---

That the neighborhood had once seen better days was evident in the once stately homes that lined its streets. But the elegant Victorians had fared badly in the intervening years of neglect and weather, the adobe-style homes faded and cracking, and the small scattering of mansions had been converted to apartments. A street that had once heard the clip-clop of horses' hooves as carriages carried the wealthy and powerful was now lined with litter and broken-down cars, some up on bricks.

At the end of the street stood a lone rambling Victorian; a little less shabby than its brethren, the faded blue of its exterior crisscrossed with ivy, the grass of the front lawn was overgrown and untended, as was the rose bushes that lined the house. On the porch a swing--once white but yellowed from exposure--hung by one chain; when the wind blew it would rock and emit an eerie wail as it swung on the chain.

Of the houses in the neighborhood, this once was untouched by graffiti, the glass of windows--grimmed with dust as they were--still whole over the years.

If one was brave enough to venture up on the stairs, they would give an ominous creak...and that creak was more than enough to send the bravest of children skittering back to his or her waiting fellows, heart thumping in scrawny chest. Looking up at the still house, the white shutters with their inner ring of black like great wide eyes and the blackness of door and porch in the dark like some gaping maw, it was possible to believe that the boogeyman existed...and that he lived here.

A black-clad figure emerged into the pool of light provided by a nearby street lamp, pausing to tilt head back and gaze at the house. Hands shoved in his pockets, Michael focused on the house, tenatively extending his newly discovered senses to touch the house, ready to pull back that questing mental finger as quickly as a child did a finger touched to a burner. As soon as he felt the presence in the house brush him, he pulled back physically and mentally, slamming shields into place. Held himself absolutely still, not even daring to breathe, as he waited with hammering heart for the lashing out of power...

But there was nothing.

Warily he approached the house and with the light-footed grace that came with this new existence he made his way up the porch without sound. One of the few benefits of the change that had been wrought on him, the ability to *be* a shadow, to slip soundlessly from place to place. Over the last year that ability had stood him in good stead as he had sought to reconcile himself with the curse that he had become, to find a meaning--a purpose--to this...life. If it could be called that...

Over the years he had come to see his life in the Section as alternately a curse and a penance, a Purgatory he had been consigned to for his sins. Then...he'd had no concept of what it meant to be truly cursed. But now...he knew. Oh, how he knew...

A year ago...and his life had followed an orderly path. Not a path he would have chosen for himself...but all that he had. That order had been thrown into chaos with the appearance of Angelique. Obsessed, driven Angelique, certain that he was the reincarnation of a love that she had lost centuries before and had sought ever since--Angelique, that had given him what she thought the gift of immortality, an eternity at her side. Angelique--mother, lover...whom he had slain.

For a year he had lived by his wits and skill, skirting along the fringes of society, struggling to deal with this new existence and to tame the beast that lived in him. A beast driven by hunger and rage that could only be subdued by the blood his body craved...and even then the peace was short-lived. From time to time he had felt the presence of others like him and fled from it. Instinct told him that as young as he was, he was far too susceptible to their influence, too untried to survive the assault of a true master vampire. He had been able to withstand Angelique...but his time with her had been short and he could not know if he would have been strong enough to hold to his resistance.

And so here you are, stepping into the domain of one such master, offering yourself up like a lamb to the wolf, said a scathing voice in his head. Rule or be ruled, went an old maxim, and he would far prefer to rule.

The door knob turned under his hand and Michael eased the door open, slipping inside and pulling it carefully shut behind him. The darkness of the interior held no secrets from him, acclimated as he was to the night, and he moved into the house, seeking the presence he had felt here. Past the staircase he could see a glimmer of light and smelt burning oil, a lamp perhaps--hesitantly he slipped past the staircase, walking into the living room and pausing at the threshold.

A high-backed chair--the upholstery red satin--sat next to the cold fireplace, a small table set beside the chair and an oil lamp atop it. From where he stood Michael could see someone seated in the chair, a glimpse of a long sleeve and a heavy fall of ebony hair. Paper rustled as a page was turned in a book and Michael stepped closer, drawn on by some odd compulsion.

"Don't lurk back there in the shadows." A voice came from the chair, soft and husky and male, a note of cool amusement in it. "If I did not wish to speak with you, you would not have gained entrance to my home."

Reluctantly Michael did as he was bid, walking slowly forward till he stood before the chair. The young man seated there carefully placed a long thin strip of black cord in the book to mark his place and shut it, setting it aside. Folding hands in his lap, he lifted his head to meet Michael's gaze, dark eyes sharp and inquisitive and incredibly old in such a young face. A handsome face, if too pale, seemingly that of a young man barely out of his teens...but the eyes gave lie to that illusion. Ebony hair fell in a straight line down past his shoulders, inky black against the white of dress shirt, a velvet coat of so deep a burgundy that it appeared black and black trousers adding the timelessness of the young man.

Slowly the young man rose to his feet, one hand lifting to brush a wing of raven hair back over his shoulder, and Michael took a step back, unaccountably skittish in the presence of another one of his kind. The young man halted, head tilted to regard him quizzically, and then smiled slightly.

"Forgive me--it has been a long time since I've had a...visitor. I am Andre." He extended a hand to Michael and Michael stared at that extended hand for a long moment before he finally accepted the gesture.

"Michael." he said softly.

Andre's fingers tightened briefly on Michael's hand and then released him, rubbing his fingers together. "One of Angelique's get, I see...and young at that." A slight frown creased his brow as he studied Michael and added quietly, "And her executioner."

Eyes darkened briefly and Michael took a quick step back, steeling himself for some manner of attack, a chill going through him. For one moment he could see past the shell of youth this Andre wore, to the creature that lurked beneath, something old and terrible and strong.

And then it was gone as quickly as it had come, the darkness in Andre fading a little but all sense of amity gone. Voice cold as he asked, "Why are you here, Michael?"

"To learn." Had not meant to state it so baldly...but then there it was. The corners of Andre's mouth lifted in a brief smile. "And what do you think I could teach you? If I were so inclined?"

"Control." whispered Michael, unable to look away from the dark depths of Andre's eyes.

Control...the one constant in his life...lost in this new existence. And now the only thing that would keep him sane...

Andre gave a small shake of his head. "You have control--it is a simple thing to learn it again. What you want is something else...power..."

Power...power over the beast of hunger...power to be free, independent of those that might seek to enslave him. "Yes."

For a long moment those old eyes regarded him, pierced him, looking into the depths of mind and soul to ferret out secrets and lies. Michael could feel the touch of Andre's mind like the light caress of fingertips, as insidious as smoke, easing through the cracks of his shield. Seeking truth...and finding it.

A slow smile curved Andre's lips, gentle and yet fierce. "I will teach you what I can. What you make of it...how you use it...is your own affair." And extended his hand to seal the bargain.

* * * * * * *

Swinging her purse idly by its strap, Nikita sauntered down the corridor, the staccato click of heels echoing in the stillness. As she came closer to the computer bay, the sound of her footsteps faded before the murmur of voices and she paused at the threshold of the corridor, observing for a moment the buzz of activity. One of Birkhoff's crew tore off a long sheaf of printout, dropping it down beside Birkhoff, and he acknowledged the other man with an absent nod, eyes focused on his computer screen. Four others sat hunched before their screens, fingers flying over the keyboard, and underneath the click of keys came the low, scratchy of voice filtering through comsets.

A black clad figure moved from behind one tech, striding to Birkhoff's chair, an arm extending to brace his weight on one panel as he leaned forward, and Nikita froze, heart clenching, seeing in that black-clad figure a familiar tilt of the head as he conversed softly with Birkhoff.

Birkhoff nodded and gave a push of the chair, spinning it around to wheel it across to another monitor, the figure straightening. The breath that she did not realize she held escaped her in a sigh as she saw blond hair, not brown, the form lanky rather than lean, lacking the innate sense of grace that Michael had.

Peter, one of the new team leaders--sensing her intense regard he gave her a quizzical look and Nikita averted her eyes, head down as she strode to Walter's station, the ebullient mood of before forgotten. Walter raised his head at the sound of her approach, the pieces of a Glock laid out on the table before him, and flashed her a smile of greeting.

"Hey, sugar."

She managed a smile for him. "Hey, Walter."

"How'd it go?"

Nikita gave an aggravated sigh. "Contact was a flake--he never showed. Waited for four hours..." Setting her purse down on the table, she opened it, removing a 9mm Glock to set down before Walter, and took a step back, lifting one foot to place it on the edge of the table. Slid the long black velvet skirt up her calf and thigh in a slow, teasing motion, well aware of Walter's eyes running up the length of her leg, stopping just short of flashing him as she tugged a gun from thigh holster to set it down as well.

Releasing her skirt, she allowed it to slide back down her thigh of a soft whisper of velvet against her skin and smiled impishly at Walter, his mouth still hanging open.

Reaching out, she placed fingers under his chin to close his mouth. "You're drawing flies, Walter." she said sweetly.

Walter sighed, giving a little shake of his head to clear the still lingering image of the long, sleek line of tanned leg, and gave her a half-hearted glower. "You are such a tease." he growled.

Nikita laughed and leaned forward to give him a peck on the cheek. "And you love it, admit it." she returned, stroking his cheek.

"Sad thing is, that's the most action I've seen all week." said Walter mournfully, giving her his best puppy-dog expression.

She laughed again, not believing it for a moment, and picked up purse to turn away. Walter moved around the table, watching as she started to walk away, head down, and asked impulsively, "You wanna grab somethng to eat, sugar?"

Nikita halted, turning a little to give him a small smile. "Not tonight, Walter. What I really want to do is go home and soak in a tub for a few hours."

Walter grinned lasciviously. "Oooo...sounds like fun. What time should I be over?"

Nikita shook her head as she turned to go, lifting her hand in a wave. "Good night, Walter."

"Night, sugar." He watched her go, hips swinging a little with her stride, and once she was gone from sight, he turned with a sigh back to his work.

Hair pinned up on top of her head, Nikita gave a sigh of contentment as she sank down into the hot bubble bath, a folded towel set to cushion the back of her head as she closed her eyes. The warmth of the water eased tense muscles and she let herself sink lower into the water, till it came up past shoulders.

