Disclaimer: All concepts and characters belong to L.J. Smith and her publishers. This does no include characters which did not appear in her books or her mind.

Rating: R (Language, Violence, Sex, Mature Content)

Spoilers: All my previous fan fiction and the Night World series before Strange Fate

The Chosen Battle

Part Three: Grahme

Genet Travlier had grown up in a house where no one ever talked. The silence was always amiable, they just had little to say. His three older siblings were already in high school when he was born, they had no time or interest in the smallest son of the family. His father was living off disability, his mother was in semi-retirement. None of them had anything to say.

His youngest brother was a lazy slacker who lived at home and worked part time at the butcher shop, an ironic job for a werepig if there ever was one. He brought his underage girlfriends home to watch an ancient copy of "Hellraiser," that barely played on the antique VCR, and referred to Genet as "Lampshade," as if he were so insignificant. Either that or it was a comment on his haircut.

"Lampshade," Flew would say. "Go get me a pop. And one for the babe, too."

Maybe it was constantly being thought of an uninteresting house fixture that made Genet join Circle Daybreak. He wanted, simply enough, to have a significant place in something, a family greater than his own. He was disappointed when he was immediately assigned to start training for undercover work because the recruiter told him, "You have a very unnoticeable presence. You're here, but you're not the least bit threatening."

Later he realized it had been a compliment, and even beyond that, he discovered that being the "Invisible Man," had a lot of advantages. "Lampshade," was now a badge of honor, so much so that he used it as his code name.

No one at the art gallery opening had noticed him that evening--no one ever did--and it had given him a chance to step back and watch the flow of people. One thing he consistently noticed was that people avoided Mira. Not all of them, but the higher ranking ones. They glanced at her almost nervously and looked away, and the flow broke around her like a boulder in a creek.

He was beginning to get the distinct impression that people knew who she was.

It surprised him, because Mira was so genuine. She never acted secretive or mysterious the way a lot of now-dead undercover agents did, and as far as he knew, she'd never gone prowling around Teth's office or anything.

He was standing by the window in his room, debating whether or not to go warn her, when Teth burst in.

The door simply broke in half and tore off its hinges. Genet jumped, his eyes darting for a weapon, and before he had time to even reach for his keys, Teth was on top of him. His head slammed into the wall and he slid down until he landed on the desk.

Teth turned away. There was only a small bed side lamp on, and the room was lit with warm orange. Genet watched Teth put a hand out against window ledge, chest heaving and half bent over. He reached into his pocket and threw something at Genet, which stung as it hit him in the chest.

"I can't do this," Teth panted. His voice was rough and strangled.

Genet picked the assailant object off his lap and saw that it was a single key.

"She's in the snow outside my office. Take her in the black limo and get out."

Genet felt his body go still. He couldn't move or speak until Teth turned his sweat-soaked face in Genet's direction and said, "Go!"

He scrambled down off the desk and moved quickly toward the door, but suddenly Teth's hand was on his arm again. Genet could feel his warm, damp breath on his own cheek.

"Tell her this is my only warning," Teth whispered.

Genet nodded and sprang away.

He was still fully dressed, pure luck, but he ducked into the front closet and grabbed two of the largest, warmest coats he could find. Then he paused, undecided between the front door and the side door, and noticed that Teth's office door was ajar. He could smell an open window inside, the fresh chill of night air coming into the hallway. And the guards were gone.

In fact, no one was around at all.

What's going on here? he wondered, but he didn't look a gift horse in the mouth and ran into the office. Not only was the window open, it had been shattered in the center. Genet grabbed a potted plant and used it to clear the rest of the glass so that he could climb through, gratefully pulling on a coat as he went.

He paused and his eyes scanned the snow. He didn't see Mira.

Then he noticed a place where the snow had been patted down flat and gently dug his foot into it. A few inches down, he hit something.

Genet dropped to a crouch and started digging. He knees were already frozen, and he wanted to shift, but he wouldn't be able to drive in his cat form, or carry Mira. The snow was well packed, maybe even helped along in the freezing process by a hose, and Genet had to stop every few seconds to stick his hands inside his coat.

This isn't working, he thought, and reached for a large chuck of glass that had broken out of the window. Using it as a shovel, he carefully moved the snow out of the way until he caught a glimpse of black silk.

"Mira!" he called, tossing the glass and digging in with his hands. They burned but he didn't noticed. "Mira, can you hear me?"

He brushed the snow off her face and felt himself begin to shake. Not from cold but fear. Her eyes were closed, lips parted. The space between them was choked with snow. Her skin had absolutely no color.

"She's dead," he said without hearing himself.

Her head was twisted around the wrong way, and he could see bones poking through the flesh of her neck. Genet started coughing, trying not to gag, and had to turn his face away. He couldn't look at her.

His thoughts blurred. Part of him was mourning for a friend and a comrade who he had admired. The other part was recognizing that if he let on to Teth that she was dead, Genet wouldn't be able to get away him. It was a cruel thought, but practical.

He forced himself to return to her side. He spread the coat out on the ground and then slid his arms under her and lifted her onto it. Her head rolled back and he gasp, not because of the vertebrae that had torn through the flesh, but because he thought he could make out a very faint pulse beating just under her chin.

"Mira?" he asked again. He tugged the sides of the coat around her legs and then leaned down so that he could press his ear to her chest. There, a feeble, sluggish heartbeat.

She had stopped breathing. He leaned down and clamped his fingers on either side of her nose, then knocked the snow from between her lips and pressed his mouth to hers. She was so cold, he didn't know if he wanted give her air or kiss her for warmth.

Her chest rose under his free hand, but almost imperceptibly. Something was caught in her throat, he realized, straightening up. He had forgotten that step about clearing the airways.

Forcing her jaw down, he crammed his frozen fingers into her mouth, digging deep into her throat until he felt a huge block. Not just something small she had swallowed, but a vertebrae that had been knocked out of place. Using his free hand, he pushed on the side of her neck, wincing as he adjusted the settlement of the loose bones. Slowly, he nudged her throat clear.

She drew in air almost at once, without Genet even having to help. "Mira!" he called. "You need to wake up, okay? Open your eyes."

She didn't, taking quick, shallow breathes. Genet shrugged and zipped the coat up. She would be warmer if she could shift, but that wasn't going to happen if she was unconscious.

He carried her to the garage, where he found the door open and a black limo fitted with snow treads. He dug the key from his jeans pocket and unlocked the doors, then settled Mira into the passenger seat. Her head rolled from side to side without control as he buckled her in.

Worrying about shock, he turned on the heater just enough to get the air moving, and then pulled out into the snow.

Mona Mastry refolded the letter and put it down on her desk. She folded her hands, tried to appear calm and controlled, and then felt one set of fingers curl into a fist and coming crashing down on the oak desk top of hard a vase of dead flowers jumped and shattered.

Almost immediately, there was a knock on the door. That's how life was in these compounds, everyone was forever wary of attack. "Come in," she called hoarsely, and Morgead Blackthorn stuck his head inside.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine, get out of here."

He rolled his eyes and retreated, and Mona leaned back in her chair. She'd paid almost three thousand dollars for the thing at the Back Store, it vibrated, wiggled, grew hot, and popped her legs up and down, but at the moment it felt like a block of cement despite the six-inch feather padding.

She'd known since the summer that something was wrong with Thierry. They had always been amiable with each other; Mona having been changed one hundred years ago at Thierry's request and by one of his lieutenants. He'd trusted her with one of his most important assignments, guarding the Wild Powers, and they kept in close contact by telephone so that he always knew what was going on and what possible dangers might be arising.

She didn't really need to talk to him more than once a month--unless something went wrong--but she found his watchful eyes comforting, having never truly been confident of her own competency. She liked having him tell her that she was doing well, liked having a hand to hold, so to speak. There was no real need to update him on anything, especially since absolutely nothing was happening aside from Iliana's outrageous spending and Jez's constant sullenness.

It had happened in August. She'd called late Wednesday morning, as she was getting ready to go home and catch a few hours sleep, and one of the secretaries informed her that Thierry was unavailable. Not once in the two thousand times she had called over the last ten years had he been "unavailable." Mona knew she shouldn't have been surprised and was just about to hang up when she heard Bernard say in the background, apparently speaking on another line, "We have to get him back to himself as soon as possible."

She'd asked immediately what was wrong, but Gen refused to divulge anything and finally hung up on her. Mona called back that evening and was again put off. She made a few other calls and found that no one was able to get through to Thierry directly.

It seemed stupid when she thought about it. Thierry oversaw all of Circle Daybreak, no doubt there were other people who needed his attention. When she called again a few days later, she spoke with Grahme, who simply explained that Thierry had gone to Europe and wouldn't be back until December. Mona knew Grahme from years before, when he had been traveling with Thierry during the Depression, and she trusted him hesitantly. When bombs didn't fall on the compound during the week after he took over, she trusted him more.

But it had made her nervous, all the same. Not only because she was worried about what had really happened to Thierry, but because she had little faith in her own ability to keep the Wild Powers safe. The longer the compound went without a security breech, the larger the storm cloud looming over her head, waiting to rip loose.

The water, all stinking and gross and disgustingly sweet from the dead flowers, was beginning to soak into her date book. Murmuring curse words, she rolled up one sleeve and swept the water away with the flat of her arm. The phone rang and she picked it up while wiping at the table top with a pack of Post-It notes.

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is Gentle Wind with Lord Thierry's office. Could I speak with Mona Mastry, please?"

"Speaking."

"Could I have your confirmation code, please?"

"OP9. My pass phrase is Bibity bopity boo."

"Hi, Mona, this is Gen. I'm just calling to confirm your reservation at the Solstice party."

"Oh, that's right." She had completely forgotten. "When is it?"

"The night after tomorrow."

"Yes, I remember now. No, I don't think I'll be attending."

"Are you sure? Lord Thierry will be back from Europe."

"Not in any official capacity, according to the letter I just opened."

Gen paused. "I'm glad it got to you in time. We stalled over the mailing."

"I can see why." Mona felt her fingers curl again, thinking of all the times she had called wanting to know where Thierry was and how she could get in contact with him.

"You're sure you won't come?"

"I really can't leave right now." Actually, she was taking a week-long vacation starting the night of the Solstice to be with some friends in Texas, but she felt angry and resentful toward Thierry's entire office for keeping her out of the loop. She'd had a damn right to know from the beginning that he was stepping down. If that's what was really going on.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'll give your regards to Lord Thierry."

"Don't bother." Mona hung up and stepped quickly out of her office and into the great room. "Is Quinn around?" she asked Delos, who was running through Suzuki Book 5 on his cello. Damn, hadn't he just picked the thing up the week before?

"He's in the kitchen," Delos told her. He looked up from his music politely but his bow never stepped moving.

Quinn was sitting at a low table in the corner, digging through undersized papers and making notes on a pad. Mona was surprised to see him sitting down on a thick cushion; she hadn't realized his ass was healing so well.

She dropped into a chair across from him and he lifted his eyes. "Do you know that Iliana spent seven thousand dollars on clothes in December alone?" he asked. "I've got bills here from every department store in the country that puts out a catalogue. Shoes, bathing suits, fur coats. Tell me, what does she need a wet suit for while she's living in here?"

Mona chuckled dryly. "If it keeps her out of trouble, I don't care what she does."

"Then I suppose it doesn't bother you that the cello Delos is playing cost almost a hundred grand?"

"What?"

Quinn shrugged. "Maybe you can talk him into selling it once he's become a virtuoso and moved on to the oboe. Did you need something, or are you here to talk about the outrageous price of mink these days?"

"I was wondering if you were planning on going to Las Vegas for Thierry's Solstice party."

"I wasn't planning on it, no. You have other plans, don't you?"

Mona nodded. "How would you feel about going?"

"Why?"

"I got a letter today that says Thierry is no longer Prime Minister of Circle Daybreak, that over the last few months he's been rearranging things so that he can step down."

"That would explain why you haven't been able to reach him."

"Not really. If he's just stepping down, then he ought to have more time on his hands to talk to me, not less."

Quinn glanced at her bemusedly. "Retirement is usually a time for one to enjoy non-work related activities."

He was being difficult. He was always difficult, and often a little superior, but some of the chill around him had melted away in the past months. There was a smile hidden inside him.

"My point is, I'd like you to fly up there and make sure everything checks out. Take Rashel, bill the company, have a good time while you make sure Thierry's...."

"Undead and kicking?"

She glanced at him as she stood up. "That almost sounded like a joke, Quinn."

He lifted another bill and leaned back in his chair. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

Mona shrugged and headed back to her office. She really didn't know what to make of him these days.

Sunset in Paris was uncertain. As the light from the sky began to diminish rapidly, lights went up all over the city to hold back the night. Genet had never been to France before, he'd grown up in rural Holland where the night came like a hovering storm cloud, sending everyone to their homes in submission. Tonight he stood at the window, staring out over the lighted bridges and the warm cafes from his seventeenth story hotel room. The hotel was at the corner of Boulevard Saint Michel and had a beautiful view of the Seine River, where a few kids had run out to race electric boats through the water.

