�I want to do one tonight,� Kaleb said, �I want to do one good.� Windowsill perch like an ungainly vulture, one skinny leg swinging pendulum smooth over the ten story drop. The bloated yellow moon impaled itself on skyscraper teeth across the street. Kaleb�s eyes did not reflect the light. �It�s been a while, huh Ramos?�

�Yeah,� Ramos said. He bit down, pinched his tongue between his teeth. Pain, and the far wall popped into sharp focus. In his right hand he held a slender dagger, honed wicked-sharp. His arm surged forward, his wrist snapping hard at the apex of his throw. The knife hummed across the room, a silver needle full of bad intentions. It dented the soft plaster of the wall, another divot of rot plucked away, and the blade clattered to the splintered floor. �Fuck.�

The sound of metal on plaster, on wood, made Kaleb bare his teeth. �Stop that shit,� he ordered, �I�m not listening to that all night.�

Ramos shuffled across the room, a ponderous ogre in a black trench coat, dirty wrists protruding from the sleeves and the material taut across thick shoulders. He leaned down, collected the dagger, and shuffled back across the room. �Thought we were going out. Thought we were gonna do one.�

�We are.�

�Then you won�t have to listen to this shit-� the blade thudded against the wall again � �all night.�

Kaleb bit back a furious response, knowing better than to push Ramos too far. Like a bull, the bastard kept placid, let his size and his vocabulary lull people into the delusion that slow meant safe. Kaleb knew better. He thought of Jack a lot. Jack, who used to be the third member of their party. Jack, with the lightening mind and the easy laugh, who pulled off the nastiest scams with the inborn ease of a natural criminal. Jack of no scruples and questionable morals, who watched his back and kept his habit in check. Jack, who pushed Ramos too far.

�In fast and hard � that�s how it�s best, right? � Ramos, you keep and eye on the counter, me and Kaleb go around the back and-�

�No,� Ramos said.

�No? Fuck that,� Jack said, half crazed eyes rolling towards Ramos in disgust. �There is no �No,� idiot.� Meth that night, too much of it, and maybe it was stupid to hit the mini-mart where they bought their milk. The nice Asian couple who worked there never looked them in the eye, never asked questions. Maybe it was stupid, but Jack plus crystal meth plus smart did not add up.

�No, Jack.� Ramos said, totally, eerily calm. Sometimes Kaleb wondered how much really went on in the dim room that housed Ramos�s syrup slow head. Some part of him wondered if Ramos planned it.

�Tell me no?� Jack snarled, face in a rigor of fury, �Tell me no, Jackass? Who the fuck you think you are? You and K aren�t shit without me, not shit,� � and it hurt to hear Jack say it, but fucked if it wasn�t true � �I run this outfit, I make the goddamn rules, and if I say we hit the place, we hit the place. Your mother should�ve drowned you when you were fucking born, you-�

A meaty fist locked around Jack�s throat, and his strung out eyes bulged. Kaleb thought of hamsters at that moment, how their eyes bulged just like that when you squeezed them. Kaleb hated himself a little for thinking that way. Jack deserved more than to be remembered as a skinny hamster with bloodshot eyes.

�Don�t talk about my mother,� Ramos said, his voice still metronome dull.

Kaleb remembered the crunching sound, woke up in a cold sweat from hearing it in his dreams. Just a flex of that butcher�s fist, a delicate pop, and the mad light in Jack�s eyes winked out. Here but not here. A meat sack. And like a sack, Ramos tossed Jack�s body into the corner and stared at his hands.

Kaleb�s jaw hung so low that it hurt to close his mouth later. He�d witnessed death aplenty, but this had been Jack, and seeing him in the corner of the room with his head at a bad angle did irreversible things to Kaleb�s already warped mind. When he finished processing the scene, he whimpered like a whipped dog and put as much space between himself and the body as possible. That meant under a table shoved into a corner, but at least he had his back to the wall, with the mattress between him and the meat sack formerly known as Jack. Ramos, sitting on the mattress, helped to block the view too. Kaleb would rather look at a killer than a body.

