Shadowpuppet

ONE

Author's Note: This would have been up sooner, but in an ongoing attempt to bend my husband's coworkers to my will so I'll have an appropriate number of minions should the need arise, I was busy yesterday baking a Devil's Food cake and a nice chocolate ganache to top it with for him to take into work today. Yes, my organisation is an evil one, but my followers will be fat and complacent! AHAHAHAHA!

Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will.
-- Frederick Douglass

Although his expression remained calm, inwardly Sebastian LaCroix was seething.

His movements as he strode quickly down the hallway were brisk and agitated. He yanked repeatedly at the already straight cuffs of his crisp white dress shirt, giving the lapels of his dark blue dinner jacket the same treatment. Even the sound of his own shoes on the inlaid stone floor chipped away at his nerves tonight.

While the rest of the Venture tower teemed with activity – the security, the legitimately employed workers of the LaCroix foundation, other Kindred – Sebastian's own penthouse level was nearly always deserted except for himself. In stark contrast to the lower floors, the penthouse was an exercise in the sort of luxury and architecture he'd known early on after his embrace in France. Admittedly, it was perhaps a little sterile and dated; the long columns, the tall, French white windows, the soft cream paint and white crown moldings. Even the furniture was old, made with rich polished heavy walnut wood, and regence period carved chairs.

It was his. All of it. Hard-won after years, decades, centuries of careful political and financial planning. He ran his hand over the velvety surface of a polished and ornately carved sideboard as he passed, but tonight it gave him no comfort. Everything had not gone according to plan, and now he was going to have to do an elaborate song and dance routine to the already suspicious Kindred of the community to keep things quiet. It had only been a year since the Camarilla had been reinstated in Los Angeles, and times were volatile enough without any added . . . stress.

It had seemed like such a simple plan, and Sebastian still didn't understand how things had gone so very wrong. The Drake woman had survived the initial attack by the Sabbat by pure luck, which had first alerted him to her presence. The circumstances had been so unusual, even for the Sabbat's mindless destruction, that it had piqued his suspicions immediately. The Nosferatu had worked remarkably fast, even for them, unearthing enough information for him to make the decision to take both Angela Drake and Emillia Roivas into Camarilla custody until he could decide what to do with them. Their situation was . . . unique, to say the least, but the fact that they had both been unaware of that should have made things that much easier.

Of course, Sebastian hadn't anticipated that the Sabbat would strike again so soon. He'd hoped that they had known even less than he about what Rhinebeck Athill had been using his two kine office assistants for. And maybe they had. It hadn't stopped them from moving to finish the job before two of the Camarilla's agents could arrive, however. Now Angela Drake was gone – presumably dead from the aftermath in her hospital room – and the other woman who had had the misfortune to be present, well . . .

Unlike other members of his Clan, Sebastian had never seen the appeal of creating Ghouls to do one's work. Mercurio had been a necessity when things had begun to deteriorate in Santa Monica decades ago, but he was certainly far from perfect. Whenever possible, Sebastian had sought other, anonymous donors to provide the blood necessary for the Ghoul's upkeep; he'd never seen the benefit in having a snivelling sycophant at his heels at all hours of the night. Besides, as last night had been such a wonderful example of, if you wanted something done right, you were better off doing it yourself.

The simple fact was that the Roivas woman had been very close to death when Arthur and Donovan had brought her to him, her injuries worsening over the trip from Santa Monica. The attack at the hospital had left her with massive internal injuries, not unlike those she might have sustained if she'd fallen from a great height . . . or had something dropped on her from one. Even as a last resort, Sebastian hadn't been certain a dose of Kindred blood would do much for her. But he hadn't been willing to risk allowing someone else to give her the blood on the off chance she survived, someone else who might have used that new hold to extract whatever Rhinebeck had used her for . . .

Nothing but annoyances. Why must everything be difficult when it comes to dealing with the kine?

