Author Note: Here's the dramatic chapter I promised. A little scary. Hope you like it :)

When Amelia was dropped off by the chauffeur and let through the security gate, she went straight up to her apartment in the elevator. By this time it has grown dark, but she saw nothing of Sebastian LaCroix.

Had she gotten any closer to knowing about vampires? Or, of making sense of LaCroix? No. Not really. No more than what she had researched when it was only a hypothetical, academic interest before all this. But, despite the lack of hard evidence she was quite sure now, even if it was mostly intuition.

She dropped her handbag on the table and rolled the work bag over the carpet floor. Sighed, dropping on the sofa. What to do? She pulled out the note the strange man had given her. Something slid out onto the coffee table as she unfolded the paper. A rosary. Not a surprise considering the impression the man had given her. Holding it up, letting it hang from her fingers, the light shone on the beads; glinted on the crucifix figure. Would that work, or was it the faith behind it that carried power rather than the object itself? But Amelia could not say that she had faith in it, though she was not a stranger to considering it. In doubt perhaps. She had attended an Anglican church primary school when young. Her father had, at times, shown subtle hints of a turn to supernatural belief after the loss of her mother… She gathered the rosary into her palm and could feel the tears form. It had been just over half a decade since then, but the thought was still raw, and she didn't want to linger on it now.

As for the note, there was just the name of an obscure bookshop. No address. No number. No name even. How secretive. And when would she have time to go there? Possibly while she had some time off, but most of it would be occupied. No time then. What if it would help though? It was easy on the mind to dismiss that man as crazy - probably a religious fanatic. Yet he was sincere. Full of fervour and conviction. Perhaps he had some grievances - there had to be something personal to make someone take that conviction so strongly to heart. What if he had tracked her here, and could save her?

But, it might still all be nonsense. She might just have an overactive imagination and didn't need saving. Sebastian LaCroix was innocent, perhaps. Yet she had thought about this problem for a long time now, and had deliberated on it for what seemed like forever. But seriously entertaining vampires as a real possibility was not the default conclusion, was it? No. Even if someone noticed something "off" about another, "he must be a vampire!" was unlikely to be thought, except as a joke. So, she could not be thought silly or slow for not accepting this idea as fact.

Another sigh. She re-folded the paper again. The rosary she left out on the table. She could think about all this later, and switched on the TV and found an old episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. An amusing coincidence considering present circumstances. But, she had watched every season since it first aired, so why not now?

For a few hours, Amelia slept. It was late - after midnight.

A low sound of a door shutting. The mild reverberation through the walls. The sound of a limousine pulling away. Maybe, it was just ambience or imagination. Even, just dreaming. And she was familiar with strange dreams.

Reaching a pale hand to switch on the bedside table lamp, a warm light illuminated a small radius beneath the lampshade. The rest remained in darkness. Sitting up, she looked at the clock. It was still no time to wake yet, but she might as well stay up, and then go back to sleep. Slipping out of bed from the warmth into coolness, she'd need her dressing gown.

It was probably nothing. Old houses made weird noises. She went to the window and pushed open the curtains slightly. From here, it was tricky to see down, and she had to stand close against the window. She thought she'd dreamt that LaCroix had gone out. A premonition, maybe? She couldn't see much though, the porch and front garden seemed deserted, and there was nothing on the street beyond the tall gates. Up the road, a dark shape of a limousine driving sleekly up the road, illuminated in the night by the glow of street lamps. It looked similar to one that LaCroix owned.

A sigh of relief. He never invaded her privacy here, but given her fears, the thought that he was not here was a reassuring one. It also meant that what Leticia had said in answer to her question of why he wasn't seen in the day - that LaCroix wasn't there because he was out - may have been lies. Amelia couldn't be sure if vampires could be out in the day - there was some confusion over this like much of the mythos about these supernatural creatures. If it was true, perhaps he had woken up, and gone out from the house now, not earlier. But again, this was just speculation. And it had been the night for a while.

She had tried exploring the house earlier this week in the daytime while she was working. Almost all the doors were locked, or so they had led her to believe - she hadn't checked the veracity of this. Also, Leticia or others were around, even though she seemed to be alone much of the time. It was a silly idea to try exploring the house for answers at night - the worst time if LaCroix was as she suspected. It would be a few hours until dawn. But she needed to know. And if he was out...