Immersed in the water, she could feel the stress and anxiety float away, till she felt empty and light. Here she could forget for a time the world outside, lose herself in this simple pleasure.

But the pleasure she found was fleeting, her mind unable to turn aside from contemplation of the day's mission. All she'd had of the contact was a physical description and orders to return immediately to the Section with the information the man was to pass on...but the contact had failed to arrive, forcing her to return to the Section empty handed. Had reported to Madeline who had acknowledged her lack of success with a distracted air, telling her to go home and await contact.

Rare for her to have that kind of time to herself...for over the last year her involvement in the Section had intensified. She had found herself elevated to team leader, more often than not leading missions from the Section itself, and the challenge of this new position had left her little leisure time...and hardly any time at all to contemplate the events that had led up to this promotion.

She shifted position, seeking to distract herself from probing those painful memories, but her mind was not so easily turned from it. A little more than a year ago, she had seen Michael for one last time before he had vanished into the night. Remembered with aching clarity that last meeting, the sweetness of reunion...and the bitterness of parting. The brief, frightening glimpse of his new nature...and his abrupt departure.

And how she had wept with his flight, tears shed as much for him as herself, for the sweet promise of their future...dashed.

A year...and she had not seen him since.

From time to time, she fancied that she felt his presence, that he was near, but in time accepted for it for what it was...a fancy. It was as if he had simply ceased to exist...for she was the only one to remember him, cherishing the memory of their oh-so-brief time together. To the Section, Michael was dead...and like the legions of those before him that had bled and died for the Section, he was forgotten.

But not by her. Never by her.

Heaving a sigh, Nikita sat up in the tub, accepting that what peace she would have in her bath was gone. Rising, she grabbed a towel to dry herself off and snagged her bathrobe to pull it around her. Unpinning her hair, she ran fingers through it, tugging it down, and left the bathroom, heading for her kitchen. A glimpse into the refrigerator showed only a carton of milk and a dried-out stalk of celery and she shut it with an exasperated sound. Hadn't wanted to go out again, had thought to just spend an evening relaxing--hmm...could always have something delivered--

The ring of the telephone jarred her from contemplation of *what* she could have delivered and she strode over to it, lifting it to her ear. "Hello."

"Josephine." Madeline's voice, no inflection at all, and Nikita closed her eyes in weary resignation.

"Yes."

"Come in." With that flat order, she disconnected and Nikita stood for a moment, listening to the dial tone, before replacing the phone. And felt an odd chill trace down her spine, sending a shiver through her slender form. Why, she did not know...knew only that Madeline's call filled her with a strange sense of trepidation. As if something were about to happen... something not...good.

Mouth thinning, she went to fetch clothing to dress and departed for the Section.

* ** * * * * *

There was a merry blaze in the fireplace and Michael sat cross-legged before it, close enough that the heat should have baked his skin...but yet he was cold, cold to the bone.

Felt like a junkie trying to come off his addiction, with the shakes and that gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach, that itch in his blood. His skin felt as if it were too tight and it took all his control to remain where he was, seated on the floor, arms wrapped around himself, rather than be up and pacing the floor.

Not even so much as a footstep behind him but nerves made hyper-sensitive by abstinence registered a presence, a presence that was at once a balm and an irritant.

Fingers pressed down on his shoulders and he closed his eyes at the touch, struggling to thrust down the beast that wanted to whirl on this intrusion into his territory, to tear open the throat of the one that dared to disturb him. To drink greedily of the red fountain that was his only peace...

"You do not have to kill to feed." said Andre in gentle reprimand. "Killing is a choice... not a natural consequence. By denying yourself you have eroded the possibility of controlling the encounter and preventing a kill."

"I can't control myself." whispered Michael, hugging arms tighter to himself.

"Michael..." Andre gave an exasperated sigh as he sank down beside Michael, reaching out to grasp an arm and draw him around so that he faced him. Looking into those troubled grey eyes, he might have been looking at himself all those years ago. All the questions Michael asked...Andre had asked of himself and others. All the suffering and self-doubt and recriminations...he had endured as well. Ironic, it was, that he could now sympathize with Sebastien, with the older vampire's impatience towards his young morose friend.

"You will find control. Or you will suffer." he said simply.

"How? How do I find control?" Grey eyes stared searchingly into his, seeking understanding, comprehension--eyes that held a note of trust, oddly enough. Trust from one that did not trust easily and it touched something deep in Andre, a part of him that he would have sworn had died years ago. His compassion, his humanity...

"You are no stranger to killing, Michael. Why should it bother you now?" The words were deliberately cruel, deliberately cold and from the way grey eyes flinched, they cut deep. Cut into a heart and soul that--in a paroxysm of self-loathing--had been crushed and mangled, left bleeding and dying, till it was only a tiny spark of light in the darkness.

A light that he had learned to shield even from himself, to cradle and nurture, fed by... something, someone.

"I didn't kill for myself." said Michael tightly, a spark of anger flaring briefly in his eyes.

A spark that had to be fanned, for it was that anger that would show him the path.

Andre arched an eyebrow. "Didn't you? Every life you took...it was to show yourself that there was nothing good, nothing pure in you. Nothing worthy. Is that not true, Michael?"

For each life taken, a little of him had died...until pulling the trigger was as easy as breathing and required as much thought. In the light of day he could convince himself that what he did was a means to an end, that the deaths were justified...but in slumber his deeds had returned to haunt him, his every thought and act viewed under an exacting mental microscope. And always he was found wanting...

"Why did you kill them, Michael?"

Why, why, why--the word echoed in the empty cavern of his mind, pitiless. The same question he had asked himself as he stood over the first man he had killed, the first one that he had actually seen die at his hand. The adrenaline high of the encounter had burned off as he looked down at the still, cooling form, blood pooling under it, eyes staring up at him in pain, disbelief, in a mute accusation. Wracked with horror and guilt, he had asked himself that same question...but then had not been ready for the answer.

"To live." Staggering in its simplicity that reason, selfish as well...but for the first years in the Section, that had been one of his primary reasons. That, and to atone for his sins...

"You killed those deemed to be worthy of it--and so you must choose those that you will feed on. If that is the only way that you can survive...that is what you must do." Andre rose to his feet, looking down on Michael's bowed head.

"That is the first lesson--to gain control, you cannot deny your nature. Perhaps this is not the existence you would wish...but it is all that you have."

And as quietly as he had come he was gone, leaving Michael to contemplate his words.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As Nikita arrived in the briefing room, there were already a half-dozen operatives already present and a quick glance around the table sent a frisson of unease through her. Frasier, Gerard, Sylvan, Mallory, Chiang, and Talbott--all team leaders and senior ones at that, operatives with years of experience under their belt. Why she was in this company she had no idea--Operations cast her an impatient look and Nikita sank down into a seat beside Chiang, the Asian giving her a brief nod of greeting before turning his attention to Operations. Laying her palms against the table, Nikita lifted her eyes to Operations as he began.

"Over the last five years there has been a subtle shift of power among various criminal organizations worldwide. Along with that, there has been a...decrease in individual activities. Those that are not willing to be drawn in...are eliminated." said Operations flatly. "As Chiang will tell you."

Chiang nodded, shifting in his chair so that he could meet the eyes of the others at the table. "Alliances are being made between triads that have traditionally been bitter enemies, all because they see something coming. Where before the triads would do little to police the gangs in their territories, they are now pulling them into the fold to be soldiers in this war they forsee. We're also seeing the Russian Mafia becoming less loose-spread, more connected and tightly knit. And correspondingly the Sicilian Mafia and other groups less...open to change are being hard hit."

"And there's a guiding force behind this..." said Frasier, a questioning note in his voice.

Mallory shrugged, a hand lifting to tuck red hair behind her ears. "Who it is...we haven't been able to establish. They're operating in the background, through intermediaries..."

"But we have made progress over the last week." said Operations with a certain grim satisfaction, taking up the remote for the holographic display. "Esteban Salazar."

With a press of his thumb, Operations cued up the holographic display, showing the image of a man in his early thirties with the classic dark Latin good looks, striding across a street. "Our sources place him as a mid-level player in this...syndicate. A syndicate whose existence we have been hard pressed to validate...but which we are certain that exists nonetheless." He turned to face the seven operatives, hands on the table.

"Salazar is currently in the States, overseeing a few delicate...operations. We want Salazar brought in for interrogation. As we have no current intel on his location, all seven of you will be heading teams to investigate possible avenues for Salazar's capture. You will each receive a mission profile and I expect you to be en route within twenty-four hours." One by one he fixed them with a hard look. "Salazar is the first piece we have found to this puzzle. He is to be brought back alive and relatively undamaged. Failure is not acceptable."

Nods of acknowledgement around the table and Operations stepped back, cutting off the display. "Birkhoff has your assignments. Dismissed."

With a rising sense of unease, Nikita pushed out of her chair and followed the others from the briefing room.

* * * * * * *

For the dozenth time, Nikita glanced over the mission profile she'd been given, reviewing as well her own preparations, seeking something--anything that she might have missed, some minor but crucial detail unattended to that might result in catastrophe...but as before there was nothing that she could see. With PDA in hand she caught herself just before the door that led to what had been Michael's office, as if Michael would be seated behind his desk, accepting her intrusion in his domain with equanimity.

The door would be locked, as it always was now. Despite its location and its enviable proximity to Systems, no one had taken the office or asked for it, not even Nikita herself. Though it had been blatantly free of any personal touch or ornamentation, it had been stamped with Michael's presence, a reservoir of calm in the chaotic sea of the Section.

In the first few weeks following his disappearance, Nikita had gone to his office more than a few times, to sit in his chair and close her eyes, trying to absorb what remained here of Michael. It had been a balm then, to be in a place that he had spent so much time, as if here she could establish a connection with him...

As time passed and the realities of her duty to Section intruded, for her own sanity she had been forced to set aside her memories of Michael, to dwell not on what might have been but what was now. And harbor somewhere deep inside her the hope that he might someday come back to her--Nikita grimaced at the foolish turn of her thoughts and strode back to Systems.