He had turned the heat up in the room, worried about Mira's body temperature even after the long plane ride from the Czech Republic. The television was on but muted; Genet couldn't speak a word of French and had been forced to point at questions in a guide book when renting the room.

He was hungry but didn't want to leave her alone, and he doubted he would be able to order even a simple meal from room service. He cradled the phone against his ear, eating a package of peanuts he had gotten from a vending machine on the way in, and listened to the continual hum on the other end. He'd been on hold with Circle Daybreak for almost a half hour while they tried to find some record of him and his assignment.

From the bed came a little groan. "Mira?" Genet asked, turning.

She was stretched out on her back, covered to the chin with a polyester hotel comforter. Genet didn't know what exactly to do for her neck, but he didn't think he should bend it if possible, so he'd removed the pillows and laid her down flat.

She blinked a few times and her eyes made fuzzy contact with the ceiling. She'd woken up momentarily on the plane, during landing and take off, and each time her eyes had rolled back in her head after a few seconds and she had passed out. This time her gaze was a little steadier.

"Mira?" Genet asked again, grabbing the boxy phone and walking over to the side of the bed. He leaned over her so that they could see each other, doubting she could move her neck.

Switching to Czech, he said, "Can you hear me?"

She tried to reply, but her throat wouldn't make anything more than a little wheezing sound. Genet gently rolled back the comforter and examined her neck again. It had swollen up to monstrous size, reminding Genet of that horrible disease from The Stand, "Tube-neck." The skin was stained black and purple from the inside, but the bones were slowly retreating and he could see muscle beginning to grow back over them.

"Don't talk," he said. "I think you're going to be fine. I'm trying to get Circle Daybreak on the phone now and find a 'shifter doctor."

She blinked rapidly and he saw her tongue moving around. Leaning close, he heard her exhale quickly and the H sound whistled across his ear.

"How?" he asked.

Her eyes rolled up and down as if nodding, then stabilized.

"How did we get away?"

She "nodded" again.

"Teth came to my room and told me to take you and get out."

Her expression changed a little, in the shape of her mouth, but Genet couldn't tell what it meant. A moment later she closed her eyes again, and her breathing began to lengthen.

Genet returned to the window. It had to be a good sign that she was staying conscious longer, right? Her neck seemed to be healing, he thought she knew who she was. But he wondered about permanent damage. He was aware that a shapshifter's spine was one of the truly sensitive places on his or her body, and that if Mira's spinal chord had been snapped, it may or may not grow back.

And she may or may not ever 'shift again.

Mira closed her eyes but found sleep distant. She couldn't feel below the knots of pain in her neck, as if her broken bones and twisted sinew had dammed the flow of feeling. Her chin ached the way it had just before she had three impacted molars pulled, and her breath came in little spurts that made her want to panic.

The room's air was warm on her face, a little on the hot side. She could hear the traffic outside and found it a comfort, a reminder of the apartment she had kept in Nice. The heater gave off that faintly acidic scent she'd grown up with, and she wondered if they were back in France. Ah, how nice to wake up after such a terrible dream and be back home where the language was fluid and the soda always warm.

She could hear Genet speaking in halted English on the phone. "No," he said. "I must speak to Lord Thierry. Yes, very, very, very important. Do you speak Dutch?"

She wished she could speak, but her lungs just weren't up to producing that kind of billow yet. Too bad, her English was much better than his. Of course, his Czech was lightyears beyond hers. As teams went, they would have made a decent one.

She opened her eyes just enough to see the television's blue light against the ceiling. Had she dozed off again? Genet was no longer on the phone but sitting near her flipping through a guide book. Her mood was darkly humorous, she couldn't help replying in her mind the ironic chain of events that had gotten them both here. Too strange, that she had been sent to watch Teth and he had watched her instead.

Her heart--strange how she could still sense its aching when she couldn't feel her arms--gave a weakened beat and she saw Teth's face while he had been breaking her neck. His eyes had been open, and he'd been looking at her, but something in his expression was distant, blocked out. He'd been wearing his gloves, of course. She could remember vividly the feel of them against her throat, that smooth calfskin with the beautiful stitching around the edges.

She hoped it had hurt him as much as it had hurt her.

The television's volume returned, still low but loud enough for Mira to hear. "I thought you might want something to listen to," Genet said softly.

She tried to breath-speak again and ended up only making a "th" sound.

"You're welcome," Genet told her, and returned to his book.

She listened to a news broadcast for a while, and determined that they were back in France, and possibly in Paris. Yes, she'd thought she smelled that French flavor to the air. For no real reason, it was easier to stay calm and not fight her blocked airflow when she knew she was in her home country, with the Seine just outside.

She was tired, her eye lids were thick and had a mind of their own. But she was afraid that if she slept, she would dream of him, and hear his miserable words of love spoken again as he broke her body to pieces. She breathed an unspoken prayer and felt the presence of Savita, the guardian of the koala 'shifters, hovering around her and urging her eyes closed until she gave in.

Sam sat on the rocks and watched the vampire crawl up the side of the mountain. Her name was Ivory Ishmael, and as far as he could tell, she was one of the dozens of unimportant guests Thierry had decided to invite to the Solstice party. She was a mostly inactive member of Circle Daybreak who worked a normal job as a tour guide through the Smoky Mountains and had a fetish for illegal bear furs. Some of which she'd been responsible for the obtaining of.

He lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth. "TC, she's coming your way. About thirty feet from the top."

With his quick eyes, he followed the rustle in the grass as it moved across the tree-thick plateau and closer to the edge. He had another man at the bottom of the cliff, making sure no way came by and decided to climb there. He was dressed as a park ranger, complete with badge and a Smokey Bear hat, but so far no one had come around and Sam was beginning to wonder if the outfit had been worth the time it took him to kill the park ranger.

Well, never mind. It had been worth the blood.

Sam wasn't particularly fond of the outdoors. In fact, he hated the wilderness with a passion. He liked to think of himself as a refined vampire of the Millennium, one with class, style, taste. One who drank his blood chilled from a crystal goblet while talking about art with a beautiful woman.

Unfortunately, blood tends to get clumpy once chilled, Sam's large hands had a habit of accidently crushing anything crystal, he found art impossible dull, and since he only stood five feet, four inches, most beautiful women were taller than he was. Ultimately, he was hoping it would all come together once the Night World took over, and the ideals of elegance and style would be rethought more closely to his own preferences.

In the meantime, he was sitting on a rock in the middle of the Smokies, watching Ivory climb the face of a rather large cliff that hung above a landing packed with trees. Even for a vampire, it wasn't the best place to be climbing.

"I'm coming your way, TC," Sam said over the walkie, and brushed the dirt carefully off the seat of his Armani pants before beginning his hike around the plateau to his partner's position. The pants were cut funny in the thighs; he knew he shouldn't have bought used Armani. These things had to be custom tailored.

He emerged through a bush and TC leapt to his feet, swinging a large crossbow strung with wooden arrows Sam's way. "Hey," Sam said, lifting his arms. "Chill."

TC, whom Sam would have sworn was changed back in the Cro-Mag era if Hunter Redfern himself hadn't once told him differently, slowly lowered the crossbow and turned his attention back toward the plateau. Sam glanced warily at him as he took a few steps forward, until he had a solid view of the edge. He turned down the volume on his walkie-talkie, aware that with Ivory's extended hearing she would probably be able to hear it pretty soon.

He had chosen her from the guest list of three hundred for a number of reasons. Most importantly, she had never met Thierry and wouldn't be traveling in his circle. Also, she had a reputation for being unreliable. If she failed to show up, chances were no one would notice.

Of course, this party might be the one time she showed up early.

A hand appeared over the side of the plateau, and with quick, jerky motions, Ivory hauled herself over the edge. Sam was again impressed with her lack of equipment; if she had fallen, it would have been a nasty spill.

He was just preparing to step out of the bushes, getting ready with his Let-Me-Sell-You-Something-Anything smile, when without warning, TC jumped forward with his crossbow leveled at Ivory's chest. Her head shot up, she slid into a fighting stance on her hands and knees, and TC screamed, "Die motherfucker!"

The piercing twang of taunt wire going suddenly slack echoed over the cliff, and Sam barely saw the teal-wood arrow careen into Ivory's chest before she was flowing backward like a small cloud on a strong wind. Her ankles vanished last, upside down as the weight of her body pulled her over the edge of the cliff.

Sam again wished she had used a harness.

"What the hell-" he shouted, and suddenly TC was swinging the crossbow at him, already in place with another arrow.

"Christ, TC, what the hell are you doing?" Sam demanded, scrambling back toward the brush as fast as he could go.

TC lowered his face to the sight, lined up his target, a sharp crack broke the air, and the arrow came soaring toward Sam with ungodly speed.

And passed several inches above his head.

He glanced back in time to see the crossbow hit the ground, TC's massive body recoiling as it tumbled to the ground. Another crack, and this time Sam recognized it as a gunshot. TC's abdomen exploded like a pin-pricked water balloon, blood spurting in every direction.

"Dane!" Sam cried, spotting the park ranger with the long rifle.

The ranger took long steps in his tan pants until he reached TC's squirming side. He placed one foot squarely on the crossbow, pinning it under his brown boot, and then fired a single shot directly into TC's chest. Bone snapped, a heart exploded, and Sam felt himself gasp; he hadn't known Dane had it in him.

The ranger lifted his hat, and Sam saw that it wasn't Dane at all. He wiped the sweat and blood off his brow and said, "Damn, do we ever get some crazies up in these mountains. You all right, sir?"

Sam coughed, having no trouble feigning weak shock. "I think so," he said. He tried to come up a with human reaction. "Did you have to kill him like that?"

The ranger picked up TC's crossbow, put it back in the massive paw, and fired two more arrows into the direction from which he'd come. "Bastard kept shooting at me," he said. "Had to stop him."

He rose and dusted his hands on his pants. Then he spit in the dust and said with an almost sheepish grin, "Besides, the little shit-head tore my partner to pieces this morning."

Yeah, Sam reflected, the humans were definitely going to have to go.

The last thing Noella Hannover expected to see as she was hanging the laundry in the back yard, was Thierry Descourdes wandering out of the woods.

"Thierry?" she called, shading her eyes against the sun with one wash-wrinkled hand. "Lord Thierry, is that you?"

He was dressed like a Biblical sheep-herder, in a long cotton robe and sandals. In fact, he looked a smite more like Jesus Christ than Noella felt comfortable with, and for a moment she thought she was having one of Corinne's damned visions.

It was only when he came closer to the fence, his face in a relaxed smile, that she was sure it was him. "Thierry?" she asked. "What are you doing out here?" Turning over her shoulder, back toward the split-level ranch with the peeling black paint, she called, "Corinne! Come out here, we've got a guest!"

"Who is it?" Corinne hollered back. Her voice was as old as Noella's, stiff and crusty with age, and she had the tone of perpetual disgruntlement everyone over sixty practiced so carefully.

"Lord Thierry. He just came walking out of the woods."

"I was visiting your cemetery," Thierry told her. "It's a lovely patch, do you keep it up yourself?"

"We try," Noella said. She peered at him more closely. "You don't look yourself, Thierry."

He shrugged, and his smile widened again. "I'm taking a new approach to life."

Corinne came creaking across the lawn, her body stick thin. Her hair was white streaked with unexpected dashes of red, and her eyes were still a clear blue-gray after all these years, an exact mirror image of her sister. She wore blue-jeans several sizes too large, and a Chinese jacket caked down the front with flour.

"Lord Thierry," she agreed. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in Las Vegas, looking after my baby?"

"You're baby?"

Corinne and Noella looked at each other, and Noella reached for the gate. "I'll turn on the tea," Corinne said, starting back in the direction she'd come from.

"Come on in," Noella said. "Come on in and tell us all about it."

Ten minutes later they were gathered on the screened porch, watching the sun go down and digging into several boxes of Girl Scout Cookies. The old ladies listened in rapt attention to Thierry's recap of how he had woken up in the pool one evening and found himself without memories. He described his staff's acclimation to his new situation, and then went on to talk about how he'd spent the past four months. He'd been around the world several times, wandered through rain forests that no human had ever set foot in, and even been initiated into a couple of Aborigine tribes that still thought they were the only inhabitants on the planet.

"But who's taking care of Circle Daybreak while you're away?" Noella asked.

"I left a friend to run things," Thierry said casually. "And there are lots of people around to help him. Lost of secretaries and things."

"That's why you've been acting so erratically the last few months," Corinne said. "I knew it wasn't you sending down those orders."

"They were too unspecific," Noella agreed.

"So who is it? Running things?"

"His name is Faren Grahme-"

Both women sucked in large breathes and then clicked their tongues. Thierry glanced between them with a mixture of amusement and concern. "You know him?"