Ramos sat for a long time. Then he went to sleep. Woke up. Ate something. Life went on. Jack stayed in the corner until flies gathered and their buzzing hum made Kaleb howl inside his own skull. Jack stayed folded up by the wall until Kaleb became convinced that his meager wardrobe reeked permanently of rot.

�Can we . . . can we do something about . . . that?� he asked finally. He couldn�t say �Jack,� because Jack had nothing to do with the stinking, bloated thing on the floor. �Please?�

Ramos looked surprised. He looked at the body like it was something new. Then he shrugged, and plopped it over one shoulder. Kaleb would never forget the sound the corpse made, or the smell. He puked then, and felt nauseated every time he looked at Jack�s stain on the floor. They moved the mattress over it finally. And heave ho, there went Jack, into the dumpster and it wasn�t the part of town where anyone would say anything about a corpse in a dumpster.

The rule: don�t push Ramos unless you want to end up like Jack.

The knife thumped against the wall. Kaleb tried not to scream. �Stop it,� he snarled, �Just fucking stop it. Stop it.�

Ramos stopped mid shuffle. �Why?� he asked, and Kaleb balled his hands into fists. No answer forthcoming, and Ramos resumed his shuffle, picking up the knife and tossing it onto the piss/blood/semen/sweat/puke stained mattress. �So we gonna do one tonight?�

Kaleb took a few deep breaths, and the fetid air stunk, even with the window open, but he couldn�t trust himself to speak. �The opera,� he said, when he could manage words. �A new one opened up tonight. I saw the flyer earlier.�

�Slim pickings last time,� Ramos reminded him, �We almost came back broke.�

�One more try,� Kaleb said. The fat, yellow moon felt lucky, and in his experience opera yuppies usually carried plenty of cash.

Ramos shrugged. Rich, poor, money, broke, location, location, location. As long as there was fear, he was satiated.

Kaleb went to the mattress and dug out his gun, just a little snub-nosed revolver, but enough with Ramos hulking behind him. He zipped himself into a crusty windbreaker then pushed to his feet. �Come on,� he said, �I think it lets out at ten.�

In fact, the opera ended at eleven, and by the time the stream of beautiful people flowed from the theater, Kaleb felt half frozen and dangerously agitated. �Come on, come on,� he muttered, his eyes flickering over the crowd, �Where�s my honey pot?� Ramos stood wordlessly beside him, not even shivering, and anger tasted bitter on Kaleb�s tongue. He felt ready to call it a night. Then he saw her.

A child? No way, not with the idle way she riffled through her tiny black purse, not with the way she lit a cigarette and sucked down the smoke like a lover. Tiny though, with fragile bird bones and a heart that would beat hummingbird-fast when they grabbed her. Perfect. Plain black dress, hair piled on top of her head, looking around with mild interest but not wary. Rich, pampered, unaware, and pretty too. Kaleb liked the pretty ones most. No cab, he urged her, You don�t need a cab. Just stand there, or better yet, wander into the shadows like a good little girl. He bit back on a curse when a man came up behind her and kissed her neck. Tall, broad through the shoulders and slender through the body, with brown hair held back in a ponytail. A bitch, in other words. Easy. And once Kaleb�s little revolver put a bullet in the bitch�s head, he and Ramos could take their time with the girl.

The couple murmured for a moment, and the woman shook her head, gesturing down the street. The man nodded, and they started walking.

The weather seemed a trifle unseasonable for a walk, especially with her in that dress. Something felt wrong � this was too simple. The girl and her bitch really should have taken a cab or headed towards the opera house�s parking garage. Instead, they walked into the wilds of the city, vaguely downtown, not even in a rush. Some swank apartments bordered the park, but the park was a couple miles down and a walk at this hour spelled suicide. Kaleb watched the couple go with narrowed eyes. Too easy. �Think we can take them?� Kaleb asked, elbowing Ramos in the ribs.

Ramos glanced after the couple and shrugged. �Easy,� he said.

Too easy.

