Shadowpuppet

TWO

Author's Note: This chapter is long, but it finally begins to scratch the surface of the things I wanted to address with this story. Namely, the false emotions vampires can unknowingly conjure up in their servitors, and the way they treat everyone beneath them. This chapter is probably a little risque, but the next one will be even more so. Then again, if you're on this site, what did you expect?
Lemo, hope you're still enjoying this. If one out of every five people who read this takes the time to drop a review, I'll be happy.

It was a lot to take in.

Sitting across from Martin at their tiny table in the crowded bar, even with everything she'd heard and seen, Emily was having difficulty keeping the incredulous look that wanted to bloom on her face away. He'd been talking for the better part of two hours, and while at first she'd interjected questions, now she could only listen in mounting amazement.

This is still crazy. So crazy. Emily thought. Then, I'll never be able to remember it all.

Some of it must have shown on her face, for he smiled slightly as he took a sip from a glass of water; the only thing he'd ordered since they'd come in. “It's a lot to handle, isn't it? The Masquerade does a good job.”

“I just . . . you really believe all this?”

“You don't?” Martin asked, then, answering his own question, “You haven't seen the things I have.”

“I saw that thing in the hospital.” Emily murmured, shivering at the thought.

“Sabbat, most likely. Brutes with less sense and tact than God gave a coyote.” Martin shrugged. “There's worse than they out there.”

Emily gave him a doubtful look, but chose not to press the issue. She felt she'd had about all she could handle for one night. “So then Gin -- . . . Ms Wilde and Mr LaCroix are friends.”

“As much as they can be, I suppose. As much as anyone can be in their positions.”

But Emily wasn't listening. An idea had occurred to her. “If you . . . if you've been working for Ms Wilde as long as you say, you must have met other vam . . . others like her.” Struggling with what terms not to use in public was beginning to wear on her. Talking with Martin in public was a little like two people trying to ignore an elephant in a small room.

“Yes.” Martin said slowly, his eyes suddenly wary.

“Did you ever meet the man who I worked for? Rhinebeck Athill. LaCroix said he was -- “

But Martin was shushing her, eyes narrowed. “Don't say that name aloud. Alright? Even before he left the Sabbat to pursue his own endeavours, he wasn't popular. I've never met him.”

“But you've heard of him.” she pressed.

Martin didn't respond for a long moment. He fished a bit of cloth out of his hip pocket and polished his glasses meticulously, squinting through them before returning them to his nose. When he looked at her again, his expression was grave. “Look, Emily. I don't know what you expect me to tell you. The Kindred community is a lot like a bad tabloid sometimes. Rumours are always flying around, and nobody really trusts anyone. Neither will you, if you're smart.”

She refused to be distracted. “What rumours have you heard then?”

Leaning back in his chair, Martin sighed heavily. He ruffled one hand through his hair, inspiring it into new and interesting configurations. “I'm not trying to keep something from you. I just don't want to be the one responsible for feeding you misinformation. All I know is that the man you worked for was widely regarded as more than a little bit unhinged, even in the Sabbat. He was supposed to be conducting some sort of experiements, on people and Kindred.” He paused, and he sounded reluctant when he continued. “He was a very ambitious man. If you can call him a man. And I'd heard he either left the Sabbat or was driven out when they tried to kill him and take his work. Nobody's seen him in a long time, but people are always on the lookout.”

He fell silent, and Emily let him, turning the information over in her mind. It wasn't much, but it was strange. As much as she'd disliked Athill, it had been because he was arrogant and condescending, not because she'd thought he was some sort of deviant. He'd always been perfectly polite to her, always flattering. So much so, she'd often thought he should have a career in politics. She brought his face to mind, tried to summon any memories she might have forgotten. Had he ever done anything strange around her? Said anything odd? All she could remember was his smile, sharp as a razor blade, and something about that bothered her. She let the topic drop for now. She didn't think it was a mystery she'd be able to unravel in one night.

“Back in the elevator.” Emily began hesitantly. “Ms Wilde got very . . . intense for a moment there. Who's Natasha?”

“My partner.” Martin said shortly. And then, before she could respond, he stood up. “I'm going to the bathroom. Don't go anywhere, and don't talk to anybody.”

Emily stared after him as he walked away. She felt a brief but intense urge to do something childlike, thumb her nose at his back maybe. “Aren't we bossy.” she muttered. She was tired, and she was frustrated. Even under ideal circumstances, she didn't think she and Martin would have got along too well. He was too tightly wound.

“Are you lonely?” a soft, feminine voice whispered suddenly in Emily's ear.

She jumped and twisted around to see a woman perched on the chair beside her. And all she could do was stare.

The woman's hair was dyed. Had to be, because it was a red nature never saw. Long and straight and gleaming, brilliant, deep and dark, scintillating with threads of ruby, auburn, copper. Her face might have been carved by a brilliant sculptor, someone who would have been driven to obsession by the perfection of his creation. Her lips were perfect rosebuds, soft and plump, painted red like her hair, and her face was so flawless, so refined and sensual, with long, blue-grey eyes, that she would draw stares from men and women alike. She was dressed in tight, form-fitting black leather that only served to accentuate her long, lithe form.

