A/N: Thanks to all who have signed on to read this story. SlashAddx, you are too smart! (But no spoilers, please, PM me your guess, I'm betting you'll have things figured out by the end of this chapter! ;) ) Please feel free to review, it helps me immensely!


He had been stalking him for what seemed like days now. Watching him from across the bar. Following him through the crowded streets. Standing outside the decrepit apartment building late at night, lingering under the proverbial lamppost.

He wasn't sure what drew him to the young man. His long dirty blonde curls, muscular build and blue (or were they green?) eyes bore no resemblance to the other male he sought to find, to forget.

Ten years on his own. In complete solitude, no companionship, no sharing of trivial day to day happenings, no one to bare his dark twisted soul to. It had been tough. More than tough, it had been hell on earth. As he deserved.

He had survived by keeping all human feelings firmly turned off. Had focused on perfecting his hunting skills, continually searching out victims that, alternatively, resembled the man who had deserted him, or who were so dissimilar that no comparisons could be drawn.

Except, either way, he was haunted. On rare occasions, late into the night, with innocent blood on his hands, a body at his feet, the pain would force its way past his inner, barricaded, almost non-existent soul.

The loneliness, the futility of his existence would hit him like a tsunami, blindsiding him, overcoming all his defenses. In that instant, he would be brought to his knees, screaming out the name of the one who had abandoned him.

Occasionally, he met up with a fellow 'traveler', a night dweller who had seen him from a distance or who had even spent time with him. Apparently he continued to avoid his predatory nature, steering clear of cities where humans congregated in large numbers, preferring instead to dwell in forested areas, mountains or small towns.

The traveler would shake his head in a negative motion to the question. 'No, he didn't mention you. No, not even once. '


He was confident that his presence had gone unnoticed. The sexy 'twenty-something' male seemed to be enamored with the band's saxophone player, a large, blue-black man who swayed seductively and stared back at the rather out of place white boy as he played.

The youngster returned to this same small, smoky, sweaty jazz club most nights, his fairness juxtaposed against the bar's mainly black clientele. He sat at the back of the room, always alone, steadily drinking. Brandy. Which seemed an odd drink of choice for a long-haired, tie-dyed, sandal-wearing hippy hanging around on 63rd Street.

He kept his distance, waiting for the opportune moment. Which came the night of April 5, 1968. The city had been in a state of unrest all day. The news hit the residents of South Side hard. The vibe in the neighborhood was one of a time bomb waiting for the slightest spark to ignite, to incite sorrow into acts of rage; to fuel the mounting need for to revenge.

The mood in the club was tense. The music playing on, unheard, unappreciated, the usual dancing crowd milling about, unable to settle. Some people were openly crying, others waved their fists in anger, in protest.

The noise outside on the street continued to swell, overpowering even the normally mind-blowing trumpet wails. Suddenly, the trumpet player ceased playing mid note as a large object crashed through the window, sending shards of glass flying into the bare arms and unprotected faces of the bar's patrons.

Then, as the saying goes, 'all hell broke out'. The crowd in the club pushed over each other in their attempt to exit through the door's small front entrance. In their haste, people were shoved up against each other, into walls, some landing awkwardly, dangerously, on the beer-sticky floor.

He quickly scanned the room, looking for the head of sandy curls amidst the high Afros and flat-ironed hair. Located him still sitting at the back of the room, calmly surveying the bedlam before him, sipping his brandy almost offhandedly, as if such chaos occurred on a regular basis.

Pushing against the crowd, he made his way awkwardly towards the seated male, up righted a chair and, placing it alongside the motionless figure, dropped into it, glancing sideways at the still figure.

"You OK?" he yelled over the din. The other male turned his head slowly to look at him. Expressionless, he replied "Yeah."

"We should get out of here. Things are going to get pretty ugly I think. People are in the mood for a riot." The young man didn't move. Or respond. This was not going to be as easy as he had hoped. Apparently the role of 'hero rescuer' wasn't the way to this particular hippy's heart.

