Clan War: Bonding

10th Anniversary Edition


6 months after Kiss of Death

"So…" Eric was up to his elbows in evidence.

Literally.

Sorting through a victim's suitcase clearly put him in a chatty mood.

Speed stood beside him, going through the matching case, waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop.

Metaphorically.

"…how's the Bonding thing going?"

And there it was.

The Vampire rolled his eyes.

Eric grinned.

It was a good thing the Processing Room was empty.

"You ask me every time you see Horatio smirking." Speed seriously wanted to fang up and hiss at his friend.

"It's weird to see him that way."

Which was true enough.

But Speed wasn't about to say so.

Instead he went back to sorting through what appeared to be miscellaneous luggage items belonging to an anally retentive business traveler.

Eric wasn't done though. "Does it normally take this long? I mean, I can't imagine how frustrated its gotta make you, just waiting around for him like this!"

"It's not something I can force. There are rules for a reason."

"Don't Vampires like it a little kinky? He probably wouldn't mind a little force."

Speed's eyebrows shot up. "That did not just come out of your mouth?" He honestly had no idea how many times he was going to have to keep answering damn fool questions, but something he'd heard Jim West say once, suddenly sprang to mind.

As long as damn fools keep asking!

Eric smirked. "It's time then, right?"

"And you wonder why you can't keep a girlfriend?"

He got glared at for that one, but pretended not to notice. In truth however, Delko was at least partly correct. A Vampire's sexual appetites were generally as enhanced and intense as his or her other senses, and while he'd certainly had time and chance in his many centuries to experience a vast number of assorted things in different and imaginative ways, in different places and situations…

He snickered to himself at such memories, recalling sweat drenched passions, and endless self-discovery. But he was hardly about to share that with Eric either, which meant his friend naturally took the very satisfied expression on his face, to mean something else entirely.

"Heh!" Delko chuckled knowingly, when in fact he actually knew very little about anything at all. "So that red hair is the same shade, all the way down?"

There was a part of Speed, the very human part, that wanted to brag and strut like some all conquering victor, but the other part, the possessive, stubbornly fierce Irish Vampire, was outraged at the very idea that Eric Delko would even so much as ask that!

"You are totally out of line," he growled, not really caring that his eyes were flashing and he was two seconds short of actual bodily harm.

"Whoa!" Eric threw his hands up and backed away hastily, the suitcase search forgotten. "I'm just playing with you here, man! Really!!"

"That's my Mate you're talking about."

To say Delko was a little concerned by his friend's aggression, was to do his fear much disservice. "Dude! What the hell? I'm just teasing, okay? I didn't mean anything!"

"Better not mean anything."

Eric shook his head. "Dude, do the damn Bonding thing before you lose the plot and kill someone who has no idea what they woke up by poking at you."

Speed knew full well that his colleague really had no idea about that either, but he was learning.

Fast.

The Vampire was not about to apologize though, even if he'd just gotten a very real wakeup call for what was in fact, an increasingly serious situation.

Eric was right.

As much as it pained him to consider the very real possibility, there was no escaping it.

Eric had his moments.

But Speed knew he needed to complete the Bond before being in such close proximity every day, to the one Soul he longed for beyond life and into death itself, drove him crazy with the continued denial of his every instinctual craving.

He chewed his lower lip for a moment, hearing in his own head all those stupid, yet totally justifiable excuses he'd been making for the last few weeks.

Horatio isn't ready yet.

He's not in the right place.

There's too much work.

Too much stress.

The time is never right.

There were still too many questions he hadn't had chance to answer yet.

It was insane.

And he had to admit it.

Not every Vampire got the full enormity of it all straight away.

Not every Vampire got the perfect moment for the perfect Turning.

Fate was forever going to be a fickle bitch.

He just had to consider his own moment of Destiny, to see that was true.

It hadn't exactly been pretty back then either.

Which thought made him ache all the more keenly for his Lord.

Shaking his head, he threw every item he'd been holding, straight back into the suitcase, and stalked away, leaving Eric still stood there in the corner, mouth open in a squeak of half-formed, outraged confusion.


***


Rumors sucked.

Every Vampire knew that.

And if they didn't, they only had to talk to the Lady Guinevere at Camelot Clan, to see the result of bad judgment on such matters. One poorly misconstrued innuendo, and before anyone could light the blue touch paper and retire a safe distance, there was a raging inferno of a wildfire happening, that history seemed bound and determined to keep reiterating and reinventing, ad nauseam.

Such was the way of the juicy, ripe-for-plucking rumor.

Everywhere.

Always.

And the Miami Dade Police Department gossip mill concerning an apparently tumultuous relationship between Horatio Caine and Yelina Salas, was no exception.

There were never any exceptions.

Depending on whether you heard it from Vice, Major Crimes or the Bomb Squad, the Lieutenant was either drilling his sister-in-law in his office every night, sneaking off work for a quick session between the sheets at various not so secret places around the city, or in fact quietly planning a romantic wedding for hiding the fact that Yelina was very obviously pregnant with the offspring of one more Caine in the family line.

It was all bullshit.

Speed knew it.

In fact, that very Monday morning when he'd first heard about Yelina's 'love child', he had just come from a long weekend, wherein he and the naughty redhead in question had in fact spent the entire time butt naked and very much not screwing the sultry detective who was still very much married - at least in spirit - to Horatio's brother. Sadly however, Speed couldn't exactly broadcast such news on the Police Emergency Channel, no matter how loudly he wanted to silence the nerve jangling crap he was forced to listen to in break rooms, bathrooms, and at water coolers all over the building, as well as in the parking lot and conference rooms.

At first, he had hidden himself away in his lab, snarking softly but viciously at anyone dumb enough to disturb him. Alas, he could not stay there for as long as he would've liked, and to his utter disgust it seemed that even by the middle of the afternoon, it was the only topic of hot conversation in what felt like most of the Greater Miami area. So much so, he seriously expected it to be emblazoned on the front page of the Herald.

Anyone asking him 'have you heard?', ran the very real risk of getting shanked in the neck.

And to make matters worse, Yelina had chosen that week for some vacation time with Ray Jr., her son. She was out of town, and by Wednesday, if the gossip was set to follow the traditional power to weight ratio for densely packed high-explosives, she would have snuck off for an abortion in Rio and gone to recoup in a private facility near the beach.

Speed was not impressed to find he was right.

About the gossip at least.

Nor was he impressed with Horatio's apparent inability to even hear such trash being whispered all around him.

That it wasn't anywhere near as virulent and all pervasive as Speed's imagination kept telling him it was, seemed utterly irrelevant when it came to the destructive power of poisonous venom.

Much to the Lieutenant's obvious bemusement.

"Just ignore it," he replied with a shrug. "We have far more important issues to deal with."

Speed slammed the redhead's office door shut.

The glass rattled.

And the blinds quaked.

"You are joking, right? Yeah, that's it. It's a funny, funny joke."

Horatio stood up. "We have two murders to solve, and evidence to prep for court. Why are you even bothered by this? It'll go away. It always does. Besides, if the morons are talking about me, at least they're leaving everyone else in peace. And before you leap in again, yelling like a man off his meds," he cautioned with a frown, "you need to remember that Yelina is more than capable of handling herself, and kicking all the right idiots in all the right places when she gets back. She'll probably let you watch, if it will make you feel better."

Speed snorted in disgust. "Not really, but it would be a damn good start. People have too much time on their hands if all they can do is spread crap around all day! They need their asses fired! All of them! They're not working hard enough if their main interest in any given day, is your sex life!"

Horatio stared at him, eye to eye across the desk. "I'll get right on that," he answered, deadpan.

Actually, he was finding the Vampire's overly possessive anger to be a serious turn on, and had to restrain himself from throwing Speed down on the couch and staking his Claim most heartily. Not that there would be any real complaint from the Irishman if he did…

Thought then, of what he could do in the space of a few hours, to make things a lot less stressful for them both, put a quirky smile on Horatio's face that Speed immediately misconstrued.

"I'm sure this is all a gigantic joke to you, sat up here in your office, away from all the morons," he snarled, "but I am two seconds from gladly killing the next fuckwit who wants me to hear what your favorite position is while screwing your sister-in-law!" He annunciated every word like he was trying to get through to an infant. "No one gets to talk about you like that, H. No one! This is only your reputation. Why take it seriously?" Speed threw his hands in the air. "Sure! Let Yelina deal with it in her own time. I'm glad. She won't mind. In fact, she'll probably think it's all just a giant laugh riot too, so why worry?"

"Because adding my voice to this, gives it all credence. Ignoring it means not putting fuel on an already ridiculous fire. You, with all your years of past experience at life, should understand that. Yes?" It felt really quite strange to have to say such a thing in so very mean a fashion, but Horatio had never figured such nonsense as being even remotely worth his time to begin with, and seeing Speed so worked up over it, was starting to bother him in more ways than the purely visceral.

There had to be something else going on, to warrant so very smart and widely read an individual, going nuts over what amounted to the equivalency of a schoolyard game of Chinese Whispers. He fully accepted that there were more than a few people in the labs, and the entire MDPD for that matter, who absolutely needed better things to do with their time than gossip all day. Such scenarios could go from harmless to vicious with no apparent warning and little in the way of genuine justification, so he would indeed not be shy at raising the issues involved, but he would do so in the most appropriate way, at the most appropriate time. He was also going to talk to a certain other Vampire of his immediate acquaintance, and try to determine if there was something he could do to put his prospective Mate a little more at ease in the meantime.

"I know this isn't right," he said quietly, noting the fury on Speed's face, and pulling out everything he'd ever learned as a Hostage Negotiator, in trying to calm such unrestrained emotion. "We shouldn't be living like this, barely able to get five minutes with each other sometimes, let alone chance to make more substantive plans."

To his enormous relief, Speed sagged a little bit, his spine unstiffening and his shoulders loosening as his anxiety abated.

Somewhat.

"I can't stop what's happening here right now. Miami never sleeps. The work we do, keeps on going. But we will fix this. Just let me have the chance."

Seeing the Vampire's eyes darken as his brows drew together was, however, not a good sign.

"I will wait for you, Horatio Caine," he growled, "but not forever."

And before the redhead could properly ask what so thinly veiled a threat might truly mean, the sole object of his deepest affections turned and stalked out of the room in irritation.

The first thing Horatio did after that, was pick up his phone and call Warrick Brown. He needed a few clear cut answers to what he knew would ultimately result in his own death, and he needed them delivered without the compromise of emotional and physical attachment. That he then failed to tell Speed how Warrick would be in Miami for a couple of days, seemed the very least of his concerns, until later that night.

Speed had pulled a double. With so much going on, they all had, and they'd done it without complaint. So he was really rather preoccupied when he got to his Trace Lab just in time to see his Clan's Co-Leader disappearing into H's office right there, upstairs from where he worked. He'd been in Autopsy until then, snagging evidence that Alexx had found on a murder victim while washing the body down, and given that he had several experiments and assorted tests left with a few hours still to run before completion, he'd taken his time documenting his discoveries for better reference.

The waste water filter trap under the Autopsy Table had captured some interestingly shaped, yet unidentifiable particulate matter that could prove highly telling when it came to determining exactly where the murder had occurred, because it sure as hell hadn't been the terribly clean backseat of the old black Saturn the body had been found in.

Speed growled, and glared at the Lieutenant's firmly closed office door, before dropping his carefully collected samples onto the nearest workbench. Though he could see through the half-open blinds just what was happening, he still wondered firstly what the actual fuck was going on, and secondly why no one had seen fit to tell him that Warrick was:

A) in the same city

B) in the same building

C) talking to his Mate.

Someone was really going to have to be reminded, that as Sylum's Clan Advisor, he, Timothy Quinn, deserved some kind of respect sufficient to get a head's up phone call at the very least.

He bit his lower lip, contemplating the possibilities and permutations that could signify an unheralded visit, but soon figured he was little lacking in the motivational side of the equation.

What did Warrick have to say to Horatio, that he himself could not express to the one who would ultimately complete his very being?

What could possibly have required Warrick's personal input so very badly, that he would readily show up with no warning, and Horatio not say a damn word?

Or was there some related case going on that he'd not been made aware of in the middle of everything else?

Anything was possible.

He could perhaps, or so he reasoned, have a bad sense of over anticipation that was imaging the worst of every option.

Or rather, he was just about ready to believe so, when his cellphone rang.

"Don't tell me," he muttered sourly, not needing to check who was calling, to know precisely who he was talking to, "you're the distraction? Hate to tell you this, but you're thirty seconds or so late."

A brief, dry chuckle met his ears, and he swapped his phone into his other hand, watching intently what transpired above him, as Warrick took the offered seat across the desk from Lieutenant Caine.

No papers or official files and documents were produced, so Speed scratched at least one theory off his list of possibilities.

"What can I say? Text message time lag?" Nick was amused. "At what point did you think we would not be having this conversation?"

Speed rolled his eyes at all the melodrama. "What conversation? At this point you're just trying to stop me going up there and getting in the way."

"I'm not sensing anything weird going on. If that helps?"

Though what Nick was actually starting to feel from his Mate, seemed a great deal more erotic than he thought it best to mention.

"Weird? That's the best you got?" Speed sighed.

"Yeah, I'm going with the vaguely annoying right now."

"Awesome."

"It's a start."

"You're evil."

"Not heard that one in a while."

"What d'you want from me right now?"

"A little love, boy."

Speed snickered. "Not heard that one in a while. Warrick's not here on a case, is he?"

"I knew there was a reason I made you my Clan Advisor. You're very smart."

"And you're a comedian who clearly missed his calling in life. What the hell is going on here?"

"Your boss needed a few answers to some questions."

"That he couldn't ask me?"

"Yes."

Speed had to seriously control himself, or risk throwing his phone at the nearest wall. "The vote of confidence is awe inspiring."

"Tell me then, why you're still dancing around your Mate and not safely Bonded already?"

"And there it is."

"Sigh all you want. You know what you need to do."

"Oh, I know."

"Then what's the problem?"

"He's not ready."

"Or you're not."

"Really? That's your wisdom, oh great one? How long have you known me? I forget." He snorted derisively.

"Then let him and Warrick talk stuff out."

"You sent him?"

"I encouraged him."

"You are not helping yourself."

"I think that's my line."

"No shit."

"Are you scared?"

"Of what?" Speed sat on the nearest stool he could find. "I'm not Tony. I don't baulk and throw up at the idea of actual commitment."

"Of killing him, I mean."

Couched even in the most honest and concerned of terms, Vampire to Vampire, there was no getting away from the enormous implication of such a statement.

Speed swallowed loud enough for Nick to hear it. "You want to be a bit more blunt?"

"You want to give me an actual straight answer instead of avoiding the truth? And don't you dare tell me everything is fine, when I can feel the anxiety coming off you. Actually, I've been feeling it for weeks."

"Then why aren't you here too?"

"Vegas. It sleeps about as much as Miami."

"Busy, huh?"

"Not too busy to stop you from changing the subject again."

"How about that?"

"Do you want me to come see you?"

"You'd be here already if it had come to that."

Nick sighed. "Aren't we a five year old girl today?"

"Oh, screw you!"

"Okay, now I know its bad when the only comeback you can manage is that cheap."

Speed snorted. "This is complicated."

"When is it not? Whose Mating was ever smooth and worry free?"

"Good point." He leaned against the workbench, elbows firmly planted, making a conscious effort to try and stop staring upward at the window. All the gathered evidence he was meant to have been processing, remained untouched around him. "He has to be ready." He snorted in self-loathing as a certain irony suddenly hit him. "I wasn't all that worried about Turning him until you said that just now. I have other kids I've Turned. It's not like this is my first time taking a life that way."

"But it's his first time."

"He's not Warrick!"

"Really?"

"He wants this."

There was a pause.

It felt remorselessly painful.

"I know he does," Speed whispered. Having already been convinced of that fact, he knew how saying it was actually self-defeating for his own argument.

"And how many times has the noble Lieutenant Caine gone and put himself in a dangerous position by trying to save others, only to have it nearly cost him his own life?"

"That is who he is."

"Yes. But can you lose him? Before your eyes? Once more to want forever?"

"It's not the same!"

"I call bullshit."

"Papa!!"

"Last time it was a sniper. And you were freaking like Tony does every time he sees his Mate and loses him to history."

"He's been getting the same little chat as me then, huh?"

"This is all yours, boy."

"Shocking."

"How many times, Speed? How many times have you nearly lost it all in the last few months alone?" Nick kept pushing. It had to be done. His most stubborn Childe needed a dose of stark reality. "I would never wish what I endured on anyone," he continued quietly, "not even La Croix, for all his scheming stupidity. The loss is too great. The pain too much."

"So now you're comparing this to Warren?"

"You were there then too. Hengehurst burned for Warren."

"You're waiting for news that Miami is up in flames?"

"You don't know that pain, Timothy. I don't want you to have to feel it. Or the guilt."

"You forgetting Fredericksburg?"

"Of course not! How could I? But that loss was not your fault. Captain Caine was not your responsibility. He only came into your life when it was too late. You had not begun the Bond. I'm not comparing scars or bad memories. We all have them. Too many I think, huh? But you have to get a handle on this before you lose it. Don't take the risk."

"So Turning him against his Will is better?"

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to! That's how you got Warrick, after all, or has all that guilt you've been carrying around over walking away from him, finally worked its course?" Speed found himself glaring at the Pirate in question, recalling those long months of hell that came from a single bad decision.


***


"I knew what I was getting into," Warrick said quietly, having figured there would be little point in trying to make any of his own experiences seem like more than they truly were. Horatio needed some assurance that what he was about to get into was worth the price of admission.

"How?"

"I'd had some intimate knowledge of what Vampires were, and I'd seen for myself a little of what they could do. I knew enough to respect them."

The Lieutenant nodded, recalling what he'd seen Speed do to Rick Stetler in no more than a passing blink. "We've had some time together. Not enough, but chance to figure each other out a bit more since the shooting."

"Centuries from now, you'll still be figuring each other out. Trust me on this," Warrick snorted.

"You and Nick have secrets?"

"We have history."

"I've been learning a lot of history recently."

"It walks with us."

"On two legs," Horatio chuckled. "With fangs!"

Warrick also laughed. "There's purpose in it."

"Did your Mate Turn you?"

"Mine was not a simple situation."

"Are they ever?"

"Only rarely."

"Then did you want what you were given?"

"Hell, no!" He growled, his voice rich with irony. "I wanted what I could take. It's what Pirates do."

The Red Stallion was a two-masted Brigantine with a crew of 88 and a tally of 12 cannon. In the right light, her timbers and spars glowed the color of her name, and by the warmth of a West Indian sun, she could appear no more than a blur against the water's edge.

She came upon the Rose of Leigh with no warning sign, not even a shot across the bow to slow her down.

There was no chance for defense.

Not that the weather beaten and storm damaged passenger vessel had much to defend itself with in any way.

It was the late summer of 1723.

On route from London, via several other noted ports along both sides of the English Channel, bound ultimately for New Orleans in Louisiana, the Rose had gotten blown off course. In need of fresh water and victuals, and some repair before going further, they were three days out of Port Royal, Jamaica.

"It was a simple matter. Or it should've been. There was nothing much defensive on the Rose of Leigh worth spit, and taking her was easy enough done. In fast. Boarded quick. Simple robbery. All I wanted was the gold they were transporting in their cargo hold. Imagine my surprise when that rumor turned out to be true."

"You were a thief!?"

"Hello! Pirate!!" Warrick chortled. "I was a really fine thief, man, but what I did even better than that, was catch other Pirates." He beamed proudly. "We didn't rob that often but y'know how it is…"

Horatio didn't, but he was certainly starting to imagine.

"…when a little pilfering starts, everyone's got light fingers. It wasn't like I could sail on past a ripe fruit that good. The crates we found were disguised as furniture, man! It was a scam! A bad one, even for back then!"

Defense had come unexpectedly from the lower decks.

Three men.

Closely allied, and well adept.

But they fought to protect life rather than property.

"Most folks would've sold their kids, their spouses, and their Souls rather than watch someone like me steal their valuables. Life was cheap. No one did what those three men did for the sake of others, surely? If they did, they were either dumber than dirt, or on a different agenda than the rest of the world. Finding three jerks all protecting the passengers, blocking access to the hold and killing off my men, was more of a shock than an actual inconvenience. One was English, one French, one Irish. I knew what they really were the moment I saw them with my own eyes. The way they moved? That speed? Agility? Strength? Vampires were violent, unpredictable, passionate, and fiercely determined as far as I was concerned. And not easily deterred from anything they set their minds to either. They fought like hell, man, but I had the advantage of a big crew, more weapons, and enough firepower to burn their ship to the waterline if I chose. And yeah, I chose. They had the passengers all in together with the cargo. I gave them credit for being fast and thorough, but there was only so long they could hold out before I had to put it to bed. And fire gets to people," he snorted, "more than you'd ever imagine at sea."

"Panic?"

"Yeah. After that, a lucky blow to the head dropped the Frenchman. He was tall, elegant, graceful. I know him now as Antonio Crisafi."

"Tony DiNozzo."

Warrick nodded. "A pair of cutlasses skewered the loudly offensive Irishman like a pig on a spit."

"Speed!"

Warrick nodded again slowly, noting how the redhead paled rapidly yet still managed to maintain his self-control most admirably.

"Not the most auspicious way to meet, I'll grant you that, but he fell long enough for us to drop the last of them in a matter of moments. Tony and Speed had been looking to him the whole time. He was their lead."

"Nick."

"Nicolaus Valerius Meridius."

The pain his Vampire sons had endured, knocked him to his knees, sharp and sudden. Such things could not be inflicted upon either Parent or Childe without there being repercussions of some kind.

Weapons clattered to the deck, blades bouncing on the blood soaked wood, yet he would not be cowed.

It was not in his Roman nature.

"I would speak with your Captain," he snarled, addressing the nearest, who held a boarding axe in one hand, and a pistol in the other.

"Oh, looks like Mister La-Dee-Dah over here, thinks he's in charge now, lads!"

"Get him, or lose your arm to your own axe. Your choice." Given that the Captain of the Rose had pretty well vanished at the first sign of trouble, and not been seen since, Nicolaus absolutely believed himself to be in charge.

"Cornered animals in distress are always the more dangerous, Mister Brass."

At such well spoken authority, the mass of bodies pressed into the narrow hatchway before him, all parted in a wave, allowing into the tight confines of that badly lit passageway, the very man he had asked for.

Tall.

Strong.

Square of shoulder.

Dark skinned.

Muscular.

And very angry.

Eye to eye with the brazen invader who had crossed his path, Nicolaus was admirably straight backed and rigid. Despite the tormenting pain still coursing through his bones, he would see for himself in the firmly planted strides of his foe, just who it was exactly had thrown so reckless an attack upon so defenseless a vessel.

Silence fell.

"For having damn near gotten his guts ripped open, Timothy pulled the blade from his belly before spitting at my feet. I gave him grudging respect for that. Still do. He never quits. And that makes him a lot like his Papa. He also fought like hell to protect his brother. Not many have a heart that large."

In trying to picture what he was being told, Horatio had no problem at all, with fully believing every word of it.

"They lay in my way, so I had them removed." Warrick shrugged. "Which order won me the most dangerous growl, like I'd only heard once before in my life, from a man none ever crossed who lived tell of it." He laughed knowingly, enjoying the memory.

"Touch them and I will kill you!" Nicolaus hissed.

"With your bare hands?" the Pirate asked, puffing out his chest, filling even more of the space he was stood in, intimidating his captive. "You are in no condition."

But the Meridii were not easily threatened. "I have done worse," he snarled, "with less provocation."

Not enough that his sons lay bleeding at his feet in dreadful recollection of what once had been, Nicolaus then found in the beautiful green eyes of the smugly confident and swaggering Pirate, the completion of his very Soul.

"Razi?" He breathed the name as though offering a prayer.

"Warrick Calhoun, as it happens. Though rich, pampered white boys like yourself, learn fast to call me SIR!" he laughed, flashing his teeth as he grinned.

The crew who heard him, all snickered nastily.

"What did you do?" Horatio was oddly fascinated.

"I had no idea who Razi was. Far as I knew, and that wasn't too far, no one in my family had such a name. And there were a few other things on my mind taking priority over polite conversation. Him and his kind had killed men on my crew who looked to me for their welfare. I wasn't in the mood for letting them get away with it."

"You burned the ship?"

"Hell, yes! Took the gold and anything else not nailed down. Loaded up the passengers and disposed of the crew. Turn out their illustrious Captain had snuck off to his cabin and hung himself."

"Really?" Horatio knew full well he was staring at his fellow CSI from a whole new perspective.

"Think what you must. But yeah, he was well dead when we found him. Coward. Even Davy Jones his self wouldn't want him."

"Why kill the other crewmen then?"

"Eye for an eye, Lieutenant. And floating bodies on the water that don't get eaten by other local predators, make for a fit reminder that some folks are always to be feared."

Horatio coughed uncomfortably.

"It was a different time. A very different morality. Though from some of the crazy ass shit you and I have both seen doing this job…?" Warrick left that comment hanging there on purpose.

But the redhead got it.

He was a smart man, after all.

The hold of the Red Stallion stank like that of every other sailing ship on the water.

Sweat.

Tar.

Rum.

Tobacco.

So thick in the air, it had long ingrained itself into the wood.

To that stench came the clawing addition of blood.

Fear.

Dread.

Behind securely locked bars that on any other day might have safely contained rowdy, violent or drunken Pirates, sleeping off their folly at the Captain's pleasure, lay instead 2 dozen crates of gold, coinage for the payment of God alone knew what, bound for God alone knew where.

Of the prisoners, huddled together in the furthest corner they could find from those who might harm them still, as well as those who had insisted on defending them to no avail, the men stood apart from the women and children, murmuring amongst themselves over what should be done. But none were altogether keen on the course of action each was adamantly advocating.

Nicolaus, himself shackled to the bulkhead by means of his wrists, his arms stretched taut above his head, had won for them all by his acquiescence, at least a temporary reprieve from molestation or personal robbery. Though sadly they were unaware of what had been agreed on their behalf, Nicolaus chose not to tell them. Words had failed him since the profound shock of discovering his Mate returned and it set a strangely nervous sense of anticipation to his thoughts.

Timothy lay on the deck, flat upon his back, as still and silent as the grave. In fact, there were many that day who fully believed he was indeed dead to the world.

Anthony regained his faculties, and slowly grew in awareness once more, but only after the Pirates who dragged his limp body onto their ship, had dropped him without care into the hold and sailed away under the convenient cover of that pall of heavy smoke which marked the charred remnants of the Rose of Leigh.

"I smell death," he muttered hoarsely, blinking in the musty space, attempting more valiantly to determine his whereabouts, and failing miserably.

The back of his head hurt worse than any other injury of most immediate memory, and he soundly cussed in several languages, whichever filthy whoreson of a Pirate had hit him from behind and laid him out, dead cold. Touching his face most delicately, he decided his nose was broken too.

As if to add yet more insult to the moment.

With a groan, he eventually sat up and discovered his Papa's predicament, and he was about to ask him why exactly he would permit himself to be so disgracefully treated, when it struck him like a second blow to the head, that Timothy was having a far bigger, and decidedly more immediate problem. which most effectively encouraged his battered body into action.

Thomas was easily recognizable by his sturdy frame and silver hair.

As was the way of it whenever there were innocent human lives at risk, it was his role to move amongst them, servant to Lord Nicholas Leavy, respected, influential. He was a quite remarkable spy, all things considered, and reassuring to those most in need of a strong, fatherly friend.

He had wanted very badly to engage himself in the fight, for as a Vampire of some considerable personal and emotional connection to Nicolaus and his sons, it had been difficult enough merely standing back as no more than a seemingly unsuspecting observer. But he kept watch, once the prisoners were moved, determining who was the weakest, the strongest, the loudest, the quietest, the ones easily used for Feeding.

He also kept watch on his charges, ready to intervene for them in whatever way his Master saw fit. It was not unknown for him to be incredibly long-suffering, although he was certainly not to be trifled with if roused.

With a nod of his head, he indicated to the wary Anthony that by charm and natural concern, he had managed to separate a worthy young man from their fellow prisoners. Not exactly old enough to be considered one of the men, yet clearly discomforted enough by the quiet feminine sobbing and the fearfully whimpering children hiding in their mother's skirts, as to be uncertain of anything, he had easily come to trust the friendship offered him by Thomas in lieu of much needed protection. His blood would serve to heal the Vampires in their midst, of whom he was quite blissfully unaware, and his experience of permitting such would not be an unpleasant one, though it be done to him with neither his knowledge nor consent.

The only guards upon that somewhat sorry haul of prisoners, were positioned at the door, past which the Vampire's sharp and cunning eyes could make out a shadow laced ladder that most likely led straight to the main deck. Through the two hatches above, there came only slivers of starlight at the edges, which to the eyes of humanity seemed precious little illumination, unless accustomed to the dark maw of night aboard ship as sailing crew.

For they were indeed running battened down, riding the wind.

To the Vampires, lack of light meant no hindrance.

Antonio moved swift and sure, a blur against the bulkhead.

He clamped a hand over the youth's mouth, and suffocated him rapidly into oblivion by cutting off the breath to his body. After which, all else as was needed, could be achieved with neither fuss nor disturbance nor undue attention.

Upon waking several hours later, none the worse for the strange experience forced upon him and apparently in good spirits, uninjured and quite at ease, albeit somewhat paler than he had been previously, he simply believed himself the victim of no more than a nightmare brought on by the sorry circumstance of his surroundings.

Nicolaus had watched in silent, fatherly approval. Fresh blood sealed wounds, replenished strength, and built rapid recovery for both his sons. They were calmer, and they were healing, and that, for the moment at least, was enough. He had no real notion whether they yet appreciated just who it was had taken them prisoner, but imagined that once the Captain of the Red Stallion made his intentions fully known, there would be opportunity enough for them to better comprehend the full enormity of the situation.

Little was said as the hours passed interminably, but the former passengers from the Rose of Leigh resigned themselves to simply waiting for their fate.

A half dozen families, husbands and wives with young infants, eight men who had been traveling alone, two couples planning a new life in the New World following the celebration of their nuptials in England and the hope of such enthusiasm as the future together might bring. The young man who had been fed upon, was a run away who left behind a home he had not ever intended he should see again for fear of the father who beat him from his earliest childhood. Amongst them was also a woman whose plan had been to see the world with her brother, only to have him die in the first month of their voyage, and an older lady who had been sent for by her family to join them at last on a thriving plantation in Jamaica.

Timothy regained his senses more fully, even as Anthony began gauging the possibilities for securing them a clean escape.

Nicolaus, however, refused to even tear himself from the chains which kept him bound to the bulkhead, though on occasion he did flex his fingers and stamp his feet against the seeping cold of a wet, storm brewed night that was set to keep them all awake and somewhat numbed. He was grateful to have not been revealed as a Vampire, lest those already terrified might be so again, but there was no predicting how long such ignorance amongst the passengers might serve to last.

Dawn was a hopeful streak of light on the darkly curved horizon, when Warrick Calhoun, satisfied at last that his ever steady ship was not in imminent danger of being found by those who believed themselves in authority, or capsized by an unruly wind for that matter, returned to better assess for himself the condition of his rather unexpected prisoners.

"I would rather have robbed them and had my way before letting them on to Port Royal. Their sorry vessel wasn't fit for much. Their gold was already mine. But no, there were Vampires in the damn way, and suddenly I had folks to be dealing with and negotiations for getting them the hell off my ship without the East India Company crawling up my ass. For this, there was only one person I could rightly blame."

"You sound disdainful of the Vampire." Horatio saw a rich, emerald light in Warrick's eyes.

"I was," he snorted, "as far as I knew back then, they were all vastly capable of being self-righteous, self-important, self-obsessed, stubborn assholes full of pompous fury." He sighed and shook his head. "Sometimes all at once!"

"The Caribbean was full of them?"

"More than you'd think. It was wild, lawless, violent and bloodthirsty. What passed for organization didn't really do any good but in name only. On any given day you could see faces of every color, hear voices speak every tongue. The law cared nothing for those who were nothing and had nothing. So we lived by our own rules, and built our own way of life. Vampires were just one more shade of crazy in a world already mad." He shrugged. "You knew who to trust. You learned real fast or you suffered the consequences."

"You couldn't trust Vampires?"

"Man, you couldn't trust your own mother not to sell you out!"

Every head turned.

Every eye stared.

Beside that, no one moved.

They didn't dare.

Captain Calhoun filled the doorframe, flanked by two other Pirates of equal size, as well a girth and menacing expression.

Upon their entrance to the hold, the women turned away, lest they be noticed and robbed of the precious jewelry and personal items they had struggled to conceal so nervously about their folds of clothing and well-laced bodices.

No man stepped forward for all their bold assertions of valiant action.

There would be no help.

Timothy and Anthony simply sat watching, having been warned not to interfere for the sake of their fellow prisoners.

Thomas too, stared at his Master, concerned and anxious.

The number of those who might yet range against them as foes, was an unknown, and as far as Nicolaus was concerned there would be no more needless deaths if he could but talk to the Captain.

Talking, however, was not exactly what Warrick had in mind.

"I could not get him out of my head. No matter what I did, or how much I did to try and get him from my thoughts. And there's plenty involved in saving a ship of the Stallion's size to keep the mind occupied. He was in my thoughts. And I had yet to even hear his name spoken."

