Author's Note: I OWN OBLIVIO - shot for blatant lie and copyright infringement*

Thanks so much for reviewing, seeing new reviews on my story makes me grin from ear to ear every time.

Arty – Lolwhat? Dude, he was just this crazy guy that was, like, totally in my way. And was wearing a dress. Kudos if you can guess the character I based his appearance off of, although his demeanor is totally mine. :D And Avielle's next confrontation with Raminus will not be pretty, I promise you. :P I'm not sure if it involves paralysis, though, because I hope to make it a more serious scene.

NoSoundComes – I'm not really trying to be fast, it's just that I've been aaarrrghbombarded with stuff to do lately. Hopefully by Thanksgiving break it'll cool down and give me some time to write. I'm not sure what you mean by ellipses – please elaborate? Because I do always want to get better :B Don't we all?

Lady Reva – Sometimes I do that, actually. Or I cast the script effect 'pants on fire' on the guy and watch him run around in circles like an idiot.

DualKatanas – Well, he was being gentle, or so he thought. :P As for Ray killing the Emperor – there are so many scenes in the tutorial where there are no Blades between you and him, and the guy is close enough for you to kill him at least twenty different ways.

Carlotta – Eep, another new reviewer! And I love Janus and Vicente =D If you're looking for another story that has them as friends, L'Ankou's stories have that. Plus, they're amazingly written. Anyway, you asked for a new part, and now you shall have one.

Hoo boy, long chapter.

Not all of the Arcane University's magisters had gotten where they were out of pluck, determination, or raw talent. Had Avielle been less serious about following her mother's will, or come from richer stock, she might have made it into Cyrodiil's finest mage hall immediately by bribing the right people rather than struggling to complete small jobs all over the province. It was a hefty sum, and a risky thing to do, but more than one mage in the University had that guilty conscience.

However, one such Mage Apprentice had gotten in by paying money that wasn't hers. She'd been loaned some drakes from people who really didn't like to be crossed, and a year had passed without her even contacting them. Even more unforgivably, a look into her private life had yielded the fact that she didn't even have enough Septims to pay off her debt. In fact, the woman didn't even have enough money to take them out for lunch at the Feed Bag.

After some dealings of a more shady sort, a contract had been arranged, and it was now Ravolian Markaius's job to make the apprentice pay with the next best thing; her life.

And so fate found Vicente Valtieri at the Arcane University that night.

He'd been assigned to watch the new Brother complete his first contract. Usually, this sort of thing fell to Telaendril or Lucien, when they were present, but this contract was at the University, and Ray was not supposed to know that he had a tail. The Cheydinhal Sanctuary only had one key to the University's gates left, having lost the other two on failed assignments. Vicente had been drafted for this simply because he did not need a key to the Arcane University in order to get in.

Every wall had its handholds.

The slapdash stone patterning had been simple enough to navigate; he'd used his Embrace of Shadows to prevent anyone from spotting his ascent and then climbed up the barrier, all the while enjoying the cool night breeze that caressed his face. He had been out of Cheydinhal more times in the past few days than he had in the past five years not counting them, and he was thoroughly content with the change of pace.

He now stood on top of the Mages Quarters building, on the balcony; anyone glancing up at his silhouette would think nothing of it. He was just another Apprentice stargazing for their astronomy charts, an alchemist getting a breath of fresh air to escape a pungent brew in the works. Hiding in plain sight. Nobody would join him there, either; Locking magic was very rare in Cyrodiil, but he'd picked it up in his days in Morrowind, and the resulting seal on the door behind him was entirely impervious to lockpicks and would take a very skilled mage to undo it by magical means.

Ravolian was setting himself up to get killed, he noted wryly as he watched the Murderer making his way across the moonlight stone path around the main tower. He was making no attempts to either hide or blend in; for the love of Sithis, he was wearing his new armor! He simply strolled through as if he owned the place...

...and while he himself probably didn't know the reasons behind his own devilish luck, Vicente realised that it was the boy's cockiness, his utter certainty, that prevented anyone from marking him out as an impostor. Ray was an imbecile, perhaps, but that damned charismatic element was at work again; he looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. Somehow, he even looked like he belonged where he was completely, despite his lack of mages' robes and and his probable lack of magicka entirely.

Of course, if the University was foolish enough to believe anyone with a key was a mage, then maybe Ray wouldn't last so long after all. There would be many other contracts with tighter security, and if the boy tried to play anything like this, he'd find himself at the gallows before he could drawl, "What are you doing, maaan?"

