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Carpe Noctem Book Two
On a Wire
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Chapter One
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Once upon a time, there'd been a brief period where Victor 
Mansfield had had been in control of his own destiny.

Not when he was a kid, no. Growing up, he'd been kept firmly 
under his father's thumb. His father, a successful business man, 
had mapped out his son's life for him from an early age: He would 
graduate from high school at the top of his class, go to Queen's 
University for a degree in business management, then move into a 
vice-presidency in his father's company. Eventually he would 
marry the daughter of one or another of his father's business 
contracts, raise a couple kids of his own, preserving the 
Mansfield name. And eventually he would take over the company 
from his father.

Basically, his father wanted a clone, not a son. Too bad for him 
his son had different plans.

Sure, he'd graduated from high school, top of his class, right on 
schedule, but then he'd dropped the bombshell: He wasn't going to 
university or joining the family business, he was going to the 
police academy. His father had ranted and raved, then had thrown 
him out of the house. Vic had packed his bags, kissed his baby 
sister goodbye, then left without a word. He never saw his father 
again.

His mother had called on a regular basis at first, trying to 
change his mind, but Vic had ignored her pleas and eventually she 
had given up. He had thrown himself into his training and had 
graduated top of his class. He had hit the streets of Toronto, 
doing exactly what he wanted to do with his life: Stopping crooks 
who preyed on the weak.

And for a while, life was perfect. He loved his job, he had a 
great apartment and he fell hard for Stan, a fellow cop he'd met 
at the academy. They'd had to be discreet, of course, but life 
was good. For the first time in his life, Vic had been in 
control.

But that had only lasted a few years. Then Stan had convinced him 
to transfer over to the drug squad with him, and being in love, 
Vic had agreed. Only thing was, the squad had been dirty, and 
when he had refused to play ball, they had taken him out of the 
game.

In a flash, life had spiraled out of control. Faster than he 
would have believed possible,  Vic had found himself behind bars, 
framed for drug trafficking. He had spent the next year dodging 
would-be rapists and monsters who wanted to amuse themselves with 
the disgraced cop.

And worst of all had been knowing that Stan had done nothing to 
stop it, had *helped* them do it to him.

Then one day a woman had come to see him. She had offered him a 
way out. He could come work for her, doing the law enforcement 
that was part of his soul, but there was a catch. He would never 
again be a cop. Despite his attempts at bluster, he'd known he 
had little choice.

He had said yes.

Since that day, his life had been out of his control. The Agency 
controlled where he lived, what his hobbies were, what he did, 
even who he did it with. He knew that the Director had 
deliberately arranged things so that LiAnn would dump him. 
Perhaps it had been for the best. After all, if it had been that 
easy to drive them apart then they hadn't had much of a chance 
anyway.

It was about that time that he had started to give up on the idea 
of a permanent relationship. It just wasn't going to happen as 
long as the Agency controlled his life. But, oh how he wanted 
someone. Someone to share his life, someone to be there when he 
went to bed, when he woke up. He dreamt of it constantly. And as 
time went by, that dream had started, more and more, to wear the 
face of his other partner, Mac Ramsey, a man made commitment-shy 
by as many bad experiences as Vic.

Then, during a trip to San Francisco, life had changed 
irrevocably -- again -- and he had learned a new fact: The Agency 
didn't just control his life, it controlled his afterlife as 
well.

But he'd also learned that maybe his dreams weren't as impossible 
as he'd thought.

>>>~~~<<<

Vic hummed under his breath as he headed through the corridors of 
the Agency headquarters in Toronto. It was just after sunset on a 
beautiful early-spring evening and as usual, the place was 
deserted.

"Someone's cheerful tonight."

Vic grinned as he entered the Director's main briefing room. Mac 
was sitting alone at the table, a cocky grin on his face. He 
hadn't seen his partner in several weeks and it was good to see a 
friendly face.

"Why not? It's a gorgeous night and I don't have to deal with 
Moira tonight. In fact, I don't have to deal with her ever again. 
Trust me, Mac, if you get a choice, you don't want to be 
Gangrel." After San Francisco, they both knew that it was only a 
matter of time before the Director arranged Mac's Embrace, just 
like she'd *planned* to arrange Vic's. Unfortunately -- or 
fortunately, depending on your point of view -- circumstances had 
taken care of it before she could.

Mac snorted. Moira was the Gangrel leader for the few members of 
the clan in Toronto. The Director had ordered her to train Vic in 
his new abilities, using threats to back up the order. To say 
that Moira had been upset would be an understatement, but the 
Director was *not* going to let one of her agents be Caitiff -- 
clanless.

The Gangrel clan didn't have enough of a presence in Toronto to 
command any power, let alone a seat in the Prince's council. They 
were there on the Prince's sufferance, and if they wanted to 
stay, they had to follow her orders. Vic had quickly learned that 
his sire's -- Cash's -- position in San Francisco was a rare one 
for the clan these days since they'd decided to go independent.

However, obeying the Prince didn't mean that Moira couldn't make 
his life hell, just as long as she taught him. She had done both 
with great skill.

Some of the basic skills had come quickly -- surprising so, Moira 
had admitted once, then denied ever having said anything -- such 
as seeing in the dark and growing the animal-like talons of the 
Kindred. He'd also found it easy to summon animals in the area 
and even understand their strange forms of communication, 
although he had the best rapport with cats.

But there were a few skills that still eluded him. No matter how 
hard he tried, he still couldn't manage to merge with earth like 
Moira could. She'd finally given up, saying that the first time 
he was stuck outside on a sunny day and weakened he would either 
figure it out or die; she didn't really care which. Vic just felt 
it was too much like being buried alive.

The other skill he'd had little success with was shape-shifting. 
Again, it seemed more a mental block than lack of ability. A part 
of him was scared that if he *did* succeed in turning into an 
animal, he wouldn't be able to change back.

Moira also hadn't been shy about telling him just how unusual all 
this personal training was. Most Gangrel were Embraced, then 
abandoned to figure out all of this on their own. They would be 
watched and eventually brought into the clan if they didn't 
manage to get themselves killed first. She made no secret of the 
fact that she thought that all this hand-holding was a disgrace 
that would weaken him in the end. She also made it plain that she 
considered him Caitiff, even if he *did* know his sire. 
Certainly, she wasn't going to acknowledge him as part of the 
Toronto clan.

Vic didn't much care.

"So that's it, you've learned everything you need to know?" Mac 
asked, breaking his train of thought.

Vic shrugged. "She said she's taught me everything that *can* be 
taught and tossed me out last night. Told me to stay the hell 
away from her from now on." Vic grinned. That last injunction was 
one he had no problem with; he and the older Kindred got along 
like, well... cats and dogs. Moira's preferred shape was a wolf, 
while Vic's best attempt at shape-shifting had been definitely 
feline. And Moira's job -- if you could call it that -- was at 
the Toronto Zoo, so it wasn't like they were likely to ever run 
into each other. He hoped.

"Indeed. Well then, I suppose you're ready to go back to work."

Both Mac and Vic jumped at the unexpected voice behind them. They 
turned and found the Director watching them with an amused 
expression on her face. She moved over to her usual seat on the 
other side of the long conference table. She dropped the folder 
she was carrying in front of her seat with a bang, making them 
jump again.

"We have reports that a small farm about an hour north of Toronto 
is being used for the manufacture of a new designer drug," she 
said, sliding the folder towards them. The first item in it was a 
map, followed by the lab's report on the new drug, detailing its 
make-up and effects. It sounded pretty nasty from what Vic read. 
It provided incredible hallucinations, making it very popular, 
but was addictive from the first dose and inevitably fatal.

"The two of you are to go check out the farm. If you see signs 
that it *is* being used for that purpose, you will simply report 
it. You will *not* act against them. Is that understood, Mr. 
Ramsey?" She stared at the younger man pointedly.

"What? I can follow orders," Mac protested. Vic snorted, 
remembering all the times when Mac's enthusiasm -- not to mention 
impatience -- had led to trouble.

Mac finally sighed and nodded. "Fine. Yes, I understand. Okay?"

"Good. Now get going. And boys?" she called out as they headed 
for the door. "Try to be back before dawn."

>>>~~~<<<

Emerging into the cool night air, Vic took a deep, grateful 
breath. Indoor air had always seemed stuffy to him, but since his 
Embrace he'd found it almost choking in its deadness. Thankfully, 
his job allowed him to spend most of his time outdoors.

He started to head for his truck when Mac grabbed his arm and 
started to steer him towards his own car. "What's wrong with the 
truck?" Vic snapped, suddenly irritated. He *liked* his truck. He 
certainly preferred it to the ostentatious thing that Mac 
insisted on driving. Besides, if they were going to farm country, 
a truck would be better camouflage.

"Nothing," Mac told him soothingly. "However, the truck doesn't 
have a trunk modified to let in plenty of air while still 
blocking out light. Just in case, you know."

Vic blinked in surprise. It wasn't a response he'd expected. "You 
let them modify your beloved car?"

Mac's eyes slid to the side in an 'I'm embarrassed or hiding 
something' look. "It was my idea," he mumbled.

Vic stopped in his tracks, completely thrown by the answer. He 
and Mac were friends -- Hell, more than friends since San 
Francisco -- but still, that was Mac's *car*. A classic... 
something; he'd never been big on car types. "Thanks," he said 
honestly. Of course, the thing had a tiny little trunk that would 
be unbelievably uncomfortably, but like they said, it's the 
thought that counts. Still, it was the little things like this 
that made him wonder if maybe there was a chance for him and Mac.

They'd slept together, during the trip to San Francisco. It 
wasn't exactly planned, or anything. After his Embrace, the 
Director had locked the two of them in a room for almost two 
days. She'd said that he had to learn control of the Hunger fast, 
and she had just the incentive: If he didn't, Mac was the one he 
would end up killing. That was unthinkable to Vic, so he'd 
controlled the Hunger. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that 
he'd *channeled* it. He'd fed off Mac without killing him, but 
he'd also practically raped the younger man, even if Mac had 
cooperated enthusiastically. Mac may have been willing, but if he 
hadn't been, it wouldn't have changed anything.

It had taken Vic a while to deal with that after their return to 
Toronto.

Afterwards, Mac had suggested continuing as casual lovers, but 
Vic had been reluctant. He still wanted something permanent, and 
Mac had admitted that he wasn't really ready for the level of 
commitment that Vic was looking for.

However, Mac had pointed out that maybe they *shouldn't* get that 
serious right away. He'd suggested taking it one day at a time 
until they were both sure. As he said, it didn't have to be 
*that* complicated. Vic was wondering if maybe Mac was right, 
maybe he *did* ask for too much, too fast. They would see. After 
his exposure to the Gangrel of Toronto and their loose, almost 
pack-like relationships, suddenly what he had with Mac was 
sounding more and more stable all the time.

But in the meantime they had a farm to check out. No longer 
protesting, Vic climbed into the passenger's seat and opened the 
glove compartment to see what CDs Mac had, hoping he'd find 
something worth listening to since there wasn't a chance in hell 
they'd be able to agree on a radio station. Inside, mixed in with 
the latest in the flash-in-the-pan dance bands, he was surprised 
to find a couple of his favorite blues albums.

Mac noticed what he was looking at and shrugged nonchalantly. 
"Hey, if we're going to be using my car more often, I figured I 
should have *something* you'd listen to. Just as long as I can 
listen to my music at least *part* of the time. Besides, they're 
not bad," he added, looking embarrassed having to admit liking 
something older than a month.

"You've listened to them? Mac Ramsey actually listened to Muddy 
Waters? And the world didn't come to a sudden and explosive end?" 
Vic shook his head in amused disbelief.

"Hey, watch it or I'll toss them."

"Don't you dare," Vic said, sliding one of the CDs into the car 
stereo. Immediately, the sound of an un-amplified guitar filled 
the air. Vic sighed happily and leaned back in his seat. 
"Thanks," he said.

"No problem. But we listen to *my* music too, right?"

"Right." If Mac was willing to make this gesture, the least he 
could do was reciprocate. Yeah, maybe they did have a chance. 
After all, compromise made a relationship. "So, what have you 
been up to for the last of couple months?" He hadn't seen either 
of his partners since their return to Toronto when the Director 
had handed him over to Moira and had told him not to come back 
until he was finished his training. He'd missed them, especially 
Mac.

Mac shrugged, keeping his eye on the road as they headed north on 
the 401. "Not much. Lots of surveillance and grunt work, really. 
Booooring," he drawled. "I get the feeling that the Director 
doesn't trust us with the juicy stuff if we don't have you around 
to be the voice of caution." Mac grinned at him.

"And LiAnn? How is she doing?"

Mac sighed. "Well, better, I suppose. She's still a little 
twitchy around anyone she knows is Kindred, but she works with 
them. The only one she doesn't have a problem with is the 
Director."

"Well, we already knew *she* was a blood-sucking creature." They 
both laughed, even though they knew there was probably a bug in 
the car recording their conversation. "Seriously, though, she 
always got along with the Director. Teacher's pet."

"Anyway, being forced to work with Jackie for a couple of weeks 
took care of most of the problem. It's kind of hard to be scared 
of the Kindred and contemptuous of one of them at the same time."

"And you?"

"Well, Jackie still scares the shit out of me. Some of her come-
ons these days--" Mac shuddered theatrically.

"Please, I don't want to know anything more." Vic could just 
imagine. Jackie flirted with everyone, male and female, and her 
old style of flirtation was bad enough. He could just imagine 
what it was like with someone who knew just what  she *really* 
was.

He'd met a couple other Malkavian clan members during his 
training and had discovered that the Director was right: the clan 
was completely loony-tunes. They were also practically psychic. 
There was one that had told him...

Well, he wasn't going to go there.

"So where is LiAnn tonight?"

Mac frowned. "I'm not sure. I haven't seen her for more than a 
week and the Director won't tell me where she was. She also 
wouldn't tell me where you live now, which is why I didn't drop 
by to see how you were doing."

Vic felt a tension he hadn't even realized was there relax. "I 
wondered about that," he admitted.

"Yeah, well I tried breaking into the Agency records to find the 
address, but there was just a note saying 'moved, see the 
Director or Dobrinsky for details.' Needless to say, I was *not* 
going to do that."

Vic grinned. "I can just imagine what Dobrinsky would say. Then 
again, maybe he would have traded the info for a nibble?"

"Nah. It seems I'm not his type."

"What?" Blood was blood, Vic had found, and the blood type didn't 
matter.

"Well, I've been learning about the Kindred while you were gone. 
*That*, the Director was willing to tell me about. Seems that the 
Ventrue tend to be very picky about who they feed from. For 
example the Director only feeds from people she's danced with."

Vic snorted. "You've got to be joking," he said in disbelief.

"Weird, huh? Anyway, Dobrinsky only feeds from car mechanics, if 
you can believe it. I guess it goes with that car collection of 
his."

"Or maybe he just likes the taste of motor oil." That made Mac 
laugh.

After that, they fell into an easy silence for the rest of the 
drive. Vic was a little surprised at that; he'd expected things 
to be a little edgier after everything that had happened, but it 
was like they hadn't just spent more than a month apart, let 
alone the change to Vic's... situation. Instead, Vic lost himself 
in the music, which Mac really *did* seem to be enjoying, until 
they pulled to a stop.

Mac pulled out the map and a small flashlight to read it by. 
"We're about a mile from the farm," he said. "We should go on 
foot from here, so they don't hear us coming."

"Sounds good to me."

Vic got out of the car and drew a deep breath. The air here was 
so much clearer than in Toronto, although he could still smell 
the taint of pollution. From what he'd been told, there were few 
places left in the world that didn't have that taint. Someday 
he'd like the chance to see some of those places before they 
disappeared too.

But he could also smell the clean, healthy scent of growing 
things, along with the spoor of a variety of living creatures. 
The air felt... alive.

It was a clear night and the sky was full of stars. The moon, 
nearly full, was just above the horizon and rising. To Vic, it 
was as clear as day used to be. Even Mac shouldn't have too much 
trouble.

"I'll take point," he said. Mac nodded, after making sure that 
the car wasn't going to be obvious to anyone driving by. They 
both checked their guns -- just because they were only supposed 
to case the place didn't mean that they couldn't run into trouble 
-- and set off through the trees. The farm they were checking out 
was bordered on three sides by forest, no doubt chosen to keep 
any neighbors from becoming suspicious. However, it also gave 
anyone trying to sneak up on them plenty of cover, which was a 
good thing for Vic and Mac.

In the shade of the trees with their new leaves, the available 
light decreased dramatically. This wasn't a problem for Vic, but 
Mac had to turn on his flashlight in order to move quickly 
without breaking an ankle or his neck. Vic could see the light 
reflecting off the eyes of watching animals.

They were three-quarters of the way to the farm when Vic stopped 
dead in his tracks. He lifted his head and sniffed the air.

"What is it?" Mac asked, clicking off his flashlight and scanning 
the surrounding woods, although he probably couldn't see a thing.

Vic waved him silent, listening. There no unusual sounds. Just 
the normal night noises of the woods, completely undisturbed by 
the intruders. Finally he shook his head. "Nothing. Sorry."

But he could have sworn he'd scented something. Something that 
shouldn't have been there. He just wasn't sure what it was.

>>>~~~<<<

They reached the farm, just before midnight. At that hour, a real 
farm should have been dark and silent, everyone asleep. Instead, 
the house and outbuildings were brightly lit and there were men 
moving around. Vic came to a stop at the edge of the woods and 
gestured for Mac to move parallel to him.

Already Vic could smell a heavy chemical smell coming from one of 
the barns. It was similar to what he'd been exposed to during his 
brief stint working the drug squad during raids on drug labs back 
in his days as a cop. Then again, it smelt slightly different. He 
wasn't sure if it was because they were making a different sort 
of drug or if it was due to his enhanced Kindred senses. As a 
result, he wanted to investigate a little closer before they 
headed back to Toronto.

Vic moved closer to the barn that the odor was coming from. His 
nose wrinkled. As he got closer, the stink became more and more 
overwhelming. It would be obvious to anyone, even a normal human. 
Across the central space, he could see Mac heading towards the 
farmhouse.

As he approached the barn, he could hear voices, all male and 
joking crudely. They complained about the late hours spent 
brewing whatever it was they were brewing and about not getting 
paid enough for it. They belched and scratched and generally 
behaved like pigs.

Suddenly, a low growl broke his concentration and he cursed 
himself for a fool. He'd seen the guard dogs, but they had all 
been asleep so he'd forgotten about them. Unfortunately, one of 
them had woken and was now prowling in his direction. Any second 
now, the beast was going to start barking, waking his fellows and 
alerting the men in the barn.

Vic took a deep breath and locked eyes with the beast. He growled 
deep in his throat, urging the dog to go back to his bed and to 
sleep. He hoped it would work. He didn't really communicate well 
with dogs.

He held his breath, concentrating hard. If this didn't work, he 
was going to have to kill the beast so that they could get away, 
which he didn't really want to do. For one thing, he didn't want 
to kill the animal just for doing its job. For another, a dead 
guard dog would alert the drug manufacturers that someone was 
checking them out.

He was just about to give up and just kill the dog when it 
whimpered slightly and turned and headed back the way it had 
come. It reached its fellows, turned three times and dropped to 
the ground, its eyes already closing. Vic breathed a deep sigh of 
relief.

Then he froze. For a moment, there was the same scent he'd smelt 
before.

Then it was gone again as the breeze shifted directions. This was 
beginning to bug him.

Deciding that they'd seen enough, Vic looked for his partner. His 
eyes went wide when he saw the man coming out of the farmhouse. 
He was going to have to talk to the man. Trust him to do 
something this risky.

They headed away from the buildings, back the way they'd come. 
Once they were well out of earshot, even of the dogs, Vic grabbed 
Mac's arm. "What the hell were you doing? You could have been 
caught!"

"Relax! I checked first to make sure that no one was moving 
around. I found an office and some records of materials and 
sales." Mac slipped a small camera out of his pocket. "The 
Director wanted some evidence, I got it. Don't worry, I put 
everything back where I found it. No one is going to notice."

"You better be right," Vic muttered. He wasn't really angry, he 
just wished that Mac wasn't quite so reckless. Although he had to 
admit that the young man had improved over time. The old Mac 
would have just walked up to the barn and asked the men inside 
what they were doing. He'd done it before, just because he was 
bored with surveillance.

Vic paused a moment to shudder at the memory of the contents of 
the van that they'd been watching that time. They'd been told 
that the thugs were smuggling guns. Instead, they'd been 
smuggling *lungs*.

They were nearly back to the car when Vic stopped. The wind had 
changed and the strange scent was back again, stronger this time. 
It was almost... floral. Like a perfume?

The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. Suddenly he 
was sure that they were being watched.

"Vic?" Mac whispered, obviously worried.

Vic slipped his gun from his holster, but no matter how hard he 
scanned the surrounding woods, he couldn't see a thing.

Finally, he tapped Mac's arm. "I don't know what's going on, but 
I suggest we get the hell out of here."

They only had the chance to take two steps when there was the 
sound of a loud explosion behind them. Spinning in shock, they 
could see the glow of flames through the trees. It looked like 
every building on the farm had gone up.

"Shit! What the hell was that? Do we go back and check it out?"

Vic shook his head. His instincts were to run and run fast, but 
he refused to give in to the panic. "No. We head back to Toronto 
and report to the Director. She can decide what to do next."

They quickly reached the car and Vic paused before climbing in. 
The feeling that they were being watched was still strong. But 
whoever or whatever it was, they were good. Other than the scent 
and the feeling, he couldn't find a trace.

"Vic?"

Shaking his head, Vic climbed into the car. "Let's get out of 
here."

As they drove away, he rolled down the window to let in some 
fresh air and for a moment, he could have sworn he heard 
laughter.


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Chapter Two
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By the time they reached the Agency headquarters in Toronto, Mac 
was breathing a little easier. The investigation of the farm had 
not exactly gone as planned.

First there was Vic's strange behavior. From almost the moment 
they'd arrived on-site, the man had been twitchy. Well, twitchier 
normal. Mac hadn't noticed anything, but Vic was convinced that 
they'd been watched.

At the farm itself, everything had been by the book. They'd 
skulked around, seen that whatever the farm was being used for, 
it certainly *wasn't* farming. Well, he couldn't be completely 
sure, never having spent any time on a real farm, but still, this 
one didn't look right.

So, while Vic checked out the barn where the most activity had 
been, Mac had broken into the farmhouse.

Actually, breaking in was the wrong term for it. The door had 
been unlocked and the papers had been strewn all over the desk in 
the small office off the kitchen. In fact, the most difficult 
part had been putting the mess back *exactly* the way it had been 
after he had photographed everything.

But he needn't have bothered. They'd been on the way back to the 
car when Vic had suddenly decided that they were being watched 
again. Even Mac had felt like there were eyes drilling into his 
back. Finally, Vic had suggested getting the hell out of there, 
and Mac was more than willing to go along with that plan.

And then the farm blew up.

>>>~~~<<<

"It... blew up?"

The Director's eyebrows went up in disbelief. Mac fidgeted 
uneasily under her stare, but Vic was as cool as a cucumber.

"Yes, it blew up."

She paced for a moment, taping one fingernail against her lip. 
"Perhaps the workers made a mistake in the brewing process. Drug 
processing isn't exactly a safe occupation."

Vic shook his head. "I doubt it. Their setup might not have been 
high-tech, but I saw nothing that looked like it was about to 
blow. Besides, I heard a series of explosions, too many to just 
be a chain reaction in the equipment. Someone rigged the place to 
blow."

Mac blinked. He'd only heard one explosion, but he knew that 
Vic's ears were now sharper than his own, so he took the man at 
his word.

"And," Vic continued, "we were being watched."

That caught her attention. "By who?"

"I don't know. All I know is that there was someone else out 
there."

"And that someone blew up the farm without you noticing?"

Vic shrugged. There was no way of knowing whether or not that was 
true or even possible. Again, Mac was trusting his partner on 
whether or not anyone had really been there at all. He considered 
himself a pretty observant guy, but he hadn't noticed anything to 
suggest that they'd been watched.

The Director was looking distinctly peeved now. "So there's 
nothing that could lead us to the people behind this operation? 
Is that what you're saying?"

"Not exactly," Mac said, raising his hand. For some reason, she 
always made him feel like a kid in school. He pulled the mini-
camera from his pocket. "I photographed everything on the desk 
inside the house. I didn't exactly have the time to read 
anything, but there might be *something* useful."

She took the camera from him. "Very good, Mac. Not exactly what 
you were supposed to do, but fortunate." Then she reached out and 
pinched his ear. Hard. "Next time, don't take risks when you 
aren't supposed to."

Rubbing his throbbing ear, Mac glared back at her. "It wasn't a 
risk. I checked to make sure that there was no one around before 
I went in."

"Whatever. Give the film to Otto for developing. Then I suggest 
the two of you go home. It's been a long night and sunrise isn't 
long off. Be back this evening."

Mac headed for the door, glad to have gotten off so lightly, but 
Vic paused. "What about LiAnn?"

"What about her?"

Vic rolled his eyes. "Where *is* LiAnn? She is a part of this 
team, after all."

The Director sighed theatrically. "LiAnn needed... time. She 
decided to go home to visit her family."

Mac stared at her in disbelief. "That isn't funny."

"It isn't intended to be."

"They *sold* her when she was twelve years old. To a brothel! Why 
would she want to visit them?"

She shrugged. "She has issues. Many of those issues start with 
her family. I suggested that she needed to deal with them and her 
feelings about them. She'll be back in a few weeks."

"Assuming that she doesn't get hauled in for murder," Mac 
muttered.

Despite her cool exterior, LiAnn had a temper and he knew how she 
felt about what her family had done her. The few times she'd 
spoken of them, the hurt and anger had bled through, even though 
she would be the first to admit that she was better off because 
of what they had done. If they hadn't sold her, she would still 
be living in a dirt-poor village in China, probably married at 
sixteen and old before her time.

Instead, when the Tangs had bought the brothel and Father had 
sent all the under-aged girls home, she'd picked his pocket, 
which got his attention. He'd taken her in and instead of the 
village, she'd had Hong Kong, an education, a new family.

But deep inside was still the little girl who'd been handed over 
to the recruiters who scoured the villages of China looking for 
fodder for the brothels frequented by foreign businessmen. A 
little girl who still wanted to know 'why.' It was the same 'why' 
he'd had when his father had turned up out of the blue after 
being gone from his life for years.

Unfortunately, he hadn't gotten his answer before the man had 
vanished again.

Mac hoped she'd be all right.

>>>~~~<<<

Report delivered, they headed for the parking lot and Mac 
fidgeted, wondering how to ask the question he wanted to ask. It 
was strange. Before, he wouldn't have hesitated to demand Vic's 
address. After all, they were partners. They needed to know how 
to get in touch with each other.

But they weren't just partners anymore, and asking might be 
considered a come-on, which it wasn't. Well, mostly it wasn't. It 
might be considered a hint.

Finally deciding to just go ahead and ask, Mac looked up to find 
Vic watching him with an amused expression. "I'm a little tired," 
the man offered. "Would you mind dropping me off at my place and 
picking me up again tonight? If it's not *too* much trouble."

"Sure," Mac said, grabbing the excuse. "You'll have to give me 
directions, though. Um... you don't think that the Director will 
mind, do you?"

"Who cares?"

Mac wasn't so sure about the bravado, but then again, she had to 
have expected that he would find out as soon as they started 
working together again.

Then Mac laughed and shook his head as he headed for the car, Vic 
already there and waiting impatiently. He couldn't believe that 
*he* of all people was getting worried about what the Director 
wanted. Before San Francisco, he would have just gone ahead and 
done it. Being on his own for the last month -- minus both his 
partners -- had obviously affected him, and now it was time to 
correct that.

"You're right," he said, climbing behind the steering wheel. "Who 
cares. Now. How about some directions."

>>>~~~<<<

As he pulled to a stop in front of the building, Mac felt a flash 
of uncertainty return. He wondered if inviting himself up would 
be pushing it a little too fast, since Vic had said he wanted to 
take it slow. But it had been a while, so you couldn't exactly 
call it *rushing* things.

And damnit, he wanted the man.

The building was a bit of a surprise, though. It was only a few 
kilometers from his own apartment, a ten-minute drive at the 
most, and that was only because this area of Toronto had a ton of 
one-way streets. The suspicious part of his mind wondered if the 
Director had chosen it *because* it would put them close 
together. It was a nice idea. It was an older building than his, 
but looked to be in good condition. Unlike his, this one even had 
balconies. It also bordered on a large park, something he knew 
was important to Gangrels, based on what the Director had told 
him. He would even bet that Vic's new place overlooked the park.

The Director might be a manipulative bitch, but she did try to 
keep her people reasonably happy, if only because they worked 
better that way.

"My spot is over there, if you want to come up and see the 
apartment," Vic said, matter-of-factly.

Mac grinned. "Sure. Let's see if your sense of decorating style 
has improved any." He aimed for the indicated parking spot.

They were silent on the ride up the elevator, old and creaking. 
Mac winced a little at the sound of metal on metal, but Vic just 
ignored it. After all, he'd had more than a month to get used to 
it. Unlike the elevator, the corridor it opened onto was clean, 
bright and well-lit. Vic led him to the end of the hallway and 
unlocked the several dead-bolts to open the apartment door.

Unlike the exterior of the building, the apartment was pure 
modern, obviously recently re-modeled. At the same time, most of 
the furniture was familiar from Vic's old apartment. The wall of 
bookcases holding books, pictures and stereo, including the old 
eight-track player that his partner insisted on keeping, god only 
knew why. The sofa, the old dinette set in the corner, the 
pictures on the walls.

Even the over-abundance of kitchen equipment that Vic had bought 
when he'd taken up cooking as a hobby was there. Mac wasn't sure 
why the man had kept those, since he didn't exactly eat any more.

Mac hung up his jacket in the closet and prowled around, checking 
every corner, indulging his curiosity. Vic watched him with an 
amused expression, but didn't say anything, so Mac took it as an 
invitation to continue.

The bedroom, as billed, was an interior room, with no windows to 
let in that pesky and potentially fatal sunlight. The bed was the 
same one he'd spent more than an hour in one night waiting for 
Vic to get home so that he could drag him into a caper with the 
Rivers family. Mac smiled to himself at the memory.

The sheets were new, though. He ran an appreciative hand over 
them. Silk. He might have wondered if it was part of a seduction 
scene if it weren't obvious that they'd already been slept on. 
Either the Director had had all his sheets tossed and these left 
in their place or Vic was turning into a sensualist in his... 
afterlife.

The bathroom was a typical bathroom, with a separate tub and 
shower. However, the towels were thick and fluffy, as luxurious 
as the sheets on the bed. Bath salts and oils sat on the ledge of 
the tub.

"Do you approve?" Vic asked, only slightly sarcastic, as Mac 
headed back to the living room. The television was turned on to 
CNN -- one of the few channels that wasn't showing infomercials 
at four in the morning.

"Very nice. You're even developing some style. The sheets are a 
nice touch."

"My old sheets... itched. Moira suggested the silk and she was 
right: They do feel better."

"I'll bet," Mac said, grinning.

"You hungry? I've got some stuff in the freezer that I can heat 
up, if you like."

Mac blinked in surprise. "Why?"

Vic shrugged. "I still like to cook," he said. "It's relaxing. 
Besides, I figured that someone would eat it eventually. Either 
you or LiAnn. Or I could always send it to the local food bank."

"Okay. Thanks."

Vic headed into the kitchen and pulled a container seemingly at 
random from the freezer. He stuck it in the microwave and started 
the machine whirring.

"It'll take a while to defrost," he said apologetically. "I hope 
it's okay, though. I've been playing with a few new recipes. 
Authentic Chinese, stuff. Nothing raw or that had tentacles when 
it was still alive, though."