Outside the broad, double doors to his office, Sebastian paused and took another moment to compose himself before pushing through. The Kindred who had been looking out the massive windows turned to face him as he entered.

The Ventrue primogen was a tall woman and thin as a rail, her small breasts poking at the silk material of the sea-green, shimmering blouse she wore. Her face was thin and angular; not unlovely, but there was a sort of terse peevishness about it even with the polite smile she wore. The smattering of freckles across her pale face should have made her look softer, more girlish, but there was a hardness in her hazel eyes, bright behind the lenses of her small round glasses, that made her cold. Her face was framed by an explosion of frizzy, bright red hair that stood out from her head in a sort of fiery corona.

“Ms O'Malley.” Stepping closer, her took her proferred hand and raised it automatically to his lips, more out of common courtesy than any real affection. She smelled, very faintly, of some sort of dried flowers and antibiotic soap, and he kept himself from grimacing at the chemical smell. “I apologise for the wait.”

“Oh, it's quite allright, Your Majesty.” Molly said. Her voice was pleasant enough, but Sebastian had good reason to suspect what might lie behind her Empirical form of address. She'd never actively opposed him before, but he knew it was only a matter of time. Contrary to popular belief, most people did not change so drastically after their Embrace, and he believed that even when she had been alive, there had always been a ticking calculator behind Molly's breast rather than an actual heart. “I imagine you're very busy. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me at all.”

“Yes, well, one must take the time to address the concerns of one's peers, yes?” Sebastian muttered. Actually, he'd put it off as long as he could. Whatever Molly had been after him for an audience about these past two weeks couldn't be good. She kept her own company more than anything else so much that he'd come to be wary whenever she came seeking 'help' or 'counsel'.

Of course, he had an idea what she wanted this time. Due to an unfortunate set of circumstances, Molly had also been made privy to the Rhinebeck Athill situation at the same time Sebastian had. It was likely she was after leverage for her silence on top of whatever else she'd come about. But then, what else was new? He had always thought, privately, that the Primogen were little more than buzzards circling overhead, watching for any sign of feebleness.

“Using an unknowing mortal woman.” Molly said with a tinkling little laugh. “It's actually rather clever. If you had asked me, I wouldn't have said Rhinebeck was capable of it. Of course, that's the problem, isn't it? We never suspected a thing.”

Sebastian moved to his desk, head down while he adjusted his tie to hide the bitterness in his eyes. He hadn't missed the implication.

There had been rumours of a Lasombra in the area, of course, but then, times being what they were, Sebastian and the Primogen had given the idea little thought. With the ever increasing numbers of the Thin-Bloods, Kindred were seeing portents of disaster everywhere, and the Sabbat was no different. Above all else, he hadn't expected it to be Rhinebeck Athill; the last Sebastian had heard, the Lasombra had been forced eastward, perhaps all the way to Florida.

Apparently not, and by the looks of the now-vacated offices and estate Sebastian had looked into for the last few nights, Rhinebeck had been at his work for some time. If only they'd been aware of him sooner. There had been precious little information for the Nosferatu to piece together, and it had only pertained to the two mortal women. As to Rhinebeck's real motives, Sebastian hadn't a clue. He did know, however, that the man was by no means out of the picture. It would have been too simple.

“One of the antitribu . . the Lasombra, no less. The Anarchs would have a field day.” Molly murmured.

“The Anarchs have no reason to know, now, do they, Molly?” Sebastian replied, his voice deceptively low and pleasant.

“Of course not, Your Grace.” Molly paused before changing subject. “I brought Ginerva with me as you asked, but I still don't understand why you wanted to see her.”

“As long as Ms Roivas is going to be staying here, she needs to be made aware of the proper customs and society rules of what she is and where she stands.” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Believe me when I say I have neither time nor desire to play teacher after the last few nights. I thought Ginerva's servitor would be more than sufficient.”

