Clan War: Loyalties

10th Anniversary Edition


Mandarin Oriental Hotel ~ Miami, Florida


It felt to Speed, a bit like having his phone surgically attached to his skull, he'd just been taking calls that long.

But as Advisor to Sylum Clan, it was his responsibility to ensure he could actually advise when the need arose, and there was no way to do that without information.

A single attack on an individual Clan member could easily go unpredicted, but multiple moves coordinated on multiple targets, spoke of much bigger issues afoot than just the grumblings of some pissant Rogue somewhere with a long standing grudge over one their Hunters having done something offensive.

"Why are you even in Miami?" He was astonished enough at getting a call from Van Helsing, let alone finding out the man was nearby.

"Your Papa sent me to ensure nothing untoward befell you while you Bonded with your Mate."

"Well, that was blunt!" Tim rolled his eyes.

"But truthful."

"And you stayed?"

"I wanted some sun."

"Seriously?"

"Everyone gets a vacation."

"Not when there's a war brewing!"

"Which gets us back to why I'm calling."

Speed could feel Horatio's anxiety in trying to explain to Yelina the realities of the Vampire.

It was making him itchy…

"Okay, so what do you have? Anything? At all?"

"First," Van Helsing said simply, "Rick Stetler is well out of the State and on his way to New York. I've got a track on him."

A certain degree of stress rose from Speed's shoulders at hearing that. "Okay."

"There are some familiar names poking around."

"Seriously?"

"Tavington's been seen with Rochefort. Allegedly. So I'm thinking it would not be too much of a stretch to say someone close to you and Tony knows you both have your Mates in your lives."

A string of vicious Gaelic cuss words more than adequately expressed the Irish Vampire's anger. "I really need to kill that English prick," he growled.

"Then let Tony take the Frenchman, and you're good to go."

"What about La Croix?"

"Nick asked me about him, but he's been surprisingly quiet since Knight Clan settled down a bit."

"So who do you trust?"

"You did not just ask me that?"

"If they hit me with 1 Rogue, Papa with 3 and Tony with 4, what does that say?" Speed sighed.

"They think you're the weakest, and Nick has lost his power."

"And Tony has more prowess than any of us…" He finished that particular thought. "Not many would see us that way, unless they believed we were some ridiculous stereotypes of ourselves."

"Who do you trust?" Van Helsing turned the question around, as seemed only proper.

"No one. Not now."

"Good boy."

"I'll call Papa."

"He's a little busy right now."

"Yeah, aren't we all."

"Mike and Marcus are watching the kids. If you move, they're ready."

"Papa will want us in New Orleans."

"Bet your ass," Van Helsing agreed.

And so it was, that the very instant Nick heard the names Tavington and Rochefort uttered in the same sentence, he was screaming bloody murder and demanding action.

In fact, he screamed loud enough to attract the attention of not only his neighbors, but his guests.

And his Mate.

Who duly came running out to find him in the backyard, kicking the small green plastic can usually used for watering the potted herbs that Thomas was attempting valiantly to grow along the rear wall of the house in the shade.

The Pirate watched Nick for a moment, knowing it might have been amusing if the Bond wasn't buzzing with rage.

"Is it dead yet?" he asked quietly, a quirky smile on his lips.

Nick growled at him. "We're going home. Get everyone packed and out of here in an hour."

"An hour?"

"Everyone."

Warrick nodded. "The boys are okay?"

"They're packing up too."

"What's happened?

"I'm imagining this is Gabriel's backside." He kicked the plastic can again.

Harder.

"That bad, huh?"

"And then some."

"Shit."


Washington, D.C.


Tony sat quietly with Gibbs in the Bullpen.

There had been a lot to talk about, and the day was getting late.

By the time they'd left the lab, Abby was still grilling McGee about every little detail imaginable, and Kate was busy with Ducky and Gerald, discussing the history of Vampire existence and its social impact when compared to the known and documented events of factual perception.

It all felt like such exciting stuff for them.

A thrill, brought by the challenge of the unknown.

But Gibbs wanted to know the purpose of the Vampire.

He wanted to know why such a thing should actually exist in the natural order.

And why it should so desperately seem to matter.

As for his opinion of Tony, he had once concluded that after serving with him and seeing him work, the boy was strangely blessed with a remarkable instinct, and terrifyingly accurate eyesight for the tiniest of details. DiNozzo was also far better at undercover work than any kind of skills assessment had ever before been able to determine. But at least he now knew why, for as crazy as it sounded, the Vampire was at least a logical, if not entirely rational explanation for just about everything that was strange in one Anthony DiNozzo.

"How many times have we met?" Jethro asked, startling his colleague with a rather abrupt resumption of questions.

"A lot."

Gibbs looked squarely at him across the space between their desks. "And we never started the Bonding that you mentioned?"

"No." Somehow, talking freely of such matters from the very place he sat at work every day, just felt too damn public when anyone might potentially overhear.

It made him nervous.

"How many times?"

"Nine."

"Nine?" Jethro's eyebrows rose.

"We never got close. Each time I saw you…" Tony sighed. "It was about once a century. I tried to befriend you, over and over but you kept upping and dying on me. After a while, it made me more hesitant about approaching you. We might not have been close, but knowing you were gone each time, hurt so much I just went numb."

"Were we not even friends?"

"Three times we were comrades-in-arms. You were always in a uniform of some kind. Always the military man, protecting others, risking everything."

"It's in the blood." Jethro offered him a certain smile.

"You have no idea how right you are." Tony picked up a pen and started playing with it for no better reason than to keep his thoughts focused. "I have run into battle head on, sword in hand, ready to die. Yet here I sit. Time after time, I mourned your loss by hiding in war, and soaking myself in blood." He knew he could so easily have kept talking, let the past spill out and fill the room; all of it, from the moment he had left home in Service to God, to the instant he'd realized he was going to kill men on the battlefield again that morning. Like going to Confession, he could have let all that pain fall way by simply saying it aloud.

At last.

"Too many times, you were gone without ever knowing I was there."

The regret was a weight he knew he could not longer bear.

"I need to know who Antonio Crisafi really is."

"You already do," he replied softly. "You simply don't see him yet."

Jethro smiled.

A rare and honest smile, that went to a place in Tony's Soul that nothing else could ever touch.

"When Ari shot you, I freaked. He knew what it would do to me, but he did it any way."

"Ari?" Gibbs was instantly alert at any mention of the terrorist's name. "He's a Vampire?" His voice hardened, as did his eyes.

"A Rogue. He doesn't involve himself in Clan business, or our politics very much. We've kept an eye on him, but there's not much Vampire presence in Iran and Iraq. Or Israel for that matter. He wants what's good for his people. The FBI were mostly right in what they said about him, but he's losing the plot. Some Vampires believe too much in the power of their own invincibility when there's no one to rein them in. But if he shows his face in front of me any time soon, I'll be teaching him the power of true humility."

Jethro knew sincerity when he heard it. "How many men have you killed?"

Tony snorted in utter derision. "Alphabetically? Historically? Spiritually? I've been on this earth a long time. I've seen death and brought death on a scale its hard to quantify."

"Today I saw you truly carry yourself as a soldier."

"I have seen too much of war." He looked the man who would be his Mate, straight in the eye as he spoke. "Don't make me go back to it. This time it would destroy me."

Jethro stood up. "What does it take to stay by your side?" he asked, walking over to Tony's desk.

"You have to die." The fear that gripped Antonio Crisafi as he spoke, was enhanced by the unavoidable onslaught of all those memories he had never quite been able to escape. "You will become a Vampire, and we will finally Bond. Or you will leave me again, and I will go to my Sire and ask him to take my head."

It was so painfully honest, it struck Gibbs like a physical blow to the chest. "I want you…" he began, just as Tony's cell phone cut off his words.

DiNozzo actually blushed in a most unprofessional manner. "I want you too," he mumbled, reaching in his pocket as the annoying ringing continued. "I gotta…" He waved his phone around.

Jethro nodded quickly.

"Squirt? What?" Tony knew his annoying little brother just had to be the one to interrupt him. "You really couldn't have waited a couple of minutes…?" He leapt to his feet a moment later. "What!?"

Gibbs frowned.

"Are you…?"

He watched all the color drain from Tony's face.

"Of course."

His frown deepened.

"I know. We're moving now, yes."

The vivid anxiety in Tony's words grew a thousandfold.

"Tim? Thanks. And, I will."

"What?" Gibbs pulled his shoulders back.

"We have to leave." Tony reached for his backpack that had gotten shoved under the desk. "Now."

"What's happened?"

"Those 9 times I lost you?"

"Yeah…"

"3 of them were murders."

Jethro flinched, but he stood his ground. "I think you'd better explain."

"No time. We have to get everyone out of here."

"Now!" The Gunny Sergeant reached over Tony's desk and grabbed him by the arm, forbidding him to move.

"Rochefort." He said it like it left a bad taste in his mouth. Which is actually did. "He hates me. But I hated him first. Really, it's so long ago. You take a guy's eye out and he haunts you forever." He paused, and got glared at until he found his voice again. "Nick, Tim and I…" He took a totally pointless breath, trying to calm himself down. "We were Musketeers. It was the 17th Century. France. 1632, to be exact."

"Dumas?"

"Yes, well he wrote about us. But Shep got the guy totally confused, and he never quite go the whole truth of it. Anyway, point is, Rochefort hated you too. You were one of the Captains most trusted by King Louis. Rochefort was your opposite number. He was Richelieu's most infamous man. Captain of the Cardinal's Guard." He allowed himself the briefest grin despite the stress of what was undoubtedly set to come. "You were very handsome in the Tunic."

"Am I meant to remember?"

"Vampires do. Mostly. Some far more than others. Some just pieces here and there. Flashes. But it's enough that I remember it. Enough for now."

He was actually 2.5 seconds away from lunging across the desk, throwing Jethro on the floor and Turning him right there, where everyone could see, and go fuck the consequences.

"What happened?"

It took him the passing of a mere heartbeat to fathom the memories flooding past him. It was so hard to give it voice without losing himself.

Drowning in it.

"Rochefort could tell I was infatuated with you, my Commander, my senior officer. He tormented you, poking at you every day, pushing you to respond, wanting you to react to me. It was the closest I ever came to telling you the reality of who, and what, I am. Until now."

Gibbs nodded. "And?"

"When Richelieu died he took revenge. It was a long time coming. He ambushed us one day on a routine patrol. He paid off some local boys who were desperate for the coins, threw in a couple of his own guys for good measure, lit the blue touch paper and stood back to watch the end result." Tony swallowed. "I'm strong, Jethro. I'm stronger than you saw today. And I'm exceptionally well-trained. I have skills that you can't even fathom yet. But for all that…?" He faltered a little, trying to be professional despite his emotions. "For all that I can do, I still failed you. It took too long for his minions to do the job, so Rochefort came in and did it for them. He delivered the killing blow that took you from me. One strike. To the heart. You were dead before you hit the ground. I knew it. Dead men fall a certain way…" He sighed, glancing anywhere but at Gibbs. "I took Rochefort's life too that day. I'd thought him done for. I cut his throat, pretty deep."

"That's when he was Turned?"

"Yes."

"By?"

"La Croix."

"The cross?" Jethro frowned.

"Lucien. He and Nick have a thousand year old grudge match going on. I just didn't know that Rochefort was one of the bastard's descendants." Tony felt weirdly deflated all of a sudden. "Grudges have no time span for Vampires. A quarter century is a lifetime for some people, but a drop in the ocean when you can live for millennia."

"So who is this Lucien?"

"Doesn't matter now. Rochefort is sniffing around the attacks on Sylum. So we have to get the hell out of here and go where we can be better secured against a threat that no one else - even those in this place - can be remotely ready for."

"Go where?"

"New Orleans."

"Surrounded by other Vampires?" It made perfect tactical sense. "Okay." He nodded.

"Rochefort has made it his business to try and stop me Mating with you." Tony kept the story going as they made for the elevators. "It's not a surprise he's shown his ugly face again. And you're still human. This could go very badly." His inner agitation was extreme, and he knew it.

"No, it won't." Gibbs was his usual calm, stoic self.

"Didn't you hear a word I said?" Tony flailed.

"I did."

"Then, what? Rochefort won't kill you in front of me because he respects the Semper Fi thing?"

Thankfully, the elevator doors closed on the rest of his ranting, though Jethro still got the end of it.

"Well, let me tell you something, Gunny! We signed up for the first Marine Unit in the Revolutionary War, and he still shanked your ass in battle! I didn't even know he was still running around in the world, but there he was! Large as life, and just a bloody ugly. And one more time, he got to you before I could stop it. And he laughed, Jethro. He laughed at me as you fell!!"

Gibbs promptly hit the STOP button, and the elevator came to an emergency halt.

Old habits were the hardest to break.

"There's no time for this!" Tony wailed.

It wasn't his first experience of being stuck in Jethro's office before.

"Yes," Gibbs assured him. "There is." He poked the Vampire in the chest with two rigid fingers, shoving him step by step back toward the rear wall of the car. "It will be different this time."

Tony frowned. "Because you know now?"

"Because I am not the man you knew. I am me."

And with that, he pressed DiNozzo as close as he could to the handrail, and kissed him hard and deep.

Somewhere in the recesses of Tony's mind, he wondered if the security cameras were recording their little tryst. Then he vaguely remembered that there were no such measures in Jethro's personally preferred elevator, and it encouraged him to slip his arms around his boss's waist.

It felt possessive.

Necessary.

He growled, low in his chest, well aware that his eyes were flashing brightly and his fangs were on the verge of exposing themselves that he might taste of the powerful heartbeat that seemed intent on Claiming him long before he could ever begin to make his own mark on Jethro's body.

It was arousing.

Hot and thrilling.

The stuff of dreams that left him hard and aching.

Then reality hit him the head.

"I'm still me," he murmured, when his mouth was freed and he could speak again. "The me who knows I can't lose you."

"We were the first US Marines?" Gibbs asked.

Tony blinked, his thoughts thrown askew by such an unexpected question. He swallowed, and nodded. "We were there at the Founding. Does that please you?"

"Very much."

"Then let's make sure you get to explore your past."

Gibbs stepped back, and enigmatic smile on his face as he got the car moving again. "You said the entire leadership structure of your Clan was attacked? If Rochefort just wants my life, why bother with the rest?"

"Sylum has more than one enemy. When two of them start banding together it can get really weird." Tony realized that some of his tension had begun dissipating, and he was thinking more like a soldier again. "We all have decisions we regret. And we have those we wish we'd never met, or even Turned. Speed has a piece of shit named William Tavington. A Brit. A total asshole who enjoys turning mayhem into misery at every available juncture. He's got Gregory Stillson too, but nobody's perfect. Anyway," he shrugged, "Tavington and Rochefort have been seen together."

"By?"

"Sources you can trust with your mother's life."

Gibbs snorted.

Antonio ignored him. "Speed has only just gotten his own Mate. That means there's a baby Vampire right in the middle of the upper Clan structure of Sylum. A vulnerability. And with you now close to me, it's too much of an invitation for them. This could only have been done with people watching us, or listening to us. Either way, someone's been paying a lot of attention. Rochefort and Tavington aren't smart enough to do this alone. Never in a million years."

"Then who is?"

The question remained unanswered as they reached their destination, whereupon they rather rudely interrupted the chatter going on in Abby's lab.

They were stared at in extreme astonishment, as though no one present had even considered seeing the two of them again for some time…

Kate poked Tony into saying something, by making a rude face at him.

"We're going to New Orleans. Now. Grab your gear. No arguments."

They still kept staring, not in the least bit impressed by his sudden orders.

Jethro sighed. "Move!" he barked.

And they did.

Tony shook his head. "I have a private plane at Ronald Reagan. It'll be prepped by the time we arrive."

Kate stopped in mid-stride, part way out of the door. "Seriously?"

"No, we're taking Amtrak!" McGee chortled, shoving her out of the room.

"Probie!"

Tim turned instantly to his Sire.

"Kate and Abby are all on you."

"What??" McGee screeched. "I…"

"There's a Clan to protect, Probie. So those two are your responsibility."

Abby laughed gleefully.

Kate slapped Tim on the backside. "Road trip!"

"I so wish my Grandma could've seen this! She always said there were Vampires in N'Awlins," Gerald drawled.

Tony grinned. "You from Louisiana?"

"On my Momma's side," he answered.

Ducky patted him on the back. "I knew this one would be worth having," he chuckled, and Tony had to agree.

"What about work here?" Kate demanded. "We can't all just take off at once."

"I'm sure Morrow has already been notified that we're out of here." Tony eyed Gibbs, who was just as stoney-faced as ever. For some reason, he'd been hoping to get at least a tiny glimmer of shock from the man, that their immediate boss at NCIS was actually a Chosen One. "Nick has trusted people all over the place. You'll get use to it." He shrugged. "As of now, we are officially guests at the base in NOLA."

Abby was thrilled, having gotten her gear together faster than anyone ever saw before, including Bert the Farting Hippo. "Real Vampires! It's so cool! I want a Mint Julep and some handsome fanged creature to snack on me ASAP. Can that be arranged too?"

McGee grabbed her and hauled her toward the elevator before he got growled at again.

Gerald laughed. "Oh, the biting thing is hot!"

Ducky tried not to encourage him, but having certainly been bitten more than a handful of rather erotic times in his own long and quite remarkable career as a Chosen One, he had to admit the little smirk on his lips was pretty obvious.

"Are there other names I should be aware of around me?" Jethro asked quietly.

Tony shook his head. "There are lots of names. And there will be lots more questions. And I absolutely guarantee there will be things that make no sense for decades. But when it comes to this now - to Vampires, and everything waiting for us after today - I am not your employee any more. Being Bonded is an equal partnership. I'll give as good as I get."

Gibbs stared him in the eye, unblinking.

Neither man moved away.

Neither man gave an inch.

"Damn! That's hot too!" Abby grinned at the two of them, waiting expectantly for more.

"You should see Sylum's Clan Leadership, my dear," Ducky said primly, breaking into the moment.

Kate's eyes narrowed. "Vampires and sex…? I mean really? Really?? If the rest of what we think we know about you guys is myth, why not that too?"

Gibbs chuckled, knowing exactly what Tony would do.

In two strides, the Vampire had her up against the wall, secure in his arms. His right hand caressed down her left cheek, slowly, softly. Taking her by the chin, he tipped her head to the right, exposing her neck.

Leaning in, he breathed over her ear, letting his fangs drop only to scrape them across her flesh. It left goosebumps in his wake while never breaking the skin.

By the time he stepped away, her knees were jelly, her eyes glazed with lust, and her chest heaving for breath.

"You sonofa…" she hissed, trying to gather her wits. "A simple 'trust me on this' would've sufficed!" She licked her lips, wanting to run to the nearest bathroom.

Tony snickered, his voice low and gravelly as he helped her stand on her own two feet again. "Yeah, but not nearly as much fun."


Las Vegas


"We're leaving?" Catherine was horrified. "We can't just drop everything like it doesn't matter."

Warrick fully understood her anxieties. "I'll take you home. We'll get Lindsey."

"You're serious with this?"

"Deadly."

Gil was as equally unimpressed. "We have responsibilities here. Cases!"

"Oh, it'll be fine," Greg teased. "It's going to be an adventure." He grinned. "The Manor is awesome. There's so much history."

Catherine got the distinct impression she was about to regret the entirety of her day by running off to Louisiana on the back of some vaguely understood notion that some as yet unknown foe was stalking them on a Vampire power trip to take over the Clan. It sounded like the plot line to an old paperback no one ever bought.

"I can't drag Lindsey into this!" There had clearly been a reason why her own mother kept the existence of Vampires a secret. "Or drag her out of the city!"

Al stood up and adjusted his prosthesis. "I told everyone at home, Cath. I had to. There are things you can't keep from her now. Trust me on this."

"Well, thank you Doctor Robbins, for the parental advice," she retorted. "You're already a Vampire! There's no getting around that."

He sighed. "I chose it for them, Cath. They deserved the truth, but I don't think I can go dragging them to Louisiana either."

Warrick had done his best to handle the situation as it stood, but knew that for those only just made aware of the extreme possibilities the Vampire could present, it could take a lot longer than a few hours to acclimate them to the new reality they were presented with.

"Then get your family together, and stay at the Bellagio. Benedict will put you in the Penthouse. Security provided. Get Bobby and his husband. You know their little girl, right?" Nick was in no mood for messing around with 21st Century sensibilities. "All of you will stay there, until I say so." He marched back into the house, phone in hand.

Al nodded. "No problem."

"Bobby? Dawson?" Gil asked. "Bobby Dawson?"

"He knows?" Sara was more surprised by that than she realized.

"Since 1864," Nick said simply. "His husband is a Chosen One."

Gil opened his mouth but the glare that Nick silenced him with, was positively vicious.

"Greg? Get your stuff. You know what to do."

Once more, before their eyes, Nick Stokes was gone, and a very different man stood in his place.

One who was absolutely not to be messed with.

"Catherine? Go with Warrick. Get Lindsey. Pack a bag."

He issued orders with a strength that suggested he was more than comfortable being in command, and being obeyed.

"You're not staying," he growled. "Don't even suggest otherwise. You have family history. That's enough for others to exploit. I want you and Lindsey safe."

Warrick patted her shoulder. "It's all good, Cath."

She snorted, not believing him in the slightest. "I am not my mother."

He chuckled. "You're more like her than you know."

Nick's eyebrows rose as he eyed the pair of them.

Warrick winked at him.

Sara stood up. "I'm going with Al."

Nick nodded. "Be our eyes and ears in the lab. I've got a stack of cold cases still on my desk you can assess while we're away."

She smiled. "I'm not meant to do much without supervision right now. And if my Supervisor is out of the town, I can stay out of the way."

Gil leapt to his fee, but Nick's swiftly cutting hand gesture, froze him to the spot.

"No one is coming after me, Grissom," Sara said firmly. "I'm a nobody in this. No one knows who you say I used be, right?" she asked, her gaze moving to Nick. "No one would care."

"Exactly. You're not worth the effort. No offense." He grinned at her lopsidedly.

And she laughed delightedly. "None taken."

Gil was red in the face with fury.

Nick nodded. "Someone will keep you posted on what's happening. You keep Ecklie and the Sheriff off our backs."

"I'm going to enjoy that. I'll have Al and Bobby to talk to though. And I'll go with them to the Bellagio, just to be sure there's nothing wrong. They can answer all my questions. Right?"

Al agreed. "I look forward to it. Hang on…" He frowned. "The owner of the Bellagio is a Vampire?"

Nick nodded. "French. Revolution era. Long story."

"Why doesn't he own the Paris then?" Al wondered.

"Another long story."

"And why are we going next door, instead of staying at your hotel?" Sara asked.

"Other people know who owns it. Why give someone an obvious target?"

Brass snickered. He'd been busy sending text messages, organizing time away from the lab for himself, and for his colleagues. He had more than a few favors permanently stacked up for cashing in on whenever there was an unforeseen emergency, and he topped them up at all times. He was annoyingly tenacious that way, but it got him what he needed, when he needed it most.

He looked across the room at Warrick, giving him a knowing smirk, that in turn was met by an ironic eye roll.

Nick sighed, pretending he hadn't seen it. "The rest of us are leaving now. There's a plane waiting. An old friend is lending me hers, as mine is out of State."

Gil was done. "Are you finished being the Clan Leader? Because I'm still your Supervisor, and we are going nowhere! Your Vampire situation is far too dangerous for pulling any of us into. If you and Warrick and Brass want to run off and play at being tough guys, then fine. But my people are not going with you." He had reached the end of his tolerance, and despite being even more ridiculously aroused by Nick's commanding attitude than he had been to start with, he could no longer accept the unanswered questions and seemingly endless contradictions that the Vampire concept imbued. "We are in no way a part of your Clan. Or your history. If we stay, we can in no way implicate ourselves in what we don't know."

The logic of it sounded good.

The growl that came from somewhere exceedingly deep in Nick's throat, did not.

"You stalked me, Doctor. You harassed me. You bullied, rebuked and dismissed me at every opportunity." He spoke with perfect diction, slow and deliberate, moving into Grissom's personal space. "You wanted the truth, and you compromised my entire Clan to get it. If you truly believe that I will let you stay anywhere that I can't see you, or know what you are doing, then you are very sadly mistaken."

He knew there was no way to be certain that what his Clan had been through in the last few hours came as a direct result of Grissom's poking around for the Meridii family name, but there were no chances he would risk.

Ever.

In the blink of an eye, Nick's unrelenting expression changed to a beaming, and radiant smile.

He slapped Gil on the shoulder heartily, like they were old friends who'd never fallen apart.

"It's New Orleans, Gris!" he said cheerfully. "Bugs. Everywhere! You'll be right at home."


Miami


Speed stalked into the airport terminal with Horatio at his side.

Eric was just behind them, helping Alexx with Peter and the kids, while Calleigh stuck close to Yelina and Ray Junior.

Frank Tripp was still to arrive with Suzie and Madison.

There were more than a million questions.

Doubts.

Hesitations.

Confusions.

But they trusted each other.

And they knew answers would come sooner or later.

Peter Woods had no idea what was happening around him, and yet his wife maintained a firm sense of calm that assured him everything was under control, no matter how it seemed on the surface. Still he held her hand a little tighter, and stood a little closer to her than normal, keeping a wary eye on his offspring in a way that Speed found instantly familiar and at the same moment, heart-achingly painful. But there would be time to talk later.

A lot later.

Tim felt Horatio tense.

Then flinch.

It was the onrush of relentlessly flowing noise.

Bright light.

A sickening cloud of smell and assorted aromas to numerous to name.

"Dial it down, Mo Shearc," he advised quietly, taking the redhead by the arm and stopping them both in their tracks. "Your brain keeps shrieking for it to slow down, but it won't until you force it to."

Horatio drew a breath and struggled to control himself. There was no need to panic, and yet his mind wanted answers to all the input he was receiving.

"I thought I could handle this," he replied simply, feeling lost.

"You can." Speed paused for a moment, reaching up to touch his cheek.

"So many things, all at once…" He could drown in the sheer magnitude of it.

"When I was in Japan, learning the ways of the Samurai, my teacher Sifu, knowing that my thoughts were not always entirely focused on the power of the moment, had me sit out in an open field and listen for the sounds of a butterfly's wing. I sat there, perfectly still for an entire day, until I realized it was the wrong time of year for butterflies."

Horatio snorted. "Good tip."

"A well spent day. A well remembered lesson. How to slow the mind, still thoughts to a crawl, seek the tiniest sound or minutest detail."

"We don't have time for butterflies."

"But we have time for detail." He squeezed Horatio's forearm. "You can do this."

Speed was so entirely concerned with his Mate, he failed to sense Van Helsing come up beside him.

"Are you done?"

Horatio blinked, having found himself lost for a while in the warmth of that steady, knowing gaze, which touched his Soul and kept him grounded. "Who is this?" he asked, watching Tim smile and laugh as though greeting an old friend.

"Gabe! You still lurking?" Speed turned, and was embraced in a strong pair of arms that held him tight, and made him feel a great deal more relief than he'd realized he needed.

"Waiting for you and your new tribe here. You have to bring them all?"

Speed smirked at his Clan's Lead Hunter. "I'm taking no chances. Gabriel Van Helsing, let me introduce you to Horatio Caine."

He barely got the words out, when Calleigh and Alexx suddenly gave simultaneous squeaks and started trying not to flail.

"I think someone is going to have a seriously exciting flight," the Lieutenant chuckled, shaking what was a firm and generous grip extended in his direction. "You have fans."

Van Helsing was as tall, dark and handsome as any Hollywood hero, but there was a certain something in his eyes that spoke of an age and wisdom not easily accepted in rational terms.

"Are you a Vampire too?" Ray Jr. had been granted an all too brief explanation of what was happening, for as the oldest of the kids he had better chance of comprehending the reality and meaning behind it all, and sharing such with the other children.

"You are not meant to say such things aloud!" his mother warned, alert to those around them in the airport who might overhear.

"But, mom!" He was as bright and as sharp as his father once had been, and he had been gifted with the stubborn determination of Caine genetics. "This is so cool!"

Yelina knelt down to his level. "We will talk of all this later when we land. I am sure there will be plenty of chance to ask all the others there, about everything." She smiled at him, but it was mostly to hide her own uncertainties.

"I just want to see their fangs," he pleaded. "Can I?"

Van Helsing chuckled. "Only if you're brave enough."

"I'm brave!" he said firmly, his shoulders back.

Horatio agreed. "He always has been."

Yelling ruffled her son's hair, and it made the boy blush. "You have to keep the Vampire stuff a secret, okay?"

"Okay, but I'm well brave enough, right mom?"

"Yes, you are," she replied with a nod. "And keeping this special secret will make me even more proud of you than I am now."

"We have to go," Gabriel cautioned. "Lance is waiting. The plane is ready." He checked his phone. "Thomas is prepping for a lot of guests."

"News on Tavington and Rochefort?" Speed demanded.

"Last seen heading for DC. You know, Rochefort won't leave this alone."

"Tony?!"

Horatio felt a jolt of fear rush through him from his Mate.

"Heading for the airport as we speak." Van Helsing was nothing if not calmly professional. "He's moving and fully aware. Last text sounds like he's bringing a small tribe too."

"And Nick?"

"He's working on it, but we've got his plane and his pilot, so he's found a loaner."

Speed nodded. "He's got enough help in Vegas. Won't take him long."

Horatio spied Frank, heading toward them with their late arrivals.

Yelina, to her credit, had finally come to terms with her dead husband's infidelity, and the product of that particular relationship. Such a thing had been hard accepting, yet Horatio had taken a single look into the eyes of little Madison, with her beautiful red hair and shy smile, and realized instantly where she belonged.

"We're good to go," he said quietly, having insisted on bringing along anyone close to him who might potentially prove vulnerable to those who would use them against the Vampire. And Suzie, in cleaning herself up from addiction, was still a weak link regardless of the strengths she had been discovering in herself along the way.

Speed was more than happy to hear it. "Let's get everyone safely out of here. I have to call my brother."


Ronald Reagan Airport


The private hangar that Tony directed Jethro to pull up at once they reached the airport, was open and ready.

The drive had been long and weirdly quiet as every one of them sat in contemplative silence.

No one wanted to ask what was still on their collective minds, though most were trying to figure out where, when, and how, they had come to miss the clues that led them to accepting the craziest of notions as solid fact.

