Feliar had deposited him outside a conference room on the first floor of the Ritz. Contrary to the ultra liberal ethics of the majority of citizens, money greased wheels in San Francisco as much as it did anywhere else. Windows the entire length of the corridor were drawn, covered with curtains conspicuous only now that they weren't grandly pulled aside to offer an appealing vista of the streets outside.

The vampire disappeared with a single admonishment for him to stay where he was. It was an anteroom of sorts, furnished with a couple of posh benches and two doors on opposite ends. One led to the conference room, the other back out into the hall. He debated napping and discarded the notion. Calling the rest of the Nightstalkers struck him immediately as a bad idea; having him nearby, waiting on her, was just a way Feliar could keep a closer eye on him.

He settled on imagining vacations he and Abby would never take. Some time, some how, he had to get that girl on a nude beach. Something Euro-trashy, so he could properly enjoy the jealous looks of a thousand hairy continentals when she left with him. Maybe one of them would try to pick a fight and he could have the supreme pleasure of watching his naked partner kick ass; maybe she'd even punish him later for encouraging chauvinism. What I did on my summer vacation, King-style.

Lost in the sun and satisfaction, he barely caught a glimpse of the person who deposited a mopey kid decked out in don't-touch-me metal gear. Obeying the laws of relative strangers, the kid plopped down on the other plush, red velvet cushioned bench with only a cursory, default-polite nod.

"Hey." It was the unaffected indifference of a teenager, the kind that made him want to smack the kid and, retroactively, his own pubescent self; as his mother could attest, he'd been just a pissy once upon a time. It wasn't a greeting meant to encourage conversation, but he possessed a singular talent for fostering talk where none was merited or appreciated.

"So what did you do wrong?"

"Huh?" The boy didn't look up from where he picked at his chipped black nail polish.

"I got thrown out of the big kids' meeting for talking out of turn. What did you do?"

"Oh," the boy shrugged. "Nothing. I'm here for some tests."

"Tests?"

"Yeah," he muttered, now chewing on his thumbnail.

"Are you applying for a job?"

"No," the kid rolled his eyes; like any good teen, he thought he knew everything and the collected ignorance of the world was such a burden. King sympathized - it was a burden, sometimes.

"I'm sick."

"I'm not loving the ripped Poison t-shirt either, pal, but I wouldn't go that far."

The boy snorted once, his sullen expression lifting and lightening his oppressive seriousness.

"Poison's ok. My dad gave me this."

"Who's your dad?"

"Christopher Leung."

"Don't know him," King lied easily; in his head, he did somersaults worthy of his partner's admiration. This was the older Leung boy - he hadn't caught the name from Abby - the one who was so sick all the time that the vamps had left him alone despite snacking on the rest of his siblings. Knowing this made all the difference in the world; suddenly, he could almost understand the kid's taste for black, his determination to be downbeat and cynical, and his masochistic love for bad eighties hair metal.

"I like Guns and Roses better. But Cannibal Corpse had some awesome shirts."

"Yeah," and the boy grinned again, less hesitantly this time. "They're really gross. My mom hates 'em. I never wear 'em around her. It's not like I listened to their music or anything."

"Before your time - sorry, what was your name?"

"Patrick."

"King."

"No shit?"

It was hard to impress a teenager - or fool one, for that matter. He sighed, beleaguered and put-upon, and confessed.

"It's Hannibal King, but I go by King."

"Hannibal?" The boy's thick brows pinched together, slanted down over his eyes suspiciously. "Like Anthony Hopkins and eating people and stuff?"

"Why do you think I go by King?"

"Sick."

Not entirely sure if this was condemnation or high praise, he pushed on.

"Where's your dad now?"

"Dunno. That psycho he works for 's like making sure I can take these tests or something. I dunno. We're staying overnight."

Patrick returned to examining his nails, grinding the grit out from one by worrying it with his teeth. Ripped black jeans, a black, faded-print shirt, silver and black leather cuffs, and scuffed Doc Martens - it could have been the younger, angrier, still-in-the-closet version of the guy he'd pretended to be when he picked up Feliar.

He caught Patrick trying to size him up and waited for the verdict.

"You, uh, work here or something?"

"As a matter of fact. I'm a liaison to your dad's boss." Horror flashed across the boy's face. "Relax. I don't like her much either. I won't tell if you don't." Relief replaced panic, and Patrick nodded; they had an understanding.

"You got some sorta weird fetish, too?"

"Well, I do like My Little Pony."

"Naw, naw," Patrick laughed, "like, man, have you seen what she does to her teeth? Friend of mine says capping like that costs."

