Title: Coming to Terms
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: Mercyverse/Beauty and the Beast crossover
Pairing: Mercy/Vincent, Mercy/Charis (OC)
Rating: NC-17 but wordy.
Status: posted 30 November 2004
Archive: Here. Otherwise write and ask. And here's how you would do that thing:
Feedback: Kelandris
Series/Sequels: Tons, really, all set in various portions of the Mercyverse that cross over into other fandoms. I have birthed a slut.
Disclaimers: No personal profit is intended or achieved by copying works of Beauty and the Beast's original creators nor Republic Pictures. In fact, I'm absurdly poor, and this is purely an act of fannish devotion; all rights are reserved to the creators. Save for Mercy and Charis, as they're MINE MINE MINE.
Notes: This was the first time Mercy crossed over full-bore into another fandom, and unfortunately, she liked it. Just my luck.
Summary: Mercy has to figure out what a late-night visit from a very old friend means, after she parts from her lady of the decade.
Warnings: Vampirism; bloodletting; rough sex and angst. Also bestiality, sort of, if a humanoid lion fits your definitions of same. Lesbianism, het sex, human/animal sex (again, if your interpretations fit definitions of same), public sex, near-rape (but of the willing), pseudo-necrophilia. This one's got it all. Save for drugs, and those come later.


"Coming to Terms"
by Kelandris the Mad


The woman who had been Mykonos, and Marta Luran, and Miranda, and more, knew the exact moment when she'd decided to return to New York. It did not make her especially proud, but she accepted responsibility for it. She had never really liked television in the first place.

It had been a chill London night, in the three-bedroom country house she still owned. It was the night before their departure: she to Australia, to meet with an information broker who owed her a favor; her lover Charis to Monaco, where she was to wait for a call from Sloane and Talbot, the woman's steadfast law firm. (She possessed contacts in several locales, but it hadn't been easy, even then, setting up accommodations for one who couldn't bear sunlight.) And they had both been on edge, uneasy, jittering around the house sniping at each other.

Charis had been watching a battered Sony with volume problems, in the bedroom they shared; the third time she rose from bed to go slap it, the woman known in England as Mercy turned over.

"Just turn it off," she suggested softly.

"No, I want to watch this," Charis replied.

Mercy sat up. She looked at the ravaged set, saw the peeling fake-wood case, the demagnetized tube surface that made all the action on the left green and purple. She looked at Charis, intent on and slightly upset with the programme at hand. She said, "Go to sleep. We'll buy a new one in the morning."

"But I like this one."

Again Mercy looked at the set. It was a television set, a plain one. It was gouged at the base. Remotes had not yet been invented when it was in its prime; it still spun through channels on a rotary dial. She said the first thing that came to her tired mind.

"It's obsolete."

"Yah," Charis sneered. "Like you."

Mercy didn't even think about it particularly. She walked from the room, grabbed her cloak, and left. Later, upon reflection, she'd wanted to call Charis, but couldn't make herself pick up the 'phone. That was, of course, after she'd been gone a few weeks, after she'd had new credit cards issued to her at her new address, a lower London hotel, and had replaced her wardrobe.

Her clothes suited her mood, this time out; mostly greys and blacks and charcoals, with one startlingly deep purple skirt and blouse that her eyes had just dropped into forever, trying to pick out the color. Her next move was to pack and leave. She bought minimal toiletries from a shop on the way, and bought a ticket at Heathrow Airport, at the counter. She bought it, just in case, in a name that Charis did not know, and flew over the wide oceans to New York.

Later, she could not say what had sent her to New York. She had suspicions, but no proof, then or ever. She simply went, registering into a large hotel under yet a third name, and scouted the city discreetly until she found what she searched for: a penthouse apartment that overlooked Central Park South, with a spectacular view and a balcony. Again, she didn't question it, simply signed the papers for a two-year lease and paid the exorbitant fee to get into the building. Then she called decorators until she found one who would do what she wished, not what he willed, and hired him.

She bought thick, black Flokati rugs and deep, cranberry-and-black Persian rugs, to scatter on the hardwood floors. Her decorator found a source for statuary, and she bought columns to place in the corners and small nudes to place in the bedrooms and baths. The lighting was subdued, and generally hidden--the most obvious source of light anywhere was a large conch shell lit from within, on the floor of the living room. Her furniture was either overstuffed, or spare, the rooms filled with dark couches brimming with brocade pillows, and tall, stern, ornately carved chairs, with dark velvet seats. Her bed was plain, and had black sheets. Her walls were accented only with reproduction medieval tapestries and abstract grey and black carvings.

She did not buy a television set.

And that was it. She had no firm plans, which left her in a sort of limbo. She knew that there were places in this city that she did not want to go; she knew that there were others that she desperately longed to be. She avoided both and spent most of her time in small, out-of-the-way art galleries, or seeing offbeat films, or going to plays in the evening. She had very little desire for a social life, for two reasons; her prey and her food were human, and then, there was Charis...about whom she had not, yet, made up her mind. She spent some change at a pay phone calling the security corporation that was to have control of the house, only to be told that yes, it had been vacated at the appointed hour, and that no untoward events had happened. She left the phone feeling mildly discomfited, but walked on.

The only thing she did even remotely social was to schedule a hair appointment; not to have it cut, as in the past, but to bleach a part of it white. When she left the salon, she had a single platinum streak running from her left temple to the tips of her hair, shining like the moon. Again, she had no reason for it; simply did it, and lived with it.

And for three months she was, if not in peace, at least content. She had plentiful food outside her door, and she'd managed to track down a small selection of juices and wines that she could not only tolerate, but enjoyed. And then, one night, she heard a heartbeat splitting the air, and saw someone standing on the balcony outside.

She'd gone to bed an hour before, having chosen to stay in, that night, with a glass of pomegranate juice and a solid dose of Ibsen. She knew instantly who it was, and did not bother to turn on the light as she rose from the bed and unlocked the French doors. Vincent stepped in without preamble and stood, in silence.

Just for a moment, she couldn't help remembering the parallel from the past: Vincent strong yet unsure, peering out from between drifts of beaten gold mane, rarely going anywhere, even Below, without his hood up. And herself, fifteen years ago, walking boldly anywhere, even if she knew she was in danger, her straight black hair like slices of midnight against her garments, her eyes flashing bright.

She looked back, feeling his heartbeat and a little more, reverberate inside her. They had both changed markedly in fifteen years. He was taller, broader, his mane less mane and more civilized, clean and combed and styled. He stood with more assurance, more confidence. And she...she waited for the next shot, the next bomb, the next grenade, with a resigned air and a deep despair of spirit, knowing only that the next attack was coming. The next attack was always coming, ever since she had slain Gervase. She no longer walked so confidently into the dark night, and her eyes rarely flashed.

He was angry, and hurt, but not specifically at her. And he wanted to tell her something, but it was buried so deep that only the impulse was readable. And there was a deep, deep grief and rage within him, that she couldn't find a source for. And he did not want to be here...but he could not make himself leave.

That last was interesting, and disturbing. If he did not seek her out for the past, then why was he here? She did not know if she should ask him or not. She did not, in fact, know what to do.

A long moment passed, where they looked at each other. Then Vincent stepped closer to her, looking into her dark eyes, tilted her head back, and kissed her.

The kiss shocked her. She had expected nearly anything but this. It did not help matters that his arms folded around her body, bringing her close, and she felt his hardness even through the layers of leather and wool that he wore. It also did not help that he kissed well; she found herself responding, tilting her head back further, pressing against him. It had been long and long since she'd kissed a male with fangs, and something within her deeply missed that. She felt her arms move, more than consciously moved them, around his neck, and she felt his hands trail down her back, cup the base of her spine, then caress her hips. She felt a moan beginning in the back of her throat, and chose that moment to step away from him.

