short on clever romantic responses, aren’t you?

That’s because I’ve been waiting to say one thing for so long.

They laughed, silently, against each other’s lips.

“How did you manage to get there just in time?” Mary-Lynnette said finally. “It

really was the last moment, you know.”

“Because,” Ash whispered, his lips directly at her ear, “I will always be there foryou. I know how unlikely it sounds, but today I would have done anything to get to

you: break down concrete walls, beg, borrow, or steal; I’d have done anything tomake sure you were safe.”

“Just that? That I was safe? Not even with you?”

She was teasing him, but there was a serious note behind the teasing.

He took it seriously, not smiling, returning her gaze with jade green eyes. “Not even with me. That’s just the tiniest part of it. But the t hought that you could be hurt,

or kidnapped, or trapped, or sick —and for me not to know about it so I could try tohelp . . . ”

Mary-Lynnette put two fingers over his lips again. “I don’t know what’s really

going on tonight. But I do know one thing: we’ll face it together.” She suddenly

balled up one fist and struck her thigh with it. “I could have had all that time with

you—and I sent you away.”

He prevented her from striking again by putting his open hand on top of her

leg. “It was the best thing you could have done for me,” he said, and his eyes said he

meant it. And then Mary-Lynnette knew, knew for certain, that this was a different

Ash than the one she had sent away; that his heart had changed, and she felt amelting in her center. The cold, stubborn integrity that would not give in to him

even when she knew she loved him was melting and she was melting with it. She felt

something warm rush over her whole body.

And then, when she looked at him, he was holding a ring. “You need a special

insignia to get into Harmony,” he said. “But I had this one made up hoping you—

would accept it as a token.”



It was a white flower, with each petal supporting a diamond. It was the most

beautiful thing she had ever seen. The diamonds were meant to simulate dewdrops

and were graduated from tiny at the top, to seriously expensive at the bottom.

Ash, I don’t have one like that for you. And it from the sounds of it I never willbe able to have one made give to you.

As if that mattered. Just say you’ll marry me—with a kiss.

I do! I will! But —since I met you, I’ve worn this. She reached up and unclasped

a chain from around her neck. Slowly she drew the chain out of her sweater. On it

was a man’s golden wedding ring, very simple, just a band. This is the ring my father

married my mother with. He got my step-mother Claudine a different one. This one

he gave to me to give to the man I married.

Captains of ships can marry people. Why don’t we ask Kourtney if it’s the samefor captains of airships.

Let’s do it. My Ash.

My angel.

Then there was relative silence, then but not an uneventful silence. The last

doubts and fears had melted out of Mary-Lynnette’s heart and instead she was

melting again—into Ash’s arms.

“You don’t have to be afraid to kiss me,” he whispered against her ear. “Nohuman blood.”

“What?” she whispered back, finding this method of talking intriguing—and

stimulating. “Not even from the blood bank?”

“Not even there.” His breath, warm and then cool, tickled the side of her neck,

and she started a little when he nipped at her earlobe.

“Not even there,” he repeated, as if he knew what this did to her—but that was

ridiculous: Ash’s specialty was women. He’d had practice. “It’s like with an alcoholic.

You have to give it up entirely. At least I did.”

For you. He did say it, but she knew it. She could feel her eyes fill with tears

again.

And then he kissed her, with warm strong arms around her, and the tears

spilled sideways into her hair.



M’lin! I hurt you.

You know better, Mary-Lynnette thought dizzily. He must know better. Much

more than that and she would undergo spontaneous combustion.

And then an alarm began to ring.

At first, Ash treated it lightly.

“Go away! We didn’t ask for music and you don’t qualify anyway,” he said,

making swiping motions in the air, while Mary-Lynnette laughed through her tears.

Then Ash ignored it —until suddenly the curtain to the recess was drawn back and

there was Petty Officer Georgie Douglas, blushing crimson, clearly never having

imagined that she would have to barge in on a laughing, crying Ash Redfern and his

laughing, weeping soulmate.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “But I’ve spoken to Lieutenant Raleigh—that’sKourtney—and there’s no mistake. We’re being ordered to put down, find a landing

spot —that is, to not return to base. We can’t go home, and if we’re chased, we mayhave to ditch.”

“To ditch?”

“Maybe even in the pond. The Atlantic. Look, we’ll all have parachutes, and

there’s a life raft, and—”

“And this helicopter sinks like a lead balloon,” Ash said.

“Why,” said Mary-Lynnette, suddenly in perfect command of herself, “why on

earth would they want us to ditch after you’ve accomplished rescuing me?”

She was holding on to Ash’s hand very tightly. And he was holding on to hers.

Georgie’s face seemed suddenly to become rigid.

“There’s a bogie on our tail,” she said. “And they think that it’s a dragon.”

Ash

Ash felt his heart drop by way of his stomach to his feet. The Cynic’s Creed that

never quite stopped sounding in his head said, You see? Nothing Ever Works Out. It

might look as if it’s going to. But in the end, it always comes down to ashes, Ash.

That was why he’d spent the first part of his life doing anything and everything

he wanted and not giving a thought to concepts like Responsibility, Duty,

Community Obligation, or the good old Work Ethic. Not that he was entirely sure he



would have given a thought to them anyway. It just wasn’t part of his personality.

Having fun was. Relaxing. Taking it easy.

He’d spent the last years doing anything and everything to wipe out the evil

aftereffects of the first part. All of the love of Lady Lynnette. And, yes, she would

hate to hear him call her that. He had done it never quite believing that he wouldhave his reward—that he would see the look in her eyes that he had just seen—but

he had done it, anyway.

And now—give in? Give up? When he had just seen that look in her eyes?

Never. Never.

(to be continued . . . )

JEX AND MORGEAD’S NIGHT OUT

Jez

Jez wanted to scream.

She knew no one else could tell. They only saw her, Jez, always ready for an

adventure, with waving brilliant red hair that fell to her hips and silvery blue eyes

that burned and chilled at the same time. She had never flinched from any game or

task, and no one would believe her if she said that the thought of what must have

happened in this apartment was such an obscenity that her furious soul rose up,

whishing to rid the world of all the monsters who could do such things—even those

who did them to human vermin.Vermin were to be exterminated, of course . . . but . . . .

But not like this!

That was why she wanted to scream. As the second-in-command of a vampire

gang that hunted humans—specializing in the kind of humans that deserved to be

hunted—she’d seen things that would make most grown-ups wet their pants and

run. But, again, as second-in-command, she was expected to maintain a measure of

cool in all situations.

“Well,” Piece’s light, cold voice brought her back to the present, “I should say

that there’s ample evidence that he’s vermin, in every sense of the word.” His thin,

aristocratic features were pinched, as if trying to get away from the smell.

The smell . . . the sick puppy who owned this apartment had stacked bodyparts—actual parts of actual human beings’ bodies—in piles all around the rooms.

Jez, whose vampire senses were infinitely more acute than a human’s, found that

she was choking on the reek. How was it possible that foolish humans, even with

their blunted senses, could walk by this dive of an apartment, day by day, and not

inform somebody? The manager. The police. Anybody.

“Well, look here!” In tones of half -admiring disgust, Val, the biggest member of

the gang drawled from a bedroom.



He had tilted up the narrow child-size single bed and was looking down at the

bedsprings. There, flattened between the two surfaces, was the mummified body of

a little girl. “Guess he didn’t like to sleep alone,” Val said, and chuckled at his own

humor.

Now Jez thought she might throw up. But that was ridiculous. She’d never

heard of a vampire vomiting, and if she did she’d be the first one in history to lose it that way.

Little Thistle was clapping and laughing, almost dancing around the apartment.

“What a unique storage idea,” she gurgled, and the words seemed strange coming

out of the mouth of what looked like an elementary school student —a tiny fair-

haired piece of dandelion fluff. She was a made vampire—changed as a child, she

had had chosen not age a single day more. “Two can sleep in the space for one! I

wonder if she kept him warm at night?”

“Sure,” said Val, still chuckling. “Extra insulation.”

Pierce pinched his nose bridge, a sure sign that he was not amused, but

fastidiously offended.

“She’s a bad girl. She spends every night in someone else’s bed,” Thistle added,twirling.

“You want my opinion about her?” A tall, slim girl, who looked like Thistle’s

opposite in every way, turned from the other side of the room. She had black hair

with a blue sheen to it, and it fell asymmetrically over her shoulders, covering one

eye completely. Her other eye was piercing and midnight blue.

“Raven, dear, I always want your opinion,” said Thistle sweetly. “You’re clever,

you know.”

“Well, then, I think the girl in the bed was his first murder,” Raven said. “I think

he did her when he was just a kid like her—how old is he now, anyway?”

“He’s twenty,” a new voice said rather huskily, and Morgead came in from the

tiny spare room. His dark, normally disheveled hair was even more mussed thanusual, and his face looked strained. His eyes, usually gemlike—emerald green—

against the black smudge of his lashes, seemed oddly dulled. “That back bedroom isthe same as these,” he added in a strange voice. “Except worse.”

“Worse?” trilled Thistle. “I wanna see!”

“Maybe he really means ‘better,’” Pierce said, putting it delicately.

“I mean worse. Even humans don’t deserve what’s been done to them. He

recorded himself doing the things, and he’s got a big screen in there. I watched what I could stand. If anyone else wants to go watch, they’re welcome.”

“We never did hear Raven’s theory,” Val said. Val had a one-track mind like 18-

wheeler truck.

“It’s just this. I’m betting that that little girl in the bed was his first murder. Hedidn’t know what to do with her body—this is the city, you can’t bury anything! And

he was too young to drive, and he didn’t want his parents to find out. They must

have all lived here together then. So he put the body in there, and with enough air

freshener and incense he could have disguised the smell. Enough, anyway. I bet rats

die in these walls all the time. And so Mommy and Daddy never knew—and maybe

he took them down, too. Then, since he found he enjoyed it so much, he just kept

adding to his collection.”





“No,” Jez said again coolly. “I just want to see him flunk the Thistle routine.

That’s all.”

“Oh, for . . .” Morgead turned sharply away toward Thistle. “Are you up for it

with this sick dude?”

Thistle smiled and twirled again, making her thistledown hair stand out from

her body. “Sure,” she said. “All vermin are sick. The sicker the better.” Morgead gathered in the rest of the gang with his eyes to make sure that there

weren’t going to be any more objections or demands. Then, clearly making an effort to hold himself in check, he turned back to Jez.

“Does that satisfy your sensibilities?” he asked. Jez smiled benevolently. “It does.”

“Fine. Then we’ll do it the second-in-command’s way.” Morgead said. He

made sure to lay emphasis on Jez’s status.Jez didn’t care. She’d got what she wanted. She usually did.

* * * * *

At one thirty A.M. they converged on the gas station. After that, as Raven coolly

pointed out, it wouldn’t be too odd to lock the door and put the “CLOSED” sign up—

without the target knowing it, of course. Then Thistle could do her thing without

fear of interruption.

Thistle danced into the store lightly on small, sandal-shod feet. At first she just

walked up and down the aisles, looking one way and then the other. Sometimes she

would cup her hands to the window glass and stare outside as if hoping to see

something.

She didn’t have to put all that into the act, of course. But Thistle loved being onstage.

It didn’t take long for Steven G. Vizner to get a good look at the child wanderingin his store. And from the moment he saw her, Jez saw by his expression that he was

going to fail the test. He was a fox and Thistle was a tiny, fluffy, witless little yellow

chick with no parents in sight.

He had to approach Thistle, though. It was part of the rules.

