The House of the Rising Sun, Chapter Fourteen

[ladydeathfaerie]

Title: House of the Rising Sun
Fandoms: a cross over between Marvel's X-Men(to some degree) Universe and the Anita Blake Universe
Rating: no one under 18. there will be blood and gore, sex and violence. dirty language and whatever else i feel like tossing in here.
Warning: as i said, sex and violence and dirty words. said sex will include, but not be limited to, M/F, M/M, M/F/F, F/F, M/M/F and probably any other combination i can work out. weak stomach, not my fault. you have been warned.
Disclaimer: i do not own anyone from the Marvel universe. i do not own anyone from the Anita Blake universe. i don't even own Gin. i'm lucky to own myself. i swear i'm not making any money from this. i just do what the sick voices inside my head tell me to. i write purely for my enjoyment. and possibly the comments. please don't sue, harass or bother me. i have no money to pay you, but i do have a really nasty temper. and i know some good cuss words.

Author's Notes: jesus. so you take a couple years' break on something and shit goes all to hell. in a weird way. i blame this entirely on my stupid brain because this is the kind of thing it does when i'm not paying attention.

The House of the Rising Sun: The Index


~*~*~*~*~

"I'm calling room service. Do you need anything?"

He was lying. Not that she could tell by looking at his face. Nor was it evident through the normal metaphysical channels. Whatever it was that allowed her to read people couldn't detect any real change on him. But she could sense the lie on him all the same. Not to mention, there was a bag of food sitting on the desk, waiting to be eaten. And he'd made the call on his cell phone. No one called room service on their cell phone. Which meant he'd called someone at the Circus to let them know he was doing baby sitter duty. She had to bite back her first response and the scowl that wanted to settle onto her face.

Fuck it. If she was going to be in trouble, she was going to be in trouble deep. "Have them send up an industrial sized box of condoms." She made sure to toss him a saucy grin and a wink. Maybe, if she was lucky, there was an asshole of a vampire on the other end of the phone and he'd heard the blatant invitation in her voice. Fuck him and the coffin he rode in on. Fuck them both.

"We don't need anything more for the evening. Thanks again." He hung the phone up and focused his attention on her.

Jo wanted to squirm under the weight of his intense gaze, but she met it head on. She wasn't going to be afraid of him just because he was watching her the same way she'd once seen a snake watch a rat before striking and devouring it. She'd survived worse things than his cold stare.

He was sitting in an arm chair, back slouched against the cushion and legs spread wide in that way that men had of occupying all of the space they could. He looked, for all intents and purposes, as if he was laid back and relaxed. It was a well crafted lie because she could sense the tension in him. He was a tiger just waiting to pounce. All she had to do was give him a reason. She wasn't afraid.

"Now. I'm fully willing to teach you how to shoot and hunt vampires. Its obvious that if I don't, you'll find someone else who will and they won't be as good as I am." There was no bragging in his tone. Just a statement of fact. "However, I have two conditions that you have to agree to before this is a go. And once we start, there's no turning back. You have to be sure that you want to go down this road."

"Name your terms," she replied without batting an eyelash.

He eyed her for a second or two longer, then shook his head and gave her a look that she thought was meant to scare her. "First condition. You have to tell me why you want to do this. And the truth. Don't give me some bullshit line. The truth. I'll know if you're lying to me. Then I'll have to make you tell me the truth. You should know that I can be very creative and it'll be very painful for you if I have to force you to talk."

She nodded at that, gave him a blank face back. For just a moment, she thought she felt a tiny flicker of grudging respect. But it was gone in an instant, so she couldn't be sure. Instead, he shifted his posture and became, if it was at all possible, even more intent. Even more like a predator. "Second condition. We do this and you'll owe me."

Okay, then. Jo held his gaze as she dropped the towel she'd wrapped around her after the shower. She'd wanted to wait for her skin to dry before trying to get back into the dress she'd been wearing. But if he wanted payment, she'd give it to him. She watched as his eyes slid down the length of her body slowly, all the way to her toes, before coming all the way back up just as slowly. When his eyes met hers again, there was a blank look in them. He gave the appearance that he was absolutely untouched by the sight of her naked body. But she knew better. She could sense a hint of masculine pleasure under the surface. Oh, yeah. He was interested.

"Do that at the wrong time with the wrong person and you'll find yourself eyeballs deep in trouble you won't be able to get out of. Go put some clothes on."

Jo leaned down and picked up the towel, wrapping it once more around her. She watched as he raised an eyebrow at that. "Did you get a look at what I was wearing when we came in? I don't think you can necessarily call it clothing. I think its a couple of fancy handkerchiefs put together to strategically cover all my bits. And, to be perfectly honest, it isn't me. I don't suppose you have a t-shirt I can borrow? Just for tonight."

He stared at her with that blank face for so long that she thought he was going to straight up tell her no. But he eventually stood from his chair and headed for the closet. He stepped inside and she heard the sound of a zipper being pulled. Curious that he wouldn't keep his clothing in the drawer. As if he expected the need to leave in a rush would come up at some point. A moment later, there were sounds of nylon rubbing against nylon and the zipper once more being pulled, then he stepped out of the closet with a roll of pale blue material in hand. He crossed the room to offer the roll to her.

"Thank you," she said as she took the roll.

"I don't have any ladies' underwear in there. All I have are boxer briefs," he told her. He almost sounded apologetic.

"I wouldn't mind getting into your boxer briefs," she shot back, then hurried into the bathroom before he could say anything more.

Once the door was closed and she was alone in the bathroom, she hung the towel up and turned to look at herself in the mirror. She felt like she should look as if her encounter had left a mark on her. Well, other than the bump on her head. And the bruise forming where the fucker's fist had hit her face. Which didn't look half as dark as it should have. Curious. But beyond those two things, she didn't look any different than she had earlier, when she'd wiggled into that thing someone had jokingly named as a dress.