He let her leave, watched her with nearly feral eyes, breathing heavily in the stillness of the room. She watched him, suddenly acutely conscious of the fact that she'd worn only a black camisole to bed, and nothing else, and that he hadn't taken advantage of that. She reviewed the last few minutes in her mind. Ah; he'd wanted to, but he hadn't known how she would react.

She wanted to sit down, but there were only two places in the room: a tall, mahogany chair with a throne back, which would be cold, and the bed, which could be read as an invitation. She stood. And then wanted to pace, which again might be misconstrued. She looked back at Vincent--who was looking towards the door.

"Vincent," she said, gently, still feeling as if she'd shattered a precious silence. As she'd known he would, he jumped, and turned towards her, looking torn, and agonized, and hurt. Ah, sweet gods, she thought, what do I say?

"Vincent, do--do I ask?" She wanted to say more, but his expression stopped her, the very quality of the silence stopped her. She waited.

He grimaced. "I--Miranda...I need...I want...it's--"

She walked to his side. *Would this be easier?* she thought at him.

*Ah...* He threw his head back. *Yes, oh, yes, it would...*

And then, he kissed her again, this time, on the neck, nuzzling into her collarbone and caressing the nape with just the tips of his claws. She shuddered once, all over, and tried not to give in.

*Vincent, why?* she thought. *What do you need?*

*You,* came the response. *I need--contact. I need--you.*

She felt him slide one of the camisole straps down, and he bent, taking one of her nipples into his mouth. A nearly electric charge galvanized her, and she closed her eyes, feeling her knees give out. He caught her, had been expecting her to fall, and carried her to the bed. He laid her down very gently, and lay down beside her, doing nothing more than kissing and caressing. Somewhere in the midst of it her camisole was removed, was placed gently beside the bed. She never felt him do it.

But everywhere he touched her was a spark of flame, every inch of skin he kissed, burned. Soon she was panting on the edge of orgasm just from his fingers and his lips. She had never thought it would be like this; but then, she had never thought he'd come to her.

With the last of her self-possession, she inserted a weak hand between them, and pushed away. Certain parts of his past she would not inquire about; subconsciously, she felt him warning her away. But what she could ask, she would try to ask, one last-ditch effort before falling.

"Vincent," she said aloud, "you need to tell me, one way or the other, why this is happening. Do you want me? Do you just want? Please...You need to let me know."

He was gritting his teeth, and the expression nearly melted her resolve again, but he breathed through it and swallowed. "I want you, Miranda. I would not have come here if I did not. And if I had just wanted to speak with you, there are easier ways to invite you." He paused, thinking, and she heard the passion for her thunder through his mind. "If you do not want me, I will leave. It is--" he swallowed again, "it is in your hands."

She thought, with the last remnants of her control, how much she had wanted to hear this when they'd first met. As the thought flew through her mind, Vincent started, as if he'd never known. Perhaps he hadn't. How odd...and how strange that it was coming to the surface now. She shook her head briefly.

*Then--*

She caught the bare beginnings of the thought from Vincent, caught what would have followed it, and reached for his hands.

*No,* she thought to him. *No, I am not sending you away. But this is very sudden, and you are so...urgent. Do you understand?*

He nodded. Then a wicked gleam came into his eye, and he gently parted her legs, pulling her towards him until his chin rested, just above her mound.

*Then I will have to be--less urgent,* he thought to her, and licked her belly lightly with his tongue. Then he slowly descended, kissing the mound of dark hair, parting it with his tongue, and very delicately licking her lower lips. She trembled, all over, trying to control her breathing. Still everywhere he touched burned, to her senses, and it made it hard for her to think. She felt him, tonguing open her passage, tasting her, nipping carefully at her inner walls. She bit her lip, her back arching, and caught the edge of satisfaction from him.

*Bastard,* she thought wryly.

*Anything's possible,* he thought back, then grasped her legs, pulling her closer--onto his extended tongue. She cried out, and felt his tongue probing within her, twisting, writhing. Her hands clenched the bedspread, and he moved to capture her clitoris between his lips. The sensation of fur and tongue upon her nearly sent her over that edge, but he pulled back in time and began lightly stroking her again, with his fingers. He nuzzled along her thighs, kissing them, stroking them as well, and she began to tremble again, her breathing shaky. Someone was saying something, over and over, and she was mortified when she realized it was her voice, moaning "Please, please," again and again.

He rose from her, lifting himself over her shaking form with strong arms, looking down into her face. His eyes reflected hers, lambent with her desire, nearly lighting the room. They dimmed only slightly with each exhalation. The edges of his lips lifted, his version of a smile, which she very well knew.

"'Please' what?" he asked, his voice like gravel and silk.

She looked up into his face, seeing the golden mane of hair, his maddening expression, his bright blue eyes. She noticed that he was still fully clothed, and this struck her as odd. If he felt only half of what she did...She reached up to him, with trembling fingers, and began to unbutton his shirt. He froze, looking anywhere but at her. She didn't understand, but she kept doggedly unbuttoning, until his shirt was open to the waist. She unclasped his cloak, slipping that from his shoulders, and then bit her lip again, trying to gracefully undo his belt.

"It would take less time," she finally said through gritted teeth, "if you'd help me, Vincent."

He shrugged, trying to make it nonchalant. "You--were doing so well," he said. He moved until he knelt over her, his own hands dropping to his waist, trembling now themselves, and unbuckled the belt. The pants underneath simply slid off his waist, and that she could do on her own. While she slid them down, he looked at the wall behind her and took off his shirt.

Then she rose on an elbow, looking at him. Massive shoulders, massive chest, thickly furred with gold. A tapered, muscled waist, strong thighs, and, she knew, strong calves, though his calves were still covered by cloth. And, at eye level with her, a very erect penis, half-exposed from its furry sheath. The sheath was gold, and soft when she touched it (and Vincent gasped when she did), warm and pulsing. His penis was bright red, sharply-tipped, looking moist and terribly sensitive. She couldn't resist, leaning forward and taking just the tip into her mouth, wanting the reaction she hoped was inevitable.

She was not disappointed. She heard him gasp again, a huge inrush of air, followed by a soft growl. Delicately she licked along the underside, being very careful not to bite or even allow her teeth to meet it. She kissed and licked and nipped him, lips only, his hips beginning to buck slightly and his growls becoming moans. She reached down to cup his balls gently, feeling fur again, and he pulled away from her.

She'd thought him feral before; that expression was positively civilized compared to the one she saw now on his face. He kicked at his clothing, finally getting his legs free, only to part hers again. Breathing hard, he slid into her, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke. She gasped, the breath driven out of her, her mouth open. He was huge, and long, his penis completely filling her; a sensation she'd nearly forgotten.

His lip curled, his eyes gleaming, and he snarled at her. Before she'd thought that it wasn't meant in a hostile fashion, she'd already answered him with a throaty growl of her own. For a single instant, she saw his eyes flash gold, and was confused. Then they returned to his Serengeti blue and his hips began moving, fast, pumping inside her with smooth, deep strokes that drove her crazy. Again she clawed the bed, feeling her clit rub against his furry belly on every stroke. Gods, gods, she was going to come...

Then he withdrew, still growling, and flipped her over. She tried to rise and he growled again, pushing her down. It angered her, on some primal level, and she snarled back. He simply parted her legs again, pushing inside her well-lubricated channel, and grasped her shoulders, filling her even more with the first stroke. And now his strokes were faster and deeper, thrusting harder than she could imagine. She buried her head in the pillow and began to scream her pleasure, her legs clamping around him as she began to orgasm. She literally shook with the force of it, and he never stopped, riding it and her out until she collapsed, still shaking, and only then did his pace slow. Slowly, he pulled out, and bent towards her, until she felt his breath at the base of her spine. He started at the base, slowly licking up her spine to her neck, biting the nape gently. As slowly, he entered her once more. She moaned sincerely, drowning in sensation.

