Subspecies: Bloodpact -- Chapter Six

memoriamvictus

He tried to tell himself that it was just prejudice. Racism, even. A doctor was a doctor, and Nicolescu had gone far out of his way to help them out of a bad spot; he was just doing his job, same as anyone else.

Yet Mel still couldn't quite reconcile himself to the fact that he was allowing an undead bloodsucker to fool around with the cuts on his face.

The stitches themselves weren't too bad; not something he'd ever do for fun, but he could cope. He almost relished the sharp, nagging discomfort of each prick, the queer and somehow slithery feel of the thread passing through the puncture wounds. They distracted him from the flagrant, unnatural inhumanity of the doctor's eyes: the scleras were a deep, muddy maroon surrounding flat, dull chips of black. He couldn't quite tell under the dim light, but Mel was pretty certain they were slightly shriveled, too, slightly too small, and set in Nicolescu's face like moldy prunes.

But while the request waited on the tip of his tongue, Mel couldn't bring himself to ask the doctor to put his glasses back on. He obviously knew it was unnerving, and tried his best; and as stomach-turning as it was, Mel didn't really want to make things any more difficult on the man wielding a needle on his face. So he did his best to let his gaze unfocus, and waited for it to be over.

"She did not do this on purpose, you do realize," Nicolescu said conversationally, startling him from his reverie; he hadn't wanted to distract the doctor, so had not bothered to attempt small talk. “It was simply reflex. She meant no ill."

"I figured." He waited for the needle to finish its pass. “It's still a mess, though."

"Ah, yes. But nails are only nails, like your own. Bad, yes, but only scratches. Nothing to truly fear." Nicolescu stood back, examined his work, and pinched off the thread.

Realizing that this was probably one of the best opportunities to gather intelligence he was ever going to get, Mel decided to press on, as the doctor prepared another needle. “So it isn't rampantly contagious? The... condition, I mean."

"Eh. Virulent, yes, but very specific, too." He stooped down before Mel once again. “Turn this way, please." Frowning, he returned to the supplies he had set out on his desk. He raised a hand to his face, tapping a finger against his chin, before bending down to select a smaller needle. The hairs on the back of Mel's neck bristled, but he made himself hold still; it must have been a trick of the light. He couldn't have just seen Nicolescu daintily lick blood from his thumb.

"We have a venom, you might call it. It does what it was meant to do, but only that way," the doctor continued as if nothing unusual had taken place; he had to be imagining thing. “If I spit on these cuts, perhaps you would have a problem to deal with; otherwise it is only biting. Now, hold still, please. This first one will be a little tricky."

Mel obliged, bracing himself, but was unprepared for the rush of primordial dread that the needle piercing the flesh at the corner of his eye brought; for the skin-crawling sensation of his skin being tugged against his nose as the doctor pulled the needle through. “There! That one was bad, the face nerves are in strange places. Others will be like before."

He exhaled the shuddering breath he'd been holding, and tried to force himself to relax. “So, you really think this place will keep Radu out?"

"I am betting everything upon it," Nicolescu replied calmly, sizing up the next stitch. “None of us can overcome that prohibition, none; if he had learned how to do so, well... we are in much worse trouble than I am equipped to deal with. So don't worry."

Nowhere near as reassured as the doctor had intended, Mel was glad of the comforting weight of the pistol tucked into the back of his waistband; it might not kill the bastard, but it might buy them enough time to escape again. “Does he know where this place is? Do you know him?"

"No, no. I am only a little vampire, and I have kept very low to the ground." Mel was unsure if Nicolescu had finished speaking or was merely concentrating until he continued. “But you have hurt him and taken his fledgling; there is nothing that will stop him, and, once Michelle awakens, he will know."

"Are they... I mean, are you... psychic or something?"

"Not as you think, perhaps, but... she is his child, likely his beloved. She will be very hungry when she arises, and though that has been taken care of, he will know of her distress." Nicolescu tied off the last stitch, breaking the thread once again. “I am expecting him at any time."

Mel reached up to his face, fingers instinctively seeking the wounds, but he forced himself to lower his hand. “Doctor, forgive me for being blunt, but what exactly are you planning to do—tell him to go away?"

"Ah." Nicolescu reached into his breast pocket for his glasses. Unfolding them, he settled them once more upon his nose, before turning to regard Mel with a wide, toothy grin. “I was thinking to perhaps give him Michelle, in exchange for the Bloodstone."

* * *

"God damn it!" Rebecca slammed her fists against the door once more, for what little good it did her. Pounding and shouting had left her with nothing but sore hands and a raw throat, but it had disabused her of any lingering, hopeful notions that help was on its way. She slumped into the corner, sliding her back down the wall until she met the floor with a thud. Bracing her elbows on her knees, she buried her face in her hands, and did her best not to cry.

