A/N: This is a collaborative work written with DonaldFDraper who writes all of Javert's parts and much of the French citizens', while I write the vampires' scenes and the murders. Angelus, Darla, Spike (William), and Drusilla all appear; we've elected to simply shift their timeline back a bit so we can have all four in the story (I just like the Angelus/Spike dynamic), but other than that we strive to keep them canon. I should also point out that any details about France or history should be credited directly to my co-author, as all I know about Paris I learned from Anne Rice. (Also we make no claims of ownership to the intellectual property-characters-of others).

1831. Somewhere along the river a clock tower rang twice. The moon was only a sliver of white behind a crush of dark clouds. Drusilla and Darla had begged Angelus to take them to Paris, and he'd only agreed in the hope that the Revolution would find a renewed sense of violence and chaos. They'd been in France for six months and while the women were enjoying themselves—and thus William was happy, as he apparently only lived to see Dru happy, the pathetic dog—Angelus was growing bored with the muddy streets that stank of urine and filth.

Angelus reached up to pull snug the ribbon holding his hair back, neglecting entirely recalcitrant mane that was escaping from his ponytail. He peered around the corner of a building to watch the main street, his women prattling on behind him in the alley; William, of course, was agreeing with everything they said. Angelus rolled his eyes when he heard William refer to Darla as, "Great grand-mum." They were arguing the virtues of some God-awful French poet or playwright or some such nonsense.

At last Angelus snapped his fingers at the three and beckoned them to his side. "Look," he said, gesturing to a quintet of young men, dressed plainly but for a pin on their lapels, a circle of red, white, and blue ribbon. Resistance sympathizers. One side of his mouth turned up in a smirk as he whispered to Darla, "What do you say we stir ourselves up a little chaos? Start with these lads and see where the week takes us?"

"You fancy a little murder and intrigue?" she purred.

Drusilla closed her eyes and smiled slowly, swaying like a waif in the breeze. "They smell like wine."

Angelus barely acknowledged her; Dru was being literal. The men were visibly drunk. William wrapped his arms around Dru's waist and kissed the back of her neck under her dark curls. "I'm game," he agreed.

Dawn broke over the city, warming the early winter air and neglecting the mud that never seemed to dry. A well-dressed woman picked her way carefully around the puddles, skirt prudently pinned up just enough to avoid the worst of the mud as she led her poodle by his leash. She took her usual route along the streets near the theater houses, through the best parts of town, letting the dog take his time roaming as he pleased. She yawned but indulged him as he nudged into an alley, only looking when the animal let out a low growl. At first she assumed he'd sniffed out some drunk, asleep on the ground. As she extended her awareness beyond the length of her own nose she noticed that the mud here was red, and that it was not one drunk her poodle had found but five. She gasped and the dog began to bark. She stepped to her right without watching for her footing and stumbled. She looked down at the obstacle to find she'd tripped over the arm of one of the corpses. Corpses. The word rang through her mind like a scream. Their throats were torn clear through, their coats were shredded, their wrists purple, and the eyes. The eyes were gone. Empty, bloody holes stared at her. In one vacant eye socket in each corpse was a pin, the circle of ribbon the revolutionaries wear. The scream in her mind flew from her throat in terror as she turned and fled the alley.

A man in stood at the foot of five bodies laid side by side, "This is all of them monsieur inspector." Inspector Javert looked up at one of the policemen standing across from him. "Five young men, Loyalists perhaps."

"And why would they be Loyalists?" Javert responded, crouching down to the nearest body. A rip in the lapel took his attention. "No, these are Revolutionaries," he spat. "This one has a torn lapel, most likely his own cockade was placed over his eyes." He reached up to pull the cockade from the young man's eyes to reveal an empty socket.

"Mon dieu," several of the policemen gasped. Javert agreed within but kept his calm. "Who could do this?" another man asked.

"No one with honor nor civility; even a Royalist wouldn't do this." Javert stood up and preformed the Sign of the Cross. "No reasonable man could do this; no, only a monster could do this." He walked around the feet of the young men lined up, staring at them as he passed, seeing their ripped throats. "Knives?"

"No sir, no knife could do that, at least one that is small enough for people to carry around."

Javert was troubled, torn throats and stolen eyes, very troubling. He reached the other side, taking the place of the policeman standing there, and crouched again to look at a neck. The bite was curved, as if someone bit into it. "Perhaps someone bit them?"

"Ha! Vampires, such things don't exist Inspector."

Javert looked up at the man now behind him, "I did not say it was a vampire, such things could not exist, God wouldn't let them; no, this is perhaps a deranged man." He stood back up feeling anxious, who would bite five men's throats… "Pack them up and send them to the morgue. Speak to the people and see who might have seen this happen."

He turned away to look at the end of the alley, confused by this crime.

Angelus awoke to Darla's lips on his collarbone. Her hair smelled of lilacs and blood, like a funeral. The coppery richness of it made him smile. "Mm, Darla love, you smell like dessert."

A moaning laugh bubbled from her throat as her teeth scraped his bare chest. "And you are delightful when you're restless."

