A Place In This Life. Chapter One: The Danse Macabre

[ginevrasm]

Here is the "secret project" that I've been working on, ladies and gents.  New fandom, new characters, at least for me.  I'm not sure how long it will be or quite where it will end.  I'll just have to see where my characters take me.  As is my wont, I've come at this fandom from the the point of view of some of its less central characters.  At the moment, this fic is essentially homeless.  That being one of the reasons I was reluctant to commit to it.  But now I've got four chapters roughed out and this one ready to post somewhere.  Like most of my stuff, it's unbeta'ed, so eagle eyes are appreciated.  Enjoy.

Disclaimer:  I do not own any part of the Anita Blake:  Vampire Hunter franchise.  The world and all its inhabitants belong to Laurell K. Hamilton.  I’ve just borrowed her world for my own, and hopefully your, entertainment.  I make no money from this work and discourage any attempts to sue me as being fiscally unrewarding.

Warnings:  Legal adults only.  Graphic sex, violence, adult themes, vampires and lycanthropes.  Read at your own risk.

Authors Note:  Ever had a character keep pestering you in the back of your skull until there was nothing to do for it, but sit down and write?  Damian may be quiet, but he’s bloody persistent.  Enjoy.

Chapter One:  The Danse Macabre

The music was loud, almost raucous, with a pounding beat that vibrated through him and down his spine.  The lights flashed in colored bursts revealing the faux skeletons and corpses that served as decorations at Danse Macabre.  When the club was closed and the colored lights replaced by the false daylight of fluorescent panels, the “art” was woefully imperfect, garish and disproportionate.  In his thousand years of experience, Damian had seen many corpses, many bones, and none had looked like these.  The only dead here were himself and the other vampires who served as “color” for the undead-loving clientele.

Such grim thoughts.  Damian shook his head silently, sending his shockingly red hair sliding across his shoulders.  He wore a mockery of a Victorian gentleman’s attire, too tight, too shiny, and far too colorful with its brilliant hues of green and gold.  And no more appropriate to a living Viking than more authentic garb would have been.  For some unfathomable reason, the tourists expected to see vampires wearing such garments.  And of course, Jean Claude insisted that those expectations be met.  He should consider himself fortunate that he was not so talented a dancer as to be asked to take the stage at Guilty Pleasures.  He gave himself another shake, this one mental, and fixed a pleasant expression on his face.

It was not so miserable an occupation.  Not at all.  He surveyed the mass of gyrating bodies on the dance floor and glanced at the edges where those who were partnerless or simply too shy to step forward milled about.  His pleasantly neutral expression broadened to a genuine smile, his pulse sped and his spirits lifted.  Perhaps Anita did not find him so exciting.  Perhaps he ranked among the lowest of her men in her affections, but these women vied for his attention.  They hovered with varying degrees of patience to gain his favor, to dance, to press their bodies against his, and even to offer him their necks or their wrists.

He waded into the crowd, slipping between the warm bodies, touching an arm here, a cheek there.  He smiled impersonally, careful not to catch their gazes for too long.  He knew well the laws, the rules of this place.  His mistress and her master had been very clear on that subject.  The modern world outside was almost frightening in its unfamiliarity.  Here, he flirted and danced, complimented and thrilled mortal women each night.  But once he passed the club’s portal, he sought out only his own kind, and that rarely.

How pitiable was it that he had only his mistress’s basement to call his own.  And no leave to bring lovers there.  He, a thousand years dead.   It was not jealousy that drove her to forbid him such freedom.  No, he did not rate so high in her regard for that.  It was her own privacy she guarded.  His fellow vampires at least understood that he must give her obedience.  What mortal woman would accept such arrangements?

No.  Not these strange modern creatures, who were almost mannish in their behavior.  Independent.  Aggressive.  Their minds filled with abstract concepts such as rights and freedom, things that had been foreign to his existence for so long.  It was not even that he disapproved of such ideas.  They were simply outside his experience.

The touch of one of those women’s hands, too aggressive and familiar for his taste brought him back to the moment.  He was not some whore to be groped on the dance floor.  He caught the wayward hand in his.  It belonged to a woman whose hair was the color of faded gold, the artificial shade hiding the gray, but doing nothing to conceal the stiff texture or the fine lines on her face.  He hid his annoyance behind a bow and a kiss across her knuckles, smiling wide enough to flash his fangs, giving the matron an excuse to scream girlishly and swoon.  Her theatrics created a small knot of chaos, which he left behind him, gliding onward through the writhing throng.

