New Year's Resolution (Midnight Moonlight, Book 4)

Daniel Stuessy had been called many things in his life, but 'stupid' was not often one of them -- and for good reason. As soon as Abigail disappeared -- and she literally disappeared, there one instant and gone the next -- he started to break camp. Now that he knew where his 'waking nightmares' had been coming from, he had no intention of lingering about where a wandering faerie might hit upon him. Fortunately, Daniel believed in being prepared and was always ready to move.

His spare clothes and blankets -- the little he wasn't wearing against the cold -- he lashed to the bottom of his backpack. Then he slung the pack over both shoulders and tightened the straps. The bedroll lashed to the bottom of it conveniently concealed his knife, sheathed at the small of his back. He crinkled shut the open end of the soda can containing Abigail's share of potatoes and slipped them into a pocket for later. Then he kicked some dirt into his fire pit and walked away. It would have taken an experienced eye to divine that he had been there, after he'd left.

Daniel felt a tiny stir of regret as he left the sturdy bridge behind. Nightmares aside, it had been quiet, peaceful -- no worse than field conditions he'd weathered before -- and the ache in his joints told him to expect rain soon. The dull throb in a scar that had come with his purple heart suggested storms, later. Hopefully by then he'd have a new shelter, with people who weren't in the know about the fae.

That caveat irked Daniel as he left the park. He'd never been one to think ignorance was worth the knowledge that could replace it, and he was of two minds about perpetuating the secret once he got to his cousin's. Part of that, he knew, was that the idea of hiding behind civilians struck him as wrong. He wrestled with how to deal with that issue as he made his way through the city.

One of the things Daniel had been called -- and often, in the last few months -- was paranoid. This appellation was one that Daniel personally thought was undeserved. He wasn't paranoid. He had simply been taught by the only two teachers that mattered in life: those who survived, and those who didn't. Daniel had learned his lessons well, which was why he was still one of the former.

Well, that and a little luck, when it was a roll of the dice that determined who lived and who didn't. And even then, Daniel preferred to load the dice if he could.

As a result, Daniel took a circuitous route through the city. Whenever he saw that his path would take him by a pile of trash, a curbside trash can, a culvert or anywhere else that an IED could be easily concealed, he changed his route. He stuck to the sides of buildings or fences when he could, anything that would provide concealment or cover if bullets flew. He preferred the narrower alleys over the wider streets, since it was easier to keep his back to a wall and harder for snipers to get a good angle. He would periodically -- but without pattern -- take a turn and then duck down in ambush in case anyone had been tailing him. And he frequently checked his surroundings -- including up -- for any movement, reflective glint, or tiny detail that seemed out of place.

But he wasn't paranoid. Just well educated.

In light of his new knowledge of goblins -- and the fact that they could be fuckin' invisible! -- Daniel changed some of his priorities. Deeper shadows that he might have otherwise been inclined to conceal himself in while watching out for pursuers, he avoided instead. Culverts he marked as a greater threat than he had before -- they were perfect places for a fae to hide, being dark, shielded from the elements, and typically running under a road. Daniel knew from Abigail's story that the fae had a thing for crossroads, and he reckoned it was because any intersection meant more traffic. And more traffic meant more opportunities for one of the buggers to spot suitable prey to stalk. For that reason, Daniel chose to stick to less populated alleys when he could, and to make doubly sure to avoid any culverts, street side storm drains, and major intersections he spotted. For the smaller crossroads, he did what he could: cutting through parking lots and looping through alleys to avoid having to even approach the crosswalks, if at all possible.

There were upsides and downsides to this approach. The downside was that it took him nearly an hour to reach his first destination. The upside, in Daniel's mind, was that he reached his destination at all: toward the end he was starting to get that twitchy feeling that he associated with life getting ready to drop another pop quiz on anyone who hadn't been studying hard enough.

Those were always murder.

The building Daniel was aiming for was a corner gas station with an attached restaurant -- some burger chain that was all over the place. It was uncomfortably close to a crossroads for Daniel's taste, but it was also open -- which meant it was populated by employees if nothing else.

Daniel took the gas station entrance since it was furthest from the road. The attendant behind the counter was a half bald middle aged man who gave him a disgusted look, which Daniel replied to with a friendly smile and a wave. Night manager, end of his shift; grumpy ass douche, Daniel decided. He put the man out of his mind and crossed through the convenience store portion of the station and into the restaurant.

The kid behind the counter there -- and Christ, wasn't it just kids everywhere these days? -- looked a hell of a lot more nervous than the manager had. Daniel gave the kid the points for intelligence that he had neglected to award the other guy. Hey, yeah, Daniel said when he got to the counter. I'll have the dollar menu burger, right? And can I get some packets of salt with that?

Daniel had lied about the five dollars he'd told Abigail he had -- it was closer to four, after the change was added in. That was no real problem, but not having defenses was. It was a long walk to the library, and hours before it opened. Daniel didn't know what other than salt could be used to cast a ward, but if it was all about symbolism and intent then he didn't figure it really mattered. He'd make do with what he could until he had the opprotunity to learn more at the library -- and then to hit up his cousin for whatever supplies it turned out he really needed.

Daniel hadn't been willing to take a handout from his brother-in-all-but-name for his own sake, but this was a different matter. He may have gotten a medical discharge, but as far as Daniel was concerned his oath to protect the citizens of his nation from all threats foreign and domestic was personal. It didn't go away just because they'd taken his rifle and given him his papers. And I reckon you don't get much more foreign than trans-dimensional elves, he thought with a dark chuckle.