"You were drawn to him?" Horatio asked.

"As you were to Speed. Without knowing why."

Horatio nodded, his lips pursed. "Y'know, I have the feeling I may have had Vampires around my life before I ever knew they were there."

"Don't be surprised. It often happens."

"Speed said he'd spent years following my family line."

"We all try to do that for the bloodlines we think really matter, but knowing him he probably made it sound a hell of a lot easier than it really is."

"Oh, he does that with a lot of things!"

The two of them shared knowing chuckles, made a little more comfortable by it.

"So what did you do about Nick?" Horatio had a feeling he needed to hear the rest of the story to better appreciate his own.

Warrick shifted in his seat, and glanced down at his cell as it buzzed with an incoming text message.

DON'T TELL HIM THAT!!

He grinned, knowing his Mate was undoubtedly sensing through their Bond, every ounce of the strong and seriously increasing emotion that his recollections were re-invoking.

The second text read with a little more agitation.

I MEAN IT, MAN! DON'T TELL HIM THAT EITHER!!

"Something important?" H asked, seeing the Vampire's expression change to one best befitting a formidable poker player.

Warrick peered into the lab below the office, and found Speed staring up at him furiously.

"Very," he said at last, nodding at the little boy he so often saw in Timothy Quinn.

Nicolaus refused to blink, to look away, or even flinch. He knew only too well how best to face an opponent. He had been taught from a young age not to show fear, or to doubt his own intent. His resolve, usually so steady and solid, was nonetheless shaken badly at being once more in the presence of that Soul he had longed for and dreamt of, and craved each night for over a century.

Sharp, green eyes pinned him there, brighter even than Warren's blue, richer than Razi's brown.

Had he need for breath, it would have fled him.

Fine words were not required.

A knife caught the dim light, its blade a threat made purely in silence, resonating meaningfully in the Captain's unwavering hand.

Tony barely saved the growl that threatened to escape him. His brother's hand falling upon his knee as they waited together with growing expectation, was the only reminder necessary for him to fall still. He did not yet see what his Papa saw in the Pirate Captain, but he would forever defend his family, regardless of what he was told, or why it was deemed necessary.

Warrick stood before his prize.

All else was of no other concern.

He licked his lips, finding much to be admired in the courage of one who could stare at him so brazenly and not show weakness. But he had to be certain that his judgment was correct, and he did indeed host Vampires on his ship.

As his companions stood guard, weapons ready in lieu of some futile attempt on the part of the desperate to try and gain themselves freedom, so Warrick, with a steady and deliberate move, mere inches from his victim, did sink the point of his best blade into the Vampire's belly at the navel, watching not the bloody result of his deed, but the rigid expression on the Vampire's strikingly noble face, with its square set jaw and Roman nose.

Nicolaus hissed, surprised but not fearful.

The blade cut only his skin.

Nothing deep.

Though he had no doubt it probably looked a lot worse than it actually felt.

In truth though, he knew it to be no more than theatre, a display of power meant to test his strength and fortitude while intimidating all who saw it.

He took breath on purpose, as his body shook, tensing against the shock.

Pain was pain, even for him, and as the knife moved slowly but inexorably up his torso, splitting his shirt from where it had already parted company with his belt and breeches, his belly and his chest began to quake.

Blood dripped to the floor.

And yet still he refused to move, to speak, or to react.

Were he to die by some far graver misfortune, to the swords of those who thought he and his sons monsters, he knew he would be avenged, as was only proper and fitting. And he would see the final completion of his Soul in Elysium but for the briefest pause.

Warrick smiled thinly, as he finally withdrew his blade, and the tattered front of his victim's shirt parted to his keenly focused gaze. He was ever watchful lest he miss the rarest jewel, should it choose to appear in the most fleeting of passages before his eyes, so he did then perceive a small, gold bar that pierced the Vampire's right nipple, each end of which was set with a tiny diamond. It startled him to find such a thing on one who both dressed and spoke as a fine gentleman of good repute, and impeccable moral standing. And so it was, with some lechery, he did admire the valuable jewelry laid bare for his inspection, as well as the very obvious arousal spreading heat from his prisoner's groin, up over his belly and chest, and higher still to his neck and face.

Warrick admired much indeed, of what he so fortuitously might consider as Prize.

To his immense satisfaction, the long cut he had inflicted upon the still trembling flesh he could so very easily have pressed himself to and ravish right there, healed itself so cleanly and so perfectly, that even the blood he had spilt, turned to dust and in front of everyone, fell as though it never was.

Warrick Calhoun chuckled knowingly amidst the nervous shuffling his other prisoners were all attempting, as they stood pretending they too had not been staring in confused horror and abject disgust.

If those who had been witness to it all, actually knew the full significance of what was happening, they never screamed or started praying in lieu of it.

Warrick had seen such reactions before from those who on first being made aware of the Vampire's existence, struggled to grasp its meaning for their world.

He simply didn't care what they were thinking.

Or if they were thinking much at all.

With a commanding gesture to his crewmen, the prisoner he most wanted was duly freed, his wrists bound behind his back, and dragged away. His unwillingness to go, not as fierce as his Vampire Children might otherwise have expected, having seen him fight worse foe on a vast and varied number of occasions.

And win.

Some of the women began crying, having fretted in vain to try and keep their children from such violence and degradation.

Timothy shook his head.

He was hungry again, and the wounds he had taken, seemed to ache just enough to make him grim and grumpy.

"What in God's Name is Papa even thinking?" Tony grunted, disturbed why what he'd seen, and seriously anguished at having been ordered not to prevent it.

He had rarely questioned the judgment of his Sire, but ultimately came to trust him in what, upon reflection, had indeed been some very strange and often very lethal moments in time.

The present not withstanding.

"Did you not see Razi?" Timothy hissed, but then he had often wondered exactly how his sibling could sometimes be so very dense.

"Razi??" Tony blinked. "Heavens! I've not heard that name in many a decade!"

"You didn't hear Papa say it when he recognized the Captain?"

They spoke to each other in many languages, moving easily from one to the next, as a sly and calculated ploy to stop others nearby from overhearing their entire conversation in any particular depth, and naturally demanding explanations at the peculiar nature of it.

"Where was this?" Tony frowned, certain he had missed something vital.

"When we were being boarded! Seriously, you can be such a cretin."

"We were too damn busy fighting to hear anything!"

"When the Captain found us… Remember?"

"No! What? Wait! The Captain is Razi? I mean he was once Razi??"

They each kept their own most treasured memories of the tall and imposing Nubian slave whom Nicolaus had taken as his personal property so unexpectedly. They had been but children then, at the death of the Roman Empire - an ancient, yet still powerful lifetime, gone long before them with the passing centuries.

"When last we saw him, he was not exactly a seriously enormous, strapping great black!" Tony concluded. "Far from it."

"Indeed. He was not a lot of things. How did you not realize?"

Tony gingerly touched his nose once more, certain that he had been hideously deformed in its breakage. "I may have been face down upon the deck?" he ventured.

Tim snorted.

"So does Papa actually know what he's doing here?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps? That's it?" Tony flailed, attracting unwanted attention in the doing.

"What would you have me say?" His brother glared at him strangely. "All he said was that we were not to interfere."

"He said that with Warren."

"And look how that ended!"

"How did it end?" Horatio asked, as Warrick inexplicably fell silent.

"Well, that's Nick's story to tell. I didn't hear it for a while." He paused, frowning deeply. "Actually I did hear it, I just wasn't listening so good." He rolled his eyes at himself. "We had some issues to resolve first, before there was much in the way of real talk."

Horatio blinked rapidly, grasping then what exactly that meant. "You were more intent on…"

There was a very awkward silence.

"Taking? Yes." Warrick finally put it in terms that were somewhat more acceptable to the 21st Century. "Like I said. I'm a Pirate."

Nicolaus allowed himself to be hauled away, seemingly imprisoned by the men who held his upper arms and shoulders all too fiercely. He stumbled a little, shoved upward onto the deck, where he fell to his knees as the toe of his boots caught against the hatchway combing at the top of the ladder. It bloodied his breeches, but his injuries healed soon enough.

"How long before you need to Feed?" Warrick demanded, heaving him to his feet by the collar of his already ruined shirt.

"Long enough, Captain," he replied quietly, keeping his eyes lowered in a most respectful fashion. "Then I shall take as I need."

It made the men who had hold of him on either side, laugh like they had just heard the most amusing joke in all of recorded history, which in turn made the rest of the crew stop and stare, including the Red Stallion's loud and highly obnoxious Quartermaster.

Horatio raised a hand to stop Warrick going any further. "You said that like I should know him."

"I don't think you've ever met, but you may have talked a few times. At the very least, you should be aware of him."

The Lieutenant sadly knew far too many loud and obnoxious men to put a face on one who might best be called a Pirate.

In the end, he shook his head.

"Jim Brass," Warrick answered smugly.

"Captain of Detectives? Out of Vegas?" Horatio felt his eyes widen. "LVPD." He nodded. "We have indeed spoken several times. He's a Soul returned?"

"Nope. He's my actual Quartermaster. In the flesh."

"He was Turned the same time as you?"

Warrick shrugged. "It was one of life's rather humiliating moments."

Horatio wanted so badly to ask, but decided it was better not to.

"You claiming Prize?" Brass sneered, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

He had been cursed with a particular face that Warrick firmly believed to have been placed upon him by God from birth, so that even at the tender age of 5 months, he likely scowled more as a man of 55 years.

"This is mine," the Captain growled, loud enough for all to hear. "We would Parlay."

Brass knew that word to be flexible enough in definition as to cause him some serious problems later in the day. "Ay, Cap'n," he answered warily. "And those of his kind?"

"Watch 'em. Feed 'em only when I say. Not before. Got it?"

"Ay, Cap'n! And if they fight back?"

"They won't." Warrick had caught enough of the fury in his prisoner's eyes, to comprehend a certain use of caution.

"But, Cap'n? You know his kind!"

Where he might otherwise have ordered the two remaining injured Vampires to be beheaded if they so much as glanced at him with the wrong intent, he knew he would be effectively signing his own death warrant if he said such a thing, even in jest.

"They are not to be touched!" he barked, glimpsing a most fleeting hint of relief as it touched the dark eyes of his captive. "This one, I can control."

Where their leader went, the other Vampires aboard would certainly follow, just like Pirates with loot.

It was beautifully ironic, really.

Or so he believed.

Had Nicolaus not feared for yet further bloodshed, he might have reacted very differently. But for the other merits of that moment, he let what was said, pass with no further comment, and he was heaved into the Captain's Cabin, situated just below the Quarterdeck, whereupon his escort were left guarding the door that Calhoun took great pains to firmly bolt.

It gave the prisoner sufficient pause however, to assess his new surroundings, that he might better know the man in command of the Red Stallion. And to his very great surprise, it proved quite modest; the living space of one who came clearly of African heritage, though educated to a level that demanded books in several languages, all of which lay upon the shelves in disarray.

No rich finery graced the room, save for a touch of gold upon the desk where writing implements were set.

And a simple silver tankard that, set as though very great in value.

It was nothing impressive, yet its unadorned planeness and spreading base with scroll worked thumbpiece, suggested it might somehow be more important than it appeared, and it shone strangely in the light from the lanterns.

A small jade statue of an Oriental Dragon, perched as a heavy paperweight amongst the rolls of charts and maps, piled upon the long, low rail below the stern window.

Still, Nicolaus figured there was wealth enough in the many heavy rings that hung from the Captain's ears, and he took the Pirate for a most canny foe indeed, to have certainly hidden the true sum of his likely wealth from those others around him who would doubtless steal it from his grasp the moment he fell out of favor.

Such a man would not be likely to lose often, or squander his ill-gotten gains.

As he was, in fact, pondering such matters, he realized too late how he had turned his back upon the Captain, and only grasped the full nature of his mistake as two large, calloused hands spun him rudely back around and forced him to his knees.

He knew what was coming next.

The sum of his life's experiences had taught him much about the urges and desires of the flesh, the ways of men, and the games that they played both in haste and at leisure, and whilst he would indeed be the first to admit that there still remained so much more for him to learn, he had lived sufficient years by far, to know that such deeds as men did were often both repeated and repeatable, by way of design and emotional need.

He was not afraid.

Though he did vaguely wonder whether showing fear might not necessarily be detrimental to his own cause, as suddenly he was presented with a most prodigious black cock, swollen hard to a considerable girth, throbbing with the Pirate Captain's rapid and excited heartbeat.

That he was himself still highly aroused after their confrontation in the hold, was something he chose to keep under fierce control, focusing his intentions instead, upon what had most immediately to be achieved. But then, he had sensed and smelt Warrick's lusts for quite some time.

A heavy hand gripped him by the hair.

He had been expecting threats of pain and torture should he refuse to service his captor's needs, or if he bit him, or showed any sign whatsoever of trying to fight back or cause harm.

But nought was said.

There was only a smirking triumph on the Captain's face as he pulled the Vampire's head back and thrust his manhood between the soft, ripe lips presented to him.

That many blacks were very well endowed in certain essential parts, was a fact of things not to be denied, and Nick had discovered it to be so on more than one occasion, the first of which had been in claiming Razi as his own before a raging fire on the side of the road, beneath a cold, clear sky not too far from Rome. And such memory filled his mind even as Warrick's smooth, dark cock, then filled his mouth.

It was a long and vicious pounding of his throat that ensued.

A moment of conquest.

Or such was the intent.

It took the Vampire a single plunging gulp in which to adjust himself to the thick and unwashed meat that forced its will into him, but having no vital cause to draw breath was a blessing Nick had never been ungrateful for after his Turning. Instead, he took the smell and taste of Warrick Calhoun - whose name he had heard muttered throughout the ship from the moment of its appearing on the horizon - and let it play about his heightened senses with greedy gusto, using his tongue and his lips with unashamed skill to best enjoy the sensations for himself while giving the Pirate climax.

So well did he suck, in fact, that Warrick failed to realize he'd almost let go of the head he had been guiding onto his cock, and he was reaching the pinnacle of achievement far faster than hoped, pumping his essence down the Vampire's throat with a deeply satisfied, guttural grunt. The full length of his formidable prick, sunk to the hilt in so warm and sweet a mouth, was pleasure enough to take the edge off his needs a while.

For his part, Nick closed his eyes and stayed perfectly still until he was released from the thatch of course hair at the root of Warrick's member. It tickled his nose, but it felt so very familiar as he swallowed gently and repeatedly, drawing all urgency from the flesh he cradled on his tongue, simply letting it fall away from his touch once its owner was ready to move, and not a moment before. Though something told him it would likely not be long before it once more sought fulfillment either in, or on, his body.

Not waiting for neither instruction nor order after that, he stood up, sufficient strength in his legs to do so without need of free hands to maneuver with. And before the Captain's astonished gaze, he licked his lips most lasciviously, to ensure he had not missed a single drop of what he'd been given.

"Is there anything else you need my mouth for? Or do you want to fuck me on the rug now? I'm for doing it up against the desk if you're ready," he growled, a little husky of voice after the kind of battering his throat had not known for a while.

He rolled with the blow that came at his jaw - a solid, blood drawing thump that distracted him from how very much his palms itched to touch the exposed flesh at Warrick's waist.

Having merely loosened his breeches a little ways in order to free himself, the Captain had not considered the risks of such vulnerability as came with nudity, to be quite worth the potential harm.

Snarling when the Vampire stood his ground, he lashed out again, knocking him off balance. And following through in the direction he struck, effectively sent all his weight into his prisoner's chest, pinning him a few steps backward into the bulkhead, where he hit him a third time.

Blood trickling from his mouth, Nick just licked his lips once more to heal the wound, yet the Pirate Captain was so very close to him, it was virtually impossible not to feel every inch of the body moving against his own.

Warrick chuckled harshly, his hands inside the already ruined shirt.

It took only a moment to rip it from his prisoner's shoulders.

Nick gave a heated groan as those same fingers which stripped him, tugged and twisted at the expensive and attractive nipple piercing he wore, making him wriggle and pant in response.

Warrick squeezed harder, rolling the hot, tight flesh back and forth repeatedly.

His captive choked back a whimper, but did not flinch away.

"Oh, someone taught you well," he muttered, slipping his other hand into Nick's breeches without hesitation, fondling the slick and heavy erection he had been feeling push into his own groin for quite some interesting minutes.

"Such a whore," he continued, murmuring the words as though to a lover. "Do you climax on command?"

Nick bit his lower lip as the Pirate rudely searched him for other jewelry he might yet have in intimate places. He had indeed once had them though, and for a passing blink that opened the memory of times past, he wondered what might have befallen him had he still retained them and not permitted the Vampire within him to heal the marks.

He shuddered, wanting so much to spread his legs a little more.

"Did you kill your Master?" Warrick mused. "And steal his wealth to become a gentleman? Or run from a Mistress perhaps?"

Nick nearly laughed out loud. "I am slave to no man," he answered, holding his chin up.

"We are all slaves to something. We just don't want to admit it." He breathed in the Vampire's ear, satisfied that his prey was uncut and of sufficiently good size to be satisfying even when not aroused. "You are enjoying this all too much."

It felt to Nick as though he were being weighed in the Pirate's hand, and it was all he could do not to simply snap the shackles at his wrists and take for his own the life that his Soul had screamed for every day for so many years.

To bite.

To bleed.

To Bond.

The urge was unbearable.

And yet he knew that if he lost all control, there would be neither stopping nor drawing back until the deed was done, whether Warrick wanted it or not.

He screwed his eyes shut tight, hoping to hide the Vampire that he sensed to be flashing brilliantly behind the light of his own more naturally accepted, far darker gaze.

The fingers toying with his nipple, pinched all the harder, and his chest heaved in response.

"Perhaps I should have you flogged before me as I stroke this fine, strong tool you have here, and then I can see just how much you are trained to take. There are some very interesting ways to keep any man frustrated."

Nick gave a shuddering sigh. "Do you treat all your prisoners so well?"

The Pirate licked his lips slowly. "You have no idea what I am capable of."

Which was true enough, but the Vampire was learning fast. "You do not fully know yet either."

That brought a dry chuckle rumbling up from deep in Warrick's chest. "Or I should give you to my crew when I am done with you, and watch them ravish you, again and again until you beg for it to end. I am quite sure you know how to be most accommodating."

Pushing his hand further between his prisoner's muscular thighs, he rubbed at the tightly clenched hole he had been seeking, making it twitch as he sought entrance by force.

"Come now, do you really need encouragement?" Warrick purred, licking languidly down the Vampire's neck, taking great delight in him having a slightly smaller stature that could be so easily controlled and manipulated. "Or do you truly crave more pain?"

Nick refused him answer, wise enough to know that no matter what he said, there would still be pain enough. Instead he struggled to relax himself, hearing an all too familiar and yet oddly comforting voice in his head, laugh knowingly at the nature of his predicament. But then Arthur had always been the one to keep him sane.

"Vampires!" The Captain mocked quite freely. "So very righteous in your causes."

"How do you know of us?" Nick whispered, confessing at lease some semblance of curiosity.

"Does it matter?

"Of course!"

Warrick chortled then. "I shall tell you only if you please me more completely."

"Do I not already please you?" he retorted, as the pressure of weight against his body stepped away, and his soft, tan breeches were abruptly torn from his hips, coming to rest at his knees, where they could go no further for wont of his boots.

It laid him bare to the Pirate's hungry eyes, and he could hardly stop himself from looking at how he was in turn admired, pushing his groin outward from the curve of the bulkhead just a touch more, before he could even fathom what he'd done.

A solid slap to the swollen head of his ripe, and over-sensitized cock, made him gasp, and his back stiffened rigidly against the fire that raced up his body.

He took a breath through his nose to steady his reflexes.

Then another.

Warrick Calhoun had only ever met one other Soul of such estimable self-restraint as not to cry out in similar circumstance, and he wondered what it might actually take to get the Vampire in front of him, truly, desperately screaming.

With a cunning smile on his face, he reached for the long velvet stock that kept his prisoner's increasingly disheveled hair tied back in a cue at his neck, tugging it free quite easily.

Nick glared him, blinking as deft fingers fondled and stroked his copiously leaking dick.

"This is mine now," the Pirate assured him, his own cock lusting eagerly for more.

The Vampire snorted, wanting so badly to tell him he was absolutely right.

But Warrick took it as derision, slapping his face swiftly and viciously before grabbing his balls and tugging on them hard enough to earn a hiss from the Vampire's mouth.

With agile fingers he tied the stock about the root of his victim's erection before it could lose any of its color or size, looping the soft thread underneath and cinching it tight to pinch those perfect places around his drawn and pendulous ball sack.

"Now you get to come only if I permit it," the Captain growled, proudly admiring his handiwork and the flush of sweat on the Vampire's rigid face as he brushed a hand over the hair between those increasingly shaky thighs he so admired.

For a fleeting moment there was kindness in his touch as he slid his other hand to the back of Nick's neck.

"What name do you go by?" he murmured.

They were eye to eye.

"Now you care?"

Warrick laughed lightly, his lips close to his prisoner's as though aiming to kiss him most tenderly. "Not now really," he answered with a shrug.

"Then you'd prefer just another nameless fuck?"

It was a bold thing to ask, but it had to be done.

The Captain smiled broadly, in apparently genuine delight. "A whore is a whore."

"Man or woman?"

"I don't distinguish one over the other. They all have their virtues. Or lack thereof."

"How many virgins have you deflowered in this cabin?"

"Not as many as you might imagine."

"Oh, really? Are you joking?"

"Hell, no! Those who scream loudest for their modesty are those who first lost it to the stable boy at 14 years old. They're just too desperate for no one to know, but I'll be their choking, fearful alibi later."

"Men or women?"

"Both!" Warrick's laughter grew louder and more jovial. "But those who plead quietly, with real tears and trembling…?" he sighed appreciatively. "Now they are the real thing."

"And find the greatest pleasure at your hands?" the Vampire mocked.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!!" Warrick softly caressed his captive's trapped and swollen balls, his amusement only growing as his gesture elicited a brief groan of pleasured anguish. "They beg for more soon enough, once the pain is gone."

"You are very sure of your prowess."

"You will beg me before I'm done."

"No, I won't." Nick set his jaw.

Warrick growled nastily, and with a single shove threw the Vampire forward, stepping aside as the rug caught beneath his feet and his prisoner fell to his knees in the middle of the floor, landing with a considerable thump, visibly bracing himself with all the strength in his shoulders.

"My name," he said quietly, restricted in movement by the tangle of clothing around his legs, "will matter to you a great deal."

As he struggled to gain some balance on what was in fact, a very expensive and doubtless very stolen floor covering that he recognized as being from a certain area of Persia, he heard from close behind, the distinct and obvious sounds of a bottle being un-stoppered, and oil of some kind being slapped upon heated flesh. It gave him some slight ease that he was not about to be fucked raw and dry, but at the same time he knew what was coming would still be rough, and cruel and uncomfortable.

The waft of something exotic smelling and strangely mouth-watering, filled the room. A rich fruit, sweet and clean, mixed with a darker, more woody fragrance. He would remember it for the rest of his life, and later find it to be mango and sweetsop, two natural products he had not, until that moment, ever encountered before.

He braced his ankles as he was hauled upward by the hips, until his arse was in the air and his head on the floor. He flexed his fingers, straining against his bonds as he was mounted.

"You should," he panted, trying so hard not to fight back, "know it for a long time to come."

Hands parted his cheeks.

He closed his eyes.

The first push was the worst.

His lower back ached from the tension.

There was no pause.

The Pirate speared his gut without hesitation.

One thrust.

All the way in.

He got no preparation.

No gentle regard.

What breath he'd though to hold, that it might ease his chest, fled him in one explosive grunt.

The fierce burn from such hard penetration, raced through his body.

Warrick snarled, leaning forward long enough only to grab the Vampire's hair with one hand, tangling his fingers in its length and pulling him up again with deliberate intent, knowing he would encounter no resistance as he got his Prize just how he wanted him, and held him there, impaled on his cock.

"My name," the Vampire shuddered, gulping loudly as his neck was bent back, "is Nicolaus…" He gasped and tried to stay focused on the words, the pressure deep within his him changing sharply as he was moved. "My name," he began again, "is Nicolaus Valerius Meridius."

But he had no way to know whether what he was saying was even being heard, as the Pirate plundered his arse with fast and brutal strokes.

"I have been a Vampire," he continued, moving with each push and pull, clenching down on the flesh that sought to possess him, just as he had indeed been taught, "since the Year of Our Lord, 432."

His captor's sheer size, threatened at first to split him open until he could work past the pain and find the truer pleasure.

"I have…" He whimpered softly. "I have been…" He shivered, sweat slicking his skin. "…been searching…"

Suddenly the Pirate struck him perfectly inside, and the world spun around him brightly.

"…searching for you all my life."

Again.

And again.

Light burst behind the Vampire's eyes as satisfaction came rushing at him.

It made him desperately aware of his trapped and straining manhood, as well as the hand pulling at his hair, and the jewelry in his nipple that screamed at him for a warm, wet mouth to suckle.

And then there was the rug scraping under his knees, the smell of fruit, the sound of flesh slapping brutally on flesh, and the pain of his own nails digging into his palms as he was fucked without mercy.

"You are…" He bit his lips as the spark of fire in his Soul rose higher and higher. "You are my…"

The warm rush of Warrick's seed flooding into him, and the drip of his captor's sweat falling on his back, had him shivering and writhing, panting for breath he did not strictly need.

"You are my Mate," he said at last. "My Mate!"

The Pirate moaned long and loud in contentment, tightening his grip on the Vampire's hair, drawing him upward more fully to snarl in his ear, "I don't care how old you are." He was breathing hard and heavy, but his lust was pleased with the Prize he had chosen, despite everything he'd just heard spoken, much of which had not been said in one consistent language.

With his other hand, that had most certainly left some bruises on his prisoner's flesh, he slapped the bare buttocks he then eased his sated cock from between, leaving his palm print and his juices behind as a mark of his presence. There was a part of him still contemplating how the Vampire would look, tied naked to the Mainmast, taking cock after cock as each member of the crew took a turn with him…

He would scream then.

As much in pleasure as in pain.

Lazily, Warrick wiped himself clean on the Vampire's breeches.

"I belong to no man either," he murmured, letting go of his captive's hair and dropping him to the rug again.

It took him a few long breaths to get control of himself, unwilling and unable to admit how very much had just enjoyed the prone body laying sprawled before him. The very last thing he had expected to come of it, was a mumbled expression of some greater intent in what was simply a roughly taken fucking.

"Get up!" he barked, finally climbing to his own feet and adjusting his clothes. It took less than a minute to fasten his pants, tucking in his shirt, and securing his belt, but seeing his order obeyed nowhere near fast enough, he poked the Vampire with the toe of his right boot. "Move!!"

Nick gathered his strength.

He knew that he had said things for which there ought truly have been a better time, yet he had been unable to stay silent. And for all his hopes, his aspirations, he had lost a moment of control he could not take back.

His swollen and painful cock wanted its release with agonized urgency, yet he chose to use distress as a reminder that he was not yet finished.

"I said get up!" Warrick bellowed, dragging him by the hair over to the low cot against the furthest bulkhead from the door.

Nick scrabbled to try and regain some footing, but the rug was not his friend, and in the end he fell across the wooden framed bed, his face buried in the sheets, his knees rubbed raw, his backside still bare and exposed, the sticky trail of the Captain's cooling seed dribbling down his thighs. Bent forward at the waist, it jarred at his hips and lower back to be left so awkwardly, but as the Pirate bid him 'stay like a good boy', he had no real intention of moving, at least for a while. He needed time to consider what else might yet happen, and how best to bear it.

The blankets smelt so familiar.

A poignant reminder of Warren.

Of one night.

The only one they had ever shared.

Tears caught in his eyelashes at the memory, yet he hid them from this captor most gratefully, taking his own weight onto his shoulders as exhaustion worked its way over his battered body.

He heard the cabin door open and close.

And a moment later he was asleep.

He had been very well taught.

Very well indeed.

Horatio watched Warrick closely, as a man who understood all too well how others behaved as they spoke of things rarely ever talked about.

"I had no idea what he meant by 'Mate' when as a sailor…" He sighed. "It just made no sense to me. I had not expected any of what he said. Or any of what happened later."

"You were not the one in control."

A strangely knowing laugh was the Vampire's reply.

"How long did it take to figure that out?"

"Three days, all told," Warrick answered.

"Three?"

"Ay! And three more a few months later. We were figuring each other out. It took a while to get there."

Horatio sat, twisting a pen between his fingers, contemplating all the conversations he and Tim had spent such long and detailed hours with since the shooting.

The Red Stallion was on a skeleton crew as her Captain set foot upon the deck and took command from his Quartermaster.

It was getting dark after a fair day's brisk sail, but neither man had much mind for the beauties of a random Caribbean sunset.

The sounds of frantic sexual activity from all over the ship, were more than obvious, and the frustrated tensions of those unfortunate guards left outside his cabin door, were not improved by him asking where the remainder of his men were to be found.

Brass rolled his eyes, sometimes quite honestly believing that his was the very last vestige of intelligence in the small wooden world he kept charge of so well.

"You took Prize, Cap'n. So did they."

And there was no way in hell he could possibly have prevented that without dropping a trail of bodies in the sea behind him, which was also a pointless exercise in futility given that crewmen were hard enough to find even on a good day, and they'd already lost a found number of Souls taking the Rose of Leigh in the first place.

Warrick chuckled at the moans and shrieks coming from below.

Crude grunts, rude cussing, tears and pleading made for a peculiar harmony, but his men had done well, despite the Vampires, so he let them have their way while there was a chance.

"Make sure each man who wants it, gets his share."

"Ay, Cap'n."

"Yourself included," he grinned, slapping his faithful friend between the shoulders.

"Oh, I'm saving something special, just for me," Brass answered, having already issued orders that no one touch the charming and elegant older man, who had caught his eye for being so very restrained and so terribly polite to one and all.

"He had no idea who he'd chosen for a Prize, but he would never be allowed to forget it." Warrick shifted in his seat, grinning broadly. "But that's another story altogether."

Horatio found himself frowning. "That was a fateful ship you raided."

"Pirate!" Warrick smirked.

"What's our current position?"

"Two days from Port Royal now. With this wind a little less."

"No sign of the Royal Navy?"

"Not a wink."

"NO MAN HAS EVER TOUCHED THIS! AND NO MAN EVER WILL!! LET ALONE SOME FILTHY, STINKING, UNWASHED HEATHEN!!!!!"

A squeal.

A screech.

A slap.

Warrick laughed heartily. "Let me guess…" That would be a perturbed Olde English Maiden in protection of her ancient virtue?"

"In protection of the children too, and pretty lethal with a parasol. Damn near took my bloody eye out!" Brass rubbed his left ear, where a long gash ran under the neck of his shirt.

"Feisty indeed!"

"Pah!" If he hadn't cared so much about the cleanliness of his deck, Brass might well have spat with some considerable gusto, in order to express precisely how he felt about the matter. "Nothing a decent cock between her legs wouldn't cure."

Calhoun couldn't help but agree. "Tell me no one touched the Vampires?"

"No one on this ship would dare, Cap'n. They have had a wide berth indeed, and befriended the same evil shrew you just heard bawlin'."

"They also defend the young 'uns then?"

"Ay!"

"I have no issue with that."

"Didn't think you would. But they've been Feeding, no matter what you wanted. They're stronger than they were, that's for sure. But no idea how it happened."

"Feisty too?"

"It's in their eyes."

"Not surprising."

"Dangerous."

"Surely."

"What d'you want done about it?"

A long and highly pleasured cry of delight, split the air, followed by repeated cries for more cock.

"Always one," Brass chuckled.

In part he was curious to know how his Captain had fared, given that his appearance on deck had not exactly been accompanied by a swagger of victory. But he was far more concerned with how best to defend himself and his people, should the Vampires start a Mutiny and decide to be through with calmly cooperating.

"I would walk the decks."

"As you wish, Cap'n."

"Then I shall return to my cabin. Alert me when we sight land."

His Quartermaster nodded briskly. "Winds are steady. All is well as expected. If anything changes, you will be first to know, Cap'n."

"As it should be."

Brass cast him a disgruntled glare as he strode away, made uneasy by such a comment. Theirs had been a fair, decent and highly profitable relationship for more than three years, and seeing that he had many more seasons with the Stallion than ever Warrick Calhoun could brag of before he was gifted her by his own former Captain as Prize, there wasn't much in the way of bullshit he'd tolerate from any man when it came to how he ran his crew and his vessel. Which included smacking anyone who laughed at his ship being a 'she' when it was in fact, named for the male of the horse species.

"Ay, Cap'n," he murmured, looking to the wheel. He had his own Prize to take, and was anticipating such with increasing lust.

It was fully dark once Warrick returned to the privacy of his cabin.

Having satisfied himself that none of his men were about to kill each other for wont of some badly needed bodily gratification, he decided to take his own reawakening ardor to where it would likely do most good. Though he did double the Watch at the hold, in case of Vampire bravado. That was when he learned from his guards how Antonio and Timothy could speak in many different tongues, and not a single word of any language which they used, had been even remotely understood by anyone else who was bid come have a sneaky listen.

"Be ready for anything," he advised, "especially if they're Feeding when think no one is looking."

