Drabble #2

Another drabble, this one for shiruartist, who requested something with Roger the nymph. This is TOTALLY NSFW. I mean, he's a nymph. There's a bit of a spoiler for GtV as well, but nothing enormous.

Wrinkles Are a Nymph's Best Friend

It was never hard to find a mirror in a nymph's house. In Roger's apartment alone, there were twenty-seven mirrors, not including the mirrored ceiling above his bed.

Roger studied himself critically in mirror number twelve, which was a bathroom mirror.

His leaf green skin was flawless, as usual, his dark green hair was perfectly styled, as usual, and he was dateless on a Friday night, which was not usual. In fact, four of his most recurring nightmares began like this, so Roger pinched himself, just in case.

"Ouch!"

Not a dream, then - just an incredibly horrible Friday night.

He leaned closer to the mirror and patted the skin under his eyes. Good heavens, were those bags? He jumped back with a gasp and fumbled his medicine cabinet open, searching for his emergency stash of eye cream. He found the jar, noted that it was alarmingly low, and dabbed the cream on with a relieved sigh.

Maybe he was just - he shuddered delicately - getting old. Maybe that was why he was alone on a Friday night. Maybe - maybe he should just buy a cat and start wearing his bathrobe all day and eat ice cream straight out of the carton.

No, that was ridiculous. He was still desirable! So what, so Cregan had dumped him. Roger wasn't used to being the dumpee, but he could handle rejection. He only wished he knew why he had been rejected.

He peered anxiously into the mirror again. His eyes were still beautiful, his face was still devastatingly handsome, his - oh, Green Lady. Was that -? It was! He had wrinkles! At the corners of his eyes!

Roger collapsed across the sink, wailing brokenly.

This is it, he thought to himself. I am a husk. Who's going to want a dried out, wrinkled nymph when they could have their pick of a hundred gorgeous, nubile young nymphs simply by stepping into the nearest club? It wasn't as though there was a shortage of nymphs, after all - they bred like - like - nymphs.

His breath hiccupped as he wandered dazedly out of the bathroom and pondered the grim, sexless future ahead. His mirrored hall mocked him: everywhere he looked he saw an ugly, wizened green visage staring back at him, lines of woe - lines! at his age! - etched into the face.

"I've squandered my beauty!" Roger announced dramatically to the empty apartment. "I shall have to live in the mountains now, where no one can see my hideous face, and the mountain air will be terrible for my skin."

That said, he picked up a heavy brass lamp and proceeded to break every mirror he owned.

Smash went the mirrored dining room table, crash went the mirror over the fireplace, tinkle tinkle tinkle CRUNCH went the mirrored chandelier.

He paused when he heard a frantic knocking on his front door.

He strode down the hall, his expensive Italian loafers crunching over shattered glass, and flung the door open.

"Yes?" he asked imperiously, still holding the dented lamp in one hand.

"You okay, Roger?" Harry asked nervously, wringing his hands together.

Roger sniffed. "I'm fine, mongrel. I'm redecorating. Now go away."

Harry peered over Roger's shoulder and took in the wreckage inside Roger's apartment. His eyes widened. "You're smashing up your mirrors, Roger? Doesn't that - doesn't that kill a nymph?"

"No," Roger said coldly. "Because I am already dead inside. I am old and deformed and I am going to live in the mountains."

"Huh?" Harry asked. "Roger, what are you talking about? Is this one of those weird nymph things again?"

Roger flushed. Harry had moved into the apartment across the hall on the first day of spring. Nymphs couldn't help it - they got a little frisky when the first greenery bloomed. That, combined with the hot day, and well - Roger couldn't be blamed for cartwheeling down the hall naked.

"No," he snapped. Harry was a nice man and a good neighbor, but he could never understand Roger's trauma. "It does not. I have expired, dogman, I have gone beyond my shelf life. I am ugly and no one will ever want me again!"

"You're not ugly, Roger," Harry said patiently.

"How would you know?" Roger sneered. "Your idea of beauty - you probably think basset hounds are attractive."

Harry shrugged. "Those floppy ears do give them a certain allure."

"Agh!" Roger shrieked, turning on his heel and stalking back inside. "Werewolves!"

Harry lumbered into the apartment behind him. "Want me to help you smash the mirrors? I usually only get to wreak havoc three nights a month."

Roger sniffed again. "Aren't you going out with - whatsherface tonight, anyway?"

"Serena?" Harry asked. He punched a mirror and the glass splintered under the impact of his hairy fist. Harry grinned. "Nah, she's off hunting tonight. She's a good friend but I really don't like her dragging me around when she's on the prowl."

Roger swung the lamp into the mirror above the couch. Shards of glass rained down on the leather. "I thought you two would have your own litter by now."

Harry laughed. He had a rumbly, woofish sort of laugh. "Not likely. We're not dating and I'm not the puppy-raising type."

"That may be the smartest thing you've ever said," Roger replied. "Who wants children? They cause stress and stress causes - wrinkles," Roger moaned the last word, collapsing into his expensive silk upholstered recliner.

"Roger?" Harry asked as he came over and kneeled next to Roger's chair, concern etched into his shaggy features. He had a rugged face, with a perpetual five o'clock shadow, but he wasn't awful looking, if one's type was a big, lanky, lumberjack sort of man.

Harry wouldn't have to worry about wrinkles - he could just let his hair grow out and stop shaving and no one would ever see them. It was so unfair! For the first time in his life, Roger wished he were some sort of hirsute beast and not a smooth-skinned nymph.

"I have," Roger said, catching his breath on a sob, "wrinkles. It's all over for me."

Harry laughed and pressed a hand over his eyes. His other hand gripped the armrest and his shoulders shook suspiciously.

"Are you - are you laughing at me?" Roger demanded. "You flea-bitten beast! Get out of my house this instant!"

Harry looked up, his brown eyes dancing with merriment. "Roger, listen to me. You are not ugly. You are the most gorgeous man I've ever met. Okay?"

Roger turned away. "You're just saying that because you're being a good neighbor. But your soothing words fall on deaf ears! Deaf, ugly ears!"

Harry sat back on his heels with a laugh. "Seriously, Roger, you are such a drama queen."

"Cregan broke up with me," Roger said quietly.

"Oh," Harry said. His smile slipped into a frown. "Shit, I'm sorry. I don't think I've seen anyone break up with you since I've lived here."

"Yes, thank you."

"Sorry," Harry said hurriedly. "I mean, I didn't think anyone could be that stupid."

Roger turned around. "Do go on," he said thoughtfully, after a moment.

Harry grinned. "A guy would have to be a moron to break up with a gorgeous, sexy, successful, smart -"

"Don't you dare tell anyone I'm smart! I have a reputation to uphold! -"

"Smart," Harry emphasized, "funny, fashionable nymph like you."

"I am very fashionable," Roger agreed, mollified.

"Yes, you are," Harry said, taking Roger's hand in his. "Roger, did you ever think that maybe you shouldn't date people who only care about how you look?"

"But I'm a nymph!" Roger replied, aghast. "People are supposed to judge me based solely on my beauty."

"That's not really - healthy. Werewolves judge people by their scent. You can tell a lot about a person by their scent. It's easy to fake being beautiful - I mean, there are enough ways to change how you look - but it's really hard to change your scent."

"Oh? And what do I smell like?" Roger asked curiously, his crisis of identity momentarily forgotten.

"Sex," Harry admitted. "And plants. You smell like the forest after rain and sunshine on a field of flowers. But you also smell kind, and warm, and a little lonely, all the time."

Roger blinked. "I smell like all of that?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "You smell really good. I - you're one of my favorite smells."

"Hm," Roger said. "I should have been charging you for the privilege of smelling me."

Harry laughed, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. "Probably."

Roger suddenly had an idea. "Harry! Can you smell if someone is sexually aroused?"

It was Harry's turn to blink. "Uh, yeah?" he said slowly.

"That's it!" Roger said, jumping up from his chair, and pacing around the room. Glass crunched as he walked. "You have to come to the club with me and smell around and see if any men want to have sex with me! If they do, then maybe they'll date me and I won't have to move to the mountains and live with wild trolls! Heaven knows if there's a decent salon in the mountains - I doubt it -"

"Roger."

" - Honestly, the state of some of the yetis I've seen come down from the mountain, their fur is terribly matted, but I suppose they don't really care because there isn't anyone to impress in the mountains - "

"Roger," Harry said again, very patiently.

" - but I really don't want to live on yak butter or whatever they eat up there, so if I could just find one more boyfriend, I could work really hard at keeping him around and he might not notice that I have wrinkles - "

Harry sighed and grabbed Roger by the shoulders. "Roger. I would really like to have sex with you."

Roger stopped. "But you're so hairy," he said stupidly. And so - Harry, he thought. Harry, who helped him take out the garbage every week, Harry, who brought over popcorn and a movie whenever Roger was feeling glum, Harry, who wore stupid grungy t-shirts and always knew exactly what to say to make Roger feel better, Harry who was so - Harry.

Harry's face shuttered closed and Roger felt his heart ping with guilt and something else. "Right, I forgot, I'm just a smelly dog. Sorry. I'll see you later." He drew away from Roger and headed for the door.

"Wait, Harry!" Roger said, dashing after him. He slipped on a shard of glass in the hallway and slid across the tile, arms pinwheeling.

Faster than a blink, Harry launched himself across the hall and grabbed Roger in his arms before Roger could fall. The arms wrapped around him were a little hairy, Roger noticed, but it was a pleasant, dark dusting that matched Harry's brown hair exactly.

"Wait," Roger repeated, a bit breathlessly, as he locked eyes with Harry. "Please."

Harry stared down at him, his eyes a swirling mixture of brown and amber and gold. "What?" he said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down Roger's spine. Harry must have felt it; his eyes widened and his grip around Roger tightened, drawing him nearer.

This close, Roger could smell the spicy, musky scent of Harry's cologne - was it cologne? - and feel the solid muscle underneath Harry's shirt and the strength in Harry's arms as they flexed around him and - Harry's rather impressive erection poking into his stomach.

Roger gulped and felt his body respond. "Exactly - exactly how hairy are you underneath these clothes? I just don't want to get a rug burn."

Harry's eyes went dark and hot, the color settling to deep, smoky amber. "Let's find out," he growled.

He picked Roger up and threw him over his shoulder and loped down the hall to Roger's bedroom. Roger stared down at Harry's very nice ass and realized that perhaps big, lanky lumberjack men might be his type, after all.

They reached his bedroom and Harry threw Roger down on the bed, making him bounce twice with the force. The mirror above his bed was still intact and Roger said a silent prayer of thanks to the universe because it was going to be unbelievably hot watching Harry fuck him.

He looked up and licked his lips as he watched Harry strip off his t-shirt. Harry's chest was lightly furred with crinkly brown hair that traveled in a thick strip down his flat stomach and disappeared under the waistband of his jeans. It didn't disappear for long, however, as Harry ripped open the buttons on his jeans and yanked them down.

Green Lady, the wolf did not wear briefs or boxers.

"Oh, that's lovely," Roger breathed, staring.

"Haven't had any complaints," Harry agreed with a low rumble, crawling up the bed and rubbing himself on Roger's leg.

Roger made a tiny whimpering sound as Harry tongued his nipple erect through the soft silk of his shirt; Harry reached underneath Roger and gripped his ass, kneading it in his large hands.

"I know you're a snappy dresser," Harry panted against the wet fabric on his chest, "but we really need to get you out of these clothes so I can taste your sssskin." He said the last word in a hiss - Roger's hands had been doing some exploring of their own.

"Yessss," Roger hissed back as Harry bit at his nipple. "Oh, fuck."

"We're getting there," Harry promised.

It didn't take long for Harry to get him naked, and it took even less time for Harry to growl "Lube?" and then stick two slick fingers inside him.

Roger moaned and he felt Harry's fingers scissor back and forth, stretching him and trying to find - Roger arched his back in a silent scream as Harry's fingers pressed against his prostate relentlessly.

"Now, Harry," he gasped out, lightning bolts of pleasures arcing through his body. "Please."

Harry didn't wait. He slicked his cock quickly and thrust inside Roger with a long, slow movement, kissing him while he did it. He found Roger's hands and tugged them up over his head, pressing Roger's wrists into the bed and holding them there.

Oh gods, he couldn't move - Harry's hot body pinned him to the bed as his cock thrust into Roger with excruciating slowness, and his arms were stretched over his head, leaving him vulnerable and shaking with the need to touch. He made short, needy mewling sounds and writhed beneath Harry, trying to use his hips to urge Harry to go faster, needing to feel something more than being so full -

Harry growled, low and devastating, and lifted himself up, bracing his arms on either side of Roger's head and letting go of Roger's wrists. "Morrrre?" he teased out, the deep reverberating growl going straight to Roger's cock.

"Yes, please, yes," Roger begged, his hands flying to Harry's back, tugging him closer, deeper.

Harry grinned, his teeth glinting sharp and dangerous, and bent his head down to lick at the shell of Roger's ear. "Okay," he breathed, and his hips snapped forward.

Roger cried out and bit his lip. "Ah, ah, yes, more," he said, his voice a breathless whine that echoed in time with Harry's thrusts. It felt like it went on forever - Harry would pull himself all the way out and slam back in, grunting with effort, and Roger would moan and beg and try to follow Harry with his hips.

Sweat sprang out across Roger's upper lip and Harry licked it away. "Mine," he panted against Roger's mouth. "Mine, fuck, mine now."

Roger didn't argue. He groaned and panted and scrabbled his hands over Harry's sweaty back, trying to find something to hold onto as Harry's thick cock pounded into him. He could feel his climax building, felt his balls tighten and his stomach ripple with the motion and -

"Harry!" Roger gasped as he came, spilling himself onto his stomach and Harry's. He tightened his legs around Harry's waist, drawing him closer, and their bellies slid slickly together as Harry thrust in and out.

"Harry, Harry," he moaned, his legs trembling as they clamped tightly around Harry's waist; he locked his ankles together and dug his heels into the small of Harry's back. Harry fucked him harder, driving into him over and over. Roger could only hang on for dear life, moaning around their hot, sloppy tongue-filled kisses and clenching spasmodically around Harry's cock.

"Mine," Harry repeated, biting Roger's neck.

"Yours," Roger cried sharply.

That seemed to drive Harry over the edge; his thrusts became erratic, harder, faster and he howled "Roger!" as he came, hot spurts pulsing into Roger's ass.

Harry collapsed on top of Roger, panting heavily, and Roger could feel the hair pressed against his skin. It tingled. He rather liked it.

Harry pulled out slowly and rolled off Roger, wrapping his arms around Roger and dragging him close to cuddle. The room smelt like sweat and come and he felt sticky and marvelous.

"Roger," Harry croaked. His eyes were closed and his chest was still rising and falling rapidly. "I've loved you for months. Can I please be your boyfriend?"

"Yes," Roger said, snuggling closer. "But you have to tell me I'm beautiful every day."

Harry cracked an eye open. "As long as you promise not to get rid of the mirror over the bed. Next time we fuck I want you on top with my dick inside you so I can see it."

Roger kissed Harry, stroking his furry chest. "Give me two minutes. You're about to discover the joys of dating a nymph."

Seriously, this has got to stop. I have things to do, I cannot keep up this frantic writing pace!

Another Greg-post tonight, though I fear this one is less hi-lar-ious than the previous bit. I can't be funny for you all the time. I'm sorry.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

As always, let me know what you think, any mistakes I've made, predictions of the future, etc.

(Edited for a PS: I think it is totally hilarious that you guys didn't even mention Greg eating a baby in the last post, just "Oh, emo Greg hearty heart <3." You people are sick and I love you.)

Greg woke up at sunrise the next morning, his mouth full of fur.

"Shub," he said, directing his comment to the purring bundle on his chest. "No matter how hard you try to smother me, it won't work. I don't need air."

"Mrow," Shub said, standing up and stretching, digging her claws into his chest.

"Now you're just being petty," he said, and pushed her off. She landed on the floor with a graceful thump and immediately began washing her tail.

Greg stretched, letting his spine pop. Luce's guest bed was more comfortable than the bed he had at home. Maybe the first thing he'd steal if he ever robbed this place was the bed; after that, the sheet set would go, because Egyptian mummy linen with a 900-thread count felt like sleeping on a fluffy cloud.

He decided he'd shower after breakfast, and ran a hand through his short, rumpled hair. He yawned and felt his jaw crack, then made his way toward the kitchen, intent on a cup of heart's blood tea to wake him up.

The kitchen was empty; the light was just beginning to slant through the window above the sink, bathing the counters in a rosy orange glow. The ugly yellow bird mug was sitting upside down in the dish drain.

Greg rifled through the cabinets until he found a black mug sitting on a high shelf. As he reached up to get it, he felt his thin shirt stretch across his shoulders.

He heard a small thud behind him and whirled around, clutching the mug in his hand.

"H-hi," Summer said. She gave a small little wave, and bent down to pick something orange and fuzzy off the floor. It looked like it must have resembled a stuffed rabbit once.

"Good morning," Greg said, relaxing his grip on the mug. No need to use it for a makeshift weapon yet.

"Um, good morning. I didn't think anyone else would be up," Summer said, combing her hair with her fingers. "Uncle Luce usually sleeps in, so I like to make myself breakfast."

"Well, at least one phoenix around here is an early riser," Greg said. "I won't get in your way."

He turned his back on Summer and picked up the electric kettle, filling it with just enough water for one cup. He hesitated and thought about it, then filled it with enough water for two.

Summer crept up beside him very slowly, hugging the orange ball of fur to her chest. "I usually make toast with jam," she said. "There's never any jam at my grandparents' house because Granma is always using the jam on scones for her tea parties. But Uncle Luce always keeps some here for me."

"Are you sure he doesn't simply like jam?" Greg asked, plugging the kettle in and flipping it on. It began to heat up with a low burbling noise.

"Yeah, right," Summer said, rolling her eyes. "Uncle Luce loves sweet stuff, so he always buys one jar for me and one for him."

"Nice of him," Greg commented, thinking back to the sugar with the side of tea he had seen Luce drink yesterday evening. He had to agree with her.

"Yeah," Summer said. She set her stuffed rabbit down on the counter and took a jar of peculiarly teal-colored jam out of the cabinet next to her. Two pieces of bread were removed from their bag and popped into the toaster.

"Uncle Luce is awesome," Summer said, warming to the subject. "He lets me hang out with him when Granma and Gramps are busy, and he volunteers at my school for fieldtrips, and he helps me with my homework."

"He probably rescues puppies in what little spare time he has," Greg murmured.

"He did this one time," Summer said, as impervious as any young child to sarcasm. "I couldn't keep him though, 'cause Gramps was allergic. But Uncle Luce found him a nice home, which is hard when the puppy breathes fire."

"Indeed," Greg said. "They're very difficult to housetrain."

Summer bit her bottom lip. "Um, Mr Greg -"

"Greg, please."

"Um, G-Greg," Summer said, not stumbling over the word as much as he thought she would. Greg was impressed. "I'm totally sorry about last night," she continued, wringing her hands nervously. "I was just, um, surprised. Uncle Luce hardly ever has anyone over."

"Don't worry about it," Greg said. "Would you like some tea?"

"Sure," Summer said, sitting down in one of the chairs and swinging her legs back and forth. "I'll have what you're having," she said, flicking her hair over her shoulder and trying to look grownup.

"Heart's blood tea?" Greg asked, mouth quirking in amusement.

"Oh, gross," Summer exclaimed, then quickly clapped her hand over her mouth. "I don't mean you're gross!" she squeaked. "You're totally not gross, you're just doing your vampire thing, which is really cool!"

"Relax," Greg said. "Are you on any sort of medication?"

"No," Summer said, her face going red with mortification. "I am such a dork."

"No, you're not," Greg said, stirring a bag of chamomile tea into a mug for Summer. "You're just - what, thirteen? Fourteen?"

"Eleven," said Summer, and she sounded much happier. "Do I really look that old? Awesome."

The toaster dinged and the bread popped up, looking golden brown and wholesome. Summer bounced to her feet and put both pieces on a plate.

"Oh, hey, do you want any toast?" she asked hesitantly. "I make it really good."

"Regrettably, I can't," Greg said. "Unless that is blood jam."

Summer wrinkled her nose. "Ew, no," she said. "It's Blue Rainbow jelly."

"Blue Rainbow?" Greg asked, turning to look at the label.

"Yeah," said Summer. "It's really good. It's made from the blue part of a rainbow."

"Yes, of course it would be," Greg said. "Where on earth does Luce buy it?"

Summer shrugged, spooning out big globs of the strangely colored jelly onto her toast. "I dunno, I think he knows a leprechaun who owes him a favor or something."

Greg nearly snorted. "Is that so?" he asked, managing to control himself. He poured the water into the two mugs and used a spoon he found in the dish drain to stir the teabags. "All right, let's enjoy this sitting down." He brought both steaming mugs to the table and set them down.

"Okay!" Summer said, beaming. "Thanks!" She took a sip of her tea and looked up in surprise. "Hey, it's my favorite! How'd you know?"

Greg didn't want to say it was because he could smell faint traces of chamomile in her blood. That sort of thing tended to unnerve people. Instead he said: "I'm a good guesser."

"Cool," Summer said. "Um, aren't you going to have any breakfast?" She munched on her toast and small crumbs fell down on her plate in a tiny rain of bread carnage.

"My breakfast hasn't arrived yet," Greg said, savoring the taste of his blood tea.

"Is it . . . blood?" Summer asked, saying the word as though she was afraid the mere sound of it would awaken Greg's hunger.

"No," Greg said, "It's a puppy."

"Ack!" Summer said, pushing her chair away from the table violently. She leapt up and dropped her piece of toast on the floor, staring at Greg with wide eyes.

"Rats," Greg said. "I'm not very good at jokes."

"You eat rats, too?!" Summer asked in horror, backing away from the table.

"No," Greg said, hiding a sigh. "I don't eat puppies or rats."

Anymore, he thought. He'd had some lean times in the past.

"I was just trying to make a joke," he said. "Sorry, I'm not at my sharpest before breakfast."

That would teach him to try and be sociable. He was never going to get any better at it, no matter how hard he tried. If he couldn't handle an eleven-year old girl already half in love with him, what hope did he have with normal people?

"So you're not gonna eat a puppy?" Summer asked.

"No," Greg said, sipping his tea. "Just good old-fashioned blood."

"Um, well, that was a good joke," Summer laughed nervously. She slowly lowered herself down onto the chair. "But maybe you shouldn't tell your jokes with such a serious face. I almost believed you."

"I'll have to remember that," Greg said. "Sorry about your toast. Do you want me to make you any more?"

"Oh, no," Summer said. "That's cool, I was almost done anyway."

"It's no problem," Greg said. "I may not eat food, but I know how to prepare it."

"You can cook?" Summer asked breathlessly. She leaned across the table, a longing look in her eyes. "Like, really cook?"

"Er, yes," said Greg, leaning away from her.

Summer smiled in awe, and her eyes had a strangely feral glint. "Wow," she breathed. "I don't know any hot - um - any guys who can cook. That's so cool."

"What about your uncle?" Greg asked.

"No way," Summer said, rolling her eyes and blowing out a short breath that ruffled her bangs. "Uncle Luce can't cook anything. He always orders food when I'm over. We eat a lot of pizza. I think Uncle Luce has the number on speed dial."

"Scandalous," Greg said. "What do your grandparents think about that?"

Summer blushed. "Well, Granma doesn't know that Uncle Luce can't cook. Whenever they come over, he orders a home cooked meal from one of those delivery places."

"And let me guess," Greg said. "He sets the table with all his own plates and silverware."

Summer giggled. "Granma thinks Uncle Luce should have been a chef, he's so good."

They shared a conspiratorial grin.

"Why'd you learn to cook?" Summer asked, twirling a lock of her red hair around her finger. Her small nose crinkled in curiosity. "Do you, um, have a wife you cook for?"

"No," Greg said, allowing a small smile.

"What about a boyfriend?" Summer asked.

Greg eyed her speculatively. "Aren't you a little young to be worrying about these things?"

"I'm nearly twelve!" Summer said, defending herself. "Plenty of my friends have boyfriends. I'm the only loser that doesn't."

"Don't be too eager to rush into love yet," Greg said calmly. Below the edge of the table, he placed his hands in his lap so Summer couldn't see the way his fists were clenched.

Summer leaned her head against her hand and traced patterns through the crumbs on her plate. "That's what Uncle Luce says. I think he's afraid some dumb boy is gonna break my heart or something stupid."

She sighed dramatically. "Like that would happen. I totally don't want to fall in love."

Greg blinked. He didn't know much about almost-teenage girls, but he was fairly certain they were born with a deep desire to fall in love and write bad poetry.

"You don't want to fall in love?" Greg asked. "Now I know you're too young to be so jaded. It took me at least two hundred years to develop that level of cynicism."

"Well, my parents were in love, and they died," Summer said. "And Uncle Luce was in love, and his boyfriend was a big jerk. I don't need some dumb boy to ruin my life, I just want someone to go to the movies with."

Summer looked up at Greg with big, hopeful eyes, and bit her bottom lip. "Do you, um, like the movies?"

Greg finally knew what it felt like to have a heart attack.

"I haven't been to the pictures since they took those comedic brothers off the air," he said awkwardly.

"The Lawrence brothers?" Summer asked.

"The Marx brothers," Greg replied.

"Oh my gosh, you're so old!" Summer exclaimed. "That's like grandpa old!"

"Thanks," Greg said, smiling.

Summer blushed. "You don't look old, though. And Uncle Luce is really old," she added.

"I know," said Greg. "He's way older than me. He's totally ancient."

Summer shrieked with laughter. "I'm gonna tell him you said that!"

"Said what?" grumbled a sleepy voice from the doorway.

Greg and Summer both turned and saw Luce standing in the entrance to the kitchen. He was wearing a thin, cotton tank top and a pair of dark grey sweatpants, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Morning, Uncle Luce!" Summer chirped. "You're up way early."

"Yeah, well, there were some people making a racket in the kitchen," Luce said, yawning. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Sorry," Greg said. "It was all Summer's fault."

"Hey!" said Summer, trying to sound indignant. She ruined it by giggling. "I'll totally tell on you!"

Luce looked between Greg and Summer, his brow furrowing. "Did I miss something?" he asked.

"No," Greg said. "We were just enjoying breakfast."

"Oh no, breakfast! I forgot!" Luce said. "Summer, I'm sorry, I meant to buy you something to eat."

"I made Blue Jam toast, Uncle Luce," Summer said. "Like I always do."

"Right," said Luce, his shoulders relaxing. "My brain doesn't work before I've had my tea."

"Your brain never works," Summer said, laughing.

"Watch it, kid," Luce said, smiling as he walked by Summer's chair on the way to the sink. He stopped and ruffled her hair. "I can always toss you out."

"Yeah, right," Summer said, ducking away from his hand. "I'm gonna go upstairs and take a shower now. Do you think we can go to the movies later? Greg hasn't been in a long time."

Luce looked at Greg in surprise. "You want to go to the movies?"

Greg hesitated, and noticed the pleading look on Summer's face.

"It could be interesting," he said.

Luce leaned against the counter and grabbed his yellow mug out of the dish drain. Greg gave a little shudder at the sight of it.

"We can probably go later this afternoon," Luce said. "In the morning Greg and I have go to the orphanage and sort some things out. You can come along if you like or you can stay here."

Summer didn't look thrilled at either prospect.

"My cat might like some company," Greg offered.

"You brought a cat?" Summer asked.

"Yes," said Greg. "She's just a little thing, but she is chock full of evil."

"You're funny," Summer giggled.

"I assure you, it is unintentional," Greg said.

Summer stood up and picked up the fallen piece of toast, then went to put her plate in the sink.

"Okay," she said. "I guess I'll stay here while you guys go do your orphanage thing." She looked at Greg. "Are you an art dealer or something? Uncle Luce said you were helping him with some of the jewelry and stuff."

"Um," said Luce.

"I'm a thief," Greg said. "I'm going to help him fence things."

"No way," Summer said. She picked up her orange rabbit from where she'd left it on the counter and clutched it to her chest. She looked like she was about to hyperventilate.

"Er, that is -" Greg began, trying to stave off her panic attack.

"That is so cool! A real thief!" Summer squealed. "Omigod, I've gotta go call my friends!"

She ran out of the room, red hair flying behind her.

"What the -" Greg said.

"I think that means you just got hotter," Luce said. He laughed and turned on the kettle.

"I wish she would - would have some sort of warning light to indicate when she is going to do that," Greg said. "Is it just me, or are teenage girls the more terrifying sort of monster?"

"It's not just you," Luce said. "So, what were you guys talking about?" Luce asked casually.

"Nothing of consequence," Greg said. "Just chatted about toast and love and my cooking."

"You can cook?" Luce asked, with the same hungry look in his eyes as Summer. He took a step closer. "Real food?"

"Yes," Greg said, a bit unnerved. "Fairly well, I'm told."

Luce shook his head and turned back to the counter to pour himself a cup of tea. "Yeah? Who told you that?" he asked.

"I used to prepare a last meal for my victims," Greg said. "And they had no reason to lie, because they were going to die any way."

"Ha ha," Luce said. "Seriously."

"Well, very few of them died," Greg admitted. "I usually let them go when I was full."

"Oh," said Luce, his face paling. "You weren't kidding."

"No," Greg said. "I rarely kid. Drinking the blood of a victim who has recently eaten is the only way I can really taste food. It gives the blood a better flavor, so I learned how to cook well, if only for my own sake." He shrugged and took another sip of his blood tea.

"That's kinda messed up," Luce said. "But I'm not really going to complain if it means I could weasel a home cooked meal out of you."

"It wouldn't be a problem to cook for you," Greg said. "If only to repay you for letting me stay here." And it would give him something to occupy his time, other than studying his grimoires or staring absently at the wall. He was a grown man with a cat and few hobbies, and he was beginning to realize people might see his life as unfulfilling.

"I told you not to worry about it," Luce said. He brought his mug to the table and sat down across from Greg. "You're my guest."

"I can make breakfasts, lunches, and dinners," Greg said, one corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile.

"On the other hand," Luce said. "It would be impolite of me to refuse your generous offer."

"Do you have any food around here, or just magical jam?" Greg asked.

If Luce was like most of the bachelors Greg knew, he would be lucky to find saltine crackers and an old apple lurking in the cupboards. Actually, if Luce was like most of the bachelors Greg knew, he probably didn't want to go searching in the cupboards.

"Ah, we might have to do a little shopping," Luce said, scratching at his chin sheepishly.

"You don't say," said Greg, already beginning to form a shopping list of ingredients in his mind.

"We can go to the ghoulcery store after we've gone to the orphanage. I know you probably want to see the merchandise first, before we do anything else."

"Yes," Greg said, sipping at the dregs of his tea. It had only been enough to wake him up, not enough to quiet the rumblings of hunger in his stomach. He glanced impatiently at the clock on the wall, willing it to speed up.

Luce must have guess where Greg's thoughts had wandered. "When does your breakfast get here?"

"Soon, I hope," said Greg. "Unless they've botched the delivery again. I still remember the time they sent my order to a transfusion patient, and they had to explain to him why his packet of blood came with a complimentary straw."

Luce chuckled and took a sip of his tea. "I could get you another cup of blood tea," he said. "To tide you over."

"No, that's all right," Greg said. He felt uncomfortable having Luce wait on him.

"I still can't believe you keep a tin of dried heart's blood around," Greg said. "Your friends are lucky you treat their expensive tastes. Hyde's teas are notoriously difficult to come by."

"Frank's dad knows Hyde. Jekyll, too. They're old school buddies, I guess. I'm just lucky I can use Frank Sr.'s star power."

"Yes, I imagine Frank's father is well connected. He knows my father, after all. Few people can say they know the Count, and live to tell about it."

"Oh, that reminds me," Luce said. "Drake told me to tell you that he's arranged to meet up with your dad later this week."

"Really," Greg said, his voice hissing like a snake.

"He'll, uh, he'll probably talk to you about it later. I think he and Frank were planning to stop by tonight." Luce chuckled, the tone of his laugh suggesting he was trying to break the tension without getting his neck broken.

"Hm," said Greg. He got up and took his mug to the sink to rinse it out. The clinking of the mug and the running water were the only sounds in the silence that stretched out in the kitchen.

The silence became so awkward that it was embarrassed for itself. A knock on the front door interrupted its awkward brooding.

"That could be your delivery," Luce said, standing up.

"The bloodman always rings twice," Greg said.

A second knock echoed from the front door.

"That's him," Greg said.

He walked out of the kitchen and down the hall, opening the front door slowly. It was too well oiled to make the ominous creaking noise that he liked, and he felt a little disappointed. He took careful pains to frighten his deliverymen when he was at home, lest they become overly friendly.

"Yes?" he said coldly to the terrified looking young gargoyle standing at the door. The gargoyle was dressed in a crisp white uniform with a matching hat, and he carried a small silver cooler.

"Your b-blood, sir," he squeaked, holding out the cooler with shaking, grey hands.

"Thank you," Greg said, taking the cooler from him. "You were nearly on time," he added ominously, and watched the lad's face pale. Then he slammed the door in his face.

"Was that really necessary?" Luce asked, coming up behind him. "I think I can hear his stones knocking together from in here."

"Perfectly necessary," Greg said. "I like to keep them on their toes, and Mr Blüd thanks me for reminding them of their duties. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go and eat in my bedroom."

"What, and get blood on my sheets?" Luce said, grinning. "Nah, eat in the kitchen."

"People don't usually like me to feed in front of them," Greg said, feeling uncertain. "It's a bit like cows inviting someone to eat a hamburger in their midst."

Luce shrugged. "I don't mind. I've gotta get used to it anyway if we're gonna be - um, while you're a guest here. Remember, we don't know how long this will all take," he reminded Greg.

"Yes," Greg said. "All right, then. Do you have a glass you don't mind if I poured blood into? Drinking straight from the bag can be messy, even with the straw."

"Sure," Luce said, as Greg followed him back into the kitchen. "I've got just the thing."

He opened the cabinet with all the mugs and reached into the back. He pulled out a large mug in the same style of the ugly yellow bird, only this mug was in the shape of a large black-and-white cat's head.

"You can pour it in there," Luce said, handing him the offending mug.

"I couldn't possibly," Greg said, stalling. "Such a collectible item must be special to you. Do you really want it forever tainted with the ignominy of a vampire's meal?"

"It's an old mug," Luce said. "I've had it for years. We can just call it your blood mug, now."

"Eurgh," said Greg. "Very well."

He carefully opened the cooler and took out a plastic sachet of blood. He slid a fang along the top and sliced open the packaging, then poured the blood into the horrible mug.

Now the cat's head was filled with blood, as though it was some sort of bizarre pagan sacrifice. Greg tilted his head to look at it. It was actually a bit delightful.

"Breakfast is served," Luce said. He was watching Greg with a strange look on his face.

"Indeed," Greg said.

He closed his eyes and brought the mug to his lips, gulping down the blood in several quick swallows.

Ugh, nothing was quite as awful as prepackaged blood. Except maybe old prepackaged blood.

He opened his eyes and found Luce still watching him. Luce's face was a curious mixture of fascination and revulsion. He probably thought it was fascinating that an ancient vampire would drink from a cartoon mug, and disgusting that it was blood.

"You don't look like you really enjoy that," Luce said curiously. "I thought that stuff was supposed to be gourmet blood or something."

"It is," Greg said. "It's just not fresh from a struggling victim. That's much better."

"Ha, I guess so. I've never hunted for my own dinner, though," Luce said. "So I've never had it quite that fresh."

"No, takeout is seldom fresh," Greg said, his lips curving.

"Summer ratted me out," Luce said, his shoulders hunching in embarrassment. "See if I buy that kid any more Blue Jam."

Greg laughed, startling them both.

"Er," he said, trying to compose himself. "She's very talkative."

"Yeah," said Luce. "She may be half phoenix, but she's got a mouth on her like a hummingbird."

Greg smiled and tilted the mug up to his mouth again, searching out the last few drops. When he was done he licked his lips.

"Uh," Luce said. "You've got a little blood on your face. Right here." He pointed to a spot on his own face, to the left of his top lip.

"Oh?" Greg said. "Thanks." His tongue darted out and caught the stray drop.

Luce went to get a glass of water

Okay, I was convinced.

This section is dedicated to lokiloo, because her drawing of Greg is awesome.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

After washing out his mug, Greg went back to his room to get his clothes out for the day. As he pulled a shirt from his bag, his trousers from last night fell onto the floor, and the locket tumbled out of the pocket.

Greg froze, and then cursed.

"Idiot," he said, throwing his shirt on the bed. "Stop thinking about it!"

He sat down heavily on the bed, burying his face in his hands. The locket lay on the floor in front of him.

What a way to start the day - two hundred years later and he still couldn't get over it.

He'd even tried reading those self-help books, the ones that told you what do you in order to move on with your life. Cut your hair, buy yourself some new clothes, eat a lot of chocolate (he'd substituted that one with 'drink a lot of blood'), and take up a hobby.

The books always had chapters on how to get over a cheating boyfriend, or the it's-not-you-it's-me boyfriend, or the boyfriend who wouldn't commit.

There was never a chapter on how to get over it when your boyfriend tried to kill you.

Greg sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, then stood up. He needed to get ready.

He took a pair of black trousers out of his bag and headed to the bathroom, still lost in thought.

The bathroom was one door down across the hall, next to Luce's bedroom. He hadn't thought to bring a towel with him, and he hoped Luce was the sort of person who invested in guest towels.

Fortunately, he was.

Unfortunately, the towels were pink.

Greg had a deep suspicion that they'd actually started out life as white, fluffy towels, but a tragic laundry accident had occurred sometime in the past. It would account for the darker spots of purple.

He set his folded trousers on the counter and looked at himself in the mirror.

Contrary to popular belief, all vampires could see themselves in the mirror. But for their own safety, most of them opted for a No-See-Me spell to keep their reflections hidden.

Vampires were so vain that if they caught their reflection in a mirror, they were likely to stare at it for hours until they did something stupid. Look at that idiot Narcissus.

Greg had never had the spell put on. He didn't really like looking in the mirror.

He studied his reflection. He looked less pale than usual, but that was because he'd just had breakfast. Short, dark stubble covered his jaw completely, except for the scar. It stood out along his jaw like an ugly reminder.

He ran a hand over his hair. It was getting a bit long; he'd have to have it cut soon. He didn't like it longer than one or two inches.

He stripped out of his clothes and left them in a rumpled heap on the floor, and then he turned the hot water on, praying that Summer wasn't like most girls. They had an almost magical ability to suck all the hot water out of even the largest of hot water tanks.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the water came out scalding hot. One of his guilty pleasures was a hot shower: he liked the way the water felt as though it was burning away everything on the outside. It was also one of the only times he didn't feel cold. It was hard for a vampire to regulate his body temperature.

As he stepped into the shower and stood under the spray, he let his mind wander. He was curious about seeing the merchandise, and he wondered what he could expect a phoenix to give up in order to fund his dream.

Probably some pretty nice jewels. Greg couldn't wait to get his hands on them.

He scrubbed down with the soap and washcloth he found on the edge of the tub, and shampooed his hair.

The shampoo smelled like rose and cinnamon. That was not good for his image.

He rinsed off and stepped out of the shower, making sure to keep his feet on the bath mat. He grabbed one of the towels off the rack and decided that if he lived here, decorating would be his first priority. Luce obviously needed someone else around the house to tell him that he had appalling taste. That was what relationships were for.

He rubbed the towel roughly over his hair and looked in the mirror again, wiping a hand through the steam so he could see his reflection. The hot water had pinked his skin, making him look flushed and healthy and almost human.

He decided he'd shave later, maybe before bed tonight.

He shrugged to himself, and wrapped the towel around his waist, reaching for his shirt.

A shirt, he suddenly realized, that was sitting on the bed in his room. He cursed silently as he picked up his clothes off the floor and bundled everything together. He'd have to go back to his room to get dressed.

When he opened the bathroom door, Luce was standing outside, one hand raised as though poised to knock.

"Sorry," Greg said. "I'm done in there. I'll get dressed so we can go."

Luce's eyes widened.

"Oh my - Oh my God," he said. His hair burst into flames.

"What -?" Greg exclaimed, completely startled.

"Just-knock-on-my-door-when-you're-ready," Luce babbled in a rush. He sprinted into his bedroom, hair still aflame, and slammed the door shut.

Greg retreated to his room, bewildered and a little hurt. He knew he was underweight - it would be kind to call him wiry - and he'd seen ghouls with better coloring, but he didn't think he was so revolting he would cause people to run away in terror. And on fire.

Then again, he hadn't had a date in a hundred years, so Luce's reaction might explain some things. He'd have to work harder at not offending his host.

Greg quickly pulled on his dark grey shirt and the black trousers, finger combing his damp hair. He slipped on his shoes and went to knock on Luce's door.

He didn't immediately get an answer. He heard muffled noises and the sound of rustling cloth.

Luce must be getting dressed, too. He'd knock again in a few minutes.

He walked down the hall and into the living room. Summer was sitting on the floor, dangling a piece of string in front of Shub; she was leaning in close to the cat, making playful sounds.

"Careful," Greg said. "Shub has been known to mistake faces for scratching posts."

"Eek!" Summer said, twisting around. "You scared me!"

"Sorry," Greg said. That was the second time he'd snuck up on someone in as many days. Maybe he should start walking heavier.

"It's okay, it's because you're a thief," Summer said knowingly. "You're supposed to have footfalls like a cat."

"That's odd," Greg said. "When Shub runs through the house, she sounds like a very tiny herd of buffalo."

Summer giggled. "Okay, maybe not like a cat. But I bet you learned how to walk really quiet so that people won't hear you when you're stealing stuff."

Greg didn't have the heart to tell her that the real reason he walked so quietly was because predators didn't like to alert prey to their approach.

"Right," Greg said. "That's clever of you to figure out."

Summer beamed up at him. "I'm nearly top of my class," she said. "Only the mad scientist's daughter is smarter than me, and I think her dad helps her with her homework."

"You said Luce helped you with your work," Greg pointed out.

"Oh, yeah," Summer said dismissively, "But he doesn't do the work for me. It's all me."

"Good to know," Greg said.

Shub chose that moment to attack, leaping toward the string with a war meow; the string didn't stand a chance. Shub's claws ripped it from Summer's hands, and the cat bit down on the helpless string, shaking it to death.

Summer shrieked with laughter. "Look at her go! You get that string, kitty!"

Greg smiled faintly. Maybe children weren't so bad.

Luce walked into the living room, doing up the last button on his shirt. "You guys having fun?" he asked, then continued without waiting for a reply, "Greg, you ready to go?"

"Yes," Greg said. "I knocked on your door, but I don't know if you heard me."

"Oh yeah, sorry," Luce said, not meeting his eyes. "I heard you, I was just, uh, busy in my bathroom."

He knelt down next to Summer and tousled her hair.

"Uncle Luce," Summer whined. "Quit it, you're messing up my hair." She darted a quick glance at Greg.

"You gonna be okay while we're gone?" Luce asked Summer. "I'm going to have Mrs Snowman check in on you around lunch and bring you something to eat."

"'Kay," Summer said, busy playing with Shub again. "I'll see you later so we can go to the movies."

"Right," Luce said. He straightened and looked over at Greg. "Wanna take my car?" he asked.

"All right," Greg said. "Goodbye, Summer."

"Bye, Greg," Summer answered dreamily. She watched them until they walked out the door, and it reminded Greg of those portraits where the eyes followed you around the room.

Luce snorted once they were outside the apartment. "If only all of us could be so open in our affections, huh?" he said. "Man, it was easier being a kid."

"Oh, I don't know," Greg said. "I think being a kid was harder. When you're young you're always waiting for the approval of the adults around you."

"I guess that's true," Luce said. "Sometimes when you're young it seems like you're always waiting for the adults around you to notice you."

"Or sometimes when you're young, you're waiting for the adults around you to let you out of the cage to feed," Greg added.

Luce gave him a funny look. "Yeah," he said. "Anyway, I figure we'll swing by the orphanage, then the ghoulcery store, and then head home to drop everything off and pick Summer up for the movies."

"Okay," Greg said. "You're driving, after all. You get to make the decisions."

"Yeah," Luce said, with a lopsided grin. "That gives me all the power in this relationship."

"Ah, yes," Greg said. "The three ancient points of power in any relationship: the car keys, the remote, and the thermostat."

"What about the toilet seat?" Luce asked, grinning.

"You cannot possibly handle the power of the toilet seat," Greg said.

Luce barked out a laugh. "There you go making jokes again. You know you're going to ruin that dark, brooding reputation I've heard you have."

"It was a momentary lapse of sanity," Greg assured him. And then, more casually, the way a werewolf in a long coat hanging out near a schoolyard would try to look casual, Greg asked: "You've heard of me?"

"Are you kidding?" Luce asked, climbing into the driver's seat. "Your brother talks about you all the time and Frank - uh, Frank's told me some stories about you, too. Did you know that when Frank was little his mother warned him to watch out for the Boogieman and the Gregieman?"

Greg grimaced. "An old boyfriend called me Gregie. He knew I hated it, and he spread the name around when we broke up."

"That's awful," Luce said, trying not to laugh. "And you let him live after that?"

"No," Greg said calmly.

"Ha ha," Luce said, pulling at the collar of his shirt. "We'll be there in a few minutes."

They lapsed into silence.

"Is your - hair all right?" Greg asked hesitantly.

"Oh yeah," Luce said, laughing it off. He didn't take his eyes from the road. "Sometimes it, uh, does that at the darndest times."

"Oh," Greg said, unconvinced. "I was worried it was my fault."

"No, no!" Luce said, too quickly, in Greg's opinion. "Not you at all. In the slightest. Oh, look, we're here."

They pulled up in the driveway and Greg got his first glimpse of the future orphanage.

It was everything a monster orphanage should be. The building looked old and vaguely Victorian. The architect must have been fond of turrets, because they were stuck haphazardly all over the house. A long, winding gravel path wove toward the front porch, and the path was choked with weeds.

The front door was warped and missing huge chunks, like a wild animal had clawed at it trying to get inside. Dead trees grew close to the house, their twisted black branches scratching at the upstairs windows.

"It's a great location, but it needs a little work," Luce said.

"It's perfect," Greg breathed, mesmerized.

"Ha ha, you really are an old-fashioned monster," Luce said, slapping Greg on the back. "Drake said he thought you'd like it."

Greg steadied himself against the blow and smiled. "Old habits die hard. Tell me, is there a dank, mildewed cellar with shackles bolted to the wall?"

"Yes, and it's all yours," Luce said. "I've been trying to rope someone into helping me clean it out, but the last guy ran away when he saw the skeletons."

"Skeletons?" Greg asked. "The monsters who lived here must have had real style."

"Whatever you say," Luce replied.

Greg followed him up the path, noting the cracked and crumbling statues scattered throughout the lawn with approval. The previous owners had been detail oriented.

There would probably be a tiny graveyard in the backyard, haunted by the ghost of a young woman who had died in childbirth. These old houses always had a childbirth ghost or two.

Luce opened the front door. It gave a terrific groan, like an old man dying, wracked with pain. The bottom of the door scraped heavily along the floorboards.

"Fantastic," Greg said, a bounce to his step. "Real character."

"Character, he says," Luce grumbled, shoving the door all the way open. "You try opening this rusty-hinged piece of junk door."

"You know, you just can't get doors to rust that badly these days," Greg scolded. "That's real craftsmanship."

They stepped into the foyer and Greg was pleased to see the eaves were covered in cobwebs.

"These kids are going to be so lucky to live here," he said.

"Remind me not to ask you to help me decorate," Luce said, chuckling. "I bet you'd put a monster in every kid's closet."

"You mean they don't have one already?" Greg asked, appalled.

"It's not in the budget yet," Luce said.

"That's a shame," Greg said. "I really liked the monster I had growing up. He always tucked me in at night and read me bedtime stories."

They walked down the hall and entered a room that was marginally less dusty than the other areas of the house. It looked like someone had attacked the mess and given up halfway through.

Greg looked down and saw the scuffle marks in the dust, and the thick trail of ooze that led straight into the wall.

Or they'd simply been eaten.

"Slime monster," Luce explained, gesturing at the spot where the ooze disappeared. "It got my last two cleaners. I warned the second one to lock the doors when she was cleaning, but I forgot these old houses tend to have secret passageways."

"That was amateurish of you."

Luce sighed. "I know. Anyway, I think it lives in the cellar."

"I can go have a talk with it later," Greg said.

"Ha ha," Luce said. "Like he would listen to -"

Greg looked at him.

"Thanks," Luce said, tugging at his collar again. "Let me, uh, let me get the stuff."

He walked out of the room through a different door and came back a moment later, holding a large wooden chest. The lid was engraved with a bird rising from the flames, and the spiraling design of the fire became a sort of interlocking puzzle, with several visible keyholes.

Luce took a set of keys out of his pocket and used them to unlock the box.

As soon he opened the lid, Greg's vision went blue-edged and fuzzy.

"That's a bloodstone," said Greg, staring in horror at the deep red-colored stone sitting on top of a pile of gold coins. Its surface shimmered like liquid. Greg felt his knees start to wobble.

"Really?" Luce said. "I don't know, I'm not big on gems. I just like the sparkly ones," he joked.

"That," said Greg very slowly, trying to calm himself, "is a bloodstone." He had to lean against a nearby table for support. "What are you doing with a bloodstone?"

"I don't know - is it a big deal?"

"They were outlawed," Greg snapped, growing irritable the longer he was in the same room with the stone. "A long time ago."

"Really?" Luce said, picking up the stone. "Huh, my mom just told me I could get rid of it."

He tossed the stone up in the air a few times. Greg's eyes followed its movement.

"Want to hold it?" Luce asked, tossing the stone to Greg.

Greg dodged out of the way, feeling the pull of the bloodstone's magic as it shot by his chest.

He leapt at Luce and grabbed his shirt, slamming him up against the wall.

"What are you playing at?" he snarled. His voice had gone beyond hissing and crackling, to a sort of growling harmonic of pain and lightning.

"What?!" Luce gasped out, pushing at Greg's hands. "What the fuck?!"

He slammed Luce against the wall once, twice, and heard the crack of plaster as Luce's head hit the wall.

"You tried to give me a bloodstone!" Greg said, the words crawling out of his throat like the scratching horror of someone realizing they had been buried alive. "Is that what this has really been about? Is it?!" He shook Luce again

Luce's eyes narrowed and he grabbed Greg's wrists in a steel grip. "Let go," he said, licks of flame curling in his voice.

"So you can try to give me another bloodstone?" Greg growled. He felt his fangs snap out to their full length, and the slight sting that meant his eyes had begun to glow red.

Luce's expression grew dangerous. "Let go, right now, and calm down."

Greg leaned in close toward Luce's face.

"Ha," he said, very deliberately. He curled his fingers into Luce's chest, letting his nails lengthen into sharp points.

Luce hissed in pain and his eyes flickered orange for the briefest second. It was all the warning Greg had before Luce's hands burned hot against his wrists and flames engulfed his arms.

Greg smiled darkly and held on through the searing pain. "Oh, let's have some fun, shall we?" he asked.

He hurled Luce across the room, and when Luce let go of him, the flames crawling up Greg's arms disappeared.

His throw sent Luce crashing onto a table. The table legs buckled and the wood splintered, and Luce went sprawling to the floor; he picked himself up and clenched his fists.

The bloodstone was at Luce's feet. Luce looked down at it.

Greg launched himself at Luce, hitting him hard in the chest and raking his claws across Luce's face. He used his foot to kick the stone away; it clattered across the room and slid underneath a cabinet.

