Act II

(For Marinus, whoever you may be)

Hermes woke slowly. In his huge blood red bed he rolled over and stretched, yawning like a lion. Lazily, as though he couldn't really be bothered to awake, he pulled himself onto all fours and stretched his shoulder joints, rippling the twin black tattoos across his shoulder blades. Revolvers and wings, the tips of the guns practically touched and the outer most tips of each feather crept onto his arms. He wrapped the sheet around his lower half and stared at the room in the mirror for a while before opening the huge wardrobe door and stepping inside to pick out his clothes for the night. Hermes was quite grateful that his parents had blessed him with good looks and his sire had blessed him with the natural predisposition to be pale and slim. Since he couldn't really look in the mirror to check, it was nice to be reassured. The young man wriggled his way into black jeans with long silver zips up the side of each leg, black leather biker boots and a shirt that was little more than two squares of semi transparent cloth stitched together at the shoulders. And it was thus dressed that Hermes left his room and into the elegant bustle of the house.

It was the perfect stereotype that house, the huge gothic mansion on the moors of south west England. Everything was black, burgundy or purple, archaic and Gothic-Victorian pillars, staircases, arches. The whole décor was rich and ancient. Hermes loved it, especially as below the ancient house, the lower floors were so strikingly different. Though the house looked old, technology abounded. Hermes abandoned the thought of breakfast and strolled along the plush carpeted corridor to knock on another black lacquered door just like his own. He didn't wait from a reply from within, but pushed the door and walked in.

He was unsurprised to find the room's only occupant still asleep. On the mahogany desk a sleek top of the range laptop blinked silently, working away on decoding something or other. Hermes shrugged, he really had very little time for the technicalities of computers. He didn't want to know how or why it did things, he just wanted to know whether or not it could play music very loudly. On the big iron bed among white sheets and huge amounts of fur throws and cushions, a boy lay supine and comfortably asleep. He was not much younger than Hermes appeared to be, perhaps seventeen or so but still with that soft childlike look about him. Hermes went over and sat on the side of the bed and drew long pale fingers through the floppy bronze red hair. The boy breathed slowly, his lips parted, his eyelashes not so dark against his tan dark skin. He did not get that colour by sitting in the sun. People like him were born into strange good looks. Do you recognise him too? He hasn't changed at all in the half year since we saw him last in Lille, strange for someone of his apparent age.

"Wake up Hazan," Hermes purred to the boy as he leant over to place a soft kiss on the top of his head. And before he knew it there was a small strong hand on the back of his neck, and sharp teeth were pressing into his throat. Hermes let out a sigh, pleasure or resignation, it wasn't clear, and the boy called Hazan bit into him. He took very little blood and Hermes sat on the edge of the bed rubbing saliva into the already closing wounds onto his throat. He would still bear telltale bruise marks for the rest of the night and he knew he would get more than a few strange looks tonight.

"I missed you this morning." Hazan spoke from the bathroom as he scrubbed himself clean, standing before the sink, not bothered to actually have a shower.

"So I see," Hermes felt only a little disgruntled. It hadn't been his choice originally not to meet as they usually did. Hazan had said he had work to do, and maybe they should sleep in their separate rooms that day. Hermes had agreed, but now he felt out of sorts, he would have far preferred to have been greeted with a kiss.

Hazan appeared from the bathroom, naked and bronze and beautiful, his hair sleek and falling in his eyes. He went over to Hermes, sat on the pale man's lap and began to kiss him, starting at the open neck of his shirt and working upwards, proving, yet again, his ability to be romantic and lustful was well beyond natural ability. It was an apology for the previous night, not for his actions that morning. And what with grand gestures, vampiric charm and a deep mind link being so much more meaningful than words, neither spoke as they interacted, fighting out all their problems and little hurts through the medium of soft groans.

Join me in walking from the room, leaving this particular couple to each other, and descending the grandiose staircase, carpeted in blood red, the banisters carved out of black wood, each one a slightly different twisting snake. At the foot of the stairs is a huge statue of a strange and beautiful gargoyle, a beast like a griffin and a wolf. I stroke the creature's noble head as I pass and you follow me nervously, checking over your shoulder, sure that the beast has moved.