Still while he held their leader in check, he could at let feel the assertion of a certain power over all of them. It was therefore, with great delight that he found the one who called himself Nicolaus, had remained precisely where he was put, having seemingly not moved a single muscle in the meantime.

He took a moment to trim the lamps and light those not yet aflame, moving quietly around his quarters, curious as to whether his prisoner would acknowledge him or not.

That was when he heard a soft, but distinctive snore, accompanied by the regular breaths of a man who was definitely asleep.

It stopped him in his tracks, and he turned to stare in astonishment, having absolutely no idea how anyone could possibly be at ease enough to slumber in such an awkward position - shackled, half-naked, and prostrate.

With a wry and oddly delighted grin, the Captain unbuckled his belt, slipped it off and folded it in half. Then, standing as a man about to administer a whipping, he took his impromptu lash, threw it back over his right shoulder, and brought it down on the Vampire's bare buttocks.

It was a loud and mighty snap.

Not enough to break the skin, but certainly sufficient to have Nick bolt upright with a gasp, glancing around to see who had struck him so.

"Damn it, Arthur! You should've warned me," he grumbled, aware of the stinging burn across his bottom, and the stiffness in his joints, as well as the unrelieved agony of his still bound and trapped cock. He tried to lean against the cot, but the frame was cruelly unyielding, and only made things worse as he struggled to move away.

A second blow woke him fully.

"Arthur?" Warrick demanded. "The Master you killed?"

Failure to reply fast enough, earned the Vampire another blow.

"Answer me!"

A fourth swipe across his vulnerable flesh had Nick squirming, and a fifth landing just below the others, precisely under the curve of his buttocks, made him visibly wince.

"My King!" he replied. "Arthur is my King!"

The Pirate aimed another blow and was about to bring his belt down again, when he changed his mind. "Your King?" he snorted. "He let you go? With a mouth as talented as yours? And a body built for fucking?"

"I'm also handy with a sword, speak more languages than you can count, and love horses."

The sixth blow fell, followed rapidly be several more until ten welts in total, crossed Nick's vulnerable backside.

He swallowed the pain, having learned long before, the value of counting out such punishments as they came, even if only in his own head.

"You lie!" the Pirate growled.

"Not really." Which was truth enough.

It took some doing, but after a moment, as a pause came in the beating, so the Vampire gathered his strength, and with his arms and hands straining against his shackles, his legs trembling with such effort, he stood up, forcing himself to his feet.

"You want to beat me for not asking permission to stand?" He spoke carefully, watching the Pirate's reactions.

Warrick refused to let go of the belt, but the fact of the matter was, that he really did want very badly to beat the Vampire for every time he failed to react as requested, failed to show respect, or spoke with that quietly sarcastic arrogance that was irritating the shit out of him.

"Why do you make it worse?"

Nick frowned with deliberately slow concentration. "It gets better?" he asked. "I thought you were a Pirate?"

The Captain growled. "And I thought you were a Vampire? When you could snap those bonds like twig, break my neck, kill every man in my crew and steal this ship to do with as you please, why do you not act against me?"

"You would prefer me to fight back? Challenge your very obvious mastery?" Nick had not intended for his words to sound as mocking as they in fact actually did, and he paid the price for it when the Pirate's belt was unexpectedly forced into his mouth and crudely tied behind his neck like some particularly nasty gag.

"You talk too much," Warrick hissed in his ear, patting his heavy, tightly bound dick for good measure.

That was when the Vampire broke his shackles.

A single tug with his arms, his shoulders taking the full force of it, and he was free; the three hefty metal links between his wrists, sheering at the central point, where use and age had served to weaken them.

It took the Captain by surprise, but only in as much as he leapt back a pace or two and reached up for one of the boarding axes nailed to the bulkhead near the far window.

Nick almost laughed out loud at the utter absurdity of it, and with the thick metal cuffs still in place, the chain clinking freely, he pulled off the belt, tossing it carelessly aside. Then sitting down on the cot he'd been quite literally draped over the last few hours, began calmly taking his boots and breeches off. It was a little bit of a struggle, given that his arms and shoulders were incredibly stiff, and his neck ached like he'd gotten one too many blows across it recently. Still, he was not exactly one to complain when it came to such matters, but he knew full well that his captor was watching his every gesture, be it hostile or not.

"You want me on my back now? I can hold the rail with both hands and swear blind not to let go." He raised an imperious eyebrow. "Or you can tie me up again if it makes you feel any safer."

Warrick snorted as the Vampire lay down and wriggled around on the blankets to get comfortable, before stretching his arms up over his head and taking a good firm grip of the wooden board that secured the cot to the rest of the ship. After that, he spread his legs most invitingly, bent his knees, and raised them to his belly, exposing his already well used hole to the Pirate's incredulous stare.

"The sheer audacity!" Warrick chuckled, increasingly aroused by the memory. "I should've untied his other restraints some considerable time before that, but figured as a Vampire, he could endure a lot more than other men. And I wasn't about to play that nice."

"You took advantage of the moment?"

"Pirate!" he grinned. "Bet your ass I did!"

The boarding axe stayed where it was, and the Captain dove instead for a length of rope coiled under his desk. He couldn't recall why he'd put it there to start with, but figured it needed better use than for gathering dust.

There was no denying what he wanted, and while there was a definite part of him that could remarkably accept the Vampire's assertion that he would do no harm, he was himself, not about to admit such a thing by leaving him unsecured and at ease for any amount of time. Of course the rope was less of a deterrent than the shackles, but any attempt by his prisoner to get free, would at least permit a wary moment or two that he might gain chance for arming himself and defending his life before his head got torn off.

Or rather, that was how Warrick Calhoun chose to justify himself, when in reality he just wanted to teach the damn Vampire he was about to fuck, that provocation was not always advisable on a ship full of Pirates.

"Oh!" Nick whined pathetically, faking distress and doing it badly as his arms were secured to the bulkhead rail just above the broken cuffs. "Please! Don't hurt me any more, you big mean Pirate!" he gasped, the rope tearing into his skin. "I was saving myself for my Wedding Night, and you've ruined me forever!"

Warrick almost choked, trying not to laugh as he tied the last knot with a sailor's true precision, making certain, as he stood over the prone body laid out for his pleasure, that Nick could clearly see how very much his crotch was filling out with the swelling of his eager manhood.

There was absolutely no doubt in his mind, that the snooty English Lord - who had somehow, by any number of fateful happenings, become a Vampire and ended up aboard his ship - was enjoying with far too much relish, the incongruity of circumstance.

With a growl that sounded more of vicious snarl, he threw himself up on the flesh secured to his cot, straddling the Vampire's chest despite the tight confines of so small a space. And it certainly failed to concern him that the heels of his boots were gouging into his victim's hips. Pain was pain, regardless of how it came.

Nick, forced to lower his legs, could only watch with unconcealed and growing arousal, as Warrick opened his breeches and took his cock in hand, fisting it hard and fast.

An image of that moment seared itself into his mind.

But the Pirate Captain had a purpose to his actions and was satisfied at watching his seed spray across the Vampire's face in sticky lines. It left him panting a little from the effort, but clearly sensing the hot, hard dick that rubbed fiercely against his own backside.

It made him chuckle, and he was amazed that his prisoner had not even flinched at being so degraded. "You still smile at me?" Reaching back, he took Nick's swollen manhood in his right hand, and stroked its length again, and again. "I know how much you want pleasure," he purred, his fingers tightening relentlessly. "Tell me you want this, and I'll free you."

Nick licked his lips, tasting the Pirate's juices where they'd fallen across his mouth, all the while struggling not to make a sound or push upward into the viciously tormenting touch.

It was an agony beyond belief.

"This will feel so good inside me…"

The Captain's teasing tone was hardly love sonnet material, but it was not exactly meant to be.

"End it now. Beg me for release and this is done."

Nick bit his lower lip, and chose instead to ride it out, watching the man who caressed him, as that nicely curved, dark and dropping meat between his thighs, grew hard and vital once more with remarkable speed.

"I know you want to scream…"

What the Vampire really wanted at that moment in time, was actually to make the Pirate do the screaming.

He set his jaw stubbornly.

Warrick gazed upon him with equal intensity, and pondered such endurance as was on display, unaware of where such strength had been encouraged.

He ran his thumb over the slick and swollen head of the Vampire's cock, tugging at the foreskin.

He couldn't decide even then, whether the creature his own flesh seemed set upon craving, was no more than a stubborn and foolish animal simply in need of a better Master, or a tricky dog to be tamed.

"Then you should not go free," he concluded at last, his ministrations having achieved nought but a slight quivering of the Vampire's eyelids as he fought with himself to shut out the urges running through his body.

With a disgusted cluck of the tongue, Captain Calhoun stood up and divested himself of his shirt, flexing the finely honed musculature of a well developed chest, that Nicolaus found himself quite openly admiring. Long years at sea, obeying the direction of wind and water in sailing the oceans, had certainly built his body into a powerful example of strength and health, yet he could also see the very distinct scars left behind by more than one cruel beating. And while it angered him that any Soul should ever see fit to dare lay hands upon his Mate, Nico could not help himself in wondering where such scars had originated.

Under more civilized conditions as might arise in future, he determined to find out, yet for prudence sake he stayed quiet as the Pirate cast him a filthy glare, apparently more than prepared for the kind of words his appearance came to garner from others.

Nicolaus spread his legs.

Nothing else had to be said.

Still in his boots and breeches, the Captain could not deny his aching prick a moment longer, and with nothing else by way of preparation to ease the matter but the product of his own arousal, he fell upon his prisoner and buried himself to the hilt in that waiting hole he had already tasted once before.

It was a craving.

A need that went beyond the purely visceral.

He just had no idea why.

Still it satisfied the immediate hunger for fulfillment, and he pounded the Vampire's body deep and fast.

Nick braced his knees as he was Claimed.

It hurt a lot less than when he'd first been fucked raw down on that damn Persian run, but it was still brutal and rough.

His thighs burned, bearing the bruises.

His back thumped repeatedly into the straw mattress.

He drew his legs higher to ease the tearing sensation that ripped at his insides, and with a thankful sigh felt indebted to his captor for at least gripping him tightly by the ankles and hauling his feet up toward the cabin roof. It allowed him brief respite at least, to relax a tiny bit and glean some kind of pleasure from what was happening.

It might not have appeared enjoyable to anyone watching, of which there was blessedly no one, but Nick had learned so much in the length of years his Vampire nature had granted him, that he knew how to find his way through such moments without carrying their darker consequences into his future.

Warrick sensed such response.

Their eyes met.

And when the Vampire smiled up at him brightly, he came.

He could simply not help himself.

Sweat slicked, he promptly pulled his wilting cock from his prisoner's behind, stood up and walked to the door, barking orders for water to be fetched that he might wash.

Nick never once imagined such consideration would be extended to his own ablutions, and so with an exhausted sigh that lifted some of the cramping across his belly, he dozed off to sleep.

Which in itself was sufficiently offensive for Warrick to snatch up his discarded belt and swipe it hard enough across the Vampire's hips, to draw blood.

Still his actions achieved nothing but a startled gasp from his victim, and a brief thrashing of his legs.

A second blow had him squirming and tugging violently against his bonds to try and avoid a third.

Nicolaus was incredibly tired.

Increasingly under fed.

And on the edge of throwing away every ounce of caution he still possessed, until Warren's gently smiling face floated past his tightly shut eyes.

Such innocence had most certainly never been able to picture anyone akin to Warrick Calhoun.

Such innocence as he had known to such perfection…

Nicolaus swallowed.

Loudly.

And calmed himself swiftly enough that a third blow never came.

Warren could never have imagined such struggle.

Or such pain.

Until it was inflicted upon his Soul.

"You do it on purpose!" the Pirate hissed. "Your kind always do!" He threw the belt away in utter disgust.

"You know nothing of what my kind truly are. Whoever taught you about us was so very wrong," Nico sneered back.

A hand clamped itself around the Vampire's throat.

Not that choking a creature who had no need of breath would actually accomplish anything, but the gesture was significant enough.

"You know not of whom you speak," Warrick whispered, his words loaded with meaning, even as he squeezed all the harder at his prisoner's windpipe. "I know that tearing your head off will reduce you to ash. I know that you are desperate for blood right now. I know that you are weak."

He mounted the Vampire yet again, eager to assert his control one more time.

"I know you would die rather than have me hurt the other innocents you protect."

Nick did not spread his thighs quite so willingly that time, and was forced to endure another assault upon his person while his throat was held fast, his captor's face hovering mere inches from his own. It was perhaps a greater brutality than before, in serving to reinforce the position he had deliberately chosen for himself, and burn still deeper his already sore and much abuse bottom. But if he had fought back too hard, all hope of reining in his Vampire passions would surely have been lost. Though it did surprise him upon later reflection, that he never once feared even so powerful a man as Captain Calhoun, actually being able to rip his head from his shoulders. After all, it was not his own continuing existence that Nicolaus worried about, as tears leaked unchecked from his eyes.

Warrick grunted with each thrust, satisfied by the heavy slap of his flesh against the Vampire's tender skin, and the pressure he could still apply to the deliberately raw cock he was determined not to free until he alone was damn well good and ready.

He reached the pinnacle of his efforts with only slightly muted strength, given how recently his lusts had already been quenched, and yet he shot his load for a third time into Nick's cramped and aching rear passage, with sufficient triumph to throw his head back and roar with great gusto, loud enough to be heard across the deck above, and serve to encourage those others of his crew, including Brass, in their own Claiming of the Spoils.

"Speed, Tony and the goodly virtuous Maiden Aunt in my hold, were the only ones not having some sort of carnal enjoyment by then. I'll let Tim explain all that when you get him home later."

Horatio snorted. "He's been staring up at us since you got here."

"Doesn't he have work to do?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Wanna yell at him?"

"Why make this easier on him right now?"

Warrick's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "Oh! That's evil. I knew there was a reason I liked you!" he chuckled wickedly.

"So did you get your Mate to scream?" H turned his attention back to the tale he'd been engrossed in, glad he didn't have to stand up any time soon and reveal the growing erection he'd been sporting for a while. Warrick's language had steadily become more crude and graphic, and very explicit as the story went on, and the moment any and all thought of tying Speed up and Claiming him as Prize so much as crossed his mind, he was pretty much done for…

"Well, nearly."

He bit down, not on the juicy lips he'd been focused on as he fucked the Vampire pinned beneath him, but on the prominent nipple that had been pierced by a jeweled bar.

He bit hard, chewing on the ripe, sweat drenched flesh with considerable hunger.

It left his teeth marks, red and starkly cut in the heaving chest he lay upon.

Nick gave a shuddering sob, and as the rampant meat that speared his gut finally softened and fell from inside him with a sticky wet rush of spent juices, he felt the Pirate's hand release it's hold about his neck. So savage a thing had taught him well that Warrick Calhoun was not a man to be liked, or readily angered.

He swallowed, grateful not to be drawing breath, for when he tried, only a cough escaped him.

Warrick forced himself to move, though he had to admit his own limbs were more than a little heavy by then.

A knock on the door heralded his hot water, and he patted the warm cheeks of Nico's face almost fondly as he moved away.

"Stay!" he murmured, as though caressing a favored dog. "Good boy."

He took time to enjoy cleaning himself up, relishing the sensation of steaming water on his skin after so much exertion. And naturally he took care to ensure the Vampire was watching, deliberately leaving him there on the cot, soiled and used.

"How in hell did you two ever Bond?" Horatio murmured.

"I'm getting to that," Warrick answered with a grin. "He wasn't healing well. I mean, he was, just not as fast as before. I wanted him Fed. Didn't matter what he thought my intentions were. I didn't want him dead."

"You offered yourself?"

"Hell, fucking no!!" The Pirate's laughter was long and loud and entirely justified in his own mind.

"So, what did you…?"

"I got a kid from the hold, and figured I'd be fighting the Vampires who were protecting them."

"And did you?"

"Well to start with they just stood there, staring at me like they'd known me for a longer time that I'd walked on earth. It's a total Vampire thing. You're nodding now, so I know Speed's given you the same look. Right?"

Horatio coughed. "I never got what that meant until after the shooting and his apparent resurrection."

"Gets to you, doesn't it."

"Like he either knows the biggest secret in the history of the world, which now I know he really does, or he wants to throw me down on the nearest hard surface and fuck me every which way he knows how." A hot flush crept up his neck, over his lightly freckled cheeks and into his hair. "Which he also does."

Warrick's grin was positively lecherous and massively amused. "Yeah, sounds about right. But with Tony and Speed they weren't too sure back then whether to welcome me into the family, or kill me where I stood."

"They could hear what was going on."

"Yeah. They knew exactly what was going on. Vampire senses don't just register off the charts, you'd need whole new types of charts. Vampire kids can focus in on their Sire too, and vice versa. Like Mates. Tightly bound together, depending on the nature of their relationship to one another and how close they are, mentally, physically and geographically. Don't get me wrong though," he cautioned, wanting to clear up any confusion, "if a Sire dies, the kid is fine and vice versa on that too. That stuff only happens for Mates."

Horatio understood. "So Speed can sense his Sire and his Sire can sense him. I can see how that might be useful."

"When it comes to Vampires, there's nothing they can do that doesn't have purpose somehow."

"Did it take you long to get used to the new skills?"

"Long enough. My problem was that I never wanted to be one to start with. I had plans. I was gonna find a woman, settle down, have a big brood of kids…"

"You're not serious?" The redhead was really not sure if such a comment was meant to be funny.

"Completely serious! Being a Pirate was not a career opportunity into old age. You had to know when you were done, or you'd die trying."

"Nick Turned you?"

"Back it up a second!" Warrick threw his hands in the air. "We're getting ahead of ourselves."

"Okay…" From the bottom drawer of his desk, Lieutenant Caine produced what seemed to CSI Brown, like the customary bottle of fine whisky demanded by the kind of job such men as him were customarily drawn to. And he wondered if such a thing was actually written into the job description.

Two glasses quickly joined the bottle on the desk a moment later, and Horatio was very generous with the pouring.

"You were in the hold…" he prompted.

"Yeah." Warrick grinned in appreciation of the stiff drink he'd just been given. "I looked at the two boys and told them straight they'd either give me one of the kids, or I'd go right back up to their precious leader, and kill him."

"They believed you?"

"I gave them no reason not to."

"If they'd refused, we wouldn't be here right now."

"Very true. Speed and his brother are more than capable of dong the very last thing you'd ever expect."

"Seen that already."

Warrick nodded sagely. "Prep for more. Trust me on this."

Horatio cast a fond, yet wary glance, at the man below them in the lab, who was scowling and gesticulating, talking intently to someone on the phone. "It's going to be an interesting life."

"That's one way to put it. So…" The Pirate downed his glass in a single gulp, then smacked his lips. "…they were reluctant, given how their Sire had left it to them to pretty well figure out what to do with the situation."

"You make it sound like that's not an uncommon occurrence."

"Nick's a Roman. It's more complicated than that."

"I think I need to read some more history."

"It'll help. At least until those who really lived it, tell you what it was actually like."

The Lieutenant blinked, and studied his glass a moment before pushing it away across the desk. "I'll get drunk later," he concluded.

"Have it now. You can thank me later."

Horatio sighed and took it back, closing his eyes and swallowing the burning liquid with a determined gesture that made him gasp and go redder in the face. He paused for a second, and then promptly reached for the bottle again.

Warrick offered him his empty glass too.

The Vampire was asleep gain when Calhoun returned to his own private cabin, towing a twelve year old boy behind him.

Wide eyed with equal parts horror and curiosity, the youngster had been warned to cooperate or risk getting tossed overboard, and there was something really most admirable for the Pirate, in how so seemingly timid a child could suddenly find courage.

"Keep your mouth shut. Do as you're told, and you'll get some bread when this is done," the Captain growled.

Which to a starving child who hadn't exactly tasted much in the way of real food for almost a month by then, seemed the best bargain ever.

The Vampire woke only as the door slammed shut, and while he admitted to himself that he had indeed failed to realize he'd been left to his own devices, he had done his best to be a touch more aware lest he receive a further beating. Finding a thin arm and a tiny, incredibly rapid heartbeat thrust in his direction the moment he tried to raise his head off the pillows, was something of a shock.

His first reaction was to refuse such nourishment as was being offered, and yet he was increasingly hungry as the hours went by, and had to admit the rush of warm, clean, fresh blood was a temptation not to be scoffed at lightly.

He licked his lips.

It was not in his nature to Feed often from children, least of all unwilling ones. Though some of his acquaintance believed that doing so was a much healthier option than risk even mild sickness from a potentially diseased adult, he preferred to use his senses correctly in better assessing his food sources, rather than lazily picking on innocent infants who could have no say in the matter. The danger, if anything, was made that much greater in risking a child's life by drinking too much. Children did not make for good Vampire stock, no matter how well educated or perfectly adjusted to society.

"Drink!" The Pirate tore the boy's coat sleeve open and pulled up the dirty shirt beneath.

Nick wanted.

He wanted badly.

Fangs dropping, he heard the child cry out in confused terror, and tried to offer a silent apology for what was about to happen.

Not that it helped very much.

He could taste the poor little one's fear, even before he bit into the smooth and unblemished skin, aiming just above the wrist where the pulse was strongest.

It took effort, but with concentration and consideration he could make the experience feel like a warm and friendly memory to the boy, whose face Nicolaus could not bring himself to look at.

It also took some deliberate focus for him not to kill his food source.

So he counted the swallows.

And it was sweet.

Thick.

Hot.

Six mouthfuls.

That was all.

It fell easily upon his tongue, and while he could have taken more - while he seriously wanted more - he was both old enough and wise enough as a Vampire, to be able to control himself. It also helped that he was not at utter starvation point, whereupon any and all attempt at restraint would have been utterly useless.

Thankfully, the boy passed out as Nicolaus licked quickly over the wound he had made, content that the child he had taken from, would have recollection of the Vampire more as a dream than a nightmare.

"Speed threatened to rip my head off with his own bare hands if I harmed the kid. Which I didn't. But I did totally believe him when he said it."

Horatio poured them both a second round of whisky. "He's probably done worse."

"Yes," Warrick answerer firmly.

Nick felt the results of that most unexpected Feed, surge rapidly through his body and begin the healing of his flesh that the Vampire nature had struggled so very slowly to achieve in those last few hours.

Surface wounds began closing.

Welts paled and smoothed.

Deeper bruises would take time though, and the pain of unseen injuries within him, would likely take more blood than he had consumed, before they were fully reduced to no more than memory, but they were blessedly soothed, leaving him renewed in vigor and strength, despite still being naked and tied down.

"You'd bring a child in here to see your depravity?" he asked, when the Pirate returned from depositing the boy on the nearest shipmate he could find to trust with an unresponsive youth.

"Brass was a little busy at the time. Everyone was gesturing at the Rope Locker when I yelled for him, but you just don't get between a man and his Prize. And given everything else that had been happening on the Stallion that day, and the one before that too, who was I to argue? Though I did put my ear to the hatch, y'know just to make sure everything was fine with him. Quartermasters were hard enough come by, and fewer still were worth their salt."

"He was having his way with a prisoner?"

"In private I might add!" Warrick laughed. "Not thrown face first over the canon like a couple of the other men, with a line of three others waiting their turn with their dicks in their hands. Or legs akimbo for all to see, like the women with their knickers off and their skirts about their waists being taken at both ends while their tits were swinging."

Horatio nearly choked, but in truth he was still getting his mind into the correct 18th Century mentality for what he was hearing, and his insides squirmed at the incongruity of it all in a 21st Century setting.

"Pour another drink, Lieutenant!" Warrick smirked, hearing the Pirate tone in his voice by then too. "We're not done here yet."

The Captain snorted derisively. "The boy will see worse in his life the day he first takes his own cock in hand or gets himself a juicy bride. Hell, he might even turn into an arse man before he gets a chance at some woman popping him out a few sprogs. Besides, you got Fed. Quit your grumbling."

Nick licked his lips again, watching the Pirate eat at the table. It wasn't much in the way of food that he'd brought in with him, just some tough looking tack and salted beef washed down with a very fine looking bottle of Port that still had a layer of dust on it from the cellar of a collector who'd probably run into the Red Stallion whilst trying to ship his valuables somewhere else.

"No falling asleep on me now!" Warrick demanded between mouthfuls.

"Would I dare?" Nick arched an eyebrow at him, feeling the chill of evening settle on his bones.

"Only if you want me thrashing that nice round backside of yours again."

"Aren't you planning on that anyway at some point, before we reach Port Royal?"

The Captain laughed in jovial mood, swinging his booted foot up onto the table. "You are utterly shameless."

"And you are a filthy barbarian. Actually, I've known Barbarians a damn sight cleaner and less obnoxious."

"I'm sure you've known a lot of men."

The meaningfully intended insult Nick uttered, went past Calhoun like a fleeing breath of air apparently. "More men than I care to recall, and more women than I wish to recall," he replied honestly.

"So tell me, where did you really get that fine jewel in your nipple?"

"A gift. From someone who knows what it means."

"And where did you learn to be such a cock sucking whore?"

"No! You don't get an answer to that. Now I get to ask a question."

Having been wielding a large knife to cut into a rather dry block of old cheese, Warrick slammed the blade point downward into the desk top, where it quivered slightly at the force of such an impact. "You don't get anything here but my cock in one of your holes! Why is that so damn hard for you to understand?"

Nick surprised himself by laughing merrily. "Really, it's so endearing that you think you're the one in charge here."

"You're the one tied up," Warrick explained, dropping his foot to the deck and standing with a snarl on his lips.

"Only because I choose to be."

It was a fact, yet it sounded so much like a threat.

The Pirate yanked his knife from where he'd jammed it, and stalked across the room again. "You were Fed. You should be more grateful."

The Vampire eyed him cautiously, not exactly liking the way that blade was being tossed from hand to hand, the lantern light catching three rings of small green jewels set around the handle, and a beautiful ruby pommel.

"Thank you, Captain," he sneered, "for offering me a child as an hors d'oeuvre instead of letting me starve to death. I am obviously at your disposal now to abuse as you please."

Warrick was on him in an instant, tearing his legs open and thrusting the knife's handle inside him, not quite to the hilt, but deep enough for the embellishments to scrape over every sensitive spot within that had barely gotten chance to settle down.

Nick cried out softly.

The harsh invader was nowhere near as thick or as long as the Pirate's not inconsiderable manhood when fully erect, but it reamed his delicate insides as his captor fucked him with it in mockery of a phallus, twisting it around as though to add extra emphasis to his assertion of strength, chuckling nastily as a flush of warm arousal once more colored the Vampire's body.

He slid his free hand over the very prominent erection, still tied up and still so painfully red, toying with his prisoner's swollen balls before softly caressing the head of his cock with gently knowing fingers.

"Oh, you will beg," he murmured. "Even the likes of you, can only hold out for so long."

With deliberate, tantalizing slowness, he bent forward and ran his tongue the length of Nick's manhood, suckling at the tip like a baby at his mother's teat.

It won him a violent shiver.

Nicolaus chewed his bottom lip, well aware by then that Warrick Calhoun was capable of a great deal of tenderness, even if it wasn't meant to ever appear so.

He gasped as teeth slid over his foreskin, nipping at it.

His feet slipped on the mattress, seeking purchase as his hips longed to thrust upward into that tormenting mouth. But there was precious little room to move, and each beat of the Pirate's heart was driving him insane.

The knife stopped its pummeling, remaining buried between his legs.

If he tried to clench his thighs, the edges of the blade would slice him open.

He froze, clenching his fingers instead, tightening his arms against the rope that held him.

It stretched and creaked.

Warrick lapped at the juices he found so remarkably tasty, delighted by the whimpers his actions were producing.

"Ready to come for me?" he teased.

"Fuck you," Nick groaned, his voice dropping hoarsely.

Leaving the knife precisely where it was, the Pirate straddled the Vampire's waist, making it all the harder for him to keep his legs open.

He muttered cuss words in a whole variety of different languages, anguish writ large upon his face as he was once more presented with his captor's ripe and throbbing dick.

He tensed.

Hands held him, buried in his hair, keeping him still.

He opened his mouth.

And it was filled in a single lunge.

He swallowed.

It made Warrick groan and pump into him faster.

He relaxed his throat as best he could.

There was little his tongue might achieve but in supplying pressure as his mouth was used repeatedly.

It took a lot of concentration to focus on the entirety of his body, but without the blood he had been given, he knew all resolve would have been long lost by then.

Sucking down on the meat that plunged right to the back of his throat for some considerable way, he felt every inch of his Soul aflame with need for his Mate, and he gulped at the hot juices that shot in copious, salted, musky quantities over his palate.

As he was released, his head fell back on the pillows with a thud.

The Pirate's boots had bruised his ribs once more, but the knife remained inside him, and whilst it was a huge temptation to push it out, he could not move with such intent while Warrick sat there upon him as a man on a prize stallion.

Nick coughed harshly, his thighs shaking. "Thank you," he whispered obediently, "for letting me taste your seed."

The Captain was impressed, and patted him on the cheek, unaware of just how close he'd come to having the Vampire's fangs bite into his cock.

As a reward, he tugged the knife handle gently free from Nick's clenching arsehole rather than tear it out, though he did it in such a way that each edge of each jewel was certainly felt in leaving his body, granting a delightful agony of cruel sensation that his flesh struggled to withstand.

"Now," Warrick murmured, "you have my permission to sleep."

Nick's stomach quivered as the Pirate climbed from the cot, wiping his precious knife on the most convenient blanket he could reach.

He wanted to ask the Captain if there was any more required of him, but the necessary strength such words required, seemed suddenly lacking.

When he woke, not only did he have no idea how much time had passed, he had no memory of how he'd been turned on his side, or how he'd been cleaned up and settled under a blanket.

Testing the bonds at his wrists, he realized the heavy metal cuffs were gone, and the rope that replaced them had been lengthened by a few inches and loosened to the touch, granting him chance to move.

It startled him that he had no memory of having even fleetingly woken while he was apparently so well cared for, and yet there was no denying that his skin did indeed feel clean and fresh, his aching limbs had been given chance to ease, and his back was nicely warm. It wasn't exactly the rosiest of arrangements, but the Pirate Captain was well above six feet in height, and the cot gave some room for him to stretch-out his slightly shorter legs.

Or at least that was his intent until he realized the cot's owner was in fact, lying right there behind him, pressed tightly to his body.

Nick opened his eyes fully, blinking at the bulkhead he was nose to nose with, noting the tool marks on it in most minute detail. He really couldn't move. The Pirate was not exactly heavy, just solid, pinning him down, leaving no other way out save in a violent struggle which he actually had no desire to initiate.

The firm heat of Warrick's erect and throbbing cock, nestled between the cheeks of his backside, pushing forward insistently.

Nick relaxed.

A little.

It was all so very tender suddenly.

All so very easy.

Closing his eyes, he let it happen, knowing it would've happened had he been awake or not.

Soft sighs escaped them both.

Bodies melded together.

Fitting perfectly.

Smoothly.

Curve for curve.

Limb for limb.

Muscle for muscle.

The only pain came from his own urgently desiring dick, that chaffed against the blankets in reminder of his plight.

He would still be denied climax, no matter how much he obeyed.

Or wanted what was happening.

He knew it.

Or he would surely have been released when his other needs were so unexpectedly cared for as he slept.

Lying on his right, he crooked his left leg just a little, but only at the Captain's bidding.

And that thick, needy hardness with which he had become seriously well acquainted in recent days, slowly but surely filled him.

He could smell the pungent waft of fruit and spice, and knew the same oil as had first been used in that initial penetration he endured upon the cabin floor, was easing the way for such considerate love-making.

He trembled.

A warmly oiled hand cupped his swollen balls.

He was Calhoun's for the taking.

Again.

It took an age before he was filled to the very core, before the Pirate's own hugely proportioned balls were pressing to his sweaty, sticky skin.

The heat that fueled him made him moan.

It was delicious.

Lips brushed his neck and exposed shoulder.

Desire burned through him with a heady flame that left him verging on the brink of defeat, ready to plead without shame for a merciless fucking.

Yet he was not undone.

Not yet.

Not quite.

The tongue that had so eagerly lapped his cock the night before, bathed his left earlobe instead with slow and steady strokes.

"Will you beg?"

Nick swallowed as the tiny whisper filled his mind, breaking his resolve. In response he squeezed tightly at the flesh lodged inside him, eliciting a deep and appreciative moan from his rapist.

"Will you beg?"

Again Nick clamped his inner muscles against the invader that speared him where he lay, determined to make the most of what was happening and get Warrick to climax by his own skilled efforts alone, if that was what it took to finally answer the question.

And the Vampire knew how.

He had indeed been taught exceptionally well, that particularly unusual lesson having made its mark upon his memory by the rigid application of a viciously gnarled and knotted cane to the splayed and bleeding inner thighs of his best friend, who lay before him on his back, a hefty, olive skinned cock thrusting up into his sorely abused bottom, and another down into his stretched and aching throat, bent to a hideously distorted angle by two meaty and unmoving fists.

The screams that such a thing had merited, were only permitted later, when Arthur had been cleaned and finally granted some blood.

"I know what you're doing," Warrick murmured, nipping at his ear sharply. "And you are that good. You cannot deny."

He continued to softy express his appreciation as he was once more caressed by an unseen yet all embracing touch.