Abby squeezed her hippo, and it gave a rip-roaring fart just as the SUV they were all traveling in, came to a screeching halt.

McGee smirked as he leapt out.

"Who's your pilot?" Jethro had chaffed at the traffic holding them back for the last 90 minutes or so, but the need for discretion over speed had kicked in the moment Tony received a warning message relayed from his Clan's Hunters, that sighting had been made of target Rogues making their way to DC.

"A Chosen One. The son of a guy who used to fly with my team in Vietnam."

Everyone else was out of the vehicle when Tony spoke.

Jethro turned to him slowly. "You fought in Vietnam?" he asked quietly.

"And in more wars than there are history books to describe them." He watched from the side window as Abby, Gerald and Ducky got on the plane, and McGee paused to help Kate up the steps with her bag. "Let's get to New Orleans. I'll feel better at Sylum Manor. I promise you we'll talk about whatever you want, for as long as you want."

His smile, gentle and knowing, did things to Jethro that felt more real and more natural than anything he had ever encountered before in his life.

It ought to have been terrifying.

But it wasn't.

Still his preference had always been for red headed women; strong, smart, professional types who knew their own minds and were unafraid of his moods, his needs or his bouts of silence. Not that he was particularly good at choosing such women. Most had durability issues. But he had never really, truly loved anyone except Shannon. She had been his one and only - the soul who had found his own and brought another into the world with him…

He sighed.

There was no avoiding how Tony made him feel.

It had always been there.

That sensation.

A pull.

A longing.

Knowing what that meant, and how it worked, gave him a whole new slant on life suddenly, in ways that made everything make more sense in more directions than he believed he had a right to know.

Nothing was meant to be perfect.

Until Tony smiled at him.

He got out of the SUV and slammed the door.

Tony did the same.

McGee waved for them to hurry the hell up.

Tony waved back, trying not to flip him off.

In the split second it took for his Childe's expression to change from barely tolerant amusement to horrified shock, the Vampire who once rode straight upon his enemies with all the confidence of a righteous man fulfilling God's Divine Will, knew the Devil had come to tempt him again.

He turned right around to see what McGee was staring at, and found himself greeted by a fast approaching dark car that came to a screaming stop just inches from the back of the SUV.

Rochefort was the first occupant to show his face.

Tony snarled, fangs down, eyes glowing emerald.

"Antonio! How long has it been?"

Tall.

Elegant.

Imperious.

The Frenchman was immaculately dressed, beautifully coiffed, and dangerously intent.

Tony took but two strides to position himself between Jethro and the enemy. "Not this time."

Rochefort laughed. "Is that any way to greet so old a friend?"

"We were never friends."

"Aw! How can you say that? Taking a man's eye is such an intimate moment."

Jethro's eyebrows rose, though he never moved to try and intervene. His instincts warned him there were others in the car who seemed likely to attack at the most opportune moment.

Tony's laughter was dark.

It came out like a short, hard bark.

The black patch over his foe's right eye, hid what he knew to be a scar thickened socket of ugly, twisted flesh that gave Rochefort a menacing shadow down his face.

"The last thing intimate with you probably had four legs, and fleas."

Jethro tried not to snort at Tony's comment.

"You humiliated me," Rochefort growled.

"Repeatedly. But you started this pissing contest." His ears caught the familiar sound of weapons being drawn, and hasty whispers from the direction of his plane.

When Kate - her feet bare so as not to be too overt - started creeping down the passenger boarding stairs and back into the hangar, a sword in each hand, Tony wanted to cheer her bravery and laugh at the irony of it all. That McGee had most certainly argued with her, and Ducky had doubtless warned her off for interfering, seemed somehow irrelevant.

Fate would have her intervene.

Trouble was, she'd forgotten that Rochefort had the most excellent Vampire senses too, and he clearly saw her over Tony's shoulder, tossing his hair back as though in defiance of such foolishness.

"Well now, Antonio! She's even prettier than when we first met. You know how much I appreciate them feisty though, eh? There's nothing like the sensation of claws down your back as they realize they cannot fight any more." He licked his lips slowly, apparently more than ready to taste her charms right there on the spot.

Unsurprisingly, Kate froze, poised at the bottom step, nowhere near as inconspicuous as she'd hoped to be.

A frown crossed her brow.

She hesitated.

"Of course, he did not tell you of such matters did he, little one?"

Kate's expression changed to one of glaring anger as the Frenchman addressed her in the most lascivious tone.

"Tell me what?" she demanded, ignoring the way Tony kept shaking his head. She knew her colleague was attempting to warn her off, and she knew full well that engaging any dangerous opponent in personal conversation was a risk of unpredictable proportions, but she did it anyway. She just wasn't sure why.

There was an odd familiarity to what was happening, that she couldn't quite shake.

"You started the whole thing, little one," Rochefort leered. "This is all your fault."

Tony's hatred was deep and intense. "She has nothing to do with this. The Mam'selle you were attempting to rape back then, didn't want your sweaty body all over her either, let alone your pathetically sized dick in her snatch. But Richelieu never taught you the word 'no' why you were busy sucking on his teat, huh?"

Rochefort pulled the sword he had been holding at his side. "Oh, yes there he is! The so very gallant Musketeer sticking his own manhood where it didn't belong."

"Go to hell," Tony hissed. "I'm sure your boss could use the company."

With Rochefort's attention drawn back to his main target, Kate watched, swords ready for a sign that her original plan to lend assistance was not entirely in vain.

Behind her on the plane, she could sense McGee, readying his gun.

Tense.

Steady.

When Tony blinked at her, Kate threw him the blade in her right hand, arcing it so the pommel flew at him first.

It was perfect.

Like something from a movie, shot in slow motion.

She about squeed when Tony leapt to his left and snagged the sword from the air, but he never actually got to Rochefort.

Four guys swarmed out of the car, all homing straight for him.

It was fast.

Tony got pulled away from Jethro in an instant, fighting hard.

Kate never paused, throwing the other sword to her boss.

She had no idea if he even knew how to use one, but as Rochefort came at him with his own blade, she had no other choice.

And neither did Gibbs.

McGee, picking up no heartbeats amongst the attackers, suddenly had no use whatsoever for his gun, and he reached instead for a sword from Ducky, who inside the plane had the weapons racks open and ready.

He had seen precisely how Tony was left after losing his Mate the last time, and he feared for him desperately should it happen again, knowing there would likely be no bringing him back.

But just as Rochefort stepped in Jethro's space, he was thrust away from where he stood, shoved aside by a previously unseen arm that belonged to a man whose presence was both unexpected and remarkably effective.

One of the Frenchman's cronies came to the assistance of his employer, lunging forward to intercept the newcomer, but he was in no way ready for the fierce blow that hit him right at the elbow and dislocated his arm.

After that, there was little the Rogue could do to hold onto his sword, and the guy he'd gone up against, who for all his rugged, age-lined features and silver hair was both quick and powerful, snagged the falling blade only to bring it up and swiftly decapitate it's owner.

Unperturbed by what was merely a minor scuffle in his opinion, Rochefort simply sneered and advanced on Gibbs once more.

McGee moved past Kate, concerned solely with Jethro's safety, and yet his determination was not strictly necessary.

"Get on the plane," Gibbs growled.

And McGee was frozen, caught between orders he knew not to refuse, and instincts he knew not to ignore.

"Now, Tim!"

McGee never took his eyes off Rochefort.

The sounds of Tony fighting his own attackers, seemed like they were coming from a million miles away.

"Go!!" Jethro was done being polite.

Kate however, had no desire to leave. "We can't abandon him!" she cried, Tim hauling her backward into the fuselage. "We can't…"

Rochefort laughed quite joyfully. "So, you know who I am?" He swished the tip of his sword through the air most flamboyantly. "Which means dear Antonio has finally told you of his nature."

Gibbs followed his opponent's movements, unconcerned by the stranger who was then lending his strength to Tony's defense quite readily.

"Et le vôtre, Grenouille. Ce qui rend ce plus d'un combat que vous ne pensez." Jethro gave nothing away, but as Rochefort struck, he parried swiftly.

Easily.

It was enough to give the Frenchman pause.

Jethro allowed himself an evil smile.

And the fight was on.

Heavy.

Hard.

Thrust.

Parry.

Block.

Repeat.

Dancing around each other.

But Jethro knew he could only last so long.

He was human.

Against a Vampire.

He would tire, but Rochefort would not.

Tony took a blow to his lower left arm, sufficient to cut clear through his overcoat, his jacket, his shirt, and a considerable amount of muscle.

It had him hissing in pain, but steeled his anger.

The first Rogue who stood against him, fell in the time it took for Tony's injury to start healing.

He grimaced, more pissed about his coat sleeve than the blood he had lost.

The second Rogue vanished in a column of dust as his head was severed neatly from the rest of this body by an old and well met friend.

They grinned at one another.

Tony swung fast as a final sword came at him, its edge slicing so close to his right ear he heard it scream for his death. Ducking low and away, he turned to bring his own weapon up, point first, spearing it into the last Rogue's gut, whereupon his friend took a mighty swipe and beheaded the stunned fool, who gaped with surprise as he vanished in a rush of swirling gray particles.

"Leonard!" Tony exclaimed. "What the hell are you doing here? Not that I mind, of course…"

He stood up and checked his arm.

A little blood still trickled from below his ruined cuff, but his flesh was almost healed, leaving nothing but a blurry line of raw skin and an annoying itch.

"Hoping for a lift." Lenny Brisco brushed Rogue dust off his sleeves. "Seems I turned up just in time."

"Yeah! Thanks…" Tony patted him fondly on the shoulder, but his concern was not exactly bent on finding out where his fellow Clansman had suddenly come from.

He had to move.

He had to throw himself into the contest between Jethro and Rochefort.

He had to stop what he knew was coming.

It never registered in his mind - at least not at that point - just how it was that Jethro knew the art of some pretty decent sword fighting.

But he couldn't move to help.

Not anywhere near fast enough.

For what happened, came far swifter than even his Vampire senses could determine at first.

Rochefort struck with a series of heavy, precise blows that ended in him hooking Jethro's sword from his hand.

It was a complex move.

And it opened still further, the physical gap between them and the spot where Tony stood.

The loose weapon clattered across the tarmac.

Rochefort smirked in triumph.

Tony wailed his denial.

Not again.

He couldn't do it.

Not again.

The massive explosion of a gunshot, and the resulting spray of blood that blew in a red veil from Rochefort's head, was not exactly what Tony had imagined happening next.

He froze, as in slow motion his enemy toppled over backward like a felled tree, the entire rear portion of his skull blown clear away.

Jethro, 9mm Glock still in hand, managed to look wholly innocent for someone who had just put a bullet precisely between his opponent's eyes.

"Never underestimate a Marine," he said simply, before being smothered in Tony's arms.

The Vampire held him, sword discarded, pulling him close and refusing to let go. "I though I lost you!" He was shaking, and he couldn't stop.

"I told you to trust me," Jethro murmured.

He was not exactly the kind of person prone to hugging very much, but he permitted it mainly because he needed the support to stay upright.

Everyone in the plane crowded to the door to try and see what was going on, regardless of any more potential gunfire erupting.

Lenny grinned, fetching the lost weapons that were lying around before they could be left behind as possible evidence of some otherwise unusual crime.

Finally, Jethro pulled back, but only to give Tony a hard and passionate kiss.

A brief round of applause from their audience swiftly ensued.

Tony blinked, his eyes wet with tears. "How did you learn to fight like that?"

"Semper Fi," Jethro answered bluntly.

"With a sword, I meant!"

"I saw The Three Musketeers as a kid," he chuckled lightly, "and something always told me I'd need to know that stuff some day." He offered a smile to offset the tension. "I'm okay at it."

"Okay? You were magnificent!" Tony shuddered though, struggling to contain himself and keep his racing emotions in better check.

"Now, we finish this thing." Jethro glared at the stranger, holding a hand out for one of the swords he was bearing. "Take his head off. Problem solved."

Tony sniffed. "No." He looked at Lenny too, who duly back away.

"What? This…" Jethro kicked the leg of the seemingly lifeless body at his feet. "…Rochefort is a Vampire, right?"

"Yes, but we cannot stoop to killing a downed man."

Gibbs holstered his gun. "This creature has plagued you, hurt those you care about, and done it with utter impunity for centuries. This can end! If I hadn't lost my blade, I would have ended it anyway!"

Tony's expression was brimming with hate as he glared down at Rochefort's bloody corpse. "I want him gone too. I really do. But we live by a Code…" He swallowed the bile in his throat. "I live by a Code. And there is no honor whatever in killing the defenseless."

Jethro stared at him intently, gauging his words. "How long before he wakes?" It still seemed completely ridiculous to even so much as contemplate how someone with so devastating an injury as had been inflicted upon Rochefort's head, might stand up and fully recover, but Gibbs figured his perspectives on reality had done some serious shifting in the last few hours.

"His throat and jaw are intact. Getting sustenance into him will be messy and horrible, but not impossible. Healing is not an exact science but he should be talking inside 24 hours." Tony licked his lips, feeling nauseous with the smell of so much blood in the immediate vicinity. "We need to leave. He'll have others come looking for him soon enough."

Lenny scooted around them and onto the plane.

"Who was that?" Jethro asked.

"One of the first Clan Vampires in the United States. He's a friend. You can trust him."

"A cop?"

"Yeah! How d'you know?"

"He way he threw himself into the fight. Figured he was military at first."

Tony nodded, steering him up the waiting steps and into the jet, where upon Abby quite literally launched herself at the pair of them.

"Oh! My! God!!" she shrieked. "You two were like totally badass!! That was completely insane!!!"

"I couldn't keep her back any more," Gerald grimaced, rubbing what would be some fine bruises on his arms by tomorrow. He looked suitably apologetic, but his friend had been impossible to keep from the window, despite all of Ducky's hushed warnings that they should stay well out of the way and let the fight take it's course.

"You're bleeding!"

It was Kate who spotted the tear in Tony's sleeve, and Jethro forced himself from his concerned colleague's embrace in order to reach for the Vampire's arm, not even hesitating to rip the rest of the material open.

The red stain on Tony's white shirt was a stark contrast to the apparent lack of serious injury beneath it, as all that remained of what had been a vicious cut half way to his elbow, was but a thin and increasingly faint scar.

"Whoa!" Abby was wide-eyed as Jethro touched the mark, sliding his finger over it as though to check for himself that he wasn't imagining things. And with that the entire scar just disappeared, seemingly wiped away at his bidding.

McGee chuckled at the strange expressions on both his Sire's face, and that of his boss. "He's healthy and well Fed. Healing happens faster that way," he explained.

"But you had to Feed off me," Gerald reminded him.

"I had a deeper wound. I lost a lot more blood. Feeding got me healing better than if I'd left it." Tim grinned at Tony. "You want a blood packet?"

"I'm good," he answered.

"Well, you're getting one anyway," Ducky assured him, disappearing into the back of the plane.

Kate nodded. "Someone want to explain why the guy out there is still there?"

Jethro growled.

Tony shrugged, pulling his arm back.

Lenny secured the weapons. "We getting out of here at some point, or waiting for Rochefort's back up to amble in?"

"And you are…?" Kate asked.

"Eager to leave," he replied jovially, giving her a rakish smile.

She snorted, but wasn't insulted. "You're a Vampire?"

"Yep."

"Sylum Clan?"

"Yep."

"One of Tony's? Like McGee here?"

"Nope."

Tony laughed.

Kate very nearly flipped them both off until Jethro growled again to shut them up.

"Childe of Hugh Beringar," Lenny chuckled, giving her a break, "Lord of the Realm, Head of Security for Camelot Clan."

Tony sighed heavily. "Thanks, man. I was saving a few things to talk about on the flight."

"Then you are most very welcome," he replied, faking as decent an English accent as he could still remember how to muster.

Gerald and Kate both took deep breaths and opened their mouths to ask a fresh barrage of questions, when Tony shuddered and brushed off his tattered sleeve in a brief flurry of gray dust.

Jethro watched him, puzzled and concerned. "What was that?"

Abby grabbed Tony by the wrist and examined the wound site again, holding up his shredded shirt. It was white once more.

"What the hell?" she demanded more excitement in her voice than horror.

Ducky reappeared just in time, a medical blood pouch in each hand. "Ah! Yes, a literal marvel! Of all the physical elements removed from the person of a Vampire, none can be retained for very long without turning to dust. Skin cells, hair, and of course blood, as you can see. Even larger parts will eventually be reduced to particles, but they will regrow. Arms, feet, legs, fingers, entire hands. It's a most fascinating medical phenomenon…"

Abby squeed.

Jethro glared at Tony. "You've had parts 'grow back'?" he asked archly.

DiNozzo felt a certain heat start creeping up his neck from under his collar. "It's going to be a fun trip, huh?"


***


Nick closed his eyes and finally settled back against the pillows on the bed, in the private room at the back of Lady Heather's personal plane.

The headache that had been loitering for hours across his brow, kicked in full force once they were airborne, and he retired to the relative darkness behind a lockable door, before he was reduced to actually shanking people.

Somewhere in his farthest memory, he could clearly recall trips to the Baths, and expeditions to the local market with his four small children back in Rome, all of which had been easier to cope with and far better organized that his current situation.

He cringed, but the strong and certain hands that gently tugged off his shoes and helped him get more comfortable, were as welcome as any cool cloth to the temples.

"So tell me what happened with Catherine?" he asked, only to be rewarded with Warrick's richly toned chuckle.

"Those women will be the end of me," his Mate replied quietly, scooting onto the bed beside him, and giving a grateful groan at finally getting some rest. "I haven't had to yell like that in a long time."

"I thought I felt Captain Calhoun coming out."

Warrick's snort was a warm puff of breath to Nick's neck. "Lily brought Lindsey home, so you can imagine how that went."

"Oooh!" Nick cringed again.

"Uh-huh! Catherine came down the stairs with her bags, and just about threw them at me. They had a big ol' fight, right in front of my face like I wasn't even standing there. Lindsey flounced to her room, and believe me, that girl can stomp across a floor."

"You just stood there?"

"Didn't really have anywhere else to be right then." He knew why Catherine was pissed. He also knew she had a right to be. Some secrets sucked worse than actually discovering them in the first place, and the Flynn women certainly had their fair share. "Lily was all over me, 'cause hey! Y'know how the Warrick charm gets to the ladies," he purred.

"And she always had the hots for thick, black dick."

"What can I say? I'm just that good."

It was Nick's turn to chuckle.

He'd watched his Mate get more than the occasional Chosen One climaxing on a sexual high by indulging more than just his fangs in the biting process, but Lily Flynn had always been special, and he once admitted that her Soul seemed familiar to him from somewhere in the past, though he wasn't sure where.

Nick thought it was likely the Meridius blood in her veins, but he never actually said that out loud, and he knew he owed Catherine a lot of explanation for that at some point, preferably once he got his most immediate concern for his Clan figured out.

"She's still got a photo from when she came to the Manor. You remember that? Catherine was like three years old, I think."

Nick frowned.

It made his head hurt more.

"She came for a vacation. Sam Braun was being an asshole." Warrick kept encouraging him, or trying to, sliding his arms around him and pressing his body to his Mate, being protective and assertive.

Nick sighed softly. "I'd forgotten."

"It was only a few days. But Lily has a picture of me holding Cath, right there by the front doors. I'd forgotten it too. You should've seen her face. She nearly passed out."

"Catherine?

"Seriously. Lily's been carrying it around in her purse, waiting for the right time to tell her. It wasn't subtle. But it worked. She's willing to believe everything now."

"Good. It'll make things easier." Nick turned a little and snuggled against his Pirate's chest. "What about Lindsey?"

"I think she's adopted Greg," Warrick snickered. "I yelled at her. She hates me. Typical kid stuff, but she wanted to stay with Lily and I wasn't going to have it. Lily's a smart woman. She knows what to do, where to go, who to call if the shit hits the fan. I wasn't about to leave her with a child to take care of too. I don't think Braun is in on whatever's going down with us right now, but why give him an opening?"

Nick growled, but it was a tired gesture. "Lily didn't want to come with her family?"

"She did, but Catherine didn't. I don't think she liked that picture of her mom all over me."

"Good thing she never saw her mom on her knees for you then, huh?" Nick teased, Warrick's laughter a warm rumbling sensation against his shoulder.

"Man, that woman knows how to blow…"

The sudden rush of arousal that Nick felt through the Bond, was a reminder that over the last few years he and his Mate had not spent anywhere near enough time with each other. Their history together was riddled with occasions when they had been apart, either by choice or circumstance, and while reunion was always sweet - its anticipation worth the pain of separation - he had to admit that the way things had turned out in Vegas, with the two of them forced to live different lives while being daily in close proximity at work, was more trying to the Soul than he really appreciated until then.

Warrick blinked. "Wait! You saw? Me and Lily?"

Nick grinned. "A few times."

"Really?"

"Yeah…"

"You never said!"

"Why would I? You're beautiful when you're hot and horny. I didn't want to disturb the moment. And Lily was certainly into it. You don't disturb a lady when she's going for the jackpot."

His words were getting his Mate hot and horny right there, sure enough.

"She was always enthusiastic," he admitted, grinning wolfishly.

Nick licked his lips, having known for a long time about Warrick's particular fondness for petite white women. "And you certainly knew how to reward her."

"She'd come after that the moment I bit her. You never asked her for the same?"

"No, she was fonder of you."

"You know, she doesn't do that any more, right? Not since she had Catherine."

"You don't Feed on her?"

"Not since she went on that medication for her blood pressure."

Nick squirmed closer to him, pushing his hips gently and repeatedly into Warrick's increasingly hot groin. He was not really all that interested in the details by then. "How's your blood pressure?" he murmured.

"It's getting higher," Warrick answered, drawing his hands up his Mate's back. "How's your headache?"

"Which one?"

"The one with two legs."

Nick groaned, settling down again. "You gonna make me talk 'bout that?"

"Get it out of your system."

"Gil was a sullen sonofabitch all the way here." He rolled his eyes. "Never said a word until he got on the plane and found Lady Heather waiting for us."

"I'd love to have heard that scream."

"To a perfectly anticipated countdown. He had no idea about her. Not one. The man gets between her legs, the Gods know how many times, and he never once figures out she's got no heartbeat? He might know from bugs, but he's an idiot when it comes to people, and worse with Vampires."

"He knows you saw him with her?" Warrick was incredulous.

"Oh, no! I'm saving that one, but when he found out she's my Sire, I thought his head was going to explode." He snorted. "I didn't know it was possible to go that many shades of purple in the face."

Warrick laughed heartily. "What did she say?"

"Oh, you know how she is, all firm eyes and slightly disappointed tone. She hugged me. She told me she would keep a low profile, stay at the main house with Evy, and lock the doors. If she hears something, anything, she'll call. She's worried, but she's dealt with worse."

There was no arguing with that.

Warrick scowled. "She should be with us."

"Like I don't know that." He'd had one confrontation too many in the previous few days, and he was far past being done with the lot of it, let alone searching for that proverbial 'crossed line' any more. "Greg turned up in a cab just before you got here. No money for the fare. Spent his emergency $50 at Starbucks last week." He grunted. "Idiot."

Warrick had to agree. "He know anyone with fresh information on our Clan problem?"

"He told Archie to lay low and keep his mouth shut, but he got nothing from any of the Chosen he sees outside of work."

"You still think this is an attack on Clan Leadership?"

"Yes. No one knows anything, which means someone's kept their cards close to their chest. Close enough that no one suspects anything, anywhere. Someone is testing our strengths, and they will try again."

Warrick nodded, the pressure of old anxiety settling over him. "At least you had Brass for backup."

"Seriously? You're kidding now, right? He's had a stupid grin on his face since he realized he'd be seeing his Mate again soon. Not that I can blame him. He just got on the plane, sat down, buckled up. Didn't say a damn word, or do a damn thing."

"He'll keep tabs on Sara, Al and Bobby."

"Oh, I know." Nick stretched, moaning as his back straightened out.

He'd had a rough few days, a little too much alcohol, not enough sleep, insufficient chance to Feed properly, and with the added stresses he was not exactly in the best place for dealing with morons. He wanted his own home, his own blissfully private rooms, his own shower, his own bed, and his Manservant for a little pampering self-indulgence.

If Fate allowed him that.

Which he figured it probably wouldn't.

Warrick kissed him on the forehead. "How can I get you to rest a while?"

They'd figured from their pilot, and current headwinds, they'd be in the air about 3 hours.

Time enough for a nap.

"On your knees, Pirate," Nick growled.

And Warrick obeyed.

Instantly.

Wiggling down the bed, he popped open his Mate's jeans, unzipping his fly, and tugging his pants over his hips.

He adored Nick's cock.

Already halfway hard, it barely took much to get him fully swollen and leaking, but Warrick wasn't taking any chances, and he worked the hot, silky flesh in his mouth, using every ounce of skill he had to make his lover pant and whine. With hands that knew their way in the most intimate detail, all over Nick's body, he manipulated the sensitive and sweat slicked skin of the heavy balls that tightened firmly as he sucked all the way to the root of his Mate's erection, and swallowed hard against the solid head at the back of his throat.

Nick thrust in deeper, craving more, gasping with need, his fingers burrowed in the comforter. He wanted to spread his legs, offer all of himself to his lover, feel the stretch of being opened, the wet swipe of Warrick's probing tongue over his hole. He wanted to clench his cheeks around the girth of his Mate's long, rigid, black cock.

He shuddered.

All else was forgotten for a while as he teetered on the edge of release.

Then Warrick dropped his fangs, nipping them into his rampant erection at the very base, just enough to draw blood.

And he came with an unconstrained scream of pure pleasure.

Outside, Greg clapped his hands over Lindsey's ears.

Catherine look horrified and impressed simultaneously.

Brass smirked loudly and tried to cover his amusement with a hand to his mouth.

While Grissom ran to the bathroom like a man possessed.

"Is Uncle Warrick hurting Uncle Nick?" Lindsey asked innocently.

And Catherine nearly choked as she drew a breath. She couldn't believe what she'd just heard, but while she was in part quite disgusted, she was also weirdly proud of Nick and Warrick, and more than a little turned on.

"No, he's fine," Greg replied, letting her go, and eyeing the bathroom door as he did so.

Lady Heather had pulled him aside before he even got on the plane, urging him to keep a special eye on Gil in the next few days. In fact, she had been most insistent - if rather vague on reasoning - but he knew better than to argue. Still, he really wasn't sure how to deal with his Boss when he ran off every time something uncomfortable came up with Nick.

It wasn't exactly the first time, after all, that Greg had heard a pair of Vampires enjoying each other.

Brass waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Damn! Someone pulled out all the stops," he muttered, certainly impressed that his oldest friend had gotten his Clan Leader screaming that hard that fast, without at least a three day window of opportunity.

Catherine chuckled. She'd been clutching the photo her mother had shown her, of the man she knew as Warrick Brown, holding a pretty little three-year-old redhead in his arms, out by the door to some apparently Olde Worlde Southern Plantation House. It was a source of such fascination, she found it hard to put it down.

She'd always thought Warrick was attractive.

The way he smiled.

The protective streak he had no trouble treating her with, even when things were stressful, annoying and tense.

Those huge, and yet elegant hands of his…

She licked her lips, knowing full well that right up until she figured he was in a relationship with Nick, she would have freely slept with him and enjoyed every minute of it.

Then she found her own mother had probably beaten her to it, and she still had no idea how to deal with that.

Lindsey had given up on getting much out of her by way of explanation for their unexpected trip, and sat instead with Greg, who told them all stories of his Grandpa Olaf from Norway, who had come to San Francisco to fish and wound up with a considerable business he'd finally left to his son, who seriously preferred cooking fish to catching them, and who sold the company to finance a growing string of successful seafood restaurants.

Greg, not being much of a chef himself, had not followed his own father, but gone instead into science, preferring books about DNA and forensic chemistry, to baked cod and sautéed shrimp. Grandpa Olaf retired to New Orleans, and took tourists out on his own modestly sized boat from time to time, all along the Mississippi, where he could help keep something of an eye on his Grandson Gregory.

Catherine suddenly realized she had no idea how Greg's family had come to know about Vampires to begin with, other than a connection to New Orleans, but she had the feeling it was probably way back before ever Grandpa Olaf though of leaving his native environment and setting in America.

Gil emerged from the bathroom just as Warrick slipped out of the bedroom, clicking the door shut very carefully and quietly behind himself.

Naturally, everyone stared at the two of them as they came face to face.

Warrick deliberately licked his lips, wiping the corners of his mouth and grinning like the proverbial cat who got the prize canary, before strutting through the plane to take his seat, more than happy with getting the perfect chance to demonstrate for Gil Grissom, exactly why his ridiculous emotional attachment to Nick was entirely misplaced. He'd been longing to smack the man down for a while, after everything he'd done to his Mate, and though he'd actually been imagining something better, he took the opportunity for what it was.

Gladly.

In turn, Gil found himself stuck on a plane that for all its high end amenities and distractions provided no escape from the obvious when it was right there in front of him. With nothing to say, and no where to go, he flopped down in the nearest seat he could find, avoiding Catherine's stare and Jim's smirk.

"Nick's asleep," Warrick said softly, having left his Mate neatly cleaned up and redressed but totally out of it, settled and snoring gently on the bed, a blanket over his knees. "I would absolutely not suggest waking him until we're set to land."


***


"Agador! Agador!!"

Speed rolled his eyes.

Repeatedly.

"Agador! Listen to me…?"

He was two seconds away from yelling at the man in Guatemalan.

"No! No, Agador! Put Armand on the line. Armand! Not…"

He sighed, took his phone and vanished into the office, shutting the door.

Which Horatio promptly opened again in following right behind him.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes, Albert. Everything is good. I just need a quick word with Armand."

Speed crashed into what was technically his Papa's chair behind the desk.

It didn't shock him that his Mate was concerned. Their Bond had been alive with flickering anxieties for some hours, and it showed no desire to settle any time soon.

"Albert! Albert!! Put Armand on the damn phone! No, no Albert. No, he will always love you. Yes. You're Mated. Yes, I remember. No, no he didn't mean that. You're still Mated, Albert."

Horatio grinned.

He just couldn't help himself.

"Armand! Finally! Yes, you heard. Well, I'd've been shocked if you hadn't. The rumors are true. For once!"

He rolled his eyes again most dramatically as Horatio perched on the edge of the desk.

