Jake

{ One

He awoke to find himself bathed in the gauzy shade of a slow-rising moon.

He twisted, turned about. He was laying on his back on something hard – stone – like an altar? -- outside. Slowly, slowly, the fog which had sucked him down and kept him there began to lift, and he sat up.

He was in a desolate convergence of nature and stone: a gothic-styled garden which was still caught in winter's death though spring had come. Or perhaps it wasn't spring here -- wherever here was. The air was stagnant and still. Rose bushes stood barren but for a few withered specimens long rotted; vines curled lasciviously around bare tree trunks; wind rasped through naked limbs and naked treetops. In the blue-shadowed darkness around him, his preternatural senses picked up only two hues: those of rust and yellow. Neither of them colors of life. The only green was that of the verdigris which caked the Grecian urns placed at the feet of the cracked gargoyles perched just at the part of two crooked hedgerows of thorns.

If he'd been mortal, he probably would've been disturbed.

As it was, he just ran a hand back through his blond hair and hopped from the "altar" upon which he’d been sleeping. It was granite, so old it was porous now, carved with hideous faces and mysterious glyphs. Dusting off the backsides of his jeans and shaking out his old blue T-shirt, he frowned, puzzled, though this was not an unusual state for him to be in. Since he’d died – been murdered – just over a week ago only to be "reborn" into this unnatural undead state, he’d been confused. A lot.

"Jake."

He whipped around on his heel. No one. He was sure though that he’d heard it. His name, spoken on the wind, sweeping around him teasingly.

Again, "Jake," and he turned about again like a marionette on strings. He frowned, becoming irritated. He was Hungry with a capital "H."

"Who is it? Who’s there?" he demanded of the unmoving vines, the cold silent earth beneath his feet. The black sky gaped at him from above as furtive clouds slinked past the nearly-full moon.

Her laughter was quiet, sublime, and she emerged from the shadows not ten feet from where he was standing. His breath caught in his chest: she was beautiful, the very definition of the word.

Cairo smiled at him, the motion itself sheer perfection. "I’m sorry," she purred, "did I frighten you?"

He felt like she knew the truth. She just knew. He had forgotten how to breathe and found himself speechless besides. His head jerked slightly in the parody of a "no."

Her smile just shoved up the left corner of her mouth a notch further. "I hope you didn’t mind my little – surprise," she went on. She slipped smoothly up to sit upon the altar, crossing one endless leg over the other, her thigh-length charcoal suede boots and their spiked heels unmarred by the filth and age out here. She was entirely sheathed in black, but no dust touched her, regardless. Not her velvet leggings or long-tailed jacket, her silk blouse with its frilly lace cuffs or her kid-leather gloves. The only dash of color which broke the effective monotone was at her throat: a blood red stone clutched in a sinister claw of silver. The ornament served to choke the collar of her blouse closed.

Her eyes were on the unwinking heavens and she spoke through a wistful sigh. "I thought you might like waking up outside for once. I wanted you to see the moon, the stars. The way I do." She looked over at him, pale eyes glinting at him from where she perched. "Did you enjoy it?"

Her lustrous dark hair tumbled over her shoulder in wild curls and when she tossed her head it sent a jolt like flame through his entire body. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, from her eyes, her lips. He found the words. "I did. I loved it." He stressed "loved" as if it had some singular significance.

She cracked that minimal smile once more and returned her jealously prized regard back to the sky. "Good. I am glad."

Then she was silent, and he thought that her silence was as powerful as her words were. When she was speaking her voice was music, the song which drove him to obsession, to distraction; then in quiet there too was beauty and power. After minutes had passed, or perhaps hours, Jake began to feel the hunger again, the desire to hear her speak once more. About anything. He blinked several times, remembering how, and wrenched his gaze from her jawbone. Her perfect, perfect chin... He forced himself to focus. "Cairo?"

She glanced at him sidelong. "Hmm?"

"Was there some other reason you brought me out here? I... well. You never did this before. I was only wondering..."

She smiled, putting him at ease immediately. She patted his hand, and her touch was like electricity ripping through him. He overcame the urge to jerk back his hand, because it was her touch, and that pain was trivial, delicious because it was her hand.

"You do not have to be so afraid to speak your mind to me. You are my Childe. That means more than you can know, now, but in time you will understand. You are also quite perceptive," she continued, sliding down to land on her feet like a feather beside him. "I have another surprise for you."

She raised her chin and turned her attention to an alcove of shadows he had overlooked. At the silent summons two figures stumbled forth as if yanked by an invisible chain. They clung together, regaining their balance and taking strength from one another, until by the time they broke the ring of shadows and entered the moonlit area by the altar they were trembling violently but were walking upright.

There were a woman and a man, both pushing middle age, professionals by their designer label business wear though their clothes had been soiled; his sharply attenuated sense of smell told him they hadn’t seen a shower in about a week. He carefully down-tuned that sense and turned his attention to his sight. And that was when he began to see details, details which numbed him to the marrow.

The woman had red hair streaked with blonde mingled with strands of grey – very distinguished. Right now it was a mess, of course, the pins lost and the hair spray she’d used last making it stiff in places. Her features were strong but attractive, her make-up long gone. There were bruises on her face, scratches across her body; she’d lost her suit jacket, her blouse and skirt were torn, and she was barefoot and without hose. The rips in the fabric were accompanied by gashes in the flesh, though Jake didn’t scent fresh blood.

The man was in a similar state, bruises and gashes equally pronounced. His dark hair was matted to his head with blood and sweat, exposing the slight balding spot at the top accurately. His nose had been broken. His mouth had been repeatedly struck and saliva kept the wounds from healing quickly. He wore no shoes and his trousers were ripped, his tie and jacket were gone, his shirt was tattered.

Still, those tatters clung to their battered bodies even as they clung to their dignity.

After long moments, Jake knew their names: Angela and Dan. He knew their faces, because they had been there his entire life.

They were his parents.

Miscomprehending, he stared blankly at them, then at Cairo, a plaintive Why?! echoing through his eyes.

The Toreador looked upon the pair as if regarding contestants on a low-budget game show, then turned her dispassionate gaze upon her Childe. She cupped his chin in her gentle hands, her touch like fire and ice. "Your parents were taken when the sweep was made to capture the mongrel Childe’s siblings. But they are as they were. More or less." She shrugged in general and released his chin, dropping her hand back to her side. It was the same to her either way. "No harm done."

Jake stared at his Sire, aghast. Then turned away from her, to look at them – at his parents.

He took a staggered step toward them and to his dismay they merely stared at him in horror, clinging ever more tightly together. "Mom – Dad – stop. It’s me, Jake! Everything’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay..."

He spread his hands in an inoffensive gesture, trying to sound as harmless as possible. He saw tears spring into both his parents’ eyes instantly; his mother’s chin rippled with the effort it took not to sob and her husband clutched at her hands, against his chest, at war with himself not to bawl.

