To all my dear, patient readers, here is a little late summer gift. All (hopefully) good things come to those who wait. And to CreepingMuse, who continues to teach me: bon voyage!

Chapter 7

Matt wakes up on the couch, his legs draped over Rebekah's lap, her sleeping torso slumped over his hip. The sun is bright; it fills the window-lined living room with clear, white morning light. He lies still for a moment, letting the strange, stunning surroundings remind him where he is: imposing mountains on all sides, sparse green grass and low, hearty shrubs dotting the landscape. Rebekah's blond hair splayed out behind her and over her face. Soft lips pouting even while she sleeps.

There's a strain in his neck from sleeping at an odd angle. He squirms against the rigid armrest and his robe falls open. Underneath he is still wearing nothing, and of course that's the moment she opens her eyes, the full display inches from her face.

He scrambles to cover himself up, a little more roughly than he means to.

"Some alarm you've got there," she murmurs playfully, pushing herself up to sitting.

His nerves quake with embarrassment aftershocks.

"What time is it?" she asks, rubbing her face like a child.

He sits up too, peering around the room for a clock. "No idea," he says, crossing his legs, carefully doubling his robe over his lap.

Rebekah chuckles, leaning toward him. He watches her until her lips meet his. They are soft and reassuring. After everything, and as wrung out as he is, they feel like the promise of good things to come. "We've got to get some clothes before we leave," she says with a grin.

"Yes, please," he agrees against her lips.

He retrieves his new suitcase full of clothes made by companies he's never heard of – and Rebekah's two suitcases – from the overhead rack on the train and drags them down the steps onto the platform of Vienna's Hauptbahnhof. The city is gargantuan. It took half an hour just to get through the outskirts, past houses that looked like they were either made by Ikea or built entirely of gingerbread. And then came the city's central buildings, broad, block-long buildings with ornate, decorated edges.

"So Veronique's here, you think?" Matt asks as they emerge onto a busy street.

Rebekah hails a cab. "Oh, no."

"What? Why…?" He trails off. He's too exhausted to be articulate.

She winks at him as a cab pulls up in front of them. Rebekah gives him directions. It will be nice to check into a hotel, close his eyes for a few more minutes – the train was too loud for sleep. And he could really use a beer, he muses, as they pass an ad with an enormous amber glass of something called Stiegl.

They drive through downtown, past hulking, official-looking buildings with statues of men on horseback out in front of them. They pass parks and cafes and soon everything starts to look more ordinary, more like the outer parts of Paris and Rome. Just sprawling, anonymous city.

They pull up in front of a heavily graffitied, forgotten old building in what looks like the kind of neighborhood Matt could easily afford a place. Rebekah presses money into the cab driver's hand and says something, then climbs out. "Come on," she prods him. "He'll wait."

Matt follows. This was his idea, after all, although there doesn't seem to have been a single detail that originated with him. Just the gist: not hiding. The rest is pure Rebekah, entirely out of his hands.

The high windows are covered with black paint from the inside. Rebekah rattles the handle of the locked front door, twice, then a little harder and something metal pops inside. As she pushes open the heavy door, she holds a hand out behind her and he takes it. What is this place?

On the far wall, there is a stage dotted with microphones on stands and a drum set in the corner. The dark, smoky room is empty of people but filled with chairs and small tables. There is a bar along one side and – oh. The room is not empty.

"Rifka, mein Schatz," comes a low, smooth voice from behind the bar.

Rebekah drops Matt's hand. "Schmuel, what a surprise! Of all Max's boys, I would have expected you to be on to better things decades ago."

Schmuel is slim and very tall, so tall that his shoulders curve almost into a hump. His hair is curly and unfashionably long, and his eyes are deep brown, essentially black, under long, feminine eyelashes. "I am. Owner and impresario." He wipes out a highball glass and fills it with thick, dark blood from a glass decanter. "To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?" he asks, offering her the glass.

Matt knows how much she needs that drink, but she swirls it in the glass absently. She doesn't even glance at it, keeping her eyes on Schmuel. "I need to talk to Max." She takes a small, polite sip.