"Yes. I know laying low is a physical impossibility for you. But take extra precautions right now."

Speed frowned.

"Precautions, Armand. Exactly. You know how to reach me if you hear anything. No, Ike is not in the country right now. Just don't worry about him. He's well taken care of. You know that."

He paused.

"This could get weird. Oh, I know. Okay. Okay, okay. Thanks."

Putting his cell down, it slid across the polished desktop as the plane struck a little turbulence.

Horatio adjusted his stance. "Somehow, they always know," he smirked.

"You know The Birdcage?" Speed felt stupid for asking, but it never actually crossed his mind that his Mate would be familiar with the oldest gay club in Miami. Then again, Horatio knew everyone, or at least it always seemed like it.

The redhead chuckled. "New Years Eve, 1989. I was just about to leave Bomb Squad for CSI. My last case was at The Birdcage. Someone drugged Agador and strapped a bomb to his chest. It was crude, but pretty effective - meant as an anti-gay statement. I think they wanted him to freak, run out into the street and go boom! He was really very level-headed though, about all of it. There was nothing in the way of serious panic or injury. I suited up, went in, talked him through it. He was good. Very calm. Of course I had no idea about him then, that came later. But I can say, without doubt, it was the only time I've ever seen him sit still."

Speed chortled. "I heard the story. I just didn't know that whole thing was you."

Horatio nodded.

"Honey, that suit does nothing for your ass!"

"He's so hot!"

"Oh, he's gorgeous! Did you see those eyes?"

"A redhead!"

"Hmmm I do love freckles."

"I love a nice cute redhead!!"

There was enough squeeing and gasping going on, to have him giggling in equal amounts of relief and amusement after the bomb was defused. Getting out of the suit that was meant to protect him in the event of an explosion, always took time, and a couple of spare hands to remove. And he was stood there while, in front of the curious partygoers and New Years Eve revelers, an object of much admiration and some serious lusting by the Transvestite and Transexual community, for whom The Birdcage was a positive Mecca.

A few of the cops who had set the safe distance perimeter, yelled at them to shut up with their harassment, until he told them it was really okay.

Let the crowd have their fun.

Better that, than a night in jail. On that of all nights…

"Every New Years Eve since, Armand has sent me an invitation to The Birdcage. VIP. I never miss it." He smiled warmly. "I just didn't know until now, that they were Vampires. It explains so much."

Speed snickered. "They've been around since South Beach was little old ladies and cocaine boys. The Birdcage really took off on New Years after your intervention."

"Indeed."

"I crash there now and then if I'm too tired to drive."

"You know how many drug dealers their information has helped put away?"

"I can guess. No one ever imagines they could be a threat. It's perfect, really. They're always a safe haven, and they're good at keeping tabs on a layer of society that's barely ever considered."

"How big is their network?"

"Way bigger than you'd think."

Horatio was impressed. He tapped the sunglasses he'd stashed in the breast pocket of his jacket. "Albert sends them. Regular as clockwork. Said they would make me look hot."

Speed licked his lips, admiring the slightly self-conscious blush on his Mate's face. "He's always right. Gotta love him for that. He's the reason I've got all those blue shirts in my closet, and none of them fit."

"Your shirts never fit!"

"Well," Speed laughed softly, "they do sometimes."

He in fact, had more blue shirts than there were days in a solar year, sufficient to cover every shade in the visible spectrum. As a Crime Scene Investigator, he'd had to ditch more than a few over the years, having wound up after some particularly filthy shifts, with the urgent desire to trash every single article of clothing he'd gotten dressed in that morning.

Horatio reached for his Mate's hand, twining their fingers together.

For a while they sat, simply enjoying the chance to be with each other.

"We've got about an hour until we land," the redhead finally murmured. "Why don't you try and get some rest?"

After hearing that Tony had been attacked at the airport, Speed had sunk into a grim silence that was deeply foreboding. Though he'd spoken to his brother for some time, and ascertained that all was as well as could be hoped for given the stress, it added to the sense that there was more still to come.

"I can't sleep much," Speed confessed.

"I'd noticed that." Horatio smiled at him chidingly. "You should still try."

"Are you going to nag me?"

"Relentlessly."

He snorted at the redhead, wishing they were going home for better reasons than threat assessment and prevention. "You need to be aware, H. With Rochefort gone after Tony, Stillson will come to make himself known. I guarantee it."

"Why did you Turn him?" He'd heard only part of the story so far, though it genuinely felt like he could say that about everything lately.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time, seeing he was a friend back then. He was actually one of my teachers…" Speed sniffed.

Mostly in disgust.

"…if you could really call him that. Spirituality. Latin interpretation. That stuff mostly."

"That look on your face says everything."

"I need to kill him at some point. I just haven't got around to it."

"It's hard," Horatio sighed, "even now, to think of you in terms of killing." He frowned and shifted a little.

"Get used to it. Whatever else might be in store when we arrive, I won't hesitate to protect those I love."

"That, Tim, I absolutely do not doubt."


***


Tony sat for over two hours, nursing a mug of warm blood, staring out the window with an inscrutable expression on his face.

He ignored everyone, and everything, choosing the solitude of his personal cabin over the noise of endlessly flowing questions from his friends.

He knew he owed them all far better than the silent treatment they were getting from him, but the confrontation with Rochefort had left him hanging in limbo somewhere between the horror of what could so easily have been, and the ceaseless screaming urgency of the Vampire to just go Claim his Mate while he still could.

Clutching the mug at least stopped his hands from shaking, and talking to his brother had calmed his agitation, but he feared for his sanity if he didn't Claim Jethro soon.

He needed to be home.

He needed his Papa.

He was frazzled beyond all belief.

He needed to ready himself for Rochefort's inevitable revenge.

If taking the man's eye had left him with an assertion complex, he hated to see what taking the back of his head off would induce.

He had to get Jethro ready for that.

He needed his Mate.

That was what it all came down to.

Until Leroy Jethro Gibbs was Turned and Bonded to him, Antonio figured he would be a pretty shitty Second-in-Command for Nicolaus.

"Sir?" His pilot interrupted him over the intercom. "Please come up to the cockpit. An important message is coming in from your Clan Leader."


New Orleans


Nick had woken just before the place began its descent.

His skin was crawling.

Damp and sticky, and covered in goosebumps, he felt through his Childe Bond with Speed, a familiar and growing unease. His boy had a gift - a powerful, yet troubling ability to sense things on an instinctual level, that was not always reliable yet was ignored only at great personal risk.

He leapt out of bed.

Whatever it was, it was brewing.

A dark anticipation of what might yet be.

Nick dashed to the small bathroom and hastily threw some water on his face, then with his cheeks still dripping, adjusted his pants and reached for his shoes.

Warrick slipped into the room. "You think there's trouble?" he asked simply, frowning. But one glance at his Mate's expression answered that question sure enough. "I'll make certain everyone is armed."

And with that, he was gone again.

Nick sighed.

He hated this shit.

But ultimately, he knew it was happening too perfectly to be random chance.

He had a traitor in his Clan.

Offering a prayer to the Ancestors he knew were always watching over him, he left the room and quietly took a seat in the main cabin for landing, just as Warrick explained to their guests that in the event of an attack on the ground by Rogue Vampires, they should shoot for the head and ask questions later.

Much later.

That Lady Heather's plane came with a considerable and highly sophisticated armory, didn't seem to be freaking anyone out though.

Greg had a sword.

So too Jim.

Catherine was concerned only for Lindsey.

Gil was not impressed by much of anything.

Apparently.

Nick closed his eyes.

There were bigger concerns in the world than Gilbert Grissom.

The plane landed smoothly enough, and taxied to a stop at the Private Hangars, where 2 SUVs were waiting for them, their drivers stood poised for reception.

Jack, Heather's pilot, a former NTSB Investigator who'd retired a few years before, secured the aircraft and opened the door, lowering the steps.

Nick was on the tarmac a moment later, leaving Warrick to get the others moving.

"Jimmy? Noah?"

The Hunters who had come to fetch them, were far more alert and aware of their surroundings than their easy stances and laid back attitudes suggested, although they snapped to full attention the very instant they saw their Clan Leader.

"All we got is a bad feeling," Jimmy said quickly, answering the unspoken question he knew was coming.

With his jacket open, the matched pair of guns he wore on shoulder holsters, were a solid reassurance of his particular skills.

"It's too quiet." Noah's dark eyes were intent, not on Nick but the immediate vicinity, watchful for anything that might signal a threat coming their way.

"Tony had a run in with Rochefort and friends. He's good. Everyone's okay," Jimmy assured his Leader, having been fielding calls for a while. "I know you must've felt it from him."

Nick nodded. Of all the Bonds he had forged over his 1600 years or so, those with Antonio and Timothy were amongst the closest and tightest. "Fill me in on the way."

He turned back to the plane as Brass got Greg and Gil out and into the first car. Catherine was close behind them.

They were thankfully not wasting any time in getting moving, having packed only the minimum of luggage they could carry for themselves.

Warrick had a sleepy Lindsey in his arms.

He was right there on the center of the steps.

At the sound of a rifle bolt sliding into place, Nick's head cocked back.

He moved.

Fast.

So did Warrick, pulling the child close to his chest, and diving for the car.

The first shot hit the step where he'd been stood.

Jimmy drew both guns and turned swiftly in the direction the bullet came from, his eyes narrowing as he focused in on the muzzle flash that came with each following shot.

Nick felt Warrick absorb the impact of falling against the SUV, his shoulder saving the little girl from harm.

It was Gil who reached for her, leaning out of the car regardless of his own safety, drawing her inside and holding her down near the floor.

Noah, knowing Jimmy had the shooter pinned, scooted to the vehicle, slid behind the wheel and was pulling out of the hangar with a squeal of rubber, before anything else could get in the way to stop him, or Catherine even got the rear passenger door shut.

As much as he detested leaving his Mate behind him, Jimmy's calm spray of rapid gunfire was enough for him to take seriously, and to steady himself with.

Warrick scrambled behind the other SUV.

Nick launched himself up the steps and fell into the plane. His senses told him there was more than one Rogue gun pointing his way, but he was more worried about Jack than himself, and he barely noticed the bullet that grazed along his right thigh from hip to knee, tearing a bloody streak into his denims and carving a long furrow in his skin.

Jack had wisely hit the deck, and with the door still open, he found himself pinned with no way forward to the cockpit radio where he could call for help.

"Nick!" He suddenly had visions of Lady Heather killing him if her Childe was Dusted on his watch. "Get the hell outta here, I can take care of myself!!"

Sylum's Clan Leader was more than confident of that, and rolled hi eyes.

Shots continued to ping off fuselage, echoed by a hail of gunfire from Jimmy and Warrick.

It was difficult to tell how many Rogues stood against them, but it was increasingly irritating.

Nick winked at Jack. "Keep your head down, man," he smirked, leaping for the flight deck, wondering how Lady Heather would smack him if anything happened to her pilot on his watch.

The jet was taking sufficient damage to ensure it wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon, and his hoped he wasn't about to get footed with the bill for repairs, but his main concern was for Tony, whose own plane was due in very shortly.

Reaching for the radio, he found the frequency needed and took a deep breath.

Jimmy got the first shooter.

A shriek, a curse, and a dropped rifle told him he hit the guy through the wrist. Precise and clean.

Closing in on the target position he kept his guns drawn, his senses open to footfalls or suspicious noises that would give away further dangers other than the man whom Warrick was currently keeping busy out between the hangars.

Shots ceased.

Silence fell.

Crouched behind the second SUV, which bore more than a couple of dents in its bodywork for having had the audacity of getting in the way, Warrick paused.

Someone was running.

He tried to pick upon a voice, or other individuals fleeing the scene.

But there was nothing.

He frowned.

Something felt weird.

He just didn't know what.

Yet.

Jimmy crept to the half closed hanger doorway where his assailant had been lurking, using the shadows for protection.

He too heard running then.

The offending rifle that had nearly taken a piece out of Warrick, lay discarded on the concrete floor.

As much as he could have taken off in pursuit of the Rogue he'd hit, the sound of an engine turning over, and a car speeding away somewhere in the middle distance, rather put paid to such intention.

Their attackers were at least prepared enough to have an escape, unlike the bozos he'd heard all about from the first attack on Nick in Vegas.

He poked the rifle with the toe of his right boot. The chances of finding any kind of evidence from it that might help lead them to their foe, was minimal at best. Vampires left no fingerprints or hair, no DNA or traceable elements. But he'd try his best. Nick had, after all, brought some of the country's finest Forensic Scientists with him to New Orleans.

He sighed and holstered his weapons, just as the blood left by the shooter on the doorframe, wall and floor, burst into dust.


***


"Papa?"

Tony took the headset he was offered, and the fresh jolt of anxiety he felt from his Sire, hit him like a blow to the stomach.

"We are under attack on the ground. Recommend diversion. Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base. Call ahead. Have Murdock waiting. All passengers accounted for and out of the area. Keep alert. Warn your guests. Make sure weapons are issued as appropriate."

Nick was all business.

Every inch the Clan Leader.

The Roman General.

"Understood." Tony knew well how to deal with orders.

He obeyed.

And he never argued.

"Confirming Speed's flight is approximately 30 minutes behind you. Advise his pilot to follow you and redirect the cars sent for him."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll see you at home."

Antonio smiled tightly. "Yes, sir!"


***


There were Chosen Ones at the Air Station, but as it turned out, they were more than willing to accommodate agents from NCIS anyway, namely one Leroy Jethro Gibbs, for whom they had the greatest respect, and for whom nothing was too much trouble, including a landing spot away from too many prying eyes, and an emergency diversion for a certain remarkably well known Huey whose particular pilot they had long since given up on trying to rein in.

He was waiting for them, rotors turning, eager to be gone, which thankfully gave them no real chance to consider either the very obvious age, or the rather strange condition of their next mode of transport.

Tony was not exactly in the mood for long-winded explanations, and in many ways, trying to find one for their pilot was nigh on impossible.

"Are we safe in this contraption?" Gerald was the only one to ask once everyone got seated and strapped in.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Ducky chortled, right beside him. "I used to ride in these all the time in Vietnam!"

Kate stared at him.

Gibbs cracked a smile.

Abby whooped as they lifted off.

"Welcome aboard Murdock Airways, boys and girls! Please keep all arms, legs, feet and fangs safely inside the chopper while we are in motion. Estimated arrival time at our destination is approximately a jiffy. Maybe two. Your pilot for today is H.M Murdock in person, owner and operator of this mighty fine piece of aeronautical engineering. There will be no drinking, smoking, or flash photography on your flight. Sick bags are also not provided, but the doors open easily enough should you feel the urge to hurl chunks."

McGee snickered.

"H.M?" Jethro asked, eyeing Tony suspiciously.

"Howling Mad," he replied, watching Kate pale as they rose upward and banked sharply to the left.

She swallowed as her stomach flopped over. "Joy," she said flatly.


***




It was Lance who took the message from Tony about the need to divert, and he arranged with calm professionalism for the cars which were meant to collect them, to change their pick up arrangements.

He had been Nick's personal pilot for the last 20 years, after boldly approaching the Clan's Leader one summer and bluntly making a job of himself. Until then, Nick and the members of Sylum's Ruling Council had always flown with H.M Murdock, and though he'd never screwed with things, it did make air travel amore stressful in than it really needed to be.

Besides, Lance as a dark haired, green-eyed Jackson just like his dad, was only following his father's example. For it had been Philip Jackson who flew with Templeton Peck as one of the Badgers in Vietnam, after also making a job for himself as their pilot.

Philip and his family had been trusted Chosen Ones for decades, and Lance had spent more than the occasional summer at the Manor as a boy. His flying record was immaculate, his face well known and respected, and his name sufficient to warrant a certain special service wherever he flew.

Nick also liked his attitude. He was loyal, and not afraid of being assertive.

He'd stayed in Miami, fully intending to fly Van Helsing back to New Orleans, but he was not exactly at a loss whenever crises struck, and he knew full well how to organize emergency logistics. He'd not expected so many kids, but they were remarkably well behaved, which was a plus.

He'd never really settled, finding it hard to tie a wife to the strange and usually unpredictable schedule he kept, but he'd finally gotten married just a few months before his father retired, and he'd promised to give his parents grandchildren sooner or later. His wife, however, had insisted he learn a little more about being around children first. He was great with planes, radios, air traffic control, weather patterns, difficult landings and instrumentation, but not so much with babies and toddlers. They were tiny entities he didn't fully understand, but he was learning, much to Nick's amusement.

"Tim? Could you come up here?"

He made the necessary course adjustment.

"There's been a situation, sir."


***




Jimmy drove.

Nick was pissed as hell.

Warrick had flailed at his Mate for getting injured, but it was hardly the first time.

Jack had moved the plane, and managed to stow it safely in an adjacent empty hangar, before hitting up a mechanic friend for some airframe assessment and a bed for the night. Nick had naturally been extremely reluctant to leave him where there was a pretty good chance of the Rogues who had attacked them, trying to come finish the job, but the ever resourceful Jack had sworn he would be fine, as he had access to all the weapons stashed on Lady Heather's plane, and knew well how to use each one. He also swore to call Nick the moment anything untoward might cross his path. Just to be safe.

The rifle that Jimmy had most dutifully recovered, lay in the back of the vehicle, and Nick cussed at not having had Bobby come out with them to the Manor.

"Speed's bringing Calleigh," Warrick assured him, while checking his bloody leg. "If there's something on that thing to tell us what, where, when, why, or who, then she'll find it."

"That's the Bullet Girl, right?" Nick wanted very much to bash some heads, but ended up spending most of the drive talking to Heather, apologizing for the delay in returning her jet, and explaining that he would personally foot the bill.

Better to say it early on, before the inevitable invoices landed on his desk.

Not that his Sire's only concern was monetary, but her patient understanding was a comfort to his increasingly resentful anger.

Warrick called ahead to confirm their arrival.

And made damn sure there was blood on hand for his Mate.

Still no one had any idea what was happening, or who was behind it all, but he had the feeling that it was way more sophisticated than some random attacks by hopeless and clearly inexperienced Rogues.

His inner Pirate was rarely wrong about such things.


***


It was Horatio who carried Ray Jr. down the steps and onto the tarmac.

His nephew had fallen asleep despite the initial excitement of being around Vampires. His youthful glee at facing something that was not actually meant to ever exist, had worn him out. Literally.

It was his job to make sure the other kids knew what was going on, and he took his role as their mentor very seriously, especially when his mom told him the truth about Madison.

The two little Caines had just looked at each other and known in that simple, clear, uncluttered way of children not yet made cynical by the world, how they were connected. And they put the adults around them to shame for their silent acceptance of one another.

Eric carried the tiny redhead down to the waiting cars that were idling a few feet away.

Alex and Peter followed him, each with one of their own children in their arms. The Medical Examiner had struggle during the flight, to justify her own belief in the Vampire, until Peter stopped her with a gentle kiss on the cheek.

"You are the most beautiful, level-headed, rational person I know," he'd whispered, his lips to her left ear. "If you tell me to accept that the sky is purple, I'll do it."

She'd giggled, and kissed him back, holding his face in her hands as she did so. "This is going to get very weird."

"And you're a little too late with that particular observation," he'd replied.

But his smile calmed her nerves.

It always did.

Two SUVs and a town car were there at the Air Station for them, and Speed was glad to see their drivers; his relief at nearly being home certainly not lost on his Bond with Horatio.

All Suzie really knew for sure was that Madison needed protecting, and she was happy with that, striking up a connection with Calleigh on the flight, pleased to have someone she could talk to. She didn't know that Frank Tripp had asked the blonde to keep a discreet eye on her while he stayed behind to keep his own ear to the ground.

Everyone was increasingly tired.

Huck nodded at Tim, his expression one of tightly controlled concern as he took charge of his passengers, greeting the Woods family with polite aplomb, and getting them loaded as fast as he could.

Van Helsing rode with him, still fielding text messages from his Hunters and contacts.

Eric passed Madison to Calleigh, who was busy getting the others secured in the second SUV with Yelina.

Horatio got his own family settled, eyeing the driver, who for all his tousle-headed, youthful appearance had no heartbeat.

"Sawyer," he said briskly, holding his hand out to the new Vampire. "They'll be safe with me, Lieutenant."

Caine took the greeting at face value, his eyes narrowing just slightly. "Do you come with a first name, Sawyer?"

"Tom," he replied. "And yes, you should probably forget everything you think you know, about everyone you're going to meet here." He grinned, winking at Calleigh as she stood back from supervising the seatbelt arrangements. "My friends also call me Mark Twain."

She snickered lightly, and glancing across at the other SUV's young chauffeur asked, "That's Huck Finn then, huh?"

"Yeah! How d'ya know?" Tom laughed, liking her accent and her smile, as she tucked her hair behind her ears and blushed.

Horatio snorted a tiny bit as her jaw fell open. "It's going to be educational," he murmured, before bending to pat his sleepy nephew on the head. "I'll ride with Speed. You guys have a safe drive. I'll see you at the other end."

Yelina was wary, naturally, but she knew better than to be open about it. She had her son to consider, which pushed her own personal fears deeper than most.

No one quite knew where they were bound, just that the Vampires had a big plantation of quite serious historical significance, about an hour away by road.

"Mark Twain was an old man when he died," Calleigh countered, "and you, sir, are very much not."

"I'm hundred and sixty nine years a Vampire, ma'am," he answered cheerfully. "And I wear a disguise real good."

"I should say!" She looked him up and down appreciatively. "So you wrote all those books and such?"

"Yes, ma'am." He took her hand and helped her into the vehicle like the most chivalrous of Southern gentlemen.

"This is incredible!" she said, suddenly no longer as exhausted as she had been when they landed. "You have to tell me everything!"

Her enthusiasm, being a fine and well educated Southern woman with all that such entailed, was somewhat notably infectious, and for the entire drive the two of them chatted away like they'd known each other forever.

Horatio and Speed took the town car, following the other vehicles closely.

Their driver was a surly, muscular black man with broad shoulders and a heavyset neck.

Speed grinned at him from the backseat.

"You piss Nick off to get stuck babysitting me?" he asked cheekily.

"Who better than me, Speed?" he replied, his gaze shifting restlessly in the reflection that Horatio could see from the rearview mirror.

The man was alert.

Highly wary.

"Horatio Caine, meet Eric Brooks, also known as Blade." Tim smirked at his Mate's stoic expression.

Apparently the surprises were not as surprising as they once were.

"I think I read those comics as a kid," the redhead replied carefully.

"Bruce Wayne had them made into movies," Speed continued. "Yes, that Bruce Wayne. No bats in sight, I swear," he chuckled. "Blade is one of my kids. We met a long time ago. I taught him everything he knows."

Blade duly snorted. "He tempered the permanent desire to shank morons."

"How did you end up in a comic?" Horatio wasn't seeing the connection.

"Saved the guy who wrote them. Smart dude. Mugging in broad daylight. He saw the fangs and figured me for a Vamp. Christened me the 'Day Walker'." The laughter that came from his chest sounded more like a rumbling growl, though his lips did part in what might charitably be called a smile.

Speed sat back in the seat and sighed. "May we live in interesting times."


Sylum Manor


Nick stepped out of the SUV a few seconds before it actually came to a complete stop.

Without pause, he was up the front steps and into the house, where his colleagues were safely waiting, corralled in the comfort of the entrance hall that once had been the Manor's front parlor before the imposing Grand Staircase was put in.

More than comfortable beneath a truly enormous and dramatically elegant Italian chandelier, they sat on soft, black leather couches with cups of tea and hot chocolate, around a crackling, rustic fireplace tucked to the left of the entrance, neatly out of the way of those who would come through dragging the cold night air with them.

Too tired to be wandering off and getting lost, they were far too enamored of the striking, full-length painting above the mahogany mantel, to be taking in much else of what lay around them at that point.

Gil's jaw had refused to close from the moment he saw it.

"A Gilbert Stuart?" he asked, admiring the owner of the Manor who stood proudly in 17th Century attire at the end of the oak tree lined driveway, before the classical facade of the house, a Bloodhound at his feet, a fowling piece crooked over his arm.

"Holy shit!!" Catherine normally had a rule about using bad language where her daughter could hear it, but seeing the Nick Stokes she had worked with so closely for so long, right there as the Nicholas of almost three centuries before, hit her squarely in the head.

Greg laughed, but then he'd seen it all before.

Their next surprise came with the formal English butler who had first greeted them when the front door opened.

His presence had been startling, but not altogether a shock, given that the inscrutable mask of his face had seemed fleetingly familiar. Yet any thought of asking the man his name, vanished from everyone's collective minds when Brass - the last one out of the car - came in laden with their bags, promptly dropping them all on the floor in a heap, before pulling the immaculately uniformed butler into his arms, kissing him despite their small height difference, with positively pornographic gusto.

Greg had put his hands over Lindsey's eyes.

It made her giggle.

Catherine had been in some serious admiration.

Gil had snorted and gone back to the painting.

Jim hadn't actually seen his Mate in quite a while.

So he really didn't care what anyone thought, one way or the other.

A swift slap on the ass and a saucy wink later, Brass retrieved his own bag and walked away, turning swiftly to the left of the stairs, past a vast, panoramic painting of the Swiss Alps.

"Later, kiddies!" he cried cheerfully, every inch a man happy to be home.

The butler had coughed, regained his former composure with an admirable degree of self-confidence, and gotten everyone seated, taking requests for hot drinks and explaining that they would be shown to their rooms when Master Nicolaus arrived.

Twenty-five minutes later, Sylum's Clan Leader duly appeared, having dispatched Jimmy and his evidence to the lab.

Thankfully, Nick's injury was nothing but dust by then, and a tear in his pants.

He barely acknowledged anyone but the butler.

"Thomas!" His bark was loud and instantly obeyed. "Get them out of here. Tony is inbound."

And with that, he vanished though a door around underneath the right hand side of the Grand Staircase, Warrick hot on his heels.

Gil got the distinct impression he'd just been dismissed.

Thomas heard the familiar beat of a helicopter approaching fast, and knew things were about to get rather crowded.

So too did Greg. "It's okay, Mister Thomas. I'll take them. Nick's rooms, eh?" He scooped up his bag, and Lindsey's too. "C'mon! Its just up the stairs."

Thomas spoke discreetly in his ear, telling him how the correct arrangements had been made. His staff were still rather more pushed than they had been in recent years, to achieve so much so very fast, but they had dealt with worse in the past. He had something of a small army of people at his disposal, and they were more accustomed to the fulfillment of strange requests at strange hours, than anyone else really knew.

Greg nodded. "Thanks. It'll all be fine. Deal with Tony."

The chopper was pulling closer.

"Of course. Welcome home, young man."

"Its good to be back!" Greg smirked, and turning to his weary friends he beckoned them up the Grand Stairs, like the Pied Piper with a trendy haircut.

Three marble steps formed a wide fan at the very bottom, and a tribute to Ancient Rome formed a second panoramic painting on the wall to the right.

"Why is it green?" Catherine asked, admiring the strange finish of the polished stone she was standing on, it's thick, curling waves of mica most unusual.

"Cipollino," Greg replied. "First used by the Greeks, then imported by the Romans from about the First Century BC. You can find it in the Temples of the Forum, but this example was a gift from Alexander."

Gil's eyebrows rose. "Expensive."

"Perfect," Greg replied, winking at him. "The balusters are New Orleans wrought iron, crafted with symbols that reflect the history of the Clan." He felt, and sounded, rather like a Docent. "The carpet rods match the same style."

At the top of the stairs, where a central landing branched left and right toward distant wings of the building, a set of double doors, as imposing in size as those below them at the front of the building, stood looming in powerful magnificence.

"There's a lot of oak around here. It's been put to good use." Greg waved a hand at the carved panels, three on each door, top to bottom, depicting various Roman Gods and an Imperial Eagle in the center. "C'mon in."

The handles were also wrought iron.

Nothing creaked or groaned, though they all expected it.

Having imagined themselves walking into some elaborate banqueting hall, or some marvel of the ancient world, they blinked at the simple, rectangular reception area. Mosaic floor tiles continued the Roman theme, formed as a veritable and fearsome looking Sea God, eyeing them all suspiciously as they stepped over him, making their way around a highly polished circular table on which sat an amazingly rich display of real and dried white flowers in assorted shapes and sizes, all sparkling under the lights with a rhyme of glittering diamond snow.

A third door stood in their way.

Catherine sighed. "Are we in a fortress or something?"

"Yes," Greg replied simply, and with a flourish he slid open what turned out to be a double pocket door.

It banged into place on its rails as he got a little carried away.

Everyone stared.

They were in a Great Room the size of a Cathedral, where the ceiling disappeared into a shadow of crossing wooden beams.

From them hung a triad of circular chandeliers on chains, formed of wood and metal with spokes like old wagon wheels from another time long before the United States ever came into being.

But it wasn't the lighting that had them frozen in the doorway.

It was the tapestry, right in their immediate field of vision, filling the wall of the upper floor that jetted out over the open space.

At 80 feet in length and 15 high, it was formed from 4 sections of 20 foot each.

And shone with pure Renaissance.

"Gil?" Catherine wasn't sure why her Boss should suddenly be grinning like a maniac.

"It's the Meridii Villa," he replied. "Its original foundation dates back to Julius Caesar. Maybe even before that." He shook his head, lost in a strange moment of admiration and wonder. "Its history is lost."

"How d'you…? Wait." She glared at him. "You found this out when you thought it would be fun to stalk the boy."

Gil snorted. "I found a lot of things."

Greg had to resist the urge to smack him. "So who designed the tapestry then?" he asked. "As you clearly know everything." Being on the kind of familiar territory that was actually his second home in life, gave him a certain sense of empowerment.

"Yeah, Gil," Catherine chided. "You knew who painted the picture in the lobby."

"I'm an Entomologist, not an Art Historian."

"Sara would know," Greg sniffed.

Lindsey ran past them and into the room, throwing herself on the gargantuan couch before the fireplace over to the right hand side. "Bed, Mom?" she whined. "I'm tired!"

They all were.

Greg laughed. "Sure thing! Cath?" He pointed to the left, at a door beside a long, hand-crafted bookcase. "Second Master Bedroom. En suite. All yours."

A similar, slightly smaller door was there to compliment it at the other end of the shelving.

"First Master Bedroom?" Gil asked archly.

Greg shifted in order to gesture at the darker alcove area under the upper room. It was lit by old style torches that might once have held real flame, but were long since converted to flickering bulbs, each bracketed to the walls like they might have seen some service in a medieval dungeon.