“Is that wise?” Molly asked. “Martin is perhaps one of the more competent Ghouls I've known, but . . . well, Ginerva isn't really . . . “ She trailed off, raising an eyebrow meaningfully.

As far as Toreador went, Ginerva Wilde had been one of the least infuriating. She'd been a musician in life, and as such tended to favour song and musical talent rather than simple physical beauty, and had less of the Clan's tendency to become mesmerised by examples of such. For a while, she had been one of the Clan's few level-headed members, a voice of reason and popular amidst even the younger and more hot-headed Kindred. But then, of course, there had been that bothersome business last year with the girl, and ever since . . .

“Well, regardless, Ginerva is one of the few Kindred I feel I can trust at the moment.” He met Molly's eyes and returned her smile with one as equally bland and icy of his own.

The corners of Molly's mouth crimped slightly, but that cool, collected look didn't slip. “Of course. Trust is important.” She turned her head to frown in the direction of the doors, arms folded across her breasts. “Would you like me to go see her up?”

“Please. While you do, I'll go collect our newest little commodity. Let's get this nonsense over with.”

**

Coming.

It's coming.

Got to . . .

Got to . . . run!

Emily's eyes opened with a gasp that was close to becoming a scream.

Even as deeply as she had been sleeping, there was no moment of confusion and disorientation, no forgetting what had happened. It dropped on her full force; the blood on the walls, the thing hunched over her friend, then pursuing her through the corridors. The way it had leaped on her, and the fog that had swallowed her consciousness.

For a moment, she didn't move. She lay rigidly where she was, eyes snapping frantically around the room. The nightmare she'd been having had dropped away like a discarded scrap of cloth from her mind, but her body still seemed trapped in it. Even though she didn't remember the details, she knew she'd been hunted. The pounding of her heart and adrenaline surging through her made it difficult to lie still, but she was paralysed. She felt like a rabbit must when it saw the shadow of a hawk overhead.

Nervously, she licked away the sweat stippling her upper lip. She didn't recognise the room she was in, but it didn't look like any hospital she'd ever been in. Even excusing the massive bed she was lying in and the silken sheets that had never graced the interior of any hospital, the room itself was too extravagant. The walls were panelled in some dark, rich wood that looked as smooth as butter, and the light fixtures were discrete sconces in frosted glass globes. It looked like something out of a Jane Austen novel, or at the very least some tawdry and poorly written period bodice ripper.

More importantly, it was empty aside from herself.

Emily didn't call out as she climbed slowly out of bed. She was too wary for that. Her clothes were nowhere to be found, and she dropped to the plush red carpet to peer hopefully under the bed but was unsurprised to find nothing. She yanked the top-most sheet from the bed and wrapped it awkwardly around her nakedness, gathering handfulls of the slipperly silk to keep it from falling down. Moving lightly, she pressed her ear to the door and held her breath, listening. Nothing. Nobody. At least, nobody she could hear.

One wall was dominated by a large set of burgundy, heavy curtains, and she twitched back a corner of them, still clutching the bed sheet around herself.

Outside, the sun had set. Or maybe it hadn't yet risen. But more importantly, she didn't recognise the cityscape she saw spread out before her. A seemingly endless sea of blinking lights stretching off into the distance, the swollen dark sky dotted with the silhouettes of dozens of skyscrapers. Her mouth went dry at the realisation that the unfamiliarity went farther than just the room she'd woken up in.

They took me away. Somewhere. Who did it? Was it who attacked Angela? Do monsters keep penthouse suites for their midnights snacks?

Emily raked both hands back through her hair as she paced restlessly, trying to slow the frantic beating of her heart. It would do no good to panic, especially not when she didn't know the whole situation.

After all, does this place look like a hostage situation with you? Do you think they'd be likely to serve you shackles with your scones at a place like this?

Her nerves were still on high alert, however, and she knew there had to be a reason for it. Not just what she had seen – or not seen – last night, but something about this whole place was ringing poorly with her.

