 
**New Year's Night**

**(Midnight Moonlight, Book 1)**

By Eren Reverie

Copyright 2016 Eren Reverie

Smashwords Edition

License Notes:

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

**Table of Contents**

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

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About The Author

# Chapter 1

I have issues with a lot of things, but claustrophobia isn't one of them. In fact, I consider waking up buried under blankets, a comforter, the poofy green quilt my mom made for me while I was in college, and a pile of spare pillows to be a pretty ideal start to a day. And today, by all indication, was going to start well.

When I woke up I was toasty warm and slightly smothered. It was nice, so I luxuriated for a moment or two before pulling the covers down enough to see my alarm clock. It was five o'five in the morning. The alarm wouldn't go off for another two hours.

Well, actually, it wouldn't go off at all. I don't _like_ alarms, so I reached out from under the covers and turned it off. I've had that clock for five years, and it hasn't gone off once. Remember how I said I have issues with lots of things? Alarms are one of them. Other people might wake up early, look at the clock and think: _sweet, ten more minutes,_ and go back to sleep. I'll look at it and go: _dammit, that thing's going to go off in two more hours. Screw it, may as well start my day now._

Seriously, I hate alarms. I've even been known to sit by the microwave so I can hit cancel when it reaches one second, in order to prevent it from beeping at me. Slowly irradiating myself seems a small price to pay.

So anyway, I extricated myself from my bed, leaving it looking like the nest of some large burrowing creature, slipped on my fuzzy slippers and padded over to the bathroom to continue my morning routine. I am a fan of routines. If I know what's going to happen next then I don't have to worry about what's going to happen next. If I _do_ have to worry, then I worry hardcore, and a serious freak out, along with scattered panic attacks and bouts of paranoia, become inevitable. Not pleasant to admit, but what can I say? I think I know myself pretty well. And any surprises, unforeseen issues, or changes in routine go on my 'issues' list.

I live in a studio apartment. It's small, but the rent is cheap and I don't mind small spaces. It's also on the ground floor of a one story building, so I don't have to worry about crashing through the floor into the apartment below or having someone crash through my ceiling because they were too enthusiastic about stomping around to annoy their downstairs neighbor. Of course, since it's a studio apartment on the ground floor I never, _ever_ open the curtains. I have one of those big sliding glass window/door things leading onto the patio. Which is kinda stupid, since my front door is right next to it, but hey, I'm not an architect. I mean, it's totally indefensible and in the event of a zombie apocalypse all of these apartments are going to be the equivalent of canned food, but I guess it's aesthetic or something. I know this falls under 'bouts of paranoia' but the thought that any random passerby could look in and see the entirety of my home is just creepy.

It's not that I really think someone would want to peep on me, intellectually. I mean, sure, I like to walk around in my pajamas at five in the morning. They're comfy, and they're what I wore to bed. They're also the flannel equivalent of full body powered battle armor, which is to say: non-sexy. Which is fine, because neither am I. In fact, I'm twiggy enough that from a distance I'm occasionally mistaken for a boy. And I'm okay with that. Sex? Tops my issues list. No thank you.

Really, the curtains thing is just because Dad always told me to be wary of pervy opportunists, and I just have a _thing_ about privacy. I don't even have an account on any of those social networking sites that got so popular while I was in college. Besides, I can't expect a peeper to know there's nothing peep-worthy in my apartment until after the initial peeping, so it's better to just cut that option off preemptively, right?

Anyway, my apartment is divided into two rooms. The main room is split into a kitchen and my bedroom/living space by a small counter and some hanging cabinets. And the second room, which even gets its own door, is my bathroom, just to the right as you enter the kitchen. The bathroom is also small, since that's the theme of my apartment, with just enough space to cram in the necessities of a restroom. There isn't even a tub, just a shower stall – and yes, I added a few locks to the bathroom door in order to stave off some Hitchcockian dread. I've never even seen that movie, but that particular scene is famous enough to freak me out a little anyway.

I flipped on the light and turned to the mirror over my sink. I'm scrawny, and about average height, I guess. I have blue eyes and blonde hair. I try to keep it short because I don't really know what to do with it when it isn't. It tends to look like I've just woken up even after I've combed the snarls out and been on my feet for hours – I suspect that close proximity to my thought processes has caused it to soak up a certain level of erraticity. I've given up on getting it to look good. It's just going to do whatever the hell it wants, anyway.

After dealing with the inevitable morning tangles I scrubbed my face and brushed my teeth, then went back into the kitchenette for breakfast, which consisted of toaster-pancakes, microwaveable bacon, a raspberry yogurt and scrambled eggs – because I can never successfully make them over easy. I picked up the manga I've been reading – that's a graphic novel drawn in the Japanese anime style, for the uninitiated – off my shelf while I was waiting on the toast and bacon, and I read while I ate. It was a good way to spend one of those extra hours I had from waking up early. Which is why I do this every morning.

I live alone. I would have liked to have had a dog, since there's nothing quite like having a large, loyal canine on hand to reassure a girl that any would-be perverts, burglars, or psychotic shower murderers that come by will get their faces eaten off. But living in such a small apartment wouldn't have been fair to a big dog, and a little one would take way too long with the face-eating to really contribute to my peace of mind. My friend Megan tried to convince me to get a cat, since they're supposed to be independent-yet-companionable, but I realized that would mean I'd basically be coming home every evening and locking myself in a box with a small, furry predator that had no real interest in keeping me alive – which struck me as a losing proposition.

So, yeah, I live alone. Which means I double checked that the curtains were sealed and that the front door was locked and dead bolted before I locked myself into the bathroom to brush my teeth again and take my morning shower.

I like long, hot showers. I like to soak up the steamy warmth and I like to feel the spray of water cascading over me. I'm also paranoid and mildly terrified that someone will try to come in while I'm indisposed, so I always take my showers as fast as humanly possible. I blame communal bathrooms in college. And being paranoid. And the fact that...well, most people, when they're growing up, apparently get this talk about the birds and the bees. I got fairly regular lectures about the defenseless fluffy bunny and the roving packs of starving, rabid timber wolves. (Side note: Intellectually I know it's unfair and uncalled for, but my default assumption about the character of any guy I meet is of this slightly deranged, highly aggressive roving carnalvore. And it's worse for the made-up ones I haven't met, who might actually be out there wandering around, looking for someone to savage. But I'm a dog person and when I went to the zoo and actually saw timber wolves for the first time, I thought they were _adorable._ )

I guess most girls get embarrassed or annoyed when they bring their boyfriends around and their dads make vague comments about their gun collections, but I never had because: A) I've never had a boyfriend. And: B) I've always found Dad's arsenal to be vaguely comforting in its potential to abruptly solve any problem involving home invasion.

It wasn't until I was in college that I really started to realize just how much paranoid-crazy I'd been spoon fed growing up. In retrospect, I think a lot of the things I took to heart were spoken in jest. But I don't know if I think that because it's true, or if I think that because I don't want to think badly of my folks and there's no real denying that some of the things they've told me made me come out a little messed up. Or maybe I've always been screwed up in the head, and that's why I took things seriously that I shouldn't have? I don't know, but it's easier to deal with things if I can just say I'm a little screwy and whatever I'm freaking out about is my own damn fault.

So, yeah, I knew I could take all the time I wanted in the shower. Intellectually. I know a lot of things, 'intellectually', and that has no real bearing on how I feel about them. After all, two sets of locked doors? Plenty of lead time if someone tries to break in. Unless they smash through the patio window. But then, okay, I'd still have one locked door, so no problem. Unless they brought a crowbar or something to pry it open.... Okay, my overactive imagination doesn't help, either.

So, yeah, I cut the shower as short as humanly possible so I wouldn't give myself a panic attack and ruin the otherwise wonderful start to my day. After drying off and unlocking the bathroom door I poked my head out to make sure no one had managed to sneak in by some way I _hadn't_ accounted for, and then hurriedly got dressed.

I don't have a lot of closet space, but I don't really need it. Back in college my roommate did, so I gave her mine and got in the habit of buying clothes that could be folded and shelved in stacked milk crates. After I graduated my friend Megan (who was the aforementioned roommate for three and a half years) tried to get me to expand my wardrobe. She failed, but she did convince me to invest in some real shelving. So, tucked under the counter ledge on the living room side of my apartment I have two side-by-side shelving units, each of which makes a three-by-three grid of storage spaces. I keep my clothes folded like I always have, and I get dressed by just going down the row and picking things out.

It's a system I like. I can tell at a glance if I'm running low on something like t-shirts (row two, column three) or sweaters (row one, column six) and I figure I'll be one up on everyone else when the robots enslave humanity and we're _all_ getting dressed off of assembly lines.

My pajamas went into a hamper at the end of the shelves and I picked out some knit socks, plain panties and my pastel blue bra (I'm sufficiently under-endowed that I don't really need bras. I always wear them anyway, though, because the padded ones make it look like I do), a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved blouse and my blue button-up sweater to wear. New Year's was only a couple days away, and it was still pretty chilly out.

Then, since I didn't really have to dress to impress at work, I added my comfiest sneakers to the mix, grabbed my purse and a chocolate bar from the stash I keep in a drawer by the bed, threw on my jacket and looked around the apartment to see if I was forgetting anything.

Not really, it seemed. The promise of waking up buried under my covers had come true; it had been the perfect start to a perfect day. I really should have stayed in the shower longer and just ate the inevitable panic attack, though. Because now all I could think was: _Whatever the demon Murphy is going to unleash after this lead up is going to be frikken huge._

So, suitably anxious and slightly queasy, I picked out another manga to read and went out to the parking lot to wait on my ride into work.

# Chapter 2

I am not bothered by small or enclosed spaces. The same cannot be said of large, open ones, so the parking lot is not really the sort of place you'd probably expect to find me waiting on someone. And, logically speaking, I _do_ know I can just wait inside my nice, cozy apartment for Megan to call and let me know she's waiting outside.

The issue there is that waiting inside would mean I was turning my best friend and a cellphone into a kind of horrifying, semi-irregular alarm. And I hate alarms. It's a good thing I'm not a spy, because if I got caught by enemy agents they could break me by tying me to a chair, winding up an egg timer and telling me that if I didn't give them the launch codes in the next five minutes they were going to let it ring at me. On the other hand, if we only had fifteen seconds before the nukes went off you can be damn sure I'd stop that timer from hitting zero. Probably by cutting the wrong wire and killing us all, because what do I know about defusing nuclear bombs? In conclusion, it's a really good thing I'm not a spy, and I'm not about to let my best friend stand in for a nuclear explosion just because I'm too afraid to wait for her in the parking lot.

I live in the last unit of a row of studio apartments, all lined up side by side and facing the parking lot. This is nice because it means I'm pretty isolated. Also, they're small, cheap places not horribly far from campus – which means that most of the tenants are transient students. Right now no one is living in the studio next to mine, and on breaks it's almost like no one else lives here at all.

On the other hand, once you attach the word "transient" to someone they become about twelve times more terrifying. My previous neighbor used to jog around our parking lot in the mornings. I was pretty sure it was just a matter of time before he finished scoping out the community and I wound up being forced into the back of a windowless van and auctioned off to Canadian white slave traders some morning. I'd probably have ended up staked out in the woods as bait for some sort of flesh-eating half moose/half unicorn monster that roams the wilds of Canada. The chupacabracorn: devourer of virgin lumberjacks.

I'd gotten in the habit of reading while I wait on Megan back when that guy was still a daily trial. Distracting myself with fiction is a coping mechanism. I've always used stories to distract myself and others from my unreasonable anxiety issues. I prefer it when I'm using someone else's stories, though, because then it's just me being lost in a book. But if I'm relying on my own fiction, it usually means I'm interacting with someone else and I've just been put in a spot where I can either explain that there is something seriously wrong with me, or start making shit up.

The worst part about it? The more anxious I get, the more my verbal filters shut down. And it's not like Tourette's, where I'd just start spouting profanity and be asked to leave. No, it's more like...anything I think? It gets said. And no one tells me to shut up or go away because they're too busy listening to the train wreck that is my mental process.

I mean, I might start a conversation by asking what's on the number three special. But then I realize that I'm dealing with an actual person, with hopes and desires and opinions and unknown motives, and I've just asked them to do some extra work in order to answer my inane question, and then I'm all flustered and I've probably pointed out that anyone who orders something with that much bacon on it is probably a cannibal because if Circe turned Odysseus' men into swine, she'd probably done it to others, and some of them had probably just been left as pigs, because it's not like she constantly had guests and how many pork meals can one goddess eat? So some of those probably made it into the general pork population, and I figured you probably had a good three percent chance of eating one of their descendants every time you had a pork product...and that really is a lot of bacon on the number three, but if you think I'm crazy then how do you explain the fact that cannibals always say people taste like pork and swine flu is contagious among humans?

And at that point I'd be a little wild-eyed because I know I'm talking crazy, and a little out of breath because that's a lot to blurt out without pausing for periods. Also, I'll have ordered the number three with _extra_ bacon, and everyone will stare while they try to figure out if I'm really a psycho cannibal, or if I just play one in real life. Except for my friend Megan, of course. She'll just demurely eat her salad, oblivious to the stares and not making a scene at all. But I'll still have everyone's attention because I tend to chomp noisily when I'm enjoying a meal, and apparently I want everyone in the restaurant to know that I think people taste great.

....

So, yeah. That's why I don't like to go out much. Because people are either judgmental cannibals or vegan, and there's no way to tell without waving your pinky in front of their faces and seeing who bites. I'd much rather distract myself from the possibility of falling off the earth with a good book than have to notice whether or not there are other people around.

Anyway, I was halfway through my book – and craving bacon for some reason – when Megan's car pulled up. It was a small, blue, four-door Chevy and that description pretty much exhausted my knowledge of cars. I tucked my manga into my purse and got in on the front seat passenger side.

"Morning, Abby," Megan said in greeting as I buckled myself in. That's one of the things I love about her. Megan is aware that "good" and "morning" are oxymoronic in conjunction – even if her bright eyed, chipper smile implied that perhaps they didn't form a contradiction in terms when applied to her own life.

"Morning," I answered back as I settled in. Cars are one of the things I have issues with – especially when I'm the one driving. I have my license because dad insisted it was a necessity of life, but when he was teaching me to drive he impressed on me the ease with which one could lose control of a vehicle and kill everyone around them and everyone riding with them and be forced to live for decades in a hospital, paralyzed from a severed spine and guilt. I never quite got over that. But it doesn't bother me so much if someone else is driving. If I'm not behind the wheel and not distracting the driver, then any cataclysmic accident won't be my fault. Maybe it's a little weird, but being unable to affect the outcome of a trip is just about the only way I can stand to be in a car for an extended period. Now, my fear of strangers and being sold to slavers does prevent me from availing myself to public transportation or cab services, but fortunately for me Megan has no problem with driving. I carpool to and from work with her every day, and she usually gives me a ride to anywhere else I need to be but can't walk to.

Megan is an awesome friend. My _best_ friend.

She's also a total Mary Sue. She's smart; I always had to crib her notes in college. She's fun and sociable; she was always inviting me out to parties she'd been invited to, and still does. She's even independently wealthy, thanks to an inheritance from her dowager aunt or something. She doesn't really talk about her family, so I guess there's some kind of tension there, but that's not a character trait so it totally doesn't count against her Mary Sue status.

In fact, as far as I can tell her only flaws are a questionable taste in friends – because let's face it, I'm not really a great one – and the fact that if she's tipsy enough she'll make out with _anyone._ Seriously, last year at the post-New Year Eve's office party I caught her necking in the bathroom with our boss, Mr. Salvatore. Now, I will admit that Mr. Salvatore is a sickeningly handsome man, but he's also our boss – which freaks me out a lot – and he _knows_ he's handsome – which freaks me out more – and I'm pretty sure he's a vampire. Anyway, after I saved Megan from the hickey of undeath (I happened to know she'd gone into the bathroom to check her blood sugar level, not to be turned into the thrall of the soulless undead) she tried to make out with _me._ But I gave her some chocolate and she bounced back from her sugar crash and I drove us home, and then my nerves were so shot that I just stayed at her place and sat up all night reading through her library while she slept off the mixed drinks, and all was well.

But honestly, I'm not even sure that Megan's promiscuity actually is a "character flaw." I mean, I know some people can be total asshats about women who are comfortable with engaging in some casual fun. But I think that I'd just be jealous of her if I weren't so freaked out by the idea of doing anything even remotely sexual. I don't even star in my own fantasies. Most of my romantic escapades have been lived vicariously through erotica, dirty doujinshi, and getting Megan to dish about her own dalliances, which she's always been perfectly at ease doing. She doesn't even make fun of me when I ask for the details. Have I mentioned she is an absolutely awesome friend?

I glanced over at her. She gave me a smile and then stopped paying attention to me at all as she checked her mirrors and put the car into gear. I should probably mention that she's beautiful, in case that hasn't already become obvious. It's not the kind you see on fashion magazine covers – I'm the twiggy one between us. It's a classical beauty. It would have saved Troy a lot of trouble if Megan had been standing next to Helen when Paris came to Sparta.

Megan's a little shorter than me (but no one can tell because she always wears something with a heel and I always wear flats), voluptuous and fair-skinned. She has long, wavy black hair and bright green eyes. She both knows how to apply makeup well and takes the time to put that knowledge to use. And she's the calmest person I know; whenever I see her she has this serene, happy expression – unless something really bad has happened. Or if she's sugar crashing – then she gets a little loopy.

Oh, yeah: sugar crashes. Megan's hypoglycemic. Her body doesn't process sugar quite right, and sometimes that acts up. That candy bar I grabbed on my way out of the apartment? As far as I'm concerned it's hers. She does a really good job of regulating her blood sugar, but I try to keep some candy on hand anyway, just in case. I mean...I'm not a very good friend. I'm self-involved, constantly anxious and more than a little neurotic – and she's constantly doing me favors like driving me to work and helping me cope with crowds and strangers and social obligations like talking to a cashier. But I always have chocolate on hand if she needs it, and if I ever catch anyone trying to give her shit or take advantage of her Mary Sue-ness I will be all over them like a skinny, neurotic blonde pit bull.

After we'd gotten out of the apartment complex and onto the road, Megan spared me a glance. "Are you okay?" Megan asked. "You're looking more frazzled than usual."

"Someday I am going to get laid just so I never have to worry about chupacabracorns again," I muttered.

"I thought that guy moved out," Megan replied. That's another one of the things I love about her. When I say crazy random shit she doesn't bat an eye – and half the time she even gets it.

I shrugged, and Megan reached over to tousle my hair. Casual physical contact is one of my freakout things, but Megan is a special case. I'll put up with it for her.

"If it'll help, I can probably hook you up with someone from the club," Megan offered. "They're having a New Year's Eve party tomorrow; I could give you a ride."

I just about choked on my heart as it tried to escape through my esophagus. The downside to Megan's unflappability is that I can never quite tell if she's joking. And as much as she helps me cope with my anxieties on a day to day basis, she's also pretty insistent on getting me to stretch my boundaries. She's a social person, and she's always inviting me out. Especially around New Year's, with its mandatory midnight makeout sessions, and Christmas – with its barely more chaste mistletoe. Because let's face it: for me, that's one hell of a boundary.

"I'll think about it," I managed to say. "Going out," I hastened to add. "Not the other part." Which was, of course, a lie. Club Luminescence was Megan's hangout of choice these days. I'd been there a grand total of once, and I'd spent the evening latched to Megan's side in order to discourage this goth-punk guy who kept staring at me like he wanted to get me alone somewhere and murder my comfort zone. So then again, maybe it was true. I'm sure that at some point, while I was safe in my bed, I would wonder what would have happened if I'd opted to go out instead. And I was very good at imagining ways to violate comfort zones.

"Alright," she said. And I think she knew what I meant, because she immediately asked about another one. "How about the work party? If you don't want to come out to the club, I could swing by and pick you up for that one."

"Uh..." I said. Work had an annual New Year 's Eve party. It always ran very, very late so that people who celebrated earlier with friends and family could still stop by. Our boss, Mr. Salvatore, even arranged to cover all cab fares to and from – not that I could ever get in a cab. But that made me think that maybe I _should_ go. Mr. Salvatore had gone on sabbatical after last year's party, and we hadn't seen him since. But without Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome Vampire around, Megan's only options for shenanigans this year would be Jimmy or Carl, the two men who lived in the basement and ran the printers. A rescue or preventative action _would_ be necessary in either case: Jimmy was a scrawny guy who embraced the label "nerd" and Carl was a stocky, balding man twice Megan's age, whom I've always kind of suspected of wanting to embrace Jimmy. I mean, basements are dark by definition and the big printers are loud. Who the hell knows what they really get up to down there?

Anyway, I couldn't really think of either of them with Megan without blushing a lot and getting waaay too explicit in a bad slash-fic sort of a way, and....

"Are you sure you're okay?" Megan asked again. "You look a little flushed."

And that put me in one of those awkward social situations I hate so much: I could either explain to my best friend that she – by merit of being a strong, well-adjusted, social and sexual individual who doesn't spaz out over everything – starred in more of my mentalrotica than I did, or I could change the topic. I've _tried_ filling in for her, but it just doesn't work. If you put me in a short skirt and a corset top and strap me down in a deep dark basement, pretty soon make-believe Jimmy and make-believe Carl lose interest. Then Carl takes Jimmy aside in a fatherly manner and teaches him to "catch" in a way that totally isn't, and I miss out on all of it because make-believe me is still tied up in a basement. But replace me with Megan and there'll be soft flesh and hard cocks and moaning and grunts and sweat and cries of pleasure and about four times as many orgasms – not counting my own when I'm home, alone, in private, and not sitting next to the person I'm imagining being tag-teamed while the industrial scanner she's bent over makes a flip-book record. Assuming I haven't forgotten by then, or been distracted by something...which is probably the more likely scenario.

"I'll go to the work party," I said, blindly groping for a total non-sequitur. "If you're sure you can pick me up?"

"Of course," Megan agreed cheerfully.

"Thanks," I said – and turned my gaze out the window in order to turn my face away from her. Fortunately, I had achieved terminal self-embarrassment, and all mental images – as well as my blush – were replaced with the recurring internal cadence of: _please don't let her be psychic, please don't let her be psychic._

We didn't really talk for the rest of the way into work.

# Chapter 3

Megan and I work in publishing. It's not a large publishing house, but it seems to do a fair amount of business: mostly small-press fiction and cookbooks. But a while ago one of the major importers of Japanese manga went out of business, and that's when Megan and I got hired. Our boss, Mr. Salvatore, saw a great big hole open up in the market, and decided to try and fill as much of it as he could.

In college Megan and I worked in a scanslation ring. That's a group of people who translate foreign comics that aren't licensed locally. We did it as a hobby, and because I'm addicted to books with pictures. Mr. Salvatore got our names through the anime club at college, and we've been working for him since graduation, along with another of our friends: Fumiko.

Our work takes up the first two units of a strip of single story offices. We share the parking lot with all the others, but it's still usually pretty empty. Today, however, there were two notable additions. Mr. Salvatore's fancy little sports car with its tinted windows, and a massive Hummer that was parked next to it.

"He's back," I groused. After the incident at last year's New Year's party, Mr. Salvatore had disappeared on sabbatical. I'd been just as happy: I _like_ my job, but Mr. Salvatore creeps me out.

"Yep," Megan agreed cheerfully as she pulled into a free spot next to the Hummer.

"You knew!" I accused.

Megan laughs. She knows how I feel about Mr. Salvatore. "He's not a vampire, Abby," Megan said. "And this way you haven't been getting all wound up about it the whole drive over."

I frowned. "Alright," I conceded. "But _how_ did you know?"

Megan grinned and fished out her smart phone. "I get work emails forwarded," she said. "You _really_ need to upgrade. He got in a little past midnight and scheduled an all-hands meeting for this morning."

I sniffed. It was an old argument. Megan liked to keep up with the newest tech, and I liked what I knew. So I _liked_ my flip phone. Plus, given the rate at which technology goes out of date, my phone was probably old enough to have achieved legendary status. I was carrying around the Hrunting of communications devices! Although, come to think of it, Hrunting did break in Beowulf's time of greatest need. So maybe Megan had a point. But, whatever. Besides....

"Past midnight?" I asked as I got out of Megan's car and started toward our office's entrance. "Vampire."

"Oh, sure," Megan said. "You know, it'll take more than the occasional late arrival to convince me."

"Occasional?" I protested. "Have we had a single video conference in the last year that wasn't after hours? And for that matter, why is it that he's always just a photo of a sunset on those calls, instead of streaming video?"

"Gee, I don't know," Megan said teasingly. "Maybe it's because he's been in a different time zone. And perhaps he hasn't had a webcam available." She stuck her tongue out at me playfully. She's never perturbed when I go off to crazy-ville. In fact, I think she enjoys debunking my theories because it forces me to come up with crazier ones.

"Yeah, right," I said. "Or maybe he just can't be filmed. He probably never left the city, and that 'sabbatical' is just a cover story for some kind of vampire politics thing."

"You know," Megan countered, "I just use a picture of a kitten when we conference call. Maybe _I'm_ a vampire."

I stopped and stared at Megan. She stopped and looked back at me. Her poker face was in place – I recognized it because I've seen her use it on guys when they're trying to tell if their flirting is getting them anywhere.

"Don't be silly," I said. "I've seen your home setup. You just don't have a web camera." Then, having completely undermined her argument (and therefore, conversely, proven mine) I turned and marched into the office. Megan followed.

Our department – the imported manga department – consists of one office, two desks, and three people.

Fumiko was a Japanese/American student who had majored in business and been part of our scanslation ring. Her job was to get us licenses and other clients – we do a small amount of print-on-demand work for independent Japanese artists who like the idea of their work being available in the American market. She also did a lot of the rough translating. Fumiko worked from home.

Megan worked at the secretarial desk outside our office. She claims she picked that spot because it's nice and open, and it gives her the opportunity to make googly eyes at the mailman, but that's just an excuse. I'm pretty sure she did it so I'd have the office to myself and could hide out if I needed to. I support this theory with the facts that 1) Megan is an awesome friend, 2) she's used the position to act as a buffer between me and coworkers and 3) our mailman is a woman. Megan's job is to do all the image manipulation required in translating a manga: she takes scans of the manga and clears out the text bubbles, then picks appropriate fonts and fills them back in with my translations.

That's my job: I clean up the translations. English is Fumiko's second language, so she does the rough translations and helps me with any really strange kanji that come up, but I make sure the final English translation reads well in addition to conveying the intended message. It still surprises me that something which started out as a hobby in college has become my full time job. I keep expecting to be told it was a mistake and we've all been fired – but it hasn't happened yet. Not even when Mr. Salvatore went on his surprise sabbatical.

I left Megan at her desk and went through to mine. Sure enough, there was an email waiting for me when I my computer finished booting up. It was time stamped for 12:13 last night, and asked all team leaders and available employees to attend a state-of-the-company meeting in the break room at nine.

Technically, Megan was our team lead by merit of working at the office and being sociable. But the invite _was_ to all available employees, so I figured she'd drag me along, too. Besides, I had no intention of trying to skip.

Being stuck in a crowded room was just about the opposite of my idea of fun – but I had a healthy suspicion that whatever Murphy had been leading up to this morning was going to be revealed at the meeting. And the longer I had to go without finding out, the bigger a nervous wreck I'd become.

So I sighed and accepted the meeting invite. Then I opened the folder for my most recent project and tried to distract myself by polishing the translation of a manga that involved aliens and mummies and robots and girls in ball gowns with corsets so tight their boobs threatened to burst off the page and out of my screen.

Actually, as distractions go, it worked pretty well.

# Chapter 4

Megan came to get me about five minutes before the all hands meeting started. It was a good thing, too: she startled me out of speculating as to whether the artist really liked well-endowed women or the main character was actually one of the robots and needed all of that exposed surface area to serve as heat sinks for her power supply.

"Are you coming?" Megan asked from the door.

"Uh...yeah," I stammered. I hastily saved my progress and locked my computer. "Any idea what it's supposed to be about?" I asked as I stood and joined her.

"I haven't heard anything that wasn't in the email," Megan admitted. "But if I had to guess I'd bet it has something to do with Mr. Salvatore's sabbatical, and maybe something about the new guy."

"New guy?" This did not bode well. Those two words contained three of my least favorite things: something new, a person, and a 'guy' to boot.

"Yeah," Megan said. "I saw him come in and out of Mr. Salvatore's office a few times. But he might just be Katherine's replacement."

I frowned. Katherine had been Mr. Salvatore's secretary and assistant, but when her boss had taken his unannounced leave she'd stopped coming in. I'd been okay with that; I didn't particularly like Katherine. In all fairness, though, that was at least partially because whenever Mr. Salvatore was worried about deadlines Katherine was the one he'd sic on us. I know Megan and Katherine got along fine. They'd even gone out on the town together a few times, and Katherine was the one who'd introduced Megan to club Luminescence.

I didn't get to ask Megan anything else about the new guy, though, because by then we'd reached the break room and it was too crowded to converse without anyone else overhearing. Sure, they were occupied with their own babble, but I'm pretty self-conscious in general. I managed to maneuver myself into a back corner. It was distressingly far from the exits, but with Megan standing next to me I was safely isolated from everyone else. That was a fair trade. Also, if I stood on tiptoe, I could still see everyone at the front of the room, more or less.

The first person to catch my eye was, of course, Mr. Salvatore. He was standing at the front of the crowd. Despite not being very tall, Mr. Salvatore had the kind of presence that draws the eye. He was slim, with pale skin and dark hair. He _always_ wore a suit, and when he spoke he did so with a faint accent that said: 'Hello. I am originally from one of those sexy countries like Italy or Spain. Please, allow me to make love to you in exotic and foreign ways.' He also had cold, fierce grey eyes. And while his accent was always polite in its seductive overtones, his gaze always seemed to say: 'on your knees, _now_ , slut.' Also, he was looking right back at me.

Or rather, since Megan was mostly in the way, at her. I shivered, and it wasn't a pleasant one. I've never had a man look at me with lust in his eyes, but I've seen plenty of them looking at Megan that way. And that is totally what Mr. Salvatore was doing. I made a note to buy Megan a cross. And a replacement pepper spray canister for her key ring, in case the last one I'd gotten her had expired or something. And some wooden stakes. The man was a creepy, creepy heartthrob of a vampire, with an emphasis on creepy.

But I don't think Megan even noticed. She was too busy looking at the guy next to Mr. Salvatore. The new guy, I guessed. I couldn't really see him because he was sitting down and there were too many other people in the way.

Then Mr. Salvatore managed to tear his gaze away from Megan and sweep it across the rest of the room. "Ah, good," he said. "It looks like we're all here. Then let us begin." The room rapidly quieted.

"I'd like to start," Mr. Salvatore began, "by saying thank you. Despite my abrupt disappearance and only intermittent communication, you have kept this business alive and thriving in difficult economic times. I could not have asked for a better team. I am enormously proud of all of you."

Mr. Salvatore cleared his throat before he continued. "The same cannot be said of myself, and I feel I owe all of you an explanation. I am not apologetic because the circumstances, it seems, were unavoidable. However...my health is...poor."

He shifted and took a deep breath. "At the start of this year I suffered an attack severe enough to necessitate hospitalization. I have spent much of the past year in recovery, or seeing various specialists. Although I am as well as I can be now, the likelihood of suffering another attack has been deemed high if I do not remove certain stressors from my life...and even then nothing is certain. Therefore, at my doctors' insistence, I will be retiring at the end of this year and moving to a country home closer to the specialists whose expertise I require."

Mr. Salvatore held up his hands before more than a murmur could arise from his audience. "Please, peace. I know this is sudden, and that the end of the year is mere days away. That is why I insisted, over my doctors' protests, on coming back: to put these affairs in order. I have no intention of leaving you in the lurch again, directionless and leaderless."

Mr. Salvatore stepped back and gestured to his side. "This is Hans. He is an old family friend, and has agreed to take charge of this enterprise and fulfill my responsibilities since I no longer can." Mr. Salvatore stepped back further, and I thought there was a certain bitterness in his voice as he yielded the floor.

But then Hans stood up, and I got _very_ distracted. I've described Mr. Salvatore as a creepy heartthrob because despite looking at people like they should be chained up in his basement, Mr. Salvatore _is_ a very attractive man. But if Mr. Salvatore was a heartthrob, then Hans was a full-on cardiac arrest. And he managed to do it while being as much the antithesis of Mr. Salvatore as possible.

First of all, Hans was tall. When he stood he towered over the rest of us. Also, although he had a slender waist, his shoulders were broad and he had generous muscles. He was built like an inverted isosceles triangle on legs – a track star turned body builder. On top of that, Hans was younger than Mr. Salvatore. If I had to guess, I'd have put Hans in his early thirties. He also had mussed, blond hair and clear blue eyes that glinted merrily when he smiled. Oh, and a chiseled jaw to match his sculpted physique. Yes: sculpted. The man was an ancient Greek artisan's wet dream of Hercules. And Hans was wearing a plain white tee shirt and blue jeans, which gave him a down to earth, hardworking, boy next door feel that was totally at odds with Mr. Salvatore's suave, elitish exoticism.

"Hello," Hans said. "It is a pleasure to meet you all at last."

And that was the real kicker: Hans had an accent. It wasn't the same as Mr. Salvatore's, though. Mr. Salvatore's accent was cultured and sophisticated and seductive. Hans' accent suggested a place with tankards and quaffing and men who considered sexing buxom wenches with braided hair to be an endurance sport best played one-on-one in fields of heather on cliff tops overlooking the turbulent sea at midnight. They probably kept score by consecutive orgasms and hours of rutting without rest...and definitely played for keeps.

I don't know if such a place exists – maybe Switzerland? I'm perfectly willing to admit that I'm geographically challenged and terrified by the idea of travel. But if someone else went on vacation to Hans' hometown I'd be perfectly willing to drool over their slideshow when they got back.

Hans smiled broadly before continuing. "Mr. Salvatore has been my mentor for quite some time, and I am honored by the trust he has placed in me. He has also told me much about his business and his employees while preparing me to take the reins, and I assure you I have a solid grasp of my forthcoming managerial duties. That said, Mr. Salvatore has agreed to remain on call for advice during the first year of his retirement – and for my own part, I will not be satisfied with my own performance until I am well versed in the particulars of each of your jobs. I want to ensure that I can do more to facilitate your excellent work than merely staying out of your way." Hans smiled again, and a few people chuckled appreciatively. "To that end," Hans said, "I intend to spend the next few days sitting with each of you in turn. During this time, please don't consider me as your future boss. Think of me as a raw recruit...ah, an ignorant intern in need of guidance. It is my goal to become conversant in each of your duties so that I can do whatever is necessary to help you continue your wonderful performances. Thank you."

Hans glanced at Mr. Salvatore, who nodded back at him. Then Hans stepped back and Mr. Salvatore reclaimed the center stage. "I know this must seem sudden," Mr. Salvatore said. "And for you I'm sure it is. If you have questions, please make time to visit me in my office. I'm afraid this has been tiring, or I would entertain them now." He sighed – but then perked up. "However, before we adjourn, I would like to address one more thing. The office New Year's Eve party will coincide with my official retirement, and I would greatly appreciate seeing each of you there, especially the department and team leads. I have a number of bonuses I wish to disperse to show my gratitude for keeping things running so smoothly in these difficult and awkward times." He smiled. "As always, it will be open bar. I have made arrangements with local cab companies and will cover the costs of fares both to and from. The party will begin at ten, but I intend to keep it going until dawn. Everyone shall receive New Year's Day as a paid holiday, so even if you celebrate midnight outside the office there's no reason not to take advantage of the cabs and stop in for a final farewell." He smiled, but it seemed weak and sickly. "Thank you all. It has been a pleasure while it lasted."

# Chapter 5

The meeting broke up pretty quickly after that. Hans was pinned down by a line of people who wanted to introduce themselves. Mr. Salvatore seemed to fade into the background. And I hastily retreated. Megan followed me – all the way into my office. While I went to my desk she closed the door behind us, then she came over and joined me.

I sat in my chair, and Megan sat on the edge of my desk. She does that a lot because I only have the one chair and she never bothers to wheel her own in from outside. She crossed her legs and leaned over to face me, propping herself up with one arm, and grinned.

"So," she asked, "What do you think of the new guy?"

I glowered. I could already tell she was trying to get me to admit he was hot. "I think he's the kind of guy who sleeps with women for sport," I said darkly.

Megan's eyebrows arched. "Hans? With his 'one of the boys' demeanor?" She pursed her lips speculatively. "Well, given some of the boys I've known...maybe. But I saw you blush when he started talking, so admit it: you wouldn't mind having him tend your goal."

I squawked inarticulately and felt my cheeks flame. I love Megan because she's not afraid to call anyone on anything and she always speaks her mind – but this time she was being really unobservant. I would never want Hans to do any such thing because 1) the concept was terrifying and 2) he was going to be our boss, which automatically instilled him with the sort of "I'm afraid of authority figures" anxiety that makes me accuse people of being vampires. So, no: engaging Hans in the midnight sports festival of his people, on the cliffs above a turbulent sea, definitely did not deserve contemplation.

"You're blushing again," Megan pointed out mischievously.

I forced myself to scowl. "It was how he paused when he called Mr. Salvatore his mentor," I lied. "It made me cast them in a D/s slashfic." Although, now that I'd thought of it, I wondered who would be top. Mr. Salvatore was the obvious choice, with his dark and dangerous persona, but a little role-reversal always made those scenes more interesting.

Megan looked at me like she wasn't sure I was telling the truth. Her smile turned lopsided. "I wish I had your imagination," she said. "Or that you were a better artist. I'd buy that doujinshi. But I'm not sure I buy that you're not into Mr. Tall, Bright and Smiling."

I sniffed. "Trust me, there is less than zero interest," I told her. "I mean, look at him: he's built like the romantic lead in a swashbuckling bodice ripper. How would that even work? Shoot, he's probably a vampire hunter here to kill Mr. Salvatore, and the whole illness thing is just a cover story they've concocted to let Mr. Salvatore disappear without a fuss, which Hans is only permitting and Mr. Salvatore is only agreeing to out of respect for the night of forbidden love they once shared." I spread my hands to indicate the enormity of story arc. "I have _no_ desire to involve myself in that," I concluded.

Megan laughed and reached over to tousle my hair, which I put up with because she was Megan and I had once again disappointed her by being uninterested in the fellow she'd pointed out. And then realization dawned.

"So, yeah," I said. "He's all yours."

Megan broke off mid-laugh and looked at me with her poker face, which is how I knew I'd gotten it exactly right. "Oh?" she asked carefully.

I did my best to smile. "Of course!" I said. "I'm not fit to be the female lead in a swashbuckling bodice ripper, but you could totally pull it off." More to the point, I'd seen Megan's wardrobe and I could totally imagine Hans tearing her out of it. For that matter, I couldn't fill out a bodice worth ripping at all, but Megan definitely could. And if the idea of Megan, Jimmy and Carl had been hot then the idea of Megan and Hans was all kinds of scalding. I did my best not to start blushing again.

Megan started to frown, then abruptly grinned and leaned over to hug me. "You're a real sweetheart," she said. "You know that?" She kissed my forehead and straightened. "And you're positive you don't want dibs?"

By now I knew I had to be bright red. "He's all yours. Do with him as you please. Just be careful, okay?" I wasn't really worried about her – I couldn't imagine much that sexy, confident Megan couldn't handle. And if there was some fallout over him being our boss and she lost her job...well, she had enough money that she didn't _need_ to work, anyway.

But if it turned out that Hans was abusive, or if he yanked her affections around and hurt her and I was forced to stab him repeatedly, I'd probably go to jail. And I didn't really think I had the temperament to survive on the inside.

"I will," Megan promised. Then she leaned over to hug me again. Have I mentioned she's a very touchy-feely person? But I put up with it affectionately and tried my best not to think about how Hans would respond to having those affections turned on him. And not to blush when that failed. And not to fidget when the hug grew long and Megan squeezed a little tighter.

And then there was an abrupt knocking and an instant later my office door swung open – and to my utter horror Hans himself popped his head into the room.

# Chapter 6

Hans' gaze bounced back and forth between Megan and myself. Since she was practically draped across my desk with her arms around me and her lips just about buried in my hair, his eyes didn't have far to go. His brows disappeared under his bangs. "Oh, pardon me," he said. "I just wanted to introduce myself, since I saw you two disappear after the meeting, but.... I can come back later."

My cheeks went scarlet as I saw the speculative twinkle in Hans' eyes reach entirely the wrong conclusion, but I was too rigid with embarrassment to reply. Megan, however, was as unflappable as ever.

"Oh, no," Megan said as she straightened and disentangled herself. She slid to her feet and smoothed down her skirt. I watched Hans' gaze follow the motion of her hands appreciatively before he yanked it back up to her face. I could _hear_ the answering smile in Megan's voice. "By all means, stay. There aren't any spare chairs, but we do have other surfaces available if you like." She gestured to the spot on my desk that she'd just vacated, and Hans laughed in reply.

Hans stepped into the room, grinning broadly. "I'll stand," he said. "But thank you for the offer."

Megan shrugged as though to say 'your loss' and hopped back onto the front of my desk with her legs crossed and dangling off the edge. She folded her hands in her lap. I don't know how she does it, but Megan has always been able to strike just the right tone with people. I mean, sure: Hans' clothes and easy smile seemed to indicate he was a calm, laid back person... but we didn't _know_ that. It could have been that he wasn't in a suit because it hadn't been pressed when he'd gone to pick it up, and he was just smiling because he'd vindictively arranged to have his Viking mafia contacts burn down the dry cleaners' shop with its employees still inside as an object lesson to others. Megan never seems to be fazed by these possibilities, but I can never stop thinking about them. So it's always a little awe-inspiring when I get to watch her work her magic on someone. I was perfectly happy that she was the one engaging Hans, and with her easy flirting there was no way he would be holding onto his first impression of us. Probably.

Regardless, I did my best to scrunch down and disappear behind my monitor without being obvious about it.

"I'm Megan," Megan said. She held out her hand and Hans came the rest of the way into the office to shake it. When he let go, Megan used it to point at me. "And this is Abigail," she said. Hans started to reach for my hand, but Megan and my monitor were in the way – and I wasn't reaching back because I was involuntarily clutching the fabric of my jeans (fortunately hidden under my desk) and couldn't make myself let go – so he turned the gesture into a sort of casual wave of greeting. I think I managed to jerk my head in a nod of acknowledgement, and then Megan stole his attention back.

"You're probably already aware, but we work in graphic novel imports," Megan said as though I weren't being socially awkward at all. First meetings are hell. "Fumiko is also part of our group – but she works from home. You'll get to meet her at the New Year's party, I'm sure." Megan was practically beaming with cheerful friendliness. "So, what can we do for you?"

Hans smiled back at her – I don't know _how_ she does it, but he was obviously charmed already. I was still trying to force myself to calm down enough to uncurl my fingers. "Well, as I said: I saw the two of you hiding in the back at the meeting, and when you disappeared afterward I thought I should make a point to stop by and introduce myself more personally. But also, Mr. Salvatore mentioned that the two of you – ah, three," he corrected with a nod for absent Fumiko, "-were his newest hires. So I decided I should start by getting your perspectives, first."

"Oh, splendid," Megan said with a cheerful smile.

Hans grinned back. He bowed and flourished his hand expansively. "I am but a humble intern, at your service." He straightened and turned away from Megan. "Shall I sit with you first, Abigail? I can fetch another chair."

Now, I have issues with a lot of things: strangers, authority figures, and casually charming, highly attractive men are three of them. I'd been okay with Hans when he'd been on the other end of a crowded break room and largely unaware of my existence. But now that he was right here, in my space, addressing himself to me – just standing there with his lips half-turned in a smile and a friendly sparkle in his eye – I couldn't stop thinking about timber wolves and brutally murdered bunnies.

Part of me wanted to say he could have my chair if I could have his lap, but the part of me that didn't want to end up disemboweled and feasted on in a dark, primeval forest took over. And that part of me decided to counteract Hans' easy going charm, heroic physique, and "I'm a sexy Viking" accent by employing a healthy dose of aggressive dislike.

"Can you read Japanese?" I asked.

If Hans was startled by the non-sequitur he didn't show it. "No," he admitted. "Why?"

I found myself glaring at him. I didn't want to, but I was on over-anxious autopilot. "Because, in that case, what you can do for me – instead of fetching another chair – is to go tell Mr. Salvatore that you're fired and that if he wants to get me an intern I'd appreciate it if he found one who was competent enough to not be a waste of my time." I smiled sweetly and Hans actually took a step back, stunned. He was probably used to women just swooning at his every suggestion – I know I would've loved to, but I just couldn't stop. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I'm busy enough that I don't really have time to teach you three alphabets and a foreign language."

Fortunately, Megan interrupted before I could go any further – and thank God, because my verbal filters had completely shut off and I was mere syllables away from spouting crazy shit all over the place. Hans looked so stunned I probably would have tried to tell him not to feel bad about it because no one really expects a Viking sex-god, bunny rapist, vampire hunter to spend a lot of time studying foreign languages, and Mr. Salvatore really should have checked for that during his onboarding interview.

But Megan hopped off my desk and interposed herself between Hans and me. Of course, Hans was tall enough to easily look past her – but movement catches the eye, and Megan was _Megan._ Between his height and her curves I wasn't sure if he was looking down at her or down her blouse. In either case, she made a good distraction. My irrational dislike of the man ratcheted up a couple notches – almost on par with my desire to crawl under my desk and hide.

"Abby translates the works we have licenses to," Megan explained for me. "It takes a lot of concentration and attention to detail, which is why we decided she should work in here and I would take the secretarial desk when Mr. Salvatore gave us this space."

Hans glanced my way, but apparently thought better of trying to start another conversation with me. He turned back to Megan, who was going to get a crick in her neck if she kept looking up at him like that. "I see," Hans said. "And what do you do?"

Megan beamed up at him. "Technically, I'm the department manager – but we've been doing this ever since it was our hobby in college, so really that's just for the paperwork. In our actual workflow, I scrub the scanned pages, select fonts, and transcribe the English translations onto the cleaned files." She took Hans by the arm and led him to the door. "Come on – if you'd like to get that chair and sit with me, I can take you through the process. Unless you'd rather sit on _my_ desk?"

Hans let himself be led off. "Oh, no," he said with a chuckle. "I wouldn't want your coworkers to get the wrong idea."

"That would be terrible," Megan agreed easily. "Why, I'd _have_ to take you as my paramour, then, just so it would be the right one."

Hans stumbled on his reply and Megan laughed. "Go find a chair," she said as she gently pushed him out the door. Hans wisely retreated. Megan watched him go and then when he turned a corner she turned back to me.

"Are you okay?" Megan asked – and since knew me and my issues, she did it without humor or accusation. Just genuine concern.

I managed a tight, nervous nod. "I'll be fine," I said. "Thank you."

Megan smiled back at me – a little bit sad; a little bit wry, but taking me at my word. She was a social creature. I was not. And this wasn't the first time she'd seen me flub an introduction. Then she shook her head.

"Oh, Abby," Megan said with a grin – a real, heartfelt grin. She draped herself against the doorway. "Believe me," she said while making a show of fanning herself, "Taking that man off your hands will be a _pleasure,_ not a problem."

I gave her a shaky laugh, and she gave me a wicked grin. Then Megan slipped out of my office, pulling the door closed behind her.

And I was glad. Because Megan is an amazing friend, and a social person – and I know she worries about me and my social anxiety, but I can't help it. And I don't _want_ her to worry. But I have my issues, and I deal with them as well as I can, and.... Have you ever been in a situation where you were so nervous you just wanted to fall apart, but you had to keep yourself together as well as you could, but the effort and stress of it just made everything worse and worse and worse?

When Megan left I took a shuddering breath. When I let it out I slumped at my desk. I buried my face in my arms and...I didn't cry. And I didn't want to make any noise, even if no one should be able to hear me in the closed office, so I didn't sob, either. But when I was done I had to sniffle and scrub my eyes and my cheeks hurt and my breathing was a little ragged.

So I fished a tissue out of the box in my drawer and blew my nose. And I wiped my eyes with my sweater sleeve, and I took my mouse and opened the files for the manga I'd been translating.

I have issues, I know it. Introductions are hell. I'd do better next time. But for now I had work to do and someone else's fiction to lose myself in.

So I did.

# Chapter 7

When I ventured out for lunch Hans was blessedly absent. Megan was sitting at her desk, though, with her legs tucked up beside her. She'd spun her office chair around to face my door while she waited, and when I came out she put her book aside. "Ready?" she asked.

I nodded. Megan spun her chair back to face her desk and stood. She collected her purse and we walked out to her car together.

Megan and I always eat lunch together. Often this would mean sack lunches shared in my office with Megan sitting on my desk while we discussed whatever manga we'd been working on most recently. But just as often it meant going out to the burger joint down the street, and today was a burger day.

When we arrived the lunch crowd had already started to gather. So we got in line and I wondered if I should broach the subject of our evening plans while we waited.

Megan and I also spend a lot of evenings together — she hates being alone almost as much as I hate being in crowds. So on the evenings that she doesn't go clubbing she usually hangs out at my place after work. Most of the time we don't even do anything. I'll read and she'll mess around on her laptop, or whatever. But back in college I'd confessed that I'd never had a lot of 'normal' growing up experiences, like slumber parties and hanging out with friends, so every now and again she'd order pizza and stay overnight, and we'd sit up watching movies. Sometimes Fumiko would join us for movie night, too, and we'd marathon an anime or something.

Tonight wasn't a pizza and movies night, but I'm a creature of habit. If Megan wasn't going to be hanging out after work because she'd made plans to, say, seduce Hans, then I wanted to know. Besides, well, on the one hand I was a little bit anxious about the whole "he's going to be our boss thing," but on the other: in college Megan had never hesitated to pursue any guy who caught her eye, but since graduation she hasn't even casually dated. Even though she hangs out at clubs most weekends and some weeknights. So it was good to see her actually lining up her sights on someone again. Especially since I knew she was way too social to be happy just hanging out with me all the time.

Before I could get up the nerve to ask, though, Megan spoke up. "So," she said, "you made _quite_ an impression on our new boss-to-be."

I paled, equal parts fear and mortification. I could still remember Hans' face when I'd 'fired' him. He'd looked like he'd just been pole axed by a chipmunk and couldn't quite believe it. "Introductions are hell," I pointed out quickly. "I'll do better next time."

Megan reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. "Don't worry: I'm only bringing it up because I don't think it was a bad one, and I know how you worry. In fact, he ended up asking about you quite a bit. How long we've known each other, and if you're always so dedicated to your work, and what your favorite restaurant is," she said casually. "That kind of thing."

"Oh," I said. For a second I felt some relief, before the entirety of what she'd said registered. "Wait, he asked what my favorite... what?"

"Mhmm," Megan murmured to confirm that I had in fact heard what I thought I'd heard. "Don't worry," Megan said. "I assured him you would be happy with anywhere that caters to carnivores. And warned him not to get his hopes up as I have yet to see you find anyone manly enough to pique your interest... but I suspect he's interested in trying."

I gaped. "What?" I managed to squeak. But if Megan thought there was anything wrong with anything she'd just said, it didn't show in her serene expression.

Megan smiled. "Mhmm," she said again. "I may have built you up a little, but I don't think I needed to. I got the impression that he appreciates a woman who isn't afraid to dress him down, call out his failings, and make him work for her esteem." Megan pursed her lips thoughtfully and shrugged. "Or maybe he just likes a challenge. As good looking as he is, and as unfailingly charming in his conversation, I imagine he hasn't had many... But, no, I definitely picked up on a bit of a submissive streak in there."

I continued to stare at Megan in horror — which tripled when she abruptly perked up.

"Oh, speak of the devil," she said. Then she bounced on her toes and waved out the restaurant's big plate glass windows.

I turned to look and saw that the giant yellow Hummer from work had relocated, and Hans was climbing out of the driver's seat. He saw us, smiled, and waved back.

"What is he doing here?" I hissed to Megan while Hans approached the restaurant doors.

Megan shrugged. "I asked if he'd like to join us for lunch, since he's new to the area," she explained. "And he accepted. Probably because I said 'us.'" She grinned at me. "Now, be nice," she said — then reconsidered. "Or mean. I'm really not sure which will get you further, faster."

I swallowed and did my best to get my heart rate under control while Hans entered the restaurant. Other men might walk or stroll or stride, but Hans prowled over to us. His movements were utterly casual, but there was a power and intensity in his physique that precluded any other description. I don't know _what_ Megan had been thinking when she'd decided to throw out her suit and start talking me up to him: he was way out of my league. Hell, I couldn't even keep the interest of imaginary Jimmy and imaginary Carl.

"Hi, Megan," Hans said when he reached us. "Thanks for having me out. Abigail, it's a pleasure to see you again also."

Megan smiled. "Of course," she said. "I'm glad you found your way." She gave him a friendly hug, which he returned with a casual squeeze about her shoulders. I was amazed all over again at the ease with which she could take an acquaintance and turn him into someone who acted like a friend she'd known for years. Not that I could really imagine anyone turning down a hug from Megan... even I put up with them, and I have issues about personal space.

Then Hans let Megan go and turned to me. He offered me his hand in greeting, and I had to wonder if some of that time Megan had spent 'talking me up' had also involved coaching him on some of my issues. How mortifying. But this wasn't an introduction and I was determined to do better this time, so I accepted his gesture.

There was something in the way Hans tilted my hand when he took it that made me think his instinct was to raise it to his lips, but he just shook it instead. "Hi," I managed to say. Megan had wanted me to be nice or be mean, and 'hi' seemed to be a neutral alternative. It was also about all I could manage: what is it about tall, handsome, muscular men with 'I am from a nation where the men make love for hours without tiring' accents and large, warm, surprisingly gentle hands that makes a girl break out in goose bumps and quiver inside? Really, it wasn't fair.

Fortunately, I didn't have to contemplate it for long. The line in front of us had vanished, so I gave Hans a smile that was probably as sickly as I felt and extricated my hand from his. I even managed to avert my gaze and turn to the counter before Hans could do more than smile winningly at me. Hopefully it was before he saw my cheeks flush, too.

"Hi," I said to the cashier while fumbling for my debit card. "My usual, please." And thank God that Megan and I came here often enough for me to have a usual and for the employees to know it. The routine helped me regain some composure. Plus it let me think: _See, Hans, I say 'hi' and act all flustered with everyone._ The cashier gave me a beverage cup and a number, and Megan stepped up to the counter in my place.

Hans had gone to the register next to ours. The girl manning it was staring at him like she was having trouble focusing on his order. She had my absolute sympathy.

"So," I heard Hans ask as I scurried to the drink fountains. "What comes on your number three?"

At the drinks I surveyed my options. Normally I get a dark cola, but today caffeine seemed like a bad idea. Not only had Hans already sent my heart racing with his touch, but I didn't think being _extra_ jittery would help with my social anxiety. I picked something non caffeinated at random and ended up with an orange soda. Good enough. I claimed a lid and a straw while Megan was getting her sugar-free iced tea, and then I went and sat in our usual spot to wait until my food was up.

Megan sat across from me. She already had her salad, since those are pre-packaged. "Well, this will be cozy," she commented. I blinked at her in momentary confusion before realizing we normally sat at a little table for two by the windows. And since I had sat down first, it was going to be on me that we were being mean and excluding Hans. Shit.

If I had been a normal girl and Megan had been anyone else, I probably would have laughed off her earlier speculation that Hans was interested in a mean and difficult woman to win over. But the thing is: I'm _me_ , and Megan is _Megan._

In college Megan had majored in art. One of the things she'd done was make the programs for the college's theatre productions. And she'd told me once about a guy she'd met at a cast party who'd convinced her to go up to his room, where it had turned out he'd had a thing for feet. So she'd spent a couple of hours with him on the floor and her heel on his neck, making him beg to worship her toes.

