By Anne Fraser and Barbara Zuchegna
With assistance from Sharon Pickrel and Jean Lamb
Copyright 1999

Chapter Five

After several days of fighting herself, Lily was exhausted, so the sleep that claimed her this night was deep and total. Every part of her relaxed, surrendering to the rest she needed so badly ... every part of her, including her control of her own mind, her own gifts, and the burgeoning bond-link to Richard.

As she slept, her mind, freed from all of the restraint her will could provide, went searching through time and space for him. Her need was great enough by now to seek no help or permission from her will. It claimed her totally in her sleep, instinctively using the nascent link her mind had begun to build the first time they'd been together, the link that had grown stronger during those few days in Maine, that was now an open wound in her mind, a constant awareness of him, low key but inescapable. Her mind knew just how deep her need of him was and that it was slowing killing her, this separation from him. It did what it had to do to survive ... it found him for her.

He was sleeping as well, the sleep of exhaustion, deep and dreamless, until her mind found his and wrapped itself around him. Until she began, in her dream of him, to make love to him with everything that was in her of love and passion and desire.

At first she just looked at him, the whole of him, naked on the bed. He was so beautiful to her, all the colors and planes of him, the sculpted muscles of his arms, his belly, his neck. Even his scars ... they invited her touch, tracing them with her fingers, gently, with infinite tenderness. Feeling the raised ridges of the newer ones, the slight upward lift of the skin that was all that remained, except for a faint white line, of the older ones. Her fingers became bolder, firmer in their touch as she moved over them, up to the newest one, at his throat. Then her mouth took over from her fingers, her nose filling with the scent of him, the musky maleness that was so uniquely him and that was headier to her than any drug.

And in her dream he was waking up now, stirring under her touch, beginning to writhe a little. So she bent now to his mouth, kissing him, teasing his lips apart with the slight flicker of her tongue. When his lips parted under her coaxing, she deepened the kiss, tasting him, swirling her tongue around his, caressing it just as her fingers had caressed his body. The tastes and smells of him were making her drunk with pleasure.

He had fled from sleep for days, afraid of his dreams because she was always there, always before him, taunting him, tormenting him. But always just beyond the reach of his straining hands.

Tonight, after the hard, physical labor of the day, after too many sleepless nights, with all he would have to do tomorrow looming ahead, he gave in to aching weariness at last and threw himself across the huge hotel bed as soon as he emerged from the shower. And slept.

But when she came this time, it wasn't in tantalizing visual images he couldn't reach with any other sense. It was her fragrance first, the light, woodsy, flowery scent she wore, and the deeper woman scent he loved, filling his nostrils, dizzying him. And then, incredibly, he felt her small hands touching him, as tangible as if she lay beside him, tracing the lines of the swelling muscles of his chest and arms, the hated scars, all the old scars from all the old battles, and the newer ones inflicted by the unholy priest. Her lovely mouth was moving on him, following her fingers, lavishing her love on the hideous burns, the slashes still white against his skin, the jagged line at his throat...

He could not escape her. Even while something, some desperate shred of reason, told him this was a dream, he surrendered to it, to the incredible luxury of her body against his once more. Her mouth closed over his, her tongue found his, and his need of her forced reason, whimpering, beyond barriers too strong ever to cross, and he raised his arms and found her there, all her warmth, her silken smoothness against the calluses of his hands, flowing over her, cherishing each precious inch of her. His arms closed around her, drew her hard against him, rolled her onto the bed beneath him, and he buried his face in the tangled golden curls that spread over his pillow. In his ears, his own voice, so desperately hoarse he wouldn't have known it, awake, whispered over and over, "Liliana ... my love ... Liliana..."

Lily heard the voice and answered it, murmuring her love of him, forever and always ... all of her belonging only to him, wanting only him and so sorry, so sad for all the hurt she'd left him with.

Then she began moving her hands over his back, cupping his buttocks in her small, soft hands, urging him into the yearning wet warmth of her, moving her hips in as urgent a demand for him to take her, now and without delay, as she could make. Her words against his mouth changed then, telling him now how much she wanted him, needed him inside her, claiming her as he never had before, leaving no doubt of his total possession, his absolute ownership of her and all her love, for now and always.

And when he answered, filling her with the swollen length of himself, she wrapped her legs around him, matching him thrust for thrust and saying the words she couldn't control ... telling him of all her love for him, that there was only him in all the world for her.