A centralized square pillar held up the thick spanning wooden beams which supported the jetty wall. Around it, more torches cast long shadows, dancing over a forward facing fountain carved like a marble lion's head, it's spouting mouth pouring water endlessly into a trough, and highlighting a museum display case further back, in which sat an array of artifacts clearly requiring a specific environment and a very subtle form of security. At the very back though, towards the right, disguised by tall plants in urns, and a Japanese screen, another door was well hidden.

"Only for the most intimate of friends, or immediate family, or visiting Clan Leaders. Sometimes not even them. No, you get to share a bathroom with me." Greg grinned wickedly. "You're the next along from Cath, and I'm the next along from you. Very cozy."

"Then the door past the fireplace over there is Nick and Warrick's room?" Catherine asked.

It was a mirror of the one at the top of the stairs, just smaller.

Greg nodded. "Their apartment is by invitation only. And that's the only warning you get."

It actually sounded far more ominous than it was, yet there didn't seem much point in him justifying his words any further.

Gil's lips pursed as he frowned again at the tapestry. "It's a Raphael."

Catherine laughed. "He's totally joking."

"He's right," Greg countered. "Well, I'm for bed!" And with a cheery wave, he gave Cath her daughter's bag and made for the last room on the left.

Gil sighed heavily. "A Raphael…?" he mused, wondering how the hell his lowly CSI from Texas had so drastically become someone else.

"Let it go, Gris," Cath hissed. "Get some rest. Come on, Linds. Let's check out our place."

Her daughter groaned at being forced to get up off the comfiest couch she'd ever bounced on. "But, Mom…"

"There's a real bed," she teased. "With real pillows."

"And toys, clothes in the closet, all kinds of stuff," Greg added, opening his door. "Also bug books for Gil and…" He paused, laughing in delight when he saw was in his own room. "'night all!"

Downstairs, Thomas had his staff clear the entrance hall as Murdock brought the chopper in.

It was no great surprise that at least one or two of the passengers literally ran for their lives once the wheels touched down, and he found himself dealing with a pair of women who were as different in appearance and mannerism as chalk and cheese.

Kate and Abby had been in such a hurry to get inside the inviting warmth of an already open front door, each longing for a cozy bed and a relaxing bath, that they failed to see the smartly dressed blonde haired man waiting under the oak trees, holding the leash to an otherwise incredibly well camouflaged dog.

Tony grinned at Jethro as the chopper powered down.

McGee snickered. "We're in one piece. Breathing is permitted now."

Murdock ignored all of it.

There was only one thing he wanted.

"Welcome to Sylum Manor," Thomas said primly, even as Abby started squeeing over the Persian rug that lay before the fireplace.

McGee poised in the doorway, blatantly admiring her ass as she bent over.

Kate, on the other hand, was instantly drawn to the paintings on either side of the main staircase, and her eyes lit up as she examined them. Where the corridors that snaked around behind the stairs might actually lead, was a matter of some curiosity, but not exactly pressing. "These are amazing," she muttered, seeing so much detail once her nose was almost on the canvas. "Such brushwork…"

McGee laughed loud enough to disturb her concentration. "Not bad, huh?"

"I've never seen anything like this," she replied. "Whose work?"

"You mean, you can't tell?" Tony asked, shoving McGee aside. "Blocking the way, Probie."

Jethro had been imaging a great many things of Sylum Manor, and discovering fine, expensive taste, and museum quality antiques was right up there on the list. But Tony had never really been subtle about his family money, so it was simply a matter of readjusting the notion of where that money came from.

"Billy! Billy!! Here, boy!"

Behind him, on the front steps of the house, Ducky was calling for a dog, and Gerald seemed a little lost.

He shrugged as Jethro turned around. "There's no dog!" he muttered quietly.

"Nonsense!" the doctor argued. "Come on, Billy! Here, boy!" He gestured as though greeting a beloved family pet.

Gerald flailed when no dog actually showed up.

Their pilot scooted from the cockpit of his chopper and slammed the door.

Though the trees, they could see him and a blonde haired man who carried a leash.

The leash however, seemed to be missing its occupant.

The two men embraced with the warm intimacy of lovers, and kissed like those who had known each other longer than was at first imaginable.

Doctor Mallard smiled, nodded contentedly and crouched down. "Hey! There you are!"

To all intents and purposes, it looked like he was scratching a dog behind the ears, and petting it fondly as it tried to lick his face, yet neither Gibbs nor Gerald could see the canine in question.

They glanced at one another, but no answers were forthcoming, and Ducky just kept cooing over the 'dog' until Murdock broke away from his lover and whistled for his animal.

"Billy! Billy!!" he cried, casting around. "Where d'you get to? I'm home!"

On cue, the illusive Billy, ran off to his master, and they all watched in undeniable fascination as their pilot fell to the ground with his dog in his arms.

The blonde man laughed happily, not in the least bit perturbed.

Gerald was flabbergasted.

"Just when this day couldn't get any stranger," Jethro muttered.

Ducky stood up straight and brushed the creases from his pants. "Well, I shall say goodnight. Come along, Gerald. The fine Mister Thomas will have certainly made you a room ready next to mine. I called ahead and gave him specific instructions. He's really very good, you know. Organizing a place of this magnitude is rather akin to running a small country."

Bags in hand, the Medical Examiner and his assistant walked straight past the front door and kept going, following the long line of the driveway that curved in a turning circle around a tall, brilliantly white marble fountain, that danced under the muted aura of a series of underwater lights, radiating up from its splashing basin.

Jethro had no idea where they were headed, but seeing how the drive became a road further on, he figured there had to be apartments to the side there somewhere. On the flight in, he'd seen huge fields, swamps, and a vast house with gardens, but he'd not really had chance to grasp the full magnitude of the former Plantation that had become a sprawling Manor, which in turn, according to Tony, had encouraged the birth and subsequent growth of not only the local economy but the towns of South and North Vacherie.

He found himself frowning. Achievements of such a nature were only possible on a scale that would have to have made the Sylum Estate both wealthy and profitable, and he wondered if Ducky's comment about the place being a small country, was going to prove quite apt.

Tony tugged at his sleeve. "Duck's had a place here for decades. It's over the old garage with few others. Secure. Contained. Only for the most highly respected Chosen Ones," he explained. "My wing of the house is further in. Thomas has organized everything."

"SERIOUSLY!!???"

Kate's screech of astonishment had everyone leaping in shock, although Thomas kept a well-rehearsed and most admirable straight face.

McGee had been teasing her about who painted the panoramas, and finally admitted it was Tony.

She didn't exactly believe him.

Apparently.

Jethro cast disapproving glares at the remainder of his team.

Abby giggled and her hippo farted.

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

Tony saved the day by offering mutual introductions that were at least polite, if rather hasty.

Kate however, wanted to know whether Tony truly had all the artistic skill of an Old Master, or whether she was being the butt of some pointless joke.

"Excuse me, Madam." Thomas would forever protect and defend his Master's Children, and as Chief of Staff to Sylum Clan, he took his duties with far more than the average degree of passionate responsibility, as well as long centuries of tempered patience. "When one is of the considerable wisdom and experience that permits a great many decades for the study of a chosen field of interest, one may develop skills far in excess of those customarily presumed for one of so youthful a face as Master Antonio." His very proper British tones cut through what would otherwise have been a lengthy and annoying conversation, like a barbed wire garrote, but he was so terribly polite about it that no one got upset.

Tony felt a certain color rise fast to his cheeks. "It's good to see you too, Mister Thomas," he replied.

McGee shook his head. "I'm just going to slip on out of here." He tried to make for the sweeping corridor behind the left side of the staircase, smoothly side-stepping his Sire and his friends, and hoping to make a swift exit without a slap to the head or a disparaging comment.

Surprisingly, it was Thomas who moved to stop him, blocking his way before he could even leave the lobby.

"Ah! Master Timothy, as much as your room down below does await, I was advised to place you in far closer proximity to Doctor Mallard for the duration, as he trains his colleague to become a more fully capable Chosen One. I have therefore moved your most pressing belongings to Room 3, over in Spring. And you should be very comfortable there until you may move back to your normal abode."

McGee sighed but knew better than argue, being quite unexpectedly reminded that their reasons for currently being in the well-accepted safety of the Manor, were not altogether certain.

Hefting his bag onto his shoulder, he waved at Abby and Kate as he turned instead to take a sharp left down the corridor that would lead him to the kitchen and the laundry room, then through there to the brick path and the old garage that had been nicknamed Spring. He didn't actually mind it all that much. It was really quite a handsome building, having once been the Carriage House, designed half as brick and half as dark wood, with a nice shingled roofline that reminded him of being back on the East Coast. But he really wished he hadn't been put on the side that overlooked the parking lot and the other garages - aptly named Summer, Autumn and Winter. It was Room 2, had the great view all across the pear trees to the Manor itself.

Kate looked at Tony, who was staring at Jethro, who in turn was gazing up at the portrait over the fireplace.

Abby had no clue who the guy in the picture was, but she figured him for a good man by the way he seemed to survey his kingdom with such imperious grace.

"Well, that would explain the real reason he came to see you a month ago." Gibbs glanced sidelong at Tony, who shifted uneasily.

"He wasn't in DC to poach me to Vegas. He was trying to get me to tell you the truth." Sylum's Second-in-Command felt his Papa's eyes on him, watching him sternly from the painting.

Kate figured it out. "This is Nick? The Clan Leader?"

"Yep," Tony answered simply.

"He came to Washington?" Abby chimed in, poking him hard on the shoulder. "And you still never told anyone?"

"Hey! Don't feel bad! I never told Probie he was there that day either. One Vampire nagging in my ear was enough to cope with!" He gave her a mock glare that she totally ignored, all the while trying to fathom out how he could get her in close proximity to Nick without getting killed.

She pouted. "You didn't trust us?"

"Oh, dear God in Heaven," he answered, crossing himself fervently like a good Catholic, "if only it was that simple!"

"He's handsome," Kate purred. "Striking."

"He hates that portrait, but it's always been there. It's the man who founded the original Plantation here in 1754. Well, at least as far as the rest of the world beyond these walls is concerned." He tried to put it as succinctly as possible. "And I'll be sure to tell him you said so, Kate. We're meeting. Security Room. Just waiting for my brother to get here."

Lenny had slid into the house past all of them, nodding briskly at Thomas, and making first for his office before he did anything else.

He had calls to make, and emails to send. There was no indication of whether they might go to war, but in his experience, Nick would not have called all the members of his High Council back to the Manor for a hug.

Disappearing down the corridor on the right, he noted Thomas subtly gesture with his eyes that everyone was gathering for the meeting already.

His presence was anticipated.

He wished he could get rid of the nervous tension in his gut though.

It didn't bode well.

At all.

He'd brought a small overnight bag that he left outside his door, three down the right.

Thomas would take care of it for him later.

It didn't surprise him that his counterpart, Sylum's Head of Security, was not at his desk. The two of them had shared the same working space for years, but rarely at the same time.

Saluting the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe that hung above Diego's chair in an elegant, hand carved frame, he asked Her for a little wisdom in what was to come, and then promptly flopped behind his desk.

After the attack on Tony, he had been trying to determine if he could get eyes on the airport and maybe track whoever came for Rochefort's body. So far, he wasn't getting much cooperation. But there were always favors he could pull.

It was Thomas who saw Master Anthony's guests up the stairs a few moments later, thereby allowing the Clan's Second-in-Command to slip away.

The Security Room had been quite effectively built below the huge sweep of the Grand Staircase, it's entrance discreetly positioned at the back of the right hand side as one entered the house from the front. With its arrangement of green plants in urns placed around artistic endeavors designed to catch many a puzzled and wandering eye, and a door that even with a casual glance seemed perfectly flush with the wall, it was not meant for the uninvited.

It had been re-equipped the year before, bringing it up to date with the latest technology, permitting video conferencing and better Internet access, keeping pace with other Clans and the Vampire Council in Geneva. They'd also had new phone lines installed.

Tony found his Papa sat at the head of the main table - a long, highly polished cherry wood affair that ran almost the length of the room. It could comfortably accommodate 24, with ample space behind each chair for a veritable bevy of assistants, associates or assorted colleagues.

Skirting the bank of monitors that were hung to square off the wall which sloped with the underside of the stairs, he took his customary seat on Nick's right, nodding at Warrick, who sat to Nick's left.

Don Diego sat at one of the smaller tables toward the back of the room, scribbling furiously on a notepad as he listened to someone on the phone. He wore an expression fit to have most normal people running for their lives.

Artemus was apparently just wrapping up a quick briefing on the logistics put in place for the arrival of so many guests in one night, but it was hardly the most inspiring of things, judging by Warrick's glazed over eyes.

The monitors cycled through various images around the Estate.

Inside.

And out.

The Rose Garden, the Stables, the Cemetery, the Barn, the Library, the Lab, the Underground…

It made Tony realize how very much he'd been missing his home.

And his family.

He watched the ballroom, the music room, the formal dining room and the wine cave, all spin past his slightly wistful gaze, and knew that he would have a lot more to explain once his Mate had grasped the full enormity of where his destiny truly lay.

"Have you Turned him yet?"

His Sire was both forceful and blunt.

And it tore him back to the anxieties most closely at hand. "He just got the salient points a few hours ago, General. Give him five minutes to process it," he replied, a charming smile belying his concern.

"Are you sure you have that long?" Nick fixed him with a rigid stare. "You think Lenny wouldn't tell me about Rochefort? And ten minutes after he was done, I heard from Speed that you'd called to explain to him that you'd had a run in with the bastard. Besides, that much anxiety through the Bond we share, was pretty unmistakable."

Tony sighed. "Jethro was amazing. He dealt with it. Rochefort is done, for now. He's down."

Lenny slipped into the room and silently took the seat beside him.

Nick was far from satisfied. There was way too much potential vulnerability for his liking, and he knew better than anyone how an enemy could manipulate personal weakness. "I don't care. Turn him now, Tony. Or I will."

Out at the top of the stairs, where the landing branched left and right, Kate paused to admire the Roman door that loomed over everyone's heads, relieved that going through it was not where their destination lay. It felt foreboding somehow, but she wasn't sure why, and put it down partly to her being tired, and partly the weirdness of finding something so unexpected in so seemingly American a place. From the outside, the building's white facade with its broad columns, wide veranda, and line of oaks, all positively screamed Antebellum South, not Roman Empire.

Thomas led them to the left, where the beautiful rich stair carpet widened to fill the corridor that was opened on their left hand side to the space below them, like a balcony from the French Quarter with its black iron railings.

At the very end was a sitting area - a couple of armchairs, a love seat, a low table that looked like a chest of some kind with a hinged lid, and a bookcase loaded with assorted tomes and bronze busts of history's great thinkers.

Abby kept pace with Jethro, excited by everything but nervous in so very grand an environment.

Finally, they stopped at a set of double doors on the right.

They too were of the same wood and same design at the first, but carved with a series of panels that demonstrated the dominant symbology of the man who occupied that particular wing of the Manor.

A Rosary framed the central panels, in which there stood a Crusader on the right, clad in the familiar armor of the time period, his tabard over his chest. To the left, there was a sword that stood firmly upon its tip, its pommel plain and simple, but its power quite extraordinary.

Above and below, were panels bearing images of rolling hills, trees and mountains.

Abby stared, her mouth open.

Thomas swung the doors wide.

They kept following.

Kate felt a lot like she was striding into Church.

Jethro kept his opinions to himself, even as Abby started gasping in wonder at the many artworks they were led past along a curtained corridor, like 10th Graders on a field trip to the Smithsonian.

The place was huge, but it was totally in keeping with rest of the house, where it seemed so far, nothing whatsoever was tiny.

All along the left wall, display cases filled with pocket watches and porcelain, were interspersed with paintings of landscapes, lakes and rivers. The right wall was set with tall windows upon which hung heavy, dark blue, floor length drapes that were held open with gold rope sashes during the day, and closed at night in flowing swathes of glorious velvet.

It was really quite remarkable, and though there were doubtless going to be hours when they could better admire such treasures, they still gaped in admiration, and tried to recall what precious nuggets of information they could remember from art history classes in college.

A left turn opened out onto a long Great Room that to all intents was a modernized version of something from Versailles, lit by a snapping fireplace against the opposite wall, and two chandeliers that swung very gently from the ceiling, their crystal drops spraying a pleasant rainbow of colors on the walls and floor. More art on desktop easels stood before them, gracing a Collector's Cabinet, the drawers of which shone with brilliant Japanese lacquer.

A couch, big enough to easily accommodate the entire population of a small country, took up much of the far end of the room on three sides, yet still left sufficient space to admire the many other display items in their neatly arranged cases around the walls. Nothing in the hallway they had just passed through, was out of place, badly positioned for light, or thrust haphazardly in a corner, and the same could be said for the entirety of what they beheld.

"Well, I never…" Kate murmured, summing up rather succinctly just what they were all thinking.

A puzzled whine, and a sharp slicing gesture from the butler at the darkened right hand corner of the room closest to where they stood, served in startling everyone.

"Was that dogs?" Abby asked, seeing only a pair of old fashioned, wooden slatted wine bottle crates pushed up against the wall.

They were certainly antiques, but had apparently been converted to have cushions atop them for footstools.

"Very quaint," Kate said simply.

Until a second whine, followed by a yip, and a small wet nose sticking out from a hatch at one end of the nearest crate, made her coo like a mother over a newborn baby.

"Miniature Dachshunds, ma'am," Thomas explained. "They live here."

"More than one?" Jethro wanted further clarification.

"Yes, sir. Master Antonio owns a pair. A long-haired female and a short-haired male. They are named for the Hobbits in The Lord of the Rings books."

Abby laughed in delight. "Merry and Pippin? Or Frodo and Sam?" She expected the dogs to come if called, but all she got was a second nose in the same hatch, the two animals having seemingly decided it was perfectly fine to cram themselves together in the one box instead of using the two as was meant.

"Wow! Well trained!" Kate grinned.

"Master Antonio has worked with Merry and Pippin, since they were puppies."

Jethro's eyebrows rose. He found his attention drawn to the elaborate fresco around the edge of the ceiling and across the top of the door frames to the right. It was a beautiful thing.

An expensive thing, with all that gilt inlay.

Still, the blue and gold were a repeating motif, with the French Fleur-de-Lis everywhere.

"I don't want to touch anything," Kate confessed, as they made their way further into the room, past a long, low, glass topped display case than ran the length of the space like a spine, it's lights off but its shadow laced contents suitably intriguing enough to have them wondering what it contained as they headed to the left, where a further fresco framed a discreet corridor that ran off at a right angle.

It seemed to normally be hidden by another velvet drape on a black, cast iron rod.

Four doors led off it about halfway down, two on either side.

A floor to ceiling mural of the Eiffel Tower graced the furthest end wall, and Jethro wondered whether Tony had painted that one too.

"To the right please ladies, if you would be so kind," Thomas said firmly, gesturing to the doors labeled Troyes and Lourdes.

Being a good Catholic girl, Kate recognized one name but not the other.

"Our guest rooms have en suite facilities. Breakfast will be served from 5am to 10am. If there is anything else you might require please let one of the staff know, although every effort has already been made to ensure your needs have been met."

The doors opposite read Notre Dame and Amiens.

"Agent Gibbs, I have arranged for you…"

"Where is Tony's room?" Jethro interrupted the man without even a blink.

Though they had been introduced, and everything had been terribly formal, there was a certain surreal quality to what was happening that he needed some adjustment for, including the fact that his colleague, his friend, was so much more than some former cop from Baltimore with a rich inheritance and a crappy taste in women. The sheer volume of information he was lacking in, made him ridiculously anxious.

"Master Antonio sleeps across the Great Room, next to the Gallery." Thomas was not at all sure about the current status of matters regarding Sylum Clan's Second-in-Command, and the man who would eventually become his Mate - provided God and the good Grace of Heaven should allow.

"Show me."

Abby and Kate both smirked and snickered, then vanished into their rooms the moment their boss shot them one of his patented glares of extremely well controlled annoyance, that could explode without a second warning.

Thomas stiffened his shoulders, yet admired the man's resolve, seeing in him a most fitting Mate for Antonio.

"This way, Agent."

He politely guided his charge across the Great Room, skirting the back of the couch, it's broad leather expanse dotted with cushions of all shapes and sizes and colors.

Jethro ran his left hand along the upholstery.

It was as soft and smooth as butter.

He glanced over at an advanced audio-visual system set up, and cabinets filled with VHS tapes, DVDs, and Blu-Ray discs.

Tony had a collection of films and a sophisticated 48" television for showing them on, both of which would make any Hollywood Producer green with envy.

In the left corner of the far wall, were two doors, side by side.

Thomas took him though the one on the right.

"If you would care to let me take your bag, Agent Gibbs, you are in the Notre Dame room. I can arrange your belongings. There is a coffee maker…"

"I'll be sleeping here."

There was no doubt in Jethro's mind.

Only questions.

Thomas said nothing. Over the centuries he had both seen, heard, and participated in events that left him of a mind set that could be rarely shocked.

"If there's no coffee maker in here, I'll take the one you arranged." Jethro allowed himself a smile that he hoped might demonstrate how he was really one of the good guys.

"Very well, Agent."

Left to his own ends as Thomas stalked way, Gibbs could only drop his duffel and assess the room in which he stood, much as the Criminal Investigator he had become would then consider a crime scene for evidence.

But he stopped himself.

And he considered instead, the way everything that was truly Antonio Crisafi had been laid out in the remarkably modest space that formed a more than satisfactory reflection of his real nature.

It was startlingly simple.

A high, unadorned ceiling, from which hung a single chandelier that had formerly been equipped for candles but was bearing small bulbs instead, seemed stark contrast to the elaborate decor of the Great Room.

The same blue drapes were at the windows opposite the door, and he was tempted to take in whatever spectacle of a view might lie beyond, but figured it might be more entertaining, not to mention explanatory, if he did so with Tony beside him.

He pondered instead, the Shrine in the far left hand corner from where he stood.

A long, low, rectangular wooden table, covered by a red runner that lay elegantly over each end, it had a 12" silver crucifix at the center, with thick pillar candles on matching silver bases to fame it. He was certainly not a Catholic himself, yet he recognized most of the imagery around it - the Rosary, Mary the Mother of God, the Face of the Turin Shroud, and Saint Michael victorious over Satan.

That one he knew very well.

God's Greatest Archangel was the Patron and Protector of military personnel and cops.

There was a clearly well used and well-padded cushion on the floor before the Shrine, its brown leather dented and worn from Tony's knees bent in hours of prayer.

Simple artworks adorned the walls. Inks. Sketches.

Watercolor landscapes.

Nothing huge or too heavily framed.

Or very old either, if he was judging them correctly.

Wood panels covered the lower half of the walls.

It made the room feel cozy somehow.

The bed was a Cal King to his right, opposite the windows, where its occupants could enjoy the light. Its broad expanse was decked in pillows.

Someone was a comfort hog.

Apparently.

The covers were a light shade of blue.

It reminded him of cornflowers.

The fireplace was small when compared to the one outside, or the one that had greeted them when they first arrived at the Manor, but from the left wall it spread a gentle warmth that suggested long shadows, and deep thoughts in it's embrace.

Thomas gently coughed from just behind him, to get him moving out of the doorway, and though he took a firm step to the right, heading over to the nearest armchair, he remained standing, watching the man move effortlessly through the room, organizing the coffee maker, a tray of cups, and some extra toiletries that vanished into the bathroom, the door to which, in the far right corner of the room, matched a second in the near right which he assumed to be the closet. He tried to tell Thomas it wouldn't be necessary for him to unpack the bag he'd left lying on the floor, but his protest was politely ignored with a knowing smile, and he could only let it go.

On the way out, his job apparently done, everything neatly tucked away in its proper place, Thomas paused in the doorway.

"Master Antonio will be up as soon as he can. I would recommend a hot shower and some rest in the mean time."

"Thank you," Jethro replied.

But what he really wanted to do was ask if there was somewhere he could start building a boat. It was the only thing that could settle his thoughts, and give them shape.

A tiny growl from one of the little dogs outside, sounded very much like a final coda to their Miniature Doxie face-off earlier, and it reminded Jethro of Tony and his perpetual urge to always get the last word in.

He snorted.

And Thomas walked away to hide the widening smile on his own face.


***


The nervous tension rolling thickly off Speed as their small convoy of vehicles approached Sylum Manor, was an increasingly noticeable thing for Horatio, and it made their Bond hum with a deep and constant sense of anticipation.

He put some of it down in part to his own inevitable anxieties at what he might be about to step into, and how it might change the small understanding of Vampire presence in the world that he'd been steadily developing. In some other far less obvious part, it also felt like going to meet way more than just the rest of his in-laws.

It was disconcerting.

But Speed's eyes were bright, alert the whole drive, despite his laid back, easy posture.

And that too was increasingly worrying.

"Are you alright?" he asked, patting his Mate's knee. "I know this is like taking your boyfriend home to meet your father for the first time, but I'm pretty sure Warrick's already put in a good word for me."

He was trying to lighten the mood, and Speed appreciated that.

"Just wary."

They were traveling behind the 2 SUVs, driving steadily, no problems having been reported by either Tom or Huck.

"You think this Tavington person will try something?"

"I think we can't afford to think he won't. We're being tested for our weaknesses, but so far I've only had one dumbass fuckwit try his luck against me. More is coming. I know it." He didn't like having quite so many potential targets around him either. "Anything is possible. Until we're at the Manor, I'm not going to be okay."

"The place a fortress?"

"It's become more so as time's gone on, but not in the sense of some old castle or some shit." He was tired, and it made him grumpy being so on edge. "No one would be dumb enough to hit the Manor. It's a Clan base for starters, and being the biggest of its kind, that would draw more attention than a nice quite coup ever could." He frowned darkly, not liking where his thoughts were going.

"Is it far now?" Horatio enjoyed being able to sit so close to his Mate without the slightest concern for what anyone might say, or misconstrue, about the nature of their relationship. It pleased him too, when Tim moved against him, solid and comforting.

"No." He gestured, and just over Blade's head Horatio spied a dark roof of some kind in the treeline. "That's my library."

They slowed and turned left, pulling through a set of tall, wrought iron gates bearing silhouettes of rearing horses in paired opposition that were mounted on formidable stone pillars, presenting a firm sense of privacy and security even if the symbolism was more suggestive of a Stud Farm than a Plantation.

The cars approached up a long driveway, lined on both sides by some magnificent and veritable old oak trees, each discreetly lit from below to show off their branches.

Horatio was about to ask whether the house was a mile or a mile and a half from the main road, when the smooth asphalt gave way to cobbles, and the sight of a magnificent, white marble statue of some ancient God locked in a wrestling match with some equally well built opponent, swung into view.

The redhead blinked.

The car slowed further.

And there, as they turned past the monolith that sat in a beautiful fountain basin at the end of the drive, was what at first seemed to be a most modest and elegant building of classic and unmistakable design.

Or so he thought, until he scrambled from the car to get a bigger and far wider view of the place. Only then did he better appreciate the enormity of it all, for it opened up on either side of its frontage to where a private road led much further back, and doubtless right around behind the many other nameless structures that stretched on into the darkness.

The front porch however, was both well lit and welcoming, the main door already open, warm light spilling upon the steps for them, from antique carriage lanterns.

Horatio admired the building a fraction longer, then went to help his family, even as Speed trotted straight inside and disappeared.

He frowned.

Introductions were made with a most pompous individual who addressed himself as Thomas, and appeared to be some kind of hired staff member, judging by the uniform apparel, but the man had no discernible heartbeat, which immediately caught the redhead's attention. The terribly precise English accent was a touch unexpected too, especially given his Mate's apparent distrust and occasional outright disgust, at all things even remotely British. And yet, in the flurry and fuss of activity it took to get everyone unloaded and into the house, there was nothing but courtesy, helpful hands offered everywhere for the sleeping children, and polite assurances that all would be well. For the noble Thomas had at his disposal, a great many other staff who appeared behind him, scurrying around noiselessly, ensuring nothing was dropped or left behind.

In fact, he had been at very few hotels so well able to cope with such logistics.

"Master Nicolaus has called a meeting, sir. Purely to check upon his Children, and make assessment. Master Timothy will join you as soon as he is free." Thomas gestured for him to follow, and with Ray Jr. in his arms, Horatio took his first step inside the Manor.

Everyone was quiet.

They were just too worn out for much more in the way of surprises, no matter how their jaws kept dropping in collective astonishment at where they found themselves standing.

A heavy door banged loudly somewhere close by, and the sound of Speed's raised voice reached Horatio from an inner room he couldn't quite locate, as he trudged up the kind of Grand Staircase that would have done just about any of the great palatial estates in Europe truly proud.

"Let me guess!"

The Irishman was pissed, and not exactly giving a crap at how hard he slammed the fireproof Security Room door as he stalked in.

"We don't know anything about anything! Right?"

Tony opened his mouth to speak, but never successfully got a word out.

"Except for the obvious, and Rochefort is still a fucking retard!"

No one disagreed with him.

"I want to know who's seen him with Tavington."

Speed glared at Diego like it was all the Spaniard's fault.

"If he shows his ugly face around here any time soon, I'm cutting it off."

Nick stared at him hard, eyes narrowing.

"Our Hunters suck!"

On the monitors they could see Van Helsing already talking to Jimmy and Noah out by the old garage.

"And no one saw this coming? From anywhere??"

Speed got stony faces staring back at him.

"Someone call me when we do know more than jackshit!" he growled. "I'm going to bed."

And on that cheerful note, he stalked back out of there about as swiftly and abruptly as he'd arrived, accompanied by the same slamming of the door.

Warrick sniffed.

"Well that was rude," Tony muttered.

Diego snorted.

"It's so nice when my kids come home," Nick grumbled.

"PAGAN!!" Tony yelled, startling everyone with his vehemence.

"Fuck you, Papist!" Speed shouted back, already half way up the stairs when he did.

"Well, there's that…" Lenny muttered.

"Get Gabriel in here." Nick felt a certain pressure rise off his chest at having his boys safely home and close at hand, but he still had work to do. "Someone knows something. And I want to know what."

Speed didn't make it to the landing outside his Clan Leader's wing, before he was stopped by Jimmy and Noah running in through the front doors.