Luce stumbled backward and then caught himself. The cuts on his face closed rapidly, but blood had already stained the neck of his shirt. His eyes were glowing orange again.

He took a swing at Greg and landed a punch to his stomach.

Greg coughed and lurched back several steps. It felt like getting hit with a forge hammer. The front of his shirt was smoking from a large, singed spot in the center.

"We are not gonna do this," Luce said slowly. He limped toward Greg. "I'm serious. Calm the fuck down and tell me what a bloodstone is because I don't know."

Something in Luce's tone made Greg pause. He sniffed the air, tasting Luce's scent: Luce was in pain, yes, and terribly pissed off, yes, but - he wasn't lying.

"You have a bloodstone and you don't even know what it is?" Greg asked in disbelief.

"Yes," Luce said, clenching his teeth. "And if you throw me across the room again, I'm gonna punch you in the face."

Greg felt all the rage drain out of him. It was swiftly replaced with a consuming sort of embarrassed dread.

"I thought you were trying - the stone - I -" He rubbed at the burns on his wrists. "I'm sorry."

Luce groaned and collapsed onto a chair sitting next to the remains of the table. "You're sorry? Holy flaming Mother of Creation, I thought you were gonna try to kill me."

I wasn't going to try, Greg thought. I was going to do it.

"I'm sorry," he said again, feeling helpless.

"Okay," Luce said. He rubbed his hand across his cheek where the cuts had been, but only the thin, pink lines of newly healed skin remained. "Now," he said. "Can you tell me what got you so fired up?"

Greg looked down pointedly at the burn mark on the front of his shirt. "I'm not the one who got fired up," he said.

"Right, sorry about your shirt," Luce said.

"Sorry about your face," Greg replied. "And your table."

Luce was rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Huh, our first fight," he said thoughtfully. He seemed to be talking mostly to himself. "Didn't actually think it would be a fight, but they did say -."

"Sorry?" Greg said.

"Nothing, nothing," Luce said. "Look, whatever that bloodstone thing is, it's bad, I get it. I'll keep it locked up so no one gets hurt."

Greg folded his arms across his chest protectively. "It's only bad for vampires," he said. "It's a sort of - collar."

"A collar?" Luce asked, leaning forward.

"Yes," Greg said, willing the painful memories to stay buried. But there was a bloodstone right here, in the room, and it made him think of Arvel - beautiful, betraying Arvel.

"When a vampire accepts a bloodstone from someone, it's a contract more binding than death. The giver of the stone gets complete control over the vampire's actions," he said. The words left a dry, sour taste in his mouth.

"That does sound pretty awful. I'm sorry, I can see why -" Luce started to say.

"That isn't the worst part," Greg said. "The stone forces the vampire to shift into his feeding form."

"Would that be the form where your teeth grow fourteen sizes and your eyes glow that interesting shade of hellfire?" Luce asked, rubbing his cheek again.

"Yes," Greg said. "All a vampire's senses are heightened in that form, but so is the craving for blood. If a vampire stays in that form too long, he can't get out of it."

Greg rubbed his hands along his arms, suddenly much colder.

"And if a vampire can't get out of his feeding form," he said, in a small voice, "he'll go mad."

"Fuck," Luce said quietly. "Why did my mom even have one of those?"

"Maybe she just liked how sparkly it was," Greg said, attempting a weak smile. "I shouldn't have reacted like that. It hit a little close to home - I had a boyfriend who tried to give me a bloodstone, once. When I wouldn't take it, he tried to have me killed."

He could still picture the sweet look on Arvel's face, even after all these years. It was a Wednesday, he remembered. He'd been hard at work drawing break-in plans for his newest target, when Arvel came up behind him and draped himself over Greg's shoulders.

Arvel was always clinging to him, even though he was a full head taller than Greg, arms winding around Greg, keeping him close. Greg had thought the possessiveness was endearing, at the time. Ogres weren't usually so affectionate.

"Greg, my love, my darling, my sweet monsterling dove, I have something for you," Arvel had purred, kissing him softly on the cheek. His green eyes twinkled. "Would you accept it from me?"

Greg remembered how young he'd been. How stupidly trusting. How utterly in love.

He'd smiled and said: "I'll accept anything from you, even that poor excuse for a kiss."

Chuckling, Arvel had spun him around in the chair and kissed him, and the kiss was anything but a poor excuse; it wasn't even a negotiation. It was an implicit demand for surrender.

"Now, my dark prince," Arvel had said, running his fingers through Greg's hair. His voice became melodious and soothing. It was a neat trick ogres had developed to disarm prey. Greg usually let Arvel have anything he wanted when he talked like that.

"Are you ready to take the stone, so we can rule and do horrible things together?" Arvel asked. He licked the edge of Greg's mouth, his forked tongue curling over Greg's lips.

"What?" Greg had asked, laughing at what he thought to be another of Arvel's odd jokes.

"I'll show you," Arvel said. "It's an interesting trinket I picked up." Then Arvel pulled the stone from the pocket of his cloak, and the world tilted.

Greg remembered the way his vision had narrowed and his chest had tightened.

He knew immediately what the stone was: it was one of the only things his father had ever warned him about. He coudn't believe Arvel would try to give it to him - he'd been forced to close his eyes against the feeling of nausea.

Arvel hadn't been pleased when Greg had pushed him away and told him no. After the ensuing fight - which had broken the bed, three windows, two of Greg's fingers and Arvel's nose - Arvel had stormed off threatening dark repercussions.

Greg had sat in his chair, shaking, and tried not to throw up the blood sausages he'd had for lunch.

When Arvel returned later that night with the angry mob he'd enchanted and ransacked the castle, Greg knew their relationship was pretty much over.

But he'd still kept that damn locket.

"What?" Luce said, his exclamation bringing Greg back to the present. "He did what?" He stood up and took a step toward Greg.

Greg noted, with some alarm, that Luce's eyes had started to glow orange again.

"He decided that - he set an angry mob on me," Greg said, backing up a step.

Luce followed him forward.

"It was only a little mob," Greg tried. Luce's hair had begun to smoke. "Er, please don't light yourself on fire again."

Luce stopped, and his eyes abruptly cooled. "God," Luce said. "I don't think they've invented support groups for all the issues you have."

"They haven't," Greg said. "I've checked."

"Well, I don't blame you," Luce said. "I would have killed that bastard too."

"I didn't kill him," Greg said softly, looking away.

"Oh," Luce said.

They both avoided looking at each other, until Luce cleared his throat and gestured at the overturned wooden chest on the floor. Most of its contents had spilled out when the table collapsed from under it.

"I promise I don't have any more bloodstones in there," he said. "Would you still - I mean, you'll still help fence the rest of it, right?"

"Of course," Greg said, relieved at the change in subject.

"Okay," Luce said. "We might have to sit on the floor." He shot a quick half-smile at Greg. "Some idiots broke the table."

"Savages," Greg replied, offering a hesitant smile in return.

They settled on the floor next to the chest, and Luce began gathering the things that had fallen out into a pile.

"This is the flight feather of my phoenix clan," Luce said proudly, picking up a golden feather as long as his forearm. It had an iridescent shimmer, like it had been forged in a rainbow.

"It's supposed to be the first feather that ever fell off the first phoenix of our clan's line. It's the only one like it in the whole world," Luce said.

"I stole one of those once," Greg said.

"Nah, you couldn't have," Luce said, "This is the only - hey," he said, suddenly sounding suspicious. "My grandmother lost it once, but she found it a few weeks later. Except then a bunch of our family jewels went missing from their bank vault."

"That's strange," Greg replied evenly. Sometimes he only stole things so people would buy them back. He made a mental note to avoid meeting any more of Luce's relatives.

"I'm hoping we can get a museum interested in it," Luce said, still eyeing Greg suspiciously. "I can't stand the thought of another person owning it."

"Phoenixes are so possessive," Greg said, picking up a large blue sapphire. There was a tiny dragon tooth suspended inside.

"You have no idea," Luce said. His grin was sharp.

"Well, you'll have to un-possess yourself if you want to sell anything. I already see a few items I know I could find buyers for," Greg said. He set the sapphire down and picked up a ruby the size of two fists. It was shaped like an egg.

He examined it more closely. Hold on, it was an egg.

"What's this?" he asked, holding it up for Luce to see.

"Pygmy dragon," Luce replied. "The damn thing has never hatched for me. I think it's a dud."

The shell of the egg suddenly, and distinctly, cracked.

"Of course," Luce said. "Of course it would hatch for you."

Greg looked down at the ruby-colored egg. Fine, spidery lines splintered out from the large crack, and the egg began to pulse in his hand.

"Sweet sugar-coated Lucifer," Greg said. "I don't want a dragon!"

The egg gave a tiny meep.

"I have a cat," Greg said desperately. "A tiny demon cat that likes to destroy my clothes and furniture. I do not want a dragon. Shub will either eat it or bond with it, and if that happens I will be outnumbered."

Luce laughed. "Sorry," he said. He didn't sound very sorry. Greg narrowed his eyes.

"You take it," Greg said. "It will think you're its mother."

"No way," Luce said. "It wanted you."

"No," Greg said, even as pieces of the shell began to fall off. He could see a thin, mucousy membrane hugging the inside of the shell, and parts of it were beginning to bulge as tiny dragon claws fought to tear it open.

"You're a bird," he said. "Historically, birds nest. Therefore any egg is rightfully yours."

"Nothin' doin'," Luce replied. "I don't sit on eggs. Besides, I bet your cat could use a playmate."

"You are no gentleman," Greg said with great dignity. "And you, Lucian, are no phoenix. You are a chicken."

The thick membrane split open with a squelching noise, and a tiny dragon tumbled out. It looked up at Greg with big, watery blue eyes, and it chirped.

"And you," Luce said, "are a proud mommy."

Greg Post!

You know what I am thankful for? You guys reading this drivel!

I hope the edge of your seat is comfortable, if, y'know, that is where this latest section leaves you. And, er, there are probably mistakes, so tell me what they are.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six

"I want to take this moment to remind you," said Greg, trying to keep the slippery, struggling dragon from getting away, "that I am staying at your apartment. And now I have a fire-breathing dragon. Surely this alarms you?"

"Nice try," Luce said. "But Summer's half-phoenix, remember? Everything in my apartment has been flame-proofed since she was old enough to crawl."

Greg scowled. "It was your egg," he said, unwilling to relent. "That makes you partially responsible."

The baby dragon succeeded in breaking free from Greg's grasp and chirped in triumph. It scampered across Greg's lap and up the front of his shirt, its tiny claws hooking into the fabric. It stopped when it reached Greg's shoulders and then, with a tiny trill of happiness, curled itself around his neck and nipped his ear.

"Now that's precious," Luce said.

Greg glared at him. The little dragon made a small rumbling noise deep in its throat, and Greg belatedly realized it was purring.

"You should name it," Luce said. The barely suppressed laughter in his voice suggested he was having far too much fun with this.

"I can't name it," Greg said. "Then it will think that I like it."

"Well, if you were going to name it," Luce said, struggling to contain his grin, "what would it be?"

Greg studied the little dragon. Its scales were a deep, blood-colored red - like the surface of the eggshell - and they shimmered faintly with an inner light. It looked like the little dragon had been dipped in fresh blood and made into some sort of exotic gemstone.

"Ruby, for her coloring," he said, stroking a finger down the dragon's spine. The scales felt warm and cool to his touch at the same time.

The dragon gave a tiny hiss and blew a small jet of flame at Greg's cheek.

"Ow!" Greg exclaimed, slapping a hand to his singed face. "You little rodent!"

"I think it's a boy," Luce said. "And he doesn't like that girly name." He was chuckling.

Greg scowled and sucked on his finger, coating it in saliva and pressing the wet digit to his cheek to cool the sting of the burn.

Luce abruptly stopped chuckling.

"Fine," Greg said, fixing the little dragon with a baleful stare. "Rubeus."

The dragon chirped and bit him playfully on the chin. Despite himself, Greg couldn't stop the fond smile that formed on his face, even though it felt strange to use those muscles. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled, really smiled, like that.

Luce made a queer choking noise, and Greg looked up at him questioningly.

"All right?" he asked. The room was awfully dusty - perhaps Luce was allergic.

"I'm fine," Luce said. The red flush in his face was beginning to creep down his neck, and he tugged at the collar of his shirt. "It's warm in here."

Greg thought it was rather drafty, but he didn't say anything. Being a phoenix must be a bit like having a furnace inside one's chest.

"Do you need some water?" Greg asked.

"What?" Luce said. His face flushed darker. "I don't need water! Why would I need water? What makes you think I need water?"

Next he'll be asking: who told you that? Greg thought wryly. And what's in the bag? And where were you on the night of October first?

"I've noticed you drink a lot of water," Greg said. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about, especially if you're prone to burst into flames. After all, it's not so embarrassing as needing to drink, say, the blood of another living creature."

"That's why you think I need - uh, yeah. Yeah," Luce said. "Because I'm a phoenix. Water helps."

Greg tilted his head. "So I gathered. I can wait here while you go and find something to quench your thirst."

The faintest grimace passed over Luce's face as he shifted his position on the floor. "No, no, that's - I'm fine. I'll get some water, uh, in a bit. In a few minutes. I don't feel like walking."

Greg shrugged and licked his finger again, touching the burn on his face. The vampire saliva helped it heal faster.

"Maybe in an hour," Luce amended, shifting again. "We can work off some - um, we can work for a while, first."

"Whatever you want," Greg said agreeably. Luce was definitely a peculiar fellow.

"If only," he heard Luce mumble.

Rubeus chirped again and nuzzled Greg's neck.

"I wonder if he's hungry," Greg mused, bumping his finger across Rubeus's muzzle.

"Oh, he's hungry all right," Luce said in dark tones. He was staring at the little dragon with an almost jealous expression.

Rubeus curled himself more tightly around Greg's neck and licked his ear, then rubbed his face against Greg's chin; the little dragon was purring again. Greg was reminded of the way Shub twined around his ankles when she wanted food.

"You're probably right," Greg said. "Babies are supposed to be voracious. But what in the dark heavens do baby dragons eat? I know the bigger ones eat people, but he's far too small for that. Besides, I haven't got a meat grinder anymore."

Rubeus looked up at Greg with big, imploring eyes.

"Do you think -?" Greg started to say. "No. No, that would be too ridiculous, I would have to stake myself."

"What?" Luce asked.

Instead of replying, Greg stuck his finger in the little dragon's mouth. "Have a nibble," he said.

Rubeus bit down, hard, and Greg hissed in discomfort. The little bugger had a razor sharp set of teeth. Baby dragons were born well prepared.

"What the hell are you doing?" Luce asked, lurching forward.

"Having someone else drink my blood, for once," Greg said. "It's rather novel."

"The dragon is drinking your blood?!" Luce exclaimed.

"Human babies drink milk before they're old enough to eat the cow," Greg said. "I thought baby dragons might drink blood before they're old enough to eat the human."

Rubeus was sucking enthusiastically on the tip of his index finger, making burbling noises and worrying his teeth deeper and deeper to draw out more blood.

Greg squeezed his eyes shut when he felt the teeth scrape across bone.

"Okay, little fellow, enough," Greg said, trying to shake Rubeus off. Rubeus hung doggedly on, flapping his tiny wings and continuing to drink; his jaws were locked and his beady, blue gaze determined.

If Greg wanted his finger back, he was going to have to take drastic measures.

"Rats," he said. "I hate transforming."

He closed his eyes and let his body blur. He had to concentrate to keep the particles of his body together against the shifting air currents in the room - it was a good job the windows were shut, because the day outside was windy.

He felt, rather than he heard, the swish of air as Rubeus fell through him and hit the ground with a soft thump.

He willed himself to reform, and then he looked down at the little dragon.

Rubeus stared up with eyes gone round in horror. "Meep!" he said, in deeply betrayed tones, and scampered into Luce's lap.

"Holy flaming phoenixshit," Luce said. "You turned into mist!"

"Of course," Greg said, puzzled. "How else was I going to get Rubeus off my finger?"

Luce shook his head, and smiled a bit ruefully. "You vamps and your tricks. I guess I'd better get used to 'em." He scratched the top of Rubeus's head.

"Hm," Greg said, pulling several handfuls of gold and jewels closer. "We should finish inspecting these things so that we can go shopping and pick up Summer."

They spent the next few hours sorting through the contents of the trunk, with Rubeus happily scampering over their carefully sorted piles and scattering them.

Greg had to concede that Luce had a very respectable hoard; this small sampling was more valuable than half the dragon hoards he'd seen. There were rare jewels, rarer jewels, and jewels that shouldn't even exist, along with magical artifacts, gold pieces, and - for some reason Greg could not fathom - a small carved statue of a teddy bear with fangs.

"Interesting," Greg said, holding up the bear. "I had something similar when I was a boy, but mine was stuffed. And it bit me if I accidentally rolled on top of it in the night."

Luce blushed and snatched the figurine from Greg's hand. "Didn't mean to put that in there," he mumbled. "It's something special a gypsy gave me when I was a teenager."

"Really?" Greg asked. "I've never seen anything like it."

The bear's beady wooden eyes and fangs made it look menacing, but something in its expression suggested it wasn't a toy out for blood, merely out to protect its owner. It was a fine example of gypsy craftsmanship: little wooden joints interlocked to give the bear poseable arms and legs, but they were hidden so well you could barely see them, making the bear appear more lifelike. Greg imagined plenty of charms were woven into the wood.

Luce ran his finger over the bear's worn face with gentle tenderness. "He's one of a kind," Luce said, glancing up at Greg briefly. "Just for me."

"Pity you won't sell it," Greg said. "Handmade oddities are all the rage now. It would likely fetch a pretty penny on the market."

"Nah," Luce said. "Too much sentimental value in this one. It's a symbol, of, uh, stuff."

"Indeed," Greg said, not really paying attention anymore. He was examining a shiny gold coin shaped like an eye. The disconcerting part was that the eye kept blinking at him.

"That's the last of it," Luce said, dropping the bear into his pocket.

Greg set the eye upside down on a small pile of gold coins so it couldn't look at him. "That," he said, indicating the eye with a gesture, "is very creepy, even to me."

"One of my grandfather's fancies," Luce said. "He'd have the eyes of his enemies dipped in gold so they'd have to watch his victories for all eternity."

"Charming man, your grandfather."

Together they packed up the trunk, and hid it safely behind a false wall in the drawing room. Greg wove some quick protection and concealment spells over it, because the alarm spells Luce had in place would've taken a bumbling three-year-old two minutes to disarm.

Greg picked up Rubeus, and the little dragon promptly clambered up the front of Greg's shirt and wrapped himself around Greg's neck, like a living scarf.

They got back into Luce's car and headed to the ghoulcery store to pick up a few things for dinner that evening.

Rubeus was very curious about this place that sold delicious food, so conveniently arranged on easily climbable shelves. Before the manager succeeded in throwing them out, Greg purchased sauce and noodles to make spaghetti for dinner.

They also managed to grab a few other essential items - bread, milk, eggs, and blood-chocolate covered spiders. The spiders, Luce said, were a thank-you for all Greg's help.

Greg accepted graciously, because blood-chocolate was one of his most favorite things in the world.

It was only later in the car, when he was licking the sticky blood-chocolate off his fingers and Luce nearly swerved off the road, that he realized Luce might not appreciate seeing someone gleefully devouring large spiders.

As they drove back toward Luce's apartment to pick up Summer, Greg watched the gnarled branches of the trees flash by the window, listened to Luce hum along with a Van Hellion song on the radio, and let himself relax, just a bit.

After checking to make sure Luce wasn't watching, he popped another chocolate spider into his mouth, closed his eyes, and thought: This is nice.

----

"Wasn't that a great movie?" Summer asked as they exited the theatre. "I just knew the werewolf's ghoulfriend was the killer. She was way too pretty."

"You thought she was the crazed murderer because she was too attractive?" Greg said, walking beside her. Luce had gone to get their coats.

"Duh," said Summer. "It's always the really pretty girl who's the biggest jerk."

"I didn't think it was obvious she was the killer," Greg said, looking over at Luce as he walked up to them.

Luce handed them their coats wordlessly and fell into step beside Greg. He appeared deep in thought, and was busy staring at the ground with his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers; he obviously wasn't paying attention to their conversation.

"Oh please," Summer said, putting on her very pink coat. It was trimmed in white feathers. "She just happened to survive the killer's attack? And she just happened to know who the next victim was going to be? It was so totally predictable."

"I thought you said it was a great movie," Greg said, shrugging into his own coat.

"It was!" Summer said. "The werewolf was hot."

Greg snorted. "Good thing he wasn't the killer," he said. "Then he might not have been so hot."

"No way, evil guys are hot too," Summer said fervently.

Greg arched an eyebrow and looked at her. That was not the healthiest view for a young girl to take, lest someday she wanted to find herself wondering why her boyfriend had tried to kill her friends or eat her.

Summer giggled and blushed. "Like, really hot. Especially the ones who wear lots of black." She very pointedly did not look at the long black coat Greg was wearing.

"I see," Greg said.

Any further comments were cut short when Summer spotted one of her classmates coming out of the same theatre and went rushing over to see her, shouting that she'd be back in a minute. The two girls met with shriekish teenage squeals and immediately began talking excitedly about the movie they had just seen. Greg caught the words "so hot" repeated over and over.

"What did you think of the movie?" he asked Luce, as they both came to a stop on the edge of the sidewalk to wait for Summer.

"Good," Luce said, studying the horizon. He didn't seem inclined to say more.

Summer and her friend were now casting sly glances in Greg's direction and giggling behind their hands. Greg had a feeling they weren't talking about the movie anymore.

"Summer predicted the werewolf's ghoulfriend was the killer, but I thought it was rather well hidden," Greg said. "I didn't guess it was her until the end, when she killed that annoying blond actress."

Luce looked over at him. "Kind of terrible, wasn't it?" he asked. "For the werewolf. Finding out the person he was in love with was a murderer."

Greg shrugged. "No one is perfect."

Luce laughed, but it sounded raw. "I guess not. I mean - I just can't believe he wanted to stay with her - what kind of guy does that? She was a crazy psychopath."

Greg stiffened. "He was in love with her," he said, his voice flat.

"But how can you love someone who's such a complete monster?" Luce asked.

When Greg spoke, glaciers could not have moved colder or more slowly than his words. "Just because you think she is a monster, it does not mean he did."

Luce shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and looked troubled. "Love is crazy, that's what you mean. Love is crazy, and people are crazy, and they fall in love with monsters."

"Essentially, yes," Greg replied, and his voice began to thaw.

"The guy," Luce said, staring at Greg again. "That boyfriend that tried to kill you - what was his name?"

"Arvel," Greg said. He could say the name out loud without choking on the sound of it in his throat. That was progress.

"He was an ogre," Greg said. "He would have made the crazy psychopath in the movie we just watched seem like the most delicate of Victorian ladies. And it took me a long time to stop loving him."

The last part was a lie. Greg didn't think he'd managed to stop loving Arvel yet.

Luce took his hands out of his pocket and moved closer to Greg; Greg could feel the faint heat radiating from Luce's body. Luce opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but then he closed it and shook his head.

"He really fucked with you, didn't he?" Luce said.

"Yes," Greg said. "But that's the price you pay when you let yourself care for someone."

It was a price he seemed to pay over and over again; as far as he was concerned, it was a price he was not going to pay ever again. His bank account wasn't what it used to be.

"Yeah," Luce said. "Look, I'm sorry. You probably don't want to talk about it."

"No," Greg said. "I don't. But these topics come up. Men our age are bound to have a few skeletons in the closet."

"Or in your case, hundreds of bodies," Luce said, with the ghost of a smile.

"Exactly," Greg replied, with a matching smile.

They stood there on the edge of the sidewalk, huddled against the cold. Luce's breath came out in frosty puffs and he rubbed his fingers together to keep warm; Greg was used to the cold.

Up above, the sky had decided it couldn't be bothered with color today; it was a solid, crisp grey. Cars rolled past them on the slick, icy road, as they waited for Summer to finish her conversation. She was still chatting happily with her friend. Her cheeks and nose had been shocked to redness, but she seemed oblivious to the cold.

"My ex is a pretty big asshole, too," Luce said conversationally. "He's a full-blooded phoenix, but if you ask me, he's a full-blooded dick."

Greg coughed to cover his laugh. "Oh?"

"I'm just saying, I - I know about loving horrible people. Cregan turned out to be pretty horrible, but damned if I didn't love him for a long time."

Greg glanced over at Luce's profile. It was a strong profile with thick eyebrows, a hooked nose, and, right now, a very somber expression.

"Love isn't easy for men or monsters," Greg said.

Luce's mouth quirked in a half smile and he looked sideways at Greg. "Sometimes it is."

"Well, then, you'll have to let me in on your secret someday," Greg said.

Luce's eyes ignited like hairspray through a candle flame. "Oh, I will," he said.

Summer bounced over, her friend in tow. "Hey guys, this is my friend Flora," she said, tugging her friend forward to meet them. The girl looked about Summer's age, with nut-brown skin and tangled green hair. Her fingers were long and thin and a bit crooked.

"Hi," she said shyly, ducking her head so her face was hidden behind her long hair.

"Uncle Luce," Summer said. "Flora and I were just talking, and we were sorta wondering if maybe we could have a sleepover at your house."

"My house?" Luce said, looking surprised. "Granma won't let you have one at your house?"

"No, she will," Summer said dismissively. "But you know how Granma and Granpa are - they'd want us to be in bed by ten o'clock, like we were babies or something."

"And I'll let you stay up late?" Luce asked. "Totally unsupervised, with no rules whatsoever?"

"Yeah!" Summer said.

"Ha ha, I don't think so," Luce said.

"Aw, Uncle Luce," Summer whined. "C'mon!"

"Okay, maybe I'd let you stay up until midnight," Luce said.

"Midnight?" Summer asked, sticking out her lower lip. "Only midnight?"

"Maybe later," Luce said, already caving. "We'll have to talk about it. I'll have to okay it with Granma first, but I think we can plan for a sleepover later."

The girls squealed in twin delight. "That would be awesome, Uncle Luce," Summer said.

"Totally," Flora agreed, forgetting her shyness. "You have the coolest uncle ever."

Luce puffed his chest out, fairly preening. Greg thought he looked like an idiot, but it was still strangely endearing.

"Maybe we can invite a few more of our friends," Summer said, elbowing Flora in the side. "You know, 'cause, um, they'd like to see your - apartment."

Both girls looked quickly at Greg and then giggled.

Greg planned to be long gone by the time this hellish slumber party rolled around.

"Maybe," Luce said easily. "We'll see."

The girls squealed again and clung to each other. Any further diabolical plans were interrupted when Flora's mom called to her from across the road.

"I gotta go," Flora said to Summer. "Call me later and tell me everything," she ordered.

"'Kay," Summer said. "I will." The girls exchanged a conspiratorial look.

As Flora ran off to meet her mother, Luce turned to Greg and Summer: "Ready to go home?"

"Sure!" Summer said.

"Yes," Greg said, and almost wished it were true.

----

They arrived back at the apartment, where Shub and Rubeus were waiting patiently for them by the front door.

When Greg first brought Rubeus home to Luce's apartment, Shub took one look at the little dragon and bounded over to nuzzle him and deliver a scratchy lick between his eyes.

Rubeus, overjoyed, tackled her. The two creatures tumbled around like insane circus performers, growling and hissing and clambering over the furniture. After a ten-minute performance, they abruptly stopped and snuggled down on the couch together. Shub was purring and Rubeus, blowing small circles of smoke out of his nose, was imitating her with his dragon-purr.

Greg had no doubt dire consequences would result from their newfound partnership.

Summer and Luce were chatting about the movie as Luce opened the door. As he stepped inside, Greg looked down at the two troublemakers sitting side-by-side, matching innocent expressions on their faces.

The moment he was through the door, Rubeus launched himself at Greg's chest; his tiny wings flapped up and down so fast he looked like a scaly hummingbird. He hit Greg's chest with enough force to make him stumble, and Luce grabbed Greg's elbow to steady him.

Rubeus trilled a series of happy notes and climbed up Greg's chest, finally stopping to perch on his shoulder and nip his ear.

"Aw, he missed his mommy," Luce said.

"Oh, button your beak," Greg muttered irritably to himself, but he could tell from the way Luce smiled that he'd heard him.

Shub approached at a daintier pace, rubbing her head against Greg's ankle, and pawing at his trouser leg. He crouched down to scratch her head.

Greg would never admit it, but he was grateful for the attention. Pets were so much better than people - they loved wholly and unconditionally. If they sometimes tipped over the trashcan or shredded his favorite shirt, well, that was the trade-off.

After Greg managed to untangle Rubeus from around his shoulders, he sent both creatures off to play with Summer in the living room. Summer, as enamored of baby animals as any green-blooded monster girl, was all too happy to comply.

Luce called his mother to let her know they were home and she could come pick up Summer. Althea told him that Paul was out taking the chariot for an evening run, but when he got back, she'd head over.

Greg went to the kitchen to begin cooking dinner, and that was where Althea found him.

"Hello, Greg," she said, smiling in a way Greg had come to associate with mothers.

"Hello," Greg said, nodding briefly.

Althea's smile shifted toward amusement. "Luce tells me you're cooking?" she asked, her eyebrows ascending upward with the slow care of a rock climber navigating a dangerous cliff face.

"Yes," Greg said, stirring the sauce. "He wanted spaghetti tonight."

"How . . . surprising," Althea said. "I think my husband would starve if I weren't there to feed him. I don't know many men who can cook. And you're still single? My, my."

Greg didn't like the speculative note in her voice. He hunched his shoulders over the stove and tried to change the subject. "Summer told me Luce cooks for you when you visit."

Althea's laugh was light and fizzy, like the bubbles in champagne. "Don't let on that I know," she whispered, "but I happen to know Luce always orders out when we come over. He doesn't want me to know he inherited his father's uselessness in the kitchen."

Greg couldn't help but smile, and feel a little more respect for her deviousness.

Althea smiled back. "I have to ask, because I'm his mother, but - is that poisonous?" she said, pointing to the bubbling pot of sauce.

"No," Greg said. "Unless he's allergic to tomatoes." He continued stirring the sauce, trying to keep his shoulders from tensing under Althea's gaze; he could feel it like a dart right between his shoulder blades.

"Do you mind if I have a bit of a taste?" Althea finally asked, drifting closer to the stove.

Greg moved out of the way in silent permission.

Althea dipped her finger in the sauce and took a delicate lick. Her eyes widened in surprise. "This is delicious!" she exclaimed.

"Thank you," Greg said. "The poison gives it flavor."

Althea smiled again and looked Greg up and down with freshly appraising eyes. It was the same way a butcher might look at a prized pig before he decided to buy.

"You seem to be a vampire of hidden talents, Greg," she said. "I'm sure my son will love your cooking."

Greg shrugged. Althea made him nervous - in fact, all mothers made him a bit nervous. He might know the ancient secrets of the vampire, but that was nothing compared to the chilling secret knowledge mothers seemed to share.

"It's the least I can do to thank Luce for letting me stay here," he said.

"How thoughtful of you," Althea said. He couldn't guess from her tone what she was thinking.

"Well, I certainly don't want to keep you from your cooking," she continued. "It's time I collected that granddaughter of mine and took her home, so you boys can enjoy your dinner."

"All right," Greg replied, feeling unsettled. He'd nearly forgotten Summer was going home tonight. She had been entertaining company.

"I'm sure I'll see you soon," Althea said, smiling and walking out of the kitchen.

Greg blinked and wondered if that was a threat. Then he went back to stirring the sauce.

While Luce was busy saying goodbye to Summer and Althea, Greg busied himself setting the kitchen table. It didn't take him very long to acquaint himself with the layout of Luce's kitchen, and he wasn't surprised to find that Luce had the same mismatched dishware of bachelors everywhere.

Thinking a moment, he pulled out the ugly bird mug Luce seemed to prefer, and filled it with water, as a precaution. Now Luce wouldn't have to run to the sink when the thirst struck him.

Luce wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later. "Smells great," he said.

"Is Summer gone?" Greg asked, using a large wooden spoon to dump the spaghetti sauce into a bowl.

Luce grinned lopsidedly. "Yeah, I'm afraid your girlfriend left. Don't worry, she's only a phone call away."

Greg was tempted to hit him with the spoon. "Oh, shut up, you overgrown parakeet."

Luce laughed and sat down at the table. Greg set the bowl of noodles and the bowl of sauce on the table, next to the small container of shredded parmesan cheese.

"Wow, it looks great," Luce said.

"If I remembered the recipe correctly," Greg said, "the first bite won't kill you. Eat up."

Luce eyed the spaghetti with new suspicion. "Uh huh. I think you try to make me nervous on purpose."

"Yes," Greg said.

Luce fixed his spaghetti the way he preferred - Greg noticed this involved a small mountain of cheese - and twirled his fork in the noodles. He took a tentative bite and his face lit up in pleasure.

"This is really good!" he said, shoveling another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.

"Thanks," Greg said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He was unaccustomed to praise for his cooking - it had been some years since his last victim.

Greg watched Luce tuck into the spaghetti with apparent enjoyment. After a few minutes, Luce looked up; he had a goofy grin on his face and a bit of tomato sauce on his chin. Greg resisted the urge to wipe it off.

"It's kinda weird I'm the only one eating," Luce said. He put his fork down on his plate and grabbed his napkin, wiping at his mouth; he missed the spot of sauce on his chin, and Greg found it difficult not to stare.

"What?" Luce said, waggling his eyebrows playfully. "Do I have something on my face?" He laughed.

"Yes, actually," Greg said. "There's sauce on your chin."

Luce quickly scrubbed the napkin over his chin, looking embarrassed. "Dammit."

Greg chuckled, and Luce's embarrassed expression became cautiously pleased.

They chatted while Luce finished his plate of spaghetti. They kept chatting as Luce finished his second and third plates.

Luce must have noticed Greg's astonishment, because he put his fork down and explained: "My metabolism is so fast that I can eat a lot. It's even better when I can eat a lot and it tastes as good as this."

"I only have to feed once a day," Greg said. "Unless I use a lot of energy for some reason."

"I'm sure the necks of the world are thankful," Luce teased.

Greg remembered the terrified way people fled from his path in the old days. He'd been on a different feeding schedule in then.

"Probably," he agreed.

The phone rang, and Luce got up to answer it. "Hey," he said. Then, "Ok, that's fine. We'll be here. See ya." He hung up.

"That was Frank," Luce said, before Greg could ask. "He and Drake will be over in a while to ruin our night," he joked.

"Ah, there goes the quiet evening I had planned for the two of us," Greg said, trying to match Luce's teasing tone.

Luce stared at him for a second, sighed heavily, and reached for his glass of water.

----

Drake and Frank arrived an hour later. Luce let them inside, and they followed him into the living room where Greg was already waiting.

They all sat down. Drake was the first to speak.

"Hello, brother," he said, a bit anxiously. "How are you?"

Frank was more enthusiastic, leaning forward across the couch, his eyes twinkling. "Yeah, man, what's up? How're things here?"

"Fine," Greg replied, taken aback.

"What'd you do today?" Frank asked. "Anything exciting?"

Greg looked at Luce, who merely shrugged to indicate he had no idea why Frank was so interested.

"We went to the orphanage," Greg said. "I examined the merchandise I'm going to fence. I acquired a dragon. We went to the movies. I cooked dinner."

Drake's eyes looked like they would bug out of his head. "Cooked - dragon - movies?" he said, unable to decide where to begin.

"Greg's a really good cook," Luce interjected.

"I didn't know that," Frank said, frowning. He sounded personally affronted.

"It is apparently the best-kept, least-interesting secret in Monsterland," Greg said dryly.

Frank and Drake both laughed. Greg thought they sounded a trifle nervous.

"So, you're in a good mood?" Frank said. "Like, a not-killing mood?"

Greg stared at him.

"A less-killing mood?" Frank amended.

"The only time I am in a killing mood," Greg said in flat tones, "is when something unpleasant is sprung upon me suddenly and unexpectedly."

"Yes," Drake said. "About that. I meant to tell you as soon as we got here - the moment we stepped across the threshold, in fact - that I invited Father over and -"

A sudden wind slammed open the french doors leading to the balcony, and a swirl of red-black mist shot into the room. It formed a large, vaguely humanoid shape in the center of the living room, pulsing like a living tornado. Everyone stood up.

" - he is here," Drake finished lamely.

The mist coalesced into the shape of the Count.

Greg felt his throat lock up. A combination of rage and devotion warred inside his chest, and his skin suddenly felt too small for his body. He hoped desperately that no one was looking at him. He glanced around the room.

Luce was looking at him. Greg saw pity in his eyes.

Greg turned away, mentally berating himself for acting like a complete fool. He needed to snap out of it. He focused his attention on the painfully familiar shape of his father, standing only feet away.

The Count's expression was unreadable to most, but the slight tick of a muscle under his left eye gave him away.

"Greg," said the Count uneasily.

"Father," said Greg.

They stood staring at one another.

"You guys gonna hug or what?" Frank asked. Drake elbowed him less than discreetly in the side, and Frank grunted.

"I think . . . not," Greg and the Count said in unison. They looked at each other.

"I did not think to see you ever again, my son," the Count said.

"That's because I told you the next time we met I'd tear your eyeballs out," Greg replied.

"Ah, yes," said the Count. "Impudent as ever."

Greg bared his teeth in something approximating a grin. It was an expression more suited to a saber-toothed tiger, but he made it work.

"Impudent, but with more practice at killing," Greg replied, feeling his claws start to lengthen.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Luce take a step forward, and Drake push Frank a step back.

To everyone's surprise, the Count merely laughed.

"You remind me so much of your mother," he said fondly. "She tried to kill me twice before she finally married me."

Greg faltered and felt his claws retract. His father was never pleasant. Something was wrong.

"You never talk about Mother," he said.

"A mistake on my part," the Count said. "She was a spirited woman. I was . . . saddened by her death. I let you take much of the blame for it."

"You're off your casket," Greg said, his voice flat. "You drank from some sort of junkie or psychedelic hippy. That is the only explanation."

The Count smiled, but it was a sad smile. He took a step toward Greg and held out an elegantly gloved hand.

"I would ask you to shake my hand, son," the Count said.

Greg recoiled as though the Count had struck him. "What?" he asked in dumb shock.

Oh, Lucifer, the blood he'd had for breakfast must have been spiked, Greg thought wildly. Or it was the mug! Yes, it must have been the hideous cat-shaped mug - no one could drink from something so ugly and expect to emerge unscathed.

The Count held his hand in midair a few seconds longer, but when it became apparent Greg was not going to take him up on his offer, he dropped his hand to his side with a heavy sigh.

"In a way," said the Count, "I'm glad you didn't make this easy."

Greg looked around at everyone in the room, trying to figure out what was going on. Luce smiled at him encouragingly; Drake avoided his eyes; Frank was looking back and forth between Greg and the Count with an eager, expectant grin.

And the Count - the Count was looking at him with a kind expression, the way a man was supposed to look at a son he loved.

Greg narrowed his eyes. "What is going on?" he asked, pronouncing each word with distinct malice.

The Count acted surprised. "Why, whatever are you on about, my son? Nothing is 'going on,' as you put it. It has been several hundred years since I last saw you - can't a father be glad to see his son?"

"No," Greg said. "Not you."

He paused.

"You bastard," he added.

The Count frowned, an infinitesimal lowering of his eyebrows. "Watch your language, boy. You forget yourself."

Greg counted the annoyance he could hear in his father's voice a small, but important, victory.

"I don't forget anything," Greg said darkly. "Especially not when it comes to you."

The Count sighed again. "They do say boys raised without a mother tend to have behavioral problems. That's why I raised Drake with three mothers, you know."

"Yes, and isn't he just a well-adjusted little monster," Greg bit out.

"I think perhaps your mother would have done a better job raising you than I did," the Count said in wistful tones. "She was so lovely. Meaner than a mad werewolf when she was angry, but such a dove when she was in good humor."

"Well, she died when I was born. We've been through all that," Greg said bitterly.

"Yes, I know," the Count said. "I did my best with you, you know. And I think I did rather well, all things considered," he added.

"What?" Greg said. "You left me in the woods to fend for myself! You starved me for days so I'd be stronger! You had me chained in the dungeon for weeks so I'd learn patience!"

"One often makes mistakes when parenting their first child," the Count replied.

A choking sound came from the corner where Luce was standing, and Greg shot him a vicious glare. "If you laugh," he warned Luce, "I will string you up by your tail feathers."

Luce subsided quietly.

"I can see my presence here is less than welcome," the Count said.

Greg thought that could not have been more obvious if he had been wearing a shirt that said 'Go Away, Now, I Really Loathe You.' He remained silent.

"I'll call upon you another time, my son," the Count said. "We have . . . much to discuss."

"I'll bake a cake," Greg said sweetly. "We'll make it a party."

The Count's eyes flashed red and he took a step forward, raising his hand. Greg could feel everyone else in the room draw in a sharp breath. The air went staticky and hot.

Greg silently rejoiced. This was better; this felt familiar.

"Do it," he hissed.

The Count halted, mid-step, and backed away. He dropped his arm and shook his head. "I'll return later."

He stepped toward the balcony doors, wrapping his long cloak around himself with a dramatic flourish. He nodded once to Drake and then, with a final look at Greg, he turned into a bat and flew out the doors.

Greg pursed his lips; Father never did like to make an exit the same way he made an entrance.

"Remember earlier, when you asked me if I was in a not-killing mood?" Greg asked, slowly turning around.

"Heh," Frank said, and grabbed Drake's hand like it was a lifeline.

rewritten Greg

I have been approved for launch, so here is a large chunk of rewritten Greg stuff. Only the first two sections of part eight were rewritten, but I'm posting the rest because I'm going to axe the content in the last Greg post. Hokay?

Sorry to make you guys reread it. But I promise this is totally better than the old bit.

Oh yeah, and there's a tiny tease for the next part at the end, which I will remove as soon as the next part is posted. ;)

So, um, Merry Christmas. Enjoy the violence.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

"Now, Greg," Luce said. He walked forward and put a restraining hand on Greg's shoulder. "Let them live long enough to explain why they have a death wish."

Greg snorted, despite himself. He saw Frank and Drake relax their shoulders. That was foolish of them.

"Well?" he said softly. He looked at Drake. "Why in the name of all that is evil and holy, would you invite Father here?"

"I - thought it would be a good idea," Drake said. "He - he wanted to talk to you. Much has changed in the time you have been gone, Greg. Father is different - he is no longer the monster you once knew."

"I see," Greg said. "And he has it in his head to play nice with his estranged son, is that it?"

"No," Frank said, jumping in. "He really wants to apologize," he continued. "Ever since me and Drake got together, he's been a lot better. I think part of it was my mom. She started having long talks with your dad about all sorts of things."

"I'm sure your mother dispensed invaluable gypsy wisdom," Greg said.

He wished it were true that taking deep, calming breaths helped. But that sort of thing didn't benefit a vampire. His hands shook and he couldn't make them stop.

"She - uh - look, the point is," Frank said, "the Count is for real, ok?"

"Brother," Drake said. "I did not mean to upset you."

"You didn't mean to upset me?" Greg said, clenching and unclenching his fists. Luce's hand on his shoulder was the only thing keeping him from jumping across the room and giving Frank and Drake matching slit throats.

"No," Frank said, "We didn't. Look, this wasn't how I saw this going at all, ok? Drake and I thought it'd be - different." Frank looked to Drake for support.

"Yes," Drake said. "I thought - it would be good, for you and Father to meet. At a neutral place," he added.

Greg looked sideways at Luce. "A neutral place," he said thoughtfully. "Did you know about this?"

"Nope," Luce said, giving Greg's shoulder a friendly squeeze. Luce either had very good self-preservation instincts or the truth on his side. Greg was so rattled, he couldn't really tell.

"Drake," Greg said. "Let me make something perfectly clear: I do not ever want to see Father again."

"I can pretty much guarantee that won't happen," Frank said. "That is, uh, the Count wants to see you again. You heard him. And he's not the kinda guy that'd say something like that without meaning it. You're gonna have to see him again."

Frank paused, and seemed to gear himself up to say something, ignoring Drake's panicked expression.

"You should give your dad a chance. He's not that bad," Frank said.

It took Greg several seconds to control his sudden fury. He waited to reply just long enough that Frank squirmed in his seat, and Drake paled.

"I don't know you very well," Greg finally said. "And you don't know me. But if you presume to tell me what to do ever again, little monster, I will make certain that you suffer when I kill you."

Drake stood up so quickly that Greg felt Luce flinch behind him.

"Gregori," Drake said, in a passable imitation of the Count at his best. Or worst. Greg supposed it would depend on who the listener was. "I do not care if you threaten my life, but if you ever threaten Frank again, I'll -"

Greg laughed sharply. "Oh, sweet Lucifer, I hate to sound so cliché, but - you'll do what? Put up a pitiful fight before I rip your head from your shoulders? Don't think your posturing is intimidating."

Drake drew himself up to his full height, and Greg realized that Drake was almost as tall as him.

"Even if you do not consider me a threat, brother, I would still do you damage," Drake growled, his eyes flashing red. His fangs sharpened and lengthened, and he moved to stand in front of Frank. Frank, seated behind him, was looking up at Drake with terrified, loving eyes.

"Do you want to try?" Greg asked. The muscles in his shoulders tensed as he got ready to spring, and his wings rippled under his skin, pulsing over his shoulder blades.

"Greg," Luce said warningly, and his grip on Greg's shoulders tightened. "C'mon, stop it -"

"I am tired of people telling me what to do!" Greg snapped. He jerked away from Luce and his momentum carried him a lurching step forward, closer to Frank and Drake.

Drake bared his fangs and hissed.

That was all it took. Greg's vision went red around the edges, and his fangs snapped out so fast they punctured holes into his lower lip; blood trickled out over his lip and down his chin.

He might not be able to fight his father, but he could fight the next best thing.

He launched himself at Drake and tackled him backwards over the couch; Frank leapt out of the way with a startled shout. Greg heard Luce shouting dimly behind him and from the corner of his eye he saw Luce drag Frank back from the fight, but his focus was on the snarling, hissing vampire pinned under him.

"Bare your teeth at me, will you?" Greg said. His voice crackled like a live wire, and his eyes burned around the edges. Everything looked like it was swimming under a red haze. He grabbed the front of Drake's shirt and slammed him against the floor over and over.

Drake hissed again and bucked underneath him, sending Greg flying into a side table. The lamp that had been sitting on the table crashed to the floor and shattered, sending out a shower of broken glass. Greg pressed his hands against the floor and hauled himself up. Bits of glass embedded themselves in his palm, and the blood made his hands shiny and slick.

Drake snarled and came at him with claws extended, and Greg let him sink the claws into his chest. Then, quick as a snake-strike, he grabbed Drake's wrists, ripped the claws out of his chest, and flipped Drake over his head, slamming him back to the floor.

While Drake groaned on the floor, momentarily dazed, Greg took the opportunity to rake his claws across Drake's face and chest. His brother's skin parted like warm butter. Thin, watery blood spurted out across the floor and the furniture, turning everything into a mad, expressionistic painting in red.

Drake made an incoherent sound of rage and brought his leg up, knee connecting with Greg's stomach. Greg doubled over with the impact, curling into the blow to lessen the force.

He grunted and grabbed Drake's leg before he could pull it away, and sank his teeth into Drake's thigh. Drake shrieked and clawed at Greg's head, tearing a chunk out of his ear.

"Fuck," Greg snarled, and he let go. He took a mouthful of flesh with him. Blood poured out of the wound in Drake's leg.

Drake howled and came after him again, his claws scrabbling for Greg's throat. Greg threw up his arms and felt Drake's nails dig into his flesh, and it was his turn to howl.

He kicked out and heard his foot crack across Drake's knee. Drake went down with a pained sound, but he clung to Greg's arms and pulled him to the floor with him. Then he and Greg were rolling across the floor, biting and clawing. He felt one of his fingers snap when Drake rolled over and pinned him to the floor, but a second later he heard Drake's wrist break when he flipped them over and slammed it against the overturned table.

He hissed as Drake's claws caught his finger and sliced the tip of it off, taking nail and bone in one clean swipe; watery red blood sprayed out of the wound.

He kicked Drake in the chest and sent his brother sprawling back onto the couch; Drake's back hit the couch with a sickening crunch. Greg crouched down low to the floor and picked up his severed flesh, shoving the fingertip back onto the bleeding stump and spitting on it to close the wound.

Drake picked himself up, cradling his broken wrist, and bared his fangs again.

"Okay. Now I'm not playing any more," Greg said, and very slowly wiped blood off his chin. The lights dimmed and the temperature dropped. Ice formed along the edges of the table and around the doorframe. He'd only meant to teach Drake a lesson, but he could feel the blood lust rising now, and his stupid little brother still didn't know when to concede defeat.

"Stop it, you bastard!" Frank shouted, and Greg could hear him running forward.

Greg reacted on pure instinct. Blood drenched half the room, the smell of fear was nearly overwhelming, and his body was on high alert. He whirled around and leapt at Frank, claws extended.

"No!" Drake screamed, with so much fear in his voice that the ice crystals forming around the room shattered and fell to the floor with a sound like breaking crystal. He hurled himself in Greg's path, and shoved Frank out of the way.

Greg's claws caught Drake across the collarbone, ripping through cloth, and flesh, and bone. Drake crumpled to the ground and didn't get up.

Frank dropped down and hauled Drake's body across his lap. He brushed the tangled, bloody hair from Drake's face with trembling hands.

Greg stood deathly still. Before he could make himself move again, Luce's strong hands clamped his arms to his side and spun him around.

"Stop," Luce said. His voice was as slow and dangerous as magma. It flowed across Greg's skin and made him shudder and shake. "Do you want to kill him?" Luce's eyes were hard and unforgiving, and he held Greg immobile until he was forced to look up and meet Luce's stare.

Behind him, he could hear Frank sobbing.

"No," Greg whispered. "Oh God, no. Every god, any god, please, no."

Luce let go. "Then you better fix this." His expression was steely.

Greg turned around, feeling sick and scared. He didn't want Luce to look at him like that.

Frank was still on the floor, holding Drake's body; blood was pooled around his legs, soaking into his trousers.

Greg bowed his head, and tried to calm himself. He chanted the words of the most powerful healing spell he knew, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

He felt the magic flow out of him in a rush and directed it towards Drake's prone form, then sagged in exhaustion when it was done. His fingertips tingled and his vision danced with spots. He didn't have enough magic left to heal his own cuts and bruises. He'd worry about that later.

"You fucking idiot, you fucking idiot," Frank was saying, repeating it over and over like it was a mantra. He wasn't paying attention to anything but Drake, cradled in his arms. He rocked Drake back and forth in his lap, stroking the side of Drake's face like it was a prayer.

"Don't you dare die," Frank said, bending down to press a kiss to Drake's cheek. Drake's eyes were closed. "You stupid fucking idiot. Didn't I tell you if you ever got yourself killed, I'd resurrect you and kick your ass?"

Greg could see the second the magic took hold. Drake opened his eyes and looked up. "You are all talk," he said, smiling weakly, and brushed a hand across Frank's cheek. "Nothing but idle threats."

"Asshole," Frank said, his voice hiccupping. He buried his face against Drake's neck, his shoulders shaking.

"Sshh," Drake said, patting Frank's shoulder as though he had been the one injured.

"I'm serious," Frank said, his voice muffled. "If you try to go all He-Man and protect me again, I'll kick your pale ass."