She let her gaze slide down toward the bite mark Asher had left on her throat. That, too, seemed to be fading faster than it should have been. What the hell was going on? Because there was definitely something going on. But no one was telling her shit so she had no clue. Whatever. Not like it mattered. She didn't give a shit. After the events of the night, she was cutting out of the undead circus as soon as she could. It wasn't as if they really fucking wanted her there.

Frowning, Jo did her best to set everything aside and focus on the here and now. She took a few moments to finger comb her hair and work some of the snarls out of it. Then she buffed her skin with the towel one more time to take off any lingering dampness. She plucked her panties off the floor and wiggled into them before unrolling the t-shirt Edward had handed to her. When she pulled it over her head and settled it into place, she was relieved to see that it hung down to just past the tops of her thighs. While the skirt on the dress came down farther, the dress hadn't been made for anything other than showing off. The shirt would be more comfortable and more modest.

She couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up at that. Modest was not a word anyone had ever used in conjunction with her. Not since she'd been about twelve years old, at any rate.

When she couldn't primp or preen, and stall, any longer, she hung up her towels, picked up the dress, and turned off the lights. Edward was still in the chair where she'd left him and despite the cool glance he sent her way, she sensed just the smallest amount of curiosity. Despite anything she'd shown him that evening, she was still afraid of him. Because under the bits of real human emotions, there was a yawning chasm of cold emptiness the likes of which she'd never felt from another living being before. Something dark lived inside of him, something that was primal. It felt kind of ancient. She did not want to meet whatever monster it was that resided in his soul.

She took a minute to fold up the dress as neatly as she could, then she settled it on the edge of the unused dresser. Her boots were already tucked under a table, the thigh high stockings she'd worn with the dress and the thick cotton socks she'd put on before slipping into her boots tucked inside of them. She scooped up the leather jacket she'd left the Circus with and took it with her to the other chair. Out of the pocket came an mp3 player and her earbuds. She'd just settled into her seat when Edward moved.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he retrieved the bag he'd brought from the diner and opened it. Without a word, he handed her a white foam box. When she looked up at him, he was giving her an odd look. "Eat. You need it to help with the healing."

Jo took the box without saying a word, settling it into her lap so that she could see what he'd gotten for her. A sandwich was nestled inside the box, along with a pair of foam bowls, each with a lid on them. One looked like coleslaw and the other looked like a potato salad. To be honest, she wasn't very hungry. Now that the adrenaline had died out and her brain wasn't caught up on the vampire she'd tried to kill and Edward, she was stuck thinking about the events at Jean Claude's party. Surprise, surprise. Everyone hated her now.

She might have told Edward that she wasn't hungry, but something told her he wouldn't listen. So she nodded and picked up the sandwich. He gave off a faint sense of approval, then moved to sit on the end of the bed. She could feel his eyes on her and that made her nervous. "You don't have to watch me like I'm a wayward child. Believe it or not, I do know how to stay in one place."

"You shouldn't sleep just yet." His tone of voice suggested that he planned on sitting there and staring at her the whole night.

"I have no plans to. I was going to listen to music. You can sleep if you want." She opened the slaw and sniffed at it before forking up a small bite. "I promise I won't leave the chair unless I have to go to the bathroom. You can even turn off the lights. I don't mind the dark."

"I shouldn't..." he began, but she cut across his words.

"You're tired. I can tell. And the last thing you wanted to have to deal with tonight was a stupid woman who almost got herself killed. When did you last sleep? Yesterday? Go to bed, Edward. I won't go anywhere and I won't sleep." She lifted her head to stare at him. "I can have nightmares with my eyes wide open just as easily as with them closed."

She didn't know what he saw in her face, but he said nothing more. Instead, he headed to the closet and dug into his suitcase again. When he came out, he had another roll of material in his hands. He took it with him into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Jo popped her earbuds in and turned the mp3 player on. When Edward stepped from the bathroom some five minutes later, she was caught up in Five Finger Death Punch and she never once looked his way. A minute or two after that, he settled into the bed and the lights went off, leaving her alone in the dimness of the room, nothing to occupy her but her thoughts.

~*~*~*~*~

“Master can I talk to you for a minute? Privately?” Jean Claude stifled a sigh. What could it be now?

He took in Ginette’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes and settled for a mild rebuke. “Please call me Jean Claude, little cat. I prefer to be called Master only when formal occasion requires it.”

“Yes…Jean Claude.” She smoothed the fabric of her garment in an unconscious gesture of nervousness. She was still dressed for the party and the festivity of her garb clashed with the seriousness of her expression. “I just…I should not have snapped at you in front of your guests.”

“I find that ma petite’s example has left me inured to such mild offenses. If that is what you wish to speak of, there is no need.” He gave her a slight smile and began to turn as if to go. He needed to give some thought to what was to be done with his trio of problem children before sitting down with any of them again.

“No, Jean Claude. That’s not it.” Her voice was quiet, but firm. “Please.”

This time he did sigh, letting his voice slide through the corridor, touching the girl beside him and the rats who stood guard at a polite distance. “Very well then, come in.” He pushed open the door to his office and ushered her inside. She hesitated a beat before scurrying past him as if she expected him to change his mind. He took his seat behind the desk, a large expanse of dark wood, its highly polished wood gleaming softly. The only things that occupied the surface were a telephone, a few pens and a small stack of stationary. He waited as she chose a perch on the edge of the leather covered sofa across from him. “What is it that you wish to speak to me about?”

“It’s about Remy and Jo and me.” He nodded. Of course, that was no surprise. When she paused, he gestured for her to continue. “What happened tonight - it just shows that we need more time together. If we could have just talked this out--not taken each other by surprise--this wouldn’t have happened.”

“I get the feeling that your young master would have been just as angry in private.”

“I’m not talking about Remy as my master. I’m talking about us. As friends. As...lovers. As a family. For lack of a better word. We have got to talk some things out.”

“I will think on it, Ginette. I know this is difficult for you. And I am very pleased at the progress you and Remy have made. Even Jocelyn has made a true effort as of late.”

“You don’t understand. We need each other.” She leaned forward slightly and tugged at the short hem of her skirt. Her eyes flicked back and forth between her hands and his face, carefully avoiding his gaze. “I need them.”

