Eternal Night (I) Chapter 22: One Step Forward, Two St, a van helsing fanfic

Happy Friday and happy end of April! Wait... end of April? Where the hell did this month go? How is it already MAY? **cue panic**

Anyways, all the thanks to Scarlet Empress, She-Devil Red, Riona Winters, and cneajna for the reviews this week! The first half of this chapter is absolutely for you guys! The second half... well... that's for the people who read/stalk this story (I still see you guys in my stats, y'all) and don't bother to check in ;) You know who you are... (I'm also totally kidding, calm down).

CW: all the goddamned sexual tension and a whole lotta denial. I apologize for nothing. I warned you that this was going to be a slow-burn. I bloody well meant it.

Chapter 22
One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

Isabella's joy could scarcely be described. The woman was a picture of unbridled delight when the two vampires had returned with a deceased Vittoro in tow. Evidently, even with the advanced warning and additional vampire support, there had been a number of lives lost on the lycan side. But considering what the casualties could have been, her majesty was nothing but relief and gratitude.

"Francesca Chase, I owe you my life," the queen proclaimed, after they had handed over the assassin's remains. "The great service you and Mr. Leinhart have performed on our behalf, your dedication and unwavering loyalty to me and my kind… I cannot even begin to thank you enough, my friend. I could kiss you!"

"If you don't, I'd be happy to oblige," Tristan mentioned with a crooked grin.

Frankie smiled, attention bashfully moving to the floor.

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary," she declined with noted grace. "Truly, it was nothing. I'm only grateful that the crisis was averted and that Anna-Sophie is now out of danger."

"If anything, this has proven that our defenses are not as impenetrable as some had assumed," the lycan prince continued, sending a certain look to his sister that seemed to suggest that they had had this conversation before. To her majesty's credit, she did not appear offended. If anything, she agreed.

"You were right and I am sorry for not listening to you. After the events of this morning, I can assure you it will not happen again. I will request an audience with the elders this afternoon and we will discuss the requisite adjustments that will need to be made."

Tristan nodded, clearly grateful for the more reasonable attitude his elder sister had decided to adopt.

"If I may be so bold," Frankie intervened delicately, "I do have a few suggestions, if you're opening to hearing them."

"But of course!" Isabella exclaimed.

While the woman shared her advice with the lycan royalty, Dracula remained fairly silent, perfectly content in being a mute bystander. Vladislaus may have privately questioned Frankie's intermediary capabilities in the past, but having been granted the opportunity to see her in action only continued to change the way in which he looked at her. The woman had her flaws, to be sure; but the way she maintained her personability, all while possessing a certain regality in her interactions – it was impressive. She spoke to these lycan royals with the regard befitting of their station, but also managed to balance that with a certain level of candor. She never once demeaned or degraded others with her counsel.

She spoke to them as equals.

She was diplomatic, yet forthright, poised and gracious, never standoffish.

And the longer he observed her in this exchange with the werewolves she had been so eager to help, the harder it was to banish the imaginings he was now having of this woman as his future queen.

For starters, the socio-political possibilities were suddenly endless.

Soon, the conversation returned to the point at hand as the werewolf queen began to shower the pair of vampires in thanks and praise once again. Dracula was a little tempted on more than one occasion to slip into his old habits of arrogance and regal supremacy – it had been an absurdly simple mission, after all – but something about Frankie's affability gave him the strength to stay quiet and humble, until he was absently mirroring the actions of the woman at his side almost entirely.

The modesty of the two vampires only seemed to impress Isabella further and after her expressions of gratitude were complete, she offered the pair her hospitality as the sun was on the verge of rising. Thankfully – and Dracula secretly released a sigh in relief – Frankie declined the invitation, insisting that she wished to gather Anna-Sophie and bring the child back to her mother herself. Moved by this further display of devotion, Isabella blessed her in her native tongue before dismissing them, all previous conflicts seeming now resolved.

Tristan escorted them to the surface, and when the goodbyes were said and the lycan prince vanished back underground, both Frankie and Vladislaus took a moment to bask in the clean early morning air. Nothing but the occasional look passed between them as they silently agreed to walk back to Carmen's, seeing as how Rémy had taken their only means of transportation.

Although, Lyra's bike was still parked outside, meaning the woman hadn't left just yet.

