Disclaimer: I do not own Titanic, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, Twentieth Century Fox, and their respected owners.

Summary: March 1929. He has always possessed her, the claim on her made, long before either realized the consequences derived from it. For a man like Caledon Hockley was not one to give up that which he claimed so easily—not even from beyond the grave.

His Dark Possession

Chapter Four

To say that Cal was surprised when he saw the ghostly apparition of his father haunting the mills would be a terrible understatement.

In all honesty, he hadn't expected to see the man again—other than in hell, of course—since Cal hadn't seen him after being laid to rest, a decade ago. But then, not a week since his birthday, he found himself having the displeasure of seeing his dearly-hated, departed father at the mill at the north end of town.

It was almost midday, when Cal, who secretly struggled with a headache that the morning sunlight inspired, first glimpsed a stolid black figure walking in the distance. He stared at it, briefly, before returning his attention to the foreman, who struggled to read the mill's report in the shadows that Cal kindly insisted they stay in. The foreman's report of the workers and the mill's production for the upcoming quarter had vaguely registered above the searing headache and suppressed curiosity that overwhelmed his broken mind.

He allowed another moment to pass before he took the report from the foreman. The man's bewilderment of his employer's decision to look over everything himself was promptly ignored as Cal dismissed the foreman from his sight completely. The desire to feed on the man hadn't been on his mind—far from it, since the very smell of the foreman's blood was too pungent, too tainted with cigarettes and cheap whiskey—as his own had been enough to satiate his need for the morning. No, the abrupt dismissal was spurred mainly from the pain the sunlight had inflicted, all curiosity of the eerily familiar figure second to his need to withdraw into his office and seek sanctuary from behind his desk.

The north mill was not as shaded as the south one, though Cal had already taken precautions before beginning work there that morning. The window was obscured by dark curtains, the blinds behind them shut. Only a thin sliver of light at the top escaped from their suffocating shield. The small amount was not enough to burn him, yet it was it powerful enough to ensure a continued headache. His hands fell against his face, his long fingers massaging his aching temples, a few strands of his graying hair swaying against his ministrations.

He'd cut his fingernails earlier, yet found them already growing past what he found to be an appropriate length. He snorted at the feel of them, ignoring their sharp edges as he continued to massage the tense muscles that left him with an excruciating migraine. Stupid, goddamned sunlight, always forcing me to acknowledge it, he thought miserably, and he cast a hateful glance toward the object of his pain, before flinching at his impulsive act. He barely registered the faint shuffling of footsteps before hearing a raspy voice—once that sounded painfully recognizable, yet foreign at the same time—say his name.

"Caledon."

Cal grimaced at the cold utterance of his name in full, knowing well enough the voice and the entity to which it belonged. Damn it all to hell, could he not have a moment's peace from all of these ghosts from his past? This is a nightmare, just a terrible, endless, fucking nightmare.

Allowing his hands to fall to the safety of his desk, he acknowledged the shadowy figure standing on the other side of the office. "Ah, Father," he said in monotone, although a note of sarcasm was buried beneath his indifferent greeting, "what do I owe the honor?"

The elder Hockley, though heavily obscured by darkness and shadows, looked disapprovingly upon his son. Dark eyes glinted in the faint light the ceiling cast. "It would be advisable to watch that reckless tongue of yours," he reproached, his coarse tone as ragged and deteriorated as Cal suspected the man's corpse to be, which lay in silent repose in the family mausoleum. "Indeed, I am surprised by your behavior, Caledon," he continued on, that dark, graying head tilting at an odd angle, secretly unnerving Cal. "You've not done what I instructed you do, when I left the company in your hands. In fact, you've done quite the opposite."

"How I oversee the family business should make little difference to you, considering your state," Cal returned coldly. "After all, shouldn't you be with J.P. and the others, as you continue to congratulate each other on business in the afterlife?"

"I haven't had the pleasure of J.P.'s company since his own death," returned Nathan tersely. "My reasons for remaining here are entirely my own."

A visible tick edged itself into Cal's jaw. "Why are you here, then?" he asked pointedly, all pretences of familial affability gone.

It was then that Nathan Hockley, former proprietor of a great family dynasty, stepped forward, the shadows falling away from his solemn, stark face.

Cal nearly recoiled at the drawn look his father cast him, the hazy emptiness that subdued the man's dark eyes emphasizing just how much of a specter his father had truly become. He looked an absolute fright, stalking in the shadows in the formal attire he'd died in; and although Cal did not voice his thoughts aloud, he knew that Nathan discerned them nonetheless.

"I never expected that there would ever be a time when you would see me," Nathan echoed hollowly. "No one has seen me, in fact, except for those pathetic souls that died in the mills." He scowled when he spoke of them. "Oh, yes, the dead can see each other, although it is rare for the living to see such. That is why I am surprised to find that, after all this time, since I know that time has passed by the state of your appearance, that you now see me." He looked at Cal oddly, suspiciously. "You are different, somehow. Something has changed; I can feel it."

His son, however, said nothing regarding this newfound suspicion, only turned his attention to the small stack of papers on his desk. "You look like hell," Cal noted distantly, his eyes still trained on the evaluations.

Nathan shot him a cold look. "I could say the same of you."

Cal smiled, partially amused by Nathan's uncharacteristic sarcasm. "I'm learning to live with it," he returned dryly, no longer interested in the conversation. "Although I doubt I can say the same of you. Has death been treating you well, Nathan?"

He received a bark of derisive laughter for his disrespect. "What does it look like?" Nathan angrily rejoined, ill-pleased by his son's informality of his paternal title. "Goddamn it, Caledon! You haven't any idea what I've been through, since I just had to have that heart attack in the middle of the night. Imagine. Sleeping, and then finding myself stuck in this perpetual abyss. It's like an unending, bureaucratic nightmare." He glowered at his son spitefully, those dark eyes filmy, lifeless, devoid of the light they once held. "You cannot imagine what I've endured, with you blissfully ignorant of my presence…until now," he added cryptically. "It's not every day that the living—one I've long given up any vestige of hope on—in seeing the dead. Did finding yourself middle-aged spur such a revelation, I wonder? Of course, I believe it was something entirely different."