Ray had reached the Mages' Quarters; Vicente focused on his innate abilities to sense life and marked out his silouette among the other mages flitting around the building. He ran his tongue over his teeth. Life... it was enough to make him drool, but it was not what he'd come here for. He'd have to wait until Ray had made his escape before he could put his thirst to rest. And the University was not a good place to hunt, seeing as there was nary a time when everyone in the complex was asleep, and many of them could see through walls and chameleon spells. There was a guard posted at the entrance to the building, but judging by the way he slouched against the wall, he was sleeping on the job. A pity for him, and a godsend for the idiotic Murderer.

Ray had been told that the death-marked Apprentice quartered on the third room on the left on the base floor; he made his way towards that door. Vicente had chosen the balcony's vantage point because it was directly below him. The glowing figure inside was sprawled out horizontally – asleep, which was always ideal for a quick and quiet kill. The assassin's luminescence slipped inside the room, making no move to shut the door that was still likely open behind him.

Vicente watched as his silhouette reached out a glowing purple finger and prodded the sleeping figure multiple times.

He was waking her up? Vicente clapped a palm to his forehead. Bloody idiot.

Was he trying to get caught? His stupidity was transcending believable; perhaps he was some kind of spy that had been sent to expose the Brotherhood or something.

The girl seemed to stir, stretching and then freezing as she realized that there was somebody in her room. Vicente focused his life detection as strongly as he could; Ray's jaw was moving, likely delivering some self-gratifying one-liner to the doomed mage.

Ray then drew his sword, which Vicente could see; as it was lifted, the enchantment on it sprang to life. The vampire could pick up oscillations of energy besides life; they were fainter, but he could still taste the crackle of illusion magic. He brought it down in a fine slash; the girl opened her mouth to scream, but Vicente heard nothing, despite his proximity.

So it was a Silencing blade... perhaps the boy had a modicum of sense after all.

Had the vampire not been paying such close attention to his Brother, focusing his life detection solely on him and his target, he might have seen the glow of somebody else lurking just outside the room.

0o0o0

Avielle Fradaun watched soundlessly as the Imperial in black leather armor diced one of her fellow Apprentices.

She'd ran into the Mages Quarters for one reason; she'd spotted him again.

Nobody else would have paid him a second glance. Even she wouldn't have, had his appearance not been burned into her subconsious. That tall figure, dressed from head to toe in silky black robes... perhaps she was deluding herself, but she was positive it was her twice-savior.

He was driving her mad. What was he doing here? Who was he? She'd not wasted a second in going after him, knowing that he could slip away at any given second.

She had paused, however, because somebody had left their door open. She'd made to close it, only to see somebody else in black gutting an unarmed girl with a sword, sporting armor with a black handprint on one pauldron that immediately commanded her attention.

Dark Brotherhood.

Her throat clenched, bile rose in her throat, and she bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood.

It was not fear, no, as anyone else might have felt if they'd witnessed a murder by the infamous shadows. Nor did she feel outrage at another faceless innocent losing their life, as she would have in any other circumstance besides this one.

All Avielle could register was a burning hatred, so strong that she forgot momentarily about the reason why she'd entered the Mages' Quarters to begin with.

But now it all clicked into place.

Black robes, perpetual secrecy, that he was here tonight... he was one of the fetchers.

She'd been saved by the same bastards who'd killed her father.

The realization was as paralyzing as a strike from her staff. It didn't make sense; she felt both furious and numb, burning up and freezing cold. She felt like she'd been stricken with one of the spells her mother had created, the spells that crafted their unique, exquisite tortures that had been planned to be unleashed upon the murderers..

The assassin started to turn around, and Avielle acted instinctively; she threw herself to the side towards the staircase, out of his direct line of sight. Her heart pounded painfully as he emerged from the room, a disgustingly amused smile on his face, and turned towards the door without so much as a glance to see if he was clear. The arrogant fool... but they were all arrogant, all monsters, with no regard for the lives they stole or the lives that were ruined in the wake.

But she had to deal with the now, and there were two clear options that presented themselves to her.

To scream for the guards, or to get some answers?

Avielle scrambled up the stairs.

To hell with authority. They'd never gotten her anywhere, never tracked down the reason why she'd never known a father. They'd never given her any reason to sleep more soundly at night. And their inaction was the reason why her mother had taken her revenge into her own hands, the reason why she was exiled from her beloved Guild and spent sixteen years trying to harness magicka that ended up leaving her a charred corpse. It was too late to save the girl, she knew, and that hooded man... she had to be sure.

