Eternal Night (I) Chapter 38: Close, a van helsing fanfic

Thanks to Scarlet Empress, mystery of NC, She-Devil Red, inkmagpie, Riona Winters, and cneajna for reviewing this week.

This chapter is another long one. If I was a needlessly cruel SOB, I'd break it up at the good part, but I'm not needlessly cruel... remember this ;) (ahem) ANYWAYS...

CW: long-awaited, intense saliva exchanges and tonsil hockey ahead (lol)... and also some hot and heavy sexual-ish content of the non-naked, physically-vertical-but-would-kill-to-be-horizontal variety... and that's all I'm going to say about that. ENJOY!

Chapter 38
Close

To the astute observer it was clear that despite Dracula's natural sense of poise and self-confidence, he was presently a bit out of his element. Perhaps it was the music… if such melodically devoid noise could even be considered music.

For a moment, Vlad found himself waxing nostalgic for the old days. The world had once whispered his name in a hushed combination of fear and veneration. He had been a figure of shadow and raw power; his mere presence enough to command a room before he had even entered it; his reputation as a man of means, ambition, and an unquenchable thirst well known.

But now…

Now, he was just an anonymous face in the sea of a nameless crowd, brilliant lights of crimson red and blinding white flashing over his face in time to a borderline nauseatingly loud beat.

As far as night clubs went, he supposed this establishment was certainly worthy of its prestige, but the name Scarlet seemed a bit too on the nose for his taste. The faintest of ironic smirks tugged at the corner of his lips as he moved effortlessly through the throng of gyrating dancers. The décor was high-class, though, with glittering chandeliers of crystal, ruby, and obsidian glass; the walls lined in jacquard designs of black and red, the expensive booths for guests to sit and drink upholstered in the finest velvet.

If Vladislaus had ever owned a private nightclub, he probably would have had it designed in a similar fashion – but perhaps with a different color scheme. In spite of Aldrick Meino's questionable character and associations, however, he certainly had excellent taste.

Finally free from the crowd, Dracula leaned back against the bar, scanning the scene casually in search of someone in particular.

He quickly noticed Carmen and Lyra seated at a table on the other side of the room, the latter of the females frequently stealing glances in the direction of the entrance as if she were expecting someone. Danny and Rémy had evidently finished their introductions with Aldrick's second in command and were now being granted access to the VIP section on the balcony that overlooked the dance floor; and dispersed throughout were faces of other alliance members that he recognized, but Francesca was nowhere to be found.

That is, until a familiar voice caught his attention at his side.

He turned to discover the woman attempting to get the attention of one of the bartenders, though perhaps attempt wasn't the right word. With her sudden appearance and a snap of her fingers, the set of heads behind the counter turned at once. Vlad's smirk deepened.

"I'll take an absinthe over here," Frankie called out over the deafening music, placing her payment on the counter before sliding it forward with a single finger. The bartender, who made no attempt to conceal his open interest of her figure, nodded once and began to reach for a spoon and a cube of sugar when she stopped him. "Backdraft, please."

"That ruins the liquor," the man insisted, but Frankie waved her hand, dismissing his argument.

"That's a matter of opinion," she declared, taking a seat in one of the stools, the crossing of her legs making the skin-tight faux leather of her leggings momentarily protest the friction. She then leaned forward a little against the counter, elbow resting on the wood as her lightly clenched fist propped up her head, eyes watching Vlad closely, as if she were silently inviting him to make the next move.

Although distracted by the sight of the skin her black racer-back tank was blessedly unable to cover, he shook the lust from his thoughts and took the open seat at her side, careful not to knock his leg against the pointed tip of her heeled shoes.

"Make that two," he said. "Taking a break from the usual whiskey then?"

"I felt like mixing things up a bit," she confessed, moving her hair to one side so it rested over her right shoulder, giving him the perfect view of her bare neck. Though done with a sense of absentminded distraction, knowing her it was probably some calculated move and that degree of mischievousness sent the corner of his lips twitching just a fraction higher.

He never gave her the satisfaction of openly ogling, however.

Their game was still afoot, after all.

The bartender finally placed the small shot glasses of green liquor in front of them before he carefully took his lighter and lowered the flame to each of the glasses. The alcohol ignited immediately and in perfect unison, both Frankie and Vlad lowered their palms over the rim of the glasses, snuffing out the fire while lifting the drink.

Frankie was the first to slowly move her hand from the top of the glass, breathing in deep of the alcohol vapor produced by the flame before knocking back the entire shot in one fell swoop. After Dracula had followed suit, he returned his attention to her.

"So last night your brother had mentioned certain intelligence that only the likes of Aldrick and his… his associate could give," he said, leaning in close so he could speak to her in lower tones without anyone else overhearing. "What's so important that he would put the alliance at risk? I mean, I understand the appeal of having the Spider on our side, but after hearing your argument, I find myself wondering if it's worth the trouble."

Frankie scooted over so her stool was a little closer to his, continuing to lean a bit on the counter at her side as she positioned her face mere inches from his own.

"Well, for starters, he wants to know if there are any specific council members or individuals of the old court whose loyalties still reside with Dracula – even in part," she explained.

"Why would he bother with such a pointless endeavor? I thought they had all been corrupted? Wouldn't it just be easier to wipe them out entirely instead of attempting to reason with them?"

"When a person has cancer, you don't just kill them outright – not when there's a chance to salvage what is still healthy," she pointed out. "Tell me – you've been around for almost a millennium now. Where were you during the French Revolution?"