She had another twelve hours before departure but she had never been able to sleep the night before the mission, too keyed up, mind constantly reviewing every aspect of the mission. Might as well spend that time constructively, she thought wryly as she settled down into a chair and tapped at the keyboard, to see if there was any new intel to be had on Salazar and his mysterious associates.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"This sucks."

Eyes flicking from screen to screen, monitoring the video feed from her team in the comfort of the black van, Nikita suppressed a smile at the disgruntled tone of Hollis' voice, hearing through his comlink the rustle of cloth as he tried to settle into a more comfortable position and back into shelter, out of the onslaught of the rain. She knew from the angle of his feed that he was across the street from the restaurant, no doubt taking refuge in a doorway.

"Well, Hollis, if you shaved every once in a while, then maybe I wouldn't keep placing you as a derelict." she said as she stood behind Lin, watching as information scrolled across the monitor screen. Lin turned her head a little to give Nikita a slight shake, indicating that nothing new had come through from HQ.

Hollis' response was a rude noise and a muttered set of instructions for an act that was physically impossible, even if Nikita had been possessed of the necessary equipment; this time she did smile, a quick uplifting of the corners of her mouth, gone as quickly as it had come. As Viscano had done once, Hollis had tested her when he'd first been included on her team and once he'd been satisfied that she could indeed do her job--and held a deep, abiding concern for the lives and safety of her team--he had become an ally, assisting in keeping the others in line.

As team leader, she had incorporated Michael's techniques as well as employing her own--she couldn't be friends with her team, couldn't be their friend and do her job as well, but she was comfortable with them, knew exactly what she could expect from each and every one of them.

All five were deployed in strategic locations, watching the restaurant for signs of Esteban Salazar. Salazar's itinerary was still unknown but there was scuttlebutt among their sources that Salazar was meeting with various members of the West Coast triads. And so here they were, in the heart of San Francisco's Chinatown, maintaining surveillance on the Pagoda Restaurant, owned by one Danny Liu, a reputed member of the local triad's ruling council. If there had been enough time, Nikita would have placed Lin inside the restaurant as a hostess or staff member, pulled instead one of Birkhoff's crew to run the com, but there had been little time to prep and she'd still been running the briefing during transport. As it was, she had three members of her team--Ordell, Arne, and Schuyler--inside, scattered across the dining room, and the last--Garnier--positioned on the roof-top of the building that faced the rear of the restaurant, watching the rear door. Didn't have a profile for Salazar so there was no way of knowing if he would be blatant enough to come through the front door...or prudent enough to take the rear entrance.

They'd taken positions at 5:00 PM and now, nearly three hours later, there was still no sign of Salazar. In another half-hour, Nikita would have to pull the three inside out of the restaurant, in order to avert suspicion--they'd already been inside for nearly ninety minutes and a leisurely dinner could only be spread so far. She sighed as she straightened, rubbing the back of her neck, and took a step back, letting a sigh escape. Well, there'd been nothing concrete, she would just have to remain in place for another day and hope that one of the other team leaders would have better luck--

"Got him."

At the triumphant sound of Hollis' voice, Nikita's head came up and she quickly took the two steps that brought her to the console, eyes automatically focusing on the screen that showed Hollis' feed. A black limo had pulled up to the front of the restaurant and from it stepped two men, taking up guard positions, a third man emerging from the limo and leaning inside to help someone else out. A woman, from the way she slid out, tossing a head of platinum blond hair.

"Confirm." ordered Nikita tersely, a hand to her comset, listening hard.

A jerky movement, indicating that Hollis was moving closer, and then the familiar features of Salazar came into view, white teeth flashing in olive skinned features as he laughed. Extended his arm to the woman and she turned to give him a coquettish smile--tall and slim, wearing a shimmering dress of gold crepe, a white fur stole tossed over tanned shoulders.

With a tap of her finger, she switched channels. "Salazar is at the front of the restaurant. Converge." Should have felt relief to see Salazar here and perhaps even a thrill of triumph that it was her team that netted him...but all she felt was an odd sense of unease. She watched the video screens, observing how the team moved in perfect synchronicity to take down Salazar.

In the foyer of the restaurant, Salazar and his small troupe paused to speak to the hostess--a slim girl clad in red cheongsam, ebony hair pilled up on top of her head-- and it was there that the team hit them. The two bodyguards went down with two well-placed shots from silenced guns and as they moved on Salazar, the young woman moved between them, reaching inside her purse.

Arne shot her in the chest and she fell to her knees, the contents of her purse-- including a small .38--scattering across the floor as blood blossomed on the gold material of her dress. A growl erupted from her throat, far too deep, and her head lifted, eyes glowing red as lips parted to show sharp fangs. Rising to her feet, she reached for Arne and with a flick of her wrist sent him crashing into the wall.

Turned on Ordell as he tried to flank her and shot one arm out, fingers clamping around his throat and sinking into the skin, trickles of blood turning into jetting spurts as her sharp fingernails punctured his artery. As he fell, the young woman rode him down, mouth sealing eagerly over the wound.

Through her comlink, Nikita could hear Schuyler cursing as she grabbed a stunned Salazar to drag him back. The young woman turned, a forearm wiping across bloodied mouth, laughing as she came forward--and Nikita flashed on another time, another place. Michael in the grip of a male vampire, the man sinking teeth into his throat and then casting him aside...

Grabbing her gun, Nikita scrambled out of the van and raced across the street, hitting the doors with her shoulder to shove them open, gun up and aimed at the young woman as she turned with a snarl. Coolly Nikita aimed and shot her in the chest, firing with great care, taking a step with each shot. The hammer blow of each bullet sent the blond staggering back a step, till she sprawled onto her back, chest heaving as she lay glaring up at Nikita. Blood had soaked her dress, the bullets leaving gaping black puncture holes in it, the flesh underneath torn as well...but the flesh would heal and soon the young woman would be able to get up, come after her again...

Her mind empty of thought and emotion, Nikita strode forward to put a bullet into the young woman's head, shattering skull and penetrating brain. She stood there, watching as the body twitched helplessly then went still, and only then did she go to grab Salazar's arm and haul him to his feet. Hollis trotted up to her as she pulled Salazar out of the restaurant, pale and shaken, but she ignored him, speaking into her comset. "Get Housekeeping out here immediately." Passing Salazar over to Hollis and Schuyler, Nikita gave the restaurant a long look, half expecting to see the young woman erupt through the doors...but there was no movement at all...

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Two hours later and they were in transit, on their way back to HQ. Nikita had directed Housekeeping to incinerate the corpse of the young woman and at the steely look in her eyes, they had offered no argument, complying rapidly. Ordell was quite obviously dead and a cursory exam had shown Arne to be dead as well, neck broken by the impact-- both bodies retrieved for disposal. Given the locale and the owner's questionable business, there would be no investigation into the...incident.

And Nikita had in her possession what could be a vital key to this mystery that was plaguing Section but still that sense of unease lingered. It was easy, too easy--she certainly hadn't expected Liu's people to offer any assistance to someone that could be deemed at best a friendly enemy but she would have expected Salazar to have a stronger contingent of security. But then perhaps he had counted on the young woman's preternatural strength and resiliency to protect him.

Nikita glanced over at where Salazar sat slumped, seemingly subdued, and could not help but feel that she was missing something. Some tidbit of information gleaned from her brief stint with John Harper and his band of vampire hunters...but she just could *not* access it.

Upon arrival at the Section, Salazar was taken off to containment and Nikita went to dump her gear at Walter's workstation. He lifted his head and gave her a subdued grin, setting down the piece of equipment he'd been tinkering with. "Hey, sugar. How'd it go?"

"Lost Ordell and Arne...but we got Salazar." she said tersely, slipping her arms out of her vest and tossing it down as well.

Walter gave her an awkward pat on the arm. "Well...you got him. That's something..."

"Yeah, I guess it is..." said Nikita absently, the images of Salazar and the young woman flashing through her mind. A vampire...involved with a known member of an elusive, nearly invisible syndicate...a syndicate working covertly to either assimilate or destroy its enemies. And perhaps Salazar was just a front, a shield, for others of her kind...a way for them to move in the daylight...

"Sugar?"

Nikita lifted her eyes, seeing the concern in Walter's eyes, and gave a small shake of her head, fingers curling around her gun. Turned on her heel to head for containment, not hearing Walter call after her, at a near run by the time she reached it.

Stabbing the panel with her finger, she punched in the code and hauled the door open, striding quickly to where Salazar sat secured to the metal chair.

And rather than the subdued expression he wore before was a self-satisfied smirk as she stalked up to him, leaning forward a little, dark eyes glittering.

"They're gonna come for me, chica. You made the last mistake you'll ever make--" With a jerk she pulled away the white scarf wound stylishly round his throat and grasped his chin in her fingers, jerking his head to the side. On his throat, uncovered by the scarf, were neat bite marks, the bruising around one set indicating that blood had been taken recently--in her mind, she could see Dianne Curtis again, telling her how the victims of vampire attacks were bonded to the vampire, that the vampire could use that bond to call them. And to find them...

Raising her gun, Nikita took a step back and shot Salazar point blank in the head.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Explain."

Nikita arched an eyebrow at the angry, rapped-out command, Operations pausing in mid-pace to tear off glasses with an impatient gesture. She shifted her gaze to Madeline, seated in her chair, Madonna-like in her serenity...but brown eyes cold and calculating as she examined Nikita. An interesting contrast--Operations moved with the feral energy of some great jungle cat as he stalked behind Madeline's chair, a tightly wound coil of violence deep in him that could erupt at any moment, lacking only the lashing of a tail to complete the image, and Madeline...Madeline sat with the calm and patience of a spider at the apex of its web, waiting for the prey to entangle itself in the deadly strands she wove before scuttling down to sink fangs into flesh.

"Explain..." repeated Nikita incredulously, her gaze shifting from Operations to Madeline and then back. Folded arms across her midsection and gave a shake of her head in disbelief. "You've read my report--what explanation is there?"

Operations looked heavenward, his impatience and disgust a palpable thing, and as he shifted pale eyes to hers, Madeline shifted in her chair, taking up the thread with her coolly logical voice. "Salazar could have been an important fount of information...and yet, without discussing the matter with us or informing us of your intentions, you choose to act autonomously and cancel him. The man that was our only tie to this syndicate."