"Yes, Frank," said Drake.

"You're just saying that to humor me, aren't you?" Frank asked, pulling his head away from Drake's shoulder so he could glare at him.

"Yes, Frank," said Drake.

Frank scowled and kissed Drake.

When they broke apart, Drake looked over at Greg. "I think," Drake said, sitting up gingerly, "that I will not soon provoke another fight with you, brother."

Everyone looked at Greg. He couldn't think of anything to say.

"Or I have an idea - how about if you don't go all crazy and red-eyed again and try to kill everyone in the room?" Frank said, wrapping an arm around Drake's shoulder and helping him to his feet. Greg could see a bit of Frank's father in his expression. He was a fierce little monster.

"Sorry," Greg said, because it was the only thing he could say. His voice sounded as old as he felt. Every year seemed to crowd in on him.

"Sorry?" Frank exclaimed. "You're sorry? You almost -"

"Hey, Frank," Luce said, moving closer to Greg. He put one hand on Greg's shoulder. "How about we a play a game called 'Quit While You're Still Ahead'? Or," he said, "quit while you still have a head."

Frank winced. "Uh, right."

"I do mean it, Gregori," Drake said. He flexed his wrist, now healed thanks to Greg's magic. "I do not care what happens to me. If you hurt Frank, I will come for you."

Greg's laugh was painful, like sandpaper over skin. He'd been in love like that, a long time ago. He'd almost forgotten how it felt to be protective of someone. How it felt to love someone so much you'd give your life for them.

"Don't worry," he said, feeling the steady weight of Luce's hand on his shoulder. "I won't hurt either of you. I'm too tired to bother with killing tonight."

And, because Frank still looked pissed off and very nervous, Greg added, "Or maiming either."

He felt Luce move up behind him, body heat radiating across his back. Luce placed a hand on his other shoulder, and Greg wanted to shrug Luce's hands off - they were like lead weights, pressing him into the ground - but he was suddenly so weary he couldn't find the strength.

"Um," Frank said. He still looked shaken. "That's great. I'm really in favor of you not attacking either of us again. Or maiming us. I know - uh, that is, I hope it's a pattern that you'll continue. Especially the not-killing part."

"I'm done here," Greg said. His legs felt thin and unsteady, like a newborn calf. Oh, Lucifer, he could eat a newborn calf right now.

"Okay," Luce said softly, his mouth close to Greg's ear. "We'll talk tomorrow."

Greg nodded mutely and walked out of the room on numb feet, his mind a whirl of disjointed thoughts. He could still taste Drake's blood in his mouth, and he wanted to throw up.

As he stumbled down the hall, he heard Luce raise his voice in the living room. "What the fuck were you thinking, Frank? Bringing the Count here?"

"I told you, that's not how I saw it going down! The way my mom talked about the Count, I thought now would be a good time!" Frank replied.

"It was too soon!" Luce roared. "Dammit, he was -"

Greg closed the door on their voices, and collapsed onto the bed.

----

He squinted one eye open the next morning. The sun was blazing cheerfully through the window across the room, slanting across his face. The light made him groan and close his eyes again.

During the night, Shub and Rubeus had managed to get inside his room, and they were curled up against his side, heating him like twin tiny stoves.

"Wonderful," he grumbled. "It couldn't have been a cloudy day. Oh no, the brilliant noonday sun -"

He opened his eyes and sat up straight. Noonday sun? No, he couldn't have slept that long, he was always up with the dawn. His internal clock hadn't failed him in three hundred years.

He swung out of bed and winced as his feet hit the cold floor. Ah, yes, now he remembered why he had carpet at his apartment, and not wooden floors. No matter how much Shub might enjoy sliding across the polished wood, his feet enjoyed carpet.

He rubbed his temples, trying to ease his headache. He hadn't been able to fall asleep immediately last night, what with the near homicide and the visit from his father.

It had taken him long hours staring up at the ceiling in the dark before the horror of nearly killing his brother bled away. Then he'd lain awake replaying the encounter with Father, trying to figure out what could have prompted the Count to suddenly want to mend broken drawbridges.

He'd felt a headache coming on even before he went to sleep, and he thought it would be gone when he woke up. Apparently, it had decided to camp out and follow him into the next morning. It must have pitched its tent stakes directly into his temples.

He glanced at the clock on his bedside and bolted out of bed. Oh, Lucifer, the sun had been up for nearly two hours - he'd hoped to be awake before Luce so that he could drink his breakfast and fortify himself against the day. And perhaps think of something to say to the man. "Sorry I Nearly Committed a Double Murder" wasn't something he was likely to find on a Hellmark card.

His stomach growled, and he suddenly realized how ravenous he was. He'd used more energy than usual yesterday: turning into mist at the orphanage, then the fight with Drake, and finally the healing magic. He needed to eat.

He left Shub and Rubeus lounging on the bed in his room, and padded down the hall to the kitchen.

Luce was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal and drinking a cup of tea. He looked up when he heard Greg come in.

"Morning," he said.

"Good morning," Greg replied, feeling tense. He noticed an empty Positively Bloody cooler on the counter and looked at Luce. "Did my breakfast arrive?"

"Yeah," Luce said, smiling. "It's in the microwave. I put it in your mug for you."

Strange - Luce was smiling. Luce was helping him with breakfast. This probably meant Luce was not going to kick him out immediately. Maybe after breakfast. After what he'd seen last night, he was probably afraid of upsetting a vampire, much less a hungry vampire.

"My mug, ah, yes. Thank you," Greg said dubiously. He opened the microwave door and gingerly removed the cat-headed mug, holding the handle as though the mug might come to life and bite him.

He took a tentative sniff. The blood was still warm. He drank it down greedily and finished nearly half the mug in one gulp.

"Did you, er, sleep okay?" Luce asked. Greg sat down across from him at the table. Luce's cereal made faint snap-crackle-scream noises.

"Oh, yes," Greg said. "My dreams were filled with fluffy bunnies and candy canes."

"You, uh - you wanna talk about anything?" Luce asked. He twirled his spoon in his cereal bowl. The snap-crackle-screams increased. "I hear bottling things up can make you explode into uncontrolled rages."

Greg avoided Luce's stare and did not immediately reply. He thought about it.

Did he want to talk about a childhood spent hiding in dark corners, waiting for a father who never noticed him? Did he want to talk about living in the dungeon and playing with the rats? Being punished for not finishing his dinner? Did he want to talk about nights of pain or days spent wandering alone, with only a fanged teddy bear to keep him company in the cold, empty halls of the castle?

Did he want to talk about nearly killing his brother? Or talk about how his heart felt like a lead lump in his chest, and how he wished he had someone to care for, the way Drake and Frank cared for each other? Or maybe how his dreams last night had really been about being scared, and alone, and trapped inside a glass coffin?

No, he decided. He didn't want to talk about anything.

"Not really," he said, sipping blood from his mug. "There isn't much to talk about."

"Right, nothing to talk about," Luce said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "The claw marks on my floor, the blood on my couch, and, oh yeah, Drake and Frank, terrified for their lives."

"Exactly," Greg said icily. "Nothing I want to talk about."

Luce narrowed his eyes. "Uh huh." He picked up his spoon and hesitated, his expression softening a fraction. "You sure? It's not - I bet anybody would be upset after nearly kill - after what nearly happened."

"Yes," Greg said, looking into his mug. "I appreciate your concern, but it isn't your problem." He felt uncomfortable enough - he didn't need an impromptu counseling session from his new acquaintance.

Luce's mouth twisted down. "If you say so," he said, frowning darkly. He sounded unconvinced.

Greg looked away, staring out the window. Today the sky had decided to be blue - but not the droopy, melancholy, jazzy sort of blue Greg could have appreciated in his current mood. This particular shade of blue could only be described as cheerful. It grated on his nerves. He flexed his fingers around his mug, feeling like he wanted to hit something.

Luce's spoon clinked against the bowl as he ate. It was the only sound in the kitchen.

If Summer were here, thought Greg, the silence would not have stood a chance. She would probably be embarrassing herself and apologizing, or asking unsubtle, probing questions with what she thought was practiced indifference. He allowed himself a faint smile.

Across from him, Luce was hunched over the table, focused on eating his cereal with a curious intenseness. A frown fluttered at the edge of his mouth, trying to land.

"I'm sorry about my behavior last night. And I'll pay for everything I wrecked in the living room," Greg said, trying for a peace offering.

"Don't worry about it," Luce said, voice tight. He didn't look up. "I was planning to redecorate anyway."

The silence ticked by, and each second wrapped around Greg's throat.

Greg thought for a minute. "After I left, did my brother go with his wings tucked between his legs?" he asked lightly. "I admit it would make me happy if you told me that he did."

Luce smiled, but it stuck at the corners, twitching and strained. "Yeah," Luce said. "They didn't stick around for long before he grabbed Frank and made a run for it. I think he was afraid you'd change your mind and come back to finish things."

"If I'd changed my mind, it wouldn't matter how far he ran," Greg said, taking another sip of his blood. "But he's safe for now."

"I'm sure they'll both be happy to hear that," Luce said. His expression was still dark.

"So," Greg said, trying to fill the silence, "What are today's plans? Did you have anything specific in mind? Shall we get started on fencing things? Or clean up around the orphanage? Is there any bookkeeping to do? I've had my bit of violent rampage, I'm all set to take on menial office work."

Luce tilted his head and looked at him, considering. Greg resisted the urge to squirm under his gaze.

Luce seemed to come to a decision - though Greg couldn't guess at what it might be - because his expression changed, and a real, but tentative, smile formed on his lips.

"I thought we'd head back to the orphanage later on," Luce said finally. "We have everything sorted, so I wanted you to give me some estimates on things, y'know, what you think it might fetch, and then you get to doing - whatever it is you do."

Greg nodded, relieved that the tenseness in Luce's shoulders had disappeared and the air had ceased being sticky and hot. "All right."

"We can grab something to eat afterward, and then see about getting rid of the slime monster in the basement," Luce added briskly.

"Ah, yes," Greg said. "Did you want me to get rid of him or - get rid of him?" he asked significantly, lowering his eyebrows.

"Just see if you can get him to leave," Luce said, lips quirking. "I heard that when a slime monster dies, it melts into a puddle of acid. I'd rather not have that in the orphanage."

"That's true. They do melt rather splendidly," Greg said. He'd lost a pair of shoes that way. "On the other hand," he continued, "you could use a slime monster around the place for extra security. If you promise to feed him regularly, he might agree to stay and help."

"What do slime monsters eat?" Luce asked. "I can't afford to feed him raw flesh everyday."

"Slime monsters prefer cupcakes," Greg said. "With pink icing. They only eat raw flesh in a pinch."

"Ha ha," Luce said. "Pink cupcakes. I almost believed you."

Greg frowned. "I wasn't joking."

"Pink cupcakes?" Luce said. "Really? What kind of monster food is that?"

"Never underestimate the power of delectable sugary confections," Greg said. "Sugar is the secret weakness of most monsters."

"I do like sugar an awful lot," Luce admitted. "You may be right. But sugar doesn't work on you," he pointed out.

"Blood sugar does," Greg said. "However, I try to avoid it."

"Why?" Luce asked.

"Imagine if you will," Greg said, "a vampire under the influence of a crazed sugar high."

"Oh, right," Luce said. "A repeat of last night. I bet you'd start attacking a lot of throats."

"Not - in the way you mean," Greg said delicately. "Blood sugar is a sort of vampiric aphrodisiac."

"Oh," Luce said. His voice sounded curious. "Is that right. How interesting."

"It's rather embarrassing," Greg said. "Afterwards my pockets are always overflowing with phone numbers and letters of devotion."

"Sounds terrible," Luce said, keeping a straight face. "It must be very hard on you."

"We all have our crosses to bear," Greg said.

"Vampires keep crosses?" Luce asked, his lips twitching into a smirk.

"Figure of speech," Greg said. "Here's another one: Fuck you."

Luce laughed.

----

When they got to the orphanage, Greg took a moment to again admire the house's architecture. In the brilliant sunshine, it still managed to exude an aura of gloom and menace. Greg felt a pang of nostalgia for the crumbling, eerie castle he'd lived in as a child. These orphans didn't know how lucky they were.

"I'm going to check on everything," Luce said, once they were inside. "Would you mind talking to the slime monster?"

"Of course not," Greg said. He left Luce in the drawing room and headed through the small kitchen and down the stairs to the basement.

He dodged the first slime ball, but the second one hit him in the arm. It slid off his jacket and hit the stairs with a loud sizzle, eating its way through the wood. He was glad he'd worn his dragon-skin coat today, or it would have been his arm in a smoldering wreck instead of the staircase.

He dove off the side of the stairs and hit the ground with a heavy thud, tucking into a roll as another glob of slime flew past his head. He kept low to the ground and darted across the room, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He could hear the thick slide of the monster across the floor, and saw the eerie green glow of the slime balls as they whizzed by his head.

Hiding behind an old boiler, he called out: "Ishlrrp slglrrrb blllrb glup!"

The barrage of slime balls halted.

"Glup glup?" came the query from out of the blackness.

Phew, Greg thought. A glup dialect. That meant it was one of the friendlier slime monsters.

"Er, gloop pllrp glurrrp," he said haltingly. His Slimese was very rusty. Cautiously, he stuck his head out from behind the boiler.

The slime monster was beaming at him. "Glupplrrluup!" it said, clapping its hands together. They made wet, smacking noises.

Once they had established that no, Greg was not a funny looking slime monster, and yes, the slime monster's name was really Russell, Greg called Luce down to join them.

Russell was a very accommodating slime monster, with an easygoing personality. He oozed friendliness. He was a young slime monster, part of the new generation. He pronounced his glups with quick, short sounds, instead of long, drawn out 'ooo' sounds, like older slime monsters.

Greg enjoyed their talk. In between gurgles and burbles, Russell agreed to stay, provided he was given a tray of cupcakes with pink icing at least once a week.

When Luce told him he could have pink cupcakes every day, Russell cried big, slimy tears of joy and tried to hug him. Greg pushed Luce out of the way before the acid in Russell's slime could eat away Luce's flesh.

Russell apologized immediately, wringing his hands together and dripping on the floor. He was very afraid they would dock him a cupcake.

After assuring him that he would not suffer any loss of cupcake for accidentally almost melting his new boss, Greg and Luce bid him goodbye and climbed back up the stairs.

"That went surprisingly well," Luce said. "I can't believe I've just hired a slime monster to help protect the kids. Are you positive he won't hurt any of them?"

"Not unless one of the orphans is a cupcake," Greg replied. "As long as he gets his sweets, he won't care what kind of little monsters you bring in."

"Uh, speaking of which," Luce said, looking slightly guilty. "Do you think you could maybe bake Russell's first batch of cupcakes?"

"I had a feeling it would come to that," Greg said. "All right."

"Thanks," Luce said, flashing him a brilliant smile. "If the cupcakes are as good as the spaghetti you made, Russell is going to be one happy pile of slime."

"I think he'd be happy with store bought cupcakes," Greg said, "but I'm sure he'll appreciate the effort. He's a very polite young monster."

"I can't believe you could talk to him," Luce said. "That was crazy. Didn't making all those weird sounds hurt your throat?"

Greg shrugged. "I spent a few decades living in the sewers. You pick it up when you're down there."

"You lived in the sewers?" Luce asked.

"Yes," Greg said, in a tone of voice that suggested further questions would be painfully discouraged.

"Oh," Luce said. "Well, I think we deserve to treat ourselves after all that. Wanna head downtown and grab something to eat?"

Since Luce hadn't said grab someone to eat, Greg assumed he was mostly talking about food for himself. Greg still wasn't used to being around someone who wasn't on an extremely liquid diet.

"All right," Greg said. "If that's what you want."

"Among many things, my friend, among many things," Luce said, clapping Greg on the shoulder.

Greg swayed under the blow and smiled. Friend. That was new.

----

Greg hadn't been downtown in a long time. Few things had changed - two or three new storefronts decorated the street, and cars drove by instead of carriages, but the sidewalk was still made of worn cobblestones, and the same small shops he remembered from a hundred years ago were still in business.

He and Luce walked side by side down the sidewalk. The crowd of other monsters out shopping occasionally forced them to walk closer together, and their shoulders brushed.

"One second, I'll be right back," Luce said, ducking into a small shop tucked between two department stores. Greg didn't recognize it.

The store face was cracked brick and tottering, propped up against the buildings on either side; tenacious hope seemed to have replaced mortar.

The windows were painted black, but in scratchy gold script a small handmade sign proclaimed: Fynest frozenn stuffe arounde!

Greg couldn't make out the faded name on the door, but it must be an old establishment, with that many extra vowels hanging around the spelling.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and watched the monsters scurry by him unaware. He flexed his fingers, itching to pick a few pockets.

A lady troll, wearing a thick blue coat and bright red scarf, led her toddler away from the candy shop; he still had bits of wriggling gummy worms sticking from his mouth, and his mother was scolding him for not letting them wriggle in fear to enhance the flavor before he devoured them.

Across the street, a werewolf was smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee outside a café; a young elf sat nearby, tracing patterns on the tablecloth as she watched him.

Greg was just beginning to wonder what was taking Luce so long, when he heard the jingle of bells as the shop door opened. Luce stepped out, carrying two ice cream cones and smiling his daft, goofy smile.

"Here," Luce said, handing him a cone topped with pink and red striped ice cream. "This is for you."

"I'm not a big fan of dairy," Greg said, reluctantly taking the cone from Luce's hand.

"Relax," Luce said, laughing. "The little gnome behind the counter assured me this is their vampire-friendly flavor."

"Vampire-friendly," Greg said. "Now if that isn't an unusual term."

Luce grinned. "It's called bloodswirl. They told me it was a mixture of all sorts of blood types. I think there's dragon blood, and human blood, and griffin blood. Good stuff," he added, with a droll smile.

"Bloodswirl?" Greg asked. "I've never heard of that." He examined the ice cream and sniffed delicately; a myriad aroma of blood types assailed his nose and he blinked in surprise. This had the potential to be tasty.

Luce grinned and playfully slugged him on the arm. "C'mon, try it. Don't be a big scaredy bat."

"That sort of approach might work on a child," Greg said. "Not a mature monster."

"Scaredy bat, scaredy bat, scaredy bat," Luce chanted.

"That is completely juvenile," Greg said.

"Scaredy bat," Luce sing-songed.

"Oh, for the love of Luci - fine," Greg said. He took a long lick of ice cream. He immediately took another lick, and another.

It was delicious. He could taste the earthy, full-bodied dragon blood, the rich, intoxicating human blood, and the rough whisky of griffin blood - but there were other flavors swirled in. He caught the faint, sharp tang of goblin blood, the nutty, weathered flavor of gnome blood, and the heavy cinnamon of gypsy blood.

He took a large bite off the top, and let the flavors flood his mouth. This was the best thing he'd had in ages - even better than the blood-chocolate covered spiders Luce had bought him yesterday.

Luce was watching him; his cheeks were flushed bright red, and he was smiling in amusement. "You look like a little kid," he said.

Greg swallowed his mouthful of ice cream and scowled. "I do not." He started walking down the sidewalk.

"You've got ice cream all around your mouth," Luce pointed out, falling into pace beside him.

"It's hot out," Greg said. "The ice cream went melty and difficult to keep in the cone. I had to act quickly."

Shoppers hurried past, swaddled in jackets and scarves, shivering and red-nosed. A lone snowflake drifted down onto Greg's nose.

"Right," Luce said. "It's a scorcher out."

"Some of us are not aligned with fire elements," Greg replied haughtily.

"Some of us should just admit we really like ice cream and lose all dignity when we eat it," Luce said.

"And some of us are begging to have ice cream cones lobbed at our heads."

Luce laughed and took a bite of his ice cream. "Mm, man, mine's good too, but I gotta go slow. I don't want to get a brain freeze."

"I don't think that's possible," Greg said.

"No," Luce said, "It could happen if I ate the ice cream too - oh," he said, slowing down. "You're referring to the fact that I don't have a brain. That's so funny. You're really funny."

Greg hid a grin behind another mouthful of ice cream. Luce gave his shoulder a shove.

Greg Post!!

Yes, I am really going to leave you hanging there. Is that plot I smell? PS, this part has a lot of swears.

As always, comments/crits welcome.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight

It didn't take Greg long to find buyers.

He made a few phones calls to his contacts and got the word out that a phoenix hoard was on the market. Within four days he had half of the merchandise sold.

Three chests of gold went to a very happy leprechaun, who paid for the chests with four wishes. The standard going rate was three wishes, but during their bargaining, Greg had very pointedly begun sharpening his teeth, and the leprechaun had been kind enough to throw in an extra wish.

The Monster Museum, the official Monsterland museum, bought the phoenix flight feather. Rather than ship it to the capital, Greg visited the museum directly to bring them the feather. The staff didn't let him very far inside the museum, because they knew who he was, and the museum owned a lot of expensive things. Greg remembered stealing several of the more popular exhibits at least once.

The blue sapphire with the dragon's tooth inside went to a witch with a long, warty nose and a very calculating grin. Greg didn't care what she did with it, but to ease Luce's nervousness, he extracted a promise from the witch that she wouldn't use the sapphire in any sort of spell that would harm an innocent child. She assured him it was only a spell for her rheumatism.

The next day when he was running errands downtown, a witch with glossy black hair and pouty red lips winked at him on the street; she was wearing baggy clothes that looked very familiar and a large blue stone on a chain around her neck.

"Rheumatism, my left wing," Greg said to himself, before stepping into the ice cream shop. He got a cone of bloodswirl for himself and a double cone of rocky road for Luce as a surprise. Luce had thrown himself into remodeling the interior of the orphanage and getting it ready for the first arrival, due at the end of the month, just before the winter holidays.

Greg and Luce established a comfortable routine over the next few days: Greg rose with the sun every morning, drank blood out of the ugly mug Luce allotted him, put down an extra packet of blood for Rubeus, and made breakfast for Luce.

Greg learned very quickly there were certain foods Luce did not eat - poultry, for example.

One morning, Greg had thought it would be amusing to cook sunny-side up eggs for Luce. Since Luce was never up with the sun, Greg joked that he could at least see it at breakfast.

Luce had taken one look at the eggs and gone green around the edges. In hindsight, Greg realized, it had probably been in poor taste to serve eggs to someone who was technically a bird. He hastily assured Luce it was no one he knew, and whisked the eggs away.

Luce's favorite breakfast food by far was toast with blue jam. At first, Greg had trouble preparing it. The problem came when he tried to spread the jam on the toast: it seemed the blue jam was unwilling to leave its rainbow days behind. It had the remarkable, annoying tendency to shoot between his fingers and up into the air, like it was trying to rejoin its rainbow brethren.

He didn't remember Summer having so much trouble when he had seen her make the same thing just last week.

After fighting, cursing, and getting blue goop all over himself, he'd finally had to concede defeat. Even more embarrassing, Luce had seen the jam best him.

Luce had walked into the kitchen and said, "How's breakfa -?" and then caught sight of Greg, covered from head-to-toe in squelchy blue jam. Luce had nearly hurt himself laughing; but he'd left very quickly when Greg began to growl.

Greg wiped the sticky blue jam off his face as best he could and admitted that he might need a bit of help on this one.

He waited until the next morning, when he was sure Luce was busy upstairs in his office, then crept to the kitchen and dialed the number next to the phone that read 'Home Nest!' with a nauseating smiley face beside it.

Althea picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?" she said.

"Hello," Greg said. "This is Greg. Sorry to call so early."

"Well, well, it's certainly a surprise to hear from you," Althea said. Greg could hear the smile in her voice. "And you can call anytime. Just tell me, what has my son done now? It's only been a few days. Did you two lovebirds have a fight?"

"Er, no," Greg said, feeling uncomfortable. He thought she might be trying to tease him.

"No?" Althea said, sounding both amused and astonished. "Why that's so unlike him! He used to really know how to put his foot in his beak. It's why he's had such trouble keeping his young men around, you know. Well, they stick around in the beginning because he has more than a big beak, if you catch my drift."

"That's - I really didn't need to know that," Greg said, wanting very badly to hang up the phone. Althea terrified him nearly as much as the Count.

Althea sighed. "What can I do for you, darling?"

"Is Summer there?" Greg asked, a little desperately.

Althea paused. "Summer?" she asked.

"Yes," Greg said. "You may have seen her around: young girl, red hair, tendency to ask personal questions. Although she's surprisingly not as annoying as most children."

"I think I might know who you're talking about," Althea said, with a light laugh. "Let me fetch her. But Greg," Althea cautioned, "don't let her toy with your heart. She's young and fickle. And several hundred years too young for you."

"I'll keep that in mind," Greg said.

Althea set down the phone. Greg heard a squeal in the background, and then Summer answered the phone with a breathless hello.

"Hello," Greg said. "This is Greg. I have a favor to ask of you."

"Yes," Summer said. "Totally. Of course I will."

"I haven't asked you anything yet," Greg said.

"Oh, right," said Summer.

"I am trying to make toast for your Uncle," Greg began.

"Like, for breakfast?" Summer interrupted, with a dreamy sigh. "Like breakfast in bed? That is so rom - I mean, I wish I had someone to make me breakfast in bed."

"Er," Greg said. "I don't serve the toast to him in bed."

"Do you feed him the toast bite by bite?" Summer asked, clearly lost in her own world.

"No," Greg said. "In fact, I don't feed him anything. That is the problem. When I try to spread the blue jam on the toast, the jam goes everywhere."

"Oh," Summer said. "Is that all? It's so easy, I can't believe you haven't figured it out yet, Greg!"

"Enlighten me," Greg said dryly.

He could almost hear Summer blush over the phone.

"Oh, um, sorry. All you have to do is spread the jam in backwards circles."

"Backwards circles?" Greg asked.

"You know, the way a clock goes forward? Spread the jam the other way."

"Counter-clockwise?" Greg asked for clarification.

"Right," Summer said firmly. "Backwards."

"And I suppose it's all in the wrist," Greg said.

"Yeah!" Summer enthused. "You might have to practice for a bit. But you have to spread it in circles because that confuses the jam and makes it all dizzy. Then it'll stick to the toast."

"A thousand thanks, mademoiselle," Greg said. "You have saved me, and you have saved the grand institution of breakfast."

Summer giggled. "I guess the princess rescues the knight sometimes, huh?"

"Very astute," Greg said, smiling. He couldn't help but feel fond of Summer. She was so refreshingly open and, well, childlike. He didn't mind her nearly as much as most children. It probably had nothing to do with the fact that she adored him; Greg thought that spoke ill of her taste, but a small part of him was nonetheless pleased.

"Now, I must go and put your instructions to good use," Greg said. "Thank you again."

"Um, Greg?" Summer asked hurriedly, before he could put down the phone.

"Yes?" Greg replied.

"Do you think - do you think maybe you and me and Uncle Luce could all get together again soon? I had a lot of fun last week."

Greg thought about it for nearly a whole second before he surprised himself by replying, "That sounds delightful."

"Really?" Summer asked. She seemed just as surprised. "You don't mind a dorky kid tagging along?"

"Of course I would mind a dorky kid tagging along," Greg said sternly.

"Oh," Summer said in a tiny, disappointed voice.

"But," Greg continued smoothly, before Summer could work herself into an angsty lather, "since it will be you coming along, we have nothing to worry about."

Summer giggled. "Cool. Thanks, Greg."

"No problem. I will make sure your Uncle calls you the moment we have any free time."

"Oh, you know," Summer said. "Uncle Luce could call or you could call. Whatever. It's cool."

Greg grinned. "All right. I'll talk to you soon, Summer."

"Bye," Summer said. Greg hadn't quite managed to hang up the phone before he heard Summer shriek in joy on the other end of the line.

With Summer's new instructions in mind, he got to work on the jam, and had it spread across the toast in short order.

"Take that, you fiendish jam," Greg said, pointing the knife at the toast, and feeling very accomplished.

He poured a glass of griffin's milk for Luce and was putting the toast on a plate when Luce walked into the room.

"Morning," Luce said, scratching his bare stomach. Greg watched the way Luce's fingers threaded through the scattering of feathers on his lower belly.

He looked away and gestured toward the toast with a flourish. "Voilà," he said. "Blue Jam toast, with freshly wrangled jam."

Luce took one look at him and started laughing.

"What?" Greg asked, indignant. He knew he didn't have any jam on him this time, he'd checked.

"You just look so proud," Luce said, between his laughter. "Standing there next to the toast. I feel like I should give you a gold star. Or give you a pat on the head."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "I will give you a running start," he said, hefting a piece of jam-covered toast.

Luce's eyes widened. "You wouldn't."

Greg bared his teeth in a smile and took aim.

----

An hour later, Greg and Luce declared the jam war a draw and went to clean themselves off.

Luce had been muttering about dire retribution when he slipped into his bedroom and closed the door, but Greg was feeling strangely happy.

He didn't know what had possessed him to throw the first piece of toast, but after that it had been a rush of breathless fun. Luce had tried to smear jam in his hair, but Greg had managed to turn it around and get Luce square in the face with a big glob of jelly. After that it had been all out war.

The kitchen was a mess, but when Greg left, Shub and Rubeus had been enthusiastically licking up the remains of the jam, so he thought it would probably be clean in no time.

He quickly grabbed some clothes and hopped into the shower. Afterwards he toweled himself dry and got dressed, and even took the time to shave.

He made his way back to the kitchen, but Luce wasn't there. He must still be cleaning off - it probably took longer to get jam out of feathers.

Greg tidied up the bits of jam Shub and Rubeus has left behind, though there wasn't much. He made himself a cup of blood tea and waited for Luce.

He didn't have to wait long: Luce came into the kitchen five minutes later, still grumbling.

"You stupid bat," he said. "I had to wash my hair three times."

Greg patted the top of his shorn head smugly. "Sorry about that. You should try keeping it short - there's less cleanup."

"Yeah, yeah," Luce said grumpily, but he was smiling. "I hope you got it out of your system, because if you ever challenge me with blue jam again, you're going down."

Greg snorted. "May the best monster win." He took a sip of his drink.

Luce chuckled and walked across the kitchen to open his refrigerator. "I still haven't had breakfast," he whined. "And my fridge is empty."

"That isn't my fault," Greg said. "I told you to go shopping yesterday."

"Was that before or after I discovered the nest of gremlins in the orphanage attic and spent the next thirteen hours battling them?"

Greg thought for a minute. "After," he said.

Luce rolled his eyes. "I was a bit tired then."

"Always an excuse," Greg teased.

"I'm not sure I got all the gremlins," Luce said. He poured himself another glass of griffin's milk and sat down across from Greg. "We should go back and check out the attic again. Would you mind helping me this time?"

"Not at all," Greg said, smiling and snapping his teeth. "Gremlins are bite-sized. Speaking of gremlins," he continued, "I talked to Summer this morning. She wants to arrange another outing."

"Oh," Luce said. "Well, I'll make an excuse, tell her you're busy or something."

"Actually, I told her that one of us would call when we had free time," Greg said.

"You . . . did?" Luce asked. He put his glass down and stared at Greg.

"I couldn't very well say 'No,' could I?" Greg asked defensively. He shifted in his chair and took another sip of blood tea to distract himself.

"I guess not," Luce said. He smiled and then finished his milk in one long gulp. Greg watched his throat work as he swallowed. "Okay, let's get going," Luce said. "Since you didn't feed me - "

"I fed you," Greg said. "It may have been a little unconventional, but I'm sure with all the jam smeared on your face, you tasted a bit of it."

"Well, since my unconventional breakfast has left me feeling less than satisfied, I wanna swing by a bagel shop before we get to the orphanage."

Greg smirked over his mug. "As you wish."

----

Greg knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped out of Luce's car.

He sniffed the air and tasted a shadow, spread thinly over the outside of the orphanage.

Luce was babbling about something as he came around the front of the car, and Greg's hand shot out and caught his arm. "Shut up," he commanded.

"What?" Luce said. "Greg, seriously, what are you -?" Greg cut him off by putting his hand over Luce's mouth.

"Shut up," he said again. "Can't you feel it? Something isn't right."

He ordered Luce to stay by the car and crept forward, using the statues in the yard and the tall weeds as cover. He crouched low to the ground and slunk toward the front door, keeping his eye out for anything else out of the ordinary.

The closer he got to the house, the more he felt the shadow. It was thin and transparent, not heavy. Most people probably wouldn't notice it.

Greg sniffed again. That was because most people didn't know what dark magic smelled like.

Just before he reached the bottom of the front steps, he noticed the spell woven into the ground. It was laid out across the step like a tripwire, pulsing quietly just under the surface of the wood.

Greg undid it with a few simple words, and he frowned when he felt an unexpected tug at the end of the spell. It had been double-layered - designed to send information back. Now whoever set the spell would know Greg had disarmed it.

He looked back toward the car and instantly scowled. Luce was striding up the cracked pathway without the slightest hint of fear, completely disregarding Greg's order. It was a bit annoying.

"I told you to stay by the car," he said, glaring.

"I know," Luce said, his voice dismissive. "But I wasn't going to stand there any more. Mind telling me what's going on?"

Greg looked back at the step. There was a faint black line across the wood where the trip-spell had burned out.

"Someone laid a spell across the entrance," he said. "Nasty little thing - it would have stripped the skin from anything living that crossed it."

Luce looked down. "I think it already did," he said, nudging a small pile of bones next to the steps. The remains looked like they belonged to some sort of rodent.

"Whoever set it," Greg said, "I don't think they intended it to kill anyone. It was too obvious. They wanted us to know they had set a trap. And," he continued, thinking of the second layer of the spell, "they wanted to know if anyone could dismantle it. Clever, that."

If he weren't so annoyed that someone had tampered with Luce's orphanage, he'd almost compliment them on the way they'd forced his hand.

"Why?" Luce asked.

"Because they'll know more about us than we know about them," Greg said, stepping away from the defused spell, and motioning Luce closer. "They know that I can somehow detect dark magic, and they know I can dismantle, at the very least, rudimentary spells. This was a warning and a test."

"So they know I'm not working alone," Luce said, staring at the step.

"Sorry?" Greg said.

"I don't use magic," Luce said. "I mean, I have the raw power, but I've never bothered to learn any of the spells beyond the basics they teach all the fledglings. The wards I set up on the orphanage were done with your brother's help and some added instructions from Frank's mom. I don't think I could detect dark magic unless it was a really strong spell."

Greg frowned. "That means this trip-spell was as much for me as for you."

"Hm," Luce said. "So, do we go inside?"

Greg hesitated. "The smell is still wrong. There's another spell around somewhere. Let me go first."

"Yeah, right," Luce said. "We'll go in together."

"No," Greg said, feeling uneasy. The longer they stood near the entrance, the stronger the smell of dark magic became. "I have more immunity to dark magics. I'll go first."

Luce looked at him. Greg looked back.

"Please," Greg said. He couldn't articulate quite why he needed to go first.

"Okay," Luce said finally. "But be careful." Luce sounded serious and intense, and the way he was looking at him made Greg feel uncomfortable.

"I will," he said. "I'll be right back once I've checked it out."

Greg climbed the steps, keeping an eye out for more spells. He found another spell trapped inside a leaf next to the front door. He quickly undid this one as well: it was a simple nausea spell that Greg thought must have been thrown there as an afterthought. Arvel used to enjoy leaving spells like that around as a joke.

He crunched the leaf under his foot and stepped across the threshold. His eyes widened.

"Son of a fucking demon!" he said, before the spell exploded.

He was blown backwards against the wall, and he felt the plaster and wood shatter behind him, raining down around his body. His head smacked against the wall with enough force that he saw stars, and the sudden wetness on the back of his neck told him he'd split his head open.

But the spell wasn't done.

He felt it slice across his face and tried to turn his head. White-hot pain ripped across his left side and he couldn't prevent the sharp cry that escaped him.

He heard the glass in the downstairs windows shatter out, before the pulse of magic brought the shards of glass screaming back through the gaping windows and straight at Greg.

He had just enough time to think, "This is going to hurt. A lot," before a thousand pieces of glass slammed into his skin. He screamed, loud and long, as the glass ripped through tissue and bone. Small pieces of glass burst out through his arms and legs, only to turn around and dive back into his skin.

Greg squeezed his eyes shut and cursed. The glass was being driven deeper and deeper by the force of the spell, riddling his body with holes. With the last of his energy, he summoned a burst of power and shouted a counter-spell. His voice was hoarse and the words gurgled in his throat; the glass had left tiny holes scattered across his neck, trickling blood.

As he spoke the counter-spell, the glass stopped its painful journey to the center of his body. Greg gritted his fangs together and spoke another word of power, sliding down the wall. He left a bloody streak as he went.

He felt the tiny shards of glass tremble and then slowly begin to push their way out of his body. He gasped in pain and bit his lip so hard he tore through the skin.

After an agonizing minute, he heard the tiny, tinkling sounds of the glass falling to the floor as the last pieces left his body, and he sagged against the wall in relief.

He felt at his cheek where the spell had slashed across his face and was very dismayed to discover that his flesh had been flayed away. His fingers touched the cool smoothness of bone, slicked over with his own blood.

"Fuck," he said out loud, and collapsed to the floor, trying not to pass out.

Dimly, he heard someone shouting his name. Then Luce was next to him, kneeling in the blood on the floor, the big, solid heat of his body soaking into Greg's skin. Greg closed his eyes.

Luce shook him, hard, and made Greg sit up. He was holding Greg gingerly around the waist, like a piece of china he was afraid of breaking. That was silly, he was perfectly fine.

Then he opened his eyes and the pain hit him.

"Oh, sweet Lucifer," he groaned, leaning hard against Luce for support. His vision was hazy and he couldn't focus. Luce steadied him and pulled him closer.

"Greg, oh God, are you okay? What am I saying, you look like a piece of Swiss cheese, of course you're not okay. What the hell happened in here?" Luce asked, using his free hand to brush bits of glass off Greg's clothes.

"A spell," Greg bit out. "A very unpleasant one." Luce's voice sounded tinny and far away, and Greg wondered if a bit of glass had sliced his eardrum.

Luce laughed, a little hysterically in Greg's opinion. "I can see that. Fuck. Fuck. You're bleeding everywhere. Why aren't you healing yourself? Bright Lady, oh, I can see your bones, Greg. Oh fuck."

Greg coughed, noting the fresh blood on his hand with some dismay. That wasn't a good sign.

"I need blood," Greg gasped. "I've lost too much. I can't heal myself after using so much magic unless I have more blood. Please," he said, grabbing at Luce's shirt with bloody hands, "You have to go to the nearest store and get a blood packet -"

"Shut up," Luce said so fiercely that Greg blinked and closed his mouth. "You idiot, you fucking idiot," Luce said, pulling Greg closer. He reached up and ripped the collar of his shirt away from his throat.

"Just drink from me," he said, through gritted teeth.

Greg managed an incredulous expression, which was quite a feat considering he was missing half his face. Luce looked as though he would rather not be reminded of this fact. "What?! I can't -!"

"Drink," Luce ordered, pressing Greg's face against his neck. "Fuck, drink right now!"

Greg didn't need to be told twice, not with the smell of Luce's blood so close, or the sound of Luce's frantic heartbeat pounding in Greg's ears.

Greg opened his mouth and latched onto Luce's throat, biting down with a soft whimper. Luce jumped when Greg's fangs pierced his skin, but he quickly relaxed and wrapped his arms around Greg, drawing him closer.

Luce tasted like heaven. Greg had never had fresh phoenix blood before, and it was nearly too much for him. Luce's blood was as hot as lava, rushing down Greg's throat in thick bursts of power and light. The blood tasted like sunshine, and it was so heavy and full of life that he nearly choked. Each time he sucked another glorious flood down his throat, his eyes nearly rolled up in pleasure.

He needed far less of Luce's blood than he would have needed from any other monster. After barely a minute of feeding, the heavy warmth of Luce's blood filled his stomach, and he felt the power winding its way through his body.

He pulled back, unable to resist licking his lips. Luce's eyes were glazed and his breathing was shallow and rapid. Greg rested his head on Luce's chest for a brief moment before he pulled away completely.

He could feel the flesh of his face knitting together, and the holes in his body began to close. His fingers and toes tingled with the rush of blood.

"Thank you," Greg said, his throat tight. Most people would rather let a vampire die than feed from them - Luce wasn't like anyone Greg had ever known. He just hoped Luce didn't hate him later tonight when his neck was sore and stinging.

Luce's smile was weak, but it was there. "Anytime. Just, you know, try not to get yourself creamed by a dangerous dark spell in the near future."

"I'll try," Greg said. "But I have a feeling that working with you just got much more interesting."

Luce half-dragged, half-carried Greg into the parlor, and laid him down on the couch.

"You're going to have to buy a new couch," Greg said, still bleeding.

"Fuck the couch," Luce replied, and went to go fetch a wet rag and a basin of warm water to clean the blood from Greg's skin.

Greg stared up at the ceiling and waited for Luce to come back, going over the spell in his head. He almost thought the flash of power he'd sensed before the spell exploded and obliterated its caster's signature was vaguely familiar, but he'd only had a second and he couldn't be sure.

The spell certainly wasn't one he recognized, but he could see how it had been created. It was some sort of modified whip-spell - that accounted for the face slicing - combined with an explosion and rebound spell. Somehow debris-control had been thrown in - that must have been what animated the pieces of glass and made them target the nearest living creature.

It was a neat little spell. He allowed himself a moment of admiration for their new enemy.

But that raised the larger question: who in the three-hundred-and-twelve hells had set up such a complicated spell? And even more troubling: why?

Luce came back before Greg could follow the train of thought any further.

"How're you holding up?" Luce asked, kneeling down in front of Greg and dabbing at his face with a warm washcloth.

"I'm fine now," Greg said. "Your blood was ridiculously healing - have you ever thought about selling it? It would be all the rage among vampires, I can tell you that."

Luce laughed shortly. "No, but I'll keep it in mind. So far, you're the only one who gets to benefit from my supercharged phoenix juice."

Greg smiled, then sighed and closed his eyes as Luce began to clean his brow and swept the rag over his eyelids; they were heavily crusted with blood and they felt sticky when he tried to blink.

"I can do that, you know," Greg said, his eyes still closed.

"I know," Luce said, and continued to wipe his face.

Greg let him. He was still feeling gray and shaky and a bit under the weather. It was nice to have someone else take care of things, even for just a moment.

"So," Luce said, wiping gently across Greg's cheek, "wanna tackle those gremlins now?"

Greg let out a startled laugh and opened his eyes. "Oh, sure," he said. "And then later I was thinking of slime-wrestling Russell and lifting a small car into the air."

"Sounds cool," Luce said. "I'll come watch."

"Right," Greg said. He smiled and the newly healed skin on his cheek pulled tight. "I'm sure it will be entertaining to watch - shit. Watch."

He sat up and lurched forward. "Shit, shit - I didn't even think to check for watchers!" He tried to swing his legs off the couch and stand up, but dizziness hit him and he groaned.

"Whoa, whoa," Luce said, pushing him back down onto the couch. He sat down next to Greg and put an arm around Greg's shoulders to steady him. "Easy now, cowboy. What do you mean, 'watchers'?"

"A watcher-spell, a spy-spell, whatever you want to call it," Greg said, rubbing his forehead. "Fuck, I can't believe I didn't check. I've got to go check."

"You've got to stop bleeding, first," Luce said. "I would say that is priority number one."

Greg glared at him. "Help me up. We need to check the house right away."

"No," Luce said. "You need to rest."

"Don't make me bite you again," Greg warned.

Luce laughed, damn him. Greg tried to glare, but the skin around his eye was still healing and it didn't have the most intimidating effect.

"Greg, calm down," Luce said. "Indulge me, okay? I just saw you missing half your face and bleeding everywhere. Is it too much to ask that we sit here for a second and not go actively seeking danger just yet?"

Greg frowned. "Fine," he said sulkily.

Luce laughed and patted his shoulder. "Now, why don't you bring me up to speed: what the hell's a watcher-spell?"

"It's another simple spell," Greg said. "It's like a magical video camera. It can be placed anywhere: inside a teacup, on a teddy bear, in-between books on the shelf. Its only job is to record and transmit back to its caster."

Luce appeared alarmed. "You mean somebody could be watching us right now?"

"Of course. Wouldn't you be watching? I mean, if you'd set up an elaborate spell to kill someone, you'd want to know how it turned out."

"I guess," said Luce. "If I ever tried to elaborately kill someone, yeah."

Greg ignored his sarcasm. "Which brings us to the next question: who would go to the trouble of setting this up?"

"Uh," Luce said.

"This," Greg said, "is supposed to be the part where you tell me you have no idea and assure me you don't have any enemies."

"Actually, that's not . . . entirely accurate," Luce replied. "A thousand years gives a man one or two chances to make enemies."

Greg stared at him.

"Or three or four . . . hundred chances," Luce finished.

"I'm surprised at you," Greg said, easing forward on the couch; Luce's arm fell from his shoulder. "I've got at least five times that number, and I'm younger than you."

"Well, I don't eat people on a regular basis. That might have something to do with it."

"Funny," Greg said. "Not so funny if everything we're saying and doing right now is being beamed back to some bad guy, who incidentally might already be plotting his next move."

"No," Luce agreed. He surveyed the room as he spoke: "I can't think of any enemies right off the ba - er, that is," Luce said, looking at Greg, "right off the top of my head."

Greg thought for a few seconds. "I think it's obvious that it has something to do with the orphanage, otherwise why not target your house? Frank and Drake did say there were quite a few older monsters who were not pleased with the idea of helping halfies."

Luce's expression turned dark. "That's true," he said. "I've received several threatening letters already."

"You have?" Greg asked. He felt twitchy and restless, and he wanted to scold Luce for not taking the letters seriously. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Luce shrugged. "It wasn't that important."

"I think it might be important now," Greg said, gesturing to the holes and blood stains decorating his clothing. "We should look through them later. And by 'we' I mean 'me,' and by 'later' I mean 'as soon as possible.'"

"All right, all right," Luce said. "I've got the letters up in my study. I'll give them to you as soon as we get home."

"Okay," Greg nodded. "But first we have to do a sweep of the orphanage."

With a lot of grunting and swearing, Luce helped him to his feet. He felt steadier now that the infusion of Luce's blood had had time to work. His energy had returned and all his wounds were healed. The same could not be said of his favorite pair of pants. They were a holey mess.

He reflected. Yes, that might have been a pun.

"Where do you want to start first?" Luce asked.

"Not the basement," Greg said. "I imagine Russell has that area covered. And anyone with the level of magic we're dealing with would have noticed the presence of a slime monster. They'd have avoided him."

"Still, do you think Russell saw anything?"

"I doubt it," Greg said. "We brought him three batches of cupcakes last night. He's probably still recovering from the sugar shock. I bet he hasn't ventured upstairs yet."

"Great," Luce said. "Our security is sleeping one off in the basement. We couldn't have timed it better."

"Well," Greg said. "We can discuss Russell's feeding policy later. I could always switch him to cupcakes made with sugar-free icing. Right now we have to find that spell - I'm sure it's here. Our only advantage is that the watcher-spell has to be manually removed by laying hands on the spot where it was cast. The caster can't end it remotely from where he or she is watching." He hobbled around the room and as he talked, checking under the table, behind the lamp, and between the couch cushions. Wherever the watcher-spell was, they'd hidden it well.

"That means someone was in my orphanage," Luce said darkly.

"Yes," Greg said. "Check those shelves." He pointed Luce toward the large, ornate bookcase that dominated the far wall of the living room. Two windows framed the bookcase on either side; the panels had the wavy, milky look of antique glass, and the left window had a large crack running across it.

Luce began combing over the books, checking in the cracks and around the back of the bookcase.

Greg went through the drawers in the desk, and after finding three spiders (he couldn't resist - he ate one) and lots of dust, he still had no luck finding the watcher-spell. But he was positive there would be one around here somewhere - it was just the sort of thing a sneaky, dark magic-wielding bad guy would do. After all, he knew he would have done the same thing.

Luce hadn't found anything on the bookshelves and was now going through the cushions on the couch. Greg watched him for a moment, noting how the line of Luce's shoulders grew tenser the longer he searched.

Greg surveyed the room again. It was then that he noticed the difference in the windows. The black curtains were drawn back from both windows, allowing light to stream into the darkened living room. But the light coming through the window on the left, the window with a direct line of sight through the living room into the front hall, was dimmer than the other window, as though a thin film was spread over it.

"Ah," Greg said, walking toward the window. "Here's the little bastard."

Luce met him at the window. "This is it? How come you couldn't sense it before?"

"It's hidden very well," Greg said. "They cloaked it with the alarm spell we put on all the possible points of entry into the house." As he examined the window more closely, he could see the faint shimmer of the spell across the glass. It glittered like a prism.

"That's pretty smart," Luce said.

"Yes," Greg said, pursing his lips. "Unfortunately. That means we aren't dealing with amateurs." He stared at the glass, letting the faint pulse of the magic brush against his skin. Whoever this was, he or she was probably watching right now. Watching right this very second. He tilted his head.

Luce sighed and shook his head. "I can't believe I know you this well after only spending a few weeks with you."

"What?" Greg said, glancing sideways.

"You're going to give them a show, aren't you?" Luce said.

"What? No, certainly n - well, if you insist," Greg said.

He leaned forward until his nose nearly touched the glass. If he looked hard enough, he could make out murky, swirling blurs moving deep inside the glass. "Hello, there," he murmured silkily, gazing into the glass. The dim shapes stilled for the briefest half-second before they began moving again.

He took a deep breath, just for effect, and let it fog the glass. Then he narrowed his eyes, smiled, and willed his face to shift: his eyes burned with a cold, red fire; his nose lengthened and flattened, turning up at the end like a bat; what little color remained in his face drained out, replaced with a ghostly, luminescent glow; all his teeth sharpened and grew in rapid succession, spilling out of his mouth in rows like a shark, until his mouth was filled with vicious looking needles.

"Flaming fuck," Luce choked out, taking a step back. "You didn't look like that when you were fighting Drake."

Greg swung his head sideways, and the bony ridges in his forehead crinkled when he frowned.

"You haven't seen me really fight yet. Not yet," he hissed, trying to shape the words correctly in his new face, slipping the sounds between his teeth like silk across a razor blade.

It was always hard to talk when he pulled this face out - it wasn't a face made for speech or negotiations: it was just made for killing. When he held his mouth open too long the saliva dripped down his chin.

Luce stared with wide eyes, a white, startled ring visible around his golden-brown irises. Greg wiped a hand self-consciously under his lip to catch a string of drool and turned back to the windowpane.

"I only think it's fair," Greg hissed, "to show you what you're up against. In the interest of sportsmanship." He accidentally bit his lip as he spoke, but he though the crimson stained teeth and the dripping blood were rather nice effects, so he didn't really mind.

"Now we'll be watching for you," Greg said. He grinned as wide as he could, showcasing his teeth. Then he punched the window and shattered the glass.

He took a deep breath, forcing the air out as he let his face relax into its familiar shape: things shrunk and folded and bent, and Greg winced as his teeth retracted a little too quickly. He worked his jaw, trying to stretch it out; it was always stiff after he transformed - the strain of too many large teeth in too small a container.

"You, uh, you got any more faces I should know about?" Luce asked. He looked shaken.

"No," Greg said. "That one gets a little worse if I let it, but it's a bitch to put myself back to normal afterward, so I tend not to use it."

Luce laughed weakly. "You win for best party trick. Do you think whoever was watching is appropriately terrified?"

Greg shook his head. "I wish, but I doubt it. With the level of magic we're dealing with, I'd say this person has a lot of experience with dark magic. And believe me, they've probably seen nastier things than my ugly face if they've dabbled in dark magic for long."