The man looked embarrassed and Mac understood what he was really 
saying. It was sort of like Mac buying some of Vic's favorite 
blues albums for the car: Compromise.

"I'm sure it will be fine," he assured his partner. Then he 
grinned. "And if it isn't, you can keep practicing. I'll eat it."

Then a thought occurred to him. "What about you? I mean, you 
haven't had anything since we headed off to check out the farm."

Vic turned back to the kitchen. "I've got some bagged stuff," he 
said.

Mac grabbed his arm. "Hey, if you're going to feed me, the least 
I can do is feed you."

"You don't have to..." Vic's voice trailed off, but the hunger in 
his eyes was obvious to Mac.

"Please, let me?" Mac turned on the pleading eyes. It was silly 
really, but he liked having Vic feed from him. It wasn't *just* 
because of the intense sexual feelings it provoked. He just liked 
knowing that he could do something this important for someone he 
cared about.

The physical rush was just a *very* nice bonus.

Vic wavered a moment, then stepped in close, lifting his hand to 
run a gentle finger down Mac's neck, right over the big vein 
pulsing there. Mac shuddered and pressed up against Vic. It had 
been so long. How could he have gotten so addicted to a feeling 
he'd only experienced for a few days?

Vic was licking his neck now. Mac hummed low in his throat in 
anticipation. He wrapped his arms around his partner, leaning 
against the hard muscled form. Already his knees were going weak 
and Vic hadn't even bit him yet.

And then the fangs went in and the rush flooded through him, as 
perfect as he remembered. Vic was sucking and Mac felt that 
connection flare to life. Cash had told him that drinking a 
Kindred's blood formed a bond with that Kindred. He wondered if 
the reverse was true.

When Vic finally pulled back, Mac found that they'd moved somehow 
while he wasn't noticing. He had a wall against his back and he 
was glad for the support. Vic lifted his head to meet his eyes 
and Mac found himself drowning in a green ocean.

Not willing to hold back anymore, Mac dived in for a kiss. Vic's 
mouth was cool and perfect, lightly flavored with the coppery 
taste of Mac's blood. The kiss was also as perfect as he 
remembered, with none of the nose-bumping, tooth-scraping 
awkwardness that new lovers had.

When they came up for air, Mac was breathing heavily. "Bed?" he 
suggested hopefully.

Vic hesitated and Mac worried that maybe he was pressing too 
hard. Then he smiled that little-boy smile and Mac grinned back. 
Without a word, they headed for the bedroom.

Quickly stripped and pressed back into the mattress, Mac 
rediscovered just how sinfully good silk felt against the skin. 
He loved silk shirts, but the silk sheets caressed every inch of 
him. The cool, sensuous touch was almost enough to distract him 
from the feeling of Vic pressing down on top of him.

Yeah, right.

As he ran his hands over Vic's back and sides, Mac could swear 
that Vic had lost weight since the last time. Either that or he 
was more toned than before, although he hadn't exactly been a 
slouch in the hard body department. Whatever the difference was, 
he felt great.

And what he was doing felt great too. For the longest time they 
were both happy just to touch and kiss and reacquaint themselves 
with each other's bodies.

Then Mac remembered that Vic had done one hell of a lot more 
exploring than he had last time, so he decided to even things up. 
He surged upwards and Vic allowed himself to be flipped over. Mac 
loomed above him, just admiring for a moment. Vic's sheets were a 
dark emerald green and his pale skin looked delicious against it.

Mac lowered his head and started to nip at Vic's face, enjoying 
the little shivers it sent through the man. He nipped his way 
down, spending a long time on the man's neck. *That* made the man 
go absolutely nuts, groaning and writhing underneath him.

But it still wasn't enough. The man's chest called him; 
especially the nipples. They were small and rose-brown in a 
nearly hairless chest, and they stood up just begging for 
attention. He bent his head to lick one, then waited for the 
reaction. Michael had hated having his nipples played with -- it 
was something only women should enjoy, he'd said -- and his two 
male lovers since then had been more into fuck and suck, skip the 
foreplay, please.

But Vic just moaned and arched up into the touch, so Mac went for 
it.

It was a revelation. He'd thought that Vic's neck was sensitive, 
but playing with his nipples turned him into a madman, completely 
inarticulate but definitely appreciative. Mac licked, then sucked 
them until they looked swollen, then nipped at them gently. That 
got him a scream and nearly bucked off of the bed.

Mac wanted to play a lot more with them, but Vic obviously had 
different ideas. He flipped them over again, landing on top of 
Mac hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Mac's protest was 
muffled by the man's mouth coming down on his, hard and hungry.

Mac parted his legs in open invitation and let Vic land between 
them. Vic grinned at him, then reached into the bedside table for 
a tube of lubricant. It was half-empty and Mac felt a surge of 
jealousy, wondering who Vic had been playing with. Then he 
squashed it down. Whoever they were, they were out of the picture 
now.

Vic squeezed a generous pool of lube into the palm of his hand, 
then tossed the tube aside, not even bothering to recap it. Much 
better than LiAnn, who would have complained because he squeezed 
the tube from the middle, let alone not putting the cap on. Of 
course, with LiAnn, the tube wouldn't have been necessary at all.

The Vic reached between them and all thoughts of LiAnn vanished. 
Vic gathered up both their erections in one callused hand and 
started stroking. Mac closed his eyes and moaned, his hips 
thrusting up into the grasp.

But then the touch was gone, along with the weight pressing down 
on him. Mac's eyes flew open as he groaned in protest. Then he 
groaned again, for very different reasons.

Vic was poised above him, crouched directly over his cock. While 
he watched in disbelief, Vic held Mac's cock steady, centered 
himself, then slowly lowered himself onto it.

"Shit!" was all that Mac could think of to say as he was 
engulfed. Vic's ass was tight and yielding and ever so slightly 
cool. The feeling was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. 
Then Vic started moving and he felt like the top of his head was 
going to blow off. Sex had *never* been this intense before in 
his life.

Only one thing would make it more intense.

Immediately, as if Vic could read his mind, his wrist was seized 
and raised to Vic's lips. Wicked green eyes grinned at him as Vic 
slowly licked the vein, then bit down, never pausing in his 
steady rise and fall, milking Mac's cock.

The rush hit him again and he screamed, arching upwards, 
embedding himself as far inside Vic as he could get. It was like 
a double orgasm, pumping out of both his cock and his wrist.

And then everything went black.

>>>~~~<<<

A distant ping woke him, some time later. A glance at the glowing 
numbers on the clock radio next to the bed told him that he 
couldn't have been out for very long. Long enough for someone to 
clean him up, at least. He pushed himself up into a sitting 
position and groaned. He felt... He felt better than he had in 
weeks.

"Awake yet?"

Mac looked over at the doorway. Vic was standing there in a white 
bathrobe, holding a tray. He could see the steam rising from the 
plate on it.

"Breakfast in bed? For me? Vic, you shouldn't have."

"Yeah, well, it was finished defrosting so it was either heat it 
up or throw it out. But if you don't want it..." He turned away.

"Don't even think about it," Mac said, sitting up a little 
straighter. His stomach was growling so loudly that not only 
could Vic hear it, the people in the next apartment could 
probably hear it. He didn't care *how* bad Vic's attempt at real 
cooking was, he'd eat it.

Vic grinned and placed the tray in his lap, then sat back and 
watched.

It didn't look great, but the aroma was fantastic. It was some 
sort of basic stir fry with vegetables and tofu on noodles in an 
oyster sauce. Mac picked up the lacquered chopsticks sitting next 
to the plate (chopsticks? Vic?) and picked up a piece of carrot 
and popped it in his mouth and chewed slowly.

Vic was watching him expectantly, with only a hint of 
uncertainty. Mac closed his eyes and considered the taste.

Then he grinned and picked up the plate, his chopsticks moving 
fast. Vic's expression was one of satisfaction as Mac stuffed his 
face.

"So?"

"Vic, you *have* been practicing," Mac mumbled around a mouthful. 
"This is *good*."

"Yeah, well a stir-fry doesn't take a lot of skill." Still, he 
sounded pleased.

Mac emptied the plate in short order and gave serious 
consideration to licking it clean. He was still hungry, but at 
least his stomach wasn't trying to wrap itself around his spine 
anymore.

By the time they'd cleaned up, Mac deciding to do his part and 
wash the dishes he'd used, the sun was coming up and Vic was 
looking a little droopy. Mac herded him through a quick shower, 
then put him to bed. He found that a sleepy Vic could be a fun 
Vic as he cleaned and dried the man, then tucked him in.

He crawled in next to Vic, deciding to get a little quality 
cuddling time in. He hadn't actually slept with anyone since 
LiAnn, choosing instead to leave and head to his own apartment 
and bed, and even she wasn't much into cuddling. Now that he 
could, he was going to take advantage of it.

"You going to be here when I wake up?" Vic mumbled, his eyes 
already shut.

"Probably not," Mac answered. "I do need to get out this 
afternoon to do some things. But I'll be by at sunset to pick you 
up."

"'Kay. Keys with the green tag on the hook next to the door are 
yours."

That caught Mac off-guard. "You're giving me a key to your 
apartment? You never did before."

"Yeah, well if you need to get a hold of me during the day, I 
don't know that a phone ringing would wake me up. You might have 
to come in person to do that."

Mac shrugged. "I could always pick the lock."

"I know. You've done it before," was the wry, if sleepy response. 
"Easier to just give you the key."

"Faster, too."

"Hmmm..."

Mac glanced down at the man and his smile turned fond. Vic was 
out like a light.

He wrapped himself around the sleeping man and shut his eyes, 
wanting to get a few hours of sleep too. Amazing how right this 
felt, he thought to himself as he drifted off.

Maybe white picket fences weren't as scary a thought as it had 
been before.

>>>~~~<<<

Mac woke at about one in the afternoon. Careful not to disturb 
Vic, he found his clothes, neatly piled on the sofa in the living 
room where he'd put them before they'd gone to bed, got dressed 
and closed the apartment door behind him softly. He locked it and 
tossed the keys in his hand a couple times before slipping them 
into his pocket.

The day was overcast and damp, the wind chilling him. It wasn't 
actually raining, but it had earlier and it was certainly going 
to again before the day was out. Mac shivered and pulled the 
collar of his jacket up. It was a far cry from the pleasant, 
almost summer weather of the day before.

He headed for his car, making a mental list of the things he 
needed to do before coming back to pick up Vic. He needed to pick 
up his dry cleaning, buy some groceries for himself and maybe a 
few for Vic's place. Unlocking the car door, he thought he might 
even bring over a few clothes to keep there, in case he stayed 
over the full day in the future. Worst thing that could happen 
was that Vic would say no, and after that morning, he didn't 
think *that* was very likely.

Before he could get into the car, he froze. For a moment, it felt 
like every hair on his body -- and there was a lot of it -- was 
standing on end.

He stood up straight, twisting to search the area. Nothing.

But the feeling didn't go away. He could swear that someone was 
watching him. It reminded him of Vic's insistence that someone 
had been watching them the night before, out at the farm. Maybe 
it was the same someone. Except that meant that the person had 
followed them all the way back to town and the Agency, then to 
Vic's place, which was ridiculous.

Bit by bit, the watched feeling faded, then finally disappeared. 
All Mac saw was a twitch in the curtains at a house across the 
street from the apartment building, backing onto the park.

Mac shook his head ruefully. Just a nosy neighbor. He was jumping 
at shadows.

But as he drove away, he noticed the curtains move again and felt 
a chill. After the last few years, he couldn't help wondering if 
maybe there was more to it.


----------------------------------------
Chapter Three
----------------------------------------

When Vic woke, he was alone in the large bed. It wasn't very 
surprising -- the day was too long to expect Mac to stick around 
while he was comatose -- but he was still a little disappointed. 
The younger man gave a good cuddle.

But Mac would be back soon to pick him up, so he didn't have time 
to lay about in bed. Of course, that thought *did* have some good 
points, but it would get them to work late, and that was *not* a 
good idea. Even if the Director didn't punish them, she'd never 
let them live it down.

So he got up and headed for the shower. He didn't dawdle, washing 
thoroughly, but quickly. He brushed his teeth and checked to make 
sure that he didn't need to shave yet. One side-effect of being 
Kindred was that his hair had slowed down its growth. As a 
result, he only needed to shave every week or so. It was a good 
thing he didn't have any real desire to grow a thick beard.

Heading back to the bedroom, he took a deep breath and grimaced. 
While the thick scent of sex had been intoxicating when he'd gone 
to sleep that morning, after a full day it was just... stale. 
Wrinkling his nose, he stripped the bed, making plans for a trip 
to the laundry room. Fresh sheets from the closet and the bed was 
made. Then he pulled on jeans and a short-sleeved shirt.

A baggie of blood from the fridge was 'breakfast', although after 
his feeding from Mac the night before left it tasting rather... 
flat. There was no life to it, no sense of the person behind it. 
He wondered briefly -- yet again -- where the Director got the 
supply from. Did the Agency run a blood bank somewhere to keep 
the city Kindred supplied? Or were Agency support staff expected 
to provide the nourishment for their boss and her select few?

Vic shrugged. Knowing the woman, he probably didn't want to know.

Once he finished, he started strapping on his various guns and 
other weapons. After years of working for the Agency, he felt 
naked without them. While on the job, he never went anywhere 
without at least three guns secreted around his body; something 
that saved his life and the lives of his partners on more than 
one occasion.

He was pulling his favorite leather jacket on when there was a 
knock at the door. He pulled it open and found Mac leaning 
against the frame, doing his best to look cool and nonchalant. It 
was something he did very endearingly.

The younger man was wearing his favorite look; black pants and 
jacket with a white dress shirt open low enough to show some of 
his thick pelt of chest hair. He looked thoroughly edible, and if 
it weren't for the fact that they were already going to be late, 
Vic would have dragged him to the bedroom to do just that. Not to 
mention that the man's careful grooming always made him want to 
mess him up.

He was also secretly pleased to see that Mac was also wearing the 
pendant that he'd bought him in San Francisco, just before 
everything had changed for them. It was just a pendant, and not a 
very valuable one, but it made him feel... appreciated.

Come to think of it, Mac had been wearing it the night before, 
although he'd been more interested in other things about his 
partner to notice. Vic felt his cock twitch at the memory, and 
reminded himself again that they didn't have time.

"You know," he said conversationally as he moved past Mac, 
stopping only long enough to lock the door behind himself, "I 
gave you a key to the place for a reason."

"Well, you never know. You might have had company."

The tone was teasing, but Vic could hear the slight hesitance in 
Mac's voice and grinned. "You mean you couldn't pose as nicely if 
you let yourself in," he said, reassuring Mac in a slightly 
oblique way.

"Busted," Mac said, his grin a little easier.

"We better move our butts, though," Vic said, heading for the 
stairs, "or the Director is going to have them in slings for 
being late."

"Oooooh, kinky! Think she'd take us to the Caligula to do it?"

Vic snorted. "More likely she'd hand us over to Dobrinsky to do 
it."

"Ouch. In that case, let's get a move on."

>>>~~~<<<

The Director was waiting for them when they arrived. She frowned, 
but didn't seem *too* upset by the fact that they had still ended 
up being late. Besides, it was only by twenty minutes or so.

"Glad you could join us," she said without heat, obviously using 
the royal we. "The reports are in on the farm explosion."

Vic took his seat and Mac the one next to him. "And?"

"The Agency team finished their examination before the OPP 
arrived. Every building had at least four bombs -- seven in the 
case of the main house -- all the latest in high-tech and 
carefully concealed. The men running the lab wouldn't have 
noticed them."

"So what set them off? Timer?" Mac asked.

The Director shook her head. "No. Radio control. Someone, less 
that a mile away from the farm set them all off, almost 
simultaneously."

Vic hissed under his breath, and by the glance Mac shot him, he 
knew that the other man was thinking the same thing.

"Yes, your mysterious watcher, no doubt," the Director said.

"Yeah, but who is she?"

"She?" the Director said, one eyebrow going up. She leaned back 
against her desk, arms crossed over her chest. Vic was a little 
surprised at his own comment too. His eyes narrowed as he 
considered what had made him say that.

"When we were being watched," he said slowly, thoughtfully, "I 
smelled something light and slightly floral. A fragrance. 
Perfume, maybe."

"And that does imply female, doesn't it. Well, anyway, thanks to 
Mac's little info raid *before* the big bang, we've linked the 
operation at the farm to one Jonathon Ramirez."

She picked up a control and pointed at the screen set in one 
wall. A man's image appeared. He was heavy-set, with thick jowls. 
His black hair was almost greasy and very carefully done. His 
suit was Armani, and yet he managed to make it look like it had 
come off the rack, with no adjustments to make it fit better. He 
looked like a drug-lord wannabe. Vic wasn't impressed.

"I wonder who he thinks *he's* impressing," Mac muttered under 
his breath, echoing Vic's own thoughts.

"The local drug community," the Director replied, pointing out -- 
in case he'd forgotten -- that Kindred had sharper hearing than 
the average human. "Mr. Ramirez arrived two months ago from 
Florida and has been quickly establishing himself as *the* 
supplier of illegal drugs in town. Competitors have had 
unfortunate accidents and incidents that left them without 
product, and in at least two cases, without heads. Literally."

She clicked a control and the image of Ramirez was replaced with 
the image of another man. This one was black, dressed in blue 
jeans and a jacket that was a motley of colors.

Other than that, it was hard to tell anything about him, since 
his head was gone. In fact, from the look of what was left of the 
guys neck, his head had been twisted off. Next to him, Mac looked 
decidedly green.

Vic looked a little closer. After a moment, he turned to meet the 
Director's eyes. "Kindred?"

She nodded. "Or a werewolf, possibly," she said thoughtfully.

"Werewolves?" Mac said, his voice rising to a squeak.

"I doubt it," Vic said, considering the suggestion. "After all, 
they rarely go anywhere near cities if they can at all help it, 
from what Moira told me."

"True," the Director said. "However, it *has* happened, 
especially if they are fighting for territory. And there is 
always the occasional pack outcast who becomes a mercenary. 
However, I do agree that it is unlikely. Kindred is a far more 
likely answer."

"Werewolves?" Mac hissed in Vic's direction when no one responded 
to his original squeak.

"I'll explain later," Vic said in an undertone. "So now what?" he 
asked, raising his voice again.

"Find Ramirez and shut down his operation. More importantly, find 
his pet killer. Whoever it may be, they're risking the 
Masquerade." And if it was a Kindred, the penalty for that was 
True Death, Vic reminded himself with a shiver.

"Find him? Do we get anything to go on besides a name?" Mac said 
sarcastically.

The Director glared at him, then slid a file folder across the 
table to them. "If you need any more information, talk to 
Nathan." She headed for the door, then stopped and turned around. 
"And boys, do try to keep your minds on the job. I would hate to 
have to separate you."

"Yes, ma'am," was the subdued response from both men as she 
disappeared from view.

Mac turned to Vic as soon as she was gone. "So, what have we 
got?"

Vic shuffled through the papers in the folder. "Not a hell of a 
lot. One condo in Forest Hill, a dance club--"

"Really? Which one?" He could see Mac perking up.

"Um... De Plata Lobo." Vic knew that 'lobo' meant wolf, but 
wasn't sure about the rest.

"The Silver Wolf? I've heard of it, but I've never been in. Latin 
stuff is more the Director's thing, from what LiAnn tells me."

"Hmm? What do you mean?" Vic looked up, a little confused.

"The Nicholas Love case. While we were locked up at my place with 
Dobrinsky, they went to meet an informant at Salsa Night at the 
Lubianka." Mac snorted. "The Director dressed LiAnn up in a men's 
suit with a penciled on mustache and took her as her date."

The image made Vic snicker too. Then he frowned. "There's no 
Salsa Night and the Lubianka," he said.

Mac shrugged. "There is when the Director *says* there is," he 
replied. "Any way, De Plata Lobo is one of those places that 
plays Selena and Ricky Martin and other over-hyped Latin types. 
Not my style."

"Well," Vic said, leaning back in his seat. "Maybe you should 
*make* it your style."

Mac glared at him, then rolled his eyes. "What are you looking 
for?"

"Oh, I don't know. This," he said, pointing to the paper in front 
of him, "says that the man probably runs most of his business 
from the club's upstairs offices. Might be something interesting 
in the safe, assuming that you can get into it."

Mac bristled. "Of course I can. I've never met a safe that I 
*couldn't* get into."

Vic suppressed a grin. In some ways, his partner was *so* easy. 
"We'll see," was all he said, ignoring the insulted look that Mac 
gave him.

"Well, if we're going clubbing tonight, we better find something 
a little more appropriate to wear," Mac said, getting to his 
feet.

"What 'we', kemosabe?"

Mac turned his big eyes on Vic. "You wouldn't make me go alone, 
would you? I need someone to watch my back. Someone to--"

"Someone to protect you from the underage and underdressed 
teenyboppers?"

Mac grinned. "Something like that. So, are we going or aren't 
we?"

Vic rolled his eyes, resigning himself to a night of loud music 
and too many people in an enclosed space. "We're going," he said 
and let Mac lead the way to the clothing department to find 
something that would let them blend in.

>>>~~~<<<

They could already hear the music from a block away, the heavy 
beat making windows rattle. Vic was a little surprised that the 
neighbors hadn't called to complain about the noise. On the other 
hand, there probably weren't many neighbors around, he supposed. 
They were right on the edge of one of the industrial areas of 
town. From the look of it, the building was a converted warehouse 
or factory.

And despite Mac's put-downs, the place was obviously popular. 
They'd had to park several blocks away, and considering the area 
of town, Mac hadn't objected to taking Vic's truck. Vic just 
hoped that it would be in one piece and where they left it when 
they were ready to head home.

The bouncer at the door gave them a sharp look before letting 
them in. Glancing around the dance floor, Vic quickly understood 
why. While the crowd was reasonably ethnically diverse, the 
average age was maybe twenty. Even Mac looked a little too old 
for the place.

Then he noticed the few that *were* older. Other than the 
bartenders -- who looked like they were being more than a little 
lax about checking for ids -- there were a scattering of middle-
aged men, mostly around the edge of the room. It only took Vic a 
minute to pick them all out, not to mention the bulges of 
concealed weapons. At least he and Mac were better at concealing 
weapons than these shmucks.

And as quickly as he identified them, he was able to tell that 
they weren't Kindred. They might be werewolf, but he'd never met 
one, so he didn't know how to recognize one. Still, the name of 
the club was... suggestive.

"Vic, you look like a cop," Mac said, just loud enough to be 
heard over the din of the music. "We get a drink and dance for a 
while until they stop watching us. Got it?"

Vic snorted. "What, doesn't my outfit do the job?" He gestured at 
the black leather pants tight enough to be a second skin and the 
shirt of shiny emerald green.

Mac's gaze swept down his body and back up. "It does the job for 
me," he said, his voice gone husky. Vic rolled his eyes.

"Whatever. Drinks?"

By the time they made it through the crowd around the bar, Vic 
*needed* a drink. "Whatever's on tap," he shouted to the 
bartender, deciding not to play twenty-questions with the man 
over what was available. Mac, on the other hand, ordered 
something in perfect Spanish that sounded complicated.

"I didn't know you spoke Spanish," Vic said as they moved away 
from the bar with their drinks.

"I have a *lot* of hidden talents," was the purred reply. 
"Seriously, though, Father had business around the world. He made 
sure that we were *all* multi-lingual."

"How many languages *do* you speak?" Vic asked, intrigued.

"You'll just have to find out, won't you?"

He could tell that Mac was just itching to continue with the 
mildly suggestive conversation, but Vic refused to give in: They 
were there to do a job and he didn't want to face the Director 
and say that they didn't do it because they were flirting. She'd 
been scary enough back when she'd just been his boss. Now that 
she was his *Prince*, she was twice as scary.

Some girl who didn't look old enough to be out alone, let alone 
this late at night, sidled up to them and asked Mac to dance. The 
younger man glanced at him to make sure it was okay before he 
took the invitation.

Vic watched them move out onto the crowded dance floor and start 
gyrating in the way that was popular these days and felt old. In 
his day -- God, did he just think that? -- dancing with someone 
implied that you were touching them. These two weren't even 
*looking* at each other.

But he was also a touch jealous. No one looked twice at the two 
dancing together, but if it were him and Mac, they'd probably 
have a crowd ready to kick their asses within a minute. Canada 
wasn't a bad place to live when you were in a gay relationship, 
but the types here didn't look too forgiving, despite their 
youth.

Just as well that no one seemed interested in dancing with *him*, 
though, since he definitely wasn't up to those sorts of moves.

But he was drawing a different sort of attention. Some of the 
hard men that he'd noticed coming in had moved to bracket him. 
They weren't making any hostile moves, but they were making no 
secret of the fact that they were watching him. Considering what 
their boss did for a living -- not to mention what had happened 
to their drug production setup the night before -- it wasn't very 
surprising.

But the attention did have its plus side: If they were focused on 
*him*, then Mac could sneak upstairs. He hoped.

A glance around the dance floor told him that his partner had 
made his move. Mac was nowhere to be seen or sensed. The younger 
man favored an unusual cologne, and Vic's Kindred sense of smell 
could easily pick it up. The only traces he found were rapidly 
fading, indicating that he'd left the room.

Then Vic frowned. There was another fragrance, one both strange 
and familiar. It was the same fragrance he'd scented the night 
before in the woods outside the farm.

Vic turned to scan the room again, looking for the source of the 
fragrance, but it was fading. Like Mac, whoever it was had left 
the room. He hoped that it wasn't going to be a problem for the 
younger man.

"Can I help you?"

The sarcastically drawled question drew Vic back to what he was 
supposed to be doing. He cursed himself for letting himself get 
so distracted that one of the hard men was able to sneak up on 
him.

He looked the man up and down. "I doubt it," he said with more 
than a touch of disdain, a plan starting to occur to him. "I've 
got a message for Ramirez."

The man's eyes narrowed. One of his hands twitched, like he was 
restraining an urge to go for his gun. "Fine. I'll pass it on." 
He waited expectantly.

Vic snorted. "I *don't* deal with underlings," he said, easily 
slipping into the sort of underworld persona he'd used often in 
his undercover days with vice.

"Well, too bad. Mr. Ramirez doesn't deal with street punks."

Vic smiled coldly and let his Kindred side out, just a little. It 
wasn't much; just a flash of silver in the eyes, a hint of 
menace. The turkey probably wouldn't even notice consciously.

Sub-consciously, on the other hand, he definitely noticed. He 
paled, no doubt realizing that he was in the presence of very 
nasty predator.

"Mr. Ramirez isn't here right now," the thug said, beads of sweat 
forming on his brow. It was obvious to Vic that the man was 
lying, but he didn't press.

"Fine. Give him this number," Vic pulled a pen from his pocket 
and in a flash of mischievousness, he wrote his cell phone number 
on the back of the guy's hand. It was more like something Mac 
would do, although the younger man probably would have written it 
on the moron's forehead.

The thug looked at his hand a grimaced. "Fine. Is there a name to 
go with the number?" he asked, showing some pretty impressive 
self-restraint.

"Mansfield."

"All right. Consider your message delivered. Now, get lost."

Vic smirked a little. "What, can't I enjoy the music?"

"I don't think it's your style."

"Finish my drink?"

The man glared at him. Amused, Vic quickly tossed back the last 
of his beer.

"It's been a pleasure," he said sarcastically and headed for the 
door. He could meet Mac outside just as easily.

Outside the club, he headed around the corner, then pulled out a 
miniaturized headset from his pocket. An ear piece on a wire went 
in the ear, and a mini microphone adhered to his throat to pick 
up the vibrations of his throat. A last wire ran inside his 
jacket to a small battery pack. Altogether, he could wrap his 
fist around the entire package and have none of it show.

"Mac," he whispered, hoping his partner had remembered to put on 
his *own* headset.

Silence for a moment, then, "Here," at a barely audible level.

"I've been ejected. I'll meet you at the truck."

"'Kay. Give me a half-hour, max."

"Got it."

Instead of heading straight back to the truck, Vic decided to do 
a bit of scouting first.

Now that he thought about it, his off-the-cuff plan was looking 
better and better all the time. If he presented himself as a 
rival supplier, got on Ramirez's bad side, then they wouldn't 
have to go looking for the man's pet killer, as the Director had 
put it; he or she would be looking for Vic. They would be able to 
set a trap.

Of course there were always risks to that sort of plan. Maybe 
Ramirez wouldn't fall for it -- although based on his files, Vic 
would bet that he would. Maybe his killer *would* turn out to be 
Kindred and would either sense the trap or be too old and too 
strong for him to fight back against. Still, it was the fastest 
way they had to meet the Director's orders.

By this point in his musings, he was in the back alley, behind 
the club. The light was low, allowing him to keep to the shadows. 
With night-vision, he could easily see the thug keeping watch 
outside the back entrance. Ramirez might not be the brightest 
criminal Vic had ever gone up against, but he wasn't completely 
stupid.

There was a bright flare as the man lit a cigarette. Vic wrinkled 
his nose at the acrid scent of tobacco. Okay, maybe the guy 
*wasn't* a guard, just a moron on a smoke break. Then he paused. 
Once more, that perfume. He scanned the alley, but whoever it 
was, she wasn't to be seen or felt.

This was getting damned frustrating, he thought, growling softly 
to himself. He didn't know who this person was, or what her 
interest in Ramirez was, but she better not get in their way.

With that thought, he headed back the way he came to wait for Mac 
at the truck.


----------------------------------------
Chapter Four
----------------------------------------

The music might not have been to Mac's normal tastes, but it had 
a good strong beat to dance to. He followed the girl who had 
invited him to dance out onto the floor, already moving to that 
beat. She turned around with a big smile and started to move her 
hips, arms high above her head, knees bent. As she danced, she 
flirted with not just her eyes but her whole body.

She was a cute kid, but Mac was a little shocked to find that he 
thought of her as just that: A kid.

God, he was getting *old*! Glancing around as he danced, he 
realized that he was probably the oldest person on the floor. The 
few people older in the building *weren't* there to dance.

Of course, neither was he, but still...

He had griped at his last birthday about the fact that he'd moved 
into an older age bracket -- a fact that Dobrinsky had delighted 
in pointing out every chance that he got -- but this was the 
first time that it had really been hammered home. He was so used 
to working with and against people who were older than himself 
that he didn't really notice that he was aging too. The next 
thing you knew, he was going to start finding white strands in 
his hair. Either that or losing it.

Then again, maybe not. After all, Vic wasn't going to age 
anymore. From what she'd said, the Director intended the same for 
him and LiAnn as well. Mac let his eyes drift over to his lover 
briefly and considered that idea.

Vic had adjusted to being a vampire pretty well, and he'd had no 
preparation for it. Mac had the feeling that the Director had no 
intention of letting *his* Embrace be quite as abrupt, or random.

But did he really want to be a vampire? Assuming he was given a 
choice, of course.

He knew what it was like to be on one side of the equation; human 
blood source to a vampire. It was incredible, like nothing he'd 
ever experienced before, and he couldn't help being curious about 
what it was like on the other end.

Of course, there were the drawbacks. No sunlight, for one. Well, 
at least not for a few decades. Mac paused and frowned. What 
about Jackie? He'd seen *her* outside in daylight. Did that mean 
she'd been Embraced *after* being drafted by the Agency? The 
Director was a different matter, since she was... older. Just how 
old, she refused to say, but old enough to have built some 
immunity. Plus there was that protective makeup stuff she'd 
mentioned to Cash.

The other potential drawback of what clan she picked to Embrace 
him. Every clan had its idiosyncrasies and its rivalries, he'd 
learned. What if he ended up in a clan that was instinctively 
hostile to the Gangrel? Cash had lost a lover when she was 
Embraced Brujah. He would hate to lose Vic the same way.