“Ginette, I understand how you feel.” He tried for sincerity. But truthfully, he was simply tired and more than a little annoyed at the scene that had marred the party. And of course, Anita’s reaction to the news of Asher’s new lover had been less than pleasant.

“No. You don’t.” Her tone held both the petulance of a teenager and the frustration of a grown woman. What is it that makes the young so certain that their troubles are new and unique? He schooled his features carefully to show only compassionate interest.

“Then continue, little cat. I am listening.” He folded his hands on the wood before him and fixed his gaze on her face. “Make me understand.”

“Make you…” Her gaze slid up from her hands and met his, perhaps for the first time. He prepared to look away, lest she get caught by his power. Her pupils widened and her lips opened. “Understand…” the last came out as a whisper and he found himself unable to look away.

Grief crashed over him in a wave of pain that made it feel as if his heart had been cloven in two. Tears welled up in his eyes and began to spill in pink-tinged trails down his cheeks. A well of darkness seemed to form in his consciousness -- spilling out every pain, every loss he’d ever experienced: his mortal family, his beloveds, Julianna and Asher. The grief consumed him as if it were fresh and new. Fear and loneliness were there, threading their way through the tangle of bereavement. Shame. It was all his fault. They were gone. All gone. He deserved no more than this…

“Stop this, Ginette.” He demanded, turning his gaze away. “Make it stop.”

“I…” He could hear her breathing quicken, could hear her pulse racing. The fear became a pulsing thing in his throat. The shame crested and became despair. “I can’t!” She wailed and rose to her feet.

“You must calm yourself.” He rose as well, struggling to act through the crushing tide of grief and despair. “You are among friends here, if you will only open yourself to someone.”

“So you can take them away, too?” Her response was almost lost in a fresh wave of pain.

He stepped around the desk, reaching out to her. Perhaps he could reach for the arduer, change this madness of despair into something else. “Please, little cat. Let me help you.”

“Don’t touch me!” She was gone in a blink, the door left wide open as she fled down the corridor. Outside he could see the finely muscled men who served him as bodyguards huddled in on themselves, expressions of sorrow and grief twisting their features. One reached for her, but was too slow and she danced away from his grasping fingers.

He found himself clutching at his chest, as if he truly believed his heart was cut in twain. He leaned against the doorjamb and tried to gather himself. How far did this miasma reach? And what would the unprepared do under its influence? What had he begun with such a careless choice of words?

~*~*~*~*~

She ran, doors flashing past her. Some were open, others were closed and the speed of her passing gave them the illusion of a mouth snapping at her as she ran by. Here and there she stumbled across people, their faces masks of confusion and sorrow. Someone was wailing deep in the twisting corridors that made up her stone prison. Soft sobbing came from behind the closed door at the end of this hall and she turned from it blindly, heading farther away from the Master. The choking cloud of grief and pain surrounded her and left her without voice. Yet the words echoed in her ears, sometimes a command and sometimes a plea for mercy. “Make it stop.”

Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. How? Her bare feet padded against the stone, her shoes lost somewhere within the first few moments of her flight. Her gift was out of control like a spooked horse refusing to obey her now that she’d allowed it its head. She’d failed to make him understand. Failed to find them a safe haven. Failed at learning how to be a good little monster. Now she’d failed at controlling even this thing that had been hers all along.

A whiff of stale sweat and the tang of metal tickled her nose and a new idea seized her. She would make it stop. Make it all stop. No pain. No fear. No grief. She knew there was a gym here and lockers. Lockers where they kept dangerous things.

Guns. Silver bullets. Knives that could kill even a monster like her. Things that could make it stop. She paused, nose twitching, chest heaving as she scented the air. She turned with new purpose in her stride. She would make it stop. Just like he said. Make. It. Stop

~*~*~*~*~

She was in the bathroom, before the vanity mirror to remove her party makeup, when the first wave of sorrow hit her. For a moment, she was able to ignore the wash of sadness. But only for a moment. Seconds later, a huge wave of the emotion engulfed her, sucking her down into memories she'd long thought buried. A soft moan rolled up her throat as she fell headlong into her past.

Faces she only saw in her worst dreams rose up to haunt her. A woman's face, with strong features and pale, olive tinted skin. Fathomless black eyes. An intricate mound of dark curls that were centuries out of date. A man with eyes that might have been hazel or even another color and hair that might have been blonde. With pain in his eyes and hate in his smile and death in his heart. Danger and darkness and pure evil swirled around both of them.

Another face, one cherished and well-loved. Brilliant smiles and warm laughter. Gentle eyes and shaggy hair. Hands roughened with work. Muscular arms and a broad chest. His very being filled with love and joy and happiness. Just seeing that face in her mind's eye sent warmth rushing through her. But that warmth only lasted withe a single beat of her heart.

Soon, far too soon, that face turned pale. Went cold. Lifeless. Loss and sorrow poured into her, sent her to her knees on the stone floor. Tears poured down her cheeks. She curled in on herself, wrapped her arms around her belly and held herself. She didn't want to live this again. She didn't want to remember everything horrible that had happened to her all those years ago. She didn't want to go back to the woman she'd been shortly after she'd been found and saved.

"Please. Please. Make it stop. Just make it stop," she whispered, her voice thick and wet with tears and sadness. "I'm not strong enough to survive this again. I just... can't. Please."

Laughter filled her head, the sound of it brimming with hate and malicious enjoyment of her pain. Their voices sang in her ears, reminding her that she'd never see him again. That she was alone in the world. That they would take from her everything that she held dear.

Strong hands wrapped around her arms and pulled her to her feet. For a moment, lost in the memories as she was, she thought it was her tormentor from all those years ago. She kicked and fought, cried and begged, whimpered as remembered terror stole her ability to think. But instead of torture and pain, she was given tender words spoken in a gentle voice. "Amanda. Amanda. Look at me."

"Please," she whispered. "Make it stop."