He was hunting, his eyes searching the crowd for likely prey.  Willing prey.  Some so willing that he was careful not to make eye contact.  Aggressive.  Persistent.  A familiar bit of green and gold caught his attention.  His eyes followed the slow progress of one figure around the edges of the throng.  He knew the figure, the face, the swinging fall of brown hair with its hints of copper.  One of his regulars.  He searched his memory for her name as he began to wend his way in her direction.

Other vampires were choosing their “victims” for the evening, spotlights picking them out and making a spectacle of the act.  She stopped, turning to look at the dance floor, her bare arms folded along the barrier that separated the tables from the floor.  Her eyes moved over the dance floor, their color a muted green that was almost washed out by the fey lighting.  She wore a simple black dress that left most of her shoulders bare.  The flash of green and gold was a bit of cloth she’d knotted about the straps and pinned along the neckline, making it seem one piece with the dress.  Though he knew it wasn’t.

He knew it wasn’t because he had given it to her the first time she’d offered her neck to him.  She’d been shy and he’d had to coax her onto the floor.  He could remember the soft, sweet scent of her skin, fresh and clean.  The trembling of her hand in his and the rich, warm taste of her blood.  The feel of her body against his and wishing he was allowed privacy for this intimate act.  The seductive beat of her heart against his chest, her pulse beneath his lips.

She’d been so new to the club and to vampires that she’d worn white that night and blood had spilled across her collar.  He’d offered her the sash from his costume in an act of calculated gallantry, draping it to conceal the stains.  She’d accepted it from him only to offer it back the next time she encountered him.  He had refused it.  Now she wore it like a mark of his favor, sometimes woven into her hair, draped about her neck, or worn about her hips as the sash it was intended to be.  But even so, she never pressed him, always waited with quiet patience for him to notice her.

Erica.  Her name was Erica.  She had not yet found him in the confusing crowd and he watched her scanning, her expression peaceful, neutral, yet somehow anticipatory.  It reminded him of a cat patiently waiting for the mouse to emerge from its hole.  The image was enough to make him smile to himself.  He was still smiling when her eyes came to rest on him.  She returned his smile and straightened, moving to meet him before he left the dance floor.

Yes.  Erica would do.  He caught her hand as soon as her feet hit the floor and drew her against him, turning back into the throng, joining the mass of moving bodies.  The first vampire took his place in the spotlight, a tall thin brunette on his arm.  A few screams and twice as many sighs floated above the music briefly as the other vampire’s fangs met flesh.  Damian ignored them, intent on dancing his way through the crowd with his chosen donor on his arm.

The girl moved with him, following his lead faithfully, a serene smile on her face.  It remained serene even as they danced in a pantomime of intimacy.  No waltzes for the club scene.  No.  It was either gyrating alone without touching, or gyrating against one another as if clothes might simply melt away from the heat of it.  The scent of her skin and the warm softness of her body against his whetted his appetite.  He could hear the quick beating of her heart; almost taste the sweetness of her blood on his tongue.

They did not try to speak over the music and the crowd’s reactions to the show.  Damian spun her around the edges of the spotlights, letting the audience catch tantalizing glimpses of his scarlet hair and the pale pinkness of her neck and shoulders.  He liked to think he was one of the main attractions.  He was certainly one of the most striking.

The next to vampire to feed was a woman, her fair hair shining in a golden halo around her shoulders.  She leaned into the neck of a young man clad in leather.  His shaven head was marked in whorling designs that stood out starkly in the brilliant spotlight.  He swayed and crumpled slowly to his knees as the vampire fed.  The crowd’s noise hushed enough that the soft wet sounds of her feeding could be heard.  The DJ had dampened the music and turned up the closest microphone.

“Will you let me drink of you this night, Erica?”  He let his words drop into the hush, low and intimate for her ears.

“You know I will.”  She turned those serene eyes up to him, their peacefulness shot through with humor.

“Ah.  But I must ask these things.”  He swept her closer to one of the spotlights, his arm around her waist.  “How long has it been since your last donation?”

“Two weeks.  But you know that.”  They stopped in the shadows beyond the spotlight.

“Do I, my lovely?  Has no one else tasted you?  I have seen you here since then.”