He shook his head. Surely she wouldn't do something like *that* 
to them.

Well, whatever happened, now was not the time to be worrying 
about it. He had a job to do and it was time he did it.

He drifted away from his dance partner -- something that was easy 
to do in the crowded room. He could see the stairs heading up to 
the offices, not far from the restrooms, so he headed that way.

The stairs had a watcher, though, and he frowned. Getting past 
the man without attracting attention was going to be difficult, 
if not impossible. The stairs were in plain view of everyone in 
the room.

But would Ramirez have his underworld pals come in through the 
club? Not bloody likely. Most of them were allergic to being 
seen.

So, there had to be another way upstairs. A hidden way.

Mac headed into the restroom and went about his business while he 
considered the puzzle. Maybe a hidden elevator? But surely that 
would be guarded too.

Then he resisted the urge to smack himself. He was making things 
far too difficult. A building like this one had fire escapes, 
assuming that they wanted to stay open. The fire escape would be 
the easiest way to the upper level. Mac grinned, washed his hands 
and headed out into the crush again.

He finally found a side door with a fire alarm that wasn't active 
and headed out into the back alleyway. A last glance over his 
shoulder showed Vic still standing against the wall on the other 
side of the dance floor looking incredibly uncomfortable. Despite 
Mac's best efforts, Vic just wasn't the nightclub type.

Outside, a bucket next to the door filled with cigarette butts 
told Mac why the fire alarm wasn't turned on for that door: 
Obviously Ramirez's boys used the back for smoke breaks. Toronto 
city ordinances meant that the club had to be smoke free and the 
boys didn't look like the types to quit smoking because of that.

A quick glance around the dirty alley showed that Mac was alone. 
A little further down, about halfway between the door and the 
street the alley opened onto, Mac could see the dim outline of a 
fire escape.

"Jackpot," he murmured to himself with a grin as he headed for 
it.

The start of the ladder was too high off the ground for him to 
reach, but a nearby dumpster was perfectly positioned. He climbed 
on top of it, trying not to breathe in the fumes that managed to 
escape from it even with the lid shut.

From there, after a quick double-check to make sure that he was 
*really* alone, Mac bent his knees, took a deep -- albeit 
distasteful -- breath and leapt.

He just barely caught the bottom of the railing that went around 
the lowest platform of the fire escape and hung there, swinging, 
for a moment. The metal creaked and he winced, feeling the rust 
digging into his palm. When he was sure that no one was going to 
come running to investigate, he carefully pulled himself upwards 
until he was able to pass between the bars and onto the semi-
solid platform.

He glanced at his hands and cursed lightly when he saw the blood 
seeping from the scrapes there. He pulled a pair of thin gloves 
from his pocket and put them on. They were intended to keep him 
from leaving fingerprints, but leaving blood splatters would be 
even worse, especially if the Director was right about there 
being Kindred involved.

"Mac."

Mac stiffened at the sound of his name, then remembered the tiny 
earpiece he'd forgotten he was wearing. He tapped the equally 
tiny microphone. "Here," he whispered.

"I've been ejected. I'll meet you at the truck."

"'Kay. Give me a half-hour, max."

"Got it." The earpiece went silent.

Ready to continue, he started up the fire escape to the second 
floor windows, moving as quietly as he could on the aging metal 
structure. Once there, he checked the window and found that it 
had been wired.

Well, to a trained thief, the basic security system wasn't even 
close to a challenge. It took him only a couple minutes to 
disable the system and lift up the window. He winced a little as 
the frame creaked -- the window obviously hadn't been opened in a 
*long* time -- then climbed through.

The hallway was dimly lit, filled with the throb of the music 
downstairs. Mac glanced around, but didn't see anyone. He closed 
the window, then went hunting.

The third door he cracked open led to what was obviously 
Ramirez's office. The lights were out and no one was inside, so 
he opened the door and slipped in.

Shutting the door behind him, he started a search of the office. 
He quickly came to the realization that Ramirez might be a slob -
- the place was a mess, with discarded plates and glasses hidden 
under piles of paper -- but he wasn't stupid. Nothing that had 
been left out contained incriminating information.

Mac eyed the computer for a moment, then bypassed it. He was good 
with computers, but not that good. He did check quickly to make 
sure that the machine had a phone line hooked up: If there was 
time before he left, he would try dialing into the Agency so that 
the computer geeks could download anything on the machine that 
might be of use.

Instead, Mac glanced around, looking for where the safe would be 
hidden. He checked behind the paintings on the wall -- after all, 
it was a clich for good reason. Amazingly, all he found behind 
the brightly colored canvases was bare walls. Likewise, lifting 
the rugs showed only battered wood flooring.

Obviously Ramirez wasn't quite as stupid as he looked. Mac 
paused, and considered where else a safe could be hidden.

The sound of voices coming down the hallway interrupted his 
thoughts, and he looked around. The window was shut and wired, 
and he wouldn't have enough time to disarm the system and get out 
if the people in the hallway were coming away.

The only other option was the door off to the side. It led to 
Ramirez's private bathroom, he'd found during his initial search. 
As the voices got closer, he gave a mental shrug and ducked into 
the small room. There was a window above the toilet -- *not* 
wired, he noticed -- but before he could try it, he heard a door 
open and the voices suddenly became much louder. Deciding to take 
a chance, he pressed himself against the door, straining to hear 
what was going on.

It didn't take much effort, the walls were so thin.

"What's the word from the farm?" he heard a voice ask in Spanish. 
It was loud and heavily accented; Ramirez, he assumed.

The reply was too low for him to make out more than just the 
apologetic tone. Obviously Ramirez's people hadn't had any more 
luck than the Agency investigators.

"Well, find out! I don't want *anything* to interfere with our 
plans. Now, tell me about this jerk downstairs."

"Says his name is Mansfield," a new voice said, stronger than the 
first lackey. Mac's eyes went wide, and he wondered what the hell 
his partner was up to. "He wanted to talk to you. He didn't want 
to leave a message. Said he didn't deal with 'underlings.'" The 
man sounded insulted and Mac had to keep himself from snorting. 
"He left a phone number."

There was a pause, then Ramirez spoke up again. "Find out who 
this Mansfield person is. I don't like wildcards."

"Yessir."

The door opened, then shut again. There was silence for a few 
minutes, and Mac was about to open the door again when he heard 
the creaking of the chair behind the desk. Mac groaned silently 
and considered trying for the window. He didn't know what was 
outside it, or if he could get out without attracting attention, 
but if he stayed where he was, he was going to be found, sooner 
or later.

Before he could decide, he heard the door open again and he moved 
back to the door.

"Where the hell have you been?" Ramirez said, in English, this 
time. Irritation was clear in his voice.

"What's wrong, Jose, did you miss me?" was the sarcastic, lightly 
accented reply.

Mac blinked at the new voice. It was deep and sultry and 
definitely female. Mac closed his eyes and tried to imagine a 
face to go with the sexy voice and the first thing that came to 
mind was Lillie Langtry, the glamorous Toreador Primogen from San 
Francisco.

"Where have you been?"

"None of your business. Why, don't you trust me?" The tone was 
light, but it had an edge to it that also reminded Mac of the 
Director.

There was the sound of snorted laugh. "Trust you? I don't trust 
thieves, even if they *do* work for me." Mac's eyebrow went up at 
the word 'thief.'

The woman's voice was suddenly arctic-cold. "I do not work for 
you, Ramirez, and you would do well to remember that. I work for 
Guylaine, and so do you, little man."

There was silence for a moment. When Ramirez spoke again, his 
voice was tightly controlled. "What's the word on the Haitian?"

This time, the woman's voice was all business. "Unlike the last 
three dealers, he turned down the offer to sell out. He said that 
the other cowards might be willing to give up, but no one was 
going to chase him off his turf."

"Fine. Have him killed. Make it messy."

"I'll see to it."

"Then help Esteban track down this Mansfield person who was 
nosing around earlier."

"Oh, I already know who he is." Mac could almost here the smirk 
in the woman's voice.

"Oh really? Do tell," was the sneering reply.

"Victor Mansfield. I saw him seven years ago when I was scouting 
the territory. Cop."

Ramirez cursed in Spanish. "So he's undercover?"

"I don't think so. He's now an *ex* cop. He was sent to jail 
about that time for stealing drugs from evidence and leaning on 
local drug dealers, I think it was."

"He isn't in jail now."

"How bright of you to notice. Considering his sentence, he must 
have some pretty powerful friends to be out so soon. The judge 
was making an example of him."

"Well, find out who they are. No one is leaning on me. I want 
them found, then dealt with. Our plans are too far along to allow 
any interference now."

"Consider it done."

A moment later, Mac heard the office door open and shut again. He 
waited, but there were no sounds of life from the outer room. 
After a few minutes, he cracked the door open very cautiously.

He glanced around, but decided that he was pushing the deadline 
he'd given himself. Given time, he could find the safe and crack 
it, but nearly getting caught once told him that he was pressing 
his luck. Besides, what he'd overheard gave them something to 
work with.

He checked the hallway, and finding it empty, headed for the 
window he'd come in through. He slipped back through it and 
carefully restored the security system behind him. After all, it 
wouldn't do to let them know they'd been burgled -- even if he 
hadn't taken anything.

"Nice work," a familiar, sultry voice said from behind him. 
"Efficient and skilled."

Mac twisted quickly to find a woman lounging on the fire escape 
behind him.

She was nothing like he'd imagined, listening to her voice as she 
sparred verbally with Ramirez. Her hair was as dark as his own 
and tied back in a long braid that fell down her back, over the 
battered leather jacket she was wearing. Her jeans were ripped in 
all the right places, and where they weren't ripped, they were so 
worn that they were almost white. With it, she wore a black 
turtleneck shirt. The only really strange touch was the brightly 
colored scarf that was tied around her neck.

She definitely didn't look like the type to be working with drug 
dealers or killers.

"Umm..." he said, none too brightly, trying to come up with an 
excuse for why he was climbing out this window. Of course, there 
really wasn't any good excuse, other than the obvious: he was 
breaking in.

"Find anything interesting?" she asked, honest curiosity in her 
voice.

Mac shrugged. He was in deep already, so he might as well play 
along. "Not really. He seems pretty stupid, but he's good at 
hiding his safe, at least. I didn't have time to find it."

She grinned. "That's because he didn't pick the location. I did. 
So..." She got to her feet suddenly, all casual grace gone, 
leaving a cold warrior -- still graceful, but now deadly -- 
behind. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Mac caught his breath. She might be dangerous, but she was also 
beautiful. If he weren't already taken, in more ways than one, he 
might try making a play for her. Then again, he'd been burnt 
once, getting involved with a suspect, a mistake he was *not* 
eager to repeat.

"Well..." he drawled, trying to collect his thoughts. "Ramirez is 
getting pretty well known on the streets. Anyone doing that much 
business should have plenty of cash on hand, right? I thought I 
might be able to... help myself to some."

Her smile was downright feral. "And why shouldn't I take you in 
and hand you over to Ramirez? By morning, you'll be at the bottom 
of Lake Ontario."

"Um... Because I'm cute?" Mac tried his most ingratiating grin, 
one that had even got him out of trouble with the Director from 
time to time. Sorta. Almost.

Her eyebrows went up and she started to laugh. "You've got moxie, 
that's for sure. What's your name?"

"Mac. You?"

"Kata." She looked him up and down. "And you could almost be 
family, from the look of you."

"Family?"

"Hmm," she hummed to herself in an affirmative note, but said 
nothing more. Mac always found that infuriating, but found 
himself strangely reluctant to press for something more 
definitive.

"So," she finally said. "A thief, albeit a cute one. But one that 
is empty handed, so not a very good one."

Mac straightened up, his professional pride pricked. "I am an 
*excellent* thief. I was pressed for time, though. If I'd found 
the safe, you can bet it would be empty right now." Then he 
winced. What the hell was he saying?

Luckily, she seemed more amused than anything else. "Oh really? 
Prove it."

"How?"

She considered for a moment, then smiled a slow and calculating 
smile. "A test, then. There's an Egyptian exhibit at the ROM 
right now. The centerpiece is a solid gold sarcophagus."

Mac stared at her in disbelief. "Are you joking? The security on 
that thing is horrendous, it's impossible to fence. Not to 
mention the fact that it's a little heavy to carry out."

"But I thought you were an *excellent* thief," she said, 
mockingly. "But no, I'm not asking you to *steal* the 
sarcophagus."

"Then what *are* you asking?" he asked suspiciously.

She lifted a wrist, showing a thin gold chain wrapped around it. 
She undid the clasp and dropped it in his hand. "Tuck this under 
golden-boy's chin. If you do it right, it will almost disappear 
against all the other gold. I'll look for it."

Mac checked the bracelet. It was fine enough to do as she said. 
It was also not cheap. "You'll trust me not to run with this?"

"Run, and I'll find you. And I won't be so nice. I'll give you 
one week. If by next... Saturday, let's say, you haven't 
succeeded, I'll expect you to come back and tell me. *And* return 
the bracelet, of course. If you do, I'll still let you go. If you 
don't..."

She didn't continue, but the expression on her face chilled him 
to the bone.

"All right," he said, dropping the chain into his pocket. "It's a 
deal. And I won't fail," he added. He wasn't sure what the 
Director was going to say about this, but his pride as a thief -- 
albeit a retired one -- was on the line. He'd never backed down 
from a challenge before, and no way was he going to back down 
from *this* one.

"We'll see," she said, then jumped over the side of the fire 
escape.

"Shit!" Mac said -- softly, of course -- and moved to look down. 
He fully expected to see her lying on the ground with a broken 
leg, if not worse.

Instead, he saw a shapely figure heading down the alley, hips 
swaying in the age-old seductive dance. He blew out a gust of 
air.

How the hell had she managed that? Hell, how'd she managed to 
sneak up on him in the first place. *No* one had ever done that 
before.

Then he heard voices, and he shook off all thoughts other than 
getting out of there in one piece.

Below, he saw one of Ramirez's thugs light a cigarette, then 
settle down for a smoke. Mac sighed, and resigned himself to 
waiting the man out. He couldn't even safely contact Vic and let 
him know what was happening.

To distract himself, he considered the enigma of the woman, Kata. 
She didn't seem like the type to work for a man like Ramirez. On 
the other hand, according to the conversation he'd overheard, she 
didn't. Instead, someone else was pulling the strings. Someone 
named Guylaine. Maybe Nathan would be able to find something on 
this mysterious Guylaine.

In the meantime, it looked like Vic was going to work the angle 
of a local trying to horn in on Ramirez's business. Heck, it 
wasn't a bad idea, albeit a dangerous one. So while he did that, 
Mac could work on Kata. Of course, first step would have to be 
breaking into the Royal Ontario Museum to meet her challenge. He 
grinned wolfishly at the idea. It had been a long time since he'd 
really stretched his muscles, so to speak, and he found he was 
looking forward to it. And it wasn't like anyone would get hurt, 
so the Director couldn't *really* object. Besides, it would be 
fun.

A door slamming got his attention. A voice called out in Spanish.

"Gregor, better get your ass inside. Ramirez is on a rampage. He 
wants *everyone* inside. Now."

The man, Gregor, cursed softly, dropped his cigarette and ground 
it out under the heel of his shoes. Then he headed for the 
brightly lit doorway.

As soon as the door shut, Mac was heading down the fire escape, 
as quietly as possible. Vic would be pissed if he had to wait 
*too* much longer.

It looked like things were starting to get interesting.


----------------------------------------
Chapter Five
----------------------------------------

"You have *got* to be joking! No way, it's *far* too dangerous."

Vic took a deep breath, but that didn't much help. The evening 
had not exactly gone as planned.

First there was his run-in with Ramirez's goon, which had led to 
his possibly ill-conceived improvisation. Actually, the Director 
had actually seemed happy about that part, but what made her 
happy was usually pretty scary.

Then Mac had arrived back at the truck, basically empty-handed 
except for the bracelet that was currently in the Director's 
hands. That and...

Vic took another deep breath and fought down a flash of rage. Mac 
still reeked, to his nose. Reeked of the scent of their 
mysterious watcher. Something about that bothered him on levels 
he hadn't even expected existed. Mac was *his*. He shouldn't be 
smelling of anyone else. And that scared him. He'd *never* been 
this possessive of a lover in his life.

Vic closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. The last thing 
he wanted was to scare the younger man off with a fit of 
jealousy. Mac was coming around, but he was still a little 
twitchy about their relationship. Vic could understand, but his 
instincts were still to demand more than Mac was giving. 
Patience, Vic, he told himself. They were moving in the right 
direction.

"Actually, I think this is an excellent opportunity," the 
Director said, letting the fine gold chain spill from one hand to 
the other. "You work on Ramirez, while Mac works on the lady 
flunky."

"Not a flunky," Mac broke in. "In that conversation I overheard, 
she was quite clear on that. They both work for someone else 
named Guylaine. Any ideas who that might be?"

"I stand corrected," the Director said with a look that said Mac 
should have kept his mouth shut. "And we *will* be investigating 
that link. I do have a few suspicions about who Guylaine is, 
though," she added thoughtfully as she wrapped the chain around 
her index finger before dropping into her palm again.

Vic glanced at Mac. If the Director knew who this person was, it 
couldn't be good.

But the Director didn't seem inclined to elaborate on that 
statement, so Vic went on with his objections.

"She's a killer, and probably Kindred! You want Mac hanging 
around with her?"

"We don't know that she's the killer."

"You said that he told her to kill the Haitian." Mac was already 
shaking his head.

"I said that Ramirez told her to *have* him killed. And she said 
that she would *see* to it. That doesn't necessarily mean that 
she's going to do it personally. She might simply be the person 
that the killer reports to."

"And maybe the tooth fairy really does exist," Vic muttered to 
himself. Then he said in a louder voice, "And I suppose you don't 
think she could *possibly* be the killer?" That was fighting 
dirty, he knew; bringing up Claire, the industrial thief Mac had 
almost married, convinced that she had *nothing* to do with the 
theft of the design for a nuclear hand grenade. A belief he'd 
held to until the moment she'd pulled the damned thing on them at 
the church when LiAnn had exposed her plan.

Mac bristled at the sarcasm. "Don't be an idiot," he said hotly. 
"Of course she could be the killer. She probably *is* the killer. 
She certainly strikes me as being capable."

Vic winced at the angry glance Mac shot his way. He felt a little 
guilty for assuming that Mac wouldn't be able to... what? Think 
straight in the face of a beautiful woman? Vic squashed the 
momentary flash of insecurity. LiAnn had complained that Vic had 
been too insecure about their relationship, as if he expected her 
to leave him at any moment. She said it made him clingy. He was 
*not* going to make the same mistakes over again.

Besides, Mac hadn't exactly *said* that she was beautiful. Maybe 
she was old and ugly and overweight.

Yeah. Right.

"The *other* question," the Director broke in pointedly, "is 
whether or not she is the person who blew up the farm with the 
drug processing lab. Is she is, then why? Perhaps there is a 
wedge that we can drive between them."

"Divide and conquer," Mac chimed in.

Vic was starting to feel outnumbered. Obviously, his partner and 
his boss had made their decision and weren't willing to listen to 
reason. "It's still too dangerous," he repeated, knowing that he 
sounded petulant but unable to help it.

The Director waved off the comment, but the look in Mac's eyes 
said that he was going to be hearing a long and heated 'I can 
take care of myself' lecture from the younger man as soon as they 
were alone.

"And setting yourself up as a potential target for Ramirez 
isn't?" was all Mac said.

Vic winced. Point taken. Still, at the moment he was a little 
more capable of protecting himself, although he was smart enough 
*not* to say that out loud.

"Victor," the Director said, breaking in again. "You will wait 
until Ramirez calls you. You will present yourself as someone who 
has a pipeline of illegal drugs into the city that could either 
be a rival or an ally, including a new drug, even more potent 
than the one Ramirez has."

"What drug is that?" Vic asked suspiciously.

"Candy."

Mac stiffened, while Vic's eyes went wide, but her expression 
told them not to protest. Candy was a drug developed by an Agency 
scientist, Dr. Fry. He'd been looking for a way to turn ordinary 
people into perfect tools, without morals or conscience or 
inhibitions. It had succeeded, to a point, but the three test 
subjects had become unstable and had escaped to go on a violent 
spree. They'd barely stopped the three, but not before the so-
called Drogues had addicted Dr. Fry to Candy to force him to make 
more for them. He'd later come up with a cure, while locked in an 
Agency lab.

He just hoped that she didn't *really* intend to hand over even a 
tiny sample of the drug to the man. The thought of Candy 
available on the city streets scared the hell out of him.

Satisfied that he wasn't going to challenge her, the Director 
turned to Mac. "You will work on this Kata. I'll arrange to have 
this placed," she said, jingling the gold chain in her hand.

There was a wordless protest from Mac, and her eyebrow went up. 
Then she sighed. "Let me guess, Mr. Ramsey. You want to take care 
of it yourself."

Mac shrugged his shoulders. "Well, she might be watching," he 
said weakly. Even Vic could tell that he was just making excuses. 
Mac really wanted to do it because it was a challenge.

The Director smiled slightly. "Worried that the old skills might 
be getting a little rusty?" she said, one elegant eyebrow lifted. 
Mac flushed, his eyes downcast.

"Never mind," she said, then tossed him the chain. "Very well, I 
will leave that to you. However, if you want to do it on your 
own, it will be *completely* on your own. No use of Agency 
resources. And we won't bail you out if you fail or get caught."

"Fine by me," Mac said, catching the bracelet out of the air. 
Already, Vic could see the sparkle in the man's eyes. Mac rarely 
got to use the skills he'd trained most of his life to use -- the 
skills of a master thief -- and he relished every chance he got. 
And after being dragged along on the 'caper' with the Rivers 
family, Vic could kind of understand the appeal. The chance of 
discovery, of capture, made you feel more alive. Instead of brute 
force, your survival rested on fine skills.

And even though the Director kept a straight face, he could see 
her amusement at the change. If she'd really wanted to, she could 
have shot Mac down. Instead, she was giving him exactly what he 
wanted; the chance to meet Kata's challenge and adding one of her 
own. Mac would work even harder to prove to her that he *could* 
do it on his own.

If he wasn't supposed to be tackling Ramirez, Vic would have been 
tempted to tag along for the ride, just to recapture that special 
adrenaline rush he could still remember from the diamond theft.

Finally, less than an hour before sunrise, the Director dismissed 
them. If she'd delayed any longer, Vic would have ended up 
sleeping at the Agency headquarters; something he hadn't done 
since his Embrace, and which he wasn't eager to do anytime soon. 
Mac was yawning widely as they headed for the parking lot.

"My place?" Vic suggested, even though he knew that there 
wouldn't be time for anything more than a quick shower before the 
sun rising sent him into coma-land.

Mac shook his head. "I need to drive past the ROM. It's going to 
take me a day or two to set up the job."

"Will I see you tonight?" 

"Maybe," Mac replied, his gaze distant and distracted. Vic could 
see that most of his mind was on the upcoming job. He was more 
than a little disappointed, but they both knew that work had 
better come first if they didn't want the Director to split them 
up permanently.

"Okay," he said reluctantly, one eye on the horizon. Even though 
the sky hadn't started to lighten yet, he could still feel the 
sun moving higher. He needed to get going immediately if he 
wanted to get home in time to do anything more than just crash.

But if he couldn't have a warm Mac to cuddle against as he slept, 
he would at least have the taste of him.

A grab at the back of the man's belt stopped him in his tracks, 
then reeled him in. The distracted look was gone, replaced by 
Mac's trademark smirk, as he turned to face Vic. "Forget 
something?" he asked.

"Yeah. This."

With that, Vic grabbed Mac's face between his hands and pulled 
him in for a long, heated kiss. His hands slipped lower, wrapping 
around Mac's waist, pulling the younger man tight against 
himself, and bent his head to nuzzle at Mac's neck. Then he 
paused and waited for permission.

Mac's head fell back and he groaned. "Oh, yeah," he moaned.

They didn't have time for anything long or involved, so after a 
few quick licks, Vic let his fangs drop down and plunged them 
into the vein right below the surface. A few quick swallows that 
burned through him like liquid fire, he withdrew and licked the 
wound shut and invisible before moving back up for another deep 
kiss. It wasn't really a feeding; he'd just taken a small taste.

"Ahem."

They practically flew apart at the amused cough. Turning, Vic 
already knew that the figure standing behind was Kindred, but 
thankfully it wasn't the Director.

"You need to be more careful, Ace," Dobrinsky said, a self-
satisfied smirk on his face. "There is such a thing as the 
Masquerade, you know."

Vic brushed his mouth, self-consciously. "Who would see anything 
more than two lovers necking?" he shot back at the Ventrue. The 
large man was the Director's right-hand man, and he'd always been 
more than a little intimidating, even *before* Vic had found out 
about the man's true nature.

"True. Doesn't mean someone seeing you might not be a gay-basher, 
though. Try to be a little more discreet, hmmm?"

With that, Dobrinsky brushed past them, heading for one of his 
large collection of vintage cars. Vic had always wondered how the 
guy could afford to maintain a fleet of more than fifty cars, let 
alone buy them. Finding out that the man was more than a hundred 
years old had helped to answer that question.

Mac kissed him again, quickly, then backed away. "You better get 
going," he said. "I prefer the un-toasted version of Vic 
Mansfield."

"Be careful, Mac."

The glare was back, but with less heat than before. "I'm a big 
boy, Vic. I might not have fangs and super strength, but I can 
take care of myself."

"I know," Vic said sheepishly. "I just... worry."

Mac snorted. "Worry? You? Vic, you raise worrying to a high art." 
Then his expression softened. "I worry about you too. So I'll 
make you a deal. I'll be super careful around Kata if you do the 
same around Ramirez. Deal?"

"Deal. And watch your step with the lady. I *might* be the 
jealous type." He snorted, mentally. Who was he kidding? He was 
*already* jealous.

Mac stepped closer. "You're not the only one," he growled in 
Vic's ear. "Remember that." He quickly kissed Vic, then headed 
off at a near run.

Vic stood grinning as Mac climbed into his car and pulled away.

Then, remembering the toast comment, he climbed into his own 
truck and headed for home.

>>>~~~<<<

Vic woke nearly two hours before sunset, already alert. It hadn't 
taken him very long to adjust to waking before the sunset, 
although he was still dead to the world almost as soon as the sun 
came up.

He hadn't seen any firm statistics on how long fledglings 
*usually* took to make that sort of adjustment, but based on what 
he'd been told, he was adjusting faster than most. According to 
both Moira and the Director, it had to do with how many 
'generations' removed from Cain he was. Moira, at least, seemed 
to think that was a drawback, but he disagreed. Although he'd 
never dared to tell her, he felt that it made him a little 
more... human than the older Kindred.

As for the Director, she just thought of it in terms of how it 
would affect his usefulness.

Vic rolled over and found the other side of the bed mussed up and 
the scent of Mac on the pillow next to his. Vic grinned. The 
traces were a couple hours old, and he knew that there was no one 
else in the apartment at the moment, but he found himself 
absurdly pleased that Mac had come to *his* apartment for an 
afternoon nap instead of just going back to his own place. Maybe 
it wasn't too soon to start making subtle hints that Mac should 
move in with him...

But being awake this long before sunset *did* have its drawbacks. 
The living room had large windows, and his instincts were telling 
him that it was a bright, sunny day outside and he had forgotten 
to close the drapes before collapsing into bed. As a result, he 
was basically trapped in his bedroom and its attached bathroom.

Luckily, he planned for these things. Tucked into a corner was a 
small bar fridge with a couple packets of blood, just in case he 
got really desperate for drink. He also kept a well-stocked 
bookcase and a laptop computer in the bedroom. Despite people's 
assumptions, he wasn't a dumb hick cop. He'd always read, and now 
that he was looking at a *very* long life, he read even more. 
Fiction, non-fiction; you name it, he inhaled it.

Currently, he was reading a novel built around cryptography -- 
not your standard fare. It was nearly a thousand pages and he was 
only half-done. Fluffing up his pillows, he settled back to read.

An hour -- and nearly a hundred pages -- later, he was pulled 
away by the ringing of his cell phone. He tucked his bookmark 
into the spot he was at and set the book on the side table before 
picking up the phone.

"Mansfield."

"I understand you wanted to talk to me, Mr. Mansfield. Or should 
I say, *Officer* Mansfield?"

Vic sat up a little straighter at the accented voice. "Mr. 
Ramirez, I presume."

"So what does a cop want with a simple nightclub owner?" The 
man's voice almost oozed with oil. It didn't disguise the 
underlying menace, however.

Vic snorted. "Let's not play games, Mr. Ramirez. We both know 
that you are in the process of establishing yourself as *the* 
drug lord for Toronto. Not exactly the actions of a 'simple 
nightclub owner.'"

"Is this were you tell me I'm going down hard, cop?" the man 
quipped, quoting too many bad movies.

"I'm not a cop," Vic said mildly.

"That's not what I hear."

"Then your information is more than seven years out of date, Mr. 
Ramirez. Now, are we going to trade barbs all night or are we 
going to talk business?"

"And what possible business could we have to discuss?"

Vic found himself smirking at the smug tone of the man. Taking 
Ramirez down was going to feel so good. There was something about 
the bastard's voice that really put him off. Not to mention the 
fact that the man was importing poison into *his* city.

"I understand you've decided to branch out from the standard 
street drugs. A little something called Dreamworks? Aren't you 
afraid that Spielberg might sue for trademark infringement?"

"Very funny. Is there a point to all this?"

Deciding that Ramirez was starting to sound a little *too* 
pissed, Vic got serious. "I represent a group that is in the 
business of... product development; both improving the existing 
and developing the new. However, they do not like to be bothered 
with marketing and distribution. They are looking for an agent to 
take care of that."

"I'm listening," was the non-committal reply.

"My employers have developed several methods for refining current 
popular street drugs to make them more addictive and more 
effective in smaller doses. That way, the drugs can be cut with 
more fillers, allowing you to sell the same amount of drugs to 
more people, bringing in higher profits."

"And how much profit is eaten up by this 'refining' process?"

Vic felt his lips draw back into a tight smile. He could hear the 
interest and greed in the other man's voice.

"It adds about ten percent to the average producer's cost. 
However, it also allows them to double the potency of the 
product, so the same amount can be sold for twice as much." He 
paused and waited for the man to do the math.

"Acceptable," Ramirez said. Vic resisted the urge to laugh; it 
was a sight more than 'acceptable.' "And you mentioned new 
product?"

Vic winced: He'd been hoping that the refining process would be 
enough of a hook for the man. However, he was too good at his job 
to let his distaste bleed through. To anyone listening, he was 
cold as ice, all business.

"It's a little thing we call Candy."

"I've... heard of it. It sent users a rampage that caused a great 
deal of expensive damage. Not exactly a good selling point."

"That was one of the initial field tests. It has been redesigned 
since then to reduce that instability factor. It couldn't be 
completely removed, since one of the side-effects is the 
reduction of personal morals and inhibitions. It is also 
addictive from the first dose, and stopping taking it means 
death, so a customer is forced to *keep* coming back, especially 
if you are the only source."

"On the other hand, police tend to get a lot more interested in a 
designer drug that leaves more bodies than usual around," Ramirez 
pointed out.

Vic silently cheered; you rarely found a drug dealer with that 
much common sense. "Hey, it's up to you."

"All right. You've had your say. I will consider your information 
and if I decide it's in my interests to deal with your bosses, 
I'll get back to you.

"However, I recommend that they don't try anything stupid, like 
going into business on their own, in the meantime. Competing with 
me would be a *very* bad idea. Do you understand?"

Vic shivered. The menace in the other man's voice was no longer 
hidden and it was chilling, despite his b-movie villain accent 
and the unimpressive image from the pictures Vic had seen the 
evening before. "Understood. But understand, we are not the same 
sort of pushovers as the dealers you've been negotiating with up 
until now."