A part of Jake’s mind, detached and rather clinical about these things, wondered off-hand if he was able to cry; and if so, how? How would it feel, to cry in this new state?

"Yes... son," his father was stammering.

Trying to sound brave, Jake thought. "It’s okay, Dad. Just relax." He hesitated; he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound contrived or idle. He couldn’t pacify them when not even he was sure what was going to happen. He’d seen what had happened to Matt’s little sister and kid brother... He shook it off and moved a few steps closer. "Just relax, listen to me. Everything is going to be okay."

"You keep saying that!" his mother abruptly cried. "What’s going to happen to us?"

He looked at her, startled. He’d never realized she was such an emotional creature. He glanced back at Cairo and found her standing where he’d left her side, very still. Just watching, hands folded behind her back. She could’ve been a statue, and he caught himself before he started staring.

He looked back to his parents. "Don’t worry about that right now," he placated, then inspiration struck: "Are you hurt? Can I help?"

They stared at him as if he’d lost his mind then shared a private glance he couldn’t interpret. Boldly, gaining courage from the glance, Dan took a step away from Angela, moving her subtly behind him, an almost unconscious gesture, so he could face Jake.

"We were at home, son," Dan began in a very careful, rational tone. "Your mother had just pulled up in the driveway and I’d gone out to greet her and get the paper. You know the boy never throws the Post far enough up on the driveway." His father scrubbed a hand against his eyes, and Jake noticed the old bruises and scrapes on his knuckles. He’d been fighting. "We were outside. We’d just kissed hello. Then it hit us... they hit us. They took us – blindfolded us, tied us up, gagged us. We didn’t know where we were, or even if we were together. There was so much... laughing... they were having fun."

His mother had moved up, was holding onto his father’s arm, and she continued for him. "When we got to – wherever they were taking us – we were put into a large room, like a – a gym – with about twenty other people. They... they told us that we would all understand why we were there in time. They told us to... to just relax too."

Jake heard it then – but could hardly believe it: bitterness and reproach in his mother’s tone. Was she lumping him in with the "them" in their story?

His father squeezed her hand tight and quickly jumped in. "There were children, two of them." he said with a dark sobriety. "They were taken shortly after we arrived – I don’t know where, or why. We didn’t... see them again."

"We didn’t see any of the ones taken again," Angela protested, hurt and fear peppering her tone, tears streaming down her face unheeded.

Jake’s own throat constricted with some alien emotion. "What... what happened to you two?" he asked, almost calmly.

Dan couldn’t meet his eyes anymore, and Angela was sobbing quietly against his shoulder. "We were treated the same as the others. Beaten when we were out of line, or if we weren’t. Of if they were bored. Or they decided they wanted to play a game." He paused a moment, then asserted firmly, "Listen... son... if you’re in trouble... we want to help. Just let us go. Let us get home. No matter what this cult has brainwashed you into believing, you’re... still our son..."

"And we love you," his mother squeaked from his side.

His father nodded. "It’s true, Jake. You’ve just got to do the right thing."

"Let us go." It was half plea, half command from his mother.

Jake watched them as one watches a tennis match: back and forth, one then the other. They were feeding off one another, drawing energy and consolation. He was mesmerized by the exchange, but something else fascinated him. Despite what they were saying, despite their story, Jake was absolutely fixated on the nuances of their speech. Their story, the way they shared it, back and forth, weaving it skillfully, flawlessly. It was a work of sheer passion born of terror.

Flawless, that is, until the end. When the pleading kicked in, Jake was certain he picked up a note of... insincerity. His father was lying. So was his mother. She was supporting him! Supporting the lies! Dan didn’t love him, he didn’t even really believe he was still their son. He knew that. Knew it with a dread and chilling certainty.

Jake didn’t know how he knew, but he was still sure of it. All of it.

They’d say anything to escape, whispered the little voice in the back of his head. And he had to agree with it.

He glanced back at Cairo and noticed that she’d slipped back into the shadows. He could hardly make out her figure but he could still feel her watching. And it occurred to him that through this entire exchange his parents hadn’t seemed to notice her presence.

He looked back to the pair quaking before him, clinging and pleading, cajoling and using words as only a lawyer and businessman can: trying to win the most desperate, vital case of their lives. Fighting to win their lives back.

He listened, and he heard their words. Part of him listened with a son’s dutiful obedience, another part listened with a severed interest, calculating the degree of manipulation used with each phrase and the tonality of each syllable.

He looked, and saw his parents, those people who had loved him his entire life. He looked upon them with his human e yes and loved them with his mortal heart.

But one thing more overcame these sensations, these experiences: he smelled their blood, and his Beast was not satisfied.

He knew only one way to appease that voice, that Beast. He moved without thought. His father collapsed into his strong arms as his fangs sunk into the man’s throat. His mother’s scream was a discordant shriek against the symphony of blood playing through his mind.

He thought he felt his father struggle against him, but that like the rest of what was happening was like a dream to Jake. A dream, distant and ephemeral. None of it felt real. This really isn’t happening, he kept thinking, and the music played on. The drum beat thundered in tandem with the ebb of his father’s heart. His mother assaulted him with her fists, for what that was worth, but the staccato rhythm only wove itself into the chorus.

The timbre of the piece lurched suddenly, staggered, broke. A phrase swum vaguely through his mind and broke into his reality: myocardial infarction. Five years ago, he’d held his father’s hand while his father told him he’d be the man of the house soon. Dan Coogan was laying in a hospital bed with tubes and wires running into and out of him, and he was trying to explain that life had to go on without him. Mom was in the hall going to pieces while his sister Elizabeth tried to pull her back together. Mom was a basket case. Her husband couldn’t just die like that. Jake had told his father that he was going to recover. More than that, Jake had convinced his father he was going to live.

And he did. He survived, and was healthier today than he had been even twenty years earlier.

But that incident had created a fatal weakness in his heart. Stressed in just the right manner, it would snap. Achilles’ heel. And Jake had just hit the right buttons.

Likewise, even before some appropriate or understandable reaction could creep in – like remorse or pity – something stanched the flow of the emotion; like a hand pressed to the mortal wound in the jugular to keep the life from ebbing an unseen hand pressed to the critical point of his conscience and held it at bay.

His father began to convulse and like an automaton Jake released him, nearly dropping him. He knelt down, half lowering and half dumping his father to the ground, frozen as his father went into spasms before him. His mother screamed anew, and launched herself at her prone and twitching husband. She threw herself across his body, clutching him violently, willing him not to abandon her, not to leave her there alone she glared at Jake and kept screaming, incoherent now, trying to defend Dan from Jake and to try and undo reality. To make it not-so.

Ultimately, she failed, and all Jake had done was watch while his mother had alternately prayed a fractured Rosary and made a valiant and vain attempt to do CPR on a dead man.

Jake saw the blood draining from the twin holes in his father’s throat; the Beast, momentarily sated, didn’t make a fuss. As if the knowledge floated to him from afar Jake realized that he hadn’t sealed the wounds from which he’d fed. He wondered if that would’ve made a difference. He reached out and put a hand on his mother’s shoulder as she sobbed brokenly over the still form of his father.

