of grey and yet more vibrant than anything Two had ever witnessed. She felt a tear grow on a single eyelash, fatten, drop. It hit her face, the warmth of her body fading quickly as it cooled, leaving a track down her cheek. Her heart throbbed. The vampire tore through the flesh of her neck in an instant, seeking the blood forced through her veins by that thudding organ.

Pain again, like glass, exquisite, blinding, maddening, and a spike of sheer ecstasy running through her like before, like with Theroen, this caused only be Abraham’s touch, Abraham’s teeth. Such power. Two leaned her head back, wailing in terror, in pleasure, in agony. It was death, it was birth, it was the coalescence of the entire universe in a single moment.

And then it was gone. The vampire pulled back, Two fell to the floor, gasping, weeping. Her eyes fluttered open and shut, trying to make sense of the myriad images before her. Theroen, looking away, unable to watch what was transpiring before him. Abraham, eyes closed, head tilted back, enjoying her blood like a man tasting fine wine. The candle on the table flickered light on the door, and now it seemed the flame itself was a door as well, light from inside spilling out, like a hole in the fabric of reality. Two wept for its beauty.

“It makes me lightheaded,” Abraham said. “The blood is tainted indeed, and yet so strong. So delightful, ah, she will be a good daughter for you. Daughter, sister, lover... whatever you choose to make of her. It will be many years before she finds the strength to leave you.”

“It... may be many years before she... finds the strength to stand up.” Two heard herself as if from down a long hall, and was aghast at her own blasphemy. To speak, and so impertinently, in front of this creature who had given her such pain, such pleasure. Surely now he would strike her down.

But Abraham only roared his horrible, mocking laughter, clapping his hands together. Theroen snarled something, moved towards her, and Two understood in that instant the hatred burning between master and pupil, father and son. Was it like this for all of them? Would it be like this for her? No, Two realized. Not for her and Theroen. There was no hatred there.

“Or perhaps I am wrong!” Abraham cackled. “Perhaps I am very wrong indeed!”

And then Theroen had her in his arms, and she was resting her head against his chest, neck throbbing, wanting only to sleep. She tried to speak, tried to tell him that she did not feel defiled, that even as pleasure and pain had torn through her body, she had thought of Theroen, and it had been clean. She could not say so much, her eyelids so heavy, sleep forcing itself upon her with clumsy, brutal hands.

She forced herself awake, took her hand, held it to her neck. Fingers bloody, Theroen striding rapidly down the hall, not running, only leaving, his fear lost in his anger. The oak doors shut behind them and Two wondered if Abraham had moved from his desk, or closed them with only a thought. She pressed her bloody fingers to Theroen’s lips, and he stopped, looked down at her in surprise.

“Not like that.” Two’s voice was a whisper, and she was crying again. “Not like he says.”

An expression of powerful emotion passed over Theroen’s normally unreadable face. He made a sound, smiled at her, kissed her fingers. Bloody white lips, bloody white teeth.

Two slept.

* * *

The bed was softness unlike anything she had ever experienced. Or perhaps it was her skin, newly remade, that felt it so. Silk sheets, pillow covers, heavy down blankets smothering her, warming her, giving her a sense of comfort she had never before experienced.

The waking was as it had been before, instantaneous, frightening almost in the intensity of consciousness. One moment, blackness; the next, total lucidity. Two woke with Theroen’s name on her lips, a soft whisper, and she smiled against the silk.

Had there been dreams? Visions of her life as an immortal? Had she dreamt of who she might be, what she might do? Two’s heart raced as her mind pondered these things. There was time, now. Time enough to see all of the art that ever she could desire. Who cared if she was no longer a part of the web of humanity which produced it? Could not one stand outside of a house and still admire the