No problem about that. He was cruising toward her as soon as he saw her. She

was at the back of the store, away from possible security cameras at the checkout

stand.

“Hey, honey,” he said, and Jez thought how strange it was, that he looked and

sounded just like any other of the vermin. He didn’t wear a long black cloak and amask and his face was no uglier than the average human’s. No savage sneer, no

lowering brow. Overall, he looked like an oversized puppy that hadn’t grown into

his feet yet.

Human monsters look like human people, Jez thought.

Thistle looked toward him, not at him, burst into tears and turned to run away.

But she was clumsy, or exhausted, and she managed to trip over her own sandals.

She fell, and lay huddled, sobbing softly.



“Poor kid,” Steven said. He wet his lips and he looked around the store. Then

he walked the few steps to where Thistle lay and picked her up. His hands were

large and looked clammy.

Rule Two was that the mark picked Thistle up without asking if she needed

help, and Rule Three was that having got hold of her he didn’t let go.

Steven passed with flying colors.Thistle was playing this as six or seven years old, prattling out a story about

how her parents had had a fight at a restaurant, and how out of all her brothers and

sisters she had been left behind. Not very believable . . . unless you wanted it to be

true. And when Steven put his arms around Thistle and promised that he would

take care of her, Jez saw how much he wanted it to be true.

“And I walked and walked, but my house didn’t come, and now my shoes are

tired,” Thistle said, making Jez wince behind the scenes. “We’ll go driving around looking for it, honey. I’m sure we’ll find your home,”

he promised, and then Jez saw the monster that lived under his human skin.

Was it her imagination? Or did his features really contort, the eyes narrowing,

the mouth twisting into a mad smile? Did a thin stream of spittle run onto his chin?Did his tongue come out to lick it?

No. It was her imagination. Because those things gave even Jez the chills.

“Let’s go—to my car right now,” Steven gulped out. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll

take care of you.”

“Otay, mister.”

Steven clearly couldn’t believe his good luck. It was like having a lamb walk up,

ask to be slaughtered and then cook itself. With mint sauce. He closed the store for

real, not seeming to wonder why the outside lights were out and the sign said

CLOSED already. He took Thistle by the hand and led her around the back of the

station and toward a medium-decrepit Bronco. What he didn’t know was that there

were eyes in the darkness behind him. He had no way of realizing that this was theturning point of his whole life.

He mumbled something Jez could barely catch about getting a blanket from the

trunk to keep Thistle warm.

Raven tried to surge forward, but Jez put out a hand to stop her. He could still

try to help Thistle—maybe he was getting her a blanket —and choose to live. Or he

could try to hurt her and choose to die.

He chose to die.

As soon as the trunk was open he scooped Thistle up and deposited her in it.

Then he slammed it shut.

Then, panting with triumph, he looked to his right and left and behind him.

He obviously didn’t expect to see anything there—and certainly not fiveteenagers; the one in front making a low sound almost like a growl in his throat. He

didn’t expect to see them standing there, in a casual line, their poses lithe and

graceful. He didn’t expect to see them dressed identically, somehow elegant in theirblack jackets and jeans and sturdy black boots. He didn’t expect to see their eyes

throw back the light at him as they stood without saying a word, just looking at him.

He gasped and gurgled.



“All right everybody,” Morgead said, in a slightly distorted voice. “Smile pretty

for Mister Monster.”

Five sets of fangs glinted in the light.

Steven G. Vizner fainted.

They left the Gas’n’Snacks just as it was, Raven driving the Bronco—she’dridden double with Pierce on the way here—and Steven making helpless gurgling

sounds beside her in the passenger seat. Thistle, who’d ridden double with Val, sat in the back seat, helping Raven control his mind, telling him how weak he was, and

how his body didn’t work. He couldn’t move; his body was encased in lead. And you just don’t know what we have in store for you, she giggled, her

telepathy reaching Jez as they drove toward the clean and deadly beauty of Muir

Woods. You’re going to wish you didn’t have a body at all, mister. Otay?

That was what the fight turned out to be about.

* * * * *

“I say we roll for how many days he takes to die,” said Pierce, taking a pair of

dice from his pocket. His ascetic face was pale with excitement and his eyes were

hot. “I mean, this is our best catch of all, the most verminous vermin ever. I say we

definitely take our time with him.”

They had already whetted their appetites on his blood, in order of precedence,

of course. Raven had bought a cleansing wipe, for which she received due applause,

and they had moved the now-catat onic Steven’s head back, back, back, to expose the

throbbing lines of veins and arteries in his neck. And then, one by one, they hadchosen their feeding points. Canines had once again grown long and sharp and

delicate—translucent at the curved ends, lik e a cat’s. And then the quick dart at thetarget, like the striking of a snake.

But unlike a snake, they were not here to inject poison but to delicately

pierce—the thicker the artery, the greater the need for delicacy. Jez hit the carotid

at the perfect angle, so that, in raising her fangs, she felt the double spray against her

palate of the delicious copper-flavored blood. It trickled down her throat tasting

thin and sweet and intoxicating and different. Maybe it was her imagination but

human monsters had blood that tasted unique. It took her a moment in her pleasure

at having made the perfect strike to realize that she had held out her hand and that

someone was grasping it. Swallowing a mouthful of the heady red stuff she hadglanced aside to see what she expected—it was Morgead. He had taken so little

from the jugular that she had anticipated him taking an extra turn—and he was, but

with his fangs clamped solidly into thick blue veins at the wrist. Together, they

drank the nectar of immortality, their hands tightly clasped.

Not that it meant anything of course—her and Morgead. It was always more

delicious to share a meal with a blood brother or sister—especially if the meal’s

mind was as repellant as this one. She and Morgead had linked their thoughts



together, exploring the outer layers of each other’s minds instead. But only the

outer layers. That was perfectly within the traditions.

It wasn’t as if—Jez laughed lightly, knowing that her eyes were liquid silver

now, shimmering with the faintest hint of blue—she were in love with him.

Lovepairs—well, they had all means of enjoying their meals together, mixing kisses

with mouthfuls of the sweet-smelling red wine tapped straight from its living vessel.Lovepairs playfully picked the humans with the most beautiful auras, using senses

humans didn’t even have. A beautiful woman might have a dud of an aura, whereasa plain one might have a life force that would go off like skyrockets when it was

tapped.

But they weren’t a lovepair, and all they had was this monstrous vermin, now

waxen-faced, unable to move a muscle, but able to see and hear—and feel. The time

had come to finish him.

“I agree with Pierce,” Thistle was saying, laughing her high, childish laugh. “He

ought to suffer at least as much as his victims.”

“As all his victims put together,” Raven said, licking the last flecks of red from

her lips and fingers.“He’ll never hold out long enough,” Val said. “But we could try. It’s the least we

can do,” he added. “Har har har.”

“How much did you take?” Pierce asked with superior scorn. “Well, O Fearless Leader?” Thistle was looking at Morgead, “Favor us with your

orders . . . please?” She smiled prettily. Morgead’s face was grim, almost haggard. “I saw things in that other room that

you didn’t,” he said. “This vermin deserves more than anything we could imagine

doing to him.”

“Then it’s unanimous—oh, wait, Jez hasn’t said. Jez?”

“No,” said Jez.

For a moment there was utter silence—Jez and Morgead had been trading theleadership for years—and a single word from her carried a lot of weight. But then

Thistle laughed again, a tinkling sound.

“It was dirty, the floor that gas station. I didn’t get my dress all dirty just so wecould chase this guy to death.” She held out her pale little arms, spreading the folds

of her pretty little blue and white dress to show off the damage.

“Calm down.” Raven’s one visible eye looked jaded. “It’s still five votes to one.

It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me!” Morgead’s emerald green eyes were flashing, gemlike. “I want

you to understand, Jez. This vermin—this human—doesn’t deserve any mercy—not

even the mercy of a quick death.”

“Relatively quick,” drawled Pierce, and there was laughter, which Morgeadstopped with a look. He turned back to Jez again.

“Look,” he said, “we go after the bottom feeders, right?”

There was a murmur of assent.

“We go after the vermin that ought to have been taken care of by their own

kind. The vermin who get off in court on a technicality or who go around

committing violent crimes over and over, or the vermin who are just too smart to

even get caught by the police. Right?”



Another murmur, somewhat louder as the vampires warmed to Morgead’s fire. “Well, we’re never going to find one more suitable than this one. This guy

doesn’t deserve mercy. The things he’s done—if you want, I’ll take you back to that

stinking apartment and I’ll show you what he records himself doing . . . over andover.”

“We can all go,” Thistle said, with just a shade too much enthusiasm for Jez’staste. “But I said it already: I didn’t get all mussed and dirty just to chase tonight,

Jez.”

“Oh, shut up, Thistle,” Raven said amiably. Jez said, looking only at Morgead, “You convinced me a long time ago that this

guy doesn’t deserve mercy,” she said. And, turning toward Thistle, but with her eyes

on Morgead. “And I never said anything about chasing him. There’s no point. He’s

in no shape to run.”

“Then what do you want us to do with him?” Morgead looked exasperated.

“Take him to the nearest hospital? Maybe donate a few pints for him?”

Jez didn’t flinch. “No. I want to kill him—quick. Snap his neck.”

“Well, what you want doesn’t matter,” Thistle said, huffing her scorn. “It’s a 5-1vote, and besides the leader is with us. You know the leader is the only person who

could veto the vote, and you know Morgead won’t.”

“Hell, no, Morgead won’t,” Morgead said. “But I want Jez to understand so she

agrees. I want you with me, not standing on the sidelines,” he added to Jez, and t his

time his green eyes were so hurt that Jez was surprised, and she felt the strong tug

of his convictions.

She had determined that she wasn’t going to explain her position, no matter

what, but now she felt a surge of anger of her own. She wanted Morgead to

understand, damn it! And yet she didn’t want to have to say it in front of the whole

group.

“C’mere.” She jerked her head to one side in a gesture that hadn’t changedmuch since she had been leader. And when Morgead followed her, she lowered her

voice.

“I know exactly what that vermin deserves,” she said. “I had to blot it out while

I was drinking his blood. And I did that by taking him back in his mind to his

childhood—to where his drunken father beat him and his drunken mother forgot to

feed him, and his druggie uncle molested him—over and over.”

Morgead’s green eyes were opening wide, horrified. The rising moon was

reflected in their pupils.

“Jez—going soft?” he said, at least keeping his voice down. “Please tell meyou’re not going to tell me he deserves any mercy because once he had it rough.”

“I don’t—at least I don’t think it serves as an excuse for him swatting a fly!” Jezwatched Morgead settle a bit. “Nothing can excuse what he did—nothing! But on

the other hand I don’t want to see what I can’t help imagining.

“What’s that?”

“You—us, I men—turning into exactly what he is. If we torture him as he

deserves—if we do the things to him that he did to other people, then what does

that make us?”



And finally, as if the words were being pulled out of her, she said telepathically,

I don’t want to see your eyes—while you’re torturing someone. Not even vermin. Idon’t want to see you smile or hear you laugh while you’re doing that.

To her surprise, this argument seemed to carry weight with Morgead. He

hesitated, not seeming sure what to say.

Then the stubborn look she was most familiar with came up again. You knowwhat I don’t want to imagine? I don’t want to imagine this guy loose on the streets.

If Thistle hadn’t already been in the trunk—if you hadn’t already been mind-

controlling him—I would have been worried. He had a razorblade palmed so that

even I couldn’t see it; just smell it. He’s crazy-dangerous.