Nikita strode forward to slap palms down on Madeline's desk, leaning across it. "Madeline, he was controlled by those...creatures. What he knew...they knew. Where he was...they would find. And you damned well know who--and what--is the true power of this syndicate."

Madeline leaned back in her chair, folding hands in her lap. "And what is this power, Nikita?" she asked serenely.

Nikita hesitated, gaze going from one to the other, Operations' expression a riot of emotions--fury, disgust, impatience--and Madeline's a calm mask. But behind that cover of Operations' anger was a hint of unease...and even remorse. And she knew that Operations had been as involved in this as Madeline...even had a hand in the sending of Michael into the dragon's lair...

"You knew, too, didn't you?" she said quietly to Operations, straightening to pin him with a cold glare. His mouth tightened but eyes slid away from hers as he shifted position, unable to meet the accusation in her eyes. "Angelique was a part of this...and you sent Michael in...knowing that she would take him. Your arrogance here is simply astonishing--did you really think that you could build a master race of operatives...and maintain control over them? Contain them? My God..." Nikita shook her head in sheer marvel, the contempt showing in her blue eyes.

"What you *think* you know doesn't disguise the fact that what you did--"

Nikita waved Operations off in mid-diatribe, stepping back from the desk. "Spare me. I killed Salazar...to save this place. Though God knows why I'd want to..." she added, voice thick with disgust. "You sacrifice your own people to those...monsters, in the misguided notion that if you can create others in their image, you can use them to achieve your goals. Let me tell you...I've seen first hand what these...vampires can do. And there is *nothing* you would be able to hold over their heads to ensure their good behavior." Her eyes ran over Madeline's slim form, loathing showing plainly in them. "You know, Madeline, you should have been the one to go in...you would make such an excellent vampire. You already have the utter lack of humanity down pat." Turning on her heel, she stalked out of the office.

"She's right."

Madeline turned her head at the grudging admission, allowing eyes to widen a little bit as she gazed up at Operations, who was wearily rubbing his temples. "You knew going into this the risks we were taking." she said mildly.

Operations gestured with his glasses, a sigh escaping him. "Yes...then I thought the risks were worth the end result. But now--how many have we attempted this...change with? Six...seven? And the ones that have survived...we've destroyed." For a moment he allowed shoulders to slump, the weariness and self-contempt showing plainly in sharp features, and Madeline reached to take his hand, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. He slanted a sideways glance at her, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and his fingers curled around hers, eyes closing briefly as he accepted the small comfort of her touch.

And straightened as he let her fingers slip away from his, replacing his glasses. Took in a deep breath and let it out, all doubt banished before steely resolve, and Madeline watched as she saw the man she had fallen in love with all those years ago fade away, lost before the one that he had become. A part of her ached at the distance between them...but it was a distance she had erected herself. And she could lay the fault only at her door...

"What do you think the chances for exposure were with Salazar?" he asked calmly.

Madeline steepled her fingers, giving it some consideration. "If they are able to maintain some...bond with him, I would still say minimal. He wasn't...present long enough for them to establish a location. I would think he'd have to be living for them to keep a connection."

Operations' mouth quirked in a wry smile. "So Nikita's actions--if a little impulsive--were justified. If this syndicate was able to establish a location for us--"

"They would destroy us." said Madeline frankly.

The wry smile turned feral and sharp, Operations' pale eyes glinting as head turned a little sideways. "Well, then, we'll have to take the fight to them, won't we? Whatever further action we take, Nikita will need to be at the forefront."

Madeline inclined her head. "Agreed." And watched as Operations departed her office, thinking of her own reason for Nikita's involvement. Nikita--by her own nature--would be drawn to the conflict...and inevitably Michael would be drawn into it as well. Even if he did not make his presence or continued existence known to Nikita or the Section...still he would not be able to sit idly by as Nikita went into danger. A small smile curved her lips and she turned to her computer to review the most recent intel.

* * * * * * *

Uncurling his fingers from the collar of coat, Michael let the now limp form fall gracelessly to the ground, a hand lifting to wipe away the blood at the corner of his mouth. Shivering he took a step back and sank down to his haunches, to watch as the man's body shuddered with the effort of drawing one last breath...and then released it with a rattling sigh, eyes glazing over. Part of him wanted to go to the dead man, to take every last drop of nourishment from him that he could salvage, the hunger abated but not sated--yet there was enough strength to ruthlessly throttle down the lurking beast.

Choose those that you will feed on, Andre had told him. Those that are worthy to die.

Michael laughed aloud at the thought, that he could place himself in such high regard, that he could stand above and choose who should die. Pass judgement on men and even women...when he himself should be listed as one of the condemned. Decide who should be sacrificed...so that he could continue to exist...as if he were worthy to exist...

He closed his eyes as self contempt and disgust rose in a wave of bitterness to wash over him and pressed forehead against his knee. How could he find the power to stand against others of his kind...if he could not justify his continued existence to himself?

It would remain inside him, dark and festering, an opened wound awaiting another stab of the knife, making him vulnerable--

"Well, well..."

Michael rose at the sound of a rich, deep voice and whirled to face the intruder, setting his teeth against the growl that threatened to escape him.

Struggled to control the beast in him, that wanted to crouch over the body, saying, mine, to snarl at the intrusion. He could feel it battering at the eroded walls of his control, walls pitted and weakened--how easy it would be to just let it go, to tear and ravage at the vampire that stood before him--

He felt the other man's pleasure as a near palpable thing, warm and oozing over him, a wash of acid. The man *wanted* him to loose his beast, to give in to it...and through his loss of control...seek control over him--

The knowledge was enough for him to gather the tattered frayed remnants of control and draw them tightly around himself, sending the beast snarling and unsatisfied back into the dark depths of his soul. Drawing himself up, he forced himself to meet the eyes of the vampire that stood before him...and swayed under the lash of those eyes.

Felt the other's power like sharp fiery teeth tearing at his mind and soul and a whimper surged up from behind suddenly locked teeth as knees buckled, spilling him to hands and knees. Surrender, accept my dominance, whispered a voice in his mind, a voice that stroked and soothed, and he found himself wanting to offer up his throat, head lifting...

*No.*

Up in him rose the part that the Section had created, the part of himself that was all ice and steel, the part that would surrender to nothing. Let nothing stand in the way of his duty...and his duty here was to live. The tenuous hold that doubt and self-contempt had allowed the other to have on him was broken and he rose shakily to his feet, the other man taking a step back from him.

"Impressive." said the other, a grudging smile curving full lips. Regarded Michael with cold green eyes as he came a step closer, head tilting a little sideways, hands shoved into the pockets of his long coat. Curly blond hair was cut short at the back of his head and sides of his head, long at the forehead so that a heavy spill of curls fell down into his eyes, cleared away by a toss of the head. "But my master wishes your...presence and what he wants...he gets." Took a step forward, the green in his eyes turning to a dark, throbbing sullen red.

"Down, Theodore."

Theodore hissed at the sound of Andre's voice and backed away as the other entered the alley, sparing Michael a brief glance before he moved to place himself between his erstwhile pupil and the other vampire.

"Lucien wants him." growled Theodore, eyes still a deep red as he met Andre's...but there was fear as well, and unease, as he moved another step back.

"He is under my protection." The tone was mild but implacable and in Andre's eyes red sparked as well, the slim form as rigid and unmovable as stone. "Go back to your master and tell him so."

"You would stand against the Elders? For...this?" Theodore's lip curled as he regarded Michael, standing silent behind Andre.

"Do you forget who you address here, Theodore? Have you forgotten so soon the power I hold?" Power surged in the slim form before him, shrouding him like a great licking flame, and Theodore stumbled back, falling to his knees, hands lifted to ward Andre off, the fire in his eyes dying before fear.

But Andre came on, hands down at his sides, gazing intently down at the crouched figure before him. Under the heat of his gaze, the luxurious blond hair dried and withered, falling in clumps from his skull even as smooth skin became weathered and liver-spotted, growing taut over bone and then melting away. Flesh ran off bone like melting wax before a flame and body curled up into a tight fetal position, a dreadful mewing sound issuing from ruined throat. Hands that were now nothing more than bony claws scrabbled at the pavement and head tilted back to show eyeless sockets.

"Remember what it is like to cross me, Theodore." said Andre in a silken whisper. "And take that memory back with you." Knelt gracefully before the ruined figure and brushed fingers against fleshless skull before he turned to Michael.

"Home." he said simply and was gone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"There is nothing more I can teach you."

Andre had sat before the fireplace for more than a hour, silent in his regard of the flames that flickered there, and Michael had waited patiently for him to speak. He knew that without Andre's intervention he would have been lost...and the thought of that potential defeat was bitter and terrifying. He had been able to withstand Theodore's assault--barely--but would he withstand that of one stronger than he? How long would he remain free of this Lucien?

"What do I do?" asked Michael, hands lifted. He had not been here long but the thought of going away from here left him...bereft.

"Find her." responded Andre, head turning from contemplation of the fire to meet Michael's eyes. Smiled faintly at seeing the sudden shock of disbelief in his eyes...and a wariness. It was good for him to be wary...he would survive longer. "You wanted me to show you power--she is your power. She can show you the way."

"Nikita..." whispered Michael, the roll of syllables off his tongue reverent, conjuring the image of her bright golden beauty. A brightness that he would taint--

"She is the key, Michael. Without her...you will become...less of what you are. You will become like the Elders--mere shadows, wanting the warmth and brightness of the mortals they say they despise...mortals that posses what they can never again have. Life..." A sad smile curved his lips and he gave a small shake of his head, turning again to the fire. "Go."

Michael stood for a moment, torn...and then with a whisper of sound was gone. Andre closed his eyes, allowing shoulders to slump, and--soulless creature that he was--dared to pray that the woman whose memory left a solitary spark of light in Michael's dying soul would be strong enough to bring him back from the brink. For like a drowning man Michael would drag down his rescuer with him...and they would both be lost...