"Yo! Dude! Where's the Bullet Girl?" Hickok grinned that sweetly charming grin of his, and Speed rolled his eyes as he turned and growled at his Childe.

"What could you possibly want right now?" he demanded.

Calleigh, her bag bumping on her shoulder against the baluster rail, also turned to see who was asking after her. Still a little dazed from having had an honest to God conversation with the actual Mark Twain, she was pleasantly surprised by the long-haired, shyly smiling young man at the foot of the stairs, who clutched a flat top cowboy hat in one hand.

"I'm Calleigh Duquesne, the Bullet Girl," she confessed, trying not to bat her eyelashes and flip her hair back. It was a nickname she normally made fun of, or brushed aside with a determined preference for professionalism over cheap humor, but she was far from caring about appearances by then.

Well, mostly.

"James Hickok, ma'am," he said brightly, nodding at her.

And she hiccupped, right as she stifled a squee, which then came out like the kind of pained squeak normally made by accidentally stepping on a chewable dog toy.

"I'm with the U.S. Marshal Service, ma'am. I was ordered by our Clan Leader to ask you for a full forensic examination of a rifle which we obtained as evidence in one of the recent attacks against Sylum," he explained.

"We have a fully equipped, top of the line lab." Noah spoke up when he saw her frowning. "I'm also with the Marshal Service, ma'am." He nodded very politely. "We would surely appreciate your help."

She glanced at Horatio. It was an automatic reflex. He was the boss, and he called the plays even if the Marshals were asking for her personally.

The Lieutenant's focus was all on Speed.

Alexx clutched her daughter a little tighter.

The children were fidgeting.

"I'll take her to the lab," Tim muttered, and Horatio nodded.

Eric took Calleigh's bag from her.

"You never said you had work to do when we got here," she murmured, eyeing Speed archly.

"I didn't know we had evidence," he replied, glaring in turn at Jimmy.

"Until an hour ago, we didn't," Noah interjected. He loved his Mate dearly, but the gunfighter tended to grow a little tongue tied around strange women he didn't yet know, and when they were pretty too it just got worse. Not that it wasn't adorable of course, at least as far as Noah was concerned. "Anything you can help us with, would be better than nothing."

"Which is what we have right now." Speed felt like he was repeating himself way too much lately.

Thomas coughed in that polite and very dry way of his, mainly concerned with seeing the remainder of their guests safely abed. "Master Timothy, if there is nothing else to delay…?"

"Yes, of course. We're good. Goodnight everyone." He offered a vague smile by way of apology. "H? Make yourself at home. This is your home now. I'll be back soon."

"That's the Mate?" Noah asked, stepping forward from Jimmy's side. "He looks kinda terrified."

Speed snorted.

Calleigh, hands on hips, defended her Lieutenant briskly. "He can deal with it. Me, on the other hand?" She threw a coy wink at Jimmy. "So, there's a lab?"

Horatio watched his Mate head back down to the ground floor and turn a sharp right, vanishing under the curve of the stairs where the sweeping architecture made for a corridor. Ray Jr. stilled and for a second or two he admired how the physical strength gifted to him by the Vampire, had granted the weight of his nephew to seem considerably lighter in his embrace than ever he remembered it as a human being.

Suzie offered him a timid smile. "This is all so amazing."

Madison was dragging her feet and fighting to stay awake. "Bed time now, mom?" she asked plaintively.

"I hope so sweetie." Suzie was beyond being overwhelmed by what was happening, but knew she had to remain focused on her daughter, or risk going crazy.

Horatio saw her shell-shocked eyes, and hope his own weren't revealing the same thing quite so clearly.

Thomas led them all to the right of the landing, where Eric found his gaze fixed on the huge doors, and their remarkable carvings. He didn't know anything about Rome or its history, save for a few bits and pieces from movies and the occasional documentary he'd seen as a kid, but the symbols were everywhere, and felt more imposing than he cared to admit.

Nevertheless, they wound up facing yet another set of doors at the far end of the mezzanine floor they were on. It looked a giant open book, but wasn't until they got closer that they realized the far wall and the door too, were both curved.

Carved across where the chapter heading of the open pages would naturally be on the right hand door, a single world read:

LEABHARLANN

The script was unusual, reminding Horatio of the past he was actually more comfortable with than he truly realized.

Alexx frowned at it, and sighed. Something kept telling her it was a familiar word from somewhere, but she couldn't place it.

"This way please…" Thomas was standing to their left, opening another set of doors that were remarkably similar to the ones at the top of the stairs.

Oak, with wrought iron hardware, they were tall and heavy. Carved in 6 panels, a simple eternal knot around the entire circumference, looped endlessly as a border to all the other Celtic symbology arrayed before them.

It was beautiful.

And Horatio seriously wished he knew what significance it all bore.

Across the top, stretched like some weirdly angular dog, an animal watched over them, crouched as though not quite awake enough to harm them, yet not asleep enough to be entirely harmless. Below that, the middle panels were blank on the right, while the left bore an almost triangular, three pointed knot that he'd seen often enough on various religious items and jewelry as representative of the Holy Trinity. Below that was a circular design of interlocking rings in a very precise, geometric form, and beneath the blank panel, a cross of Saint Patrick was easily recognizable by the circle that linked the arms as if in embrace of all things.

Horatio swallowed, finding himself immersed then in greens and browns as they stepped through the doors into a long hallway, decorated with dark wood floorings and lit by lamps on the right hand wall that reminded him of some medieval castle.

To the left, tall windows, covered by long, emerald hued velvet drops, complete with matching valences, added to the sense of imposing power.

Ancient blades arranged in long, narrow display cases, filled the spaces between the curtains, and though he would have liked very much to linger and examine them for their historical and cultural significance, he figured there would likely be chance to do so later.

The corridor opened onto a long, darkened Great Room, also decorated in greens and browns, the furniture large enough to fill the space without overcrowding it. Halfway down on the right, a fire crackled in a cozy hearth, above which there were a pair of actual, honest to God candles in bracketed sconces on the wall.

He had expected chandeliers, and the graceful charm of the Olde Worlde, yet found instead a warm haven of peace and natural beauty.

There were thick wooden beams across the ceiling, casting peculiar shadows from the wall lamps.

And the air smelt like something so familiar…

Horatio frowned, trying to place it, letting it wash over him, knowing smell was the strongest sense for encouraging memory.

Eric sniffed and rubbed his nose. "That's weird."

"It's nice," Alexx replied, the strong, earthy fragrance putting a wistful smile on her face.

"Timothy?" he called, smiling at the handsome young man at the table.

"Ay, my Lord?"

The Great Hall was suddenly empty and still, devoid of the squealing, yelling children of the Clan, who had run from it to go expend their collective energies in the outside world after a day of lessons they had been forced to endure against the whim of more youthful passions.

"How are my sons with their studies?" he asked, watching the glow of the peat fire grow sharply as storm clouds obscured the early evening sky.

It would rain later.

He was sure.

"Aiden is a bright boy. He will make you a fine heir. He learns quick." Timothy offered him a shy smile. "I must thank you. The books you have secured from the Abbey are very useful."

He moved further into the room, breathing in the warm air that wrapped itself around him. "You are benefitting the future years of all our people by your efforts."

"Ah, if only the little ones could see it that way!"

"They rebel?"

"Very much," Tim chuckled, "but no more than is right, or tolerable."

"Aiden is not concentrating?"

"My Lord, he works hard, and is not as easily distracted as the rest."

He huffed, standing before the fire. "I am fortunate indeed to have you here."

"Thank you, my Lord."

He turned to the young man whose presence in his life had become so deep a source of joy. "Do not doubt your value to my Clan, or your usefulness to those who will follow us."

"Ay, my Lord…"

He wasn't sure if it was the light from the fire, or his own steady gaze upon Tim's flushing features that he found so mesmerizing, but he could not look away.

"No, no! Do not cast your eyes down! Such humility ill comes one who has done so much for me as well." Stepping closer, he refused to let his charge move away, pinning him instead against the edge of the huge central table, heedless of the sudden lightning flash outside that cast a momentary cold brilliance over them. "You brought me from the darkness of despair after my wife was lost, and your teaching me more letter than those needed to merely write my name, has been a source of great revelation."

"I am honored. The debt I owe you is…"

"No, young Tim!" He stopped any further words by placing his fingers to the lips that even then were parted in surprise at his proximity. "You owe me nothing that you have not already given. My oldest son can stand in my place a far wiser man than I some day."

A second bolt of lightning across the evening sky was startling enough to have Tim blinking rapidly.

"And my youngest boy would follow you around all day like a tiny Wolfhound pup, given the chance. Your place here is more than honored, but I desire yet more of you."

He watched the dark eyes he had already lost himself in more than once, grow larger and more round. And he felt hot puffs of breath coming fast against his hand, as Tim struggled with better comprehension of the moment.

"What do you desire, my Lord?" he mumbled, once his lips were free.

"You," he replied firmly.

"Where do you desire me, my Lord?"

It came out as a whisper, almost lost on the shuddering rumble of thunder that shook the building.

He could feel his charge shiver. "In my bed," he replied quite simply, finally claiming the kiss he so much desired.

It was soft but firm, and built to a growing ardor.

Pulling him closer, he devoured his mouth, staking his Claim on the young man, making it clear that he would not be denied.

As Tim's arms came slowly about him, holding his waist, nervous and timidly cautious, he paused only for breath, enjoying the flush of heat that rose between them.

Timothy's arousal was very obvious, pressing into his hip, solid and urgent.

"My Lord…?" He was panting. "I am… I…"

"Don't." It was a gentle caution. "I want you. I have always wanted you. Be content. Come to my bed."

And with that, the rain came hard and heavy, bringing a warm summer wind that banged at the still wide open shutters.

He enjoyed the way Speed trembled underneath him.

"Lieutenant?"

He blinked.

"Lieutenant?"

He was still quietly freaked whenever the power of the past swept over him, and for a moment the disorientation of coming back to the present, left Horatio somewhat giddy.

Thomas took Ray Jr. from his arms, having seen the look on the redhead's face more than once, on more than a few other Vampires.

"Take a seat before the fire, Lieutenant Caine. I will settle the remainder of your guests, then show you to your room."

H nodded a little vaguely and sank into a warm leather armchair that embrace him so completely he could feel his every muscle almost instantly relax.

He didn't want to think about how his hands were shaking.

His Soul ached for Timothy, and through their Bond he felt a rush of love that reassured him he was not insane, and reminded him that the past, as real as it felt, was still the past.

Across from the fireplace, a corridor normally disguised by a long green drape across the entrance, led away at right angles to the room. It revealed two pairs of matching doors on opposite sides.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have arranged your accommodations. Mr and Mrs Woods, you and the children are in the first room on the left, marked Fire. Miss Suzie and Miss Madison, you are next door in the room marked Earth. Detective Salas, you and Master Raymond are opposite them in the room marked Air, and Mister Delko, you are next to them in Water. You will, I trust, find everything you require organized most appropriately for your needs. Your rooms are all en suite. Should there be any items overlooked, please inform a member of staff. Breakfast will be served between 5am and 10am."

Yelina took her son from him, aware that their bags had gone ahead of them, and they were being treated to a fine, five star service that felt weirdly inappropriate for what on their flight, had felt surreal and utterly unnecessary. She knew there would be more to learn, more to ask, more to try and better comprehend in a situation that by all rational measure of reasonable thought, should never be happening. She just wasn't sure how, or when.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Thank you too," Alexx intoned.

Peter nodded.

So too did Eric. "And Calleigh?" he asked.

"I shall arrange for her to sleep in Master Anthony's wing." Thomas took her bag as it was offered. "I wish you all a good night."

Each room of Speed's guest wing was decorated according to its title, and there were some collective gasps of surprise and appreciation as everyone went where they were told.

"I think my first apartment was smaller than this…" Eric mumbled.

And it made Horatio smile as he stared at the fire.

There was a knot of anxiety in his chest that went deeper than just dealing with a threat that had yet to be fully determined.

"Master Horatio?"

Having slipped Calleigh's belongings to one of his aides, Thomas knew a bad case of shock when he saw one.

"Master Horatio, would you like me to pour you a drink?"

The redhead sighed. "Would it work?"

"Indeed."

And less than a minute later he was clutching a heavy bottomed glass that held a generous amount of whisky.

Straight up.

Horatio downed it in two very grateful gulps, letting it burn his throat in all the right places.

"Are you ready?" Thomas let him pause and gather his wits.

"Yeah," he answered firmly, standing up.

"Master Timothy's private apartment is this way."

Horatio had walked straight past the door, so well was it disguised, just to the right turn of the wall as they entered the Great Room. No lights shone on it, and there were a couple of well placed bookshelves that caught a visitor's attention and guided it toward the rest of the decor instead.

He shook his head. "I never even realized…"

"Perfectly understandable, Master Horatio. Your Mate values his privacy, therefore I would advise you before we enter, to bear that in mind with regard to your colleagues and friends."

"Oh! Of course!" He hadn't actually contemplated taking such considerations into account, and it made him very much aware of how easy it could be to just make assumptions about the nature of life with Speed. It wasn't as though they'd had much experience in living together as a couple.

The door that Thomas opened, was dark wood, decorated very simply with an eternal knot around the outer edges and the handle. It made no sound.

If he'd needed breath, Horatio might well have been holding it, at least until he realized he really was holding it.

This was home now.

The greens and browns were seamless, blending without effort into a simple ceiling that had been painted the color of a clear and cloudless sky.

He stared, feeling himself surrounded by the natural world, his gaze drinking in every detail of the incredible tree, carved - or so it first appeared - straight out of the wall in the corner to his immediate left. It was huge, its roots running in a deliberate mass across the floor, along the baseboards, the stairs and even the far wall that seemed to curve with the broad arc of what he knew to be the library. The rest of the tree, its trunk solidly wide and substantial, was hung with a multitude of branches that were just about to give leaves, caught perpetually in the grace of Spring. It was a wide canopy, reaching to the sky, forming a rail that cleverly disguised the balcony of the upper floor.

"It's amazing…" Horatio could not prevent himself from expressing what was on his mind, even though such an observation might not generally have been very common for him in his usual appreciation of artistic endeavor.

"It is the Tree of Life, but I should permit Master Timothy to explain its significance to Irish Culture." Thomas smiled. "Please, this way."

The right hand wall was nothing but bookshelves from end to end, and floor to ceiling. In fact it was so vast an array that a ladder which slid back and forth on a rail, had been attached for reaching the higher realms.

The far wall was wide enough to display an assortment of cabinets, holding a professionally arrayed collection of memorabilia that he figured would span a vast and fascinating number of centuries.

He barely noticed the television behind him to his right, set at an angle in the corner, so well was it jammed in there like an afterthought.

The stairs to his left were of two flights, the bottom of which faced a door to a room beneath the branches of the tree.

"The bathroom is through there. It has a most specific design, built at the Manor's latest remodeling in 2000. You will find plenty of towels and a variety of toiletries to your liking." Thomas nodded most proudly.

Horatio followed him up to the next floor.

The stairs curled left, around a small landing; the handrail polished oak over more wrought iron. It felt warm in his hand.

This was home now.

It kept repeating in his head.

What he found when he emerged behind Thomas, was a bedroom masquerading as a library.

Or perhaps a library masquerading as a bedroom.

To the left, where the branches of the giant tree rose up to the ceiling, there lay a King Size bed with tall wooden corner posts, each carved in Irish Runes. Furs bedecked the vast expanse of mattress, hiding the pillows.

He swallowed loudly.

To his right, a series of free standing shelves, much cruder in design than those below in the other room, held rows of books laid out like stacks as though some ancient and veritable Study had migrated there courtesy of a much older era in Speed's long history.

There were cushions scattered on the floor around them, and he could easily see his Mate making a nest there, curling up for hours, reading contentedly, oblivious to all but the words on the page.

The far right wall continued the curve of the outer edge of the library tower, with a low bench seat and desk fitted perfectly against the unusual architecture, only serving to compliment the dark, yet natural colors of the overall scheme.

Horatio found, unsurprisingly, that there were assorted piles of books in various corners, and over to the left, where a fireplace matched the same chimney stack as the one below in the Great Room, further cushions and furs lay spread.

It was cozy and comfortable, and quiet. And it smelled of his Mate, of all things Irish, of the heritage they both shared as one…

Stepping further into the room he discovered an arrangement of couches and chairs on green rugs, framing the area before a tall window at the far end, a floor length green drape pulled across to hide the night, it's color and design matching the curtains elsewhere in the wing.

To the right, a door flush with the curving wall, gave access to the library. It was a smaller version of the positively enormous one, shaped just like the open book he'd seen earlier.

"I spy a recurring motif," he murmured, and it made Thomas smile.

"Your belongings have been arranged in the closet. Down below here, next door along from the bathroom where I showed you."

"Thank you. So much."

"You are very welcome Master Horatio. You should know that the gun safe is currently open. You will find it easily enough. It has been installed specifically for your use. Now, I would recommend that you allow yourself time to settle and appreciate where you are. If you have any particular needs which have not been catered for to your satisfaction, please let me know."

Horatio nodded, hoping to keep from flailing for a while longer. "Everything seems…" He gestured around at the entirety of his new existence. "…fine. More than fine."

It was the best description he could find, but it was nowhere near sufficient.

Thomas nodded somewhat sympathetically. "If I may? Between us? Master Timothy has been most anxious about bringing you here. This was not the most ideal of circumstances for an introduction to the Manor, but he has informed me of your preference for food and other sundries. His concern is most detailed and attentive."

"I'm flattered. I think." He frowned. "You call everyone 'Master'?"

Thomas offered him a knowing chuckle. "You are Mated to one of the Leading Council Members of my Clan. Such a title is most worthy."

"You barely know me."

"I look forward to knowing you better." He turned to leave. "Welcome home, Master Horatio."


***


Tony needed a shower.

He felt like he hadn't slept for days.

And he was perpetually pushing back the perpetual sensation of somehow having missed something vital.

It was pissing him off.

Still, as he trudged up the Grand Staircase he couldn't help feeling a strangely calming kind of optimism, at thinking how they had managed to gather all their friends and colleagues together where it was safe. It was a rather unprecedented moment in Clan history, to have achieved so much, so well, so fast.

It was also good to be home, where resources could be called on at a moment's notice, and he could perhaps permit himself to be at ease.

For a while anyway.

Merry and Pippin were ecstatic at seeing him again. Not that he'd been without them for too long, as he'd turned up for Boxing Day and won a stunning victory against his little brother, working out his frustrations while Speed had been distracted at leaving Horatio to his own devices for a couple of days. It had been fun, and he'd gone back to DC a little sore, but satisfied.

"Hey! My babies!!"

The moment he opened the main door to his rooms, they were on him as only Miniature Dachshunds could be, wiggling their little bodies insanely, beating him with their tails and licking his face all at the same time.

He laughed and let them have their fun, getting some of Merry's much longer hair in his mouth along the way. But it was okay. It was a dog thing.

Scooping them up, one under each arm, he headed straight for his room.

With the lights down low, or turned off, he figured everyone was already asleep, and chose to leave them that way.

"C'mon you guys," he murmured, squeezing his dogs gently. "Let's do prayers, then get you going to bed too, huh?"

That won him some more wiggling in approval, the dogs' collar tags jingling together as their ID discs struck their Saint Francis medals.

He set the little four-legged sausages back on the floor, and slipped into his room, knowing they were right at his heels.

Using the lighter he kept by the door, he lit the candles at his Shrine then kicked off his shoes, falling easily to his knees on the familiar cushion that conformed to his weight perfectly.

Pippin settled himself on his right hand side, and put his head on the edge of the padded leather, so close that Tony could feel him breathing. Merry sat to his left, watching him carefully, not missing a thing.

In the quiet, he focused his eyes securely on the Cross, his hands reaching instinctively for his Rosary, knowing where everything was and how to ground himself in the rituals of his spirituality.

Whispering his prayers in French, he found his comfort, for in all the unknowns of tomorrow, he knew God would still be there.

An hour passed him by, though it felt more like five minutes.

The dogs never made a sound.

Never moved.

Never fussed.

They knew their Master so very well.

The gentle clicking of the pale blue, fine cut crystal beads on his Rosary, became the sound to which he paced the steady rhythm of his words. And it soothed even the air around him.

When he was done, he sighed deeply and looked at his little companions.

"Prayers to Saint Francis?" he asked quietly, whereupon Pippin leapt joyfully into his lap and Merry promptly sat up on her back legs, waving her front paws, not like someone begging but rather eagerly trying to please.

Pippin wiggled himself around until he lay on his back between Tony's thighs, waving his own paws around in the air, and it looked for all the world as though Merry was trying really hard to clasp her feet together as praying hands.

Smiling with patient encouragement, Tony held Pippin's front paws in one hand, and blessed his beloved animals, assuring their Patron Saint that they had been very good and very kind, and they were deserving of treats, which won them each a doggy style breath mint that came from a bag in the drawer under the Shrine.

After they had gulped their reward, he kissed them both on the forehead and shooed them away.

"Puppy bedtime!" he cried, pointing to the door as he stood up. "Puppy bedtime!" And they both fled the room, their claws skittering on the floor as they raced for their beds and blankets.

Once he heard their 'nesting thing' calm down, Tony chuckled softly, blowing out the candles and closing the bedroom door.

He was halfway to the shower when Jethro said quietly, "How long does it take to train them so well?"

He'd thought the little animals most handsome, the girl being dappled shades of gray and black, the boy a rich red. Their behavior was nothing short of miraculous.

Tony nearly hit the ceiling, he was just that startled. "You…!!" he began, wondering how the hell he could possibly have failed to notice his silent and unmoving Mate sat in the far corner of the room all that time. "You were here?" he asked, sounding pathetic.

"I wasn't sure if you'd notice me. Ever."

"You were here the whole time?" Tony could only conclude that he had become so very familiar with Jethro's heartbeat in his ears by then, that he failed to actually hear it even in close confines.

It made him feel like a total prat.

"I didn't want a room across the hall from you."

Having been witness to about as candid a moment as he could ever hope to see, Jethro felt entirely justified in recalling all those times over the last few years when he'd been sure there was an entirely different and deeply attractive side to DiNozzo that no one else ever got to experience.

It made him feel slightly less like a crazy person.

Tony swallowed loudly. "I, er… Er…" He couldn't exactly explain his sudden bout of gormless blubbering.

Gibbs stood up from the armchair, walking toward him in a few short paces.

"I… Er… I thought you should have time. There's a lot to take in…" Standing his ground, refusing to back away, Sylum's Second-in-Command hoped to the Heavens that he didn't look like the flustered dork he thought he did.

Jethro blinked, not stopping until the two of them were nose to nose.

There was a pause.

Tony only knew his eyes were flashing because he saw the light of the Vampire illuminate that all too familiar face. He licked his lips, his senses absorbing everything that was his Mate.

The memories of what he'd lost so many times before, burned a heat through his very core that threatened to overpower every ounce of resolve he owned. The need that filled his Soul was so incredibly intense it seemed to tear at his bones, despite the cries for caution and concern that his brain was trying to emit.

He was so close to the fulfillment Fate had been denying him again and again, that there was a part of him could barely accept the reality of what was happening. So many poetic words gushed into his mind as though to reawaken all the nights he had spent in imagining the grand Courtship he would have with his Mate some day. But he knew that with a man like Gibbs, such abstractions were hardly going to be the best method of wooing.

He coughed abruptly, wanting so much to just dive on in there, seize his Mate's lips in a commanding kiss, and throw aside all pretense at restraint.

Whereupon he promptly berated himself for spending too long thinking about it, and not actually doing it.

"I need a shower," Jethro said bluntly, spinning him around and marching him into the bathroom.

Tony flailed but went with it, not exactly sure how he ended up naked in what felt like considerably less time than it took for him to even realize he was naked.

He had to switch his brain off and just go with what was happening, before he fucked it all up and lost the plot.

Though he wasn't sure what the plot actually was.

But he couldn't let go.

If he did, he figured he might do something equally as stupid and fuck the moment in an entirely different, yet altogether much more terrifying manner.

So for a while, he just stood there.

Uncertain.

Watching Gibbs strip naked too.

That he was not exactly in command of his own faculties was manifest in the profound interest his dick started taking in the proceedings, regardless of either conscious thought or any particular physical effort.

He had not been granted too much time yet, to consider the first experience he might have with Jethro, sexually. Somehow he had not quite let that very special fantasy out of the box, for fear it might never be.

Until it was there in his face.

Literally.

He took a totally unneeded breath.

His own appearance was that of a fit and healthy young man. There was nothing he had ever felt embarrassed by when it came to his body, and he had, by the Grace of God, been blessed to have but few scars prior to his Turning. He worked out, Fed regularly, and though he didn't always consume the best of solid foods, his system could handle it without making him look pudgy.

He had seen Jethro's attributes before, during a case when they'd been dragged into decontamination showers, and he had forced himself to pretend he was as scared and ridiculously jokey about it as DiNozzo would be expected to be, while trying his utmost not to openly admire the tight and very fuckable ass of his boss.

That had not been a fun day.

He was still thinking about it when he found water splashing on his head, and he shook his hair out of his eyes as strong and remarkably sure hands shoved him into the shower tiles and pinned him to the far wall of the spacious cubicle.

Steam built fast.

Flowing everywhere.

He gasped as firm lips kiss his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw line.

It was a moment of hunger, and he finally responded, grasping Jethro's hips, pulling him in close, grinding against him.

The growl that burst from his chest was deep.

Feral.

It shocked the hell out of him.

Scrabbling wildly, he pushed Jethro away, though it took some effort given that his body was urging him to take what was so very clearly his.

"I thought…" He was panting a little as he spoke, his Soul a blur of raging instinct that was defying words. "…thought you would need more time. It's not something to…" He watched the water trace its way down Jethro's face and drip from his chin. "You really want me?" he whispered, realizing that what he was seeing in those gorgeous gray eyes was a longing that had never before found expression.

"Did you think I was a 12 year old girl? Or a woman to be wooed over wine and flowers?"

Tony swallowed, snorting out a laugh as he heard the stupidity of such a suggestion. "You could've been," he admitted.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, but you weren't born female," he grinned.

"And you're okay with that? You're Catholic and there's laws about it in your faith."

Tony took Jethro's right hand and put it boldly on his throbbing manhood, barely able to recall ever being so turned on in his life. "I'm good with it," he murmured, nearly sagging at the knees as Gibbs began stroking him up and down, slowly at first but with increasing surety. "And my faith is my own…" he gasped.

His tenuous grasp on words slipped away from him.

He had been so sure that Jethro would be the one to shun a same sex relationship.

The man was notorious with stunning, leggy redheads. Like a magnet with iron filings. He'd been married more times than Tony wanted to reliably consider, and he'd fathered a beautiful daughter too, without there ever being a hint of him paying attention to, or noticing men.

With or without red hair.

Then there was that piece of shit law called 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell', which pretty much kept anyone who wore a uniform from even vaguely expressing the vaguest comment about being vaguely bisexual let alone full on gay.

"Oh! God!!!" Throwing his head back against the wall Tony came to a shuddering and not entirely unexpected climax in Jethro's hand, held up from slithering to the floor, by sheer force of will.

His fangs dropped.

The little laugh of delight that Gibbs uttered, was throaty and wicked.

It was a new sound for him that Tony had never yet heard, and from that moment he would always equate it with sex.

"You look wanton," Jethro murmured.

Tony snickered. He couldn't help it, yet the hand that had just gotten him off, kept stroking him still, fondling his balls for good measure. "Wanton?" he asked, his hips pushing forward, seeking more.

Jethro smiled then.

A true and honest smile.

No walls between them.

No barriers.

No masks.

No pretending.

No imagining.

No false expectations.

And Tony reached for him, cupping his face in both hands, devouring his mouth like a man with his last meal.

It went on and on.

Wet bodies sliding flesh on flesh, they explored each other with a fervency that built rapidly to a violent peak, and Tony came for a second time, wondering if he'd reverted back to being a hormone driven over-excited teenager getting his first taste of sex in the shadows under the staircase with the pretty chambermaid who flashed her seriously supple breasts at him…

But Jethro was taking the edge off his need, and he knew it.

He was calming.

Sort of.

Or he thought he was, until Gibbs discovered there were many other things he could use his tongue for besides kissing.

Tony growled, screwing his eyes shut as his nipples were sucked and licked and nibbled on.

He tangled his fingers in Jethro's hair as best he could, and held on tight, letting sensation rush over him.

Endlessly.

He knew he should have stopped, got them dry and gone to bed so they could talk.

He knew he should have the strength to do that.

But he had no desire to stop.

He had his Mate.

Right there.

Filling his senses.

Turning him on and arousing his every passion.

Wanting him.

Desiring him.

That heartbeat drove him to a level of wild insanity it was impossible to ignore.

He had to have what was his.

Or Fate would snatch it away again.

He shuddered.

About to come for a third time, he was overwhelmed before he could react on a more rational impulse, and with an almost elegant turn of the hips, he spun the two of them about, pushing Jethro into the wall instead.

"How many men have you had?" he demanded, holding him there.

The only thing that got between them was the water.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes!" Tony was not one for sharing those who came to his bed.

"Some," Gibbs answered, pushing into him, muscles tensing. "Nothing serious. Nothing to come back later and cause a problem."

"Some?"

"Enough to know what I'm doing, and know what I want. Enough to know what's good and what's even better. But not enough to make me suspicious. Always out of uniform. Always discreet." He took a deep breath, having never been comfortable justifying himself to anyone. He had wanted DiNozzo for so long, yet the risks posed by such a relationship had left him torn between his duty and his increasingly lustful desire for his younger colleague. Who turned out to be any but youthful. "I had no idea any of what I wanted would lead me here," he continued. "To this."

Tony's smile was wolfish as he used the Vampire strength he had been blessed with, to keep the two of them from moving far. "This?" he asked softly, leaning into Jethro's neck, lapping at his pulse point, listening to the rhythm. "That's it? Just this?" He slid his right hand down over his Mate's left hip. "Not us?"

Fangs exposed, Tony wanted to bite so very much, the urge to do it screaming loud and hard in his head.

His wandering fingers found Jethro's cock.

"How long have you wanted me?" He whispered, teasing with great delight, the thick and swollen flesh he was increasingly eager to acquaint himself with in every way possible.

His ministrations won him an appreciative moan.

"Long enough," Jethro finally confessed. "Now, are you going to fuck me here, or just be a damn prick tease all night?"