A small, mischievous smile curved Frankie's lips at the sight of the motorcycle as she and Dracula began to walk side-by-side in the middle of the vacant street.

"What is it?" he asked a little mischievously. His question seemed to make that smirk of hers a bit more pronounced.

"Lyra," was all she said. She immediately looked over at him to see if he understood, but the only response she got was an arched brow. She chuckled, suddenly sympathetic of his continued state of ignorance. "Don't worry, Mr. Leinhart. I trust that someday I won't ever have to explain a thing to you. All I'll have to do is send you a look and you'll understand."

Now it was his turn to smile.

He liked the sound of that.

"You are that confident that we'll one day become of the same mind?"

"I can't explain it. It's just a feeling I have," she replied, turning to study him more closely. When she noticed the stains in his pants and shirt from their previous excursion in the sewers, she sighed rather heavily. "Oh dear."

"What is it?" The alarm in his voice was sloppily masked.

"You've completely ruined your clothes."

"You're not exactly free of stain either."

"I know, but those are Bonasera trousers – extremely difficult to come by. Good thing you left the jacket in the car."

Dracula shrugged.

"I don't know. I might be able to wash it out. A good soak might do the trick."

"I'd be impressed if you could. Blood is one of the hardest things to wash out of fabric."

"I may have been born at night, but I wasn't born last night," he replied with a cheeky grin. She rolled her eyes.

"I know that. I'm just… mourning the loss of your pants."

Vlad laughed openly at that.

"Then I thank you on their behalf for your pity, mademoiselle," and he bowed a little dramatically, earning a light chuckle from the woman. Never had a smile from a woman in recent memory been more gratifying. "But I assure you, I'm perfectly capable of laundering my own clothes. This certainly isn't the first time I've gotten blood all over me – nor will it be the last."

"I don't know…" she teased.

He scoffed, pretending to be offended.

"You dare to question my domestic abilities?"

"You admittedly don't strike me as the type. I've always pictured you as the sort of man who pays to have others wait on him hand and foot."

His grin widened.

"So mordant, Miss Chase."

Her countenance grew openly flirtatious.

"Only with you."

There was some quiet chuckling and then silence lingered for several minutes. Vlad was genuinely surprised to find the quiet between them rather comfortable. In any other situation, he would be racking his brain for conversation ideas, but with Francesca it seemed so natural – when to talk and when not to talk.

He stole another glance in her direction from his periphery. She was still smiling, though her mien had altered somewhat. His curiosity got the better of him.

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm still trying to imagine you doing household chores. I can't seem to do it without wanting to laugh!"

"Do you really believe me to be so incompetent?" Her expression was her answer and he pressed his hand to his heart as if he had been stabbed. "You wound me!" he teased, overly melodramatic for the sheer purpose of getting her to smile some more. He couldn't help himself. That smile of hers, that rare kind – it struck him stupid every time he saw it and realized it was for him. "My undead heart is bleeding!" and he grabbed her hand and brought it to his chest. "Have you no feeling in you? My pride! My poor pride!"

His taunting earned him the open laughter he had been aiming for.

She had such an infectious laugh. Her eyes lit up in a way that was almost spellbinding, the brilliant blue of her irises sparkling as her amusement deepened.

"I do believe you'll live," she assured him, patting her hand over his chest before bringing it back to her side again. He mourned the loss of her touch almost immediately.

"Ah, but alas, I fear you are too late." She looked at him questioningly. "I'm already dead."

Frankie rolled her eyes, but they remained bright with delight.

"What I meant to say was that your pride will survive."

"No, even then, I fear my pride will never have the chance of recovering. Your vicious repartee leaves it thoroughly wounded after every meeting."

"I don't know. I think your ripostes are improving."

"What's this? A compliment? The devil be praised! She complimented me!"

"Though your technique could use some work."

"Ah – there it is. I spoke too soon. You know, I do believe you delight in finding fault with me."

"I'm only returning the favor," she said. "Besides, everyone else is so enamored with you. Therefore, the task has evidently fallen on me to keep you grounded."

"You don't actually believe that…" he countered doubtfully, though in truth he was having trouble telling.

"From the very beginning, everyone has believed you to be entirely without fault; so attractive and clever. Mr. Sex-On-Legs. But your beauty is a façade and your wit a means of deflection. You may have beguiled everyone else, but I am not so easily taken in. There is more to you than meets the eye." She noticed that his grin had grown a bit dark and his sudden scrutiny made her feel uncharacteristically self-conscious. "What?"