* * * * * * * * * *

The top floor of the warehouse had once been a series of offices but the walls had been knocked down to make one large sprawling room; the walls were a stark, unremitting gunmetal grey, empty of adornment...save for the east end of the room, which served as living quarters. There stood a huge four poster bed, deep red velvet bedspread thrust aside to show black silk sheets, an old-fashioned wrought iron lamp with fringed lampshade set on a mahogany table beside it, and beyond a screen--black laquer with red dragons patterned on the paper-thin material--sat a claw-foot tub with a shower attachment.

In the midst of the room sat a long table that could have been taken from the meeting room of some high-powered corporation, the chairs made of the same sleek metal as table...save for the chair at the head of it. This one was a tall roundbacked chair upholstered in rich red velvet, the arms and legs claws carved out of the wood.

Seated in the chair was a young man, dark blond hair falling down to his shoulders, long fingers steepled before him, and cold haughty features set in an impenetrable mask, light blue eyes sharp and glittering. He wore a black silk suit, the suitcoat long tossed aside, and the top buttons of the shirt undone to show a hint of lean chest, long legs extended to prop booted feet up on the edge of the table.

At his feet knelt a young woman, no more than twenty, long brown hair a mass of curly ringlets framing a delicate, heart-shaped face, clad in a black velvet corset and black net hose. Around fragile neck was a leather collar, the leash casually wrapped around one of the young man's wrists, and the girl lay slumped against his chair, eyes heavy-lidded.

His hand lowered briefly to caress her hair, the motion like that of an owner petting a beloved dog, and then he turned his attention once more to the man that stood at his right.

"Report." he said.

The man swallowed, looking unaccountably nervous in the presence of the younger man, and settled unconsciously into an at-attention stance, hands folded behind his back. "We lost Santiago...and Laurel."

The young man's head jerked to one side, in the direction of a pool of shadow beside the window. "Santiago?"

From the shadow emerged a tall willowy young woman with a short shock of white-blond hair, slim form clad in black leather pants and a black leather brassiere. She moved with a languid grace as she came up to the table, giving a small shake of her head as dark eyes turned inward. "Dead."

The young man's mouth tightened, one hand lowering to drum fingernails against the armd of his chair. "Do you at least have a location?" he asked, tone deceptively mild.

The girl tilted her head to regard him with a slow insolent smile. "No." she said simply and began to wander down to the other end of the table.

When the young man would have risen, a red-nailed hand laid on his arm and he turned his head to regard the young woman that came up beside the chair. Ebony hair was drawn into a haphazard knot at the top of her head, exposing the slender, pale column of her throat, and blood-red rubies glittered amidst the silver at her ears. Slim form was clothed in a long gown of rich crimson velvet, laced in front and back with black velvet cord, and feet shod in black velvet boots.

"The link is gone, Lucien." she said in a soft musical voice, allowing her fingers to trail up his arm and brush his shoulder as she stepped away from his chair. "Nothing you do to Moira will bring it back."

Lucien cast an angry look at the slim form of Moira, weaving her way around the room in small tight circles, moving to some strange inner music, and then gave a shake of his head. "No matter. We will find this...Section some other way." He turned his attention once more to the man beside him and smiled, a slow, wolfish baring of his teeth, deliberately showing the fangs. "Have you *any* progress to report, Franklin?"

Paling under his tan, Franklin parted lips to speak...and was granted a reprieve as a commotion at the end of the hall drew the attention of Lucien and the young woman.

Moira laughed, arm extended to point at the figure that moved slowly up the length of the table, and the figure cast her an angry glance before he came to stand before Lucien, Franklin hurriedly moving back.

Lucien raised an eyebrow at the figure that stood before him, a faded, aged copy of Theodore, skin brown and weathered, hair a brittle white, the flesh around cheeks and jowls sagging. Lucien shifted in his chair, looking pointedly over Theodore's shoulder.

"You were supposed to be bringing me someone, Theodore. Someone that I wanted to bring into our fold."

"I had him...but Andre intervened!" whined Theodore, extending trembling, liver-spotted hands to Lucien. "Look...look what he did to me!"

"Andre..." repeated Lucien thoughtfully, casting a sideways glance at the young woman beside him, noting that she went still at the sound of the name. "Why would Andre come out of seclusion to protect a mere babe?" The question was as much for the young woman as it was for Theodore.

"Did this to me...told me to come back to you...tell you that the...whelp is under his protection." Theodore stared down in horror at his hand as flesh cracked to ooze dark fluid, showing the white of bone underneath, and lifted his hands in supplication. "Lucien...Master...heal me..."

Lucien waved him off with an expression of distaste. "You will heal on your own, Theodore. Let it be a lesson to you--I do not accept failure."

"But, Master--"

"Go." Lucien leaned forward in his chair as he growled the word, eyes sparking red, and Theodore made a creaky obesiance before scurrying out of the hall, Moira's shrill of laughter carrying back to them. Sighing, Lucien gestured for Franklin to leave as well and with a hasty bow, the man beat a quick retreat.

Once they were gone, Lucien sank back in his chair, eyes closing. "So, Selene, at last your old love dares to set foot out of that mausoleum--why for this one?"

"I no longer have Andre's counsel...as you well know, Lucien." said Selene with cold precision, turning from him in a swirl of crimson skirt.

"And which of us will you stand beside, should there come a battle?" asked Lucien, staring down at the table top. But from Selene there was no answer...and he had expected none. She had thrown her lot in with him rather than Andre, electing to remain at his side in his quest for supremacy over the Elders...and Selene was nothing if not loyal.

Grasping the leash in one hand, he drew the girl at his feet up and into his lap, stroking brown hair back from her throat as he laid his mouth against the pulse there.

* * * * * * *

Stepping through the door to her apartment, Nikita pushed the door shut behind her with one foot, stripping off her long coat. With the coat folded over one arm, she locked the door and walked to the couch, tossing the coat over the back of it as she sank down onto the couch, sprawling back against it, arms spread to lay across the back of it as head sank back.

Closing her eyes, she emitted a sigh--another wasted day spent chasing ghosts. Salazar had been their one link to this shadowy syndicate...and now there was nothing.

But she had to admit that she didn't feel the least bit of regret at her impulsive action; if she'd allowed him to live, then the vampire that controlled him would have used their link to locate him. The Section could--and had--withstand an armed assault--but an assault by creatures that wielded the powers they did? All they would have had to do was wait for an operative or two to emerge and turn them as they had Salazar.

A shudder went through her at the thought of those creatures loose in the Section. She was not entirely certain which would be triumphant--the Section or the vampires. And as much as she might like to see certain members of the Section fall, there were far too many that didn't deserve that fate.

Not a word from any member of the Section's vast network of contacts--it was highly unlikely that none of them knew of this syndicate, given their own activities...but it was very likely that they had prudently chosen to remain silent. There was of course someone that Nikita could turn to--if anyone might have an idea as to the location of these vampires, it would be John Harper. She'd have to contact him, to see what he knew...or if he could at least point her in a direction.

A laugh escaped her as she wondered why she had elected herself to stand at the fore-front of this battle, to stand between the Section and this syndicate. She could guess why Operations and Madeline had allowed her to remain out in the field--not only had she the experience of dealing with these creatures and knowing what would kill them... she had resources at her disposal that made her valuable. John and his troop of vampire hunters--And Michael.

Michael...a sigh escaped her at the thought of him. Alone in the dark, struggling to come to terms with what he had become, so very sure that by remaining apart from her, he kept her safe...from himself. Michael, who had perfected an iron control over himself and his emotions, ruthlessly suppressing himself. A control that she had been one of the few to work their way past, to the true self underneath...

A breeze lifted a lock of hair and Nikita straightened, head snapping in the direction of the balcony. The door to it stood slightly ajar, the white gauze curtain fluttering in the faint breeze, and beyond she caught a quick glimpse of a shadowy figure.

Slowly she slid off the couch, reaching underneath it for the gun she kept there, and rose slowly, gun held down at her side, to approach the door. With her foot she gave it a little push, waiting a beat before stepping out onto the balcony, gun up and extended to sweep the patio...

And lowered the gun at seeing the black-clad figure of Michael standing at the railing, watching her as she emerged. He locked eyes with her for the briefest of moments and then placed a hand on the railing, vaulting over and sinking down into the darkness.

Tucking her gun into the small of her back, Nikita ran for the front door, snagging her coat along the way, and took the stairs two at a time, afraid that if she were too slow, he would be gone. She came down to the bottom of the stairs, looking left and then right, eyes scanning the nearly empty street for a sign of Michael.

Across the street she saw him standing, his long black coat billowing around him like a cloak, remaining still for a moment before he started to move.

Checking the street, she ran across it, keeping in sight the dark figure that moved through the overgrown lot, angling back to the alley. Passing by a fire escape, she stopped to look for Michael...and a hand grasped her arm to pull her under the fire escape.

A stream of light from the street lamp overhead illuminated the pale features she knew so well and Nikita lifted a hand to trace the line of his cheekbone, to convince herself that he was here and she wasn't dreaming this. She expelled the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and smiled tremulously at Michael, laying her hand on his cheek. "I didn't think I'd see you again..." she whispered.

Michael took her hand in his, pressing a kiss to the back of it, rubbing his cheek against her hand. "I had to come. Being apart from you...I was drowning..." Closed his eyes at the feel of her warm skin against his, breathing in the fragrance that was her--the scent of apples in her hair, the buttery smell of the lotion she used, the subtle perfume dashed on slender wrists. It roused in him a hunger so intense it frightened him--not just the desire to taste of her rich blood but the desire to wrap himself in her, to pull her around him like a cloak. To possess her completely--he caught himself with her wrist to his mouth, nuzzling at the tender flesh, and drew a deep shuddering breath as he moved away from her.

"Michael--" She took a step forward, halting when he raised a trembling hand, feeling his terrible need washing over her like a lick of flame. Igniting her own need, showing her what she had lost with his departure...the other half of her soul. So lonely she had been without him, denying even to herself how badly she missed him...because simply wanting him wouldn't bring him back. He had to come on his own...and now here he was...

"I shouldn't have come--" he whispered, hating himself for his weakness. For his inability to let her go...for dragging her once more into the shadows... Nikita moved forward to lay a hand on his cheek, gazing into grey eyes dark with need and pain, seeing in him a mirror of her own loneliness. And spoke from the heart... "You need me...like I need you. Dark to my light...yin to yang. Balance..." She brushed her lips against the cool skin of his cheek, feeling him tremble under the touch of her lips, and stroked fingers through the silky fall of his hair. "Together...no one can destroy us. No one."