"We'll see."

Ramirez hung up, and Vic put down the cellphone, staring at it 
thoughtfully.

A moment later, it rang again, making him jump. Frowning, he 
picked it up and flipped it open. "Mansfield."

"Very nicely done, Victor," a very familiar voice purred in his 
ear. "I knew you did well in undercover work, but you were even 
more convincing than I'd expected." The Director.

Vic glanced up at the light fixture over his bed. Obviously she 
had his new place as bugged as the last one. He was going to have 
to start scanning it too. Between his training and the new case, 
he just hadn't had the time yet.

"Thanks," he said bitterly.

"Awww, what's wrong, Victor?"

Vic glanced at the clock. The sun would be going down in a few 
more minutes. Then he could get out of here and *do* something. 
He was already starting to feel a little claustrophobic. Maybe a 
walk in the park before he headed over to the Agency to do some 
research...

But the Director was still waiting for an answer. "Why are we 
developing ways to make drugs more powerful?" he blurted out, not 
entirely sure if it was a smart thing to be asking.

The Director sighed theatrically over the phone. "Victor, do you 
really believe that we are capable of playing with improving 
street drugs?"

Vic's lips twisted into an ironic smile. "Yes"

"True. However, in this case, wrong. We were actually trying to 
improve the effectiveness of so-called truth serums. The process 
just happened to translate to other forms of drugs as well."

Vic had to admit that even though he didn't believe her, the 
explanation made sense. Too much sense for him to protest. "If 
you say so," he said noncommittally.

"I do. So, what are your plans?"

Vic sighed. "Well, there isn't a hell of a lot I can do until 
Ramirez decides to contact me again. I thought I'd talk to 
Nathan, see if we can't backtrack Ramirez to this Guylaine 
person."

There was a pause. "That might not be wise."

Vic was getting very suspicious now. His instincts were telling 
him that the Director knew *exactly* who this mysterious person 
was. Of course, she wasn't going to tell them anything that might 
help their investigation. After all, they'd gone through the same 
thing with Pucci, the rogue Agency assassin who'd tried to kill 
her.

"It does need to be done," he pointed out. If she wasn't going to 
tell them anything, they were just going to have to do it 
themselves.

"Fine," she said tersely. "But be careful, little boy. Remember, 
you're a fledgling in a very nasty world now. If you go poking in 
dark corners, you might disturb something that you can't handle."

With that cryptic remark, she hung up.

Vic stared at the phone in his hand for a moment, then shrugged 
and put it down. The sun was down and it was time for him to get 
to work. He headed for the living room, stopped and smiled.

The drapes were pulled tightly shut and a large note was pinned 
to where they joined.

"Remember, un-toasted tastes better."

Vic grinned and headed for the door.


----------------------------------------
Chapter Six
----------------------------------------

Mac whistled cheerfully as he drove away from the entrance to the 
Agency's underground headquarters. He wasn't worried about Vic 
getting under cover before sunrise -- the man was too smart to 
get himself flambed by making a stupid mistake like that. Of 
course, he had looked kissed stupid when Mac had left him in the 
parking lot. Still, even if *he* forgot, one of the Director's 
people would take care of him.

Of course, Vic would never live that down.

The image almost made up for the fact that he was still pissed 
off at the man. The old Vic -- the pre-Embrace Vic -- had been 
cautious, but not stupid. And stupid was the only way to describe 
Vic's behavior that night. Mac wasn't thinking about the man's 
improvisation at the club. No, he was pissed because after doing 
that, Vic had the gall to suggest that *him* working the woman, 
Kata, was too dangerous. Mac was a big boy; he could take care of 
himself. Unfortunately, it looked like he was going to have to 
convince Vic of that little fact.

Of course, the other explanation might be that Vic was simply 
jealous. Mac hadn't missed the flare of the man's nostrils every 
time he got close to Mac. Kindred had sharper noses than ordinary 
mortals, he knew. After all, Vic had recognized the scent before 
Mac could even start to explain what had happened while he was 
trying to break out of Ramirez's office. Vic's eyes had glowed 
that eerie silver while Mac had described his own little 
adventure. The memory still made him shiver in a way that wasn't 
*completely* unpleasant.

Mac turned his car towards his apartment building, making plans 
in the back of his mind while he continued to consider the 
problem of his lover.

And maybe that word, along with everything that went with it, was 
the problem. Lover. Mac well understood the urge to protect one's 
loved ones, even though he'd only gotten that close to a very few 
people in his life.

LiAnn. He'd wanted to run from the Tang family partly because he 
could see himself being forced into roles that he wanted nothing 
to do with. Being ordered to head the gun-running operation had 
been the last straw and he would have run, even if she'd decided 
to stay. But a large part of his reason for leaving had been to 
protect LiAnn. Even though she'd refused to see it, he'd been 
able to see just how unstable Michael was becoming and what sort 
of danger their foster brother's obsession with LiAnn was going 
to cause them. Mac still went cold at the memory of the young and 
definitely psychotic man he'd called brother.

Claire. He'd almost married her. He'd also tried to protect her 
from the Agency. Hell, he'd even tried to protect her from 
herself. And in return, she'd nearly blown them both up. The only 
thing he could say for her was that in the end, she hadn't been 
able to kill him. But the memory still burned in his mind with a 
sense of shame. LiAnn had tried to warn him, as had the Director. 
Even Vic had tried, although when he'd seen that Mac wasn't going 
to change his mind, he'd done everything he could to support him, 
even agreeing to be his best man. One of the many times that the 
man had been there for him, even though he'd tried to pass it off 
as eliminating him as a rival for LiAnn.

Angie. Mac smiled wistfully at the memory. Angie Rivers had been 
the opposite of Claire in every way possible. Innocent instead of 
worldly. Clingy instead of self-sufficient. Dark instead of 
blonde. The only thing that the two women had in common was that 
they were both thieves. And Mac.

But in Angie's case, he'd protected her by getting the hell out 
of her life when she and her family had left to start over in BC. 
She'd asked him to come with her, but all he would have been able 
to do for her otherwise was to drag her down with him. Besides, 
the Agency never would have let him go.

After that, he had learned his lesson. He hadn't dated any woman 
more than once, and just for the purpose of sex. That didn't 
bother him, since they were only looking for great sex with a 
good-looking man and he had given it to them. A few of the men 
had rated more than one date, but again, sex was the only reason 
and they'd all known it. Men understood that a little better, not 
expecting romance or engagement rings. Even Cash had only been 
sex, albeit wrapped in a very fun package.

But Vic was different. Vic, he couldn't keep at arm's length. Vic 
had already become part of him, through their work relationship. 
Adding sex to the mix had been dangerous, not to mention very, 
very thrilling.

And even though it wasn't the best sex he'd ever had in his life, 
it was definitely the most satisfying, he realized. So much so 
that he wasn't willing to lose it.

Maybe he was ready to try that commitment thing again.

>>>~~~<<<

A few hours later, Mac was on the road again. The first thing 
he'd done on getting home was to take a short nap to recharge his 
batteries. He had a lot to do and he'd already been up all night. 
A little surprisingly, he found himself frequently reaching for a 
cool body that wasn't there. After years of sleeping alone, he 
found himself missing having his partner to cuddle. Instead, all 
he'd found were slightly stale-smelling sheets.

On waking, he'd taken a long, hot shower, nearly scrubbing off 
the outer layer of his skin. Vic had been complaining so much 
about smelling Kata on him that *Mac* could almost smell it.

Smelling, he hoped, of only soap and antiperspirant, Mac changed 
into fresh clothes, deliberately choosing for once to dress down 
in blue jeans and a green sweater to give the image of a typical 
college student. Then he headed out to his car an he was on the 
road again. He stopped briefly at a favorite patisserie for a 
quick breakfast -- his cupboards were definitely getting bare -- 
before heading downtown towards the ROM.

The original Royal Ontario Museum had been opened in 1914 as part 
of the university of Toronto. Some forty years later, it was 
separated from the university and the five departments were 
merged into the single organization it now was. The focus was on 
archaeology and anthropology, mostly, and the museum funded 
expeditions all over the world, not just North America. It also 
had displays of zoology and geology, not to mention the dinosaur 
displays that were so popular with the kiddies. And always a 
favorite of the visitors; the Egyptian display.

Of course, he hadn't known much of this before that morning. 
Amazing what you could learn from the internet, he thought to 
himself with a smile. The museum had a nicely informative 
website. He was a little surprised, though, to realize that he'd 
been in the city for nearly three years and hadn't yet gone to 
visit its most famous museum.

He arrived just after the museum opened for the day. It was even 
early enough that he was able to find a parking spot in the 
closest lot, just down Bloor street from the museum. He paid his 
admission and started wandering the museum.

Like any typical tourist, student or not, he bought the full 
museum guide and picked up a collection of glossy brochures. He 
drifted around, staring at a variety of exhibits, both permanent 
and traveling. In fact, if he weren't working he would be 
enjoying himself thoroughly.

Unfortunately, museum rules didn't allow him to bring a camera in 
with him and thanks to the Director, he couldn't borrow one of 
the Agency's tiny spy cams. Instead, he had brought a large 
sketch pad and a variety of pencils, all tucked into a battered 
leather art case, along with pencil sharpeners and erasers.

He hadn't even had to buy the art supplies. Growing up in Hong 
Kong, he'd been trained in fine arts, since on occasion they -- 
he, Michael and LiAnn --  would be sent to steal artwork from 
either private homes or museums and needed to be able to 
recognize fakes from masterpieces, as well as which were worth 
the most. As part of that training, he'd learned sketching, and 
had discovered that not only did he have a talent for it, he also 
enjoyed it. He'd stopped during his time in prison, not being 
allowed any sort of personal items. Maybe they thought he would 
stab himself to death with a sharp pencil. When the Agency had 
decided to mandate hobbies -- a stupid rule, he still thought -- 
he'd taken up drawing again. He hadn't told anyone about it, 
though, since he didn't want to be teased about either going 
along with the directive or what his choice had been.

Picking a display that had nothing to do with Egypt -- namely one 
of the totem or crest poles that soared above the main entrance -
- he sat down and flipped through the book, past sketches of 
LiAnn and Vic, stopping briefly to admire one of his most recent 
drawings, a nude of a sleeping Vic done from memory after their 
return from San Francisco. He also had cityscapes done from his 
balcony and a variety of other subjects. Finding a blank page, he 
drew a deep breath of the sterile, and yet somehow ancient 
feeling air of the museum and started to work.

He quickly lost himself in his work, ignoring a few positive 
comments from people passing by that couldn't seem to help 
looking over the shoulder of a complete stranger. Once he was 
satisfied with the detailed drawing, he moved on, once again 
picking a sketch subject that wasn't part of the Egyptian 
exhibit. He didn't want to attract the wrong sort of attention, 
so he was circling in on his target.

A few hours later, he broke for lunch. Normally, he would have 
gone to the expensive restaurant at the museum, or one down the 
street, preferring the finer things in life, but in keeping with 
his student look, he headed for the deli near the main entrance 
instead. He chose a roast beef on rye with mustard and a garden 
salad on the side, along with a pop since the deli didn't serve 
beer. Of course, even if they did, they wouldn't have his 
favorite Chinese beer, he was sure. Worrying about the time, he 
ate quickly, then went back to work.

This time, he headed straight for the Egyptian exhibit, deciding 
that he'd established himself adequately as an art student, 
either local or from out of town. No one was giving him a second 
glance, and he'd even seen a couple other students doing the same 
sort of sketching that he was.

Once again, he worked his way around to his goal, sketching first 
a statue, then a set of jewelry, both in black and white, as well 
as color pencil. He found himself a little regretful that they 
wouldn't allow him to bring watercolors, though, before reminding 
himself that he *wasn't* there for pleasure. Still, he made a 
mental note to come back again sometime when he wasn't on a case. 
He'd like to see a little more of the museum, now that it had 
been brought to his attention.

Reaching the centerpiece of the display, the sarcophagus that was 
his target, he settled down on a marble bench and started to 
draw. The security guard watched him suspiciously for a moment, 
then ignored him.

For the next hour, he sketched the display from several angles. 
Anyone looking over his shoulder would just see detailed drawings 
of the gold monstrosity surrounded by rough backgrounds. He 
didn't draw anything of the security, which would give him away, 
but he noted every obvious and not so obvious sign of the 
security setup. He'd already noted the tiny signs telling him who 
had set it up. He was still amazed that they were that stupid. On 
the other hand, he'd learned through the years that seemingly 
smart people really *were* that stupid.

By mid-afternoon, he was pleased with himself. He had come up 
with the start of a plan of how to reach the room and get into 
the display case to add the gold chain while apparently 
concentrating only on his art. All he needed now was a better 
idea of the museum's security system, its wiring and the guard 
schedule, and thanks to the helpful advertising, he knew just 
where to find that information.

But that would have to wait until night, when the security 
company's offices would be shut down for the day. In the 
meantime, he was starting to yawn again, thanks to the erratic 
schedule of the last few days. He left the museum, collected his 
car from the lot, paying the exorbitant parking fees, and pointed 
his chariot towards home.

Sometime later, he came out of his haze to realize that he was 
pulling into the parking lot at Vic's building, not his own. He 
stared up at it, wondering what to do next. It was only a short 
drive to his own place, but instead he found himself pulling into 
a parking spot labeled visitors and heading for the elevator, 
making excuses to himself as he went.

Finally, as he reached the apartment door, he gave up on even the 
excuses. After all, he hadn't been able to spend any time with 
Vic the night before. Well, no real *personal* time. And surely 
Vic wouldn't mind him taking liberties, since he *had* given Mac 
a key. The key that Mac was now using to let himself in.

The apartment was silent, as expected. Mac locked the door behind 
himself, dropped his art case on the table next to the door, 
along with his keys, and headed into the living room.

There, he stopped in his tracks and frowned at the wide open 
drapes. The room was flooded with sunlight, giving everything a 
bright glow. It had turned into a beautiful late spring 
afternoon, and normally this would be a pleasant sight, but he 
wasn't vulnerable to sunlight the way that Vic now was.

Grumbling to himself about vampires who didn't have the sense to 
stay out of the sun, Mac pulled the drapes shut, checking to make 
sure that not even the smallest sliver of sunlight was getting 
through. Then, going with impulse yet again, he pulled a blank 
page from his sketchbook, wrote a pointed note on it and pinned 
it to the drapes where Vic wouldn't be able to miss it. 
Hopefully, he wouldn't miss the point either.

The idiot definitely needed a keeper, Mac thought to himself, and 
it looked like he'd been nominated.

Having prevented accidentally fried lover-kebob, Mac headed for 
the bedroom, stripping off his fake-student clothes as he went. 
He left the jeans and sweater draped over the back of the sofa 
and stopped at the bedroom door, dressed in only his briefs.

He smiled fondly at the sight of Vic, curled up like a little 
baby, one hand under his cheek. He stripped his briefs off and 
slid under the covers. He spooned up behind Vic and wrapped his 
arms around the sleeping man, sighing happily at how perfectly 
they fit together.

Vic's body was cool to the touch and there was no breath to make 
his chest rise and fall, but if Mac listened hard, he could hear 
the unnaturally slow -- but still steady -- sound of the man's 
heartbeat.

Counting the beats, he quickly drifted into slumber.

>>>~~~<<<

Mac woke well before sunset. He hadn't slept well, troubled by 
disturbing dreams that he already couldn't remember. Reluctantly, 
he slipped out of the bed with its still sleeping occupant and 
headed for the living room. He pulled his clothes back on, 
collected his stuff and headed out the door.

Now that he was a little more alert, he felt a little embarrassed 
over having just walked in and crawling into bed with his 
partner. He doubted that *Vic* would be bothered by it, but then 
Vic would take it as a sign that he was weakening over the whole 
'couple' thing.

And maybe he was.

Still, Mac wasn't about to let *him* know that yet. While he 
might be weakening, he wasn't ready to give up his freedom. 
Besides, it might be fun to let Vic convince him.

Mac paused and shook his head. The part that still seemed strange 
to him, though, was that while he was worried about commitment 
and sleeping with a partner, the one thing that *didn't* bother 
him was the fact that his partner was now a vampire. You would 
think that *that* would have had him running for the hills, but 
he'd accepted it easily. He even enjoyed being literally a 
'dinner' date.

Okay, sure he'd seen plenty of really weird stuff since being 
drafted by the Agency, but vampires were definitely weirder than 
the norm.

On the other hand, he'd always thought of the Director as a 
blood-sucker -- although not quite so literally. And as for Vic, 
maybe the fact that they'd worked together for so long made 
accepting the change easier, just like he'd have no problem 
accepting LiAnn, no matter what she became. And Jackie was so 
flaky, he'd buy her as just about anything.

Of course, there were limits. He just hadn't figured out what 
those limits *were* yet.

And that might be the most disturbing thing of all.


----------------------------------------
Chapter Seven
----------------------------------------

Vic headed for his apartment again, earlier than he had planned. 
He was carrying a pile of folders and had a couple zip disks in 
his jacket pocket that held everything that he and Nathan had 
been able to find on Ramirez, as well as anyone associated with 
him. Hopefully, going through the information would give them a 
handle on the man and his mysterious boss, Guylaine.

Normally he wouldn't have been allowed to bring any of this stuff 
home to review, especially the paper files, since the Agency 
preferred to keep their records on-site. Unfortunately, doing the 
review in the records department had proved to be completely 
impossible.

The problem, amazingly enough, had been Nathan. For years, the 
nervous little researcher had fallen all over himself trying to 
please Vic, who he had decided was a prince of the Illuminati. It 
had been useful, but annoying as hell. This time, though, he'd 
taken one look at Vic and he'd almost fallen over himself running 
in the opposite direction. Somehow, he had recognized the change 
in Vic.

It had taken him nearly half an hour to coax the cowering man out 
of the cubby-hole he'd hidden himself in and to convince him that 
Vic *wasn't* a danger to him, although he wasn't sure that Nathan 
had believed him. Even though Vic had long complained about the 
man's fawning, he found himself perversely disappointed by the 
change.

The other big surprise was the realization that Nathan was a 
ghoul, which explained just *how* he had known that Vic was now 
Kindred. And even *more* surprising was just whose ghoul.

He wouldn't have thought that Nathan was Dobrinsky's type.

The way it had been explained to him, a ghoul was a human who'd 
been fed Kindred blood without being Embraced. It was done with 
humans who were valuable, either as servants or daytime 
representatives. The taste of blood fixated them on the Kindred 
individual, making them almost painfully eager to please. Moira 
had suggested that he make a few ghouls of his own, since they 
were also a useful source of blood, but Vic still found the whole 
concept more than a little disgusting. Still, he could understand 
why the paranoid little researcher would be considered useful.

Anyway, he had finally decided to take pity on Nathan, who was 
growing more and more agitated by the moment. Collecting together 
what they'd found so far, he'd told the man to keep hunting while 
he went home to read over what they already had. His last sight 
of Nathan had been of the young man's back as he scurried down 
the hall in the direction of Dobrinsky's office.

Vic shook his head, trying to clear the image of Dobrinsky and 
Nathan from his mind. The Kindred-ghoul relationship didn't have 
to be sexual, but the slavish devotion of a ghoul mean that it 
was usually was, and the idea of Nathan having sex was...

To distract himself, Vic went back to the files.

Ramirez, Jonathon. No known birth date. No known family. All of 
these things seemed to suggest Kindred. After all, as you got 
older, you couldn't exactly admit to who you really were, since 
it wouldn't match with your appearance. It also suggested that he 
wasn't very highly placed, since a Prince could afford to set up 
better fake identities for their favored subordinates.

Of course, if this was an attempt by a rival Prince to move in on 
the Director's territory, that Prince *wasn't* going to send 
anyone too valuable or easily traced back to them. There would be 
no overt moves until they were sure of victory.

God, he hated politics. This was even worse than back on the 
police force.

So, if it *was* a move on Toronto and its Prince, then Guylaine 
could be the name of the rival Prince, which would explain the 
Director's cryptic warnings. It didn't, however, explain her 
refusal to provide information that they could use.

Vic searched his memories of the party at the end of their stay 
in San Francisco, but came up blank. He couldn't remember meeting 
anyone named Guylaine. He glanced at the computer screen where 
the details of Ramirez's arrival in Toronto glowed in the dim 
light. He'd flown to Toronto from New Orleans, and Vic couldn't 
remember having met anyone from that city either.

Come to think of it, he'd commented on how several large, 
important cities hadn't been represented at the party. The 
Director had cut him off, promising to explain later.

Well, later had just arrived, it seemed. He had the feeling that 
what ever it was she hadn't told him, it was about to be very 
important.

The first traces of the man known as Ramirez had appeared in New 
Orleans, nearly twenty years earlier when he was apparently in 
his twenties. He had a string of arrests for petty crimes, 
gradually working his way up to drug-related charges. He'd spent 
a total of nearly six years in jail in the first decade. 
Obviously, if he was Kindred, it had happened after that, since 
he obviously wasn't in his twenties anymore, and a Kindred 
certainly wouldn't have survived prison. He wouldn't have been 
able to avoid sunlight. And yet, if he wasn't Kindred, there 
should have been more of a paper trail for him.

It was the sort of puzzle that Vic didn't like.

He rubbed his forehead, feeling the start of a headache forming. 
He was missing something, but he wasn't sure what.

Anyway, somewhere along the line, Ramirez had started showing up 
with lawyers who managed to get him off on technicalities, and 
when that didn't work, witnesses recanted, or evidence 
disappeared from police lockups. All of this added up to new, 
more powerful friends. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be 
anything to identify those friends.

Except...

Vic flipped through pages of information, wondering just where 
the hand-written surveillance reports had come from. Especially 
the one splattered with brown specks that his nose told him was 
old blood. He really needed to have a long talk with his boss.

Anyway, there was one note of interest in them. Soon after his 
arrival in New Orleans, Ramirez had started to frequent a punk 
club called -- rather unimaginatively -- The Rusty Nail. He'd 
even spent five years as its manager more than a decade earlier, 
after gaining those powerful friends. It wasn't much, but it was 
a start. Ramirez certainly didn't look like the punk type. For 
one thing, he was much too old. Vic snorted, thinking of the 
middle-aged, heavy-set man whose picture the Director had shown 
them. He didn't even look like an aging punk fan.

Vic sent a quick e-mail to Nathan, telling him to check his 
archives for any reference to the club. Then he sent a second e-
mail to the Director, telling her what he'd found so far and 
suggesting that they should talk. He didn't like being kept in 
the dark.

And if she wasn't willing to answer his questions, he would make 
a long distance call to San Francisco. If she wouldn't, then 
maybe Cash would. At least *he* wouldn't jerk Vic around. He 
hoped.

The sound of a key in the lock caught him off-guard. He 
automatically reached for the gun sitting on the coffee table, 
half-covered by the spread of papers, but he relaxed even before 
Mac even stepped into view.

Mac was almost vibrating. His eyes sparkled with excitement and 
his natural scent was tinged with sweat and something else that 
made Vic's nose twitch. A grin quirked the corners of his mouth 
up into an almost predatory expression. He was dressed all in 
black and had a bag slung over his shoulder. Obviously, he had 
been 'working' that night.

"Already?" Vic asked, almost in disbelief. He found it hard to 
believe that Mac could have already made his move. Surely he 
wasn't foolish enough to try without proper preparation if he 
didn't have to.

On the other hand, he definitely was skilled enough to do it, Vic 
knew.

"Nah," Mac said, dropping his bag on the armchair, then throwing 
himself on the sofa next to Vic. Vic bounced a little as the 
younger man landed, then shifted around so that he was lying on 
his back with his head in Vic's lap, looking up at him. "That's 
tomorrow. Tonight I broke into the security company the museum 
uses to get the plans of their setup."

Vic was finding it hard to concentrate on what his partner was 
saying. Mac's eyes were dilated until they were almost black and 
he could smell the musk of the younger man's arousal easily. His 
black cotton pants did nothing to disguise the bulge of a half-
erect cock. Adrenaline obviously had Mac worked up to a fever 
pitch, and that, combined with the head pressing down against his 
groin, was quickly driving Vic to a similar state.

"You broke into a security company's office?" he finally managed 
to croak through a throat gone dry. "Are you nuts?"

Mac rolled over and pushed up onto all fours so that he was 
almost nose to nose with Vic. "Nope," he said with a lazy smile, 
eyelids dropping to half-mast. "You'd be surprised at just how 
bad their own security is. On the other hand, they probably count 
on their reputation to scare off crooks. After all, who would 
break into the offices of a firm that specializes in security 
systems? Kinda like those stupid little lights that are supposed 
to make thieves think that you have an alarm system in your car."

"If you say so," Vic said, although he was no longer sure just 
what he was agreeing with.

And his distraction hadn't escaped Mac's notice either. The world 
tilted suddenly and Vic found himself hitting the floor next to 
the sofa with Mac on top of him, fully stretched out. He ignored 
the sound of his coffee table being pushed out of the way, all 
his attention taken by the young man whose tongue was already 
half-way down his throat.

Growling deep in his throat, Vic started pulling at Mac's 
clothes. The turtleneck was yanked out from the waistband of 
Mac's pants and Vic broke the kiss only long enough to pull the 
fabric up over the other man's head. A voice in the back of his 
head suggested that this really wasn't the best place to be doing 
this, but he ignored it. He was too far gone to stop long enough 
to shift to someplace more comfortable, like the bed.

Instead, he rolled over on top of Mac, not noticing as the coffee 
table actually went flying this time. Instead, he sat back on his 
heels and pulled his own shirt off, tearing at it hard enough 
that buttons went flying, then undid his jeans. Getting rid of 
them, as well as boxers and socks, took a little more doing, but 
he managed to do it without giving Mac the chance to get away.

Not that Mac was trying. Instead, the younger man was disposing 
of his own clothes just as quickly, which couldn't be easy with 
someone sitting on your legs. Vic didn't really notice. His 
attention was grabbed more by the fact that his partner wasn't 
wearing any underwear.

Vic growled and leaned forward over Mac, grinding his groin 
against the younger man's. He buried his nose in the crook of 
Mac's neck, inhaling deeply. Mac smelled of sweat and soap, and 
beneath all that he still smelled of the rival, even stronger 
than before.

Not a rival, the voice tried to tell him, but he wasn't 
listening.

But that problem was easily taken care of. By the time he was 
done with Mac, the only thing the man would smell of was *him*.

Unfortunately, he didn't keep lube in the living room -- an error 
he wouldn't make again -- but he wasn't going to let that stop 
him. Dropping back down onto him full length, he started rubbing 
himself all over Mac. Bit by bit, that annoying scent was 
overwhelmed by the smell of their combined arousal.

"Vic..." Mac groaned.

With a little wiggling that inspired moans from both of them, Vic 
managed to work a hand between them to grasp both their 
erections. Enough pre-cum had flowed to lubricate everything, 
letting him pump them both together easily.

Mac was panting heavily, thrusting upwards against Vic. His head 
was tossed back, exposing his throat. The beast rose up in Vic, 
growling with hunger, both physical and mental. His fangs were 
already fully extended and the need was becoming too strong to 
resist.

With a growl, he sank his fangs into Mac's neck, not even 
thinking of using his saliva to anesthetize the area first. Mac's 
first shout was one more of pain than anything else.

That pain brought Vic back to his senses. Doing his best to push 
the Beast back into its cage, he pulled back and licked the 
sluggishly bleeding area, stopping the flow. At the same time, he 
slowed his movements, gentling them until Mac started moving in 
concert with him again.

Then he dropped his face to the other side of Mac's neck. "Mac?" 
he asked, feeling guilty for having just taken when he should 
have asked first.

There was silence for a moment. Vic looked up to find Mac looking 
at him with a serious expression. Vic pleaded with his eyes, but 
stayed silent, not moving other than the gentle rocking that was 
keeping them both on edge.

After a moment, Mac seemed to find what he was looking for and he 
smiled slightly. Then he tilted his head to the side, giving Vic 
full access.

This time, Vic took time and care in preparing the way. By the 
time he felt his lover was ready, Mac was making pleading noises 
in the back of his throat. When he bit down, the only thing in 
Mac's cry was pleasure.

He'd already fed once that night, visiting the Agency infirmary 
for a baggie of blood. But as he'd noticed before, chilled blood 
didn't have anywhere near the life of blood taken straight from 
the vein. Even more to the point, blood from *Mac's* vein. It 
exploded across his tongue, burnt down his throat and spread 
through his body like lightning.

He pulled back again, this time howling as his orgasm flashed 
through him, following that lightning, pumping out all over Mac's 
stomach and chest, while he continued to pull on Mac's erection. 
He heard a matching howl from his lover as he collapsed on top of 
him.

Then everything grayed out.

>>>~~~<<<


"Damnit, Vic, move! You aren't exactly a lightweight, you know."

Vic groaned, grasping for the dim comfort of the realm he'd been 
floating in. Then he realized that Mac was pushing at him, trying 
to roll him off so that he could breathe.

"Sorry," he said, shifting to the side. Mac took a deep breath 
and let it out with a sigh of relief.

"About bloody time," he said.

Vic propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at Mac. "I mean 
it, I'm sorry." He reached out and brushed a gentle finger 
against the side of Mac's throat where a large bruise was 
starting to form, evidence of just how badly he'd lost it.

"Hmm? Oh, that. Want to explain it?"

At least Mac didn't *sound* overly upset. Taking that as a 
promising sign, Vic relaxed a little, dabbling his fingers in the 
mixture of fluids coating Mac's stomach, spreading it around, 
rubbing it into his skin. On one level, he felt very satisfied 
with himself. Mac smelt right.

"Hey, watch it," Mac said, batting Vic's hand away. "It's going 
to be enough trouble washing that stuff out of my chest hair as 
it is. Now talk."

Vic pulled back. "I'm not sure. It was a lot of things. That 
woman's scent. Your arousal. My want. Hunger. A lot of things. 
I'm sorry, Mac. I nearly lost control of the Beast."

Vic wasn't really sure that *he* accepted that as an excuse, but 
Mac seemed to think it was adequate. "So this was..."

"You'd showered, but under it, you still smelt of her. Now you 
don't."

Mac snorted. "With this all over me," he said, gesturing at the 
sticky fluids, "I should think not. If I smell of anyone, it's 
you."

That comment made Vic's cock twitch, but it was far too soon for 
anything to happen.

Then Mac paused, then frowned at Vic. "That's it, isn't? Shit, 
what's next, you start piddling on me like you're the biggest, 
baddest dog on the block?"

Uh-oh, Vic thought to himself. This is not good. "No! Of course 
not! At least, I don't think so..." Mac was still glaring. 
"Listen, I can't explain it. I'm not trying to mark you."

Mac had sat up and now had his arms crossed over his chest. "You 
sure about that?"

Vic dropped back down onto the carpet and covered his eyes. "No," 
he finally said. "I'm not. All I know is that there is something 
about her scent that bothers me. I can't explain it, it just is. 
Anyone else, I don't think it would be as bad."

"It's not that she's a woman is it?"

Vic considered that suggestion, then shook his head. "No. I 
didn't react that way to the scent of the girl you were dancing 
with, and if anything, her perfume was even stronger on you than 
this Kata's scent last night."

"So there was something specific about her. I wonder what."

About this time, Vic was starting to feel like they were playing 
a scene from a TV show he had watched a couple of times. "Who the 
hell knows," he snapped. "Maybe I'm allergic to her. Does it 
matter?"

"Well it does if you're going to react this way after every time 
I meet up with her for this case," was the exasperated reply. Vic 
opened his mouth, but Mac beat him to it. "And no, I am *not* 
going to back out of that part of the plan, so forget it."