"Mr. Sex-On-Legs?"

She blanched, but quickly recovered.

"Carmen's nickname for you, not mine."

"But you think I'm clever and attractive?"

"I– what? No! No, I said no such thing."

"But you did. Not even a few seconds ago."

"No I did-" She stopped mid-sentence and sent him a disapproving look when she saw the way he was gloating over her. "Stop twisting my words."

"I'm not. I'm merely repeating them."

Embarrassed at her Freudian slip and now a bit out of sorts as consequence, she let out a sigh of frustration, quickening her pace, thinking if she could out-walk him, she could out-walk the growing shame in her reaction to him as well. Much to her chagrin, he continued to keep pace with her.

"You are so intolerably pompous, it's a wonder anyone puts up with you." Her pace quickened further as her mortification settled in.

"And there we are with the insulting again."

"It's nothing more than what you deserve. See if I ever attempt to pay you a compliment again."

He easily kept up with her fierce stride, managing to stay beside her which only incited her further irritation.

"I'm not entirely sure attempt is the correct word, as you were entirely successful in your endeavor, though for the life of me, I can't understand why you feel the need to take it back."

"Well, enjoy it, because I will certainly not be making that same endeavor again, since you seem to take some sort of sick, sadistic pleasure in teasing me."

"Only because you get this becoming little flush in your cheeks when you're embarrassed or angry," and he reached out to pinch her face but she ducked away and slapped his hand.

"Don't touch me!"

His smile slipped.

Was she really upset with him? But why? She had said the words of her own volition – it wasn't as though he had coerced her into saying anything.

He could understand if she was maybe a little embarrassed, but this reaction was so unnecessary…

"I'm sorry…" he began, but she brushed him off and moved to walk past him.

"Sure you are."

"Woah… hold on for just one moment," and he quickly materialized in front of her to block her retreat. "If my teasing is what has offended you, I do apologize, but you'll forgive me – I thought you were above letting some mild embarrassment incite you to anger. So you find yourself attracted to me. So what? Is that really so terrible?"

Unfortunately, his sincerity struck a nerve and Frankie, being hungry, tired, stressed out, and a bit more short-tempered than normal, had to bite her tongue.

She wasn't spoiling for a fight.

Oh hell, yes you are… a nefarious voice whispered in the back of her brain. She tried to block it out with a desperate, Francesca, don't. Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut…

"First of all, aesthetic appeal and actual attraction are two very different things. Just because I can see why others might find you appealing does not mean I share their sentiments."

Ugh, Francesca… why are you like this? the more reasonable side of her brain groaned, but she did her best to stifle it.

Vlad, meanwhile, was entirely bewildered by this sudden change in her, and he shook his head in disbelief.

"What?" she snapped.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Encourage me one moment and push me violently away the next, like you're hell-bent on hating me. What are you afraid of?"

"I don't hate you. I don't know you well enough to hate you."

He nearly rolled his eyes, but managed to refrain.

A deep breath steadied him as he strove to scrape up a bit more patience from his dwindling reserves.

"Very well – why do you dislike me as vehemently as you do? I can't understand what it is I've done to make you treat me in such a way."

"Are you serious?" she asked rather incredulously. "Nothing comes to mind? Maybe I should recount a couple of incidents for you, help jog your memory."

"I don't appreciate your tone…"

She ignored him, continuing.

"Let's start with the first night we met. You insulted me, without provocation, I might add..."

"That was weeks ago. Are you seriously still holding onto that?"

"It doesn't matter how long ago it was. It was wrong."

"And I apologized for that, you will recall," he pointed out calmly. "Why do you even care so much what I…"

"Actually, the words 'I'm sorry' never left your lips, so no – you did not," she interrupted, not willing to acknowledge his unfinished query – as perfectly justifiable as it was.

He nearly called her out on her petulance but decided against it.

"Well then, I'll say it now," he conceded, though it was mostly through gritted teeth. "I am sorry for hurting you."

"I don't want an obligatory expression of regret, Leinhart – I deserve sincerity."

"You don't think I'm being sincere?" he asked, affronted. What exactly did she want from him? For him to get on his knees and beg? Ha! In her wildest dreams!

"No, I don't think you are – because just hours ago, you sought to get a rise out of me yet again. Does the name Rodin ring a bell?"

