Act III

Kotac stood in the doorway and sniffed. The house smelt strange to him, not as it had been when he had lived here years before. There was the underlying scent of Yosui, a fragrance so familiar that it permeated him and appeared before his wolf eyes as a purple blue haze. He towered over Yosui in his half wolf form, having begun to change the second the door was closed. It felt so good to be free and comfortable again. For Kotac, being in human form was a little like being chained. Everything was limited. But there was another scent, mingling with Yosui's, weaving about the house, something that showed up on his visible radar as a smoky trail leading all over the house. Yosui started up the stairs, but Kotac looked into the lounge. Near the sofa the two coloured scents wound together and Kotac did not need his mind to provide him with the images of what happened there.

"Yosui..."

The purple haired man stopped and turned on the stairs.

"Enough Kotac. Don't even say it. He was my choice alright?"

The lycan growled low in his throat, but under the power and anger of the Lord's gaze he bowed his great head, ears laid flat back against his skull. Of course he didn't need to speak for Yosui to understand what was going on in his mind. Kotac had half forgotten that Yosui knew almost everything without having to try. It had always seemed like a gift to Kotac, now, he wasn't so sure.

The wolf followed the man up the stairs where he was shown to what had once been his room, and now, though there was a slightly stale smell in the air, it was his room again. Kotac went to Yosui, bowed low and rubbed against the man who had once been his lover. It was a wolf thing, the body language of thanks and submission. Yosui knew this and his hand clutched Kotac's throat for a moment in a rough approximation of a short bite. Kotac growled playfully, licked the back of Yosui's hand and walked around the room.

"Kotac, could you change please? I'd like you to meet him now."

The wolf sighed and shrugged and soon enough he was human again. He walked over the wardrobe and pulled on the jeans he found their along with a green t-shirt.

"Thanks for keeping my stuff."

"It's not like I was running out of space."

Kotac stretched, his muscles rippling just visibly under his shirt and gave a yawn that was half a growl.

"Nice trick you've got there."

The lycan spun around, cursing himself silently for not having smelt the approach of the thing that now stood in the doorway. Black skin, silky hair falling to his waist, black smoke tendrils and orange red flame curling off him like mist, The Demon Del Deorion stood leaning against the door jam dressed in nothing more than a black sarong wound about his hips. A cigarette hung from his lips.

"Those things will kill you y'know."

A black hand removed the cigarette and held it out.

"It's just candy wolf boy," the demon sneered, derisive flame coloured eyes fixed upon the wolf as he let his arm encircle Yosui's waist, "You should worry less."

Kotac growled, his posture changing instantly from one of annoyance to a stance of attack. The demon was just as fast. In less than a second his stood between Kotac and Yosui, a ball of flame consuming his right hand, his eyes narrowed.

"Bring it dog boy, let's see just how fast your fur burns."

In the just inside the doorway, Yosui's golden eyes flashed with anger.

"Enough!" He didn't need to yell, the anger in his voice was enough it quell the both of them. A strong wing whipped around the room, subduing the demon's flame and hitting Kotac with enough force to make him stagger. Yosui's hair floated on the wind around him and neither the black demon or the lycan thought they'd ever seen anyone more angry in their lives. He turned golden eyes on the demon. "Out." There was no room for argument, he left. Kotac felt slightly relieved. "Don't think I'm not angry with you as well Kotac Dann. This is my house and he is my mate and you will behave accordingly. Am I understood?"

"Yes Yosui."

The Lord turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, leaving Kotac alone with his thoughts.

In his room, the one swathed in blue and white silks on the next floor up, The Demon Del Deorion waited with his head down. He had not meant to annoy Yosui so severely, but he didn't like the wolf being here. Just the knowledge that he and Yosui had history was enough to rile the demon. He shrugged, trying to shake off the feeling. It wasn't that he didn't trust Yosui, but he didn't trust Kotac not to try anything. He felt Yosui come into the room and turned, words ready on his lips to try and fix everything. He was met with a hard sharp slap. Holding his cheek Del Deorion turned hurt eyes upon his lover. Yosui's eyes softened and the breeze slipped out from between his fingers, beckoning the demon to come closer. He obeyed and Yosui's lips were soft on his own, strong hands stroking his hair and holding his jaw.

