N I N E

Byron and Roxanne were still in the dressing room by the kitchen. I could hear her laughter outside the door. Byron was playing one of his antique, stringed instruments and singing, "Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, in hopes to merit Heaven by making Earth a Hell...."

Everybody sing!

The music stopped when I opened the door. Roxanne's face was flushed with pleasure and more. She stood up when she saw me, impatient to leave.

"I'm glad you're here," she said.

"You didn't have to wait for me."

"How could we go without you, love? You were wonderful tonight."

She put her arms around me which was just the right thing to do and I stepped into her embrace. My hands roamed over her curves. Like Tasia, Roxanne was smooth as cold-satin and wonderful to kiss. Unlike Tasia, she was impossible to stay mad with. Roxanne tried hard to please, she didn't like fights anymore than I did. Roxanne made a humming sound like purring, rubbed against me like a cat. God, I was going to miss her.

Movement over her shoulder caught my attention as Byron stood up to go, too. That's when I saw what was tangled in the sheets on the cot. The face was hidden, the body motionless and pale under sun-darkened skin. He looked so used, so empty and pitiful. Only a short time ago, he would have been vibrant with affection and the desire to give. I knew Byron's tastes, I knew what he could do. I also knew that whatever had happened here, I was at least partly to blame.

Something made me ache with sorrow. Something else made me shudder with need.

Roxanne moved against me, sensing confusion and melancholy. She nuzzled the hair behind my ear, nipped the fleshy part of the lobe. "Shall I pierce your ear for you?" she asked. "It's very punk. It would suit you."

I couldn't laugh. Byron caught my eye and held my gaze as easily as he would a child's toy.

"You didn't have to kill," I said.

"I don't think he's dead," Byron told me. "At any rate, Fist will take care of it."

"Always someone around to clean up, right? Fist and Sand are ghouls, not slaves."

Byron gave me a cordial, Jack Frost smile. "I can see why Tasia chose you. You're so charmingly adolescent. Unfortunately, even the most clever trick grows stale with repetition. Learn something new, will you?"

"Sorry. I forgot how easy old dogs tire."

"Old dogs bore easily and they know all the tricks. A fact you'd be well advised to remember."

"We've got to talk, Byron."

"Don't be so serious," Roxanne said and shoved me out into the hallway. "Let's go. There's a party!"

She dragged me towards the exit. Pulled the door open. "Don't be a fool," she hissed in my ear. "Don't fight them. It's easier if you don't fight them."

Byron glided out to join us carrying Roxanne's shawl. He swirled it around her shoulders, sensuous lips curved into a smile. There was nothing particularly cruel in his face. There was nothing kind in it either.

"There's always a party, my dear," he said. "Come along, Tony. One of yours will surely be there. You're beginning to look more than fashionably gaunt."

I shut my eyes. Hunger crawled through again, raging. Parties meant music and laughter. Parties meant people and food but no one present was thinking about clam dip. I wondered if they knew what that was.

I thought about staying behind, confronting Byron later.

Opened my eyes instead and began to move down the walk beside them, sliding into the star-bright night, leaving the club behind. I glanced over at Byron and Roxanne. They were beautiful together, each in an individual, alien way. They moved with the easy grace of dancers, with the calm assurance of predators and with as much conscience. That sorry husk in the dressing room was already less than history. Alone. Abandoned. Forgotten.

I was part of them. No matter what happened, no matter how things turned out, I would always be part of them now. My choice. Forever.

Under the circumstances, their detachment was enviable.

Hours later, I picked my way through a pile of human debris with less empathy. Once this had been a stylish beach house of shimmering white stucco and mahogany beams piercing a cathedral ceiling. Now it could qualify for urban renewal.

We'd entered earlier on the fringe of mayhem, an orgiastic carry-over from the crowd at the club. Byron and Roxanne quickly disappeared into the swell of flesh while I withdrew to the farthest possible edge to wait it out. Waiting brought on an agony of doubt (a wretched fucker with long, needle teeth and needle claws. Bright eyes). It had been a mistake to come. Now it would be a mistake to leave. The air was thick with odor, a heavy, heady mixture of cologne and sweat, vomit and sex, alcohol from a hundred different drinks. Herd-scent teased the Hunger and it was hard to think of anything but scratching the itch.