Now, I will admit that I find that image more than a little hot, and I don't have a foot fetish. But that's not the point. _The point is:_ if Megan thought Hans might have a bit of a subby streak, I was going to believe her because she has a hell of a lot more experience than I do with _everything_. And I did not want to be giving Hans mixed signals. Or any signals at all.

"Do you think we should move?" I asked.

Megan just arched an inquisitive eyebrow and didn't reply around her bite of salad. And then it was too late, because Hans had already come over to our table with a tray in each hand. He placed one — the one with my burger and fries on it — in front of me, and then deposited the other at the edge of our table. Then he stole a nearby chair and moved it over to join us.

"Thanks," I said. There: nice. That should balance out the mean of not taking him into account in our seating. Back to neutral.

"Of course," Hans replied easily. His tray had a milkshake and two burgers. He unwrapped one, revealing a mountain of meat and cheese utterly devoid of veggies.

My eyes narrowed. I didn't want to know, but I couldn't help myself. "Is that extra bacon?" I asked.

Hans took a hearty bite, chewed, and swallowed before grinning. "Yes," he said. "And I opted for a second sandwich made the same instead of fries... but then again, I am an unrepentant carnivore." I stared. I knew I was staring, but I couldn't help it. I have a highly overactive imagination, and I couldn't help but wonder if that extravagant appetite extended to all aspects of his life... and if it was worth becoming a mutilated bunny to find out. "Why?" Hans asked.

I saved myself from having to answer by draining about half of my soda.

"You're a man after Abby's own heart," Megan answered in my place. "That's her usual, except she keeps the fries." Megan stole a couple, too, to prove her point.

Hans chuckled. "Well, I'm glad we have similar tastes. Actually," he said — and turned to address me specifically — "I was still hoping to get your perspective on work. And since you've made it quite clear you have no patience for interruptions — and I certainly respect that — I was hoping we could discuss it over dinner."

I did my best not to gape at him, but there was no salvation from answering because at that point I had to come up for air. I scrambled for a way out and found myself saying: "Okay." Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

Hans lit up with a smile. "Wonderful! Shall I pick you up at seven, then?"

My eyes widened. "Tonight?" I swallowed. "I'm... Megan and I have plans," I protested. And thank God Megan and I had plans most nights. A-ha, my way out! I could just put this off until it didn't even happen!

But Megan waved her fork dismissively. "Oh, we're just hanging out... and we do that most nights. I don't mind rescheduling." She smiled. "In fact, why don't we go out tomorrow instead? Then we can share a ride to the office party."

I stared, hardly able to comprehend this betrayal — and then it hit me. I'd been set up, twice in one go! Megan had maneuvered me into a dinner date with Hans _and_ going to the New Year's Eve party at club Luminescence, all in one fiendishly executed conversation.

I laughed nervously. It sounded weak to me, and I wondered if anyone really bought that I wasn't totally freaked. "Okay then, sure," I heard myself say to Hans. "Pick me up at seven." I smiled.

But I couldn't stop thinking about Vikings and wolves and brutally torn apart bunnies. Megan thought Hans had a submissive streak? I really hoped she was right, because otherwise I figured it would just be a matter of time before some park ranger found my mutilated corpse out in the woods.

# Chapter 8

The rest of the afternoon went by in a blur of wild speculation, nerves, and paranoia. Even the copious amount of manga I had waiting for translation didn't provide enough of a distraction, and by the time we went home for the day I was actually ready to go on my date with Hans – if only to get it over with.

Megan and I didn't really talk on our drive to my home. That was okay because I was still slowly stewing over the evening's plans...or maybe it was more like my thoughts were in a pressure cooker. In any event, I didn't want to get us all killed by exploding while she was driving.

When we got home I got out of the car before Megan even turned it off. Seeking some routine, I collected my mail before unlocking my apartment. I don't get much real mail. Today I had advertisements, a credit card offer, and a complimentary edition of a local newspaper – which was mostly just advertisements and coupons. I went inside, flipped on the light, and dropped the mail on the end table by the door. Megan followed me in and, because she knows me, closed and locked the door behind herself.

And then I finally felt safe enough to fall apart a little.

I turned on Megan. "He's going to _eat me!_ " I wailed – and she laughed.

"Actually," Megan said, "speaking from experience, that's often the highlight of the evening."

My eyes widened. "Not like that!" I protested. I started to pace. I couldn't help it; I had too much pent up nervous energy. "He ordered the number three with extra bacon. _You know what that means._ " Oh, God: I was going out on a dinner date with a cannibal. An _insane_ cannibal. I knew he couldn't be altogether there in the head because he'd spent the rest of lunch paying attention to me even though Megan had been right there, and _Megan is the pretty one._

Megan put a fist on her hip and looked at me askance. "It means he ordered the same thing you did?" she guessed teasingly. "Oh! Or are you implying you want to nom on him, too?" She put her other hand on her chest and sighed theatrically. "Abby's first sixty-nine," she said wistfully. "Oh, tonight _will_ be one to remember."

I froze and stared at her. I didn't know if all the blood wanted to drain out of my face in horror or flood there in embarrassment, but I was abruptly dizzy. Megan was at my side in an eyeblink.

She had one hand on my arm to steady me and the other around my waist. "Come on, Abby, let's sit down," she said as she guided me to the edge of my bed. "There we go."

Megan sat down with me. I know I say I just put up with her hugs, but the truth is, sometimes I really need them. She cradled me about the shoulders and waist and buried her face in my hair. "Hey," she said gently. "It's okay, sweetie. Now, take a deep breath. That's right. And hold it. Okay, now let it out. That's good. Again: In, two, three and hold, two, three. And out, two, three. That's good."

I took another deep breath and held it and then let it out. Megan called it meditation breathing. It was supposed to help me relax, but I never remembered to do it until after it was way too late. When I have these panic attacks on my own I just break down somewhere private, and then I'm done for a while. But when I have them around Megan they're always more... cathartic? I think that's because she reminds me to breathe and helps me pull myself together and tells me I'll be okay.

I was safely locked up in my apartment, and my best friend was holding me close while murmuring reassuring things in my ear. And I felt absolutely and utterly drained... like I'd been super-saturated with anxiety and Megan's last bit of teasing had added just enough for all of it to fall out of the solution. Or maybe it was more like my irrational fear and anxieties had overflowed and been skimmed off. But I also felt almost – almost – normal. I always feel better if Megan's there to put the pieces together than if I'm trying to cope on my own.

I pulled my legs up onto the bed and twisted around to face Megan. "I don't understand," I said. "I thought you were interested in him. Why'd you set us up?"

Megan arched an eyebrow at me. "Hey, he asked you out on his own."

I frowned. "You know what I mean," I said. She hadn't let me make excuses to get out of it... and I was perfectly confident that if she'd wanted to Megan could have kept Hans focused firmly on her.

Megan sighed and leaned back, dangling her legs over my bed's baseboard. She stared at the ceiling while she answered. "Well... I won't deny that he's an impressive piece of eye candy. And he seemed pretty nice. But I'm not looking for another random fling, and I haven't been for a while. I had plenty of those in college. I want something that will last."

"Oh," I said. My brow furrowed as I tried to understand. "But how do you know it won't with Hans, if you aren't going to try?"

Megan laughed and turned to look at me. "Because," she said with a lopsided grin, "Unlike you I _have_ dated around. I've had a lot of relationships. Some of them I tried to make serious, and a lot more were just for fun. I have a pretty good idea of what I want in a long term relationship and Hans – although we'd have fun for a while – just isn't it. So when you told me to do with him as I pleased and he oh-so-casually asked if you were seeing anyone, I decided it pleased me to hook the two of you up."

"Oh," I said again. I turned that over in my mind a moment before frowning. "But I told you I wasn't interested in him!" I protested.

"Sure," Megan agreed. "And that was a lie, so I ignored it." She laughed and sat up while I sputtered out an inarticulate denial.

"Oh, please," Megan said. "I'm your best friend, Abby. I know you. I've browsed your manga library. I've seen your cheeks flame up during the kissing scenes in the movies. Shoot, you've asked me about every relationship I've ever been in and," here she paused to bink me on the nose with a finger, "you've practically begged for the intimate details of each of them. I know you aren't asexual, sweetie. As far as I can tell you're just scared."

Megan shook her head. "And then along came this guy," she said. "And he made you blush as soon as you saw him, and got you so flustered you just about threw him out of your office... and then he sat with me all morning and I realized he was not only just as laid back and easy going as he seemed, but he was also at least a little interested in you. And by then I was pretty sure he was the kind of fellow who would take all the trouble you were likely to put him through and _like it_ , too."

Megan shrugged. "So sure, it's been a while for me and I _could_ have scooped him up and indulged in a few evenings of physical release for the sake of physical release," she said. "But really, that would have made me just about the worst friend ever. So I gave him a few encouraging nudges in your direction and asked if he'd be interested in joining us for lunch, instead. And the rest, as they say, is to be determined."

I stared at her. "You know, you're a great friend," I told her. It was the only part I could really respond to. The reminder that I still had to go out with Hans later tonight had broken through my post-catharsis calm and I could feel myself winding up again.

"You have no idea," Megan said with a laugh. Then she seemed to notice my rising nerves. "What's wrong, Abby?"

My eyes widened in slowly resuming horror. "I have no idea what I'm going to do tonight," I said.

But Megan just scoffed. "Well, that's easy. He asked you out to talk about work, so just talk about work. It's not really a _date_ , so there's no pressure, right? But he's definitely into you, so if you feel up to it you can throw in some flirting and know it'll be appreciated."

I swallowed. "But I don't know how to flirt," I said.

Megan snorted. "Oh, pish." She said. "Just do like you were at lunch and you'll be fine."

"...what?" I asked.

Megan snickered. "Sweetie, the way you kept blushing and chewing or sucking your straw while making eyes at him was downright explicit."

My jaw dropped a little. "Oh," I said. Was that why he'd kept watching me? Oh, God. _Oh God._ "But I was just doing that to keep my mouth too busy to blurt out anything stupid!" I blurted.

Megan laughed at me. "Well," she said, "if you end up deciding to bring him back to your place after dinner, but you've exhausted your topics of conversation..." She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "I'm sure Hans won't mind if you want to keep your mouth too busy to say anything stupid," she teased.

I yelped in indignation and shoved her. Megan caught me and flopped back on my bed, laughing. I fell over with her, and after a moment I started laughing, too. It _was_ a pretty preposterous mental image. I could just see myself kneeling down in my living room and pulling down imaginary Hans' pants while he just tilted his head and heaved a sigh of boredom. Now, sure, if imaginary me were Megan instead... Real me stopped laughing and started blushing.

After a moment, Megan's laughter died down too. She smiled and tousled my hair. Then she caught my hand and rolled out of bed. "Come on," she said. "Let's get you made up, and then I'll skedaddle before your gentleman caller arrives." She gave me a sly smile over her shoulder. "Just remember to call me, after. It's my turn to tease all the intimate details out of you, and I have to say, I am really looking forward to seeing how badly you blush when recounting the tale."

# Chapter 9

I don't really know what to do with makeup, but Megan does. She sat me down at the kitchen table, and then bemoaned the fact that most of the things in her purse were wrong for my skin tone or complexion or whatever. But when she was done attacking my face she'd still wrought something of a transformation.

I studied myself in Megan's compact mirror. My lips seemed fuller, and pinker, and a little glossy. My lashes were _way_ longer than I remembered them ever being. I couldn't even put my finger on what else she'd done, but I had to admit it looked good. I wouldn't be gracing the covers of any magazines, but I might have fit in on a photo lineup at, say, page twenty seven or so.

"Wow," I said. I closed the compact and gave it back to Megan. "You are a miracle worker," I told her.

Megan scoffed and put the compact in her purse. "You don't give yourself enough credit for being cute," she said. "Tomorrow after work we're going to stop at my place and I'll give you a real makeover. You'll sizzle so hard that when we get to the club everyone who looks at you is going to burn up with either desire or jealousy."

"Uh," I said. The last time Megan had insisted on making me 'sizzle' before a party had been in college. The night of the infamous wingman-fail nuclear landmine incident.

Megan grinned. "Trust me," she said. "Now, what do you do if you don't know what to say?" she asked, and I knew she was asking me about tonight, reminding me of what we'd discussed while she'd done my makeup.

"Talk about work," I answered.

Megan nodded. "And if you start to feel panicked?"

I fidgeted. "Excuse myself to the bathroom and call you for moral support," I said.

"Good. And if he gets fresh?"

We hadn't really discussed that. "Uh... stab him with a fork?" I guessed.

Megan's grin split into a smile and she laughed. "That's my girl," she said. She stood and gave me a hug. "You'll do fine."

I laughed shakily. I was nowhere near convinced, but I appreciated the vote of confidence nonetheless. I even hugged back.

Then Megan collected her purse and started to head out. I got up and followed her to the door. "Don't forget to call me after," she reminded me, and I collected another hug before she left. Maybe it's silly, but I waited in my doorway until she'd driven out of sight before I went back in. Then, because I'm me, I locked the door behind myself.

That left me with half an hour before Hans was supposed to show up.

I wanted to just grab a book and wait in the parking lot... but that didn't seem like it would be appropriate, and it was already getting dark. So instead I crouched by the window and pushed the curtain back just enough to peer out. But then I thought it might be weird and a little creepy if Hans pulled up and noticed one eye in the window, staring out and waiting for him. So after a few more minutes I stopped and started pacing instead.

I can burn a lot of time and nervous energy with pacing. Unfortunately, that doesn't really make me less nervous. The back and forth motion seems to encourage back and forth thoughts, and that'll wind anyone up. But I am a little less spastic if I haven't been forcing myself to sit still, and it does help me lose track of time.

I did my best not to let my nerves get away with me. I thought about calling Megan, but then reconsidered. I'd probably need that lifeline worse later. It occurred to me that I really should have gotten Hans' number at lunch. Then I could have called him and cancelled... but somehow I hadn't noticed that I wasn't getting any of his info while Megan had been giving him all of mine. I wondered if she'd planned that. I made a note to rectify it. There would be no future dates if I did not have the ability to arbitrarily cancel them, even if that meant there would be no future dates.

Perfect.

And, of course, assuming Hans was going to be interested in future dates after tonight. I really hoped this evening was just going to be about work. Or maybe it was all a ploy so he could get the inside scoop on what Megan was interested in. _That_ would make more sense.

I frowned. Too bad it wouldn't do Hans any good; apparently I didn't have a clue what it was that Megan was looking for, either. Except that it was long term, not Hans, and she hadn't found it yet. Maybe it was a good thing she and I were going out tomorrow. Objectively I can admit that in the two years since graduation I've become more and more shut in — and I'm okay with that — but Megan is my best friend, and I really didn't like the realization that I didn't know what was going on in her life where it didn't overlap mine.

I mean, I know I'm not a very good friend. But that right there, that moved things from 'not very good' to 'bad.'

I was interrupted from my reverie by the doorbell, which was jarring enough that I scrambled across the living room to answer it.

I don't like alarms and I don't like timers, and I don't like doorbells — and I really, really don't like making people wait on me. So I was halfway through my locks before I thought to check the peephole, because I _really_ didn't want whoever it was to get impatient and ring the doorbell again. Yeah, I know: stupid. But what can I say? I'd probably be really easy to rob and murder, but you wouldn't have to wait while I got the door.

I checked and it was Hans. His hands were in his pockets, so I took the time for a deep, steadying breath before undoing the last lock and opening the door.

"Hi," I said... because when it comes to social interactions I'm brilliant like that.

Hans smiled. "Hello, Abigail." His hands left his pockets and one reached for mine. I gave it to him on autopilot, and this time he did raise it to his lips. "You look stunning," he said, and planted a roguish kiss on the back of my hand.

"Uh," I said. It wasn't _that_ cold, but I had goose bumps. _It's just a work date,_ I reminded myself. _Work date, work date, Work date._ I was already annoyed with myself for being a bad friend to Megan, and now I was getting mad that I'd let a little flattery get me all flustered. I was perfectly aware that the only way I'd ever really stun a guy was if I had a panic attack and a taser. I thought about pointing that out, but I didn't actually _have_ a taser. I suppose I could've offered to tie him down and strap him to a car battery, but that would probably have come out wrong. _Work date!_ I managed to reclaim my hand. "Shall we?"

Hans waited while I locked up and then he walked me to the passenger side of his car — that massive yellow Hummer. He opened the door for me and closed it once I'd climbed in. Then he jogged around to his side.

There's a fine line between courtesy, chivalry, and chauvinism. I wasn't sure yet where Hans fell, but it would've been a lie to say that my nerves didn't appreciate the extra hand holding. It was the hand kissing that had thrown me off kilter. I wondered if I should count that as my first. Probably not, for that I think it would have to be on the lips. Maybe. _Work date, Abby._ Work date.

Hans didn't try to talk to me while he was driving. I was just as glad, even though I was willing to bet it was just because Megan had tipped him off that 'distracting the driver' makes me really uncomfortable. I found myself wondering exactly what else she'd told him about me while he'd been sitting at her desk this morning.

Thinking about Megan reminded me — for once! — to do her meditation breathing _before_ I freaked out. So I spent the drive with my eyes closed, taking slow, calming deep breaths and trying not to think too much. I wished Megan was here instead of me: firstly, because Megan would know how to make small talk and flirt and all that stuff. But secondly: where I was neurotic and twiggy, Megan was sensual and sexy. If this _wasn't_ a work date, Hans was setting himself up for a _huge_ disappointment... and I was going to spend the rest of my life being mortified by whatever I ended up doing.

Of course, if I _were_ Megan then all of these deep, calming, chest-expanding breaths probably would have 'distracted the driver' into a head-on collision, killing everyone. So maybe it was just as well it was me. Hans might have to live with disappointment, but at least we'd all _live_ , right?

I opened my eyes when I realized we'd stopped. I did take one more deep breath before I managed to make myself unclench my fingers and work my belt buckle. I had a row of half-moon impressions from my fingernails running across each of my palms. But that was okay, how would anyone notice? People only kissed the backs of hands, after all.

But then again, I could totally see Hans-the-Viking catching his chosen lover by her wrists, pulling her arms up over her head and pinning them against the wall with one massive hand. He would step in close, trapping her between the wall and his lean, muscular body. His lips would start at her fingertips and trail down her palms; his breath hot against her skin. She'd whimper into his chest; moan when his teeth scraped the inside of her arm. And....

And I wasn't sure how I'd gotten started on this, but I was back to wishing Megan was here instead of me. Since I was having one of _my_ fantasies, imaginary Hans' chosen lover _was_ imaginary Megan, and how was I supposed to live up to that?

Fortunately, I was saved from trying to answer myself by real Hans opening my door. He offered me a steadying arm as I got out. I don't know if I looked like I needed it or if he was just being courteous — but I was grateful either way. I felt a little bit shaky and the goose bumps were back.

Once I got out Hans closed the car door and then locked them all with a button on his keys. He offered me his arm, and I took it because imaginary Hans and imaginary Megan were doing unimaginably indecent things to each other in my head, and I wasn't too sure about my knees.

I felt a little bad. Real Hans _was_ being pretty sweet, but he had totally picked the wrong girl to spend an evening with, and I didn't think he realized who he'd been passing up — or what he'd been passing her up for.

"Thank you," I said anyway. I took a mental count. I'd said about six words since our evening had started. I figured I had about six more before I blurted out something insane, or stupid, or insanely stupid. It was going to be a very long evening, or a very short one.

Hans just smiled. Poor ignorant bastard. "But of course," he said easily. Then he put a hand over mine and together we walked into the restaurant.

# Chapter 10

When we got inside it turned out that the restaurant was a nice, sit-down steak house. Okay, so I'm a fast-food girl myself, and I wasn't really familiar with the place. But it _seemed_ nice, anyway. The lighting was a little dim, and there was a lot of dark wood in the furnishings and a vaguely western vibe to the décor. I could hear the sizzle of grills in the kitchen over the good-natured babble of other people's conversations. The whole place smelled _heavenly._

There were actually a few people already waiting on benches in front of the hostess' podium. Hans walked up to the hostess, and since I was still on his arm I went with him. It occurred to me just then that walking around like that made things seem more like a date than work, but I had no idea what to _do_ about it.

Hans greeted the hostess with one of his broad, charming smiles. "Hello," he said. "I have a reservation for two." She took his name, consulted a list that she had on a clipboard at the podium, and then ushered us to a relatively private booth toward the back. It had already been set for two, with two menus and a pitcher of ice water.

I slid in on one side and Hans sat across from me. "Your waitress will be with you shortly," our hostess said.

"That will be fine," Hans replied. "Thank you."

Our hostess departed, and Hans turned to smile at me. I had no idea how to reply to that and I knew I needed to make my next six words count, so I just stared back. Fortunately, we weren't left to ourselves for long.

When our waitress arrived she turned out to be a tall, svelte, buxom woman who looked like she was about the right age to be working her way through college. She had bright red hair that was tied up in a messy bun and a smattering of pale brown freckles across her nose. She also had a bubbly energy and four undone buttons that probably got her _excellent_ tips.

"Hi!" she said as soon as she reached our table. "My name is Sarah, and I'll be your server tonight. Can we start with any drinks for you..." I think there was probably normally more to her spiel, but right about then she really noticed Hans and trailed off. I think she might've forgotten I was there, too. I totally sympathized. Even working a steak house it was probably rare that she saw so much beefcake at one table.

"A cola," I ordered. Sarah gave a start and pulled a notepad and pen out of her apron pockets. I really felt for the girl. If she was already flustered enough to feel the need to write down two drinks she was going to be floored when Hans broke out his accent. But she did make the effort to look at me as she jotted down my cola, so I tried to give her a reassuring smile. One that said: "It's okay. I completely understand. And I'm only here with him on a work date, so feel free to drool _all_ you want and maybe leave your phone number on a napkin so this doesn't end up being a waste of time for everyone. _I_ certainly won't take offense."

"And a coffee, please," Hans added. "Thank you." I glanced at him, but he was still looking at me. I tried not to squirm.

"Okay," Sarah said. "I'll have those right up, and then take your orders." She scurried off. Hans didn't seem to notice.

I scrambled to make some conversation. "This place seems nice," I said. It was banal and uninteresting, but it was sane so I gave myself points anyway.

Hans grinned. "I'm glad you approve. I haven't been here before, of course, but they had excellent reviews online."

Then Sarah swept back up to our table. She put down a cup with a saucer for Hans, and filled it from a pot she was carrying in her other hand. "I'll be right back with your soda," she told me.

"Okay," I said.

Sarah disappeared again, and when I turned back to Hans he was watching me over the rim of his cup while he took a sip. I don't think he'd looked away from me since sitting down. It was becoming disconcerting. I'd also, by my mental count, exhausted my supply of not-crazy conversation. So I really needed something to keep myself from saying anything stupid.

Sarah reappeared and placed a glass of cola in front of me. Then she fished a straw out of her apron and put that down next to the glass. She was _not_ helping.

"Are you ready to order," Sarah asked, "or would you like a few more minutes?" Okay, so that was a little better.

Hans nodded to me. "When you're ready," he said.

I looked from Sarah to Hans and back. "I'm ready," I said. Have I ever mentioned that I _hate_ making people wait on me?

Sarah turned to me, notepad and pen at the ready. "What can I get for you?"

"Uh... do you have filet mignon?" I asked. She nodded. "That, then."

"And would you like fries or a baked potato with that?"

"Fries," I said. I glanced at Hans. Put me on the spot, would he? Take that! No menu needed. Because you can't really go wrong with steak fries and meat wrapped in bacon.

Hans smiled back at me. "And I'll have your largest cut of steak, medium rare," he said without looking away. "With the potato," he added. He collected my menu, added it to his, and passed them both to Sarah without breaking his gaze from mine.

"Great," Sarah said. "I'll put that order in, and be right back with your appetizers."

"Thank you," Hans and I said almost together. I continued to try and stare him down, but I lost when I turned to Sarah.

"Wait...what? Appetizers?" I asked, but Sarah was already gone. I was a little jealous. She had the kind of figure a person could enjoy watching walk away. I doubted she was ever mistaken for a boy from behind.

"When I made the reservation I put in an order for something to tide us over," Hans explained. "I didn't know what you might want, so it's their sampler platter. I figured that anything in excess could just be boxed up for your refrigerator, and anything you found unappetizing could wind up in mine."

"Oh," I said. I turned back toward him and almost jumped out of my skin. He was _still_ staring at me. "Alright, _what?_ " I demanded. I leaned forward. "What is it? Is there something in my teeth?" I bared them at him, and when he didn't answer immediately I ran my tongue over them to see if I could tell.

"No," Hans protested with a chuckle when he saw I was serious.

I glared. "Then _what?_ Is my makeup smudged?"

Hans shook his head. "You're lovely," he tried to assure me.

I blew out an exasperated sigh, sat up and folded my arms crossly. "Then why do you keep _staring?_ " I snapped. Maybe it was a little rude, but I was feeling pretty frazzled and I didn't care.

Hans leaned forward. He put his elbows on the table and propped up his chin on his folded hands. "You're lovely," he reiterated.

Oh. _Oh_. I could feel the flush creeping up my cheeks. My mouth was inexplicably dry. I fumbled with unwrapping my straw, then realized what I was doing and put it aside. I took a long drink straight from my glass.

_Megan_ was the pretty one. And I liked it that way, because it saved me from shit like this. I needed a distraction fast, but she wasn't here and Hans seemed pretty focused.

"You know, Sarah is prettier," I said.

Hans arched an eyebrow. "Is she?" He inquired.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Haven't you _looked_ at her?"

Hans leaned forward further. "Nope," he said cheerfully. "I'm here with you," he pointed out. As though that was a perfectly reasonable excuse.

I scoffed. "When she comes back you take a good look and re-evaluate your sense of aesthetics," I told him. That would put an end to that.

Hans tilted his head and considered me. "I really doubt that will be necessary," he said. I glared, and he sat back, holding his hands up in surrender. "But if you insist," he acquiesced.

I would have been more mollified but he didn't actually look away _until_ Sarah got back.

Sarah arrived with a massive round tray of plates balanced in one hand, and a folding stand carried in the other. She setup the stand one handed and put down the tray. True to his word, Hans was paying attention to her. I was paying attention to him. I wanted him to take a look at a pretty girl and get some perspective, but if he was creepy or rude about it... that would be my fault for throwing her to the wolves. So I was completely ready to kick the shit out of Hans' shins if it became necessary.

It didn't. Hans gave Sarah a relaxed smile and helped her unload her tray, accepting dishes and arranging them on our table as she passed them to him. It looked like the "sampler platter" was intended for larger parties. There were mozzarella sticks, baked potato wedges, chicken strips, quesadilla triangles... even one plate that looked suspiciously like it only had veggies and dip. We were probably going to have leftovers.

When her tray was emptied, Sarah picked it and the stand back up. She beamed with energetic cheerfulness. "Can I get you anything else?" She asked. "Would you like a refill?" she asked me specifically.

I glanced at my glass. Apparently I'd almost drained it trying to drown my blushes. "Uh, sure," I said.

Sarah departed again and Hans offered me one of the empty plates she'd left at our table. I loaded it up with a couple potato wedges, quesadilla triangles, and a chicken strip. Hans loaded up another plate with a similar selection. Neither of us went for the veggie plate.

I was in the middle of contemplating how likely it was that finger foods would duplicate the straw problem when Sarah came back with a second glass of soda. I spared a glance at Hans, but he was back to watching me.

I can't begin to describe how unnerving it is to have the complete and undivided attention of a man like that. Especially since all I wanted to do was eat a potato wedge in peace. But _noooo_ , Hans had to keep looking at me like he wanted to start with dessert and I was on the menu. I swallowed without taking a bite. The number three with extra bacon was a pretty good indicator – and he'd ordered two for lunch! – but there was only one way to tell for sure if someone was really a cannibal.

I put down my potato wedge. Sarah had departed again, so at least this bout of crazy was only going to embarrass me in front of one person.

That wasn't much comfort.

I leaned forward, putting my elbow on the table and holding out my hand, palm up. Hans glanced down at my hand, and then back at me. I wriggled my fingers in front of his face.

"Look," I said, "You're looking at me like you think I'm more appetizing than anything Sarah's brought over." _Including her,_ I managed not to add – but it was a near thing. "It's distracting. So why don't you just get it over with, take a bite, and find out."

I don't know what I expected him to do. If anyone had confronted me with something like that, I would have been mortified. I would probably have blushed a lot, looked away and never looked back; maybe said something crazy and stupid. Perhaps the part of me that takes over in times like these wanted to push Hans into making a denial. To get him to reconsider his behavior and stop it.

But Hans decided to go the "say something crazy" route.

"If you insist," Hans murmured. And then he one-upped "say something crazy" by _following through._

Hans caught my hand easily and pulled it to his lips. He was a tall enough man that he had to lean forward and bend his head down over it. His bangs tickled my wrist – but he was kissing my fingertips and I was too stunned to giggle. His lips brushed down my fingers until they reached the fleshy part at the top of my palm. And then he _bit._ Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make me gasp. His teeth scraped over my skin and his lips closed, planting a kiss in my palm just below my fingers.

This was not a work date. This was _so_ not a work date.

I felt like all my limbs had frozen, like I was a wire pulled too taut to move. My mind scrambled, but shock had completely kicked the legs out from under rational thought – and I've never had that on good footing to begin with.

Hans looked at me over the heel of my palm, through his messy golden bangs. Trying to judge my reaction? Good luck to him. I couldn't even begin to figure it out myself.

But I _was_ staring back at him, wide eyed. And my lips were parted because I'd gasped in but had yet to breathe out. I wasn't blushing, though. I felt like there couldn't be a drop of blood in my face. I felt more than a little light headed. _Breathe,_ I told myself – and that was as much as rational thought could manage.

I exhaled. "I am not dessert," I said, and I was surprised at how level my voice was. I felt like I should probably be gibbering or something, but I was just too tense to come apart.

Hans kissed the heel of my palm. "No," he agreed, and his breath was hot on my skin. His accent plucked the wire I had become, and I felt like I was quivering at my core. He kissed my hand again, and I could see just the very corner of his mouth rising in a smile. "But I have always preferred savory over sweets," he confessed.

And, oh my God: Goose. Bumps. _Everywhere._

It was too much. It was _way_ too much. I felt like I was so tense I was about to break: the wire would snap if it were wound any tighter. I tried to breathe, and the effort made me tremble. I pulled my hand away before Hans could notice. I hoped. He let me have it. My cheeks were flushed and my mind was reeling and my breathing was ragged.

"I have to..." I tried to remember Megan's advice. "...be right back," I finished lamely. I was past starting to panic and well into an attack – but years of being an anxiety ridden wreck came to the fore and kept me in cover-up mode. I felt like I was moving with the gracelessness of a spastic marionette, and I managed to pull myself out of the booth and walk away despite wanting desperately to run. Running would be bad. When prey runs, a predator will chase.

The babble of conversations around me roared in my ears – or maybe that was the rush of blood. I couldn't tell if I was queasy or just hungry, but I _felt_ sick.

I saw Sarah and flagged her down. "Where are your restrooms?" I asked like I was a normal person with a normal question.

Sarah pointed. "Right over there," she said. "Down the little hallway. It'll be on your left."

I nodded. "Thank you," I said. I started to follow her directions, but then I stopped – and I held up a hand to stop Sarah, too. "Be careful," I warned her. "He bites."

Then I proceeded to the restroom with all the stately dignity a panicked, broken doll can manage. Which isn't much... but at least I didn't run.

# Chapter 11

The restroom, when I got to it, was blessedly unoccupied. It was also small – intended for single use – and had a deadbolt. So I locked myself in. And then, since I was locked in a relatively small space where no one could get to me, I was safe enough to fall apart a little. So I did.

I sank down on my heels and hugged my knees tight against my chest. It was probably as close to the fetal position as I could get without lying on the floor – but, ew, it was a bathroom. I leaned back against the door and trembled instead. And then, when I could make myself let go of my knees, I may have hyperventilated a little. But I didn't start crying and I didn't sob, and when I was done and I checked myself in the mirror I could see that Megan's makeup wasn't mussed. There also wasn't anything in my teeth. But the evidence that Hans hadn't been lying didn't make things better – if anything, it made everything even harder to get a mental grasp on.

I was _supposed_ to call Megan. I could finally remember that bit of advice. I wished I could follow through, but my phone was in my purse – and my purse was sitting in the booth across from Hans. _Stupid,_ I derided myself. There would be no escaping. But that was okay, I didn't have a way out, anyway. Why is it that restaurants only have bathroom windows that are large enough to crawl out of in sitcoms?

I studied myself in the mirror. My eyes were a little red, but I didn't think anyone else would notice. My lower lip trembled with each breath. My arms were trembling, too – but I think that was just because I couldn't stop clutching the edges of the sink as hard as I possibly could. Mostly. Okay, So I was still a little shaky. And I still felt a little sick, too.

What the hell had I been _thinking?_ Hans was a man who was so good looking he _had_ to be used to getting whatever he wanted from women. Hell, from life: he was going to be my _boss._ He was already leaping to the top of the food chain, and here I was: a stupid little bunny who insisted on sticking her head in his jaws.

Or her paw, as the case may be.

I turned on the hot water and hastily washed my hands before it could get _too_ hot. Then I stared at my reflection more, trying to see what Hans was seeing. I let the water run.

I couldn't see it. Sure, whatever Megan had done to my eyes emphasized them – but they were wide and panicked and crazy, and I didn't think long fluttery lashes could make for that. And okay, Megan had picked a good lipstick. My lips _did_ look fuller, and maybe even kissable...but the fact was that I am twenty four years old; two years out of college, and I have never been kissed on the lips yet. So why the hell would anyone start looking at me like they wanted to now?

Hell no. _No way._ I had no clue what Hans was seeing. I was too scrawny to be feminine, too imaginative to be innocent, too old to be waifish and too big a wimp to be mistaken for a tomboy. I didn't know _what_ Hans' type was, but unless it happened to be 'crazy, broken and difficult' he wasn't going to find it here. Hell, I wasn't even pretty. The best I could manage without Megan's help was 'not unattractive.'

But the man was a wolf, and I was probably going to wind up getting torn apart in the process of him figuring out I wasn't worth it.

Except he wasn't. A wolf, I mean. That was just me, re: crazy, broken and difficult. Hans had actually been quite well behaved. _I_ was the one who'd literally shoved her hand in his face and told him to bite.

Oh, God. Did that constitute flirting? I was way out of my league. I was so far out of my league I was hiding in a bathroom, on the verge of _another_ panic attack.

I cupped my hands and thrust them under the faucet. I'd never touched the handle for the cold water, and what was coming out now was fiercely steamy.

If you've never scalded yourself, don't start. I'd gotten into the habit years and years ago, before I'd had Megan to help me cope. Actually, it had been a few years since I'd felt the _need_ to do this. I'd still done it a few times since then, just... well, just because. Sometimes there's comfort to be found in old habits. Even bad ones.

It only took a second for the water to fill my cupped hands and start pouring over the sides. It hurt, of course. That was what made it work. I could feel the heat, and yes, it hurt. But after those first few seconds I could feel the heat and know it hurt without actually feeling the pain. And it didn't hurt _worse_ the longer I held my hands there... It just hurt _more._ It demanded more attention. It demanded to be dealt with. There were sharp, burning tingles all over the backs of my hands – where the water was spilling freely, but not pooling. It was kind of nice, like my hands had fallen asleep but instead of getting pins and needles I was just getting needles.

I wasn't on the verge of a panic attack anymore because my body didn't _care_ about Hans or self-esteem or social anxiety or wolves – it only cared about telling me it was being hurt and that I needed to do something about it.

I took a deep breath and parted my hands. The water I'd cupped splashed in the bottom of the sink and the stream from the faucet poured through open air. I let out a sigh of relief. The nice thing about scalding yourself is that as long as the water isn't hot enough to raise blisters the pain will go away as soon as you stop. It's cathartic, in its own way.

I shook the last drops of water from my hands and turned off the faucet. My skin tingled, and there was a tightness – like an aftertaste, but for the sense of touch. It wasn't unpleasant. My hands were much pinker than normal, but I knew from experience that would fade before anyone could notice.

The bathroom had one of those hot-air hand dryers, so I turned it on and stuck my hands under it. One of the problems with water that hot is that my hands were going to be extra dry. But that was okay, I had some lotion in my purse. That's actually why I had stopped doing the scalding thing – a few years ago Megan had noticed my hands were always chapped and had bought me some moisturizer as a gift.

Where I'd grown up, there'd been a stigma attached to being one of 'those emo kids.' So when I needed to hurt myself just for the distraction from what was going on in my head, I'd always, _always_ , made sure it was something that couldn't possibly be noticed. I didn't want to make anyone worry about me. It seemed like that would be selfish. I was just a crazy girl, so it's not like there was anything to be done about it anyway. And besides, one of the biggest reasons I've always been hyper-anxious to begin with is that I don't want anyone to realize what a freak I am. I don't know why they haven't already, but I'm certainly not going to go around being obvious about it when I can help myself.

Also... I have a lot of issues. And knives and blood and cut, living flesh all freak me the hell out.

The dryer clicked off and I wiped my hands on my jeans for good measure. My hands were still tender – that would probably last a couple of hours, actually. And that was okay, because a couple of hours was enough time to eat dinner and go home and call Megan and pretend I wasn't a crazy freak.

I unlatched the deadbolt and went back to my table. For the moment I was much, much calmer. I smiled at Hans as I sat down. See: I had my shit together.

I don't know how long I'd been in the bathroom, but it looked like Sarah had come and gone while I was away. There were more plates crowded among our appetizers, sporting our sides and steaks. Apparently I'd been hyperventilating for a while... that would be embarrassing, later.

Hans hadn't started without me. I felt bad – really guilty – for making him wait, but that had been considerate of him, right? And he had to be glad to be getting points in his favor, so maybe it wasn't so bad.

"I'm sorry about that," I said anyway. It seemed necessary – and hopefully Hans wouldn't ask what 'that' was. I wanted to try and salvage a few shreds of normalcy, at least.

Hans frowned. "No," he said. "No apology is necessary. Or rather... I've obviously made you uncomfortable, so _I_ apologize." He sighed. "I came on too strong, didn't I?" He smiled ruefully.

"No," I protested – then I changed my mind. If he wanted to take the blame for being the crazy one, I was okay with that. "Well, maybe." But then I felt guilty for trying to pin it all on him. Dammit. "No," I said again. "Look, you've been nice. And I'm the one who pushed things earlier. But I don't do very well in social situations, or with being the center of attention, or new things or surprises. So I wasn't expecting any of that. And this... this is _not_ a work date. And even though it was kind of obvious it wasn't going to be, I wasn't really expecting _that_ , either."

I took a shaky breath. That had been hard to admit. But the one good thing about _really_ falling apart is that... well, it wasn't _easier_ to do hard things. But it is _possible._ When I'm wound up and vaguely terrified and wracked with anxiety and just a step or two away from melting down I can't – I literally cannot – do the hard stuff. Trying to makes me panic worse, and then I go into panic mode, and then I start blurting out crazy shit... or it pushes me too far, and I _have_ to get away because I'm about to go to pieces and I'm desperately afraid of what people will think of me if they see it happen.

But after a breakdown... well, I'm just too tired. I feel too drained to be anxious. Or to become _more_ anxious, I guess I should say. I had noticed back in college that I was usually at my best at around three in the morning, when I was too tired to think crazy. I wrote a lot of papers in a sleep deprived haze.

Hans nodded slowly. "Would you like it to be? Just a 'work date,' I mean? I would never intentionally do anything I thought you weren't okay with – or said you weren't." He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Megan did say my chances were slim, and it is entirely possible that in my enthusiasm I picked up on signals that weren't actually there. If that's the case, please, let me apologize again and start over fresh." He blushed. _He_ blushed! It was the cutest damn thing ever. "Ah, if I haven't made too great an ass of myself already."

I couldn't help it. The sheer incongruity of a guy like Hans being embarrassed about the impression he'd made on a socially awkward nutcase like me was ridiculous. I started giggling. I tried not to, but that just made me start snickering harder. Finally I clapped a hand over my mouth and smothered the urge to laugh.

"No," I said. "Oh, God." I bit my lip to keep from laughing again. "Okay," I said. "The thing is, Megan is my best friend. So anything she's told you is going to be really biased. Especially if it involves getting us hooked up. Megan has been trying to get me to date someone for years. See, it's not that I've never found anyone 'manly enough to pique my interest.' It's that I've never had anyone's interest long enough to reciprocate." I swallowed. The hard things to say were getting harder by the second, and I was starting to feel queasy again. But as long as I acted like none of this was a big deal, maybe Hans would think it wasn't. That would help. So I waved a dismissive hand, as though to say 'whatever,' and picked up a potato wedge from my plate. I bit it in half. It had cheese and sour cream and bacon bits on it, and it tasted divine.

Hans frowned at me. "I find that hard to believe," he said slowly. Then he started to grin. "But I'll take you at your word if it means you aren't dismissing my suit."

I blinked at him. Why was he making this harder? And who the hell talks like that? I finished chewing and swallowed. "You don't understand," I said. "I'm difficult. I'm flighty and rude and I don't have a clue what I'm doing. I don't even know if the 'signals you picked up on' are actually there, because _I don't know how to give off signals._ I'm not going to keep your interest, so..." I popped the other half of my potato wedge into my mouth to make myself shut up. So what was the point?

Hans chewed the inside of his lip and nodded thoughtfully. I watched him watching me and tried to keep my anxiety in check, but I was winding up again. Today had been hell. The demon Murphy had been kicking my ass every step of the way, and here I was admitting to the man who was going to be my boss that I was an anti-social freak, and I was _exhausted_ from the strain of everything. I pressed my hands against the edge of the table. My palms were still tender and the sharpness of the edge felt about five times more significant than it actually was. It was just a distraction, but I really needed one.

"Alright," Hans said at last. He tilted his head. "Except you _do_ have my interest. And I hope you reciprocate. But I don't want to push my interests on you and force you to. Nor do I want to make you uncomfortable in any way. So, I won't try to act on any hints you may or may not intend. I won't escalate things unilaterally. We'll do what you want, Abigail. If you tell me to take you on a proper date, I will. If you tell me to bite –" he grinned roguishly – "I will." His tone abruptly sobered. "And if you tell me to leave you alone or give you your space, I will. Whatever you want, and however you want to do things, that's how we'll handle them."

I stared at him. Megan was right: Hans had a submissive streak. I had _no idea_ what to do with _that._ I would never have picked up on it if Megan hadn't pointed it out... and now that I had that insight it felt like cheating. Especially since Hans didn't know I had it and was trying to cover up that side of himself by saying it was out of consideration of my inexperience or whatever. Assuming Megan was right, and _I_ wasn't just reading into things that weren't really there.

I looked down at all the food spread out between us. Then I looked back at Hans. "I want to go home," I said.

He didn't even bat an eye.

"Of course, then," Hans said. He leaned out into the aisle and flagged down Sarah to ask for the check and some to-go boxes. I swallowed and hugged myself while Hans took care of everything. I felt very small, and rude, and inconsiderate, and cowardly. But Hans had called me lovely, and _told_ me he was interested in me, and wasn't being put off by my inconsiderate rudeness. And none of that had ever happened to me before.

Which made it all rather terrifying, now.

# Chapter 12

Sarah did Hans one better and found a couple of bags for all our boxes. I'm pretty sure Hans added a tip to the check when he paid with his card, but I left one on the table, too. When we left I took one of the bags so Hans would have a free arm for me to be on. I don't think he'd expected that.

To be honest, I hadn't either.

I let him walk me to the car and get the door for me and put our bags in the back. Hans didn't seem remotely put out that I'd cut our dinner date short. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. 'Relieved' seemed appropriate, but once I got in the car I was mostly just confused and tired and a little anxious.

The drive home was as uneventful as the drive to the restaurant had been. I closed my eyes and employed Megan's breathing technique again. It helped a little — or maybe I was just being distracted by the smell of all the food in the back seat. My stomach seemed a bit more settled for having had that one potato wedge. Maybe I _had_ just been hungry. I definitely was now.

It got awkward again when Hans walked me to my door. I had pointed out in the restaurant that this wasn't a work date, and he had pretty much admitted I was right. So: should I let him kiss me goodnight? Did he even want to? I kept glancing at him over my shoulder while I fumbled with my keys. Did _I_ want him to? On the hand couldn't count for my first, but a goodnight kiss on the doorstep to my apartment probably would.

When I got my door unlocked I turned around to face Hans. He stood there, patiently. That's when it really clicked. He'd put me in control of where our relationship went, and he'd meant it. He was waiting patiently for me to decide what to do: what I wanted to do, and what I wanted him to do about it.

I've never been kissed. I mean, not on the lips. Megan had sort of tried last year, but she'd been drunk and sugar crashed and would have been trying to kiss _anyone_ who'd been there. So even if she hadn't missed I don't think that would've counted. But I've never had someone who was sober try to kiss me, and I've never tried to kiss anyone, either — whether they were sober or not. I've always been too afraid of where it would lead. And what it would mean. Mom had always warned me that I would never get anywhere in life if I acted like one of _those_ girls. That I'd end up old and alone and wretched.

I envied Megan that it didn't bother her to say what she wanted or pursue it. And frankly, of the two of us, I was the one who was always alone and wretched. But I liked it that way. Didn't I?

Would it be so bad if I wanted just one goodnight kiss?

What else would Hans do if I said I did?

Except... he'd already said he wouldn't read hints into anything. Or rather: he wouldn't act on them if he did. And he'd said he wouldn't push, or escalate. If I said I wanted a goodnight kiss — just one! — he'd stop at one single kiss. Right?

Hans was still waiting patiently while I struggled with myself, and that's what really decided it. His assertion that he was interested in me was crazy but if it was false he would've just dumped me at my door and gone off to find someone less troublesome. It didn't make any sense, but I was used to dealing with things that were crazy and didn't make sense. After all, I professed to live in a world where vampires ran little independent publishing houses and Canadian slave traders abducted young women to use as bait for the chupacabracorn. _I_ was crazy and didn't make sense.

I opened the door to my apartment and went inside. I held it open for Hans. "The table is in the kitchen," I told him, and pointed. "There are plates in the cupboard over the sink, and silverware in the drawer at the end of the counter."

I _wanted_ a kiss. But after the way I'd ruined dinner I didn't deserve one. I would be taking terrible advantage of Hans' easygoing decency if I just demanded one on my doorstep and sent him on his way, and I'd deserve one even less. I couldn't fix what I'd already done, but... I hadn't had a chance in hell of getting through dinner without incident, before. But I'm not good with new things or new places. So the way I figured it, maybe I had a chance in my home. Right?

Besides: I wanted a kiss, but I didn't want it out here in the open where the whole world could just look over and see me totally flub it.

Hans smiled at me. If he found my invitation strange, he didn't show it. He just ducked into the apartment and took our bags to the kitchen. I closed the door behind him. Then, because I'm me, I locked it.

I was a little bit shaky as I turned the last bolt. I mean, I couldn't handle locking myself in with a small furry predator, and here I was trapping myself with a man I barely knew who out massed me by, like, a hundred times. How the hell was that better than a cat?

I took a deep breath and turned around. Hans had put the food out on the counter and checked my cupboards for dishes. I watched him place two settings and shivered. Sure, we were in my apartment and whatever happened next would be private, but I didn't really think that would make things easier. Hans was still sexy as hell and I was still neurotically shy.

I tried to think of what I would do if I were Megan, and that was _no_ help. If I were Megan I wouldn't be out of my league, and Hans and I would have actually had dinner _at_ the restaurant, and inviting him into my home would have been the start of hot, passionate, marathon sexcapades.

But okay, if I were just more _like_ Megan, I would be more forward. There was no denying that I thought Hans was sexy as only a Viking of a man can be. And he'd admitted to being into me, for God knows what reason. So... I should... Aw, hell, this was one of those times when it would have been great to know how to drop hints that a sane person could be expected to pick up on. But I didn't, and Hans had said he was going to disregard any I might try to send, anyway, so I was pretty much stuck with the direct approach.

I joined Hans in the kitchen. If I was going to do this, I resolved, I was going to go all out. After all, we _were_ safely in the privacy of my own home. If necessary I could deny the hell out of everything, later. Hans handed me a plate and I put it down on the counter behind myself.

"Okay," I said. "First things first: what happens in private stays private. Alright?" I could not deal with it if I was worrying about becoming office gossip.

Hans nodded amicably. "I am not one to kiss and tell," he assured me.

"Right," I said. "Good. Uh... about that: I'm going to want a goodnight kiss."

Hans nodded obligingly.

"But I've never been kissed and I'm going to be a nervous wreck if I'm thinking about it all night," I added.

Hans nodded again. I bit my lip. Hans watched.

"So kiss me already," I shouted in exasperation.

Hans grinned and stepped forward. For one _terrifying_ instant I wondered what I'd gotten myself into. And then I found out.

He slipped an arm around my waist. One large hand filled the small of my back and pulled me closer. My hands ended up trapped against his chest — and oh my God, his muscles were like warm granite. His other hand stroked my cheek; he caught my chin and tilted my lips up toward his. I was trapped and helpless and he was leaning down over me.

I think I was less aware of his lips than I was of his arms around me. The hand that had caressed my face slipped back and cupped my head — I couldn't even pull away. My heart was racing.

When I finally started paying attention to the kiss, it was almost over. Hans' lips pressed firmly against mine. They were softer than I expected, and his stubble scratched my chin, but otherwise it was... vanilla? Megan has told me about some of her kisses — which have involved parted lips and exploring tongues and occasional biting. Hans' kiss didn't involve any of those... but maybe he was taking things slow for my sake. Smart man. Vanilla was almost too much.

After Hans broke our kiss he stepped back and let me go — reluctantly, I thought. Not that his hands seemed to linger, but the kiss had. I thought. Okay! So I had no idea: my sense of time seemed to have been scrambled somewhere along the way. Bite me.

I giggled. I couldn't help it. I was _so_ giddy... I braced myself with one hand on the counter because I felt like falling over. Hans _had_ stopped after just one kiss. That was... I felt kind of like I'd just kicked death in the knucklebones and gotten away with it. I laughed again and tried really hard to pull myself together. I'm pretty sure I sounded like a psychopath.

"That was... wow," I said.

Hans smiled at me. I wasn't sure if he was more amused or more self-satisfied, but for the moment I didn't even care.

I groped behind myself until I found the plate Hans had given me. "So... um... dinner?" I asked.

"That sounds splendid," Hans agreed.

And so we ate.

# Chapter 13

This time dinner went smoother. Since all of our food was already _there_ we didn't waste time trying to make awkward conversation or getting nibbled on. And Hans paid enough attention to his meal to not be constantly looking at me. I think I may have snuck more looks at him than the other way around, this time. But it was mutual, and whenever Hans caught me at it he just grinned without comment.

I still always blushed and looked away.

When we were done I hastened to clear the dishes because Hans looked like he was about to offer to do it for me. I'm not sure how I would have reacted if I'd been forced to sit and stew in my thoughts while he bustled about around me.

The leftovers disappeared into my fridge – I was going to have to share that veggie platter with Megan – and then I was walking Hans to the door. I stopped in front of it and turned around. I wanted my goodnight kiss, but there was no way I was ready to do anything like that out where people could see.

Hans stopped and smiled. There was a glimmer of amusement in his eye. I think he thought he had me figured out. Hell, maybe he did. I figured he was probably in his thirties, so he had a good decade of life experience on me. And he was a hunky Viking Adonis, so double that for relationships. Maybe he'd made it with a terminally shy psychopath before.

...

That was _totally_ going in my Hans/Salvatore mental slashfic.

Okay, anyway: back in reality. Hans smiled at me, and I folded my arms angrily. "Okay, this is _not_ going to work," I said.

_That_ startled him right out of his complacent amusement. "What?" He asked.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," I said. I had to crane my head back to look up at him, but that didn't stop me from trying to stare him down. "You know I wanted a goodnight kiss, but you were going to wait there and make me ask for it again, huh? No dice. I'm not putting myself through that every single time."

Hans had the decency to look chagrined, which didn't really surprise me at all. I was starting to realize he was way too nice for his own good. Appearances aside, the man was _not_ the romantic lead in a swashbuckling bodice ripper. Which was about as big a shame as it was a relief.

"I see," Hans said slowly, and maybe he did – but I spelled it out anyway.

"Yeah," I said. "Now: I appreciate that you're trying not to push me, but if I'm the only one asking for anything then I'm the only one putting herself out on a limb, and that's just not fair. Plus, we've already established that I don't have a clue what I'm doing, so I probably wouldn't even know what to tell you to do half the time, anyway." More than half, I was sure, unless I started to crib from things Megan had told me or I'd read in naughty manga or online erotica. But I thought I'd let that slide for now. "So here's the new rule: instead of ignoring it if you think I want something, or might want to do something or try something or whatever, just _ask_ , and we'll see."

Was this conversation weird? Was I being too blunt? I didn't know. But Megan had once found out a guy was a foot fetishist within minutes of meeting him. She'd probably used some kind of subtle intuition. But here I'd been sitting with Hans all evening and I still didn't know why he'd asked me out to begin with, let alone why he'd put up with me this long. Subtle intuition wasn't my strong point, so I was going with blunt.

"That certainly seems fair," Hans allowed.

"Good," I said. "And another one: if it's something like the restaurant and I decide to opt out half way through, that's got to be just as good as if I'd said 'no' to begin with." I frowned at him. "Look," I added, "I don't make the rules; I'm just laying them out so you know them. All you have to do is decide if you want to follow them or if I'm not worth it." I wished I had enough hair to flip it or something for punctuation. I put my fist on my hip and waved my other hand dismissively, instead. I'd told him I was difficult. Maybe now he'd realize I meant it. "Whatever," I said.

But Hans just nodded amicably. "All of that is perfectly reasonable," he agreed. "And I would never force someone to carry through with anything against their will."

"Alright," I said. "Okay then."

"Yes," Hans agreed. "Are there any more rules?"

I shook my head. "Not yet," I said. I was feeling a little off balance again. I'd been braced for him to say 'no deal' and leave.

"Then may I kiss you?" Hans asked instead.

I took a deep breath. "Only if you're more enthusiastic about it," I said. Oh God. Did I actually say that? But I had. I fought down a nervous laugh. Either I was riding some kind of bitchy high from having my demands met – or in my relief my nerves had demanded I be insane. Or both.

"Oh, really?" Hans asked with deceptive ease.

And I knew it was deceptive – it was that tone of voice – but I heard myself say: "Yeah. Your first one was too tame. The only part I really liked was being trapped against the counter."

What?! What the hell? _Why are you provoking him?!_ My conscious yelled at whatever psychotic subconscious urge had briefly taken over. I tried to hold in a nervous laugh – but I didn't have _time_. Hans grinned and swept forward with a _growl_ and I shrieked instead – because the next thing I knew he had _picked me up._

Hans was fast – way too fast for someone that big. He had one arm under my butt, lifting me up, and his other hand was cradling my head again, protecting it. My shoulders hit my living room door before I'd finished my shriek. I was pinned between the door and his muscled bulk, my feet dangling off the ground and my arms trapped: one under his arm, near his waist, and the other pinned between his shoulder and mine. He was leaning into me, _way_ too close for comfort, and he didn't have to lean down to reach my lips this time. Hans tilted his head and pressed his mouth over mine.

It wasn't tame. It wasn't vanilla. Hell, it wasn't even French Vanilla or Vanilla Bean or any other ice-cream I knew of. His lips parted; his tongue parted mine. This kiss was _hungry._ My heart raced. I may have kicked his shins, my heels bounced against the door. And then his lips dragged down ever so slightly. His mouth trapped my lower lip, he sucked on it, teased his tongue over it – and then bit.