"The end of the eighteenth century? I did a lot of traveling between here and London on business, took a trip or two down to Venice, one to Rome. Why?"

"My brother and I lived in France for a few years during the revolution," she explained. "We both watched old family friends and even loved ones die before their time, all because they had noble blood in them. It didn't matter if they were good people or not – they were condemned because of their titles, their heritage, their position in society. Believe me, I get it – it might seem easy on the surface to just condemn an entire class of people and carry on as if the problems we face are somehow miraculously resolved, but what those fools of the revolution did not seem to grasp is that most of the time they were murdering innocent people. Families. Women and children. They even tried coming after my family, but quickly learned that declaring war on a group of vengeful vampires that had just lost a number of their closest friends wasn't exactly the wisest thing."

"Rémy is better than I, then, I suppose. I fear I haven't always had the patience in these sort of situations. To be so willing to risk his neck on the chance that he could save a couple of innocents in the process is very noble of him. Most leaders I've known often sacrifice the few for the sake of the many."

"Wars are devastating things – as I'm sure you are well aware. But most wars at least have some semblance of organization to them. Revolutions tend to be chaotic and bloody, borderline anarchic. Augustine would take advantage of any chaos we create – intentionally or otherwise. We can't let him do that. I wish things could be more black and white. It would certainly make our jobs so much easier. But, as it is with most things, it's all just varying shades of gray. The situation – like people, really – there's too many variables, too much complexity and nuance. "

"Can I get you anything else?" the bartender interrupted and the two, who had been sitting rather close to one another, straightened simultaneously, creating a bit of distance between them. As Dracula ordered two glasses of blood, Frankie scanned the crowd for a moment.

"So that explains the need to ally with Aldrick, but not the Spider part of the equation," Dracula continued after sliding her glass closer to her. She absently caressed the crystal stem, but did not drink right away. "I don't need to point out to you that the man can't be trusted, though I was getting the feeling yesterday that you may have a more personal understanding of his character than your brother does."

"What gave you that impression?"

"You seemed to speak from experience."

Her lips curved into a smile, but it was rueful at best, never reaching her eyes.

"Let's just say I've had my share of run-ins with bad characters and leave it at that," she said, taking a sip from her glass.

"I also couldn't help but recall," he went on, "how when we first met, you had threatened to inform the Spider about Morene's whereabouts."

Though surprised by his astonishingly excellent memory, Frankie sent him an arched look.

"Do you forget anything?"

"Not when it comes to you," he stated flirtatiously, pleased when her smile broadened some, even if her gaze did divert away in mild embarrassment. But the pleasure in her countenance didn't last long, that earlier disquiet clouding her expression. The change caught his interest. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," she insisted, though it was plain that she was hiding something.

"I apologize if what I said offended you…"

"No, it's not that," she immediately assured him, even reaching out to rest her hand over his for a moment. "You just… all this talk about Augustine and the alliance and Basilio… it just reminded me of something."

"I'm sorry that it proved to be so unpleasant," he offered with sincerity, his curiosity only continuing to pique. He even turned his hand in hers so he could caress the top of her knuckles with his thumb. The reassuring gesture softened her mien.

"It's not your fault I'm betrothed to a monster."

"Who? It's not Basilio, is it? That would certainly explain your aversion to the Spider in general."

"No, it's not him, though I can't say that the other option is entirely better."

Although "Leinhart" appeared indifferent by her comment, Dracula internally cringed.

Was her opinion of him really so terrible?

There was only one way to find out.

"Have you ever met our king before?" he asked, and though his query made her look on in his direction with sudden wariness, that sense of mistrust seemed to vanish as quickly as it had appeared. She studied the remaining contents in her glass for a long moment.

"Once," she admitted at last, "a very long time ago. At the time I didn't know who he was, though, and I think it's safe to say that to this day he still has no clue who I am."

"And where did this chance encounter take place?"

"At a masquerade ball in Venice, a couple of decades after I was turned."

"What did you make of him?"

"I'm pretty sure you don't want me to answer that," the woman replied with an awkward kind of chuckle. "You having worked for him for so many years and all." But he persisted.

"Was that first impression really so dreadful?"

"No, I suppose it wasn't," she admitted after some consideration. "It was quite the contrary, actually. But the man I came to know through reputation and… very personal experiences with his known associates after the fact… let's just say that what started as a juvenile fancy soon turned to disdain and then something much blacker."

"What happened?" he inquired with care, but when her expression changed he felt his undead heart plummet a little.

"Mr. Leinhart," Frankie began, but then she paused, looking up into his eyes. "Vlad," she corrected, his name uttered so softly, he barely made it out, but had his heart been beating it would have skipped at the sound. She opened her mouth as if to speak but then stopped suddenly, reconsidering. "That's a story for another time. I fear this setting is not adequate for that kind of tale."

Dracula wanted to push, and would have, but he also did not wish to undo the progress they had made. Francesca was finally starting to open up to him – in small increments, of course, but it was a noted improvement. He could scarcely recall a time he had been so patient with another person, so conscientious of his every step. Although the news of her profound dislike of who she believed Dracula to be proved rather demoralizing, he never let it show.

Instead, he merely nodded in understanding, saying nothing as he released her hand when she suddenly excused herself from his side. Vladislaus turned in his seat to watch as she made her way across the dance floor, weaving effortlessly through the crowd so she could join Carmen, Lyra, and what appeared to be a small handful of recently arrived werewolves at the table closest to the balcony stairs.