Nick devoted himself to giving his captor what he desired, and shivered as a hand crested his hip, exploring his skin, sweeping through the fresh sheen of sweat his efforts were inevitably producing.

"Are you ready to beg?" he whispered, turning the intention of the moment back upon its instigator.

Warrick snickered, a low and dirty laugh in his ear. "It's so endearing when you think you're in charge," he mocked.

And without warning, he pulled away from where he had been lying in such perfect compliment to the Vampire's prone body.

Nick cried out softly as he was left empty.

Again the same chuckle found his ear. "So pretty, how you make noise that way…" He teased his prisoner with nothing but the head of his cock, pressing its thick smoothness into the slick entrance it longed to plunder, then pulling out again repeatedly. "I know you want me deep inside you, filling that tight little hole so deep."

Nick knew better than to try and move, though his every instinct keep screaming at him to lunge backward and take the Pirate's full length as hard as he could.

That too had been a difficult lesson, learned on his hands and knees with a broad, beeswax candle shaped like a phallus, tormenting his insides relentlessly while the exposed end burned steadily toward his most vulnerable parts, its flame scorching him with every impatient move he made, dripping its liquid honey onto the floor between his thighs.

Made to service with only his mouth, the tearful young girl who was brought in to lie with her legs spread before him, he had been unable to control the pressure in his body as the wax heated up from both within and without.

He had pleaded back then.

To no avail.

As he failed to arouse her and wanted only to end the torment of his own crude predicament, the candle had fallen finally from his clenching buttocks.

Retribution had been swift.

Violent.

And left him barely able to stand when it was done.

Bodily self-control rarely failed him after that.

"Perhaps I should keep you for myself when the other passengers are freed?" Warrick whispered. "You will break for me eventually."

Nick wanted to tell him hat he had never broken.

Not for any man.

Ever.

Not even the murderer of his family.

But the words would not come as he was suddenly, unexpectedly filled by Warrick's solidly pushing cock, sliding into him.

It made his head spin as stroke after stroke after stroke, slowly but surely touched every perfect place in his gut, to arouse him still further and drive him mad.

Back and forth.

Deep.

Smooth.

It was an even, regular tempo.

And it stoked his lusts insanely.

His own cock longed more and more for release.

The pain an increasingly thunderous need he could no longer ignore or push away.

Yet the Pirate was relentless.

On and on it went.

Part of Nick wanted to ask him what whorehouse he had built such stamina in, but the truth of it was, he didn't really care.

He wanted to come.

He wanted that freedom so very badly.

And then, through his agony, he realized that his captor was tied around the balls much like he was himself, effectively keeping that powerful erection for longer than would have been deemed normal.

"How long can you last?" Warrick cooed in his ear. "I could take pleasure in this body of yours, for hours at a time."

Nick swallowed, and licked his lips.

He was parched.

"Fucking bastard!" he moaned.

"Pirate!" came the smug reply.

Tugging a little at the ropes that at least allowed him chance to ease his shoulders, Nick rocked with the movement of the unyielding cock that was claiming him one push, one pull, one thrust, one smooth withdrawal at a time.

He felt strange.

Secure.

Somehow.

There was nowhere to go.

Nowhere else to be.

Nothing else he wanted.

No one else to fuck him that way.

Staying perfectly still came easier then, once he accepted that.

This was his Mate.

It was not Razi.

It was not Warren.

This was a very different man with a very different life, and yet so familiar a Soul.

Nick ached.

His Soul.

That was it.

His Soul ached.

He closed his eyes.

Letting go of everything was a perfect leap of faith.

And act of sheer will.

"Please."

The tiniest whimper.

A fragile plea.

Warrick almost missed it, so much was he enjoying himself.

The plea grew a fraction louder.

"Please…"

"Please, what?" he whispered, breathless with the shock of it.

"Please, let me come!"

Though Nick's face was lost in the blankets on the crook of his arm, his words were unmistakable.

"Do you deserve it?"

A dangerous growl escaped the Vampire. "Please!"

With a quick tug, the Pirate freed his own desire first, and with a single, deep push, came to climax in the body he had to admit truly lusting after from the moment he first set eyes upon the Vampire aboard the Rose of Leigh.

Nick gasped, letting the flood of seed coat his bowels, relishing the triumph without a moment of regret at having begged.

It was not a weakness.

It was, perhaps, the exact opposite.

Warrick shuddered, holding him tighter.

Closer.

Before finally reaching to untie the velvet strap he had first secured Nick's manhood with so long an age ago.

"Come for me," he commanded, intending to stroke the swollen, darkly flushed erection he had kept in perpetual wanting for the better part of three days.

But no further encouragement was needed as Nick tensed.

Every fiber of his body tightened.

His back arched, taut as a bow, its string at the limit.

And he screamed.

Pleasure.

Pain.

Pure.

Untainted.

Loud and long.

Warrick Calhoun had never experienced anything like it.

Had he not been holding on, he would surely have been shoved from the cot onto the floor as the Vampire in his arms shook uncontrollably, and came with fierce shudders all over the blankets, before blissfully passing out, exhausted.

His body fell limp.

Crashing into the Pirate's embrace, knowing he would be safe, Nick surrendered.


***


"I wasn't the one who Turned Warrick."

Nick's confession took Speed so utterly by surprise, he felt the world spin, right in front of his face.

"But…" He flailed, always so furiously pissed when things he probably ought to have known about years - if not centuries - ago, suddenly came to light at the world's worst moment.

"You, Tony, even Thomas made that assumption," Nick explained, "and it was safer that everyone thought so. But I did not Turn Warrick Calhoun in those first three days."

"When we got off the Red Stallion in Port Royal, we weren't paying enough attention, were we."

"No one was."

"And when we saw him again all that time later, he was Turned…" Speed shook his head. He was not a big drinker, even for an Irishman, but he was suddenly craving alcohol. "Sure enough. I…" Words failed him. "Papa, what he yelled at you that day you walked off his ship? We all thought you'd…"

"Lost all control?"

"We heard you scream."

"I know."

"Then if you didn't Turn him, who? He didn't want the Vampire! Oh, shit!" Speed rolled his eyes. "He made that pretty damn clear. The two of you were fighting like you'd let him wake up dead!"

"That wasn't why we fought."

"Then what the fuck???"

Nick took an unnecessary breath. "He told me no harm would come to the passengers. That was our agreement. But he lied. I just had no way of realizing until I stepped out of his cabin again."

When I made it back to the world, it was late in the day.

And the Captain was gone.

I was cold.

Ravenous.

But my wrists were at least free.

That was one less effort to find.

Every part of me knew what I'd been through.

Some, more than others.

Took a while to move.

There was no water left for washing.

Hadn't expected it, but hope does spring eternal.

At least now and then.

My back ached.

My shoulders were killing me.

And my hands and feet were freezing numb with the damp.

Which was a strange blessing, or that particular pain would probably have had me doubled over when I stood up.

I needed clothes.

My hose were still in my boots.

That helped.

What I smelt like was irrelevant.

I was probably going to Feed on the first person I found anyway, regardless of anything else.

The only other clothes left lying around were Calhoun's.

Mine were done.

Rank, stinking shreds.

His breeches were too long but I tucked them in my boots anyway, and held them up with the ropes I'd been bound to the bed with.

He apparently only owned one belt, and was clearly wearing it.

And yes, my backside stung just thinking about it.

After that, I found one of his shirts.

It hung on me like a tent, but I was past caring.

Focusing on the world a bit better once I started to get warm, I heard enough noise to more than warn me what was happening.

And the sounds of a seaport floated in to greet me.

The smells were a little harder to place, my own being a touch ripe.

But sex smells like sex.

Always has.

Always will.

We were coming to Port Royal.

The ship was moving well.

Not a lean.

Not an undue creak.

The sails cracked and snapped.

The Captain gave orders.

Feet ran.

We were docking.

Then I picked out the whispers.

The voices.

Our passengers off the Rose of Leigh.

Tears.

Sniffles.

The murmurs of consolation.

Support.

Anger occasionally.

Pain frequently.

Men shuffling, refusing to talk to anyone, let alone look at them.

Women weeping.

Children frightened and confused but relieved.

Outrage.

Pleading.

For water.

For help.

A slap.

Laughter.

Yelps.

More slapping.

Barked orders.

Catcalls from below.

The slip of rope moving on wood.

The Captain was on deck, his voice ringing loud and clear over all those other sounds.

He had lied.

Enough crudities passed among the crewmen for me to know exactly what had been going on outside that cabin I'd confined myself to in the hopes of sparing innocents.

And I'd not even realized.

I'd gotten lost in myself.

In Warrick Calhoun.

My Mate.

A brutal bastard of a bloody, fucking Pirate, no less.

My Razi had returned…

…as that???

My blood boiled.

And I could do nothing to stop it.

I didn't want to stop it.

Somewhere in the disgusted hate I felt at that moment, I heard my boys.

Our Bonds told me they were doing fine, but extremely anxious.

Their voices were in that wash of sound.

They had saved the children.

I am so proud of my sons.

"Papa? Who Turned Warrick?"

Speed's quiet insistence broke him out of his own head.

"I don't know," he answered. "He would never tell me. And yes, before you ask, I have pushed him on it. Every way I know how."

"After all this time?"

"Yes. It wasn't good. Don't have to be a CSI to know that, but he's never given me a name," Nick sighed, not mentioning his suspicions over it.

"He wouldn't go easy."

"Isn't that a fact."

"An unknown? That time period? Back then?"

"Possible. But I doubt it somehow. He was too canny a damn Pirate to get caught that much unawares."

"Then he knew who."

"Ay, but that doesn't mean he still didn't want it."

"Until someone told him he did."

Nick chuckled. "One day, I'll know."

"We'll know," Speed corrected.

It made Nick laugh louder. "Not unless you find out first."

"Is that a challenge? Mom is not invulnerable to her favorite kid," he smirked.

"Then I guess Tony will be finding out first."

Speed rolled his eyes and sighed with much over dramatization. "You are so hysterical," he drawled.

"This stays between us, Tim. You get that, man? I mean it. We kept it hidden so no one could use it against us. It just felt better that no one knew, and when y'all began suspecting I did it, there was no point arguing."

General Meridius was clean and clear in Nick's voice.

And Speed heard it loud.

"Yes, sir," he answered. "I get it. One more question though?"

"What?"

"If he'd killed his Sire for Turning him against his will, wouldn't he have told you that somewhere along the way?"

"You'd think."

"I mean, why hide it?"

"You think I've not considered this?"

"You have! I only got this five seconds ago!"

"Oh, yeah," Nick snorted at himself.

"So he could be hiding his Sire?"

"Strictly speaking, that's more than one question."

"Tough."

"Seriously?"

"Yes!"

"Then okay, yes! Yes, he could be hiding his Sire. I just have no idea why or what for."

There was a pause.

Nick could almost imagine some sort of amazing and incredibly deductive insight or flash of brilliant reasoning about to burst forth from his Clan Advisor, but it wasn't revelation that came next.

Far from it.

"Where the hell…?" Speed flailed, at least in his head where no one could see, as Horatio and Warrick left the office upstairs, walking out past him while he stood there with his mouth open.

They had their briefcases and jackets.

And smug grins.

"Where are they going?" Speed whined, watching them head out of his lab and turn toward Reception at the other end of the corridor.

Neither of them had said a thing.

They'd just waved at him.

Like they'd known each other for a couple of centuries by then.

Speed frowned, wondering if they had indeed known each other in some past situation.

"Dinner," Nick said simply. "Mom's been craving fish tacos and a decent Hurricane."

Speed blinked, feeling stupid. "You so set this up."

"A tiny bit, yeah."

"Warrick was texting you."

"Some." He didn't want to explain that after telling Horatio all about what was jokingly referred to between Sylum's leading Vampires as their 'First Date' he had yet to get to the details of their 'Wedding Night'.

I had to stop myself screaming in Italian.

Old habit.

Didn't normally care much what language I yelled in.

"How dare you!? How dare you!!??"

I was on the Quarterdeck in a blink.

Calhoun seemed suitably surprised to see me.

But anger was anger.

And I hit him hard enough to knock him on his miserable arse.

"How dare you lie!"

Pirates swarmed around me.

Each reaching for a weapon.

Guns.

Clubs.

Anything they had.

But I didn't care.

They were sailing into a port that such creatures were said to be tolerated in only under truce or special agreement.

Murdering a Lord of the British Realm in plain sight, would not have been helpful to their cause.

And it was clearly a busy morning on the water.

My attention?

It was all on the Captain.

I kicked him.

A good, solid blow to the gut that was seen by the passengers coming up from below, tearful and filthy, and certainly eager to get the hell off that damnable ship.

Faster than I would have liked, Calhoun grabbed my foot and I was on the deck right beside him.

I expected to be torn off him by his crew, but was unmolested as we fought.

My father raised me with honor.

A man keeps his word.

Had I truly imagined a Pirate could do as much?

How foolish of me.

How very foolish.

Each blow I landed, felt really, really good.

It felt right.

After all I had gone through, a few moments of further discomfort for the pig I'd thought I could take as my Mate, were nowhere near paying him for what he deserved.

What had I done by even thinking such a thing was possible?

To Mate with such a creature??

Was I insane?

The curses I spewed at him were entirely accurate, whether he knew the language I spat them in, or not.

I might have killed him if Thomas had not spoken my name, put his hand on my shoulder and held me firmly.

It stopped me.

He stopped me.

I was on Warrick's chest, hitting him in the face, thinking of the men and women we had been traveling with to the New World, who now were never going to forget that voyage, or what they had suffered because I trusted a goddamned Pirate!

When I sat up, blood dripping hot and tangy from my knuckles, it was astonishing to find my sons had taken the ship.

But there they were.

The two of them.

Gun and knives in hand.

Passengers huddled together on the main deck.

Pirates in the hold.

Those not secured there, were held by the mast, under the watchful eye of the Stallion's Quartermaster, who was glaring fit to kill people where they stood.

A woman jabbed her parasol at him repeatedly, if he so much as moved.

Well, that explained why no one kept me from their Captain.

Warrick moved the moment I did.

He's strong.

A hard man.

Raised a slave.

The scars I'd seen on his chest were proof of that.

A life won with pain.

I knew what that meant, well enough.

He shoved me away and got to his feet, spitting blood at me from his lips.

It fell on my boots.

"Just Prize," he hissed, feeling around in his mouth to make certain he still had all his teeth. "Just Prize." He snickered a little, wheezing as he drew breath.

I'd hurt him right enough.

"Prize? This!!??" I gestured at the passengers, who were clinging to their children. "You disgust me for this barbarity!"

He grinned. "A Vampire? I disgust a Vampire?? That's rich from a blood sucking whore!"

I hit him again.

His stench was all over me.

In me.

But I was done with him.

Expecting the blow, he rolled away from it, so it fell as a glancing strike.

I didn't care.

Neither did he.

"No one robbed them of anything but their precious dignity," he snarled, laughing at the very idea of it, like it meant nothing, "and whatever you so dearly call 'honor'!" He shrugged, even though it hurt him to do it. "Some gave it freely enough, didn't they." He squeezed his crotch lewdly, like I needed some reminding.

Thomas pulled me back, but I tore away from him. "I could've given you everything!"

"I got all I wanted from you." He pursed his lips like faking a kiss.

I hit him again.

He didn't see that one.

It made him blink, and test his jaw for bruises.

"I'll have back what you did steal."

The Quartermaster growled orders at the deck crew, as the dock suddenly swept in close.

One more thing I had apparently failed to notice.

Warrick laughed heartily.

I wanted him to go for one of the many weapons he was carrying on his belt, yet there he stood.

Laughing.

"No one can give you that," he sneered, licking his lips slowly and suggestively.

Behind me, the ship began docking.

I heard Timothy.

And Antonio.

And the grateful sobbing of the children.

"The gold," I replied flatly. "In your hold. It belongs to me. If you are so proud as to have these people leave without being robbed of their possessions, I would have mine returned as well. Or am I not Prize too, like them?"

He stiffened.

I wanted so much to hit him again, the smugly chuckling bastard.

It took him a while to decide whether I was being honest about what I said.

He thought I was some weak, pompous English Nobleman.

He had to learn better.

"Antonio?"

"Sire?"

My sons.

Always by my side.

"Bring me one of the crew. Now."

"Yes, sire."

Calhoun never flinched.

A gambling man, indeed.

"You would kill me crew?" he asked archly.

It was my turn not to flinch.

But then I do enjoy this game.

"Go ahead. I can always get more," he sniffed, blood still oozing from his nose.

"I doubt that they would enjoy hearing you speak of them that way."

"This is not your life, my Lord," he answered, bowing most elaborately in mockery.

"You made it mine," I snarled.

That was when Thomas pulled at my shoulder more strongly, and whispered in my ear.

He is a canny one, The Baron Efford.

Really.

Antonio threw a long-haired, half-clad sailor, who wore nothing but a pair of old blue breeches, to his knees there in front of me.

I had no idea of his name.

His age.

His place on the ship.

Nor did I give a damn.

My intent was not to have a polite conversation.

"Tell me, Captain, what his life is worth to you."

Calhoun laughed dryly. "We are Pirates! Our lives are worth spit!! But your gold will buy me new men. I can assure you of that. And a new ship." He grew more confident. "A new fleet, my Lord."

Antonio threw me his pistol when I looked over at him.

Without pause, I aimed it not at the unfortunate on his knees, but straight at the Captain, even as the plank was pulled out, and crashed onto the wooden dockside.

"Can you buy a new leader?" I asked quietly.

Antonio stared at me like I'd lost my mind, until Thomas pushed him away again, and urged him to help their fellow passengers.

I'd already smelt a certain Pirate on my old friend, and knew he too had suffered much in the last few days.

That was also my fault.

"How much are you worth to the authorities here, Captain? What will your neck buy me? Or buy these people as recompense for the violence they have had to suffer?"

Warrick spat at me again. "Evan!"

The Pirate at my feet looked up, having clearly imagined I would kill him, judging from the furiously wrought expression on his face, and the fear I could smell in his immediate vicinity.

"Get the man his gold," Calhoun ordered.

Evan was confused, and he flipped his long, greasy hair out of his eyes by way of reply. "Cap'? The men? What about…?"

"They'll get paid, later. As will you. Now go fetch the man his Prize."

Evan ran.

Thomas followed.

Warrick sighed. "Now, what would you be doing with a fine King's Ransom in these dangerous waters, Lord Leavy?"

I had no desire to explain a single damn thing for him.

The passengers started fleeing.

No one stopped them.

No one came too close to the ship either.

No one seemed to even bother with it.

That was all I needed to see, to know they were little more than tolerated in Port Royal.

I rather wanted to know why.

Then I realized it would hardly matter.

A moment later, the gold started appearing, one crate at a time, and Thomas supervised its loading onto the dock, where my boys were trying valiantly to help the people around them who had been left with nothing but what they clutched and clung to.

Some wanted the handfuls of coinage they were being given.

Others were too angry, or too humiliated, or just too proud to acknowledge they were quite effectively lost at that moment in time.

I blamed none of them, save for their failure in seeing my own gold as a necessary offering that day.

When it was done, and all that was mine was safe, I lowered my arm.

Calhoun drew a deep breath, his eyes narrowing. "I should kill you where you stand," he hissed. "Put you down like a cur. Rid the world of one more filthy Vampire."

It was my turn to laugh then. "No, you won't," I whispered surely, as his hand moved steadily to his blade.

He had carried a sword all that time.

A cutlass.

On his back.

A long, ugly thing, broad and slightly curved with a hooked tip and a painfully familiar emblem on the pommel.

Had he wanted me dead, he could easily have taken his chances already, but he lost his opportunity as I turned and walked away.

"You so certain I won't!" he yelled.

"Oh, yes." I smiled over my shoulder at him as my feet touched the main deck. "I'm the best fuck you ever had."

His expression was beautiful.

I treasure it still.

He started screaming at me.

In French.

Or a mix thereof.

Some words I knew.

The rest were easily understood.

But I had one thing left to do.

And as I calmly reached the plank, I threw a hefty punch at the Stallion's Quartermaster, catching him perfectly with a roundhouse that knocked him over the rail and into the water.

It was hugely satisfying.

No one touched Thomas.

Ever.

Least of all such unworthy scum.

The last thing I heard amidst the fury inside me, was Warrick.

My Mate.

Telling me in no uncertain terms, how he never wanted me.

Or the Vampire.

Or Eternity.

I never looked back.

"That's meant to help me, what?" Speed muttered. "Make Turning H easier?"

Nick really wished his could reach down the phone and smack the crap out of his kid.

"Tim…"

"Dragging the bullshit of past mistakes over the damn horizon again like a Pirate ship come bearing down on us?"

"Tim…"

"You think I don't remember what we went through with you? Seriously?"

"Tim!!"

From somewhere, somehow Thomas procured transport and then rooms for us.

It was an inn.

I think.

Away from the water.

Set back from the road.

I didn't ask.

There was no point.

My sons tried their very best to help the much abused men and women of the Rose of Leigh, and I wondered vaguely at the time, how many children would come into the world after what happened aboard the Stallion.

There would be a few.

That much was certain.

If they didn't want the gold they were being offered, that they might at least have chance to start planning something decent for themselves, I couldn't make them take it.

We all get free will after all.

And using mine had cost me dear.

While women cried, and men were stoically hoping none would ever ask them what they had gone through, I had my own pains.

And anger.

It cut through me.

Worse than grief.

After Warren, I was cold.

Numb.

Lost.

I felt nothing.

I wanted nothing.

Nothing satisfied.

Ever again.

For so long.

Endless years it seemed.

But after Warrick?

It was not the same.

I felt old.

Dirty.

Soiled beyond repair.

I would have no one touch or speak to me.

Noise was too loud.

Company too embittering.

As it was, I barely tolerated Thomas stripping me and getting me in a bath.

I have no memory even now, of how he did it.

But every touch was one too many.

I caught sight of myself in the glass on the dresser.

And knew not who scowled back.

I would be clean.

Scrubbed raw.

Rid of the smell.

Rid of the memory.

It had to be gone.

All that polluted me.

All that I had permitted.

I had been so wrong.

Yet all I craved was there, upon that ship.

My Mate.

My completion.

My Soul wept for him.

Thomas bathed me.

In silence.

He was careful.

Considerate.

Gentle.

As always.

Yet he too had been soiled.

I smelt it.

Still he took care of me before himself.

He always did.

He always had.

He always would.

My good and faithful Thomas.

My dear and trusted friend.

Still that anger scorched me.

Bright.

Hot.

My poor Thomas.

How I had failed him.

I had no idea how I was shaking until, satisfied with his ministrations, he got me dry and wrapped in blankets.

There was a bed.

That much I knew.

A darkened room.

Candles.

Brandy.

Then a fire.

Blood.

The woman with the parasol.

The fierce old lady who had somewhat fallen into becoming one of the Chosen after her encounter with my sons.

I never got her name.

I still didn't when we saw her again years later.

She let me drink.

I kept it as wary as I could.

Nothing bad.

She didn't deserve that.

Thomas held on to me.

Kept me calm.

Felt better when it was done.

Heard Tony and Timothy outside.

They had rooms too.

Servants ran, fetching more water.

At least they were unmolested.

My boys.

Healing.

They would not have tolerated as I did.

Tony least of all.

I wanted to tell Thomas he should go take care of himself, yet still I have no memory of that much consideration ever actually coming out of my mouth.

I lay down.

I watched the fire.

I listened to my sons.

And I tried to forget.

I tried so damn hard.

One thing about my boys…?

They know how to mutter, moan, complain, whine and grumble like old maids, but they didn't.

Not that day.

Or that night.

Doors banged.

Clocks ticked.

Voices carried from outside.

But they were still.

Quiet.

Hours passed.

Piling up around me.

Thomas never left me.

Never complained.

Never thought of himself.

While I could think of nothing else but myself.

I had done this.

I had failed.

Walked away.

Left him there.

My Mate.

My Mate.

When sleep finally came, it brought the fire.

Ashes.

Dreams of flesh.

Flesh melted into wild blonde hair.

Thomas held me when I woke, screaming my Mate's name…

"He never came to me."

Speed blinked. "Who?"

"Warren."

"What?"

It was quite the moment for revelation.

"In the days between his death, and leaving Camelot." Nick's voice was but the faintest whisper, lost in the darkest of regrets.

"I thought…"

"I know."

"Why bother to explain the truth?"

"I didn't care what people thought."

"Papa, after Warren, you didn't care about anything. We saw you once in the better part of fifty years! Once!! What else was there but to make assumption?"

"I know."

"Why tell me?"

"It feels right."

"Bullshit!"

The softest sigh escaped him. "I waited. Even after the funeral, all that time later. I never saw him. I can't tell you why. Maybe he came to Kirk. I always thought his brother would be the better choice. Why come back to the man who let you die?"

I barely heard Speed trying to break through the heavy memories of what once had been, so quietly did he call me Papa.

My boy.

My Antonio.

My firstborn son.

I am so proud of him.

He is a blessing to me that the Irish spirit within him refuses even now, to truly acknowledge.

But then, I am Roman.

I know of pride.

And vanity.

And fear.

"Some pains," I said at last, not at all sure of how much time had passed since I'd spoken before that, "are never lost or forgotten, or left behind with the passing years. Please, please don't risk suffering like me. Horatio is as afraid to die, as you are of taking his life. But there are greater fears, and I do not want you to ever know them. If you cannot Turn your Mate there in Miami, bring him home. You will have all who love you most in this world, to guard you and guide you both, until you are safely together in Bond. Had I listened to you the night I lost Warren, heeded the advice you alone were bold enough to give me, how very different this conversation would truly be. But I was prideful, and arrogant and I didn't think I needed help. You, Tony, and my Thomas, at the door, together, would have changed everything."

Humility.

The moment you think you have it, you've lost it again.

"I love you, my Antonio."

There was a long, thoughtful pause.

Then a sniffle.

"I love you too, Papa."

And with that, I put the phone down on the base unit, hearing it click.

My hand was shaking.

Too many violent emotions colliding all at once, had me racing to the bathroom and throwing up.

So much for the stoic Roman who's been struggling to get out lately…

"Did he bite the bastard?"

Really, why does Tony have to be the loudest one in the conversation?

"Who the hell knows? It's not as though he's telling us anything."

Timothy was never more blunt than when he was angry.

"Master Nicolaus is going to take great affront at being addressed as though both deaf and incapable of reason."

My Thomas.

Quiet and respectful.

Honest to the point of being painfully sincere.

"What does he want us to do?"

Tony had a distinct note of panic in his voice.

The Public House we had run to for shelter - and later bought for our own private use, including its staff and former owner - was not the smallest establishment I had ever resided in, but it was hardly a Castle of Camelot's size. And to my utter chagrin, no matter how hard I tried to control my senses, I could still hear every word, smell every scent, feel every movement of the air across my skin. Nothing sat well in my stomach, regardless of how little I consumed. I had no appetite. I had no desire to bother myself with anything that those beyond the walls of my room considered vital for the passage of their lives.

Fresh blood was of no comfort.

Everything ached, within and without.

There was no warmth, though I did not want for blankets or a fire.

There was no strength left in me.

Somewhere, through all those threads that connected me to others, I felt the strongest, brightest light from my brother.

All else was confusion.

Anxiety.

Dread.

How had I walked away?

Thomas brought me another woman who had become Chosen after what happened on the Stallion. A matronly lady, she looked upon me as my mother might, wanting only what was right that I should be made well. But I had no desire to so much as drop my fangs for all the blood coursing through her body.

"He suffered more than all the rest," she whispered, leaving me to the misery I could not deny.

Why did everyone assume I was deaf?

She meant well.

But Thomas was not of a mind to let me starve either.

Every day he fed me.

On the worst days I could swallow nothing.

On the best, I Fed from him.

He was there, every night.

At my side.

There with me.

I never slept alone.

As it once was, when Warren perished, so the past returned.

He never left me then, either.

My Childe.

My faithful and tireless companion.

He held me when I retched.

He bathed me when I had no thought to even lift a finger for myself.

He kept me clothed.

And while my boys struggled to understand, while they went out into the world to help those who had survived the brutality of the Stallion's Pirates, and try to send word back to Camelot, or onward to Gambit at the place we had first been bound, so Thomas talked endlessly of the trivial moments that formed each day. His intent was to distract me, or engage me in some line of talk to lift my spirits. It was not a new tactic, and yet I could find nothing to say. No words explained or justified, or seemed in any way worthy of the effort required to voice them.

Days passed.

Slow as seasons.

Plans were made.

I heard the talk.

How could I not?

What to do?

Where to go?

How to get me where I could best recover?

Did they think I was sick?

Perhaps.

My Soul sought Warren.

Pure.

Innocent.

Gentle.

Warren…

Sometimes, I can still sense him.

Never far away.

A shadow.

Just over my shoulder.

A face.

A smile.

Standing there over the toilet bowl, all I could think about was Warren.

He'd never come to me.

I waited.

Every waking moment, I longed for one more glimpse of him, or to hear him speak one more word.

But he never did.

He never said goodbye.

I never knew if he forgave me.

That thought alone had me heaving again.

It wrenched my stomach muscles.

Bile scorched the back of my throat.

Too much booze lately.

Too much stress.

Visitors.

Who comes to visit the invalid?

I can hear them.

Downstairs.

Curious women.

Nosey neighbors with nothing better to do.

I had heard the gossip.

It sailed up through the windows on the wind.

Oh, the scandal!

Rape and buggery.

Humiliation.

Thievery.

Pillaging on the High Seas.

When the stories began spreading, there was no way to stop them. Such tales were all too exciting to those with limited means in slow and uneventful lives. Thankfully, Thomas had seen his way to distance us from such gutter filth as people fed upon so virulently. He had instead, a somewhat more sorrowful tale spun by Timothy and Tony, of how I had come to Port Royal after Pirates attacked the ship I had been traveling to the New World upon, along with my wife, my brother, my son and my retainer. My wife had died at sea from sickness and fever. The Pirates had beaten me half to death, and threatened harm to those I love.

As lies went, it was not the worst we had ever lived under, nor was it too far beyond reason.

There were consequences to lies that I had long since learned to avoid if it could be helped. Yet I was not a part of what the world said about me. I had withdrawn, refused it, left it behind on the decks, and walked away.

What say had I in anything?

None.

And less when I refused to offer even my own voice.

"He should not lock himself away! He must have sun if he is to be healthy!"

And there came the same line my last visitors thought to offer by way of advice.

A busybody voice.

Older than I imagined.



Do these fools presume to have all the answers?

They know nothing.

How can they?

Thomas talks in quietly muted tones, telling those come to doubtless offer their daughter to my grieving heart, that my condition best requires rest and peace.

Yet more will come.

I have turned into a suddenly eligible widower of vast fortune.

This Lord Leavy, whose face I do not know and cannot recognize in the mirror.

"And another?"

Timothy is angered on my behalf, and I am grateful.

His Irish temper needs expression.

He sits with me sometimes.

He holds my hand.

He doesn't speak, unlike his brother, who recites the Rosary in his native tongue as though I am the hapless victim of some marauding foul spirit.

Still, I know they are secretly terrified I might vanish as I did before, when Van Helsing offered me chance to Hunt his fiercest foe.

I do not blame them.

They have the right to be afraid for me. But for them, I could so easily have fallen to pleading that Thomas take my head.

Or if he could not, then have him take me to Arthur. And there lay me to rest with what mortal remains of my dear Warren, lie still beneath the Giant's Heart on the path that leads up to the Castle on Saint Michael's Mount.

My sons.

They are my saving Grace.

And I just spilled my guts to Speed in more ways than one.

I keep a great many secrets.

Live long enough, and they pile up around you like all those bit and pieces that accumulate in a closet over the years.

No one's shocked that I keep secrets.

It shocks them more when I give them up.

Speed needs something else to think about other than himself.

So does Tony for that matter.

I swear there are times my boys are idiots.

All my kids, actually.

They have their moments.

Its like they never really grew up and they're still the little ones I raised…

"The weather is keeping all shipping in port. No one's going anywhere for the foreseeable future. The word is not conducive for fair winds or good fortune."

Rain was indeed lashing the shutters.

I'd heard no one in the streets below for hours.

It was cold.

The fire had gone to embers.

I had a blanket around my knees.

Another at my shoulders.

Plans had been afoot for days.

My sons wanted to leave.

I was certain we had barely arrived a week before, and yet the weather suggested the season's changing.

My feet were aching.

The damp.

Always when it was damp.

How long had it been since the Red Stallion?

Someone said the ship had left and no one so much as looked upon it with a curious eye the day we first set foot here.

Was that not yesterday?



The wind whistled under the bedroom door.

The rafters shuddered.

When had it gotten dark?

I didn't remember.

How could I remember every moment of those three days in the Pirate Captain's cabin, but have no notion of the time or day?

My hands hurt.

Rubbing my palms, I reached to stoke the flames up.

There was a crucifix above the mantel.

When had that appeared there?

Or had it always cast those writhing shadows on the wall that way?

"We are not finding passage either to Charleston or New Orleans until summer. It matters not how much gold we spread, or how much else is promised for safe passage."

Tony was remarkably calm for someone who had been so adamant he had to leave Port Royal as fast as possible.

Or had that in fact been Timothy?

No.