When Dracula released his breath that time, he made no effort to veil his annoyance, knowing exactly where she was going with this. He ran his hand over his face, now struggling to keep his own temper in check.

"For pity's sake, woman, I was teasing. What's the matter? Can't take what you so freely dish out?" He leaned in a bit. "Besides, it was completely innocuous. You were overreacting then and you're overacting now."

"I am not overreacting. Your treatment of me is uncalled for!" she exclaimed, shoving him away from her, not entirely sure why she felt the need to do so, but the brief physical contact sent sparks up through her arms, which left her all the more conflicted… and agitated. "I am not some object that's just here for your amusement! You've done nothing but poke and prod and push buttons and test boundaries with me, and only me, for the entire duration of our acquaintanceship. Hell – the night you were working on the floor at Carmen's place and you said you were good with your hands, and then there's the way you've been staring at me lately... You may pretend to be innocent, but we both know you're not! You have known exactly what you are doing each and every time!"

Dracula never uttered a word as he allowed her accusations sink in.

She wasn't entirely wrong, but she was assuming he poked and prodded and teased with malicious intent. She had no idea where much of his behavior stemmed from and he wasn't about to reveal his secret now – not with her sudden hostility and the way she presently reeked of a fear he could not account for. No – telling her the truth would only give her further munitions to put up an even greater wall than the one she was now frantically struggling to throw up between them.

While he couldn't understand her insistence at continuously pushing him away when it was so very clear that the gravitational pull he was experiencing, that effortless attraction even amidst their present argument was anything but one-sided, he knew better than to push her further than he already had.

But her poor view of his character and intentions wounded him in a way he hadn't expected.

This was not the playful and confident Francesca he liked so much, the one who had so effortlessly captivated him all those centuries ago in Venice, the one who was secure enough in herself to not just tease, but to take it in return. There were remnants of her in there somewhere, but every time he got close to pulling it out of her, something kept flicking off a switch in her brain that had her immediately burying any degree of playfulness and vulnerability. Something had happened to her in the centuries they had been apart, something truly terrible to make this woman at his side stink of fear and insecurity.

But what was it? And how was he to grow close to her as he ought to if she continued hold him at arm's length like this?

In that moment, Vladislaus found himself wondering if Francesca Chase was more trouble than she was probably worth.

Prophecy or not, he couldn't help but question suddenly if his pursuit of this woman was even in his best interest.

Mariella had been wrong before; perhaps she had been mistaken?

There were too many questions – too many questions that needed answers.

There was so much about Francesca and this situation in general that he did not understand and without that foundation, without at least some semblance of trust between them, any kind of real progress would continue to remain entirely out of his reach.

His instincts told him that there was more to this woman's sudden change in temperament than what was on the surface, but he wasn't sure he had the patience or fortitude to maintain his present restraint. If anything, the barrage of insults and suspicion had put him on the defensive.

In a final attempt to bring an end to the hostilities, he breathed in deep through his nose, let the air out slowly, and finally replied.

"Clearly the stress of this morning's festivities has taken its toll on you," he said at last. "I suggest we put an end to this discussion and either move on to a less sensitive topic or just forego conversation altogether."

It was clear by her frustrated growl and the fidgeting with her hair that his words had only irritated her further. Little did he know that Frankie was at war with herself.

Everything about him made her feel simultaneously confused and agitated and off-kilter and she hated it, hated feeling so out of control, so conflicted, as if his very existence had the power to tie her insides up into knots.

"See, that is so like you to just ignore the accusations, to dance around them and pretend they never existed. Why can't you be a man and just face them, or at least attempt to contradict them? Why are you such a bloody coward?!"

That final insult pushed him over the edge and in a movement too fast for the human eye to detect, Dracula had pinned Frankie against the wall of a neighboring building, somewhere in a narrow alleyway, leaving her completely swallowed up in his shadow.

He glared directly into her eyes, gaze blazing in a blue fire that burned cold. A power Frankie had never witnessed in him before now emanated from his person in electric waves; the strength and authority that ate up every cell in his body so very real to her suddenly. He pointed slowly at her, hand trembling in a way that was barely discernible.

She should have been afraid, or at the very least intimidated by the disapproval in his eyes, but what was coursing through her veins in that moment was something else entirely, something that sent an indecent heat spearing through her womb.