"You have no idea."

He was beginning to like this kid. Not only was he not buying Feliar's public personality, he was savvy enough to notice the fangs. That was impressive; he hadn't noticed Danica's until they'd been half an inch deep in his throat. True, he'd been smashed enough to be seeing two of the diminutive, ball-sucking anal slut at the time, but still, mad props to the kid nonetheless.

"I got this friend who does stuff like that. I never saw a, like, business lady have that kind of thing. Or," the kid swallowed, uncertainly. King held his tongue while the kid rallied the courage to finish his thought. "I never saw a suit who pierced his ears."

"I was young and stupid once, too."

"Those are pretty cool. I'd get one like that," he pointed to King's left stud, an unostentatious gold ball he wore so as to throw the tasteful style of the blue stone in his right ear into sharper relief.

"Parents won't let you?"

"Nah. My mom'd let me do anything. I've gotten my tongue done twice, but it got infected both times when it started to heal over. Hurts like a bitch."

"My dad's a tattoo artist. He does piercings, too. I got to hear all kinds of good screams from the guys who went in drunk for Prince Alberts."

Patrick guffawed, wheezing and clutching his stomach as he rolled in his seat.

"Oh man, is that for real?"

"Who do think did my ears? And the life-size inking of Woody Allen's head over my left nipple?"

"Hah," Patrick sniffed, clearing his nose and wiping his eyes. "You're so full of it."

"I'm from Canada by way of Los Angeles. I'm entitled."

This sparked admiration and intrigue anew. "You're from L.A.?"

"I represent the interests of a few parties from that way, yeah."

"Must be cool."

"Super highways and snake handlers on every corner. I wake up crying every morning I'm not there."

"Fairy," Patrick sniggered, but they were clearly going to stay friends. He felt he could risk probing for more serious answers than those related to pop culture and self-mutilation.

"So, what're you in for?"

"I have anemia. They're supposed to be doing research to fix it or something."

"You don't look that skinny to me." It was an obvious mark, and the cynical teenager reared its head again as Patrick flicked a plaintive look at the ceiling, silently entreating Heaven's mercy.

"Anemia, dude. Anorexia is a chick thing."

"Hey, men are survivors, too, Pat."

"Rick."

"What?"

"Friends call me Rick. Pat's a girl's name."

"You don't have a problem with girls do you, Rick?" The question didn't need answering. Whether or not Rick felt one way or another about the female species, at fifteen, no man wanted to be considered effeminate. Not a few bullies had picked on him back in the day because of his earrings.

"Are you here for the conference?"

"That's me."

"What do you…do?"

He more or less assumed Feliar would have given him a nominal job title by now, as some of the other familiars who'd been in and out of her suite had acquired designations while prepping for Thursday. Evasion was the key here, leaving room for her to fill in the blanks later, but he had to give some answer.

What the hell? He went for the truth.

"I'm screwing your dad's boss."

Patrick snorted, coughing mightily and spitting out a fleck of torn-off fingernail he'd been shredding. He managed a snotty, "Ewww," and kept right on chuckling.

It was nice to have receptive audience again. Abby barely cracked a smile that wasn't dangerous, Zoe had grown up way too fast in the past few weeks, and he hadn't had much time to get to know the other crew before shacking up with the second soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. Vampire King.

"And what is so funny?"

Patrick quit laughing in a hurry, cowed immediately by the entrance of his father and Feliar. King's smirk stayed firmly in place; he hoped she'd heard him.

"Patrick?" Leung peered over the vampire's shoulder at his son, nervous and twitchy. Feliar stepped aside so father could retrieve son, guiding him to one side so the two pairs could share a private moment. Arms folded behind her back, neither of the Leungs could see her extend one to reach for his ass.

"Playing nice?"

"You know it."

"Don't talk to the boy, King. You know why he's here."

Actually, he didn't, but he nodded while he tried to work it out. This was the sick kid, so why did the vampires want him? Leverage, probably. It always came back to leverage, or so Abby had told him. Vampires only bothered with humans because they were useful. That familiars were also walking, willing vampire espressos didn't hurt either.

King fought to keep his expression neutral as he watched Leung talking to Patrick. Leung was solicitous of his son, the latter having returned to being difficult and moody in a hurry. The kid might have been gratified to know his low opinion of his father wasn't wrong. With one pleading and cajoling and the other grunting and making noncommittal gestures, they seemed less like father and son than salesman and client. Which maybe made sense, as Leung senior was a pitchman for Biomedica. Patrick was the type to hate that phony pitch shit, too. They didn't even look related, much.