There might not be a better chance than now.

Usually, she did not go into the main house, except on two occasions she had spoken with LaCroix, invited or otherwise. And at other times when she was invited to dinner, although he was always absent. But she decided to go out this time. It was a few hours before morning, but this might be the quietest time she got.

Amelia went to the wardrobe and pulled out a small suitcase she had on the shelf. Inside, was a little black bag, which she had become more conscious of hiding the longer she was here. Her father was quite keen on security, since that was the sector in which he had worked, and had taught her bits of survival and self-defence stuff. The bag was essentially a survival kit, with the usual items, first aid, flashlight, wire saw, etc. Not items needed in a city. There was a swiss army knife and a lockpick, which might be useful. Deliberating over the tactical pen which could operate as a letter opener - or a self-defence knife - she took it anyway just in case, although it wasn't much.

The townhouse had three apartments within it. The principal of which LaCroix lived at. It was the largest, covering most of the floors and the grandest. Then, there was a small apartment on the garden level floor and hers in the attic - which was surprising as, although most of her windows were skylights, the window in her living area had good views. Although the original layouts of such old residential buildings often had servants' quarters in the attic, for modern tastes this floor would have been part of the principal apartment, not hers. But so it was. They didn't seem to be rented either, which was surprising. Being in Manhattan, they could get hundreds of dollars per night just for short-term rentals. And LaCroix was no doubt shrewd with money. He would not miss the chance to take advantage of the opportunity unless there was a good reason. Probably security and secrecy.

To get into the main residence, she had to go down to the lower ground floor. She wouldn't be able to explore everything. Some rooms were too secure. But she could try at least.

At the stairs, her hand glided over the rail in a featherlight touch. Descending around and around with each turn of the flights of stairs. When she got down to the lower ground floor, she met some locked doors, but for one at the end of the corridor. There, she found the kitchen again. She had half expected it to be an untouched artefact of the early 1900s, but just as soon as this idea had drifted into her mind, she was not sure why she had thought it. Mercurio had shown this room to her when she had first arrived and she had been in it only this morning, so she knew what it was like. The longer she had been here, the more she wished that Mercurio had stuck around rather than go to Los Angeles.

The kitchen was quiet. She opened the fridge and, as usual, found it not well stocked. It was dark outside, and she could see her reflection in the windows framing the inky blackness beyond. She tapped her fingernails on the worktop. Where to next?

The other rooms were just for storage, except for the entrance to the other apartment on this floor, which she didn't see a reason to check. There was the basement though. It was always off limits as were all the rooms in the day, but she wondered if she might have more luck at night. LaCroix himself had a set of keys for everything in the house, but there was no way she could get them from him.

The door of the basement was secure. It was locked. Amelia bit her lip, deciding then to try with the lockpick. Her dad had shown her how to use it; she wasn't particularly good but had managed basic locks - practice ones. After tinkering with it for a few minutes, she managed to get it open.

Going down the dark set of stairs - she didn't want to turn on the lights, instead just used her flashlight. As on the floor above, there were several doors, most of them led to mundane places - service rooms, laundry etc. Nothing exciting or unusual.

A security door - not dissimilar to a bank safe door. She was curious to find out what lay beyond it, but she didn't have a key and it was too secure to lockpick open. Attempting the lock, it was too difficult. Hmm, she folded the lock-pick up. The thought lingered that she might find a definitive answer, much like Jonathan Harker did in Dracula, finding there a crypt like room. Maybe a coffin, empty because it was night! At the least, she had felt like she was in a modern, real version of that novel. But she didn't want to go there, scared of what she might find. And didn't want confirmation of the queasy feeling that he was not alive but dead, or rather living dead. She doubted that he slept down here, anyway. And she couldn't see him sleeping in a coffin. But, she didn't know. And only had human fiction and lore to go on.

The wine cellar appeared normal, but there was in fact little of it here. There was a strongroom - possibly a refrigeration room, which she could see was set to 4 degrees Celsius. Again this may not be unusual, but she wondered what was inside. It was the temperature to keep blood… But it too was locked.

Taking a deep breath, she retraced her steps. The basement door was closed but unlocked as she had left it, to her relief. She did not want to get stuck down here. She peeked through a crack in the door, and slowly opened it, looking around to find it still deserted and went out.