“Hi, pet.” she breathed.

It was then that Emily saw the fangs. Like a spell had been broken, she jerked back, and would have toppled off her chair if not for the hands that clamped down on her shoulders. She twisted around to see a man towering over her, tall and dignified but achingly handsome. There were the faintest wings of gray at the temples of his blue-black hair, cut short and combed back from his forehead in waves that seemed to invite a caress. His nose was straight and partisan, brow strong and somehow forbidding over green eyes flecked with bright, clear brown. He was wearing a long, dark trench coat, and he gazed down at Emily with faint amusement. “Going somewhere?” He had a deep, pleasant voice, impossibly rich and somehow teasingly insinuating. It was a bedroom voice, she decided, and despite knowing what he was, what he might intend, she still found herself responding to it; a slight flush rising to her cheeks, nipples tightening.

Even as knew as she was to this whole world, she thought she had gleaned enough from Martin's long lecture to make an educated guess as to what was going on. From Martin's description of the Clans, these two were Toreador. Had to be. She thought back frantically, trying to remember more. They shared the same unnatural beauty that Ginerva did, but theirs was undermined by something hard and cold in their eyes. Martin had said the Toreador had the ability to Dominate minds . . . much the same way LaCroix had done to her earlier.

“I was just thinking how I'm really getting tired of vampires fucking with my brain.” Emily replied in a glib tone she was proud of. Her hands she kept pressed flat against the table so they wouldn't tremble.

The male chuckled, and she blushed again, cursing herself for it. He kept his grip but rubbed her shoulders, making her skin tingle. “No need to be unfriendly. Giselle and I only wanted to keep you company. Maybe talk a while.”

“No, thank you.” Emily kept her voice cheerful and polite with an effort. “I'm waiting for someone.”

“You'll like talking to us, pet.” Giselle said. Her eyes were wide and dark with the threat of lust or violence. Or both. “William and I are very good company. Come for a walk with us.”

“I don't think so.”

For a moment, Giselle's face darkened with anger. And then she smiled and whispered. “Come with us.” and the words blossomed and resonated in Emily's head like bells.

Inside her brain, a part of her was still screaming in defiance, trying to wake herself up. She stood as though she'd been pulled by strings and turned to walk towards the back exit without another word. William had one arm around her waist, and Giselle was at her back, one hand between Emily's shoulders. People glanced up as they passed, but it was only with admiring looks for Emily's unwanted companions. All they saw was some lucky woman leaving with the most beautiful people in the bar. She felt like screaming at them, but couldn't. Her mouth might as well have been glued shut.

The alley was deserted, and there was a chill in the night air. William moved behind her again, using his hands on her hips to turn her to face Giselle, and all she could do was let him, her body as placid and poseable as a doll. Emily felt her skin prickle with unease. She didn't like having her back to him, didn't like this whole situation, but she didn't like looking at Giselle, either. There was something that was too feverishly bright in the vampire's eyes, something decidedly . . . unhinged.

“We know you work for the Prince.” William said quietly. “And we know he's been very busy with something lately. Does he tell you all his secrets, little Ghoul? We saw you leave his tower.”

Emily swallowed and said nothing. Her only real comfort was that she really had nothing to tell them, even if she'd wanted to. LaCroix hadn't exactly been forthcoming with her. Still, what he had told her – namely about her former employer – she had no intention of revealing. She knew instinctively that it would be a bad idea, especially if what Martin had told her about Rhinebeck was true.

“Aw, don't be like that.” Giselle laughed. “What did he tell you about us, pet? That all Sabbat are mindless, stupid, crude animals? Surely you can see for yourself that's not true.”

William's hands suddenly slipped up from her hips to cover her breasts, and Emily sucked in a shocked breath at the boldness of the move. She still couldn't pull away. His touch felt incredibly good – better than it should – and he pulled her back against him. He kneaded and squeezed the pliant flesh, wringing an unwilling moan from her, and she felt him bend down and press his lips to her ear. “You're not bad for a worthless Ghoul. Give us what we want, and we could be very good to you before we have to kill you.”

The words should have turned her cold all over, made her panic, but she couldn't. Giselle was still staring at her, and her eyes were wide and compelling, even in the gloom. Emily was rooted to the spot, and she could only gasp and rise up on the balls of her feet as William found the hard points of her nipples through the material of her shirt and pulled on them, rolling them between his fingers and laughing softly.

Bastard. Bastard. She thought, unable to voice it. She tensed as she felt his tongue, cool and soft and wet, run up the side of her neck to her earlobe. He drew it into his mouth and sucked on it slowly, and the sensation of the hardness of his fangs scraping across that sensitive flesh made her shiver.