“No one feeds from me but you.”  She reached up to sweep her hair back from her neck, showing him well-healed marks.  Marks he knew, because he left them there.  He reached out to trace them with his fingers and she shuddered, green eyes fluttering closed briefly.  “No one.”

And perhaps that was why he chose her as often as he dared.  He preferred not to share his women.  If he did not choose her, she would dance with one of the others, or occasionally another patron, but never did she leave with one.  Nor did she ever enter these spotlights unless she was on his arm.  But since she did not allow others to feed from her, to do so too often risked stealing her mortal life from her.  Erica might forgive him that.  But his mistress wouldn’t.

Before they could speak more, the spotlight on the blonde and her leather clad donor winked out.  Damian stepped onto the small stage and into the spotlight.  The crowd gasped as if he’d appeared from nowhere.  He turned to Erica to offer her a hand onto the stage, making of it a theatrical gesture.  She took his hand and let him draw her up after him.  He could see the blood flushing her cheeks a charmingly rosy color.

He stood her before him so that he could look over her shoulder and survey the crowd.  She was not tall, perhaps a few inches taller than his mistress, Anita, but tall enough that he would not have to stoop uncomfortably to feed.  And her figure had a woman’s curves, not the angular planes of an adolescent boy that seemed so popular now.  He curled one hand around her waist possessively and she clung to it.  Clung to it as if it was the spotlight and the watching crowd that made her uneasy rather than the predator at her back.

How many times had he brought her into the spotlight and still her heart beat like a butterfly in her breast at the sight of the crowd?  Her cheeks still flushed pink and he could scent the first breath of perspiration across her skin.  He considered turning her to face him, to spare her the sight of the crowd.  But, no.  No.  The crowd must have its show.

He reached out and laid his fingers across her shoulder, drew them slowly up the side of her neck, pressing her head gently to the side.  It gave him the sweet, clean line of her throat.  He could see the tiny beat of her pulse there, could smell her blood just under the skin.  Behind her, where the crowd could see and she could not, he let some of his humanity bleed away.  Let them see the fangs and the monster.  Let them feel that thrill of fear from afar.  Let them see the danger hovering so close.

Then he struck, piercing her flesh cleanly, cradling her against his chest as her blood poured thick and warm into his mouth.  He made it seem as if he clutched her, made a show of holding her tightly, but in truth, he held her delicately.  She shivered and gasped while he fed from her, her fingers playing along the back of the hand at her waist restlessly.  He closed his eyes against the spotlight and the crowd, closed his ears to the din of voices and music, closed his senses to all but the woman in his arms and the blood in his mouth.

He was hungry and she tasted so good.  He drew hard and deep on her life’s blood, drinking it down, savoring every coppery-sweet drop.  He felt her warmth, her life, her essence spreading through his cold flesh.  Everywhere it passed, it left a kiss of precious vitality.  He wished again that there was some privacy in his life, some place where he might make better, more personal use of this vitality.  Repay this gift with more than a few dances.

Would she make love the way she danced?  He could smell her desire for him.  Could feel it in the way she touched him.  See it in the way she looked at him.  He could take some of this money he earned with these indignities and perhaps rent a room for the night.  But that seemed cheap and perhaps presumptuous.  She had not offered more than her blood.  Not by word or deed.

He felt her pulse slow and her body began to grow limp.  If he had not held her, she might have fallen at his feet.  He had nearly fed beyond the point of satiation and he withdrew his fangs with a pang of worry.  He pulled a cloth from his pocket to press against the wounds.  He hid it in his palm while he turned her to face him.  She blinked up at him, her face gone almost slack and her eyes unfocused.  Under the guise of claiming her lips for a kiss, he whispered to her.

“Erica?  Are you well?  Can you hear me?”  Anita would be angry if he had bespelled the girl too deeply, even if it were by accident.  And he would be angry with himself if he had taken enough to harm her.

“I’m a little woozy.  I’d like to sit down.”  She mumbled against his lips, swaying slightly in his arms.  But when he kissed her, she melted into his embrace.  He pressed the cloth against the wound while he thought.  He was aware of several staff members hovering in the shadows, ready to whisk her out of sight until she was up to leaving on her own.

If he allowed them to do that he would be trapped out here wondering how she fared.  Suddenly the lights were too bright, the people too close, the smells too varied, and the music too loud and discordant.  Decision made, he swept her up into his arms like a child and stepped out of the light and into the shadows himself.  The others hesitated for a moment before following him.  He’d broken the script and it took a moment for them to adjust.

