A/N: I left the following information as a review so I didn't have to make a separate authors note, but I am re-posting here for those readers that don't look at the reviews.

I have not updated this story in a timely manner because I am ill—what I thought was a cold/bronchitis is in fact walking pneumonia. It is hard for me to be up and about—and even harder to concentrate on writing a chapter that I deem good enough to post. I am heavily medicated and groggy.

The reason One Poor Captive was updated is because the chapters were already hand written—I had my sister type them up for me and enter them into .

I will resume updating at my normal rate as soon as I am physically well enough to compose a worthwhile addition—probably within the next few days.

I apologize for the delay, and I appreciate each and every person reading this story. To those of you who take the time to review, a extra special thanks.

As an author, each review is incentive to continue, and they mean the world to me.

Adrian lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to still his racing pulse. It made no sense—not one single bit of it. It had to be an act or a game of some sort. Belikov was playing him, trying to lure him into believing that somewhere deep inside the monster, a part of the man still hung on—albeit tenuously—to what he once was. It was the only explanation he could come up with, because everyone knew that once someone went Strigoi they were evil through and through.

Glancing over at the bright blue numbers on the digital display of his alarm clock, he sighed, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed as he sat up. He still had time to catch a few more hours sleep before he was due to meet up with Alberta, but—in all honesty—there was no way he could relax until he had some answers. After a long stretch which did nothing to loosen the knots in his back he grabbed the bottle of vodka off his nightstand, shuffling into the bathroom for a quick shower. As he waited for the water to heat, he took a long pull from the bottle, closing his eyes as the liquid fire burnt a path to his stomach.

A momentary twinge of guilt ate at him when he remembered his promise to stop drinking, but he reasoned it away almost unconsciously. One drink wouldn't hurt, and it wasn't as if he planned on going back to sleep anytime soon, so his dream walking wouldn't be affected. Besides, Alberta had no way of knowing about his momentary lapse—he sure as hell wasn't going to tell her.

Stepping into the shower, he relaxed as the almost scalding water beat down on his tense shoulders. Ever since Alberta's disclosure, he'd felt as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. If he had refused to loan Rose the money, she'd be here at the Academy, safe and sound. Knowing that Rose's fate rested on whether or not he could locate her before she found Belikov made it impossible for him to decompress in his usual fashion.

As he performed his daily ritual, sliding a bar of his favorite sandalwood scented soap over the lean muscles of his upper body, he replayed the dream in his head on a loop. The way Belikov had grimaced—the bowing forward of his body, as if it were being crushed… that couldn't have been fake. The man had been in pain, and to Adrian, it looked as if he had been seriously struggling—perhaps trying to fight off the Strigoi part of himself for a few minutes more.

Leaning against the wall and letting the water rinse the suds from his skin, he found that he was second-guessing his initial assessment. If that were the case, then Rose might actually have a shot at making it back home in one piece. Still, that was a mighty big if—and when push came to shove, he wasn't prepared to take a chance with Rose's life on the line. Because if he were wrong… well, better not to think about that, at least not until he had a few more drinks under his belt. The mere thought of Rose dying stirred the madness causing it to raise its head as it sent out sticky tentacles—desperately trying to gain a foothold in his mind. His sense of self slowly began slipping away, leaving him unsure of his surroundings. He stared at the bar of soap in his hand, puzzled as to what it could be.

Throwing back the shower curtain, he reached out to grab the bottle of vodka he'd left sitting on the back of the toilet. By the time he'd downed a third of the bottle the horrible sensation of disorientation—of not being… real—had slowly trickled away, like the sudsy water that was gurgling down the showers drain. He clutched the bottle to his chest, sinking to his knees, giving in to the fear that had eaten away at him for most of his life. Silent tears became long, drawn out sobs as he contemplated the choices that lay before him. He couldn't stay sober—not while Rose was in danger. If he did, he'd lose his sanity.

As the water slowly turned icy, Adrian Ivashkov wept, for himself and for his little dhampir. Either way you sliced it, it was a no win situation. She would die if he didn't help her, but if he did he would increase the instability within himself. No matter what choice he made, he'd still lose her in the end.

When he finally composed himself, he set out to find Alberta. He'd come up with a plan, of sorts, but it all hinged on whether or not the woman would agree to help him. Two or three drinks a day might be enough to keep the craziness at bay while still allowing him to access enough spirit to access Rose's dreams. Much as he dreaded the thought, someone would have to monitor his drinking—and that was where Alberta's assistance would come into play. If anyone could keep him from spiraling out of control and going on a binge, it would be her.

Of course, she would be angry he was drinking at all—they had, after all, agreed that he would stop altogether. To counter her anger, he'd have to confess to the one thing he'd successfully kept hidden from everyone. Sure, he'd discussed it openly, but always under a thin veil of sarcasm. Even when discussing his episodes with to Rose and the others, he'd tried to play it off as a joke, never letting on how terrified he was. They knew he concerned about spirits long range effects on his sanity, but no one knew the real depth of the dread he felt.