“Come on, kitten.” Giselle cooed, stepping closer. She smiled triumphantly past Emily at William. “We can make it good for you. That's more than we'd usually offer one of you Camarilla wind-up toys. We're not so bad. You see?”

“Stop.” Emily groaned, forcing the word out with difficulty. She still couldn't move, and she could feel sweat beading at her temples. William ignored her, nuzzling the area where her neck met her shoulder. Even as she felt a fresh flush of heat rise to the surface of her skin, Emily wanted to jerk away. A corpse. A corpse. No matter what it feels like, it's a corpse. her mind yammered, but her body refused to cooperate.

Giselle laid her hands on Emily's shoulders as she stepped closer still. Their bodies were barely an inch apart, and she slid her hands up Emily's neck to cup the sides of her face. Her hands were cool and soft but there was a terrible strength to her tender grip. “Tell me what Sebastian wants with you. Why you're so special he's kept you all locked up.” she murmured, smiling sweetly.

It was the name that did it. Emily wasn't sure why, but it seemed to unlock the paralysis that had dropped over her mind, the chains falling away. Sebastian LaCroix. Sebastian LaCroix. she thought, the name turning over and over. He'd said she belonged to him. Maybe that was true, but that didn't mean she had to roll over for every vampire who crooked a finger at her.

Giselle was still looking at her expectantly, lips slightly parted. She leaned forward, cupping the back of Emily's head to put her lips close to her ear. “You're so easy. All of you stupid little wannabes. Tell me. Tell your mistress. Be a good little kitty and maybe we'll make you purr.”

“You stink like an old grave, you bitch.” Emily whispered.

Giselle's eyes flew open as she jerked back, her mouth dropping into a perfect O of surprise that might have been funny under other circumstances. Emily could have laughed except for what happened next.

“You whore.” Giselle spat, face contorting and becoming unlovely and inhuman in her rage.

And she sized Emily by the front of her jacket and threw her easily, effortlessly through the window of the building next door.

Martin had said being a Ghoul came with certain benefits. Not just a longer life, but you were stronger, faster. Emily thought that was the only thing that kept her from being sliced to ribbons by breaking glass as she curled up in a ball in the air an instant before she smashed through, arms raised in front of her face. She hit the floor with a grunt, rolling over and quickly staggering to her feet. She started to dart off into the gloom – all her eyes could pick out were stacked crates and shadows in a vast space – and she stumbled forward with a gasp at a sudden sharp pain in her side. Clutching it at, she ran at an ungraceful lope off to the right.

Behind her, more glass shattered and fell to the ground as the two vampires forced their way through. Emily ran as silent as she could through the warehouse, trying to breathe quietly through her open mouth and not suck in the noisy gasps of air she wanted with that pain gnawing through her.

At the moment, she was more angry than afraid. Now that the mind-fuck Giselle had pulled on her had worn off, the burn of humiliation was keeping the fear at bay. The thought of what they'd done to her, what they'd try to do, brought a surge of heat to her face in the dark. In all her life, she'd never been touched like that, like she was a commodity, like she didn't matter beyond what someone wanted from her.

“You think you're clever?” Giselle's voice had lost much of it's previous sultry gloss. She spat the words out with venom. “Camarilla bitch! Fucking kine whore!”

Emily dropped into a crouch as she ran, moving away from the sound of Giselle's voice. William spoke up from somewhere far too close for comfort. He sounded almost regretful, but there was a dark note of manic glee beneath it. “You've made things very difficult for yourself now. We'll get what we want, but I promise you won't enjoy the process.”

Something hard and unyeilding barked into Emily's shin in the dark, and she bit down on her tongue to avoid cursing as she barely avoided a noisy fall. Blinking back tears of pain, she patted her hands over what she'd stumbled into. She felt dry, splintery wood, dusty against her palms. A crate of some sort. She was just feeling her way around it when her hand closed over something smooth and cold.

Her heart leaped into her throat erratically but her mind identified it before she could damn herself by screaming or something equally foolish. A pipe of some sort. Hard, dusty metal, maybe three feet long. Better than nothing.

Even as she snatched it up, Emily felt another stab of anger, this time for Martin Chatham. He'd known she was still mostly clueless about this, known how damn dangerous this strange new midnight world was, and he'd still left her alone. Part of her mind was trying to tell her that she was being unfair, that he hadn't exactly abandoned her, and besides, did she really think he could save her single-handedly from those two creatures? Or even make much of a difference? Emily ignored it. She was already learning that her anger was one of the best shields she had, and she nutured it, fanned it, hoping it would be enough to get her out of this alive.

She craned her neck, listening. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the dark now, and she could make out the vastness of the space she was in now. Other stacks of crates, distracting jumbles, though some reached as high as the vaulted ceiling above. She was pondering trying to scale one of those, maybe sneak out across the criss-crossing support beams between walls and ceiling, when she heard the first footstep.

Although it had always struck her as a tired old cliché, Emily felt the hair at the nape of her neck suddenly start trying to stand on end. The footstep had been soft, stealthy, and she thought the only reason she might have heard it was because of the thick layer of grit and dirt covering the floor. Clutching the pipe, she felt her way back around the crates, away from the source of the sound.