Schmuel spreads his arms out over the bar. "Maybe I can be of service instead? You have come to my Kabarett, after all."

"This is a connection that predates even you, mein Liebchen."

Schmuel studies her while Rebekah sips her drink. "Leider, Max is not here," he finally says.

"And where has our dear friend gone?" Rebekah asks, finishing her drink without the slightest indication of the relief Matt knows she must feel to finally have some blood in her system.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

With an inscrutable grin, Schmuel takes Rebekah's empty glass, rinsing it out under the counter. "What about your… friend? Would he like a drink?" There's a new, menacing undertone in Schmuel's voice. He lifts his eyes to Matt's without moving an inch.

"No, thanks," Matt says evenly.

"Rifka, you know it's not nice to bring snacks unless you intend to share with everyone." In a flash, Schmuel is standing toe to toe with Matt, towering over him. The vampire takes a deep breath through his nose, inhaling Matt's scent like a restaurant critic at a table for one. "Yum," he hums, low and sexual.

Matt freezes.

"Don't be stupid," Rebekah says.

Schmuel sighs, his frame wilting measurably. "Now I remember why I don't like you."

Matt is suddenly skidding across the floor; Rebekah stands in his place. One hand flexes around Schmuel's neck while the other makes a tangled fist at the base of his long curls. "Tell me where Max is. Now."

"Or you'll rip my head off? Such a brute."

Her tone is breezy, even as tension crackles around her. "Well, I prefer civilized conversation, but if you require a brute, what can I do?"

Schmuel's gaze finds Matt, still stunned and sprawled on the floor, now watching the exchange from the far side of the room. Schmuel glares at him like a predator. Rebekah twists his head harder.

"No, you don't even get to look at him. Where. Is. Max?"

Schmuel's eyes flutter closed. At first, Matt thinks the man is going to pass out from lack of air, but of course that's impossible. He realizes as a faint grin parts the vampire's lips that he's savoring the deliciousness of the reveal. Finally, he opens his eyes. "He's a gondolier. In Venice."

Rebekah is silent.

"Venice, Italy?" Matt exclaims before he can stop himself. "We just fucking left!"

Schmuel ignores Matt's outburst, slipping out of Rebekah's grasp, with her silent assent if not permission. "Max's baritone? Well, you can imagine, all that singing suits him perfectly." Schmuel blurs behind the bar, settling in behind the flimsy barrier. "And he cuts quite a figure in that little outfit. Corners the overnight market. I visited just last month. I think I gained ten pounds on his fares alone."

Back in the cab, Matt struggles to calm his fluttering heart. "Who the hell was that?" he finally asks.

Rebekah grins. "Schmuel is one of Max's boys."

"Max. The guy in Italy."

Rebekah leans against the window. "Max is one of those people who knows absolutely everyone. It's astounding, really. If anyone will know where to find Veronique, it's him."

Reminds him of Caroline. She knows everyone, always has. A pang of homesickness rings through him. He clears his throat and changes the subject. "And Max has boys? Like Klaus's hybrids? Like an army?"

"Oh no, nothing like that. More like a school. Or a harem, really. For a while when I first met him, he had thirty or so young Jewish vampires, with Max as their leader. And teacher. And sugar daddy."

"Gay Jewish vampires? Really?"

She smiles, all delighted mischief. "Called the lot the Midnight Yeshiva. Bet they killed their fair share of Nazis. You must remind me to ask Max about that…"

Matt stares silently ahead, pretty sure nothing he says out loud will be right. They race through the streets in the late afternoon light. Finally, he changes the subject. "So now we're headed off to search for Max?"

"In Venice, yes."

Matt crushes his hands to his eyes.

"Tomorrow," she adds. "It's too late to go today. Almost sunset."

He shakes his head. Another night staring out windows. He makes a mental note to scrounge up a two-by-four on his way in and whittle himself a real stake. Shouldn't take too long, right?

What a fucking life.

They pull up in front of a faded awning. A uniformed doorman opens the cab for them, rapping on the trunk so he can remove their bags. The place is way too nice to have random chunks of wood hanging around the entrance. Maybe there will be something in their room he can use. There has to be.