There was something about hearing those kinds of words come out of so strict a man's mouth, that shot straight to a part of Tony's mind he never new existed before, and reacting on nothing but instinct he turned his Mate around, shoved him face first into the wall, and set about Claiming every inch of what belonged to him alone.

There was no space left for rational thought.

No need for expectation.

No chance for regret.

With the only available lubricant to hand being some of the Ph Neutral soap on the nearest cubicle shelf, he had his first real taste of the man who would be his forever, quickly working him open before plunging inside him. He knew it was a moment to savor, and he did, but only for the small amount of time it took to appreciate how Jethro was surrendering to him, trusting him.

Completely.

It made him want to cry.

And yet, still it was instinct that drove his actions, drove his Soul as he thrust upward into Jethro again and again, with urgency and desperate force.

The reality of it was overpowering.

He ran his hand along Jethro's back and shoulders, feeling the pressure across his muscles, and the hammering of his heart.

It called to him, clearer than the finest poetry, and with more beauty than the finest symphony.

Nibbling his Mate's neck, he breathed in everything that was Gibbs, wrapping himself around him, filing him as strongly as he could, climaxing with a shout of triumph even as his fangs pierced Jethro's neck.

There was no way to stop it once it began.

There was no way to even think about stopping it.

Too many chances had been lost.

Too many years spent in lonely regret.

Too many missed moments.

But there would be no more.

Jethro shuddered as he was consumed.

Pressed tightly into the wet, white tiles, bathed in steam and hot water, the very essence of the man he had been steadily falling in love with, still inside him, it was all he could do to remain upright. And though he fought what was happening, pushing for just the briefest pause to regain some control back, he accepted what was coming, and his anxiety got swept away as an all encompassing pleasure crashed over him, hauling him toward a new and very different existence.

Tony growled possessively, drinking in his Mate without fear, taking his weight easily, melding the two of them together.

It was a bliss that nothing could have prepared him for, nor words possibly have described, as they touched in a way more intimate and more necessary than any sexual experience alone could truly match.

He was lost.

Having Sired Children before, he knew how biting felt and how the Turning process worked, yet he had never known himself to be quite so absorbed in the Soul to which he was Bonding his own.

Jethro was his.

So close, they were becoming one…

The powerful rush of emotion his actions produced, inevitably touched his own Sire, who had just gotten out of the shower and been contemplating his much missed bed, where his Mate already lay naked, hastily spread-eagled in damp and eager invitation.

"Oh..! Really?" he sighed, rolling his eyes, toweling his hair dry.

Warrick sat up, leaning on his elbows. "I wasn't expecting sarcasm, but okay," he snorted, blinking at his Mate curiously. "What?"

The strange expression on Nick's face was a little disconcerting, especially when he'd been hoping for at least an hour or so of sleepy sex before they finally put a lid on the day.

"Tony…!" Dropping the towel, Sylum's Clan Leader vanished into the closet and emerged less than 10 seconds later, hopping into a pair of sweats that had seen the best of their usefulness about 2 years before.

Warrick leapt to his feet. "What??"

"Get Thomas."

"What the hell, man?"

"My daughter is going to drive me crazy!" Nick explained, struggling keep his balance as he dashed for the door, barefoot and barely dry. "Don't just stand there! Get Thomas to Tony's room!"

As Jethro teetered on the infinitely narrow ledge between life and death, Tony broke the hold he had maintained on him, scooping him up in his arms before he fell to the bottom of the shower basin. The water made things a lot harder than they ought to have been, yet it carried away all the evidence, seeming to deny the truth of what was happening.

He had no idea he was doing so, but as he gently laid his soaking wet Mate on the bed, Tony was reciting the Hail Mary in his native tongue.

Over and over, it was a steady whisper that gradually replaced the heartbeat he had come to know so very well.

It reassured him.

All was as it should be.

Pausing by the fire, he didn't feel its heat, but it dried the footsteps he had left behind, as with deliberate intent he reached into the drawer of his Shrine and removed a long, narrow, wooden case.

It's simple elegance, all polished, smoothly crafted rosewood with a Mother-of-Pearl inlay panel on the lid that bore the triquetra symbol of Sylum Clan, was stunning to the eye.

Within lay a knife.

At sixteen and a half inches in length, it dated from the early 1600's.

Made in France, it had served but 2 Frenchmen in its lifetime.

Himself.

And Le Capitaine Jéan-Phillippe Jénçon of the King's Musketeers, for whom it had been made.

Known as a Quillon for its forward facing finials of the same name, it was designed for use with the left hand, in conjunction with a sword wielded in the right.

It's wooden grip was smooth and warm, having been restored in the mid-1900's. The pommel was decorated much as the hilt, to match its distinctive style, in a looping pattern that had certainly tested the craftsman's skill in the making.

It had save his life no fewer than five times.

His Papa's at least twice.

And is brother's once.

It's only failure had been in being unable to defend it's first owner from the murdering hand of Rochefort, but that stain would be abolished soon enough.

As Jethro's heartbeat fell to the vaguest of whispery flutters, Tony put the box back in its place and slid onto the bed beside him.

His love's body felt cold and clammy.

With undeniably nervous gestures, Tony carefully slit his own right wrist with the precious knife, avoiding the major artery but allowing for blood to flow steadily from the wound.

He never felt the incision.

Jethro's eyelids flickered as something warm and sticky dripped upon his lips.

"Drink," Tony urged softly. "I promise, it will be okay."

A hand held his head up, supporting him from below, and Jethro moaned at the disturbance.

He wanted to move.

Open his eyes.

Speak.

Yet there was no more strength left in him.

Through sheer force of will, he fought like a bitch to make it not so.

A familiar touch.

A familiar voice.

The smell of blood.

He opened his mouth.

Or so it felt.

The rich fluid poured down his throat and over his tongue.

"That's it. That's it…"

Jethro knew it was Tony, bidding him trust what was happening.

Yet he remarkably felt no fear.

It was right that he be there.

Somehow, all those moment in his life that had made him permanently edgy - like he'd forever missed something desperately important but couldn't quite figure what - came together to fit that perfect place where everything made sense.

Only as Jethro's head fell back into the pillows, did Tony finally freak out.

Until then, it had been a matter of calmly instinctual nature.

Or so he thought.

But the inevitable realization that he had just taken his Mate's life, hit him in the chest like a Peterbilt at 90mph.

He dropped the precious knife somewhere on the bed, utterly oblivious to the way his own very healthy and well-nourished Vampire body was already healing the incision to his wrist.

Jethro lay as naked as he was himself.

Cold.

Still.

He could hardly bear it.

At any moment he fully expected to hear Rochefort's mocking laughter, but instead there was only an anguished sob that rose from his Soul as the terror of seeing Jethro lie dead before him, became a stark reality.

Nothing was prepared.

He wasn't ready.

His brother had prepped the most perfect arrangement for Turning Horatio, planning every detail to make certain it was done correctly and with the utmost affection.

While he himself, had randomly Turned his Mate one night in the goddamn shower??

What the actual fuck was he thinking????

Was he even thinking?

At all?

He ran the whole episode back through his mind at double speed, and calculated that while it had indeed been impromptu and more than a little spontaneous, he had done everything right.

So far.

Yet still…

Scrabbling off the bed, he reached for a blanket from over the back of the chair in the corner, and covered Jethro up with a tenderness that much belied his panic.

Blood.

He'd need blood.

And warmth.

Get the fire up higher, perhaps.

What had Tim done? Run a hot bath, right?

Yes, that would work too.

Many other such rational thoughts flew through Tony's head in an attempt to settle his intention and get him moving.

It was a nice try, given that he fled naked to the door thinking of blood packs above all else, and hoping Thomas would get some warmed for him.

His lack of clothing, not to mention the fact that he could actually pick the house phone off the beside table and call Thomas at a moment's notice, failed to impress themselves upon him as with a gasp, he nearly tripped headlong on his own previously discarded shoes.

A cold sweat of panic covered every inch of his flesh in prickles and made him quite ridiculously irritated as he almost tore the handle off the latch.

Only to find said desirable Thomas already there, poised to enter, blood packs and extra blankets in hand.

That had also been how Nick found his faithful manservant, having himself just raced to Tony's aid like a lunatic, fearful of the intense emotion coming at him through his Childe Bond with his kid, to discover that Thomas had foreseen the coming scenario and arranged all matters accordingly. Such eventualities were indeed not limited to blood and firewood, but also involved fresh, clean sheets and blankets, a band new mattress for the bed, and suitable items to replace any and all others which were either stained beyond cleaning, or damaged beyond reasonable repair.

There was a considerable cave of wonders that Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves would have envied, hidden below ground, not too far away from where they stood, that only he and Thomas had access to, in which was stored a vast myriad of necessities that had never run dry, nor ever run short.

It was positively miraculous.

And Nick knew better than to ask awkward questions about how it stayed that way.

The two of them merely exchanged nods, Thomas eyeing his Clan Leader's apparel with a certain resigned acceptance.

And when Tony opened the door, they were both rather relieved at not having had to knock.

At the sight of his eldest kid, bollock naked, wide-eyed and utterly distraught, Nick seriously wanted a camera. It probably wasn't the best first reaction to have had, but he went with it.

Though it seemed Tony hadn't even realized he was there, until Thomas marched straight into the room and began issuing orders.

"Papa?"

Like a five year old, his Antonio practically threw himself into a paroxysm of tearful hugging that could only be endured for so long before the General had had enough.

"Get some pants on, boy," he finally muttered gruffly, patting the Vampire in his arms. "There's guests across the Hall, remember?"

"Yes, sir!" Pulling himself upright, and wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, Tony felt instantly better for his Sire's unwavering presence.

And Nick experienced a surge of substantial pride at knowing his Childe was about to fulfill his deepest wish, once Leroy Jethro Gibbs came back into the world again.

The Gunny was a strong and healthy man of a robust and determined nature, which meant the physical pain he would likely endure in the next few hours, could well test them all.

"Master Anthony?" Thomas got him moving. "If you please?" he called, having stirred the dwindling fire into something better suited for the night ahead. "Come this way, sir."

The shower was still on, the bathroom fogged with steam and condensation like wading into some primordial forest.

He shook his head and threw some of the spare towels down to soak up the excess water from where the cubicle door had been left wide open. Busying himself, he encouraged Sylum's Second-in-Command to find a sweatshirt and jogging pants from amongst the items in the dresser by the door, yet Tony lingered in the space between one room and the next, reluctant to tear his gaze from where his Mate lay in death.

Thomas actually itched to slap the boy's face that it might snap him from the tumult of old memories that could clearly be seen passing across his features.

Nick took a seat beside the bed, having firmly closed the main door against prying and curious eyes, for there was no real guarantee that those asleep across the other side of the Great Room had not woken.

For a while, he listened intently to the heartbeats he could discern in various places around the Manor but none were especially disturbed or anxiously racing.

Noting the protective way in which Jethro had been covered, he could already tell that Tony would be a most possessive Mate, for there were those amongst the Vampire who guarded with great concern and jealousy, the one who was their ultimate completion. But such things had long been noted on a sliding scale, and not every Soul reacted so. His own Mate Bond with Warrick had never been that far inclined, and rested securely upon an altogether quite different foundation that kept them stable.

He smiled to himself as Thomas got Tony focusing on the hot bath they would put Jethro into once he woke.

The chill of waking up dead was a disconcerting sensation as the body, which normally functioned at a certain temperature and to a certain rhythm, began accepting the unavoidable realities of the Vampire physiognomy. His own death had come while he lingered with one foot already through the Gateway to Elysium. He had been set to surrender himself to God, when the chance of a new existence presented him with hope undreamt of before.

And even Speed had been so very close to death in the end, just like Tony had been.

Thomas had been the one amongst them who did not go easily to his death, though he had quite willingly met it.

There were certain ironies in being Turned which made the Vampire a challenging way of life, that in the strictest sense of the word was not actually life at all.

It was one of those mysteries that just had to be taken on Faith.

Such was the only way to ever cope with the idea of seeing centuries and millennia, while seeking the Soul that your own craved without ceasing.

The decades of endless regret that Tony had endured, losing his Mate so many times, had cut him to the core too, knowing he could do nothing to keep it from happening. Watching the man who bore the Soul of his eldest daughter, fall apart over and over only to reconstruct himself in leading men to battle, fighting wars on every continent, losing his heartache in a sea of blood and the comradeship built on other struggles to survive the death of combat…

It had been hard on one who wanted only the good things for his family, and it made Nick quite keenly aware of the vast implications that Tony's Bonding would herald with the morning.

However, he wasn't actually all that sure about having one more baby Vampire running around the Manor, not given the wider situation they might potentially be facing. Still, there could be no denying the contentment it would bring his Childe.

At last.

After all he stress, there should be peace.

He sighed.

It did not take long for Jethro to stir. He was a man who knew how to fight against the very worst of life and death, and never surrendered to either.

Tony was at his side in an instant, as though predisposed to an acute understanding of everything that was his Mate.

It was a good sign.

That was, after all, how things were meant to work.

Nick encouraged his boy to get into bed beside Jethro and hold him through the pain.

But it was awkward and strange.

Tony had held dying men before.

He had never murmured poetry to them though, while they passed.

But there it was.

And yet in pressing his body to Jethro's, he felt the reality of his Mate's existence, and knew his Soul would ache no more.

Refusing to move, Nick stayed close at hand, listening to the softly lilting passion of Tony's adoration, even as Thomas set about cleaning the bathroom, and fussing around the suite like a man preparing for the imminent arrival of his firstborn.

And when Jethro cried out in pain, it might easily have been the sound of an infant come new to the world.

Nick had not been there for his own Mate, when the Turning happened, but he knew Warrick had not gone easy to the Vampire.

One day he would find out how exactly.

Maybe.

Thomas fetched the blood bags that had been in a box, gently warming by the fire, as Jethro suddenly sat upright and began struggling against the blankets.

Tony also panicked, startled by it, and looking to his Papa for assurance, holding his Mate still, feeling him shiver with incredible violence.

It was sheer terror.

Every Vampire found that first moment engraved itself upon their mind, and Gibbs was no exception.

Cold.

A primal sensation, enhanced by the extreme nature of a chill that truly touched his bones and froze them solid.

It made his limbs stiffen, and his chest heavy as he drew breath.

The air itself tasted too thick.

Words, loud as gunshots, close by his ear, told him there was no more need for breath.

His tongue refused to grant him a reply.

The room swam in and out of focus, yet he could not bring himself to rub his eyes, and the frustration was enough to make him crazy.

There seemed to be no control over the body he had woken up in.

If he really was awake.

A hunger gnawed at his belly.

A need.

No.

A craving.

His mouth watered at the familiar smell that wafted under his nose.

Tony.

He could sense Tony.

Strong arms, holding him.

He had to eat.

But no matter how badly he desired it, there was no way to get his limbs cooperating.

It exhausted him without warning.

Disoriented, he fell into Tony's embrace, determined to rest a moment before gathering his strength again.

He did not know it, but his fangs were exposed, and his eyes glowed a stormy shade of gray as dark as any thundering sky.

He had been dead for three and a half hours.

Nick stood back, out of the way, as Thomas pressed a blood packet into Tony's left hand. The boy knew what had to happen, but was barely paying sufficient attention, and he could tell all too easily how many other things were going through his kid's mind.

He was having such similar thoughts.

Of the last months in which the history of the 16th Century had writ itself for all time across his Soul.

He shook his head sternly, bidding Tony to mind his actions that he might miss nothing of what was happening.

Jethro took the first sustenance of his Vampire life, with neither complaint nor fuss, swallowing quick and gladly.

The potent smell of blood sharpened the senses of every Vampire in the room.

The second bag was then drunk much more slowly, steadily, with increased awareness as the newborn blinked, registering the surreal necessity of it.

The third bag fell to the bed.

Tony scrabbled for it, his fractious concentration broken amidst the extra covers lying across his legs.

Jethro groaned, still desiring more.

Thomas attempted to be useful, but Tony's snarl had him rapidly backing off for fear his actions might be misconstrued as an inappropriate move toward the helpless.

Nick was not exactly surprised to see it, but the vehemence of Tony's reaction was disturbing.

"It's alright, boy!" he growled, leaping into the situation and staying his kid's hand to try and calm his agitation.

Only to wind up sprayed in blood as the bag they were tussling over, split at the seam.

The smell was rich and instantly inviting.

The moment, not so much.

Thomas sighed, hiding the urge to eye roll behind an expression of horrified outrage. "Gentlemen! Please!!" he cried, taking charge of the problem. "Enough of this! Master Nicolaus, kindly remove yourself from the room at once, before you make an even bigger mess. Master Antonio, look to your Mate this instant!"

Had he the fortitude at that point, Jethro might very well have slapped Tony sharply upside the head. He had a terrible need to, just not the strength. Something else was occupying the space where his conscious reason used to sit.

Or so it seemed.

For his part, Tony visibly flinched at hearing the first true reference uttered in regard to his having a Mate in actual flesh and blood terms, and not merely as some illusive, hopeful daydream.

Instantly his attention focused fully on the new Vampire in his arms.

His Mate.

His.

But not quite yet.

Not fully.

"He's cold," Tony muttered.

"The bath is ready," Thomas reminded him.

Nick was hoisted off the bloody sheets by his manservant, and found a towel thrust into his hands.

Somewhat disgruntled, he endeavored to wipe his feet and sponge the spillage from his pants. There was an irritating edge to the way his kid was behaving, that grated on every nerve in his body, and while at first he had been quite keen to accept it as natural possessiveness at a Vampire finally getting his Mate after centuries of loss, he was increasingly concerned by the sharp sense of dangerous intent being displayed. For even as he watched, Tony growled at Thomas not to touch Jethro in any way.

Being a little needy and desperate was fine.

Being obsessed however, was utterly impractical.

He would not have anyone getting hurt for the wont of a little self-restraint.

Still, Tony refused assistance of any kind, moving his Mate to the bathroom, fastidiously covering is own nakedness with a robe from the nearest chair, as well as hiding Jethro's bare flesh with a relatively unstained blanket, before sliding out of the bed heedless of the blood, or the fact that being without clothes had not seemed to bother him earlier when he'd been in a considerable state of disarray.

Thomas kept a wary eye on the proceedings. "I trust the boy knows what comes next?" he murmured.

And Nick snorted in response, knowing anything he might choose to say would just come out sounding wrong.

"You should go change, get a shower, and get some rest. Feed again. There is nothing you can do for your son now but let Vampire instinct take its course. And I do believe, Nicolaus, that Master Antonio has a certain overly developed instinct at this particular point in the night."

Sylum's Clan Leader rolled his eyes to the Heavens, knowing his old friend had to have seen the situation developing, and recognized it for what it meant.

"He will settle. Give him this time to figure the new meaning his existence has suddenly taken."

Nick nodded, sighing. "Call me if there is any kind of problem."

"Of course."

The two of them could hear water splashing as Jethro was lowered into the bath.

"It is, as it should be." Thomas gripped his own Sire by the arm and squeezed. "Worry not. The worst is over."

"I hope so."

"It is safe here. No harm will come. Please, go rest before Master Warrick charges in here like the proverbial bull in a china shop."

Again Nick snorted, the Bond with his Mate humming steadily in the warmth of mutual concern. "I loved these pants," he said grimly, eyeing their sad ruin.

He was getting sticky as the blood dried on him.

"Let me throw them away."

"Are they beyond hope?" Nick tugged forlornly at his most comfy sweats.

"Sadly, sir," Thomas confirmed. "But if they are the only victim of these events, the price was not so high."

And his comment at least put a weary smile on the other man's face.

"Now, there is much to be done before peace may finally reign once more upon the Manor."

"Are you throwing me out of here, Baron?"

"Yes."

Nick blinked.

"I can be a little more rude about it, if you would prefer."

"Don't bother, old friend. I have a Mate who can amply atone for your sense of dignity."

"Yes, sir. Indeed."

Shaking his head, Nick opened the door and walked away, returning to the darkened tranquility beyond the bedroom, seriously surprised that no one asleep across the Hall had woken up from all the noise yet.

He was at the main entrance to Tony's wing of the house, still clutching the damp towel he'd been using, when Thomas caught silently up with him.

"Sir, before you spread further mess through the Manor, I would take your bloody items…"

Nick had the door open, and was face to face with several members of the night staff all waiting to begin cleaning up wherever their employer decreed it necessary.

Any other Soul, new to the way of Sylum and the nature of the Vampire, might have quite justifiably been startled by such an arrangement. The house was however, run in much the same fashion as any large and well-esteemed hotel, and in a great many ways it surely met - if not surpassed - the requirement for 5 Star status and personal service.

Thomas had of course, prepared his discreet, well paid, well respected people for what might still be needed, and Nick spied two men bearing a fresh mattress for the bed, an older woman equipped with a fully stocked cleaning cart, and a pair of younger girls carrying nearly folded sheets with matching blankets and pillows.

No one so much as blinked at seeing the Master of the Manor covered in blood.

Several of them had, after all, seen far stranger sights in their years of service. They were all Chosen Ones, having either come to the employ of Sylum Clan through their family heritage, or been taken on for the particular contribution they could provide after finding themselves exposed to the existence of the Vampire.

Only the most experienced, and most reliable of staff, were permitted access to the Clan's Ruling members.

All of them were utterly above reproach, highly trusted, and often virtually invisible.

The promise of knowing that they themselves, their families, and the needs of their descendants would be forever a prime concern to those whom they served, kept them willingly loyal and trustworthy.

"Sir! Your pants!!" Thomas cried, chasing his Clan Leader out into the hallway, grateful that a trail of footprints had not been left behind by either of them, though more than a few fine drops would be found scattered around, thanks to the eagle eyes of Mrs. Sterns, who was notorious for seeing stains where sometimes even Vampire vision denied their blemish.

"Sir! Kindly give me your pants at once!!"

Thomas glared at his staff, and shooed them into Master Antonio's suite with a stiff wave of his hands.

Having closed the bathroom door firmly against unwarranted, and even perhaps potentially unnerving interruptions for the Mates within, he knew his team would clean and tidy Master Anthony's bedroom and be both quick and quiet in the process.

They were well trained.

And they knew what they were doing.

"Master Nicolaus! If you please!" Thomas cried again, his voice going utterly unheard by the object of his anguish, and he wondered if he'd get more attention using Latin. "At least give me that towel, sir!"

Twenty minutes before, Speed and Calleigh had been finishing off their examination of the rifle that Jimmy found after the shooting at the airport, working with professional calm, dealing with the evidence as though back in Miami and there was nothing remotely weird going on.

Calleigh had questions.

She'd actually put a considerable list together in recent months, and took great delight in gradually ticking items off, as she came to better understand the new way of life she had become a secret party to. It was all terribly exciting, like finding herself thrown unsuspecting into a vast and stunning conspiracy movie where the characters came to be real and smiled at her charmingly, like she was once some great heroine in another time or another place.

It felt rather romantic, and made her wonder whether she had really been someone of some repute in a past life.

She was also pretty stunned by Sylum Clan's Forensic lab facilities.

Speed had led her out of the Manor, through a door that opened onto a corridor, which in turn quickly became a gently downward sloping tunnel.

It was nothing as she had expected, until a door on the left, at the top of three steps which had been neatly cut into the natural rock, brought them out at the back of the Manor House, on a field of grass.

She had blinked in the darkness, finding that pathways, lit by small but surprisingly powerful solar powered lamps set on spikes in the ground, criss-crossed the landscape like sparkling strands on a spider's web.

The U.S. Marshals who accompanied them, had been quiet yet reassuring, their presence a sturdy reminder that none of what was going on came as the result of having too active an imagination.

The lab was hidden some distance away in the tree line. It was one of a pair of low, square structures, that compared to the old Plantation, were very modern in design and construction.

"To the right is the hospital block," Speed explained. "Fully stocked for emergency use and recovery. Major surgeries, long term treatments, stuff like that, all gets done in the city."

"Vampires need a hospital?"

"We have more humans here than you'd think. We also have pets and animals, so there's vet facilities too."

Calleigh nodded. "Very cool. Do you serve the local community?"

"Medically? Sure," he answered, leading her into the identical block. "We rely on them, and they on us."

"How much land around here is the Clan's?"

"About 750,000 acres."

Calleigh nearly fell over her own feet. "Seriously??"

"I mentioned Sylum is the biggest Clan in the world, right?"

"Yeah, I just never imagined…"

And after that, her attention had been firmly riveted to the rest of the facilities, namely the gun vault - which had been so remarkably comprehensive in its content and quality that it just about gave her an instantaneous orgasm - the top of the line testing and analysis gear that had so far not even been offered for the MDPD Forensic Department, and the sweet smelling bathroom that in her humble opinion out did even the elegance of the Hay-Adams in Washington DC.

Speed had asked her how exactly she knew what the Hay-Adams bathrooms were like, to which she'd simply flipped her hair up in a bun, securing it with a convenient pencil staked through it like a spear, before declaring that she'd been on a ballistics conference a few years back when, during a free afternoon, she'd taken in some of the most essential sights of the city and gotten caught short with nowhere obvious to relieve herself. So, putting on the best Southern charm of a beautiful Belle all alone and lost in the big city, she'd swanned into the nearest hotel like she owned the place, found the restroom, been so awed by the immaculate porcelain, fresh flowers, and individual, warmly wrapped hand towels, she nearly forgot what she was dong there to start with. She had no idea even where 'there' was, until with equal the self-confidence used to obtain entry to begin with, she left the premises, wafting past the uniformed Doorman with a charmingly serene smile, before turning around on the sidewalk outside to discover just where, precisely, she'd gone to pee.

"My daddy would have been so proud!" she giggled.

"Well, you've never really been to a place until you've peed there," Speed deadpanned.

"Then I have officially just been to Sylum Clan," she announced proudly. "Now, let's get to work."

The gun turned out to have been waiting for them.

She squeed over it like she'd found a hitherto undiscovered species of dinosaur.

"It's Russian!" she declared, before even picking it up. "Old. 1960's for sure. A Dragunov SVD. Seriously lightweight."

The skeletal wooden butt stock was smoothly polished and ruby red.

"The cheek pad has been replaced."

Speed listened to her talk, wondering if there were usable fingerprints anywhere on the weapon, that might help them get a handle on who had been pissing off his Clan's Ruling Council.

If the last person to use it had been a Vampire, there would be no epithelial cells or DNA, and no fingerprints either unless the person in question had particularly dusty hands and kindly left his or her identifying marks behind.

"7-62 calibre, with a 10 round box magazine." Calleigh reached for the magnifying lamp as she worked. "Has a PSO-1 telescopic sight with a reticule lamp. Hmmm…" She frowned. "There's residue on the rear sight. Same again on the cocking handle."

"Can we trace this gun's history?" Speed demanded.

"Maybe."

And that was all she would commit to until she could find the serial number.

Which she couldn't.

It never had one.

The two of them had slipped into lab coats and gloves, and gotten down to business, only stopping when there was nothing more to be done but let Speed's trace analysis run its course. That was when Calleigh realized how the promising partial fingerprint she'd found, and slightly unhelpful smudge of a palm print, were being run through a series of databases, several of which she had never seen before in her life.

Her eyes widened.

Outside the door, Jimmy and Noah lurked restlessly in the corridor, watching what was going on.

She liked the lab, and the way it was laid out.

All glass and shiny chrome, it felt instantly accessible to those who knew its purpose, yet just intimidating enough to those who didn't. Being able to see across to the activity going on in the other assorted laboratory areas, where fiber analysis and lay outs could be done amongst so many other things, also came as a plus in her opinion, and she wondered if she could drop a few useful hints back in Miami, should anyone ever decide there was enough money in the budget to upgrade the department facilities.

"What's S.I.?" she asked, having seen the same nondescript company logo on all the nearby computers and much of the lab paraphernalia. "And how the hell did you get access to AFIS? Is that Interpol? And Homeland Security??"

Speed's eyebrows rose in sync with the volume of her shrieking. "Are you done?" he demanded flatly.

"You have Vampires in Interpol? Homeland Security? You have people everywhere?"

"Not personally, no," he replied. "But I know a few people. I'm a Clan Advisor. Goes with the territory."

Jimmy and Noah were engaged in conversation with Tom and Huck, both of whom were waving and pointing at Calleigh.

She waved back coyly, and won a blushing fit of shyly attractive giggles from Sawyer in return.

"He's adorable," she sighed.

"He's Mated," Speed grumbled, warning her off.

The labs were sound proof and bullet proof, and well protected against potentially explosive situations from accidents with chemicals.

Still, none of that stopped him from doing a little lip-reading.

It was a skill he'd picked in a prison cell one particularly boring Sunday afternoon in the late 15th Century, and he'd had plenty of time to hone it since.

What he overheard made him snort.

"Tom thinks you're cute too. You should talk to him in the morning. He's got something to explain."

Calleigh frowned at her friend. "What is gong on?"

"You ever heard of Becky Thatcher?" he asked.

She needed a moment to get her brain shifting into a whole different gear. Her eyes narrowed, and her jaw fell open. "Yeah…" She sounded about as suspicious as she suddenly felt. "I read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer years ago."

Speed chuckled wickedly. "Read it again."

"Why?"

He sighed. "Just read it again."

She stared long and hard at the four men who were in turn all staring at her. "Becky Thatcher had long yellow hair and blue eyes…" she muttered, still very much trying to get her brain around the reality of actually having Tom Sawyer right there next to Huckleberry Finn, smiling broadly and joking with each other like regular folk.

Really, it was anything but regular.

"Do you think…?" she began, but Speed stopped her short with a wave of his hand.

"Let's get out of here," he said simply. "Let the data run. We can check it tomorrow."

Even if the prints proved to have an owner some time in the next five seconds, there was only so much that could be done at any one time.

"Isn't it tomorrow already?" she asked, realizing just how tired she was. "I'm not sure what day it is."

"Shouldn't you be keeping an eye on the…?" Jimmy gestured at the computer screens and the assorted equipment that was still running as they left.

Speed just stared at him blankly.

"…the stuff? The science stuff!" James Hickok flailed a little. "You're leaving it on?"

"It's automated. It'll be fine," Calleigh assured him brightly, hiding a yawn behind a laugh.

"Someone should stay and guard it though, right?"

Noah shook his head at his Mate. "What the hell, man?"

"I'm going to bed," Speed said, a grimly determined look in his eyes. "But if you want to guard a locked room for the next few hours, be my guest."