Someone was going down on someone else in front of the fireplace across the room. Firelight cast their shadow-image across the walls although their audience was too numb to show much appreciation. I tried not to visibly twitch. The room was a miniature wasteland of the drugged and drunk. I always liked to make my exit before things reached this level but Byron never wanted to go until humanity degenerated to its sloppiest. Like — this was supposed to make him feel superior? This proved that he was more than mortal? Shit, most Blood were human first and, just like you see in the movies, we aren't completely immortal. Or smarter. But some of us have the brass to think we are.

A hand came to rest on my shoulder, jittery as a little mouse. I knew who it was and kept my eyes focused straight ahead.

"Tony ... was it something I said? Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"Then what's the matter? I thought we —"

"Well, you thought wrong."

She made a little wounded sound, hurt just from the tone of my voice, and hurried out of the room. I crossed my arms over my chest and held onto my shoulders. She was one of mine and that meant her bliss was my bliss, her pain my pain. It didn't make any difference that I didn't really know her, that was only part of the horror. When I'd left Europe, screaming and, frankly, crazier than Fist or any of the others could know, the last thing I wanted was to touch anyone, to have anyone touch me.

Like I had some other alternative.

The enigma of touch was something I was still getting used to. My new life had made me aware of this pleasure in all its complex and subtle forms, the giving and the taking of it. The satisfaction. Imagine a person born blind who could suddenly see — his wonder, thrill and joy of discovery.

Now imagine the crush of solitude, the despair of trying to share your new vision when everyone around you is blind and the one person you could share it with is dead. Worse than dead... living — but away.

There was no contact permitted, not while I was in the States. Once again, my choice.

My hands turned to fists on my arms. A scowl twisted my mouth. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I had never planned that it would be like this!

"It might have been kinder to kill that girl." Roxanne's voice was a mischievous ghost in my ear. My scowl tightened into a smile.

"Roxie," I said, "trying to cheer me up?"

"Not at all."

"Good."

"I understand ... you haven't been happy with us."

"So?"

"What I said before. It's easier if you don't fight them. They'll hurt you if you fight them."

"Then they're no different from anybody else, are they?"

"You're more trouble than you're worth, lover. Tasia must have been out of her mind when she thought to bring you over. Have you thought about what this is doing to her?"

"Yeah, I think about it. I can tell you straight I think about very little else. What I want to know is why you think about it? Why Byron thinks about it? Why every fucking blood-sucker between Mykonos, London, the Bronx and Virginia Beach thinks about it? Why should this be anyone's business but mine and Tasia's?"

"We are all Blood — all one." She gave me a too-sweet smile. "Family."

"Bullshit. You don't believe that anymore than I do."

"Precisely. Now you're playing the game. And it is a game, dear heart. Don't ever let anyone convince you differently. How do you think the long-lived spend their time?" Roxanne's dark eyes sparkled. "Best not to wear your heart on your sleeve, my dove. Besides messy, someone's bound to come along and smash it."

"Thanks for the advice."

"Tony ... don't be like that. I do like you, I really do. It's only that I don't want to get involved in your fights —"

"No one's asking you to."

"But there are two things I will tell you. You're not like the rest of us. You belong here. And Tasia isn't the only Regent interested in you."

She moved away from me, fading into a darkened doorway.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Who —"

"Ha — I didn't think you cared about her anymore!"

"Roxie, wait!"

I stumbled after into the kitchen, following the trail of her laughter, and almost fell over a snoring heap. It muttered something, rolled over and returned to oblivion.

"She walks in darkness like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies...."