"Amanda, you are safe. Open your eyes and look at me." The words were more insistent this time though the arms holding her remained gentle and tender. She knew that voice. Knew it intimately. The sound of it, some of the power he put into it, helped push the clinging sadness back just enough to allow her to see his face. Wicked looked shaken, something so unusual that she couldn't help but stare. Faint pink tracks stained his pale cheeks and there was a mildly haunted look in his eyes. She wondered briefly what it was he had experienced, but shoved it aside when she realized that he was worried. About her.

"I'm okay. I think," she told him, voice shaky and thick with tears. The look he gave her said he doubted it. But he didn't call her on her lie. Something for which she was truly thankful.

Wicked pulled her into his chest and hugged her close, one hand soothing the length of her hair as he silently offered his strength to her. She pressed tight against him, took solace in his presence. She thought she felt him shaking, if only the slightest bit, but that had to be her senses playing tricks on her. That thought was whisked away by the touch of his skin against hers. She wasn't sure if it was just him or the skin on skin contact, Whatever it was, it seemed to push the nightmarish memories back into the shadows. Relief slid through her, leaving her limp in his embrace.

"They are only memories, Amanda. They cannot hurt you," Wicked whispered. He must have known that she wanted to argue because he drew back so that he could look her in the eye. "I know how painful they are, but they cannot harm you. And if, by chance, the creators of those memories are alive and come looking for you, Jean Claude would not allow them to harm you. More importantly, I would not allow them to harm you. I would destroy them before they could do more than look at you."

She smiled at him, a watery thing that gave away just how much his words meant to her. "Thank you, Wicked. That's the kindest thing anyone has said to me in a very long time."

He leaned in to press a kiss to her lips, a soft and chaste thing that was meant to soothe. She sighed at the gentle pressure, then reached up with one hand to wipe at the pink trails that stained his cheeks. "What horrors from your past did you have to relive?" she asked quietly.

"Nothing that you need worry about. All of my horrors are dead." There was a finality in his voice that said he wasn't going to discuss it. She considered pressing him for more information, but finally decided that it wasn't worth it. When he saw she would leave it be, he urged her toward the bed. "Come. Let me hold you and kiss away your tears."

She let him help her remove her party clothes, the fancy garments left to lay where they landed on the floor, before climbing up into the bed. Wicked followed after her, his silver shirt from the evening's event left laying over the back of a chair. His trousers were folded up on the seat. He pulled her into his arms and held her close even as he pulled the covers up over them. And then he did what he'd said he'd do. He kissed her tears away.

~*~*~*~*~

"We've looked over every applicant's submissions and have finally been able to narrow it down to one costumer we feel best represents what we're trying to do with this motion picture."

Oh, no. Not this. She hadn't thought about this in a long, long time.

"Everyone has brought us absolutely gorgeous designs, which made it very hard for us to make this decision. We labored over this for quite some time before making our final choice."

Susan dropped into her work chair and put her hands in her face. "Jesus fuck. Make it stop." She didn't have time for this, didn't want to have to live through it again. She'd put it all behind her.

"We're so sorry, Ms. Anderson, but you were not chosen to costume this production. We've decided to go with Andrew Shipley's company. He presented us with much cleaner lines and we feel his designs best suit the mood of our movie."

It had been years since she'd thought of Andrew Shipley, the man who had beaten her out of every major project she'd ever tried to land. At the time, each loss had been hard on her. Hard on her pocket book and hard on her confidence. Susan hadn't been a professional seamstress and costumer for long when she'd suffered her first defeat at Andrew Shipley's hands. It had been for a Broadway production, something that would have helped cement her place in the world of costuming and fashion design. She'd felt good about it, too. But the announcement that Andrew Shipley's company had scored the job had left her feeling very down about her abilities.

It hadn't kept her from trying. But each loss brought more doubt and more fear. There had been moments when Susan had felt that she'd never make a name for herself, when she'd wanted to give up and go back to her parents' shop. It was there, in their tiny dry cleaning business, that she'd learned how to sew and tailor and design. It had been the encouragement of her friends and family that had seen her trying to make it her career.

Waves of sadness washed over her as each remembered loss rose up to taunt her. As if to say she hadn't been good enough then and still wasn't good enough now. She'd been beaten out by Andrew Shipley one too many times, had heard from the people involved that his designs had been more representative of they message they'd been trying to get across more often than she'd liked. Those words had been hard to hear and there was still a place inside of her that cowered in fear at the idea that someday, she'd heard those words from Jean Claude.

Jean Claude had been her savior at a time when she'd been at her lowest. She'd been ready to give up, been ready to just quit and give up on the dream. That last loss to Shipley had been Susan's darkest hour ever. So many terrible things had run through her head, had left her doubting her own abilities. It had been rock bottom for her. And then, just when she'd honestly given up all hope, she'd gotten the most amazing offer in the mail.

The letter had come on expensive stationary, hand written in a script that looked as if it had come straight out of another century. The letter had stated, quite simply, that the writer had seen her designs and was very, very impressed with her talent and vision. It had then gone on to say that the author was interested in hiring her to create new designs for his people. An offer of compensation to move her to St. Louis, as well as a place to work and live, had closed the main body of the letter out. There'd been a number where she could call with her answer. And the signature had been a flourish of letters that had taken a moment or two to decipher. When she'd realized that the letter had come from the newly named Master of St. Louis, the vampire who had been all over the news lately, Susan had been more than eager to accept the position.

Working at shoving the sudden, unexpected sense of sadness aside, Susan tugged open a drawer in her desk and removed from it an envelope. The letter, much touched and looked upon, slid from the envelope with a faint rasping noise as paper shifted against paper. This letter had been her lifeline through good times and bad. She didn't understand why she was suddenly swamped in this odd sorrow, but those faded words did much to help lift the cloud that had settled around her.

Jean Claude's generosity had propelled Susan into the spotlight and his people had proved to be the best kind of advertising she could ever need. More people saw her work now than they would if she'd landed all of those jobs dressing actors in plays and movies. While the entertainment industry was good for a career, there was some kind of media frenzy around Jean Claude and his people that she couldn't explain. The Master of St. Louis and his kiss were on magazine covers round the world, both tabloid publications and more legitimate media outlets. Her career was soaring.