“And I agree that we have to get rid of him,” Jez said sharply. But no torture.

Not torture! Just a hundredth of the vengeance that he deserves!

Morgead returned. If I were a father or a friend of one of those girls he got, or—or—

lovepaired. . .

Morgead worried about little old fathers of vermin? Jez couldn’t understand it.

But telepathy did strange things sometimes. Strong emotions made it

unreliable, and sometimes what you were most concerned about concealing wereexactly the things that projected. In Morgead’s case, it was a picture. A human

girl—vermin—but nevertheless young and terrified. She was trying to get away

from Steven and his handy razor blade, but she was tied up.

She had blazing red hair.

Jez shied away from the picture. Morgead wasn’t aware that it had slipped

through his mental barriers. He was turning back to the gang.

I just won’t think about it, Jez decided, but she couldn’t help seeing the picture

again and wondering what had put it into Morgead’s head. Nothing Morgead had

said—nothing Morgead might or might not feel—had anything to do with her

argument. The vermin had to be killed, yes, but without turning her gang into a

band of torturers. If they did this, where would they stop? They would be just likeSteven G. Vizner. They’d appointed themselves as vigilantes for vermin who didn’t

deserve to live, but there was an inherent problem in that:

Quid custodiet ipsos custodes?

Who will watch the watchers?

Well, I damn well will. My gang is not going to imitate the Marquis de Sade.

Funny, she always thought of them as her gang even when Morgead was

delegated leadership. They had traded off on several occasions now, always

peacefully and at Jez’s instigation. There were times when she had been too busy

carrying out missions for Uncle Bracken to give her full attention to the gang. Then

she’d called on Morgead, as her second, to lead in her place. But he’d never made a

fuss about giving the position back —until this last time when her uncle had sent heron a very long mission with one of her distant cousins, Ash Redfern. Ash had been

amusing to work with, as well as being particularly easy on the eyes, but when she’d

got back from the mission Morgead had declined to give up his role as gang leader—and what’s more he had enforced that by beating her with fighting sticks.

She had never been able to understand what made him so furious—but furious

he had been. And ever since then he had been gunning for her, giving her every



reason to think he hated her, that he only stuck with the gang because of the others.

Lately, he’d been softening a bit, but . . .

Who could tell what Morgead really thought about anything?

He was wild and dangerous, a kid who had brought himself up on the streets . .

.

. . . and who certainly hadn’t become a torturer of little girls. He was right,there was no excuse, no mitigation for what this vermin had done. But still she

couldn’t stand by to watch his face—or any of the others’, she added hastily, whilethey meted out carefully considered portions of pain and terror. And either she left

the gang or that was exactly what she was going to be watching in less than ten

minutes.

There was only one thing to do.

She did it.

“Morgead,” she said, turning to where he was standing with the others, “I call

you out.”

There was a pause, and then Morgead turned slowly toward her, his green eyes

shining. “What did you say?” Jez, one booted foot up on a fallen tree, refused to give way to melodrama. “I

call you out. I challenge you for the leadership.”

The rest of the gang was whispering in shock. Morgead didn’t make another

sound, but he stared at her with an expression it could take her a lifetime trying to

decipher.

But there was no expression in his voice or eyes as he said, “Okay.” He added,

“Since the gang’s here, and I don’t want anybody to say I took unfair advantage, we’ll

let you decide on how we fight and where. Satisfied?”

Jez shrugged. “Fine.”

The gang was looking caught off guard. They shouldn’t be, Jez thought sharply.

They should be ready for anything, anywhere, anytime.You let us get flabby and out of shape, Morgead, she thought. That’s bad. “Okay,” she said crisply, even though it wasn’t her place. “Somebody name

some weapons.”

“Fighting sticks,” said Pierce quickly, deepset eyes glowing.

“Ironwood swords!” cried Thistle, clapping. “Flails and maces!” Raven was shaking her head. “Nothing lethal,” she said. “We can’t afford to

lose a potential leader or second. Or both.”

“Oh, all right,” Pierce said, lifting his slim hands as if it didn’t concern him.

Thistle sulked.

Val struck a pose, showing off one of his large biceps. “What about nothing?

Bare hands and feet and nothing else.” “They’re both still lethal,” muttered Pierce under his breath. Raven ignored this and said, “Morgead’s bigger, but Jez packs more of a whack.

I’ll be referee.”

“I’d just like to see a little blood,” Thistle whined. “Oh, shut up,” Morgead said, speaking for the first time. “I’m sure they’ll be

plenty of blood before this is over.”



Raven was tak ing her role as referee pretty seriously. “Okay, you here, Jez, and

you here, Morgead. You can use whatever you’ve got on you except your fighting

sticks or wooden shuriken or anything else made as a weapon. And nothing from

the ground—no fallen branches. Not even a twig. Who has the best watch?”

“I’ve got a Rolex we liberated from a killer who won’t be needing it anymore,”

Pierce offered.“Okay, then. Count off thirty seconds. Fighters on your marks—and

remember, no dying unless you can’t help it.”

That got a laugh.

“Twenty seconds . . .” Jez took her mark. “Fifteen seconds . . .” Morgead, for some reason, was refusing to move. It put

Jez’s calculations off, as little Thistle was right behind him. “Ten seconds . . .” Morgead still wasn’t moving. “Five . . .” Val physically dragged Morgead to his mark. Jez was impressed. “Four, three, two, one. Begin!”

Morgead just stood there, scowling. Jez walked over to him briskly as if she

had just forgotten something.“What?” he growled. “Well I happen to know this rule, after being your second and—“

Wham.

She finished the sentence by punching him hard in the stomach.

Jez knew she had a tremendous advantage in this battle—several tremendous

advantages. One was that Morgead was caught off guard while she had been

planning this for several weeks. One was that Morgead didn’t really like hitting

girls. Especially with bare hands. That was his tough luck. Another advantage was

that she did have quite a lot of the Power running through her today: maybe it was

adolescence or maybe it was all the training she’d been doing lately. She wasn’t

slack and out of shape, and when she reached deep inside and gathered up all thePower she had to throw, she was impressed herself. She reorganized it and then

added a little more, and then released it in a narrow, tightly directed beam, all at

once, at the center of Morgead’s brain.

She half expected the fight to be over with that.

It wasn’t. Morgead gave her the most astonished and astonishing look of

betrayal that she had ever seen, and then he collapsed to his knees beside a

redwood the diameter of a car, with his arms wrapped around him and his head

down.

There was a burst of chattering from the onlookers.

Jez was bewildered. If she had ended the sentence she’d begun while walking

toward him, she would have said—well, she might as well say it out loud. “ONCETHE REFEREE HAS SAID ‘BEGIN’ THE FIGHT HAS BEGUN,” she shouted from her

new position behind another redwood.

“Hey, stop a sec,” Raven shouted, breaking from the little group near theBronco. Jez hoped she wasn’t going to rule using Power as illegal, because she had

definitely brought it with her. And deadly as she was just with her physical body,

she knew that Morgead might have the advantage there.



“I just figured out the only way we’ll know this fight is over,” Raven said,

looking steadily at Jez through the one eye not covered by hair. “Otherwise youcould beat each other to a pulp and we still wouldn’t have a leader.”

“Putting death back?”

“No! But whoever can put the bite on the other one wins, okay? It’s all I can

think of.” And she sauntered back to Morgead to give him the bad news. Now it was Jez’s turn to stare with disbelief and a sense of betrayal. Vampires

didn’t bite vampires. And they definitely didn’t let themselves get bitten. It would bethe ultimate humiliation to have your blood taken up by force like that —when you

had fangs, too.

And in front of other people . . . other vampires? Oh, no.

Jez swung around to look at Morgead. Raven was already retreating from him

and he was, as she expected, building up a blast of Power to hit her with. Now he

met her gaze and saw her look of stricken betrayal not with smugness—“Ha! Now

you know how it feels.”—but with a look of kinship.

Let’s just see the referee keep up, Jez said to Morgead, and he nodded. He

didn’t throw anything at her, punch or power. Then they were running, Jez letting Morgead indicate the direction and then

taking the lead herself, since he might be feeling slightly delicate. They were the two

fastest in the gang by far and soon even Val’s bellowing voice was left behind.

Morgead seemed to recover then, and they took to the trees.

As always, Jez felt the thrill of simply swinging and jumping and catching

herself in this most dangerous of place for all vampires. Wood was all around her,

wood containing lignin—whose chemical structure was the only thing that could

score vampire flesh and stop a vampire heart. Even Night World chemists didn’t

understand why. They knew that lignin was what made wood woody, but they

didn’t know its exact structure nor why it stopped vampire cells from

regenerating—fatally in the case of the heart tissue.Sometimes Jez had the feeling that there was a branch out there with her name

on it.

Jumping from burl to burl in the coastal redwoods, Jez forgot about everything

else. She wore her fingerless motorcycle gloves to protect her calloused palms from

direct contact with the wood which might have splinters, but still, after years, it was

the most fun to try to land without using her hands.

She wondered sometimes why she loved this area so. Maybe it was because

trees, were, like her, undead—alive even after they were dead. Anyone could feel

that, who felt a fallen tree. Or maybe it was because trees lived so long—the longest

living of all organisms on earth—except vampires.

Whatever the reason, this was her favorite place, and she was doing her secondfavorite thing—biking came first —jumping and swinging and catching herself in a

forest that was as dangerous to her as a forest of swords and bayonets would be to

one of the human vermin.

And it was exciting.

At last, when she felt that they’d gone far enough away that they wouldn’t be

easily traced by the sharp-eyed gang they’d left behind, Jez turned and said, “Here?”

“Here.”



They swung down to the pine-needle-covered forest floor and faced each other.

Jez drew in a breath of sweet resinous air. Like Morgead, she was lamia—a

breathing, eating, breeding vampire. Not a corpse brought back to unlife.

“Well,” she said. “Wel—” she heard Morgead begin, and then she was getting out of the way

because Morgead had lunged. She had no time to feint, she simply boosted off herright foot as he was lunging to her left, and did a mule kick backwards that hit flesh

and heavy bone before she somersaulted and got up again, whirling around to face

him again.

Morgead didn’t waste time rubbing what must surely be a very sore thigh, but

lunged immediately again. Jez evaded by doing a high snap kick that brushed his

ear, and then when he was off balance doing a second kick that he blocked with his

arm. He tried to flip her by helping her heel on its way up and over, but Jez, instead

of resisting, let herself be flipped backward, carrying it through and landing lightly

in a crouch. At this level, she had to worry about him closing in on top of her and

using his greater weight to bear her down, so she performed a move impossible for

humans, boosting herself out of the crouch and doing a high front flip, sailing overhis head and kicking him twice in the back as she came down.

“Come on,” she said, whirling and landing ready. “You’re going to have to fight me sometime, you know. Or are you just giving me the leadership?”

“Like hell,” he said, sparking to life. If looks could kill, then he would have

broken the rules already with his searing green gaze.

“Then fight!” Jez said. “I’m hardly going to go easy—”

For the second time Morgead rushed her while she was talking. Smart boy. Do

what the enemy doesn’t expect. She was never going to win unless he participated;

she had too much pride to keep attacking a target that wouldn’t or couldn’t fight

back.

Neither would either of them pick up any of the branches that were scatteredplentifully on the ground, although Jez did give herself a moment’s time off to curse

that idiot Val and that other idiot Raven for the ludicrous rules she had to fight by.

Bare hands and Power only? And then drawing blood from the loser?