The younger Hockley refused to acknowledge the remark. Instead, Cal shuffled the evaluations underneath a few others that he intended to take home for the day. He briefly glanced at his empty coffee cup, a pang of hunger instantly upsetting his carefully constructed composure. Muttering a grim oath, he turned once again to an impatiently waiting Nathan. "You were always one for brevity, so let us be blunt: what do you want of me? You certainly didn't come here to reminisce on old times."

Nathan visibly shifted, as if surprised by Cal's no-nonsense attitude, something in which he'd instilled in him through years of careful conditioning. "Very well," he said, "since you desire to get this over with. I want to know exactly what the hell has possessed you to oversee the company the way you have. In all my years of managing it, I never once made the decisions you have. You've done the exact opposite of what I would have you to do—of what I taught you to do! I don't understand this childish defiance, Caledon; but it has to stop, before you destroy this company. You know as well as I that it cannot endure the construction of another mill!"

Cal failed to flinch under Nathan's reprimand, although there was a visible tension in his drawn shoulders. He wanted to scream. To lash out. To bury the bastard. Six feet under—again. Good God, he thought he had escaped this torture a decade ago. He silently cursed his ill-found luck. As seeing the dead, although a rather lucrative business for some, was not what he would have wished upon himself—certainly not for his birthday. He looked up and regarded his father silently, those cold, black eyes never wavering in their unspoken hatred.

"I choose how to handle the company as I see fit," he answered, after a long, debilitating moment. "Since your tenure, things have changed. The needs for how to manage the company have changed. I have changed." In more ways than one, he added silently. "As such, I don't intend to apply the old ways in managing the business." Your ways, you adulterous bastard. "Indeed, Hockley Steel has done far better than you or Grandfather ever believed possible. You can move on to whatever afterlife there is reassured in that knowledge."

A heavy silence fell between them before Nathan rounded on his son. "I absolutely refuse," he ground out, a shadowy mass emanating from the anger he exerted.

"That is entirely your decision," returned Cal noncommittally, taking great care not to be drawn in by the poisonous shadows that clung to Nathan like chains. The whole affair was too Dickensian for his taste, and he disregarded the matter of his father entirely. "Either way, I've work to do. If that is all you wanted to discuss, you know the way out," he said, a dismissal formed into a half-hearted attempt at a kind afterthought.

And yet, to his increasing disappointment, Nathan remained, a staid figure that reflected a generation forgotten by war and frivolity. "Work to do," he echoed hollowly, before laughing in the same, caustic manner. "Oh, yes, the pathetic, puerile, little boy I see is doing his father's work." He cast Cal a knowing look. "It's the same, pitiful, patched-up attempt you've made since you left Harvard. Honestly, I wasted my time and money on nothing but piano lessons and history classes as a means to enjoy yourself, since both of which are the only things you do well."

Cal forced himself to remain still, as he endured Nathan's tirade.

"Indeed, I could never understand what possessed you to enjoy those kinds of things," Nathan vented out through a set of half-rotten teeth. "That weak-willed hen of a mother encouraged you to pursue a life with the former, though God only knows why. As if you could do anything by playing someone else's music—a son of a family forged by the steel industry—and making such a profession remotely acceptable. The very notion was beyond preposterous!" He laughed at the possibility, a crude, broken, dissonant cacophony that made the walls groan in dismay. "It was a good thing I pulled you away from that foolish endeavor, before it truly took hold in your impressionable mind. Otherwise, you would've run this company into the ground before a year was out, mark my words."

But Nathan had already lost Cal, as thoughts of his youth turned him into a pensive statue of stone. He said nothing as the elder Hockley continued to reproach his laxity in heading the company properly. Nor did he pay the man any heed as he looked to the curtained window, and then to the clock on the wall, noting the hour. Several hours remained until sunset; and by all appearances, it looked as if his bastard of a progenitor would not be leaving any time soon.

Damn.

Compared to Nathan, his painful encounter with Lovejoy had been a picnic, almost a pleasure. He wanted to scream, to throw his coffee cup at that haggardly resilient face, the shards embedding themselves into the sallow flesh that disgusted him. But, no. If Nathan was anything like Lovejoy, and Cal very much doubted any less, then his intention would, quite literally, fall through in failure. He'd be less a coffee cup and more an irate father. No, it was best to let the man have the final word—or words, as Nathan was notorious to prattle on in these private moments between father and son—and be done with it.

After all, the same tactic had worked on Nathan since his childhood, so why would now be any different? Surely, Nathan would fail to notice his disinterest, as Cal inclined his head, agreeing with all the man said. He could do no less, certainly. Better to play the diligent little fool…for now, he thought, considering Nathan's recent remark of his former interest occupied the time spent in adhering to his dead father's complaints and the hours it took for the sun to set, while faint memories of his younger self sitting at a massive black piano, now rendered anew, occupied his thoughts, the haunting melody a pair of younger hands played drowning out the ghostly rasp of Nathan's decomposing voice.

It was just after sunset when Cal returned home to a bustling house preparing the family for dinner. From the mansion's threshold, the strong scent of oysters and caviar flooded his senses, just as an upcoming course of lamb, currently being prepared in the kitchen, overwhelmed the former.

His bland expression instantly darkened. Had it been on another occasion, he would have reveled in partaking in some of his favorite foods. However, the overall insipid scent he inhaled, combined with his less-than-pleasant farewell to Nathan earlier, left him without an appetite. Even his own blood failed to appeal to him, as thoughts of Nathan and his past occupied his mind. He vaguely registered Charlotte approaching him in the foyer, attired in a simple green evening dress.

"Daddy, you're home early! We hadn't expected you back so soon!" she exclaimed, those soft eyes brightening at the sight of him.