"We've been around a long time," Corinne said. "We know just about every one."

"And you don't like him?"

"Everyone likes Grahme," Noella replied. "He's a very nice man. But he's not the sort you want to leave in charge. He's really much better suited to be a first officer than the captain."

"That would explain the anti-Daybreak rumors we've been hearing," Corinne mentioned. "It's not easy, you know, running the free world. And I think Grahme's just too sweet to really be any good at the job."

"You better give him a call and make sure things are running smoothly."

Thierry's smile had slowly disappeared. "If you don't mind asking, how do I know you?"

"We're the Crymeyer sisters," Noella said. "Hasn't anyone told you about us?"

"I'm afraid not."

"When we were little," Corinne broke in, "we used to have visitations. I'd see and Ellie would hear."

"Visitations by whom?" Thierry asked, lifting an eyebrow but maintaining a serious expression.

"Oh, we must have had half of Heaven down here. Mary and Jesus and Joseph, almost all the saints, a couple of seraphim. Anybody who wanted to talk, really, they knew to come by our place. That's where Cory heard about her baby, Rashel."

"That's right," Corinne said. "I called you up, and said, 'Thierry, my son Niles is going to have a baby girl pretty soon, and I need you to keep an eye out for her, because that no good scoundrel Quinn Redfern is going to be after her heart. You said you'd take care of it, especially now that she's living with him out in New Mexico."

"I'm sure Grahme is taking care of it," Thierry told her.

"Pshaw. I've said it before, Grahme is a nice man, but he's no leader."

Thierry spent the night with them, watching Mystery Science 3000 videos and eating Cheetoes. In the morning he thanked them and took off wandering down the street, toward the back of the neighborhood instead of the front.

Noella watched him from the living room window and shook her head. "I don't like the feel of this, Cory."

"I know, neither do I. I wish someone was watching over her."

"You could give her a call."

"And scare the living daylights out of her? You know she thinks I'm dead."

Noella shrugged. "Maybe this is all meant to be. Maybe it will work out."

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," Corinne told her.

"That he does," Noella agreed.

Grahme closed his eyes. "It's not possible."

He could hear Bernard shifting about uncomfortably behind him, and Abebi paced the terrace doorway as if sensing his unease. He had come back here to the office to get away, because he couldn't look at the bodies the house staff was carrying away.

"I don't know why Lord Thierry never uses the rooms," the housekeeper had told him that evening. "He just always says to leave the west wing on six empty. He said the rooms were unsuitable."

Grahme had made the mistake of going up to see what was wrong with them. He should never have set foot in the west wing. He should have trusted Thierry.

Or maybe he should never have trusted him at all.

"Sir." Gita knocked on the office door, very very gently. Her voice was hesitant. "They've opened another closet, sir."

His gaze rested unfocused on the opposite wall. "How many?"

"Just three, sir."

Least they'd found yet. Just three more of Just Terry's secrets.

He touched his temples and found he had his first headache in a century. He hadn't expected the bodies, the fit of the door had been air tight. Professional. Jesus christ, Thierry had brought someone into the house to build an air-tight wing where he could store bodies.

He didn't understand. He had been close to Thierry since the night of his change, when he'd felt that epitoamic bite at his throat made so gentle by Nature's oldest stepchild. He had been not just a friend but a father, a lover, a mentor. Grahme had never imagined that Thierry would keep something like this from him.

There were hints of everything. Mafia, politics, drug cartel. The file cabinets were stuffed to brimming with papers the meanings of Grahme couldn't even begin to understand. Property deeds for half Las Vegas, leather jackets bearing gang symbols, torture devices that hadn't been used since the middle ages.

Everything that hurt humans, Thierry had a hand in.

"Call Lady Hannah," he said.

Bernard shuffled a little closer. "Lady Hannah, sir?"

"Tell her to fly up here immediately."

"No," Izzy interjected. Grahme turned slightly to look at her. He hadn't realized she was there until she spoke, he had been so caught up in the tidal wave.

Her face was still, not serene, but still. "She doesn't know a thing, Grahme, she'd a child."

He had looked into Hannah's eyes, he had heard the aeons in her voice. "She's a very old child."

For a moment, a flame rose behind Izzy's ever-cool features. "So are you, if you think that destroying her will make you feel better about this," she told him.

Grahme closed his eyes. She was right, he was angry and he was lashing out to the person closest to Thierry. "I'm really not cut out for this job," he lamented.

Izzy chuckled. "No," she began, and then stopped.

The wind was cold, blowing hard through the open terrace windows. The room felt naturally chilled, it fitted the atmosphere perfectly. "Why?" he wondered aloud. "Why any of it? Who are those people up there?"

"He never said a word," Izzy replied. "I've been here six years, and he never said a word."

"Is Gen all right?"

"She's still crying. She's been with him since the forties, you know."

Grahme felt an anger rise up in him that might take over if he didn't let it out. The room constricted all around when he thought of poor Gentle in her room sobbing because she'd just learned that her boss of fifty years was a serial murderer.

And not just any serial murderer.

All of them.

"Excuse me," Grahme said, getting up quickly. He brushed past bewildered Bernard and into the front office, then out to the hallway. His nails left long ruts in the banister as he climbed the grand stairwell up to the third floor. The door to Thierry's bedroom was locked, so he tore the knob off and let himself inside.

The room smelled of roses, which mingled strangely with the stench of carrion that now filled the halls. It was a small suite without windows, decorated with all manner of collectibles from Thierry's travels. Grahme touched the back of an antique brocade fainting sofa with light fingers, feeling the dust on the fabric. The maids weren't allowed here, making him wonder what else Thierry might be hiding.

He ran his hands over a shelf of first-edition books, the spines written in all languages. There was a nearby box of scrolls, a carefully preserved Torah from years too ancient to count. God's words, there in the room of a monster.

Grahme sat down on the edge of the bed and listened to the boards creak. Too familiar a sound in the home of a stranger. This had been Thierry's bed since the 1200's, he'd carried it all around the world in pieces before finally bringing it here. The posts were smoothly knobbed, the finish slightly gummy with age. Grahme moved a pillow away and sure enough, there were the initials he had carved so many long nights ago in the headboard. "F.G." was all it said. "Just so you won't forget me," Grahme had told him. "So that some night one of your others will find my name there and you'll feel a little fond."

He had the letter opener in his hand before he knew what he was doing, and within seconds the initials were gone, along with part of the headboard. Grahme should have stopped there, but the anger that had threatened him in the office rose up even hotter now, stinging his eyes until he couldn't see himself reaching for the bed post and snapping it in half.

He sank into a frenzy, destroying in utter silence. His hands moved with perfect accuracy against whatever he touched. The bed became kindling in a matter of moments, then the sofa, the paintings, the books torn to shreds without regard for their relative innocence.

He had believed in the humans because Thierry had told him it was possible. He had gone out, alone, skeptical, and discovered for himself that they were not what they had appeared. He had found his soulmate because Thierry had convinced him that humans had souls as truly as he.

And here it had all been a lie. God only knew what Thierry had done over the years, manipulating governments, organizing wars, creating disasters. He had lied about caring for humans, he had all of Circle Daybreak believing he was their savior, and there were the bodies of over a hundred humans in the west wing on six.

No one had ever suspected. It had been a perfect betrayal. This wasn't just the humans he had mislead, it was every one who had ever stood beside him and helped him.

Stop. The whisper came sudden in his mind, but he knew what it meant even before Casey's hands covered his. He fell into her, his rage burning out into utter despair, and they collapsed together on the floor in a miserable heap. Her presence sang all around him and he heard her say the one thing he had been feeling since he opened that door.

How dare he.

I can't do this, Case.

Hush.

She wrapped him in her mind, shielded him while he cried on her shoulder. It was without warning, another shock in an astounding evening, that she was holding him when she hadn't touched so much as his hand in the last eight years. Of course, she would be the only one who could truly understand what he was feeling. She sympathized because she knew how much he had always loved Thierry, and the cutting depth of this betrayal.

Finally he dredged himself away and walked to the hall. He couldn't help looking over his shoulder at the disaster that had been Thierry's room, and at Casey, standing up and brushing the plaster off her royal blue blouse. She looked beautiful even in the midst of the mess, bringing a certain elegance to the scene with her attendance, and when she met his eyes, the chill had faded. Her hair was down and a mess, red strands snarled in a fluffy knot on the side of her head, but it was the look she gave him that made him step back.

"Why did you come here?" he asked weakly.

She sniffled, crying a little herself. "Because you needed me."

And hadn't that been the problem all along?

He nodded and held out his hand, and she caught it with her own. He jolted at the connection of spirits before being washed with a flush that took all will to move away from him. For a time, the smell of decay at his back merging with the scent of roses in front of him, he just stood in the doorway holding Casey's hand, and being relieved that she was holding his.

The hit man pool was even worse than the secretarial one. They'd offered Heartshot--he could never remember her last name--almost three million and she'd turned him down, they'd phoned Buller and Markson, and neither one had been interested. They were the leaders in the field, and none of the three wanted the job. "Too tightly timed," Heartshot had told him. "I like bombs," Markson had explained. "Not personal enough," Buller had deemed.

So nobody wanted the job. Of course, none of them knew exactly what the job was because Sam had given them only the most vague description and implied that the murder would take place in a government building. The last thing he wanted was Kerry-Anne whatever-her-last-name-was calling Thierry and telling him all about it.

"So who are we down to?" he asked Dane as the night began to lighten outside. They were compressed into two tanning beds in the basement of Sam's house, speaking through the crack in the closure.

"Professional?" Dane asked. His voice was muffled slightly, and had a groggy edge to it.

"No, I want some idiot amateur who will shoot everyone but Thierry."

"Fine, then we could have sent TC."

Sam chuckled dryly. He still didn't know what the hell had gotten into that guy, but he was dead, so it hardly mattered now.

"What about the Hannis sisters?"

"Just because Deidre smiles like a killer doesn't mean she is one. And Autumn would never go for it."

"Yeah, but man would I like to get a piece of Glory."

"You're not helping any here, Dane. We need muscle. And brains."

"TC had the muscle, you have the brains. That leaves me."

"Without either." He squirmed about, muscles anxious to be moving again, and felt himself slide in his own sweat. God, who said being a vampire was all blood and lust? This was barbaric.

"Okay," Dane said. "Let's see. People we haven't called. There's that guy in Alaska calling himself Snowy Death, we could fly him down but obviously he prefers to work in snow, not Las Vegas. Mika and Sly are out, since Thierry won't go to bed with them."

"Are we sure about that?"

"I'm telling you, he's dedicated to the human. Rumor has it he wasn't even sleeping with Hunter the last couple years."

"Oh, that's a loss," Sam said sarcastically. "Doesn't he have any dangerous hobbies, like race car driving? We could rig a car."

"I thought you wanted to do it at the party, so you could take Grahme out, too."

"Oh, right. No sense in leaving that fag hanging about."

Dane laughed.

"What's that for?" Sam demanded.

"Man, we all know you've got it for that broad he's been hanging on."

"Casey? You're such a moron, Dane. This is political, not personal."

Dane laughed barkingly. "Not personal? Is that what you're telling yourself these days?"

Sam fisted his hands and prepared to leap out of his tanning bed and straight into Dane's. Maybe making a short stop on the way for something wooden.

As if aware of the homicidal thoughts running through his boss's head, Dane said, "Well, never mind. It all goes together, right? You want Thierry dead cause he's a goddamn human-lover, why else doesn't matter."

Sam remained silent, and Dane went on. "What about Tansy Trask?"

"Tansy?" His mind lit up suddenly, all annoyance being washed away.

"Why not? She's strong as hell, nobody knows her. She's got the balls to do it, and she hates Thierry to begin with it. Besides, rumor has she lost a bunch of money in the market. I bet she'd do it, Sam."

"And if we send a woman, we won't have to try to change the name on the invitation."

Sam threw open the tanning bed and leapt out, landing halfway through the doorway and launching himself toward the phone.

Two hours later, a short woman covered in bunched muscles walked into Joey's Artillery shop and spent almost six thousand dollars on guns and wood-tipped ammo. The hit was set.

The weight that had been so heavy on Genet's shoulders began to ease once they were in the hospital. Mira was moved immediately to the intensive care unit, where a team of witches and 'shift-doctors took over her care. Genet spent a few hours arguing with the secretary in his muddled English, still unable to understand why he and Mira were missing from Thierry's list of undercover agents.

Regardless, the hospital treated Mira, and that was all that really mattered. Saturday afternoon, with the Solstice two days away, he walked into her private room and she managed a weak smile for him.

"Hi," she said in Czech. Her eyelids sagged sleepily but her gaze was clear and it looked like most of the swelling had gone down at her neck. Someone had washed her hair; it was thick and shimmering silver around her ears.