His fierce thrusting took her higher and higher until she exploded into orgasm, the contractions of her inner muscles drawing him with her. And as the waves subsided, she shifted and rolled then both over, beginning again the demanding caresses of his body. Her hands and mouth in tandem, working slowly downward, reaching, finally, her goal.

He took her as he never had in reality ... commanding her, claiming her, declaring his utter ownership of her. He heard her voice murmuring brokenly, gasping as he drove into her, all the words she would never say to him ... that she was his, that she would always be his, that there was no husband, no other man, that there could never be another man...

He needed more. He raised his head, looking down into her face, his body as fierce as the driven need in his heart, hurting her and wanting to, wanting to watch her as he drove her the way she had driven him so often, headlong and helpless, spinning totally out of control of her mind. Her body rose to his, more wildly than ever before, straining up at him, answering all his anger and his fear with her willingness to endure whatever he wanted to do to her now, and he poured it into her ... hatred of the man she had had before him, hatred of her lies, the loving deceptions that made him believe in her, believe in her love for him. She was trying to tell him, and he rejected her voice, all her pleading words. She was his, and it didn't matter if it was what she wanted, or if she still thought of someone else. She was his, and he would never let her go...

She climaxed, overwhelming him with it, feeding it to him through her bond with him, wilder and more desperately than ever before, and he exulted in it, watching the straining chords of her neck, her head thrashing on the pillow. With one last, driving thrust, he came into her at last, as he had longed to do for all these long, empty days and nights away from her ... but not with love; with possession. In his dreams, he could claim her as he never could in reality.

He allowed his body to sink, limp, onto her, utterly spent, listening now to her soft voice, saying his name, whispering her promises, the lies, that she was his, would always be his...

He steeled himself against it. He let her roll him over, felt her small hands moving over him again, her mouth kissing, biting, teasing, moving down his body, all the sweetness and the loving lies...

No. Richard's mind, reeling away from Liliana's loving touch, drove him awake at last.

He was alone. He rolled over on the fouled sheets, burying his face in the pillows where he had seen her hair spread ... and there was no smallest scent of her. She had not been here.

Laughter rose, bitter as vomit, in his throat. He had sent away the compliant little harlot last night because he thought he could not bear the act without the one woman in the world he wanted in his arms. And his pathetic body, slave as always to his restless, demanding mind, had drawn that woman's image here and played out its own pitiful dreams of possessing her again, like an adolescent lusting after his first infatuation.

He threw off the sheets and pushed himself up, staggering through the still-unfamiliar darkness of the room to the bath and into the shower without turning on any lights. He did not want to look at himself now in the myriad mirrors circling the vast, plant-hung bathroom.

But even the shower, as the hot water cascaded over him, held its memories of her, of the froth of suds sheeting off all the glorious pinks and golds of her small body, following his searching hands, and he could not drive her out of his mind. He turned the water off, wrapped himself in one of the huge white terry robes the hotel provided in such abundance, and made his way out through the bedroom, the living room, and out onto the terrace.

Off to the east, the sky had begun to pale on the horizon, laying the first gray mist over the distant lake. Below, the city still lay in deep night, streets mostly invisible against the brightness of street and traffic lights. There was very little traffic at this hour, but he stood at the balustrade and watched the approaching headlights, the receding red taillights far below.

And she was here, too, just beyond his reach, floating insubstantial as his dreams against the darkness, wearing the tight denim pants, the ridiculous oversized sweater she had worn on that last morning in Maine, and on her face was all the love and welcome he longed for and had only to step over the balustrade to reach.

He had made a promise, and she to whom he made it had the absolute right to demand what she wanted of him. He had promised to live ... so long as it was within his power to do so.

He had not promised that it would always be within his power. Perhaps, in Iran, it would not be.

His abrupt waking sent Lily's mind recoiling backwards on itself, fleeing as if scalded by the bitter loss, and leaving her even more bereft than before. The pain of it, even in her dreams, woke her, propelled her out of the bed and over to the doors looking out onto the ocean. The open doors, through which came the breezes of one more balmy night in southeastern Virginia.

She knew it had been a dream, and more than a dream. Her wayward mind had responded to her need and gone to him. And it had shown her all his anger and hurt. He believed she had lied to him, betrayed him for some end of her own. And she couldn't bear the pain of it.

The tears gathered slowly, pooling and sliding unheeded off her face. She hadn't the slightest idea what to do now. Even her gifts were betraying her, and she didn't know how to stop it.