"I find that hard to believe," Luce said.

"Oh no, it's true," Greg said. "There are some demons, particularly on the lower levels - oh. You're saying my face is uglier than a demon. Ha, what comedy."

Luce grinned. "You've gotta admit, you did look like a first-rate hell creature there for a minute."

"Those are, I believe, fighting words," Greg said. "Just because there are no handy slices of jam-covered toast around does not mean you are safe."

Luce held up his hands in mock surrender. "Just trying to lighten the mood," he said. "I've had about all the stress I can handle for today."

"Well, then," Greg said. "You're probably not going to like it when I tell you that we have more than one bad guy to deal with."

"What do you mean?" Luce asked.

"No one could maintain the kind of energy required to keep a continuous watcher-spell of that size on their own. They'd need help, and they'd need to share energy."

"Great," Luce said. "I haven't even opened the damn orphanage yet and we've already got massive problems." He ran his hand through his hair. Greg didn't like the way Luce's face suddenly looked haggard and worn.

"Correctable problems," Greg said. He touched a tentative hand to Luce's shoulder. "You've got me to help you. I meant it when I said I thought this was a good idea. These kids need a place, and they need someone like you to care for them. We're going to find out who's responsible for this, and we're going to give them a very severe talking-to. Also, I'd like to kill them, if that's all right."

Greg withdrew his hand, feeling a bit embarrassed. "And only if you want my help, of course."

Luce was looking at him strangely. "So, partners, then?"

Greg nodded once, sharply. "Partners."

After picking up the broken glass and conjuring new windowpanes out of the pieces, Greg and Luce paid a quick visit to Russell. As Greg suspected, Russell hadn't seen or heard anything last night; he was still woozy from his sugar-induced coma.

They left him with strict instructions to be on the lookout for suspicious activity tonight, and went back to Luce's apartment.

"Where are the letters?" Greg asked the minute they were inside the door.

"I'll get them while you get cleaned up," Luce said. His hand was cupped under Greg's elbow to support him. Greg hadn't bothered to tell him that he was perfectly fine now.

"I can get cleaned up later," Greg said. "We need to - "

"You can get cleaned up now," Luce said. He steered Greg toward his bedroom. "Change your clothes, take a shower, and stop scaring the kids."

"Kids?" Greg said, and realized Shub and Rubeus hadn't run to greet him when he walked in the apartment. He searched around and finally spotted Shub and Rubeus sitting inside the threshold of the kitchen; they were pressed against each other and peered out into the hall with wide eyes.

He knelt down and opened his arms. "It's all right," he said softly. "I'm all right."

Shub and Rubeus looked at each other and then bounded over to Greg with sharp, unhappy cries. Greg winced as they scrambled up his pant legs and further shredded the material. They settled around his shoulders and began licking the blood off of his face and neck.

"That's sweet, they're cleaning you," Luce said.

Greg, who thought he knew his evil pets a bit better, replied, "No, they're having a snack."

Luce grimaced. "I never thought something could be cute and gross at the same time."

Greg shrugged and went to find a change of clothes. He left Luce standing in the hallway watching after him.

Greg allowed Rubeus and Shub a few more minutes of licking his face before their sandpaper tongues began rubbing his newly healed skin raw. He set them down on the bed, and they curled up together to watch him: one pair of bright blue eyes and one pair of bright pink.

He stripped in the bathroom and washed the remaining blood off. Then he threw on a black t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans and went in search of Luce. He found Luce standing at the far end of the hallway at the foot of the invisible stairs.

Luce smiled when he saw Greg. "You clean up pretty well for a guy who was half-undead a few hours ago."

Greg snorted. "I bet you say that to all the vampires."

Luce laughed in reply and motioned him up the stairs. It was always strange to see Luce climb to his office: it looked like he was leisurely strolling upwards in the air. Greg hated invisible steps; they always made him trip. Somehow, even vampiric reflexes didn't help when the ground was invisible.

This time was no different. He went down about halfway between the floor and the ceiling, sprawled across the stairs in midair. He knew he must look ridiculous. Shub and Rubeus had followed him out into the hallway, and they were watching him curiously. He had no doubt they were laughing at him.

Luce helped him up and squeezed Greg's shoulder before he let go. "Summer used to trip on these all the time when she was little."

"Yes, thank you for comparing me to a clumsy toddler," Greg said.

"I didn't mean -" Luce started to say. He caught sight of Greg's expression. "You might not want to look so serious when you tell a joke," he finished.

"I'm trying to give new meaning to the expression 'deadpan,'" Greg replied.

Luce's office was decorated much like the rest of his home: in warmth. The rich mahogany-paneled walls served as backdrop to a comfortable reading chair positioned under a dented brass lamp, an old, nicked wooden desk and chair, a small iron safe tucked between the bookshelves, and numerous drawings adorning the walls. Greg knew Summer had done the drawings because each one was signed in pink crayon.

It should have looked shabby and antiquated, but instead it looked inviting and well-lived. It was his favorite room in Luce's home, next to the cozy living room.

Luce opened up the top drawer in his desk and pulled out a worn manila envelope stuffed with a sheaf of papers. "Here are the letters," he said. "But I doubt they're all from the same person."

Greg took the papers from him and scanned through them. "No," he said. "I think this one was written by a squid." He held up a piece of dried kelp covered in fishy smelling ink. Suction marks remained on the corners.

Luce sighed and sat down in the desk chair. "I don't understand why anyone would be against us helping kids. I mean, they're innocent. It's not like they asked to be born!" He smacked his palm against the desk.

Greg wasn't sure what to say, so he touched Luce's shoulder lightly with his free hand, trying to convey his understanding. Luce jerked beneath his touch but relaxed after a few seconds.

"You want to help them," Greg said finally. "And you aren't the only one. You have Frank, and Drake, and Gill. And me," he added. "And a hundred more, I'm sure of it. What we're doing is the right thing."

"I know," Luce said. He sounded tired and every one of his thousand years. "I just wish I didn't have to fight at every step."

"Oh, demonic saints, you're going to make me say it, aren't you?" Greg said. He dropped his hand from Luce's shoulder and walked around the chair until he could lean against the desk and face Luce.

"What?" Luce asked.

Greg heaved a very put-upon sigh. "That some things are worth fighting for, naturally."

Luce laughed, but it was strained. "Right. And nothing worthwhile ever comes easily. And I believe the children are our future. And only the good die young."

"Please, stop, I beg of you," Greg said. "One more cheerful platitude and I'm done for."

This time Luce's laughter sounded much more normal.

Greg cleared his throat. "About these letters," he said. He opened the folder and shuffled through the papers. "It shouldn't take me long to go through them and find our new friend."

"Really?" Luce said, leaning forward.

"Dark magic is a bit like a very evil cologne," Greg said. "Once you've used it, the smell lingers on your body and, in turn, everything you touch."

"Like evil body odor?" Luce asked, lips quirking.

"In a way," Greg said, smiling. "Not many people can smell dark magic, but I can. It's one of the least common abilities, usually reserved for older monsters, so most magic users don't think about it. That's good for us, bad for them."

As he spoke, he ran his hands over each letter, searching for the telltale tingle of dark magic. Dark magic usually left a feeling behind, like the smallest of static charges. It was very faint, and you had to pay attention, because you only ever felt the discharge of magic once; after it came into contact with someone it was absorbed into the low grade electricity thrumming through each person's body.

In the end, six letters bore the mark of dark magic. The problem was that six different people wrote them.

"Six?" Luce said. "Six monsters powerful enough to use dark magic don't like me?"

"At least it isn't seven," Greg said, trying to cheer him up.

Luce groaned and put his head down on the desk.

Greg was terrible at cheering people up.

After going over the letters a few times, Greg dismissed the first three letter writers as unlikely candidates. Judging by the papyrus, the first letter had been written by a mummy, and they were notoriously closeted; it was unlikely one would team up with another monster. Besides, the letter mostly sounded like the grumblings of an old monster who had nothing better to do.

He dismissed the second and third letters because they were full of spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. Evil proofread.

That left them with three letters to investigate.

----

The first letter was written on sticky pink paper; red fingerprint smudges bordered the paper's edge and smeared the writing. The whole thing looked amateurish, but it reeked of dark magic.

A sickly sweet smell curled over the bitter smell of the dark magic. It smelled like . . . candy.

Greg sniffed again. Yes, it smelled like cherry candy. He was sitting on the bed in his room studying the letters while Luce worked upstairs doing whatever it is one did to start an orphanage. Glancing around to make certain no one was watching, he bent down and licked one of the red smudges.

He immediately spat it out. Grimacing, he wiped a hand across his mouth. It was candy, all right - straight from a sweetch's oven.

After a few discreet inquiries downtown, he obtained the last known address of the local sweetch. He didn't tell Luce where he was going, and took off for the heart of the Almost-Black Forest with very little in the way of a plan.

In a clearing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by trees that were a shade darker than grey, he found a tiny cottage. Smoke curled invitingly from a ramshackle chimney.

The cottage itself was painted bright yellow; the shutters and window boxes were trimmed with scalloped white woodwork. It gave the appearance of a large butter cream cake with frosting. The front door was made of well-polished cherry wood, and a large brass knocker shaped like a flower hung in the middle.

Greg knocked and waited.

It wasn't long before an old woman with plump, apple-blushed cheeks and a grandmotherly visage answered the door. Her grey hair framed her face in darling wisps, and a warm, pink shawl was gathered over her shoulders.

"Why, hello!" she said, beaming. "My, what a handsome young man! Do come inside, I've just baked some fresh cookies. We can enjoy them with some ice cold milk. It builds strong bones, you know." Her blue eyes twinkled merrily over the top of her spectacles.

"Cut the crap," Greg said. "I know you're a sweetch."

The old woman scowled and whipped the glasses off of her face. Her cherubic cheeks hollowed, her skin slackened and paled, and her buttony nose ballooned out by three sizes, festooned with warts. The pink shawl shriveled and turned black.

"Well?" she croaked. "What the hell d'you want?"

Greg held up the letter, and the old woman glowered at him.

"Come in," she said grudgingly. She left the door open and turned and shuffled down the long, dark hallway. Greg followed at a safe pace and decided not to close the door behind him in case he had to leave in a hurry.

The door slammed shut by itself anyway.

As they walked down the hall, the cheerful, candy-cane striped wallpaper peeled and cracked, and the pictures that hung on the wall, previously full of images of children laughing and frolicking in open meadows, changed to display images of the sweetch's ancestors: the pictures formed a line of gruesome, scowling women on both sides of the hall.

The sweetch led him back to her kitchen, which was always the largest and most important room in a sweetch's house.

"Nice oven," Greg commented. It was twice as tall as him and wide enough to fit a small crowd of adults. Or children.

"Thank you," the sweetch said, smiling. Her single tooth glinted.

"You wrote this letter," Greg said, "threatening to burn the orphanage to the ground. And bake everyone inside. A colorful touch."

"I thought so," the sweetch said, dipping her head in agreement.

"Do you know who I am?" Greg asked. "This would probably go a lot quicker if you did. People tend to give me what I want when they know who I am."

The sweetch eyeballed him. "You're a vampire, I can tell that. But I've got no use for vampires - they can't even eat my candy!" She harrumphed and folded her bony arms across her chest, over breasts that hung flat and low.

"I've no use for vampires," she repeated. "And your kind don't bake well, either. No juices inside you."

"That would depend on what time you caught the vampire. After dinner we're particularly juicy," Greg said. "Well, I'm here to very politely tell you that if you ever threaten the orphanage again, I'll come back and rip your throat out. Okay?"

"Bah," the sweetch said. "You don't scare me." She poked a gnarled finger in the middle of Greg's chest.

"Not even if I told you I was Dracula's son, and I had terrible anger management issues?"

The sweetch took a step back and scowled again. "No," she said. "My ancestors were sweetches before your father had grown his first set of fangs. I'll threaten who I want, when I want, and - "

"Where you want, yes, okay," Greg said. "You didn't happen to set a vicious spell inside the orphanage recently, did you?"

The sweetch shook her head. "I'm strictly an enchantments lady. I don't work spells. Snare and serve, that's the way I like it."

"Of course," Greg said. He could smell that she was telling the truth. "How's business been lately?"

The sweetch looked away. "Not good," she admitted. "The children don't wander into the woods like they used to. Nobody likes my sweets anymore."

She let out a series of short, wheezing breaths, and Greg realized she was crying. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable standing in a room that had gotten very small.

"I'm a failure as a sweets-witch!" the sweetch wailed, wringing her gnarled hands. "A hundred generations of sweets-witches behind me, and I can't get a single child to visit my cottage." She bent over as her crying turned into a fit of coughs.

"Perhaps you should consider relocating," Greg said.

"The Almost-Black Forest is my home!" the witch cried out. "I've been here since it was the Blacker Forest and I'll be here until it's a pile of twigs! Oh!" she said, clutching at her chest. She sat down on a wooden stool next to the oven. "Ask an old woman to move, for shame!"

"Most of the business and trade has moved to the new Black Forest," Greg pointed out.

The sweetch turned up her nose, which meant she had to angle the long, warty tip high toward the ceiling to achieve the proper effect. "Just because those idiots at the city council decided this old forest didn't meet the new standards of black doesn't mean it's any less ominous," the sweetch said stubbornly.

Greg had to admire her spirit. There weren't many of the traditional sweetches still around - a lot of the newer sweetches had townhouses in the city and did their big business on Halloween.

"But you said the children aren't coming around like they used to," Greg pointed out.

The sweetch's lower lip trembled. "Yes, and if that damned orphanage opens, no orphaned children will ever wander into the woods again! They'll have a place to go and people to look after them - it's terrible! Who will I entice into my cottage to eat my cooking?"

"That's why you don't want the orphanage to open?" Greg asked. A thought suddenly struck him as he looked around the kitchen and observed the various pots and pans simmering on the stove, the cauldron cooking in the open fireplace, and the giant oven.

"You still want to cook for children, don't you?" he said.

The sweetch sniffed and wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. "Of course! Enchantments may be my specialty, but there is no nobler calling than feeding a hungry child."

"Yes, but how many children could you cook for? One? Two?" Greg asked. "Surely not enough to feed more than five or six."

The sweetch sat up straight on the stool and glared at him. "Ha! I could cook enough food to feed a hundred children! And every bite would taste delicious!"

"Really," Greg said. "You wouldn't happen to know how to bake cupcakes with pink frosting, would you?" he asked.

"Yes," the sweetch said warily. "Why?"

"I might have a job for you," Greg said. "How would you like to be the head of catering at the orphanage?"

The sweetch squinted and scratched at a hair on her chin. "You mean the cook?"

"I mean you'd feed the children, and they'd love you. They might even call you Granny Sweets," Greg said.

The sweetch's eyes misted over and she clutched at her shawl. "They would?"

"And you wouldn't be alone," Greg added softly.

"That might be all right," the sweetch replied. "But I won't have kids allowed in my kitchen. I had two get caught in the oven once and I haven't heard the end of it since."

"Deal," Greg said.

----

Greg couldn't get a lead on either of the remaining letters. Dark magic clung to the papers, greasy and thick, but the magical signatures were muffled. He couldn't get any sense of the casters.

He decided that if he couldn't find the casters, he could at least let them know he was very interested in speaking with them. He also decided not to tell Luce about his newest plan. Last time, Luce had been inexplicably annoyed when he found out that Greg had gone to find an unknown sweetch, in the middle of a dark forest, without any backup.

But Luce had been pleased to learn he'd acquired a new cook willing to work for nothing more than the pleasure of seeing hungry children fed, so Greg counted it a success.

Greg made himself highly visible over the next few days: he lounged on the front steps of the orphanage; he sat on the grass and pored through magic books; he slept on the roof; and he went inside to use the bathroom because anything else would have been unseemly. He told Luce he was spending so much time at the orphanage because he was beefing up the security on the premises. It was half true: his presence was certainly added security.

But no one appeared to either blow him up with a spell or ask him to stop scaring the neighborhood children. In fact, the only company he had was Russell, who didn't like the sunshine and would only ooze out of the house at dusk.

By the fourth day, when Greg was nearly ready to give up on his plan, a hearse limo pulled up to the curb.

The limo was silver with silver door handles and silver rims. If tires could be made out of silver, Greg was willing to bet his last fang that the car would have rolled up to the curb on silver wheels.

And Greg knew anything boasting that much silver had to belong to a werewolf.

As if on cue, the rear door of the hearse opened. An elegantly groomed paw emerged, and one clawed finger beckoned Greg closer. Nothing was visible of the occupant inside the hearse.

Right, he thought. That wasn't suspicious - ominous disembodied hands beckoned people toward their cars all the time.

Greg shook his head. Honestly, some monsters were so predictable. He hopped off the roof and whistled as he walked down the sidewalk toward the road.

The limo idled sinisterly by the curb. When he reached the door, it swung open quietly as a coffin lid, and the furred hand withdrew into the depths of the hearse.

Greg squinted and peered into the cab's gloom. The orange glow of a cigar stub silhouetted the shape of a large, furry body. Strains of soft, classical music drifted from the shadows. Greg suddenly felt like he was in a mob movie - and not the familiar kind, with the pitchforks.

"Hello," he ventured.

A cloud of smoke billowed out of the hearse's interior and a gravelly voice commanded: "Get in."

"Since you asked so nicely," Greg said, climbing into the backseat. He blinked once and let his eyes settle into their night-pattern. Instantly, the cab's dim interior snapped into sharp focus, and the hearse's other occupant was finally visible.

"So, this is Count Dracula's eldest son," said the werewolf sitting across from him.

"Ah," Greg said, his stomach sinking. "Hello, Baron."

"The last time I saw you, you were still in little black diapers," said Lupus von Wulfmann, second Baron of the House of Weyr.

"Yes," Greg said. "I would say that the last time I saw you, you looked much bigger, but you still, in fact, look much bigger."

The Baron shifted in his seat, and the black leather upholstery creaked under his weight. His massive shoulders pulled against the fabric of his expensive suit, and a small sprig of wolfsbane decorated his lapel.

The Baron's amber eyes glinted sharply under bushy eyebrows. His hair swept away from his face like a shaggy lion's mane, and a thick ruff of luxurious chest fur spilled out over the top of his suit like a cravat. His temples had gone a bit gray, and his moustache and beard were sprinkled with silver, but he still looked like the powerful monster Greg remembered from his childhood.

"You are still such an awkward child, Gregori," the Baron replied, taking a deep drag on his cigar.

"Yes," Greg said, very unwilling to argue with a monster who could rip his face off.

"I've heard you are investigating the origins of several threatening letters Lucian recently received," the Baron said. He flexed one arm, the movement silently threatening.

"Oh no," Greg said, "Please don't tell me one of those letters was from you."

"The one I can smell in your left front pocket, actually," said the Baron.

Greg groaned to himself. If Luce had to contend with the Baron, he was going to need more help than an antisocial vampire and a motley crew of untrained monsters could provide.

"Why would you send the letter?" Greg said, trying to think. "You really didn't want us to help orphaned monsters?"

"I've reconsidered my position since then," the Baron said. "So there's no harm done."

"You threatened to break every bone in Lucian's body, rend him limb from limb, and scatter the remains of his corpse across the salt dragon marshes," Greg said. "I'm really not okay with that. Actually, I'd have to say that if I heard you threaten Luce again I would hunt you down and kill you."

"No, no," the Baron said. "I won't threaten your phoenix friend again."

"Really," Greg said, his voice flat.

"Yes," the Baron said slowly, taking another drag on his cigar. His eyes never left Greg. "At the time, I thought I was writing with the support of several influential monsters behind me, but since then your friend Lucian has done much to sway them to his side. I find I must have written that letter in a fit of pique."

"I see. And now you realize you're standing under the stage lights all alone?"

"Something like that," said the Baron. "You understand the difficulty of the position in which I now find myself. I have a very public face, and any negative publicity would hurt me very badly."

His tone suggested negative publicity would also hurt Greg very badly.

"You're running for mayor in the spring," Greg said. "On a platform of equality for monsters. It wouldn't look good if people found out you only meant equality for pure-blooded monsters."

The Baron stared at him, stroking his beard. "I see that we understand each other perfectly." He flicked the ash from his cigar into an ornate silver ashtray resting on the seat next to him.

"Besides," the Baron said, "my wife has persuaded me to support my furbrained youngest's newest cause. It's very popular with the voting public."

"Your youngest?" Greg asked.

"Yes," said the Baron with a heavy sigh. "My son, Lupus von Wulfmann, Jr. I believe you know him as Flea."

Greg laughed and laughed, and when he calmed down, the Baron was glaring at him.

"Sorry," Greg said. "It's just, well, you know."

"I know," the Baron said. "He takes after his mother."

"And how is she?"

"Red?" the Baron asked. "She's fine. Still running her elderly catering business."

"Ah," Greg said.

They were silent for several minutes. The Baron puffed on his cigar and watched out the window. Smoke curled around his face and made his features hazy.

Greg thought very carefully about his next move.

"Your official position will be support for the orphanage?" Greg asked. "And acceptance for mixed and half-breed monsters?"

"Yes," said the Baron. "I want the voters to know I'm committed to equality and social progress."

"In that case," Greg said, "Lucian and I would like to thank you for the extremely generous contribution your campaign made to our cause."

The Baron raised his hairy eyebrows, and his cigar dangled from the corner of his mouth. "My contribution? What contri -?"

"-bution you made?" Greg interrupted. "You remember. You donated a large sum of money to the orphanage as a show of support and goodwill. You must remember," he said. "You received very good publicity from the whole affair."

The Baron sat back in his seat as his expression changed swiftly from anger to calculation. "Of course. How could I forget? It was the same day there was a freak magical fire in your left front pocket. Agreed?"

"Yes," Greg said. Unspoken magic was a tricky thing to control, but magic could understand words beneath words; his skin felt the tingle of an oath-spell. He took the Baron's letter from his pocket and pulled the cigarette lighter out, touching its tip to the paper. A second later a heap of ash lay smoldering in the ashtray.

"Well maneuvered," the Baron said admiringly. "You are certainly your father's son."

"Please," Greg said. "This has gone so well. Let's not end on a sour note."

"One of my aides will come around tomorrow with a check," the Baron said.

"I'm sure Lucian will speak to the press first thing in the morning," Greg replied. He had some phone calls to make when he got home; he couldn't wait to see Luce's face.

"Good," said the Baron. "And don't think you'll pull one over on me again."

"I wouldn't dream of it. Morpheus himself couldn't induce such thoughts," Greg said. He realized he was pushing it. "And thanks for stopping by to catch up. It's been a pleasure."

"Get out of my car," the Baron said.

----

Greg returned to Luce's apartment with a happy bounce in his step. He could picture how pleased Luce would be about the latest development and was eager to deliver the news.

Luce was waiting for him by the front door, and he didn't look nearly as pleased as Greg had imagined. "Where were you?" Luce demanded. "I drove by the orphanage to - well, you weren't there and I looked everywhere. I even asked Russell and all I could get out of him was 'Gloop blurp, glip.'"

"Hello to you, too," Greg said, trying to fend off Shub and Rubeus' joyous claw-tipped welcome while he hung his coat up next to Luce's jacket by the front door. A strange feeling curled across his stomach: Luce had been worried about him.

"If you understood Slimese you'd know perfectly well where I went: 'With the furry hand into the death car.'"

"What?" Luce asked. His hair started to smoke, and Greg hastened to explain.

"It was Flea's father," he said. As he related to Luce his conversation with the Baron, Luce's expression lightened and his hair simmered down.

"That's great!" Luce said. "Because here's the thing: we're taking in our first orphan at the end of the month."

"Wh - The end of the month?" Greg said. "Hm, month. What an interesting word. I'm sure it doesn't mean the same thing in both of our languages."

Luce laughed and pushed lightly at Greg's shoulder. "I'm picking her up at the scareport; it's a little girl, and her name's Emma. Her parents were killed in that troll bridge collapse a few weeks ago."

Greg nodded. "I remember hearing about that. It was very saddening. But that's what happens when the trolls aren't around to maintain the bridges."

"Damn right," Luce agreed. "The sooner the council realizes that, the better off we'll be."

Greg nodded again. It wasn't a surprise that Luce was pro-toll. Greg sympathized with them too: bridge trolls were often unfairly lumped with their more savage cousins, even though a clear distinction between the two was apparent to even a casual observer.

Bridge trolls still had massive shoulders to move and manipulate rock, but on average they were slender compared to the huge, wild mountain trolls. And living near rivers kept their skin moist and smooth, instead of dry and craggy like their mountainous troll cousins. Bridge trolls also tended to prefer human food to humans as food.

But negative public sentiment toward trolls of any caste ran high; as a result, bridge trolls whose families had manned their stations for hundreds of years were being forced from their bridge homes. Without proper maintenance the bridges collapsed.

"It's not fair that so many monsters are so damned ignorant," Luce continued, his voice rising. "We're all monsters, for feather's sake! Trolls, djinns, harpies - a lot of the other minorities - they're all looked down on. I don't understand how monsters who've escaped persecution in the Old World can turn around and act the same way as - as - as a human!"

"Easy," Greg said, putting a hand on Luce's shoulder. "One cause at a time. You don't want to overchampion yourself. First, let's deal with the halfling orphans nobody wants. Then you can work yourself up over troll rights or harpy rights."

"Or djinn rights," Luce replied sullenly, but he relaxed under Greg's touch.

"Right," Greg said. "Or djinn rights. You could even join the Djinn Liberation Front."

"They're next on my list of righteous struggles," Luce said, ducking his head. His sheepish half-smile made Greg's heart twist strangely.

Greg cleared his throat. "Of course," he agreed easily. "I think they have some valid points, but I don't think anyone wants phenomenal, cosmic beings suddenly on the loose en masse. There are a few kinks to be worked out first."

Luce smiled in that crooked way he did whenever he thought Greg was being particularly amusing. "Right. I suppose I'll confine myself to one uphill struggle at a time."

"That's the spirit," Greg said. "You should be an old hat at death threats by then."

Luce's playful expression sobered, and Greg cursed himself and his inept tongue.

"Yeah," Luce said, frowning. "I never majored in math, but I think that still leaves us with one chock-full-of-evil letter writer hiding out there somewhere. And with Emma arriving so soon, I don't want to take any chances." Luce pulled away, his expression pensive.

"I'll keep looking," Greg said, letting his hand drop to his side. It felt cold. "And I'll lay down an extra layer of spells. While I'm around, no one will hurt that child."

"I know," Luce replied, running a hand through his hair. "But I'm worried about what happens when you're gone."

The coldness spread from Greg's hand in one straight, icy line toward the center of his chest. In the last few weeks, he'd grown accustomed to his surroundings and the novelties of having friends, a warm home, and a real purpose. He didn't want to leave.

"I don't want you to leave," Luce said, as though reading his thoughts. "I want to hire you full-time to handle security at the orphanage."

"Really?" Greg asked. He kept the relief from showing on his face and tried not to appear too eager. "I'm not sure that -"

"It would only be temporary," Luce said quickly, as though afraid that Greg would refuse. "Until I could find a permanent replacement."

"Naturally," Greg said, feeling stung but unsure why. "I couldn't stay forever."

"So you'll do it?" Luce asked, his voice suddenly brittle and too bright.

Greg pretended to consider the offer. "Yes."

Luce's answering smile was so brilliant Greg had to squint.

----

Over the next few days, Greg discovered four more spells hidden in spots around the orphanage; each spell was designed to do particularly nasty things.

The spell hunt kept Greg on his toes: he checked the house and grounds from top to bottom every day. The spells were all new, and that meant their unseen enemy was much closer than they thought.

Greg wasted no time in increasing security. He hired two reliable ghoulish mercenaries he'd worked with a few decades ago. The new security ghouls agreed to work for a pound of decaying flesh a week and a new uniform with a smart looking cap.

One wide, pointy smile later, he brokered a deal with a local butcher to buy the leftover scraps, and visited Madame Arachne's silk shop to order uniforms.

The security ghouls, dressed in dapper blue, made Luce nervous for the first week. Greg made the mistake of mentioning that he'd worked with the ghouls on jobs in the past, and the next thing he knew Luce and the ghouls were fast friends, laughing over jokes. Greg darkly suspected some of those jokes were aimed at him.

Luce was in a flurry of activity finishing up last-minute paperwork before Emma's arrival. He set Russell and Granny Sweets to cleaning. Granny Sweets declared halfway through dusting her seventh bookshelf that she had better get to the kitchen and start cooking for their hungry young charge. Russell glooped along as usual, cleaning as he went and leaving a long, sticky trail behind him. Greg eventually took pity on him and sent Russell to the basement while he cleaned up the rest of the slime.

He visited the orphanage around the clock and met with Bill and Bob, the security ghouls, at least three times a day. By the time the orphan was due to arrive, Greg felt confident they had everything in place.

----

Greg balanced precariously on the back of on an old wooden chair and reached toward the ceiling. He was having trouble pinning his latest spell to the molding: old spells layered in the house's foundation kept peeking through cracks in the plaster.

He looked down. A small child was tugging on his trouser leg with her sticky hands. She had a tumble of golden curls atop her head, rosy cheeks, and sky blue eyes. He found her slightly revolting in her devastating adorability. He reached down and awkwardly patted her on the head.

"Yes?" he inquired politely.

"Up! Up! Up!" the little girl replied. She was sucking on her thumb and staring up at him with wide eyes. She tugged stickily on his trouser leg again. "Up!" she repeated.

"Oh," Greg said. "You're that orphan. I'm sure you have a name but I've forgotten. What is it?"

"Emma up! Up!" the little girl squealed. She clapped her pudgy hands together in glee.

Greg tried to gently extricate himself from her sticky grasp. "Emma, is it? Ah, yes, I remember now. Well. Could you be more specific?"

Emma paused, sucking on her thumb with renewed determination. "Up?" she queried. "Up fly?"

"I'm afraid not," Greg said. "I don't fly. No wings." He opened his arms wide. "You see? No wings - just tattered shreds of dignity and very, very thin threads of patience."

Emma giggled and grabbed his trouser leg again, jumping up and down. "Batty! Batty funny!"

"Not really," Greg said. "Even if I do think my whole life has been a comedy of errors." He got down off the chair very slowly; the last thing he wanted to do was break his neck in front of an impressionable child. That sort of thing might lead to therapy.

Emma's face scrunched up in puzzlement. "No fun?"

"None at all," Greg said solemnly. "Not even as fun as a graveyard."

Emma pondered this and nodded. "Batty fly night! Shwoosh! Swooooooosh!"

Greg sighed; it seemed she was not to be deterred. He realized she must have seen him transform before patrolling the grounds last night. He thought he'd seen a light on in one of the upstairs windows.

"Fly high!" Emma demanded. Greg found the pugnacious tilt of her chin deeply worrying.

"I think it would be very against the rules for me to take a young child out for a jaunt, especially since I am a dark fiend of the night, and you are a blood-filled toddler treat. Uncle Luce would stake me down in the desert and likely not return for me before dinner."

"Unca Luce! Unca Luce!" Emma squealed.

"Yes, rather," said Greg. "Perhaps you could bother him? You've been here a few days, I'm sure he bonded with you like a mother hen. Uncle Greg is busy."

Emma squealed again; Greg winced. Toddlers could teach bats a thing or two about ultrasonic sound waves.

"Unca Geg! Unca Geg!" Emma said. She wrapped herself around Greg's leg and sat down on his foot, clinging to him.

"Oh, no," Greg said, with feeling.

Emma wiped her nose on his trousers.

"Emma, I assure you Uncle Luce is a far more ameliorable companion than myself. Why don't you go see him?" Greg asked.

"Unca Geg see Unca Luce!" said Emma.

Greg sighed but was never more grateful for short attention spans. He walked, half-dragging himself down the hall; Emma refused to get off his foot. She thought this new mode of transportation was highly enjoyable, if her childish shrieks of joy were to be believed.

His ankle was beginning to protest the added weight, and he was glad when they reached Luce's office in mercifully short time.

He knocked sharply on the wooden door and heard a distracted "Come in!" before he pushed open the door and walked into the room.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion, Lucian, she insisted on seeing you - Ouch!" Greg exclaimed. He looked down to see Emma pulling a short spear out of his calf muscle.

"What the - who gave the child a weapon?" Greg asked incredulously. He could feel blood trickling down his leg. Emma giggled and ran to Luce.

"Well," said Luce after a short pause, "Emma is a half-Cupid. She can conjure arrows. She just hasn't learned to use them delicately yet."

Luce hiked up his trouser leg, and Greg could see a handful of healing puncture wounds.

"Then shouldn't someone be teaching her?" snapped Greg. He saw Emma's lower lip begin to tremble and with some effort softened his voice. "After all, someday she might stab someone who doesn't possess rapid healing abilities."

"Yeah, you're right," said Luce. "But where would we find someone to teach her? Someone who knows about sharp, pointy things jabbing into flesh? Someone familiar with ancient magic? Someone with patience and -"

"No," said Greg. "Emphatically no."

"Emma," Luce said, squatting down to the girl's level. "Would you like Uncle Greg to teach you how to play with your sticks?"

"Unca Geg!" Emma shrieked, running back to Greg and grasping his now permanently sticky trouser leg.

"Lucian," Greg said stiffly, and not because there was an excitable toddler locking his knees together, "That is likely not the best idea."

"Of course it is," said Luce, waving a hand and going back to sit behind his desk. "Emma is all alone right now, and I don't have time to supervise her. I'm working on getting us a few more kids."

"More?" Greg said faintly. He needed to sit down.

"Yeah, more. We should have six by the end of next week: Emma, a pair of half-troll twins, a werecat, a merboy, and a baby naga." Luce returned his attention to the papers on his desk, clearly a dismissal.

Greg would have said he felt all the blood drain from his face, if it wasn't such an ironic expression for a vampire. "Ah."

Luce looked up. "Don't worry, you can handle it. A big, bad vampire like you has nothing to fear from a couple kids."

"Right," Greg said.

Emma took that moment to stab him in the leg again with another arrow. She giggled and ran out of the room, her chubby legs pistoning furiously.

"I think," Greg said, his voice tight, "that Emma and I are going to have our first lesson right now. Good day."

He hobbled stiffly toward the door, the arrow sticking out of his leg.

"Don't kill her," Luce called out. "She's only been here a few days."

If she wanted to remain here another day, Greg thought, she was making a poor start of things.

He turned halfway, and spoke over his shoulder. "I won't kill her. Much."

"Greg," Luce said.

"Very well," Greg replied. "The child will live a few more days, at least. But," he said grimly, "the moment she stabs something more sensitive than a leg, all bets are off."

"Just tell me before you plan to annihilate any toddlers, hm?" Luce said, going back to his work.

"All right," Greg said, and went to hunt down Emma.

When he saw Bob standing inside the dining room doorway wearing a besotted expression on his face, he knew the child must have been by here.

Bob saw Greg and snapped out of his daze, shrugging sheepishly. His waxen skin showed his fiery red blush.

"Chief," he said, tipping his hat as Greg walked past. He pointed down the hall. "Thattaway."

Greg nodded. Now, he thought to himself as he stalked down the hall, if he were an adorable tow-headed child bursting with rosy-cheeked mischievousness, where would he go? Surely not the drawing room, there was nothing of interest there but the suit of armor -

A metallic crash echoed through the house.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and headed down the hall

Three weeks later Greg was still running after Emma. This time he had lost her near the drawing room, and, after his third search through the hall closet proved fruitless, he was nearly ready to declare this round in Emma's favor.

Rubbing a hand over his face as he mentally ran through a list of the remaining places he hadn't yet searched, he turned around and bumped into Luce.

Luce's hands came up to steady him, gripping his upper arms. "Greg," Luce said, his tone annoyed. "You can't keep calling our merboy 'Flipper'."

"He has a giant flipper," Greg said reasonably, stepping away. He could still feel the imprint of Luce's hands on his skin. "What else am I supposed to call him? I can't bother with names. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am on Emma-safari. By the way, Flint and Malachite are on the roof."

Luce grabbed his arm again. "What are the twins doing up there?"

"How should I know?" Greg said, tugging his arm free with a pointed look. "Anyway, it isn't as though the fall would hurt them. Their heads are just small rocks with ears."

Luce rubbed his temple. "I'll check on them. After you find Emma, go see Oliver, he was asking for you."

Greg sighed. "What does that exasperating little meat-sack want now?"

"Don't ask me - I still don't understand why all the kids like you better than me. You only lead them into mortal danger."

"Testing Flipper's endurance underwater is essential to his monster training," Greg defended. "And you can hardly notice the tiny bald spot that Russell's slime burned into Oliver's fur."

"Oh, God," Luce said. "What? What happened to Oliver? Did you arrange some sort of were-cat versus slime monster battle royale? No, don't tell me," Luce said, holding up a hand to forestall Greg's explanation. "I don't want to know. Drake and Frank will be here in an hour to take over. Then we can go home and get some sleep."

Luce yawned widely, his jaw cracking, and leaned against the doorframe. The late afternoon sun slanted through the glass window above the front door and glanced off the top of his head; the light brought out golden flecks in Luce's hair and bathed his face in a warm glow. Greg thought that nothing looked as perfect as a phoenix standing in sunlight.

"There, there," he said, patting Luce on the shoulder. "Remember, we're doing all this for the kids."

"Fuck the kids," Luce groaned, letting his head hit the wall with a thump. His shoulders sagged and he closed his eyes.

"That would be an entirely different type of orphanage," Greg said.

Luce cracked one eye open. "Shut up."

"But," Greg continued, "if that's what you're interested in - and I'm not judging, I've had my share of questionable indiscretions - then I should point out that Flipper looks like he'll grow up to be quite an attractive monster."

Luce pushed himself away from the wall and shook his head. "You're a sick monster, but I love you. And I know you're joking."

Greg arched an eyebrow, fighting down an unaccounted blush. "Am I?"

"Don't be an ass," Luce said, slugging Greg's shoulder. He smiled - soft and tired and sweet - and his eyes lingered on Greg's face.

"He can't help it," said a voice. "He's a bat ass."

"Frank," Luce said with a sigh, turning toward the front door and breaking eye contact with Greg. "It's like I can feel the part of myself that hates terrible puns curl up and die whenever you walk into the room."

"I have that affect on people. It's a gift," Frank agreed. He stood framed in the doorway, one hand in his pocket and the other hand clutching a shiny red apple. When he had their attention, he chomped down noisily on the apple and grinned at them.

"You're early," Greg commented. He had another fifty-two minutes and twelve seconds left to spend with the children. Not that he was counting.

Frank shrugged. "Drake and I thought you two could enjoy some quality time together away from dirty diapers."

Greg silently admitted he didn't look forward to changing the twins; the baby naga's wails bespoke banshee ancestry; and after five hours running around the orphanage trying to locate errant toddlers, a quiet evening at home with Luce, spent nursing a cup of warm blood tea, sounded idyllic.

Luce laughed, as the three of them drifted from the hall to the parlor. "I think I'm going to be dreaming about dirty diapers for a week."

Frank wrinkled his nose. "That's gross. And that's why you need more of a love life. The only dreams that keep me up at night are about sexy vampires."

"I'm sorry," Greg said. "I hadn't realized I was causing you to lose sleep."

Luce and Frank both stared at him with twin incredulous expressions, until Luce burst out laughing and Frank muttered, "It's weird when he jokes."

Greg felt vaguely affronted. He pulled himself together haughtily. "And where is my absent brother?"

Frank snorted. "Unloading some stuff from the car. We stopped at the toy store on the way over, and Drake couldn't resist buying, like, a zillion things for the kids. They were having a sale on manacles."

"Okay," Luce said. "Well, I'll clean up the rest of my paperwork and we'll get out of here. Greg still needs to find Emma. And, uh, we might have a situation developing on the roof."

"Don't tell me," Frank said. "Troll diving again? I swear to God, Greg, quit teaching them to kill themselves."

"I'm not!" Greg said. "Any advice I give is strictly aimed at preparing them for any of life's adventures they might face. They often require practical demonstrations. And," he added ominously, "you should learn to demonstrate a bit more respect to your elders."

Frank rolled his eyes, noisily swallowing his mouthful of apple. "Between you and Luce and Drake, I'm surrounded by so many elders that I wouldn't have any respect left. It's strictly self-preservation." His mouth quirked up in a grin that Greg found very irritating.

Greg growled in exasperation. Sometimes he couldn't understand his brother's affection for such an annoying monsterling.

"I'm going to find Emma," he said. He scowled and swept out of the room.

He'd only taken a few steps down the hall when he heard Frank say: "He hates it when I get the last word. Drake pouts the same way when I one-up him."

Greg stopped, scandalized. I do not pout, he thought furiously, and turned on his heel to confront Frank. The little monster was getting a bit too big for his bolts, and Drake was far too lenient with him -

Luce's deep, throaty chuckle floated from the room. "I think it's cute."

Greg halted, mollified. He could kill Frank later. First, he had to find Emma and bring her the treat he'd saved.

----

Greg discovered Emma at the back of the upstairs playroom.

She was sitting in front of the dollhouse Frank Sr. had crafted for the orphanage just last week, clutching a doll covered in filmy strips of gauze in her right hand and a shorter, furrier doll in her left hand. An ogre doll and a troll doll were face down on the carpet with massive arrows sticking up from their plastic backs.

"Emma," Greg said severely, and several hours after the fact, "It's very naughty to run away from Uncle Greg after you've stabbed him with arrows."

Emma only giggled and made her dolls kiss, as she smacked her lips with a wet noise. Even at this tender age, Emma took her Cupiding very seriously.

"If you stay right here," Greg said, "I'll bring back a surprise for you. Okay?"

Emma dropped her dolls and jumped up, running to Greg and encircling his legs with her sticky arms. She pressed her face against his leg and giggled. "I stay here! Okay! Kay, kay, kay!"

"Yes, well," Greg said, always somewhat embarrassed by Emma's open affection. He disentangled himself from her grasp. "Stay here and I'll bring it back to you."

He left the room, closed the door, and turned the lock with a satisfied twist. That should keep the flighty child in place until he got back; Emma was worse than usual today because Granny Sweets had been sneaking her sugar-biscuits all afternoon. The little girl was bad enough on two legs; he dreaded the day her wings began to come in.

Greg strode quickly down the hall to the little bedroom that they'd made up for Emma. He and Luce had painted the walls pink and cream and hired a hobgoblin to paint a fresco of fluffy clouds on the ceiling. Emma had taken one look at her new room and shrieked that she hated it.

"Noooo, no, want back!" he remembered Emma yelling, as she stomped her tiny feet and her face turned red. "Back! Wanna back room, wif spiders!" She'd thrown herself on the floor and wailed a tantrum that would have done a banshee mother proud.

The memory still brought a tear to his cynical eye. He'd sat for hours with Emma, telling her some of the less terrifying stories from his childhood, describing his bedroom, his toys, the occasional ghost who came to play.

And so Emma wanted a black room with spiders, just like he'd had as a boy.

Luce had looked at him darkly and said, "This is your influence," but in the end, Emma got a black room, with darling cobwebs, and a host of interesting looking spiders. Luce still didn't know, but Greg sprung for a boogie monster under the bed because he didn't like the thought of Emma growing up deprived of the little childhood joys.

The cage was sitting on the bed where he'd left it this morning; unhappy yowls and chirps rang out from the opening. Greg peered through the grate and observed a pair of slit eyes staring back.

"Showtime," he said, taking Shub out of the cage and heading back down the hall.

----

"Emma?" Greg called, his voice rising with worry. He had only left for a moment, surely she couldn't have -

"Unca Geg!" a voice piped from behind a stack of colorful plastic boxes. Now that he looked properly, he could see tiny hands meticulously stacking the boxes higher. "Make house!"

"Yes, good," Greg said. "Please do not suffocate under an avalanche of your own creation. Also, I've brought you a friend."

Emma's blonde head peered over the top of the tallest box, her blue eyes wide. "Fend?"

"Yes," Greg said. "This is my cat, Shub-Niggurath. She regrettably believes she is the earthly reincarnation of the Dark Mother, Wife of the Not-to-Be-Named One, but if you scratch her tummy she purrs."

Emma darted out from behind the boxes. "Kitty!" she cried.

Shub's eyes widened in alarm and she began squirming in Greg's arms until he was forced to let her down. She scrambled away, and Emma looked as though she would go after the cat.

"Now, Emma," Greg said. "Leave the kitty alone, and let her get used to you. Why don't you go sit on the rug and wait for her to come to you?"

Emma nodded solemnly. She ran to the rug and plopped down, her little pink dress spread out around her and her eyes trained on the cat.

Shub meandered along the edge of the playroom, waving her long black tail and occasionally flicking her gaze to the rug in the center of the room where Emma sat watching her with round, fascinated eyes.

"Maybe you should tell the kitty how pretty you think she is," suggested Greg. He knew vampires and he knew cats: flattery was the quickest way to both their hearts.

"Peety kitty!" Emma said promptly. "Peety peety kitty!" She stretched out her chubby hands imploringly toward the cat.

Shub's ears flicked forward in interest at the adoration in Emma's voice. She padded closer to Emma, finally reaching a point close enough for Emma to pet her.

Greg watched the meeting between child and cat warily: each was a notoriously difficult creature, given to independence, with a penchant for doing exactly the thing they should not. Some preternatural instinct that had nothing to do with being a vampire warned him the chemical reaction of Cat and Child could be potentially catastrophic.

Emma merely stroked Shub gently on the head, crooning, "Peety kitty," while Shub lolled in her lap, purring in obvious pleasure.

Greg expelled a relieved sigh. He'd worried that the two wouldn't get along, but he supposed that had been silly notion: they both liked treats, made an enormous mess, frequently injured him, and made him, on occasion, wish to injure them.

"Very good, Emma," Greg said. He couldn't ignore the pleasant lurch in his chest when Emma turned her beaming face to look up at him. "Shub can stay here with you tonight, if you'd like."

Emma's eyes widened impossibly and she clutched the cat to her chest; the cat merely looked at him, her ears flicking back in displeasure. "Mine?" Emma asked. "My kitty?"

"No," Greg said, very gently. "But perhaps someday Uncle Luce will let me summon a kitty for you. If you're very good."

Emma nodded solemnly. "Wanna kitty. I be good."

"Excellent," Greg said. "I've always found bribery to be a very solid tactic. I'm glad we worked this out."

Emma dangled one of her dolls over Shub's head, giggling as Shub pawed at the swinging strands of gauze and hair. Emma threw the doll and watched Shub leap after it.

"I'll just leave you two alone, shall I?" Greg said. He was very glad no one else was around to see the fond expression he was trying to keep from his face.

"Bye-bye, Unca Geg," Emma said distractedly, too busy chasing after Shub to pay attention. Good, perhaps the two would wear each other out before bed.

Greg accepted his victory and left.

----

He'd barely taken two steps down the hall when he heard Drake's silky voice call his name. He turned around.

"Brother," Drake said walking up to him with a smile. "You look much too pleased with yourself."

"I've diffused Emma," Greg said. "And no one had to call MSWAT."

Drake laughed. "I am glad you appear to be in such a fine mood. I have a -"

"No," Greg said, internal alarms clanging at his brother's solicitous tone of voice. "That is the answer to whatever question you are about to ask."

"Greg, really," Drake said. "It is only a small favor. And it is for the orphanage."

Greg sighed, suspicions confirmed, and felt resigned in the face of Drake's plaintive smile. "What is it?"

"We need another eligible monster for the charity auction next week," Drake said. "And you are it."

"I - you - What?" managed Greg.

"Flea had to drop out because Hattie's relatives are visiting, and he needs to pick up the sarcophagi from the airport. That leaves us one handsome monster short. Luce is moderating the event, and Frank and I obviously cannot participate because we are an established couple, and I would kill anyone who bid on him. Or touched him. Sometimes, it is enough that they look at him and I -" Drake paused, clearly pulling himself together. "But I digress. And so, you see, it falls to you."

"You're pulling my wing," Greg said.

"I am afraid not," Drake said.

"Drake," said Greg, a bit desperately. "Who would bid on me?

"Everyone," Drake said impatiently, waving his hand. "You look like a wet dream."

"That's not - please, don't ever say that again," Greg said, feeling a bit queasy. "Ever."

Drake gave Greg a patient look. "You have to do it. You know you are the only other eligible bachelor we have on hand. Besides, it is for the orphanage. And for the orphans."

"All right," Greg said irritably. "Fine. It's only one date. But if someone hideous bids on me, I'm going to come after you."

Drake smiled indulgently. "Of course."

----

Four nights later, Greg was walking down the hall toward the kitchen when he overheard Luce on the phone.

"I'm trying to follow your advice, Drake, I really am," Luce was saying. "But it's hard. And it's getting harder and harder, if you know what I mean. Sometimes Greg says stuff and, I don't know, it's all I can do not to - Yeah, yeah, I know."

Greg slowed his approach, treading as quietly as possible. He pressed himself against the wall and peered around the doorframe.

Luce stood next to the refrigerator with his back to the door. As Greg watched, Luce sighed and leaned forward against the counter, one arm propped on the top of the refrigerator. The fabric of his thin shirt stretched across his shoulders, highlighting their muscular width.

"Okay, okay," Luce said, sounding tired. "Yeah, the security has been great. No, I won't do anything to mess it up. It's just, I just wish we could hurry things up and - yeah, I know what Frank saw. Fine. Bye."

Luce hung up the phone and sighed again, running a hand through his hair. He slumped against the counter, turning his head so his profile was visible; dark shadows circled his eyes and lingered at the corners of his mouth. Greg had never seen anyone look so unhappy.

Greg shut his eyes tightly, unable to watch any longer. He blinked, eyes stinging, and retreated back to his room, where he headed straight for the bed and sat down.

It shouldn't hurt to hear Luce talk about him like he was nothing more than temporary help; after all, he and Luce were no great friends. They were acquaintances thrown together by circumstance and money and - why should he care if Luce was still clearly unnerved by him? Perhaps he'd thought they were becoming more than - but that was stupid. People never wanted to be his friend.

It was obvious Luce was doing his best to endure Greg's presence because he needed him to protect the children and set up the wards and spells around the orphanage. Luce would probably continue to act friendly and hospitable right up until the moment he didn't need Greg anymore. Then, with one of those stupid, charming smiles, he'd ask Greg nicely to leave.

Greg supposed couldn't blame Luce - he was hardly the ideal houseguest. Blood packets in the refrigerator, awkward conversation, annoying pets - he didn't have much to recommend himself to someone. It was actually a wonder that Luce had endured his presence this long. Arvel was the only other person who had lived with him longer. Greg shied away from the thought.

Well, he reasoned, at least Luce was pretending to enjoy his company. Surely that should count for something. It was better than open hostility.

Greg rubbed absently at the low ache in his chest.

He could go on being polite to Luce - he just had to make certain he remembered the difference between friendship and courtesy. Luce, and Frank, and Drake - none of them really needed him, did they? Not in the long run, anyway. How ridiculous it had been to start making plans for the future, to think of anyone as his friend, even if Luce was the only person Greg had met in years who seemed to understand him.

Still, no harm done - he wasn't so emotionally needy that he'd latch on to the first crumbs of kindness tossed his way.

He put his head in his hands and tried to keep himself from shaking.

He didn't know how long he sat there before he heard claws click quietly on the wooden floor. The bed dipped and he looked up to find Shub and Rubeus sitting side-by-side watching him, their tails wrapped around each other.

"Mrow?" Shub questioned, placing a paw on his leg.

"Prrrppt?" Rubeus echoed.

Greg smiled weakly and scratched both of them on the head. His hands no longer trembled. "At least I can count on you two," he said. "As long as I keep feeding you, you'll stay faithful."