It was ridiculous—and outrageous. Pierce and Thistle might want to be

voyeurs but Jez had no intention of allowing them to have their way, whichever way

the fight went. Who would follow a second who had been humiliated so? And how

could a leader be sure that a second would watch her back, after she had done such

a terrible, humiliating thing to him? But Raven had made up the rule, and Raven

was referee. That cast it in concrete.

Morgead, seeing her inattention, flowed smoothly by her, giving her a karate

chop to the front of the neck that would have broken a human’s larynx, if not theirspine. For Jez it was merely a wake-up call, she coughed once and was on her guard

again.

She and Morgead circled each other, fighting in almost complete silence and

each of them keeping an ear out for the rest of the gang. They traded punches, kicks,

and chops, Morgead always having the advantage of height and reach, but Jez

making up for it in speed and maneuverability. They were equally knowledgeable,

equally determined, and, after a while, equally frustrated.



“Look, you idiot,” a somewhat battered Morgead said finally. “We’re never

going to get anywhere”—dodge kick —“Like this.”

“Scared already? We’re going to get”—lean away from karate chop—“all the

way through the woods”—frog kick, side flip—“at any rate.”“Scared, my ass! I’m just saying ‘wait.’” Morgead did a backward somersault to

avoid a deadly scythe kick that would have taken him down. “If you know what theword means.” He regained his balance in time to dodge a lightning fast second kick

to his midriff. “I have . . . an

idea.”

Jez rushed him, then spun away as he tried for a bearhug. He did catch a long

strand of scarlet hair, though, and it tore painfully from Jez’s scalp.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The words were automatic and formulistic, but Jez could see

Morgead’s face in the twilight under the great trees.

Jez stopped attacking and they both stared at the long plume of scarlet waving

in the breeze. She couldn’t stop the words from coming; they were hard-wired into

her brain. “No problem,” she said, and then she started laughing helplessly. “Save

me,” she said, “I’m catching vermin-mouth disease.” But her hair was a disadvantage, and a big one. Usually Jez was so superior to

whoever she was fighting there was never a need to worry about it. Humans, the

other gang members, anyone but Morgead. She had to admit, he was good. And in a

breeze like this her hair was electrically charged and flying everywhere. In her eyes.

Into Morgead’s hand. She realized instantly and resentfully that he had deliberately

been avoiding an easy grab that would land her flat on her back.

It made her furious. “Who gives a”—double mule kick —“about your ideas?”

“You should.” Morgead feinted, but didn’t follow through with the attack. A

gust of wind blew hair across Jez’s eyes, and she almost fell, dodging an att ack that

never came. “There’s another way to end the fight. Don’t rush me,” he added.

Jez rushed him, turned aside at the last moment and ran straight up a tree, thenpushed off with powerful leg muscles to backflip over his head. But she was

thinking. Her hair was a problem and she needed time.

“All right,” she said. “Pax until we talk it out?”

“Okay. Pax.”

Jez immediately reached into her jeans pocket. She knew that among all the

junk in there, she had a few bobby pins and scrunchies. Still circling Morgead

warily, she hurriedly twisted her hair into a long thick tail and wound it around her

head. It made a discouragingly heavy crown. “Gotta get it cut off tomorrow,” she

muttered to herself, doing her best with the bobby pins to anchor it.

“Cut off your hair?” Morgead sounded as if she were proposing to amputate

her arm. “Cut your hair off?” Take any advantage you can. Jez was well aware that her long fiery hair was

one of her best features, and that it netted her astonished stares whether she was

biking, walking, or even talking to the human prisoners the gang chased.

To tell the truth, she felt a small twinge herself when she contemplated doing

it. Maybe—maybe even a medium sized twinge. It was such a bother, taking forever

to wash, forever to dry and forever to drag a brush through, ouching all the way,

after she went cruising.



But it was her hair. She wasn’t going to keep it at an inconvenient length

because of anyone else’s opinion. “Cut it all off,” she said, somewhere in between cruel and practical. “It’s just a

nuisance.”

Morgead said nothing, but he looked as if she had scored a kick to his gut.

“Of course,” he said slowly, “if I’m leader tomorrow, I can order you not to. It goes to the morale of our gang.”

So that was it. He just wanted to control her and keep up the status of the

“gang with the red-haired girl in it.”

For the first time though, she saw his emerald eyes glint. It was the first time

he’d been interested in the fight.

“So what’s your big idea?” she said. “This pax only lasts so long, you know.”

“My idea—oh, yeah. What I was going to say was that is that if we keep fighting

this way, it’s going to take all night and we won’t be in any shape for—anything—

afterward.”

“What you mean is that you won’t be in any shape to torture him this way.

Good! I’ll be in fine shape to snap his neck even after beating your sorry ass.” Morgead’s green eyes turned luminous, glowing like a cat’s. That was good too.

Now that he was mad, he’d be more likely to make a mistake.

He made one.

“Right,” he said. “You want to waste Power, we’ll waste Power. Let’s do this

using nothing but Power, eye to eye, palm to palm.”

“Oh, for—you really are a jerk, aren’t you?” And that really was a waste of

Power. Besides, it was dumb. Dumb on his part. She was definitely his superior in

the uses of the strange psychic ability that vampires simply called “Power.”

No one knew exactly what it was or how it worked. It was like wood that

way—not as painful to research, but as elusive. The consensus of vampire scientists

was that it was a branch off the witchfire witches used: unearthly Power in itspurest, most raw form. Some vampires had so little, or were so clumsy at using it,

that they might as well not have any at all. Others were better than witches at

healing. And, of course, all had greater or lesser facility in telepathy, and in

controlling the behavior of other creatures, vermin included.

The aristocrats of the vampire world were the ones with the most raw Power.

That was how they’d gotten to be aristocrats. The Council put strict regulations on

its use, concerned, as always, with secrecy.

But Jez was a gutter-fighter; she’d spent her childhood roaming the docks and

warehouses of San Francisco, and she’d use Power any time it gave her anadvantage. She wasn’t picky about weapons—she couldn’t afford to be.

So if Morgead wanted to give the leadership away, that was fine with her.“Eye to eye, palm to palm, mind to mind,” she agreed, completing the formula.

She took another few steps forward, so that she faced Morgead squarely.

He held his hands up, palms open and facing out. Jez did the same. Then she

looked straight into his green eyes, which were still luminous, making her think of

green fire. She knew that he was looking into her own eyes: silvered blue and

blazing like the base of a flame.



Then, carefully, holding each other’s gaze, they moved their palms together

until they were flat, touching wherever they could touch.

Something like an electric spark exploded in Jez’s palm and raced straight up

her arm, blossomed through her body. But it wasn’t an attack with Power; it wasn’t any kind of attack. She was fairly sure that it wasn’t even a deliberate doing of

Morgead’s, but . . . she couldn’t . . . think. This was . . . this was not . . .Something deep below the level of her consciousness, something that was

frightened and shocked and elated all at once, said, Don’t hurt him. Morgead’s eyes widened. They seemed to be all pupil. But Jez wasn’t focusing

on things like that. Her vanity was stung. He’d heard her. Could anything be more

embarrassing than that?

Like an involuntary sob welling up from within her depths, she let loose a bolt

of pure Power and slammed it into him.

Palm to palm, eye to eye . . . but Morgead couldn’t do that anymore. He was on

his knees, retching and choking. Yes. She was good at this.

“Had enough? You really want to stop at one?” Jez made herself gather more

energy, pulling it from her toes and her fingernails and the roots of her hair. She put together everything—

(liar, that’s not everything)

—and stepped over to clasp his hand.

“Look up and say cheese.”

Morgead slowly lifted his head up. Their eyes met —and Jez threw it all at him

in one concentrated egg-shaped burst.

Morgead convulsed briefly. His fingers scrabbled at the black earth beneath

the fallen pine needles. His boots scored the ground, throwing up little sprays of

mud.

So that’s that? She made herself yawn. But something was battering at the

back of her mind.This isn’t fighting, said an ice cold voice that didn’t seem to come from her, but

certainly wasn’t the almost -insensible Morgead.

This is . . . . torture.

Jez froze, her eyes wide.

What is the difference between what you’re doing and what that vermin back there did? For that matter, what’s the difference every night when you hunt the

vermin . . . the terrified, agonized vermin . . . .

No! she wasn’t going to give in to this. Killing vermin was different.

But Morgead . . . .

Jez had a silvery taste, as of vomit, at the back of her mouth.

Morgead? she asked.No answer. He was still, now.

Jez felt horror—and shame. She tried to pull herself together. She told herself

that this was a fight, not torture. They had both agreed to do this; nobody had made

Morgead accept her challenge.

But impulse was overwhelming her. Jez wasn’t used to repressing her

impulses. She was used to going with the flow, doing whatever she felt like at the



moment. Discipline would come later, she always thought, and she never worried

about how or when it was going to come.

Right now, Jez’s impulse was to go and see how badly Morgead was injured.

She went over to him and touched his arm.

“Are you—”

Slam.It felt like getting hit by a freight train, like thousands of shards of glass being

hammered into her raw nerve endings. It felt like having her skin pulled off and put

on inside out in a vat of acid.

It hurt.

It hurt so much that Jez momentarily grayed out. Not blacked out —her

survival instincts were too good for that. But the world slowed down and sound

disappeared and her vision was only a tunnel—with the threat-to-survival at the

end of that tunnel.

And it was from a cheating move.

In Palm to Palm you could only strike with both hand and eyes in contact. It

wasn’t just a starting posture; it was the whole ball game. She’d actually won assoon as she’d knocked Morgead to his knees—the problem was getting him to

accept it.

What he had done was simply temper—if you could call it that. Every year it

got colder and more deadly—so that making him mad was a calculated risk. You

might get a red-hot Morgead who would make mistakes, or you might get an ice-cold

ruthless hunter who would work with his anger like a deadly craftsman.

Tonight it seemed she’d gotten both—and she should have expected it. But

Morgead had, or used to have, this thing about his word. Once he gave it he prided

himself on never breaking it. And the game was something like a sworn word.

“You bastard,” Jez muttered, and realized that Morgead was trying to send his

thoughts to her.Go jump in Stinson Beach, Jez wordlessly told him. Go find a cliff.

Jez—

Don’t try to talk to me, you jerk. You suggest the game, and then you cheat at it,

Jez said. I should have guessed, you worm. Y-you realize what your word is good

for now. It’s good for spit. The falter was not deliberate. Jez’s muscles were still cramping from the blow.

She was still shaking and sick to her stomach.

And you see? the unwanted third voice was asking in her head. You see what

happens when you torture somebody? They torture in return, or their kin do, or

their country does. It’s an endless cycle . . . .

It wasn’t torture, Jez exploded, in her fragmented state of mind sending thethought to Morgead.

Torture? Jez, what are you—?

Shut up! Nothing! Leave me alone, you cheat.

Jez, I’m trying to say—

I don’t care—

Please—

I can’t hear you.



Jez, I’m sorry. Sorry?

Yes. I’m sorry.

It was one thing she had never expected to hear Morgead say. Morgead had no

pity for himself, and none for any opponent.

Jez could open her eyes now and she squinted to see Morgead lying, apparentlyresting, on his stomach.

She gathered all her bodily energy so that she could get up, stumble to where

he was lying, and flip him over. Then she half-fell, half-sat on top of him.

And if he tries to cheat again I’ll shatter him like glass. I swear I will, she

thought.

I heard that.

I don’t care. You cheated, you cheating . . . cheat!