Fridays were always Cal's late day. He never tried to amend that fact; he, along with everyone else, had come to accept such as it was.

Charlotte, however, was genuinely pleased by the break in routine. "How was the north mill? Were the foreman's evaluations to your liking?" she enquired as she took the liberty upon herself to take his coat and hat, before carefully putting them away in a nearby closet.

Cal refused to censure her servant-like behavior, since she took a very innocent, childlike pleasure in seeing to his needs. And, as he found himself so often admitting, her coffee was also, rather surprisingly, better than that of the cook's in his employ. "It was what I expected from him, although there are a few issues regarding one of the furnaces," he said, before giving the adjoining hall a cursory glance. "Are the others here?" he asked of his other children, although he already knew the answer; their personal scents faint against the rest of the household's.

Charlotte shook her head, a look of regret clouding her fine features. "I'm afraid that Celia was detained by one of her friend's mothers. Apparently, Mr. Morgan's daughter, Anne, was in attendance there, and Celia had to stay and meet her. She is having dinner with them."

A brief silence followed, and a hint of annoyance flickered in his gaze. "J.P.'s daughter, correct?" he prompted, and Charlotte nodded. "Well, that doesn't account for my sons' absence. I am sure they were not at one of Celia's silly little companions' houses. So, where are they, or do I even care to know?" He saw her visibly hesitate, and he waved his curiosity aside. "It's of little importance, either way. I'm sure that they shall be crawling back here from the brothels and gaming houses before dawn," he remarked dourly, catching Charlotte's slight look of shock at his admission. Usually, he was not so open about his opinions; though after the hell he'd endured earlier, he couldn't care less about any sensitivities his daughter might have.

Charlotte's silence was only confirmation of what he had already assumed as both eyed each other with the tacit knowledge that neither would express beyond the foyer. The servants undoubtedly knew, yet had the good sense to hold their tongues about the moral debauchery their employer's sons inspired. Marcus and Alexander failed to show the same amount of discretion that Cal and the rest of the Hockley line had naturally displayed throughout generations of public scrutiny. It had been poor judgment on his part as a father, perhaps, to keep them on, but he could do little else; he could not exchange his eldest son for another, no matter his desire for a perfect, competent heir.

He wanted nothing more than to cry out and curse at the unfairness of it all. He vaguely recalled Nathan remarking on as much, in the hours' long tirade that the man had earlier given him. Cal despised Nathan for bringing up his every fault, but was secretly relieved that the bastard hadn't followed him home. If he ever does, I'll have him exorcised, he thought, a little cynically; for although he barely paid Nathan's ghost any heed, he knew that his father was reluctant in moving on as Lovejoy and so many others obviously had done. The man feared something, although Cal could not, exactly, discern what.

It was Charlotte, however, who had the tact to break him out of his brooding thoughts. He caught sight of her nervous stance, her small hands cradled before her in an anxious gesture. "What is it, Charlotte?" he found himself ask, his own voice foreign to him. "What troubles you now?"

She regarded him warily. "Daddy, I…" she began, hesitating for a moment before composing herself. "Well, the truth is, I was wondering if it would be permissible if I were to invite Albert over for dinner, one night next week. I won't if you think it too improper, but he's leaving to visit his father in England soon, and this may be the only chance I shall have to see him until he returns."

Cal instinctively set his jaw at her suggestion.

Ah. So that was it. The amphibious Mr. Albert Gainsborough would be cordially invited to dinner. A simple 'I forbid it' on his part would surely put an end to any hopeful union between the young man and his daughter, and would, therefore, dissuade Charlotte from pursuing the matter further. And yet, as Cal looked at her, with those hopeful cornflower-blue eyes burning into his own, he found he could not refuse her this one request. Inclining his head with a sharp nod, he conceded to her. "Very well, invite this acquaintance of yours; have him come by next Friday at seven. I should like to meet him then."

Charlotte's guarded expression melted in the instant, her very face beaming. "Oh, thank you, Daddy! Thank you! You cannot know how much this means to me!" she exclaimed, before moving to give him a tight embrace. She kissed his cheek for good measure, her smile widening. "I shall see to everything myself; everything will be perfect, I promise you."

He cast his daughter an annoyed half-grin. Again, she was exerting a hint of her former class. "Try not to do everything yourself, dear. Leave the servants to do their work, otherwise I shall have no reason to keep them employed."

"Of course, Daddy," she returned softly, dutifully.

It was then that Cal made to take his leave. He sensed Charlotte's surprise, and said, "I am going to retire to the parlor. Have Mrs. Bridgeton send for me when dinner is ready."

Charlotte moved to speak, but then nodded her head in agreement. He'd given her a subtle, yet direct, order to obey—by having another do that which she would've done without a second thought. It was a test he'd set for her, and she would be dashed if she failed it. With another daughterly nod, she left to find Mrs. Bridgeton, and convey her father's message to the middle-aged matron.

Cal watched her leave, standing in the foyer for another moment before adjourning to the parlor. He shut the door behind him when he found that he was quite alone in the solitary room. He himself rarely retreated here, preferring to spend his time in his study, or out in the more questionable parts of town. Even his children rarely frequented this room, their interests restricted mainly to diversions focused around their own time. He found many of their pursuits passively pathetic, yet rarely begrudged them, since they stayed out of his way.

Except for tonight.

Darkness overtook his silent musings as he thought of what Charlotte had said—or rather, didn't say—when concerning her brothers' whereabouts. Marcus and Alexander may have been Hockleys by virtue of their birth, but they were far from behaving as one. Once, he had even caught them trying to sneak in a couple of prostitutes onto the estate, undoubtedly intending to house them as their mistresses, since Cal refused to allow them a place at the townhouse. That had been six months ago. And if they try to do it again tonight, by God, there will be hell to pay, he fumed, his heated gaze fixed on the fireplace.