Shub butted her head against his hand, and Rubeus fluttered up and licked his face. Shub, not to be outdone, clambered onto his lap and began kneading his stomach through his shirt. Rubeus glanced down at Shub, blew out a snort of smoke, and perched on Greg's shoulder, nuzzling against his cheek.

Greg laughed, shaking his head at their antics.

Luce walked in.

Greg stopped laughing.

"Hey, looks like you've got your hands full in here," Luce said, smiling at him and watching Rubeus and Shub climb all over him.

"Yes," Greg said, his voice cool.

Luce frowned and hesitated. "Everything all right?" he asked.

"Perfectly fine, Lucian," Greg said. "Was there something you needed?"

"Uh," Luce said, frowning a bit. He lingered in the doorway, looking uncertain. "I was going to see if you wanted to go out for dinner tonight, instead of staying in and cooking. I know a great place that sells cold pints and good food."

"I don't drink," Greg said, not looking at Luce. He tugged on Rubeus' tail and the little dragon whirled around to nip at his fingers.

"No, pints of blood," Luce said, his grin lopsided. "I heard they're really fresh. Drake goes there all the time with Frank."

"And if I were to say yes," Greg said, shifting his attention to Shub, who began purring enthusiastically as he stroked his fingers down her back, "Would we be inflicted with the dubious pleasure of their company?"

"No," Luce said. His brow furrowed. "Unless you wanted me to invite them along. Otherwise, I thought just you and me could swing by and grab something to eat on our own."

"I find I'm not hungry this evening," Greg said. He stood up, unsettling Shub and Rubeus; they tumbled to the bed and chattered at him with scolding noises. "In fact, I was just coming to tell you that I'm going out this evening. I'm afraid you will have to fend for your own dinner."

"Oh," Luce said. He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms: the short-sleeved t-shirt strained over his muscles, and the faded denims accented his narrow waist. Greg looked away. "Where are you going?" Luce asked, lifting one eyebrow.

"Out," Greg said.

The hint of a scowl flickered across Luce's face. "Out where?" he asked.

"Out to do vampire things," Greg said. "You know: eviscerate, pillage, torment, murder, cackle gleefully in anticipation whilst looming over the crib of a newborn babe. The usual."

"What's your problem?" Luce asked, pushing himself off the wall and stepping farther into the room. His arms fell to his side, and his hands clenched into fists. The room suddenly got warmer and much smaller.

"I don't know what you mean," Greg said. He walked to the window and pushed it open, taking a deep breath as the cool night breeze wafted in heavy with the scent of jasmine, and rain, and metal.

"I wasn't under the impression I had to clear my comings and goings through you first," Greg said. He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded.

Luce stiffened. "You don't," he said. "I was just asking. I didn't know it was such a big deal to tell a friend where you're gonna be."

"I wouldn't hesitate to tell a friend," Greg said. Without waiting for Luce to reply, he turned into a bat and flew out into the night.

----

Greg went straight to Hermie's Horrifying House of Spirits after he left Luce's apartment. It was the cheapest bar in town and the most unlikely place for anyone to find him if they were looking.

Drake found him three hours later.

Greg was sitting at the end of the bar, skulking in the darkest, gloomiest corner he could find. And a dark corner was pretty hard to find in Hermie's bar: Hermie tried very hard to create an air of drama and fear, but he was a retired Christmas elf, and he just couldn't make it work.

The grinning skulls on the tabletops were clean and well-polished, the door creaked a little too convincingly, the dancing candle flames were really eco-friendly bulbs, and the cobwebs had accidentally been swept up and hastily replaced with synthetic webbing. The foul ghosts moaning in the rafters were quite friendly and eager to talk, and none of the furniture came alive and ate the customers.

Greg traced a finger through the perspiration on his glass, watching the drops of water run down the side and pool around the bottom. He slammed back the rest of his blood-shooter and motioned for the bartender to send him another drink. He'd already gone through the supply Mary and Susan had donated, and now he was drinking Bloody Sallys.

Yes, Greg liked Hermie's because it was so cheerful it made him depressed. And, near this time of year, Hermie couldn't resist a holly wreath across the mantel or a skeletal Christmas tree tucked in the far corner.

"Ugh," Drake said, sitting down on the stool next to him. "I think there is actually mistletoe hanging above the door."

"There is," Greg said, staring moodily into his drink. "On the way in I had to kiss a troll with a runny nose. It was unpleasant."

Drake made a face and caught the bartender's six eyes. He ordered a double type O on the rocks, and the bartender nodded once, his multiple eyes blinking rapidly out of sequence.

Once Drake had his drink, he took a quick sip and placed it on the counter. "Greg," he began.

"Really, Drake," Greg said, trying to avoid conversation, "Type O? How plebeian."

Drake narrowed his eyes. "I like it, and the flavor is robust. But this is not about my blood habits. This is about the very interesting phone call I received from Luce several hours ago."

"Oh?" said Greg, trying to sound disinterested. He spun his glass in wet circles on the counter.

"Yes," Drake said and sighed in exasperation. "Luce is very upset, you know. He has no idea why you have run off."

"I didn't run off," Greg muttered. "I flew."

"Forgive me for saying this," Drake said, not sounding sorry at all, "but what, as Frank would say, has turned you into a big, pointy-toothed girl?"

"I don't like being pitied." Greg scowled down into his drink. He found himself in the mood for live victims.

"You are being more obtuse than usual, brother," Drake said. "No one pities you. We may laugh at you when your back is turned, or mock you in jest, or become terrified of you for brief spans of time, but we do not pity you."

Greg took a long swallow of his Bloody Sally, coughing a bit at the burn. He slammed the glass back to the counter and laughed, loud and harsh. Several patrons at the bar turned to look at him.

"I know what I heard," Greg said, his words only slightly slurred.

"I see," Drake said, and his expression was curiously calculating. He looked so much like their father in that instant that Greg wanted to punch his face off, just take his fist and smash it into flesh and bone and - the chair wobbled when he made a move forward, and he nearly fell over.

Drake steadied him and sat back, his face now carefully neutral. "What exactly did you hear?"

"Enough," Greg snarled. "Enough to know you and Luce and Frank are all conspiring with each other."

"What?" Drake asked. He sounded nervous.

"Just go away," Greg said, his voice crackling like a livewire. "I'll kill you right now, I swear I will."

Drake stood up, his expression troubled. "I think you should talk to Luce."

"I think you should get the fuck out," Greg said, his voice shaking with rage.

Drake hesitated and Greg almost wished his brother wouldn't listen. He would enjoy ripping someone limb from limb right now. But Drake nodded shakily and downed the rest of his drink in one quick shot.

"All right," he said. "I will go."

After Drake left, Greg's self-righteous anger burned away. No wonder he didn't have any friends - he pushed and pushed until they all walked away. He felt angry and tired. And he felt hurt, but he didn't want to admit why.

Greg didn't think his night could get any worse, but then Arvel walked into the bar.

Greg's vision swam as the room tilted alarmingly, and he blinked trying to clear his vision, sure that he was seeing things.

Arvel walked closer and closer; his hips rolled in a silent prowl, and his eyes never left Greg's face. The room seemed to dim and narrow, and it wasn't until Greg could smell Arvel, smell the sharp scent of magic and citrus that clung to Arvel's tall, slender frame, that he realized he wasn't hallucinating. This was real.

"Hello, Gregori," Arvel said, sliding fluidly onto the stool next to Greg. "Been a while." His lips flicked up in a careless smile. He was still painfully handsome.

Greg choked and nearly dropped his empty glass. There was a strange roaring sound in his ears. "Arvel? How - what are you doing here? How did you find me?!"

"It wasn't that hard," Arvel said, with a negligent shrug. "It was much easier after I set a tracer-spell on you."

The bar's dim light cast shadows across Arvel's face, deepening the lines of his cheekbones and long nose; strands of pale blond hair fell over his shifting yellow-green eyes; they were framed by thick, black lashes that had always made his eyes look exotic and wrong for his face.

"You set a - I change my clothes every day," Greg said, mentally shaking himself. "There's no way you could've kept a tracer-spell on me."

"You don't change your hair, do you?" Arvel asked, grinning wickedly.

"You grounded a tracer-spell in my hair?" Greg said, aghast that he'd never thought to check himself. A small part of him was also impressed - Arvel was still a clever bastard.

"Naturally," Arvel said. He leaned across Greg's lap and ran his fingers through Greg's hair, teasing the curve of his ear. Greg suppressed a shudder and only stopped himself from leaning into the touch when he remembered that this was Arvel who had tried to kill him and was possibly rabid.

"Stop, just stop," Greg said, jerking back. He head swam and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep the room from spinning.

Arvel removed his hand, but he leaned closer, and the heat of his body seeped through Greg's skin. "Sorry. You're looking good, Greg. The short hair suits you."

Greg shook his head. He could feel the feather-light tingle of Arvel's ogre Voice whisper over his skin, cocooning him in warmth. It was one of the things he'd loved about Arvel, the way his voice could always make Greg feel warm and safe - it had all been a lie, but sometimes lies were nice.

Arvel's hands slid across Greg's shoulder, kneading the stiff muscles; Greg felt frozen but his skin jumped hyperaware under Arvel's strong fingers. "My poor Gregori. You seem tense. I could make you feel better. I know just what you like."

Greg couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, he could only stare into Arvel's yellow-green eyes, and try to remember why he hated this beautiful monster. He blinked and shook his head. "No, stop!"

Arvel frowned, and the power of his voice shattered; the web of magic weaving around Greg's addled brain weakened and dissipated like mist. "Greg, love, be reasonable - "

"Don't," Greg said slowly, deliberately. "None of your games, Arvel. What do you want?"

Arvel's eyes darkened to a luminous green, shining eerily under the bar lights. "Really," he said. "You always do set me up with the perfect lines."

He leaned in, and his hot, moist breath hit Greg's cheek; he felt the light tickle as Arvel's forked tongue flickered out and tasted the air above his skin.

"You, Greg. I want you." Arvel's tongue trailed up the side of Greg's jaw.

Greg reeled back, falling from his stool. He had to grab the bar to keep from planting his ass on the ground. Arvel grabbed him around the waist, and Greg struggled to push his hands away.

"Leave me alone," he said desperately. "Just go away." His protests sounded feeble, even to his ears. Arvel finally let him go, and Greg slumped back onto his seat.

Arvel's eyes shifted color again, turning the pale green of new moss; that color usually meant he was trying to be sincere. "I miss you, Greg. I want you to come back. I made a terrible mistake."

"So did I," Greg spat. "You."

Arvel's mercurial eyes flashed deep emerald as he struggled to hold his temper in check. "Some mistakes bear repeating."

"I don't think so," Greg said, trying to control his wild emotions. He'd spent so many years of his life with Arvel, shared so many memories. And it hadn't all been bad - he'd loved Arvel, more than anything, and Arvel had loved him too, in his own twisted way.

"Now, Greg, don't be difficult. You know I always get what I want." Arvel smiled, charming and deadly, and licked his lips; his thin forked tongue flickered out teasingly, and it was suddenly hard for Greg to forget how good it had felt to kiss the ogre, especially not when Arvel was sitting only a foot away, and stroking his hand down Greg's thigh.

"Stop," Greg said again, scowling and moving his leg away. There was a reason this wouldn't work, a reason he was supposed to hate Arvel. "You tried to kill me, you bastard."

"It was only a lover's spat, darling," Arvel said, placing his hand next to Greg's on the bar. "I wouldn't have let them hurt you too much. I was just so angry that you refused my gift - it hurt my feelings terribly. But you left before I could explain anything, tell you how sorry I was, that I didn't know what the stone really meant. You didn't even give me a chance to say goodbye," Arvel added sadly, his eyes soft and repentant. He moved his hand, letting his thumb stroke the back of Greg's hand.

"Fuck," Greg said, feeling moisture prick at the corners of his eyes. "Fuck, I forgot how good you were at this."

Arvel smiled slowly, triumphantly. "I've only gotten better. Now, why don't we go to a more private place so that we can . . . talk. I'll get you back to your dreary orphanage in plenty of time for tomorrow." His eyes glinted with promise.

Greg felt his eyes half-close as he listened to Arvel talk. It would be so easy - he knew what to expect with Arvel. And if Luce didn't want him, if Luce didn't need him - once the orphanage was running smoothly, he wouldn't hang around anymore. Once they figured out who was threatening the orphanage he'd have outlived his useful -

And Greg sat up straight, knocking Arvel's hand away. Once again, he felt the rush of dissipating magic, and saw Arvel scowl.

"What is it, love?" Arvel said, and there was something brittle in his voice, some too-cheerful false note that caught Greg's attention.

"The orphanage," Greg said. "How did you know about the orphanage? We haven't advertised publicly yet."

Arvel's eyes went electric green for a split second, and if Greg had blinked he would have missed it. "Oh, I hear things around town. You know how I love gossip."

"I should have known," Greg said, feeling his gut twist. "It's you. You're behind it. Now I know why the magic feels familiar."

Arvel paused, and Greg could see the calculations running behind his eyes, weighing options and weaving the best excuse. He still knew Arvel too well. It made him feel a little sick.

"Oh," said Arvel easily. "I suppose you caught me."

Greg's mouth hung open. Admitting mistakes was not something Arvel was ever good at. Something wasn't right. But then Arvel's words finally registered, and Greg felt his eyes burn red. He wanted to punch Arvel, wanted to tear his throat out, rip him apart. Arvel had threatened the orphanage, threatened the kids, threatened Luce -

"Of course," Arvel continued silkily, "I'm sure you've realized that there are at least two sorcerers behind the spells."

"Who?" Greg snarled. "Who else?" He could feel his teeth lengthen, and he heard Arvel's breath catch.

"I do love it when you get angry, Greg," Arvel said, laughing breathlessly. His eyes were hungry and black-green. "But I'll only tell you who the real bad guy is on one condition."

"And what's that?" Greg ground out, quietly planning all the ways he was going to rip out Arvel's jugular for even daring to -

"Spend the night with me," Arvel replied, watching for Greg's reaction.

Greg pressed both hands flat against the top of his thighs so Arvel wouldn't see how they trembled. "Not going to happen."

"Pity," Arvel said. "The other fellow isn't nearly as nice as me. I think he'll actually hurt one of those kids soon."

Greg snapped up straight in his seat, his body vibrating with wrath. "What?!" he hissed, hearing the crackling harmonic in his voice. He was nearly out of his seat when Arvel reached forward and put a hand to his chest, pushing him down.

"Sit," Arvel ordered with steely command. "I said soon. I don't know what he's planning yet. Don't worry, love, if you're good I'll warn you beforehand."

Greg snapped his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "I swear to everything unholy, Arvel, if any of those kids get hurt, I will kill you. I will kill you," he repeated. His hands rested on tops of his thighs, and they clenched spasmodically, forcing his nails into his palm. Blood trickled down and stained his trousers.

"Of course," Arvel agreed. "But you know I'd do anything for you, Greg. Just come home with me."

Greg felt a steady, blinding pressure build in his head, and he knew part of it was Arvel's compulsion magic, trying to force him into agreement. And the other part was that he felt sick to his stomach, all the blood he'd consumed buzzing through his body and making him flush. It seemed simple - just one night, and Arvel's loyalties secured.

But Greg knew Arvel. He knew him. Arvel was after more than a night of frolicking - he was after control. Greg couldn't put himself through what Arvel wanted, not again. But he had to protect the kids and Luce, no matter what.

Sweet Lucifer, he didn't think his night could get any worse.

He was right: a second later, Luce walked into the bar, glowing with righteous phoenix fire, and the night suddenly got better.

"Ah, right on cue," Arvel said, noting where Greg's attention had gone. "Here comes the bird in shining armor." Each word he spoke was short, and clipped, and dangerous.

Luce took a moment to survey the bar, clearly searching for Greg. His mouth was set in a thin line that matched the flickering, angry light in his eyes. Greg knew the exact moment Luce spotted him because his hair started to smoke.

Luce marched across the bar, face as grim as an avenging angel, but stopped short when he saw Arvel place a proprietary hand on Greg's thigh. Greg jerked his leg away, unable to hide a shudder of revulsion.

Luce's face cleared, and he started walking again. He reached them in a few heavy strides; the air hummed with his presence.

"Greg," Luce said shortly, sparing Arvel a quick glance. "We need to talk."

"No, we don't," Greg replied. He felt very, very tired.

Arvel smirked. "You heard him, phoenix. Kindly remove yourself."

Luce turned his gaze's full focus on Arvel. The expression that shifted across his face was full of rage and malice; his eyes glowed orange and sparks jumped in his hair. "Not before I kindly remove your head from your shoulders first," he snarled.

Arvel laughed, wrapping his arm around Greg's waist before purring, "You could try, featherbrain."

Greg saw a halo of fire suddenly spring to life around Luce's clenched fists.

"If I were you, I'd get out of here. I know who you are. Ogre," Luce said, and the last word dripped with a poisonous sizzle. Greg had never heard him sound so angry. The heat in the bar ratcheted beyond uncomfortable. People were starting to sweat; the liquid evaporated out of the glasses closest to Luce; steam sizzled from the floor.

"Tut tut, there's no need for violence," Arvel said. His eyes glittered like black chips of obsidian. "I really should speak with Greg about his taste in friends. He could do so much better."

"You really don't want to do this now. It will not end well," Luce said, flames licking at his hair. His shoulders were tight and vibrating with barely leashed violence.

Arvel's eyes narrowed. "I see."

The two monsters stared at each for a long, tense moment, and Greg felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as magical electricity surged through the air.

Finally, Arvel shifted in his seat and stood up, brushing invisible lint from the lapel of his stylish sports jacket. "Alas, I've just remembered a prior engagement. But you two have a lovely evening. And Greg," Arvel said, brushing a hand down Greg's arm, as Luce's hair ignited in full flame, "think about what I said."

Luce made a sound like the low shriek of a bird of prey. Several glasses on a nearby table exploded, and monsters dove for cover.

"That's my cue," Arvel remarked with a smug smile. He took a few steps toward the door and turned around. "Be extra careful next week, love. Wouldn't want you to get hurt at the orphanage because you missed a spell. But you," he said, turning his sharp eyes on Luce, "can blunder about all you like. In fact, I'd suggest it."

Once the door shut behind him, the temperature in the room dropped rapidly; monsters crawled out from their hiding places under tables and chairs and cautiously resumed drinking.

Luce swiveled around and his angry glare pinned Greg to his seat.

"Talk. Now," Luce snapped.

Greg sighed.

"There's nothing to talk about," he said, looking away.

Luce sat down in the chair Arvel had just vacated, and Greg heard the bubbles and pops as plastic melted. He winced; it seemed Luce was still a bit perturbed.

"Yes, there is," Luce growled. "You can start off by telling me what that fucking snake Arvel was doing here!"

Greg avoided Luce's eyes. "I don't know. He found me here. I wasn't expecting him."

Luce glared. "Are you sure he wasn't who you were planning to meet tonight? Maybe he was the reason you stormed out of the house in a snit, huh?"

"No, you ass," Greg said, his temper flaring. "Arvel is probably the last person on the face of the earth that I want to see. Especially not when I'm already half drunk and feeling maudlin."

Some of the anger left Luce's eyes, and relief washed briefly over his face. "Oh. Sorry. You were just acting so weird, and then you flew out the window and when I saw him here with his hand - look, I'm sorry." Luce made a disgusted noise and ran his fingers roughly through his hair.

"It's all right," Greg said quietly. "I'm glad you're here."

They both stared at their hands.

"Why are - why are you mad at me?" Luce asked hesitantly, touching Greg's hand.

"I'm not," Greg said, and realized it was true.

He was just happy to have Luce here and not Arvel. He decided that when the time came for Luce to ask him to leave, he'd deal with it. For now . . . for now he had this friendship. He had this beautiful, noble phoenix who didn't know how much Greg needed him, but came to his rescue anyway; he had someone who was worried about him; he had a friend.

Greg could live with things this way, until they ended. He could.

Luce frowned. "Then what was all that -"

"Nothing," Greg cut him off. "Blame it on the moon and not feeding properly. I don't know, blame it on getting stabbed fifty-two times in the leg today by a homicidal Cupid or having another trap spell blow up in my face. I was just in a foul mood."

After a moment, Luce said quietly, like the words hurt him: "I've been asking a lot of you. You've helped a lot already. If you're getting - if you want to get out of here, I'd understand."

Greg's throat tightened. Don't tell me to go, he begged silently. Not yet. "No," Greg said. "I simply can't be as sunshiney as you all the time."

Luce smiled weakly. "Remind me the next time you need a mental health break. I was afraid you were gonna take off for good or something."

"Not for a while," Greg said.

They locked eyes; Luce was the first to look away. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Hell," Greg said. "Why not? My evil ex-boyfriend just chatted me up. I could use something strong."

"Yeah," Luce said, and his grin was closer to normal. "And I hear you've got an auction coming up in, oh, three days."

Greg groaned. "Don't remind me. I even had to take my old tuxedo out of the mausoleum and have it pressed."

"I'll buy you a double," Luce said sympathetically, skimming his hand over Greg's shoulder and giving it a friendly squeeze; it reminded Greg of the way Arvel had touched him.

But it felt much better when Luce did it.

The day of the auction dawned full of sunshine and chirping birds. Greg was washing the last of the blood out of his cup in the kitchen sink when a robin landed on the window ledge carrying a flower in its beak. He eyed the bird warily; it dropped the flower on the ledge and issued a series of happy trills before it flew away.

He felt suddenly and depressingly certain that the day was going to be complete crap. He sighed.

"Don't sound so thrilled," Luce said, entering the kitchen. He yawned and scratched the stubble on his chin. "Mornin'."

"Good morning," Greg replied. "There are pancakes in the microwave for you and maple syrup on the table."

Luce grinned as he took the pancakes out of the microwave and sat down at the table. He dumped nearly half the contents of the syrup bottle onto his pancakes. "Is it too early in the morning to tell you I love you?"

"Have some coffee, you'll talk sense then," Greg replied, turning back to the counter and setting his cup in the drying rack so that Luce couldn't see the blush that crept across his pale cheeks.

"Yeah, yeah," Luce said. He got up and poured coffee into his ugly bird mug and stood near Greg, propping his hip on the counter. Greg could feel the heat from his body.

"Excited about the auction?" Luce asked, his eyes twinkling over the rim of his mug.

Greg made a face. "Oh, yes. I'm looking forward to selling my flesh like a piece of meat from a cheap, roadside ghoul café."

Luce rolled his eyes. "Whine all you want - I know you'd do anything for those kids. Anyway, after I get dressed I've got some errands to run. Think you can take care of yourself for a few hours before we have to go set up at the banquet hall?" He made his way back to the table and sat down.

"Of course. Just don't blame me if you return to a smoking crater where your apartment once stood."

Luce laughed and arched his eyebrow, cutting into a syrup-drenched pancake. "I'd have to bunk with you until I found somewhere new to live. And I gotta warn you, I'm a terrible houseguest. I'm a phoenix, remember? We tend to nest. You'd never get rid of me."

Greg suddenly had a strange and very real desire to burn Luce's apartment down. He coughed. "I'll try to behave myself."

Luce swallowed his mouthful of food. "I'll swing by and pick you up around lunch. We can grab something to eat before we have to meet with Frank and Drake. My treat. How 'bout that place that's got the bloodswirl ice cream you like?"

"You're being awfully solicitous today," Greg said suspiciously.

"I'm just buttering you up so I can pimp your pale ass later. I bet we make a mint on you." Luce winked and shoved a huge forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

Greg scowled. "Don't let the pancakes choke you on the way down," he said as he left the room.

Luce's laughter followed Greg into the hall.

----

Luce had only been gone an hour when the doorbell rang. Cautiously, Greg got up from the floor, leaving Shub and Rubeus' toys scattered around him. The beasts in question tumbled around at his feet, undisturbed.

He opened the front door, took one look at his visitor, and promptly closed it.

There was a patient knock.

Greg opened the door again reluctantly. "Hello, Father," he said.

"Hello, Greg," replied the Count. His long cape swung gently as he shifted the package in his hands. "Invite me in? I have something for you."

"I don't think so," Greg replied. "The last thing you gave me was a Panamanian Flesh-Burrowing Moth. It took me weeks to get out."

"It was only one little moth."

"It hatches a new egg every nineteenth of a second it stays under your skin. And the eggs, in turn, mature and begin hatching their own larvae within three minutes of birth."

"I thought it would be an unusual present."

"Ah, yes," Greg said. "Best birthday I've ever had. Wasn't it after that incident that we decided on gift cards only?"

"Gregori, you're being very difficult," the Count scowled.

"There is some precedent for that."

The Count sighed and seemed to deflate. "All right, my son. I understand that you are not yet ready to allow me inside, and I will not impose upon you as I did at our first meeting. But accept my promise that this is not some rare and exotic parasite. Will you please take it?"

He held out a large, flat package. It was shaped like an oversized book, and the plain brown wrapping couldn't quite mask the musty scent of faded parchment.

Unlike Luce, Greg was very wary of books. He'd stolen enough in his life to know there were books out there that could bite you or explode in your hands or wail until they made you bleed from your ears and nose.

But Greg didn't hate books; even if he occasionally flinched whenever books near him were opened too quickly, like a war veteran ready to dive for cover when someone dropped a pencil.

The muffled snap of a closing book had once, in a very weak moment, made him shriek and turn into a bat. Luce had looked at him very strangely and promised not to make him help read Emma to sleep anymore.

Luce liked to read. At all times of the day and night, Greg found him wedged between stacks of books in the library, his big shoulders hunched in concentration while he poured intently over dusty tomes. Greg sometimes caught him red-handed with a trashy paperback best seller - it was inevitably about government cover-ups, espionage, and exploding things - and teased him endlessly.

"Yes, but is it cursed?" Greg asked, eyeing the book.

"No," the Count replied, exasperation tingeing his words. "Would you simply take it?"

Greg reluctantly accepted the package, holding it far away from his body. "Thank you," he said.

"Greg," the Count said. His face was paler than usual, and if Greg hadn't known better, he would have said the Count looked almost frightened. "Be careful. You and I are monsters cut from the same cloth -"

The Count held up a hand to forestall Greg's protest. "No, Gregori. As much as you hate to be reminded that you are my son, you know it is true. We are too much alike. Your brother is a fine monster, but he has never seen the savagery that we have known, that we still feel in our blood. We both remember times of nothing but blood and power, and we have known what it is like to let the beasts within us rage."

"Why are you telling me this?" Greg asked, his eyes narrowed. His voice was so cold it came out in tiny white puffs of air.

"Read the book," the Count begged. "It is hard for monsters like us to love well. Perhaps you will . . . perhaps you will understand more. Make no mistake, I love my wives, Gregori, but your mother - she was - I - she knew the true monster I was, and she still loved me. That is rare. If you manage to find someone who is able to accept you as you are, you should keep hold of them as tight as your claws allow."

Greg, his face carefully blank, closed the door on his father a second time.

----

Luce came home three hours later.

Greg was still sitting on the floor, the album open across his lap.

It wasn't a true photo album - after all, cameras hadn't been invented until several hundred years after his mother died - but it was an album full of memories. Sketches of his mother's laughing face, sleeping face, scowling face - and each sketch signed by the Count. There were detailed images of her cooking by the hearth, sewing beside the glow of the fireplace, or sleeping in bed with gentle morning light spilling across her face. There were even drawings of her tombstone - hundreds of drawings, painfully detailed.

The Count had pressed petals of her favorite flowers between the pages and attached scraps of silk that must have been from her clothing. Other scraps and odd bits of twine decorated the pages; Greg could only guess at their significance.

On a tiny square of parchment, glued to the very back of the book, there was a single brown stain. Greg knew why his father kept it: if he held the bloodstain up to his nose, he could still smell her.

But there were also drawings of himself from when he was a babe still swaddled in black nappies: pictures of him asleep in his iron cradle or playing with his toys on the floor or covered in blood after a messy breakfast. On one page his father had glued his first baby fang, along with a proud description of how his son had caught his first rat.

As he flipped through the pictures and saw himself age from baby to toddler, Greg discovered something he'd never known before.

He looked like his mother.

He could see it in the curve of his chubby childlike smile, the slight curl to his dark hair, and the wakening twinkle in his eyes.

His father must have seen it too, because after that, the album was empty.

"Hey!" Luce said cheerfully, coming up behind him. "What've you got there?"

"An explanation," Greg said, his voice choked. "More of an explanation than I've ever had before."

Luce sank down next to him on the floor and took the album out of his hands. "Is that you?" he asked, pointing to a drawing of Greg laughing delightedly as three bats perched on his head.

"Yes," Greg said, staring ahead. "These are drawings of me. And my mother."

"Oh," Luce said. "Geez, shit." He wrapped an arm around Greg's shoulders in a comforting way. "You okay?

"Yes," Greg said. He was sure Luce could feel the way his shoulders trembled.

"Can't leave you alone for a second, can I?" Luce teased gently, his thumb rubbing circles on Greg's back.

"No," Greg said, and surprised them both by leaning into Luce's embrace.

They sat quietly side by side as the grandfather clock loudly ticked out the minutes, and Greg was never more grateful for Luce's ability to understand his silences.

"Your mom was beautiful," Luce said softly, a long time later, as he looked through the album. "You look like her."

"Thank you," Greg answered, just as softly. He focused on the steady support of Luce's arm.

"It seems like your dad really loved your mom," Luce said. He was still pressed against Greg's side, thumb moving in soothing circles.

"Yes. I'd never realized how much."

"It's hard to find someone you love that much. It's kinda rare."

His words were eerily reminiscent of the Count, and Greg looked sideways at Luce, studying the outline of his earnest profile in the sunlight. "I suppose so," he said finally.

"Wanna hear something that'll cheer you up?" Luce asked.

"No. Only depressing things right now, please."

"Too bad," Luce laughed, squeezing his shoulder. "Get this: I've got another kid lined up for the orphanage. A half-gargoyle; he's being taken care of by neighbors now, but he should get here in a couple of weeks."

"We obviously need to buy you a dictionary," Greg said. "Because you still do not understand the difference between 'cheerful' and "depressing.'"

Luce laughed. "I understand perfectly: my picture's next to one and yours is next to the other."

"Ass," Greg said fondly.

"C'mon, Mr Vamp," Luce said with a grin, standing up. "Let's get ready for our night of debauchery and cheap flesh."

"If only," Greg replied.

----

Several hours later, Greg waited nervously backstage as Luce concluded the latest bid.

The half-djinn bachelor on stage winked at the witch in the audience who had placed the winning bid and adjusted his black bowtie. Greg thought it was rather poor fashion to wear a bowtie without a shirt; however, the lights did gleam enticingly off the djinn's dark, well-oiled torso.

Greg looked down at his tuxedo - two hundred years out of date and slightly bloodstained - and sighed.

"Now, we'll have a brief intermission before the bidding continues," Luce said, smiling widely at the audience. The stage lights glimmered in his hair and over the clean lines of his new, expensive suit. His broad shoulders filled out the jacket nicely. "Please enjoy the refreshments along the buffet table. For those of you with special dining requests, please see the stewards standing near either end of the tables."

Luce waved to the audience and made his way to the wings where Greg waited. "What do you think so far?" he asked. "By my count, we've raised almost eight thousand dollars."

"It's wonderful," Greg replied. "Although I think some of the women are going to start fighting each other. Are you sure you brought enough bachelors?"

"Sure," Luce replied. "After you, I've still got nine more to go. I thought about saving your auction for last, but I figured you'd kill me for making you wait."

"You thought correctly."

Luce laughed. "Yeah, well, just make sure you strut your stuff when it's your turn. I gotta go check on the buffet, it looks like Russell might have eaten all the cupcakes and the other slime monsters don't look happy."

"Russell had better be careful that the slime monsteress with the pink bow doesn't eat him. She's practically been drooling waiting for his turn on the block."

"I don't want to think about slime monster dating rituals," Luce said with a light shudder.

"Don't be so quick to dismiss them - there are several slime monsteresses here tonight looking at our friend Russell. Among slime monsters he's considered extremely handsome."

"Please," Luce said, "Don't ever tell me how you know that." He hurried quickly offstage and across the room.

Greg continued to stand in the darkened alcove behind the curtain, surveying the scene in front of him. As soon as intermission was over, it would be his turn. Hopefully the assembled bidders would be happy and well fed by then, and more inclined to bid on a skinny vampire with an unpleasant reputation.

He watched the way Luce moved gracefully across the room, shaking hands and paws and tentacles and greeting everyone with an easy smile; it was easy to see that he made everyone feel comfortable and wanted. Greg wondered suddenly, with a tiny, sick feeling in his stomach, if it was simply in Luce's nature to charm people, whether or not he really cared about them. Just like Arvel.

"Hello, again, darling," a voice slithered behind him, as though summoned. Greg felt the faint tickle of a forked tongue brush his neck and whirled around.

"Arvel! What are you doing here?" he hissed, backing up a step.

Arvel smirked, flicking a strand of blond hair out of his eyes. "Donating to charity. It's such an honorable cause, don't you think? I can't wait to see what my money gets me." He looked Greg deliberately up and down.

"Go away. You shouldn't be here. How in Lucifer's name did you get inside? I had this place warded against anyone with bad intentions."

Arvel raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps now you'll believe my intentions are pure?"

"No," Greg said, "But I will believe that you probably found a loophole in the spell, you bastard."

"Ah ah, I'm afraid I can't reveal my secrets just yet, despite your flattery." Arvel grinned wickedly, flashing his mouthful of pointed teeth. "Now, if you'll excuse me, your knight in shining feathers has spotted me and is fast approaching. I'd hate for him to set fire to my new tuxedo." He darted forward and pressed a quick kiss to Greg's mouth, then sauntered off with a wink.

Luce was halfway across the room when he saw Arvel's kiss. His hair burst into flame; several people nearby jumped away from him with surprised exclamations.

Greg scrubbed a hand vigorously across his mouth, trying to erase the tingle of Arvel's lips.

He watched Luce stalk toward him through the crowded room, pushing people out of his path when they would have slowed him down. By the time Luce reached Greg's side, his hair was merely smoldering. "Are you okay?" he growled.

Drake, who must have also witnessed the scene from where he was cuddling with Frank in the front row, quickly ascended the steps behind Luce. "Brother?" he asked, his voice full of concern.

"I'm fine," Greg answered both of them with a shaky laugh. "Arvel was trying to be pleasant."

"What the fuck is he even doing here?" Luce burst out, raking a hand through his hair. Ash fell from his fingertips.

"Bidding on me," Greg answered glumly. "He'll probably win, too."

"Like hell he will," Luce said. "Drake, you're taking over as auctioneer for this round. I'm going out to bid. I'm not letting Arvel get anywhere near Greg."

"Luce!" Drake hissed, "You cannot bid! You are running the auction!"

Luce reached out and hauled Drake toward him by the front of his suit jacket. Their noses nearly touched, and Luce suddenly looked very big and very dangerous. "What did you say? Did you say good luck?"

"Happy bidding," Drake said quickly. "I said happy bidding."

"That's what I thought you said," Luce replied, releasing Drake roughly. He didn't even look at Greg; instead he turned and marched down the stage steps and out into the audience, snatching the bidding paddle from his mother's hand as he sat down next to her. Althea covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes sparkling merrily.

Arvel did not look pleased at the development. Greg watched him from the stage; the ogre's eyes flashed wildly between green and yellow. No, Arvel was not pleased at all: he tapped his bidding paddle against his thigh like a club and scowled in Luce's direction.

Most of the monsters had returned to their seats, so Drake crossed the stage and took his place behind the podium, tapping the microphone twice and plastering on a winning smile; Greg followed him and stopped in the middle of the stage. The hot spotlight made his eyes water.

Drake dusted off the front of his tuxedo and cleared his throat. "Next up, we have bachelor number seventeen, Mr Gregori Dracula. Shall we start the bidding at one hundred dollars?"

Greg looked out into the sea of upturned faces and felt nauseous. No one raised a hand. Distantly, a cricket chirped.

"Anything?" Drake asked, a trifle desperately.

"Twelve dollars!" piped a tiny voice.

Greg looked down and to his left. Summer was standing up with a determined gleam in her eyes, clutching her pink purse to her chest fiercely. She'd done her hair and put on makeup. She even had on a pearl necklace and was so obviously trying to play at being grownup that Greg felt a rush of warm affection for her.

"Very good!" Drake said, sagging in relief. "We have twelve dollars - do I hear thirteen?"

The audience remained silent.

"Thirteen!" Summer said eagerly. Althea leaned over and whispered something in her granddaughter's ear, and Summer blushed deep red. A few women in the audience tittered.

"Come, come, ladies. And, er, gentlemen," Drake said, tugging on the collar of his dress shirt. "Greg is a fine specimen: a world traveler, a connoisseur of fine vintages, an antiques enthusiast, a dab hand in the kitchen, and nearly a thousand years old. Think of all the history and culture he could bring to your date!"

"And experience!" hooted a woman. The audience rippled with catcalls and laughter, and Greg's toes curled in embarrassment. He kept reminding himself over and over that this was for Luce and the children. Luce, whose face he could claw off later. The children, not so much.

Drake covered the microphone with his hand and leaned over. "For Lucifer's sake, Greg, smile! Do not just stand there like a corpse - give me something to work with!"

Reluctantly, Greg smiled. Two hands and one tentacle shot up.

"Twenty!"

"Thirty!"

"Forty!"

Greg saw Summer look around, her eyes big. She bit her bottom lip and slowly sat down, still clutching her purse. She looked so small and out of place. Althea patted her hand and said something to her, trying to console her; Summer nodded and smiled half-heartedly.

Greg's heart constricted painfully, and he rubbed the low ache in his chest.

A satyr jumped out of his seat in the back. "One hundred dollars!" he called excitedly. "Two hundred if he touches himself again!" The assembled crowd murmured excitedly in agreement.

Greg hastily dropped his hand to his side.

In the front row, Frank was nearly doubled over with laughter, and Greg vowed silently to himself that when this ignominious debacle had been concluded, he was going to punch Frank and Luce, and maybe even Drake, in the face. A lot.

"Now do a spin," Drake hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "They are eating it up!"

Greg stared at his brother, his mouth hanging open. "I'm not going to spin around like some tawdry catwalk -"

"Spin!" Drake hissed again, then turned a smile on the rowdy audience. Two harpies clambered over the seats toward the front to get a better view, and security ghouls rushed to restrain them. A troll woman beat a nymph who was outbidding her over the head. But she looked like she was having so much fun beating someone up that she had forgotten about the auction.

"Come on, we wanna see what we're bidding on!" yelled a hedgewitch with a long nose and a glass eye. Shouts and laughter followed her statement, and one werewolf, well, wolf-whistled.

"Yeah, take it off!" agreed a familiar voice.

"Granny Sweets!" Greg said, in scandalized tones.

Granny Sweets cackled and toasted him with a glass of champagne.

Luce suddenly stood up and glared around the room. "Two thousand dollars," he said flatly, his look daring anyone else to bid, then sat back down.

The crowd quieted.

"Three thousand," Arvel said, speaking for the first time.

The silence in the room was so loud it hurt Greg's ears. The troll who had been choking the nymph slowly stopped punching her in the head and they both sat down nervously. The rest of the audience followed their example. Most monsters were very good at sensing impending danger.

"Four thousand dollars," Luce said tersely.

"Five thousand," Arvel replied easily.

Drake looked helplessly at Luce.

"Six thousand," Luce ground out, as tendrils of smoke curled from his hair.

"Eight thousand," said Arvel, looking annoyed.

"Ten," Luce barked out, almost before Arvel had finished speaking.

Arvel smirked and lazily raised his hand. "Fifteen thousand dollars."

Luce set his jaw and stood up. "A dollar more than any bid that bastard makes," he said. His was voice like a hammer striking an anvil, sparks flying with each syllable, as he glared across the room. Greg wondered, not for the first time, if the intensity of Luce's gaze might actually cause people to spontaneously ignite.

A flash of something dark and hateful darted across Arvel's handsome face before he leaned back in his chair and smiled. "I certainly can't compete with such a generous bid."

Luce grinned triumphantly and looked up at Greg. Some of the astonishment must have shown on Greg's face, because Luce smiled sheepishly and shrugged, before he mouthed the word, "Later."

Greg nodded dumbly.

Drake cleared his throat. "Sold, er, to the gentlephoenix in the front for fifteen thousand and one dollars."

Drake led Greg gently off the stage, and the audience's whispers followed them. Greg was still trying to process the fact that Luce had bought him.

Luce met him backstage nearly ten minutes later. His shirt collar was torn and dried blood flaked off his lower lip. "My God," he said, panting and trying to get his hair back into place, "That troll was not happy I won the auction. Those mountain women know how to swing a punch."

"Yes," Greg said. His brain still wasn't functioning in anything beyond monosyllables.

"Don't be - don't get weirded out, okay?" Luce said. He adjusted his bowtie nervously. "You know I couldn't let Arvel win that date with you, right?"

"Of course."

"It's just - look, whenever I see that fucking ogre, I can't see straight. After you told me what he did to you, it makes me feel - I - I don't know. Okay?"

Greg felt himself freeze up. "So this is about pity?"

Luce swore. "No, it's not about pity, you bat-brained idiot. It's about me being your friend. Friends look out for each other. Especially - especially really good friends."

Greg looked up at him.

"Which I hope we are," Luce added hesitantly.

"We are," Greg said.

A warm heat tightened around his heart. Luce didn't know it, but he was the best friend Greg had ever had. Now all he had to do was make sure he didn't screw it up.

----

That week, Monday came and went, then Tuesday and Wednesday quickly followed. Thursday and Friday thought about skipping out together for the weekend so Saturday could deal with things, but in the end followed Wednesday right on schedule.

Before Greg knew it, Friday arrived and with it, his date with Luce.

He had managed to avoid Luce most of the week by running diagnostics at the orphanage during the day and wandering around town after he cooked dinner at night.

On Friday afternoon Greg found himself feeling restless and uneasy. Luce was still at the orphanage and would not likely be home for hours; he was meeting with applicants for tutorial positions at the orphanage because he was convinced that it was never too early for the children to begin their education.

Greg decided to stop by Summer's house because she was probably the only person as upset about the date as him. He found the house easily enough and knocked on the front door, noting the gilded claw knocker with some distaste.

Althea opened the door. Her face registered surprise and some other expression that made Greg feel uncomfortable.

"Is Summer here?" Greg asked, his stomach churning.

"No, she's out with friends," Althea said. "But do come in. I'll make us some tea."

The churning in his stomach intensified. "That's all right, I'll just -"

Althea raised one eyebrow.

" - stay for a bit," Greg finished lamely. One day he would learn the secret to withstanding a mother's expectant stare, but today was not that day. He took comfort in knowing that stronger men than him had been brought low by similar looks.

Althea brought him into the kitchen and sat him down; before long, she was handing him a steaming cup of blood tea and a plate of blood chocolate spiders. Greg had been very surprised to discover Althea kept a large tin of blood tea in her cupboard. It made him wonder how many vampires or ghouls popped by for brunch.

"You know," Althea said conversationally, "Luce hasn't been out with anyone since he broke up with his old boyfriend." She smiled, and a cold sweat broke out on Greg's forehead.

"Is that so?" he said.

"Yes," Althea replied, her face serene. "He dated his last boyfriend, Cregan, for such a long time that we teased him he might as well start collecting twigs for a nest. But then Summer showed up and that awful man turned out to be just as closed-minded and prejudiced as a lot of the pure-blooded monsters. Poor Luce was devastated. Don't tell him I said anything, but I think Cregan very nearly broke his heart."

Greg swallowed a large gulp of his tea, not even noticing that it burnt his tongue, and tried to control the urge to find Cregan and very slowly eat him alive. Slowly. Lots of blood. Screaming optional, but preferred.

"That's why," Althea continued, ignoring Greg's low growl, "his father and I were so pleased when he began working on his idea for the orphanage and started socializing again. Why, I dare say he's been out to dinner with you more times in the last few months than he has with anyone else in years. He seems to enjoy spending time with you."

"He's tolerable company," Greg mumbled into his mug of tea.

Althea beamed, sipping daintily at her tea. "Yes, he's such a good man. We're all very proud of him. And we all care for him very much. We simply hate the idea of anyone hurting him."

A prickle of fear skittered down his spine, and he looked up to meet Althea's cold eyes.

"Me too," he said after a long, charged moment.

"That's good," Althea said, leaning over and patting his hand. "Would you like some more spiders, dear?"

"No, thank you, Althea," Greg replied politely. "Fourteen is my limit."

"Oh, do call me Mom," Althea said, bustling over to the sink with the empty plate and washing the crumbs down the drain.

Greg choked on his drink. Hot liquid squirted out of his nose, and he hastily mopped at his face with a tea towel. "I'm sorry?"

"Everyone calls me Mom," Althea explained. "Well, everyone who's close to the family. You already have my granddaughter's seal of approval. And you've been helping my son build his dream with the orphanage, not to mention the fact that you've been living with him for months. I think that qualifies you as an honorary member of the family."

Greg was honestly speechless. He took a quick sip of tea to give himself a moment to recoup. "I don't know if I can do that, Althea. It doesn't seem strange to you?"

"Not at all," Althea said, smiling knowingly. "In fact, I insist."

"I'll . . . try," Greg said.

Althea laughed. "You know, Greg, dearheart, sometimes I almost think you're scared of me. It's charming."

"I," Greg said, with all the dignity he could muster, "am not scared of you. I am leery. There is a difference."

"Of course there is, dear," Althea said, patting his hand again. Somehow she had managed to make another plate of chocolate-covered spiders materialize, and Greg found that fourteen was not, in fact, his limit.

----

He finally left when Althea started to remark on the time, and wouldn't it be evening soon? Didn't he have anywhere to be?

With dusk settled comfortably across the sky, he returned to Luce's apartment. Luce wasn't home yet, and Greg breathed a silent sigh of relief, thanking the devils below. He took a long shower, and let the water run extra hot. It helped ease the tense muscles in his shoulders.

He got dressed with more care than usual. He put on the soft, charcoal grey turtleneck he'd picked up while out shopping this week and ran a hand along one sleeve: the fabric was fine, woven yeti down, much softer than cashmere and also much more expensive.

He pulled on a pair of tailored black slacks, smoothed out the wrinkles, and stood back and studied his reflection critically in the mirror. The dark colors made his skin look extra pale, but that wasn't to be helped. His skin was extra pale. He decided not to shave again today because the dark shadow along his jaw gave him at least a touch of color; his scar, no matter what, stood out in livid contrast against his skin. But he looked all right, he supposed.

At any rate, as he'd been trying to tell himself all week, this wasn't a real date. Sure, Luce had paid for him at auction, and yes, they did have reservations at the most expensive restaurant in town, but those were formalities. It wasn't the first time he'd gone out to eat with Luce alone.

After talking with Althea, he was beginning to realize that he did it quite a lot.

His sensitive hearing picked out the sound of a key turning in the front door lock. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, then went out to meet Luce. This was all completely normal. There was nothing to work himself up over.

Luce stood in front of the door with a bouquet of red roses in his hand and an uncertain smile on his face.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Greg replied. He could feel the bats fluttering in his stomach

"Nice flowers," Greg said.

Luce chuckled and looked down at the bundle in his hand, then set the flowers down on the hall table. "They're from my mom, at Summer's insistence. Summer thinks that you're supposed to get roses on a date. Probably on every date. She has some strange notions about romance."

Greg smiled. "She's going to make some monster's life a beautiful hell someday."

"That's a good way of putting it," Luce grinned. "Let me get changed really fast and then we can head out. You look nice, by the way. New sweater?"

Greg nodded, not trusting his voice in that moment. Luce didn't have to change - he looked good in his rumpled slacks, with his shirt unbuttoned at the collar and his tie hanging loose. Tired, but handsome.

After Luce disappeared into his bedroom, Greg drifted over to the roses and ran his fingers over the soft petals. No one had ever bought him flowers before.

Checking to make sure Luce was still in his room, Greg plucked a petal from the rose and went into the living room. The album was still sitting on the coffee table. Gently, he pressed the petal between two blank pages in the back. The album could use a new memory or two.

----

"So, how was your day?" Luce asked later, drumming his fingers on the Firebird's steering wheel as they waited in line for valet parking. He was wearing a dark rust-colored button down shirt that deepened the auburn of his hair.

"Good," Greg said. "I had an interesting conversation with Mom."

The drumming stopped. "Who?"

"Mom," Greg repeated, enjoying himself. "During our afternoon tea. Summer wasn't home, so it was quite peaceful. We might have to make it a standing engagement."

Luce eyed Greg like he wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. "Right. And what did you and Mom talk about?"

"I won't bore you with the details. But I did see pictures of you naked."

Luce groaned. "She brought out the photo albums? Oh, she is a cruel, cruel woman."

Greg laughed. A valet tapped on the window and smiled. He let them out of the car and took the keys from Luce, nodding politely at Luce's dark pronouncement of, "Scratch it and die."

The restaurant was packed, even for a Friday night. As they entered the building - a stark black affair with elaborately curved sconces and black tinted windows - they passed by a long line of monsters waiting behind velvet ropes hoping to be allowed inside. Monsters darted jealous looks at them when Luce walked straight by the bouncer and was immediately greeted by an effusive, simpering maître d' who nearly fell over himself trying to help the gentleman phoenix and his guest.

Greg was impressed. The restaurant was decorated in what could only be described as "monster chic." Glittering black chandeliers hung from a ceiling covered in an enormous silvery spider's web that gleamed beneath the soft light.

The figures of ghostly waiters dressed in uniform drifted between the tables, still trying to serve long after death. Artful black and white photographs of famous monsters and their castles decorated the walls.

They wove around chairs and tables as they followed the waiter to their table and accidentally bumped into another couple along the way: a tall, blond man in an immaculately cut suit with a bored looking male nymph hanging off his arm.

"Pardon me," said the blond man, turning around with a friendly smile. His honey-colored eyes lit up when he saw them. "Lucian! What a surprise!" He flashed a perfectly dimpled grin and extended his hand; a merry sparkle twinkled in his eyes. Greg could smell the pheromones suddenly pouring off him.

Luce tensed up, but smiled, icy and bright. He shook the other man's hand. "Hey, Cregan. Long time no see."

Greg felt the muscles in his shoulders tense up, one by one, as a red mist crept into the edge of his vision. So this was Luce's ex. He silently weighed his options: if he tore off Cregan's head in the middle of the restaurant they'd probably get kicked out. He could always slip a tracer-spell on Cregan and corner him in a dark, vacant place later.

Cregan laughed. "It's only been a few years! Don't look so solemn. I'm sorry I didn't stay in touch, but you know how it is. You look well, Luce."

"Thanks," Luce said, letting Cregan's hand quickly drop. "You too."

"I try to work out," Cregan teased. He touched Luce's arm playfully, with the familiarity of an old friend, and Greg silently ground his fangs together. "But I'm being rude - allow me to introduce you. Luce, this is my date Roger. Roger, Luce."

Roger raised a dark green eyebrow and didn't bother to shake Luce's outstretched hand. If possible, he looked even more bored.

"Don't be difficult, Roger," Cregan admonished. "Luce is an old friend."

"Don't worry about it," Luce said. Tension hummed off his shoulders. "My friend and I were just leaving."

Greg would have felt offended that Luce hadn't introduced him if he weren't just as eager to leave. He had no interest in making small talk with Luce's ex and his lack-witted boytoy. Pureblooded nymphs were not known for their stellar conversational skills - their talents lay in other arenas.