This time, he didn't pull out, merely lifting one of her legs as he lifted her, turning her once more on her back. Then he began long, soft strokes, kissing her shoulders, her sides, sucking again on her nipples and licking her small breasts until she began to whimper. Then he rose again, and took one of her legs in each hand, pulling her forward until he was deep inside her once more. Only then did he lift her, so that they were face to face, Vincent kneeling on the bed, and Miranda impaled upon him, gasping. He was deeply within her now; she had felt the sharp tip of him penetrate her womb, and gods, the sensations--! She couldn't stand it; her eyes fluttered closed, and she rode the tide of desire.

He let her for a moment, rocking inside her, holding her at hips and back. Then he drove upwards, one massive thrust, and her eyes opened again, almost in shock.

He stared at those eyes, gently whirling now, viridescent purple with minuscule threads of scarlet. Impassioned eyes. Perceptive eyes.

Hungry eyes.

He drew a deep breath, composing himself.

*Miranda, there is...something else,* he thought softly.

The reply he got back was incoherent; arousing, but disjointed.

*Concentrate, now.*

Again, he composed his thoughts, steering away from the why of the request, going to the heart of the how. He replayed the times in the past when their minds had been joined, and he'd been present during her hunting. Feeling the heartbeat of her victims pounding within him, tasting their blood, sweet-copper like autumn wine, knowing the rush and the desire. He blinked slowly, still holding her gaze, and she shivered.

*You want...ah!...you want me to--bite you? Why?*

*You know why.* He held her gaze again, thinking of every reason he had. Thinking of wanting never to be alone. Thinking of wanting more than friendship with Miranda, no matter what happened, no matter where she went--where either of them went. Thinking of wanting that friendship, and of going to any length to keep it. Thinking of her. Thinking of himself.

Then he continued. *I want a bond with you. I want to be joined with you. And...* He paused, gently kissing her, his hands cupping her face. *You need to feed don't you? I know, Miranda. You didn't go out today, did you?*

*No...wait...you want a bond with me? But--* Dangerous territory; even drowning in her desire, she knew that. She pulled back, searching for a less hazardous reply.

*Vincent, I can't go halfway, with anyone. Bonds with me are deep, possibly forever, and very--ah, ah!--intimate...* She trailed off, closing her eyes again, her hips bucking against him. He very nearly lost his chance; he was so sensitive right now!

*Miranda, please. I do want this. I know what it would mean, and I'm prepared to accept the consequences. I don't--want to lose you again,* he finished, and waited. As he'd hoped, she opened her eyes once the last sentence had sunk in. The swirling colors had slowed. Her breathing was still ragged, but she seemed to genuinely see him for the first time in nearly an hour. She didn't answer, only leaned closer, tilting his head. She seemed to consider him for an eternal time, but it could only have been a few minutes, if that.

Then she spoke to him, in the softest voice he'd ever heard her use.

"Vincent, my soul's ease, you know that there is nothing I would not do for you. I would kill for you, yes, but I would also try to refrain from killing for you. Do you truly want to be bound to me through my life--through death and pain, and change, through rebirth and reburial, through endless loss and untold sorrow? Do you, truly?"

Before he could nod, she grasped his head, holding it still.

"Be sure. There is no going back but that bond itself being severed. I promise nothing but sleepless nights for both of us, and little joy. Is it still what you want?"

In response he pulled her to him, kissing her almost harshly, running his tongue around her newly-emerged fangs, shivering again. He licked along her collarbone, nibbling on her neck, following the vein to that spot just behind her ear. Then he reversed slightly, his lips kissing that ear, his tongue probing inside. And he whispered yes into that ear as her passion rose to a fever pitch.

He head rocked back, her chest heaving with great gasping breaths, as she summoned all her hunger, all her power. Her voice was thick with desire, with need of two kinds, when she spoke.

"Trust me, Vincent." She looked down at him with eyes that were almost entirely red, only the barest tint of purple visible. He flinched, then licked his lips.

"Do you trust me?" Her mouth opened, breathing as if she were tasting the air around him. Her tongue touched the tip of a pearly fang, and she trembled upon him, her eyes fluttering nearly closed. At that moment, she braced herself on his hips, and pulled almost entirely off him. He nearly screamed, both at the sensation and the sudden movement of air upon that most sensitive of organs. He did clutch her, suddenly, which she didn't seem to mind. She slowly brushed back his hair, and her mouth descended to his neck. She kissed the pulsing vein, caressing it with delicate lips, breathing hotly into his ear, into the hollow at the base of his neck. Abruptly every nerve ending he had seemed to end there. She left him suspended like that, her breath warm on his skin, until he began to shudder.

Then two things happened, nearly at the same time: she bit him, her fangs sinking deeply into the side of his neck, and she drove her hips down, encasing him once more in liquid velvet.

Being entered and entering, at the same time, was more than he could handle. A rush of pleasure so large, it felt damaging rushed over him, and he did scream then, feeling her suck and swallow his blood while he orgasmed inside her, filling her with heat and liquid. He came for what felt like forever, his hips bucking in unison with hers, and only then did it register to his ears that she had screamed too, when he had. He felt her slowly withdraw from his neck, felt them both shudder convulsively, saw her lips reddened but no other sign visible of what had happened. And then he heard her speaking to him.

*Vincent, I can't move,* she said. Her voice sounded out of breath, thready. *You'll have to help me. If I try to...to move...We'll only start again if we stay...like this.*

He looked at her closely and saw that her lips hadn't moved. Yet he had heard her, as if she had spoken, filling the air with words. He had not heard her as he usually did, a distant, slightly echoing sound that was not a sound, speaking over the surface of his soul.

He felt a sense of wonder, and a deep, inarticulate joy, before he realized that her hips had begun to move. He bit his lips, feeling both her movements on his still rock-hard penis, and his own movements inside her. She whimpered, looking anxious, and he made his decision. He bore her down to the bed once more, kissing her deeply, tasting the salt-sweetness of his blood in her mouth. It made him wild.

Miranda felt him begin to drive inside of her, felt it from both sides, felt what he felt from her perspective. It was overwhelming, nearly tidal, the rush of desire that pinioned them together. Building on each other's sensations, the feelings became great, monumental...crushing. It was too much, too intense, it was too clear to them...and then he did the unthinkable.

He bit her. Not as deeply as she had him, but he bit her neck, sinking just the tips of his fangs into her. They both felt him break the skin, and the brief flash of pain, followed by the cresting wave of pleasure--because for her, being bitten was as erotic as biting. And neither of them withstood it well--he screamed again, driving deep inside her, and she arched her entire body off the bed, supporting her whole weight on the back of her head and the tips of her toes; the side effect of which was to drive him even further inside her. They both came explosively, at the same time, pleasure cycling back and forth between them until they nearly reached unconsciousness. Finally, they spiraled down into afterglow, and shuddering deeply, she used the very last of her strength to pull away from him, just enough.

"That's why," she gasped, "I wanted to stop for a moment, let the--the link--settle, before....before," she finished.

Vincent didn't answer, merely curled around her, licking her ears. She closed her eyes, thinking she'd finally found the definition of the word 'swooning'.

"Are you *suicidal?*" she spat.