He knew where to take her.  To the club’s Quiet Room.  As soon as he passed into the back rooms, the music became hushed, the lights a subdued but warm gold, an echo of the long lost sun.  A few doors down the corridor and he slipped into the quiet room and lowered her onto the waiting sofa.  A dark haired man in burgundy colored club wear similar to his own was puttering around, assembling a tray of sugary pastries and juices.  Damian didn’t know this one, but the flavor of his energy and the quick grace of his movement said lycanthrope.

The man deposited the tray on the nearby coffee table and looked at Damian questioningly.  Damian waved him away impatiently, his attention on the woman.  She looked pale, a fine sheen of sweat on her face.  But she accepted the juice and cookies he offered her without protest.  He knelt on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, close but not touching.

“I am sorry.  I did not mean to take so much.”

“No.  I’m OK.  Really.”

“I will stay with you until I am certain.  It would be a poor return for your gift were I to let harm come to you.”

“Gift.”  She muffled what sounded like a rueful laugh behind her cup.  Then she set the cup down and began to fumble at the neck of her dress until she came up with a small wad of bills.  She offered it to him.  “Here.  Before I forget.”

“This is…”  Damian shook his head and tried to wave the money away.  “This is unnecessary.  I have done nothing to earn it.”

“I’ve tipped you before.”  She continued to hold the money out, her hand shaking slightly.  “You deserve more than this, but it’s all I can afford to give you.”

“I do not.”

“You make me feel pretty.  Desirable.  After the day I’ve had, you have no idea how much that means to me.  Take it.  Please.”

He didn’t take the money.  Instead he took her hand, pressing the money against her palm and holding it there.

“Why would you say such a thing?  You are lovely, desirable.  I might dance with a woman for money, but I do not take her blood.”  He was honestly puzzled.  There was a note of melancholy in her voice that he hadn’t heard before.  Though perhaps it was only that they had never spoken alone without the undercurrent of music and the club’s patrons.

“God.  You’re good.  You really sound like you mean it.”  She sighed and stared at the money in her hand as if it had just appeared and she couldn’t figure out where it came from.

“I do.”

“Do you actually want to know?”  She gave him a sidelong glance, her fingers tightening over the folded bills until her knuckles whitened.

“Yes.”  And strangely, he found that he did.  He’d spent as much time with this woman as he had anyone else outside of his mistress and her immediate household.  He’d shared what he considered intimate moments with her, yet he knew almost nothing about her.

“It’s not like it’s exciting.  Or even interesting.  It’s just…my life.”  She opened her hand and tossed the money onto the tray, then rubbed her fingers together like she wanted to be rid of the sensation.  “I’m a corporate drone.  Customer service.  I sit in a little gray cubicle and answer phones all day.  Deal with complaints, answer questions, that sort of thing.  Boring, stressful, and doesn’t pay enough.  So when a management position opened up, I tried for it.”

“I take it that you did not get it.”

“They gave it to somebody else.  Which would have been OK, except for what my supervisor told me.  Friendly advice, she called it.”  She shifted on the couch restlessly and reached for her glass of juice again.  He thought he caught a flash of anger in her eyes before they slid away.  He waited quietly.  He knew nothing of cubicles and offices.  “She said it was a hard choice, but this position dealt with the public face to face.  That this position required a ‘professional appearance’.  Then she suggested I lose about twenty pounds, cut my hair, and buy a new wardrobe.  Bitch.”

The last word was delivered with a sort of half-hearted venom that seemed to drain what energy she had away.  She emptied the last of her juice in one long swallow, drinking it down like it was something much stronger.  Damian sorted through her story in his head, comparing her supervisor’s assessment with what he saw before him.  He shook his head.

“I do not understand this modern obsession with thinness.  A woman should look like a woman.  And your hair is too lovely to cut.  Perhaps she is merely jealous.”  He shrugged and took the empty cup from her fingers and crumpled it up.  He tossed it away in frustration.

What could he say to make this point?  What was beauty?  His maker had been beautiful and so vain and cruel that she tolerated no competition.  To be lovelier than her in any way was to be marked for death if you were unlucky enough to come to her attention.  Erica was not beautiful in that way, but beauty like that frightened him.  Terrified him.