Assassins didn't save people, they killed people. But then, why...?

She fumbled with the door, palms sweating, and swore under her breath. It was locked, no, more than locked. There was no telltale padlock, and her Breton sensitivity could feel the magic humming over the door; it was no ordinary seal. Bastard knew how to cover his tracks, that was for sure.

But her mother's years of toying with magic unknown and forbidden had not left her daughter without a legacy. Avielle pressed her splayed hands to the wood of the door, unleashing a torrent of energy into the weathered wood. The door trembled, caught between the pulls of two opposite magical forces, until finally giving way to one. She stumbled as the rush of energy subsided, almost losing her balance; his spell had been powerful indeed to require that much energy to undo. Dizzily, she watched as the door swung open, almost in slow motion.

And there he was, his back to her.

0o0o0

Vicente didn't think. Couldn't think. There was no understanding that somebody had destroyed his unpickable lock, no realization that Avielle Fradaun had chanced upon him for a third time. The only thing that mattered was a frantically beating heart, streams of ambrosia thrumming right behind him.

It was not Vicente Valtieri that whirled around and leapt for the girl's neck, but the feral animal that lurked behind a human's face.

0o0o0

Avielle registered only a blur as the man whirled around, his cloak flying up with the speed at which he moved. Something crashed into her with enough force to snap her ribs, driving her to the balcony's floor. Fingers as thin and hard as bones held her down, forcing her head back; everything had happened so fast that she couldn't find her voice to cry out, and the impact of her skull hitting the balcony's floor left her seeing only stars.

There was a sharp stab of pain at her throat, and then a spiral downwards into blissful darkness.

0o0o0

The last sparks of white magic dissipated into the air, and he leaned back, propping himself up on one shoulder. Restoration magic was an aptitude every Breton had, but the energies of life and healing did not flow so easily through the undead, and Vicente's proficiency in it was not at the same level as his other skills. He preferred not to use it; it felt wrong, somehow, contemptuous of him, triggering some primal nervousness in the recesses of his mind. It was the energy that sustained life, it was as simple as that; he was animated by something completely opposite.

He closed his eyes, pondering what had just transpired.

He'd completely lost himself. Pent-up hunger had rendered him little more than a beast; he'd been too intent on keeping watch on his Brother's escape outdoors to notice the obvious-in-retrospect footsteps behind him, the buzzing heat applied to the door as magic had melted what locks could not pick. He'd been too focused to pay a modicum of attention to his ravening, which had grown to a degree that was uncontrollable if not kept on a tight leash. And he'd lost control. A whiff of blood nearby – not even exposed, just proximity to life – and he had become the mindless predator, breaking her as easily as thin glass. She'd been halfway drained before he'd realized what he was doing and jerked back to his senses.

Ray had already escaped, so Vicente had made a snap decision, the closest he ever came to panicking. He'd picked up the limp form and carried her to a safer place – safer for him, at least, because he most definitely did not want to spend another moment in the Arcane University. She was pathetically light to him; he could scale walls and sprint as fast as he could while keeping her as undamaged as the most delicate of cargo. Stopping at the deserted shoreline of Lake Rumare, he'd healed her broken bones, cast a precautionary Cure Disease spell on her, and restored some of her stamina. Then he'd simply waited, brooding, watching the moon waver on the black waters as he contemplated what he'd done and waited for her to wake.

But the mortifying part was that he cared. Had this happened among his Family, yes, he would have felt this concern for endangering their welfare. They were his Brothers and Sisters; they were one in the eyes of Sithis. But this girl... why? Why did it matter to him whether she, an insignificant bystander, lived or died?

If anything, it would be easier if she were to die now; she may or may not have witnessed Ray's murder, but she had definitely seen Vicente for what he was, and he was almost positive she would talk. They always did.

Why was he doing his utmost to keep her alive?

Why did he feel guilty when he looked down upon her pale form and became conscious of her blood running through his veins, putting her in pain in order to stave off his own?