She could have gone to the front door and let herself out there. But it was freezing outside, and she had nothing with her. And even if she opened that door, the security gate lay beyond it, and that she didn't have access to open.

Back up the stairs, the door into the first floor was shut, but surprisingly unlocked. Back out into the entrance hall and staircase atrium - where she had waited when she first arrived here. Her first glimpse of the opulence here, and perhaps the sinister feel beneath. And everything here was much as it had been on that first night and had been whenever she had seen it while being here. The dining room was empty, filled only with the luxury of its interior and furnishings. The other rooms were much the same.

The big entrance doors were locked, quite impenetrable to anyone trying to get in, or anyone trying to get out.

She crept up the stairs, fingertips resting lightly on the rail. Listening for signs of activity, but heard nothing. In the skylight above the staircase, the night was black and murky with clouds.

This floor was familiar, since she mostly worked here. The library door was open too. She slipped in cautiously, and went to the next. Her journal notebook was there, where she had left it. On the desk were still some of the items she was working on. The late eighteenth and early 19th century French volumes. LaCroix had told her they were inherited and since he was French descent and likely of an affluent linage, that was not unbelievable. But, if her suspicion was true, maybe that was not quite accurate. But... could he be that old? Was that possible? Was not the idea of the Undead being so long lived the stuff of fiction, and the oldest echelons of mythology? It was true that his manner sometimes appeared reminiscent of another century, but it was hard to comprehend such a vast swathe of time. So much history; so much change. It was too dizzinging to think of now. She had sat too long going over some of the items here again.

Back into the lobby hallway, and as usual the house appeared silent. Satisfied that there was no one else there, she tried the other doors. Mostly locked again, or had nothing of interest within them.

Which floor next? She went up the stairs, never having been up to these floors, since she had no reason to; her apartment wasn't accessible this way. It did not surprise her that most rooms were locked given that they probably housed valuable items, and she was effectively a stranger; alone a lot of the time. However, she thought there was much more to this than normal security concern.

Amelia wandered down one of the corridors, this one lit by some wall-lights, but dimly. She turned off her flashlight. Mirrors on the walls. She went down slowly; cautiously, clinging to the wall. Since the higher floors were more private she felt more awkward in creeping around up here. And more on edge. Her movements slowed. Yet, she wanted some answers.

Going down the corridor, her heart-rate had increased; her hand shook when reaching for the door-knob of a room she presumed to be a bedroom.

Locked.

Hmmm. that wasn't a surprise. And she did start to feel a little guilty. What am I doing? LaCroix is trusting me, and gave me this opportunity in spite of me not having a lot of experience. This is how I react? But, I know there's something not right here…

But with this, she felt a little bolder, and went down to some of the others. She felt one of the door handles turn and give; yield where others had not. Her breathing heavy.

But it was just a closet. Nothing of interest there.

She continued further, noticing that one doorway was open slightly ajar. Her pace slowed to almost nothing. But on reaching it she could see in slightly.

The room was dark, without much light, perhaps only one solitary lamp was on, but not very bright. This darkness made it hard to see - just shadows and dark shapes in the gloom.

Something passing then, lit by the dim chink of light from the corridor. Recognisable form. A fleeting glimpse of Sebastian LaCroix from the back.

Shit. She withdrew quickly, backed up against the wall. Hand covering her mouth. I thought he was out.

Her eyes drifted forward, meeting the mirror, in which the reflection collected the interior within. This view was obscured; hard to distinguish through the shadows.

He seemed to be seated, leant over something outside her vision. What was he doing?

She wondered if… no.

A glint of something in the light. A glimpse of fangs?

What she thought she might be seeing - like the other thing that had been the start of all this? He seemed absorbed in this, and she wasn't sure if he would notice her, perhaps less cautious due to the privacy.

But LaCroix's grey eyes, weirdly incandescent in the dark, glanced up, furtively watchful of his surroundings, and met the mirror and it seemed her. She wasn't sure if he could actually see her. What if he could? What if he didn't need to see her - just sensed her there?

Oh fuck. She dithered, panicked, but couldn't possibly make it back to her room without being seen. Breathing faster, heavier, she tried to calm down and to keep quiet. Slowly trying to move away. A sweat of fear rushing over her. A cold, clammy shock flushing horribly through her nerves and veins. Heart-skipping a beat.