Since the first time he'd felt spirits madness, he'd known that one day it would rule over him. He'd no longer be Adrian Ivashkov—instead, in his place would be a mindless no one. There would be no hint of the man he'd once been. He would be an empty shell; a pale shadow—nothing more than a drooling moron who couldn't even tie his own fucking shoes. Spirit would slowly fry his brain, and like an overloaded circuit board, it would cease to properly function. He'd spend the rest of his life lost in a fog, with others feeding him and diapering him. People would probably remember his sadly, spouting off about his potential—talking about what a great artist he'd been, or maybe about how vibrant and handsome he'd been in his youth.

Furthermore, he worried about who would take care of him. Not his family—the mere thought of Danielle or Nathan playing nurse made him chuckle out loud. There was no way in hell they would even consider the possibility. In the end, he supposed Tatiana would hire someone, or else they would simply lock him away and forget he even existed. He'd be a dark family secret, the skeleton in the Ivashkov's proverbial closet.

Shivering slightly at the thought, he realized he'd crossed the campus in a daze. He was standing outside the building that housed Alberta's office, staring at the door with trepidation. Steeling himself for what he had to do, he shoved open the door, slowly making his way down the deserted hallway. To his immense dismay, the door to her office locked and the lights off. Glancing at his watch he muttered a quite curse. She was probably still asleep, like any sane person would be in the wee hours of the morning. Now that he'd made up his mind to spill his guts to the woman, he wanted it over and done with—before he had second thoughts and chickened out altogether.

Leaning against the wall he slowly sank down to the floor, prepared to wait for however long it took. He had no desire to return to his room where the temptation of his hidden stash would call to him like a siren, promising peaceful oblivion with each mouthful he swallowed. After twenty minutes of mind numbing boredom and silence, his breathing slowed and his head slowly slid forward, his chin resting against his chest. His last conscious thought was that he didn't want to sleep—but by then, it was too late to do anything about it.

He was walking down a deserted street, his pace so rapid that it almost seemed like he should be running. It was cold—a bone jarring, nose numbing cold, the likes of which he had never experienced in his life. The black night enveloped him; the streetlights in this area appeared to be few and far between.

For a moment, Adrian was confused. This had the clarity of a spirit dream, but he didn't feel the thrum of spirit coursing through his body. It felt… cold and alien, almost as if he were…

Hells bells.

He was in Belikov's head, witnessing the world through Strigoi eyes. And much as he hated to admit it, everything looked abso-fucking-lutely amazing. Clearer, as if it were super focused. He could see and differentiate each tiny granule of snow. Moreover, although the night was dark, he realized that it in no way hampered his vision. It was almost like wearing high-powered night vision goggles, only everything was in full color and not in the weird muted shades of green that always accompanied the use of night vision.

The Strigoi paused, and Adrian's senses were suddenly overwhelmed with the most tantalizing scent. It was better than anything he'd ever smelled. It was indescribable—better even than the faint musky smell of Rose's natural female scent after she'd had an intense training session. It was… delicious, making his moth water and his senses heighten to an even greater level than they had been mere seconds before.

His hearing had sharpened as well, a faint fluttering sound instantly becoming his sole focus. What was that? Footsteps? A bass beat from some hidden underground club? While Adrian puzzled over the sound, the Strigoi took off, and once he was in motion again he almost flew down the street. Each enormous stride brought the strange pulsating rhythm closer and closer. One block, then two—the sound becoming louder until it was almost deafening.

As soon as he saw the woman standing on the sidewalk, Adrian put two and two together. They had been stalking her, tracking her by her scent and her heartbeat, like a lion might stalk a gazelle. Oh fuck, he had to get out of here. He couldn't witness this—couldn't take part in the slaughter of this unsuspecting stranger.

"Excuse me, do you have the time?" Belikov's voice was husky, and Adrian realized a heartbeat later that it was Russian rolling off his tongue in a seductive purr.

The woman glanced at her watch, then smiled up at him, fluttering her overly mascaraed eyelashes. "It is a little past two thirty. Still early."

"Yes, it is. Early enough that you could be considered as breakfast." With that, Belikov lunged forward, latching onto her throat before she even realized he had moved.

Adrian fought, struggling to break free from the sensations that washed over him. So good. The blood… the life… He'd never tasted anything so wonderful. As the woman stopped struggling, Adrian felt himself slowly drifting… the scene becoming cloudy, even as the taste and smell of the woman took center stage in his mind.

"Adrian?"

The feeling of a hand on his shoulder pulled his eyes open. Alberta stared down at him, her face full of concern. Oh God, he could still taste it… Still taste her. Rubbing his fingers over his mouth, he leaned over and threw up. Once then again, clenching his hand to his stomach as his body began to shake. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to erase the images and feelings. He had to. Because if he didn't—if he couldn't forget, it would do more than haunt him.

It would tempt him.

Every time he went to the feeders, he would remember the feeling. The surge of energy as he drank the life away from that unwilling victim. The rush, better than any alcohol or drug he'd ever tried. Addictive. As much as it disgusted him, as wrong as he knew it was, already he was longing for another hit. It was a drug in itself, filling him with power beyond his wildest dreams.

It would be so easy to indulge it. And in doing so, he could erase his greatest fear. If he turned… became Strigoi, he would lose access to the magic that was slowly eroding his mind. He would be able to remain Adrian, but he would be a better, stronger version of himself. All he had to do was give in and embrace the change.

It was at that moment that he realized how dangerous addictions could be—and how fucking hard it would be for him to fight off the tantalizing lure of a new one.