�It�d be better if she was alone.�

�Always is,� Ramos said, �Slim pickings, tonight.�

Kaleb felt a surge of ferocious anger at the other man�s complacency. Kaleb hated making decisions. If something went bad, the blame lay with him. I miss Jack. �So them, or not?� he demanded.

�No one else,� Ramos said.

�Then move your ass,� Kaleb snapped, and they crossed the street.

�Niya, I think we�re being followed,� Christopher said.

The tiny Indian woman laughed, soft, the barest hint of mockery riding the sound. �Just since the opera house,� she said, crisp English accent frosting in the chilly air. �I saw them as soon as we left the lobby. Why do you think I nixed the cab?�

�Them?�

�Only two, Chris. Don�t be such a silly. And do keep walking � you�re making a scene.�

No scene to make, Niya. There�s only you and me out here, oh, and them of course. Even after a year at this, he still felt vulnerable, exposed and raw. Niya moved through the streets with luxurious arrogance, the same deadly grace that obsessed him from the beginning. Niya no longer understood fear. But I still get frightened, Chris thought, Don�t you realize that, Niya? I can�t learn what you were born with over the course of a year, or ten, or ever maybe.

He watched the liquid sway of her hips under the clinging material of her dress, stared at the long line of her bare neck, so vulnerable with her hair piled atop her head. From this angle, she could almost be human, he thought with a wry smile.

�Stop staring,� Niya said, her voice edged with laughter, �I can feel your eyes through my dress, Chris.�

�Thinking about later, that�s all.�

�My, my. You Yanks certainly are presumptuous, aren�t you? Thinking about another dreadful seduction attempt or about wringing my neck?�

�I thought they were the same thing.�

�Hmm. And I was going to go to bed with you tonight, too.�

�Yee-ha,� Chris muttered.

Niya�s voice sharpened. �Stop worrying, Chris. You know I�ll take care of everything. And no heroics this time, hmm?�

Teeth gritted, trying not to cringe. Who thought I�d be so terrible at all this? �I just don�t want to see you get hurt,� he said lamely.

Niyati turned around then, exasperated, and Chris almost ran her down. He topped her by a foot at least, but he cowered before her. His world. His everything, since Lucy left. His protector, and didn�t that just make him feel emasculated? He needed to stoop to rest his chin on her head, and every time this situation came down, the moronic urge to defend her snarled awake within him. Stupid, he told himself, You know what she is. As if Niyati Meluha could ever be taken down by a pair of street thugs.

�Chris, you�re becoming rather irritating,� she said in her Impatient Voice. He cringed this time, but forced himself to look her in the face. The tiny, glimmering bindi on her forehead caught the light of the moon, but her eyes remained dark. �We�ve been at this for over a year. Take a cab if you plan to keep pissing and moaning. I�m bloody sick of hearing it.�

She�s just being snappish because she�s hungry.

No, she�s just being snappish because she�s Niya.

�I love you,� Chris said, knowing very well how much she despised those words.

Niya�s eyes narrowed the tiniest bit, and the corners of her mouth quirked. Both bad signs. Signs of impending attack. Niya never shied away from her own breaking point. �You need me,� she said brusquely. She tapped his cheek, the level of force somewhere between a pat and a slap. Chris knew better than to react. �Learn the difference, luv.� Her eyes raked over him, and Chris thought he sensed desire mingled with her disgust.

God, she makes no sense. She never makes any sense. But I�ll take her being nonsensical if it means that I can have her tonight. I already endured the opera. Her turn to give.

�Take out that wretched ponytail,� was all that she said, voice just as frosty-sweet as before, �I�ve told you that it makes you look like a cadaver.� A rustle of taffeta, and the gunshot staccato of her heels as she strode down the street.