This was how humans were supposed to feel, how mortals were supposed to feel; how he might have felt three hundred years years ago when he first was turned. Mortal logic was not something you could afford when you were a vampire; if you neither rationalized things to yourself nor became entirely apathetic, the weight of your own actions would eventually drive you mad. As he seldom killed any of his victims outside of contracts, and had convinced himself of the insignificance of those he did claim by accident, Vicente had not suffered issues with culpability in centuries; even less so after he'd joined the Brotherhood. He was a vampire and an assassin. He didn't give a damn about the lives of anyone outside of one small circle.

He shouldn't give a damn about the lives of anyone outside. He couldn't. Because it had the potential to destroy him.

So who did she think she was, to make him feel alive again?

That was hardly a good thing, because he was not alive. He was dead. And most living moral standards carried into the unlife inevitably were shredded into thousands of pieces and carried away on the wind.

It wasn't love, he was fairly certain of that. He'd loved before; granted, he'd been human at the time, but this was hardly comparable to how he'd felt then. She was pretty, but she wasn't beautiful, and there was no deep connection of spirit or mutual understanding – far from it, really – that could have created any illusion of closeness between them. If anything, it was a sort of possessiveness he felt towards her; that Avielle Fradaun's life both belonged to him and was in his safekeeping. She was both fiery and timorous, poking her head into things that often bit back at her. She was intriguing and infuriating, insightful and idiotic...

In the end, it didn't matter what he felt. The fact that he felt at all was the disaster.

At last, the girl began to stir. Briefly, he comtemplated sliding his hood back up, but quickly dismissed the notion. There was no point. And after what he'd done to her, he supposed that she deserved that much of the truth. He was a gentleman, after all.

Avielle groaned, rubbing her eyes as she struggled to a kneeling position. This had not been the most comfortable sleep she'd had... but was it even sleep? She was lying on something grainy, something that gave as she moved, and she was the antithesis of a well-rested person. Her neck stung, and her entire body ached as if with a fever. And there was something deeper, something that bespoke complete and utter fatigue.

"I see you're finally awake," came the voice she'd come to obsess upon.

She jerked upwards, fragments of befuddled memories playing across her mind. He'd been there, on a moonlit balcony, and then... something. Something confusing and painful. The Breton struggled to her feet, eyes raking the shoreline of the Rumare until she saw him, sitting placidly on one of the rocks that studded the beach.

And his hood was up. Her blood froze over.

"I wear that for a reason, you know."

There was that voice again, as warm and rich as velvet, butter, maple syrup... She'd been picturing a face to match, perhaps with chocolate eyes and a lopsided half-smirk to go along with the wry flippancy of his words.

What she saw was much different.

His enchanting cadences could hardly have contrasted more with his features. He could have been handsome once, but the only thing Avielle could respond with was shock and fear – it was his other facets that dominated her attention. The man's skin was as pale as the sand underfoot, save for a faint flush that played upon his face. His cheeks were more sunken than she would have thought possible – the skin nearly hugged his cheekbones and jaw, giving the impression of a skull. His brow was high, curving elegantly down to a finely proportioned nose; possibly the only feature that hadn't been ravaged by his ovbious vampirism. Almond eyes peered down at her from his gaunt, tapered face, but the fine shape of them was overshadowed by their morbid color. They were a much deeper red than Hassildor's had been, with flecks of lighter scarlet ringing the pupil like a smattering of rubies.

His hair was at odds with his skeletal appearance; it was a deep brown, untouched by even a streak of gray. He wore it tied back in a loose ponytail that fell down to a spot a few inches past the base of his shoulderblades.

But outside her subconscious, it was somehow hard to be terrified at his first appearance; she'd had her dealings with vampires before, and he didn't look like a feral creature. There was something debonair about him. After all, he'd been with Hassildor, and if she recalled correctly, he'd referred to him by first name... so the two seemed to be on good terms, which stood to reason that he was equally civilised. But those last waking memories were coming into focus, and what she realized was not to her liking. He'd whirled around and leapt at her, driving her to the floor... the snapping agony of bones breaking under unbelievable force...

Avielle fingered the sore, stinging spot on her neck. What to say, what to do...

"I am extremely sorry about that, by the way."

She glanced up at him. "About using me as a snack on the go? I do take offense to that, for some strange reason. No idea why."

He slid off the rock, landing on his feet uncomfortably close to where she stood; they both took an uncannily synchronized step backward, at which he smiled wryly at. The minor show of emotion did strange things to his face; his skin was so tightly stretched that it seemed as if it might break if he were to grin any wider.

"My sincerest apologies, Avielle. I assure you, it was not my intention to feed... you simply caught me at a very bad time, and I fear I rather lost myself. Do not worry, though; I cast a cure spell on you to prevent the disease from taking root."

