A/N: Well here's the next part of Gabe and Liz's story…I wonder how it'll turn out.

(Cue random dramatic music)

October 23rd

1874

Gabriel yawned and sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. On his pillow, Rose opened one yellow eye to give him an annoyed look and covered her face with a paw.

He cracked his neck to one side, then the other; the odd dream he had woken from was already slipping away, like most of his dreams did, and already seemed less vivid. It still stuck in his mind, though: for the first time in now fourteen years, he had dreamt of his family. They had been standing outside on his balcony and staring in at him disapprovingly, while he stood frozen in front of them. Odd, because none of them seemed to have aged a day since that day in 1859. And they had been talking…what had his father said? Or maybe it was his mother…

"It was Michelle," he said suddenly to himself. She said simply because I was a monster, I wasn't free of my name. What did she mean by that?

Drop it--it was only a dream, you idiot. Focus on reality, for once…now, what was I supposed to do today?

Ella appeared out of thin air, nearly giving him a heart attack. "Bonjour!" She shouted.

Gabriel grabbed the shirt slung over the foot of the bed (he slept in his pants) and slipped it on, sighing. "Ellansey, didn't we have a discussion just the other day about that? Please use the door like a normal person."

She tilted her head at him, her brown eyes opened wide. "But my way is normal! By fey terms, anyway."

He shook his head. "Very well—can't you at least warn me first?"

"I guess."

Gabriel waited politely for her to say something. After a while, he asked "Did you have something to tell me, or…?"

Ella thought it over for a minute (a long minute—her memory tended to take an occasion leave), then grinned brightly and snapped her fingers. "Well, I was supposed to tell you that it was breakfast four hours ago, but then there was this really pretty butterfly, and I got distracted. And then 'Ray--" her nickname for Fraya-"—came out in the gardens to tell me it was lunch-time, and that since Liz's dad would be here any second, for me to come and wake you up."

Gabriel was already on his feet before she finished. "Elizabeth's father—I forgot all about that!" He finished buttoning up his shirt and shoved his feet into his boots. "He's not here already, is he?"

"Actually, he just walked in five minutes ago—he should be in the dining room with--"

Gabriel grabbed his gloves and cloak and raced out the door.

"Elizabeth," she finished. Ella caught sight of the sleeping cat on Gabriel's pillow and brightened. "Bonjour, Rose!"

Rose glared, hissed, and crawled under the bed.

"You haven't told me much about Gabriel." Elizabeth's father, Henri Merle, sipped at a glass of water while they waited for Gabriel to show up.

Elizabeth twirled her engagement ring around on her finger. She was glad enough to introduce Gabriel, but a part of her was starting to wish they had written to Allie and Kal for another on of those illusion-pendants. God, I hope he doesn't over-react. Gabriel's not that bad, not really. But Father's not as young as he used to be...oh dear God in Heaven, what if he has a heart attack? "Well, he'll be here any minute now," she said as cheerfully as she could. He'd better be! I don't know if I can take much more of this pent-up nervousness! She poured herself more water, grateful she had left the coffee-pot alone; the last thing she needed at this moment was caffeine. She heard the doors at the end of the dining room opened. "Speak of the devil, there he is." She turned around and got a strong, sudden sense of déjà-vu: he wore a black hooded cloak, black leather gloves, black pants, and a black shirt buttoned up all the way, just as he had on their first meeting. It was impossible to make out any facial features, even with the bright sunlight coming in from the window.

"Good afternoon—forgive me for being up so late." He sat down next to Elizabeth: for his credit, he acted as if he dressed in that manner every day and therefore nothing out of the usual.

Elizabeth fought down a nervous giggle. "Um, father, this is my fiancé, Gabriel Noirmort—Gabriel, this is my father, Henri Merle." She noted that her father was keeping his features perfectly neutral, even though Gabriel's height—he was eight feet tall—must have had an impact on him, even without having seen his face. Or his tail, or horns, or any of his other unusual features.

"It's my pleasure to meet you, M. Merle." Gabriel held out his hand—with his long arms, he didn't even have to rise out of his seat. "Ang—Elizabeth has spoken of you often," he added quickly: a small lie, of course, but it helped.

Henri's hand, while large compared to a normal person, was nearly completely covered by Gabriel's. "All good things, I hope," he joked.

Gabriel laughed politely and filled a mug with strong, black coffee. "Please, eat; I myself am not hungry at the moment."

"The moment" being the last fourteen years, give or take, Elizabeth thought, digging into her own breakfast to hide her smile. She ate enough to feed the both of them, as Gabriel often liked to joke.