"I brought you lunch," he told her, holding out a paper cup full of putrid smelling green slime. He had managed to specialty order a bunch of eucalyptus leaves from a local pet shop. The nurse said Mira couldn't chew very well yet, so he'd shoved the leaves into a blender and come up with something looking like one of the mud pies he'd made as a small, germ-oblivious child.

"Looks great." Mira's voice was still rough, but she was breathing clearly again. "Got a straw?"

He used a magician's trick to pull one out of back pocket, and she chuckled. Sitting down, he popped the straw into the thick goo and held it out of her. She took a long tug and leaned back. "We may need to go the spoon route, I'm not up to sucking yet."

"Shame," Genet told her, then stopped abruptly, wondering if that had come out as perversely in Czech as it might have in Dutch. Apparently so, Mira was laughing breathlessly.

Blushing, he found a spoon on the beside table and scooped up some of the milk shake. Mira ate it with a distant smile, wincing only when she swallowed. "My mother used to make those for me."

She ate another few spoonfuls before leaning back against the pillows. One of her hands rose, trembling, and drew the edge of a thin gray blanket up to her chest.

"You're moving," Genet said, startled.

"Didn't they tell you? I've got my arms back, and most of my spine. The legs are still gone, but the doctor says I'll probably get the feeling back in a few days."

He didn't ask about the shifting, but she knew he was thinking it.

"They don't know yet about my koala form. It could go either way. I'm thinking I probably won't be able to shift again."

Genet silently touched her hand, and she squeezed his gratefully. "Do you need anything?"

She shrugged, very slowly. "There is one thing you could do for me, but it wouldn't be easy."

"Name it."

Her liquid brown eyes blinked a few times as if dry, and he realized how great a relief it was to know she was going to live. They had never been close, not wanting to draw connections between themselves should Teth find out about one of them, but with time he had grown to respect her. She had both dignity and rationality, a rare combination.

"Teth let me go," she said, "but he'll regret it. He'll send some one after me to finish it, and I don't have the strength to fight."

"I'll have a guard posted."

"No. I don't want to risk others. I need you to get me a gun."

Genet leaned back in the stiff plastic chair, releasing a low breath. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said.

Mira rolled her head to look at him. "I'm not going to lay here and wait to be slaughtered like a fattened calf."

"Teth let you go before, he won't kill you now."

"Genet, please. He regretted letting me go the moment you pulled out of the driveway." Her breathing turned suddenly ragged, air catching on the stitched and braced ridges of her mending throat. "I'm scared," she whispered, clutching the bed rail with one hand. "I can't even sit up on my own, Gen, if he sends some one now I won't have a chance."

"A guard could verify everyone who came inside-"

"What if he's dressed like a nurse? Is the guard going to badger every nurse and doctor and volunteer who comes in here?" She fell back on the pillow, panting and dotted with sweat. "I have to keep moving, and I need to protect myself. If I buy a plane ticket, can you get me to the airport?"

"Mira," he gasped, "you can't travel like this."

"All they're doing is monitoring me. They fixed what they could, I'll heal on my own with time."

"Time that shouldn't be spent traveling. Where do you want to go, anyway?"

"Las Vegas. If we can't reach Thierry by phone, I'll go in person. I want to know what happened, where the contact went, why he abandoned me. If I go in a wheelchair, I can manage."

"How are you going to feed yourself? How will you make it up stairs?"

"America has laws about wheelchair ramps just like France, and I can live off human food. I'll make it, Genet."

"You can't do this, Mira."

She opened her eyes. "I'm not asking permission. If you don't take me to the airport, I'll call for a car. I just need your help with the gun."

"Isn't there a waiting period?"

"I know someone I can call. She'll help me."

Genet wanted to tell her absolutely not, but he was angry at Thierry himself, and chances were Teth would send some one after them both. She was right that they needed to keep moving, but the idea of hauling her exhausted body onto an international flight didn't sit right with him.

"All right," he agreed finally. "But you have to stay here tonight and rest a little more, and I'm coming with you."

Her smile made his worries intensify. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her now.

"You're a good friend, Genet," she told him. "You're taking good care of me."

But he wasn't sure of either.

Hannah simply melted with relief when Quinn and Rashel arrived.

"Thank God you're here," she said, throwing her arms around Rashel, who hugged her awkwardly and then pulled away. She was cranky from the plane ride and didn't particularly feel like being touched.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Hannah's eyes darted toward Nilsson, who was picking up the monogrammed leather suitcase--Quinn's--and the Army drawstring sack--Rashel's--and carrying them toward the steps. "I don't know," she said, dropping her voice. "They won't tell me."

The front hall was a mess of confusion, with tubes passing through the front door to spread in every direction. The sound of grinding machines flooded the air, almost blotting Hannah's words out. "Come on," she said. "We'll go upstairs."

They passed through a flock of workmen carrying gallons of paint down the hall as they ducked into Hannah's bedroom. The carpet was freshly washed and still damp, and the room stank of paint. "I don't know what they've been doing in here," Hannah said, dropping onto an over-stuffed sofa. "I came in and everything was different. They've painted, the curtains are gone, and they seem to be doing it to the whole house."

"Did you just ask?" Quinn questioned as he sat slowly down across from her. His movements were a little stiffer than usual, Rashel noticed, but his hair fell down over his shirt collar to hide the wounds still healing on his back.

"Of course, but Grahme won't tell me a thing."

"Faren Grahme?"

"Yes, he's in charge while Terry's-"

She stopped abruptly, and Rashel lifted her eyebrow. "Terry?"

Hannah looked up into the other girl's face, and Rashel knew Mona had been right. Something was going on here that Circle Daybreak wasn't supposed to know about. Hannah's usually serene face was bent and creased.

"Can I trust you two to keep something private?" Hannah asked.

"If you can't trust us, who can you trust?" Rashel replied.

Hannah nodded.

"The letter that was sent out to Circle Daybreak announcing Thierry's resignation wasn't quite complete," she explained. "It's true that he's decided to vacate his position, but it's because he's incapable of fulfilling his duties."

"Why?" Quinn asked quickly, black eyes churning.

"Because he doesn't remember who he is. He has amnesia."

Hannah's words hung in the air for a long moment before Quinn said, "That's impossible."

"He fell in the pool," she began, but he cut her off.

"He's ten thousand years old, Hannah. He can float for christ's sakes. Don't try to tell me that he knocked his head and got a bad concussion."

Rashel lay her hand silently on his arm, knowing that this wasn't the time for anger. Quinn quieted, reluctantly.

"If he were lying," Hannah said delicately, "I would know. He's not lying."

"What about a curse?"

"The witches were here, they couldn't find anything wrong with him. If he had been bespelled, they would have noticed."

"When did this happen?" Rashel asked.

"The end of the summer. After a couple of days, when it was apparent that he didn't even want to get his memory back, we called Grahme to come."

"Why wouldn't he want his memory back?"

"Why would he? He works too hard, Quinn. All he ever does is work. Maybe he just wanted some time off."

He shook his head. "It still doesn't explain the amnesia."

"Tobias thinks Thierry may have induced it himself. A sort of subconscious defense mechanism for self-preservation."

"All he needed to do was take a vacation," Quinn snapped, standing up. He moved restlessly around the room while Rashel thought. "If this has been going on for a while, why are you suddenly so worried?"

Hannah ran a hand through her unbrushed hair. "When I got here this morning, the whole atmosphere was different. I've spent a couple of four-day weekends here with Grahme and Thierry, and it was never like this. The house staff is scuttling around like they're waiting for an earthquake, and Grahme didn't even come out to say hello. When I went to find him, he was completely grim. Have you ever met him?"

Rashel shook her head.

"He's one of the warmest, friendliest, most kind-hearted people I know, and all day he's been as cold as ice to me. There are workmen everywhere, painting things and washing things. I saw somebody go up to the sixth floor with fumigation equipment, and they won't tell me a thing. All the windows are open, even though the air conditioner and the fans are running."

"Sounds like he's trying to get rid of a smell," Quinn mentioned.

"But what smell? What smells here? Nothing that I know of. Something's happened, I know it. Everybody is acting strange, but they won't tell me what's wrong."

"When's Thierry getting here?" Rashel asked.

"Not longer than an hour now. Grahme acts as though he's dreading it. Gen's been up in her office crying since I got here and Bernard keeps dropping things." She leaned forward a little, and her eyes were bloodshot. "Am I over reacting here? Maybe they're just cleaning for the party, but then why won't they say that? And Grahme might just be over-worked, I mean, Thierry was always distant when he was working. Maybe it's just part of the job."

Quinn shook his head, and Rashel saw a grimness in them that had departed the last few months. "I'm going to find Grahme," he said, as he moved toward the door.

Alone, with Hannah, Rashel wished she was better with people. She'd spent too much time alone to be much help in these situations, but she did recall one thing her mother had done for her when she was young.

"When was the last time you ate something?" she asked.

Hannah shrugged. "I had a bagel on the plane ride."

"Let's go downstairs and raid the kitchen. You'll feel better when you've eaten."

"I don't know."

"Sitting around worrying won't help. Nutrition will." She stood up and tugged on Hannah's hand. "Besides, I don't think you want to meet Thierry looking like such a waif."

Hannah shrugged again, but allowed Rashel to lead her back into the hall. A pale, dark-eyed maid scuttled past them, hauling a huge laundry bag full of what appeared to be clean towels.

"They're rewashing everything," Hannah whispered. "There's a barrel of Borax, that stuff to get the scent out of laundry, in the basement."

They all looked very guilty, Rashel noticed, watching the staff speak in low voices to each other. The house was cold because of all the open windows in combination with the air conditioner, and she felt like she was at the scene of a crime, watching the cover-up.

In the kitchen, she found a platter of sandwiches made up for the next evening's party. Hannah was unsure about digging in, but Rashel set an example by completely destroying the tidy pattern, and after that Hannah realized that the damage was done. They drank milk and ate in silence; Hannah devoured three sandwiches before saying she was exhausted and was going upstairs to take a nap. Her inner strength seemed to have been put on hold, but Rashel understood. It hadn't been so long ago that Quinn had locked himself in a bomb shelter and refused to come out. Having a soulmate she couldn't reach seemed to go against the laws of nature.

She was walking back from Hannah's room when she passed the office. The door was open, and she slipped into stealth mode without even realizing it, creeping up until she could hear what was going on inside.

"Dammit," a female voice cursed, and Rashel thought she made out the sound of a phone being dialed. "Hello, this is Gen Wind with Circle Daybreak, is this Justin Clove?....I'm calling to confirm your intentions to attend the Winter Solstice party tomorrow night.....Oh, I'm sorry. I hadn't realized you had already been called. I apologize for the inconvenience."

She hung up and swore again. Rashel ducked her head around the door just long enough to glimpse a tall, stately woman with voluminous red hair that was definitely not Gen. She listened for several minutes while more calls were made, each time the woman pretended to be Gen and confirmed reservations. Most of the people she called had already confirmed, and a number of them were annoyed.

She saw Quinn on the landing and hurried down the stairs to meet him. His eyes were as dark and smooth as the silk black shirt he wore. "Any news?" she asked.

"Nilsson just returned from the airport. Thierry wasn't on his flight, and he hasn't called. Grahme has no idea where he might be."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Yes, he won't tell me a thing except that he needs to speak with Thierry before he discusses the matter with anyone else. Hannah's right; he isn't acting at all like himself. And his bloody cat tried to sink its fangs into my leg."

Rashel told him quickly what she had heard in the office. "What do you think it means?" she asked.

Quinn shook his head. "I haven't a clue. If the people have already said that they're coming, why call to check again?"

"And why lie about her identity?"

"Do you know who it was?"

"Red hair, very pretty. Great clothes, I don't think she's a staff member. I'll point her out when I see her."

They stood silently at the top of the stairs for a few minutes, watching one team of carpet cleaners depart and another come in. The house stank of detergent, and Rashel rubbed her chill-bumped arms. "I suppose now we just wait," Quinn said distantly. "Wait and see what happens."

She nodded, and they sat down together on the steps.

Teth had planned to spend the evening at the theater, but Austina had without warning decided not to go, and he knew from the look on her face that she would rather stay home and fight. Hoping to avoid the issue--he dreaded confrontation--he retired into his office, but sure enough, Austina had come knocking within the hour.

"What is it, love?" he asked, smiling as warmly as he could.

She sat down in the chair he gestured to, her long body fitting awkwardly between the short arms. She was classically beautiful, had a lovely voice, and was generally easy to get along with, but she had a jealous streak that could flair like a Moltov cocktail as the slightest spark. She had nearly killed Mira herself.

"It's not that I want to bother you, or I don't trust you, and I don't want to be difficult-"

"You're never difficult," he told her sincerely.

She glanced at him, green eyes uncertain. "I just want to be certain that she's really gone."

"I told you already, I burned the body."

"Not gone that way. I want to be sure that you aren't still carrying her around inside. Because I've heard that....after something like that, well, that you never really get over it."