Maybe you had some sort of nervous breakdown. Her mind whispered suddenly. Just snapped. Went crazy, bibbledy. No rational person sees what you think you saw. Maybe this is some fancy place for you to convalesce in. Mom and Dad could afford it, they wouldn't want to see you wrapped up in some dirty old loony bin . . .

Now there was an unpleasant thought.

The closet set into the far wall didn't have her clothes in it, but at the moment she was perfectly willing to pillage from someone else, especially when they all looked to be close to her size. All of the items were more than a little high-end; as she quickly yanked a soft, red silk blouse over her head, she actually felt a moment of guilt at the rough treatment the garment was receiving. Likewise for the straight, sailor-cut black trousers and the soft, stylish black jacket she threw on over it all.

Yes, and you can apologise to your potential captor and racist in a nice, thoughtfully worded letter if it comes to that. Right now, we're getting out of here.

It struck her, as she shuffled awkwardly to push her feet into a pair of plain black shoes without untying the laces, that she was moving far too smoothly than she should. She remembered, now, the weight of that creature upon her the previous night, the strange snapping she'd heard coming from inside herself, and the blinding pain. It was possible she'd imagined it in her panicked state, but she didn't think so. She didn't have time to speculate, however, not when there were so many other pressing things to contend with, and she was just reaching for the doorknob when it swung open and a man stepped through.

He wasn't a tall man, maybe only a few inches taller than she was, but his tremendous self possession made him seem to tower over her. He was pale, impossibly pale, so that the planes of his face seemed to have been carved from marble. Something about the pursed line of his lips, the square curve of his jaw, put her in mind of old portraits she'd seen of European nobility. His short, burnished blonde hair was swept and combed into perfect order. It was his eyes that held her most, though; pale, pale blue, arrogant but amazingly intense.

“Aren't you going to thank me?” he said after a beat when she only stared at him. His voice was smooth and articulate, the sort of enunciation and faint European inflection that only came with good breeding, or a lot of lessons. “Surely you have sufficient manners to feel grateful towards the host who saw fit to save you from the situation you'd gotten yourself into.”

Emily realised she'd been gaping at him and forced herself to swallow, taking several quick steps back. She could see an empty hallway behind him, but he was standing in such a way that she couldn't have slipped past him easily. “Who are you?” she demanded, pushing a confidence and fire she didn't feel into her voice. “Where am I?”

“My name is Sebastian LaCroix.” He moved towards her and she slipped around to the other side of the bed to keep it between them. She thought he looked vaguely amused. “I know who you are, Emily Roivas. I brought you here to recover after that unpleasant business.” He paused. “I must say your lack of gratitude is slightly disappointing.” There was something mocking in his voice that she didn't like.

“Unpleasant.” Emily echoed. “What do you know about that?” A new thought occurred to her, and she bristled. “What happened at the hospital? Did you have something to do with that?”

“Only in the most roundabout way.” LaCroix said. He ran a fingertip along one of the bedposts and inspected it with a faint frown. “I'd intended to remove you both much sooner, but, well . . . “

“Well, what?” Emily demanded. She shifted her position until she was facing the door. Something here was terribly wrong, and she needed to be ready to move. Whoever this man was, he wasn't making any sense. “Tell me what's going on!

His laughter cut her off, surprising her. When he smiled, it was more of a smirk, a condescending twist of the lips. “You really have no idea, do you. Well, that's only to be expected. We work hard to keep it a secret, after all.” He paused, then added, almost to himself in a vaguely disgusted tone, “I work hard.”

“Kidnapping and murder pays for suits like that and places like this, huh?” Emily shot back. “What are you talking about? Who's 'we'?”

“Vampires, of course, Ms Roivas.” And he smiled at her, really smiled for the first time although it didn't touch his eyes. She barely noticed. She was too busy staring at the short, sharp fangs gleaming with those perfect white teeth.

For a moment, she only gaped at him. Then she laughed, a high, derisive sound. “You're crazy.” Emily hissed. “I mean, really, extraordinarily crazy. Wow.”