Noah knew Jimmy was too tense. "We're good," he answered, their Bond taut from all the recent stresses. "We just want answers."

"We all do," Huck said firmly.

"Well, you won't get them standing around," Speed grumbled. "G'night."

Calleigh trotted along beside him, as they headed out and back to the house. The air was cold and sharp, but it cleared their senses.

"This place is very impressive," she murmured. "You farm that many acres?"

"Not personally."

She snorted. "You must've had slaves at one time."

"Yes."

And that was all she got out of him on the subject.

They were heading up the Grand Staircase together, having left their previous escort behind outside, when things got weird.

If he didn't know any better, Speed would've thought that Van Helsing had arranged his Hunters to keep a closer watch on the Clan's High Council than was normal.

But he wasn't going to ask.

Though he was unable to stop his jaw from falling open…

"Oh, hell!!" Calleigh said loudly, seriously startled at the sight of a shirtless man stalking barefoot towards them, covered in blood. "What's happened?"

Speed instantly put himself between her and Nick, seeing on his Sire's face a distinctly dangerous expression.

"Got to bed, Timothy," Sylum's Clan Leader growled, disappearing into his rooms without another word.

Thomas never even missed a beat as he followed.

To Calleigh's astonishment, Speed turned and ushered her away to the right, like nothing remotely untoward had just occurred whatsoever.

At all.

"Are you kidding?" she hissed. "That guy looks like he just walked away from a murder!"

"That 'guy' is the Clan Leader." Though he had to admit she was possibly right about the potential for their being a crime scene somewhere in the building.

And as Nick had been coming from Tony's wing of the house…

Calleigh glared at him, not really paying much attention to where he was taking her. "Are you crazy? Did he just kill someone?"

The temptation to tell her that if he had it would hardly have been the first time, seemed a serious proposition, but that would've led to many more hours of explanation than he had either energy or inclination for. Besides which, there had been a spike in the general sense of anxiety he could feel through his Childe Bond with Nick, as well as his Sibling Bond with Tony, and the thought did cross his mind that someone had very recently met a bad end somewhere nearby.

But Nick had definitely been coming from Tony's wing of the building, which was trouble enough in itself.

Or maybe not.

He couldn't quite decide.

Yet he trusted Nicolaus on a level that went far beyond explaining.

It had ever been so.

"Don't know what happened, but we'll find out tomorrow," he replied, happy to discover the fire was still lit in the Great Room once they got inside his own part of the Manor.

And his Mate was waiting.

That was the only thing could truly put a smile on his lips.

"It is tomorrow!" Calleigh insisted, glancing with growing curiosity at exactly whereabouts she found herself. "This is your room?"

He nodded to a door on the right. "Through there. Guest rooms that way."

Waving a hand, he gestured vaguely to the opposite side of the room, where a green curtain hung.

"This place is huge!" she exclaimed, flapping her arms, pretty sure she had not seen anywhere near the full extent of it yet.

"G'night," he muttered, slipping swiftly into a door she had to admit she had not really seen too clearly.

The lights were low.

Or rather, the candles were low in their sconces.

Try as she might, she could not find a light switch, and she felt all along the wall where a thick wooden rail divided the height of the room with a carving that formed an eternal Celtic knot.

What she did successfully navigate her way to were the other rooms, which weren't all that helpful either, because four doors and five different sets of guests meant she had to be sharing with Eric.

She grimaced.

He'd stayed over at her house once, and she'd honestly thought she missed a hurricane warning from the way that boy could snore. So figuring which room he was in, wasn't exactly hard with that in mind, and though she peeked inside, being extra careful in case he'd fallen asleep in the nude or something, she couldn't see her belongings anywhere in the immediately visible area, and there was certainly no second bed as far as she could tell.

She rolled her eyes and thought about all the creative ways she could torment Speed for leaving her stood there like a moron. She had to have been given a room someplace else. It just went without saying.

Which made it a shame that no one thought to say.

With a sigh, she turned her attention to practicalities instead, and shut the door again as Eric snorted and snuffled into his pillows like a prize pig hunting for truffles.

She loved the boy dearly.

But really…?

Instead of enduring Hurricane Delko, she went back to the Great Room, kicked off her shoes by the fireplace, and promptly fell over the rug.

Catching herself against the leg of the furniture before she hit the floor and woke the whole house up, it took her a startlingly long time to figure out that what she'd put her foot on was actually a dog.

A pair of them to be exact.

Long haired, long legged and lanky. Two sets of heads rose, blinking curious eyes that were hidden in silvery gray fur, almost daring her to take their special warm spot by the hearth.

She chuckled. "Back off, boys. I got dibs on the couch."

They shifted simultaneously, watching her as she shucked off her pants, threw her shirt over the back of the cushions, and unsnapped her bra - doing what women have done the world over since the invention of modern underwear, dropping the straps from her shoulders and tugging it off without removing her tank-top, by pulling it out under her left arm.

Whereupon it promptly twanged across the room and disappeared into the shadows.

She shrugged, grabbing a couple of blankets that were neatly folded over the wide arms of the couch.

She'd find her stuff in the morning.

Pulling the elastic band out of her hair, she let her long, yellow locks cascade down her back, before settling herself on the cushions and fluffing up a couple of little pillows for her head.

As she was snuggling down, one of the dogs got up, stretched its back, yawned expansively, licked its chops and flopped its head on the seat pad right next to her face, snorting into her hair.

"Hey!" She reached out and patted the critter between its ears. "Aren't you just a big soft thing?"

She figured the two animals for Irish Wolfhounds, which seemed highly fitting for the current environment she found herself trying to sleep in.

"Are you a boy or a girl?" she murmured, peering at the dog's collar tags. "Hmmmm…" She had to check she saw the engraving right. "Boromir? That's different. Who's your friend?"

On cue, the second hound appeared, its head right beside the first.

She laughed lightly, pulling herself up on her elbows.

"And you would be…? Oh!"

The small metal discs were a set that went with a medal of Saint Francis, and they jingled quite prettily, to alert people of their owners' presence.

"Aragorn?" she asked, offering scritches to the wet noses that were sniffing at her. "Wow! Someone seems to have a Lord of the Rings fetish. So why aren't you Faramir then, huh?"

Encouraged by her soft and easy tones, and her willingness to be near them, the two new friends she had just made, scrambled up onto the couch with her, freely making themselves at home, crawling all over her until they found optimum comfort in lying stretched full length, pressed right up against her back together.

She shifted around and grumbled at them for being so inconsiderate, but she had to admit that once they finally quit jostling her, their body heat was warmly welcome, and it wasn't long before she fell asleep.

Speed however, found Horatio in the closet.

He was fiddling with the gun safe.

"Are you having fun?" he asked, enjoying the sight of his Mate on his knees.

"Tell me all the empty space in here is because one day you figured you'd have a Mate to fill it?" Horatio frowned as he stood up, flicking the hair out of his eyes and slamming the cabinet door closed, hiding the safe again. He had been astonished at just how many empty drawers and shelves lay hidden behind all the matching dark wood panels, but it did explain the neatly painted sign that hung outside on the main closet door. "'Abandon hope all ye who enter here'?" he asked pointedly.

"Tony's idea of grown up humor," Speed snorted. "Thomas had it framed to make a point."

On identical hangars, a row of shirts arrayed in absolutely every conceivable shade of blue known to man, from dark to light, of which each and every example was at least a size and a half too big, had made him laugh out loud. It reminded him of his own collection, except his shirts were purple.

He already knew that Speed's wardrobe was far from being the first thing he ever seriously thought about in any given day.

And that was okay.

Really.

It wasn't a problem, and he knew enough about the man he loved, to know there would be no changing him.

Why change him at all?

It was a worthless, and pointless thought.

He did love the blue though…

"You good, H?" Speed saw the exhaustion on his Mate's face, clear as day.

"I'm fine. What happened with the evidence?"

"I'll tell you later if we've got anything that it will pan out. You find everything you need?"

"Yeah, and a few old memories besides."

"Flashbacks?"

"Of us. In Ireland."

Speed's grin broadened happily. "I'd say they were good memories from the gleam in your eyes."

"Oh, they were, but all I really need right now is a shower and some sleep."

"That, we can surely do. Thomas showed you the bathroom?"

"He told me where to find it."

The wicked little chuckle that followed, was not exactly what Horatio expected.

Speed held out his right hand. "C'mon! You're going to love me for this!"

"I love you anyway, Tim. With or without a steam shower. Tell me you have a decent steam shower."

He allowed himself to be led to the room next door, ducking instinctively under the artistic tree branches, though he didn't really have to, given that none were set low enough to actually do an unwary Soul any harm.

He wanted to ask about it, and had several well thought out questions to satisfy his immediate puzzlement, but all his good intentions fled as Speed opened the bathroom door.

The lights came on automatically, set to a preprogrammed standard.

The first thing he saw, was a sea of beautiful pale green tiles across the walls, and pale gray slate over the floor. It was offset with fixtures of sparkling chrome, and sink bowls of the same that sat atop dark green marble surfaces to the left and right. Mirrors, framed by simple, unadorned silver brackets, reflected a glass partition wall that ran just about the entire width of the back of the room, itself set with double doors that were adorned with chrome handles.

From the lack of light within that further space, he believed it a shower cubicle of exceptional size, likely accompanied by a bath.

The laundry hamper was of canvas, with a green stripe around its top, conveniently located by the door where hooks above suggested the hanging of items for dry cleaning. There were bags and covers already in place for jackets, ties and pants.

A tall, bamboo rack of fluffy green towels, was located at the far left of the room near the entrance to the shower, where they could be easily grabbed by wet hands.

To the far right, a toilet cubicle in immaculate white and green, was tucked discreetly away.

Horatio's toes curled, making him glad he'd left his shoes in the closet. "So what's behind door number two?" he asked, enjoying his Mate's cheeky smirk way too much.

"Oh, I'm not sure you're ready for it yet…" The growl that came at Speed for being a tease, went straight to his groin. "Close your eyes," he snickered.

"Really?"

"Really."

With a heavy and rather overdramatic sigh, Horatio did as he was told, hearing the doors open followed by the slide of a plastic curtain on rings attached to a rail.

There was some padding of feet, Speed having kicked off his own boots back at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the bedroom.

The splashing and hissing of a shower was hardly the most unexpected of sounds to fit with the moment, and Horatio found himself seriously ready to whine like a five year old as he waited to open his eyes again.

When the lights in the front area of the bathroom where he was standing, suddenly dropped to a soft and muted glow, he figured there had to be a dimmer switch somewhere.

He fidgeted.

"Okay. You can see now," Speed chortled happily, having taken the opportunity to strip, tossing his dirty laundry in the vague direction of the hamper.

But even the sight of his naked, increasingly aroused flesh, was not enough to tear Horatio's startled gaze away from what he saw on the other side of the glass as he blinked.

And blinked again.

It was a cave.

Literally.

The side walls, ceiling and floor were of rough hewn rock, looking for all the world as though they had spent many centuries right there being worn smooth by the passage of an endless flow of water. The furthest wall, that marked the limits of the building, bore a tall and narrow window of frosted green glass, set with an interlocking shamrock design and completely surrounded by a thick forest of leafy plants.

It was astonishing.

Stepping closer for a better view, he realized there were a myriad of cleverly disguised nozzles recessed all over the space, shooting water in every possible direction, at various speeds and in various showering patterns, while an assortment of drainage holes funneled it away to the sewer system along remarkably natural looking tracks in the floor.

Areas had been cut into the surface on the right hand wall to make niches for sitting in, or lying down in, depending on their depth. They also made it possible to just come on in and enjoy the soothing water. Each niche had a slight overhang for shielding against prying eyes, and even what he felt sure was real moss growing here and there.

"I enjoy the things of nature," Speed said simply.

"I think I died and went to Heaven," Horatio murmured in reply, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up.

"There's a panel to control it all. Just inside the door."

A healthy head of steam was already building.

"You designed this?"

"Yeah. This is my luxury."

"Its incredible."

"I'm glad you approve."

The redhead chuckled wickedly, pulling off his tie. "I more than approve."

"The curtain is a pattern that blends with the plants. An extra optical illusion to blot out the rest of the world. The lights are fully controllable, and there's a warning light out here that tells you if it's being used."

"So, no interruptions?"

"Not unless the Manor's on fire."

Horatio laughed out loud, lobbing his shorts and socks into the hamper with a casual air. "Then why are we still standing here outside?"

At that precise moment, Nick too was in the shower, having been reintroduced to his own courtesy of the bloody sweatpants that Thomas practically tore off him like a mother with a dirty diaper.

Warrick, who in the interim had seen fit to slip on a loose fitting pair of silk pants, was lounging on the bed trying to relax and pass through his Bond with Nick, as much peace and inspiration as he could muster. From long experience, he knew there were times when his physical intervention was not required, only the presence of his Soul. Still, it had been some time since he last felt Nicolaus quite so hotly agitated, even with all the anxiety piled upon them by Gil Grissom's particular persistence.

"What the fuck…?" he'd demanded, jumping up and gesticulating wildly as Thomas shut the bathroom door on his Master and stalked back across the suite towards him, filthy items in hand.

"I would suggest returning to bed and allowing time for a suitable explanation, Master Warrick. It has been a most trying night."

And that was all he got before the man was gone.

Growling, Warrick actually found himself doing just as Thomas had instructed, listening to Nick splash around in the shower, even as he settled himself once more against the pillows and vaguely contemplated the possibility of getting to fall asleep with his Mate securely in his arms at some point.

He was in fact dozing off, as the water stopped running, and there came the sounds of some hefty banging about as assorted cabinets and drawers were randomly slammed, apparently just for the fun of it.

Warrick duly yawned and stretched, shifting his pants around his hips a little.

"Y'know, you could come out of there naked," he suggested loudly. "I may have forgotten what you look like. I mean, it's been a while…"

A long and well-rounded raspberry came his way for a reply, and he laughed.

But finally his Mate appeared in person, vanishing into the closet, where there was a deal more banging and crashing to be had.

"Is there a giant bug or some shit, that you're whacking in there?" Warrick asked casually. "You need a gun or something? A two-by-four? DustBuster? TNT?"

"Oh, be quiet!" Nick growled, though there was no real aggression in his tone.

"I can send in a Hunter."

"Are you kidding?"

"Van Helsing's on your Shit List. He'll help."

"You're funny."

"Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you for noticing."

Hair wet and poking in every direction, Nick eventually emerged, scratching his ass mightily as the much newer and far more irritatingly stitched sweatpants he was reduced to wearing, rode up between his cheeks like the woolen hose he used to endure, running around in Sherwood Forest with Robin Hood.

Warrick smirked. "That's so hot, babe. Right there."

"Screw you," Nick grumbled.

"Any time, General. You know I'm up for it."

If he had the energy, such a sight as presented itself, sprawled out there on the bed, could very well have resulted in a night of sweat-soaked sexual sleeplessness.

Nick just couldn't raise the required strength. "Maybe when we don't have unknown people of unknown origin trying to kill us?" he snarked, stopping at the couch for his briefcase, which lay perched precariously on the broad back cushions.

"Has that ever happened?" Warrick watched him pull out the Wren feather that Speed had dropped by with on the first day of the New Year after the traditional shenanigans of Boxing Day.

He'd been on the return trip to Miami, unable to stay for more than a couple of hours in Vegas, yet it had proven time enough to conclude the business of the previous year. And so there was but one place the honored trophy could be safely put, which led to Nicolaus taking a few precious moments of sanity to kneel at his personal Shrine, just across from the foot of the bed.

Warrick allowed himself a small smile. There were always traditions, rituals of reverence, pauses in the flow of life that marked rites of passage, or the passing of time. And such things were of grave importance to the man who had been Sylum Clan's Leader since the day of its inception.

Lighting the candles, I bow my head, exhausted annoyance threatening my ability to stay awake and focused.

The last few days have been rough on my family.

Their fears are growing.

Picking up each tiny figure from within the Lararium, one at a time I warm the memory of each Soul, feeling their familiar presence in my palm.

First I pray for them that my Ancestors will guide their way in coming days, and then I ask that the Gods themselves will ever watch over all those whom I love.

The only God I no longer beseech is Mars.

We had a disagreement, he and I.

Long ago.

How strange my thoughts should turn to him.

Perhaps it was in having so much of my family all under the same roof for once?

Mars was to blame for me losing them in the beginning.

But he will have no more.

Not another Soul.

I will have them back.

All of them.

Even those I have denied.

My beloved baby brother.

My flesh and blood.

Ah, if he could hear me now, thinking of him so dearly when for so many centuries I have kept his presence in my bloodline a secret.

I once thought him lost too, a prisoner to his own fractured mind.

But we had fought it.

As we always fought.

Side by side.

Braving terrors as brothers should.

Together.

I take a calming breath and slowly release the anger that has been consuming me for the last few hours.

Tony will adjust to finally having his Mate.

But he'll probably need a good slapping first.

Or maybe several slappings.

My kids always try and kill each other on Boxing Day.

I had been worried about them, and pissed I couldn't be here for the fight.

I feel like I have been missing too many things lately, yet Thomas kept me keenly apprised of events as they happened that day, virtually blow for blow as the long struggle unfolded - as much, I think, for my own edification as for the Book that my Mate keeps on the outcome each year.

I declared by Proxy that Tony had won.

His heart had been more in it than in previous confrontations.

Frustration, most likely.

Of that I have no doubt.

Still, his was the victory.

And to Speed had fallen the culmination of the final tradition, in delivering me his feather.

He swore after World War Two that no matter where we were, or what was keeping us apart, he would always find me to hand over my trophy in person. There have been far too many altogether, left unseen and unremarked by the passing of difficult years and hard circumstance. And while he has gone out of his way to keep them all safe until I could take possession, it has killed him each and every time I was not there for him.

I had been most strangely shocked the first time he killed a Winter Wren for me, and had not quite known what to do with so clearly important a gift.

Over the years - 663 of them to be exact - I have come to cherish each feather as a mark of his devotion. Even for those handed to me in batches, there has always been a sacred place.

I had simply not realized how much so seemingly small a thing could be so vital, until those times I ceased receiving them.

After Warren, I could no longer be near any one for long.

I think my family understand that, at least now.

But at the time they were both rightly and justly angered by my fleeing from their arms.

Some feathers have survived the vast count of Seasons since their plucking.

Others, not so much.

One I am thankful still to have, was presented me in France when we were once again united, Timothy, Anthony and I, as Musketeers.

With it had come a package of 42 others.

All faithfully kept in watching for my return.

I draw a deep breath before lifting the sacred box from its honored place upon my Altar.

It is a simple thing, unembellished, made from humble oak, crafted by my own hand and polished smooth as silk.

I hear the night birds moving the Aviary.

It eases me.

It always has.

Settling the box in front of me, I open the slightly squeaking lid on its old hinges, smiling down at the pile of feathers which remain to me.

Arthur's letter from 1599, lies in a compartment beneath the rest, its own feather still entrusted to the envelope in which it has always sat.

Digging carefully as possible through my collection, is to dig through the years and the memories they retain.

There are several long and exotic feathers on the bottom, from our time spent aboard the Red Stallion. Wrens were few and far between in the Caribbean, but the islands held many other gloriously plumed birds to choose from.

Warrick's reaction when Speed offered me his traditional prize that year of 1724, had been truly priceless.

There was a turkey feather too, from the Civil War.

Timothy had been smart enough to realize back in the 1860's that killing a tiny, defenseless Wren in a time of such strife, would only hurt the morale of those around him. Instead he'd found a turkey one year, chasing it all over a muddy field, much to the amusement of we who stood watching, before he finally wrung its sturdy neck and gave it to the cook for him to roast, before handing me one of the tail feathers with a triumphant grin hidden under the beard upon his face.

When he found his way home to the Villa during World War Two, having some crazy story about being used as a patsy to try and trap a leading Italian Partisan known as 'Butterfly', he somehow miraculously brought with him a pair of small pigeon feathers from the time of his captivity as a prisoner of war. Such birds had been a source of relatively clean blood in the Prison Camps, and had been sacrificed for their meat at Christmas.

One of their feathers still remains safe.

The other fell apart a few years ago.

I run a finger over the newest edition to my box, savoring its meaning, and with a renewed sense of hope and peace warming my Soul, whisper a prayer for the Wren that gave is life, setting it atop the pile.

I am a man truly blessed.

Truly loved.

Strong hands take me by the shoulders.

Hold me tight.

"Blow out the candles, General," Warrick whispers, his breath a sweet shiver against my neck.

My Pirate.

Always there.

Always.

I do as he asks.

Too exhausted to argue, there is simply no more struggle left in the day.

Putting my box of feathers where it belongs, and closing the Lararium, I let Warrick pull me up and into his embrace.

"Bed time, General," he murmurs, leading me like a child.

I don't mind.

I rather like it when he gets all sappy and cuddly, and as he tucks me under the blankets, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me into his chest, I am most likely asleep before he finishes wiggling his feet under the covers…

There was peace.

Finally.

Warrick sighed, contented and far easier of mind than he had been for the last few hours, finding the familiar comfort of his Mate's presence to be a satisfaction that was hard won just lately.

He sighed again, letting the air out of his lungs slowly and steadily.

He was just closing his eyes, one arm about Nick's shoulders, his own head against the fluffed up pillows, when the sound of growling reached his ears from the office below.

Gimli and Legolas had been excited to have their Masters come home, and greeted them eagerly given that they had been very much missed at Christmas and New Year.

The two dogs guarded Nick's personal office whenever the suite was occupied, and they had a huge bed they shared quite happily, tucked under the stairs that led up to the most private of areas that was in effect a secluded bolt-hole for Sylum's Clan Leaders.

Its design, as a fully equipped and functionally practical apartment, situated one floor above the main body of the central wing, and directly - if considerably more widely - spaced above what had once been their old suite, it was incredibly well secure, with no obvious entry or exit. And it could easily shelter Sylum's Leaders without either of them leaving for some considerable time.

It was a refuge.

A haven of normality in an otherwise insane universe.

Few people were aware of how to reach it.

Fewer still were actually invited.

So to hear the dogs growl below, was indication enough that someone undesirable might well be trying to sneak around in the dark.

Gimli, a Bassett Hound of five years old, was known for barreling against the door and trapping the fingers of the unwary if he thought his Masters' privacy was being threatened, or their safety compromised.

Legolas, a soft-haired Golden Retriever of the same age as his companion, was just as fiercely protective, despite having the handsome good looks of the character for whom he had named. He was also a sneaky sonofabitch, which seemed to fit him perfectly too given that he could either charm you or chew you death, depending on his mood.

The growling stopped.

Warrick knew who the dogs were threatening.

Catherine was most certainly sound asleep with Lindsey.

There was no way Greg would even think about trying to disturb them. He knew better.

Which left only Gil.

And Warrick really wanted to hear a yelp, as Gimli got the man's fingers in the doorjamb.

But sadly, it was not meant to be.

Nick stirred a little against his chest, and he ran a hand through his mate's thick, dark and still slightly damp hair, soothing him, reassuring him that everything was fine, even as his acute Vampire ears picked up the soft click of a gently closing door below - most likely the one between the office and the Great Room.

Warrick almost growled himself at the thought of Gil Grissom getting anywhere near his Mate at that point.

He'd kill him.

And worry about the clean up later.

Or he'd just let the dogs loose.

And let them tear the man's balls off for supper.

While Dr. Grissom was indeed poking about in the Great Room of Nick and Warrick's wing of the Manor, Tony was talking to Jethro in the bathroom.

He had heard what he always jokingly referred to as the 'House Fairies' busy in his bedroom, cleaning up for him, being as swift and efficient and invisible as any winged myth of old. It made him smile, accepting that things were happening as they should.

As they were meant.

With every passing moment, his Mate was growing stronger.

And that too was an encouragement.

He had done right.

All those doubts that had plagued him for so long, on so many sleepless nights, faded away like so many bad ghosts.

Thomas had very discreetly passed him mugs of warm blood, and he'd watched in approval as Jethro drank them down with neither question nor doubt.

Once his initial hunger was satisfied, and he was relaxed enough to be more aware and at ease, Jethro listened as he was taught the first basics of the new existence in which found himself.

Tony sat on the rug beside the bath, regularly topping up the hot water, talking softly, hoping there was nothing he forgot to mention. It felt like the strangest briefing he had ever given in his life, and yet there was no escaping either its necessity or its urgency.

Indeed, Jethro found that his senses from head to foot, were as excruciatingly extreme as he was told they could be, as though the human capacity he had settled for in the entirety of his life up to that point, had suddenly expanded far beyond all logical and rational boundaries and the rest of his physical body had yet to catch up with so much potential.

It was incredible.

Inconceivable.

Exciting.

Exhausting.

With time and blood he found his vigor returning, and as he lay in the water learning how to control what he was seeing, hearing, smelling and feeling, he discovered it was virtually impossible to keep his gaze from Tony's face.

Everything he had been desiring was right there.

And when the memory returned to him of what he and Tony had been doing as fangs seized his neck, so he smiled softly.

Surrender to the will of others was not exactly an easy thing for him.

He was a stubborn assed Marine, and he knew when he was damn well right, and he knew when he had to play the games expected of someone with his responsibilities.

But for Tony…?

For Tony he had freely submitted.

For Tony he had willingly died.

For Tony he would do so again.

"You okay?"

His Mate's touch, warm and comforting on his shoulder, seemed as natural and as necessary as any friend's.

Yet more.

His Mate.

His.

And he had no problem with it.

"I'm good," he replied quietly, finally mustering the words.

"Want to move?"

"Yeah…"

Actually he had no idea how long he'd been lying there.

Or how much time had passed since he was bitten.

It had been more erotic than he imagined.

That bite.

Tony helped him stand, and he chose not to complain about it. Though his limbs certainly felt like they were his own again, they were still annoyingly clumsy now and then.

He hated such awkwardness, but figured it would pass, still there was no way in hell he'd forget any time soon, just how it had felt being that cold, and that hungry.

Tony wrapped him in the biggest, fluffiest pale blue towel he had ever seen, and even went so far as to rub his damp hair for him.

It had been a long, long time since anyone cared enough to bother taking such concern over him. And longer still since he let it happen.

"Look in the mirror," Tony urged, the ceiling fan having cleared away all excess steam from the room.

Jethro frowned staring at himself with an attitude of resolute determination that effectively hid his concern at what changes there might be to his features, and yet it was not as his imagination feared. He was not as he once was, but he was neither hideously deformed nor as pale as the death that had claimed him.

The fangs were sharp though.

He cut his tongue on them.

His eyes flashed.

Not as brilliantly or as brightly as Tony's, but with a fierce and stormy light the color of a snow laden sky.

He smiled again, wanting to laugh for some reason.

There was a certain absurdity to what he had just been through, that was meant by rights to be the purview of strange movies and idiotic books aimed at teenagers.

The blood on his tongue, however, was all too real.

The sensations flooding through his being, were all too real.

The press of Tony's body behind him, holding him close, supporting and reassuring him, was all too real.

He let himself just breathe for a moment, despite his Mate's continued assertion that such things were no longer necessary.

He was dead.

He was actually dead.

"The House Fairies are gone," Tony murmured in his right ear, admiring him proudly. "Let's go lie down."

"House Fairies?" Jethro asked, hearing a certain dry croak to his own voice as he struggled with trying to get his new dental work from poking at his lower lip. It took some concentration, and it wore him out with horrifying ease.

"You can do this," Tony said quietly, arms around him, rubbing circles over his heaving chest with the palms of his hands. "Give yourself time."

"You learned this in a warzone?""

"Not exactly. I was Turned in the street. I didn't learn much, or actually really remember much until a couple of days later, and before I got much in the way of an education, we were fleeing Damascus. It was not easy. But I had my best friend beside me. And my Papa to guide me. You have the entire Clan here at your back. Everyone. No one fights alone here. Nick would never allow it."

Jethro nodded. "What's missing?"

"You feel alright?"

"Better. What's missing?"

There was a hollow ache.

Not in his gut.

In his chest.

"Me," Tony murmured. "The Bond I started when I bit you. You have to finish it for us."

"How?" Jethro's frown deepened as he leaned against the sink.

"You have to bite me, and seal us together." Tony forcibly turned him away, and hauled him to the door. "The House Fairies are all done."

In fact, if it weren't for the slightly different color of the covers on the bed, there would be no way to know anyone else had even been there.

"You call the housekeepers, the 'fairies'?" Jethro asked.

"Yeah! They're good with it." Tony grinned like a kid.

The bedroom door was safely closed.

Mugs of blood, warm to the touch but not too hot, were left on the tables to either side of the bed.

"I hadn't thought about which side you might want." Tony would absolutely have begun flailing by then, if he weren't holding into his Mate.

"Like it matters?" Gibbs wasn't the kind of person who laughed much, but when he did it was deeply attractive and rather gravelly, and it had a certain effect on the Vampire who Sired him, that was not altogether unexpected…

As Nick was snoring, and Warrick dozing off at last, Horatio was exploring the cave beneath the bedroom that was now his to share with his Mate.

Water struck him from all directions, even below, and for the first few minutes he felt distinctly like some naked explorer, venturing through the enchanted wilderness of a distant, magical land.

It was fun.

"It's not all stone," he mused, running his hands over the rocks, feeling each crack and crevice, ridge and line.

"The weight would be prohibitive if it were. Warrick has a recording studio under here that he doesn't need me showering in," Speed smirked. "Its resin, with some chunks of marble from the area of Conemarra, and granite from Derry."

Horatio nodded. "Living moss?"

"Totally. It's been doing well in here."

"It's soft." He reached down to touch it where it lined a wide niche in the wall. "Amazing." He closed his eyes for a second, the memory of a place he felt he should know, tantalizing the edges of his mind.

Speed dimmed the lighting a fraction more. "The remote is waterproof," he explained, waving a small, thin keypad around. "Lives on the shelf by the door."

"Okay."

"Put it back if you use it. Losing it in here is a nightmare."

H chuckled, sitting down in what was a surprisingly comfortable space, breathing in the natural smell of it all, enjoying the water. He sighed contentedly, sheltered as he wiggled backward and rested against the smoothly shaped rear wall.

There was peace to be had.

For a while at least.

Closing his eyes again, it came as a pleasant surprise when familiar hands touched his knees and spread his legs.

He murmured his approval as Tim's lips moved slowly along his inner thighs, alternating left and right, gently teasing him with the promise of much, much more.