As he observed her from a distance, the king of vampires became acutely aware of an unpleasant knotting sensation in the pit of his stomach as the woman he had come to feel affection for wrapped her arms around the neck of her old lover, Tristan, in greeting. Vlad could not hear their conversation, but the visual the pair were presenting left the demon in him pacing angrily about in uncharacteristic insecurity, an alarming sense of possessiveness swelling in the center of his chest.

There was something between Dracula and this woman – he had been made conscious of it on numerous occasions and could deny it no longer. He had no wish to. But watching her affectionately kiss Tristan's cheek before leaning in close to whisper in his ear left him with a glaring realization that no matter how close he and Frankie got, the instant she discovered his true identity, she would run from him.

He couldn't explain why or how he knew this, but he was absolutely certain of it, and the sense of dread and premature defeat that flooded his system after the thought was acknowledged was crippling.

Vladislaus had been haunted by this woman from the moment they had met, and though it had taken them these last several months to grow accustomed to one another, the inexplicable pull had been present from the very start. He felt bound to her – and not just because of the mark on his chest. It was something far more profound and on a level he had never experienced with any other person – living or otherwise.

Francesca Chase – with all her quirks, oddities, and the mystery that surrounded her – she was his soul's perfect match. He could feel it in his bones.

And she despised him.

Not him as Leinhart, of course, but as Dracula – he didn't even have to hear the woman's reasons why. The evidence was there in her eyes whenever his name was uttered. It was a toxic blend of unspeakable pain and a profound resentment – an obstacle he wasn't even sure how to begin tackling.

"Can I get you anything else?" the bartender inquired, interrupting the man's private thoughts.

"Whiskey," he said, eyes still fixed on Frankie, "laced with werewolf venom, if you have any."

"I have a 2% and a 6%."

"Give me the six."

"Are you sure? It's strong stuff."

"Give the man what he wants, peasant. His drink is on me," an unknown female suddenly instructed and Dracula turned to find a fiery redhead at his side. When his drink was poured, Dracula raised his glass to the stranger in gratitude. She nodded in acknowledgment and smiled. "She's beautiful."

"Who?"

"That brunette across the room – the one you can't seem to stop staring at."

Dracula, embarrassed that he had been so transparent, stiffened a bit but said nothing.

"She wants you, you know."

"And what makes you the expert?" he inquired skeptically, eyes still straight ahead.

The redhead moved in a little closer.

"Knowing things is what I do. You of all people should understand that, Vladislaus."

Vlad went rigid at the sound of his given name, eyes widening as he froze for a moment before slowly turning his head. When his gaze fell on the woman this time, she was no longer some random female he had never seen before, but Lilith – the bride of the devil himself.

Dracula's surprise quickly turned to open disdain as his brows furrowed, expression darkening.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, voice dangerously low, yet despite the deafening noise surrounding them, he knew she could hear him perfectly.

"Checking in on my interests," was the answer of the demoness, the woman absentmindedly caressing the cloudy moonstone-like jewel on her throat. "You've been out and about for months now and you still haven't managed to seduce some silly little French girl. Honestly Vladislaus, I'm starting to wonder if you've lost your touch entirely."

"I didn't realize I had a deadline to meet," he answered sardonically, finishing what was left in his glass before turning to face her.

"Nobody likes a smartass."

"Says the woman who will happily dish it out but protests when she has to endure it herself."

Lilith sent him a scathing look.

"Don't test me."

"Or you'll what? Curse me with impotence? I'm afraid you've already done that…"

Lilith suddenly reached out and took hold of that flaccid bulge in his crotch and she squeezed down in warning.

"You and I both know I could do much worse."

Though he cringed a little in response to her unforgiving grip, he fought to at least appear unmoved.

"Unhand me or I'll..."

"You'll what? Use force? Get violent? You'll make me? I'd certainly be interested in seeing you try," and she clenched down a bit harder, smiling malevolently when he took hold of her wrist in protest.

"What do you want, snake?" he hissed in her face.

"Now, now… is that anyway to address your mother?"

"My mother was a Moldavian princess, not Lucifer's whore."

Clearly that was the wrong answer, as Lilith's hold on him grew unbearable and a flash of pain momentarily softened the hard lines in his face.

"I made you," Lilith reminded him. "The devil may no longer hold your strings, but don't think for one second that you don't still belong to me."

"I belong to no one," he answered defiantly, emphasizing each syllable as he took her throat in his free hand.

"I didn't realize your beloved was no one," and in the blink of an eye, the visage of Lilith transformed before Dracula's eyes into that of Frankie – the hair, the lips, those exquisite cheekbones…

Startled, Dracula's eyes instinctually darted across the room to where the real Frankie was standing, as if he needed to reassure himself that the one standing before him was indeed a trick of the mind. But just as he had searched for her, in that very moment Frankie had done the same – as if she had sensed him looking for her. Their eyes met for only an instant before Vlad, in a sudden panic at being discovered with the hell-spawned female at his side, moved with lightning speed away from the bar with Lilith in tow, materializing into a darkened hallway on the other side of the club.

He was unsure if Francesca had seen her own face or the face of Lilith, but he could not take that chance. Being at the mercy of this particular woman was humiliating enough.

When Dracula and Lucifer's bride were now safely tucked away in the shadows of an empty corridor and away from the noise of the establishment, Lilith had stopped squeezing his cock, but kept her hand in place even as he pressed down on her neck.

"What's the matter? Don't want your beloved Francesca de Chacier to know who you really are?" Lilith mocked with ease, as if his choking had no effect on her.