Frustration gave way to anger as music slid in from outside. On the deck, Byron sat on a picnic table like he'd sit on a throne, strumming a borrowed guitar and warbling to a small group of entranced strangers. His music was splendid — first rate — falling effortlessly from practiced fingers and lips. It touched everyone who heard it, including me. It pulled me from the house to stand on the sun-bleached wood, mesmerized with the others. The sound of it burned my heart, stung its way past my nose and eyes. God, it made my hands shake.

"And all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes...."

But there was nothing in Byron's eyes except Hunger — if you ignored the contempt. This wasn't music to Byron, it was a lure and those who sat, moved, at his feet were only meat.

He made a finish of it, eventually, an end. A single, tender note drifted away with the whisper of waves and wind. I lifted my hands and brought the palms together. Slow. Loud as thunder.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Byron's eyes went scarlet lightning. "Tony," he says. "So you've decided to join us?"

"Don't hold your breath, Byron ... not that you've got any left to hold. That was pretty long winded." I made a face, grimacing, and someone in the crowd giggled. I tossed her a smile. She beamed back. Byron went neon with menace.

"Hell, are you still using those sad, dead lyrics?" I shook my head (real sympathetic). "They might have been super guano a hundred years ago but they're old news now."

"In most circles, it's considered a classic."

"Better alert Motown." Then, the low blow. "Well, it beats what you've been turning out lately."

We both knew that was true. Nevertheless, it was unforgivable to say it.

Byron stood up and thrust the guitar at the girl by his feet (the beamer).

"It's time to go," he said.

"Past time," I agreed.

Roxanne appeared to follow as we struck off for the boardwalk. We had to struggle to keep up with Byron's long strides. I understood the Byron of history was born with a club foot. Whoever brought him over had fixed that little handicap like Tasia had dissolved my scars. The ones you could see. Anyway, Byron made fast-tracks.

"What are you trying to do?" Byron demanded while we scrambled to keep up. "What exactly do you want?"

Anger gave me momentum as well as a voice. "I want to be left alone. You go on to Chicago without me."

"No one stays at the Beach this late. It's October. The touristas have left and so should we. You can't live off the locals, you'll be found out. And you know very well this territory is claimed."

"I don't plan to stay here. I just want to be on my own for a while."

"Alone? With no shadow-guard? In foreign territory?"

"It's not foreign to me."

"Isolation is dangerous for us. We can't live without the Herd or protection from the Blood," Byron said, very precise. He looked especially tall, remarkably distinguished dressed in black from his ruffled shirt to the toes of his shining, leather boots. We were all dressed in black, our traditional color. He could make my rocker rags feel just like that with a glance — rags. Even if I'd been wearing a tux, the effect would have been the same.

"You're one of the Blood now, Tasia's chosen," Byron continued. "Didn't she explain that you'd never have to be alone again?"

"She didn't tell me I'd be under guard day and night. I can't even piss without an audience."

"We don't —" Byron began. Caught it — and ground to a halt. Literally. He turned around to face me. "I should think you'd be used to that considering your previous profession."

"I don't see any difference between my 'previous profession' and my new one. There's not that much difference between sucking blood and sucking —"

"Anthony!"

Roxanne laughed. Her witch-hair drifted around her shoulders in a snaky, black cloud. Her voice was the sound of stars waltzing on rolling surf. "Don't look so shocked, Byron," she says. "He may be right."

Byron blazed. "I detest your vulgarity, your casual attitude. You treat Tasia's gift as if it were —"

"Nothing?"

"Yes!"

"Now you got it, paison."

"And you're careless," Byron went on. "You act as though you want to be found out. You have no idea what could happen to you — to us if that were to occur."

"Sounds like you're better off without me then. I wouldn't want you all to go down with me just because I've got a death wish. A true-death wish, right, Roxie?"

She shivered, shook her head a bit and said, "That's not funny."

"Then don't laugh. Don't talk. Just — go away! That's all I want. Why should that be such a problem?"

<You don't want us to go.... Didn't you see them tonight?>

Roxanne spoke to me in shadow-voice, an elemental language as personal as it was powerful. It was the language of the night, the language of the Fae.