I know. I mean, I know now. But it wasn’t something I thought about then. I

was thinking . . . about something else.

So what? Who cares?

They had a play over at Berkeley. It was outside, where anybody could watchfor free. And . . . Morgead faded a bit but they had been talking telepathically long

enough that Jez cold follow his thoughts without his help.

. . . a play about a boy and girl our age, but it was a long time ago and they

didn’t talk at all like us. If I hadn’t been telepathic I couldn’t have f igured out what

everybody was saying. But it was about this boy and girl who were, you know,

lovepaired—

“Hmmph!” Jez grunted, losing interest.

Yeah, but this was all different; it wasn’t the usual stupid vermin love story.

Anyway, they wanted to get together. But they couldn’t because their families hatedeach other. But they decided they’d rather die—see, that was the point of it all—

than not be together. So they died. It was called Romeo and Juliet.“So? So what’s it got to do with anything, cheat?” Jez was still sitting astride

Morgead, still impatient.

Well, there was a part in it when they’re just falling in love, right? And they

stand facing each other and holding their palms together.

“Oh, a fight?” said Jez, regaining some interest. “No!” Morgead was moved to speak out loud. “I told you they’re just getting

lovepaired.”

Jez didn’t want to hear about love or lovepairs.

If Morgead had an explanation, then he should just explain.

“I know,” Morgead said. “I’m trying! And this love story was—it —it was

somehow different from anything I ever saw. It —it —just was . . . different.”But underneath his fumbling, Jez could hear the truth about it, what he really

thought:

It sang.

But she still couldn’t see what it had to do with the cheating. “So what?” she said. Now Morgead was writhing. Jez sensed that she couldn’t have found a more

effective mental—



—torture, whispered the voice—

mental punishment if she had tried.

“I don’t know. No—I’ll tell you. I’m telling you, all right? I guess—I guess for

some insane reason I was thinking of the play when we were standing there. I don’t

k now why,” he added bitterly. “There can’t be two more opposite things in the

world. But I swear, Jez; I swear on—on anything—that that was what I was thinkingabout when I was looking in your eyes. That’s what I was thinking about when this

blast of Power hit me, and knocked me over. And then another one that —that —”

Jez felt uncomfortable. “I know,” she said. “But it was all fair. You took myhand. You looked me in the eye.”

“I couldn’t see anything. And Jez, I swear, I didn’t k now it was you who was

doing it. I thought it was some monster attacking both of us. Attacking . . . them.”

If Jez hadn’t been a vampire, she would probably have thought that what

Morgead was talking about qualified him for a rubber room, straitjacket included

free. But since she was still connected to his mind, she knew he wasn’t crazy or

lying, or shifting facts for his own purposes. He was telling the exact and literal

truth.And this did something unexpected to her. It disarmed her.

Suddenly she was left with no clear reason to be angry with Morgead.

She could feel her anger drain away, like shower water under her feet.

But still . . .

“Well, what did you care about Romeo and Orange Julius?” she said scornfully.

And Morgead’s reaction was most stunning of all. He sounded . . . . humble. “I can’t explain it. I don’t have any excuse. You’re leader. But —are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay, idiot.” It was very difficult for Jez to admit that her headwas swimming and the tunnel vision was getting narrower, not wider. But just as

her mind overlapped Morgead’s, his overlapped her to a degree.

“Jez?” he said, and then more urgently, “Jez?”

“I’m all right,” Jez lied. “I just need some sleep, that’s all.” But the strange thing

was that Morgead’s admission and open humiliation had had an unusual effect on

her. Jez had been sharp and alert, able to follow the story with no trouble, ready to

fight again if it should be necessary—while she had been pushing Morgead. She was

a huntress, after all. But now . . . the chase was over. She had won, won more

spectacularly than ever before, even if she did have to wonder now about Morgeadand his bizarre fantasies. But that was in the future.

Now, now with her victory came the inevitable letdown as adrenaline drained

away. She was used to that —but this time it was having truly remarkable effects.

She could feel all the pain she had shifted to the back of her mind.

“You sure sleep’s going to do it?”



Jez wasn’t sure of anything. She had taken Morgead’s blow without any kind of

shielding, from the side—where she was more vulnerable than the front, and in a

null period after having dissipated her own energy.

I’m not fine, am I? she thought.

Half of her expected some new attack from Morgead. Maybe he had shown that

he wasn’t a deliberate cheat, but she knew well how dangerous he was, and she hadjust humiliated him thoroughly. What better time for him to grasp her numb hands,

look into her dimming eyes, and then blast her again.

None, she concluded. There was nothing at all to prevent it, and she knew

Morgead well enough to know that he might decide to take advantage of this

situation. He could invade her mind and wrest secrets from her. And if he did . . .

well, he could certainly find a lot to ridicule there.

And it was the only logical next move.

It was what she would do in his place, wasn’t it?

She was a little confused now—and getting more confused fast.

Hell, if only they’d stayed with the rest of the gang she wouldn’t have to worry.

Raven had a strict sense of justice. She wouldn’t let this go on when the real fight was over. Thistle . . . what would she do? And Pierce would enjoy it. But Val . . . he’d

side with Raven . . . .

Oh hell, I’m going to do something really sissy.

She didn’t faint exactly. It was just that her tunnel vision tunneled to a

pinpoint of gray, and she lost control over her arms and legs. She was limp, a blind

rag doll. Defenseless. At the mercy of the enemy.

And then, just as she was thinking that she couldn’t remain in this state—she

didn’t dare—she went into another state.

A state of entire darkness, in which she wasn’t aware that she wasn’t aware.

* * * * *

Jez . . . Jez . . . Jez . . . .

Jez tried to open her eyes, found it impossible, and lapsed back into

unconsciousness.

“Jez!”

A long time later, Jez came to herself, muzzily, to find that she was lying cradled

in Morgead’s arms. He was saying her name over and over, in different tones, from

an urgent call to a whisper.

. . . and there was something else, something she couldn’t identify, or wouldn’t identify, not even in the tiny part of her that had always kept watch over Jez from a

distance. What ever it was, it wasn’t something Jez was ready to hear, and it scared

her. Even the urgency scared her. Their gang played rough and knockouts weren’t

uncommon. They were just uncommon for Jez, who somehow managed to evade

half the rough stuff and stand her ground for the rest of it —take it in the teeth

without visibly flinching. Often sheer pride had kept her standing when her body

felt as if it had been put through a grater and minced fine.



She felt fairly minced now, but apparently Morgead wasn’t going to . . . to do all

the things she’d been confusedly thinking before she collapsed. She could think

properly now. It seemed that Morgead had caught her as she fell. Why he was

holding her in this undignified and . . . and . . . unusual way—well, she would figure it

out later. For now she had to keep up appearances.

Could she talk? If she tried and it came out as a whisper or a croak she’d behumiliated, and . . . one point to Morgead. But —she had to try.

She summoned all the energy she could clumsily gather to her throat. She was

pleased to find that it felt almost normal, and she felt ready to speak.

She even managed to put some annoyance into her voice, as she said, “Yes, I’m

here, I’m all right. You caught me off guard, is all.”

Even as she said it a part of her stopped to marvel at the words. She had been

off guard, totally unshielded, utterly exposed—and she’d taken one of Morgead’s

best blasts of Power. She ought to be dead. She ought to have burst open like a

plum hitting the sidewalk. She preened herself a little. She was even tougher than

she’d realized.

Morgead had turned away sharply. His voice was odd and he was breathing asthough he’d finished running a marathon around Muir Wood. “You were—I had to

start you breathing again. I killed you. Gods damn me.”

Jez stopped preening. Not breathing? That was bad. It was worse. She owed

Morgead for starting her up again. She’d been . . . dead meat. And a dead lamia was

like a dead vermin. They didn’t start ticking again when you removed the stake or

whatever.

Morgead wasn’t much given to swearing. At least standard swearing. He could

be marvelously inventive at times. But damning himself? For a vampire, that was

just pointless. And why was he hiccupping now?

Deep down, powered by the part of her that always kept watch, she knew he

wasn’t really hiccupping. And she knew that she was even more scared than before. Jez reacted the only way she knew how. She gathered all her power and put

more annoyance in her voice to cover the fear and the slight unsteadiness. “I ought to court-martial you, you know? But we don’t have time; we have to get going—”

To her astonishment, she was flipped over as if she’d been a six-weeks-old

kitten, and Morgead was kneeling above her and shaking her shoulders. She had no

energy to resist him. His face was furious—and wet. It was so pale in the moonlight

that to vampire eyes, it looked luminescent. He wasn’t trying to hide any of it fromher, that he’d been crying so hard that his eyelids were swollen and shadowed—or

that he was still crying, crystal drops that fell on Jez’s upturned face.

Or that he was almost out of his mind with fury. Between the shadowed lids,

his green eyes were incandescent with it, and it pulled Jez in like a magnet, lockingher gaze on his. The shadows made his eyes look deep-set in hollows and with the

rest of his face pale as moonlight, Jez felt she’d never really understood the word

“fury” before. She understood it now. “Court -martial me? Don’t you understand, Jez? I . . . killed . . . you. I didn’t even

know it was you I was hitting out at. My mind was inside this play, this stupid

vermin play, and then something hit me so hard that I could think straight and it



ruined everything. And I lashed back at it —and it was you. I hit you with everything

I had. And you didn’t even . . . didn’t have a shield . . . ”

Morgead’s face twist ed. Jez was dizzy from the shaking, but it was more than

that. She felt —strange. Very strange. Light. Hot and cold at once. Her stomach was

a ball of ice. But the other parts of her . . . her heart was thudding as if she’d just now

finished the fight —and she didn’t know why. Why should Morgead’s pain give hertingles in her palms and in the soles of her feet? Why did it make her ache all over—

but with a strange, unfamiliar ache, not the kind of pain that she’d ever felt before?

Morgead could have left her alone, unbreathing, and made up any story he

liked for the rest of the gang. They never would have suspected anything, even

when they came to hide her body. She and Morgead fought like cats and dogs, and

nobody would even be surprised that a blast of his Power had broken her shields

and killed her. He could tell them the whole truth—except the very end, and who

would know?

Why hadn’t he? She was always a nuisance to him, even if they sometimes

enjoyed honing their skills against one another. Why had he even bothered to save

her . . . much less all the rest of this?There was no one to ask. She couldn’t imagine talking to Uncle Bracken about

all this. Raven would only smile her secretive smile and look up one-eyed and

enigmatic through her dark hair. How did people learn about this?

You don’t have to learn, the deep-down part of her counseled. You know.

You’re growing into a woman . . . now. Boys are always slower than girls. Deep

down, where I am, you know. It just depends on what you want. You can cut him

down to size, smack him, snub him. Just being your normal obnoxious self would

help. What do you think? What do you want? Be honest, now.

She was surprised to feel her reaction to that. Smack him, snub him? Do that

to Morgead? Who felt so badly already? Who had worked so hard to save her even

if it meant she took the leadership away?No, what this poor shaking, confused young man needed was comfort, and she

could use some on her own account.

But she hadn’t been brought up knowing how to comfort, or how to take

comfort for that matter.

Meanwhile Morgead only seemed to be getting more furious. “You don’t get it,do you? There’s no way to make you understand what almost happened!” And he

shook her again. There was definitely something wrong with him. He was right,

too—she didn’t understand these lightning shifts between tears and fury.