"It would sit well with you, madam, if you refrained from abusing me further," he whispered darkly. "I am not in the habit of tolerating the kind of insolence that so easily spills from your lips, and I warn you, if you ever, ever call me a coward again, there will be consequences."

"Yeah, right," and she tried to shove him away, but he caught her wrists in his hands, her stubbornness rousing his inherent need for dominance as he got up in her face.

"I mean it, Francesca. I don't mind a headstrong woman, but your brand of obstinacy is testing the limits of my patience."

"Is that supposed to make me feel guilty?"

"It's not supposed to make you feel anything."

"Then why are we still having this conversation?" and she struggled half-heartedly to free her hands, but he held her wrists tight.

"Because I want to make sure that you perfectly understand that I am not a man to be tested."

"Oh – so you can test me, but if I fire back in a way you don't like, it's suddenly unacceptable?" Her scoff chafed him. "You're unbelievable."

He snarled at her, but she never shrank in the face of his display. Insted, she held his gaze with boldness, her disinterested expression belying the way some dark and secret part of her absolutely loved the dangerous look in his eyes, the way he had her pinned to the wall.

"You're also a glutton for punishment," she continued conversationally. "Most men would have given up by now."

"I would love nothing more than to just leave you here and never look back, but I don't exactly have much of a choice in the matter, now do I?" he replied – and that was certainly true, though not for the reasons she probably assumed.

"Well at least you sticking around is out of obligation and not something else."

The shift in her expression nearly pulled the rug out from under him, so to speak, and the anger in his countenance waned a little, a single brow arching.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You aren't lingering because you want me."

His mien shifted then to something a little more sinister, a slow and lethal smile curling his lips as her choice of words sent his anger shifting, turning him more dangerous, predatory.

"Want you?" he lilted, voice suddenly so deep and low, she could feel it reverberating in her skin. "Dragă, don't flatter yourself."

"Somebody has to do it," was her caustic answer. "Otherwise my own pride would diminish entirely. I'm sure you of all people could sympathize with that."

Her biting repartee had the reverse effect she had initially intended.

She had hoped it would inspire him to release her; that her self-deprecation and the not-so-subtle jab at his ego would cool whatever the hell was now brewing between them, but instead the opposite occurred. He took the wrists he was still holding and pressed them to the wall on either side of her head. Then he leaned in until the space between them nearly became a thing of the past. She could feel the subtle heat of him, his energy, and it left Frankie reeling all of a sudden, despite her desperate attempt to stifle whatever it was he was awakening in her.

But then he slid her hands up higher, gripping them above her head while is other hand gently took hold of her throat – as if he knew how much she liked it when he did that – the dominance, the restraint on her person. That stretch of flesh between his thumb and index finger forced her to tilt her head up so she would have to look at him as the slight swell between his hips brushed against her belly. The contact eked out the tiniest moan from her lips, one she would have preferred to keep locked away in her throat, but her unconscious admission of pleasure softened the harsh lines of his face.

His cool breath was now lightly fanning her and it suddenly dawned on Frankie that the man's irises were absolutely spellbinding when they glowed like that, the tips of his fangs peering from behind tempting lips like some kind of dark invitation – from one demon to another. She couldn't help but hold his gaze.

Was he actually getting turned on by this too?

"My darling Francesca. Witty to the last, no matter the situation. I love that about you."

"You love that about me?" she repeated, a bit more surprised at his word choice instead of its implication.

Dracula quickly noted his slip and attempted to course-correct.

"Don't fret – it's one of a very short list, as the rest of your person seems determined to drive me to madness."

She tried to sigh in relief, but it came out as a small gasp.

"Good. For a moment there I dared to believe I was growing on you."

Once more, her words had the opposite of their intended effect – perhaps because the tone she found herself using all of a sudden conveyed the contrary of what she was saying.

And the way he was looking at her now was making it damn near impossible to get a hold over herself.

On the surface, he was such an infuriating man – arrogant, presumptive, merciless in his teasing… but in a twisted sort of way, she found herself liking the way he challenged her at every front – even if on some level it terrified her how easy he made it to forget… to want to just let go. If it had been any other man, she was certain she wouldn't have felt thus, but with him –

Every rule she had established for herself was now being called into question; every promise she had ever made now at risk of being thrown to the wayside; every line and boundary starting to blur.

On the surface she was confident and cool.

Internally she was panicking.