“Is that so? Tell me. After what you saw in the hospital that night, what would that make you?”

“It makes me someone who's had a very stressful day and someone who doesn't go around filing her teeth into points because she's read too much Anne Rice bullshit.” It was a small thing, but the little profanity seemed to fan the flames of defiance in her. The guy was crazy, absolutely batshit, pardon the pun, and it made her at once more confident and more afraid. Her voice rose. “I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you're going to be locked away for a damn long time. Maybe if you're lucky someone will bring you a nice cape to wear with your straight jacket, you crazy son of a --”

“Stay calm.” LaCroix spoke the words in a flat, low, tone, but Emily gasped and recoiled as though he'd struck her. The words seemed to reverberate in her skull, ringing and expanding to push every other thought from her mind. For an instant, all she could see were his eyes, hard and cold, and she felt a desperate desire to do anything she could, say anything she could, to please him. Something inside her screamed in fear and defiance, but she couldn't act on it. “Stay calm, and listen and accept what I'm about to tell you.”

And he talked. And she listened.

She took it . . . poorly.

It was the strangest sensation she'd ever experienced. She had an idea that she should probably be going insane right about then, and perhaps she already had. Would a sane person be swallowing what he was feeding her like it was honey?

Vampires. Her boss, Mr Athill, had been one of them, and had used both herself and Angela for . . . something. LaCroix wasn't clear to her on what, and she couldn't ask, because then he was telling her about Ghouls. About what SHE was now. As he described the process, what he'd done, what her future would be like, Emily felt the warmth slowly drain from her body. He was still talking, but she wasn't listening. She was remembering something from last night, some fragment of a dream drifting back at her. Cool skin against her lips, and something hot and wet sliding down her throat and racing through her body like the world's most potent whisky, lighting her nerves on fire.

“I'm . . . not human anymore?” Emily had to fight the sudden urge to whirl around and stare at her reflection in the mirror, inspect herself for horns or fangs. She felt sick.

“Something more. But something less than the Kindred.” he added. He wasn't looking at her, instead making a show of studying the glittering watch on his left wrist.

“And I don't suppose you're going to tell me what you mean when you say Rhinebeck Athill was using me.”

“Because you don't need to know.” LaCroix said with a trace of irritation. “You are, as the expression goes, on a need to know basis. And I say this is not one of the things you need to know, Ms Roivas.”

Even with the command he'd given her earlier, Emily could feel the first faint stirrings of anger. It was like a serpent coiling inside her. “And what gives you the right to decide what I do and do not need to know?” For the first time, there was a sharpness to her voice, something demanding, and as soon as she heard it she saw his shoulders tense up angrily.

“Because you belong to me now.” LaCroix responded simply, finally looking up. Emily took a step back before she could help herself. There was something so alien, so unreal in his eyes, that she might have turned and fled if not for that pulling in her gut.

When she didn't respond, didn't argue, he turned and moved to the door, holding it open with an expectant, impatient expression. She hesitated only briefly before going through it into the long hallway beyond, skirting around him as much as she could. He gave her an arch look so she knew her avoidance hadn't gone unnoticed. “Unlike the beast who attacked you in the hospital, Ms Roivas, I think you'll find that I am much less a monster than the stigma attached to my condition implies. If you do as you're asked, when I ask it, you'll get out of this unscathed and you'll see your home that much more quickly.”

He's lying.

The thought came out of nowhere, and in an instant Emily knew it was true. This man had no intention of ever letting her see her home or her family again, and it was like a slow blossom of ice opening up in her innards. She couldn't do anything other than follow him, however. Not yet, anyway. She kept her expression blank as she trailed behind him at as big a distance as she thought she could get away with, but she had to move at an almost-run to keep up from him. He was walking, but he moved so quickly every time he turned a corner she nearly lost him. He strode through a set of wide-double doors, and Emily suddenly found herself in a tall, sparsely furnished room with the same lavish decor, occupied by two women.