Teth watched her as she spoke. She was right, of course. He would never get over Mira. He hadn't had the strength to kill her, or the strength to avoid loving her and now, as his brother, Donatien, would have put it, he was screwed eight ways to Sunday.

"I might not," he agreed.

Austina sighed. "I thought you'd say that. Do you always have to be so brutally honest with me?"

He sighed in echo. "You can't have it both way, Ausy."

The phone on his desk rang, and he lifted the receiver. "Hello?"

"Teth, this is Andrea. Do you have a moment?"

"A brief one, is it important?"

"Very. I just spoke with Cassandra Venito, and she heard from Corinne Jordan and Noella Hanover, who heard it from Thierry himself, that he isn't stepping down at all. He has amnesia and he's being booted by Circle Daybreak because of incompetence."

The world swam a moment. "What?" Teth gasped. "That's not possible!"

"Oh? Why do you think he's been loosing control of everything the past few months? He left Faren Grahme in charge while he went to tour the world, and everything has gone to hell without him."

"Amnesia," Teth marveled. "How?"

"He fell off the balcony and landed in his own swimming pool. If I'd known he would be that easy to get rid of, I would have pushed him off myself years ago. But do you realize what this means? Technically, there's no change going on here. Thierry already stepped down last August, and Circle Daybreak has just been bluffing every since. All that's going to happen tonight is the change made official."

"And if Grahme is running Circle Daybreak into the ground," Teth caught on, "there's no point in assassinating Thierry. We can just sit back and watch the Daybreaks self-destruct."

"Exactly. Plus, we don't have to deal with the bad publicity of having killed Thierry. There are a lot of Night People still upset about that plan to begin with, Teth."

"I'm aware, you should read the emails I've been getting. Is this confirmed?"

"Not by any of our people, but we're working on it."

"All right, I'll call the States immediately and cancel the hit. If it turns out to be a false lead, we can try again later. Thank you, Andrea, a thousand times over."

He hung up and then began dialing again. "Sorry, darling," he said to Austina. "Emergency, and if I don't do this now they might kill someone I've decided to leave alive."

Austina smiled faintly. Teth knew it gave her a certain thrill to be so closely connected to someone with his kind of power.

"Hello?" Sam asked gruffly, as he answered.

"This is Teth," he said in American English. "I want you to cancel Operation Theory Debunk."

There was a long pause. "Are you serious?"

"Absolutely. Can you call it off?"

Sam paused again. "Yeah," he said finally. "Okay."

"All right. You'll still be paid, for your time and trouble."

"Fine."

Sam hung up, and Teth leaned back. He had a very strong feeling that this wasn't going to go as planned. In fact, if he knew Sam, and he had for the past thirty years, the assassination would follow through.

"Damn," he murmured.

"Is something wrong?" Austina asked.

"I'm not sure, but I don't trust Sam." And, he added mentally, if Thierry does have amnesia, I might actually have a chance of talking him back onto the Night World's side.

"I have to fly to America," he told her. "Immediately."

"I'll go pack."

"No, that's all right. You don't need to come."

"Are you sure?" she asked, hurt.

"Trust me, I'll have a hard enough time sneaking into Thierry's mansion without someone as beautiful as you attracting attention."

She nodded but still looked unhappy. "Tell you what," he said. "When I get back, we'll go spend a few weeks in Jamaica, just the two of us. And then you won't have to worry about work or Mira taking me away from you."

But even as he said it, he got the feeling that he wouldn't be coming back.

Grahme hadn't intended to doze off, but in the long, hot hours of the afternoon, as the minutes before the party began were ticked off, as Thierry failed and failed again to arrive, he found a shadowed, windowless room in the heart of the mansion to lay down in. He had only wanted to think, to be alone with his misery for a few minutes before he showered and forced himself to smile, before he tried to make it all better. The couch was stuffed tautly, designed modernly and without arms. Grahme knew his large body looked ridiculous curled up on it, but he felt better in the dark and the quiet.

In the many years of his life, he reflected, he had lost everything. Not necessarily in a bad way, the losses were rarely unexpected or tragic, but losses just the same. The world turned, it changed with each waning and waxing of the moon. His lovers decayed and his haunts were bulldozed. His descendants scattered over Europe and into Africa, they changed the spelling of the family name and married into the traditions of strangers.

When he had been close to eighty, he had gone to visit his great-granddaughter. She hadn't seen him since she was very young, and she didn't recognize him as her Grandfather Faren. Nor did she believe him when he tried to prove himself. She was a sweet and good woman, but she wouldn't be made a fool of, and she had no intention of accepting a man who looked to be nineteen years old as her great grandfather.

He had fallen into a melancholy for months afterward, angry and hurt. Not at Catherine, because it wasn't her fault, but at the irony of being allowed to see your great-great-grandchildren grow and not being allowed to be a true part of their lives. He would not be attending Midnight Mass with Catherine as he had in the years before he wandered into India and vanished, he would not be appearing on her doorstep bearing gifts. It would only frighten her.

Why live forever if it meant everything would pass him by, that he would be immaterial and insignificant?

With time the feeling vanished. He built a new family, among the immortals who would be with him always. Thierry, Hunter, Ana, Lark and Lilith. They had become his rock, his safe haven. Hunter, always with a joke and a plan, the impromptu speech-giver who happily toasted everything and was more susceptible to alcohol than any of them. Lark and Lilith, the twins with three legs and two heads, who never ceased whispering to each other and glancing seductively and eventually enchanting the men who came to gawk. Little Ana, who took life as it came and saw everything, whose ears were his confessional for centuries. Thierry, too gentle to admit the pain he forever carried around, too tortured to truly enjoy anything.

Lark and Lilith had been burned by a Spanish mob in South America years and years ago. Ana had died slowly of sap poisoning a decade ago, still accepting without protest. Hunter had been blasted into oblivion by his grandchild, the eventual victim of his own grand games.

And Thierry?

It's wrong, Grahme thought as he lay huddled in the dark, that we should end like this. The family was always so close, and we promised never to let anything divide us. And here Hunter and Thierry were in a stalemate before Hunter died, and Thierry and I will go our separate ways soon enough.

It saddened him that they couldn't all have died still loving each other, that it had to end in anger and subtle knives. He missed the twins with their witty, soft-spoken humor, with the tricks they played on the thoughtless, judgmental humans. He missed Ana whenever Casey called to say she had done something utterly self-destructive and he didn't know what to do, he missed Hunter's wild schemes on nights when the wind blew hungry and his beast cried out to hunt. But he would miss Thierry the most, for his wisdom, and his strength, and his questions that always cut right to the quick without pain.

He didn't realize he had drifted off until he felt a hand on his shoulder and saw Izzy's refined face swimming above him. "Grahme," she called softly again. "He's here, Grahme, in the front hall."

He sat up, instantly awake, and bolted toward the door with Izzy at his heels. "When did he arrive?"

"Ten minutes ago, I called but I couldn't find you. He's fine, Grahme, dirty but he seems to be all right. He decided to hitch-hike instead of fly, and when no cars picked him up he ran the rest of the way here. He's covered in dust."

Grahme flew through the polished halls, his nose stinging in the heavy, stinging scent of ammonia and bleach, the air lacking heavenly in the smell of decay. He burst into the front hall and took everything in in an instant. Terry, indeed dirty and damp, was smiling and hugging Hannah. Rashel and Quinn were watching suspiciously from the stairs. Casey was dutifully holding Abebi down, and Nilsson was carrying several large trunks toward the elevator. Gita tossed her head disdainfully on the scene and clicked her heels as she left, heading for the conference room they had agreed upon beforehand. Gen and Bernard stood stiffly in one corner, gripping each others' hands. This was the moment they had all been waiting for.

Terry kissed Hannah's forehead and pulled away. His smile was warm and his eyes were bright, but there was something slightly deceptive in his expression, as if he recognized the coming storm.

He looked Grahme's way and his smile faltered. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

Hannah, her soft face drained from worry, lay her head on his shoulder where she wouldn't have to look at him. "We need to talk," Grahme said. He was surprised at how weak and hollow his own voice sounded, and how the anger which had been raging inside him lost its footing and fell from his high horse.

"What it is?" Terry was glancing around now, as the house staff came to stand at the open hallways that spread out above the front hall. They were silent, an eerie chill spread through the air as they each turned their eyes toward him, hurt, betrayed, furious eyes, and the weight of their emotions fell on Grahme to express.

"Not here," he said, still distant. His voice echoed even before it left his body. "Come this way, we'll speak privately."

He turned away, hearing Terry say to Rashel and Quinn, "What on earth has happened?" and their confused replies.

The house was clean now, he could smell it as he walk in long, even steps down the hallway. The blood was fresh and frosty in the kitchen refrigerator, the cold cuts spicy and aromatic, the unopened champagne dusted and corked. They had a half hour before guests would start arriving, already he could hear a few string players turning up in the ballroom, and half the staff had changed into their formal wear. White flowers were everywhere, roses and lilies wound their way around the staircase banister from the ground floor to the sixth, beige silk fluttered at every window. The floors glittered in their natural beauty, marble had never looked finer, and the Turkey carpets that had long lain threadbare had been reworked, so bursting with color and pattern that they might have been woven the day before. Candles scented with vanilla and rosemary lined the driveway, swans swam in lazy circles in the fountains, and, as Terry had instructed, three dozen yellow rubber ducks had been added to the pool, along with an entire box of bubble bath.

Grahme had never seen the house look more beautiful, more museum-like, more cosmopolitan or esteemed. Somehow the decorating team had captured a little of everything, making the house simmer with the beauty and frivolous glitter of generations passed, as well as the taunt, straight-lined elegance that the millennium had claimed as its fashion statement. It was a house that caught Grahme off guard, a place made of all the eras he had lived in, caught between the years of candles and electricity, reconciling time in its subtle manipulations of perception.

He opened the conference room door and found all the windows open. They were still on first, on the western corner of the mansion, and the tilted-slate shutters had been thrown back so that the frayed edges of the sunset could be seen on the horizon. The resigned, hot ember exhaustion that had seated itself so deeply in Grahme's stomach vanished as he stared out over the blazing desert, between the tall, dancing cactus of a Georgia O'Keefe painting. He felt the justice in himself, that he was doing right in this, and it gave him strength. When Terry came in, followed by Izzy, Bernard, Gen, and finally Hannah, he caught Gita's eye a moment and nodded almost imperceptibly.

"What's wrong?" Terry asked again, and Grahme turned toward him. He could feel the last warm rays of the sun touching his back.

"Hannah," he said, "could you give us a few moments alone?"

"I'm not leaving," she said firmly.

"Why should she leave?" Terry demanded. "What is this about, Grahme?"

Grahme glanced at his warily and said, "I think it would be best if she left, Terry. I'm not sure you'd want her to hear this."

"I don't have any secrets from Hannah," Terry snapped passionately.

Izzy met Grahme's gaze and shrugged. Go on, she seemed to say.

"Very well," he said. "Have you regained any of your memory?"

Terry was holding onto Hannah's hand, tense and ready to jump the first thing that moved, but he relaxed slightly at Grahme's question. "No, nothing."

Grahme nodded. "Since your accident, have you been up to the sixth floor?"

He frowned. "Once or twice. I was trying to work my way up from the first floor, and I never really got past the fifth."

"Are you aware that there's an airtight bomb shelter in the west wing on sixth?"

"A bomb shelter?" Terry shook his head. "No. I know there's one in the basement, but no one said anything about another on sixth."

"So you never instructed the staff to stay out of that wing? After you accident, that is."

"No, why would I?"

Terry pulled a rolling chair out from under the table and nudged Hannah into it, then sat down beside her. "Please, Grahme, tell me what's going on."

Gita turned away to stare outside, and Grahme saw the front gates swing open in the distance. Was that the first guest?

"Robertta told me that there was something wrong with the west wing on the sixth floor, and that you always said not to bother with those rooms. I was curious about why they couldn't be used, and we're practically going to fill the house tonight, so I decided to go up and look. There's a two-foot thick steel door, that was the first indication that something was wrong. I brought in a locksmith to open it, and when he did, I went inside.

"We found a total of one hundred and sixty-seven bodies in the shelter," he said, glancing slowly in Terry's direction.

Hannah's lips parted and the tabletop cracked under Terry's hand. "Who are they?" he asked.

"We're still finding out," Gita said bitterly. "You didn't even bother to take their wallets after you killed them, so it ha-"

"What?" Terry stood up so quickly he knocked his chair over. "You think I killed those people?"

"I don't know who else could have," Grahme said delicately. "You're the only one who knew what was there, as far as I can tell."

Weakly, Hannah said, "They were humans?"