"Mm," he murmured, capturing a nipple again. Her entire body spasmed, like a pistol shot; short, sharp, and startling. Carefully, so carefully she almost didn't feel it until it was inside, he slid one of his fingers inside her. She knew exactly where the claw was on that finger, because of the link; she also knew that he knew exactly what to do, and not hurt her, because of the link. He pressed upwards, deeply inside, and she cried out once. It seemed that she possessed something equivalent of the humans' so-called 'G-spot', and now Vincent knew, as well. He pressed the spot again, and she arched, coming a third time. Before she'd even finished, he had pulled her towards him again, laying flat on the bed and lifting her over his erect penis.

*Vincent, no!* she thought, despairingly, before he brought her down onto him. Immediately, she sunk her teeth into her lower lip and curled her hands into fists, the pleasure was that intense. But he didn't move beyond that, something she felt terribly grateful for.

He flicked her nipple and she jarred out of her thoughts, panting, to look down into his eyes.

*Better,* he thought, and then, *Come with me, Miranda.*

*Haven't I been?* she thought flippantly, nearly hysterically.

*Not in the way I mean.* He touched her cheek lightly; even that light a touch rocked her. *Come with me.*

She stared into his eyes, glowing purple meeting melting blue, and fell into them, spiraling together with the presence called Vincent, as their essences met and merged. This was a deeper pleasure, a stronger feeling, and it was part of what she meant when she had told him that mental bonds with her were deep, and intimate. They fell together into the friendly dark, combining, parting only to coalesce together again, each meeting strengthening and reinforcing the link. It only struck her as odd that Vincent had been the one to initiate the deeper bond, and not her.

And then she discovered why. She came to the level where he'd been hiding the reasons for his grief, and his pain, and relived everything with him, from the moment he'd first heard Catherine cry out, two years ago, to the moment when he lost her mental touch forever, to the moment that he had held her, dying, on the roof of the building she'd been jailed in, watching the helicopter containing his son--his son!--fly away.

But this time he wasn't alone through it; Miranda was supporting him, as some dim and distant part of his mind had hoped for. This time it was easier, and he was so grateful, he wept. Miranda said nothing; she did not need to, for he heard whatever she would have said before she even thought it, at this level. And they held each other in that spangled darkness, and healed, and began an end to grieving--for now, it was their grief, their loss, shared. And they returned, remembering again they had bodies, and why. Miranda leaned down to Vincent, began to kiss him, gently, as he kissed her, and both tried to quell the riptide of pleasure, keep it slow, keep it soft.

And for a while it worked, Miranda gently rocking on him, their kisses warm and loving, the desire still intense, but low. It wasn't truly Vincent's fault that when he pushed her up again, the sharp, sensitive tip of his penis drove straight into that nerve bundle inside her. And it wasn't truly Miranda's fault that when it happened, she clenched down, encasing him in an even tighter sheath.

But once it had happened, they both realized that there was no going back. With an animal howl, his hips pistoned off the bed, lifting her into the air, resting her entire weight on his upright penis. She was impaled again, so deeply that scarlet tears started from her eyes. She could feel him moving inside her, and so could he, and his breath came in sharp gasps. He hadn't known how deeply he'd been inside her, earlier, until this moment.

She felt consciousness waver, and far worse, she felt herself falling backwards, onto the bed. But he followed her, never pulling out, managing to hold her hips to him while the rest of her fell onto the bedspread. Then he began to piston in and out of her wildly, moving so fast that the sensations blurred, and she felt the orgasm building in both of them, closer, closer, until it arrived, and she opened her legs wide, tossing her head back, vibrating.

And he drove inside, one final deep thrust, and captured her attention again, holding her eyes as they both found their release. She quivered, spasming, her eyes wide with emotion, wanting to close them yet wanting to have his eyes on her just one more moment. He held her, his entire body trembling, wanting to close his eyes but not wanting to let any look at her go by, this night.

And the passion between them began to fade at last, exhaustion replacing desire, desire dimming to ashes and embers. He held her to his chest in tender arms, listening to her listening to his heartbeat, the link strong and binding even now. He listened to her thoughts quiet, and her breathing settle, and her mind drift away to dreaming. He listened to her dreams, marveling at their alien scope, the places she held as precious in her deep memories. And without a single regret, he turned back the covers of her bed, lifting her into it, and tucking her in. And then, he climbed in beside her, reasoning that if the maid found them, Miranda, at least, could pluck that sole memory from the maid's recollection, and send her on her way. He felt danger, but far away, and he was too tired to feel afraid.

The sun was just lighting the sky when he finally fell asleep.

The most amazing dream, Miranda first thought, seeing the sheer curtains hiding the French doors, barely dimming the strong noon light that poured into the room. She stretched, yawning hugely, cat-like, and encountered an obstacle behind her, in the bed.

She turned, slowly, feeling languorous, completely relaxed. She saw Vincent, still sleeping. Slowly her mouth curved into an astonished smile. *No dream, then...*

At that, he turned, heavy lids opening, something very like a purr rumbling out of his chest. *A dream, am I?*

Then he turned to face her, and all thought stopped. He'd had dreams of light like this, of light everywhere, to see clearly by. It still stopped him dead, struck him, with the beauty of it and with a sense of dim terror. Immediately at that Miranda rose, blocking his view. He gazed at her, a blank stare ready to break into shock.

"Several things you need to know," she said aloud. "First, the maid only comes when I call, and second, we not only don't have to leave today, you don't have to leave by the way you came tonight; there is a very small, very private elevator I have access to, and you can ride down either in it or beneath it, it matters not to anyone." She paused for a moment, looking at him. "For that matter...stars and sand, Vincent, you don't have to leave at all."

Suddenly she rose, walking towards the bathroom, and before she disappeared into it, he heard, as if hearing an echo, *There. It's said. Now, we don't have to worry about it anymore. And you can leave when you want.*

That bemused him; feeling the still and solid depth of the link between them bemused him more. He knew exactly when it was safe to enter the bathroom, and wondered why he had waited at all. Politeness? Courtesy?

Knowing his thoughts, she smiled at him, simply saying, "I'll draw a bath. Come join me when you're finished."

She walked off into what he had taken for a linen closet at first glance. The door was not open long enough for him to see inside, and he didn't want to spoil it for her by pulling it out of her mind. He was going to learn a lot from this, he thought, smiling his curious smile. Then smiled again, knowing she had heard.

He strode forward, into the closet.

There was a short, half-moon of a hallway, which she'd left dark, even though he saw the curve of a light overhead. Then he finished the curve and was in the main room, where she'd gone. It was a marvel; grey marble on the floor, plants everywhere, huge, floor-to-ceiling windows set into arched frames. The glass was frosted, of course. Light, such light as he'd only seen in dreams, filled the room, saturating it with colors impossible to capture with only candles and oil lamps. Everything glimmered, glistened, shimmered in the sun-drenched air, and Vincent stood in awe.

It was half cathedral and half forest, with small nooks for robes and towels to hang, and large mirrors hung with drapes, and even benches scattered about, with statuary beside them. Some of the benches were stone, some were padded with striped satin or brocade. Besides some were art books, besides others were empty pitchers or glass bowls, also empty. He saw two doors on the far side of the room, one heavy wood and the other seemingly hammered copper. It was a big room. Finally, he pulled himself away, following the sound of water, and his breath stopped when he saw her.

The water was pouring from a small pool overhead, nearly hidden by greenery and black rocks. Inset into the lower rock wall was a dark metal plate with a temperature gauge on it. Several glass bottles of varicolored liquid, and scattered bars of soap rested beneath it on a polished rock shelf. There was another niche beside it, covered with a thin plate of clear glass, through which jewel-toned washcloths and what looked like natural sponges could be seen.