He glowered at it, knowing that he would not hesitate in taking both of his bastard sons in hand and throwing them among the hot coals. It would be no less than what Nathan would do to him, for such foolishness. The marks he'd received from the elder Hockley were but mere scratches, compared to what his own progeny deserved. He'd been loath to discipline them, let alone conjure up any feelings of paternal affection for them, but their obedience and respect he expected no less from both, and he would be damned if he was made a fool by their carelessness. The Hockley name would not be tarnished under his watch, no matter if he found himself an heir or two short. He could always pass the estate off to a relation who knew how to tow the line.

Grimacing at the possibility, however, Cal turned away from the fireplace, no longer in the mood in entertaining the possibility of finding a replacement for his sons' incompetence. Instead, he looked at the piano in the corner, an ominous black thing: elegant, polished, and kept preserved from sunlight and the elements. He hadn't played it in years. The children were the only ones who kept the thing in tune, although it had been several years since any of them had bothered to play. His sons and daughter had found other, far less admirable pursuits; while Charlotte, though an accomplished player herself, devoted her time to painting and dancing instead.

He discarded the memory of her playing, those delicate hands moving with an effortless grace similar to his own had been. He'd only heard her, once or twice, perhaps, play before he'd thrown himself into a mountain of paperwork for the night. He'd never heard the others play, since their lessons were conducted while he was gone.

In all actuality, he'd missed a good deal of watching them grow up. The many missed opportunities of hearing their first lessons duly compared to the rest of everything he'd missed about their childhood. Felicia had seen to most of their needs until he took them firmly in hand after her departure. Boarding school had been a blessing, though he began to question himself, if only slightly, in his decision then.

Letting out a half-hearted sigh, he looked at the piano once again before walking over to it. It was his mother's piano, an Érard grand imported from Paris. He looked at it in half-concealed wonder, its ivory keys, though yellowed by time, remained as pristine and immaculate as when his mother had first set her slender fingers upon them. Its black frame showed very little signs of wear, the pedals polished to a bronzed sheen. It had been his mother's most cherished possession—a far cry from the horrid player pianos and automatic keyboards that people of his class and below prattled on mindlessly about. No, he protested silently, nothing could compare to this lavish grandeur that presently stood in silence before him, for it represented an age he privately mourned, an age that represented a young boy whose aspirations had yet not been corrupted by a domineering father and years of social conditioning.

He bit back a laugh at the irony. Since Nathan, if in this alone, had been right in his crude revelation of Cal's interest in music. He had never even told Rose of what had been so callously imparted by Nathan only hours before. He hadn't told her of any secret desires he'd once harbored in his youth. Not really. Since he'd already been firmly inclined to accept his fate as the heir to Hockley Steel that he had been forced to so long ago accept.

Indeed, it was a fitting irony, and Cal smirked at the absurdity of it. And yet, as if in a mark of defiance to Nathan—who, mercifully, was not here to witness his audacity—Cal sat down on the bench, the aged wood creaking beneath his added weight. His fingers fell across the keys, almost reverently. The soundless stillness of the moment possessed him, engulfing his senses, before music, at last, flooded the room.

Cal was barely aware of the sheet music resting before him, his eyes closed as he played a piece from Chopin by memory. He thought of his mother while he played, vague, half-remembered recollections that had been suppressed by an overly indifferent and domineering father. Images of a woman with dark hair and gray eyes, her smiling face, looking at the one she loved, as a little boy, no more than five, reached out to her with a pair of trusting eyes.

They flashed through his mind like a silent picture, sepia-toned photo stills of a life he'd left on a shelf in some abandoned space that his conscience had forsaken. He opened his eyes at the comparison, the music stopping abruptly. He looked down at his hands, frowning at the keys. Perhaps seeing Nathan again had brought on such a pathetic moment of nostalgia. For after all, he rarely thought of his mother, let alone his youth, since his life led forward, always forward, and never the opposite. And besides, he subjectively reasoned, it's useless to regret anything. The past was in the past, and there was little he could do about it now.

Though if he could…to have a second chance at things…he would be half-tempted to forfeit everything he possessed.

If only…

His fingers lingered over the keys, poised precariously over that which would shatter the silent mantra of his thoughts. And he indulged in it, breaking through the threshold that Nathan had cemented in his mind. He lashed out at his progenitor through the sound his defiance inspired, the dulcet tones growing fevered, innervated, louder. He scarcely noticed Mrs. Bridgeton standing at the door, her hand hanging in mid-knock, those worried hazel eyes of hers glazed over with tangible shock.

"Mr. Hockley," she began calmly, though unable to finish what she intended to say. Instead, she looked at him, watching him as he continued to play, blatantly ignoring her. She inwardly scolded herself for interrupting him.

Twenty-three years his senior, the Maid-of-All-Work had often heard him play the piano with his mother, who taught him instead of an instructor. Mozart had been her former mistress' personal favorite, as she instructed a young Caledon to play the dead pianist's compositions, along with all of the other great composers. Though in all her years, she had never heard her employer play with such a fiery intensity. Even the late Mrs. Hockley had never played with such passion; and the woman lived for it, while her son was the epitome of all that she loved and desired.

Mrs. Bridgeton silently shook her head. For while she well remembered his interest in playing, and what a tragedy it had been that her former employer dissuaded him from pursuing it, she never believed she would hear him play again; she hadn't, for the better part of thirty-five years, but those years seemed almost as yesterday as she heard him fill this empty space with music once again. She was almost loath to put an end to that long forgotten sensation, but he had asked to be called for dinner, and she never went against his orders, even when he ignored her.

"Mr. Hockley," she said again, this time less disinclined to hesitate. "Dinner is being served, sir." She caught his gaze, the music ending on a final, sharp note.

A stilted moment passed between them before he spoke. "I shall be there in a moment, Mrs. Bridgeton." He saw her comply with an obedient nod, before adding, "And have a bottle of my best burgundy served; I believe the '92 vintage will do for tonight." Again, he saw her nod as she made to leave, quietly shutting the door behind her.