Too loud, those heels, and Chris realized with a start that they�d Passed. Running on empty tonight; didn�t even feel the shift, and the new awareness inside Chris, the savage part of him, unfolded black wings and grinned ferally. Chris sighed, eroticism and hunger and lust all coiling within him. Passing meant home, meant the reborn version of Christopher Roland came out to play. Now he gazed at departing Niya�s back, and love was farthest from his mind. Mine came closer. A fool�s belief � Niya belonged to no one but herself � but animal hunger thrived in this state. Mind full of darkness, Chris trailed after his creator, dragging the rubber band from his dark, shoulder length hair. He shook it loose, tight grin hard on his mouth. Niyati suggested the length in the first place, then constantly sniped at him for his inability to style it. Her little distractions made everything simple � Lucy�s abandonment, the sparking layers of conspiracy, and the calm weight of eternity growing heavier every day. Despite her wretched personality, he adored Niya for all the things she gave him and all the things she refused. Not romantic love � not while Lucy breathed � but love nonetheless. Thicker than water . . .

�Better?� he asked her, tucking his hair behind his ears.

�If it�s out, it�s fine,� Niyati said, not bothering to look. She crossed the street, moving quickly now, towards the warehouse district where most of their nocturnal activities took place. �Come on, Chris.�

�I know, act as if we�re nervous.�

This part of the little scenario felt like an old friend now. Walk faster so they think we�re scared. Act worried. Play lost. Glance back a bit. If the pair thought them anxious enough to hail a cab, they�d strike sooner. The sooner the better, Chris thought, I�m starving.

The couple angled towards the bad part of town as they walked, and Kaleb wondered at their stupidity. Didn�t they read the news? Or perhaps they�d gotten turned around. Either way, Kaleb believed that people this easy got what they deserved. �The world is a vampire,� he whispered.

The woman stopped to confer with the man, their voices too low to hear. Then the woman walked on, a little faster now, the snap of her heels on the pavement echoing back to them. A scared walk. The man trailed behind her, taking out his ponytail, running his fingers through his hair.

Nervous, Kaleb thought, good. Nervous people fumbled. Nervous people made bad mistakes. Sometimes, nervous people even got themselves killed, especially with someone like Ramos around. Way too easy.

�They know,� Ramos said, and something in his voice made Kaleb turn around. Ramos played at statues, stock still and mouth drawn down in a grimace, oversized hands at his side like abandoned sledgehammers.

�Then come on,� Kaleb said, �We�re gonna lose them.�

�There�s something wrong,� Ramos said, his voice more insistent. He looked weird, and Kaleb struggled to pinpoint the difference. When Ramos looked up at the sky and the moonlight fell on his face, Kaleb�s nerves prickled with ice. Ramos looked aware. The vacancy sign no longer hung is his eyes, and these new eyes seemed wary.

�What�s wrong?� Kaleb demanded, �We�re losing them, Ramos.�

�Forget about them,� Ramos said, �Bad idea.�

�What?�

�Bad idea.�

�Look,� Kaleb said, his head beginning to throb, �We�ve followed these fuckers for a good half hour, Ramos. There�s no one else tonight. It�s gonna be them.� So move and get the empty look back in your eyes before I lose my nerve.

�Where are we?� Ramos asked.

�What kind of fucked up question is that?� Kaleb demanded. He knew these streets better than his mother, and Ramos should too. Four years of work together, only about ten miles from their flop, and now the shadows and the moon got to Ramos? No way. �Asshole,� Kaleb said, �We�re . . . we�re . . .� He glanced around, mouth screwed up lemon pucker tight. The buildings were vaguely recognizable, but skyscrapers and alleyways always lulled the mind into a feeling of familiarity. Complacency. The things that got people like him dead. A whisper of unease breathed through him. He looked back and squinted. �Mordelant Street,� he muttered, �Where the hell is Mordelant Street?�

�No cars,� Ramos murmured, �No shouting, no construction . . .�

The silence crashed in on Kaleb then. No city ever got this quiet. His blood turned to ice water. �What the fuck?� he demanded, and his voice came out high and frightened.

�They have us,� Ramos said, and the stark terror in his tone frightened Kaleb more than anything he�d ever heard. �We�re in their world.�

�What are you talking about?� Kaleb hated the sniveling sounds coming out of his mouth.

�We�re screwed,� Ramos said. He closed his eyes. �God.�

�Pardon me.� The cool, cultured voice spun Kaleb around, and he stared down at his intended quarry. The woman smiled, pushing a few wayward curls from her eyes. �The two of you seem rather lost.� The man loomed behind her, an equally pleasant smile on his face.