_Hans bites._ I dimly remembered my warning to Sarah, and couldn't figure out why I was so shocked now. Hans' teeth scraped over my skin as he pulled away, tugging at my lip and dragging a whimper – or moan – out of me. Then my lip popped free and Hans' teeth closed on air and he was just kissing me: lips pressed against lips but otherwise tame.

When he was done he sighed. His hot breath caressed my cheek and he leaned forward. "I'm going to keep kissing you," he said softly in my ear. "If that's acceptable?"

I didn't know what to say. Don't? Stop? My heart was pounding and my breath would have been ragged if I could have even remembered how to breathe. Megan was wrong. I had been wrong. Hans didn't have a submissive streak. He _was_ a wolf. He just kept himself caged and kenneled and safely leashed, until some stupid fucking bunny like me came along and rattled the bars and unclipped the lead and basically hopped around singing 'look how tasty I am!'

"Don't stop," I managed to gasp.

Hans growled again. His hand dropped from the back of my head and he hitched me up. My shoulders scraped against the door and he leaned into me again. Hans kissed the hollow of my throat. Repeatedly. His breath was hot on my skin. His kisses wound lower along my neck. His lips nibbled at my throat; sucked at my skin. And... _Hans bites._

He didn't, but the thought threw me into a panic. "Stop!" I gasped. "Oh, God, stop!"

And Hans stopped. His mouth was just above the collar of my blouse when he pulled his lips away and set me down. I _think_ he set me down, but he could have dropped me and I probably wouldn't have known the difference. My feet hit the floor and the only reason I stayed standing was that I had the door to lean against. I caught myself on the doorknob and held myself up. I felt like my knees were going to give out any moment.

"Wow," I stammered. "Oh, wow. That was..."

"Too enthusiastic?" Hans asked ruefully.

I looked at him. Probably wide-eyed. The wolf was caged again. Hans looked...sheepish. Sheepish! A wolf in sheep's facial expression.

I giggled. Nerves and relief and the thrill of it all had definitely done in my good sense. "No," I said. "That was better. I'm sorry. It's just..." I laughed. "You _bite_ , Hans. And for a moment there I thought you were going to go ahead and turn into a wolf on me and tear my throat out." Oh damn, it sounded like my verbal filters were off. That could get bad fast, because I was thinking that if Hans wanted to go back to enthusiastic kissing I'd be fine with it if he just skipped my neck and, say, tore open my blouse so he could get to my breasts or somewhere else where it probably wouldn't kill me if he got too enthusiastic and accidentally took out a chunk.

"Actually," I found myself saying, "If you want to..." but I was distracted from whatever I'd been thinking by the look of pure horror that descended over Hans' face.

I'm familiar with panic. I've spent most of my life a step away from it, and I think I'm pretty good at not letting on. But all that time I've spent schooling myself to not give off the signs also meant I was pretty good at spotting them. Plus, it helped that Hans was pretty obvious about it.

His eyes went wide. The blood drained from his face. He backed as far away from me as he could, which practically put him in my bed – but I don't think he noticed.

"Hans?" I asked. "Are you okay?"

"I wouldn't..." Hans said. "I've never..." He took a deep breath. "You _know?"_ he asked. He did a pretty convincing 'relieved laugh' and sat down on the edge of my bed. "Wow," he said. "You know. It's actually a relief," Hans said to me. "Usually I have to agonize whether or not to say anything or to just break things off before I get found out."

"Uh... right," I said.

"You don't have to worry," Hans said. "I have complete control over it, even after I have 'wolfed out.' I mean, as long as it isn't the full moon. And the next one of those isn't for another week.

Oh. _Oh!_ I still didn't know why Hans had freaked – but if there's one thing I know as well as I know panic, it's making up crazy stories to cover it up. 'I am a werewolf, not a sexual predator' was pretty much just the sort of thing I'd spout off, too.

"That's good to hear," I said, playing along. "Have you made arrangements for then?" I asked. "I mean, I don't exactly have shackles in my nightstand." I paused thoughtfully. Hans chained to my bed? I don't know if I'd ever be ready for that, but if I were I could probably borrow some. Megan didn't have a nightstand for her toys. She had a small travel chest at the foot of her bed and a couple of drawers in her wardrobe.

Hans snorted. "Yeah, I have," he said. "Shackles wouldn't work, anyway. Unless they were silver I'd just slip out of them when the transformation hit." He shook his head wryly. "I can't believe you knew. Why didn't you tell me?"

I folded my arms. "Hey," I protested. "I told you I was new at this! What do you want from me?"

Hans glared at me, but not angrily. "You said you were new to dating," he said with a chuckle. "Not that you were new to dating werewolves." His eyes softened. "That's _really_ not going to be a problem?"

I laughed. He was doing such a convincing job of being worried about my reaction to his 'lycanthropy.' I wondered what he'd really been upset about. But... given how big a difference there was between casual-Hans and passionate-Hans, I bet he'd scared a lot of girls off over the years. "Hans, please. Mr. Salvatore is a vampire, and you don't see me trying to stake him, do you?" My mouth was running rampant again – because I'd just remembered what I'd been thinking before Hans had freaked, and it was winding me up pretty bad. "I'm not going to freak out if you get a little bestial every now and again." I swallowed. "Or maybe I will." After all, I'd freaked out a bit when he'd been kissing my neck. But I'd liked it a lot, too. A _lot._ But was I really ready to have my clothes torn off and his hands and mouth raking over my body and... "Whatever," I said. "If I freak, I freak. But you said you're in control, so if I do you just have to stop and let me pull myself together, okay?"

Hans chuckled. "Alright," he said. "Is that the rule?"

"Yeah." I bit my lip. I was thinking about Hans picking me up and trapping me against the door again; his hands on my ass – maybe after pulling off my sweater and tearing open my blouse so his mouth could do wolfish things to my breasts. "In fact, why don't we give it a try," I heard myself say. Shit! What was I thinking? Was I actually provoking him again... while wearing a plain, _padded_ bra? Yeah, like _that_ would keep him enticed. I found myself thinking about those two drawers of Megan's. This would be an excellent time for her to be here instead of me. She had lots of silky, lacy, sexy things. She'd encouraged me to get some for myself when she'd been trying to get me to expand my wardrobe, but _nooooo_ : I'd been too much of a self-conscious moron for that.

Hans frowned. "Are you sure?" he asked, conveniently giving me an out.

"Yeah!" I said, re: moron; no verbal filters. Maybe I should add self-betrayal to that subject line? Whatever. "I mean, it's not like I don't know it's there, right? So go ahead and 'wolf out' and we'll see if I can handle it." Well, maybe I'd get lucky and he wouldn't realize what I was thinking. I shivered. Maybe he'd do something _worse._

Hans smiled crookedly and kicked off his shoes. "Okay," he said as he stood.

I blinked: he wasn't wearing socks. But before I could even think to comment he reached down – and a second later he wasn't wearing his t-shirt, either. He pulled it up over his head and tossed it carelessly aside.

There were no comments to be made at that point. I know my mouth was hanging open, but nothing came out – and thank God, because right then I was torn between screaming and drooling. The part of me that is constantly concerned with survival was yelling at me to get out – but the part of me that comes up with graphic, indecent mentalrotica at the drop of a hat was too busy being all a flutter at the sight of Hans' chiseled abs and broad shoulders and slender waist and all those muscles and bare skin and....

If the options had been to tear off his shirt or tear off mine, all I could think was: _Good. Choice._

Also... the door behind me was locked, so there was no way I could run away. Which made it good timing, too. Unless I _needed_ to run away. Did I? Oh, God, what was he going to do?

I stood, paralyzed from internal conflict. Then Hans stepped forward and unbuttoned his jeans. _That_ tipped it. Survival won.

_No!_ My thoughts screamed. Oh no. _No, no, no NO!_ But I was still frozen, too scared to move or speak. Too terrified.

Hans' jeans slipped down over his hips. He was going commando. That's the term, right? My mind was scrambling for anything inconsequential to take it away from what was happening, and urban slang fit the bill. I yanked my gaze up to Hans' face before anything else could register. I couldn't believe he was doing this, even though the paranoid part of me – the part I have to fight down just to go out to the store – was smugly satisfied that I was finally going to get what was coming. That it had been right, and I was fucked because I was too scared to even say "stop."

The expression on Hans' face was unreal, it was frighteningly intense. Focused. The entire situation was unreal. I sucked in a breath to scream with, even though it would do no good. I live at the far end of a row of apartments, with no neighbors. No one would hear.

But then Hans' face spasmed, and I clamped my jaw shut. He was focused – but I'd seen him watching me all night, and he wasn't focused on _me._ His mouth twisted in a snarl, and he threw his head back. Then his face just... it _exploded_ outward, stretching freakishly, elongating into a snout. And there was fur. Fur was growing everywhere: a thick, golden brown coat.

Hans' hands curled into fists and he lurched forward. He hit the ground on his hands and knees, but his legs and arms were withering. His whole body was twisting grotesquely, bones and flesh reordering themselves in defiance of nature.

And then it was done. Hans stretched. His snout – muzzle? – crinkled and he opened his mouth wide, exposing fangs and canines and far too many other teeth meant for rending flesh. Then he shook out his coat and sat. He tilted his head and looked at me. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth; he was still panting from the exertion. But his tail was wagging. It thumped against the side of my bed.

I just stared in shock. Hans was a wolf. There was a wolf in my living room. A werewolf. A werewolf I'd been making out with. Or, who'd been making out with me. Or necking with, at least. Holy shit: _Hans was a werewolf?!_

# Chapter 14

I think I may have mentioned that I'm a dog person. Even if it's a breed with a bad reputation, like pit bulls, a dog that has been raised right will be a sweet, loving creature that will happily tear the face off of anyone who tries to attack you while it's around. I like dogs.

But a wolf is not a dog.

Yes, the first time I'd ever seen wolves I'd thought they were adorable. I'd also been at a zoo, safely on the other side of a fenced off and recessed enclosure. When there is a wolf in your living room, however, all of the primal beauty inherent in a wild and untamed predator is eclipsed by the fact that it is a _wolf_ and it is _in your living room._

Hans-the-wolf tilted his head and looked at me. I think he was trying to judge my reaction. "Terror" just about summed it up... but I've always been good at concealing that. It's second nature to me, now. I did my best to keep calm.

Hans made a low whine and stretched his head toward me. He sniffed the air twice and then stood. He padded closer.

There was a wolf. In my living room. Coming toward me. I figured he could probably kill me with one bite and consume the evidence in two more. Terror won.

I was backed up against a locked door. I'd already realized I couldn't run away when Hans had still been a man. Now all of that adrenaline funneled from 'flight' to 'fight.' It might not have been the smartest response, but I grabbed the nearest thing I could and swung it hard.

Unfortunately I _was_ backed up against my front door and the nearest thing to hand was the mail I'd dropped off earlier. Specifically: the complimentary local newspaper. It was still rolled up from when it had been stuffed in my mailbox.

I'm pretty small, and the newspaper didn't really improve my reach — but I did clip Hans-the-wolf across the nose. He yelped in surprise and jerked his head back.

"That's right, stay back!" I yelled. Possibly hysterically. I hoped not, though. I'm pretty sure showing fear in front of animals is a good way to get mauled. When Hans didn't move fast enough I raised the newspaper and stepped forward menacingly. He scrabbled back to the foot of my bed.

For a minute I stared at him. He looked back at me reproachfully.

"This _cannot_ be for real," I told him.

Hans snorted, an oddly high-pitched snuffle. He started to move, and my panic spiked again.

"No: _stay,_ " I snapped. Hans froze. "Uh... sit?" To my surprise, Hans settled back on his haunches. "This is so unreal," I whispered incredulously.

Hans tilted his head inquisitively as I crept forward a step.

"Can you... understand me?" I asked.

Hans nodded.

"Can you talk?"

Hans made a low growl that ended in something like a bark. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end.

I swallowed. "Not in English, huh?" I took another step forward. I was still holding the newspaper defensively in front of me. "I'm, um... I'm going to try to touch you, okay?" The prospect was terrifying, but I had to know if this was real and I was already way past the point of not believing my eyes.

Hans nodded again and I hesitated.

"You're not going to bite me or anything, are you?"

Hans shook his head.

"Okay," I said. I lifted the newspaper threateningly. "But if you're lying, so help me God, I _will_ smack you hard," I warned him. "So, uh, keep those paws and teeth where I can see them, mister."

Hans grinned wolfishly, and _no one_ can do a wolfish grin like an actual wolf. There were teeth everywhere. But it was almost worse when he stretched out his front legs, showing off massive paws that included proportionately enormous claws.

"Uh... on second thought, maybe you should put all those away," I said weakly.

If anything, Hans grinned bigger. But then he laid down, crossing his paws and settling his head over them. He closed his mouth and his teeth were blessedly taken out of view.

"Thanks," I said. Then I crouched down and stretched out to tentatively poke him in the forehead with one finger.

I snatched my hand back as soon as I ascertained that he was, in fact, solid. I laughed nervously. "Holy crap," I said. Then I reached out again. This time I wasn't tentative. I scrubbed my hand over Hans' head, ruffling his fur. It was _really_ soft.

"Hans!" I practically shouted. "You're a werewolf!"

He sat up and barked in agreement, and grinned a big, doggie grin. It wasn't scary at all — in fact, now that the shock was wearing off, I think I was more comfortable with the presence of Hans as a large canine than I'd been in the presence of Hans as a large man. How big a freak am I?

I ran my hand through his fur again. It really was _very_ soft, and just... wow. Wow! _Hans was a werewolf._ He started wagging his tail again, and I realized I was scratching behind his ears. I stopped. Five minutes ago he had been a very attractive man I had wanted to do very bad things with. And that made petting him now _really_ weird... as though the whole 'werewolf' thing wasn't surreal enough.

I pulled my hand away hastily. "You aren't getting off on that, are you?" I asked. Or maybe accused. I'll admit I was a little out of sorts, and there was probably some overlap.

Hans pulled his head back and gave me a confused 'what the... _no_ ' look. He wuffled and shook his head.

I nodded slowly and stood up. "Okay," I said, "Can you, um, turn back into a man or something? Because I have a _lot_ of questions."

Hans nodded. Then he stood up, stretched, and shook himself out. I hastily turned around. Watching a man turn into a wolf had been freakish enough — I didn't think I'd be able to watch the process reverse itself and still eat tomorrow. _Listening_ was bad enough. Hans didn't scream or howl or anything like they do in the movies — but that meant I could hear bones cracking and flesh stretching and his labored breathing... and all the quiet, painful noises were far worse than any overdone cinematic depiction.

Finally, I heard a grunt — a purely human grunt — and I risked a glance over my shoulder. Hans was a man again. He picked himself up off the floor, using the edge of my bed as a prop.

He was still naked, too.

A naked man. In my apartment. Practically in my bed. How the hell was that better than the wolf?

I snapped my head back around and stared into my kitchen. I'd just kicked back into panic mode, and it _really_ didn't help that Hans was a huge naked man moving around somewhere behind me, but I couldn't make myself look. My thoughts were about four parts ' _holy shit, Hans is a werewolf!'_ to one part ' _holy fuck, that thing would split me in half!'_ and I didn't know which was freaking me out more.

I reached down and scooped up Hans' t-shirt, then held it out behind myself. "And could you get dressed, too?" I asked.

I heard him moving around behind me, and then the shirt was plucked from my hand. I took a deep breath and waited, even though the paranoid part of me was screaming that if he was close enough to grab his shirt, then he was close enough to grab my wrist and then do God knows what else.

After a minute I turned around. Hans was sitting on the edge of my bed. He looked... embarrassed? But still sexy as hell. He wasn't wearing his shoes, but his shirt and pants were in place. The only evidence of his transformation was how mussed his hair was, and hadn't it been like that before? He was looking down and refused to meet my gaze. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you knew."

Oh, God. He _sounded_ embarrassed, too.

But I just stared at him harder. "How could I know?" I yelled. "You're a werewolf, Hans. That's _impossible."_ Except that apparently it wasn't. Because Hans _was_ a werewolf.

Hans hunched down smaller. "But... you told me to turn into a wolf," he explained. Sheepishly, I might add. "And you knew about Salvatore."

My mouth opened and closed a couple of times before I could respond. "Hans," I blurted, "I wanted you to wolf out _like a man_. I thought you were going to pin me back against the wall and tear off my clothes and make me feel like the heroine in a dime rack bodice ripper until I couldn't take it anymore and begged you to stop!"

_That_ made Hans look up. "Oh," he said, stunned. Then: _"Oh."_ The second one was in a tone of voice I've heard guys use around Megan when they've been flirting and suddenly realize they're about to get a lot luckier than they have any right to be.

"Oh, _no_ ," I said — heading that one off at the pass. "Hell no. You've used up my ability to cope with new things for the rest of the _year_ , and we're not even done with the whole 'werewolves are real' thing."

Hans grinned. As shocking as this had been for me, at least _his_ confidence was bouncing back fast. "Alright. I can wait until tomorrow night to try again," he said.

I blinked at him. Oh, yeah, tomorrow was New Year's Eve. Cocky bastard. "Nope," I said, even though a little part of me wanted to let him have that point. "I'm hanging out with Megan, remember? You won't even see me."

Hans tilted his head and arched his eyebrows. "But Megan heads your department," he pointed out. "So I imagine she'll be coming to the after midnight office party, and bringing you with her."

I glared. I didn't want Hans to be changing the subject, but he was — and he was right. Megan was good about social obligations. After the ball dropped at Club Luminescence she'd definitely want to swing by the office. Especially since it was also Mr. Salvatore's early retirement party, and...

I felt my eyes go really, really big. "Hans," I asked in a voice that seemed too tiny to be mine, "What do you mean, I knew about Mr. Salvatore?"

Hans' good humor faded. He sighed, obviously resigning himself to the conversation ahead. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I really thought you knew. Salvatore _is_ a vampire, Abigail." He watched me closely, then closed his eyes and shook his head. "How was I supposed to know that you didn't know?" He looked at me again. " _You told me he was, yourself."_

"Because he isn't!" I yelled back. "That's just something I say because I'd rather give an irrational reason that everyone can laugh at than explain that I'm genuinely afraid of the man because I'm irrationally afraid of authority figures and he's my _boss._ "

I was starting to hyperventilate. Mr. Salvatore was a _vampire?_ What the hell?! I was trying to suck in deep breaths, but they kept getting shorter and shorter until I was spending so much time exhaling I was barely breathing at all. I felt sick. I wanted to throw up. My world was unraveling, and the worst part was that in my panic I was admitting things that I've never even said out loud to _Megan._

I felt dizzy. I think I started to fall over, but somehow Hans was off the bed and at my side before I could hit the ground. He caught me and picked me up as easily as if I were a doll. The next thing I knew I was being deposited in my bed. That was good. My bed was a safe place. I wanted to curl up under all of the covers and shut out the world, because the world was _fucking insane._ I didn't, though. I didn't have enough self-control to uncurl and pull myself under them.

"Abigail?" Even though Hans was right there he sounded really far away. He seemed worried. Oh, hell. It had been years since I'd melted down in front of someone. I didn't want to make him worry. I was going to feel really, really wretched about this later.

"Can't breathe," I managed to gasp. Hans disappeared. I don't know where to, I was barely aware of anything outside myself, the bed, and the newspaper I was still clutching.

The newspaper. Had I really smacked a _werewolf_ on the nose with a rolled up newspaper? I didn't know which was crazier: myself or the world it seemed I lived in. All of my earlier adrenaline had bottomed out, leaving me with just the terror. I'd smacked a _wolf_ on the nose with a _newspaper_! But Hans apparently didn't want to kill me, and he _was_ the wolf. And my boss was a vampire.... Or would be until Mr. Salvatore retired, and my boss became a werewolf.

Oh God. Hans was going to be my boss. My _boss_ had pinned me against a door and had his way with my mouth and neck. I'd made out with my _boss._ My _boss_ was a biter — and I'd wanted him to tear off my clothes and sink his teeth into _me._ Oh, _God_ , I'd smacked _my boss_ in the _face_ with a rolled up _newspaper._

I started breathing harder. Or it started getting harder to breathe. It's the same thing, really, when you're hyperventilating.

Hans reappeared. He took away my newspaper. So I guess now I really was defenseless. That didn't help. Then he replaced the newspaper with the smaller bag from the steak house. I started breathing into it. It crinkled loudly when it inflated, and smelled like French fries when I breathed back in. _That_ helped.

Hans sat on the edge of the bed next to me, hovering worriedly. The last time I'd had a panic attack in front of someone, it had been in front of Megan. She'd been worried about me, too. And taken care of me. It had been back in college, and we'd barely known each other then. She'd convinced me to go to a frat party with her — she'd even done up my makeup and everything. But when we'd gotten there, there'd been these guys... and Megan must have caught someone's eye, because his buddy had swept in to take the grenade.

The wingman had been a really big guy. You know, the football scholarship frat boy jock type. He'd smelled like beer, even though the plastic cup he was carrying was full — he must have emptied it a few times before we'd gotten there. It didn't matter. He'd still been fast enough to catch a shell-shocked me about the waist and pull me away from Megan one handed.

But Megan had rescued me and taken me back to the dorms, and when I hadn't been able to keep it together long enough for her to go away she'd stayed and taken care of me. Even though we'd only known each other for a couple of days, and even though I'd ruined her evening. And we'd ended up becoming best friends, even though I'd fallen completely to pieces just because some drunk frat guy had swung me into a corner and squeezed my ass and tried to make out with me but ended up just slobbering on my face because I'd been trying to get away, and he'd asked — with a voice that slurred and breath that reeked — how many shots it would take to get my panties on the floor, and...

But that had been then, and this was now. And _Hans_ was taking care of me. Even though I'd ruined his evening, and even though he barely knew me, and even though I'd just fallen completely to pieces just because he was a werewolf and my boss was a vampire and I was a neurotic ball of anxiety and fear.

So, hey, maybe this _would_ turn out okay, too.

# Chapter 15

When I stopped needing the bag to breathe right I uncurled and rolled over to face Hans. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say I flopped over. I was exhausted, and worn, and burned out. In the absence of panic or adrenaline, I felt slow. Everything seemed to be dulled out. But Hans was still sitting there, watching me worriedly – just like Megan had been on the night of the wingman-fail incident all those years ago.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I panic sometimes. It's not your fault." The excuse sounded paltry and stupid in my ears – but since that pretty much summed up what was left of me it seemed appropriate.

Hans frowned. "I just turned your world inside out and sideways without warning," he said gently. "You have nothing to apologize for. I did this poorly... and believe me, I've seen people handle it worse even with a lot more forewarning."

I just nodded. I wasn't sure that I really believed him, but I definitely didn't have the energy to argue. I pulled myself up to the head of my bed and dug one of the pillows out from under the covers so I'd have something to hug. Then I sat with my back to the wall and my knees up and looked at Hans over the top of my pillow while I squeezed the bejesus out of it and tried to sort out my thoughts while I was still too deep in shock to be in a crazy panic.

"Okay," I said at last. "So, you bit me. On the hand in the restaurant, and on the lip just now. I'm not going to develop an irresistible urge to howl at the moon and attend furry conventions now, am I?"

For a second Hans looked back at me blankly. Maybe he didn't know what furries were. Well, I wasn't going to explain. That's what the internet was for.

Then he seemed to get what I was asking. "No," he said firmly. "No, I would never be that irresponsible with the curse." He held up a hand and started ticking off fingers. "I wasn't in my wolf form," he said for one. "And it isn't a full moon," he added on another. "And I didn't break your skin." He held up his fingers. "It takes all three for lycanthropy to spread."

"Oh," I said. "Okay." That was one worry down, at least. "What about Mr. Salvatore? He hasn't been turning my coworkers into his undead harem, has he?" That would certainly explain the large number of women in the office. The only men were Jimmy and Carlos, and they were pretty much exiled to the basement.

Hans shook his head with a chuckle. "No," he said, but this time he didn't elaborate.

I frowned. "How can you be sure? He still needs blood, right? And that means people get infected." At least I knew Megan was okay. I'd seen her in the daylight enough to... to not really be sure of anything. Dammit. I'd seen Mr. Salvatore around in the daytime, too. I didn't actually know anything about vampires – or werewolves – that didn't come from movies, TV or manga, and even that didn't always agree. Who knew what was actually real?

"Look," I said. "I get that he's your friend or whatever. And that it's always awkward to talk about other people's issues when you aren't hanging around a clothesline with the other gossipy midwives. And I should be really concerned with you, and asking lots of questions about werewolves. But I've been working for Mr. Salvatore for two years – which means I've been freaked out by him for seven hundred and twenty eight days more than I've been freaked out by you – so I kind of think that now that I know he really _is_ a vampire, I need to know how that works."

Hans blinked at me, then shook his head. "Alright," he conceded with a sigh. "I'm much more versed in explaining about werewolves," he added and then he frowned while he put his thoughts together. "Well, first of all: Vampirism isn't a disease. It's a curse. People don't get 'infected' with it, not the way you're thinking of, no matter how many times they provide blood. It isn't even the blood that provides a vampire with sustenance. Blood is just the medium of transference. What a vampire takes from his donor is _life_."

"Life?" I asked.

Hans nodded. "People think of the undead as walking corpses. I suppose the surge of zombies in popular fiction is to blame – but a zombie isn't 'undead.' It is reanimated; a marionette of a corpse, driven by hunger and nefarious magic. The true undead, like vampires, are not corpses because they are not dead. Neither are they alive. They have passed through the state of death and come back to something that could be called 'unlife' as easily as 'undeath.' A place between alive and dead."

Hans pursed his lips and picked his words carefully as he explained. "The undead are balanced between life and death. When they feed on life, they become more alive: they can eat real food, their hearts beat again, their emotions return, their injuries will heal and the weaknesses that come with their curse fade away. A well and recently fed vampire can even withstand the sun, for a time. But when a vampire hungers, he tips more toward death. He loses the ability to feel pain or emotion, his heart and breathing stops, his wounds will not close and the other weaknesses inherited with the curse become more pronounced, the sun burns. A vampire that is starving is a terrible predator: merciless, inhumanly strong, relentless."

I swallowed. Mr. Salvatore had always creeped me out. This wasn't helping. "Okay," I said. "What does that have to do with his unholy harem, or lack thereof?"

"It has to do with how the curse is transmitted," Hans said. "If it could pass with just a bite, the world would run out of mortals and all the vampires would starve, especially if the vampires spent as much time in the daylight as Salvatore does. No, when a vampire feeds on a mortal, he's feeding on that mortal's life force. And in order for the curse to be passed, the donor must take that tainted life force back. The vampire and the mortal share blood, and then... Then the mortal has to die in order for the curse to take root. But even then, they don't always come back."

"Oh," I said weakly.

"Yes," Hans agreed dryly. "Most new vampires are recruited from mortals who are terminally ill or who have suffered a debilitating injury – descendants of their maker's family or friends, usually. People the vampire cares about, but who have been afflicted with something to make the potential reward worth the inherent risk. If Salvatore were doing something as reckless as turning your coworkers then quite a few of them – most of them – would simply be dead."

I swallowed again. "Alright," I said. "But the sun thing is real, right? So he has to have blood to walk around during business hours. How does he deal with that? Does he just, like, have hospital bags of it in a mini fridge under his desk or something? Or does he just hypnotize people and treat the office like a great big buffet?"

Hans snorted. "Wouldn't work," he said, "Either one. It's the consumption of life that matters, not the blood. So although decanted blood is perfectly useful to doctors in a hospital for mortals, for vampires it just isn't..." he waved a hand vaguely, "...potent," he finally said. "Salvatore needs blood from a living donor in order to live, himself. But he can't just take it by force – or rather, he could, but the victim would remember it. Hypnosis is something else that has been built up by fiction. A vampire's geas is like a fae's. It can leave a mortal enamored for the moment, but it can't change memories and it doesn't give the vampire any sort of direct control – and unless the spell is maintained, it would only result in a temporary infatuation. Eventually the mortal would come to their senses. I imagine it would become rather difficult for Salvatore to keep his condition a secret around the office _and_ leave everyone alive at that point."

I squeezed my pillow and narrowed my eyes at Hans. "You know, the whole, 'it's probably okay because nobody's dead yet' thing you have going on in your logic isn't really that reassuring."

Hans chuckled weakly. "Right," he said. "Then let me be more blunt about it. In Salvatore's case, specifically: I know he maintained a couple dozen willing donors while he was in the city. These were people who are aware of his curse, and provided him sustenance cyclically so he didn't risk taking too much from any one. And there was another – his secretary – who stayed with him during the day to make sure he didn't need to take from an unwilling donor if an emergency arose."

I stared. Mr. Salvatore's secretary? Katherine? Katherine was in on it?! I took a deep breath. "Okay then," I said. So he probably hadn't been secretly feeding on us this whole time. He still freaked me out. And now Katherine was even more intimidating than she had been when she'd just been a gothic dominatrix who'd been day lighting as a secretary to make ends meet and who was always sent in to remind us about deadlines in the scariest ways possible. She actually let Mr. Salvatore drink her _blood_? Squick! At least I didn't have to work with her anymore... although that did beg the question of who Mr. Salvatore's emergency supply was, now that he was back in town. Would she be coming back? But Mr. Salvatore was supposedly leaving after New Years', so what then?

And... if Mr. Salvatore really was a vampire, then why _was_ he leaving? His 'mysterious illness' was pretty obviously a cover story, now.

"So, what really happened last year?" I asked. "I mean, unless that was when he got infected... er, cursed. Is that it? He really did have some terminal condition, and then got turned – and spent the last year learning to be a vampire?" I frowned and let go of my pillow. It flopped on the bed between us. "But that doesn't make sense. Why would Katherine already have been his donor if he wasn't a vampire before then? Or, is that why she quit? She went off with Mr. Salvatore for the last year?" My brow crinkled as I tried to puzzle it out. I was pretty sure Megan and Katherine had gone clubbing together somewhere in that time span. More than once, even.

Maybe Mr. Salvatore hadn't actually left town, and had been secretly sneaking around while he adjusted to undeath? _That_ was a creepy thought. I'd already had the occasional paranoiac fit about the probability of him lurking in a tree outside Megan's window – the "he's a vampire" bit just made that seem _more_ likely. I really wished Hans could answer faster than I could speculate. I was starting to get wound up again.

Hans shook his head. "No. Salvatore has been undead for a very, very long time. But there was an incident last New Year's eve. He wasn't able to feed from his usual donor that night because of the party – so he fed on Katherine. After that...." Hans sighed. "Neither of them was very clear on the details, according to the report. Apparently the punch had been spiked; Katherine was drunk. And that got Salvatore drunk as well – and then he over imbibed." Hans grimaced. "She was hospitalized, and Salvatore has spent the last year in recovery. Rehab, if you will."

Hans stared at my pillow. "Salvatore and I... well, we go back a ways. He has been my mentor and friend, and I owe him a lot. So when he asked me to keep an eye on him and stand in as his emergency donor while he got his affairs in order, I agreed. In a few days, when he's done here, he'll be going back to the rehabilitation center for a decade or two, and I'll be taking over his duties here."

I stared at Hans while I tried to wrap my head around that. He was being so calm and matter of fact about it, I had to wonder if the _holy shit_ I was thinking was appropriate, or just more of my knee jerk paranoia and anxiety. But I couldn't stop thinking that all those times I'd been creeped out because Mr. Salvatore had been staring at Megan like he wanted to eat her... He'd _literally_ been staring at her like he _actually wanted to eat her._ "How can you be so blasé about this?" I demanded. "He put someone in the hospital!" Sure, I didn't really like Katherine and she'd apparently signed up to be the potato chips in event of munchies, but I'd caught Mr. Salvatore with Megan in the bathroom last New Year's eve. And if he'd been drunk and out of control, then... that might have been a very, very close call. For both of us. "How can you be okay with that?!"

"I'm not," Hans growled – and for the first time tonight he sounded angry. I snapped my mouth shut and shrank back, but I don't think he noticed. I don't think he was angry at me, either, but it was still scary to see. "It's not okay," Hans continued, and his hands curled into frustrated fists. "It's tragic – for both of them. Salvatore hurt Katherine, badly – and when he came to his senses he locked himself away for a year, and he's going to go back for at least another ten. It's the blood, Abigail. Blood is life to someone with Salvatore's curse, and that's addictive in a way I don't think you or I or anyone who isn't similarly afflicted can really understand." He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. His anger and frustration seemed to go with it.

"The thing is," Hans said, "It isn't even that simple. Salvatore is old. We supernaturals live a very long time, and Salvatore has had plenty of time to learn to cope with his cravings. But it's worse than just... Than just knowing you have to eat in moderation."

Hans put a hand on his chest. "I'm a werewolf," he said. "Any injury or illness I have will be gone after I've shifted shape. Anything that doesn't kill me outright is basically just a nuisance as long as it isn't the full moon and I'm in control of my form. But vampires have already died once. There is _nothing_ they can't come back from as long as you give their remains enough blood – not even being burned to ash by the sun. And Salvatore... Salvatore and I fought together in the last great war, and he's older than I am. He was a general then, and had fought in three more of the world wars before that. He's been in recovery before, both for injuries earned on the battlefield, and in rehabilitation for the blood addiction he earned when those injuries were treated. That he's gone back to the center, that one accident has made all his work in recovery undone, is tragic."

# Chapter 16

For a minute I stared at Hans and tried to wrap my head around what he was telling me about Mr. Salvatore – and I sort of got it. It was like Mr. Salvatore was one of those World War I veterans who got addicted to morphine after earning a purple heart. Which made me really conflicted, because I'm from the post-Vietnam era and I'd had it drilled into me that you're supposed to support your troops _especially_ when they've gone through hell and you have no personal clue what that's like. But Salvatore still freaked me out, a lot. And besides....

"We've only fought two world wars," I pointed out. It was almost a non-sequitur, but at this point I just wanted to find a hole in Hans' story; to make everything that happened tonight unreal. Especially since 'vampires aren't real' wasn't an option since neither are werewolves – but there was one sitting on my bed anyway.

Hans held up two fingers on his right hand. "Two world wars among mortals," he said. He put his hand down. "There have been three more that we've managed to confine to the supernatural community. I don't have all the details – it was before my time – but I do know Salvatore was 'born' after the first supernatural world war, when our side was rebuilding its numbers."

The chill in my spine turned into a shiver. Three world wars that I'd never even known about, and apparently neither had my middle school history teacher. Which was actually rather vindicating, since I'd never paid a lot of attention in that class anyway. And not really that surprising, since he'd been a glorified basketball coach and gym teacher and seemed to think that classes were a necessary evil to support a sports program. But Hans was too desperately in earnest for me to entertain any more doubts about what _he_ told me – I knew I was being contrary out of shock more than anything else. Plus, it was really starting to sink in that he was a freaking _werewolf_ and Mr. Salvatore was a _vampire_ , and I'd had no idea that those really existed. Which meant that _anything_ could be true.

"Our side?" I asked in morbid curiosity. "You're saying there have been three secret world wars and the sides haven't changed?" I had paid enough attention in history to know that hadn't been the case for the two 'real' world wars we talked about in school.

"Well... Yes," Hans said. "I mean, all the heavy hitters involved are immortal or functionally equivalent, so it's not like anyone's going to forget what the other guys did – and it's not like the bad guys on the other side are going to just die off of old age and make room for a younger, more moderate generation. So if someone does switch teams or gets called out as a traitor... everyone is going to know it, _forever_. Loyalties don't shift easily in a system like that. And besides..." He shrugged and started ticking things off on his fingers. "...on our side you've got wizards, vampires, witches, werewolves, the more coherent ghosts; even the occasional changeling, if we find them first. And a few other odd ducks, like demi-gods, mummies, and so on. The point is, we all started out human, or mostly human, and usually came into our power late or through supernatural means. But _them...?"_

Hans closed his fists and started ticking off fingers again. "They have the faeries, demons, elves, boogeymen, goblins, elder gods... The names don't matter. They're pretty much all the really old bastards that were never human to begin with." He folded his arms. "Our side kicked them off of earth back in the middle ages, but apparently their home – it has a lot of names, but I've always called it Avalon – is a universe in nearly perpetual stasis. So the younger ones, the ambitious ones, the _bored_ ones on their side keep trying to worm their way back over here. But there's a _reason_ all those things go bump in the night – they feed off Life the same way vampires do, but they're usually capable of taking it without the necessity of a physical transfer – by feeding off of the emotions people put off. A lot of them consider fear and superstitious belief to be reliable staples; easily brought up in humans. So if they got a solid foothold over here they'd kick off a second round of dark ages. And like I said, most of our side started out as human. A lot of us have families or descendants or both. We _like_ civilization. We want the people we care about, and the people they care about, and so on, to be able to lead safe, happy lives. So... yes, the sides are pretty stratified: Us against them."

I stared at him, aghast. "I had no idea about any of this," I said as earnestly as I could. "I just make crazy shit up when I get nervous, honest. I don't even believe it."

Hans snorted. "That's okay. Actually, it's good. It would be a lot more worrisome if you weren't supernatural yourself but _had_ figured us out on your own."

I swallowed. "I'm not in trouble over that, am I? I mean, I know your big secret. Is someone going to have to kill me now or wipe my memories or something?"

Hans blinked, then vigorously shook his head. "No. I told you that many beings on their side feed on fear and superstition, especially the sorts we'd call goblins or boogeymen. So when the alchemists and wizards got together to kick off the 'Age of Reason,' that was pretty much a concerted campaign to torch their crops and salt the fields. Nowadays whenever some kid hears a noise under the bed or sees something in their closet, and their parents come in and explain it was just the furnace kicking on or a bunch of shadows... well, some asshole on their side just got the door slammed in his face. But that only works if all the well-meaning parents _know_ the monsters aren't real." He took a deep breath. "Anyway, the point is: there's nothing wrong with knowing the truth, per se, and if we tried to cover it up that aggressively there'd never be any more wizards joining us!"

"Oh," I said. But it was a quiet sound, because I was suddenly terribly conflicted. On the one hand, magic was real. On the other hand, magic was terrifying and apparently monsters-under-the-bed were real, too, and they fed off of fear. "Okay. I'm going to stop asking questions now, before I never sleep again."

But Hans hastily shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm sorry, Abigail. There's nothing wrong about knowing the truth, and you won't be punished for knowing it... but if I'd known you were mundane, I wouldn't have shifted in front of you. Now that you know about this side of the world, you've lost the protection of disbelief. So now, the more you know about the truth, the more prepared – and safer – you'll be."

I swallowed. I know he was trying to take care of me, but it wasn't really very reassuring. Given my general state of anxiety if 'the other side' really did feed off of emotions like fear then I was probably a freaking faerie buffet. But I had a feeling that the more I knew, the more I'd know I had to be afraid of, and the more attractive I'd be to some unnatural creature looking for a snack. I'd been afraid of the unknown since I was old enough to conceptualize not knowing things, so knowing those fears were legitimate didn't really change them. Asking questions would just give me more things to be afraid of in specific, instead of just the 'everything out there' I was already dealing with.

"Okay," I said instead of throwing Hans out and going into denial like a sane person. "So... talk. I don't even know what to ask about, apparently, so... yeah. Wait, no, I have one: Chupacabracorns. Fact or fiction?" I shivered and leaned forward. That question was just the first of hundreds that were suddenly swarming my thoughts. All the things I'd ever been afraid of despite trying to dismiss that fear as irrational but still being afraid regardless...and now I didn't know if it would turn out I had been right to be afraid of those things all along. In fact, the only thing I was sure of anymore was that I was _never_ going to sleep again.

# Chapter 17

I awoke to the smell of bacon. It was followed by the sense of confusion: had someone broken into my apartment and decided to make themselves breakfast while they waited for me to wake up so they could murder me to my face? What do you _do_ in a situation like that? Feign sleep and hope they get bored enough to go find someone else to murder? Or take one for the community, be a good hostess, and let them know you were up and there was an unopened syrup in the cupboard and pancakes under the popsicles in the freezer?

I popped one eye open to check. Maybe the murderer had already found the syrup and pancakes. Or maybe it was just an electrical fire consuming my fridge, and the appropriate response would be to run screaming into the parking lot. Or, if it were a more manageable blaze, to hope my home fire extinguisher was charged. Maybe.

It was none of those things, however. Instead, it was Hans in all his "good ol' Viking" glory. Seriously, I know that 'the country boy next door' is a type, but what about 'the Norse barbarian country boy prince next door,' is that a thing? There was one in my kitchen, anyway. Apparently making breakfast.

Hans glanced at me before I could close my eye and pretend to be asleep until he left. "Good morning," he said even though mornings, by definition, aren't. "I thought that after last night you might appreciate breakfast in bed. How do you like your eggs?"

"Over-easy," I said. Because it was true and because no one can make them that way without working in a restaurant, and my morning routine was already screwed to hell and my response to being out of my element has always been to be as difficult and insane as possible. But 'actually, I _am_ a werewolf' Hans had me trumped on insane, so I was just going to have to overcompensate on the difficult side of the scale. "With toast," I added. That'd show him I wasn't to be trifled with in the mornings... or that I was too tired to come up with things to show him that I wasn't to be trifled with in the mornings. One of the two.

Since there was no pretending to be asleep now I opened my other eye and pulled myself up to sitting. "There are pancakes in the freezer," I told Hans. "Enough for both of us, I think. And syrup in the pantry." Being difficult was a knee-jerk thing. I didn't actually _want_ to be mean, and I hoped the offering of pancakes would be enough to offset whatever crabby fussiness I couldn't keep under wraps. Since I was I sitting I could see Hans was putting together a plate for himself, too, so that was okay. I left him to it and scrubbed the sleep from my eyes, doing my best to wake up despite the very long night and my ruined routine.

I must have dozed off while we were talking. I was still wearing yesterday's clothes. That was almost as disappointing as the fact that Hans was not a random murderer who'd happened to be peckish in the mornings. On the one hand, I was glad I was all in one piece. But on the other, it meant that everything that had happened last night had actually happened. And everything that hadn't happened, actually hadn't.

Every once in a while Megan had worn the same outfit two mornings in a row after spending the night with someone – but only if that had meant spending the night at his place. So, vampires and werewolves and goblins aside, it was a little disheartening to wake up wearing the proof of my inability to even do a one night stand right.

Still, that was probably for the best. I needed a shower, but couldn't quite make myself imagine getting naked in the bathroom while Hans was in the kitchen – even with a door and a bunch of deadbolts between us. So I was probably dealing with waking up to the smell of bacon _much_ better than I would have dealt with waking up to the sensation of his hot, naked flesh spooning against mine.

I thought about getting something to read while Hans cooked, but decided against it. I've never been served breakfast in bed before so I didn't really know what was expected of me – but 'staying in bed' was probably a safe assumption. I watched Hans instead.

He finished the eggs with no apparent difficulty and fished the pancakes out of the freezer. While those were cooking in the toaster he buttered some bread and toasted it in the pan he'd used for the bacon. By the time he was done and brought out my plate, my stomach was growling. I accepted his offering without hesitation. "Syrup," I demanded as the plate exchanged hands, and Hans hastened to the kitchen to fetch the bottle. While I was drenching my pancakes Hans made another trip and put a tall glass of orange juice on my night stand. I handed him the syrup back and tucked in without waiting. Okay, I'm willing to admit that I'm not a polite person at the best of times – which is when I'm actually trying. But when I'm waking up, hungry, and completely off my routine is not the best of times.

Hans didn't seem to mind. He put away the syrup and brought his own plate over to join me. "So," he asked as he sat on the foot of my bed, "How is it?"

I swallowed my current mouthful. "Can't talk," I growled. "Eating."

Hans chuckled and further conversation was replaced with further consumption of eggs, bacon, the best toast ever, and syrupy, syrupy pancakes.

When I was done I stared at my plate. If I'd been alone I don't think I would have been above licking it clean – but I wasn't alone, and now that I wasn't hungry I had enough of my equilibrium back to know it. I glanced at Hans. Now that breakfast was done, did that mean it was okay for me to get out of bed and put up the dishes?

Hans' plate was empty, too, but he was just watching me back. So: no help there. In fact, he had that same 'mmm, dessert,' look in his eye that he'd favored me with last night – which was about the opposite of 'help' for my fragile ability to reason in the mornings.

"It was good," I said before I could get too invested in the idea of taking off my blouse and offering to let him lick syrup off my breasts. I mean... ew. I hadn't even showered yet. _Damn_ him for giving me sexy eyes this early in the morning. And hadn't he agreed to hold off on that stuff until next year, last night?

I could feel myself starting to blush because it had occurred to me that if I was going to have sticky substances drizzled over my flesh then maybe it would be best to do it prior to showering. Otherwise I'd just have to get right back in there, even if Hans' tongue was very thorough. Very, _very_ thorough.

Right. No, I needed a shower first. A cold one, apparently.

"I'm sorry I was so crabby," I said – hoping that Hans would think my blushes were from embarrassment over my unsocial behavior. "I don't do well with new things, and I've never had someone make me breakfast in bed before. I'll be less snappish next time," I promised.

Hans' lips spread in a wide grin, and the cheerful twinkle in his eye was replaced with a hungry glint just in time for me to realize the implications of that promise.

Aw, hell.

"I'm looking forward to it," Hans said. His accent made me shiver. His tone of voice implied I'd be getting just as little sleep next time, but for _entirely_ different reasons.

"Um," I said. "Can you do me a favor?"

Hans leaned forward. "Of course," he said. I'm pretty sure he was thinking about licking syrup off of me, too.

"Turn into a wolf?" I squeaked. "I need to know last night wasn't a dream," I hastily added – which was a lie. What I _needed_ was a very long, very cold shower – but Hans had told me last night that boogeymen were real and that creatures from nightmare literally found it easier to break into my home the more terrified of them I was. So I wanted him around to be on guard while I was all wet, naked and vulnerable – but I didn't want him to be in a form that had the right instincts to be enticed by my wet, naked, vulnerable self.

Especially since I was definitely turned on enough to leave the bathroom door unlocked in invitation. And to not say 'no' until after he took me up on said invitation and I had another complete freak out.

Hans looked at me askance. "Are you sure?" He asked.

I nodded. "I'll do better," I promised. "It won't be new this time."

Hans chuckled. "Alright," he said. Then he stood, took our dishes into the kitchen and placed them in the sink before he turned to face me. I smiled at him as guilelessly as I could. I don't know if he bought it, but he peeled his t-shirt off anyway.

I was starting to suspect that Hans would always be willing to take an excuse to get naked – but with a body like that, who could blame him? I don't think I've ever seen abs like those outside of home gym infomercials.

My gaze followed his shirt up and off, so I caught a glimpse of Hans' nostrils flaring for just a second before he started grinning at me. His expression was smugly self-satisfied, and I don't know if it was because I was obviously staring – or if he had some supernatural sense of smell that let him know when I was getting extra turned on.

On the one hand, the idea that I was giving off some sort of 'woman in lust' pheromone might explain why he'd asked me out to begin with. On the other, if that were the case then it was really unfair, really embarrassing, and meant I really, _really_ needed that shower. And it definitely couldn't be one of the scalding ones I prefer.

My train of thought was derailed when Hans dropped his shirt on my kitchen chair and thumbed open the button on his jeans. He gave me a sexy as sin wink and stepped behind the counter to finish disrobing.

I was kind of thankful for that. Not only did it spare my over-active imagination from receiving extra fuel, but when he suddenly snarled and doubled over, it put him out of sight. Just like when he turned human last night, the sound of meat stretching, flesh twisting and bones crackling was freaky enough without the sight of him turning into a wolf, too. I swallowed. The creepiest part – outside of the whole 'defying the laws of nature' bit – was how quick and _quiet_ the process actually was. Hollywood had told me to expect screams, howls, and thumping, discordant, angry music. But Hollywood had lied.

When Hans-the-wolf came padding out from behind the counter he was panting slightly and his tongue was hanging out. He also wasn't quite as huge as I seemed to remember from last night, but he was still a _big_ canine.

"Does that hurt?" I asked in morbid fascination.

Hans sat on his haunches and tilted his head inquisitively.

"Uh... right," I said. "One bark for yes, two barks for no?"

Hans wuffled with amusement and then barked once.

I cringed slightly. "Sorry," I said shamefacedly. Weirdly enough it was a _lot_ easier to be nice and sympathetic toward him when sexual tension wasn't an issue. Go figure. I patted the mattress at the foot of my bed. "Come on up; have a seat," I offered.

Hans came over and hopped onto the bed, then turned a couple of circles before settling down so that he was facing me. I reached over to pet him, and ended up scratching behind his ears until his tail started thumping. See? I was doing much better than last night.

I scrubbed my fingers through the fur down Hans' neck and then straightened. "Okay," I said as I threw off the covers and slid out of bed. "I'm going to take my shower now, so you just... Guard. If any monsters come out from under my bed or whatever while I'm all wet and soapy: eat 'em, alright?"

Hans looked at me funny, but then he barked once and repositioned himself to watch the closet.

"Awesome," I said. "Oh, and any mundane robbers, kidnappers, peepers or murderers," I added as I went to pick out a change of clothes. I looked at Hans over my shoulder. "You're totally allowed to eat their faces, too."

Hans tilted his head at me and snuffled, then twisted around so that he could watch the front door, too. I hastily added a couple of towels and a washcloth to my pile and then started toward the bathroom. I detoured to give Hans another petting, though. "Thanks," I said.

Hans' jaws stretched open in a lazy 'think nothing of it' yawn, but his attention didn't waver from the closet or front door, and his tail started wagging again. I gathered up my things again and took myself to the bathroom. Once there, I only turned one of the locks.

I was feeling remarkably relaxed, especially for it being a morning – and being completely outside my routine, and being just about to get naked and helpless. Sure, I didn't have a big dog to keep me safe... but I did have a watch-werewolf. And you know what? That was kind of awesome in and of itself.

# Chapter 18

After reconsidering and turning a second deadbolt I stacked my change of clothes on the edge of the sink and moved my washcloth into the shower. Then I stripped down and let my old clothes pile on the floor.

I didn't like undressing in the cramped confines of my bathroom – but regardless of what Hans had said about his instincts changing with his shape, he'd also said his memories and personality remained the same across forms. I was less comfortable with him having a memory of me parading around naked to put in his spank bank when he turned back into a human than I was with letting yesterday's outfit sit in the corner of the bathroom, so I made do. The clothes would go in the hamper when I was done, anyway. I'd just have to do a wash whenever I got home tonight. Or maybe Megan would be okay with swinging by my place after work to pick it up so I could run it at hers while she did that makeover.

I turned on the water and then, although I knew I needed a cold shower, I cranked up the heat anyway. I like long, hot showers and it had been ages since I'd dared to take one. I wasn't going to let Hans being a sexy beast – when he wasn't being _just_ a beast – stop me now. Not when I knew that anyone who tried to interrupt me would have to get through said beast, first.

_Hans is a werewolf._ The thought was still preposterous and strange, but at least it wasn't quite so overwhelming anymore. I stepped into the shower and let the stabbing hot jets wash my thoughts away. Mmmm.... I do love a long, hot shower.

I'm not sure how long I was in there exactly, but I got out when I could tell my water heater was running out. I was scrubbed and clean and a little flushed from the heat – and confident that I smelled of vanilla soap and coconut shampoo, and _not_ of 'do me now, damn you,' pheromones. I toweled off and scrubbed the wet out of my hair as thoroughly as I could before getting dressed. I'd picked out plain panties and socks, one of my padded bras, a less faded pair of jeans, a slightly frilly (and thus the most feminine one I owned) blue blouse and a very soft grey cardigan.

Then I brushed my teeth, tried to brush out my hair, gave up and bit my lip while checking my reflection. Maybe my frilliest – and then only slightly – blouse was a mistake. Megan's makeup was gone, and I was just my plain old neurotic self. What was this? An attempt at being enticing? Ha! Like that wouldn't come back and bite me on the ass. Or fingertip. Or lip.

I started to blush and looked away from the mirror. If I were Megan, I'd be able to be enticing on purpose. Of course, Megan didn't _need_ props like makeup and frilly clothes – she could pull off 'enticing' by sheer force of confidence and charming personality. And it probably didn't hurt that she always had the option of undoing three buttons and presenting enough cleavage to distract everyone from anything else, too.

I took a deep breath. I didn't have nice makeup, sexy clothes, or awesome cleavage. God help me, I was going to have to go with confidence (which I also didn't have) and personality (which I had too much of, if 'weird and flawed' counts). I exhaled and undid two buttons anyway. Maybe I'd get lucky and Hans would have a kink for a nice expanse of clavicle. So far he had yet to bite anywhere that wasn't exposed – but as much as I wanted to expand that territory, I had a sinking feeling that each additional inch would just reveal that much more of my lacks in the 'alluring anatomy' department.

Then I gathered up yesterday's discarded clothes and unlocked the door. When I went into the living room Hans – still a wolf – sat up and turned around to watch me. He had a big, doggie grin on his face and I couldn't help but grin back. Then I crossed the room and deposited my laundry in the hamper.

"Hans?" I said to get his attention. _Confidence, Abby,_ I reminded myself. "Man."

Hans barked once and started shifting. I hastened into the kitchen to collect his clothes so I wouldn't have to watch. By the time I got them he was done and naked in my bed – a state of affairs that wasn't helped by his utter lack of embarrassment. _Confidence!_

I walked over and handed him his jeans. He put them on without comment or fuss, which definitely helped my nerves but didn't damp down his sexiness at all. What can I say? Hans fills out denim well.

I took a deep breath and totally failed to hand him his shirt. "So," I said instead, "we've got about an hour before Megan shows up to take me to work."

Hans smiled and nodded. "I suppose that means I need to get going, then," he said slowly.

I think I was blushing. "Uhm... not quite yet," I said. I mean: I still had his shirt; I couldn't let him leave without it. What would the neighbors think? But then again, what would _Megan_ think if Hans was still here when she showed up? It probably wouldn't be: 'Oh, wow, I bet he's a werewolf and the two of you spent all night talking about the secret history of the supernatural world.' No, she was probably going to be enormously pleased with herself for finally hooking me up, and then enormously annoyed that I was withholding all the sexy details. That didn't actually exist since they hadn't actually happened.

I sat down on my bed and put Hans' shirt aside. He twisted to face me, and I took in the eye candy. Maybe if I had more _real_ sexy details I could fill in the blanks when Megan showed up. Plus... hell: I'd _liked_ the making out, up until the evening went sideways. "I kind of want to continue with last night."

Hans nodded. "Of course. What would you like to know...?"

I didn't ask anything, though, because I hadn't meant last night's conversation. I leaned forward with my lips pursed. I wondered if maybe I should've popped that third button before leaving the bathroom, too. But despite everything Hans had said about not trying to read my signals, he definitely got this one.

He had to tilt his head and bend at the waist to kiss me. And in my opinion it was totally worth the effort on his part, because being all lithe and flexible just made him yummier.

The kiss started out gentle. Hans was propping himself up with one arm and the other slipped around me; his forearm paralleled my spine and his hand cradled the back of my head. It was warm and soft and nice and I liked it... but I'd liked last night better, and I was a little alarmed by what that seemed to say about me.

So, in order to give myself something more immediate to worry about, I bit Hans' lower lip and dragged my teeth over it like he had to mine last night. So much for gentle. "Come on," I dared him when his lip tugged free. "That's not where we left off. Be enthusiastic."

Craaaaap. There I went, baiting the werewolf again. I would have been worried about myself except that the next thing I knew Hans had shoved me back and was stretched out over me, pinning me against the bed with his massive bulk. His massive, hot, half-naked bulk.

Hans had one of my arms trapped at my side. He caught my opposite wrist with one hand and held it down over my head; his legs straddled my hips. I couldn't do much more than wriggle, and when I tried Hans twisted his fingers in my hair and pulled my head back. As he sat up my body was forced to arch until I was staring at the curtained window behind me and I was too taut to move at all.