They looked to be conversing quietly by the windows, but looked up at the entrance. The closest one was a tall, red-headed with the most avaricious eyes Emily had ever seen.

The other woman was petite and pale – if lore held true and vampires all shared the latter attribute, then this woman's skin was as white as new-fallen snow. The contrast between that and the perfect, lustrous black of her hair, cut in a short, sleek, stylish bob, was jarring. The makeup she wore was sparse, but her gray eyes were lined with black, and her lipstick was so dark a red that it might as well have been black, too. She had an oval, sweet face, her lips plump and sensual and curved in a very faint smile, and she was dressed in a long, sweeping, formal black dress, a white silk shawl draped over her shoulders. She looked like someone's idea of one of the old black-and-white silver screen starlets.

The red haired woman moved forward, walking with an easy, enviable grace that was really more flow than stride. “Molly O'Malley.” LaCroix said, and Emily didn't know if he was greeting the woman, or introducing her for Emily's benefit.

She extended one thin, long fingered hand, and for a moment Emily was seized by a bizarre but powerful urge to fall to her knees and kiss it.

Instead of offering to shake hands, however, she stroked the top of Emily's head as though she were a dog. Her fingers slid through Emily's hair to scratch her nails across her scalp, and Emily shivered, though the sensation was far from pleasant. “You've caused us a great deal of trouble.” Her voice was pleasant, with a faint accent that made Emily think of Scotland, but without the good cheer that usually accompanied it. If someone else's voice with the same accent would've conjured images of boisterous fun, Molly's only brought to mind cold, dark moors in the dead of night.

“She's been made aware.” LaCroix said curtly.

“I haven't.” Emily said, a tinge of defiance in her voice. She forced herself not to wilt under the force of his forbidding gaze. She hated that he looked at her that way, like a king regarding some supplicant or unimportant serf. “It's true. You haven't . . . what was that creature last night? Where's Angela? What did you mean about Mr Athill?” Now that she had broken the ice covering her mind, the questions were pouring out.

“Angela Drake is dead.” Molly said coolly. “We only saw what was left after the attack, but you witnessed it. Or do you think someone could survive that?”

“I would have said that was impossible before tonight. But if vampires exist, then why the hell not?” Emily tried to keep the bridling anger out of her voice and was only partially successful.

The tall vampire only arched an eyebrow. Her expression was vaguely reminiscent of a parent watching a child throw a tantrum. “Indeed.” she murmured, but didn't offer any further information.

“I don't . . . I just don't understand what you want from me.” Emily knew she should be more upset, more frightened, but the command LaCroix had given her to be calm was apparently still in place. She could feel the panic inside her somewhere, like wings beating behind a locked door, but she couldn't reach it. It was maddening, like an itch she couldn't scratch.

“You're going to make yourself useful to us.” The tall vampire leaned down to her, and despite the pleasantness in her voice, and despite her resolve Emily found herself recoiling. She thought she glimpsed something under that urbane smile, some shadow in those green eyes, the shape of something terrible beneath her face. “Which means, you're going to do whatever we ask you to, because it would make us happy. Aren't you?”

“I . . . I . . . “ Without thinking why, Emily looked instinctively towards LaCroix. His expression was completely neutral, but she thought she saw something forbidding in his eyes. “ . . . yes. Yes, of course . . . ma'am.”

“Such manners.” Molly smiled again, but her eyes continued to tick over Emily's face, cool and calculating.

“Ginerva,” Sebastian said, moving around his desk, “Ms O'Malley and I have things we need to discuss. Would you -- ?”

“Oh, yes, darling.” The black haired woman spoke for the first time. She had a surprisingly low voice, like smoke and honey. “I'm sure Martin won't mind at all.”

“Have her back before dawn, then.”

