See? Summer = loads more time to write = fast update… Well—at least a couple weeks is better than three months, eh? J Anyway, thank you so much to all who reviewed last time 'round (Sharmeen, apsara, Tamashii, Dulce Ambrosia, Elven Mistress)—I really appreciate it…! J

Chapter 14: Marquéd

Faolán was angry. He had been very, very dull, hadn't he? Because it seemed that Myr Ó Ceallaigh had been planning something quite different from what he had expected. In fact, this was not only different, it was *subversive*. How unfortunate. He had come to believe in the past three weeks—against all of his training and instinct—that Myr was loyal. Loyal to Morteflame, loyal to him, and, most importantly, loyal to the cause.

And here she had just shattered all of those fallacious—if comfortable—illusions. All of his instincts screamed at him to rip her apart for her impudence, for her treachery. No, Faolán thought. Not yet. He glanced around the room and was troubled even further to note that Myr wasn't alone in her exploits against him. No, it seemed that one of the new recruits she had brought with her was involved as well, the one with the vivid, turquoise-colored eyes, the one Faolán believed was called Jasper.

Replaying the episode that had just occurred, he recalled Myr giving a signal to the young vampire, who had in turn moved with blinding speed towards Fallou—even Faolán had been hard put to trace his movements—and knocked her unconscious with a short wooden baton.

He glanced down and saw that the girl was lying sprawled on the floor three or so feet from him. The blow had left a sizeable welt on the side of her head, along her hairline, and, because the wound had been inflicted with wood, it was not healing. With faint distaste he noted that her blood was dripping unremittingly onto his priceless Persian rug.

Myr had seen him, surprise obvious on her face, but both she and Jasper seemed to have frozen.

"Ó Ceallaigh. Fancy meeting you here," Faolán intoned in a quiet, calm voice with. "I haven't caught you at an awkward moment, have I?" 

Needless to say, the question was rhetorical, and Myr knew it. His chest thrumming with fury, Faolán noted how quickly her face went from bordering on nervous to complete, practiced composure. He was intrigued—would she try to lie?

Without moving from her place behind Faolán's desk, Myr straightened and met his cool gaze with violet eyes that suddenly seemed a great deal sharper than ten seconds before. "Faolán," she murmured. "Dear boy, I think you've done just that." A smile lifted up the corners of her mouth, and a dark light filled her purple orbs.

Faolán was instantly alert—the lingering suspicion that something was off, that there was something crucial he didn't know, tugged at the edge of his mind. His brain went swiftly, feverishly through all possible scenarios, all probable motives for whatever Myr was doing. His head jerked up, and with blinding certainty he realized just how stupid he had been.

Myr gazed at him, mouth widening ever so slowly in a languorous, complacent smile. "But the only problem is—and I think you know this, now—is that this situation is just the slightest bit more compromising for you than for me. You see, Wolf, I had two imperative objectives when I arrived here, at Morteflame. First was to secure Fallou. Second was to get rid of, well, *you*."

For the barest fraction of an instant, Myr's gaze flickered away from his to fasten on a point somewhere beyond his left shoulder. A second rush of comprehension filled him and then a searing pain tore through his chest, centering with excruciating intensity just beneath his left breastbone. He stared down at his chest, noticing distantly that a bright crimson stain, an exotic, vivid flower, had appeared on his white shirt, directly over his heart.

He hadn't seen Jasper move, he realized. Distracted—stupidly, incomprehensibly distracted—by both Fallou and Ó Ceallaigh, Faolán had been unaware of Jasper's shift from his position beside the girl to one directly behind him. From a great, shadowed distance, he heard Myr sigh with satisfaction and say in a soft, lilting tone to Jasper, "Perfect. I will remain here and take care of these two. Meet me below at five past eleven. Now, go. Ferrin should be in his quarters."

There was a blur of motion to his left, drawing his attention for a moment, but then his knees gave way. He crumpled bonelessly to the carpet, no longer proud and rigid, his head falling less than a foot from Fallou's. Slumped on his side, he felt the agonizing burn begin to recede, leaving him feeling warm, liquid. His blurred gaze fell on the dark, blood-soaked curls a foot or so away. Yes, Winnen Fallou, he thought, feeling himself fade even as a stab of resentment for the troublesome creature went through him, You are indeed more than any of us have yet imagined…

* * *

It was spring, and the sun shone down with gentle brilliance, making the pale, gritty sand seem almost to glow with soft, white light. Almost blinding, certainly, but so beautiful, so comfortable. The soft, lilting sound of foamy waves lapping against the shore was musical…sweet…soothing. She could do whatever she wanted here…there was no one at all, no one for miles, and miles, and miles—

~Are you there?~

Oh, well…no one but *him*. Pausing in her unhurried walk along the seemingly endless seashore she peered languidly around, searching for the all-too-familiar owner of the voice. Actually, she thought, it's not his *voice*, not really… And she was right. The words weren't uttered by an actual voice…it was more a mental sensation she received and interpreted as language.

