man who was been lead by others all his life, and knows not how to lead himself.”

“I look,” She said, “upon a fledgling in desperate need of answers.”

Theroen said nothing, but turned away. Answers? Perhaps, yes. Certainly Abraham had provided him with little in the way of understanding. He felt movement: Lisette leaning in closer. This time he did not shy away. He was instead suddenly, acutely aware of the woman next to him. She smelled of lilacs and blood. When she laughed this time, it did not bother him so much.

“You must learn to guard your thoughts, my child. Such impure images from a man of the cloth...”

“I beg your pardon, Madame.” He could think of no other response.

Lisette moved her lips to his neck, held them above the vein. “Is that all you beg for?” Her breath set the tiny hairs below her lips standing on edge.

“Milady...” Theroen felt out of breath. He was dimly aware of activity at his groin, a first since his baptism into darkness. No mortal woman had ever had this affect on him as a vampire, and before that, as a virgin priest for all of his twenty-three years, he had steadfastly disallowed any such impure thoughts. Now, they swamped him, overwhelmed him, swept him up.

Half-focused images, potent, carnal, flashed through his mind. Her open bodice beckoned, the white breasts luminescent in the moonlight. Skin like porcelain. Hair like ebony. Lips like blood. He sensed, or thought he sensed, some dull fire from between her legs. Theroen moaned slightly. Her lips never touched his skin, yet they burned there like hot iron.

“Alive below the waist,” She commented in a whisper. “How curious. Your father is possessed of no such blessing.”

She touched him there, ever so gentle, and Theroen made some sound, some choked sob. He began to turn toward her, desire overwhelming him.

As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Lisette sat up, and the feeling, like a building explosion, drained away. Theroen drew in a shuddery breath. Lisette laughed.

“I like you, Theroen Anders. I shall visit you again.”

And she was gone.

* * *

“So she’s the one who taught you that you could... you know?” Two asked.

“Yes, that and much more. I wish I could tell you the whole story, Two. I haven’t the time, right now. I have to go and find out what Abraham wants.”

“I’m hungry. Should I wait?”

“If I’m not back in a few hours, then you can go yourself. Just be smart about it. I’m sure you’ll do fine. Otherwise, I’d certainly enjoy your company. I thought we might go into the city tonight.” Theroen glanced in the direction of Abraham’s quarters, his expression of exasperation surprisingly human. Two laughed.

“Go. I’ll take a shower, and wait for you.”

She watched him leave, then stripped off the nightgown and made her way into the bathroom. It was not as luxurious as Melissa’s, but it was quite enough for Two, who had spent the last year showering in a cold tile room with seven other women.

She thought of Darren. Molly. Janice. Rhes and Sarah. Would she see them again? Her desire for revenge against Darren was already fading. It was difficult to maintain any concern. Her connection with those mortal lives had been severed. She didn’t need the drug, didn’t really care if Darren’s crimes went unpunished. The thought of Molly still hurt, but what could she do for Molly? Killing Darren would only put the girl out on the street with no immediate source of her drug.

More pressing, and more troublesome, was the story Theroen had begun. Lisette. An elder vampire and a previous lover. Two wondered what had happened to her, and knew it couldn’t have been pleasant. The expression on Theroen’s face had been heart-breaking.

There was still so little she knew about her lover. Centuries of life that remained dark to her, stories untold. Theroen was a creature beyond the scope of time Two was capable of visualizing. She could not imagine living for nearly half a millennia. The thought filled her both with fear and a fierce, fluttering excitement. So much to see and do, side by side with the one she loved.

Two turned off the shower, brushed her hair, pulled on clothes. There was a plush armchair against the wall, and a collection of poetry on the nightstand. The transition begun the night she had met Theroen was still working on Two in ways both subtle and obvious. Beyond the strength, and the speed, it seemed