My heart was pounding.

I couldn't see him, but I felt Hans lean forward. His breath caressed my neck. He kissed my throat and worked his way down, pausing to suck on my skin at the junction of my shoulder. I trembled. I wanted to collapse and I wanted to explode, but Hans didn't let me go. His breath was hot on my skin; it stroked my chest where those two buttons were undone.

I whimpered, but then Hans was kissing me again; his lips brushing my skin through the narrow vee of parted fabric at the neck of my blouse. His teeth closed in a teasing nip before he straightened again.

Hans uncurled the fingers in my hair and lowered me to the bed. He even released my wrist, but I barely noticed: I was too busy staring up at him, wide-eyed and desperate to catch my breath. He looked back at me with heavy lidded, hungry eyes. When he spoke, there was a growl in his voice that worked very well with his accent and left me almost as terrified as it did turned on.

"Well now," he asked rhetorically – it had to be rhetorical, because I was in no shape to reply – "What was it you requested last night?"

I stared at him. If he really stopped and made me wait until next year for more _now_ , I was going to... to... Hell, I would kick him out and hope I had fresh batteries in my nightstand, probably.

Hans stroked my cheek with his thumb. Then he dragged the tip of his index finger down my jaw and neck and hooked it into the vee of my blouse, where he tugged down sharply enough to pop open the button I'd left done and three more below it.

My breath caught. Oh, yeah: I had mentioned something about having my clothes torn off, hadn't I?

Hans splayed his fingers down over the expanse of my newly exposed flesh. His nostrils flared briefly and he leaned forward, holding me down with his hand on my chest while he brought his mouth to my ear. "Abigail," he whispered while kissing the lobe of my ear, "you smell intoxicating." He took a deep breath and growled – a rumbling burr in the back of his throat. "Like coconut and vanilla and adrenaline and sex," he confided.

Oh damn: so he _could_ tell when he was turning me on. _So_ unfair. I think I might have started to hyperventilate, but Hans covered my mouth with his lips before I could start to. I moaned against him instead, and his hand slipped to the side, under my blouse, under my bra; cupping my breast.

I have small breasts. Hans' hand completely covered it. A flex of his fingers massaged what little flesh I have, and then his thumb brushed roughly across my nipple. My areola puckered from the stroke, and I clamped my legs together as the rest of my body responded with a spike of lust. I don't think an ansible could have gotten a faster response.

I have never – _never_ – been touched like that. Groped by a drunken frat boy? Yes, once. Fondled – _under my clothes?_ Never.

The shock kept me from doing anything. I liked it. I _liked_ it. _I_ liked it! What the hell was wrong with me? I was letting someone – a man so big there would be no stopping him if push came to rape – _fondle_ my flesh while pinning me to the bed, and I _liked_ it. Was I insane? Or just depraved? Proper women don't _let_ men do that, no matter how sexy said men may be. And they certainly don't enjoy it if it happens anyway! But here I was: moaning under Hans' kisses; letting his mouth crush me into my mattress and his hands wander freely over my breasts while my hips bucked and squirmed with a need I've never felt for anyone who wasn't a figment of my imagination getting it on with another such figment, and I was raking my fingers over Hans' back and biceps like some sort of morally depraved _slut._

Which was bullshit, of course. I mean: I love Megan. And Megan loves sex. But she isn't just my best friend: she's the best person I know. So it was kind of hypocritical of me to think she was awesome while I was freaking out that I was enjoying what Hans was doing... except panic had already set in, so it was definitely too late to stop myself from hypocriticizing all over the place.

I pushed Hans away, which was completely ineffective, and gasped "Stop," which wasn't. Hans froze, took a ragged breath, and pulled back.

"Are you alright, Abigail," he asked. "I wasn't hurting you, was I?"

I swallowed and shook my head. Even through my panic I felt a gratifying thrill at how husky his voice was – he was breathing shallowly, too. "I'm okay," I managed to assure him. "But: New rules."

Hans chuckled and sat back. He seemed to be recovering a lot faster than I was. Seriously, the man had a very unfair advantage here. "Alright," he said. "What are these ones?"

I took a couple of deep breaths and sat up as much as I could. I had to prop myself up on my elbows – I couldn't do better because when Hans had sat back he'd trapped my legs and all I could really do was bend at the waist, which was a little bit of a thrill and a little bit scary. Trapped, you know?

"Clothes," I said. Did I really want to disallow what had been happening? Honestly, frenzied undressing – or, at least, partial undressing – featured in a lot of my fantasies. It's just that the person being undressed in them was never _me._

"Clothes?" Hans asked. There was a crinkle at the corner of his eyes, like he was suppressing a smile. Bastard! He was enjoying this, and I didn't know if it was that he liked being told what to do or if he was just being smugly self-satisfied that in the span of a few minutes he could push my boundaries to the point that I had to make up new ones.

"Uh," I said. "Yeah. Clothes. Um. They're there for a reason. So, skipping under is an 'ask first' thing." I was breathing a little more steadily. Making rules put me in control; being in control calmed me down... a little. I was kind of disappointed by that. The sort of un-calm that Hans provoked was pretty incredible – up until the panicky meltdown part.

Hans nodded amicably. "And what about removing them instead?" He raised one hand and trailed it down my blouse's open vee of parted buttons. I shivered and goose bumps raced up my arms. _There_ was that sense of un-calm again. His fingers stopped at the first button to have held against his earlier assault. He toyed with it absently while he waited on me.

My mouth felt too dry to talk, but somehow I managed. "You can always ask," I croaked. Except that I liked the rush when he took charge – when it didn't panic me. "But if it's something I've let you take off before, you don't have to." I did better when something wasn't completely new. I figured that caveat ought to give him the room to provoke that rush and me the prior experience to prevent a freakout. Right?

Hans smiled and tapped the button he'd been toying with. "Anything else?"

I swallowed and shook my head. There was a sparkle in his eye that made me wonder if he took my restrictions as a dare. Sort of a 'I bet you can't control yourself enough to follow _this_ one,' kind of thing. "Nope," I said. "That's all. Carry on." I don't know why I was being so brazen. The 'oh shit, paranoia!' part of me refused to let go of the fact that I would be in serious trouble if I lost that dare – and there was that un-calm rush again.

The rush was furthered by Hans' abruptly enthusiastic grin. I squeaked in alarm.

"Wait!" I said, and Hans actually did. "On second thought, you should probably go."

Hans blinked at my abrupt one-eighty. "I should?"

"Yeah," I said. "I mean, Megan's going to be here in about forty five minutes, and I don't want another awkward interruption like last night. So you'd only have half an hour, and, honestly, how many points would that even be worth?"

"Points?" Hans asked in clear confusion.

I gave him my best "don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about" glare because I was perfectly aware of the national nightly pastime of whatever nation men like Hans come from, and I was too embarrassed about going all hot and cold on him to let him play innocent. Besides, I was pretty sure if he didn't put in his best effort for at least three hours then a horde of his countrymen would start shouting at my window. I've seen frat boys in the lounge during football season – I know how sports fanatics work. When someone drops the ball they always think they could do better.

But there was no way I was going to let them try, even if Hans needed an object lesson in better lovemaking. Because, let's face it: I am _not_ ready for a barbarian gangbang. I can't even handle one remarkably considerate werewolf. And if we tried to do anything else in the time remaining, some referee in a black and white striped kilt would probably show up and penalize Hans for being shut down three times in the same twenty four hours by the same wench. They might revoke his right to use that sexy accent. I couldn't be responsible for that! It was too much pressure. And besides.....

"Oh my God," I shouted as my thoughts completely derailed. "Hans, your arm!"

Hans' confusion pivoted to match my alarm – then dissolved in a chuckle as he saw what I was staring at.

"This isn't funny," I protested. I pushed him back until I could sit up and then grabbed his arm and held it so I could look closer. There was a nasty series of long red abrasions running down his bicep. "What..." I started to say. Then: "When...? How?!"

Hans chuckled again and caught my hand by the palm. He pressed my fingers against his arm so that they splayed out along the lines. Then he pulled my hand down over his biceps; my fingertips trailed perfectly over the scratches as though they were paths meant for my hand.

Oh.

Or: paths placed by my hand. Was I a scratcher? I risked a glance at Hans' side. According to the long, angry red lines running from the bottom of his pec and down along his waist: yes, yes I was.

_Oh._

"I am so sorry," I cried, and Hans seemed taken aback.

"Why?" he asked.

I frowned, nonplused. "Well... Doesn't it hurt?"

His lips curved in a cheerful grin. "Yes. Pleasantly." His grin widened. "And I take heart from the fact that despite our rather rough start last night you seem to have felt the urge to stake a claim."

_"What?_ " I asked.

Hans let go of my hand and brushed his fingers over the scratches I'd given him. "Yes," he said, "and quite a clear one. I think if any would be rival – because I assure you, I am not currently courting anyone else – were to see these she would think twice about making a bid for your territory."

I stared. In my enthusiasm... I mean, in my panic – I'd _hurt_ him, and he was acting like that was something for him to be proud of. His grin was certainly smug. My eyes narrowed. "This isn't some sort of weird werewolf thing, is it?"

Hans laughed. "In my experience," he said while leaning forward, "it is a passionate, possessive, fiery _woman_ 'thing.'"

I found myself being borne backward by his proximity until I was somehow stretched out across the bed again with Hans leaning over me. He kissed me with a fervent desire that made my toes curl. I think I whimpered somewhere in the back of my throat, and that just encouraged him.

I raised my hands with the intention of pushing him away, but somehow they ended up wrapped around him, running over his shoulder blades and pulling him closer. Except he was propped up on his elbows so as not to crush me, and I ended up lifting myself up instead; clinging to him and kissing him back until I was desperate for breath and my arms were trembling and I had to let go.

I plopped back down against the bed with a gasp. I felt a little tingly in my extremities. Probably because of all the kissing instead of breathing. Right? But at least I knew Hans' type now. Too bad he was such a bad judge of character: passionate, possessive, and fiery did not describe me. I was more the spastic, neurotic, freakish type if you wanted to be accurate.

This time I did manage to put my hands on his chest. "You need to go," I said with a push. It was a feeble one; I was still shaky. There were pins and needles in my fingers and toes, and I felt a little light headed. _Definitely_ the after-effects of kissing-induced asphyxiation.

Hans grunted and rolled off of me. "You're probably right," he said huskily – and I wondered if my lack of control was finally wearing at his. He sat up and reclaimed his shirt, then pulled it on. My scratches stretched down below his sleeve. While he was getting his shoes I hastily redid the buttons that my blouse hadn't lost – all of them, all the way up to the top. I was missing three; I would have to change after I chased Hans out. But I could probably convince Fumiko to repair the garment – Fumiko had worked on costumes when she and Megan had worked at the theatre in college, and she was still big into cosplay. So that was okay, at least.

When I was done I joined Hans at the door and did my best to ignore the gaping opening in my blouse. Then I undid the front locks. Hans stopped me before I could open the door, though. He caught my chin and tilted my mouth up for a kiss. His teeth scraped teasingly over the swell of my lower lip when he finished. "I do hope to see you at tonight's festivities, Abigail," he said. "And at tomorrow's breakfast, as well."

I stared and tried to figure out what to say to turn him down. _'No'_ _is pretty definitive,_ I thought. "I'm out of pancakes," I said instead.

Hans leaned forward. "I'll stop at the store," he promised. My heart felt like it was doing flip-flops. How could the man make a promise to buy toaster pancakes _sexy_?

It had to be the accent.

Or the implications of how the preceding night would proceed.

But probably the accent.

I opened the door and hustled Hans out of it before I could demand he also get strawberry jam, syrup, whipped cream and condoms. That would be bad: I liked what Hans' accent seemed to be promising about tomorrow morning's preceding night, but if I really went for it and didn't want to screw things up I'd probably have to add rope and a gag to that list, too. Because as long as I was mobile and audible, I _would_ find a way to end up with my foot in my mouth.

"Go," I said, and Hans went. I closed the door behind him, locked it, and then collapsed against it while I tried to get a grip on myself, the fact that reality was upside-down, and that my sexy new boss was not just a Viking werewolf. No, he had somehow been deluded into thinking I was his type, too.

At least Megan would be here soon. I was in it way over my head and really need her advice... if only I could figure out how to get it without giving away the whole 'paranormal shadow war' and 'Hans is a werewolf' and 'Mr. Salvatore is a vampire' thing and dragging her into this mess with me.

....

Well, _Damn._

# Chapter 19

After Hans left I redid all the locks and hastily changed my blouse. Then, because Megan was due to arrive at any minute, I grabbed my jacket, my purse, a manga and a chocolate bar and scurried out of my apartment.

For the first time that I can remember, leaving the apartment was a relief. It's my home, and it's small and cozy and I have no illusions about my safety there. If some deranged thug wanted to come crashing in, the big glass patio door wasn't going to stop him. But now I had to worry about bogeymen and goblins just crawling out from under my bed or lurking in my closet? At least the thug would announce his presence. Glass is loud when it shatters.

The worst part of it was that if these 'faery' beings really did feed on fear and superstition then I must be a freaking smorgasbord. I mean... I know they say it's not really paranoia if someone actually is after you, but that didn't help my case at all. Firstly, because I _was_ paranoid — and always have been — and secondly because knowing it might be justified just made it _worse._ I couldn't focus on my book because I was too busy wondering when I was going to be snatched up and enslaved into a life of perpetual terror for the feeding pleasure of sinister fae creatures.

Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to chase Hans off. The shadows in the bushes around the apartments seemed darker, and I felt an itch between my shoulders like I was being watched. I couldn't remember if that guy who used to live next door had ever so slightly pointed ears or not — hadn't he worn a cap a lot? Maybe the chupacabracorn wasn't my worst case scenario there.

I wondered what they would do to me if they grabbed me — which was a mistake because my imagination is always far too eager to dig deep and answer that sort of question.

By the time Megan's car pulled into her usual spot, I was a wreck. My over active imagination was treating me to wild speculation about being forced to attend hobgoblin speed dating nights. Buzzers going off every five minutes. Hundreds of strangers roaming around, all gnarl toothed, scaly skinned Paleolithic barbarians. Having to talk to each and every one — a new introduction to a new stranger every five minutes! An alarm I couldn't stop _every five minutes._ And all the while that I desperately tried to make conversation they'd leer and make inappropriate comments and gnash their teeth like I looked edible, but if they nibbled a finger they'd take it off at the knuckle.

Oh, and I'd be naked. Because being social with and around strangers is always worse when you're naked.

But at the end of the night I'd just be left there, waiting for the next night, because the hobgoblins would all just go gangbang the nymph who was sitting three tables down from me, since none of the superficial bastards could tell a good thing when she was freaking out right in front of them.

Assholes.

And then, of course, the whole thing would play out again the next night. And so on. Forever.

When Megan's car pulled into our lot I ran out to it before she'd even parked. She had to hit the door locks a few times because I kept yanking the handle too soon. But then I was in the passenger seat, and I slammed the door shut behind me, and Megan was staring at me in wide-eyed concern.

"Abby," she said while I fumbled with the seatbelt, "Are you okay?"

The seatbelt firmly clicked in place and I looked over at Megan. I might have been a little teary eyed. Megan always took care of me. Now she was taking care of me in ways she didn't even know about. Megan didn't believe in monsters. While I was with her I was safe.

"I'm fine," I said; and the weird thing was: I _was_. I was with Megan, and that made me safe, and that made all my frantic anxiety just melt away. She doesn't even know how good a friend she is. It made me feel a little guilty. Talk about taking advantage of a friend — I'd used her as a buffer between strangers before, and now I was using her to keep the faeries at bay, too. But then again, strangers versus nightmare beings that lived on fear and existed to stir up misery... was there really a difference there?

"I'm just a little stressed out," I said. "I want to get to work and get today — get this _year_ — over with."

Megan chuckled and put the car back in gear. "Sorry," she said. "Was your date really that rough? When you never called for a rescue I thought you two might have hit it off."

I swallowed. At least that was part of my evening I could talk about. "I forgot my phone," I said. "I mean: I left it in my purse in the booth when I went to the restroom." Which was when I was supposed to call Megan if I'd been freaking out — which I had been.

"Oh, sweetie!" Megan said. She knows me well enough to put two and two together. "I'm so sorry. What happened? He wasn't a jerk, was he?"

I shook my head. He wasn't a jerk, he was a werewolf. Was that worse? I didn't actually mind the wolf part — though that might not last if he ever turned into the ravening full moon variety. "He wasn't," I assured her. "I was kind of bitchy, though." I'd been so in his face he'd had to bite me to make me back off. "And then I made him take me home before we even ate," I said. "It was bad." I'd been a complete freak about it.

"I'm so sorry," Megan said again — even though none of my neurotic tendencies were her fault. "I really thought the two of you would click once you got past introductions. Why didn't you call me when you got home? I could've stopped for ice cream on my way over and commiserated to salvage the evening."

"No," I protested. Mostly because as far as I'm aware Megan has never had a bad date, and any commiseration on her part would have been awkward and forced. But also: "There's no way," I said. "The walls in there are too thin. He'd have heard if I called from the bathroom." Especially since he was a werewolf and had — at least — a superhuman sense of smell. Hearing was probably pretty high up there, too.

Megan made the appropriate assumption. "You invited him in?!" She gasped — and since she knew me as well as she does, the incredulity was entirely deserved.

"We had all those leftovers and I was hungry!" I protested defensively. Megan laughed.

"Well, since he accepted I guess I was right to peg him as subby," Megan teased. "Being bitchy probably helped you there."

I shook my head emphatically. "No way," I said. "The man is controlled, sure, but definitely not submissive." I thought about what I knew about bondage and snorted. The only way I could see Hans in a collar was if he was in wolf form and wanted walkies. "His type is the passionate, possessive, fiery sort," I explained. "Which I'm totally not, but there seems to have been some confusion there. _Anyway_ , we had dinner and mostly just talked. And that was it." Yeah. No world-altering revelations included.

"Mostly?" Megan asked, and I winced. "What else?"

"Uh..." I said. Because apparently the only time I can't make shit up is when I want to do it on purpose.

"Come on," Megan cajoled. "I've told you all my embarrassing stories. Sharing makes it better, so spill."

I flushed. Megan _was_ perfectly comfortable sharing her 'stories' with her best friend — but her stories weren't embarrassing. They were hot. Except that didn't make it fair for me not to reciprocate, did it? Especially since normally I would be begging her for advice. But what was normal about making out with a werewolf?!

"Um," I said. I had to go with the truth. The normal parts. It wouldn't be fair otherwise, and Megan had too much experience with me to be taken in by anything I could possibly make up, anyway. Assuming I wasn't drawing a fictional blank — which I was at the moment. "We might have made out a little," I confessed. _That_ was the normal part. Except that it had involved, you know: _me._ And a werewolf.

Megan whistled. "Abby, you minx! And here you had me worried that the evening was a bust. Oh, that wasn't the bad part, was it? I mean, you liked it, right? He wasn't all slobbery, was he?"

I blushed harder. I could still remember my shoulders scraping against the door and Hans' hands on my ass as he hitched me up so he wouldn't have to stoop to peruse my body with his lips. "It was good," I squeaked, and admitting that was horrible because now I had a whole new level of _not normal_ to worry about.

I mean, what kind of person likes that? The only frame of reference I had was Megan — and while I know she's done some pretty kinky stuff, I also know she's pretty 'take it or leave it' about just about everything. Honestly, after hearing her describe everything she's done, I'm pretty sure she gets off on getting her partner off, so if it's good for him it's good for her. But me? I'd passed on vanilla. I'd _insisted_ Hans be aggressive, and baited him to be rough, and... hell, I'd flat out told him I'd wanted my clothes torn off and invited him to do it.

Admittedly, he'd thought I was talking about something else at the time, but _I_ knew what I'd meant. What kind of woman _wants_ that? Shoot: I was terrified of sex. And all the things I'd wanted Hans to do had been terrifying... so when the hell had being terrified become sexy?

There was something seriously wrong with me.

"Can we talk about this later?" I asked — and I felt kind of shitty about doing it. "I haven't had time to figure out how I feel about it myself, yet." Which was true — but more to the point, hopefully a reprieve would give me the time to figure out what was safe to _say_ about it.

"Of course," Megan said. She's so understanding. Whenever she finds whatever she's looking for in her long term relationship, I hope that guy appreciates how crazy lucky he is.

"Thanks," I said. Then I bit my lip and stared out the window, watching the houses flicker by as quickly as my thoughts. I wondered which ones had monsters in them. But this time, I wasn't just wondering about the human ones — the kidnappers and thieves and serial killers and murderous sadists. It was a whole new world out there, and I had no idea how to cope with that —so I did my best to focus on the short term.

I had to figure out how to protect myself from faeries. How to stop baiting Hans. What to say to Megan about _wanting_ Hans to take the bait... and how to keep her the hell away from Mr. Salvatore. Somehow I felt that today — just today — was going to make this one hell of a long year.

# Chapter 20

When we arrived at work I was relieved to see that neither Mr. Salvatore's sports car nor Hans' civilian issue APC were in the parking lot. I needed the breathing room to figure out how to deal with them.

Megan and I walked to my office, but since her desk was outside I was left alone again when I went in. I didn't like it. At all. But at least my office didn't have any beds for bogeymen to hide under or closets for them to burst out of. And if they tried through the filing cabinets? Good luck to them; those had been locked and the key lost since before the office had been mine.

I sat down and booted up my computer. Then I stood and sat down again, Indian style, in case anything that might be lurking in the shadows under my desk was an ankle biter.

Then I stood up again and tried to build up enough courage to go under my desk so I could unplug the computer, move everything to the plug next to the door, and not have to sit at the desk at all.

That didn't happen, though. I pushed my chair back under the desk. I was a little vicious about it, too. If there was an ankle-grabbing goblin over there, I hoped I ran over its fingers.

Then I started to pace. Desks were over-rated. Maybe I could get a laptop. That would make it easier to work while sitting on the floor with my back to the wall.

Although, since Hans was going to be my boss – and he knew what I knew, since he'd told me – I could probably count on a little slack if I wasn't as productive today as I might've been otherwise.

I'm not sure how long I spent pacing, trying to get my thoughts together. It didn't really work; my conscious thoughts are always a little scattered. But I must've done some subconscious processing, because abruptly I was done.

I stopped pacing and went to the windows. I usually kept the blinds closed for the same reasons I kept the curtains drawn at home: I really don't like the idea that someone could be looking in on me without my knowing. Now, though? Sunlight was my friend. I opened the blinds.

Mr. Salvatore's car was in the parking lot. So was Hans'. I swallowed. All I had to do was get through today and then my terrifying, creepy, vampire boss would be gone. To be replaced by my terrifying, hot, werewolf boss. But that would still be one problem down.

The thing was, I was scared of Hans in an entirely different way than I was scared of Mr. Salvatore. Mr. Salvatore had always creeped me out – but if what Hans had told me about vampires was true, then it didn't even matter if Mr. Salvatore were actually a great guy and I was just crazy. If Mr. Salvatore got hungry enough, his humanity would abandon him. He would be driven by hunger and primal emotions, and then he might kill someone, or hospitalize them like he'd hospitalized Katherine last year. And it wouldn't matter how bad he felt about it afterward because they would still be dead or dying and I _knew_ he wanted Megan.

I went back to my desk, took my chair and ran it back and forth a few times in case of hypothetical goblin fingers. Then, without sitting down, I logged into my computer and sent my most recent files to the downstairs printers. Having something to work on would help me get through the day, and having hardcopies to do my translations on would let me sit by the door, with my back to the wall – and ready to leap outside if I heard anything untoward happening.

Then I sat by the door and waited. Usually when I sent files to the printer it was because Fumiko had stopped by with the .pdf of a new book, and she liked to do her rough translations on paper. So I knew that when the print job was done Jimmy would spiral bind it and rush it upstairs so he could make stammering small talk while handing it over to her. Which was good, because even though he was going to be surprised in finding just me instead, I had no intention of taking my eye – or ear – off of Megan while Mr. Salvatore was around. And that included going for a quick jaunt downstairs.

I took a few deep breaths and then I heard something that absolutely destroyed the calming effect I'd been hoping for.

"Hello, Megan," a muffled voice said on the other side of the door. Not Mr. Salvatore's voice, but another one that had flayed me into panicked knots over deadlines too often in the past for me to keep my tentative grasp on 'calm' when I heard it.

"Katherine!" Megan answered. "Hi!"

I scrambled to peek through the door's keyhole. Despite the lies propagated by TV, it wasn't a very good vantage: I could see the corner of Megan's desk and about half of Katherine standing next to it. Fortunately, my imagination was up to the task of filling in the missing bits.

Megan would be sitting with her legs crossed. Since she was talking to someone, she would be leaning toward Katherine. And since Katherine was her friend, Megan would be smiling.

"How are you?" Megan asked. "What brings you in today?"

Katherine... well, Katherine was pretty if you went for the whole 'I am the unholy union of a governess, a dominatrix, and that one person in HR who handles all of the off boarding interviews' vibe she puts off. I couldn't see her face now, but she'd always had short, dark hair and hard, grey eyes. She would wear long sleeves and high collars even in the summer – today it looked like a black turtleneck sweater and a grey pencil skirt – and usually had on a pair of delicate glasses that did nothing to soften her perpetually severe expression.

Katherine made a casually dismissive gesture. "I heard Mr. Salvatore was back and thought I would see if he needed my services still. However, it seems he has no intention of staying in the long term."

"Oh, I am so sorry, Katie," Megan said. "He told us all yesterday that he'd been ill and was moving away." I could hear the sympathy in Megan's voice, but that wasn't what took me aback. Katie? Seriously? I couldn't imagine Katherine tolerating such informal address from anyone without threatening to switch them with a riding crop.

"It's fine," Katherine said. "I wasn't entirely certain I would want to come back and work for someone who might just up and disappear again, anyway." She stepped closer and leaned against the edge of Megan's desk. "But I did know I might be able to salvage the day, however it went with Salvatore, if I stopped in to see you afterward. Are you coming to the club tonight?"

Megan's chair swiveled slightly as she fidgeted. "Yes," she finally said. I was a little surprised to see her so hesitant: usually the prospect of being social makes her all bouncy and chipper. "Um. I was going to stop by with Abby for a while before we came to the office party, and then maybe come back again afterward."

"Oh," Katherine said flatly. "Will Abigail be coming back as well?" The cool animosity in Katherine's voice was _not_ a surprise – I'm paranoid that most people secretly revile me, but in Katherine's case I'm pretty sure it's not paranoia. Or a secret. I'm not sure why she dislikes me so much – but I'm also not entirely sure she needs a reason. Katherine seems to think poorly of most people; I've always had the impression that she thinks of most of humanity as some sort of slimy grubs, and the only reason she doesn't crush us out of sheer revulsion is that she doesn't want our guts to splurt out on the bottom of her heels. In retrospect, I have to say it's kind of shitty for her to have such a 'better than you' attitude when she's basically been living out the life of an undead abomination's equivalent of the office water cooler.

I frowned, struck by a sudden thought. Maybe it wasn't that Katherine didn't like people... maybe it was that she didn't like _ignorant_ people. She knew the truth about vampires and werewolves and magic and everything, so it made a sort of sense that she wouldn't have patience for the people who didn't – and that people who were afraid of completely made up things, like I was, would piss her off to no end.

Oh, hell. If she was supposed to help Mr. Salvatore maintain his 'normal' cover, then I'd probably _infuriated_ her when I'd accused him of being a vampire back when I didn't even really believe in them. And Katherine would have probably found out about it from Megan since she and Megan were friends and Megan was the one with whom I shared – often and loudly – my made up speculations as to the unholyness of our creepy-ass, actually _is_ a vampire, boss.

Hell. Oh, _hell_. It made sense that I seriously annoyed Katherine. But she was friends with Megan. My mouth felt dry. If Katherine was friends with Megan, what did _that_ mean?

"It'll just be me after the office party," Megan told Katherine while I quietly freaked out. "Abby won't want to stay up that late, and she prefers a quiet evening at home to parties, anyway. Oh! And she seems to have a thing going on with the new manager, so if she's out late with anyone tonight it's going to be him."

"Really?" Katherine asked with more incredulity than I thought I deserved.

....

Well, maybe not.

"Yeah," Megan said. "And he's a real looker, and charming, _and_ a genuinely nice guy as far as I can tell."

Katherine seemed to relax a little. "I'm sorry, Megan," she said. She didn't really sound sympathetic – but that was fine because sympathy wasn't needed. If Megan wanted Hans she could have gotten him, and we all knew it. Megan waved Katherine's apology away.

"No, it's okay," Megan said. "I mean, I knew it wasn't going to work out between us. Shoot, I'm even the one who hooked them up! So I'm glad it's working out for her."

"Well.... Still," Katherine said. She paused in thought. "Look, Emma didn't go home for the holidays this year, so, how about I try to convince her to come out tonight? It'll do her some good, I think, and she and Abby can hang out and... well, I'm sure we can find _someone_ who won't mind helping take your mind off the one who got away."

Megan laughed and stood up. "Okay, Katie," she said. "I'll see you two tonight, then."

Katherine straightened as well and she and Megan exchanged hugs. I sank back and shifted to my spot against the wall. Normally if I overheard a conversation like that the pit of my stomach would be full of worry about meeting someone new and screwing it up – I had no idea who Emma was. But instead I was too freaked out about what Megan's friendship with Katherine might mean – and the pit was a goddamn chasm.

Fact: Megan's inheritance meant she didn't need to work – but she came in here every day anyway.

Fact: Megan and Katherine were friends, and Katherine at least used to manage Mr. Salvatore's blood supply.

Fact: Megan had told me she was looking for something long term in her next relationship.

Fact: Megan hadn't seriously tried to date _anyone_ since college graduation – which coincided with our starting to work for Mr. Salvatore.

I hugged my knees against my chest and tried my best not to throw up. I choked on my fear instead. You couldn't _get_ more long term than the immortal undead. Except that just because Mr. Salvatore was going to live forever, it didn't follow that Megan would, too. After all, that was the point of my last fact. I'd caught Mr. Salvatore and Megan making out at last year's office party – apparently, according to Hans, right before Mr. Salvatore had almost murdered Katherine.

Megan was in danger. Serious danger. And if those facts really did add up the way I thought they did... if Megan was already one of Mr. Salvatore's willing thralls... Then it was only a matter of time before she would end up like Katherine had: bled dry, dying; maybe not making it – all because of Mr. Salvatore's eventual and inevitable overindulgence. And then, even if she did survive, she'd just risk it again. After all, hadn't Mr. Salvatore already almost killed Katherine? And wasn't she here now, having just tried to get her old job back?

Okay: Maybe I just didn't know enough about how vampires worked to really guess what Mr. Salvatore was up to – but he had to be up to something because he'd been gone for a year and I didn't really think he'd come back because of the publishing house. Which made me pretty confident – afraid, really – that he'd come back for personal reasons. Like transferring all of his personal finances. Or shipping his coffin out to the country. Or stocking up on his favorite brand of toothpaste.

Or his favorite vintage of nubile, slavishly devoted victim. If Mr. Salvatore _had_ claimed Megan then he was going to kill her. Eventually. It was just a matter of time. And I had no idea how to stop him.

# Chapter 21

I was still freaking out when Jimmy barged into my office with my printouts. Except it wasn't Jimmy with my book, it was Hans.

"Hello," he said from the doorway – and then he noticed I wasn't at my desk. He looked down at me, still huddled by the wall, and his eyebrows disappeared under his bangs. He hastily stepped into the office and pulled the door shut to give us some privacy. Then he glanced around the room. "Is something wrong," he asked quietly.

I scrambled up to my feet. I was terrified that Megan was one of Mr. Salvatore's harem girls and he was going to kill her. Fortunately, Hans would know – all I had to do was ask him. So of course I blurted out "I think there's a goblin under my desk," instead.

Hans handed me the spiral-bound manga printout he was carrying. Then he prowled silently over to my desk.

I blinked. Oh, right... that stuff was real and he was taking me seriously, like I even knew what I was talking about. "Um," I said, "you don't have to..."

But Hans had already ducked down under my desk to check. I bit my lip and let him, even though I felt pretty stupid about it because I knew there was nothing there and I was just suffering from paranoid anxiety. It wasn't my fault if my freaked out delusions overlapped with his reality! _He_ was the one who had to go and be a werewolf!

Hans came back up from under the desk with a grunt. "It's gone now," he reassured me.

I laughed uneasily. Once again I was being saved from looking like a nutcase by the fact that the world had turned out to be crazier than I was. But that didn't really make me feel better – I wanted the idea that Megan was one of Mr. Salvatore's blood sources to be too crazy to be true, but I didn't think I was going to get to be that lucky.

"So," I said, "what brings you up here in Jimmy's stead?"

"I was working down with the printers this morning," Hans said. "When your job came through Jimmy said it was probably for Fumiko – and since I didn't get to meet her yesterday, I offered to bring it up."

"Oh," I said. "Sorry. It's just me."

Hans shook his head with a smile. "I'm not even remotely disappointed," he informed me.

"Oh," I reiterated. "Um. Well, Fumiko should be at the party tonight, so you should get to meet her then."

Hans leaned casually against the edge of my desk and rubbed his chin. "Is that so?" he rumbled. "Then you'll have to introduce us."

"Sure," I said – then rapidly backpedaled. "Wait. No. I'm not agreeing to make an appearance that easily," I declared. In fact, at the moment I was leaning rather heavily toward the idea of freaking out about something at club Luminescence in order to keep Megan from coming to the office party while Mr. Salvatore was still in residence. It was a solid plan: if nothing came up for me to panic over in order to keep Megan and Mr. Salvatore separate, then not having anything to panic over would probably be enough to do the trick.

Hans grinned. "Is there anything I can do to sway you?" he asked, and I shivered despite myself. His tone implied he expected the answer to be a 'yes' and his sexy-ass accent continued to make my libido suggest indecent options.

But the answer was no. It _had_ to be no. I just wasn't sure I could trust myself not to blurt out 'yes' instead, so I changed the subject.

"Hans," I began, "Has Mr. Salvatore fed today?" Hans straightened in surprise at the nonsequitor. "Katherine stopped by," I hastily explained, "and she said he'd sent her away. But she used to be his donor, right?" Maybe if I knew Mr. Salvatore was well fed I wouldn't have to worry as much about him going berserk from hunger and killing Megan.

Hans sighed. "Katherine was one of them and trusted to manage the others, yes. But after what happened, I can't say I'm really surprised that Salvatore doesn't trust himself around her." He cleared his throat. "To answer your question, he took some of my blood before coming to the office. I'm a supernatural, so it takes less from me to keep him on this side of being alive – and I'm strong enough to fight him off if it comes to that." He chuckled ruefully. "Well, to hold him off long enough for him to come to his senses, at least," Hans corrected himself. He watched my expression carefully. "Why?" Then, more hesitantly, "Is that a problem?"

"No," I said. And there really wasn't. Squicky? Maybe a little. Further fodder for my Hans/Salvatore slashfic? Oh, hell yes. A problem? I wasn't sure why Hans thought it might be. But it wasn't reassuring, either. If Mr. Salvatore didn't trust himself to keep control around Katherine then it meant he couldn't be trusted to keep himself under control, and he knew it. Which meant I couldn't trust him around Megan.

Especially with the added complication that Megan might be in the same boat as Katherine, and unable to control herself around Mr. Salvatore. I grimaced. I didn't like thinking about Megan and Katherine in that context. In fact, I didn't really like thinking about Megan and Katherine together in any context. If they weren't friends, I wouldn't be worried that Megan was contemplating suicide by exsanguination.

Why did Megan and Katherine have to start hanging out together, anyway? It's not like they had anything in common. Megan is a kind hearted, easy going party girl and Katherine is a stone cold domineering bitch with a superiority complex. The more I thought about it the angrier I got. Especially since the only point of congruity between them I could come up with – the one I kept coming back to – was Mr. Salvatore.

"Abigail?" Hans asked, interrupting my worry/hate-on-Katherine spiral. I blinked. He'd been saying something, and I'd totally spaced out on it.

"What?" I asked," then I said: "No," and hoped that was a more valid response – before shaking myself into reconsidering. There were just too many things you could blindly answer 'no' to and then have it come back to bite you in the ass. Such as 'would you not like me to bite your ass right now?' And wouldn't Hans just love it if I got that one wrong? He _was_ a biter. Cheeky werewolf. "Wait. I mean, could you repeat that? I got distracted."

Hans quirked his eyebrows. "I was trying to convince you to change your mind about tonight, but I think I'll just have an awkwardly anxious evening, waiting for you until midnight instead."

I flushed. "You know," I pointed out, "if I did show up and we made out at midnight in front of all my coworkers – your future employees, I might add – _that_ would be awkward."

"Perhaps," Hans conceded. "But I suspect it would be much more enjoyable than looming over the punch bowl, twiddling my fingers and wishing you'd shown up, instead."

My flush deepened and Hans grinned. "So, what were you so engrossed in contemplating that it distracted you?" he asked with exaggeratedly idle curiosity.

I opened my mouth, but failed to say anything. I felt like I had to look like a fish. "Katherine," I managed to admit when I tried again – and it probably said something about my frame of mind that I hadn't blurted out something made up and random, such as how it would also be more enjoyable and less awkward if we happened to find ourselves in some closed, private office at about five before midnight and gave my imagination free reign with reality. But that wasn't going to happen. That's why it was made-up. I suppressed a mental giggle that threatened to turn both maniacal and audible. No. _No._

Hans just threw me that much off kilter. But then again, in the face of everything else that had happened in the past twenty four hours, Hans' ongoing flirtations were the part I had the most trouble wrapping my head around. I mean... Megan is the one people want. Hence my genuine and legitimate concern with Mr. Salvatore's creepy stalker/vampire/murderer vibe.

"Oh?" Hans asked, and I tried to pull my thoughts together – and out of that office – enough to explain. And trying to get them together made them suddenly _click._

Katherine _was_ stone cold. Stone cold sober, to be exact. I couldn't remember Katherine being drunk last year. Or ever. Megan, on the other hand, had been the next best thing to wasted. Wasted, and alone with Mr. Salvatore – who didn't trust himself not to lose control anymore. Wasted, alone, and checking her blood sugar with a finger prick. _Click._

Mr. Salvatore _had_ assaulted Megan, and after I'd gotten her out of there he'd attacked Katherine to finish off his craving. I felt sick. That made Katherine's hospitalization _my_ fault, but only because I'd stopped it from happening to Megan. And now I _knew_ Mr. Salvatore had come back for Megan. And he'd brought help. _Click._

I _wasn't_ the one guys go after. Megan was. _I_ was the plain-Jane and slightly insane friend they had to sic their wingman on to get the real prize alone.

_Ding:_ Hans' flirtations made perfect sense. They weren't real. He was just a distraction, playing with me to give Mr. Salvatore a clear shot at Megan. After all, weren't he and Mr. Salvatore old friends? Wasn't that what wingmen did? Wasn't that the only reason anyone had _ever_ set their sights on me?

Hans straightened. Perhaps some supernatural sense of his had clued him in that I was on to him – not only was he playing around with me, but he _cheated_ , too. "Abigail?" he asked hesitantly. "Is something wrong?"

Something was well past wrong. I was beyond seething and rapidly leaving furious behind as well. But for the first time since Hans had turned his boyish grin and heroic physique and sexy accent loose on me, my mind was operating at one-hundred percent undistracted clarity. Which put the whole decision-making/social interactions process comfortably out of my conscious control.

"No," I said, "I'm just worried about Katie." I didn't stumble over the diminutization of Katherine's name – though I suspected 'Katie' was getting psychically pinged that there was someone she needed to murder for being too familiar. "I always kind of liked her, so it's a little worrisome to see her coming back to someone who hurt her so badly, you know? But I guess there's no real understanding the depths of their relationship from where I'm at, so... I guess I'm torn between hoping she isn't too hurt that he told her to go away, and feeling like she's escaped a potentially abusive boyfriend, you know?"

Hans nodded sympathetically. "They'd been together for..." he did some mental math. "...over twenty years, I think," Hans said. Most donors recover from the initial infatuation of being enthralled after a year, but after twenty? Well, that's plenty of time for real emotions to grow."

I nodded in concerned agreement, but all I'd really heard Hans say was that a vampire could leave someone infatuated – _enthralled_ – for about a year just by feeding on them. Had Mr. Salvatore stayed away for so long to make sure Megan wasn't bound to him when they met again? Or had he put in the effort to get out of 'rehab' as soon as he had to make sure she would still be enamored with him when he showed up to claim her?

"I'll tell you what," I told Hans. "Why don't you leave me your number and I'll call you when Megan and I are on our way to the office party." I smiled. It was a call I had no intention of making since I had no intention of letting Megan anywhere near Mr. Salvatore – but Hans didn't need to know that, and if they thought we were going to come to them of our own volition maybe it would cut down on Hans' and Mr. Salvatore's contingency planning for when we didn't.

Suckers.

I suppressed a shiver while Hans grinned and snagged a pen and postit from my desk. In Mr. Salvatore's case... far too literally.

# Chapter 22

After Hans left I sat back down by the door. Sure, my desk had been certified goblin-free, but I wanted to make sure I was in a position to overhear if Megan got any more surprise visitors. I figured that Mr. Salvatore was planning to make his move at the office party – because that was when he'd done it last time – but since he acknowledged that he couldn't be trusted to control himself it stood to reason that he also couldn't be trusted to stay on plan, either.

I suppose it was possible I was just being paranoid-crazy. Hans was a werewolf; therefore, _anything_ was possible. It was even possible that I was leaping to conclusions and Hans actually was into me for some unnatural (supernatural?) reason and wasn't just running interference for Mr. Salvatore. But the problem with being paranoid-crazy is that even if you know you are all that means is that you never really know when your fears are justified... which generally leads to a lot _more_ anxiety induced paranoia if you're ever crazy enough to try and ignore them.

Still, I made a mental promise to call Hans tomorrow. Then I'd be able to ask if Mr. Salvatore had actually shipped back out to rehab – and if he had, I could ask Hans if he wanted to go on another date sometime. It would be my way of apologizing for being a no-show at the office party tonight. _And_ , with Mr. Salvatore out of town, whether or not Hans accepted would let me know if he really was interested in me or had just been being put up to it. Plus, now that I had Hans' number I could totally call and cancel when I panicked after he said yes.

Having a plan of my own helped. I still couldn't really focus on work – which I only cared about because of that hyper-anxious little bit of myself that was sure I would get fired if I didn't, and was energetic enough to let me know it but too small to care about such things as extenuating circumstances and getting leeway for making out with the boss. Regardless, I was half-dozing when lunch rolled around – which was punctuated by Megan having another guest.

"Hey," I heard Fumiko call on the other side of the door, followed by Megan's return greeting. I glanced at the time and scrambled to my feet. Fumiko didn't like 'wasting time' in an office, so when she stopped by it was usually for lunch – and I didn't want to be sitting there looking weird when they came in to fetch me.

I had just managed to pull my chair a safe distance from the desk and get in it when my office door opened. Fumiko was in the doorway. Megan was still getting her stuff together at her desk.

"Hey," Fumiko said. "Lunchtime, Abby."

You know how in high school drama mangas there's always that one girl who's kind of quiet and hard to approach and unnaturally good at sports that all the other girls look at with awe and vaguely lesbian overtones? That's Fumiko.

Fumiko got her height from her dad's side – she's not, like, _Hans_ tall, but if she's in a room then she's going to be the tallest woman in it. Just about everything else comes from her mom, though – a tiny Japanese woman her dad met while he was stationed overseas.

So Fumiko was tall and willowy, with exotically Asian features and, honestly, a bust that had to have come down from her dad's side somehow, too. She probably could've been a model if she'd wanted to – and I know for a fact that she's taken the odd side job as a booth babe at anime conventions. But that's just because it combines her love of cosplaying with someone else paying for her convention pass, which lets her put that much more money into making her costumes.

She's good at sewing, too. Fumiko majored in business so she'd have a 'real' degree when she got out of college – but she spent so much time doing costumes for the theatre in college that she could've double majored... if she'd been taking classes instead, that is. When she's in costume she's really friendly and receptive – she's so thrilled to show off her work she's practically another person. Out of costume, though, she's kind of shy and has no patience for _anyone_ being a jerk. I'm pretty sure she puts up with me for the sake of her friendship with Megan in the same fashion that I put up with Megan's casual hugs and general outgoingness for the sake of _my_ friendship with Megan.

Of course, having said that, Fumiko is probably still my next best friend after Megan. Once, in college, Megan met up with us at dinner before anime club with a guy in tow. That wasn't unusual for Megan, but this guy was from her home town. Anyway, I guess they'd used to date – or he'd wanted to – because when she excused herself to use the restroom he started grilling me, the roommate, about Megan's personal life and dating habits. He was really aggressive and angry about it, too; especially when I started getting too flustered to reply.

But before I could pass out or have palpitations, Fumiko calmly leaned over, patted the guy gently under the table, and told him that if he thought having a dick meant he could be one, she was going to take his away. Of course, he started to say something nasty – but then Fumiko did something that I didn't quite catch (since it was still under the table) that seemed to require a lot of torque and made him go a little crosseyed. Then she turned to me and casually asked what I thought the club should vote to watch next – as though there wasn't this guy slumped over next to her, wheezing into the table and trying really hard not to cry.

I've considered her a friend and looked at her with awe ever since. I suspect she looks on me with tolerance bordering on bemusement, depending on whether or not Megan is around to act as a buffer, but I think Fumiko is pretty awesome. I guess having a dad who used to teach hand to hand combat to army rangers will make a girl unafraid of _anything._

It also helps that she's even more of a fujoshi than I am, and just as uninterested in having a romantic relationship with a real person. I once heard her tell Megan that she wanted a man who wasn't a wuss under his bravado and had the staying power of two fresh batteries, but until she found someone who had quality one it wasn't worth it to bother checking for quality two. Fumiko and I trade manga back and forth a lot.

"Well, are you coming?" Fumiko asked. She wasn't in costume – she was in jeans, sneakers, and a clingy white sweater under her jacket – and she was being her usual terse self.

I hastily nodded and shuffled my printout into a desk drawer. Then I got up, grabbed my coat, and went to join Fumiko and Megan.

"...plans for this evening?" Megan was asking as I closed my office door behind me.

"No," Fumiko said. "I hear we have a new boss, so I guess I'll have to stop by the office party and schmooze a little." She shrugged. "Otherwise I would've just stayed in. You?"

"Abby and I are going to the Club L party, then swinging by the office after," Megan said. "You want to join us?"

"Meh," said Fumiko. "It's not really my scene."

Megan laughed. "Liar! You know you love to dress up."

"Oh, sure," Fumiko agreed. "But it's New Year's eve. Everyone there is just going to want to get plastered and make out. Pass. I'm making a concession just going to the office party tonight."

Megan shook her head while we walked to her car. "Fair enough," she said. "But you know, you don't _have_ to change your plans just to meet the new boss. He'll be joining us for lunch."

I stopped. "What?" I squawked. "Again?"

Megan turned and grinned. "Well, I have to get the dirty details from _someone_ ," she teased.

Fumiko glanced between us. "I missed something, didn't I?" she asked.

"Abby went out with Hans last night," Megan explained. She laughed again and led us into the parking lot. "I'm still waiting for the details," she added, and stuck her tongue out at me. "But I do know Abby invited him over, after. Shenanigans of some sort ensued."

"Huh," said Fumiko. She took the front passenger seat and I got in the back – I was perfectly happy letting her sit by Megan since it would make it that much less necessary for me to be involved in the conversation.

Fortunately, Fumiko exhibited her typical lack of concern for other people's drama and moved on. "That fabric shipped yesterday," she told Megan. "If you want to come by this weekend we can take some measurements."

"Sure!" Megan agreed cheerfully, and their conversation continued on costumes for next month's convention.

I breathed a mental sigh of relief and tried to ignore the fact that they were talking while driving.

Fortunately it was a short drive, and when we arrived it looked like Hans had gotten there first. His hummer was in the parking lot. Megan parked, got out, and waved through the restauraunt's front windows. I caught Fumiko by the elbow and Megan went in ahead of us.

"Yes?" Fumiko asked.

"Um," I said, "Do you mind if I come by this weekend, too?"

Fumiko looked startled. Normally I don't invite myself out – either Megan drags me along or Fumiko comes over to hang out with us.

"I have this blouse that needs some buttons reattached," I hastily explained. "But I don't have a sewing kit at home or know how to reattach buttons, and...."

"Sure," Fumiko interrupted before I could start sputtering. She turned toward the restauraunt – and then did a double take when she saw who Megan was hugging inside.

Fumiko looked back at me. "Is that him?" she asked incredulously.

I leaned around her to look. Hans waved and then turned to continue his conversation with Megan. "Yeah," I said. "Or his evil twin. Or a doppelganger." _Shit._ Were doppelgangers real? Great, now I was going to have nightmares until I made sure everyone I knew had a code phrase for verifying their identity. I hoped no one had been replaced already. That would suck.

Fumiko glanced back at Hans and then at me. "Huh," she said again.

"What?" I demanded. A little defensively, too. Sure, I knew it was insane that a guy like Hans had asked me out, but that didn't mean my ego wanted everyone else to think so, too.

Fumiko shook her head. "Nothing," she said. Then she added, "I was just so sure you were a lesbian."

_"What?!"_ I squawked, and Fumiko started laughing.

"Well, sure," she teased. "You and Megan are practically married already. I've been expecting you two to just make it official for years now."

I glowered. "That's not funny," I said, and Fumiko's snickering gave way to a grin.

"Okay, so I was wrong," she said with a shrug. "Unless he's your beard?" She asked with a sly smirk. Then Fumiko gave me a friendly punch on the shoulder. "Either way, nice catch," she added with a nod toward the window. "Try not to break him too badly."

Fumiko turned and went to join Hans and Megan. I pulled myself together and followed. But even though I knew Fumiko had been teasing – because the only thing more preposterous than me having a guy was me having a girl – I couldn't quite shake this queasy feeling in my gut. I mean, sure... I spend a _lot_ of time with Megan. And she features in a lot of my fantasies. But that was just because she was my best friend, and beautiful and confident and sexy – and _I'm_ a hyper-anxious neurotic freak. They weren't _lesbian_ fantasies because I wasn't even in them! And the ones that were still didn't have me in them, and didn't count, anyway – that was the same as making up a BL slashfic of Hans and Mr. Salvatore, but with women. Right?

....

God, I wanted this year to be over with already.

# Chapter 23

When I got in line Megan was already sitting down – at a booth this time – and Hans was ordering what I suspected was going to be his usual. I got mine and Fumiko got the chicken sandwich. She also got to the booth before I did and sat next to Megan – which left me in uncomfortable proximity to Hans. But at least as long as he was next to me he wouldn't be able to lewdly stare while I drank my soda.

"So, you must be Fumiko," Hans was saying as I sat down. He offered Fumiko his hand across the table and they shook. "I'm Hans. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Fumiko agreed easily. "So, Megan said you're hot to sit with everyone and find out how they do business. I work from home, so I'll expect fair warning before you show up. Or I could just tell you about it sometime."

"Oh!" said Megan. "We should drag him to the convention. He could see you network and meet some of the American artists who publish with us."

"Hmmm." Fumiko murmured. "But who would he go as?"

"Convention?" Hans asked at a loss.

I buried my attention in my food while they explained to Hans about the importance – nay, obligation – to cosplay at anime conventions. Although he obviously had no idea what he was in for he good naturedly took them at their word. Soon he found himself out of his depth and inadvertently excluded from their conversation as Megan and Fumiko discussed the pros and cons of different hunky bishounen.

Hans kept giving me sidelong looks when he realized Megan and Fumiko were lost in their own little hobby world, but I resolutely refused to meet his gaze or engage him in conversation. I didn't know if he was really just wingman-ing it for Mr.Salvitore or if I was being paranoid (well, I knew I was paranoid – but was I _just_ being paranoid?) but I didn't want to give him a chance to weasel concessions out of me before I knew Mr. Salvatore was gone and Megan was safe. Especially since it wouldn't take much weaseling. I was so wound up from trying to act normal despite being dirtily deep in reminiscences about this morning that I was about ready to blurt out anything.

Besides, for all I knew that wasn't really Hans. It could be a doppelganger.

When lunch was over I got back in Megan's car while Fumiko got a refill on her drink. I was buckling up while she and Megan were still saying goodbye to Hans. Even so, I didn't breathe easily until Megan and Fumiko rejoined me.

"Well, he seems nice," Fumiko opined as she buckled up.

"Yes," Megan agreed. "And he'll make a splendid Prince Tanaka."

"Mhmm," Fumiko agreed with an enthusiasm I've only seen in her when it comes to dressing someone up. "But we'll see," she added. "It might not work out." Fumiko glanced at me over the back seat. "I mean, Abby didn't seem that into him."

I flushed since I knew who Fumiko _did_ think I was into.

"Hm," Megan said noncommittal. "But you saw him looking at her, right? I don't know all the details of how things went last night, but from what I do know... there's something there."

I flushed harder and turned to look out the window. I was pretty sure all that was 'there' on Hans' part was a keen nose for lusting pheromones. Fortunately, Megan and Fumiko's conversation turned before I could get too mortified. Unfortunately, it turned to the topic of which of Prince Tanaka's harem of love interests I could best portray.

I was intensely grateful when we reached work. Despite my firm protest that her armor was too impractical, Megan seemed convinced I should go as Hilda, the barely clad amazon princess. I'm pretty sure Megan was teasing – but if Fumiko got it in her head to agree, then I was going to spend the entire convention too mortified to leave my room.

When we got back to the office, Fumiko followed us back in. "I have to pickup some printouts," she explained as we wandered back toward my office. I didn't say anything: The door to Mr. Salvatore's office was open, giving him a clear view down the hallway to Megan's desk. I tried not to stare – I didn't want to tip him off that I was on to him – but just a glance was enough to see that his gaze had completely skipped past Fumiko and myself. Turning my back on him to head to my office was the second hardest thing I'd done all day. Not running was the first.

Megan and Fumiko didn't notice, of course. But why would they? They were laughing about something I didn't catch, safe in a world that was free of werewolves, goblins, and stalker vampires.

Fumiko rolled Megan's chair into my office and Megan followed her. I closed the door behind us, blocking out Mr. Salvatore's gaze. My skin still crawled.

Fumiko sat in Megan's chair and Megan sat in her usual spot on my desk. After a quick glance to make sure all the blinds were open, I went to join them. Megan and Fumiko didn't believe in goblins, so it was probably safe. Besides, I didn't see one when I surreptitiously glanced under my desk. I sat in my chair and tried to just get a grip.

Fumiko, of all people, ruined _that_ plan.

"Hey," she said. "What's wrong, Abby? You seem a little more twitchy than usual."

Megan gave my hand an encouraging squeeze. I'm not even sure when she'd taken it, but casual physical contact is one of Megan's things. "I think she's still flustered over lunch with Hans," she said when I didn't manage to say anything myself. "He seems to do that to her – I _still_ don't have all the details about last night, even though she promised to call me last night after her date."

Fumiko looked skeptical, but covered it up by sipping her soda. Megan gave my hand another squeeze, but it just made me feel miserably guilty. I _had_ promised.

"I told you I couldn't," I tried to remind her. "I forgot my phone in the booth at the restaurant, and he would've overheard if I'd tried at my place." I laughed giddily. "Hans has ears like a wolf," I explained for Fumiko's sake.

Megan sniffed dismissively. "Well, you know you still could have called after he went home. I _am_ a night owl, you know."

Fumiko glanced between us, silently sipping her soda. I just _knew_ she was adding subtext that wasn't there. It wasn't! I started to blush.