This game had already grown too precarious.

If they kept this up, she'd soon be out of her depth and then what would happen?

Vlad Leinhart made her feel invincible and utterly helpless in one fell swoop. With him, she didn't just want to lose control, she needed it… and that need terrified her.

I can't like him, her subconscious was screaming. No, no, no!

But her body… her body was having other ideas.

"Oh, I think you have the ability to grow on me rather quickly, Francesca," he purred, the way he uttered her name full of suggestion.

The hand on her neck moved upward to caress her cheek while his other finally released her hands to rest on her hip. His soft touches and intense gaze ignited something deep inside of her, a fire she thought had gone out long ago.

Frankie was now standing on the edge of oblivion.

A single touch of his fingers at her cheek sent her sex quivering embarrassingly in anticipation and her lips parted of their own volition in breathless wonder.

The temptation he presented was too great, the gravitational pull too powerful. She had no idea why she even felt this way about him in the first place, why a single look from those icy blue eyes could reduce her to such a submissive and compliant liquid mess of a woman, but his effect on her could not be denied. It sent her mind into a further panicked frenzy as she struggled to regain control of herself.

"Don't call me that," she whispered unconvincingly, looking straight into his eyes, only now her gaze pierced beyond the surface. For a succinct instant, she could see inside him, could sense what he wanted when he brushed over her lips with his fingertips.

And for the briefest of moments, she wanted him to do it, to kiss her. To taste her.

Claim me, something pleaded in the shadows of her mind, hoping against hope that he'd somehow hear it. Free me. Free us… Free us, beloved.

"Why not?" he whispered, the faint smile that curved his lips disarming. "That's your name, is it not… Francesca?"

Frankie could feel herself tumbling into the sleek and slippery pool of desire created by Vlad's voice. He was seducing her with his nearness, with his light touches and the deep, delicious gravel of his timbre – she was fully aware of it, and yet she was having the most difficult time resisting. She had dealt with advances and overtures of hopeful suitors in the past and had always possessed the self-mastery to push them away with relative ease – even when she was interested in them.

But this… this was different.

This was new and with every gentle pull he made to tempt her closer to that invisible line, she found herself inching further out of her depth.

She felt drawn to him like gravity, pulled helplessly into his orbit time and again as if her body and soul had a will of its own and she had no say in anything. Suppressing the natural craving of another's touch had been an easy thing to do in the past; why was it so difficult all of a sudden? She could almost taste his lips as he whispered incoherent nothings, the sultry Romanian gliding off his tongue like oil and bathing her skin in a desire so rich, she could have drowned in it.

It would have been such a simple thing – to surrender, to ask him to claim her right here and now against this very wall. From the look in his eyes, she knew he would have no objections to the request – a release of the sexual tension would have been a welcomed occurrence.

Yet, fear continued to cloy in the back of Frankie's lust-drunk mind. This reaction of hers wasn't normal, even if it seemed strangely familiar, instinctual. Wait a moment… She had felt this way once before, many centuries ago… but where?

Unable to recall the actual memory, the momentary distraction of thought did manage to resuscitate her sense of restraint.

She could not do this.

This was dangerous and stupid – unbelievably so. If she gave in to temptation now, if she surrendered to the tension and the lust and initiated an illicit affair with her brother's new best friend, it would have only one outcome.

A whirlwind passion followed by bloodshed and heartache.

And as conflicted as her feelings were for this man, the thought of his blood on her hands, his lifeless remains at her feet… it was enough to snap her out of her carnal stupor.

"Not to you," she finally answered, her voice still a bit breathless, but much more confident than she could have hoped.

Vlad's seducing came to a halt when she spoke and he moved his head back a ways so he could better look into her eyes, making sure he had heard her correctly. Her expression confirmed that he had.

"Anything remotely intimate or familiar between us can never take place. It is forbidden." His open astonishment made her feel brave and she quickly took advantage of the upper hand she had obtained, slowly moving his hands away from her. "I am Rémy's sister. You are his best friend. I would recommend you look elsewhere for your baser fulfillment. While your consideration flatters me, I cannot, I will not give you what you seek. Not ever."

Frankie's tone was so steady, so cold, that Dracula found it almost impossible to decipher whether or not she had meant a word she had just spoken. The expression she was wearing instilled some doubt in him, but he could scarcely address it, still reeling from the hundred-and-eighty degree turn they had suddenly taken… yet again. He stood there for several moments, just soaking in her baffling rejection, savoring the stinging sensation like some kind of masochist.