Vic sighed. "I know. I'm not sure *what* to do, then." He opened 
his eyes and looked up at Mac, who looked about as frustrated as 
he felt. At the moment, it seemed like the drawbacks to this 
Kindred business were heavily outnumbering the advantages.

"Well, we could always ask the Director for advice. Or maybe 
Jackie or Dobrinsky."

Their eyes met and they simultaneously said "Naaaaah."

"Okay, scratch that idea," Mac said. "Well then, I just make sure 
I shower and scrub so that if there's any scent left, it's faint 
enough so that you can control yourself." The look he shot at Vic 
told him that he was on thin ice and that he damn well *better* 
control himself. "And I promise not to tease you like I was 
earlier." This time Mac looked a little sheepish.

"Right," Vic said. "Clean, then slow and easy."

"Hey, I'm not *that* easy," Mac said in mock outrage.

Vic snorted. That's not what Vivian Vixen says," he shot back.

"Oh really? And when have you been talking to her? Taken to 
visiting the Booty Call?"

"Please," Vic shot back. "I don't go to those places."

"Right," Mac drawled. "This from the guy who took LiAnn to a peep 
show."

"It was to talk to an informant."

"Uh-huh. According to her, you were so distracted that she had to 
do the questioning before you bankrupted the Agency feeding bills 
to the peep-booth controls."

"Oh, and you would do any better?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, right."

They glared at each other for a long minute. Vic clenched his 
jaw, determined not to give anything away. Damnit, he wasn't 
going to...

There was a small sound. Almost nothing, easily passed off as 
someone clearing his throat. Then it happened again.

Exercising iron control, Vic watched as Mac's lips started to 
quiver. The younger man was fighting it, but he finally broke.

When the first laugh passed Mac's lips, Vic let his own control 
go, and they both rolled on the ground laughing. The laughter 
came more from the recent adrenaline rush than the childish game 
of verbal one-upmanship, but it felt wonderful to release the 
tension.

Finally, they sat up, wiping the tears away. By that point, the 
semen on Mac's chest hair had completely died, matting the hair 
down in an unappealing way. The smell of sex was already starting 
to turn unpleasantly stale.

"So, what have you come up with?" Mac asked, suddenly all 
business despite the fact that he was sitting bare-assed on the 
floor of Vic's living room with a hickey on his neck and looking 
completely debauched. All in all, he was far too distracting for 
serious conversation.

Besides, Vic could hear Mac's stomach growling.

"Why don't you go shower while I put something together for you 
to eat," he suggested instead. "I'll shower while you eat, then 
we can talk about plans. I'll even lend you some sweats."

Mac looked down, then grinned wryly at Vic. "Good idea," he said, 
pushing to his feet. "Otherwise, I'm going to have to shave my 
chest to get this stuff off. And maybe tomorrow I should bring 
some clothes over to store here, just in case?"

Vic cheered inwardly at the slightly hesitant question, but 
carefully gave no sign of it. "Good idea," he said mildly.

He watched silently Mac's ass flex as he headed for the bathroom, 
reddened by rug burn. Then he got to his feet and headed over to 
the large picture windows. The Toronto skyscape was a blaze of 
light, even though all the clubs and bars would have closed by 
now. At three, nearly four in the morning, Toronto was as quiet 
as it ever got.

A shiver ran up and down his spine, shocking him out of his post-
coital haze. Vic stood up a little straighter, staring out into 
the night. Then the feeling disappeared.

Vic shook his head and pulled the drapes carefully shut before 
heading to the bedroom to pull on some clothes and to put out 
some sweats for Mac. In the bathroom, he could hear the sound of 
water running and Mac singing something unrecognizable, and he 
had to resist the urge to join the younger man.

But while the feeling might be gone, but it had left unease in 
its wake. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching 
them. He just wasn't sure who. Kata, like at the farm? Someone 
else working for Ramirez? Someone working for the Director? Then 
again, did it matter? Whoever it was, he was going to find them 
and teach them not to poke their noses where they weren't wanted.

Back in the living room, he put the furniture back in place and 
collected the scattered papers from the floor and piled them 
neatly so he and Mac could go through them. Then he headed for 
his kitchen himself to see if the grocery fairies had come by 
while he was asleep.


----------------------------------------
Chapter Eight
----------------------------------------

In the bathroom, Mac sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. He smelt of 
sweat, dry semen and a variety of other scents that didn't really 
combine well, his chest hair was quickly cementing to his chest, 
and his ass stung like a bitch from the rug burn.

Not that he was complaining, mind you. The sex had been 
fantastic, once Vic had gotten himself back under control. 
However, he was probably going to be doing his job standing up 
the next day, and Vic had better not be hoping for a repeat any 
time soon. Still, all in all, Mac felt completely sated

He also felt a little guilty too. He *had* been teasing Vic 
unmercifully from the moment he'd come in the door. And after the 
previous two nights, he should have known better than to push the 
man the way he had. On the other hand, he thought he *had* 
successfully gotten rid of Kata's scent in his earlier shower. 
After all, it had been a fully day since he'd seen her.

Hadn't it?

Mac stopped and stared at the mirror, idly noting the size of the 
hickey on his neck, and shivered. For a moment, he felt like 
someone had walked over his grave. He just couldn't pin down 
*why*.

Then he shook it off and stepped into the shower after taking off 
his pendant and hanging from the door knob.

The water was so hot that his skin was red within seconds and he 
breathed a sigh of relief. His back was knotted with tension from 
the break in -- he hadn't told Vic about the security guard who'd 
almost stumbled over him, knowing what the reaction would be. 
He'd been in a hell of a lot lighter spots, even as a kid, so 
he'd kept his cool. Besides, he *had* gotten the information he 
was after, and that was what counted.

Relaxing under the pounding spray, Mac hunted through the steam 
for the soap. He was a little surprised to find liquid soap 
instead of bars. On the other hand, it *was* Ivory Soap, which he 
*had* excepted. Mac squirted some into his hand, then set to 
cleaning himself of *all* foreign substances and scents.

>>>~~~<<<

Mac came out of the shower even more relaxed than when he'd 
climbed in. The last signs of tension were gone, and he'd finally 
managed to get the dried semen out of his chest hair without 
having to resort to Vic's razor. Delicious scents filled the air, 
so he toweled off quickly, put his pendant back on, then went 
into the bedroom. The promised sweats were waiting, laid out on 
the bed, so he dressed and went looking for Vic.

Vic was in the kitchen, serving up a plate of food. Chicken and 
vegetables sauted in some sort of sauce on top of noodles. Quick 
and easy. A bottle of Mac's favorite Chinese beer was already 
waiting on the table, beads of condensation running down the 
green glass. A pair of fine lacquered chopsticks sat next to 
them. He hadn't even known that Vic *owned* a pair of chopsticks.

Mac frowned. The food also looked very fresh. "You've found an 
all-night grocery in the area?" he asked in disbelief. He'd been 
looking for one within easy distance for months, since the job 
didn't usually lend itself to regular work hours.

"Nope," Vic said, settling down to watch Mac eat. "Whoever stocks 
my fridge with blood also brings me fresh food to play with from 
time to time."

"Hey! How come *I* don't get home grocery delivery?" he said in 
mock-outrage, lowering his chopsticks.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that I can only go out at 
night? After all, time spent grocery shopping is time they can't 
get me to work."

"Oh. Makes sense, I guess," Mac said, feeling a little guilty 
again.

Vic looked towards the covered windows, a frustrated expression 
on his face. "There's only so many hours in the night," he said 
softly. Then he brightened up. "It'll be better come winter when 
the nights are longer, I suppose."

Now Mac was feeling *very* guilty. He looked down at his plate, 
all appetite suddenly gone. "I'm sorry."

Vic seemed to drag his attention back to the here and now. "Sorry 
for what?" he asked, his forehead wrinkled with confusion.

"Well, it's my fault that---"

Vic cut him off. "Enough with the hair-shirt routine," he said in 
an exasperated tone. "If anything is your fault, it's the fact 
that I'm here to have this argument. Or is that what you're sorry 
about?"

Mac glared at him. "Of course not. But you're stuck with all the 
drawbacks of being a vampire because you stepped in front of a 
bullet meant for me."

"And if you hadn't, I wouldn't have known to ask Cash to change 
you, so you would have been *permanently* dead. And from what the 
Director said, I would have still ended up like this. The only 
difference is that you would have been dead. Sorry if I can't get 
upset about that."

"And you probably would have been Brujah too," Mac added with a 
shudder, remembering the San Francisco Kindred thug who had been 
behind the bullet that had nearly killed Vic, not to mention 
who'd kidnapped and traumatized the still-absent LiAnn.

"Exactly. A fate worse than death. Now, would you please finish 
eating before your dinner gets cold? I spent a lot of time on it, 
and we do still have a job to do."

Feeling a little better, Mac took a gulp of his beer, then picked 
up his chopsticks again. The food was really good. Surprisingly 
so, since Vic didn't eat anymore.

"How do you get the spices right?" he asked out of curiosity. "I 
mean, I thought you couldn't eat real food anymore."

Vic shrugged. "Well, the taste of food is based mostly on its 
scent, you know," he said. "I flavor it based just on how it 
smells."

"Is that why you're still cooking? The smell is as good as eating 
the food?"

"That and the fact that you seem to live on take-out. You might 
consider learning to cook yourself."

Mac waved the suggestion off. "Why should I when I have you 
around to cook for me?" He let his grin tell Vic that he didn't 
really mean it the way it might sound.

"Riiight," Vic drawled. "And we *are* all supposed to have 
hobbies, you know. Agency orders. So what's your hobby?"

Mac thought of the sketchpad back at his apartment and smiled 
what he hoped was a mysterious smile. "If you're a good boy, 
maybe I'll show you one day."

Vic leaned forward. "Really? Let me guess, knowing you it has 
something to do with sex."

"Maybe. Then again, maybe not," Mac said teasingly.

Vic grinned, but both of them knew that they didn't really have 
time for a second round. Instead, Vic stood up. "Well, I'm going 
to go clean up. If you finish before I do, the files on Ramirez 
are sitting on the coffee table. Maybe you can see something I'm 
missing."

He headed for the bedroom, and Mac watched him go, idly moving 
food from plate to mouth. He still couldn't believe how well Vic 
had adjusted to his undead state. Then again, as Vic had pointed 
out, it was a hell of a lot better than being dead. And someday 
he would be joining Vic in that Kindred state. It was still hard 
to believe that he could settle down with one person, and even 
harder to believe that if he settled down with Vic, it could for 
more than the standard mortal few decades. In a way, it was 
almost scary. He hadn't been able to make a relationship last 
more that six months yet. Did he really think he could go longer 
with Vic without one of them getting tired of the other?

Well, maybe he'd find out. In the meantime, the last noodle was 
gone and he ran his index finger through the last of the sauce 
before lifting the finger to his mouth and sucking it clean. Just 
the simple act of cleaning off his finger was enough to bring sex 
back to his mind.

Refusing to give in to the urge to go join Vic in *his* shower, 
Mac pushed away from the table. Vic didn't have a dishwasher, so 
he put his plate and chopsticks in the sink with the dishes his 
dinner had been prepared in. Then he headed out to the living 
room and the waiting files.

He shuffled through the piles of paper, stopping every so often 
to read something that caught his eye. He'd always driven LiAnn 
nuts that way. She preferred to organize everything, whether by 
date or name or some other significant factor, then read through 
every piece of information in a methodical way. Mac, on the other 
hand, preferred to work more on instinct. His first pass, he 
would skim through, not really reading, just looking for key 
words that jumped out at him. Anything that caught his eye was 
set aside to read in greater detail.

Ten minutes later, he'd sorted the piles into 'very interesting,' 
'sort of interesting' and 'completely useless.' The shower had 
just turned off and he was about to start reading the 'very 
interesting' pile. He rubbed his chin, feeling the rasp of 
whiskers against his fingers, and picked up the first report and 
started to read it in depth.

"Find anything interesting yet?"

Mac nearly jumped out of his skin at the quiet question. "Make 
some noise, would you?" he snapped.

Vic raised his hands. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." His 
hair was still wet and all he'd bothered to pull on was a pair of 
sweatpants. Mac was struck again at just how much muscle 
definition Vic had added since his Embrace. It really, *really* 
looked good on him, but they didn't have the time to go there. 
Mac made a mental note to make a long, thorough examination 
later, when they had time for the number of hours that would 
take.

Instead, he sighed. "No, it's all right. I guess I wasn't paying 
much attention to my surroundings. And just a few vague thoughts. 
I need to do more reading first."

"All right. Coffee?"

"Thanks."

>>>~~~<<<

By the time dawn approached, they'd gone through Mac's 'very 
interesting' pile and had made a dent in the 'sort of 
interesting' one. They'd discussed Mac's sorting techniques, the 
reasons for dividing the documents the way he had and the 
information they'd gone through.

Unfortunately, Mac hadn't come up with much more than Vic had. 
Ramirez definitely wasn't Kindred. Vic gave him a quick run-down 
on just what a Ghoul was -- something that gave Mac the willies -
- and they agreed that Ramirez probably wasn't one of those 
either. There wasn't any *real* evidence that he was even working 
for a Kindred, but Mac's instincts, like Vic's, said that it was 
likely.

Something was tugging at Mac's memory, though. He ran a finger 
down the list of points he'd made on a yellow legal pad, trying 
to figure out what it was.

"I've got a few questions for the Director," Vic muttered, going 
over his own list. "I don't remember meeting anyone from New 
Orleans at Luna's bash. We need to know what the Kindred 
situation is in New Orleans."

"Think she'll tell us anything?" Mac said wryly.

"If she won't, I'll call Cash. He gave me his number."

For a moment, Mac was almost blinded by the flash as his memory 
finally kicked in. "Cash, of course!"

"Hmm?"

Mac shook his head. "Sorry. I just finally remembered something 
Cash told me the morning after your Embrace. We were talking 
about the Brujah in San Francisco and he was telling me about 
Luna's niece." Mac closed his eyes, remembering the pain in Vic's 
Sire's face. "Luna had given permission for Cash to Embrace her, 
but the previous Brujah Primogen sent a thug to forcefully 
Embrace her as Brujah. He eventually what was coming to him, and 
in a very messy way."

"And the point of this little story would be...?" Vic prompted.

"The point is, he said that when Sasha couldn't adjust in San 
Francisco, she left town, and the last he'd heard, she was rising 
through the Brujah ranks in New Orleans."

"So there is definitely a Kindred presence in New Orleans. I 
wonder why their Prince didn't show at the meetings."

At that moment, the phone rang.

Vic groaned. "Please tell me that isn't Ramirez," he said to the 
ceiling. "It's too late in the night for that."

The phone kept ringing. Finally, Vic picked it up. "Yes?" he 
said. Then he groaned again -- if you could call it that when you 
made all the expressions, but none of the sounds -- and pressed 
the speaker button.

"Thank you, Victor." The Director. Of course. How convenient. Mac 
looked around, speculating on where the cameras would be.

"Now, the reason you didn't meet the Prince of New Orleans in San 
Francisco is because there isn't one. New Orleans is a... border 
town, for lack of a better term."

Mac frowned. "Border between what?" he asked suspiciously.

There was a theatrical sigh from the speaker. "Kindred aren't the 
only not quite humans out there. Even werewolves are just a 
scratching on the surface. As well, within each species, there 
are sects. New Orleans is a place where they can all come 
together and mix freely. No one claims the city, and if someone 
tried... Well, they'd be disposed of. Quickly."

"By sects, you mean the clans?" Vic asked.

"Not entirely. Did Moira ever mention the Camarilla?"

Vic shook his head. "Just in reference to you and your 'lapdogs,' 
as she put it."

There was a tapping noise. "I'm going to have to have a talk with 
that girl, the Director muttered softly. Then she raised her 
voice. "There are many ways to look at factions with the Kindred, 
clans being just one of them and cities a second. But the largest 
division is between the Camarilla and the Sabbat."

Sabbat. Just the name sent chills down Mac's back, and not the 
pleasant kind either. He glanced at Vic and saw that the older 
man's expression matched what *he* felt: dread mixed with 
resignation. These sorts of surprises seemed pretty... 
unsurprising when you worked for the Agency.

They stared at each other for a minute, neither seeming willing 
to ask the inevitable question. Finally, Vic sighed and said, 
"All right, we'll bite. What exactly is the Sabbat?"

They could hear the Director chuckle at the phrasing. "Well, you 
don't really to know *exactly* what they are. The shortest answer 
is, we are the Camarilla and they are the enemy, and that's all 
you need to know, but I doubt you'll settle for just that."

"Damn right," Mac muttered under his breath. Trusting the 
Director is not something you did if you wanted to stay alive. 
While she could be trusted to *some* extent, she would sacrifice 
them all in a second to get the job, whatever it was, done. It 
was why she was the Director and they weren't, he supposed.

"Well, I give you the almost a simple explanation then. The 
Camarilla want to live side by side with humans, and formed the 
Masquerade to do so. The Sabbat don't think of humanity as 
anything other than a food source. Cities they control tend to 
have runaway crime and violence. They are the worst of our kind."

"Worse than the Brujah?" Mac said a little louder this time, 
unable to keep from sneering.

"Mac, your prejudices are showing," the Director said, tsking. 
"And yes they are. One little example should do, I think.

"For the most part, the Sabbat choose who to Embrace just as 
carefully as the Camarilla do. The basic Embrace is even the 
same. Then they bury the fledgling."

"They what?" Vic broke in, looking a little green.

"They bury them. After bashing them over the head with the 
shovel. If they survive to dig themselves out, they are welcomed 
into the family, so to speak. If they aren't strong enough, they 
die. Permanently. And surviving that doesn't guarantee that you 
won't be disposed of later on for not being strong enough or 
vicious enough."

Mac was starting to feel a little nauseous himself at that point. 
"Point taken," he said. "Sabbat bad, Camarilla... not completely 
bad."

The Director chuckled again. "Exactly. So being from New Orleans 
means that Ramirez, if he reports to a Kindred, could be a 
servant of a member of either the Sabbat or the Camarilla." Then 
her voice turned icy. "If it is a move by the Sabbat on Toronto, 
it end *now*. I will not have my city turned into a bloodbath."

Mac gulped at the venom in her voice, but agreed completely. If 
the Sabbat was as bad as she said, he wouldn't want that either.

"Understood," Vic said, then hit the disconnect button.

"Just when I think things can't get any weirder," Mac muttered to 
himself.

"Well, now we know that I could have done a lot worse than 
Brujah," Vic said.

"I'm still not sure about that one," Mac said. "So, now what?"

"Well, Ramirez still needs to make up his mind. In the meantime, 
he's lost one processing plant, so he needs to set up somewhere 
else. That means he needs some specialized equipment. I'm sure 
that the Director can trace those sorts of purchases."

"Right. And I still have a museum to break into."

"You sure you can do it?"

Mac glared at Vic, pissed at the worry in the man's voice. "Are 
you kidding? I could do this in my sleep. In fact, why don't you 
come along and see."

The phone rang again. Vic just hit the speaker button.

"Remember boys, no Agency help means *no* Agency help. Victor 
stays out of it, understood?"

Mac sighed and grimaced. "Understood," he said. "Spoilsport," he 
added under his breath as Vic hung up again. He was kind of 
hoping he *could* take Vic along, if only to show off. The 
disappointed expression on his lover's face seemed to say that 
Vic wanted to come along too.

"Dawn's almost here," Vic said, glancing at the heavily shrouded 
windows. "You staying?"

Mac shook his head regretfully. "Sorry. I've got a lot of 
preparation for tonight."

"All right. Well, I guess I'll see you after you pull off the 
break-in of the decade, even if it's one that hopefully no one 
will ever know about."

"Decade?" Mac sniffed. "Try the century."

"Whatever. Just be back here well before dawn or I'm coming 
looking for you. Got it?"

"Got it," Mac said, smiling slightly. He carefully put aside the 
papers they'd been going through and headed for the door, 
stopping to collect the jacket he'd discarded earlier. Much 
earlier.

"And Mac?"

He stopped at the door, looking back at where Vic sat in a puddle 
of light cast by a floor lamp. "Yeah?"

"Be careful."

For a moment, the soft comment almost raised his ire again, but 
then he smiled. "Careful is my middle name. You know me, Vic."

As he closed the door, he heard a muttered, "Too well. That's why 
I worry."

Mac chuckled as he headed down the hallway for the stairwell.


----------------------------------------
Chapter Nine
----------------------------------------

When Vic woke, it was early evening and he had the start of a 
pounding headache. He sat up and winced as the many aches and 
pains made themselves felt. Glancing around, he realized that 
dawn had caught him going over his notes in the living room, 
where he'd gone back to the files after Mac had left, and he'd 
simply collapsed where he was, sitting on the couch. No wonder he 
felt as if he'd been twisted into a pretzel. It was a good thing 
that the drapes were pulled tightly shut. Otherwise, he'd already 
be dust.

He stood and stretched, wincing at the popping sounds coming from 
his joints, then headed for the kitchen. A mug of bagged blood 
went into the microwave long enough to reach... well, blood 
temperature, then he drank it quickly, trying to ignore the 
rather lifeless quality to it.

After that, a long stay under the spray of a very hot shower with 
use of the showerhead's massage features. By the time he turned 
the water off, he'd probably used a week's worth of hot water, 
but he felt reasonably 'human' again. A quick shave, clean jeans, 
a T-shirt and his favorite boots and he felt ready to face the 
night.

That was when he noticed the light flashing on his cell-phone, 
telling him that he had a message waiting. He picked up the 
compact device and flipped it open -- as always, resisting the 
urge to say "beam me up, Scotty" -- and punched in the code to 
retrieve the message.

"Mr. Mansfield," Ramirez's voice said from the tiny ear-piece, 
his annoyance clear, even in a recording. "It is one in the 
afternoon and you are obviously ignoring your phone. Not the 
proper behavior of someone hoping to do business. Do call me at 
the club. At your earliest convenience, of course," he added 
sarcastically, then thoughtfully provided the phone number before 
hanging up.

Instead of calling Ramirez right back, Vic dialed a different 
number. "He called," he said briefly. "Any preferences on how to 
play this?"

There was a long pause before the Director answered. "Come down 
here to make the call. That way I can monitor things."

Vic snorted. "You can obviously monitor things *here* just fine," 
he said, a bit surprised at how little bitterness he felt at 
that, even though he still planned to hunt down and remove those 
cameras and microphones.

"True," she replied, no apology for it in her voice. Not that 
he'd *expected* any. "But it's more difficult to whisper in your 
ear from this distance. Sunset is in twenty minutes. Be here in 
forty-five."

"Yes ma'am," he told the dial tone sarcastically.

>>>~~~<<<

Vic nodded to a few of the evening regulars as he headed down the 
hallway to the Director's favorite briefing room. None of them 
were Kindred or Ghoul, and he figured that they didn't know 
anything about that side of the Agency either. Part of him wanted 
to should "How can you not see?" at them, but then he remembered 
that he had worked for the Agency for more than six years without 
ever realizing that his boss was anything but what she seemed to 
be: A cold, manipulative bitch who had the occasional flash of a 
more sympathetic nature.

Well, maybe that assessment was a little unfair. But she did have 
her bad days. He hoped that this wasn't going to be one of them.

She was waiting for him, casually seated in the swivel chair 
behind her very modern looking desk, wearing something a little 
slinkier than usual. The bodysuit was made of black leather that 
was so tight and shiny that it looked like she had taken a quick 
dip in a pool of crude oil. Vic shifted uneasily, trying to 
ignore a flash of arousal at the sight. He wasn't really 
attracted to her, but was helpless to fight the feeling. He just 
thanked his lucky stars that she'd never turned the full force of 
her sexuality on him the way she seemed to delight doing to Mac. 
No wonder the young man got twitchy every time he was in the same 
room as her.

She tapped a long fingernail on the top of the desk in front of 
her. "Very good, Victor. You're actually two minutes early. I do 
like promptness in an agent. Now, we have a phone call to make, 
do we not?"

Vic moved around the desk to stand behind her as she pressed a 
button on her phone, and the sound of ringing filled the air. A 
moment later, it stopped.

"What?"

My, my. Ramirez sounded irritated, Vic thought to himself. "You 
wanted to talk to me?" he asked, allowing amusement to bleed into 
his voice.

"Took you long enough. Don't you check your messages?"

Vic leaned back against the edge of the desk, a picture of 
casual. The Director frowned at him, but he was immersing himself 
in the role he needed to play. "Of course I do. However, I also 
have a job to do. I called as soon as I had a moment free."

"You should have found one sooner if you really want to do 
business with me."

Vic snorted softly. "We have a product and a service that can be 
sold anywhere. We don't have to do business with you."

"If you want to do business in *my* town you do."

The Director bristled at that comment, and Vic prayed that she 
could hang on to her temper. Ramirez was treading on her position 
as Prince of Toronto and she was obviously furious at the man. 
"Whatever. So what's the word?"

There was a pause. "I want proof that you can sell me what you 
are claiming. A dose of Candy and a sample of your enhanced 
street drugs. My people will examine them, make sure that you 
aren't cheating me."

Vic laughed harshly. "Fat chance, Ramirez," he said, ignoring the 
hand gestures from his boss. "The second, fine, but we are not 
handing over a sample of Candy for your chemists to analyze and 
duplicate. That, you get when we have an agreement ironed out. 
Capiche?"

"All right. Bring examples of your jazzed up versions of street 
drugs to the club tonight. If they are everything you say they 
are, we'll deal for the process and the Candy. We might even be 
able to come up with a research and manufacturing deal for the 
future. I trust this is acceptable?" Ramirez added sarcastically.

"It will do for now. I'll be by later tonight, then."

"Try not to make it *too* late," Ramirez said, then hung up 
before Vic could reply.

Vic slumped in reaction to the release of the tension from the 
last few minutes, then looked to the Director, waiting for her 
verdict.

"Well played," she said grudgingly. "But risky. What if he turned 
you down?"

"Then I would have backed down on the Candy issue," Vic replied. 
"But if I can do this without allowing anyone outside the Agency 
a shot at Candy, I will. Any objections?"

"None at all," she said soothingly.

"Good."

"Well, the conversation also confirms what Agency sources are 
saying: Ramirez hasn't been having much luck in replacing some of 
the more specialized equipment that was destroyed in the 
explosion at the farm. Unless he finds some way of importing it, 
or another source locally, he's not going to be able to fill the 
demand he's been creating. If that happens, angry customers are 
going to be coming after him."

"Just what this city needs: a drug war," Vic muttered to himself. 
"I assume you'll have those samples for me?" he asked, raising 
his voice.

The Director pushed an ornate box towards him. He opened it and 
found it spit into several padded compartments. Each compartment 
held a small glass jar, tightly sealed with wax and clearly 
labeled as to the contents.

He closed the lid with a snap. Despite the beautiful exterior, 
the box made him sick to his stomach. The cop in him was 
protesting, and all he could do was remind himself that even cops 
used drugs as bait to stop the distribution of even more drugs. 
He still didn't like it.

He put the box to the side. "Any luck tracking this Guylaine 
person he's working for?"

The Director's expression immediately closed up. "That does not 
concern you."

The only thing was, Vic was *not* going to take that as an 
answer. Not this time. "The last time you said that, Mac, LiAnn 
and I ended up in a warehouse rigged to blow. You were so focused 
on stopping Pucci that you were willing to hand Mac and LiAnn 
over to a man who wanted to kill them."

"I didn't know what Michael was planning--" she started to say.

"That's the point!" Vic broke in harshly. "You *should* have 
known. You, of all people, should have known better than to just 
take him at face value. But you were so blinded by a personal 
vendetta that you didn't even *try* to find out what he was 
really up to. Well, I'm not going to let that happen again."

The Director stood slowly, and Vic started to wonder if maybe 
he'd pushed her too far this time. Her eyes were glowing a 
brilliant silver and her lips were drawn back in a grimace that 
showed, all to clearly, her fangs. Vic gulped. He'd never seen 
her so... not human before. "I am your Prince and you will not 
question me," she hissed.

"I am one of your agents and I will," Vic said firmly, even 
though he couldn't stop himself from backing away physically.

She snarled at him, then swept past. He almost collapsed in 
relief when he realized that she wasn't going to just kill him 
for questioning her, but she still hadn't told him what he wanted 
to know yet, and this case was reaching the point where he wasn't 
going to risk his life or Mac's by continuing without *all* the 
information available.

The Director was pacing the full length of the room, looking very 
deadly and more agitated than Vic could remember ever seeing her. 
It was rather unnerving, considering how calm and collected she 
usually was, even under the most tense of situations.

Suddenly, she stopped dead in the middle of the room and turned 
to face him. Vic stayed as still as possible, feeling like 
something small and fluffy under the eye of a predator.

Then she sighed, and the silver glow faded from her eyes. 
"Guylaine is my sister."

>>>~~~<<<

I was born in France in 1773 to a minor noble family. Little rank 
and even less money. Guylaine was six years older than me and I 
adored her. She was beautiful and kind and witty, everything I 
wanted to be. Our father had high hopes for her too. When she was 
nineteen, he sent her to court as a lady in waiting to the queen, 
Marie Antoinette. He hoped that she would catch the eye of a rich 
man who would either marry her without the usual fat dowry or at 
least take her as a mistress. Don't look so shocked. It was a 
good way for a beautiful woman of few means to become rich, and 
our father was definitely a pragmatist.

Anyway, I was young and missed her desperately. I begged my 
father to send me to Paris to be with her, but he refused. I 
thought he was just being cruel. What I didn't know was that 
unrest was spreading through the lower classes, and while he 
wasn't worried enough to summon Guylaine home, he was not willing 
to send his only other daughter into potential danger.

We lived in the country, and I was rather isolated from the real 
world. So, for the next few years I read her letters and dreamt 
of the apparently ideal life she was living, looking forward to 
the day when I would join her and find myself a dashing young 
lord who would love and marry me, making my life perfect. Like I 
said, I was nave. Needless to say, I never got the chance. The 
revolution happened first.

I'm sure you learned all about the French Revolution in school; 
everyone does. All the reasons that it happened, the stresses and 
excesses. But they don't teach you about the most important cause 
because they don't know about it.

For centuries, France, and especially Paris, had been under the 
control of the Camarilla, and it was in their best interests to 
keep things peaceful, or at least stable. Then the Sabbat turned 
their eyes towards Paris, and where the Sabbat goes, violence 
soon follows.

They begin by destabilizing the structure of society, increasing 
the conflict between groups -- the classes in this case -- until 
the Prince of the city cannot keep the peace. Then, when the 
violence breaks out, they use it as a cover as they pick off the 
Prince's defenders one by one until the Camarilla are so weak 
that they can no longer hold the city. This is what they were 
doing in Paris at the end of the eighteenth century, although I 
did not learn this until later.

At first, the Revolution did not affect me. My family was, if not 
well-liked in the are, at least tolerated as being better than 
most. After the seizing of the Bastille, noble families agreed to 
give up their privileges, and the common folk took control of the 
government, This was the Camarilla's counter to the first feint. 
It didn't work. When I was nineteen, the reign of terror began 
and the Sabbat's attack had begun in earnest.

When I was twenty, the Revolution came to me. The estate was 
attacked by peasants from the surrounding areas. In Paris, Madame 
Guillotine had begun her bloody work and she was hungry for more 
victims, preferably of the blue-blood kind. Rumor had it that the 
bodies were bled to feed the Sabbat afterwards, although I doubt 
that. They enjoy the hunt too much to take blood from the dead.

By that time, there'd been no word from Guylaine for more than a 
year.

I may have been nave, but my father was not. When the attack 
came, I was bundled into the filthy clothes of a peasant girl, 
with coins sewed into the hems. He led me out of the estate 
through a hidden passage and we thought we had gotten away 
cleanly. Then, the next day, we were attacked by a band of 
thieves, one of the many roaming the countryside. My father was 
killed and I... well, let's not go there.

