Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

Warning: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.

Author's Note(s): This story was written for The Advent Challenge hosted by the Facebook page May We Write. The Challenge is to write a ficlet of any size each day leading up to Christmas. It started today and the last part will be done on Christmas Eve. This story will be posted on both FFN and AO3.

–It should also be noted that there have been a few edits to the first part of this as of the posting of this part. The problem with a challenge which asks for both creation and posting in the same day is that things tend to slip through the quick proof, including the occasional setting error.

Song Recommendation: "Become the Beast" by Karliene

-= LP =-

On Loving a Dove

Part 02: The Intercession of St. Jude

-= LP =-

Said I to God: "Pale Sister Grief,

Bleak Brother Pain,

Bedevil me beyond belief,

And Death's unfairn—"

Said God: "Curse not that blessed Three,

Poor human clod!

Have faith! Believe the One with Me,"

Said God.

– Robert William Service, Dark Trinity

-= LP =-

London, England, December 1942

Nikola woke slowly. That had been a rare commodity over the last few months as it seemed that in addition to governments being upset about his Peace Ray concept, he had gotten onto the radar of seemingly every spy organization and assassin guild on the planet. This will probably not end with a Nobel. There was a positive outcome to it all though, and that outcome was currently using him as a pillow. The warm weight of her against his side was better than the finest wine.

It was hard to believe that he had met her less than two weeks ago. That first weekend they had barely left her bedroom. It had been refreshingly honest—finding someone who didn't deny themselves something just because it was primal instead of intellectual or based upon some outdated sense of moral shame. In between rounds, of which there had been many including the three before dawn, he had learned his companion's name and that she held a depth of knowledge that rivaled even Helen's. She had claimed it was Christmas, come early, when he had kept up with her both in passion and conversation. They had spent more than a few hours speaking in the shared language of their home country before succumbing to other more physical interests. Nikola was no stranger to lust, especially not since the experiment with the Source Blood had revealed the full force of his heritage. Helen's medication took the edge of the bloodlust, as it had been designed, but it did nothing for the other types. But it seemed that he found his match in Melanthe Samuels, in more ways than one.

When a group of assassins had attacked the apartment she had taken them to after their initial meeting, Melanthe had revealed yet another side. In the time it had taken him to deal with one attacker, she had taken out the other four with the same grace she had shown in all her movements. She had then grabbed his hand and teleported them away from the place to another apartment in another country. With quick hands, she had searched him for wounds. It was only after confirming that he was unharmed that she spoke.

"What did you do to earn a death warrant?"

"What makes you think they were for me?"

"Oh, tigre moj," she had said as she shook her head, "if they had been for me, they would have been quieter and not nearly as stupid."

Melanthe's hands had caressed his bare sides. It had distracted him from his attempt to play innocent. After his explanation of his Peace Ray attempt, she had made sure that he was thoroughly punished and then began organizing things around the flat for their safety. Being one of the Five, the fact that she had transported them across the Pond to New York City was less shocking to him than she apparently expected it to be. If he had never seen John do that trick and even been a tagalong on more than a few trips, he could see how it would have been, but he had and frankly, Melanthe was much smoother about it than John.

What had been shocking was the realization of what it all could mean—the prowess with combat, the intelligence, the teleportation, the matching libidos and recovery times. In desperation to prove his hypothesis, he had challenged the authority he had been more than willing to let her wield. The resulting pushback had been something he had been convinced that he would never be able to have. It was vicious and messy and glorious. Finally, he had understood that the term bloodsong meant. The rush of blood in his veins as lust and bloodlust blended with each drop of hers upon his tongue truly felt like the whole universe was singing in harmony.

It had only eleven days, but already it felt like his world revolved around his dark beauty. To him, she brought peace and hope. He had been so alone, being the only living vampire—even if Helen's constant reminder of being only part vampire could be considered true. By her very existence, Melanthe challenged that and in doing so, challenged him in ways that he had not been in more years than he cared to count, if ever. She was his Balm of Gilead, which healed his wounded soul. She was his White Dove to lead him to safety. She didn't just tolerate his ego—she matched it and had no problem keeping it in check. She kept him in check, if only by keeping him too occupied to get into trouble.