Daniel paid for the burger, and waited at the counter while it was made. While he was waiting he surveyed the interior of the restaurant for threats and resources. The windows did jack shit to provide cover from the streets, but each table had a salt shaker next to a ketchup squirt bottle and a napkin dispenser. Well, win some; lose some.

When his food was up, Daniel took it to the table that looked like it had the most resources he could use -- namely, salt. Even though it made his inner scholar -- not paranoia -- twitch, he sat with his back to the employee counter. It let Daniel obscure what he was doing from the kid's sight.

He ate as quickly as possible. There wasn't time to enjoy it, so he didn't bother. He smoothed out the waxed burger wrapper, knowing it would make a better container than anything else he had on him. A second later the salt shaker's top was unscrewed and its contents dumped out. He folded the wrapper around it and tucked it into his pocket. The unopened packets the kid had given him went into another. The salt shaker went back to its place beside the ketchup, and Daniel got up. Thanks, he called to the kid on his way out.

This time, Daniel took the restaurant entrance, by the street -- because it was also the one closest to the back of the building. He felt that tick in the back of his spine as soon as he cleared the building -- that tick that meant there was another lesson coming up; one more test to see if he would be a survivor until the next one. But that was okay. Daniel was used to the sensation, and he'd known ducking into the restaurant could only be a temporary reprieve from whatever had finally caught his trail and been following him for the last block to the gas station.

But that was okay, too: Daniel had been expecting it. For all that he would always consider Abigail an angel, she was also a civilian. She didn't understand the kind of message she'd sent that Archarel douchebag when she'd spared Pips, and she probably didn't even realize the kind of response it was going to get. Daniel, on the other hand, was far too familiar with the thought processes of fuckers like that.

If you go into some dictator's petty little kingdom and do something to rock the status quo, then that jackass was going to rock you back, hard. Two things kept a shit like that in power. The status quo and fear, and Abigail had kicked those pillars over sideways the very instant she'd made herself scarier than him. Of course Archarel was going to have to send a message back -- just like any other self inflated warlord would. But with Emma, Hans, Fumiko and Megan all behind wards -- and Abigail herself too fuckin' scary to go after -- Archarel didn't have many options available. Since Abigail's family -- or at least her mom -- didn't know about the fae, they were off the table, too. The witch Linda was playing neutral and probably had more protection in place than any of them… And that meant that Daniel was the only logical choice for Archarel's messengers to come after, at the moment.

He wasn't exactly thrilled about that, but it was what it was. And in the end, he wasn't upset with it, either. He had a message he wanted to pass along to Archarel himself, once Archarel's messengers caught up to him. Which was going to be right soon.

Daniel ducked around behind the restaurant. There was a small lot back there, probably for employees and trucks that supplied either side of the gas station. There were also a couple of dumpsters, and a fence that shielded the streets from having to see any of it. There was also only one way in or out of the lot, which made it a perfect place for an ambush.

Daniel stuffed his hands in his pockets and wished he didn't have to play the bait for his… But he'd be fucked if he led any psychopathic invisible fear-mongers back to his cousin's place. Best to go ahead and get this shit out of the way now. At the end of the lot he turned around.

The attack had started.

He knew this because of the smell. Daniel had never had a keen nose -- something he'd been thankful for, now and again, when other people were puking from the stench of death and rot. So when he noticed the smell, he knew it was the fae, trying to play on his fears. Sure enough, Brawn's corpse was propped against the dumpster: the kid was still clutching his rifle and half his head was blown off. Flies buzzed on his brains -- nice touch, that, Daniel thought. The way out of the alley was dark -- too dark for him to see the street. And that had to be a trick of the fae, too.

Out of the darkness Mitch ran, screaming. Daniel twitched, but held back the urge to shout -- to protest; to try to warn the apparition. Different war, he thought. Different damn decade, even. The MD-82 landmine popped, and the blast shredded Mitch. The real Mitch hadn't lasted a second. This one hit the ground and crawled forward, dragging his useless legs behind him, reaching out to Daniel and begging for help.

Daniel took a deep breath, then let it out. Here's the thing, he said. He still hadn't moved. "These visions? Not gonna do you any good. I was never afraid of my past. I've had plenty of time to come to terms with it. I was afraid I'd cracked, see, and afraid of what that might mean -- if I ever flipped out and saw an enemy combatant, who was actually my family or a friend. But I know better, so you may as well lay off with the petty tricks so we can get down to serious business."

Mitch hesitated -- then melted away. Brawn did, too. Daniel thumbed open the wrapper of salt in his pocket. Go time, he thought. He wasn't anywhere near as prepared as he would've liked -- but wasn't that always the case? There was no such thing, in Daniel's mind, as overkill when it came to a fight. However much planning and firepower you could bring to bear, that's what you used. He'd given Abigail a pretty bit about pulling punches -- but that was because she was a civilian, and needed to hear it. In Daniel's personal 'The Art of War,' winners didn't pull punches. They pulled triggers.

The darkness at the end of the alley took on a semi-transparent quality, and out of it stepped a monster. It was big -- easily a head and shoulders taller and twice as wide as Daniel himself. Troll, Daniel thought, and a big one, from Abigail's descriptions. I don't suppose we can talk? Daniel offered. I've got a message for your boss, y'know.

The troll strode slowly forward. Archarel has a message to be delivered as well. It rumbled. A reminder of the price of interfering with his knights in his city. Your mangled remains.