No, Timothy had been the one who wrote to Arthur.

Or had that been Thomas?

In part I had envisioned Arthur setting foot in Port Royal long before we ever left it.

Was he on his way?

How would he find me?

Sat as an invalid in a darkened room?

We had seen and endured together, that for which there were neither polite nor dignified words in the language of Arthur Pendragon.

Yet we had never failed one another.

What would he think of me now?

What would Warren think?

Perhaps it didn't matter.

I was tired.

I was always so very tired.

When had I eaten last?

Thomas had given me bread and milk and seemed surprised that I could keep it down.

But when had I last Fed?

It gave me a headache to think on it.

All I knew with certainty was that each night, Thomas put me to bed and lay beside me.

Each morning, he got me up and dressed me.

When I slept, there were dreams.

When I woke, there were his arms around me.

Over and over.

Or there was no sleep.

No relief from knowing I had lost everything.

I had to get some sleep.

I'd be in work soon enough.

Or was I off duty tomorrow?

What day of the damn week am I on here?

I miss Warrick.

He's still horny as hell.

Our Bond is alive with his libido.

He's missing me too.

I have to trust what he's saying to Horatio.

It's not like Speed was going to help the damn situation.

Idiot.

So my Mate is telling his Mate, things that are not meant to be the most inspiring, but have become the only rational way forward in this fuck up.

It was Christmas Eve.

I was being dragged from my room to attend Mass.

There were no choices.

I was dressed and shoved down the stairs, and safely placed into a carriage before I even recognized it was the Season of Joy and Peace.

The end of the year was not far away, and while the holy service passed by me in a blur, I struggled to remember what year it still was.

Somewhere in the distance, too far behind me to be recalled with clarity, I had come around the world seeking to found a new Vampire Clan on a new continent, funded by gold from Imenand, from Arthur, from the Medjai and from my own not inconsiderable pocket. We had intended to travel, see the land of which we had heard so many tales, and determine whether there was a place for establishing order amongst the growing population of Vampires who had begun spreading across the colonies. Word had it, that Rogues were thriving where the rule of law was slim, and such a threat had to be contained.

I had responsibilities.

I always had responsibilities.

The good Father Dugan kept staring at me during the Homily, like I was a mad man.

Had he never seen a Vampire losing his mind?

Probably not.

In this filthy, corrupt and vermin infested sea port that believed itself to be so much more than it actually was, where so much that smelled foul and looked rotten had surely to have passed through the place, he must have seen at least other Vampires. Were they not plentiful on the oceans, under Pirate flags?

It was Tony who grabbed me by the elbow and bid me kneel for the Liturgy, though the Lord Himself knew how badly I wanted to tunnel out of there on several occasions.

How was it Christmas?

Gossips whispered as we left.

I said nothing.

Why refute them?

Why grant credence to their folly?

Leaning on Thomas, I kept my eyes down and my opinions to myself as Timothy and Tony fended off the pointing fingers, and tried to shield me from the stares.

To all intents, I should have smacked Tony later for making me go through that at all on such a night.

"Oh the poor, poor man!"

"That's him? Oh, I'd heard about him."

"Yes, such a tragedy."

"Is it true that he tried to save those people?"

"Oh, yes! And his family. It's such a shame."

"They say he hasn't spoken a word since that day."

"He's terribly pale."

"I think he looks awfully handsome."

"He should be in bed. The poor dear. He needs proper care."

"Do you think he's alright? He has dead eyes."

"And did you see him stare at the Priest? It was most unnerving."

"He's grieving. Let the poor man mourn."

Yes, people can be so very subtle when they think no one but the subject of their intent is actually listening. Had they not just come from Church, or had that been a figment of my overly strained imagination?

I am so tired.

So very tired.

A man in Naval Uniform approached.

He glanced not at Thomas, nor at Timothy. Neither did he acknowledge Tony, who had been most considerate as my 'brother', to all who still thought it best they force their attentions upon me.

The highly obnoxious little English prick who so fawningly introduced himself as if the King stood there before his feasting gaze, said his name was Cutler Beckett.

A Lord, no less.

A title doubtless bought for him by his true employers, who might at first have appeared to be His Majesty's Navy, but were in fact a far more nefarious, and far less forgiving.

My sons both growled at the very sight of him.

It was at least helpful however, to put a face upon the individual who represented the East India Trading Company in this particular part of the world, and who had consistently denied an appointment to my entourage for the purposes of obtaining passage out of Jamaica.

I refused to shake his hand.

His smile was as fraudulent as the concern in his tone.

His sickly words fell on deaf ears.

I have no patience with either excuses or sycophantic representatives of higher powers, who in the larger scheme of history are but the single blinking of an eye.

Let others deal with it.

Let them make such plans as they see fit.

I must confess however, that the sound of my oldest Childe's fist connecting solidly with Beckett's jaw made me smile for what felt like the first time in a decade. The man had said to my face, that he could not be bought by a Lord of the Realm for any price, and the Royal Navy was not to be used at the whim of those who had more money than good sense, looking for luxurious transportation home.

The second blow actually made my Christmas.

Cutler.

Thoughts of that vicious little bastard led inevitably to images of Davy Jones swirling around in the water as I flushed the toilet.

I've not had calamari in a long time.

Yeah, that wasn't about to sit well in my stomach…

What does Liefr call him?

Squid Face?

Fuck it.

Damn them both!

I am so done with this shit.

"The Red Stallion is not deemed to be a threat. That vessel is not a Pirate Ship in terms you might consider for such a title."

"Excuse me?" Timothy was confused.

Beckett had sent a colleague. Finally. An uncomfortable sounding man by name of James Norrington, whom the new Governor had talked highly of to all and sundry as being a fine young Naval Officer of worthy repute, with a most honorable future ahead of him.

Rumor had it, he was Courting the man's daughter, Elizabeth.

He would probably be a Captain by Easter.

"A Pirate is a Pirate," Tony said bluntly.

"Well apparently this one is not one. As I understand it from Lord Beckett, the Red Stallion has a formidable Captain with a valued reputation for the capturing of other Pirates. In fact, he has been responsible for bringing to justice some of the worst offenders whom others have been unable to find."

"Who knew scum had classes of decency?" Tony was not amused. "Are you, or Lord Beckett, even aware of the villainy perpetrated by those aboard the Red Stallion?"

"No charges have been formally made. No complaints have been laid."

"No one would hear us," Timothy replied. "Or any of the others who survived that day."

"Not having been here at the time, I am certainly in no position to comment on such matters. It is of course, highly regrettable that Lord Leavy was so very badly treated, but there is an arrangement between the Red Stallion and the East India Trading Company. Governor Swann has been made aware of these matters, naturally. He would come himself to reassure Lord Leavy face to face, if the poor gentleman was able to take visitors."

"Governor Swann has been most kind," Tony assured him.

And it was true.

The man had made his name known to us politely, and he had come in person to express his best wishes in my recovery. I cannot fault him for that, though I doubt he has the mind or the strength to deal with those men around him who are by far, more accustomed to the machinations of dark corner politics and personal self-interest than he himself appears to be. He is certainly a gentleman, but I would also say he is a decade or so behind the times in which he dwells.

"I do regret that I cannot bring you greater comfort. However, my Captaincy is due within weeks, and when I am awarded my first command I shall be more than honored to take you onward to New Orleans. The very least you and his Lordship are owed, is to be delivered safely to your destination."

I felt my eyes widen.

Thomas had brought me supper before there came a brisk knock at the door below, and our unexpected visitor arrived.

He rather distracted me from what had been the slight urgings of an appetite, and I poked with a fork that which seemed to be some sort of fish poached in milk.

The Red Stallion was still out there on the water, doing God alone knew what, to the innocent and defenseless folk it ran across.

I ought to have been shocked by such knowledge, and yet a part of me did hope that somehow Calhoun had been ended, in order for my Mate to be reborn to me again. Still, there it was in words of undeniable certainty.

The Stallion and her Captain were protected by those to whom their victims ought, by right, having been fleeing for help. And the morality of this world had been turned upon its head.

Again.

Live long enough, you see such moments clear.

The man was a murderer.

An abuser.

A thief.

A rapist.

He cared nothing for those who suffered at his hands, nor did he stop to contemplate the harm he wrought on others, who like Norrington, were left to excuse his very existence.

There had been rumor how he, on rare occasions, freed blacks from slavery, raiding those ships packed to the gunwales with his kind, and setting them loose to either return to their native shores, or find new lives for themselves. Such actions were most likely stuff of legend, made from a few less than noble encounters no doubt, yet they gave the Pirate an air of heroism which worked well in his favor, and when coupled with a reputation for bringing justice upon scum of lower repute than his own, he was certainly untouchable. No Naval vessel would dare open fire upon him for fear of seeming to want him ended.

And who indeed would end the hero set to see justice brought on those whom lawful authorities could themselves not catch?

It was perfect in design. Fiendish. And it gave him freedom enough to be a Pirate without consequence.

He would get favor only for so creative an approach to self-preservation.

Still, he was out there.

Would I see the Red Stallion again come briskly into port and once more discharge a much abused tally of Souls with misfortune enough to have fallen to his guns?

Could I watch such a thing?

Or bear hear of it?

Would decency not bid me act?

Or perhaps my eldest son was right in his most adamant belief that we should leave this place as far behind us as we could?

He wanted to go back to Arthur at Camelot, whilst Timothy desired we go onward to meet Gambit, as had long been planned.

Thomas had no opinion and was only eager to see me well.

As faithful to my cause as ever.

They awaited my decision, having sensed that to put me by force once more, somewhere I did not wish to go, would certainly not be pretty.

I am not ready.

Not for the journey.

Not for the stresses such would impose.

Not for the choices I would be left to make.

And there was risk the Red Stallion might find us once more when we sailed.

It had sadly crossed my mind on more than one long and dismal night, that if I should ever run across the Pirate who had done such deeds as I could still taste upon my tongue and feel within my aching flesh, I should put an end to him myself, if only for the good of my own esteem.

Really.

I was just that pissed off with him back then.

It made my gut squirm to even think about setting eyes on him after what he had done.

And yet my body, which had been his to both arouse and torment as he saw fit, still craved his touch.

It does even now.

We have a very healthy sexual appetite for being Captive and Pirate, and damn it if just thinking about it didn't get me hard, right there over the fucking toilet bowl.

It didn't help that Warrick was drinking, having a good time with Horatio in Miami, telling him about our Bonding. The sexual need was more intense than ever.

Wiping my mouth on a tissue, I gurgled with some Listerine and contemplated a shower.

Maybe a cold one.

Clearly Warrick wasn't skimping on the little details he wanted to share with Speed's prospective Mate.

Bastard.

"You must do that which feels right for you, Master Nicolaus. No man can force your hand lest there be gravest dangers to those who hold you dear."

Thomas spoke softly, but with utter earnestness.

"The regrets of yesterday, must not build regrets today."

I had at least drunk more heartily from a Chosen One that very morn, and it seemed to set my manservant at ease to talk with hopeful anticipation of what might yet be.

"There is more color about your cheeks. You should sleep well tonight."

It was warm.

I had no memory of having left my room in days.

Or was it weeks?

Perhaps so.

The rain just lately, had been warming too when I sat by the shutters and watched it fall.

The very air itself smelt strange.

Or rather it was fouler than before.

I have concluded this not a fair place to be, and in my life I have seen much that is rank and disgusting.

If I am not hearing the grimmest of talk, I am surely revolted by the stench of fish, of sewer waste, of spices for export, and humanity for import. The cries of the pitiful and the screams of the merciless are too much for a decent stomach to endure in this fetid hovel.

"I have procured you a lighter shirt for wearing abed. You ought to be more comfortable."

I licked my lips.

He speaks of comforts?

There have been none since leaving England.

"The Governor's daughter is in need of lessons for the Fine Arts. Master Anthony is contemplating the offer of his services."

That was hardly surprising.

Little was surprising any more.

"Master Timothy has found a gifted young man in service as an apprentice blacksmith. Turner, I believe his name. His work is most exemplary, which is seeming strange given that his Master is quite the hapless drunkard."

And what of that?

I have no use of weapons unless someone thinks to rob me here, or I have sudden urgings to purchase horseshoes.

"There is a strangely compelling story I heard today, of a most gayly flamboyant Pirate by name of Sparrow. Muchly amusing. His ship was said to be lost in the actions of a mutinous crew, and yet he adamantly insist he is still to be addressed as 'Captain Sparrow'. I have not been given reason to believe that such is actually the truth, but it was told in a most amusing manner…"

Sparrow.

That made me think of Davy Jones again.

And Barbossa.

And Crab Fishermen.

Oh, Dear Lord!

With the shower barely running, and my sweat pants around my ankles, I was back over the toilet bowl and half-undressed.

Seafood.

Won't be eating that for a while.

"It has been almost a year!"

Timothy sounded desperately tired.

A year?

How?

"There's been no sign of the Red Stallion. Not even a rumor. The gold I wasted buying gossip has been feeding the local prostitutes."

Tony was miserable too.

He only grumbled with that particular tone when he was at the end of his patience.

"I do believe it has been but ten months."

Thomas.

So pedantic and precise.

"Nine too many," Timothy countered, "and Papa still silent."

"I refuse to let you take him anywhere against his will!"

"Thomas, this insanity must end."

Tony made a decent stand for action.

Always.

"It will. It did before with Warren. It will gain."

Thomas had been closest to me back then, through all the traveling, the years of struggle, the decades of training. He never complained.

"He needs to be away from here."

"Master Anthony, he will decide for himself what he wishes."

"Thomas, this cannot go on. Nothing is touching him. He sits all day in his room, wasting away to nothing. He has become a ghost of himself before our very eyes, and I will not allow him to die if I can but get him out of here to a place far better and more kindly situated, where he can be encouraged to at least remember he is still beloved by more than the three of us here!"

Tony is so polite when there are few choices left to him.

"Do you not see the darkness beneath his eyes? The hollows about his cheeks? He is grey. He is all too pale. He will starve himself to death. And you cannot deny the possibility."

Timothy was banging his fist on the table as he spoke, emphasizing the points he made.

I believe they were in the living area where once the public bar had been situated for this inn.

"You did not spend the worst days with him after Warren and the massacre at Hengehurst," Thomas began.

"No! Because he ran away!" Tony growled.

"He will recover. You must have faith in him to that end. He is a stronger man than even he knows he can be. As his children, you must understand that and stop thinking only of yourselves!"

My faithful friend was not one to raise his tone without extreme provocation, yet it was steadily rising.

"We have done little but fear for him since the Red bloody Stallion, first came over the damn horizon!" Tony growled. "He has been lost to us!"

"I will kill that Pirate myself should we ever set eyes upon each other again in this life," Thomas responded, with a bitter growl that sounded as though it might be laced with some considerable regret of his own. "But that eventuality is remote enough. Your father will survive. He has before and shall again. You must have faith, or your meddling will have him vanish to the ends of the earth, for God alone knows how long! This is not of your doing. Leave it be."

"But it is of our doing," Timothy snarled, striking the table time after time.

I have no idea how he stopped from splintering it.

"No!" Thomas began.

"Yes!" Stubborn. The Irish are so stubborn. "We sat there on that cursed vessel and did nothing! We obeyed him, and we did nothing! We could have taken the ship, thrown the Pirates to the sea and let them drown! No one should've suffered that way. No one! But we sat there, pretending to ourselves that we were good sons, watching over the children as you were dragged away too. We had the power to ensure none of it happened. And we failed!"

I heard enough.

The failure was mine.

Alone.

Enough harm had been caused by my errors in judgment.

Standing up, I tied my hair back at my collar with a stock, and reached for my boots.

It was with some resentment that I looked upon them only to recall how they were the one thing left to me after the Red Stallion.

Besides the gold, that sat safely in the cellar.

To the life of the 21st Century, what Warrick had done to me in those three long days in his cabin, might be deemed as kidnap and rape.

For the other passengers, that would certainly be so.

None had consented, but I.

And I regretted it violently, for what I had imagined as outcome would simply never be, unless I left the prison I had placed myself in by my own childish tantrum.

Wiping my lips, I went in search of some bottled water, praying my stomach would calm the hell down, and swearing off the booze for a good long while.

I stalked down the stairs, tugging on my coat, oblivious to having nothing on my head and no clue where I might find my cane, until Thomas very thoughtfully thrust it into my right hand.

He had purchased said object for me as a Christmas gift, and I had failed to thank him properly.

Actually, it struck me then that I had failed to thank him for a vast multitude of things. Still, he merely smiled approvingly at me, and with that I was out the front door before either of my sons could say a word or think to react.

They assumed I was without wit, and lacking in fortitude, and whilst that might have been true for at least a certain time, I was never entirely without my faculties. That alone was the mark of but a single darkness in my existence, where others had my fullest regard in every respect, as I struggled for the simplest of meaning in the worse of all pains.

"Where is he going?"

"What on earth is he doing?"

"He's finally gone mad!"

"Stop him. Stop him!"

Timothy and Anthony were - once they realized I again had purpose - left to hurry after me.

I prepared myself to then be accosted by one or both of them, but they had sense enough to leave me be the very instant my expression became obvious. In fact, a walk in the outside air did me some good. It was hardly fresh against my all too wary skin, yet it improved my sense of being, at least a touch.

The offices of the East India Trading Company were simple enough to find, though the few wrong turns I made down narrow, rat ridden alleyways, led through filth encrusted side streets where even the cobblestones were lost beneath the sewage and waste of all those people who said this miserable place was home.

I felt it add to my resolve.

Hugely.

I would leave.

And I would never return.

To hell with protocol.

Diplomacy be damned!

As a Lord of the British Realm, I was not about to be denied my right to the safe passage from Jamaica that I would beat out of Cutler Beckett if he dared get in my way.

Naturally, those who thought to halt my passage to what was a most enormous and well appointed office - replete with fine luxuries of every description and a vast balcony which over looked the port - were brushed aside like so many leaves upon a stormy wind.

I would not be dissuaded.

Having already smelt the unique aroma which emanates from James Norrington, tracking him to Beckett's side was a mere formality.

Certain heartbeats rose with alarmed haste at my appearance, and various minions of assorted Naval Rank and social class, screeched in shock at my rude and unannounced apparition before the ridiculously large desk used by so small and utterly cretinous a man. One would generally have considered it an over-compensation for some inadequacy.

Several inadequacies actually.

"By God, man! Have you lost your mind?" Cutler leapt to his feet as the enormous office door crashed back into the wall at my bidding, and made the paintings shake. "How dare you charge in here like this and behave so outrageously!"

He was as red about the face as any man has ever been, yet I ignored his bluster.

It served no purpose.

"Captain Norrington? I do believe congratulations are in order for your most timely promotion." My voice sounded as dry and as dusty as my throat felt, but then I had not used it in more months than I could reliably recollect.

"Er…" The man was flustered, and notably reluctant to defend his senior officer, for the increasingly irritating Cutler Beckett was also an Admiral.

Astonishingly.

And upon his coat his bore sufficient braid to confirm it.

Not that I cared.

Norrington however, his hat tucked securely under his right arm, and an expression of complete confusion on his somewhat bland and colorless features, was valiantly attempting to form a coherent response to my presence in the room, when I reached for his left hand and deposited therein a most hefty bag of gold pieces.

It had been on the cabinet beside the bed in my room, for the very eventuality that I was partaking in. Though I was certain, that Thomas would have carried out such a bribe himself had I ordered it.

"I and my family, as well as my staff, will have passage on your vessel sailing tomorrow at high tide. Our destination is the port of New Orleans. You will arrange…"

"The Royal Navy cannot be bought!" Cutler bellowed in a self-righteous fury of pompous lunacy.

"…for the timely transportation of our belongings…"

"Sir! You are out of line!! I will not tolerate this ignorance!"

And still the bawling from behind the desk, continued unabated, as my attention remained fixed upon my intent alone.

"…and you shall be most handsomely rewarded for your…"

"Guards!! Why in God's Name are you not arresting this man?"

The moment Beckett laid a hand upon my shoulder, I reacted.

Instinctive.

Effortless.

Just as I had been taught.

Raising my left elbow, I caught the loudly complaining annoyance a stunning blow to the face that cracked his nose sufficiently enough to have blood cascading from it in a gush, and he staggered away, grunting incoherently, his hands attempting vainly to stem the flow.

Norrington's jaw quite justly fell open.

It was positively comical.

And yet no one came forward to intervene.

My sons had seen to that.

Thomas also, is most useful with a sword when the moment arises.

"Should I refuse?" the Captain squeaked.

"You shall remain far poorer than you would have the good Governor Swann currently believe you to be."

All the color, or what little there was of it, drained from James Norrington's face, and he swallowed hard enough to have his cravat tightening uncomfortably.

"Until the morning then, Captain," I replied, turning on one heel, and marching away again.

Two bottles of Evian, a warmed packet of blood, and a mug of Peppermint tea later, my stomach had at least momentarily stopped trying to leave my body so unrelentingly. Still, at least I recognized the knots that were twisting it up after that.

They were familiar enough to my mind.

The Sophie.

It was an old and tiny ship that beside the HMS Dauntless, was but a child's toy. It bore no remarkable qualities whatsoever, save that it offered us freedom from Port Royal, and having passed the inn we'd lived in since our arrival, safely back once more to its original owner, I could taste the fresher scent of salt air upon my tongue even as we boarded Norrington's first command.

The gold was safely stored.

From somewhere, Timothy had procured a chest full of books, and Anthony several pieces of art which he had been granted as payment for services rendered in the tutoring of Elizabeth Swann.

I had no desire to ask what other services he had apparently demonstrated with such eager tenacity as to be reward so, but could well imagine some to have been rather more than the work of thought and speech.

Sadly, the Sophie had few cannon, and those she did possess would certainly be no match for the likes of the Red Stallion.

Port gossip had it, that Pirates would hide in wait for easy pickings set sail with inadequate protection, and yet I felt not a whisper of anticipation, for the name of Sophie had been a blessing once to both my heart and my soul, sufficient that I could sense a hopeful destiny about our voyage.

My sons were at least prudent in expressing their own sentiments about the matter.

And Thomas strode with a strong sense of purpose to our cabin, his head held high, and in his eyes, a meaningful light.

He had always been at peace with himself in serving my personal needs, and when he deigned to offer me a smile, I knew he was as pleased and proud as ever that there should be purpose to live for once again.

Less than a day's sailing however, and everything went to hell with such speed, I could not have imagined it possible.

I miss Warrick.

And for some reason, I really need to hear Jack Aubrey's voice.

I've not really spoken to him in recent years, and I should rectify that.

He looks so like Artorius, that it settles my Soul when I think on him.

My brother.

Childe of Jack Sparrow.

Really, irony is such a bitch.

I was upon the deck with Norrington, enjoying a most warming sense of freedom with the steadily rising wind about my hair and coat, when two ships apparently on collision course across our bow, appeared from port and starboard.

There had been no sign of them even tracking us, though they had likely been lurking in some cove or inlet, many of which dotted the nearby islands.

Fully sailed, they were deadly fast.

From the port side there flew at us an enormous frigate of easily 300 tons.

Three-masted, it bore a vast acreage of darkly colored canvas, and a vicious full length skeleton as a figurehead pinned to its prow as though it once had speared some mighty giant and simply left the corpse there to rot.

Imposing.

Terrifying.

It loomed out of the water, her stern riding high and grim, her 100 foot length specked with human bones that reeked of death and damp decay.

"The Queen Anne's Revenge!" A Naval seaman screamed it out, setting panic amongst the crew faster than a spark to dry grass.

From the starboard came a different ship.

A very different ship entirely.

A two masted brig.

She came on like the wind.

Low to the water.

Swift and bold.

She had to be near 200 feet long and maybe 40 feet wide.

In a moment's glance I counted 26 sail.

At least they were white.

For the most part.

Above her mainmast there soared a Black Flag.

A white skull.

The Jolly Roger.

Framed not by bones but by an altogether more familiar sigil.

I blinked.

Surely not?

Here?

Like this?

Her figurehead was perhaps as ugly as that of the Queen Anne's Revenge, if more purposeful in meaning.

A Jackdaw.

Stealer of shiny objects.

Harbinger of ill-fortune.

And rain.

To all intent the two Pirate ships, one meant to be legend, the other spoken of as such, bore down as much upon us as upon each other.

We stood no chance.

Norrington stared as though mesmerized by the seemingly impossible.

We were outgunned.

Out numbered.

And yet being smaller than either ship come to rob us, we had but one slim chance.

Our erstwhile Captain had no orders to offer, and as his mouth flapped open uselessly, I did the one thing I had been taught since childhood.

Took command.

"No one loose a shot!"

To a man, the crew all stopped what they were doing and stared at me like I'd lost my mind.

Which I most certainly had not.

"Pile on the canvas!" I yelled, ensuring I could be clearly heard by all.

Our foe were going to pass broadside to broadside if they did not ram each other headlong, and I spied the reinforced woodwork and metal plating for that very purpose, there on the Jackdaw's bow.

"We can pass between! Pile on the sail! Pile on the sail!!!"

The Queen Anne's Revenge was easily making 20 knots.

The Jackdaw much the same.

Maybe more.

Were they rivals?

Or associates?

As the wind caught us, so the Sophie lurched a little faster forward, propelled by the canvas snapping above our heads.

And still the vapid Norrington merely stood like a statue beside me; a man in some serious need of honing when it came to the art of leadership in action.

Should he live the day.

We lurched again.

I felt my sons close at hand.

"Dear Lord," Tony breathed, crossing himself as he saw our situation.

The crew were arming the guns.

The noise was deafening without a shot yet even being fired.

Our speed increased a third time.

Norrington gasped.

And as we passed a hand's span between the Pirate ships, I knew they were more intent upon killing each other than us, for we were surely no more significant to them than a tiny grain of sand on a camel's back.

The Jackdaw passed closest to us.

A voice both startling in its familiarity, and confusing by its sudden meaning to my life, boomed across the water.

"FIRE!!!!"

And a mighty roll of cannon as the two vessels fought with astonishing fury only feet apart, rocked us with a bone jarring roar.

I turned to watch.

It was as if the Leviathans of old had risen once more to do great battle.

Cannon after cannon.

At least 20 to each broadside.

It was a fiery shower of instant death to all who stood in the path of shot and ball.

Men screamed.

Some of them on the little Sophie.

Smoke belched skyward.

Splinters rose in the air.

It was a vicious cascade of sheer brutality, and a demonstration of seamanship that seemed both genius and insanity.

One of our own insignificant guns sounded out.

A sailor made skittish by panic and fear, had set the priming.

Naturally no harm was wrought to anything or anyone, save perhaps some unsuspecting sardine brained to death by a weakly thrown cannon ball that no one thought to mark.

We were already some distance from the melee.

Yet a man appeared over the Jackdaw's starboard rail, his attention drawn from the battle raging to port.

Had our shot caught his ear?

His alone?

His hooded head tipped at us, and I strained to see his features.

Perhaps he had noticed after all, that we were there.

Had he saved us from the Queen Anne's Revenge, and a fate entwined with Blackbeard?

I still wished I could have seen his face, but the hood he had pulled low about his features, hid him perfectly in the shadows.

An Assassin.

On the waters of the Caribbean.

Sparrow said later, that the Captain of the Jackdaw - for that was indeed the ship's name - was none other than Edward Kenway.

A fearsome dog.

Who fought like a devil dressed as a man.

Was that the very same Assassin I'd seen?

Or some other Pirate?

Sparrow would say little else, and even now on those occasions when the rum is flowing well and talk of other days persists, he speaks with hushed awe of the man from whom all other Pirates fled.

Including Blackbeard.

Of that I can personally attest.

And no Assassin of my own acquaintance has ever mentioned Edward Kenway without persuasion.

His is a family name of more than naval repute.

Much more.

Indeed.

Still, I maintain the Jackdaw saved us from the proverbial fate worse than death, and the Queen Anne's Revenge, outgunned, turned and ran, her more than apparent foe turning to follow with almost elegant grace.

Norrington?

Well, what can I saw about him, save that Fate gave him what he best deserved?

But then Fate does that.

And we don't exactly get to argue.

Settling down on the couch with a blanket and some more Peppermint tea, I had to laugh, even if it was just a chuckle.

Norrington, as I recall, started shrieking like a harpy at his crew once the danger was reduced.

Idiot.

For a second there, I'd actually thought the Jackdaw might be about to loose a few shots in our direction just for us having had the audacity to open fire at all. But freely harassing a ship of the Royal Navy, was not Kenway's intent that day.

In fact, I'd been so busy watching the battle, and wondering why my eldest kid seemed to treat it like he had seen such things before, that I failed to notice Speed yanking at my elbow fit to tear the sleeve off my coat.

Actually, while I'm thinking about it, I should ask Tony what the hell his problem was that day, because he sure as crap wasn't being honest when I first started asking questions about Assassins on the sea back then.

Ha!

That'll worry him.

Not that I've got a problem any of my kids keeping secrets.

Well, not unless they come back later to bite me on the ass…

"You have to see this!" Timothy tugged at my arm like a man possessed.

While we were all looking behind us, he alone apparently, had been watching where we were actually going.

And what was happening before us.

"NO!"

It was Thomas who yelled some rather crude expletives in the heat of the moment, but that was not what made my blood chill in my veins. Though Thomas yelling anything even remotely crude was surely rare enough.

No, it was the Red Stallion.

Lying clear across our path.

An open invitation for the taking.

Her own full run of sail suggested she had been hastening to where those of her kind had just fought, though from her size she might have proven more ally to one or other of them, than a third party in the fray. She bore some most formidable guns, after all.

And of that too, I could personally attest.

"How in God's Name…?" I began, only to have the words snatched from my mouth as a hot and hissing cannonball shrieked less than three inches over my head, and impacted the Sophie's mainmast.

"Dear God!" Norrington bellowed as though the audacity of firing first upon the British Navy was by far a worse crime than Piracy could ever be.

Whereupon I confess to visions of the Sophie suffering the same fat as the ill-gotten Rose of Leigh, and my poor self back at Calhoun's mercy.

Certain parts of my body tightened most considerably at such contemplation.

And not pleasantly either.

The mainmast creaked.

The sails began to shiver.

I ordered all our canvas be removed before the rigging, loosened by the shot, fell square upon us.

Or the mast itself came down.

Norrington attempted to countermand my instructions, as yet again the crew feared for their lives and futures, running in disordered panic as the Red Stallion loomed larger on our path.

Why no one thought to turn us from where she lay, I did not know.

My thoroughly strained Soul could think on only one thing, and that alone consumed me then.

I miss Warrick.

And I'm blaming him entirely both for the memories racing past my mind's eyes, and the growing hard on in my sweats.

Bastard.

We slowed.

The crew began arming themselves with guns and blades, fearing they were to be boarded.

It was a very real fear indeed.

And Thomas pressed a sword upon me, which I steadfastly refused.

"If we must once more cross paths, this will be met on my terms," I said swiftly, and such was the vehemence driving my intent, that he backed off from me most hastily.

It was a blessing no more shots rang out, until I heard Norrington declare the Red Stallion an ally not to be fired at.

His men looked fit to mutiny.

Not that I could blame them.

I should have done for him myself right there and then, had I not a more pressing imperative.

Cutler Beckett, the miserable little shit, had declared Warrick Calhoun and his crew to be de facto Privateers, and as such were to be shown all courtesy.

I am absolutely not about to thank him.

Ever.

He's Mated to Tavington, of all the weird crap.

Speed still can't get his head around it, and it's been more than a couple of centuries now.

Who knew that particular thought could get my dick deflating quite so fast?

Now and then, I like to imagine how Warrick believed himself heaving to my rescue that day.

The smug expression on his face when I saw him again, said otherwise.

"Lord Leavy?" he crowed, appearing at the Stallion's starboard gunwale. "What providence is this indeed?"

Tony snorted.

I do believe he might have lined up a fair shot with a pistol then, and taken the Pirate's head clean off, but I stayed his arm.

There was no heartbeat from the man.

Not even a single, solitary flutter.

He had been Turned.

For all the vile fury with which he had claimed to loathe my kind at our parting, oh so long ago, he had become without doubt, that which most he deemed to hate.

A veritable host of possibilities assailed me by way of explanation for the truth of it, each one more outrageous than the last.

My fellow Vampires, as beloved of my Soul as they undeniable are, thought nothing of it, and made neither untoward comment, not startled glance, thereby leaving me to concluded that they had made assumption of my having Sired the Pirate during our previous encounter. That it would certainly have been against his Will, then resulted in our parting.

I can see how they'd come to that.

But really?

Sometimes, I swear they don't know me like they think they do.

Still, Warrick was a Vampire.

Right there.

Right in front of my eyes.

And while I did actually very much want to know precisely how that came to be, and when, and at whose hands, the Vampire inside of me would tolerate not a single moment more of being without my Mate.

My Mate.

Mine.

I have a certain skill set I don't utilize as much as I should.

I admit it.

But I put it into action then alright, and armed with nothing but my cane, I took a running leap off the bow of the Sophie, over the positively insignificant expanse of water that lay between her and the Stallion, and onto the deck of the same cussed ship I had once imagined burning to ash right along with the filthy and pox-ridden brigands upon her.

Fate?

Yeah, Fate and I go back a very long way.

And she does love me.

Mostly.

I left gaping jaws, gasps of horror, wide eyes, and a few Gaelic curses in my wake.