He dimly registered her hurried departure, his attention returning to the instrument before him. He considered it with vague detachment, its ivory keys countering his silent gaze, a dark thought forming within his half-subdued mind. He looked up from the piano, the thought evolving into a web of profound disenchantment. He stood then, abandoning the piano as his present desire became fixed upon that glass of red wine which called to him, more than what any half-construed vision of a wrathful father beating his wayward son did—albeit he would greatly enjoy both, perhaps equally—when the time came.

He cast a quick glance at the fireplace, and smiled at its welcoming inferno—before compelling himself to indulge in the loving company of the only one who gave a damn about whether or not he ate.

It was well past three before he heard the main door open, the soft stirrings of a throng of hushed, staggering footsteps duly following suit. Cal had the decency not to roll his eyes; he had expected no less from his sons and their nightly wanderings, after all.

He glanced at the clock on the parlor wall, and methodically shook his head. He had expected them to be much later than this, since the hour was rather early, even for them. They usually arrived, right before dawn, and slept until their inebriated state left them a good deal happier and a few brain cells short.

Cal forced himself not to grimace at their stupidity; for unlike the despots he was forced to acknowledge as his sons and heirs, Charlotte and Celia, fortunately, had the good sense to drink wine and champagne, consuming only that which was expected of them and no more. Neither had experienced the aftereffects in imbibing in too much, and he would be damned if he ever saw them in the same state that his sons currently indulged themselves in.

He'd barely said two words to Celia when she arrived home, which, unsurprisingly, had been at a decent hour. The girl had given him a prompt account of her newly-forged association with Anne Morgan, as well as her interaction with others in attendance. Cal could not have been any less interested, since he found the veritable Ms. Anne Morgan to be a vapid, mindless twit, hell-bent on making a name for herself during—and if not well after—the War.

The woman, as Cal had the displeasure in personally knowing, was a social parasite, who carefully concealed her true visage behind a philanthropist's mask of benevolence and virtue. It galled him to even think of her and her kind, especially after Celia had undoubtedly been exposed to that idealized feminist's regime.

What a mercy that he could, at the very least, keep one of his children at home, as dinner with Charlotte had, strangely, been the highlight of his day. He had even managed to hold down everything he'd consumed, although he wished he could have slipped some of his blood into the burgundy; the taste had been bitter otherwise. The lamb had only the faintest traces of blood within its rare flesh, but it had been enough to sustain him until he returned to the parlor, with the bottle of burgundy in hand. He'd probably drained himself of half a pint of blood, before mixing it with the wine, and making it the slightest bit tolerable to drink.

He cast the bottle a passing glance. Over three-quarters consumed, and he felt not the slightest impression of being intoxicated. He found it so unfair, preferring to be absolutely beyond drunk at the moment. Perhaps then, he would better handle his present dilemma as he heard a female voice intermingling amongst his sons'. Shit. One of them had brought a prostitute home, after all. How fucking wonderful. His inevitable confrontation with them had just gotten even more interesting. He again lamented the fact of his being sober; he would surely handle this better drunk. He instantly feared that he would never be so again. All because of that pale-faced slip of a whore, he raged silently, his predatory gaze cutting through the darkness and catching sight of three silhouetted figures whose voices droned on, past the darker part of his perception.

Turning out the light, he slipped through the shadows, darkening himself to perfect, peerless obsidian. He wasn't hindered by it, however; he could see as well as he did in daylight—perhaps even better—since his eyes seemed to gleam beyond the fevered pitch blackness he and the night created, cutting through the darkness which threatened to quench them of their preternatural light forever. He almost grinned. Almost. He would never forgive that slut for imparting this curse upon him, but at least he no longer had need for his spectacles anymore. That had to account for at least something. There was that, and the unexpected ability to hear everything his sons were presently saying, their muffled whispers perfectly coherent to him, the approaching silhouettes a minor grayness to him.

Cal nearly revealed himself to them then, but decided to remain in the shadows, wondering how he could have raised such mindless, wasteful, shameless sons.

He scowled at their haughty expressions, at their arrogant behavior. They thought so highly of themselves, believing him completely oblivious to their arrival. The fools! He began to wonder why he ever considered them worthy enough to attend his old alma mater, not that he had ever had much faith in their capabilities, of course. He was half-tempted to withdraw Alexander, and bar Marcus from attending when his time came. Alexander hadn't even been there a full year, and the boy already proven himself to be an utter disappointment. As both are right now to me, he considered darkly.

"Are you sure about this?" asked an uncertain Marcus from behind, a lock of auburn hair falling messily across his pale forehead. "I mean, Father clearly said—"

"I know what Father said," Alexander returned in a huff, before flicking a nearby switch, his scowl illuminated by the electric chandelier above them. "But what he doesn't know won't hurt him. And besides, it doesn't matter, anyhow, since he's probably so foxed that he could barely tell the difference in whether I bring someone home with me or not."

Marcus cast his brother an uncertain look.

It was then Cal made his move, emerging from the shadows and making his presence known.

Alexander gasped, startled, while Marcus' ashen face registered palpable shock.

"F-Father!" both cried out, while the woman who languidly held onto Alexander's arm looked to the floor in apparent shame.

Cal almost smirked. Good. At least one of them had enough sense to acknowledge his authority. Shame that my sons could not do the same; they could learn a lot from this whore, he thought, and then considered them, measuring their emotions. For there they stood, stock still, shocked beyond viable recognition. He suppressed his amusement, those dark, discerning eyes falling upon the girl between them.