His mother’s grief was cut short as she realized she was not alone, and she stumbled back, staring at him with wild, terrified eyes. "Get back," she hissed, "get back!"

She doesn’t know what she’s saying. "Mom, c’mon, relax," he was saying, disbelieving that it was even him speaking. His words – but not his will. "You’ve gotta cut it out, or..."

"Or?" she gasped, shock making her careless. She scrabbled to her feet, dusting off her skirt and knees as her mad eyes stayed fixed on him. "Or! Or what, you’re going to kill me? Are you going to murder me like you murdered your father?"

She’s angry. She doesn’t understand. He was making peaceful gestures with his open palms again. "Just listen to me. Calm down. It’s all going to be okay."

His Presence snaked out of him and around her with dangerous ease. Her panic bled away into a falsified stillness. He approached, and closed his hands around her shoulders. She’s so weak. So... mortal and temporary. He studied her face, so familiar, exploring with his eyes the lines around her eyes and mouth, the tilt of her chin, the curve of her nose. He saw beneath the bruises to the beauty that lay beneath. Looked beyond the scrapes to the skin she cared for nightly with all kinds of expensive moisturizers and Oil of Olay. Mother. His clinical analysis broke into a more tender sentiment.

"Mom," he begged, whispering against her cheek as he hugged her close, "don’t be afraid anymore. I’ll take care of you."

She was trembling fiercely in his arms but made no noise. A whimper got caught in her throat and he pulled back, tilting his head to look at her oddly. "Mom? What is it? What’s wrong?"

She stared into his eyes. Angela, his mother, the person who loved him first and best in the world. She looked at him, into him, she saw him and recognized him. And then she threw back her head and released a sound which tore him apart with its ferocity and its madness. The scream tore itself from the core of her being, and ripped through the night like a bullet.

It hit Jake like a physical force. He winced back and let her go, and she collapsed to her knees, still screaming. And screaming. And screaming.

He crashed to his knees as well, balling up under a fetal impulse to escape the attack. His Auspex was not his to command, and because it was that voice, which he had known since he was aware at all, since it was that blood which he had known since his conception, he was defenseless against that sound. That scream tore through him, threatened to unravel him. He clawed at his head when his hands couldn’t stop the sound, he thrashed about and contorted himself in every imaginable way but never did it occur to him that he could run, he could flee. In his panic, her scream was a siren’s call and held him in her thrall, bound him as a son to his mother’s side. He couldn’t escape it.

And so he knew he must end it.

He screamed as well as he uncurled and lashed out. He roared, and struck her. Not once, but many times. Struck her, but still the scream sounded deep inside him, resonating with inexhaustible power. He continued to beat her, with fists and all his fury, kicking her when he couldn’t stand to touch her anymore for the blood. Finally, her scream began to fade, and his took dominance. Beneath his, her scream faded -- but it did not end. It faded, faded, and he collapsed to the ground. He lay there, powerless but to stare at the mutilated bag of skin and bone...

{ Two

Jake awoke lost in a silky paradise.

Cream-colored sheets of silk and a richly hued embroidered coverlet surrounded him. There was an antique oak framework with a thick hand-woven canopy above him. There were at least a dozen pillows strewn about the head of the bed, which had supported his head and shoulders. He bolted upright, and the coverlet slipped to the floor, slithering from the slick sheets.

He was in a gorgeous chamber which looked like something out of a gothic romance novel. The only illumination in the room was provided again by the moonlight which shone in from the windows and doors which led to a balcony. The doors were open, and the obligatory gauzy curtains fluttered in the breeze. He could swear he heard the ocean out there, and drawing his first breath of the evening the tang of the salt water stung his sensitive nostrils.

He kicked his bare feet over the side of the bed and hopped out. He was surprised to find he was wearing an ultra comfortable set of pajama bottoms of midnight blue satin; they felt as if they were custom tailored. A matching robe was hanging on the bed post – the bed itself was massive, he realized, looking at it from this vantage – and he supposed he might as well play along. When in Rome... He lifted the robe and slipped into it, tying the gold belt around his waist.

The moment he stepped outside he was assaulted by a million different sensations, all of them spectacular, overwhelming. The vista was incredible: the ocean was as he never could have imagined, smashing up against the slate-dark and craggy rocks below. Everything was blue so deep and dark it was as black should be. The sky and the water were just extensions and reflections of one another. The air was charged with a diffuse energy, and lightning played through distant clouds. The land which waited across the distance between this balcony and across the water was fertile and fragrant, but the green was swathed in the same immortal blue. The night, this night, was the thing for which he had waited his entire life. He was sure of it.

Arms strong but soft slipped around his waist and a body too perfect to be mistaken pressed up against him from behind. Her chin rested on his neck, dug in a bit against his carotid artery and he felt her smile. "I am glad you have enjoyed this surprise as well," came the purr, in that voice that he innately recognized.

He inhaled deeply to catch her scent, which he carefully dissected from the awe-inspiring atmosphere around him. He closed his arms around hers, holding her there, suddenly afraid that she was going to move away again for some irrational reason.

"I don’t think I could do anything but enjoy your surprises," he swore, faithful, certain.

Cairo’s smile warmed him from within though he could not see it. "You think not? I’m glad to hear you say that."

She moved so that she faced him, still trapping his waist in the circle of her arms. She was tall enough that she could nearly look him straight in the eyes. She must be wearing heels, he thought, which explained her added height.

"You did well last night. I’m proud of you." Before he could even try to remember exactly what he’d done, she’d crashed against him, her lips crushed against his. He knew how the rocks down below must feel, overwhelmed and surrounded so constantly and completely by the waves.

She broke the kiss and as he struggled to keep up she reached down and snatched up his hand. "Come. I’ve more things to teach you tonight."

He followed as bidden, unable to even imagine doing otherwise. He noticed as she led him inside and closed the door that she was indeed wearing heels, along with a second skin of black leather which accentuated every curve. The dark curls of her hair poured down her back, barely restrained by a blood red ribbon midway down. She turned to face him, and she was holding a thin, sharp-looking dagger in her hands. It glinted in the scant moonlight which strained to get in through the glass of the windows, and her eyes glinted as well through the darkness.

"Do you want to make me happy, Childe?" she asked, a honeyed razor in her tone. Something about the way she smiled turned his stomach, but he wanted nothing more than to fly to her to press his body to hers, to be with her the way they’d been on the balcony. His sense was at war with his desire. There was a hunger in him as there never had been before. He had a fever, he trembled. He could only nod as words failed him. He waited for her command, because he was at a loss: he had no will to do but what she asked.

"Come, my pet."

He went to her.