Luckily, they didn't find the money in my clothing, and once they 
were done, I pulled my clothes straight and headed for Paris on 
my own. It took me weeks to get there. While I was no longer 
quite as innocent as I had been, my plans were still to find my 
sister. Once I reached Paris, though, I quickly lost hope and 
concentrated instead on survival.

I'll spare you the details of how I survived, but survive I did. 
The streets of Paris were dangerous in those dark days, from 
gangs in the day and the Sabbat by night. Both hunted with 
impunity. Still, I survived and, to a certain extent, thrived. I 
gathered a new family of women and youngsters who would otherwise 
have been easy prey. Together, we were strong enough to defend 
ourselves. And I quickly learned to look back on my childhood and 
sneer.

Then, one night, a lookout called that hunters were coming. We 
prepared, but in the end, we failed. Our group had been 
successful enough to attract the wrong sort of attention. The 
hunters overran us and we died, one by one. I had managed to kill 
one, I think, when I was grabbed from behind and slammed into a 
wall. I looked up...

Into the eyes of my long-grieved sister.

Guylaine was as beautiful as I remembered, but her eyes glowed 
silver, blood was smeared around her mouth and her expression was 
cruel beyond belief. She stared at me for a long moment and I was 
chilled to the bone. Then she smiled and dropped me, turning to 
her companions who had finished their havoc. "This one lives," 
she said. Then they vanished, leaving me behind with the bodies 
of my adopted family.

After that, I survived alone. I had lost two families now, and I 
wasn't about to make *that* mistake again. And finally, after 
several long, terrifying years, the Camarilla launched their 
counter-attack. They tried replacing Napoleon, the Camarilla 
champion, with the last of the royal family not once, but twice. 
When that didn't work, they created the Republic and finally 
regained control of the city. Bit by bit, peace returned to 
Paris.

But it had come at a price. The Camarilla had regained Paris, but 
they had lost many of their ranks. They hunted Paris, like the 
Sabbat had, but for potential childer instead of prey. A Ventrue 
saw me and decided that I had potential. She tested me, found me 
acceptable and Embraced me. And Victor, I had no more choice in 
the matter than you did.

So now you know.

>>>~~~<<<

Vic shook his head, shaking off the spell of the story. It would 
make one hell of a movie. Still, he'd known that the Director was 
older than looked, but more than two hundred years? "Did you ever 
find out what happened to your sister? Before you ran into her, 
that is."

The Director shrugged elegantly. "Some. Actually, she did just as 
our father had asked: she became mistress to a rich and powerful 
man, an envoy from Prague. Unfortunately, he was also Lasombra, a 
Sabbat spy and saboteur who had managed to fool the Prince of the 
city. He Embraced her. And Victor, if you thought *your* Embrace 
was painful, the Sabbat are far worse. Their Embrace ends by 
burying the fledgling alive. If they can't dig themselves free, 
they are considered too weak to be Sabbat and are destroyed. 
Guylaine, needless to say, was strong enough."

"But she let you live, so she couldn't be all bad."

That provoked laughter brittle enough to make Vic wince. "She let 
me live because I was entertainment. Over the next century, both 
before and after my Embrace, she played a cat and mouse game with 
me. Those around me died while I was untouched. Wherever I went, 
she followed, playing her game. Then she vanished, about the same 
time that I came to Toronto. I heard that she'd gone to Russia, 
and the communist revolution twenty years later seemed to confirm 
that."

Vic leaned back in his seat, considering the ceiling. It was 
covered with a layer of metal, he noticed for the first time, and 
there were a few dents in the shine. He wondered just how hard 
something would have to be thrown to reach the high ceiling with 
enough force to dent even thin metal. "So you think she's 
starting the game again," he said mildly.

"Probably."

"And agents who work for you are probably at risk."

"Yes. Dobrinsky as well, as my Childe."

"Any pictures of Guylaine?" Vic asked, still not looking at his 
boss. "Could this Kata person be her in disguise?"

She snorted. "Not likely. Guylaine is too vain to disguise 
herself, including her rather vivid green eyes. I doubt that the 
dark-eyed Kata would be her. But to answer your first question, 
no. Lasombra cast no shadows, so they cannot be photographed. Any 
portraits of her would have been destroyed during the revolution 
and I don't think that she would have had any painted since 
then."

"So Kata isn't her, but she does work for her, so her orders 
might be to get close to Mac and then kill him."

"Possibly."

Now Vic sat up, eyes glowing and fangs fully out. "But you didn't 
think it was important to let us know about this?" he shouted at 
full roar.

The Director's eyes flashed, but she didn't move a muscle. "Don't 
yell at me, little boy," she hissed. "I decide what you need to 
know, and you live with it."

"Or die by it if you make the wrong decision."

"Do you think you can do the job better? Be a better Prince."

Vic was starting to get really nervous now. He'd never seen his 
boss lose her temper before, but it looked like he was about to. 
"No. In fact, I think I'd make a lousy Prince." Her temper seemed 
to drain away. A little. "Doesn't change the fact that when it's 
*personal* for you, you develop blind spots large enough to hide 
an elephant."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Vic was looking around for 
an escape route. Even when he'd thought she was human, he'd known 
that defying her was a very bad idea. Even though she had a lot 
of affection for them, she was ruthless enough to sacrifice them 
at a moment's notice, even on a whim. But he wasn't about to take 
back anything he'd said. The stakes were too high this time.

For a moment, though, he did think that after being frustrated by 
Cash's intervention, Death was going to catch up with him. He 
braced himself, apologizing mentally to Mac.

Then the Director seemed to collapse in on herself, suddenly 
looking her age. "Perhaps you're right," she said with a sigh. 
"But I don't want this to become common knowledge," she added, 
with a hint of steel already returning to her voice.

"Mac needs to know."

"And you can tell him about Guylaine. But no one else."

Vic nodded, relieved that she was going to be so... reasonable. 
Their eyes met for a long moment, and he froze. The moment had 
passed and the Prince was back in charge.

The sound of her swivel chair was deafening in the silence as she 
turned away, breaking eye-contact. "You still have a meeting with 
Ramirez to go to," she pointed out.

Taking the hint, Vic grabbed the sample box and beat a hasty 
retreat.


----------------------------------------
Chapter Ten
----------------------------------------

Mac was whistling and a wide grin threatened to split his face by 
the time he made it back to his car. Everything had gone exactly 
the way he had planned, almost scarily so. He'd proven he still 
had his touch, and he mentally vowed never again to let so much 
time go by without exercising his old training.

A little observation the night before had found him the door that 
the security guards used for their smoke breaks, and assuming 
that they would be too lazy to be constantly disarming and arming 
the alarms on that door, he'd used for his entry into the museum. 
That assumption was the only real risk in the whole caper.

From there it had been by the numbers. The latest in break-in 
clothing had fooled the heat sensors, while the motion detectors 
had been old enough that simply moving slowly and deliberately 
was enough to keep from setting them off. Timing and convenient 
shadows had kept him from being noticed by anyone who might be 
monitoring the security cameras. All in all, the path had been so 
easy that he was seriously considering writing up a report and 
sending it to the ROM to let them know just how lousy their 
security was. Really, it was almost insulting.

Getting the bracelet into the case with the sarcophagus had been 
a little more problematic, though. His break-in at the security 
company's office had told him that the glass case was wired to 
detect breakage or even just opening, while the base had weight 
sensors that would notice and increase or decrease in the weight 
resting on it. He could have disconnected the system, but that 
would have been more likely to be noticed. Besides, his method 
was more fun.

So, instead he'd used a few drops of acid near the edge where the 
glass case met the base, where the hole wouldn't be noticed 
without looking closely. Then he neutralized the acid so that he 
could use the hole to insert a flexible wire with the bracelet 
attached to one end. It was just a matter of getting it into 
position, a quick twist to release the gold chain, then a careful 
withdrawal of the wire.

Damn he was good.

After that, it was just a matter of retracing his steps and 
getting out without being seen by any nicotine addicts, then 
sauntering back to his car without looking suspicious.

So now he was riding high on the adrenaline rush from both the 
danger of what he'd been doing and the thrill of success. It was 
a feeling he remembered well, but hadn't realized just how much 
he'd missed. But now he needed to find a way to burn off the 
excess energy, and he knew just how he wanted to do it, he 
thought as he grabbed his cellphone from the glove compartment.

A moment later, he was cursing as he listened to Vic's recorded 
voice informing him that its owner was not at home to pick up the 
phone. He thought about trying the man's cellphone number, but 
regretfully decided not to. Vic might be with Ramirez, or worse, 
the Director. Now that he finally had the man where he wanted him 
-- in his bed -- he didn't want to screw it up by letting their 
relationship interfere with work or by doing anything else that 
might inspire the Director to try separating them.

So since screwing -- of both kinds -- was out, he needed another 
outlet for his high energy, so he would have to go for choice 
number two. He put the new car he'd recently requisitioned from 
the Agency carpool and modified with Vic's needs in mind in gear 
and pointed it towards downtown and his favorite dance club.

>>>~~~<<<

The Cave was Mac's favorite dance club in Toronto. During the 
months he'd been waiting for Vic to finish his training with the 
hot-headed local Gangrel leader he'd gone there often to work off 
his frustrations. It wasn't like he had many other choices. 
Somehow, after their fateful trip to San Francisco, he hadn't 
been able to work up the ambition to take anyone home -- or go 
home with anyone else. Male or female.

That in itself was strange. While he'd been hoping for a serious 
relationship with Vic, or at least something close, he'd never 
been one to handle celibacy well. The eighteen months he'd spent 
in Hong Kong Prison had been pure hell, the first time he'd gone 
more than a month without sex since reaching puberty. On the 
other hand, solitary confinement *had* saved him from 
experiencing a few less than pleasant sexual experiences, he 
supposed. However, it did explain why he'd been crazy enough to 
flirt with the Director when she'd shown up with her offer.

But since that first night with Vic, he just hadn't been 
interested in anyone else. Even the exotic Kata hadn't been able 
to get a rise out of him, so to speak. Somehow, he had the 
feeling that there was more involved than just his feelings for 
Vic, but he couldn't even work up enough outrage to care about 
*that*.

So, since he'd been uncharacteristically uninterested in sex, 
he'd danced his stress away, dancing himself into exhaustion so 
that he would sleep without dreams, several times a week.

The bouncer at the club recognized him, of course, and let him 
straight in. Immediately, he was moving to the music, losing 
himself in the pulsing beat of the music before he even made it 
out onto the dance floor. He responded absently to called out 
greeting, but other than that, the only thing he knew was the 
dance. It was at times like this, he could understand why there 
were religions that included ecstatic dancing in their rites.

Over the next two hours, he danced almost continuously. He had 
vague memories of stopping for the occasional drink or pit-stop 
but not much more than that. He danced with a blur of partners, 
but still somehow danced alone.

But then, as he danced, reality started to blur further, and he 
started to see a different place overlaying the reality of the 
club, slowly growing in strength. Instead of synthesized 
instruments, he heard the wail of fiddles and the beat of hand-
made drums. Instead of flashing neon lights, he saw the flicker 
of firelight. Instead of skin-tight outfits in black and metallic 
shades, the dancers around him wore brightly-colored, loose 
clothing.

He wove through the crowd, now dancing to music that he alone 
could hear, unnoticed by the people around him, it seemed. He 
could no longer tell which was real, the dance floor or the camp. 
Both were so compelling.

Then, finally, the dance floor faded completely from sight and 
the camp was all that was left.

In the shadows, he could feel the watchers beyond the reach of 
the firelight. Watchers that did not feel human. Suspicious 
sounds came from the darkness, like the cough of a large predator 
on the prowl, and green eyes flashed, but he wasn't afraid. The 
dance was all.

Then a figure stepped out of the shadows and he came to a stop 
for the first time. She -- it *was* female, of that he was sure -
- struck him as... dangerous. When she started to weave her hands 
through the air, he could see the flash of long nails, or maybe 
even claws. Backlit by the fire, he couldn't make out any more 
details other than the impression of 'not quite right.'

But then she started to sing, low and seductive, and his wariness 
faded away. She began to dance, slow and sinuous, and he found 
himself matching her, move for move. She backed away from him, 
away from the fire, and he followed her, mesmerized.

Step by step, he followed her into the darkness.

>>>~~~<<<

Mac groaned and shook his head. It felt like there was a full 
construction crew, complete with jackhammers, was working right 
next to him. His mouth was as dry as a good martini, and it took 
him a moment to work up enough spit to moisten it.

Then he opened his eyes and looked around.

Okay, this was *not* the dance club. In fact it looked like 
someone's basement, assuming that someone was the Marquis de 
Sade. Torches provided the only light and there were chains and 
manacles hanging from the drywall at regular intervals. Kind of 
like the ones that he was wearing, he realized. Strange devices 
whose function he could only guess and wish he hadn't were spread 
around the large room with plenty of walk space between them. All 
in all, it looked like the torture chamber from a really bad b-
movie.

Mac groaned again and let his head fall back against the wall, 
then winced as it set off flares of pain. He couldn't remember 
having drunk enough to have passed out -- and that certainly 
wouldn't explain his current situation -- so someone must have 
slipped him a Mickey.

"Great," he muttered to himself. "All I want is the chance to do 
a little dancing and some freak decides to take a liking to me." 
The Director was definitely not going to let him live this down. 
Assuming she let him live. Assuming he survived long enough for 
her to make that choice.

"Freak? Should I be flattered or insulted?"

One of the shadows detached from the corner of the room and moved 
forward, gradually coming into focus. It was a woman, someone 
he'd never seen before, and yet somehow familiar. She had long 
black hair drawn up in a complicated twist and brilliant green 
eyes that seemed to suck up all the light in the room. She was 
dressed in an elegant wine-colored evening gown that flattered 
her, but looked more like it belonged in the thirties or forties.

Mac backpedaled as best as he could, considering he was currently 
chained to a wall. "My apologies. I was thinking of some of the 
people I've met in the past who play these sorts of... games." He 
tried his best to avoid thinking of the time he'd been drugged 
and handcuffed to his bed, left there until the Director had 
shown up to tease him, then release him. "Not that there's 
anything wrong with those games," he added quickly. "They just 
don't interest me, so why don't you let me down and we'll just 
forget all about this, okay?" He paused and took a deep breath.

The woman just laughed, and he got the sinking feeling that this 
was going to get really, really bad. Still, he managed not to 
flinch when she came close enough to run a fingernail down his 
chest in a way that reminded him of the Director, especially 
since he'd already been thinking of her.

This was also the point when he realized that his shirt was gone. 
In fact, he was naked from the waist up, although thankfully he 
still had his pants. Contrary to the standard image of a dungeon, 
this was warm enough that he hadn't noticed his state of undress 
earlier.

"Sorry, Mr. Ramsey, but I have too many plans for you to just let 
you go." She pinched his nipple -- hard -- and it was all he 
could do to keep from yelping.

Somehow, he had the feeling that he didn't want to know what her 
plans were, but he couldn't stop himself from asking. "What 
plans?"

She moved away, and he breathed a small sigh of relief as she let 
go of him. His nipple throbbed hotly in a way that could have 
been exciting under other circumstance, but at the moment was 
just painful.

Instead of answering the question, she leaned back against 
something that looked like an Art Deco version of the rack and 
looked at him with a contemplative expression. She smiled softly 
and her eyes gleamed in the torch light. "I can definitely see 
why my sister keeps you around," she said, more to herself.

"Sister?" Mac was starting to feel like he'd gone down the rabbit 
hole and landed on his head. This was Alice on crack.

"Of course," she continued as if he hadn't said anything, 
"looking pretty isn't enough. Competence is also important. Just 
how competent is he?" she asked, raising her voice.

The sound of someone coming down stairs echoed from a dark hole 
in the wall. Mac turned towards that door, and when the newcomer 
stepped into the light, he somehow wasn't surprised to see that 
it was Kata. "Oh, I'd say he's competent enough," she said, 
letting a stream of gold fall from one hand to the other, 
glittering brightly.

Mac stiffened in shock, wondering just how the hell she'd managed 
to retrieve the bracelet so quickly. For that matter, who had she 
known that he was making his run that night? He'd been looking 
for watchers and hadn't seen any.

Kata came to a stop next to the woman, who ran a possessive hand 
through the thief's dark hair. "Thank you, my dear," she said, 
taking the bracelet from Kata and fastening it around her own 
wrist. By the time she turned her attention back to Mac, his 
thought processes had come back online and he was starting to put 
two and two together.

"I take it that you're the mysterious Guylaine," he said bluntly.

"Who else would I be?"

"And you're related somehow to the Director."

"Very good," she said, like a mother praising a young son. Then 
she made a tsking noise. "I take it she hasn't told you about me. 
No, I suppose she wouldn't have. Her kind are so terrified of 
exposure. She wouldn't tell any sheep unless she absolutely 
couldn't avoid it, thanks to that idiotic Masquerade. Do you even 
know what she really is?"

"Oh, she's a lot of things, I'm sure," Mac said lightly. 
Guylaine's pleasant expression slipped for a moment. Mac hid a 
shiver. "But I assume that you're talking about her being 
Kindred."

Guylaine nodded, showing a little surprise. "She actually told 
you? Will wonders never cease?"

"Actually," Mac said, not able to stop himself. "It was more 
along the lines of providing the clues and waiting for us to 
figure it out." As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to 
call them back. That plural might have given away too much.

"Now that sounds more like my dear little sister: everything a 
test. That's the only thing we have in common. Tell me, who 
figured it out first? You, the ex-cop or the lovely little 
oriental?"

That made Mac hiss. Just how long had she been watching them and 
why? LiAnn had been out of the country for more than a month now. 
"I did," he finally admitted.

"Even better," she said, clapping her hands. "I do love it when 
everything works the way I want it to."

"You mean like Ramirez's little accident?" Mac said snidely. "Was 
his problem at the farm according to plan?"

"Why, yes it was. Kata did a lovely job blowing up the place, 
don't you think?" She brushed gentle fingers against the other 
woman's face. Kata rubbed against those fingers, and Mac could 
have sworn he heard a faint purring.

"But, but..." he stuttered for a moment before he pulled himself 
together enough to form a coherent sentence. "If he's working for 
you, why would you destroy his operation?"

Guylaine's expression turned sly. "Because that was the plan from 
the start, not that I told him. Can't you figure it out? Let me 
give you a little hint: It's easier to take over when your 
opponent is busy somewhere else."

Mac thought about it. When the answer came to him, straight from 
his old life with the Tangs, he didn't like it much. "He comes in 
and takes over the drug trade," he said slowly. "Eliminating the 
competition so that the addicts have to come to him. Then, once 
he's got a stranglehold on the trade, you destroy his ability to 
deliver what he promises. The price of what drugs *are* available 
become exorbitantly high, at least until outside suppliers get 
wind of the demand and move in. Until then, a major crime wave 
starts because the addicts need more money to feed their habit." 
He felt sick to his stomach.

"As smart as he is pretty," Guylaine said. "I *am* impressed. It 
certainly works well with my plans, even though I've had to move 
up the timetable some. Ramirez," she smiled, showing a flash of 
fangs, "has already received his reward for his efforts."

Mac's mouth went dry at the note in her voice. It was perfectly 
matched with her expression; one that would better suit a cat 
about to finish playing with his prey. Next to her, Kata's 
expression was a near-perfect match to it. "And where do I fit 
into those plans?" he asked, not really wanting to know the 
answer.

"You? You, little boy, are bait. The only question was what sort 
of bait: Live or dead. Originally, you were going to end up... 
dinner." Her eyes flashed and a few beads of cold sweat ran down 
Mac's face, making his eyes sting. "But then Kata asked for 
permission to test you. I must say, you have lived up to her 
expectations."

She reached behind herself and pulled a cellphone into view. 
"Congratulations, Mr. Ramsey. You have graduated from dinner 
to... dead bait."

Mac could hear faint beeping as the woman punched a phone-number 
into the cell, but his eyes were fixed on Kata. The thief's eyes 
were completely silver as she advanced, her wide smile showing 
her fangs.

"You don't really want to do this," he said around the lump that 
was plugging his throat.

"Oh, but I do," she purred, drawing close. She ran her 
fingernails down his chest, leaving behind welts that oozed 
blood. Looking down, Mac saw that her nails looked more like 
claws now. He gulped as she leaned in closer. Dimly, he could 
hear Guylaine talking into the phone.

Then Kata's teeth sank into his neck, roughly. There was none of 
the pleasure he'd felt with Vic, just pain. Bright red blood was 
now running down his chest as Kata started to suck greedily, 
sending pain like shards of glass running through his system.

He couldn't help himself.

He screamed.

Then everything went black.


----------------------------------------
Chapter Eleven
----------------------------------------

Vic finally found a parking spot a mere five-minute walk from the 
club and grabbed it before anyone else could. It amazed him just 
how many people bothered, considering the place's isolated 
location, far from the normal Toronto nightlife. The place should 
have been out of business almost as soon as it opened.

He made doubly sure to activate the truck's alarm system, not 
that it would deter a serious thief. On the other hand, the three 
separate locators buried deep inside the vehicle's frame meant 
that if stolen, the truck would be quickly located and the thief 
summarily dealt with.

The Agency did *not* like anyone messing with its property.

He gave the red pickup one last check, then made sure that the 
sample case was safely tucked inside his jacket pocket before 
heading towards the club. Mac was right about one thing, though: 
he was going to have to change vehicles. As much as he loved the 
truck -- and he'd been driving it for nearly four years, ever 
since his last truck had been demolished in a run-in with a gang 
of peaceful (so they claimed) Eco-terrorists -- but it didn't 
match his new... needs. So unless he was willing to install a 
depressingly coffin-shaped 'tool case' in the back, he was going 
to need to switch to an ordinary car with a large, enclosed 
trunk.

The club was packed -- not exactly normal for the middle of the 
week, he thought -- when he finally got there. The music was 
turned up to a level where he could barely even think, let alone 
hear anything *but* the pounding beat. He felt like his entire 
body was throbbing in time, and if he still had a natural pulse, 
it would probably be pulsing to the same tempo too.

Confidently, he pushed his way through the gyrating crowd, 
ignoring a few furtive gropes from girls even younger than his 
little sister, until he reached the stairs leading up to the 
upper levels. Immediately, a beefy man with no neck was blocking 
his way.

Vic waited for a moment, but the man stayed silent. He rolled his 
eyes and shouted over the music, "I have business with Ramirez."

The man snorted. "Yeah, right," he said in a thick French-
Canadian accent.

Vic shrugged. "Fine, have it your way. If he complains about me 
not showing up, I'll point him your way." He turned and started 
to walk away, heading back the way he'd come, hoping that the 
thug wouldn't realize he was bluffing.

"Hey, you Mansfield?"

"And who else would I be?" Vic drawled sarcastically, turning 
around and waiting with his arms crossed over his chest. It was 
obvious that the man trying to play dominance games, but compared 
to the Director, he was a complete amateur.

"You got proof?" the man growled, a mulish expression on his 
face.

Vic couldn't help laughing, which gest made the man's darken. 
"You think I'm going to be carrying ID? Victor Mansfield, drug 
manufacturer to the stars?"

The man's eyes bugged out and his face went white with shock that 
Vic would say that in public, and worse, in the middle of his 
boss's club. It was just the reaction he'd been going for. The 
man obviously didn't realized that no one was paying any 
attention to his posturing. "Up, end of the hall," he said 
quickly, getting out of Vic's way. "He's waiting for you."

"Thanks," Vic said sarcastically. As he passed the man, he 
exercised a little Kindred strength and brushed against the man 
hard enough to nearly take him off his feet. He was almost 
disappointed when the man didn't respond, even though his face 
went nearly purple with rage.

As he climbed the stairs, though, his steps slowed. He couldn't 
shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong here. The 
hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. He paused a 
moment to listen for anything out of the ordinary, but anything 
that might have been there was drowned out by the music.

The office door was ajar, and he pushed it open. "Ramirez," he 
called out impatiently, then stopped in his tracks. His nose 
prickled at the smell filling the room, and he finally realized 
what had been bothering him.

Blood. Everywhere, blood. It splattered the wall with dark red, 
like some sort of modern art; Jackson Pollack, or one of his 
fellows. The scent was enough to make his fangs drop, even though 
he was also nauseated by what he saw.

Whoever had killed Ramirez hadn't exactly had an easy time of it, 
though. There were signs of a struggle. The heavy desk had been 
pushed nearly halfway across the room according to the scrapes on 
the floor. A computer desk was overturned in one corner, the 
monitor's screen a spider's web of cracks staring mutely at the 
ceiling. A warm breeze blew through the ragged hole where a glass 
window had been.

And on the floor, sprawled out across the glass shards, was the 
body of Ramirez. From the extra angles they were bent at, Vic 
could tell that both his legs were broken in several places. His 
arms as well. Nearly every finger in both of the man's hands had 
been smashed too. He couldn't tell if the others had been since 
they were gone, ripped off at the root, leaving bone shards 
sticking out through shredded flesh.

But worst of all was the expression of horror and utter disbelief 
on Ramirez's face. Worst, because the head that the expression 
was attached to was no longer fastened to his body. The man's 
head was sitting on the desk, facing the door. And Vic.

Vic stood frozen in disbelief. It had been less than an hour 
since he'd spoken on the phone with Ramirez, so the man hadn't 
been dead for long. For that matter, the sprays of blood on the 
wall and floor still had a faint sheen and were tacky when he 
cautiously touched one, so it was more likely only a matter of 
minutes.

So who had killed him and why? And where *were* they? The method 
matched the deaths of drug dealers that had refused to cooperate 
with Ramirez's plans, but why would his own assassin turn on him, 
killing him too? Vic had the sinking feeling that they were 
missing something very important.

"Mr. Ramirez?"

Vic's eyes went wide at the sound of a voice coming from behind 
him. The voice of the same tough boy who'd tried to stop him 
downstairs. He had the feeling that the man wasn't going to be 
looking at things reasonably. The only way out of the room, other 
than the now blocked off way he'd come, was the window. Three 
long strides, ignoring the body he had to step over, took him to 
it, and he dove through just as the thug reached the office.

Vic could hear shouts as the alarm was raised but ignored them, 
focusing on getting down to the ground as quickly as possible. 
Reaching the bottom landing, he didn't bother to lower the 
ladder. Instead, he jumped over the side, landing on relaxed 
legs. He wasn't quite able to keep to his feet, but after a quick 
roll, he was up and running. He reached the end of the alley just 
as a stream of well-armed men spilled out the back door of the 
club. Bullets pinged off the bricks next to his head as he ducked 
around the corner.

Heading for the truck as fast as his feet would take him, all Vic 
could think was: the Director was *not* going to like this.

>>>~~~<<<

"Are you sure he was dead?"

The Director didn't sound more than mildly peeved, which had Vic 
seriously considering making a break for it: usually, the angrier 
the Director was, the cooler she got, and at the moment, she was 
being very, *very* cool.

It was getting very late in the night at that point. It had been 
nearly midnight by the time he'd reached The Silver Wolf, and 
thanks to the gunmen determined to hunt him down, it had been 
more than two hours before he'd been able to ditch them and get 
back to the Agency.

"Yes, I'm sure," he said tiredly. They'd been going over this for 
the last half-hour and he was starting to get a little 
frustrated. "Ripped apart, just like all the dealers who told him 
no. I didn't have time to find out anything more." He eyed the 
clock. Three in the morning and sunrise was only three hours 
away. "The question is, what do we do now?"

The Director ignored the question and returned to her pacing. Vic 
sighed and pulled out his cellphone again. He punched in the same 
series of programmed numbers that he'd already tried before: 
Mac's apartment, his own apartment, Mac's cell, Mac's pager. The 
result was the same as the last two times: no answer.

This time, though, he'd had it. He tucked the cell back into his 
pocket and pushed to his feet. "Where do you think you're going?" 
the Director snapped before he'd gone three steps in the 
direction of the door.

"To find Mac."

"He's a big boy, Victor. He can take care of himself."

Vic spun around to face her. "We've got this Sabbat organization 
making a move on Toronto, a woman out for personal revenge 
against you and our main lead is dead. All of this, and Mac 
doesn't even *know* about it yet. And now!" He took a deep 
breath, then continued in a lower tone. "And now Mac is 
unreachable. I don't know if that is directly related. Hell, for 
all I know, his phone battery is dead and he's had a breakdown. 
But I am not going to sit around here waiting to find out."

He headed for the door again, but suddenly the Director was in 
his way, eyes flashing. "Sit down!" A moment later, he was in his 
usual seat at the briefing table with absolutely no memory of how 
he got there.

"Good," she said. "Now, if you would exercise your brains once in 
a while, you would know why running out there with no plan is a 
bad idea. Can you tell me why?"

Vic stayed silent. He wanted to get up, get going, but his body 
wasn't exactly in the mood to follow orders. Somehow, he liked it 
better back in the days when she'd kept her true nature -- and 
abilities -- hidden.

The Director rolled her eyes. "Fine, I guess I will have to spell 
it out for you. Either Mac is fine, or he is in Guylaine's hands. 
Well, I suppose there are a few other possibilities, but those 
two are the more likely. If he is fine, then running out there 
looking for him will just mean that you're both at risk. If 
Guylaine has him, he is probably dead or close to. Don't growl at 
me, mister. But dead or alive, he is bait. Bait means that 
they'll be ready for you, and they'll have two hostages against 
me."

She sighed. "Why the hell did I send Jackie and Dobrinsky out of 
town to that conference?" she asked the ceiling. "They are both 
more sensible about these things."

"Now," she said, turning her attention back to Vic. "We wait 
until we hear something a little more definitive about Mac or 
Ramirez." There was no room for negotiating in her tone and Vic 
found himself knodding reluctantly.

"And if we don't?" he said. "Dawn's not far off."

"Then tonight we go hunting."

This time her eyes glowed a feral silver, showing a side that she 
rarely exposed. Vic shivered and hunched down into his chair. 
Dawn was coming too soon and sunset was an eternity away.

>>>~~~<<<

An hour later, the only thing keeping Vic in that room was the 
sheer force of his boss's will, and even though it was a pretty 
forceful will, it wasn't going to work for much longer. He'd been 
trying to call Mac every ten minutes during that time, along with 
calls to some of his favorite haunts. He had even -- briefly -- 
considered calling the police to see if he'd been caught breaking 
into the ROM, even though they'd already checked the police 
computers to find out if there was any record of that. There 
wasn't.

The only lead was a report that he might have been at The Cave, a 
dance club he'd gone to with Mac a couple times. Definitely not 
his kind of club, though. The bartender had said he'd seen Mac 
dancing with some woman who he didn't know, but wasn't around 
anymore. He'd hung up before Vic could ask if the two had left 
together.

Someone less confident might have worried at hearing that his 
lover had been seen with someone else, but Vic wasn't one of 
them. Maybe. Sure, he'd wondered for a moment if Mac had fallen 
back on old preferences, but he quickly pushed that down. He knew 
Mac better than that.

Or so he kept telling himself.

But there was a limit to his patience and he had finally reached 
it. He opened his mouth to tell the Director that like it or not, 
he was leaving to find Mac when the phone rang.

Her phone.

The one phone that even *he* didn't know the number to.

They stared at it for a moment until it rang a second time. Then, 
moving across the room faster than he'd expected, she stabbed one 
of the buttons with a long, red-painted fingernail.

"Hello, Dianne," a warm voice purred from the speaker. Vic knew 
automatically that it was Guylaine. Her voice had the same tone 
as his boss, but with even more sexual innuendo poured into the 
four syllables. "Comment vas-tu, ma chre soeur?"

"What do you want, Guylaine?" the Director asked, the ice of the 
arctic north in her voice.