They were stupid, stupid, stupid to have ever trusted Nicolescu. It had all been so perfect; calm answers to all of their questions, soothing confidence as a balm for their weary confusion, with friendly, understanding Ana working as a Judas goat. But like anything else that seemed too good to be true, the Vitalis Institute had proven itself a seductive trap, and God only knew what price they were going to have to win free. She sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm down, trying to think, for the first time since they'd agreed to Nicolescu's mad plan.

As painful as it was to admit, if Nicolescu's stories about his research were true, desiring Michelle made sense; a young, relatively defenseless vampire would make an excellent lab monkey, and she and Mel had been so desperate for help that they'd delivered her to him on a silver platter. But what now? He couldn't simply let them go, not with everything they knew. Was he going to dispose of them? Keep them like cattle? Turn them into further test subjects?

What on Earth could be happening to Mel?

Idiots. But it had seemed like such a good idea at the time... trusting one of those vicious, miserable creatures, simply because it had put on a show of sympathy.

A creature like Michelle. Shivering from tension and cold, Rebecca slowly raised her face from her hands, and turned to regard her sister.

Rebecca had rolled her onto her back, arranging her arms and legs as closely to comfortable as she could easily manage; though Michelle had lost that unnatural, rigor mortis stiffness the injection had given her, her limbs were still far from flexible, and bile rose in the back of Rebecca's throat at prolonged contact. It had been easy enough to rationalize it, when Michelle had been away; simply a medical condition, no more worthy of scorn or revulsion than cancer or diabetes. Even seeing her up and moving around, talking to them... there was no mistaking the otherness about her, but it was still Michelle, still her sister. Yet now, confronted with a cold corpse... now, knowing what she knew... Rebecca looked at her sister and was frightened; was terrified, and hated herself for it.

Shelly. The thought alone was nearly enough to undo her; lip quivering, she had to hide her face against her arms to keep from bursting into tears. She'd always done her best to protect Michelle, always tried her hardest, and now, when Michelle had needed her the most, she had failed spectacularly. She'd meant to help, meant to get her cured, meant to solve everything... and had instead delivered them all into the hands of an unknown enemy.

The soft rustle of fabric sent her bolt upright; but as hard as she stared at Michelle's supine form, she could detect no movement. Still, the noise had come from somewhere, and it wasn't as if there was a breeze; she must have moved, even if only slightly, and the realization sent a sudden wild surge of hope through Rebecca. Michelle wasn't... wasn't just Michelle any more. Her mind balked at recalling vampire legends, having seen some of them proven untrue, but surely they had to have some basis in reality. She had seen Michelle do... that thing, where she moved. Perhaps she could do that through walls, or out the window; let Rebecca out, or at least go get help... something.

As long as she awoke in time.

She let her gaze wander back to the door, and resisted the urge to kick it; it would only hurt her foot. There was a handle on this side, a rough-edged metal lever set into a slight depression, but it might as well have been welded in place for all the good yanking on it had done. The door itself was set flush in its frame, and though a bit of the rubber facings had dried and flaked away, the cracks were so thin Rebecca could not even tell if it were light or dark in the hallway. She could not even fathom how to attempt disassembling the hinges; they were obviously affixed somehow, and all of her twisting and pulling had been for naught. She had not bothered with the window; even if she had been able to reach high enough to do more than brush it with her fingers, the mesh blocking it was firmly bolted into the concrete, and she was not entirely certain she'd be able to wedge her shoulders through the narrow aperture.

No, this place had been designed to keep people in, and it did its job well. The concrete was old, cracked and water-stained; she wonder if Nicolescu had built them as holding cells, or if this was merely the Communist idea of a padded room.

A wheezing, shuddering breath prevented further contemplation in that direction. Elated, Rebecca scurried over to Michelle as she rolled slowly onto her side. She reached out to her sister, but her hand froze in mid-air, suddenly, perilously uncertain of her reception.

Michelle lay still for a moment, then began to draw her limbs up, curling cautiously into a taut fetal position. Her fingers found their way to her mouth, and Rebecca's heart was torn by the bizarrely innocent poignance of the image; Michelle had slept that way often enough, when she was only a little girl, and it was both touching and devastating to see her revert to it in these straits. But the rush of love and empathy soured quickly when she saw Michelle's jaw work, her pale pink tongue dart past her lips.

She was licking Mel's blood from beneath her finger nails.

* * *

"You have got to be kidding me."

"Well, perhaps my reach does exceed my grasp," Nicolescu acceded, his voice dripping with exaggerated sincerity, raising a hand to his chest in mock humility. “But what even a few drops could do for my researches... ah, I think it is worth the gamble."

Mel suspected that he had finally, after all the insanity of the past few weeks, reached his breaking point; his primary reaction to the vampire's revelation was an urge to laugh hysterically. Bad enough that they had been played like a bunch of suckers, but to have the whole scheme explained to him like a bad Bond movie? The hubris was unreal. He shifted his weight forward, ready to leap to his feet. “You're thinking I'm just going to go along with this?"

