A cavernous hall that had witnessed a battle centuries in the offing stood in brooding silence, the combatants lying still and quiet in the cluttered vault that had become their tomb. Now and again, the stillness was broken by a spasmodic thudding as vampire flesh was set incessantly against unyielding bronze. A scuffling from the stairwell outside the metal portal signalled the arrival of additional forces, and shortly afterwards the door began to resound from a steadily strengthening assault as its numbers of attackers increased. Although the portal was jammed by the hulking form of a lifeless monstrosity, irresistible force was now meeting an immovable object, and the laws of physics dictated that something had to give. In this case, it was the door hinges, which were rent from their moorings under the impossible pressure imposed upon them by unrelenting vampiric strength, sending the freed barrier inwards to land at a forty-five degree angle atop the vanquished monster.

Hardly was the chamber breached than the first of the Vampire seekers scrambled over the top of the fallen portal to land catlike on the paved floor within. The creature's haunted gaze took in the scene and its tragic story in a single glance. The Vault Guardian lay dead, the remains of a black-hilted sword embedded in its skull. Leading away from the beast was a crimson trail of gore that terminated in the shadows at the back of the hall. His steps hesitant despite his desperate need to see the outcome of the fight for himself, the vampire followed the ruddy stream whose liquid was rapidly coagulating with the thick film of dust to form solid lumps on the stone floor. As he approached the burgundy puddle that had formed at the base of a stone sarcophagus, he paused, not yet ready to behold the sight he suspected was waiting for him.

Steeling himself with a rapid clenching of his claw-like fists, the vampire turned the corner. It was worse than he could possibly have imagined. There was blood everywhere. For a creature who survived solely on the consumption of human vitals, the vampire was uncharacteristically traumatized by the vision of this particular person in such a condition. That the woman was dead he did not doubt; for a start, the devastating wounds in stomach and shoulder all but precluded the possibility of survival, and furthermore it was evident from the sheer quantity of blood that covered both the floor and the mound of papers at her side that she was all but drained. The creature cursed himself for his stupid games. If he had but foregone his selfish wish wait for the opportunity to end the woman's human life in their mutual pleasure, and turned her when he had the chance, she would easily have survived the wounds inflicted by the Guardian.
Riddled with self-reproach, the vampire knelt at the woman's side to make one final check. If she had already succumbed to death's edict, then she was beyond his help. Only a vampire of his sire's age and power could resurrect the dead - at his own stage of evolution it was necessary for a spark of life to still endure in the body. Fearing the worst, he reached out to touch her neck, pushing the tendon aside in order to put pressure upon the artery. The undead bowed his head and waited. Long moments passed. Just as he was about to give up hope, he felt it: elusive and barely detectable beneath the cooling skin, a pulse hovered. It was weak and extremely erratic, but nonetheless real. The vampire closed his eyes in thanks to whatever being might have preserved her for this long and with no further ado, he raised the woman's head from the ground, drew a razor- sharp fang across his own wrist and began the age-old ritual that led to the birth of a fledgling.

In the darkest room of the human subconscious, the woman awaited her death. The pain was beginning to recede by now, the physical agony that had wracked the corporeal form fading to a whisper as the all-pervading dark steeped every molecule with a Lethean chill. With each slowing heartbeat, the obscurity became more complete, awareness of the world fading as the senses detached themselves one by one from the material realm, the mind preparing for its descent into oblivion. As she hovered, teetering on the edge of the abyss, one of her senses refused to let her go. Bizarrely enough, it was the sense of taste that burst uninvited into the black pit of restfulness that enfolded her. As the warm, bitter liquid began to pour into her throat, it caused a physical convulsion, and with an almighty heave she was hauled back up into the harsh light of consciousness, drawing a huge gasping breath as her eyes opened once again on the land of the living - and the undead.

The first sight to meet her astonished gaze was that of a ivory-skinned, ebony-haired male to whom she felt an instant attraction. A moment later her memory surfaced, reminding her not only of the identity of the vampire who was looking at her with almost palpable relief, but also of the events directly preceding her apparent demise. As she opened her mouth to tell Isca of the revelation she had discovered in the Sarafan texts, Freya's body was wracked with a powerful spasm, choking off her initial greeting as some unknown force shook her visibly from within. Fearing that her revival was temporary, she turned her distraught gaze on the man beside her in a blatant request for help. The vampire gave an encouraging smile.

"Do not fear it," he advised as the paroxysms increased in frequency, adding more fuel to the woman's fears that something was horribly wrong.

"Easy for you to say," retorted Freya between sparsely drawn breaths, "You're not dying!"

"Neither are you. Trust me."

"Then what is this?" she entreated.

"The Pulse."

She looked at him uncomprehending. Isca gave an enigmatic smile, and shortly she understood. The dark force rushing in her veins was that of an alien entity enforcing its will, subjugating the human plasma and bending it to its own rhythm, causing irreversible changes in the host's physiology while at the same time infusing it with the strength it needed to survive.

The Pulse.

The thudding of the foreign heartbeat was growing ever louder and more violent, causing Freya to grope around for her companion's arm in anxiety. The vault seemed to be darkening. Isca caught hold of the floundering hand and gripped it as the woman's eyelids began to close again.

"Don't go." She murmured.

"I'll be here when you wake," he assured with a grin. And with that, Freya died.

Isca relaxed for the first time in long minutes. Having never sired offspring before this moment, he had not even been sure whether he was yet old or powerful enough to ensure the ritual's success. Evidently his fears were unfounded. Aware once again of his surroundings, the vampire called out to the group of Elite warriors who were hovering at a distance, not wishing to disturb the private interchange.

"Gather all this up - we will take the documents back with us."