"Some of them. Most. Some were vampires, some werewolves. Children, old people, hookers, bankers. Half a dozen dogs. One camel. Three doctors. Fourteen Indian bear 'shifters. Most of the bodies we've been able to track are presumed dead by now. That witch party that vanished into the Rocky Mountains seventeen years ago? They're all there. Their families went ahead and had a memorial. Dennis Potter's wife finally shot herself when she decided her husband wasn't coming home. Their kids live in foster homes now. Lisa Doe's publisher is still claiming that she's just taking a break. People have been expecting the corpse in your attic to come out with a new book for the past two years."

"I don't understand," Terry said. His face was constricted, and his expression tore at Grahme.

"I think it has something to do with the multiple double lives you've been leading. All your mafia connections, your terrorist activities. Thierry, Lord of the Columbian drug cartel. The gang wars you organize. The airports you own, that you allow to smuggle all sorts of bombs into Ireland. Did you realize you controlled the IRA, Terry? Did you know that your real best friend is John Gotti, or that a lot of people over in the Middle East think your first name is Sadam?"

"This is insane," Terry cried. "What are you trying to say here?"

"How about that you've been lying?" Gita burst in. "You passed yourself off as wanting peace, that's what you told all of us, that you wanted equality and a world where the Night World and Day World could work together. You swore you would take care of the humans, and here you are, with bodies hidden in your house."

"There are atomic bombs being tested in France," Izzy told him. Her voice was cold and hard, like a diamond cut from ice. "You own them. You own the company that tests them. There are scientists at the North Pole playing with viruses to wipe out the humans. Hell, Violet Yarrow has been playing with human DNA for the last hundred years, experimenting on students you send to her school."

"This can't be right," Terry whispered desperately. "I can't be responsible for all of this."

"Then explain it," Gen told him, her words equally breathy. "Please, sir, just explain how it's all a mistake."

She wasn't angry, she was begging. Of all of them, she was the only one still believing there might be a chance that this was all a misunderstanding.

"Or explain how you arranged the Vietnam war," Gita said. "That ought to be interesting. I've never gotten to talk one on one with somebody who single-handedly caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people. Tell us about the Challenger shuttle, the one you decided to blow up for no good reason."

She started to say more, but Grahme held out a hand. "Enough, Gita," he said gently. He turned his eyes back to Terry. "What do you have to say about this? From everything we found in that room, and we're still going through it, you seem to be the foremost terrorist in the world."

Terry just shook his head, again and again. "It can't be right," he repeated. "There's been some mistake. Maybe you didn't find everything."

"Maybe," Grahme agreed. "But this is a damn deep well, and it's full of evidence that says you aren't on Circle Daybreak's side at all." He leaned forward, laying both hands on the table. "I don't want to run Circle Daybreak," he said. "I'm not nearly as cut out for it as you are, and I'm not nearly as wise and you are, and I don't know the way the world works like you do. But I would rather see myself run it slowly into a whimpering death than know that everyone who put their trust in you has been betrayed."

The room fell silent. Hannah had her hands over her face, and Terry just kept looking from one person to another as if begging them silently to believe in him. Grahme could think of a hundred other things he wanted to say, damming, cutting, hurtful things that might make him feel the slightest bit redeemed, but he kept them to himself. Izzy had been right before when she said it would be childish to hurt Lady Hannah unnecessarily, and he could tell simply from the way she sobbed silently that she hadn't known.

Finally, Terry spoke. His words were slow and carefully chosen, and his defiance appeared as genuine as any Grahme had ever seen. "I cannot explain what you found in the west wing," he said. "I have no way of knowing what any of it means. All I can tell you is that when I reach into my feelings, which I have no reason to believe have changed since before my accident, I feel nothing but compassion for humans, and that I would never be the cause of the kind of monstrosities to which you keep referring."

Grahme saw the pleading in his friend's eyes and felt that tiredness come back over him. "I wish I could believe that," he said, and his sentence was punctuated by a knock on the door. "Come in."

Nilsson poked inside, glancing nervously at the sight of everyone looking so tense. "Sir, the guests are beginning to become concerned as to why no one is about."

"I'll be down in just a moment," Grahme promised.

"Sir..." He hesitated before saying, "Is Lady Hannah all right?"

"She's fine," Grahme promised. "Go on and reassure the guests, Dan." When Nilsson had gone, he went on, "I have to leave now, Terry. If you were anyone else, I would have you restrained, but I think we both know you're the most powerful vampire alive and a little cord wood isn't going to do the trick. Out of respect for our long friendship, I ask that you refrain for coming down this evening."

"This is insane," Terry told him. "Who the hell do you think I am, Grahme?"

"I don't know. Not who I thought you were."

"I'm the same person I've always been!" Finally, he was becoming angry. "There's an explanation for this, I'm telling you that there is. I just need time to find it."

"If you can find an explanation, I would be happy to listen to it. But I have looked everywhere, because I'm just as desperate as you are to deem this a misunderstanding. And there's nothing."

He turned and went quickly past Terry, out of the darkened conference room and into the beautiful, banqueted halls. He had to go upstairs and change his clothes, then make his way into the ballroom to play host. But something inside him had died during the last half hour, and he knew that whatever happened tonight, where his friendship with Thierry had once stood, there truly was nothing.

Hannah was sitting on the bathroom floor, still crying, when Terry got back from the west wing on sixth. "It's all right," he swore, pressing a cold, wet washcloth against her swollen eyes.

"They can't be right," she moaned. "This can't be happening. Did you find anything?"

"Nothing to disprove what they said, but it isn't true, Hannah, I know it isn't. I would never hurt people."

She pushed him away, getting to her feet with the help of the bathroom counter. "Then how do you explain what they found?"

"I don't, but that doesn't mean there isn't an explanation."

Hannah turned on the cold water and reached for another washcloth. Her head was throbbing. No wonder everyone had been so distant, no wonder they whole house was being purged.

"You don't think it's true, do you?" Terry asked, grabbing her by the shoulder so that she faced him. They were both running on adrenalin; to Hannah's eyes the world seemed to be blindingly bright and she knew her hands were shaking because they kept hitting things she hadn't meant to touch.

"Jesus, you do, don't you?" Terry exclaimed. "Hannah-"

"I don't know what to think," she practically screamed at him. "Okay? I don't know. You're still you and I know you, but there are all these bodies, and I know there are parts of you you've never let me see."

"Never let you see? When have I ever held back from you? Name a single time."

"Not since the accident, but before. Sometimes...." She pressed the dripping washcloth to her burning cheeks and said, "Sometimes I thought that maybe you used work as an excuse to keep me away, because there were things you didn't want me to know about."

Terry turned away, pacing back and forth across the frumpy bathroom rugs. "Am I that different? You always said I was still myself-"

"You are, but...lighter. You're lighter now, as if you aren't worried about anything. Like you're determined not to be concerned about anything at all. Maybe it's some repressed relief."

"Or maybe it's all just a misunderstanding. You must know I an not capable of that."

"How should I know what you were thinking back then, Terry? How the hell would I know when you never let me near you?"

She was crying again, crying with her puffy, raw eyes. "Do you think I knew what was going on back then? I was never here, I was never with you and I don't have any idea what your life was like."

Hannah stumbled away from the sink, covering her eyes with the cloth, and smacked at the light switch. The bright illumination coming from the frosted bulbs that framed the mirror were too much; the light that trickled in from the bedroom was easier to bear.

"I refuse to believe that I was a murdering psychopath," Terry raged. Hannah had never seen him--before or after the accident--this angry. "It's not possible. And that you think it might be is....I don't even have a word for it, Hannah, but it hurts, I'll tell you that much. I'd like to thank you for your support during this difficult time."

She stared at him. It was the first cheap shot he'd ever taken at her, and she realized that his entire body was trembling like a wet kitten in the snow.

"Terry?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

He turned toward her, and she was able to see the fear in his eyes. She reached out to touch his arm and he didn't pull away, but she felt his skin cold as ice under her hand.

"It could be true," he said flatly. "Ever since I woke up in the pool, I've had this feeling that there was something wrong in the house."

She remembered that day in the rec room.

"What else do you 'just remember'?"

And then later on.

"There are other things as well, little hints that keep coming back to me, making me feel anxious. That I'm overlooking something, that there are secrets here. Some sort of lingering danger."

Dear God, maybe he had known all along.

"What if that's what this is all about?" he said. "It might not have anything to do with the work, maybe I'm just disgusted with being an immoral wretch. Has anybody ever asked what I'm running from?"

They were both hysterical. Hannah was sobbing again, Terry was thrashing in her arms on the floor, and the smattering light caught onto highlights of their limbs as they lay in the darkness.

"It will be all right," Hannah whispered. "It will. We'll make it all right."

She held onto him until he quieted it, until he lay docile and spent in her arms. "It's all right," she continued to whispered, her lips pressed to his forehead.

Terry found her hand and held onto it. "I won't believe that it's true," he said as he pulled himself together. "Come on, stand up, Hannah. We'll straighten this out."

He's in denial, she realized. He's already confessed and now he's in denial. She let him tug her to her feet and turn the shower on. "I brought a dress for you," he said. "I'll leave it on the bed."

"Where are you going?"

"I have to go change, I'll meet you at the party."

"Grahme asked us not to go. Please, Terry, don't make this worse than it already is."

"I won't, but I can't let him announce this to all of Circle Daybreak. It isn't true."

She hugged him, listening to the shower pound almost frantically. "I love you," he said. "No matter what."

All she could come up with in return was, "I know."

Afterward, the 1998 Circle Daybreak Solstice Party would go down in history as one of the most stunning, outrageous, dramatic events in all Night World History. It would rank right up there with Hunter Redfern's death and the birth of Grandma Harman, not because it was really so shocking, but because so many people were there to witness the whole thing, and the story would be retold so many times from so many different perspectives that within six months the entire incident had gone from occurrence to legend and was hopelessly convoluted.

Terry arrived an hour into the party, dressed in a beautiful tuxedo, complete with coat tails. James Rassmussen met him at the bottom of the stairs, and was bewildered to find that Terry didn't recognize Poppy at all. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said.

Grahme was at the opposite end of the ballroom, wearing a more contemporary tux that had been radically--or magically--altered to fit his large body. His perfect creme hair fell past his waist in smooth, even ringlets. Casey was by his side in a blue and black dress, and with her red hair tumbling down her back, she was without question the most stunning woman in the room. Grahme was concentrating so hard on trying to appear competent that he didn't notice Casey's eyes frantically scanning the crowd, trying to figure out who Sam's assassin was. They were speaking with Heather Childs, who smiled and said, "Oh, there's Thierry now. Doesn't he look smashing?"

Gen was at the front door, informing the doorman that she did in fact recognize Mira Cassavitis and Genet Travlier, although she hadn't seen them in years. Since it was obvious that Mira wasn't in the best health, she ushered them in.

Teth was at the kitchen door in the back, dressed as a chef wearing a huge hat, hoping the guard wouldn't look too closely at the ID picture he had stolen off a now-unconscious Chimera he had dumped in the bushes.

Hannah was at the top of the stairs. The dress Terry had left her was black with a grey gauze layer that floated on top, and fell to a beautiful swirl of fabric at her feet. A number of creeping black vines and flowers were switched into the side of the dress, and if she hadn't looked so haggard and tense, she would have been beautiful.

Quinn and Rashel had split up. Quinn was wandering through the crowd and gathering as much information as possible, decked out in an entirely black suit with a banded collar shirt and sandals. Rashel was trying to get up the stairs to make sure someone would catch Hannah if she passed out, and she was again glad that she had stuck with the classy Chinese black pants suit she'd selected and not let Quinn talk her into wearing a dress.

They all moved together in an elaborate dance. Rashel was trying to get to Hannah, Hannah was trying to get to Terry, and Terry was trying to get to Grahme. James wanted to speak to Quinn, hoping he would be able to explain what was wrong with Thierry, and Casey was still scanning the crowd for a nameless, faceless assassin.

No small wonder that it all exploded.

It's all a mistake, Terry thought again, as he cut through the crowd. Every step there was someone blocking him, someone calling his discarded French name.

"Thierry, darling, where have you been hiding?"

"Oh, wait, come talk a moment."

"I'd like to introduce you to-"

Terry pushed past them, being as rude as he dared, and caught Grahme's eye. A moment later they were standing together, in front of the hundred-piece orchestra that was playing one of Mozart's symphonies. Terry could smell the people packed around him, the thick scents of the animal changers and the slithering breath of the vampires. He could hear the steady heart-beat of his human companions.

"I thought I made it clear that you aren't welcome here," Grahme whispered, so softly that his mouth barely did more than form the words.

"It can't be right, Grahme, there has to be some mistake. Please." He reached for Grahme's hand and clasped it between his own. "Don't announce it, it will just cause a stir that will be hard to quiet once I've sorted all of this out."

"I never had any intention of announcing it," Grahme hissed. "This is private and I intend for it to stay that way. Now if you'd kin-"

His words were broken off then someone shouted, "Thierry!" Not particularly loudly, or with a lot of strength, but in a voice broken and pained, and carrying such passion in its suffering that Grahme fell silent.