"Turn yourself back," he commanded.

"No, I think not," she declared in Frankie's voice and she leaned back against the wall he had her pinned against. "Role-playing is certainly something we never got the chance to try. Word is you're quite good at it…"

Dracula violently shoved her away as she laughed in the face of his open conflict.

"Why are you here?" he demanded once more. Though the woman continued to smile cruelly, she at least had the decency to answer him.

"You've been taking your time with this one."

"I've had to," he explained. "She's not just some ordinary woman that needs conquering."

"And why ever not?" Lilith inquired. "You've had brides – or whatever you called them – in the past and you never took any pains in earning their affection or love. You nurtured their lusts, manipulated their desires, and in a matter of days – or hours, really, depending on your mood – they were won. Now is not the time to be a romantic. Augustine must be stopped and we both know that task cannot be completed without your undying bride."

"I don't understand what Francesca has to do with any of this – outside of her past association with Marcus, details of which I've yet to get to the heart of; but that's beside the point. If you want him destroyed so desperately, why can't you just do the deed yourself? We both know you have the power."

"It's not that simple," she insisted, transforming back into her usual self, though she continued to lean against the wall. He was visibly relieved when she had shifted out of Francesca's visage, daring to sigh just a little. "When the prophecy was made, certain things were set in motion," Lilith explained. "There are rules that not even I can bend or break, Vladislaus – other pieces on the board besides you and your precious Miss Chase." The redheaded demoness released a beleaguered sigh. "In truth, this entire thing is turning out to be much bigger than even I had anticipated… and with the risk of becoming more complicated still."

"How is my becoming potentially bound to another person bigger than the likes of you or your master?"

"You mean inevitably bound," she corrected archly.

"If you think you can coerce that woman into doing something she does not wish to, you have another thing coming."

"Ah – so she's stubborn, is she? Is that why you haven't turned her into your little puppet yet? Can't hold her still long enough to fasten the strings?"

"I told you – it's not like that."

"Oh please, Vladislaus – we both know that in every relationship you've been in, you are ruler supreme or it all ends in disaster. You're an alpha, my love – the king of your kind for a reason. It's in your blood…" and she started to saunter slowly towards him. "It's why I chose you all those centuries ago." When Lilith reached him, she extended her hand, resting her palm on his chest as she looked up into his eyes. "Your need for dominance is one of my favorite things about you. The way you tear through people like a powerful wind, bending even the most determined of trees to your will. How could any woman resist that kind of power?"

"Francesca is no mere tree."

"Doesn't mean she can't be broken."

"I have no desire to break her."

"Really?" the queen of Hell purred, taking on the visage of Frankie once again as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Look me in the eye and tell me that there isn't some small, dark, hidden part of you that doesn't long to subjugate her."

Dracula said nothing.

Instead, he continued to hold the gaze of Lucifer's bride – staring into the depths of a pair of beautiful eyes that were an exact replica of the alluring Francesca's, though the quality that was distinctly hers was absent.

"Your time with these simpletons has changed you, your majesty," Lilith continued, "but at your very core you are still who you have always been. Your instincts have remained unaltered and I know how badly you want her… I know better than anyone," and with a slight rolling of her hips, the front of her body brushed against his and Vlad felt a familiar lust burn deep and low within the very center of his pelvis. "She wants you," she then whispered in his native tongue, the tip of her nose brushing against his. "But like any spirited horse, she just needs a bit of motivation to behave… just a little… push…"

Although somewhere in the back of Vlad's tormented brain he knew the Frankie in front of him was not the one he wanted, he surrendered to the deception and closed his eyes, willing himself to believe it was she. Then the demon leaned forward and kissed him.

He could scarce remember his and Frankie's first and only kiss, all those centuries ago in some dark alcove on the streets of Venice, but months of his aching desire demanded some sort of reprieve and as much as he despised Lilith, pretending he was kissing Francesca instead certainly took some of the edge off.

The queen of Hell kissed like a wanton, a woman of experience, tasting of duty and cold lust. But at least it was something – more "action" than he had had in nearly forty years – and so he persisted, his demanding mouth pressing against hers and she yielded to him with tremendous ease. Dracula wrapped his arms tight around the female's waist, crushing her body against his own, and yet it left him empty.

This is not what you want, his heart protested, and it was true. He did not want this false Francesca Chase, this lie that submitted to his every whim without question. Even as he pushed Lilith against the wall, ravaging her lips and throat with his mouth, it left him painfully unsatisfied.

The demoness raked her fingers through his hair as he suckled the side of her neck, tongue flickering over flesh and the cool gold around her throat. She whimpered in delight at the attention, and yet everything about her felt like a performance. Soon realizing that she was looking in the direction of the other end of the hall towards the main room of the club, his eyes followed hers to find that they were not alone.

Silhouetted in shadow until the flash of a spotlight illuminated the side of her face was Frankie – and she looked absolutely stunned.

Their eyes met and Dracula suddenly felt a wave of guilt wash over him, leaving him ill when he noticed the faint hint of betrayal in her otherwise shocked expression. With the next flash of light she was gone, leaving Vlad to cope with the irreparable damage he had caused in his moment of weakness.

What had he been thinking?

"Well, that should do the trick," he heard Lilith say, the sound of her voice snapping him out of whatever stupor he had been left in. She had transformed back into her normal self, but never had one so inherently beautiful appeared so vile to him.

Vladislaus quickly distanced himself from the succubus, appalled.