Under the mini-waterfall she stood, water sleeking down her pale back, her hair a flow of ink into the water. The silver streak at her temple stood out; for some reason it was important to know if that was natural, or not, without asking, and that was something that she never thought about. Her thin arms were raised, and the barest outlines of ribs could be seen from her sides; it was hard to get her to eat enough, under any circumstances.

Then she turned, and saw him, and smiled, stretching out his arms to beckon him in, and he forgot to inhale the breath he'd started on.

It wasn't that she was that physically stunning; Catherine, they would both admit, had been prettier, and possessed of more curves than this gracile water-sprite smiling at him. But there was something about her, about the way she looked at him, about the way her lips curved; something in those wide, luminescent eyes. Her figure even at this distance could be called androgynous; even the small breasts that were nearly all nipple gave little away, and the curve of her hips and the swell of her belly were well within the limits of a feminine man. It was more and less than any of those, something elemental, something nearly primal in her pose, in her expression. It sang to him, charged his blood, made him want to rush into the pool and take her, there, at the edge of it, while the water surged around them both and cycled from warm to cool to icy.

"There's only one problem," she called out. "The water never gets cold."

He tilted his head. "You were listening."

"Merely eavesdropping," she replied, eyes twinkling, "but do come in or I won't be an androgynous water-sprite anymore, I'll be a tall, thin raisin!"

Laughing, he walked into the pool, lifting her when he was next to her and holding her close.

"Good morning," he whispered into her hair, and *You don't know how I've missed you,* into the link.

*Of course I do,* she replied. *I missed you, too.*

He led her towards the waterfall, gently caressing the back of her neck, and asked what was in all the bottles. She pointed out shampoos, body oils, various herbal compilations, and he pulled one from the crowd that smelled of forest, as well as being a deep green. He looked at her.

"I could scrub your back, if you like."

"Mm," she sighed, turning towards him and brushing her hair over her shoulder with a languid hand. *You mean, I'll scrub yours if you'll scrub mine?*

*You told me yourself the water won't get cold...*

"Mm," she sighed again, while his hands began to rub soap into her back. Occasionally, one of his hands would stray, cupping in slippery fashion around a breast, around her mound. She arched back against him, smiling. He scrubbed her skin with one of the sponges until it glowed, a luminescent alabaster. He rinsed her back with water from a murex shell, dipping it into the pool repeatedly, then washed her hair gently with the forest soap. She closed her eyes, just enjoying the sensations of his hands on her.

It seemed to take hours, or perhaps time was simply suspended for him; years from now, he would remember this moment anew, and once again be astounded. He kept stopping when the sun would glint off her hair, or his, bringing peacock or copper highlights to the surface, and marvel. He watched the sparkles across the water. He felt sun, for the first time, warm against his back. He breathed in the smell of the soap from her hair, the smell of the water and damp rock, and kept wondering if this was all some marvelous dream.

Miranda, for her part, said little, letting this experience soak into him. Once her hair was washed and her body scrubbed, she turned to him, pulling him under the waterfall while she debated amongst the bottles. Finally she smiled, uncorking a brown glass bottle and handing it to Vincent.

He raised an eyebrow but inhaled the scent, and opened his eyes wide. Most soaps that weren't made in the City Below smelled of chemicals, harsh and acrid. This smelled of almond oil, and honey and cloves, and just detectable underneath, a clean, natural soap smell. He gladly let her comb it through his hair, and rub it into his back and chest. She spared nothing to make sure he was clean as well, even sinking to her knees in the steaming water to thoroughly wash his genitals, his buttocks, his lower back. Even after the hours they spent together last night, he still rose to her touch. She took it as compliment, not command, and sluiced him clean of soap, her touch gentle and undemanding. And he was elated to still smell the scent of almonds and honey on himself, when the water rinsed all other evidence away.

She left him then, rising out of the pool, water trickling from her form onto the marble tiles. She fetched two towels and returned, handing one to him as he climbed the steps out. The towel she handed him, a deep, forest green, was large enough that he could have wrapped it around himself and have material left over, and long enough that it covered him from his chest to his ankles. When he looked the question at her, she simply shrugged, nearly shrouded in her own grey towel.

"I like large towels," was all she said. Then she smiled.

"To the left is the sauna. Or we can leave this room and go back to the rest of the apartment. It is entirely up to you."

He noticed that it was rather chill in this room, and wondered if that had been her intent, or if it was simply the design. He motioned to the left.

"By all means, give me the complete tour of your new home," he said.

She smiled wryly, but led the way to the wooden door. Close to it, he identified it as red cedar, the smell comforting in the damp air. There was another black metal switch plate beside it, and she set it for 200 degrees, and to chime at the half hour. Then she led him inside.

The smell of cedar was stronger in the sauna. There were three tiers of benches, on three walls, and on the walls behind the third tier were hung what appeared to be bundles of twigs, upside down. There were also various leather switches and crops. Vincent became slightly uncomfortable. Miranda merely motioned to the rows of benches.

"Please, sit down."

It was just beginning to warm up inside, and she pointed out the wooden construct on the fourth wall. It was full of river rocks over heating elements. She also pointed out the devices he'd noticed initially.

"When you sauna, there are purists who want the full treatment--the dry heat, followed by the wet heat, followed by switching the back and sides to bring the blood closer to the surface. Generally followed by a dip in an icy pool."

Miranda stood, reaching into another inset closet and pulling out a wooden bucket and ladle. She dipped the ladle into the bucket and poured the water within on the rocks, sending steam hissing into the air. "I'm not a purist, I just like sauna. But I provide all necessities for any guests who may want it."

"Not that you expect any."

She smiled, but her smile was sad for the first time.

"Not that I expect any," she repeated softly.

Vincent nodded, feeling the sweat begin to spring out on his brow, but feeling very safe, very drowsy. "I see." Then he turned to look at her, through the spiraling tendrils of steam.

*So,* he thought softly, *tell me who Charis is.*

*Charis...* She sighed, leaning against him. *This could take a while.*

*We have time, so you've told me...?*

*So we have,* she thought back, while his hands began to caress her shoulders. It was a long story, she thought, and dealt with many old pains, old terrors...no less that what he'd told her, but still...She began slowly, her mind filling with images of when she'd left New York for the second time, still feeling raw and scarred from staging her own suicide, and emotionally drained from the discovery that the one woman chasing her, with all the tenaciousness of a hound of Hel's, was the one woman that Vincent loved.

Words abandoned, she simply relived the experience, meeting his mind and drawing him down into her past. She remembered the turmoil of emotions that had precipitated her leaving, the near-attack on Catherine, the near-attack on him--and there were so many echoes there, of the first time she'd nearly attacked him, fifteen years ago!

It all trailed back to London, and the memories inspired there were oddly enough echoes from another past, of her time spent in Italy in the tender care of cutthroats. She had been playing the part of Mykonos Athanasius, an expatriate Greek man, advisor to the Medicis, enemy to all others. It was where she had met her beloved Eugenie, French, young, and an artist as well. She remembered her so clearly after so many years, Vincent could still smell the rose perfume in Eugenie's copper-molten hair.

But all she had was one blissful, drowsy, scented summer, before a vampire named Gervase slew her. Gervase Giancomo was not a vampire as she was; he was one of those she still referred to as the dead, the infected; those individuals kept alive by some virus passed through the blood. She arranged for the funeral, and discovered the bites of the beast there, while Eugenie was resting in her coffin. She waited for her that night, and Eugenie went on a killing spree that Mykonos was powerless to avoid. At the dawn, she came back to rest, and Gervase followed her, requesting a death; Mykonos' own. Eugenie refused, and Gervase snapped her spine, and broke out the east wall of the mausoleum, so that Eugenie would burn to her death when the sun rose. Mykonos was powerless to help her; Eugenie chose death over being used as Gervase's pawn.