Except now it was coming from the opposite direction. Emily cursed soundlessly. Her grip on the pipe was sweaty, and she wiped her hands nervously on her hips. Get out. Out of earshot. Find someone. Find Martin. Hell, just get inside the damn bar. They won't try anything in front of so many people . . . would they?

Maybe, maybe not, but it was her only option.

Unfortunately, she didn't get a chance to try as a pair of crushingly strong hands siezed her by the shoulders.

Emily reacted fast, faster than she would have thought possible for her. She spun around and brought the pipe down overhead in a stabbing motion, the arc completed before she even thought about it. She heard concrete crunch as the pipe crashed down on end into the wall, the shock of the blow travelling all the way up her arm and making her grunt.

Missed. Shit. Shitshitshit.

There was a pause, and then a low, soft, feminine giggle. “Nice try.”

Emily had just time enough to think what a pathetic attempt she'd put up before she found herself flying through the air again. Her hands snatched wildly at anything within distance and siezed a handful of some thick heavy type of fabric as she slammed into the wall. It fell with her as she landed, ripping away from it's bindings with a soft purring sound and falling on her with the heavy smell of mildew and dry rot. She gagged and thrashed against it, pushing the weight off her even as she saw Giselle and William moving towards her.

Apparently she'd pulled down a make-shift curtain covering one of the tall windows, and moonlight now streamed in through it, illuminating the area in which she lay. It seemed wrong somehow that the light should be so kind to Giselle when she was so monstrous, make her skin sparkle and shine like alabaster. “That was almost fun, even if it was over too quickly. It's fun to hunt things that try to fight back.”

“Try being the word.” William said. His voice was still deep and smooth, but it had lost all of it's earlier hypnotic appeal.

“You guys,” Emily managed with a bravado she didn't feel, “have the shittiest recruitment tactics I've ever seen.”

If she was still angry over what Emily had said earlier – and she more than likely was – Giselle gave no sign. There was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes that Emily didn't like. “I'll let you try and tell me one more time. It's still going to hurt, but if you tell me I'll wait until you're dead before I start with some of the really interesting things.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Emily spat. She was trying to get her feet under her, mount some kind of defense, but her body was too sore and slow.

“Don't be difficult.” William said now. He inclined his head towards her and smiled in a way she would have found charming if he hadn't done to her what he had. As it was, she stared at him with revulsion. “Really. Do you owe the Camarilla that much loyalty?”

“I owe you pain.”

He raised an eyebrow and smirked a little. “Well, they certainly train them to be scrappy these days, don't they?” he murmured.

Ignoring him, Giselle stepped around him, standing with her hands on her hips. She looked dazzling, triumphant. A statue of Artemis standing over a fresh kill, beautiful and savage. “One more time, pet. We know something's going on with LaCroix. He's being far too sneaky these days. And then you get dragged into his place in the middle of the night half-dead, and the next time we see you, you're running high on Kindred blood as his newest little lapdog.” She narrowed her eyes to glittering slits. “Tell me. Tell me how you're important to him before I go into your brain and take it.”

I'm going to die. Emily thought dryly, even as she opened her mouth. “Go to hell, you worthless piece of Sabbat dogshit.” It was the best she could come up with under the circumstances, but it gave her a grim sense of satisfaction nonetheless.

She never got to see Giselle's reaction, however, because at that instant a dark sharp came barrelling out from behind a stack of crates and crashed into her. She was lifted up off her feet and barely had time to shriek before she was carried out of sight.

“GISELLE!” There was genuine shock and worry in William's voice. He spun around and started to lunge after her, when a second shape dropped down from nowhere – it actually seemed to be disgorged from the shadows overhead – and landed on his back. Howling with anger, he snatched at it, and Emily could hear something hissing and spitting like a cornered cat.

Without pausing to second-guess herself, Emily flung herself at William, still struggling with his attacker. His head snapped around as she crashed into him and he snarled down at her, all semblance of courtliness gone. He was holding a snarling, snapping, thrashing figure at bay with both hands, and he didn't have an arm to spare to raise in defense. Emily attacked him with a gusto that might have shamed her before tonight; her fingers hooked into claws and she went for his eyes, lips skinned back from her teeth in unconscious feral mimicry.

The vampire howled in pain and rage, lashing out awkwardly with a kick that glanced off her hip. She grunted with the impact, but refused to let go, smashing one elbow into his face now as she seized his throat with her free hand. She could hear herself panting with fear, anger, and exertion, the sort of short raspy sounds a dog might make in the heat of summer. She half-expected the blow aimed at his face to glance off him, he seemed so superhumanly solid, but she was instead rewarded with the crunch of bone beneath her descending elbow, and she felt a savage satisfaction.

William shrieked, letting go with the figure he'd been grappling with to shove her away and clutch at his face. In an instant, the figure was on him again, driving him back into the shadows, and Emily heard a pile of wood splinter and give way as they crashed into a pile of crates. She turned, looking frantically for something to arm herself with, and that's when she saw it.