"What have you done?"

"Um, I believe the words you're actually looking for are 'thank you.'"

Infuriated, he hit the wall next to her head before turning to chase after Francesca, but Lilith grabbed his arm, stopping him. In one swift movement, he freed himself of her hold, pushing her away from him, but she had her claws in him once again in no time at all.

"Unhand me!"

"I will if you promise to stop stalling."

"Excuse me? Do you have any idea what damage you've done? The woman already suspects that I'm not who I say I am. Now it won't matter what I do or what I tell her – she won't trust me after this! Not ever!"

"You two don't have to be in love to fulfill the prophecy, Vladislaus – you know this! Put an end to your infuriating hesitation and be the man of action that I know you are!" she snapped angrily. "Don't make me regret my support of you."

"Your support?" he repeated incredulously. "Is that what you call support?"

"I was helping! She was never going to admit her feelings for you without some kind of motivation. Even the most confident women have insecurities, bouts of jealousy..."

"Have you completely lost your mind?" he growled, getting in her face.

"I'm starting to wonder if I have," she spat as he shook himself free from her hold one final time. "I've put every chip I have in your corner, Vladislaus. I am counting on you to live up to your reputation and get the job done."

"For the last time, she is not some obstacle that needs overcoming! Don't you get it? If I don't earn her trust the right way, the second she finds out who I am, who I truly am, she will run because of that reputation you speak of. I need her to not see the monster, but the man – and I can't do that with your petty interferences!"

Lilith laughed and never had a noise chafed his ears so much.

"You truly are delusional if you think she'll ever see anything but who you truly are. Just because your past sins are an inconvenience to you does not negate the fact that they did indeed happen, that their consequences were far more reaching than you had anticipated. Miss Chase won't magically forget or overlook your crimes when she learns the truth of them. Don't forget, the entire reason we are in this mess is because of the choices you made."

Her words sent a chill down his spine, even as his hardened expression remained etched across his features. But the woman had hit a nerve and she knew it.

"I wonder," the redhead continued, practically sneering as she matched the ferocity of his gaze, "what will your precious Francesca think of you when she learns that it was your reputed temper that originally placed her on Marcus' radar? The most effective way of wounding an enemy king is through his queen – your words, your majesty. Not mine."

Nothing would have given Dracula greater pleasure than taking this female by the hair and tearing her head clean off her shoulders; or at the very least, smashing that smug face into the neighboring wall until the bones had all but shattered. But he was never given the chance to indulge in his more violent impulses, for in that very moment, a familiar voice called his name frantically from the end of the hall, interrupting the tension-filled conversation and he turned to find Danny making his way over.

"Vlad! Thank God I found you! We need to go!" he exclaimed, motioning with his arm for the man to come, urgency in his voice.

Dracula went to look back at Lilith, having every intention of promising her that their conversation was far from over, but she had vanished. Grumbling obscenities under his breath, Vlad turned on his heel and was at Danny's side seconds later.

"What happened?"

"The short version? Meeting went well – we managed to set up a truce with Aldrick, but then he wanted to do venom-laced shots and Rémy was determined to prove himself instead of heeding his own limits. We need to get him back to Carmen's before his body starts rejecting the poison and he makes a scene."

"Where are the others?"

"Frankie went to go get the car and told us to leave you, but Rémy insisted I find you. He's with Carmen out front."

The two men made it outside just as Frankie pulled up with the car in front of the club. Rémy was at least six shades paler than normal, skin laced in what appeared to be a cold sweat. His flesh was almost translucent as the dark network of spidering veins and arteries grew plainly visible.

"I see the negotiations went well," was all Dracula could think to say.

Rémy chuckled, grateful for his humor as it helped bring a sense of balance to other's thinly veiled panic.

"Much better than anticipated, actually," he explained, though he seemed to have difficulty drawing in breath so he could speak.

"Could have fooled me," Carmen chimed in. "You look like death, Rémy."

"Yeah, well, you should see the other guy."

Danny opened the door to the back of the car and climbed in first before extending his arms so he and Frankie – who was in the driver's seat – could help Carmen ease Rémy in. This left Vlad with no other choice than to sit in the front beside Francesca and although the woman was purposefully avoiding eye contact with him, he could sense her displeasure from out here on the street.

Damn you, Lilith, he thought.

"Carmen, why don't you sit up front so if Rémy retches before we can get him to your place, it won't be all over you," he offered, but she had already shut the door.

"There's no time for that, Vlad – we need to go," Danny called and so Dracula begrudgingly took his seat on the passenger side of the car beside Frankie.

The instant he was in the vehicle, she accelerated, the car moving forward with a jolt before he could even shut the door or fasten the safety belt. The entire drive back to Carmen's, Frankie never uttered a word. She wouldn't even turn to look at him, her focus fixed entirely on the road ahead as she weaved in and out of traffic, trying to keep the harshness of her turns to a minimum so her brother wouldn't get sick in the back of the car.

Despite the evening congestion, they arrived in good time, greeted by the anxious faces of both Vesper and Carmen's security – Damon Novák – who approached in haste.

Before they could even inquire about the events of the evening, Danny was out of the vehicle in a shot, practically leaping from his seat and dashing into the building as Rémy leaned forward and proceeded to projectile-vomit blood onto the sidewalk. As his body vehemently rejected literally everything he had ingested in the last twenty-four hours, the others climbed out of the car as Frankie began to shout orders, telling Vesper to run a hot bath with ginger oil and for Damon to locate some fresh blood.