Creeping across the hallway as quick as she dared, and found a sideroom open, went in and shut the door. It turned out to be a wet-bar to serve the rooms up here. A room room to prepare and store drinks - possibly not your average drinks though.

She backed into the room, her hand gliding over the quartz worktop. Something in the way. There was a wine glass, on the side. And she almost knocked it over. She lunged to catch it before it hit the worktop and shattered. She had saved it. Luckily, it was not full.

But contents splashed on the side. Red, a thin residue which one might assume was wine in this dim lighting as she couldn't see well. It didn't smell like wine though... Peering down at the glass, it didn't flow quite like water or wine. Something very different in the texture - thicker.

It looked like…

Oh no.

Her hand was shaky as an anxious feeling crept over her skin. It looked like blood in the glass. Subconsciously, she touched her neck, right where she'd dreamed LaCroix had -

Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes looked from the glass to her translucent reflection in the cabinet glass. Seeing him possibly feed as a vampire, and this glass of blood now. All the little things about him that had struck her as odd. The subtle mood change when she cut herself and bled. Her dream of him doing something involving a Kiss on her neck. The uneasy vibe she sensed in his presence the very first time she met him. The horror of the other creature, no doubt in her mind now a foul, living dead thing too. All rushed through her mind in sudden epiphany. It was hard to catch her breath from the dizziness. Feeling faint, she gripped the worktop for support. Perhaps Sebastian LaCroix was just one of those hardcore "vampyre lifestyle" people. She hoped. This thought was just to make her feel better. The alternative was… disturbing.

Almost frozen in motion, she was still holding the wine glass. Sebastian LaCroix was either a very disturbed and dangerous human, or he was a vampire. A creature of the night! Had he been secretly sucking her blood? Oh, Jesus… This job was too good to be true - it was just a ruse to let him have her around! Either way, she had to go. Right now. And jump on a plane for the first flight back home. Even though she was still in her nightdress.

She couldn't hear anything, but it was the dead of night. A couple of hours before dawn. He was here. Had he sensed her presence? The glass of blood could not have been here long, as it wouldn't keep well. Which meant that...

She heard a familiar pleasing to the ear, but now sinister, voice.

"What are you doing here at this time of night, Miss Siddall?"

Amelia put the wine-glass down, harder than intended. It smacked on the worktop, glass on quartz. And looked around nervously. Her voice was shaky, "I-I was, um, looking for something."

"Really... " He looked around the room. Of course, she had no reason to be there. "I thought you would wait until morning."

Heart skipping a beat; not fully understand what he meant by this she gave him a puzzled look, but she had a sinking feeling. "Well I… just woke up. So I thought I'd go for a walk."

"Hmm."

She knew he was sceptical. She looked around; considering her options. Edging away. "I might say the same. How come you're up now? Um, have you been out?" She wondered what he had been doing - hunting someone to bite; drinking their blood - killing them?

"Yes. But I expect you are not surprised by that," he said with a knowing look; his eyes drifting over to the wine glass and hers followed to it, then quickly looked away.

"Erm, I guess not," she feigned ignorance.

"No doubt, you have noticed that I seem only to be present at night."

"Um, yes. It seems that way.'' She shrugged, Perhaps I said too much to Leticia… "But I don't see you all the time, so I can't say." she played dumb, but he knew that she knew. Her eyes drifted to the door. "Well, anyway I should probably go now."

"Stay here," he countered, taking a step closer to her. "What do you see amiss here?" he said, obviously referring to the glass of blood.

"Nothing."

"Are you quite sure about that, Miss Siddall? I find that hard to believe."

Silence. She caught a breath. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, but you do," he said approaching her.

"No. I was just… just leaving." She attempted to run past him, bolting out of the doorway, but wasn't sure where she was going. Perhaps, if she could at least reach the elevator or even a room she could lock herself into, she could be safe. And maybe try to stay locked in until the sun came. It was only a couple of hours! Then this vampire would have to retire to where he rested in the day. But what then? He wasn't alone. There were those who helped him, and the daytime wasn't a problem for them.

All through her was a bolt of adrenaline, feeling like it was life or death. And she could feel that she was pursued; feel LaCroix hardly a pace behind her.

