"What the fuck is going on here?" Geralt demanded, addressing the vampire first. "Regis?"

The witcher; the man who murdered her mother, in the flesh, was before her. The likeness in the bust portrait struck true, but it felt as if a creature which haunted her nightmares had come to life and that was a different fear itself.

As suspected, two swords jutted from their scabbards over broad shoulders. He was tall, just a few inches taller than Regis, pale with hair just a white as hers. And that lengthy scar. Her skin crawled. She didn't want to have anything in common with such an individual.

Laz separated herself from Regis like a young girl caught in the arms of a forbidden lover...by her parent. With bloodstains on her chin and lips, as well as its crimson smear across Regis' mouth, it was evident what behavior the witcher walked in on. And this behavior was thoroughly disapproved of judging by his bristled reaction and cold askance.

Geralt, I―," the vampire began with his noble inflection.

"I acted alone," she blurted, stepping in front of the Regis defensively as if she belonged there. "It's my fault. He had nothing to do with this."

A greater, prouder portion of Lazarus had no desire to explain herself to a witcher of all people especially. In truth, she wanted to drive him away, win the favors and trust with the vampire, while simultaneously returning to the ties that bound them. But her plan would take time, and a lot more blood, blood she was very much willing to share, shed, and spread across Regis' chest and thighs. A shudder raced down her spine. Pressing her back against him, she was pleased when Regis rested a hand on the slender curve of her flank, felt the gentle drafts of his breath against her neck and ear as he looked down at her, prickling her skin responsively wherever his eyes roamed; it was working.

"Regis," Geralt looked past her, speaking tersely. "A word outside."

"No." Laz interrupted a second time. He was supposed to be on the Path, not here, not intervening what she'd just started.

Another pleasant chill shuddered through her when Regis pressed his face into her white tresses and inhaled deeply. It was back, thank the gods.

But no visions... Where were the visions?

Seeing this, he shifted his footing and crossed his arms.

"Listen," the witcher fixed her with an equivocal glare. "Don't do this. Find another vampire, just not Regis."

With the witcher's concern for him imbibing blood, however little, transcended from business to more personal matters, it was clear now she misunderstood their relationship; they were closer friends than she assumed, but that alone was not good news. Closeness had not spared Keira. And what could a witcher possibly know about mercy?

Anger and vengeance flooded her veins.

"Are you afraid you'll have to cut him down?" she spat derisively, "Like you did my mother? Are you asking me to spare him? Like you spared my mother?"

Up until that moment, he was unreadable, expressionless. However, his reptilian eyes narrowed the slightest, reacting to her allegation with an infinitesimal squint. The witcher appraised her with a raking glance, searching for any indicative features that would reveal her ancestry or parentage. He would find no such thing; Lazarus and Keira looked nothing alike.

"Lazarus," Regis swallowed dryly, his voice thick with need as the hand resting on her side gripped gently. "You need to go."

There was a warning in his tone, despite the touch. Something predatory and dangerous hung in the air and it wasn't the witcher's presence. Her Gift sensed it, too. It came from behind.

For a moment, she could only fume and glare at Geralt, who met her with his own contemptuous stare. There was so much she had to say, so many reprimands, insults, and biting remarks that she couldn't think straight.

"You heard him," Geralt growled. "Now go."

She heard the call, the crying request of surrender. With the edges of her visions growing dark and fuzzy from anger, the warmth spread rapidly, settling in the pit of her belly. If she turned now...

Not here, she told herself. I can't change here.

Geralt straightened his stature and readjusted his arms across his chest with a crunch. Fitted with hardened leathers, mail, belts that went this way and the other, buckles that glittered in the fire's light, and a wolf medallion that, even from her distance, was trembling against the scarred leather, the witcher was armed to the teeth.

Geralt of Rivia; the White Wolf.

I'll show you a white wolf.

"Go!" he barked.

Laz launched herself at the witcher.

In a trice, the witcher unfolded his arms, seized her and twisted, throwing her across his hip. Laz took him down by wrapping her arms around his neck and they spilled onto the floor grappling, writhing and grunting for the advantage. Laz was inept compared to him and he was much stronger, but she managed with the squirming vigor of a rabid squirrel, wriggling free from holds, locks, and chokes.

He never once tried to strike her or draw his sword.

With a fierce grunt, she bucked him off as he came in for a mount, and drove her heel between his legs. She missed and struck his inner thigh. All the same, Geralt grunted reflexively, bending over to protect his sensitive parts with one arm while the other shot out and contorted oddly.

A gust of wind knocked her back, sending her rolling across the uneven floor. A furious din filled her head just as a sickening crack felt its way up her spine. She was not injured; she was enraged.

The pain acted as a catharsis, flooding fury into her veins as she slapped the stones for purchase, pulling herself up. Graceless from wine and pain roaring through her, a metallic tang crawled up her throat and trickled from her nose, dripping over her lips. Her cloak fell lopsided over one shoulder as she stood shambled, furious, blind with rage. Another spasm wrought through her, buckling her knees. She stifled the cry with her clenched teeth, but could not hold herself up. Gasping, her breath stopped short in her throat by a swell of blood. She coughed it up, gasping around it.