It started a vendetta that lasted centuries. She had met with other vampires of this world before. Those that slept during the day, feared crosses and holy water, hated garlic and wolf's bane. Never until that moment had she realized how much damage could be done by the infected ones. She began to slaughter them wholesale, by the dozens, by the hundreds, only pausing when their memories revealed no trace of Gervase, the hated; purging their kind from the earth with a sort of bitter joy; knowing that she did it for herself, and not Eugenie, yet calling Eugenie's name despairingly with every vampire she took. And still, elusive, the monster was hidden from her, and centuries passed by, in searching for him.

Long before she'd met Vincent for the first time, it had gotten old. It had gotten more than old, it had gotten depressing. And though it shook her heart, made her think that she was betraying her lost love, she stopped killing the walking dead.

Then she met Charis Hammard, a young, elfin art student abroad from New York, of all places. Miranda had arrived some days ago, had found a new identity--Mercy Wallis--and had set up identification and a room in which to sleep. For the first time in centuries, she wanted to be with another woman, a woman who was not just a ghost in the memory. And in the end, Charis turned out to be yet another pawn of Gervase's, and nearly died when Mercy killed the elder vampire, fittingly by sunlight.

"After that," Miranda said, "it's been touch and go. We've been firebombed, poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangled, beaten and attacked. For many months we took to sleeping in shifts; Charis watching me nights after a brief hunt, I watching her during the day, since I have no problem with the sun. It is harsh on a relationship, these battleground conditions. Things had nearly stabilized when I left." Briefly, sparingly, she related the incident, sparing her pride nothing.

"I left," she said. "I had no reason to, I simply did. And every day that goes by brings us further apart. At this point, I do not honestly know if I will ever go back."

Vincent said nothing, letting her memories of the past sink into him.

*Do you love her?* he finally thought.

*Desperately,* came her unstinting response. *Though I fear it. There are so many things unsaid between us--I killed so many of her friends, and she was a glad servant to my nemesis for more years than either of us care to count. It's hard to judge in these situations.

*Also, she would be forgiven by her peers, save for the fact that she remains with me. She is hunted because I am hunted; because I am the slayer of Gervase. She would not be in danger save for me. It's frustrating.*

There was silence for a while, then she added, "It's more frustrating to realize I'd rather be lonely, rather never love again, than take the risks for a true relationship. That it's become easier for me to discount emotion, discount my emotions, over laying my heart on the line and waiting for her. Strange, isn't it?"

"No," Vincent said, sadly. "Not so strange at all..."

There was silence for a long time, as the water slowly steamed away from the rocks.

"With any luck," Miranda added, "she's in Monaco, awaiting my call. I think that, truly, is what I wait for. She has money, she has a safe place to stay, and with any luck, none of the last of Gervase's crew will find her--before I do."

"Now, you have to decide whether you want to find her?"

Vincent's eyes were warm and understanding.

"Yes," she told him. "Precisely."

Later, as the rocks cooled, they chose to leave the sauna. Miranda "prepared" lunch--she ordered two ten-ounce New York steaks from a delivery service, cooked rare, with a Waldorf salad and potato crisps on the side; for herself, she called a second service, to ask for their superlative mushroom broth, with a split of crisp white. In less than twenty minutes, the doorbell chimed, and Vincent nearly went into heart failure. She tried not to smile as she told him to wait in the bedroom. He was literally shaking as the two couriers laid their packages on the table and Miranda calmly paid them. Then they were gone, and by the time he emerged from the bedroom, she handed him a glass of white wine, from her small bottle.

"Here. You need to relax. It's only take-out."

He growled at her mockingly, and she began to remove covers, and set out pale china. The aroma of the meat wafted temptingly towards him. It was glazed in a burgundy sauce, with cracked black pepper, and the potato crisps were dusted with something he later found out was dried mustard, surprisingly tart and hot. He set to with a vengeance, only then realizing how hungry he'd been, while she serenely sipped her soup, or her wine. He only looked up from his plate when the steaks had been devoured, to find her offering him a napkin, a carefully neutral expression on her face.

"Thank you," he said grudgingly.

"For lunch? It was nothing." In her thoughts, faint giggles.

He put the napkin to his chin, brought it back coated in meat juices and bits of pepper. "Ah," he said uncomfortably.

She only smiled.

The day moved towards dusk, then, and they retired to the couch, while she pored over her minimal selection of CDs near the stereo. She chose Mozart, Bach, and several simple piano airs by various artists. And they spent the day listening to the music, talking rarely, merely enjoying the company. Eventually, they went to bed, and played out a softer, less tempestuous version of the previous night. Knowing, each of them, that the other would always be near, made them more secure, less frantic. And, a few hours later, they slept, cradling each other in gentle arms.

Vincent was warm against her back when she heard voices. Instantly she was awake, unmoving, gauging who had entered and who was speaking. Unpleasantly, she only heard one of the voices verbally; the other, though audible, wasn't being heard with her ears, only her mind. Briefly, she concentrated.

"So now you've replaced me. With her," the lighter voice spat bitterly.

"I haven't replaced you. I will never replace you." Vincent said that, sounding half-asleep. Miranda slowly turned, spreading an open palm across the air above Vincent's furry chest. With a small effort, she defined the speaker in a blue glow, and to her surprise saw Catherine, bedraggled and bruised, wearing a torn hospital gown. She was scratched and bleeding, and thin, the hollows under her jaw and under her eyes pronounced.

"You don't love me now," the ghost said, mournfully.

"I have never stopped loving you," Vincent murmured. "I will never stop..."

The voices continued, one low, one bitter, until she sat up.

"Catherine," she whispered.

The glowing image of Catherine turned to face her.

"You can see me," she said, in wonderment.

"That--doesn't suit you," Miranda said softly. Her voice sounded odd even to her. Catherine shook her head lightly, as if she hadn't heard Miranda correctly.

Vincent awoke then, feeling the warmth radiating from Miranda's open hand, still hovering over his belly. Just at that moment, she rose from the bed, tucking the black sheet around her, and walked over to where Catherine was.

"Something different," she said, still in that odd, still tone. Catherine cowered away from her, looking up into her burning eyes. She reached out, and Catherine shuddered once, all over.

"What are you doing?" Catherine said. "Stop it!"

"You're fighting me," she said, cocking her head to one side. Mercy thought for a long moment, just staring at Catherine.

"Don't fight me. May I...touch you?"

Instantly Catherine tensed, and Miranda shook her head slowly.

"Not in that way." Catherine simply looked at her mistrustfully.

Miranda closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating, then slowly reached out, touching the hollow in Catherine's throat. Vincent saw her ripple, as if he was seeing her underwater, then her image changed, and brightened. Where before there had been bruises and bleeding, now there was healthy skin, healed flesh. The tattered hospital gown she'd been wearing had disappeared; in its place was a shimmering peach satin gown, floor-length, hanging delicately from her shoulders by the thinnest of spaghetti straps, clinging to her body's remembered curves closely. Her hair was no longer matted; it gleamed gold, clean and brushed. Even her eyes sparkled.

Miranda and Catherine stared at each other for a long moment; Mercy was the first to turn away.

"Forgive the presumption," she said, still oddly, still softly. "It seemed to make sense. It's a bedroom, so a gown...I apologize." Still turning, she walked towards the door, then turned away from the entrance, spreading her hands to either side. She sighed once, softly. In moments the walls began to sparkle with the same blue glow, and before the room completely sealed, she stepped through the breach where the door was, and waited until it sealed over. Now, Vincent and Catherine saw her through a blue filter, and it did not please the ghost that the blue radiance only brought out the purple highlights, in her hair and in her eyes.