I do love the Irish.

They always sound like they're so pissed off when they yell swear words at your back.

The jump I'd made, was hard on the knees and ankles.

Maximus would've been so proud.

Totally nailed the landing.

Trust me, it looks just as dramatic as it feels.

For a second, I paused in what is an altogether very familiar crouch, just as I'd been taught.

Then I stood.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Half the thing with moments like that, is theatre.

Make an impression.

Go big.

Or go home.

Warrick staggered back.

The deck shook from where I landed.

It trembled across the entire ship.

With deliberate pause, sensing every man stare - my own children included - I fixed my eyes most unblinkingly on Warrick Calhoun's boots and raised my gaze only as I stood up.

It allowed me chance to better assess the bodily condition of him who would soon be my Mate, and judge for myself whether he had survived his Turning with his faculties intact. For I could think of no possible way in which a man of such deeply passionate ire as I had seen at our parting, could come easily and freely to be Vampire. I ought, truthfully, have been surprised that it had happened, yet given his state of being it seemed a most ironic development. He had like as not, angered a Rogue somewhere.

And woken in the realm of the dead.

His face bore an expression that I can easily recall to this day.

Part horror.

Part terror.

Part arrogant.

Part prideful.

Part smug.

Part amused.

It was a portrait of someone both beautifully enigmatic and at the same time instantly decipherable.

Warrick's fists curled.

He would fight what came next.

Of course.

It would make it taste all the sweeter for the hell he had put me through.

I cared nothing after that for the Sophie.

Nor did my sons, my faithful retainer, or even my gold, weight a jot upon my mind.

I would take what was mine.

Arms procured in haste by those amongst the Pirate crew who knew me not from our last encounter, seemed but feeble defense.

Nothing could harm me then, even if they tried.

I moved too fast for mortal man to countermand my Will.

Warrick never saw it coming.

His unease was not untypical of those newly Turned and still honing what the Vampire can do with enhanced and reinvigorated flesh.

I took him by the hair.

Those dreadlocks do it for me, every damn time.

And dragging him past his chuckling Quartermaster, who never so much as raised an eyebrow in defending his Captain, threw him into his cabin.

Bolting the door seemed utterly irrelevant.

Protestations too, were pointless.

Though he seemed to already understand that.

Where could he run to?

I got a satisfying grunt out of him when I slammed him face first over his own desk.

Objects strewn across it were suddenly strewn across the floor instead.

Pamphlets.

Documents.

Maps and charts.

A Sextant.

A leather bound journal.

And the same silver tankard that had caught my eye before.

It mattered not, though it clattered toward the door and lay there teetering against the boards, rolling with the movement of the ship.

Giving a growl that I barely recognized as coming from my own throat, I shoved Calhoun at the waist when he struggled, striking him at the hips with my cane.

He could fight.

I would fight back.

He was mine.

There was nothing else.

A single tug ripped the shirt from his back, shredding the cheap cotton from hem to neck so easily, it took but a second gesture to tear it from his shoulders entirely.

Pressing my legs against his to keep him still, I put my full weight down over his body.

He took a shuddering breath.

It felt astonishingly good.

I snapped his belt in getting it off him.

And that thing had been real leather.

I could remember how it tasted.

But the Vampire would not be held at bay.

Warrick's breeches got as far as his knees, and I beat his legs apart with my cane to have him acquiesce.

As he had used me, I would use him.

There were no other thoughts in my head.

His muscles rippled under my fingers.

Damp with sweat.

Sticky.

His ass was so tight.

Round.

Hot.

Perfect in my hands.

Nothing but spit and precum lubed the way.

God, I need that ass right now!

I took him deep, in a rough lunge, thrusting into his hole, past the reluctance of his nature, all the way in.

My Pirate screamed, his fingers scrabbling for the edge of the table.

He tried to kick at me, but I shoved the handle of my cane against the base of his skull hard enough to stop him.

He was sweating more.

His hair in his face.

I rode him fast, deep, pounding into him without pause, tearing him open, burning him raw.

I didn't notice the marks across his back until I'd satisfied myself inside him and taken the sharpness off that first desperate need.

It didn't matter to me that his own dick was trapped against the wood.

His pleasure was not my first concern.

His Vampire instincts were.

He groaned as I filled him, his insides relaxing with my seed coating his gut.

If he thought I was done with him, or just exacting my revenge, he was so very wrong.

I ran my right hand over his shoulders, keeping him pinned with the cane in my left.

Calhoun had scars.

Some I had seen before, but not this intently.

Many were darker than others, older, inflicted in his younger years, but all were painful evidence of a hard and difficult life, doubtless won from slavery and disobedience.

It was not a horrifying discovery.

Men like Warrick Calhoun are not built for submission to fools.

His scars are not immediately visible these days.

He stays properly Fed and has no one look that closely.

Unless they really see his tattoo, of course.

I traced a finger over the crude outline of wings, painted all the way across his shoulder blades.

Black ink on black skin.

It was a personal mark.

Not a statement for the world to see.

A bird.

A very familiar bird.

The wings met at a certain silhouette of a distinctive head and beak.

For I had seen it just a few short minutes before.

A Jackdaw.

A Jackdaw in flight.

His scars had come first.

The tattoo was cleverly placed to sit between and through them.

I still enjoy tracing my tongue over it.

He told me once, that it was done to witness the day Captain Kenway spared the Red Stallion.

Though I've never been entirely sure what he actually meant by that…

I stayed inside him, hearing him breathe, feeling the tiniest shiver that shook him.

There were no words.

No grand speeches.

No pleas.

No cries for mercy as I kept him still.

His fingers flexed.

There was no finesse to the Vampire he had become, or he would have realized he could fight my intent with a greater strength than ever he had used against me before.

Whoever his Sire had been, they likely never gave him much instruction on the strange nature he had been gifted.

His scent was strong in my nostrils.

I bent forward, licking the sweat from the curve of his neck, just below his right ear.

Drawing him in.

My fangs were eager for his blood.

I ran them over his flesh.

Hard and slow.

I was savoring him.

Like a fine meal.

And the memory had my mouth watering, longing for that smooth, round ass in my hands.

I was hard as a rock again, and sprawled out on the cushions to get comfortable.

I really need that ass.

I could take him for my own.

Sink my fangs in deep.

Drink him down.

I shifted my hips.

It made him groan.

I moved again.

An easy push and pull.

His insides were hot.

And wet with my seed.

His body tensed.

Heat rose between us.

He was bleeding a little.

I could smell it.

I didn't care.

It hadn't bothered him that I too had been torn when he'd had me.

Again and again.

I pushed harder.

He squirmed.

I slapped his buttocks, pulling myself up, watching him take my pummeling cock.

I thought of Razi.

His buttocks gleaming with oil as I took him over the low edge of the kitchen table, his legs spread wide before me, his arms out, holding onto the wood as his body vibrated to my lusting.

His skin tone was much darker than Warrick's, and though he was taller and broader than my Pirate, there was no way to keep him from my thoughts.

I had to relieve the powerful ache across my groin.

And it's Speed's damn fault that Warrick isn't here.

I was spilling inside him again in a matter of moments, my satisfaction nowhere close to completion, even with my juices leaking down his thighs.

He gasped as I pulled out, but as he made to move and started pushing me away, I struck him with my cane, keeping the pressure on his lower neck.

The desk slid an inch forward, so hard did I strike him.

He cried in pain.

I ignored him.

The struggle continued, his boots clattering on the desk as he tried to find purchase.

Once he found his strength, he would be free of me, or so he thought.

I chuckled.

The fight that ensued between us, actually broke my cane.

It snapped when Warrick grabbed for it, and twisted his arm around, snatching three inches and the silver knob on the top of it, clear away.

He seemed surprised, for the crack it made when it happened was loud as pistol shot.

I growled.

He tossed the broken piece at me, and it hit the cot across the cabin, bouncing off the bulkhead.

I grappled with the remainder, and that too ended up on the floor.

But I still have the silver end.

Its in my bedside drawer at the Manor.

And it still has its uses.

I had him a third time before I let him move.

He was sore.

And pissed as hell.

But still he screamed when I came inside him one more time.

He was also bruised.

And tender.

And ready to kill me.

I dragged him by the hair, which had grown quite wet, pulling him off the desk and depositing him with careless ease on the deck, noting that damnable Persian rug with which I had become so intimately acquainted during my first moments in the Captain's quarters, still lay where it had seemingly always been.

My Pirate began cursing, most loudly.

So yet again, I ignored him.

Help would not intervene for him, any more than it had for me.

Besides, there were better uses for his mouth.

By today's standards, it might be deemed unsanitary for some, given that my cock had just been lodged firmly up his ass a minute or two before, yet there are certain circles who still approve of such things in the seriously painful world of severe sexual submission training.

I had no problem then, forcing him to clean me with his tongue, content that it had likely touched far worse things in his experience.

He fought like a wild cat trapped in a sack, at least until I beat some further submission into him.

That he inflicted sufficient injuries to my own body along the way, that I too was smarting now and then, is something I've never told him. Mine was the upper hand, and so it remained.

The pieces of his belt came in very useful as impromptu bonds to keep his arms behind his back a while, and they survived long enough for my prisoner to lick me clean, arouse me further, and suck the juices out of me before they frayed and broke.

Warrick has a talented mouth, and he could take my girth well, even after the initial reluctance he'd displayed began wearing off.

Someone had taught him that particular skill in a brothel somewhere, though he seemed to fair better with my hands in his hair to guide him.

His eyes had a furious light to them that simply turned me on all the more, and to be honest, it still does even now when he looks at me with that much anger.

Emerald green.

Bright and vengeful.

He choked and coughed a little as I came down his throat, but he was wise enough to try and swallow the copious offering I filled his mouth with, losing only a small trickle that escaped down his chin.

God, he's hot that way, on his knees for me, worshipping my dick like its a holy object for reverence.

I was stroking myself, and kicking off my blanket before I even realized I was doing it.

His fangs dropped.

I saw them as he licked his lips and fell back on his haunches.

With a snarl, he threw the tatters of his belt aside.

Bracing myself for the kind of physical onslaught I knew might soon follow his defilement at my hands, I could not help but long for the scrape of those sharp teeth of his along my lusting cock.

I had no memory of ever before retaining the firm solidity of manhood quite so vibrantly, despite the plentiful climaxes I had reached that day, and argued with myself how surely it was the Vampire keeping me from losing my erection. The craving for this man who knelt there in front of me, was altogether too strong, too fierce for human weakness. And while I had indeed craved my beloved Warren with a Vampire's passionate desire, our moments of intimacy had been far gentler, more cautious, and a good deal slow as we explored each other's flesh.

My beautiful Warren.

The first touch of his timid, virginal hand upon my mounting, rising manhood, had left me gasping like a boy in the throes of his first physical arousal.

I had barely kept control of myself then, and held in check the orgasm that moment had so tenderly induced, only with the fiercest denial.

The memory of it, still triggers every need I have ever known.

I shuddered.

Shivering.

Calming down.

I can feel the Bond with Warrick, alive with lust.

Mine.

And his own too.

Plus a sense of curiosity from him, that's really like a tickle over my forehead.

He's wondering what I'm doing.

And well…

…it's a shame he's not here to see for himself.

He likes to watch me jerk off.

Nasty little voyeur that he is.

I squeezed myself to stop from coming.

If he's still with Horatio Caine, feeling me climax through our Bond would give the good Lieutenant a fine show indeed that might be awkward to justify over dinner at a nice restaurant.

Warrick's never been able to hide those kinds of things from others very well.

It takes a lot of practice.

"I should kill you."

It was the first time he'd spoken since we started this fight.

"You won't," I replied firmly.

He stayed right there on the floor, his breeches at his knees, his arse painfully raw.

"You been longing for this?" He rubbed his temples, where a swelling had risen from being slammed into the desk.

"You have not?" I countered, taking off my coat and throwing it casually over his chair.

He growled.

Taking in the room in more detail, I noted with some interest the modifications in design since my last visit, in particular the cannon to starboard, which his living space had come to accommodate by way of furthering his vessel's already hefty armament.

"I see the case of gold pieces left in your hold from our first encounter, has not gone entirely to waste," I commented.

It looked to be a decent enough gun.

Hand-crafted with elaborate detailing.

"I trust you bought better crew?" I asked dryly, pulling my shirt over my head.

That his wounds at my hands were not healing with any haste, suggested a lack of regular decent Feeding on his part, and I resolved to correct that if our Bonding and Mating proved successful.

He snarled, watching me closely as I stripped naked and tucked my boots safely under the cot like I belonged there.

That was when I found the velvet cord I once wore in my hair. The very same one he had tied about my manhood to keep me on the edge of sexual climax for three days.

It hung on a nail over his bed, where he could lie and see it.

Finally, something that totally caught me off guard.

Of all the mementos for him to keep of our time together, why that?

Why keep any object at all?

Was it sentiment?

Perversion?

It was amusing.

It still is, actually.

But it came in very useful one more time.

I tugged it free of its catch, snapping it as I flicked its length out straight.

He struggled to his feet, but I was faster.

A great deal faster.

And with his long, thick locks in one hand, I dragged him across to the very cannon I had been admiring, spinning him around and pushing him over it. He flapped his arms like a broken cartwheel, but there was nothing he could do. The width of the weapon he had so conveniently placed for an altogether different purpose, was broad enough to accommodate him, bent backward over it, helpless.

It was a strange choice of ways to torture him.

I admit that.

Yet I had no compunction about tying him there, regardless of the physical discomforts it caused, or the bruises it inflicted.

He kicked out with his boots, but those dreadlocks worked against him, and I had them secured to the iron ring on the gun's carriage with suitable tightness to keep him still.

He slid on the cold, polished metal, cussing my name, but he couldn't reach back and down to free himself.

And he tried.

When he figured he was stuck there, he calmed.

His chest heaved.

His ankles tangled in his breeches, he sought purchase with his heels, but there was little to be had without spreading himself at the knees, and putting his intimate parts on full display for me.

It was hot.

What can I say?

His muscles all tensed.

His thighs quivering.

His shoulders stretched.

His elegant hands clinging hard to the gun barrel.

I love those hands.

When he plays the piano, I can feel them on my back, his fingers tracing down my spine.

"You can not keep me here," he growled.

"Then free yourself," I replied casually.

He snorted and thrashed again, but soon gave up the fight, while I stood there stroking my cock, watching him reach the inevitable conclusion that he was at my mercy.

Noises from out on deck served as rude intrusion to the moment, but I barely heard any of it.

There was nothing else of any import, but my Captain.

"Are you quite finished?" I asked archly, searching the shelves for that richly scented oil he had used on me before.

The pungent aroma was one I dearly wanted to experience again.

Mango.

I'd never had one, let alone smelt one until he'd opened that little bottle.

Now, I get the slightest hint of one and I'm envisioning my cock between Warrick's firm buttocks.

Or feeling his own solid meat fill me, deep and hard.

All I got by way of an answer, was a disgruntled growl and a heavy sigh.

The Pirate seemed to know what I was searching for though.

His head fell against the wooden carriage as he watched me hunt through his ill-gotten belongings.

"Who Turned you?"

He snorted.

"Who?"

"Go to hell!"

And he has never answered that question since.

I asked him often enough back then, and he has steadfastly refused explanation for his change of nature.

None of his crew would ever tell me either.

Of all men, I had thought Brass at least his closest companion, or perhaps a wary confidante, but he too had no apparent idea.

He said he had staggered back aboard the Red Stallion one night after a few hours ashore in Havana, and thought the ship devoid of life until he found his Captain, new Turned, sprawled out upon the cabin floor.

Really, he thinks he's such a talented liar.

He gets a little shifty shuffle in his feet when he's trying to pull a fast one on me.

But it's okay.

I'm never not going to be curious.

My Pirate Captain will tell me one day.

I'm sure he can't have that many secrets left.

Oil in hand, I gazed once more upon my Prize.

And he glared back, daring me to do whatever I willed.

I would have him entirely naked soon enough, but there was still some fight in him that needed taming.



With his head bent back, his Adam's Apple bobbed each time he swallowed.

I could've bitten him then.

I knew it.

Every inch of me wanted it.

He was helpless.

Vulnerable.

And all mine.

But I made him wait a little longer.

Anticipation growing, I watched him staring at me as I stroked my dick, approaching him slowly, knowing he could see every inch of me lusting for him.

I came all over his face and neck.

Marking him as mine.

As I had reeked of him for days after I left his ship, he too would be covered in my scent before we were finished.

He shook his head as though disgusted, but it only succeeded in getting my spunk in his hair.

And still I wanted more.

Chuckling darkly, I held him still, forced his jaw open with my fingers and crammed my sticky cock between his teeth.

Keeping him like that, I fucked his mouth without caring that I pounded at his throat.

That was when he finally began seeing how he had no more need for breath than I.

Again he swallowed what I gave, his pallet closing nicely around me, quick and firm, though I did not let my fingers from his lips until I was quite done. All the while, his own arousal grew, his bare and ripening manhood so very potent before my eyes, and as thick as I recalled it being, leaking wet with need.

As I withdrew from his face, leaving the evidence of what I had achieved drooling nicely from his nose and forehead, it was but a simple thing to lean over and pet his dick like some fondly remembered cat.

He shuddered.

But he did not fight as I tied him off with the velvet cord, and toyed for a while with the heavily swollen head of that most generous endowment.

It feels like velvet.

Smooth.

Silky.

My tongue knows every inch of it.

And how he loves my teeth nipping at his foreskin, as much as I enjoy the same from him.

In my hands he's heavy, and curved in just a certain way, that inside me he fits all those perfect places.

"You think you can torture me?"

I smiled sweetly at the Pirate's words, not entirely sure whether they were meant as a question or an accusation.

I ignored him.

There are many forms of torture.

And some are but a matter of perspective.

I stroked him for a while, the juices slick on his swollen manhood, recalling most clearly how it felt, forcing its way inside me, relentless and so very thick.

He bit his lower lip, trying not to moan as his need showed itself, and his arousal had him sweating again.

I'd lain awake too many nights, hard and aching to the point of such pain it was beyond belief, desperate to forget the very same flesh I so fortuitously found myself manipulating.

That had been torture; longing for him in so many ways, and hating that I couldn't have him.

Hating more, that he hadn't wanted me either.

I took my time with him, licking the drops of sweet fluid from the tip of his manhood, weighing his balls in my hand, squeezing and rolling them, my fingers in his hair where they hung.

He whimpered, his hips seeking a more comfortable spot on which to lie, and failing repeatedly.

The frustration was enough have him shuddering, but I knew he would not beg for the climax he sought.

I didn't need to hear him beg.

Why would I do that, when I had already heard him scream?

He's very vocal when I'm fucking him.

When he'd exhausted himself and finally stopped squirming around, I scooted to the other side of the cannon and promptly stripped him of his boots and breeches.

He barely flinched, but the freedom it gave his legs was met with a welcome sigh as he relaxed against the unnatural position I'd put him in.

His thighs parted.

Such tender flesh.

Beautiful to behold.

I licked my lips, and for a while simply stared at his prone and sweat soaked body, sliding my right hand up and down my cock as I thought about filling his arse again with my seed, his legs spread wide for me, his head back, his throat exposed…

I came all over his thighs.

Probably explains his kink for it now.

And how much I enjoy doing it.

But at that moment, I'd surprised myself with it.

The urge to bite him was stronger still.

This was all mine.

I should take it.

Do it.

Bring it to an end.

Make him mine forever.

It was in my grasp.

And yet, if he refused to seal the Bond once I began it…??

Well, there were far worse threats to my sanity than those long, hideous months in Port Royal.

He had to want me.

He had to need me.

He had to know there was no other way.

I cleaned myself up on the tatters of his shirt, and left him there as soiled as he had left me during those hours spent on his cot.

Which reminded me…

The silver knob of my cane lay on his pillow.

It seemed a perfect example of Providence, and so I used it as such, for there, on a travel chest by the very cot on which I had been fucked unconscious, had been the perfect accompaniment.

And modern fetishists think plugs are such a new invention.

I permitted him to see what I was doing as I poured oil over the shining scroll-worked silver.

The smell alone, had me eager and panting.

The Pirate knew instinctively where I was about to insert the dripping item, and naturally he clamped his legs together tight.

It wasn't the biggest or broadest object I might have chosen for such a purpose, but it certainly sufficed, even though I was forced to take my belt to him and beat him into submitting.

It was most satisfying, the snap of leather to his strong and well-formed legs, though certain more sensitive places about the body are particularly responsive to the keen application of such burning heat and searing fire, especially the soft inner curve of the thighs, where modesty dictates few enough hands should ever touch, and fewer eyes see.

He did not require that much persuasion, but his fingers lost purchase on the cannon, and with a frustrated, anguished cry, he surrendered to me, welts rising rapidly on his skin.

I do confess his fortitude was exceedingly impressive, and I recognized in him the struggle he was suffering.

The nicely oiled knob fitted him as though made for his hole, though I took my time pushing it in where it belonged.

He seemed to know that widening and raising his legs would be more comfortable, yet his muscles fought the unyielding, stretching intrusion that worked him open, letting me see for myself how much he was urging his every fibre to cooperate with the situation only reluctantly.

In the end however, he did actually relent, and the knob slid all the way inside him, leaving me sufficient cane to hold onto as I thrust it back and forth, seeking his prostate.

There used to be a few more colorful ways of describing that seat of great pleasure, back when I first met Warrick. We were more delicate about it then, more verbose.

But I knew when I hit the right spot. His cries turned to shocked surprise.

I chuckled, pushing the knob in deeper.

His cries grew more urgent.

Stroking his dick as I fucked him that way, had him rapidly grunting, giving me urgent gasps as he realized he wasn't going to hit the climax his body was promising.

It was fun.

And yes, to an extent it was more than a little bit vindictive. He had tormented me without mercy and thrown me aside when I challenged him. I had to demonstrate that I could give him what no one else ever could.

Over and over I took him to the edge and left him wanting.

And he wanted so very badly it had him cussing my name, my mother's name, and the day I was born. Not to mention my kids and every descendent I might ever have.

Not that such things were new to my ears.

But as a Vampire, I figured him more than capable of taking the physical punishment I was inflicting.

There's something hugely erotic about hot, black flesh.

Leaving the cane where it belonged, lodge deep enough inside my Pirate Captain as to make it incredibly hard for him to work it loose, I found myself in need of restoration, and after stripping a blanket from the cot, determined to settle for a little rest, ensconcing myself behind the desk, firmly planting my feet on Warrick's furniture and settling into his chair.

Sleep came without a struggle, though there was some recollection in my mind of more than a few accusatory comments coming at me as I dozed.

I ignored them all.

Although the Pirate was quite versed, and well adept at fluent foul language.

Still, secure in my belief that I would conquer the very moment I had thought lost to me, I did take ease and was the better for it later, having to light lanterns once I woke.

Warrick Calhoun, in far too awkward and disabling a position to do much but bear the grief of it, eyed me from beneath surly, beetled brows.

"You will regret this," he grumbled, barely moving his body, having doubtless stiffened by those hours spent trapped where I had left him.

The effects of colder night air prickling at his skin, did cause his nipples to pucker hard and his manhood to tighten even in its bonds.

I tore the silver knob from between his buttocks, with a dismissive gesture that had him shrieking in agony, although it did leave him open enough for me to rut into him with lazy strokes, pumping him full of my seed one more time.

He merely grunted in response, clearly exhausted.

Not that any man could rest in such a predicament.

Moving around the cannon to where his head lay against the carriage truck, I wiped myself clean upon the shorter locks of his hair, and petted him like I was admiring a feisty horse.

"My only regret," I assured him, "is not having done this ten months ago, but then you were not yet Vampires, and not in any mood to pay attention."

He growled, but it held no real fury.

"The Vampire now in your Soul, it knows what it most desires," I continued, "and yet you fight it. Oh, your body craves my touch…" I pinched his nipples, increasing the pressure between forefinger and thumb, then releasing each numb of flesh only to repeat the same gesture continually as I spoke. "…then hates you for permitting me this power. I know what you prefer. I know you would rather have me, weak and helpless, moaning on your cock as you ream my fine, white arse and fill me with your juices." His manhood positively throbbed at the lurid picture I began to paint. "You like me vulnerable, surrendering to your forceful rape of my poor, delicate flesh, begging for defilement at your hands." He was leaking most heavily, undeniably aroused. "You would watch me, ravished by your men, their hands upon me, their cocks inside, my mouth filled and my buttocks dripping with their seed, my back flayed by their cruel beating, my nipples wet from their tongues and teeth." I slid my cock into his watering mouth, and let him taste himself upon me as I drew it back and forth between his lips. "It pleases you merely to think of me in such a way, and I would wager you have done so often since the day I left this ship behind. Yet you knew not why this should be so, until you were made Vampire." With a forceful lunge I filled his throat, twisting his nipple hard enough to have him moaning against my ripening balls.

And there I stayed, almost daring him to use his teeth and bite.

I ran a hand over his stomach, tracing the lines at his hips.

He shuddered.

Bending forward a little more, I suckled at the head of his manhood, my tongue dancing over it, lapping the nectar that coated him, teasing the hole. I could have swallowed him, as he was even then swallowing me, but there are moments well worth the waiting.

He instead made muffled whimpers that did ripple through my dick from his throat, and then his hands moved from holding steadily along the gun barrel, to squeezing at my shoulders.

I stilled, expecting desperate blow.

But no.

It was enough that he touched me.

It was enough that he held on to me, trusting I would not let him slip and break his neck.

I smiled, took the cord from around his swollen balls, and promptly sucked him dry as he came with a desperate push of the hips.

It was his reward.

Yet also mine.

I knew that taste, and drank him down most greedily before fucking his mouth fast and hard, granting him my essence in return.

It was only fair after all.

I came.

And Holy God it was good.

Overwrought.

Over emotional.

Over pressured by the memories.

My hips bucked off the couch, and I orgasmed all over my own stomach, longing for Warrick's tongue to clean me up.

God, he's got a talented mouth…

But if he thought we were finished, merely on a single reciprocated gesture, then my Pirate Captain was still wrong.

Satisfied as I was with his efforts, there was more he had yet to comprehend.

And, as I stepped away from those most delicious ministrations of his tongue, he blinked up at me in confusion, and coughed, "Free me!"

It was not a plea.

"For what?" I asked innocently.

"So we can Parlay."

"Ah, yes. I do remember how you Parlay. Though I am certain you are, like as not, the only Pirate who knows how to Parlay with his dick."

And to his very great credit, Captain Calhoun laughed heartily. "I do remember how you screamed, my Lord, and passed into oblivion in my arms as I did give you such pleasure. Tell me, have you found that since leaving my bed?"

My turning from his gaze, gave him the answer I feared would be revealed upon my face.

And I heard him grunting, struggling to be free, but let him keep trying until once more he was spent.

Panting and tired, wrung out and exhausted, I flopped on the couch, not really caring that my Mate could well be having a nice time with Horatio Caine, while feeling me climax through our Bond.

He likes watching me get off, and if at that moment he was suddenly popping a hard on at the restaurant table, I totally didn't give a crap.

I left him there.

Again.

And went to curl up in his cot, knowing he could watch me.

The last time I had lain there, I had felt the pounding of his heartbeat as he pushed me to the limits of endurance and beyond, his cock pummeling my arse, my gut aching for release.

He had held me.

Pinned me to the bulkhead at his mercy.

Kept me there for his use.

And I had permitted it.

Because I wanted it.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, breaking into my thoughts as I lay down.

"Everything," I replied quite simply.

As honest an answer as it seemed possible to get.

He licked his lips.

"What else is left to take? Are your men not seizing my ship?"

Indeed, I had no idea what was afoot elsewhere upon the Red Stallion, and had not considered what other decisions might still be left in need of resolution without me.

"My sons are resourceful, so too my manservant. It would surprise me if he has not yet gutted the filthy creature who defiled him below decks upon our last sojourn in your company."

Ah, dear Thomas.

How exactly was I supposed to know that same filthy creature was, in fact, his Mate, when he had never once thought fit to mention it?

I had made assumption that the Quartermaster of the Pirate ship who took us, was no more a man of moral decency than his Captain. Which quite readily and naturally resulted in me being mightily pissed off that Thomas had been forced to service the pig, like those other unfortunates who sailed on the ill-met Rose of Leigh. In fact, I'd been so goddamn angry about it, I'd failed to see the truth.

Jim Brass likes reminding me.

Regularly.

Once I'd figured it out, Thomas and I had an excellent conversation on the meaning of privacy, secrecy, discretion and tolerance, where he promised faithfully never to keep the truth from me about any further Mates he might yet encounter.

It was one of the quietest, most civilized arguments I've ever had.

And Thomas actually got the last word in.

Which, I am told, even now is not as rare an occurrence as I like to imagine.

Also, I have no idea where he gets his sarcasm.



I blame Speed.

For a lot of things.

"Prize is Prize," Calhoun chortled. "You never took a sweet English Rose off the bough now and then, my Lord?" he mocked.

I was sorely tempted to detail for him some of the more colorful moments in my long years of service to a multitude of differing eras, for I had done things in the name of Rome alone that would be seen as vile by the standards of the day, yet were given then as being quite acceptable.

It was a beautiful irony really, of almost artistic symmetry.

And then there was Egypt…

At which my cock twitched in eager memory, and I took it in hand again, fast and hard, thinking suddenly of a certain girl with almond eyes and a perfect mouth, whose name I never heard but whose parents had keenly watched as she learned how to be a good wife for her soon to be husband, while I encouraged her to orgasm for the very first time, on my gently thrusting dick, pushing her past the fear and terror and pain of her freshly lost virginity, into accepting the ecstasy a skilled man could give her body.

And then there was my beloved Warren, as pure an English Rose as there had ever been…

I came again.

Muted after the first time, but powerful enough that I could almost taste the sweat on his lips from our first, chaste kiss.

Somewhere my cell buzzed.

It was probably a text from Warrick telling me I'm a bastard.

Lying on my back in the cot, I stroked myself lazily, spreading my legs and easing the continual ache between my buttocks, which yearned for the Pirate's hefty, solid meat.

I let him watch, as with that pungent oil to ease the way, I pleasured myself with my fingers, showing him what his newly sated manhood was still missing. My thoughts were all of him, having drawn all things to an intensity of focus that meant even my Vampire senses, as keen as they were, knew nothing but him.

I could feel his eyes on me.

His lips around my hardness.

His touch tormenting my nipples.

Moaning his name, I took my time, drawing my fingers back and forth over the place that brings a man the deepest inner sensation.

The smell of rich, ripe fruit filled my nostrils.

The sounds of slick and oozing penetration were but an accompaniment to my own gasps as climax came, its searing shock a ripple up my spine that tightened in my chest and burst from me in a desperate cry of joy.

"Yes! Oh, God!! Yes, yes!!"

And when my senses once again returned to me from that place beyond myself, I knew I had given him a show no other could have offered for all the gold in his stolen coffers.

It brought a contented smile to my face that nought could dislodge.

"I knew you were a slut," Warrick muttered, and yet his cock was fully hard again in response to what I had done.

There was no way to hide it, as exposed as he truly was by his position.

I laughed lightly. "One you are longing to fuck, right now. One you crave despite the claims of denial."

Getting up, I untied him and let him slide to the floor, where he sat for some time, letting his body readjust to more normal parameters.

We were both naked.

Both vulnerable.

Both filthy and sweating.

Both reeking of sex.

Both far beyond going back.

With a thick coil of rope that lay amongst the other tools necessary for manning the gun he had been so nicely stretched over, I bound his wrists and dragged him out to the middle of the cabin.

A very convenient bit of ship's carpentry had left behind a cross beam in the roof that formed the underside of the decking above our heads.

A chandelier, or at the very least a lantern, may have hung there once.

Whatever it had been, its presence was most helpful as I strung the Captain up by his arms, and drew him to a standing position, the rope creaking and tightening as I pulled him until his toes were all he could balance on.

I had thought he would fight.

Protest.

Start cussing again.

Or maybe just aim to kick me.

He did not.

And as I tied off the knot that would hold him there, to a ring on the outer bulkhead, he simply hung limp.

Or mostly limp.

His cock was still functioning on instinct, even if his thoughts were not cooperating fully.

Picking up my discarded belt, I made it more than clear that he was about to suffer a fine thrashing, but he merely snarled in defiance.

I have to admit that with the scars he already bore, I could not strike across his back or shoulders.

He had survived the whip before, and deserved that much acknowledgement.

So I struck his beautiful buttocks, sensing the Jackdaw he had been marked with, watch me closely.

The first blow was mild compared to those that soon followed.

Crack after crack, the leather strop cut through the air and burnt a weal into his flesh that quickly rose in testament, not only to my own frustrated and embittered suffering for the previous ten months of anguish, but also to his strength in still enduring.

His voice betrayed not a single cry.

Not a shout.

No screams.

I worked up a serious sweat in placing each blow on him with great precision, until he finally twisted in his bonds, and grunted through clenched teeth, "No slaver ever broke me! Why should you?"

It stayed my arm.

"I do not want you broken," I answered quickly.

"Then stop."

"To what end? So you can tell me you would have no part of what I offer? Or so you can kill me while I sleep? Or perhaps you still do not yet see the ties that bind us?"

"You are a greater fool than I first thought. Torture me all you want. I give you nothing."