Michael gazed into her eyes, captured by the bright fire there, imprisoned under the weight of those eyes, as dazzled by her gaze as mortals were supposed to be by his...or so the legends said. Strength and conviction there, more than enough for the two of them...and he wanted to believe. Wanted to believe that together they could prevail against anything and anyone...

"No one." he repeated, red flickering in his eyes, and drew her close to press a hungry kiss to her mouth.

* * * * * *

"Where have you been all this time?"

From the alley Michael had brought her to a tiny loft located in a squalid section of downtown, the kind of neighborhood where doors were padlocked the moment the sun went down, where the inhabitants turned a deaf ear and blind eye to anything that occured outside the haven of their abodes. A place ideal for him, where his nocturnal comings and goings would be unnoticed...

They sat on a small couch, Nikita seated between his legs and leaning back against him, his arms around her waist. She traced a finger along the back of his hand as she spoke, enjoying just *being* close to him--for so long they had both been alone, when they could have been together...as much her fault as his. All that time wasted...

"Searching..." he said softly, turning his hand to twine her fingers in his. Like Dorothy, looking far and wide for something that had been in his own backyard all the time... "I was...afraid. Afraid of what I was...and what I would do..."

"You'd never hurt me, Michael." she said with utter certainity, turning a little in his arms so that she could look into his eyes, let him see her conviction. His eyes met hers, dark and troubled, as a hand lifted to stroke hair back from her face.

"I have hurt you."

"Not in the way that you mean." She laid a hand on his cheek, turning him when he would have looked away, seeing the unhappiness and pain in his eyes.

Thought that if he had once shown her even an iota of that emotion, a glimpse that what he did affected him, they would have saved each other so much pain and loneliness. "No matter how you've changed, Michael, that part of you will never change--the part that wants to protect me, shelter me." She tapped him on the nose, giving him a mock glower. "You forget that I can take care of myself."

Michael kissed the tip of her finger. "I never forget. Your strength is one of the things that I love about you."

"And the others...?" she asked archly, wriggling around to nestle herself against him, fitting nearly perfectly against him. And smiled as she felt his response, lifting her hands to wind fingers through his hair and draw him down for a kiss.

He shuddered at the feel of her against him, at the warm touch of her lips to his. Felt desire and hunger rise in him, a roar of sensation and need that threatened to drown him, to erode the newly won control. She had always been able to do this to him, to worm her way past his shields, to find the tiniest nicks and holes in his control and tear them wide open, exposing him to the whirlwind that she was. Maddening him, inflaming him, rousing him when no other could...

Take her, whispered a silken voice in his mind. Suck her dry--destroy her as you have everything else in your life... "Nikita...I...I can't..." Not when her blood sang to him, a seductive promise of everything that he did not have--warmth, vitality...and a pretense of humanity. That even if he were to kill her she would live on in him...

"You can." she said, brushing a finger across his lips to silence him. "I want you...as you want me. I trust you, Michael--with my heart, my soul...and my life." She took his hands to draw him with her as she sank back into the cushions of the couch, holding his eyes with hers. Showing him her love and trust in him, her faith in him--giving him what he had always subconsciously sought from her and she had once feared to give him...

"Mon amour..." He pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand, letting his lips trail down to press against wrist. "Mon couer..." Slowly he trailed kisses up the length of her arm and to the curve of her shoulder, lips brushing the satiny skin of her throat and sending a shiver through her. "Mon ame..." he breathed into her ear.

Taking his hands she guided them to the hem of her shirt and raised herself a little to allow him to pull it up and over her head. She gave a shake of her head to clear the hair from her eyes and made a soft sound of pleasure as his hands cupped breasts, his head lowering to one peak to roll tongue around pink nipple. Hands slid down to her waist, fingers working on the buttons on her jeans as mouth nibbled and suckled at breast, tugging jeans down off slim hips. With a last nip, he raised head from her breast to strip jeans and panties off long legs.

Grasping one ankle in his hand, his mouth traced a torturously slow path up her calf, under the crook of her knee, to the soft skin of her inner thigh, till she was quivering with anticipation. A warm puff of breath on the wet center of her and then the light touch of his tongue to her, sending a jolt through her...and then he drew back.

She gasped in outrage, reaching out to snag handfuls of his shirt and draw him close, molding her mouth to his. Gave his lips a flick of her tongue as she broke the kiss and smiled devilishly as she whispered, "My turn..." Grasped his shirt to pull it up over his head and tossed it aside, smoothing touseled brown hair back from his face as she gave him a lingering kiss. Hands slid down smoothly muscled chest to the waistband of his pants as her mouth trailed down chin and to the column of his throat.

She felt his breath catch in his throat as her mouth found his pulse and she ran her tongue along the tendons in his throat, setting mouth over the throbbing pulse in his throat and pressing teeth into his flesh. He shuddered as she sucked at his throat, her hands busy at his waist, arching up into the hand that slid inside to grasp him, a soft growl escaping him.

Hard and heavy in her hand, pulsing with a need that drew an answering throb deep in the core of her, Nikita rose for breath, hands fumbling at his pants to pull them down and off his hips. He assisted her with an eagerness that drew a breathless laugh from her, till they were both bare and ready, and caught her hands, gazing into her eyes. Lips parted to ask a question and she silenced him with a kiss, moving over him to take him deep into her.

They moved together in a slow rhythm, mouths meeting as bodies did, hands sliding over sleek flesh. Learning anew the pleasure to be found in their union--how the stroke of a hand, the clench of muscles, the slide of skin against skin stoked the fire. Nikita clung to Michael as he laid her out on the couch, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper inside, straining up against him with each withdrawal. Could feel her impending orgasm like a slow building pressure in her, rising from toes up through her, a warm steady pressure that eclipsed everything else.

Distantly she felt his hand brushing hair back from her throat, felt the trembling caress of his fingers over the soft skin and then the warmth of his breath. Even as a thrill of fear went through her she arched her throat, exposing the delicate column to him, and a shudder went through her as tongue tasted skin, her legs tightening around his waist as she moved frantically against him, on the tip of her release.

And as it came over her in a shattering pulse of light, there was a sharp stabbing pain as teeth went into her throat and pressure as mouth attached to the wound teeth had made, to draw greedily of the blood that rose to fill the wound. Nikita gasped, half in pain, half in pleasure, body still rocking with the force of her orgasm, with the drive of his pulsing flesh into hers, and felt his arms tighten around her as mouth burrowed deeper into her throat as body strained up one last time into her to explode. Still the pull of his mouth at her throat as consciousness slowly faded and then winked out...

* * * * * * * * * * *

A shout and the slam of a door roused her and Nikita turned her head woozily, blinking to bring eyes into focus. Could feel the brush of her lashes on her cheeks, the scratch of fabric against her flesh, and the pull of drying blood against her skin--she lifted a trembling hand to touch fingers to her throat and stared at the bit of dried blood on her finger. Frowning, she explored the wound with her fingers, finding neat puncture marks, as if made by...

Memory returned of the night before, of Michael feeding and her fall into oblivion. Gingerly she sat up, looking down at the black coat that covered her from chin to shoulder to mid-calf...Michael's coat. Another shout from outside, accompanied with a heavy impact--she had to still be at Michael's loft...but there was no sign of him here.

Clasping coat to her, she rose from the couch, grasping the back of it when her knees threatened to buckle. Weak and dizzy but not too much so--she stood still for a moment, till the dizziness passed, and then looked for her clothing, finding it in a neat pile beside the couch.

But of Michael...there was no sign.

Dressed, she went to the front door, pausing to retrieve her coat from the closet. Dipping a hand into her pocket for her keys, she encountered a folded piece of paper and drew it out, unfolding it to see Michael's neat handwriting. For a moment her heart skipped a beat, certain that after what had happened the night before, he had fled, succumbing to the old paralyzing guilt and self-doubt, but inscribed on the paper was a time and place and three simple words: Je t'aime.

With a small satisfied smile curving her lips, she tucked the note back into her pocket and left the loft, shutting the door behind her.

* * * * * * *

As the sun sank down into a night's oblivion, Nikita found herself at the door of a small elegant restaurant, giving her name to the maitre d'; the man immediately led her to a curved staircase upholstered in rich red velvet and up they went to the second floor and a private room. Michael awaited her in the room, rising as she entered and nodding to the maitre d', who discreetly faded back, and took her hand to lead her to a loveseat set against the wall.

Gently his fingers touched her throat, tracing the small wound, and his lips parted to speak but she placed the palm of her hand over his mouth. "No. No regrets. If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have allowed it." And let her hand slide to his cheek, to cup it as she brushed a gentle kiss across his lips.

"No regrets." he whispered against her mouth and closed his eyes in acceptance, rubbing his cheek against her hand. They sat in silence for a long moment, basking in the newfound ease and warmth between them, and then Nikita reluctantly moved back, a small sigh escaping her.

"I can't stay long--I don't know if they're monitoring me--" Had watched as best she could for signs that Section had placed someone on her but she hadn't been able to pinpoint anyone. Which of course didn't mean there wasn't someone there...

"They're not. I've been...watching." said Michael decisively.

How long, she wanted to ask, prepared to bristle with indignation at this oblique hint that he had watched her for days--or even weeks--before he had made contact...but she shrugged it off. He was nothing if not cautious and though she could wish that he would be a little more impulsive, a little more ready to throw that caution to the winds, she knew he wouldn't have lived this long without it. It was what had made them a good team--they balanced each other, she with her intuition and he with his logic, her impulsiveness and his levelheadedness...

"We have a situation here that you might be...close to." Opening her purse, Nikita rifled through it and extracted her PDA, activating it and turning it so that Michael could see it. "Intel from various sources indicates that there is a syndicate working to assume supremacy over organized crime groups worldwide, from the Russian Mafia to the Chinese Tongs to the street gangs of the States. We were able to identify a mid-level player by the name of Salazar and tracked him to a meet in San Francisco's Chinatown. But the people he worked for aren't..."