"Vincent," she said, clearing her throat, "I wish I could give you more time, but I can't, I don't have the reserves. But what I can offer, please, take, Vincent. She is here until morning; after that, she goes back to being unseen, unheard, except in your dreams. I...will give you privacy. And I will see you in the morning. I'll leave now."

"No," Vincent said. He stood, walking past Catherine towards the entrance.

"Truly, it will be no bother," she said, not meeting his eyes. Her voice had clouded. "I will...make myself absent, and you will have privacy, and quiet."

"No," he said, more harshly. "Do you think I am an idiot? Have you forgotten what I asked you earlier? I will not let you sever the link! That is not what I asked you!"

Behind them, Catherine's odd "voice" shimmered in the air.

"You have a--mental link with her, Vincent?"

Distracted, the lion nodded, not turning. Only Miranda saw her face, and heard her whisper.

"Then you truly have replaced me..."

Miranda winced.

"Please, Vincent," she whispered. "It's not that I will be abandoning you; I'll return in the morning--"

"You cannot lie to a telepath," he said angrily, quietly. "You taught me that. And now, you are trying to lie to me. Why?"

Her face contorted briefly, and without seeming volition, she sank to her knees before the shining barrier.

"Vincent," she whispered, anguished. "Look at Catherine." She gestured behind him, and left her hand in the air until he had turned, taking in the sight of Catherine, arms wrapped defensively around herself, looking lost and angry and hurt. Behind him, Miranda's voice went on.

"She thinks I brought her back to torture her, to prove that you no longer love her. She thinks that you've abandoned her even in memory."

He hissed at that, whipping his head around to look at Miranda. But she went on.

"And you...You think I brought her back so that I could walk effortlessly out of your life. That it would give me an excuse to discard you. Vincent..." She paused, her voice choking off.

"Vincent, I never walked effortlessly out of your life, not even when I left you for the first time. If anything, it was easier the second time, because you had Catherine. Because you loved. Because..." She hung her head, her low voice drifting up from the curtain of her dark hair.

"Because I could love you then, and leave you, and it wouldn't hurt as much. Because leaving you when you were all alone was the hardest thing I've ever done."

Vincent sank to the floor as well, reaching out. Her sudden, sharp curse shocked him, checking the hand in motion.

"Damn it! If you touch that barrier before morning, before it dissipates on its own, Catherine disappears! Do you want that? Do you?"

Stung, he shook his head.

"Then," she said sadly, "we'll discuss it in the morning, and I'll leave. And I--won't sever the bond." She looked behind him once more, at Catherine, and he caught a brief image in her mind of the one time he'd seen Catherine naked, by torch light, on sand.

"It would make it easier if you'd let me...because I know what I would do in your position."

He tried to speak; later, he never knew if a denial or a reassurance had been on his mind. She shook her head once, then again, setting her hair to fall into place around her. She was out the door, keys in hand, before it sunk in that she'd left in only the bed sheet.

Then Catherine's arms were around him, and he forgot everything except the feel of her.

***

Miranda committed a small act of thievery, breaking into a large clothing store and leaving before the security could get there. She stole no jewels, no money, only three items: a long grey skirt, with mother-of-pearl buttons from the waist down, a pair of black suede flats without decoration, and a simple, collarless black tunic. She walked to the front counter, and lifted the tool she found there to remove the ink-filled devices that kept people unlike her from walking off with the store's property. When she heard security scrambling in the back, she left by the door she'd entered, and ran into the shadows of the alley. She bundled up the sheet, leaving it hanging over a dumpster, sure that it would arrive either in the City beneath or in some deserving soul's hands, and equally sure that she could replace it with better success than whoever would take it. Then she changed, quickly, unbuttoning the skirt to mid-thigh, and turned out of the alley.

Very soon, as soon as she had left the store behind, she turned down another alley and began running towards Central Park. To distract herself from Vincent's actions, she drew on his memories of the city, how he would get to Central Park from here. She was astounded at the detailed maps in his head--he'd managed to memorize New York City! It amazed her. And then she was in the park, running across green grass, for once just giving in to the thrill of air over her skin and the feel of running, full out, just running under the stars. For the briefest of moments she considered going down below to inform Father that Vincent was fine, and unharmed; then she checked the thought and ran past the drainage tunnel, thinking that she could only make things worse. And then it was just her and the moon and the trees, running through the shadows...

***

Vincent, in his own way, marveled at Miranda's talents--he held Catherine again, smelled the faint perfume on her skin, felt her, warm and alive in his arms. He wanted Miranda back to ask how, to ask why--then, Catherine's lips trembled over his and he wanted no-one but Catherine.

"You're here," he heard himself whisper, "you're here, you're here..."

"Oh, God, Vincent, I missed you so," Catherine cried.

He remembered, vividly, the last and only time they'd been together, right before she'd been kidnapped--how both of them were shy, scared, painfully nervous. Vincent was more nervous than she, for he had never been with anyone before, and dreaded her reaction to him. He needn't have worried, but still did, treating her with the same delicacy with which he would touch a fragile porcelain doll--the last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt her, in any way. Their passion was gentle, their movements soft, and their ecstasy was more a joining of souls than a savage consummation.

It was much the same this second time. He couldn't stop kissing her, after he'd felt her lips upon his. He kissed and caressed her, running claw edges slowly down her sides, her spine, while her eyes fluttered open and closed. Their bond blossomed anew, and they needed no words, but Catherine used them anyway.

"Oh, Vincent, Vincent!" she cried, embracing him, pulling him closer. "Don't stop!"

He didn't. Hours seemed to pass while he only held her, lifting the satin of her gown with the softest of touches, kissing every inch of her, smoothing his furred hands over the silk of her flesh. He reveled again in her beauty, the gold of her hair, the peach of her skin, the rounded curves of her hips, her breasts. He cupped each breast in his hands, tonguing the nipples to hardness while she gasped; his mind, unbidden, comparing Miranda's spare form with Catherine's. He brought her to the edge of release several times over, with lips and tongue, while her hands fluttered over his chest, his face. Finally, he positioned himself over her, and, parting her legs, was inside her once again. They sighed in the same instant, joined once more, body and soul.

***

Miranda paused under a tree, far from lights and paths and passersby. She had tried to run until running was all that filled her mind, but Vincent was still too clear. She sank down the rough bark of the old oak, leaning against the trunk and closing her eyes. She gave in to him, to them, then, parting her legs and stroking her bare thighs lightly. She felt the worst sort of voyeur, but she didn't want to stop; the mental link made it seem as if Vincent's hands were touching her body, and her own hands were touching Catherine's. Her breathing became panting, became moaning, there in the leaf-dappled darkness of the park. She dared to touch herself, first lightly, then firmly, dipping a finger inside herself, feeling the warmth and wetness. She wished Vincent were twins; worse, she wished she had been able to stay, to kiss Catherine as he drove inside her.

"Hey, baby, I can help you with that..."

When she heard the man's voice, she wasn't even truly surprised. She quickly scanned him where he stood, and found that he was clean, free of drugs and disease and surprisingly corrupt for one so young; perfect prey for her hunger. She said nothing to his invitation, simply stretched out her arms, and parted her legs further. His eyes widened when he saw the black tuft of curls between her pale legs, visible even in this darkness; he practically ran across the grass to her.

She enclosed him in strong arms, smiling wickedly, still panting with reaction.

"Uh--don't you want me to--"

"Shh," she said, tilting his head to one side without preamble, and sinking her fangs into his neck.

He arched, nearly screaming, as she poured sensation into him, drew blood from him, held him as he trembled and shook. He was muttering something that she didn't catch. Then he began thrusting against her, his breathing rough, the denim fabric he wore rougher, against her bare flesh. She wrapped strong thighs around him, keeping him poised on the brink, grinding herself against his hardness, still trapped inside his clothing.