The last she'd looked, Andrew Shipley hadn't had a deal in a couple years. She wondered if he was doubting his career right about now, if he was in that low place she'd been in once upon a time because he'd beaten her out of every job she'd tried for. Susan was no fool. She knew that this could all be gone tomorrow. For now, she was going to put aside the memories of dark days and live in the here and now. The emotions that she'd felt at the time would always stay with her, always be lurking in the shadows. Hopefully, she'd never have to experience them again the way she did tonight. A faint twinge of sadness ran through her at the thought. God, she wanted nothing more to do with that Susan.

Please. Make it stop.

~*~*~*~*~

The first wave of sorrow slammed into her as she was closing the door to her private rooms. It was so intense that it left her knees weak, left her pressed against the wooden panel for the support it could give. It honestly felt like her heart was breaking, like it was splitting apart in her chest. The pain was so deep that tears sprang to her eyes. It was too much. Far too much. "Please, God. Make it stop."

Old memories, things she was sure she'd put behind her long ago, crowded forward into the light. Left her confused and empty. Lost. She tried to push the memories back, but they kept creeping ever into the light until they overwhelmed her. Between one moment and the next, her knees gave out and she found herself sitting on the floor, legs drawn up under her and back pressed firmly to the wood behind her. Why now? Why was all of this coming back to haunt her now?

Once upon a time, when she'd been a different person and lived a different life, she'd been on her way to the top. She'd had everything she'd thought she'd wanted out of life. An expensive apartment with a view of Central Park, a super hot boyfriend that was smart and wonderful and great in the sack, and a job with a Fortune 500 company that kept taking her up and up and up. Life couldn't have been any better.

And then, it had all fallen down on her head all at once.

Thinking back on it, she should have seen the signs. They were there, right in front of her face. Both in her professional and in her private lives.

There had been constant meetings between the owners of her company and serious looking men wearing suits that screamed of government officials. There had been whispers at the office, talk of some kind of investigation. Talk of the company going under. Kimberly had brushed them off, certain it was merely the gossip of the panicked underlings. She was one of the higher ups, a tough, no nonsense manager in a pair of heels and a power suit. She would have known if something was wrong.

Just as she should have known something was wrong in her relationship with Chris. But she'd been as blind to their problems as she had been to the issues at work. She could say with certainty now that they'd been drifting apart for some time before things went to hell. Work had practically consumed all of her waking hours, until the time they'd been able to spend with one another had been almost non-existent. She'd thought Chris was okay with it all. Of course he'd complained, but he hadn't ever really sounded like he was done with it.

It had all come to a head in the ugliest manner possible. She'd gotten home from a long day to find a home cooked meal on the table, candles and soft music lending themselves to a private, intimate atmosphere. Beautiful, long stem yellow roses occupied a spot on the table, as well as on other surfaces in the dining room. There had been some five dozen in all. Chris had smiled at her, the look tender and sweet and secretive. He'd ushered her into her seat, had served her one of her favorite meals and poured her one of her favorite wines. It had been the most romantic gesture anyone had ever made.

He'd proposed. Gotten down on one knee like they did in all those sappy movies and stories and asked her to marry him. He'd showed her the most gorgeous ring. And he'd waited expectantly for her response.

The fight had been ugly. He'd called her selfish and cruel, claimed he'd given her everything she'd wanted and she hadn't even been able to find room in her heart for him. He'd told her she was obsessed with her job, with success and money. That he was merely arm candy for her. His words, laced with touches of the truth, had hurt like nothing else could. So she'd resorted to harsh words. Had pushed him away with a few lies and half-truths. Chris had packed up and left in a record two hours. His parting shot still hurt after all this time. "You're a heartless bitch, Kimberly. And you're going to end up alone."

The night had ended with an empty bottle of wine and wads of used tissues littering the floor. She'd decided, finally, that she didn't need him. That she would be perfectly content with her career. She'd show him just what he was missing out on. She planned on climbing the corporate ladder to the top and becoming the highest paid female executive at a Fortune 500 company. Except the Fates had had other plans and her career had been over the next day.

In less than twenty four hours, she'd lost everything.

The pain was lessening, allowing Kimberly to climb to her feet and cross the room to her dresser. Best she get out of the beautiful dress Susan had made for her lest she wrinkle or stain it permanently. Sighing, she took a deep breath to center herself. The Fates, it seemed, had known what they were doing. While working as Asher's assistant at the Circus wasn't what she'd had planned for herself, she'd never been happier. St. Louis, and the amazingly strange world that it had showed to her, was good for her. She wouldn't trade this life for her old one. Not for all the money and success in the world.

The memories were fading, less traumatic than they once had been. She didn't understand why they'd chosen tonight to make themselves known to her again. She'd put all of it behind her and was beyond content with her life here.

Sighing, Kimberly took her change of clothes into the bathroom with her, intent on readying herself for bed. There was some small, lingering pain around her heart. Pain she didn't want to deal with anymore. It would be lovely if it could just stop.

~*~*~*~*~

A wave of sorrow and sadness crashed down over her head, leaving her confused and gasping for breath. One moment, everything had been fine. Sure, she'd still been pissed about the things she'd learned during Jean Claude's little party, but her temper had been winding down into something close to weariness. And then, out of nowhere, she'd been dragged down into the deepest pits of despair.

Faded images of her mother flooded her mind, memories of that funeral so long ago. The pain that came from it clawed at her heart, made her want to break down and cry. She stomped down on the urge and shoved her mother's face from her mind. Other faces rushed in to take her place, faces of people she hadn't been able to save. Murder victims who had died because she hadn't been fast enough on the hunt. Phillip, the stripper who had died at the hands of Aubrey and Valentine before being raised as a zombie. Anita had had to put him back in the grave and she'd always felt guilt at not being able to save him.

So many faces. So many deaths. So many people she'd been unable to help or save. The lingering guilt that came with each death tried to drown her, tried to pull her under and hold her there until she could do little more than cry and regret.