Not seeing him behind her, before her, or beside her in the white sand, she answered, ~I'm here.~ Maybe he would find her.

A soft chuckle sounded in her mind, a sound that was mostly mild but still possessed of the droll, sardonic undercurrents so characteristic of *him*. She felt an answering rush of warmth tug at her chest, a pleasant, nervous feeling that never faded, no matter the number of times she experienced it.

~Shhh…Look over here.~

Oh. The voice was coming from the water. She gazed at the never-ending expanse of blue—it filled her vision completely, so that all she could see was the soft periwinkle of sky and the rich, sapphire blue of ocean.

There…there he is, she thought, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Her eyes locked on the pale figure standing thirty or so feet out, back turned to her, facing infinity. Only his pale torso was visible, hidden from the navel down by deep blue water, but the pale perfection of shoulder, spine, and hip was so beautiful, so utterly exquisite that for a second she could hardly breathe, afraid to break the perfect balance between him and that eternal expanse.

~Come…join me…Please.~ The voice wasn't even a whisper—it was a suggestion of a thought, so soft, so imperceptible that, even though it was from his mind to hers, she could hardly understand it. And yet it still had the power to shock her with its intensity, a force so simple and profound it made her ache.

Without bothering to shed her long skirt, she stepped forward, into the water, feeling the icy shock of springtime seawater stream across her feet, submerge her legs, splash against her thighs. Still, she did not falter. Seconds later she stood beside him, the iciness of the water faded to a pleasant coolness, and gazed out at the ocean with him.

~Look,~ she sent. ~It doesn't ever end, here.~

~No,~ he agreed, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. ~It doesn't ever end.~

The warm pressure of his slim, long-fingered hand sent shivers through her body, and a rush of heat flared to life deep, deep inside of her. His hand moved across her back from her shoulder to the back of her neck, fingers trailing ever so lightly over her skin, finally resting in the juncture between her jaw and ear.

Feeling like liquid, she drew in a breath, and turned towards him even as he turned towards her, until they were no longer facing Nature's perpetuity, but an infinity of a different sort. She licked her lips, tasting the salt of seawater, and leaned forward, her breath ghosting along the ridge of his collar bone. Shivering, he leaned down, closing the few inches that separated them, and stared at her, taking in the sheen of saltwater that swathed her cheeks, her lips, her brow.

And then, the next instant, they were no longer individuals—their bodies were pressed together, their arms were wrapped tightly around one another, their lips were molded against each other. Their figures were half-submerged, their minds were fully submerged and they were so completely *equal*.

* * *

Gasping for breath, Winn jolted awake, spine arched and eyes snapping open. "It was a—a dream…" she mumbled hoarsely, as though she was trying to convince herself. Of course it was a dream. It couldn't have been anything else—not anything at all.

But it had felt so *real*—not the way a dream might feel real, but the way a memory *is* real.

Her body went cold. How stupid, she thought, sitting up and scowling. How positively *absurd*! Anyway, she concluded, it could have been anyone—it isn't as though I can remember his—face.

~Does that matter at all, though, Winn?~ her mind taunted. ~Can't you remember it? The skin…the mouth…the taste… Remember?~

"Stop it!" Winn snapped. Don't be stupid. Things that aren't real don't… It wasn't real!

"Stop what?"

Startled, Winn jerked around at the sound of the voice—the words had been mumbled and almost unintelligible, but there was no denying whose voice it was. But why would *he* be here?

Disregarding his question, she glanced around, feeling a familiar rush of trepidation fill her chest. Where is "here", anyway? she wondered. The light was dim, not that it mattered, but it was obvious that she was not in Morteflame anymore. At least not in the Morteflame she had known. A single candle-lit lamp set on the ground in the center of what appeared to be a spacious, dungeon-like chamber flickered erratically, throwing faint tendrils of golden light on a long figure slumped against the wall opposite the one Winn was leaning against.

Ferrin. The lamp-light gleamed silver on the curve of his cheekbone and the arch of his brow. He turned even firelight cold. Peering closer, she realized that his eyes were opened to slits, as though he could hardly keep awake, and that he was leaning heavily against the wall, entirely deficient of his usual, unconscious grace. Weak as he seemed, however, Winn could not help but notice—with resentment—that he still managed to stare at her with his typical, frigid indifference entirely intact.