How did they sneak up on me? Kaleb wondered wildly, Why didn�t I hear them? Her shoes on the pavement, this silence � I should have heard her hours ago. �No,� he stammered, �No . . . we were just going . . .�

�But this neighborhood is hardly safe,� the woman said, �Not unless you know the way.�

�Do you know the way?� the man asked.

�Yes,� Kaleb said, �It�s . . . it�s just back there.� He gestured vaguely behind him, unwilling to turn his back to them.

The woman peered past his shoulder. �Afraid you�re quite wrong,� she said, �That just goes deeper. Why, if you went that way, you�d never survive the night.�

Ramos whimpered, and at that sound of surrender, Kaleb crumpled. �Please,� he said in a quick, low voice, �Please, both of you. Let us go.�

�That�s impossible,� the man said, �You�re in too deep. We�d have to lead you out.�

�Please.�

�I think not,� the woman said.

�We�re on our way home,� the man added, �But you�re welcome to stay with us, if you like.�

�No!� Kaleb said, physically backing away from them now.

�Pity,� the woman said, �Have a good night then.� She turned, liquid in motion, and caught the hand of the man as she went.

Kaleb�s heart thundered like the wings of sparrows as he watched them walk away, turn the corner, disappear. Gratitude poured over him like rain.

�We�re trapped here,� Ramos choked out.

�What?�

�You heard them; we�re in too deep. Without one of their kind to lead us out-�

�We came in! We�ll find a way out.�

�They don�t want us out. They want us right here.�

�Fuck them! We�ll find a way out.�

�Not unless we�re dead, Kaleb. Not unless we�re dead.�

Kaleb swallowed around the taste of blood and earth. �What do we do then? Just what the hell do you suggest we do?�

�Pray,� Ramos murmured, �Pray and hope that we�re forgiven before we get to the gates.�

�Fuck you!� Kaleb spat, �Fuck you and fuck this! I�m not dying here, not tonight. Not any night.�

He started down the street after the couple, because by God if those rich bastards know the way out then they�re going to lead us out, whether they want to or not. He fumbled with the zipper of his windbreaker, clumsy in his haste, in his fear, and as he withdrew the gun, Ramos began to laugh.

The laughter sounded crazy, fizzled over his skin like ants. Crazy, something here has driven him crazy, something here is driving me crazy.

�It�s not going to do you any good,� Ramos said, panting to keep up with Kaleb, �Do you really think a gun is going to-�

A howl shivered through the night, cold and crisp and clean, a hunting howl, and it drove them faster down the street, a running half trot. �What was that? What was that?� Kaleb babbled. The grip of the gun felt slick in his grasp. I�ll never be able to fire this thing; not like this . . .

They swung around the corner to face a dead end, the couple long gone. �Where?� Kaleb muttered through numb lips, �Where . . .�

Ramos half-moaned, half-laughed, fear eating up the dribbles of his sanity. Kaleb felt less than half a step behind.

The wind purred through the alley, a feral cat, and a door banged gently, beckoned, just enough movement to send out a subtle little hello. �No,� Ramos said, �We can�t.�

�They know the way out.�

�They�ll kill us first.�

Kaleb turned to Ramos. �You know,� he said flatly, �What are they, Ramos?� And are they the things that made you turn all your lights off in the first place, the things that made you what you are? The knowledge of them . . . I can see how you might not want to be a part of this world any more.

Nothing made any sense. Ramos opened his mouth, closed it. The door banged seductively. �Old,� he said finally, �Just old.�

Kaleb cocked the revolver. �With me or against me?�

The howl shivered again through the night, closer now. Ramos whirled around, then back to Kaleb with his eyes rolling in his head. �Don�t make me stay out here.�

�Then get my back.�

�It won�t help,� Ramos said, but followed Kaleb anyway.

They slunk down the alley to the open door, Ramos chanting softly, �Oh fuck, we�re dead. Oh fuck, we�re dead. Oh fuck, we�re dead . . .�

Kaleb�s lips felt numb, his body jittery, his bowels loose and hot. He couldn�t even tell Ramos to shut the fuck up and stem the tide of words that rattled the world further down around him.