After her brother had paused for just a moment in his retching, Danny returned from inside with a large plastic bucket under his arm. He positioned it in front of his friend as a precaution before helping him out of the car, Carmen offering her support on Rémy's other side. The two followed Frankie without question, leaving a silent Dracula outside on the curb.

The stench of old blood was like a noxious fume that rose from the cool cement, the thick, coagulated life-force appearing almost like black tar as it slithered along the gutter towards the nearby storm drain. Dracula could practically taste the werewolf venom from where he was standing, realizing that his friend must have ingested quite a lot – especially to get him to the point where he was now.

After a moment longer in the quiet evening air, attempting to collect his faculties, Dracula entered Carmen's establishment in silence, tuning his ears to the chaos upstairs as he very slowly approached.

"How long will Damon be?" Danny asked. "We need to get fresh blood in him or he's only going to get worse."

"I don't know. The nearest feeding house is almost a mile away, but it's the weekend and they don't usually make house calls without an appointment first," Carmen explained.

"Why don't we just use the stuff in the cellar?" Vesper chimed in. "Or he could feed off of one of you, right?"

"Too much blood at once will upset his stomach more – but the bags in the cellar might work. Is there anything clean back there?" Frankie asked, already starting to make her way out of the room.

"I might have one bag of dhampir left over," Carmen called out. "Vesper, show Frankie where it is."

Still making his way through the main part of the front room, Dracula watched from a distance as the two females moved with urgency down the hall and into the cellar. His footfall remained silent and careful as he approached, wishing to stay unnoticed.

"Vesper – go run this to Carmen. I'm going to keep looking through these to see if we can find another one. I have a feeling Damon may be a while," Frankie announced from within. "Remind her to give him small amounts at a time – no more than a few drops every 20-30 seconds at most. He can't have more until his stomach has settled and his body ejects the rest of the venom."

When Vesper started to approach the exit, Vladislaus willed himself unobserved as the young teenager ran right past him with a bag of blood in hand, dashing down the hall before racing up a private flight of stairs that led to the quarters where she and Carmen lived. When the door was shut and the chaos upstairs muted, Dracula turned his attention to the woman within the poorly lit room.

Frankie was on the far end of the chamber, hovering over a chest fridge half filled with bags of blood – human, dhampir, and cloned alike, all marked with varying texts and descriptions, but each the same shade of crimson. Either she had sensed his presence or had given up her fruitless search, because the moment he entered the room, she had slammed the door of the fridge shut, hands gripping on the edge as she stared at the wall ahead of her.

The tension between them was oppressive as he carefully closed the door behind him.

He had hoped she would speak first, but Frankie remained utterly quiet and still, so he very carefully broke the silence.

"I think we should talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," she insisted without missing a beat, her back still to him.

Dracula's shoulders fell a bit, but he took another step forward.

"Francesca…"

"I suppose I should thank you," she interrupted, "for finally providing some clarity on where it is that you stand," and her head fell a little as she appeared to examine the chest door beneath her hands. "I can't believe I actually thought…" she whispered softly, but then she stopped and turned her head to look back at him, expression hard, though her eyes were filled with barely concealed disappointment. "Well, I was mistaken," she announced. "I congratulate you, sir, on an impressively played game. You had me completely fooled – a feat few could boast."

"Francesca…" he tried again, taking a deep breath this time, "what you saw is not what…"

But she put an end to his excuses before he could even begin, turning around fully to face him now.

"Okay, you know what? Just… stop right there. I don't need you to insult me further by saying that it's not what it looked like. It was exactly what it looked like!" she snapped. "So that redhead at the club – is she the reason why you turned down Morene two weeks ago or did she just happen to be more your type?"

"What? No! No… Lilith had nothing to do with Morene."

"Oh! So the two of you are on a first-name basis then? That's good to know."

"It's not like that."

"Really? Now why would I find that so difficult to believe?"

"I've known her for centuries," Dracula tried to explain without going into too much detail. "We've been acquainted as long as I've been a vampire…"

"So what is she, then? An old lover, or even better – your wife? Is that why you haven't been formally attached since you were mortal? Was that heartfelt monologue about your human life just a means to manipulate me into opening up to you?"

Dracula had to force out a laugh to keep his growing impatience in check.

"That redheaded demon is anything but my wife. Trust me – she's already spoken for. And besides, what I told you last night…"

"You know what? I don't care," she declared, holding up her hands in defeat. "I am done with this conversation. I– I can't even look at you…" and she started to march towards the exit.

Normally, Dracula would have just let it go. This was clearly a battle he could not win – not tonight, anyway; not after the mistake he had made in foolishly locking lips with a woman notorious for ruining his life. And yet, in spite of every rational objection his brain could conjure, he found himself stepping into her path, blocking her exit.

"Why are you so upset?" he asked a little incredulously. "So I kissed another woman. So what? Why should you care? You have no legitimate reason to be this unreasonably furious with me! It's not as if you and I…" but then he stopped, voice trailing off as the wheels in his brain finally started to catch up with him.

That look in Frankie's eyes that he had mistaken for anger wasn't anger at all – it was fear.

But why would she be afraid?

His brain struggled to make sense of it all – but then like a bolt of lightning, Lilith's words from the nightclub returned to him. She wants you, the queen of Hell had said. But like any spirited horse, she just needs a bit motivation to behave… just a little… push…

It had never been a game to Francesca, what was between them. Not really. That was just a front, a façade – a carefully crafted lie she had told herself to make it all okay.