Angelus pushed Darla away with a firm hand and rose to dress. He was still restless. He was anxious to see what sort of fear was beginning to boil in Paris. They'd staged their kill so that it would be easy to find. Surely word was beginning to make its way through the city that monsters were lurking in the dark.

Drusilla's daft giggle trilled from the adjacent room, accompanied by William's voice, though Angelus paid no attention to what he said. They'd also woken in high spirits. Angelus stepped into the room Dru and William shared while he buttoned his shirt. "Clean up and get dressed," he said. "We're going out early." Drusilla made only a half-hearted attempt to cover herself when Angelus approached her and wiped a smear of blood from the corner of her mouth with his thumb; William shot him a glare of impotent jealousy. Angelus answered with a wink that spoke of an intimate past before William had been sired. The younger vampire averted his eyes and made a show of searching for his clothes.

Darla was seated at the dressing table of the little basement flat they'd acquired, brushing dried blood from her blond hair. She felt her way through it, now and then dabbing at it with a wet cloth. "What did you have in mind?" she asked the empty mirror.

Angelus yanked the ribbon out of his hair and plunged his hands into the basin of water and ran them through his hair. "I'm in the mood to socialize. Find a tavern where those revolutionaries like to drink. See what rumors are going 'round; what rumors we might start."

Three young men, already inebriated from a day of wine were getting louder through the night. "We have this 'king' whom we elected and look at how things are, they're shit. We voted him in and now he's turned on the people."

Another said, "We voted him in, we must respect the fact that he will eventually come to help the people."

A third young man added, "When he does, we'll all be dead and the rich will be the only ones alive."

The first man started again, "Yes! Just like the Burbon kings! It took a Revolution to sweep them away and place power in the hands of the people."

"But the people turned on themselves, remember the Terror," reminded the second man.

"The Terror was a mistake but we know better," the first man retorted. "We know better."

"We know not to let a Bonaparte come to power," said the third man.

"Bonaparte did good for France, he may have been an Emperor but he continued the spirit of the Revolution." the first man returned.

"But he gave royal posts to his family and generals. That is inherently against the Revolution! We need to be rid of all monarchs and the belief that their right to rule is divine," the third man countered.

"Still, he pulled us out from the Terror and turned the tide against the Royalists and the Foreign kings," the second man said, trying to remain in the conversation.

"All that should matter is that France provides an equal grounding for all of her children; regardless of who rules, Emperor, King, or the People." He continued.

"Just as this king is helping us! The poor are left to fend in the street, barely able to afford a loaf of bread," the first man said.

"Revolution should return to France to liberate her from tyranny of the Royals," the third man said.

"Revolution to expunge the bad blue blood from the red of the people..." the first man agreed.

Angelus sat in the dimly lit tavern, shoulders hunched over a cup of wine. Darla was seated to his right, tracing an idle finger around the rim of her glass. William sat on his left, Drusilla draped over his lap while he played with the candle flame. Angelus listened to the exchange behind him; the usual drunken political banter. "I heard there was so much blood around the bodies that the mud was red," he said to Darla, voice raised enough to carry to the table behind him.

"Dreadful," Darla replied with equal volume, the shadow of a wink in her eye. "Did they say who was killed?"

"The blood of the people that the rich and nobles feed off of; our RED blood is spilt for their blue blood; our life is taken to support the nobles who are dead on the inside. We live and die just for them," the first man started again, standing up, pointing down at the table at each point.

"We must be surgeons of the Republic! Purging the bad and sickly blood of the royals for the good, strong, red blood of the people!" the third man chimed in.

Angelus smiled inwardly but kept his face impassive as he turned around. "So it was royals killed revolutionaries, was it?"

The second man stood up and shoved the man back down. "Shut your mouth, you're going to get yourself killed. Royalists are killing Republicans. Do you hear me? Republicans, that's us."

"You're practically a Royalist," the first man spat in a bitter tone.

"No, I just don't want to die."

"You're a coward."

"No, you are. You speak these big words of revolution but you don't see the truth. Five Republicans were killed, throats ripped out and eyes replaced with Republican cockades…" The second man turned to the barkeep, "another round of wine for us, please some food to sober him up as well."

"Aye, and a round for us as well," Angelus said. He stood and turned around, straddling the chair backward casually to join the discussion. His looked from the first to the second man. "I heard the police haven't arrested the killer yet. If he's a Royalist, do you think they'll let him run free? A convenient way of dealing with this 'Republican situation'?" Darla leaned on Angelus' arm, playing the part of the frightened woman.

The second man turned to the interested man, "I've heard that it was Javert who was investigating. He may have his faults but he strictly follows the law. Also, what noble would dirty their hands with the common red blood?"

"If not, then who?" Darla asked quietly. "Surely such a horrific slaughter wasn't random?"

"Perhaps one of their servants, I know some people who would kill, literally, for such a secure job. I don't know, I know some others who are tucking away their cockades or dropping the cause. It is a scary time for us all." The second man looked at his friends as the third nodded his head in solemn agreement.