�Oh fuck, we�re dead. Oh fuck, we�re dead . . .�

At the mouth of the doorway, Kaleb paused, eyes closed, prayers to Maker he�d abandoned long ago. �Please.� His mouth formed the word, but he couldn�t force it out. He no longer had the substance to move his voice beyond his lips. The brickwork at his back felt hyper-real, the breeze like a million fingertips, Ramos�s panting little chant like a freight train through tunnels. The moment stretched out, brittle: Kaleb with the humiliatingly tiny gun clasped in both hands, mouth gone dry and hard; the enormous man beside him shrinking into his dirty trench coat and cringing away from the breeze like a beaten dog. The door banged open again, tender, with finality. The breeze kissed Kaleb�s windbreaker, flapped the hem of Ramos�s coat, sent a balled-up flyer for a club that didn�t exist in the human world scuttling down the alley. Silence. Nothing howled. Nothing moved. The moon stared down, owlishly wide. A different moon. Silvery cold. Bigger. Hungry.

Kaleb screamed and spun through the door, gun out before him like a bayonet, and she came at him like a panther. He squeezed off one shot, just one, watched it whine through the place where her face had been. Fast, so fast, and she swarmed over him like black water. First a hit that deadened his arm from shoulder to nerveless fingers, then a second hit that spun his weapon through the darkness, and even before it clattered against the concrete floor she hit him a third time. He thought his heart exploded. All the air left his body as his back cracked against the wall. When he dragged in a great, wheezing convulsion of air, he tasted blood.

Ramos surged past him, shrieking something incoherent. Bit late, motherfucker, and Kaleb could only watch the woman through the tidal wave of his own terror, admiring the beauty, grace, and power of a creature doing what nature created her to do.

She caught Ramos by the front of his trench coat, maybe skin too from the way he screamed. Or maybe it was the fangs, fangs as long and cold and old as death, bared in a savage grin. She grabbed him and whirled like a dervish, Ramos�s toes rattling over the concrete, his face in a grimace of horror so profound that Kaleb nearly felt sympathy for the idiot. Then she let him go, and Ramos flew away through the dark, up and up and up.

Kaleb braced for the sound of impact, for the sound of shattering bones a thousand times worse than the little pop of Jack�s neck, waited, and strained into the dim room, but the sound never came.

Instead he heard something worse.

A wet tearing echoed from the dark, a hot, helpless, bubbling gasp from some high place. A wheeze that might have been an attempt to scream. �What the-?� the woman muttered, and disappeared into the dark.

Kaleb moved too, and an arm like a steel bar crashed across his chest. �Leave them.� The man�s face came into view, long hair disheveled, mouth full of elongated canines, and eyes full of wildfire. �Your path lies with me.�

�Ramos!� Kaleb croaked pitifully, �Ramos!�

�Hush,� the man said, and locked his fingers into Kaleb�s greasy hair, drawing his head down and to the side, exposing his jugular.

�No!� Kaleb shrieked, writhing, bucking, his body slithering snake-like against the wall, but the man held him fast, darted forward, and when Kaleb felt those terrible teeth against his neck his bladder let go.

Chris leapt back with a curse. �Little shit,� he growled, �You stinking little sack of shit,� then he moved in again and Kaleb howled.

Lips to desperate flesh and Chris recoiled once more, mouth twisted in disgust. �God but you�re filthy,� he snarled, and spat on the floor by Kaleb�s feet.

�Need me to pop the cork, Chris?� the woman asked, coming out of the dark.

Niya shook her head. �You�ll have to see this one to believe it,� she said, and her grin looked unholy. �Might�ve earned a few points for this one.�

Kaleb found himself grabbed by the scruff of the neck, dragged across the concrete like so much offal. He kicked and flailed, but the iron grip never waned.

Chris followed Niya into the dark, looked up and smirked. �Oh, good one. Ten points, at least.�

�More like twenty,� Niya said with disgust.