"You gave me everything! Or would you so easily forget the hours here at my mercy? You gave without knowing, when you first brought me to this cabin and forced your cock into my mouth. You gave me this moment. For I am not the one torturing you." I paused, that he might better grasp my words. "You are."

Before he could even dare speak again, I laid my belt to his thighs at the exact spot below his arse where his legs began.

That crease is far more delicate than any will ever admit.

He shrieked.

I struck again.

Tears came to his eyes.

I heard him sob.

A third blow.

The same place.

With pain of such extreme intensity, there can often come the finest clarity.

Stalking around him, I threw my belt for what would prove the final time, and hit his manhood, clear across its broad, yet wilted width.

"Please, stop," he whispered, his whole body trembling violently at my Will.

I froze, but needed no more encouragement to do as I was asked.

And with that, I dropped the belt at my feet.

A perfect silence wrapped around us.

When I touched his weary head, his chin down low upon his breast, he sniffled, fighting with himself even then.

"Look at me," I murmured, stroking his hair and urging him to move.

It took a long, long agony of waiting before he found strength to obey, and with my hands holding both his cheeks, he finally raised his head, allowing me to see his fangs at their fullest length, and his eyes aflame with blazing need.

I planted the softest kiss to his bruised, and quivering lips.

There could be no more waiting.

No more doubt.

He was mine.

All mine.

And as he bent to offer me his neck, so I did bite him then, with tender grace that so much belied the raging, screaming, desperate need within me, it came as great surprise.

My fangs sank into him.

A fresh penetration.

A new sensation.

A taste that burst onto my tongue.

No expectation could match it.

No preparation serve to teach its meaning.

As Warrick's blood touched my tongue, I knew I was drinking from his Soul.

How long it lasted, I could not tell.

It was enough.

Yet never enough.

It was everything.

Yet still never enough.

It was perfect.

Yet still incomplete.

With my right hand, I touched his stiffening cock, finding it so very easy to flood that moment with loving passion, there could be only one outcome.

And he climaxed quickly, in blissful waves as I admired the punctures I had made upon him, before sealing those wounds with the soft caress of my tongue.

I held him close to me, through the tremors that wracked his body, until he calmed and I could lower him to set him free.

He fell against me, his head on my shoulder, his arms about my waist.

I thought to get him to the cot, or at lest settle him on the rug.

"You must reciprocate," I whispered, "bite me now in return. Seal us together. Always."

A very real, very cold, very powerful fear consumed me then, resurfacing to torment my thoughts with doubt and disconcerting dread. For I had visions then of how we fought when we had parted, and of repetition much the same.

He did not want me.

All had been in vain.

And I was Fated to insanity before my loved ones chose to end my pain and set me free.

Such terrors crossed my mind, I could not speak again.

Nor could I move.

I was at his mercy.

His alone.


Red Fish Grill ~ Coral Gables, Miami, Florida



"I made my choice, Horatio. I was free to decide. I could've fought it more. In part I wanted to but why cause myself more pain? He was right. I was only torturing myself. So I chose to seal our Bond."

Warrick smiled in true contentment, finding peace from the warm sea air that tasted deliciously salty to his palate.

He had paid their Maitre d' to keep the surrounding tables empty as they ate outside, and it gave him free liberty with the memories of what he and his Mate so often referred to as their Wedding Night.

"Until I bit him, I never knew the truth. There was nothing could prepare me for it. I never dreamt such things existed. There are perfect moments. There are joys that fill you to the brim. But they're all fleeting. Here a while, then gone, no matter how hard we try to hold them close, or recreate them and get them back. But this? This union we share? It never breaks. It never passes into oblivion. It never fades away. And there is no other pleasure, no other perfection, no other joy to match or even better it." He sighed, touching the condensation on his empty Hurricane glass, and eyeing the wet ring it left on the tablecloth. "I must sound like I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. There's just no way to prove it until you're there too, in that instant when everything you long for makes such complete sense, you want to weep for the sheer beauty of it. Nothing can tear you apart. Nothing can keep you from being together. Its like you're so entwined, you are one Soul in two bodies. And to think…" He licked his lips. "…I might have never known it."


Nick's Home ~ Las Vegas, Nevada



I yawned, needing his body pressed to mine.

His flesh on mine.

His presence closer at hand…

He shoved me backward.

So fast I never had a chance to even anticipate the strength of such a lunge, or brace myself against it.

That goddamned Persian Rug helped trip my feet.

Again.

And I ended up crashing, hips first, onto the cot.

My shoulders followed.

He pinned me down against the bulkhead.

A dangerous growl rose from deep in his chest.

I had nowhere to go.

I could not move, his weight effectively keeping me still.

Our bodies slid together.

Skin on skin.

Clutching at his solid, muscular back, my hands on the wings of the Jackdaw, I surrendered.

And he bit me.

I was his.

All his.

His fangs laid claim to my neck.

Fiercely possessive.

A cry.

A joyous scream.

A brilliant light exploded out around us, expanding from the joining of our very Souls, to then cover and surround us, coalescing to a warm and welcoming embrace, then tightening to hold us there.

Forever.

It was perfection.

Such perfection that it hurt in ways far beyond the physical.

Tears poured down my face.

I could not help myself.

I did not deserve such pleasure as I felt.

Such promises of more to come.

And there was peace.

Assurance.

Calm.

We were both filthy.

Drenched in each other.

On a stinking, wretched Pirate ship, on a fetid, humid sea, surrounded by the gross frugality of short, vicious lives.

But I had found perfection.

Though I had lost myself in the doing, I had been rewarded with a wholeness that filled every aching hole within me, and stopped every fearful imagining with ecstasy.

I get it now!

So yeah, the old man who thinks his kids are equal parts heroically awesome and mind glowingly stupid, finally gets it.

Tim wants his perfect moment too.



And as his Papa, I'm damn well going to make sure he gets it.

Cue lightbulb overhead.

Rummaging on the coffee table, I patted around for my cell, thinking I'd call Van Helsing and get him to Miami so there could be some protection for my boy as he Turned and Bonded with his Mate.

He'd been right.

All those years ago, I had not accepted that the most fragile moment needed protecting.

Where the hell is my phone??

I barely had the energy to lift my head off the cushions, but my patting hand found only the half cold mug of tea I'd forgotten about.

And I swept a couple of books aside onto the floor.

Damn it!

Well, calling Van Helsing can wait until later.

Somehow I can't see Horatio flying to Speed's arms for Turning and Mating the moment Warrick says goodnight, but in the history of weird shit in the world, weirder shit has happened.

Okay, I'll call Van Helsing as soon as I can find the energy to get up.

Legs spread around his hips, I let my Pirate have me, taking him into my body with a gratitude that had me moaning his name even as he pushed me tighter into the coarse wooden planking that scraped my back raw.

But nothing mattered, save for him, and the aching space within me was filled as he came, his essence a flood pouring into me that fired my own climax with a shuddering sob.

When he was able to move, and I also had my wits, we lay together, wrapped in each other's arms, afraid to perhaps break into that moment of understanding as it settled about us.

I'd actually had no idea what was meant to come next. My focus had not dared move past the confines of the Captain's cabin, just as I'd never looked further than marrying Sofya, until the deed was done and we'd had nowhere for our wedding night.

Strange, to think on her so unexpectedly.

Then again, why not?

I'm pretty sure my mind's been everywhere else.

I chuckled.

Sooner or later, Warrick and I have fixed everything that's ever come at us, by sitting naked, arms and legs entwined, soaked in sweat and sex.

Just like that day.

And it works.

From that first time when we were joined, it has never failed us.

Three days had gone by, and I never saw them once I'd dragged my Mate off that deck…

I was just starting to doze, my eyes getting blissfully heavy, when my cell phone rang.

Again.

Again?

I think.

I thought it was my imagination the first time.

The second time I knew it wasn't.

The third time, I sat up when it buzzed against the couch frame.

It kept hitting voicemail.

I squirmed around, trying to find the damn thing, tossing cushions and blankets everywhere in the process.

Really, I am too tired for this shit…

Shoving my hand between the seat pads, I hit the space where the chaise and the love seat met.

That tiny space.

And came up with…

Wait.

What the hell is that?

That's not my…

What?

My fingers closed on something smooth and cold, but I couldn't get it out.

That's a very narrow track, where the upholstery joins together.

And my knuckles are scraping on the…

Shoving the love seat a couple of inches, I retrieved the…

Stapler??

What the fuck?

My phone kept on ringing.

It's Warrick.

I know it.

Seriously.

Where is my cell?

And how did the stapler I've been seeking now for over a week and half, end up worming its way under three blankets and into a space barely big enough for a sheet of paper?

With my PHONE!!??

How the actual…?

Were they Mating down there?

Rather than actually answer the phone that still buzzed in my hand, I peered unto the dark and slightly dusty crack like I might risk finding little hybrid staplers sitting on miniature pagers in a nest.

Dear God, I got to get some damn sleep…

"Were you in bed?"

Warrick.

Always hysterically funny.

"Not exactly," I drawled. "Are you done with our kid's soon to be Mate?"

"Yeah. I left you a few messages. Were you busy?"

I rolled my eyes. "Not that you'd notice."

"At least for a while."

"Did you scare our good Lieutenant?"

"Oh…" Warrick coughed lightly like it was nothing. "It added to the moment and what we were talking about. Twice." He chortled. "You were having too much fun there without me."

"Says you," I countered, listening to him give a dirty little snicker as I crashed back on the cushions. "How were the fish tacos?"

"Awesome."

"Where are you now?"

"Heading for our boy's penthouse. Too tired to fly back. Had a couple of drinks."

"I can tell."

"It's been a long day."

"Same here."

"You should be asleep."

"I should be doing a lot of things."

"You got enough energy for that?"

I could tell what was in his voice, and figured there wouldn't be much sleeping for a while, but probably a lot of coffee by the time I had to go on shift.

"Been thinking about me, huh?" I teased, wiggling around until I could get comfortable.

"Been missing you."

"I could tell that too."

In the background, I could hear the Mandarin Oriental.

It sounded like a busy night.

"You left things okay with Speed?"

"We didn't get to talk."

With a frown of concentration, I listened for the hushed privacy of the elevator door closing.

"I don't wanna talk about Speed," Warrick murmured, his tone dropping.

"Who does?" I snarked. "But d'you have the strength? You're not all talked out?"

"Are you lying down?"

"Yeah."

"Take your sweats off."

"How d'you know I'm not naked?"

"I heard you scrabbling on the couch, and took a guess."

"You wouldn't believe where I found my phone."

"Probably not, but right now I don't really care. I want you naked."

"Wow," I grunted, pulling my pants off and struggling to keep my ankles from getting tied up, "is the romance gone? Where's the foreplay? The snuggling?"

"Shut up and spread your legs."

I did as I was told. "You want something from me, Captain?"

His laughter turned raspy. "I want you hard and moaning my name. I've been horny as a…"

"Pirate?"

He snorted. "Stroke yourself."

"I am…"

"There's cum on your body."

"You should be here, licking it off."

"I would. Are you sweating?"

"Yes."

"Are you hard?"

"Not fully."

"Slow down. Tighten your fingers."

"Warrick…"

"Hush," he murmured. "I want my tongue on your head, teasing your hole. I want you swelling in my mouth as I suck you."

I shuddered, running my fingers over the swollen tip of my dick, knowing so well how truly talented his lips are.

"You're wet, leaking. Eager for me. Such a slut."

"Yes. Need you…"

"I know. Stroke faster now. All the way. Up and down."'

I was panting.

I couldn't help it.

"Yes, harder. I'm nearly there."

"Me too!" I cried, my hips arching to the height of each tug my fist made.

"I meant the penthouse, General!" Warrick interrupted me with a snort.

"Bastard," I groaned.

"Yep, but I'm not coming in the damn elevator. I'm not explaining that stain to Housekeeping."

I gave a shuddering sigh. "Fuck you!"

"Yes, please."

"Get home."

"Later."

"Tease. I've been right on the edge for hours thanks to what you were telling Horatio."

"But you clearly fell over it twice earlier on."

"Thinking of our Wedding Night."

"Still thinking about it now?"

"Are you out of the elevator yet?"

"Yes!"

"Thank God! Now get your pants off, and imagine sinking that huge meat between your legs into my tight and desperate ass as I scream…"

Warrick gave a strangled and grateful cry as he climaxed, and thinking about him with his hand on his cock and a wet stain on his jeans, got me off one last time too.

"You sonofabitch!" he gasped.

"You make it to the bathroom?"

"I didn't make it to unzipping," he grumbled.

"Tense?"

"Not any more."

"Knees still good?"

"Barely. I really want that perfect ass of yours right now."

"It's exhausted."

"Blame your kid. This is all his fault, remember?"

"I couldn't forget." A yawn escaped me as every muscle I possessed finally relaxed, including my brain.

"Are you falling asleep on me?"

"Uh-huh." I yawned again, adding to the moment rudely.

"Well, at least I kept Lieutenant Caine awake."

"All that talk about sex really did it for him, huh?"

"Hell, right now Speed's probably getting a good fu…"

"Really?" I cut him off from that particular image, knowing he was about to build a very weird picture I didn't exactly want to fall asleep with. "You don't normally tell people about us that freely."

"I know."

"So why this man? I mean, it's not like he's your boss at CSI, or anything. The guy's pretty much a stranger."

Warrick snorted loudly.

"It's noble. You went out of your way for Speed like that after everything else, but…"

"Lord Leavy."

Pirate tone.

Shit.

Okay, I'm in trouble now.

"D'you really imagine you were the only snotty British aristocrat I ever fucked on my ship?"


Miami, Florida



"Let me ask you this…"

Warrick's parting words were still loud in Horatio Caine's ears as he made his way to Speed's loft, regardless of the promise they had made to one another six months before, that they should be discreet and not risk being seen together outside of work.

"…do you trust Speed?"

"With my life," he'd replied, firm in his utter conviction.

"Then why not give it to him?"

"H!?" Speed opened the front door, eyes bleary from falling asleep with a book. "Where's Warrick?" he peered around the redhead, but seemed surprised there was no one else present. "Why are you here? Are you alright?"

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah! What's happening? Did Mom say something wrong?"

Timothy ushered him into the small apartment, and the narrow space between the bookshelves and wall suddenly felt seriously crowded.

"Mom?" Caine frowned. "Who?"

"Warrick. Erm…?" It was not as simple as he needed it to sound. "Its weird. Its an old thing from another life. Sort of." He shut the door, feeling strangely nervous. "We can talk about it later."

"Okay." Horatio had heard enough in the last few hours to figure that one more thing he should ask questions about, was actually perfectly normal. "I know what we said, Tim. I know I shouldn't be here, but I had to see you. We have to talk."

"If Warrick just waltzed in here and made you doubt the way…"

"No!"

Speed was about set to start flailing, book in hand, but he was stopped by a fiercely possessive kiss that not only silenced his protestations, but left him weak-kneed and trembling.

"I want this," Horatio whispered hoarsely in his ear, holding the Vampire close to him. "Us. It's been a struggle to get it all making sense, but I know that you are the only thing making me whole now. I filled my life with all the stuff that's meant to make everything worthwhile, but it never did until I met you." He took a shuddering breath. "I wasn't sure, but now I am." It felt peculiar in admitting it, and yet doing so eased the burden of pressure on his aching chest.

"Horatio?" Speed wasn't sure whether to go smack the shit out of Warrick or thank him profusely for whatever it was had passed between them that day. "Its okay." He held the redhead equally as tight. "Its all okay."

"I didn't know what I could do to you, being with me but not finishing what we started the day you got shot. I didn't realize you were risking so much."

"I'm alright." Speed ran a hand over Horatio's neck, hoping to be reassuring. "Its okay."

"I need you."

"I'm here."

"Turn me."

Speed felt his fangs drop at the mere suggestion. "I want to." The Vampire was urging him to do it, right there.

Urging louder.

Urging with every heartbeat that pounded from his Mate's chest.

There had been such certainty in Horatio's tone, it set goosebumps down his spine.

"I'm ready," H whispered. "I can't lose you. I can't risk it. I won't…"

Speed licked his lips, picking up on the tremors running through Horatio's body "Next weekend," he croaked, "we'll take a long weekend." Rational, logical thought processes began kicking in. "I have nothing ready. We'll need supplies. This isn't a good place." He stepped back, gesturing around at his tiny living space. "It wouldn't be practical. We'll go to the penthouse. I can prep everything. It'll be perfect."

He pushed his fears and doubts aside to focus with growing excitement on the possibilities of what was to come.

Horatio frowned. "Are you actually grinning?"

It was a rare enough occurrence that warranted being remarked upon.

"Like you wouldn't believe!"

He nodded. "It works for you."

"Make it stick, and stay the night?"

"Now that's tempting." Horatio swept him back into his arms, squeezing his ass tightly in each hand. In part, he'd had visions of being Turned then and there.

Warrick had warned him of the physical ramifications, especially given that he was fit and healthy, not dying of some injury or disease. But he was ready. He was more than ready.

"Take me to bed, young Tim," he drawled, not giving a damn that by morning he'd be going into work in the same clothes he was still wearing. "And don't ever let go of me."


***


Although no one had been told the reason for Lieutenant Caine's request that he be granted 3 personal days release from work, the very fact that those days coincided with a time-off request granted to Speed for the same period, left no doubt whatsoever in the minds of his team, that their Boss was going to come back to work a Vampire.

Calleigh wondered if they should get him a card or something, as a show of support, and Eric contemplated what sort of gift might best befit a 'Congratulations on your Turning' kind of moment, while Alexx just fretted over the whole thing like a proper Den Mother, and tried not to let it show too much.

Speed rolled his eyes at all of them, and set his full attention on Horatio, nervously anticipating a change of mind, and a surprisingly vast number of other things that could conceivably get in the way of what he was planning.

'cos shit happens.

The waiting was insane - as though all those centuries spent with aching need and tempting longing had condensed themselves into those few endless nights, stretched then into an eternity of hope.

Mike Lowery and Marcus Burnett were all set to keep guard, personally patrolling in and around the Mandarin Oriental all that weekend.

Nothing, and no one, would disturb what was set to take place in the Penthouse.

Speed organized plenty of blood to be on hand. Fresh bags, not Cloned, for better nourishment in those first few ravenously hungry moments that all new Vampires experience.

He had Sired Vampire Children before, and knew what it took. He understood fully what the risks were, and he maintained a good Feeding schedule for himself, so that on the night he Turned his Mate, his appetite would not be at war with his other instincts.

He knew exactly what he wanted, and spent that Thursday even ensuring there was nothing he might have over-looked, including fresh linens for the bedroom and bathroom, and suitable spare clothing for a weekend when they would both be hidden away from the rest of the world.

By Friday morning, Horatio found himself not in the arms of his lover, but at his brother's grave.

The night before, as he left the Lab for what was in effect, his last night alive, he knew without question that his colleagues had come to suspect the truth. They were more than obvious sometimes, yet he realized it was all rather oddly endearing. He just wished there were words enough to reassure them that everything would be okay, but how exactly he was meant to tell them that dying would be far easier than he ever imagined it to be, he simply had no idea. In the end, he'd merely nodded and smiled, and said he'd see everyone on Monday.

While Speed had slipped out the backdoor like a sneak thief, eager to avoid the awkwardness.

Bad enough that Calleigh had come back to him with the photograph from his time flying with the RAF in World War II, and made a big, emotional production about what she'd discovered.

Horatio had overheard it all - though Speed didn't know - and while he'd listened with horrified curiosity to what he had stumbled upon, he came to appreciate how very earnest Tim had been in requesting that Calleigh tell no one of it until the moment was more conducive. There would undoubtedly be time enough for all the conversations yet to be had, and the secrets still to be learned. As a Vampire, he would have an eternity to figure out all the puzzles, and find an intimacy with his Mate the likes of which, no human Soul could ever fully know.

And it filled him with contentment, just to think of it.

Speed had sent him a formal invitation for Friday, handwritten in the most elegant fashion, on heavy weight paper, informing him that his presence was humbly requested at 6pm. He was to spend the day arranging his affairs, doing whatever he felt necessary for his peace of mind, and settling himself spiritually to face the future.

His first thought on reading such eloquence, had been to go see Ray.

There were really no other living Souls he could talk with about the momentous decisions Fate had strewn across his life. At least not without risk of being committed to the nearest Psych Ward.

So he went to his brother, and sitting down beside him, poured out his heart.

"I'm going to die today. I'm going to give my life to someone who should, by all the Laws of Nature as we know them, have died centuries ago without my ever knowing him. I'm going to see all the tomorrows, and watch over those I love, not just in this life, but in each one yet to come.

I am in love, Ray. For the first time in my life, I totally get what that means. I am in love. And it consumes every thought in my head sometimes, just trying to contain how happy it makes me.

I wish you were here to meet him…

Timothy is everything.

And that's the only way I can describe it.

He's offering me a new life that will let me be here for Ray Junior, and for Madison. For their children, their children's children, and their great great grandchildren. It's a huge idea that makes my mind spin.

I found everything.

I just have to die first, to get it.

But the idea of losing Tim…? Of losing all those ways he makes me feel? I can't do it.

And I was scared.

To die?

To let him kill me?

How could I?

Freely?

But I have to, and I'm good with it.

This is bigger than just me. This is about Timothy too, and all that his existence means to the world.

I didn't know what to do today. What are you meant to do with your last day alive? Men like us, we know what we risk. We do a hard job, but we take the chance with life, and with death. And we're good with that. I just never thought I'd know exactly, I mean down to the day and time, the moment I'd die. It's gone past being creepy, to being actually a comfort.

I can do this. I can be here for al those things no one can even imagine yet.

You were always the one who took care of everything. After I took care of you all those years, growing up like we did. It felt like it was meant. I kept you safe from dad when we were kids, and you took all those other expectations - getting married, having a son. There will always be Caines because you stepped up to the plate. And I'm proud of you for that, though we're going to have a talk one day about Madison. Just warning you on that in advance, okay?

I'm not going to have a chance at a family now. Vampires don't make new life.

Something tells me that's not going to be the end of the world but, well…"

He rubbed the back of his neck, realizing he'd been sat in the grass by his brother's headstone for longer than planned.

"I…er…"

There was no one else around save for a gardener trimming the path with an edger some distance away, but he still felt self-conscious over what he was about to say.

"I went to a Sperm Bank, and made sure that, well…if there should ever come a time…"

He shrugged.

"It probably won't. I mean, me? A dad? Really? I just wanted to cover the bases I guess."

He struggled to his feet, his hips a touch stiff.

"I know I'll see you again. Its a remarkable experience to see life and death this way. To know Souls are reborn and returned to us? So, don't stay gone forever, huh? I want my brother home some day."

The sun on his shoulders was pleasantly warm without being stifling, as he walked away with a quicker step than when he had arrived, wondering if he'd ever feel the light in quite the same way again.

Speed was cool to the touch, even when working up a good, healthy sweat, and though he had explained how Vampire metabolism was so infinitesimally slow in comparison to that of humans, Horatio found he still had to contemplate how the world would feel to one who was dead.

By the allotted hour, he had paid a lingering visit to Saint Mary's Cathedral, and lit a candle in memory of all the possibilities that his life might have held, if his death had not led him to a whole new way of existing.

Not a man of much formal faith, still the Spirit was willing, and it settled him for the drive to Speed's hotel.

The smell of sage filled his nose as the elevator opened onto the Penthouse Suite. It was fresh and cleansing, and calmed his anxiety.

Leaving his coat and shoes in the entrance, he dropped his badge and keys on the low table by the living room door. Speed had organized for there to be a gun safe discreetly installed there for him too, once they began using the hotel more often, and he secured his Service Weapon, realizing how ridiculously normal everything suddenly felt.

When he turned around, Timothy was standing in the bedroom entryway.

Clad only in long, black, silk pants, bare-footed, his eyes richly glowing with the Vampire, he bore a seductive smile that left Horatio breathless.

"Come, be with me," he murmured, offering a hand, and the redhead slipped into his embrace, kissing him softly and slowly.

There were no words as Speed undressed the man in his arms, taking his time, feeling a little like he was unwrapping an exquisite gift meant for him alone.

With each item of clothing discarded, he kissed and caressed the flesh exposed, filling his senses with the smell of his Mate, letting the taste of his warm and supple skin make his mouth water.

Every touch was a sensual pleasure to be savored.

Leading Horatio into the bedroom, where candles filled almost every available surface with the flicker of soft and gentle flame, he focused on the heartbeat he soon would stop, sensing it quicken as the moments passed.

"Lie down," he urged quietly.

The bed, decked in dark blue satin sheets, was hardly the kind of place that H had ever envisioned dying in, but he forced his thoughts to concentrate entirely on doing his lover's bidding, and sighed happily as he was rolled onto his stomach, burrowing his head in the pillows.

Straddling his hips, Speed worked the tension from Horatio's back and shoulders with a little sweet and fruity smelling oil.

"I've always like mangos," the redhead muttered, practically purring as he melted under the pressure of Tim's knowing hands, not seeing the smile that graced the Vampire's lips.

Time ceased to matter, and Horatio knew there was a very good chance of him simply drifting off to sleep, so soothing were the ministrations that relaxed him.

It was incredible.

When Speed moved him onto his back, he complied, and those familiar hands massaged his chest and abdomen firmly, hypnotically almost.

The soft brush of silk at his waist as Timothy moved over him, became an arousal that built slow and steady.

He was ready to be with his Mate forever.

"I want you to keep your eyes closed," the Vampire whispered. "Just listen to the sound of my voice. Focus on it, Horatio. Look inside yourself. Find the Bond that began when I first bit you. Find the love we share. It brought us together here. It brought us to this place. It gave us this moment…"

As the redhead's heartbeat evened out to a regular and more predictable rhythm, Speed let his fangs drop.

He felt his senses leap upward, and though he needed no air in his lungs, he took a breath anyway, knowing that without his fingers pressed to Horatio's heart, he might have been trembling helplessly.

"Wrap yourself in my devotion," he murmured, bending low to his Mate's lips, and kissing him very gently. "Hold onto it. Know it burns across time…"

Running a hand through the soft red hair he so adored, Speed sank his fangs into the perfect curve of Horatio's neck, just above the shoulder, his bite falling over the pulse point that quickened sharply for a second, then began inexorably to slow.

All H knew, was his lover's presence, surrounding and consuming him. He shook with pleasure, letting it wash over the spike of fear that chilled his spine for just a fleeting pause.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't move.

He didn't want to do either.

He was safe.

Secure.

Strong arms held him tightly.

Everything faded.

Each sound.

Each smell.

Distant.

Weaker.

A voice.

It floated to him from so very far away, and yet still there was that tender embrace, holding him, soothing him, bringing comfort.

Speed.

"Come on, open your mouth for me…"

He couldn't.

He had no strength.

But instinct drove him to obey, and he latched onto Tim's wrist, barely aware of what he was doing, knowing nothing but the taste of blood, slipping thick and warm down his throat.

It was pure.

Clear.

Clean.

Flawless.

A hand cradled his head as he swallowed.

His thirst ebbed.

"Sleep now."

Speed laid him back on the pillows.

And darkness finally came for him.

Then pain.

It forced a moan from his throat.

Dry and raspy.

Pain.

Worse.

And worse.

More intense.

It shot through him.

He bolted out of the dark.

Candles.

Speed.

Light.

At his side.

His Mate.

Strong hands rubbed soothing circles on his back.

"Hurts," he gasped, leaning into the arms of his love, every muscle in his body cramping and aching without relief.

"I know. It will pass. I promise."

He shuddered.

His breathing labored with each heave of his chest.

"Rest, Mo Shearc. Relax if you can." Speed pulled him in closer, feeling him shake. "Don't be afraid. I won't leave you. Held onto me. I'm right here."

It seemed to take hours as Horatio died, and though in truth he knew it was going to happen, he wished deeply that there might have been some way to ease the agony of it.

For both of them.

Nightmares.

He of all people understood the terror of nightmares, and as Horatio jerked, sitting up with a shocked gasp and wide-eyed start of fright, Speed patiently took him back in his arms.

"I smell smoke…" The tension of a strong Irish brogue had crept into the redhead's voice.

Old memories.

"No, my Lord," Tim replied, softly sweeping the sweat-soaked hair from Horatio's forehead. "All is well."

"Attacking! Enemies attacking the village! I know they come for us, and we lie here undefended!"

"We are safe My Lord, you were dreaming. All is well tonight. We are together."

Horatio shivered, though their bodies were twined together, close, warm, comforting, just as it had always been.

Speed had dreamt of those nights spent in Lord Sean's bed, far more often than he cared to admit.

"I'm sorry," the redhead murmured, his mind still spinning with images from the past and alive to sensations he barely recalled, let alone knew enough to have forgotten.

His people, lost in bloodshed and fire.

The panic and clash of swords ringing high above the screams, even yet the terrible sounds of brutal slaughter still filled his ears as those who looked to him for leadership were murdered all around him.

And everything they were - all they had strived for - lay destroyed.

With a small sigh, Speed kissed the top his love's head and leaned back against the pillows.

"Tell me of home," Horatio whispered hoarsely, closing his eyes and breathing in the warm scent of his Mate. "Tell me of Ireland."

He wanted only at that moment to remember better things and fonder times. He wanted to erase the scars of old and cling to that which gave him greatest meaning, even though he knew his past shaped him still and was never far away. He was a descendent of the Fianna, the hunters, warriors, protectors of the people. He was not meant to live in dread of all that had gone before, but he should embrace it, learn from it, live with that knowledge to give him better judgment for tomorrow.

And without conscious effort, Speed too found himself drawn back into what once was, as his own voice took on the lilting tones he'd grown up with as a boy, easing him into the story his mother had first told him as a child…

"Cumhall Macart was a brave champion of Ireland, and it was prophesied that if ever he should marry he would meet his death in the very next battle that he fought.

So for this reason he took no wife, and knew no woman for his lifetime; until one day he set eyes upon the King’s young daughter. So beautiful was she that he forgot all those fears that were spoken of his life and he married her in secret, but the next day after they were wed, grave news came that a battle must be fought.

Now a Druid had told the King that his daughter’s son would one day take the kingdom from him, so he made it his purpose to look after his daughter with the utmost care and not let any man come near her lest they should fall in love and he be unseated from his throne by his grandson.

Before he went to the battle, the newly married Cumhall told his mother everything that had happened with the King's young daughter.

He said, "I know in battle today I shall be killed according to what was prophesied by the Druid and I’m afraid if the King's daughter has a son, which was also prophesied, the King will kill the baby, for he surely knows that he will lose the kingdom by the grandson born to him of his own daughter. Now, if the King’s daughter has a son you must promise me you will hide and raise him. You alone will be his only hope and stay in this life to which he comes."

Cumhall was indeed killed in the battle.

Within that very same year the King’s daughter did bear a son, and by command of his grandfather, the boy was thrown out of the castle window and into a loch to be drowned on the day of his birth.

It was done, and the boy sank from sight, yet after remaining a while under the water, he rose up to the surface, and came to land holding a live salmon in his hand.

The grandmother of the boy, Cumhall’s own mother, stood watching all this on the shore, and she said to herself, "This child is surely my grandson, the son of my own child," and seizing the boy from the bank of the loch, she ran away with him; vanishing long before any of the King’s people could think to stop her.

When the King heard of all this, he fell into a terrible rage, and so ordered all the male children born on that day in the kingdom over which he ruled, were to be put to death, hoping he could so order the death of his grandson and save the crown for his own.

Cumhall’s mother made her way with the baby to a thick green forest, where she spent that night as best she could. Next day she came to a great oak tree in the middle of the wood and she hired a man to cut her out a chamber in the tree with his axe.

When all was finished and the work was completed, there was a nice cozy room in the heart of the oak for herself and her grandson to hide, along with a whelp of the same age as the boy, whom she had brought with her from the castle.

She said to the man who had fashioned the oak, "Give me the axe which you have in your hand, there is something here still that must be fixed."

The man gave her his axe thinking she wished only some alteration, but that minute she swept the head from his shoulders saying grimly, "You’ll never tell any man about this place now."

One day the whelp ate some of the fine chippings that were left cut by the carpenter from the room inside of the tree.

The old woman said to him, "You’ll be called Bran from this day out."

All three of them lived in the tree together, and the old woman, still fearing long for her grandson's life did not take him out until the end of five whole years. He couldn't walk, so long had he been sitting there inside, so his old grandmother taught him how to walk, and one day she brought him to the brow of a hill from which there fell a long smooth slope.

She took a switch and said to her grandson, "Now go run down this slope and I will follow and strike you with this switch I hold, and coming up again I will run ahead, and you must strike me as often as you can with the switch."

The first time they ran down and his grandmother struck at him many times. In coming up the first time, he was not able to strike her at all. Every time they ran down she struck him less, and every time they ran up he struck her more. They ran up and down for three whole days and at the end of all that time she could not strike him once, but he struck her at every step she took. He had now become a great runner.

When he reached fifteen years of age, his grandmother went with him to a hurling match. It took place between the forces of his grandfather and those of a neighbor King. Both sides were strong and most equal in skill. and neither could win until the youth stood up and opposed his grandfather’s people.

He won every game.

When the ball was thrown into the air, he struck it coming down, and so over and over, never once letting the ball touch the ground until he had driven it hard through the barrier.