“I am a thousand years old.  I have seen many women, beautiful and plain, lovely and ugly.  I can only judge with my own eyes.”  He shrugged again.  “You are pretty, desirable.  You are the sort of woman I dreamed of when I was still mortal.  Had I seen you then, I would have taken you as the spoils of battle.  Fair of skin, firm of flesh, sweet, biddable…”

Her eyes had grown wide, her mouth forming an “o” of surprise.  He laughed at her, a true laugh that rolled through the room.  She smiled nervously.

“You really were a Viking?  That’s not just something they made up for advertising?”

“Yes.  I was.  Now…I dance for money.”  He shook his head again.  “There are no battles to be fought here with sword and shield.”  There was a knock at the door and the dark haired lycanthrope peered inside.

“Damian?  Boss wants to know if you’re coming back.  Got a couple of people asking for you.”

“Stay here and rest.  I will come check on you when I have my next break.”  He gave her one last look and the expression in her eyes was hard to read.  She probably wasn’t sure what to make of what he’d said.  He wasn’t completely certain himself.  What he was certain of was that he’d better get back out on the dance floor.

There were indeed several insistent patrons waiting for him.  Patrons with too much cash and not enough wit to spend it on things more useful that demanding a dance with their favorite vampire.  By the time he had bid goodnight and accepted his gratuity from the last of them, it was nearly half an hour beyond the time when he usually took his break.  He slipped into the shadows and hurried back to the Quiet Room to check on his guest.

As soon as the doors sealed the pulsating music behind him, he felt a hint of unease.  He hurried back to the Quiet Room only to find it empty.  Someone had cleaned up the tray of refreshments and only a folded bit of paper remained in its stead.  It bore his name scrawled large in an unfamiliar hand.  He picked up the paper and something fell to the table.  Several bills well creased and tightly folded, it was the money Erica had tried to press on him.  He frowned and unfolded the note.

“I’m sorry, I waited as long as I could.  I have to be at work early in the morning.  I’ll be back in a few nights.  Erica.”

He frowned, reading the short note again.  He picked up the bills and stuffed them in a pocket.  The sense of unease grew and he found himself going still.  Listening, scenting the air, stretching his senses as far as he could.  Her scent still lingered in the air, as if she had just left the room.  The couch still bore the imprint of her body and he thought he could still feel a trace of her warmth.

He cursed himself for leaving her alone so long.  Had she driven herself?  Was she well enough to drive?  He should have at least arranged for someone to see her safely to her car, or cab, or whatever means of transportation…

Perhaps she had not left yet.  He let the note drop from his fingers, moving so quickly that he passed through the door before the paper touched the table.  He was possessed of a sense of urgency that he could not explain.  But he did not question it.  He had gained new strength and new gifts from his bond with his mistress, who was to say that he had plumbed all their secrets?

He burst from the rear entrance too fast and had to catch the door to keep it from clanging loudly against the wall.  He closed it with exaggerated care, then stood, listening to the night.  With a thought, he launched himself into the air, seeking a better vantage point for his search.  He began to circle above the club, eyes searching the night for a hint of movement, breathing deeply of the night air, seeking her scent.

It was the scent of blood that first drew his attention.  Freshly spilled blood.  It was impossible to ignore.  He followed the scent like a beacon and soon found the source hidden in the shadows at the far edge of the parking lot.  Figures moved in the shadows and he drew closer.  The wind brought him another scent, sweet and familiar.  It also brought him the unmistakable sound of a vampire feeding…

Rage welled up, so hot and sudden that it blotted out all else.  He descended silently, his attention focused on the two figures that bent over a third slumped bonelessly among the weeds and gravel.  Some hint of danger, some instinct alerted one of the figures.  A pale face beneath mousy brown hair with dark eyes that widened at the sight of him.  The man, the vampire lurched to his feet and tried to run.  He was too slow, far too slow, and Damian caught him by the throat as his feet touched ground.  His fingers pierced flesh as if it were nothing but paper, ripping and tearing so that blood poured from the wound.  He gripped the man’s shoulder with his other hand for purchase, then gave a casual wrench that snapped bone and ligaments, and his opponent fell limp and dying to the ground.