That night passed in a cacophony of blood and passion. Not mere blood though: vitae, that of his Sire no less. Whatever bonds he’d thought he’d felt before, the rush and potency of her as he drank from her, eagerly and desperately, was ten thousand times more. By the end of the night, he had experienced a gamut of sensations and emotions that weren’t altogether clear to him. She’d hurt him in a thousand different ways, but at the end there was the reward: the blood, the caress, the smile. Then another round of knives and whips, the stinging and slicing which he knew was just binding him to her even more certainly. He knew she was trying to teach him something. And it was all about pain.

Because what was pain? That seemed to be of crucial importance to her. Every time she hurt him, she wanted to know how it felt, what it had done to him as she made it up to him in the most mind-blowing of ways. For every indignity and trial she forced upon him, she paid him back more than he thought he even deserved. She was as generous as she was cruel. He loved her by the end of the night; loved her with a hateful passion.

Pain, he then decided, was only a measurement of pleasure. The more you suffered, the more you came to appreciate the goodness and the pleasure it wrought. Using that logic, even the pain itself could be enjoyed.

More or less.

That day, she stayed with him. Just as the sun began to rise, heavy curtains lowered across the windows. She leaned over him, her body soft and lithe pressed against his, bare flesh to battered flesh, and she kissed him tenderly, a promise.

"Sleep well, my darling. Tomorrow there are more surprises."

He slept well, but he dreamed fitfully: nightmares about the "surprises" which might await him upon waking.

{ Three

Time had passed, but Jake couldn’t be sure how much.

He didn’t – couldn’t – remember things in their entirety or in their proper place. Everything was a huge mesh of passion and fury, anger and paradise, here. He’d learned they were in a renovated castle located just off the coast of some little British port town whose name kept slipping his mind. He leaned on his folded arms on the balcony and watched the waves roaring, crashing, destroying themselves only to be recreated again.

The night still enthralled him. Every moon-rise was as the first: new and exhilarating. Never once did he think of leaving; he truly was happy here. Sometimes he thought he wasn’t... but then, those were the times when he was confused.

Cairo had explained it to him, at some point. She’d explained that the Blood of one’s Sire can sometimes blur the rationale of the moment, because it was so strong. It was right and proper, safest and best, for a Childe to stay with his Sire until he was ready to be let go into the world on his own. When he was ready to make an educated choice about how he wanted to continue his unlife, she’d gladly let him go: but first she had to give him wings. She had to teach him what there was to learn about the way the world worked for him and their kind. For vampires, or Cainites as she preferred to call them.

And for the most part, he was sure he loved being a descendant of Caine as much as she did – and she certainly did have a fascinating knack for being able to find glory and sport in everything. She shared that propensity with him, and he was learning to revel as she did.

Tonight there was another surprise. Cairo had him dressed for dinner in an elegant vaguely Victorian suit of velvet and an ascot of silk. She was dressed beatifically in a matching evening gown of black, with satin gloves which flowed up over her elbows; her jewelry was onyx but for the astonishing garnet which dangled from a silver chain around her neck. It was gorgeous, and when he first laid eyes on her that evening he was mesmerized by it for what seemed an eternity. When he snapped back to reality, he was seated at the head of a long oak table, she at the far end smiling at him benignly.

The table was set without a tablecloth. There were crystal goblets set before either of th e m, and a third was set off from his left hand along with a porcelain plate. There were candelabras with white candles, but none were lit. A huge antique chandelier was lit to provide diffuse but adequate illumination.

"I have a very special dinner prepared for you," she told him with a sweet, private smile he knew was only for him.

A butler appeared at his left. He carried a decanter obviously from the same Waterford collection as the goblets. He bowed deeply to Jake before taking his goblet and filling it a third of the way with a viscous liquid that set the fledgling vampire’s senses afire. He had to use every ounce of self-control not to just snatch it up and devour it; he had a feeling decorum was of utmost importance, no matter how much Cairo had been rationing his intake lately, no matter how she’d been restricting his feeding, keeping him teetering on the brink of frenzy.

The butler bowed once more and hastened down to Cairo to repeat the gesture with her goblet. Jake stared ravenously at the forbidden glass. How long had it been now, how long had the Hunger been with him? Too long. He couldn’t think. The blood was there, so ripe for the taking. He was starving. The Beast was going mad, but he fought it back, back, time and again. His eyes scorched up to his Sire where she perched, her chin nested upon her laced fingers, elbows on the table as she regarded him with innocent devotion.

"Well," she said, and sounded almost wounded, "aren’t you going to try it?"

Jake wanted to be suave about it, just smile rakishly and resist the offer, insisting she drink first. Even as his rational mind created this scenario, his body acted, snatching up the glass in both greedy hands and sucking down the contents down in one long draught. He nearly cracked the crystal as he put the glass down, the blood saturating every element within rapidly and thinly. This was but a taste, but it somehow managed to seep into every fiber of his being, if only for a moment. He sunk back in his large chair, relishing the texture and taste as it coated his tongue and senses.

Cairo’s quiet laughter assaulted his ears. "Good, Jake. Good boy. Did you like that?"

He could only nod, smiling faintly like an idiot.

"Would you care for more?"

Another nod, and before he could even ask and sit upright his glass was filled to the rim. He managed to raise the glass this time to her in salutation, and she returned the favor with delight in her eyes and a delicate smile on her lips. He drained the glass and tried not to look too hopeful.

Cairo was sipping her "drink," watching him with sedate glee. As he watched her, sitting back comfortably as a sanguine humor returned to his corpse, he began to trip back in time, memories flooding him unbidden. He remembered college, sports, high school, earlier. He remembered himself as a boy. Childhood friends, acquaintances. Girlfriends. He remembered fumbling, breathless moments in the back of his Chevette, he recalled the fragrance of blonde hair and laughing green eyes. He remembered a name, and he shuddered, bolting upright as the force of it rocked him internally. He blinked a few times, grounding himself.

He found himself lost in those blue eyes which watched him so indifferently from across the table. In that glance he felt that his life hung in the void between them, his fate caught in their closeness. He couldn’t extricate himself from this tangled web, a little voice warned him, but as before a hand closed over that mouth and shut it off, and the warning prickle at the back of his neck disappeared.

"Now that you’ve had a taste of what is to come," she said, her voice like a song, "you’re ready to meet our guest." Her gaze shifted to a point beyond him. "Bring her."

Jake was at a loss and naively turned to see who was coming to join them. The butler came first with a vision in tow: she wore white, all white, a simple and modest shift whose hem just brushed her slippered feet, and a filmy wrap around her arms and shoulders. Her hands clutched reflexively at the wrap to hold it closed at her bosom as if she were shy or nervous. Her pale blonde hair fell to her shoulders and was somewhat unruly, as if she had changed in a hurry. She wore no makeup, and seemed rather pale; she was in her mid-twenties, her cheekbones round and prominent, her chin strong but delicate, her nose speckled with a hint of summer freckles. The gown shifted and moved across her body as she walked haltingly forward into the dim light of the dining hall, hinting at the athletic tone and firmness she still possessed.

Jake’s unliving heart still skipped a beat. The name which had burned through his mind when he supped from that crystal goblet now tripped across his unwilling tongue:

"Carinne?!"