The troll loomed as it advanced. Its muscles flexed with every step and its lips bared tusked teeth in a snarling smile. It was trying to intimidate, and not doing too bad a job -- except that Daniel didn't intimidate easily. He was familiar with fear. He knew the difference between the kind that paralyzed a man and the kind that got his adrenaline pumping -- the kind that thrill seekers chased, that wasn't fear so much as excitement. And he knew how to shunt one into the other. Daniel felt his blood flowing; the adrenaline rising. It was like that when he fought. It was the only time he really felt alive, anymore. All his various aches seemed to fade. He might not be as spry as he once was, but for the next little bit, that wouldn't matter.

Well, Daniel drawled. I reckon I should be afraid. But you're the empathy readin' psycho, so tell me: am I?

For just a second, the troll hesitated. That gave Daniel the time he needed to snap his hand out of his pocket. He cast salt in a line in front of himself. That's a fuckin' wall, buddy.

The troll stopped. Then it started to laugh: deep, rumbling guffaws. A ward? It chortled. Here, with nothing to anchor it? Better warlocks than you have tried, little man. This won't hold me back.

Daniel rolled his eyes. I don't know, Daniel said. Try it. You might just be surprised how it turns out, he added. He shifted back a step.

The troll stepped forward. It raised one massive arm and pressed a hand-like paw against the air. It leaned forward slightly, and barked with laughter. Christ, Daniel thought, It's like I'm fighting a fuckin' mime.

No, the troll said. I can tear this down like…

Daniel didn't let him finish his thought. Instead, Daniel sprung forward. He crossed his own ward, but with the line of salt acting like a wall the troll didn't have the room to grapple him. Better still: it already had its arm bent and out of place for throwing a fist or trying to block Daniel's mad rush. Daniel was inside the troll's reach before the brute could react. He grabbed the troll's elbow with one hand and yanked down.

The troll instinctively tensed to keep Daniel from controlling its movements -- but that was fine by him. The arm was like a post, and Daniel used it yank himself forward at the same time as he whipped his knife out from behind his back. The blade of Daniel's trusty Gerber Mark II hit the troll under the chin -- and angled up. As it punched through Daniel felt the familiar impact, then a rush of speed through the empty cavity of the mouth; then an impact again.

Surprise, Daniel growled. The tip of his knife was lodged in the roof of the troll's mouth, and the fae gurgled an unintelligible howl -- its tongue was stapled to the roof of its mouth as well, and trying to scream caused it to rip along the knife's double edged blade. The troll stepped back and grabbed him: Daniel was thrown into the side of the dumpsters before he could leverage more strength behind the knife and punch its tip into the troll's brain.

Daniel crashed into the dumpsters hard, but fortunately his backpack broke the impact -- without breaking his back. He scrambled up and to the side just in time to avoid a vicious kick that actually lifted one of the metal bins a half inch. While the troll was pulling its leg back, Daniel rushed it again.

This time the fae grabbed for him, but Daniel moved in low. He ducked the snatching hand and thrust his knife up, between the troll's legs. While yanking the blade free, Daniel pivoted and heaved up on with his own legs, rising from his crouch and ramming his shoulder into the monster's mangled groin.

The troll screamed and doubled over, grabbing for Daniel as it did. Daniel slammed his knife into the side of the troll's knee and threw himself to the opposite side, but the troll caught him by the arm and shoved him away again. Daniel's knife tore free of the troll's knee -- but also of Daniel's grasp. It clattered to the pavement.

The troll lunged forward a step, blocking Daniel from retrieving his weapon. Daniel scrambled back. His heart was pounding now -- he felt a little light headed. Too much adrenaline. His body felt warm. He knew that each of those warm spots would turn stiff and bruised once his combat high wore off. That was just how it worked for him.

We could've just talked, Daniel pointed out. The troll gave an unintelligible reply, and Daniel responded with a feral grin. Look on the bright side, he taunted. Forked tongues are scarier.

Enraged, the fae lunged at Daniel. He twisted aside -- but he was too slow to dodge. Or he would have been, but the troll's mangled knee twisted from the shifting momentum of the weight on top of it. The troll shrieked and slammed into the ground.

This time Daniel kicked it. In the side of the head. With steel toed boots.

The crack was audible. The troll's head snapped sideways and it slumped to the ground again before trying to rise -- so Daniel kicked it again. This time in its face. So, that message, Daniel said. The one I had for Archarel. He started walking around the fae's prone body, but paused when the troll tried to push itself up again.

Daniel sighed and shook his head to himself. Damn stubborn for a mime, though. He paused to heel stomp the troll's hand and then plant another kick in its ribs. When it collapsed again, Daniel resumed skirting around it. He picked up his knife, then advanced on his prone opponent. Even lying down, the damn thing was nearly a third as tall as he was!

It goes about like this, Daniel said. He noticed the troll had tensed up its arms -- gatherin' itself to lunge at me, as if I'd be that overconfident. -- so he skipped back a step and slashed through the back of the troll's ankle on its good leg, severing the tendons there. The troll howled and thrashed, but Daniel skipped out of its reach and waited for its fit to pass.

Hey now, Daniel protested. Pay attention here. This is important, and I'm expecting you to deliver it word for word, buddy. In its thrashing, the fae had managed to roll over on its side. It glared at Daniel and this time he didn't smile back. He kept his face expressionless and his voice cold. "This is something your boss needs to know. You tell your boss, from me, that I know how you fae folk are stymied by belief here in this world. And I believe that if he thinks he can afford to start a war with that nice young vampire miss before he finishes the one his boy started with me, then he's a fuckin' suicidal dumbass. Now Daniel smiled. Oh, and also? Go to hell."