That talented tongue he had come to enjoy in so many creative ways, worked its magic around his balls, caressing the base of his cock, steadily arousing him until he was hard and swollen.

He groaned, his legs trembling, and as he opened his eyes to watch his Mate giving him pleasure, so the heavy tip of his erection disappeared into Speed's warm mouth.

The sight of his wet and gorgeously abandoned Mate, hair plastered to his head, face glowing with joy, was enough to have him lusting all the more for climax. But as he braced his hips against the rocks around him, he was prevented from gaining leverage by a throaty warning growl that rumbled up from Tim's chest and vibrated through his lips.

"Oh…" Horatio gasped. "God!" Increasingly lost to the sensations he was experiencing, he cried out in wordless excitement, his Mate rapidly stroking him in firmly assertive fingers, while still sucking at the very crown of his hard and swollen cock.

Then without warning, Sped swallowed him whole.

Horatio's head fell back.

His body shook.

Hands held him still as again and again he was engulfed.

Bobbing his head, Tim brought him to a crashing climax that invoked some considerable screaming and a fair amount of panting in delirium. But they were far from done, and though the redhead had been satisfied, his Mate was not.

Sitting up on his haunches, Speed hooked Horatio's legs over his shoulders, widening his thighs, pulling his back down flatter in the niche until he was lying in it properly.

There was a soap and shampoo dispenser in each such area of the cave, tucked where they could only be seen from the inside, out of the way of the falling water.

Speed reached for it, filling his hands with the sticky liquid that had a mild smell of cut grass.

Horatio squirmed, his ass getting wet while his chest and arms dried. It was a peculiar sensation but there was a first time for everything, and his trust in his Mate was total even as he was Claimed in one abrupt, soap slicked push of Tim's eager hardness.

It made him cry out once more with the fast, deep penetrations that such a helpless physical position left him vulnerable to, and he was writhing at his Mate's command until he was filled, climaxing again without there needing to be any other touch to his still aching dick.

His ass ached too by the time Speed was done with him, and he needed some help getting sat upright again when they were both ready to move. Which actually took a while, given that he clung to his Mate, whose head was resting on his tremulous belly.

For a while there, Horatio had his feet out on either side of the niche wall in a very undignified fashion, as the two of them took a moment to untangle themselves.

He didn't care though.

The warm water quick eased every remaining tension from his muscles, and in a few minutes of practical concern, each took care of the other's personal needs, washing themselves in a sensual flood of steamy vapors, soft hands, and lingering kisses.

"So," Horatio said at last, once his brain could function on more than just instinct, "when we get upstairs and into bed, you can tell me all about the tree."

Speed chuckled wickedly, breaking the cave's illusion by opening the curtain and the door to reach for some towels.

"What?" the redhead asked. "It's not like we haven't slept naked under the branches of an old oak before…"

Tony drank one of the mugs of blood that Thomas had left for them, happily watching Jethro down the other.

"I never though anything could beast coffee," Gibbs muttered, unable to hide his surprise. "But it does."

"Its real. Not cloned. The cloned stuff doesn't have quit the same potency. Its like a half-caff."

Jethro looked at Tony as one might stare at a sacrilegious heathen.

"Okay! Okay!!" Sylum's Second-in-Command laughed, throwing his hands in the air. "Half-caff is the Devil's Brew, but sometimes in life you'll have to drink cloned blood if there's no convenient way to snack on someone."

"Just don't clone the coffee." Jethro know his eyes were narrowing. "I can still drink coffee, right?" he asked suspiciously.

"Sure, but you won't need it anywhere near as much as you used to."

There was a studious silence in which Jethro weighed the merit of that particular statement before finally demanding that Tony drop the robe he was wearing, and get into bed.

The blush that washed with a fiercely racing heat over his Mate's face, was seriously attractive, and while he was still somewhat disconcertingly tired, and his body felt the as yet uncontrollable input of his new Vampire senses, Gibbs knew full well what he wanted.

And it was a craving far deeper, and more powerful than the hunger that had been consuming his gut since he first opened his eyes and returned to the world.

He dropped the towels that had been warming and drying him.

Tony swallowed, watching his every move, startled by the ringing in his ears that suddenly blotted out all but his own jumbled thoughts.

Had he a heartbeat it would surely have been hammering with the terrible fear of a man no longer able to control the moment in which he was existing.

He found himself naked and face first upon the covers before he could blink, amazed at the speed with which Jethro moved.

There was little chance for preparation, or pause for gentle passion, and he knew he was shaking with anticipation at the Claiming that would be his.

It only reciprocated that which had already taken place in the shower.

Thomas, whose forethought was legendary, had also left on the side tables, a small selection of necessary items that could be chosen from at will as the situation might call for them.

Which at least gave him some ease, and Tony dug his fingers into the bed clothes as his ass was stretched wide by his Mate's ministrations, and his Soul was laid just as utterly bare.

Jethro was perfectly proportioned for his build, sufficient to fill him with a solid girth and plunging length that once it found his prostate, satisfied him repeatedly, and drove him almost ruthlessly to orgasm.

He would not hesitate to admit that in his many centuries of experience, he often preferred women for his sexual partners than men. Not that he was lacking in either desire or skill when it came to the needs and natural urges of those with whom he shared the same gender.

Far from it.

He had however, been subject in more than one life, to the worst that men could contrive. And there were precious few males with whom he had ever shared himself so intimately.

Still, he shuddered in pleasure, Jethro's hands at his hips keeping him steady, gripping him tight.

And when he came, it was so powerful a climax it nearly knocked him out right there.

He hadn't even touched his own cock, or felt any other caress than the slick, persistently sliding push and pull of Jethro's erection pumping into his ass over and over.

It actually took him a while to figure out that the raw and animalistic grunts he was hearing, were coming from his own mouth.

A satisfied cry marked the triumph that surged through Gibbs as he came, and with one final thrust into the tightness between Tony's beautifully clenching, smoothly muscled backside, he spilled himself in orgasm.

Already somewhere far beyond tired, he found that his burst of passionate lusting was not quite as sated as he'd imagined, for there remained something still missing deep inside him, and an aching need that even an earth shattering fuck had not really assuaged.

Though he braced himself on his arms to stop from collapsing over Tony's back, he wanted more, and apparently so too did his sticky cock, for there was no dampening of its ardor as when he had been human.

It shocked him that certain things as any man might well take for granted, were very much no longer so, and with his Mate beneath him panting hoarsely, taking the reaming he had just given without complaint, he began again almost straight away, a deep and regular rhythm with his hips, savoring the way his cock could sink to the balls inside Tony's willing body.

He had wanted that ass of DiNozzo's for longer than he would ever willingly admit, and fantasized over it on those all too long nights when sleep was hard come by and his boat building routine would not give him the relaxation he sought. He could be creative enough in the shower, dick in hand, contemplating Tony in handcuffs, bent over the desk in an interrogation room, or on his knees with his mouth open, lips swollen, sucking him down and swallowing his seed.

There had always been an unidentifiable something in Tony's eyes, whether he was pleading pathetically for attention, arguing like a seasoned detective, or flirting like a whore. All of which could turn him on and remain quite insanely attractive, no matter the circumstance.

But he'd wanted Tony for his own.

Always.

Right from the start of their acquaintance, if he was being honest with himself.

And all that childish nonsense he'd had to witness, all that joking around, and those thinly veiled innuendoes had driven him insane with frustration.

Tony was his.

Only his.

Always his.

And as a Vampire, he now knew why.

Perfectly.

Slowing to lazy strokes in and out of the muscled ring that caressed his flesh, Jethro realized he was pulling whines from Tony's throat that merely served to encourage him further.

Sex, with anyone, had never been like this before. And he knew no one else could make him this contented.

Frowning, he could see he was leaving bruises that strangely faded even as he stared at them.

Which was fascinating in a weird way.

Back and forth.

In and out.

Slow and deep.

He felt the ripple of Tony's inner depths gripping him, while at the same time he admired the tension that shone with sweat down his lover's spine.

Speeding up the pace suddenly, he knew then what else needed to be done.

It was irrational to contemplate it.

Yet so desperate was the need to taste his Mate's blood, there could be no fighting it.

And with that thought, that admission, his fangs dropped.

He gasped, bending his head to lick the back of Tony's neck, the sweat a tangy burst of flavor on his tongue.

It won him a shiver that raced through his Mate.

Mate.

His.

Mate.

The desire was overwhelming.

With a growl he climaxed a second time, running a hand through Tony's thick hair and pulling his head to the left, exposing the long curve of his shoulder.

This was his.

His alone.

It took forever, and had been forever, and for all the struggle, Tony had feared it would never be, never fall to his destiny, never come to complete him, never end the pain of loneliness that no amount of bloody battles, or death, or terror, or killing, or war could wipe away, and no friendship or comradeship, or life long association could replace, and he had known more old soldiers, more wounded bodies and crushed Souls than any commander of men ever truly should, no matter the fight, the dedication or the courage, and he knew of courage, when nine times before he had lost everything, even the will to keep living in a world that endlessly snatched away his happiness, and left him with a cross that never relented upon its bearing, weighing upon him with a burden that felt so vast, it was too hard to keep his mind where it belonged until faith reminded him of its power, and hope at least blurred the edges of the past and made him face tomorrow until there was joy again, that failed again, and despair lost him again in the raw heat of war until there was a reality that would not be made real until he found courage again.

Until finally…

Fangs pierced his neck.

Sharp and hard.

The sudden shock rushed through him from head to foot.

He shivered, climaxing violently, a silent sob wracking his Soul.

And as the Bond burst into life, surrounding and embracing him, there was room for only one thought to remain.

At last.

At last.

At last.

At last.

At last.

At last…

It was with some considerable, if extremely exhausted satisfaction that Thomas thanked the night staff for their sterling work, and bid them keep the fresh blood bags available for Master Antonio should he require them. They were also more than willing to be Fed upon themselves should they be called to such a service, and he was proud of them all for their commitment to duty.

It filled him with a strong sense of almost fatherly contentment that they were all happy for the Clan's Second-in-Command, and eager to welcome his Mate. They had each been with the Manor staff for some time, and as such could appreciate the huge significance of what had been taking place that night on their watch.

Thomas too found he was quite oddly joyful, despite the ungodly hour and having been on his feet busy working for an unconscionable amount of time.

The men who had built Sylum, who had been there those many centuries ago to save both himself and his infant daughter from fiery death, who had gone on to become his most trusted friends and dear companions, were whole now.

All of them.

Finally.

There was then, a small smile upon his face as he turned to the Butler's Pantry and bid his people all a goodnight, confident they could see out the remainder of their shift under their team supervisor.

The comfortably humble accommodations he shared with his Mate were accessible only from a door set at the far right hand corner of said Pantry, hidden behind a large dresser in which resided a considerable, and historically valuable collection of antique silverware which the Clan's members had fortuitously gathered from all over the world in the course of their combined histories.

In effect, his rooms were one floor above the left hand wall of the kitchen, and had a small inside window for looking down upon the daily activities taking place there.

It also served as a friendly reminder that he was never very far way if anyone should need him. Or if there was something going on that he should know about, it encouraged the perpetrators to remember that there was in fact, very little could ever occur at Sylum Manor without him knowing of it.

Jim was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, a patient smile on his face.

Having fallen asleep on the couch some fair few hours before, he had lost all track of time only to wake and find himself as alone as he had been when he first sat down. It wasn't exactly surprising though, given his Mate's very particular vocation.

It had resulted in more than one disturbed night, and more than one occasion when there was really no night at all to speak of.

"Are you done?" he asked quietly.

Thomas had locked the door at the bottom of the stairs, which was generally a pretty good indictor of his intention to get some rest, though there was a highly aggravating doorbell for use in extreme cases, which Brass had threatened to rip from its fittings many times.

"It has been a most trying night, yet the staff have shown themselves positively valiant."

"Something's happened?"

"Master Antonio has his Mate, at last," Thomas sighed, accepting the welcome embrace he was offered.

"About bloody time," Jim grumbled. And that at least won him a snort of agreement as Thomas buried his head into his shoulder and began relaxing, inch by inch. "All is well?" That got him another somewhat incoherent grunt, but he figured that as no one had been yelling and screaming to the rafters, everything was at least reasonably in order. "Shower?"

A nod was his only reply, and so he helped his Mate out of his uniform jacket, hanging it on the peg by the tall windows to their left, where it could be easily grabbed if needed again in a hurry.

The view afforded to them from that spot, was of the wide sweeping driveway up to the Manor, and the regimented old oaks which lined it so splendidly. The lights illuminating each tree, made for an aura that was at once familiar and reassuring, reminding them both that no matter the situation, they were still home, and they were together.

The first door on the right at the top of the stairs, was firmly shut, and had been that way for sometime. Thomas resolutely believed that its occupant would return to it one day, and as such he had left it for that very purpose. A little stuffed fluffy pig toy, hung in all its pinkness from the knob.

Jim knew his Mate was a man of great optimism, and he tried exceedingly hard never to impinge upon that, so he chose to ignore what he knew to be obvious to anyone with eyes in their head, and keep Thomas happy instead.

Keeping Thomas happy was vital for a smoothly running Manor.

Always.

The lights were low in their decently sized Great Room at the end of the small hallway. The bedroom had been prepared already - the sheets pulled back, mugs of tea resting upon little tabletop warmers that sat on the bedside cabinets, and pajamas neatly folded for their occupants.

There was also a lingering scent of sandalwood in the air.

"You are badly missed when I do not have you here," Thomas murmured, appreciating the concern that he was being shown as he was stripped and gently herded into the bathroom.

"You spend your life doing everything for others. Why not have me do the same for you?"

It had been Jim's mantra for decades, and it was never likely to change. Thomas just noticed it a whole lot more whenever he had his Mate home after a long absence.

Theirs had not been a simple, or an easy Mating.

And yet, paradoxically, it had been both. For Thomas knew perfectly well from the time of his Turning, that his destiny would lie entwined with his Sire's.

And so it proved, when on the same vile Pirate ship where Nicolaus found his Mate, he too had discovered his own, in the worst moment possible.

I knew it was coming.

Having chosen to align myself with the ordinary citizens, as was our way whenever there came upon us difficult circumstance requiring Master Nicolaus to have a watchful and trusted cohort as a secondary pair of eyes in places he could not go, I had been in some remarkable situations, and borne witness to some remarkable event which now reside in the pages of history. Yet for all that, I had little comprehension of the true desire which drove the Pirates of the Caribbean.

Still, I saw it coming.

With Master Nicolaus torn from our midst, his surrender assured in maintaining the safety of us all, there remained those amongst the Captain's crew with only evil intent about their gaze. None were foolish enough to believe themselves capable of any further assault upon Masters Antonio and Timothy, which was a blessing given the worrisome injuries that each had already sustained.

The rather unwelcome attentions of our captors turned therefore, to those far less able to defend themselves, and it has been my experience that one lewd gesture is very much like another in most parts of the world, regardless of culture or language.

There are then, certain moments in one's life for which no amount of forward planning or good intent will ever suffice, and there is nothing whatsoever to be done without incurring considerable damage to both those around you, and your own person. I have learned this lesson exceedingly well with regard to my faith and my family, my love and my life, my Master and my Mate.

And in the depths of that detestable vessel, as the men and women we had been traveling with were dragged away into the lascivious clutches of those who had captured us, there was nought to be done but endure, and to at least try and prevent the children from falling victim to such degradation and disgrace. For some men have always preferred that kind of thing, and doubtless always will.

As it was, we miraculously held fast to the youngest, who naturally screamed as loudly as the adults at being torn apart.

There was an older woman with whom I had struck up more than one interesting conversation on our journey, who could wield her parasol as a veritable knight of yore, defending her honor with a fury and clinging to the children as a hen gathers her chicks. She had delivered several well placed blows in coming aboard the Pirate vessel originally, one of which had, at some point in the proceedings, squarely walloped the Quartermaster about the head.

Masters Antonio and Timothy were there to lend, what it very much pleased me to see, were stronger and more able hands than when they had been first injured in defending one and all from the Pirates who even then, were stealing something far greater than any coin.

There ensued the noises one might otherwise associate with a raucous bordello, or - at least from that which I have learned courtesy of Master Nicolaus - might best represent an ancient orgy.

That I was left unaccosted with nought save my hands tightly secured behind my back in some apparent demonstration of my status as a prisoner, had me naturally concerned for my immediate future. I admit I was grateful to remain free of molestation, and yet there sat in the depths of my stomach a hollow and peculiar sensation which suggested I was not about to escape without some highly unpleasant occurrence having been fated to cross my path.

There were shouts.

Grunts.

The very obvious noises that accompany sexual union.

There were pleas.

Sobs.

Clothing was torn.

And then there came laughter.

Slaps.

Flesh meeting flesh with sharp cracks and mocking jeers.

Some were meant for submission.

Others for more arousing purposes.

That many of the men who chose to fight, were swiftly beaten into reluctant cooperation, did not go unnoticed either.

By anyone.

And still there was nothing to be done.

What law was there to come to our aid?

I could only imagine what my Master was suffering.

I wanted to believe that somehow, by some miracle, he had chance to convince the ship's Captain of certain truths pertaining to his nature, and yet it was more than apparent that his agreement to capitulate and obey said Captain in return for the safety of the prisoners, was not as effective as first hoped.

My turn did indeed come when the Red Stallion's Quartermaster made his appearance.

I had heard his none too subtle tones when first we were brought aboard, and whilst I had not been granted chance to fully see his face, I found that certain assumptions quickly asserted themselves, and I judged him to be both braggart and swine.

That he would ever permit the scenes which even then were taking place around about us, was surely sign enough of his contempt for human life, and I had nothing but disgust for him.

Until we were gazing upon each other.

To him, I had certainly the look of a fine cut of roast beef, given how he licked his lips and rubbed his jowls.

But I knew how such games were played, and was at least in part prepared.

Save for looking the man in the eye and finding my Mate there staring back.

I was so horrified, that my first reaction was to assume my own error in judgment and ignore the obvious attraction he was displaying toward me.

He was human.

What did he know of Vampires but from rumor and assumption?

Let alone the powerful significance of finding one's Mate?

My expression therefore, proved aggravating enough to win me a blow to the jaw which I never saw coming, and consequently knocked me into the bulkhead, where I struck my shoulders in attempting not to fall to more than one knee.

Several choice expletives burst from my normally more patient tongue, yet under the situation in which they were expressed, I felt entirely justified.

And a second blow rapidly followed, whereupon I was hauled upright by the collar of my coat and dragged from the ship's hold, stumbling much as my Master had done on unfamiliar footing.

That Masters Antonio and Timothy, both moved suddenly to my aid, was but a fleeting relief, for I halted their intent with a shake of the head.

It was not the time to fight. Not while there were so many vulnerabilities. Not while Master Nicolaus was in a dangerous place, unaware of the passing moment.

I would endure.

There was no choice.

I therefore tried my best not to further humiliate those who were themselves enduring, their legs akimbo or their clothes torn open as they were used, men and women alike, for the pleasure of the filthy crewmen, regardless of dignity or decency.

I kept my eyes averted, for why make their suffering worse in gaping at their misfortunes?

I had no idea how large the crew might be, but assumed there were at least some others still on duty sailing the ship, who would want their turn fair enough.

"How can you permit this?" I growled, my captor's fingers tearing at my coat as he shoved me through the bowels of the ship.

"Prize be Prize," he muttered.

I found him to be utterly obnoxious - a stocky, barely shaven individual with hair long enough to have secured in a leather stock, and highly questionable cleanliness. His attire was a sight more tidy and better kept that the rest of his men, and he had no apparent issue in shoving through them as they rutted like animals, a knife in his belt, a gun in his other hand, and a lustful smile on his lips.

"An arrangement was made with your Captain! The people were to be unharmed! I heard it for myself!" I protested.

My words fell on unconcerned ears.

A woman, her bare breasts being mauled by two different persons, glared at me in righteous fury as her skirt were raised by a third man and her bloomers torn down.

I did not blame her, for I was pushed between the shoulders into a small, dark room, and out of the general audience with its added humiliations.

I too had feared being tossed to the deck, or pinned to a canon and made to service a long line of Pirates all eagerly exposing their rampant manhoods and encouraging each other to take the Quartermaster's Prize. So there came some relief at being alone with him.

If it was but a small blessing.

"It is a disgrace!" I snarled, no longer able to prevent my anger, and awash with guilt that my captor had seen fit to grant us what passed for privacy when no one else had such but the Captain.

"They will walk out of here alive. Everyone. They will also leave with their belongings. They should be grateful."

I had no idea my captor's name, but the desire to thump his smug and self-satisfied face was rather a powerful one, whether he was my Mate or not. I could so very easily have broken my simple bonds after all, yet still chose not to.

"Would you shoot me?" I asked, as he kicked a roll of rope in front of the door.

"Had I wanted you dead, you already would be, but the Cap'n made a bargain."

There was a definite English accent to his voice, that spoke of an upbringing very far from here indeed, and yet he also bore a distance Naval swagger which suggested that his life on the sea had not begun with Piracy at least.

"Then what do you want of me?"

He chuckled, and I found it to be an evil, lecherous sound that left me no doubts whatever about his immediate intent.

He licked his lips and tossed the gun aside.

There was little height difference between us save a couple of inches to my advantage.

Had I the need, I could very well have defended myself, my honor, and my dignity too without much in the way of difficulty, and then no doubt been victim to entirely different circumstance. Yet this was my Mate, and a pang of deepest sympathy for my Master and his own predicament, assured me we were going to suffer greatly in us finding our Souls' desire this way.

I had always envisioned seeing my dear wife again some day. Her Soul would be as familiar to me as it once had been when first we married.

I had believed her my Mate. And had never wavered in faithfully accept so, until that moment.

He was not her.

In fact, there was nothing about him at all that spoke to me of an old connection to the past.

Still, my Soul caused me to ache most inappropriately for him.

It was madness.

Pure and simple.

"Turn around," he barked, his voice gruff. "Get down on your knees."

I watched him unbuckling his pants, that he might free his increasing ardor.

My failure to obey his orders resulted in my being seized by the upper arms, spun about and thrown face first to the deck across several other bales of course, damp rope, which caught my chest and stomach, holding me there upon my knees as my coattails were raised over my clenching hands, and my breeches torn down.

I shivered, as much from the violent exposure of my most vulnerable flesh, as from a certain dread of what I knew was soon coming.

No stranger to the desires men have for one another, my only personal experiences until then had been at the tender caress of Master Nicolaus, in both ensuring I could satisfy his needs and gratify his urgings, as well as accept one day, the likelihood of finding a Mate who came to me in manly rather than womanly form. And I had certainly never left my Master's bed disappointed or maltreated or undone. Such duties as are mine, often as not involve those moments of a most discreet nature, and he has never taken without regard to my person.

His knowledge of such matters were hard won indeed, as he once confided to me quite frankly. And his lack of proper English modesty with regard to his own body, taught me much of the vast differences between cultural histories and various expectations, long before I ever knew such matters might prove useful. Still, I was in no way prepared for either the rope burning into my belly, or the rude and painful way I would be taken that day.

It seemed only fair that I too should suffer as my fellow travelers did.

I deserved no special treatments or consideration, although I was rather astonished to have not been discovered as a Vampire.

All flesh is cold and somewhat chilled in the wet darkness of a ship's interior.

Mine was no different, and so from that I do believe I went unknown as a potential threat.

There was some small degree of light however, in that rope locker I was confined to. It came from a smoke blackened lantern which swung upon the wall by the door, rattling against its hook as the ship moved to the bidding of the waters.

Who would place such a thing in so dangerous a place, where spark and flame could ignite the room's content?

Madmen!

All of them.

My ankles parted upon being kicked, and my captor knelt there close behind me.

My ears could well discern the rapid grunts of his men outside, emptying their seed into their hapless victims, many of whom would feel the cruelty of more than one man's prick before they were done, and likely in more than one orifice. But I belonged to the man who even then, with a growl, spilled himself upon my prone posterior, his sticky and quite copious emissions falling onto me with surprising warmth.

Startled, I dare not imagine for an instant that my captor was fully spent, for no man could have failed to once more rapidly rediscover his rigidity of manhood, given that which was surrounding us in sexual abandonment.

I prayed for the strength of my Master then, as hands which had been calloused by the rigors of a sailor's life, took the seed I had been showered with and crudely smeared such over my tightly clenched and reluctant postern.

Breached by jabbing fingers, I gasped and screwed my eyes shut, willing myself to relax and accept the buggering that was to be mine, trying with desperate urgency to remind my over anxious heart, that this was at least my Mate who wanted me so. And whilst I did not know even the name of him who would defile me in so foul a way, or gross a place, he was no stranger to my Soul at least.

It came as but the smallest comfort though, and as he broke past my resistance with a member broad enough - or so it seemed - to split my gut in two, I choked a sob of painful anguish into the ropes which caught me there for him, wanting none of my fellow Vampire family to ever know how much I was then suffering.

The Quartermaster held me fast and battered my poor buttocks with a vigorous joy and grateful abandon, moaning in pleasure that I was far hotter inside, and far tighter in length than any wench had ever been who offered him her cunny for a price in port.

As though such assurance was somehow meant to please me.

He was quick to reach completion that first time, sinking onto my back as I felt his seed spurting into my bowels.

In part, I dare to say I wished him dead for having forced me so. There was no satisfaction for me in the reaming my sore behind received.

Yet there he lay, breathing harshly against my neck, until his manhood was spent and he slithered from within me, leaving his essence to drain from my body as a testament to his Claiming.

I had thought him done then, and envisioned being used by anyone else he wished to offer my hole to. Yet I was wrong.

His hands slid beneath my remaining vestments, touching more of me than I had thought him concerned for.

As though in some caress he could make what had just happened into something more.

Whereupon my treacherous Vampire Soul found delight in contradicting my desires, and I was required to bury my head in the coils of rope once more for fear of trembling in something more than shock.

I wondered if perhaps, by a gracious miracle of some kind, he was drawn to feel true concern for me. For why else would he care enough to touch me so and make me shake?

Could I believe such was possible?

This was my Mate.

Was it possible for him to sense the reality of that?

Or was I so very desperate to believe him more than a filthy, despicable Pirate who had forced himself inside me, that I would imagine even the wildest of foolishness?

I shuddered.

My knees hurt terribly, and in tugging against my bonds, I had torn the flesh from my wrists, leaving them bloodied.

I desired my freedom so very badly, yet had not broken from his embrace.

Was I complicit then, in being raped?

I knew not what to think but was consumed with disgust for myself, and as I felt his racing heartbeat start to slow, I fought against him wanting this weight lifted off me and his hands away from my body.

It was an insistence I could not control.

I had given him what he wanted.

I had let him have me.

And I could take no more of him.

I hurt.

Inside and out.

And he had no real Claim to me.

None.

Unless I chose it.

He growled viciously, one hand moving out from beneath my shirt and coat, to clamp itself down on the back of my head and pin me to the ropes anew.

"I'll break y'ur neck," he snarled. "Then tear it off y'ur shoulders. I know how to kill y'ur kind sure enough."

His laughter was merely a sour expression of his having conquered me.

"I gave you what you sought," I panted, my chest aching as he dropped his other hand to my left hip and thrust his hardening manhood against me, aroused by my refusal to acquiesce a second time.

The rope burned my face, scraping at my cheeks.

He knew I was a Vampire.

And I truly feared for my life as he thrust himself into me again, for I had not until then seen the knife he had hidden about his clothing, until he pulled my head back by my hair and drew the cold wet blade along my throat.

Impaled upon him, he had no need to steady my waist, and his left hand produced the lethal weapon as though it had always been there.

Blinking back tears, I pleaded for him to stop, promising him anything if he would but be gentle with me.

It only drove him harder.

And deeper.

His cock pushing into me with stubborn greed and eager satisfaction, finally sparked a familiar flash of fire, and delight seared its way past the hurt and distress, bright as lightning on a dark and cloud swamped night.

He was not skilled.

He was crude and brutal.

Yet there it was.

There it was indeed.

And once again rebellious desire burst to new life as I found myself unwillingly aroused.

There was certainly no stopping it, and yet I begged far louder than I knew, for it to end.

Dear God…

Please! Please make it stop!!

The grunting in my ear was sign enough that what I wanted did not matter.

This was my Mate.

How could the Lord have destined this for us…?

He came to further triumph, buried to the hilt inside me, his vigor having been spent in my quaking gut, and his knife drawing blood as I finally ceased asking him for the mercy I would not have.

Oh, how my shoulders felt the pressure of that posture I was held in!

I had never been used so degradingly before.

And still there lingered a most disgraceful longing for more, that I was too ashamed to admit I needed, even to myself.

As my molester gasped for breath, I did as Master Nicolaus had instructed me one night, and tightened myself in surrounding the rigid meat that filled me.

Such an action won me an appreciative groan, which enabled me not only to assess the true size of that invader which had speared my poor bottom, but to serve as brief reminder for him that I was surely not worth the killing.

Where the knife vanished to, I could not say, and before I had chance to speak again, my conqueror pulled me fully backward into his arms whereupon he proceeded to stroke my hard and swollen member, the head of which had been chaffed raw in repeatedly striking that awful rope on which I had been braced.

Tender words met the fast and perfect gestures of his fist, as he brought me to satisfaction with such surety it seemed we had known one another for so very much more than those terrible, agonized minutes in the depths of the Red Stallion.

The pressure he applied to me neither altered nor ceased.

The coarse nature of his palm touched my turgid hardness in complete command of any further carnal needs I struggled to repress, and while I fought the rising passion that saw me spent and exhausted and truly screaming to Heaven in release, it was not because I failed to crave that moment.

I fought myself.

I fought the Vampire.

I fought the pinnacle of it all.

The filthy words with which he described my wanton whoredom, merely crashed like a wave over my Soul.

And I fear I fainted like a woman with the vapors.

The solid and forceful slide of Jim's hand upon his manhood, tugged a grateful, shivering climax from the weary frame of Thomas Efford, and he found himself pinned firmly to the shower wall lest he slither down it in exhaustion and wind up on the floor tiles.

Brass chuckled, deep and wicked. "I will never fail to miss that sappy grin of yours when I'm not home."

Thomas kissed him softly on the forehead, and sighed, sensing that it would not be the most appropriate moment to ask him home more often. "Take me to bed," he murmured, "before I fall asleep standing here."

And Jim laughed knowingly as he reached for the soap. "Like that wouldn't be the first time…"



To be continued …