Reaching a door, she clung to it and tried the handle desperately, but couldn't get it to open fast enough which made her panic more.

In fact she had only managed a few metres away from where she had started. LaCroix was faster than her and easily caught her. She felt his cold hand grasp her arm; turning her around and she tried to wrestle herself out though it was of little effect. Scratching him which drew the slightest trace of blood. Whirling around, she cut him with letter-opener.

There was a wrathful look in his eyes. Red lines of her fingernails on his white skin where she'd scratched him. An uneasy silence. Her eyes widened with how easily the wound healed. And not a trace of bleeding, like his veins were void of blood. What on earth!? She gasped; shaking with realisation that he could not be maimed, or at least it would be difficult to do so.

LaCroix eyed the girl carefully. His hands gripped her arms tight, as she had backed up against the door. It was little effort to him, and it seemed like nothing but when she struggled found this deceptively light grip to be vice-like. And there was nowhere to go in the smallness of this hallway. Only herself and LaCroix, who blocked her path. The opposite way only the door against her back, and that was locked. In the gloomy light of moonlight through the window, his face was ashen white. The cold light and the shadow made the angles of his face sinister.

"I knew you would come looking for answers to your suspicions tonight. But you've been foolish. You must think yourself quite clever with your little investigations," he scoffed. "What you have seen was by design. I left that glass for you to find."

"What?" What he was saying washed over her. But what about?

"Even so, I don't take well to spies," he snarled with bared fangs in words like ice; the angered scowl of his brow and fierce grey eyes that pierced down into her soul. The attractiveness of him turned to livid, living dead horror. The masquerade of humanity and life had slipped. He was not unlike the monster she had seen, only now it was obvious. Yet that sense of composure remained. His voice was not raised, but this coolness was much more dreadful than common anger could have been.

"I didn't -" She turned her face from him, her body posture was closed and felt shaky with a cold fear all over.

"Look at me!" His voice was whispered icy venom. His hands gripped her arms, with fingers digging into skin. The sharpness of his nails were still there, not yet simmered down. His eyes blazed. There was a frayed tone to his voice, as if he was frantic; agitated, though he pushed down this feeling quickly. He did not wish to let her see it.

Her eyes met his again then as he desired. Wide green eyes wet with fear. The girl was breathing heavily - he saw the heavy rise and fall of her chest - the sound of nervous gasps. The pace of her heart thumped fast. He could listen to, almost feel in fact, the pulse of blood through her arteries and veins.

Perhaps she saw that flicker of interest in his eyes as they glanced for a moment at her neck, seeing the greenish hue of veins in her milk white skin. "Please don't," she spoke in a small, strangled tone.

"You're not really in a position to deny me," he told her, almost softly, which chilled her to the bone. He pushed back that interest, and didn't do anything to her, in fact he actually loosened his grip.

She watched him warily as he calmed down. That sudden flash of ashen white flesh, sharp fangs, clawing fingernails and white-hot grey gaze, simmering down again to his usual handsome and collected, refined manner. It was hard to reconcile these aspects.

There was still an edge to him; a frustration. The scratch she had given him had gone completely. He perceived that she was looking for it, "you can't harm me."

She just nodded.

"Let's try again then," he was almost polite again and this was disconcerting due to the contrast with the earlier fury. "What was in the glass?"

"Blood..." she began absentmindedly, wanting to forget.

"And, do you know why that would be, Miss Siddall?" he said very softly, but like a blade clothed in silk. She didn't answer at first. "Why?"

"Because you drink it!" she cried. "You're a vampire."

"Yes. Have you suspected this for a long time?"

"No," she answered quickly. Has he seriously just admitted to being a vampire? "I-I always thought there was something strange. I was only curious. There was something about you. I just…"

''Curiosity is what gets people killed.'' His dominating gaze bore into her interrogatively. "Why did you go against my instructions?"

"I didn't -"

"Don't lie. Who sent you?" A hint of worry.

"What? No one!" she didn't know what he was talking about.

