A/N: I wish that I'd hopped out of bed when all the ideas and emotions surrounding this story were sizzling in my brain. But the room was cold, and the house was creaking like a wooden ship from the latest East Coast snow-blast. My husband was putting out lovely, snuggly British Thermal Units, so I spooned and went back to sleep. But the idea wouldn't leave me alone, so here it is; one of my last stories for the Sookieverse.

This story takes place in 1876 after the Maenad induced massacre in St. Petersburg Russia when Eric staked the maddened vampire Gregory. Believe it or not…this is a love story that takes place during Winternights, the Norse version of Halloween and Samhain.

"Devotchka" is Russian for "little girl."

Thanks Indigobuni and Tradermare for locating the quote from the SVMs so I got the canon facts straight. Also thanks to Dawn who found a great site on St. Petersburg for me.

…. Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here

What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end

And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way

"Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails

Once

The nights were lengthening and the undead of St Petersburg gathered for Winternights, the Christian's Hallows Eve--a time to honor the dead, when barriers between the worlds grow thin. For the aristocrats and those who knew where to look, Halloween was also a time of wild abandon along the wide boulevards and back streets of St Petersburg's Nievski Prospekt. For the Russian upper classes, it marked the end of the summer season of commerce and travel and the beginning of the winter season of balls, operas, and all of the entertainment the shadier side of St Petersburg had to offer. But upon October 31st 1876, many revelers, hallowed and unhallowed, joined the ranks of death. One vampire's pride and a collective sense of invulnerability nearly destroyed a large portion of St Petersburg's elite and not a few of the city's undead. A month before the massacre, Gregory looked down upon a being he perceived as lesser, flawed and, of course, as long as you're looking down, you can't see something that is actually above you.

My friend Gregory was proud and vain, intellectual and witty. He was an expert swordsman with a wiry athletic body, and the hooded eyes and narrow face of a French aristocrat. Voluble and irreverent, where I was watchful and "superstitious," he could fuck, win a fortune at whist, and debate the finer points of populism in an elite salon with equal enthusiasm and talent. His love of adventure and exceptional joi de vivre equaled my own.

He was a child of the Baroque Era who embraced the Age of Reason, but disdained the revolutionaries keen on murdering Tsar Alexander II. He was my opposite in many ways and yet I loved him all the more for that. While I viewed my immortality as wyrd, and accepted worlds beyond empirical evidence, Gregory examined the world and his current undead status, with keen scientific interest.

One month before All Hallows, we walked amid the statuary and topiaries of The Summer Palace before attending the opera and choosing our evening meals from the resident nobility.

"What is a monster," he asked waving his arms wildly.

He patted a cavorting satyr's bare marble buttocks. "I'm no myth, like this poor fellow."

I smiled, but my voice was grave. "Are you so sure that he is a myth? Beware Gregory. The English bard you are so fond of quoting would tell you that there is more of life than is dreamt of in your philosophy. I have seen, and experienced so much more that you will admit. The beings called gods exist."

Gregory raised his brow. "No, my friend, chance, not fate or magic, led us to our current states. I was formed upon this earth and became vampire upon this earth through a transformation no different in its way than that of an insect progressing from larva, to pupa, to adult. I am not the rending, slavering Grendel of your northern legends. I am literate--as kind as my current nature allows--kinder by far than many humans."

He paused and bowed to some young girls who blushed and giggled as their babushkaed chaperon glared and hurried them around a corner. He grinned broadly showing a bit of fang, " And I'm better looking than most human males--especially the gout and syphilis riddled noblemen those poor little birds will be forced to marry! "

He shook his head, truly perplexed. "How then, can my conformation be contrary to the order of nature?"

"You worry over these mysteries far too much, Gregory my friend…yet you only perceive what suits you. We feed upon the blood of humans and other races. We are other, not monsters perhaps, but the…process of becoming vampire separates us from others. I can never be what I once was any more than a bird can grow back into its egg. It's our spirits that expand…we can choose…like all beings…to embrace our existence…or wither…"

"Gregory eyed me with skepticism. " Your old ways comfort you, but they must also hold you back to some degree. How can you move forward and embrace the times encumbered by such suffocating beliefs?"