Taking the woman's body in his arms, Isca rose to his feet and walked steadily towards the entrance, pausing only to afford Antaris' deformed bulk one last hateful look. He turned to the Elite nearest the door and gave an order in a voice that spoke of retribution denied.

"Bring me his head."

Isca departed Kain's treasure vault to the satisfying sound of a falling scimitar.

*

The ceiling was teeming with life.

Not just the kind that scuttled and spun either. Mites, parasites, mould, spores - the roof was a veritable smorgasbord of living entities, each one equally distinct and visible despite the distance and darkness of the lofty ceiling. Freya lay for a long while wondering why she had never noticed this phenomenon before. A shuffling noise now came to her ears, and she turned her head in the direction of the sound, a small smile breaking onto her face as she recognised the source. Her heart's desire was seated upon the base of a crumbled column not twenty feet distant, brushing the remnants of dried blood from some yellowed sheets of parchment. From the look of the cleaned pile on the floor before him, he had been there quite a while. Without alerting him to her wakefulness, she took a moment to let her eyes wander over his captivating form. The unruly night-black hair was today caught back from his face, giving a clear view of his lupine profile, and he had removed his shoulder guard, presumably to detach the cloak upon which she was even now resting. Her gaze travelled down over the curving outlines of his arms, the smooth skin belying the corded muscle beneath, to finally come to rest on the dark sheen of his leather trousers.

"Your eyes are burning holes in me, woman."

Freya smirked sheepishly. "If you knew I was awake, you could have said 'hello'." she countered.

Isca put down the page he was holding and crossed the room towards her, his expression reproving.

"If I had known you would take this long to come around, I would have gone hunting."

Frey sat up, alarmed. "How long was I out?" she asked, looking around to see if there was a quick exit. If he was hungry . . .

"About as long as every fledge," he replied, a broad grin breaking through his stern façade.

Freya looked at him uncomprehending. The slightest tilt of the vampire's arched eyebrows reminded her of the terrifying, pulse-pounding circumstances of their last conversation, and she opened her mouth to voice the obvious question. Just then, several thoughts tumbled one after another into her mind, delaying her speech; she was no longer human - so what would happen if she were sent back to Earth? Raziel was also from Earth, so what had happened to him when he shifted back? The Sarafan documents, contrary to her beliefs, did not hold the key to shifting; the thought of the Sarafan reminded her of the irony in that she should have served so long as their leader only to end up bound to the enemy by blood - but then the Vampires were no longer the enemy. Her jumbled thoughts were shortly superseded by another, more worrying truth.

She was going to have to feed.

She halted in her train of thought as she realised that Isca was regarding her with a knowing smile.

"Hungry?"

*

The moon was kind to Nosgoth's blasted landscape, lending it an aura of tranquillity and timeless beauty that would be stolen away when the harsh light of day prevailed. The pale glimmer of the moonlight drew elongated shadows from the feet of the two who strode in uneasy silence towards the walls of the last human city, the smaller of them caught between fraught anticipation and steadily growing need. The pair came to a stop at an opening in the upper floor of a deserted guardhouse that looked down onto the entrance to the human citadel. Below them, a vast body of water bisected a paved forecourt, along whose shores stalked a lone human, clad in the distinctive garb of the vampire hunter.

All thoughts of guilt at the impending betrayal of her own race vanished as Freya knelt at the edge of the window, the call of blood emanating from the creature below a siren song in her ears. Even from this distance, the heat of the human body was almost tangible

"Wait here while I dispatch him." Commanded the vampire.

Freya glared at him, a feral gleam in her eyes. "What for?"

Isca was annoyed at her apparent density. "So we can enter the city and find you some dinner."

"What's wrong with him?"

Despite his annoyance at Freya's evident mistake, he could not help but feel a tinge of pride as his first fledge evinced so ravenous an appetite with so fearless a mind.

"He is a vampire hunter. With a crossbow." The woman was evidently undeterred. ". . .Which fires wooden stakes." He added pointedly.

Seeing that he was not going to let this one go, she nodded compliantly. However, as Isca crouched into a ready position in order to pounce, he was knocked sideways by the force of Freya's lunge as she leaped from the building to land unerringly on the back of the vampire hunter below.

With a muttered curse, Isca followed suit, his own leap placing him on the floor but a moment after her, intending to intercede in what would surely otherwise amount to the premature death of his only fledgling. A resounding splash signalled that the guard's crossbow was no longer an issue, and it was shortly evident to the fretting vampire that his concerns were misplaced. The hunter was dispatched.

Disguising his relief in a show of remonstrance, Isca quickly reached down to haul the woman from her prey - the crossbow hitting the water had alerted the city guard. Seeing from her inwards-rolled eyes and gaping mouth that she was lost in the delirium of her first feed, the vampire threw her over his shoulder and ascended quickly into the guard tower, keeping up a good measure of speed until they reached a safe distance.

Freya had by now begun to demand to be set on her feet, and, after delaying a few minutes so she would see he was not instantly acceding to her every whim, he lowered her to the ground. The woman staggered back against the wall, senses still reeling from the heady rush of her first kill.

Isca was far from amused, his anger evidenced by the lowered brow and bared fangs. "If you pull one more stunt like that. . ."

Freya laughed openly at him. "Oh, don't be such an old stick-in-the-mud, it turned out alright, didn't it?"

"You were lucky," he growled, still trying to hide his pride.

"Lucky schmucky. He never knew what hit him," she boasted, still elated from the experience.

"I'm starting to wonder if this was such a good idea," he mused in a half- serious tone.

At his words, Freya's expression faded from wild exuberance into one of calm sincerity, and without hesitation, she approached the scowling vampire and showed him just how glad she was that he had brought her back.