Megan looked at me with growing intensity. "Abby," she asked slowly, "when _did_ Hans go home last night?"

There were so many ways I could have replied. Hell, I could have _lied._ But I was all flustered from Fumiko's knowing grin and couldn't sort through my options. So I just swallowed and squeaked: "After breakfast."

Then Fumiko spat soda out her nose, which saved me from having to respond to Megan's dropped jaw.

"Oh, ow ow ow ow, oh God ow," Fumiko gasped while cupping a hand over her nose. Megan passed her my box of tissues, and Fumiko used them to wipe her face and hands. She took another to dab at her eyes. " _Seriously?"_ she asked when she'd regained her composure.

"Well, nothing happened," I said defensively. "I fell asleep."

Fumiko started laughing.

"While we were talking!" I yelled at her. "We stayed up late talking and I fell asleep, and when I woke up he made me breakfast. That's it!"

Fumiko covered her mouth with the back of her hand to smother her giggles. She handed the tissue box back to Megan. "Really?" Fumiko asked.

My cheeks flared. "Well... we may have made out," I mumbled. "A couple of times... but that's it! Can we please stop talking about this?" If they made me keep going all I had left was the part where Hans turned into a wolf.

"Okay," Fumiko said, holding her hands up in surrender. She was smiling like she wasn't going to stop thinking about it, though.

"Alright then," I said. I was still flustered. This morning I'd been upset that I'd failed to have a one night stand – why was I so adamant about not letting Fumiko and Megan think I had, now? I couldn't make sense of it except to conclude that _I_ didn't know what I wanted, and it really didn't help that I wasn't sure I could even trust doppel-Hans.

Fortunately, they really did let the topic drop. I retreated into the safety of antisocial silence, and after a few minutes Fumiko and Megan were back to chatting lightly about books. Then Jimmy showed up with Fumiko's printouts, and she left. Shortly after, Megan wheeled her chair back out to her desk. I let her go – how could I stop her? – but I did check to see that Mr. Salvatore's door was shut, first.

Then I closed my office door and sat back down on the floor next to it. I leaned against the wall and stared at the sunny sky outside my window. I desperately wanted this year to be done, but I couldn't deny – even to myself – that it would get worse before it was over. Tonight was still coming, and it filled me with dread.

Parties and crowds and strangers aside, I had never before in my life been this afraid of the dark.

# Chapter 24

I'll admit I was in a bit of a rush to leave at the end of the day. Mr. Salvatore's car hadn't moved, and I had a suspicion that he didn't intend to leave until after the office party. Probably with Megan in his trunk. So, combined with my belief that the best place to be was as far away from him as possible... Yes, I was eager to leave. I left the office while Megan was still saving her files.

"I'm almost done," she assured me absently while shutting out her programs. I did my best not to fidget, but I was practically dancing with the desire to _leave._ I was glad no one else was around and Megan was distracted with her computer. I probably looked like I was about to wet myself.

Then Megan finished. She logged out, rummaged in her purse for her keys, and stood. "Let's go," she said with a smile for me.

I breathed a sigh of relief — which is the _only_ reason I didn't scream when Mr. Salvatore idly said: "Dear me, is it quitting time already?"

It's hard to scream when your lungs are empty.

I hadn't seen him leave his office. I hadn't seen him coming down the hall toward us. In fact, I hadn't seen him _at all_ until he'd spoken up. Ordinarily, I would have assumed I'd just been being flaky and unobservant. Now? I didn't know if he had super vampire speed or if he'd been using some undead mind technique to hide his presence — but either possibility was terrifying.

Megan didn't bat an eye. "Afraid so," she said. She laced her fingers together and stretched her arms to the side. "But I assure you it was a productive day, and our departure is well earned," she said cheerfully.

Mr. Salvatore chuckled appreciatively. "That is as it is," he agreed amicably, "but I do hope you're planning on coming back tonight. As one of my department leads I have set aside some awards and recognition for you in specific."

Megan smiled. "Thank you," she said. "And, yes. We are planning to come by before the night closes."

"Wonderful," Mr. Salvatore replied. Despite Megan's use of 'we', he hadn't looked my way once. He rested one hand idly on the edge of Megan's desk. "I look quite forward to seeing you there." I got the impression he was giving her the old 'vampire mind control stare.' Hans had said vampires couldn't really do that, but could I really trust what Hans said? Besides, even if I could, maybe it was actually just that vampires couldn't really do that to werewolves.

I slipped my arm around Megan's without thinking and pulled myself next to her. "Yep!" I said a little too loudly — but it forced Mr. Salvatore to shift his attention to me. "We'll totally be there," I continued. "Wouldn't miss it. Working for you has been great, you know? I still can't believe I have a job I enjoy enough to have done as a hobby." I was babbling, and Mr. Salvatore was staring at me with distaste — but that was fine, because it kept his attention off of Megan. And, frankly, it would be a lot worse if the vampire were looking at me like I _was_ tasty, right?

"It'll be weird working for Hans," I continued to ramble. "Oh! But I'm sure we'll get used to it. Anyway, we should go. Lots to do before the ball drops, you know? But we'll totally see you at the party," I lied — I still had no intention of letting Megan near it. I started to drag her down the hall with me. "Bye! See you later!" I chattered.

Megan gave up and let me lead her away. Mr. Salvatore didn't move from her desk, though he did turn to watch us depart. Megan waved goodbye to him as I hustled her into the parking lot. Goddamn hypno-vamp.

Once we were outside, Megan matched my pace. "What was _that_ about?" she asked as we split up at her car.

"He's creepy," I told her from the passenger door. "Creee-eepy," I reiterated as I got in. "A creepy old vampire."

Megan laughed and buckled in on the driver's side. "You know, he can't be _that_ much older than us. No gray hairs."

_Only probably a few hundred years,_ I thought. I felt a little sick. Against a few hundred years' experience with hunting nubile women, what chance did I really have of keeping Megan out of Mr. Salvatore's clutches?

"You think he's creepy, too," I obstinately posited. "And we have lots to do. So I was just saving you from being drooled over so we could get going." Drooled over and _bitten._ "You're welcome."

"I do not," Megan protested. "And we don't have _that_ much to do. Just stop by your place for some clothes and then kill time at mine for a while. It won't take too long to get gussied up for the party at Luminescence. Just an hour or two."

I blanched. I had no idea what Megan had in mind to do to me that would take an hour or two, but I had a mental image of myself in full goth makeup with dyed punker hair.

"Yes you do," I said as Megan started the car. I was too distracted by my mental image to think about what I was saying — I didn't have anything appropriate to wear with all that makeup. I would look like the deranged offspring of a mime, a rockstar and a librarian. "You don't touch him."

Megan stopped and looked at me. "What?" she asked.

I blinked out of my reverie. Rockstar seduces librarian made for a good fantasy, but in a three-way with a mime? How was that supposed to work out? I shook my head and thought about what I'd said — but it was true. "You don't," I said in surprise. "You like to touch and hug people. Me, Fumiko, Jimmy... even Hans, and you only met him yesterday. But you don't go out of your way to touch Mr. Salvatore... Because on some level you _know_ he's a creeper, creeping out on you!" I concluded triumphantly.

Megan frowned at me. "That's not it," she said. "It's just that when I started hanging out with Katherine, she asked me to stay away from him. And I got the impression that there was some history there, so I thought I should respect that. But I don't _dislike_ Mr. Salvatore the way you do." Her frown deepened. "I hope keeping my distance hasn't been this obvious to everyone. I would hate to have hurt his feelings," she added worriedly.

I blinked. _Katherine_ had told Megan to stay away from Mr. Salvatore? That didn't make sense. Unless he _liked_ the chase, or something. "Oh." I said. "Well. Um. We still have lots to do," I said to justify myself.

Megan looked at me askance. "Like...?"

"Um. I don't have anything to wear," I said. "I mean: nothing that would be appropriate at Luminescence, you know?" Club L catered to the goth-punk crowd, and my wardrobe leaned heavily toward 'comfortable and work appropriate' instead. "So I thought we could do some shopping since the parties aren't going to start until late."

"Really?" Megan asked in surprise, and I nodded.

"Yeah," I said — though the truth was I'd _just_ thought of it. The mental image of me in goth makeup... I really didn't have anything to wear with that, and if I did I'd be too mortified to be caught in public in it. And it certainly wouldn't be appropriate for work. But I didn't _want_ us to go back to the work party... and Megan is always trying to get me to add something flashier or frillier or fancier to my wardrobe. So I knew she would agree because she'd be getting something she wanted — and I could deal with being mortified at club L if it gave me an excuse to refuse to go to the party at work, after.

"Okay," Megan said. "Actually, when I was out with Fumiko last week we saw some things that would be great on you."

"Uh-huh," I said as Megan pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the shopping district. I felt a little queasy; I was already starting to regret this. Especially since I was basically manipulating my best friend. That was shitty of me. But I'd warned her about Mr. Salvatore and even told her he was a vampire — but she hadn't believed me then and it hadn't magically become more believable now that I knew it was true.

I took a deep breath. Just setting myself up with a reason to refuse to come back to work and trusting that Megan wouldn't either was a terrible plan, anyway. It was entirely possible she'd decide to go without me, which would leave her with no one watching out for her. I'd try it if I had to, but if it came down to it I knew I would cave and go with her.

No... If I really wanted to keep Megan away from Mr. Salvatore, my only real chance was to keep her distracted at Club L. If we just stayed there late enough we could miss the office party entirely. Plus, the club wasn't either of our homes — I didn't know where Mr. Salvatore would go hunting first if Megan didn't show, but I was betting the club was further off his radar than the addresses on our employment records.

But I already knew from Megan's conversation with Katherine that Megan expected me to want to leave early, and was planning on dropping me off at home and swinging by the office before heading back to Luminescence without me. Which implied that she wanted to spend the evening at the club, anyway, and the office was just a detour she planned on making when I inevitably started to freak out. I swallowed. Oh, hell; I'd known the night was going to get worse, but this took the cake and threw it through a fan at a bridal party.

If I wanted to keep Megan from calling it at Luminescence I was going to have to be enjoying myself convincingly enough that she wouldn't think I wanted to leave — otherwise we'd be on our way into Mr. Salvatore's clutches and Megan would think she was doing me a _favor._

# Chapter 25

By the time we pulled into the mall parking lot I had already struggled not to hyperventilate and won. In fact, I had achieved a sort of zen-ish calm. I was so afraid of what would happen if I freaked out and Megan left me behind and Mr. Salvatore got ahold of her that all my usual fears paled in comparison. I mean, they were still _there_ , but the crowd of strangers doing their shopping all around us barely even registered.

Megan, on the other hand, was just about bouncing with excitement. I knew she went out to browse for fun with Fumiko a lot, but I rarely joined them. Most of the time when Megan and I go shopping together I'm in a rush to get my groceries and get home – in fact, even though I know how much she likes to browse outfits I don't think I've ever let Megan take me out with the express intention of getting something impractical and 'fun.'

She seemed absolutely thrilled to have the opportunity now. "...and a really cute top," Megan was saying as she half led and half pulled me toward one of the stores. "But modest. The only sheer bits are the sleeves, under the lace. Oh! And there's another one with polka-dot skulls, if you're thinking 'adorable gothy.' Or..." She stopped outside a store with displays that had a lot of corsetry, lace, and dark fabrics. "Well, there's a lot you should try on," Megan told me. She turned me to face her. "Are you sure about this?" She asked while studying my face with belated skepticism.

I smiled. Megan's enthusiasm was a little contagious, and trying things on would mean a changing room – and a changing room would mean _privacy_ , as long as I could ignore the possibility of security cameras and peepholes and creepy people slipping mirrors under the doors.

"Yeah," I said. "It's my New Year's resolution," I offered by way of explanation. "I'm going to try new things and be less of a shut-in." Actually, my New Year's resolution was to be a better friend to Megan – especially since I still felt all guilty and deceptive about my efforts to keep her safe from Mr. Salvatore. But since Megan liked going out and that was new to me, it was basically the same thing.

Megan beamed. "Okay," she said. "Then we should just look around a bit first. Grab anything you might like, and we'll sort out the winners after you try them on." She spun before I could respond to her decision that there would be more than one winning outfit. "Let's go!" Megan exclaimed, and pulled me into the store.

It wasn't huge, as stores go, but it was crowded with merchandise. Most of it looked dark with splashes of color, though some of the displays were flat out goth. There was a small section with tee shirts and jeans, but the rest of it looked like blouses, skirts and corsetry. Mostly the sort of stuff I could imagine Megan in while being held down and pleasured. Not the sort of things I wore.

I was starting to have second thoughts – and third and fourth. I don't have the shape or confidence to pull off the kinds of outfits Megan can – but wasn't that the point? I veered away from the jeans and tee shirts. Whatever I got, it had to be risqué enough for me to make a legitimate case for not wanting to go to the office in it – however embarrassing that might be.

That turned out to be my answer to the whole situation: instead of just staring at things and thinking 'hell no,' I looked for things I could imagine on Megan or Fumiko, and then grabbed the smallest size on the rack. Once I got out of the mindset that I was browsing for me, I actually started to get into it. I knew from her cosplays that Fumiko had no problem with tiny skirts or elaborate getups and, well, Megan can make anything look good.

I started to flounder after the third or fourth rack, when I realized I had a huge armload of stuff and Megan had wandered off without my noticing. As soon as I started looking for her, though, she re-appeared with her own selections in hand and a big grin on her face.

"You're really getting into this!" she commented cheerfully. I did my best to smile back like I wasn't starting to feel ill.

"Yep!" I agreed, since that was all I could manage without dropping everything and running for the restroom.

Of course, Megan is my best friend so she _knew_ I was starting to feel overwhelmed despite my best efforts. "Come on," she said gently. "The changing rooms are back here."

Megan led me to the back of the store and into a rather spacious room with one of those booth doors that don't reach the floor or ceiling, a small bench, a full length mirror, and a couple of empty clothing racks. She helped me get everything onto one, but when she turned back to the door she didn't leave – she just locked it.

"Uh..." I said when she turned back to me. Megan snorted.

"Oh please," she said. "You're doing really well so far, but I know you. If I leave you alone in here you'll look at everything in Abby-vision and decide it looks awful on you. So I'm staying to give you an unbiased second opinion. Deal?"

I nodded weakly and Megan smiled. "Good," she said – and picked a skirt and blouse off the rack. She thrust them toward me. "Now, let's start with these. No, not just over your jeans," she added with an air of authority. "Strip, missy."

Now, I'm sure Fumiko and Megan have shared a dressing room in the past. Probably a lot. And I've never thought anything of it – except now I couldn't stop thinking about Fumiko teasing me at lunch, about how she thought Megan and I were lesbian for each other. And the things Fumiko would speculate about if she were here. I mean, I'd never really considered it before, but a dressing room is a kind of intimate space, you know?

I took off my shoes. Megan kept holding out the skirt and blouse. I ducked down a little to hide my furious blushing behind them while I worried down my pants. _Undressing_ is a kind of intimate activity, too. Even if Megan clearly didn't think so. Hell, I was just being freakishly shy and embarrassed about dirty thoughts I wasn't even having, wasn't I? Those thoughts weren't my fault! Those were all Fumiko's ideas. She started it!

I felt like I had to be completely scarlet by the time I straightened, but the mirror behind Megan assured me it was just my face. In the past when I'd needed new clothes and Megan would come along she would often pick out things she thought would be 'so cute' on me, which I would then obstinately refuse to try on anyway. But the fact remains that Megan has often – as a friend! – told me she thought I was super cute, or could be if I wanted to.

But people don't sexify 'super cute' unless they're super touchy feely and too drunk to care who they're making out with. So for purposes of my imagination – which was over actively pursuing Fumiko's teasing – it wasn't Megan and I alone in a changing room, it was Megan and Fumiko. Which was kind of upsetting because my go-to genre is BL, not yuri, but shipping Megan/Fumiko was alarmingly hot.

Especially since I knew they went shopping like this _all the time._ Who knew how often they ended up locked alone together in a dressing room, stripped down to their lacy lingerie; admiring each other.... Maybe they were _trying on_ lingerie, even, and then there was the urge to touch a particularly enticing curve while complimenting a particularly risqué bra. A hesitant but inevitable brushing of fingers against skin – fingers that were hastily pulled away, but not before the caresses' recipient gasped in surprise at the indecent pleasure that jolted through her, and....

I hurriedly pulled off my shirt so it would cover my face for a second. Then I grabbed Megan's offering and turned toward the wall while I dressed again. Okay! So it was a lesbian fantasy and it was getting me going. That didn't mean anything. Jimmy and Carl could do it for me, too, and that didn't mean I was a gay man! I mean, I'm not even male so how could I be? Plus, wasn't I making out with Hans last night? And this morning?

This was totally Fumiko's fault. And I couldn't even decide who was pushing who up against the mirror in order to fervently kiss and finger her, because _I don't have_ lesbian fantasies.

..... Damnit.

So, after Mr. Salvatore left town and Hans blew me off and everything got back to normal I was going to have to find some good yuri to add to my collection, wasn't I?

Fortunately, Megan seemed to assume that all my awkwardness and blushing had to do with trying on a new, outrageously immodest style – and not with my inability to stop picturing my best friend and only other friend smothering each other's moans with kisses while passionately getting off. Even more fortunately, I soon managed to hit terminal embarrassment and stop registering the passage of time. Before I knew it we had gone through everything and I was back in my normal clothes.

A few things ended up on the discard rack: some tops that Megan had been ambivalent about and one that she'd decided didn't fit right. My input had been mumbled and largely ignored. Personally, I thought the jeans she'd brought in for me to try were at least a size small, but she'd put them on the 'keep' rack.

"So," Megan asked me, "favorites?"

I blinked. I was feeling a bit dazed, but at least my imagination had run its course. And being a little stunned let me carry through on my plans without being excessively hesitant. Since the objective was something I'd be too embarrassed to wear to work, I picked out a fluffy skirt with black pleats and lacy fringes and a faux corset top (all cloth, no boning) that laced up the back. Megan had all but squeed when I'd tried on the combination, and I'd felt like a sorry excuse for a slutty goth princess ballerina wannabe – so it was pretty much perfect. I took them off the rack and held them up.

Megan grinned. "Okay. Go get rung up." She scooped everything else off the rack and followed me up to the front counter.

The cashier was a somewhat sullen looking brunette with a lot of makeup and piercings. I put my two items on the counter. "Hi," I said when she didn't look up. "Um, I'd like to buy these," I added when she did. "And I guess those will need to be hung up or something?" I frowned at Megan. "Shouldn't we have just left those back there?"

Megan laughed. "Oh no," she said. "I'm getting these for you too," she added, and plopped her armload on the counter next to mine.

"Megan!" I protested, but she shushed me with a shake of her head.

"Sorry, sweetie," Megan said. "I'm getting my holiday shopping done _early_ this year. Besides, it's a New _Year's_ resolution so you're going to need more than one outfit for going out in. Especially with a guy like Hans on the hook."

I gawked at her. "But... that's way too much!"

Megan scoffed. "Hardly. You still need shoes for tonight's outfit. And stockings. Or tights? We'll have to see what they have at the next place."

"No," I protested. "I mean, that's too much to spend!"

Megan laughed. "Oh, please, Abby. I'm loaded. You act like I'm not, but I am and I want to spoil you, so let me." She made a gesture that encompassed everything on the counter. "All of this," she told the cashier.

I sputtered, but Megan slipped in front of me and started to fish her wallet out of her purse. Finally I managed to wail: _"Megan!"_ But she just turned around and stuck her tongue out at me.

"If it'll help you feel better," Megan said with an impish grin, "I'll let you carry all the bags."

# Chapter 26

We hit three more stores before Megan decided we needed to head back to her place and dress for the evening. The second was another clothing boutique – but this time I managed to get away with just a couple of skirts and a pair of low heels.

The third shop was a kind of ritzy jewelry store. I was horrified by the idea that Megan was going to go overboard here, too, and insisted I pay. She ignored me, and I ended up with some wrist bangles and a butterfly necklace.

I _did_ manage to pick out and purchase two items on my own. One was a pair of crescent moon earrings that I couldn't resist getting to tease Hans with – assuming his interest wasn't a ruse and he didn't just drop me tomorrow. The other was a silver cross. It was fairly plain and hung on a simple chain – but it was real silver and probably the most I've ever spent on jewelry. Which isn't really saying much, but... I was going to give it to Megan.

Megan had stopped going to church sometime in college. I had never really gone. Dad told stories sometimes about when he'd almost been suckered into joining a cult and they'd soured me on organized religion. Paranoia and the possibility of secret cultish agendas just don't mix well. I guess I'm agnostic. I like to think that there's a driving force to the universe and that it's benevolent – but I don't think about it too much for fear that it's actually Cuthulu and if I accidentally invoke him he'll appear and drag me – kicking and screaming – into a tentacular hentai nightmare.

I don't know where Megan stands with her faith. We haven't talked about religion in a long time; not since that first year of college when we were still becoming friends. But a cross is part of the goth motif, so I was confident she would wear it. Maybe it would help keep Mr. Salvatore at bay.

The last shop, to my mortification, was a lingerie store. Ostensibly – according to Megan – we were there to find stockings that would work with my new shoes. But somehow I ended up with a lot of other lacy garments... okay, not 'somehow.' I grabbed them. Maybe Hans would ditch me and maybe he wouldn't – but if he didn't I wanted to have something a little more fancy on the next time I found myself panicking about what he'd find if he tore open my blouse.

I refused to let Megan join me in the changing room at that one. I was even too embarrassed to let her see what I'd picked out when I was done – so I managed to get away with paying my whole bill, on my own, there.

....

It may have been more than the jewelry had been.

We grabbed drive through on the way to Megan's.

I finished mine in the car so I'd have fewer bags to carry up.

Megan lives in... I guess it's a duplex? She has the outside staircase to the second story of an old house owned by an equally old lady. Mrs. Butterson is the kind of crinkly old woman who is either a sweet ol' gramma or a wicked witch, depending on your relation to her.

Since I am not related to her, I subscribe to the theory that she is terrifying. That said, I approve of Mrs. Butterson. Since Megan lives under her roof, Megan gets the sweet ol' gramma routine – but she also lives under Mrs. Butterson's rules, which are pretty aggressively 'for your own protection' and included things like: no strangers. No boys. No late night parties. Honestly, _most_ of the things that freak me out are on Mrs. Butterson's banned list.

The old lady was sitting on her porch with her nephew, Zane, when we pulled up. I've only met Zane a couple of times, but he seemed to be the only relation who spent a lot of time around Mrs. Butterson. I wasn't sure if that was because he was conscientious, or if he was the only relative local, or if he was just enamoured with Megan – but I didn't trust him. Zane was tall, thin, and not really athletic. He looked like he'd gotten gangly in puberty and then stayed that way. He had sandy red hair, an overabundance of freckles, and ears that stuck out like radio telescopes. He was also squinty-eyed in a way that reminded me of a weasel. And not the cute fluffy kind. No, he was the mafia movie henchman sort.

Megan waved to them as she got out of the car and Zane waved back. I was very careful not to glare at him for fear of attracting his aunt's evil eye upon myself.

....

Aw, hell. Witches were _real_ now, weren't they?

I unloaded the car and hoped I wasn't breaking into a sweat. I bet witches could _see_ fear, like it was an aura or something. Despite Megan's earlier teasing she helped me with the bags. I _think_ we got them up the stairs to her suite without getting cursed.

Once we were in her living room, Megan dropped her purse and food off at the coffee table and the shopping bags on her couch. I locked the door and then dropped my bags next to hers. Then I rummaged through them to pull out my outfit for the night.

"Do you think we have time for me to do a quick washer/dryer cycle?" I asked.

Megan plopped down in her armchair and picked up her salad from the coffee table. "Just those?" She asked. "Sure. It's New Year's Eve, anyway. However late we show up, the party will still be going."

I smiled weakly. That was good, because the later we showed up, the less time I'd have to struggle to be having too much fun to leave. I went to start the laundry.

Unlike my place, Megan's suite had multiple rooms. There was the living room, with kitchenette and dining space attached. Then there was a little hallway with three rooms on it: the utilities room – which had Megan's washer and drier – the bathroom, and Megan's bedroom. The hallway also had a door that opened onto some stairs leading into Mrs. Butterson's domain. And then there was a little room off of the bedroom that I think might have been a nursery or study once. Megan used it for an extra closet.

I loaded the washer and started it running on light load. I usually do my laundry at Megan's and it reminded me that I'd wanted to bring over the clothes that had touched my bathroom floor this morning. It would've been nice if we could have stopped at home so I could have showered, too. Trying on clothes that might have been tried on by someone else first always gave me an acute case of squick.

I did my best not to think about it too much. There wasn't time to do anything about it anyway. I went back to the living room to rejoin Megan.

Before I got back to Megan there was a knock at the front door. I peeked around the hallway corner to watch her answer it. If it was Mr. Salvatore, I needed to be ready to leap into action. If it wasn't... well, why needlessly risk catching the Evil Eye?

It was Zane. He stood awkwardly in the doorway when Megan opened it. "Um, hi," he said, waving a heavily bandaged hand in a clumsy greeting.

"Hello, Zane," Megan said from the door. "Can I help you?"

"Oh!" He said as though remembering why he was there. "Uh... Well, when I saw you were home so late I thought maybe you didn't have plans for New Year's. And then I thought, well, maybe you and your friend might like to join auntie and me. We're having banana splits at midnight."

I assumed Megan smiled, because that's the sort of person she is. "I'm sorry," she said. "We were actually just stopping in for a bit – we have an office party we have to go to."

"Oh," said Zane. He seemed to crumple a bit. I sniffed. I could have told him not to get his hopes up. Megan was out of his league and I was scared of his aunt.

"But thank you for the invitation!" Megan said cheerfully. "It was very considerate. Oh! What happened to your hand?"

Zane looked down at it bashfully. "My aunt asked me to get something off of the oven," he said. "She forgot to mention that it had just been _in_ the oven."

From the way Megan's shoulders hunched I guessed she winced in sympathy. "Oh, you poor dear," she said.

Zane laughed weakly and scrubbed a hand through his hair in embarrassment. Unfortunatley, it was the bandaged hand and a few strands got stuck. He tugged his hand free and hid it behind his back. "It's my own fault," he said. "I should've realized. Sometimes she just forgets little details like that."

"Well, _I_ think it's very admirable how you take care of Mrs. Butterson," Megan said. "In fact... here, you can save this for midnight," she said. Then she rose up on tiptoe and planted a kiss lightly on his cheek.

Zane blushed to the tips of his enormous ears. "I-uh... Um..."

"Goodnight, Zane," Megan said. She waggled her fingers at him in a coy goodbye and closed the door while he was still stammering a reply.

Zane and Megan? No.... this was just Megan being nice and flirty. She was way out of Zane's league. But then again, when push came to shove I'd never really thought any of her boyfriends – or casual partners – had been good enough for her. So maybe the whole league thing didn't matter. Still, if there'd been anything there I was sure she would've told me about it.

Megan turned around and smiled at me. I tried to smile back, but couldn't quite manage to. Megan didn't notice though because she turned back toward her seat. I swallowed and sat down again, too.

Megan gave me another smile as I sat down on the end of the couch that wasn't covered in shopping bags. This time I smiled back. As nerve wracked as I'd been all day, it was still impossible not to see Megan happy and smile. I shuffled a little anxiously when she went back to her salad. Megan was an amazing friend, but I had no idea what being my friend did for her. I relied on her for all kinds of things – what did she get back from me?

I mean, sure: there was chocolate for her in my purse, if she needed it. But she didn't know about that. And I was trying to look out for her with the whole Mr. Salvatore situation – but she didn't _really_ know the extent of that, either. As far as she could possibly be aware I was just a needy, selfish, _crap_ friend – and as far as I was concerned, the fact that she was my best friend anyway just served to highlight what an amazing person she was.

She was settling for me the same way she'd settled for her boyfriends. She should have a better best friend. She _deserved_ a better best friend.

"I... um. I got you something," I finally said when Megan was done eating.

She looked at me in surprise and blinked. I started looking through the bags for her necklace before she could reply. When I found it I held it out toward her, feeling a mix of anxiety and embarrassment.

Megan put down her empty salad tray and accepted the box from me. "Oh, sweetie," she said, "You didn't have to."

"I know," I said while she opened the box and looked. "I wanted to. Um... I know you don't go to church or anything anymore, but I thought... It's gothy and stuff." I fidgeted when she didn't reply. "And it'll keep vampires away. Maybe."

_That_ made Megan laugh. "Thank you," she said, and took the necklace out of the box. She put it on and beamed at me. I felt really stupid and ducked my head, blushing. Vampires. Seriously? I almost couldn't believe it myself.

"The truth is," I managed to say, "I didn't resolve to try new things next year." I swallowed, but forced the rest out. "I want to be a better friend. I... I realize I'm all antisocial and neurotic and you're always helping me deal with it or get over it and stuff. And that's been _really_ obvious lately, even to me. I mean: I don't take advantage of your money, but I do take advantage of _you._ And that's pretty crappy of me. So... And...."

My confession ground to a halt. I bit the corner of my lip. I wanted to say more; to make sure Megan understood – but I couldn't make myself. I don't think Megan would have listened, either.

Megan swept out of her chair and onto the couch beside me. She wrapped her arms around me in a fierce hug. "Sweetie... Abby," she said, "You aren't taking advantage. I choose to spend my time with you, and if you happen to need to be doing something else when I'm choosing to be with you – well, then it's my choice to do that with you. It's not taking advantage to accept something that's freely given. Or, am I taking advantage of you whenever I'm delighted by one of your stories, or enjoy one of the manga you recommend, or share your company when I'm feeling lonely?"

I stared at my hands – clenched in my lap – and didn't respond. I was trying really hard not to sniffle. I'd _told_ Megan what a horrible person I am, and _nothing_ scares me more than people figuring that out. But she didn't believe me, and _that_ , on top of the werewolves and vampires and goblins and parties and god knows what else, _that_ almost had me in tears.

Megan buried her face in my hair. For a moment, she just held me like that. Then she straightened a little. Enough to say: "I love you Abby, you know that, right?" She sniffled and hugged me tighter. "You're my friend, and I want you to be happy, and I see how hard you try – and I see you panic, and.... I just want to see you happy. It's not taking advantage when a friend tries to help you be happy."

It was the sniffle that undid me. I was making Megan sad. I was the lowest, rottenest, worst sort of person – and she loved me as her friend. I started crying. Sobbing. Bawling.

The tears didn't last long. I've spent too much of my life refusing to cry for that. But Megan cradled my face against her shoulder and I sobbed until I was empty of the rest of it. Of the fear and anxiety and self-loathing. Everything.

She rocked gently with me and stroked my hair until I sniffled and pulled away. She let me.

Megan got a tissue from the box on the coffee table and offered it to me. I took it and dabbed at my eyes; blew my nose. My face felt sore.

"You know," Megan said, "We don't have to go out tonight. We can stay here; watch a movie. Hang out together. Just us." Maybe it was just in contrast with my depression – or maybe it was that she'd carried me through it – but she looked radiant.

I shook my head. "No." I'd promised to go out with her, and she _liked_ going to the club. And there was no way – after all of that – that I was going to let her sacrifice something she wanted for my sake. Not if I could help it.

We wouldn't go to the office party. I would take her up on her offer to stay in if she suggested we go there. But we _were_ going to club Luminescence. And I was _not_ going to ruin it.

....

Not if I could help it.

# Chapter 27

While I threw my clothes in the drier Megan went into her room to get her own outfit together. Once the drier was going I joined her. I sat on her bed and thumbed through the manga on her nightstand while she dressed. I was mostly just looking at the pictures since it was one I had borrowed from her before — Prince Tanaka had accidentally invited Lady Miaka and Lady Hitomi to the same ball. When they realized what had happened, Hitomi and Miaka had both taken offence — and even though they were usually rivals they'd stalked off together to 'cool off' with a stroll in the gardens. Then the amazon princess Hilda showed up, and....

"What do you think?" Megan asked.

I frowned. "I bet you could totally ship Hitomi and Miaka if you were into yuri." I'd never thought about that before. Damnit, Fumiko!

"Well, obviously," Megan agreed. "But I meant about this."

I looked up and blinked. Megan had twisted her hair up in a knot held in place by a pair of ornate chopsticks. Her semi-sensible work clothes had been replaced with a slinky, curve-clinging, sleeveless black dress with lacy trim along the neckline, a peek-a-boo cutout over her cleavage, and a hem that barely dropped below her hips. She was wearing the necklace I'd gotten her, but she was also wearing a black ribbon and lace choker and more black ribbons tied decoratively around her arms and wrists. Her legs were bare and she was carrying a pair of very strappy, toeless black heels.

"You are going to freeze to death," I blurted without thinking.

Megan laughed. "I think I can make it from here to the car," she assured me. "And the club is always hot, too." Megan spun around and swung her hips and shoulders to some imaginary music — then paused and looked at me over her shoulder. "So? Really, what do you think?"

I swallowed. It was really hard not to imagine some goth guy with a frightening number of piercings bending her over the club's bar. Or the way that dress would wrinkle as its hem was thrust up over her hips, or how the music would drown out her moans as he ravished....

"You look ravishable," I squeaked.

Megan grinned. "Awesome," she said. "Totally what I was going for," she added with a wink. "Now go check the dryer. I'll do my makeup while you're getting dressed, and then we can do yours and scoot."

"Okay," I said weakly. In my head the bartender — a big, punk-rave sort of guy — had come over after he'd realized where the goth guy's actions had left imaginary Megan's open, moaning mouth. I bolted out of the bedroom before he could drop his pants and I could start blushing harder.

Even then I spent a couple minutes in the utility room leaning against the dryer with my legs squeezed together and my eyes squeezed shut — trying to blank the scenario playing out in my head. I ended up having to bite down on the inside of my lip — hard — while I was at it. It hurt enough to distract me from my own imagination.

When my head was clear enough for me to get dressed, I did. Admittedly, I was still a little shaky. But that was just because I was getting ready to go out in public dressed up as a porntastic gothic ballerina princess and had nothing to do with whatever I'd just been thinking about.

I was really glad the utility room didn't have a mirror. I'm pretty sure seeing my face would have proved me a liar to myself — my cheeks still felt hot. But then again, maybe if I could see how badly I was pulling off the whole 'gothic porn-erina' style I really _would_ start freaking out about that instead.

I went back to Megan's room so I could borrow her mirror.

Megan was sitting at her vanity, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. She'd replaced her red lipstick with black, and made some more changes to her eyeshadow and... stuff. Okay! So I don't know a lot about makeup. We've established that already, alright?

Anyway, I had once read — maybe on the internet — that there were two kinds of goth. Hot goth, and scary goth. Megan was definitely pulling off the former.

Megan turned around when I came in. She looked me up and down and pursed her lips in a long, saucy wolf-whistle. "Well, look at you!" Megan said. "You're going to have wannabe sons of darkness keeling over at your feet," she teased.

I laughed, but utterly without confidence. "Only if they're trying to peek up this skirt," I said.

"Nope," Megan countered. "Heart attacks, every one. You heartbreaker, you."

I tried to joke back. "Well, they shouldn't have gotten their hopes up," I said. "I have a boy..." I stopped. I _didn't_ have a boyfriend. I had a Hans, who was a werewolf, and who may have asked me out because he could smell when I was riled up and may or may not be running wingman interference for his creepy vampire buddy. "Uh," I said. "I'm sure they'll survive. They're all undead already anyway."

Then I blanched. What if they _were?_ I had a horrible instant where I wondered: _What if I take Megan to club L to hide out from Mr. Salvatore, and the whole place turns out to be a huge den of gothic punk rave-pires?_ I mean... _Katherine_ hangs out there. What did _that_ suggest about the rest of their clientele?

But Megan's laughter snapped me out of it. "I said wannabe," she chided. "Now come over here so I can do your face."

I knelt down next to Megan's chair and tilted my head up so she could get at my face. I closed my eyes for most of it and focused on deep, slow breathes. The touch of brushes and pencils and whatever else on my cheeks and lips and eyelids felt _weird_ , but on the whole it was a relaxing experience. I was being pampered, and it was by _Megan_. I could trust Megan not to stab me in the eye and hide my body under the bed in a fit of sociopathic glee.

She made me flutter my lashes through a mascara brush and then studied her work. "Done!" she pronounced. "Let's get your jewelry and get _going_."

In the living room I put on my bangles — a couple of hoop bracelets on my left wrist and a rather empty charm bracelet on my right — and the crescent moon earrings I'd bought. At least if Hans _was_ playing me and we never went out again I'd have gotten to wear them once. Megan swapped her wallet, phone and keys into another purse and smiled at me. "Are you going to be okay driving if I drink in the new year?" she asked.

I nodded. I _hate_ driving, but I'll suffer through being the DD at times like this. The only other option would be taking a cab, and that freaks me out worse. I'll refuse to get in a taxi on my own, and if we got one together tonight... Seriously? A hellaciously sexy goth girl to tie up in the basement and a free meal for the guard dogs. What psychotic abductor with a cab license in his right mind would pass _that_ up?

Megan smiled. "Great," she said. "But remember: we can always cut out early if you're feeling too crowded, okay?"

I nodded again. I didn't trust myself to say anything. Megan wanted to have fun — and I wanted her somewhere with lots of witnesses that wasn't _guaranteed_ to be on Mr. Salvatore's radar. I was determined to keep my shit together.

And if I did panic, and Megan was drunk, and I had to drive.... I was going to get us a room in some ritzy, well-lit hotel and then I was going to sit up until dawn with the nightstand Bible in one hand and a sharpened number two pencil in the other.

# Chapter 28

Megan parked in a little pay lot down the street from the club. On our way out she waved to the rather elderly guard on duty at the exit. "I hope you're getting holiday pay for this, George," she called out.

George tipped his hat. "And overtime," he confirmed amicably. "You two be safe," he added.

"We will," Megan called back. I clung to her arm and didn't say anything — I didn't know George and it was _cold_. We hastened down the street to the club.

Club Luminescence was a big, windowless building. It took up most of its block face and would have looked like an old brick warehouse if it weren't for the bright, multi-colored neon letters that spelled out 'LUMINESCENCE' over the door and the ornate goth-ish black ironwork that trimmed the foundation, doorway, and sign. Oh, and the small line of patrons outside.

Megan skipped the line and waved to the bouncer at the front of it. "She's with me, Bob," Megan said while pointing at me. Bob — an absolutely massive man with an impressive number of scars and tattoos and a leather outfit that I can only describe as 'bondage chic' waved us in. I clung closer to Megan and tried to hurry as she crossed the building's threshold. Bob looked irritable. Also, if his nipples were any indication, he agreed with me that it was too cold for shit like lingering outside.

Inside the club, on the other hand, it was _warm_ — the excessive warmth of too many people engaged in frenetic motion. The warmth of bodies.

And it was dark. There were dim lights around the booths at the edges of the room, and brighter ones around the bar, but the dance floor itself was lit up by pulsating, spinning, colored spotlights that didn't do much to illuminate what they weren't sweeping directly over and the glowstick jewelry of the punk-raver portion of the crowd.

The air thrummed to the pounding of the music — a fast, techno rhythm — and the floor seemed to shiver from the force of all the people bouncing around on it.

Megan and I slipped aside, clearing the way to and from the front door, and she stood on tiptoe to peer into the crowd. I don't know how she did it: I couldn't see past the first layer of gyrating, gesticulating strangers. Also, I don't normally wear heels. I felt like I was on tiptoe already, and Megan's shoes had at least twice the heel mine did.

"There they are," Megan shouted over the music. She pointed. "I told Katherine we'd meet her and her friend here. I hope you don't mind."

I stared into the mass, trying to figure out where Megan was pointing. It took me a minute to spot Katherine, even though she was right in front of us, dancing at the edge of the crowd. It took a double-take to recognize her.

Prim, proper, scary Katherine had gone goth. The internet was wrong. Katherine was hot scary goth. Hot, scary, bondage goth.

Katherine still wore her glasses, but her short hair was slicked back and up in spikes. Her lips were blood red and contrasted sharply against her pale skin even in the club's dim, flickering light. I'd never noticed how pale her skin was — but then again, I'd never seen her put so much of it on display.

Katherine was wearing a velvety spaghetti-strap black dress with a red leather under-bust corset. The dress' skirt was _way_ too short for me to imagine her in, and comprised of black, velvety pleats over dark red lace that rose up to just midway across her hips when she spun and it flared out. She wore sheer black stockings that looked like they'd been scored with a razor blade and black, opaque, full-arm gloves.

The high necklines I was used to seeing her in were gone, replaced by a wide, red leather collar with black lace trim and dangling steel loops. Matching bands circled her upper arms and wrists and thighs — even her ankles, too.

But no shoes. If Katherine had come to the club with shoes she'd lost them at some point during the evening and didn't seem to care. Her nylon clad feet flashed through the 'Hey, look guys: we just might be lesbians' dance with a somewhat more modestly dressed blond raver, and didn't slip once.

"That's Emma," Megan shouted once she saw I'd spotted the right couple. "You'll like her. She's really shy. She had a bad breakup last year, and she's still getting over it."

"Uh-huh," I said noncommittally — but the club's noise drowned me out. I don't think Megan noticed my lack of enthusiasm. She bounced on her toes and waved at her friends. _I_ wondered if the bad breakup from last year had been with Mr. Salvatore.

Then the music shifted to a different song, and Katherine and Emma slipped away from the crowd. Katherine smiled at Megan and Emma waved back at us. I did my best not to be too conspicuous about hiding behind Megan.

I don't do well with strangers. And it didn't really help that Emma was supposed to be 'really shy' because everyone knows it's the shy ones who keep to themselves that always turn out to be psycho killers with corpses piling up in their freezers. I watched them coming toward us and tried to brace myself. I had a mission! I had to have so much fun tonight that Megan wouldn't decide she had to move things to a party where my surroundings would be more familiar, damnit!

"You made it!" Katherine shouted over the music when she was close enough to be heard. Megan stepped forward and hugged her. "Wouldn't miss it," Megan said.

"Hi!" Emma said over them with a little wave. "I'm Emma. You must be Abby, right?"

I didn't really want to reply because Emma had successfully covered both sides of our introduction and anything I might add would probably ruin it — and something about the way Katherine's hug was lingering and her collar and cuffs mirrored Megan's choker and ribbons, like they were some kind of set, made my jaw clench.

"Yeah," I managed to force out.

"Cool," said Emma. "Great outfit. Do you come here often?"

Katherine pulled away from Megan, but held onto her hand. "Come on," Katherine said. "Let's get some drinks." I was momentarily paralyzed as she pulled Megan away — and then the crowd closed around them.

I stared, gaping, at where they had just disappeared. _What just happened?_ I was alone, in a strange place, surrounded by strangers. Shock set in fast. Everything else seemed to shut down. I was dimly aware of Emma talking. The music seemed slow and unreal. That might've just been a new song, though.

"...used to come here a lot," Emma said, "But then I sort of didn't for a year, and now I don't know all the new regulars."

I tried to fight through my fugue. _I need to have fun. If I'm freaked out when Megan gets back,_ I told myself, _It's over._

"What?" Emma shouted over the music — it was getting louder and faster again.

Shit fuck mortifying holy crap — had I said any of that out loud?

"I need to have fun," I told Emma in abject terror — so, yes. Verbal filters were officially off, and I was indeed blurting out everything that came into my head.

But apparently I was also sufficiently in my automatic freakout coverup mode that my emotional state wasn't being conveyed — because Emma smiled widely. "Then let's dance!" she shouted. She caught my hand.

_Oh shit, what?!_ I thought as Emma pulled me toward the dance floor. I stumbled dazedly after her. Oh shit. _Oh shit. Oh, Shit!_

# Chapter 29

I was completely off balance, emotionally and physically – thank you, jackass who invented heels – when Emma stopped at the edge of the dance floor. She looked back at me. "What was that?" she shouted over the music.

I was pretty sure it had been a string of profanities. Maybe just the same one over and over. I had no idea what to do. "I have no idea what to do," I yelled back at her.

"It's easy," Emma called back. "You just have to catch the rhythm and move with it. Watch." She started bouncing on her toes, matching the beat of the club's bone-shaking dance techno. Then her hips started to sway. Her head bobbed and her shoulders swung – just a little. I stared. Emma was mostly just staying in place while moving. It wasn't like the foxtrot or the tango or anything else we'd done during the one day of dance in middle school gym class. Emma made it look good.

I tried to focus on her, if only to block out the writhing masses of strangers around us.

I knew Emma's name, so she didn't count as a stranger anymore. Right? _Right?_

Emma kept one arm straight at her side, palm to the floor. The other one was raised and her hand was beckoning me to join her as her body moved in sinuous synchronicity with the music. Her eyes were closed and she'd clearly lost herself in her own world despite her invitation. Unfortunately, as much as I wanted to join her in my own little world, devoid of strangers, I couldn't.

I'm not graceful. There's no way I could move like that.

I gawked instead. My mouth felt dry – I hadn't been paying attention before, but now that I was I couldn't help but realize that Emma was pretty. I mean... she wasn't Megan-beautiful or Fumiko-hot or Katherine-terrifying, but she wasn't plain like me, either. Not by a long shot.

Emma was young. My age? Younger? She couldn't be much younger or they wouldn't have let her in the club, but she was way younger than Katherine, anyway. She had blonde hair like mine, but hers was longer and better behaved. She was a little taller than me, and curvier in the appropriate places. She was wearing a pastel cap-sleeved tee shirt with a pink cartoon pony on it and a pair of purple pants that were leather or pleather or maybe some kind of metallic paint. They were _really_ tight. She was also wearing two multi-colored glowstick necklaces, and her wrists were laden down with mismatched multi-colored bracelets: clunky ones, thin ones, cloth ones, metal ones, braided ones – even a couple more glowy raver bands.

In short, she was _pretty_ – the girl next door, moonlighting at a rave party.

Emma opened her eyes and smiled. "See?" she asked.

I nodded numbly. I was trying very hard not to have inappropriate thoughts about her and this large, punk-rave bartender I'd made up. I mean... I'd just met the girl.

Although... how long do you have to know someone before it's _not_ inappropriate to picture her grinding up on a guy until he fucks her from behind, right there, standing on the dance floor; her tee shirt pulled up and knotted around her wrists and her shiny purple pants shoved down and clinging round her hips while she moans and writhes for everyone to see?

...

I decided to blame it on being a stress response. People aren't entirely responsible for those, right? I was distracting myself from the fact that I was surrounded by strangers, standing on a dance floor – just standing there like a dork – while the person who'd brought me there showed off just how exhibitionist a pastime club dancing could be.

"Join me!" Emma cajoled. She was smiling, bright eyed and just a little flushed.

"Uh... maybe I can just watch?" I offered instead. Preferably from somewhere over in the shadows by the wall where no one would notice me. Or maybe I could secure one of the booths at the back of the club – some of those looked like they had curtains. Obviously so that shell shocked newcomers like me could hide out and just do their best not to imagine what was going on in the rest of the club.

Not that my imagination wasn't already wildly, indecently out of control.

"Well," said Emma, "if that's your thing." She winked at me and moved a little closer. She was still bobbing and shimmying to the music, but she wasn't turning around to show it off to everyone else anymore. She moved a little closer still – but no, I had to be imagining things. I mean, if I _wasn't_ , then she was dancing at _me._ And that just didn't make sense. How does someone even dance _at_ someone, anyway? I was just being certifiable.

But even so, Emma was seriously in my personal space. We were almost touching – but not. Emma even ran her hands over my hips – without actually touching them – while she shimmied down to her knees. I swallowed. She looked up at me, smiled, and rolled her shoulders – arching backward with each movement until her hair swished against the floor.

So: Emma wasn't just pretty. She was also pretty flexible.

My imagination did _not_ need to know that.

Also, apparently, I'd been co-opted into her exhibitionistic dance style despite myself. She wasn't dancing _at_ me – we were doing the 'hey look, guys: we just might be lesbians' pole dance, and I was the pole. I kept my attention firmly on Emma so I wouldn't have to try to cope with knowing exactly how many strangers were salivating at us from the surrounding crowd.

Emma swished back upright and then shimmied her way back up me. Our gazes were locked the whole time. I don't know how she could move like that without watching what she was doing, but she did.

When she was all the way upright, Emma leaned in close to my ear. "How was that?" she asked.

I swallowed. I didn't know what to say. I'd been too busy watching her to judge anyone else's reactions or point out whose interest she may have piqued. In fact, I'd been deliberately avoiding looking at anyone else. Obviously, she needed a more adept partner for this. I really hoped Megan and Katherine got back soon.

Fortunately, the music changed and I was saved from replying by Emma stepping out of my personal space and bouncing excitedly. "I love this one!" she shouted. Then she caught my hand. "Come on!" she encouraged. I dimly realized I could either do what she was doing or be a prop again. _This_ was what Megan considered 'shy?' But then again, by Megan's standards maybe an exhibitionist was. Or maybe Emma was just drunk – who knows what she'd been up to before we arrived? Katherine had certainly been quick enough to bolt for the bar.

I did my best to bounce in place. I had to look like an idiot. At least when Emma bounced she _bounced_ – since my corset top was sleeveless, I didn't even have on a padded bra to give the illusion of a jiggle.

But Emma grinned at me. Then she did some spinny step that sidled her up next to me and swung her hip into mine.

If she hadn't been holding my hand I might've gone sprawling. As it was I stumbled, caught myself, and tried to reciprocate – but that ended up more like a protracted hip shove than a hip check. God, I was bad at this.

I'm not sure Emma minded, though. She swung her hip against mine again, but this time instead of bouncing back she lingered, pressing her leg against mine and dragging her hip over mine in a sinuous way that probably made my skirt lift to a dangerous degree on that side. Then, in one smooth motion, she rolled her body along mine until we were standing back to back.

Well, I was standing. Emma was still dancing in place. She caught my other hand and since that meant she was holding both of them I was forced to move when she did. I had to look like a spastic marionette – I was distantly glad that Emma couldn't see how badly I was botching her efforts. I squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn't have to see the massive, gawking crowd that could, either.

I mean: a pretty girl was grinding her ass against my butt in a blatant display of faux lesbianism. Who wouldn't be staring?

Unfortunately, in the absence of visual stimuli, my imagination rose to the fore. I wondered how far Emma would be willing to take it.

I bet if Megan and I hadn't arrived when we did, Emma and Katherine would have concluded their dance and started making out. Arms and lips and tongues entwined; one of Emma's legs draped around Katherine's hip as they clung together.

And then some poor drooling bastard would get too close, and Katherine would spring her trap – and the next thing he knew, he'd be leashed to the foot of her bed, bound hand and foot and naked except for the whip marks she'd given him, a ball gag, and a butt plug with a fluffy tail attached.

And meanwhile Emma, abandoned on the dance floor, would be at the mercy of all the other hyper-aroused carnalvores she and Katherine had attracted....

But despite all the indecently erotic ways that could play out, my imagination kept insisting on going back to the two women kissing. God _damnit_ , Fumiko!

Emma let go of my left hand and rolled her body along mine again. She raised my right arm and spun under it, ending up in front of me – but pressed just as close as when she'd been behind me. I opened my eyes wide. Emma's arms were over my shoulders. Her wrists were crossed behind my neck – and her body was dragging lightly over mine as she worked her hips and legs and _everything_ in an utterly unself-conscious display of seduction.

Whoever her ex-boyfriend was, I had to believe he was kicking his own ass every day over their breakup. As for me, my mouth was bone dry and I felt way too warm and I was frantically aware that pretty soon this dance would end – but from the sparkle in Emma's eyes I didn't think she cared that I wasn't Katherine.

I don't even star in my own sexual fantasies. So the realization that _in reality_ a pretty girl was just about to kiss _me_ was enough to trip all the panic reflexes that I'd been desperately trying to keep under wraps since entering the club.

I tried to push myself away from Emma. I was all set to _run_. But in my haste I mis-stepped. My heel skewed out from under my foot and I went down with a yelp.

Emma caught me around my shoulders and I caught myself against her – complete with a face-plant to the chest that would have made any ecchi mangaka proud to have conceived.

"Ow," I muttered. It came out muffled.

"Are you okay?" Emma gasped.

I looked up at her and tried again. "Ow," I said. God, I was pathetic. Talk about fail: instead of escaping I'd mashed my face into her boobs and effectively hobbled myself. Well done, me! "It's the heels," I said – bemoaning my own incompetence. "I'm not used to them." If I were, I would have escaped.

Emma winced and nodded. "How's your ankle?" She asked. She shifted her grip to better support me. I felt like an ass. I'd been trying to run away in a mad panic, and here Emma was trying to take care of me. But at least the music had changed and we hadn't started making out.

And that wasn't disappointing.

At all.

I think?

I tested putting weight on my ankle. The sharp spike of agony was just what I needed to clear my head. I breathed a sigh of relief. If it had been really bad I wouldn't be able to walk on it – but I could, so it wasn't.

"I'm fine," I said.

Emma looked me over. "Okay," she said dubiously. "But maybe we should sit down for a little bit, anyway. Maybe get you a drink?"

I nodded. Megan and Katherine had gone to the bar. I really wanted to find them. Or at least Megan. "Okay," I said.

"Great," Emma replied. She shifted her arm around me and made sure I had an arm around her. She did her best to support me, even though I did my best to walk normally. I've watched enough movies to know the old hack coaches throw out about working through the pain – but for me, frankly, sometimes the pain is the only thing that lets me work at all.

# Chapter 30

When we got to the bar I was disappointed to see no sign of Megan or Katherine. I was further disa... Relieved. I was also relieved to see that the bartender was a rather average looking guy with shaggy hair, a goatee, and neither raver nor gothic accessories.

Emma helped me onto a stool and took the one next to me for herself. She waved at the bartender. "You know me, Mark," she said. Then she pointed at me. "And Abby's on my tab."

Mark nodded. A moment later he put a shot glass of something green and jeweltone in front of Emma.

"You don't have to..." I started to tell her, but Emma just shook her head.

"It's not a big deal," she said. "Order whatever."

I nodded and decided not to argue. Knowing me, I was going to freak out about something eventually, so I might as well be amenable while I could. "Okay," I said. "Um, water?" I added to Mark. I may not be arguing but I still didn't want to take advantage – and I know from hanging out with Megan that even juice gets expensive when it's on a menu next to booze.

Mark nodded and flipped a bottle out of a cooler. He caught it in midair and set it down in front of me. Then he wandered off to check on someone else.

I picked up the bottle. It was ice cold, which was wonderful. I still felt a little flushed. Also, the seal around the cap was in place, so: Score. I was not about to get roofied. Unless someone had used a syringe to inject it with drugs, and was trusting any leakage to be mistaken for condensation. I gave the bottle a surreptitious squeeze to see if water came spraying out of any pinholes. When I didn't see any I decided to risk it and drank.

When I put it down the bottle was more than half empty. I was also a little embarrassed that Emma had just watched me chug it like a frat guy with a beer – and I wondered if she thought I was making light of her generosity.

"I'm the designated driver," I hastened to explain. Maybe it was the acoustics of the club, but it seemed easier to talk here at the bar.

Emma chuckled. "I know how that is," she said. Then she threw her shot back, demonstrating that she was under no such constraint tonight. Mark appeared with another one and then disappeared just as quickly. Since I still wasn't feeling drugged and he hadn't said a word to me so far, I decided I could approve of how Mark handled his business.

"So, really, how's your ankle?" Emma asked as she picked up her second glass. "You're _sure_ it's okay?"

I nodded. I couldn't afford to go home with a sprained ankle this early. Who knew what trouble Megan might get into? She might decide to take advantage of Mr. Salvatore's prepaid taxies and hit the office party – only to find herself stuffed in a crate and shipped off to some old English castle, where she would spend her days chained up in the wine cellar next to a bunch of other nubile young women. I couldn't let her live out the rest of her life imprisoned in the dark by some stodgy butler who doubled as a sommelier of blood types and only let her out for undead banquets!