Rebekah speaks with the front desk clerk for a moment, then rests her hand on Matt's shoulder.

"Ah, Herr Donovan," the clerk says, offering him a set of keys.

"Huh?"

Rebekah turns a level gaze on him. "The apartment is in your name."

They take the elevator to the third floor. "Apartment? Are we staying long?" Matt asks.

"Just the night. No, it's just that vampires can usually get into hotel rooms, but not rented apartments."

"Oh. Wow," Matt says, amazed at the possibility.

She shrugs, watching the numbers light up. "It's a long shot. Don't get your hopes up or anything."

They walk slowly down the hall to their apartment. Matt turns the key and brings the suitcases inside, then turns his expressionless face to Rebekah. No big deal, right? It wouldn't be the end of the world if she (and by extension anyone else with fangs and a taste for blood) could waltz right in. More of the same. But what a relief it would be for both of them if the vampire lockout system worked and they could have a night of safety. And he wants that relief so badly, needs it in a deep place in his heart, in his body.

Rebekah hesitates at first. She squares her jaw, then rears backward into the hallway. One step forward, then another, and she stops at the threshold.

"Can you…? Are you stuck?"

She leans forward, straining against nothing. "I am."

He exhales heavily, a wide smile blooming on his lips. "Rebekah Mikaelson, would you please come in?"

Her face is simply radiant. She takes a careful step inside, as if on an invisible balance beam. "Thank you."

Matt reaches behind her to shut the door. "No, thank you. This was brilliant."

Rebekah steps toward him, sliding her hands up his chest. Her lips part slightly, and it hits him that they are alone, finally, and they are unreachable. His hands slide down over her hips while hers reach up along his neck, up to his hair, to the nape of his neck where she held Schmuel's head to defend Matt, to keep him safe. He wants to bury himself in her, dive in, wrap himself in her arms and her kisses and maybe never come up for air.

He crushes her lips with his, pushing her against the wall, pinning her there with his hips. She gasps with surprise and he can feel a fleeting smile on her lips but he laps it up eagerly. A torrent has been unleashed in him – by safety, momentary triumph, who knows what – and he's going to let it drown them both.

Rebekah's nails rake his scalp as she grasps his hair. His breath rasps in his chest as she sucks at his bottom lip. Her skin is hot under the light fabric of her dress, and her fingers leave a trail of fire in their wake as they press along his neck, down his spine, under the waistband of his jeans. He kisses hungrily down to her chin, the crisp angle of her jaw, the hollow of her neck. She squeezes him closer.

His hand skims over her hip, around the curve of her thigh, and then he lifts it against his, wrapping her leg around him. He presses into her, to where she's even warmer, where he can't help but thrust. She presses back, straining against the wall.

Impatiently, Matt feels around for a doorknob and finds one, grabs and twists, sliding Rebekah along the wall so that he can bring her inside the room. Bright light flickers on: a modern, white tile bathroom. "Dammit," he grunts.

Rebekah's eyes burn under heavy lids. "Come on," she says, taking his hand. She leads him down the hall fast, almost faster than he can move, to another door. "Closet or bedroom?" she asks him with a raised eyebrow.

He shrugs, his mouth gaping open, his lips swollen and wanting more. She swings the door open wide, flicking on the light switch on the wall. A large bed occupies most of the room. "Oh thank God," he sighs as she tugs him onto the bed with a kiss.

He pulls his shirt over his head before they reach the pillows, desperate for skin on skin. There may be something to worry about, but not right now. Right now she is wearing one hundred percent too much clothing and so is he. Even before he has his shirt all the way off she is pressing her lips into the hollow of his sternum, holding his hips against her. He throws his shirt off the bed and starts on her dress, unzipping the back, peeling the straps over her shoulders, tasting the skin where they had been.

She slips out of it as she scoots back into the pillows, and now she is in nothing but the sweetest blue panties he has ever seen, lace and cotton with little straps at her hips that he tugs all the way down her legs. She kicks them off her ankles and his gaze returns to her, gloriously bare.