William ceased trying to impress Drusilla and interjected, "I've seen hired murders. They're cold and businesslike." He held Dru tightly to his chest as if shielding her from what he was about to say next. "This… this was personal." He turned haunted eyes to the third man.

"Why aren't you running Louis?" The first man piped up.

"Your orders young sirs." The barkeep came around with seven wine glasses, placing three glasses in front of each of the men and a bowl of soup for the drunk man.

"Run from the naughty murders Louis, you…"

The first man focused on the soup. "Eh, you got me soup."

"You're still paying for it." The first man nodded and started eating the soup. The second man turned back to the other group. "And how is it that you know about murders?"

Yes, William, you over-dramatic fool. How do you know so much about murders? Angelus thought, but remained silent. Darla shot Angelus a look that only he knew meant she was read to paint the entire tavern red if they were found out. What her look did not tell him was whether she'd be painting with their new friends' blood or William's.

Drusilla turned doe eyes to William, which he met with shame that only appeared sincere to the very intoxicated. "Try not to think on it, pet," he said, patting Dru's hand. "I got caught up in some nasty business back in England. It involved a case of mistaken identity and a jealous husband with enough money to play God but not to keep his wife. My brother was a womanizer and a louse. His best mate was the adulterer, but quiet-like about it." He paused and swallowed hard as if mustering the courage to go on. "The jealous husband hired a man to kill my brother, whom he suspected was sporting with his wife. I found him…" he broke off and made a show of burying his face in Drusilla's hair.

"Yes, well the English aren't exactly known for their bravery or moral fiber." The first man said.

"Shut up Charles," the second man responded.

"This Brit is fishy. All, fishy like the fish that they sail on. Those two," the first man pointed to the blonde woman and brown haired man, "they're Americans, we helped them so they're fine and the other one is, not British so she's fine but this, Brit."

"Is fine. The wars are over, long over. You didn't even fight in them, you were a kid."

"No! This Brit is fishy." The first man stood back up. "Why are you here shopkeeper? Are you here to stamp out the Revolution like you always try. Failed in America, failed in France, but won against Napoleon. No, this man is a British man and…"

The second man stood up and grabbed his angry friend. "Forgive him, he's a drunk and hot-headed.

Angelus felt Darla tense against him. "There is nothing to forgive, friends. Please, take your seats. William spins a frightful yarn, but I knew his mother and he speaks the truth. And truth be told, I'm Irish by birth. Proprietor," Angelus called. "Bring us a bottle of your best whiskey, if you please." He turned back to the table as the bartender hurried over with the bottle and a fistful of clean glasses. "Charles, is it?" Angelus uncorked the bottle and inhaled the aroma deeply. He poured five glasses of the liquor and distributed them among the other men and William, keeping the tallest for himself. "It's bad luck to leave a bar angry. My name is Angelus. Drink with us. As friends," he said, raising his glass to Charles.

The second and third men raised their glass with Angelus but the first was still suspicious. "To the red blood of the common man and the short lives they live for the few," to this, the first man joined in as well.

With an unsteady hand Angelus poured the last of the whiskey into Charles' glass; it overflowed and ran onto the table. The three men had long since dissolved into utter inebriety and grasped the edges of the table to maintain their balance on their chairs. The men laughed, their anger completely forgotten, all sins seemingly forgiven. Charles snickered as he watched the whiskey darken the wooden table, waving his hand in a gesture of refusal even as the other lifted the glass to his lips. William clapped Charles on the back with a laugh when most of the whiskey in the glass ran down Charles' chin. Darla had positioned herself between Angelus and the timid Louis, engaging Louis in barely coherent conversation with one leg draped over Angelus' lap. Drusilla sat at a corner table with the bartender, two empty bottles of wine between them. He listened intently to her disjointed stories, leaning close to her, transfixed. Somewhere in the distance church bells chimed three times.

Jacques hadn't come home last night. The barkeeper's wife dressed quickly and rushed downstairs to the tavern her husband owned below their flat. A nameless tension seized her heart, causing her hand to tremble as she reached for the door knob at the foot of the stairs. She pushed the door open slowly. "Jacques?" she called into the bar, dimly lit only by the sun rising through the dusty windows. The smell of copper stung her nose. The tension in her chest became an icy fist. Blood. Blood on the floor, drying in a pool at her feet. She followed it with her gaze to an overturned table in the corner. Lying on his back was her Jacques—what was left of him. His throat was shredded, strips of bloody meat were scattered around his head. Her eyes burnt with tears she didn't notice and she walked toward the body against her conscious will. A rose was in his outstretched hand, the thorns dug deep into his flesh. His mouth hung open at a grotesque angle; his jaw had been broken. Between his teeth were two eyeballs, one brown, one green. Behind the eyeballs his mouth was empty. His tongue had been ripped out. A red, white, and blue cockade had been driven into his wrist with a nail. She stared down at Jacques' face, his dead eyes frozen in a horror she could never forget. As she looked toward the door, praying for help but unable to make a sound she saw the other three bodies, young men in the same state as her husband, except for the rose.