In the great hall, a huge table is lain with white cloths and silver cutlery, goblets and candelabras heavy with flames. A massive host of people move about the house, seated here or in any number of other rooms, talking in whispers. All are decadently dressed, many look as though they have stepped from a medieval court or Queen Victoria's palace. And they are all pale. In every room is a round table bearing at least one large silver carafe. From these every glass in the house is filled, gothic wine goblets filled with thick red liquid. It lingers on the lips of the women, almost indistinguishable from their lipstick. The colour of blood.

Aska sits at the head of the long table and although it is not a formal gathering all turn to him as their Lord, as is only right and proper. He is brooding, dark eyes staring into his goblet. An orderly offer to fill his glass, and the older man waves him away with a death pale hand. He does not hunger for blood. He thinks of his son, the boy Hazan Nunzio and knows, with a Sire's grace, just what the boy is doing, and with whom. With a series of well established walls he blocks out those moans and images from his conscious mind, never able to extinguish them completely. He is not happy with the situation. It is so highly unusual to begin with. Aska sighs deeply and wishes his son could have chosen a more suitable partner. Not a girl, he can see clearly, and always has been able to, that his boy doesn't find any joy in that. But Hermes... such an upstart with his modern clothes and modern language and no respect for the old values. Aska knew that there were more and more 'new world' vampires these days, but mostly they stuck to the cities, abandoned by their sires, not part of any coven. Hazan's preference for a lover deeply troubled Aska. There were strange and dangerous times ahead and he would need the boy with all his wits about him if they were all to survive what Aska could only think of as impending doom. Should the future continue unimpeded it would be a total destruction of the old ways. Aska had chosen to be an immortal, but like all vampires, he did not like to let go of the past.

Toulouse's trunk arrived with his suitcase at the end of the second week in August. It had been a year since he had been home, but his parents were not especially looking forward to their son's imminent return. Thankfully he would be off to University, to Oxford, a good school, where he could learn the way of the world, ready for his father to teach him the trade and for him to take over the business. The trunk was the fourth that had arrived and Lady Heron had had the maids unpack everything and put it away so that the trunks could be cleared out and the house could be left looking spotless once more. August was the time for parties and Lady Heron hoped her son would be back in time for her to introduce him to the best of the daughters of her fellow rich friends. As soon as he got a proper girlfriend her would settle down, become a man.

Toulouse was due back in a week and his letter said he was finishing up in the south of France, in a little place he hadn't even bothered to name. Despite the lack of love between the three members of the Heron family, the Lady Heron did miss her son, his bright cheerful face and his ready smile, the house had seemed dead without him. Every year of his education he had been at boarding school and the summer was the one time he was around, the sun seemed, to her at least, standing before the leaded glass window staring out at the grounds, less strong, without him in he house.

The day of Toulouse's arrival came and went. His parents did not worry too much, he had probably lost track of time and delayed his stay somewhere. His father thought he may have taken a trip into the Netherlands. But as the week drew on and the end of August came ever closer, Lord and Lady Heron began to worry. On the night of the first day of September, Lady Heron woke from a strange dream and turned in the ornate antique bed to shake her husband's shoulder.

"Harry! Harry..."

He woke with a startled grunt and rolled over to see his wife's aghast face, white with the moisturizer she applied before going to bed.

"What?"

"I think Toulouse may be in trouble."

"I'm sure," Lord Heron ran a hand through his thinning hair, "That the boy is just continuing his holiday, probably he has gone straight to Oxford. It wouldn't surprise me. He has nothing to come back here for."

"Perhaps we should call the University."

"Sure," Harry Heron rolled over and settled down into his bed like a dog, "You can in the morning if you want."

Mid September came and there was still no word from Toulouse. There was however a call from the university. Term had begun, and where was Toulouse Dorian Heron, for he had not enrolled, not checked into his dorm room and not begun his lectures. Finally Lord Heron began to share his wife's concern. They went to London, to talk to the French consul. That was where he had been last and the Jendarme were alerted to the fact that there was boy missing. His parents gave an accurate description and the Consul faxed to the South of France a recent picture to be circulated. And after that there was nothing that could be done but sit and wait and hope to hear something. One by one the Heron's contacted the police forces of the various other countries he had been to, they wrote to the return addresses that had been on his letters, the ones that had arrived with his luggage. They got replies, yes he had been there, and no, they had not seen or heard of him from such-and-such a date onward. And from the eighth of august he had vanished completely.