"No fair," she says, reaching to grab his belt. She's trying to tease, trying to be playful, but inside her voice there is a hungry tremble.

His eyelids almost close with a heavy exhalation; he is overwhelmed by want. He lets her unbuckle his belt, unbutton his jeans even as he strains against them. She doesn't lift her eyes from their task, which is just as well because from here he can watch her, memorize the swell and pout of her lips, how her eyelashes curl out over her cheek like a veil over her eyes, the way the soft curves of her breasts resemble perfectly ripe fruit.

By the time she pushes all unwanted clothing down over his thighs, his desire pounds in his ears like a heartbeat. He takes her face in his hands and opens her lips wider with his own, twisting so he can push his jeans and boxers all the way off. She bends her knee, slides her leg along his, guiding him over her. He could sink into her, wants to desperately, almost beyond choice. But no, not quite yet. This moment, poised on the precipice of release, is too delicious to rush. Instead, he braces himself on his elbows, kissing along her collarbone, savoring her.

Rebekah is less patient. In a flash, he is lying on his back against the pillows, the wind knocked out him as she straddles his hips. His eyes roll back and he wheezes for breath.

She ghosts her hands over his chest. "Oh no, I'm sorry, are you okay?"

He nods, grinning in spite of painful sensation of breath trying to tear itself through his lungs.

"No, this was a mistake," she mutters, more to herself than to him. She shifts to climb off of him. "You're too fragile, I'm going to -"

"It's not a mistake," he wheezes, holding her in place by her forearms. "I'm okay."

"I could kill you."

"Do you want to?"

It's an echo of a previous conversation, an argument he has made before. "No," she protests again, "but I could, by accident."

He slides a hand up her arm toward her neck, and she sort of yields, but not without a flicker of resistance. She leans forward so he can reach, so he can wrap his fingers around the nape of her neck and draw her closer. "Human pace, that's all." He kisses her lightly.

"I'll try," she says, and yielding enough that he can pull her down onto him. But then she leans to the side again. He presses her hip, keeping her in place. Stay, it says, and she does.

She circles her hips against him. She is slick and inviting, sitting back up, straddling him, watching him with heavy lids. He rests his hands on her hips, hoping to encourage her. She licks her lips as she grasps him at the base and guides him inside. The wave of sensation is so overwhelming, so powerful that a moan escapes his chest.

She moves slowly, swallowing him to the hilt, releasing and coming back. His body curls into her, muscles purely responsive. His head rolls back and he doesn't care how exposed his neck is, what kind of invitation it must look like. She won't bite him, although she could if she wanted to. He trusts her.

He feels her tongue press against the hollow at his collarbone. Their angle changes, intensifies, as she kisses and sucks along the length of his neck. No teeth at all, of course not. She thrusts a little faster, her breasts pressed against his chest, and he wraps his arms around her waist now with another moan. She is unbreakable, and in the face of that miracle he lets himself go, probably couldn't get himself back if he wanted to. He thrusts into her and she matches him, rocking into him, bracing against him, and he knows she's as close as he is.

He finds her lips with his, sucking at the tip of her tongue, and her low, answering moan sends him almost over the edge. His hands find her hips again, his favorite place maybe in the entire world, and the swirling circle of tongue and cock, of thrusting and sucking, swells until they both overflow.

They lie amid the tangle of sheets as he winds his fingers absent-mindedly in her hair. He wants to say something, and maybe he's being impulsive, but he doesn't think so. "What I said back home about what happens on the road stays on the road?"

Rebekah tightens, withdraws a little. "You meant things like this."

"No, it's…." Matt twists, propping himself up on one elbow so he can face her. "I should never have said that. It was stupid. I was wrong and I'm sorry."

Her eyes glitter with reflected lamplight. And hope. "It's okay."

"No, I didn't realize," he continues. He wants her to understand something about the seriousness of his feelings, about the significance to him of their whatever-this-is. But words have never been his friend. "This, us? Is important to me. You are important to me."

She stifles a grin, poorly. He returns it, then pulls her closer again, tucking her head under his chin, cradling her against him.