Her green eyes flashed over to him immediately. She’d been staring helplessly at Cairo until that moment, but the sound of his voice broke the spell. She stumbled as she rushed over to him; he got to his feet, pushing back his chair awkwardly in his hurry, just in time for her to collapse into his arms.

"Carinne, how-?" He seized her shoulders, held her back long enough to give her a quick and crucial once-over, searching for signs of abuse. He was adamant: "Are you-?"

"She’s fine, Jake. Fine," Cairo assured him from where she still sat, watching as if mesmerized.

Carinne was staring at him as if trying to read his face, his eyes. Searching. "What’s happening, Jake, why’s this happening?" she begged him in a rapid whisper.

He shook his head minimally, turning his head reluctantly to her, his mistress. She was savoring her drink, eyes locked upon his above the rim. Then it hit him, hard: the scent of Carinne suffused the air around him, slamming him backward into remembrance just as the drink he’d just consumed. It was her, Carinne’s blood, that he’d taken.

He wrapped his arms around her and just held her close. That seemed to be enough for her, for the moment, and she just fell into him. He closed his eyes and rested his chin on her head, blocking his thoughts carefully. He hadn’t seen Carinne for years now, but he knew her and remembered her all too well. Touching her brought back far too much...

They’d met at an intramural tennis competition during their junior year of high school. He couldn’t forget her; there’d been an instant chemistry and attraction between them. He used to tease her that that’s why he’d ultimately lost the game to her, because she’d distracted him with her witchcraft. They were never an outright couple; they were always an unspoken item. Their relationship had been unparalleled, though neither seemed to be able or willing to categorize it.

That is, until senior year. His best friend throughout high school had been Howie Stockton. Andrew Mallory was a peripheral member of their group back then, better friends with Howie than with any of the rest of them. Howie and Jake had been through everything together, every kind of teenaged hell, real or imagined, that could possibly exist. They shared everything and knew that nothing, absolutely nothing, could come between them.

So, of course, something did.

And her name was Carinne.

Jake never could fathom how – how! – Howie could’ve done it. He’d been dating Carinne about two weeks before Jake found out about it. Howie hadn’t even mentioned it to him. Didn’t think it was important because, as Howie tried (lamely) to defend himself, he "didn’t think it was important." He didn’t think Jake and Carinne meant that much to one another… all kinds of lame excuses. Jake couldn’t forgive him, and didn’t want to forget. When Carinne had to tell Jake that no, she couldn’t go to the prom with him (despite their history together) because she was waiting for Howie to ask her, that tore it. Jake sought Howie out, found him on the lacrosse field, and proceeded to start a fight out of the blue. Howie still kicked his ass and managed to pummel a good lesson into him, leaving him bloodied but not too badly beaten on the muddy field. Howie left with Carinne on his arm, glancing back only once to make sure Jake was semi-okay.

Jake never spoke to either of them again.

They graduated a couple of months later. Jake was off to Boston College in the fall, and he didn’t know and didn’t care to find out where the two of them had gone. They’d betrayed him. He was determined never to let it happen again.

Fortunately for him, Mallory had gone to BC as well (though how he’d managed to get in was still a mystery to Jake). They became fast friends, and some of the wounds Howie and Carinne had left began to be healed.

But he’d never truly gotten her out of his system, and he never did forget Howie. And now here she was, Carinne Reston, shivering uncontrollably in his arms. She wasn’t hurt, there wasn’t a mark on her. She was fine, and he had her now; everything was going to be just fine – a promise he made but could not keep to his parents (a twinge here, deep inside, was held in check by a precise finger of repression) but he would be damned before he broke in this case.

Instinct made him glance up, opening his eyes just a sliver. He saw Cairo. She was still smiling.

Jake fought the panic which rose in him as that promise became a lie in that very instant. He refused to believe it though; he wouldn’t believe it. He was going to save Carinne, though he couldn’t save himself… or them…

He turned and kept Carinne trapped close against his side where she shivered uncontrollably.

"We’re going back to my room, Cairo."

"As you wish, Jake."

Jake led Carinne from the room without looking back.

{ { {

Jake began to relax once they were safely within his chamber. He closed the door. He would have locked it if there had been a bolt on the inside. Carinne went instantly to the center of the room, turning full circle, taking in her new surroundings with wide eyes. She hugged her waist and rubbed at her arms as if chilled.

"This place could be so beautiful," she said, and it sounded like she was choking on tears.

Jake was curious about that, but didn’t ask. He moved in a ponderous circumference around her, studying her objectively -- and subject to his idealized visions of her. She was like something out of a dream, one of those recurring kind.

"... why she made me change clothes first, it’s freezing," Carinne was saying as she shot over to the open windows to shut them. He took only brief note of the fact that he’d never noticed.

She went next to the open balcony doors and had to lean to catch the one that the sea breeze knocked from her grasp; and when she did, the moonlight shone through the thin fabric of her shift, silhouetting her figure. It was just as he remembered it, taught and athletic, though her hips and breasts had been defined with a mature roundness since he’d last seen her. She was no longer the teenager who’d broken his heart. Perhaps she was still Carinne, but she had changed. He felt a sigh but it got lost somewhere on its way to his lips, and he just folded his arms.

She turned back to him and her expression startled him. She looked startled, then afraid. Quickly she looked away, averting her eyes, and made a nervous gesture tucking her hair behind her ears. The damp air was making her hair misbehave instead of laying smooth and shining like it would when she worked her magic upon it. "What... what’s going on, huh, Jake?"

He took a gulp of air -- still trying to get the knack of natural breathing again, he found it suprisingly difficult -- but hesitated. What was he going to say? What could he possibly say?

Carinne misinterpreted his silence and defensively folded her own arms across her chest. "Look, I’m really not in the mood for any more games. That -- that woman -- told me that you’d wanted to see me, that you’d been ‘missing’ me or something, and it was a special surprise for you, that she brought me here. Frankly, that explanation just doesn’t cut it."

She sounded curt and official, authoritative. But as he had the other night in the garden, with his parents, he heard the timbre of truth beneath the syllables: she was saying one thing but meaning another. She said she wanted an explanation, but she was afraid, and far, far away from home, confused about how she got here and why she was standing here talking to him. She was, understandably, fascinated with and horrified by Cairo. The Toreador was off-setting, to say the least, for vampires, he could only imagine the effect she had on mortals.

"Jake, what’s -- why’re you staring at me like that?" Fear was naked on her face and in her voice now, though it remained steady. She was pensive and wary, every muscle tensed. The way her green eyes flicked about he wondered if she’d already spied what she’d use against him as a weapon or if she was still searching.

He actually hadn’t realize he was staring either, his eyes narrowed, cold face lit only by the scant light from the windows. With the panes shut, he couldn’t hear the roaring sea and he keenly missed it. He wanted, needed, that noise, to feel the water’s vibrations through the air, to be comforted by the presence of the roiling ocean below...