I gazed at him levelly as we left the gardens and made our way towards the Imperial Mikhailovsky Opera House. "And yet, here I am, when hundreds of vampires I have known have perished."

When Die Walküre ended, we set out from the theatre with our companions, a rebellious young countess and her equally wild and bored friend, a baroness. This was not the first time their aging husbands had been cuckolded--but it might well have been the last. It was easy enough to glamor the ladies away from their servants and retire to an opulent suite I kept off of the Griboedova canal. We had paused upon a quiet, tree lined lane to arouse them a bit and snack upon their blue blood, when Gregory drew back from his companion's embrace and growled. My fangs ran out. Before fear and shock cleared their fogged minds, I sent our companions scurrying back to their waiting coaches. The air cracked with magic and a pungent scent surrounded us. She was wrapped in a poorly tanned deer skin tunic clearly immune to the cold wind that lifted strands of her dark, tangled hair. Like oracle smoke, her breath formed a plume before her.

Her mad, dark eyes swept over us. "I am Phyrne, lover of Dionysus. Kneel before me and pay me tribute--for I am the essence of the great god of Wine, The Noisy One, and I will have my due. I weary of the drunken Rus. I hunger for more than humans can give me."

Her eyes slewed toward me.

"Old one, I demand an orgy with all the trimmings."

I nodded and waited to hear the extent of her demands. Then the fool spoke to the maenad as if she were a feeble human--the uncomprehending object of a superior's joke.

Gregory's face was solemn. "And so our duty, madam, is to… ermm…tighten loose women?"

Phyrne uttered a high, hysterical laugh, and then wiped a thin trickle of spittle from the corner of her mouth.

"Oh, I like you! I never knew that dead meat had a sense of humor. But, no…at least…that is only part of what I expect of you."

All the merriment drained from her face and she looked at us with steady, dangerous eyes.

"I want snow white bullocks' throats slit with sharpened blades. I want chests of gold, rubies, and diamonds. I want to smell, taste, feel and see hot, red blood steaming upon cold earth. Bring humans. Get them drunk and mate with them on the blood soaked earth. I want human and immortal scents mingled -- smoke-sour, honey-sweet. I will fill you all with the essence of the god. Gather your comrades and make it so by full moon in the taiga to the east. You who honor me will be bathed in its light."

I stood silent but alert, sensing the god that still lurked within the maenad's glittering eyes--a being that Gregory neither saw nor acknowledged.

Her luminous eyes fixed upon Gregory. "I will honor you with the first blessing. You will be the vessel. Dionysus will enter you and you will enter me."

He saw my warning glance, but he was too sure of himself. To him, this pathetic, demented creature, walked in a world where her devotions no longer mattered. I knew better.

Gregory inclined his head slightly. There was a faint glint of humor in his eyes as he replied, "I must decline the honor, 'my lady.' Although your association with such an august being is impressive, you stink of half tanned hide and animal flesh. Your 'charms,' alas, are too well sampled for my tastes."

Phryne hissed and pointed her ivy-wrapped thyrsus at Gregory and then at me.

"I will have my tribute by the next full moon."

Her sloe-dark eyes bored into Gregory. "You are young and untrained in the old ways, but you will learn to bow before me. One way or another, I will send the god into you and your dead heart will burn with his fire. Bow before me and perform your duties and you will receive boundless pleasure. Defy me and experience pain beyond your wildest imaginings."

A sudden wind rattled withered leaves as she whirled and vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.

Gregory shook his head bemused. "And what, pray tell was that?"

I shook my head. "Three hundred years undead, and you still refuse to see beyond your wall of logic and reason. You admit nothing unless given evidence. Yet, there she stood and you didn't truly see her. You still inhabit the cave your hero Plato spoke of-- seeing almost nothing. That thing was a maenad who danced in divine ecstasy with a god centuries before your Plato was born."