With September came the ran and the world outside the windows turned grey. Lady Mercedes Heron was left largely alone in the big old house. Alone with a host of maids, housekeepers and a butler, but alone all the same. Every day she stared out the windows at the rain and every night she had the strange dreams. They were always different but the main themes remained the same. Some presence she couldn't see bound threads around her wrists and throat and then blood was poured from a silver carafe down her throat. In the distance, how near or far she had no idea, but she could see a black lake, colder than ice, darker than death, and above it floated and wove on strange breezes ribbons like snakes or dragons. And then the mist closed in.

The wide shouldered stranger with the long loose blond hair sits down on the low brick wall that runs along the north bank of the Thames and watches two hundred years of liquid history flow past in a fetid tide. While the river might not smell that bad to anyone else, to him, with his over hyped senses, it stinks. The air in the city tastes foul, he has learned that while smell is bad, to taste the shit in everything is far worse. So he breathes shallowly and awaits his visitor. He wouldn't have come here but for the summons brought to him by the wind, one he cannot ignore for too long. He takes off his sunglasses and amber-gold eyes stare out at the world. In the modern world his unusual features can pass without too much fuss. Most people think he wears coloured contacts. Kotac doesn't though, he's not into altering his appearance to look beautiful. Tough, strong, fast, these are the things he puts his faith in, the things that will get him out of danger one way or another.

Too take his mind off the roar of the city, Kotac turns his strange eyes to the sky. Of course, there is no real sky to be seen, even in the height of summer, London is tainted by a light smog, dimming the blue of the sky. The man watches the pollution caked leaves of the beech tree rustle in the traffic wind and begins to drift off into the rhythm of the breeze. It is only as his eyes begin to slide closed and his vision blurs that he remembers precisely who sent him his summons. He sits bolt upright in a flash, moving again as though he simply goes from one position to the next without passing through the spaces in between. He shakes the wind off his shoulders, effectively removing the mantle that the breeze has lain across his shoulders. In this place, at this time, he does not want to be lured into a false sense of security.

The clock tower booms out and the rush begins in earnest. If he was uncomfortable before, Kotac is now almost scared. The rush and crush of people all moving frantically fast. Kotac moves quick, but only when he is on the prowl. He hears the noise from behind him, and it is almost as if the whole world goes dim just so he can hear that one sound. Like the ringing of a crystal bell, the noise that signals the arrival of the one that Kotac has come to meet. He turns to see, the crowd parting, apparently of its own accord, to let pass among them a figure clothes all in black, his long hair curling around him, held upon strange breezes. As the figure reaches Kotac the purple hair settles into a more normal fall and eyes of pure gold look into Kotac's own, which pale by comparison in insignificant yellow, washed out by the power that emanates from this man who is not a man at all.

"Kotac Dann."

"Lord Yosui," Kotac is hard pressed to bow as he knows he should, but a stiff incline of his proud head is all he can muster, "I am here, I received your call."

"Dispensing with pleasantries as usual Kotac and straight to the point," Yosui smiles a strange but welcoming smile, "Come with me now and I shall show you our beautiful city."

"I hate your city Yosui, as well you know. Get on with it and tell me why you have brought me here."

A frown spreads across the strange man's forehead as the other let out an unconscious growl. Yosui holds out a slim hand toward the other and a beautiful breeze plays around his fingers. It leaped out and took hold of Kotac's hair, tugging gently at the ends, beckoning him to come and play. The wind spoke to him in a voice that was its own and Yosui's all at once.

Come away and play with me. Has it been so long since we last met that you have no time for an old friend. My beautiful wolf, why won't you smile for us once more?

Kotac's features soften a little as he hears those words. They remind him of a summer many years ago on the banks of the Thames when the city had been mostly horses, motorcars preceded down the road by men waving flags. The two men had sat on the grass bank and eaten sandwiches, watching pleasant society pass them by.

"You have heard the whispers too?" Kotac asks in a voice distant with memory.

"Del Deorion brought them to me."

Kotac glances at him from under surprised eyebrows.

"You mean that fool is still hanging around?"

"He's not a fool, though he can be silly at times."

"He's dangerous."

"And you're not?" Yosui smiles and pats Kotac's shoulder, recapturing his playful breeze, "Come now Kotac, who are you kidding? I just know you're dying to come back to the house so you can Change."

Kotac shook himself a little and smiled. He knew that Yosui was right and so, with a small assenting nod, they turned and went across the bridge and into Westminster.

They moved through the streets easily, the crowds parting around them as easily as water flows and splits around a rock. They descended the stairs into the tube station and Kotac wretched a little, dryly.