And Jez, being Jez, couldn’t help her reaction. “What the hell is wrong with you? And why the hell didn’t you just leave me

there when I stopped breathing? It’s what I would have done to you.” “I’m sure you would. That’s the vampire way, isn’t it? That’s all we are.” At

least her words had acted as a tonic for Morgead. There was no trace of the tears he

had shed, and although his face was ravaged, he looked much more like the Morgead

she knew. “That’s all you want to be.”

“It’s what I am! I thought you were the one who was all for torturing vermin,weren’t you? And as you pointed out a little while ago, I’m your leader now. So I’ll

thank you to get off of me and let go.”



“And if I don’t?”

Think quick, Jez’s instincts told her. Really quick because you’re in no shape todo anything else. “Then it’s another charge for the court martial. Do you really want

to get beaten out of the gang?”

The hell that you had to go through to get into their gang was nothing to the

hell promised to anyone who was thrown out. It meant having your blood drawnthree times by every single member . . .

“As if I give a damn,” Morgead said furiously. “But it does remind me of

something, second. I was—upset for some reason then and I made a mistake. It’s

the one who puts the bite on the other that wins the leadership. And . . . right now . .

. there’s nothing I’d rather do than put the bite on you.”

“You wouldn’t dare, you—traitor!”

“That’s ‘leader,’ Jezebel—get used to it!”

Jez was in a bad position. She’d let Morgead pin her to the ground, and she was

still weak from . . . well, bluntly, from being dead. She could struggle all she wanted,

but this was only going to go one way.

Morgead had a grip on her chin and she was being forced to turn her head. Therest of her body was clamped solidly to the ground by his greater size and weight. A

sudden feeling of weakness, of futility, washed over her, and she found her cheek

being pressed to the grass.

Then she felt cool, wet fingers tracing the lines of her most prominent veins

and arteries. It was something she had often done to a target once he was down, but

not hing she ever imagined she’d feel herself. “You’d better relax,” Morgead said, still furious, but now cold as well. “You

know how much it hurts if you resist.”

“Morgead, I swear that you’d have been better off leaving me dead. Because I

am going to kill you for this.”

“Kill me? You were the one who challenged, Jez. We’re here because youwanted to get away from the others. And you agreed to the terms.”

That was the fly in the ointment. She had agreed. And if it had been Morgead

lying here, with her on top, as it ought to be—as it would have been if he hadn’t blasted her unawares, she’d be saying exactly the same things.

Jez was too proud to fight, to struggle, when there was absolutely no point.

Instead, she began, mentally, to prepare a poison dart for him.

A poison dart, in the psychic sense, had no weight or physical substance.

Instead, it was a concentration of feelings, thoughts, knowledge, that was meant to

take a target down. One had to hate the target. A really good psychic dart was made

of such undiluted hatred that sometimes, although rarely, it actually killed. Of

course one had to know the target well because the contents of the dart had to betrue—or true enough that the target would believe it. You had to know what the

target would be hurt by most.

Jez could meet all the qualifications.

I’ll hit him in the middle of when he’s drinking, she thought. Right when he

thinks he’s winning. I’ve got to keep a clear head through the pain so that I’m able to

throw it.



Her poisoned dart was composed almost solely of pure, unmodified hatred,

plus the knowledge that he would take over leadership of the gang by force and by

cheating—by breaking his word.

Now she felt warm breath against her neck, but still no pain. Morgead lifted his

head and again traced the most prominent vein, flicking with an expert finger to get

it to rise, like a nurse readying it for a blood sample. Once again, she felt his warmbreath on her neck, warm turning to cool as he paused, hovering over her.

Try to relax, Jez told herself. Then, right in the middle of his triumph, you

throw the dart. You might even kill him stone dead with it. Wouldn’t that be luck?’’

She ignored the deep-down part of herself. It wasn’t doing her any good now;

it was weeping like a child.

Warm breath again. She wished he would just bite down and get it over with.

And at that moment she felt the delicate prick of elongated canines. She kept

her eyes shut determinedly.

But the canines didn’t pierce. They stayed just as they were for a long moment,

and then they disappeared.

Jez opened her eyes in exasperation. What was going on?Morgead’s green eyes were blazing into hers, his face haggard. Then, abruptly

he rolled off her so that she was free to move. He was muttering something over

and over.

“What?” Jez said sharply.

It didn’t make Morgead speak any louder, but by leaning closer she could hear

what he was saying.

“The hell with it. . . . the hell with it. . . .”

He couldn’t do it! Perfect. And he was completely vulnerable to her f rom the

back; he wasn’t even normally shielded.

Jez threw her dart.

At the last moment, the deep-down part of her lashed out and tilted her aimupward. Jez was furious. It was like having another person inside her, knocking her

hand up at the last second and spoiling her shot.

The next second, though, she thought, it worked!

As before Morgead seemed to convulse slightly. His whole body jerked as if

connected to an electric wire. He had been trying to get up; now he fell down and

for a moment there was a shower of pine needles. Then he was still.

Well, Jez wasn’t falling into that trap twice. She was lying on her side; she

pushed herself up into a sitting position and waited, watching him. No change.

“Morgead, I’m not going to fall for it. I barely scratched you. Now get up.”

She hardly expected him to leap to his feet obediently, but she did expect some

reaction. There wasn’t any. All right, she thought to him, it isn’t funny anymore. Quit it.

And at last, telepathically, she felt a response. Not the vibrant glowing—almost

blinding response that was Morgead’s usual mind signature, but a feeble barely-

there stirring. It felt like almost dead embers being stirred in a firepit, there was a

dull red glow here and there, but most of it was gray ash.



It might be an ambush—but Jez couldn’t see any place in his mind to ambush

her from. The landscape stretched out barren and featureless as far as she could see

in all directions. And Morgead’s mental fires seemed to be on the verge of going out.

He was dying.

Jez could feel herself start to panic. But Morgead couldn’t die from the dart she

had thrown. It had hardly touched him. And it had happened too fast; he hadn’t hadtime to take in the contents and examine it and be poisoned by what the psychic

layers contained.

He was a strong, healthy guy—used to fighting like this every week, practically

every day of his life. Big tough guys didn’t fall over dead from a few punches and a

zap of Power.

But then, she thought, he’s been acting strangely all day. From wanting to

torture that vermin—that’s not like him!—to crying, actually crying and holding me

as if I were a baby. Maybe there was something wrong underneath all the time.

Maybe he was sick —deathly sick —and he didn’t want us to know it.

But vampires didn’t get sick in the ordinary way. What on earth was going on

with him?Looking at the deep red, sullen coals that were all that was left of Morgead’s life

force, Jez knew she had to find out. And there was only one way to do that. A deep-

mind probe. She would have to go down into Morgead’s mind and try to find out

what was the matter with him. She only hoped he knew, himself! It was dangerous,

but . . . she touched his skin to find that it was already cooling . . . it was the only way

to get the information she needed in time.

All right then: she steadied herself, made herself sit tailor fashion by his body,

anchored her own consciousness at one end in the here-and-now, so she’d have

something to come back to, and prepared to go spelunking. Let’s see, when should

she start? Just before the fight with Power? That ought to be sufficient.

And she let herself down into the core of his consciousness.

Morgead

There was a hard hot fizzing inside Morgead’s head that Jez mustn’t be allowed

to see. It had been there since he’d gone into that damned vermin’s trophy room.

The room where the killer kept the finest specimens of his collection. There were

things too terrible to think about in there—like the jam jar full of teeth. Or the wall

covered with scalps, with hair of every shade and length.

Here Jez hit a barrier. Something had happened, but Morgead’s mind wasn’t going to cough it up, not without some . . . really forceful urging. Painful forceful

urging.

So she let it go. It was like a skip in a recording, the next thing Morgead’s

memory would give her was him shutting the door to the room, determined not to

let anyone in. And him only wishing he could shut the door to his mind to it as

easily.

Well, he’d managed that. Jez fast -forwarded.



And now here he was, standing facing Jez, his second-in-command and about to

fight her in a Palm-to-Palm contest. And that was just plain stupid. He didn’t

understand quite how it had come to this, but it had. His feelings were in a state of

complete confusion.

Looking at Jez only made the confusion worse. She was striding gracefully

toward, him, her own red hair blowing in the wind, waist length or longer. It gavehim a strange feeling to see that, and to see how tall she’d grown. She wasn’t a child

anymore.

But that feeling was nothing to what he felt when he looked at her face. Jez was

most beautiful when she was most dangerous and today she was absolutely deadly.

Her fair flawless skin with just the faintest flush of dawn color over her high

cheekbones. Her softly curved mouth, which could quirk in sudden amusement,

revealing a totally unexpected dimple in her cheek. But just because her skin was

the delicate, baby fair and soft skin of the true redhead, that didn’t mean her

disposition had any softness in it. You saw that when you looked into her eyes.

Normally they were a beautiful cerulean blue—heavenly, with just the faintest

sheen of silver. But when she allowed her vampire nature to manifest itself, whenshe was angry, or even when she felt strongly about something, they changed. Then

they were like liquid silver, like mercury, with a little blue missed in. It made

anyone around her feel that they were standing close to the moon. And that was a

dizzying feeling. The moon up in the sky was very well, but the moon standing right

beside you was another thing all together.

Morgead was angry with himself. Here he was, when he ought to be getting

ready for the fight of his life and all he could think of was the uncanny silver in his

opponent’s eyes. Jez already had her palms out, her expression cool and distant, her hands

steady.

All right, then. Morgead turned to face Jez fully. He took a deep breath andcarefully placed his palms against hers. And then he lifted his eyes to hers—

—and was immediately transfixed. Memory flooded his mind. That play, the

one they’d had over at Cal Berkeley. Romeo and Juliet. Normally, Morgead would

have scorned to watch a vermin play, but this one was different. The words were

like a river in the way they flowed, sometimes swift and effervescent over smooth

stones, sometimes more slowly as the current spread over deep waters. But all of it

flowed and as it flowed it seemed to make a song. A sad song, but the most beautiful

he had ever heard. And now he and Jez were standing the way Romeo and Juliet had

when they first met. And what was that line? Palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss.

Because he could see into the mind of the actress playing Juliet, he had understood

the meaning of the words, but it still made him flush. Right now, he and Jez were . . .kissing, he thought shyly.

That had been when the bolt of Power hit him.

It was strong, the strongest he’d ever felt, and it splintered his shields. It

slammed into him with raw, elemental power and sent him flying. And then he

slammed into the ground with raw physical power. He had been aware, dimly, that

he was having something like a seizure.



And then someone or something took hold of his hand, and when he blindly

lifted his head hit him with another bolt.

Someone was trying to kill him. To kill him and Jez, he thought dimly. That

was it. The killer from the apartment of grisly trophies was an adult vampire and he

was trying to get them. Morgead remembered the terrible smelling trophy room.

The killer was out to get their scalps! He had to protect Jez. He had to. But hecouldn’t get up. His muscles were paralyzed. He couldn’t get to her.

And although there was still Power surging through his body, keeping him

awake, even if he felt as if he were in some hallucinatory nightmare, he was blind!

He didn’t know where to direct it. He had to gather every ounce of Power he could

and then blast the monster—and he had to find the monster so he could do it. It was

concealing its presence remarkably well. All he could sense was himself and Jez.

But then the monster made a mistake. Physical contact. It touched his arm.

Morgead unleashed all that hoarded Power in one single bolt of destruction.

He meant to kill and he felt pretty certain that not even the strongest of the Night

People could have survived that onslaught.