Gregory's mouth jerked at the corners, "Whatever she is or we are, this female is a rare and interesting supernatural. She certainly has some elemental power and is also, most certainly, as crazy as a loon. "

He clapped my shoulder--something no other vampire, male or female, would dare.

"Well, what's done is done and I have no intention of sliding my cock into that mad bitch. And now that you've set our noble devotchkas free, I suggest that we pay a visit to The Gilded Cage and feast upon French songbirds."

Nights passed and Gregory refused to change his mind.

As the Harvest moon waned and waxed toward the Hunter's moon, and my warnings and concerns were dismissed or disbelieved, I began to feel a kinship with Cassandra. No vampire reported speaking with or sighting the maenad; no vampire in the region had had direct experience of one. I was respected, but generally believed to be inclined to ancient "superstitions."

I even visited Count Ivan Rostovtsev, the titular head of the St Petersburg vampires, at his country estate. He too was inclined to wait.

"After all," he observed, "The alleged maenad has only appeared to you and Gregory. He claims that this being is quite mad--a claim that you do not dispute." He paced the room. "Her demands are very high. Perhaps she is not a maenad at all but a dark elf in disguise trying to con us out of our riches and make fools of us. Such an incident involving a dark Elf disguised as a Jinn happened not seventy years ago in Moscow. If she is indeed a maenad, she is hardly asserting her presence. You have acted honorably according to your custom. Now, that you have placed the matter in my hands, do not trouble yourself overmuch. "

I tried to point out that if she was the god-consumed maenad Phryne--she would expect one warning to be sufficient.

And so, All Hallows Night found us the masked and costumed guests of a Romanov prince whose opulent mansion overlooked broad boulevards and tranquil canals. We descended the great stair into an enchanted world of masked ladies bedecked in rubies, sapphires, great ropes of pearls and triple diamond necklaces that matched the colors of their dresses. Grand Dukes dressed as mandarins and Elf kings while court officials dressed as buccaneers and Saracens.

Every marble step was crowded as the guests descended into halls glittering with crystal and candlelight.

Cossacks of the Guard in their scarlet uniforms, and Grenadiers of the Golden Guard in their black and gold tunics stood swords in hand, in two ranks. We moved between them as the orchestra began a polonaise in the gallery overhead. Gregory eyes sparkled with glamor as he chose a lovely blond whose sapphires matched her eyes. I chose a recently widowed heiress of questionable morals and the night's revels began. We swept various partners through mazurkas and waltzes with occasional exits into curtained alcoves from which they emerged, dazed but content.

Our glamor let us dance, feed and study the inhabitants of this world of candlelight, without being seen or remembered.

Suddenly, a wave of arousal radiated from noblemen and soldiers alike as Phyrne brushed past them, her eyes fixed upon Gregory. Her thin Tyrian purple peplos barely concealed full, round breasts and the curves of her hips and thighs. I released my partner, and whispered that she should find a quite sitting room. Our fangs descended and our hands curled instinctively into claws. The girl beside Gregory crumpled to the floor in a glittering heap of satin. Like an insect's eyes, facets of her diamond tiara reflected bits of the tableaux over and over. The humans stood like captured pawns, unable to speak or move. Perhaps the terrified animal crouching within each aristocrat sensed its impending death. Gregory and I strained to move, but the maenad's magic gripped and held us in its coils.

Phyrne smirked.

"Immortal or human--your disobedience is all one to The Great God of Wine."

She moved toward us languorously, enjoying our struggle, but stopped before Gregory.

"I offered you ecstasy and the blessing of a god and you dared to defy…"

A slight noise like the hiss of an outgoing tide filled the room as Phryne gathered her magic, raised her arm, and struck Gregory across the face with her thyrsus. His eyes narrowed and he growled as thick, dark blood oozed from his mouth and stained his white cravat crimson.