"I'm fine," I said. I wiggled my foot to prove it. And to distract myself from images of torturous exsanguination devices and surreal vampire drinking habits. Would they _really_ surgically implant straws in people's necks just for convenience's sake? God, those were some creepy bastards. I mean, you had to be a sick freak to come up with stuff like that. I looked at Emma. "See?"

Emma looked. For a long time. In fact, I started to get the impression that she wasn't just taking in my ankle. Actually, her gaze seemed to stray as far up my legs as my skirt would allow.

But that was just me being crazy, right? I mean... I'd obviously just been letting my imagination get away with me when we'd been on the dance floor and I'd thought she was going to try and kiss me. And now I was doing it again. And I didn't even know why! I wasn't into girls. All of my fantasies involved guys. Sometimes _just_ guys.

My memory betrayed me with the mental image of Emma and Katherine making out, somehow mashed together with some earlier thoughts about Fumiko and Megan. My legs were crossed, but I found myself squeezing them tighter together. I tried to smooth my skirt down to cover more of them. It didn't really work.

Okay... so, _some_ fantasies had just girls. But those didn't count. They were all Fumiko's fault. And besides, I was into guys. I had a Hans! In fact, I was _so_ into guys that most of the time when I had fantasies involving other women, they were fantasies about other women _with guys_. I couldn't be into women – I hadn't even experimented with lesbianism in college, when it would have been socially acceptable!

Of course, I hadn't actually experimented with guys before yesterday, so maybe that wasn't the most logical of arguments... but, still!

Emma threw back her second shot and smiled at me. I kicked the leg of my stool with my bad foot – I didn't need to be spazzing out because I was imagining a pretty girl might be inexplicably into me. Especially since I knew _she_ was into guys: Megan had told me Emma had broken up with her boyfriend. Or had Megan just said there'd been a breakup? I couldn't remember.

"So, where do you think Megan and Katherine went?" I asked.

Emma snorted. "Knowing them? They probably got a bottle of the good stuff and snuck off somewhere for cuddles."

I frowned. True, I've seen Megan twitch her fingers, summon a guy, and wind up in his lap before. And if Katherine snagged a guy by the collar and told him to get on his fucking knees, he would – but she just didn't strike me as the cuddly sort.

"Hey," said Emma. "You look like you bit a lemon! Am I that bad of company?"

"No," I said. "I just can't imagine Katherine being cuddly," I added to explain.

Emma laughed. "It takes some doing, but Katie is a sweetheart when she lets her guard down."

I must have looked incredulous because Emma laughed again. "No, really," Emma said. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the bar. "I... I had a pretty rough time recently," Emma confessed. "A bad breakup, you know? But Katie went into mother hen mode and got me through it."

I nodded. I still didn't see it – but if Megan was friends with Katherine then I guess there had to be something more to her than just terrifying me.

Emma waved to Mark for another drink. This one she sipped. "Anyway, that was last year. So screw that guy." She sat up and pumped her fists in mockery of a tough guy pose. "I am back and ready to party!" she declared.

I fidgeted. "You should totally do that," I said – because encouragement seemed to be the desired response and I had no idea what else to say. Also, I was weirdly disappointed to hear Emma confirm that her ex was a guy, and I was too busy trying to figure out what _that_ was about to make good conversation. "I'll watch," I said.

Emma looked at me and blinked a couple times.

"Ankle," I explained. Why was I getting nervous about this? I wiggled my foot. "I probably shouldn't dance on it. So I'll watch." I didn't like the idea of sitting alone at the bar, but I could nurse the rest of my water and ignore the crap out of anyone who sat down next to me. Right?

"That's no good," Emma said. "Dancing just isn't as fun when you're on your own. Although...." She leaned in and I leaned closer to hear despite myself. "...I did like how you were watching me before," Emma confided. "It was all intense and shivery."

My eyes widened. "I... uh... " I stammered.

Emma bit the corner of her lip. "In fact," she added in a hushed tone, "I liked it a _lot_." She licked her lips unconsciously and straightened. She was starting to blush. "I mean... aw, shoot," she said. "Look: I've been a miserable social shut-in for, like, a year. I probably _still_ have baggage from that guy. But when Katie convinced me to come out tonight I promised myself it would be a no-regrets evening, right?"

I nodded. I felt like my brain was working but nothing was happening – I was stuck in a loop of 'She's hitting on me!' and 'No she isn't, you sex-obsessed weirdo!'

"So...." Emma finally said. "I guess what I'm saying is... I know I'm being really forward, but..." She took a deep breath. "If you want tofindaprivateboothandfuck, I'dtotallybeokaywiththat."

The last of Emma's words came out in a blurted rush, and it took me a stunned moment to decipher them. "What?" I squawked. _Holy fuck, she actually_ is _hitting on me?_

"Or make out?" Emma suggested. She fidgeted in belated shyness – or maybe embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she hastened to add. "It's cool if you don't. I just... no regrets, right? I didn't want to not ask."

I stared numbly. I think my mouth was ajar. I'd been so busy convincing myself I was making things up that Emma's proposal was a complete blind side, and I had _no idea_ how to answer it.

The logical choice was probably: 'I'm not a lesbian, sorry.' But since when have I been logical? "I have a boyfriend," I blurted out instead.

And _that_ gave me pause, because, really... did Hans count? I hadn't thought he did two hours ago at Megan's. Shoot, I'd only known him for two days and we'd only gone out once. So unless Hans was right about me being the possessive type, I was just freaking out and trying to turn Emma down without actually saying no for some reason. Why the hell wasn't I just saying no?!

"Oh," Emma said. "Is he open?"

I stared. What?

Emma winced shyly. "I mean... my ex always liked it when I fooled around with my girlfriends in front of him. So if you want to call your guy and ask if it's okay, that's cool." She suddenly grinned. "Oh, and I have a camera phone if he wants pics," she offered.

I didn't know what to do with that, so I ignored it completely.

"I should warn you," I said in one last attempt to dissuade her, "I might be the possessive type."

Emma practically glowed. "That's okay," she said. "I kind of like that."

# Chapter 31

I stared at Emma for a moment. Then I reached over, picked up my water bottle, and downed the rest of it. When I didn't pass out, I concluded that I hadn't just been partially roofied and hallucinating.

"I... uh... need to make a phone call," I said.

Emma smiled really wide. "I'll go find somewhere private," she said. Then she slid off her stool and threaded her way toward the nearer wall of booths.

I fished out my phone, flipped it open, and dialed shakily. It rang four times before picking up.

_"Help,"_ I hissed into the receiver as soon as the call connected.

"Abby?" Megan asked on the other end. The club's music threatened to drown her out. "What's wrong?"

"I've just been propositioned!" I blurted out.

"What?" Megan squawked. She had to be a little tipsy, I realized. Normally she'd be a lot more composed and already teasing me about something like this. "By who?"

"Emma!" I yelped back.

"Oh, Abby..." Megan hesitated. "Turn her down gently, okay?" she said at least. "Emma's had a really hard year."

"I think I said yes," I whispered hoarsely.

"What?" Megan cried in surprise. "But... but... aren't you straight?" she stammered.

"I don't know!" I wailed. "No one's ever asked me and I've never thought about it and I would think I am because of Hans but I said yes to Emma so maybe not and _I don't know what to do!_ " I gasped for breath after blurting all of that out, and then I had to struggle against the urge to hyperventilate.

There was another long pause before Megan came back. "Okay," she said, and she sounded more uncertain than I have _ever_ heard her. "Emma's a sweetheart, but she's still fragile. So just take it slow, okay? Don't do anything you weren't comfortable doing with Hans, and don't freak out on her, and it'll be okay."

Right. Nothing I'd been uncomfortable doing with Hans. So, no life-altering revelations. Which was fine because there was _no way_ experimenting with lesbianism for the first time would go there.

I was so screwed.

Emma waved from outside a curtained booth, and I swallowed nervously. "Um. I have to go," I said. "Thanks." I hung up shakily. Why hadn't I just said 'I am flattered, Emma, but I'm not into women?' I wondered. My memory answered with the imagined scene of Emma and Katherine making out.

Oh. Right. I tried putting myself in for Katherine, but it just didn't work. So I tried Megan, instead, and yeah... that was hot. I swallowed again, stood, and made my way to the booth Emma had picked out. I had to get away from the crowd. I felt too hot, like everyone could look at me and see that I was thinking lewd thoughts and knew I was perverted enough to be getting worked up over them.

It was suffocating. The pain from my ankle didn't even cut through it.

Emma slipped into the booth when she saw me coming. It was actually a huge relief when I joined her and the heavy black curtain cut off the strangers' stares. I took a deep breath and surreptitiously checked the ceiling for cameras. Thank god for privacy!

I looked back at Emma and breathed out. _She's fragile,_ I reminded myself. _Don't freak out on her._

I could see it, too. Emma was kneeling in the seat toward the back of the booth, facing out. Her head was bowed down a little and she had crossed her wrists over her knees, scrunching her shoulders together in a pose that was both endearingly shy _and_ managed to push out her breasts. Her face was turned down, but she watched me through her lashes while biting down on her lower lip. It was like all the easy confidence and forwardness she'd shown on the dance floor and at the bar had melted away now that we were alone.

"Well," Emma finally built up the nerve to say. "You're the possessive one, so... take possession."

Alright, so maybe not all of it.

I slipped into the seat next to her. My mouth felt dry. I was seriously out of my element here, and the only reason I wasn't totally freaking out was that – shock and uncertainty aside – Emma just didn't scare me the way Hans did. I mean... Physically imposing alpha male barbarian pseudo authority figures? Sexually _dangerous._ But pretty, slightly drunk bi-curious college coeds on the rebound? I've never even had to think about that before. In fact, in my extremely robust fantasy life that was exactly the sort of girl who would find herself _in danger._ Not the sort that would be dangerous.

Especially since Emma had gone all shy and passive on me, like she thought _I_ was the barbarian in this scenario!

Emma squirmed a little under my gaze, pulling my focus out of my rambling thoughts. Her eyes met mine for just an instant before she averted them and started blushing. Shyness and uncertainty had completely replaced her earlier brazen demeanor. And honestly... that kind of did it for me.

I had the impression that if I just asked Emma if she wanted to forget all about this and go back to the bar, she'd leap to say yes out of sheer embarrassment. Perversely, recognizing that bit of myself in her made me not want to ask. And, frankly, she was pretty. And her shyness was cute. And her uncertainty did a lot to help me ignore mine. And I'd been getting worked up ever since she'd dragged me into a crowd of strangers and made me watch her dance. Also: I was the barbarian in this scenario, damnit.

So... I took the initiative. I leaned in closer and I kissed her. I just ignored how nervous I was and... did it. And it was worth it. Emma's lips were soft, and they trembled a little, and whatever she'd been drinking all night made them taste sweet, and a little tart, and kind of apple-y.

Emma's cheeks were flushed when I pulled away. Her eyes were closed and her lips parted slightly with a soft mue of disappointment – or maybe desire. Maybe both. She leaned toward me for another.

Our second kiss was longer – or maybe it was a bunch of kisses all right on top of each other. We did have to break for air a few times. But that's what making out is, right?

I don't know. But the kisses did grow more heated and fervent with each additional one, and somehow Emma ended up in my lap with her fingers tangled in my hair. I think I must have pulled her there because one of my hands was at the small of her back, holding her tightly and the other had slipped around her waist and up her back; fingers splayed over her shoulder blade. Her tee-shirt was soft and suddenly seemed very thin. I could feel her warmth through it, and her bra strap under my fingertips, and the give of her body as my grip tightened.

It was thrilling... and it was weird. With Hans, the thrill of the danger of it all had utterly eclipsed the actual kissing. But it wasn't like that with Emma. Even though she was in my lap and I was effectively trapped underneath her, I didn't _feel_ trapped. She was there because I'd put her there. _I_ was the one being demanding, and _I_ was the one doing the taking, and Emma was so wildly, eagerly giving in her response that I just wanted _more._

It was kind of like how I felt when I'd laid down the law with Hans, except all the time and ongoing through the experience. I wondered briefly if this was how Hans had felt about me when he'd been holding me against the door and having his way, but then I realized it couldn't be.

Frankly, if I'd been as good and willing a kisser as Emma was then last night would have gone radically differently. Hans and I probably wouldn't have spent enough time talking for me to have found out he was a werewolf. Also: I probably wouldn't still be a virgin, either. But the fact was, Hans had controlled himself admirably last night – and this morning – but here I was digging my fingers into Emma's shoulder and thinking about things like this to distract myself from the fact that I wasn't really in control of anything I was doing but I still wanted to do it... and worse.

The desire was disconcerting enough to snap me out of it. I pushed Emma back. Her only protest was a little whimper as she let go of my hair and sat up straight. We were both breathing hard, but since Emma was taller than me _and_ sitting in my lap that put her breasts rising and falling just below my eye level. And that was _really_ disconcerting, because I was staring and at least as turned on as I'd been last night.

I swallowed. Thinking about last night made me want to peel off Emma's tee-shirt – or maybe tear it, the way my blouse hadn't been – and kiss her bare skin; scrape my teeth along the curve of her breasts and... not _bite_ , maybe, but the thought of making Emma cry out had a rather disturbing appeal.

I forced myself to look up at Emma's face. Her cheeks were still flushed but her eyes were bright. Her lips were parted for breath and she wet them with her tongue. She'd been watching me stare.

Mortified embarrassment ripped through the haze of lust that had been befouling my thoughts. What was I doing? _What was I doing?!_

It was a bad question. It made me realize I was a horrible, godawful person. I was taking advantage, in the worst possible way, of someone who'd been hurt and was vulnerable. I was treating Emma like an object: pulling her into my lap and using her for my enjoyment and... I thought about the scratches I'd left on Hans and realized I'd been wanting to do something so that if she did this with someone else tomorrow they'd know she'd been with me first.

I still did. _That_ ' _s_ what the urge to nibble was about.

Oh, god, there was something wrong with me. I was sick. What the fuck was wrong with me? The scratches I'd given Hans had been an accident, but... If I'd left a mark on Emma it would have been on purpose, except to the extent that I hadn't really been in control of myself. If we'd kept going... I hadn't even been _trying_ to stop myself. What kind of awful person takes advantage of someone like that?

I mean... I know a lot of my fantasies have a vaguely non-con feel to them that I justify by imagining everyone involved thoroughly enjoying themselves regardless of their relative – and myriad – positions. And perfectly innocent women are taken terrible advantage of in those fantasies. But those _were_ fantasies. This wasn't. _I_ wasn't ever in my fantasies, so how could this be? How could I possibly justify actually doing what I'd actually been doing with Emma?!

God. Emma was _in my lap._ I needed to get away. No, I had to apologize, first. As if an apology could even possibly make up for my behavior. It had been worse than if I'd just freaked out.

And now I _was_ freaking out.

Fuck! I had to apologize. And escape. And find Megan. And take her somewhere safe, where vampires couldn't get us. And then hide out for the next forever.

I was going to join a convent as soon as I got out from under Emma. How do you join one of those? Maybe God would take pity on me and pretend that all the times I've used 'god' as an exclamation in my thoughts I hadn't been taking his name in vain. He could say I'd actually been trying to point something out to Him. Then He could convince the pope to let me be a nun, since He and I were best buddies. Right?

Oh, god, I was panicking so hardcore I wasn't even paying attention to Emma. Emma, the girl who'd caught me staring at her breasts like I wanted to tear off her shirt and maul them.

I had to deal with Emma first. _Then_ I could flee. Then I could fall apart. I forced myself out of my thoughts and back into reality.

Emma looked at me and bit her lower lip. She leaned toward me, bracing her arms against the seat back on either side of my head. I braced myself for her disgust and outrage. Or worse: tears. "Oh, Abby," she breathed. "I want more," she murmured in my ear.

I froze. Shock on top of panic made me feel brittle. Emma didn't realize how fucked up this was? I felt a sudden surge of relief: she hadn't realized how fucked up _I_ was. It was followed by shame. Shame that I was relieved that she was so drunk I'd been able to pull one over on her.

"No you don't," I managed to say hoarsely.

Emma pulled back from nuzzling my face. "I don't?" she asked in clear confusion.

"You don't," I confirmed. Because I did. And even though I seemed to be able to stop now, everything I wanted still seemed to be way further on the 'fiercely possessive' side of the spectrum than I was comfortable with. Emma was a _person_. Not an object to be claimed.

But also... I knew she had to be tipsy. She held it well, but Emma had done things with her tongue that I hadn't realized people could do without being born in France or working in porn. I'd gotten a taste of whatever lewdly named drinks she'd had after we stopped dancing. I was willing to bet she'd had a couple before Megan and I had arrived, too. And that meant that since I was the sober one, _I_ had to be the responsible one. Whatever the hell _that_ meant right now.

Emma looked at me. I couldn't tell if she was offended or not – I was too busy trying to figure out the escape part of my plan to meet her gaze. She had me penned in on all sides.

"Why not?" Emma asked.

I wasn't paying attention, which was stupid because I know how I blurt out shit when I'm panicked. And I was definitely panicked, because I couldn't see a way out. "Because _I_ do!" I said. "And all the things I want to do are terrible, terrible things." Was _this_ how Hans had felt this morning? Poor bastard. "So if we really want this to be a 'no regrets' evening for you by tomorrow then I _need_ to stop taking advantage of you while you're drunk! It was selfish and shitty of me to do it at all, but I just... If you'll please let me go I should really get out of your life as soon as possible."

"Oh," Emma said in surprise. She took one hand off the seat back – but instead of letting me go she used it to turn my head until I was facing her. "Alright," she said when she had my full attention. "But I'm not drunk."

"Um... yes you are," I contradicted. "I can taste whatever lewdly named drink Mark was serving you."

Emma let go of my face to smoother a giggle. "It's a virgin pucker," she said cheerfully.

I rolled my eyes to see if I could make a bolt for the booth's exit. Not while she was on top of me. Damn. "See?" I asked. "Lewd."

Emma's giggle turned into a laugh. "No," she said – then reconsidered. "Well, maybe," she conceded. "But 'virgin' means non-alcoholic. I'm not drunk, Abby. I don't drink."

"You – what?" I squawked. I could feel my cheeks heating up. A _drunk_ girl trying to make out with me sort of made sense – Megan had tried once when she was drunk. but that hadn't meant anything. I'd figured Emma had just been looking for a nice, safe, drunken one-night rebound make-out after getting over her ex, and decided to pick a girl she'd never seen before and would never see again because strange men are fucking scary. I mean, I knew Emma was casual about kissing girls – she'd said she used to make out with her female friends to tease her boyfriend, hadn't she? But I'd thought she just meant that as the natural drunken extension of the 'hey look, guys: we just might be lesbians' dance.

I tried to reply, but couldn't. I wasn't sure if my jaw was hanging open or just working soundlessly, but I was too flabbergasted to speak.

Emma laughed again and leaned in against me. "If anyone's taking advantage it's me," she concluded. "If _you_ were, then you wouldn't be worried about it enough to try and stop. But _I'm_ the one who propositioned you, _and_ I'm on top."

I scoffed – automatically trying to express confidence I no longer remotely felt. "Well, sure, but only because I put you there."

Emma giggled. "Oh, is that how it is? Then I guess this is entirely mutual and we should carry on. Say, can I borrow your phone?"

"Uh... yeah." I was sufficiently startled by the non sequitur that I didn't pause before fishing it out of my purse and handing it over.

Emma flipped my phone open long-ways and tapped out a quick text. A moment later her pocket chirped. "Now you have my number," she said, "and I have yours. So no more of this 'getting out of my life' nonsense." She sniffed derisively at the idea. "I happen to approve of people who don't want to take liberties with me when they think I'm drunk, and generally want to keep them around. Oh!" She handed me back my phone and dug out hers. "For your boyfriend," she said. Then she held the phone out at arm's length and leaned in to kiss me while clicking a picture. Her other hand got tangled in my hair again.

I may have gotten a little bit distracted then. Somehow Emma ended up pressed tighter against me. She must have put the phone down at some point, because the next thing I knew she was running all of her fingers through my hair again and we were back to kissing very, very emphatically.

And then we were interrupted. Before I got swept away into sliding my hands under Emma's shirt and doing something stupid – or sadistic – or sadistically stupid – the booth's privacy curtain was yanked open.

# Chapter 32

Katherine glared at us from outside the booth. She bristled with fury. "Abigail," Katherine snarled, "we need to talk. _Now._ "

I gaped at her. I felt like a dominatrix was yelling at me for stealing cookies from the jar, except I was also having ingrained flashbacks to Katherine hounding us when deadlines were approaching at work. I looked to Megan for help, but Megan wasn't there.

"You are a royal bitch," Katherine spat at me. "Emma, I thought you had better taste."

The insults didn't register to me, but Megan's absence did. "Where's Megan?" I panicked. If no one was with her then who would know if Mr. Salvatore was nabbing her?

"In the bathroom," Katherine snapped. "Checking her blood sugar. Or maybe just crying her eyes out in private."

"What?!" I shifted Emma out of my lap and stood. Concern for my best friend eclipsed pretty much everything else. I'd be a wreck when Katherine's anger caught up to me, but until then... I stepped up to Katherine. "What the hell did you do?"

"Me? Me?!" Katherine's eyes widened in outraged fury. She stepped forward, pushing me back against the table. "You're the one who's call made her give that stupid excuse and run off crying! What did you say to her?"

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. My mind was reeling — Katherine's anger was catching up. But Megan had sounded _fine_ on the phone. "I... uh... I asked if she'd be okay with staying here late because I was kind of hitting it off with Emma," I said. Which, in retrospect, might not have been _exactly_ what I'd said — but I'd meant to, and Megan has known me for long enough that she usually knows what I mean when I accidentally blurt out something else entirely.

"Oh, _no,_ " Emma gasped. "I thought it was Fumiko!"

I looked at Emma in surprise, then at Katherine, and then back at Emma again. "What?" I insisted.

Emma clambered out of the booth. "I'm going to check on Megan," she said hastily as she squirmed past Katherine, who grudgingly let her go. I watched Emma disappear into the crowd and started to follow, but Katherine put out an arm and blocked me.

"Okay, seriously," I said. "What the hell?"

Katherine glared at me like I was a particularly loathsome bug. "Megan has had a stupid crush on you for years," she said. Her voice dripped with caustic derision. "And _you_ just decided to come out to her by 'hitting it off' with another woman."

I gawked at Katherine. "But... Megan's straight," I said in confusion. "She dates boys." I knew she did. I knew she did _in explicit detail_. "She's not a lesbian!" I protested.

Katherine sneered. "I'm not saying she is," she said. "I'm saying she's bi." Katherine snapped her fingers at me. "Try to keep up, Abigail."

I shook my head. "No," I said. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Katherine crossed her arms and stepped forward again, crowding me against the table. "I'm her best friend," Katherine declared. "I _know_ Megan is bi. I know she has a thing for you. And God only knows why."

I blinked my eyes. They seemed to be all watery and blurry. No, Katherine couldn't be right. Megan couldn't be... she couldn't have a... She was my best friend. How could I not know something as big as this? Katherine had to be wrong. "But Megan is _my_ best friend," I protested in hurt confusion.

Katherine glared at me with the kind of hate I think most people reserve for baby-eating cannibals, ex-spouses, and pushy telemarketers. "I'm not saying she isn't," Katherine said. "I'm saying _I'm hers._ " Katherine's lips twisted in a scowl, like she'd tasted something rotten. "You know, she's always going on to me about how fun and clever you are, but you're actually pretty damn slow, aren't you? She must be wearing some really rosy glasses to have it so bad for a shit like you."

I recoiled. "But... no." Then, more forcefully: "No! She can't have a crush on me. She's been trying to hook me up with _other people_ for almost as long as she's known me!"

"Oh, of course," Katherine agreed. "It's almost as if she were trying to get you to commit to a sexuality without coming out and making you go ape-shit like her family did. Or maybe she thought she could get over you if you got off the market. Or _maybe_ she just stupidly wants you to be happy because she stupidly thinks she's in love with you, and the one thing she wants is to be loved back so she thinks that'll do it for you, too."

I stared. I knew Megan had fallen out with her family, but she'd never said why. I hadn't pushed her on it, either. "But...."

"No," Katherine snapped. "We're done. You need to leave, or so help me I will have you thrown out. The only good thing about this is that she's gotten to see what a callous bitch you are. Maybe she'll realize she's better off with people who care about her."

"I care," I protested — but it came out as a whisper.

Katherine laughed; a short, hateful bark. "You never even noticed," she accused. "So stop pretending to give a shit now." Katherine stepped aside and pointed at the doors across the dance floor from us.

"Go," Katherine commanded. "Before I have Bob physically stuff your worthless carcass in a dumpster."

I was barely holding back tears. "Don't let Megan leave," I whispered in surrender. "Mr. Salvatore is after her. You know what he is."

Katherine stared at me. Then her sneer returned. "Fuck you," she said. "I've been keeping Megan safe from Salvatore and his ilk for two years. Why would I need _your_ help now?"

I nodded. She wouldn't. I turned and followed Katherine's pointing finger. I wasn't paying attention, but I didn't run into anyone. Maybe the crowd parted around me — people silently shifting to let the pariah pass. I'd felt like they'd been staring at me all night, but now I didn't care.

I deserved the shame.

So I didn't protest, and I didn't look. I just hobbled out on my injured foot, and prayed Megan would be okay, and ignored the tears silently streaking my face.

# Chapter 33

I got outside without having to meet anyone's gaze. I could still feel them staring at me, though. There's something monstrous about any crowd of strangers. Suffering judgment for your failings _hurts._ And it hurts worse when the weight of a group is behind it, and worse still when they don't even have to know you to condemn you for what you've done.

It hurts worst of all when you know they're right.

The cold night's air stung my cheeks. I scrubbed the moisture from them with the back of my hand. I wasn't crying. I wasn't!

I started to walk toward the parking lot, but stopped just before getting there. I couldn't leave. For one, Megan still had her keys. For another, I was still her designated driver. Although, I guess Megan could probably get a ride with Katherine. Was Emma Katherine's DD?

No, Megan didn't need me around. I had to be honest with myself. I was stuck because I was too afraid to take a cab and I didn't have anyone else I could call. I mean... there was Fumiko. But she'd always been more Megan's friend than mine. So she wasn't an option anymore. Any of Megan's friends would hate me for hurting her.

I know I did.

God, I was helpless without her. How pathetic is that? I really wasn't Megan's friend. I was just a parasite taking blatant advantage of her without even bothering to notice her feelings.

I was still staring down the empty street, unmoving, when I heard someone call my name.

"Abby? Abby!"

I turned woodenly and Emma stopped a few steps in front of me. She bent over and huffed for breath.

"Oh," she gasped. "Whew! I thought you might have been gone already."

Why had she come after me? Didn't she understand what a terrible person I was? Maybe she did. Maybe she just wanted to tear into me for using her like that; making her complicit in hurting one of her friends. She had to be furious with me.

I deserved that. I could accept that.

But first.... "How's Megan?" I asked quietly. No matter how bad it was, I had to know. I'd hurt her. I was responsible.

Emma shook her head, though. "I couldn't find her in the bathroom," she said, "But the club has plenty of dark nooks where people can grab some privacy. Katie is looking for her now."

I nodded. "Okay," I said. Then I did my best to brace myself for the yelling to come.

Emma took another step toward me. "How are you?" she asked quietly. Probably to determine how much worse I should feel – but I didn't think I _could_ feel worse.

Emma didn't need to know that, though. She deserved to get to yell at me, too. I didn't say anything.

Emma reached out for me. I tried not to, but I flinched anyway. She hesitated, then put her hand on my arm. "Hey," Emma said. "It'll be okay, alright? Megan's a big girl. She probably just needs some space to get her feet back under herself once she finishes kicking herself for not pouncing you first, you know?"

I shook my head. "No," I said numbly. It was so cold out I was starting to tremble. From the cold. Not because I still wanted to cry. "I didn't know. How could I have?" Megan had only ever told me about boys. I'd thought she was straight. I bit my lip and blinked away tears. I was just cold. I was _not_ going to cry. "I thought she was straight! How could I have known?"

I mean... other than the fact that Megan was always there for me. That she always went out of her way for me. That she was a social person but would rather spend her evenings alone with a freak like me instead of out partying with her friends. Or all the hugging and casual physical affection. For that matter, what about all the times she'd _told me_ she loved me? Why had I always mentally tacked 'as a friend' onto those? Was I really that blindly _stupid?_

But Emma didn't know what I was thinking. "Well... She did just take you out to a GLBTQI club," Emma said hesitantly. "But if you haven't been here before then you totally couldn't have known about that. And, I mean, even _I_ thought the friend she was crushing on was Fumiko, you know?"

I blinked. There'd been a GLBT campus group back at our college. It stood for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and... to be honest, I'd never really been clear on the T. I only knew about them because Tim was their secretary and Fumiko could always count on his support when she was campaigning for the anime club to start a yaoi series.

"What's the Q and I?" I asked dully. I _had_ been to club Luminescence before – once. And I was only now belatedly realizing that the brightly colored letters of the club's glowing sign were brightly _rainbow_ colored. For that matter, so were Emma's mismatched, multicolored bracelets. Oh, and that explained all the women doing the 'hey guys, we just might be lesbians' dance. And, for that matter, all the guys doing the 'hey look, girls, we just might be gay' dance. God I really _was_ that blindly stupid.

"Gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, queer and intersex," Emma rattled off. "Plus straight allies that are into goth or punk or techno... Frankly, the whole alphabet's welcome, but once you start tacking too many letters onto the acronym it just gets hard to say."

I nodded dumbly. After bisexual it hadn't made any sense to me, but... Megan was bi? That didn't bother me. Not knowing about it did. I was supposed to be her friend. I _wanted_ to be her friend. We'd talked about sex a _lot_. Why hadn't she talked with me about... that?

Emma took a deep breath and blew it out. "Come on," she said. "It's freezing out here. Let's go back in and wait for Katie to find Megan, and when she's ready you two can have a _really_ good talk."

I shook my head. "Katherine threw me out," I said. I wasn't welcome there.

"So?" Emma shot back. "Look, Katie might act like the queen of the place, but she isn't. I love her to bits, but she shouldn't have thrown you out like that. Or blown up at you like that. Frankly, if anyone was going to out Megan it should have been Megan, herself. What Katie did was kinda selfish and mean to both of you. She isn't normally like that, I swear. She's just mad because..." Emma trailed off.

"...because she's in love with Megan," I finished for her. Maybe I wasn't stupid – just blind. "That's why Katherine was always standoffish with me," I added. "And why she invited Megan out to the club that first time." And why she'd warned Megan away from Mr. Salvatore.

Emma sighed and put an arm around me. "Yeah, probably," she conceded as she started to guide me forward. "Now, let's go in. You're freezing."

I nodded and managed to choke back a sob. It came out as something akin to a hiccup. "I'm sorry I ruined your evening," I managed to apologize.

"Psh," Emma said dismissively. "What's a little drama between friends? Besides, I was having a blast until Katie showed up – so really, that's on her, too. I'm going to insist she treat us all to apology ice cream when we sit down to sort this out. The club is going to be _way_ too noisy for that, but there's this little ice cream shop off campus I was wanting to visit before – well, before I turned into a shut-in for a while."

I walked toward the club with Emma, and a tiny sliver of me was quietly amazed. Emma was fragile. Megan had said so, and I had seen some of Emma's vulnerability when we'd been out of the public eye. But she was doing a much better job of dealing with it in the face of a crisis than I've ever been able to.

Emma kept up a stream of essentially harmless chatter that I didn't really need to listen to or respond to as we returned to the club. I was intensely grateful. I even leaned on her to keep from limping too badly. I still wasn't convinced it would be okay, but... maybe?

And then Katherine burst out of the club. She looked about as panicked as I usually felt. "I can't find her," she gasped. I froze in horror. We'd left Megan alone, and now she was _missing?_ A chill – worse than the night's cold – raced down my spine as I realized how easy it would be for Mr. Salvatore to case the club. Hans had _known_ Megan and I were going out tonight. He could have told Mr. Salvatore. Even without supernatural powers, how hard would it be for two men to overwhelm a single distraught woman who'd run off by herself?

Katherine grabbed me by the shoulders and shook. "Where is she?!"

# Chapter 34

Katherine shook me again. "This is _your_ fault," she snarled – but then Emma stepped in front of me, forcing Katherine to let go.

"Hey, calm down," Emma said. "Megan is probably just hiding out somewhere while she gets herself together. Have you tried calling her?"

I got my phone out to try just that.

"She isn't answering," Katherine said frantically.

I flipped my phone open to try anyway – but stopped. I had three text messages. From Megan.

"Abby: Sorry. Something came up and I have to go," said the first.

"I left my keys at the bar. Or you can ask Emma for a ride home," said the second.

"Hope you have a good evening. Sorry again. Happy New Year. Love you," read the third.

I felt like I'd swallowed a potato whole. There was this leaden lump in my gut that was sprouting guilt out of its eyes, taking such deep root that it would never go away. I must have been on the dance floor when she'd texted. Maybe I'd been being yelled at by Katherine. Whatever the case, I hadn't heard my phone when Megan's messages had arrived.

"She's gone," I said. "She must have taken a cab. She left her keys with Mark at the bar." I felt cold. Megan sent me those texts so I wouldn't be worried about her when I couldn't find her; wouldn't leap to the paranoid conclusion that she'd run off because of something I'd done. But she _had_ , and I knew it. _She_ was the one who didn't know that Katherine had outed her feelings to me.

Katherine swore. "If Megan is upset, she's going to look for people."

I nodded. Odds were she was on her way to the party at the office. I called her, but it went straight to voice mail.

"Megan?" I asked. "Please, please, please call me back as soon as you get this. Please."

"Hey," Emma asked in confusion. "Am I missing something? You two seem really freaked about this."

"Salvatore is in town," Katherine said flatly. "And I can assure you he didn't come back for you or I."

Emma's face paled. "He came back?" She asked in a very tiny voice.

I felt sick. So, Mr. Salvatore _was_ Emma's ex, then. And since I'd seen the way she bounced between confidence and timidity, that was one more reason to hate him. How many people had he hurt in his unlifetime? How many had he broken?

"Yes," Katherine said. "And when I went to confront him today, he was already half starved and wearing his gloves. You know what that means. I invited Megan here tonight to keep her away from him."

"But... he wouldn't drink from her," Emma said. She tried to sound certain, but her voice waivered. "He wouldn't! You made him promise."

Katherine's gaze snapped to me, but I didn't flinch. I'd already figured out how she felt about Megan, and now Katherine knew her secret was out, too.

"I did," Katherine said. "Because I saw how he looked at her and _felt_ his desire. You know what that's like, Emma. When your life is subsumed into his. He wanted her the way he used to want me. And, last year – he didn't choose me. And he didn't drink from Marian or Lisa or anyone else who'd stayed in town. He starved himself to kill his humanity. And when he no longer cared about his promise, he went to make Megan into my replacement."

"No," Emma whispered – but the protest seemed purely reflexive.

"He didn't do it, though," I sad. "I was there. Megan was drunk and sugar crashed, but she wasn't bleeding. I took her home."

"I know," Katherine said. "That's when Salvatore came for me. His second choice." She shivered. "I didn't realize what was happening until I was too weak to struggle and too engulfed by his consumption to protest. When he was slaked and alive and his emotions returned he called the hospital. Out of guilt, perhaps, or in memory of what we used to have. But while he was dead and draining me... he wanted me dead, too. Permanently, so that I'd never nag him not to overindulge or tell him who he could or couldn't feed from. He _knew_ he would regret it when his humanity returned – and that was why he fed with such abandon then."

Katherine swallowed. Emma was staring at her in horror. So was I.

"He tried to kill me, Emma," Katherine said. "I wasn't drunk. Neither was he. That was just something he said to pass it off as an accident; something he said and I was too convalescent to contradict. And it doesn't matter that his humanity got the better of him and the doctors could keep my body alive while the scrap of soul he left in it recovered. It was still deliberate. He knew what he would become if he let himself starve. And he did it anyway, just so it would be easier to take what he wanted. He was ready to force himself on Megan and murder me, and deal with his conscience later."

Katherine's gaze snapped back to me, and her eyes narrowed in a withering glare. "And now, thanks to _someone's_ selfish ignorance, Megan is probably running straight into his clutches."

I blinked. I didn't even know why my eyes were watering. I would deal with Katherine's accusations later. First, I had to take care of Megan.

I called Fumiko. If Megan wasn't going to the party, she'd be going to see her other friend.

When the call connected, I could hear a quiet babble in the background. "Moshi moshi," Fumiko answered cheerfully.

"Fumiko! Did you go to the office after all?" I asked.

"Hai," Fumiko confirmed. "What's up? Are you two on your way?"

"No," I said. "Well... Yes. Sort of. Listen, you were right and I royally screwed up and I need a huge favor."

"Sure," Fumiko agreed. "Wait. Right about what?"

"Megan!" I shouted in exasperation. It figured that I'd obsess about Fumiko's teasing all evening while she'd already forgotten about the speculations she'd leveled at me before lunch. "You were right about Megan, and I accidentally hurt her feelings and I think she might be going to the office because she likes crowds when she's upset, but her phone is off and I can't get ahold of her."

There was a moment of stunned silence on Fumiko's end. "Okay," she said at last. "What do you need me to do?"

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Go outside and wait for her, please. If she shows up, don't let her go in. Take her to your place, or the diner, or something and get her to talk it out instead of walling it off and pretending she's okay for the crowd. And call me. I need to talk to her. And apologize. And...."

"And tell her how you feel?" Fumiko guessed. She asked it with a shrewd tone that implied she knew the answer. I glanced at Emma and Katherine, who were avidly listening to my side of the conversation.

"And take someone with you while you wait," I finished lamely. "It's not safe to loiter in a parking lot at night. But not Mr. Salvatore! Or Hans!"

Fumiko laughed. Out of everyone I know, she's probably the least concerned with personal safety. But then again, her dad is a scary, scary man and she's taken self-defense classes since elementary school. "Don't worry. I totally get not letting that creep or your boytoy know about _this._ I'll grab Jimmy. He'll be thrilled."

I swallowed. Fumiko was generally more of Megan's opinion about Mr. Salvatore than mine. "Is he being creepier than normal?" I asked anxiously.

Fumiko snorted. "Yeah, you could say that," she agreed. "I mean, maybe it's just that he's quieter since he's been sick, but he keeps popping up out of nowhere and scaring the bejezus out of me just to ask if I've heard from Megan or know when she's getting here. At first he passed it off as wanting to give out all the manager bonuses at the same time, but he's already done that now and he's still really intense about it. I'm pretty sure he wants to corner her at midnight and play tonsil hockey again, like last year." Fumiko laughed again. "Don't worry, I'll run interference for your team, Abby."

"Thanks," I said weakly. "Thank you so much."

"No problem," Fumiko said. Then I heard her shout, "Hey, Jimmy!" away from the phone and then the connection cut. I heaved a sigh of relief.

"Fumiko will keep an eye out for Megan at the office, I told Emma and Katherine. "If Megan shows up, Fumiko will keep her away from Mr. Salvatore.

Katherine's lips quivered like she wanted to yell at me more, but she turned to Emma instead. "Megan _might_ go back to her home," she said. "Please go there and watch for her. If she does...."

"I'll take her somewhere safe," Emma promised.

"Good," Katherine said. "And call me."

"I will." Emma turned from Katherine to me. I almost thought she was going to promise to call me, too. She didn't say anything, though. She turned away instead, and darted for the parking lot.

Katherine turned, too. She started toward the trio of taxis that were waiting to snag fares from the club. I ran to catch up to her and caught her arm.

"Wait!" I said. "Where are you going? What else can I do?"

Katherine whirled, and all the fury she'd repressed while Emma stood between us blazed in her eyes. "I'm going to the office," she said. "Or do you really think your friend can keep Megan safe? Does Fumiko even know what Salvatore is?" Katherine scowled at my expression. "No. So she doesn't know what the stakes are. And if she gets in his way, she'll be dead before she knows that, too. So I guess now we know you treat all your friends like shit, and not just the ones that love you."

Katherine wrenched her arm out of my grasp. I fell back, stunned. Fumiko would be okay. Her dad was retired military. He taught akido and judo and taekwondo and a bunch of other –do's at her hometown community center, and Fumiko had been his assistant instructor for women's self-defense every summer when we were in college. She was the reason I had pepper spray on my key chain and had convinced Megan to keep some on hers, too.

Frankly, proclivity to cosplay aside, Fumiko was the most badass person I knew. If anyone could face down a monster it was her – and Mr. Salvatore wouldn't try to pull anything in public.

Would he?

Katherine glared at me. She saw my abrupt worry and smiled. It was a hateful, _feral_ smile. "I guess _you_ don't know how monstrous Salvatore can be, either. I'll tell you what: If you _really_ want to be _helpful_ , then why don't you go fuck off and _die_ , and stop throwing away other people's lives with your idiotic selfishness."

I gaped at her, unable to respond. Katherine sneered at me and spun away. She stalked to the nearest cab and got in. Then it pulled away.

I continued to stare. Megan was going to be safe. Fumiko would be okay. My only two friends in the world were not going to be murdered or enslaved by a vampire. I hadn't betrayed them to that inevitability.

....

Had I?

# Chapter 35

_"Fuck off and die."_ Katherine's parting words rang in my ears, but the images that swam in front of my eyes had nothing to do with her. Usually when I think about violent murder I picture it happening to me. Those are the fantasies that make sense when I'm in them. Now I just saw Fumiko's body crumpled against a wall. Her mouth open in surprise; her eyes sightlessly staring; her throat torn out. And blood: Fumiko's blood, everywhere, because Mr. Salvatore didn't want it. He wanted Megan's.

I couldn't see what he'd do to Megan. In my waking nightmare, they never found her body.

I felt sick. I wanted to throw up. It would be my fault. Katherine was right about that. I couldn't let it happen. Hadn't I sworn to myself that I would keep Megan safe from Mr. Salvatore? I would. I _had_ to.

But what could I do?

What could I ever do?

_Fuck off and die._

I stumbled past Bob and into the club. Megan had too much of a headstart. There was no way I could get to the office before her, not with the way I drive. I wouldn't even be able to outrace Katherine.

I got to the bar and waved to Mark. "Keys," I said, and he passed them over without comment.

I paid the guard at the parking lot on my way to the car. I didn't say anything to him. I felt too guilty. He'd told us to be safe, but now Megan was fleeing into danger and I....

...I was going to do what I always did in a crisis.

Something crazy and stupid.

Funnily enough, my mind wasn't whirling in anxious circles. I was too depressed to freak out like that. And that made my course of action... obvious.

_Fuck off and die._

I called Fumiko from the car. I didn't even care that I was on the phone while driving. For once I didn't care that I was playing fast and loose with my life like that.

I didn't expect to make it through the evening.

"Fumiko?" I asked when she picked up. "Change of plans. You need to leave."

"Why, what happened?" Fumiko asked. "Did you get ahold of Megan?"

I swallowed. "I talked to Katherine," I said instead of answering. "I mentioned what you'd said about Mr. Salvatore acting creepy, and Katherine said Mr. Salvatore's illness has nothing to do with his physical health, but when she went to see him at lunch he looked like he was off his meds." If I were in any condition to feel amazement, I probably would have. In the absence of neurotic fear to drive me or shut me down, I was lying like a pro. "Fumiko, he's obsessed with Megan and he might go after her friends if he realizes she's not going to show. Promise me you'll go someplace safe – crash with a friend or get a hotel. Whatever. Just get out of there now."

Fumiko swore softly. "Seriously? That's.... shit," she said. "Okay. You really don't need me to keep an eye out for Megan?"

"Yeah," I said. "Don't worry about it and don't hang around. Just get out of there. I have to call Hans and let him know about Mr. Salvatore's meds. Maybe he can do something about it."

"Okay," Fumiko said. I hung up before she could ask any more questions.

Then I pulled over at an intersection. I took a deep breath. My nerves were winding up again. What if I hadn't managed to convince Fumiko? My skin crawled. I felt like the world was watching me, waiting for me to fuck up.

_Fuck off and die,_ I reminded myself. I clung to the depression. I was going to need to lie.

I turned on the car's blinkers and got out. The intersection was dark. The street lights seemed sparse, and there was no one else around. I hadn't wanted to stop too close to the club, in case Megan decided to go back there instead of to the office.

I called Hans.

"Hello, this is Hans," he said when he picked up. His accent sent a thrill down my spine; I forced it down with shame. This wasn't the time – especially since I didn't know if I could trust him. I wanted to – I could really have used a giant, brawny Viking at my side. But I couldn't risk finding out he was Mr. Salvatore's henchman the hard way.

"Hans?" My voice cracked. It wasn't entirely an act: My depression was rapidly giving way to fear, and I was cold and alone and I hurt.

"Abigail! What's wrong?" Hans' concern was immediate and felt genuine – but I still couldn't trust him. What if it was all an act? I mean... look at how well I'd lied to Fumiko. And _she_ was my friend.

"Our car broke down. We were coming to the office, but... And the tow place closed for the holiday evening and I can't get ahold of anyone else and I'm _scared._ "

I started to pace. It was becoming less of an act by the second. My ankle protested, but not painfully enough to stop my growing case of nerves. "It's dark and I can't stop thinking about goblins and monsters and I'm scared – and I know I shouldn't be because Megan doesn't believe in them but she's drunk and drunk people will believe in anything and I didn't know who else to call and I don't know what to do." I gasped for breath. I was going to start hyperventilating. What the hell was wrong with me? What was I _doing_?

"Tell me where you are and I'll come get you," Hans said immediately.

I swallowed back my fears. Oh, yeah – _that_ was what I was doing. "But you can't!" I cried. "You have to stay with Mr. Salvatore. What if there's an emergency? What if he goes berserk like last year? I don't know why I called you. I must be stupid. I'm so sorry. I'm just so afraid...."

"My car can seat four," Hans said soothingly. "I'll explain it's an emergency and bring Salvatore along. Alright? You don't have to worry. Just tell me where you are."

_Yes!_ If Mr. Salvatore left the party before Megan showed up, it would give Katherine the time she needed to get Megan and get her away from there. My voice trembled as I gave Hans the intersection I'd stopped at.

Hans repeated it back and waited for me to confirm. "Okay," he said. "Stay with Megan. Stay somewhere lit. Salvatore and I will be there before you know it."

"Okay," I said weakly. I swallowed and hung up. I was trembling. The depression had been replaced with my usual neurosis – Fumiko was safe, and Megan would be. I looked up at the street signs. I'd stopped so I could give real directions when Hans asked for them. I didn't know my way around well enough to make up something plausible that would show up if he tried to search a map with his phone. By all reasonable logic, I should get back in the car now and run.

But I couldn't do that. Running would just be thinking about _my_ safety. I'd been selfish enough already. I'd endangered Fumiko and Megan. What if Katherine didn't find Megan and Mr. Salvatore decided not to leave tomorrow? What would one night's safety mean _then_ , for any of us?

Besides, since when have I bowed to logical reason?

I shivered and clutched my arms around myself while I paced. I wasn't a _good_ friend. I knew that. But I had chocolate in my purse for Megan, and I was ready to do whatever it took to keep her safe.

Maybe I'd be lucky, and Hans wasn't a part of Mr. Salvatore's machinations. But if it came down to it, I was willing to trade my life for Megan's. If I provoked Mr. Salvatore into feeding – if he couldn't stop himself – his humanity would assert itself. The guilt that had saved Katherine and made Mr. Salvatore institutionalize himself would come back. With a year to do it in and without me accidentally standing in her way Katherine could sweep Megan off her feet and carry her off to somewhere they could be happy together. Maybe California. I tried to think about the two of them kissing at their wedding, but it wasn't a cheerful thought. It wasn't even _hot_ – sure, they were both beautiful in their dresses, but I'd be too dead to attend the ceremony.

That was just depressing.

Then my heel struck an uneven bit of sidewalk and my abused ankle gave out with a final spike of pain. I caught myself, but my knees and palm scraped against the concrete of the sidewalk. I started to cry. I couldn't even _walk_ right. This wasn't going to work. Hans wasn't going to be on my side. I hardly even knew him. And how was I going to provoke Mr. Salvatore into feeding on me and crippling himself with guilt? I couldn't even provoke Hans into ravaging me, and he actually _was_ a wolf.

I choked on a sob. _That's_ how it would go down, wasn't it? Megan was the girl everyone wanted. I was the one they used as a convenient meal for the guard dog.

I sat down and stared at my hands. My knees and palm were bleeding where I'd scraped them in my fall. The night air stung them. I giggled. I couldn't help myself. Hans was Mr. Salvatore's guard dog. Who would have thought I really would get torn apart by a wolf? I started to laugh.

I was cold, and lonely, and it was dark. Shadows lurked in the alleys, around the buildings – even under Megan's car. I wondered idly what might be lurking in them. Maybe I'd get knifed by homeless cannibals or carried off by goblins instead of eaten by Hans.

I froze. I'd stopped laughing. That might actually... No. What was I thinking? Sure, if I vanished they'd think Megan had vanished with me, but... _No._ Maybe?

I looked around myself. It was dark, and I was alone – and I still felt like there were things hiding out in the shadows, waiting to grab me.

It was just the same as I've felt my whole life.

A life spent in paranoid fear.

Fear that Hans said the bad fae used to sustain themselves.

Was it really paranoia if sinister supernatural forces actually are lurking in the shadows, feeding on your terror?

"Okay," I called out to the darkness. "You've been getting a free meal off of me my whole damn life." My voice seemed to echo in the alleys. "And you know what? I'm not even going to hold that against you. Because now I seriously need some help, and you owe me. So get out here where we can talk. I want to make a deal."

For a moment the night was still. My voice faded, leaving only shocked silence. And then....

Then the shadows started to _move_.

# Chapter 36

I didn't know what to expect, so I was expecting _anything._ I got it, too.

The shadows roiled and flickered, disgorging hunch-backed monstrosities with horns and wings and... no two of them were alike. Some were tall. Many were short. Some had gnarled skin like tree bark, some had scales; some a warty leather hide. They were all vaguely humanoid, with beady eyes that glittered in the night.

My terror spiked. That was good, right? They had to like that. The bigger ones shambled forward, circling the edge of the light coming from the corner lamp. I swallowed. I didn't see intelligence in those eyes – just cruelty. I tried to drag myself toward the light. The monsters didn't seem to like it, and Hans had said to stay somewhere lit. Maybe if I was scared enough and the light was bright enough they'd be sated enough not to drag me into the dark with them.

A little one skittered forward. I shrieked, but it skid to a halt before it could be fully illuminated. It looked at me with a huge, stupid grin and it's tongue flopped out. It was drooling. A bigger goblin smacked it aside.

Oh god, this had been a mistake. I _knew_ how horrifying the unknown could be. I've known my whole life. Why had I called them out? I was sobbing when I reached the light post. The monsters were between myself and Megan's car – but even if they weren't, I couldn't make a run for it. My ankle refused to support my weight anymore. My only hope was for Hans to get here before the fae got up the courage to grab me.

It wasn't a reassuring hope. I squeezed my eyes shut. I'd agreed to trade myself for Megan, hadn't I? If I was carried off, Mr. Salvatore would think Megan was gone, too. I was prepared for the worst.

I wasn't prepared for a gravelly voice to croon "Oh, she won't look. Look, girlie! It's better if you look."

Then another one rasped, "Nooooo... It's better if she has to imagine. How close am I?" it called to me. "I'm coming to eat your toes," it teased, "each little one."

I whimpered and hugged the post tight. The monsters giggled and laughed among themselves. I couldn't tell how close they were. I didn't want to know.

"String her fingers on a necklace," another one suggested.

"String a harp with her sinew," came another voice.

"Well, I'm just going to cut out her eyelids and make her watch," the first voice grumbled to a chorus of disappointed groans.

I opened my eyes and muffled a shriek.

The monsters hadn't actually come closer.

They hooted with laughter. One, a particularly big one, smiled at me. "Here, girlie," it cooed. It was the one that wanted to cut out my eyelids. "It will be worse if you make me come and get you, you know." Its eyes glittered. "Worse for you, anyway."

I wished I hadn't called them. It was too late for that, but I wished I hadn't called them.

Then the back door of Megan's car popped open and a man stepped out. A tall, dapper man in an old fashioned suit with coat tails, wearing polished boots and a battered top hat that was stained rusty red. He carried a cane with a silver knob in one hand – his other hand was bandaged.

"I say!" he said in an overly sophisticated British accent. "Physical mutilation and vague threats? Now that's just sad." Mr. Tophat clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "No wonder you underachievers must scavenge about in a neighborhood like this."

The goblin I only knew as 'Eyelids' turned and snarled at Mr. Tophat. "She's ours," Eyelids snapped.

"Oh?" Asked Mr. Tophat. "Indeed?" He stepped forward, and the other monsters scattered to let him pass. "I fear I must contradict you, good sir. As you can plainly see, that is her conveyance I have forthwith departed. Ergo, et cetera, and all that jolliness: she is plainly _my_ traveling companion. Moreover," Mr. Tophat added with a casual wave of his bandaged hand, "there is indeed a small matter between us for which I do owe her a certain excessive recompense. Therefore, to put it in terms even your simple mind might comprehend, if there are no objections..." Mr. Tophat bowed deeply to Eyelids and flourished his cane in a wide gesture that left its tip pointing at me. Still bowing, Mr. Tophat tilted his head back to stare Eyelids in the face. "...I call dibs," he concluded.

"Mine!" Eyelids screamed in protest. His jaw unhinged impossibly wide as he shrieked, and he gathered himself to pounce.

I didn't know if Eyelids meant to leap at me or to strike Mr. Tophat – Eyelids never got further than that.

Mr. Tophat snapped upright faster than I could follow. Wood clattered on the pavement, leaving the hilt of a sword in Mr. Tophat's hand – and the length of its blade hewn halfway through Eyelids' torso.

Mr. Tophat pivoted and heaved with his shoulder, wrenching his sword the rest of the way through Eyelids' frame. Eyelids' body hit the ground in two wet chunks that dissolved into rivulets of darkness, fleeing for the deeper shadows of the alleys as I watched.

Mr. Tophat idly twirled his sword. He set its tip against the ground and leaned on it as though it were still the cane it had been sheathed in. "I'll take that as a 'no, no objections,' then, shall I?"

I don't know who he was talking to – the other goblins had scattered. Maybe he was talking to himself. Maybe he was talking to me.

"I'm not yours," I said weakly. I wanted to kick myself. I should have been showering him with thanks – if he left those others might come back.

Mr. Tophat turned and smiled at me. He twirled his sword like a cane and sauntered up to me like a gentleman showing off on the promenade. "No," he agreed. "Not yet."

I blanched. So, he had been talking to me. And worse, now that he was closer I could see that he wasn't human. His pupils were slit like a cat's and his ears – well, they weren't huge like anime elf ears, but they were big, and lobeless, and curved up to points under the brim of his top hat.

Fae. He was one of them. And he'd gotten out of the back seat of Megan's car. Had he been there the whole time?!

His eyes sparkled and he smiled broadly. He took a deep breath through his nose and let it out with a happy sigh. "Ah," he said. "There it is. The realization that you are not, in fact, saved." He smiled at me. "It's like someone just put sprinkles on my favorite ice-cream."

I forced myself to stare up at him, but couldn't stop myself from gulping. "I'm not yours," I managed to protest again.

Mr. Tophat waved his bandaged hand dismissively. "A mere formality, my lollipop. You did call out to a fae at a crossroads under the midnight moon in hopes of receiving a boon. By tradition, we duel for it. If you win, it's yours." He crouched down beside me. "And when you lose you'll be mine, sugarplum, for a year and a day."