"Oh, just to talk. After all, it has been a while, hasn't it?"

Vic barely noticed the women trading fake pleasantries. In the 
background, he could hear Mac's voice. The speaker quality wasn't 
good enough to let him pick up what Mac was saying, but he could 
hear the fear in his lover's voice.

The Director's hand came up, and he realized he was moving 
towards the phone, a low growl vibrating in his chest, but he 
backed down at the gesture. For now. "True. However, we both know 
you want something. Cut to the chase."

"Spoilsport," the other woman griped. "However, I really just 
wanted to let you know where you can find your other delightful 
little boy."

At that moment a blood-curdling scream came through the line, 
making Vic's hair stand on end. Even worse, he knew just who was 
doing the screaming. "What are you doing to Mac?!" he burst in, 
not caring about the warning on the Director's face.

"Oh, don't worry, little Gangrel. I've found a... pleasant 
resting place for him."

A click cut off the scream, leaving on the hiss of empty air.

Vic actually made it to the door of the briefing room before it 
slammed shut in his face, knocking him off his feet. He bounced 
back up almost immediately, but the thick metal refused to open 
for him.

"Damnit!" he shouted, whirling around to face his boss.

She met his anger with icy control. "And just where do you think 
you're going?"

"To find Mac," he hissed back at her. "And you're not going to 
stop me."

She shook her head tiredly and sat down. "Fine. I'll let you go 
when you can prove that you have something more to go on than 
just determination. It's a large city. Where are you going to 
start?"

Vic opened his mouth to say 'The Cave,' then stopped. It was 
nearly dawn and he didn't have time to play detective. But what 
the hell else was there? Then it hit him. "She wouldn't call just 
to taunt, would she? She's set a trap and she wants to make sure 
that it gets sprung." He thought back to what Guylaine had said 
on the phone. He hadn't really been paying attention, too caught 
up at the sound of Mac being... He refused to go there. Mac was 
going to be just fine.

He had to be.

Finally, he found what he was looking for and nearly smacked a 
hand to his forehead in frustration. It was so incredibly obvious 
that he should have seen it right away. "She said she found him a 
*pleasant* resting place. The only place that fits the bill is 
Mount Pleasant." Mount Pleasant was a Toronto landmark; the most 
beautiful, peaceful, opulent cemetery in the city, and probably 
the largest. With its surrounding trees and unexpected gullies -- 
not to mention abundance of crypts and monuments -- it was the 
perfect place to set up an ambush.

Or to dispose of a body.

"If they've killed him..." he started to say, but the Director 
cut him off.

"I doubt she has," she said gently and more than a little sadly. 
"That wouldn't be enough for her. Remember what I told you about 
the Sabbat?"

Vic shuddered. "When they Embrace, they bury their victims and 
leave them to dig themselves out alone."

"Exactly. Which means we've got time to prepare. She'll expect 
you to run off immediately. If we wait until sunset..."

"No! I am *not* going to leave Mac in her hands that long!"

"Be reasonable, Victor. There's no way you'll find him before 
sunrise, let alone dig him up and find a place to hide for the 
day. The place it too large. If we wait and plan..."

"No," he broke in again stubbornly. "I'm going, so you better 
open those damned doors before I rip them off their hinges."

She glared at him, but he wasn't going to budge on this. Of 
course it was a trap. Certainly, he didn't have much of a chance 
of getting Mac out before sunrise. But, "Please," he said 
desperately. "I have to at least *try*."

Finally, she sighed. "All right. I'll let you go. But you won't 
have any backup until sunset. Just because you want to risk your 
life doesn't mean that I'm going to throw away the lives of any 
other Agency staff."

"Fine. Now open that damned door! Please," he added, a little 
more politely.

She tapped a key on her computer and the doors swung open as 
quickly and silently as they had swung shut. "Thank you," he said 
softly, then headed off at a run, refusing to acknowledge the sad 
eyes that watched him go.

>>>~~~<<<

Sunrise was only an hour away by the time he reached the cemetery 
and the sky was already starting to turn grey on the horizon. He 
pulled to a stop, wheels screeching at the suddenness, on the 
road that split the two main sections of the grounds. He could 
have driven the truck *through* the cemetery, but the driveway 
was long and twisting, and didn't cover the entire grounds. He 
would be better off on foot.

But he found himself standing next to the truck, frozen by 
indecision. Like the Director had said, the place was huge. It 
was divided into several sections, each as large as most ordinary 
cemeteries. This, however, was the one where the elite of Toronto 
were buried, with family crypts going back generations, more 
modern headstones, statuary and crematory gardens. Where the hell 
did he start.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath...

And guessed.

Turning to his right, he moved silently into the shadows. The 
pre-dawn light was scattered by the branches waving in the wind, 
creating a pattern of movement that made it impossible to see 
anything clearly. Instead, he opened up his other senses, 
listening for any noises other than the rustle of leaves, sniffed 
for the scent of fresh earth or anything else unexpected.

Something like the perfume he associated with Kata.

The scent hit him a second before a large, furred, muscular form 
did. He went flying, trying desperately to keep fangs from his 
throat and claws from his vulnerable belly. Finally, he got a 
foot wedged between him and his attacker and kicked hard.

The beast went flying with a yowl, then faded into the shadows. 
Vic was on his feet in an instant, bleeding from multiple slashes 
and braced for another attack. Instead, he heard soft, mocking 
laughter.

"You're too late, 'hero.' He's mine now."

"Like hell he is, lady," Vic snarled back at thin air, twisting 
around, trying to find her.

"We'll just have to see then, won't we, lap-dog? Maybe I'll have 
him kill you before we leave town. Or maybe I'll just leave you 
to live with your failure."

"I'm going to kill you," Vic said, then stopped in shock, 
realizing for the first time in his life, he meant it; he wanted 
to hunt her down and rip her heart out for what she had done. 
Then he'd find her boss and kill *her* too. He'd killed in the 
line of duty, but this was the first time he'd *wanted* to kill, 
gone looking to kill.

After a moment, he realized that there was going to be no answer. 
Kata was gone.

>>>~~~<<<

There was no further interference after that confrontation, but 
there was also no sign of Mac. He'd finished searching the one 
side of the cemetery as best he could, but there was no sign of a 
fresh grave or anything else that might be hiding the other man. 
Cursing softly to himself, he headed back across the road to the 
other section. He was so intent on his search that he didn't see 
the car coming at him until it swerved around him, horn blaring. 
"Hey asshole, watch where you're going!" the driver shouted 
before driving off again.

At that point, Vic realized just how late it was getting. The 
eastern sky was bright grey and the first colors of sunrise were 
showing. When he'd arrived, there'd been no traffic. Now cars 
were passing with increasing frequency. It was dawn and there 
wasn't enough time to drive to a safe haven.

Just inside the gates on the other side of the street, he looked 
around quickly. Unfortunately, the only nearby structures were a 
couple mausoleums that were securely locked. He could have broken 
the locks easily, but that would have been obvious to the 
groundskeepers and the last thing he needed was for the cops to 
show up to drag him out. Besides, the idea of spending the day in 
a building with dead bodies was not his idea of a fun time.

So that just left the one skill he'd not been able to master on 
his own: merging himself into the earth. He'd always been blocked 
by a fear of not being able to find his way back, but now he had 
no choice. He could remember Moira explaining *how* to do it, 
though, and like she'd said, necessity was an excellent teacher. 
He moved into the trees, away from the cemetery proper.

Stopping in a tiny clearing, he looked around nervously. He 
didn't want to be doing this, but he could already feel the sun 
coming up over the horizon. He didn't have long until the first 
rays hit this area.

He lay down on the ground on his back, looking up into the leaves 
above him. He took a couple deep, if not really necessary, 
breaths, then closed his eyes. He brought to mind the sensation 
of sinking into a feather mattress, buoyed by softness and 
covered by thick covers.

Day sleep took him, and after a moment, there wasn't even a mound 
of earth to show where he'd been.


----------------------------------------
Chapter Twelve
----------------------------------------

Mac woke to a heavy, oppressive blackness and the feeling of 
being tightly constrained. Actually, he was a little surprise 
that he'd woke at all. The last thing he remembered was a dungeon 
and Kata sinking her fangs into his neck with no concern for his 
feelings at all.

In a way, the excruciating pain had put a lot of things into 
perspective. Suddenly, what Vic had done the other night when 
he'd teased the other man into losing control didn't seem so bad. 
He was barely starting to realized just how *much* control Vic 
had managed to hang onto, even under those circumstances.

In fact, he couldn't remember ever experiencing *anything* worse 
than what Kata had done to him, not even Michael's betrayal or 
the warehouse explosion when his former brother had tried to kill 
him and both of his partners.

Of course, he still wasn't sure just *what* Kata had done to him, 
but he knew that whatever it was, he wasn't going to like it.

Mac shifted his weight and raised one arm. His elbow hit wood 
beside him, making him wince, and his hand hit wood above. He 
froze for a moment, then quickly felt around. An examination of 
his immediate surrounding confirmed his worst fears.

He was in a coffin, or at least something shaped like one. 
Nothing fancy, made from cheap plywood that left splinters in his 
palm as he pressed it against the surface just above his nose.

Or maybe hammering that surface was a better term for it. He'd 
never been comfortable with tight spaces -- probably a left-over 
from his months in solitary confinement before the Director had 
sprung him from the Hong Kong prison system -- but it had gotten 
worse since the year before when a politician under the Agency's 
protection had kidnapped him and packed him in a coffin to ship 
to Hong Kong and the loving embrace of his former family. The 
only thing that had saved him from spending a day or two locked 
in that box before being presented to a Tang Family hit squad as 
target practice was the timely rescue by his two partners and the 
Director. But he still had nightmares about what might have 
happened, and had even slept with a night-light for nearly a 
month, although he'd rather die than admit it.

The one calm part of his mind that was analyzing this noted that 
he was well on his way to hysteria. However, it also noted that 
his actions *were* having an effect. One of the boards was loose 
and shifted under his hands. Since the tight space didn't allow 
him the leverage to push, he dug his fingernails into the edge of 
the board and pulled.

Two nails were broken and another was ripped off altogether by 
the time he'd managed to pull one of the wide boards down on top 
of him.

But the board was followed by an avalanche of loose dirt, filling 
his open mouth. And the truth hit him.

He'd been buried.

At that point, he abandoned any pretense of sanity and started 
clawing at the wood and earth above him.

>>>~~~<<<

Mac drew in deep shuddering breaths of the warm night air as he 
pulled himself from the earth, as naked as a baby sliding from 
his mother's womb. It was dark and he was surrounded by trees and 
the whisper of breeze through the branches. He was scraped and 
bleeding and filthy.

And he burned. Oh, how he burned.

He looked around, but the only thing other than trees and bushes 
that he saw was a dim figure, barely visible in the nighttime 
gloom. He moved towards it, not bothering to try to pull his 
thoughts together. Behind him, the churned-up earth bore mute 
witness to his desperate struggle for freedom.

When he reached the figure, he realized that it was just a 
statue: the figure of an angel carved from stone, standing on a 
pedestal so tall that he had to stare up at her. Pollution and 
weather had left there marks, wearing away details and staining 
her until she had a blank oval for a face. A star adorned her 
forehead and her arms were folded over her breast. She exuded a 
sense of calm compassion and he could not look away.

He lifted a hand to his own chest and was disturbed to find it as 
bare as the rest of him, even though he didn't know why. All he 
knew was that something was missing. Something important. His 
thoughts were still sluggish and only half-formed. Everything 
seemed to be lost in a haze, but he could not find the ambition 
to worry about that.

"She is beautiful, isn't she?"

Mac turned to see a beautiful woman moving out of the shadows 
towards him. Slim and graceful, with a spill of dark hair 
covering her shoulders, he knew her on a deep, instinctive level, 
even though her name was one of those things lost in the mist.

She came up beside him and ran his fingers through his hair, 
brushing dirt from it. He leaned against her, looking for more of 
that caress. A sigh of contentment escaped him, even though the 
burning in his gut was growing by the moment.

Her laughter was like a peal of bells as she pulled his head down 
to her breast. "Oh yes, you are mine, no matter what he thinks. I 
knew you were meant for this the moment I saw you, and no one 
will ever take away from me. You are mine, sweet Mac."

He nodded, more in response to what he recognized as his name 
than any understanding of what she was saying. But all she seemed 
to want was agreement and for some reason he wanted to please 
her. Then the nod turned into a nuzzle as he looked for 
something, although he didn't know what it might be.

Then the pain struck and he doubled over with a cry, clutching 
his stomach. The burning feeling was spreading through him and he 
felt like he was going to burst into flames. Flames of need. He 
needed, he needed...

Something was pressed to his lips, flesh and fluid and an 
intoxicating scent. He fastened onto it and started to suckle 
eagerly.

>>>~~~<<<

When Vic woke, it was well after dark and he was lying on the 
ground. There was a light rain coming down and he was nearly 
soaked. He couldn't remember anything after lying down that 
morning, but he assumed that he must have succeeded in merging 
himself with the earth since he wasn't charred remains. Moira was 
right: imminent death was a great motivator.

But he was no better off than he'd been before. Mac was still out 
there, and Vic found himself praying that he *had* been Embraced 
by their enemies. The alternative was that he was dead, and Vic 
did *not* want to consider that. No, Mac was alive and he would 
find him and save him. He deliberately did not think about Cash's 
story of being driven apart from his lover after she was embraced 
by a clan hostile to his. If that happened, he and Mac would just 
have to prove that instinct could be overcome if you wanted to 
badly enough.

But first he had to find Mac. The Director had promised 
reinforcements come nightfall, but he wasn't about to wait for 
them. Once again exercising all the senses and talents of the 
Gangrel, he started hunting.

>>>~~~<<<

"Very good," the woman crooned as Mac drank. Whatever it was, it 
was like the finest of wines sliding down his throat and cooling 
the burn. When she pulled it away, he whimpered and tried to hang 
onto it, but he was too weak.

Immediately her voice turned hard and she grabbed his chin hard 
enough to bruise. "Enough, Mac. There will be more later, but you 
need to learn some self-control. Do you understand me?" He stared 
at her in confusion, but she shook him. Hard. "Do you 
understand?!"

He swallowed hard. "Ye...yes," he managed to croak. "I... 
understand." The words felt awkward in his throat, but they came.

And with the words came thought. He shuddered as he remembered 
pulling the dirt down on top of himself, praying that he hadn't 
been buried too deeply, thanking God that the dirt was packed 
down. Digging his way free hadn't been too difficult, but the 
panic had been all-encompassing.

And before that, he remembered pain. Lots and lots of pain. Pain 
and silver eyes and sharp teeth.

He cried out and pulled away.

>>>~~~<<<

The cry was Mac. Vic would know his voice anywhere. Angling his 
path slightly to the left, he ran even faster.

>>>~~~<<<

Mac fought to keep himself upright, but the memory of pain was 
threatening to overwhelm him and he ended up collapsing back to 
his knees. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, only just beginning 
to realize that he didn't *need* to breathe. He should need to 
breathe, shouldn't he?

A strong hand grabbed him by the arm and hauled him back to his 
feet. "It's time to go," Kata said. He looked at her, confused. 
The haze had drawn back a little further, enough to remember her 
name.

"Go where?" he asked, a deep feeling of foreboding. She didn't 
look quite as attractive anymore. Her hair was matted down by the 
rain turning the dirt on his own body to muddy streaks, and her 
expression was harsh.

Then she smiled, and he shuddered slightly. "South, I think. 
Someplace warm and far from the Gaje. Won't that be nice?"

He wasn't so sure about that, but when she turned and walked 
away, he followed her, almost against his will. With every step, 
the sense of wrong increased, but he couldn't think of anything 
else to do. She wanted him to follow, so follow he would.

"Mac!"

The shout stopped him in his tracks and he turned to see a man 
bursting out from a copse of trees behind the stone memorials. 
Green-eyed and crusted with dirt and mud, much like Mac but 
fully-dressed. He was familiar, but his name wasn't coming to 
Mac.

"Time to go," Kata said, almost harshly, from behind him. He 
turned to see her waiting impatiently, one foot tapping lightly 
against the grass. He took a step towards her.

"No!"

"I told, you, he's mine, Gangrel. He was mine the moment I saw 
him. Blood calls to blood. Do you think he would really stay with 
a Gajo like yourself?"

The man's face was twisting into a snarl now, his green eyes 
starting to turn silver. His hands clenched and his fingernails 
were... growing? Mac took a step back, confused and more than a 
little afraid. Silver eyes were associated with pain, he 
remembered.

Then the man sprang forward and Mac fell over backwards trying to 
get out of the way. But the man went sailing over him to hit 
Kata. Mac blinked in confusion, though, when he realized that 
what had hit the woman wasn't a man.

It was a large cat?

It was a mountain lion, although he wasn't sure just where it had 
come from. Or where the man had gone. His mind was refusing to 
accept the evidence of his own eyes: the man had *become* the 
cat.

Kata was fighting back, seemingly unconcerned about just what her 
attacker was. She struck out, like she was trying to slap the 
oversized feline, but there was a flash of light off of claws 
just as long as his, and the cat howled as lines of blood were 
left behind by the blow. Kata's lips drew back in a feral grin, 
exposing teeth that were longer and sharper that Mac remembered 
them being.

The two sprang apart, settling into poses where either could 
attack or defend easily, although a woman facing off against a 
large mountain lion was not exactly normal. Mac was pretty sure 
of that. A flash of lightning and the answering roll of thunder 
just added to the unreality of the scene.

And Kata's eyes were glowing an eerie silver to match the cat's 
eyes. Mac shuddered and bit his lip to keep from crying out. The 
man's eyes turning silver had made him think of the pain. Kata's 
eyes turning silver brought the memory of pain back full force, 
along with other memories.

He remembered her tearing through the skin of his neck, sucking 
hard. Remembered the pain, followed but the darkness as his body 
turned cold and limp. And last of all, he remembered fluid being 
poured into his mouth and drinking it, before the darkness 
consumed everything.

And then he woke up, buried alive. *She* had done that. Then 
she'd just *waited* until he'd dug himself free, doing nothing to 
help him.

As the two combatants threw themselves at each other again, Mac 
scrabbled backwards until he was hidden behind one of the 
headstones. Then he pushed to his feet and ran.

He just wished he knew where he was running to.

>>>~~~<<<

Vic barely noticed slipping into cat form, it was so comfortable, 
so right. It was like slipping on a favorite outfit. As well, it 
had advantages in strength and speed that he had a hunch were 
going to be important.

He knew that the bitch was Kindred, even before her talons and 
fangs made an appearance, and while he still didn't have a clue 
which clan she might be, he had the feeling she was a lot older 
than himself, and in Kindred terms, older meant stronger and 
cannier. Definitely more experienced in basic survival.

A slash of the talons opened up his shoulder, sending shards of 
pain through his body. He leapt back with a howl and took a ready 
stance opposite her while he didn't a self-check. He was bleeding 
what blood he had and his leg wasn't entirely steady. She'd done 
damage to the muscles and worse, she knew it.

"Here, kitty, kitty," she mocked softly, pushing the wet hair out 
of her eyes and circling to his left, trying to get an angle that 
would allow her to attack his injured side. Vic matched her 
rotation, not allowing her the opening.

He might not be able to speak in this form, but his snarl spoke 
volumes. Unfortunately, she didn't seem in the least bit 
intimidated.

"Poor little Gajo," she said, her lips twisting into a very 
unpleasant expression for such a beautiful face. "I told you that 
he was mine now. Romany blood *and* a thief. How could he 
possibly be happy in the world of the Camarilla? Oh yes," she 
crooned, flexing her talons as she inched closer to him. Vic 
tensed, ready. "He was *born* to be Ravnos and now he is all 
*mine*!"

With the last word, she attacked. Vic met her in mid-air and this 
time when they fell apart, there was a set of parallel gouges 
down her chest, slowly oozing blood, and she was no longer 
smiling. Vic made a coughing noise that he managed to pour his 
derision into.

She snarled, and her features seemed to melt a little. When they 
stopped, her appearance was more like what the movies showed as 
vampires: twisted, showing too much teeth and too much brow-
ridge, with pointed ear-tips showing through the limp, dark hair.

This time, they leapt simultaneously, both going for the jugular. 
They fell to the ground in a clawing jumble. Vic strained to 
reach her throat while kicking with his back legs to gut her. She 
used her own legs to keep his claws away from her vulnerable 
belly, and one elbow jammed under his jaw to keep his teeth away 
from her while also exposing his own neck to *her* fangs.

At this point it was a stalemate. Neither one could get close 
enough to do damage without risking letting the other do the 
same. Vic snarled his frustration. He wanted her blood. He wanted 
to tear her flesh. This was the bitch who'd hurt Mac, who wanted 
to take him away. Mac was *his*, and he wasn't going to let some 
outsider break them apart.

The sane portion of his brain was trying to point out that Mac 
wasn't his property any more than he was hers, but hunger and 
pain was overriding his commonsense. All he wanted was to kill 
her and then drag Mac home and make sure that *no* woman ever 
came between them again. The Beast was in full control.

But first he had to do something about this Mexican standoff they 
were stuck in.

Then there was a sharp double-prick of something hitting him in 
the back, followed by the feeling of having stuck his finger in a 
light-socket, only a thousand times worse. Vic spasmed, then 
everything went...

Black.

>>>~~~<<<

Mac ran, as fast and as hard as he could. In the back of his 
mind, he knew this was a mistake, but instinct was in the 
driver's seat. He crossed the road into the other section of the 
cemetery so quickly that he didn't even notice if there were any 
cars on the road.

He wanted to stop running. His mind was starting to recover from 
what had happened to him and he knew that running through the 
streets of town completely naked, other than a layer of dirt, was 
a *very* bad idea. However, he could hear people moving in the 
dark, calling out to each other, and he had the sinking feeling 
that they were hunting for him. Now, maybe they were the good 
guys and he would be safe with them, but he wasn't willing to 
risk his life on that chance. Especially not considering the two 
he'd left behind, fighting over him.

Part of him wanted to go back, but he wasn't sure why. *She* had 
hurt him, but he still felt drawn to her, no matter how hard he 
fought it. He could still taste the sweetness of her blood in his 
mouth. And the guy... He shook his head. He knew the man, but the 
name wasn't coming. But he could trust him. Maybe. He wasn't sure 
right then. Whichever one won the battle of the century that was 
going on, he had the feeling that he didn't want to be around 
when that happened.

So he kept running until he ran out of room to run. He stared out 
at the city street, not sure what to do. If he stayed, *they* 
would find him. If he kept going, someone might see him and call 
the police.

A shout from behind him decided it. Praying to a God he'd been 
ignoring since being abandoned on the streets of Hong Kong, Mac 
started running again.

>>>~~~<<<

When Vic came to, he knew he'd only been unconscious for a few 
minutes. Kata was gone though, and he rolled over, scanning the 
surrounding area for her.

"Easy, Ace," Dobrinsky said, holding out a hand. Vic took it and 
let the older man pull him to his feet. "Here," Dobrinsky said, 
tossing him a sweat suit.

That was when Vic noticed that he was back in human form, soaking 
wet and buck naked to boot. Thankful that he didn't blush easily 
anymore, he quickly pulled the fleece garments on. "What are you 
doing here?" he asked suspiciously. Last he heard, Dobrinsky and 
Jackie were in the States somewhere on the Director's business.

"The boss thought you might need some backup." That made sense. 
He just hadn't expected her second-in-command to be heading up 
the promised reinforcements.

Vic looked around, but other than the two of them and a lot of 
headstones, the clearing was empty. "Where's Mac?" he demanded. 
"And the bitch?"

Dobrinsky's lips pulled into a smirk. "The... lady is on her way 
to the Agency. The Director plans on questioning her herself. As 
for the kid, your guess is as good as mine. The two of you stuck 
in a clinch were all we found when we got here."

Vic started swearing. "I've got to find him," he said, looking 
for and finding the signs of a panicked flight, fading quickly in 
the heavy rain.

"Relax, I've got people looking. We'll find him."

"Don't count on it," Vic said, already heading after Mac.

"Hey!" Dobrinsky shouted from behind him. "The Director wants you 
back to base. Pronto!"

"Screw her!" Vic shouted back, then ignored everything but the 
trail.

>>>~~~<<<

Mac ran hard, looking for a place to hide until he could figure 
out what to do next. He hoped that Vic had won the fight, now 
that he'd remembered just *who* Vic was. He wanted to go back, 
but he still didn't know who the others were. Also, if Kata had 
won, he didn't want to be anywhere near her. She'd drugged him, 
kidnapped him for that Guylaine woman and she'd ripped his throat 
out. She'd... changed him.

Kindred. He was Kindred now. Like Vic. And the Director, 
Dobrinsky and Jackie.

But what would the Director do when she found out? Whatever clan 
Kata was, he doubted that it was one that the Director was 
planning on for him. He tried to tell himself that it wouldn't 
matter -- after all, she'd accepted Vic after *he'd* been 
Embraced by a clan she hadn't planned on -- but the part of him 
that was still pure instinct was terrified that she might decide 
to just dispose of him.

He knew he was being irrational, but it didn't stop him from 
looking for a place to hide.

He crossed another street, ignoring the offended shriek of a 
woman stupid enough to be taking her dog for a late-night walk in 
a thunderstorm, then ran through a yard. He grabbed some clothing 
off of a forgotten clothesline, then scrambled over yet another 
fence. Almost immediately, he was surrounded by green. Looking 
around, he realized that he'd reached the Don Valley Parkway, 
which traversed Toronto from the 401 to downtown.

Not hearing any sounds of pursuits, he took the time to pull on 
his stolen clothing. The jeans were too short and threatened to 
fall off his hip, while the sweater was far too large for him, 
and both were soaking wet, but at least he was no longer in 
danger of being arrested for indecent exposure.

Then he considered what direction to head. If he went south, he'd 
run out of park, but he'd be going in the direction of his 
apartment and Vic's. Home. North, on the other hand, led to more 
and larger parklands. More places to hide.

Mac bit his bottom lip and closed his eyes. Going with his gut 
instinct, he turned.

And headed north.

>>>~~~<<<

Once Mac left the cemetery, his trail was harder to follow, but 
Vic persevered, using every trick he'd been taught and a few he 
made up along the way to keep going.

Eventually he realized where Mac was headed and sped up even 
more.

Mac was headed out of the frying pan and into the fire.


----------------------------------------
Chapter Thirteen
----------------------------------------

Mac followed the parkway until the green space widened into a 
full-sized parkland and he sighed in relief. This was so much 
better. He'd followed the East Don Valley River until he reached 
the conservation reserve, and while he could still hear the 
sounds of cars, the wildness of the area soothed his soul. 
Looking around, he found a nook underneath a bush and crawled in. 
The leaves of the bush protected him from the worst of the storm, 
and even though he was soaked to the skin, Mac didn't feel the 
chill. The fire in his belly was more than capable of keeping him 
warm.

But he was exhausted already. The space was protected and he 
curled up tightly and closed his eyes. Maybe if he slept, he 
would wake up with the world back the way it should be. He'd be 
in his own bed, or better yet, Vic's, with the older man wrapped 
around him like he was an oversized body pillow.

With that thought in mind, he slipped into sleep with a soft 
smile on his face.

>>>~~~<<<

Vic followed Mac's trail, wincing as it headed into the wilder 
areas. Mac was headed into Gangrel territory, where even *he* was 
barely tolerated. As far as Moira and her lot were concerned, he 
was only put up with because the Director was capable of forcing 
them out of Toronto. If they found another Kindred in their 
territory...

He'd seen them tear apart a mugger, once, who'd thought he could 
escape into the reserve and the cops wouldn't find him. He was 
right about that though: there hadn't been enough of him *left* 
to find.

Vic picked up his pace. He had to find Mac before someone else 
did.

>>>~~~<<<

Mac was drifting in a pleasant haze. He and Vic were walking 
along the shore of Lake Ontario, someplace outside of town. There 
were trees almost all the way to the waterline, and the song of 
night birds blending with the lap of the waves was the only 
sound.

Then something grabbed his ankle and he looked down. A hand had 
burst up out of the sand and had a grip like iron on his leg. He 
stared at in shock for a moment.

Then it started to pull him down, the sand sucking him like some 
sick form of quicksand. Vic grabbed his wrist and pulled in the 
other direct, shouting something he couldn't hear over the 
roaring in his ears. The suction increased, and between it and 
Vic, he felt like he was going to be ripped apart.

He kicked out with his free -- free? -- leg and heard a snarl of 
pain. His eyes flew open and he realized that he'd been dreaming, 
but he really *was being pulled out of his shelter. He'd grabbed 
onto the trunk of the bush in his sleep, but he could feel the 
roots starting to go. Realizing that he had no choice, he let go, 
and shot out from his little nest.

He went flying, and whoever it was twisting his ankle lost his 
grip and went sprawling too, cursing the whole time.

Despite the confusion of the night -- and the previous night -- 
his reflexes were still sharp. Mac rolled and came up in a 
martial arts ready stance. The brief nap had been exactly he 
needed to finish clearing his mind, although the burning in his 
gut was intensifying to the near pain stage again.

What he saw didn't reassure him. Facing him were four men that 
practically reeked. They all had silver eyes and talons that were 
almost as long as their fingers. They also reminded him of Vic's 
temporary teacher, Moira. She'd had pointed and tufted ears like 
an animal, and these ones had similar... deformities. One had 
feathers instead of hair, one was shoeless and his feet resembled 
paws more than feet. One was so hairy that he almost counted as 
furred. The last looked nearly human, but there was something 
about him that made the hairs on the back of Mac's neck rise up.

The feathered one was back on his feet after Mac's unexpected 
move had sent him flying. The four started to sidle to the side, 
obviously trying to surround him. He shifted, trying to keep them 
all in view, but he was honest enough to admit to himself that he 
didn't have much chance of stopping them. He might be hot shit in 
a fight, but four-on-one were lousy odds, even for him.

"Hey, guys," he said, trying to put on an ingratiating smile. "Do 
we really need to do this?"

Paws-for-feet chortled in a way that made his teeth grit. "Oh, 
yeah, we do. Did you really think you could just waltz in, 
trespassing, and get off scot-free?"

"Especially one of *your* kind?" Black-and-furred added in a 
deep, gravelly voice that was almost a growl.

"Um, my kind?" Mac was almost twisting, trying to keep Feathers 
in view. In another moment, one of them was going to reach his 
blind spot and he would be dead meat.

"Yes, *your* kind." Paws' eyes narrowed as he looked at Mac. Then 
he grinned very unpleasantly. "Boys, I think what we have here is 
a baby. The *freshest* of meat."

That pronouncement was answered by a chorus of chuckles. Mac 
gulped, then continued to try to brazen his way out. "I don't 
doubt that you can kill me," he said, going for the honest 
approach, "but it wouldn't be a smart move."

Raucous laughter greeted that statement. "And why not?" Paws 
asked. He seemed like he was the leader of the mini-pack.

"Because he's not alone."

>>>~~~<<<

Hearing voices up ahead, Vic broke into a run. The rain had 
nearly stopped, so visibility was good enough for him to see Mac 
surrounded by four of Moira's top dogs, so to speak. Mac was 
trying to talk them out of killing him, but Vic could tell that 
they weren't going to go along with it. Martin -- the one with 
the feathers -- in particular had a streak of cruelty a mile 
wide. He'd seen the man hunt and kill a terrified homeless kid, 
while his bully boys had kept Vic from interfering. When he'd 
complained to Moira, she'd laughed in his face. 'This is what 
Gangrel is,' she'd told him. Well, not *this* Gangrel. The mugger 
he'd been able to justify to himself. The kid had been a 
different matter.

"I don't doubt that you can kill me," Mac was saying, "but it 
wouldn't be a smart move."