<Didn't you feel them? Didn't you want them? How lovely... how perfect....>

I stared at her. The boardwalk's cold, metal rail bit into my back. She laughed again creating dancing images that raced over my skin like an impatient lover. She picked up my thought, held it to her. Sent it back.

"You don't want to leave us, do you? That was your music they called for tonight. Your voice, your presence. You don't want to leave the band...?" Roxanne smiled. <Do you?>

Her perfect smile deepened, waiting for a kiss instead of an answer. This I hadn't expected. I'd thought Byron was the one to fear.

Byron!

I tore my eyes away from Roxanne and met Byron's — close!

— twin pits of smoldering scarlet. Lips gaped open, spiked with drooling pain. His aura was thick and black, sucking power out of the air around us. He startled me. The fear made me furious and all I could think of was, <Get out of my head — Both of you!>

Something blue-white and sparkling streamed from my body and, abruptly, Byron and Roxanne were yards away. Roxanne dropped to her knees, clutched the sides of her skull, her beauty made ugly with pain. Byron staggered a few feet away from her, shook his head and ... smiled.

Whatever it was Byron sent, I caught it — some unknown reflex rising to need — and sent it roaring back. I raised my arms, threw my head back. I felt I soared up — tall! The air grew dense and filled with snapping, swirling sparks that tingled when they brushed my skin. The tang of ozone mixed with salt-spray. I could feel that air on the back of my neck where my hair lifted.

<You've got to let go, Byron. Even Tasia let go!>

<I promised to watch you for her. I told her you would remain with us>

<No one asked me!>

Byron retreated from the fury behind that message. He actually grimaced. "It wasn't your decision to make," he soothed. "Tasia is responsible for you. What you do reflects on her. In her position, she cannot be too cautious no matter how much she loves you. And she does love you. You're too young to the life, Tony. Too close to them yet. There's so much danger for you, so much you must learn. You must permit us to help."

I could see his attack coming before he made the first move. I watched it build even as he mouthed those reasonable-sounding words. It snaked out at me in a wave of black light.

I was as cold as the steel at my back. Rage, frustration and something I could only recognize as grief burst from me. My little tsunami roared over Byron and I had the satisfaction of watching his smug smile wash out, of watching him flinch and back away.

Roxanne stared at us, caught between, trying to gauge the outcome. She kept her expression carefully neutral as she tasted the power of our struggle just like she'd tasted the rich, red wine of the evening's earlier feast. I suppose she'd warned Byron a while back that this was coming. She'd be the one to understand I would destroy myself — and Byron, too — rather than submit to anyone's control again. Too bad he hadn't listened to her.

You see, Byron was right. As a vampire I was a loser. I should have been dark. Dark and cool like Byron, like Roxanne and the others. Byron was tall, muscular with curling hair and cut-glass features. His strong hands clenched and unclenched while we fought. The true-blood was in his eyes. He would destroy me utterly if he could, crush me — like he'd crushed Sand not that long ago. Roxanne had told me about that. Once Sand, then youngest of the pack, had been the most spontaneous, the most imaginative and caring. Didn't make any difference how much he adored Byron, the old poet was so full of self-hate he only despised more those who loved him the most. Now Sand wore his age like the centuries and would stop existing soon. He wouldn't be missed.

I didn't plan to spend my time like that. You can only push losers so far. After a while, they got nothing left to give up.

Byron screamed and dropped to the ground. He sprawled a little ways from Roxanne's feet, shaken and still enraged, hurt. Defeated, too. Roxanne's hands fluttered at her sides like broken birds, uncertain. Byron gazed up at her, his back to me. I couldn't see his face but I watched hers shut down, cold. Neutral again. After a long moment, Byron raised his arm, palm out.

Surrender.

He found his feet, stood and turned to face me. "You are determined to have your own way," he says.

My hands were still curled into fists. "It's got to change. I'm not part of this any more."

"What do you mean?" Roxanne looked startled. "You know the Blood won't tolerate rogues."

"Then damn the Blood! And damn you, too!"