She clothed herself with a thought. There would be no more sleep tonight. In the morning she was going to have to ask for help, as distasteful as that would be, so that there would never be another dream that was really just a bridge between him and her. Until then she would walk the beach, as she had on all the other nights since she'd left him, waiting until it was late enough in the morning to go to Stephen.

21 Oct 1998

To Sir William Scrope from Richard Plantagenet

Will,

If she is safe, and only if you are entirely satisfied that she is safe, come at once to the place from which we attempted the journey in which we failed. I must apologize for the short notice, but it is important that you arrive no later than eight o'clock this evening. You will be met. If you do not appear, I will assume you have determined that your services are needed more by her than by me, and in this I trust your judgment absolutely.

Richard

The message was waiting for Will when he woke up. He had never understood the Telegraph, and didn't particularly care to. Will liked things rooted in reality, and the Telegraph seemed to defy any reality he understood, as much as did his own existence in this world so different from his own. The message lay on his desk in his small apartment above the stable, positioned so that he could not avoid seeing it as he passed the desk on his way into the bathroom.

"If she is safe, and only if you are entirely satisfied that she is safe..."

But he wasn't. He knew her health was not good, and that the Healers had not been able to cure the thing that was wrong with her. But neither they nor she would tell him what that was, nor in what danger it might be placing her.

Still, it wasn't within his power to do anything about that problem, one way or the other. Was she otherwise safe? He thought so. But he would take the time to reassure himself before he made any decision.

He went to her first, as soon as he had dressed, since if he meant to go, he had little time to make the journey. He found her in the kitchen, as he had expected, helping Kate get breakfast ready ... and Kate's long-suffering expression said well enough that she had no need of help. So he drew the Queen's Grace into her small office and closed the door.

"What is it, Will?" her gentle face was lined with concern for him, and his heart almost broke for her. She was utterly incapable of putting her own hurts before those of others.

But she was a grown woman, and his queen, and he had no right to withhold from her what was hers to know. He handed the message to her without words and watched, not breathing at all, while her dark eyes scanned it.

She said nothing for a long moment, but her lips parted and her whole face softened, reading the words that had come from his hand. The king's hand. Then, she refolded the paper carefully and gave it back to Will. "Go to him, of course," she said, and smiled. "Go to him, and care for him as I would, if it were possible." Her small hand squeezed his arm, for just a moment, before she slipped by him and went back to Kate.

He went next to Stephen, who had not yet emerged from his suite abovestairs. Will didn't care. Time was more urgent than courtesy now. Stephen wasn't even dressed yet, but invited him in anyway, at ease in only his pajama bottoms. Donalore watched, in her robe, from their bedroom doorway as Will handed him, too, the note.

Stephen looked up after reading it. "You know the place he means?"

"Yes."

Will offered nothing further, and Stephen just smiled and handed the note back. "Will," he said, "Anne is perfectly safe. You have my sworn word on it. As Richard does."

"The priest, Tallant, sent a message and a package to me," Will said, stonily. "I have asked Abba Eli to prevent him from attempting to communicate with the Queen's Grace. If he cannot, I must ask you to watch for any such message from him to her, and to intercept it."

"I will. Is there some way that I can help you? I know you don't want to tell me where he is, but you know that I can send you there instantly, or provide anything you might need."

Will shook his head. "Thank you," he said, "but I have the means to make the journey." He bowed his head slightly, turned and made the same gesture toward Donalore, and left.

He couldn't know, but behind him, as the door closed, Doni came to stand beside Stephen, within the circle of his arms. "You could tell?" she said.

He nodded. The message had carried its own essence, and that of the man who sent it. And Stephen had always known that when Richard finally sent a message, he would be able to trace it. "Toronto," he said.

She frowned, startled. "Whatever is he doing in Canada?"

But the essence, like the message, couldn't tell them that.

Will went last to the Healer, Tango. She was already in her small office in the infirmary; he had long since ascertained her schedule, and knew she went there every morning before breakfast. She was not pleased to see him when he went in, and the familiar sadness settled over him. He was drawn to her, more and more, and he could not understand her obvious nervousness whenever he appeared.

He stayed by the door, to inflict no more of his presence on her than was necessary. "Forgive me," he said, "but I must ask after the health of the Queen's Grace." As her mouth opened, he went on quickly, "I don't ask that you tell me what problem she has; if she wanted me to know that, she would have told me already. But I am called away by His Grace, King Richard, on condition that she is well, and I need to hear, from you, that my presence here will be of no benefit to her. If it is, he orders me to stay with her."

