to Kurt’s cell.

Kurt’s small figure stood before the immense piano, not playing it, just staring at his hands on the keys. He looked as if he had just came from the shower, in jeans but shirtless, hair a mass of damp ringlets, the scent of herbal soap clinging to him, skin flushed. Once again, the light was dim, casting long Citizen Kane-like shadows across the room. Joe cleared his throat. “I’m not disturbing you?”

Kurt looked up. “What can I do for you, Doctor?”

“A letter for you.”

The vampire approached, fluidly with dignified grace, distant and cool in manner. Joe towered over him, but it still didn’t make him feel any safer.

Kurt extended his hand languidly for the letter. As he did, Joe saw in a flash something that made his skin crawl. There on the paleness of Kurt’s slender forearm were numbers tattooed in blue ink. Joe couldn’t help but gawk.

“Why do you stare?” Kurt snapped.

“I had no idea… ”

“Well, now you know.”

“You must’ve been just a kid.”

Kurt’s voice grew hard-edged, as he turned away and reached for his shirt, “One grows up fast.”

Joe suspected Kurt had a history, but this wasn’t quite what he’d imagined. In a concentration camp— and for how long before this happened to him? It explained the frail appearance he’d carry with him for eternity. What complicated memories motivated him? What demons haunted him and did he wear them tattooed on his brain like the horrifying numbers on his skin?

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity.”

“I expect you don’t.”

“Mia will fill you in.” Kurt began to button his shirt.

“I need you to answer a question for me. She’s driven me crazy with it.”

Kurt looked up at him, white face frozen into a polite mask. “Mia may be often infuriating, but never dull.”

“She says she sees certain… potential in me. Can you see it, too?”

Kurt looked deeply into Joe’s eyes, and then abruptly pushed up the cuff of his shirt. “You saw this?”

The inky blue numbers stood out in sharp contrast to the vampire’s white skin.

“Yes,” he answered, not really wanting to meet Kurt’s eyes. Another level of tension zapped their encounter, as a long-buried ancestral demon raised its head.

“I’ve seen such potential in mortals.” Kurt looked hard at Joe, boundless rage blazing in his eyes. Joe knew better than to flinch and held his ground, staring back. Kurt slid his sleeve back over his arm. “It’s there. However, I see it in them all.”

“Am I somehow destined to become— a monster?”

Kurt shrugged, turning back to the piano. “That’s up to you.” He began tapping out a melody with one finger. “There’s a letter on the table, Doctor.”

“About Mia… ”

Kurt’s voice scaled up boyishly with tension, “Mia can be difficult.”

“She claims to want to walk in the sun and watch the old demons destruct around her.”

“Our culture is older than any existing nation of men and our customs aren’t enlightened. We’re slaves. Of course she wants to see them fall.”

“And this project will hasten that?”

“Perhaps, we’ll all be worse off, but we can never go back to that world.”

“Who’s hunting you?”

“We don’t know— only that there’s a bounty on our heads.”

“I’m doing my best to make it more tolerable for you here.”

“Mia is the only thing that could possibly make it tolerable.” His voice filled with longing, “How is she?”

“Well, we had an argument. She’s pissed.”

“Mia is formidable in an argument.” A small smile flickered over Kurt’s face. “She’s so very— passionate. If we were together, she’d be much calmer.”

Joe ran his hand over the polished surface of the piano. “This piano is horrendously expensive. It’s a shame for it to collect dust.”

Kurt touched the keys ruefully. “I feel no desire when she can’t hear.”

“I’d consider it an honor to hear you play.”

Kurt scrutinized Joe for a moment. “Very well, Doctor.”

Joe sank down into the leather armchair. “Please, call me, Joe.”

Kurt settled down onto the bench. “Anything you’d particularly like to hear, Doctor?”

So, Kurt wasn’t about to lessen the professional distance. Joe had the feeling it would always remain so. “I wouldn’t presume.”

Kurt’s eyes focused on the distant wall. “I’ll play what Mia likes.”

He sat in silence for a moment then started to play. Joe recognized the piece from a CD in his office. Chopin’s Nocturne in E Flat Major. It started out softly, delicately building, outwardly innocuous as a rippling brook but with potential torrents carefully contained. Kurt’s slight figure became powerful as his hands moved over the keys, drawing out all the dark passion of the