The pipe was embedded more than halfway through the solid concrete wall. For some reason, Emily was almost afraid to touch it. Martin had said being a Ghoul had certain advantages, but she'd never imagined herself capable of such a feat. She thought of what such a strike would have done to Giselle's perfect face if it hadn't missed, and wasn't sure wether to feel pleased or frightened.

“Who are you?” a sharp female voice from behind demanded, and Emily spun around to see another vampire moving towards her out of the shadows. It was hard to tell, but she thought this might have been who had driven William off.

She was short, short and almost painfully thin. Her short, black hair had been styled with gel that set it standing up in erratic spikes, and her pale, thin face was devoid of makeup, although it was smudged here and there with what looked like soot. She would have been pretty if not for the wild look in her electric blue eyes. She was wearing a pair of black-and-red striped leggings underneath a short black skirt, a plain black t-shirt that looked at least two sizes too big tucked into the waist. “Who are you?” she demanded in a high, shrill voice. “You were following me! Don't deny it! I smelled your shadow, you were there, you were watching me, and I see you!”

Eyes wide, Emily threw up her hands in self-defense. “Hey. Hey, no, really. I don't know what you're talking about, okay?” God, please, what next? she thought dismally. “I was just . . . look, you're the one who saved me.”

As if she hadn't heard, the female vampire advanced a step. “You're a liar.” she hissed in a low furious voice. Even after tonight, it was still one of the most terrifying things Emily had ever heard. “They're always watching me, because they think I won't know, won't catch them, but I will. I do. You . . . you're . . . “ She trailed off, frowning suddenly. As suddenly as it had come, the malice was gone, and in it's place was only a desperate sort of confusion. “ . . . I don't understand.”

Emily resisted the urge to groan. “Well, neither do I.”

“Whatcha got there, Annie?”

The voice was deep and raspy, the voice of someone who was a longtime smoker. The man that emerged into the light shed through the window was tall and rangy, dressed in a battered leather jacket that gaped open to his lean, bare torso. His face was all hard angles and shadows, partially covered by a rather spectacularily long, dirty beard that fell partway down his chest. His long black hair was wild and snarled, and his eyes were perhaps the palest shade of blue she'd ever seen. She thought he was the dark shape she'd seen hurtling after Giselle. If so, he was remarkably nonchalant.

He draped an arm casually over the woman's shoulder, ignoring her when she hissed at him. It looked to be more of a reflexive action than anything else; Annie's anger quickly evaporated and her expression turned frustrated and confused, gaze wandering around the area. “Poor kid. Better off'n most of her kind, but, then, that's relative, ain't it?”

“I don't -- “

“Don't talk about me like that!” Annie cried suddenly, jerking away from him. She folded her arms protectively across her breasts and hugged herself, rocking on her heels slightly. “Everyone . . . everyone is always talking about me, and it's hard to sleep, and you said you wouldn't so don't say things about me just because I . . . I . . . “ Her voice trailed off and she frowned slightly at her feet, face twisting in frustration. “ . . . I don't know.”

“ 'Course,” he went on, dropping into a crouch before Emily, forearms resting on his knees so his hands dangled between his legs, “you'd make a good message, sweetheart. Nothin' says 'get out of town' like a bag of Ghoul. Don't you think?”

Emily went cold all over. She was pressed flat against the alley wall as though she could force her way through it and out the other side. She raised one hand slowly, forcing it not to tremble. “Stay back. I don't want any trouble. I'm warning you -- “ She cut off, gasping when he seized her hand. He'd done it so quickly she hadn't even seen the movement. His grip was cold and hard; it was like her wrist had been encased in old stone.

“You're warning me what?” That smile was still in place, but his eyes were hard. His grip tightened slightly and she bit back a hiss of pain. “That's the trouble with you. Get your first sip of the red stuff and start thinking you're bigger, badder than anything out there. Well, let me be the first to tell you, honey. You're not.”

“Jack, no. Stop. You – stop. Stoppit.” Surprising them both, Annie snatched handfuls of the back of Jack's vest and pulled him bodily backwards. He didn't release Emily, and she came lurching to her feet with the motion. “You . . . you stop. You let her go. I said no. Okay? Just . . . no.”

“Easy there, kiddo. I was just rattling her chain a little.” Despite his words, the sudden rangy grin, that coldness hadn't gone out of Jack's eyes. His hand opened and Emily wasted no time in backing away. She refused to allow him the satisfaction of rubbing at the pain in her wrist in front of him despite the throbbing. “What? No thank you? We just saved your ass from fertilizing the trash heap out back, you know.”

“Th . . . thank you.” Despite directing her words more at Annie, and what Jack had tried to do – what he might have done if the other vampire hadn't been present – Emily still meant the sentiment. She knew she'd been in over her head.