Tango thought about this for a moment. He was leaving? As disturbing as the man's presence was, she found herself regretting that he would leave. But she said, "The Lady Anne suffers only a mild indisposition, and you cannot help her by staying with her."

He nodded, accepting this, but he didn't leave. He stood there, a big man, made suddenly awkward by what he was feeling. Finally, he said, "Lady, how have I offended you?"

She looked surprised, but it was entirely feigned. She knew exactly what he was asking her. "You haven't," she said, as if she had no idea what he meant. Inside her, her heart seemed to have slowed along with her breathing, but its beat was very strong.

And he knew. He had been studying her so closely, for so long now, that her moods and thoughts revealed themselves as clearly as if she had spoken them aloud. He took a step toward her, and when she said nothing, walked quickly to her desk, took her shoulders in his big hands and pulled her erect. "Then it is time that I did," he said, and kissed her.

She didn't respond, but she didn't pull away from him, either. Will wasn't inexperienced. He felt the first, trembling parting of her lips, the awkwardness of her hands, and recognized innocence for what it was. He lifted his head, holding her close all along the length of his body with one arm while he cradled her face with his other hand. His eyes were very serious and searching. "Sweetheart, are you virgin still?" he said. "Is that why..." And then saw the shadow of hurt in her huge dark eyes and his mouth twisted. "Ah, God," he whispered. "The man who did this to you should be condemned to the deepest pit in hell."

He kissed her again, slowly, deeply, teaching her, incredibly gentle with all his massive strength carefully leashed. And finally, her head tilted, her lips fit themselves more perfectly to his and her tongue made its first, tentative exploration. Will's hands caressed her long, slender body with exquisite care, giving only pleasure and promise, and nothing of need. His lips explored the long, elegant line of her throat, but attempted nothing further. And then he released her and stepped back.

"I will never hurt you," he said softly. "Tango, there is nothing of hurting in me."

"I know." She seemed surprised that she had said it.

His hand reached out to touch, lightly, the lovely chestnut-brown of her cheek. He smiled ruefully. "Perhaps it's best that I can't stay now," he said. "But expect, sweet lady, that you will be the first thing on my mind when I return."

She didn't say anything. He waited a minute more, but her solemn eyes just rested on him, telling him nothing except that she was willing, now, to try. And that was enough. He turned and left her.

Adrian walked into Richard's hotel room, carrying one bag. He had thought it best to pack lightly. They were going to Iran, for crying out loud, the middle of the desert, at the hottest, driest time of year. If they found T'Beth, he was going to personally thump her for going home in the first place. Didn't she know what the political situation was? Especially for women?

Richard motioned him to take a seat. They were waiting for Jake. Adrian felt a frisson of trepidation. Jake, he knew, was extremely angry with him. When the door opened again to admit the burly young ex-football player, Adrian did his best to make himself look small and helpless. Coming from a vampire who could bench-press a small building, it was pathetic.

Jake dropped his own duffel bag with a thump. He glared at Adrian. "Excuse us for a moment, please, Richard," he asked the king.

Richard nodded and went out to the terrace. Adrian could have quite cheerfully killed him for that. No doubt Richard figured that Adrian could handle Jake's temper, but Adrian wasn't that certain.

The anthropologist crossed over to the vampire, and glared at him again. "What the hell do you think you were doing?" he demanded. "Who do you think you are?"

"I was only trying..." Adrian began, but he noticed that Jake wasn't really putting much anger into his words. He was picking up some emotion that had mellowed his young friend ... something amusing.

"Yes. You are. Very." Jake snorted. "Do you know what that king of yours did to me yesterday? He hauled me out of work and took me sailing, and dumped me in Lake Ontario. Now I have a cold coming on." He sniffled to show this incipient illness.

"He dumped you in the lake?" Adrian asked, rather bewildered. He still felt that Jake didn't sound quite angry enough, considering...

"Well, technically, the boom did; but it's the principal of the thing! Next time, ask me first before you give out my phone number to whatever passing royalty catches your fancy, okay?"

"Yes, Jake," said Adrian humbly. "I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as you're going to be," Jake predicted. "Richard and I put our heads together this afternoon. We realize that the desert presents something of a problem for you, and that you'll have to be fully protected, even at night. We couldn't think of a way to do this without raising comment, except..." he paused, and hid a laugh behind a sneeze.