"You don't mean that," she said, softly. "Be careful of your words, Tony. If you curse the others, you curse yourself as well. You don't have to make things more difficult for yourself than they already are. Do you?"

"Is this another trick question or one of your trick answers? Do you grade on a curve? Do I get a prize if I answer right?"

"I don't know anything about curves or prizes but I think you've got what you want," she said. Roxanne wasn't smiling. Neither was anyone else.

"No one tells me what to do any more," I said. "Not Tasia. Not you. No one."

There was no more discussion, no more argument. I let out a breath and tried to ease the tension out of my shoulders, tried to relax. Then, suddenly self-conscious, wiped the palms of my hands on my jeans but it was only a habit. Blood don't sweat. We don't breathe either. Unless we have to.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "I didn't want to —"

"Don't apologize," Byron snapped. "You won, didn't you?"

"Don't let's fight any more," Roxanne broke in. "It's so ... it's so sordid. I feel ill."

"Sordid?" The sardonic smile returned. "Roxanne, my dear, I don't believe I've heard that word used this century."

I could have said, "Well, I have" but I didn't. I kept quiet.

As old as time, Byron and Roxanne glided away down the boardwalk, a thin ribbon of cement bordering the ocean and the never-ending row of hotels. Arm-in-arm, they made less sound than the whisper of waves leaving the shore. I could picture them from an earlier time when the walkway would have been made of wooden slats and earlier still when there had been nothing except sand and water. Centuries meant as little to them as yesterday's paper.

I had yet to feel a part of that.

Victory left me dizzy — and suspicious. I was used to fighting, not winning. I watched until they disappeared, wary for tricks. But there was nothing. I was alone.

I won.

I turned to look at the incoming tide, swinging around on the boardwalk rail. I almost let out a hoot. Thought better of it. A glimmer of light on the horizon warned the sun would be up soon and that meant time to rest, time to sleep. But it was impossible to think of sleep now. I was too excited.

Tasia's ring shimmered, a massive band of ancient silver. I could look at it now. Razored wings circled my finger, a round, red garnet, center-set, glistened like a gob of blood. I didn't need any symbol to bind myself to her. What could she have been thinking when she insisted I wear it? I laughed but it wasn't a happy sound. Forgive and forget — that's what they always say, right?

Forgive, Hell!

Forget, Hell!

I closed my fists on the rail. Pitted metal buckled under my hands and left ten perfect finger grooves and two misshapen, heart-shaped indentations. In time, I could return to find this mark. Icy fingers breaking icy steel ... as long as the Department of Parks and Recreation didn't repair it before the arrival of the next season's vacationers.

Losing interest, I turned back to the hotels and made my way down the walk in the opposite direction from Byron and Roxanne. As much as I dislike them, hotels make the safest hideouts. A plastic sign on the door and plenty of cash up front guarantees undisturbed sanctuary. You don't have to worry about leaving a trail, as long as you're careful. By departure-time, most innkeepers are happy to wave good-bye. Prosperous managers tell no tales, they fumigate. It's not what you think. The Blood don't line their nests with tormented victims. It's that we tend to bring a bit of ... atmosphere to a place. It's not always good for business.

I cut across the sandy grass lawn of my hotel, pretty jaunty. Then faltered to a crawl.

... I could hear her breathing before I saw her. I could feel her warmth before she came into view....

She was waiting in the shelter of a doorway. The corner didn't allow much cover from the freezing, morning wind and damp, salt-heavy air. She was still wearing the light sundress and high-heeled slide-sandals she'd worn at the party, completely inappropriate for the time, the month, the weather. She leaned into the door frame, her arms wrapped around bare shoulders. She was cold and her feet hurt.

Her name was Linda. She was mine.

She wasn't very smart, she wasn't very pretty but she had the gift and that was enough. She saw. She didn't ask for much either, which, sadly, was her great appeal to me that summer. She was the kind of girl who was more at home in t-shirts, jeans and sneakers than dresses and heels. She dressed up to please me. And I treated her like shit. Mostly. Like tonight.