"Why are you staring at me like that? Jesus Christ, would you just say something?! What the hell is going on!"

The scent of her blood mingled with sweat, perfume, anti-perspirant and her shampoo, creating a wash of sensual earthiness and sweet-tangy oranges and wildflowers. She still used it, after all this time, he remembered, fondly and serenely. She still smelled the same...

She was near hysterical now, raising her voice and gesticulating with increased tension. Then it abruptly occurred to him that, perhaps, he should say something. Try to calm her down.

"Carinne," he said, Presence wafting out of him like a soothing embrace, "just relax. Everything’s going to be fine. You’re safe here with me."

She did not relax though, not for long. Her green eyes became glassy but she was still close to hyperventilating. He approached her, she backed up until her back was pressed into the door. She clutched around behind her for anything to give her leverage or to fend him off, but found nothing but flimsy curtains before he was upon her. He swept her up in a powerful emb race she couldn’t even squirm against and kissed her, deeply, soundly.

Her struggles ceased almost at once and she began to reciprocate with equal and mounting enthusiasm. He felt a vaguely familiar urge rise inside, focused on her, and having everything to do with the Hunger and nothing to do with the mortal passions he’d excited in her. He didn’t question her sudden ardor, and let go of restraint, riding the tumultuous waves which rose within him: repressed desire and broken dreams, old animosity and pent up resentment. His kiss was fierce and his fingers dug into her shoulders and back. What’s pain but another kind of pleasure?

He heard her gasp for breath like someone surfacing from the deep end. His feral embrace tightened mercilessly, and his animal caresses sought her cheek, jaw, neck; her panic didn’t register to him and he sunk his fangs into her throat, perfectly in control. He wasn’t going to kill her, he was not. He drank slowly and carefully, diving into the rhythm of her pulse and following it, listening to what her body was telling him. She was insentient, in ecstasy, her heart racing, blood throbbing almost painfully. He devoured that sensation vicariously, and more. He carried her to the bed and released her just as she began to lose consciousness. He sealed the wounds with his tongue and sat back, unconsciously wiping a s le eve over his mouth, watching her with eyes that seemed to glow with their own preternatural brightness.

She’d tasted even better live than she had from the goblet.

Silly boy, he hadn’t thought it would’ve made a difference.

With that thought, he took up residence in the chair by her bed for the rest of the night, just watching her. Staring, enraptured, ruminating on the wash of emotions and sensations that he’d just experienced, wondering if he could recreate them, calculating how much more she could take -- and how much more he could take.

As sunrise crept over the horizon, he was vaguely aware that the heavy day-time curtains were dropping over the windows, and a figure was leaning over Carinne, helping her sit up. A woman was soothing her, encouraging her to drink this orange juice and finish these cookies, and make sure to take your medicine, it will help you sleep and regain your strength. Carinne must have obeyed because he didn’t hear any argument. Then the sun claimed him for the day.

{ Four

The nights were fluid and flowed into one another; the days were brief and dreamless.

Jake would wake and find Cairo’s arms around him. Sometimes Carinne was sprawled beside him, tangled in the satin sheets; or sometimes she was still in the chair where she’d been left bound all day and semi-conscious, weak from blood-loss and the delirium of over-stimulation. He would release her while Cairo continued to doze, and Carinne would spill through his arms to the floor like a puddle. His vitae would revive her; she’d suckle from whatever appendage he offered to feed her from and she was always ravenous.

She’d stopped retching the stuff up after the first night, and had very quickly learned to love it. It made her strong, helped her recover, helped her go on. Jake also believed it helped her enjoy her time with her vampire... lovers? Masters? What were they to her? He didn’t wonder about it often. She was Carinne, and Cairo was thrilled with the way the two of them had rekindled what they’d had before and built upon it; so that was enough for him.

He knew he was having the time of his life, and Cairo became ever more pleased the more fun he had. His Sire showed him how he’d won her favor in the way she hurt him and how she prolonged the torture before she gave him his reward. She wouldn’t do that to him, make him wait, make him bleed and burn, if she didn’t care. That’s how he knew she loved him very much. Very, very much.

When finally Jake believed that they had settled into a comfortable routine which they could enjoy for eternity -- just the three of them, alone together with the ghouls and retainers and the castle -- Cairo presented her beloved Childe with an even more striking gift. One last surprise.

Howie Stockton.

Howie had changed quite a bit from the young, vital eighteen-year-old Jake remembered. The former all-star jock and honor-roll SGA president had gained 50 pounds and had blatantly lost his edge. Pursuit of his coveted MIT degree had thinned his hair and aged him prematurely. Jake, attired in high neo-Victorian style with manners developing to match, didn’t recognize him at first, but his gut reaction was immediate: the Beast within him reminded him of what this person had stolen from him years ago, reminded him of this mortal’s trespasses.

Jake felt his fangs elongate and he ran his tongue across them, tasting the air, measuring the tension. Howie was confused, much as Carinne had been that first night at dinner; slowly he came out of his lethargy and his eyes registered recognition.

"Hey... Jake, man..." His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t had a lick of water for days. His clothes were rumpled and he looked as if he’d been rolling around in the grass outside. Jake neither smelled nor noticed any injuries on him, though. "What... what... Carinne? Is that you?" Howie strained to see beyond Jake in the dim chamber, but Carinne remained where she was, silent by Cairo’s side, dressed as she was always dressed in a simple retro Gothic dinner gown, no shoes, and a blue ribbon around her neck. Cairo, as always, was dressed to the nines in something curve-hugging and black with a splash of red for contrast -- this time in the form of a stylized rose stick pin at the closure of her robe.

Howie rubbed at the back of his neck as Jake slowly advanced, doing a little feint as if studying prey. Howie watched him, at a loss and becoming more alarmed. "Look, dude, it’s been a long time. I dunno what’s up, I don’t remember how I... I..."

He trailed off as Jake appeared immediately before him. Howie’s breath caught and he just stared at his ex-best friend with miscomprehension, recognition fizzling. "What’s going on, man?" he whispered.

Jake thought it sounded pathetic. Remember what he took from you, what he stole. Remember how he humiliated you, thrashed you in the mud. Remember how she walked off with him, the victor, and you were left bleeding and shamed. They all left you. He did that to you. He did that. To you.

Jake’s hand flashed out like a cobra, his grip tightening around Howie’s thick neck. His fingers didn’t close around the larger man’s neck, but it was still doing the job, hurtfully pinching his windpipe closed. Howie thrashed ineffectually in Jake’s vampiric grasp, kicked, clutched at Jake’s hand. In reply, Jake brought up his other hand and added that pressure to the first. His eyes were hateful. His fangs were bared, and one pricked his lip in his ferocity.

Pathetic, Jake kept thinking. Howie had been a star, he’d been fantastic -- now look at him. Overweight and out of shape, and struggling to make ends meet judging from the condition and age of his clothes. The lackluster look in his eyes told Jake that death was going to be a welcome release, a final step that Howie longed to take but didn’t have the guts to go for. The cheerless litany of reasons Jake should kill him continued...