"You will never be an actor, Jake," said Adrian wearily. "That was the fakest sneeze I've ever heard, and I'm a teacher."

"Well, this, my friend, is going to make up for my having to post bail, for having to bail, and for having to be dragged away from a job I undoubtedly will no longer hold once I get back from Iran; all for the sake of you and a king. And T'Beth, of course. Mostly I'm doing this for her sake, cause frankly Adrian, right now I don't think either you or Richard are worth it. But anyway, we found a way to get you through Muslim territory without people yelling ‘Vampire!’ and setting fire to you or something."

"Out with it, then," said Adrian impatiently.

Jake reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a voluminous black garment that appeared to be a robe of some kind. There was a veil attached to the upper part, and Adrian started getting a really horrible feeling...

"The best part," Jake gloated, "is that we get to make you walk three feet behind..."

Adrian stared at the chador. "No," he said.

"It is the only way, Adrian," said Richard from the terrace door.

"Oh, pray, let me not play a woman," the actor whispered. "I have a beard coming."*

"Come on," Jake said, grinning fiendishly. "You've done drag before."

"Not like that. It's like ... a shroud."

Jake picked up the chador and handed it to his undead friend. "Think of it," he intoned, "as the ultimate 'come fuck me' outfit..."

(*A Midsummer Night’s Dream, of course)

21 Oct 1998

From: Alexis Colby to Prof. Adrian Talbot

My dear Professor --

Are you out of your mind? Iran? At least you seem to be aware of some of the problems, which is more than I can say for His Grace. Would you mind terribly if I toodled over and offered some advice? I do know that part of the world a bit better than some (oil is everywhere, what?), and might be able to recommend some people for you to contact along the way.

Hmmph. The way you are about sunlight, you had better be the one wearing the chador!

Sincerely,

Alexis

21 Oct 1998

Prof. Adrian Talbot to Alexis Colby

Alexis,

Dear girl, I wouldn't mind at all if you found the time to drop by with what help your undoubted expertise might offer. I am always delighted to see you, for whatever reason you deign to appear.

I wouldn't be quite so quick, if I were you, to dismiss Richard's ability to manage on his own, though. He does seem to have a knack for making things happen without too much assistance. On the other hand, I do find the prospect of watching him try to deal with you rather fascinating. I mean no disrespect, I assure you, when I say that there is a certain resemblance between his methods and your own.

I'm sure you know where he is staying. I'm told to be there at eight o'clock this evening, and to be prepared to leave for points east very soon after. I would recommend, though, if you choose to appear there, that you materialize somewhere outside Richard's immediate vicinity. He seems to have a sensitivity to some phenomena that is most likely based on events in his own life but which it is probably best not to irritate.

I look forward, as always, to your arrival.

Adrian

21 Oct 1998

Alexis to Adrian

Dear Adrian--

I shall certainly be there. Do let me know when both of you will be either at your house or in his hotel room; I shouldn't like for him to misunderstand my intentions.

"I wouldn't be quite so quick, if I were you, to dismiss Richard's ability to manage on his own, though. He does seem to have a knack for making things happen without too much assistance. On the other hand, I do find the prospect of watching him try to deal with you rather fascinating. I mean no disrespect, I assure you, when I say that there is a certain resemblance between his methods and your own."

Why, thank you, sir, you do know how to flatter a girl! I daresay there will be a bit of jockeying for position, but I certainly know when to back out of the way of an ongoing express. This sounds like a great deal of fun. (I still intend to interview that wretched older brother of his, and to spring a bit of surprise on both the brother and that Woodville person, but that can wait).

"I'm sure you know where he is staying. I'm told to be there at eight o'clock this evening, and to be prepared to leave for points east very soon after. I would recommend, though, if you choose to appear there, that you materialize somewhere outside Richard's immediate vicinity. He seems to have a sensitivity to some phenomena that is most likely based on events in his own life but which it is probably best not to irritate."

Oh, don't worry! I know precisely how to manage it. Though I shall tip the night manager rather excessively. He will have deserved it.

"I look forward, as always, to your arrival."

Blush. (I still know how! Isn't that amazing!)

I'll be there.

Ta!