Daniel lunged forward. The troll swung at him, but not fast enough or hard enough. Daniel's knife punched into the troll's eye just before its massive fist clobbered Daniel, knocking him down again. For the second time, Daniel lost his knife. This time, however, its blade had reached the troll's brain. The fae seemed to swell for a second -- but only because its entire body burst into dark mist, then collapsed along the ground and flowed away to the shadows. Daniel's knife clattered to the pavement.

Daniel dragged himself back a step and slumped against the side of one of the dumpsters. All of his adrenaline? Gone. He ached fucking everywhere.

At the same time the gas station's back door burst open as though whoever was on the other side had been trying to force it. Must've been something the troll did, Daniel decided. He wouldn't want a disbeliever to interrupt our little scuffle.

The middle aged manager stumbled into the lot with a curse. When he saw Daniel, he cursed louder. You? Figures! If you're going to root in the trash do it somewhere else you goddamn leech!

Daniel bobbed his head. Yes sir, sorry sir, he said. Don't need him deciding to go inside for a fuckin' baseball bat. He scrambled forward as quickly as his sore limbs would take him. He stumbled -- for real, but he managed to use it to scoop up his knife. The manager didn't seem to notice. Daniel turned to face him -- he tucked his knife into its sheath while backing away. Sorry, he babbled. Really. Sorry.

The manager scowled, not sure if Daniel was appropriately cowed or secretly mocking him. Once he was satisfied that the damn bum was moving off, though, he turned around and stalked back into the gas station. Fucking vultures. They're a goddamn drain on society. He turned to shout And get a job, you damn leech! before the door slammed shut behind him.

Daniel just grinned. The expression was feral. Got one, he muttered back. It just doesn't pay -- especially if you're the other guy. Then he turned and limped out to the sidewalk. As he made his slow way toward the library, the rains started. Daniel ignored them. If he was going to do his job, then he had a date to keep. Preferably with as many librarians as he could recruit.

And when we're done, Daniel thought to himself, Archarel's next goon isn't going to know what hit him.

Chapter 2

The Director. My mind seemed to speed up, or the world slowed down -- maybe I was unconsciously playing with time to give my thoughts room to catch up with Hans' words. I brought the phone to my ear and made sure reality was playing by its rules instead of mine before I answered. I'm on my way. That was all that I took the time to say. Anything else would be superfluous: a waste of time that could be spent getting home. I hung up.

Well now, that sounded important, Daniel observed.

I nodded. The Director is here. I have to go.

He winced. Don't linger on my account, and I hope you're not in any trouble.

So do I. I shouldn't be, I said. I think your idea of jailing the fae that won't submit to my rules probably just saved me from having to turn myself in. I smiled a little lopsidedly. I've got to run, anyway. Thank you again, Daniel.

Daniel chuckled and shook his head. Go. And stop by again sometime and let me know how it turned out, got it?

I nodded again. Then I froze time -- a vampire power that I was becoming more and more comfortable with -- turned, and ran.

Hans' house wasn't far from the park, so I didn't have to run far. Even so, I was exhilarated with relief and overflowing with energy. Running just seemed right. When I got to our block I let time spin back up, but I kept running just for the joy of it. Another vampire bonus: Even though I've never been particularly physically fit, I didn't get tired any more, or out of breath, or feel the burn of physical exhaustion from exertion.

Somehow it was much easier to look at the silver linings draped around my new condition as an undead uber-monster now that I wasn't as worried about having to hurt my friends -- no, I could be honest: my lovers -- just to live.

I slowed to a walk as I neared the house and tried to smooth down my hair. It was an instinctual, meaningless effort since I've never been able to get it to lay flat anyway, but I didn't want to make a bad impression. I was also starting to get a little nervous.

No, to be honest: I was starting to get really nervous.

I tried to write it off as the approaching sunrise -- I knew it couldn't be more than an hour or two away. Even so, I knew there was more to it than that. I'd been anticipating (or rather, dreading) the Director's arrival since about the time I'd found out it was going to eventually happen. It didn't help that I could see his car while I was walking down the block. Now, I'll admit I don't know a lot about cars, but the director's looked expensive. It was all black, with heavily tinted windows and a hood ornament of some sort: a silver three pointed star in a circle.

It looked about like what I'd expect a mob boss to drive.

Do mob bosses drive? Okay, maybe it looked like what I'd expect a mob boss's driver to drive. Whatever: its looming presence in Hans' driveway didn't reassure me. Especially since Hans had told me that supernaturals were all over in the government and military -- so it made perfectly good sense to figure that they were topping out organized crime, too. Come to think of it, I'd never explicitly asked Hans about his viking mafia connections, had I?

Best not to, I decided. I didn't think concrete shoes would be any more comfortable than my high heels had been.

I shivered and pulled my cloak tighter around myself. Even though I had healed, the bottom half of my blouse was still a mess of bloody tatters from Pipsqueak's feet clawing at me. That, I was pretty sure, would have given a bad impression. I really didn't want the grandfather of Vampires to get the wrong impression of me. And I had no idea if it would be: hmm, violent. Throw her onto the front lines, or hmm, blood and a belly shirt. Throw her in bed. In either case: eep.

I listened closely as I approached the house. I could hear Hans waiting for me inside. His breathing was steady, but his heartbeat betrayed a little anxiety. My steps quickened: I couldn't wait to put his mind at ease. The full moon wasn't far off, but I wouldn't need to take any more from him before then. Maybe not ever, if Daniel's idea worked out. Could I intimidate fae into living according to my rules? Could I come up with ways for them to feed that were acceptable, if I did? I wasn't sure. I really didn't know about the first one -- but I hoped the second was possible, for Megan's sake if nothing else.