As Howie’s eyes rolled back into his head, lack of oxygen robbing him of consciousness, Jake released him, dropping him to the flagstones.

His eyes spiked through the shadows, seeking the retainers he knew were waiting there to mindlessly do their masters’ bidding. "Take him upstairs. Clean him up."

He turned back to his Sire and his Ghoul with a self-satisfied little smile.

Cairo was already strutting purposefully toward him, an eyebrow arched, intrigued. "Whatever do you have in mind, my Childe?"

His smile became sedately proud. "Our guest deserves our hospitality. He’s lost too much to care about anything. I’m going to make that change."

Cairo’s eyes lit up brilliantly and her smile was angelic. "You’re going to make him care!" she declared, and threw her arms around him, hugging him so tightly he thought he’d pop.

Jake just smiled, thrilled to have thrilled her. Nothing else in the world mattered. When she released him he immediately set to detailing the plan which had sprung to mind as he held Howie’s life in his fingers.

He swung Carinne around and carried her off to his own chamber, which he no longer had to share with Cairo, though that was his preference. Carinne’s sweetness helped clear his mind (besides taking the edge off his Hunger), and by the time the sun was coming up, the Plan was perfected.

{ Five

Implementation was a delight.

It didn’t take long to get Howie back into prime shape. With the proper motivation, along with a strictly controlled diet and the right vitae-enhanced supplements, the human body can achieve splendid results.

So it happened that within two weeks, Howie was a truly Olympian specimen. His head was a little cloudy, what with all the rich foods and richer blood, the bizarre "recreation" they enjoyed after his workouts. He and Carinne and that babe, Cairo, whew -- and Jake joined in too; who would’ve guessed? It was all a bit much, but a taste of the Good Stuff from Cairo’s wrist or Jake’s made it all make sense. Not a lot, but enough. Enough to keep him on the path they led him along, working hard and pushing himself to become perfect.

After those two weeks, Jake brought Cairo out to have her admire his handiwork while Carinne stood at his side, shifting uneasily; her costume tonight evidently did not sit well with her, though there was nothing really out of the ordinary with a French maid’s outfit, was there? Probably just the last vestiges of Carinne’s Catholic-bred shyness clinging on to make her feel ashamed of herself.

Cairo, tonight wearing a black kimono with a scarlet-embroidered Oriental dragon snaking up the back, took her time, keeping her dubious opinions to herself until, at last, she turned to Jake and nodded with an allowing smile.

"A very nice attempt, Jake."
Jake was taken aback. Attempt? "Oh, uh... thank you, Cairo. I... um... what do you think of him, though?"

Again, Cairo allowed a forgiving semi-smile, and her eyes did not share the sentiment. She gestured ambiguously back at the man who stood pensively in goosebumps and a pair of dark blue Speedo’s on the balcony with his back to the sea.

"He’s just so…" she searched for just the right word "… average."

Jake was crushed. How in the hell could she call that divine slab of humanity "average?!" He couldn’t look at her, and a foul emotion began to seethe beneath his chest.

She trailed her manicured nails across Howie’s Sports Illustrated-caliber chest and seemed to deliberate. "For a mortal, he is perfect. There is no arguing that."

"Then what’s wrong with him?" Jake cried. He couldn’t believe his voice to his own ears. He was whining.

Cairo licked her lips slowly as she pondered, and Jake noticed suddenly how enthralled Howie was with the gesture; with every little gesture, as a matter of fact. A new flame burned in the pit of Jake’s stomach.

"It’s rather like the sacrificial lamb, pet," she cooed, and though she was obviously addressing her Childe she was pressing up against Howie, gazing up at him adoringly and eliciting even greater devotion from him in response. "What good is it if you don’t do something with it?"

The fire burned hotter within Jake, whose fists knotted. Two weeks, he thought, irate, two weeks of debasing myself to make Howie a piece of art that she would love, all to please her, and she rejected him! How could she?! Why didn’t she understand…?

By the time Jake refocused on what was happening Howie was simpering at Cairo’s feet. She turned, smiling gracefully, and her fingers stroked across Jake’s jaw as she passed him.

"Better luck next time, pet," she promised, giving him a chaste kiss on the cheek as if in consolation.

"Sacrificial lamb," he hissed under his breath. Howie was left winded by her majesty and scooted back to lean against one of the banisters in the stone railing of the balcony. He hugged his muscular legs with his powerful arms, unconsciously trying to retain some warmth as he dizzily recalled Cairo’s closeness.

Carinne looked on, bewildered, and inspiration flashed through Jake’s mind. All pretense of camaraderie was gone; Jake was no longer coach and mentor, making Howie into all he could be, a better man. Now Jake’s true colors flared, and Carinne shuddered to watch as the vampire swooped down upon Howie and spoke in a poisoned whisper against his ear.

She could not hear what Howie heard, but she could read his expression all too well. Whatever Jake promised him put fear into him that no words could express; the natural empathy which had sprung to life between the two ghouls who shared the same domitors and the same fate had found at least scant comfort in one another’s company. Regardless of that bond, the link formed between captives necessarily, the absolute horror which paralyzed Howie made her turn away. Even as he made a feeble effort to connect with her for strength, she turned away. She walked away, back into the house, and did not look back. She could not tempt the ire of these monsters. Besides, she was so hungry…

{ Six

Cairo woke the following dusk to a surprise of her own.

Jake, pale and statuesque, was waiting at the foot of her elegant couch. As soon as her eyes opened, he reached out a hand to her.

His blonde hair was slicked back, and he wore no shoes. Just the casual black jacket and trousers, without shirt or shoes, that he’d come to prefer of late. She sat up, the folds of her Elizabethan sleeping gown draping around her creatively. She accepted his help up and joined him as he silently led her down the labyrinthine halls, the pattern to which he had begun to learn. She was very pleased with his progress.

They climbed the spiraling stairs up and up to the top of one of the highest towers of the small castle. There Cairo’s heart, which had so long been still, leapt.

There, restrained with chains bolted to the floor, was Howie.

"He’s hungry," she mentioned, unable to restrain the mirth in her eyes or her great smile.

Jake tilted his head clinically. "Yes. I know."

She danced closer to the imprisoned Howie, who thrashed against his bondage. She was so proud. So very, very proud.

Howie’s fangs were bared and his eyes were shot with blood. His first night as undead had been not at all pleasant so far, she gathered.

Jake folded his hands calmly behind his back, waiting for Cairo to say something. more indicative. Defying her privately to say a single bad thing about this triumph. As a mortal, Howie may have been ordinary; as a vampire, Jake’s own creation, Howie was an Adonis. A veritable god.

Cairo turned to Jake from the opposite side of his Chi lde, and beamed at him. "What will you do now, my Childe?"

Jake looked up at her slowly. "Now?"

She nodded patiently, still beaming. "Yes. You’ve created this homage now what will you do with him? Will you suffer such a monster to live?"