"And who is your friend?" Cregan asked, smiling winningly as he turned his warm eyes on Greg.

Greg felt his hackles rise.

Luce looked defeated. "This is Greg. Greg, this is Cregan. Now, pleasantries taken care of - Cregan, it was nice to see you. I'll let you get back to your evening."

"Nonsense, Lucian!" Cregan laughed. "Why don't you join us? We'd love the company, wouldn't we, Roger?"

Roger glared pointedly at Luce.

"Really," Cregan said, laughing in embarrassment. "He's usually better behaved than this."

"Like I said, don't worry about it," Luce replied stiffly, and looked at Roger. "We wouldn't dream of ruining your romantic evening."

Roger rolled his eyes, then crossed his arms and turned his back on them all.

"Does Roger talk?" Greg asked, annoyed at Roger's slight to Luce, and feeling particularly waspish. "Or do you fold him up and stick him under your bed at night like a cardboard poster?"

Cregan's hawk-like eyes turned on Greg. "Yes," he snapped, "I definitely fold him in half at night. But not under the bed, vampire." He smiled, all teeth, as Roger turned around and leaned into him, a nasty smirk on his face.

"Cregan," Luce said warningly, his tone indicating he was getting ready to do battle. Greg moved closer to Luce's side in a show of solidarity, touching his shoulder in silent support. Luce straightened and threw Greg a grateful look.

Greg noticed Cregan's sharp eyes follow his movements. "Sorry, Luce," Cregan said, looking abashed. "My big beak gets away with me sometimes. You know how I am."

"I know," Luce replied. "I'm afraid we're expecting someone else, though. Maybe another time."

Cregan laughed. "All right, but I'll take that rain check seriously. It was good seeing you again, Lucian." His voice turned serious. "We should talk soon. I know we have - I know I have some things to apologize for."

Luce's face was blank, and that worried Greg. Luce's face was never blank - it was always a kaleidoscope of eyebrow twitches and smiles and frowns. "Right," Luce said.

They started to turn away when Cregan stepped forward, grabbed Greg's arm, and said in a very low voice that only Greg's hearing could discern, "I'm sorry I snapped at you. But you're dating him now, you know how it is - he's hard to get over, even if you're the one stupid enough to break things off. Please, take care of him."

He stared at Cregan and nodded his head sharply, once. "Enjoy your meal."

Cregan nodded back with a rueful smile, then he and his silent arm candy made their way to a lavishly set table in a secluded section of the restaurant. Luce watched them go, his mouth set in a thin, unhappy line.

"What did he say?" Luce asked, glaring at Cregan's retreating form distrustfully.

"He asked me where I bought my sweater."

"He looked pretty serious to be talking about sweaters."

"Sweaters are serious business. We're expecting someone else?" Greg asked, attempting to change the subject.

It worked. "I wanted it to be a surprise," Luce said, ducking his head and grinning sheepishly. "C'mon, let's sit down. She'll be here any minute."

"She?" Greg asked, just as a familiar voice chirped, "Uncle Luce!"

Greg turned and spotted Summer bounding toward them, followed by the sour-faced maître d' who was nearly skipping to keep up with her.

Greg looked at Luce, whose cheeks were flushed.

"She saved all her allowance for that auction," Luce explained, shrugging apologetically. "She even did extra chores around the house. I had to - It was the least I could do, you know? I mean. I hope you don't mind spending the evening with her."

Greg stared at Luce - felt his heart squeeze, just a little - and realized he was suddenly in very dangerous territory he hadn't had been forced to navigate in a long time. Althea was right: Luce was a good man. He took care of his friends, he loved his family, he championed orphaned halflings, he couldn't cook worth a damn, he had a terrible sweet tooth, and he was so handsome it sometimes hurt to look at him.

All this flashed through Greg's brain in a split second and he thought, Cregan, you are an idiot.

And then he thought, Greg, you might be in trouble.

"Of course I don't mind, Lucian," he said, and hoped his voice sounded normal.

Summer reached their table and gave her Uncle a hug, grinning breathlessly. "Hi, Uncle Luce! Hi, Greg," she said shyly. "Thanks so much for inviting me out! This place is so fancy! I asked the man out front if they had caviar here," she leaned forward, finishing in a conspiratorial whisper, "and they do."

Luce laughed. "We can get you some, if you want."

Summer wrinkled her nose. "No way! That's totally gross. If I want slimy fish eggs, I'll visit Mr Gill's house. Anyway, look at this dress Granma bought me!" She twirled around, showing off the swishing skirt of her emerald dress. The deep green satin emphasized her red hair and her creamy peach complexion. Althea and Paul were going to have their hands full in a few years.

"It's beautiful," Luce said.

"Simply stunning," Greg added. "You look better than any woman here tonight."

Summer cheeks went bright red. "Th-thanks," she stammered.

"Come on, let's sit down and get some grub. I'm starving," Luce said. He pulled out Summer's chair for her to sit.

"Allow me," Greg said, moving forward. He shot Luce a quick smile and gently seated Summer at the table. Summer giggled and twisted the jeweled straps of her purse as she sat down, gazing at the silver candlesticks on the table with wide eyes.

"Summer," Greg said once they were settled, "I'm afraid I'm going to need your help tonight."

"What for?" Summer asked, gently smoothing her serviette across her lap. She looked the picture of a little lady.

Greg had the thought, very suddenly, that if he had a daughter, he'd want her to be like Summer. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what Emma would be like when she grew up; he hoped very much that she turned out like Summer. With Luce running things at the orphanage, perhaps she would.

"Well," Greg said, "Your Uncle Luce is terribly uncouth. He doesn't even know a salad fork from a dinner fork. It's shameful, but what can you expect of someone whose idea of gourmet is toast with blue jam and who wouldn't know how to make dinner if his phone were broken?"

He and Summer shared a knowing look.

"Now, wait a second -" Luce began, but Summer interrupted him.

"Oh no," she giggled, playing along. "You're right. Even Granma says he's a total lost cause. Ohmigosh, I can't believe you let him out in public!"

"I have a soft heart," Greg said. "And he cries at the door if I leave him alone too long."

"It's a good thing he has you around," Summer agreed solemnly, but the laughing twinkle in her eyes belied her serious tone.

"Har har, you two," Luce said. "Real funny. Just remember who's paying for dinner tonight."

"That's right," Greg said in mock surprise. "Your Uncle Luce is paying. You know what that means, don't you?"

"Order the most expensive stuff I can find?" Summer guessed, giggling behind her menu as Luce glared at her.

Greg couldn't help but laugh at the expression on Luce's face. "I see your grandmother has taught you well."

"Yeah, Granpa says nobody is gonna stand a chance against me."

"Your Uncle will be good practice until then."

"That settles it," Luce said, tossing his menu onto the table in disgust. "As soon as dessert is over, I'm going to pretend to go to the bathroom and skip out on you two."

"You'd have us washing dishes to earn our keep?" Greg asked, amusement twitching his lips. "Just look at Summer's dress! No one can be a scullery maid in a dress like that. And I must say, if I am forced to roll up my shirtsleeves and get myself all sudsy and sweaty, I won't be pleased."

Luce's jaw went a bit slack, and he shook his head, as though to clear his thoughts. "Yeah, yeah," he said irritably. "No suds or sweat. Now where's that waiter with the water?"

----

The meals Summer and Luce ordered looked delicious. Greg sipped his glass of aged AB negative and watched the phoenixes enjoy their food.

Summer glanced up from her plate. "I feel kinda weird eating when you don't have a plate in front of you."

"You get used to it," Luce chimed in, taking a break from his meal to lean back in his chair and sip his wine.

"Right," Summer said, eyeballing the thick, red liquid in Greg's wine glass. "Is your, um, blood good?"

"Exceedingly," Greg replied, swirling the liquid in his glass. "They warmed it to a perfect 98.5 degrees, exactly human temperature. It is also an extremely rare blood type, which I'm sure was hideously expensive."

Luce shrugged, and grinning impishly said: "Nothing but the best for my two dates."

"Hm," Greg said. "We must watch your Uncle. He has harem-like tendencies."

"What's a harem?" Summer asked curiously.

Luce's smug expression said, Go ahead. You explain this one.

Greg thought for a moment. "Do you have a favorite doll?"

"Doll!" Summer said, sounding disgusted. "I haven't played with dolls in forever!"

Now Luce's expression said, Haha. Nice try.

"All right," Greg said, regrouping. "A favorite pair of shoes."

"Yeah! I got these awesome vintage winged sandals from the thrift store. They let me jump extra high. Oh my gosh, I have a ton of shoes. I love them!"

"Exactly," Greg said. "One pair of shoes is nice to stick your foot into. But if you have a harem of shoes, you can stick your feet into many different pairs."

"Oooh," Summer said.

Luce choked on his wine.

Greg's smug expression said, So there.

----

They were nearing the end of their meal when Cregan walked up to their table. Roger was nowhere in sight. "If I'd known you had a date with the prettiest lady in the room, Lucian, I might have tried to steal her from you," he said, smiling.

Greg watched Luce's posture go absolutely rigid. "Cregan. This is my niece, Summer." A wealth of accusation and hurt infused the last sentence.

Cregan paled visibly, but rallied well. "Oh, I see. The good looks must run in the family. My, you've certainly grown. The last time I saw you, you were a baby. Who knew you'd turn into such a lovely lady?"

Summer answered Cregan with a wavering smile. "Thank you, sir."

She knows, Greg thought. Somehow, she knows about Cregan and Luce and the reason Cregan left. No kid as wonderful as Summer should have to live with the knowledge that somebody out there thought that halflings like her were no better than the dirt beneath their feet.

Only Cregan's pained, guilty expression kept Greg from leaping across the table and slitting the monster's throat.

"How are you, dear?" Cregan asked.

Summer shrugged one shoulder ineloquently as she twisted her serviette nervously in her small hands. "I'm fine, thank you."

"I hope everyone is having a wonderful evening," Cregan continued haltingly. It was obvious he was searching for something to say, not having expected to find Luce's niece dining with them.

Suddenly, Cregan's face lit up. "Have you ordered dessert yet?"

Greg looked at Luce, who seemed unwilling to speak. "No, we have not," Greg answered.

"Then," said Cregan, hopefully, "perhaps I could take you all out for ice cream? I know a delightful place downtown. I think they may even have a flavor designed for vampires."

"We've been," Luce said shortly. "But thanks. Like I said, maybe - "

" - another time, yes," Cregan finished, chuckling wanly. "Of course. I'll let you get back to your evening. Four's a crowd, as the say." He rubbed a hand over his neck self-consciously, said goodbye once more, and left.

Luce was noticeably subdued after that. He poked at his dessert and smiled less frequently. Summer and Greg exchanged nervous glances and tried to draw him into their conversation and, after a bit, it seemed to work. They finished the evening on a note of laughter. Greg felt warm and happy and almost - wanted. He wished every night were like this.

But shadows lingered behind Luce's golden eyes. He didn't open up until they'd dropped Summer off at Althea's and returned to the house.

"Bright Lady," Luce said, grimacing. He set his car keys down on the hall table and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "What is this? Ex-Boyfriends From Hell Week? First Arvel, now Cregan?"

"Cregan seemed . . . nice," Greg offered.

"Nice? Ha! About as nice as a snake bite, or a kick in the head, or -"

"I get it," Greg cut in. "The opposite of nice. We all know looks can be deceiving - I'm sure that after offering to treat us all to ice cream, he probably tripped an old woman on his way home before stopping by the animal shelter to kick a puppy or two."

"He's such a smug asshole," Luce fumed, pacing around the room and totally ignoring Greg. "Showing off his latest pure-blooded boytoy like that, trying to rub my face in it. Did you hear him? 'You look well, Luce.' Oh, I've got his number."

"Maybe," Greg said, approaching Luce as one might approach a grumpy lion, "he was just trying to be friendly."

"Friendly!" Luce nearly shouted. "You call inviting us all out for ice cream friendly!?"

"Er, yes," Greg said.

Luce's shoulders sagged. "I really want to hate him. Especially after how he treated Summer."

Greg wanted to hate Cregan too, especially since he was tanned, athletic, dashingly handsome, and, this was the clincher, he had dated Luce and stupidly left him. If Cregan was Luce's type, Greg didn't stand a chance. Next to Cregan, Greg only seemed paler, skinnier, and more awkward.

But maybe . . . maybe Luce was still in love with Cregan.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Luce collapsed into his overstuffed armchair with a heavy sigh.

"People can change, you know," Greg said, hating himself. "Perhaps Cregan has turned over a new wing and is merely trying to make amends."

Luce snorted. "And the Count writes romance novels. I don't want to talk about Cregan. Quick, talk about something else."

"What?" Greg asked, startled.

"I don't know. Make one of your weird off-the-wall comments that drive me crazy."

"I once accidentally became a woman."

Luce looked up and burst into laughter. "God, I love how bizarre you are."

Greg smiled, pleased with himself. "It was the longest week of my life waiting for that spell to wear off. And of course, it couldn't have come at a worse time of the month."

Luce's mouth formed a little 'o.'

Greg nodded. "Yes. It was the full moon, and the woman I turned into was a werewolf. I had fur in very interesting new places."

Luce covered his face with his hands. "S-stop," he said, shoulders shaking. "P-please."

"And she was in heat."

Luce lost the battle against hysterical laughter.

"Sorry I slept in again," Luce yawned, wandering into the kitchen the next morning barefoot and wearing a pair of faded drawstring pants. He scratched his bare stomach, fingers absently smoothing the line of soft feathers trailing beneath the waistband of his pants.

Greg swallowed thickly and concentrated on stirring. "Hm," he said.

Luce came up and peered over Greg's shoulder to look in the pot bubbling away on the stove. "Something sure smells good. Hey, tomato sauce. Are we having pasta for dinner?"

"That isn't tomato sauce," Greg said. "It's for Bob the security ghoul's birthday party tonight."

There was a significant pause.

"Oh," said Luce. He backed away, looking vaguely queasy. "Maybe I'll just, uh, order pizza for dinner."

"I have three different pizza parlors programmed on speed dial for you. Number six is best," Greg said, turning back to the stove.

"It is?" Luce asked.

"When the advertisement says you can get any topping, they mean any topping."

"Right." Luce looked queasy again. He got out a carton of milk and a box of cereal and made himself a bowl of Monster Os; Luce wasn't particularly fond of the brand, but Greg kept buying it because the marshmallow Os were shaped liked tiny, screaming people.

Greg had been stocking Luce's cupboards in an attempt to instruct him on the joys of grocery shopping and cooking; Luce had taken quickly to easily preparable foods like cereal or peanut butter and blue jam sandwiches, but his interest in cooking didn't extend beyond these basics.

When Greg pressed him about it, in the middle of explaining the differences between a skillet and a baking pan (a distinction, unfortunately, Luce still did not understand, given the large circular burns on the bottom of the pan), Luce simply shrugged and said, "I've got you around to do the cooking, don't I?"

After that - and feeling unaccountably pleased - Greg quit pestering Luce about cooking.

Greg stirred the blood sauce with slow strokes and let himself watch Luce from the corner of his eye as Luce ate cereal and made loud slurping noises; the cereal disappeared with short work, and Greg snorted to himself. Certainly, no one would ever accuse Luce of being delicate.

Luce caught his eye. "What?" he said through a mouthful of cereal.

"Nothing," Greg said, shaking his head. He had been right last night. He might be in deep trouble.

Luce got up and made his way to the sink. "Hey," he said, bumping his shoulder against Greg's as he deposited his bowl in the sink. "What're your plans today?"

Greg bumped Luce's shoulder back. "Nothing in particular. I have some spells to research for one of the children, and I was planning to stop by the orphanage later and give the security a once-through."

Luce grinned. "Oh good, you can go with me. I almost forgot - I hired somebody to help with the kids, so I'll need you to re-key the wards to let her in. I've got to head to the orphanage later today and meet her."

"What? But you only interviewed for the tutoring position yesterday," Greg said, startled. Luce couldn't - shouldn't - have made a decision so fast. It stung a little that Luce hadn't asked his opinion, either.

Luce shrugged, smiling in a strange way. "It'll be nice for us to have the help. We could use some free time away from the orphanage. Gina's gonna be a big help."

Greg opened his mouth. "Who -?" The phone rang before he could question Luce further.

Luce answered the phone, leaning casually against the counter. The early morning light made his skin warm and glowing, and the muscles in his chest shifted as he listened to the caller, one hand scratching the thin feathers on his lower belly again in an unconscious gesture. Greg swallowed.

A small crease appeared between Luce's eyebrows. "Yeah, he's here. Hold on a sec." He covered the mouthpiece and handed the phone to Greg, saying, "It's that blood guy you know."

Greg arched an eyebrow, still stirring his sauce. Oh yes, a vampire hardly knew any blood guys at all - that certainly narrowed down the caller's identity.

Luce shook the phone at him and laughed. "Y'know, the guy you get your blood from."

Greg frowned and took the phone from Luce, wiping his hands on his apron and turning off the burner before he did. "Yes?" he said into the phone.

"Ah, Mr Dracula," answered Ivan Blüd's nervous voice. "I'm happy to have caught you at home." He didn't actually sound happy - he sounded like he would very much have preferred to leave a message on the answering machine.

Greg waited patiently. He found that saying nothing was often the best way to get someone else to say everything.

"Yes, well," continued Ivan, laughing a touch hysterically, "We've had a few problems at the office and I'm afraid all our orders have been suspended for the time being."

"Nothing too serious, I hope?"

"Oh, my, no. Don't worry," Ivan said. "The problems are being dealt with as we speak."

A thin scream in the background abruptly extinguished.

"But the rehiring process might take some time," Ivan finished brightly.

"Hm," Greg replied. "Thank you for letting me know, Ivan. I'll make alternative arrangements until I hear from you again."

"Not at all, Mr Dracula. We always attempt to treat our oldest and most loyal clients with the utmost respect."

"Yes," Greg said, his lip curling in amusement. "That's probably what keeps them so loyal." He and Ivan said their goodbyes, and he hung up the phone.

He turned around and Luce quirked an eyebrow in his direction.

"What's up?" Luce said. "That didn't sound like a good conversation."

"Hm," Greg replied distractedly, trying to think of where he could buy blood on such short notice. All the bloodbanks were closed on the weekend, which left him with the uninviting option of going to one of the local butcheries and buying animal blood to tide himself over until Monday when he could make a withdrawal.

"Earth to Greg. 'Hm' does not answer my question."

"Sorry," Greg said, blinking and refocusing on Luce, who was staring at him with a concerned, if amused, expression. "Mr Blüd was calling to inform me that I would have to find an alternative source of blood for the time being."

Luce propped his hip against the counter and studied Greg's face. "So that means you aren't getting breakfast anytime soon."

"Yes, I'll need to go out and buy something from the butcher's to tide me over until Monday," Greg said, shuddering delicately. "All the good places are closed for the weekend."

Luce frowned. "Didn't you tell me that blood from a butcher's shop could be unsafe? There aren't any regulations on it; you don't know what kind of animal it was from."

"Yes," Greg admitted, making a face. "But I don't have a lot of choice. It's a cheerful Saturday morning. I'm not in the mood to hunt the streets for live, willing victims and have their screams rend the air."

Luce looked away, the sun from the kitchen window backlighting his profile. His jaw worked for a moment and he turned back to Greg, his expression neutral. "You could drink from me again," he said casually.

Greg felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. "What?"

Luce rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck back and forth. Greg couldn't help but follow the movements, his eyes fixed on Luce's throat. "Like you did at the orphanage after the spell."

"The spell that ripped my face off and swiss-cheesed me full of glass?"

Luce looked uncomfortable at the reminder. "Yeah."

"I don't think that's . . . the best idea," Greg said. His hands were cold and clammy, and he wiped them on the side of his trousers.

"Why not?" Luce countered. "When you drank from me you said you needed less of my blood than you would from other people. Super phoenix juice, remember?"

Greg closed his eyes. He did remember. He remembered a taste like light and joy and pure power and the hot feeling of glorious blood running down his throat and setting his body on fire.

"Hey," Luce said, his voice very close. Greg opened his eyes and stared up at Luce's earnest expression. Their chests were only a handspan apart. "It's no big deal, right?"

Greg lowered his eyes. He knew he would give in. He knew he was weak. But the chance to taste Luce's blood again - without the bother of horrific magical wounds - it was too much temptation to deny.

He licked his lips. "Right," he said. "But only if you're - if you're sure you don't mind."

Luce shrugged elegantly, the muscles in his shoulders rippling; his eyes were flickering between gold and amber. "I told you, it's fine. I don't mind helping a friend out."

Greg nodded sharply. The memory of Luce's blood was making his mouth water. He wiped his hands against his trousers again; something about the movement made Luce smile.

"Why don't you finish your cooking and clean up in here and meet me in the living room?" Luce said. He put his hand on Greg's shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze, then dropped his hand and left the kitchen.

Greg stood in the middle of the room, feeling more alone than he had in a long time, and breathing heavily.

He never cleaned so fast in his life.

----

Luce was waiting for him on the couch, his long, lean body stretched out and one foot propped up against the coffee table with casual elegance. He quirked an eyebrow at Greg. "Ready?"

Greg sat down gingerly next to him. His words came out in a rush. "Really, Lucian, you don't have to do this, I can fetch something for myself -"

"Shut up already," Luce interrupted, laughing. "It's not like you haven't bitten me before. I know you won't drain me to a corpse, all right?"

Greg was at a loss for words so he shook his head in acknowledgment. "All right. But your neck will be sore for a bit."

"I remember," Luce said, grimacing and rubbing at his throat.

Greg stared at the beautiful, bare expanse of golden skin and nearly growled. He coughed to cover his reaction.

"So," Luce said. He clapped his hands together, his voice bright and falsely cheerful. "How do you wanna do this? Is it easier if I lie down?"

Greg was suddenly struck by the image of Luce spread out on the couch, looking up with smoky amber eyes and his neck tilted just so in invitation, as though he were a present wrapped with the promise of a crimson ribbon.

Oh, his mind agreed. Oh, dear.

Greg closed his eyes briefly and pressed cold fingers to his forehead. "No," he said, and congratulated himself when his voice did not come out strangled. "Sitting up is fine."

He moved closer to Luce, so that their sides were nearly pressed together. "If you could just . . ." Greg faltered.

Luce looked at him questioningly. "What?"

Greg reached out and touched his fingers to Luce's strong jaw, gently tipping his head sideways. "I need room to lunge in with my fangs," he said, half-joking.

Luce's laugh sounded nervous. "Right. Okay. Uh, bite away."

Greg nodded, his throat too dry to speak, and leaned in, trying not to think about what he was doing. His fangs pierced Luce's skin quickly. Really, skin was such a thin, ridiculous thing - it was a wonder it held a body together.

Sweet, hot, glorious blood flooded his mouth, and Greg couldn't stop the small noise of pleasure that rumbled from deep in his chest. But he didn't suck on the wound, instead trying to allow Luce to adjust to the feeling of fangs in his throat.

"Man, Frank was right," Luce grunted, almost to himself. His eyes were closed as he hissed in pain; Greg could feel the vibration against his teeth. "This is not sexy."

Greg drew back, blood smeared around his mouth like macabre lipstick. Merciful Satan, what had he been thinking? Of course it would be painful; he hadn't thought about Luce's comfort.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I could . . . make it sexy. I mean," he said hurriedly, as Luce raised his eyebrows in astonishment, "What I - that is to say not sexy, obviously, just that it doesn't have to be - I can make it more pleasant for you. So it doesn't hurt."

Luce turned an interesting reddish-pink, touching his fingers to the wound on his throat. It leaked blood slowly. "Can you?"

Greg licked his lips. "Yes. It's an ability older vampires have. It's - would you like me to? I told you, we don't have to do this at all, really. I can go to the butcher's shop and pick up something quick for myself until the bloodbanks open on Monday, it's no bother -"

"Greg, shut up already. It's fine." Luce said. He sounded exasperated but he smiled as he tilted his neck invitingly, and Greg couldn't help the way his eyes zeroed in on the pulse throbbing beneath the smooth, muscled expanse of Luce's skin.

The smell of Luce's blood was heavenly. He couldn't put his finger on the scent - it wasn't flowery, like some human blood smelled to vampires - but it didn't smell like anything in particular. Just right.

"All right. Could you look into my eyes, please?" Greg asked.

"You've got to be kidding me. 'Look into my eyes'? Do you vant to suck my blahd, too? I thought that was hokey vampire stuff."

"In most fairytales, one finds a grain of truth," Greg said, bristling.

Luce laughed. "I guess so. Okay."

They stared at each other. Luce was still smiling faintly; Greg found himself falling into the phoenix's intense golden eyes and thought, Hang on, it's supposed to be the other way around. He wasn't supposed to lose himself in the warm gaze of his prey; his prey was supposed to bend mindlessly under his will.

"You're not doing this right," he murmured softly.

"What?" Luce replied, sounding dazed. He kept staring at Greg's mouth. Greg felt something shift in the air between them.

"Relax," Greg said, leaning forward. "And stop me if it still hurts." His breath ghosted over Luce's neck, and when Luce swallowed, Greg could see his pulse speed up.

He rested his fangs against the skin of Luce's throat and gave an experimental lick with his tongue. Luce made a choking noise. The skin tasted salty and hot, with a hint of something like cloves and cinnamon, spicy and heady. He remembered the last time he'd bitten Luce, right after the spell that had carved away half his face. He hadn't had time to appreciate things then; he'd been more concerned with not exsanguinating on Luce's couch.

He lapped at the thin trickle of blood that flowed sluggishly from the two small wounds in Luce's neck. With his face still pressed to Luce's throat, he reached up and brushed his cool fingers across Luce's temple and murmured the words of the spell. Luce sighed and the tension drained from his body; he relaxed back into the couch. Greg felt one of Luce's hands come up to rest lazily on the back of his head.

All right. He had only about ten minutes before the spell lost effect.

He bit down hard and heard Luce give a pleased murmur as the hand on his head tightened.

Warm blood gushed into his mouth, hot and swirling. It was just as wonderful as he remembered. It whirled over his tongue in a dance of color and light and heat; he felt like he must be burning from the inside out.

As Greg sucked, Luce stroked his hair affectionately, petting him and murmuring nonsense noises, sounding pleased. He pushed Greg's face harder against his throat, arching up ever so slightly against Greg's body. He wrapped his other hand around Greg's waist, pulling him tighter.

Pushy, spellbound phoenix.

Luce gave a soft moan, his hand fisting in the fabric of Greg's shirt. Greg shuddered, trying to focus on the taste of Luce's blood and nothing else - not the smell of his skin or the way his fingers danced against Greg's back or the soft sounds he made.

The spell made everything seem soft and fuzzy and warm to the victim; it heightened their senses and stimulated the pleasure center in the brain so that the bite became enjoyable, a craving. For the duration of the spell, pain became pleasure and the victim felt a deep, heavy desire for the vampire attacking his or her throat. It was a neat little trick to keep prey docile, and it was obviously affecting Luce strongly if it made him act so strangely.

Luce's hands moved restlessly over Greg's back, caressing him through his thin t-shirt. Greg couldn't resist cupping Luce's chin in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin. Luce moaned softly again, tightening his arms around Greg; his fingers combed through Greg's hair with the gentleness of a lover.

Greg shuddered again. Blood was too intimate a thing. He should never should have agreed to this. Luce would hate him when it was over.

Within a few minutes, he'd drunk all he needed. Luce's blood filled his belly, warm and heavy and low, and it made his body hum with power. He pulled away reluctantly, untangling Luce's arms from around him. After he licked the wounds on Luce's neck closed, he sat back and watched Luce's face. "Are you all right?"

Luce's head lolled against the back of the couch. His eyes were glazed and heavy-lidded and his chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat making the bare skin shine. "That was a lot better," he said, eventually, with a slow, devastating smile.

"I'm glad," Greg said. It was impossible to look away.

"We could do it again," Luce offered, a glitter in his eyes. They looked dark and molten.

Greg took a deep breath. It was the spell talking.

He laughed. "Don't turn into a bite junkie, Luce. The pale, needy look would not suit you."

"Might suit you," Luce replied, with a wicked, soft smile.

Greg flushed, and the new blood he'd ingested rushing straight to the surface of his cheeks. The damn spell - Luce was obviously still suffering its aftereffects. Stories about that particular spell were the reason throngs of women continued to write romances about vampires and the passion of their sensual deadly, embrace. It was all a bit embarrassing, really.

He cleared his throat. "Thank you, Lucian."

Luce smiled lazily, though his eyes looked a little clearer. "My pleasure," he leered.

Greg laughed, shaking his head. "I've got spells to research. You should probably rest for a bit."

"I'll rest here," Luce said, looking boneless and sated and as though he wouldn't mind being sucked on again.

Greg left quickly to find his spellbooks.

----

They were still sitting on the couch a few hours later. Luce had dressed and was watching TV idly, flicking between the channels. Greg could feel Luce's glance darting back to him every so often; it was like an itch behind his teeth that he couldn't get rid of.

He ground his fangs together. He still had enough of Luce's blood in his system to make him extra sensitive to Luce's presence. He could taste Luce's curiosity.

He hunched over his book, not eager to talk. What if Luce was regretting his decision to help Greg? What if he was disgusted - or worse - angry? No. Maybe if he read his book and didn't talk about it, whatever question Luce had would subside.

This continued for some time, until Greg managed to block Luce out through a sheer force of will. He was on his third spellbook when Luce shifted, turning away from the TV to stare openly at Greg.

"Frank told me that Drake only drinks from him."

"Well, yes," Greg said, half-listening. He flipped through the spell book in front of him, trying to concentrate as searched for a particular Siberian water-warming spell he'd read once. Flipper had been complaining that his tank water was far too cold, and Greg hoped the spell would help. He'd have to test it out on an empty pool first, though: it wouldn't do to boil the child alive. "Of course. They're in love, so he would." He looked up to find Luce staring at him strangely.

"What do you mean?" Luce asked. His attention was focused intently on Greg, and his body seemed tense.

Greg paused, a bit embarrassed. "It's not very common knowledge, but when a vampire takes a mate - or, if you want to be sickeningly romantic about it, falls in love - a bond is formed. Drake needs only to feed from Frank in order to sustain himself because Frank's blood is - different than anyone else's. They have a special connection."

Luce looked thoughtful. He glanced down at his fingers, running them over a small bloodstain on the couch. Greg didn't know if it was from him or Shub and Rubeus or something else entirely. "So vampires can only feed regularly from someone they love?"

"Sort of." Greg made a face and returned to reading his spellbook as he spoke so he wouldn't have to look at Luce's face. "It's a bit more complicated - and less nauseatingly romantic - than that. Vampires can only feed regularly on someone who has given true consent. The giving of blood is what makes the blood so potent. When not only consent but emotions are given freely, the blood becomes even more potent. Since Frank loves Drake and has given his consent, his blood is doubly potent."

"Oh," Luce said. "In that case, I give you my consent."

Greg's head snapped up. "What?"

"Until your deliveries start again, you're going to need a regular supply of blood, right? Right," Luce answered himself, barreling through Greg's noise of protest, "And leftover animal blood from the butcher's shop is not going to keep you in top form."

"No, Luce - " Greg started to say.

"I need you at your best, Greg. You and I both know that there's still a threat to the orphanage out there. I'm not going to be able to protect the kids without you."

"All right, Lucian, I concede you have a point but -"

"C'mon, Greg. You hardly have to take any blood from me when you feed, so I don't mind if you keep feeding from me until things get back to normal."

"I'm not sure -" Greg said, starting to relent.

The offer of Luce's blood - if only for a little while - was hard to deny. Something about phoenix blood must be especially potent: it had taken so little to satiate him. He'd had phoenix blood before but he didn't remember it making him feel euphoric; it must be because the blood was from a live phoenix and offered freely. That was really the only explanation.

"Don't make it weird," Luce said. He looked very determined.

"Well -"

"And just make sure you use your sexy bite," Luce said, grinning.

Greg's lips quirked up. "I knew it - you are turning into a bite junkie."

"What can I say?" Luce said, laughing. "You had me at 'Look into my eyes.'" With a final grin, he turned to the TV again.

Greg stared at Luce's back. If only, he thought.

And then, almost unable to admit it to himself, he thought, Yes. Deep, deep trouble.

Greg found the warming spell he was looking for and practiced it on three separate sinks in the house to make certain he had it right before he tried it out for Flipper. Since the first sink had exploded, and the water in the second sink had vaporized, he felt this was a justifiable concern.

Frank and Drake would be waiting for them to switch shifts, so he made certain he had the spell mastered and he and Luce hopped into Luce's Firebird and made their way to the orphanage.

On the car ride there, he stared out the window and let himself feel . . . happy. There were thoughts trying to crowd into his head: dangerous spells, the children's safety, Arvel, Cregan - but he would think about them later. For now, he had warm sun on his face, a full stomach, and the closest friend he'd ever had. He wasn't sure he was allowed to be so lucky.

Luce seemed content to leave him to his silence; he hummed along to a Thomas the Fly Rhymer song on the radio, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the beat.

When they arrived at the orphanage, Greg found that his good mood evaporated entirely: Frank and Drake waylaid Luce at the door, saying that they needed to speak with him privately. Frank gave Greg a sympathetic, guilty look and Greg wanted to smash in his nose.

He made an excuse about needing to check the perimeter anyway, as though he couldn't be bothered with a short meeting even if they'd asked, and watched them go into Luce's office, a hard, bitter knot forming high in his throat. No matter how long he'd helped out at the orphanage or how hard he'd worked, it seemed he would never be a member of their little circle.

It hurt, but it was a familiar kind of hurt. He was well used to feeling alone. He'd simply thought - with all the things he'd shared with Luce - that it might have been different.

He shook off his melancholy thoughts. Hadn't he told himself he would appreciate things while he had them?

He went upstairs to check on the children and found them all down for an afternoon nap in the playroom. Sniffing cautiously at the air, he detected a hint of chloroform. The children were sleeping very soundly.

He watched them for a few minutes. Emma lay on a blue mat, curled around her dolls; the twins, Flint and Malachite, slept back to back; Flipper dozed in a shallow wading pool, blowing bubbles in his sleep; Oliver was on his back, his feet kicking in the air as he dreamt a were-cat dream. It probably involved mice. The baby naga was asleep in her crib; the wooden bars bore faint teeth marks and Greg made a mental note to reinforce them with steel before the baby splintered the wood with her teething.

Taking one final look around the room, he bent to brush a lock of hair from Emma's forehead and left, quietly shutting the door behind him.

He was halfway down the stairs when the alarm ward over the front door sprang to life inside his mind. Before he did anything else, he turned and sprinted back up the stairs and cast a shielding spell around the room that held the sleeping children. Then he raced toward the front door, the alarm spell screaming in his head as he vaulted over the railing and landed hard on the floor, causing the wooden boards to vibrate with the impact.

The wards were reacting to someone they didn't recognize, someone who they had deemed strong enough to pose a threat. That was not good.

He skidded out into the long hallway, the riotous sound of the alarm still clanging between his ears, and thought about calling for Luce's help. When he saw the intruder, he stopped dead. Well, undead.

A young woman stood at the end of the hall just inside the front door, glancing at her surroundings with apparent interest. She was petite and thin, with short, spiky purple hair. She might have almost passed for human, if not for her faintly green skin and the large, curling snake tail that sprouted through the back of her jeans and writhed across the floor. A battered orange messenger bag hung carelessly off her shoulder.

"Hello," Greg said shortly, striding toward her and making a quick gesture to silence the spell in his head. "Who are you and what are you doing in my - this orphanage?" He was aware that his voice did not sound very friendly.

The girl didn't smile - she grinned. Apparently no one had ever told her it was poor form to grin at vampires barreling down upon her. She looked to be in her early twenties, at exactly the age when most monsters possessed far more confidence in their abilities than was warranted, and as she grinned Greg could see two long, curved fangs extend from her mouth.

"I'm Nagina," she said. "But you can call me Gina. And I'm here to teach stuff to your little buggers and make sure they stay outta trouble. I'm the resident hall monitor with a side of history tutoring."

Greg looked askance at her ripped jeans, her multiple piercings, and her faded "Black Hags World Tour" t-shirt and said, "Surely not."

Gina frowned, almost imperceptibly. "Well, the ol' phoenix himself hired me."

"Was he drunk?"

Gina laughed merrily. "Naturally. Reckon he was drunk off my wild beauty." She tossed her head, and her tail flicked back and forth behind her. It caught Greg's attention.

"You're a naga halfling?" Greg asked, surprise registering in his voice.

"If I wasn't a halfling," Gina said, "I woulda spit paralyzing venom in your eyes and suffocated you with my tail the second I saw ya. Naga instincts 'n all." She grinned again, showing off her large, hooked fangs, and favored Greg with a wink.

"I . . . see," Greg replied slowly. He was certain that part of the reason Luce had hired such a perky young monster was purely to annoy him. "Well, I'm a vampire. I would have wiped your venom from my eyes and ripped out your jugular. Vampire instincts and all."

"You're a vampire," Gina said flatly, her tone indicating she thought his next words might be something like, "And a Viennese polka champion."

"I've always preferred the term 'Temporary Exsanguinator,' but yes," Greg said, crossing his arms. "The black clothes didn't give it away? The general air of brooding and menace?"

"Nah, thought vampires were scarier than you. You're just kinda grumpy - I thought ya were a gargoyle," she said, leaning against the hall wall with an indolent shrug. Her forked tongue peeked out from between her smiling lips. Her smile was almost contagious. "'Old Stone Face' suits ya."

"I highly advise you against attempting to call me that. What about my gaunt features and chillingly pale skin?"

"Maybe a ghoul," she said easily, and waved her hand as though Greg should really understand.

"And the fangs?

"Overzealous goth kid," she replied promptly, with a cheeky grin.

The corner of his mouth curled up slightly, despite himself. She was certainly persistent. "And even now, you aren't afraid to be trapped alone in a house with a villainous scourge of the night?"

"I could bite ya back," Gina said, running her strange tongue over her teeth. "Put up a fight. I've got venom."

"I'm immortal," Greg returned easily. He found he was enjoying himself.

Gina pouted. "Well, yeah, but ya gotta admit, it would inconvenience ya for a while."

"You're assuming you'd get close enough to bite me before I killed you."

Gina laughed at him. "I dunno, I've got a pretty fast strike. Besides, I know we aren't alone." She flicked her tongue out and tasted the air. "I can smell other people."

"Ah, yes, you must be sensing the other unfortunate monsters I've trapped in my diabolical lair."

Gina laughed again. "I like you. What's your name, stoney? Awful rude of ya not to introduce yourself proper-like."

"I'm Greg," Greg said.

Gina blinked and took a small step backward. "You're Greg? Oh, uh, I didn't realize. I thought you'd be more - sorry, this bizarre conversation makes a whole lot more sense now." She grinned but this time it was half-hearted and a trifle nervous, and her eyes kept darting down the long, dark hall as though for reinforcements.

Greg stifled a sigh. It was hard to find good witty banter when everyone was afraid of you.

"Yes, well," he said. "I understand Luce may have felt you were ready for the job but that doesn't mean you've won me over. I'm not at all sure of your qualifications."

"Oh yeah?" Gina said, her yellow eyes narrowing. She hitched her orange bag up higher on her shoulder. "Well let me tell you, I got qualifications comin' outta the yin-yang. I graduated top of my class for each of my seven degrees and I helped raise a whole nest of my brothers and sisters. I hope you know snakes can lay a lotta eggs."

"I'm familiar, yes. But I still can't say I feel comfortable with you."

"Why?" Gina asked. "So help me, stone face, if you say it's 'cause I'm half-Naga, I'll -"

"Oh I don't care about that," Greg said. "I know nagas don't have the best reputation but if you're stupid enough to eat one of the children then I'll simply kill you."

"Then what?" Gina asked, her tail lashing angrily.

"You're just so young," Greg said. "Have you had any work experience? Taking care of these children is not going to be the same as taking care of your brothers and sisters. And what are your credentials? Did you bring a copy of your curriculum vitae? Lucian is not the best judge of character - after all, he's friends with me - and I don't doubt that you snake-charmed him into offering you the position. Just how old are you?"

Gina stared at him, her mouth hanging open. "That's your objection? I'm young? You don't even care that I'm half nasty-venom-spitting snake-lady? Fuckin' hell, you are a piece of work, old man. You do realize that not everyone is as old as you and the buzzard, right?"

"The - buzzard?" Greg said, thoughts momentarily derailed.

"You know, big feathery guy, about yay-high?" She stood on tiptoes and used her hands to indicate a spot high above her head. "Handsome as all get out and painfully gay?"

Greg barked out a surprised laugh. "Is this how you spoke to him?"

"Pretty much," Gina said. The grin was back.

"And how did you know he was - how did you phrase it? - 'painfully gay'?" Oh, Greg was looking forward to teasing Luce about this later. It was even better than the time he'd heard Luce squawking out his own rendition of 'Monster Mash' in the shower.

"'Cause he didn't check out my rack once!" Gina said. She sounded offended. "And I was pretty bummed because I always figured my secret weapon for getting the job would be to show a little tail." She wiggled said tail for emphasis.

"Yes, any naga would be drooling acid over you," Greg said wryly.

Gina paused. "It really doesn't bother you that I'm a snake? Most people don't like nagas too much."

"Most people aren't fond of vampires either. It's truly a mystery. What does being half-naga have to do with anything?"

"C'mon," Gina said, shaking her head. "Why do you think I wanna bust my ass helping halfies? It's fuckin' hard for us out there. I've got seven degrees to my name but I work at a greasy humburger joint and can barely manage my bills."

"A humburger joint?"

"Where they sell humanburgers. They're made of leftover bits of the dead ones. Ghouls dig 'em up. It's not the healthiest thing you could eat but it's damn tasty."

"Ah," Greg said. He studied Gina with new interest. "You're right. You understand what these children will face in a society that has not accepted halflings."

"Yeah," Gina said softly. Her tail curled around her leg. Just then, she did look very young. But she also looked determined.

Greg uncrossed his arms and held his hand out. "If you promise to call Luce a buzzard where I can witness it, I have no objection to you taking the position."

Gina looked up at him, her yellow eyes dancing with mirth. "Yeah? You got yourself a deal, stone face," she said, shaking his hand. "But why do I feel like I just made a pact with the Devil?"

Greg smiled widely, displaying his fangs. He heard the door to Luce's office open down the hall and the sound of footsteps coming up behind him.

"Gina! You made it," Luce said, all smiles, as he stepped up beside Greg and slung an arm around his shoulder. "I see you've already met our friendly greeter. I'm thinking of getting him a nametag and a vest."

"The vest would be splattered with your blood," Greg replied evenly.

Luce laughed. "I'll make sure it's a red vest."

Gina looked back and forth between the two of them, a little furrow in her brow, before her expression cleared and she grinned again. "It's like that, huh? Makes sense. Yeah, he was a great welcoming committee, bossman. Really put a girl at ease."

"I'm sure he did," Luce said wryly. "But I'm glad you came when you did. You can meet Frank and Drake, too. They're my partners in crime."

Frank and Drake had come up to join them as Luce spoke. Frank was the first to say hello. He shook Gina's hand enthusiastically and said, "I'm Frank. Glad to have you on board. I hope your insurance is paid up."

"Don't worry," Gina replied. "If I get hurt I'll just sue your ass."

"You can try to sue my ass," Frank said. "But I gotta warn ya, he's cheeky."

Drake and Luce groaned in unison.

"We're gonna be friends," Gina said. "I can tell. Can I be frank with you?"

"I dunno," Frank said, his eyes lighting with unholy glee. "I'm Frank. It might get confusing."

"Oh, yeah, I know you're frank - it's a refreshing trait," Gina said, her eyes dancing, "But can I be Frank, too?"

"But I thought you were Gina."

"I'm Gina. Surely you know that?"

"Yes, of course. And -"

" - don't call me Shirley!" Gina and Frank said together, cackling.

"Someone stop them," Drake said, sounding pained, "Or they will be at it for hours."

"Yes," Luce said. "I can see we're going to have to separate you two."

"Hey, it's not my fault you guys don't have a funny bone in your body," Frank said. "Or should I say punny bone?"

"You can say whatever you want," Gina put in. "You're Frank, remember?"

Luce and Drake groaned again.

Greg's mouth curved into an amused smile. "I think Frank has found his soulmate."

"Mm," Gina said. "He might do."

Frank laughed but Drake's expression went dark. He shot a quick glare at Greg and grabbed Frank's arm, dragging him toward the door. "I am Drake," he said through gritted teeth. "Regrettably, we must leave you now. It was a singular pleasure to meet you, Gina. Excuse us."

The front door slammed behind them but Greg could still hear Frank laughing faintly before the sound was cut off suspiciously, as though his mouth were now otherwise occupied.

Gina looked amused. "Guess they're still in the honeymoon phase, huh?"

"Something like that," Luce said with a laugh. "I'll take you around and give you a full tour today. You can meet the rest of our skeleton crew."

Greg touched Luce's arm lightly. "Careful. You know Frank is contagious."

"Right," Luce said, laughing. "Sorry it was such a whirlwind introduction, Gina. That's just how things are around here."

"I had a hundred and twelve brothers and sisters," Gina said. "You guys aren't so bad."

"Meet the children and then say that," Greg replied, sharing a look with Luce.

"Trust me, you guys. All my brothers and sisters had poisoned fangs. You learn how to dodge and duck."

"Hm," Greg said. "Well, the half-cupid has magical spears, the werecat has claws and vicious shedding, and the half-troll twins like to play a game where they barrel down the hall and collide with your legs headfirst."

"What does the merkid do?" Gina asked.

"Don't get in the water with him," Luce said. "He's, uh, going through his terrible twos."

"But the baby naga you can probably handle," Greg said. "Probably."

"Not probably. Definitely. My parents have had five batches of kids. I can change a diaper around a tail in my sleep."

"Really?" Luce said. "They were a couple? I didn't think - I mean, interspecies relationships don't usually work out. Are they still together?"

"Oh yeah," Gina said. "And working on batch number six."

"Your father sounds like an amorous fellow."

"What can I say? He's a human who likes tail - and my Ma has a tail that goes for miles."

"On that disturbing note," Greg said. "I'm going to find the security ghouls and debrief them."

Gina opened her mouth, a wicked gleam entering her eyes.

"No," Greg said, holding up a hand to forestall her. "Please do not ever suggest I wish to see a ghoul naked."

"Don't let Bob and Bill hear you say that," Luce said. "You'll hurt their feelings."

"I'll hurt you," Greg grumbled as he walked away.

Gina and Luce laughed behind him.

----

It wasn't until an hour later that Greg managed to find Luce alone in his office, going over his supply ledger. He watched Luce from the doorway for a moment, noticing the tiny furrow between the phoenix's eyebrows and the way he murmured to himself and chewed on the end of his pen. There was a small ink stain at the corner of his mouth.

Luce looked up and spotted Greg. His expression melted into a smile. "What's up?"

"What was that about?" Greg said.

"What was what about?" Luce replied, sounding puzzled.

"Frank and Drake."

Luce frowned, fiddling with his pen. "Oh, that. It was nothing. Don't worry about it. Frank just had to tell me something."

"About what?"

"I told you, don't worry about it," Luce said. He looked nervous.

Greg felt like a vise was tightening around his chest. "You mean it's none of my business."

"No, that's not what I meant. I -"

"If it's about the orphanage, doesn't it concern me? I thought my job was to help you here."

"Dammit, Greg," Luce said. "Can't you leave things alone? It wasn't about the orphanage, all right? It's between me and them."

"Excuse me," Greg said stiffly. "I didn't mean to pry into your secret, clandestine meetings."

"Bright Lady give me strength," Luce said, glaring up at the ceiling. "Would you drop it? There's nothing - nothing secret going on, okay?"

The vise contracted. "Oh really?"

Luce was lying. He could smell it.

"Really," Luce said. "I don't have to tell you every-fucking-thing, Greg."

Greg felt like he'd been slapped. He wanted to say, But I tell you everything. Except Luce didn't know that - he didn't know he was Greg's closest friend. He didn't know that Greg would tell Luce anything, anything at all - he just had to ask.

"No, you don't," Greg said. "I'm sorry for prying. I've got some wards to spell and then I'm going to set everything up for Bob's party. Cake and ice cream at eight." He turned on his heel and began to walk away.

"Greg, shit, come back here," Luce called.

Greg looked over his shoulder. He kept his expression neutral.

"Sorry, okay? We wanted it to be a surprise."

"What?" Greg asked, turning fully around.

"Your birthday," Luce said sheepishly. "We're trying to plan a surprise party, okay? So just - act surprised when it comes around or Frank and Drake'll be pissed. Geez, I can't keep anything from you - you're a damn bloodhound."

"Ah," Greg said. "I'm sorry for ruining the surprise. I promise you, I'll act appropriately stunned when the time comes."

Luce's grin was lopsided. "Okay. Are we all right?"

"Yes," Greg said, forcing a smile onto his face. He left the room feeling furious and hurt.

Luce had still been lying.

----

Two weeks of drinking Luce's blood. Sweet Lucifer, he wasn't sure he could take it much longer. Every time he drank from Luce it was harder to stop; it was harder not to give into the feel of Luce's arms around him or his blood filling him - Greg wanted to bite more, suck harder, show Luce what else a vampire could do, show him where else a vampire could bite to make him moan.

He buried his head in his hands.

He could admit to himself that he found Luce attractive. Luce was beautiful and golden. He brightened the room when he entered it; Greg felt the loss of his warmth and light keenly whenever he left it. But he also knew that there was no point in letting himself think beyond that.

It was the blood. He hadn't fed regularly from someone in so long - not from someone he cared about - not since Arvel -

He whimpered, digging his fingers into his temples, trying to ease the ache behind his eyes. It was nothing more than forced intimacy. Luce would never want him on his own. Did he want Luce to want him? He thought the answer was probably yes.

Except Luce had made it perfectly clear that there were barriers between them, secrets he wouldn't share. Greg was an unnecessary fourth wheel. He didn't have a place here. Not really.

He shook his head and picked up a large spellbook, flipping it open to his bookmark. He needed to concentrate on his work. He hadn't found any hidden trap spells for the last few weeks and that made him nervous. There was a reason for the expression 'lull before the storm.' He did not trust lulls.

As he flipped through the section on pixie defensive magic - quick, easy spells that were good in a pinch but not very powerful - he began to feel as though he were being watched, but every time he lifted his head from the book to look around he couldn't find the source.

He frowned and went back to reading. The feeling persisted.

Finally, he slammed his spellbook closed in frustration and called, "Is anyone there?"

"Yeth," answered a small voice.

Greg peered over the edge of the enormous desk. A young boy was standing on the other side, dressed in a sharp gray uniform, his head just shy of Greg's normal line of vision. He had shiny, dark hair combed to the side and a solemn, gray face that matched the color of his clothing.

"Who are you?" Greg asked.

"Mathon, thir," said the little boy smartly. He clicked his heels together and stood rigidly at attention, smiling cautiously up at Greg. He was missing a front tooth.

"Mathon?"

"No, Mathon," said the little boy reprovingly. "Ith not that hard to thay."

"Ah, Mason," Greg said, finally catching on. The poor child had a very unfortunate lisp. He sounded like one of father's servants from the Old Country. "That's an interesting name."

"Ith thort for mathonry," the little boy explained proudly, "'Cauthe I'm a gargoyle. Rrrr." He flexed his hands into small claws and growled.

Greg laughed, despite himself. "I see. I don't believe I've ever seen a gargoyle quite so fearsome looking before."