"Quite a nice home you have," Henri said, trying to find a subject—one, luck-willing, where Gabriel's odd choice of clothes would not come up in.

"Thank you; I hope you didn't have any trouble finding your way around it." His voice was perfectly casual, and he seemed relaxed enough; his fingers, tightened around the handle of his cup, gave away he was as nervous as Elizabeth—probably more. Much more. He had never been a people-person to begin with, and his peculiar appearance didn't add to that in a positive way. But, as he told Elizabeth once, old habits died hard, and his aristocratic upbringing, however brief, hid his nerves fairly well. It also helped that his face was completely hidden.

"I met him at the door," Elizabeth said, glad to finally be able to say something.

Henri nodded. "I was meaning to ask about that unusual artwork I saw on the floor—it seemed as if the vines continue through the castle."

"They do," Elizabeth answered. "As far as I know." She glanced Gabriel, who, beneath the hood, nodded in confirmation.

"With the exception of the basement, and a few of the top floors, yes—there was only so much paint. As for the basement," he added lightly, "there was really no use in decorating that dingy cellar."

Henri grinned and poked at some of the food on his plate. "The artist ran out of paint and didn't bother to purchase more? That's rather cheap of him, wasn't it?" Hs expression turned to that of almost comical puzzlement when Gabriel laughed, choking on his coffee. Elizabeth joined him for a moment before gaining control of herself. She looked apologetically at her father.

"Sorry about that—you see--"

"I was the artist," Gabriel finished, undoubtedly grinning under his hood. "It's not all that funny, I suppose, but under the circumstances…" He chuckled and set his cup down. "I found myself…unable to purchase the necessary materials, but it was rather cheap of me, wasn't it?"

Elizabeth, more relaxed now Gabriel was, shrugged helplessly at Henri. "It's a bit of a complicated joke," she offered as an explanation. And really not funny, when you think about it, him being secluded alone in the castle for years and years, but still…

The rest of lunch went considerably well. The conversation went from horses and farming (a subject Gabriel got lost quickly enough in) to politics (that ended quickly enough, for Elizabeth had no interest whatsoever, and Gabriel was well over a decade behind on that), to their summer trip to Paris (of which all the demons and Gabriel's brief circus-carrier were omitted), and, finally, to the wedding, which would take place on the second of November.

"We've decided to have it here," Elizabeth said. "In the courtyard, if the weather is fair. All it needs is some tidying up, and it would be perfect." And it gets rid of that tiny matter of drawing attention. The last thing the two wanted was the priest of the church chasing after Gabriel with a cross upheld in one hand and flinging holy water at him with the other; the comical mental image was one thing…

"You've chosen your wedding dress then?"

"Hm? Oh, no." She frowned and looked up at her father. "I haven't gotten around to it quite yet."

"Good." At his daughter's puzzlement, he grinned. "I still have your mother's dress at home; I thought, perhaps, you may want to--"

"That'd be great!" She looked at Gabriel. "Gabriel?"

He was turned around in his chair, his head turned in the direction of the door. "Did you hear something?"

"Um, no. Is something wrong?"

He shook his head. "I thought I heard Rose for a minute…it was probably my imagination."

"Rose?" Henri asked. "Who's she?"

"My cat."

"Ah."

He turned back around in his chair. "You were saying?"

It took her a second to remember. "Oh, that; Father said that I could use my mother's wedding dress."

"That would be--" "Fine", he would have finished, but Ella and Fraya decided to turn up just then. Out of thin air.

Right in front of Henri, who nearly fell out of his chair in shock. "Wha--!"

The two fey took little notice of him. "We think there's something in the dungeons," Fraya told Gabriel, before he could have a chance to object to their appearance.

"A demon!" Ella added, her eyes wide. She tugged on his arm. "It's making scary noises! And we think it got Rose!"

Elizabeth had crossed the table and was helping her father up and trying to calm him down.

"They—who—how did they--" He ogled the fey; under his farmer's tan, he'd gone more that a little pale. She helped him sit down in his chair and glanced up at Gabriel.

"Wait for me." He nodded and walked off to the door, cape billowing after him. She turned her attention back to Henri. "Father." His eyes were focused enough when they met hers—that was something, at least. He wouldn't faint. "They're friends—they won't hurt you. I'm going with Gabriel for a moment. Are you going to be alright with them?"

He nodded. "Yes….but…they just came out of nowhere! What are they?" Henri's eyes widened enough to show the whites all around when Fraya, after giving Ella a "behave yourself!" sort of look, came around to his side of the table.