"You're thinking too loudly," Melanthe complained sleepily, bringing him out of his reminiscing. She shifted so that her leg was draped over his waist and her head propped up on a hand. The slide of her skin against his immediately turned his thoughts lurid. The curve of her sultry pout and the darken green of her eyes spoke volumes of how well she knew what he was thinking. "What has your brain buzzing, kralju moj?"

"Volim te," Nikola confessed in the language of his childhood. He hadn't thought about his feelings in those terms before, but the moment the words were out, he could see their truth. He repeated the declaration in English. "I love you—more with every day. If I believed in the phenomenon, I would say that I feel in love the first moment I laid eyes upon you."

"About time you caught up, kralju moj," she replied. Gracefully, she shifted until she was straddling his hips. When he moved to place his hands on her hips, she grabbed both wrists to pin them beside his head. She curved above him, her hair falling around their faces like a curtain. When she spoke next, her voice held a seductive husk. "Želim te."

The world exploded around them, deterring any plan to act upon Melanthe's declaration. Even as they sprung into combat with the group charging through the new hole in the wall, Nikola had the urge to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of once more being caught naked by people intent on killing him. This group was both more skilled and more determined than the group which had driven them from New York. They still went down, but not without getting a few solid hits on both of them. Nikola obeyed Melanthe's snapped command to dress afterwards with only a single groan of complaint, making sure to keep her in his sight as she checked the bodies of their attackers for clues of their origin.

"Jebati," she cursed. In a whirlwind of motion, she abandoned the body she had been searching to dress herself and pull a black messenger bag from under the bed along with a bandoleer filled with small glass vials alternated with seax-styled blades. Before he could question her, she had ahold of his arm and they were gone. She didn't take them far this time—judging by the numerous bookstores, Nikola would say that they were somewhere near Westminster. Melanthe took his face in both her hands, forcing him to look her in the eyes. The green was entirely hidden under vampiric black. "Listen, because we may not have much time. It's the Triple Crowns, the cabalis nocturnum. Do not let them catch you. Do you understand? They would take everything of you, every little piece, and they will enjoy doing it. It would not be death, but destruction more complete than that. Žao mi je, tako mi je žao. Ovo je moja krivica. If I tell you to go, you need to—"

"No, that's not—"

"Oh, my sweet king, you think that is a choice?" She pulled him down so that she could kiss him, silencing his protest far more effectively than merely interrupting him had. As with every other time, his senses became intoxicatedly centered on her. She fit perfectly in his arms, small and slight but oh, so dynamically powerful just the same. For a single wonderful moment, he became lost in her, in the bloodsong they sang together. All worries and fear from being hunted faded into meaningless background noise.

She broke off the kiss with a sudden gasp. He mistook it for being overwhelmed for a brief instant before he felt the slickness flowing down her back and over his fingers. The taste of iron grew thick in the air even as she began to slump heavily in his grasp. He denied what was happening. His agile mind was going over calculations, comparing healing factors to the amount of damage. They had their differences in ability, but surely, she had enough—was strong enough for this. He couldn't lose her. He felt her fingers brushing against his cheeks, spreading out the moisture which had gathered there. Nikola heard his chant of denial as if he was far away. She placed two fingers against his lips, stilling his protest even as her other hand centered over his heart.

"Volim te," she whispered, her voice thin and weak, "više od života. Žao mi je."

Then he felt the sensation he associated with her teleportation ability. When it was gone, he was alone in another place. He ran his blood-covered hands through his hair, tugging uselessly at it as he struggled with the urge to scream—in rage at her saving him but not herself, at the mysterious Triple Crowns for hunting them, at himself for drawing the attention of every government and spy agency in the world, no matter how brilliant a plan it had been. It was not despair at losing her, because that would mean that she was gone and she couldn't be. He had a taste now—he had filled the lonely void within his soul with the food of her presence. He could not return to starvation. His Dove could not be gone.

In the stone sewers of London, a single cry of anguish could echo a surprisingly long time.