"I'm sorry," the demon sniffed and tried to pull away but Yosui held him tight and the tip of his tongue licked away the diamond tear that crept down Del Deorion's face.

"Hush love, it's OK."

"You're not going back to him are you?"

Yosui's face softened as he smiled.

"Who am I with now?"

Del Deorion smiled and Yosui kissed him again, each telling the other their love in words only they could understand.

And the wolf leapt out of the mist, higher than any man's reach and swallowed the sun. All the lights went out and the world was plunged into an unending winter.

Toulouse woke in the silence of his inward rush of breath. He was alone in the plain room still, sitting up in the bed staring at the canopy above him. The whole room was bleak, dark and grey like winter. He was drenched in cold sweat, shaking, his arms barely able to support him as he gulped down air. Strands of hair were plastered to his skin and he pushed his hair back away from his face as he fell onto the bed. He closed his eyes again and strange and painful images flashed in the red tinted dark behind his eyelids. Toulouse opened his eyes. The greyness of the room, the strange situation he was in suddenly seemed more welcoming and more understandable than the dreams his unconsciousness was throwing up. He could feel the claws of sleep pulling at his eyelids but the fear that tore at his mind was stronger and Toulouse stayed awake.

Naked he paced the square of the room, measuring out the seconds in footsteps, trying to pass the time. Once he had counted out about an hour he walked over to his small pile of clothes and picked up his watch. It was three in the morning. Another three hours at least until he could actually guarantee any company, or a second visit from the strange blind creature. Jeroh had spoken of the Master, but that had been hours ago, many hours ago and still no such person had visited him. He had fallen asleep in the early evening and woken to find a rapidly cooling but very filling meal on the floor just inside the door. Obviously he was not too be awoken if he slept. Toulouse had tried to stay awake, his whole being burning with the desire to know why all of this was happening. He'd failed and the dreams which had come to him had been terrible and frustrating in their allusiveness. The second time, somewhere around half past midnight, Toulouse had woken to find blood on his fingertips and under his nails. The shallow wounds on his hip itched and prickled but there was little pain from such scraping.

The view from the window was bleak. Grey London, illuminated with harshly orange streetlamps. Toulouse opened the window and pulled at the bars. Nothing budged, he was held in tight and the bars were so close together that he could only just lean his head against them and still see the outside world. Toulouse was worried, scared, confused and terrified. But most of all he was bored. There was nothing to do but sleep and pace the room fruitlessly. Usually the idea of lying around and drifting in and out of dreams would be pleasant, but now, what with strange visions looming so close at all times, sleep was the last thing Toulouse wanted. Even closing his eyes to blink created small snapshots, things too quick for the eyes to understand, but enough for the mind to be scared. A cool damp breeze blew in through the window as Toulouse rested his bronzed shoulder against the bars and unwillingly fell asleep.

The mountain unfurled into a great creature with horns and wings that bore down on the land below. The dragon screamed and beings of living flame spilled from his gaping maw. Claws bigger than houses rent the land, the whole world being torn to pieces by a creature with no face. A creature like a dog but bigger than a car roamed the streets, blood and saliva dripping from its mouth. The creature of the mountain roared and scooped up humans from the city, sent them tumbling over and over in the air to smash on the ground. They looked like toys in his great hands. Someone threw thunderbolts down to strike the earth and the screams brought forth more and smaller beings, creatures to prey on the mind rather than the body. And the wolf leapt out of the mist that hung over the black lake, ribbons wrapped around its feet and open its mouth wide enough to swallow the sun.