“Thank Annie. I was gonna go on by, but she just hard to come charging in. Good kid. Head ain't screwed on just right.” Jack grunted, his head cocking slightly. “Someone's coming.”

Annie's eyes widened even further, and she seized him by the wrist, shaking his arm in agitation the way a child might to get the attention of a distracted parent. “We have to go. We have to . . . go, Jack, go!”

“Yeah, allright, I hear ya. Take it easy.” Jack looked back at Emily. That smile was still in place, though she wished it wasn't. It showed far too much tooth for it to be really friendly, even without the look in his eyes. “You got off easy, kid. You and your boss. Those two won't be back tonight, but they're gonna be gunning for you now. You go on back and tell him what happened. Everything. Including who saved your skin.” He was letting Annie tug him off in the direction of the far door, deeper into the dark shrouding the rest of the warehouse. “You tell him what I think of the Camarilla if they can't keep their own goddamned brats outta the woodchipper. That was your only one, kid. Watch it.”

She tried to think of something to respond with. Heroines in movies or books always seemed to have an endless string of witty retorts. But with her heart pounding in her breast and the pain in her ribs and wrist as a cautionary tale, her mouth was stupid and silent.

As soon as they were out of sight, Martin burst in through the warehouse door. He looked pale and worried, and the tense expression didn't relax even when he saw Emily. He snatched her by her arm and pulled her out the door, trying to look everywhere at once as he lead her at a brisk trot towards the parking lot. “That was my fault.” he said in clipped tones. “I admit it. I came back and you were gone.” They had reached his car, a nondescript maroon fourdoor. He ushered her around to the passenger's side and began to bundle her in, still talking. “I shouldn't have left you. I asked someone sitting next to us and they said you'd left with two friends, these two -- “

“Sabbat.” Emily said, letting Martin usher her into the car. He stopped when he heard her and fixed her with an unreadable look. She could see the pulse beating suddenly faster in his temple.

“We need to go.” he repeated after a moment, and then he shut her door and hurried around to the driver's side. The engine caught with a surprising roar as he turned the key, and he took off out of the parking lot fast enough to make the tires squeal in protest. He waited until they were on the highway, pointed back in what she thought was the direction of LaCroix's tower, before looking at her. “Tell me everything.”

Martin listened in silence as she spoke, and Emily was thankful for it. She needed to hear the steadiness in her own voice, needed to let it all out before she felt like panicking again. Somehow, speaking it all aloud made the whole thing seem smaller, less important, as though it had happened to someone else. The throbbing in her right side reminded her otherwise.

“I know the man you're talking about.” Martin said when she'd finished. “Not . . . personally. But I do know of him. He's got something of a reputation in the community, a sort of . . . I don't know . . . folk hero to the Anarchs. I don't think your Master is pleased to have him in the area. I'm honestly a little surprised; I'd always heard he was fairly decent, for an Anarch. You must have caught him at a bad time.”

“Silly me.” Emily resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Getting thrown through a window like that without regard to the night he was having. What was I thinking? Damned inconsiderate.”

Either oblivious to or ignoring her sarcasm, Martin continued. “I don't know who the female was. You'll have to inform Prince LaCroix, of course. About everything, I mean, but this newcomer too. From your description, I don't think I'd be overreaching my estimate in saying she's of the Clan Malkavian, however.”

They drove in silence for a while. Emily had never been to Los Angeles before, and the fact that there were traffic snarls even so late at night seemed ridiculous to her.

“Did they hurt you?” Martin asked finally.

Emily didn't have to ask who he meant. “No.” She had no intention of telling him the things William had done. Her skin crawled with the memory, and she wanted to climb under the near-scalding spray of a shower as soon as possible.

“You . . . “ Emily began, then hesitated.

“Go on.”

“ . . . what's it like? Your life now, I mean.”

Martin was silent, but in the short time she'd known him, Emily thought she knew when he was refusing to acknowledge something and when he was mulling something over. “I'm not sure what to tell you, Emily.” he said finally. There was a sort of weariness in his voice she hadn't heard before. “Ms Wilde has been easier to work for than some masters, judging from what I've heard. She is a good woman, and I believe you could trust her, if you needed to. She asks a lot of me, but at the same time she respects a measure of my time and privacy.” He paused. “I can't say what your Master will be like.”

“He's not my Master.” Emily said automatically, but the words had a hollow sound, even to her.

Martin glanced at her. “You feel drawn to him, right? When he's paying attention to you, good or bad, it's satisfying and you don't know why. You just met him, and even under the circumstances you feel like he's important to you. Like you want to be around him, even knowing what he is. Am I right?”

Emily stared at him. “How do you -- “

“It's the same, Emily, for all of us who end up in your position.” Martin let out a slow breath and shook his head. “It's the blood.”

“I don't understand.”

“No. But you will.”