He whirled to face the second vampire, this one dark and compactly built.  He crouched defensively over Erica’s still form, blood smeared across his lips.  Her blood.  Damian growled and leaped for him, striking the other vampire and carrying him to the earth.  This one too, was too slow to react and he shoved his hand into the vampire’s unprotected midsection, tearing through cloth and digging through flesh until his arm sank elbow deep into his innards.  He shoved his hand upward, groping through warm flesh, searching until he found the frantically pulsing muscle deep in his chest.  He wrapped his hand around that muscle and squeezed.  The smaller man convulsed, kicking and flailing, making strange choked noises while Damian squeezed the stolen blood from his heart.

Only when the body beneath him stopped spasming did he pull the crushed bit of muscle from its fleshy case and toss it aside.  Distantly, in the back of his mind, he could feel his mistress calling to him, trying to soothe him and demanding to know the reason for his fury.  He sent her images, confused and bloody, colored with his rage.  Images of them crouched over Erica, of her lying pale under the starlight and of her smiling and dancing with him.

Another question from his mistress, one that cut through the rage and brought him to his senses.

“Is she alive?”

Was she?  Did she live?  Or had they stolen her life along with her blood?  Stolen it all, for if they had killed her, she could not even rise as a vampire.  He started to reach for her, but his hand was coated in blood and it seemed wrong.  He switched hands, reaching to feel for the pulse in her neck.  Her skin was cool and clammy.  Blood seeped slowly from the same punctures he had made earlier.  And he saw with sudden clarity what they had done, if not why.

His marks would be the only ones on her body.  Scores of witnesses had seen him feed upon her then whisk her away.  She hadn’t returned to the dance floor.  Only the other employees had seen her once she left the dance floor.  And he had no way of knowing if any had seen her leave alive and under her own power.  He cursed and gathered her limp body to his chest.

“She lives, but she has lost too much blood.”  He sent her images of the girl’s pale face and the sense of her heart struggling in her chest.  He dared not take her to the hospital, he was drenched in blood and she bore the marks of his fangs.  They would believe him responsible.  She was human and he could not take her uninvited to the secret hospital that served the lycanthropes.  He sent another image to his mistress, launching himself into the air.  He would take her home as fast as he could fly.

“I’ll call Cherry.”  Anita’s voice rang loud and terse in his skull.  “And Dr. Lillian.”  He could sense there was more, but his mistress was not comfortable with sharing her thoughts.  For now he was simply grateful for her tacit permission.  It was, after all her home, and he, her servant.

Nathaniel met him at the door and let him in wordlessly.  The wereleopard moved before him quickly, opening doors and clearing the way to his room in the house’s basement.  It was too small and simple to call an apartment, but it was his.  Nathaniel helped him settle the girl on the bed, stripping off her shoes.  When he began to loosen the girl’s clothing Damian spoke.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking her for injuries.  And her clothes are bloody.  If we get it on the sheets, we’ll have to move her again to change them.”  Nathaniel stopped and gave Damian a look.  “You’re covered in blood.  You should clean up.”

“I do not want her to wake up alone in a strange place.”  To wash off the blood, he would have to use one of the bathrooms upstairs.

“I don’t think she will, but I’ll stay with her until you get back.”

“She does not know you.”

“I’m good at looking harmless.”  Nathaniel flipped his ankle length auburn braid over his bare shoulder.  It was only then that Damian registered that the leopard wore only a tiny pair of silk shorts, the same shade of lavender as his eyes.  Those eyes looked very serious.  “I don’t think you want her to wake up and see you like this, Damian.  Not if you don’t want to frighten her.”

Damian looked down at himself at last.  His costume was ruined.  Blood and thicker things coated his right arm up past his elbow.  More blood spattered his shirt and breeches.  He could feel more blood drying on his face and could see it smeared liberally on his left hand.  He frowned.  Then he nodded and turned on his heel to ascend back up the stairs, heading for the bathroom.

Under the bright lights he looked ghastly.  He must have forgotten the blood on his hand and used it to brush back his hair at some point.  Blood was smeared across his cheek and into his hairline.  He stripped off his shirt, the blood already beginning to stick to his skin.  He bundled the ruined fabric around the worst of the blood and shoved it into the wastebasket.  He grimaced in the mirror.  No, he was not a sight to inspire trust.

He needed a shower and a complete change of clothing.  He did not have so much time, so he settled for scrubbing the worst of the blood away in the sink.  He considered throwing away the breeches as well, but soon people would be descending on the house and he was not as casual about nudity as the lycanthropes he lived with.  He gave the worst of the bloodstains a few halfhearted swipes before leaving the bloodied washcloth in the sink to soak.  Nathaniel’s influence, to be certain.