"Oh, God, lady, please, please God, let me, let me--"

She ignored him, pushing him over onto the grass, still licking seeping blood from his neck. Then she rose, her hands flat against his chest, bucking toward his hips, beginning to cry out herself.

The man nearly burst into tears; his entire body trembled, wanting to be inside her and not being able to get to the zipper on his jeans. Finally he snarled, reaching for it, and only succeeded in flipping the flap open so that her clit was in direct contact with the cold brass teeth. She screamed, coming to another pistol-shot orgasm, writhing so wildly upon him that he came himself--inside his jeans.

She rose from him then, looking at him from under hooded eyes, disappearing without a qualm into the tree shadows.

He sat there, leaning against one elbow, feeling the damp warmth in his pants and the blood trickling down his neck. At last, he shook his head, rising and wandering away. She nearly laughed, but that would have given her position away. She simply watched him leave, then turned to walk deeper into the trees.

***

Vincent shuddered, driving more roughly into Catherine's softness, tasting blood on his tongue and feeling Miranda's sharp pleasure in the distance. They spiraled together once more, feeding on each other's satisfaction, the pleasure building again between them until both were gasping, wide-eyed, wanting more. Catherine watched him with wide eyes as well, and there were questions in her mind he didn't want her to ask. With a growl that was half moan, half sob, he bent to kiss her, feeling the ghost's delight overcome her suspicions. And they were joined again, reaching for ecstacy, riding the crest of the wave. Dimly, he knew Miranda was shuddering along with him, clutching the trunk of the oak, her mouth open and smiling.

And then there was only Catherine, only her soft cries in his ears, as hot warmth burst from his loins into her aching center, her legs clasped around him in her bliss, her head thrown back. His heart slowed as he lay beside her, touching her face, her shoulder, kissing the side of her neck.

"Oh, Vincent," she whispered, "just hold me, hold me..."

He did, inhaling again the fragrance of her hair, and wondering if the universe was cruel enough to make this all a dream at the dawn. He hoped not.

***

Miranda stayed in shadow, until her breathing returned to normal. It seemed to take longer than it should have; every time she would calm, she would feel Vincent lightly touching Catherine, lightly kissing her, and her breathing would shudder out of her again.

*Oh, my. This will be entertaining,* she thought sardonically.

*Yes, it will, won't it?* Vincent thought back.

*Aren't you supposed to be concentrating solely on your lady love?* she asked.

*Oh, I'm sure I'm supposed to,* he said. She could just make out the wry grin on his face. She began to climb the tree she was closest to, to see if she could pick out her building across the green. False dawn just lit the sky, with a deep, luminescent cobalt display. *But she's sleeping, and--you're not.* The low rumble of his mental laughter echoed through the link.

*Neither are you. Why?* she asked bluntly.

A somber tone was in his mental voice when he answered.

*Because Catherine will be gone soon. And, unless I am mistaken, so will you, to answer your Charis in Monaco. And...I do not know when I will see either of you again.*

Mm. She leaned back against the trunk, clear of other trees now as she stood, looking to the south. Ah. There it is.

*Vincent...* She paused, sighing. *This isn't easy,* she added.

*What is?*

Too true.

*Life is uncertain, godchild.*

Warmth lit his thoughts at the remembered nickname.

*If I have learned anything in my long years, it's that. I can't promise I'll be gone forever, but I can't promise I'll be back even on a yearly basis.*

*I understand that. But, Miranda, do you understand that that is why I asked for this bond? So that I would not be so much...alone?* His mental voice sounded rough, uncertain even to her.

*Oh, love...do you understand that that is why I agreed? So that I would never have to leave you alone again?* She stared towards her building, towards the penthouse, seeing only the bedroom curtains rippling in the dawn wind, nothing more. He was silent.

*She's leaving, isn't she?*

*Yes.* The single word spoke volumes through the link.

*Well, she you will see again, at Samhain if at no other time.*

*Samhain?*

*'When the walls between the worlds grow thin'...remember your Irish poet?*

*Oh. Yes. Once a year...from one of you...I think I can live with.*

She snorted derisively, climbing down from the tree, running past early-morning joggers with alacrity and contempt. In mere minutes she was at the door of her penthouse, and seconds later, she was inside.

Vincent sat on the couch, extending the phone to her.

"You're very sure of this, aren't you?"

"Very."

"What if I had no plans to call Charis?"

"Then I wouldn't be handing you the telephone. Would I?"

His low, rough laughter, tinged only slightly with loss, rang through the morning air like pealing bells.

***

"Yes, I'd like to speak with Reginald Sloane or C. Michael Talbot, please. Well, you might say I have a standing appointment. Tell them Mercy Wallis wishes to speak briefly to them. Yes, I'll wait."

She had chosen to sit next to Vincent, and he held her hand. That small comfort was amazing proof against nervousness, while she waited.

"Yes? Mr. Talbot? Of course, I'll wait."

She looked at Vincent briefly. "He's in a meeting," she said softly. His eyebrows rose and he inclined his head. She nodded briefly as well, only clutching his hand a little more tightly.

"Mr. Talbot? Hello, yes, it's Mercy Wallis. I've called...well, it's rather complicated, but my companion and I parted without exchanging exact addresses. So, I need her address given to me, or I need to give you this number, so that she may call me back at her convenience."

She paused, sending a brief burst of thought through the link. Vincent reached for the pen and the small marbled notepad, bringing them within reach of her.

"Yes, I have...in Monaco? Yes...yes...yes, thank you, Mr. Talbot, I won't keep you further. I will be in touch when our plans change; they undoubtedly will. Thank you again. Yes, good-bye."

She hung up the phone, looking down at her hands for a long time.

Vincent finally shook her shoulder gently.

"What happened, Miranda?"

"Talbot," she started. "Talbot said Charis told him that, when I called, I was to be given the number and the address at once."

Her eyes lifted to Vincent's; they were glittering with tears. "She just wants to see me. That's all. No recriminations, no conditions, no time needed alone. She just wants to see me. As soon as--as soon as I'm ready, she said." Surprising herself, Miranda burst into tears.

Vincent enfolded her in strong arms, smiling into her hair.

*You see, Miranda,* he thought softly, *she does love you. That was the rest of what bothered you, wasn't it?*

*It was. But I didn't know it until I called. Why didn't I know, Vincent?*

*For the same reason I didn't know you loved me, until now. We were not seeing deeply enough into ourselves.*

*Oh, and now we are?* She mock-punched him, and he snarled cheerfully at her.

"Well, we are," he said nearly inaudibly. "At least, into each other."

"At least, into each other," she mused. "I like that, I think."

***

Two months later, nearly asleep on an overstuffed futon next to Charis' coffin, the windows of their small basement room painted matte black, a woman named again Mercy Wallis reached out to New York, touched Vincent's mind, alert and aware, and smiled. The bulk of her belongings from the country home were in various Welsh and English long-term storage units. The only other furnishings in the small spare room were a hotplate, a tea-kettle, and a ladder-back chair painted bright cornflower blue, upon which to stack teas and instant coffees.

Vincent, one hand just touching his black queen on the chessboard, smiled back, and wished her a good night. Golden light and leather-bound books surrounded him, and the sounds of dim tapping. Father questioned his enigmatic smile, but Vincent did not answer. It was comforting, he reflected, not to be alone.

As he would never have to be alone again.

"Check," he said, moving the queen.


END
*****************
Kelandris the Mad
first one ever and down


If you wanna go back, go back. If you wanna read another Mercy story, go read it. If you wanna go somewhere else...hey, I ain't stoppin' you.

Or if you want, write me.