"People." Michael finished for her absently, eyes focused on the PDA's screen, taking it from Nikita's hands to review the data contained there. "This pattern here--it hasn't simply come up overnight."

"No." agreed Nikita, mouth twisting bitterly as she remembered the conversation with Operations and Madeline. "They knew about this when they sent you in."

"I'd gathered as much." responded Michael with that ironic, dry sense of humor of his.

In those first few months he had been consumed by rage and hate for what Section had done to him, how they had stolen from him the smallest speck of humanity left to him... but he had come to reconcile himself to it. As he had so many other things...

"They're stepping up their timetable." he said, lifting his head to meet Nikita's eyes. Nikita nodded. "They're sweeping through the underworld. Those that won't bow down to them, they eliminate. Some of the Tongs are attempting to dig in, wait for it to blow over...but it won't. By the time they set themselves to dealing with the Tongs, their numbers will be so great the Tongs will be smashed."

"And they'll also have...subverted some key members in the Tong hierachies to pave the way." mused Michael aloud. He stared down at the PDA but he saw rather than its screen Theodore as he'd stood in the alley, speaking of his master...Lucien. A Lucien that Andre apparently knew... "There's someone that might be able to give us more information on this. But I don't want to take you along--you've already been too exposed."

Nikita bit back the protest she wanted to make, forcing herself to nod in acknowledgement. "I have a source I want to check with myself. Why don't we meet here again in, say...three days?"

Michael was silent for a moment and then he gave Nikita the PDA, repeating, "Three days." As she rose, he caught her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a soft kiss against the inner skin of her wrist. "If you need me...call. I'll come as quickly as I can."

"I will." she promised, leaning forward to press her forehead briefly against his. And with a parting caress of his cheek, she left him alone in the room.

"Be safe." whispered Michael, as much a prayer as a plea, and departed as well.

***********

Slowly Michael stepped through Andre's house, seeking the familiar sense of presence and yet finding nothing. He made his way slowly upstairs, to bedrooms wreathed in cobwebs and the meager furnishings covered with a thick layer of dust, and then down to the basement, seeking the other's resting place...but to no avail. He went once again to the living room where he had first seen Andre and brushed fingers across the soft velvet upholstery of his chair.

"Michael."

He whirled at the sound of Andre's voice, to find Andre standing just behind him, as if he had appeared from the very air. No sense of presence at all, as if Andre were a spirit or a wraith--

"Another gift that comes with age--the ability to mask my presence. To hide myself from others of our kind. One that has stood me in good stead..." His mouth twisted a little with that, dark eyes filled with haunted memories, and he gave a shake of his head. "But that it is not why you are here."

"Theodore spoke of a Lucien...and the Elders. Who are they?"

Andre regarded him silently for a long moment and then gave a sigh, gesturing to the fireplace. "Sit." Obediently, Michael sat as Andre sank down into his chair, clasping his hands in his lap, his eyes focused on the floor beneath him. "Lucien..." Slowly Andre raised his eyes to Michael's and smiled sadly. "I knew Lucien once, a long time ago.

He was in thrall to the one that made him and I...assisted him in breaking free. Sheltered him as he came into his own power, till he could stand alone against his master. But Lucien was ever ambitious...and when I would not ally myself with him, I became his enemy. He seeks to amass enough power to overthrow the Elders."

"The Elders..." repeated Michael with a faint frown.

"They are the oldest and strongest among us. If we could be said to have a ruling council...it would be they. They possess the power to create...and to destroy. Their word is law and to be outlawed by them is to set the hand of every vampire against you. What Lucien desires is to have the power they hold...and yet he cannot move openly against them. And so he seeks to gather to his standard the strength to throw them down. Those that will not join with him...he will destroy." As Lucien would do with him... "They are not the only ones he wishes to rule."

"No. Lucien's ambitions are grand ones." admitted Andre wryly. "As the creatures we are, we move best in...darker circles. Lucien would have dominion over those circles and cement his power base. With all of the underworld at his feet, he could strike at the Elders...and yet have his hands clean."

And therein lay the source of this syndicate that the Section pursured. With the vast resources of the world's criminal organization at his beck and call, Lucien could eliminate his enemies at his own discretion...and the Section would be at the top of his list. No matter its own shadowy motives, the Section was the only thing that stood in Lucien's path.

"He needs to be stopped." said Michael flatly.

"Yes." responded Andre simply, gazing expectantly at Michael.

Michael shook his head, lifting his hands. "I don't have the power to stand against him, not when he has so many to call on. How can I overcome him?"

For a long moment Andre studied him and then gave a nod. "Follow." he said...and was gone.

* * * * * * * *

The warehouse was abandoned, the front of it hung with a FOR LEASE sign that hung askew, and the sidewalks before it littered with trash. The doorways held signs of occupation but the the interior of it had been left untouched. Boxes were still scattered across the floor, covered with a fine layer of dust, and Andre led the way between them, to a door and a set of stairs that led down to the basement.

As they went down, Michael felt a swelling wave of presence, so many gathered below him that they interwove with each other to form a mass of emotion. Fear was predominant and along with it anger, so strong that he had to shield himself against it, lest it raise the beast that lay dormant. And as they emerged into the basement, he saw what he had felt.

There was perhaps a dozen of them here, ranging in age from the newborn to one old enough to have seen the beginning days of the Colonies, running the fashion gamut from gutterpunk to Fifth Avenue. Young and old alike regarded him with trepidation and fear, in some a sullen, smoldering anger, that to survive, they would have bare their throats and accept another as master. One came forward, a young man dressed in fine punk style, from the spiked white-blond hair to the leather jacket and leather pants, a sneer curling his lips. "This is the one?" he demanded, his voice carrying a Cockney accent that gave the lie to his youth.

Beside him came a girl dressed in a long wine-colored velvet dress, her mahogany hair drawn back from pale, delicate features. She raised her hands as if she would touch Michael but the palms of her hands halted a foot short of him, sliding slowly down. "He feels...strong." she said, her accent placing her as from the same land as he...but from a different station. A slow, wicked smile curved her lips as she moved closer, stretching out a hand to run a finger down Michael's throat. "I'll bet you taste strong as well..."

"Down, Viv." said the young man dryly, taking her arm to pull her back from Michael.

The girl pouted but twined her arm through his, snuggling up against him and laying her head on his shoulder, watching Michael with the total absorption of a cat studying something that looks tasty. "He'll protect us..." he said skeptically to Andre, his gaze taking in the others gathered in the basement.

Andre turned to Michael. "You ask how Lucien can be overcome. These will be your allies--those that wish to be free as well."

Slowly Michael looked from one face to another, seeing in burning eyes desperation and fear, the very thing that had brought them together. Twelve in all, a ragtag group, from visibly diverse backgrounds--among them stood a tall majestic woman with dark skin and long black braids threaded with beads that somehow made no sound when she moved. She stalked forward, her stride that of a warrior, dark eyes fierce and proud as they met Michael's in a frank assessment, and he felt a quick, stabbing probe that he repelled with more force than was required.

Her eyes narrowed and then the corners of her mouth twitched briefly as she inclined her head in acknowledgement of his strength. "Vivian is right. He has a power that I have not seen in a long time..." Her gaze focused on Andre, eyes dark with some powerful emotion, and then moved to the young man. "I say we go with him." From behind her a small wisp of a girl--looking no more than fourteen--drifted forward, bringing with her a dark-haired young man clad in old-fashioned tuxedo and tails, and then one by one the others came to line up with the dark woman.

Vivian lifted her head from the young man's shoulder and drew him step by step to stand with the dark woman; though a muscle in his jaw clenched, he allowed himself to be led, fixing a cold gaze on Michael.

"Betray us...and we'll destroy you." he said flatly.

Michael wanted to deny them, to refuse their allegiance, to set himself apart from them. To deny as well himself and what he had become...but that he could not do. For better or worse, he was one of them...and accept it he must. If he was to overcome Lucien, to aid Nikita--and the Section--then he had to have allies. Even allies such as these...

And so he inclined his head in acknowledgement of the young man's statement, sharing a long look with him. Let the young man feel a flick of his power, warning him that he would not accept betrayal either, and saw in the young man a wary respect and a glimmer of sardonic amusement as he gave a bow.

* * * * * * * *

Following the destruction of Angelique's lair, Nikita had seen John Harper only once, when he had asked her to come join his crusade against the vampires. She had refused him, knowing that if she chose to leave, the Section would hunt her down...and not wanting the valiant group to suffer for it. And the Section had helped to bury the pain of what she had seen then as Michael's loss; it hadn't been till later that she had known Michael had been retrieved from the rubble and imprisoned in the Section.

All the same Harper had given her the means to communicate with him, should she ever need his assistance again. And so she used the email account to contact him now, to see if he could provide her with any intel in regards to the syndicate. If anyone would know about a vampire syndicate, it would be him and his network of contacts.

A response came fairly quick, providing her with an address and a time for their meet. The location was a renovated factory on the outskirts of town, looking from the outside to be another victim of urban development cast aside to fall into disrepair. But set into the door was an intercom and a sophisticated security lock that would have Walter salivating.

A few minutes wait and a buzz indicated the deactivation of the lock, Nikita hauling the door to find herself met by two grim-faced men in black. They took a position on either side of her and led her through a maze of corridors, silent as they walked, allowing her to take in undisturbed the sights around her.

It was like other bases she had seen of Harper's...but very much different. Before their equipment had been ranshackle, hastily cobbled together and limited by their funds; now her eyes were greeted by signs of affluence. The walls were pure steel, sturdy enough to protect them from a potential assault, and the rooms they passed with a bustle of activity. A computer room, a lab, an examining room, a firing range, and even a cafeteria--and through it all, she saw men and women striding purposefully down the halls. More numbers than she'd seen before in any place...

They took her to the rear of the factory and to a steel door, where one opened the door while another stood watch on her. A murmured sentence to whoever awaited her on the other side and then Nikita was allowed entrance, the door shutting behind her.

John Harper sat behind a desk that looked more than a little the worse for wear, the surface scattered with files, photographs, and newspaper clippings; a corner of the desk had been cleared for a computer and a coffee mug sat beside the keyboard, so that it could snatched up in mid-keystroke. As she came into the door, his head turned from the computer monitor and he gave her a smile of greeting, rising to extend his hand.