She gave a little grunt of pleasure. "Now you will have no choice…"

Gregory's dark eyes widened--a mouse before a striking snake. Phyrne raised her bloody thyrsus. A livid caul of energy surrounded them as Phryne twined her arms around his neck and whispered.

"Yes…it has been centuries since you felt such fear and anger. Soon, I will unleash it and you. "

Slowly, casually, Phryne sunk her teeth into his cheek, and spat the gore at his feet. "Now you are a beast--my beast."

Gregory's eyes rolled. He bellowed and flailed. Phyrne struck him again and invoked her god.

Dionysus, Lord and Lover

This creature is opened to you--

Fill this marble tomb

Give flesh to your desires!

The room filled with shrieks and groans as dowagers, maidens, sculpted Davids, and paunchy elders ripped and tore at their silks and sables and coupled mindlessly upon cold marble beneath sparkling chandeliers. Phryne loosed the pins of her peplos. It slithered to the ground as she reclined like the honored guest in the midst of the grunting, rutting blue bloods. She beckoned to Gregory. I looked into my friend's eyes and strained to bend my will upon him, to exhort him to resist. He was no longer there.

Gregory growled, tore off his clothing and sprang upon her. He spread her thighs roughly, caged her inside his arms, and thrust into her. Paralyzed by Phyrne's magic I watched with horror as my friend rose from Phyrne and became Grendel.

I strained against the magical bonds as Gregory bellowed like an enraged beast, and clawed at his own head. His face grimaced in agony, went slack, then contorted with lust and fury as he lunged and snapped a Cossack's arm like a twig, before sinking his fangs into his jugular and draining him white. Filled with Phyrne's madness, he had become a lethal projectile rending and tearing, twisting heads from bodies and hurling them against the marble columns with wanton abandon. Tendrils of Phyrne's madness bored into my mind. I roared like Loki bound to his rock, straining against my bonds. Mad with blood lust, I burned and ached, tortured by the delicious iron sharp aroma of rich aristocratic blood. I burned to fuck and consume, rend and kill.

A powerful rush of wind guttered the candles and drowned the room in darkness. Phyrne shrieked a warding spell as forty vampires stormed the room from all sides. Count Rostovtsev flew towards her and the spell that bound me shattered. I hurled myself towards the maenad ready to kill, slammed into her ward and staggered backwards. Count Ivan Rostovtsev steadied me, slapped my face hard enough to crush human bone, then gripped my arms and held my gaze.

"Come back Viking! Call upon your own gods if you must. "

Just as suddenly at it had filled me, the madness lost its grip. My head ached. I felt as raw as a scraped hide, but I was in possession of myself, unlike poor Gregory.

Phyrne smirked within the security of her ward and nodded toward the grunting, bleeding knot of vampires straining to subdue him. Her eyes glinted with delight as they locked upon the large stake the Count gripped.

"Give it to the Viking. He will stake his friend. That is his punishment. "

The Count glared at her. "Why him?"

She regarded us with wild, pitiless eyes and shrugged.

"Because his warning fell upon deaf ears. Because prophets must suffer. Because it is his destiny to bear this burden. Besides, I'll enjoy watching." She spread her arms dramatically and smiled with satisfaction as we surveyed the carnage.

"This is your fault! It could have been so easy. This is the price of your irreverence. Your immortal Tsarina will be most displeased by this…disturbance. I wonder will any of you survive her displeasure?"

The Count's lips thinned to a gash.

"That is our concern. Name your price."

Phyrne cast her eyes up thoughtfully and tapped her chin. While we waited Gregory's howls and shrieks echoed in the dark hall.

"I demand seven snow white bullocks, seven chests filled with gold and precious, gems, and seven times seven vampires to attend the god's pleasure and kneel before him as he fills me. Two nights hence appear before me at the shrine of the Old Ones on Krestovsky Island."

She smiled brightly, "Oh! After the Viking stakes his friend, I want you, Count, to hand me his shattered heart."

She waved her hand dismissively. "You may proceed immediately."