Dracula dare not believe it.

The demon queen's meddling had actually worked?

Frankie, who had been holding his gaze for the last few seconds, finally made her way around him, fully prepared to leave this room and him behind, but Vlad couldn't let her leave… not like this.

"Francesca, wait…" he began, a genuine tenderness in his voice, but when he had taken her arm in an effort to stop her, she whirled around abruptly and slapped him hard across the face to the surprise of not only himself, but to her as well. He let her go the moment she had struck him, but the sting now spreading across his cheek had also rendered him temporarily stunned.

The silence that followed was severe as the pair stared at one another, both mute and expressionless. Each agonizing second ticked by without a single noise disrupting the stillness of the air. It was as if the entire world around them had stopped moving. There was no breath taken in, no apologies made, no exclamations of fury or delight.

Just a heavy, oppressive tension that only continued in its ascent.

Silence.

Stillness.

That is, until something in Francesca's countenance shifted, and that tension turned into breathless anticipation.

He swayed forward just a little, the movement barely perceptible to the naked eye, but the slight movement was enough to send her reaching for him. Her hands curled into his shirt near the collar, fingers wrapping around fistfuls of fabric, tugging him close as she lifted herself onto the balls of her feet.

Their lips met.

A spark on the edge of a pool of gasoline and then ignition.

Fire.

Her mouth on his had set his insides on fire.

His reaction was only delayed for perhaps a half-beat after she had initiated the kiss, but once the shock of it, the relief had begun to abate, he was there to meet her. And then they were kissing – desperately, hungrily.

Vlad brought a hand to smooth down her back, the touch bringing her to arch against him until they were toe to toe, hardened muscle to pliable breast.

With her hands still fiercely gripping the front of his shirt as if her very existence depended on it, Dracula had to force himself to slow down a bit, coaxing her away from frenzy and into a more sensuous but still enthusiastic rhythm.

Gradually, Frankie began to follow his lead, until he had nearly taken over entirely, his lips methodically slanting over hers, cloying, molding, tracing the feel of her. Then his teeth grazed her lower lip, a nip of fang catching. Frankie opened immediately on a breathless gasp, and his tongue moved in with lazy, deft strokes. The velvet thrust sent her insides to unspool in a wanton, liquid heat that had her whimpering, holding tighter to him, as if she could scarcely stand without his support.

The sound just about undid him, the taste of her sending him reeling. And the scent of her...

He couldn't get enough… he never would be able to.

How had he survived three-and-a-half centuries without this?

It was beyond his comprehension. In that moment, he couldn't even imagine what living the rest of eternity without the feel of her soft form pressed against him would be like – the sweetness of her tongue, her breathless lips against his – pressing, suckling, biting.

She was burning, glowing, melting –

He laid a hand against her jaw, angling her face to better claim her mouth. She arched, a silent plea for him to take… take more.

Oh, how easily she slipped into submission for him.

That invitation, along with the delicious noises she was making, sent his control slipping further, his brain overwrought with a passion he had not felt in ages. It was almost overwhelming, how fast and easy it was to lose himself in her. It even frightened him a little – a novel occurrence – and without meaning to, he pulled away abruptly as if he had been shocked. The lack of his support sent Francesca stumbling back against the closed door behind her, knees weak and legs barely functioning. Her eyes were full of question as he struggled to leash himself. But instead of being deterred by his struggle, some long-dormant part of Frankie relished in the sight of it.

Her eyes began to lure him back to her the moment the space had been created.

More, those eyes of hers seemed to say. Take more. More, more, more –

Every inch of her body was beckoning him back to her – the way she leaned against the door, legs slightly parted, countenance full of yearning, lips rosy and pulsating - all feminine softness and sensual hunger.

Like a helpless moth to a flame, he surrendered to her magnetic pull.

Frankie dragged her hands around his shoulders before tangling her fingers into his dark, silken hair when she reached out for him again, pulling Vlad closer. She needed the hardness of his body against her, the weight of him pushing her into the wood at her back. He seemed to know what she needed, because he was giving it to her... but yet, he always seemed to know.

Their lips met again, and in an act of courage, the woman boldly tasted him with her tongue, moaning a little against his mouth when one of his hands found her ass. The sound that came out of him in turn was rough and appreciative and it had her toes curling in her shoes. She arched her back again, the movement creating a full-body stroke of friction that nearly brought the man to his knees at her feet. He was all tongue and teeth and hands by this point and it left her feeling dizzy.

She was perfectly aware of the growing hardness between his hips and she wanted it, wanted to feel him move against her, to hear the kind of sounds he made. She coiled one of her arms around his neck, hoisting herself up even as he led her legs to wrap around his waist as if he had sensed her intention. The door groaned in protest at their collective weight when he pushed her against it roughly with his hips.

Her breathless smile was unabashedly roguish and he nearly came apart at the sight.

She pressed her heeled foot against his backside, urging him to grind against her. Having lost all will to be defiant, he obeyed like the slave that he was, rocking his body against the cradle of her hips and then groaning soft and low, an almost wounded sound. He pressed his brow against hers, breath mingling, until her tongue brought his mouth back to hers.

The more he rubbed against her, the more his body began to tremble, his well-manicured nails growing into claws that dug into the frame of the door behind her as he uttered her name in a guttural sigh of veneration and pleading, his other hand firmly gripping her leather-clad thigh in earnest.

"Francesca…"

The appeal sent an instant slick wave of heat between her thighs.