Anita had made peace with all of those deaths a long time ago. She was only human and she could only do so much. She couldn't save everyone and she knew it. That was something she'd come to terms with a few years ago. And she shouldn't be welling up with grief over those things. She did her best not to let them rule the here and now. But something was fucking with her ability to remain on an even keel and it took everything she had to fight past the thick, cloying guilt and the despair.

When she finally surfaced, her lungs ached and she found herself actually gasping for breath. Just what the hell was going on?

She wanted to say it didn't make any sense, that this was some random event, but she really couldn't. There was a feel of magic to it, whatever it was. Which meant it didn't need to make sense. Someone had unleashed some kind of power upon the kiss and, if her reaction was any indication, everyone was caught in various stages of grief. Grief that had been, for a brief moment, almost crippling for her.

Shit! If it had nearly pulled her completely under its spell, what was this magic doing to the rest of the kiss? Was it affecting the rest of the kiss or were there those who were immune? Were the weaker members susceptible to the full power of the magic? There were those who weren't as versed with magic, who didn't have her willpower or experience. She was suddenly very afraid that they'd wake up from whatever madness this was to find that some of their people had done harm to themselves.

That thought drove her into action. She pushed aside the clinging tendrils of her own grief and set out to ensure that no one fell victim to this magical event. Was it an attack? If it was, who was responsible? And how did they find the culprit to punish them or put an end to things?

There was a trail. Anita picked it up, though she couldn't say just how she'd accomplished the feat. And she followed it, pausing briefly here and there to check on anyone she encountered along the way. Each pause gave the grief a chance to try and take hold again, saw her fighting against it so she could keep her head. Saw her wiping tears from her eyes, because there was so much pain and suffering everywhere.

She pushed on, shoved the grief down time and again. Trailed the magic through the halls. She was going to catch up to the source. And when she did, she was going to make it stop. No matter what it took. She was going to keep her people safe.

~*~*~*~*~

Madness. Damian frowned at the woman who had been gaily flirting with him just an hour ago. She was now curled into a ball of misery. Her mascara was smeared into a mask that might have been comical if the despair of some personal tragedy hadn’t warped her features into something nearly unrecognizable. He did not fault her, he had fallen prey to the attack of madness long enough for tears to stain his own cheeks and his throat felt raw and tight. It still tugged and tore at him, oozing through his shields and making it hard to think rationally.

He looked at the small blade in his hand. No. Not a blade, just a nail file. The woman had fought him when he took it from her, but fortunately she’d not yet gathered the nerve to make use of it. He frowned at it. This was not a proper weapon. He glanced around the small sitting room they’d appropriated earlier in the evening. He saw nothing else she might use to harm herself. Of course, she could slam her head into the stone floor…

No. He must find the source of this madness and put a stop to it. He turned from the woman and headed for his room. First, he would need a proper weapon. He moved swiftly through the corridors, brushing past those who were still caught up in the madness. He paused briefly by Anita’s side, finding her pushing herself away from a wall near his room, angrily brushing tears from her cheeks. She blushed and scowled at him.

“What the Hell is going on? Are we under attack?”

“I do not know. But I will make it stop if I can find who is responsible.” In response, she pointed down the corridor to their left.

“I think it’s coming from somewhere in that direction. I’ve been trying to catch up with it, but I keep running into trouble.”

He nodded. “I will get my sword.”

“You do that. I’m going to find Jean Claude and check on our people.”

In moments he was nearly running down the corridors, following the trail of despair. He ignored the sounds of grief coming from this room or that, intent on his goal. Let his Master deal with them. He had his orders, no matter that she had told him to do what he had planned to do anyway.

A sense of desperate purpose began to color the emotions that tugged and clawed at his mind. The distant boom of something striking hollow metal came from somewhere ahead. He quickened his pace, recognizing the source. As he grew closer, the sound of heavy breathing and grunts of effort were added to the repeated bangs and booms. A faint tang of blood told him whoever it was had drawn blood in their frenzy.

He slowed his pace to a cautious creep as he approached the door to the gym. Just inside was their ersatz armory, a series of lockers dedicated to holding their weaponry. Here the sense of grief and despair was so thick that it felt as if he pushed his way through something thick and sticky that clung to his skin. He stopped to watch a moment as he spotted her.

“Ginette.” He spoke softly, holding his sword ready. She didn’t respond at first and he eased through the door. “Ginette.” He called her name louder. She paused, one hand clutching at the corner of a crumpled locker door. She turned her head to look at him, her gaze so blank that he wasn’t sure she saw him at all. But she must have seen something. She gave the door a half-hearted tug, and then stepped away. She turned to him and padded slowly on bare feet toward him. “Ginette, this must stop.”

“I know.” Her voice was hoarse. She came to a stop about five paces before him. She stood still, arms loose at her sides and simply stared at him. From here he could see the ruins that her tears had made of her make up. There was no mistaking that this was the source of the madness. It was there in her eyes, in the emptiness that threatened to swallow the last of his defenses against the despair. He watched her blink slowly and bow her head. “Make it stop.” He watched a tear trace its way down her cheek to tremble at the point of her chin before dropping to the floor.

Damian took a step forward, grip tightening on the sword. He waited, but she remained motionless. The despair seemed to swirl and eddy around his feet as he drew closer. This close he could see the trembling of her body as she shook with silent sobs, only the harsh intake of breath audible. Another step and another, and still no move to flee or defend herself. She tightened her hands into fists and drew in a ragged breath and he paused, waiting, but she did nothing more.

He waited until the next sobbing breath, then sped into motion too quick for a mortal’s eyes to follow. The sword slid home in its sheath as he caught the girl up in his grasp. Using all the shrewd experience of his centuries as a vampire, he pinned her arms between them, holding her so tightly against his body that struggle as she might she would do him little damage unless she shifted. She made a small noise of surprise, but offered no resistance. Instead she tilted her head, offering him her throat.

He studied the beat of her pulse beneath her skin for a long moment before bending his head to press a kiss against that fluttering movement. She stiffened slightly and drew in a breath. He slid his mouth along the skin of her neck until he could whisper in her ear.