Once, the building had been a meatpacking plant, back when it belonged to the human world, back before the Second Illusion devoured it. Chris and Niya used it often, left kills there to rot. Dusty equipment, long unused, sagged and moldered in the hush. Only the screams of a human meat filled the cathedral spaces now.

A series of hooks ran the length of the room, suspended from a chain with links the width of a man�s wrist. They moved, once, and perhaps still moved. Electricity functioned oddly in the Second Illusion. If they moved, Niya could take her kill. If. Otherwise, Niya�s meal hung thirty feet in the air, a hook through his back, red and black and gobbetted where the metal thrust through his chest. Blood dripped, shimmered as it fell, splattered. A few ruby drops hit Kaleb�s face, and he gagged. Though his night vision barely approached that of the creatures who planned to murder him, he still understood what had happened to Ramos.

Serves you right, bitch! Serves you fucking right!

�Well,� Niya said brusquely, �Best find the controls.� She disappeared into the dark.

�No!� Kaleb howled, flailing again, �No, no, no! Don�t leave me with him!�

�Oh, shut up,� Chris said crossly. �She�s far worse than I am.�

�Lady, please!�

�Stuff it,� she said from the far side of the room, her voice gone ghostly with distance, �Chris, do something about him, would you?�

�Gladly,� Chris said, and pounced. The smell of blood made his stomach cramp with eagerness, made all the nasty little infected cells in his body howl with impatience. His mouth found Kaleb�s filthy throat, punctured his jugular deep and sure and true, and the hot, salty, coppery tang of blood washed away the taste of the dirt scrubbed into Kaleb�s pores. Chris retracted his fangs and settled his mouth more firmly. The insectile little struggles of the man he pinned ceased to matter, ceased even to exist. Everything is the blood. The blood is everything. It coated his throat, heady and undeniable, and his body sobbed with relief at the delight of sustenance. None but the Sanguin could understand the ecstasy of bloodletting, of slaking eternal thirst. Not even the Lilim, feeding on the very source of life itself, understood the primal connection of a Sanguin to his blood feast. I worship you, Chris thought to his furiously swarming cells, You are all that I am and all that I will ever be, and through you I am everything . . . Feeding forced arousal upon him, the infantile pleasure of sucking combined with adult desires, and his blood hummed with longing.

Niya watched her progeny with parted lips, the control box near forgotten in one hand. Christopher fed with the same voluptuous abandonment as all Sanguin, but Niya rarely exposed herself to the prolonged company of others. Not to mention the voyeuristic delight of watching one of her own take blood. Lucy chose well. I shall almost miss him, when she comes . . .

The man Christopher drank from made a feeble, gurgling sound. One hand rose and clawed the air, as if beseeching the aid of his impaled companion. A waste, that one, Niya thought, eying the suspended body with disgust, Hardly a proper kill at all. But not without his uses.

Quick punch of a button, and the rusting machinery roared to life. Good. Like a perverse angel, trench coat flapping, Ramos rode his hook towards the ground. Niya stopped his descent when he hung over Kaleb and Christopher. Rather holy, in a way, she thought as she gazed at her perverse little tableau, The Sanguin at sup, the angel presiding over . . . lovely. She thought of blood then, of the nails-on-chalkboard screech of her demanding body. There�s a pleasure in the masochism of waiting, a pleasure in the strength necessary to keep from glutting myself at any given opportunity. Most Sanguin dove for the throat of whomever crossed their path. Niya considered herself refined

Ramos lifted his head as Niya approached, a long runner of bloody saliva dangling from his lower lip, eyes gone hazy with agony, but oh so exquisitely aware. The pall of Death hung all around him, but he still stared her full in the face. Spirited. Spirited but still so very dead.

Christopher continued to drain his victim, lost in the bliss of feeding. Niya stood over them, looked into Kaleb�s dying face. His fingers twitched furtively, but his eyes already held the glassy look that precluded the end. Too easy, she thought scornfully, I remember when they used to fight . . . Christopher deserved more of a challenge from you, wormling.

