Disclaimer: That which does not belong to J.K. Rowling either belongs to me or really belongs to just about nobody, unless otherwise noted. In either case, it is not yours. Specific credits: "Ai Vis Lo Lop" is Old French medieval folk music (despite the fact that the first time I heard of it I was told it was in Swedish), but the metal recording in question is by In Extremo. Respit de la Mort is by Jean LeFevre… and is a French Medieval poem. (I've a bit of a theme going, haven't I?) The Purgatorio is part of Dante's Divine Comedy and thus belongs to Dante Alighieri. De Masticatione Mortuorum "On the Chewing Dead" is by Philip Rohr, from 1679.

A/N: The French word putain means "whore." Otherwise, I have tried to limit my use of foreign language to places where knowing what the word means is either evident from context and/or its frequent use in English (such as merci and enchanté), or where the meaning of the words is not necessary to the story, such as the songs. If, however, I do unduly confuse the reader, then I blame Victor Hugo and Montague Summers (authors with a very heavy penchant for Latin) and will fix it.

Playing with Fire

By Godforsaken

Chapter Four.

It had been a long and fruitless day for the weak winter sun, and the scarce warmth it gave to the manor house disappeared as it slowly dropped, weary and defeated, below the horizon. The sudden chill struck through layer upon layer of stone and wood, into the very bones of the vampires that called this crumbling pile of Gothic architecture their home.

Soneille's face broke into a grin as she woke with a start.

A moment later, the lid flew off her coffin and an angry Calandra ungently pulled her into a sitting position.

"Very funny," the Greek hissed, glowering. "You're the woman of the house when I'm gone; you're the oldest and most powerful here; and I know you don't just forget these things. So is there any reason under Heaven why you did not reopen a door to the room next to mine?"

Soneille raised an eyebrow, ignoring the hand around her throat. "I thought he'd be staying with you."

Calandra tightened her grip. "Bullshit, and you know it. Now, I'm going to find some breakfast, and you're going to reattach that room to both the hallway and the bathroom, and then you can go into town. And I promise you that if you make one more juvenile crack about my habit of befriending mortals or my promiscuity, I will rend you limb from limb because you're not any better, and you know it. Especially about the second one. Understand?"

Soneille nodded, but glared. "What did you do with him?" she inquired.

"He's in my room. Don't wake him up. I bunked with Mariseta, which is another reason I never want this to happen again." Calandra's wrathful glare gave way to a rather disgruntled expression.

Soneille snerked and eased Calandra's hand off her neck. "Well, if I'd figured that would happen, I may have thought twice…" She winced as she cracked her neck. "You go eat, I'll take care of things. And I'll be quiet," she added hastily.

"Merci," Calandra mumbled, and ran off.

Soneille fell back into her coffin, rubbing her neck. "Bitch knows me too well," she remarked to the ceiling. "I'm too pliable first thing in the evening."

"AI VIS LO LOP, LE RENARD, LA LEBRE

"AI VIS LO LOP, LE RENARD DANSAR…"

Draco woke up with a start, looking around frantically for the source of the too-loud heavy metal. Cursing like a sailor, his eyes finally landed on Calandra, who stopped the music immediately.

"Good evening," she greeted him, smiling sweetly. "You may wish to consider getting up soon, as I'll be back in forty-five minutes regardless of whether you're dressed or not."

"What time is it?" he inquired sleepily.

"Eh… about seven o'clock post meridiem. It gets dark early so we let you sleep in a bit."

Draco rubbed his eyes and muttered something in which the word "sadistic" was distinguishable.

"Oh, that's nice, and when we'd gotten your room ready while you were still sleeping, too. Serves me right for trying to be good to you." She grinned at him. "The door to the bathroom is hiding behind the Camelot tapestry. I'll be back shortly."

She left, singing quietly:

"Je fis de Macabre la danse

Qui tout gent maine à sa trace

E a la fosse les adresse... "

Draco stared at the closed door—or rather, at the giant wrought-iron cross attached to the back of it—trying to figure out what under Heaven could possibly have put his sullen friend into such a good humor. After a few minutes he gave up, and took a good look around the room.

Calandra's spacious chamber, shrunk by the deep burgundy color of the walls, somewhat resembled a Gothic junk shop. It didn't seem to have electric lighting, despite the computer and stereo, and the only illumination came from candles and oil lamps—everywhere. There were lamps and candles on tables, shelves, the desk; in wall sconces; and in a rather sinister-looking chandelier that managed to look more like an instrument of torture than a lighting fixture. Tapestries, woodcuts, armor, bas-reliefs, lithographs, quotes, and the symbolic paraphernalia of numerous religions cluttered up the walls and the sides of furniture; books, papers, writing implements, and a number of odd trinkets cluttered up every available horizontal surface. The Stations of the Cross, cast in bronze, were lined up near the ceiling on one of the walls, all right next to each other like a bizarre Passion comic strip.

Warily eyeing the Camelot tapestry, Draco wondered what the bathroom would look like.

Fifty minutes later he was winding his way through the same stone corridors he hadn't gotten to really look at yesterday, at about twice the speed. He followed Calandra to a pair of immense double doors, as medievally impressive as the rest of the house, where she abruptly stopped. Draco nearly ran into her.

"This," she announced, "is the library, and thus the most important room in the castle, and one of the few places where you are likely to see more than one of us at a time." She carefully opened one of the doors, stuck her head in, and went through. Draco followed.

While he was not a particularly bookish person, he had to be impressed at the vastness of the library. It made the British Museum look like it wasn't really trying.

In the small circle of chairs and tables around the fireplace, two figures looked up and stared at them.

Calandra pointed at one of them, a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking man with black hair, black eyes, black robes, and very white skin. "This is Setail; it's likely that you won't be seeing very much of him, despite the fact that he's the only other male in the house except for some of the pets." Setail nodded at Draco and glared at Calandra.

She raised an eyebrow and gestured towards the young, pretty brunette curled up with Dante's Purgatorio. "Mariseta you will be seeing a lot of."

"Enchanté," purred Mariseta.

"Putain," Calandra muttered.

"Now, let's not be hostile," Mariseta replied. "Why don't you sit down, actually introduce your friend to us instead of just the other way 'round, and we'll wait for Soneille to get back from town, and not all kill each other until about ten o'clock, okay?"

Calandra sat on the arm of a chair and beckoned for Draco to take a seat. "But darling, you know I don't do useless formalities. If you don't already know who he is, then you're simply stupid and don't deserve to be told anything."

Mariseta burst into laughter. "Glad to be home, are you? I haven't seen you this happy since we went to New York."

"Aye, a good day's rest does wonders. A diurnal schedule's nearly impossible to get entirely adjusted to."

Put out at feeling ignored, Draco looked over towards Setail's table, at the document the man was leafing through. He read the title upside-down, then blinked and read it again.

De Masticatione Mortuorum.

Jesus Christ, he thought. This'll be interesting. They're all like that.