By the time he returned, Nathaniel had stripped Erica to her skin, replacing her dress with one of Damian’s shirts.  On her the shirt was almost long enough to be a dress, the sleeves rolled up so as not to cover her hands.  It was a favorite of his, a well-worn green cotton that buttoned up the front.  Her clothes lay carefully piled on a plastic bag in a corner.  Nathaniel was occupied with tucking blankets around her still form and turned to look at the vampire.

“She’s still out.  And her skin feels cold.  We should keep her warm.”

“Of course.”

“I think I hear Cherry.”  Nathaniel rose from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.  “I’ll bring her straight down.”  He could feel the wereleopard’s curiosity and concern.  The vampire had never brought a woman home before, wounded or not.

Damian shrugged it off.  He and Nathaniel often shared such moments, such feelings.  And while he was not entirely comfortable with the intimacy, he knew that Nathaniel meant well.  He and the wereleopard were bound to the same mistress, vampire servant and animal servant to her necromancer.  He had many hard lessons to unlearn before he could accept Nathaniel’s companionship with the same ease that Nathaniel seemed to accept him.

Uncomfortable or not, it meant that he could rely on his counterpart to do what was needed and concentrate on his Erica.  He circled to the empty side of the bed to slip under the covers and pull her limp form against his bare chest.  She was cool, cooler than he, her breathing shallow and her pulse faint.  He smoothed her hair back from her face, finding it thicker and silkier than he had expected.  He breathed in deeply of her scent, still there beneath that of the blood.

He knew, knew as surely as he knew the dawn would come, that she had been targeted because he had fed upon her that night.  That they had reopened his bite rather than making their own was proof enough.  And the idea filled him with such rage, even now with their blood drying on his hands.  Such rage as he had not felt since his maker had taken him, tamed him with her terrors.  He looked down at Erica’s pale face and stroked her cheek.  Too high a price to pay when he had given her so little.

His brooding was interrupted by the bustling arrival of the blonde Cherry, quite obviously clothed in her role as nurse, despite being dressed casually in a t-shirt and faded jeans.  Behind her came Zane, dressed similarly, though his jeans were also torn, his short spiky hair dyed a garish green.  They were both laden with medical paraphernalia.

“The doctor was working on a trauma case when Anita called.  She’ll be here as soon as she can.”  Cherry descended on him with brisk efficiency. “Tell me what happened.”

The next quarter hour or so was taken up answering Cherry’s questions and watching her work.  She examined the girl quickly and thoroughly and inserted a needle into her arm in order to feed her fluids.  Some of the equipment had been a metal stand to hold the clear bag of liquid so that it could drip slowly.  He soon found that he knew embarrassingly little about the woman in his bed.  Cherry frowned when he could not answer several of her questions.  Zane remained blessedly quiet, restricting himself to following his lover’s directions, though his gaze was unabashedly curious.

Before Zane’s good behavior could waver, however, the doctor arrived.  Dr. Lillian was a small woman with short salt and pepper hair and a manner just as efficient as Cherry’s.  She took charge of her patient immediately, shooing him from the bed so that she could examine her.

Damian was left to pace uneasily while the doctor worked, speaking quietly to Cherry.  Zane seemed to feel he was no longer needed and vanished upstairs.  A smaller pouch of blood soon joined the bag of clear liquid.  It seemed too small to him to be a proper replacement for what she had lost.  He was ready to ask about that when he felt Anita’s presence above.

The woman herself soon appeared.  And she wasn’t alone.  Jean Claude followed closely on her heels, and from the way they were dressed, he had to assume that he had interrupted their evening.  Jean Claude was dressed in his signature black and white, leather and lace.  Anita wore something red that shimmered and flowed as she moved and included a drape that no doubt concealed several weapons.  He could feel her emotions, annoyance, worry, curiosity, but no anger.  At least not yet.  Jean Claude’s expression was pleasantly neutral and told him nothing at all.

“Anita.  Jean Claude.”  He nodded to each of them.  “I am sorry if I disrupted your evening.”

“This disruption was not of your making.”  Jean Claude’s gaze moved around the room, no doubt taking in the details.  As a room, it was a generous space, but it now held more people than it normally did.