I stared at him. "I don't want to fight," I squeaked. He'd cut a troll in half with one blow! Well, maybe one and a half. But _I_ couldn't even stand upright!

Mr. Tophat propped his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palms. The sword had somehow turned into a cane again. "Oh, I should imagine not," he agreed. "You're in no condition to do battle. Particularly since I, as challenged, would have chosen blades – which you have an appalling lack of. But, since I would _much_ rather have you intact than limbless, I will accept your surrender with all due graciousness." He tilted his head and considered me. "Besides," he said, "I am not like those crass, low-brow goblins who would have torn you asunder and gorged on the fear of pain and death. A delicacy such as yourself should be savored, my dear muffin." He paused in consideration. "I suppose in my youth I may have gobbled you up with such greedy abandon. But now? My tastes are more refined, my strudel, and without your arms and legs there would be so many fewer ways I could bind you to the bed."

I stared at him and my jaw trembled. My heart was pounding, but there wasn't a drop of blood in my face. I was too terrified to say anything.

Mr. Tophat sighed happily again. "Ah, there it is," he purred. "You see, my sugared strawberry, I know you. And all the things you are _really_ afraid of." He leaned in close and cupped my chin. His thumb brushed my cheek. "I think you'll find myself a more fitting wolf than that cur you dallied with yestereve."

I tried to pull back. "You can't do this," I blurted. _Keep him talking. Hans is on his way._ "You owe me! You said as much!"

Mr. Tophat let me go and laughed. "Oh, my, yes." He held his bandaged hand up. His fingers flexed stiffly. "For this, caramel drop." His eyes narrowed to slits and his smile grew crueler. "I will admit that the first time you ran it over with a chair it was my own fault for being caught off guard. But _why_ should I have been expected to think you would come back and do it twice more? That, candy cane, was purely gratuitous."

He tilted his head. "Now, if you please, admit your defeat so I may carry you off before those scallywags regroup and return."

I almost did. The thought that Necklace and Harp and maybe even another Eyelids might come back was almost enough to undo me. But... how long had Mr. Tophat been shadowing me? How much of my lifetime of fear could be laid at his feet? I felt a sudden surge of anger. Those fears _crippled_ me. They made me depend on Megan, and had driven her away. How might our lives have been different if I hadn't been a neurotic freak?

"Fuck that," I snarled, and Mr. Tophat actually sat back in surprise. "You've ruined my life with anxiety and fed off it every step of the way. You _owe_ me."

Mr. Tophat blinked at me. Then he started to laugh. "My dear snicker doodle, that is nearly almost remotely true. But I assure you, your fears and traumas are no doing of mine. And while I may have had a taste of the emotions they bring out in you – why, for one such as myself that is no more a crime than if you were to linger outside a baker's window while the pies were cooling. Nay, I am neither thief nor poacher nor saboteur – but when the baker gambles her wares on a losing hand, _of course_ I will join the table." He laughed again. "Now yield," Mr. Tophat insisted.

I fought the urge to hyperventilate. I _was_ a freak, then – if I could trust Mr. Tophat not to lie about it. Could fae lie? I thought I'd read some story once where they couldn't. But weren't they supposed to be tricky? _Why_ hadn't I grilled Hans about it while I'd had the chance?!

"No," I said. This made three times Mr. Tophat had tried to make me surrender myself to him. All I actually _knew_ about the fae was that they could feed on emotions and that their presence in this world was tentative. If they could be driven off by disbelief... I was starting to suspect that Mr. Tophat might not even be _able_ to carry me off without my consent.

Mr. Tophat sighed theatrically. "Ah well," he said as he stood. "You always were an ornery popcorn puff. Perhaps you'll see reason before you've lost more than a hand or two." He stood and smiled. "I choose blades, of course."

"No!" I shrieked in flat panic. I pulled myself upright, clinging to the street lamp for support.

Mr. Tophat froze, sword already in hand and raised to strike. "Then you yield?" He asked. "For otherwise I must protest that this incessant waffling is most unseemly, even coming from as flaky a piece of baklava as yourself."

"No," I said again. " _I_ wanted to talk. _You're_ the one insisting on this duel bullshit."

Mr. Tophat arched an eyebrow. "Yes. So?"

"So, as challenged, the choice of weapons is mine," I blurted out. That was how it worked, right?

....

Shit, was I actually committing myself to a duel?

....

Fuck!

# Chapter 37

Mr. Tophat's other eyebrow raised. "Why, you spicy little jawbreaker," he exclaimed in evident admiration. "If that's how you'd like to play it then I am more than game. Tell me, with what weapon do you think you can best an eminently experienced immortal duelist such as myself?"

It was a hell of a question. I was saved from answering for a moment by the fact that I was hyperventilating. It didn't really help me think, though – I didn't want to fight at all! I'd only called out to the fae because I'd figured maybe if I promised to go to enough scary movies that I had to give up sleeping, then _maybe_ I could get them to help me keep Mr. Salvatore away from Megan.

I'd thought they couldn't possibly be as evil as Hans claimed. Both sides in a war _always_ claim the other side is the bad one.

But I'd been wrong, and my very own emotionally sadistic stalker elf had come out to prove it. Katherine had been right: I'd had no idea how monstrous the monsters could be – or what stakes they would insist on playing for.

I wheezed for breath while Mr. Tophat watched. He was clearly enjoying himself too much to rush me. And no wonder – I was in a mad panic. He had to feel like he'd found his own personal candy shop. He _did_ , if those stupid pet names were any indication. I wondered if they actually corresponded to different flavors of freaking out, or if Mr. Tophat was just a particularly flamboyant douchebag. He'd obviously been lurking around me long enough to know my actual name.

No! I couldn't get sidetracked. I needed to come up with a weapon. Something good. Not something I could win with – that would be impossible. I just had to stall until Hans and Mr. Salvatore got here. I needed to come up with something so outrageous Mr. Tophat would have to protest.

"You know, you being immortal does make this kind of unfair," I managed to comment.

Mr. Tophat's smile widened into a Cheshire grin. "Yes," he agreed amicably. "But, as I would have told the baker had she been inclined to listen, I rarely gamble without the winning hand. Now choose, my pretty pastry, or forfeit."

I hadn't thought of anything. But maybe that was the problem. Usually, when I'm spouting crazy shit, it's because I'm freaked out and out of control and desperate to stop – not because I'm _trying_ to come up with it.

I took a deep breath. I held it. It didn't really matter what I said because this whole _situation_ was out of control. So when I exhaled, I just went with whatever wanted to come out.

"I choose vampires," I said.

Mr. Tophat actually took a step back. "You... choose vampires? You can't do that," he protested with a laugh.

"Why not?" I shot back. "I'm the challenged. The choice should be mine."

Mr. Tophat straightened and squared his shoulders. "Only a fae noble may choose a champion, my ignorant gelato. Mortals must represent themselves." He sighed theatrically. "I'm sorry, but it's just not done."

"But I'm not choosing a champion," I countered. "I'm choosing a weapon."

Mr. Tophat's eyes narrowed. "A vampire is not a weapon," he said flatly. "It is a soulless abomination."

"Exactly," I agreed. My mouth was running away with me and I wasn't even trying to stop it. "Soulless. As in: Not alive. Therefore, an object. And as my ancestors learned in the age of clubs, any object can be a weapon because we are a tool using species, mother fucker."

Mr. Tophat's jaw dropped. "Are you actually proposing we bludgeon each other with undead?" he asked in appalled disbelief.

The image was ridiculous enough that I wanted to giggle. I shrugged instead. "If mine rips your head off after I give him a push in your direction, I won't make a fuss about it," I admitted. I was pushing my luck – but if anything, my nonchalance seemed to unnerve Mr. Tophat more. That was good. It meant I was winning.

"Your – you don't have a vampire," Mr. Tophat declared. "It's not a valid choice!"

I felt like my heart had skipped a beat. Mr. Tophat was _flustered_ – he was genuinely afraid! I felt a rush of... of whatever it was I'd felt every time I'd made Hans back down. I tried to stand straighter. "Actually," I said, "I was just on the phone with my boyfriend, and he's on his way here to let me borrow his."

Mr. Tophat's jaw dropped again. I didn't think he realized he was doing it. I didn't care – I was on a power high.

"What?" I asked. "Did you really think I'd call out to the fae at a crossroads at midnight under a full moon to ask for a favor without a backup plan in case whoever showed up insisted on the traditional duel? I'm not _stupid_ , you know." Oh, god, yes I was – but he didn't know _that._

Mr. Tophat's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. Then it shut. His lips twitched, and he started to chuckle. Then to laugh.

Mr. Tophat's laughter cut the confidence out from under me. Mr. Tophat didn't seem to notice – maybe because I've been in one freakout mode or another for the past forever, and my power-trip confidence had just been bravado on top of it, anyway. Regardless of the reason, though, Mr. Tophat kept laughing. He guffawed until he sank to his heels, clutching his sides and hunching over his knees. I stared. I had no idea how to respond to that.

Mr. Tophat's laughter gradually subsided into snickers. He wiped a tear from the corner of one eye with his bandaged hand, then smothered another chuckle. Then he flopped over on his back and lay spread-eagle on the sidewalk, staring up at me.

"I yield," he said. "What would you have of me?"

I squeezed my legs together and tried to angle them away from him. My skirt was too indecent for that to be an appropriate angle for me to be stared up at, and.... What?

"You what?" I squeaked. I let my legs give out and sank down to the base of light post. _What?_

Mr. Tophat rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. "I yield, you tempestuous tart. That was well played. My boon is yours."

I blinked at him. Had he just called me a – no, that was just one of his annoying candy names. I couldn't get sidetracked. I'd won. I'd won?!

I swallowed. "Anything?"

"Anything," he agreed. He said it salaciously, and his eyes were clearly wandering below my face as he did.

Ew. Ew! Was he _flirting?_ This was worse than the explicit threats of chains and sexual misconduct. I had to be imagining it. I was _not_ getting turned on, that was for sure. It was the rush from the danger and the relief of coming out on top – _not_ the weirdly debonair elf making bedroom eyes at my knees after threatening to make my worst nightmares come true in his dungeon. That would just be... ew. Ew!

I was trembling. I pushed my skirt down. Damn pornerina skirt! _Mind out of the gutter, Abby!_ I yelled at myself. Crap, but Mr. Tophat was freakishly handsome now that I wasn't too terrified of what he was planning to notice it. No. I could write him into my Hans/Mr. Salvatore slashfic later. I had more important things to do now than celebrating my narrow escape from slavery by imaging wanton debauchery. Especially since I was pretty sure the things I was inclined to imagine were the very things I'd just narrowly escaped. I mean... what the hell?

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I held it in. _What am I doing?_ I asked myself. The answer was immediate and automatic. _Protecting Megan._

"The vampire that's coming here intends harm toward one of my friends." I was dimly aware that I was stepping into an entirely new, equally dangerous conversation. This was exactly the kind of thing that got twisted into a terrible mistake in the story books. "You will, without violating my intentions in setting you as her guardian, protect her from all harm." I opened one eye and looked at Mr. Tophat. I'd meant at first to just set him to protect Megan from Mr. Salvatore, but... hell. In for a dime, in for a dollar, right? I hoped my one caveat would be enough to prevent him from pulling bullshit shenanigans, and 'all harm' was probably forward thinking. After all, there were obviously more terrifying things in the world than I'd ever known existed. Obsessed vampire stalkers might not even top the list.

Mr. Tophat's attention was firmly fixed on my face. I opened my other eye.

"Do you have any idea what you've just asked of me?" he demanded – and for once he didn't sound like everything in the world was a joke.

I swallowed. "No," I admitted weakly. "Hell, how can I? I didn't even know there was some stupid dueling tradition associated with crossroads and midnight." I snapped my jaw shut before I could blurt out any more of my ignorance. Mr. Tophat's eyes seemed to pierce me.

Then he snickered. "Is that so? Well, my vexing little cream puff, allow me to elucidate the matter for you. Immediately after I yielded a battle of honor rather than fight your undead abomination, you have charged me with facing down that very same monstrosity! Now, I am no coward. I will face any mortal or immortal in merry combat – I do not fear death. Should I die, all I have lost is the time it takes to come back from my home. But a vampire is not limited to merely killing its victims. It tears out strips of their souls and thus pretends it has its own. A vampire can _consume_ you, and there is no rebirth from _that._ "

I swallowed in dread. I was thoroughly unnerved.

And then Mr. Tophat flipped back to jovial. He rolled up and forward and wound up on one knee in front of me so quickly that I couldn't stop him from taking my hand. "Still, I had a delightful evening, my licorice whip, even _if_ dinner was not included."

Mr. Tophat kissed my fingertips and sighed extravagantly. "But now I must take my leave," he said forlornly. "Do try to survive the evening. Those knaves I dispersed should have their courage back soon, and I would be personally offended if you fell prey to them after eluding me."

And then, with unnatural abruptness, Mr. Tophat was behind me. He still had my hand held diagonally across my body, and his other arm was around my waist. His slender torso pressed tightly against my back and his face nuzzled against my cheek and palm.

"If you do survive, by all means call me again," he murmured in my ear. "But next time, from somewhere that the riffraff will not overhear. Your bonbonniere, perhaps. I know my way there well enough, and it need not be my bed on which we bind you."

His lips trailed along the lobe of my ear and I shivered despite myself. "I assure you," he added softly, "Now that you cannot deny my existence, it would be a personal pleasure for me to lead you to what pleasures may be found in confronting your particular nightmares, my sweet." He kissed my ear, and the tension in my gut ratcheted up about twelve more notches. I was _not_ going to let a psychotic stalker-elf sadist seduce me!

Mr. Tophat sighed appreciatively as my panic rose. His breath caressed my cheek. I tried to breathe too fast and choked instead.

Mr. Tophat turned his head and kissed my fingertips again. "A confection such as yourself deserves so much more than to be some randy wolf's she-bitch," he said as though the thought genuinely depressed him. "Remember, and call for me."

And just like that he was gone. I was alone, trembling from the cold, the gentle caresses, and utterly shot nerves. I twisted around with my mouth ajar and my thoughts whirling indecently, but even the tendrils of voluminous shadow which had once been Mr. Tophat were dissipating into ordinary darkness. Then lights blazed in front of me. I blinked and shielded my eyes, and found myself squinting into the headlights of Hans' enormous yellow Hummer.

# Chapter 38

Hans cut into the left hand lane and parked in front of Megan's car, so that his Hummer was next to me – and facing the wrong way down the street. I swallowed. I was never going to let him drive me anywhere again. He didn't even turn off the car or put on his blinkers before leaping outside and crouching beside me.

Hans put one hand on my shoulder and the other cradled the side of my face, directly opposite the side Mr. Tophat had been nuzzling. He tilted my head so I was looking at him. "Abigail," He asked, "are you alright?"

I looked up into Hans' open, honest concern and wanted to cry. I'm not used to thinking of men as beautiful, but in that moment – while he looked down at me as though I were precious and he'd been worried about me, and after all the madness that had already befallen me tonight, and with the street lamp blazing like a halo around his mussed hair – in that moment, Hans was beautiful. I wanted nothing more than to throw myself against his chest, be engulfed in his embrace, and weep until I was unconscious.

But I couldn't say any of that, let alone do it. What kind of pathetic person falls apart on a near stranger two nights in a row? No doubt Hans would laugh at me if I tried and dump me on the spot.

"I'm cold," I squeaked. "And I hurt my ankle," I whimpered. First Hans, then Emma and Mr. Tophat – Mom had been right. I'd let a boy kiss me and turned into one of _those_ girls. I stared up at Hans. Oh god, I'd called him my boyfriend. Did he feel that way about me? What if he went mad with jealousy when he found out I'd cheated on him with another woman? No. I couldn't think about that now. I was just trying to distract myself.

Hans was just wearing jeans and a tee-shirt again, but he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me against himself. Hans was so solid, and warm.... I buried my face against his chest to hide the way my eyes were watering. Hans stroked my hair. He smelled like soap and grass and leaves and _Hans._ I tried really hard not to sniffle into his shirt.

"It will be okay," Hans said softly. "You're safe now."

"Stop coddling her," Mr. Salvatore said from behind me.

I shrieked and twisted around as far as I could in Hans' arms – which wasn't more than turning my head to look over my shoulder. Mr. Salvatore stood just steps away from us. I hadn't heard a thing when he'd gotten out of the car or walked over – just like when he'd appeared out of nowhere next to Megan's desk at work.

Mr. Salvatore was wearing a three piece suit, polished black shoes and driving gloves. His accent promised death wrapped in silk, and his eyes were pits – looking into them was like staring into the soulless barrels of a murderer's handguns. "Where is Megan?" Mr. Salvatore asked casually. But it was the kind of casualness that threatens to hang you by your own intestines over the side of a bridge if you dare take it casually.

I clung tighter to Hans. His tee-shirt bunched up in my fists. I was probably stretching the fabric. I didn't care. I was only thinking about it to avoid thinking about the way Mr. Salvatore was glaring at me. I didn't think I could lie to those eyes and live.

"She's not here," I whispered.

"I can see that," Mr. Salvatore said. "Why isn't she?" One of his gloved hands curled into a fist. "Was she taken?"

I tried to gulp down my fear. Did that ever work? Nope. But at least part of my plan had sort of worked. Maybe. As long as Mr. Salvatore thought that Megan had been carried off by fae.

Hans snorted. "Salvatore, relax. I'm sure she's fine."

I twisted back around to stare at Hans. His head was raised to address Mr. Salvatore, but I could still see his face. Hans' brow furrowed. He looked back down at me.

"Abigail, there isn't a scent of Megan on you that's recent enough for her to have been in the car with you." He frowned in puzzlement while my eyes went wide with horror. "Why did you say the two of you were together?" Hans asked.

"Yes, Ms. Abigail," Mr. Salvatore asked in idle curiosity. "Why did you lie to bring us here?"

I kept my gaze on Hans. I didn't dare look at Mr. Salvatore again. Everyone knows vampires can hypnotize you if you meet their gaze. I didn't know if that was really true, but I couldn't risk finding out the easy way. Maybe I _could_ trust Hans to help me. He didn't seem angry. Just confused, and maybe a little worried.

"Megan is fine," I said hastily. "We split up earlier this evening. I had to get Mr. Salvatore away from everyone. Hans, he's been starving himself. He's dangerous!"

Hans' frown hardened. "Abigail," he said, "I know you've had quite a shock to your world view. It's frightening. I understand. But Salvatore is no more a monster than I am, and he treats his curse with the same gravity as I treat mine. He would not be that irresponsible; he fed from me this morning. You don't have to be afraid of him."

I didn't know if I wanted to laugh or to cry, but there would have been an edge of hysteria either way. Hans wasn't in on Mr. Salvatore's obsession – but he didn't believe me, which was almost as bad! "You _don't_ understand," I gasped. "This isn't just me freaking out!" How could Hans not see that Mr. Salvatore was off the deep end? It was written in his eyes and audible in the veiled menace of his voice. Did Hans actually think this was how a normal person looked? How a normal person _sounded?_

But then again... Hans had said he and Mr. Salvatore knew each other from a war. Maybe, as far as Hans knew, 'coiled death waiting to strike' _was_ how Mr. Salvatore sounded normally. I had to get him to see how wrong he was!

Hans started to say something, but I interrupted him. "No, _listen,_ " I hastily said. I didn't know when Mr. Salvatore was going to suddenly snap my neck to stop me from spilling his plans, but I figured it had to be coming. "Katherine told me something was wrong with Mr. Salvatore when she went to see him at lunch. She said...." She'd said he was wearing his gloves, but she hadn't said what that meant. It had scared Emma into not defending Mr. Salvatore anymore, though. "Hans, why is he wearing gloves?" They were driving gloves, but Hans had been driving. "It's important," I swore to him. "Katherine said it was seriously bad."

Hans looked up from me and I felt a thrill of hope. "Salvatore?" he asked. "Can you take those off for a minute to put Abigail's worries at ease?"

Mr. Salvatore sighed. "And of course refusing such a simple request would seem suspicious in and of itself," he said. "No matter how ridiculous or impertinent the request may be. Ms. Abigail, I do hope you realize how little I like impertinent mortals forcing my hands, even in little things."

I felt like my heart was going out of control. I knew exactly how little he liked it – he'd tried to murder Katherine for nagging at him not to kill people, hadn't he? Every one of Mr. Salvatore's words plucked my fight or flight response, and when it comes to that I've always been a rabbit. Unfortunately, with my ankle out of commission 'flight' had nowhere to go except 'panic.'

"Satisfied?" Mr. Salvatore asked Hans – and whatever he'd done made Hans stiffen in surprise.

Hans swore in a language I didn't know. Swedish, maybe? Swiss? Hell, maybe he wasn't even cursing – but it _sounded_ like a swear. Hans let me go, gently lowering me against the lamp post. Then he rose from his crouch. He moved with the exaggerated slowness and care of a flannel-clad man who's trying not to spook a rabid chupacabracorn, and he held himself like he was getting ready to wrestle a grizzly. "Salvatore," Hans asked with equal caution, "What happened?"

I looked despite myself. I couldn't help it – not without Hans' chest to hide my face against.

Mr. Salvatore was tucking his gloves into his jacket pocket. The hand at his side looked perfectly normal: bare, pale; with long, delicate fingers. Then he took his other hand out of his pocket, and I saw what Hans had seen.

Mr. Salvatore's left hand was a mess of discolored blisters and blackened, cracked skin. Mr. Salvatore held it up and watched his own flesh split as he idly flexed his fingers. I felt sick. No blood oozed from the wounds, though, old or new.

"It's your blood," Mr. Salvatore told Hans. "It's more potent than a mortal's. I had to feel the sun for longer than normal to take the edge off of 'living.'"

"Why would you..." Hans started to ask, but Mr. Salvatore interrupted him.

"Please," Mr. Salvatore said. "Do away with the stupid questions, Hans. I'm old. I've fought in four wars. I've died and returned a dozen times. I've lost more friends and lovers and family than I can remember, and I have done things that I would weep at the memory of – if I were alive."

Mr. Salvatore tilted his head to look at Hans. "But here?" Mr. Salvatore asked rhetorically. "Here, at the cusp of hunger and on the slain edge of death? Here, those memories have no sway. Survival takes its precedence over grief and guilt, and existence is tolerable again." He smiled. " _No,_ " he contradicted himself, "existence is _pleasurable_ again. Survival rejoices in simple successes; the meeting of needs, the fulfillment of desires. And from here, without guilt or doubt or conscience to interfere, my needs are so very _simple_ to determine and pursue."

"You need to feed," Hans said firmly. "You're too far past life for your flesh to heal, and that's dangerous."

Mr. Salvatore chuckled. "Indeed I do, but not from a supernatural such as yourself, my friend. As I said: your blood is too potent – and the sun is hours away. No, I need a mortal's lifeblood to repair the damage yours has dealt me without taking me past survival and into the realms of grief and despair."

Hans stepped forward and reached out to the monster he had just yesterday called friend and mentor. Perhaps he still thought of Mr. Salvatore that way. "Salvatore," Hans plead, "You don't want to do this."

It wasn't lost on me that Hans had just put himself between myself and a vampire bent on mortal blood. My heart pounded. I hadn't expected that. I didn't know what to make of it, either. Of Hans' action or the way my heart was racing. Adrenaline. That had to be it. And Hans was just trying to talk down his friend. That was all.

Mr. Salvatore laughed. He'd noticed what I had, too. "You clearly overestimate your knowledge of what I desire to do, Hans. That scrap of humanity holds no interest for me save that she might serve to draw out the one I mean to have."

Hans lowered his hand. His stance shifted in a subtly dangerous way. "I can't let you do this," Hans said flatly. Then, with more emotion, "I _won't_ let you cause another tragedy to mourn when your bloodlust is sated."

Mr. Salvatore shook his head. "I won't," he said. "I will never mourn again. If I kill my donors – let them start to die before I start to feed – there will not be enough life in them to sate my hunger. I will live forever without regret. There will just be the _thrill_ of the hunt, and the joy of _taking._ " Mr. Salvatore laughed again. And the most chilling thing about it was that he didn't sound cruel, or insane, or evil. His laughter just sounded like he was happy.

And then, mid-laugh; without warning or stopping for breath, Mr. Salvatore launched himself at Hans.

# Chapter 39

If you've ever seen a final battle between good and evil in a movie, this was _nothing_ like that. Mr. Salvatore didn't engage Hans with the stylized violence of a kung-fu flick or the flashy effects of an anime showdown. He just lashed out.

The fighting was too brutal for me to follow. Hans had to be three times Mr. Salvatore's size. Hans had better reach, he was made of solid muscle, and I knew from personal experience how frighteningly fast he could be.

Mr. Salvatore was faster.

Worse, I realized in dull terror, Mr. Salvatore was _stronger._

And even worse still, Mr. Salvatore had been undead for hundreds of years and multiple wars – plenty of time to learn exactly how to handle himself as a weapon.

I heard flesh brutally striking flesh. Hans tried to fight back; to grapple. For a second I thought he might overwhelm Mr. Salvatore with his sheer size, but Mr. Salvatore had no trouble at all tearing free from the arms that had held me so securely just moments before. And then Hans was struck hard enough to be sent reeling back.

Hans caught Mr. Salvatore's wrist and kept himself upright, but Mr. Salvatore yanked free of Hans' grip again with lightning speed. Then he caught Hans' wrist and elbow and snapped his forearm like a twig.

Hans snarled. Mr. Salvatore effortlessly twisted him around by his arm. I heard Hans' elbow dislocate. Then Mr. Salvatore kicked him to the ground. Hans caught himself on the concrete with his good arm.

I cried out – as much as I could, since I only seemed capable of breathing in.

Hans' body writhed like he'd started shifting shape but arrested the process mid-change, and then he was surging to his feet; has broken arm straight and swinging his fist at Mr. Salvatore again.

But Mr. Salvatore was moving before Hans was upright. I don't know if it was my nightmarish imagination or if I heard ribs crack over the sound of Mr. Salvatore's shoe impacting in Hans' side, but Mr. Salvatore's kick flipped Hans over and left him sprawled on his back. Hans started to rise, but not before Mr. Salvatore was on him again.

Mr. Salvatore shoved Hans back down to the concrete and crouched over him. A blade flashed in the light of the street lamp.

A blade in Mr. Salvatore's hand.

It plunged into Hans' chest.

I couldn't even scream. I was still hyperventilating too hard to breathe out.

Not too hard to move, though.

I don't know what madness seized me, but I surged away from the lamp post. Not to do the sensible thing; get in Megan's car and flee. Not even to do the _more_ sensible thing and get in Hans' car, which was closer and still running, and flee. No.

My ankle protested with enough pain to clear my head and make me starkly aware of how _fucking insane_ my decision making paradigms are, and then it gave out again. I half fell and half threw myself at Mr. Salvatore's back.

I accomplished nothing. Mr. Salvatore twisted around and batted me aside like I was one of the thousands of ninjas in historical manga that get slaughtered to prove how badass the hero is. I hit the ground on my side. The concrete of the sidewalk scraped the hell out of my arm. I couldn't stop my eyes from watering and I wanted to puke and I hurt all over and everything was fuzzy and I didn't know how many times Mr. Salvatore had stabbed Hans or if the knife was silver or if Hans was dead or when Mr. Salvatore would come after me.... And the shadows were moving.

I was laying helpless on my side, staring into the alley. Mr. Tophat had warned me that the goblins would be back. Now they were, and their numbers seemed to surge as my terror mounted. I pushed myself up from the sidewalk, as much as I could. Kneeling was all I could manage, and I still wanted to throw up. All I managed to do there was exhale.

"Mr. Salvatore," I croaked.

"Yes?" Mr. Salvatore idly asked from behind me. But I wasn't talking to him.

"Midnight," I told the alley. "Crossroads. You came after me; makes me the challenged." My lips split in a smile fit for a skull. "Already beat one of you," I rasped. "I can do it again."

"Ms. Abigail?" Mr. Salvatore asked again; this time from much closer. Couldn't he see the fae? Maybe not. Hans had been able to smell Megan on me, but hadn't mentioned Mr. Tophat. Maybe the fae were too in-between worlds to be seen before they were noticed, unless they wanted to be.

I raised my head. Mr. Salvatore had died before. In the wars. He could be beaten. I just needed an army. In that instant, just as I realized what I was about to say, I was more terrified than I had ever been in my life.

The part of me that was planning; that takes over when everything goes to shit and I'm too panicked to take care of myself, wondered if that would be an enticing enough lure.

"I choose Mr. Salvatore," I said – and I knew he was right behind me. "I will willingly yield to whoever fucking kills Mr. Salvatore _right now_ ," I shouted. "And I don't even care what weapon you use or how many of you pile on!"

My racing heart beat exactly once before the darkness surged forward.

I shrieked. The goblins howled as they charged me – and charged past me. I collapsed, covering my head with my arms and curling in on myself. I don't know if it was dumb luck on my part or supernatural ability on theirs, but somehow I wasn't trampled by the fae tide.

I didn't know if I should laugh or cry, so I stayed fetal and did both. Terrified laughter spilt from my lips while tears of exhilaration streaked my cheeks. I had an army. So what if they were only fighting for the right to torture me to death? I had a fucking _army,_ and Mr. Salvatore was fighting for dear unlife.

# Chapter 40

My army of fae laid into Mr. Salvatore with abandon. I don't know what I thought would happen – I'd hoped that they would overwhelm him immediately. From the sounds of fighting behind me, they hadn't. But maybe I'd acted quickly enough that Mr. Salvatore hadn't been able to finish off Hans. Caesar had been stabbed, like, twenty times and still had breath to call Brutus a dick. Mr. Salvatore couldn't have gotten Hans more than half that many times. And hadn't Hans said that anything not instantly lethal was just an inconvenience to him? Except silver. But what kind of whiny Viking lycanthrope can't handle _a little_ silver?

Hans had to be okay. I'd put him in danger by telling him about Mr. Salvatore, and Hans had put his life between that danger and my own. If I was going to be tortured to death by my own psychopathic murder minions, Hans had damn well better survive to appreciate my sacrifice.

If he didn't, I would... I'd...

My laughter had given way to sobbing. My tears had stopped entirely. My face hurt and I was still curled up in the fetal position, listening to the battle behind me.

_If Hans dies,_ I thought fiercely, _then I'm going to dump his ass._ I don't date wussy werewolves.

Then I cried out as a hand tangled in my hair and ripped me to my feet. Mr. Salvatore grabbed me across the shoulders and held me in front of himself like a shield. His knife was at my throat. "Your prize is worthless if she's dead," he shouted. "Worthless!"

My heart thundered. I didn't dare breathe for fear of cutting my own throat. My host of goblins pulled back and watched us with glittering, hungry eyes. Mr. Salvatore slowly retreated toward Hans' car. The goblins followed. The distance between us never wavered. The goblins advanced like circling, stalking hyenas. Their eyes never strayed from Mr. Salvatore.

"Sunlight," one of the goblins crooned.

"No," said another. "Decapitation."

The others started to giggle.

"Cut out his heart," came a suggestion.

"No, you put a stake through it," another said.

"That doesn't really work," the first sneered.

"No," agreed Mr. Stake. "But if you put a stake through his heart after you cut it out, then you can roast it in the sun while the rest of him is still alive to feel it."

"Ooooooo," the goblins crooned in admiration.

Mr. Salvatore continued to back away. I swallowed despite myself – my neck stung where it brushed the knife's edge. But I couldn't help it. The way the fae were taunting Mr. Salvatore; just like they'd been taunting me.... Was Mr. Salvatore afraid?

Mr. Salvatore said his hunger only cared about survival. But fear is a survival thing. It tells us when to run the fuck away.

We weren't to Hans' car yet. That would be the turning point. The fae would have to either rush us or let Mr. Salvatore escape.

"Take the wolf with my blessing and count yourselves lucky," Mr. Salvatore called to the fae. "Attack me and I'll kill this wretch and send as many of you back to Avalon as I can before being overwhelmed. Do you want to gamble, trolls? Are you confident you will taste my death, or will you be one of those I dispatch to shame and hunger in fairyland?"

The wolf? _Hans!_ Some of the fae started to drift away from the pack circling us. It had to mean that Hans was alive. Otherwise, why would they take that deal? Mr. Salvatore used the goblins' distraction to continue his retreat.

"Oh don't you dare!" I snapped to my utter surprise. It surprised the fae, too. The ones who had been slinking toward Hans froze and looked at me. They knew who I was shouting at. "That's _my_ boyfriend," I yelled. "Mr. Salvatore has no right to offer him up and you have no right to take him from me when you can't even beat me in a stupid duel."

The fae glanced at each other. I remembered Mr. Tophat's attempts to claim me. Possession was nine-tenths of mortal law, but it seemed to be _all_ of it to the fae. I was pretty sure that if I made a good case, Hans would be safe from them. Maybe.

"He's my soldier," Mr. Salvatore said flatly. "I willingly surrender him as a necessary sacrifice of war. The girl and I leave unhindered in exchange."

"Bullshit!" I squawked. "I call bullshit. Hans stood up to you in order to protect me. You tried to murder him, thus relinquishing any right you had to his loyalty." Somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware that arguing with an undead psychopath who had a knife to your throat while you're surrounded by a swarm of murderous emotional cannibals might not be the best of ideas. But I was in one of those places where I was so far past terror that I'd forgotten what fear looked like. Hell, I'd done a lap and come back to bravado.

So I put on my bravado and rolled with it.

"Hans is mine," I declared. "The scratches down his back; his arm; his side. _Mine_. I marked him and claimed him last night and he bowed to _my_ rules. And that means he's my boyfriend until _I_ say otherwise, because I'm the fucking crazy-ass possessive type."

I definitely had the goblins' attention. Mr. Salvatore's grip tightened threateningly. It was the wrong move – to an experienced pathological coward like myself, it just betrayed his own fear. It meant I was _winning_. For a given value of 'win', where that value was everyone wanting me dead more than anyone else.

Maybe I needed to re-evaluate my definition of victory. I made a mental note to do that when I had time. For now, I was just riding out the moment to what triumph I could.

"You got that?" I shouted. "If any of you want to get anything out of this fucked up evening, you've got to go through me. And that means you've got to go through Mr. Salvatore. So chop chop, people. I wanted his head on a plate ten minutes ago. At this rate I'm gonna win, and you don't even _want_ to know the boons I'll demand."

Actually, I hoped they'd surrender. I was going to demand Mr. Salvatore's ashes scattered over the ocean. Maybe, since there was a whole horde of them, they wouldn't turn chickenshit and run like Mr. Tophat. I mean, it's not like Mr. Salvatore could consume the life essence of one of them if twenty others were ganking him at the same time.

Sure, Mr. Salvatore would kill me before the goblins could get to me, but... Hell, I was a goner no matter what happened.

At least Mr. Salvatore would make it fast. I'd always thought that movie bad guys who offered a quick death in exchange for cooperation were dumbasses. Now that I was staring the alternative in its many drooling faces, I was starting to think that a quick death might be a legitimate bargaining chip.

The goblins crept forward. The ones that had been slinking toward Hans rejoined the others. It looked like I'd won. I did my best to rejoice while I could. As soon as Mr. Salvatore figured it out, I was dead.

But before I could start my mental celebration, Mr. Salvatore spun. I had only an instant to realize we'd backed up across from the open door of Hans' Hummer before Mr. Salvatore chucked me bodily through it. I shrieked. My head bounced off the passenger side window and I landed half on my back and half on my butt in the seat.

Mr. Salvatore was in the driver's seat before I'd finished realizing what was happening. I tried to kick him out, but he'd already slammed the door shut. I twisted around and fumbled with the passenger door, but before I could get it open Mr. Salvatore threw the Hummer in reverse. He pulled a sharp backward turn into the street, and goblins scattered as the headlights slashed through them.

I got the door open, but before I could gather myself together and fling myself out Mr. Salvatore grabbed my ankle. My bad ankle. He clenched with bone crushing force – hard enough that my vision swam and I couldn't voice more than a strangled mewl of agonized protest. Mr. Salvatore yanked me back and hit the gas. The sudden forward momentum made the door swing shut. The door locks clicked into place throughout the car. Then Mr. Salvatore shoved my legs over to my half of the front seats.

I pulled them off the dashboard and, sobbing miserably, did my best to curl in on myself. Maybe Hans was alive. Maybe the fae would respect my claim on him. Maybe Katherine or Emma would find Megan. Maybe not. Everything that mattered was out of my ability to influence, now, which left me with nothing to focus on except my own circumstances.

I hurt everywhere. I was bruised and scraped and functionally lame. I'd made my best friend run off and cry, and now I had no one to rely one but myself. Just me versus an immortal, soulless psychopath who was driving me who knew where to do who knew what.

I should have surrendered to Mr. Tophat.

Yeah, I was pretty sure he'd been a psychopath, too – but at least if I were chained up in Mr. Tophat's fairyland dungeon awaiting god knew what tortures... Well, at least I wouldn't be freaking out about being unbuckled in a speeding car that was being driven by the madman who'd abducted me, instead.

# Chapter 41

I don't know how long it took me to pull myself together. I think it wasn't until my runaway thoughts got through despair and came out on the other side. It was a bizarrely peaceful feeling. I was in a situation so crushingly insurmountable that all the fears and anxiety my brain usually used to keep me alert for danger had just gone away.

It was like my poor overactive survival instincts had just gone: 'fuck it. You're on your own for this one.'

The first thing I did was blink slowly to clear some of the gunk out of my eyes. Then I shifted around and tried to get myself sitting properly. I moved slowly because I didn't want to make Mr. Salvatore think he needed to lash out at me again. And to keep from aggravating my various hurts. I wasn't sure how well my brain was doing after that bounce off the window, but when I brushed my bad foot against the seat I was informed in sharp clarity that pain still worked even if panic had taken a moment off.

I sucked in a startled gasp and blew it out slowly. The pain subsided to a slow ache as I did. Slow. That was the key. I took a few deep breaths. I had no idea how long this resigned tranquility would last, but if it was anything like the exhausted calm after a good old freakout then I needed to make the most of it while I could. Before my instincts lost the zen of 'fuck it' and started twisting me up again.

I thought about making a ruckus and trying to signal for help, but discarded that plan as a bad one. Best case, Mr. Salvatore would beat me in the head until I passed out. Worst case: I'd succeed, people would intervene — and Mr. Salvatore would throw their corpses off the side of the road before going on his merry way. No, I needed a real plan. And for that, I needed to know Mr. Salvatore's.

I slowly fastened my seatbelt. That helped a little.

When I was as steady as I thought I could be, I turned toward Mr. Salvatore. I sucked in another startled gasp — but this one was just surprise, not pain. Mr. Salvatore had been messed up. His suit jacket was torn in more than one place and someone had managed to claw his face. He wasn't bleeding anywhere, but that had to be a vampire thing because I could see bone through the gashes over his temple.

"So," I said because I am utterly devoid of subtly, "What's the plan?"

Mr. Salvatore turned to glare at me.

_Watch the road!_ My survival instincts were psychically screaming at Mr. Salvatore. A knot twisted in my stomach. Well, that hadn't taken long.

But instead of paying attention to his driving, Mr. Salvatore continued to stare at me.

"Gotcha," I said. "No plan. Okay, I can work with that." Actually, it was probably good for me. I've had to deal with off the cuff impulses in the place of decisions my entire life, but as an immortal and a general I was willing to bet that Mr. Salvatore usually laid things out in advance. When it came to improvisation, the advantage was mine.

I tried to take some cheer from that. It was probably the only advantage I'd find.

"You don't need to concern yourself with that," Mr. Salvatore said flatly. "You won't survive the night."

I gulped. It was one thing to think you weren't going to make it. It was another one entirely for your murderer to agree. "What, no details?" I protested. "Hans practically got an arch-villain soliloquy. I mean, I get that he was your friend, but still.... If you're going to go around trying to murder people you should at least treat them equally. Otherwise it's just rude." And seriously, what kind of monstrous villain doesn't take the excuse to go on a hubristic harangue? "Besides," I added, "If you do have a plan, maybe it has some flaws I can point out." Or exploit.

Mr. Salvatore started to laugh. "Do you think I'm stupid?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I'm not psychic," I confessed. If I were, he'd be paying more attention to his fucking driving. "But it seems to me that your plans aren't really that great, so you could probably use all the help you can get. I mean, you didn't get Megan last year. You didn't kill Katherine. And as for asking Hans to step in for her and keep you under control if shit got out of hand..." I shrugged again. "How's that going for you?"

Mr. Salvatore smiled. Holy crap, he had fangs. How come I'd never noticed those before? "Better than I'd hoped," Mr. Salvatore said. "Thanks to your interference, in fact. You see, I did not choose Hans for his role because I thought him capable of keeping me 'under control.' I chose him because he doesn't have a pack to ask annoying questions if he disappeared while 'shit got out of hand.' And now, even if I am questioned before an oracle I can honestly say that he died because you lured him into a fae ambush. Or do you honestly think those trolls didn't turn back and snatch him up as soon as they realized we were away?"

I hugged myself and tried to ignore the way Mr. Salvatore's question stripped my self-assurances off of my fear for Hans. I tried to remind myself that Hans was okay. Since Mr. Salvatore had escaped, I'd technically won that fight. Those fae owed me, and I'd declared Hans as my boyfriend. They _wouldn't_ hurt him.

I had to believe that.

"Huh," I said. "And here I was kind of hoping that there was some sort of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing going on between hungry you and sated you. But I guess you really are just the self-serving, creepy-ass predator I'd always pegged you as." Okay, so goading the monster wasn't a great idea and he'd still be a freaking jackass if he went too far and gorged on me — but I was down to hoping he would cripple himself with guilt for the night and give Katherine and Megan time to get together and flee the city.

Mr. Salvatore laughed. "That's rich, coming from the bitch who started all this."

I blinked. How the hell did he figure that? I couldn't bring myself to ask, though — I was too afraid he'd say something I couldn't deny. So I turned flippant instead.

"Bitch?" I snarked. "Only if things work out with Hans and he asks real nice." That gave me pause. Would I make as pretty a wolf as Hans did? But no, that didn't bear contemplation. I had enough issues already. "But seriously, I'm sorry if it hurt your feelings when I bite-blocked you last year." That had to be what he'd meant by me being the one who'd started this. "Except, no, I'm not, because Megan is my _best friend_ — not a mother fucking juice box, you undead asshole. So if you're going to kill me just get it over with. And if not, do us all a favor and go stake yourself. Or at least watch the fucking road!" I yelled.

Mr. Salvatore's eyes narrowed. His lips pressed into a thin line. He turned to watch the road. "I'm not going to kill you," he said. "You're not the one I want."

Shit. _Megan._

"Bullshit," I snarled. "I won't let you kill Megan. Not while I'm alive." Either he'd kill me, or I'd kill him. And chillingly enough it wasn't bravado talking for me. I genuinely meant it.

Mr. Salvatore snorted derisively. "I don't think you're in a position to stop me," he said. "In fact, you're going to help me." He smiled to himself. "But if it makes you feel better, I'm not going to kill Megan, either. Not permanently. A woman like that should be made into a consort, not a meal. And when she comes back from the grey realms and hungers for life, she will be the one that extinguishes and consumes yours.

I swallowed. Consort? Megan deserved to be a queen. Also, the knowledge that Mr. Salvatore's survival instincts encompassed more than fear and hunger was, in this case, both gross and terrifying. Also, Megan would make a fucking sexy vamp. _Also_ , I could _not_ let myself get distracted by that fantasy. It would be a _bad thing._

"I'm not going to help you," I stated as firmly as I could while trying to ignore the image of Megan in her gothic party girl clothes sucking rapturously on some blond woman's neck. Not mine — I'm not in those kinds of fantasies. Emma's, then.

"And you don't even know where Megan is," I said. Emma had to have a thing for being bit — why else would she have consented to being one of Mr. Salvatore's chew toys? In my head she was moaning and tangling her fingers in Megan's hair the way she had mine at the club.

"And if there's a rehab center for vampires," I said roughly, "then there's got to be someone who hunts down the ones that need admittance. So you can't stick around and look for her or you're going to get caught, locked up, and force-fed until you weep from grief at the realization of what a fucked up douche you are." In my head Megan had fallen back, sated, and Emma had undone Megan's top and was licking syrup and whipped cream off her breasts — breakfast in bed, for both of them, with a side of eros.

I knew I was just distracting myself from a very stressful situation, but still — god _damn_ it, Fumiko! I had enough messed up fantasies already.

Mr. Salvatore laughed. "I won't run," he said, and it shocked me out of my pseudo reverie. I'd been right about the vampolice?

"When they come," Mr. Salvatore said, "I will explain to them how I discovered you were a fae collaborator. How you betrayed Hans to an ambush, and how you had to have been the one who drugged Katie last year so I would lose control and you could have room to operate freely. And when I tell them that I confronted you and killed you — and was so injured in the process that I was forced to feed on Megan — and was so grieved by her death that I had to try and bring her back — they will believe me."

I shivered. The only way Mr. Salvatore's plan would work was if there was no one around to contradict him. But right now I wasn't having any trouble seeing him hunt down Katherine, and Emma, and Hans and putting them all in shallow graves.

"You still don't know where Megan is," I said. If Katherine found Megan first, they'd go into hiding. I had to hold on to that.

"I don't have to," Mr. Salvatore said. "I have you. And that's all I need to lure my intended to be into the open." Mr. Salvatore turned away from the road and smiled at me — all pearly teeth and fangs and terrifying evil. "After all," he added mockingly, "She _loves_ you."

# Chapter 42

I tried not to gawk. How the hell had Mr. Stalker Creep known about Megan's feelings for me when _I_ hadn't?

"You- That's- No, she doesn't," I stammered. I didn't manage to sound very convincing.

"Oh, but she does," Mr. Salvatore contradicted playfully. From his tone he clearly knew I was bullshitting myself with my denial. He took a perverse glee in stripping that away. "I watched poor dear Katie moon after her for a year before I got fed up enough to step in. That was more than enough time to divine the reason Katie's feelings remained so pathetically unrequited."

Mr. Salvatore chuckled. "What's more, I tasted my beloved's feelings for you, myself, when I finally decided to indulge and sample her blood. I assure you they are quite strong enough to bring her running. Why, she even used them to stave off my own advances. Have you any idea how hard it is for a mortal to resist a vampire's compulsion when their blood is first taken? Oh, she wouldn't have been able to hold out more than a few minutes – but I was so surprised she hadn't succumbed at once that I let her slip away when you so inconveniently interrupted us.

Mr. Salvatore spoke with jocular ease, as though last year's encounter was a humorous hiccup in his plans instead of the nightmarish brush with death I hadn't realized it was at the time. "You didn't bite her," I protested. I was clinging to denial – not of Megan's feelings for me, but denial that Mr. Salvatore had ever gotten his hooks in her on my watch. "I was there. There weren't marks. She wasn't bleeding."

Mr. Salvatore chuckled. "And you are so knowledgeable as to what to look for, are you? But you're right, I didn't bite her. She was already bleeding," he said. "Just a drop."

I felt faint. Megan had gone to the bathroom to check her blood sugar. I remembered that.

"It was incredible," Mr. Salvatore breathed in rapturous remembrance. "As exquisitely perfect as the woman herself." For a second I thought he'd forgotten I was there – Mr. Salvatore wasn't even staring at the road. He was gazing back at his memory of the past. "I had desired her before," Mr. Salvatore admitted. "But after?" He sighed. "It is no longer possible to divide desire from need. Poor Katie – my favorite for so long! She couldn't compare. I drank to the dregs in hope of finding something to replace what you'd stolen." He scowled. "It was like slaking myself on ash and regret. I should have just killed her for dissuading me from taking my due sooner."

I recoiled from Mr. Salvatore – as far as I could while strapped into my seat. "Megan isn't yours," I told him.

He looked at me. "I am not a fae," he sneered. "What is mine is whatever I choose to claim, not merely what I trick someone into giving."

I turned away from him first. I'd gotten my arch villain's soliloquy from him and it hadn't helped. I couldn't stomach facing him anymore. Especially not when he wasn't watching the road. I stared out the window and tried to think. After these past two days, watching the houses flicker by faster than my thoughts was becoming a disturbingly familiar experience.

Then I realized that the houses themselves were familiar. "Mr. Salvatore," I asked with trepidation, "where are you taking me?"

"I'd think that was obvious," Mr. Salvatore said. "If I'm going to have you lure out my Megan then you need to be somewhere that won't arouse her suspicion."

"Oh," I said. Of course. "So your plan is to kill my best friend, raise her from the dead, and feed me to her – in my own home?!"

Mr. Salvatore laughed. "Better yours than mine," he said. "It will be more convincing when I cast you as the villainess, after." He smirked. "And the newly risen are such eager, messy eaters. This way I won't have to replace my carpets."

I felt sick. "I'm not going to call her," I said flatly. I was putting too much effort into not throwing up to use inflection.

"I'm not going to give you a choice," Mr. Salvatore countered cheerfully. He pulled into the parking lot for my complex and down to the far end where I lived. For the second time in as many nights, Han's Hummer found itself parked outside my apartment.

Funny. I'd always thought if the undead killed me at home, it would be zombies. I'd always expected vampires to be too posh to eat out of a can.

Mr. Salvatore turned off the car and got out. I thought about hitting the door locks – but that wouldn't matter. Mr. Salvatore had the remote on the keys. He came over to my side and popped the door.

"Come," Mr. Salvatore said impatiently. I barely had time to unbuckle my seatbelt before he yanked me out of the car. He twisted my arm behind my back and grabbed the top of my corsetry – his knuckles dug into my back between my shoulders. I tried not to freak out at the feeling of his burnt, ruined flesh scraping against my skin.

Mr. Salvatore half carried and half marched me to my door. When we got there I was nearly in tears from my twisted ankle. I could have tried not to let it drag on the walk, but that would have been a fool's play. I know myself. When I'm freaked out badly enough I'll hurt myself to cope. Scalding my hands. Holding my breath until I feel faint. Whatever. _Pain_ I can handle. It just makes me sharp. But the threat of pain? The dread of agony? The fear of being hurt? That was how Mr. Salvatore could break me – if I weren't already too hurt to care.

I wasn't about to let Mr. Salvatore scare me into betraying Megan. Fuck that.

So I let my foot drag while he forced me to the door and took solace in the effort I expended on not crying. The pain kept the clutter out of my thoughts; kept everything focused.

"Open the door," Mr. Salvatore hissed.

I fumbled in my purse for my keys. Would pepper spray work on a vampire? I suspected if I used the little canister on my key ring I'd hurt myself more than him. My hand trembled as I undid the lock. I squeezed my eyes shut and pushed open the door.

I would not invite Mr. Salvatore in. I would not, no matter what he threatened. Hans had said a recently fed vampire could enter a house uninvited, but that it would hurt and drain him. Mr. Salvatore was already drained, if I was extrapolating right from Han's exclamation when he'd seen that Mr. Salvatore's mangled hand wasn't magically regenerating.

So I wasn't going to let Mr. Salvatore in. I wasn't going to let him set an ambush for Megan in my own home. And, if I got a chance, I was going to get myself through that door and into safety.

Then Mr. Salvatore chucked me through.

I yelped in surprise, tried to catch myself, failed – and sprawled out on the floor in front of my bed. What the hell had just happened? I twisted around. In the dark all I could see was Mr. Salvatore's silhouette framed by the door.

"But I didn't invite you in," I gasped in confusion. "You can't come in!" I yelled. _What the hell was he up to?_

"No," Mr. Salvatore said. His sleek accent sent shivers of dread down my spine. "I cannot. Not without hurting myself rather badly. Badly enough, I am confident, that when I turn you into my thrall and obedient servant the blood I claim from you will not be sufficient to push me into being the mewling wretch I despise – but rather, just enough to mend my injuries before my beloved's arrival."

My eyes widened. "Come in!" I shrieked, but it was too late – Mr. Salvatore had already stepped through the door. His agonized howl drowned out my shriek and he staggered sideways into the door frame. I twisted around and scrabbled at the floor, half crawling and half dragging myself away from him as he lurched into the living room.

I wasn't fast enough. Mr. Salvatore caught my ankle – my good one – and yanked me backward. My fingers clawed at the floor for purchase, but to no avail. I tried to twist and kick but it just sent torrents of agony down my leg when my foot connected and jarred my ankle. I didn't care. Sobbing, I kept kicking at him for all I was worth.

Mr. Salvatore didn't seem to care, either. My heel bounced off his shoulder; his temple. He just snarled like a feral beast and hauled me closer. His other hand grabbed my thigh hard enough to bruise it. He levered my leg up higher; high enough that my butt left the ground and I was rolling and scraping my bare shoulders against the floor while I screamed and flailed at him with my other foot.

Then Mr. Salvatore tilted his head. He snapped forward like a snake, and his fangs tore into my leg.

# Chapter 43

Mr. Salvatore's fangs didn't really hurt.

The rest of his teeth did.

Then his bite tore a hole through my soul, and trivial things like agony ceased to matter. My fear and pain and will to live drained away with my blood. Objectively, I should have felt violated. Probably.

Instead, I was having trouble feeling anything at all.

I stopped struggling. I felt cold, and light headed, and other physical things – but they were all devoid of emotional context. They were just sensations without meaning.

Then context returned. I was being fed on by Salvatore. And that was good and right, except maybe that he deserved better than my scrawny, worthless self. How had I ever thought otherwise? Salvatore deserved whatever he wanted. I owed him for getting in his way last year. Hell, the whole damn _world_ owed him for his service in the wars, and it was an insult that so many people didn't even know it! So, yeah – I was perfectly okay with Salvatore taking whatever he wanted.

Whatever he wanted was his for the taking.

Salvatore pulled away from his meal and let my leg go. My butt hit the floor just before my feet. I didn't hurt, though. Not even my sprained ankle. I blinked in confusion and sat up. Somehow I could see better than I've ever been able to in the dark. It was almost like the lights were on.

I looked down at myself and gasped. All my scrapes and bruises were gone. Other than the tears and smears of blood and stains on my tights, there wasn't even a sign that I'd gone skidding on the concrete earlier – or that I'd just been bit. I flexed my bad ankle. It didn't even twinge.

"H-How?" I asked in astonishment.

"Shared life," Salvatore grated. I looked up at him in surprise. His face was scrunched up like he was under a serious strain. The cuts the goblins had given him were gone – the worst of them finished closing before my very eyes. "Your essence is still yours while I am consuming it, but it is also becoming mine, so there is some bleed over between us." He grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. " _Fuck,_ " he gasped. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Sorry," I said for whatever it was. Damned if I could answer, though. I'd been asking myself that for years. Also, I was a little distracted. I'd already thought Salvatore was god's gift to yaoi daydreams, but how come I'd never realized he was really God's gift to women? No, to _the world_. The man was perfection in human form.

I wondered if that was really the case, or if that was just how he thought of himself. I blinked. _That_ was a silly thought. Of course he was that great! I couldn't believe I used to think he was creepy and sinister. Just because someone was creepy and sinister, it didn't mean he was creepy and sinister.

I frowned. Wait, _that_ didn't make sense.

Salvatore groaned and put his palm on his forehead. I shifted to look at him – I hoped he was okay! The sound of my movement mad him jump like a startled cat. "Fuck!" he shouted again. "Don't scare me like..." He broke up abruptly and scowled at me. "You are one fucked up piece of trash," he growled.

_Ohhhhh._ Shared life force, or whatever. My poor Salvatore was dealing with a bellyful of my anxious paranoia. Literally. And since Paranoia was a _survival_ thing of mine, it was probably hitting him extra hard since he was being so careful not to be alive enough to have normal emotions.

"I'm sorry," I said again. I really was, too. I've always regretted that I am the way I am, but for the first time ever I found myself kind of jealous of Megan. If I really were her instead of myself, then he would want me instead of her. Only I'd be her instead of me, so that wouldn't work, would it? My thoughts felt all dizzy and messed up. Probably because I wasn't paying enough attention to how wonderful Mr. Salvatore was.