"Would it kill you to walk home?"

"No, but this is faster."

Kotac growled low in his throat, but shut his mouth and concentrated on following Yosui through the crowds, trying to ignore the incredible stink of so many people in such a small space, sweat and heat mixing with the scent of damp clothes, deodorant, lack of deodorant and diesel fumes. Pain started to grow behind Kotac's eyes. They took the Jubilee line to GreekPark, changed for what Kotac could only remember as the sky line because of the colour and went to Oxford Circus. The lycan suddenly realised that for some reason they were taking the long way round, he looked at Yosui as they boarded the train bound for Liverpool Street and raised an eyebrow.

Are we being followed?

He didn't get a reply, but they got off at Warren Street, got back on the sky line to Euston then double back to CamdenTown. Kotac pulled himself from the underground system spitting and snarling, stood in the middle of the road and shook himself down. He dragged his fingers through his hair, then very calmly walked over to the nearest gutter and was quite violently sick. A pair of punks in plaid and studs holding a sign looked at him worriedly while their friend went to fetch a glass of water he then offered to the big blond man. Kotac took it gratefully and washed his mouth out. Yosui watched on unmoved, then let out a sharp whistle. Kotac thanked the punks and gave them back the empty glass. The two men then moved off, Kotac annoyed and Yosui simply mildly worried, not for his friend's health, but for other reasons. He had felt something in the tunnels down there, and it was not happy.

Somewhere in the underground system between Oxford Circus and Euston a figure stood in the centre of the carriage and sniffed the air. It had lost them, they'd gone above ground somewhere. The figure growled and barged off at the next stop, fighting to get out of the system. There were too many smells in the tunnels. The man cursed and growled, and while the humans only saw a man in a suit looking angry at his watch, the winged figure seated high on the crossbar of a lamppost put his hand to his mouth and gasped to see such a creature in the centre of the city. It was a small black skinned gangly thing with sharp teeth and long claws that scarped the pavement as it walked, arms by its sides. This was worrying. The Winged One got up and took to the sky, now surely, was the time to deliver the warning.

Toulouse was having one of those dreams you don't want to wake up from, not because they are particularly pleasant, but because you're trying like mad to work out what one earth is going on. Look at him, he seems so comfortable, hardly moving at all in his sleep. And why should he be uncomfortable when he lies upon a large bed of white, shut off from us and the rest of the room by masses of gauze curtain. The room is not large or small, it is plain, there is one chair and a slim metal cupboard. There is no other furniture save the bed. The window is covered but light seeps into the room around the curtains and illuminates everything. I go to the window. Behind the glass and the curtains it is barred. Steel poles set into the very fabric of the wall, impossible to remove without tearing down half the building.

In Toulouse's dream he is watching his dream self through ghost eyes. He is home, but this is not his house. The people with him are not his family, they are strange, some look normal, others look dangerous. A great golden furred dog pads around the house and Toulouse, loving of animals as he is, has no desire to stroke it. There is a man with hair like moonlight who is reading in what looks to be a library. A black figure dances in the pouring rain in the ballroom, around the dining table, the figures shift and change, men and woman with a flow of strange faces. There is a bird as big as a small car and a lion the size of a hamster. Nothing is right here. There is man who is apparently his lover, and a man called Angel who he is in love with, but isn't his lover. There is a girl with bloodstained lips who kisses his chest. In his bedroom there is no bed, only a black lake. Over its surface wind ribbons of light and air. They curl around his throat and wrists, intent on drowning him.

The raven haired boy wakes with a sudden jolt and looks out beyond the semi transparent curtain that surrounds him. You shudder beside me, scared, you think he's seen us. But no, behind us, in the doorway, a figure stands, and it is this figure that has drawn Toulouse's beautiful eyes, not us. The boy shifts a little, pulling the bedclothes up around his naked form. The white sheets do little to hide the smooth lines of his legs as the rises and fall of his sun burnished chest is enough to make even my breath come less easily.

"Who are you?"

There is no reply from the silent figure and Toulouse weaves his head from side to side like a snake, trying to catch a glimpse of his tormentor through the fabric.

"Where am I?"

The figure comes into the room and the white painted door clicks to a close behind. Toulouse is not used to being ignored. He is not used to getting his own way. For Toulouse, much in life has been easy. Oh, he studied hard and exams were as bad for him as they were for anyone, but for Toulouse all anything usually takes is an easy smile.