**

It was late by the time she got back to the Venture tower. The security guard at the front desk seemed to know who she was, and steered her into an elevator headed for LaCroix's office, hovering over her all the while in case she decided to bolt. The man was human, but she was glad when the elevator doors slid shut, closing off the greed and coldness she saw lighting his eyes. She wondered how much he knew, and what sort of man would willingly enter the service of a monster. Judging by how big the tower was, how many people Martin had said worked here . . . a lot. It didn't sit well with her.

The top floor seemed to be deserted, but the elevator opened directly in front of LaCroix's office, so there was no way she could get lost. Emily started to knock, then

LaCroix was sitting at his desk, head bent over a heavy, worn looking book, one hand restlessly buried in his hair. His jacket was off and draped over the back of his chair, along with his tie. He looked up as she entered, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “Where were you?” he demanded before she could say anything. “I told you to be back before dawn.”

“It is before dawn.” Emily said, trying not to sound combative. After the night she'd had, she didn't think she could handle any more conflict.

He made an irritated sound. “Not very.” He returned his attention to the book, flipping through the pages quicker than she could follow. The old paper made a sound like dead leaves as he turned it. She shifted uncertainly from foot to foot, not sure if that had been a dismissal, or if he was expecting something more. At length, he glanced up at her, frowning. “Your manner tonight has been lacking. I sincerely hope Martin taught you the proper way to conduct yourself around your betters.”

He certainly had, though probably not in the way LaCroix was thinking.

Have you ever seen nature programs talk about wolf packs? It's the same thing. Don't make eye contact with the pack leaders, don't upset the heirarchy. Let them bare their teeth and snarl if they have to. Just take it. Show them your belly when you have to. It'll keep you alive.

“I'm . . . sorry.” Emily said.

LaCroix snorted – or at least something like it. His eyes dropped to the book again, and Emily had to remind herself where she stood as she fought off a wave of irritation. She had never been treated this way before, never as though she were something less, something below notice, an inconvenience, and she hated him for it. She continued to stand where she was as he flipped through the book with increasing agitation until he snapped it shut in disgust.

“This is . . . this is all preposterous.” he muttered, standing up and striding past her to sling the book into a pile of others sitting haphazardly on one of the low, stylised couches in the center of the room. He stood with his back to her for a moment, muttering to himself, before spinning around to narrow his eyes at her. “What do you think of Molly O'Malley?”

Emily hesitated. That had been another one of Martins 'lessons'. Keep your opinions to yourself. Besides, this sounded like one of those trap questions with no right answer. “I don't know.” she said finally. “I just met her.”

“Well of course. Don't be deliberately obtuse.” LaCroix snapped. “But surely you have an opinion. What kind of woman does she impress you as?” He paused, and when he spoke again his tone was quieter, more modulated. “Go ahead. Tell me what you really think. I want another opinion.”

The fact was, Emily had already decided she didn't like the vampire. Never would. There was something in the depths of those clear hazel eyes that put Emily powerfully in mind of the Toreador woman who'd accosted her tonight. The same sort of breezy arrogance and self confidence that comes with the belief that everything and everybody is just there to get you along.

Emily glanced at him mistrustfully. “ . . . she seems like she's a very careful woman. The type who considers everything she says and does hours in advance. She . . . she's very sure of herself.”

It was such a nebulous, bullshit political answer Emily expected him to snap at her again, but LaCroix only shook his head grimly. “Yes, and that's the problem, isn't it? She thinks I don't . . . “ He cocked his head, eyes suddenly focusing on her. “What happened tonight?”

Emily couldn't conceal her surprise. “I -- “

“Don't try and lie to me. I can smell it on you. Fear and anger.”

Swallowing, Emily looked away from the white-hot intensity in his gaze. She recounted what had happened in as few words as possible, again leaving out Williams . . . attentions as she had with Martin. She looked at him as she finished, and was alarmed to see thunderheads growing in his expression.

“The Sabbat know you're here.” he hissed. He raised his hands, looking murderous, before clenching them into fists and lowering them slowly down to his sides. “Wonderful. Wonderful. Yes, things weren't nearly complicated enough, now it's perfect.” he spat the last word out.

“I didn't tell them anything.” Emily said defensively. Without even realising it, she was tensed to run, although if LaCroix was half as fast as the other vampires she'd seen tonight she didn't think she'd get far.

“And better for you that you didn't.” LaCroix muttered. He was pacing back in front of her. Even with everything that had happened, everything that she knew, Emily still felt a sudden, strange compulsion to go to him. Try to soothe him somehow. She watched him prowl across the floor and her pulse was suddenly fluttering in her neck. Was this what Martin had meant? Her eyes followed the line of his back beneath his shirt appreciatively, the way the muscles in his throat worked as he clenched his jaw.

She stamped down on the feelings – hard – but she was left feeling flustered and angry with herself. “What do you want me to do now?” she asked finally, as much to get an idea of where she stood as to distract herself. She was tired in a way she'd never been before, soul-weary to go with the myriad of aches in her body. Even if this bizarre, awful world would still be here when next she opened her eyes, all she wanted was to bury her head under a pillow and fall asleep for as long as possible.