Count Rostovtsev handed me the stake. An executioner by nature and design, I had killed to survive as a warrior, a predator, and as a maker for one thousand years, but I had never killed perversely. I had never killed a friend.

Desolated, hollowed by surges of self-contempt, I ran my thumb over its sharpened tip, and gripped its smooth solid weight. Better to plunge its point into my own heart, I thought, than to stake my friend. But my will to survive was too strong, or perhaps that is just what I wished to believe and I was terrified of ending my life and discovering that Gregory was right, that there was neither reward nor punishment--only ashes and oblivion.

Except for Gregory, the hall was quite now. Gore dripped from the chandeliers. The humans Gregory had killed were scattered like garbage rooted from a kitchen midden. The survivors were glamored into silence. One vampire flaked and became ash beside the gilded cabriole leg of a smashed chair.

Gripping the stake I walked deliberately, at a human's pace, as if to my own execution.

My friend was hidden from my view by the Vampires who held him spread eagled upon the ballroom floor. He grunted and strained against his captors.

They made space and I knelt beside him. He foamed at the mouth showing fang. A rabid dog's bloodshot eyes rolled and glared at me without recognition. I raised the stake and said so that all could hear.

"Gregory…You were never the beast…I am the beast. But I will free you from this monster. Forgive me, my friend."

His back arched as I drove the stake through his heart. He sighed. His face relaxed. For an instant, before his eyes dimmed forever they held mine and my friend looked out. His lip twitched, only a shadow of his wry grin. It was over. I prayed to my gods that his afterlife woud be glorious.

No one tried to stop me when I left before the Count cut out Gregory's ruined heart. I left it to the others to clean up the butchery, glamour the humans, and set off enough dynamite to reduce the hall to rubble. The human investigators and witnesses would believe that bloodthirsty revolutionaries had perpetrated this massacre. The corpses' condition was assumed to be the result of the dynamite, ensuing fires and the crushing weight of stone and debris. It was a hard night's work for the St Petersburg vampires, but I had had the hardest task.

Gregory's, contorted face and mad burning eyes were still before me. Like straws caught in the whirlwind, we were all touched by the god's fury. Later when the massacre was discussed by those who did not love him, Gregory's loss was considered fortunate compared to what could have been. One mad vampire wrecked enough havoc to nearly expose St. Petersburg's undead. Two score of mad vampires would have laid waste to The Venice of the North.

I lifted above St Petersburg and crossed the Neva River hardly aware of the Nievski Prospekt's net of canals shimmering beneath in the moonlight, the yellow and white Peterhof with its golden fountains and the doomed Romanov's huge sapphire-blue Catherine Palace. Nievski Prospekt swarmed with Halloween revelers still unaware of the massacre and the impending chaos. I was spattered with blood and gore, but there was no time to wash--not yet. I had to get away and regain some sense of my being in the solitude of the vast silent forest; I was wounded and soul sick. It hardly mattered that I would be pardoned, that Gregory's maker would receive reparation. I had killed my friend.

Having freed Pamela, my English fledgling, years before I was alone again friendless, and half mad with grief. Unmanly, blood tears painted my face. They stained my hand as I tried to wipe them off. Nothing remained but blood; the blood of my victims, the blood, of my enemies, and the blood of my friend. Perhaps when he smiled, it had not been forgiveness that I sensed, but a sense of justice. I had become Grendel--but, unlike Gregory, I knew that Grendel always crouched within me waiting for release.

The clouds that drifted across the moon were burnished silver. A dry, light snow, the season's first, dusted my hair and lashes. As I rushed toward the fringes of the vast taiga, a cold wind carried the clean, crisp scent of pines as it murmured through the endless wood. All of my existence I had tried to remain true to the folkways of my people. I could go without feeding for many days. I would need that time to face what I had done and accept my choice. I would spend the night within the silence of the vast, dark taiga and call upon my gods.

*points thyrsus*

Trick or treat??

Gimme' somethin' to hold onto…um…like a review…

(The second chapter will be romantic)

To be continued…

How will Eric heal and who will heal him?