Without so much as a word, he distanced himself from her, his expression immediately vacant of all emotion. He gestured toward the street and she began to walk away quickly, refusing to look at him for the next hour or so until they were finally out of lycan territory. The moment a cab came within view, Vlad waved it down and opened the door, signaling for Frankie to enter first.

She wordlessly climbed into the back seat of the cab and began to scoot to the other end to make room for him when he shut the door behind her and walked away.

She watched as he disappeared down some unknown alley and then he was out of sight.

After giving the driver the address to Carmen's new place, Frankie fell silent.

Part of her felt ashamed for her treatment of Lienhart – hot one minute and cold the next. It was cruel and it was childish and she berated herself for being so indecisive.

Another part of her recognized that she could have gone about her rejection a bit differently, perhaps explaining her reasons for doing so instead of heartlessly confusing him with her mixed signals and then pulling the rug out from under him. But she quickly rationalized that it was better to smash and frustrate any feelings he may have had for her before they could set root in him.

Frankie covered her face with her hand after releasing a heavy sigh.

This was a bloody disaster.

Her lack of self-control around that man was a liability. She shouldn't have encouraged his attentions, shouldn't have flirted, shouldn't have played the game. The whole ride to Carmen's, Frankie silently berated herself for being so weak-willed.

The woman was so consumed with her own thoughts that she hardly noticed when the cab had finally stopped. She handed the man some money before climbing out, hoping against hope that Leinhart wasn't somehow inside. She just wanted to get Anna-Sophie, take her back to Isabella, drive back home, have a nice hot shower, and then sleep for the next two days.

To her relief – and conflicting disappointment – Vlad was not there.

Rémy, Danny, and Lily were sitting in the corner playing dominos as Carmen buffed the granite countertops of her new bar. The woman was the first to notice Frankie's silent entrance and in a confusing sense of panic, Carmen suddenly ran over to her friend, grabbing her hand and hauling her into the hallway that led to the kitchen door without so much as a word of explanation.

The moment they were inside, Carmen whispered, "Well?"

"Well what? I'm in no mood for vagueness."

"How did it go? With the Invisible?"

"He's dead. They're all dead if that's what you're wondering."

"So everything went all right."

"Yes. Isabella wants me to bring her Anna-Sophie as soon as possible."

"Why don't you have one of the guys do it… you look terrible."

"No, I gave Isabella my word, and I'd much rather do this myself than leave it to someone else. She's my god-daughter, after all."

"Where's Leinhart?"

"Don't know, don't care." Carmen sent her a look and Frankie crumbled immediately. "We quarreled… again, which should come as no surprise to anyone at this point."

"Evidently," the Spaniard chuckled softly. "What was it about this time?"

"I'd rather not get into it right now. It was my fault anyway, and I feel terrible, but it… it had to be done."

"Alright then."

"Where is Anna-Sophie? It's overcast out and I'd like to take advantage of the lack of sunlight."

"She's still in the basement. Vesper was with her for much of the time but I just sent the girl to bed. Those two clicked almost immediately. They are thick as thieves now," Carmen explained, leading Frankie back into the hall and toward the small hidden door in the wall that led down to the lower level.

"Perhaps I can convince Isabella to allow Anna-Sophie to visit Vesper or vice versa? Those two need friends closer to their own age – Vesper especially."

"I couldn't agree more. You wouldn't mind running it by her majesty?" though she said the words with a degree of irony.

"Let's just get her home first and then we'll see what can be done."

"Oh and Frankie… there's something I need to tell you," Carmen added rather suddenly as she opened the small hidden door and followed the woman inside. "It's about Anna-Sophie's father."

"What about him?"

Carmen never needed to answer Frankie's question, for the answer soon appeared before her at the bottom of the stair.

Sitting in the shadows with the young hybrid princess fast asleep in his arms sat a man who appeared to be in his early thirties. He had the physique of a warrior and bright green eyes that glowed like emeralds in the darkness. Frankie recognized the man immediately from his picture and the surprise at his presence caused a gasp to get caught somewhere in her throat.

It was the eldest of the Dracul Sânge.

Ezekiel Masthena.

Oh Frankie. Frankie, Frankie, my love... you and I still have our work cut out for us, don't we?