Jez

Jez pulled herself out of Morgead’s mind with difficulty. She’d gone too farback. All right, it explained why Morgead hadn’t considered it cheating when he’d

hit her as she touched his arm. But it still didn’t explain later events. He’d

recovered enough to talk, to sit up, to argue—and all the while she had been

concealing how quickly she was going downhill. That was what she wanted to see

from his perspective.

Morgead

As Jez collapsed, he managed to catch her in his arms. It happened so fast that

he did it without thinking. Then he sat at stared down into her face.

Her skin wasn’t the fair, dimpled, almost luminous skin that he was used to

seeing. It was tinged with gray. Her eyes were open but unseeing. And her body

was completely still.

It took a long time to realize that she was dead.

He’d seen enough dead bodies in his life that he ought to be able to recognizethe signs. But somehow he refused to see them in Jez. The blue color of her lips, the

cooling of her body, the flattening of the eyes.

And then suddenly he knew that he didn’t want to live any longer and he wasable to admit it. Jez was gone and he didn’t want to be alone.

He never even analyzed why he should have thought “alone” when the rest of

the gang was still waiting for him. The gang that he and Jez had created.

It took a long time for him to realize that there was a chance to bring her back.



It would take a tremendous amount of energy, though. And he just didn’t have

that. Even if he scraped the bottom of the barrel, pulling energy from his spine and

the soles of his feet —he had nowhere near enough.

And meanwhile Jez’s brain wasn’t getting any oxygen. She was losing brain

cells, which, even in vampires, was a disastrous thing.

They’d thought they’d been so clever in losing the gang. Now he could haveused the others. He would have ruthlessly stripped them of energy to give Jez what

she needed. If only they were here . . . even if it killed one of them . . .

That was when he realized he didn’t need them.

He was here, and he had always had a particularly strong life energy. If he was

willing to give it all to Jez, it should be enough.

He didn’t waste a second after that. He needed to get in contact with her, in better contact that just eye to eye and

palm to palm. It only took him a second to stretch her out on the pine needle rug

and brush her hair off her face. Then, holding both her hands he clamped his mouth

over hers as if giving her artificial respiration. Which, in a way, this was.

And then he channeled the life energy which flowed in and out of him solelyout —into Jez. Normally he generated it and it flowed through his body, refreshing

and renewing the organs—making him lamia, in short. It was the energy that

allowed him to choose to age or not to age, the energy which made him heal much

faster than any human could heal and move much faster than any human could

move. And then, when the energy had circulated throughout every part of his body,

he took it back in, and it was mysteriously renewed by something in his heart, the

way human blood picked up oxygen at the lungs. Then the cycle began all over

again.

It was why staking through the heart was the only way to kill a vampire.

But now, he was channeling the energy outside his body and into Jez’s. And

once it completed its circuit he was channeling it to Jez’s heart, not his own.It was all he could think of to do. But . . . it wasn’t pleasant. As each sweep of

life energy went by, his own starving cells demanded their share.

He wouldn’t let them have it. This was for Jez.

It got harder and harder as time went on. It . . . burned. His lungs ached.

But he would only think of Jez.

Please, just a little, his body begged.

No! He had killed Jez; he deserved to die.

And still Jez lay without stirring.

You see? It’s not doing any good. Why condemn yourself too?

I don’t care, he thought. Even if we both die.

It was particularly cruel torture, like showing a drowning person a stream of bubbles, or dripping water in front of someone dying of thirst. But Morgead refused

to take even one cycle of the energy. He wasn’t even sure now why he was doing

this. But he knew he had to give Jez back her life.

And then he felt her try to gasp under his lips and he hastily blew a lungful of

air into her open mouth. Then he got out of the way and looked at her.



Her skin was baby fair again, the color of the palest luminescent dawn. Her

eyes were moving under her eyelids as if she were dreaming. And her parted lips

were rose colored.

It was all so beautiful that it wasn’t until the world began to go cold that he

realized he still wasn’t channeling his life energy back into himself.

He remedied that quickly, and felt the blessed flow of life through his body.And then he began to call Jez’s name, barely realizing and certain ly not caring

that he was crying.

Jez

That idiot! He ought to be completely dead by now! Burning his life energy to

heal her. No wonder he was in the state he was.

And why? Why would he want to save her so much that he was willing to die

himself? Why?And why did it make her feel like crying? Why did it give her a strange, melting

feeling in her stomach?

The deep-down part of her knew why. But she still wasn’t ready for any

revelations from it. She was still too much of a child, whatever her age.

All she knew now was that Morgead had traded one dead gang member for

another. At least, he was almost dead. And she wasn’t going to make the same

mistake he had. There was no way for them both to live on the energy currently

flowing through her body. It might be enough to allow them to scream and yell at

each other, but it wouldn’t sustain them as vampires for long.

No—there was one thing a vampire needed, and that was mortal blood. It

carried its own variety of life energy, and it could revive a seemingly dead vampirein no time.

There were only three sources of blood that Jez could think of. One was from

some sleeping hiker—but those were more than rare; camping out was forbidden in

Muir Woods and the gang very seldom ran into them. The second was Steven G.

Vizner, who was somewhere in the woods with the rest of the gang—but how far

away she had no idea. The third was the blood of an animal, like the white-tailed

deer that lived in the wood. But all of them had been driven away by Morgead and

Jez’s yelling and fighting.

She was not going to leave Morgead here, in this state, and go hunting.

Anything might happen to him.

Just then, though, a memory came back to her. Herself a child, “helping” UncleBracken with a carpentry project. The sharp edge of a screwdriver and a sudden

pain and spurt of blood over her hand—and drops on Uncle Bracken’s hand, too.

Uncle Bracken absently licking his hand before helping her learn to close her wound

with her mind—and giving her the oddest look. Shaking his head. Muttering

something about “the best champagne” and going on to teach her. But she could seethe change in Uncle Bracken’s face, the smoothing out of wrinkles, the youthful



flush, and she had wondered—could it have been her blood that did that? Vampire

blood wasn’t like mortal blood. It wasn’t supposed to do anything.

Now, though, it would seem to be the only option she had. A desperate guess

based on a ten-year-old memory.

“Here, Morgead,” she muttered. He was lying very still, with his face white, but

he was breathing, and he could follow orders—just barely. “Let’s just get you thisway, and me this way.” It wasn’t easy to align him with her neck. He was heavy. But

by leaning him against a convenient tree, and then kneeling and putting his head on

her shoulder, she finally managed it.

Now, drink, she told him with all the authority she could muster. Be a good

boy, and bite and drink.

Morgead didn’t seem to understand what was going on, and his thoughts were

gibberish.

I said drink! Jez ordered, backing it up with the power of all her frustration and

fear.

Still nothing. Morgead’s mouth was near her neck, but he made to effort to

turn his head to reach it.Oh, for the Goddess—for all the little demons’ in the Underworld’s sake! This

was pitiful. Was she going to have to feed it to him?

Then she remembered something.

She was sitting astride Morgead’s body, which was propped up by the tree.

Now she took him, not very gently, by the top of the head, and pulled so that his

mouth was in contact with her arched-back throat.

Then she sent a telepathic stream, not of words, but of pictures, the way

vampire mothers and fathers did to their children. Throat + bite = dinner. Now you

try! she sent to him, and felt a distant response in his brain. A return to childhood

maybe.

Just to make sure, she added a nursery poem remembered from her own earlychildhood, when she was just learning to hunt.

“When you see a pretty throat Bite it and see what comes out!

Red as roses, sweet as dew,

Suck and see what comes to you!

And then, to her vast relief, she felt the sharp stab of canines and the flow of

blood. And even more reassuringly, she heard Morgead swallow. That meant the

blood was getting in. He wouldn’t need much before he started coming to his

senses, not if what Uncle Bracken had said was still true. Would she have to fight

with him then, too, to make him stop? And was his brain permanently damaged

from the time that he’d spent without oxygen? Since she definitely wasn’t resisting him, the blood-drawing brought no pain.

Oh, there was the initial sting, but then, holding Morgead and feeling the throbbing

warmth of her blood trickling out, felt good. Almost too good. It made her

uncomfortable, this closeness, this sharing. She wasn’t ready to understand her own

feelings. She tried to distract herself from the warmth at her center, the smell of

Morgead in her nostrils, the heaviness of Morgead’s relaxed body against her own,

the physical languor that always came after a fight.



Was she entitled to look into his memories again now? Just to see if he were

okay? She knew she wouldn’t want to be revived without a working mind. And tomake sure it wasn’t anything like the stuff she had been seeing, she would take him

farther, farther back.

Morgead

This apartment . . . it was appalling somehow. Morgead couldn’t explain why

he should be so concerned with what humans did to each other. He knew of

vampires who did certain cruel things with humans . . . but he’d never seen it; not on

this scale. And somehow it was worse to see a human doing it to others of its kind.

. . . and doing it to the young. Vampires had several classes of young. There

were the ordinary young of lamia who would grow up just as human children did

but who turn the aging process off and on as many times as they liked. Then therewere the made vampires, those who had once been human—they stopped aging the

instant they became vampires and stayed that way indefinitely. Morgead had heard

that there were vampire elders who had lived for tens of thousands of years, but

their affairs were unlikely to affect him in any way. And the strange physiology of it

was, they wouldn’t look like elders in any way. Only teenagers had the resilience to

undergo the process it took to making a human into a vampire. After that, the body

just burnt out.

Made vampires, like Thistle, could never grow up. Morgead forgave a lot of

what Thistle said and did because of this.

As he thought Morgead had been watching the large screen at the end of theroom. The vermin Steven G. Vizner had recorded himself doing various . . . things . . .

to his victims. And not just a few times. There were many, many recordings.

Strange, thought Morgead, that he could be so moved on the account of vermin

young.

Then he noticed the wall in this overcrowded room. It was decorated with

human scalps.

A grisly memento from each of his victims, perhaps, because as Morgead

looked closely, he could tell that many of the scalps were those of children. Really,

anyone who could do this . . . and be proud of it . . .

That was when he noticed the red hair.

It had been in shadow before or he would have seen it sooner. It was a redalmost as vibrant as Jez’s—astonishing in a human. And it was long. Until you

looked at the other side and saw the mummified skin, you might think it was a

particularly lifelike and beautiful fall or wig.

He hadn’t been able to keep away from that one, but he couldn’t stand to look

at it either. Nor could he just toss it in a corner.

So he stood staring at it until he lost track of time.



He came back to himself some while later—and it was a self that he hardly

knew. He had never thought of himself as more savage than the average vampire.

But he came back to himself with the feeling that his brain was on fire. He wanted to

kill . . . to kill—now. His fangs and jaw ached from prolonged projection. Usually it

just took a mental command to make them dull and retract. But now he kept seeing

Jez as helpless as a human—she would never forgive him for thinking that —andseeing human monsters all around her. It was absurd, of course—Jez was as far as

could be imagined from a victim. But it didn’t matter to his feelings. He was dyingto kill, to maim, to tear to pieces the human who had collected these gruesome

souvenirs.

There couldn’t be a death slow enough or painful enough for the vermin who

had done this. He had enjoyed torture? Well, now he would see torture from the

other side.

At last he managed to get his canines to recede. But they still hurt and so did

his jaw. In fact all of him hurt, as if he’d been in a fight and taken a beating. But it

was just the violent tension of his muscles against each other: the unthinking need

to run out and kill something, and the more civilized restraint that said he couldn’t.The fight made him feel dull and stupid; in no shape to deal with the argument

that he knew would face him when he left the room. But one thing he was certain of.

Jez shouldn’t see that bright red . . . ponytail. It was easier if he thought of it that

way.