Toulouse woke in pain, having fallen to the floor. He had fallen asleep upright, but a twitching sleeping body cannot ignore gravity forever. The boy groaned, shifting over to lie on his back while his shoulder throbbed in pain. He rubbed the muscles with his hand, searching for any permanent damage. His head ached, there was a severe headache happening in the space behind his eyeballs. Slowly he got up, shaking sweat soaked and sleep messed hair out of his eyes. It was light in the sky now, the deep night grey and orange giving over to a lighter shade touched with blue one this, the tail end of summer. Toulouse padded over to his watch, something of the deep sea diving kind, sleek and beautiful with a whole bunch of other dials Toulouse never looked at. But for some reason he looked at them now. And he found, instead of it being one of the last days of autumn, that it was midway through October and Halloween was fast approaching. Toulouse was shocked. Jeroh's visit has definitely been yesterday, he'd been checking his watch since then. The month and a bit that had past must have done so while he was, what, asleep? It seemed unlikely. Had he been in some strange coma? The last thing he remembered was falling asleep under an olive tree in the south of France. Now he was in London, over a month and a half later. Toulouse sat on the bed and buried his face in his hands.

Strangely, to him, he didn't think of how his parents had missed him, or how he was late for starting at Oxford or whether his friends had noticed his long absence or not. He thought about this time last year when he had stopped off in Florida before going on to Banff for the winter. He'd done all the tourist things, zoos and theme parks, spent days lying around in the sun on the beach or lazing by the pool. Strangers were company for a few hours or a few days. And how this was different from that. Toulouse hadn't even been sure where he was going next, but it hadn't mattered, he was in complete control of everything. Now he was in control of nothing and every waking moment was poisoned by the fear of what sleep would bring him. He sat on the edge of the bed and gathered the white blanket around him even though he wasn't cold. And from this position, Toulouse Dorian Heron watch a blood red sun rise over London.

Hawk was on his front, wings spread wide over the hard bed on which he was lying. Eyes closed he let out a soft moan of pleasure as Angel's hands continued to work over him, massaging his tired and aching muscles. Skilled fingers worked on the tension points, rubbing away the pain that could turn to injury if something was not done. After he'd finished Hawk's body he cracked his knuckles, shook out his long hair and started working on the other's wings. Wings were delicate highly muscled things. A pulled muscle could result in slower flight for life or even the loss of flight altogether. It was every Winged One's greatest fear. To have wings and be denied flight. So Angel was more than careful as he worked to repair the damage done to these particular wings by not enough practice and too long a flight with too little rest and not enough energy to start with. Angel doubted whether the other would ever admit it, but Hawk was half dead when he had fallen into his arms. He'd starved his muscles of oxygen for just a little too long for them to recover on their own. Hawk had been soaking in warm water for the last day, various herbs and ointments burning, evaporating and being rubbed into him to help speed his healing.

Now he used massage and acupressure to save his friend's wings. Hawk didn't know how much damaged he'd done and Angel wasn't going to tell him, and while, even if the worst had happened, Hawk wouldn't lost the ability of flight, some of the finer points could have faded if Angel had not acted as swiftly as he did. Hawk was not a specialist in long distance flying, nor was he particularly fast. But when Meets came around he impressed with his ability to manoeuvre. Quick sharp turns in small spaces, changing direction in a heartbeat. It had saved his life more than once. Angel had no doubt that Hawk could avoid a speeding bullet.

Angel allowed himself to get lost the massage, letting his mind wander while his eyes trailed over his hands upon Hawk's body, nude save only for a towel. Hawk had been lucky, Angel, about to leave the city for a long night flight, had sensed his presence. He had doubted himself for a second, for he had not seen Hawk in years and while they had not parted on bad terms, there had been resentment in the air when Angel had last seen him take off room the rooftop. To feel Hawk again so close was a shock that shook the very core of him. Angel knew the other had come to deliver a message but whatever it was had not been passed on yet, what with Hawk being unconscious at first, and then too weak to do anything but breath and try to stay awake. His large dark eyes had followed Angel around the room.

The man with blue wings and long golden hair allowed his fingers to trail down Hawk's spine, rubbing little circles either side of the bone every few centimetres. Hawk moaned gently under the relaxing touch and Angel sensed that his friend was slipping off into dreams.

"Hawk?"