Jake lost all sensation; he was numb. What the hell was she saying? What did she want from him? What more could he give?!

"Cairo… what do you want from me?"

"From you?" she asked, pressing a hand to her collarbone defensively. "Why, nothing more than you’ve already offered. You please me constantly, and this gift does me great honor."

He frowned, becoming irrational. "Then what about it don’t you like? What more do you want from me?"

He realized he’d just inanely repeated himself the second her smile became patronizing. "I’ll leave that up to you to figure out, pet. Just think on this: what love do you have on this earth greater than that you bear me?" She glanced significantly down at Howie, his Childe, blood of his blood.

He knew the answer.

With a roar of rebellion and rage, he leapt up with Celerity in high gear. He snatched at a crossbeam in the not-quite-stable old ceiling. Catching hold of it he got atop it and began to batter the semi-solid ceiling. Tearing at it with a maddening passion until there were rends and tears throughout the timbers and shingles. Then he dropped back down before Cairo, his eyes like steel. She stepped back, in deference, and he turned to kneel by his Childe. He leaned down, took Howie’s face in either of his hands. He placed a kiss upon Howie’s forehead, lingering and definite. Then he stepped back as his offspring’s teeth gnashed at him in his starvation, stepped back into the protective cloak of shadows to wait. To w ait for daybreak. To wait for the end.

{ { {

The night seemed eternal.

Neither Cairo nor Jake spoke for the twelve hours which passed. Twelve timeless hours. Howie could see in the dark now, could hear the scrape of every insect along every crossbeam, the scurrying of the vermin in the walls. He could feel the weight of age in the wood and stone around him.

He knew Hunger, and he knew fear. He knew pain. Most of all, he knew he wanted to live, more than anything. All the past two weeks had taught him really was that you had to find a goal and stick to it, no matter what. Jake had taught him that, over the past several nights. He pulled against the chains, now and then craning his aching neck as much as he could to watch the two of them, the pair of them, twined in one another’s arms.

They didn’t speak. Why didn’t they speak? It was enough to drive him mad.

He yelled at them sometimes. Sometimes he just babbled to himself. Mostly he just stared at the ceiling and the broken pieces, tugged experimentally at his chains, and waited. For whatever was going to happen.

When it finally did happen, he regretted not having appreciated it all more.

The midnight paled into dawn as the sun rose, and a terrible lethargy began to descend on him. He was going to sleep, at last! Finally, peace…

But then his fingertips… began to sizzle.

The smell hit him first, actually. He noticed that odd odor and wondered at it. In glancing about casually to see if that pair was still just standing there, watching, he noticed that his fingers were smoldering. Smoldering! The light had just about hit them…

Then the pain came.

He screamed a scream peppered with pleas and begging. He became quite pathetic as the light crept up his arm, then hit his leg, his side, and his cheek randomly as the sun reached a point where it could pour through the uneven holes Jake had ripped in the ceiling. The light washed over him like acid. He burned, his skin peeled.

It took almost forty-five minutes for the light to finally finish Howie off. Jake was, in the end, proud of his Childe for having held out so long.

As he himself began to feel the weight of weariness, he felt Cairo’s arms supporting him. She was carrying him off, safely away from the evil sun.

"Now you’ve pleased me, truly and well, my Childe," she whispered as she tucked him in and kissed him good-day. "Thank you, my Jake."

And now he slept, secure in the knowledge that he’d finally done something… great.

{ Epilogue

It twisted first in the pit of his stomach.

He crashed from the bed to all fours, vomiting up everything that remained in him. He wasn’t sure what some of it was but it didn’t matter. He hurt too much to even think right now.

Something wasn’t right. It just wasn’t.

He looked around – the room was his own, familiar. Carinne’s scent was there but faded, like she hadn’t been in all night. Cairo wasn’t there. He was alone – completely.

He writhed on the floor until he twisted around and saw the balcony doors, wide open. He twisted about and forced himself to crawl toward the sea breeze. But the hurt inside him wouldn’t relent; it kept at him, a beast trying to claw it’s way out.

Jericho had it easy. It must’ve felt just like this.

The thought made him retch again, but there was nothing left in him. He redoubled his efforts and dragged himself along on his elbows until he reached the doorway.

Once there, the moonlight hit him.

And it all came flooding back.

What he had done over the past several months. What he had done.

He looked down at his hands. His hands.

What had he… done?

The voice came to him then, freeing the reactions his mortal mind had been having, no longer repressing his humanity. The voice came, releasing him to feel all he had wrought, to see the fate he had authored for himself.

The voice asked, When did you decide to play god, Jake?

"No," he protested, a rasp against the encroaching storm.

Who told you to play with peoples lives – to kill them or warp them at your will?

"I didn’t," he protested weakly, grabbing at the railing to haul himself upright. "I didn’t…" He was begging.

How many times will you say "I’ll take care of you?"

He cringed, against himself, against what he’d become.

He threw back his head, glaring through blood tears which flowed down his face in thick rivulets.

The scream came, torn from the center part of himself. Whatever strength he had left went into that sound, that fierce and grieving sound. It bounced against the slate below, and the ocean’s roar swallowed it whole. It’s as if he’d never made a sound… but he kept screaming anyway.

And that is when his mother’s scream, that of a mortal relinquishing life, became his own.

He couldn’t have realized, until that moment, that Cairo had destroyed who he was and rebuilt him as she desired. He’d been her plaything, her toy, her experiment. And it was successful, in every regard.

His father – murdered by his Hunger and carelessness.

His mother – murdered by his rage.

Carinne – enslaved by his lust, her will broken.

Howie – destroyed by his thirst for revenge.

All dead or broken forever, thanks to him. And if he could do it to his own parents, lovers and friends, who was safe from him?

He collapsed to his knees, crying to the callous sky.

Despite the cost of those emotions, they lived on in him still: the rage, the lust, the vengeance. But most of all the Hunger. He was dead but they lived on. They would continue as long as he… perhaps forever.

The scream released him. The final thread and fiber of his restraint was torn away. When he woke the following evening, he was Jake no longer but in body; he was no longer Cairo’s Childe, he was more, and less; in spirit, in mind, in soul, he was a new creation.

He stared up at the moon, and wondered at its perfection. Every night was beautiful, each night as perfect and virgin as the first he’d seen from this precious balcony.

Words to an old song echoed back to him across the roar below; he watched the dolorous waves in their futile struggle to overcome the impenetrable rocks. Even their inexorable tide could not overwhelm them, though. And he knew then that she was the rock and she was the moon, and he was the ocean sent to do her bidding.

The song came back to him but the words were fragmented and he knew that in his altered state he wasn’t getting them all right, yet he saw it all much more clearly than he might have before. His ordeals had won him a new lucidity.

More or less.

None of that mattered right now, though; he wasn’t in the frame of mind to be philosophical. No, right now he was watching the moon; and the moon was exactly as the melody sang: a whiter shade of pale.