The doctor shrugged. “You seem to me a practical man; I think you can acknowledge that this would remove many difficulties from your path, and your cooperation would not come amiss." He smiled again. “But if you do not... well, it is not as if you have many options, is it?" His hand clamped down on Mel's wrist with bruising force, the promise of more to come unspoken, but unmistakable.

Sloppy, was all Mel could think as he drew his gun, shoved the barrel beneath Nicolescu's chin, and pulled the trigger twice.

The thunder of the shots was almost enough to drown out the wet, groaning crunch as the doctor's hand flexed convulsively against his wrist, pulverizing the bones beneath. Mel wrenched free with a blinding wash of agony that painted the world white for a moment; gritting his teeth, he staggered to his feet and lunged for the door. He didn't think there was anything that could survive a pair of point-blank head shots, but if there was, he didn't want to find out just how angry it was going to be when it got back up.

Yanking the door open with the injured hand was awkward, but he wasn't about to surrender the gun for a second. Stumbling out into the hall, he looked around quickly. There was no way the shots had gone unnoticed and, indeed, he already heard hurrying foot steps, punctuated by confused yells, echoing from somewhere deeper in the building. He was going to move fast if he were going to find Michelle and Rebecca in time... if Rebecca was still around to be found.

Forcing the thought from his mind, he trotted down the hallway despite every bit of reason and instinct he possessed screaming at him to run for the main doors, get out of this godforsaken place. But though the odds were slim—he had no idea what they might have done with the Morgans, had only the vaguest idea of what the actual layout of the place was—he had to try. Even setting aside his feelings for Rebecca, they'd come too far together for him to slink off in search of help. The boys weren't going to believe this until they saw it, and the sisters' time was too precious to waste.

He crept forward as quickly and silently as he could. It was hard to judge sounds in this thick-walled, twisting place, but it sounded like the cavalry was getting closer, and while seeing to their master would occupy them for a few moments, they'd be hot on Mel's heels moments afterwards.

He ducked around the corner, back into the main corridor, and wished to God he's taken a second to check it before exposing himself. The long-haired orderly stood guarding the door at the end of the hall; before Mel had time to react it bared its fangs in a vicious, bestial snarl and charged him.

Mel knew there was no hope of avoiding it, so he attempted to brace himself to roll with it; but the sheer force of the thing's rush knocked the wind and the wit from him, and they both crashed against the wall in a tangle of struggling limbs. Mel kicked out savagely, raking its shins with his heels, but it took no notice of what should have been agonizing pain, instead snapping wildly at his throat. Mel tried to get his bad arm up in between them, but the sickening pain overwhelmed him. The creature seized the opportunity to wrap fingers like iron bands around his throat, hoist his feet from the ground, and slam him into the wall.

The boards splintered with a tinkling crash and Mel tumbled backwards, realizing, as the glass shards rained down upon him in a storm of tiny cuts, that it had in fact been a boarded up window. He landed on the damp grass with a bone-jarring thud, and scrambled to his hands and knees, the pistol's butt cutting cruelly into his abused palm, just as the orderly appeared in the shattered remnants of the window. Mel rose to one knee, forced himself into the best approximation of a teacup grip he could manage, and shot it in the knee.

The vampire howled, clutching its leg and falling to the floor as if its strings had been cut. Mel hoisted himself unsteadily to his feet, swaying for a moment as a wave of dizziness overtook him. Straightening, he sighted carefully, then shot it twice more in the legs; whether it survived or not, it wouldn't be coming after him in a hurry. He set his shoulders, drawing a bead on its left eye, when a frightened, incomprehensible shout shocked him out of his trance.

Another orderly now stood at the end of the hall, pointing at the recent carnage and yelling excitedly. As Mel targeted him, another three came rushing around the corner. Knowing there was no way he could handle all four of them, filled with the bitterest regret, Mel turned and ran.

His feet pounded the grass furiously as he ran around the side of the building; terribly risky, but he couldn't imagine surviving a run for the front gate. He knew the grounds were more extensive than they looked and, even better, that they gave out into a warren of apartment buildings on the other side of the fence. He could disappear into the alley ways, or at least get out into the mass of humanity, where witnesses might dissuade his pursuers from more extreme measures. All he had to do was buy a little time, and hope it didn't come at Rebecca's expense.

He gritted his teeth as he slipped on the grass, disappearing into the low mist that cloaked the ground. They must have been in that room the orderly had been guarding, must have; he'd been so god-damned close--

Whatever caught his leg stopped him so sharply that his teeth clicked together on his tongue with agonizing force, sending a hot rush of blood into his mouth as his arms pinwheeled wildly and he crashed to the ground. Dazed, breathless and in pain, he thought for a moment that unconsciousness would claim him no matter how hard he fought it. But after what seemed like minutes, he was able to prop himself on his elbows and crane his neck to look back at what had tripped him.