"I take after my father, thir," Mason said. "He looked kind of like you."

Greg raised his eyebrow. "Did he?"

"Yeth, thir," Mason said. "He had a very tholemn fathe, thir. You reminded me of him jutht now."

Greg frowned. "Well, I'm not your father. You're the newest orphan, aren't you?"

"Yeth," said Mason, nodding gravely. "I like thith plathe much better. The neighborth who were taking care of me were thpider demonth and their houthe wath very thticky."

"I'm glad you're enjoying it here. Have you met the other children?"

"Yeth," Mason said, his gray face darkening. "I don't like them much, thir. They made fun of the way I talk. Anyway, gargoyleth are very tholitary monthterth."

"Yes, you don't often see large packs of gargoyles adorning the tops of buildings. Do come around the desk, please, I dislike craning to see you." Greg made a mental note to give the other children a stern lecture on appreciating differences.

"Do you know much about gargoyleth, thir?" Mason asked curiously, doing as Greg asked. He stood next to Greg's chair, his hands clasped in front of his body.

"I'm afraid not," Greg replied. He pulled his spellbook over, pretending to read and hoping the child would take the hint that he was busy.

"Thath all right," Mason said. "I can teach you. Ith not hard."

Greg looked up. "Why would I care to learn about gargoyles?"

Mason blinked. His eyes were pale purple-gray. "Cauthe you're my new Guardian."

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why do I have a feeling that has nothing to do with watching over you in my capacity as a caregiver at the orphanage?"

"I'm not really thure what you jutht thaid, thir," Mason said. "But a gargoyle ith thupposed to guard. Ith what we do. And we alwayth have a leader. He ith the Guardian."

"Let me guess. Your father was this - guardian?"

"Thir," Mason said patiently. "You're not thaying it right again. It hath a capital letter. He wath the Guardian."

"Right," Greg said. "I'm afraid I already have a job. Why don't you ask Luce to be your Guardian?"

"I couldn't do that, thir," Mason said reproachfully. "I've watched everyone here. And I watched you for hourth - you're the only one who can be my Guardian."

Greg sighed to himself and wondered why these children always imprinted on him. It was probably all the bad karma he'd accumulated through centuries of maiming and murder.

Hold on. "You've been watching me for hours? Why didn't I see you?"

"I'm a gargoyle, thir. We're good at thtanding thentinel. People don't pay much attention to thtatueth."

"To what?"

"Thtaaaatueth," Mason repeated slowly.

Greg dug his fingers into his temple again. "And what does a Guardian have to do?"

"Nothing thpecial, thir. Teach. Guard. That thort of thing."

"Of course," Greg said. "Why don't you run along and write it all down on a piece of paper so that I can study it?"

"Okay!" Mason said brightly. "Thath a thuper idea, thir! But thath why you're in charge. Can I hug you, pleathe?"

"I thuppose," Greg said, and caught himself. Damn child.

Mason beamed and wrapped his tiny gray arms around Greg's waist. "Thankth. I was really thad when my parenth died."

Greg patted Mason's head awkwardly, his heart melting. "My mother died, too. But I don't remember her. You're lucky you have good memories of your parents."

Mason looked up at Greg with shiny, worshipful eyes. "Thath thomething a true Guardian would thay."

"Do grow out of that lisp," Greg said weakly, detaching Mason's arms and pushing the boy gently away. "Now run along."

"Thorry," Mason said guiltily as he scampered away. He stopped before he reached the door. Greg noticed that when he wasn't moving, Mason stood as still as a statue.

"I watched you, tho I know you're thad, thir. Don't be thad. Everything workth out for a reathon. You'll thee." He gave Greg a small, tentative smile and left.

Greg realized his headache was gone.

A week later, Greg and Luce were just arriving home from the orphanage when the phone rang. Greg had already managed to get through Shub and Rubeus' welcome-home assault, but Luce was still fending them off, so he called "I'll get it," and answered the phone.

"Hello?" he said.

"Yes? Hello?" answered a warm voice Greg wished he didn't recognize. The voice sounded confused. "I'm looking for Lucian."

"He's here," Greg said, feeling stiff all over. He glanced over his shoulder. Luce was laughing on the floor as Shub and Rubeus crawled over him, chirping and meowing. "He'll be free in a moment."

"Thanks. Er, is this Greg?"

Greg closed his eyes. "Yes," he answered tightly.

"Oh! I don't suppose you remember me but-"

"I remember you, Cregan."

"Right," Cregan said, laughing nervously. "How have you been?"

"Fine."

"I saw the advertisement for the orphanage in yesterday's paper. It looks brilliant."

"Thank you," Greg said grudgingly. Sweet Lucifer, why did Luce get the nice ex? "We're very excited."

"It's a great thing you're doing," Cregan said, seriously. "I haven't always - well, nevermind." There was a pause. "Whom would I speak to about donating to the orphanage's foundation?"

Greg covered the receiver and let out a harsh breath. Luce looked up from the floor sharply, his hands frozen in play. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, and Greg turned his back. "Luce," he said. "He handles that."

"All right," Cregan said. "Is he, er, free yet?"

Just then, Greg felt Luce's warm hand settle on his shoulder. "Yes," he replied. "Hang on."

He covered the mouthpiece again and handed the phone to Luce. "Cregan," he said simply.

The color drained from Luce's face, and he swallowed twice, hard. "Okay," he said, taking the phone. "Hello?"

Greg watched him.

"Yeah, I'm good," Luce said. He half-turned away from Greg. "Uh huh, thanks. We're really proud, too." He paused, listening to Cregan, and Greg saw his eyebrows shoot up. "How much? That's... Cregan, that's amazing. Thank you."

Cregan said something else, and Luce laughed quickly, short and sharp, like he hadn't meant to.

Greg balled his hands into fists and left to give Luce some privacy. His stomach was churning like he'd taken a hit of bad blood. The hallway stretched out, long and warped, and it took him years to reach his bedroom door, fighting through air that tasted like mud.

He remembered Cregan in perfect detail: handsome, charming, and warm-blooded. He was willing to bet that Cregan also didn't come with centuries of emotional baggage like Greg. And he'd been with Luce before, so he knew what Luce liked. If Cregan wanted Luce back, Greg knew he didn't stand a chance.

What was he even thinking? He'd never try for Luce anyway. How many times was he going to have to remind himself that this was only temporary?

----

Luce knocked on his door not long after that. "Greg?" he said quietly.

"Yes?" Greg replied. He'd managed to get himself under control.

Luce pushed open the door. "Hey, uh. Sorry about that. Cregan, can you believe it? Fuck."

"Are you all right?" Greg asked.

Luce shrugged. "It just surprised me. I'm fine."

Luce didn't smell fine. He smelled tense and unhappy. Greg felt a bit guilty, because that cheered him up.

"Anything you want to talk about?" he said.

Luce barked out a laugh. "Not really. He's gonna make a donation to the orphanage, though. A crazy donation."

"He's trying to buy his way back into your good graces."

"Fuck lot of good it'll do him," Luce snorted, crossing his arms and leaning against the door. "I don't think the king of the leprechauns has that much money."

Greg smiled wanly. "Never say never."

Luce rolled his eyes. "I know, I know, you told me. Maybe he's trying to change."

Greg cursed himself for ever being supportive. "Yes."

"Well, whatever," Luce said. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat."

"Let me feed the beasts first, so they don't maul us when we come back through the door."

Luce smiled and pushed himself away from the door just as Shub and Rubeus scampered into the room, making demanding noises. "All right."

Greg got up, and they walked toward the kitchen, shoulders brushing. Greg decided he'd steal these moments while he could. He could store them up, like his heart was a granary. Then, when the famine came, he could survive.

----

They ended up at a sportsbar, watching a game of headball. It was like the human game, football, with one key difference.

Luce ordered a burger, a basket of greasy onion rings, and a pitcher of beer for himself; he ordered four blood shots for Greg and grinned.

"Trying to get me drunk and pliable?" Greg teased with a raised eyebrow.

Luce chuckled and slapped his back. "Please, I wouldn't need you high on blood to take advantage of you."

Greg laughed obligingly, and hoped Luce didn't notice how the sound wobbled.

Before long, he felt loose and happy. Blood buzzed through his veins, and Luce was warm and solid next to him at the bar. They were both shouting at the game, groaning when a player kicked the head and got his foot stuck in the mouth.

"Amateur," Luce grumbled.

"Hope you didn't put money on this game," Greg agreed.

"Oh, shut up," Luce said. "I'll buy you the damn spiders tomorrow."

Greg turned his head to the side so Luce wouldn't see his amused smile. "I told you not to bet with me. I have an innate sense about these things."

"Yeah, yeah," Luce said. "Just wait. I'll get you back."

"You're lucky we bet on food, and not diaper duty."

"Please," Luce said, "Even I'm not crazy enough to bet with something like that."

They stumbled home a few hours later, after Luce had finished cursing at the TV screen and downed another pitcher of beer to drown his pain.

"They lost by fifty-seven points!" he complained, leaning against Greg for support as Greg tried to unlock the front door. "Fifty-seven! Don't they have any shame? I mean, for fuck's sake, they had to stop the game to get a new head! That's totally unprofessional."

"Yes," Greg said, laughing, as he steered Luce down the hall. Luce stayed pressed to Greg's side. He loved drunk Luce. "But you still owe me a box of blood chocolate spiders tomorrow."

"I bet you rigged the game," Luce said.

"Yes, Luce. I rigged the game from the barstool."

Luce leaned away to look down into Greg's face, one arm still wrapped tightly around Greg's shoulder. "Yeah," he said, squinting one eye. "You could do that. You're crafty."

Greg grinned and felt joy and contentment curl his smile. "Go to bed," he said, pushing Luce into his room.

"Making me sleep alone, too. That's just cruel."

Greg's heart stuttered. "You're drunk."

"Yeah," Luce agreed morosely.

Greg laughed. Luce was always a flirty drunk. He should learn to keep it from getting to him. "Go to bed," he repeated.

Luce grinned lopsidedly. "I'm gonna spit on those spiders before I give 'em to you."

"I already drink your blood," Greg said. "A little spit wouldn't bother me."

"Gross," Luce said, wrinkling his nose.

"Kind of," Greg agreed, still grinning. "Good night."

Luce opened his mouth to reply, when the phone rang again. Greg blinked. It had to be nearly midnight. Who could be calling?

Luce caught his eye, looking disturbed, and shoved past Greg before he could react. Greg followed Luce into the kitchen and watched Luce pick up the phone.

"Yeah?" Luce said gruffly. His expression changed from fear to puzzlement. "Oh, uh, yeah. He's here. Why?"

Greg started forward to take the phone, but Luce waved him away. "Uh huh. No, actually, I don't think he'll need the service again. Yeah, I'm sure. No, he's got a source. A fucking fine source. Uh huh. Right, I'll let you know if the source dries up. Bye."

Greg raised both eyebrows. "Was that for me?"

"Yeah," Luce said, standing there.

"And?" Greg prompted.

"And I took care of it."

"Lucian," Greg said.

Luce snickered. "You're so easy to piss off. Relax, it was that Ivan guy."

Greg paused, replaying Luce's conversation. "If that was Ivan, why did it sound like you canceled my service?"

"'Cause I did," Luce said proudly. "You're drinking from me now."

Greg blinked. "Yes. And now I have to keep drinking from you."

"Duh," Luce said, like that was perfectly logical.

"I thought we agreed this was only until I could get my regular supply back."

"Well, yeah," Luce said. "But my blood is better for you. You said so. Your spells have been stronger since you've been drinking from me, and your powers are heightened. Super phoenix juice!" he giggled.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, but eventually I'm going to have to stop drinking from you. And then I'll have to find another source."

Luce rolled his eyes. "Please. Anyway, Ivan said he was just gonna suspend your account in case you changed your mind. And you know you can drink from me as long as you want."

"No," Greg said, anger making his voice hiss and crackle, "I can drink from you until my job here is done and I leave."

Luce's mouth snapped shut and an angry flush rose from his neck to his cheeks. "Don't say stupid shit. I'm going to bed." He swayed a little as he left the room.

Greg glared at his back. He hated drunk Luce.

----

"You, uh, still pissed at me?" Luce said two days later.

"No," Greg replied.

"Really? 'Cause there was a hex on my desk this morning."

"Oh?" Greg said. "Hm, I must have missed that in my sweep."

"Greg, I was spitting butterflies for two hours."

"Yes, Emma thought it was pretty."

Luce rubbed a hand over his face. "Look, I'm sorry I canceled your blood subscription, okay? But I meant what I said. Just drink from me until you . . . leave. Then call Ivan back and unsuspend your account."

"Lucian," Greg said, "I don't appreciate people making decisions for me. I make my own decisions. I control my own life. I don't like meddling by friends who think they know best."

Luce looked away, guilt painting his features. "It's not like I'd do anything to hurt you on purpose."

For a second, Greg wondered if they were talking about the same thing.

"I know that," he said eventually.

"I'm sorry," Luce said. "Can we just . . . can you stop being mad at me?"

"Were you wrong to make my decision for me?" Greg prompted.

"Yes," Luce said, with an exasperated smile. "Yes, okay. I was wrong, you were right."

"That's a start," Greg said. "But I can't forgive you yet."

Luce's shoulders drooped. "Why not?"

"Because," Greg said patiently. "Someone still hasn't given me that box of blood chocolate spiders he owes me."

Luce laughed and punched Greg's shoulder lightly. "Ass," he said. Then his expression shifted, going shrewd and calculating. It put Greg immediately on the defensive. "Actually," Luce said, "I've got some things to take care of right now. But I could give you some money so you can go to the store."

"That's hardly any fun," Greg said. "Working for my own reward."

Luce grinned. "I was hoping I could talk you into running a few errands for me, too. I didn't think I'd have time today."

Greg sighed. "Now I see why you apologized. You needed the manual labor."

"Damn, you've uncovered my dastardly plan."

"Grocery shopping and errands do not constitute a dastardly plan. You've got a long road to reach evil mastermind."

"Do you mind, really?" Luce asked, glancing at his watch. "I've got a whole list of things I needed to do. It'll keep you away for at least a couple of hours."

"No problem," Greg said. It wasn't as though he'd ever refuse Luce.

----

When Greg walked through the front door several hours later laden down with packages, Luce, Frank, and Drake were standing in line in the middle of the foyer.

"Yes?" Greg asked warily.

"Let me get that," Frank said cheerily, darting forward and grabbing the shopping bags from Greg.

Greg stared.

"Hey, so," Luce said, coughing. "You like surprises, right?"

"No," Greg said flatly.

Luce stopped. "Oh. Okay. Uh, then, happy... not... surprise... birthday."

"What?"

Luce grinned. "Remember how I told you we were planning a party for your birthday? Uh, today's that day."

Greg remembered. Luce had been lying that day, planning something with Frank and Drake that he didn't want to share with Greg.

Greg took an experimental sniff of the air. Luce wasn't lying now. "What?" he said again.

"Happy nine-hundred and thirteenth, grandpa," Frank said, slapping Greg on the back. "Lookin' good."

"Happy birthday, brother," Drake said. "I realize it is not the exact date of your christening, but this was the only day we could gather everyone together."

"You're throwing me a party?" Greg said, still disbelieving.

"Head into the parlor and see for yourself." Luce smiled wide and grabbed his elbow to steer him down the hall. When he opened the parlor door, a burst of laughter and music assailed him.

"Happy birthday!" several people shouted in unison. Confetti showered down on his head, flecks of black and red and white.

Greg turned to Luce and arched an eyebrow expressively, wiping confetti off his cheek.

"You like it?" Luce asked. "I mean, I know I told you we were planning it, so it's not too much of a surprise. We had to set it up pretty fast."

"That's why you needed to get me out of the house today," Greg said, amused.

"Yeah," Luce said sheepishly. "I was afraid you were gonna stay pissed at me about the other night, and I'd never get you to agree to go out."

"Looks like you really did have a dastardly plan," Greg said.

"Told ya," Luce said smugly.

Greg smiled and looked around the room. He spotted Granny Sweets and Russell arguing by the refreshment table - Granny was probably trying to keep Russell from eating everything; Flea and Hattie were involved in a heated embrace by the window, but they broke apart long enough to wave at him; Althea, Paul, and Summer were on one of the couches, talking to the Count and his wives; Gill and his wife, Francesca, were near the punchbowl, talking in low tones that sounded iambic. Bill and Bob stood sentinel near the door.

"You invited my father?" Greg asked.

"Yeah," Luce said cautiously. "I mean, he asked if he could come. And you two seem to be getting along better these days, ever since he brought that album over."

Greg nodded. "Just don't let me open any presents from him."

"Why?"

"My father is known for creative birthday gifts. Usually, they are things he feels are interesting and harmless, and they somehow always turn into something evil and dangerous."

Luce blanched. "He brought a really big gift and put it in the refrigerator."

"Then," Greg said, glancing nervously toward the kitchen, "I would suggest you never open the refrigerator again. You may want to tie chains around it and send it to the bottom of the ocean."

Luce laughed nervously. "Right."

Just then, Gina sauntered up to him. "Hey, birthday boy," she said. "I got something for ya."

"Oh?" Greg said. He and Gina had been involved in a prank war of sorts for the past week or so, and Greg was winning, but Gina was not taking defeat lightly. He'd caught her in his office yesterday erasing critical parts of his spell and penciling new runes in place that would have made his hair purple and his nose three feet long.

"Yeah," Gina replied. There was a teasing, mischievous light in her eye, and Greg didn't trust it for a second.

She licked her lips and then yanked Greg's face down, planting a wet kiss on his mouth. She giggled against his lips, and Greg knew she was doing it to embarrass him. She was entirely annoying.

Greg sputtered for a moment under the onslaught of Gina's mouth, his arms flailing, before he narrowed his eyes. If this little upstart thought she was going to get the better of him, she was sadly mistaken.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around Gina, drawing her closer. He bent her small body until she was arched backward, fit snug against him, and then flicked his tongue across her lips. She gasped and opened her mouth, and Greg dove inside, sweeping his tongue along the roof of her mouth and biting down gently on her lower lip. He kissed her for a long minute, sloppy tongue and bruising pressure. Somewhere near the end, Gina's tail wrapped around his leg.

When he let go, Gina was staring up at him with pupils blown black and wide, breathing heavily.

"Whoa, Stoneface," she said. "I, uh. That was. Dammit!"

Greg chuckled and wiped a hand across his mouth. "Next time, know what you're up against. I always win."

Gina's narrowed eyes promised that this was not over. She huffed and flounced away to flirt with Bill and Bob.

He turned to grin at Luce, but Luce was staring at Gina's retreating form, his hair smoking wildly. His expression was two seconds from a chainsaw massacre.

"Er, Luce?" Greg said.

Luce's eyes shot back to Greg. "Quite a show," he said, sounding strange. "Should I leave you two alone? Get you a room? Don't forget to use those venom-proof condoms."

"You're hysterical," Greg said, scowling. "She's practically an infant. And you might have warned me what she was planning."

"Believe me," Luce said, eyes flickering fire. "I didn't know she was going to do that."

Greg believed him. He shoved at Luce's shoulder. "Then don't blame Gina for being her obnoxious self. The child lives to cause controversy."

Luce sighed. "I just -" He seemed to catch himself. "I just want you to like the party."

Greg smiled. So that's why Luce was upset. "Luce," he said, and took the risk of touching Luce's arm. "She didn't ruin anything. And despite present company, I think I'll quite enjoy the party."

Luce grinned, though it didn't quite reach his eyes yet. "Funny. I hope so. Anyway, now that you're here, we can have the cake and ice cream before Russell explodes."

"Ice cream?" Greg asked, trying not to sound like an overeager puppy.

"Bloodswirl," Luce replied, and this time the grin reached his eyes.

"You are my favorite monster," Greg said. "Have I told you that today?"

Luce laughed and slung an arm around his shoulder as he led them to a table piled high with refreshments. In the center of the table sat a large, glistening red cake with artful drips decorating the side; it looked like someone had dipped the cake in blood. Beside it sat a smaller cake, chocolate with ghost-shaped icing. Finger sandwiches were lined up in rows on neat little plates; bags of chip and dip were scattered along the table; ghoulash steamed in a large pan; and eyeballs floated in the punch, which smelled like a giant vat of Bloody Mary. A smaller punchbowl sat to the side filled with lemonade.

"Grab a plate," Luce said, handing one to Greg. "C'mon, you get first dibs."

Greg looked around the room at the smiling faces. These people were here for him. They liked him enough to spend time with him. And Luce had brought them all together.

He clutched his plate tightly and stared at Luce's broad back as they made their way to the cooler at the end of the table. No one had ever done anything like this for him. No one.

Luce glanced over his shoulder, eyes sparkling, and Greg gulped. Deep, deep trouble.

"Okay, one scoop or two?" Luce asked, his hand poised above the ice cream tub.

"Three," Greg replied, holding up his plate.

"Greedy bat," Luce laughed, but obediently doled out three scoops.

"It's only greedy if I don't eat it all."

"Gregori!" a shrill high voice demanded. Greg winced and turned around.

Granny Sweets stood smacking her gums together, her hands planted on her hips. "You'd better be saving room for cake!" she accused, wagging her brown, wrinkled finger.

"Cake?" Greg said, eyeing the giant object in question. "Granny, you know I cannot eat food."

"Food!" Granny Sweets gasped, clutching her chest. She faked heart attacks quite frequently. "Food, he says! I'll have you know it's nothing of the sort! Frank got the ingredients for me from the bakery and he withdrew seventeen pints of fresh blood from the bank!"

Greg's brows furrowed. "The cake is glazed with blood?"

"Glazed! Glazed!" shouted Granny Sweets. "You say these things to make an old woman cry, I know you do. Boy, that is a blood cake! Finest you'll ever taste."

Greg looked at the cake again. "I've never heard of blood cake."

"'Course not," Granny Sweets said. "I invented it today. Do you know how hard it is to bake with blood?" she demanded, poking him in the chest with her gnarled finger. "Not that I'm a stranger to it," she added, cackling gleefully. "But it takes a deft hand to keep the blood from curdling in the oven and making the cake fall."

"It looks delicious," Greg said.

"Hmph. Well, even if it isn't, you'd better pretend you love it, boy."

Greg smiled. "If you baked it, Granny Sweets, I'm certain it will be more than edible. It will be a culinary miracle."

Granny Sweets snorted, but her wrinkled cheeks flushed with pleasure. "You're a silver-tongued devil, you are." She reached up and patted his cheek.

Then she grabbed his ear and yanked him closer. Greg experienced a sick, nauseating moment where he was terrified Granny Sweets would kiss him, too. But she only leaned up to whisper. "Happy birthday. Thanks for giving a crazy old sweetch another chance." Then she patted his cheek again and tottered off.

Greg watched her go back to Russell and smack his slimy appendage away from a tray of cupcakes. A grin tugged the corner of his mouth.

He cut himself a large slice of cake.

Luce came up next to him and bumped his shoulder. "Pretty good, huh?" he said. He ate a big spoonful of butter pecan ice cream and grinned, his smile milky.

Greg laughed. "It's all delicious." He took a spoonful of bloodswirl and mimicked Luce's grin.

"And there are totally presents," Luce said.

"If one is a magical egg that has yet to hatch, please save yourself the trouble."

Luce grinned. "What if it was a cute little puppy with a red bow?"

"What's his blood type?" Greg asked.

"I hate you," Luce said, laughing so hard ice cream dribbled over his bottom lip.

Greg caught himself before he tried to lean in and lick it away. He used his fork to cut into the cake, but before he could take a bite, Flea and Hattie bounded up. Well, Flea bounded; Hattie was dragged by her wrist, and looked resigned to it.

"Happy birthday, Greg!" Flea said. "Oh man, are you, like, really nine-hunnerd and thirteen? That's crazy, 'cause that means you're older than countries and stuff, and castles, and everything, I mean, you look awesome for bein' so old, not dusty or nothin', but you're, like, almost as old as my dad! 'Course, you're not as old as Hattie's dad."

"Few are, dear," Hattie murmured.

"Yeah, right," Flea laughed. "But your dad totally pulls off the wrappings. Not sure if Greg could, 'cause the bandages wouldn't really go with his whole 'dark thief' thing and he might trip over 'em when he was robbin' somebody, like I've seen yer dad trip over the strings on his feet sometimes."

"Well," Althea said, coming up to join them. "We wouldn't want Greg to cover that handsome face of his, anyway. Would we, Luce?"

Luce flushed. "Mom," he said. "Don't embarrass the guy."

Greg smiled. He'd had tea with Althea twice a week since the auction. She still terrified him.

Althea patted Greg comfortingly on the arm. "I got you a little something. I mean, Paul and I got you something, but you know I picked it out. He cares, too, he just doesn't know how to pick out presents."

Greg nodded, and took another bite of ice cream. Althea always smelled like cookies and something sweet and creamy and warm. It was similar to the way Luce smelled, though Luce smelled darker and muskier and Greg wanted to lick the smell from Luce's skin. Althea smelled - he hesitated to call it motherly - she smelled comfortable. If he'd had a mother, he would have wanted her to smell like Althea.

"Anyway," Althea continued, as Luce and Flea joked and Hattie looked on. She leaned closer. "I got you some socks and underwear. Luce said he saw you doing your laundry all the time. I know you're a grown man, and an evil vampire, but even evil vampires need a good clean pair of underwear and socks that don't make their feet sweat."

"Thank you," Greg said.

Althea smiled. "You let me know if anything doesn't fit right, honey, and I'll take them back for you and get a different size." She patted his hand again and left to go sit by her husband.

Greg's throat felt thick, and he coughed to clear it. His gaze traveled around the room. Being looked after was a new feeling. Having friends was a new feeling. His eyes settled on Luce, who was laughing as Frank told him a joke.

There were a lot of new feelings to think about.

"Hey," Frank said, coming over. "Having fun?"

"Yes," Greg said. "Thank you for this. And thank you for helping Granny Sweets with the cake."

"Oh yeah? Did you try the cake yet?" Frank asked, a strange gleam in his eye.

"Not yet," Greg replied.

"You should," Frank said. "There's a secret ingredient."

Greg eyed the cake. He knew enough not to trust Frank's tone. "If you've done something to Granny Sweet's cake, she'll kill you and make you into a pie."

Frank rolled his eyes. "Like I'd risk the cook's wrath. C'mon. Do you think I'm that stupid?"

Yes, Greg thought, eyeing Frank warily as he lifted a forkful of cake to his mouth. Frank's eyes followed the movement greedily. Greg sighed. Whatever Frank had put in the cake, he might as well get it over with so the idiot could laugh at his hilarious prank.

He took a bite and swallowed. His eyes flew open.

"Do you know what you did?" he gasped, as fire spread through his veins. He collapsed weakly to the floor, his plate of cake and ice cream splattering messily.

"Whoa," Frank said. "What the hell?"

Luce was at his side in an instant, his hands on Greg's shoulders. "Greg?" he asked, sounding frantic. "Greg, what's wrong?"

"Get away," Greg said, pushing at Luce's chest. He didn't have - there wasn't - he moaned and curled his fingers into Luce's shirt. Demonic saints below, it was starting already.

"Brother?" Drake asked. A small crowd had gathered around Greg. "What is wrong?"

"Ask your idiot," he panted, tugging Luce closer. Luce looked confused as he tried to help Greg sit up, but he wrapped his arms around Greg and let Greg lean into his chest. Greg could hear Luce's heartbeat, smell his sweat and fear. Fear for Greg. Luce was such a good friend. Such a good, handsome, delicious friend.

He buried his head in the crook of Luce's neck and licked a wide stripe across the exposed skin. Luce jerked away, but Greg held tight, determined to get more of that taste.

Drake swung his gaze to Frank. "Franklin?" he asked warningly.

"This guy at the bakery said it was harmless," Frank sputtered. "Seriously. We talked, and I told him we were baking a cake for a vampire, and he said if I sprinkled this stuff in the blood batter, everyone would have a good time."

Drake went very still. "What stuff?"

"Uh," Frank said. "These red crystals. They tasted kind of like candy when I tried them. But they didn't do anything to me, so I thought it was all right. I thought it'd be a joke. The guy said it'd be funny."

Drake closed his eyes. "Blood sugar," he said. "You dosed the cake with blood sugar."

"Yes, he did," Greg hissed. He fisted his hands in Luce's shirt and dragged Luce closer until their noses touched, until he could taste the air Luce breathed out, like cinnamon and honey.

Then he kissed Luce

Luce made a strangled noise, muffled by the press of Greg's mouth, and Greg threaded his fingers through Luce's hair, winding the soft strands around his fingers, anchoring Luce's head so he couldn't pull away.

Their lips slid spit-slick and their teeth clacked together. Greg could almost, almost taste Luce as deep as he wanted, he just needed to bite down and then he'd have it, he'd taste it all the way to his toes -

"Mmph!" Luce said against his mouth. His big hands were spread across Greg's chest, trying to push him away. Blood smeared between their lips and dripped between their faces. Greg lapped it up, swirling the tip of his tongue over the wound in Luce's lower lip as he drank down blood, and taste, and heat.

He pulled back long enough to gasp, "Lucian," in low tones, heavy with sex and promise.

Luce groaned like it hurt, like the long burn of trembling muscles straining and sweating for hours, and said, "Greg."

Greg heard surrender in the word and victory pooled low in his stomach, spreading out golden fingers that stirred the fire in his blood. He bit and nipped at Luce's mouth, carding his fingers through Luce's hair; the kiss was messy and rough, faces mashed together, Luce breathing hard through his nose. Greg thrust his tongue into Luce's mouth, in and out, mimicking what he really wanted with a slow, delicious tangle of wet heat.

He felt something heavy slam into the back of his head, sharp pain blossoming behind his eyes as his forehead connected with Luce's forehead. It confused him long enough for Luce to gain leverage against Greg's greedy hands and wrench their bodies apart.

Luce broke away gasping, his lips red and swollen, the skin around his mouth smeared with blood and spit. He was breathing heavy, and his eyes were fire coals burning into Greg. Luce licked his lips, drawing in his own taste, and Greg shuddered.

"Grab his hands," Luce said, his voice wild. Licks of flame danced in his hair.

Before Greg could move, hands descended on him, shifting him, twisting him. He groaned and bucked under the caresses, biting his lower lip.

"Shit," he heard Frank mutter. "I could have lived my life without seeing your brother in heat."

Greg whimpered. He needed to get back to Luce. He needed his mouth on Luce's skin, sucking, biting, licking. Heat roared under his skin like wildfire pursued by the wind, consuming him like dry tinder.

Luce was in front of him again, staring at Greg; sweat beaded his upper lip and a flush stained his cheeks. "Greg?" he asked. "You with us?"

Greg stretched forward, his tongue out, trying to taste drops on Luce's skin, wanting to press his cool cheek against Luce's hot skin, but Frank and Drake still had his arms pinned to his sides.

"Okay," Luce said, leaning back. "That's a big, fat no." He reached forward and grabbed Greg's wrists with one hand; his hand circled both wrists easily, holding the bones delicately together, just hard enough that Greg couldn't shake loose, but not hard enough to bruise.

"C'mon," Luce said, standing up and dragging Greg with him. "We've got to get him to one of the empty bedrooms. He told me what happens when vampires ingest blood sugar."

Greg swayed forward and pressed his body against Luce. They fit together so perfectly: he was shorter, and his hipbones slotted in under Luce's, their groins pressed together just right, his body cradled between Luce's thighs.

"Bright Lady," Luce cursed, tightening his grip, until the bones in Greg's wrist ground together, the same way Greg was grinding his hips against Luce.

"Everyone stay back," Luce ordered. "Frank, Drake - fuck, ah, can you be still for two seconds? - you guys, help me pick him up." Drake and Frank lifted Greg up, hands under his knees, and maneuvered him down the hall. They had his legs in a tight grip to keep him from kicking. Luce wrapped a hand under Greg's arm and clamped it tightly across his chest; his thumb accidentally brushed Greg's nipple, and he groaned, his head lolling back against Luce's chest. If he turned his face, he could nuzzle Luce's neck. So he did.

Luce let out a harsh breath, his other hand still wrapped around Greg's wrists. Greg's fingers fluttered trapped like bird wings, brushing against Luce's skin. He needed to touch, he needed to taste, he needed -

"Greg," Luce growled, his lips a thin line. "Keep it together, okay? You're gonna be fine. We'll get you to the bedroom."

"Mmm, yes," Greg agreed, nuzzling Luce's neck again. He poked out his tongue as far as it would go, and was just able to skim it over Luce's skin. "Bed would be good."

Luce grumbled something under his breath, and his arm squeezed Greg's chest like a band.

They reached the bedroom with only a slight hitch along the way. Greg managed to twist one hand free and grab Luce's crotch through his brown slacks. Luce gasped and nearly dropped him, and Greg had him half-hard and panting in his ear before Frank and Drake managed to pin his hands back together.

They threw him on the bed, and Drake tore strips from the bed cloth while Frank and Luce kept him pinned.

"Yesss," Greg hissed, as Luce wrenched his arms above his head and fasted the bindings around his wrists. They'd be bruised tomorrow. "Tie me up, mmm, do whatever you want."

"Oh fuck," Luce said, like a prayer. He backed away quickly from the bed as Frank and Drake finished tying Greg's legs.

He tugged experimentally on the restraints and licked his lips. His body felt sweet and tingly, like a thousand hands were brushing over his sensitized skin. He moaned and writhed against the bed, loving the feel of the sheets as they rubbed against his body.

Luce made a choked noise and spun around. Greg could see his shoulders move up and down as he took huge, deep breaths.

"Come on," Greg purred, straining against his restraints. "Let's have some fun."

He put the full force of his compulsive power behind his words and watched all three hesitate. Frank and Luce even took a step or two toward the bed.

Drake's hand snapped out and yanked Frank back so hard he crashed into Drake's chest; Drake's eyes glowed red. "Do not try that again, Greg. He is mine."

Greg hissed angrily at being denied, then calmed, as his eyes narrowed and he watched Luce shiver, looking torn. That was all right. Luce was the one he wanted anyway.

"Lucian," he said silkily. "Make them go away. I need you."

Luce whimpered and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Bright Lady," he said. "I've been a nice person. Why is this happening to me?"

Greg arched on the bed at a sudden rush of sensation, moaning low and soft. He floated in and out through the haze of lust, catches snatching of the conversation around him. But it was hard to pay attention with pleasure spiking through his veins, making his vision red-edged and fuzzy. He gave a soft, whimpering moan and thrust his hips into the air, trying to get some friction, some release.

Frank looked at Luce and said, "You are a lucky fucking guy. Shit."

Luce put a hand over his face. "Frank, I am really going to kill you."

Drake squeezed Frank's shoulder tightly, and Frank winced. "I might let you. Honestly, Franklin, what were you thinking?"

"That other dude made it sound like it'd make him dance on a table top or do something funny with a lampshade! He said it was harmless!"

"I do not care what he said, you drugged my brother."

"Of course it sounds bad when you say it like that!"

"How should I say it? Brother my drugged you? Drugged you my brother?"

"Smartass," Frank muttered. "I didn't think it'd do any harm. I told you, I tested it on myself first."

"Oh, it would not harm you, no. And it does not harm the vampire, either. But a chemically amorous vampire can be a danger to others, Franklin. Vampires have abundant stamina when they are not drugged."

"I know," Frank replied wryly.

Drake flushed and cleared his throat. "Just think what a vampire with no sexual inhibitions might do to his partner."

Both Frank and Luce's eyes glazed over.

"Heathens," Drake said.

Frank shook himself back first. "Uh, so I'm in trouble, right?"

Greg mewled from the bed, barely following their conversation, and said in a honeyed voice, "Please, I'm so lonely by myself." He wished they would stop talking and do something to him. He was hot, and sweaty, and ready. His eyes rolled back in his head as another wave of lust overtook him.

Luce turned and took a step toward him, but Drake grabbed his shirt and yanked him back. "Oh yes," Drake said. "Very deep trouble."

Frank licked his lips. "So, like, being with a sugared-out vamp would be kind of a punishment, right? Because, uh, people would be at their sexual mercy and stuff."

"Yes," Drake said cautiously.

Frank coughed. "And I've been very bad today."

Drake's eyes went molten. "Are you suggesting -?"

"Maybe you should bring some cake home when this is over. You know. Teach me a lesson."

"Sweet, sweet Franklin," Drake said, his eyes slanted cat-like as he prowled closer, clearly forgetting about Luce. "I am not going to let you take that back. Go and wrap up a slice of cake. Now. When I get you home you are not going to walk well for some time. I think a month will do."

Frank shot from the room like he was on fire.

"Drake," Luce pleaded. "C'mon, you guys can't leave. I can't deal with Greg alone."

Drake sighed. "There is really nothing we can do, Lucian. The blood sugar has to work itself out of his system."

"In the meantime, I have a bed full of horny vampire," Luce said glumly.

Drake glanced at the bed. Greg was panting out tiny little moans, undulating his hips in the air. "Oh, yes," he said. "I truly pity you."

"Funny," Luce hissed.

Drake shrugged. "Greg will not be happy in the morning. I suggest you stay here with him so he does not wake disoriented. He will not remember much beyond sensations."

"Yes, stay with me, Luce," Greg said, tossing his head with a low, carnal hiss.

Luce closed his eyes. "Fuck. I wish he'd stop talking."

"You could gag him."

"He'd like it too much."

"If you need anything -"

Luce sighed. "Yeah. I'll call you guys. Mind getting everyone out of here? I think the party's over."

"No, Luce," Greg murmured, voice honeyed and rough, as he finally surfaced enough to hear Luce's words. "The party is only starting."

"I mean it," Luce said, his face in his hands. "I am going to kill Frank." He pulled up a battered armchair and sat down next to the bed as Drake left. When they were alone, and the front door had closed for the last time, he gave Greg a weak smile. "I know you won't remember this tomorrow because you'll be too busy beating yourself up, but I wanted to tell you I... I love you. So much."

"That's good," Greg said. "Now fuck me."

Luce laughed. "This sucks. Really. I can't do anything right for you."

"Mm, yes," Greg agreed. "Sucking. I bet you could do me right, Luce. You have all night to try."

Luce shook his head, a small, sad smile playing over his lips. "I know I can't - be with you yet, Greg. But I promise, I will. It's just - it's not time. Fuck. It's going to be a long night," he finished, tilting his head back and swallowing.

"It could be a long, hard night," Greg replied, licking his lips.

Luce groaned. "Seriously, Frank is a dead man."

----

Greg's eyes snapped open the next morning. He was tied to a bed.

Luce was sprawled in an armchair next to the bed, his head slumped to his chest and his clothing rumpled. It was clear he'd sat watch during the night.

Greg remembered taking a bite of blood cake and tasting blood sugar, sickly sweet on his tongue. And he remembered kissing Luce.

He groaned.

Luce startled awake. "Greg," he said, his voice painfully relieved. "You're awake."

"Yes," Greg said, staring at the ceiling.

"How do you feel?" Luce asked quietly. His eyes were red-rimmed, and dark circles hung heavy under his eyes like cement bags. His lips looked swollen and bruised, and there were two small scabs on his lower lip.

"I'm sorry," Greg said.

Luce laughed, his voice husky. "It's fine. Sorry you didn't get to open your presents. And that you got drugged."

"It was certainly an eventful birthday," Greg agreed.

They stayed silent for a few minutes.

"Has it worn off?" Luce asked. "I mean, uh, do you still..." - he licked his lips - "Do you still wanna kiss me?"

Greg started laughing and couldn't stop.

"Greg?" Luce said. He started to get up from the chair.

"No," Greg said, his laughter trailing off with a choke. "No, I don't want to kiss you."

"That's... good," Luce said.

"Can you untie me, please?" Greg asked, forcing his voice to sound polite, and not like he wanted to curl into a ball and sob.

"Shit, yeah," Luce said, springing up from the chair. He untied Greg's wrists quickly and helped him sit up.

Greg rubbed at his wrists, noting the deep burns. He must have struggled a lot last night. He started to put his hand on Luce's shoulder to say thank you, and Luce flinched.

Greg felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. "Hellfire," he said. "I didn't mean - I was - I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched you last night. I wouldn't have touched you if it hadn't been for the blood sugar. I'd never - I'm sorry," he said again, feeling helpless.

Luce went stiff. "Right," he said. "I know."

Greg pushed himself off the bed, swaying on his legs. If this had been another day, Luce would have reached out to steady him. But Luce kept his hands clenched in his lap. Greg turned away, his body strung tight with the effort of not shaking, of not letting Luce see.

"We should get back to my place," Luce said. "Change our clothes, feed the animals."

Greg nodded, afraid to speak. Luce usually said, Let's go home. Not Let's go to my place.

Shub and Rubeus seemed to sense the mood when he and Luce walked through the door, because they didn't try to jump up and demand attention. They slunk around the edge of the wall and didn't make a peep, following close behind Greg.

"Greg," Luce said. "Maybe we should - "

"I'm going to go to bed," Greg said. "I didn't have a restful night."

"Sure," Luce said, locking his jaw. A muscle ticked near his ear.

----

The next few days were awkward.

Luce avoided him, and Greg knew it was because he'd ruined their friendship. He spent a lot of time in his office, studying spellbooks, and avoiding Luce in return. They didn't drive home together any more; Greg took the bus. They didn't eat together; Luce got takeout.

Greg couldn't bring himself to feed from Luce's neck anymore and took blood from his wrist instead. Luce didn't ask to be put under so it didn't hurt, and wouldn't look at him when he was feeding.

After three days, Greg went into his office, shut the door, and sat down at his desk. The orphanage was quiet because all the children were down for a nap. If he listened very hard, he could hear their heartbeats, slow and steady. Luce was down the hall, working in his office; he hadn't smiled at Greg once today.

Greg's hands were clenched into fists. He uncurled his fingers and spread them gently over the wrinkled pages of a spellbook.

He should leave. No one had attacked the orphanage in weeks; not a single hex or spell turned up in his daily sweeps. He could cast some final wards, pack his things, and slip away tonight. It would be easy.

He closed his eyes. If he concentrated, he could hear Luce shuffling pages in his office, the beat of Luce's heart, the way Luce sighed every few minutes.

The phone rang, and Luce picked it up. He heard the way Luce said, "Frank," with an icy growl and felt his blood boil. If that idiot monster hadn't listened to some random stranger and put blood sugar in the cake, Greg would never have made an ass of himself, would never have terrified Luce, would never have done anything stupid enough to jeopardize what he had with Luce. It was too important.

And now it was over. Luce didn't want him; that was clear enough. If he had, he would have said something after Greg had his tongue down his throat.

He couldn't believe he'd ever thought he could be with Luce. Luce, who was so handsome, so generous, so funny, so smart, so good, so... So many things.

He felt moisture prick the corners of his eyes, and hastily wiped it away, feeling the moisture cling to the tips of his dark lashes. He was such an idiot.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear the knock on his door until Luce burst inside.

"Greg," Luce said, his cheeks flushed like he'd run down the hall. "Hey. Uh. What're you doing tonight? I thought we'd grab something to eat, y'know, maybe catch a movie?"

Greg blinked. "Tonight?"

"Yeah," Luce said. "I was... I mean, I was trying to give you some space. I just, uh, y'know, I sorta miss hanging out with you."

Warmth started as a tiny pinprick in the center of Greg's heart growing wider and wider until his fingertips tingled. "You aren't upset?"

"Me?" Luce said. "What?"

"I mean, after I... after I nearly mauled you," Greg said, looking down.

"Shit," Luce said. "I thought you were - You thought I was mad at you or something?"

Or something, Greg thought. Something like disgusted or appalled, trying to find a way to get rid of me easily.

Greg shrugged.

Luce rolled his eyes. "Man, you owe me a beer."

The arm he slung over Greg's shoulder as they left didn't weigh Greg down: it made him feel like he was floating.

----

After that, it seemed like things went back to normal. Luce acted like the blood sugar incident never happened, and the very next morning after their long night at the sportsbar, Luce insisted that Greg feed from his neck, because his wrists hurt, and it was a bitch to fill out forms all bandaged up.

But Greg couldn't forget the sense memory of Luce's lips; the warm, spicy smell of his skin; the way his cock had felt through the thin pants as Greg had palmed him. Blood sugar or not, he wanted Luce so badly he ached.

He wasn't stupid enough, however, to ruin it again. He told himself that this was all he needed. He could live on stolen moments studying Luce's face, memorizing the planes and angles, the slant of his smile. He could live with casual shoulder brushes and hands touching his arm or shoulder. It wasn't everything he wanted, not even close, but Greg was used to being denied. He was used to never getting what he really wanted.

He was wallowing in his own self-pity for the third time that week when he heard a small, polite knock on the door; he didn't even need to look up from his spellbook to know who it was.

"Hello, Mason," Greg said. "Did you need something?"

"Yeth," Mason said solemnly, coming around the desk to stand by Greg. "I haven't hugged you yet today, thir. I'm afraid I wath buthy, and I forgot."

"Hugged me?" Greg said, pausing. He looked over to meet Mason's sincere, somber gaze. "Why on earth would you do that?"

"I do it every day, thir," Mason reminded him.

"Yes," Greg said. "And every day I ask you not to do it again."

"Oh, thir," Mason said. "I can tell when you're putting up falthe emothional wallth."

Greg blinked. "Have you been sleeping in the library again?"

Mason ducked his head. "I thtill don't like thleeping with the other children. They think I'm thtrange."

"Well," Greg said. "They're very perceptive."

The corners of Mason's purple-grey eyes crinkled. "That wath a clever joke, thir."

Greg sighed. It was very hard to stay annoyed at a tiny, persistent, grey child when he gazed with such adoring eyes. "Mason, I have work to do. I'm sure you'd rather not sit with me while I go through dusty books. Perhaps you could go play with the other children? Or finish your schoolwork for Gina?"

"Oh, no, thir. The other children are all very thilly. I've caught up on my thchoolwork. And I'm very thoothed by your quiet prethenthe."

"Oh," Greg said, flummoxed. "Er, yes. Well, if you must stay, go sit in that chair over there and keep silent."

"Can I read one of your bookth, thir?"

Greg hesitated. Most of his books weren't suitable for children - there were far too many occult renderings, and occult renderings tended to be . . . not for the faint of heart. Or the faint of stomach.

"Please, thir?"

Greg folded. "All right. Just don't tell Luce I let you read from the Gruesome Grimoire."

"My lipth are thealed."

Greg smiled to himself and went back to reading. Mason sat in the chair, flipping pages, his tiny legs swinging in the air. It was a comfortable silence.

A few hours later, Mason closed his book with a small, dusty snap. "Thath enough for me, thir," he said, hopping up and putting the book back on the shelf. He stretched on tiptoes, barely able to push the book in. "Ith time for dinner."

Greg blinked and glanced at the clock above the mantel. "Is it?"

"Thir," Mason said reprovingly. "You thould keep better track of the time. Mr Luthe will be looking for you any minute."

"Oh."

"Thir?" Mason said hesitantly, moving closer.

"Yes?"

"I thtill haven't hugged you yet. May I pleathe do it now?"

"Er," Greg said. "I suppose. Do it quickly then."

Mason smiled up at him, displaying the gap in his teeth. "Thankth, thir." Tiny gray arms wrapped firmly around Greg's waist as Mason rested his head against Greg's stomach.

"Yes, that's enough," Greg said uncomfortably a moment later, trying to extricate himself.

"Thorry, thir," Mason said sheepishly. "My dad never uthed to let me hug him much. When he did, hith thkin alwayth thcraped my fathe. I get carried away."

"Quite all right," Greg said, trying to ignore the warm, contented feeling blossoming in his stomach.

"Have a nithe night, thir!" Mason said. He moved with a tiny, marching gait toward the door.

Before he left, Greg remembered something. "Oh, Mason," he called. Mason obediently swung around, staring at him expectantly. Greg cleared his throat. "Make sure you're cleaned up after dinner. Luce told me that a very nice gargoyle couple is coming by to meet you."

He tried not to dwell on the empty, hollow feeling in his chest when he thought of Mason leaving.

"Oh, no thank you, thir," Mason said, folding his hands primly.

"Excuse me?"

"I like it here," Mason elaborated. "And I have the betht Guardian ever. I'm not going to leave. And anyway, thothe people won't like me."

"Mason," Greg said, exasperated. Was the little beast fishing for compliments? "Of course they'll like you."

"No, thir. I'm a handful. I'm very unadoptable."

"You're not-"

"Ahem," said Mason. "What I mean, thir, ith that I can be very unadoptable. If I want to." He stared up with wide, guileless eyes.

Greg leaned back in his chair. "You devious little thing," he said.

Mason beamed. "I'm learning from the betht, thir."

----

A few days later, Greg came down the stairs to find Luce standing in the hall, staring at an envelope in his hands.

"Luce?" Greg asked hesitantly, reaching out to touch Luce's shoulder.

Luce started, jerking away from Greg's hand, his fist crumpling the envelope. His expression was somewhere between furious and longing, as though he were remembering a song he could no longer stand but used to love.

"Sorry," Luce said. "It's - I got a letter. From Cregan."

A coil of razor blades wound around Greg's heart, sawing inward with agonizing slowness.

"Oh?" Greg said. His voice was perfectly even.

Luce shook his head then he folded the envelope and stuck it in his pocket. "It's nothing. He just wrote to ask about that rain check I supposedly promised him. Wants to take me and Summer out for ice cream soon."

"Ah," Greg said. He was afraid anything more than monosyllables would give him away at this point.

Luce met his eyes, expression rueful. "I know you told me you think he might have really changed, but it's hard to - to believe. You think I should go, don't you?"

No, Greg thought. No, No, No, No. "Yes," he said.

Luce laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "Yeah. I don't know if I can do that yet."

"Well," Greg said, and cleared his throat. "There's no rush."

"Yeah," Luce said. "But, I mean, we're immortal, right? I've got all the time in the world. People should be really careful about taking rain checks from immortals."

"Or learn to set time limits," Greg replied, a small smile curving his lips.

"I'm thinking sometime next century," Luce said. "I'll ring Cregan up, and we'll all go out for ice cream."

"A sound plan," Greg agreed. He was tempted to tell Luce that next century might be too soon - he should really wait until next millennium.

Luce laughed, but the skin around his eyes crinkled tight with strain, not mirth. "Hey, uh, Greg?" he asked, shuffling closer. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stood strangely awkward.

"Yes?"

"Would it be . . . would it be weird if I asked you for a hug? I mean, I could use a hug from a friend right now."

Greg dug his nails into his palm to stop the surge of possessiveness that arced up his spine like lightning. Luce's expression was open and earnest and hopeful, and Greg knew, Lucifer help him, he knew in that moment that he was in love with Luce.

It wasn't an earth shattering revelation. It was something inevitable, like a mountain Greg hadn't been aware he was climbing until he reached the top and stared out over a strange and breathtaking landscape.

"It might be a trifle odd," Greg said, swallowing, "But I promise I'll only tease you about it a little."

Luce laughed and, without any other warning, wrapped his arms tightly around Greg and dragged their bodies together. Greg closed his eyes and breathed in Luce's familiar scent: warm, cinnamon, and spicy. Luce was happiness and safety, light and love; Greg never wanted Luce to let go. It was going to destroy him when he had to leave Luce. It would be even worse than leaving Arvel.

Luce did eventually release him, giving Greg's shoulders a friendly squeeze as he stepped back.

"Thanks, Greg," he said, smiling sheepishly.

"What are friends for?" Greg replied. He stopped himself from telling Luce he was welcome to hugs any time.