“Death will not end the pain, Ginette. It will only pass on to those who most love you.”

It was then that she began to struggle, pushing against his strength with all of hers and twisting within the tight circle of his arms. He held on tightly, gambling that the fisted hands pinned against his sides would not suddenly sprout claws or that the face pressed against his chest would not sink fangs into his flesh. The madness around him twisted and pulsed with the tempo of her struggles. Fear and rage. Pain and grief. Shame and sorrow. She was now making wordless noises of frustration as she fought his embrace. It was not easy to hold her, difficult enough that he did not waste breath in speaking words she would not hear. Even in human shape, the power of the leopard and her master was present. But it was clear she was unwilling to hurt him and that was the only way she would win free of his grasp.

He waited until her struggles slowed. Waited until she began to relax into his grasp. Waited until the grunts of effort became silent sobs once again. He kept his grip firm, but bent his head to rest his cheek against her hair.

“I am very old; for all that I am not a master.” He spoke gently. “The pain never leaves completely, but it will fade. If you live long enough, the time will come when it enters your thoughts rarely and it no longer holds the power to crush the spirit.” The girl gave a hiccupping sob and pressed herself closer to him. “I promise you, Ginette. This is truth.”

The hiccup became true sobbing and as if it opened some floodgate, the pressure of madness began to recede. He ventured to loosen his grip until she could slide her arms around him. The embrace was no longer forced, the girl clung to him willingly now. Wishing to hold her more closely, he sank down to sit on the floor with her wrapped about him, sobbing as if her world had ended.

She began to speak in his ear, each confession draining away more of the madness. Her words were broken and thick with her weeping. But it did not matter if he understood. Only that he would hear them.

“If my dad could see...what happened…what I’ve become…horrified.”

“Mom went away…couldn’t deal…cancer.”

“Jo was there…but everything went wrong…”

“He was there…but the things we did…Oh Gods! If he knew…”

“I tried so hard…but it’s all wrong…I can’t…”

“Was going to talk…but Remy got mad…everything went to Hell...”

How long he sat there petting the girl and making meaningless noises, he had no idea. She seemed not to notice at all when footsteps approached from the corridor. The first face to appear was that of Claudia, who then motioned to someone behind her. Then it was Anita who replaced her and frowned at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed a finger to his lips and then waved them back. He stroked the girl’s hair to cover the motions. By now the madness was just a whisper and the stream of confessions had ceased. The girl’s shields were repairing themselves and the relief was almost pleasure in and of itself.

Anita frowned at him, but retreated. He knew that she wanted to ask questions and could almost feel the hard butt of the pistol in her hand as if it were his own. He spared a moment to worry about how Nathaniel had fared in all this. But the boy must be well enough; he felt no distress from that direction at the moment. He waited for the footsteps to recede again before speaking.

“Ginette. Little one.” He had to call her name several times before she seemed to understand. “We should go somewhere more private. Others will come soon and I do not think you are ready.”

“No. Guess not.” She sniffed and started to pull away. He held her just a little tighter and shifted his grip so he could stand without putting her down. Her arms slipped around his neck and she tucked her face in crook of his neck. “Don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“Your room?”

“I guess.” She swallowed hard and he could hear her pulse jump a little. “Just don’t leave me, OK? Don’t want to be alone right now.”

“I understand.” And he did. The despair wasn’t gone, only held at bay for the moment. He would not have left her alone had she demanded it. “I am yours until dawn.”

“OK.”

The corridors were nearly empty and those few he encountered seemed too intent on their own thoughts to take note of him or the girl in his arms. Soon enough they were behind the privacy of her door and he lowered her until her feet touched the floor. Here the carpeting was a soft green and the simple wooden furniture was painted to match. The coverlet and the upholstery of the single armchair were a darker green. Amber shades on the bedside lamps gave the light a sunlit quality.

“There. We are alone and as private as we may be.” He drew back and looked down at her. She scrubbed at her tear-streaked face with the back of one hand and grimaced. He nearly smiled at the petulant expression. “This is why I hate wearing all this junk. I want to wash this off and get out of this…” She paused, looking down at herself. “Whatever this thing is Susan made for me.”

“You will feel better if you wash up.” This was one of the smaller rooms that were frequently repurposed as people came and went from Jean Claude’s domain. He could see a small bathroom through the open door across from the foot of her bed. He took her by the shoulders and turned her slowly, giving her a gentle push. “Go on.”

“You’ll be here when I come out?” Her voice held a note of anxiety, but she moved to obey.

“Of course.”

She didn’t look at him as she started opening drawers. He smiled behind her back as she made sure to keep her body between their contents and him. He found the modesty charming and amusing as she selected garments to take with her into the bathroom.

~*~*~*~*~

"Please. Make it stop."

The hallway was bright after the darkness of the hotel room, and it was the only thing that kept her from hurrying away from the door behind her and toward the elevator. She stood blinking against the light, trying to decide what she needed to do. There was a feeling growing inside of her that begged to be set free. Instinct saw her trying to run, trying to get away from it. It didn't matter that she was in nothing more than a t-shirt and her panties. She just needed to go.

She had barely made the decision to go when the warmth of a much larger hand curled around her arm. The next second, she was facing Edward and he was staring down into her face. He'd gone to sleep. She was sure of it. But he looked like he hadn't slept at all. And he looked pissed. Some inner voice told her that she didn't want him mad at her. But she had to go. She had to escape and hide. Her emotions, something, must have shown on her face. "Jo?" She watched his own expression melt from something akin to anger into worry.

Before she could answer, there was the sound of a voice clearing to her left. She tipped her head down and away, unwilling to let a stranger see her like this. Even through the thick mire of her emotions, she felt Edward's posture change. The hand on her arm loosened, the grip softening into something more personal. His other hand came up, fingers hooking under her chin to bring her face up so they were staring directly into each other's eyes. Gone was the hard, cold look she had become accustomed to. In its place was something that looked very much like tenderness.

