"Yeah. Random. But to be honest, it's not a real high priority for us to find out right now. And I wouldn't expect much help from the cops." He looked a little sheepish.

"Well, we're not going to close the case on our side," Dain said. "Either way, we're keeping an eye out."

JB tossed his empty candy wrapper in the trash bin. "I would expect you to. Look, I've gotta go." He hesitated for a moment, then stuck out his hand. "I just wanted to say that you don't have to worry about me. I mean, I'm not going to tell anyone where you are. No one's going to come looking for you."

Dain paused, then shook JB's hand. "Thanks."

JB nodded. "Yeah. I'll be in touch." He exited the store and turned left.

Dain made a point to turn right.

Taking the long way home, he sought out the mangled phone booth where Cyd had disappeared. The area was quiet and deserted. He put a cig in his mouth, lit it, then took it between his fingers and watched smoke curl up from the clean white paper. A moment later, he dropped it gently into the metal skeleton of the defunct booth. "Good-bye, Cyd," he said. "Maybe we'll meet again in another lifetime. You've got a lot of explaining to do."

Then Dain turned around and headed home.

Fleur waited on the window ledge of the forty-second floor of Dumont Towers. She offered an unguarded smile as he handed her the flowers, took her in his arms and felt that same flood of emotions rush through him. He would always feel this way, and for that he was very grateful: It was good to no longer be alone.

The Post fell to the floor and unfurled. It would be another hour before they were summoned to the war room on account of Jill Cooper's latest scoop: SECRET WAR VS. VAMPS REVEALED.

Of course, to Dain and Fleur, there'd been nothing secret about it.

"Gorgeous," Fleur said, looking at the dahlias. She tossed them behind her onto the bed, and the petals showered across the fresh white satin. "But not as gorgeous as you." She drew a finger along Dain's jaw.

He kissed the hollow of her neck, trailing upward. Her mouth was warm as he gently bit her lower lip. He pulled her closer, the thin silk of her emerald-green slip molding against her curves like water, and his body responded in an instant. He sucked in a quick breath. "Oh, man... it's definitely worth it."

"What is?"

He closed his eyes as Fleur's hands slipped under his shirt. He groaned as she unbuckled his belt and slid her hands down his hips.

"Being one of us?" Fleur guessed. "There are compensations."

"Yeah. Oh, yeah." Heightened sensations filled him, sensations that weren't described in any manual he'd seen back at the station. Probably because they weren't something a human could fathom.

"And I feel everything more than ever," she said. "It's because of you. You make everything so much...

more."

He knew exactly what she meant. The way Fleur's skin felt beneath his fingers. The way her eyes were bluer and brighter than ever, even here and now, in the dim light. The way his blood burned... Maybe it was just the change in his body, but as Fleur led him to the bed, Dain knew it was something more. He'd been a blank page, alone, and with a scattershot of memories not even his own. Fleur completed his story. She completed him, in body and mind. And she'd been meant to all along.

"We have some unfinished business," she murmured into his ear as she pulled him down onto her. They sprawled out in a sea of red petals.

"By all means," Dain said, smoothing the silk away from Fleur's body. "Forever is a long time, and I don't plan to waste a second of it."

Bridget Rothschild lay on her bed, reading the Sunday paper and thinking that things kept getting more and more interesting in this city, no matter what the higher-ups at the base thought. With her brunette locks free of that d.a.m.ned ponytail that was like a perma-headache, she looked nothing at all like the girl everybody thought they knew. But that was what she loved best about living here: n.o.body was the person you thought you knew.

She reached over to the side table and opened the drawer, pulling out the picture of what looked like a G.o.d created in the body of a man: the mech. He- make that "it," she reminded herself-was a tough one. And it was still out there.

She'd been close, so close, that night the siren went off and Dain "rescued" her, and then the mech had just changed course and disappeared. And she'd had to give herself this d.a.m.ned injury.

Ah, well. There was always tomorrow. She had a feeling that mech was going to haunt this city for a long time to come, and the next time it showed its face, Bridget Rothschild would be there. That was a promise. And it was almost as certain as the fact that, in Crimson City, each day brought something completely new.

Chapter One.

They are dirty beasts, but that is the way of it. We will throw the dogs a bone, Michael. Throw them a bone, and watch them lick our fingers.

"Throw them a bone," Michael murmured. He pressed his tongue against fang, tasted sweet blood. Far below him, at street level, the vampire envoys floated single-file down the narrow alley, winding around dumpsters and rusting cars. Night, a cool breeze, the scent of rain, wet concrete shining with reflected light from apartment windows-the vampires were shadows pa.s.sing over slick grit and filth.

Michael scanned the path ahead of them. He sensed no movement, no scent of human or steel. Nothing of the mechs, of whom the city had so recently become aware. Nothing, even, of the wolves.