He quickly changed tactics. "Let's get the hell out of here. This isn't our fight. I've got some great weed. Wanna go somewhere and get high?"

His last statement seemed to grab the man's attention. Piercing green (or were they blue?) eyes regarded him from under a mop of curls. (Holy shit, that hair was begging to be grabbed and roughly caressed)

"What makes you think I smoke pot?" The voice was deep, authoritative, with an indiscernible accent, a slight huskiness in its tone. It surprised and enticed him, the persona of 'sexy, easy-going hipster' in sharp contrast to the vocals.

"I don't know. Your shirt? It kinda gives off a 'free love, peace, groovy-man' vibe. But, if I'm wrong, I apologize. I certainly didn't mean to offend. Or intrude." Fuck, he thought, the guy was making him work for it.

But that was OK, it was the mind fucking he enjoyed the most while on the hunt, the head games that he invariably won.

He stretched out an arm across his chest, towards the shirt in question, planning to land a finger 'accidentally' on a clothed nipple. Started as his hand was grabbed before it reached its destination. His fingers gripped in an ironclad grasp. Christ, the dude was strong.

He attempted to retract the offending appendages but his fingers continued to be held, less tightly now, but with a strength that would require matching. And he didn't want to get into a battle of force.

Instead, he allowed his hand to be held across his body, suspended mid-air. He forced himself to relax his fingers, soften his arm, so that his weight fell onto the other man.

His upper extremity was lowered gently to the tabletop. Fingers still intertwined, the two locked eyes. (Where had he seen those eyes before?) He couldn't help himself. He smirked. This was so Alpha-doggish.

The younger man smiled in return, yet the grin didn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't like to be touched without warning. Your hand is cold. And it's really hot in here. Why is that?"

"I'm cold blooded. Like a reptile. But you're definitely warming me up." The double entendre wasn't lost on the other and the blonde grimaced knowingly.

"You want to fuck me." It was said in a very matter of fact tone, no attempt at guile.

God, the guy didn't waste any time laying it out there. So much for the mind games, the dance, the posturing. His intentions had been revealed without the need for seduction. (He never tried to glamour his male conquests; it took the 'fun' out of the sport.)

"Are you objecting? Because if I'm wasting my time I can always go join in the riot."

Glancing around, the two noticed that they were now alone in the club. Everyone, including the bartender and band members, had fled; whether to escape the mob or to add to its ranks was unknown.

And he found that he wasn't really interested in what was going on outside. He was totally captivated with the man sitting alongside him. The thrill of the chase was on.

"Hmmm. Looks like you'd have some catching up to do if you wanted to join in the fun. Judging from the sounds outside, the pillaging and fighting is well under way. And your pasty white skin and obviously expensive clothing may hinder your attempts to join in the rabble rousing."

His first thought was, 'Who the hell says 'rabble rousing'?' Followed closely by 'He still hasn't let go of my hand.' It was the second thought he chose to focus on.

"Well" he drawled, leaning in closer, "you, my friend, stand out in this neighborhood at the best of times. If I were you, I'd be worried about losing those locks." He tentatively reached up with his free hand.

Looked questioningly at the other man, who nodded, granting permission. He lightly touched a stray ringlet, brushing it gently back, away from that beautiful face. His breath caught.

The green (blue?) eyes finally lost their severity, softening at his touch. God, it was killing him, those eyes, he could swear he'd gazed into them before. But that was impossible. He'd never met this gorgeous creature; he would definitely have remembered the feel of that hair, the strong jaw, and those haunting eyes.

"You like my hair." It was a statement, an expression of fact. "It turns you on. You want to run your fingers through it, grab a hold of it while I suck you off."

His hard on was instantaneous. Shit, the guy was good at this. Almost as impressive at mind fucking as himself. Shaking his head, he tried to get gain control of the situation.