"Hmmm?" roused from his day dreams, the brown haired head rose a little.

"Why did you come?"

"I had something to tell you... doesn't seem so important now though."

Angel continued to massage his back, working up to the back of his neck where each touch roused a little moan or gasp from the man below his fingers.

"You worried me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. What did you need to tell me?"

Hawk closed his eyes, surrendering to the touch of skilled hands.

"I saw a Shade wandering in London."

Angel's eyes widened and he too knew.

Oxford in October, the town was awash with new university students. They were easy to pick out from the town's occupants and tourists, all of them excited, rushing around, young, fresh faced with arms full of books, stylishly dressed against the chill wind and discussing serious things amid the smiles and laughter of their peers. A young boy, too young to be starting at university, sat on the low stone wall outside TrinityCollege. Despite the cold and the grey weather, the yellow-orange sandstone was pleasing to the eye and boy, head bent over a book in his lap, was even more so.

Blonde hair fell over his face, fine pale features, slim inside a deep red jumper and a black scarf, blue jeans and dark trainers. He hardly concentrates on the book, eyes skimming the page. Despite his apparent years, his eyes tell a different story. Not old, there are no lines or wrinkles, but instead there is a deep pain in his eyes, as though he has seen too much in too little time. I group of students glance at him as they pass, several of their thoughts lingering to the boy. He looks up, his eyes hard and unrelenting and cruel and the girl still looking in his direction, imagining him naked, hurries to catch up with her friends, and does not look back.

The boy let's his eyes wander over the page, not actually reading, as he slowly lets down the walls he was taught to build just over two years ago now. He has got practiced at opening and closing the gates in his mind. Now he lets the close-by world into his mind. Not that he wanted to. It was a necessary practice to keep his mind and his gift sharp. Gift or curse, he still hadn't decided. The boy focused his energy and searched the air around him for word of the whispers he had heard of but not heard for himself. There is nothing like a first hand experience.

There it was, a thought different from the rustle of all the others, laden over with soft blackness even though the speaker wasn't aware of the situation. The boy slipped his book into a slim backpack, hooked it over his shoulder and began to walk toward the group who were wandering into the college grounds. He kept one ear on thoughts, the other on the actual conversation going on between the students.

"There are lots of odd people in London, what's so special about this one?" I'm hungry.

"He was weird, black skin." And that's not all, the flame, I can't mention the flame, they'll think I'm mad.

"Face paint?" Why does this sound odd?

"I don't think so somehow. I swear he said something, though I didn't catch what." Terrible screams, the pain, the flashing burning images. I don't wanna remember it. Take these dreams from me.

"Are we going for coffee? Get out of the cold?" I don't like where this conversation is going.

"Sure thing." Thank god for that, shall I have an espresso or a hot chocolate?

The boy left off following them, he'd heard enough to confirm his suspicions and the images he'd picked out of the student's memory were more than enough for him to handle. Slowly he closed all the doors to his mind, one by one sealing himself away from the thoughts of the humans who walked all around him.

The boy went to go and sit on the wall, turning back to his book and reading over, yet again, he top of page seventy-one. 'this shitty little room on the top floor of a Soho block, moaning about what might have been a life of total glory, griping about how this gift, that should've catapulted me into the stratosphere, has actually kept me in the gutter.'

A soft hand was lain on his shoulder, the boy closed the book and his blue eyes looked up into a pair of familiar faces.

"Hello Luka."

Hermes sat on the balcony railing that ran around the ballroom, just under the dome. It was precarious position, one from which he could easily be knocked, and vampire or no, he would still be damaged when he hit the black marble floor. He took a deep breath, fitted a new damp reed into the mouth piece and blew out a few soft slow notes on his clarinet. The instrument hung from a black strap around his neck. Back when was a child, and human, his mother had insisted that he played something. It was somewhere for him to put all his excess energy. Of course, it hadn't worked. Cooped up for hours in a stuffy room with an equally stuff teacher had just made him more jumpy. It had taken a long night of alcohol and someone draining all his blood to take his excess energy. For Hermes it had been euphoric, not scary, and he would have been perfectly happy to die.