Actually, that was an idea. Even if I couldn't get any of the other fae who owed me to agree to be my donors -- even if I had to lock up the lot of them! -- as long as we could find a morally acceptable way for Megan to take in life force, I knew she would share it with me.

Best friends are like that.

At the door to Hans' house I took a moment to steel myself. It's going to be okay, I reminded myself. You've got nothing but good news, and nothing to worry about. So what if introductions were hell? I'd manage. I'd already faced down a master vampire, witches, hordes of fae, my mom, and even hunted down a goblin of my own volition! How much worse could a simple conversation with one more vampire be?

I really shouldn't have wondered that. My anxiety loves questions like that.

I pushed open the front door and stepped inside.

The first person I saw was Hans. I knew I lit up at the sight of him, but I just couldn't help it. His face was drawn and pale, and I couldn't wait to tell him that he didn't have to worry about me taking too much from him anymore. He would have until the full moon and then some to recover his aura, and he would be back to his normal self, with his wolf firmly in check.

Then I noticed the two men seated at the corner table. I hadn't noticed them from outside because neither of them had a heartbeat. They were both undead.

One of them stood: He was a broad, squat man with thinning white hair and a bushy full beard. It was gray and streaked with white. His companion was thinner, just a little taller, and looked a lot younger -- maybe my age. That was bullshit, though, because who knew how long he'd been undead? They both wore well tailored business suits, and the one who was standing wore a set of wire rimmed glasses that looked antique.

Hans stepped forward. There was a slight tremor in his voice, and I realized it was fear. Abigail, he said, may I present to you Director Lewellan, and his assistant Adrian. Director, this is Abigail.

The bulky bear of an elderly man took a step toward me. Director? He's the director? I thought in astonishment. He looked like a wise mountain man crossed with an accountant. Or maybe, you know, a mafia godfather crossed with an actual grandfather. Not that either of them really looked like authority figures, other than the fact that they were wearing suits. I swallowed anxiously. What was I supposed to do? Curtsey? Bow? Say hi?

Good morning, Abigail, the Director said. He had a rich voice that definitely fell more on the 'grandpa' side of things than 'godfather.' I hope you are well. Hans explained that you were dealing with some difficulties finding enough blood, when I mentioned the state of his aura, earlier.

Suddenly, Hans' expression took on a new context as my brain caught up with what was going on. Hans wasn't ashen faced because he was still in shock about the wolf slipping through the cracks I'd left in his aura: he was afraid I was going to do what I'd said I would, and turn myself in to be interred. I looked at Lewellan with wide eyes and blinked as it dawned on me just how close I'd come to having to take that particular bullet.

And then, because I was still uncontrollably giddy with the highs of adrenaline and excitement and life, and the knowledge that I wasn't going to have to give myself up…

…then, I laughed in the director's face.

Director Lewellan could not have found my laughter amusing. I know I didn't. Horrified by my knee jerk reaction, I smacked my hand over my mouth in a desperate attempt to cut it off. Laughing in the face of a vampire who was probably at least as old as Mr. Salvatore had been, and who had the backing of the whole vampire Society/Center/Whatever behind him was definitely a bad idea.

Director Lewellan's brow furrowed slightly. I fail to see the humor, but please: don't choke on your mirth for my sake, he said. His voice was amazingly calm and tranquil for coming from such a stocky, bushy-bearded man. I would have expected him to sound gruff, like the kind hearted but scary grandpa in Heidi, or a Sherpa drill sergeant. Hans has been kind enough to verify the Center's reports on how you were transitioned into vampirism, and it sounds to me as though you fully deserve to appreciate every opportunity for laughter you come across, after such a trial.

I swallowed and lowered my hand. If Director Lewellan was insulted, it didn't show on his face. And his tone of voice was so unruffled I honestly found myself wondering if my laughter really hadn't struck him as rude at all. I'm sorry, I said anyway -- figuring it was best to err on the side of caution when it came to any ancient undead. I've just been under a lot of stress and I didn't expect to see you here so suddenly. The laughter was just a nervous reaction.

The Director gave my explanation a nod of acceptance and moved on. I can certainly understand. It is exceedingly uncommon for one of our kind to be born without anyone to provide guidance, in this day and age. There was considerable concern about your ability to last until someone suitable arrived to, as they say, show you the ropes.

And that person is supposed to be you? I asked. I almost winced. Don't sass the master vampire, I scolded myself. Hans was teaching me bad habits by letting me get away with it with him. I blamed nerves. How close was sunrise? I needed to get Emma to Megan before she got worse.

Yes, Lewellan said. He even smiled when he said it: a kind of self effacing grin. I know I don't look like much, but I assure you I have some expertise in the matter. I have transitioned seven direct scions. In my entire line there are eighteen vampires. Ours is one of the larger families.

O-kay, I told myself. Is that a lot? He said it is, so I guess so. Living in the city had really skewed my sense of numbers, when it came to how many people it took to make a 'lot.' But then again, I'd always figured that more than two was pushing my limit, if we were all in the same room. The real question was: how was I supposed to respond?

Logically, I should probably just freak out -- to some extent or another. But since I'd managed to sort out my whole 'lack of donors' issue for the short term, I was actually just relieved about that rather than anxious about whatever else might go down. I mean, the surprised burst of laughter aside, I wasn't flipping out about Director Lewellan's appearance or what he and Adrian might want from me. I was sure that would catch up with me later. But really, all I wanted to do was pull Hans aside, share the good news, grab Emma, and go get Megan to fix her up before sunrise.