They are dirty beasts. Celestine's words still whispered in his mind, her dry-silk voice soft, d.a.m.ning. Michael watched the top of her head, third in line behind Frederick: the envoys' leader and Dumont's hand-chosen negotiator.

Celestine's pale hairless scalp stood out in stark contrast to her black belted robes. Michael imagined dropping on her, dislodging vertebrae with quick fingers, immobilizing her just long enough to keep her from the negotiations with the wolves. She was a bad choice for these talks-talks that had to succeed. Michael was not a man to admit weakness, but he could eat his pride this once. The humans had proven themselves strong in their first covert offensive against the vampires, and though it had been thwarted and the man who had ordered the a.s.sa.s.sinations was dead, other enemies existed. The promise was still there, the taste of violence.

They know we are vulnerable, soft in our luxury and unprepared for a hard fight. Worse yet, we have proven to them that we are aware of their existence. Now they have nothing to lose. They know we will come for them.

Michael had been alive long enough to know the dangers of calculated desperation. The danger to them all would be greater than ever, and despite mixed feelings toward his own kind, the species had to be protected at any cost.

Even if it meant an alliance with the wolves.

I would have been a better choice as an envoy, Michael thought, and almost laughed-just as Frederick had laughed outright when Michael had challenged his part of this a.s.signment.

So, now you wish to rejoin our kind? The outsider, reclaimed? A joke, Michael. You are the Vendix, the pun-isher, and that is all you are good for. You are not a diplomat. You do not do well with words or tact. Simply do what is expected of you. Hunt. Watch our backs from above. Keep us safe from traps.

Be a thug. Muscle. A hired sword.

Bitterness bloomed inside Michael's mouth, down his throat and into his chest. The horrors of his past, the crimes he had committed-three hundred years later he still paid. He would always pay. It might be that redemption was something he would never be allowed to find. His role in society had been burned on his body for eternity.

Michael gripped the ledge he crouched upon and jumped. An embrace-wind cushioned his body, sheathed him tight. He floated, toes pointing downward, arms loose at his sides. Black hair fell over his eyes; he pushed it aside, brushing metal. The gold filaments laced into his thin braids felt cooler than his skin.

He flew above and ahead of the envoys, scanning the shadows. Nothing at first, just the stillness of deep night. A rare quiet for the heart of the city, without the crush of traffic and quick-paced bodies. Perfect and lovely. This was the city Michael loved best, full of peaceful solitude. It was the kind of city to get lost in, without eyes to judge or pry.

For a moment, he thought he heard singing, faraway lilting, a man's voice rimmed with shadow. Michael thought, That does not sound human-and then he stopped listening to the music, because less than twenty yards ahead of the envoys something large moved.

Wolf.

Michael sank swiftly, noting from the corner of his eye Frederick's slowed movement, light flickering off the lead envoy's rings. Silk flared around Michael's legs as he alighted on the ground; he brought back his right hand, brushing the hilt of his sword, and looked deep into the gloom.

"h.e.l.lo," he said quietly.

He saw sleek fur, wiry legs. Golden eyes and glittering teeth. A low growl rumbled like thunder in the night air.

Michael did not respond. He waited, patient, aware of the envoys behind him, the heavy weight of their stares. He sensed their impatience. Irritation. Immortals, in a hurry. The irony was not lost on Michael, but it was troubling: a sign of nervousness that the mission-and Frederick, as its head-could ill-afford. The wolves would smell weakness.

Bones crackled. The wolf's jaw shifted, receded. Fur smoothed into naked skin. Muscles rippled in forelegs, expanding, elongating; paws became sinewy, masculine hands.

Michael did not avert his eyes. Vampire and werewolf locked gazes-brown to golden-until, at the very last, when the animal had become man and there was nothing left but sweat and burning eyes, a hoa.r.s.e note emerged from the werewolf's throat and became, "h.e.l.lo."

"We are expected," Michael said.

The werewolf's spine popped. He was tall, with pale broad shoulders. A faint scar ran up his left cheek. Silver dusted his hair, although he had a relatively young face.

"The Grand Dame Alpha is waiting. I'm supposed to lead you underground." His distaste was evident, profound.

Michael felt breath on the back of his neck. Frederick said, "We are ready."

Michael twisted sideways, stepping close to the alley wall. The werewolf frowned as Frederick pa.s.sed between them, followed closely by the rest of the envoys. The vampires each floated at least six inches off the ground, giving them a secure advantage in height. Michael heard the werewolf mutter obscenities, his feet slapping hard against the pavement as he loped ahead.

Michael watched the faces of every vampire who pa.s.sed, noting their focused indifference with amused detachment. The only one who met his eyes was Celestine, and her dark gaze was sly, smug. Her thin red lips tugged upwards, and then she was gone, gliding past him down the alley. The record-keeper followed, and then the seven guards, their long embroidered robes concealing more weapons than they revealed, most of which were modern- handguns, stun rods, small explosives.