"Hey, stranger." he said in greeting.

"Hey, yourself." Though he'd looked to have moved up a little in the world, he was the same John Harper, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, his dark hair a little more grey, wire-rimmed glasses balanced precariously on the bridge of his nose...but still the Harper she had known. "I like the new digs." she said, gesturing at the door and the factory beyond.

Harper smiled and ran a hand over rumpled hair to smooth it down a little. "Well...still not Fifth Avenue...but it's an improvement. We've been lucky to come into some funding in the last few months--it was looking pretty bad there for a while...but we're getting close to being solvent now. Not only have we been able to recruit more people to our cause, we've also been able to make it possible to support them, make it a full-time gig for them."

"So the vampire hunting business is coming along well, eh?" asked Nikita with a slight teasing glint in her eyes.

Harper grimaced slightly and gestured for her to come around the desk, tapping at the keyboard to bring up a map of the world. "And they're spreading as well." All across the map were small dots of black, from Eastern Europe to Africa, thickest in Europe and the United States. "We've been able to establish something we only dreamed about before-- a solid network of informants. We can link into the databases of every major law enforcement agency and sift through missing persons and homicide reports. Even got a whiz kid that wrote a program that would isolate certain cases where the cause of death meets a certain criteria. These dots--they signify the known vampire activity across the world."

"And it's growing." said Nikita grimly.

Harper shrugged, casting her a sideways glance. "It was always there--hell, it was probably more widespread than we knew before...or even *wanted* to know. But now we have the means and the intelligence to track like we weren't able to before."

"How so?" Nikita turned her head to study Harper.

"A patron." said Harper dryly, straightening to rub his eyes under the glasses. "Someone that wants to be anonymous--they provide us with the funds and the intel.

Admittedly some of it is vague...but then there's a lot of it that's dead on. And it's allowed us to destroy nearly a hundred of them over the last three months."

"Care to share any of that intel?" asked Nikita.

"What's up?" he asked in turn, folding his arms over his chest.

Nikita straightened, drawing in a deep breath. "The Section is attempting to track a syndicate that is consolidating power among various criminal organizations. This syndicate--they're ghosts, almost impossible to track. Either no one knows about them or they're terrified to talk about them. We were able to pinpoint a mid-level player that might be connected to them and while we were making the pickup, I found that one of his little...entourage was a vampire."

"And you think that it's vamps that at the heart of this syndicate." stated John.

"Well, think about it--it makes sense. What more perfect way for them to wield power and remain unseen? They can hide behind their lackeys and not once venture out into the light."

"God..." Harper rubbed his temples slowly. "Yeah...it does make sense. Explains a helluva lot too--I got a buddy in the FBI, who's been working on Russian Mafia families in New York. He's been talking about some of them...disappearing. Not a trace of them at all, just...poof. Gone. And of course the police aren't going to be that eager to pursue the disappearance of a mobster. Makes their job easier."

"One by one, they will subvert or destroy every known criminal organization in the world, until the entire underworld is beneath their collective thumb. And then with that kind of power at their disposal...what couldn't they do?" asked Nikita quietly.

Harper laughed sourly. "Oh, you know how to ruin the moment, don't you?" He shook his head ruefully, sinking down into his chair. "Okay...I'll see what I can find out for you.

But when you get this information, what're you planning to do about it?" He tilted his head back to look at her, eyes very serious.

"Cut off the head of the snake that's behind it. And then destroy the body." said Nikita grimly.

"You'll need help, won't you?" asked John softly.

Nikita hesitated, turning a little away from him as she bit her lip. She needed him and his organization because they could accept and deal with what the Section operatives could not: the existence of vampires. And though they might lack the Section's vast resources, they had the skills and experience to win this fight.

And so she would use them to help her bring this syndicate down. "Yes." she said simply.

* * * * * * *

"Why me?"

Michael turned from the fire to pose that question to Andre, seated in his chair. They had returned here with those that Andre had gathered to him, to shelter here until plans were made. Where Michael would take them from here, he didn't--he knew only that they could not remain here indefinitely. And that it would be better to take the fight to this Lucien rather than sit here waiting for him to come...

Andre tilted his head back, steepling his fingers, a sad smile curving his lips. "You have a fire--a passion--I lack. I have seen too many years and sometimes...the years weigh heavy on me. I would be a poor champion for them--how can I care for their survival... when I care not for mine?" He turned his eyes from Michael to a study of the fireplace, the flickering flames reflecting in eyes gone dark and introspective. "I tire of the endless conflicts among our kind...and at times, I think we would be better if we did not exist at all. I have seen too many I love die over the years..."

"I don't know if I can be for them what you want me to be." said Michael with a slight shake of his head.

Andre looked at him again, his smile gentle now, with a touch of pride. "You are born to be a master, Michael. You know how to lead...and how to control. To be ruthless... and yet fair. Despite all our claims to mastery, we are more like wolves than we are mortals--domination is the key. We will obey those that are stronger than us...even as we fear and hate them. But the true power lies in gaining their respect--for once they love you, they will follow you to the very gates of Hell itself. They respect me...because they also fear me. But I cannot lead them as you would."

How amusing it was, that he had fled his position in the Section...only to find yet another group requiring a leader. Another family to belong to--he shook his head at that wayward thought. They might be his kind...but they were not his family.

"They can be your family, if you wish it. If you allow it." Michael gazed back at him with eyes devoid of expression or emotion and Andre lifted a hand, as if to wave away his own words. "It is your choice, Michael. View them as you see fit. But remember...when you accept their submission to you, you accept as well the responsibility for their...lives. Such as they are..." he added with a self-deprecating smile.

Curtly Michael nodded and moved from the fire, to seek out the others.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"I don't trust him."

Leaning back against the wall, ankles crossed, Diana folded arms over her chest and regarded the punker Ian from beneath her lashes. Vivian stood beside him, humming tunelessly to herself as she ran a brush through her hair, all her attention focused on the simple task, seemingly unaware of the tension in the room. Tara huddled in a rocking chair, a thin waif of a girl, cradling a patched, worn teddy bear to her chest, looking like the child she was...and yet had not been for nearly two hundred years. A single glance and she would be summarily dismissed as no threat at all...but the childlike appearance hid a will strong as steel...and a clever mind. Behind her chair stood Alex, still a babe to this life, replacement for the love Tara had lost to hunters.

Hunters that seemed to have an uncanny ability to sniff out their resting places, beating the brush to drive them from boltholes, destroying those they caught as they slept...and forcing survivors to flee from long-time homes. Her maker had been one of those that had perished at the hands of the hunters--five hundred years old and he had fallen prey to them, dying in the burning ruin of the old church he had sheltered in.

One by one they were all dying, masters and newborn alike, all those that would not follow Lucien. And each death sent more flocking to the *safety* of his banner.

But not she. Never she. She would die before she accepted Lucien as master. Her pride would allow nothing else.

But this Michael, he was unlike any of her kind she had come to know in the last three hundred years. There existed in him a power that was...different. Strong and wild, barely tamed, the likes of which she had not seen...since Andre. Once Andre would have led them and he could have defeated Lucien...but now...no more.

"You don't trust anyone." she said to Ian with a slight sneer. An odd pair they made, he and Vivian, a Cockney guttersnipe and a daughter of nobility...and yet a perfect balance.

All were not suited to the change...and that was evident in Vivian. What she had been when she was mortal, Diana did not know...but with the change she had turned fey, more than a little mad.

"He is all that we have..." said Tara from her chair, her soft voice carrying through the room and effectively forestalling a confrontation. Though Ian snarled, he turned away from Diana, grasping Vivian's arm to jerk her back with him to a loveseat. "With him, we stand...or we fall."

From beyond the doorway came a sense of presence and Michael stood in the doorway, eyes flicking over the dozen gathered in the room. From Diana to Vivian and Ian, to Tara and Alex, to the three young wildings clustered together--so alike in appearance and dress that it seemed impossible to distinguish between them--and then silent Marcus, to exotic Jade and then to Peter and Jan. All meeting his eyes, some with expectation, some with trepidation, and a few with wounded pride--his gaze was calm, almost empty, providing nothing of his thoughts...and he was as tightly shielded as any of their kind.

"If you follow me...some of you will die." An uneasy murmur swept through them at his calm pronouncement, Ian bristling at his flat tone, and he cast his eyes over each again, touching each one with that impenetrable gaze. "To tell you otherwise would be a lie. The numbers that Lucien possesses is significant...and so we will have to strike carefully. And all the same...some here will not survive. If you follow me, you follow me into war. Any that don't wish to go...leave."

Diana looked from one to the other of those gathered in the room, noting a shuffling of the feet and quick sidelong glances but no movement made for the door. When Ian would have risen, Vivian caught his hand and bent her dark head to whisper something in his ear, pressing a nipping kiss to his throat. And with a grudging nod Ian stayed where he was.

"We are yours to command, my prince." said Diana to Michael with a mocking bow.

* * * * * * * *

Three days from the night they had parted Nikita sat once more in the private room of the restaurant, sipping from a glass of wine as she awaited Michael. After the meet with Harper, she had touched bases briefly with the Section, to gather what new intel she had...and to see if Birkhoff could run a trace on the funds Harper's group was being given. If anyone could trace a money trail it would be Birkhoff...

Sighing, she glanced at her watch to see it was nearly eleven and she had been sitting here for two hours, the remains of a late dinner grown long cold. As usual Michael had been close-mouthed about where he would go for information and she could only hope that his lateness was a result of his successful inquiry...and not trouble. The Section might want him returned to its bosom...but they had to know that in this instance, Michael was better suited to operating on his own.

The door to the room opened and she lifted her head to see Michael slip through it, rising to greet him and taking his hands in hers. Their mouths met in a hungry passionate kiss that sent Nikita's mind whirling--though she wanted nothing more than to melt into his embrace, to join with him in the most primal of ways, she placed hands against his chest and broke the kiss with a gasp, breathing deep to still her racing heart. His lips brushed across her cheek and hair, burying his nose briefly in its sweetly scented strands before drawing back.