What a narcissist.

A wonderful, _wonderful_ narcissist. I loved that about him. He deserved to be narcissistic. It wasn't even a character flaw, because he really was that wonderful.

Why did that sound sarcastic?

"Call Megan," Mr. Salvatore snapped at me. He turned and checked the curtains. Then he pulled them aside just enough to peer into the parking lot. " _Now_ ," he snarled.

He had my sympathy. My levels of neurosis aren't meant to be dealt with by the inexperienced. Given that he was already a wonderfully obsessive bloodthirsty sociopath, adding my brand of paranoia to the mix was probably pushing things.

I wondered if I should warn him about the Chupacabracorn, or let him hold on to what blissful ignorance he could.

I sat up and fished my phone out of my purse. "It'll be okay," I told Mr. Salvatore reassuringly. "I've been paranoid my whole life, and I've only been abducted once. And assaulted in my own home once. And ambushed by faeries twice. And—"

"Shut up and call!" Mr. Salvatore snarled.

I pouted. I'd only been trying to show him that, however he might feel right now, the odds that something horrific would happen at any given moment were only four or five in however many moments there are in twenty four years. Of course, if we shifted the scale from twenty four years to the past two hours, and stopped caring about any given moment and started worrying about the next two hours.... Well, then those odds changed to a four hundred percent chance of something bad happening. So, okay, maybe he was right to be worried.

So why wasn't I? That seemed strange, didn't it? I could totally get what Emma saw in the whole 'blood donor to a vampire' thing. The only other times I'd ever felt this calm had been when I've been on the brink of a panic attack and Megan was there to sit with me and hold me and make everything better.

I frowned at my phone. Megan was at the top of my speed dial. The only other numbers I had programmed in were Fumiko, work, Mom and Hans.

Megan. I could feel how Mr. Salvatore felt about Megan. I knew it was how _he_ felt about her because it was different than how _I_ felt about her. I relied on her. I felt guilty about imposing on her. I wanted to give to her the way she gave for me, but I just wasn't capable. And I felt bad about wanting that, too, because if Megan needed from me like I needed from her then it would be classic codependence, but Megan deserved to be the strong, sexy, independent _individual_ she was.

Mr. Salvatore, on the other hand, just _wanted_ her. He wanted her devotion. He wanted her body. He wanted her blood. There was nothing of giving in Mr. Salvatore's desires. He wanted to take. And he didn't care what that would mean for her.

Suddenly Mr. Salvatore was crouched in front of me. His face was inches from mine. Our gazes locked. "Stop fighting," Mr. Salvatore ordered, "And _call._ "

My hands trembled, but I hit dial and brought the phone to my ear. Mr. Salvatore didn't move or look away. His attention was mesmerizing. The phone rang once. It wasn't going straight to voice mail anymore. Would Megan pick up? The phone rang again. I hoped Megan wouldn't answer. Then I could have Mr. Salvatore all to myself. Was that my possessiveness, or Salvatore's?

It didn't matter. On the third ring, the phone picked up.

"Abby?" Megan whispered on the other end. She sounded hoarse and numb, like I sound when I've been crying.

I felt horrible. How could I be so selfish about Salvatore when Megan was hurt? _She'd_ selflessly pushed Hans my way. The least I could do was return the favor. Salvatore would get Megan's mind off of stupid me – he was wonderful.

"Hey," I said gently.

"I'm sorry I ran off," Megan said. "Something came up," she finished lamely.

"It's okay," I said. "I got home. Are you alright?"

"What?" Megan forced a laugh. "Of course. I'm fine. Just got dragged away. How about you? Does Hans have competition?"

It was painfully obvious that she was forcing herself to sound okay – but then, she didn't know I was finally aware of her real feelings. And how much it must have hurt her for me to go off with Emma instead, without ever noticing that Megan wanted to be more than friends, herself.

Mr. Salvatore leaned in closer. His glare instructed me to cut the chitchat short and hurry it up already.

"Not from Emma," I said. Not from anyone, really – in order for Hans to have competition I'd have to survive the night. But Mr. Salvatore had already taken that option off the table with his plans.

Oh well.

"Um, can you come over?" I asked. Normally I'd known she would say yes. For the first time ever, I thought Megan might say no. I felt like a bitch just asking. What right had I to ask her a favor? All I ever did was take from her and hurt her and not even notice it. And that was _not_ okay.

But this wasn't about me, was it? This was about Mr. Salvatore. He wanted Megan, and it was totally fine for him to just take what he wanted.

Why did it feel like it wasn't?

After a moment, Megan interrupted my muggy confusion. "Sure," she said. "Um... but you have my car."

Oh. Right.

"It broke down," I said. "I had to call Hans for a ride." Mr. Salvatore's face twisted in an impatient frown. "You can just take a cab though, right?" Maybe she wouldn't want to. Why didn't _I_ want her to? Mr. Salvatore was great! He was going to give her immortality or kill her trying. Wasn't that swell of him? Why did I have a problem with that?

Another few seconds passed. "Yeah," Megan said. "Okay. I'll be right over."

"Thank you," I said. "I'll see you soon."

Mr. Salvatore plucked the phone out of my hand and hung up before I could say anything else. "Hey!" I protested before I could remember that he was Mr. Salvatore, and Mr. Salvatore could take and do whatever he wanted.

Because Mr. Salvatore was perfect.

And a murderous, egomaniacal jerk.

And those weren't mutually exclusive character traits _at all_.

And there was that sarcasm again. Weird.

Mr. Salvatore didn't give my phone back. "Why aren't you behaving?" he demanded.

I tilted my head and looked at him in confusion. I wanted my phone back so I could call Megan and tell her not to bother. The longer I sat around thinking Mr. Salvatore was perfect, the more he seemed like a self-serving jackass. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"Your thoughts keep turning hostile," he snapped. "You can't hide it. You should be a servile, fawning thrall by now."

I blinked. True, he had said it was hard for most mortals to resist the compulsion that came from a vampire's bite. So much so that he'd been confident Megan couldn't have held out against him for more than a few minutes. And been surprised that she'd resisted him at all. But he'd blamed that on love.

Did I love Megan back?

No – I would have known.

Wouldn't I?

"Maybe it's because I'm crazy," I said. He had to know it was true – he was being hit with my paranoia. And dealing with it much less well than I was dealing with his sociopathic narcissism, in my opinion.

Mr. Salvatore swept to his feet. "No," he snapped accusingly. "You've been fed on before." He paced a few steps away and then spun toward me. "Who is your master?" he yelled. "Who dares poach in my city?"

I stared up at him, aghast. What the hell was he talking about? If I'd ever been bit before, I would _remember_ it.

" _You're_ crazy," I said. Somehow I'd stopped thinking he was perfect. Probably because I recognized paranoid delusion when I saw it, and I _know_ delusional paranoiacs aren't perfect because I am one myself.

I got up to my feet. Mr. Salvatore lunged forward and grabbed me by the throat. He lifted me one handed. " _Who is it?"_ he snarled. "Who do you belong to?"

"No one," I choked. My toes could barely brush the floor. "I'm not anyone's."

But then a thought struck me. _Mr. Tophat._ That lying prick! He'd said he hadn't fed on me. He'd also said he wasn't a _poacher._ Bullshit, both times. It had to be. Hans had said it took about a year of being fed on for a blood donor to overcome the infatuation inherent in being fed on – maybe that was because it took about a year's worth of feedings for their soul to adapt enough; grow callouses enough, to be able to keep its identity intact while the rest of it was ripped to pieces and consumed.

How long _had_ the fae been feeding on me?

Mr. Salvatore's grip tightened. "Bullshit," he hissed. "Tell me who."

"Mr. Tophat did it," I managed to say. "Fae. Poacher. Not his," I blurted.

Mr. Salvatore's eyes widened. His arm curled, and I found myself held tight against his chest. His other hand snapped over my mouth.

"Not another damn word," Mr. Salvatore whispered. "They are called to their names – do you want to bring him here?" Mr. Salvatore's head snapped up. He looked around as though expecting a sudden ambush. "Of course you do," he accused. "You're working with them! Oh, it all makes sense now."

I made a muffled protest into the palm of his hand. Mr. Salvatore ignored it.

"That's how you resisted me. That's how _Megan_ resisted me. You've both been fed on before. And the ambush you sprang on Hans and I! There are never that many fae in one place in the mortal world without special circumstances. You _bitch._ You've been spying on me for them, haven't you?"

He started to laugh. I slumped weakly. I recognized the tone of that laugh.

So. I didn't hurt. And I was over the whole 'Mr. Salvatore is great' thing. But Megan was on her way here, and I was helpless to do or even say anything about it.

Helpless, and in the clutches of a deranged vampire who'd just decided I was in league with his eternal enemies, the fae.

A deranged vampire who, from the way he was laughing, was right on the edge of a good old fashioned freak out.

# Chapter 44

Mr. Salvatore carried me to the bed and sat down. He didn't loosen his grip or take his hand from my mouth. "I _was_ suspicious, you know," he said. "The fae are tricksters. Always engaged in subterfuge. I knew they had to have a spy nearby. But in my own company?" He laughed harshly. "That was a bit ambitious. Did you think I wouldn't find you out?"

I didn't reply. How could I? It wouldn't matter – Mr. Salvatore was way off the deep end, now. I did my best to ignore him. I didn't know when Megan would get here, but I needed to have a plan in place by then.

Unfortunately, my resources were limited and nothing was coming to mind. Weirdly, I wasn't too anxious about that. I wasn't as in love with Mr. Salvatore as Mr. Salvatore was anymore, but I still felt empty of myself. And a little woozy.

Mr. Salvatore kept babbling on about all of the things that made sense now that he was just making up whatever facts he wanted to support them. I wondered if he got that from me. I could still see in the dark from him. Listening to him felt _weird._ Jeez, was that how _I_ sounded? I felt a little worse for Megan. It had to suck to put up with that all the time.

Also, I still hadn't been able to come up with a plan.

"Poor Katie," Mr. Salvatore was saying with derisive scorn. "She probably told Megan everything you could ever want to know. And you mentioned Emma while you were on the phone? My dear Emma was still enthralled, you know. She'll be crushed when she finds out you were seducing her to get to me. Right up until I snap her scrawny neck for being a traitor.

I tried to protest. Where was Mr. Salvatore getting the idea that _I_ was seducing _anyone?_ I wasn't some femme fatale! And Emma had come after _me._

But it didn't matter. My words were muffled to inarticulate nonsense by Mr. Salvatore's hand – and then even that cut off when he tightened his grip on my throat. "Quiet," he hissed.

I heard what he had in the following silence. It was the scratch of a key in the lock of my front door.

Why had I ever given Megan a key to my apartment?

Not that it would have mattered. Mr. Salvatore hadn't locked the door.

_Go away,_ I silently thought at Megan. _It isn't locked._ She had to know that meant something was seriously wrong. I _never_ leave the door unlocked. I usually have the chains and deadbolts done up, too, even when I'm expecting her to come over. _Run away!_ I thought, along with a frantic _please let her be psychic._

The handle turned. _Why_ couldn't she have been psychic? Sure, I would have died of embarrassment when it finally hit me that she'd always been privy to everything I'd ever thought around her – but if Mr. Salvatore had his way I wouldn't be able to live with myself anyway. Also, I'd be dead. So really, this was a lose-lose-lose situation for me.

I struggled, trying to make some noise to warn Megan. Mr. Salvatore slid to his feet and clutched me tighter. My feet didn't even reach the floor for stomping. He stepped back toward the kitchen, out of clear view of the door.

The front door opened and I saw Megan squinting into the darkness of my apartment. "Abby?" she asked hesitantly. From her voice I _knew_ she knew something was wrong. So why wasn't she making like the proverbial bat out of hell? "Abby, are you there?" she asked, and then she fumbled for the light switch on the wall.

The light snapped on. Megan took one glance around the room and gasped.

"Megan," Mr. Salvatore said. "How good of you to join us. I missed you at the party."

"I went," Megan said shakily. "You weren't there."

Mr. Salvatore's body stiffened angrily. His grip tightened. It seemed like he'd just figured out why I'd lied and said Megan was with me when I'd called Hans. Sucker. Too bad it hadn't really worked.

"Close the door," Mr. Salvatore said.

I stared at Megan as though I could tell her to run for it with my eyes. Megan gulped. She reached back and pushed the door closed.

"Good," Mr. Salvatore hissed. "Now come here."

Megan took a slow step forward. Why hadn't she run? Mr. Salvatore was obviously bat-shit crazy. You could tell from his voice, even if the whole 'obviously holding me in distress in my own home' thing wasn't enough. _I_ was the crazy one – Megan should be panicking like a sane person and making a break for it so she could call the cops. Sure, in this case that was the response that would get a lot of people killed, but it was the sane one, too.

Megan took another step forward. Mr. Salvatore had hypnotized her. That had to be it. Maybe he still had a grip on her from when he'd tasted her blood last year. _Shit._ Megan approached Mr. Salvatore slowly, but without evident panic or fear. Her posture was relaxed. She favored him with the sort of smile that usually meant I was going to hear her dish about a salacious evening come morning. Her breathing was slow and steady; deep, chest-expanding breasts that – ew! – made parts of Mr. Salvatore that I would have preferred to remain in ignorance of twitch against my leg.

But I knew Megan. That wasn't her flirty 'hey, check out the cleavage on me' breathing. That was the 'calm down, Abby. In-two-three, out-two-three' meditation breathing that Megan always walks me through when I start to hyperventilate around her.

My eyes widened. So: Mr. Salvatore _didn't_ have his hypno-vamp hooks into her. Megan was seriously freaked. But what the hell was she doing?

Megan stopped in front of us and didn't even look at me. Her gaze had been locked with Mr. Salvatore's the whole time. "I'm here," Megan said in the tone of voice she usually used to mean 'I'm eagerly willing.' She reached up and caressed Mr. Salvatore's cheek with the back of her fingers. "Let her go," Megan said without breaking away from Mr. Salvatore's gaze. "I'm the one you want, right? We can go somewhere else – somewhere private – and enjoy ourselves."

I was nauseatingly aware of Mr. Salvatore's reaction to Megan's proposal. Why the fuck hadn't I worn jeans tonight? The bulge in his pants rubbed against my legs as he lowered me. He let go of my throat, but kept his other hand over my mouth. He probably didn't want me blurting out that he wanted more than 'fun' – as though Megan wasn't smart enough to realize that already. I wanted to bolt as soon as my feet hit the floor, but I knew how strong Mr. Salvatore was. I'd probably just twist my own neck if I tried to run while his hand was clamped over my mouth. Megan still had a chance, though. I begged her to run with my eyes, but she still wasn't looking at me.

"No, I think we'll be keeping your friend with us," Mr. Salvatore said hungrily. "For now."

Megan pouted. "But three is a crowd," she whined like the bimbo she wasn't. She let her fingers trail behind Mr. Salvatore's head, pulling him forward while she rose up on tip toe. I was squished awkwardly between them as her right hand – still holding her keys – joined her left behind Mr. Salvatore's head so she could pull herself up against him. "I don't like to share," she said while her pouting lips approached his.

Mr. Salvatore groaned and tilted his mouth over Megan's. I wanted to cry. She was trying to sacrifice herself for me – didn't she know how fucking backward that was? _I_ wasn't worth it, damn it!

Megan's body wriggled against mine as she kissed Mr. Salvatore in a way that seemed to involve a lot of parted lips, whimpering moans, and tongue. Mr. Salvatore looped his free hand around Megan's waist and pulled her tighter against us. I tried not to let my eyes water in despair.

Finally Megan broke the kiss. Mr. Salvatore groaned rapturously. "That was..." he said as she let go of him and slipped back down to her heels – but he didn't get to finish his thought. As soon as Megan was on solid footing again; when her hands slid back from behind his head, she unloaded the canister of pepper spray on her key ring directly into Mr. Salvatore's face.

He howled in surprise and let go of Megan to scrub at his eyes. "Abby, run!" she screamed – and kicked him in the shin, then drove her heel into his foot.

Mr. Salvatore didn't let go of me – but his hand slipped. It wasn't enough for me to get away, but it was enough for me to bite him while I struggled. I get the number three with extra bacon at least twice a week. I take _big_ fucking bites.

Mr. Salvatore screamed again and wrenched his hand out of my mouth. My teeth sawed at his flesh as he pulled free and I gagged on the taste of dead, ichorous blood. Megan shoved him away and grabbed my arm. The diffusion of pepper spray in the air made my eyes burn. I stumbled after her as Megan dragged me toward the door.

If Mr. Salvatore had been human, we might even have made it.

Mr. Salvatore appeared in front of us with supernatural speed. It was like he'd teleported between us and the door.

Megan staggered to a halt. "How-?" she gasped.

Mr. Salvatore responded by backhanding her with enough force to knock her over. "Bitch!" he yelled. I tried to catch her, but I was too disoriented and off balance – and she had been holding me, not the other way around.

Megan's head struck the footboard of my bed with a sickeningly audible _crack_. She slumped bonelessly to the floor.

I shrieked Megan's name and bolted for her side, but Mr. Salvatore teleported between us. He caught me by my neck and lifted me, one handed, off the ground. I clutched at his wrist and struggled to breathe. "Let me go," I gasped. "You – she might be dead!"

Mr. Salvatore snickered. "Oh, no. Not yet. I still hear her heartbeat, Abigail. But she will be. I was _going_ to give her immortality, but she just had to be difficult." He shook his head. "She's not a suitable consort. I see that now. So instead, I think I'll just choke the defiance from her." His grip tightened like a slowly wound vice. "Just like this."

I tried to protest. To beg him to stop. No sound came out.

"Of course," Mr. Salvatore said, "she is still a delicacy. I may spare her if I see surrender in her eyes before I see death. Perhaps, after a few years, she'll learn proper submission. Or perhaps, when I see the life dimming in her eyes I'll stop to drink the rest." Mr. Salvatore laughed. "In either case, I no longer have a use for _you._ "

My struggles began to weaken – not that they'd been effective to begin with. My vision swam and grew fuzzy; my chest ached with my lungs' agony. My limbs were tortured with pins and needles, as though they'd gone to sleep from being laid on wrong – only it was all of them and not just an arm or a leg.

The sensations – other than the being choked part –were familiar. I've held my breath until I'd passed out before. It's what I started to do after Megan had noticed how chapped my hands always were from being scalded. I even felt the same despair. Not because I was panicked or freaking out or depressed, this time – but because I knew I wasn't going to last much longer. Tears welled in my eyes and Mr. Salvatore's psychotic grin swam before them. I'd done my best, but it didn't matter. I'd failed Megan. The only time she'd ever needed me, and I'd failed her.

"Hey now," a familiar voice suddenly said from behind Mr. Salvatore. "I do hate to interrupt, but I must protest. If _anyone_ is going to make my little cherry cordial lose all hope, it _really_ should be me. After all," Mr. Tophat added, "I did call dibs."

# Chapter 45

Mr. Salvatore dropped me and twisted around to face Mr. Tophat. I landed on my hands and knees, coughing and gasping for breath.

"An elf," Mr. Salvatore hissed. "I _knew_ she was working for your side. This will make things so much easier to explain," he chuckled. "But you must know your plot is unwound. I know who your mortal spies are, now, and you must know that no single fae is my match. Run away while you can, redcap. Run away."

Mr. Tophat laughed. "Oh, dear me," he said. "You are _so close_ and yet you have it all completely backward." He gestured toward me with his cane. "I work for her, not she for me. I admit I'm rather surprised at it myself, so I quite sympathize with your confusion. But as it turns out, my enticing éclair is a veritable fiend when it comes to getting her way." The tip of his cane swerved to point at Megan, whom he had apparently moved to the bed while Mr. Salvatore had been choking the life out of me. "My lovely lemon drop has charged me with protecting this fair maiden from harm. Which, quite frankly, seems to encompass everything _you_ intend to do. So you see, I cannot in good conscience run away."

"Took you long enough to get here," I wheezed. And here I'd written him off as a coward. Maybe I'd misjudged his douche-y ass. Had Mr. Tophat only abandoned me in order to find Megan?

"Oh, no. I assure you, my cute little cupcake, I've been here all along," Mr. Tophat said in mock hurt. "I've simply been unable to intervene while the lovely Megan was conscious enough to disbelieve my existence." Mr. Tophat smiled charmingly at me.

I scowled. So, maybe he wasn't a coward. But if Megan was 'lovely Megan' and I was still a candied nickname, then at least I had been right about Mr. Tophat being an egotistical, smarmy, flamboyant jackass. "I'm still not yours," I told him as I forced myself up.

Mr. Tophat gave an exaggerated sigh. "I swear," he said mournfully, "It's almost like no one knows how 'dibs' works, these days."

I almost laughed at the ridiculousness of his complaint. Damn, he was annoying.

"Enough!" Mr. Salvatore screamed. "Just shut up! I am _done_ with this bullshit."

I swallowed nervously. Mr. Tophat tsk'ed chidingly. "In that case, might I suggest you take your leave? This is not how I intended to spend my next visit to my honeycake's bonbonniere – and really, four is a bit of a crowd, particularly when I have so little desire to share my pretty piece of pocky with a creepy-ass creeper such as yourself."

I blanched at the reminder that reminder that Mr. Tophat was my very own supernatural stalker – that was what I'd called Mr. Salvatore when Megan and I had left work. Mr. Tophat smiled.

Mr. Salvatore scowled. "Why don't I just kill you all instead," he spat.

Mr. Tophat made a low bow with his arms spread wide in invitation. "Try me, abomination," he said.

Mr. Salvatore smiled, baring his fangs. He drew his knife out from his jacket. "Wait your turn," he countered.

Then Mr. Salvatore turned and lunged at me. I didn't have time to scream, he was so fast. He didn't bother with his knife. Mr. Salvatore punched me in the throat, and then screaming wasn't an option anymore. Neither was breathing, but I didn't get time to think about that, either.

Mr. Salvatore backhanded me with his other fist. My head snapped to the side; the blow swung me around. I thought I heard Mr. Tophat shout, but I couldn't tell what. I'd lost my balance, but I didn't fall. Mr. Salvatore caught me and held me up by the hair on the back of my head.

He slammed my face into the door. Lights exploded in my head, obscuring the world. Then a spike of ice – a pain worse than anything I'd ever felt before in my life – stabbed through my back and into my chest.

Stabbed. Stabbed?

I'd been stabbed.

Mr. Salvatore let go of me. I fell sideways and clipped the doorknob on my way down. I landed on my side, looking into the apartment. Mr. Salvatore and Mr. Tophat were fighting.

They were both supernaturally fast. They were both supernaturally strong. Mr. Salvatore had a knife. Mr. Tophat had a sword.

Mr. Salvatore was winning.

I coughed blood, but I still couldn't breathe. I hurt everywhere but I was too dizzy to notice. I had to do something. I had to help.

I put all my strength into getting up and only managed to slump over on my stomach. My arms and legs refused to function. My vision swam. The wood grain of my floor bobbed and wobbled in front of my eyes and white fuzz – like TV static – encroached on the edges of my sight, threatening to blind me.

I hurt so much.

I coughed again. I could taste my blood. It was sickening.

I tried to pull myself together. I gathered every shred of determination I had and tried to get up.

The whole world went black, instead.

# Chapter 46

I don't know how long I was out. Minutes? Hours? For a second I was just confused that the world had come back; that I wasn't dead. But I wasn't. I was weirdly detached — but I felt good. I didn't even hurt. I had to be in shock.

Then I realized what had happened. When Mr. Salvatore had drank my blood, our life forces had mingled. He'd gotten my life, and I'd gotten a fraction of his power. Vampiric night vision. Vampiric regeneration. It had fixed my ankle and all my scrapes and even Mr. Salvatore's bite, when he was done.

But my blood was still in him. I'd passed out when he'd attacked me, but I hadn't been killed outright. I must have been able to hold on — unconscious but alive — long enough for that symbiotic healing to kick in again.

I never thought I'd be _grateful_ to have been bitten by a vampire.

I had no idea how long it would last, but I still had the nightvision. My apartment's light was still on, and it was painfully bright.

Did that mean I had a fraction of Mr. Salvatore's strength and speed, too? He'd smacked me down effortlessly when I tried to help Hans. But if I was stronger, and faster, maybe I could help Mr. Tophat. At least I might be able to really distract Mr. Salvatore; provide an opening for Mr. Tophat to exploit. Especially if Mr. Salvatore really thought he'd taken me out of the fight. Was he stupid enough — or unhinged enough — to have forgotten we shared his ability to heal?

Or did he just think he'd managed to wound me too brutally for that healing to save me?

I scrambled to my feet.

Megan was still on the bed where Mr. Tophat had put her. It didn't look like she'd moved — but I could see her chest stir, ever so slightly, as she breathed.

However long it had been, Mr. Tophat and Mr. Salvatore were still fighting. Their battle had taken them to the kitchen and made my apartment a shambles. If I'd had neighbors someone would have definitely called the cops. I didn't know if that would have been good or bad, at this point. From the sheer mess, I was guessing they'd been at it for hours.

Mr. Salvatore's jacket had more rents in it than it had before. There was even a deep gash in his arm — a gash that wasn't closing up. Hans had said a well fed vampire could heal his wounds and even survive in the sun, but that doing so would consume his reserves and make him thirst faster. Had Mr. Salvatore's reserves burned out by healing me? That would be sweet irony.

Mr. Tophat was in worse shape, though. He sported dozens of cuts that bled black, shadowy blood. He trailed dark mist as he dodged and slashed — his blood flowed free of his wounds and into the air, dissipating into shadows. I had thought Mr. Salvatore had the edge when I'd blacked out. He definitely did now.

Hans had also said that vampires grew stronger, faster, and more ruthless as their hunger grew. Maybe my recovery had tipped the balance in Mr. Salvatore's favor. Maybe _that_ had been Mr. Salvatore's plan when he'd knifed me.

I felt my lips twist in a snarl. Mr. Salvatore had knifed me. _In my own home._ I wasn't going to distract him. I was going to fucking _end_ him.

I've always been paranoid. I know it. And I have an overactive imagination, which makes me paranoid about stupid ass things like being abducted and sold by Canadian white slave traders. Or being attacked by slasher flick serial killers in my shower. Or being used for bait for the chupacabracorn.

So naturally, back when I hadn't known vampires were real and had sworn my boss was one anyway, I'd sat down one paranoid evening and worked out all the ways I could take out a vampire if one ever managed to get in my home. And Mr. Salvatore had left me for dead next to the most surefire one.

Unfortunately, the fight in the kitchen wasn't waiting for me to get my act together. While I was still confused and detached, Mr. Salvatore was pressing Mr. Tophat harder. Just as I decided Mr. Salvatore was fucking dead — re-dead — for what he'd done, Mr. Salvatore had gotten inside Mr. Tophat's guard. Mr. Salvatore seized Mr. Tophat and lifted him, then slammed him bodily onto the counter that separated my living room and kitchen.

Mr. Tophat's head bounced off of the shelves I keep my folded clothes in. Somehow his hat stayed on — but his eyes widened in surprise when he saw me.

It was all the opening Mr. Salvatore needed.

Mr. Salvatore's knife slammed down through Mr. Tophat's wrist, nailing it to the cheap wooden countertop. Mr. Tophat grunted in pain and his fingers spasmed. His sword slipped from his grip and tumbled to the living room floor.

Mr. Salvatore leapt onto Mr. Tophat and pinned his other arm. Mr. Tophat was staring at me in stunned disbelief, but Mr. Salvatore was still wholly focused on his victim.

Mr. Salvatore's fangs were bared. I had to act. If I didn't, Mr. Salvatore would drain Mr. Tophat. For the fae, that would mean a permanent death — and it would ruin my plan of attack.

"Hey, creepy-ass fucker!" I yelled to get Mr. Salvatore's attention. Mr. Salvatore's head snapped up. He stared at me in disbelief that rivaled Mr. Tophat's. Maybe he _had_ thought he'd killed me.

"No," Mr. Salvatore said as though he could just deny my continued existence.

"Uh-huh," I contradicted him. It would've been a great time for a witty come back, but I was just too pissed. "And what's more, that's _my_ sadistic stalker elf," I said as I reached to the side. "So get the fuck off of him!"

Mr. Salvatore's eyes just had time to grow a fraction of a millimeter wider as he realized my intention. Then he flung himself sideways, off the counter, as I ripped down the patio door curtains.

# Chapter 47

It wasn't like the movies. There wasn't a satisfying rip of cloth as I whisked the curtains down like a stage magician with a table cloth. The curtains didn't tear at all.

The cheap aluminum curtain rod did bend, though. It popped out of its mounting brackets and the whole thing came tumbling down. The morning sunlight slashed through the glass patio doors, illuminating the length of my apartment.

Mr. Tophat winced and threw his hand over his eyes. Mr. Salvatore scrambled around the corner of the kitchen counter, hiding from view behind it. I felt a burst of exhilaration. I had Mr. Salvatore on the run – on the run and trapped!

I have never felt more badass.

Mr. Tophat rolled over and pried Mr. Salvatore's knife out of his wrist. Then he yelled in surprise as he was yanked backward. He dropped the knife and grabbed the edge of the shelves on the living room side of the counter. One of his legs had disappeared on Mr. Salvatore's side; the other flailed and kicked madly. I could see the strain on his face as he struggled not to be dragged into the kitchen. Strain that abruptly gave way to horror.

Mr. Tophat's struggles weakened. He still clutched the shelves for dear life, but his kicking stopped. His wounds stopped bleeding into air. My horror mirrored his, but for different reasons. Mr. Tophat was being drained by Mr. Salvatore. He was afraid of dying an eternal death. I was afraid Mr. Salvatore would slake his thirst enough to withstand the sun.

I ran forward to save Mr. Tophat, but I didn't know how. Was I strong enough to win a tug of war with a starving vampire? If I was, what if Mr. Tophat was enthralled? I didn't know how long it had taken me to shrug off Mr. Salvatore's control when he'd drank from me, but if he had Mr. Tophat as a minion for even a minute, I was screwed. Could I take that chance?

I grabbed Mr. Tophat's sword off the living room floor. I could see the conflict behind his eyes – and his grip starting to slip.

Megan was on the bed behind me. I couldn't risk Mr. Tophat turning on me. I couldn't risk attacking Mr. Salvatore – he was too strong and too fast, and if he grabbed me to drain it would be just as bad for Megan as if he drained Mr. Tophat.

But I had to do something, or we were all screwed anyway.

There was only one thing I _could_ do. Mr. Tophat's eyes met mine as I moved into position. He was charged with protecting Megan from all harm. The terms of my request made him honor bound to fulfill that oath in the spirit I intended, which meant he had to be willing to do anything I was to protect her.

I'd been willing to risk my life – no, to _knowingly_ throw it away – to protect Megan. And so was Mr. Tophat, or he wouldn't have challenged a vampire he knew he couldn't beat. A vampire he knew could permanently destroy him.

Mr. Tophat grinned up at me. It was _his_ smile: sardonic, sacrine, frivolous and mocking. But his eyes betrayed a mix of fear and the encroachment of Mr. Salvatore's madness.

"You know," Mr. Tophat jested in a voice that cracked with strain, "I'm not _yours._ "

I laughed. I felt like I should cry. "Bullshit," I countered – and prayed I was right about what I was about to do. "Now go home," I said, and then I took Mr. Tophat's sword in a two-handed grip and stabbed its point down into his back as hard as I could.

Mr. Tophat's body provided no resistance to the blade. Neither did my kitchen counter. My hands slammed into his back as the blade buried itself to the hilt. Mr. Tophat spasmed once in pain – and then deflated. His body melted away in rivulets of shadow. I fell forward and my hands struck the counter – Mr. Tophat's sword was gone, too. The only evidence that it had ever existed was a quarter-inch slit through the countertop under my fingers.

Mr. Salvatore shrieked in fury and lunged up after me. I yelled and threw myself backward, toward the bed. Mr. Salvatore's face and hands blistered and cracked where the sun hit them, but he'd drank enough that he didn't combust spontaneously. He howled and threw himself down into the semi-shadows beside the counter.

I scrambled onto the bed. Megan had hit her head – could I move her safely? I _had_ to. I'd seen Mr. Salvatore hold his blistered hand up for Hans to examine – I knew Mr. Salvatore could withstand the pain of the sun long enough to get to Megan if he had to. And with Mr. Tophat gone, Mr. Salvatore's only options were to get to Megan, get to me, or stay trapped in the kitchen – maybe hide in the bathroom until nightfall.

I _hoped_ he would choose to stay in the kitchen until I could get Megan safely away. If Mr. Salvatore opted to let himself be trapped like that then as soon as I got Megan out I was going to go to the corner store, buy a fuck-ton of alcohol, a lighter, something I could tear up for rags – and then I was going to Moltov the hell out of his creepy ass.

Sure, I'd lose all my worldly possessions and go to jail for arson and maybe murder, but you know what? Deal. I'd make that trade.

Unfortunately, since Mr. Salvatore had lived as long as he had he probably already knew that getting trapped by someone who knew what he was would be a losing play. I tried to keep one eye on him where he was slumped in the entrance to the kitchen while I tried to figure out how to move Megan without leaving us vulnerable to being jumped.

I've often been afraid that people secretly wanted to kill me. In Mr. Salvatore's eyes I found out what it was like to _really_ be on the receiving end of someone regarding me with murderous intent.

"You fucking _bitch,_ " he hissed. "You're dead. You're fucking _dead._ "

I didn't know what to do. I couldn't pick up Megan without giving Mr. Salvatore an opening to grab us. Even with my arms free I wasn't sure I could fend him off – he'd kicked my ass the last time I'd tried, and now he was hungrier, stronger, faster and meaner. As soon as he came to that conclusion too, I was screwed. I couldn't figure out why he hadn't jumped me already. All he had to do was get a bite in on me while we grappled and Megan and I would be done for.

"I am going to kill you _again_ ," you fucking bitch. This is your fault," Mr. Salvatore snarled. I did my best to tune out his raving and check on Megan. I couldn't really tell much more than that she was breathing. Why hadn't I paid more attention to first aid in health class?

Megan had a huge bruise on her cheek where she'd been smacked. Mr. Salvatore's nails had cut her, leaving smears of dried blood and half-scabbed scratches in a line down her cheek.

I felt a surge of... I don't know. Rage? Rage made sense. I turned back to Mr. Salvatore.

"...tear your fucking head off," he was ranting. I felt... violent. Furious. Possessive. I wanted Mr. Salvatore dead. Megan wasn't his. She was _mine._ My friend. My... I didn't recognize the desire. I shied away from it, refocusing on what I was going to do to Mr. Salvatore. To the _remains_ of Mr. Salvatore. Maybe it was just the intensity of my hate, but I felt like I was burning up. Why was it so fucking hot in here?

"...and spread your ashes so far and wide no one will _ever_ be able to bring you back," Mr. Salvatore snarled.

"Oh, big talker," my mouth shot off of its own volition. "But you're the one who's gonna burn, jackass." I could _smell_ cooked flesh. Hans had said that the older a vampire was, the more vulnerable he would be to the sun – and Mr. Salvatore was _old._ Even in the limited shadows he'd found, and even with what life he'd stolen from Mr. Tophat, the sun's diffuse light was making Mr. Salvatore's skin blister and crack. His lips split as they twisted in a feral grin.

"You first, bitch," Mr. Salvatore spat.

I flipped him the bird. It seemed to be the most appropriate response.

It also hurt like fucking hell.

I cried out in surprise. My skin pulled tight and split over my curled knuckles; my arm was red like I'd gone out to the beach without lotion. I jerked it back into the shadow of my body – blisters had already started to bubble over my palm where it had been exposed to the light. I stared at it in horror.

_That_ was why it was so hot, I realized. I didn't _feel_ like I was burning up – I literally was.

Mr. Salvatore cackled from the shadows. He had started to smolder. Smoke was wafting up from his jacket sleeves. "You first," he taunted again. "You first, you stupid bitch."

# Chapter 48

My head was reeling. This couldn't be happening. _What_ was happening? _How?!_

My back was seared with pain – pain and sunlight. I was dimly aware that while I'd been next to the front door, I'd been in the shade. I hadn't started to hurt until I'd gone to check on Megan.

Mr. Salvatore kept laughing. Had he... had he _killed_ me? And then brought me back? Why would he – _when could he_ have done that? He'd been fighting Mr. Tophat! I'd healed from the stab wound because Mr. Salvatore had bitten me and our life-forces had mingled, and I'd gained some of his supernatural powers when he'd gained my life. I hadn't died! I wasn't undead! I was alive!

I was frantic. I should have been having a panic attack, but I wasn't hyperventilating.

In fact, I wasn't even breathing.

My heart stopped. No, my heart hadn't been beating to begin with, and I hadn't noticed. "Oh no," I moaned. "God no." _No no no no no no!_ But it was true, and Mr. Salvatore wouldn't stop laughing.

Yes, he'd bitten me.

But then I'd bitten him back. I'd tasted blood when he'd torn his hand away. It had been disgusting – cold, thick; congealing.

Mine.

Hans had told me that a vampire turned people by sharing blood. First drinking it to join their life forces; then giving it back with the curse infusing it. I had a nightmarish flashback to middle school health class. When it came to diseases that were spread by blood, a drop was all it took. I'd been cursed.

But Hans had also said that for the curse to take root, the infected victim had to die. So, Mr. Salvatore _had_ killed me.

I was dead.

No wonder Mr. Tophat had been so surprised to see me. No wonder I'd woken up and still been able to see in the dark; no wonder the sun felt so fucking hot on my back – hotter than the most scalding shower I'd ever taken.

But I _had_ taken them. Mr. Salvatore wasn't the only one who could cope with pain. If he thought I was going to keel over and die again so he could take Megan just because of a little fifth degree sunburn, he had another thing fucking coming.

Especially since I was the one with the 'get to live, free' card.

I glanced at Megan. That feeling I'd shied away from before? I knew what it was now. Hunger. Thirst. Need.

I licked my lips and bared my fangs at Mr. Salvatore. Older vampires were more vulnerable to the sun. I was a very young vampire. How much would I need to take in order to withstand the light of day?

Honestly: I didn't really care. I was dimly aware that I should be horrified with myself, but I couldn't begin to fathom _why._ I wasn't horrified or ashamed or anything stupid like that – I was just hungry.

And I had Megan.

"You know what? I'll pass," I told Mr. Salvatore. "Enjoy hell without me."

Then I leaned down over Megan and licked the blood from her cheek. It tasted... incredible. Like love and excitement and joy and laughter and bliss and all the things that make life worth living. I moaned. I couldn't say if it was better than sex, but it _was_ better than erotica and silicone wrapped around a motor with double A batteries.

I wanted to slit Megan's throat right there and drink it all. If I'd had a knife I would have. I licked the scratches on her cheek again. I could probably just tear her throat out. That would work.

Mr. Salvatore went ape-shit.

"No!" He shrieked as he launched himself toward us.

My breath caught as I looked up. My heart thundered once and I was seized with shame – I'd just _licked_ my best friend's face! What the – but shame was torn aside by terror.

Mr. Salvatore staggered like the sun's rays had physically struck him. Smoke billowed off of him and his hair ignited as he lurched forward. He was a monster of flames and fangs and hate.

I screamed and threw myself down over Megan. To protect her; to gather her up. Mr. Salvatore screamed as well, venting primal pain and rage. He surged forward.

Then thunder boomed and glass shattered behind me. Mr. Salvatore flipped over in midstride and blood sprayed out a ruined hole in his shoulder. _Something_ punched across the kitchen and through my refrigerator door behind him.

I twisted around.

Hans stood outside my glass patio doors. He was hunched with pain and his shirt was soaked in blood – and he was aiming a sleek, vicious shotgun that practically screamed 'military issue' through the shattered glass door. When Mr. Salvatore didn't get back up Hans reversed the gun and used its butt to smash out enough of the broken glass for him to step through. He stumbled into my burning apartment, gun again at the ready.

I gaped at him, but Hans didn't even look at me until he'd staggered past my bed and put two more slugs into Mr. Salvatore's immobile, burning corpse. _Then_ Hans turned to me.

I stared at him in horrified awe. Horror, because Hans was obviously seriously hurt. Awe, because my boyfriend was a _fucking badass._ Maybe it was just the heat of the moment and the suddenness of his appearance, but I decided then and there that if I ever got over my irrational fear of sex then the first thing I was going to do was screw his brains out.

"Come on!" Hans shouted over the growing roar of the fire. Those shotgun blasts had reduced Mr. Salvatore to a bloody mess, and everywhere that blood had splattered it was acting like self-combusting gasoline.

I pulled myself together and scrambled off of Megan. Hans shouldered the shotgun and together we hauled Megan out through the destroyed patio door. Hans dropped her in the flower bed. I shouldered Megan's weight and crouched down, lowering her gently while Hans turned and staggered back into the smoking conflagration that had replaced my home.

I let him go. The sun beat down on me viciously – it felt hotter than the flames consuming my apartment. I didn't care.

I cradled Megan. Her chest moved slowly – she was still alive. I sat in the flowerbox and clutched her to myself. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't.

I was dead.

But Megan was alive.

I buried my face against her. I kissed her cheek. I... I licked it again. I didn't mean to! I couldn't help it.

The taste was...

...

The sun's malice receded. The cuts on Megan's cheek closed. She coughed. I started to cry.

Megan's eyes fluttered open. "Abby?" she whispered.

"I'm here," I said. "I'm here."

Megan smiled at me. I could _feel_ her love. Pure. Unreserved. She breathed out and her eyes fluttered shut again. Sleeping. Or unconscious. Or some jumble of the two. I choked back a laugh. Sleep seemed like a wonderful idea.

I laid Megan down gently, letting her get what rest she could. I stood as Hans came staggering out of my apartment again. This time he was burdened by a large bundle – something wrapped up in the charred, smoking ruin of my mom's quilt. Mr. Salvatore's remains? I swallowed.

"Do you need help?" I asked.

Hans shook his head. He hauled the quilt shrouded corpse to his car, then dropped it unceremoniously on the ground. He popped open the back and chucked in his shotgun. Then, cursing under his breath in that language I still didn't know, he started wrestling Mr. Salvatore's corpse in on top.

I swallowed again. Then I stooped down, lifted Megan by her underarms, and dragged her out into the parking lot, further away from the bonfire. Smoke was billowing out of my apartment and in the distance I could hear approaching sirens – but it didn't matter how quickly the fire trucks arrived. I knew my apartment was a lost cause already.

Megan frowned and groaned, but didn't wake up. She was surprisingly light – or maybe I was surprisingly strong.

I didn't want to think about that.

Once we were a safe distance – beside Hans' Hummer – I put Megan down again. I turned toward Hans. He was sitting on the ground with his eyes closed, leaning back against his car and breathing heavily.

I knelt in front of him. "Are you okay?" I asked quietly.

Hans popped an eye open to look at me. He forced himself to smile. It looked genuine despite the effort it required. "It was a silver knife," he said, "but I'll survive. I'm just grateful you're safe. And Megan?"

I nodded. Megan would be fine. Symbiotic vampire healing for the win.

"Good," Hans said. He leaned back against his car. "I'm glad. After I got away from the goblins I called the insurance company and told them my nephew had gone joyriding; got them to turn on the GPS and tell me where Salvatore had taken you. But I couldn't get a cab while looking like this." He chuckled weakly. "Not one that wouldn't go straight to the hospital or the cops, anyway. I had to leg it."

Hans looked at me, and his normally cheerful eyes were darkly serious. "I was afraid I wouldn't make it in time," he said.

I swallowed. Again. Hans was alive. Megan was alive. Mr. Salvatore was a charcoal briquette. Why was I acting so damn nervous? And why was the sun so....

Oh. I wasn't nervous. I was parched.

I licked my lips unconsciously, and inadvertently nicked my tongue on my fangs. I barely felt it, though.

"You didn't," I said.

Hans looked at me in confusion and I sighed. He smelled so damn good.

"Make it," I clarified. "You didn't. And neither did I."

Hans' eyes widened in surprise – or maybe horror. Had he seen my fangs? I didn't really care. I'd held myself back for as long as I could.

I lunged. My fangs sank into Hans' shoulder, effortlessly piercing his shirt and skin and flesh.

I whimpered in delight. Hans tasted as good as he smelled. His arms wrapped around me, but he didn't try to pry me off of himself. I closed my eyes and blissfully drank. Maybe this would mend those silver knife wounds, like it had Megan's scratches and possible concussion. Wouldn't that be nice? I smiled to myself and sucked harder at Hans' shoulder.

Hans was alive. Megan was alive. Mr. Salvatore was a charcoal briquette, and I was undead.

On the balance, I decided while Hans held me close and his life filled my veins, this was shaping up to be a good year.

**End of Book 1**

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It had been, if I may be permitted an understatement, one hell of a year. I'd gotten a boyfriend. His name was Hans and he was a werewolf. I'd found out my boss, Mr. Salvatore, was a vampire and wanted to kill my best friend, Megan. She was in love with me. But I'd only discovered that after making out with another woman, which may or may not have counted as cheating on Hans since I hadn't really claimed him as my boyfriend until after we'd been attacked by a small army of goblins.

Oh, and my boss? I'd killed him. But in all fairness, he'd killed me first.

Yeah, it had been one hell of a year. All of that had happened yesterday. Thank God that had been New Year's Eve. Hopefully this year wouldn't be so bad.

It was off to a good start, I thought. I was sucking blood from Hans' shoulder like a nursing infant. A nursing infant from hell, but at least the influx of life in my veins kept the sun from burning me. The heat coming off my raging apartment fire was bad enough. Did I mention that my apartment had burned down last year? Well, technically it had only caught fire last year, and was burning down this one. Whatever. I hadn't gone to sleep yet and everyone knows that the next day doesn't technically start until you wake up to greet it, so the whole fire thing was getting tacked on to last year in my calendar. It was a good thing I didn't have neighbors – I'd lived in a single story studio unit, so at least I didn't have to feel guilty that anyone else's worldly possessions were being incinerated.

I squirmed against Hans' chest and kept drinking. I couldn't really help myself – he just tasted so damn good! Besides, infants are supposed to be selfish, right?

I caught myself idly wondering how _that_ would work. When I'd been alive, I'd been twenty-four years old. But whenever they talked about how old a vampire was in the movies, they were always really talking about how long he'd been dead. Did that mean I had to start over again? Would I have to wait another twenty-one years before I could legally drink drunks? I mean... not that I was prone to drinking when I was alive. But still. I was dead now; that seemed like the sort of thing that would drive someone to alcoholism.

I decided that as long as I'd been dead for less time than I'd been alive, I'd use my living age. Not because I was worried about getting carded at bars, but because Hans was sexy as hell. When he'd stormed into my apartment, shotgun blazing, and put down Mr. Salvatore's still mobile, burning corpse... well, I'd decided in the heat of the moment that as soon as I got over my issues with sex I was going to screw Hans' brains out.

I really didn't think I could do that if it meant he was a pedophile, so twenty-four years it was.

My fangs receded as I had my fill. I guess they were symptomatic of being 'dead' and now that I'd had enough of Hans' blood to be 'alive' they were clearing up. The morning sun even felt pleasant now.

I didn't care. I kept gnawing on Hans' shoulder anyway, hoping it would give up just a little bit more. God, he tasted good! I mean, not as good as _Megan_ , but still – Hans' blood fell into a category of taste I'd never before known existed. I named that category 'better than bacon' and it was pretty much _exactly_ what it said on the label.

Unfortunately, a side-effect of feeding on someone was apparently that they got a taste of vampiric powers while I was getting a taste of their life. The wound my fangs had opened on Hans' shoulder closed of its own volition, and soon I was just lapping at his skin through two ragged holes in his shirt. He was probably going to end up with a lot of weirdly placed hickies if we kept dating.

Hans held me against his broad chest. His hand cradled the back of my head and soothingly stroked my hair. "Abby," he said to get my attention. "Abby?"

I'm not sure how long he'd been trying to get through to me, but now that I could hear him his voice sent a thrill through me.

It's crazy, but I'm a sucker for a foreign accent. Or any accent, really. I'm too much of an agoraphobe to be comfortable going out to the neighborhood _store_ , but men with accents from far flung lands get me going. Crazy, like I said, but... Well, hell. It didn't help that Hans' accent was attached to a blonde haired, blue eyed muscular Viking Adonis with a boyish smile and gentle demeanour that tended to turn devilish in the bedroom.

"Mmmmm?" I replied. I'd started nibbling my way to his neck. I felt aggressive. Aroused. _Primal_. I wondered if that was how Hans usually felt. When Mr. Salvatore had fed on me he'd gotten paranoid. It seemed that vampires fed on more of a person than just their blood. We fed on life. One of the fae had told me that vampires consumed the souls of others in order to pretend they had their own.

"Abby, you need to stop," Hans said. I growled in protest. "I need to get my shirt off," he tried to explain.

Oh. Oh, that was okay then.

I sat in Hans' lap. My rather savage thoughts were looking forward to fucking him senseless much sooner than I ever figured I'd be ready to.

In fact, I was eager enough that I recoiled in confusion. _That_ wasn't me. Sex freaked me out! I only had sex vicariously through erotica, ecchi manga, Megan's reminiscences and wildly inappropriate fantasies! I stared at Hans in disbelief. If _that_ was how he felt all the time, then how the hell did Hans keep stopping himself from ravaging me? So far I'd gotten him unfairly riled up at least twice – so he'd had at least two opportunities to do whatever he wanted to me even though I'd inevitably freaked out half way through messing around and told him to stop.

Hans smiled lopsidedly at me and shifted me out of his lap. I sat on the pavement next to the wheel of his Hummer and blinked at him as he stood up. He stepped away from me and stripped off his shirt.

The borrowed primal desires seemed fractured as my normal personality started to reassert itself, but I still wanted to jump him. I mean, come on: Adonis. Topless. Muscles rippling, backlit by a raging fire, skin glistening; broad shoulders – plus there was the whole 'holy fuck, I'm still alive!' endorphin rush going on.

Of course, the fire consisted of my every worldly belonging. That detracted a little.

Hans balled up his tee-shirt and chucked it into the flames. I blinked again. Oh, right. It had been soaked with blood from when Mr. Salvatore had stabbed him. There were sirens approaching and torn, bloody clothing might be hard to explain. I wondered what our explanation was going to be. Given that Megan and I were still dressed for clubbing and Hans was fucking _hot_ , a ménage a trois gone wrong suggested itself to me.

I made a mental note to never line a headboard with candles.

Hans turned and marched back to his car. He opened the back door. I swallowed. The lump of charcoal that used to be Mr. Salvatore was in there, wrapped up in the ruin of a quilt my mom had made for me. When Hans got back out, he had another tee shirt on.

I guess it made sense for a werewolf to keep a change of clothes handy at all times. It was still a little disappointing, though.

I scrambled to my feet then, too. A fire truck was turning into the drive at the far end of the apartment parking lot. "What do we say?" I asked Hans.

"The truth," he said. "Or close enough. I'll make sure the appropriate authorities know the whole story. For anyone who needs a mundane explanation: Salvatore was obsessed with Megan. After the party at the office he hunted you down because she didn't show and you're her best friend."

I nodded. "He made me call her, but she knew something was wrong. She pepper sprayed him," I recollected.

"Right," said Hans. "So you two drove him off."

"He knocked her out," I said angrily.

Hans grimaced. "Which makes this part easier," he said. " _You_ drove him off and called me. I showed up just in time to see him chuck a Molotov through the window. He sees me and runs; I help you and Megan get out, and here we are."

I clung to Hans. "Okay," I said. Maybe I'd let him do the talking. It was a little disturbing that he'd come up with that so easily – but then again, I usually make up _crazy_ stories, not sane ones. And it was even more disturbing that 'my boss firebombed my apartment in a fit of jaded heartbreak' _wasn't_ crazy compared to what had really gone down.

Megan stirred as the sirens arrived. She started to slowly pick herself up, and Hans let go of me to rush to her side. I didn't begrudge him for doing it since I'd let go of him to do the same.

"Mr. Salvatore hit you," I told Megan. I was holding her hand; Hans was holding her supportively – and keeping her from getting up. "You hit your head on the bedpost and passed out."

"Oh," Megan said dazedly. "I knew something was wrong, Abby. I knew it. Your doors weren't locked and you'd asked me to come here in a cab. You hate cabs."

I swallowed and smiled at her. For some reason my eyes were getting watery. "I do," I said. As far as I was concerned, cabbies were way too likely to just be licensed kidnappers. Shoot, the fare you pay to an honest one is just the ransom you had to pay to get them to let you go – and who knew when one might just decide it wasn't enough and then lock you up in a pit in their cellar, anyway?

"You should try to stay still," Hans said. "We don't know how badly you were hurt. You might be concussed."

Megan tried to get up again anyway, but Hans held her back and gave her a stern look.

"I feel fine," Megan muttered, but Hans glared her into subsiding.

I was just as glad. Megan _was_ fine – but she hadn't been. She'd been hurt pretty badly, and so had I, and... When a vampire takes in someone's life force, the sharing isn't one way. I'd tasted Megan's life to keep myself alive, and in the process she'd been healed, too. The same as with Hans: Vampires don't leave holes in people's necks. Symbiotic healing for the win, right?

But even though I knew it had helped her, I couldn't bring myself to look at Megan. I'd licked blood off her face. Twice. While she was unconscious.

At the time, I hadn't cared about anything except surviving. Hell, at the time I'd wanted to slit her throat and drain her dry. Now I felt like I'd violated her horribly, and she hadn't even been conscious to say no.

I'd been a monster just as vile as Mr. Salvatore.

And if I ever got hungry again, I'd wind up right back there, wouldn't I? I felt myself start to tremble.

Oh god. I _was_ a monster.

Hans waved over one of the fire fighters that had arrived. I barely heard him telling the man that there was no one inside, or that the adjoining unit was unoccupied. Rugged men in uniforms that usually would have set my imagination to drooling over how they comported themselves in the privacy of the fire house dashed about in a vain attempt to contain the blaze of my home – and I didn't care.

_I was a monster,_ and for the moment at least I was alive enough to realize it. I clung to Megan and buried my face against her shoulder and started to sob. In my hunger last night I'd thought about _killing her_ , and it hadn't even bothered me!

Megan's arms slid around me. She tried to hug me soothingly but I pulled away. She looked up at me: confused; hurt? I couldn't tell. My vision was too blurry, but I imagined the worst. I started to cry harder. Megan was my best friend. She loved me. I'd given my life to save her from Mr. Salvatore.

Was there any way I'd be able to save her from myself?

# About The Author

Hi! Eren here. I'm a married, transgender, bi (but distinctly lesbian leaning) 30-something recovering-caffeine addict. I'd like to say I'm a full-time housewife and professional author, but the fact is that I'm currently a part-time housewife and professional cubical occupant.

This story and the ones that will come after it are my attempt to turn that around and achieve some of my dreams. Specifically, I'd like to become a professional write-from-home author and housewife, and never have to dwell in a cubical again.

I enjoy adventures, comedies, non-traditional romances, interwoven story arcs, most sorts of kinky goodness and juxtaposing the bizarre and larger than life with the daily and mundane... so those are the sorts of stories I'll be trying to tell. (Although honesty behooves me to admit that I am a shy girl, and the amount of explicit eroticism you'll find in my work will depend entirely on how much the story demands and how fiercely embarrassed I become while writing it!)

I publish online as well as through eBooks, so if you want to read along with Midnight Moonlight as I'm writing it, it's available on my site:<http://midnightmoonlight.reverietales.com/>

If you'd like to keep up to date on when other stories are coming out and what I'm working on, I'd like to recommend my blog to you: <http://reverietales.com/>

Thank you for joining me on my journeys of imagination.