Avielle was not quite sure how to respond to this. She was rapidly revising her image of vampires; they weren't necessarily evil, they were just damn confusing. They'd come to your rescue only to tell you off, they'd drink your blood and then apologize profusely as they carried you off to some deserted beach.

"Well, er, thanks, I guess...? Just don't do that again. I feel like hell. Don't be surprised if I throw up on you."

His smile turned apologetic. "I must confess, I did what I could, but the school of restoration tends to elude me."

And yet you could cast a Cure Disease spell, which isn't exactly novice material. Hmm.

"Wait... how do you know my name?"

"I overheard it as you were chatting up those Necromancers. Might I suggest, in the future, that you make sure that you're in control of a situation before playing games such as that? I can't always be around to play the gallant hero, you know. It's rather atypical of my style."

Avielle would have blushed furiously at that, but there wasn't enough substance in her veins to manage more than a faint pinkness to her cheeks. "You-"

"But," he cut in, "I suppose it's only fair that you learn mine as well. I am Vicente. Pleased to finally meet you, although admittedly I would prefer it under different circumstances."

"No last name?" she pointed out critically.

"You haven't earned the right to know that much about me yet."

And then, with the force of a mage's fireball, she remembered what she'd planned on asking him. Why he'd been there... what his connection was with the murder she'd personally witnessed.

"Are you one of them?" she asked slowly, her eyes unreadable.

"Hm?" A sinking feeling was beginning to manifest in the vampire's chest. What had she seen...?

"I said, are you one of them? Dark Brotherhood. Don't play dumb with me."

Vicente took a deep breath. This was not going well... but she definitely already knew too much.

"You're not in much of a position to bargain with me, girl. I really wouldn't make it a habit of being this impolite with everyone you meet. Eventually, somebody's going to snap back at you."

"Answer the question." Avielle's words were clipped.

The vampire tilted his head, his ponytail brushing his left shoulder. "I think we both already know the answer to that, Avielle Fradaun."

The next thing he knew, he had jerked backward to avoid the fist that split the air inches from his face. Another swing came, but he was ready for it; he caught her arm none too gently as it came at him. The girl froze, probably at the coldness of his skin, but then she started to struggle so wildly that he was forced to loosen his grip or risk breaking her wrist.

"Let go of me, you fetcher!" she snarled, looking positively demented.

"This has to be a first," Vicente noted, still calm. "I always assumed that if I were to tell people that I was an assassin, I'd garner fear. Not a reckless attack, considering that you're hardly a guard."

"You don't know a thing about me, bastard," Avielle hissed, her free hand starting to glow red as she called forth a nimbus of Destruction magic. This time, Vicente did let go of her arm, taking a step backwards as the girl drew herself up to her full, not very impressive height.

"Afraid?" she taunted, so consumed by rage that she was oblivious to the sheer onesidedness of the fight she was inviting. "My mother spent her whole life trying to get back at you fetchers. She created these spells exclusively to give you the suffering your sick cult deserves."

She had a background with the Brotherhood? Most interesting...

He laid a hand on the cool hilt of his longsword. "If it comes to blows, girl, you'll be dead before you can let off that spell," Vicente warned, his voice level. He was not afraid for himself, nor the Brotherhood – this girl was hardly a threat. But he didn't want to kill her, and she was trying to force his hand. Ironic. "I've been ending lives for two hundred years years now. I may as well note that I'm rather going out of my way to keep you alive, considering how much you know. Please don't throw away these chances."

The girl bared her teeth – which Vicente found very amusing – but she seemed to see the reason in his words, even if it was clear she wanted to tear the vampire from limb to limb. The mist of magic around her one hand fizzled out, and he casually lifted his palm from the blade. She stared at him for a few seconds in uneasy silence, before breaking it in a very flat tone.

"Were you the one who killed Jules Fradaun?"

Fradaun, that name had sounded so familiar before... His memory was very good, but even so, to remember a specific name was rare, considering simply how many people he'd written it off to.

But with the first name given, it all fell into place. An initiation rite some twenty years ago... he'd signed that contract himself, and given it to a prospective member who'd gone on to complete it and joined the Brotherhood, and advanced rather far from there.

"I am familiar with that contract, but no, I was not the one."

Avielle's hands clenched. "Familiar with it how?"