Detaching it gently from the wall, picturing its former owner all the time, he

put it, almost reverently in a dark corner. This whole place should be burned he

thought. All the remains cremated in one mass grave, all those who had gone

through similar horrors. But that probably wasn’t what the human owners would

want. And his gang wouldn’t give a damn.

Well, maybe Jez would. She was an odd one; the thorn in his side; his eternal

rival; once, his oldest friend; and now . . . maybe something more. They’d startedthis gang together. Jez would understand how he felt. Even vermin shouldn’t sink

so low.

Jez

“Jez would understand how he felt.” And Jez did understand. She felt the pure

elemental rage of fire course through her at the thought of that room. But still . . .

there were too many strange things she didn’t understand despite her invasion of

his mind.He was all right, though. His memories were intact, even if his block against

hadn’t held this time. His mind seemed clear, merely asleep. He’d made it.

And his grip was strengthening. In fact, he resisted quite effectively when she

tried to move away. She could always heal the wounds in her throat, but he could

simply break through again with razor-sharp canines. They went through a few

rounds of this before Jez began to feel dizzy. This was crazy. He shouldn’t care any

more for her blood than for vermin concoctions like soft drinks or hard liquor.



“Morgead! It’s me, Jez! I’m no human! Gettoff!”

He muttered something against her throat that sounded like “delicious.”

She didn’t want to beat him up. But if she let this go on, she wasn’t going to be

able to beat him up.

Morgead, it’s Jez! I’m dizzy and I feel weird. Please don’t make me hit you! Jez? There was pure astonishment in the thought.

Yes! You’re squeezing too hard and you’re taking too much blood. I’m drinking your blood?

It was all I could think of! I was afraid you might die.

Abruptly she was let go, by a Morgead with a drop of her blood still on his lips.

He stared at her, but by the flush in his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes, he

wasn’t going to die anytime soon.

“But it was the most—” He broke off and looked confused. “Jez, how could you

let me? Are you all right?”

“I’m okay.” Jez determinedly ignored the dizzy feeling. Hell, they could go on

like this all night if somebody didn’t stop the cycle. “And I was just returning onefavor for another. You saved me by burning your life energy.”

“I—I don’t remember that.”It occurred to Jez that Morgead’s eyes were too bright, and that he was too

flushed for a vampire. Also, that when he jumped to his feet, he stood with a distinct

list to one side.

She got up as well. “Are you really feeling all right?”

“I feel . . . ” He seemed to consider, then he looked up at the sky. “I feel . . .

wonderful.”

“Oh, good,” Jez said nervously. “Just two things,” Morgead said.

“What?” “Why are you leaning over like that? And what were we fighting about?”

“I’m not leaning over, you are. You’re going to fall over any minute now. And—and—you really don’t remember?” Something in her blood, she thought. Maybesomething she’d picked up from one of the last few donors—some weird mix. Or

maybe she was sick.

“Would I be asking if I remembered?” Morgead said, his face two inches from

her nose. The scariest thing was that he didn’t snap out the words. He just said

them with a lost look.

“N-no, I guess not.” Jez found herself leaning back. Something in his eyes was

making her flush.

“Did I ever tell you about your eyes?” Morgead demanded suddenly. “What about my eyes?” Jez found herself leaning back even further, but

Morgead leaned as well, and he wasn’t any farther away.

“They’re blue, but they’re silver, too. And the more you get fired up, the moresilver they get. It’s not a metallic silver, though. It’s living silver.”

“Oh. Well—that’s good to know.” Morgead was getting closer and closer to

her. His own eyes were different than she had ever seen them. The green was

blazing, but somehow it was blazing softly. He was looking at her as if he’d never



seen her before and it was disconcerting. Most disconcerting of all was her own

reaction to it. Something inside her felt very warm and very . . . joyous. Yes, that

was the only word, even though it was trembling slightly, too.

She tried to back up again, and found that she was solidly in contact with a tree.

“It’s not just your beautiful eyes. It’s what’s behind them. Jez, we haven’t

talked, just the two of us, in a long time.” “No,” Jez said. She just didn’t know how to say that this was not the time to

start an in-depth conversation.

“But we were the first ones. The first gang members. Do you remember in the

beginning when we were alone together? We said we’d always be together.”

“Yes—”

He had hold of her hand now. For an instant she started to stiffen into the

Palm-to-Palm stance, but then she realized that fighting was the last thing on his

mind. He had intertwined his fingers with hers and that gave Jez a definitely shaky

feeling in her stomach.

“Morgead—”

“Jez.” He tried to take another step forward and stumbled. Jez reached out automatically to help him, and for a moment they were holding onto each other and

then he seemed to slip and his lips brushed hers.

It was the lightest touch, but it was warm and it sent a wave of feeling through

Jez. Even as it confused the outer layers of her mind, it spoke somehow to deeper,

older layers. It seemed to open a kaleidoscope of feelings. She wanted to kiss him

back.

Then she was supporting his full, unconscious weight. She tried to get her

mind back into the moment. She was just setting him down when his eyes popped

open again.

“Jez! What’s going on?”

“That’s what I don’t know. What is going on? “I know! That guy, that Steven G. Vizner—we were going t o get him.”

“Actually, we got him. And then we got into an argument. And then we got intoa fight for the leadership. And—I—guess . . . . you won.” She hadn’t thought about it before but she’d actually helped him fulfill the conditions that t he others had agreed

to.

“I—withdraw my challenge.”

“All right, then. Come on, let’s get moving!” He jumped up. He had never

looked more confident but he was still swaying and tilting to the left. Jez got more

slowly back to her feet.

“Morgead—”

“So, let’s hurry! Hurry! The others are waiting for us.” At least heremembered that. But this manic mood just wasn’t Morgead.

“So wait a minute,” Jez now had to get through the difficult part. “Are you going

to grin and laugh this way all the time I’m torturing him?”

Morgead looked utterly blank, then said, “You’re going to . . . torture him?”

“Well, you’re the leader and that was your decision. So I don’t have muchchoice, do I?”

Jez held Morgead’s slightly unsteady green stare.



“No,” he said and then added, shaking his head and putting a hand to it. “But I

don’t really remember the contest.”

“That’s okay,” Jez said flatly. “I do.”

“Anyway,” he said, swaying again, and sticking to what he seemed more sure of,“I’d never smile while taking revenge.” He laid emphasis on the last two words. “I’d

think of myself as a substitute for the parents of the children he murdered.” “Pierce will smile,” Jez said, allowing into her mind the picture she’d been

trying so desperately to keep away from her. “And Val will make some clumsy joke,har har har. And Thistle—Thistle will laugh all the way through. You know she will.

And when Thistle laughs, what will you say?”

Morgead looked confused. “I’ll—tell her not to.”

“And you think she’ll listen? Thistle? And what about the rest of it? Do you

know what you plan to do to him?”

Morgead looked even more confused. He swayed again. Jez kept expecting him

to revert to the distant Morgead, but he didn’t.

They walked through trees in what Jez vaguely sensed was the right direction;

Jez leading, Morgead following. Neither of them spoke. Morgead seemed to be lost in his thoughts.

Suddenly he said, “We fought right here, didn’t we?”

Jez looked around at an area of torn up bushes and deep grooves in the ground.

Even some of the trees looked damaged.

I shouldn’t have taken him directly back. Some other way would have been

better.

She said, “We fought a lot of places.”

“But here, too.”

“Yeah, it looks like.”

Morgead said nothing else for a time, and Jez was beginning to think that she

had gotten away with it, when he said.“When we fought . . . way, way back there, we did Palm-to-Palm didn’t we?

“Yes,” Jez admitted. “And I won that round.”

“Yes.”

“Because I cheated.”

“Because you made a mistake. You were confused.”

“But I cheated. I never gave you time to get your shields up.”

“No.”

“So basically, in that moment, I forfeited.”

Jez had no idea why she was she was avoiding the subject and acting as if she

didn’t want to be leader. If she hadn’t wanted to, she would never have come out here to fight.

The problem was, that in all her arguments with Morgead, she wasn’t sure any

longer exactly what was right. If she were leader, she had to take responsibility for

it. She had to be the one to tell the rest of the gang how to kill him, or she had to do

it herself.



Jez had killed before. But only in the white-hot, adrenaline fueled excitement

of the chase. She’d never thought about it. Even innocent vermin were barely worth

thinking about and they always made sure they picked guilty ones.

She gave a huge sigh.

“Jez, are you listening? I forfeited.”

“I heard you.” “And you know the rules.”

“Yes.” They’d made them up together. She couldn’t help but shake her head. Here they were, both of them arguing

that the other one should be leader. It was a strange world.

Just then she began to see very familiar signs. The others, the Bronco, and

Steven G. Visner were not very far away.

“So, fearless leader,” Morgead said, in a quiet voice, “What are your orders

going to be?”

They could hand him over to vermin police. In a case like this they’d have to

prosecute, have to have a trial. But there were so many little things that couldhappen: botched evidence, vermin fears for personal safety, defense lawyers making

pleas for mercy, shrinks swearing that he wasn’t evil but crazy, escapes, parole.

Come to think of it, they’d probably contaminated much of the evidence inside the

house by handling it.

“Jez?”

And now that she was leader she could see Morgead’s original point about

them acting as agents of the parents, of the friends, of the terrified, tortured,

murdered people whose bits Steven had sawed to bits and strewn about his house

like trash. She knew what they would want done to him, or most of them.

“Jez.”

They were at the Bronco now, and there, waiting patiently or impatiently werePierce and Raven and Val and Thistle. And in the car, Steven G. Visner. And they all

looked gloomy, except Steven and she couldn’t see his face. Jez expected them to be excited now, asking how the fight had gone and who

their leader was. But they listened to Morgead’s abbreviated description of the fight

sitting very quietly. And then, before anyone could say anything else Raven stepped

out of the shadows to look at Jez.

“I think this comes under the headings of ‘the boys’ fault. It certainly wasn’t Thistle’s job or yours or mine.”

“What wasn’t?”

“Searching him. He’s a bad, bad guy, remember. And he’s a guy.” Morgead looked bewildered. Val and Pierce looked away.

“Anyway, whatever you two decided, it doesn’t make much difference to him.”

She nodded at the figure it the car.

Jez was just coming around to look at him. He was slumped against the

passenger side window. But she said the obligatory words anyway. “Why not?”

“We knew he had one razorblade. Turns out he had two.”



Jez opened her mouth and then shut it again. Nothing would make her admit

that she had just felt a burden slip off her shoulders.

She didn’t ask whether or not they were sure he was dead. They were

vampires. They knew.

“I suppose,” Raven said slowly, “that a guy like that must have had quite an

imagination. After we showed him what we were and we didn’t kill himimmediately . . . well, maybe it got working.”

“It’s better than he deserves anyway,” Thistle added sorrowfully. “It’s been a whole night of waiting,” said Raven.

Val just yawned.

Jez opened her mouth again. She had finally thought of something to say, but

Morgead said it first.

“Let’s get out of here. It’s almost bedtime.”

She started to turn toward her bike, stopped and looked at him.

“Who’s the leader of this gang, if you don’t mind?”

“You are. So?”

“So let’s get out of here. It’s almost bedtime. See? Dawn.”

They left the Bronco where it was in the woods with Steven G. Visner in it.

The police never solved the mystery of why he committed suicide.

It took two more years before Jez found out who she was, and exactly what was

in her blood.

When she did it changed her life forever. But that’s another story . . . in the

Night World.

###

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Nightworld Stories