Terry turned and saw a small, pale girl with black and silver hair in a wheelchair sitting only a few feet away. The chair was being pushed by a tall, loose-jointed young man with a sharp nose a suspicious stare.

It was the girl who had shouted, although her neck was covered in bruises and she seemed too weak to have produced such a compelling sound. "Well?" she asked, as he stared at her. "Don't you have anything to say?"

Terry glanced at Grahme. "Who is she?"

"I don't know."

"Who am I?" The girl's chest began to rise and fall quickly. "You don't know who I am? Isn't that convenient?"

She crumpled something up in the blanket covering her lap and struggled to her feet. The man holding the chair quickly put an arm around her waist to keep her from falling. "My name is Mira Cassavitis, maybe you've forgotten." Her English was accented but good, and she spoke with pure anger. "You sent me to the Czech Republic, remember? You sent me there to watch Teth D'Alessandro, to spy on him for you, and then when he found out who I was, you left me there."

She waited for a reaction, but all he felt was confusion. Behind them, the orchestra had stopped playing and the conversation in the packed ballroom was beginning to die down. "What do you mean, I left you there?"

"Two weeks ago, the contact you were supposed to send me never showed up," she said. "Genet here," she indicated the young man helping to hold her up, "hasn't heard from you in more than a month. Did you just forget about us? You sent us to some foreign country where we can barely speak the language, put us in an extremely dangerous position doing your dirty work, and then forget about us?"

She stumbled forward a few more feet, one hand tugging at her shirt collar. "Look at this. He broke my neck. He broke it because I wasn't able to leave when I needed to, because you abandoned me."

Genet caught her as her knees buckled, and Terry stepped back, startled. "Did you forget about the others, too?" she demanded.

"Others?" Grahme asked.

"Did you forget all your reconnaissance teams?"

"You weren't registered with us," Gen said, stepping out of the crowd. "I keep those files, you aren't in them as being active."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me," Mira said. "The same with Genet. Did you not bother mentioning us to your secretary, Thierry? What about Judith Jenkins?" Her flashing eyes turned on Gen. "Do you have Judy in your files?"

Gen shook her head. "I'd have to check to be sure, but I don't think so."

"What about Seth Borden? He's over in Arkansas trying to keep the croc 'shifters from revolting against Circle Daybreak. Aleksei Arshowski is in Brenkivt, risking his neck to shut down a blood factory. Did you forget him, too, after you gave him the hardest assignment you had?"

"I don't recognize any of these names," Gen protested.

"That's not our fault!" Mira tried to yell at her, but her voice gave out, cracking and turning to a wheezy breath. Sinking further into Genet's arms, she went on, "It's not our fault that we took Thierry's most dangerous assignments and then he forgot about us."

"The blood factory was shut down," Grahme said suddenly. "But there's no record we have of Alex anyone being involved."

"What, you think the Night World just shut it down themselves?" Mira demanded. The ballroom had fallen utterly silent now, and Hannah stood at the top of the steps, a horrified expression on her face.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Mira asked, staring at Terry. "I kept calling and calling, and you never responded. He broke my neck because I didn't have anywhere to run to."

"You called?" Grahme asked.

"I left dozens of messages, until the phone lines were disconnected. Didn't you get any of them?"

"Oh god," Gen said. "That flashing light on the phone..."

"Why didn't you answer it?" Mira cried. "I doubt I was the only one calling." Her eyes were beginning to tear up as she sagged in Genet's arms. "What's wrong?" she asked again. "Why don't you recognize me? He broke my neck and now you don't even have the decency to recognize me."

"Shh." Genet spoke to her in Czech. "Calm down, Mira, you're getting overworked."

"He left us to die," she spat, and her eyes threw hatred.

"I don't understand," Grahme said. "Why aren't any of these people in the files? Why didn't we know they needed help?"

Genet settled Mira back in her wheelchair, adjusting the blanket carefully over her lap.

"If Thierry didn't tell us," Gen said, "then we didn't know. Maybe he thought that keeping these missions secret was so important that he handled it all himself. But then, after..."

There were people all around; she couldn't say it. But Terry knew. After he fell in the pool, he forgot everything, including people he had sent out into the world under false pretenses.

He glanced back at Mira, breathing painfully in her wheelchair. She met his eyes and said, "Forgive me if I leave early. I have to check into a hospital now, so that I can get strong and kill an enemy I respect more than I do you."

Hannah watched Terry turn away and walk through the crowd, which parted without question for him, and come to the bottom of the stairs. He mounted them slowly, his head down, mouth slightly open as if he couldn't comprehend.

"Hannah," Quinn said very quietly. "Where can we go?"

Below, she saw Grahme speak quickly to Gen and then to Mira before following swiftly in Terry's footsteps. Rashel caught hold of her arm.

"Hannah," she said. "Come on." To the crowd, she called, "There's nothing to see here, folks, just go back to the party."

Hannah caught Quinn giving Rashel an incredulous look. No one in the audience did so much as twitch. "Keep moving," Grahme said, reaching the group and gently pushing Terry up the stairs. "Head for the office."

A murmur began below them as Hannah turned away and allowed Rashel to lead her forward. After a few seconds, the orchestra mercifully began playing, although they discarded the Mozart for a disturbing Bartok piece that described her utterly shattered emotional state perfectly.

Rashel closed the office door behind them, and Hannah slumped on the couch. "I thought I made it very clear that you were not to come down," Grahme said, barely controlling his anger. Abebi was at his side, coming from out of nowhere and growing like thunder at Terry.

"I had to make sure you didn't announce anything," Terry said weakly. "Oh god, did I really do all that?"

"Rashel, Quinn, leave," Grahme said, and from the look on his face, there was no question of not obeying. When they had gone, he sank one hand into the thick fur on the back of Abebi's neck and went on, "I don't know what to do here. I was hoping we could keep this whole thing under wraps permanently. Maybe even say you had died or something. I know you don't give a damn about Circle Daybreak, but I do, and I-"

"That's not true!" Thierry exploded. "Wouldn't I know if that were true?"

"You would," Grahme agreed. "But you're the best liar I've ever met, and all I know for sure is what I see."

"What if I remember?"

"How would that change things? Either way, you'll end up saying that you aren't responsible for the things we found. Why should I believe you? Hannah doesn't even believe you."

"I do," Hannah broke in. "I....I believe that Terry knows his own mind."

"But does that mean that you believe he didn't kill those people?"

"It means...." She faltered. "That I..."

Grahme didn't soften, but his tone was less harsh. "It means you love him, and you can't help that no matter what he's done. And as far as I'm concerned, that kind of blind devotion doesn't mean a damn thing."

He went to the desk and peeled the note cards off the phone. A small glass bubble was now solid read, no longer blinking in the slightest. "I don't know how many people this represents," he said, "but I would assume you've abandoned them all.

"It's true that we don't know what happened to you, but it's also true that you're too strong a vampire to simply loose your memory because of an injury. You've said it, and others have said it; you lost your memory because you wanted to. Everything you've forgotten, you chose to forget. Including that girl downstairs, and that doesn't bode real well for you, either."

"What are you saying?" Terry asked. He was standing awkwardly a foot away from the balcony doors, one hand stretched out behind him to clutch the curtain.

Pain flickered over Grahme's face. "I don't believe you, as much as I want to. I can't. Some of the people in that room upstairs were my decedents. Some of them were other peoples' descendants. I..."

He shook his head, eyes growing damp. "Just leave now, okay? Remember, don't remember, I don't care. But if you love me at all, if you ever loved me or valued our friendship even the slightest bit, walk away and don't look back."

Grahme stood, met Hannah's eyes for a single bitter glance, and then went to the door. He paused, as if he had some parting words to say, and then walked silently into the hall.

Hannah put her head in her hands. "What happens now?" she asked.

"'Another suitcase, and another wall,'" he quoted miserably. "I don't know, Hannah. If it's true, that I'm working against Circle Daybreak, then you shouldn't be anywhere near me."

"Don't say that."

"How is it possible that I could love you so much and still be trying to wipe you out? It's illogical."

"Our whole relationship is illogical," she said. "Soulmates who hide things from each other and lie about feeling neglected. We're supposed to be the pillars here. Look at us."

After a long hush, Terry said, "Before the accident, I would have known what to do about this. Grahme said I had wisdom then."

He opened the balcony doors and stepped out a little to look at the night sky.

"We only have two options," Hannah told him. "Stay or go. If you're leaving, I'm going with you."

"No," she heard him say, and looked up just in time to see him standing on the balcony railing. "Not this time."

He went tumbling over the edge before she could even scream.

People were just beginning to get over the shock when Thierry crashed into the pool outside. Poppy, who had been swimming in it at the time and was very nearly crushed, screamed for all she was worth and splashed away.

"James!" she cried. "Call the paramedics!"

She didn't recognize Thierry until she rolled him over and wrapped her arm around his neck, preparing to haul him to shore. "Is that Thierry?" Sunny Clover asked from the edge of the water. "Did he fall out a window?"

Poppy jumped when she saw Thierry's eyes open, and she let him fall back into the water. He lifted his head, breathing deeply, and his arms moved to help him keep floating.

"Are you okay?" Poppy asked. He looked older than he had when she saw him a few minutes before, years older.

Very slowly, he nodded. "Excuse me," he said softly. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Poppy watched him climb out of the water and walk into the house in his dripping tux, with the coat tails clinging to his legs with each step. She followed him, jerking on the cover-up James handed her and reaching for his hand as they passed through the ballroom, finally stopping to watch Thierry mount the steps.

He stopped at the first landing, and turned around. Poppy saw him meet Faren Grahme's eyes, and saw Grahme look way, defeated, and then watched Hannah come rushing down the steps. Thierry twisted to look at her, and she too stopped where she stood, a few feet behind him. After a moment's contemplation, she sat down on the steps.

"Pardon me," Thierry said, his voice polite and restrained, but carrying through the entire ballroom. As if they had been expecting the show to continue after this short intermission, the crowd quieted instantly. The orchestra again broke off mid-measure, and all eyes turned to the man standing on the steps.

In a voice heavy with aeons, weighted with memories, fermented by years of experience, Thierry began to speak.

I have done terrible things.

In the past ten thousand years, I've killed people. How many, I can't begin to know. I've hurt people, I've been cruel to them on purpose, and sometimes just cruel out of carelessness. I've made mistakes I'm not proud of. I've done things I'm ashamed of.

Mostly I've watched. I've spent centuries just watching how things work, how people work. Countries rise and fall in a pattern, it's a code I've learned. I've come to know what real power and influence are, how they can be controlled, and how things can be manipulated.

To be honest, I'm not sure how I ended up as Prime Minister of Circle Daybreak. I know that I never signed up for the job or ran in an election. I'm not necessarily the most qualified to be doing it, I'm too perfectionistic.

And I'm a little too honest.

One of the things I've learned, watching, is that the ends do justify the means. No matter how bloody, painful, sinful, terrible, if more people are left better off than have been hurt, it was worth it. Even if it makes me sick to be the enforcer and know constantly that I'm responsible for suffering. Dying for someone else doesn't mean that you don't die.

When I began Circle Daybreak, it was just a group of rebel werewolves in the South Pacific. They were scared, and not really dedicated, but they had good hearts, and I felt bad the night I sent them on the suicide mission that ended their lives. Eight 'shifters dead, in return for a major Night World power wiped out. Logically, the trade was fair, we gained. But I felt awful about it anyway.

I've been doing the same thing, on a grander scale, every since. I've arranged wars, killed people, sacrificed loved ones. Sometimes it turned out to be a mistake afterward. I'm not perfect. But I did what I thought was best, and what I thought would help Circle Daybreak, and eventually work toward protecting humans.

I've betrayed your trust again and again. Violence is a powerful tool, I've used it well. You were right, Grahme, about everything you found in that locker on sixth. I killed all of those people, and I hid them there because I didn't want their bodies found. I was responsible for some of the worst tragedies in the last century, everything from the sinking of the Titanic to Princess Diana's death. I've manipulated world politics to go our way. I've helped promote the drug problem in some places. I had a scientist create Mad Cow disease and spread it around. All my fault.

But what I want you to know is that I did it for you. That it made me sick every step of the way, and I did it all for you. Because Circle Daybreak is one of two things on this planet that have kept me from laying down in the sunlight and dying.

The other one, of course, is Hannah, and she's also the reason I jumped off my office balcony four months ago. I was sitting up one night, working frantically to keep everything in check, and I couldn't go any faster. I couldn't single-handedly run everything in Circle Daybreak, and I didn't want anyone to know about all the murders and the politics because I was ashamed of myself. No, not just of myself, but of everything. For once, I don't want to have to use violence to save some one. The truth is that when I find the fourth Wild Power, if he or she decides to side with the Night World, he better stay far away from me. Because I will gladly use force, or brainwashing, or threats to control him.