The old King was very angry and greatly mortified with distress at the defeat of his people, exclaiming as he saw the youth who was very fair of skin and had white hair, "Who is that fin cumhal?"

He meant to joke and make small of the youth whose resemblance suggested the proper name for the boy…"

"Fin Cumhal…the white cap…" Horatio murmured, listening to the tale.

Speed smiled and stroked a hand through his Mate's hair. "That's right. Do you want me to keep going? I would be better if you slept some."

"Keep going, tell me more."

"Fionn will be his name,” so the King declared to the people.

"Ay, and Fionn mac Cumhaill he is," said the old woman with a feisty air.

The King ordered his people to seize Fionn and put the young man to death on the spot, but the old grandmother hurried to the side of her grandson and they slipped from the crowd and away they went, a hill at a leap, a glen at a step, and thirty-two miles at a running-leap.

They ran a long distance until Fionn grew too tired to take another step, and so then the old grandmother took him on her back, carefully putting his feet into two deep pockets which were in her dress, one on either side.

She ran on with the same swiftness as before, a hill at a leap, a glen at a step, and thirty-two miles at a running-leap. After a time the old woman felt the approach of grave pursuers, and so she said to Fionn, "Look behind us, and tell me what you see."

"I see," said he, "a great white horse with a champion on his back."

"No fear," said she, "for a white horse has no endurance and he can never catch us. We are safe from him."

So on they sped, until a second time she felt the approach of pursuit behind them, and again she said to Fionn, "Look back, and see who is coming upon us."

"I see a warrior riding on a fine brown horse."

"Never fear," said the grandmother, "for there is never a brown horse but is giddy. He cannot overtake us."

She rushed on as before and for a third time she said to Fionn, "Look around and see who is coming on us now."

Fionn did as she asked and looked around and said, "I see a black warrior on a big black horse. He is following fast."

"There is no horse so tough as a big black horse," said the grandmother firmly. "There is no escape from this one now. My grandson, surely one or both of us must die this day. I am old and know my time has nearly come. So, I will die and you and Bran must save yourselves." For Bran had been with them all the time, right beside them.

"Fionn, right here ahead there is a deep bog. Jump off my back and escape as best you can. I’ll jump into the bog up to my neck and so when the King’s men come find me I shall say that you are gone in the bog before me and sunk far out of sight, and I am sunk too in trying to find you. As my hair and yours are the same white color, so they will cut it off and take it as though it were yours for the King to see, and that will satisfy his anger against you."

Fionn slipped down from his grandmother's back. He took farewell of his grandmother before he hurried on with Bran. The old woman came to the bog and thence jumped in. She sank up to her neck.

The King’s men were soon come to the edge of the bog, and the big black rider called out to the old woman saying, "Where is Fionn?"

"He is here, gone in the bog before me, and I’m trying but I cannot find him!" lamented the old woman with many tears.

As the horseman could not find Fionn at all, he thought the old woman’s head would do instead to carry back, and so he cut it off and carried it with them, saying, "This will satisfy the King."

Fionn and Bran went on together until they came to a great cave inside which they found a herd of goats.

There was a smoldering fire at the far end of the cave, and so the two exhausted youths lay down to rest. A couple of hours later, in came a mighty giant with a salmon in his hand.

This giant was truly of awful height. He had but one eye, and that sat in the middle of his forehead as large and bright as the sun in heaven.

When he saw Fionn, he called out, "Here! Take this salmon and roast it. But be careful for if you raise a single blister on it I’ll cut the head off you. I’ve followed this salmon along the river for three whole days and three whole nights without stopping, and I never once let it out of my sight, for it is the most wonderful salmon in the world."

The giant lay down to sleep in the middle of the cave, and Fionn spitted the giant's salmon and held it over the fire.

The minute the giant closed his one eye, he began to snore. Every time he drew breath into his giant body, he drew Fionn, the spit, the salmon, Bran, and even all the goats to his mouth. And every time he drove a breath out of himself, he threw them right back to the places they were in before. Fionn was drawn time after time to the mouth of the giant with such great force, that he was in dread of going down his throat.

When only partly cooked, a blister rose on the salmon. Fionn pressed the place with his thumb, to know if could he break the blister and in so doing hide from the giant the harm that was done. But he burned his thumb in trying and so to ease the pain of it he put it between his teeth. He gnawed the skin to the flesh, the flesh to the bone, the bone to the marrow. Having tasted the marrow, he received the knowledge of all things. Next moment he was drawn by the breath of the giant right up to his mighty face, and knowing from his thumb just what he had to do, he plunged the hot spit into the sleeping eye of the giant and destroyed it.

In an instant, with a single angry bound, the giant was at the entrance to the cave, and standing there with his back to the wall and a foot planted on each side of the opening, the giant roared out, "You’ll not leave this place alive!"

Now Fionn with great knowledge, he killed the largest goat and skinned it as quickly as he could. Then putting the goat skin on himself he drove the herd across the cave to where the giant stood. The goats passed out of the cave one by one between the giant’s legs.

When the great goat came so the giant took him by the horns and Fionn slipped from the skin before he ran out.

"Oh, you’ve escaped," exclaimed the giant, "but before we part let me make you a present."

"I’m afraid to go near you," said Fionn, and rightly so, "for if you wish to give me a present, put it out this way, and then go back inside the cave."

The giant placed a ring upon the ground, then stepped back. Fionn took up the ring and put it onto the end of his little finger just above the first joint. The ring clung so firmly that no man in the world could have ever taken it off.

The giant called out, "Where are you?"

"On Fionn’s finger!" cried the ring.

That same instant the giant sprang at Fionn and nearly came down right on his head, thinking to crush him to little bits, but Fionn sprang to a distance.

Again the giant asked, "Where are you?"

"On Fionn’s finger!" answered the ring.

Again the giant made a mighty leap, coming down just in front of Fionn.

Many times he called out and many times he almost caught Fionn, who could not escape with the ring so firmly on his finger.

While they were in this terrible struggle, and not knowing how to escape, Bran ran up to Fionn and asked, "Why don’t you chew your thumb?"

Fionn bit his thumb to the marrow as he had before, and then knew just what to do. He took the knife, the same with which he had skinned the goat, and he cut off his finger at the first joint and threw it, with the ring still firmly on, over into a deep bog nearby.

And again the giant called out, "Where are you?"

And the ring answered, "On Fionn’s finger!"

Straightway the giant sprang towards the voice as he had so many times before, and he sank to his shoulders in the bog, and there he stayed.

Fionn, with Bran beside him, now went on his way, and traveled long together until he reached a deep and thick wood, where a thousand horses were drawing timber, and men felling and preparing it all day.

"What is this?" asked Fionn of the overseer.

"Oh, we are building a dun for the King. We build one every day, and every night it is burned to the ground. Our King has only one daughter. He will give her to any man who will save the dun. And he will leave to him the kingdom itself at his death. If any man undertakes to save the dun and fails in his take, his life must pay for the failure. The King will cut his head off. The best of the champions in Ireland have tried and failed. They are all now in the King’s dark dungeons. A whole army of them is there waiting the King’s pleasure, and he’s going to cut the heads off all of them in one day."

"Why don’t you chew your thumb?" asked Bran.

Fionn chewed his thumb to the marrow, and then knew what he should do and that on the eastern side of the world there lived an old hag with her three strong sons. And every evening at nightfall she sent the youngest of these sons to burn the King’s dun.

"I will save the King’s dun," declared Fionn.

"Well now," said the overseer, "many better men than you have tried, and lost their lives in doing."

"Oh," said Fionn, "I am not afraid. I’ll try for the sake of the King’s daughter."

Followed by Bran, Fionn went with the overseer to the see the King.

"I hear you will give your daughter only to the man who saves your dun," said Fionn boldly.

"Ay, I will," the King replied, "but be warned that if he fails I must have his head."

"Well," said Fionn, "I’ll risk my head for the sake of your daughter. If I fail I’m satisfied, and you can have my head."

The King was impressed and gave Fionn food and drink. They supped together and after supper went to the dun.

"Why don’t you chew your thumb?" said Bran, "and then you’ll know what to do."

Fionn did. Then Bran took up place on the roof, waiting for the old woman’s son to arrive.

Now the old woman in the east, told her youngest son to hurry on with his torches and burn the King's dun, then come back quickly without delay for the stirabout was boiling and he must not be too late for his supper. So her son took the torches, and he ran off through the air with a wonderful speed. Very soon he was in sight of the King’s dun, and he threw the torches up onto the thatched roof to set it on fire as he usually did.

That moment Bran gave the torches such a push and they fell into the stream which ran around the dun, and were put out in the water.

"Who is this?" cried the youngest son of the old hag. "Who has dared to put out my fires, and interfere with my hereditary right?"

"I," said Fionn, who stood in front of him.

Then began a terrible battle between Fionn and the old hag’s son.

Bran came down from the dun to help Fionn, and bit and tore his enemy’s back, stripping the skin and flesh from his head to his heels.

After such a terrible struggle as had not been seen in the world before that night, Fionn cut the head off his enemy. But for Bran at his side, Fionn could never have conquered his foe.

The time for the return of her son had long since passed, and his supper was ready. The old hag was impatient and angry, so she said to her second son, "You take torches and hurry on. Go see why your brother loiters for so long. I’ll pay him for this sorely when he comes home! But be careful and don’t do like him, or you’ll have your pay too. Hurry back, for the stirabout is boiling and ready for supper."

He started off as he was told, was met and killed exactly as his brother had been, except that he was stronger and the battle even fiercer. But for Bran there at his side, Fionn would have lost his life that night for sure.

The old woman was raging at the delay again, and she said to her eldest son, who had not been out of the house for years, "Now take torches, go and see what delays your brothers. I’ll pay them for this when they come home again!"

The eldest brother was only sent out in times of his mother's greatest need, for he had a cat's head and was called…"

"Pus an Chuine," Horatio replied, "I remember. He was Puss of the Corner."

Speed chuckled.

"Aye. He was the eldest and the strongest of the three brothers and when he came to the King’s dun he threw his torches up onto the roof.

When they had just touched the straw a little to make it smolder, so Bran pushed them off with such great force that they fell into the stream and were safely quenched.

"Who is this?" screamed Cat-head. "Who dares to interfere with my ancestral right?"

"It is I," shouted Fionn.

Then the struggle began even fiercer than with the second brother.

Bran helped from behind, tearing the flesh from his enemy's head to his heels, but Cat-head sank his teeth into Fin’s breast, biting and gnawing fiercely until Fionn had no choice but to cut the head off.

The body fell to the ground, but the head lived on, gnawing just as terribly as before.

Do what they could it was impossible to kill it, and Fionn hacked and cut, but he could neither kill it nor pull it off.

When nearly exhausted, Bran said, "Why don’t you chew your thumb?"

Fionn chewed his thumb, and upon reaching the marrow knew that the old woman in the east was ready to start with torches to find her sons for herself, and burn the dun herself, and that she had a vial of liquid with her with which she could bring her sons to life again. Fionn knew nothing could free him from Cat-head but the old woman’s blood.

After midnight the old woman was so enraged at the delay of her three sons, she started out and shot straight through the air like lightning. She was swifter than her sons. She threw her torches from afar upon the roof of the King's dun, but Bran, just as before, hurled them into the water.

Now the old woman circled around in the air looking for her sons.

Fionn was getting very weak from pain and loss of blood. Cat-head was biting at his breast all the time.

Bran called out, "Fionn rouse yourself! Use your power or we are lost! If the old hag gets a drop from the vial upon the bodies of her sons, then they will come to life again, and we’re all done for."

Thus roused by Bran's despair, Fionn with one bound reached the old woman in the air, and he swept the bottle from her grasp.

It fell upon the ground and was emptied.

The old hag gave a scream of rage, which was heard all over the world, and she came to the ground and closed in with Fionn.

There followed a battle far greater than the world had ever known before that night, or has ever seen since that night.

Water sprang out of gray rocks all around, and cows did cast their calves even when they had none. Hard rushes grew soft even in the remotest corners or Ireland, so desperate was the fighting and so very very awful between Fionn and the old hag.

Fionn would have died that night but for Bran at his side.

As the first daylight was coming, Fionn swept the head off the old woman at last, and he caught some of her blood and rubbed it around Cat-head, who fell off dead.

He rubbed his own wounds with the blood and was cured. Then he rubbed some on to Bran, who had been burned by the torches, and he was as well as ever.

Fionn, exhausted with fighting, dropped down and fell asleep.

It was while he was sleeping that the chief steward of the King came to the dun and found it standing safe and sound! Seeing Fionn lying there asleep, the Steward knew that he had saved it. Bran tried to waken Fionn, pulled and tugged, but could not rouse him from his sleep so deep.

The steward went to the King himself and said, "Great King, I have saved the dun, and I stand before you to claim the reward."

"It shall be given you," answered the King with a nod, and straightway then the steward was recognized as being the King’s son-in-law. Orders were given to make ready for the wedding.

Bran had listened to what was going on, and when Fionn awoke at midday, told him of all that was taking place in the castle of the King.

Fionn went to the King himself and said, "I have saved your dun, and I claim the reward."

"Oh?" said the King with a frown. "But my steward claimed the reward, and it has been given to him."

"He had nothing to do with saving the dun! I saved it," said Fionn.

"Well then," answered the King, "he is the first man who told me of its safety and claimed the reward."

"Bring him here so I may look at him," said Fionn.

The steward was sent for, and came as he was bidden.

"Did you save the King’s dun yourself?" asked Fionn.

"Ay, I did," said the steward.

"You did not!" Fionn declared loudly, for the kingdom to hear, and striking the steward with the edge of his open hand, Fionn swept the head clear off his body, dashing it to the other side of the room, and flattening it to the wall.

"You are the right man," said the King to Fionn. "It was you saved the dun. So yours is the reward. All the champions, for there are many of them who have failed, all waiting in the dungeons of my castle, shall have their heads cut off before the wedding takes place."

"Oh King, will you let me see them?" asked Fionn.

"I will," said the King.

Fionn went down to the men in the dungeons, and found the finest champions of Ireland were there. "Will you obey me in all things if I save you from death?" said Fionn.

"We will," said they as one man.

Then Fionn went back to the King and he asked, "Will you give me the lives of these champions of Ireland, in place of your daughter’s hand?"

"I will," said the King, amazed at this request.

All the champions were liberated, and left the King’s castle that very day.

Ever after they followed only the orders of Fionn, and these were the beginnings of his forces."

Speed glanced down at Horatio, sound asleep in his arms. "And they were the Fénnid of Ireland…"

He could not himself, recall much of what happened after his Papa found him in that field, close to death. When the Vampire claimed his Soul it had been easy to surrender what little life he had left, and the bite had filled him with such unexpected warmth.

He had woken to his Papa's strong arms about him.

Safe.

Loved.

With tender concern he did everything he could to ease Horatio's pains, stroking his hair, feeling his flesh begin to cool.

And then at the last, his heart simply, inexorably, ceased to beat.

It was the strangest, most terrifying thing Timothy had ever known.

To lie with his Mate, curled around him as he died, keeping him warm, needing the reassurance of his presence there, so very close, to keep at bay the fearful thoughts that plagued his mind in thinking perhaps he had done something wrong…

But he hadn't made a mistake.

He had Claimed what he needed most.

And it was good.

When he woke, many hours later, the first thing Horatio felt was cold.

Freezing, bone-numbing cold.

He shivered, his teeth chattering.

Wanting to speak, no words would come out of his mouth.

Speed was sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, offering a thick, fluffy, blue blanket.

"I've drawn a bath for you. It will ease the chill," he murmured. "Can you rise?"

Horatio flinched, the sounds around him so excruciatingly painful to his ears, he could hardly bear it. "Lord…" he gasped, hearing the water running the bathroom, and every one of a million other things he could not even begin to identify.

"I know. I know. Don't be scared. Think of a volume control. Like a knob on an old stereo or something. Reach out in your mind and turn it down. It takes practice, but you can learn how to hear only what you need to hear, or see whatever you need to see."

Speed watched intently as concentration crossed the new Vampire's face, and an exhausted relief rapidly followed.

"Come on," he whispered, wrapping the blanket about Horatio's shoulders, and lifting him from the bed. "It will get you warm."

"Can't breathe…"

"You don't need to breathe."

"Can't…"

Easing him into the tub, Timothy settled his Mate back until his head was resting on the towels.

"Tired, Tadhg."

"I know, my Lord. All you need to do is relax. Close your eyes. Rest."

Horatio was still shivering, but after a few moments he gradually let himself succumb to the warmth of the steaming water.

Satisfied with his progress, Speed scooted into the bedroom and stripped the sheets off the mattress, tossing them in a hamper in the corner of the room. He had spilled a little blood in getting H to drink from him, and knowing the man had died there in that spot was a touch disturbing for what was still to come, but the whole lot would be burned later.

He replaced the bed clothes with a beautiful emerald green set, and fluffed the pillows up for good measure, even relighting some of the guttering candles. He pulled other blankets and a comforter from the dresser, and smoothed them on the bed. Then checking the air conditioning, he dashed to the kitchen, warming blood packets one at a time in the microwave.

A goblet stood ready.

An antique from Ireland.

Nicolaus had bought it for him back when it wasn't such an antique.

It made him smile as he filled it.

The raging hunger that gnawed at Horatio's stomach, was given form the very instant he realized he could smell blood.

It was a powerful aroma, and he licked his lips as it got closer, reaching eagerly for the goblet as Speed offered it.

"I thought I've have to convince you to Feed," he chuckled, perching on the lip of the bathtub. "Drink steadily. Hey! Hey, slow down. Easy now. There's plenty more!" He watched in approval as the new Vampire got his first real taste of blood, and reveled in the look of horrified wonder it produced. "Good, huh?"

"Amazing! I just… I just drank…" H needed words that just wouldn't come.

"I know. More?"

"Please," he grinned, sheepishly passing the goblet back.

"Don't go anywhere!" Speed chuckled, leaning in to devour the redhead's mouth, sweeping his tongue over every crevice, tasting the blood for himself.

Horatio moaned, wanting it never to stop.

"Let me get you some more. Are you warmer now?"

"Ay, young Tim," he sighed, sinking into the water a little deeper. "That kiss did it."

A further two goblets of blood later, Speed deemed Horatio strong enough to get up and get back into bed, but by the time he was dry and safely tucked in, he could barely gather a smile before he was once more asleep.

Speed curled up around him, chuckling softly, holding him until he woke.

The long hours until dawn, passed with far greater peace than those before them, and in the light of the coming day, Horatio found that cracking an eye open on the world, was nowhere near as painful as it had been the last time.

He blinked, daring to be more adventurous with his senses, inhaling the scent of his Mate, and savoring it deeply.

He knew he was dead. And yet it held no fear any more.

"Your eyes are crystal blue," Speed whispered in awe.

"They are?" His voice sounded strange in his own ears, and Horatio forced himself to concentrate better on what he was hearing.

"Yeah."

"I'm still cold."

"You need more blood."

"I'm dead, aren't I?" Saying so, made it real enough to know, without fearing it a dream.

"You're a Vampire."

"I am."

It wasn't couched as a question, and that please Timothy immensely. "You good to get up?"

"Let's try," Horatio replied, forcing himself to move.

The pains of dying, were slipping into memory, and he found a strange strength in his legs he had not been expecting. "This will take some getting used to."

"It does. Decades ago, we used to keep our new Vampire Children with us, to teach them for about fifty years before they were considered strong enough, and well adjusted enough to go live their own lives by their own wits."

"Fifty years?"

"Like an apprenticeship."

"Seriously?"

"You don't have to get the hang of everything straight away." Speed handed him a sweater, some soft, warmly lined jogging pants, and a pair of thick socks. "The material you wear, might feel odd on your skin at first. It's a good way to practice what you want from your senses."

"I remember what you said." Horatio dressed slowly, like a child learning once again how to do the simplest of tasks. "I feel…" He couldn't quite describe it. "I feel an urgency. Anxiety."

"Come into the bathroom. I'll tell you why."

The redhead frowned, but as he stood before the full length mirror, taking in his appearance, his expression turned to curiosity. "I don't look any different."

"What were you imagining? A sharp widow's peak and a goatee?"

That won him a small laugh.

"I don't honestly know."

"Fang up." Speed slipped his arms around the new Vampire from behind.

"Exactly how do I do that?"

"Well, how do you feel?"

"Besides cold?"

"Yes." He tightened his embrace. "Think about it. Take your time."

"I'm hungry."

"I'll get you some food in a minute." He kissed his Mate's neck.

"Oh… God!!" Horatio stared at his reflection more intently, seeing his eyes spark and flash with inhuman light, like chips of ice, and then even as he watched, his fangs appeared, lengthening with a surprisingly delicate aspect that belied the danger they visibly suggested.

Reaching up to touch them for himself, to make certain they were real, he stabbed his finger and yelped in shock.

Speed chuckled knowingly. "Everyone does that. Me included."

"You did?" Horatio sucked his bleeding digit, and the wound he'd made simply healed right before his astonished gaze. "Something in the saliva?"

"Ay, it is."

"Amazing!"

"The hungrier you are, the more likely you are to fang up at an emotional provocation."

"Okay, I understand that. And when we're not hungry?"

"Strong emotion will do it, every time. Anger, passion, and then of course there's actual concentration too. That works."

"So how do I Feed? I…" He grew increasingly concerned. "I'm not sure I can actually…"

"What?"

"I feel like I need to…" Horatio flailed. "Hunt. I want to Hunt. What is that? Why?"

"It's called instinct, H. It's inside you. It's always been there, even as a human. Just now, it's a hell of a lot stronger."

"That's what this urgency is?"

"Yes."

"Does it stay this strong?"

Speed took his hands, turning him around until they were face to face. "You're starved. Your blood levels are too low, even with what I gave you earlier. Pay attention to how this feels, right now. Okay? If you ever get like this again, you could hurt someone."

"But I'd never…!"

"I know. It's not like you'd get a choice. Vampire instincts are stronger, way stronger than those of humans. When survival is at stake, the Vampire can, and will, do whatever it takes to maintain its existence. You need to be aware of that. Feed regularly. Feed well. Cloned blood, like I've said before, will only get you so far. Fresh is always better. I'll show you how to Feed from a Chosen One later, and how to Hunt others when there are no volunteers to lend you a pint or two."

"So you really can take a little from some stranger, and they never know about it?"

"Totally! You just need to pick a good one. As long as you're never this hungry, ever again."

"I could completely drain someone? Kill them?"

"Yes. C'mon, let's heat you up a pack." He dragged the redhead to the kitchen, and sat him down. "People smell. You'll learn how to tell who's sick, taking meds, or drinking too much alcohol. You can tell who has nicotine in their blood, and who's on drugs. You want someone as clean as possible, though its not always easy. I bit an addict once. It wasn't pretty."

"What happened?" Horatio snickered, watching him prepare what was to all intents and purposes his breakfast.

"Well, he looked clean," Speed grumbled, sensing the need to at least try and defend himself. "It wasn't until later I realized he was high on weed. By then, I'd already swallowed."

"What did you…?"

"I Fed. A lot. I had to flush it out of my system, but once Nick and Tony stopped laughing, I spent a few hours being very, very giggly. I also got some serious lectures on how to better sniff out the subjects I was drinking from…"

"Wait. You giggled?"

"Damn right."

Try as he might, Horatio couldn't help laughing, yet his humor was curtailed by his appetite, and he down six mugs of warm blood, doing so with enormous relish before finally settling back with a satisfied groan.

He licked his lips, finding his fangs had retracted.

"That is so weird."

"Your new teeth are a bit like those on a snake. When you Feed from a bite, it goes straight to your bloodstream. You need less. It's better than drinking down like you just now, because it bypasses the digestive system."

"I can see how that works."

"When you're hungry again, we can warm up a bag, and I'll let you bit that. You'll sense something of the difference. It'll be good practice."

H nodded slowly "Then what now?"

"Now, we finish this."

"I don't…"

Speed held out his hand, the blood he'd consumed for himself forcing back the exhaustion that had been urging him to rest before the Bond was completed. "Trust me, Horatio."

"Always."

"There is one thing left to do."

The smaller candles in the bedroom had died during the during, and Tim busied himself with fresh ones as Horatio settled back onto the bed.

"Just one thing?" he asked casually, his head buzzing a little with the effort required to maintain his senses at a workable level.

"The Bond."

"Oh!"

With the drapes still pulled, and the atmosphere once more that of calming reassurance and warmth, Speed climbed into the middle of the bed, and sat before the redhead, taking his hands and holding them tightly.

They smiled at one another, and it broke the tension.

"The Bond?" Horatio heard nerves creeping into his voice. "It's not made? When you Turned me?"

"Right now, it would be considered a Parent-Childe Bond. I Sired you. And that connects us automatically. If you were not my Mate, it would go no further than that, but you know that something within you isn't complete yet. Now your appetite is settled, you feel it more than just some anxiety, don't you?

Horatio nodded mutely.

"As I bit you, so you have to bite me," Speed whispered. "Seal us together."

He watched the beautiful blue eyes he knew he could gaze into forever, slowly widen in recognition of the truth.

Pulling himself up on his knees, he bid Horatio do the same, and before he could speak another word, Speed found his lips seized in a hotly demanding kiss.

He blinked, but allowed himself to surrender, opening his mouth, taking the passion that was richly given.

"I don't want to hurt you." There were tears threatening to spill, even as Horatio pulled back, yet his fangs were once more exposed, and he knew it too.

"You won't," Speed murmured. "Pour everything you feel for me, into the bite. And trust your instinct." He cupped his Mate's cheek. "I am yours."

"I love you, Timothy," the redhead replied, kissing him again, taking all the things he needed to say but could not express, and letting them rise freely into his actions instead.

It elicited a moan from the Irishman, as he was pulled closed.

Their bodies flush together.

Arms entwined.

Speed let the new Vampire take full control.

And offered him his neck.

It was the culmination of everything he had ever done in his life.

It all lead to that very instant.

And it was perfect.

He shook with the pleasure of it.

A gasp escaped him.

He had never known.

Never imagined.

The Bond enveloped them.

In a brilliance that was both intensely blinding and blissfully vital, it exploded from the weak, and yet so very tangible thread that once had been, to the heat of a nova.

For a moment, it was as though he could sense every element that formed his body as Horatio became a part of him. And to his astonishment, he orgasmed without the slightest sexual provocation, each emotion from his Mate, racing through his being one after the next.

He willed it never to end, even as he willed himself not to pass out for fear of terrifying his Mate.

He didn't know it - or at least have any conscious recognition of it at the time - but he was murmuring in a language more ancient than the Gaelic of his birth; one known only to the part of himself that was forever held in chains.

His Mate.

His Mate.

His.

He was real.

At last.

Complete.

Whole.

Mated.

Bonded.

And not even death could tear the two of them apart again.


Forensics Lab ~ Monday Morning



"So does he look any different?" Eric asked, dashing into the Break Room for early morning coffee.

"I haven't seen him yet." Calleigh was busy peering out between the slats in the blinds, trying to be the first to spot their Boss. "How could they be late on a day like this!"

"They came in the back! Everyone act casual!!" cried Alexx, scooting in behind them and heading for the coffee, trying to appear relaxed and nonchalant, though she was grinning like a lunatic.

"Did we miss something?" Horatio asked politely from the Break Room doorway less than twenty seconds later, and every member of his team feigned utter innocence, smirking at him like actors in some bad Edwardian Farce.

Speed chuckled dryly, stood at his Mate's right elbow. "Did you guys do something we should know about?"

"No!" Calleigh blushed, shaking her head.

"Nu-uh…" Eric muttered.

"Us?" Alexx asked, pouring way too much sugar in her mug. "Now you two, on the other hand…" She winked knowingly.

"…are here to do a job," Horatio chided, gently finishing her sentence.

"Don't forget where we're at right now," Speed warned them all.

The Lab was already gearing up for a busy day, and it took the Lieutenant some seconds to control what he was hearing from the great many people moving around the building.

Calleigh glared, her hands at her hips. "Oh! Come, on!" She flipped her hair back impatiently. "Are you two going to tease us, or just stand there?"

"Don't stand there at all," Yelina cautioned, heading straight for them down the corridor outside. "I've got a case. I need you all. Dead body. Suspicious circs, at a hangar on the International Seaplane Base."


Crime Scene



Speed had the perimeter, which was actually pretty huge for a Seaplane Hangar, and while he enjoyed the tangy salt breeze coming up off the water, he had to keep touching the newly formed Bond with Horatio, just to remind himself that watching the redhead talking with Yelina, was not what he used to feel it could be.

Or become.

Or even anywhere like the things he'd feared.

Which he didn't want to admit.

Not really.

Ever.

Yelling was actually pretty stunning. She always dressed well, and that long, thick, dark hair of hers was very attractive. He liked women with style, and knew full well that if he hadn't found Horatio he might have been tempted to hit her with the puppy-eyed look that usually melted most hearts at twenty paces or less, and snag her as a Chosen One.

It wouldn't have been his first encounter with a self-assured woman who knew how to take care of herself, and wasn't shy with what she wanted. Which naturally turned his mind to thoughts of sex, and how it felt sliding his cock into his Mate's gorgeous ass earlier that morning before they got up for work. Whereupon the Vampire in question gave him a wide-eyed and curious stare over Yelina's left shoulder, gesturing for him to get back to work.

He grinned sheepishly, and willing his dick to behave itself, turned to try and focus on a partially rubbed out, very dusty footprint over by some old pallets.

He could hear the familiar voices and corresponding heartbeats of his colleagues, and it still seemed a little strange not picking up on Horatio's pulse rate like he used to, but he was getting steadily more accustomed to it without panicking.

The Police Department had set a good sized perimeter around the building they were investigating, and there was not much attention being paid to the place yet, which seemed a blessing.

Alexx had just gone through a side door, all set to authorize removal of the victim, when he heard a scuff of shoes.

A shriek.

Horatio and Yelina both bolted inside the hangar simultaneously, pulling their weapons.

Speeded dropped the shoe print lifter he had been searching for in his kit.

"He's alive!!" Eric screamed, sounding like a little girl.

But the old, Irish Vampire, his senses instantly widening in alarm, knew their 'victim' was more than likely about to prove anything but.

And he cussed himself for not sensing there was something amiss.

Had he been too busy mooning over his Mate to pay proper attention?

It wasn't like he'd actually gone into the damn hangar to check the scene when they all arrived. He'd been told to take the perimeter instead, and like a good boy he'd done as he was told, not thinking twice about any kind of potential risk.

What risk could there be?

It was routine.

Right?

Speed was, however, inside the building before such thoughts even finished crossing his mind.

The scene was a hasty blur, but he moved through it faster, eyeing a Rogue Vampire.

Tall, lanky, greasy-haired.

Long of face.

Vicious of expression.

Wielding a sword.

Badly.

For a set up it might have seemed comical, had Speed not been hit by a lurching sense of extreme unease, not only from his own Mate but from his Sire and his brother too, all virtually coming at the same moment just as he launched himself at the idiot 'victim' who'd thought to attack Sylum's Clan Advisor in broad freakin' daylight!

The Rogue flew backward, knocked clear off his feet.

At any moment, Speed expected gunshots to start popping off, yet they never did.

"Who are you?" he demanded, standing over the fallen moron, who snorted at him and tried squirming away.

"Sylum's weak-ass bookworm is gonna teach me a lesson?"

Where upon Speed kicked him hard enough in the chest to break at least three ribs.

The crack sounded dreadful.

And loud.

"Stop!" Yelina ordered, but she was completely ignored.

"Who are you?" Speed snarled again.

The Rogue shuffled backward on his butt, not getting very far.

"Name!" Speed barked, one foot on the fool's not very impressive blade. "Before I hack your damn head off!!" Still it hardly took a genius to figure out he wasn't going to get jack-shit from the creature at his mercy.

With an almost casual gesture he had learned long ago from a certain not very well assassinated Vampire Hunter, he tilted the sword under his left boot, pulling from the Rogue's none too steady fingers. Then with a toe cap under one edge, flipped what was really a crappy piece of steel into the air, caught it by the pommel and swiped the business downward, leaving the Rogue amongst the dust already on the floor.

Yelina screamed.

Alexx yelped.

Eric shrieked again.

It all happened so fast, even H had trouble keeping up with it.

"Very cool!" Calleigh chuckled, not in the least bit phased or grossed out but he beheading she'd just witnessed.

"What the fuck was that??" Yelina demanded.

But Horatio was going to have to explain it, as Speed's cell chose that exact moment to ring, The Ride of the Valkyries alerting him to an emergency call.

"We've been attacked!" Warrick sounded strained and wary over the phone.

"What?" Speed growled.

"Crime Scene. Nick and I are fine. But our status is well and truly compromised to our team."

"Shit!" Tim glared at his cell as it warned him of a second call trying to come in. "Hold on. I got Tony calling me too."

"Squirt!"

Speed eye-rolled at his brother's badly timed use of an old and annoying nickname.

"What?"

"Can't reach Dad. We have a serious situation here."

"What the hell is happening?"

"Fake crime scene. Rogues. Gibbs is gonna kill me when the shock wears off. You heard from Nick or Warrick?"

"They were attacked too. So were we."

"Crap!"

Speed flicked the line back to Warrick. "Mom? Tell dad we have a problem here. The Clan is in danger."



To be continued …

CSI: Anthology

Rode Hard and Put away Wet