She was surely no more than sixteen, dark-headed, with a hint of innocence underneath the taint of her profession. Undoubtedly, she had been compelled by someone to seek out such a profession, her income surely going to more than simply herself alone. It was the same story with many young women—and men, since there were those whose tastes ran toward a more masculine connotation of intimacy—who found themselves in that unfortunate position. Social rejection and religious intolerance did nothing to quell the upsurge of prostitution, either, considering how many who proclaimed themselves to be of God and of the holy church indulged in the same, lurid acts as the common sinner. Cal was not a very religious man himself, but he inwardly baulked at the church's shameless hypocrisy. As hypocrites, he had so often found, were no better than the common rabble that made their living by exhibiting the lost virtue of young girls, like the one before him.

With such in mind, Cal looked at her, and inclined his head in a gesture for her to leave, which she happily did, as she untangled herself from Alexander, and left without another word. It was the one kindness he would afford her. How she managed her own way home would be of her own devising, since he refused her a ride into town. Surely, Alexander had already paid her for her extended services; otherwise a trip into the country would have been a waste on both of their parts, not to mention her income for the night. Not that Cal cared about either her or his son's happiness or welfare, of course. It wasn't his business what a common whore's diversions were, although those of his sons'…were a completely different matter entirely.

And he expressed as much, when he found himself completely alone in their confidence. He sneered at their newly contrite visages, although his eldest's held a note of disdain. Cal would gladly remedy that soon enough. After all, he couldn't have his children thinking ill of him before he sent them to bed, now could he?

"I see that both of you have stayed out longer than what many consider a decent hour," he said evenly, lest the servants hear him, his businessman's façade revealing nothing. He gave them a cold, studious stare before continuing. "Indeed, I'd have expected not to see you until tomorrow, since you do rather enjoy making a fool of your father."

Marcus had the grace to flush. "We would never make a fool of you, Father," he answered, a half-spoken plea to divert Cal's inevitable anger.

But Cal ignored him. "Then why in God's name did you bring a whore into my house?" he practically roared, no longer caring if anyone heard him. "I believe I recall the last time we had this discussion."

"She's not a whore, Father," Alexander broke in, his defiant gray eyes betraying his otherwise penitent expression. "I've known Minuette for over a year now, and she's not—"

A resounding slap silenced him completely.

Cal glowered at him darkly, his hand remaining sharply poised in midair. He barely noticed the sting in his hand. "Never lie to me," he seethed underneath that cool, oily tone, a viable threat. He watched the fear arise in his eldest son's face, although it did nothing to quell his anger. "I know too goddamn well that you've not known that girl before tonight, just as you didn't know anything about the last one you tried to establish here." He cast him a knowing sneer, his hand falling resolutely to his side. "If you want a mistress, you had better have the funds and knowledge of how to handle one. They'll bleed you dry in less than a year, and you won't be running home to your foxed father for more money to appease a flippant, mindless slut, who can never be more than one second to wife."

The handprint on Alexander's cheek darkened against his pallid features. So, the bastard had heard him, after all. He instantly regretted the thought when Cal looked at him, an even darker glower deepening against that lined face.

The head of the Hockley family turned toward his youngest son. "Marcus, you may go to bed," he said, before again turning toward Alexander, dismissing him completely.

Marcus dutifully inclined his head, knowing better than to go against his father, as the sight of the man's eyes, and what lay within them, would forever haunt him. He almost pitied his brother, for he could offer him no comfort. Nor could he save Alexander from his father's wrath. He could only pray that his brother was alive and intact come tomorrow, since he rather feared that the look in his father's eyes—dear God, those eyes!—would happily end his brother's life.

Alexander turned, watching as Marcus left, the latter returning a silent look of sympathy before disappearing upstairs. The eldest Hockley son inwardly bristled. So, he would have no ally in this battle, after all. He almost smiled. It wasn't as if he expected to have one anyway; it wasn't as if he would've known that his father was awake and, by all appearances, perfectly sober, either. He instinctively squared his shoulders, preparing himself, although he had yet to look into his father's eyes.

Of course, Cal had yet to grant Alexander that luxury. For now, he kept his eyes trained on the boy's back, noting the cropped, dark-red hair that was reminiscent of one he wouldn't allow himself to think of at present. The gray eyes his son had inherited came from Felicia's side, although it could be argued they could've come from his own mother, as well. Cal refused to consider the possibility, let alone debate it; he had other, more pressing matters that required his attention—namely, his eldest son's defiance.

He'd let Marcus go, on the grounds of being obediently simpleminded. Marcus was also a second son, and thus did not carry the same burden as Alexander inevitably did. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, turning away from his present study. Perhaps he should've disciplined Alexander as Nathan had done him, although he would, perhaps, better the instruction. At least I wouldn't leave scars, he mordantly thought, as he then turned to face Alexander.

Cal looked into his son's eyes and only saw his ex-wife. There was nothing of him in the boy. Nothing. And yet, if only a moment ago, he could've sworn that he heard what the boy was thinking. Alexander had thought him a bastard. He almost laughed. Well, it was an apt description; he'd been called one before. Although unimaginable was attached to it.

The thought struck him ironically, and he found a fleck of humor in it now. For if he was an unimaginable bastard, then he should damn well live up to that expectation.

"Your behavior tonight was completely unacceptable," he began, attempting to reign in only a portion of his anger. "You act as if your reputation, as well as the family's, means nothing to you."

Alexander visibly flinched under his father's reprimand, yet remained firm and unyielding in the midst of it. "I've done nothing more than what my fellows at school have done," he answered sedately. "I've not shamed the family. Nor do I have any debts attached to my name."

Cal snorted derisively. "And that's simply because I see to it that you don't," he rejoined scornfully. "You'd ruin the family name and business otherwise."

A moment of silence passed between father and son, for Cal was right, and Alexander, unfortunately, had nothing to say. He couldn't contradict the truth. Nor could he reassure his father that he would be as adamant and strong-minded in heading a company as Cal expected of him. His father rarely enjoyed himself, always placing business before pleasure, and Alexander refused to become a facsimile of the aging failure before him.

"You could always choose me as your successor now," he suggested, but then regretted it, the cold gleam in his father's eyes issuing more than disapproval.