And to her utter revulsion, it still had the power to affect her, evident in the hot flush enveloping her body, making her feel loose, unbalanced, and disturbingly shaky. It was a feeling that made her want to hit him—not slap him, but *hit* him—and bruise that pale skin; it made her want to tear his mind to shreds, to make him *feel* the way she felt.

She averted her gaze, a hundred questions without answers and a thousand answers without questions racing through her brain, each seeking a companion and finding none.

"I know you heard me, Fallou." The voice ripped into her thoughts like a winter wind: cold, relentless, determined.

"Of course I did," Winn rejoined, recognizing this as a precious moment of vulnerability for Ruan and resolving to run with it. She turned her gaze upwards, though even her sharp eyes could not penetrate the dense shadow above.

A long pause filled the chamber with tension. "Answer me, partridge," Ruan murmured.

His near-reckless attempt to unnerve her was obvious even to her, but still, the sound of that particular endearment on those lips made her skin go hot with untamed anger. She hated herself at that moment, knowing that he could easily sense her discomfort.

"It is unimportant." She plastered a small, deliberate smile onto her lips, sure that he could see it. Hoping he would be disturbed by it.

Ruan stared hard at her, and pushed himself up to lean more firmly against the wall. As though he was tasting each word, testing its potency, he replied, "I think you're lying, partridge…I think it was exceedingly important." He tilted his head to the side, and a smile crossed his lips. "You were dreaming, weren't you?"

Involuntarily, she leveled her gaze on Ruan, feeling yet another rush of heat stream violently through her body—she felt hot enough to melt. Not entirely cognizant of what she was saying, Winn narrowed her eyes and replied heatedly, "It hasn't got anything to do with you, you fetid piece of excrement!" No, no, no! a voice was wailing in the back of her mind. This wasn't how it was supposed to go…she had to stop…he wouldn't win if she would just *stop*.

The smile grew wider, more triumphant. "I wonder what you were dreaming about, Fallou…"

But she couldn't stop, now… She lost control. "Fuck off!" she growled. All calculation, all caution flew out the window until all she could think was that he mustn't know…he mustn't find out…

"You were talking in your sleep," he continued, despite his amusement sounding rather curious. " 'I'm here,' you said… Who were you talking to, partridge? And then you said something like, 'It doesn't end here.' What doesn't end, I wonder?" He laughed shortly.

Winn pressed her lips together, forcing herself to stay quiet. Eyes narrowed, she concentrated on conjuring up an image of a thick steel wall that spanned the whole of her mind, a short, narrow door the only thing interrupting its gleaming homogeny. She imagined peering through the door and glimpsing Ruan running towards it, coming closer, closer…until he was just inches away and about to break through. No! she thought fiercely. He would see *everything*—she would be utterly exposed, raw, vulnerable… He would *know* what the dream was about—

She slammed the door.

* * *

Pain sliced through his mind, a flashing, curving blade so numbingly cold it made him writhe. He hated when she did that.

Less than a minute later, the intense, pulsing waves began to recede until they had faded into a muted ache, leaving him feeling even weaker than before and nauseous. He hadn't felt this…this powerless since childhood, after an especially thorough psychological defeat by his father. And he couldn't remember a time he had felt quite so physically exhausted. This was new, and it didn't feel natural. In fact, it felt like it had been *placed* on him—it felt like a spell.

Opening his eyes, he stared across the chamber at Winn, aching to inflict the same kind of pain on her. His gaze locked onto intense dark eyes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Trembling slightly from the combined sensations of fatigue and ache, he scanned her face. Thanks to the weak flicker of lamp-light between them, he observed that it had assumed a marked pallor—it had lost the angry flush burned into it just moments before—and that her features were deliberately empty of expression.

Keyword: Deliberately.

Then she *is* hiding something, he thought, intrigued, shifting so that he sat straight up. Knowing that were he to try he would be pushed violently out yet again, he itched to get into her mind and see what it was about her dream that she was trying to hide. While she dreamt, her mind had been curiously—and frustratingly—closed off, despite the link between them, allowing him only snatches of thoughts and glimpses of images, among them being a strip of blinding white sand, a tall, pale blur against a wide, blue smear, and the disturbingly real taste of salt.

I'll wait, he thought, studying the dangerous glimmer in those dark eyes.

With narrowed eyes, he broke the gaze and tilted his head gingerly up to scan the chamber. To his left, perhaps twenty feet away, he noticed what appeared to be a door made of iron—old, but solid. There didn't seem to be any other opening or means of escape—the entire chamber, aside from the iron door, was made of thick slabs of a dark, nondescript grey stone.