A tombstone.

Scrambling to his knees, he wasted a few precious seconds gazing around in horrified disbelief before the logic of the situation reasserted itself. The Institute had formerly been a church; the grave markers surrounding him were merely the remnants of the churchyard. Hauling himself to his feet, he made his way forward as speedily as caution would permit. The voices were coming from out front now, confused and agitated, but it didn't sound as if they were approaching; he still had a few moments' lead, and he wasn't going to waste it on another spill.

Yet he nearly stumbled again as the immense, clanging shriek of abused metal tore through the night, and could not resist turning back to look behind him when the harsh, hoarse voice cut through the silence that immediately followed:

"I demand an audience with the master of this house."

* * *

Nicolescu would have cried out his agony, had the torn flesh of his throat permitted it; instead, despite the force with which he clutched the tattered edges together, it emerged as a breathless groan as he sprawled in the chair behind his desk. He hadn't thought it would matter, hadn't thought the young man could be that fast; hadn't thought the silver would make such a punishing difference. The same changes that allowed him to walk in daylight had deprived him of some of his durability, it was true, but these should have been no worse than mere puncture wounds. Disconcerting, and so very poorly timed.

He had staffed the clinic with a skeleton crew this night, choosing only those he thought best-prepared for the unusual events that were certain to take place; still they milled about, confused and unable to function without direction like the worthless cattle that they were. Now, now, now, when he so badly needed even a few moments to recover, a mere sip of vital fluids, they allowed the man to run amok, they were unable to greet his guest, they were... he gagged, briefly, as something deep within his throat wrenched itself, realigning its tissues for repair.

He smiled weakly, pulling the ruined skin of his neck together, willing it to knit, to be whole. Precious seconds ticked by, each one that passed making what was to come all the harder. Prestige, protocol, power were everything; better to flaunt his wounds, show that they encumbered him not, than to hide behind his walls and his servants. He merely needed to be able to speak; and that, alas, was not quite possible yet.

He had known when the prince had arrived, even before he had issued his challenge; though he had known it would be impossible to miss the presence of one so old, he had still been unprepared for the reality of it. Even now, knowing what he did and possessed of the advantages he had so carefully gathered, there was still the urge to crawl, to make obeisance, to beg forgiveness and expose his throat. The mere vestiges of instinct, it was true, but to feel their pull so intimately after all of his hard work... well. The barriers would hold.

He looked up into the waiting, uncertain eyes of the orderlies, none of them quite able to comprehend what was now taking place, and knew that events were now almost beyond his control; he must act, soon, if only to keep them from panicking, and perhaps destroying them all with their foolishness. Levering himself to his feet, he drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster, considering that he still had to clasp the wreckage of his throat in one hand, and nodded severely at them. He made his way past them at a measured enough pace that he hoped his weakness would be mistaken for gravitas.

His not quite lurching progress down the hallway seemed to take an eternity, and his lip curled in disgust to see that the front doors stood open. Not that it mattered now, he acknowledged as he made his way out onto the steps; the first impression had already been made.

After the decades of hearing terrible tales whispered only at dusk and dawn, as it was said he could hear anything spoken of him in darkness... the years spent planning and preparing for this very moment... the reality was almost anticlimactic. A tall, gaunt figure stood beyond the gate, arms folded behind its back, face obscured by the collar of its long coat; far from the balefire eyes, the gruesome tusks, the immense claws he had been given to expect, there was nothing to mark the intruder as anything other than mortal. Not until one realized that the heavy iron gates were bowed in as if they had been struck by a car; until one noted the broken corpse of the man who had stood guard outside of it, crumpled at his feet; not until he lifted his chin, allowing the moonlight to play over skin so luminescently pale it could never have seen the sunlight.

"You hold my fledgling against her will," Vladislas began without preamble, once Nicolescu had drawn close; his voice was so low and thick with menace the words were barely discernible. His lips curled in an unpleasant smile as he took note of the doctor's injuries. “Though I see that she has made her displeasure clear to you already; your obstinance does you no credit." Nicolescu almost scowled, but managed to rein it in; better he think that than realize he had been bested by a human. “You will release her to me immediately."

Nicolescu squeezed his throat tightly, feeling his larynx work convulsively as he attempted to force speech past his injuries; he felt the air catch against his vocal cords with a surge of gratitude. “Anything but, O prince," he rasped unsteadily. “The young one came to me... seeking succor. She wishes to be free of our... affliction."

"She wishes for the impossible," Vladislas snarled, lips peeled back from his fangs. He stepped forward, arms spread, his fingers flexing convulsively; Nicolescu was torn between scientific interest and superstitious dread at the sight of the extra joints and the thick, curved talons. “I might have forgiven this trespass. I might have honored you for sheltering a wayward child. But if you have encouraged her in this madness, torments the likes of which you cannot yet conceive shall be writ upon whatever remains of your damned, conniving soul."