I'm not proud of that. I wish there were another way. But I'm not just talking about saving a few humans. I'm talking about saving all the humans. And if the Night World takes over, the humans won't be the only group to suffer. The council is made up almost exclusively of vampires, and somehow I doubt the werewolves will be looked upon as anything besides second class. The shifters will come next. The witches might last a while, but not forever. I expect that someday there won't even be any made vampires around. I have to believe that it's better to let more people live. I cannot justify anything else. If I've hurt people, trying to save us all, I'm sorry. With all the knowledge I've gained, and all the philosophy I've taken in, I've done the best I could.

Four months ago I threw myself off the office balcony and into the swimming pool. As soon as I hit the water, I repressed my memory. I was tired of feeling guilty, and I was tired of hiding from Hannah, and lying to everyone. But I realize now that I didn't truly regret the decisions I had made, because if I had, I would have gone about fixing them, not trying to run. It was cowardly of me. It was disgusting. I may be more ashamed of myself now than I have ever been before. Mira, Genet, I cannot apologize enough.

But I am not a pillar of virtue. I am faulted, but I am trying. I believe that my heart is in the right place, and if I have to trade positions and become one of the fallen in this war, so be it. I will offer you my throat, if it comes to that.

It's your decision, whether or not I continue serving as Prime Minister. Ignore everything you heard before this party, I was stepping down because I was incapable of continuing. But maybe for a little while, I forgot why I chose this battle. I've spent the last month among humans, just being with you, being part of your lives, and now I come back and realize with even greater pain, and even greater conviction, that this is all worth it. Even the sacrifices. But if that isn't the way you want things done....this is your world, Circle Daybreak. Who you trust it to is your decision, and I wouldn't think of taking that choice away.

All I really wanted to say when I came up here was that, for those of you who have lost, and been hurt, and suffered for this war, and will suffer, I thank you. I am a ruthless fanatic who may or may not help you survive. You are all heros.

When he finished speaking, and the room stayed silent, Hannah lifted her head from her knees and said, "You should have told me."

In the dead air, everyone could hear her.

"I know," Thierry said. "But I didn't want you to hate me."

She smiled through her tears. "How can I hate you now, Thierry? You're doing it all for me."

He reached down, and a moment later, she was in his arms, and the applause rang out through the hall like the end of a romantic-comedy, except that no on was laughing because it was all too horrible and too true and too painful to be funny.

Grahme didn't know what he felt, but he listened to his best friend stand and speak in front of hundreds of Circle Daybreak members, and prayed as hard as he could that this, too, wasn't a lie. He wanted to believe, more than anything, but his heart relied on the old rule, Once burned, twice shy, and instead he just held onto Casey's hand and watched.

He saw the entire thing from only a few feet away, beginning the moment the small, coiled woman whipped the automatic rifle out of the leg of her tear-away jeans. Her hair was a rippling white, and she wore an expression of absolute determination as she leveled the huge gun at Thierry and Hannah, still holding each other on the stair well.

"Fuck," Casey hissed, not so much out of surprise as regret, it seemed, but at that moment a man in a chef's uniform threw himself off the raised platform where the orchestra was sitting.

He flew through the air like a bat, stretched and soaring, and dive-bombed onto the woman. They crashed to the ground together as screams rang out and the crowd parted. Most guests were running away, a few darted forward to help the chef grab the gunman.

Thierry turned sharply, releasing Hannah and stepping protectively in front of her. The gun went off, twice, and more screams erupted as the party turned mob-like in a cattle drive toward any exit. Grahme was close enough to see the blond-haired woman's head crack against the floor; nevertheless, she was able to get her finger wrapped around the trigger one more time and blow a hole through a nearby human's leg.

Grahme fell on her, pinning her legs while the chef tried to wrestle the gun away, and Casey gave her a few hard blows to the head with her fashionably wide-heeled shoes. The blond passed out after a moment, and the chef stood up, breathing heavily under his floppy white clothes.

"Nice job," Grahme said, unloading the rifle on the floor.

When the shots began ringing out, he spent an instant utterly confused, thinking they were coming from the weapon he held. Then he lifted his head and saw Mira Cassavitis holding an automatic in her hand, firing again and again.

"Thierry!" Grahme shouted, but it wasn't Thierry Mira was aiming for.

It was the chef.

By the time Grahme reached her, she had already fired twenty rounds into the chef. Genet was unconscious on the floor beside her wheelchair, and the room was rapidly emptying.

"Don't," Mira warned, turning the gun toward Grahme.

"Okay, just stay calm." He kept his voice as smooth and mellow as possible. "What are you doing?" he asked.

She lifted the gun a tiny bit, fired a bullet so close to his ear that he dropped to the ground, and managed to hit the chef four more times before Grahme got his hands around her weak, trembling arms and tore of the gun out of her fingers.

Casey lifted Genet up and patted his cheeks until he opened his eyes. The chef was a bloody heap on the ground, but still alive. "I wasn't sure if he'd send vampires or 'shifters," Mira was saying, her words growing weak. "So I loaded it with alternating silver and wood."

"Mira," the chef said.

"Yeah, you bastard." Her eyes fluttered, and she passed out in her chair.

Hannah pressed lightly on Thierry's chest and peered around him. "What happened?" she asked.

"I'll find a healer," Saffron Daisis offered, and headed into the melee outside.

"Oh, no," Genet moaned in Dutch, seeing the chef. "I didn't know she would do this, I thought she was just scared. How did she know he would be here?"

"Who?" Grahme asked.

"Teth."

Thierry stepped down onto the ballroom floor. "Wait. You're saying that this is Teth D'Alessandro? Right here on the floor?"

Genet nodded. "He tried to kill Mira. Now she's killed him."

"Not yet," Thierry said. He reached for a tray of blood in wine glasses and began pouring a few over the wounds. When he saw Grahme looking at him strangely, he added, "We can't let him die, Grahme."

Grahme turned slowly and reached for another tray.

Mira was exhausted when she woke up, but she knew it wasn't all her own. Somewhere nearby, Teth was clinging to life, and draining a little of her energy to sustain himself.

The room was small and comfortable, just a bed and nightstand, even the ceiling painted dark blue. She felt warm and safe, and was happy to see Thierry sitting on a wooden stool beside her bed.

She lifted her hand slightly and he took it, rubbing the cold flesh until it warmed. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Tomorrow, already. You slept the whole party away."

"I think I was around for all the good parts."

Thierry smiled. "How do you feel?"

"Tired. He isn't dead, is he?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "No, he isn't. Although you gave him a beating he won't soon forget."

"He tried to kill me, Thierry. I had to avenge myself; I'm never going to shift again."

She could tell that he had expected as much. Maybe he had been talking to Genet, who must be furious with her for knocking him out like that just before she started shooting.

"I wish he were dead," she whispered.

"No," Thierry returned just as softly, "you don't."

She closed her eyes, and the tears leaked out from behind her lids and rolled down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to screw up that badly, and start feeling like that. So...sick in love with him. I promised myself that I wouldn't let it change anything, but then when I couldn't find you, I just got weak and fell for his tricks-"

"No," Thierry told her. "It was never your fault. Fate decides these things."

"How do you know?" she asked, opening her eyes to look at him. His face was gentle and compassionate in the soft light.

"Teth woke up and told me a few hours ago. He asked me to take care of you if he dies. But he won't die." He continued rubbing her hand in warm circles. "Do you hate me, Mira?" he asked hesitantly.

She managed a dry chuckle. "Thierry, I don't know what the hell you were talking about to begin with, and it sounds to me like you were just doing what you had to, anyway. Teth and I know more about that than almost anyone."

"I imagine you do."

He kissed her cheek, still her adopted father, still the sentry outside her door. "I think I'm going to fall asleep again, okay?"

"Sure. Sweet dreams, Mira."

"'Night, Thierry."

They met in the sunlight the next morning. Casey was the only one making any sort of fashion statement, and she was wearing a only a flowered silk night dress with a gauzy robe. Gen and Bernard were sharing a king-sized afghan on the office couch, Abebi nestled between them. Hannah, Gita, and Izzy were all in jeans and formless shirts, Grahme was only wearing sleep-pants and an Irish sweater, and Thierry was still walking around in the remnants of his suit from the night before.

"So," Thierry said. "I guess we've come full circle now."

"But full circle from where?" Gita asked. "Thierry's amnesia, or all the way back from the days when he told us the truth?"

"Maybe both," Grahme told her. He was sitting on the floor beside the coffee table, Casey wrapped in his arms, and some of the hurt from the day before had melted away. The house was very still this morning, almost all of the partiers from the night before tucked into guest rooms and fast asleep. Grahme himself hadn't slept at all.

"Amazing," Thierry mused. "These circles. The patterns that keep rising."

A phone started ringing in the outer office. "There's a pattern now," Gen grumbled. "Phones that won't stop ringing. They ring twenty times and then they stop, and then they start over."

She climbed out from under her nest of fur and afghan, and wandered out toward her desk. Thierry leaned against the wall beside the balcony door and Grahme could feel his eyes moving over each one of them, searching their faces. He kept his head down, holding tightly to Casey and pretending that nothing else was dragging at his attention.

"What will happen to Circle Daybreak now?" Hannah asked.

Gita laughed darkly. "A few days of confusion, and then back to normal."

"You really think it will be that easy?"

"Between Mira showing up, Thierry's semi-coherent speech, and the shooting, I'm sure it can all be passed off. A dozen people must have seen him fall into the pool and then just climb out again and start talking, obviously even vampires suffer from shock. We'll say he was confused. I don't know about the shooting."

"Even easier," Izzy said. "Teth D'Alessandro snuck into your party and tried to assassinate you. Luckily, Mira blew him away."

"But Teth wasn't the one who shot first," Bernard protested.

"How many people do you think actually know that? Two hours ago I talked to someone who thought Quinn had been the one shooting. There seem to be at least nine people who thought it was Nilsson, and this lamia couple told me it was Ash Redfern with an Uzi. Ash isn't even at this party." She leaned back in her wicker chair, chewing on a hunk of blood sausage. "Ah, the joys of mass hysteria."

Grahme had remained silent. He felt the strong urge to fade away from this, to simply become part of the woodwork and never have to answer any questions.

"And Thierry will stay here?" Bernard asked.

"Of course," Izzy told him.

"It wasn't a lie," Thierry said. "The semi-coherent speech was all true."

Izzy nodded. "I know that. But your heart is in the right place. I can see why you didn't tell us."

I can't, Grahme thought, but he didn't say it. Had Thierry believed they wouldn't love him if they knew the truth? Had his opinion of their loyalty been so off?

"What if I don't want to keep doing this?" Thierry asked. "It...hurts me, you know."

"Who else would? Who else could? And you don't have to do it all yourself, sir. What do you think we're here for? Besides, Grahme may not be much in the way of making decisions about world politics, but he can really run an office. He's probably cut your work time in half."

"I'll think about it," Thierry promised, and Hannah added, "Besides, it's only another year before the Night Wars begin."

"Assuming the millennium comes in the form of a war," Gita said. "People are going to need you, sir."

"I suppose," Thierry admitted. "But I'm going to have to fire you if you call me sir again, Gita."

There was a ripple of laughter, and then the room settled into a hush. "Grahme?" Thierry said finally, as they had both known he would eventually.

Grahme lifted his face.

"How are you?" Thierry asked.

"I'm fine," he replied evenly.

Thierry shifted his weight thoughtfully. "Everyone else has more or less forgiven me, even Mira, but...I feel like I've broken something inside you."

"You have."

Thierry blinked painfully. "Tell me what I can do."

Grahme let his hair slide over his shoulders and along his cheek, to where it made a gauzy, creme veil. "There's nothing."

Thierry shifted again, his eyes pleading. "I don't want to lose you," he said.

Grahme drew Casey closer, counting on her to keep him steady, and let the room fill with silence.

"Please, Grahme," Thierry said.

He felt the frustration wrap around him again. "I want to believe you," he said. "More than anything. I want things to be the way they were again, before your amnesia. But I'm aware that I'm never going to be able to trust you in good conscience again, because I'll always know that there's a chance you're lying. You may well be on Circle Daybreak's side, but I don't have any reasons to believe you when you say that."

"Grahme, I swear to you-"

"No." He held his hand up. "Promises mean nothing." He took a deep breath. "I'm going to stay, Thierry. Not necessarily here, but with Circle Daybreak. And as long as it's under your command, with you. But I want you to understand something: I don't have any magical truth-telling powers. I'm putting my faith in you because... I don't even know why. But if there ever comes a day when you betray me, I don't want you to look back and think, Ha, I really pulled one over on him. Because you didn't. I'm not doing this for you."

"I'll make you trust me again," Thierry said, hope swirling in his eyes.

"I doubt that will ever happen," Grahme told him. A small smile cracked his tired lips. "But I look forward to watching you try."

The End

February 20, 1999

Jory San-Corinth