“Do?” LaCroix stopped his obsessive pacing and frowned at her. He glanced past her at the night sky beyond the windows and sighed suddenly, some of the ire leaving his expression. “You're staying here, obviously. In the room I provided you. You'll stay there until nightfall. I can't have you wandering around on your own.”

“Of course not.” Although she'd expected as much, Emily still felt defeated. True, she was exhausted, but what she really wanted was to be able to go home. Not bloody likely. Get used to it.

“We'll figure out a more permanent solution tomorrow night.” LaCroix went on as though she hadn't spoken. He paused and shot her a brief glance. “ . . . perhaps I shouldn't have sent you out so soon. Martin is hardly appropriate security.”

Taken aback by what was probably as close to an apology as he ever gave, Emily shrugged. “We . . . we did allright.”

Emily didn't understand him, and his sudden changes in mood made her nervous. Alternately so dismissive and then focused on her. In the very short time she'd known him, all she could make of him was that he was perhaps the most demanding man she'd ever met. And maybe the most harried, too. The calm, imperious demeanor he'd worn earlier that night was a good one, but she could sense the tension, the stress in him.

There was something strange about the way he was looking at her, something speculative and focused she didn't like. He let his jacket drop back over his chair and stepped around the side of his desk, extending one hand towards her. “Come here.” When she didn't move, he raised an eyebrow and frowned slightly. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm not going to hurt you . . . don't have me make you do it.” he added, and the thought of that mental hold over her spurred her into action. She'd had more than enough of that, thank you very much.

LaCroix's hand clamped shut over her arm as she drew near and he pulled her forward until she was standing less than a foot away from him. His eyes roamed over her face, something appraising and thoughtful there. Emily stood rigidly, fighting the urge to pull away.

Except . . . she didn't want to, really. It was hard to close out the . . . feelings he seemed to inspire in her when he was so close. She stared back at him, her eyes wide, and her breath caught when he suddenly pulled her even closer, closing the distance between them. One of his arms slipped around her back to hold her in place, and his other hand slid up into her hair, tilting her head back to accommodate for the difference in height so she could look him in the eye.

For a moment, Emily had the idea that he meant to kiss her. The idea was ridiculous, of course. Whatever that strange look in his eyes was, romance wasn't it. She knew that much, but it was hard to think. Her hands had come up reflexively and were pressed flat against his chest. She could feel hard muscle beneath the crisp material of his shirt and she swallowed nervously.

“What . . . what are you doing?”

His grip shifted, cupping the back of her head with with deceptive gentleness, but when she tried to pull away he held her as easily as she might have held a struggling kitten. “It's easier if you relax.” he murmured, eyes luminous in the gloom of his office. Almost . . . hypnotic.

Instantly recalling every vampire myth she'd ever heard, Emily dragged her gaze away with an effort, breath hitching with sudden fright in her chest. It didn't help. If anything, his grip only tightened as he pulled her head to one side. He did it slowly and almost gently, but there was no refusing the power in the movement no matter how much she strained. At the same time, his free arm snaked around her back, pulling her closer.

The embrace was intimate, but there was something missing. She realised it a moment later when she felt his lips brush across the big pulse in her neck. He wasn't breathing. She should have known, but it still startled and unnerved her further. That warm wash of breath she would have felt from a lover in a similar situation wasn't there, and neither was the familiar rise and fall of the chest. Somehow it was that, more than anything else she'd seen or done that evening, that brought the full alienness of the situation crashing down on her.

“Please don't do this.” Emily whispered again, shocked to find herself begging. There were tears standing in her eyes, and she couldn't blink them away. Her vision trembled, doubling and shimmering. “Please, please don't. It's too much, too much, I can't --”

“Sshh.” He kissed her throat lightly, the merest pressure of his lips, and she felt him sigh. “It's my right, and I need it. It's been a long night.”

And then she felt the burn of the bite.

For a moment the pain was so intense, so sharp, that Emily felt as though he'd pressed a branding iron against her skin rather than biting her. As suddenly as it came, however, it was gone. Replaced by an incredible sensation that seemed to be boiling up from somewhere deep inside her, spreading warmth across every inch of her skin. She gasped, her eyes widening. She could feel his mouth sealed to her throat, drawing something vital from her, but each pull only sent a throb of sensation through her. It was . . . it was like . . .

Her limbs didn't seem to want to respond, and if not for the now fiercely tight hold he had on her she might have collapsed. There was no strength in her legs anymore. Her body was tingling, skin tightening. She heard herself sucking in gasps of air, but he was silent. It was like being held by a marble statue, but the way she was feeling . . . the sensation that something bright and great was building inside her, turning her to molten liquid beneath his lips . . . all she wanted was . . .

The fog was descending now. Two tears had slipped from the corners of her eyes, but they were half-lidded now with a heady languor, her lips slightly parted. Her right hand came up and brushed weakly against his back. “Please . . . please don't . . . “ she said, her voice barely more than a sigh as the room grew farther and farther away.

“Please don't stop . . . “