"I signed the death warrant," he said tonelessly. "His previous wife performed the Black Sacrament and arranged for him to be murdered. Her only specific instructions were to make it as painful as possible. It wasn't an uncommon contract, just another revenge killing. I simply affirmed it and passed it on."

With a strangled sort of scream, she threw her silver dagger at him. It was a miserable throw, anger erasing any possible accuracy she might have had. He lifted a bony hand and plucked it from the air as it spun blade over hilt about a foot from his shoulder. He'd seized it partially by the blade, though, and when he proffered it wordlessly back to the mage, his hand was slick with dark, thin blood.

She just gazed at him, motionless. She looked empty, broken, like a fire that had burned itself down to ashes.

"Tell me who killed my father."

"I could," Vicente said levelly, "but if I did, you'd attempt to claim your revenge on him."

"Don't you think I deserve it?" she snarled.

"Perhaps," he allowed, "but the man you intend to slay is my Brother, and one of the most skilled assassins in our Family today. You would not last a second against him. I've watched you fight before, and you're centuries away from being on his caliber."

"I don't care."

"I do, and that is final. Do tell," he said conversationally, sliding her dagger back into her belt, "what exactly happened on your end?"

"Why the hell do you care?" she said dully.

"The same reason I saved you, girl. That is to say, there isn't one. Perhaps I just wish to understand why you've devoted your life to such an impossible cause."

Avielle looked up into his eyes; they were deep red, like lakes of blood. How the hell had she ended up holding a conversation with a Dark Brotherhood vampire? Why did she feel any inclination to tell him the whole story? Maybe a small part of her hoped that she could force even a hint of guilt into that stony heart.

"I hadn't been born yet; my mother was three months pregnant with me when you fetchers killed her husband. You broke her life. From then on, she spent all her time trying to find ways to get back at you the only way she could – magic. Until her experiments got her kicked out of the only other thing she cared about, the University. I was born in High Rock... since I was a baby, she continued mutilating herself with the spells she tried to create. When I was sixteen, she ended up killing herself with a spell gone wrong. I watched her die; it was slow, she was in agony, and I had no idea how to end it all. I tried to heal her, but that just made it longer..." She shivered, despite the night's warmth; a haunted note glittered in her blue eyes. "I took up her unfinished work. But that doesn't change the fact that your freakish cult ripped apart our lives just for a bit of gold."

"Dear girl." Vicente's grin was wry again. "When somebody you love is murdered, to whom do you place the blame? Is it the dagger that buries itself in their heart, or the hand that guides it in its fatal dance? The Dark Brotherhood is the dagger, Avielle, nothing more. We do not claim lives for ourselves. If you must pin the blame on somebody, place culpability on the one who ordered your father's death. We merely serve."

"That's bullshit logic, and you know it."

"Is it?" The vampire's tone became a shade more pensive. "Do you think I've never been asked to do anything against my will?" No, even one hundred and twenty five years later, the Purification never left you... "We follow the will of Sithis. Whether or not it conflicts with our own desires is completely irrelevant. They don't matter... no, nothing matters." That moment of latent vulnerability was gone, replaced by his usual unaffected demeanor. "As soon as the Black Sacrament was performed, your father was doomed. It's as simple as that. If your mother had been in the Brotherhood and the contract had been given to her, she would have killed him herself. It's happened before."

Avielle's smoldering rage rekindled at the sound of her mother being used in such a hideous example. How dare he?

"You know... the reason I continued on as a mage was so that I could become strong enough to wipe out the Dark Brotherhood. The only reason I'm not trying to kill you is because you've saved my life. And even then, it'll be too soon if I ever see you again. Get out of my face, assassin scum."

Which seemed like a clear dismissal as any; Vicente got to his feet, wondering if he ought to kill her anyways. His fingers tapped a rhythm on his sword's hilt. She really did know too much...

"If you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to anyways. Good night, Avielle. I trust you can make it back to the University from here?" He gestured to the walled complex to the north, lit by violet torches.

"Just get out of my sight," she intoned dully.

The vampire turned away from her. "One last thing."

"And what the hell is that?"

"You never saw me, and the man known as Vicente is most definitely not an assassin. Or a vampire, for that matter. Are we clear?"

"Clear as mud," Avielle shot back. "Why on Oblivion would I want to defend you?"

"Because," the vampire smiled, "if you cannot keep your mouth shut, I fear I shall have to kill you. Or have you forgotten what you're dealing with?"

And with that farewell, the two parted ways once more.