“Won't mind what? Martin?” Emily was trying not to sound panicked, but she didn't think she was doing a good job of it. She had never felt so unsure of herself, so out of her depth, in all of her life. LaCroix had already turned away, and Molly was ignoring her. The only person still looking at her was Ginerva. The vampire's face was slightly sympathetic as she beckoned.

At the doorway, Emily hesitated. She didn't know why she looked back. LaCroix was standing with his back to her, running a pale hand along the papers laid out on his desk. The sleek cap of his perfectly groomed hair gleamed under the lights, almost seeming to invite the touch of her hand. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, that panic threatening in her throat again. All she wanted was to go to him, just to be near him, to do something that would garner a favourable look or bit of praise from him, and she didn't know why. She'd never felt this way before, so desperate to please.

What did you do to me? Damn you, what the hell did you turn me into? You're not even human! Who gave you the right . . . ?

“Come along, darling. I'll take care of you, don't worry.” Ginerva placed a hand on Emily's shoulder and steered her gently but firmly from the room.

The man standing next to the elevator was of average height and average looks. His dark blonde hair was messy in a way that Emily had always thought of as starving-artist-chic, swept back from his forehead and looking as though it had been combed into place that morning, but had suffered a strong wind since then. A pair of small, round librarian's glasses sat on his straight nose, the reflection from the light playing in them and obscuring his plain blue eyes. He was dressed casually in jeans and a soft, light blue sweater rolled up his forearms, but even with his rumpled appearance, he somehow impressed Emily as a serious, no-nonsense person.

“Martin,” Ginerva said in warm tones as they drew near, “look who I've brought.”

“I can see, Ms Wilde.” The man's voice was brisk but soft. “This is Mr LaCroix's newest -- “

“Her name is Emily.” Ginerva overrode him easily. Her eyes flicked in Emily's direction, and Emily had the sudden idea that she had kept the man from using the term “ghoul” to spare her feelings. Emily felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards the woman. “Darling, this is my dear associate, Martin Chatham. You're going to be spending time with him this evening.”

They shook hands perfunctorily, murmuring bland greetings. Emily was too busy trying to digest the night's events in a way that would keep her from coming unhinged, and Martin simply looked distracted and vaguely put upon. He stood to one side as they stepped into the elevator like a doorman, pressing the button for the ground floor.

“Aren't you precious.” Ginerva sighed, running her fingertips down the side of Emily's face. While not “cold as ice”, her touch was cool enough to be unsettling. The smile she wore was kind, but her eyes were distant. “You remind me of my Natasha.”

“Natasha is dead, Ms Wilde.” Martin said quietly. His tone was gentle, but firm, and when Emily dared a glance at him, his expression was stony.

“Even so.” Ginerva murmured, apparently nonplussed. “You don't need to be afraid of me, darling. I won't hurt you. Martin, have I ever harmed a hair on your head?”

“No, Ms Wilde.”

“There. You see?” She smiled benevolently, one hand smoothing the hair on the back of Emily's head. It was a motherly gesture, but Emily still felt her nerves prickling. However calm, however gentle Ginerva might seem, she was still the same as the others. Both LaCroix, the woman in his office, and the creature who had attacked the hospital.

“ . . . I don't know what I'm supposed to do.” Emily said at length.

“Why, nothing, Emily.” Ginerva sounded genuinely surprised, giving Emily a sidelong look. “Didn't our Prince tell you? You're going to spend some time with Martin, and he's going to help teach you all about the rules of our society.”

“As much as I can in the few hours before dawn, anyway.” Martin murmured, glancing at a plain silver watch on his wrist. “His Majesty doesn't give much time to work with, does he?” He paused, and something in his eyes seemed to soften slightly when he looked at Emily again. It was, she would later think, the look of a veteran taking in a soldier newly drafted into a war. “How are you taking all this?”

Emily didn't see any point in lying. “I was just thinking how I used to have a life.”

If she was looking for comfort, for support, Martin didn't have it for her. “Yes.” he said simply. “We all did.”