“OK, Damian.  Tell me what happened.”  Anita was typically blunt.  “I’ve never felt you this angry when you were yourself.”

He began to recount the night’s events.  Anita stopped him several times to ask for more details, her questions clear and concise.  Before he was finished, the doctor had finished giving instructions to Cherry and had left with her bag.  He wasn’t happy that she had not waited to speak with him.

“Damian!  Pay attention.”

“I am sorry.  I had wished to ask the doctor about Erica’s condition.”

“She has to hurry back to the hospital.  She’s got a couple of patients in critical condition.”  Anita’s tone softened a little.  “She wouldn’t have left if she didn’t think Cherry could handle things.”

Damian nodded reluctantly and glanced at the bed.  Cherry was checking the tubing with exaggerated care.  She was probably trying to pretend that she could not hear them.

“Are you sure you killed them?  Both of them?”

“Of course.  They were young and weak.  Slow.  They could not survive such injuries.”

“That’s funny, because all I could find was some blood spatter and this.”  Anita pulled a small handbag around on its strap.  He hadn’t noticed it before.  “Driver’s license says it belongs to Erica Lynn Sutter, age 26.”

“I do not lie, Anita.  I killed them.  I do not know what happened to the bodies.”

“That’s what worries me.  Somebody cleaned it up.  It wasn’t our people, was it, Jean Claude?”

“No, ma petite.  I questioned them while you searched for clues.”  The master vampire’s eyes rested on Erica for a moment, before returning to Damian.  “What is this woman to you, mon ami?  Perhaps it would be better if she does not remember this night.”

“She is mine.”  Damian’s own vehemence surprised him.  Jean Claude looked mildly surprised, but Anita frowned.  “She is one of my women, my regulars.  And she is a pomme de sang, though she would not know the term.”

“A junkie who pays to get her fix at a vamp club is not a pomme de sang.”  Anita’s frown deepened.  “And you don’t own a woman in this country.  Or this century.”

“Forgive me for being a barbarian, my mistress.”  Damian gave a mocking half bow.  “But you misunderstand, she is my pomme de sang.  She allows no other to feed upon her.”

“So you’ve involved a normal human in all this without telling her what she was getting into?”  Anita made a sharp gesture meant to encompass everyone in the room.  “Damn it, Damian!”

“Is this part of your costume?”  Jean Claude had wandered off and stood staring at the tidy pile of clothes Nathaniel had left.  The vampire’s boot nudged the bit of green and gold cloth, now stained with blood.

“It was, yes.”  Damian frowned at the abrupt change of subject.  “I gave it to her the first time I fed from her.  I was careless and bloodied her clothing.”

“Ah.”  Jean Claude seemed to lose interest in the garments and stood over the bed, staring at its occupant.  Cherry sidled away from him.

“Ah, what?”  Anita’s voice dripped with suspicion.

“Gretchen’s description did not do her justice.  Though why I should expect justice of her, I can’t say.”

“What are you talking about?”  Damian could feel Anita’s anger rising like water, filling the air.  Perhaps it was the mention of Gretchen.  She turned angry eyes to him.  “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“I do not.  Gretchen has never fed upon her.”

“Gretchen likes to fill my ears with tales when she can.  I do not always give them credit.  So this is your shrinking violet, Damian.”  He sighed, a heavy thing that seemed to press down on them all.  “He is correct, ma petite.  She is well known to the staff.  I may not trust Gretchen’s tales, but there are those there I do trust.  Others have named her his pomme de sang.”

“Why didn’t you mention her before, Damian?  If she’s your pomme de sang, she’s one of our people.”  Anita’s tone hovered between concern and frustration.  “We can’t just wipe her memories and send her home.  They might try again.  We don’t even know whether this was aimed at her personally, the club, you, or as a challenge to the Master of the City.  It might even have been random.  She can’t protect herself if she doesn’t remember she’s in danger, Jean Claude.”

“Oui.  You are correct as always, ma petite.”

“I did not think my attention would put her at risk.  And I had only recently thought to make this arrangement official.  It…just happened bit by bit.”  He shrugged helplessly.  He had somehow been the last to see it and it made him feel foolish.  “I did not so much choose her as my pomme de sang as she chose me.”

“It looks as if we may have a chance to question the young lady herself.  I believe she is waking.”  Jean Claude’s tone dropped in volume and he stepped back from the bed, waving Damian forward.  “A familiar face would be best, I think.”