"Poor choice of words there, Son," he bit out, his fangs showing a fraction. He forced himself to retract them before his wayward issue saw them. He recovered himself, the darkness that suited him so well engulfing the final remnants of chandelier light that bounced off of his shoulders. "Poor choice indeed, since you know that the eldest inherits everything after his father's untimely demise. It would be unwise to give you charge over the company beforehand, since it suggests a discrepancy on your part, as well as mine."

Alexander arched a brow. "And why should that matter?"

Cal cast him a condescending look. "Because, you fool, I refuse to leave everything to one who will destroy a great family legacy, especially by the fault of my choosing a miserable, ungrateful, little brat to head it before he is fully ready," he remarked, his brusque manner doing nothing to abate the growing hostility between them. "Is that in any way unclear?"

"I'm not miserable, nor am I an ungrateful, little brat!" shouted Alexander. "And nothing short of my death before yours would keep me from taking over, anyhow. I do plan to outlive you, after all."

"Accidents happen," Cal broke in suddenly. "Unspeakable ones, in fact. I've seen both young and old men alike befall one terrible tragedy after another; and very few of those were ever ready to leave this life without some sort of contingency plan. After all, you can never foresee what wrench fate will throw in your midst. Death is not biased in those whom he chooses to accompany him, Alexander, even you, when you least expect his coming. He takes patriarchs, along with firstborn sons," he furthered, those cold, black eyes burning into wavering gray. You can always be replaced, they seemed to say.

And Alexander, for the first time, knew he had a reason to fear his father.

The seventeen-year-old visibly trembled; petrified by the acrid resilience the man that was his sire cast. For this was no washed-out drunkard standing before him; this was a man who could well outlive everyone, including him, as the great stone edifices on Wall Street and Capel Court crumbled to dust, the world's currency fragmenting into nothing more than shards of faded, blank paper. Caledon Hockley was an Ozymandias of his time, a broken statue of a man who outlived his own generation by staying afloat amid the frigid waters of self-disillusionment.

For after all, he had successfully slipped through the calloused fingers of death more than once. It was a story that was now more common knowledge than anything, since Alexander and the rest of his siblings had heard of their father's survival of the Titanic before. The man, simply and utterly, refused to die. No matter. If Alexander lived through the night, he wouldn't care for his possible tenure as head of Hockley Steel; his father could have it for the better side of eternity, for all he cared.

He even confessed as much, hoping to appease Cal in whatever way he possibly could.

Cal merely laughed at him. "I just may do that," he returned drolly, although his attempt at humor greatly disturbed his son. For in spite of Cal's momentary amusement, he remained as cold and as forbidding as before. His dour expression never faltered. "After all," he continued, "eternity is so often overrated. My living into the next century might just prove beneficial to this family, as it will you."

And he left it at that.

Alexander was free to go, although the look in his father's eyes, albeit tinged within something dark and impenetrable, somehow told him that the words Cal had spoken were, strangely, true. It troubled him deeply—so much so that he would barely sleep the rest of the night and morning through.

Cal watched his son leave; the boy's hurried footsteps bringing nothing to him but grim satisfaction. He clenched his fist. It had taken everything within his power not to sink his fangs into his son's impertinent throat. He was certain Alexander's blood would've tasted bitter, and he probably would've regretted killing his eldest by morning. However, he wasn't sorry for striking his son. The boy deserved it—had long had it coming, even. He was only sorry not to have disciplined him sooner. Of course, Felicia, and then the staff, saw to their upbringing. I merely provided them with an existence and bank account. And look where that had gotten him. He grimaced at the implication.

He was getting no younger, although he wasn't plunging madly ahead into his dotage, either. He felt caught in his own personal purgatory. Of course, there is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery. Thank you, Mr. Alighieri, for that marvelous insight, he mused sarcastically, thinking of the poet and the beautiful lines of heresy that the Italian had so boldly penned. But then, wasn't he damned himself? Cal idly wondered, mulling over his newfound fate.

It seemed as if he was learning something new about his affliction with each day. First, my timely ability to outrun the fastest sprinter, and now reading other people's thoughts. I could very well set myself up as one of those pathetic palm readers—at ten cents a palm. Imagine the wealth I'd accumulate then, he considered dryly, no longer impressed by the ability. In a way, he was almost afraid of it, knowing that more would surely come from the hell he'd been forced to endure, and he feared it.

But reading minds did have its advantages. At least he would know the intentions of prospective business partners, when his own business expertise failed. Delving into the unknowing minds of those who sought to swindle him had to account for something. Although it's not enough to repel this damned, endless thirst. A stab of regret for this eternal masquerade surged through his consciousness. He ignored it, in spite of his own, jaded tragedy. For what else could he do, than to greet the sun, and burn to ashes?

He wasn't prepared for such a dramatic ending to his otherwise mundane life. Nor was he that desperate. He still had a few things that required his continued tenure before taking the gentlemen's way out. Perhaps he would even live another century, simply to spite his eldest son. Blood or not, he wouldn't allow a brood of selfish, mindless children make a fool of him.

Brooding darkly upon this thought, he returned to the parlor, sitting himself once again at the piano. He mechanically took the empty wineglass sitting on a side table in hand, drowning its blood-red contents before filling it again. He looked at the glass, unfazed. He muttered an oath. By all appearances, he would have to drain half the cellar before he felt the blessed effects of being absolutely drunk. He longed for the feel, secretly begged for it, even. He wanted the absolution he always sought at the bottom of the bottle, yet never truly found. It had been a game. A long, endless, tiring game of cat and mouse, and he missed it.

Setting the empty bottle aside, he finished the remaining blood-wine in his glass before his hands returned to the piano. He then caught sight of his fingernails, and he shook his head. They had grown even longer since his last perusal of them. This affliction is an absolute curse. He wanted to scream, to reveal to the world of his hardship, yet refrained. What good would expressing his anger through such childish means do if it left him without a voice? He almost retreated from the room in silent defeat. But then, staring abjectly at the piano was enough to set such infernal, dramatic acts of desperation aside.