Still, insulting the very virile vampire seemed like it would be a mistake. I was pretty sure men were supposed to get touchy if they thought you were unimpressed by their ability to sire progeny.

Oh, I said. That's a lot. You must be proud. Somehow I didn't think I should just go with: 'that's nice, but I've got shit to do. Hans, go get Emma so we can get out of here.' So, um, I'm pretty sure sunrise is on its way. Should we just go ahead and adjourn for the day and pick this up again tonight? I'm sure you'll be wanting to get to wherever you're holing up for the daylight hours. That would be wonderful. As soon as I got rid of Lewellan, I could grab Emma and hightail it for Megan's.

Unfortunately, Lewellan just chuckled. We have a bit before then, he said, and I'd like to start your education as soon as possible. You've been managing on your own for far too long already. As for 'getting under cover,' you needn't worry on my account. My donors are already settled at the hotel, and I myself will be staying here to better see to your needs until we depart with Salvatore for the center.

Oh, I said. Well, crap. You're staying here? I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice and managed to just sound scared, instead. But then again, the last time I'd had a vampire in my house he'd killed me, so I figured that would be understandable.

Lewellan nodded. Salvatore and I were old friends, and this house still recognizes itself as his home. I will be quite comfortable here, I assure you. And since I've nowhere to go and no rush to be there, why don't we just relocate to the basement parlor. I would like to discuss your feeding issues, Abigail. I have rather serious concerns, based on the state of your Prime's aura -- and how bloated yours is, in contrast.

I swallowed, but before I could protest his misunderstanding or agree to talk or tell him I didn't have time for this, or anything, Director Lewellan turned and walked toward the Hall door. Adrian gave me a brief smile before standing up to follow behind him.

I stared at them as they went. Hans stepped beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. It will be okay, he whispered softly. You don't need to ask them to inter you, Abigail. They're here to help. We'll get something sorted out.

I nodded jerkily. I had to fix this. I was going to explain to the Director that I wasn't out of control; that my aura was bloated because I'd been hunting fae -- and that I needed to take care of my other donor. Then Hans was going to drive Emma and I to Megan's, and Megan would be able to fix her up. And Hans, too. And then I could spend the day dormant in Megan's closet, instead of freaking out about the master vampire who'd moved into my house. I mean, Hans' house. Whatever.

I took a deep breath. I know, I told Hans. Don't worry. I've got this. I strode after Director Lewellan, pretending to be more confident than I was. Hans silently followed after me.

Chapter 3

While following Lewellan down to the basement, I tried desperately to marshal the defense I would lay out.  It should've been pretty straight forward:  I'd over fed on Hans because of my heightened need for energy, since my first blood wasn't a regular mortal.  But my aura was bloated now because I'd managed to hunt down a fae and drain him, which had to be a good thing, right?  From the Center's point of view, the fae were the enemy.

Should I mention being attacked before going on the hunt, too?  Or would trying to explain that I'd gotten blood from Melvin twice just confuse the issue?  Come to think of it, trying to explain that I had a bunch of fae who owed me favors because I'd dared them to kill Mr. Salvatore might not go over that well, either.  Just stick to the truth, I scolded myself.  You didn't do anything wrong.  It doesn't matter how it sounds because if he actually listens, you were just acting in self defense.

When we got to the basement, Director Lewellan went to the bar and then meandered behind it.  I hope you don't mind? he asked rhetorically.  Salvatore always kept a good stock, and I imagine this is a conversation where we might need the fortification.

Adrian sat on a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the wall.  I sat on the other end.  It made me uncomfortably aware that Director Lewellan was near a gun and there were already bullet holes in the wall behind me.  Hans followed at my side, but didn't sit.

Um, sure, I guess, I said.  But I don't drink.  Hadn't Salvatore gone berserk on Katherine and almost drained her to death because he was drunk?  That had been the official story, at least.  I knew Katherine had claimed it was deliberate, but I wasn't sure how much I trusted her version of events anymore.  I mean, other than blood, you know.  And water and stuff.  Nonalcoholic stuff.

Ah, said Lewellan.  He paused to smile at me, and then began to rummage beneath the bar for something.  That's not a bad habit to choose, in this day and age.  I hail from an era when wine was a more trustworthy drink than water, however.  He finally pulled out a bottle of some sort of amber liquid, and poured himself a couple inches in the bottom of a glass.  Then he put the larger bottle aside.  Though I must say, not starting does make not developing a taste for stronger beverages simpler.  Particularly with how modern science ascribes a tendency toward addiction as a genetic trait -- tell me, if it isn't prying, is that why you choose not to imbibe?

I shook my head.  No.  I just don't want to.  Dad didn't drink, and neither did mom.  Mom once told me that my grandpa -- on dad's side -- was a mean drunk, which is why dad swore away from it.  Then they ground it pretty hard into my head that I shouldn't drink, or do drugs, or anything like that.  I didn't even like taking medicine.  Every time I thought about ingesting something chemical, I just got this mental image of an egg being cracked into a hot skillet.  Dad had told me those old public service announcements had only gotten it half right.  Then he'd proceeded to make scrambled eggs to demonstrate a more accurate analogy.

I see, Lewellan said.  That's both a wise decision on your part, and something of a shame.  Your family has a history of alcoholism through your grandfather, but you've no idea if you, yourself, have a penchant for addictive behaviors.

I would think that not being addicted to anything would indicate I don't, I said crossly.  The conversation had derailed my earlier thoughts, and I was anxious to get it back on track before I forgot how I'd meant to present my case.  Look, I…  I trailed off and my eyes widened.  This wasn't just the Director making some kind of small talk while he poured himself a drink, was it?  No.  It wasn't.  I looked him in the eye.  "Do you think I'm addicted to blood?"