Then Ramos. Poor thing, and he shuddered as their eyes met. Amazing, the will to live in some of them, Niya thought, I almost understood such a thing, once. Sacrifices made, sacrifices remembered, and Niya pushed back the tide of memories. More pressing matters hung at hand. �Hello, Darling,� she said, tipping back her head to gaze into his emptying eyes.

Ramos tried to moan. A bubble of blood burst from his mouth, spattered his chin.

�You�d best stay quiet,� Niya said, �You�re rather done in.�

He closed his eyes, fat tears trickling from beneath his lashes.

�I know,� Niya said, �It hurts.�

More tears. Niya�s icy heart refused to warm. She only felt disgust for this worm of a man, caught fast on hook for not being clever enough, quick enough, to best her. I can�t be bested. Over 5,000 years. No mere mortal will ever best me, nor anything else upon this earth. This is what it means to be a god.

�I can end it, if you like. I can make it all go away.�

�Please.� Hardly a whisper of sound, but enough for Niya.

�Poor love,� she murmured, stepping over Christopher and his victim, coming in close, and something on Ramos�s face looked like pleading.

Please.

I am your world, now.

Yes. Please.

�Yes,� Niya breathed, and Ramos bowed his head.

Absolution.

Niya reached up, plunged both hands into his pendulous belly, both arms instantly slicked in gore.

His howls tore the darkness apart.

Niya ripped up and out, stretched hard and tall. The flaps of his belly opened like the wings of a black butterfly, spilling his intestines onto the floor, a wet and steaming pile. Then in again, in and reaching, hot liquid down her arm, down the back of her neck, the taffeta of her dress slick-wet, and she twisted her head just enough to lick the blood from her shoulder. The smell of him made her giddy with delight.

Her hand found his palpitating heart. It filled her palm, fluttering like a trapped bird, and she crushed it with a semblance of tenderness. Go in peace. Go, to whatever you believe in. It�s all the same in the end . . .

His legs danced and twitched as nerve endings fired their last shots. A long sigh of air ghosted over her hair, like the soul making its final exit. Niya didn�t believe in the soul.

Slick, sucking sensation as she removed her arm. Her right side glimmered wet, stinking of copper and salt. Her left side remained pristine, and with this hand she took the dead man�s wrist, sunk fangs into the flesh there, and drank.

Not enough; never enough to slake her thirst. That was one thing the story books had right � her condition instilled endless hunger.

Unlike many of her kind, she embraced it. Entire cults swirled around the control of one�s hunger, one�s blood thirst, but Niya loved the animal side of her nature. After all, that side kept her alive.

�Oh.� Chris�s voice, soft, and he�d seen the damage.

Niya stood still, save for the pulse of her throat as she swallowed, the flick of her tongue as it caressed grubby flesh.

Chris�s dark nature hummed as he watched her, a rumbling purr that began at the roots of his soul. He pushed away from the empty thing beside him and rose to his feet, whispering darkly in the first tongue. �Niya she�hesh stiallamae no coviann ima y�voloquess.� (�Niya, star of night, I am humbled before you.�)

�Ia�time.� (�Show me.�) Her murmured voice, then her mouth back at that wrist, not even turning to acknowledge him, and Chris�s fevered emotions rose to an unbearable pitch.

He grabbed her hair, twisted his fist, her head forced to one side as he licked the blood from her neck.

She writhed in his arms, serpent lithe. Mouths met, blood and breath intertwining, the taste as old as time.

Later, she had to wear his jacket home. Her dress lay in shreds, drying to the floor in a pool of blood and sweat and other fluids best unnamed.

Love comes in many forms.

And there you have her, Niyati Meluha, the oldest and most dangerous Sanguin, and that's saying quite a bit. This piece stands alone now, primarily because Chris meets Niya so far into the first book that including this as the introduction is a bad literary decision. Please email me at [email protected] with constructve criticism, questions, or comments, or if you are interested in being a beta reader for this novel.

You can click here if you want to go to my webpage to read some of my (very) adult Harry Potter slash fan fiction. The stories are all hosted from my LiveJournal, which contains nothing but HP story links. You can also click here to read my webjournal about writing this book and other random topics, hosted by E-Blogger.