His eyes narrowed. She had been seen talking briefly with one of the associates of Grünfeld Bach, although it seemed he had engaged her due to the material she was looking at. LaCroix was unsure what she had said, and worried if she had said anything that might alert Bach, which was most undesirable. He had not thought she was involved in anything like that, but perhaps that could have been an oversight. The Imbued, as they called themselves, were like her - perceptive to the supernatural - but he wanted to get her before others did. He had meant this revelation to be controlled, and not such a shock to her, but this was how it had turned out. More softly, "look at me, show me your eyes, and tell me. I want to see that you are not lying."

"I was only…" she bit her lip. Her hands wrangled together in anxiety. "I guess I'm too curious for my own good… there were just things about you that intrigued me, and then made me suspicious. I always felt that way since I first met you. And then, when I was at the library, I thought I'd find something to read - there's sure to be something obscure there. But I didn't really… apart from that weird guy who started talking to me, and I was scared of saying anything."

"Why?"

"Because I thought he might have something to do with you. Maybe spying on me, or something." she looked into his eyes, innocently. "He wasn't?"

"No." LaCroix didn't probe deeper, not wanting to alert her to the significance of Bach and his associates. She was afraid and likely to think nothing of seeking their "help", so he wanted to question her in a less direct way.

"I never meant any harm to you. I just -"

"When people know too much, there is much harm," he stated. "But, I'm inclined to believe you. There's too much sincerity in your manner. You would make a poor liar," he smirked.

He moved away from her, and she was glad of the breathing space. He paced around her though, as if deciding what he would do with her, like a cat playing with a mouse. "I've known too many that have tried to hunt me, and so know that you are nothing but a naive girl. Since you arrived here - since we first met in fact - I've been aware of your suspicions prior to this night. I had hoped that they would remain just that - unproven, wild suspicions. But, I knew that you would insist on pressing forward. And now you know all this, I am afraid I really cannot allow you to wander about freely anymore. Innocuous though your motives may be, such knowledge is always a threat and must be dealt with accordingly."

"If you're going to kill me, please do it quickly," she looked him in the eye. "If there's any mercy in you, do that at least."

"That may not be necessary," he replied dismissively; an imperious wave of the hand. "But I admire your courage," his eyes remained penetrative as they peered into hers, trying to find some revelation of her as a person. "You have already proven more… resistant than most. And, more inquisitive, I might add."

His eyes slid away for a moment as if in thought. He looked down at her as he tilted his face upward in haughty posture and an exasperated sigh, it seemed almost exaggerated for effect. "I suppose I could spare your life, since you may prove useful to me."

Amelia did not know if she liked the sound of that idea. Serving a vampire, was not a very hopeful prospect. Her lips parted, but she couldn't form a sentence since she remained on edge. "What do you mean by 'useful'?"

He could see her anxiety. What did she imagine he intended to do with her? It made him smile to think of her quaint assumption. "I will explain, but not here. You will come with me."

He moved away from her then, giving her the space to feel safer. He could see that being too overbearing would be counter intuitive to cultivating her good feeling towards him. He expected her to follow him, but she remained against the door; her posture still stiff and closed, like a rabbit in the sight of a predator. She regarded his offering with fear. He stared at her expectantly but bemused. His head tilted slightly in thought again, as he considered that more compassion might work better. His voice softened and the cold facade slipped for a moment into something more humane. "I won't hurt you," he said with the faintest hint of real sincerity.

"That's not really a promise I should accept from a vampire," she replied softly, her large eyes gazed at him unsurely. But her posture had begun to ease and she faced him more openly now.

"No. I can see why you think that," he parried without hesitation or pause. "But, be that as it may, you will have to take my word you won't come to harm. Come with me."

Amelia didn't say anything, unsure what to say and stood still for a moment, but started to approach him.

He his hand closed around her arm - really only resting there, but it was a firm guidance as he steered her across the floor. She still felt faint and in some way it was helpful. In fact, she had a little Déjà Vu to when she had first encountered him as he had helped her. Only then, the fright she'd had was not from him, whereas now it was.

She had been too shaken to notice before, but being in close proximity to him, the weight and embrace of his arm around her waist, drawing her against his body, she could feel that he was cold. Not glacial, but noticeably cooler than her, and she flinched at first. His hand had all the warmth as that of a dead man's. And he was still. No draws of breath; the rise and fall. Nothing. His animation and yet lifelessness was disturbing. "Where are we going?" she asked him nervously.

"One of the drawing rooms," his voice was soft, as affable as she had found him to be before this revelation.