There were footsteps behind him, Hermes listened but continued to play as the figure of his oldest friends leant his arms on the railing to his right. Ivan had long dark brown hair and whiskey coloured eyes. Pale and sharp, good with a gun, and good looking in a long leather coat with an old Stetson pulled low over his eyes. There was slim roll up held between his tight pinched lips.

"Bit late in the day isn't it?"

Hermes didn't reply to the soft southern drawl, enjoying the sound of the voice and fading notes of his music. Ivan didn't say anything, happy it seemed to share the growing silence.

"Nice day for it," Hermes said eventually. The ballroom below them was gloomy and dark, the glass dome obscured with dark blinds.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Shouldn't you?" Hermes fixed grey eyes upon his friend, daring him to say no more.

Ivan was not good at subtle hints.

"I thought you were sleeping with Hazan."

Hermes let his instrument drop from between his fingers.

"If I was sleeping with Hazan, do you really think I'd be out here, serenading the rising sun?"

"No, I guess not."

Hermes pulled himself back from the edge, set his clarinet aside an sat on the floor of the balcony, slipping his legs through the bronze bars and dangling his boots over the edge. Ivan came to sit beside him, and waiting patiently in silence for his friend to speak. It was an easy sort of silence, the silence shared by people who have known each other a very long time and have said many things.

"It's not fair," Hermes said at last, "Aska came back yesterday and spoke with him and now he doesn't want to know. It's like he's gone and become a different person. He's not my Hazan. He's someone else, Aska's son, wandering around and using his body and his voice."

"You think his Sire said something to him?"

Hermes turned angry eyes on his old friend and snapped.

"Oh, you don't think! God Ivan, of course Aska said something to him! He doesn't approve, he never has. Not even from a distance. It's just not fair! Why can't I be with him when Aska is around?"

Ivan knew he wasn't supposed to answer that question, instead he pulled out a pewter hip flask, took a swing and re lit his cigarette. He offered the flask to Hermes, who took it, drank and winced as the liquid hit the back of his throat and burned it's was down. He was used to beer and blood and the odd white rum. Hard whiskey was unknown territory.

"Easy up there young one," Ivan took the flask back and handed him the roll up. Hermes took a grateful drag and sent a smoke ring swirling over the dark ballroom.

And that was how it went. They passed the hip flask back and forth, alternating between smoking and drinking. Ivan rolled a second, and then a third, but Hermes said he liked sharing cigarettes, kind of like sharing kisses, so they passed it back and forth between them while Hermes, who usually spoke very little (though more that Ivan, who hardly spoke at all), broke his usual silence and poured forth all his worries. Not onto Ivan, but for him, spreading them out over the floor to be examinated and fiddled with before being neatly stored and put away again.

Hermes had been sitting on the balcony when it had all happened. He wasn't doing anything in particular, just sitting watching the stars wheel overhead through the glass ceiling. The ballroom was practically deserted, just a few of the coven members hanging about under the balcony and around the base of the ornate pillars that held up the ceiling. The doors had banged open, thrown by force, a force that became apparent as Hazan strode into view, crossing the floor in quick strides. Hermes had almost called out to him but then someone else screamed his name and Hazan turned around and the shouting began. Aska was furious, it was easy to see. Their conversation-argument was easy to hear as well but when Hermes thought back on it he could only remember the noise of shouting. Hazan and his sire had fought about something, he knew it was him, as they had almost come to blows. But then Hazan had turned on his heel again and stormed off. He didn't get very far. No one saw what Aska did, but Hazan stopped dead, shaking as though wanting to run. Aska held the boy's mind in a steely grip. Hazan had returned, willingly now, his mind bewitched, to his sire and knelt by his feet. And Aska had stroked the boy's head and looked up onto the balcony where Hermes sat and mouthed words that Hermes wanted to kill the older vampire for.

He is mine.