Director Lewellan sipped from his glass.  So you are familiar with the phenomenon?  'Blood Addiction' is such a misleading term, though.  The actuality is much simpler, and an addiction shared by all things with a survival instinct: an addiction to life.  Tell me, Abigail, how often do you feed?

My mind scrambled with the numbers.  "Uh, maybe twice a day.  More if I've been burned alive recently, I added in a babble.  But I'm not a blood addict!  Mr. Salvatore was the blood addict, not me!  I don't even like blood.  Have you seen me when I'm alive?  I'm a mess!  The only reason I don't try to straddle the line between life and death is that I saw what happened when Mr. Salvatore tried it -- that's why he went all psycho stalker murderer on us!"

Abigail, Lewellan said calmly, "This isn't about Salvatore.  He will be granted a trial and sentenced to appropriate rehabilitation for his actions, but until that comes about our concern must be with you.  A vampire your age shouldn't need blood more than once, twice a week at most.  That's if their primary donor was a particularly potent witch or warlock."

The first step to letting us help you, Adrian added from the far end of the bar, is admitting you have a problem.  His voice wasn't as deep as Lewellan's, but it was tempered with patience and kindness.  It was almost pitying, and that just made me more snappish.

I shoved myself up from my seat and took a step back from the bar.  No, I said.  "No!  You want me to admit to having a problem?  Okay: my problem is that I was fucking murdered, and now you guys are being assholes about it!"

Some part of me realized that yelling at them wasn't going to help my case any.  That part of me was screaming for me to stop -- but it was also a surprisingly small, distant part of me.  I felt like all the stress I'd been under had finally caught up, and now it was spilling out whether I wanted it to or not.

Abigail, Director Lewellan said again -- and this time he said it more firmly, to get my attention.  "With any other addiction, we could let you have the time to realize you were in trouble on your own if interventions didn't help -- but this is the sort of problem where if it is allowed to fester, other people will pay the price.  A more experienced vampire would be interred immediately if the Center discovered one of their donors had suffered abuse like that evident in your prime's aura, and then held until that donor had moved on before being awoken for rehabilitation.  That we are trying to explain this is already a courtesy, and a concession to how much the Center wishes to help you adapt to life within our modern society."

While I recoiled in disbelief -- didn't they realize I already knew how much Hans and Emma and anyone else I got ahold of could suffer at my fangs? -- Hans stepped up to defend me.  Now hold up, he said sharply.  Abigail has been doing her utmost to take care of not just herself, but also everyone around her.  There's no need to be throwing around words like 'abuse.'  She is a kind hearted, dedicated woman and everything I have seen of her shows that she would much rather sacrifice of herself than allow harm to come to those she cares about.  She hasn't done anything wrong, Director.

Director Lewellan sighed.  Adrian spoke for him.

Hans, we appreciate your loyalty to your mistress -- and your testimony has been heard, Adrian assured him kindly.  "But the fact is that you are known for your loyalty -- Salvatore commented on it more than once in his reports to the Center.  And that is a good thing.  But when it is combined with the fact that your aura is in such tatters as to render your judgment suspect -- well, that means we can't act on just your assurance.  Please understand, this is nothing against you.  But we have to rely on the evidence in front of us."

And the facts are, Director Lewellan interrupted, that Abigail's aura is bloated with energy while yours has been ravaged.  He refocused his attention back on me.  You have confessed to drinking blood far more often than you should need to, and you very obviously have a problem.  And Abigail, refusing to work with us is not helping your situation.

My jaw dropped.  I struggled with discordant emotions, but outrage won out.  I… You… But…  I felt my hands clenching into impotent fists.  "But you aren't even listening to me!  Maybe once or twice a week would do it if my 'prime' were a really powerful warlock, but my first blood was more potent than that, dammit!  And as soon as I realized what my feeding was doing to my donors, I started looking for other means to take care of my thirst.  Yes, my aura is really full right now, but that's because I had a couple of meals tonight that had nothing to do with Hans.  I am not out of control, I swear!"  I took a deep breath and tried to get a grip on my frustration.

Unfortunately, that let the silence which answered my declaration sink in.

The director was the one who broke it.

You've been hunting?  Director Lewellan asked.  He didn't wait for an answer.  "Child, we don't hunt in this day in age.  And for good reason.  It is dangerous to us, to those around us, and to the secret that keeps our enemies at bay.  That you feel the need to despite the amount of life available to you from your primary -- and the amount you have taken from your primary -- is very disturbing."

Fuck, I've been demoted from 'Abigail' to 'child.'  That can't be good.  All of my optimism from earlier was gone: how was this going so wrong, so fast?  Did he think I'd been hunting innocent humans?  I hadn't even been hunting innocent fae!

Not just her primary, Adrian pointed out to Lewellan.  She said donors, plural.  He turned his attention back to me.  Who else have you been feeding from, and how did you find another wolf so quickly?  There hasn't been a full moon since your transition, so it can't be a new member of your primary's pack.

I gawked at them.  Mr. Salvatore's addiction to blood had been pretty much the first thing Hans had explained to me, before I even was a vampire.  And now they seemed pretty damned convinced I was an addict, too.  Suddenly it came crashing back to me:  The Director might be here to help me adapt, but he was also here to see if I could cope with being a vampire or if I was a threat to the secret society they'd built.  It didn't matter if I didn't turn myself in: if he thought I was a threat and decided I should be interred, he probably wasn't going to give me a choice in the matter.  In fact, he'd already said most vampires would be interred just for the state I'd left Hans' aura in.  I didn't want to be staked and shoved in a box, especially now that I finally had a solution to my life needs problem!  Oh, fuck me.  I was probably going to have to talk really fast to convince him I was okay to run around unsupervised.  Or, hell: even just okay to run around supervised.