Feliar cleared her throat. In front of Patrick, she took pains to keep her mouth closed as much as possible. If it wouldn't mean a number of unpleasant things happening to him as a result, he might have told her Patrick already had her number on her chompers.

"Have you explained everything to him, Christopher?"

"Yep, I think we're good to go. Right, pal?" Leung hugged his son about the shoulders, and King instantly swore, if he ran across Rick in the future, never to call him 'pal' ever.

"Sure," Patrick shrugged, only raising his head to look at his father to ask a sincere question. "Is Mom here yet?"

"Not yet. She'll be here by the time you're through."

"I wanted to see her," Patrick whined softly, conceding in the same breath, "no big."

Patrick's moping and the silent exchange between Feliar and Leung gave him the willies. Why wasn't the kid's mother around? Maybe because she might flip out if she knew her husband was still peddling her children as vampire juice-boxes. How the hell did Leung think he was going to get away with offing this kid, too?

Feliar rescued her underling. "Why don't you walk him over to see Dr. Autile?" Feliar smiled, her lips stretched over her teeth protectively. "Would you like that, Patrick? Your dad will be with you while they run the tests, and I'll have someone send your mom up when she arrives."

"Fine," Patrick muttered, eyes back on his hands resting in his lap.

Undaunted by his lack of enthusiasm, Feliar gestured towards the door. "Go on then. I'll catch up with you. I just need a word with Mr. King."

Leung nodded, Patrick's eyebrows went up on his forehead. Mr. King? He shrugged, impishly, resigned to it; if he and Rick ever had a contest for who was condescended more, he would win in a landslide. They left, the door shut behind them by yet another shaved yeti who didn't speak English so much as gargle it.

"What's the story?"

"Story?" Feliar blinked at him, coquettishly batting her eyelashes.

"I do something wrong?" He didn't much care for her security drones, but he thought of Mischa and cringed internally.

"No, no, nothing of the sort. I just wanted to tell you we'll be having a dinner guest tonight." Her eyes twinkled at his sharp inhalation. "Oh, yes, King, that kind of dinner guest."

"Friend of yours?" First, that 'her' comment from earlier, now this. He wondered about Fox, then decided it didn't matter who she brought up to her suite. It was six and one half dozen of the other, and he didn't like it, especially not if she intended to include him in the feasting. He'd had enough of that lifestyle to make him physically ill at the thought of it.

"Obviously not," she cooed, stretching up to nuzzle him and scratch the underside of his chin. Playing along, he hugged her around the waist, pulling her closer. Without breaking the skin, she nipped at his jaw, placing kisses over the tiny bites to soothe him.

"So what's with the boy anyway?"

"I told you, forget about him."

"Is it 'take your kid to work' day again already?"

"Drop it, your highness."

He really ought to, but he couldn't let the bug riding his ass go. "Yeah, he seems like the type to follow in daddy's footsteps." Feliar raised an eyebrow, glaring sharply up at him. Instinct told him to shut up, so, of course, he kept going. "What? It could be a whole new style for you. I see fishnets, lime-green pumps and a sweater dress in your future, angel."

Feliar's laugh tinkled like broken glass, and her breath was cool on his ear as she leaned back into him.

"What did you think of him?"

"You said we weren't talking about this."
"I changed my mind," she said while digging her nails into his shirtfront. That was vampire for 'be serious or be disemboweled.'

"He seems like a little shit. I liked him."

"Hmm," Feliar huffed her putrid breath over his neck, flicking out her tongue once to catch his Adam's apple. "People like him will inherit the earth. It seems almost laughable, doesn't it? I bet he doesn't even compare to those whom you've been privileged to meet of late."

"Yes, but the children are our future, cupcake." He sniffed the bait but refused her lure. She wanted to talk about Blade. He'd been vague about escaping Danica's thus far, sufficiently dropping not entirely unauthentic snide remarks about the hybrid asshole to convey his displeasure at having the former mistress of Phoenix Towers ashed against his will. And that was all she got.

"Not a very impressive specimen, regardless."

"Give him time, a haircut, and a blow job. His whole world will change. Promise."

"All right, enough." She pulled away from him, tapping one fingernail against her hip and looking him up and down. "Time to eat."

For all of a second, his stomach did flip-flops of joy; substantial meals, chocolate hotel mints and raids of the mini-bar not withstanding, hadn't featured into his stay so far. The gastrointestinal gold medal performance crashed and burned in a hurry when he realized this probably wasn't going to be a trip to McDonald's.

"Eat what?"

Her answering grin was toothy and enigmatic.