God, she couldn't remember the last time she had gotten so wet so quickly. She murmured wordlessly against his lips in reply, fingers fiddling with the first few buttons of his shirt as she stared into his eyes, pausing in her worship of his mouth.

The woman's gaze was unlike anything he had ever seen before: full of power and laced with a want that threatened to incinerate him where he stood. He had never wanted to burn so much in his life.

But then for just a split second, she hesitated, pausing.

Before he could ask her if she was all right, she had bent her head down to kiss him again, tightening the grip of her legs around his waist, the ensuing friction against his concealed sex simultaneously agitating and liberating.

Fuck, she felt good… everything about her felt so bloody good.

His name escaped her and he caught it within his lips – careful at first, then escalating to deep dives of mocking thrust, teasing her, baiting her… tempting her. As if his tongue was telling her precisely what he was capable of doing elsewhere. She gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into the hard muscle beneath, her breath turning jagged as he nipped at her bottom lip, his other hand exploring up her torso between them. He pawed a breast and she whimpered.

"We probably shouldn't be doing this," she murmured.

"Probably not," he agreed, voice low, graveled in lust. She could almost feel the timber of it in her cunt. "But when has that ever stopped you?" He squeezed her breast again in his hand before seeking out the pert tip of her nipple, pinching it lightly through her blouse and she moaned.

"Never."

"I'm starting to think you enjoy breaking the rules," he teased, and she grinned wickedly as one of her feet fell to the floor, her other knee still propped up around him by one of his hands, fingers threading through his hair.

"Are you complaining?"

"Not at all," he husked and she nudged her nose against his and then their mouths fell effortlessly together, soft and open for a few glorious seconds until Frankie broke the kiss with a groan of protest.

"Mmmm… we should stop. We're going to get caught…"

Ever the voice of reason.

"No we're not," he insisted.

He had waited too long for this moment – no one would dare defy his will with an interruption now. Not even the devil himself... or his meddlesome demon of a wife, for that matter.

The attention of his lips moved down to her neck in a strategic attempt to put an end to her thinking. No more thinking… just feel… He heard her breath hitch when his mouth lightly caressed her there, her fingers tightening their grip on the roots of his hair, hips swaying forward as if he had found her weakness.

A strategic suckling of her neck confirmed that he had.

Did you really think I would forget how much you liked my mouth there? some dark voice whispered in the back of his mind as if she could hear it.

The noise she made had him wondering if she had and it set his blood ablaze.

"My brother is going to kill me."

He nearly growled at the suggestion, a low rumble reverberating in his chest.

"Let him try."

He then traced the length of her jugular with the tip of his tongue and became aware of a sweetening in the air that rose with her arousal. He could almost taste the sweltering heat of her sex. It made his mouth water.

"This isn't a joke, Vlad. If Rémy finds out…"

"Hush, iubito," he said tenderly, his face still buried in the crook of her neck, even as his fingertips played over her lips. "You worry too much," and to silence her hesitation, his mouth found hers once more and for a single glorious moment, she was his.

This man – with the mystery that surrounded him, his darkness, his scent, his devastatingly effortless sensuality – all of it seemed to enter her bloodstream at once. It was as if his very soul had burned through her flesh and his; reaching for her, aching, and with each kiss, their spirits met.

Frankie was lost and it was the most beautiful experience of her long and miserable life.

Kissing him was like bathing in fire, baptismal, the decadence of surrender impossible to resist. No other man in her long line of past lovers had ever kissed her quite like this, had ever made her feel as she felt in that moment – weak, vulnerable, yet alive and utterly divine.

Not any of them… save one.

A memory stirred somewhere deep within the fog of lust that had saturated her brain as this man and his kisses suddenly became familiar to her.

They had done this before, but she could not remember when, let alone how.

As her mind struggled to make sense of the sensation, her hands had taken on a mind of their own, working at his shirt so she could get to the delicious muscles of his chest. But what she felt was cold – like metal. Curiosity getting the better of her, she managed to open her eyes just a little so she could see what it was she was touching.

It was a necklace of some sort, the chain long, the symbol on his pendant curious, but also oddly familiar. But then she felt a small impression beneath her fingertips as she caressed the breadth of his chest, like a scar that had a distinct shape. She would have moved his shirt out of the way to get a better look but there was a crash upstairs, the sudden eruption of sound bringing their moment of intimacy to a screeching halt as the pair instinctually froze and looked up at the ceiling.

"Frankie? Frankie, are you still downstairs?" Carmen's voice rang out in the air and there was a mutual look of disappointment that passed between the tangled couple.

"I'm on my way up! Just a moment!" she shouted up toward the heavens before her attention returned to the disheveled man in front of her. "I need to go," she then whispered.

"When can I see you again?" he asked, holding her face in his hands.

Frankie kissed him once – a teasing touch of lips – and then she smiled a little mischievously.

"Later."

"You know perfectly well that that's too vague an answer," he said, tasting her again. She chuckled as she lightly sucked on his tongue, moaning.

"You're just going to have to exercise a bit of patience," she said, absently fiddling with the waist of his pants.

"Patience has never been one of my strong points."

"Well, there's a first for everything."

"Francesca…" he said in warning but she only kissed in him reply before slipping to the side so she could open the door.

"I need to take care of my brother. Don't worry… we'll continue this very soon… I promise."

And with that, she was gone.

You're welcome.

Now review, dammit. ;)

P.S. I'm going to be updating late again on Monday (aka: late afternoon PST). But it will go up, I promise (pending any unforeseen disasters).