"Come on, sweetheart. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." His words didn't make any sense to her. But she had no time to consider them because he was leaning forward to press a kiss onto her lips. Shock and confusion made it easy for him to draw her fully into his embrace and she found herself completely off center. Her arms slid up around his neck and she crushed herself into him.

His sleep pants were terribly thin and did absolutely nothing to disguise his erection. Oh.

Everything was hazy. She felt the other presence in the hall move away, taking with it a mingled sense of displeasure and appreciation. Then they were moving and she found herself being herded back into his hotel room. His skin was so warm, even through the thin material of the shirt she wore. It made her think briefly of how cold a vampire was, even with borrowed blood warming their body for them. Then the thought was gone as his hands settled on her ass and he pulled her even closer. Jesus fuck, he was hard and she wanted him. This was solid. This was familiar. This was something she could find solace in.

It all happened so fast. One moment, they were standing in the middle of the room, bodies and mouths mashed tightly together. The next she was naked and on the bed with Edward settling over her. He was as naked as she was, unless you included the condom he'd rolled on. She was really not with it because she really couldn't remember getting naked or getting into bed. And she would have loved to have helped him with the condom. She'd learned a few tricks that would have made something so mundane as rolling a rubber on into the biggest event since Haley's Comet.

She'd gotten the impression earlier that this wasn't something he was going to do. Maybe he felt she was too young for him. Maybe he didn't want anything to do with someone who belonged to a vampire. Maybe there were other reasons he hadn't expressed. But here they were, his body hovering just above hers on the bed. There was nothing on his face to give away what he was thinking. But there was so much to feel. It was almost staggering after the little bits that she'd had to dig out of him over the course of the evening. She had to wonder if this was his idea or if there was some other force at work here. The thought was gone, though, the moment his eyes began to drift over her body in that slow, hungry, possessive way that said he was going to fuck her senseless.

He never said a word to her. Not that she expected him to. This wasn't a love match or anything of the sort. This was pure, simple carnal pleasure. He was in need. She was in need. They were together. It was taking advantage of the situation that had been presented them.

She half expected him to just shove himself inside and go. But he didn't. He took the time to tease her into arousal. His fingers spent a great deal of time stroking her breasts and tweaking her nipples. His hands glided up and down her sides with barely there touches that kindled her desire. His mouth tasted her own, tongue dipping inside to explore her mouth. One leg slipped neatly between her thighs, shifted up until he could press the hard edge of it against her nether lips. She returned his caresses with her own. Fingers carded through the short length of his hair, trailed down the length of his back to curl over his ass cheeks and squeeze. She ground herself against his thigh.

She'd lost track of time when he finally pulled back. She panted softly for breath as his mouth pressed kisses to her flesh. He moved from her mouth to a breast, wrapped his lips around the hardened nipple and sucked. She sighed and arched, then arched even more when two fingers eased into her. They drew back slowly, stopped before they would have slipped from her body. Waited there for a heartbeat or two. Shoved back in, hard and deep.

The sensations sent her hands moving in a rush. Her nails dragged down his sides until she hit his hips. One shifted inward while the other continued on to squeeze tight around one of his ass cheeks. He hissed softly when her wandering hand found his cock and wrapped around it, slid up and down in time with his questing fingers. He shifted his attention from one nipple to the other and laved at it with his tongue.

Holy fuck, he was trying to kill her with pleasure. Because he'd added his thumb to the mix, the digit working her clit with an expertise that sparked flames under her skin. Need built and grew until she was drowning in it. Her body writhed under his onslaught until she thought she'd go mad. Until she mewled out a plea for more. Seconds later, his hand did this twist thing as the sharp edge of his nail flicked her clit. She came hard, groaning out his name softly under her breath. He did it again, made her come even harder.

Sweet goddess, she was going to die and she was going to die happy.

Even before her orgasm had fully crested, he was sliding himself inside of her. He caught her legs over his arms and shifted forward so that she was rolled up under him. The position put him on his knees and gave him a deeper angle. His eyes found hers and held them when he started thrusting. She found she couldn't, didn't want to, look away.

There was something terribly erotic about the encounter. She didn't mind that he never spoke, never asked questions about whether she liked something or not. It was highly probably that he was taking all of his clues from the expressions that stole across her face. And she got the sense that he was going to fuck her until he knew she was satisfied.

For a brief moment, she thought of what kind of trouble this would bring her way. Remy wouldn't understand. And she wasn't really sure Gin would understand, either. But that trouble wasn't important. Not when this was likely the last encounter she'd ever have with a normal human again. Sure, Remy had only been a vampire for five years. But he'd already started changing. She'd seen it plain as day. And Gin... Christ, she now went furry once a month. Everything had changed. Everything except her.

Her thoughts scattered when he thrust against her hard, bringing her back to the here and now. He was still watching her, gaze intent as he filled her again and again. She let herself fall into the deep pool of desire his touch had brought to life, let herself simply feel. Thoughts drifted away on the wind and left her drowning in her need.

Time ticked by slowly. His tempo sped up and slowed down, then sped up again. She kept pace with him, her hips moving rhythmically with his own. Tiny orgasms burst under her skin, hints at the show to come. Their breathing increased, gasping breaths filling the room as a counterpoint to the slapping of skin meeting skin. He shifted her again, curling her further in on herself. It gave him a deeper angle and his first stroke saw her crying out as pleasure rushed through her.

He responded to that cry, hips thrusting fast and hard against her own. Jo's fingers dug into the hard muscle of his forearms, silently urging him on. She could feel him teetering on the brink, could feel a battle between his need to fuck her senseless and his need to finish. She offered him a smile and clenched a few muscles. "Come on, Edward. Harder. Fuck me harder and come for me."

"Dirty," he got out before taking her at her word. He fucked harder, gave his everything to driving himself into her hard and fast. Sensation spiraled outward from her center until she was all tingling nerve endings and need. Moments later, as he cursed a blue streak, he shoved himself as deep as he could go and emptied himself into the condom. She flicked her own fingers over her clit and sent herself screaming into the abyss with him.

~*~*~*~*~