"Great lord, hear me." Nicolescu put as much of an obsequious whine into his voice as he could manage, under the circumstances. “There are perhaps things... the benefits of medicine are no longer closed to us, O prince--"

"Who came before you?"

"Lord, I--"

"Who came before you?"

"Ash," Nicolescu admitted weakly, not seeing what harm it could do. “Ash, the music-lover."

Vladislas took the last step that brought him to the gate; wrapping his impossible fingers around the twisted, bulging bars, he leaned forward, allowing Nicolescu a clear look at the harsh, inhuman planes of his face. “I," he grated, “came before Ash." He released the bars and straightened slowly. “For many long nights, I have watched the rise of man, and followed their progress. I have something of a weak spot in my heart for the sciences... and I have never, in all of those nights, heard the barest whisper of such a thing; nor will I tolerate it now."

The movement was so quick that even Nicolescu's eyes could not follow it, but he shamed himself by flinching at the ringing clang as Vladislas struck the bars. “Release my child to me."

Nicolescu gritted his teeth despite the agony it caused him. Vladislas was as primitive and hidebound as any of the ancient ones he had ever encountered; yet, like them, it was madness to the point of suicide to balk him. If the following few moments did not transpire in perfect precision, finding himself in a state of siege would be the least of Nicolescu's problems. “That is not impossible, O prince--"

"Not impossible?"

"-- while I am moved by her pleas, well do I understand what difficulties the first nights can present," he continued stolidly, averting his eyes from Vladislas's rage. “But there is something I must have from you in return. The Bloodstone--"

"You would dare to bargain with me? For my birthright?"

"For the sake of the sciences you hold so dear, I must, Lord." Nicolescu shook himself, releasing his throat; finally the delicate tissues had restored themselves enough to function without manual assistance. “You see me before you now; know the truth, that the bloodlust does not utterly rule me, that I can bear the kiss of daylight--"

"You will roast in it once I have finally finished with you!"

"--and yet I still avail myself of the benefits of our eternal state. Prince," he said wearily, knowing better than to trust the brief hope that Vladislas might actually listen that fluttered within his breast, “I have done all this, and more, yet I find myself stymied. The chance to analyze it, even the smallest sample... I am afraid I must demand it of you." There. Nicolescu allowed himself to relax fractionally; the ultimatum now made, he would find out if his protections would withstand the consequences; if they did not... it was out of his hands.

"You are a witless, worthless thing," Vladislas hissed. “You, who have twisted yourself into a wretched parody of a human... you dare to make demands of me? You think to hold my fledgling ransom against the greatest treasure of our kind?" His mouth contorted itself into a gruesome, humorless grin. “You will watch as I tear this place stone from stone; as I slaughter the rest of your followers; as I lay waste to every misbegotten thing you have sought to create in this place. You... you will wait, until my child has been restored to me. Only then will the punishment for your arrogance commence."

The intensity, the pure, undiluted certainty with which Vladislas spoke chilled him to the core; but they were only words. Stepping forward, Nicolescu bent to unlatch the gate. The force with which the guard had been thrown against it had damaged it, somehow, but he wrenched it open, letting the warped gates swing wide on their tilted hinges. “Then come and claim her, if you can."

Vladislas stepped forward, and for one blood-congealing instant Nicolescu knew that he had judged poorly; knew that he had finally come to the end of his long life.

Vladislas stopped, the tips of his boots just brushing the edges of the flagstones, and the sheer force of the hate burning in the deep pits of his eyes was barely comprehensible. Regardless of the night's outcome Nicolescu knew, as Vladislas's loathing beat at the edges of his perception like a storm of crows, that he had made an implacable enemy. So be it. It would be worth it.

"I shall return to you anon." The words were almost conversational; before Nicolescu had a chance to react, Vladislas was gone as if he had never been present, only the carnage he had left in his wake giving testament to his passage.

Nicolescu allowed himself a brief sigh, flushing the stale air from his lungs, and shoved his hair out of his eyes. The Bloodstone was not something one carried around in a pocket, he supposed; regardless of what Vladislas might have in mind, it had been proven to both of them that he could not breach the Institute's grounds. That, at least, remained a constant.

But the rest... unless his staff had had the wit to continue searching while he was occupied, Mel was undoubtedly long gone, and the trouble he might return with was unfathomable. And the sisters themselves... so many things to be seen to.

Turning, he began the awkward lurch back to the welcoming shelter of the Institute beneath the frightened, confused gazes of the staff members that clustered by the doors, and knew that the night's labors had scarcely begun. No rest for the wicked, indeed.

* * *

Rebecca was hunched in the corner once more, face buried against her knees and arms wrapped around her head; her muscles quivered with strain, and the slightest sound from any direction caused her to jerk in fear. Though it had largely been silent for some time now, she half-expected to be torn apart by bullets at any moment, despite the thickness of the door. Or perhaps the roaring screams of whatever had made those sounds would begin again as it began to pound its way in. Or merely the supercilious voice of Dr. Nicolescu letting her know that it was time.