"We'll take care of him, Mlle. Elizabeth—you make sure to call if you manage to get yourself into trouble." She smiled dryly. "Yet again."

"Merci." She patted her father sympathetically on the shoulder and then ran to meet Gabriel.

It was the smell that drew her down into the basement. Normally, at this time of the afternoon, she would be napping in a warm spot of autumn sunlight. And she would have been, at that moment, if it weren't for the smell of that reeking, putrid corpse. It reached her sensitive nose as she was laying on his pillow; the cursed one's pillow, the shy, tall one—she had little use for names humans and the like chose to give each other. She herself recognized friends and enemies by her preternatural sense of smell, and by sight. The cursed one, her friend, and his mate—for that was the closest term in her vocabulary to describe them—were in another wing of the castle entirely, and she knew that neither they or the two fey-girls could smell it.

So she went off by herself.

She followed she scent of the rotting body through most of the North Wing of the castle, tail held high in the nature of a cat going about her own business. The scent led her to a plain, unlovely door, which posed a bit of a problem, as the doorknob was high above her head. It took her half a dozen tries before she could jump and get a good grip around the doorknob. Then she opened it, using her weight to turn it—a thing either of the two humans or fey would have stared at in shock.

Yes, the human-corpse was there; at the bottom of dozens of damp, stone stairs, it was there. It and something else—it too smelled dead, but dry as well: the almost-pleasant, cinnamony smell of a dead body, set to dry out in the hot sun with next to no rain. This thing was what she had to be wary of—this thing was both dead and not-dead. Beneath that smell of sweet cinnamon, there was sweat and blood. Much blood, yes—this not-dead thing was gorged on the blood from the dead-human corpse, had dined on it like a mosquito. She growled to herself and went about the tedious business about going down the many stairs, leaping every five or so. The smell of rot grew stronger in her nose the further she went, along with new smells: rusty metal, mold, spongy wood, wet stone, and yet more decay. Whatever the place was, it was a dead, fell place, not used by anyone for many a year.

She had reached the bottom of the stairs; slinking along the ground, she crept under a long table of molding wood and examined the room.

It was very big, twice the size of the cursed one's room at least. The floors and walls and ceiling were all made of the same grey stone. Rusty objects that she didn't recognize hung from hooks on the wall and were strewn about tables much like the one she was under; on them, nearly blending in with the flakes of rust, were old bloodstains. Like bloodstains were on the walls of the half a dozen cells, and on the thick iron bars: no bodies on the moldy straw in the cells, though: having rotted long ago, all that remained were bits of bones. Rats had disposed of the rest, most likely.

In the center of the room was the rotting body whose scent she had followed: its gender was impossible to tell, for more reasons than decay. The body was horribly mangled and torn, its face a mask of gristle and bone its mother would have definitely not recognized.

The not-dead thing ripped off the last few fingers from the corpse and chewed them in the same manner a cow chews its cud, reveling rows of fangs, all of them crooked, all a yellowish grey…all razor sharp. It stared off at a spot on the ceiling with its red, beady eyes as it chewed, the paled doughy flesh of its face working as it chewed. It was easily the most grotesque thing she had ever had the misfortune to lay her eyes on, with its dirty yellow claws protruding from its stubby fingers, which attached to fat, small hands and they to fat but surprisingly long arms. As for its neck, she could see none: the round head of the creature seemed to sit on the sloping, rounded shoulders, like a toad's. A greasy mane of black hair fell over its shoulder and down onto the front of its grey, blood-stained shirt; there were spiders crawling in the hair. Its round torso took up most of its body; the legs, like the arms, were long but fat. Old leather boots were falling apart on its feet.

As she watched it in a kind of fascinated revulsion, its eyes turned to her. The lumpy, round nose sniffed once, and then, before she could so much as twitch a whisker, it rolled onto its knees and snatched her from underneath the table, bringing her up to its face. The scraggy eyebrows (where the spiders had also taken up residence) rose in an expression of surprise.

"Oho!" It exclaimed in a nasally voice. "A little kitty, eeeh?" Its yellowish tongue wormed out to lick its crimson lips. "Haven't had a kitty in years!" It laughed, and she hung limply in his hand, frozen in fear.

The not-dead thing bared its fangs in something too grotesque to be a grin, and then bit off her left foreleg. That broke her shock, and she yowled loud enough to her own ears.

She was still screaming when the cursed one and his blonde-haired mate ran down the stairs.