Sinking, she expected a hard impact, arms appeared and cradled her before she could spill to the floor. Her blood sang merrily only to be cut short as muscles flexed and tore.

Not here! she pleaded internally. Her face flushed hotly, the skin stretching taut from a building internal pressure. Any moment, her very countenance would burst and the snarling snout of her wolf would be in its stead.

"Lazarus, stop!" came Regis' mouth pressed to her ear. His voice was deep, deeper than moments before. "You are not safe here. Leave! For me!"

Another pained cry ripped from her throat, bones popped and rapidly adjusted. She fought her way out of his arms and fled up the tunnel stairs, climbing madly, blindly until the night air overcame her.

Spiderwebs clung to her limbs and hair, her entire mouth tasted of wet metal.

Coughing up more blood, she spat out a dark crimson wad of gore, trying to staunch the shift through gritted teeth painted red and sheer will laced in agony.

Not here. If I change here, he will kill me.

He will kill me.

He will kill me and that will be the end.

As she reached the shores nearby, stumbling footfalls softened by the sand, she collapsed into the waters and carefully, slowly, swam across. The blood on her face, blood she wanted to share with Regis, the dirt and cobwebs, all washed away into the Seidhe Llygad.

When she reached the other side, she looked back. The opposing shores were empty.

Neither vampire nor witcher chased her down.

And that was quite alright.


As of late, something unseen had been stalking the graveyard, causing the medallion to quiver and pull on its chain. Every attempt Geralt made to investigate ended in wandering around the cemetery aimlessly with no scent, no trail, and no sound to follow.

Geralt drew up from the catacomb floor, dusting off the dirt from his jerkin and the medallion finally still along its chain, he understood there was a suspect, for even as the woman stood before him, she possessed neither the scent of a human, vampire, or elf. Had he not inadvertently injured her, she would have remained undetected, but now her blood hung in the air, causing Regis to lust.

But the medallion told him enough.

Fixing his scowl onto the vampire, Geralt muttered. "Well? Who the hell was that?"

"A crafty woman," Regis sighed with a shake of his head. He leaned against the sarcophagus nearby and expressed a rictus of pain in silence.

An interruption of sobriety never ended well for anyone.

Not good.

"Are you going to be alright?" the witcher asked, flexing his hands should he need to draw his sword or flee.

"Yes, Geralt."

"Mhm," he grunted, handing him a handkerchief for the blood still on his friend's mouth. "What else?"

After a moment, the vampire admitted softly. "I had no knowledge there would be blood in her mouth, truly."

The witcher threw his arms out, gesturing with his proverbial rolling motion. "You didn't smell it? I find that hard to believe."

Did he? he wondered. Her scent didn't pick up until after he stunned her with the Aard Sign.

"I would not have allowed it."

"So you didn't catch a whiff of blood?"

"Remarkably no. Until I tasted her blood, she smelled unassuming, like nothing. She makes quite a ruckus every time we met, had she not, I would have never noticed her. Pardon my candidness, but she doesn't taste like a human either."

The witcher narrowed his eyes at the fondness affecting the undertows of Regis' voice. It must be the lust talking.

"Enlighten me," Geralt grumbled for the sake of understanding. "What did she taste like?"

Regis looked across, towards the tunnel she had fled to. Still, her blood hung thick in the air like an intoxicating perfume, which made his own body respond fervidly. It mottled the floor in collections of dark droplets, brush strokes, and lingered in his mouth, warming his chest and loins. His fangs still throbbed painfully. Her blood, how she felt pressed against him and in his arms, nothing else crowded his mind. He wanted to see her again. He had to even despite the witcher's inevitable objections. For if Geralt had not arrived, Regis' teeth would not have been the only anatomical parts he plunged into her.

"Peaches," the vampire chuckled, staring unseeingly towards the tunnel. "Ripe, summer peaches."

"Not funny, Regis."

"No, of course, now is not the time for humor."

"Why would she want to do that? Last I heard people weren't jumping in line to allow a vampire to sink his teeth into their necks and I worry with your complicated history, this will end unfavorably, for us both. We have more dire needs at hand. Dettlaff, for example, is still being blackmailed, is still in hiding, and if we don't find Rhenawedd in time..." he broke off.

"She wants something," Regis muttered pensively, saying the exact words Geralt was thinking. "I cannot fathom what. However, you are right. We have more pressing matters to attend to, like finding Rhenawedd."

Regis sat the napkin aside and looked down. Amidst their strife, Laz had dropped something. Kneeling, he picked the material and turned it over in his hands; his glove.

Geralt stepped forward for a closer look. His expression darkened.

Without looking up, the witcher muttered with a frown. "You told me the dire wolf took this from you at Tesham Mutna."

That was before the vampire made his promise to Lazarus. A promise he intended to keep if he wanted to see her again...

Geralt stepped closer.

"What are you not telling me?"