What she did not expect to hear was the sound of a key turning in the lock.

She lunged to her feet, shaking with adrenalin and fear; she balled her hands into fists and raised them before her as if she had some idea of what to do with them. She had no idea what was about to happen next, but if Mel wasn't waiting on the other side of that door to lead her to safety, she'd be damned if she went anywhere else quietly.

The key ceased its revolution; after a heartbeat, it twisted back and forth, then was slowly withdrawn, and another key inserted. Rebecca watched numbly, sweat beading on her brow, unable to comprehend what she was seeing as the process was repeated a number of times. Finally a soft feminine voice that barely carried through the door asked, “Michelle?"

Rebecca released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her knees nearly knocking. “Dr. Lazar? Ana, is that you?"

"Yes! Yes it is!" The relief in her voice was unmistakable. “Michelle, are you well?"

Rebecca pressed her face against the door, speaking into the crack. “Ana, it's Becky. Michelle's here too."

She heard what might have been the hiss of indrawn breath. “Michelle is also in the room with you?" Ana's tone was awestruck. “Is she awake?"

Rebecca spared a glance over her shoulder; save for the occasional movement of her jaw as she sought for some morsel beneath her nails, Michelle had not moved again throughout the barrage of sound. “Not... really," she said finally. “Ana, what's going on? Why are you doing this?"

"Becky, I know you have no reason to believe this, but I did not know. I left Michelle to gather instrument, I return and she is gone; I come to check all the rooms, none of my keys work in lock... there has been violence, I cannot find the doctor... this is no accident, I know, but I cannot say why!" Her breathless recitation ended on a sob. “Please believe, I help you, I let you out--"

"Ana, if you mean it, leave right now, while you still can. Go get help, go get the police—somebody--Mel is gone, I don't know—just go, Ana, please. Nicolescu is behind this; he's going to try to stop you!"

"Becky, you cannot be alone with her! I go, I get other keys—there must be some misunderstanding, there are new people here, they do not listen--"

"Ana. Ana! Please, please, please listen to me!" Rebecca slammed her palm against the door for emphasis. “Go for help! Go get someone from outside, tell them what's happening here! You're our last chance!"

"No, no, you will see—we will fix this. I go now, but I will be back!"

"Ana!" Rebecca screamed it so loudly her lungs clenched painfully, but there was no response, save what might have been the clicking of Ana's retreating heels.

"That..." Michelle's voice was paper thin, and so soft that for a moment Rebecca thought she must be imagining it. “...didn't sound too... encouraging."

"Oh, Shelly!" Rebecca hurried to her side, sinking to her haunches as she reached out to brush the hair away from Michelle's face. Michelle's chest hitched with a sharp intake of breath, her nostrils flaring, and Rebecca snatched her hand away. “Are you... how are you, Shelly?"

"I..." She slid her palms along the floor at her sides, as if seeking purchase. “I'm so..." She licked her lips slowly, audibly dragging her tongue along their dry creases. “I'm... bad, Becky..."

You cannot be alone with her! The hairs on Rebecca's arms stood upright at the recollection, and she eased herself away from Michelle, unconsciously reaching down to brace one hand against the floor, in case she needed to move quickly. “I... I'm sorry, Michelle. I'm sorry I did this to us. But you've gotta hang on, okay? Did you hear Dr. Lazar? She's going to take care of this for us. You've just got to relax and be calm, okay?"

Michelle raised her head slightly, then seemed to think better of it, and subsided to the floor. Her lips curled away from her teeth in jerky, rictus movements; Rebecca thought that she was having a seizure, some kind of spasm, before she realized Michelle was merely trying to smile. “Hate to... say it, but... told you so."

The laughter came burbling up from somewhere deep in her chest, behind sanity, tinged with cheers, and Rebecca clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the manic peals. “You—y-you did," she gasped, sniffling. “You did. I just... ah, Shelly..." Her shoulders sagged in mingled despair and relief. “The doctor was s-supposed to h-help..."

"I don't trust her," Michelle whispered, her eyes drooping closed. She inhaled again, her bosom straining with the force of it, and let the air escape with a thin whistle. “Give... gimme a sec." She flopped a hand weakly at Rebecca, who obliged by scurrying back to give her room. Slowly, painfully, Michelle rolled herself onto her belly. Seeming exhausted by even that paltry effort, she lay still for a few moments, apparently gathering her strength, for she finally worked her arms beneath her body and levered herself up.