Hours later Hermes held the hip flask to his lips then set it aside on the stone floor. It was empty and in his brain, the last few hours were something of a blur. He turned to Ivan who was smoking still, the trail from his cigarette twirling through the air like a dragon. Ivan passed him the roll up which was only a stub by this point and began to roll another. It didn't worry the American vampire that he smoked, he was already dead, he could hardly do himself more damage. His kind really were as unchanging as the wind.

Ivan reached up, took off his hat and released his long hair from its ponytail, running his fingers through the dark fall of it. It was mid afternoon and they were both tired. Hermes had exhausted himself talking and Ivan knew everything there was to know now. His friend had no secrets from him any longer. And Ivan had listened, soaking it all up. He knew his purpose in all of this, simply to listen, roll smokes, and pass the hip flask back and forth. He'd had just under half and was fine, if a little tipsy. But Hermes, who was lighter built, younger and not used to whiskey at all was way beyond tipsy and right into wasted.

Hermes dangled his feet over the balcony and sighed heavily. He got up and Ivan followed him. The vampire stood, leaning against the railings for a few moments before turning to Ivan and announcing in a very normal voice;

"I think I'm drunk." Upon which he promptly fell over.

Ivan scooped him up, gathered his empty flask and his gear and began to walk as quietly as boots would allow through the great house. He found Hermes's room with problem and had to search his friend down for the key. In the gloom inside Ivan laid the other on the bed and pulled his unresisting and unhelpful body out of most of his clothes. Ivan could not be bothered to go all the way to his own room, so he simply rolled Hermes across the bed, got undressed and got in beside him. In the dark, Hermes snuggled into the presence of the other body, slim fingers wrapping tight around Ivan's arm.

The blue steel and glass pods rose and fell, rose and fell. The eternal Ferris wheel of London. The lines were always long, the prices high, but that didn't stop people. In how many other places can you get such a view of the city? The wheel turned inexorably slowly, if you looked at it you could hardly believe that it was spinning. But it turned none the less and to get on you have to step over into the pod while the craft is still in motion. It's not something for those afraid of heights.

Del Deorion crossed over WestminsterBridge and stopped to look down at the river that flowed beneath. Two hundred years of liquid history... and it was strange for him to think that his mate had been to London in at least every decade of those years. No one knew quite how old Yosui was. Del Deorion had come here very recently, within the last half century, preferring to live out his earlier years in far different climates. Deorion was, at heart, a creature of the deep north, born in the flame and shadow in the depths of a volcano.

In his smoky ragged black outfit he crossed the bridge, glancing quickly to the South Bank Lion before hurrying down the steps past the aquarium and the Saatchi gallery down to the wheel. Disgruntled, he stood in the line and glared at people who tried to catch his eye or whispered behind their hands. A group of pretty Japanese tourists, all smiles, wanted to have photos taken with him. Deorion conceded, letting himself be crowded around and petted and fawned over. They loved, his hair, his outfit, his eyes. Kids from Tokyo, and they thought his strange appearance was some elaborate get up. Deorion knew they were looked for some chink in the façade, something to prove his skills of disguise were less than par, but no such fault could be found, and so they moved off, with genuine praise, to collect their tickets.

When Del Deorion came to the desk, the young man at behind it looked up at him and gasped.

"Oh sir! Finally, your guest has been waiting nearly an hour. He's booked you a pod for a full circuit, just the two of you."

"What?" Del Deorion snarled?

The boy at the desk hesitated.

"Um, you are Mr. Shadow aren't you? You fit the description he gave."

Del Deorion rolled flame coloured eyes. It was just like a Hell demon to be so flamboyantly obvious.

"Yes, yes, that's me. Where do you want me to go?"

The boy handed him a shiny ticket and told him to jump the queue and present it to the man on the door. Deorion barely growled his thanks, just nodded and left. He only had to wait a further ten minutes at the base of the wheel while the right pod came around. Apparently his guest had already gone around twice, clocking up quite a fee in the process. The doors slid open and admitted Del Deorion, swishing closed behind him as the wheel continued on its slow progress round. The demon didn't move, but took the opportunity to study his companion.