"Yeah, you turn me on. Not just your hair. Although it definitely is a plus. What about you? What turns you on?"

"Saxophone players" was the quick reply. "But you already know that. Because you've been watching me for quite some time now. So, if I was to say, 'let's go back to my place', you'd know exactly how to get us there."

Fuck. His stalking prowess was clearly lacking. And he prided himself in his ability to follow his prey unseen, undetected. Who the hell was this guy?

Feeling slightly annoyed, he pulled both hands away, breaking contact. Was laughed at, further bruising his ego.

"OK, so I'm that obvious. Sorry." He moved to stand up but was quickly returned to his seat by the firm hand on his arm. "I didn't say I objected to you watching me. It will simply save time, you knowing where I live. We might get separated out there."


They reunited in the apartment building's smelly, dingy vestibule. The young man led him up a dark, narrow staircase to a cramped landing. The door facing them was held shut by no fewer than five locks, each large and imposing.

"Well, no one is getting in there without a lot of effort" he chuckled. His laugh was cut off by a rough kiss. "Let's hope it's worth your 'effort' then," the other murmured into his mouth. Damn, his erection was back.

The inside of the apartment caused him to stop mid-kiss. Stepping out of the embrace, he stared around at the spacious, roomy room he found himself in. Large, heavy, ornate furniture decorated the space, a luxurious carpet under his feet, oil canvases, of what appeared to be stiffly posed ancestors, covering the walls.

"Shit" he exclaimed, "I'm guessing you're not the starving bohemian artist you portray so well. There is some serious money in this room."

The curls were tossed back in annoyance. "Family money. This apartment was given to me. I need time away from them. My parents and siblings can be too much at times. So I escape to the city. I love jazz. And getting high. And fucking strangers during riots." They both laughed. "Yeah, family can be a real pain in the ass" he agreed.

The bedroom was large, empty except for an over-sized bed. Mirror on the ceiling. 'Kinky' he thought, nodding approvingly.

Found himself being pushed backwards, the two of them landing in a tangled heap atop the satin sheets. 'Whoa there, cowboy" he cautioned with a grin "I break easily."

"Somehow I doubt that" was the muffled reply, "Hmm, you have the most fantastic tasting neck." And as if to drive the point home, he was bitten rather sharply.

Christ, those almost felt like fangs. The following sucking action instantly drove the fleeting notion from his mind.

His clothes were removed quickly, with well-practiced ease. The wild curls were in continuous contact with his body: soothing his ravaged neck, tickling his torso, feathering over his abdomen, and (as promised) providing an outlet for his hands which clenched and pulled as he was serviced with the most incredible blowjob of his entire fucking existence.

He fell heavily back against the pillows, panting, his arm thrown across his face. The long hair was dragged back upwards along his body and he was enveloped in strong, muscular arms.

"Wow" he managed. "Now what can I do for you?" The heavier man chuckled.

"Weren't you watching in the mirror? Your, um, shall we say 'excitement', caused me to join in courtesy of my own hand. We both came at pretty much the exact same moment. However, I'm guessing you had your eyes shut. And you do make a lot of noise."

"Shit" he shifted to look at his naked bedfellow, "Sorry, man. Give me ten minutes and I promise I'll make it up to you."

"I know you will." A slow kiss was placed on his chest as the other man rose and waked naked across the room. "I'll be right back, I'm going to the bathroom. Need anything?"

He shook his head in a negative motion. Lying in the quiet apartment, he could hear the sounds in the street. Chicago wasn't going to be a pretty sight in the morning. Drifting, he floated into that space between consciousness and dreaming.

Perhaps that is why it took a few seconds to register the huskily whispered sentence. "I know what you are."

And, upon opening his eyes, another few precious moments were lost as he struggled to comprehend what he was seeing reflected in the mirror above him.

A stake. Being driven towards his heart with lighting speed and precision. A wooden stake. In the clutches of a beautiful, curly haired, naked, fanged vampire.