Rebecca backed away further as she climbed to her feet with a painful, aching slowness. Standing, she stretched, rolling her head back and forth on her neck, her fingers splayed at her sides. “Okay," she murmured. “Okay." Closing her eyes, she licked her lips once more, her hands balling into fists. She flexed her fingers, as if in expectation of something, but merely stood, every line of her form bespeaking her intense concentration. She fisted her hands once more, and stumbled forward a half step, her eyes flying open in an expression of shocked dismay. “Okay," she muttered again, “okay, I can't do it." For the first time her voice held some color, but Rebecca wished ardently that it were not a thin thread of panic she was hearing.

Spinning on her heel with a surprising burst of vitality, Michelle crossed the short distance to the entrance of their cell, and began feeling at the lever that served as its doorknob. “Michelle, I already tried the door," Rebecca offered weakly, uncertain of what had just transpired, but knowing that it boded no good.

"I haven't." Gripping the handle firmly, rather than twisting it, Michelle simply began to pull, straining against the immense weight of the door. A protest at the futility of such an action rose to Rebecca's lips, but as she began to voice it she was cut off by the squeal of twisting metal. She stared gape-mouthed as Michelle planted her feet and leaned back, still pulling; a thin thread of light, so slender she almost dismissed it as wishful thinking, now fell upon the floor through the space where the buckled door no longer sat flush with the jamb.

Metal creaked again, and Rebecca clambered to her feet, scarcely able to credit what she was seeing; her delicate sister, who'd barely managed to pass high school gym, was slowly but surely wrenching the door away from its frame. If she could only snap the shank holding the lock—they'd still have to win their way free of the Institute, but at least they would have a chance. She scrambled to her feet, willing Michelle on with every fiber of her being, but scared to make the slightest sound or move that might distract her.

As if sensing Rebecca's urgency, Michelle raised one leg to brace against the wall beside the door, her skirt falling in a tangled cascade as she threw the full weight of her body into her efforts. The door whined again, and pulled another, visible inch away from its moorings as the sound of its destruction increased in volume. Surely another moment, another second and it would part from its frame—but Michelle slipped, her hands coming free, the force she had been applying to the door sending her crashing to the concrete with a sickening, bone-jarring thud.

"Shelly!" Rebecca hurried back to her, uncertain of what to do but knowing she needed to help. Michelle tried to raise herself on her elbows, but slithered back to the ground, her eyelids fluttering. “Shelly, are you okay? Michelle, please, talk to me!"

Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before she managed to force speech from it. “I'm... let me... rest for a minute, Becky," she wheezed. “Let me... think."

"Okay, okay, just as long as you're--" Frantic with worry, her eyes darted back and forth between her fallen sister and the obviously damaged door. If one of Nicolescu's servants happened to come along... “Maybe... maybe I can get my hand through the gap, and unlock it that way," she said in a rush, seizing on the idea. “You just stay here, okay? Just rest."

Hurrying to the door, she spent a fruitless moment attempting to wedge her hand through the gap, skinning the rise of her thumb badly, before turning back to see how her sister was doing. Michelle had rolled onto her side, and the feral, predatory interest that glittered in her eyes caused Rebecca to redouble her efforts at the door.

* * *

It was the stitch in his side that finally sent Mel stumbling to his knees.

Doubling over to clutch his midsection, gray spots danced before his vision as he fought for breath. His arms were like leaden weights dragging him down, save for the searing pain of his crushed wrist, and he leaned forward, his forehead almost brushing the cool, damp grass. He sucked air savagely through teeth clenched in agony as he struggled to gather himself, to get the hell up, to get out of this Godforsaken place, but his limbs would not cooperate.

Finally able to raise his head, he beheld the tall iron spires of the fence at the rear of the grounds, and sagged in dismay; they were nearly twice as tall as the gates out front, nearly fifteen feet high. Though the slick bars would provide little purchase, they would not have presented much of a problem under other circumstances. In his debilitated state, he wasn't certain that he could do it at all; he definitely couldn't manage it while keeping the gun drawn.

Didn't matter. He'd have to. Somehow.

He dragged himself the last few feet and allowed himself to collapse against the bars, wincing as his injuries protested the new posture; he must have hurt his leg a lot more badly than he'd realized when he fell. There wasn't any time to rest, they'd be after him any moment—but he simply could not go any farther; not until he had a chance to catch his breath. He'd fight, if they came upon him, but he could not run.

He had been expecting claws and teeth to sink into his back at any moment, and perhaps it was the fact that none had that allowed him to convince himself it was acceptable to rest. Minutes had passed, perhaps as long as a quarter of an hour, since he'd heard the thing's voice; it was hard to judge the passage of time through the muddled fog of pain. That had distracted them, obviously, but he'd heard nothing since; too much to hope that they'd all managed to kill each other off, he knew, but it was a nice idea. It certainly seemed to have kept his pursuers occupied, but he didn't think it mattered much; they'd get around to him once they could. They could probably smell him, track him like a rabbit.