Thinking of his mother, and the love she'd once bestowed on him, he pulled a yellowed, faded composition from a nearby stack, setting it before him. He gave the notes a cursory glance before his fingers found the appropriate keys, the harmonic notes of the Lacrymosa from Mozart's Requiem filled the room with both sorrow and reverence. The notes struck a harmonious dissonance, a final farewell to a woman who had gifted him with a long forgotten love for music, and could only now receive a resounding show of his gratitude, composed in the dark sanctuary of his thoughts.

He finished the composition on a solemn note, closing those dusky eyes as he thought of her, and smiled at a spurned Nathan. The man would disapprove his behavior, certainly. Not that Cal minded, since he chose another piece from the stack, and began to play—in utter defiance of the bastard who had once barred him from such a wasteful and useless diversion. He smirked at the absurdity of this late show of rebellion. But, damn it all, it felt good. So good, in fact, that he was certain he woke half the house, his deafening fervor coming to a brilliant, strident crescendo.

He played like the madman that he so inherently kept in check, coldly striking the delicate instrument's keys until dawn. He played for his dead shell of a loving mother, for all that he had lost, and all that he would never have again. He played until there was nothing left, his passions ebbing away with the first, blinding strands of daylight.

He looked down at his hands, tired and drawn and doubtlessly withered from years of confined, forced imprisonment. He frowned at them, before his gaze turned to the empty wineglass. He took it up in his hand without a thought, observing the faint traces of wine and blood and bitterness. He sighed in spite of himself. He had the day off, yet he found no satisfaction in the fact, only a hollow feeling of relief, mixed with dread. He would have to accept his paternal obligation in dealing with his children today, just as Nathan had once done for him. He reluctantly recalled the confrontation they'd had over making a claim for the Heart of the Ocean, and the terrible aftermath which followed. What he would do to his sons would be less vicious, if not far from the vindictive nature that had possessed Nathan by turns, yet no less vital to their need for growing up and taking responsibility. He should've damn well done this long before now. He scowled at his obvious oversight. The very notion left him feeling a fraction of resentment.

He had no wish to see them.

Ever.

But then, I shall not see them until tonight, since they will undoubtedly have the good sense not to trouble me, particularly my worthless sons. Until then…

Cal smirked at the thought of drinking blood mixed with wine, with sons who now feared for their very lives, and them knowing none the better as to what their father imbibed in.

He laughed at the wineglass that he held in his hand, the fragile crystal slightly cracking underneath the pressure of his fingertips.

Author's Notes: First off, I am so sorry for taking this long to update. I've just been so busy with college and everything else that I just haven't gotten around to working on this story until recently. I also managed to get a used copy of the film's illustrated screenplay, and it has certainly inspired me with all of the notes and photographs that I'd never before seen until now.

There's not a lot in the way of trivia that isn't already explained in this chapter, I don't think. I looked up piano companies, and settled on a piano produced from Sébastien Érard's company. I wasn't too particularly fond of the other piano styles I saw; the Érard style struck me as both elegant and fitting, though. I also had to mention Dante, since I love that man and his prose! Shelley's Ozymandias came completely out of nowhere, but it seemed to fit Cal all the same. As for Mozart, I never realized that Evanescence's song of the same title was a semi-updated version of Mozart's original composition. It was just odd discovering that, when writing this.

The 'bureaucratic nightmare' bit that Nathan says comes from the concept of the afterlife in Beetlejuice, and how much of a nightmare all of the red tape and paperwork death has attached to it. Tabby J. Skylark's Titanic story, Unfinished Business, really emphasizes that idea. But the afterlife in Beetlejuice has nothing to do with the afterlife in this story. For myself, I just like seeing Nathan wander around aimlessly in the mills—very much like a Jacob Marley without a heart would do. It would be interesting, however, if he did talk business with J.P. Morgan, John D. Rockefeller, and the others in the afterlife, though. Hey, it's the industrial side of the afterlife, where all of the robber barons are destined to go! XD

The 'better the instruction' phrase that Cal uses in regards to disciplining his children comes from The Merchant of Venice, during Shylock's discourse of 'Hath not a Jew eyes?' I guess working for months on a paper focused primarily on Shylock's character came through in this chapter. But I do rather like Shylock; hence, the allusion to him! :)

Anyway, I hope that everyone enjoyed the chapter. I know that nothing really happened in the way of having an explosive surprise. Nathan's appearance has been in the works for quite a while now. I wanted Cal to express surprise, perhaps even shock, but his disinterest in the situation of seeing Nathan again made that a little difficult, so I left it the way it was. I also wanted to introduce some of Cal's other children, since Charlotte has already been fleshed out quite a bit. The exchange between Cal and Alexander went a completely different direction than what I had originally intended, but I am happy with the outcome. Cal's no longer taking people's crap, particularly from his children! XD His relationship with Nathan, on the other hand, we'll see how that turns out.

Lilly, to answer your question, since I was unable to PM you, our vampire may cross paths with our Rose soon enough! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!

And I can only thank ApollonariaBoleyn1's YouTube video of Cal. Shinedown's 'Sound of Madness' is an absolutely perfect song choice, and it greatly inspired the last half of this chapter. I kept watching it over and over! :D

But again, I wish to thank everyone who is reading and reviewing this story. Your comments and messages do inspire me to continue writing. Thanks so much!

June 15th 2011: Just a quick note. I've revised this chapter. Hopefully, I've caught all of the errors this time. I've also added some dialogue and descriptions here and there—nothing too major, by any means. Also, from this point on, I am going to kindly ask that if anyone likes my story enough to favorite it, please review or send me a message telling me what you thought of it. A lot of fellow writers on this site are having the same issue with people just favoriting and not saying anything, and it's just disheartening to us and the stories we work so very hard on. Any input would be greatly appreciated, and it only takes a moment to leave a comment. Thanks.