"And why not?" Jazz asked with a sneer. Martin might be the 
cruelest, but Jazz was the smartest. But not right now. Now he 
was in a really stupid place to be

Vic smiled: It was payback time. "Because he's not alone."

Jamal was the biggest of the bunch, heavy muscle under the dark 
fur, so Vic tackled him first. The big man went down under him in 
an inelegant heap, and Vic hit him in the head a few times until 
he went limp. He was still alive, but out of the picture.

Then Vic was back on his feet, looking for the next opponent.

>>>~~~<<<

The new voice was completely unexpected by everyone. Mac's four 
attackers all twisted to see who it was, but Mac took the chance 
to go after the weird one. He couldn't explain it, but the man 
scared the shit out of him and he wanted to get him out of the 
way *fast*.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vic tackle the big furry 
one, and the two went flying. Meanwhile, Mac kicked for Creepy's 
head, but the man twisted out of the way in a move that was 
definitely *not* human. He laughed, and stuck out his tongue at 
Mac.

Mac recoiled. The guy didn't have a normal tongue, he had a 
*snake's* tongue. Complete with fork at the tip.

The man laughed again, more hiss than chuckle, and wiggled his 
tongue in a way that was downright obscene. Mac's skin crawled. 
He *hated* snakes. With a bellow, he attacked with both fists and 
feet, fueled by disgust and near-panic. As a result, he was 
almost surprised when the man went down hard, accompanied by the 
sickening crack of breaking bones. The man's neck was bent at an 
unnatural angle, but he was still flopping, trying to get up. Mac 
didn't know if a Kindred could recover from a broken neck and he 
really didn't want to find out.

But he was a little surprised at how *easily* he'd taken the man 
down. While he'd realized he was now Kindred himself, he hadn't 
really *believed* it. However, after this little show of 
strength, he didn't really have much choice.

Welcome to life after death, Mac Ramsey.

Unfortunately, he was so caught up in his ruminations on the 
nature of life, or un-life, that he forgot about the others. Even 
more unfortunately, they hadn't forgotten him. He found this out 
when a very cold, very sharp blade pressed against his throat.

>>>~~~<<<

Jamal was down for the count and from the look of it, so was 
Sidney the snake. Mac looked like he was going into shock, but 
Vic didn't have the chance to reassure him. Before he could take 
a step in the direction of the younger man, Martin slammed into 
him.

The fall would have knocked the air from his lungs if he wasn't 
Kindred: There were some benefits to being a vampire, and not 
needing to breathe was one of them.

Instead, he twisted away from the man, avoiding talons and claws 
that were going for vulnerable spots. He kept rolling until he 
ended up back on his feet, facing his opponent. He might not be a 
flying kung-fu master like his partners, but in a street brawl, 
no one could out-mean him.

"Down, lap-dog, or the baby gets it."

Vic cursed silently. While he'd been paying attention to the 
fighters in the foursome, Jazz had managed to get behind Mac and 
was now holding a wicked looking dagger to his partner's throat. 
It was certainly sharp enough to decapitate him, something that 
would be beyond to even a Kindred's abilities to heal.

Behind him, he heard Jamal groan and slowly get to his feet. 
Sidney would be a bit longer, but Martin was almost growling in 
his eagerness to get at Vic. A glance from Jazz quelled him, but 
just barely.

"You want to live?" Vic asked softly, not taking his eyes off the 
man or his knife. Jazz's feathers were fluffed up, showing that 
despite his confident words, he was agitated.

The man laughed, a slight edge to the sound. "I'm the one who 
should be asking that," he said.

Vic shrugged, playing it cool. "This is Toronto. I may be the 
Prince's lapdog, but she takes care of her people. And she 
avenges them. Kill *two* of her people and you haven't a chance 
in hell of getting out of the city alive. She'd call a hunt. Let 
us go and you'll have the chance to get out of town with your 
skins intact."

His words were answered by a chorus of growls, but he refused to 
allow that to affect him. They were getting out of this alive, 
but not if he didn't keep his cool.

"You two vanish and how's she to know *how* you died?"

Vic snorted. "I'm just the first one to get here. Dobrinsky and 
his boys were right behind me. I just ran faster."

Jazz's eyes flickered in the direction Vic had arrived from, then 
back to him. "I don't believe you," he said, but he didn't sound 
completely sure of that.

"Your funeral." Vic shrugged. Jazz might not believe him, but Mac 
was relaxing. Vic met his eyes and did his best to project 
reassurance.

Then, ever so faintly, came the sound of voices, coming closer.

"This is Gangrel territory," Jazz blustered. "The Prince can't 
just send invaders with impunity."

That bit of bravado had Vic choking off a slightly bitter laugh. 
"You don't know her very well, do you? She does whatever she 
wants, when she wants, and you don't tell her 'no.' The Gangrel 
live in Toronto on her sufferance, and I doubt that Moira would 
appreciate you screwing that up for the entire clan."

The voices were getting closer now. He could almost tell which 
was Dobrinsky. "Choose fast," he said, flexing his fingers before 
drawing them up into fists. "Run, and I'll make sure you have 
time to get out of town, but only if you go now. Wait any longer 
and the four of you will be hauled into her presence, and so will 
Moira. Who knows, maybe your boss will kill you herself, sparing 
*my* boss the need to get her hands dirty."

He could see the man fidgeting. He didn't turn his head as one of 
the four took off, heading away from the newcomers. He didn't 
have to look to tell who it was: Martin might be cruel, but he 
was also a coward. If his prey fought back, he ran. Why Moira 
allowed him to stay, Vic would never know.

"Go, Jazz, before it's too late," he said softly

The man hesitated for one moment longer. Then he pushed Mac 
directly into Vic and took off, Jamal right behind him. The only 
one left with them was Sidney, who wasn't in any shape to move.

He could hear Dobrinsky calling his name and speculating on his 
parentage, but he didn't bother to answer. Instead, he clutched 
Mac to him, reassuring himself that the younger man was... well, 
alive wasn't the right term, but at least he was still in one 
piece. He was clinging, he knew, but at least Mac was clinging 
back just as tightly.

They were still wrapped up tightly in each other's arms when 
Dobrinsky arrived to take them home. 

>>>~~~<<<

Mac fidgeted under the Director's glare as she paced back the 
length of the room then turned and did it again. He did his best 
to look as innocent as he possibly could. Hanging onto Vic's hand 
helped with his anxiety levels, but it nothing about the burning 
in his gut. This time, he knew it was because he needed to... 
drink, but he really wasn't too crazy about *what* he had to 
drink. He might enjoy Vic drinking from him, but deep down, the 
idea of drinking blood himself was a little disconcerting.

Nerves getting the better of him, he started to chew on the 
inside of his lip and winced as his fangs -- fangs he hadn't 
noticed yet -- sliced the tender skin open. It hurt, but the 
taste of little bit of blood that came out made the burning grow. 
He whimpered slightly and clutched Vic's had a little tighter. 
Now that the adrenaline rush was wearing off, his brain seemed to 
be shutting down again.

The Director didn't miss the small sound. "Oh, for pity's sake." 
She headed over to her desk. A locked drawer was opened and she 
pulled out a baggie filled with red fluid. "Here," she said, 
sliding over the table surface to Mac. "Drink that before you 
lose it."

Mac stared at the thing with distaste, but he could smell the 
blood. While his brain was screaming "Yuck!" at him, his 
instincts were saying "Yes!".

He picked up the baggie, and those instincts took over. His fangs 
ripped into the plastic and his mouth filled with cold, delicious 
fluid. Almost immediately, his mind cleared again. Some of the 
precious liquid escaped and ran down his face to drip onto his 
'borrowed' clothing. He didn't care. It tasted as good as he 
remembered.

In fact, it tasted *exactly* like he remembered.

That thought was like a splash of cold water in the face. He 
lowered the empty baggie and met the Director's eyes. "Kata?"

The woman's smile was positively feral. "She didn't need it 
anymore."

Mac gulped and fought the urge to vomit. He'd was drinking the 
blood of the woman who'd Embraced him. A woman who was now 
*permanently* dead.

And yet, deep down, he couldn't find it in him to care. His only 
regret was that he hadn't been there to help. He started drinking 
again, this time a little more slowly.

The Director watched him, a hard expression on her face. 
Finished, he put down the limp plastic and wiped his face on the 
sleeve of the oversized U of T sweatshirt he was wearing.

She leaned back against her desk, tapping her long fingernails 
against the size. "You know," she said in an overly reasonable 
tone, "If I didn't like you so much, I would kill you." He 
flinched. "I mean, how is it you keep getting yourself into these 
messes?" She paused and waited expectantly. Mac opened his mouth 
to answer, but couldn't think of anything to say.

Luckily, Vic *did* have something to say, and he took the 
opportunity to jump in. "In this case, he got into this mess 
because *no one* bothered to tell him what we were really up 
against." He glared at the Director and Mac wondered just what 
he'd missed in the last couple of days.

The Director's eyebrow went up. "Are you suggesting that this is 
my fault?" she asked in a voice that almost dripped with sarcasm. 
"Did I tell him to go to a nightclub after his little excursion 
instead of coming back here? In case you've forgotten," she 
added, turning her attention back on Mac, "*I* pay your salary."

"I didn't realize I was on company time," Mac said, then had to 
fight the urge to cringe under her glare.

Actually, she had a good point. Going to a nightclub after his 
break-in *was* a pretty stupid thing to do, and thinking back, he 
couldn't really remember *why* he'd decided to do it.

He frowned. For that matter, he couldn't remember leaving the 
club either. "How did they grab me?" he said softly, not really 
aiming the question at either Vic or their boss.

The Director frowned at him. "You don't know?"

Mac shook his head. "After I left the ROM, I just had the feeling 
that I *had* to go dancing. But I don't remember anything after 
getting there until I woke up in Guylaine's dungeon."

The Director finally stopped her tapping and crossed her arms 
over her chest. "Nothing at all?" she asked.

Mac closed his eyes and scrunched up his face in an effort to 
force the memories. "I remember dancing. Then..." he paused, not 
sure he wanted to say the rest, it was so crazy. "I remember 
flashes of a gypsy camp and fiddles and a woman singing."

The Director was silent, and when he opened his eyes again, her 
gaze bored into him. Finally, she seemed to relent. "You were 
influenced, so I suppose you can't be completely blamed. This 
time. But I suggest you don't let it happen again."

She moved to take her seat at the head of the conference table, 
the seat she gave them their instructions from. She stared at him 
for a long moment. Then a small smile forced its way free. "But 
still, only you could end up in this position, deliberately or 
not."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, of all the clans you could have been embraced by, it 
figures that it would have to be Ravnos."

Mac glanced at Vic and clutched his hand a little tighter. "What 
sort of clan is that?" he asked, his voice breaking a little.

She snorted. "Ravnos and Gangrel don't get along, despite legends 
that say they are related. But relax, it's a... political 
animosity, if you like, not and instinctual one. The two of you 
aren't going to be playing Romeo and Juliet anytime soon.

"As for what sort of clan they are, they're mostly gypsy-born, 
thieves, smugglers, con-men." She shook her head. "Chaos. They 
refuse to join either the Camarilla or the Sabbat. The last thing 
any prince wants is for the Ravnos to move into town. If they are 
noticed, they're run out of town or killed. On the other hand, 
being gypsies, they tend to travel a lot, which is why they still 
exist at all."

This time it was Vic who snorted. "No wonder she kept saying that 
Mac was meant to be one of them."

"Exactly. He would be irresistible to any Ravnos that crossed his 
path."

Mac wasn't sure whether he was being complemented or insulted, 
but they had a point. Other than the first few years of his life 
before his mother had died, he'd traveled the world, learning the 
art of the con from his unreliable father. After his adoption by 
the Tangs, those skills had been refined, turning him into one of 
the best thieves in the world, if he did say so himself.

"And what about Guylaine?" Vic asked.

The Director deflated. Mac stared in disbelief: he couldn't 
remember ever seeing the woman look so defeated. "Kata was... 
convinced to tell us where she was, but by the time the team got 
there, she was gone." She didn't look angry that the ringleader 
had escaped, Mac noted. Instead, she seemed almost sad.

He opened his mouth to ask, but Vic squeezed his hand warningly. 
"I'll explain later," he hissed.

Now he *really* wanted to know what had happened while he'd been 
playing hostage, but he decided to wait until he and Vic got 
home.

With a start, he realized that when he thought of home, it was 
Vic's place that came to mind. He squeezed Vic's hand and leaned 
a little closer. The older man glanced at him and smiled warmly. 
Yeah, home was a good idea. A real home.

The Director sighed. "It's nearly dawn, so I suppose that the two 
of you should head off. Normally, I wouldn't let Mac go anywhere, 
but he seems to be doing as well, if not better than you did, 
Victor. And by the way, your fridge has been stocked for two."

Mac was on his feet immediately, and pulled Vic in the direction 
of the door. He did *not* want to know what the alternative to 
him going home would be.

They just made it to the door when the Director called out, 
"Mac!"

He winced, then turned around. He should have known that getting 
away wouldn't be *that* easy.

"I think this belongs to you," she said mildly, then tossed 
something at him.

Reflexes took over and he plucked the object out of the air. 
Opening his hand, he smiled. "Thanks," he said softly, and hung 
his pendant back where it belonged, around his neck. For a moment 
it seemed to pulse warmly against his skin, almost like a living 
thing.

Then he turned and followed Vic out the door.

He wanted to go home.


----------------------------------------
Epilogue
----------------------------------------

Vic nearly had to carry Mac into the apartment. The sun was 
coming up and he could feel it like an itch under his skin, like 
a cut draining all his energy away. "Should be wearing white," he 
mumbled as Vic unlocked the door while trying to balance his 
weight.

He was answered by a snort. "White is for virgins, so unless 
there's been a miracle of epic proportions, you don't count."

Mac found the energy to smile. "Haven't I been reborn? Everything 
is new again, including me, so I *am* a virgin. Again."

Vic stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then nearly fell 
over laughing. If Mac hadn't known better, he might have thought 
that the man was having hysterics.

"Fine," Vic said, wiping away pink-tinged tears. "You're a 
virgin. Do you want to wait for me to go find you something white 
to change into, or do you want to go to bed?"

Mac closed his eyes. "Bed," he whispered, awed at the thought. 
Beds were soft with covers and pillows and someone to curl up 
against. Beds didn't have earth or leaves. Beds were wonderful 
things.

Vic caught him as he started to slip down the wall he'd been 
leaning against. "Bed," he said firmly.

Seemingly an instant later, Mac landed on the promised bed. He 
blinked and Vic was gone. He blinked again and his partner was 
back, carrying a couple of those damned blood baggies. "Here," 
Vic said. He started to toss the baggie, then thought about it 
and decided to just hand it to him.

Mac stared at the squishy thing. "Huh?" was all he could say. It 
looked liked a red version of those icky breast-implant thingies.

"Drink it, or you'll wake up starving." Leading by example, Vic 
draining his own baggie.

Deciding that since the other man had been doing this longer -- 
by a few months, at least -- Mac did the same. He still found the 
idea distasteful, and the baggie was *so* uncouth, but the taste 
was... incredible.

But he didn't really have time to enjoy it before his eyes 
started to drift shut. He tried to force them open again, but his 
entire body had gone limp.

Dimly, he could feel Vic stripping him down to bare skin, then 
climbing in next to him. Vic was naked too, and while usually a 
naked Vic was to be enjoyed, he couldn't move a muscle.

Vic curled up around him, a comforting presence. "Go to sleep," 
he whispered in Mac's ear. "Tonight we can discuss what happened. 
But for now, just sleep."

And Mac did.

>>>~~~<<<

The Director watched the two men on the screen. They looked good 
together, she couldn't deny, even though this had never been in 
her plans. San Francisco was supposed to be a turning point for 
her favorite team, but she'd foolishly thought she could decide 
what direction they would be turning to.

She briefly considered separating them. Julian might be willing 
to take Mac in. Then again, considering the young man's 
resemblance to the late, lamented Zane, that might not be a good 
idea. Or maybe she could send Vic to the Prince of Vancouver. 
After all, he did owe her a favor.

Then she shook her head ruefully. She'd practically thrown them 
together. She couldn't complain if it had... 'taken' better than 
she had expected. If the separation during Vic's training period 
hadn't cooled them off, nothing would.

And now she had the additional problem of Mac's Embrace.

She gritted her teeth in frustration. Mac was supposed to be 
*Ventrue*, damnit. She'd planned it all out so carefully. True, 
he had a taste for larceny, but he also had the polish and the 
poise of a Ventrue. All he needed were the rough edges filed off, 
the impatience tempered. She'd even considered taking him as her 
own Childe, before deciding that Dobrinsky would do a better job 
of taking him in hand.

And now he was Ravnos. Might as well call him chaos.

Still, she would deal with it. That's why she was Prince; to deal 
with the tough problems. And unfortunately, Mac wasn't the 
toughest one.

Her phone rang and she stared at it, waiting for it to rear up 
and bite her. It did no such thing, though. It just kept ringing.

Finally, about the tenth ring, she stabbed the speaker button. 
"What?"

A soft chuckle answered her, and she stiffened. "Guylaine."

"Who else? Did you miss me?"

"Get within firing range and I won't."

More laughter. "Such a far cry from the worshipful little sister 
I remember."

"Well, we all grown up sooner or later," she said, resting her 
chin on her intertwined fingers, staring off into space.

"A pity. I quite miss my little sister."

The Director snorted and shook her head. "Yes, you miss me so 
much that you came to town just to see me."

"Actually, I did. I wanted to see just how good a Prince my dear 
Dianne had become. I was quite impressed with your two boys. They 
took out my little operation, stopped my right-hand man. Or 
woman, I should say. Very impressive for a baby Gangrel and a 
human."

"Don't play games, Guylaine. The only reason they got as close as 
they did was because you let them. Why?"

"Did you like my last present?" the voice on the other end of the 
phone said, bypassing the question.

"And which one would that be?" the Director asked, leaning back 
in her chair.

"Why, your little boy, of course. He'll make such a lovely 
Ravnos, I think. So much untapped potential, there. A pity you 
didn't think to take advantage of it sooner. So ripe for 
plucking, and I beat you to it."

"He's still mine," she replied, bristling at the satisfied tone 
in her sister's voice.

"Exactly. And every time you look at him, you'll see plans 
thwarted. I had him first, and every day, you'll have to face 
that. Enjoy."

There was a click, followed by a dial-tone.

It was a long time before she could bring herself to turn that 
dial-tone off.

She glanced back at the screen where she could see Mac and Vic, 
still wrapped tightly around each other, and made a decision. 
Keeping them together kept them *both* tied to her. And it 
wouldn't take much encouragement on her part of bind them even 
closer.

>>>~~~<<<

The sun was heading down when Vic finally woke. It was late for 
him, but all of the stress and activity of the last few days had 
exhausted him. He felt completely drained, but absolutely 
fantastic at the same time.

Mac was still in the same position he'd landed in that morning, 
looking almost heartbreakingly pale. His chest didn't rise, Vic 
couldn't hear a heartbeat and he was cool to the touch. To every 
sense, Mac seemed dead. In fact, technically speaking he *was* 
dead.

But at the same time, he wasn't. While Vic wished he could have 
had the chance to personally rip Kata to shreds for hurting his 
lover, at least she'd Embraced him instead of just killing him. 
Mac was Kindred now, which meant that forever just got a whole 
lot longer.

And forever was what he wanted. He and Mac had been dancing 
around the whole commitment issue, even *before* San Francisco, 
if he was honest with himself. And while forever was just the 
sort of thing he wanted, he hadn't been sure that it was 
something Mac could give him.

But after nearly losing Mac, he'd decided that he'd rather try 
and fail than not try at all. Mac was his and anyone who tried to 
take him away was going to learn to just what lengths he was 
willing to go to keep him.

Now, if Mac *wanted* to leave him, that would be a different 
matter, and he wasn't sure just what he'd do then. Let him go? 
Turn stalker? He really wasn't sure.

In the meantime, the sun would be setting in a half-hour, and he 
knew from personal experience that despite the snack before bed, 
Mac would wake up starving. For that matter, he was more than a 
little hungry himself.

He could hear the sound of rain on the large picture-windows in 
the living room, muted by the thick drapes, so he was safe to 
leave the bedroom. He headed for the kitchen to make sure that 
they had enough blood for the night at least, then stopped dead.

In the middle of his tidy living room was a pile of boxes, along 
with two larger wardrobe boxes. There was a note pinned to the 
side of one of them and he pulled it off and started reading.

"Victor," the note said in the Director's no-nonsense script. 
"Mac's apartment will require major renovations before it is... 
livable. There are no other appropriate accommodations available 
at the moment, so Mac will be staying with you for the time 
being.

"I will leave it to you to teach him the basics that he needs to 
know. I will expect to see you both on Monday after sunset.

"Enjoy yourselves."

He could almost see her smirk in the last line of the note, and 
it was matched by the one on his own face. It was just too bad 
that Mac had to move in with him. And who knew for how long? 
Reading between the lines, he could read matchmaking there. 
They'd just been given the equivalent of a honeymoon.

Now he just had to hope that Mac didn't run scared when he found 
out.

Leaving the boxes for the moment -- they could unpack Mac's stuff 
later -- he continued on to the kitchen. The fridge had enough 
blood to keep them going for almost a week. He dropped a couple 
of baggies into a large bowl and set the kettle to boil. Blood 
tasted better at... well, blood-temperature, and pouring boiling 
water on the baggie didn't make it clot the way the microwave 
did.

Vic stopped and shook his head in bemusement. Only a few months 
ago, saying something like that would have made him ill. Now it 
was just a fact of life.

As soon as the blood had warmed up enough, he quickly drank it 
down. He started a couple more baggies warming for Mac, then had 
a different thought.

Almost immediately, his cock surged to life and he found himself 
drifting back towards the bedroom. He'd seen the effect of his 
own feedings on Mac, but he'd never had the chance to experience 
that for himself. After all, he wasn't about to go around asking 
the Director or anyone else to bite him. He didn't *want* any of 
the Kindred at the Agency to bite him. But the though of *Mac* 
biting him...

He moaned softly in the back of his throat, standing in the 
doorway, watching Mac sleep. Pale and unmoving, he looked like he 
was carved from marble. Soft marble. Touchable marble.

He moved forward and tugged the covers down the bed, leaving Mac 
bare to his eyes. He'd seen the young man naked before, but 
nearly having lost him added a spice to the experience.

Mac was definitely the most beautiful man he'd ever seen.

He could feel the sun slipping below the horizon as he crawled up 
the length of the bed to hover on all fours above Mac, waiting 
for the moment when the new-born Kindred woke. He had to fight 
the urge to just take the man; an act that would be akin to rape 
in Mac's unconscious state. Besides, he liked his partners a 
little more... involved.

The moment the sun was completely gone, Mac's eyes flew open, 
already gleaming silver. "Vic?" he said, a little hoarse.

>>>~~~<<<

"Vic?"

Mac stared up into the eyes of his partner and frowned. He lifted 
a hand to trace the ridge of bone below one eye.

"What?" Vic said.

Mac opened his mouth, then shook his head. "Nothing." He wasn't 
sure he was coherent enough to explain to Vic that his eyes 
were... different. Not noticeably unless you looked real close, 
but the feline green eyes were even more feline than they'd been 
before.

Then his nostrils flared. He could smell blood. Blood on Vic's 
breath. Vic had been drinking blood. Blood.

He growled softly in the back of his throat and reared up to 
catch the man's mouth in a kiss. The taste of blood was there 
too, and he plunged his tongue into the man's mouth, hunting for 
more. More taste. More blood. More Vic.

He reached up and grabbed Vic, pulling the man down on top of 
him. He dimly heard the man chuckle, but ignored it. He needed to 
touch, to feel, to taste. He wrapped arms and legs around the man 
to keep him from getting away while he finished plundering his 
mouth.

But it wasn't enough. While the taste was there, his instincts 
were crying for the real thing. He ended the kiss and buried his 
face in Vic's throat, shuddering. "Vic," he whispered, trying to 
articulate what he needed.

In response, Vic tilted his head back, exposing the entire length 
of his throat. "Go ahead," he said in a tone of voice that was 
almost a moan.

Taking the invitation, Mac fixed his lips on the offered throat 
and sucked hard. He tickled the flesh with the tip of his tongue 
and felt Vic shudder against him. That shudder aroused more needs 
in him, the need to dominate, to take.

He surged upwards, flipping them over. He landed on top of Vic, 
his mouth never having let go of the man's throat. Vic was making 
whimpering little noises that just made him hotter.

Mac reached over and pulled the bedside table's drawer open and 
pulled out a tube, going just by feel. He was able to control 
himself long enough to coat his cock with gel, but need was 
screaming through his veins. He tossed the tube over his 
shoulder, dimly hearing it hit the floor with a moist thud, then 
pushed Vic's legs apart, tilting the man's hips to the right 
angle.

He pulled away from Vic long enough to moan the man's name, then 
sank his cock into the man's ass the same time as he sank his 
fangs into the man's throat.

Tight. Liquid. Feel. Taste. Scent. Scream. Vic exploded across 
his every sense, and he found the control to wonder if this was 
what Vic felt every time he fed on Mac, fucked Mac. It was so 
damned *good*. Mac wanted to fuck Vic, keep fucking him until the 
world crashed down around them. Vic's blood was flooding down his 
throat, soothing the hungry burn. Vic's ass was clenching around 
him, soothing the other burn. Everything he wanted -- the *beast* 
wanted -- was found right here.

He heard Vic scream one last time, then he arched up against Mac, 
spraying them both with cum. The scent added to the whole sensory 
cocktail that was happening and Mac pulled away from the vein 
he'd been nursing on and roared his approval, his hips pumping at 
blinding speed as he emptied himself into the other man.

Then he collapsed onto Vic, his eyes shutting, remembering how 
the French called an orgasm 'the little death' before the world 
went away again.

>>>~~~<<<

Mac didn't think he was unconscious for long, just a few minutes. 
He opened his eyes to see Vic sitting next to him with an amused 
look and two mugs in his hands.

"Good evening, again," Vic said in a chipper voice that made him 
growl. Mac pushed up into a seated position and accepted the mug 
held out to him. He sniffed it briefly, then chugged the thick 
liquid down.

He eyed Vic, who was sipping his own blood in nonchalant way. 
"Are you okay?" he asked when the older man stayed silent.

"Hmm? Me? I'm fine. I'm better than fine." The man's lips curved 
up in a satisfied smile. "In fact, I'm fantastic."

Mac should feel guilty for nearly raping the man, but the feeling 
just wasn't coming. Vic certainly didn't look injured. Or upset. 
What he looked like was someone who'd been royally fucked and 
loved it. It was a look that Mac really liked. 

But if Kata'd had her way, he never would have seen Vic again, 
like this or any other way. And if those three Gangrel'd had 
*their* way, he would never have seen *anything* again. He'd 
nearly lost everything important in his life, and Vic topped that 
list.

Mac put his mug down, then took Vic's mug from the man and put it 
on the table next to his and pulled the man into his arms. He 
could feel the confusion radiating from the man, but he stayed 
silent. He needed to feel Vic against him, to know that he hadn't 
lost everything.

After a moment, Vic relaxed against him, his arms coming up to 
wrap around Mac's back. Mac pulled him a little closer and sighed 
in contentment.

"Mac?"

Mac took a deep breath, taking in the scent of blood, of sex, of 
Vic. "Yeah."

"Are *you* okay?"

He thought about it for a moment, then smiled. "I'm great."

"Good."

"Can I move in?"

Vic stiffened, and he wondered if he was pushing a little too 
hard. All he knew was that he didn't want to let go. Ever. "Do 
you want to?" Vic asked.

"Makes sense," he prevaricated. "The bedroom at my place has a 
big window."

"Is that the only reason?"

He slumped a little. "I want to be here. With you."

"For how long?" He could hear the tension in Vic's voice, and 
started to second-guess himself.

However, it was too late to back down. "Forever? Or at least 
until you want me to leave."

Vic's arms tightened around him. "Forever sounds good," the man 
whispered.

Mac pulled back and met Vic's eyes seriously. "I've tried forever 
twice now," he said, thinking of LiAnn and Claire and how those 
relationships had ended. "I failed both times. But I do want to 
try."

Vic smiled slowly. "Good, because I wasn't planning on letting 
you leave. And luckily, the Director seems to agree."

"Huh?"

Vic's smile turned to a smirk. "Everything you own is in boxes in 
the living room. She says there's no other Agency apartment 
available, so you have to stay here temporarily. Personally, I 
was planning on it being permanent."

He was? "The Director?"

Vic kissed him hard, then pulled back again. "In fact, she's 
given us until Monday off."

"Time off?"

"Yep. To teach you the basics, she said."

Mac frowned. "She was here?" He had a sudden image of the 
Director molesting them in their sleep. It was just the sort of 
thing she'd do, too.

Vic pushed him onto his back and kissed him again. "She just left 
a note," the man reassured him, then kissed him a third time.

He was still wrapping his thoughts around the idea of the 
Director ordering them to move in together. On the other hand, 
was it really much different from locking the two of them in a 
room together after Vic's Embrace? He'd had the feeling that she 
disapproved of them continuing to sleep together, though, but now 
she was throwing them together.

He'd never understand the woman.

But since she seemed to be encouraging them, at least for the 
time being...

Mac purred softly as Vic nibbled on his earlobe. "Monday, huh?"

"Yep."

"Whatever shall we do until then?"

He felt Vic smile against his throat before thrusting against 
Mac's groin with an already recovering erection.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll think of something."

Oh, yeah. He could certainly think of something to do. A lot of 
somethings.

Mac spread his legs and offered himself to his lover.

>>>~~~<<<

Jackie weaved her way through the crowd, ready to enjoy a night 
out. After the last few days, she needed some relaxation, and a 
rave was just the ticket as far as she was concerned.

The conference in the States had been pretty damned dull, so 
Jackie hadn't minded when the Director had called them back 
unexpectedly. Dobrinsky had been sent to back up Vic and Mac -- 
just how *did* those boys get themselves into these messes? -- 
while she'd been sent to clean up the dance club that the bad 
guys had been operating out of.

There hadn't been much left to clean up, and when they'd been 
sent to the big cheese's place, it had been cleaner than a baby's 
bottom. Then again, maybe that wasn't a good comparison to use. 
Whatever. The place had been spotless, nothing useful left behind 
for them to find. Not that that had stopped the Director from 
making her spend two nights going over every square inch with a 
all-Kindred team. You'd think it was personal or something.

But she'd finally admitted defeat and had given Jackie the 
weekend off, and she was going to take advantage of it.

She popped a couple of tablets, then took a swig from her water 
bottle. Ecstasy was a favorite of the young crowd, and while it 
didn't have the same effect on her that it did on them, it did 
provide a really nice buzz.

The bottle empty, she tossed it away and dove into the writhing 
crowd. The heavy techno beat was making the walls vibrate and she 
wanted to *dance*. And after that, maybe a little hunting. She 
grinned.

Then she saw something out of the corner of her eye and twisted 
to get a better look. A slim figure was working her way towards 
an exit. Forgetting about dancing, Jackie followed.

The press of bodies made the going tough, and she had to resort 
to elbows and claws to discourage a few hands that tried to hold 
her back or grope her. One persistent asshole even got a fanged 
snarl in his face, which got him to back off in a hurry.

But by the time she made it to the door, the other woman was 
gone.

Jackie stood in the doorway, looking up and down the street 
outside. There was no sign of the woman she'd seen. Or had she 
really seen what she thought she'd seen?

After all, wasn't LiAnn still in China?


END OF ON A WIRE


Coming soon, Book Three: Never the Twain. Just where is LiAnn 
anyway? And why hasn't anyone heard from her? And what is *with* 
that damned necklace anyway. I can't promise all the answers, but 
we shall see <g>