Alexis

She materialized just outside the door to the hotel in one of the darker corners. Alexis had chosen her attire with care. A somewhat skimpy glitter midnight blue evening frock (thank God diamante was back in style!), covered with a floor-length black Russian sable, topped with a little black pillbox Jackie O. would have killed for, and her face concealed by a dark fishnet veil thick enough to satisfy the Ayatollah. Of course, no proper Islamic male could possibly approve of the four-inch stiletto heels that gave her a walk to drive a mullah insane. But who cared? At least she didn't have to worry about the wretched things causing her hip trouble as they had in her final years!

She swiftly walked into the door, motioned to a bellhop, and whispered for him to bring the night-manager. Her voice, and a twenty-dollar bill (American) conveyed her anxiety and increased his ardor to do her bidding.

The night-manager fussed his way over, but from the moment she lifted her veil and fixed him with her large blue eyes (eyes that had led an Iraqi guard to his doom, though she'd been over sixty then) he was her devoted slave. "I know Mr. Plantagenet isn't expecting me this early," she said in a low, husky voice that would make a skull's teeth sweat, "but I missed another appointment on purpose just to see him." Fortunately she was able to make quite certain that he paid no attention to her obvious similarity to a departed oil baroness. But she might not notice other observers in time.

The poor dear man wiped his forehead and said, "Oh, ah, er, follow me."

"Must we be so ... public?" She sighed. "Reporters. Those awful parasites frighten me ... I mean, after what happened in Paris ..."

"Of course. What was I thinking? We'll take the service elevator," he snapped firmly, and puffed out his chest.

"Oh, thank you! You are so kind," she breathed. She patted his hand with her right one, which was covered in a black lace mitten she'd once seen in GONE WITH THE WIND.

The journey was swift and mainly silent. The night manager personally escorted her to the door, and even knocked for her. Fortunately Adrian came to the door, and was bright enough to figure it out before His Grace could object. Alexis tipped the night manager -- though in British money, as she rather thought he was an ex-pat and would appreciate pounds -- and entered.

The clearly very well-trained professor took her coat, hat, and mittens. "Well," Alexis said, "would any of you gentlemen care to get a lady a drink?"

(After a very fully occupied day of gathering information and making arrangements, all of which has gone with satisfying smoothness, even a king can begin to get a small flutter of uncertainty at his prospects for success when he watches one of his companions chortlingly displaying the costume another will be forced to wear on their journey and describing it, gleefully, as, "Think of it as the ultimate 'come fuck me' outfit.")

A practiced commander could manage just about anything, given resources enough to procure what was needed. Details were the lifeblood of any enterprise, and Richard Plantagenet had long ago mastered the careful attention to these that moved ideas into concrete plans. And he had the required resources. What he did not have, as the evening began, was any great faith that he would be able to enforce peace and cooperation among the ranks of his own compatriots.

Richard strode across the hotel's vast living room and ripped the enveloping black chador out of Adrian's hands. He did not look at Jake. "Adrian," he said, "forgive me, but it is much the safest way for you to travel." He threw the thing back at Jake, with an expression on his face that carried a warning of its own, and went on, "It will, with what other protection we can provide, keep you from the sun's light. Also, as a woman, you will not be asked to unveil in most situations we will encounter. You will travel as my wife, and in the lands..."

"Your wife!"

Richard faced down Adrian's outrage calmly. "Our documents will identify me as a merchant, a buyer and seller of the rugs made by the people of the area, and will indicate that I have traveled extensively throughout the lands nearby, in one of which I married a local woman. You will be expected, therefore, to obey the laws there of purdah, or the concealment of women. No official will ask that I expose you to public display."

"Think," Jake said, smiling benignly, "of the conjugal rights." He was happily stuffing the chador back into his duffel bag.

Adrian looked unutterably weary. Richard was right, of course. But if Jake didn't get that smirk off his face, he was going to find out just how easily he could become Renfield. "Very well," Adrian said, finally, to Richard. "I bow to your greater knowledge of the situation."

"Oh ... don't thank him," Jake said. "Our friend here has put me in charge of the care and feeding of our resident vampire. I came up with this one all by myself."

"In that case," Adrian said, the teal eyes taking on just the slightest reddish tinge, "allow me to thank you, Jake, for your concern for my welfare." He turned his back on the happy satisfaction in Jake's face and found a seat across the room.

Richard glared, for the barest moment, at Jake, who decided it might be better to leave well enough alone, and went back out to the terrace. Wars, Richard reflected, would never be lost by competent leaders if it had not been necessary to use people to fight them.

The rest of the day had gone much more smoothly.