Was this where she'd run to from the party? Had she been waiting here all this time? I hesitated, then crossed towards her. It was so late, it would have been smarter to slide by unobserved. Decided, at the last minute, that I wouldn't.

I was only a step away when she saw me. She started with surprise and relief, savored the prickle of shock that hit her armpits and groin. A gloss of perspiration broke out on her skin. Like I said, she was mine. We'd spent so much time together, what she felt, I felt. Specially the primal stuff.

"I waited for you." Her voice sounded unnaturally loud although she had barely spoken above a whisper. I winced.

She faltered and said again, "I waited for you."

"I know."

"You're not still mad at me, are you?"

"No." Shrugged, ashamed. "I wasn't mad at you. Just had to do something."

Encouraged, she reached over to touch me where my butchered t-shirt exposed my middle. Her fingers trembled. She was shivering and trying not to show it. I smiled as much to myself as to her. I took her other hand up in mind, pressed the palm to my mouth.

"There's no time," I said. "It's too late."

"You can't go now. I waited."

"Don't. You sound like a broken record."

She looked hurt — but not hurt enough to leave. I kissed her palm again and raised my hands to finger light brown curls. She stepped closer, sliding her hand up under my shirt. Her other went around my waist. This was a mistake. Vampires make rotten bed-warmers. I wanted to laugh and tell her there were better ways to toast-up than nuzzling long-cold flesh but I didn't. I was shaking just as much as she was.

"What could happen?" she asked, brightly. "It's past midnight. You won't turn into a pumpkin."

Instinctively she knew she'd said the wrong thing. Her arms tightened around me.

"We don't have to go anywhere," she insisted. "Here. We can do it here."

I looked down at her, into her. Saw anxiety quicken in her face, saw the same expression mirrored in her eyes. A single thread of common sense reminded me I couldn't risk taking her up to my room anymore than I could risk staying with her. That she'd tracked me this close was disturbing. I caressed the mark on her throat. The old wound had almost healed.

After the music, I could have had any of them. I hadn't touched a soul in nights saving the power of Hunger for the battle with Byron. Well, it had worked. It had given me the edge to win but at what cost? At the party, I'd thrilled to energies, to that electric current of emotion that held and sustained but I hadn't fed.

I hadn't fed.

I couldn't leave.

Confident, she pulled me into the doorway shade. I bristled under her certainty feeling freedom slip away. I wanted to — I needed to walk away. But she pressed against me, warm and rich. The musk of her was mulled wine on a frosty afternoon. I pulled up her skirt, slipped my hand into the heat between her legs, searching. She wore cotton, rougher than her skin, smoother than the thick fleece beneath my fingers. Her lips opened under mine, like her body, her tongue a wedge of spiced apple in my mouth. I couldn't say which of us shuddered when I captured her pearl, rolled it hard.

But not too hard.

There was some quick shifting, some rending of cloth. She put her arms around my neck to be lifted and I obliged, captured by lust. She circled my hips with her legs. I shoved her back, bracing against the door. Another rigid, hungry tooth dug in. That fed first. She groaned when I entered, cold and deep. Like always, she tried to bite back her noise as if it were too much to bear. It betrayed too much, left her too vulnerable. I was too starved to comfort this time. God, her heart pounded around me, blistering. I placed my mouth against her throat.

What is a kiss? "It is an ancient name for what is ever new though ten thousand times repeated." Tasia told me that quoting someone else — like always, my glorious thief. But in this, she was right.

The girl's soul scalded my throat. Below, I thrust it back into her, transformed and transforming.

I laid her down in the doorway shelter when it was done. Smoothed her dress down around her legs. She was colder now than before and very pale but sleeping peaceful — after all that! And I was so alive — I wanted to fly. I wanted to sing.

Screamed instead, backing out of the doorway into the blast of the sun. Agony. Like being stripped and doused in acid. I saw flame, smelled smoke and burned meat. Knew it was me.

I covered my face with my arms and ran blind, hurting too much to feel stupid.

Twenty-five minutes of freedom. That's all.

Apparently all I would have.

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