Luce looked at him, a fond smile tugging his lips up. His eyes were a clear, sparkling amber, and Greg would have caught his breath, if he'd needed to breathe. "Sorry I'm being a girl," Luce said.

"If you are a girl," Greg replied, "you are the ugliest one I've ever seen."

"Way to ruin the moment," Luce grinned, shaking his head. He slugged Greg's shoulder. "Can you hold down the fort while I run downtown? I should be back in an hour or two."

"No problem," Greg said, but what he meant was, Anything. Anything for you.

After Luce left, Greg wandered into the kitchen hoping to find some company. Granny Sweets and Russell were usually lurking about: one baking and the other stealing the baking. But the kitchen was empty, and he found a small note stuck to the fridge that said, "Gone to the bakery. Russell, touch those cupcakes an' I'll stuff ya in my oven."

Greg looked over at the empty cupcake tray on the windowsill and the trail of guilty slime leading to the basement door. Russell had probably gone into hiding.

He sighed. The house seemed too quiet with the children down for their morning naps and Gina gone home to visit her parents; she wasn't scheduled back until the afternoon.

He used to love being alone. He'd been alone for most of his life. It disconcerted him to find he'd grown accustomed to people and noise.

He hoped he could remember how to live alone again.

He heard a knock on the front door, and went to answer it. When he opened the door, his eyes narrowed and his claws flashed out, digging in the doorframe; they left deep splintery gouges.

"What are you doing here? How did you get across the yard?" he snarled, flexing his fingers. He felt his fangs snap down.

"Now, now," Arvel said, stepping neatly around Greg and walking into the foyer like he was meant to be there. He had on an expensive suit, and his blond hair was handsomely styled, accenting his sharp features. He turned and flashed Greg a smile, a little bounce in his step and his eyes as green as a new spring bud. Greg didn't trust Arvel in a good mood. "I can't reveal all my secrets, can I?"

"Get out," he growled. "Before I throw you out. Piece by piece."

"Temper, love," Arvel admonished, a smirk darting across his face as he walked around Greg in a slow circle. He passed by the staircase and stopped, trailing his fingers over the polished wood. "I just came by to see if you'd thought any more about my offer."

"No," Greg said. "I don't need your twisted help. Luce and I will take care of this on our own."

And he couldn't spend a night with Arvel. He knew himself, and he knew he loved Luce. He also knew that if Arvel kissed him, and held him, and told him he loved him, that he would believe it, because he wanted to believe it; he would drown in Arvel's eyes, fall down the same emerald green rabbit hole. Greg wasn't a strong monster, not really. Arvel was still - Arvel was years of his life.

He wanted Luce to be future years of his life.

Arvel sighed. "You're such a pain, darling. I could make this so much easier on you. I'm willing to give you everything you need to 'take care,' as you said, of this terrible threat to your little beasts, and you say no? Tsk. You should think of the children, Greg."

"I am," Greg said. "I'm thinking they might like to practice on you. Oliver needs a scratching post, and the baby naga is just learning to spit her venom."

Arvel chuckled. "Fine," he said. "But I have to tell you, my former associate is planning something unpleasant. Not that I care about the little brats, but I do care about you, love, and I know you won't be happy with what he has in mind."

"Then why don't you make me happy," Greg said, "if you're so worried about how I feel? Tell me what's going on. Tell me who he is."

"Silly Greg," Arvel said. "Where's the fun in that? Anyway, I'm sure you're clever enough to stop him. You've managed it so far."

"Arvel," Greg said, feeling his voice begin to crackle. "This isn't a game."

"Love is always a game," Arvel replied, his eyes dark green.

"Love?" Greg scoffed. "You don't know anything about love."

Arvel shrugged and looked away, but not before Greg saw his eyes flash periwinkle blue. "Evil people can fall in love."

Greg uncurled his fingers, and felt blood drip from the deep wounds in his palm, leaving tiny red drops on the wooden floor. He was suddenly tired. He knew what it meant when Arvel's eyes were that color. "Go away," he said, his voice silent and dead as a tombstone, cracks running through it. "If you aren't here to help, just go away."

Arvel flinched. "Of course," he said, his eyes back to a leafy green, hiding his moment of vulnerability. "You only had to ask. I'll see you soon." He brushed a quick kiss across Greg's lips and slipped out the door.

Greg stood shaking in the hall as the wounds in his hands slowly closed. He moved jerkily forward on unsteady legs, and nearly slipped and fell on the drops of blood splattered on the wood. With a sigh, he went to get a mop and bucket.

He was on his hands and knees a few minutes later, his shirtsleeves pushed up his forearms, when he heard a tiny throat being cleared behind him.

"Hello, Mason," Greg said, scrubbing at the bloodstains without turning around. "Finished your nap?"

"Yeth," Mason said. He walked daintily around the puddle of blood-tinged soapy water. "Did you need any help, thir?"

"No," Greg said. "That's all right." Cleaning it up felt like penance. After he was through here, he was going to have to scour the library for stronger warding spells to keep out unwanted guests. Arvel had broken through his protections far too easily. He didn't like to think about what that meant.

"Who wath that man?" Mason asked innocently. "You didn't like him very much."

Greg frowned down at Mason. "Someone I used to know."

"Oh," Mason said in an understanding way.

"What?" Greg asked.

"Nothing, thir," Mason said. "Only Emma hath been teaching me about relathionthipth. Thith thoundth like one of thothe thingth. Thath all."

Greg shook his head. "You are a very annoying child."

"That jutht meanth I'm right, thir."

Greg hid his smile, and finished cleaning up. He squeezed the last of the bloody water from the sponge and let it plop into the bucket with a wet splash, and then he stood up. Mason watched him silently, like usual.

"Oh!" Mason said. "I almotht forgot. I made you thomething, thir. While everyone elthe wath napping." He held out a flat clay disk hanging from a piece of yarn.

"Ith a cretht," Mason said. "My family cretht. The Guardian ith thupposed to wear it. Ith not very good - uthually ith made of bronthe or thilver - but I thought you might like it."

Greg took the lumpy crest and put it over his neck. It hung heavy and cool on his chest, the clay still slightly moist. "Thank you," Greg said, trying to ignore how pleased and proud this simple gift made him. Luce wasn't the only one acting like a girl today.

"You're the betht, thir. I want to grow up to be jutht like you," Mason said, staring up with adoring eyes.

"Please don't say that. I would not be able to afford your therapy bills."

"Oh, thir," Mason said fondly. "Are we going to look at thpellbookth again today?"

"No," Greg said. "I'm going to look at spellbooks. You're going to go play with the other children in the garden."

Mason frowned. "Thath okay, thir, I don't -"

"Mason," Greg said. "I'm thinking about your therapy bills right now. You are going to go play with the other children outside. In the sunshine. Away from old, dusty vampires and their books."

Mason sighed. "If you thay tho, thir. But I mutht thtate I do tho under dureth."

"And stop using a dictionary for a pillow," Greg added sternly.

"Yeth, thir."

----

Greg was working through a gnome treatise on warding spells when heard an explosion rumble somewhere deep in the orphanage.

A split second later, a barrage of alarm spells began shrieking in his head, making him double over and retch. He dug his nails deep into his thighs, focusing on the pain to ground him and drown out the sound of the spells. He'd never imagined what it would feel like if this many went off at once.

Staggering out of the room, he made it into the hall to find Luce barreling toward him, his eyes wild and frightened.

"Greg!" Luce shouted, slamming into Greg and gripping his upper arms, hands moving up and down, skimming over Greg's body. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Greg managed, teeth gritted through the pain. "Where did that explosion come from?"

Just then, Gina came sprinting down the hall, her face pale and bruised. Cuts and gashes on her face dripped blood down her neck, soaking the collar of her t-shirt.

"Greg!" she gasped, latching on to his arm. Her fingers dug into his skin. She bent over, catching her breath and sobbing. "In the garden! The kids - !"

That was all Greg needed to hear. He streaked down the hall in a dark blur, bursting through the back door and into the sunshine. A cloud of dust made the air hazy and brown; the dust drifted to settle on the prone forms of the children as they lay scattered across the grass.

"No," he choked out. He'd checked the backyard this morning -

But they'd had a visitor after that. Arvel.

His eyes narrowing in sudden rage and understanding, he raced toward the nearest child. Emma, on her back, her blue eyes wide and staring straight up.

He knelt down next to her, his hands flying to her tiny shoulders, her pale face, brushing across her hair and cheeks as he whispered, "Emma. Emma, wake up. This is not the time to nap."

His chest felt tight and constricted, like his ribs were grinding through the back of his spine, wrapping around and around themselves. "Please," he said brokenly. Not this child. Not this beautiful, perfect child that he loved.

The relief that crashed through his body when Emma blinked her eyes and tilted her head to stare at him was like an ocean, like an avalanche. He gathered her to his chest, and let out short, harsh breaths as he tried to calm himself.

"Unca Geg," Emma said. "Squishing me."

Greg laughed, somewhat desperately, and let her go. "Stay very still, Emma. We don't want you to get hurt more, all right?"

Emma nodded. She still looked dazed.

Luce rushed up next to him and dropped hard to his knees, dust flying at the impact. "Go," he said, his voice short. "The other kids."

Greg looked up. Gina was already across the yard, splashing water on Flipper's face as he slowly stirred in his pool; Oliver was cradled in her arms, his fur singed-looking, and he mewled softly as he tried to bury his head against her chest.

The twins were huddled nearby, arms wrapped around each other. Flint had a gash on his face, and Malachite was trying to wipe it away, but his clumsy fingers only smeared the blood around. They both looked up fearfully when Greg reached them, and only relaxed when he made a soft shushing noise and touched their foreheads. Out of all the children, they looked the least affected, but there were still scorch marks on their hands and arms.

"Can you stand?" Greg asked them.

The twins nodded in unison.

"Thank Lucifer," Greg said, dropping into a crouch and helping them to their feet. They wobbled unsteadily for a moment, but straightened as he checked them over, running his hands from shoulder to toes to assure himself they were fine.

"Go to Luce," he ordered. They stumbled away, gripping each other tightly. Malachite stared anxiously at Flipper in his pool, but Flint was walking unsteadily, and Malachite had to stop and help his brother several times before they reached Luce's side. Dimly, from inside the house, he heard the baby naga start up her wailing. If she'd been outside in her bassinet today...

Greg took a breath and turned around. The dust settled completely.

He saw Mason's tiny, unmoving body; he'd been thrown further away than the others, and he was sprawled face down in the dirt.

Greg didn't remember moving, but almost before he saw Mason's body, he was next to the boy. He dropped to his knees beside him. "Mason," he said urgently, turning him over. Mason's body felt thin and fragile, light as paper. His dark hair was messy and tangled with twigs and grass. Mason would be so upset when he saw himself; he took so much time combing his hair every morning.

Mason's face was scorched with soot and dirt, and blood trickled in a thin stream from his smashed nose. The front of the silly gray uniform he insisted upon always wearing had been torn to shreds, and Greg could see a large, black burn on his chest. The flesh was puckered and cracked, like charcoal.

"Mason," Greg said, more desperately. He smoothed the boy's hair, touched his cheek.

His cold, cold cheek.

"No," he said quickly. "No, no."

He bent over Mason's body and pressed his ear to the boy's chest. Mason would be all right. He was small, and stubborn, and prone to hugging, and he would be fine. Greg needed him to be fine. If contemplating Emma's death made him feel like his ribs were being crushed inward, contemplating Mason's death made him feel like someone had reached into his chest and wrenched his ribs apart, cracking him wide open.

Greg had the power to hear the heartbeat of a mouse from half a mile away; he could hear a falcon's wingbeat when it was just a speck in the sky; he could hear lightning before it struck. But no matter how hard he pressed his ear to Mason's chest, he couldn't hear anything right now.

Tears leaked from the corner of his eyes, leaving silvery-red trails down his cheeks, as he lifted up Mason's tiny body and cradled him, rocking back and forth. He curled over Mason's body, shielding him. As he rocked wildly, the crest Mason had given him just this morning swung with his motions, hitting his chest with a dull thud, like his insides were hollow.

He could hear a sound, but it wasn't a heartbeat: it came from his own chest. It was a low, unsteady keening that scraped his throat raw and felt like bleeding from the inside.

He heard Luce thundering toward him, heard the ground tremble, heard Luce's roar of denial.

He still couldn't hear Mason's heartbeat.

They buried Mason on Wednesday. Greg thought to himself that nothing good ever happened on a Wednesday.

It was strange, he thought. In all the stories he'd read, funerals seemed to occur on sunny days or rainy days, like the weather either agreed with your sadness or mocked your pain. But there were no elemental extremes today, no blistering sunshine or drenching rain. It was another partly cloudy day like any other, not too warm or too cool. A light breeze bent the treetops and dried the tear tracks on his face.

He walked next to Luce, the two of them keeping pace behind the pallbearers. Luce didn't look at him once as they traveled the path to the gravesite.

Ahead of them, Bill and Bob wore somber black suits and their skin was chalky and dry, sagging beneath their chins, jowls flopping loose like bulldogs, their eyelids drooping.

Greg stumbled once, careless of his feet, seeing nothing beyond the small, wooden box resting on the ghouls' shoulders.

His ankle twinged in protest. Luce caught his arm, his eyes flicking quickly sideways, and steadied him. He didn't let go as they kept walking. His fingers circled Greg's bicep, just above the elbow, the thin band of flesh radiating the only warmth Greg had felt in days. Luce held on like he was afraid to let Greg go, like he was afraid Greg would blow away on the wind and disappear. Maybe he would.

They stood next to the open grave as the ghouls lowered the casket inside. The casket was made of cherry wood, and Greg thought it looked repulsive. He'd picked it out because he wanted Mason to rest inside something warm-colored, something as far away from the grey, lifeless pallor of his tiny, peaceful face as possible. But the shine on the cherry wood looked too much like blood, wet and guilty. Watching the sun gleam off polish hurt, and Greg squeezed his eyes tightly shut, aware of the breeze and Luce's burning hand on his arm.

The first shovelful of dirt beat against the coffin lid like a cannon blast. Greg opened his eyes.

Dirt scattered in a brown cascade over the lid, bits of rocks and grit that made scratching sounds like the scurry of rat feet over the cold concrete of a basement floor.

Greg made a small noise, and Luce tightened his hand.

Each shovel of dirt that landed heavily on Mason's coffin caused an equally heavy weight to settle in Greg's stomach. He stared, unblinking, as the dirt filled up the hole. The dirt filled him up, too, suffocating him from the inside, choking his throat. If he spoke, if he coughed, he was afraid it would all spill out, an avalanche of dirt and brown bile.

At last, the ghouls finished covering the grave and laid fresh sod over the top. Someone spoke about what a loss this was to everyone while someone else placed a wreath of flowers below the headstone. He heard their voices like background murmurs, insects that buzzed in the evening while the air was thick with heat and moisture and grief.

The headstone was made of black marble shot through with silver-purple veins the exact color of Mason's eyes. An old-fashioned gargoyle, wings spread wide like a sheltering umbrella, adorned the top; it cast a long shadow over the grave. The gargoyle had a childish face, curiously sweet, with large, solemn eyes. Greg thought that someday he might be able to look at it and smile and remember.

Night fell and the others left, one by one. They said things, sorry words, comfort words, and all Greg saw was the outline of a body and dust settling, over and over in his head. All he heard was nothing, nothing, no heartbeat, nothing.

Luce cleared his throat and moved away, finally dropping his hand from Greg's arm.

Greg watched Luce approach the grave with slow, measured steps, as if Luce were fighting upstream to reach his destination. He dropped to his knees beside the freshly turned earth and placed both hands on the damp, cool sod as he leaned over, arms trembling like his body weighed a thousand pounds. His tears splashed to the ground, and he wiped angrily at his face. His fingers left a long smudge of dirt on his right cheek.

Greg's throat closed up. When Luce stood again, the line of his back was rigid and stiff, and Greg was afraid to say anything, because if he shattered the silence then the shards would cut him until he bled to death. The whole world felt fragile and made of glass.

He was suddenly very grateful Frank and Drake had agreed to look after the orphanage for the next few days. He and Luce were in no fit shape to deal with the children: They'd tried in the days following Mason's death, and after the third time he and Luce had snapped at the children, Emma began crying, and Flipper dove to the bottom of his tank and refused to surface for hours. Even Flint, with his big smiles and clumsy antics, had grown quiet and withdrawn, more like his brother Malachite than ever.

And when they all went to the dining room for dinner, Granny Sweets accidentally set an extra plate. Greg had to excuse himself and leave so the children wouldn't see how his hands shook.

A dark, flickering rage sat in his chest now. He remembered it from when he was young. He'd thought it long since buried, but it was back. He felt helpless and angry and vicious, like when he was still learning the limits of his powers: how hard to bite before you snapped their neck, how much blood you could drink before their drained, lifeless eyes stared up at you, how far you could push your still-grieving father before he snapped and attacked you with fangs and fists.

He'd hated the world then, hated how hard and cruel everything was, how only survival mattered, in the end. He'd welcomed the changing times because they made surviving easier, less brutal.

But it had also made him soft. Now that he remembered the rage - now that he felt it pulsing in his chest again, creating tremors that ran down his arms and curled his fingertips - he knew he needed that old monster back if he was going to find Mason's killer.

Because when he found the sorcerer responsible, he was going to kill him. And it was going to be sweet, very sweet.

Greg felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked out of his bloodthirsty musings. Luce was staring at him with a concerned expression.

"It's late," Luce said. "Do you want to go in?"

"No," Greg said. "I'm staying here tonight."

Luce nodded, a sharp jerk of his head. "Good. I'm staying, too."

Greg didn't even think of protesting. Luce stood next to him, their sides pressed together, and they stared over the quiet grave as shadows lengthened and danced across the bones.

----

"This is my fault," Greg said, some indeterminate amount of time later, still staring blankly ahead. Neither of them had spoken a word in so long that several wandering ghosts had mistaken them for statues; the ghosts scattered at the sound.

"Stop it," Luce said immediately. He sounded old. "I mean it. I can't - just stop it, Greg. It's not your fault."

"Yes, it is," Greg replied quietly, his head bowed. Luce couldn't absolve him of this.

Luce yanked Greg around to face him. His eyes glowed orange in the twilight. "Shut up," he said fiercely. "I can't deal with your shit right now. It wasn't your fucking fault, so shut up!"

Greg sneered, spoiling for a fight. "Not my fault?" he said. He wanted to lock the words away so they couldn't do any more damage, but they tumbled past his lips like rocks in an avalanche down a mountainside, picking up speed, careless as they smashed down the trees and destroyed the landscape, obliterating everything in their path.

"It's my job! I should have checked the orphanage a hundred times after Arvel left! Two hundred times, three hundred times, it doesn't matter! They counted on me to keep them safe, but I only checked four times, Lucian, four times, and I missed it, dammit. I missed that spell. I made Mason go outside, and he's dead, and it's my fault! Nothing changes that!"

"Fuck!" Luce exploded, shoving Greg away. "What the hell do you want me to say? Yes, it's all your fault? Is that what you need to hear so you can beat yourself up?"

Luce narrowed his eyes. "Fine, then it is! It's your fault. It isn't like you care about the kids, right? It isn't like you spend every day trying to protect them, researching spells and checking the orphanage. No, no, you're right, this is clearly your fault, not the psychopath who set the spell in the first place!"

"I should have caught the spell," Greg said, unrelenting, his lips pressed in a grim line.

Luce scrubbed a hand over his face and laughed hollowly. His voice was sandpaper rough. "Do you really wanna do this now? What's it gonna take, Greg? What's it gonna take for you to stop killing yourself over this? I can't - I don't know how to help you, Greg. I'm so fucking tired right now."

"I don't need anything from you, Lucian," Greg said.

"No," Luce said, low and defeated. "You never do."

Greg turned away so he wouldn't have to see Luce's face, and knelt down swiftly, shoving his hand into the soft earth, where he could hear them burrowing. He closed his hand tightly and when he pulled it out he held a fistful of wriggling dirt.

"Worms," he snarled, clenching his fist so hard bits of worm oozed between his fingers, the larger pieces still undulating slowly. "He's in the ground with worms, Lucian."

Luce knelt beside him and covered Greg's hand with his own. His hand was large and warm, enveloping Greg's shaking fingers. "Let go," he said, staring at Greg's face.

They locked eyes, and Greg was the first to look away. He let his hand fall slowly open as soil and worm detritus tumbled to the ground. Luce trailed his fingers softly over Greg's skin, brushing the leftover dirt from his palm.

"We're going home now," Luce said.

Greg let himself be dragged away. His last glimpse of the graveyard was Mason's headstone, limned in moonlight.

----

For days afterward, Greg and Luce were wraiths, thin and tired wisps of smoke floating through the halls of Luce's apartment transparent and mournful. They barely spoke to one another and what words they did exchange were short and hollow.

It was Luce who broke the grieving stasis, and Greg wasn't surprised. Phoenixes were known for rising from the ashes.

"I'm going - I'm gonna head back to the orphanage today," Luce said hesitantly one grey morning as they sat side by side, pressed close on the couch. The sunlight filtered muted through the thick red curtains, casting a blood-drenched shadow across the room. Greg had taken to keeping the curtains closed, and Luce hadn't teased him once about being afraid of the sunshine. Greg liked the way it kept the apartment feeling like his mood: cool and grim and red-tinged at the edges.

He leaned back and wiped at the corners of his mouth, licking the last drops of Luce's blood from his fingers. "I see," he said.

Luce sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Look, it's been almost a week. Frank and Drake are exhausted pulling double shifts, Gina's going crazy trying to help, even Gill and Francesca and Flea and Hattie are picking up the extra slack, and it's... We've got responsibilities, Greg. Just because Mason - we can't ignore our duties."

Greg stared silently down at his hands; his long, pale fingers tapped a soft rhythm on his thighs. It was a song Mason often hummed.

"Responsibilities," he said. "Funny you should mention responsibilities. Because it was my responsibility to keep the kids safe."

"You think you're the only one hurting?" Luce snapped, standing abruptly and pacing to the fireplace. He gripped the mantel with both hands. "I hate to break it to you, but there's more happening right now than your fucking emo pain."

Greg's head shot up, his fingers curling into claws. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said. "Am I inconveniencing you? Please tell me, I'd hate to think I'm adding to your burden."

Luce looked over his shoulder and glared at him, jaw locked tight. "Stop," he ground out. Tendons stood out in his neck. A faint, silvery bite mark, barely discernible to the human eye, moved when he swallowed. "We aren't doing this."

Greg looked away, finding it difficult to concentrate with the lingering flavor of Luce's blood on his tongue, but he couldn't erase the image of the bite marks from his mind. He was careful to bite the same spot each time he fed; constant feeding kept the scar fresh, but in time, with Luce's healing abilities, it would fade as though it had never been there at all.

"I can't," Greg said. "I can't go back yet."

Luce spun around, fists clenched. "Dammit, Greg, pull yourself together! I need you to be useful!"

Greg felt himself pale more than usual. For a vampire, that was saying something. "If I'm no longer useful, Lucian," Greg said, low and hard, "perhaps I should leave."

"Don't pull this shit," Luce said, shaking his head. His eyes flashed orange, and the shifting red shadows across his face made him look hellish and otherworldly. "I didn't mean it like that."

Greg doubted that. "No, you're right," he sneered. "It's my responsibility to be useful, heavens, I can't believe how I'm shirking my duties."

"Fuck you," Luce bit out, taking a step closer. "Can't you get that I'm - that this is hard on everyone, Greg? Pull your head out of your ass for five seconds, okay, and take a look around because this is not about you. We have the other kids to think about, we can't afford to lock ourselves wallowing away here."

Greg clenched his fists, felt his nails sharpen and drive into his palms, and smeared the blood over his dark trouser thighs so Luce wouldn't see it dripping.

"I know you're used to being alone, doing things your own way but -" Luce continued. Greg stood in a smooth, cool movement and Luce's words guttered out like a doused candle flame.

"Yes," Greg said. "Thank you for reminding me. This has been a very helpful conversation."

"Greg," Luce said warningly. Flames danced in his eyes, and he ground his teeth together so hard Greg could actually hear it.

"Not to worry, Lucian," Greg said calmly, even though his insides felt loose and boiling, churning under skin that suddenly felt thinner than gauze. "I know exactly what to do. My own way."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked from the room, returning moments later with his overnight bag clutched in his hand. It was fortunate he hadn't left the habit of keeping it packed and ready to go. A brittle, sour voice whispered he'd kept the bag packed because he knew eventually he'd have to leave.

Luce sat on the couch again, his head in his hands. He looked up when Greg cleared his throat.

"I'm going," Greg said icily.

"What?" Luce said, his eyes widening. "Shit, Greg, no, I didn't mean -"

"You work on your responsibilities," Greg interrupted. "I'll work on mine."

He hefted the bag over his shoulder, opened the front door, and walked out into the bleak world, ignoring Luce's calls after him.

He needed to do this.

----

Greg slept on rooftops and drained rats for breakfast. It wasn't anything he hadn't done before. In fact, it was more familiar than the warm, comfortable life with Luce he'd never quite let himself believe in.

He liked to imagine Luce was worried about him, but he wasn't deluded enough to believe it anything other than fantasy. Luce was right: he had his own job, and Greg had his.

Right now, Greg's job was revenge.

It took him two days to track down Arvel. The ogre was getting sloppy; Greg had been prepared for a longer hunt and found himself frustrated it was over so quickly. Two days wasn't early long enough to burn away the film of rage and pain clouding his vision.

Perhaps Arvel hadn't heard about the orphanage. Perhaps he didn't think Greg would come after him.

Whatever the reason, the ogre would soon learn it was a deadly mistake.

Greg found Arvel leaning against the wall outside La Bête, a trendy new restaurant downtown. He had an expensive suit jacket slung over his shoulder and a long cigarette dangling from his thin lips. He stared unblinking into the distance, one leg propped against the brick, posed like a model on the cover of Monsterman's Quarterly.

As Greg watched from his hidden perch on the roof, Arvel sighed and took a final drag on his cigarette, cheeks hollowed and eyes downcast, and stubbed out the glowing tip on the wall before letting the cigarette fall to the ground, one shiny, leather heel grinding it into the pavement.

He pushed himself away from the wall, and swayed unsteadily. Greg narrowed his eyes and reevaluated Arvel's flushed cheeks. The ogre's clothing suddenly looked rumpled, not artfully wrinkled, and the dark shadows under his dull eyes had less to do with the streetlamps than lack of sleep.

Greg hopped lightly from the roof to the fire escape, feet barely touching the railing as he made his way down to the bottom of the alley. He landed without a whisper of sound.

Arvel passed by the mouth of the alley. Greg's hand shot out and hauled him into the shadows. Arvel made a startled noise that quickly cut off when Greg slammed his face into the brick. He smiled grimly when heard the wet snap of Arvel's nose breaking.

He trapped Arvel's arms behind his back with one hand and used the other to grip Arvel's neck, forcing the ogre's face further into the rough stone. He laughed when Arvel made a choked, pained noise, struggling against his hold.

"Hello, lover," Greg said, leaning close. He felt the growl building low in his throat. "What've you been up to lately?"

"Greg!" Arvel gasped out thickly. Greg could smell Arvel's delicious coppery blood clouding the air, a scent like clovers and jasmine, cool and sweet like a field of summer wildflowers on a breezy, sunlit afternoon.

He bent forward and sank his fangs into Arvel's neck, unable to resist. Two days of rats had left him functional but not satiated, and rat always had a terrible aftertaste.

Arvel went rigid beneath him and fear flavored his blood. It nearly made Greg moan. He mouthed lightly at the ragged wounds, tearing the flesh with his fangs, then pulled away and licked his lips.

"What are you doing?" Arvel choked, tiny tremors shuddering through his frame.

"Having dinner," Greg replied. "You should eat more vegetables, I think. It would give you a better flavor." He laughed and nipped at the meat of Arvel's shoulder, puncturing the skin through the material. Arvel hissed, and bright spots of red blossomed against the white fabric.

He stepped back and released Arvel. The ogre staggered, weak from blood loss. A curtain of bright blood flowed from his nose, over his lips, and down his chin. "What - stop - " he began, the magic palpable in his Voice.

It wasn't enough to break Greg's furious concentration, especially not when Arvel's blood was singing through his veins, making him immune to the ogre's power. He grabbed Arvel by the throat with both hands and slammed him back against the wall. The back of Arvel's head connected with a sickening crack. His pupils were blown wide, expression dazed.

Greg dug his fingers tighter against Arvel's throat, and his fingernails lengthened, knifing through the ogre's skin and piercing his voice box.

Arvel made a low, terrified burbling noise as his hands scrabbled frantically attempting to loosen Greg's grip. He tore strips of flesh from Greg's fingers with his nails, but Greg didn't care. He pressed harder and Arvel gurgled a scream, eyes wide with pain but unable to speak. With Greg's fingers through his throat, the ogre had lost his best weapon.

"A child is dead," Greg said conversationally, leaning close to Arvel's face. He smiled.

Arvel's eyes widened further, irises flashing a pale, translucent sea-green. His hands fell away to hang limply at his sides.

Greg frowned and abruptly took a step back, sliding his nails from Arvel's ruined throat.

Arvel leaned over, gasping. The holes in his neck bubbled blood down the front of his white dress shirt as he drew wheezing breaths.

"You didn't know?" Greg snarled. "Are you going to tell me now that it wasn't you?!" He grabbed Arvel's arm and tossed him against the wall again.

Arvel slid partway down the wall and looked up, his hands at his throat to staunch the flow of blood. "Not... going... to tell... much... now," he gargled, the sounds barely intelligible. Each word sent a fresh pulse of blood between his fingers.

Greg scowled and flicked his fingers, murmuring the words of a rudimentary healing spell. "Fine. Talk. And I'd talk quickly, if I were you." A hissing crackle had crept into his voice.

Arvel swallowed hard. He knew well enough what that sound meant. "I didn't - a child was killed?" he asked, hand still curled protectively around his throat.

"Yessss," Greg said, eyes narrowing. The air around him danced fizzy and static.

Arvel held up his hands, and the startled green of his eyes bled to light blue. "I didn't know, Greg. I swear. I thought he - the sorcerer. I thought you'd be enough protection against him."

Greg lunged. His fist cracked across Arvel's cheek, snapping the ogre's head sideways. "I wasn't."

Arvel slid the rest of the way to the ground, working his jaw and wincing as he tenderly probed his face with shaking, bloodstained fingers. "I'm sorry."

Greg made an incoherent noise of rage and lurched forward.

"No, no!" Arvel said quickly, tucking himself into a ball. "I tried to warn you he was planning something I - shit, Greg, you have no idea what he's capable of, it's - he'll kill me," Arvel finished, shoulders slumping.

"That is the least of your worries," Greg said darkly.

Arvel's eyes flashed up. "Greg, you have to listen to me," he said. "I didn't know. At first, when I agreed to help him, it was because he said he needed you out of the way, needed you distracted. He said he'd help me get you back, he - oomph," Arvel hissed, jolting sideways as Greg's foot lashed into his stomach.

"You will never get me back," Greg said, slowly and deliberately.

Arvel winced, cradling his middle. "Greg - "

"Listen carefully," Greg said. "I'm going to kill you as slowly and painfully as possible unless you provide me with a reason to keep you alive."

Arvel's eyes were wide and sea-green again with shock. "You - "

"You've got about thirty seconds to convince me to spare your life," Greg said.

Arvel's eyes fluttered closed. Just then he looked fragile and very young. "I didn't want any children to get hurt," he said, speaking quickly and quietly. He wasn't even trying to use his Voice. "I thought he simply meant to scare the children, make trouble for the phoenix so he'd abandon his idea. But then the spells he started using - they were dark magic. Magic even I wouldn't touch. I asked him what his plans were and he said," Arvel took a deep breath, eyes still closed, and ran a hand over his face. "He s-said he'd never allow the abominations to live. He meant the children. He doesn't just want to stop the phoenix, he wants to eradicate all the halfling children."

Arvel opened his eyes, and they were periwinkle blue with only the faintest hint of green. "That's when I told him I wouldn't help him anymore. And I went to the orphanage to warn you. He's powerful and he's crazy."

"His name?" Greg asked coldly.

"I can't - Gregori," Arvel pleaded. "I'll help you, I'll do whatever I can, but he's put a geas on me. If I tell you his name I'll die."

"If you don't tell me his name," Greg replied, enunciating each word slowly, "you'll die."

Arvel hung his head.

"What can you tell me?" Greg snapped, fisting his hands in Arvel's shirt and hauling him closer.

"He's old," Arvel said, almost before Greg finished speaking. Greg's fingers uncurled. "An old pureblood. And he's gone through special - " Arvel doubled over coughing, his hands grasping his throat. When he straightened, his eyes were red and watery. "Ah, apparently I can't tell you that."

"Hm," Greg said, flexing his claws. "Since I already know it must be a powerful pureblood sorcerer, that's not much help." Did Arvel think he was an idiot not to have figured out that much?

Arvel cleared his throat. "All right. But I can help you shore up against his magic," he said. "I've worked with it, I know its shape now. I can help you make your wards stronger against him."

"Can you," Greg said without inflection, but his mind turned over the implications of Arvel's aide. Arvel was a powerful sorcerer in his own right, perhaps, Greg was loathe to admit, even more powerful than himself because Arvel directed so much more of his time to study. Being an ogre, Arvel's magic was different from Greg's vampiric magic: more earthbound and less dependent on blood ritual. His power would add something to Greg's wards and spells, maybe even something that this unknown sorcerer would find harder to overcome.

Arvel got unsteadily to his feet, leaning against the wall for support. "Yes," he said firmly. "I'll give you my grimoires."

At this, Greg raised an eyebrow, and felt his rage dim further. This was no small offer from a sorcerer like Arvel. Most sorcerers guarded their magical knowledge obsessively, and Arvel had always been the worst, refusing to let Greg touch his spellbooks, going so far as to hide them. By offering his grimoires, he was opening up his magic to Greg, revealing his secrets; he couldn't be certain Greg wouldn't take advantage.

Greg didn't tell him that he planned on it.

"Tomorrow," Arvel said. "I'll send them, I swear. I was - I've been thinking about this, what I can do. I know I never should have agreed to his plan, Gregori, and I need to - I have to make amends. I never meant for a child to be harmed."

"Too late," Greg said, his voice a low growl. "If this is a trick, Arvel - "

"It's not," Arvel said quickly. He scrubbed a hand over his chin, smearing the blood. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Not yet," Greg said. "But you will be. After I've torn this bastard limb from limb, you and I are going to have a long talk."

Arvel nodded tightly. "I imagine we will."

Greg tilted his head, catching on a sudden thought. "In the beginning, if I'd agreed to spend the night with you, were you going to tell me the sorcerer's name?"

Arvel laughed hollowly, his eyes dull brown-green like dead grass. "No, I wasn't going to tell you who he was. Even before he threatened to kill me."

Greg nodded. "I thought as much."

"I was sure I'd be enough," Arvel continued as though Greg hadn't spoken. "Sure I could win you back, make you love me again, like before. I thought I could get you away from that phoenix." He paused, and met Greg's eyes. "But I can't, can I?" he asked, words heavy with meaning.

"No," Greg said. "You really can't." It seemed strange that the first person he admitted this to would be Arvel.

Arvel nodded and turned his face away, smiling sadly, but Greg could imagine what color his eyes would be.

"Why didn't he just kill you?" Greg asked suddenly.

Arvel laughed hollowly, half-turned away. Greg watched him take a blood-spattered cigarette out of his shirt pocket and fumble with his lighter. When he cut his gaze back, his eyes were bright green and terrible.

"He said he didn't want to spill any pureblood unnecessarily." Arvel took a deep drag on his cigarette. The cigarette's glow illuminated the wretched, bitter expression on his face. "Isn't that funny? Being a pureblood keeps saving my life."

It was Greg's turn to look away. Arvel had told him about that, once, long ago.

----

The lights were off when he got back to the apartment, but Greg didn't need light to find Luce. Even if Greg weren't already capable of seeing perfectly well in the dark, the sound of Luce's heartbeat was all the guide he needed, an aural compass that forever pointed home.

Luce sat on the couch in the darkened living room. The house was utterly silent.

Greg stepped into the room, flicking on a lamp as he walked to the couch. Low, orange light spilled across the floor, casting deep shadows across Luce's face. His hair hung limp and unwashed in his face. The remains of two empty twelve-packs littered the floor, cans crumpled and collected in a small pile around Luce's feet.

Luce looked up, a half-full beer can dangling from his fingers. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. "Thought you left," he said.

Greg's heart constricted, like it had suddenly been sucked dry. He could envision the lump of dead flesh in his mind's eye, hanging small and shriveled in his chest like a piece of old fruit.

"No," he said, sitting down carefully next to Luce. Luce grunted and slid sideways toward him, knocking their shoulders together. Beer sloshed out of the can and dripped over his hand onto the floor. "I left, but not - I was coming back."

Greg gently reached out and pried Luce's fingers from the can, setting it down on the coffee table.

"Don't leave again," Luce said miserably.

"I won't," Greg promised. Not until Luce told him to, Lucifer help him, he wasn't going to leave until Luce packed his bags for him and shoved him to the curb. Luce didn't realize it, sweet demonic saints, Greg hoped he never would, but Greg would promise Luce forever, if only he asked.

"'S good," Luce muttered, resting his head on Greg's shoulder. "Sorry I yelled."

Greg smiled softly. "It's all right. Sorry I was a self-involved jackass."

Luce snorted a warm puff of air against Greg's neck and wrapped a well-muscled arm around Greg's waist, nuzzling closer with all the clumsy grace of the very drunk. "'S one of yer more loveable qualities," he slurred.

At this, Greg laughed, then screwed up his courage and combed his fingers through Luce's dirty hair. The strands felt greasy to his touch. "When was the last time you bathed?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

Luce mumbled something and slumped heavily against Greg, nearly crushing him.

"What?" Greg asked.

"Said, when's the last time y'drank from me?" Luce sounded accusing.

Greg stilled. "Two days ago."

"There you go."

"That is disgusting, Lucian," Greg said, trying to maneuver Luce to a sitting position. "I'm going to run a bath for you and you are going to get cleaned up so you stop withering the house plants with your stench."

Luce made a sound half-laugh, half-sigh and pushed back until he had Greg pressed into the couch, his head pillowed on Greg's chest. "Didn' feel like it. You left 'n everything was too -I was too - he's gone, isn' he?" Luce finished abruptly, turning so his mouth was open and warm over Greg's skin.

Greg lowered his chin, resting it on top of Luce's head. "Yes," he said quietly. They stayed like that, the uneven hitch of Luce's breathing the only sound in the room beyond the clock ticking on the mantel.

Finally, Luce sat up, awkwardly bracing one hand on the cushion next to Greg's thigh and the other on the couch back, and stared at Greg's face for a long time. He shifted his weight to the arm resting against Greg's thigh and with his free hand very gently reached up to wipe the silvery-red tears from Greg's cheeks. His hand shook as he rubbed the moisture between his thumb and forefinger.

"Hate seeing you cry," Luce said. He dropped his face to the haven where Greg's neck met his shoulder so Greg couldn't read his expression.

Greg smiled wanly; feeling embarrassed, he lightly patted Luce's hair. Luce must be drunker than he thought.

Greg felt Luce swallow as he pulled away again and looked down. He took a shuddering breath, and when he brought his eyes back up they were heavy and golden as he leaned in and said, "Please, I need, please -" and Greg felt a soft, warm kiss pressed against his temple. Luce's breath was moist and it smelled sour and metallic like stale beer.

"Luce," Greg said softly, turning his head into the touch, and just like that, Luce's arms slid around his back and tugged him half-across Luce's lap; he braced his hands on Luce's thigh, feeling the muscles shift and flex under his fingers.

Luce groaned and gathered him up in his arms, pressing another kiss to his temple, his lips warm and trembling. He trailed kisses down the side of Greg's face, and Greg stayed motionless, his thoughts scattering wildly like bats taking flight.

He thought it should feel wrong, knowing Luce was drunk and half out of his mind with grief, but it didn't. It felt good and right and finding the final piece to a puzzle that until that moment Greg hadn't known he was building. He promised himself that right now, for a few minutes, he could have this and it was okay.

Strong, callused fingers traced his jaw and tilted his head back as Luce brushed his lips over Greg's - once, twice - with the lightest of touches. His thumb traced circles on Greg's cheekbone.

And then Luce pulled away, his mouth hovering at the corner of Greg's lips, head bent like a supplicant. "Okay?" he asked. One hand still cupped Greg's face; the other hand caressed the short hairs at the nape of Greg's neck.

Greg tilted his head up and closed the distance, saying yes with his lips.

----

When they pulled apart what seemed hours later, Greg felt dizzy, like he'd been the one drinking. The air around him sizzled faintly.

Twin spots of high color danced on Luce's cheeks. He tugged Greg close, so close there was no part of him not touching Luce's solid warmth. "Greg, please, God, it hurts," Luce muttered with desperate, open-mouthed kisses against Greg's neck.

And Greg finally, finally put his hands on Luce's chest and pushed him determinedly away.

"Stop," he said.

Immediately, Luce did, as though Greg's word had frozen him.

"Lucian," Greg said. It was hard to get the words past his lips. "We can't. I'm sorry. Neither of us is thinking clearly, and I can't -"

Luce was drunk and, as much as Greg wanted to hold him and kiss him and tell him, sweet Lucifer, how much he loved him, he couldn't. He would not take advantage of Luce like that.

"It's okay," Luce said tightly. He seemed to sober. He looked away and ran a hand through his hair, chuckling softly. "I get it, don't worry."

Greg's stomach roiled, and he pressed a hand low against his belly. It was almost a shame he had nothing to throw up. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Luce said, making a short, sharp motion with his hand. He smiled a small, self-deprecating smile. "Look, shit. Can we -"

"Don't worry," Greg said, managing to dredge up a reassuring grin, even as it felt like razor blades were slicing his lips on the inside, cutting up his mouth, filling it heavy with blood. He wondered if Luce could see the phantom stain of it on Greg's teeth as he smiled. "We both... when people grieve. They need comfort."

Luce barked out laugh. "Right. Yeah. Comfort." He knuckled at his eyes, heaved a deep breath, and stood, moving away from the couch. "Gonna tell me why you smell like blood? Maybe where you went?"

Greg hesitated. "To find Arvel."

Luce swung around and narrowed his bloodshot eyes. "What?"

Greg put a hand on Luce's arm. Luce looked down and didn't pull away, but his shoulders were tense and his mouth a thin, unhappy line. "I went to find Arvel," Greg said. "To make him pay."

Luce locked eyes with him. "Did you?"

"Yes," Greg said simply.

"Fuck, Greg," Luce said tiredly. "Why would you - are you hurt?"

Greg shook his head. "No. And Arvel..." He hesitated again.

Luce's gaze was keen. "What happened?"

I nearly murdered him, Greg wanted to say. I wanted to. I would have bathed in his blood. "We had a nice chat," he said instead.

"Really."

"Lucian, we already knew Arvel was involved, but he's... He isn't anymore. He told me he wants to help."

Luce's eyes widened in disbelief and he yanked his arm angrily away. "What the hell, Greg? You told me yourself he was a fucked up, sadistic asshole. And you just believe him?"

"Lucian," Greg said calmly. "Yes. And I don't believe I used quite those words."

Luce clenched his teeth, a muscle in his jaw ticking. He began pacing back and forth, smoke drifting from his hair. "I did, believe me. Well, that's just wonderful. I'm so glad you two are getting along again."

Greg laughed humorlessly. "We don't get along, Lucian. I'm going to use him until he isn't useful anymore. And then I'm going to think of a suitable punishment for him."

Luce stopped and looked at him, raising his eyebrows. "Oh yeah? He know that?"

"No," Greg said, displaying his fangs.

Luce's lips quirked into an unfriendly grin. "I'm surprisingly okay with that. What's he offering?"

"He's going to send me his most powerful spellbooks, along with a list of the spells he's seen our friend using."

Luce's expression was thoughtful. "That could actually be... good."

Greg nodded. "Arvel was familiar with my magic. I think that's why the sorcerer approached him in the first place."

"Makes sense," Luce said. "He'd want to know what he was up against."

"Now we'll know more about what we're up against," Greg said. "As soon as I get what I need from Arvel, I'm going to need you to lend me more of your power so we can strengthen the wards. We'll probably need to rework half the spells, knowing Arvel. I hate to admit it, but he's a clever sorcerer. If this other sorcerer is better than him -"

"We can't worry about that," Luce said grimly. "We have to focus on finding the bastard and protecting the kids. I'll give you whatever you need for the spells. Just tell me what to do."

"What you need to do right now," Greg said, standing up, "is get some sleep. You look like shit."

Luce managed a half-smile. "Thanks. Please, don't spare my feelings."

"Let's not forget you reek like twelve wet yetis, either."

Luce chuckled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're hell on a guy's ego, you know that?"

They stood quietly facing each other after that. Greg was aware of the clock ticking once more. Luce seemed hesitant to move; he rocked awkwardly on his heels.

"All right," Greg said finally, breaking the strange silence. "It's been a draining day."

Luce's lips quirked. "Imagine that. A vampire had a draining day."

Greg snorted, but he suddenly felt immensely relieved that Luce was making jokes again. "I'm going to bed. If you wake me up before noon, I won't be responsible for any bruising you incur."

"Greg," Luce said. His eyes were serious. "Are we - we're okay, right?" he asked. "I mean, on the couch, the, uh, the kissing, I know you didn't want -"

"Yes," Greg said. "We're fine. Or we will be, as soon as you shower and stop offending my olfactory senses."

"Bitch," Luce said, but he was smiling.

"Just for that," Greg said, "I'm replacing all your shampoo with something rose-scented."

Luce rolled his eyes. "You'd have to use it, too."

"I," Greg said, with great dignity, "always come away smelling like roses."

Luce's laugh was the first real one he'd heard all night. "Whatever. That was terrible."

Greg grinned unrepentantly.

As he lay in bed later that night staring at the ceiling, he brushed his fingers over his still-tingling lips, shut his eyes tight, and let himself dream of a day when Luce would kiss him, not because he was the only warm body available for comfort, but because Luce really wanted him.

It was a nice dream.

----

True to his word, Arvel sent four highly illegal spellbooks to Greg by FedHex the next morning. Greg was eager to put some of the spells to use, but not so eager that he didn't practice a few of the easier spells to see if anything blew up or if blood rained from the walls. He still wouldn't put anything past Arvel.

Luce wandered into the kitchen in the early afternoon, looking sleepy but refreshed. He'd shaved some time since last night, and his face gleamed golden and strong in the sunlight from the kitchen window.

He shot Greg a weird, small smile and went to plug the kettle in. "Morning," he said.

"Good morning," Greg replied, spellbooks spread out in front of him on the kitchen table.

Luce propped one hip against the counter and watched the kettle heat. It's soft bubbling noise filled the kitchen. A minute later, Greg heard the click that meant the kettle was done; he listened with half an ear as Luce puttered around by the sink, no doubt spooning in hideous amounts of sugar and honey and creamer.

Luce took a loud slurp and moaned in pleasure. He held his mug against his chest with one hand and watched Greg until Greg looked up. "Hungry?" Luce asked, pointing to his neck with his other hand.

"Showered?" Greg replied, turning a page.

"Funny," Luce said, smacking Greg on the back of the head as he walked by and sat down. His fingers seemed to rest against Greg's scalp for a moment longer than necessary.

"Those the books from the bastard?" he asked, indicating the grimoires with a wave of his mug.

"Yes," Greg said, turning another page. It was hard not to stare at Luce's bare chest.

Luce rubbed at the back of his neck and took another sip from his mug. "You coming with me today?"

Greg glanced up. Luce's face was open and questioning and a little unsure, like he was trying to tread carefully so as not to hurt Greg's feelings. The sunlight made his hair a red-gold riot around his handsome face. There was a hopeful half-smile on his lips, and his eyes were twin gold coins, crinkled and fond.

Greg looked down quickly, and the words blurred on the page in front of him. He loved Luce more in that moment than he'd ever loved anyone or anything in his entire life.

"Yes," he said quietly.

He didn't have to look to see Luce's blinding grin. He could feel its warmth like a caress.

----

When they arrived at the orphanage, Luce gave his shoulder a squeeze and immediately broke away to find Frank and Drake and get an update.

Greg headed for his office, the grimoires in a bag slung over his shoulder. As he made his way down the hall, he noticed several clods of dirt on the wooden floor. He'd have to speak to Russell about keeping the place tidier. There were even dirt smudges on the door to his office. He frowned. Things had been hard lately, for everyone, but that didn't mean Russell could shirk his duties.

He pushed open his door and walked inside, toeing through another small pile of dirt. His brows furrowed, and he looked over his shoulder. Now that he observed it from a distance, the dirt led from the back door and down the hall in an uneven trail.

That was odd. He put the bag of spellbooks down on the desk and turned to leave and fetch Russell.

"Oh, there you are, thir," said a raspy little voice.

Greg froze.

He turned slowly, so slowly, conscious of each shift of muscle, the agonizing tightness across his chest. Time moved sluggishly backward.

"Good morning, thir!" Mason beamed brightly at him from the overstuffed chair in the corner. His legs were curled under his body and he'd folded one of Greg's jackets for a pillow. He had on the suit they'd buried him in, and he was covered in dirt. A small earthworm dangled over his shoulder. "I hope you don't mind that I thlept in here, but I didn't want to mith you when you came in."

Greg's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Mason continued blithely on. "I mutht thay, thir, I had the devil of a time digging out. Pleathe don't bury me quite tho deep in the future."

Time swung back into motion, and Greg let out a loud whoop. He was across the room in a single bound, and he snatched Mason up, swinging him around in a wide circle, laughing crazily as he crushed Mason's tiny body to his chest. He let himself drink in Mason's smell, feel the warmth of his skin, listen to Mason's steady heartbeat, his heartbeat, a sound he never thought to hear again. All the while, Mason hung patiently in his arms.

"Excuthe me, thir," Mason's muffled squeak came eventually, "but it theemth I cannot breathe."

Greg pulled Mason away, and he couldn't help it - he bent down and rained kisses on Mason's little grey forehead. He'd forgotten how much happiness could hurt: a sharp ache that threatened to burst from beneath his breast, a grin that split his face so wide his cheeks strained and his ears burned in protest.

His wild laughter drew pounding footsteps, and he looked up to see Luce burst through the door, his breathing harsh and eyes frantic.

"Greg, what's - " Luce began, and stumbled when he caught sight of Mason.

"Hello, Mr Luthe," Mason said. "I'd give you a hug, too, thir, but Mr Greg ith being greedy."

Luce gave a broken, startled laugh and lurched forward, his eyes still disbelieving. "Mason?"

"Yeth," Mason said happily. "But, regretfully, thlightly dirty."

Greg hugged him tighter.

"Thir. Breathing," Mason reminded him with a gasp. Greg carefully set him down, but couldn't keep himself from touching Mason's hair to reassure himself. He smoothed the glossy dark hair down, pulling out bits of twigs and leaves.

Luce looked at Greg, still seemingly at a loss. "Greg?"

"He's alive," Greg said. "I can hear his heartbeat."

That seemed to spur Luce to action. In two strides he was at Greg's side. He swept them up in a hug that left Greg and Mason's feet dangling off the ground, and laughed as he buried his face against Greg's neck.

Greg could have sworn he felt the press of Luce's hot lips against his skin before Luce yanked his head away and planted a loud kiss on the top of Mason's head. His arms tightened around them and to Greg - safe in the circle of Luce's warm embrace, feeling Mason's small, alive body so close - the whole room seemed to brighten.