Those thoughts flashed through my brain almost too quickly to be processed.  My autopilot was already on task before I'd gotten through them.  This was all going so fucking wrong.  I needed to get back on track and explain what was going on before I panicked worse and they decided I really was some kind of rogue, criminal vampire who stalked the innocent and abused her donors!  Wait! I blurted in a panic. "I wasn't hunting, you know, people," I babbled.  Well, I mean, I was.  But not humans.  Or witches!  Or anything like that!  It was fae, I swear!

Adrian and Director Lewellan shared an unreadable look.  It scared me.  It scared me more when Director Lewellan returned his gaze to me, and I saw a coldness in it.  A resignation.  He had decided something, and I didn't know what it was -- but I knew it wouldn't be good for me.  "Child, you may wish to reconsider that statement.  Hunting the fae requires considerable resources.  Without potent support from witches and warlocks, the fae cannot even be found if they do not desire it.  And I can assure you that they pay attention to our movements.  If you had the magical support necessary to find them, then they would retreat before you could move on it."

I opened my mouth and closed it again.  Panic was rapidly taking over.  What the…  But I was doing so good!  I'd managed to hunt down a fae and take care of my hunger on my own and somehow the Director had decided I was incompetent?  I looked at Hans for support, and he looked excruciatingly uncomfortable.  He wants to be on your side, I told myself, but he doesn't know about Pipsqueak.

But it's true, I blurted.  I tracked down a faerie that was tormenting this homeless guy under a bridge and I caught him and drained him -- the faerie, not the homeless guy!  His name is Pipsqueak!  Why don't you believe me?

Again, the unreadable look passed between Adrian and Director Lewellan.  This time, Adrian answered.  You were a complete unknown when you transitioned, he said.  Not on the Center's radar at all.  The possibility that you were a fae agent had to be considered.  So while we were on our way here other assets -- allies already within the city -- were investigating you.  He sounded almost apologetic.  Nothing too intrusive, he assured me -- as though that were any reassurance.  We went through Salvatore's employee records, had some divinations cast; a few subtle conversations with people who knew you.  It didn't provide much: your friends and family had disappeared by then.

Megan and Fumiko were hiding from Mr. Salvatore.  Katherine probably had wards on them, too, I said.  "And mom and dad didn't disappear -- they came here to check on me."

Yes, Adrian accepted my explanations, Fine.  The point is: what we could dig up from those we could talk to indicated that you have a…  He paused to consider his words.  "A tendency to, um, exaggerate the truth."

The expression on Director Lewellan's face darkened.  'Pathological Liar' was the term quoted on one of the agents' reports, he said.  And while I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt since our agents could only interview acquaintances, you are beginning to test my patience.  In fact, I think a demonstration is in order, he said, before you find yourself persisting in something I will take offense to.

I swallowed.  Oh fuck, he doesn't believe me and he doesn't even want to.  What… what kind of demonstration? I stammered.

You are young, Lewellan said.  "Because of the potency of your prime, you are much stronger than others your age, I am sure.  But I am ancient in comparison, and I think you need to realize that I do not need to put up with lies from you."

Then the Director's eyes bored into me.  I'd gotten familiar with the sensation of spiritual connections in the past couple of days, and I felt the Director's mind pierce mine, and the geas that stabbed down through that connection.

It was a crude thing compared to Melvin's leash.  Lewellan's geas was a spike driven into my mind, intended to pin me down and prevent anything other than compliance, while Melvin's had left me the freedom to act so long as it wasn't in defiance.  There was a fuzziness to it, too: as though it was trying to be subsumed into my life force; to tangle itself around some integral part of me.

I threw all the energy I'd pulled from Pipsqueak -- energy that had not yet been subsumed fully into my own life force since I was still working on Melvin's aura -- at Lewellan's geas, hoping it would hook into that instead of into me.  I remembered what Melvin had said about how geases worked -- that they wrapped themselves around a part of a person's soul so that breaking the geas meant breaking their self.  The thought was even more terrifying now that I could actually sense it happening.

Now, Lewellan said, "You may attempt to resist this.  I will even ask you a harmless question, just in case you wish to try.  Should I ask you a question I actually care about the answer to, both the difficulty to resist and the penalty for the attempt will be proportionately higher.  Now, let us see.  How about: What is your favorite color?"

I braced myself to resist the urge to answer, but it was over in an instant.  Red, I blurted without thinking.

The spike withdrew from my mind, and Director Lewellan smiled.  There, he said.  Do you see how easy that was?  For me, that is.  I know it is taxing on you, so I do ask that you simply tell me the truth henceforth and not force me to compel it.

I swallowed.  My limbs were shaking and I sank down on my heels, almost falling because my knees didn't want to support my weight anymore.  Hans bolted to catch me. He crouched and wrapped his arms around me protectively.  I knew it was supposed to be supportive, but I wanted to scream at him and shove him away.  My paranoia was screaming.  My mind had just been invaded.  I didn't need anyone near me -- I needed everyone to be far, far the fuck away.  I managed not to scream, though.  It wasn't even hard: I could barely talk, let alone talk loudly.  "How, how do you know that I didn't resist it?" I stammered.

The director tilted his head.  The pitying expression on his face clearly said: 'please, you're trying to make me doubt my spell