Quaint. Not very elegant.

Michael fell into a floating step behind the last guard. He sensed a tremor run through the vampire's body, and smiled grimly. Psychopath, a.s.sa.s.sin, murderer, executioner-all of these were names other vampires had given Michael. All of these were names for their fear.

He almost touched his cheek, caught himself before he could show that sliver of weakness. The tattoo hurt. Centuries old, and still it pained him. Ink laced with gold did not heal properly, even in vampire flesh, and it would never fade or be absorbed by his body. He was marked, forever. Vendix. Punisher. Condemned to be alone.

Michael drew back, drifting higher, following the envoys at a discreet distance. No more werewolves revealed themselves. He watched as the envoys were led to a wide sewer grate. The werewolf guide leapt over the rusty steel bars and in one fluid motion swept down to yank them open. The hinges were surprising quiet; Michael heard only a faint squeak.

A voice rose up from the darkness of underground-hollow as a tunnel, brittle with well-worn age, feminine in a way that might have once been lovely but now was only wise.

"Welcome, vampires. Welcome to the home of Maddox."

"Thank you," said Frederick, his bejeweled hands clasped together. He bowed his head; a strand of black hair drifted over his shoulder, caressing the pale glow of his long neck. The other vampires also bowed their heads-as they had been commanded to do-though Michael did not miss the hard line of Celestine's lips, nor the arrogance that narrowed the eyes of every vampire but Frederick.

You are not a diplomat. You do not do well with words or tact.

Maybe. But at least Michael knew enough to hide his emotions for the sake of politeness. At least he still remembered humility-or as much as was necessary to pretend at compa.s.sion.

"Jas," said the voice in the darkness. The werewolf guide took a reluctant step back and gestured at the open sewer grate. His jaw was tight, his naked body rigid, coiled. Michael thought he might be shaking, and knew it for rage.

"Don't you dare try anything," Jas said. A sharp bark from underground made him flinch.

Frederick did not answer. He stepped off the alley ledge and drifted slowly down, down into the darkness of the werewolf tunnels. The other vampires followed, with more reluctance than was courteous.

Michael watched from above, waiting until the last guard descended. Jas looked up at him. The two men locked gazes and Michael felt the challenge and questions.

Just try something. And, Who are you?

Michael waited, silent, until Jas pulled back his lips in a silent snarl. His eyes flashed. Michael saw the hint of fur, the shift of his chin into something narrow and sharp. Then the wolf jumped down into the waiting darkness, and several pairs of hands emerged from the tunnel to pull shut the grate. Silence descended, the weight of the night bearing down into a hush. There was no singing anymore.

Alone, at last.

Michael drifted backwards until his shoulders rubbed the alley wall. It was small comfort, to be away from his own kind. He took some satisfaction in their fear, but it truly only served to heighten his isolation, the knowledge that he could never be part of them. That even if he wanted, they would never accept his presence.

Vampires did not easily forgive those who killed their kind-especially when the killer was a vampire himself.

His a.s.signment was not yet over. Frederick had been very clear; Michael was to stay until the envoys reemerged. There was a three-hour deadline on the talks, enough time for the envoys to return home before sunrise. Each carried a special day-pack- enough makeup and shielding to protect him or her from the sun. Not that it mattered. Despite the official statements, the human offensive had begun: it was a return of the old days, if in a different fashion. There was no more safety under the light of day, not when sunlight made it so difficult to pa.s.s as human.

We should have expected it. Michael tilted his head, struggling to see the stars beyond the glare of city lights and smog. Humans have always feared us, for good reason. And now with their numbers dwindling, birth rates declining... they cannot risk our presence, our promises of self-control.

Self-control. That was laughable.

He finally gave in and touched his stinging cheek, traced the hard round lines etched into his skin. No other Vendix was marked in this way. Only Michael.

For your past misdeeds, as well as the ones you will commit.

Michael pulled his hand away. He curled his fingers against the brick behind him.

Don't, he told himself. Not now.

He heard laughter, then, distinctly male. Raucous, drunk, wild. The kind to avoid, if he was weak and human. The kind to avoid, even if he wasn't. He listened carefully, but the humans had an echo in their voices that meant distance-several blocks' worth- and Michael felt little interest in investigating. As long as they did not approach the entrance to the tunnels, they could p.i.s.s and vomit up their drunken stupor on any street they liked.

And then the laughter stopped. Suddenly, eerily. A curtain of silence dropped hard and fast, creating an expectant voice within the night: Not right, not right. Michael pushed himself away from the wall, drifting higher.

He had almost cleared the rooftops when he heard a whistle, a low catcall. Laughter, again, but lower this time. A promise. More silence... and then shoes slapping against concrete-hard, fast. More and more, a group of people running. Chasing.

A woman screamed.

And just as Michael shot into the sky, pursuing the sound of that terrified cry, the men began screaming, too.

end.