He couldn't quite remember how he had got here… The last thing he could recall before waking up in this place was standing in front of the closet in his room, looking for a jacket, when he heard the whir of something being swung violently through the air. He woke up to find himself sitting against a wall and Winn dreaming. Running a hand over his face, he thought he had an idea who was responsible, though. Indeed, Myr was the only person he could think of who had an immediate motive…Not that he knew what it was, but if she was willing to involve not only herself but the entire group of insurgents in Morteflame, he was sure she had some major incentive at hand.

And beyond all of that, he *knew* Myr, knew what she was capable of. Even if he didn't know—and never had—exactly what her plans were. 

A harsh intake of breath in Winn's direction caused him to glance back at her. Holding his face carefully impassive, he watched as she shut her eyes, held her breath, and seemed to concentrate on something only she could see. The hot flush returned to her cheeks, her lips parted, and a near-tangible wave of tension enveloped her entire body. Amused, he noted that all of this had the effect of making her appear to be in the throes of a rather…sensual…predicament.

She was vulnerable right now, he sensed. Her mental wards were weaker, as well—he could feel her thoughts a little more clearly, though they were still rather hazy, and appeared to be more in the form of colors, feelings, and general concepts than coherent thoughts. Perhaps if he got closer…

Ignoring the ache in his head and the feeling that he was about to collapse, Ruan forced himself to stand, and then walk slowly, shakily over to Winn's end of the chamber.  Hating his sudden clumsiness, he dropped down beside Winn, who didn't seem to notice that he was there, and leaned back against the wall, keeping his eyes on her. A thin sheen of sweat covered her face, making it shimmer in the firelight.

Suddenly, her eyes snapped open, and she let out the breath she was holding. One of her hands, fingers clawed, raked the air inches from his face before latching onto his bare arm.

The link exploded to life. "Fuck me," he muttered, and jerked his arm away before it drew him in and made him lose all control over his limbs.

Glancing down, he saw that Winn was nearly sprawled on the ground—her head was the only part of her propped up by the wall, which left her neck bent at an odd angle. His face remained perfectly blank as he bent down and wrapped an arm around her waist, ensuring that his skin did not touch hers, and pulled her upright—which took more effort than he would ever have dreamed something would. He rested her against the wall beside him, still staring narrowly at her face.

Her head turned towards him. Eyes flickering open, she focused on his face, seeking out his eyes. "It didn't work," she mumbled, sounding, he thought, dazed. Confused.

Excitement flared up in him—what did she mean, it didn't work? Winn was a puzzle to Ruan—a labyrinth whose secrets were nearer to him than any other, which made her all the more impenetrable. And alluring. "What didn't work?" he murmured in a soft, coaxing voice.

For an instant he thought she was going to answer him—he could see her trying to put it

into words—but then, the next moment, she seemed to realize to whom she was speaking. Her eyes flashed and he could *feel* her slam the door in his face again, only this time he wasn't inside of her mind, trying to get in deeper, which spared him a repeat of his earlier experience.

"Ruan." Her voice was cold and strangely sharp.

Without answering, he returned her narrow stare with one just as glacial.

"Get your filthy arm off of me."

He didn't even spare a glance down. "No," he replied evenly, a calculated smile curving his mouth, and tightened his grip on her waist.

A dark light gleamed in her eyes, leaving her face filled an expression akin to rage. "You know, Ruan, Shelley told me something very interesting," she said softly. "She said that vampires are a singular race. Because in both the Human world and Nightworld, only vampires are equal in physical strength and speed, regardless of gender."

The smile grew into a grin.

Under any other circumstances, Ruan could have easily subdued her—not because he was physically stronger, which, as Winn had just explained, but because he had nearly a century more experience. Due to the spell, however, Ruan was not only weaker at present but more sluggish, which automatically put him at a disadvantage as Winn rolled out of his grasp, kicking out viciously at the same time and catching him in the chest. He could already feel a bruise forming. Ignoring as well as he could the weakness in his limbs Ruan sprang at her, dropping neatly on top of her and locking her into a chokehold.

With an indrawn breath that sounded like a hiss, she dug her fingers into his shoulders and shoved him away. In a fraction of an instant she had straddled him, and wrapped her hands around his throat—avoiding skin-to-skin contact by covering her hands with the too-long sleeves of her grey sweater.

Neither of them heard the door open.

* * *

I'd love to hear what you've got on your mind! Please, do review…!

Peaches,

Mogget ::happy smile::