He craned his neck upwards to regard the fence he leaned against once more, willing himself to find the strength to climb it; but he knew he could not, not yet. That had to have been Vladislas out there, and if what Nicolescu had said to him was true, he'd still be out there, and mad as hell to boot; he'd probably be delighted to get a chance to settle his score with Mel. So even once he managed to escape from this particular batch of vampires, he'd have to be on his guard and ready for anything... not that there was much keeping them from chasing him into the city itself, either.

Bad odds.

Didn't matter. He'd figure it out. But not... not while he was so tired.

He leaned back against the fence, letting his head droop; he didn't doze, exactly, but his body and mind had both reached the point where it was simply impossible to continue any father. Though his senses remained somewhat alert, his thoughts were blank; he concentrated merely on breathing, on staying awake, on silencing the howls of agony from the wounds he had taken that night. Despite Nicolescu's assurances that the scratches Michelle had dealt him were merely scratches—and what were those worth?--his face throbbed with a sick, feverish discomfort, and his wrist--

He jerked upright at the soft tinking sound; tried to scramble to his feet, but his bad leg gave way beneath him. He pulled himself into a crouch, straining his eyes and ears for signs of pursuit, but none were forthcoming. Might have been the breeze, might have been the grass rustling against some piece of junk hidden in the lawn--

This time he saw it: a tiny glimmer described an arc through the air, flying past him to bounce off the nearest of the gravestones. It skittered and hopped across the grass, landing nearly at his at his feet. He leaned forward, neglecting to consider its point of origin while he considered what it was, and deeply regretted that when he realized that it was a flattened silver slug.

Something wrapped around his midsection with punishing, crushing force, hauling him back against the bars of the fence as a cold, leathery hand clamped over the lower part of his face, stifling his shout of dismay. He managed to get the gun up, jamming it behind him into something hard and unyielding, but the rusty, croaking sound of laughter in his ear stilled his trigger finger. He was wrenched back against the bars again, banging his head painfully. “That didn't work the first time, either."

Oh, shit.

He kicked his legs futilely, scrabbling for some kind of purchase, but the effort merely earned him a brutal shake. “You are a nuisance, a thief, and an interloper," the dead voice grated into his ear, “but if you have only the wit to listen, you may yet prove to have a purpose."

The grip around his mouth and nose loosened fractionally, and Mel panted gratefully, his pulse thudding in his ears. “You oppose this craven jackal as steadfastly as you have opposed me, and tonight, I find it within myself to admire that." The chill, rough fingers slipped beneath his nose, letting him free, letting him breathe. “This slinking, fearful one has stolen from both of us, and cowers within his stronghold to gloat, where even I cannot beard him unassisted. Only bid me cross this threshold, and I shall see him destroyed." The hand withdrew entirely from his face, leaving him free to gasp desperately for air.

"You're crazy," he coughed, squirming against the implacable grip that pinned him to the fence. “You'll kill us all!"

Fingers bit into his neck like wires, choking what little breath he'd managed to regain from him; he could feel the hot trickle of blood from the punctures the tips of its claws had made. “If that was my aim this night, do you truly think you could prevent it?" it purred into his ear. “Use your weapon, if it pleases you. I am sure the parvenu will be delighted to learn where you have been hiding; as delighted as I will be, to see you torn apart." The claws dug in fractionally, widening the thin weals of pain, before releasing him entirely. “You have made yourself my enemy and tried me sorely... but for this, and only this, I may look past it."

Mel wheezed dully, his vision wavering as he struggled for coherence. “You're... you say you'll let us all go, if I let you in?"

"Never." The voice was a crisp growl. “My pretty one will remain with me, as is her place. But your woman is... dear to her." The backs of its knuckles brushed delicately against Mel's cheek, stroking his face, and he couldn't prevent himself from flinching; the creature laughed again. “Do this thing, and I shall reunite you with your bride."

Mel blinked furiously, trying to center his thoughts, and squirmed unconsciously as he did so; the arm around his chest tightened just enough to remind him of just what an impossible situation he found himself in. If he told it no, it was going to kill him. If he let it in, it would probably still kill him; he knew better than to expect one of these things to keep its word. And to leave Michelle in its hands... they'd done all of this for her, but she was one of them; they were vicious, untrustworthy, they were monsters. She hadn't harmed them yet... but she was new. Becky didn't deserve that, didn't deserve to have to hold a tiger by its tail until it finally turned on her.

And if it wreaked enough havoc, maybe in the confusion... maybe Michelle would be able to keep it from killing Becky... maybe they could... maybe... He bit his lip, too tired, too worn, too out of his depth to continue further. It was a slight chance, but it was the only one he had.

"Alright," he said finally, hoping he was not about to damn them all. “Alright." His mouth was suddenly bone dry, as if attempting to prevent him from carrying out his decision. “I..." He paused, wondering just how much the invitation affected them. “As long as you're going to get that son of a bitch, come on in."

He let his eyes drift shut, and waited to find out if he'd just made the last mistake of his life.